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.

Chapter Two: O When May It Suffice?

"When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?"
William Butler Yeats, 'Easter 1916'

'The Belair must love me,' Thranduil congratulated himself as he and his remaining men limped back into the camp later that afternoon. He had not thought their chances of survival to be very good when orcs from the maggot holes assailed them in waves, but he had managed to hold his own, picking off the orcs that rushed up the rocky slopes at him and his men one by one, until Sauron's forces had called the retreat. His attackers had left off then and fled away to the south with the rest of their fellows.

Two men from Thranduil's group had been killed: one by a black-fletched crossbow bolt early on, and one by the slash of a scimitar once the fighting had reached the hand-to-hand stage. Magorion's group had fared better, losing only one. Three men, three lives, balanced against the entire rest of his army. Thranduil grieved them, but it seemed a fair trade under the circumstances, and truly, he had expected to lose more, himself included.

Thranduil was not entirely unscathed. An arrow had passed close enough to his head to nick the edge of his ear, leaving a deep notch that would take at least a year to heal back in. He had barely felt it in the heat of battle, but now it stung like a demon and he had bled torrents down his right shoulder. Galion would be sure to have some sour remark tonight about the idiocy of fighting without a helm while he applied salve to the wound and tried to comb the blood out of Thranduil's hair. At least the bloodstained orcish garb could simply go onto a nearby midden rather than requiring washing in this land of precious little water.

Thranduil, of course, pushed aside the thought of where Eryn Galen would be if that arrow had been just a finger's length closer in. Yes, he had been very lucky today. The Belair indeed must love him.

Near the outskirts of the camp, Thranduil's group overtook three very familiar looking Golodhren soldiers, also heading north. Thranduil felt a grim satisfaction upon seeing that the dark-haired one was cradling a wounded left arm.

Thranduil smiled a wicked grin. "Well, I see your High King Gil-galad has finally sunk that oversized spear of his in a place where it will do some actual good."

The dark-haired Golodh whirled, his expression turning from anger to conciliation when he saw whom he faced. "My Lord. Thranduil, I . . ."

Thranduil continued to regard him placidly, arms crossed over his chest, well aware of how, even now, the title of 'king' seemed to stick in the elf's throat. "You and I have a conversation to finish," he said.

"I . . . I saw how you and your men kept the gates open today while Elrond led us in. That took . . ."

"Bollocks," Thranduil heard Galion mutter helpfully. How touching, he thought. He had rather expected Galion to come forth with a remark concerning his sanity.

"Yes, rather surprising for the son of Oropher Turn-tail," Thranduil said with a bitter smile. "Explain yourself, 'Noldo,' while I decide whether to use my fists or my sword on you."

The elf took a long, careful pause before answering. "I knew your father when he had barely a pot to mix his ink in and a window to light his work. The two of us were scribes in Lindon, in the service of Ereinion Gil-galad, back in the days when Eärendil was newly risen and Beleriand newly sunk. He came down out of the Ered Luin with nothing but the clothes on his back. And that clothing was of animal skins."

Thranduil frowned. Ereinion's very name meant 'scion of kings,' while Thranduil was all too aware that he, himself, was nothing but the son of a self-made man, a minor functionary in Thingol's court, even though he bore a vanishingly distant kinship to the late king of the Grey-elves. He bit his lip but listened closely, drinking the details in as a parched plant soaks up rain. Aside from a few salient incidents, Oropher had rarely discussed his life before coming to the Greenwood, and Thranduil was hearing a hitherto unsuspected side to his father's nature. "That does not explain why you felt the need to call me coward to my face and my father the same behind his back."

