(Elvenking)—❧ Thranduil Oropherion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
firith) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
eachdraidh2014-11-18 05:18 pm
firith) wrote in eachdraidh2014-11-18 05:18 pm
❧ VIDEO; 05 (both courts)
A murder of crows erupt overhead to rasp their way into the overcast sky, vanishing from sight in the ashen hub of the clouds once disturbed by the Enemy's forces below. The lines drawn across the rotten waste of the Dagorlad are vast and near endless, even to the far-seeing eyes of Elves. For the Men under Elendil's command, no retreat is in sight even if they wish for it.
To get to the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor, first the Last Alliance must battle their way through what looks like a seething ocean of darkness.
The forces of Taur-nu-Fuin are lightly armed, having come directly from the forests where they have made their home for centuries, thrice-ousted from any temporary homes and reliable forges they could have otherwise created in memory of the one within Amon Lanc, now the dark fortress of Dol Guldur. Spears and swords are carried, with all the Sindar and Silvan combined each carrying a bow. The Elvenking is a fine sight, golden hair streaming over his shining armour and his raiment in rich emeralds as he stalks the front line before his stoic warriors. Thranduil stands by and watches him, ill at ease with his father's manner. The slurs against the Noldor forces near the middle-ground of the battlefield are many and unrestrained, carrying on the hot breeze to ears not far away enough for the Elvenprince's liking.
Gil-galad will hear, he thinks anxiously, wishing it were at all possible to get Oropher to quieten once enraged against the slayers of their first home. He knows better. Father's hatred for them will lose us allies. A stupid thought, but he is afraid and he longs to ride down into the howling pits at Oropher's side sooner than later; Thranduil needs his father close, yet Oropher is in a fury and impassioned in his anger, blind to anything but his pride.
The only foes that count are the orcs of Mordor tramping the mud and baying tauntingly below, closer to the Green-Elves' contingent than any other. A cheap tactic, trying to goad forth a reaction from the worst-placed segment of the Alliance on the flank, their lightly armoured troops having been relegated there within minutes after arriving. Nearby, Oropher bridles and begins to build a war-charge cry, raising enough astonishment in his son that Thranduil finds his feet moving too late, lips parting on a yell for his father to desist.
'Sire! Sire, the High-King —'
'Curse them,' snaps Oropher, sword glinting in the murky half-light like a silver ribbon. 'I have not fought off this Enemy time and again to have them lay insult to us thus! We will slay these foul creatures without the help of the Noldorin lords, my son.'
'The ground is not firm enough, we have the marshes on our eastern flank.'
'What would you have me do? Amdir is of a like-mind, we will not languish here to be toyed with!'
'Adar, you should not do this. It is folly not to listen to Gil-galad, even Lord Elrond — even Elendil, the Men, Adar! — they are working with him. Tarry a little longer,' begs Thranduil, drawing close, 'it will not be long now.'
Perhaps if the army of Taur-nu-Fuin had been integrated into the main host, if the perceived insult wasn't so great in Oropher's mind, he might have remained in place and seen sense, obeyed his head and not his heart. Thranduil can see the wisdom in putting the best archers on the edge of the battlefield where Mirkwood can pick off the orcs as they please, partly-shielded by the marshes and with a good vantage point to see down the line. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
But Oropher snarls.
'We do not answer to the Houses of those who slaughtered our kin in Menegroth! No. Have them pay witness here, today, what we are capable of! We are not here at their behest, to be bandied about like we are not their equals, but to fight because we wish it!'
Thranduil hears his heartbeat pounding in his ears as his shifting forces uncertainly make ready to charge, and he storms back to the front line. He snarls at them to 'Hold!' and they do, thank the Valar. Yet it seems like the second he turns his back to keep them in order that the rest — two-thirds of Oropher's forces behind the Elvenking who has marched to the centre of the ranks — unsheath their weapons simultaneously with the efficiency of their kindred, every move sleekly honed like gleaming blades.
They are not worth less than the Noldor, merely ill-prepared for battle. No one could have foreseen the sheer scale of destruction howling below.
Everything is happening so quickly.
( This is madness. )
'Lord Gil-galad has not ordered us to move,' Thranduil half-yells, half-pleads. Things are getting entirely out of hand. The orcs down the valley howl deafeningly. 'Sire, he will not know of your intent. Father, listen to me!'
