Chapter 5: Anger

Thranduil glanced up impatiently from the letter he was writing when the guard opened his office door, but he breathed a little easier when he saw that the impending interruption was only Lindomiel. Normally, he would at least stand to greet her and she would not accept any less of a greeting than a kiss, since the office was empty of any occupant besides Thranduil. But Thranduil was nearing the bottom of the stack of work that had accumulated in his absence. He was focused on pushing through it to its end. Lindomiel did not seem offended. She merely sank into one of the chairs in front of his desk and sighed quietly as she leaned back into it.

"I appreciate you coming so quickly," Thranduil said, without pausing in his writing.

"I was hoping I could interrupt you for a moment to speak to you about the metal the warriors scavenged during the battle in the south," Lindomiel said at the same time.

Thranduil frowned and let his quill droop. "Excuse me? Metal? What does that have to do with the cloth we need to meet our trade agreements and the needs of the warriors?"

Now Lindomiel frowned. "Nothing. What about the cloth? I spoke to both Celonhael and Engwe about it already."

Thranduil resumed writing. "So I have heard. And I promised Celonhael and Engwe that I would speak to you about it further. That is why I asked for you to come see me."

Lindomiel laughed and shook her head. It was a tired laugh. "I did not realize you were waiting to speak to me. When I spoke to Celonhael, he mentioned the metal to me and I wanted to ask you for some of it. For the kitchen. Celonhael thinks it would be of satisfactory quality for pots and spits and perhaps blades for various utensils. The cooks have been begging me to replace some of their utensils and this is the best opportunity that has presented itself in years. May I have some? Celonhael said you had some spare that you were going to sell to Dale or Esgaroth. I only want a bit of that."

Thranduil waved the quill dismissively. "Take what you need of it. For whatever purpose. I would rather use it than sell it and have to purchase more later. I only agreed to sell it because Golwon and Engwe said there would be spare ingots after they took what they wanted for the villages' needs and for weapons."

Lindomiel raised her eyebrows. "I did not think you approved of using metal scavenged from the enemy to forge weapons."

Thranduil made a sour face. "I do not. But Engwe only intends to make spear and arrow heads of it. It is perfectly good for that."

Lindomiel shrugged. After a moment's silence, she crossed her arms. "What about the cloth then?" she asked.

"Right," Thranduil nodded. He added a few more lines to the letter, signed it and glanced over it as he set it aside to let the ink dry. Then he looked up. And frowned. Lindomiel was looking at him levelly with an expression that dared him to contradict what she had told Celonhael and Engwe about the cloth. Well, that was precisely what he was going to do. "Lindomiel, I realize you are busier than normal." He paused. "Without Amoneth," he said somberly. "But I have to meet the trade agreements I made with the Men. And I have to clothe the warriors. I need the cloth you promised Celonhael and Engwe earlier this year."

"Well, I cannot finish it," she interrupted.

"I do not need the wool cloth for the warriors until fall. In time for it to be made into cloths for winter..."

"I cannot finish it," Lindomiel repeated, more firmly. "I have not even begun work on the wool. I have several weeks more work to finish the cloth the Men ordered, and Celonhael argued we must finish that, since the Men have already paid for it."

"Lindomiel, we bought the wool almost a year ago. Many of the warriors cannot go another winter without  new cloaks and tunics. What they have has been repaired as many times as it can be." He tossed the quill down on his desk when her expression did not change. "You do not expect them to spin and weave the fabric themselves, do you?"

"Thranduil, if I did nothing else between now and the Fall Festival, I could not complete what you have asked me to make," Lindomiel answered. "And as much as I would prefer to, I cannot spend all my time in the workshop. This is summer. It is the busiest time of year. There are berries to be harvested and dried or made into jam, nuts to be gathered, roots to be gathered and stored or ground, bark to be gathered, ground into flour and made into bread, meat to be dried, wood to be laid in for winter...and about a dozen other tasks. You do want the warriors and the people in the capital to eat this winter?  You would like food on your own table, I imagine? Your food does not prepare itself, Thranduil. Someone has to manage all these tasks and I am now the only one to do any of it, including the weaving."

