Chapter 8: Down the River Legolin.  

“…And then there was that place with the row of waterfalls and the tunnel of trees, and the large pool where the stars came to swim with us…do you remember that one, Brethil?”  

He grunted indistinctly and continued poking morosely at the ambers in their dying fire. The captain had asked about their home and Cûiell was now telling him about all the different dwelling places she had lived in along her short but wandering life. Brethil had known most of them, but he was not in the mood for recollections, deeply shaken by the news that had led to that conversation.  

It was the third evening after Thranduil and Maentêw left their camp, and Gil-galad was recovering fast. He was intent on getting up, despite the pain that shone clearly on his face, and in the morning he had taken a couple of short walks around the clearing, supported by Gildor and noisily encouraged by the horses, which seemed delighted to see him up and about. He had collapsed by a tree after that and had refused food, and had lain down there breathing heavily and with his eyes closed. By midday, the Shimmering One had left, claiming that he was going to check their traps. Brethil suspected that he was scouting for enemies instead. He could feel the nervous thrumming of the trees and knew that the elder elves were worried, and argued softly between them when they thought the children would not notice.  

At sunset the captain had accepted some broth and had dragged himself wearily to a sitting position. Soon they were chattering and learning about his home in Balar, and Círdan’s army, and the mighty host that had come from the West… Brethil liked the captain. He spoke softly, thoughtfully, and explained everything as if they were his equals, hiding nothing from them. But when he asked about the Doriathrim’s mighty city in the mouths of Sirion, the honest answer that he got made Brethil wish he had kept his mouth shut…or else that he had been spared the truth.  

How could it be, he now wondered angrily, that they let it happen again? He felt a deep, dark hatred surging inside him and a sharp pain that he thought he had overcome bursting deep in his soul. Oropher was right, he thought, striking the brittle pieces of burnt wood as if they were the Noldor, beating them with his stick and scattering the ashes effortlessly, we are better on our own… Why, not even the renowned Shipwright had been able to prevent another kinslaying, and the rightful queen of Doriath had been bereft of her heritage and her city, and even her children! It is so unfair, he decided, stabbing at the earth furiously.  

“I am sorry, Brethil, I know how you feel…”  

“No, you know nothing, Noldo!” he spat with all the contempt that he could muster, shaking off the comforting hand that had come to rest on his shoulder and turning his attention to the fire, thinking that the Shimmering One had returned and refusing his pity.  A quick gasp made him look up and blush in chagrin. “I am sorry, Gil-galad,” he rushed to apologize, wincing at the deep sorrow that marred the captain’s features.  

“Do not apologize,” he managed with a bashful, sad smile. “You are right, after all…”  

“I thought it was Gildor, I did not mean to insult you…”  

The smile died into a grimace. “No offence taken. I am a Noldo, too. And a Moriquende as well…”  

“And you’d do well to mind your mouth, sapling. You speak as if your people alone had suffered in this war,” a harsher voice warned. Gildor had just come back and watched them warily, a deep frown clouding his suddenly stern face.  

“Peace, Gildor,” Gil-galad sighed, turning to his fellow warrior. “He has every right to feel like that.”  

“But not to throw it at your face, as if you were to blame; as if you had not lost, as if we had all not…”  

“Enough,” the captain said in a surprisingly firm, commanding voice. “If we do not stop looking back we will never heal. Nursing grudges amongst us will lead us nowhere, Gildor. What did you find?”  

That distracted Brethil’s attention from the unexpected revelation of the captain’s origins. Gildor seemed worried, and reluctant to speak before the children, but fortunately Cûiell was there to spare him the trouble.  

“They are coming,” she said in her offhanded manner. She had been listening intently to the argument but had kept her peace until then. “The trees are trying to hold them from us, but not for long…” Brethil almost laughed at Gildor and Gil-galad’s stunned expressions. Both Cûiell and himself had perceived clearly the increasing worry in the trees around them.  

“Well, you could have spared me the trip,” the Shimmering One growled pretending annoyance. There was something else, though; Brethil knew by the urgent glance he cast Gil-galad.  

“Speak, Gildor. They are in this with us. They must know what is coming…”  

“Cûiell is right. There is a large host of orcs swarming the woods behind us, most probably running to the ford...but there is a feeling of dread, of panic…”  

“The Onodrim?” Brethil chimed in, remembering Thranduil’s suspicions.  

