Volcanic Plug: Thank you for the 'volcanic plug'!
MoroTheWolfGod: Your question will be answered in this very installment.
Dragonfly: Yes, Elrohir has learned a lot. And Anomen has matured, too, to the point where he can indeed be a 'role model' for an even younger Elf.
Jebb: I'm glad you don't find the humor to be out of place.
Baramagor had suffered no serious injuries in the latest skirmish, but, in spite of the words of the Ranger Halbarad, there was something that did indeed keep him out of the next battle. Berenmaethor selected him to join the scouts who were escorting the wounded to Thranduil's Hall.
"Have I done something wrong?" Baramagor worried.
"No," Anomen reassured him. "Glorfindel merely wishes to keep the more experienced warriors on the front line. You'll see: the escort will be made up of the youngest scout from each patrol."
Anomen was right, and so Baramagor went off simultaneously reluctant and relieved. After he was gone, Anomen returned to Thoron's side.
"And so, Anomen, what do you think of my cousin?"
"I like him very much—but I have never met an Elf with so many scruples!"
Thoron looked at him oddly. Anomen wondered why, but before he had a chance to ask, Berenmaethor called to them.
"Anomen, Thoron, you will be runners today.
"Both of us?" said Thoron.
"Yes. From henceforth, no one is to venture anywhere alone, so the runners must travel in pairs." He handed Thoron a scroll.
"Celeborn and Thranduil will be meeting with Elrond, Mithrandir, and Glorfindel at Elrond's tent. They are considering how best to break this stalemate, and Elrond has asked for complete updates on the disposition of each patrol. See that this is placed in his hands as quickly as possible."
The two friends buckled on their sword belts and their quivers and hastened on their way.
Celeborn was already at Elrond's tent when the two friends arrived with their scroll, and they were delighted to see that Haldir was among the scouts who had accompanied him. After entrusting the scroll to Glorfindel—who briefly smiled at them!—Thoron and Anomen lingered a few minutes to exchange greetings with their Lothlórien friend. Haldir looked cheerful, so Anomen did not hesitate to ask after his brothers.
"How are Rúmil and Orophin faring, Haldir?"
"They are both well. Orophin was nicked on the arm by a scimitar, and Rúmil took an arrow in, ah, his seat, but neither injury was particularly serious. Both remain on the line—although it is a good thing for Rúmil that we do not fight as cavalry!"
"His seat!" exclaimed Thoron. "Oh, this will make for some merriment later on."
"Yes," laughed Anomen, "we will have to 'ride' him about this injury of his."
"The scouts in our patrol have already worn out that pun," exclaimed Haldir. "You will have to come up with one of your own! But tell me, Thoron, how fares your cousin Baramagor?"
"You might say that Baramagor at first 'had no stomach' for battle," said Thoron.
"Ah," said Haldir wisely, "I know what that means."
"Yes, but now his stomach is no longer continually in his mouth!"
All three laughed heartily.
"And Elladan and Elrohir? Are they well?"
"Elrohir is yet unhurt," replied Anomen. "Elladan suffered a scimitar wound to the shoulder. He was supposed to have been evacuated to Thranduil's Hall, but he hid when it came time for the injured to depart. Since then Berenmaethor has been pretending that Elladan is invisible. Once he even stumbled over him but looked about and pretended to complain about being tripped up by tree roots."
"You are with Berenmaethor? Where is Taurmeldir?"
Anomen fell silent. Thoron bowed his head.
After a few moments, Haldir murmured softly, "I am sorry, my friends."
"Thank you, Haldir," Anomen said, his voice equally soft.
They talked quietly for a few more minutes. At last Thoron reminded Anomen that they should be returning to their camp.
"Yes," agreed Anomen. He turned again to Haldir. "Stay well, Haldir. Give our greetings to Rúmil and Orophin."
"Yes," added Thoron, rallying his spirits, "and advise Rúmil to watch his backside!"
