Short one this time. I was gonna make it longer, but I think this says what I wanted to say.
"You won't tell, will you?" Caliel half-begged as Felrion dabbed at the gash on her shoulder with a wet cloth.
"Don't tell me you're going to try to hide this from Galion," the healer sighed. "You and Sky both... Are you sure you're not sisters?"
"Galion doesn't need to know I was climbing cliffs again."
Felrion gave her a look. "Again?"
She shrugged guiltily.
"Just do me a favor and don't tell Sky what you've been doing, okay?" Thranduil might kill anyone who gave Sky an idea like that. Unless she'd given it to Caliel...
"Hey, Felrion?"
Who was that? Felrion turned, and it took him a moment to figure out why he hadn't immediately recognized the voice. It was Storm's, but his friend never used that quiet, grim tone unless someone had died. Felrion braced himself.
"Sky says a letter from Gil-Galad came this morning. We're going to war."
To war? "How soon?"
"As soon as everyone's ready, she says. We're supposed to meet up with Gil-Galad and Amdir along the River Anduin."
Felrion could only nod.
. . . . . .
Greenwood was ready for war, and it was not long before the army was ready to leave. Elves streamed by the thousands to a vast encampment on the very western edge of the forest, where the final preparations were being made.
And then, much too soon, it was time to go.
"You be careful out there," Lanthirel reminded Taensirion on that last day, as they said goodbye at the edge of the trees. "I want you coming back to me without a scratch on you."
He had to laugh as he pulled her close. "I shall do my best."
"Yes, you will," she agreed, and she kissed him.
They had barely even broken the hug before Taensirion was embraced by four new sets of arms.
"Please be careful, Ada," Faena begged.
"Don't let Oropher do anything too stupid." That was Milaera.
"I wish I could come with you." Feren.
"If you take too long to get back, I'll fall in love and get married just to spite you." Silana had not changed much since she was an elfling.
"I will, I will not, perhaps next time but I hope not, and do not even think about it," Taensirion responded, trying to hug all four of his children at once.
Next was Aleinia, who whispered, "If you don't come back, tell my husband we're all right," as she gave him her hug.
He nodded solemnly. If, Valar forbid, he was killed in battle, the first thing he would do when he was released from Mandos's halls would be to seek out Feren's biological father to tell him what an amazing elf his son was growing up to be.
"Grandfather! Don't forget us!" Sheyni, Faena's elder child, threw her arms around him, quickly followed by his other three grandchildren.
"I would never forget any of you," he assured them.
"It's not too late to stay behind," Tairen, Milaera's older son, noted meaningfully.
"On the contrary, I fear Oropher will need me," Taensirion sighed. "Do not have too much fun without me, all right?" He patted Tairen on the shoulder. "I love you all, and I will be back before you know it, do not worry."
"Goodbye," they all murmured, one by one.
Taensirion gave Lanthirel one last tender kiss, then pressed his forehead against hers. "I will miss you, my love," he whispered.
"Come back to me," was all she said.
They both had tears in their eyes as he turned away.
. . . . . .
Nearby, Kilvara and Felrion were similarly hugging their families (and each other's families) goodbye.
"Are you sure you have anything?" Kilvara's mother asked, while Felrion's older brother tried to squeeze the life out of him.
"Yes, Nana," Kilvara insisted. "We each checked. Nothing's missing."
"Okay..." The older she-elf, red-haired like all three of her daughters, shooed Felrion's brother away and hugged her son-in-law affectionately. "Take care of my daughter," she ordered.
Felrion smiled and nodded even as a knot formed in his stomach. He would not be able to protect Kilvara on the battlefield; the only way he could help her was if she ended up in one of the healers' tents.
. . . . . .
"But what are you going to do without me?" The distraught butler crossed his arms and frowned, trying to pretend he wasn't an emotional mess as he said goodbye to two elves he loved dearly and who were going off to join in a very dangerous war, from which they might or might not return.
Thranduil was not sure how to respond, but luckily his wife had an answer ready. "You," she said, walking up to Galion and putting her hands on his shoulders, "are going to find everyone who's scared to death that they'll never see their friends again, or their children, or their husband or wife, or their brothers and sisters. You're going to listen to all their fears, just like you always did for us, and you're going to tell them that everything will be okay. You'll hold everyone together. Oh, and you're also going to spend a lot of time with Caliel, because you two are an amazing couple."
Galion swallowed hard, but he could not help holding his head a bit higher. Suddenly he had a job to do, and he meant to do it well.
"He's not bothering you with all his feelings, is he?" Caliel appeared behind Galion, wearing the everyday Silvan clothes that showed that she was not going with the army; while there were many she-elves among Greenwood's forces (partially due to Sky and Kilvara's renown), they were not required to fight. Caliel put her arm around Galion affectionately. "They'll be okay. It's not like anything could take them down, anyway."
"Anything that tries to stab, eat, or otherwise hurt my husband is going to get an arrow through its brain," Sky agreed matter-of-factly.
"Likewise," Thranduil said grimly.
"Except with a sword," Sky reminded him.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps I shall borrow one of your arrows to impale it with. It might make me feel better."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Don't worry about us," she told Galion as she hugged him. "Seriously, you have at least a few months off from work. Don't waste it."
Thranduil smiled encouragingly at Galion, which, from him, was equivalent to a good hug. "Goodbye," he told their loyal butler.
"Goodbye..."
. . . . . .
It was not a bad army, Oropher thought to himself. Fighting out in the open was not their specialty, perhaps, but they were well-trained all the same, and while they might not have the best armor in Middle-Earth, Oropher's people were fierce and brave. They would do anything to protect their beloved forest from the darkness.
"I cannot say I missed this," Taensirion said as he came up beside his king.
"It is necessary," Oropher reminded him, but he sighed all the same. "I never thought I would march under the banner of a Noldor king."
"What is important is that we keep our people safe," Taensirion reminded him.
"Of course." His friend was right; this fight—every fight—was about more than the kings leading the armies. He knew that.
"Hello, O Great King," a voice said behind them. "You wanted to see me?"
Oropher turned around to regard the elf standing there. "Yes, Coryn, I did. You know the region we will be travelling through, yes?" The king had never been farther southeast than the southern tip of Greenwood, and neither had most Silvan elves.
"I do."
"Then I will be relying on you to confirm that we are on the right course and, most importantly, to steer us around any hazards in our path. Are you up to the task?"
"Should be," Storm told him, "but I thought we were meeting up with Gil early on?" He took in Oropher's grimace and leaned back on his heels. "You're going to travel a few miles off from him when you can, aren't you?"
"Clever elf," the king said dryly.
Storm raised an eyebrow at Taensirion, who sighed and shook his head. The Silvan elf met Oropher's gaze and held it until the intensity of his stare started to unnerve the king. "I can do that," he said finally.
Oropher nodded curtly, and Storm considered himself dismissed. He wandered through the gathered elves for a few minutes afterward, then made his way to the edge when Oropher gave the order to move out. From a small hill, he looked out over the army—so many elves, each with their own name, their own life, their own family, all wearing the same armor and marching as one. Their expressions—teary eyes, bitten lips—echoed those of the elves watching from under the trees. With his sharp elven eyes, Storm could see every tear that fell, every letter from a loved one clutched in shaking hands. As far as he knew, no one would miss him too terribly—his only remaining family and two closest friends were coming along, after all. Perhaps that was why he felt so apart from it all.
. . . . . .
Nearly three millennia after it was created, the kingdom of Greenwood marched to war. Following a king born half a world away, thousands of elves went to fight an ancient evil older than the sun.
Most would not return.
Bad things happen next time. You have been warned.