Chapter 3:  What Price is Peace

Thranduil rode into the main clearing of the settlement at the head of his column of elves and there he halted, waiting for the last of his troops to arrive.  As the soldiers dismounted, each of them was quickly met and led away to seek home and family.  It was not the elvish way to worry about speeches and proclamations when there were more important things to consider.  Instead his people disappeared in twos and threes, visible only by the torchlights that glided through the forest.

He watched as Mandel moved quickly among those elves gathered, carrying out his task as quickly as possible.  Then, after the last group rode in and was met, the song changed from one tinged with grief to one of anguish.  Then those remaining elves with torches extinguished their lights and disappeared into the darkness, their song of grief carrying through the forest for all to hear.

Throughout the homecoming, Thranduil remained mounted on his horse.  When the torches were extinguished, he had closed his eyes, for a moment wishing he could block out the sight and sound of so much grief, but he quickly opened them again.  He chided himself for his momentary weakness.  They were his people, and he would not hide himself from their pain, for it was also his own.  At last the voices faded to a haunting echo and he turned his attention to the two remaining lights in the clearing.  There in the dim illumination stood his mother, the proud and undaunted Thalarîn, and his wife, Anólindë.

He dismounted and a young elf detached herself from the shadows behind his family and led away his horse.  He barely noticed, but now he stood alone with his family in the dim light.  He glanced first at his wife but found he could not meet her gaze, fearful that she would see into his heart and find him wanting.  He was not yet ready to face her.

He turned his attention to his mother and met her gaze.  It took all the courage he possessed to hold himself unflinching as he saw the pain flare anew in her eyes.  She crumpled before him, no longer needing to be strong for her people.  Her eyes were sad and defeated and the strength that had so characterized her seemed to drain away into nothing.

“Mother…” he whispered and then he choked as his own grief came roaring back to life.  The tears that fell from his mother’s eyes were echoed in his own.  He pulled her into his arms and they stood together, silently sharing their grief for the husband and father who was now missing from their lives.

Anólindë looked on as Thranduil and Thalarîn stood grieving in each other’s arms and could not stop her own tears from falling.  She had had little chance to get to know her father by marriage before he left for Mordor, and although she did grieve for his loss, it was the pain of those he left behind that moved her. 

To be able to do nothing to lessen the pain of Thalarîn, an elf she had grown to greatly admire and care for deeply, and Thranduil, the other half of her very heart, was difficult to endure.  She was helpless in the face of their pain.  So she stood silent and honored their grief.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, but eventually Thalarîn stepped back from her son and motioned her over, reaching for her hand.

Anólindë offered her hand to her mother by marriage, and Thalarîn tugged her into a swift embrace and then quickly released her.

“Forgive me,” Thalarîn whispered, turning back to Thranduil.  “I knew he had fallen; I received word long ago, and yet still the knowledge of his death grieves me anew.”  She reached out and ran her fingers down the side of her son’s face.  “You have his strength,” She said, then gave Anólindë’s hand a gentle squeeze, “and you have the will to temper his strength with compassion.” Thalarîn passed Anólindë’s hand to Thranduil and stepped back from the couple.  “Lead your people well and wisely.”

Thalarîn moved to the side and pulled one of the remaining two torches from where it was set and quickly smothered it.  She turned to walk away, but paused a moment, glancing back.  “Welcome home, my son.”   Then she continued on and disappeared into the darkness of the trees, her voice adding to the lament still haunting the air.

Thranduil stood there, gazing into the trees where his mother had disappeared, lost in memory.  His hand unconsciously tightened on Anólindë’s, drawing comfort from her without intent.  She squeezed his hand in return and he glanced down, surprised to find her hand still in his.  He moved his fingers over her knuckles and down to her fingertips, almost mesmerized, then turning her palm up, he traced a path along the base of her thumb and over the calluses on her hand.  He wondered what they were from and if they had been there before he left for Mordor.  Try as he might, he could not remember.

Her other hand came up, capturing his between hers.  He glanced up and realized she had been watching him.  Her eyes were still bright with tears, but along with grief he saw love and concern.  He closed his eyes and turned his face away from hers, looking back toward the trees and forcing his mind to consider duty instead of love.

Her voice broke into his thoughts, laying to dust his desperate attempt to avoid thinking of her.  “Are you well?” she asked.  Her query was softly spoken and full of concern.

“I am well of body, but perhaps not well in mind.  Forgive me, but I do not know how to greet you.”

“I will greet you then, for I too wish to welcome you home, husband.  I have missed you.”  She moved closer to him, but he held up his hand forcing her to keep her distance.

