Author's Notes: Again, this chapter marks a departure from this story's companion piece, Rîn, which will shortly (I hope) be remedied. The final chapter of this story is nearer to being done than I thought - this one gave me fits, however, and having tinkered with it for over a month, I decided to let it stand.
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 (Sindarin, unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
Under the Oak and the Beech*
"...There was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again." (Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn', p 271, pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
1017 Third Age
Under a crown of blazing yellow and red flowers, Thranduil watched his folk with an indulgent eye - the excesses of the midsummer festival he knew well. In the Elder Days, the Gondolindrim welcomed the longest day with dignified silence. Such reserve mocked the very nature of the Penni. [1] The Silvan folk celebrated each day with song and merrymaking; therefore must their days of feast be still more merry.
Red and white crowns paired several couples: white, for the purity of their love; red, for passion and fertility. They would be bound at the rising of Anor. [2] Among them were Thranduil's sister-daughter and her betrothed. The King viewed this marriage with not a little sadness - Nórui had lost her heart to an Avarin elf who worked the famous vineyards of Dorwinion, and there would Nórui settle, many leagues from her kin. Though men produced the greater share of wine in that region, a very small elven community remained by the Sea of Rhûn, and they made the highly potent and prohibitively rare elven ceremonial wine. Such wine elves reserved for occasions such as this, the marriage of one of the royal house.
His late wife's lovely handmaid hardly showed her fatigue, though her duties prior to the festival - and the insistent attentions of her two admirers - would daunt even one of her Eldarin blood. From Nórui she had inherited the place of Bassoneth among the elves of Thranduil's realm. Rare it was among the Eldar for an elf not of the ruling family - indeed, not even of noble birth - to hold this high honor, but the Telerin elf-maid had been far more than handmaid to Berinaeth and later to Nórui. Little instruction had Nórui needed to give to her successor, for Ríadel had in fact taught her much when Laigil's death passed the title to her daughter.
Ríadel came to stand near Thranduil, hoping that none would dare to bring her a new catastrophe while she spoke with their King. "Ye shall have many laes to welcome by first harvest of the next year, Aranen." [3, 4]
"Indeed. Yavanna smiles upon those bound on Anor's special day. Would that my own house should be so blessed." Better than the rings his kindred kept, Thranduil believed, would children ward against the fading the Eldar so feared.
"'Tis a pity Nórui should be taken from your house, but she shall have much happiness, I deem. She has chosen wisely in her spouse." Ríadel knew that nonetheless her King lamented the loss of Nórui's future children.
"Yet perhaps I may have another binding to anticipate, if my eyes are not deceived," Thranduil observed with a sly look at Ríadel.
"That I cannot so boldly predict, Aranen," she answered truthfully. Her affection she did not give stingily, and both suitors stirred her passions, yet less certainty had she of her heart. Furthermore, she did not wish to make rivalry of the friendship Faunil and Mitharas shared.
Indeed, they shared more than friendship, for together they had responsibility for the defense and security of Thranduil and his folk. During the war, Mitharas had proved himself a worthy son to his warrior father. By the end of the long campaign, his gift for military strategy had made him a captain, despite his youth. The wise King had foreseen that his sister-son's bitterness and anger would find release in his daily responsibilities. Faunil had come from Ossiriand with Oropher, one of the Laegrim amongst whom Oropher's people had lived in the final years of the Elder Days, and his long years of service and experience augmented Mitharas' natural talents. [5] Moreover, though assaults upon his beloved forest never failed to bring his wrath, Faunil had an even disposition that tempered the younger elf's less restrained nature.
"If you would be happy, then let them look to their friendship," Thranduil counseled now. "You must look to your heart. The wishes of your King," he added with a twinkle in his eye, " you must equally disregard, for he is selfish and thinks only of filling his own house with his sister-son's offspring."
Ríadel laughed at his candid admission. Before she could respond, she found herself whirled into the dancing crowd by the subject of their discussion.
The Elves of Eryn Galen greeted the rising of Anor on her day of honor with their lovely voices, the gift of the Nelyar that had won the favor of Ulmo and Ossë in ancient days. When the song had finished, Thranduil invoked the Powers of the airs, stars, waters and fruits of the land and invited Eru to bless the binding of the couples who pledged their love before him. The ceremony marked the end of the night's feasting, and elves melted into the glens of the Emyn Duir, to see to chores and sleep off the potent wine.
"The wolves grow bolder, or so say the men of the Vale," Mitharas announced, as he and Faunil settled themselves onto a talan near the hidden path that led to their dwellings. [6] They replaced a sleepy elf and took his watch together, each eager to speak with the other.
"Ai, I too might have had a few hours' rest, my friend," Faunil complained.
"Or perhaps less wine," Mitharas teased.
"Something odd is about, I can hear the trees whispering of it," Faunil returned to his friend's initial words.
"The men say orcs increase in number, too." Orcs were not so unlike elves in this way - they did not breed when conditions were not conducive to their species. This thought Mitharas quickly put from his mind.
Faunil sighed. "Cannot these evils leave us in peace? If we are not beset by Númenóreans, we are harassed by creatures of Morgoth. And the accursed dwarves have again been cutting trees for fuel."
"Always from our side of the river - they dare not cut from Lórinand. Amroth's folk have grown strong. Orophin tells me they rousted a great company of orcs from the pass over Caradhras. He thinks they have moved north, as Lórinand has been vigilant." Mitharas stood to stretch his legs, smiling at the antics of a pair of squirrels.
"The lady Galadriel is there again, too."
"I wonder what that signifies," Mitharas mused.
"That Imladris is not big enough for the Peredhel Master and the Grande Dame of the Noldor." The laughter of the two elves rang like clear bells in the quiet morning, alerting any foe to their overhead presence and entirely undermining their watch.
Faunil recalled the reason he and his friend had sought one another this morning. "Mitharas, I wish not to let Ríadel come between us."
"Yet only one of us can have her heart in the end," Mitharas sobered at the other elf's change of subject.
"Then we shall have to accept her choice, but now, we may share such favors as she allows us, and so be not separated in our friendship," Faunil said optimistically.
Mitharas frowned; his heart warned him this matter would end in tears. Born in the hopeless years after the breaking of the leaguer of Angband, the elf-maid was like stardust - unquenchable, eternal. He saw much later, much too late, that his own fire outshone the distant, yet even brighter starshine. Faunil, more like faithful Ithil, lit by the flame of another, yet unerring in his devotion, would be her compliment, drawing her light to him. Had any of the three paid more mind, they might have seen this. Yet none could have known the depth of loss that would come to them, or how thus tested, Mitharas would find solace from a quarter none expected.
While his sister-son and Faunil discussed matters of the heart, Thranduil returned to his library, uneasy, though he knew not why. Dearly he missed his sister's far sight at these times. He sensed a disturbance in the forest, but could not judge its focal point. He heard rumors of trouble in the eastern kingdom of Rhovanion; the Easterlings grew more bold and violent. Thoughtfully, he looked out the delicately leaded panes of his window as Anor swept her golden light across the western slope of the glen. In a few minutes, her rays would reach his library, and Galion, if he were not yet asleep, would hurry in to close the shutters, lest Anor at her strength overheat the room. Now, though, the morning looked peaceful, a mist rising from the glen as the morning dew evaporated. What evil could enter where elves dwelt?
~~~
The years had eroded the echo of Amon Lanc's former residents and the consequent sanctity of the place. Nonetheless, only the Witch-king could strip it of the last vestiges of the Firstborn. Though entirely subordinate to - indeed, incapable of acting independently of - his Dark Lord, he had possessed in life powers derived not from Sauron. Such powers largely manifested themselves as mere parlor tricks, yet in his blood the waning influence of Melian emerged out of countless generations of Númenóreans. Feared and misunderstood by his family, the sullen youth had come to malice under the fair guise of Annatar's friendship and encouragement. The Maia honed his gift for sorcery, but not until the first of the Nine encircled his finger did he know the fullness of his power. From the Hither Lands had he now come, for his Dark Lord would soon awake from his healing slumber.
1030 Third Age
Faunil led the party, his senses finely tuned to the minute changes in the forest. For five days his instincts took the elves southwest of Emyn Duir, until the foreboding grew so potent none of the elves could shake it from their bones. In the distance they could see the ancient dwellings of their people at Amon Lanc. Since Oropher's folk deserted it in the second millennium of the Middle Years, it had been home at various times to men and to elves of Lórinand.
Faunil stopped them. "Let us go no further." Mitharas nodded his agreement. They stared at Amon Lanc, sensing that the unwholesome air came from the ancient citadel. "It is occupied again," Faunil said, confirming Mitharas' unvoiced thoughts.
Mitharas studied the hill, knowing it had somehow changed. "The wildflowers! The flowers have not bloomed this year." Indeed, the flanks of the hill were as naked as its name implied. Mitharas shuddered - what would drive even flowers into hiding?
1045 Third Age
"Aranen, the lord Celeborn and his lady Galadriel have arrived," Galion announced. [7]
Thranduil had hardly spoken to Celeborn since Oropher's quarrel with his cousin. His late father's sense that his cousin had betrayed him and his own wariness of Galadriel's ambition had preserved the distance between the families. He acknowledged Amroth as the rightful King of Lórinand, and though Galadriel respected Amroth's sovereignty, her presence there divided the land's diverse peoples. Thranduil guessed that only a matter of some gravity would bring his kin hither.
He met them in his library, the pride of his dwellings. The Wood folk made only what they needed and some to trade for what they could not make. Yet few, even among the haughty Noldor, could surpass their skill as carvers of wood and weavers of cloth. Their finest work they reserved for cherished gifts, and the ornately carved furnishings and embroidered coverings of Thranduil's library bore witness to both their talent and their love for their King.
"I trust your journey passed unhindered?" Thranduil asked politely.
"Unhindered, yes, for the dwarf road is well-kept and some of your folk accompanied us from the time we left the road," Celeborn answered.
Impatiently, Thranduil put an end to this small talk. Though he recognized he could ill afford to let old feuds stand in the way of tidings important to his people, he would not pretend to an amity that did not exist. "What errand brings you to Eryn Galen?" he asked finally.
Celeborn at once saw his kinsman's meaning. "We have observed strange happenings at Amon Lanc."
"My own people have reported this already. We are not so provincial here that we do not keep tabs on the lands outside our realm," Thranduil said.
"We have perhaps more opportunity for observation in Lórinand," Galadriel said smoothly. Studying the King of Eryn Galen, she continued. "We see shadow where there should be light. A wind of menace blows from the east, stronger at night, when the hill is shrouded from starlight and cannot be seen at all."
