Chapter 11: The King’s Wrath

A/N: My only excuse for taking this long to update the story is that I’m traveling and my muse seems to have bolted at the unfamiliar locale. I think she’s gotten used to the new surroundings though, as only your reviews of this chapter will prove!

Once again, I am without a beta at the moment so if you find any mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them!

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The evening shadows wrapped themselves more thickly around the trees of Mirkwood, and the sensation of smothering increased. The sounds of squirrels in the underbrush and spiders overhead grew muted, and the entire forest seemed suspended in a realm of silent darkness.

Thranduil had not relaxed since entering his realm four days ago. The Elven-King could not determine the first cause of his anxiety. It could have been that the horses they had left in the western edge of the forest had disappeared. Elven horses are faithful and obedient to their masters. The horses should have remained within calling distance of where their masters had left them. Only great fear or danger would have driven the elven mounts to abandon their riders. The fact that the elven party had spent the better part of a day searching for these horses suggested that some danger had indeed occurred. The border guards had also been mysteriously absent, and this hinted at an even graver threat than missing horses.

But Thranduil had sensed danger long before the elves had discovered their horses were missing. Even before entering the forest proper, the Elven-King had felt a wall of foreboding slam into him and draw his breath in shorter intervals. It was not a feeling of impending disaster, but rather, of arriving too late. He had been anxious while in Isengard, upon the borders of Lothlórien, and on the Anduin. However, Thranduil always felt a certain level of mental turmoil when he was away from his kingdom and apart from his children and subjects. He feared that aught would occur in his absence and that he would return to ruin. Such worries were often groundless and had never transpired, but the Elven-King could not suppress these thoughts. And so Thranduil’s self-control would splinter the further he traveled from his kingdom and crack at the first evidence of danger.

Two days into the forest, Thranduil had noted he was not alone in his uneasiness. The senior elves of his escort began to manifest their anxieties—Aewenor barely slept and Tháron stopped reluctantly at every break in their march. Now, after four days of their relentless pace deeper into Mirkwood, the Elven-King observed that every elf was on edge.

A sudden snapping of branches above their heads drew a myriad of reactions: Aewenor flinched involuntarily, several others snapped their heads upward, and Círion drew his bow and almost fired into the forest canopy.

“The trees are dry and the branches brittle,” Thranduil said evenly into the tense stillness.  He paused to survey his warriors, who had grouped themselves loosely around the king. Thranduil narrowed his eyes slightly as he resolved to break their unspoken pact of silence on a particular subject. “The watchfulness of the forest has turned to sorrow in our absence,” he pronounced calmly. “I fear some misfortune has befallen our home.”

“I also have felt this, my lord.” Aewenor looked relieved.

Círion frowned into the middle-space. “This uneasiness...” he trailed off uncertainly. “I suspected it was merely the contrast with…healthier climes,” he confessed bashfully.

Thranduil eyed the young warrior sympathetically, and Tháron chuckled in the back of his throat.

“Shall we double the watch tonight, my lord?” Maegdir scanned the forest mistrustfully as he spoke.

The Elven-King examined each warrior carefully before finally replying. “If we march through the night at our current rate, we will make the palace midmorning.”

“I can walk faster,” Círion said hurriedly, which elicited a few laughs from the otherwise grim band.

Thranduil smiled broadly as he spoke. “Then by all means, Círion Círandirion, you shall set the pace. Onward!”

The elves quickly fell in line with renewed vigor. Although their spirits were somewhat lifted, the warriors’ vigilance was not diminished. Thranduil’s smile faded rapidly as he confronted the dark mass of trees before him. He perceived such sorrow in the song of the forest and notes of despair in the elusive music, which hovered at the furthest recesses of his consciousness.

The king’s initial decision to remain on the elven path running east-to-west within the forest had been controversial. His warriors had favored the greater speed and stealth possible for wood-elves traveling among the branches. While this logic was irrefutable, Thranduil had stubbornly determined the group would stay on the ground. For the Elven-King had not forgotten the trespassing dwarves.