"I will," nodded Haldir, smiling once more. Greet Elladan and Elrohir for me, and congratulate Baramagor on his having developed a strong stomach!"
With a final wave at their friend, Thoron and Anomen headed back toward their camp. At the same time, Thranduil and his escort, were nearing Elrond's tent, and by and by Thoron and Anomen crossed paths with the Mirkwood Elves. The two Imladris runners stepped aside and bowed respectfully as the royal party passed.
"There is that wretched Rivendell Elf again," Thranduil thought to himself when he spied Anomen. "Why could not Elrond have left him in Imladris!? Now my dreams shall be troubled."
Thranduil curtly nodded to acknowledge the bows of the two young Elves. After the king and his escorts had passed, Anomen and Thoron strode on, but they had scarcely gone a hundred paces when they heard shouts and the sound of metal clanging against metal.
"The king has been ambushed," cried Anomen in a sudden panic. He drew his sword and made as if to run back, but Thoron seized his arm.
"Let us not rush blindly into this skirmish. We may do more good with our bows than our swords."
Anomen nodded, and the two of them moved swiftly but carefully toward the sounds of battle until they were near enough to hope to catch sight of the combatants. Each of the two young Elves ascended a different tree. It was daylight, and they could clearly see both their friends and their foes. The latter reminded Anomen of the half-goblins he had seen at Isengard and in the forest of Fangorn. Carefully aiming, he began to methodically pick them off one at a time. Thoron did likewise. Within a few minutes, the half-goblins realized that they were under assault from the tree canopy, and a few bowmen detached themselves from the main group and began to shoot up into the branches.
Thoron and Anomen had arrived none too soon. Thranduil and his escort had been hard put to it to defend themselves against the half-goblins, whose numbers were superior to their own, but with the aid of their hidden reinforcements, they began to make headway against them. Balance was restored, and then the advantage swung toward the Elves. At last the half-goblins gave up and retreated. The enemy bowman took a few last wild shots and fled with the rest.
The skirmish over, Thranduil immediately set about checking on the safety of his escort. First of all, he looked for Gilglîr. He spotted him sitting with his back against a tree. At first glance, he looked oddly relaxed, as if he had taken it into his mind to sit down and rest in the midst of a battle. At second glance, Thranduil realized that Gilglîr was merely patiently waiting for someone to free him from a carcass that had fallen in his direction, knocking him over and pinning his legs. As Thranduil approached his friend, Gilglîr said, with exaggerated politeness, "If you would be so kind as to remove this dead weight from my body."
"Ah, the mark of an accomplished seneschal. No matter the situation, you are able to speak with absolute correctness."
From his seated position, Gilglîr contrived to bow in a manner that looked most elegant. Laughing, Thranduil hauled the Orc carcass off Gilglîr's legs and reached down his hand to pull his friend to his feet. Once Thranduil had satisfied himself that Gilglîr was indeed unharmed, the two of them quickly split up, each hastening in a different direction to check on the condition of the other warriors. Few had been injured, and those that were had suffered only minor wounds. Everyone seemed to be accounted for. Thranduil glanced about one last time. To his horror, he spied a young Elf lying quite still at the base of a tree, an arrow protruding from his chest. It was the dark-haired one who reminded him of his son. Thranduil pushed that thought aside and hastened toward the injured Elf, but as he reached him the second Rivendell Elf ran up to him and shoved him back.
"Don't touch him!" shouted the Elf, who looked only a little older than the injured one. "I'll care for him!"
"I only meant to help," replied Thranduil. He was momentarily indignant at being treated so, but the feeling quickly subsided as he reminded himself that these Elves were undoubtedly friends. Thought Thanduil, "I must make allowances. This distraught young one cares not whether or no I be king; nor should he care."
"I will not touch your friend if you do not wish me to, but can I assist you in any way? Can I bring you anything—water, bandages?"
"Elrond—bring Elrond!" exclaimed the young Elf. Thranduil nodded and, leaving Gilglîr in charge, he personally hurried off in search of that elf-lord's tent.