The Golodh squirmed as if to justify himself. "We both of us vied for King Ereinion's favor, and Oropher got the greater share of that, or so it seemed to me. I suppose it was inevitable that we should become enemies. I began to whisper that he could not be trusted; that anyone who had survived the fall of Doriath must be better at fleeing to safety than at fighting. In time, the whispers spread, and Oropher became secretly known as 'Turn-tail' throughout all of Lindon. Yet, he prospered, while I fell in Ereinion's favor. When he decided to leave, I was more than glad to see the back of him. Even so, as his group set out for the east, I could not resist calling out that one last jab at him, for it seemed to me he was fleeing again. He never even turned his head."

'Oh, Ada,' Thranduil sighed inwardly. 'To let such a one as this goad you!' Yet he supposed the oldest slights cut the deepest. Had there been a kernel of truth in it? Had his father, always so strong and self-assured in Thranduil's eyes, secretly doubted his own valor? "Well, he certainly proved you all wrong, did he not?" he said quietly.

"What you did today took great courage," the Golodh replied. "Your bravery shames me. I spoke wrongly of you . . . and of your father. I ask your pardon, King Thranduil."

King. Never had Thranduil expected that title, now coming so painfully out of the Golodh's lips; never had he wanted it. And never less than now, for with his new position came the duty to be gracious under all provocation. Thranduil felt sick at heart to think of all the Silvan dead, led to their slaughter out of an ancient quarrel and a careless slur to manhood. He wanted nothing more than to lash out and knock this fool into the next fortnight, but a king had not the luxury of brawling in the dust like a common soldier before the eyes of all.

Thranduil took a deep breath, carefully unfolding his arms. As his hands dropped to his sides near his sword pommel, he heard Galion's breath quicken and sensed his men tensing for action around him.

Slowly, he forced his fists to unclench. "Pardon is given." But even as Greenwood's king spoke the generous words, Oropher's still-grieving son could not resist reaching out to clap the Golodh on his left shoulder in gesture seemingly friendly, yet just a little more hearty than necessary.

"Ai!" The elf grimaced and clasped his wounded arm to his chest.

Thranduil offered a courtly bow. "I bid you good day."

As he turned to walk away, Thranduil saw one of the Golodh's companions remove his plumed helmet, revealing golden hair the color of which Thranduil had rarely seen, save on himself and on Celeborn's wife the few times he had met her. "I always told you that tongue of yours would get you into trouble one day," this second elf said. "You deserved that, Erestor."

oOo

Thranduil ducked through the canvas flap that divided the public section of the King's pavilion from the sleeping area and let his shoulders sag at last. Even though it had been weeks, he still felt vaguely uneasy in that area, halfway expecting Oropher to show up and chide him for trespassing upon his private space. That feeling faded more and more as time passed, as did the clarity of the vision when he attempted to call his father's voice and face to mind.

Stars above, but he felt weary, now that the fever of battle had left him! He wanted nothing more than to be out of that stinking orcish armor the minute Galion could loose the straps. Thranduil looked about in irritation. Where was his esquire anyway? Galion had been hard on his heels as they entered the Silvan section of the camp, but now he was nowhere to be seen.

"Curse it, Galion, what is taking you so long?" he muttered. No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard a wail from outside the tent.

His heart beginning to race, Thranduil thrust aside the canvas and hurried out into the daylight. Down at the end of the row, in front of the Healers' tent, he spied Galion crouched over the form of a prostrate elf. Past Galion's shoulder, he could just make out the silhouette of an arrow protruding from the fallen elf's chest. Thranduil broke into a run, forgetting his kingly dignity altogether.

He skidded to a stop at the outskirts of the assembled group of soldiers and healers. "Oh, no!" he moaned low in his throat, as he made out the elf's features. "Sweet Elbereth, please no . . ."

Galion turned stricken, tear filled eyes to him, and Thranduil had a moment to reflect that in all the years they had spent together, his esquire had always been the steady, unflappable one. Through all the troubles Thranduil had led the two of them into, and those had sometimes been considerable, Galion rarely turned a hair. Until today. "My son . . ." Galion choked out.

