Chapter 7. The Erchamion.  

A clear laugh pierced the clouds of pain. Dead as he deemed himself, Oropher still found the strength to growl. “Laugh not, you Lord of Dead, for I have not yet heeded your call,” he threatened Námo –or tried to, for he suddenly found that his mouth was full of dirt. “What on…”  

“You would not listen, so I jumped us down!” a cheerful voice rang in his ear as a strong arm turned him around and hauled him to a sitting position. “You are not hurt, are you?” Skilled hands made sure of that.  

“What?” He blinked uncomprehendingly into Taenben’s merry face, then up and around. He had fallen, he remembered that, and had hit hard ground sooner than he expected. Something very heavy had fallen on his back, knocking all remaining air off his lungs, and he had passed out cursing his luck. And now he found himself in a narrow shelf that ran about ten feet below the path, with two dead wargs lying beside him. Above them there was no longer a path but rows of tall, thick trunks and large branches –a whole forest standing precariously by the rim of the abyss, gnarled branches and roots dangling in the air here and there, some with orcs hanging desperately from them, some sheltering elves.  

“Lalf, you fool! Will you come up?”  The one-eared elf was sitting on a thick branch well above them, meticulously finishing off surviving enemies. “What a waste of good arrows!” the Laiquende complained as he shot down a climbing orc. The creature fell down with a hideous cry. “Do you need help?”  

“No, he is fine, we are climbing now!” Taenben replied, pulling Oropher to his feet and patting him as if nothing had happened.  

“You...You pushed me down?” he finally blurted, still winded and dazed by the fall.

“I knew this shelf was here,” Taenben explained helpfully. “It was foolish, to charge like that…and brave, too. Thankfully the Erchamion arrived in time!”

But Oropher was no longer listening. “Where is my son? Thranduil!” he shouted, scratching the cliff wall in vain search for a handhold. “Thranduil!”

“Here, Adar! We’ll get you up soon!”

Looking up, he saw the frightened face peering dangerously from the fork of a mighty chestnut and almost fell back in relief. A length of hithlain danced before his eyes and Oropher grabbed it without thinking and started climbing, leaving Taenben behind. “I’m coming, son, hold on!”

“Adar! Adar, I am so sorry!”  The boy slammed against him forcefully as soon as Oropher set foot on the large tree that had apparently saved Thranduil from falling.

“Easy, child, what are you doing here?” he asked softly, as words spilled hysterically from his frightened son. Shaking in relief, Oropher simply held the boy tightly and made sure he was safe. Soon enough harsh voices brought him back.

“Bronadir?” He pushed Thranduil behind him instinctively as he turned around to search their surroundings. All around them dark trees waited in brooding expectation by the edge of the cliff. Around the collapsed bridge there was a small clearing scattered with corpses. A group of elves squabbled angrily there. Oropher could see Erlhewig restraining Bronadir, while Lalf and another elf tried to calm him. As soon as he recognized Maentêw as the elf standing beside Lalf, Oropher forgot everything else.

“You!” he roared, jumping wildly towards them, Thranduil in pursuit.

“Wait, Ada! He helped us!”

Oropher would not listen. He landed amidst the group and faced his former friend threateningly. “What were you doing?” he growled, “dragging my son into danger?”

Unimpressed, the other elf disentangled Oropher’s hands from his collar. “I am glad to see you too, Oropher…”

“Ada, we met…”

“Did I ask for your opinion, Thranduil? Erlhewig, release Bronadir!” he demanded, wondering at the scowl of hatred that marred his friend’s face. Bronadir gestured with his head to another group that stood a dozen paces away and all of a sudden Oropher forgot about Maentêw. “Hold him,” he whispered coldly, shoving Thranduil into Bronadir’s arms and striding purposefully to the other end of the clearing, where Gelmir was deep in conversation with the red-haired, one-handed Noldorin demon that still haunted his dreams. “I will kill you slowly, you Morgoth-raised creature!” he hollered, raising his hands to unsheathe his long knives as he walked. He slowed down a bit in surprise at finding the scabbards empty, and that was enough for a strong arm to get hold of him as he jumped forth with a feral roar.

“Leave me!” he bellowed, struggling against the iron grip that slammed him against a tree trunk. “I will strangle him with my bare hands! You are all blood traitors, consorting with kinslayers!”

“Calm down, Oropher!” Taenben demanded in his ear. “He has just saved your son’s life –and yours!”

