Chapter 11.  Till We Meet Again.                       

“One of them restrained Oropher?” Brethil asked with interest, watching Gil-galad and the lanky elf they called Lalf deep in conversation with a tall, treeish creature Thranduil had told him was one of the Onodrim.

“I would have loved to see that,” Cûiell chuckled softly.

“Else he would have strangled the Kinslayer with his bare hands,” Thranduil assured them, biting his salmon cake distractedly.

They were sitting at the edge of the makeshift camp eating breakfast, out of the way while the warriors finished disposing of the dead orcs and made arrangements for upcoming departures. A day and a night had passed since the battle of the Ford, and the remaining elves had been busy tiding out the area and patching up the wounded. They had also managed to find hollow trunks for their fallen. Brethil had stood by his friends at one side of the river while two of Maglor’s warriors, one from Gil-galad’s lost patrol and a young elf Thranduil had named Glîrdan were delivered into the river’s care nestled in the embrace of a hollow trunk, after the manner of the wood elves. The kinslayers and their dour warriors had left short after that, and the mood of the encampment had become lighter with their departure.

But still the battlefield had a dismal look, with scattered burnt trees and the scorched scar the Balrog had left on it wake. That morning, Brethil and his friends had followed the blackened trail for a while, until they made sure that it headed straight to the mountains and well away from their people’s roaming lands. The marching forest had retreated to the other side of the river Legolin, leaving behind a large mound where, Brethil guessed, the orcs that had been killed inside the forest lay. At times it all felt to him as a bad dream, except for the bumps and cuts and bruises and the sharp pain on his ribs; and the dull despondency that had settled on him.

“The trees were chasing the orcs and protecting us all from the Balrog,” Cûiell said thoughtfully. “Gelmir told me that they had been led to the kinslayers by the trees as well…” Brethil fought back a grin. Cûiell had made quick friends with all of Gildor’s fellow warriors, much to Thranduil’s annoyance. “They also say that the Valar must be winning the war, since even the balrogs are fleeing the battlefield…”

“And the mighty army leaves those dangerous creatures wreak havoc freely across Beleriand,” Thranduil complained. “Who ever asked for their help, after all?” 

“Eärendil, Elwing’s husband did,” Brethil offered, remembering the tales that Gil-galad had told them. “He sailed to the blessed realm with the Silmaril and begged forgiveness for the Noldor and pity for the peoples of Middle-earth.”

“Is that their pity?” Thranduil retorted. “Destroying our land and disregarding what happens at their backs?”

“At least Gil-galad is taking care of the rearguard,” Cûiell pointed out, furiously scratching her already healing thigh.

“You heard the Kinslayer,” Thranduil snapped. “The army of the west did not want him around, so he had to do something…stop that, Cûiell, you will scratch that cut open and Erlhewig is not going to be happy.”

“It itches,” she complained, standing up and jumping on one leg so as to distract herself from the prickle.

“So do mine,” Thranduil rebuked her gently, pointing at the knife slashes on his forearm. “You shouldn’t have let those orcs get that close to you…”

“Brethil was drowning!”

“That Noldo was around, you should have been more careful…”

“And how did you manage to get those cuts, Thranduil? You mistook your arm for an orc’s?” Although her taunting was mild, and sweetened with a soft smile, Brethil saw the brief cloud that darkened his friend’s face.

“I still don’t know what hit me,” he hurried to chime in, feeling his tender side.

“An orc’s mace,” Thranduil said succinctly. “The same that killed Glîrdan.”

“Cûiell! They are ready!” An eager, cheerful voice broke into the laden silence that had settled over them.

"What does the Stinking One want now?” Thranduil grunted as Gildor walked towards them, waving his bandaged arm in greeting.

“Do not call him that!” Cûiell scolded him with an amused chuckle. Gildor’s left arm –and part of his golden mane- was heavily burned, and despite his protests Erlhewig had covered it with the reeking but effective powder the Wood Elves used. And Thranduil had lost no time in changing his name. “I challenged Gelmir to a shooting contest… Come, it will be fun!”

“We know your talents,” Brethil chimed in, seeing the frown deepening on Thranduil’s forehead. “Those poor Noldor have no chance…”

“They can always learn something,” Gildor offered with a wide smile. “How are you today, Brethil?” he asked gently. Brethil nodded and murmured his thanks, shying from the Noldo’s piercing gaze. “Let’s show them how to shoot, lass!”

