Chapter Six: By the Stars Above

A/N: First off, thanks to Kayson135 for beta editing this chapter. And I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed thus far. Thanks for sticking with me, though this chapter has taken me a while to roll out. Next time I write a story, I’ll try my best to have it complete before I start posting…

Just a cosmetic question: I’ve quite a few OC’s happening, and I was wondering whether the OC guide at the beginning of each chapter is helpful? Would you prefer it at the end of the chapter if it’s distracting? Also, I customize this list of OC’s chapter by chapter. Is that working okay for everybody, or would a complete list of OC’s be more helpful? I appreciate any feedback!

And now, finally, the chapter!! (after the OC Guide of course!)

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Calardir—runner of the Southern Company

Maeglir—captain of the Southern Company

Other members of the Southern Company—Lastor, Filechon, Ornor, Lalvon, Brethildor, Dorothor

Rochiron—captain of the rescue mission

Other members of the rescue mission: Calethor, Galadthor, Erethion, Tuilinnor

Members of Thranduil’s escort—Aewenor, Círion

oooo

The light of the sun gradually faded behind the misty peaks as Thranduil and his escort traveled ever southwards upon the mighty Anduin. The elven-king gazed westwards with a spark of excitement in his eyes, and he scanned the clear sky above eagerly. In the boat ahead, Aewenor turned back and indicated the western bank to Thranduil, who followed in the second boat. Yet the king did not grant permission to stop. He gestured for the elves to continue downriver, into the waxing night.

“The weather will hold tonight, sire.”

Thranduil smiled softly at Círion, who seemed to share the elven-king’s impatience for nightfall. “’Twould be the first time,” the king remarked dryly. The group’s journey westwards through the forest had taken place amid the habitual gloom of the shadowed wood. However, Thranduil had been hoping that once among the freedom of the plains and wide-open spaces, the sky would be clear. Yet every night the clouds had joined together against the elven-party, and the darkness had been supreme. Not even the faint rays of the crescent moon had pierced the cloud cover.

And now, in the gathering twilight, Thranduil lost his gaze in the vast dome above his head. For the elven-king knew that tonight, the clouds would be gone.

As darkness fell, the great river quickly carried the three boats of elves along its course. The elves had devised a system of rowing, and their paddles rose and fell in the water with the precision born of countless repetitions. The fluidity of their motions was like an extension of the river itself, and their actions seemed rather to invigorate than fatigue their bodies.

With his back straight and head pointed forward, Thranduil rowed with no external awareness of the passing time. Unlike Círion at his side, the elven-king refrained from continual glances into the night sky. He would feel the moment arrive, but he had not sensed the time was yet upon him. It was fast approaching, this he knew. With every motion of his oar, Thranduil felt eagerness in his heart and clarity in his mind.  

The wind had increased in intensity at the disappearance of the sun, and now an icy chill pierced the elves’ hair and clothing. Yet despite the cold, Thranduil felt warmth as, suddenly, the moment came. Without breaking his rowing pattern, the elven-king looked up at the sky and gasped.

For Thranduil saw stars.

And they spoke to him of ages past, of what he once knew, of those whose faces he would behold never again under the light of the Sun, of how he once felt, and could feel never again. They filled him with awe, with delight, and wonder, as a child, yet also with sorrow and mourning, as for what a life of millennia had wrought upon him. And he felt the deep longings of his heart grow mute in the face of such beauty, and his soul’s cry for peace was answered. He felt the thousand wounds of his spirit heal as with gentle balm. The king’s eyes became full and silent tears trailed down his cheeks; an occurrence that never took place while under the shadow of Mirkwood. For under the twilight of the forest, the elf could find no beauty great enough to stir his sorrow and cause him to mourn outwardly for the destruction of past joys. It was only when he could gaze openly at the stars, without fear, that the king felt his weaknesses succored and his doubts reassured.

For the stars were unchanging. He had looked to them as a child, when he discovered the world. He had sought their healing during war, when every certainty was destroyed and his daily hope was to live only to see the night’s sky once more. He had bid farewell to familiar stars during the great journey eastwards, and had found, with delight, more stars in the forest. Then had come the Shadow. And grief, such grief as he had never imagined possible. Such grief that he had not thought of himself as still living, until more grief had assailed him. Yet always, the stars had been with him.

