The Second Kinslaying

"I had not realised Fëanor raised such cowards," sneered Dior. "To sneak upon a peaceful kingdom unannounced, using threats and weapons to try to rob them of their treasures." He spat on the ground. "I am disgusted."

"You knew we would come," retorted Maedhros.

"Perhaps he expected us to forget about our heirloom just as he conveniently forgot to reply to our letter?" said another of the brothers, who had lighter hair – Thranduil guessed he must be Celegorm. At the assembled's surprised murmurs the ellon added: "Oh, I see. You did not even tell your own people that we sent you messages and asked you politely to return what is ours? But I understand. Deep down you know the Silmaril does not belong to you, but in your lust for luxury you do everything in your power to make your subjects believe you have a right to it."

"I have the right to it! The necklace was a gift to my grand adar, and the gem was wrested from Morgoth's crown by my own adar's hands. Get out of my kingdom, thieves!"

"My adar made it, you mortal oaf!"

"So what? He lost any right to the Silmarils when he killed elves at Alqualondë, and the same goes for you, kinslayer! What will you do now? Kill me too?"

From there the dispute soon became ugly, with increasingly harsh insults thrown back and forth between the two groups.

Thranduil could not say who started the attack; one moment they were arguing heatedly, the next an arrow nearly took out Maedhros remaining hand. After that it was only minutes until the fight began in earnest.

Seeing the Noldor charge, Thranduil felt a moment of hesitation. These were elves and it was murder to kill one's kin – what should he do? But then one of them came against him, raising his longsword, and Thranduil acted on reflex. He parried and struck back, trying to find a weak spot on his armour. He started it. This is self-defence.

To meet an elf in life-and-death melee was both the hardest and most frightening Thranduil had ever experienced. His opponent was fast, intelligent, agile and strong. It was like sparring with a superior march-warden, but one who would kill him if he could.

Snow began to fall, tiny, stinging flakes that got into Thranduil's eyes. Holding his attacker at bay took its toll; his arms felt numb and despite the chill he was soaked with sweat. It was only a slight comfort to hear him curse in Quenya under his breath as he too grew weary.

Despite that, the ellon somehow managed to continue fighting aggressively, slashing and thrusting, forcing Thranduil to focus on defending himself. It was a bad strategy; if he wasted his energy on parrying and dodging he could never win, but there was no help for it. His opponent had the upper hand.

Was this it? Was this the day Thranduil would die and be reunited with his mother in Aman? The thought terrified him more than he would have thought. He did not want to die.

Then at last came his opportunity; sheer luck caused the Noldo to lose his footing on an icy patch. Thranduil did not miss his chance to strike back. Driving his sword home with resolute force, he severed the ellon's windpipe. Blood spurted from the wound, and it took only moments until he stopped thrashing and wheezing.

Thranduil had no time to think about what he had done; a new ellon had already replaced his comrade and he could only continue fighting. This one had already killed; his sword was bloodied and his eyes under the iron helmet fierce.

Again Thranduil needed to fight defensively, for once wishing he had a shield rather than two swords as he tried to parry the steady rain of violent hits. He had survived his first combat but this ellon was too strong.

He tried to dodge and take a few steps backwards but the enemy followed and managed a hit. His sword bit easily through Thranduil's leather armour and a line of pain erupted across his thigh.

Then Galion was at his side and the tide turned. With joint force they worked on the opponent; Thranduil swiped at his legs while Galion managed to slide his sword through the eye slits of his helmet and kill him.

Another one down, and they had a moment's respite, but there were so many left. Too many.

Shaking severely, Galion stared at his kill for a moment and then threw up.

Thranduil had no time to feel anything about the dead Noldo. Around him several march-wardens were down, more than fallen enemies. The snow was turning into bright red slush, blood spreading slowly from the corpses like grisly ink stains.

He quickly looked away. He did not want to know who of his fellow march-wardens were dead.

Thranduil's own thigh was bleeding too and he carefully pinched the cut in his leg guard together with one hand. This did not go well. He was horribly reminded of the dwarf attack; just like then their opponents were overwhelming them – not in numbers this time, but with better armour and more experience. Nowaday most of the Doriath march-wardens were green elves, untried in combat, whereas Fëanor's sons and their followers had fought in all the battles of Beleriand.

