~Thranduil receives an unwelcome letter. Later Doriath has visitors – even more unwelcome.~

oOo

Dior and his family by Jenny Dolfen

Letter from the South

Another couple of years passed, until again an important message came for King Dior, this time with a small company of runners from the south. They brought a letter from Círdan Shipwright with a renewed offer for the people of Doriath to move to his realm. He described how there was now an entire city of Iathrim, as the emigrants from Doriath called themselves, where the brunt of the new arrivals could move in. And as for Dior and his family, he was welcome to stay at Círdan's fortified island, the Isle of Balar, where his treasure would be better protected.

It was clear from the offer that Círdan knew exactly what this treasure was, and that in turn meant that rumours about the Silmaril had spread after all.

As usual, Oropher told Thranduil the news very soon afterwards, and added: "I advised Dior to stay. I know Círdan is your wife's adar and all that, but I cannot help suspecting he wants the necklace for himself. Why would he believe it safer on an island than here, where it can be hidden deeply below the city if needed? It will be much more conspicuous there, I'd say. And why would he think that Dior wants to live apart from his people? Círdan cannot know how loved he is by everybody."

At the mention of Círdan and Aerneth, Thranduil had had to force himself to uphold his calm face and keep paying attention to his father's words. Was she well? He had not heard from her in many years, and after that time when Doriath was sacked he had not tried to reach out to her again. He did not dare, for he feared she would keep refusing to answer, and the pain if she did would undo him.

When he had his emotions under control, he considered Círdan's message. A second chance to leave the city? If they took it, he could be with her again. Perhaps if he tried to convince his father, and...

But who was he trying to fool? Oropher would never leave his favourable position in court, and even if Dior agreed to go, Aerneth would likely not want anything to do with Thranduil. Not considering the way they had parted. He had chosen his father over her, and she would never forgive him for that.

During the afternoon, Thranduil had planned to inspect the guard posts around Menegroth. There were only a few left these days, located close to the city, for even with the added Laegrim archers he did not have enough march-wardens to patrol the outer borders. Walking to each of them in turn, he made sure the small cabins were adequately disguised, and that the designated scouts discovered him in due time.

Usually Thranduil enjoyed leaving the city for a forest walk, but now his heart was not quite in it. His thoughts kept straying to the letter, and he alternated between wanting to travel south or to stay in Doriath. Knowing how weak their defence was, and realising that if Círdan knew about the Silmaril, others – more illwilling – might as well, the forest no longer felt very safe. But he also agreed with Oropher that the Isle of Balar probably was not much better.

When he returned to the city in the evening, he was surprised to be intercepted by one of Círdan's messengers, and he was even more surprised when he realised he recognised him. It was Galdor, a friend of Aerneth's, whom she had once followed to Doriath as an emissary from Eglarest.

Galdor put an envelope in his hand. "This is for you... Captain Thranduil, it is now?"

"Um, aye," he mumbled, too bewildered to mind his manners and thank him. He stared at the folded square of parchment, turning it this way and that. There was nothing written on the outside, not even a name.

"I was asked to wait for a reply, if you want to send one. We will return south early tomorrow morning, so bring it to me before then, if so. You can find me in the guest quarters of the palace." With a nod, he left.

In his hurry to unfold the envelope, Thranduil hardly noticed him go.

It was from Aerneth. Feeling both hot and cold, he read her short note over twice. The letters were elegant, yet unfamiliar – it struck him he had never seen her handwriting before – and the content formal.

"Husband," she began. "I have been contemplating writing to you for a long time, and now that an opportunity to have it delivered arose, I decided to seize it. My adar has invited your people to live here, and if you should accept, I need to prepare you for how it will be between us. Or rather, not be. Under careful consideration, and in consultation with a very good friend, I have decided that it will be the least painful for either of us if we refrain from contact. A clean break, if you will, allowing us to live our separate lives in peace, and forget that the mistake of our marriage ever happened. Hence my reluctance to open a water connection with you a few years back. I trust that you understand, and rest assured that you will comply with my wishes. Best regards."

With shaking fingers he folded the letter again, refraining with difficulty from crumpling it instead. A clean break... Mistake... I trust that you understand. No, he did not understand, and he certainly did not agree. Why could they not keep in touch every once in a while like they used to? And who was the 'very good friend'?

With a pang of jealousy, he imagined her with that golden-haired ellon she had once kissed. But surely he would not have left Gondolin?

In a horrible mood, Thranduil stomped home and went to bed early. He did not sleep anything that night, and at sunrise he quickly scribbled down a reply.

"Wife. Our marriage was indeed a mistake, and of course I will comply with your wish. I have met a new friend as well, one very dear to me, and that is all the company I need. In addition, I highly doubt my new king shall accept your adar's offer. We do not need his meddling, and he would do best forgetting he ever heard of the treasure we keep. It is ours."

