#elf fileg

[voikukkasi]

primordialy, he had to be a swamp elf...

His name is Fileg (it means "sparrow" in Sindarin)

[outofangband]

Elven word of the day, 194/?

eldafindë from (early) Quenya

Meaning “maidenhair fern”, the literal translation is “elf tress”

This word was originally written as eldasilquë

Note: in the early Quenya lexicon, Tolkien actually translated this to “sea elf tress”

Other note: there is no Quenya word for fern more generally. The language Gnomish, one of Tolkien’s older languages that has similarities to Sindarin, has a word for fern, “fileg” which derives from a root meaning fine or thin

[mgcoco]

I finally got around to making a Tolkien elf OC! Meet Fileg, a Silvan elf from Greenwood/Mirkwood!

He's a postman who delivers mail for the elvish realms. However, he's very laid-back and likes to take it easy, so don't expect your mail to arrive promptly!

[iathrimchronicles]

Fic: Hope Beyond Reason

Title: Hope Beyond Reason

Series: The Iathrim Chronicles

Author: African Daisy

Canon characters: Thranduil and Oropher

OCs: Vehiron, Rhoven, Linwë, Veassen and Nestorion

Warnings: Mention of discipline

Summary: Hope is what sustains life, but in the middle of war the King of Greenwood doesn’t know how much longer he can hold onto hope.

 ………………………..

 It was difficult to concentrate when one was being watched. The eyes that lingered on Aran Oropher were a single shade of green darker than his, but they were identical in shape. Almond-shaped, like their father’s had been. The King of Greenwood still remembered a tiny version of himself, solemnly telling his father in the days leading up to the birth of his younger brother that he was sorry he didn’t look much like him and he hoped the new baby would. Lord Celepharn had laughed, which even now Oropher remembered clearly because it had startled him so. He recalled feeling offended that his father, of whom he had thought so much, would laugh. As far as he had been concerned, it was only right for an heir to be like his father in all ways.

 Little Oropher hadn’t announced that he was upset, for that wouldn’t have been proper, but Celepharn must have known it. He had told his son to follow him in that way he’d had – commanding, firm, not to be disobeyed, yet somehow not at all frightening even for a seven year old boy – and he’d led the elfling to the tall looking-glass in the master bedroom. Oropher had been well acquainted with that mirror, for he had often watched his beautiful mother twirling in front of it in one of her lovely gowns, but that moment had belonged to him and his father. Celepharn had knelt behind him and patiently pointed out all the features they shared; the shape of their eyes, the colour of their eyes when the light touched them just so, the curve of their ears, and fine strands of hair even though Oropher’s was dark like Neldiel’s and Celepharn’s was the silver gold of the royal house.

 Three thousand years later, a similar conversation had taken place between Oropher and his own little son. It had never bothered him that Thranduil at first glance looked like Felith with their shared sunshine golden hair and eyes that gleamed like starlight off a still lake. He and Felith had lost four babies before Thranduil had been given to them. Son or daughter, dark or blonde, serious or full of mischief – they hadn’t cared, as long as their child survived. And so he had, but the apparent differences between him and Oropher had upset him enough that one day he had anxiously asked his father if it was quite all right that they didn’t look the same. Oropher had loved the happiness that had bloomed in his little boy’s eyes as he had shown him all the smaller, subtle ways they were alike. He wondered if Celepharn had felt the same way. He hoped so. He had finished that lesson with Thranduil by placing his hand over the elfling’s chest, and telling him that it didn’t matter what they looked like on the outside, for on the inside their hearts were one. Thranduil had smiled at him so brightly, so lovingly, it had made his heart soar. Now it just made his heart clench when he looked back at that moment.

 Now, every memory of Thranduil hurt. Saying his name hurt. Holding his pillow close in the dark of night and inhaling his sweet, wild scent of berries and brambles, that hurt too. Just thinking of him hurt, so Oropher made himself stop. Even that hurt, feeling like a betrayal to force his thoughts away from his poor son, but the alternative would bring him to tears. Letting out a breath and tiredly pushing his hand through his hair, the King looked at his brother across the pavilion. The Lord Steward of Greenwood intently returned his gaze from the cushioned bench he was sitting on. “You want to say something,” Oropher acknowledged with a sigh. “You might as well get it over with.”