During the several weeks of his travels, thoughts of his prisoners would frequently nag his mind and invade other preoccupations. Thranduil carried the sword Orcrist wrapped in cloth and concealed in his pack. But the Elven-King did not need to see the sword to recall its existence for its presence weighed both on his shoulders and on his thoughts. The idea would come upon him unawares that perhaps the dwarves had not been lying. In which case, signs of their presence upon the elven-path had to exist and Thranduil had been determined to find this evidence.

But nothing significant had attracted the Elven-King’s attention. The path wound its way among the trees in a manner least likely to disturb the forest. His father had been reluctant to build any trail within the woods, but eventually Oropher had relented. The natural design of the passageway often proved confounding to foreigners, and Thranduil was hoping that if the dwarves had originally traveled along this road, they must have left it at some point. The king doubted whether thirteen dwarves crashing through the forest underbrush would conceal their tracks. So far, he had not been able to conclude definitively whether the unmistakable signs of travelers upon the path had been made by the dwarven party, and his hopes in that direction were dwindling. The king had been baffled as to how the dwarves had crossed the river. The boat, which the elves kept moored to the shore for the use of travelers, had disappeared. A short search in the underbrush and among the trees had revealed no boat and a fishing hook attached to a length of rope. Thranduil sincerely doubted whether the rope would have held together for thirteen dwarves to swing themselves across the water. And yet, despite concrete evidence to the contrary, the Elven-King still found himself committed to discovering signs of the dwarves.

The darkness was rapidly becoming absolute. Thranduil knew that no danger would catch them unawares despite their increasing blindness to the surrounding forest. However, the king was anxious lest he miss some sign of the dwarves’ passage.

“Halt!” Thranduil ordered abruptly.

Círion had set a grueling pace and it was with surprise that the elves ceased their march.

“Torches,” the king explained briefly at the questioning glances cast in his direction.

Although he was not questioned, Thranduil sensed utter bafflement at his command. The king almost chuckled as his warriors obediently assembled wood for the torches. His priority this night was twofold: to arrive at the palace as quickly as possible and to discover aught of his prisoners’ journey through the forest. Thranduil was no fool; he would never expose his warriors to harm without cause. But the king knew instinctively that the danger was past, and that their undisguised presence in the woods would attract no evil.

Torches in hand the elves pressed forward among the ancient beeches and oaks of Eryn Galen that was and Taur-nu-Fuin that is.

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Shortly after dawn, Legolas found himself reporting to the unofficially named “Patrol Room,” which consisted of nothing more than two enormous oak trees flanking a copse of birches. Rumor had it that in bygone days a younger Rochiron had devised a system of announcing patrol rotations by securing a length of hide on two birch trees. The stretched canvas contained the names of the all the active warriors within the realm, and patrols were organized and announced among that group of trees. The markings designating which warriors were away on patrol had been wiped away, and now, only the king’s escort, the Northern Patrol, and the marchwardens were absent. Ever since the orc attack upon the settlement, warriors had been flocking to the palace. Hunting parties were recalled, patrols summoned, and settlers relocated. All came to pledge their allegiance to Thranduil their king and prepare for war.

Legolas stared with unfocused eyes at the list of warriors upon the stretched hide. There were to be no more patrols until the king returned. The young prince ran his hands through his hair, demonstrating his impatience that his father’s arrival remained a mystery for the woodland elves. By his reckoning, the king’s party should have returned several days ago. Hananuir had proposed that a patrol be sent into the forest in search of them, but Girithron had denied permission until the end of the week had elapsed. The Crown Prince’s logic was sound: rarely did the Wise mark an end date for their Council, and the length of such meetings varied widely. Further, the princes of Mirkwood doubted their father would undertake so great a journey merely to return in haste. Legolas had heard that one could spend years within the forest of Lórien and account it as but a single day. He had consulted Girithron and Gwiwileth in the matter, since both of them had spent time in Caras Galadhon, and they had provided vague accounts of the beauty of that forest.