Her identification with Lórinand irritated Thranduil. "These things are known to my people. They have seen also that the wildflowers no longer grow upon the hill, and that the vegetation surrounding it has thickened - malicious weeds spread and bogs appear."
Celeborn sensed the tension in the room. "We know not the source of such dark happenings, but our suspicions, I think, are mutual."
Thranduil nodded in understanding. "The men of Gondor watch still over Mordor?"
Celeborn fixed his eyes on the wall, seeming to study the fine oak paneling, upon which now hung the portrait of Thranduil's mother, the portrait Oropher had so treasured. Yet Celeborn saw these things not; his far sight looked further. "They watch, but their attention wanes, they have forgotten their history. They are concerned more with expanding their kingdom than any threat from the east."
"They are men. Our living memories are but ancient history to mortals," Thranduil said, resigned. Though his people diminished in importance, and though a man had tarnished the victory dearly bought in Mordor, the responsibility of vigilance would remain with the elves. 'We have not always been wise, but at least we are not doomed by ignorance to repeat the mistakes of the past,' he thought.
'What we do not always see is how our memory of the past colors the present, son of Oropher.'
The King looked suspiciously at Galadriel, too disturbed by her intrusion into his thoughts to consider the truth of her message. Her presence unsettled him, and though he hosted his kin for several days until their leave-taking, he did so only as courtesy demanded. Though no secrets had he to hide, he nonetheless felt exposed before Galadriel's sight, and parted from her without regret.
The disturbance of the forest spread northeast from Dol Guldur, bringing the shadow closer to them, until at last only the realm guarded by the elves remained nearly pristine. Mitharas found his patience severely tried by the younger guards - those born after the war - who knew little of the danger they faced. The vegetation grew so dense with hostile weeds that the light no longer penetrated the roof of the forest, and men began to call the murky darkness by a new name: Mirkwood. Elves called it Taur-e-Ndaedelos, Forest of the Great Fear, or Taur-nu-Fuin, recalling the haunted forest of Dorthonion. Fantastical beings stalked in the dark shadows under the trees, and Mitharas found it difficult to separate fact from fear in the tales of the Woodmen.
"The squirrels, for example," he said to Faunil as they investigated one rather dubious report. "They seem no more threatening than the squirrels we have always had, save that they are black."
"Perhaps they are the same squirrels, but as the forest grows darker, their fur has darkened to blend in better," his friend guessed.
Mitharas nodded, trusting his friend's woodcraft. Without warning, an enormous black creature sprang from the gloom, missing them only by the grace of elven quickness. As one, the elves turned and sent the thing to its death with a volley of arrows.
Cautiously, they examined their kill. "Well, this at least is no rumor," Mitharas observed, staring at the enormous spider they had felled.
"No - the thing the men described had ten dozen legs. This, my friend, has only eight," Faunil argued. Finding a long stick, he poked at the horrible thing - cautiously.
Mitharas wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I shall be certain to have that inscribed on your tomb: 'Here lies Faunil - but the spider who ate him had only eight legs'. Eight very hairy legs, I might add."
"Ah, what I would not give for a nice, cuddly orc!" The Laegel glanced at the sky. [8] "It grows late. We had best return to the hills - this ugly fellow may have kin we should not like to meet."
Thranduil's brow tightened as the two elves told of their kill. He had heard murmurs of such a thing during the siege of Barad-dûr, and thought then of the great spiders of Nan Dungortheb. Perhaps the spider of Mordor had fled with other creatures of darkness when Sauron was struck down, but if this were so, it had returned, for the yngyl could be naught but the progeny of Ungoliant. [9]
Yellow-eyed wolves now appeared, steaming with menace as they stalked the forest - too horrible to be real, and all too real to be myth. They had little fear of elves and, unlike common wolves, they hungered for the kill, not for food. Worse, the enchantment that had long protected the Emyn Duir proved but a hindrance to these creatures; some sorcery had they of their own. If daylight seemed to daunt the fell beings, at night the glens of the hills echoed with bone-chilling howls as they dared to come ever closer to Thranduil's folk. Uneasy in this forest that had suddenly turned on him, his thoughts drifted from wargs of Mirkwood to werewolves of Tol na Gaurhoth; their creator could not but be one and the same. The skill of the Silvan archers held them at bay, thinning the pack, yet the King saw they could not withstand this assault indefinitely. With great reluctance, Thranduil determined he must move his people north.
1060 Third Age
"I might have guessed the lady would find willing volunteers to guard her as she bathed."
"That you were fool enough to bathe without setting a watch I cannot help, but the lady has more concern for her safety," Mitharas insisted, his eyes fixed upon the elf he was meant to protect.
Innolas shook his head. "Her safety is assured, but I fear her modesty may not survive untarnished.
With expressions of mock outrage, Ríadel's besotted admirers looked away as she waded to the riverbank. Innolas shook his head. "You had best take your turns before the sun sets. Now that I am clean, you both smell like orcs."
"Nay, 'tis orcs who smell like orcs," Faunil disagreed, jumping up as Mitharas let out a piercing whistle.
"Yrch!" he announced.
On the bank of the river, Ríadel heard the warning and hurried to finish dressing. Climbing into the nearest tree, she sat still as only an elf can, the summer greens of her clothes blending into the foliage so that only the tree could know of her presence.
On the cliff the orcs - or rather, orc, as no others had been spotted - lead his pursuers in a merry chase. The orc knew these cliffs as the elves did not, and for a time he eluded them by ducking into a ravine. Heavily outnumbered and slowing quickly in the sun, the orc came out of the ravine just under Ríadel's tree. The elves scrambled down from the cliff and hurried to catch up. The orc found himself caught between the river and the pursuit. Ríadel threw her knife, putting an end to his unhappy dilemma.
"Well done, my lady," Faunil said, as Ríadel dropped from the tree. "I have not had my bath yet, and I did not want that filthy thing in the river."
"Indeed, I thought he would take to the water."
"He would have drowned, anyhow - they must have come from the Tatyar, they are hopeless in water."
"Must you speak of such things?" Mitharas glared at his friend, who shrugged good-naturedly and turned his attention back to the elf-maid. Mitharas ignored their banter, looking thoughtfully after the cliff they had descended during their pursuit. "Why just one orc?"
"You were hoping for more, my friend?" Faunil asked.
Innolas understood his cousin's puzzle. Orcs were social creatures, despite their endless quarrelling. Though they sometimes traveled in pairs rather than great companies, never did they travel far alone. Where they had found one, more must lurk. The elves returned to the cliff on silent feet.
Further exploration turned up a cave well-hidden, yet with an odor too foul to escape their notice. Faunil, sober now, signaled the chance of a trap to his friend. Mitharas nodded, for this danger had occurred to him. Yet they were far from any village of men or elves, and if orcs planned an attack, he would rather face them in daylight than under dark of night.
As they neared the entrance of the cave, however, voices floated out, and the elves paused.
"Sharuk said to wait here," came a guttural voice in Westron, distinctly orkish in quality, yet slightly higher in pitch.
"Nar! You can wait. Sharuk's been trying to sneak off for days. You stay and starve with these babies. I bet you'll wish you'd been with me."
Innolas understood suddenly, and beckoned the elves away from the caves. "They are orc children - they hide their broods away from the mountains for fear that other packs will kill their young."
Faunil did not like his friend's expression. "I think that orc was planning to desert this brood," Mitharas said thoughtfully. "To his misfortune, we chose to rest here."
Innolas nodded. "He had come too far from the cave to be on watch. When he heard our voices, he probably looked to hide until we were gone - Ríadel came out of the water and Faunil turned his head unexpectedly, else the orc would have got cleanly away."
"Some of the bigger ones may have arms, we shall have to be cautious," Mitharas said.
"Surely you do not think to kill them?" Faunil questioned. "They are but children."
"Orc children," Mitharas corrected, "who will be full-grown orcs."
"Helpless orc children," Ríadel argued. "I am not so certain that orc was not trying to draw us off, to protect them."
"So too will a wolf guarding her cubs." All beings of a certain level of intelligence had the instinct to protect their offspring; the species would not survive without it.
"You would not kill wolf cubs," Faunil pointed out.
"Wolves are not innately evil. They are but predators. That brood will not remain helpless, and do not think they will keep any good will toward elves if we spare them. They will kill just as those of Mordor killed your brother and my father," Mitharas said flatly.
With a sigh, Innolas went to stand by his cousin. He would not have Mitharas bear the guilt for this alone. Though by nature a peacekeeper, he saw his cousin's argument. These children were not innocent, though they be innocents. The shadow of Morgoth ran in their veins - they could not be turned from evil.
The guard split evenly between their leaders. "None need follow me in this if it be against their hearts," Mitharas announced.
The older children attempted a pathetic resistance, but were soon silenced. The little ones huddled in terror. Uncertain now, Innolas looked at Mitharas. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless. Yet under the mask of indifference, Innolas knew his cousin hid a turmoil of emotions - hate, inspired by the loss of his father, and pity, for he understood that orcs responded to instincts not innate but instilled by Morgoth.
Three days now passed, but the party remained troubled as they followed the Forest River east. Thranduil had sent them to find a new home, but Ríadel's tumultuous heart could hardly concentrate on the King's charge. Mitharas was not cruel or malicious. She could not understand his cold appraisal of the orcs. She loved not the creatures, but she wondered if the slaughter of helpless children did not reduce them to the same meanness of spirit.
These ruminations so occupied her that she nearly stepped on Innolas, who had halted in front of her. The cliffs that rose from the banks of the Forest River had yielded another cave, this one happily unoccupied. They had considered several locations, but this place, the elves agreed, proved the most promising. Here in the northeastern tip of the forest, the oppressive air of Mirkwood gave way, as though the elves had entered a guarded realm.
~~~
Thranduil rubbed his eyes, weary of his task. Papers were spread in every direction about his library: Mitharas' meticulous notations, short and to the point; Faunil's more hurried hand; Innolas' copious notes, written in a hand that was art in itself; Ríadel's textbook hand. Her notes differed entirely from those of her counterparts, as she had been charged to collect the details the male elves would miss. In none of these reports could he find what he sought: a reason for the sudden strife between the four, who had been easy with one another when they left.
In any case, Ríadel had clearly made her choice. Thranduil could not begrudge Faunil his happiness, but he had hoped to see Mitharas bound. It had been long since a baby's laughter brought cheer to his home. He wished to see the empty rooms filled again with family, to chase away the ghosts of the departed.
