Author's Notes: There is a major problem with the storyline in Rîn that I intend to fix in the final chapter of this story, relying upon the 'No one Bothered to Tell the Avari" loophole of the Doom of Finwë and Míriel. Thus, this story departs from its sequel, and I intend to make a few more minor changes - with the idea of rewriting Rîn to match this story.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of original characters needed to fill out Oropher's family tree or move the story along. Translations of Elvish words and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
With this Ring
3434 Second Age, Assault on Morannon
Death sought him. Its long bony fingers had crawled after him since the spear point reached the tender flesh of his throat. He yet hovered on the noisy side of the living, but heard his fëa summoned. Though his fëa grew ever more distant from the battlefield, he knew his father was near to him. He sensed that his father's eyes were dimmed by tears behind his helm, that his gentle hands sought in vain to stop the outflowing of life. "Iónen! Hên nîn!" his father called to him, but the Vala who called ever more insistently to him would not permit him to answer. He saw his brother, grimly slicing his sword into an orc, unaware yet that he would henceforth bear the title of Hîl Thranduil. *1, *2, *3
Caunolas could not resist any longer; he might be stranded in Arda, a houseless fëa, a shade. He must go, though his father's anguish filled him with regret. What judgment must Mandos cast upon him, he who had rushed without thought into death, drawn - no, deceived by the Dark Lord himself? 'Adar, dannar níren o naergon nin amarth hen rennin.' His father seemed to hear his final words of contrition. The battlefield's sounds and smells dimmed and were gone. *4
Five days had passed since the disastrous assault on the Gate; five days had passed since Thranduil had buried his father and oldest son. The losses of the elves of Eryn Galen and Lórinand had reduced them to less than half their strength. From their King to Avari of the remotest reaches of the realm, they grieved for lost kinsmen. As such, the mood was unusually somber among the wood folk. Restlessly Thranduil left his tent twice to walk through their camp and returned, finding no escape from sorrow. He felt smothered by it; the eyes of every elf he met mirrored his own aching regret for his son and father.
Silence held court in his tent. Brónalm went through the familiar motions of repairing arrows. Having no kin himself, his King's family had become his family, and Brónalm grieved no less than did Thranduil. In their bedrolls, Innolas and Mitharas had found escape in sleep; the older elf lay with an arm thrown protectively over his cousin. The sight brought a hint of a smile to the King's face, as he absently twisted the ring around his third finger - a thoughtful gift of his sons, as the two elves knew of their father's appreciation for precious stones. Each stone represented one of the giftmakers - ruby for Caunolas and his fiery spirit, sapphire for wise Innolas. In the center they had placed their father's favorite gem, emerald, signifying endurance through adversity.
Thranduil prayed that Mandos would not too long keep his own father from the reunion he so ardently desired. This hope made Oropher's death easier to accept, though his father's heart had not been easy when he surrendered his fëa to Mandos.
"I was deceived, Thranduil. I, who believed myself blameless, lent an ear to darkness these many years. Willfully I led my host, and even your son, into death, against your counsel. For this I shall rightfully be held to account. Your mother, I do not doubt, shall find much fault with me in the matter.
"You shall make a great king, iónen." He looked fondly at his heir as he continued. "Never have I feared to leave our people in your hands." Oropher's eyes grew cloudy; Thranduil could not determine if sleep or death had taken him.
"Adar?" *5
Oropher's eyes snapped open, an odd light shining in their ancient depths. "Den estan Edhellendor-Vedui. More sorrow awaits you, I fear. Yet from your sorrows shall come one among the Silvan folk, a child of your heart who will bring joy to the dark days you have yet to endure." *6
His father's promise Thranduil did not entirely understand, but he drew some comfort from its implication that he and his father's beloved people would outlast this present peril. Such thoughts did not lessen his grief for his oldest son. 'Little spark', his mother had called him as a child, for like his grandfather, Caunolas had been prone to extremes of feeling. He had proved also to be a natural leader, and the somber circumstances of war were those under which his eldest had shone brightest. Popular among the people, his enthusiasm they would miss.
In his ponderings, Thranduil had fallen into a trance-like state, soothed by the repetitive movements of the Cúcherdir as he sharpened his arrow tips. The realization that Brónalm had paused came to him slowly, and he looked up to see the ancient elf looking at him intently. *7
"Your heart is heavy tonight, Aranen," Brónalm observed, inviting his confidence. *8
"It is this war - we have lost so much already, yet if the Noldorin King judges rightly, we have yet a long campaign ahead." He wondered at the ability of Elendil's men to withstand such a long siege. But a blink of an eye in the life of an elf was many years to a mortal. Still, the Dúnedain did not lack incentive - not only was it their land that Sauron threatened, positioned as he was on the doorstep of Gondor, but the loss of Númenor must be bitter to the Faithful. Few elixirs were more powerful, he should know, than revenge.
Such meanderings of his mind brought him to the dwarves, who had taken up the siege near Orodruin, watchful lest some underground connection between Barad-dûr and the Maia's forge be pressed for his escape. He had more confidence in the stubborn patience of the stunted folk, though like his younger son, Thranduil had little love or understanding for them. The never-forgotten dwarves of Nogrod still inspired ill feelings among the Sindar and Laegrim who had come to Eryn Galen from Doriath, and even in their common struggles against the creatures of Sauron, the elves and dwarves of the Wilderland had never truly been allies. *9
Many from Doriath had given up their lives in the assault on the gate. Revenge was more than an elixir - it was a fey wine that carried men and elves alike to their doom. Morgoth had once used strife between the elves to accomplish his aims; Sauron his lieutenant had made good use of this poison.
Such thoughts troubled another who wandered abroad this night. The elf who had made this historical alliance, who had turned often to the descendants of Elros in need, had himself overcome deep distrust and doubts instilled by one among the kin of Elros. He trusted few so much as he now trusted Elendil. In sharp contrast lay his dealings with the Sindarin lords, and thus had he come to the north side of Barad-dûr.
A cold reception awaited him from the elf who had served Oropher and now served his son. He felt keenly the elf's reproach for what had befallen his lord. Nonetheless, Galion entered the tent occupied by Thranduil and his kin to summon his King.