But the elves had promised to be prepared for war ere the king’s arrival. And so warriors trained battle formations, weapons were manufactured, and the palace defenses improved. Legolas had not forgotten his father’s decision that the youngest prince should command the archers in the attack against Dol Guldur. And so, quietly and carefully as was his wont, Legolas had begun to observe the other archers. He paid special attention to the ones he did not know as well. Schooling his mind toward his purpose, the young prince memorized a fresh batch of names off the patrol list.

Turning on his heel in search of the archers he would observe that day, Legolas nearly collided with his brother, Girithron.

“Legolas,” the Crown Prince said impatiently. “Off to the archery grounds as usual?”

Examining his brother’s strained features, Legolas paused before replying. “Aye.”

“I will join you.” Girithron fell in step beside his youngest brother. “Believe you, Legolas,” the Crown Prince began abruptly, “that Galion approached me yestereve with details about the celebration of the autumn solstice? I never had mind for such trivialities, and so I directed him to speak with Gwiwileth on the matter.” Girithron clenched his jaw.

Glancing upwards at his brother, Legolas queried, “Shall the festivities proceed as usual?”

Girithron grunted irritably. “The solstice is on the morrow,” he ground out.

“This I know,” said Legolas frowning, “but shall we feast without our king?”

The Crown Prince shrugged in frustration. “Gwiwileth is responsible for the preparations,” he replied and clearly wished to have nothing more to do with the subject.

Rolling his eyes at his brother’s ire, Legolas sighed imperceptibly. Girithron’s edginess was contagious, and the youngest prince felt himself growing impatient. A whirlwind of thoughts cascaded through his mind, and in his diminishing temper, he was unable to grasp a single one.

“He should have been back by now,” the Crown Prince said harshly.

Legolas eyed his brother with only a modicum of sympathy. Girithron’s ill humor was grating on his nerves. Conversation ceased between them as the brothers neared the archery shooting grounds. Despite the early hour, several elves were already practicing their shots while still more loitered about, apparently uneasy in their idleness. As the two princes approached the group, they were greeted respectfully and soft “my lord’s” floated into the morning air.

Wishing to distance himself from his irate brother, Legolas sought out Calethor. The dark-haired elf stood with Tuilinor, and the two seemed unusually at odds. Both bowed shortly at the young prince’s approach, though neither elf looked at the other.

“The day shall be fine, your highness,” Calethor remarked drily.

His jibes sounded hollow and Legolas only nodded in reply. To his annoyance, Girithron joined their group and began to remark caustically on an error made by one of the novice archers. Tuilinor took offense, but rather than dispute with the Crown Prince, returned to his earlier discussion with Calethor. Irritated that his comments earned no replies, Girithron threw himself into the argument, now arguing for the one side, now for the other.

Legolas clenched his fists in frustration at the prevailing tempers of that morning. The archers were shooting badly, perhaps in consequence of the loud argument occurring just behind them. The young prince felt that everything was off kilter that day and could not account for what had so soured his usually good-natured brethren. He himself was on edge, impatient, and thoroughly frustrated with his brother and comrades.  

Legolas had been attempting to block out the argument occurring around him, but a sudden shift in the moods of his comrades alerted the young prince. Shaking himself to attention, Legolas met the baleful glare of Calethor, which was leveled upon Tuilinor.

“Let me understand you aright,” the dark-haired elf said chillingly. “Accuse you my father of theft?”

Tuilinor had paled somewhat, but the slighter elf did not cast down his gaze. “If those are the words you choose,” he pronounced slowly, “then so be it. Let it be known that I— ”

“You suggest that as my father is responsible for keeping the trading accounts that he has misdirected our supplies for his own profit?” Calethor trembled in his rage.

“See here, Calethor,” Girithron began vehemently. “Why jump to these conclusions if Tuilinor did not use those words?”