That would show her. Technically Galion was not 'very dear' to him, or even a friend – more an acquaintance. But she need not know that. If she became jealous, it was all she deserved.

oOo

Menegroth, Doriath, First Age 506

A family of snowmen in the making made Thranduil and Galion chuckle when they passed the playground on their way to cut a tree for Durufuin, the winter solstice. Though crude, the snow sculptures were easily identifiable as the royal family; little Elwing was just decorating the snow twins with brown, dead grass for hair while their real counterparts looked on. Now three and six years old, the half-elven looked like chubby little dwarves in their thick winter clothes.

"My hair is not that short," complained one of the boys. Eluréd, Thranduil thought he was, though it was hard to see. Queen Nimloth cut their hair at different lengths, but that was hidden under their bearskin hoods.

"And my nose is smaller," said his brother.

Thranduil lingered, amusedly watching the girl finish the snowmen and the boys proceed to build a wall around them. "For safety," they explained. "In case bad orcs and dragons come."

"I want to see dragons," said Elwing.

"Nay, you do not," Thranduil could not help replying, dispelling the memory of Glaurung's evil eyes and gruesome smell.

"Captain Thranduil!" The boys looked up with wide grins.

"Have you seen a dragon?" Elwing went over to the fence. 

"Once. But that is a long story." And one he did not want to tell, he added silently.

"I want to hear it!"

"Much as I would love to tell that tale, I sadly cannot, princess. There is a feast to prepare. You wouldn't want a Durufuin party without a decorated tree, now would you?"

"Nay," she conceded.

"There you go, then. See you tonight!" With a wave he went on.

"I am jealous," said Galion when they entered the forest. "Why are you so popular with the kids?"

"I have no idea," he said innocently, keeping silent about the candy he regularly spoiled them with when their mother did not notice. "Perhaps I am just unusually likeable?"

They continued to the part of the forest where the best fir trees grew, wading through the thick snow with difficulty. Thranduil could easily have assigned others for the task, but he enjoyed doing it himself. It was highly satisfying to stride through the silent forest, the snow covered branches glittering dazzlingly in the cool winter sun, and search for a tree that was just right.

Finally picking a solitary one, straight and symmetrical, he told Galion to hew it down.

"Such a shame to kill it,." He had a soft spot for all living things, but he let his axe fall nevertheless.

They were almost back in the city when a scout dashed up to them. Breathlessly he grabbed Thranduil's arm. "There are Noldor in the woods!" he panted. "Armed. Heavily armed!"

Feeling cold, Thranduil instantly dropped the tree on the ground. "Hurry on then, and alert the king! I shall gather the march-wardens." Then he started running.

Thoughts tumbled around in his mind like frightened birds. Armed elves – coming into another realm unannounced. What was this? It was unpreceded. Completely unpreceded.

In passing the playground he yelled without stopping: "Get the children inside! Quick." Whatever would happen, Thranduil had a horrible suspicion it would not be safe for them.

In the corner of his eye he saw a maid pick up Elwing and another the twins, hurriedly abandoning the snow family for the safety of the city. Thank the Valar they had obeyed him without fuss!

He continued to the training grounds where the brunt of the march-wardens practised. Grimly he told them what had happened, and to follow him and arm themselves. Upon hearing elves were coming, disbelief filled their eyes. What had they ever done to the Noldor?

It did not take long to get ready. They had practised this many times, after all, though none of them could have imagined fellow elves to be the threat they had prepared against.

When the foreign host arrived not much later, the march-wardens had lined up outside the city with Dior in the front, all of them in leather armour and helmets, armed with longbows or swords.

The Noldor counted about a hundred and their leaders wore intimidating armour: full chainmail, even on their legs.

"How dare you come into Doriath without leave?" Dior said coolly. On his chest, the Silmaril gleamed brilliantly. Illuminating his face, it gave him a near ethereal beauty.

A ginger ellon took a step forward. "We intend no ill," he said, but his gaze had instantly trailed to the necklace.

Thranduil's heart beat faster when he took in the ellon's unusual hair colour, and then saw the stump that was left of his hand. He realised who he must be, and judging by the murmur among the march-wardens he was not the only one who had either guessed or recognised him.

"No ill," Dior snorted. "And this army on your heels – those weapons are for practice, only?"

"If you do as we bid, nobody will get hurt," said the maimed ellon. "You know why we have come."

Dior's young face became stern; if he was afraid, he hid any trace of it well. "Who are you? Show your colours."

Another elf unfolded a banner, and there was a collective hiss as the defenders saw the multicoloured star set in a sun with wavy rays.

"I am Maedhros Fëanorion. My brothers and I are here to fulfil our oath and reclaim what is rightfully ours."

Thranduil's throat felt tight. The sons of Fëanor, who had already slain elves once, had come for the Silmaril. This could never end well.

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Sorry for the cliffhanger, but I had not the heart to write about war today, with a real one not far away. :/ 

Image Credits:

Dior, Nimloth and their children, by Jenny Dolfen, goldseven.wordpress.com