"We are of the same age, you and I. Our strivings now are but small next to the straits in which we found ourselves at the end of the Elder Days," Gil-galad observed, when the two had walked in silence a few moments.
"Yet we are overshadowed by the same quarrel."
Gil-galad nodded. "We cannot continue this enmity between our peoples. The Dark Lord learned much of his master. In forging divisions among the Eldar none were more adept than Morgoth."
They walked on silent feet through the ash, leaving only the faintest footprints. Both kings had acquired a layer of grime since leaving the marshes - water was precious and the Alliance carted it into Mordor from Ithilien. "It is perhaps my own fault - I did little in those days to heal the breach between the Sindar and the Noldor," the raven-haired elf continued.
"You were then young," Thranduil acknowledged.
"Indeed." The oily blackness had lifted somewhat with a warm wind from the west, but the sun remained a dim glow in the sky. "I was resentful. None among the Noldor suffered so much by Fëanor's seed as did the sons of Finarfin."
"This I know all too well," Thranduil reminded him.
The Noldo looked sideways at the other elf. "I met your mother once. I was hardly more than a babe - this was the year before Dagor Bragollach. She wore bright flowers in her hair. That is all I remember, I am afraid."
"They shared a great love, my mother and father. My father's grief festered all these years, and took him to his grave," Thranduil said quietly. "But I would not have him remembered so, as the loremasters of the Eldar are likely to do. He was also wise and kindly, and he is much lamented by my people."
A bitter smile twisted the High King's features. "One can find much fault in the tales of the loremasters, who knew not those of whom they tell, but praise the foolish and faithless while those of steady courage are disregarded." He was silent for a moment. They had returned to Thranduil's tent. He knew, now, what he had walked so far to learn. The Sindarin king was proud and independent, as had been his father. However, the shadow that had tainted Oropher's judgment lay not on the son. Gil-galad turned his brilliant eyes on the other elf and continued. "History favors the historian. Fëanor ngoll, dan law 'arn ind. Elrond speaks highly of your second son's scholarship. Perhaps it shall be his task to set the tales of Fëanor's Ingolmor to rights." *10, *11
3438 Second Age, Eryn Galen
"Good evening, my Lady."
Berinaeth's sharp eyes studied the dark sitting room and at last lingered on a figure shrouded in garments of black, in the manner of Númenor. Yet she sensed that his heart was equally black; he spoke in Adûnaic, a language the Faithful of his high rank - judging by his jeweled fingers - would not use. "How did you get in here?" The black arts of Sauron had served him well, if he had been able to pass through the webs of magic that protected the Emyn Duir.
"We were invited, my Lady."
She followed his eyes to her terrified handmaiden. Another man, of lesser rank, Berinaeth guessed, by his unadorned clothing, sat behind Ríadel, airily polishing his knife.
"What do you want of me?"
"Nothing, my Lady, of any value to me, but of considerable value to another. A small trinket, that is all."
Berinaeth understood. She hoped, for all their sakes, that Galadriel's security at Imladris proved more reliable than her own. Though her death was at hand whether she told what she knew or not, she still might keep her people safe, if she could convince him she did not keep any of the rings.
"I know not of what you speak."
"Indeed, you do. The wife of a king?"
"You are mistaken. I am but the King's daughter, by marriage to his son. And I am not privy to all their confidences." In this, she spoke falsely, but such words a mortal might well believe.
"This war in which you put such faith goes poorly for your kindred and their allies. Your King fell at the Morannon." He smiled wolfishly.
Berinaeth could not hide her anguish; Oropher had been dear to her. Yet, she kept hope still in the Alliance. Thrushes brought tidings to them of the siege, and so the elves in the forest were not wholly ignorant of the doings in Mordor. "I still do not know what you ask of me."
He rose, standing so near to her that only by exercise of will did she hold her place. "Lady, I tire of these circles in which you lead me. You possess one of the rings. I would have it, and you may keep your life. And perhaps your willingness to cooperate shall be remembered after your people are defeated in Mordor."
She laughed with a humor she did not feel. "Abonnen, I have lived more than four thousand years of the sun, and some time before Anor first rose. My father fought against Morgoth when your kind was yet under the protection of the Avari here in the woods." For a moment, she appeared to glow with the ancient strength of her race, her skin cold and pale as a carved image, and the man stepped back, disconcerted. "If you think that I can be swayed by empty promises of a servant to Morgoth's lieutenant, you are mistaken. Nor can I be persuaded that Sauron would show mercy to the Firstborn under any circumstance. Your threats are equally useless - I do not have this ring of which you speak." *12, *13
With an effort, he regained his composure. He saw that the elf spoke truthfully, but he thought her not altogether ignorant of the rings. "If you do not fear your own death, then perhaps you may be persuaded by methods…less pleasant."
"Torment me or no, I cannot give you what I do not have."
"Knowledge, you have. Do not take me for a simple Woodman, my Lady. Your mind is not wholly shrouded from me."
Berinaeth forced a bemused smile. "Then our discussion is futile. You might read my mind and be gone, if I knew anything of use to you."
His probing had led him nowhere. What she knew, she guarded carefully. The abilities his Dark Lord had taught him could not pierce that veil. He was not a patient man. He lifted his chin, nodding to his partner. The other man yanked Ríadel to her feet, holding the blade of his knife to her throat. "My good will is waning, my Lady, and my friend takes a rather morbid enjoyment in the spilling of elven blood."
She did not dare to look at Ríadel, even to apologize for what she must do. "Still my answer does not change. I simply do not know anything of this matter."
The man looked to his partner, who dropped to the floor in agony. The handmaiden wrested the blade from his hand. "Hirilen, take care!" *14
Momentarily shocked by the elf-maid's courage, the men too soon recovered. Berinaeth's call for help ended in a dagger drawn swiftly over her throat, and the other man took advantage of Ríadel's dismay to seize his knife. He plunged it twice into the handmaiden and then heeded his master's urgent summons.
"Come, or we shall be caught here."
They passed swiftly from the Emyn Duir in a shadow that left unease in its wake. He could learn nothing more here - the elves had kept the rings secret, to protect them and those who would be imperiled by such knowledge as Berinaeth had held. His impatience had lost their chance. The Dark Lord would not be pleased.