Thranduil had first seen Galion's son as a blanket-wrapped bundle in his valet's arms, red-faced, half-formed and odd-smelling. or so it seemed to one who had no children of his own. "He is, ah . . . very pretty," he had struggled to say, trying very hard to make the right comments in the face of Galion's all too obvious pride in his firstborn.

"His name is Haldhoron," Galion had said with a covert glance at Thranduil's Prince's signet ring, a stylized oak leaf, "after an old friend."

Thranduil had of course warmed to the child then. Having a namesake was a solemn business. Thus, he had bitten his tongue and smiled when the earnest little fellow had trotted about his bedchamber in Galion's wake, 'helping' his ada put away the clothing, managing to drop at least half of them on the floor in the process. And when the lad had accidentally spilled an entire phial of pine-scented hair oil over a pair of brand new doeskin trousers, Thranduil had taken a deep, deep breath and said, very convincingly he thought, that it was no great matter; he would simply have another pair made.

When Haldhoron grew, Oropher placed him under the tutelage of his paternal grandfather, where he proved equally inept at the art of forestry. Yet it was impossible to dislike the lad, always ready with a merry smile and a joke, having inherited his father's sly wit. In time, Haldhoron took his fate into his own hands and found his one true talent in life, becoming a skilled worker in leather, making buckets that did not leak, and saddles that chafed neither horse nor rider. He most likely had fashioned the same armor that had failed to protect him today.

Thranduil could not help feeling slightly queasy at the utter wrongness of the sight before him. Haldhoron's features, always so gay and animated, lay slack in death, the faer having fled the flesh. He whirled on Séregon, who stood close by. "How did this happen? He was supposed to be here in the camp, with you!"

Séregon flinched and Thranduil realized that he had spoken far more roughly than he had intended. "Haldhoron did remain by my side, Sire, as you ordered" he replied. "As we watched the battle unfold, a group of orcs broke through the lines. A stray arrow came out of nowhere, it seemed, and . . . It was quick, my Lord, if that is any comfort. He died instantly."

"Den rhacho!" Thranduil muttered. It was no comfort at all. "He was supposed to be safe. You all were supposed to be safe." He shook his head and fell silent, aware that a plaintive tone had crept into his voice. He felt sick at heart, impotent. Why else had he taken such a risk today, save to prevent such tragic waste? 'The Belair must hate me,' he told himself.

Tentatively, he approached to stand at his stricken esquire's side. "Galion . . .?"

"Oh, Thran," Galion sobbed, past remembering any decorum in his grief, "how am I going to tell his mother that I lost him?"

Thranduil set his jaw, fighting back the burning prickle in his eyes. The King must not be seen to weep before the eyes of his soldiers. How was he going to tell the wives, mothers, and sweethearts of the Greenwood that he had lost two out of three of their men?

He stank of orc, blood and the sour sweat of his own fear. His muscles trembled with exhaustion from the effort of swinging his sword, and he wanted nothing but to wash himself clean and collapse onto his cot to sleep the next day round. Yet his duty both as king and friend lay plain. "Galion, come with me. We need to get you out of that foul gear while the Healers do what they must."

Galion stood up slowly, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. "Yes. I don't want to say goodbye to him dressed this way. Already, his last memory of me is looking like an orc."

Thranduil cleared his throat to banish the catch from his voice. "His last memory of his father is as a hero, Galion. Never think anything different." He turned his attention to the Healers, his tone all business. "Make Haldhoron ready for burial. We will lay him to rest beside my father."

"Thranduil -- my Lord," Galion said, turning to him in shock. "Beside the King? That is not proper."

"You and I suckled from the same breast, Galion," Thranduil said gently. "Who has a better right than your son to lie next to my father? He is family to me."

oOo

Two hours later, Thranduil stood near the marshes dressed in light trousers and shirtsleeves. He had wiped the majority of the smut from his exposed skin with a rough cloth, but he could see that the back of his hands still bore dark smudges and he was certain his face did as well. Galion's face looked grey even beneath the faint remnants of the burnt cork and in the pale tracks where his tears had washed him clean.