"I will speak to Arthiel about helping you. We will insist that she helps, at least for now..."

"That might be enough if you could convince the Men to take carved furniture in place of the cloth or if the warriors could wear carved furniture in place of cloaks. Arthiel was a woodworker before she became a forester. She does not know how to weave and I cannot teach her in time to complete the woolen cloth for winter. Even if I could..."

"She can do Amoneth's share of the management of the household duties, so that you and Naneth can concentrate on the weaving. You will certainly need to help her more than you did Amoneth, but..."

"Thranduil!" Lindomiel interrupted, raising her voice. He fell silent in surprise. "Even if Arthiel could manage all the other household duties without my help, which she cannot, I cannot finish the weaving projects you are speaking of with the ladies remaining in the workshop. There are not enough of us left with Amoneth gone and Dieneryn leaving. At the very least Theniel will go with Dieneryn. I will be shocked if Theniel's sister, Sadorwen, does not go as well. And that cuts the number of people in the workshop by over half. And the most experienced half, at that. It cannot be done, Thranduil. No matter how much you want it to happen, it will not. So you must devise another plan if the warriors cannot make do with the cloaks they have for another winter."

Thranduil had not heard anything past the statement 'Dieneryn leaving.' He had leaned towards Lindomiel, elbow and forearm on the desk. "What do you mean? What is this about Naneth going somewhere with Theniel and Sadorwen? Where are they going?" There was no place his mother would go when there was so much work to be done. And neither Theniel nor Sadorwen had left the capital since they moved here while the dwarves were still working on the stronghold. Nothing Lindomiel had said made any sense, but for some reason it made Thranduil very uneasy.

Lindomiel's expression went from irritated to surprised to concerned in swift succession. "Thranduil," she said softly, all the impatience gone from her voice. She leaned over the desk also, grasping his hand in hers. "Engwe has not...?" she began. "I thought he and Adar we going to...?" she tried again. "You have not spoken to your Naneth in the last few days?" she finally managed.

"She has not been coming to meals, as you well know," Thranduil answered. "I have been busy too, trying to get through all this," he gestured at a stack of papers. "Engwe and your parents have been taking care of her, I thought." He found he was having trouble breathing as Lindomiel bit her lip.

"Thranduil, Dieneryn has decided to...she is going West," Lindomiel said quietly. "She cannot be persuaded otherwise," she added quickly, in a stronger voice, when Thranduil pushed himself up from his desk.

"I can persuade her otherwise," he said, moving to leave the room while ignoring Lindomiel's attempt to catch the sleeve of his tunic.

"Do you think I have not tried, Thranduil?" Lindomiel whispered at his shoulder as they squeezed through the office door together. "And Adar and Engwe too? She is inconsolable, Thranduil. This was too much for her..."

"She has duties here," Thranduil countered, charging down the corridor of the family quarters.

"I have tried appealing to her sense of duty. We all have..."

"She is needed here," he continued. "The realm needs her."

"That is not enough, anymore," she said, still on his heels.

"I need her," he added in a whisper.

Lindomiel caught his wrist in a strong grip as he reached to knock on his mother's door. "Do not make this more difficult for her, Thranduil," she pleaded. "That is the most you can do for her at this point."

Thranduil frowned, pulled his wrist free and knocked on the door. Then he entered without waiting for a reply. Inside, Dieneryn was surrounded by a large group of people. Engwe had a chair pulled up next to hers, near the fireplace. Despite the fact that it was summer, a fire was crackling happily in the room. One of Dieneryn's hands was in Engwe's. Lindomiel's parents were standing on her other side. Limmiel was holding several articles of clothing for Dieneryn to look at. Amglaur appeared to be serving little purpose other than hovering sadly over Dieneryn. Theniel and Sadorwen were also present, sifting through two piles of clothing, hair ornaments, and other personal items. Finally, Thranduil's eyes lingered for a long moment on Sandethrin, the elf in charge of maintaining the family's clothing. He was pulling items from the smaller of the two stacks Theniel and Sadorwen were sorting through, folding them, and placing them in a large trunk that was nearly half full.

