How does one explain the moment that they change? Most often it is a series of events over time that cause one to change, but in my case, it was one moment. A deep breath, a sigh, the slow fluttering of eyelids just before waking. It was in those brief seconds that my life was irrevocably altered.
The Second Age was ending, but none of us knew how that end would come. Would we see the dawn of a new day, one free of darkness and evil, or would all hope fade into darkness, leaving us to die as best we could? It had never happened before, not like this; it was an unprecedented event – a coming together of all the free peoples of Middle-earth, Elves, Men, and Dwarves, in an assault on the most powerful force of evil that existed since the Valar had rid the world of Melkor. There we were, fighting as one, armed and pounding on the Black Gates.
Mordor is a bleak place, by turns intolerably hot and insufferably cold, filled with smoke and the rank stench of walking death. Not a tree or a shrub existed upon Dagorlad. To the East lay the Black Gates, to the West, the Slag Hills. To the North were the Dead Marshes; of course, that is not what they were called then – they had not yet earned that black name. To the South was the one safe road, if one could call it safe; it led to Henneth Annûn and to the lands of Gondor. There was one way out, one road that led away from what many of us considered the place of our impending death.
Once again, we mounted an assault against the Dark Lord with the aid of our friends, the Númenóreans. The Dwarves joined us, wielding their axes upon Ephel Dúath. While it is not commonly spoken, without the Dwarves, we surely would have fallen into darkness; they kept the monstrous Cave Trolls at bay while we battled the main contingent of orcs and other fell beasts.
I was surrounded by those I loved and respected most: my king, Gil-galad, my lord, Elrond, and my best friend, Glorfindel. Celeborn and Círdan's forces were there as well, lending both arms and wisdom to the effort. We fought almost ceaselessly, only finding rest when we had pushed Sauron's forces past their breaking point. The opening salvo came with our assault on the Black Gates, something that more than one of us believed was madness. It well could have been, but for an act that turned the tide of that battle. But, I digress...
I was pacing the camp, weaving my way among the fires and tents of the largest army Middle-earth has ever known. The camp was mostly segregated, elves, men, and dwarves keeping each to their own. Even amongst the races there was separation: the Noldor, under the banner of Gil-galad, camped next to the Silvan forces led by Celeborn; and off to themselves, the ever secretive and independently minded Silvan led by Oropher, the Sinda who had crossed into the East and been elected king by those who dwelt in Greenwood the Great. Those Silvan in Greenwood had once been closely allied with their kinsmen in the woods of Lórien; however, as the years drew on, they became more distant. By the time Oropher and a band of refugees from Doriath arrived, they were in need of leadership and a more cohesive community.
As I walked amongst the fires and low murmurings I pulled my cloak tight around me. I cannot say why I did it, for the extremes of temperature are nothing more than an annoyance to the Firstborn. Perhaps it was the ceaseless wind that scattered the acrid dust into the air; I remember feeling unclean the entire time we were in Mordor. I stood near the edge of Oropher's camp; it was nearly silent, only here and there could be heard a whisper.
That was the first time I saw him. He stood in the doorway to his father's tent, his arms crossed over his lean chest, the cursed wind sending his hair aloft. He stood there in defiance of it, refusing to take shelter, refusing to shrink away. I remember thinking he was fair enough, but then so were many elves. I studied him for a while, thinking to myself that Oropher was an idiot to bring one so young, with so much promise to this field of death. Thranduil could not have been more than 50 years of age, and despite his outward mask of defiance, I could see the anxiousness and fear that crept into his heart. Indeed, it was residing in all of our hearts; perhaps only Glorfindel was free of it, for he knew what was to come, at least in terms of the journey to Mandos' Halls. There are few elves who have seen what he has seen.
I watched the prince for a while, and then I turned and walked back to my own bedroll, seeking rest for my body, if not my mind.
Anor tried to aid us in our plight, but even her rays were not strong enough to break through the dank clouds that hovered over us. The day was waning; the battle had been fierce and showed no signs of relenting. Still the Morannon mocked us, laughing at us with its black teeth. The gates were yet to be breached, and our numbers were beginning to dwindle. I cannot recall how many wretched beasts I felled when I heard it, the sharp, native war cry of the Sindar.