The attackers focused their strength on Dior now, seeking to kill the one who wore the Silmaril. A tight throng of the king's closest guards had made a circle around him, and he himself fought no less valiantly, but it could not last. Thranduil needed to get him away from here.

Maybe they could use the narrow passage across the Esgalduin to hold the enemy off? It was a desperate plan; with the river partly frozen over it might not work for long, but anything was better than this exposed spot.

Thranduil awkwardly ran over to his leader, trying to ignore his throbbing leg.

On the way, he passed the maimed corpse of Celegorm laying face down in the snow. Long ago, that ellon had caught Lúthien and held her captive, trying to force her to marry him instead of running to the rescue of her beloved. Now Beren's and Lúthien's son had killed him, which felt strangely befitting.

"We must retreat and regroup, my lord," Thranduil told the king when he managed to get closer. "It's easier to defend the bridge."

Dior nodded curtly. "Fall back," he yelled, turning to lead the way and waving for Thranduil to come closer. "They won't stop until they get what they came for," he whispered urgently. His eyes were wide and frightened. "We must flee."

"Aye," Thranduil panted, out of breath from running. He agreed wholeheartedly, much as it pained him to admit that they had lost.

"Take a few guards and evacuate the city; then ride south to the Mouths of Sirion. I will stay at the bridge and keep them occupied for as long as possible and then catch up with you. And… Take this." He pressed something into Thranduil's hand, burning hot against his gloved palm. The Silmaril necklace. "It is better to keep it away from my person."

Thranduil did not question his king's command though it felt awful to abandon his struggling friends. Discreetly sliding the necklace over his head and covering it with his clothes, he selected a handful of guards and started towards the city.

When they arrived, people were nervously milling around behind the gate; civilians who had armed themselves, ready to defend their homes if the enemy broke through.

Quickly Thranduil explained the situation and what they had to do. "We have to abandon Doriath. Take only the most necessary, and do it with great speed – then hurry to the stables and wait there so we can depart together."

His weary look and bleeding leg must have spoken clearer than words about how dire the situation was, for no one complained. They immediately scattered to spread the word and gather what little they still had after the dwarves' sacking of Menegroth some years back.

For his part, Thranduil spent a few moments at home seeing to his thigh; the cut was deep but he had no time to manage more than a temporary bandage. Then he gathered a little food, a few coats for his father and himself, the sea painting Aerneth's mother had once given them and the white gems from the ceiling. Even if he had had more belongings, this was all he could carry.

At the door he nearly bumped into his father coming the other way. "There you are! I have packed the royal heirlooms." He indicated a bulky bundle wrapped in what looked to have been a curtain. Then he noticed Thranduil's bandage, already becoming pink. "You are hurt!"

"It is not too bad. We must hurry; I have spent too much time here."

"At least lean on me."

The city was almost deserted, and only a few others joined them when they jogged up the main street as fast as Thranduil could manage. He refrained from looking back; he would save lamenting the loss of his home for later. If he survived long enough to do so, that was.

Outside the snowfall had intensified. The battle sounds from the bridge indicated the fight still went on, but he had no time to check how it was going. Dior would have to manage.

"To be chased from our home by accursed Noldor," muttered Oropher as they struggled through the snow. "I knew the foolish boy shouldn't have worn the necklace openly. If he had only listened to me, we wou–" He stopped abruptly when an anguished wail reached them from the stables, followed by the thud of hooves against snow. Two Noldor riders on loaded horses came galloping past and swiftly disappeared into the forest.

Thranduil and Oropher ran in the direction they had come, where a dismal scene met them: two dead guards, and Queen Nimloth laying bleeding on top of the corpse of her maid.

Thranduil hurried over to her.

"My boys," she mumbled. Pink froth seeped from her pale lips. "They t-took my b-boys."

"Shh. Don't speak," said Thranduil, lifting her mantle to reveal a mess of blood and intestines. "Shh. You will be fine," he lied, putting the mantle back, swallowing the rising bile in his throat. "Just rest now."

He turned to the survivors. "What happened?"

"It was Celegorm's servants," sobbed Galion, wiping his grimy face. "They lay in ambush and attacked the ones who came first, and when we hurried to aid them they took the twins hostage. Then they stole the sacks we brought from the treasury and said they would kill the children if we followed them."

