~The sons of Fëanor attack Doriath but a few survivors manage to flee south.~

oOo

The Sons of Fëanor, by Jenny Dolfen

The Second Kinslaying

"I had not realised Fëanor raised such cowards," sneered Dior. "To sneak upon a peaceful kingdom unannounced, using threats and weapons to try to rob them of their treasures." He spat on the ground. "I am disgusted."

"You knew we would come," retorted Maedhros.

"Perhaps he expected us to forget about our heirloom just as he conveniently forgot to reply to our letter?" said another of the brothers, who had lighter hair – Thranduil guessed he must be Celegorm. At the assembled's surprised murmurs the ellon added: "Oh, I see. You did not even tell your own people that we sent you messages and asked you politely to return what is ours? But I understand. Deep down you know the Silmaril does not belong to you, but in your lust for luxury you do everything in your power to make your subjects believe you have a right to it."

"I have the right to it! The necklace was a gift to my grand adar, and the gem was wrested from Morgoth's crown by my own adar's hands. Get out of my kingdom, thieves!"

"My adar made it, you mortal oaf!"

"So what? He lost any right to the Silmarils when he killed elves at Alqualondë, and the same goes for you, kinslayer! What will you do now? Kill me too?"

From there the dispute soon became ugly, with increasingly harsh insults thrown back and forth between the two groups.

Thranduil could not say who started the attack; one moment they were arguing heatedly, the next an arrow nearly took out Maedhros remaining hand. After that it was only minutes until the fight began in earnest.

Seeing the Noldor charge, Thranduil felt a moment of hesitation. These were elves and it was murder to kill one's kin – what should he do? But then one of them came against him, raising his longsword, and Thranduil acted on reflex. He parried and struck back, trying to find a weak spot on his armour. He started it. This is self-defence.

To meet an elf in life-and-death melee was both the hardest and most frightening Thranduil had ever experienced. His opponent was fast, intelligent, agile and strong. It was like sparring with a superior march-warden, but one who would kill him if he could.

Snow began to fall, tiny, stinging flakes that got into Thranduil's eyes. Holding his attacker at bay took its toll; his arms felt numb and despite the chill he was soaked with sweat. It was only a slight comfort to hear him curse in Quenya under his breath as he too grew weary.

Despite that, the ellon somehow managed to continue fighting aggressively, slashing and thrusting, forcing Thranduil to focus on defending himself. It was a bad strategy; if he wasted his energy on parrying and dodging he could never win, but there was no help for it. His opponent had the upper hand.

Was this it? Was this the day Thranduil would die and be reunited with his mother in Aman? The thought terrified him more than he would have thought. He did not want to die.

Then at last came his opportunity; sheer luck caused the Noldo to lose his footing on an icy patch. Thranduil did not miss his chance to strike back. Driving his sword home with resolute force, he severed the ellon's windpipe. Blood spurted from the wound, and it took only moments until he stopped thrashing and wheezing.

Thranduil had no time to think about what he had done; a new ellon had already replaced his comrade and he could only continue fighting. This one had already killed; his sword was bloodied and his eyes under the iron helmet fierce.

Again Thranduil needed to fight defensively, for once wishing he had a shield rather than two swords as he tried to parry the steady rain of violent hits. He had survived his first combat but this ellon was too strong.

He tried to dodge and take a few steps backwards but the enemy followed and managed a hit. His sword bit easily through Thranduil's leather armour and a line of pain erupted across his thigh.

Then Galion was at his side and the tide turned. With joint force they worked on the opponent; Thranduil swiped at his legs while Galion managed to slide his sword through the eye slits of his helmet and kill him.

Another one down, and they had a moment's respite, but there were so many left. Too many.

Shaking severely, Galion stared at his kill for a moment and then threw up.

Thranduil had no time to feel anything about the dead Noldo. Around him several march-wardens were down, more than fallen enemies. The snow was turning into bright red slush, blood spreading slowly from the corpses like grisly ink stains.

He quickly looked away. He did not want to know who of his fellow march-wardens were dead.

Thranduil's own thigh was bleeding too and he carefully pinched the cut in his leg guard together with one hand. This did not go well. He was horribly reminded of the dwarf attack; just like then their opponents were overwhelming them – not in numbers this time, but with better armour and more experience. Nowadays most of the Doriath march-wardens were Green-Elves, untried in combat, whereas Fëanor's sons and their followers had fought in all the battles of Beleriand.

The attackers focused their strength on Dior now, seeking to kill the one who wore the Silmaril. A tight throng of the king's closest guards had made a circle around him, and he himself fought no less valiantly, but it could not last. Thranduil needed to get him away from here.

Maybe they could use the narrow passage across the Esgalduin to hold the enemy off? It was a desperate plan; with the river partly frozen over it might not work for long, but anything was better than this exposed spot.

Thranduil awkwardly ran over to his leader, trying to ignore his throbbing leg.

On the way, he passed the maimed corpse of Celegorm laying face down in the snow. Long ago, that ellon had caught Lúthien and held her captive, trying to force her to marry him instead of running to the rescue of her beloved. Now Beren's and Lúthien's son had killed him, which felt strangely befitting.

"We must retreat and regroup, my lord," Thranduil told the king when he managed to get closer. "It's easier to defend the bridge."

Dior nodded curtly. "Fall back," he yelled, turning to lead the way and waving for Thranduil to come closer. "They won't stop until they get what they came for," he whispered urgently. His eyes were wide and frightened. "We must flee."

"Aye," Thranduil panted, out of breath from running. He agreed wholeheartedly, much as it pained him to admit that they had lost.