Lord Vehiron smiled, his warrior braids glittering with pearls, black opals, moonstones, and silver beads. “I thought you might be interested to know how many times you have swept your hand through your hair in the last twelve minutes.”

 “Does it make a difference to you if I am not?” Oropher asked.

 “Six times,” Vehiron promptly informed him. “That is excessive.”

 “You came into my private space uninvited. Do not then complain about the way I behave in here,” Oropher said irritably.

 “Not even Cousin Luthavar touches his hair that often,” Vehiron added.

 “Good for Cousin Luthavar,” Oropher retorted, raising his hands defensively. He picked up his quill and tried to return his attention to the requisition order the healers had asked him to authorise for none other than Elder Luthavar himself. He had been making good progress on his work before his younger brother had come in, but now the words swam on the page. Anger threatened to overtake mere annoyance, but then he made himself stop and think. For the briefest of moments, Vehiron had made him forget. He hadn’t been a weary warrior or a desperate father or a tired King. He had just been an elf annoyed with his little brother, and right then that was simpler than any other role he had to play. He looked up, and met the younger ellon’s beryl green eyes. “Thank you.”

 Vehiron just nodded, smiling slightly. He understood. “Go. See your son.”

 “Muindor,” Oropher sighed, feeling exasperated all over again. “I would spend every hour of every day with Thranduil if I thought it would make a difference, but it hasn’t and it won’t. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because he…” The words wouldn’t come. They stuck in Oropher’s throat, paining him. “I will see my son when I have time,” he finished quietly, when he had steadied himself. “At the moment, I do not. I still have to be Aran Oropher.” Even when all I want to be is Ada.

 “The world hasn’t stopped turning,” Vehiron agreed quietly. “But yours has.”

 Oropher looked down and organised his paperwork into a neat pile, for no reason other than he needed the distraction to hold tears at bay. He had shed enough of those over the last eleven days and fourteen hours, alone or with those few elves he trusted implicitly. Vehiron was one of them, but Oropher was tired of tears. They couldn’t save his son and so they served no purpose. He looked up again only when the papers were perfectly linear and to do anything more to them would just be excessive. “I might delegate this to you,” he said offhandedly.

 “You might,” Vehiron agreed.

 “Very well,” Oropher said, rising. “But do not work past midnight.”

 “I will work until the work is done, muindor,” Vehiron replied.

 “No, you will work until midnight and then you will stop and seek your rest, and I will deal with whatever is left in the morning,” Oropher said firmly. “It isn’t up for discussion, muindor-laes. I need you healthy.”

 “Then let us compromise, and say that I will stop when I reach a natural break,” Vehiron suggested. “Else you won’t make sense of your work when you return to it.”

 Oropher conceded the point with a sigh and a nod as he picked up his forest green cloak, but he made a mental note to have someone check on Vehiron after midnight. His brother was good at promising to take care of himself, but he wasn’t good at following through with it. Much like Oropher himself, and their father from whom they had inherited it, and Thranduil who was just the same. It was a family trait that the Queen of Greenwood had often despaired of along with stubbornness and recklessness. The King gave Vehiron’s shoulder a grateful squeeze on his way out of the royal pavilion, and the Captain of his guard fell into step behind him as he walked away, a steady yet reassuring presence at his back.

 The ground crackled lightly beneath their feet as they walked. So close to Mordor it was often sweltering and uncomfortable even for the elves when the sun was at her highest, but at night it wasn’t unusual for the temperatures to plummet so much that layers of frost formed. Most of Oropher’s elves who weren’t committed to patrol or other duties were already sheltering in their tents. Some yet remained around the campfires, and he paused to briefly speak with them. His heart was elsewhere, but he was still their King. He still had a duty to them. None of them kept him for longer than a minute though. That late at night, it was obvious where he was going. None wished to deprive him.

 His ears ringing with so many good wishes for his son, Oropher finally reached the healing tents. They were quiet but not truly silent. They never were, not even in the dead of night, and Oropher knew that because he had spent many an early hour there. If it wasn’t the footsteps of a healer making their rounds, it was a feverish warrior tossing and turning or a traumatised soldier waking from a nightmare with a shout of fear. It was impossible to escape the war even for a second. It was always there, an inescapable fact of thousands of lives.