3439 Second Age, Mordor
The heart of the Silvan Elf uneasily tolerated long separation from the flora tied so closely to his soul. The Nazgûl did not trouble elves as they did men, for the terror of mortality held no power over creatures bound to Eä until the end of time. Black clouds, however, swirled overhead, withholding the stars from view. This, Thranduil knew, was not unintentional. The elves decried the veiling of the stars, and the wood folk more so.
Yet here in the ash, he found proof that the Wood Elves kept faith in their hearts. Amid the slag and waste of this desolate land, under the loving care of his people, the hardy uilos, the flower of hope eternal, had bloomed.
Soft footsteps joined him in his wonder. "It is said that we are writing the last great tale of the Eldar, but perhaps of the wood folk there are yet legends to be made," he mused.
Brónalm studied the lone blossom, the faint lines around his eyes the only sign of the millennia he had seen in the forest he loved. "'Tis said among my people that alone among the Quendi we are not destined to fade but shall end as spirits - nanni, in our ancient tongue - of the wood." *15
"Mayhap that is the true sense of this doom pronounced by the Valar. The Eldar are fearful of change, but change we must if we are to remain in the Arda we so love." Thranduil turned his attention to the ancient elf. The dark grey eyes betrayed fathomless years of wisdom, yet remained bright and curious.
Like Círdan, Brónalm had done what the younger Noldor could not - he had adapted to the times, staving off the world-weariness that so plagued the High Elves. "Arda's heart lies in the very breath of its forests, in all that Yavanna has made," the Cúcherdir said presently. "Arda grows, and renews and ever changes, Aranen. We elves must grow with her."
"Or choose the straight path, for only in Aman can we hold back the march of time."
"May the Belain forgive me, but I should fade from constancy in the Undying Lands," Brónalm admitted ruefully. *16
Thranduil laughed. "My heart warns me I would meet with a similar fate."
3441 Second Age, Mordor
The old mariner paused in the darkness, watching Elrond's return to camp. He need ask no questions. The slump in the Peredhel's shoulders told all.
'A new age begins, yet bound to the menace of the old,' Círdan murmured to himself. He turned resolutely toward the camp of the Silvan Elves, to deliver more heavy news. His kinsmen had already grieved enough, and he foresaw more sorrows awaiting them in their forests to the north.
Thranduil greeted him warmly. "Círdan! I trust you fare all right. Your runners have already reached us with the news."
"Alas, I bear other tidings." The stars struggled to pierce the clouds, still clearing in the wake of the last battle. In the distance, Orodruin's glow was subdued, seeming to mourn the dark Maia. "'Tis your wife's father, Aureve. He fell in Sauron's final push."
Thranduil grimaced, turning away for a moment. "I expect we shall not be much welcomed at home, for we bring only messages of death."
They were silent for a moment. In spite of the unlooked for victory when all was thought to be lost, little cheer there was that night, for the end had been bitter, and the casualties many.
"And the ring? Was it destroyed?" Círdan's messengers had told of the fall of Gil-galad and Elendil, of Isildur's stroke by the shards of Narsil. Yet none knew the fate of the One Ring, though many whispered that it had perished with its wearer.
Círdan drew a deep breath, considering what the King of Eryn Galen should know of Isildur's weregild. Finally, he offered brief, and, rare for the ancient elf, terse details.
"So we failed, in the end." Thranduil's eyes looked briefly in the direction of Isildur's camp. He pitied the mortal - Isildur had done much and lost much, and was already enslaved by the token he had taken. Yet he also feared Isildur, for the Dúnadan did not fully understand the dark power he held, that the ring was made of the very being of the Maia he thought defeated. Had an elf taken the ring, could the courage have been found - could he, son of Oropher, have found the courage - to destroy it? His kindred had lacked the courage to destroy the Three. Had an elf taken the ring, Thranduil decided, his knowledge would only make the ring more dangerous. *17
Círdan's solemn tidings only added to the burdens of his heart. He brought sorrow back to his people. Only a third of the brave warriors would see their home again. Many widows had been made, not least of them his sister, who would be doubly taken by her father's death. Berinaeth would grieve, too, for Oropher, for her own father, and so for her oldest son. Many eyes would search among the returning heroes for their fathers, daughters, husbands; never again would those eyes rest on the loved one whose return had been so eagerly anticipated.
1 Third Age, Eryn Galen
Ríadel survived to tell of her lady's courage. No lay would memorialize Ríadel's heroism or Berinaeth's sacrifice; no song would tell of Nórui's stealthy pursuit of the Black Númenóreans or of her arrows that sent the men to their death. Yet, the elven women's defense of their home through the dark years had been no less valiant than the efforts of his warriors.
For Berinaeth, Thranduil grieved, but not with such agony as had chased his father to his death. His relationship with his wife had not been so passionate or devoted. Indeed, he could not deny that he had sought affections elsewhere, if he had not been truly unfaithful. Still, her passing left him with a greater sense of loss than might be thought. "We shall be content in one another," he had assured his father, and he had been content. Berinaeth had been his best counselor and a great comfort to his father. She had borne him two sons he loved above all else. Looking upon her grave, he hoped that she, too, had been content.
His own sorrows he had little time to indulge. His fragile sister showed every sign of succumbing to despair. He had hoped Laigil would go West, if her anguish proved too great to bear, but her heart and fate would not be turned, and no words could Thranduil find to persuade his sister to remain in life.
"Can you bring him back?" Laigil demanded of him. "What of our father? Or your son? How many widows were made, how will our people recover?"
"And would you make an orphan, too?" Thranduil asked.
"He is not a child, muindoren. Perhaps he was nearly so when he left here, but he has aged a thousand years since then." His sister he could save no more than he could his father, no more than he could purge the brittle bitterness from her son. *18
Innolas paused uncertainly in the flickering light from his father's library. Thranduil was pensive, his face turned toward the window but his eyes unseeing. Much weighed on his father - the sorrows had only multiplied since the long march back from Mordor, not least those of their people, now mourning their dead, for none were untouched, so many had been lost.
He entered the library and touched his father's arm. "This burden is not yours alone to bear, Adar."
