By Mina
Being the first of the missing tales of Middle-Earth.
(Now with nitpick help from self-professed Tolkien!Geek, Helga. ^_^ Thanks
much.)
(Rewritten October-ish with newfound information from The Lost Road and Other
Tales.)
~*~*~*~*~*~
Death rode the winds, in foul scents of blood and char that tickled his nose and darkened his skin and hair. Thranduil cursed the Men and Eldar that had led his people to this ruin, and cursed his far-gone ancestors for leaving hallowed Aman in the first place. Did they not have enough cares upon their immortal shoulders with the burden of the Silmarils still close at hand? Had not the Eldar suffered enough in the kin-sundering and slaying in the far lands of Beleriand and Valinor?
What place did the Silvan elves have in this war? Outmatched by their compatriots in armour and arms, outmatched by the enemy in the same way… It was true that the Noldor Witch, the newly-crowned Golden Lady of Caras Galadhon, and her Sindarin kin had pushed for them to fight in this war. She had pushed the Silvan elves in her care much the same, but for them were swords and bows of the finest make, armour wrought by the smiths of old. Eregion-Imladris and Lórien held true to the tales of old, in which Eldar lords shone with the light of the Valar and are held in the bosom of protection.
Not so for the Silvan of Greenwood-Great. They were but country bumpkins in leathers and wool compared to their greater kin, and anger burned within Thranduil as he counted the number of friends that lay fallen around him. How many more would die this day, and the days to follow? How many great Men, how many great Elves would fall here at the Cracks of Doom? Already Gil-Galad lay among the fallen, a number of his kin with him. Scores of archers from Imladris and Caras Galadhon, simple huntsmen from the Silvan realms… What would happen to them, their way of life after this?
The Noldor Witch would surely survive; her husband would make certain that those of the Wood were taken care of, even if they did not hold true dominion over Lórien. He bore Celeborn no ill will, for he was a friend and shieldmate of old, but Celeborn's lady was another matter. What did she know of life in Middle-earth for one who was born there? What did she know of love and sacrifice for a realm she would leave? How could she possibly understand how he and his kin felt, how a number of other Eldar felt? What of Elrond Peredhil, long friend to his father Oropher and spoken highly of by Gil-Galad himself as a man of vision and strength? Surely the Valar didn't hold with breaking his heart thusly, watching the descendents of his beloved twin Elros take up the accursed ring of Sauron, most exalted disciple of the foul Morgoth, for his own?
Thranduil cursed again at the shrieking sound of metal on metal as one of the western heathens threw himself forward against the elf's blade. No emotion crossed his face or heart as the blade of Mirithil easily pierced the Man's leatherwork armour, ceasing his heart.
Where had the call of the rivers gone, the song of the trees and earth? Here in this cold, desolate land, Thranduil felt his heart become empty---and for the first time in his long memory, he hated.
The High Hall of Amon Lanc in Greenwood the Great stood empty of all warriors who had answered Gil-Galad's challenge; all that remained were the children still too young to fight and those maidens devoted to the peace of the earth. Thranduil's own mother remained behind, her prayers constantly sent to the Valar beyond the Grey Havens in Valinor, to Varda who had brought them from Beleriand in the old days to bind them to the woods and forsake the sea. No longer truly Sindar, his people had become akin to the Nandor and Laiquendi---which was, perhaps, the reason Oropher had so quickly agreed to join Gil-Galad's host on the long march to Mordor. What better way to prove that they were still of the Eldar, still true Quenya in heart, than to join their brethren in this madness.
And these Men…Men who had so easily bent to the will of Sauron, the foul rogue Maia who wished dominion over this Middle-earth because he could not have it in Aman. Whether the ambition was his or the remnants of his vanquished lord did not matter; in this desolation and carnage, nothing of that sort mattered. Why must his brothers and sisters die for these Men who had betrayed the trust of the line of Eärendil, the greatest of the Noldorin stars?
"Thranduil! Tôli na aran!"
The herald's call to return to the king roused Thranduil from his thoughts, and he made his way through the dead and dying to reach Oropher's side. "Ata?"
"Thranduil…Thranduil, mae yon…"
The blood drained from his face as he realised the reason he had been summoned to his father's side; like Gil-Galad only yesterday, his father had been injured with a Morgul blade, and his soul was fading. "Ata…"
Oropher smiled, and for a moment Thranduil saw the father he remembered: crowned by the halo of Greenwood's morning light, daystar dancing about his fair face and silver eyes, pride and power etched into every fibre of his being. "Mae yon…"
Oropher had been the first Sindar to be blessed by Varda, freed of the sea-call and bound instead to the call of the Woodland Realms. Greenwood had become his beckoning siren, as it had for all who had followed him across the mountains. Thranduil could not remember a time when he hadn't heard the whisper of the wind, the tall pines and springy aspen, when he hadn't counted seasons in the fall of red leaves to the forest floor… Oropher had dared what no Eldar before had, and had tied himself to this Middle-earth for a love of the land and all who abided there. Only Thranduil's mother, Läurelas, had chosen to turn away from Varda's gift and keep the sea-call in her heart.
Everything that was good in Middle-earth, everything that was wisdom and sacred, freedom and hope, was leaving. Oropher, son of Caranthir the Black, was fading.