“Nay, please, do not come closer.  You will destroy me.” He said, and the composure he had maintained for his troops and his people began to crack.

She stared at him in confusion and more than a little hurt.  She had longed for his return, and his rejection of her greeting stung.  Then his emotions flashed across his face revealing some of his burden.  Instead of reaching out to him with her hands, she reached out with her heart.  She searched for him along their bond and was swept away as a wave of despair and self-loathing bound up in seething anger washed over her.  Then it was gone as he shut her out.

He took a step back and spun around, turning his back to her.

“Forgive me.  I am not the person I was.” He paused, taking a deep breath and then let it out and continued.  “There are things to be done. I should go.”

He made to leave but she caught his arm above the elbow preventing him from departing.

“No.”

He reluctantly faced her again, bracing himself for her reaction to his rejection, however bad, but there were no harsh words.  Her expression was intent, yet calm.

“There is nothing more to be done this night.  You are weary and covered in dust.  As of now you are not king, not commander, not son, and not even husband.  You are Thranduil,” she paused and wrinkled up her nose. “And you need a bath.  As fortune would have it, there is one waiting for you.”

His eyebrows climbed all the way up to his hairline and he choked on a laugh.

“You are not angry?” he asked.

She was silent as she gathered her words. 

“You are angry and sad.  I do not understand what it is that has caused you to feel such rage, but I have far too great an understanding of the sorrow. You need to rest and grieve, and you need time to heal.”

He judged her words and found them to fit, albeit a bit uncomfortably, but he still did not know the answer to his question.  “I fear I have spent too much time among men.  Was that a yes or a no?”

She smiled but her expression revealed nothing more than a slight amusement at his words.

“You say you are not as you were.  That is true of all beings who feel the passage of time, even elves.  We did not get a chance to know each other well before duty called you to war, so perhaps it is better to begin again.  So I will withhold my affection for now and learn of you anew.  When that is accomplished, you will know the answer to your question.  I can offer you no less.”

He did not understand the generosity of her words, for she had felt his soul and knew the darkness that touched him.  “You offer me too much.  I am not worthy of your affection.  I have witnessed too much evil and betrayal, even from allies.  My soul is mired in darkness.”

Her resolve did not waver, and she answered him truthfully from the heart.  “If you believe yourself trapped in darkness, you are not alone there.  For wherever you go you carry part of my soul with you.  We are bound, and I would have it no other way.  I love you.”

“Do not.”  He replied, his voice thick with emotion, but sharp with command.

“Not even a king can command my heart.”  She walked off to retrieve her torch, leaving him standing there staring at her in shock.

Deep within himself, Thranduil prayed that it might be true.

**

He woke up the next morning in a gloriously soft bed.  It had been so long, that the common had become a novelty.  He was so comfortable, he was sorely tempted to drift back into the depths of sleep, but duty called and it was time he answered.  He was clean, thanks to a late night bath, and now he was rested.  He thought it amazing how those two little things could improve one’s outlook.  He found his dressing gown hanging where he had left it long ago, and pulled it on.  It smelled fresh, as if someone had aired it out recently, and he was amazed that such a small detail had been seen to.  He walked over to the shutters that blocked out the light and pulled them open, letting in the sun.  At a glance, his home seemed little changed.  The trees still stood, their voices echoing the mood of the elves.  The buildings were the same. It seemed the only things that had changed were his people, he noted wryly, and his room.  He turned back to examine it again.  It was no longer his, he had helped his wife move in here himself before the war, but he had not seen it lived in.  She had obviously been staying here, but she had not remained the previous night. 

He thought back; no, she had not stayed. She had removed his armor and helped him scrub off the road dust.  The bath had been a wonderful treat, but not more so than the scrubbing she gave his hair.  Then she had handed him a towel and bundled him off to bed like an errant elfling.  It had been a great many years since someone had taken care of him so.  She had not spoken a word of their earlier conversation, and when she was sure he was well set she had departed.  It had been both a relief and a disappointment when she left. 

There was a knock on the door and he opened it a bit to see Lamathen standing there. 

“Good Morning, my king” she said, and after giving a precise bow of respect she continued in the most formal tones.  “Your wife and mother invite you to join them for breakfast in the garden when you are ready.”

“Thank you, Please tell them I will be along shortly,” he replied, somewhat bemused by the formality.

“I will pass on your words.”  Then she paused, and a smile slipped past her guard.  “Welcome home, Thranduil.” 

She departed quickly, and he thought as he closed the door that it was indeed good to be home.