"They have placed their trust in me. It is my duty to look after them." He looked away from the window, eased somewhat by his son's presence.
"Time will heal. They are resilient, stronger, I think, than we of the Eldar," Innolas reassured him. "They live by the rhythms of the forest; they know and revere the cycle of death and renewal. When they have honored the dead they will live again."
Thranduil grasped the hand on his arm, searching the face of its pale-haired owner. 'So much like his mother, so much like my mother,' he thought painfully. "You speak little of your own sadness, my son."
Innolas frowned. "I grieve for Naneth, and for the others." He closed his eyes, a vision of his mother burning behind the lids. "My heartache lies in the missing of them, in the emptiness of these rooms and the silence of the voices that once filled them with life, in scents inextricably connected to those lost to us. They remain in my heart as I knew them once, and I find some solace in this." Nonetheless, the younger elf felt spent, as he supposed his father did. The Firstborn were no strangers to sadness; elves knew pain like no other creature. The strong learned to hoard their pain, to spend it over the many years of an immortal life, lest unbridled grief overcome the delicate heart and mind peculiar to their kindred. *19
2 Third Age, Eryn Galen
"A Woodman begs to speak with you, Aranen. He says it is a matter of great urgency."
Thranduil nodded at Galion. "Bring him up."
Lómaur scarcely had time to catch his breath before the elves led him into the shadowed glen and up the steep path cutting through the verdant green hillsides and pine trees. He saw nothing above until the shadows lifted suddenly and a stone building appeared improbably in the hillside. The climb left him again breathless, and he could not at first speak to the golden-haired king, who looked on him with a serious, but not unkind look.
As soon as he might, he told his news of the attack on the Dúnadan king.
"And what became of him?" Thranduil asked sharply.
"I cannot say. I was sent hither when one of his men came to Folcagard for help. We sent our folk, but the man insisted that we go to the elves also."
Thranduil alone knew the reason for this. "Galion, ready a strong company and my mount."
"Híren, are you sure that is prudent?" the butler questioned. "If there are orcs lying wait, we may well be attacked. It is not safe." *20
"We are none of us safe if Isildur is taken."
They arrived far too late. Mitharas found the bodies of Isildur's sons, but no sign of the King of Arnor. Thranduil's folk set to the somber task of burying the remains while the King questioned a young man found alive, Estelmo, esquire to Isildur's son Elendur.
"This I heard my lord say to the King, his father: 'Go! Take your burden, and at all costs bring it to the Keepers: even at the cost of abandoning your men and me!'" the esquire recounted, still dazed by the blow that had ironically saved his life. *21
The elves guessed that Isildur had tried to cross the Anduin, for they found his armor near the river. On the west bank they saw abandoned orc camps, but if Isildur had eluded them, then perhaps he had reached Lórinand or taken the pass at the Ninglor toward Imladris. Thranduil did not then know that the ring conferred invisibility, but as no trace of Isildur's body could they locate, there was yet hope. Those skilled at tracking searched the west bank but could discover no sign of a trail, and runners soon confirmed that Isildur had not reached Lórinand. Ever more concerned, Thranduil gathered his company to bring the news to Imladris. *22
2 Third Age, Imladris
"They are coming, Naneth!" The boy pointed toward the end of the valley, at tiny figures descending on horseback.
The woman looked over his shoulder - not much longer that she would be able to do that, she reckoned. For a moment, she saw the child he was quickly leaving behind, sitting content on the lap of his father. Few would guess that she had seen well over a century, for she was of the long-lived line of Elros. Still, her hair was now streaked with grey, and her face bore lines of worry and waiting - endless waiting. At last, the waiting had come to an end.
A servant looked toward the party in the distance, his sharp elven eyes determining what the two mortals could not. "They are not men, but elves who approach." The lady's face fell. "Elves of the wood, I think. That is not usual. Excuse me, hirilen, I must tell Herdir Elrond." *23
Seventeen days had passed since the attack on Isildur and his men, and Elrond sent out search parties upon hearing Thranduil's grim tidings. His heart, however, filled with foreboding. "If he wore the ring, he should have escaped the orcs on the west bank. Yet he must have had it when he went into the water - we know he got that far." Elrond steepled his fingers under his chin thoughtfully. "Alas, that he did not turn east toward your people instead."
"You keep little hope for him." Thranduil observed.
Elrond acknowledged this with a nod. "It is perhaps a better fate for him. I am astonished that he carried the ring so long without evil effect."
Thranduil shifted uneasily, his pale grey eyes troubled. "Yet if Isildur is lost, so too the One Ring."
"With any luck, it will end in the sea. And yet…"
Elrond fell silent, his own misgivings rising like bile.
"…such things have a way of being found again."
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of original characters needed to fill out Oropher's family tree or move the story along. Translations of Elvish words and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
3434 Second Age, Assault on Morannon
Death sought him. Its long bony fingers had crawled after him since the spear point reached the tender flesh of his throat. He yet hovered on the noisy side of the living, but heard his fëa summoned. Though his fëa grew ever more distant from the battlefield, he knew his father was near to him. He sensed that his father's eyes were dimmed by tears behind his helm, that his gentle hands sought in vain to stop the outflowing of life. "Iónen! Hên nîn!" his father called to him, but the Vala who called ever more insistently to him would not permit him to answer. He saw his brother, grimly slicing his sword into an orc, unaware yet that he would henceforth bear the title of Hîl Thranduil. *1, *2, *3
Caunolas could not resist any longer; he might be stranded in Arda, a houseless fëa, a shade. He must go, though his father's anguish filled him with regret. What judgment must Mandos cast upon him, he who had rushed without thought into death, drawn - no, deceived by the Dark Lord himself? 'Adar, dannar níren o naergon nin amarth hen rennin.' His father seemed to hear his final words of contrition. The battlefield's sounds and smells dimmed and were gone. *4
Five days had passed since the disastrous assault on the Gate; five days had passed since Thranduil had buried his father and oldest son. The losses of the elves of Eryn Galen and Lórinand had reduced them to less than half their strength. From their King to Avari of the remotest reaches of the realm, they grieved for lost kinsmen. As such, the mood was unusually somber among the wood folk. Restlessly Thranduil left his tent twice to walk through their camp and returned, finding no escape from sorrow. He felt smothered by it; the eyes of every elf he met mirrored his own aching regret for his son and father.