"We must go after them anyway." Thranduil drew one of his swords.

"We cannot," came Oropher's voice from the stable door. "They have let the horses lose."

"Then we go on foot. We do not let them take Eluréd and Elurín!" Ignoring his leg and his father's protests, Thranduil brought the guards back to the place where the riders had disappeared, but he soon had to give up. The fresh snow was covering all tracks; it was impossible to see where they had gone.

He tried to listen for sounds of their passage, but instead he heard another, more worrisome noise: the enemy crossing the bridge. Dior must have been forced to fall back even further – or been killed.

"We have to flee, Captain," urged Galion.

Thranduil reluctantly agreed. He was right. They had to leave before the sons of Fëanor discovered Dior no longer had the Silmaril.

Back at the stables the civilians had covered the corpses. Oropher was just putting a blanket over the queen's face; she must have died in the short time they were away. He wrenched something from her finger. "Her wedding ring; the ring of Barahir." He put it into the curtain bundle with the other heirlooms. "When Dior comes he will want to have it."

If Dior comes, Thranduil thought ruefully.

Little Elwing sat by her mother's feet, her fist entwined in the bloodied skirts. Her face was white but she was not crying.

"Let go." Oropher tried to pull her away.

She only tightened her grip.

"Naughty girl! Come now or the bad elves will take you too."

"Let me." Thranduil kneeled, wincing as his leg smarted. "Elwing, you have to be brave and let your nana go. She is in Aman now. If you come with me, I shall tell you about the time when I saw that land with my own eyes."

She made no more resistance when he picked her up, and he felt her cold face against his neck as she clung to him tightly.

Then all of them began running, leaving Doriath never to return.

oOo

It was the refugees' small luck that it snowed so heavily. Though the weather made their journey more difficult, it also effectively covered their tracks, delaying the pursuit.

They had decided against crossing the Sirion, for the river was wide and fast and did not freeze over even in bitter winter. Instead they followed its eastern shore south where they could traverse the smaller tributary Aros across the ice.

Thranduil's injury made it difficult to carry Elwing for very long, but she did not protest when he handed her over to Galion so he could cut himself a crutch. She remained mute despite his attempts to cheer her up with tales of Aman and the Undying Lands, sitting stiff and withdrawn on Galion's shoulders when he walked. Thranduil hoped it would pass; they just had to get a bit further from Doriath and then they could eat and rest and treat their wounds – both the physical and mental ones.

The mental impact of the battle was – as always – the hardest to bear. Now when he had nothing to do but walk and think, Thranduil replayed in his mind the death of the two elves he had taken part in killing, particularly the first one. Again and again he heard the ellon's last, wheezing breaths. Was Thranduil a kinslayer too now? Or did it not count if it was done in self-defence?

They walked for several days and nights with hardly any breaks, until at last they entered a secluded willow forest in the area where Sirion met Narog. They felt unusually safe under its eaves, as if some unknown power protected it from evil. Perhaps it was Ulmo? They were getting closer to the sea and the river had become wide and mighty.

"Let us stay here for a while," Thranduil decided.

It was a huge bliss to make camp, build a fire and cook a warm meal. They made makeshift tents of blankets and slept through the night and a large part of the following day, not even bothering to assign watches during the dark hours.

The next day Thranduil cleaned and dressed his thigh properly, and was relieved to see it was beginning to heal despite the strain of walking. But he would probably get a visible scar.

Elwing sat close to him, as she tended to do, and when he had finished putting on a bandage she spoke for the first time since she was taken from her dead mother. "Are Eluréd and Elurín in Aman?" Her voice was very small.

Thranduil looked away. He had managed to hold off all thoughts of the twins in the hands of the enemy, telling himself nobody would harm little children, but if they were killed they would not be reborn to Aman. All Dior's children had inherited his mortality.

"I am sure they are not," he replied at last. "They are fine. Everyone who meets them loves them, and Fëanor's sons will love them too."

"But the bad elves took them from Nana." Elwing's lip trembled.

"Their captors will try their best to comfort them," he invented. "Maybe they give them sweets. You know how much they love sweets, right? And then their ada comes for them as soon as he can."

"When will Ada come for me?"