"Ata…" Words failed him, both in the tongues of Quenya and Westernesse. He looked helplessly around him for support, for aid of any sort, and cried out in anguish as he realised that there was no one who could help him. Haldir of Lórien was across the chasm, Glorfindel of Imladris tended the heart of Elrond, Celeborn and Galadriel had forsaken this battle…
His father's hand tightened briefly on his wrist, and Thranduil bent close to catch his whispered words, tears falling unabashedly down his stained cheeks as the light faded from his father. The cries of final battle, of the dying, were ignored; as Oropher's soul departed for the Hall of Mandos, Thranduil raised his face to the black sky, eyes seeking and finding the brilliant pulse of the eternal Morning Star.
Oropher, King of Greenwood-Great, was gone.
For days Thranduil was silent with grief, and not even the hands of friends could comfort his soul. Only a third of his warriors lived, and his father had passed away. What remained of the host of Gil-Galad followed him loyally to the borders of Greenwood the Great, where the remnants of Lothlórien's host met them. While Elrond eagerly accepted the hands of his dearest love's mother, Thranduil turned his face from the great lady in scorn.
"And will you not accept my healing, Thranduil, son of Oropher?"
Still he did not turn his face from the shadows of Greenwood the Great. "This wound I bear will never be healed, Golden Lady."
"Your mother intends to pass into the West. Will you not at least greet her with welcome and good wishes?"
"What use are welcome and good wishes when all that is good and welcome has been lost because of the folly of Isildur? Great men of two races died this past weeks, Lady. Where are your good wishes for their departed souls? Where are your good wishes for those still living?"
He caught movement from the corner of his eye and watched as the lady passed a weary hand before her eyes. "Gifted you are, Thranduil, as was your father. Will you shun Men for all time because of the folly of one?"
He considered her words, and at last turned from the wood to face her. She perceived, though, that there was no welcome in his face for her, only the reflection of the woods that were his home.
"As you have your mirror and the line of Eärendil their Foresight, so the line of Oropher has their own gift. Greenwood the Great speaks to me, Lady, and I will tell you what it says: In the Third Age shall come a child of the Woods, Eldar who hears not the voice of the cursed sea. He shall be as the foliage of the trees themselves, his ears keen and vision unclouded, voice strong and pure like the wind. But like the wood, he shall trust none that do not earn his trust.
"And so I say to you this, Lady. Whatever season this child shall appear, whatever form the Valar bestow upon him, the hopes of Greenwood the Great shall lie with him. And if he finds trust in Men, then all that is Silvan shall trust in Men and bear their hopes to fruition."
She perceived once more a veil in his words, and knew that she would have to consult her mirror for clearer vision. But if his words meant what she thought…
"Would you bring about the ruin of all our ancestors have worked for? The line of kings must remain unbroken, eventually rejoining itself."
Cold…so very cold were his eyes of mithril-wrought grey. Galadriel knew of fear, had felt it before with the rise and fall of Melkor, of his servants Sauron and the Witch-King, but she felt it again if only in a minute amount when she viewed the new Greenwood King.
"Middle-earth is to be shaped by Man, the sons of Edain. You know this, Galadriel; we are but interlopers."
"Then interlopers we are, but it is for the best."
Those eyes flashed, and with a piercing whistle, Thranduil's horse was at his side. Asfaloth bowed his head in acknowledgment as his rider swung into the saddle, snorting in warning when Galadriel raised her hand to halt his movement. "Let the Edain decide what is best, Lady," Thranduil hissed, ignoring reins in favour of threading his hands in the thick white mane. "You helped to bring about this line of kings, these Numenoreans. You shall eventually return to your Valinor and Aman, leaving behind Man and Silvan. If you truly wish for peace, then let those of Middle-earth choose!"
Galadriel flinched as he shone with the conviction of his words. "Then you doom us all, Thranduil Greenwood."
"Good. At least there is hope in doom, for it is not yet death."
"Then at least you have not taken complete leave of your senses, for you are still wise enough to fear death."
"No longer do I fear death, Lady---when you chose to forsake us on the Cracks of Doom, I saw the death of my ideals. They were carried into the Hall of Mandos by my father's soul. And now I only believe in what Greenwood will show me."
Galadriel watched him ride into the wood, his Silvan following behind him until they were lost in darkness. Those that remained were of Lórien and Imladris, and she turned to them with a heavy heart.
"He grieves, my lady," Elrond said in apology. "He loved his father dearly, and with his mother leaving these lands as well, that sorrow must weigh most heavily upon his heart…"
"And what would you have me do, Peredhil? Shall I coddle him as a child when he is long grown, even by the standards of the Eldar?"
It took much for Elrond to lose patience, but the losses incurred in the Last Alliance had pushed him beyond those boundaries. "Careful, Lady! You have already aided in killing his ideals; take care that you do not kill him as well."
No more was spoken of the matter as their retinues divided for Imladris and Lórien…and no more would be spoken until the beginning of the Third Age, when "hope" became a long-desired feeling for all the Eldar.
A/N: It is never actually stated who Oropher's father is, nor is it stated who Thranduil's mother is, or his wife. Part of this is conjecture on that part. Caranthir the Black was a son of Fëanor, uncle of Galadriel who created the Simirils and caused the kin-slaying in Valinor and Beleriand. The animosity between Thranduil and Galadriel is real in Tolkien's world, though it is never well explained.