Gildor released a suffering sigh. “Now you are full of surprises,” he complained. “No. There is something else in there, Onodrim and angry dark trees for sure, but also something that feels wilder and darker than the Onodrim…and...” he looked briefly at Gil-galad and then gave in. “And dangerous enough to frighten the trees as well as the orcs,” he sighed. “We should be leaving. We cannot go back, so we should make for the Ford and pray that we manage to put enough distance between them and ourselves,” he added softly, as if apologizing.  

Gil-galad nodded. “Do not fret. I am feeling much stronger. And that powder of yours works wonders, Brethil,” he said, giving Brethil and Cûiell a reassuring smile. “It smells so bad that I doubt any orc would even try to get close to me,” he joked. “Come, let us pack and start moving!”  

“Shall we ride?” Cûiell asked excitedly as they put out their fire and packed the remaining food. She had soon made friends with the horses, and had cried in delight when Gildor had allowed her to ride around the clearing for a while the day before. Although he would not admit it, Brethil too was looking forward to riding one of those beautiful creatures he remembered vaguely from his childhood.  

“Of course, my lady,” Gildor chuckled. “Come help me ready them. They are worried, too.” 

Alone by the fire while the rest busied themselves with the preparations, Brethil sighed, shaking off the last threads of sad memories. With sudden decision he picked up the remaining sword; the one Maentêw had left behind, and carried it to where Gil-galad was busy filling his waterskin.  

“Will you carry this?” The captain looked up and smiled briefly, taking the sword and laying it carefully on the grass.  

“I doubt I could… We’ll ask Gildor to carry it together with his own…Are you angry with me, Brethil?” he asked then softly, meeting the boy’s eyes squarely. After a brief pause Brethil shook his head.  

“No, I am not; I have no reason,” he said sincerely, squatting beside the captain and filling his own waterskin. “You are not to blame. But, tell me, how did you end up a captain in a Telerin army?” Gil-galad snorted at that.  

“It is a mixed army, Brethil, of Teleri, Noldor, Sindar, Laiquendi, even Edain warriors all joined together against the same enemy. But, answering your question, I was raised by Círdan as his foster son, so it was only natural that I assumed certain responsibilities…” Brethil nodded approvingly; he had grown up listening to Oropher talk about responsibility and duty rather than privilege, after all. Then he noticed something else.  

“Your atar died, then? And your family?”  

The Noldo nodded gravely.  

“I am sorry,” he offered, placing a comforting hand on the captain’s. He still felt an unbearable weight on his chest every time he remembered his father. And at least he still had his naneth. Then the Noldo surprised him again.  

“He was a kinslayer,” he whispered, lifting sad eyes to him. A tense pause and then, “are you still sorry?”  

Brethil closed his eyes. He would not lie, so he searched inside carefully. Finally he shook his head. “I am still sorry for you,” he whispered in an almost inaudible voice. It was true, and he was stunned that he had found that certainty within.  

“You have a good heart, Brethil; I am grateful for your sympathy,” the captain said, lifting a hand crisscrossed by scabs and half-healed cuts to press thankfully on Brethil’s. “Get that sword. We better get going.”  

                                                   ~*~*~*~

“They are elves, Oropher, they cannot fly. They will not attack you tonight...”

Maentêw winced at the sarcasm in his own voice, but his former friend did not acknowledge his presence. He had stood by the riverside since they stopped for a brief rest after a whole day and half a night of running, watching Maedhros’ camp at the other side almost obsessively.  

Actually, they had not exchanged more than a few words while Oropher directed the works on the Iant Raph. Taenben’s people at the other side had recovered the rope bridge that tangled idly in the chasm and had tied a long, thin thread of hithlain to the loose end. They had tied the other end of the rope to an arrow that Glîrdan then shot across the chasm. There, with the help of the ents, Oropher’s crew had pulled and dragged the rope bridge to them, tensed it and fixed it to the ground, safe enough for them to cross. He had been outwardly boastful and energetic, inspiring as Maentêw remembered him, but otherwise distant. He had consigned Thranduil to Bronadir’s supervision and had trotted alone for the rest of the day, except for the brief pause for meal in which he had conferred with his lieutenant briefly.  

