In the aftermath of Oropher's death at the Dagorlad, Thranduil takes a desperate gamble to prevent further loss of Great Greenwood's troops. Thranduil, Galion, Original characters. Drama/Angst. Rated T for battle scenes.

Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard.

Nightfall

Chapter One: A Terrible Beauty

"In the casual comedy;
He too has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born."
William Butler Yeats, 'Easter 1916'

"I must say, Sire, you are the prettiest orc I have ever seen."

"Shut up, Galion, and pass the burnt cork." Thranduil stuck his hand out impatiently, palm up. "And do not think you can mock me and trick me into overlooking it merely by tacking a 'Sire' or two onto your cheeky words."

Galion did as he was told and handed over the charred cork, suppressing the impulse to scratch. The orcish armor he wore stank of its late owner and he feared it harbored vermin. Over the ennin, he had become accustomed to the daft ideas of his prince -- no, his king, he reminded himself -- but this had to be the daftest of them all. Although he had been ruler of the Greenwood Realm for less than a month, Thranduil seemed to be bent on giving Oropher a run for his money in the mental instability department.

"You missed a spot," Galion muttered.

"Thank you, Galion," Thranduil said sweetly. A sly smile quirked his lips. "And may I say, you make a rather fetching orc yourself."

Galion made a wry face. "If either of us gets fleas -- or, Elbereth forbid, lice -- from this orcish gear, I refuse to be held accountable." Even as he grumbled, Galion's heart lifted to see signs of humor returning to his master. For the first fortnight following Oropher's death in battle, Thranduil had functioned in a state of stunned misery, doing what must be done, fulfilling the role of Greenwood's king, but the easy-hearted prince of the past age had been gone utterly, and Galion had feared for a time that his friend would never return. Even if the current conversation veered into dangerous territory, it was good to see a smile on Thranduil's face once more. "I'm serious, my Lord. If that happens, you are shaving yourself. I flatly refuse to do it for you, valet or no."

"I will bear that in mind, Galion," Thranduil said, putting the final touches of cork to the backs of his hands. "I've no great wish to allow a razor near my gweth, unless it is my own hand wielding it." He set the cork down and spun around on his low stool, his face turning serious again. "There is still time for you to back out, you know. I want no one with me tomorrow but those who come of their own free will."

"And let my Prince go into battle without his long-time esquire at his side? Not cursed likely! Ah, . . . Sire." How hard it still was to remember he spoke to his monarch rather than his cradle-brother and that the easy camaraderie between the two of them was a thing of the past. "Besides, how would I ever explain to Nana if I let you go off and get yourself killed in some mad scheme? Better you should take me with you."

"Good point, Galion," said Thranduil wryly. "Although I think she would forgive you. She always liked you best." Then he sighed, his face turning somber again in the flickering glow of the lantern that lit the sleeping section of the King's pavilion. "Always, I lead, and always, you follow, but this time it is more than into harmless mischief. I know you think me mad."

"Do you wish me to give the politic reply, Sire? Or do you want the honest one, Thranduil?"

"Save your breath. I know both answers." Thranduil shook his head. "Two out of three of us are dead already, Galion. We cannot afford to lose any more men -- not and have a realm left. Just this one small task for us on the part of a few volunteers, and the troops of Greenwood the Great will be used henceforth as archers. No more will we be asked to serve in the front lines. Ereinion and Elendil have agreed to this, provided we help take the gate on the morrow. Consider this my first successful negotiation as king of this realm. Adar never gave me full credit for it, but I do know how to cut a deal, you know."

"That you do, Sire. I merely wonder why the 'small task' must be performed by you personally."

"Because I am my father's son, Galion. I will not ask anyone to do what I dare not myself."

Galion bit his lip and forbore to point out that Oropher had indeed just done himself what he asked of his own soldiers, leading two thirds of them straight to the fabled Halls of Mandos. Galion bore Greenwood's late king a grudging respect; always had, but he wished that in this regard the son would not emulate his father. "What good will it do us if you are killed, Sire?"

"If I fall, Séregon is under orders to take the remainder of my army and march for home. Gil-galad knows this and has agreed to it as well. Those men, at least, will return alive to their families, and you Laegrim can carry on as you would have done before Adar and I arrived. Consider it good while it lasted, Galion."