"Leave us," Thranduil told the soldiers who had helped them carry Haldhoron's body from the camp to the burying ground. The healers had washed and stitched him into his own cloak for a makeshift shroud. The soldiers set their burden down, bowed, and turned to depart. "Leave us two shovels and a pick," Thranduil directed.

"Two, Sire?" Galion regarded him with one dark eyebrow raised. "And you have just dismissed the diggers."

Thranduil nodded. "My dear wife tells me that among her people, if one should chance to die, the custom is for the closest kin to dig a grave with their own hands. At first, I thought it cruel, but now I come to see the wisdom of it. I wish I had done it for Oropher. Perhaps if I had, the grief that tears at my heart might now be lessened."

Galion shook his head as if he doubted that. "Are you sure, my Lord?"

Thranduil tried to smile reassuringly. "You and I have dug together before, and two hands halve the job. We'll make short work of this too."

"Whatever you say." Galion nodded wearily and took one of the shovels in hand. Thranduil fell to it beside him, doing his best to ignore the sight of Oropher's fresh grave near to hand. He had not been to this spot since he had seen his father lowered into the earth, the morning following his death.

The pickaxe proved to be unnecessary, since unlike the hard rocky soil of Amon Lanc, this dirt was soft and gave little resistance, although it was heavy with moisture from the nearby marshes. The two of them dug until the bottom of the hole began to fill with ground-water seepage. How could a surfeit of water trouble them here, when there was so precious little of it on the plain where they camped?

The hole was not as deep as Thranduil would have liked, but truly, there were no wild beasts to disturb a grave in this accursed land. There seemed to be no animal life at all save the occasional carrion craban seen flying overhead. He quickly tossed a few shovelfulls back to fill in the puddle of water at the bottom, shaking his head. Had his own father been buried in such foul ground?

Thranduil turned to face Galion, who stood frozen with indecision, and he realized to his dismay that he had not been quick enough to hide the seepage from his friend's eyes. "Galion . . ." he prompted. "East or west?"

"Sire?"

"Towards Aman, or towards Cuiviénen? And it is Thranduil to you. We are alone, I am covered in dirt, and I am sick of ceremony."

Galion seemed to swallow hard at the understanding that the moment had come when he must put his son into the ground. "Point his head toward the west, and make of that what you will, Thranduil."

Together, the two of them lowered Haldhoron's shrouded body into the shallow hole, only an arm's length deep. Galion knelt at the graveside, taking a final look before carefully folding the hood of the cloak over his son's face. He remained, hunched over and kneeling.

Thranduil turned away to stare at Oropher's grave, trying his best to ignore the soft sounds of muffled grief. Let his old friend take all the time her wanted; Thranduil would be cursed if he'd be the first one to shovel clods of dirt over Galion's son.

Although it had been little more than a fortnight, the mound of earth over the King's grave had already begun to collapse in the middle, settling in upon itself. Thranduil did his best to keep his mind away from the thought of his father's body, moldering down there in the dank soil. It made no difference, he told himself firmly. The rhaw was a husk merely; a vessel for the faer, which Thranduil had been taught was indestructible until the ending of the world.

Thranduil cast his thoughts out in hope to whatever plane his father's spirit might inhabit. 'Oh, Father, if you can hear me, some wisdom please? I'm in sore need of it. I was not ready for this burden, and I am failing miserably.'

No answer came, only silence. He was on his own.

The metallic singing of a shovel cutting into soil and the muffled thump of dropping dirt pulled him from his ruminations. Without a word, Thranduil took up his own shovel and commenced to help Galion fill in the hole. He had not stayed for this part with Oropher; well-meaning, his men had sought to spare him the sight and sound of his father being covered over. There was no sadder sound in all of Arda, he now realized, than that of earth falling into a grave.