He turned back to the scattered notes, pausing as a passage caught his eye. "There is good-sized cave that might serve well for storage and perhaps defense. The river flows toward Long Lake and the settlements men have made there, though the current is not so swift that one may not use it for both forth and return journeys. I need not point out the benefit to trade. The area is on the very edge of the forest, with a thinning east of the confluence of the Forest River and the Nennulla.[10] Here there is a great stand of beech trees, quite unlike the chestnuts and maples of the forest interior."
He stared at the hand of his sister-son and recalled Laigil's prophecy of old: "Ad radathag am mbar gîn, muindoren."[11] Such beech trees he recalled with fondness from his youth in Doriath. In his many years and travels across Arda, he had not seen their likeness. The cave, too, intrigued him. Anor had hardly risen before he woke Mitharas and prepared for the journey north.
The younger elf remained taciturn, offering little encouragement to Thranduil's delicate inquiries. The King could be persistent when he wished, but he sensed much of the mother's reticence in the son. Laigil had spoken only reluctantly of what troubled her; like her father, she had been inclined to brood, and so too was her son Mitharas. Such dark thoughts Thranduil did not wish to encourage in his brittle sister-son, but neither did he wish to press the subject when the wounds were clearly raw.
The beeches proved as magnificent as Thranduil remembered, rustling softly in the breeze, their long, graceful trunks opening to perfect globes of branch and leaf. A steep cliff rose from the bank of the river on either side of the entrance to the cave, but before the cave lay some 30 ells of flat terrace. [12] Only by water could friend or foe easily approach the cave, and then only with stairs cut into the river's steep bank. Now Thranduil's party used ropes to descend from the cliffs, having deemed the river bank too treacherous. Cautiously they explored the cave, though Mitharas thought there was no danger - he found no bones signifying a recent occupant, nor the foul smell and air of orcs. Rather, a wholesomeness pervaded the caverns. They extended much farther into the cliff than Mitharas and his companions had first judged, and Thranduil, though hardly a stonemason, thought the limestone might be delved further, to enlarge the cave and some of the passages and inner chambers.
The King could not help but think of Menegroth, as his mind expanded upon Mitharas' original assessment of the cave as a place for storage and defense. His people needed nothing so grand as Thingol's palace, and he knew in any case that Wood Elves would not forsake their trees for life underground. Nonetheless, already he saw his hall in one of the high vaults within.
They left the caverns reluctantly and swam across the river. The beeches eventually melted into the great forest, but the evil influence of the squatter at Dol Guldur had not reached this far corner of Mirkwood. Here, light still illuminated the aisles of the forest, and innocent creatures frolicked in the trees, perhaps more numerous than one might expect, as they, like elves and men, had been driven from their former dwellings.
The four days' journey back to the Emyn Duir took four days too many, the impatient King thought. When at last he returned, he sent his son to the Iron Hills, for his people had little skill in stonemasonry. [13] Completion of the underground palace came not too soon. Some new sorcery arose in the Nennulla, rendering it unfit for use by elf or mortal. Thranduil recalled the tainted waters of Mordor with a shudder. Despite his fondness for the dwellings his father had built in the hills, he could not escape them too soon for his liking.
~~~
They had not long removed to the caverns when an odd little man, elderly as mortals reckoned their life phases, asked for an audience with the King. The man seemed not to be what he appeared, and after some moments of idle talk Thranduil recognized the man for what he was. Yet once before had such a creature asked to speak with the King of the forest, and Thranduil was wary, though his instincts assured him that no evil lay in the Maia.
"I see you have discovered my riddle," Aiwendil read his thoughts with a smile. [14] "Your reticence is understandable, but fear not: I come to oppose the Enemy, as a friend of the free peoples and servant to the Valar."
"Then it is as I feared. Sauron rises again." Thranduil could not hide his dismay, though he had long known that the evil on the hill must answer to the Dark Lord.
"This we no longer doubt," the Maia confirmed. "I have taken up my dwellings on the west end of the forest, so as to better observe the core of this shadow that has fallen upon your fair lands, and in any case I would choose to abide among the trees, for I serve Yavanna. I think Sauron has not yet the strength to act on his own, but nonetheless his power through his servants is formidable. The Úlairi have again been seen, and one may hold your ancient dwellings." [15]
"I know not which angers me more - that we have been forced from the Emyn Duir by this foul wraith, or that such an abomination now occupies the fair citadel of Lenwë and my father," Thranduil said, dismayed.
He invited his visitor to stay, but Aiwendil would be gone, missing already his birds. As they passed through the grand entranceway, the Maia paused. The ceiling sloped upward from the enchanted door, in natural line with the slope above the river, and the dwarves had carved arching vaults into the ceiling. In the center of the room, a natural cold spring had been coaxed through a fountain, and Aiwendil stood near it, listening. "The music of Ulmo is loud in these waters. He has ever loved your people, and made this spring and the stream that runs through the nether chambers, waiting long for the Nelyar to return to this place. While your ancestors tarried on the Great March it was filled with song and merry footsteps, and so it is again."
He turned his attention to the exquisitely carved nude in the middle of the fountain. "There is a story in that statue," Aiwendil observed. Despite the unblemished condition of the marble, the Maia's sharp eye traced the origin of the statue to the Elder Days. That it survived in the Fading Days suggested that it had made some strange travels.
On an errand to the Iron Hills during the delving of Thranduil's cavern, Innolas had come upon the statue by mischance. A wrong turn had taken him into the private workrooms of the dwarves, and though they had not yet completed their restoration of the work, the elf easily recognized its value. Persuaded that he must see the statue, Thranduil barely disguised the gleam in his eye when the dwarf artisan displayed his work. Now nearly restored - and he conceded the dwarf had done a fine job - he knew it at once, though only by hearsay.
"A fine work of our people in ancient times, Elf-King," the dwarf pushed. Thranduil knew, however, no child of Aulë had created this wonder. The original artist was, in fact, one Finrod Felagund. The subject whose form Finrod had memorialized remained a secret, though whispers named the statue after its alleged inspiration.
The Lúthien had fortunately passed into the hands of men rather than orcs in the sack of Nargothrond. [16] The elven statue possessed a beauty even Easterlings must appreciate, and so it had escaped destruction. For years it had been lost, carried east by men into Eriador, and eventually bought by dwarves with more respect for artistry than the near barbaric owners south of Mirkwood.
Few artists might dare to reproduce the fairest child of elves or men, but such a challenge Elvenkind's finest sculptor could not resist. As the father of the statue's inspiration was not known for temperance where his daughter was concerned, a veil wrought by the figure's tresses kept her identity safe, though rumor held that from the right angle one could discover the hidden features. Here the genius of the dwarven artisan was most evident, for the delicate locks had suffered the greatest damage over the millennia, and only the most critical eye might find fault with the restored tresses.
Thranduil wore a bland expression as he and Innolas haggled with the dwarves, that the sellers would not guess how ardently he desired the statue. He was but returning the statue to its rightful owners, Thranduil reasoned, justifying his deception. The price they negotiated he thought fair for the quality of the dwarf's work, but it hardly approached the real value of the statue. Eventually would the dwarves learn of its worth, scarcely improving relations between the two peoples and cementing the distrust that would one day bring them to the brink of war.
1636 Third Age
The road to the capital of Rhovanion bore signs of heavy use. The King's men had built sturdy bridges where the road crossed gullies and streams, testifying to the road's importance to Rhovanion. Numerous ruts pitted its surface where wagon wheels had stuck in the spring mud, and many lesser roads branched off into the wilds of the kingdom. Today, however, the two elves had yet to meet another soul.
"Odd," Innolas murmured. The moist heat of the afternoon weighed on them oppressively, but still, few men might let weather keep them from their trade. The Wilderland's harsh winter lurked behind the deceptive heat, and no creature could afford to waste the precious days of summer. "Faunil remarked the lack of traffic on the Celduin just yesterday - I then thought nothing of it," he mused.
Mitharas grimaced. He supposed that he bore the greater fault in the coolness that had grown between him and his old friend, but he could not help his jealousy. He looked up to see his cousin gazing at him intently. "I know what counsel you would give, so you may keep it," he said, rather more bluntly than he intended.
Innolas was undeterred. "You were friends, once. You knew it must come to this, that Ríadel would make her choice."
"This, I know. Yet, I cannot look on him without regret at what I lost. You cannot understand - you have never loved."
The older elf looked at him strangely. "You are wrong in that."
Mitharas pulled up on his horse. They were nearing the village of Azûlkan, and still this silence surrounded them. He did not like the feel of it. But more, he wished to question his cousin further. Somehow, he had never considered his cousin's existence a millennium before his own birth. It seemed absurd to connect sentiment with the dispassionate elf who rode beside him. "What happened?"
Innolas had continued on. Now he turned his horse back, and looked at the other elf long before he spoke. "What we desire most is often what we should not have." He tilted his head in the direction of the village gates, inviting no further discussion. "What say you, shall we risk our palates at the tavern here and perhaps find a cause for this quiet?"
Mitharas nodded his assent, though his cousin's answer had hardly satisfied his curiosity. They rode on toward the village, surprised to find no one holding the gates. Their surprise soon turned to revulsion as the stench of decay overwhelmed them. The two elves coughed and covered their faces with handkerchiefs as they noted the empty street, the eerie silence.
"What has happened here?" the elf wondered aloud. As if in response, a maid burst from a house ahead of them.
"My lords, come no further, there is plague here! Take yourselves home, and be glad if evil spirits do not follow you." The maid looked to be unaffected by any plague, but nearly starved.
Innolas dismounted. "We have no fear of plague, we are elves. Where are the others? Are there none who have escaped this sickness?"
"Few, my lord, save those who in death atone for their sins."
The elf-lord forced his face to remain impassive, though he could guess at the foolishness that had reigned in this disaster. Mitharas brought forth from his pack some lembas, which the maid nearly swallowed whole in her hunger. She told them that the sickness had taken Rhovanion from the south. "From the Easterlings, they say," she added, scowling. The last messenger to dare to ride through had reported that the capital was likewise stricken.
This altered their plans considerably. The King of Rhovanion - if he were not also taken ill or dead - would hardly wish to discuss tariffs at this time. Under the circumstances, Innolas thought it best to return to Northern Mirkwood, for he wished to discuss the matter with his father. As yet he had heard no rumor of illness in the settlements along the Long Lake, but the men there were endangered, certainly. Economic ties bound his people closely to the men by the lake, and both friendship and necessity demanded intervention.