 The sight of the two ellyn standing guard outside the private bell tent where Thranduil lay sent both fondness and exasperation rushing through Oropher. Not three days before, a serious conversation had taken place between the three of them in which he had made it abundantly clear to Linwë Carandirion and Veassen Taldurion that he expected at least a few hours of their free time to be spent in bed. He didn’t expect it every day, for sometimes the requirements of war prohibited rest. He also didn’t expect them to sleep every time they sought their beds, for sometimes the nightmares of war made it impossible, and he knew that all too well. He had, however, expected some measure of obedience from them, especially the generally sensible and well-behaved Veassen, but it seemed they had both developed selective hearing. It was almost a relief to Oropher that his wife’s little cousin Fileg Halmirion had fractured his ankle the week before and, confined to bed, was one less young elf for him to worry about.

 “I find myself surprised by your presence, my young warriors,” he remarked. Linwë stood a little straighter but steadily met his eyes, while Veassen dropped his chocolate brown gaze to the floor. The King thought that was less to do with him and more to do with Veassen’s grandfather standing just off to the side. He had heard the slight creak of leather armguards as Captain Rhoven folded his arms, and he knew that wasn’t usually a good sign. “I seem to recall discussing this with you both very recently.”

 “You did, your Majesty, and we listened,” Linwë said. “But when we left from visiting Thranduil this evening, we offered to relieve his guards so they could get dinner.”

 “That offer was well made,” Oropher acknowledged. “When are you expecting them to return from dinner?”

 “They…they returned already, your Majesty,” Veassen said nervously, looking up.

 “Ah. And where are they now?” Oropher asked calmly. “Having dessert?”

 Nearby torches illuminated the rosy blush that coloured Veassen’s cheeks. “Perhaps they are, sir.”

 “Enough of that, elfling,” Captain Rhoven snapped from behind Oropher.

 “Lieutenant Carthalon and Lieutenant Angtheldir came back from dinner two hours ago, and we told them – or rather, I told them – to leave again,” Linwë said, taking pity on Veassen. “They didn’t want to, but I didn’t give them much of a choice, so you can’t blame them.”

 Oropher put one hand on Linwë’s shoulder and the other on Veassen’s, and he drew the young elves in closer to him. “I know,” he said quietly. “You miss him. You want to be near him. Believe me, I know. Your dedication to my son, your heart-brother, is something that I have always treasured but I need you to take care of yourselves as well. The two of you are doing too much, especially now that you are both looking after Fileg as well. If Thranduil wakes and finds you both exhausted…”

 If. It was just a turn of phrase, but it stopped Oropher dead as he realised what he had said. Linwë was suddenly as stiff as a statue, his expression stony, and Veassen looked in dismay between the two of them. “With your permission, sire, I’ll escort our young warriors back to their pavilion myself,” Captain Rhoven interjected. He clapped a hand on Veassen’s shoulder, making his grandson squirm unhappily. “I’ll see to it that they get their rest. And that we don’t have any more of this nonsense.”

 “Very good, Captain,” Oropher agreed distantly.

 He didn’t watch Rhoven leave with the lieutenants, or pay attention to their receding footsteps or the quiet scolding his captain was delivering. His eyes were fixed on the canvas door to the tent. He had lost count of how many times he had stepped through it over the last couple of weeks, but it never got any easier. The fear of what he might find on the other side never changed. Taking a deep breath, the King of Greenwood put his hand out and swept the flap aside. He stepped into the tent only to immediately stop, caught off guard. The raised bed that his son had been in since that fateful day was still there, and Thranduil still occupied it, deathly pale as if Mandos was only just out of reach. A healer was present, as always, but tonight he wasn’t making observations or administering medicine or whatever else he and his fellows did to keep Oropher’s child alive. Tonight, the healer was asleep.

 Oropher felt as though he had stepped into a private and intimate scene as he gazed at his son’s fingers entwined with the healer’s, but he didn’t begrudge Nestorion those close and quiet moments alone. Six yéni of standing in for Oropher when he couldn’t be Ada because he had to be King had earned Nestorion the right to them. He had loved Thranduil, taught him, disciplined him, laughed with him and wiped his tears, healed his hurts, and taken as much pride in him and his accomplishments as Oropher and Felith had. He belonged at Thranduil’s side. Feeling like an intruder, Oropher hesitantly took a step back. He wasn’t used to being the one to leave. Still, Thranduil would be there tomorrow. Unless he dies before then, said a nasty little voice somewhere in his head that made him catch his breath.