Until, with the darkness, the stars had grown faint and clouded. Night after night, for years, had he sought for their presence in the dimming twilight of his hope. But always, the skies had remained shadowed.

Yet now, as doom pressed ever closer to his halls, as he traveled on a final search for answers, now was his heart assuaged. The stars twinkled all the brighter for the cold, and the elven-king drank greedily of their sustenance. He knew not how much time elapsed, but he could not bear to avert his eyes.

And so the mighty Anduin carried the elves ever southwards, under the light of the stars.

oooo

The hour was late, and Girithron told himself that he must find rest ere daybreak. He had spent the entire day in council with the captains, his brothers, and Ivanneth. The plan was set, all possibilities discussed, errors weighed, and uncertainties counted. Instruction had been given and stated only once. Each warrior understood the choice between life and death for himself, for his comrades, and for their kinsfolk awaiting rescue near the mountains. There was nothing left to do save the mission itself, but for this, the Crown Prince must await the break of day. In order to meet the dawn, Girithron knew he must sleep. Yet he could not relax his body or quiet his mind.

With a sigh, the elf pushed himself upright against his father’s desk. Girithron snuffed the candles upon the table and left the room like a shadow. He walked swiftly to the Gate, which the guards opened for him without hesitation. The prince stepped into the night.

The forest lay tense and watchful. Girithron breathed deeply of the dank night air as his mind categorized the sounds in the underbrush. Squirrels, owls, and spiders went about their nightly noise with no awareness of the sense of doom Girithron had felt pressing upon his shoulders since the dwarves had been captured. The Crown Prince shook his head sadly as he worked his way into the forest, drawing ever closer to a tall beech that stood slightly apart from its neighbor trees. The elf began to climb the tree, his hands and feet working instinctively to find hidden footholds along the trunk, apparently without the aid of his eyes. As he wound his way upwards, Girithron arrived at a platform among the branches, high up in the crown of the beech. The Crown Prince pulled himself onto the wooden flet, and then he lay on his back staring into the night sky.

The leaves of the beech had not yet turned brown, and Girithron inhaled the sweet green smell of life the tree emitted. He flitted his gaze between the branches, and his eyes wandered fruitlessly between the patches of sky visible among the foliage. The prince’s defeat was bitter, but he did not sigh. As always, the sky above Mirkwood was clouded and shadowed. Girithron had been hoping that from this tree, one of the tallest beeches in the forest, he might be able to catch a faint glimmer of the stars, which he knew still hung in the skies.

No elves lived in this particular tree, and its flet could not be seen from the ground. Indeed, Girithron would never have ventured to climb the beech, had he not been set an example.

The Crown Prince remembered well the night, hundreds of years ago, when he had discovered this tree. He had been still flushed with the small victories of youth, relishing his new command, giddy with the possibilities of his prowess. Sleep had evaded him that night, and this was how he came to be wandering the halls so late. Suddenly, the young prince had seen his father walking before him, though the king had no eyes for his son. Girithron had followed quietly, stealing between the shadows with nary a sound. He had seen his father climb this tree, this beech, and remain in its top until dawn had almost arrived. Several nights later, Girithron managed to climb the tree himself and discover what had so captivated his sire’s attention. For some, the reward was small, barely worth the effort and danger of the nocturnal climb. But for Girithron, the brief glimpse was overwhelming sustenance.

And so the elf waited, high amid the branches, hoping for a clearing in the sky.

The night reached its maturity with a chill wind that pricked every aperture in Girithron’s dress. The leaves of the beech rattled, and the Crown Prince suddenly felt a deepened awareness in his perceptions. He sat upright and tensed as every sense in his body screamed for sudden caution. The elf rose silently, drawing the white knife that rested always at his side. Girithron gripped his weapon and backed slowly to the edge of the flet that drew even with a mighty branch. He held his breath.

The Crown Prince was rewarded for his vigilance with the soft sounds of another ascending the tree. Indeed, the noise was almost nonexistent, and had it not been for his heightened focus, Girithron doubted he would have registered the intruder.

And as suddenly as the other’s presence had been made manifest, the sounds ceased. Girithron breathed in the silence of the night. He frowned as his mind ticked away the seconds of waiting. Cautiously, he began to creep toward the bole of the tree.

Suddenly, a leaf rustled onto the platform behind him, and Girithron whirled his knife to meet the assailant.