Thranduil shared his son's concern. Though such sickness did not affect elves, their livestock - save their horses, purebred descent from those brought by the exilic Noldor from Aman - were subject to various infectious ailments. The Silvan folk had grown skilled in the healing of animals. Cleanliness of body and house were indigenous to elves, and they kept cats to control vermin and smudged their outbuildings and huts with thyme to discourage fleas. Thus their livestock often escaped the scourges that afflicted the herds of men, and though men noted the uncommon health of the elven beasts, most attributed this to elven magic and would not change their ways.
Men, in ignorant superstition, had done everything possible to worsen the epidemic. They feared bathing and cats, and regarded elven healers as sorcerers, rejecting their incense and medicinal teas. It had not always been so, for the Númenóreans had learned much of the elves of Lindon and Tol Eressëa, and among the Dúnedain such knowledge persisted. Though a few exiles of Númenor had settled in Rhovanion, most of the Northmen were akin to the House of Hador; they descended from those who remained east when Marach led his folk to Beleriand. [17] In ancient times, Lenwë's people had befriended such men, but what the elves had taught their ancestors the men of the present day had forgotten.
"Perhaps, Adar, the dwarves may be of help?" [18]
Innolas might have suggested they invite orcs to their next feast for the dark looks cast by his father and cousin. He hurried to explain himself. "Men have more trust in them, and perhaps they can persuade the men at Long Lake to heed our counsel." Despite the enmity between the two races, dwarves had learned to value the healing arts of the elves, just as the loremasters of Durin's folk had earned the respect of the Firstborn. The long lifespan of dwarves and their meticulously maintained traditions guarded against superstitions of men and preserved the collected wisdom of the centuries.
Indeed, the memory of a dwarf rarely dimmed, and if such memory hoarded knowledge, it also harbored grudges. "There is the matter of the Lúthien, for which we were insufficiently compensated." In his hall under the Iron Hills, Lopt crossed his arms and regarded the Elvenking coolly.
"That is false. We paid the price asked," Thranduil answered sharply.
"Yet, the price was not fair. The artisan did not know the true value of the statue ," Lopt insisted.
"In such a circumstance the Naugrim would do the same," Thranduil argued, his temper rising. [19] "The Lúthien was wrongly stolen from the elves. You cannot expect to earn the full value of the statue when it came into your hands by such irregular means. I paid for the restoration, which was well-done and worth the price."
"My people know nothing of this theft. We bought the statue from men. You walk a fine line, elf-king, if you accuse us of wrongdoing here." The dwarf's eyes narrowed, challenging his visitor to continue in this line of reasoning.
Innolas broke in hastily. "Can we not put this matter aside? For we come here with the welfare of our mutual allies in mind, and our purposes are ill-served by such enmity."
"Of what do you speak? It is not the habit of your people to trouble themselves with the well-being of other folk."
This barb Thranduil ignored with effort. "We speak of the plague threatening Long Lake."
Lopt frowned. "We have heard rumors of plague to the south, and our folk in the Grey Mountains report that it has decimated the orc population." [20]
"You may concern yourselves with the well-being of orcs, if you wish," Thranduil said snidely. "We care only for the danger to men."
The dwarf puffed with injured honor at Thranduil's words. Innolas hurried to smooth the troubled waters again. "My father spoke rashly - for the Longbeards' defiance of Sauron's minions we have only respect."
"I would hear it from him." From the look on the dwarf's face, he was immovable on this. Innolas looked at his father, his own expression unyielding.
The stubbornness of Oropher wrestled with Thranduil's better sense. "My son speaks truly of my ill-considered words," he compromised at last. "We come not as adversaries, and this quibbling hurts only those who need help."
"It is good that Mitharas was not with us, we likely would have ended in that dwarf's dungeons," Innolas remarked as they left. His mouth had a bad taste - how he loathed dealings with the stunted folk.
Rumors of the epidemic had come to Long Lake, and men there proved willing, in their fear, to do all that the folk of Lopt and Thranduil advised them to do. There the disease proved less virulent, but beyond Hithaeglir and south of the Ered Nimrais it continued to spread, though elves and dwarves of Eriador and Lindon were likewise moved by compassion to do what they could for the Engwar. [21] The plague knew no boundaries of dominion or allegiance, and devastated free men and allies of darkness alike. Though Angmar came no closer to winning Fornost, the Witch-king arose nonetheless as the clear victor amid the wreckage.
In Eriador, the plague left many parts desolate, and the few Dúnedain still defending Cardolan perished. Nor were the graves of the last princes of Cardolan left unmolested, for an evil out of Angmar now entered Tyrn Gorthad, malevolent spirits to remain long after the Witch-king's defeat. Rhovanion withered, leaving it ripe for the attack of the Wainriders two centuries later. Yet the chief loss lay in the south. The wise later came to believe that the Nazgûl had sent the plague among his own allies, that it would spread into the Southern Kingdom. For with the death of their king and their great losses, the men of Gondor abandoned the watch on Mordor. All had now been made ready for the return of the Witch-king's master.
1750 Third Age
Ríadel lit a candle as the light began to fail and looked anxiously toward the window. Faunil was late tonight - the stars would soon open, and they often walked along the river at that time, when the Wood Elves raised their fair voices to honor the Lady. She had again taken up her book when a rap at the door sounded. Surprise at finding Mitharas on the doorstep turned quickly to fear. Her heart beat painfully against her ribs as she looked into the wide eyes of the shaking elf. "Mitharas! Man doltha le si?" [22]
"Wargs," he said hoarsely. He gripped the doorframe as though he feared he would fall.
"'Tis Faunil, he has been hurt? Where is he?" Ríadel took her cloak from a peg on the wall.
"No, stay, my lady. You must not - "
"Must not what?" She grasped her friend by the shoulders and shook him none too gently. "Mitharas, what has happened?"
The elf dropped into a chair, resting his head in his hands, his strength at last failing. "He took his guard into the woods, to hunt the wargs, thinking perhaps to catch them unawares in the daylight. Yet they are cunning beasts, for they laid the trail to their lair with care, and gathered others of their kind. The company that went into the woods, only one returned."
The horror dawned in her heart, and Ríadel stood very still.
Mitharas lifted his head, watching her, trying to drive the image of his friend's mutilated corpse from his mind. His friend…they had drawn apart, yet such estrangement, he discovered, did not lessen his grief. As for Ríadel, he kept still his love for her, and felt keenly her pain.
Outside, the elves sang to the twilight, their song mournful as tidings of the fallen company became known to all.
The remains of elves do not truly decompose, but fade quickly. A funeral is for the living, to gather friends to share in mourning and remembrance. Thranduil would have wanted to honor the long-faithful elf by burial with his family, but their graves lay in the shadow of the Emyn-nu-Fuin, now defiled by habitations of orcs. [23] The burial ground itself, at least, remained untouched, as orcs had learned to fear the barrows of elves. For not all of the dead obeyed the call of Mandos, and such elves remained as shades in Arda, jealously guarding the burial places of their own hroar and those of their kindred. [24, 25]
Mitharas remained longest by the grave, even after Ríadel had gone to her empty hut. He had shed no tears for his friend - dry had his eyes been since his father's death at Dagorlad. At last, he returned to the caverns, filled with life, yet yawning with emptiness dwarfed only by the cavern in his heart. He saw pity, which angered him; he saw avoidance, as though his pain might be contagious; he saw sorrow, and averted his own eyes. He saw his cousin follow him to his rooms, and for a moment he knelt again over his father's body, the screams and smells of the battlefield an echo of his grief, and hands pulled at him, pulled him away.
Spinning, his chambers returned to him, and he felt sick. "Araseg, gwanuren melethen," Innolas whispered, holding him close as at last the tears fell freely. [26] Mitharas knew not how long they remained thus, or when he at last had no more tears, and sat still with his head against his cousin's shoulder, his heart at last burning off the ice that had bound it.
Thranduil paused in the passage outside his sister-son's room, understanding the depth of what had passed between the two elves. That his children - for so he thought of his sister-son - had found comfort in one another, both relieved and disturbed him. He would not see Mitharas destroyed by the bitter anger and grief that had afflicted his father. What affection they might share must nonetheless remain between their hearts, for that was their law. Yet love has little respect for the laws its victims might make to constrain its caprices. A wise and ancient king though he might be, Thranduil knew little of the heart's conceit. And so he was quite unprepared for what was to come.
Notes on Silvan Elvish: While vacationing last month, I started to look at the few words we have of Tolkien's Nandorin language, and devised a list of phonetic and a few grammatical changes that occurred between Common Eldarin and Nandorin. It seems that Tolkien decided, in the end (1972), that the elves of Mirkwood did speak a 'related language or dialect' distinct from Sindarin. (ref. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, 'Letter 347' p 425 pub. Houghton Mifflin) In LOTR of course, we are told that what Frodo supposed to be another language spoken by Legolas and Haldir in Lórien was, in fact, Sindarin, but in Letter 347, Tolkien notes that Lórien, with more Sindarin and Noldorin influence, had lost the native Silvan tongue. Nandorin, of course, was not precisely the language of Eryn Galen - it was the language as it evolved among Denethor's people in Beleriand after they left Eryn Galen. This would provide a fictional explanation for the real world problem of Tolkien's later writings on the subject, which conflict with the language as found in The Lost Road, 'Etymologies' (words marked as Dan.). By the Third Age, Silvan Elvish must have been a mix of what little Nandorin remained among the Green Elves returning east with Oropher, as well as Doriathrin and mature (Imladris) Sindarin. At any rate, I've used the examples given by Tolkien to determine how a few new words might be rendered in Silvan Elvish. I'm hardly a linguist, so take my guesswork with a grain of salt. Two excellent sources for information regarding Nandorin and Common Eldarin are Helge Fauskanger (move.to/ardalambion) and Ryszard Derdzinski (t of Rohan. I've used an Adûnaic name for the village of Azûlkan ('East-hold') to reflect the old Númenórean influence.
[18] Adar
Father
[19] Naugrim
Dwarves
[20] 'it has decimated the orc population'
Orcs were subject to disease, and presumably were affected by the plague. (ref. Morgoth's Ring, 'Myths Transformed Part X' p 418 pub. Houghton Mifflin) Dwarves, incidentally, were immune to infectious disease. (ref. The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Making of Appendix A' p 285 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
[21] Engwar
Mortal men (Q) - lit. '(the) Sickly'
[22] "Mitharas! Man doltha le si?"