"We Laegrim? There is no 'we' about it, Sire. Whatever your fate tomorrow, I will share it, Grey-elf or Green."

"Then I shall have to see to it that we all survive, won't I?" Thranduil sighed. "If my father taught me nothing else, he taught me that a king serves for the good of his people and not his own glory."

"Taught?" Galion muttered. "Do you ever wonder, my Lord, if all those old tales Master Istion taught the two of us were true? Powerful beings in the West? A lord of the dead with vast halls, and a lady who weaves our fates into her tapestries? Vah-yee-ray, was it?"

"Doubt is an odd sentiment to be expressing on the eve of a battle, Galion."

"Possibly, Sire, but of the two of us I am the superstitious Green-elf, after all. Shall I be rehearsing my speech to this Námo? I have a few sins to confess."

Thranduil gave him a long look, then shook his head and shrugged. "In the past weeks, the idea that those who fall will be granted rest and renewed life has been a comfort to me. And yet, at other times it seems that these Belair use us for their playthings. Out of the western sea comes Lord Elendil, claiming to be long-descended kin of Elrond Peredhel as in the old tales, and telling us that his land is no more -- sunk beneath the waves in retribution for disobedience. Who else could have done it? Who is it that we fight now, other than one of those Rodyn turned to evil? All you and I can do is to trust to hope . . . and to ignore the fear."

"Very well, Sire," said Galion, proffering a leather orc helm and keeping the other for himself. "I shall follow your lead."

Thranduil took the helmet, taking a careful sniff and making a face as he put it on his head, obscuring his face and bright hair. "I hope you were wrong about the lice. And Galion, when we are alone, I wish you would call me Thranduil. Of all the things I have lost in the past weeks, I think I miss my given name the most."

oOo

"My, my, will you look at the orcs!" The tall, dark-haired Golodh rose from his seat at the fire, where he and his two fellow guards kept the night watch. "It's a good thing the Captain warned us to be on the lookout for orcs heading out of the camp tonight, rather than into it. Otherwise we might have shot you. You lot all look so very convincing. Whose idea was this, anyway?"

"Mine, of course," said Thranduil, his tone outwardly affable, although Galion, with a wariness born of long familiarity with his royal master, poised himself for trouble. "I grew tired of waiting for your High King to emulate his august forbear, the noble Fingolfin, and go up and knock on the gate to call Lord Sauron out to single combat. I cannot imagine how he failed to think of it. At length, I decided to adopt the strategy of another famous Golodh, and find our way in by stealth and disguise. I am certain you wish us luck in this endeavor." He nodded curtly and made as if to continue on to the south.

"Well, you have the hair to imitate Finrod Felagund, I'll give you that. Dressing up like orcs to sneak in -- now, that is a fitting tactic for a son of Oropher Turn-tail."

'Oh, nuath!' Galion thought as he saw Thranduil freeze in his tracks and turn slowly back to face the Golodhren guard. Beside him, Galion saw the other five men of Thranduil's escort pale behind their orc gear. One or two of them winced and muttered nervously. A few paces back, Magorion, Thranduil's new chief general, hurried his own group of seven forward.

"Galion, will you hold my helm for me? And my bow?" said Thranduil calmly, flashing a subtle hand signal to Magorion to stand back. Galion saw the general's hand leave his sword hilt, although it still hovered close.

"Someday, you and I are going to have to have a lengthy discussion about courtesy," Thranduil said, looking the Golodh in the eye. "Oropher Turn-tail indeed. I heard that name whispered among you as my father and I rode in. I knew that my father heard it too, and I saw it sting him to the quick. Perhaps he might have been more temperate in his actions without the taunts of the likes of you, but we shall never know that now, shall we?"

Thranduil paused for breath and stepped forward until he stood almost chest to chest with the other elf. "My father was no coward, 'Noldo,' " he said, giving the Quenya term for 'wise-elf' a particular ironic emphasis. "Neither am I. But the hours of darkness grow short, and I will not allow you to goad me into unwisdom when I have a job to do. In that, I am not my father's son. We will finish this when I return -- if I return. Best pray to your 'Valar' that I do not, for as I told Ereinion's herald, I have not the age and wisdom of most of you, but I have a very long memory."

