Chapter 10. Tainted By Light.

Brethil whimpered, struggling helplessly against hands that ran over his body. He tried to scream, but only a muffled sound came out of the corner of his mouth. He looked around wildly but he could see nothing, even as he forced his eyelids open furiously. Did I fall again in the river? He remembered being dragged out, almost choking… Tauron, I’m blind! Or did I die? he wondered horrified. Panicking, he writhed and twisted and kicked out, trying to break free from strong arms that kept him pinned down to the ground.

“Ouch! Stop that, Brethil! It is over! Easy now, lad, let me see to that!”

The familiar voice broke through the haze of fear and disorientation, and he held back for a moment. “Oropher?”he mumbled, or thought he had, through a mouth that would not obey his commands. Suddenly he was dragged to sit against wet, creaking leather, and heard a soft voice soothing him.

“Easy child, we got you, you are safe. Now let Bronadir have a look at that cut…”

Sagging in relief, Brethil allowed a deft hand remove a sticky crust from his face with a damp cloth that felt cool against his skin; first his mouth, then his eyes.

“Now that’s better…Look at me, Brethil”  

I cannot; I am blind, he thought in despair, turning his head towards the second voice. As he blinked away unwanted tears he glimpsed a large shadow before him. He blinked again, more rapidly, and the shadow dissolved into Bronadir’s serious, worried face.

“Bronadir!” he cried in relief, surprised at the sound of his own voice.

“Well-met boy…” the warrior smiled comfortingly. “You frightened us with all that blood on your face… but the cut is shallow, thankfully. Oropher, hold his head…” Delighted, Brethil squirmed to look up to Oropher’s stern face.

“Still, boy! Are you deaf?”  Reassured by the gruff rebuke, Brethil sat back contentedly and closed his eyes while Bronadir carefully prodded a stinging gash on his forehead and covered it with crushed yarrow leaves. Almost immediately he jerked and started.

“Easy, boy, I know it hurts…”

Brethil shook his head, now shaking helplessly in Oropher’s embrace. “The fire!” he cried, as memories returned to him. “Cûiell? Where is Cûiell?” He saw it all over again: the orcs charging, the fire creature stomping against them, separating them; the fires, the smoke, the horse, the burning trees…and the blood in the river.

“It is over, Brethil. She is safe; you are all safe…”

“But that…thing?”

“A Balrog. And they let it run away…” Oropher sounded bitter. “Let us hope that it heads straight to the dwarves in the mountains…There you are. Do you hurt anywhere else, child? Everywhere, I suppose,” he answered himself, carefully easing Brethil on the ground and wrapping him in a warm cloak. “How is Maentêw, Bronadir?”

“He will survive…”

Fighting exhaustion, Brethil struggled to sit up and cast a look around, wincing at the pain in his ribs despite’s Oropher’s tender support. They were surrounded by mists and smoke, but not five paces from him he saw Maentêw, pale and with his eyes closed, propped up against a frightened-looking Thranduil. Cûiell knelt by his right side, holding a blood-stained cloth against Maentêw’s chest, while an unknown elf bandaged his left shoulder. Suddenly, Brethil recalled someone throwing himself on the path of an orc that had emerged unexpectedly from the bloodied waters before Gil-galad…A deep, tired voice broke into his recollections.

“Why did you do it, my friend?”

The captain had entered Brethil’s field of vision and knelt down beside the wounded warrior. To Brethil’s relief he looked unscathed, though wearied beyond measure. After a brief moment Maentêw stirred and opened his eyes.

“I…I feared…”

“You thought I was running after the Balrog? Do you still believe me to be as reckless as you, crazy wood elves?”

“For all I know, you could very well be one of us, my lord, yes,” Maentêw whispered tiredly, clasping Gil-galad’s bloodied hand and giving him a twisted smile.

“Reckless enough to put my children in danger, Noldo,” Oropher spat in, holding Brethil possessively. “And were it not for our reckless charge, you would not be alive, so you better show more respect, lad…”

Brethil shivered under Oropher’s cloak, remembering. The horse had been cut down by orcs, and had fallen to its side, trapping Cûiell beneath, while he was coughing up half the river, held up by Gil-galad. He had heard then Thranduil’s anguished cry -“Gaildineth!”-  and had seen his friend rush past them into the river, while Gildor charged form the other side. He had followed without thinking, staggering on unsteady feet just when the fire creature broke from the forest, sending orcs in panic before him. Brethil remembered Gil-galad shouting like mad and pushing them back; he slashed at orcs with a bloodied, curved blade and deathly accuracy. Then the fire creature had come, placing a wedge of fire and terror between them and Cûiell. The captain had plunged forward into the dark cloud of smoke and steam then and someone - Maentêw, he now guessed- had cried: “Ereinion, no!” Blinded by terror, Brethil had followed after them. Something heavy had hit him on his side and he did not remember much else...