Never.

"Soon. They will probably let him go when…" Thranduil hesitated. He had meant to say 'when they discover he doesn't have the necklace', but he had not yet told anyone Dior had given it to him, and figured it was best to keep that a secret until they reached Círdan's realm where it would be safe. "Uh, when they get the necklace."

Elwing seemed satisfied with the answer and even smiled slightly, but Oropher frowned. "Such a shame we lost it," he muttered. "Brash boy. Dior should have listened to me."

"At least I have salvaged my vines," said Galion, carefully extracting a bundle of twigs from a wrapping of moist cloth.

Despite everything, Thranduil could not hold back a grin. "That is a relief, for sure," he said dryly.

"You do the Dark Lord's work with those accursed grapes," Oropher scolded.

"Not at all. I do Yavanna's work." He fondly put the cuttings back into his pack.

"Hoom! You know my mistress, then?" asked one of the birches in a deep, yet distinctly female voice.

The whole company jumped at the unexpected sound. When they looked closer they saw it was not a tree but a gnarled creature with long, slender limbs and a cascade of green hair in ivy-like curls.

"Oh! Good afternoon, Madam Ent." Galion bowed reverently. "I am Galion of the Laegrim. Pleased to meet you."

She dipped her smooth, white head. "I am Fimbrethil, and this is Nan-tathren, my willow garden."

"It is beautiful. Just like you!"

"Hrum! You are a polite elf, young one. And I appreciate that you know about Yavanna and gardening."

"Of course! I love growing things. Well, vines, at least."

She smiled wistfully. "I wish the ent-husbands were more like you. Root and twig! They only appreciate the great wild forests."

The others listened to their conversation without interrupting, awed to be close to a tree herder, for despite having lived all their lives in a forest most had never seen one before. Ents rarely visited Doriath; Melian's Girdle had been enough protection for the trees there.

Thranduil supposed it was the presence of the ent that had caused this forest to feel so safe. Fimbrethil was as tall as a tree and looked immensely strong despite her slim form.

"Hoom! More elves are coming," she said now. "Root and branch! Do not be alarmed. They have no axes or swords to hew you down; they seem friendly."

They relaxed and put away the weapons many of them had drawn.

Soon Thranduil spotted the arriving company. They were march-wardens on horseback, weary and covered in bandages. Survivors from the battle.

When the newcomers had been greeted and helped to a meal, they described how they escaped.

"Maedhros released us. For some reason Dior didn't have the necklace, and it wasn't in the city, and when he couldn't find it on us either he let us go. We found the horses wandering loose in the woods, and that's how we got here so fast."

"Is Dior well? And the twins?"

His face fell and he gave Elwing a quick glance before lowering his voice to a whisper. "Dior was slain during the battle, and some cruel ellyn apparently took his sons out into the forest and left them there… When Maedhros found out, he sent people to search for them, but with no success. He seemed genuinely upset about it, and I think maybe that was why he released all the prisoners."

Thranduil stared at him blankly. How could anyone abandon little children like that? Images of their faces came before him, and he imagined how frightened and cold and hungry they must be, until… Until they had either frozen to death or starved. It was incomprehensible how their captors could be that cruel.

His next thought was how to break this news to Elwing. She would never see her father or brothers again, for unless there was a place where mortals came after death they were gone forever.

Best not say anything yet. In time, they would be safe at the Mouths of Sirion and begin a new life there, then he could tell her.

"I wonder what happened with the Silmaril," Oropher mused much later when they prepared for another night in the willow garden. "Did the king somehow manage to hide it before he fell?"

Thranduil decided to reveal the truth to his father at least, and pulled the necklace out of his shirt. "It is quite safe."

His father shaded his eyes against its radiance. "Brilliant." He patted Thranduil's shoulder. "If only Dior had been as discreet as you are, we could have still been safe in our home. Well done, my son. Very well done!"

When Thranduil lay down to sleep a while later, he could not hold back a rather proud smile.

oOo

They left Fimbrethil's garden the next day and continued south, sending those with horses in advance to alert Círdan of their arrival. When he came out from the woods, Thranduil could see the ocean at a distance and hear seabirds cry in the sky, and it struck him that he would soon meet his wife for the first time in over a decade. He winced as he recalled his harsh words in the letter he had sent her, for now other feelings were growing within him. Anticipation. Excitement. Desire.