It did not take them long. The slightly-mounded dirt lay fresh and neat; no more to go back in. So little left to mark where Haldoron had been. "Do you think it's true, Thran?" Galion said dully.

"What?"

"What Master Istion and the others told us. That the spirits of the dead are called west to a silent Hall of Waiting where, in time, they are granted new bodies? Will my son live again, or is it nothing but fable and fancy?"

Thranduil looked to the west, whence he had heard nothing but silence. He felt the loss of faith in his very soul. But how could he express that doubt to his grieving friend? 'You're a king now, like it or not,' he told himself. 'Time to act like a king.'

"I doubt it not, Galion," he said firmly. "I have just had a vision that Oropher tarried, waiting for this last one, and that my father and your son will journey on together into the west, there to find the Blessed Realm."

"A pretty thought," Galion said. "I want so very much to believe it."

A pretty lie, Thranduil thought, but a needful one. He had just told the first real falsehood of his royal career. How many more before the end?

"Believe it, Galion," he said, with as much confidence as he could muster. Who knew? Perhaps in time, if he repeated it enough, Thranduil might even come to believe it himself.

"If you say so, Thranduil. But my heart tells me I'll never see him again."

Thranduil had no answer for that; his wellspring of comfort run dry for the day. The physical exertion and the play of emotions from stark fear to triumphant elation to despair had left him exhausted and numb. But nowhere near numb enough.

Tentatively, he put out his hand to grasp Galion's shoulder, feeling it quiver with suppressed sorrow. He had not touched his old friend, he realized, except in passing during the donning of armor or in dressing since . . .

"We should go from here now, Galion. You shall rest tonight. We'll have a bath to wash the filth of this day from us, and this time, you will go first."

Galion turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Is that so, Thranduil? And who is going to fetch that water and heat it?"

"I will, of course," Thranduil huffed. "I'm not entirely helpless, you know."

Galion let out a little bark of laughter, wild for the grief. "You carrying water? That will be the day." Then he subsided. "Thranduil, my Lord, please. The mindless tasks will soothe me, tonight of all nights. Do not deny me the comfort of routine out of misplaced kindness."

The sun had sunk down fully into the west and twilight was upon them. To the south, the watch fires of the Alliance camp were springing to life like so many little stars. This would be the last time for them, Thranduil thought. Tomorrow the armies would move inside the Gates, and the siege of Mordor would begin in proper. How much time would it take to prise Sauron the Accursed from his dark tower and make a final end to him? How long before Thranduil could return to the loving arms of his young wife and the inevitable sad reckoning when he had to face his people? That is, assuming there were a victory and he would be going home at all.

Thranduil spared one last glance back at the masses of Silvan graves, row upon row. So many. Too many. If only he had said one word, spoken his reservations to his father! Would it have tempered Oropher's judgment? Would it have made a difference? If only . . .

Had today been an expiation or merely a continuation of Oropher's folly -- the need to prove manhood in the face of ignorant scorn? Thranduil knew he would be asking himself that question until Ardhon Meth, and, again, in the privacy of his own soul, from the faer of the dead and the Belair themselves, he heard nothing but silence.

Thranduil nodded and clasped Galion's shoulder firmly, feeling his valet's tense muscles relax beneath the warmth of his touch. "Very well, Galion. You can undo these braids for me when we get back to the camp. They've begun to give me a headache. As for the water, we'll do that together. We'll do all of it together."

And together, the two of them walked southward toward the darkening plain of Mordor.

"For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know that they dreamed and are dead.
. . . Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born."
William Butler Yeats, 'Easter 1916'

oooOooo

Translations:
Haldhoron: Sindarin for 'Tall Oak.' Thranduil's royal symbol is the oak tree
faer: the Sindarin equivalent of fëa, the Elven spirit
Den rhacho!: Curse it!
craban: crow
rhaw: Sindarin equivalent of hroä, the body
Ardhon Meth: World's End