“He killed dozens in Doriath,” Oropher retorted with cold hatred as he wriggled in vain. The arm that held him firmly was long, brown and smooth, and incredibly strong. He struggled fruitlessly against its clutch, its strangeness barely registering through his anger. “I will not forget…”

“Two hands against one,” the red-haired Noldo chuckled dismissively. “It might be fun, let go off him,” he suggested, looking up and behind Oropher’s shoulder. Seething, he tried again to break that sure hold.

“Stop that, Erchamion,” Taenben ordered harshly. “I will not have such behaviour among allies. Do you hear, Oropher? Are you in command of yourself?” he asked then in a softer voice. “Do I have your word that you will listen to me?”

Oropher growled in impotence, watching his son’s bewildered face. “He killed our people, the young princes…how can I…” he ranted bitterly. A deep rumble that echoed in his ribcage reduced him to an awed silence.               

“Leave stubborn, dead trees to break down before storm winds, sapling. You’d better care for those who are still alive!” a cavernous voice warned. Oropher stopped writhing and saw the Noldo flinch openly.

“They will behave now, I think,” Taenben chuckled, looking up. “You can release him.”

As the hold slackened Oropher spun to meet his captor, not noticing that he was standing on a large, seven-toed, root-looking foot.

And he gaped.

                                                 ~*~*~*~*

“Maedhros’ troops have been hunting orcs in Ossiriand since the great defeat in the north, and so have we. We cannot allow these fleeing hosts to cross the mountains; Elves, edain, trees and beasts are taking refuge there…We are at war, Oropher, and we must join forces against the enemy.”

Aware that his presence would only serve to incense his friend, Maentêw took Gelmir aside to exchange news of their scattered patrol, while Taenben explained the presence of the kinslayer to a testy Oropher. Uselessly, for Oropher would not forget, even if his usual impatience was tempered by the fascination with which he studied the tall Ent that had so timely restrained him. But old grudges ran deep.

“You are fighting with them, Maentêw!” he spat accusingly. “I marvel that you, of all people, are fighting alongside those who killed your son…”

Maentêw ignored Maedhros’ snort. He bit his lip and pulled the blank face that he had perfected with the years, restraining Gelmir with a brief gesture. “This is war, Oropher. We are all fighting the same foe.”

“We planned this ambush together a few days ago, before you reached our camp, Oropher,” Taenben continued. “And the Erchamion convinced the Ents to give a hand,” he added, bowing low before the tall tree-shepherd. “It was a great battle.  I grieve for your losses, Finglas…”

The Ent looked down with unfathomable pools of eyes and sighed softly, a sound like a night wind stirring fallen leaves in a hidden glade. Some of the trees in his vanguard had been dragged down with the orcs and wargs. “What it is cannot be changed,” he pronounced after a long, considering stare. “We shall now head north to the Rath Lóriel... I must lead my own people into safety. Fladrif will follow after they finish the southern orc-host,” the Ent added, casting a knowing glance at Maedhros.

“What?” Maentêw bristled at that.

“The south, you said?” Thranduil too jumped anxiously. “Ada, listen! Cûiell and Brethil…”

“Peace, boy; I am not yet started with you…” Oropher could not drag his eyes from the tall Ent, mystified to the point of almost forgetting, or at least studiously ignoring, Maedhros’ presence.

"I left Gildor and Gil-galad down there…Gil-galad is wounded!” Maentêw fretted. “Where is that orc-host heading?

"To the Ford of the Legolin” Maedhros chimed in calmly. He had kept a thoughtful silence after the Ent’s words. “My brother and his troops are harassing them, and they intended to set up their ambush at the Ford.” 

Maentêw groaned and cast a desperate look at Taenben. “Gil-galad will be caught in the middle! We must help them!”

The captain cast a quick look around and made up his mind. “There are about thirty of us here. If we start now we can probably reach them in time…”

“I am heading north, Lalf,” Maedhros son of Fëanor interrupted in quite a civil voice. “To the Rath Lóriel and the great war. And my troops would never cross these woods in time…”

“You and your ten warriors is all I ask for,” Taenben bargained, pointing at the dour-looking elves that had broken ranks with Maedhros as he charged into Oropher’s succour. “I have a score beyond the river; enough to protect them while the orcs cross the ford and your brother slaughters them…”

“We are not going anywhere, Taenben,” Oropher chimed in, still too awed by the sight of the Ent to notice that he was siding with the kinslayer. “You already dragged us into your battle, and we have our own people to look after. Come, Bronadir, Thranduil, we are leaving!”

“Oropher, we should heed...”

“No, Ada! I came to tell you, this is the war of...”

“I know this is war!” Oropher shouted in exasperation, scowling at his son and his lieutenant. “We knew it would come one day, this last defeat! I will lead our people East into safety and I will not be pulled into another of those Noldorin-led, desperate, death-seeking battles!”