 It made Nestorion wake, and he sat up slowly. “Forgive me, aran-nín,” he murmured, brushing strands of pale chestnut hair out of his eyes. “I did not know you were there.”

 “No, I was at fault. It was not my intention to disturb you. I…” Oropher’s eyes went back to his son. He couldn’t deal with niceties and pleasantries when he had to know. “How is he?”

 “I wish I could tell you something new,” Nestorion said quietly. He tucked Thranduil in more securely, and gently passed a hand across his patient’s pale brow. “There is no change.”

 Oropher hadn’t considered it before, but now he reflected that it seemed cruel to make the Master Healer say out loud every day that there were no signs of Thranduil waking. It must pain Nestorion to say it as much as it pained him to hear it. “But he has still been breathing by himself?” the King asked.

 “Yes, and that is more than we had expected,” Nestorion replied.

 The poison on the edge of the blade that had sliced through a gap in Thranduil’s armour had succeeded. He had died in his father’s arms on the battlefield. Oropher had felt it. He’d felt that spark go out, the breaking of the bond that had tied them together as father and son for just short of a thousand years. For a minute that had felt like an immortal lifetime, there had been nothing. But Thranduil had come back. By the grace of the Valar, and his father’s love and rage, and the skills of the healers, he had defied the odds and returned to life – if life it could be called, when he lay there as if he had remained dead. It had to be better than nothing. That was what Oropher told himself. If he let Thranduil go, that was it. Over. Finished. But if Thranduil was breathing – and he was, and there hadn’t been any breathing complications for nearly a full week now – then that meant there was hope.

 “I will leave the two of you alone,” Nestorion said softly, as he got to his feet.

 “Don’t go,” Oropher replied. “Please. Stay with me. With him. You have every right.”

 Nestorion paused for just a moment before resuming his seat at Thranduil’s bedside with a quiet nod of gratitude to Oropher. King and healer sat opposite each other, both holding a pale hand in theirs. “I remember the first time I ever met him,” Nestorion murmured, breaking the silence. “It was twelve days before your coronation. You came to the palace with Thranduil and the Queen. Your brother was there, and his son, and Lord Herdir and Ivoniel. Elder Faelind and Elder Aermanis were showing you around and introducing you to your new staff. Elder Serellon and Elder Thavron were there to point out interesting facts about the structure of the palace, and Elder Luthavar…why was he there, again?”

 “To this day I don’t know,” Oropher admitted, with a small and reluctant smile. “He took great joy in showing us all the hidden doors and passageways, and planting all sorts of mischievous thoughts into Thranduil’s mind. Poor Faelind was trying his best not to show us how vexed he was, when all he really wanted was to haul Luthavar across his knee.”

 “A sentiment felt by all of us to varying degrees of regularity.” Nestorion’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but he stopped short of laughing. It was hard to laugh when Thranduil lay like a marble statue between them. “Anyway…you didn’t make it to the healing wing until the afternoon. Thranduil stood between you and the Queen, with his hand in hers. He was so little. Not even waist-height. And he’d met so many new people and heard so many new names, and he had behaved so well all day, that he was too tired to even look at me. I was afraid that you would scold him for it but you didn’t. You just put your hand on his head. That was all it took. He stood straighter, as if he had drawn strength from you, and he met my eyes and gave me the sweetest smile. I knelt before him, and promised him that he could always come to me for help when he needed it.”

 “And you have been keeping him alive for me ever since,” Oropher said quietly.

 Nestorion nodded, his gaze going to Thranduil’s snow-white face. “Yes,” he agreed after a pause. “But you know, he took my words quite literally. He didn’t need healing the first few times he came to me for help.”

 “He didn’t?” Oropher repeated, his voice heavy with longing to hear more of the son he could never know enough about.

 “The first time he came to me it was because he had got lost trying to find his way to your study,” Nestorion recalled. “The second time, he wanted someone to help him finish a jigsaw puzzle. And the third time, he asked me to hide him because he was in trouble with Bereth Felith for inadvertently frightening one of her ladies with a mouse he wasn’t supposed to have. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was a healer and not an all-round helper in all things. It was only on our fourth meeting, when he came to me with a splinter in his finger, that I had cause to actually heal him.”