“Ai! Legolas!” The Crown Prince drew up his knife sharply as it brushed against his youngest brother’s tunic.

Legolas’s eyes widened with surprise and embarrassment as he met his brother’s gaze. “I sought not to startle you,” he stated defensively.

Sheathing his knife, Girithron rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “By the Valar, Legolas! Why on all Arda could you not climb the beech like a normal elf?” He gestured impatiently to the trunk of the tree.

Legolas smiled provokingly. “I have always preferred to leap to that branch and ascend in a more interesting manner.” He indicated the corner of the flet and the offending branch in question.

Girithron sighed heavily, though his ire was quickly dissipating. “Why did you follow me?” he demanded.

His younger brother scanned the clouded sky above the tree before answering. “I followed you not, Girithron. It is not by my design that we seem to have the same purpose this night.”

The Crown Prince turned his back upon his brother and walked stiffly to the edge of the platform. Girithron could not understand his own heart, but he felt an unreasonable sense of shame at his brother’s intrusion. He balled his fists in an effort to quell the rising bile in his throat.

“Girithron?” Legolas approached softly and stood a pace behind his brother. “Are you angered that I have come?”

The Crown Prince tensed his body and clenched his teeth against the question, which had been asked with such childish simplicity. The shame grew within him and made his breathing tight. Memories flooded his mind of his youngest brother’s admiration and respect for him. Yet always had Girithron brushed him aside as a brother, and only in the past decade had he come to acknowledge Legolas’s merits as a warrior. The Crown Prince felt a pang in his heart, and his mind taunted him, accusing him of cowardice, of running from a truth he refused to face.

A quiet breeze rustled into the treetop, brushing against the faces of the princes and teasing through their hair. It seemed such a slight and fragile wind, barely a breath of air, but, somehow, it was enough. Above the brothers, the clouds parted and revealed a sliver of naked sky. And nestled in the sky rested the stars.

Girithron felt the tightness in his chest lessening and his peace restored as he gazed upwards. Beside him, his youngest brother’s presence radiated calmness and tranquility. And as suddenly as they had been revealed, the stars were veiled once again. The Crown Prince sighed audibly, but a profound sense of certainty had entered his being.

He turned and placed a firm hand upon his brother’s shoulder. Legolas regarded him with patient trust; his eyes open to anything of which his brother might speak.

“Forgive me, Legolas. The Shadow works its way into our hearts as well as our minds. I was not angry with you; rather, I was angry and ashamed with myself.” Girithron smiled at his brother’s frown of confusion. “I was ashamed that you would see my failing, but Elbereth has reminded me that the source of my fear is not a weakness.”

Legolas’s frown deepened. “Never have I thought you weak, muindor.”

“Aye,” Girithron nodded, “this I well know. I thought myself weak, Legolas, because I could not find rest this night. My mind was greatly troubled, and not until you stood beside me did I learn the cause.” The Crown Prince paused.

“Girithron, I do not understand,” Legolas spoke into the silence.

The Crown Prince let his hand drop from his brother’s shoulder. He regarded his brother with smiling eyes, though his face was serious. “I am afraid, Legolas,” he began softly, “for you. I cannot work out any other solution that does not place you in the first scouting group under Captain Rochiron. Believe me,” Girithron laughed mirthlessly, “I have spent hours chasing alternatives.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow in question, though comprehension had dawned on his face. “Girithron, worry not for me. I am quite capable of holding my own in battle. ‘Tis not the first time I am placed in danger.”

“Peace, muindor. I doubt not your skill of arms.” Girithron held up both hands briefly. “And yet, Legolas, despite your knowledge and experience, the mission tomorrow places you in grave peril. You could be killed.”

The words were heavy and lay between the brothers as objects with weight and depth. They regarded each other intently.

“As a warrior of the Woodland Realm, I place my life at the service of my king and commander for the protection of those weaker than myself.” Legolas spoke firmly the oath traditionally sworn by every novice at their maturity into warriors. “I will not break my vow.”

“Nay, muindor,” Girithron said softly, “I know you will not. Nor will I, for I too have sworn this promise. Legolas,” the Crown Prince did not look down, “your death would be on my hands. It is this responsibility and the loss I would feel of you that fill me with fear. My fear brands me a coward, and so I was ashamed that you should see your brother as such.”