Cûiell cast them a worried glance and then shrugged and followed Gildor, her limp almost imperceptible now. Thranduil watched her gloomily until they were out of sight and then sighed deeply.

“You called her Gaildineth down there in the river, I heard you…” Brethil suddenly remembered, aware of the source of his friend’s moodiness.

“I’ll beat your ribs to healing powder if you tell anyone,” Thranduil growled threateningly, the effect somewhat weakened by the furious blush that covered his face. Brethil chuckled and said nothing. “She heard it, too,” Thranduil admitted after a while. “And she said she liked it!” he added with a hopeful, awed smile.

“Now that is news! I would have expected her to break her bow on your head, just in warning!”

“She loves it too much,” Thranduil admitted modestly. “But I did not expect her to like it…And now she seems so taken with that Stinking One!”

“Do not be silly! She made good friends with Gildor while we were in the forest. And he protected us…”

“And saved her life…”

“Only because he was closer. But you came to the rescue and she knows that.”

“And I got Glîrdan killed,” Thranduil sighed. “I shouldn’t have charged like that,” he blurted after a tense silence, tears streaming down his face unbidden as guilt finally overwhelmed him. “I should have remembered that he was behind, Lalf sent him to protect me! I charged like a fool… He pushed me aside, Brethil, and he was unbalanced and the orc caught him straight on his head…and then I thought it had killed you as well!”

Lacking the words, Brethil just passed a comforting arm over his friend’s shoulders and pressed him against his unhurt side, while Thranduil cried quietly. If that was war, Brethil thought, then he had seen enough to last him a lifetime. All of a sudden he felt terribly weary and out of place. “Let’s go look for your Adar,” he suggested, dragging both of them to their feet. “I want to go home…”

                                                               ***

“I must be tainted by darkness, Maentêw. I cannot forget or forgive what the Exiles did to our people…I want nothing to do with the lot of them.”

“There are many who feel like that among them as well –who would not let go of their grudges,” his former friend shrugged coldly. They were sitting on an outcrop at the edge of the ruined battlefield, watching Cûiell beat Gil-galad’s warriors at shooting. “So do not feel bad about that, Oropher, it takes time until you are ready to move beyond pride and pain.”

Oropher bristled at his condescending tone. “Why should I feel bad?” he ranted angrily. “In case you forgot, it was them -their kin- who massacred our people twice!”

“Thrice,” Maentêw retorted calmly. He sighed, pointing at the Noldorin warriors. “Gildor’s wife and daughter were killed in the sack of Nargothrond, while you and I were safely ensconced behind the Girdle. Gelmir –and many others- barely survived the fall of the Havens, while we did nothing to succour them…”

“There was nothing we could do!”

“You tell them that. Gil-galad’s father and most of his people perished in the Fifth Battle… and only Mablung and Beleg fought there on behalf of Doriath…We all have plenty of reasons for grieving and hating each other…”

“And yet you choose to side with them!” Oropher could not understand his friend’s decision. “Come with me, Maentêw! Why would you choose to serve those who would forgive the ones who killed your family and your people?”

“You now sound like the Kinslayer,” Maentêw chuckled softly. That irked Oropher to no end.

“And I suppose that you will try to play the kingling’s trick on me,” he spat in annoyance. “But I will never join forces with kinslayers or kinslayers’ children or…” he cut himself short, seeing Brethil and Thranduil approaching them. “I will never consort with traitors and murderers, Maentêw,” he whispered heatedly, “And you’d do well to think which side you choose. Morning children!” he greeted the boys cheerfully, pained by their subdued countenances. “I thought you would be down there, supporting Cûiell…”

“She needs no encouragement,” Thranduil observed glumly, taking seat beside Maentêw. “When are we leaving, Ada?” he asked. “We want to go home…”

Oropher cast a questioning glance at Maentêw, who shrugged openly.

“You are free to depart, Oropher. I will follow my king.”

“Of course I am free,” Oropher retorted angrily. “And so are you!”

“You should hear the news before choosing your course, though,” Maentêw suggested calmly, nodding to Oropher’s back. Turning, he saw the Noldorin king climbing the small knoll slowly towards them.

“The Onodrim are leaving for the Rath Loriel now,” the Noldo informed in an even voice after nodding briefly to them. “And Taenben says he will wait till sundown before heading east. What are your plans, Master Oropher?”

