OoOoO

As evening approached, Thranduil grew more and more restless lying in the tent of the healers. Gurithon had quietly informed him earlier that they would be laying Oropher to rest at the head of the other fallen warriors of the Greenwood. Wounded he may be, but damned if Thranduil was going to be absent for his father's funeral.

Hi desire to be seen and to give his remaining people a leader only intensified when he overheard a whispered conversation through the wall of the tent next to his bed. Clearly the speakers did not realize they were being eavesdropped on, but even Thranduil's limited knowledge of the Noldorin tongue Quenya told him more than he wanted to hear.

"They say that, were it not for his order, Amdír would never have led the Lórien elves into that early charge."

"Ai, it was poorly done. Oropher was a fool if you ask me. Either that or mad; otherwise what else could have possessed him to charge the ranks of Mordor without our forces, or those of Elendil?"

"I agree; fool at the least and mad at the worst. It's a wonder that the Greenwood folk still living haven't gathered together and left already. Were I them, I wouldn't care to be ruled by the house of Oropher in the future."

Thranduil's fists gripped the blanket until his knuckles hurt. His chest felt unbearably tight in a way that had nothing to do with either the thick bandages or the wounds beneath them.

Never forget to be proud of what you are, and you shall never falter ion-nin.

He could hear his father's voice as clearly as if Oropher were standing right beside his bed. I shall always be proud to be your son, Adar. Thranduil wanted to believe those words, and clung to them with all the strength his aching heart still had. The words of the elves standing outside burned like hot irons to his ears though.

"Be still, both of you!"

A sharp, female voice interrupted the conversation on the other side of the tent wall like a dash of icy water.

"My lady!"

"We beg your pardon, Lady Anthelísse. We did not mean..."

The lady spoke again, curt and angry. "You knew what you meant, even if you did not know or care who might hear. Those who died upon yonder field sacrificed much, and do not deserve mockery from the likes of you. I suggest you both find something useful to do with your hands; I grow tired of your idle tongues."

"Yes my lady, of course."

"As you wish, my lady."

Thranduil listened to the entire exchange intently, never minding even when his sudden intake of breath sent pain racing across his chest. By turning his head slightly, he was able to catch sight of a silhouette cast against the tent from the outside. The figure stood for a moment, then turned and circled round toward the entrance. To his surprise, Thranduil recognized the golden-haired healer who had tended him earlier as she stepped back inside away from the grey wastes of the plains.

Noticing the wounded king watching her, Anthelísse sighed and made a gesture toward where she had been standing moment before.

"You heard, Lord Thranduil?"

Sadly Thranduil nodded. "Yes...I heard."

"I am sorry, truly I am. Soldiers do not think sometimes before they speak." Anthelísse silently cursed the two members of her brother's army. Her army, she corrected herself. The remaining Noldor in Middle-Earth were her people now, and by the Valar she would see to it that those two were demoted for their thoughtless words. The misery and grief in the Sindarin elf's eyes before her sapped whatever leniency she might otherwise have been inclined to grant toward such behavior.

"They speak what is on their minds." Thranduil turned his head away, as if ashamed. Gazing upon the rows and rows of wounded in the tent beyond, he felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Gurithon had ever so briefly informed him of the extent of the losses their people had suffered in battle. Twenty-thousand warriors killed, and likely because his own father had called that fatal early charge. How could he ever face his people?

Anthelísse heard a soft 'ahem' behind her, and turned to look who it was. Clad in a dark blue tunic, his long brown hair unbraided in the custom of mourning, Elrond of Rivendell stood patiently at the tent doorway. There had been some tension lately in the camp from the new king of Men, Isildur. Rumor had it that it had to do with the young Peredhil lord, and the whereabouts of Sauron's ring of power. Elrond had been a close friend and standard bearer to her late brother Gil-Galad though, and Anthelísse greeted him with a slight smile.

"Elrond. What brings you to the healers, meldonya*?

The son of Earendil bowed in deference to the lady of the Noldor. "I have come to bid you farewell, Lady Anthelísse. On the morn I lead my people back to Imladris, there I hope to dwell in peace for many years to come." His deep grey eyes traveled past her shoulder to survey the wounded. "I have had my fill of war."

Anthelísse bowed in return. "I have considered you as a brother these past years, and I know that Gil-Galad would say the same if he stood here today. Will you ever heed the call of the Valar and sail to Valinor?"

With a slight and almost-human shrug, Elrond shook his head. "I cannot say. Not today, and perhaps not tomorrow, but someday I suspect the Blessed Realm shall call me to depart these shores. What of you and the Noldor, Anthelísse?"

"What Noldor?" She answered, sounding perhaps more weary and bitter than she had intended. "My people numbered few enough in Arda before even this war came upon us. Since Valinor opened its shores to us once again we have been diminishing like sand through an hourglass. It seems we are not long for this world, my friend."