"Mitharas! What brings you here?"
[23] Emyn-nu-Fuin
lit. 'Mountains under Night', the Sindarin name of the Mountains of Mirkwood and latter-day name of the Emyn Duir. (ref. Unfinished Tales, 'Disaster of the Gladden Fields' p 293 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
[24] 'For not all of the dead obeyed the call of Mandos'
In Morgoth's Ring, 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar', Tolkien supposed that some spirits would refuse to leave ME, and suggests that some later served Sauron; the spirits I have conjured here, I think, serve no one. (ref. p 223 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
[25] hroar
Bodies (Q)
[26] "Araseg, gwanuren melethen"
"Little deer, my kinsman, my love."
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 (Sindarin, unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
Under the Oak and the Beech*
"...There was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again." (Unfinished Tales, 'The History of Galadriel and Celeborn', p 271, pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
1017 Third Age
Under a crown of blazing yellow and red flowers, Thranduil watched his folk with an indulgent eye - the excesses of the midsummer festival he knew well. In the Elder Days, the Gondolindrim welcomed the longest day with dignified silence. Such reserve mocked the very nature of the Penni. [1] The Silvan folk celebrated each day with song and merrymaking; therefore must their days of feast be still more merry.
Red and white crowns paired several couples: white, for the purity of their love; red, for passion and fertility. They would be bound at the rising of Anor. [2] Among them were Thranduil's sister-daughter and her betrothed. The King viewed this marriage with not a little sadness - Nórui had lost her heart to an Avarin elf who worked the famous vineyards of Dorwinion, and there would Nórui settle, many leagues from her kin. Though men produced the greater share of wine in that region, a very small elven community remained by the Sea of Rhûn, and they made the highly potent and prohibitively rare elven ceremonial wine. Such wine elves reserved for occasions such as this, the marriage of one of the royal house.
His late wife's lovely handmaid hardly showed her fatigue, though her duties prior to the festival - and the insistent attentions of her two admirers - would daunt even one of her Eldarin blood. From Nórui she had inherited the place of Bassoneth among the elves of Thranduil's realm. Rare it was among the Eldar for an elf not of the ruling family - indeed, not even of noble birth - to hold this high honor, but the Telerin elf-maid had been far more than handmaid to Berinaeth and later to Nórui. Little instruction had Nórui needed to give to her successor, for Ríadel had in fact taught her much when Laigil's death passed the title to her daughter.
Ríadel came to stand near Thranduil, hoping that none would dare to bring her a new catastrophe while she spoke with their King. "Ye shall have many laes to welcome by first harvest of the next year, Aranen." [3, 4]
"Indeed. Yavanna smiles upon those bound on Anor's special day. Would that my own house should be so blessed." Better than the rings his kindred kept, Thranduil believed, would children ward against the fading the Eldar so feared.
"'Tis a pity Nórui should be taken from your house, but she shall have much happiness, I deem. She has chosen wisely in her spouse." Ríadel knew that nonetheless her King lamented the loss of Nórui's future children.
"Yet perhaps I may have another binding to anticipate, if my eyes are not deceived," Thranduil observed with a sly look at Ríadel.
"That I cannot so boldly predict, Aranen," she answered truthfully. Her affection she did not give stingily, and both suitors stirred her passions, yet less certainty had she of her heart. Furthermore, she did not wish to make rivalry of the friendship Faunil and Mitharas shared.
Indeed, they shared more than friendship, for together they had responsibility for the defense and security of Thranduil and his folk. During the war, Mitharas had proved himself a worthy son to his warrior father. By the end of the long campaign, his gift for military strategy had made him a captain, despite his youth. The wise King had foreseen that his sister-son's bitterness and anger would find release in his daily responsibilities. Faunil had come from Ossiriand with Oropher, one of the Laegrim amongst whom Oropher's people had lived in the final years of the Elder Days, and his long years of service and experience augmented Mitharas' natural talents. [5] Moreover, though assaults upon his beloved forest never failed to bring his wrath, Faunil had an even disposition that tempered the younger elf's less restrained nature.
"If you would be happy, then let them look to their friendship," Thranduil counseled now. "You must look to your heart. The wishes of your King," he added with a twinkle in his eye, " you must equally disregard, for he is selfish and thinks only of filling his own house with his sister-son's offspring."
Ríadel laughed at his candid admission. Before she could respond, she found herself whirled into the dancing crowd by the subject of their discussion.
The Elves of Eryn Galen greeted the rising of Anor on her day of honor with their lovely voices, the gift of the Nelyar that had won the favor of Ulmo and Ossë in ancient days. When the song had finished, Thranduil invoked the Powers of the airs, stars, waters and fruits of the land and invited Eru to bless the binding of the couples who pledged their love before him. The ceremony marked the end of the night's feasting, and elves melted into the glens of the Emyn Duir, to see to chores and sleep off the potent wine.
"The wolves grow bolder, or so say the men of the Vale," Mitharas announced, as he and Faunil settled themselves onto a talan near the hidden path that led to their dwellings. [6] They replaced a sleepy elf and took his watch together, each eager to speak with the other.
"Ai, I too might have had a few hours' rest, my friend," Faunil complained.
"Or perhaps less wine," Mitharas teased.
"Something odd is about, I can hear the trees whispering of it," Faunil returned to his friend's initial words.
"The men say orcs increase in number, too." Orcs were not so unlike elves in this way - they did not breed when conditions were not conducive to their species. This thought Mitharas quickly put from his mind.
Faunil sighed. "Cannot these evils leave us in peace? If we are not beset by Númenóreans, we are harassed by creatures of Morgoth. And the accursed dwarves have again been cutting trees for fuel."
"Always from our side of the river - they dare not cut from Lórinand. Amroth's folk have grown strong. Orophin tells me they rousted a great company of orcs from the pass over Caradhras. He thinks they have moved north, as Lórinand has been vigilant." Mitharas stood to stretch his legs, smiling at the antics of a pair of squirrels.
"The lady Galadriel is there again, too."
"I wonder what that signifies," Mitharas mused.
"That Imladris is not big enough for the Peredhel Master and the Grande Dame of the Noldor." The laughter of the two elves rang like clear bells in the quiet morning, alerting any foe to their overhead presence and entirely undermining their watch.
Faunil recalled the reason he and his friend had sought one another this morning. "Mitharas, I wish not to let Ríadel come between us."
"Yet only one of us can have her heart in the end," Mitharas sobered at the other elf's change of subject.
"Then we shall have to accept her choice, but now, we may share such favors as she allows us, and so be not separated in our friendship," Faunil said optimistically.
Mitharas frowned; his heart warned him this matter would end in tears. Born in the hopeless years after the breaking of the leaguer of Angband, the elf-maid was like stardust - unquenchable, eternal. He saw much later, much too late, that his own fire outshone the distant, yet even brighter starshine. Faunil, more like faithful Ithil, lit by the flame of another, yet unerring in his devotion, would be her compliment, drawing her light to him. Had any of the three paid more mind, they might have seen this. Yet none could have known the depth of loss that would come to them, or how thus tested, Mitharas would find solace from a quarter none expected.
While his sister-son and Faunil discussed matters of the heart, Thranduil returned to his library, uneasy, though he knew not why. Dearly he missed his sister's far sight at these times. He sensed a disturbance in the forest, but could not judge its focal point. He heard rumors of trouble in the eastern kingdom of Rhovanion; the Easterlings grew more bold and violent. Thoughtfully, he looked out the delicately leaded panes of his window as Anor swept her golden light across the western slope of the glen. In a few minutes, her rays would reach his library, and Galion, if he were not yet asleep, would hurry in to close the shutters, lest Anor at her strength overheat the room. Now, though, the morning looked peaceful, a mist rising from the glen as the morning dew evaporated. What evil could enter where elves dwelt?
~~~
The years had eroded the echo of Amon Lanc's former residents and the consequent sanctity of the place. Nonetheless, only the Witch-king could strip it of the last vestiges of the Firstborn. Though entirely subordinate to - indeed, incapable of acting independently of - his Dark Lord, he had possessed in life powers derived not from Sauron. Such powers largely manifested themselves as mere parlor tricks, yet in his blood the waning influence of Melian emerged out of countless generations of Númenóreans. Feared and misunderstood by his family, the sullen youth had come to malice under the fair guise of Annatar's friendship and encouragement. The Maia honed his gift for sorcery, but not until the first of the Nine encircled his finger did he know the fullness of his power. From the Hither Lands had he now come, for his Dark Lord would soon awake from his healing slumber.
1030 Third Age
Faunil led the party, his senses finely tuned to the minute changes in the forest. For five days his instincts took the elves southwest of Emyn Duir, until the foreboding grew so potent none of the elves could shake it from their bones. In the distance they could see the ancient dwellings of their people at Amon Lanc. Since Oropher's folk deserted it in the second millennium of the Middle Years, it had been home at various times to men and to elves of Lórinand.
Faunil stopped them. "Let us go no further." Mitharas nodded his agreement. They stared at Amon Lanc, sensing that the unwholesome air came from the ancient citadel. "It is occupied again," Faunil said, confirming Mitharas' unvoiced thoughts.
Mitharas studied the hill, knowing it had somehow changed. "The wildflowers! The flowers have not bloomed this year." Indeed, the flanks of the hill were as naked as its name implied. Mitharas shuddered - what would drive even flowers into hiding?
1045 Third Age
"Aranen, the lord Celeborn and his lady Galadriel have arrived," Galion announced. [7]
Thranduil had hardly spoken to Celeborn since Oropher's quarrel with his cousin. His late father's sense that his cousin had betrayed him and his own wariness of Galadriel's ambition had preserved the distance between the families. He acknowledged Amroth as the rightful King of Lórinand, and though Galadriel respected Amroth's sovereignty, her presence there divided the land's diverse peoples. Thranduil guessed that only a matter of some gravity would bring his kin hither.
He met them in his library, the pride of his dwellings. The Wood folk made only what they needed and some to trade for what they could not make. Yet few, even among the haughty Noldor, could surpass their skill as carvers of wood and weavers of cloth. Their finest work they reserved for cherished gifts, and the ornately carved furnishings and embroidered coverings of Thranduil's library bore witness to both their talent and their love for their King.
"I trust your journey passed unhindered?" Thranduil asked politely.
"Unhindered, yes, for the dwarf road is well-kept and some of your folk accompanied us from the time we left the road," Celeborn answered.