“I do not have to inform you, youngling,” he said haughtily. “We will proceed as it suits us…”

“Of course you will,” the young king answered patiently. “I just asked in case we were following the same route and you wanted an escort…”

“Yours?” His condescending disbelief managed to shake the Noldo’s studied composure.

“Well, yes, mine! Ten of my warriors are unscathed, we can very well…”

“You could very well use them to chase that murderous creature that you have so carelessly set free upon the woods of Ossiriand!”

A shadow of chagrin clouded the Noldo’s pale face. “The Onodrim say that it was most probably heading for the deep caves in the mountains…” he said softly, “yet I would appreciate that you warned the roaming hosts of the danger, on your way south.”

“I thought that was your self-appointed task.”

“I will not reject others’ help, no matter how annoying,” the young king snapped, his patience cracking.

“I should take on the task of evacuating the Laiquendi myself,” Oropher mused provokingly. “It is evident that you cannot get to all the wandering companies…”

“All help is welcome,” the Noldo insisted in a strained voice, toying with the knife that the Kinslayer had given him the day before.

“And no doubt Celeborn will be glad to greet you when you escort your wandering companies to his dominions in Nenuial, Oropher,” Maentêw chimed in, chuckling perversely at Oropher’s stunned gaze. “You surely remember that he and his lady crossed the Mountains short after Lord Finrod’s death…”

“You would be welcome there, I have no doubt,” the Noldo sighed with a grimace.

For a brief moment Oropher sympathized with him, since he looked as eager to join Elu’s kinsman –and his meddlesome wife- as himself. “I suppose the lands beyond the Mountains are wide enough for all of us,” he proclaimed as regally as he could manage. “I will take care of my people as I see fit; see that you do the same.”

“So be it,” the Noldo acknowledged mildly. “We will be heading west in the morning, do you have enough provisions for your trip?”

Oropher bit back another contemptuous retort, restrained by the intent looks on his children’s faces. After all, the Noldo had protected them as best as he could in the river, and despite his heated defence of the kinslayer, he could well see that Brethil and Thranduil were still awed by the young king’s valour. He shrugged. “We Wood Elves know how to find our fare in the forest, but I thank you anyway. We will depart by noon. What will you do, Maentêw?” he asked then as indifferently as he could. Still his questioning angered and disturbed his friend greatly.

“I told you before, Oropher, you have no right…I would not…” he mumbled irately, glancing briefly at the Noldo.

“They are your people and your friends, Maentêw,” the king began in a low voice, not wholly managing to conceal how much that pained him. “I can understand if you want to rejoin them…I could… I would understand,” he admitted in a soft whisper. Triumphantly, Oropher turned to his friend.

“Your people and your war became mine when I had nothing left, Gil-galad; neither family, nor friends nor realm,” Maentêw stated dourly, glaring accusingly at Oropher and then bowing defiantly before his chosen king. “I will not forsake that now.”

Oropher barely noticed the awkward leave-taking exchanged between Gil-galad and the children, stunned by the bitterness and animosity that oozed from Maentêw’s stance. Only when he saw that they walked away he found his voice.

“Noldo!” he called out hoarsely. They stopped and turned to him. He took a deep breath and nodded towards Maentêw. “He used to be my best friend, and one of our bravest captains,” he began. “Beware that you do not squander such loyalty, or I will find you and make you pay for it,” he growled warningly. Gil-galad smiled briefly and nodded.

“I am well aware of the great gift that I have been granted, Oropher,” he said evenly. “May Tauron protect you and your people till we meet again beyond the mountains. Many wounds may find healing there…”

“May Tauron protect you as well,” Oropher conceded grudgingly, and turned his back on them brusquely, wondering how he had managed to hurt and lose his friend yet again when all he wanted was to bring him back to where he belonged. Faced with the sad, weary faces of his children, he forced a cheerful front. “We will start for home as soon as Cûiell is done with beating those Noldorin upstarts,” he joked, passing reassuring arms over their shoulders and dragging them to the improvised shooting range, where the warriors celebrated Cûiell’s skills good-naturedly.

“Shall we cross the mountains?”

“Where shall we live?”

He sighed and pressed them comfortingly against him. The fumes and fires were visible in the north, and his heart bled at the thought of abandoning Beleriand. “The trees will lead us, children,” he said full of confidence, “to never ending forests full of new voices, where prey is abundant and war only a bad dream. You will love it there, you will see!”

The End.