**

A short while later, properly attired, he ventured out into the garden.  Set up in the shade of the trees was a round table.  It sat on an island of flagstones, cleverly placed to create a level surface.  Connecting the small eating area to the doorway were a series of stepping-stones.  He remembered these quite fondly.  He had been convinced when he first saw this garden that the stone placement was a puzzle and he had spent many hours examining them, looking for a solution.  He had meant to one day ask the stone layer his secret, he thought and then his mood turned dark once more.  He would not be asking that question now unless something unforeseen happened to him.  The stone layer had died on a goblin spear on the field of Dagorlad. 

He tucked that memory away, unwilling to deal with it that morning, or any morning if he could help it.  Instead he crossed the stones to join his family.  His wife and mother sat near one another. They had been talking quietly, but had glanced up when he had entered.  He made to greet his mother, but she waved him off with a gruff command.

“Sit!  I have things I wish to accomplish this day, and the tears you would inadvertently set off must wait until later.  There are things happening around here that you need to be made aware of, before some of those posturing fools decide to bother you.”

Anólindë quickly picked up her napkin and wiped at her mouth to hide her smile.  She was well aware of Thalarîn’s growing frustration with the heads of houses, but she had not heard them referred to as posturing fools prior to that morning.

She watched Thranduil to see how he would react, but his expression betrayed no obvious sign of amusement as he turned to his mother.  He had glanced at her for a moment, though, and she was almost sure she had seen a twinkle of amusement in his eye. 

Thalarîn’s moved her now empty plate away and pulled her napkin from her lap.  She pulled together her composure and some of the steel went back into her spine.

“I will make this brief.  You will eat while I talk,” Thalarîn began.  “We have three major problems vexing us.  The most concerning is the potential food shortage.  The weather has been unseasonably cold and the winters especially harsh.  The cold has killed or driven off much of the game.  We must hunt more frequently and further from the settlement then was typical when you were last home.  The cold has also affected the growing things.  Our gardens produce less, and the fruit on the trees are often small and few.

Thalarîn paused, and Anólindë continued the explanation.

“We have hope that this winter will be milder, for many believe the severity of the weather was related to the evil in the south.  We have been planning for the worst.  There are too many things that need to occur just as we would wish to not have contingency plans.  We have been experimenting with growing gardens indoors under glass.  Many of the people are uncomfortable with this, so unless the need is great, I do not think they will welcome this solution.  It will take a large number of glass gardens to truly make a significant contribution, but it is possible.  We also have planted many more crops this year than we have in the past, in the hope that the extra might offset the low yields.  

“Then there are the sheep,” Thalarîn added.

“The what?” Thranduil asked, momentarily nonplussed.  He had been listening with growing concern.  He had always assumed that those back home had been fine, that their daily routines would have been unchanged.  It was probably a stupid assumption he concluded, but the extent of their difficulties surprised him.

“Sheep,” Thalarîn explained.  “We have become sheep farmers.  I find the creatures to be not all that bright, but Anólindë has persuaded me of their contribution.  They are useful now for their wool, and if pressed we can use them as a food supply.”

Thalarîn finished her explanation and watched as her son took in her news and then finally nodded.

“That is the biggest problem you said, there were others?” Thranduil inquired.

Anólindë answered him this time.  “Indeed, the second greatest difficulty would be the shortage of skilled hands.  There are several projects we have not been able to start.  We work around the problems when we can, but it is growing to be an issue”

“The return of the troops will do much for relieving this problem, however worse it makes the first,” Thranduil commented.

“It will help,” Anólindë agreed, “Which brings us to the third problem.”  She glanced at Thalarîn who nodded and then drew breath to explain.

“We now return to the heads of houses,” Thalarîn continued.

“Posturing fools?” Thranduil questioned.

“The very ones.”  Thalarîn answered.  “When faced with adversity, how do the Silvan elves react?”

“They return to the basics.  They look first to caring for themselves and family, then for their house.”  Thranduil replied almost fondly.  “It was one of the things that most drew Father to their society.  They were so independent and close to nature.”

Thranduil glanced quickly at his mother, unsure of how the mention of his father would affect her.  She seemed well, although her eyes where unusually bright.  Then he noticed Anólindë had reached out and covered the hand his mother had left on the table.

Thalarîn straightened her spine and distracted herself from her grief another way.  She examined her son and the plate in front of him.

“You are not eating.  You have obviously been short on food in the south, and as you will likely be short on food at home you need to eat when you can.  I will not continue this discussion until you eat,” Thalarîn declared.

Thranduil stared at his mother for a moment in disbelief.  He gave a quick glare at Anólindë, daring her to make something of his actions and then resumed eating his breakfast.  While he was chewing, he raised his eyebrows, giving a silent imperial gesture for Thalarîn to carry on.

