This chapter is definitely a little angsty...but hey, it's a funeral. Things may or may not start to look up for poor Thranduil from here though, you'll just have to read and see. Plus people were asking for Thranduil and Elrond to meet, so here you go. :-)
It was a somber procession that saw the fallen king Oropher to his grave. All throughout the day the survivors of the Greenwood had been about the gloomy task of burying their fallen brethren. The growing cemetery needed only one more to be complete. Mound after mound of piled earth cast shadows across their path as they sun set, making the ground look darkly streaked.
Oropher's body, cold and still but no less majestic in its shroud was carried by four pallbearers. Thranduil followed behind, likewise having to be carried in a chair with Gurithon and another captain taking up either side. How dearly Thranduil wished that he could have walked for his father's funeral procession! The healers would not hear of it though, and truth be told he was still so weak that there was no argument to be made otherwise.
The elves of the Greenwood walked in silence around the hillside and down onto the plains. The bodies of all the dead orcs had been gathered and burned, and the stench still lingered heavy in the air. Even with Sauron overthrown there was a darkness to the air in these lands, an oppression that hung heavy like the very sky. With so many dead buried here, no one foresaw that this place would ever be anything but forlorn in the future. None of them imagined either how in the years to come the plains would be swallowed by advancing marshland. By that time though it would be beyond their reach to recover the bodies that would be forever lost to the mists and the Will-o'-the-wisps.
The elves sang a soft, sad eulogy as they approached the open graveside. Despite Gurithon's previous words to him in the tent, Thranduil had been almost nervous in watching the faces of his people. If he had been expecting disapproval, reproach or even anger from the survivors of the Last Alliance, he found no trace of any such things. There was only sadness, unmeasured and unspeakable. Not a single Greenwood elf remaining could say that they had not lost someone dear to them in battle. Most if not all seemed to share Gurithon's sentiments though; they did not blame Oropher or his son for their losses.
Relieved enough to attend to his own grief, Thranduil stared at his father's body in its shroud as though he could see through the fine linen wraps. He almost wished he could lift the coverings and look upon Oropher one last time. His fingers twitched suddenly where they were clenched in his lap; a physical manifestation of a fleeting desire. Then he leaned back heavily upon the pillow in his chair and sighed. He is not here anymore. Thranduil told himself. Wherever he may be now, Adar is not in that shroud before us.
Something stirred in his peripheral vision, and Thranduil turned sharply to look at the lip of the plains beyond. They did not expect Isildur and his folk nor any of the remaining Noldor elves to pay respects to the fallen Sindarin king. Isildur was haughty and completely unlike his father. Many suspected that without Elendil the old alliances between men and elves would quickly fade. As for the Noldor, Thranduil now knew without a doubt that many of them actively blamed Oropher for unnecessary deaths upon the battlefield. The Lórien elves too were gone, having left with obvious haste after burying their own king Amdír. Thranduil had no idea who besides their own people would be here.
A banner of dark blue with a silver ship upon it fluttered in the breeze over the heads of the approaching party. Thranduil narrowed his eyes, recognizing it as one that had flown behind the High King Gil-Galad's own standard in battle. It was the ship of Eärendil the Mariner, and although the singers continued their chant at Oropher's graveside many heads were beginning to subtly turn in the assembled crowd.
The folk of Imladris (or Rivendell as Thranduil had heard it called in the Common Tongue) did not make a showy, disruptive entrance. Rather they stood at a respectful distance, heads bowed and silent. Thranduil could not say whether he was pleased or annoyed by their presence. These elves had fought under Gil-Galad's command, submitting to his leadership as Oropher had not. Still, he supposed that it was an honorable gesture on their part.
More were still to come though. Another, much smaller party crested the hill and followed that of Imladris down onto the plain. This group carried the banner of the house of Gil-Galad itself with the white stars upon a blue field. Now many of the Sindarin and Silvan Greenwood elves were turning to look, although Thranduil shot a glance at the singers that dared them to fall silent. He did not care of the Valar themselves came over that hill; his father's eulogy would not be interrupted.
When he caught sight of who led the small delegation of Noldor elves, Thranduil himself could not help but watch their approach. The Lady Anthelísse wore a dark gown in the colors of mourning, as did many of her followers. The Noldor had no body to bury, no graveside at which to pay respects, and many of them had already begun to leave. Anthelísse had not forced them to remain when the sea so obviously called, but those loyal to Gil-Galad's sister had come at their lady's bidding to honor a fallen ally.
Thranduil was touched, and had to bow his head to contain his emotions. For the rest of the ceremony there was silence from the three assembled peoples. When the time came to place Oropher's body in the ground and cover it with earth, Thranduil called for his chair to be brought directly up to the graveside. He had always thought his father to be so tall and powerful, but the shrouded figure in the ground below looked somehow diminished. A lump formed in his throat, and Thranduil leaned forward to pick up a handful of dirt. The soil of this land was thin and dry. He wished he could bring Oropher home to be buried in the Greenwood. It was just too far though, and the king's place was with his army. Slowly opening his hand, Thranduil let the dirt flow through his fingers to mar the clean whiteness of his father's shroud.
"Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham, Adar.*"
When the mound of Oropher's grave grew tall with earth, Thranduil at last turned his gaze away. His people all stood silent and grave, and some could be seen to be weeping. That his father had ever come to find so devoted a kingdom he would forever be grateful for.