He found Elrond in the company of a Ranger. Together they were tending to a Lothlórien Elf who had suffered a sword wound to his arm on the previous day. Urgently Thranduil described the newly-injured Elf to the Lord of Rivendell.
"A young Elf with dark hair?"
"Yes, younger than most—I saw him once before when he accompanied Glorfindel and Erestor to Greenwood several months back."
Elrond sprang to his feet. "Arathorn, can you finish here? The wound is clean but needs to be bound."
The Ranger nodded, and Elrond followed Thranduil back to where the young Rivendell Elf lay. His friend knelt anxiously beside him.
"Elrond, Durrandîr has not opened his eyes even once, and he gasps as he breathes!"
"Fetch Mithrandir, Thoron."
Thoron sprang to his feet and raced off.
"They are good friends, those two?"
"Yes. Now I must ask you to excuse me, Thranduil. I must concentrate on his injuries."
"May I help?"
"No, that will not be necessary, thank you."
Elrond seemed anxious for him to be gone. A trifle mystified, Thranduil turned to leave. As he did so, he saw Mithrandir hastening toward them. The wizard looked alarmed, more so than Thranduil had ever seen him. "Who," Thranduil wondered, "is this young Elf who evokes such concern in both wizard and elf-lord?"
He was still musing when he returned to Gilglîr.
"Gilglîr, do you remember that young Elf with dark hair who accompanied the Rivendell delegation?"
"I remember him only because you mentioned him so often. He troubled you for some reason, did he not?"
"Yes, he reminded me—he reminded me—"
"—of your son," Gilglîr finished.
Thranduil flinched, but nodded.
"The warrior shot in the chest over yonder is that selfsame Elf."
"That is unfortunate. He is one of the younger ones."
"If not the youngest, then nearly so. Gilglîr, they call him Durrandîr. Who is his father?"
"I have never heard his father mentioned."
"That is curious, is it not?"
"Yes, it is customary for one's father to be named."
"Both Elrond and Mithrandir seemed quite distressed at his having been injured."
"Of course, Thranduil. He is a Rivendell Elf, and a young one at that. Why should they not be distressed."
"Quite distressed, Gilglîr."
"What are you driving at, Thranduil?"
"This Durrandîr has dark hair."
"Yes?"
"Elrond has dark hair."
"Ah," said Gilglîr, "I think I see where this is leading. Elrond has two acknowledged sons, Elladan and Elrohir. You suspect that he has a third?"
"Yes, and is that not ironic?"
"What do you mean, Thranduil?"
"I would be grateful if my one lost son were restored to me. Elrond has sons and to spare. He does not even care to acknowledge one of them. If he were my son, I would acknowledge him. I would shout his name from the tree tops!"
Thranduil had never spoken so openly or at such length of his bitterness. Gilglîr did not know what to say in reply. The two sat in silence for a while. At last Thranduil sighed and arose.
"I must try not to grudge Elrond his good fortune. Mayhap it is deserved. I have heard it said that he is an attentive father. Even if he has not acknowledged this son—and that may not even have been his choice—he obviously shows his concern for the young one—which is more than I ever did. In this one matter, whatever my dislike of Elrond, I must concede that the Valar have been just in depriving me of my one son whilst gifting him with many."
Gilglîr could not let such a statement go unchallenged. "It is not a matter of deserving or not deserving. Many have sons who do not deserve them, and many who have no sons do deserve them. A son is not a reward that is doled out or taken away by the Valar on account of the deeds of the father."
"Nay, I cannot believe you. How else to explain the death of my son?"
"Would you make the Valar out to be child-slayers?"
"Then why did my son die?"
"I do not know. You do not know. But do not curse the Valar, as you would if you believed that they slew Laiqua in order to punish you."
Thranduil sighed. "It would give me some consolation if I could blame the Valar. Mayhap I would spend less time blaming myself."
"Why must you blame anyone?"
This idea, however, was not one that Thranduil was ready to entertain.