Chapter 4.  Friends or Foes?  

“I do not think that we are progressing in any significant manner….”  

Oropher swallowed an annoyed growl. “I am glad you think we are progressing at all,” he grunted gruffly, sharpening his knife with more energy than necessary while casting dark glances at the group of green elves who sang merrily around a fire.  

It had been a difficult day, to say the least, in a difficult moon, in a quite difficult sun-round.  

That the new star heralded changes and omens no one had doubted, but for years after its first sighting Oropher and his host of nomadic Laiquendi had continued with their free roaming of the densely forested lands in southern Ossiriand -where hunt was plentiful and war but a distant rumour- eluding all contact with other elves; and they were not about to change this state of things for a minor cosmic event. After all, whatever changes and omens the new star portended, they seemed not to concern them.  

Then, the trees began to spread strange news, confirmed by hunters who strayed north and west, but still they paid them little heed.  

Only when the fires broke out in the north, followed by almost constant tremors in the land and an unexplained unrest that spread across Beleriand even into their easternmost forests did Oropher decide that it was time to renounce their self-imposed isolation and seek counsel abroad.  

But, of course, he would not look for Círdan’s on the first place. Having convinced himself that he was now one of the Silvan –once he reluctantly gave up on the search for the missing princes- Oropher firmly believed that they should take council with the Hîrdawar, the mythical, elusive leader of all the wandering clans of the Avari, rather than seeking out their Sindarin and Telerin kin in Balar and in the mighty city of Sirion, of which only a small group had heard, and even few had ever glimpsed.    

That had been the cause of some contention in his by then not so small group. His once bedraggled band of survivors and the group of nomadic Laiquendi that had welcomed them more than fifty sun-rounds ago had become a quite numerous host by now, mostly by addition of other scattered, roaming hordes of Laiquendi that had also fled south in the past years. Unruly and free as they were, the Wood Elves bowed to no one’s permanent authority nor followed an established rule, and their councils were boisterous and uncontrollable until an agreement was reached either by consent or boredom.  

After long discussions, and much to Oropher’s vexation, two courses had been agreed upon. A couple of hunters would go to the fabled city in the mouths of Sirion and would meet with its leaders and with Círdan, if possible, to gather news. Another patrol would travel north with the same assignment, to the yearly assembly of the Laiquendi of northern Ossiriand; an event, it was said, even the Hîrdawar attended on occasion.  

And so Oropher and Bronadir had departed their summer camp between the rivers Duilwen and Adurant half a moon ago and had marched north in mounting anxiety. For the last three days they had walked with little rest, pushed forth by the growing distress around them and the tremors that troubled the land. Twice they had been hindered by an impenetrable mass of trees that had stood stubbornly before them, and twice they had been forced to change course and take a long detour towards the mountains before being able to steer their path northwest again.  

Then early that morning they had run into a small patrol of young Wood Elves fighting a large band of orcs and wargs that seemed more intent on fleeing than on killing. Their arrival had put a swift end to the carnage, but in return for their help they were swiftly despoiled of bows and quivers and made to wait, while the survivors took care of their wounded and disposed conveniently of the orcs and wargs’ carcases. After that, Oropher and Bronadir had been sharply invited to join the patrol, and they had all marched north at a hurried pace. All their attempts at conversation had been met by courteous, almost amused shakes of head, and it was in sullen, dull silence that Oropher and Bronadir had been escorted into their captors’ camp –a large clearing with a number of temporary refuges, around which a pack of youngsters and children busied themselves in different tasks.  

Still in annoying silence they had been led to a shelter made out of hazel saplings bent inwards and bound together, then covered in leaf mould held down by moss and deadwood, before which a fire roared merrily, caged in a circle of stones. A dark-haired, serious-looking youth had met them there, and had listened attentively to Oropher’s haughty words and incensed remarks. Impassive, the youth had questioned them carefully, but had offered no information in return.  

“We will wait until Lalf returns,” he had finally decided. “Please make yourselves comfortable until then,” he had added with an open smile, standing up lightly and bowing before them, and that had been all. A girl had come at midday with two bowls of stew and a wooden pitcher of mead, for which they had been grateful, but had refused to answer their questions. After their meal, they had stood up casually and had tried to make a tour of the camp. They had been stopped by an angry-looking young warrior before a more solid-looking shelter around which some amount of bustle was taking place, and forced at spear point to return to their shelter, where they sat sulking for the rest of the day, closely watched by one warrior or another.  