 “Times were much easier then,” Oropher said, stroking his son’s cheek with the back of his finger. “He was easier to protect. I wish splinters and trouble were all he had to fear, and that I could still strengthen him with the touch of my hand.”

 The two ellyn met each other’s eyes across the body of the poisoned prince. Oropher had done everything in his power to bring his son back from the brink, but seeing the gleam of hope in Nestorion’s leaf green gaze and the unspoken plea to try again…it gave him hope, too. Slowly and carefully, just like the earliest days when he had been afraid of damaging his tiny infant son, he moved his hand to Thranduil’s head. Golden strands shifted like silk beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and poured his strength into his child, willing him to take it, waiting for a sign. It didn’t even have to be a big one. A little one would do. A squeeze of weakened fingers, a deeper breath, the flutter of lashes, a touch of life in white cheeks, something, anything, he didn’t care what. There was nothing. Just a fool’s hope, Oropher thought hollowly, taking Thranduil’s hand again as he sat back for another night-time vigil.

[voikukkasi]

Don't be afraid, child. I won't hurt you..

[voikukkasi]

Are you in trouble, sweet child?

[voikukkasi]

[mgcoco]

I got a beautiful commission from @navyinks of my elf boy Fileg! He seems to have overslept under a tree, and now is just a tad bit late with those deliveries 😉 Thank you again for this adorable piece! 💕

[mgcoco]

All those long distance elf couples are keeping Fileg busy this time of year!

(Fileg is my LOTR OC and an elvish postman!)

[mgcoco]

Gonna be opening up charity comms for Pride Month soon! I made this little Fileg as an example of one of the options, and he turned out so cute?? My elf boy is a cutie patootie 🥰

[iathrimchronicles]

Fic: Hope Beyond Reason, Chapter 2

Series: The Iathrim Chronicles

Author: African Daisy

Warnings: Mention of discipline

Chapter summary: The morning after Oropher’s vigil at his son’s bedside, the lords of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men meet to discuss Thranduil’s fate.

………………………..

It was the twelfth day.

Aran Oropher didn’t recall falling asleep, but he must have because he remembered the sky outside being an inky black and not the purple-grey of dawn that it was when he opened his eyes. Nestorion was no longer there either. Alone with his son for another precious few minutes as the war camps awoke, he spoke quietly to him. It made him feel better to speak to his child and imagine that somehow Thranduil could hear him. “Lots of people will be talking about you today,” he murmured, stroking Thranduil’s golden hair. “Everyone has been thinking of you and asking after you, but today we are to have a meeting all about you. You pretend not to mind but you hate being the centre of attention, don’t you. Still, I think you would find this funny. All the lords and commanders coming together just to talk about you? You would laugh. Ah, my Thranduil, I miss your laugh. I hope...”

And he had to stop then, because he didn’t know what he hoped. His heart was torn. “I hope we make the right decision for you,” he whispered finally. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Thranduil’s brow, his hand tenderly cupping the young prince’s head.

It pained Oropher to turn his back on his son, but so he did, returning with a heavy heart to the royal tent where the air inside was redolent with citrus. Grateful to whichever of his attendants had thought to arrange a bath for him, he paused by his desk. What he saw made him roll his eyes. All of his work was done, at least everything that he had set out to do the night before and some that he hadn’t as well. He wondered what time Vehiron had gone to bed, or if he had at all. Probably not. He pushed it from his mind for now, and made his way slowly through the pavilion. It was tall enough for even the tallest elf to stand straight, with silk hangings dividing the tent into rooms and intricately carved wooden screens to block out noise.

 There was the lounge area with comfortable seats, a table for dining, and a chest containing books, games and other treasures from home. Beyond that was a makeshift study where Oropher did his work and received visitors who wished to speak with him privately. At the back of the tent were the sleeping quarters. They had originally been divided into two, with a bedroom on either side, but last year the hangings had been taken down to make them into one large space. Lately a prisoner of war and captive of the Dark Lord, Thranduil had suffered from violent night terrors worse even than those that had plagued Oropher after the Fall of Doriath. Thranduil had needed to be near his father when they came, and Oropher had needed him near. The night terrors hadn’t stopped after that, and perhaps they never would, but they had at least lessened. That was something.