Legolas knit his brows together in concern. “Not a coward, Girithron. A coward lives always in fear, and so cannot distinguish it from any other feeling. I could never think you a coward.”

The disbelief in his brother’s voice elicited a quiet laugh from the Crown Prince. “As I said, Legolas, ever the Shadow works to sow doubt in our hearts. It is a testament to the power of the Enemy how deeply he can turn our hearts against ourselves.” Girithron grew silent and cast his eyes among the dark treetops surrounding the beech tree.

“But come,” the Crown Prince stated decisively after contemplating the forest. “The night is almost spent and weariness will not aid us on the morrow.” The taller elf began to move toward the trunk of the tree when he realized that his younger brother stood rooted.

“Legolas?” Girithron raised his eyebrows. “Are you not coming down?”

The youngest prince of Mirkwood stood with his brow furrowed and gaze unfocused.

“Legolas?” Girithron spoke louder. “Let us depart! Legolas!”

Legolas shifted quietly out of his reverie and looked with concern upon his brother. “Girithron, I have never paused to consider the effects of the Shadow on my heart,” he confessed anxiously. “I never gave it thought.”

The Crown Prince could not suppress a smile as he answered, “Of course you have not, muindor. Forget not your youth, Legolas.”

“I have lived under the Shadow my entire life,” Legolas rejoined gravely.

“Which has not been of lengthy duration,” Girithron replied lightly as he began to descend the trunk below the platform. The Crown Prince smirked as he imagined the frown that must be gracing his brother’s face.

“Perhaps not!” Legolas called merrily from the crown of the tree. “But I, at least, in my short years, have better learned the art of climbing trees than you in your aged wisdom.”

With an odd choking sound, Girithron’s chuckle became a gasp of surprise as his youngest brother leapt from a branch onto the trunk below the Crown Prince. “That is no way to climb down from a tree, young one,” he managed to call mockingly.

“Perhaps not, O venerable lord Girithron! Yet it seems my youthful ignorance will speed my return to the palace!” Legolas taunted.

 Girithron smiled competitively as he accelerated his downward progress. He had never been one to back down from a challenge.

oooo

In the breath before dawn, thirty-five elves divided themselves into the longboats floating in the river outside Thranduil’s halls. There was hardly a sound besides the clinking of metal and the creaking of wood. No other elves had gathered in farewell, and so, when the night mists finally dispersed, the forest lay empty. For the warriors were already rowing upriver when first light pierced the shadows of Mirkwood.

In the second-last boat, Legolas sat pensively, allowing his body to enact the mechanics of rowing with no apparent strain. The few pleasantries he had exchanged with his eldest brother that morning had left Legolas convinced of Girithron’s continued doubts and apprehension for their mission. Perhaps their conversation the previous night had provided some comfort, but Legolas wondered whether the Shadow’s control could be so quickly broken. The young prince had never quite considered the machinations of the Enemy in the light of psychological and mental results. He had, of course, perceived a certain depression or fatalistic despondence which seemed to plague those warriors serving close to Dol Guldur for too long a time. Indeed, the weight of that particular assignment was the primary reason for patrol rotations, as he himself was intimately familiar. He recalled to mind the heaviness of heart and spirit that dragged upon one serving in the southern extreme of the forest. He had found himself slow to smile and sluggish in his attempts to admire beauty during his stint in the Southern Company. However, once returned to the cleaner air around the cavern-palace, Legolas had not experienced any further mental turmoil.

But that Girithron should be prone to the Shadow’s effects at such a distance from Dol Guldur…Legolas frowned as he contemplated the ramifications of this fact. The Crown Prince had not served in a regular patrol, much less a company, for…Legolas’s frown deepened as he found that he could not remember the last time Girithron would have had occasion to venture near Dol Guldur. His brother should have no reason for the severe doubts and fears he seemed to be experiencing. As far as Legolas was concerned, this particular mission held no unusual danger. The young prince was baffled as to Gitithron’s behavior.

His eyes growing unfocused, Legolas replayed last night’s conversation in his head. It struck him that Girithron had asserted twice that the Shadow had sown doubt in his heart. Suddenly, the pieces fell into place and Legolas’s eyes widened as his mind raced through thoughts and ideas with breathless speed. He had identified the source of the Shadow to be Dol Guldur—as it was—but what if its effects had now spread further? What if the gloom of Mirkwood stemmed entirely from the Enemy? This would mean that the whole forest lay blighted…even… Legolas froze. So startled was the young prince by his sudden thought that he broke his pattern and held his oar aloft a second too long.