“You never were, Oropher, do not play victim now!” Maentêw retorted with undisguised contempt. “Will you help us, Finglas?” he asked the Ent pleadingly. “There are children there! They will be trampled by either host!”

The Ent rumbled softly and then uttered a string of loud, unintelligible words. Maedhros looked up at him and barked a short, harsh reply.

“We must help them, Ada! One is wounded...”

“I must care for our own people, Thranduil; we shall not wait here until we are routed! Let the Noldor fight their useless battles until they all perish in their arrogance! Though I had hoped that my own kin would know by now that only death and defeat come from associating with kinslayers,” he spat towards Maentêw and Taenben. That was more than Gelmir could take.

“Do you ever listen to anything other than your own voice, Oropher? It is the Army of the Valar fighting up there north and whipping Morgoth! The orcs are fleeing battle and we are winning this war!”

“Brethil and Cûiell are down there, Ada!” Thranduil shouted, but Oropher did not react, stunned by Gelmir’s words. He shook his head dubiously.

“Winning this war? You Noldor have been saying so since that half-witted king of yours rescued that kinslayer from that mountain and Morgoth sent his dragon to burn all your realms down in revenge…”

“You have your history somewhat compressed, Master Oropher,” Maedhros chuckled coldly, his attention drawn from his argument with the Ent. “But you have a point there. It is the Army of the West winning this war, Gelmir, while all you and your boy king do is scavenging on their rearguard…It is in the north that the fate of Middle-earth will be decided.”

Maentêw dropped his head, defeated. He barely noticed that Thranduil had finally dragged Bronadir and Oropher apart and was arguing heatedly with them. It would be to no avail; Oropher would not listen. Short of begging the kinslayer, he was running out of options. Gelmir seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

“Gil-galad is down there,” the Noldo was arguing. “He is injured, and with only Gildor to protect him...”

Maedhros seemed unimpressed. “There is a price for being a warrior king,” he shrugged indifferently, though Maentêw saw a flicker of worry cross his fair, shimmering features. Then the Ent said something and the Noldo’s head snapped up in reawakened interest.

“We are going with you,” Oropher said darkly in his ear. He looked shaken. Apparently Thranduil’s news had finally sunk in. “I cannot believe that you abandoned two children alone in the forest…What are they saying? Is that Quenya?”

Maentêw cringed. It was Quenya. The feeling of betrayal at hearing the Ent speak the tongue of the kinslayers overcame exasperation at Oropher’s inconsiderate reproach. He paid attention to the solemn conversation though he could not understand a word. Yet something the Ent said made the Noldo change his mind abruptly. He bowed low and turned to Taenben, eyes burning wildly on an almost frightened face.

“We are coming south,” he said curtly. “Finglas says that Fladrif and two dozen ents are down there chasing…” he shivered and shook his head, as if to get rid of a bad dream. “Never mind. I’ll send word to the rest of my troops to continue north and then hurry after you to the Ford. You should not tarry here.”

“I am not going anywhere with a kinslayer!” Oropher exploded, his hatred finally overflowing his thin self-control. The Noldo turned suddenly and cast him a cold look.

“Not even for the chance of killing me and becoming one yourself?” he asked in his scornful, mocking voice. “Oh, but you did not stand aside when I flattened Menegroth and Sirion, did you?” he added in a low, feral whisper, studying Oropher intently. “Of course, you already know how kinslaying tastes,” he chuckled evilly. “I’ll meet you at the Ford,” he called back still chuckling as he walked away, signalling to his warriors to follow him.

Maentêw met Oropher’s pained gaze without flinching.

“Sirion, too?” Oropher whispered in a broken voice. He nodded, knowing how that would hurt.

Oropher shook his head sadly, then shrugged with renewed decision and walked to where the rope bridge had lain. “There are two children stranded south, in the path of an orc-host,” he cried aloud so the elves at the other side could hear him. “Anyone coming?”

Three children and a brave warrior, Maentêw corrected inwardly, half-smiling at the roar that met Oropher’s words. His friend’s indomitable spirit knew not defeat. Taenben and his warriors would follow him to the Ford…and so would he; he observed dryly as they all started following Oropher’s instructions to get the bridge repaired quickly. He just hoped they would not be too late.

TBC.

After the Nirnaeth, Maedhros and his brethren wandered the woods of Ossiriand, and from there they regrouped to attack first Doriath and Sirion later.

In LOTR Treebeard names Finglas and Fladrif as the only two other ents surviving from the Elder Days.