Impatiently, Thranduil put an end to this small talk. Though he recognized he could ill afford to let old feuds stand in the way of tidings important to his people, he would not pretend to an amity that did not exist. "What errand brings you to Eryn Galen?" he asked finally.
Celeborn at once saw his kinsman's meaning. "We have observed strange happenings at Amon Lanc."
"My own people have reported this already. We are not so provincial here that we do not keep tabs on the lands outside our realm," Thranduil said.
"We have perhaps more opportunity for observation in Lórinand," Galadriel said smoothly. Studying the King of Eryn Galen, she continued. "We see shadow where there should be light. A wind of menace blows from the east, stronger at night, when the hill is shrouded from starlight and cannot be seen at all."
Her identification with Lórinand irritated Thranduil. "These things are known to my people. They have seen also that the wildflowers no longer grow upon the hill, and that the vegetation surrounding it has thickened - malicious weeds spread and bogs appear."
Celeborn sensed the tension in the room. "We know not the source of such dark happenings, but our suspicions, I think, are mutual."
Thranduil nodded in understanding. "The men of Gondor watch still over Mordor?"
Celeborn fixed his eyes on the wall, seeming to study the fine oak paneling, upon which now hung the portrait of Thranduil's mother, the portrait Oropher had so treasured. Yet Celeborn saw these things not; his far sight looked further. "They watch, but their attention wanes, they have forgotten their history. They are concerned more with expanding their kingdom than any threat from the east."
"They are men. Our living memories are but ancient history to mortals," Thranduil said, resigned. Though his people diminished in importance, and though a man had tarnished the victory dearly bought in Mordor, the responsibility of vigilance would remain with the elves. 'We have not always been wise, but at least we are not doomed by ignorance to repeat the mistakes of the past,' he thought.
'What we do not always see is how our memory of the past colors the present, son of Oropher.'
The King looked suspiciously at Galadriel, too disturbed by her intrusion into his thoughts to consider the truth of her message. Her presence unsettled him, and though he hosted his kin for several days until their leave-taking, he did so only as courtesy demanded. Though no secrets had he to hide, he nonetheless felt exposed before Galadriel's sight, and parted from her without regret.
The disturbance of the forest spread northeast from Dol Guldur, bringing the shadow closer to them, until at last only the realm guarded by the elves remained nearly pristine. Mitharas found his patience severely tried by the younger guards - those born after the war - who knew little of the danger they faced. The vegetation grew so dense with hostile weeds that the light no longer penetrated the roof of the forest, and men began to call the murky darkness by a new name: Mirkwood. Elves called it Taur-e-Ndaedelos, Forest of the Great Fear, or Taur-nu-Fuin, recalling the haunted forest of Dorthonion. Fantastical beings stalked in the dark shadows under the trees, and Mitharas found it difficult to separate fact from fear in the tales of the Woodmen.
"The squirrels, for example," he said to Faunil as they investigated one rather dubious report. "They seem no more threatening than the squirrels we have always had, save that they are black."
"Perhaps they are the same squirrels, but as the forest grows darker, their fur has darkened to blend in better," his friend guessed.
Mitharas nodded, trusting his friend's woodcraft. Without warning, an enormous black creature sprang from the gloom, missing them only by the grace of elven quickness. As one, the elves turned and sent the thing to its death with a volley of arrows.
Cautiously, they examined their kill. "Well, this at least is no rumor," Mitharas observed, staring at the enormous spider they had felled.
"No - the thing the men described had ten dozen legs. This, my friend, has only eight," Faunil argued. Finding a long stick, he poked at the horrible thing - cautiously.
Mitharas wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I shall be certain to have that inscribed on your tomb: 'Here lies Faunil - but the spider who ate him had only eight legs'. Eight very hairy legs, I might add."
"Ah, what I would not give for a nice, cuddly orc!" The Laegel glanced at the sky. [8] "It grows late. We had best return to the hills - this ugly fellow may have kin we should not like to meet."
Thranduil's brow tightened as the two elves told of their kill. He had heard murmurs of such a thing during the siege of Barad-dûr, and thought then of the great spiders of Nan Dungortheb. Perhaps the spider of Mordor had fled with other creatures of darkness when Sauron was struck down, but if this were so, it had returned, for the yngyl could be naught but the progeny of Ungoliant. [9]
Yellow-eyed wolves now appeared, steaming with menace as they stalked the forest - too horrible to be real, and all too real to be myth. They had little fear of elves and, unlike common wolves, they hungered for the kill, not for food. Worse, the enchantment that had long protected the Emyn Duir proved but a hindrance to these creatures; some sorcery had they of their own. If daylight seemed to daunt the fell beings, at night the glens of the hills echoed with bone-chilling howls as they dared to come ever closer to Thranduil's folk. Uneasy in this forest that had suddenly turned on him, his thoughts drifted from wargs of Mirkwood to werewolves of Tol na Gaurhoth; their creator could not but be one and the same. The skill of the Silvan archers held them at bay, thinning the pack, yet the King saw they could not withstand this assault indefinitely. With great reluctance, Thranduil determined he must move his people north.
1060 Third Age
"I might have guessed the lady would find willing volunteers to guard her as she bathed."
"That you were fool enough to bathe without setting a watch I cannot help, but the lady has more concern for her safety," Mitharas insisted, his eyes fixed upon the elf he was meant to protect.
Innolas shook his head. "Her safety is assured, but I fear her modesty may not survive untarnished.
With expressions of mock outrage, Ríadel's besotted admirers looked away as she waded to the riverbank. Innolas shook his head. "You had best take your turns before the sun sets. Now that I am clean, you both smell like orcs."
"Nay, 'tis orcs who smell like orcs," Faunil disagreed, jumping up as Mitharas let out a piercing whistle.
"Yrch!" he announced.
On the bank of the river, Ríadel heard the warning and hurried to finish dressing. Climbing into the nearest tree, she sat still as only an elf can, the summer greens of her clothes blending into the foliage so that only the tree could know of her presence.
On the cliff the orcs - or rather, orc, as no others had been spotted - lead his pursuers in a merry chase. The orc knew these cliffs as the elves did not, and for a time he eluded them by ducking into a ravine. Heavily outnumbered and slowing quickly in the sun, the orc came out of the ravine just under Ríadel's tree. The elves scrambled down from the cliff and hurried to catch up. The orc found himself caught between the river and the pursuit. Ríadel threw her knife, putting an end to his unhappy dilemma.
"Well done, my lady," Faunil said, as Ríadel dropped from the tree. "I have not had my bath yet, and I did not want that filthy thing in the river."
"Indeed, I thought he would take to the water."
"He would have drowned, anyhow - they must have come from the Tatyar, they are hopeless in water."
"Must you speak of such things?" Mitharas glared at his friend, who shrugged good-naturedly and turned his attention back to the elf-maid. Mitharas ignored their banter, looking thoughtfully after the cliff they had descended during their pursuit. "Why just one orc?"
"You were hoping for more, my friend?" Faunil asked.
Innolas understood his cousin's puzzle. Orcs were social creatures, despite their endless quarrelling. Though they sometimes traveled in pairs rather than great companies, never did they travel far alone. Where they had found one, more must lurk. The elves returned to the cliff on silent feet.
Further exploration turned up a cave well-hidden, yet with an odor too foul to escape their notice. Faunil, sober now, signaled the chance of a trap to his friend. Mitharas nodded, for this danger had occurred to him. Yet they were far from any village of men or elves, and if orcs planned an attack, he would rather face them in daylight than under dark of night.
As they neared the entrance of the cave, however, voices floated out, and the elves paused.
"Sharuk said to wait here," came a guttural voice in Westron, distinctly orkish in quality, yet slightly higher in pitch.
"Nar! You can wait. Sharuk's been trying to sneak off for days. You stay and starve with these babies. I bet you'll wish you'd been with me."
Innolas understood suddenly, and beckoned the elves away from the caves. "They are orc children - they hide their broods away from the mountains for fear that other packs will kill their young."
Faunil did not like his friend's expression. "I think that orc was planning to desert this brood," Mitharas said thoughtfully. "To his misfortune, we chose to rest here."
Innolas nodded. "He had come too far from the cave to be on watch. When he heard our voices, he probably looked to hide until we were gone - Ríadel came out of the water and Faunil turned his head unexpectedly, else the orc would have got cleanly away."
"Some of the bigger ones may have arms, we shall have to be cautious," Mitharas said.
"Surely you do not think to kill them?" Faunil questioned. "They are but children."
"Orc children," Mitharas corrected, "who will be full-grown orcs."
"Helpless orc children," Ríadel argued. "I am not so certain that orc was not trying to draw us off, to protect them."
"So too will a wolf guarding her cubs." All beings of a certain level of intelligence had the instinct to protect their offspring; the species would not survive without it.
"You would not kill wolf cubs," Faunil pointed out.
"Wolves are not innately evil. They are but predators. That brood will not remain helpless, and do not think they will keep any good will toward elves if we spare them. They will kill just as those of Mordor killed your brother and my father," Mitharas said flatly.
With a sigh, Innolas went to stand by his cousin. He would not have Mitharas bear the guilt for this alone. Though by nature a peacekeeper, he saw his cousin's argument. These children were not innocent, though they be innocents. The shadow of Morgoth ran in their veins - they could not be turned from evil.
The guard split evenly between their leaders. "None need follow me in this if it be against their hearts," Mitharas announced.
The older children attempted a pathetic resistance, but were soon silenced. The little ones huddled in terror. Uncertain now, Innolas looked at Mitharas. His eyes were cold, his face expressionless. Yet under the mask of indifference, Innolas knew his cousin hid a turmoil of emotions - hate, inspired by the loss of his father, and pity, for he understood that orcs responded to instincts not innate but instilled by Morgoth.
Three days now passed, but the party remained troubled as they followed the Forest River east. Thranduil had sent them to find a new home, but Ríadel's tumultuous heart could hardly concentrate on the King's charge. Mitharas was not cruel or malicious. She could not understand his cold appraisal of the orcs. She loved not the creatures, but she wondered if the slaughter of helpless children did not reduce them to the same meanness of spirit.
These ruminations so occupied her that she nearly stepped on Innolas, who had halted in front of her. The cliffs that rose from the banks of the Forest River had yielded another cave, this one happily unoccupied. They had considered several locations, but this place, the elves agreed, proved the most promising. Here in the northeastern tip of the forest, the oppressive air of Mirkwood gave way, as though the elves had entered a guarded realm.