Legolas winced as his error caused the boat to cut through the water differently. He felt the vibrations in the wood and kept his face blank as Captain Rochiron graced him with a frown.

Behind the prince, Calethor’s whisper carried in the silence of the morning. “The pattern has not changed, your highness.”

Legolas dipped his head in acknowledgement of the jibe, but could not find the desire to join in his friend’s levity. His mind was in chaos, and he fought down myriad thoughts to pin down one central theme: the Shadow lay over all of Mirkwood. Therefore, the Enemy had worked his way into the hearts and minds of his people, his family, and himself. And Legolas had not perceived the intrusion.

The young prince gazed into the trees on either side of the river as the elves worked further up the river. He had been told that the forest had not always been dark. Indeed, Legolas remembered journeys undertaken to Esgaroth and to the Anduin in the west, and in both these places the trees sang joyously. The air did not press upon one outside the forest and the spirit felt freer. He had sung with greater peace outside the forest. Legolas grimaced as he recalled the slight changes he himself had experienced in his lifetime—changes of increasing darkness. But he could not discern when his heart and mind had fallen prey to the Enemy. At what moment had this come to pass?

Or, had the changes wrought upon him come so slowly, as the creeping moss, that Legolas had not noticed? Had his laughter grown quiet and rare? Had he become silent and introverted? Did he doubt those around him, those he professed to love? Did he uncover secret motives in their actions and did he suspect falsity in their hearts? Had he grown so accustomed to the smell of rot and the gloom of darkness that he could not find beauty in the world around him? And what of song? Did he always raise his voice in lamentation? Was this Shadow, then, the source of doubt and uncertainty? Of the anger he found in his heart, against his brothers and even his father? Legolas felt a bubble of anxiety boiling in the pit of his stomach. Had he come to mistrust his family? Had he come to doubt himself?

The young prince took a gulp of air as his mind threatened to overwhelm his poise. He began to berate himself silently for his lapse in vigilance—he should have been prepared for the Enemy’s advance—when the harsh cry of a falcon startled his reverie. Legolas trained his eyes on the bird and followed its flight. The falcon shot into the sky above the tree line for the barest of seconds, before plunging down to earth with the triumphant call of a kill.

Legolas found himself still gazing at the place in the sky at which the falcon had last been spotted. The falcon was real, he told himself firmly. The falcon acted as Yavanna decided it would act—as a hunter. The falcon was unaffected by Shadow. It simply existed. Legolas was not a falcon, and he knew that he could not simply act instinctively. And yet…the prince frowned pensively. His heart told him that the rescue of lost comrades was right. He felt no doubt, even as he recalled the argument sustained between Girithron and Hananuir. Surely, his heart acted instinctively, guiding him along the right path. The Shadow had worked to mire this path, to confuse, and misdirect. Yet the elves had not yielded. Legolas felt the tenseness in his shoulders subside and his brow smoothed. The elves had not yielded to the Shadow. His father had not yielded and was even now actively seeking to destroy the Enemy.

It was enough, Legolas concluded. The Shadow did not dominate his every thought and action, as he had briefly feared. He was yet himself and his mind was his own. Legolas recalled the short glimpse of the stars he had enjoyed with Girithron the night before. Yes, Girithron also was his own master with a clear understanding of his own heart. It was enough.

Legolas turned his attention to his body as he realized that he was not expending the same amount of energy as he had been earlier that morning. He started as he noticed that the elves now rowed downriver, and he surmised that they must have turned toward the Mountains very recently. The river flowed fast and strong underneath the boat and somehow the trees around them did not feel as dark.

Legolas smiled as he felt the irresistible urge to sing. He eyed Captain Rochiron, at the head of the boat, but the elf seemed wrapped in his own thoughts. Softly, Legolas began to sing.