Thalarîn nodded in approval and then continued her explanation.  “Their independence is both their greatest gift and weakness.  I can not imagine that independent thought and motion was the most beneficial thing to have on the battle field,” she paused looking at Thranduil in confirmation and the black look that crossed his face was all the answer required.  “Nor is it necessarily the best thing here at home.”

“They work at cross purpose to one another,” Anólindë explained.  “Each is convinced that their actions are for the best, but usually it is for the good of a few at the expense of others.  In fair times, their actions would be acceptable and not unduly damaging, but these are not fair times.”

Thranduil finished his breakfast and then spoke.  “I think I grasp the problem.  What have you been doing thus far?”

Anólindë smiled suddenly in recollection of a previous encounter.  “We have not made any headway on this one.  We usually just deal with the consequences.  That usually involves Thalarîn flaying the hide from the offender with her voice.”

Thalarîn hmmphed.  “After they were suitably chastised, Anólindë would kindly explain to them the error of their ways.”

“It has gotten so bad of late, I believe they have begun to live in fear of her,”  Anólindë explained.

Someone cleared their throat, and all three turned toward the doorway to see Celleth standing there.

“Forgive me for interrupting you, but several people have asked to see you, my king,”  Celleth explained looking ill at ease.  “There is apparently some confusion on whom they need to ask, and I’m afraid they have settled the task on me.”

Thalarîn turned back toward Thranduil, looking stricken.  “Aranef did not return?” 

“He is at my father’s side still,” Thranduil replied gravely, wishing he did not need to be the bearer of more bad news. Arenef had been his father’s advisor and herald.  He had managed much of the details of the day-to-day routine and had been close to his mother.

 Thalarîn stood up and stepped away from the table.  “I did not know…you need to find someone whom you trust to fill that role.  Now if you would all excuse me, I wish to be alone.”  She turned and strode quickly across the garden, nodding politely at Celleth as she swept past him.

Thranduil and Anólindë exchanged a sad look, each unsure of what to say, until Celleth cleared his throat again, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.  Anólindë waved him over to their table.

“Have you met Celleth?”  She inquired of Thranduil.  “He came from the outlying settlements with me. I believe I mentioned  him to you when we met, but I do not believe you were ever introduced.”

Thranduil gave a swift appraisal of the young elf who stood before him.  He did in fact remember Celleth, but he was not going to admit that to Anólindë. He had initially feared Celleth was a rival for her affection, not knowing then that she loved him like a sibling.  He was not yet ready to think on that topic.  “Well met, Celleth.”

“Well met, my king,” Celleth replied, looking only slightly less ill at ease.

“Celleth is my aide.”  Anólindë explained.  “He manages me.”

Thranduil heard Celleth grumble, “When you let me” under his breath and was for a moment envious of their easy interaction.  He knew he was the sole author of the problem in his and Anólindë’s relationship, but he could not see a way out. 

“I do not have time to go looking for a keeper,” Thranduil spoke his thoughts out loud and turned his attention to Celleth.  “Do you think you could do the job for both of us temporarily?” 

Celleth paled and then drew himself up straight.  “I am honored that you think me capable, my king, but I do not think I could manag….ah, advise you.”

“Few could,” Anólindë replied sweetly, and Thranduil scowled at her in return.

“I can think of one possibility, “ Celleth replied seriously.  “Lamathen might be up to the task.”

“I believe I met her again this morning,” Thranduil mused  “I remember her assisting Aranef before we left.”  He turned to look at Anólindë “Do you agree with Celleth?”

Anólindë’s face was a picture of calm serenity.  “I do indeed agree, for although Celleth might be a bit biased, as she is his wife, I am absolutely certain she’ll be able to…manage.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but was unwilling to engage his wife further to determine what she was hiding from him.  Instead he turned away and began to fire off orders to Celleth.

“There are several things I need done today.  First gather up the heads of house for a meeting; have them informed also that this will be quick and that I will meet with them individually on another day. Then track down Tulukrad, I need to see him.  After that is done, I need to speak to the people. Find me a location where they can gather, and I have a chance of being heard by most of them.  If your wife would like the job temporarily then let her take care of it, if she declines….” He trailed off, trying to think of someone else to take the job.

“If she declines,” Celleth finished,  “I will take care of it until you find a replacement.”   He had watched as Thranduil had suddenly donned the cloak of command and Celleth found he was filled with the desire to do his king’s bidding.  Although he still did not believe he was up to the task, he would not fail to do the job in the meantime.  “If there is nothing more, my king, I will go.”

Thranduil waved him off and Celleth departed the garden at just short of a run.

 “I think you have inspired him,” Anólindë commented quietly.