“I am very grateful for your help, master Oropher,” Gil-galad admitted evenly, bowing respectfully to Oropher as if he had not in turn saved Oropher’s children. “How are you feeling, Brethil?” he asked then, turning his attention to the youth. “You were very brave…”

Brethil felt an unnamed warmth spread across his chest at the captain’s praise and tears of gratitude stinging in his eyes. He was too young still to recognize awe and loyalty inspired by selfless deeds of valour, but as he watched the tired, blood-drenched, dishevelled captain he felt a kind of devotion kindled within, though he knew not how to name that feeling. “Fine, I…” he managed awkwardly. “I owe you my life…”

“I owed mine to the three of you, so it seems we are even now,” Gil-galad laughed quietly, patting Thranduil’s shoulder and Cûiell’s stiff hair fondly. “We are now brothers in arms.”

“And how is Gildor?” Cûiell asked, casting worried glances around. “I could not thank him…”

“He is a bit singed around the edges,” the elf who was tending Maentêw’s wounds chuckled. As he lifted his head and pointed to another group of elves beyond them Brethil could see that he lacked an ear. “You can go now, lass, he is over there…”

“He saved my life,” she told a suddenly frowning Thranduil, handing him the cloth that she kept against Maentêw’s wound and limping towards the river. Casting a quick glance at Oropher, Bronadir stood up and went after her.

“Only a few burns,” Gil-galad hurried to explain, seeing that Maentêw was trying to rise. “A burning ent crashed on him while he dragged Cûiell from under the horse…Now you better lie down and allow Erlhewig finish patching you up, Maentêw.”

“Only if you swear that you will allow him to mistreat you in turn,” Maentêw retorted gruffly, swatting away the one-eared elf’s hand.

“How are the children?” a deep, beautiful voice interrupted. Brethil could only see the stranger’s long legs, clad in well-worn raw skin boots, but he felt Oropher’s hold tighten on him, and saw Gil-galad’s face change as he looked back and upwards to answer.

“They are no longer children,” the captain said in a voice that strained to be civil. “Not even for elven standards and they have grown fast, after their strain of edain blood…”

The newcomer’s laughter was unpleasant. “Maglor will be glad to know,” he observed dryly. “But I was asking after those young wood elves that you were protecting so foolishly, not after Elwing’s brood...” Brethil gasped and shrunk into Oropher’s embrace when he finally got a clear view of the newcomer: the bright eyes, the blazing mane and the hideous stump at the end of a long arm.

“Easy boy,” Oropher soothed him. “He will not harm you; I will not let him…”

“We were protecting each other,” Gil-galad answered softly, flashing a quick, comforting smile towards a stunned, terrified Brethil. “They are not children either, and they will recover.”

“Not Glîrdan, he will not,” Thranduil observed darkly, challenging the demon with a defiant glare. Emboldened by his friend’s courage, Brethil dared emerge from the protection of Oropher’s chest and steal a glance at the whole scene, just when the kinslayer leaned forth towards Thranduil.

“Be glad that you are alive…and whole, lad,” the creature whispered, studying them briefly and then returning his attention to Gil-galad. “Why don’t you come with us, kingling? We are going north, to meet the host…You aren’t half bad with a sword, but I bet I could still teach you one or two tricks…”

“We are busy here…”

“You are wasted here, shepherding Laiquendi to safety! Come north! You would have the chance to settle things with Morgoth, and I bet there are still balrogs there…”

“You have just let one wander free among the peoples of Ossiriand!” Oropher growled angrily, dragging the demon’s attention to them, to Brethil’s dismay. 

“So you have something to entertain yourselves while we fight the true war, tree elf…”

Thankfully, Gil-galad scrambled to his feet then, extending a hand towards Oropher to prevent an explosion. He stretched tall as he could, tense and defiant as a young tree before a storm.

“They are fighting as well, Lord Maedhros. Even now, a bunch of them have fought alongside your troops, so be mindful of your words…” he rebuked the demon so sternly that Brethil fought the urge to shout his approval. But the kinslayer was not easily intimidated.

“As you say, boy. Leave them then to their shepherding and come with us, what keeps you here? Wait, I know, Uncle Arafinwë forbade you to come around the bright army of the West, lest you soiled their untainted glory with your presence? Well, I am not afraid to disobey them, nor was your father once…what do you say, kingling?”