He had to remind himself repeatedly that she had a very good friend now and did not want to see him, nor have any kind of relationship with him. But what if she would change her mind when they met? Try as he might, he could not repress that tiny sliver of hope.

When they came closer his eagerness grew, and he was almost thankful for his injured leg so he had to walk slowly, or he might have betrayed himself and started to run the last way.

It was a very quaint colony; a cluster of whitewashed houses surrounded by a wood palisade, and further away what looked like wood cottages built on platforms. Several swan ships had been pulled up onto the frozen shore.

When they came to the gate in the palisade a crowd of people met them, with some very familiar elves in the forefront: Amroth, Amdír, Galadriel, Celeborn – and Aerneth.

"Thranduil!" roared Amroth, meeting his old friend in a hard hug. "I am so glad you came at last."

Thranduil's throat constricted as he returned it. "It's great to see you too," he managed. "How are your pigs?"

He laughed. "How did you know I took up pig breeding again?" He slapped Thranduil's back. "I will show you everything once you've settled in."

Aerneth took a step forward, greeting them with a bow. "Welcome," she said, looking at everyone except Thranduil and his father. "I am Aerneth Círdaniel, leader of this town. My adar has been notified of your arrival and will see you as soon as the bay thaws. As some of you may know, Lord Círdan lives on the Isle of Balar now." She indicated a large island far out. "Meanwhile, your kin in the Iathrim enclave have prepared housing for you where you can find rest after your toil."

"Indeed," agreed Amroth's father heartily. "For those I have not met, I am Amdír, leader of the Iathrim. Welcome."

Next followed a rather chaotic reunion, with people seeking out old friends and many of the Iathrim trying to find out who of their relatives had survived the kinslaying.

Thranduil's eyes were drawn to Aerneth who stood alone, shuddering in the chilly wind despite her thick fur coat. She looked more beautiful than he remembered, and more regal. She reminded him of the late Queen Nimloth.

His chest grew tight. How he had missed her!

He took a few cautious steps her way, but to his surprise he found his path intercepted by Galadriel.

"I know you received Aerneth's letter," she said coolly. "She does not want to talk to you."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. Was Galadriel the 'very good friend'? No wonder Aerneth acted so strangely then! That headstrong elleth had been a bad influence already before, when she persuaded his wife to go fight in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears – and that was the beginning of the disaster their marriage had become.

He was just about to give Galadriel an acid reply when he saw Oropher heading straight for Aerneth. No! Those two must not talk; he had witnessed too many times how ugly things could get between them.

He pushed Galadriel aside and limped over to his wife in long strides.

"You look well, my dear," said Oropher in an unusually pleasant voice that did not fool Thranduil one bit.

She gave him a curt nod. "Thank you." It was clear she was not fooled either.

"Let us go find our new home, Adar," he said smoothly, trying to take his father's arm.

"I was just going to ask where your wife's house is. You and I should reside with her – or you, at least. Spouses should never live apart, you know."

"You will stay in the Iathrim enclave." Her voice had become frostier than the snow on the ground and her gloved hands clenched into fists.

"Then you would turn your own husband out after all his troubles? Do you even know he has become injured?"

Her gaze flicked briefly to Thranduil. "Injured?"

"The Iathrim do not live with the Falathrim, and even if they did, Aerneth does not need either of you in her life," Galadriel cut in.

Oropher ignored her. "It is not right for wives to disobey their husbands. But then, you were always wayward, Aerneth, thinking only about yourself. A disgrace for your adar's house!"

"I will not let you listen to this… bullshit," hissed Galadriel, taking Aerneth's arm. "Come, my dear. I will follow you home."

"How rude! Come back here, or I shall–"

"Please – don't make a scene. Just wait here while I talk to her."

Thranduil followed the ellith until they were out of hearing range, trying to think of an apology for his father's harsh words, but also something to say to him afterwards that would reconcile him with Aerneth and Thranduil living apart.

He had not expected getting in the middle between his wife's and father's tempers quite this soon, and with a weary sigh he realised that this was only the beginning.

"Aerneth… Wait."

She stopped despite Galadriel's pull on her arm, scowling at him but unable to hide her trembling lip. "What?"