Silence held court in his tent. Brónalm went through the familiar motions of repairing arrows. Having no kin himself, his King's family had become his family, and Brónalm grieved no less than did Thranduil. In their bedrolls, Innolas and Mitharas had found escape in sleep; the older elf lay with an arm thrown protectively over his cousin. The sight brought a hint of a smile to the King's face, as he absently twisted the ring around his third finger - a thoughtful gift of his sons, as the two elves knew of their father's appreciation for precious stones. Each stone represented one of the giftmakers - ruby for Caunolas and his fiery spirit, sapphire for wise Innolas. In the center they had placed their father's favorite gem, emerald, signifying endurance through adversity.
Thranduil prayed that Mandos would not too long keep his own father from the reunion he so ardently desired. This hope made Oropher's death easier to accept, though his father's heart had not been easy when he surrendered his fëa to Mandos.
"I was deceived, Thranduil. I, who believed myself blameless, lent an ear to darkness these many years. Willfully I led my host, and even your son, into death, against your counsel. For this I shall rightfully be held to account. Your mother, I do not doubt, shall find much fault with me in the matter.
"You shall make a great king, iónen." He looked fondly at his heir as he continued. "Never have I feared to leave our people in your hands." Oropher's eyes grew cloudy; Thranduil could not determine if sleep or death had taken him.
"Adar?" *5
Oropher's eyes snapped open, an odd light shining in their ancient depths. "Den estan Edhellendor-Vedui. More sorrow awaits you, I fear. Yet from your sorrows shall come one among the Silvan folk, a child of your heart who will bring joy to the dark days you have yet to endure." *6
His father's promise Thranduil did not entirely understand, but he drew some comfort from its implication that he and his father's beloved people would outlast this present peril. Such thoughts did not lessen his grief for his oldest son. 'Little spark', his mother had called him as a child, for like his grandfather, Caunolas had been prone to extremes of feeling. He had proved also to be a natural leader, and the somber circumstances of war were those under which his eldest had shone brightest. Popular among the people, his enthusiasm they would miss.
In his ponderings, Thranduil had fallen into a trance-like state, soothed by the repetitive movements of the Cúcherdir as he sharpened his arrow tips. The realization that Brónalm had paused came to him slowly, and he looked up to see the ancient elf looking at him intently. *7
"Your heart is heavy tonight, Aranen," Brónalm observed, inviting his confidence. *8
"It is this war - we have lost so much already, yet if the Noldorin King judges rightly, we have yet a long campaign ahead." He wondered at the ability of Elendil's men to withstand such a long siege. But a blink of an eye in the life of an elf was many years to a mortal. Still, the Dúnedain did not lack incentive - not only was it their land that Sauron threatened, positioned as he was on the doorstep of Gondor, but the loss of Númenor must be bitter to the Faithful. Few elixirs were more powerful, he should know, than revenge.
Such meanderings of his mind brought him to the dwarves, who had taken up the siege near Orodruin, watchful lest some underground connection between Barad-dûr and the Maia's forge be pressed for his escape. He had more confidence in the stubborn patience of the stunted folk, though like his younger son, Thranduil had little love or understanding for them. The never-forgotten dwarves of Nogrod still inspired ill feelings among the Sindar and Laegrim who had come to Eryn Galen from Doriath, and even in their common struggles against the creatures of Sauron, the elves and dwarves of the Wilderland had never truly been allies. *9
Many from Doriath had given up their lives in the assault on the gate. Revenge was more than an elixir - it was a fey wine that carried men and elves alike to their doom. Morgoth had once used strife between the elves to accomplish his aims; Sauron his lieutenant had made good use of this poison.
Such thoughts troubled another who wandered abroad this night. The elf who had made this historical alliance, who had turned often to the descendants of Elros in need, had himself overcome deep distrust and doubts instilled by one among the kin of Elros. He trusted few so much as he now trusted Elendil. In sharp contrast lay his dealings with the Sindarin lords, and thus had he come to the north side of Barad-dûr.
A cold reception awaited him from the elf who had served Oropher and now served his son. He felt keenly the elf's reproach for what had befallen his lord. Nonetheless, Galion entered the tent occupied by Thranduil and his kin to summon his King.
"We are of the same age, you and I. Our strivings now are but small next to the straits in which we found ourselves at the end of the Elder Days," Gil-galad observed, when the two had walked in silence a few moments.
"Yet we are overshadowed by the same quarrel."
Gil-galad nodded. "We cannot continue this enmity between our peoples. The Dark Lord learned much of his master. In forging divisions among the Eldar none were more adept than Morgoth."
They walked on silent feet through the ash, leaving only the faintest footprints. Both kings had acquired a layer of grime since leaving the marshes - water was precious and the Alliance carted it into Mordor from Ithilien. "It is perhaps my own fault - I did little in those days to heal the breach between the Sindar and the Noldor," the raven-haired elf continued.
"You were then young," Thranduil acknowledged.
"Indeed." The oily blackness had lifted somewhat with a warm wind from the west, but the sun remained a dim glow in the sky. "I was resentful. None among the Noldor suffered so much by Fëanor's seed as did the sons of Finarfin."
"This I know all too well," Thranduil reminded him.
The Noldo looked sideways at the other elf. "I met your mother once. I was hardly more than a babe - this was the year before Dagor Bragollach. She wore bright flowers in her hair. That is all I remember, I am afraid."
"They shared a great love, my mother and father. My father's grief festered all these years, and took him to his grave," Thranduil said quietly. "But I would not have him remembered so, as the loremasters of the Eldar are likely to do. He was also wise and kindly, and he is much lamented by my people."
A bitter smile twisted the High King's features. "One can find much fault in the tales of the loremasters, who knew not those of whom they tell, but praise the foolish and faithless while those of steady courage are disregarded." He was silent for a moment. They had returned to Thranduil's tent. He knew, now, what he had walked so far to learn. The Sindarin king was proud and independent, as had been his father. However, the shadow that had tainted Oropher's judgment lay not on the son. Gil-galad turned his brilliant eyes on the other elf and continued. "History favors the historian. Fëanor ngoll, dan law 'arn ind. Elrond speaks highly of your second son's scholarship. Perhaps it shall be his task to set the tales of Fëanor's Ingolmor to rights." *10, *11
3438 Second Age, Eryn Galen
"Good evening, my Lady."