“Peace, mellon nín.” Legolas placed a hand on Calethor’s shoulder and attempted to pacify his friend. “I am sure Tuilinor meant no offense,” the prince said acidly, narrowing his eyes toward that elf.

“None whatsoever,” Tuilinor amended.

Legolas nodded and began to lead Calethor away from the group. Girithron shrugged as he met his brother’s gaze, refusing to accept blame for his participation in the quarrel.

“And yet,” Tuilinor said in sudden inspiration, “food is still missing.”

With a bellow, Calethor wrenched his shoulder from Legolas’s grip and would have attacked Tuilinor on the spot had Girithron not placed himself between them. Several bystanders intervened, and a cacophony of arguments now caused the archers to abandon their practice.

“The king!” a small voice shouted suddenly into the melee. “King Thranduil has arrived!” The messenger was but an elfling, and the small boy blushed at his boldness and importance. “The king!”

In the middle of the press, Legolas and Girithron were side to side restraining Calethor, but with the announcement, all three elves froze in their movements. Their anger vanished immediately and excited murmurs rose around them. All four elves regarded each other with amazement and sudden shame at their actions.

“Forgive my insult, Calethor Tegilborion,” Tuilinor said shamefacedly. “My heart was turned against itself and you, my brother-in-arms.”

Calethor grasped Tuilinor’s hand in a warrior’s salute. “All is forgiven.”

Girithron all but pushed Legolas past the others, and the brothers made haste back toward the bridge. Legolas felt the warriors gathering behind the princes and heard the glad call echoing among the treetops and the elves on the ground. He felt a thrill of excitement squeeze his heart and render him slightly breathless as he followed his taller brother through the crowd. He met smiling faces nodding in his direction and answered with a broad grin of his own. Rare were the times when the king left his realm, and so instances of his homecoming were infrequent. The entire kingdom had been in mourning for the past ten days, and it was with palpable relief that the elves welcomed their lord.

The two princes crossed the bridge and met Hananuir, Gwiwileth, and Ivanneth together by the Gate. Other elves grouped around them as well as all the palace guards. The settlements had been emptied and a great crowd now waited for the king.

Legolas felt that his grin would crack his face as he met Hananuir’s dancing eyes and Gwiwileth’s warm smile. Taking his place at end of the bridge, Girithron assumed a formal posture, though his face beamed.

“It is the king!”

“King Thranduil has returned!”

“Long may the house of Oropher rule!”

“Welcome, my lord!”

Hundreds of throats took up the call and soon the forest rang with the sound of elven voices.

Standing across the bridge, the children of Thranduil could not see their father beyond the press of elves.

And quite unexpectedly he was before them crossing the bridge. The King of the Woodland Realm was tall and walked with authority. He demonstrated no signs of weariness in his easy gait, and his golden hair reflected the early morning sunlight. Thranduil smiled as he met his people. His eyes traveled among them, noting the pride and love with which he was greeted. He wished to reflect pride and love back upon his subjects, and all who saw him that morning would afterwards confirm that their lord was of great kingly bearing despite the simplicity of his garb. Finally, Thranduil’s eyes met those of his offspring and deep love pooled in their depths.

Reaching Girithron first, the king saluted his heir formally before embracing him briefly. He kissed Gwiwileth’s cheek, and affectionately motioned Legolas and Hannauir forward through the Gate. Thranduil gripped Ivanneth’s shoulder by way of welcome as the family entered the palace proper. Nodding to the guards who saluted him enthusiastically, the Elven-King indicated that his offspring should assemble in the family’s breakfast chamber.

Girithron, Hananuir, and Legolas waited for their father and sister to be seated first at the small wooden table occupying the majority of the room. All began speaking at once and only a loud knock on the door calmed their excitement.

“Enter,” Thranduil commanded with laughing eyes.

Galion the butler grinned as he transported a laden tray into the room. He placed the food before the king with a quick bow. “My lord, your arrival is a most joyous occasion!”

