Lullaby

"Malgalad and more tha half of his following perished in the great battle of the Dagorlad, being cut off from the main host and driven into the Dead Marshes." the unFinished Tales, pg. 271

Part Two

Exhaustion claimed him, but he could not sleep. The sounds of the battlefield, even when he tried to rest, haunted him, and he could not ease his wearied mind.

They had dragged the bodies from the fields, cleansed them, and prepared them for burial--for burial at home. But there would be no going home now. Not for a long time.

Thranduil rolled over on his cot and stared blindly at the sparse furnishings of his tent. A table to write at--his father’s, a chair to sit in--his father’s… He blinked and shifted his head so he watch out of the sliver-opening in the tent’s flaps. Nothing could be seen, so he stood and stumbled to flaps. He pushed them open and gazed over the sprawling campsites, fires glittering as numerous as the stars above. Even the in the darkness, the banners of the realms flapped in the wind.

A brush of his hand and he tucked a tangled tendril of golden hair behind his ear, and crossed his arms as he looked out.

The night sky was surprisingly clear after weeks of rain and storm, but in the air he could hear the distant thunder. Soon clouds would roll across the sky and blot out the light of the stars.

Far below the horns of battle echoed, the metallic ring of swords, the whiz of the arrow. The battle cry of the warriors, the roar of the enemy, the screams of those cut down, the moans of the wounded…the silence of the dead.

Thranduil grew dizzy, his head spinning.

He stumbled back into the tent and fell into his father’s chair. Legs sprawled, he slouched in the seat, his eyes closed as he replayed Oropher’s death in his mind. He had seen it. Seen it all, as the orcs had surrounded the elf-king, cutting him down, while Thranduil had been too far away to do anything.

“My lord, King--,” Halathir poked his head in through the flaps, and broke Thranduil‘s vision.

“Do not call me that,” Thranduil hissed, not opening his eyes. “I am not king!”

Halathir tried again, “My lord, King Amroth of Lorien is here.”

A tall elf pushed his way into the tent, shoving Halathir unceremoniously out of the way. “Thranduil of Greenwood.” He bowed, his free silver hair glinting in the soft candlelight of the tent. His armor gleamed mithril, the leaf of Lorien emblazoned on his breast plate. A cloak of scarlet settled about him, his helm held casually under his arm.

Thranduil opened his eyes and looked up at the Sylvan. Cocky silver eyes watched him as Amroth towered over Thranduil.

“You may leave…” Amroth waved his hand at Halathir who glared at the Sylvan’s back. Thranduil nodded reassuringly at Halathir, and the dark-haired ellon bowed respectfully to the two lords and left.

“Why are you here, Amroth?” Thranduil sighed and stood, matching Amroth in height, but did not attempt to greet Amroth formally. Instead, he picked up a half empty bottle of wine and offered him some in a goblet. He poured himself a cup and stared at his bedraggled reflection for a moment.

“You are in the presence of the new king of Lorien, my brother.” Amroth’s voice pounded Thranduil’s brain.

“I am not your brother, Amroth. I am sorry for your loss.” Thranduil drained his goblet and looked up. He scowled at Amroth.

Centuries had passed since Thranduil had last seen the elf, since Oropher had given his opinion on the influence of Galadriel upon the Sylvan realm of Lorien. Bitter words had been exchanged between the son of Malgalad, who spoke as if he were king, and Oropher. Thranduil had not said a word, but followed his father without a backward glance to friends made, and Greenwood had soon soothed his soul. But he had caught his mother’s expression, and if it had not been for loyalty to husband she might have embraced Malgalad’s queen, for only the wives seemed to express the true feelings of all.

Amroth smirked and sipped. “Aye, such a loss. I should have known my father would follow yours. The fool always regretted watching your father leave.”

“Malgalad and Oropher had been such great friends,” Thranduil murmured sadly.

“Amdir--that other name of old is to be forgotten.”

Thranduil scowled and set down his goblet less than gently.

“How easily you forget your Sylvan heritage, taking names given to you by elves forsaken by all others!”

“How easily your father and yourself convinced the simple Sylvans of the north to place Oropher as king of their land…Sinda” Amroth sneered at Thranduil. “At least we kept ours, even if it was at a price.” Then the king threw back his shoulders and drank from his goblet, studying the red liquid. “We should not be quarrelling, but as the sons of former kings, should be making our alliances.”

Thranduil fumed at Amroth’s accusation and quick change of subject.

“Are we not fighting upon the same side?”

“Aye,” growled Thranduil. He took a step back as Amroth set down his goblet and reached out for Thranduil’s hand.

“Then let us seal our alliances. Or are you not making any decisions for your land till you are formally instated as king at home?”

Thranduil frowned. “I may not be king, but I am protector of Greenwood till such a decision is made.” He took Amroth’s hand and shook it once, pulling Amroth with a jerk toward him. Mouth against ear, he hissed, “Unlike some, I did not smile at my father’s fall…”

Amroth pulled away and straightened his cloak, dusting off where Thranduil had brushed against him. “Do not think I rejoiced at it.” Amroth met Thranduil’s eyes. “No one wants to see their father die when immortality is the nature. No one wants to watch their comrades dragged into the mire and marshes of the Dead.” His bold demeanor fell for a second, and Thranduil caught a glimpse of what was hidden beneath the new king’s façade.

“At least you had a body…” Amroth muttered bitterly. Then he raised his head, his expression hardening once again. “I await the news then, after all is over and we have returned to our home fires, for the news of your crowning. I would have our realms aligned, the last of the Sylvans…” A bow of formality and click as he turned on his boot heels, Amroth left.

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Halathir watched the king of the Lorien Sylvans walk away. Arms crossed, he leaned against the thick tent poles. He only moved when he sensed Thranduil beside him also watching Amroth.

“Well, my lord, I have a message from the King of Eregion.”

“Aye,” murmured Thranduil thoughtfully.

“He wishes us to join the battle again, but as archers. Now that we have recovered from our losses. He said that the Sylvans had lost too much on the battlefield, but our skills as archers are desperately needed.” Halathir handed Thranduil a piece of parchment with Gil-Galad’s writing sprawling across. “He gave Amroth the same message.”

Thranduil half-smiled as he read the parchment. “My father would be disappointed to see me so quickly put our people under a Noldo’s order…”

“He would praise you for protecting what little we have left,” Halathir touched Thranduil’s shoulder reassuringly. “Think of those at home. Are we fighting any less bravely? Have we not earned glory enough?”

“Glory?” Thranduil looked up sharply. “We are merely doing what needs to be done…”

“Aye.” Halathir nodded. “And we are needed in the back, protecting the soldiers upon the battlefield with our arrows.”

Thranduil nodded thoughtfully. Looking back out over all the tents and fires of his people, he spoke, “Have them ready their bows.”

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“I did not think to see you out here, joining with the elves of the west! Hail the soon to be King of Greenwood!”

“Amroth, draw your bow and keep silent.”

“Thranduil, let bygones be bygones! We are truly brothers, if at least just for the moment!”

Thranduil scowled and took down an orc. Nocked another arrow and dipped the point in poison, and shot another black creature. An Easterling, an orc… In the distance, upon the Dagorland, the looming form of Sauron wielded his mace, flinging the bodies of elves, men, and orcs without discrimination. He attempted a shot at the dark form with no hope of his arrow even reaching the dark lord.

“Look away!” A cry rang through the rain and thunder, and all turned their heads as a blinding light exploded across the dark battlefield.