~~~
Thranduil rubbed his eyes, weary of his task. Papers were spread in every direction about his library: Mitharas' meticulous notations, short and to the point; Faunil's more hurried hand; Innolas' copious notes, written in a hand that was art in itself; Ríadel's textbook hand. Her notes differed entirely from those of her counterparts, as she had been charged to collect the details the male elves would miss. In none of these reports could he find what he sought: a reason for the sudden strife between the four, who had been easy with one another when they left.
In any case, Ríadel had clearly made her choice. Thranduil could not begrudge Faunil his happiness, but he had hoped to see Mitharas bound. It had been long since a baby's laughter brought cheer to his home. He wished to see the empty rooms filled again with family, to chase away the ghosts of the departed.
He turned back to the scattered notes, pausing as a passage caught his eye. "There is good-sized cave that might serve well for storage and perhaps defense. The river flows toward Long Lake and the settlements men have made there, though the current is not so swift that one may not use it for both forth and return journeys. I need not point out the benefit to trade. The area is on the very edge of the forest, with a thinning east of the confluence of the Forest River and the Nennulla.[10] Here there is a great stand of beech trees, quite unlike the chestnuts and maples of the forest interior."
He stared at the hand of his sister-son and recalled Laigil's prophecy of old: "Ad radathag am mbar gîn, muindoren."[11] Such beech trees he recalled with fondness from his youth in Doriath. In his many years and travels across Arda, he had not seen their likeness. The cave, too, intrigued him. Anor had hardly risen before he woke Mitharas and prepared for the journey north.
The younger elf remained taciturn, offering little encouragement to Thranduil's delicate inquiries. The King could be persistent when he wished, but he sensed much of the mother's reticence in the son. Laigil had spoken only reluctantly of what troubled her; like her father, she had been inclined to brood, and so too was her son Mitharas. Such dark thoughts Thranduil did not wish to encourage in his brittle sister-son, but neither did he wish to press the subject when the wounds were clearly raw.
The beeches proved as magnificent as Thranduil remembered, rustling softly in the breeze, their long, graceful trunks opening to perfect globes of branch and leaf. A steep cliff rose from the bank of the river on either side of the entrance to the cave, but before the cave lay some 30 ells of flat terrace. [12] Only by water could friend or foe easily approach the cave, and then only with stairs cut into the river's steep bank. Now Thranduil's party used ropes to descend from the cliffs, having deemed the river bank too treacherous. Cautiously they explored the cave, though Mitharas thought there was no danger - he found no bones signifying a recent occupant, nor the foul smell and air of orcs. Rather, a wholesomeness pervaded the caverns. They extended much farther into the cliff than Mitharas and his companions had first judged, and Thranduil, though hardly a stonemason, thought the limestone might be delved further, to enlarge the cave and some of the passages and inner chambers.
The King could not help but think of Menegroth, as his mind expanded upon Mitharas' original assessment of the cave as a place for storage and defense. His people needed nothing so grand as Thingol's palace, and he knew in any case that Wood Elves would not forsake their trees for life underground. Nonetheless, already he saw his hall in one of the high vaults within.
They left the caverns reluctantly and swam across the river. The beeches eventually melted into the great forest, but the evil influence of the squatter at Dol Guldur had not reached this far corner of Mirkwood. Here, light still illuminated the aisles of the forest, and innocent creatures frolicked in the trees, perhaps more numerous than one might expect, as they, like elves and men, had been driven from their former dwellings.
The four days' journey back to the Emyn Duir took four days too many, the impatient King thought. When at last he returned, he sent his son to the Iron Hills, for his people had little skill in stonemasonry. [13] Completion of the underground palace came not too soon. Some new sorcery arose in the Nennulla, rendering it unfit for use by elf or mortal. Thranduil recalled the tainted waters of Mordor with a shudder. Despite his fondness for the dwellings his father had built in the hills, he could not escape them too soon for his liking.
~~~
They had not long removed to the caverns when an odd little man, elderly as mortals reckoned their life phases, asked for an audience with the King. The man seemed not to be what he appeared, and after some moments of idle talk Thranduil recognized the man for what he was. Yet once before had such a creature asked to speak with the King of the forest, and Thranduil was wary, though his instincts assured him that no evil lay in the Maia.
"I see you have discovered my riddle," Aiwendil read his thoughts with a smile. [14] "Your reticence is understandable, but fear not: I come to oppose the Enemy, as a friend of the free peoples and servant to the Valar."
"Then it is as I feared. Sauron rises again." Thranduil could not hide his dismay, though he had long known that the evil on the hill must answer to the Dark Lord.
"This we no longer doubt," the Maia confirmed. "I have taken up my dwellings on the west end of the forest, so as to better observe the core of this shadow that has fallen upon your fair lands, and in any case I would choose to abide among the trees, for I serve Yavanna. I think Sauron has not yet the strength to act on his own, but nonetheless his power through his servants is formidable. The Úlairi have again been seen, and one may hold your ancient dwellings." [15]
"I know not which angers me more - that we have been forced from the Emyn Duir by this foul wraith, or that such an abomination now occupies the fair citadel of Lenwë and my father," Thranduil said, dismayed.
He invited his visitor to stay, but Aiwendil would be gone, missing already his birds. As they passed through the grand entranceway, the Maia paused. The ceiling sloped upward from the enchanted door, in natural line with the slope above the river, and the dwarves had carved arching vaults into the ceiling. In the center of the room, a natural cold spring had been coaxed through a fountain, and Aiwendil stood near it, listening. "The music of Ulmo is loud in these waters. He has ever loved your people, and made this spring and the stream that runs through the nether chambers, waiting long for the Nelyar to return to this place. While your ancestors tarried on the Great March it was filled with song and merry footsteps, and so it is again."
He turned his attention to the exquisitely carved nude in the middle of the fountain. "There is a story in that statue," Aiwendil observed. Despite the unblemished condition of the marble, the Maia's sharp eye traced the origin of the statue to the Elder Days. That it survived in the Fading Days suggested that it had made some strange travels.
On an errand to the Iron Hills during the delving of Thranduil's cavern, Innolas had come upon the statue by mischance. A wrong turn had taken him into the private workrooms of the dwarves, and though they had not yet completed their restoration of the work, the elf easily recognized its value. Persuaded that he must see the statue, Thranduil barely disguised the gleam in his eye when the dwarf artisan displayed his work. Now nearly restored - and he conceded the dwarf had done a fine job - he knew it at once, though only by hearsay.
"A fine work of our people in ancient times, Elf-King," the dwarf pushed. Thranduil knew, however, no child of Aulë had created this wonder. The original artist was, in fact, one Finrod Felagund. The subject whose form Finrod had memorialized remained a secret, though whispers named the statue after its alleged inspiration.
The Lúthien had fortunately passed into the hands of men rather than orcs in the sack of Nargothrond. [16] The elven statue possessed a beauty even Easterlings must appreciate, and so it had escaped destruction. For years it had been lost, carried east by men into Eriador, and eventually bought by dwarves with more respect for artistry than the near barbaric owners south of Mirkwood.
Few artists might dare to reproduce the fairest child of elves or men, but such a challenge Elvenkind's finest sculptor could not resist. As the father of the statue's inspiration was not known for temperance where his daughter was concerned, a veil wrought by the figure's tresses kept her identity safe, though rumor held that from the right angle one could discover the hidden features. Here the genius of the dwarven artisan was most evident, for the delicate locks had suffered the greatest damage over the millennia, and only the most critical eye might find fault with the restored tresses.
Thranduil wore a bland expression as he and Innolas haggled with the dwarves, that the sellers would not guess how ardently he desired the statue. He was but returning the statue to its rightful owners, Thranduil reasoned, justifying his deception. The price they negotiated he thought fair for the quality of the dwarf's work, but it hardly approached the real value of the statue. Eventually would the dwarves learn of its worth, scarcely improving relations between the two peoples and cementing the distrust that would one day bring them to the brink of war.
1636 Third Age
The road to the capital of Rhovanion bore signs of heavy use. The King's men had built sturdy bridges where the road crossed gullies and streams, testifying to the road's importance to Rhovanion. Numerous ruts pitted its surface where wagon wheels had stuck in the spring mud, and many lesser roads branched off into the wilds of the kingdom. Today, however, the two elves had yet to meet another soul.
"Odd," Innolas murmured. The moist heat of the afternoon weighed on them oppressively, but still, few men might let weather keep them from their trade. The Wilderland's harsh winter lurked behind the deceptive heat, and no creature could afford to waste the precious days of summer. "Faunil remarked the lack of traffic on the Celduin just yesterday - I then thought nothing of it," he mused.
Mitharas grimaced. He supposed that he bore the greater fault in the coolness that had grown between him and his old friend, but he could not help his jealousy. He looked up to see his cousin gazing at him intently. "I know what counsel you would give, so you may keep it," he said, rather more bluntly than he intended.
Innolas was undeterred. "You were friends, once. You knew it must come to this, that Ríadel would make her choice."
"This, I know. Yet, I cannot look on him without regret at what I lost. You cannot understand - you have never loved."
The older elf looked at him strangely. "You are wrong in that."
Mitharas pulled up on his horse. They were nearing the village of Azûlkan, and still this silence surrounded them. He did not like the feel of it. But more, he wished to question his cousin further. Somehow, he had never considered his cousin's existence a millennium before his own birth. It seemed absurd to connect sentiment with the dispassionate elf who rode beside him. "What happened?"
Innolas had continued on. Now he turned his horse back, and looked at the other elf long before he spoke. "What we desire most is often what we should not have." He tilted his head in the direction of the village gates, inviting no further discussion. "What say you, shall we risk our palates at the tavern here and perhaps find a cause for this quiet?"
Mitharas nodded his assent, though his cousin's answer had hardly satisfied his curiosity. They rode on toward the village, surprised to find no one holding the gates. Their surprise soon turned to revulsion as the stench of decay overwhelmed them. The two elves coughed and covered their faces with handkerchiefs as they noted the empty street, the eerie silence.
"What has happened here?" the elf wondered aloud. As if in response, a maid burst from a house ahead of them.
"My lords, come no further, there is plague here! Take yourselves home, and be glad if evil spirits do not follow you." The maid looked to be unaffected by any plague, but nearly starved.
Innolas dismounted. "We have no fear of plague, we are elves. Where are the others? Are there none who have escaped this sickness?"
"Few, my lord, save those who in death atone for their sins."
The elf-lord forced his face to remain impassive, though he could guess at the foolishness that had reigned in this disaster. Mitharas brought forth from his pack some lembas, which the maid nearly swallowed whole in her hunger. She told them that the sickness had taken Rhovanion from the south. "From the Easterlings, they say," she added, scowling. The last messenger to dare to ride through had reported that the capital was likewise stricken.