The Elven-King smiled. “I heartily agree, my faithful friend. My timing is enviable, is it not?” He winked at the butler.

“Indeed, my lord,” Galion acquiesced seriously. “Lady Gwiwileth has been kind enough to oversee the preparations.”

“I am glad to hear of it.” Thranduil nodded as the butler bowed himself out of the room. “Well.” The Elven-King contemplated his children without speaking.

“Adar, are you well?” Gwiwileth broke the silence.

“Perfectly so, my dear.” The king smiled as he began eating quickly. “I see each of you remains in one piece?” he quipped.

The siblings exchanged a look, and Hananuir opened his mouth several times to reply. However, any honest response he could give somehow alluded to or involved the recent events in the realm, and Hananuir knew his father hated discussing military matters during a meal.

Sensing his children’s discomfort, Thranduil himself provided an escape. “I am pleased to hear that plans for the solstice feast are in place.”

Latching eagerly onto this topic, Hananuir and Gwiwileth briefly outlined the preparations. Girithron hardly had time to grow impatient of the subject before his father had finished eating. Thranduil swallowed his wine thoughtfully as silence descended upon the family. The king’s face had sobered, and now he lost his gaze within his goblet.

Unwilling and unsure of breaking the silence, his children waited for the father to speak first.

Taking a final sip, Thranduil laid down the goblet with a careful hand. “My heart tells me that I am to hear heavy news,” he began slowly as he regarded his sons seriously. “I bear tidings of war and such matters are not fit for this quaint chamber. I would regress to my study.”

“As you will, Adar,” Girithron pronounced and his brothers nodded.

Gwiwileth rose suddenly. “Will you excuse me, Adar? I am content to know that you are well. Talk of war will soon be inescapable,” she said, smiling humorlessly.

Thranduil reached for her hand across the table and pressed it gently. “Let us speak later, iell nín, for your presence is always a balm to my troubled thoughts.”

Gwiwileth dipped her head as she left the room. Thranduil rose and his sons followed suit, but before Girithron could exit, the king detained him.

“Girithron, ere you join us in my study, send word to the captains. I wish to convene a full council in an hour’s time.”

“My lord.” The Crown Prince nodded once and quickly departed on his errand.

Thranduil, Hananuir, and Legolas proceeded to the king’s study and were soon joined by Girithron. Ivanneth materialized and exchanged quiet words with the king before taking his place in the back of the room.

“So,” Thranduil began heavily. “I am ready.”

With a deep breath, Girithron began to relate all that had occurred in the king’s absence. He started with Calardir’s desperate return to the palace and the account of that elf. Girithron indicated that Legolas should continue the narrative, and the youngest prince spoke slowly, imparting every detail of the mission south. Legolas described the aftermath of the battle across the mountains, and with a nod, ceded the tale to Hananuir. The third prince of Mirkwood detailed the orc attack that had so nearly threatened the palace. Girithron interjected with his participation in that battle, after having been recalled from his patrol south. Finally, Legolas spoke of the return journey to the palace.

Throughout the narrative, Thranduil had not moved, and sat with his fingers laced together upon his desk. The Elven-King’s jaw was set tightly and his eyes glittered. As Legolas concluded, the three princes regarded their father for his reaction. Thranduil was silent for a long time. “How many fallen?” he asked roughly.

Girithron answered quietly.

Thranduil rose suddenly and pushed his chair against the desk with unusual force. Bowing his head, the king placed both hands upon the table before him and seemed to draw strength from the wood. “Goblins attacked initially north of the Mountains, and then drew our warriors south?” he asked Legolas directly.

“Aye,” the youngest prince replied.

“And more goblins invaded west, less than a day’s march from the palace?” the king questioned Hananuir.

“Thus it was,” he answered.

Thranduil closed his eyes for a long moment. Finally, he shuffled some maps on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. “Show me,” he commanded, tossing the parchment to Girithron.