'Herio!' bays Oropher, and a tidal wave of cold summer steel rushes down the shale hillside to Thranduil's astonished horror. Hundreds of Elves follow his father in loyal abandon as a dozen protests rise and die on Thranduil's tongue in an instant. He cannot stop the main charge but he does snarl at his third-set quotient to remain exactly where they are, glancing furtively down the lines to where Gil-galad in blue and gold is striding forward in shock and outrage to watch the outcome of Oropher's charge into the eaves of the marshes with Amdir and the Galadhrim pouring down to join in. It seems Elves and Men alike are transfixed by the sight and the whole world at Thranduil's back stirs with murmurs and cries of alarm, holding their breath. Perhaps Oropher will win, he thinks recklessly, allowing himself to hope. Perhaps all will be well, for the old Sinda is the bravest at heart that Thranduil has ever known. Is this not proof enough?
( For a single moment, he thinks, We will go home. )
The clash of metal is louder than all the crows of Middle-Earth combined as green is swallowed up under a surging, endless tide of black thunder; red spatters the ground as limbs are ripped from their sockets, bones are dashed and brains stamped across the dirt. The orcs know their land well and use it to their advantage.
Thranduil watches through the chaos as a blade swings too close; his own knees buckle.
'Adar —!'
Oropher's head arcs from his stumbling body as it flies free, hair shaved short by the beheading blow. Even from such a distance, Thranduil can see grey eyes rolled up in shock.
He becomes deaf to all of it.
The world is pale and silent, a ringing in his ears as Elvish screams dominate the field. All light dims and Thranduil watches his father's murder with thousands of others, unable to even attempt to save Oropher's life. He cannot feel his knees or joints, gagging on stale air tinged with iron, watching as his father (the Elf who would raise him up in a soaring twirl when merely an Elfling, who taught him how to ride and fight, to laugh freely) is gutted by the fanged mouths of fell beasts that rip through his intestines and tear sinew from bone inside mere seconds of the charge failing.
'Hold!' booms Gil-galad and Thranduil realises he has been stumbling forward, freezing up when he hears the command.
( What do I do? My father is dead. Adar? Adar, do not leave me. )
Gil-Galad's cries are furious and directed at him. So strange, when Thranduil is not the Elvenking. 'Hold there!'
Was not.
Barely thirty seconds have passed since the stampede, since his father lived and breathed. Thranduil's hands tremble at his sides, bile rising to the back of his throat. His reaction to the Dagorlad is a violent one from that moment onward, every second inwardly excruciating as he buries his fears so as to try not to let anyone see him falter. Oropher was always a beacon of strength, indomitable. People followed him like leaves caught in a gale, no matter which way he turned. Even into the jaws of death. But Thranduil ... he cannot charge down there to avenge his father — common-sense overrules his emotions so that he does not break down then and there, logic is his scaffolding where he would otherwise collapse into madness. The remaining Sindar and Silvan host must stay with the Noldor, as planned. More than ever, yes, near-annihilated by Oropher's hatred for the High-King's command overruling his own.
His father's sword is trampled from view and he calls hoarsely to his aghast warriors, their overwhelming grief palpable in the air, shrieking their protests and shifting in horror.
'Darth!' Thranduil roars, terrified and rooted to the spot as he repeats Gil-Galad's instruction. Not yet an Elvenking, just an Elf whose father has been slain, he clamours inwardly for anyone to follow while trying to appear brave. (Be brave, ion nin, Adar is here.)
He takes a deep breath and turns on a heel, barely a thousand eyes seeking him out.
'Dîn!' The ranks quieten in the wake of his bellowing shout. 'Av-'osto, natha daged dhaer!'
( I do not wish to be king. The sentiment burns a brand into his chest right across his aching heart. I am so afraid. )
Thranduil unsheathes his sword.
'Aphado nin, mellyn nín, avaro naeth ae Adar i aran nín i gwanwen — av-'osto, Laegil, ortheritham hain! Nedin dagor hen ú-'erir ortheri! Le nallon sí di-nguruthos: tûl acharn! Gurth an Glamhoth, a chyth vîn, farad vaer!'
In later years, he will have trouble looking south at all, even from half a world away. For now, the Elven host of Taur-nu-Fuin hold their ranks and act only when he commands them to, following the High-King's lead; he can see Lord Elrond not too far away, his face a blank mask even across the vast reach of the battle-lines just like Círdan's, and Gil-galad beyond like a beacon of light. Elendil is like an oak, his sons Isildur and Anárion likewise. Thranduil makes himself appear just as brave, just as certain.