"Take a few guards and evacuate the city; then ride south to the Mouths of Sirion. I will stay at the bridge and keep them occupied for as long as possible and then catch up with you. And... Take this." He pressed something into Thranduil's hand, burning hot against his gloved palm. The Silmaril necklace. "It is better to keep it away from my person."

Thranduil did not question his king's command though it felt awful to abandon his struggling friends. Discreetly sliding the necklace over his head and covering it with his clothes, he selected a handful of guards and started towards the city.

When they arrived, people were nervously milling around behind the gate; civilians who had armed themselves, ready to defend their homes if the enemy broke through.

Quickly Thranduil explained the situation and what they had to do. "We have to abandon Doriath. Take only the most necessary, and do it with great speed – then hurry to the stables and wait there so we can depart together."

His weary look and bleeding leg must have spoken clearer than words about how dire the situation was, for no one complained. They immediately scattered to spread the word and gather what little they still had after the dwarves' sacking of Menegroth some years back.

For his part, Thranduil spent a few moments at home seeing to his thigh; the cut was deep but he had no time to manage more than a temporary bandage. Then he gathered a little food, a few coats for his father and himself, the sea painting Aerneth's mother had once given them and the white gems from the ceiling. Even if he had had more belongings, this was all he could carry.

At the door he nearly bumped into his father coming the other way. "There you are! I have packed the royal heirlooms." He indicated a bulky bundle wrapped in what looked to have been a curtain. Then he noticed Thranduil's bandage, already becoming pink. "You are hurt!"

"It is not too bad. We must hurry; I have spent too much time here."

"At least lean on me."

The city was almost deserted, and only a few others joined them when they jogged up the main street as fast as Thranduil could manage. He refrained from looking back; he would save lamenting the loss of his home for later. If he survived long enough to do so, that was.

Outside the snowfall had intensified. The battle sounds from the bridge indicated the fight still went on, but he had no time to check how it was going. Dior would have to manage.

"To be chased from our home by accursed Noldor," muttered Oropher as they struggled through the snow. "I knew the foolish boy shouldn't have worn the necklace openly. If he had only listened to me, we wou–" He stopped abruptly when an anguished wail reached them from the stables, followed by the thud of hooves against snow. Two Noldor riders on loaded horses came galloping past and swiftly disappeared into the forest.

Thranduil and Oropher ran in the direction they had come, where a dismal scene met them: two dead guards, and Queen Nimloth laying bleeding on top of the corpse of her maid.

Thranduil hurried over to her.

"My boys," she mumbled. Pink froth seeped from her pale lips. "They t-took my b-boys."

"Shh. Don't speak," said Thranduil, lifting her mantle to reveal a mess of blood and intestines. "Shh. You will be fine," he lied, putting the mantle back, swallowing the rising bile in his throat. "Just rest now."

He turned to the survivors. "What happened?"

"It was Celegorm's servants," sobbed Galion, wiping his grimy face. "They lay in ambush and attacked the ones who came first, and when we hurried to aid them they took the twins hostage. Then they stole the sacks we brought from the treasury and said they would kill the children if we followed them."

"We must go after them anyway." Thranduil drew one of his swords.

"We cannot," came Oropher's voice from the stable door. "They have let the horses lose."

"Then we go on foot. We do not let them take Eluréd and Elurín!" Ignoring his leg and his father's protests, Thranduil brought the guards back to the place where the riders had disappeared, but he soon had to give up. The fresh snow was covering all tracks; it was impossible to see where they had gone.

He tried to listen for sounds of their passage, but instead he heard another, more worrisome noise: the enemy crossing the bridge. Dior must have been forced to fall back even further – or been killed.

"We have to flee, Captain," urged Galion.

Thranduil reluctantly agreed. He was right. They had to leave before the sons of Fëanor discovered Dior no longer had the Silmaril.

Back at the stables the civilians had covered the corpses. Oropher was just putting a blanket over the queen's face; she must have died in the short time they were away. He wrenched something from her finger. "Her wedding ring; the ring of Barahir." He put it into the curtain bundle with the other heirlooms. "When Dior comes he will want to have it."

If Dior comes, Thranduil thought ruefully.

Little Elwing sat by her mother's feet, her fist entwined in the bloodied skirts. Her face was white but she was not crying.

"Let go." Oropher tried to pull her away.

She only tightened her grip.

"Naughty girl! Come now or the bad elves will take you too."

"Let me." Thranduil kneeled, wincing as his leg smarted. "Elwing, you have to be brave and let your nana go. She is in Aman now. If you come with me, I shall tell you about the time when I saw that land with my own eyes."

She made no more resistance when he picked her up, and he felt her cold face against his neck as she clung to him tightly.

Then all of them began running, leaving Doriath never to return.

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Sorry this chapter took so long to write, but I kind of blame the Silmarillion for not fleshing out the Second Kinslaying more. I had to really rack my brain to figure out a realistic series of events where (1) Dior and Nimloth were killed, while (2) the Silmaril necklace (that he always wore!) made it safe out of Doriath and (3) little Elwing fled with the rest of the survivors while (4) her brothers were left behind (I mean, why would they save one child and leave two? Either all children are rescued or none, right??). In addition, I needed the refugees to (5) salvage the heirlooms Barahir's ring and the sword Narsil that Aragorn will inherit many millennia later. It wasn't an easy puzzle, let me tell you!

Image Credits:

The Sons of Fëanor by Jenny Dolfen, https://goldseven.wordpress.com/