His sons dutifully marked the areas that had witnessed bloodshed over the past several weeks. Upon receiving the map, Thranduil stared at it with unfocused eyes. Abruptly, the king threw down the document with disgust and began to pace the area behind his desk. His sons exchanged worried glances as their father rarely paced. By the color suffusing the king’s face, it was obvious that Thranduil was growing enraged.

Brashly, Hananuir interrupted his father’s thoughts. “What of the Council, Adar?” he asked too eagerly. “What say the Wise?”

At the first question, Thranduil had stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at his son until Mirkwood’s third prince lowered his eyes. “What say the Wise?” the Elven-King echoed. “What say the Wise?” he repeated loudly. Suddenly drawing to his full height, Thranduil’s face became completely white. “The Wise wait while my people are being slaughtered,” he said tightly, and all warmth seemed to drain from the room. “The Wise agree to defeat the Necromancer,” he spat, “but only at their leisure. The Wise ‘gather their forces,’” he mocked, “while my kingdom is beset with enemies! No more!” he growled.

Girithron regarded his father evenly, though inwardly the Crown Prince was desperately thinking how it would be possible to calm the king. Blushing since his blunder, Hananuir stared at his hands, unable to meet his father’s eye. Legolas felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising and shivered.

“I say no more!” Thranduil pounded the desk in front of him with such strength that it was a wonder he did no injury to himself or the wood. “Goblins defiling my realm! Orcs desecrating my forest! And the blood of my people—of my warriors, sons and their fathers—spilt recklessly, mercilessly! I say no more!” the king yelled.

Feeling absolutely powerless in the wake of their father’s wrath, the three princes of the Greenwood could only nod dumbly as the king glared at them. Ivanneth had opened his mouth to speak, but apparently the ancient elf thought better of it, as he now sat with bowed head.

Thranduil had recommenced his pacing and his steps thundered across the floor. Small clouds of dust rose from the ground, but the king paid them no heed. Periodically, he clenched his fists, and his breathing grew heavier. “I refuse to be surrounded and destroyed,” he roared at his offspring. “Neither shall my kingdom fall because of goblins! I do not fear this Necromancer!” he bellowed. “I will not allow him to continue! I say no more!”

As if released from the spell of immobility cast by his father’s wrath, Legolas now felt strangely elated. He was thirsting for battle. Glancing to his side, the youngest prince observed that Hananuir now sat tall with a gleam in his eye. Girithron had clenched his fist and an eager smile graced his face.

The Elven-King stopped in front of his desk and pounded his flat palm against the wood. “I say to war! I will wait no longer for friend or foe! Let the servants of the Enemy fear my wrath!” he challenged and his eyes glinted like steel.

Girithron stood abruptly and placed his fisted hand across his chest. “I once again pledge my fealty, my love, and my life to my lord and king,” he stated with pride.  

Gradually, the color returned to Thranduil’s face as each of his sons repeated their allegiance. Finally, the Elven-King smiled with purpose and confidence. Before the king could speak, however, a rap on the door revealed Galion.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord,” the butler said hurriedly, “but the captains are gathered as you requested and await your leisure.”

“Good,” Thranduil replied as Galion bowed out of the room. Gesturing toward the door, he smiled again at his sons. “Shall we, Thranduilionnath? I take it our captains shall require small convincing to march to battle.”

“I doubt it not,” Ivanneth said suddenly, emerging from his corner. Thranduil’s advisor smiled conspiratorially at the royal family as he joined Girithron, Hananuir, and Legolas before the king’s desk. “Your warriors wait to follow you, my lord,” he pronounced firmly.

Thranduil emitted a bark of a laugh as he fixed his burning gaze upon the elves before him. “I have done with waiting,” he announced and strode regally from the room.

A veteran of many hard-fought wars, Girithron had sobered and now followed his father with iron in his gaze. Hananuir bowed his head briefly, and, although his face had paled, there was determination in the set of his jaw. He marched resolutely after his brother. Legolas stood breathlessly exhilarated, unable to move.