Berinaeth's sharp eyes studied the dark sitting room and at last lingered on a figure shrouded in garments of black, in the manner of Númenor. Yet she sensed that his heart was equally black; he spoke in Adûnaic, a language the Faithful of his high rank - judging by his jeweled fingers - would not use. "How did you get in here?" The black arts of Sauron had served him well, if he had been able to pass through the webs of magic that protected the Emyn Duir.
"We were invited, my Lady."
She followed his eyes to her terrified handmaiden. Another man, of lesser rank, Berinaeth guessed, by his unadorned clothing, sat behind Ríadel, airily polishing his knife.
"What do you want of me?"
"Nothing, my Lady, of any value to me, but of considerable value to another. A small trinket, that is all."
Berinaeth understood. She hoped, for all their sakes, that Galadriel's security at Imladris proved more reliable than her own. Though her death was at hand whether she told what she knew or not, she still might keep her people safe, if she could convince him she did not keep any of the rings.
"I know not of what you speak."
"Indeed, you do. The wife of a king?"
"You are mistaken. I am but the King's daughter, by marriage to his son. And I am not privy to all their confidences." In this, she spoke falsely, but such words a mortal might well believe.
"This war in which you put such faith goes poorly for your kindred and their allies. Your King fell at the Morannon." He smiled wolfishly.
Berinaeth could not hide her anguish; Oropher had been dear to her. Yet, she kept hope still in the Alliance. Thrushes brought tidings to them of the siege, and so the elves in the forest were not wholly ignorant of the doings in Mordor. "I still do not know what you ask of me."
He rose, standing so near to her that only by exercise of will did she hold her place. "Lady, I tire of these circles in which you lead me. You possess one of the rings. I would have it, and you may keep your life. And perhaps your willingness to cooperate shall be remembered after your people are defeated in Mordor."
She laughed with a humor she did not feel. "Abonnen, I have lived more than four thousand years of the sun, and some time before Anor first rose. My father fought against Morgoth when your kind was yet under the protection of the Avari here in the woods." For a moment, she appeared to glow with the ancient strength of her race, her skin cold and pale as a carved image, and the man stepped back, disconcerted. "If you think that I can be swayed by empty promises of a servant to Morgoth's lieutenant, you are mistaken. Nor can I be persuaded that Sauron would show mercy to the Firstborn under any circumstance. Your threats are equally useless - I do not have this ring of which you speak." *12, *13
With an effort, he regained his composure. He saw that the elf spoke truthfully, but he thought her not altogether ignorant of the rings. "If you do not fear your own death, then perhaps you may be persuaded by methods…less pleasant."
"Torment me or no, I cannot give you what I do not have."
"Knowledge, you have. Do not take me for a simple Woodman, my Lady. Your mind is not wholly shrouded from me."
Berinaeth forced a bemused smile. "Then our discussion is futile. You might read my mind and be gone, if I knew anything of use to you."
His probing had led him nowhere. What she knew, she guarded carefully. The abilities his Dark Lord had taught him could not pierce that veil. He was not a patient man. He lifted his chin, nodding to his partner. The other man yanked Ríadel to her feet, holding the blade of his knife to her throat. "My good will is waning, my Lady, and my friend takes a rather morbid enjoyment in the spilling of elven blood."
She did not dare to look at Ríadel, even to apologize for what she must do. "Still my answer does not change. I simply do not know anything of this matter."
The man looked to his partner, who dropped to the floor in agony. The handmaiden wrested the blade from his hand. "Hirilen, take care!" *14
Momentarily shocked by the elf-maid's courage, the men too soon recovered. Berinaeth's call for help ended in a dagger drawn swiftly over her throat, and the other man took advantage of Ríadel's dismay to seize his knife. He plunged it twice into the handmaiden and then heeded his master's urgent summons.
"Come, or we shall be caught here."
They passed swiftly from the Emyn Duir in a shadow that left unease in its wake. He could learn nothing more here - the elves had kept the rings secret, to protect them and those who would be imperiled by such knowledge as Berinaeth had held. His impatience had lost their chance. The Dark Lord would not be pleased.
3439 Second Age, Mordor
The heart of the Silvan Elf uneasily tolerated long separation from the flora tied so closely to his soul. The Nazgûl did not trouble elves as they did men, for the terror of mortality held no power over creatures bound to Eä until the end of time. Black clouds, however, swirled overhead, withholding the stars from view. This, Thranduil knew, was not unintentional. The elves decried the veiling of the stars, and the wood folk more so.
Yet here in the ash, he found proof that the Wood Elves kept faith in their hearts. Amid the slag and waste of this desolate land, under the loving care of his people, the hardy uilos, the flower of hope eternal, had bloomed.
Soft footsteps joined him in his wonder. "It is said that we are writing the last great tale of the Eldar, but perhaps of the wood folk there are yet legends to be made," he mused.
Brónalm studied the lone blossom, the faint lines around his eyes the only sign of the millennia he had seen in the forest he loved. "'Tis said among my people that alone among the Quendi we are not destined to fade but shall end as spirits - nanni, in our ancient tongue - of the wood." *15
"Mayhap that is the true sense of this doom pronounced by the Valar. The Eldar are fearful of change, but change we must if we are to remain in the Arda we so love." Thranduil turned his attention to the ancient elf. The dark grey eyes betrayed fathomless years of wisdom, yet remained bright and curious.
Like Círdan, Brónalm had done what the younger Noldor could not - he had adapted to the times, staving off the world-weariness that so plagued the High Elves. "Arda's heart lies in the very breath of its forests, in all that Yavanna has made," the Cúcherdir said presently. "Arda grows, and renews and ever changes, Aranen. We elves must grow with her."
"Or choose the straight path, for only in Aman can we hold back the march of time."