Thranduil's gaze shifted swiftly from the trunk to his mother. Looking at her, he nearly gasped out loud. She was thinner. That did not surprise him, because he knew she had hardly been eating. If that had been the only problem,  he could have taken it in hand and corrected it. But she looked fragile. Pale. Tired. Thranduil remembered seeing people who looked that tired before. In Sirion and Lindon and Mordor. And in Greenwood after returning from Mordor. Dieneryn's was the vacant gaze that simply could not bear to see anymore.

Thranduil closed his eyes and took a deep breath before stepping further into the room.

"Nana, what is this?" he whispered, kneeling on the stone floor next to her chair in order to place himself at her eye level. He took her free hand in his and felt her squeeze it--too weakly--as her eyes focused on him.

"I tried, Thranduil," she whispered, grief in her eyes and voice. "But I cannot...not any longer...not this time. I have lost my parents and my brothers and my husband and now my child. I do not want to lose you too, this way. But I have no choice. I will go, one way or another. And I want to go on my own terms. My own way. Please try to understand."

"I understand, Nana," he said quickly. Firmly. He was surprised at how his tone almost sounded convincing.

Dieneryn managed a faint smile.

*~*~*

In the silence of the empty Great Hall, Thranduil stared at the tapestry before him. It was one his mother had woven, depicting the moments before the opening charge of the first battle in Mordor. Thranduil was studying that tapestry for several reasons. Oropher featured prominently in the tapestry and one of the few comforts he could find in his mother's decision was that perhaps she would soon see Oropher again. Thranduil sincerely hoped she would, for that would certainly be a joy for both of them. But the primary reason his gaze was fixed on this tapestry was because it showed everyone--Oropher, Thranduil and Aradunnon in the center together with Engwe, Hallion, Golwon, Celonhael and his oldest son, Duinion. Amglaur, Amdir, Amroth were also there, in the background, but recognizable. Everyone together, as they should be. He missed that.

Soft foot steps made Thranduil turn around.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," Celonhael said, stepping down from the dais that held the throne. He had obviously slipped into the Great Hall from the hidden door behind the throne. "I was coming to fetch some papers from the scribes and I did not realize you were here. I thought you had gone to your office. I did not mean to disturb you." He hurried towards the table where the scribes normally worked, eyebrows raised at the fact that no one remained working. Petitions had only finished a little over an hour ago and they normally left the scribes with far more copying to do than they could finish before lunch. When he reached the table, Celonhael frowned and reached to put the stoppers in several jars of ink.

"I asked them to leave," Thranduil explained, turning back to the tapestry. "I wanted to be alone to look at this tapestry and to think." After a pause, he added, "I might have sounded a bit more...terse than I intended. They left very quickly."

"Would you prefer that I leave also, or would it help to talk about it?" Celonhael asked. His voice grew closer with each word.

Thranduil shook his head. "Talking will not help this. It will not stop it. That is obvious," Thranduil answered.

"You have heard of Dieneryn's decision then?" Celonhael asked softly, coming to stand beside him.

Thranduil turned to look at him sharply. "You knew already?"

Celonhael nodded. "You have buried yourself in work, Thranduil. That is your way when you are upset. But, yes, everyone has known, practically since we got back from the south, that Dieneryn would not be able to withstand this blow. It is much harder to lose a child than it is to lose anyone else, I think."

Thranduil remained silent. Celonhael, unfortunately, would be a good judge of that, having lost parents, sister and son himself. Thranduil clenched his teeth in an effort not to bite out at the unfairness of so much loss.

"Her only concern is how her decision will weigh upon you, given the grief you already suffer," Celonhael added, studying Thranduil closely.

"I will not slink to Valinor with my tail between my legs," Thranduil snapped, much more harshly than he intended. Even before he finished speaking, he was waving both hands in the air as if to erase his words. "I do not mean that the way it sounds," he rushed to say. "I do not begrudge Nana whatever she must do to find solace for her grief. I simply meant I would not find any comfort in Valinor. I find comfort here, in this forest, and I would never consider leaving it, no matter what promise another land might hold. Certainly not when it fights for its very life as it does now. I will fight with it. To the very end, if need be."