What came over him I will never know, but Oropher's too small and too lightly armed regiment broke ranks and charged forward. This caused a break in our line, leaving the rear guard vulnerable. Cursing, I signaled to my warriors and rushed to fill the void before the orcs reached the camp. I did not see Oropher and his loyal warriors driven into the swamplands, where they were cut down one by one, as easy as picking apples from a basket. I do remember the sound of arrows providing cover for the regiment that Glorfindel hastily gathered to try to aid Oropher. To this day, I do not recall ever hearing such a deafening whine. I looked over my shoulder and the air was peppered with arrows, all green fletched, all finding their marks and nothing else. I will say that there are few archers who can best a Wood-elf.
Oropher and his Silvan warriors were ill-equipped for battle in the close confines and the unsteady footing of the marshes. Without heavy armor such as the Noldor wore, and without lance or broadsword, they were rolled over like grass beneath a herd of horses. Glorfindel and his soldiers could not reach them in time, but they made sure that not one orc came out of that swamp alive.
Oropher's brazen move was not completely in vain, for it provided the opening we needed. Thinking that the rest of us would fall as easily as those ill-fated Silvan in the marshes, the commander of the gate opened them wide, and Gil-galad and Elendil led the charge into the breach. Without that opportunity, we would have broken upon those gates like waves upon the rocks.
It was dawn the following day and I nearly collapsed from exhaustion on a rock near our new campsite. We were now camping upon Udûn and had driven Sauron's forces back toward Barad-dûr. I looked next to me and saw an elf sitting upon the bleak ground. His head hung down, causing his hair to obscure his face. I could tell by his garb and by the hair that it was one of the few survivors left from Oropher's regiment. The elf's hands rested upon his knees, palms up. His fingers were raw and bloody, Valar know how many arrows this brave elf had fired trying to save his kinsmen. I reached inside my tunic and removed a handkerchief, wet it with my water bag, then kneeled in the dirt beside him to clean his wounds. As I focused on my work, I felt his eyes upon me. I looked up from my task into the eyes of the new King of Greenwood the Great.
I wanted to say something, but no words existed that could do his grief justice. I smiled in friendship, then completed my task. As I tied a clean, dry handkerchief around his right hand, he clasped my arm with his left. "Thank you," he said, his voice a dry and aching whisper. I handed him my flask and he took a sip, then I proceeded to clean his face. As the grime was removed, I saw that his skin was flushed, his eyes swollen. It was obvious that he had been grieving the loss of his father.
"I watched it and was helpless," he said softly. "I tried to reach him, to fire my bow and run as fast as I could, but for every step I took forward I was driven back two. Someone, I know not who, grabbed me and dragged me back to my regiment." He took a deep shuddering breath and continued, "I am so ashamed, not only did I leave my warriors, I failed to save my father. I am a failure both as a warrior and as a son."
I said nothing. What does one say to that? There were no assurances I could offer that would change his mind – though in truth, I would have done the same thing had it been my king or my lord, or even my best friend.
The rest of the morning passed in silence. I eventually helped him to his feet and escorted him to his tent, where I stayed at his behest. I left for a short time after he fell asleep, just to check with Elrond and Glorfindel, then I returned to his tent. The Silvan who camped around it were too dumbstruck with grief to notice my passing; their king and two thirds of their army had fallen in the night.
I remember feeling as though my limbs were made of iron, and I sat on the bed next to Thranduil. When I woke, he was there beside me, sleeping. It was dark, and now that we were so close to Sauron's forces, we kept no fires burning. It was silent but for the howling wind and the sound of gravel falling down the face of Ephel Dúath. Despite the darkness, I could see clearly, just one of the advantages of being Firstborn, and I looked down at the sleeping prince. He turned his head slightly and took a deep breath, then he let it out in a long sigh, and his eyelids fluttered as he woke.
Never in all of my days have I seen such a sight. There in the gloom and lifelessness of Mordor, beauty shown bright, like a star piercing the clouds at midnight. Even in his pain and grief, he was utterly perfect; even as he suffered, he was exquisite. I reached out and caressed his cheek with the back of my hand, and he tried to smile. "Weep," I whispered. "It is fitting that we mourn the loss of those we love."