The Noldor and the folk of Imladris still remained as well, and although Thranduil knew himself to be both tired and weak he wanted to speak with them. When Gurithon moved to have his chair lifted and carried back to the tents, he held up a hand.
"Wait. I will not retire just yet."
Seeing the tall, golden-haired Anthelísse approaching with the Lord of Imladris at her side, Gurithon frowned slightly but nodded. Thranduil knew the captain would likely love to have him spirited back to the care of the healers with all haste. If he was going to be king now, he would have to start by being strong even when he didn't feel it.
"King Thranduil." Anthelísse bowed her head respectfully, the silver circlet on her brow catching the last rays of sunlight. It was the first time Thranduil had heard himself addressed by his father's title aloud. It saddened him horribly, to have the final reminder that Oropher was gone spoken to the world. Hearing it said by Lady Anthelísse made it less harsh though. Still, the sudden formal posturing from the Lady of the Noldor caught him off guard. Somehow it was easier to still think of Anthelísse as the healer whom he had thought was the sun.
"Lady Anthelísse." He greeted her in turn, surprised at how tired his voice sounded. "We had not looked to see so many paying respects at my father's funeral. You have my thanks."
"We both wished to honor a brave and noble king." She extended a slender arm to beckon the Lord of Imladris into their conversation. "May I introduce Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris. He has long been a friend to myself and my brother."
"Mae go'vannen, Aran Thranduil of the Greenwood." Elrond placed a hand to his heart and bowed, his long dark hair fluttering in the slight breeze. Thranduil nodded in greeting as well, eyeing the half-elf carefully. He had heard something of Eärendil's son, most particularly how he and his twin had been fostered by the two eldest sons of Fëanor. Any elf knew the sordid and violent history of the Fëanorians, and so Thranduil had thought perhaps to be cautious of one associated with them. This Elrond did not look anything like a foundling of those fiery Noldorin kin-slayers though, with his peaceable expression and gentle grey eyes.
"You speak the Sindarin tongue, Lord Elrond?" Thranduil couldn't help but arch an eyebrow, surprised. "In truth I had expected that one of your upbringing would favor Quenya."
Elrond smiled slightly. "I speak both fluently, as do most of the people of Imladris. My preference however is toward Sindarin, the tongue of my mother's people."
"Well, whatever dialect you speak, I thank you for your presence here today." Thranduil shifted slightly, acutely aware that his chest was growing tighter with every word. His wounds were going to need tending sooner rather than later.
With the sharp eye of a healer, Anthelísse picked up on the source of Thranduil's sudden silence. "Perhaps we had best retire to the camp? These lands may be well rid of orcs, but there is a dullness to the night that I do not love."
Thranduil saw what the Noldorin lady had done there, and was grateful for her deflecting attention from his poor condition. With a wave he called forward Gurithon, who nearly pounced with relief that the young king was going to be reasonable.
"Are you planning to depart Middle-Earth as well then, like so many of the Noldor are doing, Lord Elrond?" Thranduil asked, his eyes fluttering briefly to Lady Anthelísse. For a moment he felt a twinge of something that felt vaguely like regret.
The half-elf shook his head. "No, I have a home and folk to care for in Imladris. We may yet meet again someday, if peace endures."
"Perhaps." Thranduil was finding it harder to speak, and wanted nothing more than to rest. Still, as Gurithon and his other guards came to lift the chair, he added one last thing that he particularly hoped Anthelísse would mark.
"I should hope that perhaps some of the Noldor will dwell for a time here in Arda. The halls of the Greenwood are open to any who still remain of the Last Alliance."
Elrond smiled and offered a gesture of farewell. "As is the valley of Imladris. Until then, Thranduil Oropherion."
When Gurithon had his chair lifted, Thranduil had to delay them a moment as Lady Anthelísse approached. Leaning in close and lowering her voice to give him some privacy, she murmured;
"Do your wounds pain you greatly? The dressings likely need changing, and the stiches checking. If you would deign to remain in the healers' tent tonight rather than moving to your own, I will come and tend you. Or do you have your own healer to whose care you would like to be transferred?"
"No!" Thranduil exclaimed almost a little too quickly before recollecting himself. Oropher did…had in fact employed a healer, although now Thranduil supposed Siroth's services belonged to him. Still, the thought of spending another night in the public healers' tent did not off-put him even for a moment. "No, Lady Anthelísse, I would not prefer to leave your care just yet." His voice was steadier now, although definitely breathy sounding.
Anthelísse nodded, leaning back. As she did so a long lock of golden hair fell forward to brush Thranduil's arm. For reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with his wounds Thranduil felt his chest tighten.
"Very well then, I shall come to attend to you shortly." Anthelísse's gaze slid away toward the marker which the Noldor had erected earlier that day. "Until then, I have more respects to pay to another…"
As he was carried back up the lip of the plain toward the encampment, Thranduil could see in his mind's eye the tall stone cairn that would now mark the site where Gil-Galad had fallen. Although it was inscribed with the High King's name, he and he supposed many others would now also think of it as a memorial to all who had fallen in the Battle of Dagorlad. If nothing else, their people's sacrifice in the name of peace gave elves both Noldorin and Sindarin alike something in common.
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* "My heart shall weep until I see you again, Father."