“I mean, why not talking to us? And did you see the wounded inside that shelter?” Bronadir continued in a lowered voice, dismissing his friend’s sarcastic retort. “I counted at least four…”  

“These are mostly youths,” Oropher mused, sliding the whetting stone along the blade to keep his hands busy. “And we are too close to the Mountains for this to be the place of their yearly gathering…”  

“Surely this is their rearguard, then?” Bronadir suggested. “The adults must have travelled west to check the safety of the area… and some must have been injured. The trees seemed deeply disturbed northwest, after all.”  

Oropher nodded, remembering the strange behaviour of the forest the days before. He looked up and watched the reddened northern sky thoughtfully, then wondered aloud what they had been discussing in secrecy for some time now. “Do you think this is the final attack? That the Morgoth has set forth at last?”  

A sudden roar that spread across the encampment with the speed of a canopy fire muffled Bronadir’s glum answer.  

“Lalf, Lalf, Lalf!” the youthful voices shouted as one, and even their guard abandoned his position and ran to the other side of the stirred camp, where a crowd had gathered around, they supposed, a party of newcomers.  

Their curiosity aroused, Oropher and Bronadir stood up and watched as the throng pressed around an elf who towered above the others and had to bow to listen to reports and issue commands. From time to time a few elves would break from the group and run away full of purpose, and soon the camp looked like a disciplined anthill getting ready for migration. The tall elf entered the shelter where the wounded were being recovered and, guessing that he would surely come to them after that, Oropher and Bronadir sat down again and ostensibly turned their attention to their knives.  

“Welcome to our camp. I am Taenben, Captain of the Laeg Faradrim.” The tall elf dropped down nimbly by their fire some time later, greeting them with a courteous smile.  

“Green enough, I can see that,” Oropher snorted before he could stop himself, nodding towards a group of very young warriors that were busy untying shelters and freeing saplings.  

“We are honoured to meet you, Captain,” Bronadir chimed in hurriedly, casting a dark glance to Oropher and warning him to keep silent. “We are…”  

“Let not their appearance deceive you. Several of those children could beat even Thingol’s chief hunter with their bows, Captain Oropher,” the tall elf informed pleasantly. Oropher bristled at this oblique allusion to his past, but before he could question him the tall elf continued speaking. “But you are right. Our seasoned warriors are west, deep into the forest, keeping the enemy at bay. I have come back with only a handful, to hasten evacuation. You can choose to help us escort our young ones East beyond the mountains, to the Elmoi and the safety of their stronghold by the lake, or join our patrol and help us scour this side of our forests; or you can return on your way, it is up to you…”  

“But… wait… what…I mean…” Oropher and Bronadir felt swept off their feet at the elf’s decisiveness and businesslike approach. “I came north to meet the Hîrdawar and seek his counsel,” Oropher finally blurted out haughtily. “Not to be bossed around by a green captain...”  

A slow smile softened the tall elf’s features as he scrambled to his feet. Only then did Oropher notice the long gash that ran along his right calf. “I have conveyed my father’s advice, Oropher. You must decide what course to follow…while, by your leave, I find some refreshment…” he winced as he placed his weight on his wounded leg. “And a couple of stitches, it seems…Glîrdan will make sure that you are supplied for the way,” he added, waving a branch-like arm towards the dark-haired youth who had questioned them upon arrival. “We will speak again before we depart …”                                           

Speechless, Oropher watched the tall elf walk away in his swaggering gait, clasping shoulders as he passed or shouting commands in his strong, confident voice.  

“Please, come this way, your supplies are being readied. I apologize for the manner of your welcome, but we are wary of strangers, as you may well know…” The young elf had reached them unheard and now waited unobtrusively by their side. They followed him in silence, exchanging worried glances. The camp was full of ordered activity, and Oropher was amazed that no sign of panic or grief was shown among those who were soon to be parted. Their green kin were braver even than what he had thought, and that certainty was comforting. Distracted by his thoughts, he was surprised when they stopped close to the shelter where they had glimpsed the wounded elves. A group of boys and girls were busy preparing stretchers while others fletched arrows with deft fingers, but they all greeted Glîrdan merrily. The young elf picked up the yew bows and empty quivers hanging from a branch and handed them back to their owners. 