"May the Belain forgive me, but I should fade from constancy in the Undying Lands," Brónalm admitted ruefully. *16
Thranduil laughed. "My heart warns me I would meet with a similar fate."
3441 Second Age, Mordor
The old mariner paused in the darkness, watching Elrond's return to camp. He need ask no questions. The slump in the Peredhel's shoulders told all.
'A new age begins, yet bound to the menace of the old,' Círdan murmured to himself. He turned resolutely toward the camp of the Silvan Elves, to deliver more heavy news. His kinsmen had already grieved enough, and he foresaw more sorrows awaiting them in their forests to the north.
Thranduil greeted him warmly. "Círdan! I trust you fare all right. Your runners have already reached us with the news."
"Alas, I bear other tidings." The stars struggled to pierce the clouds, still clearing in the wake of the last battle. In the distance, Orodruin's glow was subdued, seeming to mourn the dark Maia. "'Tis your wife's father, Aureve. He fell in Sauron's final push."
Thranduil grimaced, turning away for a moment. "I expect we shall not be much welcomed at home, for we bring only messages of death."
They were silent for a moment. In spite of the unlooked for victory when all was thought to be lost, little cheer there was that night, for the end had been bitter, and the casualties many.
"And the ring? Was it destroyed?" Círdan's messengers had told of the fall of Gil-galad and Elendil, of Isildur's stroke by the shards of Narsil. Yet none knew the fate of the One Ring, though many whispered that it had perished with its wearer.
Círdan drew a deep breath, considering what the King of Eryn Galen should know of Isildur's weregild. Finally, he offered brief, and, rare for the ancient elf, terse details.
"So we failed, in the end." Thranduil's eyes looked briefly in the direction of Isildur's camp. He pitied the mortal - Isildur had done much and lost much, and was already enslaved by the token he had taken. Yet he also feared Isildur, for the Dúnadan did not fully understand the dark power he held, that the ring was made of the very being of the Maia he thought defeated. Had an elf taken the ring, could the courage have been found - could he, son of Oropher, have found the courage - to destroy it? His kindred had lacked the courage to destroy the Three. Had an elf taken the ring, Thranduil decided, his knowledge would only make the ring more dangerous. *17
Círdan's solemn tidings only added to the burdens of his heart. He brought sorrow back to his people. Only a third of the brave warriors would see their home again. Many widows had been made, not least of them his sister, who would be doubly taken by her father's death. Berinaeth would grieve, too, for Oropher, for her own father, and so for her oldest son. Many eyes would search among the returning heroes for their fathers, daughters, husbands; never again would those eyes rest on the loved one whose return had been so eagerly anticipated.
1 Third Age, Eryn Galen
Ríadel survived to tell of her lady's courage. No lay would memorialize Ríadel's heroism or Berinaeth's sacrifice; no song would tell of Nórui's stealthy pursuit of the Black Númenóreans or of her arrows that sent the men to their death. Yet, the elven women's defense of their home through the dark years had been no less valiant than the efforts of his warriors.
For Berinaeth, Thranduil grieved, but not with such agony as had chased his father to his death. His relationship with his wife had not been so passionate or devoted. Indeed, he could not deny that he had sought affections elsewhere, if he had not been truly unfaithful. Still, her passing left him with a greater sense of loss than might be thought. "We shall be content in one another," he had assured his father, and he had been content. Berinaeth had been his best counselor and a great comfort to his father. She had borne him two sons he loved above all else. Looking upon her grave, he hoped that she, too, had been content.
His own sorrows he had little time to indulge. His fragile sister showed every sign of succumbing to despair. He had hoped Laigil would go West, if her anguish proved too great to bear, but her heart and fate would not be turned, and no words could Thranduil find to persuade his sister to remain in life.
"Can you bring him back?" Laigil demanded of him. "What of our father? Or your son? How many widows were made, how will our people recover?"
"And would you make an orphan, too?" Thranduil asked.
"He is not a child, muindoren. Perhaps he was nearly so when he left here, but he has aged a thousand years since then." His sister he could save no more than he could his father, no more than he could purge the brittle bitterness from her son. *18
Innolas paused uncertainly in the flickering light from his father's library. Thranduil was pensive, his face turned toward the window but his eyes unseeing. Much weighed on his father - the sorrows had only multiplied since the long march back from Mordor, not least those of their people, now mourning their dead, for none were untouched, so many had been lost.
He entered the library and touched his father's arm. "This burden is not yours alone to bear, Adar."
"They have placed their trust in me. It is my duty to look after them." He looked away from the window, eased somewhat by his son's presence.
"Time will heal. They are resilient, stronger, I think, than we of the Eldar," Innolas reassured him. "They live by the rhythms of the forest; they know and revere the cycle of death and renewal. When they have honored the dead they will live again."
Thranduil grasped the hand on his arm, searching the face of its pale-haired owner. 'So much like his mother, so much like my mother,' he thought painfully. "You speak little of your own sadness, my son."
Innolas frowned. "I grieve for Naneth, and for the others." He closed his eyes, a vision of his mother burning behind the lids. "My heartache lies in the missing of them, in the emptiness of these rooms and the silence of the voices that once filled them with life, in scents inextricably connected to those lost to us. They remain in my heart as I knew them once, and I find some solace in this." Nonetheless, the younger elf felt spent, as he supposed his father did. The Firstborn were no strangers to sadness; elves knew pain like no other creature. The strong learned to hoard their pain, to spend it over the many years of an immortal life, lest unbridled grief overcome the delicate heart and mind peculiar to their kindred. *19
2 Third Age, Eryn Galen
"A Woodman begs to speak with you, Aranen. He says it is a matter of great urgency."
Thranduil nodded at Galion. "Bring him up."
Lómaur scarcely had time to catch his breath before the elves led him into the shadowed glen and up the steep path cutting through the verdant green hillsides and pine trees. He saw nothing above until the shadows lifted suddenly and a stone building appeared improbably in the hillside. The climb left him again breathless, and he could not at first speak to the golden-haired king, who looked on him with a serious, but not unkind look.
As soon as he might, he told his news of the attack on the Dúnadan king.
"And what became of him?" Thranduil asked sharply.
"I cannot say. I was sent hither when one of his men came to Folcagard for help. We sent our folk, but the man insisted that we go to the elves also."