Elrond held out a hand to Anthelísse, and she took it. "Be that as it may, you and your kin are always welcome in our Hidden Valley. Whether you should wish to join us there to live on in Middle-Earth, or if you only perhaps stop on your way to the Grey Havens, my doors are always open to you and yours."

"Hantanyel**, Elrond." With a gentle squeeze Anthelísse released his hand. "I shall keep that in mind, in the days to come. For now however there are still those that need my care here."

"Na lû e-govaned vîn, mellon-nin***." Elrond stepped back into the pale sunlight. He looked somehow older, careworn Anthelísse thought. She hoped that the Valar would indeed grant the Lord of Imladris the peace he so desired for the future. The two elves saluted one another with a hand to the heart, and then he was gone.

When she began her rounds to change dressings and apply healing salves, Anthelísse was surprised to see the intensity with which Thranduil was watching her. Looking up from checking that the stitches above his lungs were not inflamed, she met his intense gaze.

"Yes?"

The young Greenwood king frowned slightly. "You intend to leave Middle-Earth, my lady?"

Taken aback, she lowered the hem of Thranduil's tunic and tucked the bedsheet back into place. Keeping her eyes on her work allowed her to speak freely.

"Perhaps. My people are leaving these shores, and likely will do so by the hundreds now. The Valar have lifted their ban, and many are eager to return home now that Sauron is defeated."

Thranduil looked perplexed. Perhaps it was the youth of the elf lord's fair face, or the slight redness of his eyes that belied his grief, but for some reason Anthelísse found the expression very endearing.

"That seems somehow a waste to me. Why leave the world now, after all that has been sacrificed to rid it of evil?"

To that Anthelísse had no answer. Straightening up, she folded a roll of clean gauge into her pocket and narrowed her eyes. "You perhaps had best not speak so much for the time being, Lord Thranduil. Let your chest rest itself and heal." Just as she was turning away though, she heard her charge murmur in a soft, sad voice.

"Gil-Galad was your brother, was he not? I am sorry, Lady Anthelísse..."

Bowing her head, Anthelísse felt her shoulders drop with a sudden weight. Keeping her face turned away so that Thranduil could not see her struggle to remain composed, she replied "And I am sorry for your father, Thranduil Oropherion. He may indeed have been in error to call the charge, but none can deny his bravery."

Thranduil was still mulling over those words when Gurithon came to his bedside an hour later. The sun was setting, and plans had been made to lay King Oropher to rest as the first stars came to light. Wood elves loved starlight best above all else, and the Sindarin folk of the Greenwood shared that love.

Gurithon had entered the tent to find Thranduil stubbornly trying to support his own weight on his elbows. It appeared the young elf lord had taken it into his head that he would be making an appearance at his father's burial, come fire or torn stitches.

"But my lord, not this morning you were still unconscious!" Gurithon was all but attempting to hold Thranduil down, having taken his king by the shoulders to press him back down to the bed. "None will hold your absence against you, least of all your father!"

Eyes narrowed, Thranduil seemed to take this statement to the complete opposite effect Gurithon had been hoping for.

"No, but they will not respect me any better for it either. Come now Gurithon, be truthful; have you not heard the whispers that my father led our people to their deaths? That perhaps I am unfit to rule after him for being his son?"

The Captain of the Guard looked horrified. "No! I do not know where you have heard such things from, Aran-nin, but most assuredly not from our folk. I swear by Eru to you, your people both Sindarin and Silvan alike have been anxiously waiting for any news of your recovery." Shaking his head, Gurithon gave Thranduil a wounded look. "Surely you must know how beloved you are by the people of the Greenwood?"

"But why?" Thranduil's voice was full of despair as he sagged back against the pillow. "After the carnage our army suffered in battle? After my father called for the early charge? Why should any of them wish to see me on the throne?"

Gurithon sighed. He too had lost friends upon the battlefield two days ago. Oropher certainly counted as one of those friends though. "Thranduil, I can tell you now that there is scarcely a single elf among the army that would not have done the exact same thing in your father's place. The Noldor can say what they like, and call us as many variants of 'proud', 'fool-hardly' or 'mad' that they can imagine. Warriors of the Greenwood do not fight from the back though, and we never will." With a fierce, sorrowful smile, Gurithon lifted his chin to his king. "Your father knew that, thus we honor him still."

Smiling with equal ferocity through his tears, Thranduil reached for Gurithon's wrist. "I do not fight from the back either, Gurithon. Now call for a chair and four strong warriors. My father will be buried this evening, and I his son will be there to bear witness."

After a moment's hesitation, the captain nodded. "As you command, my king."

OoOoO

*Meldonya = My friend (Quenya)

**Hantanyel = I thank you (Quenya)

*** Na lû e-govaned vîn, mellon-nin = Until next we meet, my friend (Sindarin)