Celonhael placed a hand on his shoulder. "That is what I imagined you would say. I remember well how your spirits were lifted once we crossed the mountains ages ago."

Thranduil sighed. "So do I."

"I wish I could find something to lift them now, but perhaps only time can heal the wounds you carried home from the battle in the south."

Thranduil clenched his teeth again. "I am not grieving, to be honest," he finally said. "I am angry. I am angry at Aradunnon."

Celonhael's eyes widened. "Be angry at the orcs, I think," he admonished. "But not at your brother. He did not chose his fate."

"He did," Thranduil shot back. "Colloth told me and so did Galudiron...even Dolgailon... I did not ask him, because I do not want to make him talk about his adar's death, but he admitted to me that he is angry at his adar, though he will not tell me why...I can guess, given what Colloth and Galudiron said..."

"What did they say?" Celonhael asked.

"Aradunnon was too distracted by Galithil's presence to remain focused on the battle..."

"I think that is normal," Celonhael interrupted. "And forgivable. I cannot imagine how I would react to seeing Berior, at his age, unarmed, in a tree surrounded by orcs."

"Tulus, Tirithion and Pathon had the children as well protected as possible," Thranduil retorted. "But, according to Colloth, Aradunnon was yelling at Tulus, convinced he had brought the children south. He was swearing Tulus would regret it. He completely lost focus on the battle around him."

"And he paid for that mistake with his life," Celonhael reminded him.

"But he did not need to do so," Thranduil replied, raising his voice. Then he held up both hands, palms out. "I do not mean to take it out on you, Celonhael. But if I could get my hands on Aradunnon right now, I would shake him senseless. How could he be so stupid as to allow this grudge he holds against Tulus to lead him to make such terrible mistakes? He is too good a warrior to do that." Thranduil shook his head and again tried to speak more calmly. "So I am angry. Angry at him for allowing this to happen. Angry at him because Galithil has no father and Dolgailon is forced to take on such heavy responsibilities at such a young age and Nana is leaving..." Thranduil wiped his hands across his face. "I am angry at him," he said one more time, quietly. "And I miss him."

Celonhael only put his hand on Thranduil's shoulder again and gave it a squeeze.

Just as Thranduil was about to turn away from the tapestry and suggest they both return to work, he heard a clamor outside the doors of the Hall. Conuion's voice refusing someone entry. Thranduil recognized that easily and was not surprised, given that his guard had heard the way Thranduil had chased the scribes from the Hall. The other voice was higher pitched and growing louder as it demanded entry. Finally, the doors to the Hall opened and Conuion stepped in, looking for Thranduil and clearly about to ask for an audience for the insistent person outside. Before he could speak, the doors opened further and Brethil darted around Conuion and straight into the Hall. He ran directly towards Thranduil, stumbled the slightest bit when he saw Celonhael and then rushed to him.

"You have to come. Right now," Brethil demanded, pointing out the doors towards the Green. He was breathless and his voice was panicked.

"What has happened?" Thranduil and Celonhael asked at once. Celonhael grasped Brethil's arms to try to steady him. Movement at the back of the Hall drew Thranduil's attention. Crithad had stepped through the doors, confusion and concern on his face. Thranduil waved for him to enter and he rushed forward.

"We were playing," Brethil gasped out. "With Anastor and Noruil. They were too rough. Berior is hurt. It is Anastor's fault..."

"How is he hurt? And where?" Celonhael asked with a calm that Thranduil admired. All the more because it helped to calm Brethil as well.

Brethil sucked in a few more panting breaths. "Near the training fields. I think his shoulder is broken. Here," Brethil replied, pointing to his collarbone. "It is swollen and bleeding. Anastor and Noruil ran off. I tried to help Berior get up and walk back here, but it hurt him too much. So I told him I would go get help. You have to come right now," he demanded. And he seized both Celonhael and Thranduil's hands, intent upon dragging them from the Hall.

"Brethil," Crithad called firmly, grasping his son's shoulders.

"He is fine, Crithad," Thranduil said, reassuringly. He tightened his own hold on Brethil's hand. "Come lead us to Berior, Brethil."