“Let us pray I can do more than that,”  he replied, and stood.  “I must go, excuse me.”  Then he departed, his demeanor intent.

“No,” Anólindë whispered.  “ We do not need to pray. They have already been answered.”  Then she too got up and left the garden.

**

Thranduil arrived on the field to find it full of his people and not a blade of grass was visible where they stood.  He climbed up on the platform that Lamathen and Celleth had managed to arrange that afternoon.  Already standing on the platform were his wife and his mother, and he nodded to them and then strode to the edge and looked out over the crowd.  He stood tall, and seeing him there, the crowd went silent.  Thranduil reached into his tunic and pulled out a rolled up scroll, then he took a deep breath and began. 

“This scroll contains the names of the fallen.  One day perhaps this list will be read, when we can hear the names and not be buried under the weight of grief.  Until that day I will hold this list safe.  I have asked a scribe to copy the names belonging to each house and to send them on.  So if you wish to discover the fate of friends and family you may check with their house.  I may not be able to read these names, but I will tell you their story.

“Ten years ago, you listened to my father’s words and prepared for the coming war against the darkness. We knew the cost of failure would be the domination of evil over all that we held dear.  So when the voices of Gil-galad and Elendil called for a great host to gather and defend middle earth from this darkness, we were ready.  We answered that call to battle and marched from Greenwood seven years ago.  We were willing to risk all to bring peace to middle earth and destroy the shadow. 

“We rode away from home, confident in our abilities, and reassured by the sheer numbers gathered to our cause.  There has been no greater gathering in the history of middle earth since the Valar came at the end of the First Age and cast down Thangorodrim and bound Morgoth. 

“We went to battle for the first time on the field of Dagorlad and we fought Sauron’s troops back through his black gates and all the way to the slopes of Orodruin.  Every step we took we paid for in blood.  Our companions from Lórien were driven into the dead marshes, and they remain there still.  But we held up the promise of peace and continued on. 

“Sauron retreated to his tower, and there he was besieged.  He sent forth from his tower a host of dark creatures. Faced with such a threat, my father led our people into battle and there he fell.  He actions taught a harsh lesson to those he left behind.  We learned a better way to fight upon those slopes, but once again the cost was high.

“Eventually Sauron himself rode out to battle. We discovered only the mightiest could stand against him.  Gil-galad with his mighty spear Aeglos could not hold him back.  Elendil with his sword Narsil could not hold him back.  Working together, they managed to stop his advance, but they were unable to finish him and fell before his power.

“At that moment, fortune favored the alliance.  Isuldur, son of Elendil, cut the ring of power from Sauron’s hand with a broken shard of his father’s sword.  Thus Sauron’s body was destroyed and the will of his dark creatures broken.

“Darkness was driven back and we return, but we are diminished.  We left this place 10,000 strong, yet only one of every three has returned.  So I ask you to consider my father’s words a decade ago, when he convinced you the cost of failure was too high.  Now you know the price of peace.  Will you bear it or will you let the blood spilled in Mordor drive you apart? Will you become a broken people?

“I do not wish to choke on the ashes of victory.  If we must suffer to know peace in middle earth, then I ask that we do it together, as one people.  Will you stand behind me, united?  Will you follow me?  Will you let me lead you?”

His voice faded away and the elves of Greenwood stood in silence, taking in his words.  Thranduil stood before them strong and self-assured, but behind the mask he wondered.  He had not meant to leave it such an open-ended question, but he needed to know for certain that they wished for him to lead them.  They had asked for his father’s guidance, not his, and so he asked them and stood proud waiting for their answer.

He felt someone take his hand and glanced quickly to see Anólindë step up beside him.  She squeezed his hand and together they waited to hear the word of their people. 

The silence was broken by a chorus of voices as Mandel and the troops Thranduil had commanded stood together and granted Thranduil the right to lead them. More affirmations were added until the field thundered with elven voices, but even amid all the noise he heard Anólindë say, “I will follow you.”  He let their approval wash away the tension of the moment, then he raised his hand and the field quieted again.

“So together we will bear this burden.  We can make Greenwood greater than it was before. We can bring forth children into this land and know they will grow in peace.  We must proceed with care.  It may seem easier to keep things the same as they were seven years ago, but that is not the path we dare tread. We paid dearly for the lessons learned in Mordor and I will not forget them.  Instead we must take those lessons of cooperation and apply them to our way of life here in the trees.  We must find a way to turn the independence from the liability is has become back into our greatest strength.  So we will change, and in doing so we will be greater than before.”

Thranduil finished speaking and the elves gave a great cheer.  They hugged and danced and sang and would not leave the field.  For this day they chose to stand as one.