Perhaps the young prince’s excitement was contagious for Ivanneth now regarded him with unusual vivacity. “I do not believe you have marched under a banner of war?” he asked softly.

Legolas could only shake his head, as his breath was too quick for speech.

The advisor nodded. “Do not forget your eagerness at this moment, young prince,” he cautioned quietly. “You will have need of it, I fear.”

With these words, Ivanneth departed and Legolas was left to follow.

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Rochiron blinked blearily into the sunset as the palace guards opened the Gate for him to depart. The captain felt unusually disoriented and stopped walking in order to recall his destination. Forcefully controlling his emotions, Rochiron limped forward a few steps before pausing once more. Memories of the recent council flooded his mind and he could not suppress a smile of elation. He could not remember the last time he had felt so giddy and actually gripped the bridge for support.

It had not been like other councils.

Despite the rotating patrol system and long journeys outside the realm, King Thranduil had commanded a full gathering of all military captains twice yearly since the ending of the Watchful Peace. Rochiron hated these gatherings as they more often than not yielded lengthy and purposeless discussions of the harsh realities of living in Mirkwood. He disliked the circles in which the discussion always, inevitably ran, and he grew impatient with the vague generalizations often pronounced at such meetings. In his experience, facts and ideas were typically related and exchanged, while no decisions were made. The captain found little use in these conversations as their enemy’s attack could not be anticipated and there was nothing to be said after the fact. It had struck the old captain that the king seemed to participate in these meetings with as much displeasure as Rochiron himself.

But this afternoon had been different.

The captains had assembled with enthusiasm, eager to hear the news from the White Council. Before the king had arrived, several elves had voiced their hopes that with support from the Istari, Lórien, and perhaps even Imladris, the warriors of Mirkwood would finally defeat the Necromancer. Rochiron had entertained no such delusions.

And then King Thranduil had entered.

The king had always impressed Rochiron by his bearing and authority. Rochiron had sworn allegiance to the house of Oropher since his youth and could not imagine serving another lord. The confidence with which Thranduil walked inspired Rochiron with resilient courage. The wisdom gracing the king’s face and words garnered Rochiron’s admiration and respect. The kindness in the king’s eyes awoke deep love in the hardy captain. He could serve no other master.

First, the king called upon Maeglir to recount what had befallen the Southern Company. Rochiron then spoke briefly about the rescue mission. Finally, Nandír recounted the attack upon the settlement. King Thranduil described the White Council and its results. Then the king paused.

It was at this moment that Rochiron suspected the endless discussions would commence. So far, the meeting had proceeded straightforwardly, with accounts rendered concisely and chronologically. And then King Thranduil had stood. The king’s body was taut and his eyes snapping. The force of his being, rather than pushing against the other occupants of the room or dragging them down, instead seemed to serve as a massive pillar of strength. And then the king spoke.

Rochiron swayed slightly against the bridge, which supported him as the dizzying memories of that afternoon threatened to overwhelm him. Never had he been so moved during a council in all his years of service. The captain could not remember the words that the king had used, but no matter. The Elven-King had spoken of death, which should not have been an elven reality but now haunted their everyday. He spoke of the deaths of the young who had fallen in defense of their home. Thranduil spoke of the forest and freedom and peace—and his words were intoxicating. And then the king described the waiting and watching in which the warriors of Mirkwood had been engaged for the past several decades.

“I am done with waiting,” King Thranduil had proclaimed.

At this point, Rochiron had unconsciously shouted “aye,” but found he was not alone in his vocal support. The captains were unanimous and there were no petty squabbles for power.

And then the planning had begun. The elves had not been idle during their lord’s absence and a draft of attack had already been formulated. However, the plans were revised since the warriors of Lórien only had pledged their aid, and even so, had committed to arriving in Mirkwood in two month’s time. Rochiron’s chest had swelled with pride as king and his captains began stipulating the details of the plan.