“They are intact,” he protested as Oropher and Bronadir examined them quickly and thoroughly.  

“So it seems,” Oropher grunted at last, though his severity was wasted on the self-assured youngster. “Where are our arrows?”  

“Lalf said that you might choose to join us in battle, so I asked that new arrows were fletched for you as well…Will you give us a hand?” the boy asked with a winsome smile.   

“Join you?” Oropher wondered if the other could hear the outraged ring in Bronadir’s tone. “How old are you, Glîrdan?”  

“One hundred and twenty-three, Master Bronadir...”  

Oropher sighed. Bronadir’s son had been little older than that when he was killed beside Mablung during the sack of Menegroth. He knew what would come next, so he sighed and stepped aside cautiously.  

“And you are going to battle?” Bronadir ranted at the clueless youth. “You should be travelling to safety with the young ones instead! You are barely…”  

“Oh, they will be out of harm's way once they cross the river; I have driven several groups myself… But this time I am more needed here, to help stop the enemy while our people get away… there are too few of us here presently,” Glîrdan explained thoughtfully.

A couple of unnaturally bright eyes on a pale face that could only belong to a Noldo caught Oropher’s attention as he scanned their surroundings in a vain attempt at ignoring the deep grief that echoed in Bronadir’s voice as he argued with Glîrdan. The Exile had just exited the shelter and was checking the stretchers. He looked up quickly as if he had sensed Oropher’s glance, and met it steadily for a while. He said something to the children and then walked towards them.  

“Oropher Tharn-uil-dol, if I am not mistaken…” he said in a soft voice, sketching a swift bow when he reached their side. Oropher scowled. He was getting tired of strangers knowing his name –and even a nickname only close friends had ever dared use in his presence and that he had long ago passed down –shortened- to his son.  

“Who are you, Noldo?”  

“I am Gelmir, of Angrod’s… of Gil-galad’s people in Balar. Our patrol was attacked a couple of days from here by a large band of orcs and wargs, and our captain and some of our fellow warriors are still missing… Are you survivors from Sirion?”  

“From Doriath…”  

“Of course, but most survivors from Doriath settled in… oh, I see,” he added, a sudden understanding kindling his bright eyes. But his tone caught Bronadir’s attention.  

“Why do you say “survivors from Sirion?” he asked harshly. “What know you of that city and its fate?”  

There was no mistaking the wave of sadness that darkened the Noldo’s pale features. “Alas!” he sighed in a sorrowful voice. “The Havens at Sirion were razed not fifty sun-rounds ago…Few survived that atrocious attack…”  

Oropher barely heard the Noldo’s next words, overwhelmed by images of the bedraggled host as they parted in sour words; little Elwing held in her nanny’s arms, surrounded by the few survivors of the royal household and guard, all grimly determined to protect her to the bitter end. He could still hear Maentêw’s accusing words. “It is your duty as well, Oropher!” A cold decision filled him as he forced guilt and painful recollections to the back of his mind. He turned a stern, set face to the Wood Elf. “Tell me, Glîrdan, what are those lights in the northern skies?”  

“Why, Captain Oropher, war!” the boy answered, a nasty gleam on his youthful face.   

Oropher met his friend’s equally pained eyes and nodded sadly. It was as they had feared, after all; the strength of Angband had been released in a definite attack and all Beleriand was succumbing under its fires. He wondered briefly if their people would get to cross the Ered Luin in time, and whether they would be safe, even there.  

“If there is war, then we fight to the bitter end,” he said determinedly, and saw Bronadir’s resolute nod. “Tell us how we can be of assistance.” 

TBC

A/N:

I'm back to work now, so updates will take longer.  

Taenben: tall and thin one

Lalf: elm tree

Laeg Faradrim: Green Hunters

Tharn-uil dol: head of withered seaweed… referring to the fair hair in Oropher’s line. So I make Tharn-uil dol become a nickname that passed from father (Oropher) to son, (Thranduil) shortened and compressed by use.