“He must first come to terms with all this,” Bronadir had told him ruefully. “You know how he is…”  

“I do,” Maentêw had grunted bitterly. Pushing everyone else away until he feels at peace with the world, no matter what the others need or feel… At least Thranduil seemed to have recovered nicely from the shock of meeting a kinslayer. He had made good friends with Glîrdan, and soon they were trying each other’s bowmanship in shooting contests every time they stopped for a brief while.  

“I bet I could shoot him down from here,” Oropher suddenly said without moving. Maentêw shrugged.  

“Why don’t you do it?”  

“Because he is expecting it. I would not indulge him in any way…” Maentêw almost laughed at the passion in Oropher’s voice. Maedhros had been really clever in taunting the angry Sinda.  

“Why did he save my life?”  

Maentêw chose his answer carefully. “He did not. He just killed orcs that were attacking an elf… who did not hold a Silmaril. He cares for anything else,” he said as dispassionately as he could manage. That startled Oropher, who looked briefly at him and then skywards, where the Evening Star shone brighter each night, as if heralding the end. Oropher chuckled bitterly.  

“He cannot climb up there, no more than he dared sneaking into Morgoth’s pits to retrieve it….Craven, who lets others do the deed and then tries to steal their prize…” he spat with an immense hatred that oozed deep sadness as well. “I cannot understand it, Maentêw… they are kinslayers! How can you fight with them? How can the Onodrim follow them? How can… the Laiquendi…”  

Maentêw still remembered his own anguish when they had first ran into Maedhros’ host in the woods of Ossiriand, and how he had unleashed his frustration upon Gil-galad. Taenben saved him from answering, popping out of thin air in his silent, elegant pace.  

“The ents do not follow them,” the Laiquende said calmly. “Beleriand is a battlefield, Oropher, with only two sides left. And it is about to collapse under the strain of the confrontation. The Onodrim are leading their trees beyond the mountains, and killing orcs as they march. So is doing the Erchamion, and Balar’s army, and ourselves. And we all join forces when the occasion arises… The Onodrim make no judgements, you heard Finglas this morning…  

“He is dead inside, yes…May the souls of those he killed haunt his death as well as his life!”  

“That is said to be their doom, as set by Mandos himself, so be content,” Maentêw retorted dryly. In spite of himself he was still shaken by the expression on Maedhros’ face after Finglas spoke. “And as Taenben says, it is not our place to judge them…”  

“It will be up to your king to decide what to do with them kinslayers when the war is over, I deem...” Lalf added, missing Maentêw’s warning glance.  

“So you did find yourself a new king, Maentêw?” Oropher jumped for the throat quickly, glaring accusingly at his one-time friend.  “Who is he? One of Elwing’s children, raised by the kinslayer? That is why you are so keen on following him…”  

“Stop that, Oropher! It is not me who abandoned his people and hid away in the forest all these years, so dare not come and judge me for decisions you figure I have made under circumstances you know nothing about!” he exploded, incensed by his friend’s inclination to jump to his own conclusions.  

“Peace, friends,” Taenben stepped quickly between them before the argument escalated. “You are both too hurt to find healing or grant forgiveness at this time, but there is some great danger ahead… Can you leave old grievances behind for a while, Oropher?”  

Maentêw turned his back on Oropher angrily and fixed his glance on the other camp while Oropher and Lalf argued in soft, hurried whispers. He saw a scout coming into Maedhros’ camp, and the sudden agitation that followed his quick report. “They are moving!” he warned, seeing Maedhros walk to the river bank and waving to them urgently.  

“Lalf! Move on! Hurry up!” The Noldo’s mighty voice carried a tinge of urgency and fear that could not be dismissed. “Move on!”  

“Why!” Lalf cried after them. “What’s going on?”  

“Malcaraucë!” Maedhros shouted; the shadow of fear that clouded his pale face visible from that distance. “Move, before it is too late!” he cried once more before following his warriors into the woods. 

Maentêw looked at Lalf in puzzlement. “What is he talking about?”  

“I know not,” Lalf grunted, hurrying back to their camp. “But it must be some dreadful creature of Morgoth’s, if it can shake the Erchamion so deeply. Get ready!” he shouted, moving among his warriors. “The enemy is at hand!”  

TBC

A/N  Malcaraucë is Quenya...