At first, he sang alone as the other elves in the boat waited for the Captain’s reaction. Then, Calethor joined the song, and slowly, other voices were raised. They were not singing loudly, but still, the sound carried, and soon, the other boats had joined the song. Legolas smiled as he recognized Girithron’s deep bass amidst the voices. The elves sang of the forest, but not as it had become. Legolas had chosen an old song, a Silvan song. The words ran as wind through the leaves, as water laughing in the river. The melody was slow but not sad. The music spoke of strength not easily broken and life not easily destroyed. The song simply existed, and in his heart, Legolas felt that it was right.

oooo

Girithron stood rigidly as he conferred with Captain Rochiron. Two days ago, the company had left the first patrol stationed by the riverbank. It was now the Crown Prince’s turn to stay behind and send the others ahead. The Mountains loomed a day and a half’s journey south. The signals were set for the following day, just before sunset. And in the meanwhile, Girithron would have to wait.

The Crown Prince let his eyes fall upon his youngest brother as the latter took his place in a longboat. Legolas met the gaze and the brothers regarded one another in silence. After a moment, Girithron found that he was smiling and that Legolas was also smiling. The Crown Prince nodded and allowed his eyes to return to the Captain.

“May the Valar protect you,” Girithron said softly in parting.

Rochiron inclined his head gravely, and the Crown Prince wondered whether this particular elf had smiled in the past decade. The Captain proceeded to the head of the first longboat and immediately gave the order for departure.

The veteran captain scanned the faces of the fourteen warriors under his command. His gaze swept past their determination and resolve and exposed a flicker of fear. Rochiron nodded: he had learned that at the heart of every act of courage rested a seed of fear, doubt, or anxiety. He had witnessed courage—the act of trusting despite one’s fear—in countless battles over his lengthy lifetime. He could not ask his warriors to be fearless; indeed, he had little patience for brashness. But he would ask them to trust him and risk everything for the sake of their comrades. Rochiron was a Silvan elf, one of the very last remnants of an ancient people before their mingling with the Sindar. As such, the Captain understood the forest and lived with it in a way incomprehensible to certain elves. And the forest spoke to him quite candidly that there was hope for the lost warriors. Rochiron knew his mission and the charge of reconnaissance did not involve an uncertain and desperate rescue. Nevertheless, the Captain was not about to ignore the certainty in his heart.

There were still some who lived, Rochiron asserted. And they would be rescued.

oooo

The morning was still young when the elves fell under the shadow of the Mountains. Captain Rochiron had pressed them well past sunset the day before, and the river had carried them swiftly. The woods were silent and not even the scurrying of squirrels could be heard in the underbrush. Even the water seemed hushed.

The Captain signaled for the elves to disembark on the western bank. If the warriors took unusual care not to scrape the boats against the rocky shore and not to clang the metal of their weaponry against the wood, then the Captain did not remark upon it.

Rochiron stiffened as the butt of spear scraped against a small rock on the riverbed. His senses screaming, the Captain motioned for silence. Something was wrong, and Rochiron could not fathom how he had missed the warning in the forest. Indeed, there had been no such warning, he concluded. The forest was silent.

“Scout the area in pairs,” he commanded gruffly. “Remain within sight of the river.” He stood taut as the warriors dispersed silently. Rochiron let his eyes pierce the shadow of the wood and the feet of the mountains, but he discerned nothing unusual. There were no traces of elven warriors or orcs, for that matter. No broken underbrush or discarded weaponry. No signs of any struggle. Next, the Captain cast his hearing into the forest. The trees were too quiet for his liking, but, at least, he did not hear the harsh language of the enemy. He did not even hear the scuttling of spiders. Rochiron drew a deep breath, and there…he smelled it. The smell was acrid and metallic.

Blood.

Abandoning his post by the boats, Rochiron headed in the direction of the smell. He gave a low whistle as he walked, and without turning he sensed the warriors falling in step behind him. He listened to their footsteps and counted fourteen elves. Now he could focus entirely on the smell. He heard swords being drawn behind him and arrows notched to bowstrings. The others had undoubtedly perceived what had drawn the Captain forward.

Rochiron had fought for ages and was a seasoned veteran of many campaigns. He had witnessed death and destruction in far more ways than he cared to count or remember. As a youth, he had tried to keep a mental list of fallen comrades so that he could honor their memory. But as the years had progressed, he had wisely abandoned that pursuit. There was little that could surprise the Captain, but wanton violence always made his blood boil.

And so it was that as Rochiron discovered the source of the smell, his ire rose and his eyes narrowed.

There were six elves in the forest, lying in pools of their own blood, bodies maimed, and eyes forever fixed in death. Their wounds were various and rough; the work of dull blades and frenzied strikes.