The one-eared elf hissed and Brethil saw that Maentêw struggled to get up. Gil-galad flinched, but regained his composure almost immediately. Just when he was about to reply, a soft, silvery voice chimed in.

“What manner of addressing our king is that, brother? Greetings, son of Fingon, are you unhurt?” The newcomer stepped in from behind Oropher. He was clad in black leather that matched his raven dark hair, and carried a long sword on a black sheath. He shimmered as the exiles did, yet his face was so immeasurably sad that Brethil felt a sudden surge of pity, until he heard Oropher’s snarl.

“Another kinslayer, this seems a family meeting…” The newcomer gave Oropher a nasty smirk.

“Be glad that this is all that is left of it, Wood Elf…”

“Are you threatening me, kinslayer?”

“Keep your peace, Master Oropher,” Gil-galad interrupted them. “Greetings, Lord Maglor, I thank you for your timely help and for rescuing my patrol…”

“What do you say, kingling?” the red-haired one insisted, a contemptuous look on his face. Gil-galad turned a cold glare to him.

“Why don’t you come with us, Lord Maedhros? It is time you did something for your people, other than leading them to war and destruction!”

That enraged the red-haired demon. “Do not patronize me, young one!” he roared, towering menacingly over the young captain. “Your people are fighting in the north while you play forest king with this toy army of Moriquendi… Wouldn’t you avenge your people and your father? I thought there was more of Fingon in you, but if you reject ties of kinship and duty then I am done with you, runt!”

Brethil fervently hoped that Gil-galad would cut down the kinslayer for his insolence, but when he spoke, the captain managed to stun and disappoint him at the same time.

“Come with us, and start redeeming yourself!” he insisted in a controlled voice. “For the love that you bore my father and the pity that you took on Elwing’s children I would take you under my protection and in my service…”

“You cannot!” Brethil gasped horrified, shrugging out of Oropher’s hold and scrambling to his feet, looking at Gil-galad in angry disbelief. “He is a kinslayer!” he shouted, pointing at the demon of his nightmares. The Noldo laughed hoarsely and shook his head, piercing him with his burning gaze.

“You hear him,” he turned then to Gil-galad. “You are a greater fool than your father was, child! You would take me under your… protection? So that I could betray you as I betrayed him?

“You did not… but you did betray yourself. It is upon you, son of Fëanor, to deliver yourself from your own fetters, and thus repay your debt to my father -if you ever felt that you had one- or to sink deeper into darkness and drag others with you as it is your wont,” Gil-galad spat bitterly.

“There must be darkness so the light can shine, your star-lightness…”

“I am a Moriquende, Lord Nelyafinwë…Come with me; your skills would be very helpful…”

“I am an oath-taker, youngling, and darkness inescapable is my doom.”

“Do not fool yourself, Maedhros! You are tainted by light; you will do what is right in the end, why not start now?”

That gave the tall Noldo pause. He studied Gil-galad through narrowed eyes then let escape another of his mad, mocking laughs.

“A good try, youngling, but you are not king enough for that!” Yet it seemed to Brethil that a fond smile crossed briefly the Noldo’s stern, fair, fey features. “Take this,” he said suddenly, fumbling at his belt and handing a sheathed knife to Gil- galad. “It delivered me from my fetters up on that mountain…and perhaps it can still perform another noble deed in your hands…May Varda shine upon you, boy,” he added brusquely, and after casting a long, considering glance at the young king he turned his back on them and walked away to where his warriors waited.

“Not even Manwë could release us, Ereinion,” Maglor sighed softly, embracing Gil-galad briefly. “Do not blame yourself, there is nothing that you could do…not even Fingon could…May Varda light your path, my king.” And with a quick bow he followed his brother and disappeared into the fog, silent as a wood elf and bright as an evening star.

“I must check on the rest of the wounded…and the fallen,” Gil-galad sighed tiredly after a while, turning a composed face to them. “You better lie down for a while Brethil,” he added softly, a sad, resigned expression on his face.

Brethil could not meet his grey, expectant eyes. Looking away, he allowed Oropher to ease him down. He felt angry, ashamed, betrayed and unbearably sad, so he pressed his face against Oropher’s chest and cried himself to sleep as he used to do when he was a child.

TBC

A/N

Gaildineth means bright bride. It is the secret, affectionate name that Thranduil had bestowed on Cûiell.

Nelyafinwë is Maedhros’ father name in Quenya.