This altered their plans considerably. The King of Rhovanion - if he were not also taken ill or dead - would hardly wish to discuss tariffs at this time. Under the circumstances, Innolas thought it best to return to Northern Mirkwood, for he wished to discuss the matter with his father. As yet he had heard no rumor of illness in the settlements along the Long Lake, but the men there were endangered, certainly. Economic ties bound his people closely to the men by the lake, and both friendship and necessity demanded intervention.
Thranduil shared his son's concern. Though such sickness did not affect elves, their livestock - save their horses, purebred descent from those brought by the exilic Noldor from Aman - were subject to various infectious ailments. The Silvan folk had grown skilled in the healing of animals. Cleanliness of body and house were indigenous to elves, and they kept cats to control vermin and smudged their outbuildings and huts with thyme to discourage fleas. Thus their livestock often escaped the scourges that afflicted the herds of men, and though men noted the uncommon health of the elven beasts, most attributed this to elven magic and would not change their ways.
Men, in ignorant superstition, had done everything possible to worsen the epidemic. They feared bathing and cats, and regarded elven healers as sorcerers, rejecting their incense and medicinal teas. It had not always been so, for the Númenóreans had learned much of the elves of Lindon and Tol Eressëa, and among the Dúnedain such knowledge persisted. Though a few exiles of Númenor had settled in Rhovanion, most of the Northmen were akin to the House of Hador; they descended from those who remained east when Marach led his folk to Beleriand. [17] In ancient times, Lenwë's people had befriended such men, but what the elves had taught their ancestors the men of the present day had forgotten.
"Perhaps, Adar, the dwarves may be of help?" [18]
Innolas might have suggested they invite orcs to their next feast for the dark looks cast by his father and cousin. He hurried to explain himself. "Men have more trust in them, and perhaps they can persuade the men at Long Lake to heed our counsel." Despite the enmity between the two races, dwarves had learned to value the healing arts of the elves, just as the loremasters of Durin's folk had earned the respect of the Firstborn. The long lifespan of dwarves and their meticulously maintained traditions guarded against superstitions of men and preserved the collected wisdom of the centuries.
Indeed, the memory of a dwarf rarely dimmed, and if such memory hoarded knowledge, it also harbored grudges. "There is the matter of the Lúthien, for which we were insufficiently compensated." In his hall under the Iron Hills, Lopt crossed his arms and regarded the Elvenking coolly.
"That is false. We paid the price asked," Thranduil answered sharply.
"Yet, the price was not fair. The artisan did not know the true value of the statue ," Lopt insisted.
"In such a circumstance the Naugrim would do the same," Thranduil argued, his temper rising. [19] "The Lúthien was wrongly stolen from the elves. You cannot expect to earn the full value of the statue when it came into your hands by such irregular means. I paid for the restoration, which was well-done and worth the price."
"My people know nothing of this theft. We bought the statue from men. You walk a fine line, elf-king, if you accuse us of wrongdoing here." The dwarf's eyes narrowed, challenging his visitor to continue in this line of reasoning.
Innolas broke in hastily. "Can we not put this matter aside? For we come here with the welfare of our mutual allies in mind, and our purposes are ill-served by such enmity."
"Of what do you speak? It is not the habit of your people to trouble themselves with the well-being of other folk."
This barb Thranduil ignored with effort. "We speak of the plague threatening Long Lake."
Lopt frowned. "We have heard rumors of plague to the south, and our folk in the Grey Mountains report that it has decimated the orc population." [20]
"You may concern yourselves with the well-being of orcs, if you wish," Thranduil said snidely. "We care only for the danger to men."
The dwarf puffed with injured honor at Thranduil's words. Innolas hurried to smooth the troubled waters again. "My father spoke rashly - for the Longbeards' defiance of Sauron's minions we have only respect."
"I would hear it from him." From the look on the dwarf's face, he was immovable on this. Innolas looked at his father, his own expression unyielding.
The stubbornness of Oropher wrestled with Thranduil's better sense. "My son speaks truly of my ill-considered words," he compromised at last. "We come not as adversaries, and this quibbling hurts only those who need help."
"It is good that Mitharas was not with us, we likely would have ended in that dwarf's dungeons," Innolas remarked as they left. His mouth had a bad taste - how he loathed dealings with the stunted folk.
Rumors of the epidemic had come to Long Lake, and men there proved willing, in their fear, to do all that the folk of Lopt and Thranduil advised them to do. There the disease proved less virulent, but beyond Hithaeglir and south of the Ered Nimrais it continued to spread, though elves and dwarves of Eriador and Lindon were likewise moved by compassion to do what they could for the Engwar. [21] The plague knew no boundaries of dominion or allegiance, and devastated free men and allies of darkness alike. Though Angmar came no closer to winning Fornost, the Witch-king arose nonetheless as the clear victor amid the wreckage.
In Eriador, the plague left many parts desolate, and the few Dúnedain still defending Cardolan perished. Nor were the graves of the last princes of Cardolan left unmolested, for an evil out of Angmar now entered Tyrn Gorthad, malevolent spirits to remain long after the Witch-king's defeat. Rhovanion withered, leaving it ripe for the attack of the Wainriders two centuries later. Yet the chief loss lay in the south. The wise later came to believe that the Nazgûl had sent the plague among his own allies, that it would spread into the Southern Kingdom. For with the death of their king and their great losses, the men of Gondor abandoned the watch on Mordor. All had now been made ready for the return of the Witch-king's master.
1750 Third Age
Ríadel lit a candle as the light began to fail and looked anxiously toward the window. Faunil was late tonight - the stars would soon open, and they often walked along the river at that time, when the Wood Elves raised their fair voices to honor the Lady. She had again taken up her book when a rap at the door sounded. Surprise at finding Mitharas on the doorstep turned quickly to fear. Her heart beat painfully against her ribs as she looked into the wide eyes of the shaking elf. "Mitharas! Man doltha le si?" [22]
"Wargs," he said hoarsely. He gripped the doorframe as though he feared he would fall.
"'Tis Faunil, he has been hurt? Where is he?" Ríadel took her cloak from a peg on the wall.
"No, stay, my lady. You must not - "
"Must not what?" She grasped her friend by the shoulders and shook him none too gently. "Mitharas, what has happened?"
The elf dropped into a chair, resting his head in his hands, his strength at last failing. "He took his guard into the woods, to hunt the wargs, thinking perhaps to catch them unawares in the daylight. Yet they are cunning beasts, for they laid the trail to their lair with care, and gathered others of their kind. The company that went into the woods, only one returned."
The horror dawned in her heart, and Ríadel stood very still.
Mitharas lifted his head, watching her, trying to drive the image of his friend's mutilated corpse from his mind. His friend…they had drawn apart, yet such estrangement, he discovered, did not lessen his grief. As for Ríadel, he kept still his love for her, and felt keenly her pain.
Outside, the elves sang to the twilight, their song mournful as tidings of the fallen company became known to all.
The remains of elves do not truly decompose, but fade quickly. A funeral is for the living, to gather friends to share in mourning and remembrance. Thranduil would have wanted to honor the long-faithful elf by burial with his family, but their graves lay in the shadow of the Emyn-nu-Fuin, now defiled by habitations of orcs. [23] The burial ground itself, at least, remained untouched, as orcs had learned to fear the barrows of elves. For not all of the dead obeyed the call of Mandos, and such elves remained as shades in Arda, jealously guarding the burial places of their own hroar and those of their kindred. [24, 25]
Mitharas remained longest by the grave, even after Ríadel had gone to her empty hut. He had shed no tears for his friend - dry had his eyes been since his father's death at Dagorlad. At last, he returned to the caverns, filled with life, yet yawning with emptiness dwarfed only by the cavern in his heart. He saw pity, which angered him; he saw avoidance, as though his pain might be contagious; he saw sorrow, and averted his own eyes. He saw his cousin follow him to his rooms, and for a moment he knelt again over his father's body, the screams and smells of the battlefield an echo of his grief, and hands pulled at him, pulled him away.
Spinning, his chambers returned to him, and he felt sick. "Araseg, gwanuren melethen," Innolas whispered, holding him close as at last the tears fell freely. [26] Mitharas knew not how long they remained thus, or when he at last had no more tears, and sat still with his head against his cousin's shoulder, his heart at last burning off the ice that had bound it.
Thranduil paused in the passage outside his sister-son's room, understanding the depth of what had passed between the two elves. That his children - for so he thought of his sister-son - had found comfort in one another, both relieved and disturbed him. He would not see Mitharas destroyed by the bitter anger and grief that had afflicted his father. What affection they might share must nonetheless remain between their hearts, for that was their law. Yet love has little respect for the laws its victims might make to constrain its caprices. A wise and ancient king though he might be, Thranduil knew little of the heart's conceit. And so he was quite unprepared for what was to come.
Notes on Silvan Elvish: While vacationing last month, I started to look at the few words we have of Tolkien's Nandorin language, and devised a list of phonetic and a few grammatical changes that occurred between Common Eldarin and Nandorin. It seems that Tolkien decided, in the end (1972), that the elves of Mirkwood did speak a 'related language or dialect' distinct from Sindarin. (ref. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, 'Letter 347' p 425 pub. Houghton Mifflin) In LOTR of course, we are told that what Frodo supposed to be another language spoken by Legolas and Haldir in Lórien was, in fact, Sindarin, but in Letter 347, Tolkien notes that Lórien, with more Sindarin and Noldorin influence, had lost the native Silvan tongue. Nandorin, of course, was not precisely the language of Eryn Galen - it was the language as it evolved among Denethor's people in Beleriand after they left Eryn Galen. This would provide a fictional explanation for the real world problem of Tolkien's later writings on the subject, which conflict with the language as found in The Lost Road, 'Etymologies' (words marked as Dan.). By the Third Age, Silvan Elvish must have been a mix of what little Nandorin remained among the Green Elves returning east with Oropher, as well as Doriathrin and mature (Imladris) Sindarin. At any rate, I've used the examples given by Tolkien to determine how a few new words might be rendered in Silvan Elvish. I'm hardly a linguist, so take my guesswork with a grain of salt. Two excellent sources for information regarding Nandorin and Common Eldarin are Helge Fauskanger (move.to/ardalambion) and Ryszard Derdzinski (t of Rohan. I've used an Adûnaic name for the village of Azûlkan ('East-hold') to reflect the old Númenórean influence.