Disclaimer: Characters and references belong to Prof. Tolkien. I derive no profit from this.

MANY FRUITLESS VICTORIES (1)

Follow Lord Celeborn and Lord Thranduil as they experience the End of Arda as it went, not exactly as recounted by Vanyarin and Noldorin lore masters. A tale of the selfless courage found in unsung heroes, those who face every day’s lost battles, even when there shall be none left to sing of their deeds.

If these two particular elven-lords had stayed until our present times and beyond, I’m sure they would have been engaged in environmental preservation. This is a four-chapter recount of their toils.

I, too, hate elves-in-modern-times tales with a passion. Please, give this a chance.

(1) ”…I have seen three ages of the West, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories” Elrond to Frodo. LOTR, “The Council of Elrond”

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PROLOGUE

Camp “New Future” , Somewhere in Patagonia, South America. April, 2138

Greenwood Great’s council board meeting place was…unusual, to say the least. It was perched amidst the foliage of a huge specimen of southern beech, a perennial variety of Nothofagus. (1)

To a stranger’s eye, it would seem the result of a passing whim, a fancy extravagance of the coolest designer of the moment for a multi-millionaire firm, an exclusive resort where potential clients and bribable officers could be flattered, persuaded to indulge in their more unspeakable pleasures and then conveniently blackmailed into reasonable behaviours that, surprisingly enough, would meet the company’s best interests.

But, had the stranger been subject to that treatment before, he would soon acknowledge his mistake. The decoration was too austere, almost spartan; No leather couches, no extra huge flat screen, no fur rugs, no flaming hearth, no bottles of intoxicating substances on sight.

Greenwood Great’s board members weren’t more according to standard than the place where they met. Attired in casual and well-worn outdoors clothing, they looked like four young executives in an expensive tour, enjoying an exotic fishing trip with some thrilling extreme sports on schedule, rather than the executive council of the most powerful organization in earth.

Had the stranger been granted access to their meetings, he would have been utterly disappointed, for they spoke rarely, and in a language completely incomprehensible to mortal ears. The glitter in their bottomless eyes and their knowing glances would have frozen the stranger in place, and would have convinced him of what the urban legend maintained; that Greenwood Great’s core management team was otherworldly.

“I don’t think that particular way of demonstration leads to the fulfilment of any objective,” the blond one was complaining, comfortably sprawled in a hammock chair, pointing at the media reviews of some of the organization’s recent activities.  

“But it is great fun,” another answered, a tall fellow with dark hair and grey eyes, long, restless fingers that were always drumming upon something, as if dreading silence. “Your father had an extraordinary lack of sense of humour, Thranduil, and I do not let pass a day without praising the Lady that you have been blessed with that very same gift….” he added in a more than educated voice that had moved generations uncounted to tears.  

“Daeron…” The growl was menacing, almost feral.  

“Unfortunately, in this case, I must agree….” a third one chimed in, smiling wickedly, putting aside some reports he was eyeing for the tenth time, as if hoping something would change between readings. He was tall, too, the four of them were, and with a long, silver, uncommonly brilliant mane. He wasn’t old, though, or at least didn’t look in his old age, except for the eyes, that seemed pools of knowledge and deep sorrow, as his companions’.  

“Celeborn…” the blond one’s voice held a tinge of annoyance that did not fool his companions. They knew each other all too well, for better and worse.  

“I agree with them.” The fourth member of the meeting turned from the window and met the rest with a blazing gaze; eyes strangely alight in a pale face framed by wild, raven hair. He lifted a heavily disfigured hand and pulled aside a dark lock from his face, his powerful voice resounding with merriment. “And since I didn’t have the…pleasure, of meeting your lord father, Thranduil, we can safely assume that I support Daeron’s other claim, strange as this may seem,” he added in a soft yet magical voice that stirred images of times before the time and that could move, as his own father’s had done back then, the hearts and the wills of those who listened.  

“So, it is true, then,” Daeron whispered, master of his own trade, hitting the exact mix of worry, grief, relief and expectation with unconcerned ease. “Maglor supports me, this is the end of Arda…”  

The chorus of raucous laughter resounded in the forest.

TBC

Notes

(2) Nothofagus: Family of beeches found in the southern hemisphere. Some are deciduous.