Thranduil turned back. "My helm, please, Galion," he said. He covered his head again and motioned his men onward.

Galion waited until they were out of earshot before giving his king a careful sidelong glance. Thranduil shrugged.

"If ever I needed the fire of battle to flow into my veins, that just did it. I feel like killing some orcs now." Thranduil looked off to the south across the empty wastes of the Battle Plain. The Morannon could be seen only as a black mass stretching across the Cirith Gorgor, blocking the ever-present reddish glow of Mordor itself. High rocky hills rose to either side, broken by tiny points of firelight from the maggot holes that riddled them.

"Magorion and his group will head to the western side of the gate," Thranduil said. "My group will go to the east. Take your position, Magorion, and await my signal. We have barely enough time to reach the heights above the gate before first morning light, otherwise I would have showed that Lachenn knave just how hard a Silvan rustic can punch when provoked."

"My Lord," said Magorion, "even in the dark and wearing this foul armor, I doubt we make convincing enough orcs to march right past their defenses and up to the high ground."

Thranduil smiled, and Galion could make out his teeth glittering brightly behind the leather nosepiece of the helm. "What, is my chief general afraid?"

Magorion nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Only a fool would not be. And only a fool or a madman would come up with this strategy."

Galion snorted softly. Séregon had said the same thing. Séregon, who had been bereft when Thranduil ordered him to stay behind. Magorion bit his lip and wisely remained silent.

"They won't be expecting it. That is a point in our favor," Thranduil continued. "But I have another trick up this stinking sleeve -- a little Elvish magic to emulate Prince Finrod of old."

"I had not taken you for a lore-master, ah, Sire." It seemed to Galion that the general had the same problem as he himself did when it came to recalling that their prince was now their king.

"I may surprise you yet, Magorion," said Thranduil with a grin. "I'll chant a song of wizardry, a song of staying, resisting, battling against power; of secrets kept, strength like a tower, and trust unbroken . . ."

Thranduil paused, and put out his hand to touch Magorion's forehead. "Trust," he whispered. "If you believe, all will be well."

Galion sensed his fellow soldiers relax one by one beneath the spell of Thranduil's song. It seemed to him that the diffident prince he had known over the past age had been transformed, utterly. 'By the stars, he can actually do it!' Galion thought. 'He brings magic and might into his words and makes us all believe with the force of his voice, as a king should do.'

Thranduil turned to Galion and winked. "The benefits of a good classical education, my friend." He began again, "Softly in the gloom they heard the birds singing afar . . . the sighing of the Sea beyond . . . "

But then a wind blew out of the south, chilling him despite the heat it carried from the scorched plains of Udûn. In memory, Galion heard the voice of Master Istion droning on to two small boys who would rather be outside playing than getting the good classical education King Oropher insisted upon:

Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew
The Foamriders, and stealing drew
Their white ships with their white sails
From lamplit havens . . .

The wind wails,
The wolf howls. The ravens flee . . .
Thunder rumbles, the fires burn ---
And Finrod . . .

"No, Thran," Galion blurted, forgetting formality in his alarm, "not that one!"

For a moment he thought Thranduil might take offense but instead the King smiled. "I suppose you are right, Galion. It didn't end well for poor Finrod. But what, then?"

Galion shook his head and shivered. "I don't know. Anything but that one."

For a moment Thranduil seemed at a loss, until he let out a chuckle. "I've just the thing, something more fit for a Wood-elf. A dream of home to guide our feet as we walk amongst our enemies." With a final, "Believe . . ." he motioned them onward, singing.

"When summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold
Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold;
When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the west . . ."

Past the edges of the camp, out on the dry plain, Magorion's group split away and went off to the west, still humming softly. Thranduil, Galion and the others continued on to the southeast, toward the dark mass of the Ered Lithui.

oOo

When the first morning light hit the opposing cliff face of the Ephel Dúath, Thranduil sat waiting, as motionless as a stone in the midst of a living stream. Galion marveled at his apparent calm: a calm he did not share.