Rochiron clenched his teeth as his warriors reacted to the sight. A part of his mind registered their gasps, cries of shock, and words of grief. Another part of his mind was bellowing with rage—for among the bodies of the slain, the Captain did not find the bodies of orcs. There were broken arrows—black arrows—but no bodies.  

“Captain Rochiron.” Legolas’s voice was pained, but urgent.

Rochiron clenched his fists in an attempt to control his anger and turned to regard the prince.

“The tracks lead south, Captain. They belong to orcs, but they are deep—weighted, as if they bore a burden.”

Rochiron’s eyes burned, and he allowed the full force of his gaze to fall upon Legolas. The younger elf did not flinch. The silence stretched between them as Rochiron forced his mind to go blank. “We will bury the slain,” he ordered abruptly and pitched his voice to carry to all the elves.

“Captain, their families—” Calethor protested quickly.

“They will be spared the pain of seeing this defilement.” Rochiron scanned the group of elves, who regarded him with a mixture of pain, sorrow, and faint rebellion at his orders. “Now get to work. The day passes.”

Legolas regarded him steadily for another moment before turning to aid the other warriors. Their task was gruesome, and periodically the sound of gagging and retching interrupted the silence. More than one cheek bore the evidence of tears before the work was completed.

The Captain stood apart as he watched the bodies being laid to their final rest. He did not react as the warriors sought to mop up blood and remove arrows before laying their comrades in the ground. He stood rigid as the ritual words were spoken over each body. Finally, the warriors laid earth over the bodies of the slain. It was Tuilinnor who began to sing the lament.

Soon the others had joined the song. Their voices were quiet, full of pain and sorrow. They sang of death and loss, and then they sang the name of each fallen warrior. Lastor. Filechon. Ornor. Lalvon. Brethildor. Dorothor. The warriors sang of valor, courage, and sacrifice. Finally, they sang of peace and freedom.

Rochiron’s voice died within him, and he could not open his lips to sing. He was no stranger to death and mourning. Yet this time his grief was dulled as a fiery anger burned in his heart. How had this massacre been perpetrated, he demanded. How was it that no enemies had fallen yet six elves had perished? Where was the body of Captain Maeglir, who Calardir had sworn had been killed? And where were the thirty-three missing warriors? Where was the enemy? He clenched his jaw as questions threatened to overwhelm him and send his mind spiraling in a tunnel of despair. He had to find the answers.

With a small shake, the Captain roused himself back to his surroundings. He realized that the lament had finished and the elves stood in silence. He surveyed his company, noting every tear that fell and those warriors whose bodies shook in their weeping. The Captain remarked those that stood silent and still and those who trembled with anger. Rochiron stood tall and made his decision.

“We will scout the eastern shore,” he began without preamble. “We may discover more clues as to what transpired here.”

He was met with silence though the collective gaze of his warriors begged for a better plan.

“Let us all go across the river. Again, scout in pairs. Move out,” he ordered.

The actions of the next few hours seemed dazed and disjointed to Rochiron. In the aftermath, as he sought to account for time passed, he found he could not compose a clear picture of that afternoon. The warriors scouted the eastern bank with painstaking care. No tree was left in peace nor bush unexplored. They examined every broken leaf and bent blade of grass. But the forest lay still and undisturbed. There were no tracks of friend or foe. No signs of living creature. Like an empty tomb, the forest waited.

Rochiron looked skyward as the afternoon waned, and he knew that sunset was fast approaching. He must signal to Girithron’s company or the patrol group would leave their position and hasten with aid. Yet this aid Rochiron did not want. It was not time for reinforcements. Not yet.

He ordered the company back across to the western shore. There had been little conversation during the day and every elf seemed wearied. It might be wise to allow a rest for the grief to numb slightly, but Rochiron knew there was no time for such a luxury.

He found himself standing by the mounds of the fallen. The rest of the company grouped themselves in a semi-circle in front of him, at a respectful distance from the burial ground. Every eye rested expectantly on the Captain.