Thranduil alone knew the reason for this. "Galion, ready a strong company and my mount."
"Híren, are you sure that is prudent?" the butler questioned. "If there are orcs lying wait, we may well be attacked. It is not safe." *20
"We are none of us safe if Isildur is taken."
They arrived far too late. Mitharas found the bodies of Isildur's sons, but no sign of the King of Arnor. Thranduil's folk set to the somber task of burying the remains while the King questioned a young man found alive, Estelmo, esquire to Isildur's son Elendur.
"This I heard my lord say to the King, his father: 'Go! Take your burden, and at all costs bring it to the Keepers: even at the cost of abandoning your men and me!'" the esquire recounted, still dazed by the blow that had ironically saved his life. *21
The elves guessed that Isildur had tried to cross the Anduin, for they found his armor near the river. On the west bank they saw abandoned orc camps, but if Isildur had eluded them, then perhaps he had reached Lórinand or taken the pass at the Ninglor toward Imladris. Thranduil did not then know that the ring conferred invisibility, but as no trace of Isildur's body could they locate, there was yet hope. Those skilled at tracking searched the west bank but could discover no sign of a trail, and runners soon confirmed that Isildur had not reached Lórinand. Ever more concerned, Thranduil gathered his company to bring the news to Imladris. *22
2 Third Age, Imladris
"They are coming, Naneth!" The boy pointed toward the end of the valley, at tiny figures descending on horseback.
The woman looked over his shoulder - not much longer that she would be able to do that, she reckoned. For a moment, she saw the child he was quickly leaving behind, sitting content on the lap of his father. Few would guess that she had seen well over a century, for she was of the long-lived line of Elros. Still, her hair was now streaked with grey, and her face bore lines of worry and waiting - endless waiting. At last, the waiting had come to an end.
A servant looked toward the party in the distance, his sharp elven eyes determining what the two mortals could not. "They are not men, but elves who approach." The lady's face fell. "Elves of the wood, I think. That is not usual. Excuse me, hirilen, I must tell Herdir Elrond." *23
Seventeen days had passed since the attack on Isildur and his men, and Elrond sent out search parties upon hearing Thranduil's grim tidings. His heart, however, filled with foreboding. "If he wore the ring, he should have escaped the orcs on the west bank. Yet he must have had it when he went into the water - we know he got that far." Elrond steepled his fingers under his chin thoughtfully. "Alas, that he did not turn east toward your people instead."
"You keep little hope for him." Thranduil observed.
Elrond acknowledged this with a nod. "It is perhaps a better fate for him. I am astonished that he carried the ring so long without evil effect."
Thranduil shifted uneasily, his pale grey eyes troubled. "Yet if Isildur is lost, so too the One Ring."
"With any luck, it will end in the sea. And yet…"
Elrond fell silent, his own misgivings rising like bile.
"…such things have a way of being found again."
- *1 fëa
- soul (Q)
- *2 "Iónen! Hên nîn!"
- "My son! My child!"
- *3 Hîl Thranduil
- Heir of Thranduil
- *4 'Adar, dannar níren o naergon nin amarth hen rennin.'
- 'Father, my tears fall in lament for this fate I sowed.'
- *5 Adar
- Father
- *6 "Den estan Edhellendor-Vedui."
- "You I name Last Elvenking." - Edhellendor-Vedui from edhellen, elven + -dor (-tor if it were not lenited), king; vedui (lenited from medui), last. Obviously, I invented this name, but it is canonically accurate - after the death of Amroth, Thranduil was the last king of elves in Middle-Earth.
- *7 Cúcherdir
- Bow-master
- *8 Aranen
- My King
- *9 Laegrim
- Green Elves, aka Laiquendi
- *10 "Fëanor ngoll, dan law 'arn ind."
- "Fëanor (was) wise, but had not wisdom of the heart."
- *11 Ingolmor
- Loremasters (Q - I'm hoping this is the correct plural of Ingolmo). Fëanor founded the school of loremasters to which Pengolodh belonged before the flight of the Noldor. (ref. The War of the Jewels, Quendi and Eldar)
- *12 Abonnen
- Man (lit. after-born)
- *13 Anor
- (The) sun
- *14 Hirilen
- My lady
- *15 nanni
- feys (Silvan) This is constructed from Nandini (Qenya Lexicon) in The Book of Lost Tales 1; there is a related root NAD in The Lost Road, 'Etymologies', referring to grasslands. The change from -nd to -nn is supported by one of the few words specifically related by Tolkien to the elves of Eryn Galen: Penni, their name for their own people, descended from Primitive Quendian kwendí. (ref. The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar' p 409-410, pub. Houghton Mifflin; Helge Fauskanger, 'Avarin - All Six Words', move.to/ardalambion). I'm guessing that -i would likewise be the class plural ending.
- *16 Belain
- Valar
- *17 "So we failed, in the end."
- Did Thranduil know that Isildur kept the One Ring? In LOTR Elrond states that only he and Círdan saw Isildur take the ring. However, one would assume others were told. It was known in the North Kingdom and Galadriel, as keeper of one of the Three, must certainly have been told. There are a few indications that Thranduil also knew. In Unfinished Tales, 'Disaster of the Gladden Fields', it is stated that three escaped the massacre of Isildur's men. They sought help from the Woodmen, who in turn sent the news to Thranduil. It seems likely that if Thranduil did not know of the continued existence of the One Ring before, he would have figured it out at this point. There is also a passage in Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn' recounting Thranduil's certainty that Sauron would rise again. Those ignorant of the fate of the ring and its history believed Sauron destroyed at the end of the war.
- *18 muindoren
- my brother
- *19 Naneth
- Mother
- *20 Híren
- My lord
- *21 'Go! Take your burden, and at all costs bring it to the Keepers: even at the cost of abandoning your men and me!'
- (Unfinished Tales, 'Disaster of the Gladden Fields', p. 286 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey) Estelmo overheard the final words between Isildur and Elendur, which is how the elves and Istari were able to determine that the ring had been lost in the Gladden River, even before Gollum's part of the tale became known.
- *22 Ninglor
- Gladden River
- *23 Herdir
- Master