Galion had been present to hear Thranduil's bitter words to Ereinion's herald in the King's pavilion on the night following Oropher's death. Ereinion and Elendil had held back their troops while so many Silvans had died: a necessary tactic, some said, to prevent further losses from Oropher's folly. Galion was but a simple Green-elf and did not number himself among the wise, yet he had suspected something more sinister. The 'rustic' Tawarwaith had been offered up as a sacrifice, and the weakening of the power of the Grey-elves through the deaths of two of their kings had not grieved the Golodhrim excessively. Today's mission seemed to him to be an excellent opportunity to finish the job, at least so far as Greenwood the Great was concerned. Thranduil took a terrible risk here; more than simply that of being overwhelmed by orcs.

When the demarcating line between light and shadow had worked itself one-third of the way down the cliff face, Thranduil slowly stood and began to ready his bow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, although he did not yet set it to the string. On the opposing rocky heights, Galion saw Magorion's men, previously so still that they might have resembled scattered boulders, rise to their feet as well.

Galion readied his own bow, and around him he sensed the other members of Thranduil's group doing the same.

"Slouch, Galion," said Thranduil out of the corner of his mouth. "Their eyes are weak, but if any of the gate guards should chance to spy us, we need to look like orcs ourselves."

Galion complied, doing Thranduil one better by lounging against a large rock. He could shoot sitting down if need be.

The high notes of an Elven horn pierced the morning silence and echoed between the cliffs. From their position on the rocky heights above the Morannon, Thranduil's group of seven could observe the activity on both sides of the gate. Off to the north, Galion spied the armies approaching across the Dagorlad plain, with Gil-galad's blue and silver battle standard in prominent view, along with the black banner and white tree of Elendil.

Galion felt a lump form in his throat. Oropher's green and silver battle standard had been lost the first day, trampled into the bloody mire of the field along with the majority of Eryn Galen's nobility, and Thranduil had so far been unable to scrounge the necessary materials to replace it. A trivial loss compared to two thirds of The Greenwood's fighting men, yet Galion knew it grieved his king. At least Oropher's body had not been left for the orcs to defile.

An orcish horn blatted in reply, and the forces of Sauron began to assemble, pouring out of maggot holes and filthy tents in rough camps off to the south. 'So few!' Galion thought, amazed, as the lines began to take form. This was their first real look behind the gate, and it confirmed Thranduil's bitter, yet hopeful, prediction on the night following his father's death. 'You were right, my Prince -- no, my King! We did soften them up, and I shall never let those supercilious Golodhrim tell me otherwise!' The odds that the forces of Elendil and Gil-galad might actually be able to take the gate today, up until now a faint hope in Galion's mind, now seemed much better.

Orc captains shouted orders and cracked whips. A gang of orc slaveys began to grunt and strain, turning the arms of a giant windlass set into the top of the stone wall that spanned the valley. A series of gears transferred the motion to the three huge iron doors below. Slowly, they ground open.

Sauron's army marched forth to meet the allied forces arrayed on the plain outside. Galion set an arrow to his bowstring, but Thranduil held up a staying hand. "Not yet. Wait until the time is right."

Galion held firm, the tension gnawing at him, until roughly one half of the orc troops has passed through the gates. Thranduil slowly drew his bow. "Now," he said, letting fly. "Target the captains!"

The archers of Eryn Galen often bragged that they could hit a bird's eye in the dark. An exaggeration, but there were none that could surpass them, and Thranduil had assembled some of the best. The range was long, but Galion exulted to see that few of the arrows missed their mark. Three orc officers immediately fell dead, followed swiftly by several more as Magorion's men began firing from the other side of the canyon. Orcs, who had thought themselves yet safe behind the gates, began to whirl and look about in confusion, seeking the source of the deadly volley.

"Steady. Aim carefully. Make your shots count." Thranduil's voice was calm as he continued to pull and fire. Dimly, Galion noted that outside the gates, Gil-galad had sounded the charge and the melee had begun. Bereft of the direction of their officers and startled by the inexplicable rain of death from above, the orcish foot troops within the gate began to falter. Some broke ranks and sought cover, or fled off to the safety of the south.

Out on the plain another horn blew, and the main mass of the Alliance army parted, as a group of warriors charged forward. Dwarves, Galion thought, as he sighted carefully and took down another orc: Durin's Folk from Moria. Galion had snorted and shaken his head when first the Naugrim had marched in on the tail of Ereinion's army, thinking people of that size would be little use in a battle. Thranduil had chided him, though, telling him not to underestimate the stunted ones. "They are doughty warriors," he had said with an odd look in his eye, "and vicious fighters when put to it."