 As Oropher reached the bath set behind a screen on the other side of the bedroom, he paused and stared through the swirling steam. Four days ago he had asked Nestorion if Thranduil could still dream. Nestorion hadn’t answered right away, letting out a slow and deep breath as he considered his answer. Finally, he had explained that not enough was yet known about a comatose state to be able to say with any certainty whether or not a patient could dream. That hadn’t been any comfort to Oropher, because he didn’t like the thought of his child being shrouded in darkness, but as ever he had valued Nestorion’s honesty. Now, he suddenly found himself hoping that Thranduil couldn’t dream. If he was unable to dream, there would be no nightmares that he couldn’t wake from. The King couldn’t help but dwell on those thoughts as he undressed and began to scrub away the dust of Mordor.

 Fresh clothes had already been laid out for him, but he didn’t look at them and his hands worked methodically. It was only after, when he stood before the mirror in the bedroom and stared at his reflection, that he noticed the colours. His leggings and light cambric shirt were the hues of a storm-washed afternoon sky, and the just above knee-length tunic he wore over them was a richer shade of sapphire blue. His sigil, the great oak tree beneath a winged moon, was embroidered across the chest in delicate silver thread. They were his clothes, but they were Thranduil’s colours. His son loved blues and silvers, and they were one of the many things that Oropher automatically thought of when he thought of Thranduil.

 “Are you satisfied with the clothing, aran-nín?”

 Oropher didn’t move, but his eyes shifted slightly. He watched in the mirror as his wife’s cousin Lord Halmir Dagorionhil stepped into the room with various accoutrements in his arms. “The choice was well made. Thranduil would approve.”

 “I know I have done well when my sartorial arrangements pass the exacting standards of the Crown Prince,” Halmir murmured, setting down a pair of dark grey leather boots and a set of silver vambraces engraved with a pattern of leaves and vines. He met Oropher’s gaze in the mirror, his sky blue eyes twinkling, and began wrapping a white and silver silk sash belt around the King’s waist. “When they pass Elder Luthavar’s, I know I have done exceedingly well.”

 For the first time that day, Oropher managed a smile. “Eru forbid Lutha disapproves of a fashion choice. Of course, he wouldn’t say anything about it. His eyes would just…you know.”

 “Do that thing,” Halmir agreed.

 That made Oropher’s smile turn into a little chuckle as Halmir knotted the belt at his side. Everyone knew when his cousin Luthavar saw something that offended his fashion sense, for he could never quite control the incredulous flicker and flare of his dark eyes. Sitting down to pull on his boots and fit the silver vambraces around his forearms, Oropher reflected that it was likely an automatic reflex that Lutha was unaware of rather than something he did on purpose. Lady Aiwen, the youngest daughter of Halmir and twin sister to Fileg, had once publicly scolded Lutha for being rude and judgemental after one such look made a lady of the court burst into tears. Lutha had looked genuinely appalled by the accusation, but then he had snapped at Aiwen that he was only ever rude and judgemental in his head, but for what it was worth, anyone who paired fuchsia and lime – in a dress with frills, no less – ought to be tried for outraging public decency. The two hadn’t spoken for a month after that.

 “Speaking of elflings,” Oropher said, sitting at the dressing table and starting to prepare the braids at the left side of his head while Halmir started on the right, “I am afraid I haven’t had a chance to visit Fileg these last few days. How is his injury?”

 “Ah. His injury.” Halmir fell silent with a frown as he deftly wove beads and gems into the first of Oropher’s braids. There was the pattern of the royal house of Doriath – pearls, black opals, silver beads and moonstones, which Lord Vehiron and Thranduil wore as well – interspersed with some that were personally meaningful to the King. He wore lapis lazuli in memory of his parents, blue larimar for his wife, and star sapphire for his son. “Fileg’s injury is not greatly concerning,” Halmir said finally. “It is just a broken ankle. He will be fine soon enough.”

 Oropher had been afraid that the younger ellon would say something like that. “Do you remember when Thranduil broke the little finger of his right hand? That was the year before last. He had spent the evening in Elendil’s camp, accepting the most foolhardy and reckless challenges from the young men until finally he landed awkwardly during some stunt and injured himself. I was so cross with him. As soon as he returned from being bandaged up, I embraced my fatherly duty and began to scold him.”