No longer can he tell which parts on the battlefield were Oropher. Looking down at the hilt of his sword, he finds he cannot stop his hand upon it from shaking.
*
[ The illusion wipes from the locket like mist, replaced with the scene of Thranduil in the golden rooms he calls his own in Caer Glaem. There's a slice of steel through flesh and bone, and a wet thunk as a dog's snarl is cut short by a beheading blade. An oil lamp is smashed over the twitching body, followed by a heavy metal stand of candles that set the monster on fire in a roaring whoosh of flames. His arm looks like deep claws have wrenched their way down it, the delicate silver robe bloodied and dark. An Elven blade hadn't done much to put up a fight ... but chop the head off of anything, burn its corpse, and it will always have trouble getting back up. Case in point.
There's some colourful cursing in Sindarin, for any who can normally understand 'Firo, ulunndû!' and then the locket is hastily, firmly snapped shut. ]
( ooc: hover over elvish for translations, feel free to understand what he's saying since this is his own terror-attack from the dogs! a full-scale illusion that takes over everything in his room, including his locket, because his life is awful. c: )
To get to the Morannon, the Black Gate of Mordor, first the Last Alliance must battle their way through what looks like a seething ocean of darkness.
The forces of Taur-nu-Fuin are lightly armed, having come directly from the forests where they have made their home for centuries, thrice-ousted from any temporary homes and reliable forges they could have otherwise created in memory of the one within Amon Lanc, now the dark fortress of Dol Guldur. Spears and swords are carried, with all the Sindar and Silvan combined each carrying a bow. The Elvenking is a fine sight, golden hair streaming over his shining armour and his raiment in rich emeralds as he stalks the front line before his stoic warriors. Thranduil stands by and watches him, ill at ease with his father's manner. The slurs against the Noldor forces near the middle-ground of the battlefield are many and unrestrained, carrying on the hot breeze to ears not far away enough for the Elvenprince's liking.
Gil-galad will hear, he thinks anxiously, wishing it were at all possible to get Oropher to quieten once enraged against the slayers of their first home. He knows better. Father's hatred for them will lose us allies. A stupid thought, but he is afraid and he longs to ride down into the howling pits at Oropher's side sooner than later; Thranduil needs his father close, yet Oropher is in a fury and impassioned in his anger, blind to anything but his pride.
The only foes that count are the orcs of Mordor tramping the mud and baying tauntingly below, closer to the Green-Elves' contingent than any other. A cheap tactic, trying to goad forth a reaction from the worst-placed segment of the Alliance on the flank, their lightly armoured troops having been relegated there within minutes after arriving. Nearby, Oropher bridles and begins to build a war-charge cry, raising enough astonishment in his son that Thranduil finds his feet moving too late, lips parting on a yell for his father to desist.
'Sire! Sire, the High-King —'
'Curse them,' snaps Oropher, sword glinting in the murky half-light like a silver ribbon. 'I have not fought off this Enemy time and again to have them lay insult to us thus! We will slay these foul creatures without the help of the Noldorin lords, my son.'
'The ground is not firm enough, we have the marshes on our eastern flank.'
'What would you have me do? Amdir is of a like-mind, we will not languish here to be toyed with!'
'Adar, you should not do this. It is folly not to listen to Gil-galad, even Lord Elrond — even Elendil, the Men, Adar! — they are working with him. Tarry a little longer,' begs Thranduil, drawing close, 'it will not be long now.'
Perhaps if the army of Taur-nu-Fuin had been integrated into the main host, if the perceived insult wasn't so great in Oropher's mind, he might have remained in place and seen sense, obeyed his head and not his heart. Thranduil can see the wisdom in putting the best archers on the edge of the battlefield where Mirkwood can pick off the orcs as they please, partly-shielded by the marshes and with a good vantage point to see down the line. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
But Oropher snarls.
'We do not answer to the Houses of those who slaughtered our kin in Menegroth! No. Have them pay witness here, today, what we are capable of! We are not here at their behest, to be bandied about like we are not their equals, but to fight because we wish it!'