Galion supposed Thranduil knew what he was talking about, having recently returned from Moria with a bitterly won victory and a remade necklace, although he said little of what he had done to accomplish this and shrugged off all questions.

The Dwarves pressed forward, bright axes swinging, parting the orc troops like a battering ram of living flesh. In their wake, Galion could make out the blue and grey plumed helm of Elrond Peredhel, leading a group of Golodhren warriors from Imladris. He smiled grimly, feeling much reassured. There was no chance now of Ereinion retreating and leaving them all high and dry, not with his herald and protégé in jeopardy.

The phalanx of Dwarves had almost gained the gates. Seeing their inexorable progress, the orc captain commanding the windlass gestured and shouted an order. The orc slaveys reversed direction, and the gates began to grind slowly shut, shutting off retreat to their own troops but preventing entrance by the Alliance forces.

"Aim for the orcs turning the windlass!" Thranduil cried. "Keep those gates open!"

Galion and the other Wood-elves now directed their fire toward the top of the wall. Here and there the orcs began to fall dead over the arms of the windlass. Others made as if to flee but were held to their task by the whip of their captain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galion saw Thranduil draw his bow, so tightly that the cords of his neck stood out, sighting grimly. The bow sang, the arrow flew, and suddenly the orc captain clutched his hands to his throat. He staggered a few paces, clawing helplessly at Thranduil's arrow protruding from his neck, and pitched forward into the mechanism. The continued momentum of the windlass dragged his body down into the gears, jamming them firmly and bringing the whole thing to a grinding halt.

In the first few moments following the lucky shot, Galion watched a parade of emotions flit over his king's face, from a grimace of disgust, to surprise, to a grin of unabashed delight. Thranduil let out a war whoop and punched his right fist high into the air. "For Oropher!"

The braver among the gate orcs attempted to tug at the mangled limbs of their captain, whose crushed body was now in several pieces, in a vain attempt to free the gears. But as more of them fell to the continued rain of arrows, they seemed to give it up as a lost cause. With no officer to stop them, they deserted their post and ran for cover, leaving the great gates ajar.

However, more ominously, Galion saw the few remaining gate guards looking upward and pointing in their direction. "We haven't long now," Thranduil said. "Keep firing. Pick off as many as you can, while you can."

Durin's Folk had now fought their way inside, with Elrond's warriors hard on their heels. Although many of the orcs had fled off south in the general confusion, other were still putting up a heavy resistance while more and more Men and Elves poured in through the open gates.

Thranduil ripped off his orc helm and waved it high above his head, giving the signal for Magorion and his men to cease their fire. "Leave off," he shouted. "We dare not risk hitting our own." Uncovered, his bright gold hair blew out around him like a banner in the hot breeze off the plain of Udûn. "Better than any battle standard, eh, Galion?" he said with a wild grin. "Here I am. Here is Greenwood's king. Let them come!" He drew his sword and let out a high-pitched battle scream of defiance.

'He is beautiful,' Galion told himself, even as his own throat echoed the cry. 'And he is twice as mad as his father ever was, when the spirit takes him. I would die for Thranduil.'

As orcs came pouring out of the maggot holes and swarming up the rocks toward them, Galion realized he might soon have the opportunity to do that very thing.

oooOooo

To be continued . . .

Author's Notes:
The first song Thranduil quotes is from The Lay of Leithian. JRR Tolkien
The second song is Thranduil's favorite, The Song of the Ent and the Entwife. JRR Tolkien, The Two Towers

Translations:
ennin: long-years, Sindarin equivalent of yéni
gweth: manhood
Nana: familiar for Mother -- Mama
Adar: Father
Laegrim: Green-elves, Nandor
Belair: Sindarin for Valar
Rodyn: Valar
Golodh; Golodhrim; Golodhren: Noldo; Noldor; Noldorin
nuath: shadows -- a curse
Lachenn: Flame-eyed -- an insulting term for the Noldor
Tawarwaith: Wood-elves
Naugrim: Dwarves