"Don't listen to Adar. He is just tired after the journey and stressed over what happened back home. He didn't mean what he said."

"Oh, he meant it," said Galadriel. "And as usual, you didn't speak to your wife's defence. Look how pathetically you're trying to excuse that ellon's bad behaviour. He is your adar, not your owner; it is due time you became an independent adult."

"'As usual'? And what do you know about me and my family?" He glared at her, feeling anger build up. "What gives you the right to interfere in others' marriages? Mind your own business."

"Aerneth has told me everything." Galadriel crossed her arms over her chest; she was becoming agitated as well. "Your relationship was a disaster from the beginning, and that is why she needs a clean break so she can finally heal. Don't you see how bad you make her feel? Look at her! She was happy here, but the moment she found out you were coming she became like this. Nervous, distressed, losing her appetite. All the heartache returning; all the bad memories of the abuse she suffered."

"Abuse? What are you talking about? I–" He broke off, remembering their fights, the yelling, their sometimes rough lovemaking. Perhaps he had abused her though he never meant to. "I am sorry if I hurt you," he mumbled. Tears pricked behind his eyelids.

"Not you," said Aerneth. Her eyes were misty too.

"I talk about Oropher," said Galadriel. "Didn't you even notice that he hurt your wife? Not only did he beat her on more than one occasion, but she suffered verbal abuse as well. Every day, Thranduil! And did you stand up to her? Did you defend her? Did you try to remove her from that poisoned household?"

He mutely shook his head.

"And then you apologise – like now. Apologise for Oropher, for yourself, for each and every thing. You hurt her – and say sorry. You hurt her again – and say sorry. It drives her insane. You can't treat someone you love that way." When he did not reply, she continued: "Stay away, this time. Leave her alone. Your marriage is bad for both of you. And – if I may advise you too – you should distance yourself from your adar as well. I don't think you and him are good for each other either."

She took Aerneth's arm and walked away.

Struggling to control the turmoil within, Thranduil looked at their retreating backs. It's not true, he wanted to shout after them. But the more he thought about it, and the more Galadriel's words sank in, the more he realised they were true.

He had not defended his wife – had not been able to. And he had a horrible suspicion that that would never change. He would remain a child indefinitely, doomed to obey his father and take his part forever.

With a heavy heart he went back to Oropher.

oOo

Pulling the blanket up to his chin, Thranduil revelled in the softness of the eider feather mattress. There were clearly benefits to living by the sea.

He closed his eyes, trying to forget the distressing events earlier. He must not think about Aerneth. He could not have her, he could never have her again. Yet images came unbidden before him: her beautiful face when he first saw her again; her rosy cheeks in the cold wind; her fair hair spilling from her hood; her pink lips…

Groaning, he tried to get his blood to leave a certain body part.

Something rattled against the window and he instantly sat up. An enemy? Had Fëanor's sons managed to follow them after all? Who–

The rattling was repeated; it sounded more like someone threw pebbles on the house. He relaxed. Was it a sea bird?

Cautiously he went over to the window and peeked out behind the curtain.

A person stood outside, their hood pulled up and their thick fur coat billowing in the breeze.

He eased the window open, allowing her to climb inside.

"Don't tell Galadriel," she whispered. Then she pulled his head down to a deep and needy kiss.

A/N:

Sorry this chapter took so long to write, but I kind of blame the Silmarillion for not fleshing out the Second Kinslaying more. I had to really rack my brain to figure out a realistic series of events where (1) Dior and Nimloth were killed, while (2) the Silmaril necklace (that he always wore!) made it safe out of Doriath and (3) little Elwing fled with the rest of the survivors while (4) her brothers were left behind (I mean, why would they save one child and leave two? Either all children are rescued or none, right?). In addition, I needed the refugees to (5) salvage the heirlooms Barahir's ring and the sword Narsil that Aragorn will inherit many millennia later. It wasn't an easy puzzle, let me tell you!

A correction: In the last chapter I called the Green Elves "Laiquendi", which is the Quenya name for them (the Noldor language) and often used in elven family trees, but in Sindarin they are called Laegrim. I've gone back and corrected it now. :)

Thank you dear Katia0203, Guest and laurenthefan for your lovely reviews!