Thranduil hears his heartbeat pounding in his ears as his shifting forces uncertainly make ready to charge, and he storms back to the front line. He snarls at them to 'Hold!' and they do, thank the Valar. Yet it seems like the second he turns his back to keep them in order that the rest — two-thirds of Oropher's forces behind the Elvenking who has marched to the centre of the ranks — unsheath their weapons simultaneously with the efficiency of their kindred, every move sleekly honed like gleaming blades.
They are not worth less than the Noldor, merely ill-prepared for battle. No one could have foreseen the sheer scale of destruction howling below.
Everything is happening so quickly.
( This is madness. )
'Lord Gil-galad has not ordered us to move,' Thranduil half-yells, half-pleads. Things are getting entirely out of hand. The orcs down the valley howl deafeningly. 'Sire, he will not know of your intent. Father, listen to me!'
'Herio!' bays Oropher, and a tidal wave of cold summer steel rushes down the shale hillside to Thranduil's astonished horror. Hundreds of Elves follow his father in loyal abandon as a dozen protests rise and die on Thranduil's tongue in an instant. He cannot stop the main charge but he does snarl at his third-set quotient to remain exactly where they are, glancing furtively down the lines to where Gil-galad in blue and gold is striding forward in shock and outrage to watch the outcome of Oropher's charge into the eaves of the marshes with Amdir and the Galadhrim pouring down to join in. It seems Elves and Men alike are transfixed by the sight and the whole world at Thranduil's back stirs with murmurs and cries of alarm, holding their breath. Perhaps Oropher will win, he thinks recklessly, allowing himself to hope. Perhaps all will be well, for the old Sinda is the bravest at heart that Thranduil has ever known. Is this not proof enough?
( For a single moment, he thinks, We will go home. )
The clash of metal is louder than all the crows of Middle-Earth combined as green is swallowed up under a surging, endless tide of black thunder; red spatters the ground as limbs are ripped from their sockets, bones are dashed and brains stamped across the dirt. The orcs know their land well and use it to their advantage.
Thranduil watches through the chaos as a blade swings too close; his own knees buckle.
'Adar —!'
Oropher's head arcs from his stumbling body as it flies free, hair shaved short by the beheading blow. Even from such a distance, Thranduil can see grey eyes rolled up in shock.
He becomes deaf to all of it.
The world is pale and silent, a ringing in his ears as Elvish screams dominate the field. All light dims and Thranduil watches his father's murder with thousands of others, unable to even attempt to save Oropher's life. He cannot feel his knees or joints, gagging on stale air tinged with iron, watching as his father (the Elf who would raise him up in a soaring twirl when merely an Elfling, who taught him how to ride and fight, to laugh freely) is gutted by the fanged mouths of fell beasts that rip through his intestines and tear sinew from bone inside mere seconds of the charge failing.
'Hold!' booms Gil-galad and Thranduil realises he has been stumbling forward, freezing up when he hears the command.
( What do I do? My father is dead. Adar? Adar, do not leave me. )
Gil-Galad's cries are furious and directed at him. So strange, when Thranduil is not the Elvenking. 'Hold there!'
Was not.
Barely thirty seconds have passed since the stampede, since his father lived and breathed. Thranduil's hands tremble at his sides, bile rising to the back of his throat. His reaction to the Dagorlad is a violent one from that moment onward, every second inwardly excruciating as he buries his fears so as to try not to let anyone see him falter. Oropher was always a beacon of strength, indomitable. People followed him like leaves caught in a gale, no matter which way he turned. Even into the jaws of death. But Thranduil ... he cannot charge down there to avenge his father — common-sense overrules his emotions so that he does not break down then and there, logic is his scaffolding where he would otherwise collapse into madness. The remaining Sindar and Silvan host must stay with the Noldor, as planned. More than ever, yes, near-annihilated by Oropher's hatred for the High-King's command overruling his own.
His father's sword is trampled from view and he calls hoarsely to his aghast warriors, their overwhelming grief palpable in the air, shrieking their protests and shifting in horror.
'Darth!' Thranduil roars, terrified and rooted to the spot as he repeats Gil-Galad's instruction. Not yet an Elvenking, just an Elf whose father has been slain, he clamours inwardly for anyone to follow while trying to appear brave. (Be brave, ion nin, Adar is here.)
He takes a deep breath and turns on a heel, barely a thousand eyes seeking him out.
'Dîn!' The ranks quieten in the wake of his bellowing shout. 'Av-'osto, natha daged dhaer!'
( I do not wish to be king. The sentiment burns a brand into his chest right across his aching heart. I am so afraid. )
Thranduil unsheathes his sword.