As was their custom, the elves of Mirkwood had devised a tightly organized method of dividing their warriors. Units were grouped into companies, which were grouped into divisions, and finally, the army itself. At the council, the captains had volunteered for leadership positions and the king made several assignments. Rochiron smiled broadly as he recalled the king’s announcement that Prince Legolas would command all the realm’s archers.

Lost in his thoughts, Rochiron crossed the bridge. He did not acknowledge Hadron, who passed him by and greeted him warmly. The captain continued toward his flet until out of the whirlwind of his thoughts, his mind selected a particular memory with which to halt the elf in his steps. Rochiron caught his breath in his throat as the emotions of that moment engulfed him.

Rochiron had stood in the council, as was procedure, and had asked politely for command of a company.

“Permission denied,” the king had replied curtly.

Slightly embarrassed by the smiles he had received immediately from his fellow captains, Rochiron had cleared his throat in confusion. King Thranduil was regarding him with undisguised excitement. The Silvan elf would never understand what prompted the next words that came from his mouth. Perhaps it was the encouragement flowing from the king’s eyes or the smile that Prince Girithron could not contain, but Rochiron found himself speaking again.

“My lord, might I request permission to command the western division?” he had essayed a second time.

“Permission denied,” Thranduil had rejoined with an undeniable gleam in his eye.

Thoroughly beaten, Rochiron had only been able to sink in his chair with a stiff nod. Something within the elf collapsed and he became quite deaf to his surroundings. It was only Nandír’s firm grip on his arm that roused that Silvan elf to the council once more. Rochiron had found that all eyes were on him and that the faces of his companions reflected joy.

“My lord?” Rochiron had asked in confusion as Nandír pushed him gently to his feet.

King Thranduil had actually laughed and several others had joined his amusement. Rochiron had felt the color rising to his face and was about to speak out in anger, but the king’s voice had stopped him. “I asked you, Captain, whether you would accept to command the army under the Crown Prince?”

Rochiron had felt all the breath stop in his lungs and had quickly grabbed his chair in support. His heart suddenly pounded in his chest, and the Silvan elf could not formulate a single coherent thought. He had stared blankly at the king. He had found himself looking into the eyes of the monarch he had long served, respected, and loved. As he studied the king’s face, Rochiron had recalled Oropher’s eyes, brow, and jaw. Memories rushed chaotically through his mind’s eye of the great deeds of his king. Whom else could he serve?

“I am honored to accept, your majesty,” Rochiron had finally found voice to speak. For the remainder of the council, Rochiron had remained in a state of blissful shock, and, as Girithron later quipped, was compensating for all his years of taciturnity with his smiles that afternoon.

Captain Rochiron leant against the trunk of the tree that housed his flet. He sought to draw strength from the oak and inhaled deeply. He, Rochiron, son of Grawthir, son of Arassion would be second-in-command of Mirkwood’s army, serving under Crown Prince Girithron Thranduilion of the House of Oropher. The captain laughed aloud as he contemplated his total unworthiness for such an honor. That day was almost spent; the next would be one of preparation culminating in the solstice feast. The following day after that was one of rest and finally, the next day would be their departure. Stunned, as if replete with strong wine, Rochiron ascended the tree in a daze. Suddenly remembering his wife, Nídhel, in the flet above, the captain accelerated his pace. She would not believe his news.

oooo

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

I’m abbreviating this to only those characters actually mentioned in the chapter.

Celeguir x—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

Nídhel—Rochiron’s wife

Warriors

Captain Aegnir

Captain Maeglir

Captain Nandír

Captain Rochiron (Grawthirion)

Lieutenant Calethor (Tegilborion)

Aewenor

Calardir (runner)

Círion (Círandirion)

Hadron (Magoldirion)

Maegdir

Tháron

Tuilinnor

TRANSLATIONS:

Eryn Galen: the Greenwood

Taur-nu-Fuin: “forest under nightshade,” literal translation of Mirkwood

Mellon nín: my friend

Adar: father

Iell nín: my daughter