He rolled to his side and wrapped his arms around me. I held him while he wept quietly, trying to comfort him in his grief.
Ten years. It took ten years to finally defeat the Dark Lord, and when it was over what was left of the Last Alliance wearily left the field, too broken hearted with loss to celebrate a victory. As Glorfindel said, it was a duty done, nothing more. The victory was all the more hollow because of the greed of Isildur. The Ring survived, which meant that a part of Sauron did as well.
We traveled as one into the West, leaving behind the Men of Gondor to guard the Black Gates and hunt down the straggling bands of Orcs that had not been destroyed in the battle. It was on a low hillside in the rolling grasslands south of the Great Wood that the tenuous bond between Thranduil and I was solidified.
We stood together on the rise of a hill, watching as Anor slowly set, her golden rays caused the sea of tall autumn grass to look like fire. A soft breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of trees. To breathe clean, fresh air, to smell living things, to feel Anor's rays on our faces, after so long a time spent in so bleak a place, it was like being born again. I looked at Thranduil, and he smiled. He still carried the grief of his father's loss, but I could see his heart was healing. He was ten years older in body, but twice that in spirit. Loss, pain, heartache, these things had seasoned him, made him wiser and stronger. He was still so young, still so beautiful, but now that beauty came from his nobility, not just his physical presence.
"I think I am in love with you," I said softly.
He smiled and cupped my cheek. "I know I am in love with you," he answered.
That was his way. He never doubted; he never did anything halfway. He drew me closer and our lips touched for the first time. It was like living flame, like flying. In that moment, my whole life became clear. He and I belonged together.
"What happens now?" I murmured, savoring the feeling of his lips still ghosting over my own.
"I must return to my land."
"You are king now," I answered. "Your people need a leader."
"Will you come with me?" he asked.
"I cannot, not now," I answered. "But I swear to you, I will come as soon as I can."
He wrapped his arms around me and leaned his head upon my shoulder. "We part on the morrow," he murmured.
"Aye. I dread it."
"Let us use what time we have left well," he said softly, then he turned his head and pressed his lips to my neck.
We made love that night and watched Anor rise, then we parted, he and his warriors traveling north, me and my comrades traveling west.
The path to Mordor is paved with good intentions, someone once said. I wanted to see him, but my duty kept me away. We had the burial of our king to attend to, then the marriage of my lord. Elflings soon came, two sons of identical form, and I was immersed in my duties. Thranduil and I exchanged letters as often as possible, but his people were plagued with growing darkness in the southern wood, and retreated north. Soon, the letters came less frequently. My beloved was consumed with keeping his people alive and safe.
One day, I received a letter from him. He had taken a wife and she was with child. Of course, I understood why this had happened. He and his people were under siege, he needed an heir and he needed comfort, she gave him both. I resigned myself to spending my days loving one I would never have. Little did I know that he did the same.
Some years later, I received word that his wife was killed in a raid upon the caves. She died trying to help those who lived outside the gates get inside. It is hard to hate someone who was so brave; Thranduil always had excellent intuition, he loved her for a reason. My beloved king was left with a young son and more loss to grieve. I wondered if he was better prepared the second time, if one can be so.
Against my lord's better judgment, he allowed me to travel to what was now known as Mirkwood. I needed to see him; I needed to be there for him. Perhaps I was trying to atone for not coming earlier, or perhaps I was merely being selfish. I needed to see him, whether or not he needed to see me was secondary.
When our eyes met, I saw that he still loved me, despite all, and there was no anger or resentment in his eyes. We came together, embraced, and all the years apart fell away, no more substantial than mist.
I lay beside him in his wide bed, watching him sleep. He turns, takes a deep breath, then sighs, his eyelids fluttering open as he wakes. One moment, a moment just like this one, and my life changed forever – for the better.
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One Moment by Larien Elengasse
Story notes: Beta: None but me, myself, and I.
I have no idea where this came from, other than I realized that it was something I had not ever written before. I have paired these two, but never like this, so I thought I would give it a go...