Brethil nodded and tugged Thranduil from the Hall. Celonhael, Crithad and Conuion were right behind them. Brethil led them through the entry hall of the stronghold, through the Great Gates and over the bridge at a swift pace. Too many times, Thranduil had considered forbidding Legolas to associate with Anastor and Noruil. The adults in the family had debated the merits of such a decision, and the probability of successfully enforcing it, several times. This was not the first time Anastor and Noruil had led someone into injury, but Thranduil could not help but think, as he stepped onto the Green, that even they had sunk to a new low by running away instead of helping this time. They had never done that before.

They crossed the Green and, still pulled along by Brethil, were entering the forest, when they heard the sound of a dozen or so voices all talking at once. One person said they would go get a healer. Another asked if anyone had gone to fetch Celonhael. To that, Glílavan's voice answered that he thought Brethil had gone to the stronghold. Brethil tugged at Thranduil's hand and they all ran toward the voices until Berior came into view. He was surrounded by elves fussing over him in a way that Thranduil doubted helped at all. He was leaning against Glílavan, his face stained with tears and his right arm in a sling made of his tunic that tied his arm securely against his body.

"What happened here?" Celonhael asked, putting his arm gingerly around his son's waist and taking Glílavan's place by his side. He did not pause for an answer. Instead he continued walking Berior towards the stronghold.

Berior did not answer his father's question. He was obviously struggling not to cry, in part, no doubt, because at his age he did not want to cry in front of so many people. And in part, because doing so only made him hurt more.

Thranduil looked to Brethil for an answer to Celonhael's question. Now that Berior was found and on his way to receive help, Thranduil wanted to know what Brethil had meant by his statement that Anastor had been too rough. If Berior had fallen from a tree and injured himself, that was one thing. If he had been shoved from that tree, Thranduil would have quite a bit to say about that. But Brethil did not seem inclined to answer. In fact, he was carefully ignoring both Celonhael's question and Crithad's demands for an explanation.

Thranduil glanced at Glílavan, who was watching Celonhael lead Berior away. Glílavan looked irate. When he realized Thranduil was looking at him and met his gaze, Thranduil raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"It is my fault, my lord," Glílavan said angrily. "I knew when Adar and I saw them practicing yesterday that I should have said something. Anastor and Noruil were behaving irresponsibly then. I blame myself for not putting a stop to it."

Thranduil shook his head slightly. "Practicing? Practicing what? Do you know how this happened?"

"Practicing their swords lessons," Glílavan responded. "They were letting Anastor and Noruil practice with them and those two were fooling around with Legolas and Galithil's practice swords rather than doing the footwork drills. I warned them not to do that, but I should have told Langon to supervise them better. I regret it now and I promise I will make sure Anastor and Noruil stay away from those swords from now on."

Thranduil stared at Glílavan for a long moment. "Do I understand you correctly? You saw Legolas, with Anastor and Noruil, playing with practice swords? And you think that is how Berior's shoulder was injured? He was playing with them just now?"

Glílavan nodded. "I am certain that is how he was hurt. He told me so."

"Glílavan!" Thranduil exclaimed, speaking loudly enough to make Glílavan jump slightly. "If you saw children with practice swords, why would you not take the swords away from them? What business do children have with swords?"

Now it was Glílavan's turn to look confused. "I thought.... That is, they told me.... Legolas and Galithil have sword lessons. That is why they have the practice swords," he tried to explain.

Thranduil shook his head. "Legolas and Galithil most certainly do not have sword lessons," he exclaimed. "They are thirty-five. They are years too young to enter the training program. You know that. You are its captain, for pity's sake! Why would you believe such a thing?"

Glílavan gaped at Thranduil. "Well," he stammered. "I thought," he repeated and then fell silent again, shaking his head and shrugging, his hands held wide apart. "Legolas is the King's son," he finally answered, obviously embarrassed and dismayed. "Who am I to question him when he tells me he is practicing his sword lesson? I have no right to question the word of the King's son!"

Thranduil had no response to that. But he was certain he would find one before he found Legolas.

*~*~*

Adar/ada -- Father/dad
Naneth/nana -- Mother/mum