 “Did he not tell you that it was dishonourable to use violence against a maimed war veteran, so you had to wait to punish him?” Halmir asked.

 “Yes, the insolent bratling,” Oropher laughed, tying off his braid and starting the next one.  

 “And you summoned Healer Nestorion,” Halmir recalled.

 “I did, and he was quite willing to inform my son that warmth to the muscles would stimulate blood flow and speed up his healing. Thranduil isn’t often lost for words, but he had no rebuttal to that. My point, Halmir, is that despite my exasperation and the punishment I gave him for showing off and behaving recklessly, I still felt awful for him,” Oropher said. “Every time he knocked his finger or stifled a cry because he’d tried to pick something up without thinking, my heart ached for him – even though it was just a broken finger. So don’t tell me that Fileg’s injury is not concerning. I appreciate your thinking of me, but just because my son is…the way that he is, right now, that doesn’t mean you should feel guilty for worrying about your son. Now please, mellon-nín – how is Fileg?”

 Halmir exhaled in relief as he picked up a handful of gems from a pot on the dressing table. Of course the injury was nothing. Fileg was his son, and that meant it was everything. “Healer Nielinyë went to check on him yesterday evening. Now that the swelling has gone down, it seems that the break is a simple one and it should heal quickly enough if he takes it slowly. In himself, Fileg is…well, struggling.”

 “How so?”

 “Oh, he is angry with himself for causing the injury. And he’s not wrong, it was self-inflicted, but I can hardly blame him for being upset about Thranduil. Veassen told him to kick a pillow next time instead of a rock, but I don’t think Fileg is ready to hear jokes yet,” Halmir replied. “He is quiet and he grieves for Thranduil. He wants desperately to visit him, but the ground is too rough for him at least until he is able to walk with crutches. Healer Galad is going to bring them tomorrow.”

 “I hope he will be in better spirits soon,” Oropher said gently.

 Halmir smiled at the other ellon in the mirror. “As do I.”

 They finished the braids more or less at the same time, and the outfit was completed with a silver circlet upon the King’s brow. He thanked Halmir, who responded by quietly wishing him luck. It was time to go, and there was no putting it off. Part of him just wanted it to be over with even as the thought of what was to come filled him with dread. Waiting for him outside the royal pavilion was his brother, along with their best friend and Oropher’s most trusted Chief Advisor, Lord Herdir. He clasped the arms of both ellyn in greeting as he stepped out to meet them. “Well,” he sighed. “I suppose we must go.”

 “Yes,” Herdir said sympathetically. “The others are gathering. How are you feeling?”

 “I…I have no idea,” Oropher admitted, realising that he truly didn’t.

 “That’s fine.” Herdir gave his friend a small but reassuring smile. “You don’t have to.”

 “We are with you, muindor,” Vehiron added.

 They had always been with him. They had seen him through the very best of times and the very worst of times, sharing in his pain as easily as they shared in his laughter. Oropher shared blood with only one of them, but Vehiron and Herdir were both his brothers and best friends. It had been important to him that Thranduil experience that same level of loyalty and friendship, for a life lived without friends was a lonely one. Oropher knew he wouldn’t have got far without his. He gave the two of them a strained smile, and he drew one final deep breath before taking his first step in the direction of the camps of Ereinion Gil-galad and Elendil, where a command tent in blue and silver with green and gold trim lay on the border between the two.

 When he arrived there, most of the seats within were occupied. The High King of the Noldor was at the great round table with Captain Glorfindel in his golden armour, and Lord Elrond, to his left. On his right was the King of Arnor and Gondor, with Elendil’s proud son Prince Isildur and eldest grandson Elendur to his right. Sitting next to Elendur was the new King of Lórien, young Aran Amroth. That still startled Oropher sometimes. He missed his beloved cousin Amdír terribly, though he thought Amdír’s son would do well enough at ruling with the right guidance. Much of that guidance would come from Amroth’s great-uncle Lord Celeborn, who sat to his right. Then, there were three empty seats. Herdir took the one next to Celeborn, with Oropher in the middle and Vehiron on his other side next to General Rochendil and Captain Curulas of the Greenwood army. Finally, completing the circle between Curulas and Elrond was Master Healer Nestorion.

 “We have come together today to decide the fate of Prince Thranduil,” Ereinion said quietly, when everyone was settled. “If all are ready, we shall begin.”