'Aphado nin, mellyn nín, avaro naeth ae Adar i aran nín i gwanwen — av-'osto, Laegil, ortheritham hain! Nedin dagor hen ú-'erir ortheri! Le nallon sí di-nguruthos: tûl acharn! Gurth an Glamhoth, a chyth vîn, farad vaer!'
In later years, he will have trouble looking south at all, even from half a world away. For now, the Elven host of Taur-nu-Fuin hold their ranks and act only when he commands them to, following the High-King's lead; he can see Lord Elrond not too far away, his face a blank mask even across the vast reach of the battle-lines just like Círdan's, and Gil-galad beyond like a beacon of light. Elendil is like an oak, his sons Isildur and Anárion likewise. Thranduil makes himself appear just as brave, just as certain.
No longer can he tell which parts on the battlefield were Oropher. Looking down at the hilt of his sword, he finds he cannot stop his hand upon it from shaking.
[ The illusion wipes from the locket like mist, replaced with the scene of Thranduil in the golden rooms he calls his own in Caer Glaem. There's a slice of steel through flesh and bone, and a wet thunk as a dog's snarl is cut short by a beheading blade. An oil lamp is smashed over the twitching body, followed by a heavy metal stand of candles that set the monster on fire in a roaring whoosh of flames. His arm looks like deep claws have wrenched their way down it, the delicate silver robe bloodied and dark. An Elven blade hadn't done much to put up a fight ... but chop the head off of anything, burn its corpse, and it will always have trouble getting back up. Case in point.
There's some colourful cursing in Sindarin, for any who can normally understand 'Firo, ulunndû!' and then the locket is hastily, firmly snapped shut. ]
( ooc: hover over elvish for translations, feel free to understand what he's saying since this is his own terror-attack from the dogs! a full-scale illusion that takes over everything in his room, including his locket, because his life is awful. c: )
private video
So, straight to business it is. ]
My Lord, how badly wounded are you, and do you have any idea at all about how that dog got through our defences, and if there might be more of them within the walls?
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Not badly enough scratched on my arm that my legs will not carry me to be stitched. The dog looked to be alone, I have not seen another in the halls; my rooms overlook the bailey, a patrol ought to be carried out through the trees below to be sure there are no others. [ Now that he has his head on a little straighter, the pain in his arm keeps him focused on the present and not dark unwanted memories. ] I will send my own guards, their eyes are keen in the shadows.
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[ It's so nice to deal with someone with experience. Makes her feel right at home. ]
Someone ought to watch the remains of the one you killed for a time, to make sure that it does not rise again.
[ It would be very nice to have confirmation that cutting the heads off the damn things actually works, because that she can most certainly do. ]
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The head will have its work cut out for it, if it wishes to reattach itself to a flaming body, but you are right; they will raise the alarm if it makes the attempt, instructed to avoid engaging it in conflict. The thing did not attack by ordinary means, its artes were dark. It became necessary to set it aflame, even once beheaded.
At the very least, it was no worm.
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[ There are just no words for how angry that makes her. ]
A... worm, my Lord?
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[ Fire, then. In hindsight, it worked well enough. But in any case, he elaborates on the worms. ]
When John and I first arrived, the castle was besieged by worms that tunnelled through the earth and broke in through the bailey. They raided homesteads across the Six Realms, a pestilence that was not easily destroyed; he and I fortified the castle as best we could.
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[ She sighs, hating this feeling of being mostly useless. ]
Unless a very large pack of them decides to descend upon us, I imagine these creatures ought to be easier to deal with than those worms, yes.
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[ Reaching the infirmary, he keeps the locket propped on a table as he shirks off his robe to sit on a bed in his leggings and boots, fussing healers dithering up a storm on the side of his injured arm. Thranduil's attention remain inclined toward Sif. ]
Tell John first. He ought to know as a member of the Golden Cadre.
[ Also because Thranduil wants him one of the safest, most informed people out there. John will spread any useful information, too. ]
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I will.
[ Since keeping John safe is an ambition they share. ]
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[ He can send her some Elves if needs be, at least until the dogs are dealt with. ]
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[ She doesn't exactly hold a position of command in Caer Glaem which can get a little frustrating at times. ]
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[ Don't you make him worry about you, missy. Because he will, gosh.
He likes you!!That said, with a meaningful look, he closes his locket to get back to being stitched up. ]