Rochiron hedged for only a moment. The anger in his heart did not consume with such intensity as it had previously. The pain had given him clarity. “Warriors of the Woodland Realm, I speak to you now as your Captain, but also as your kin. We have scouted the terrain south of the Mountains, as was our charge. We have found the bodies of fallen comrades and buried them rightly according to our customs. No enemy have we met. Yet here, beside me in the ground, we see evidence of foul creatures. These tracks belong to orcs and they lead toward the Mountains. Undoubtedly, our enemy waits on the other side, for we know these Mountains well and there are no hiding places on their southern face. In the light of day, our enemy keeps to the shadows and caves. They await us. They goad us and seek to entrap us.”

Rochiron paused and scanned the line of warriors. They had every one of them seen the tracks and understood that the orcs responsible had indeed carried a weight. The trap was all too obvious; the bait all too painful to consider.

“Prudence would suggest we retreat to our brethren upriver and make our plans afresh. That we take the deaths of these six warriors as foreshadowing of what we may find should we cross the peaks. Is this what ye would have me command?” Rochiron asked simply.

The reaction to his words was mixed. Some elves cast down their gaze in uncertainty. Others met his eyes in disbelief. Still others exchanged glances among themselves. Legolas met his eyes steadily.

“Prince Legolas.” Rochiron indicated the young archer and every eye turned to contemplate the prince.

“If they had all been slain, then why would the orcs leave only six behind?” Legolas spoke as if Rochiron alone stood with him.

“The bait,” Galadthor said harshly.

“To lure us across the Mountains,” Legolas continued as if his question had been rhetorical.

“To meet our deaths,” Galadthor concluded grimly.

Legolas turned to face the veteran warrior. “If we cross,” he specified, “we will be attacked. And if we do not, then our comrades will most certainly be slain.”

“If they yet live,” Erethion added.

“The Enemy has trapped us with iron chains!” Tuilinnor exclaimed and several others nodded.

Rochiron gestured for silence and the company was still. “Fellow warriors, you were selected for this mission for your courage, your skill of arms, and your loyalty. What elf among you would leave now, knowing what we have learned? As for me, my heart freezes my step and roots me to the ground. I can tread no path but that which leads me south.”

“We cannot abandon our comrades to certain death!” Calethor challenged the elves around him.

There were murmurs of assent from the other warriors and even the hesitant looked up with renewed determination.

“Lead us, Captain Rochiron,” Legolas said quietly. “What is your plan?”

Rochiron dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of his prince’s support. “We will cross the Mountains at nightfall. We will move with stealth and if fate favors us, we may take them unawares.” Rochiron paused as his warriors digested this information. There was no more dissent and the Captain felt the air hum with their united purpose. Rochiron closed his eyes momentarily before sharing his most controversial choice. “We will not summon Lord Girithron’s patrol tonight. I do not want a massacre.”

As he had anticipated there were some slight signs of surprise from his warriors. Eyes widened and brows furrowed. But none voiced protest. Satisfied that there was nothing more to be said, Rochiron gave his final orders. “Find what rest ye can. We move at sunset.”

The warriors broke formation and settled themselves into small groups. Some retreated to the boats for food, others lingered to pay their respects to the fallen. The elf Rochiron sought had moved apart from the others toward the trees.

“Prince Legolas, a word.”

The younger elf paused in his trajectory and complied with Rochiron’s request for them to stand apart. “Captain,” Legolas said.

“I want no arguments with my orders,” Rochiron spoke low and hurried. “If the battle should go ill on the other side of the Mountains, I want you to retreat back here and signal the others. You will go when I command you.”

Legolas’s eyes flared in protest. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. “Why me?” he finally asked. “Why not one of the runners or—”

“You are the youngest prince of the Greenwood, my lord. I would keep it that way.”

“My life is not more valuable than any of theirs.” Legolas gestured to the other warriors. “How can you deem my worth to be greater?”

Rochiron sighed deeply as he contemplated the young archer who stood before him, body tense in righteous indignation. “Legolas,” he began quietly, “fate has willed us to play a part in this world. To what end, we know not. Nor is it for us to know. You were born a prince, and fate has more in store for you than this mission. I know this in my heart, but it is not for me to understand.” Rochiron waited patiently until Legolas finally bowed his head in submission. “Go now and rest,” the Captain ordered gently. “Darkness will soon be upon us.”

The Prince walked away to join his fellow comrades beside the longboats. Rochiron remained where he was, apart from the others. The Captain eased himself onto the ground and lay with his back upon the grass. He inclined his face upward and his eyes delved among the clouds. Rochiron waited.

oooo

Translation:

Muindor: Brother