Laer o Faen

Taur im Duinath

First Age of Middle Earth – 586

Lû ad lû, sui lais lân dant, nodel am ael vregol, i chîr daer Teleri tunc i elnoss nabardh, ui annûn.

They were running out of daylight, but still those such as he, that served as guards for the Elven host, pressed the slow moving column of refugees along the track that was the closest to a road that they could hope for. It meandered precariously, generally in a north easterly direction around this section of what was left of the headland – in places unpassable, making the journey all the more arduous with so many of the vulnerable in tow.

At one such turn – where the track crumbled into the void and the sharp rocks below – and the march of the Elves, of necessity, turned further east, Thranduil drew the grey stallion to a halt, and for a moment peered out through where the trees thinned to nothing across the new shoreline of what little remained of Beleriand.

His shoulder ached as his eyes moved over the jagged fall of many new cliffs, where land had tumbled into the sea, and the water itself had poured away to make them mightier and more deadly yet. It was a phantom pain, he knew, since he had long since healed from the wounds inflicted by Maedhros the day of his hanging from the cliff; long since, and suffered and healed from fresh hurts in the decades since the Valar had first come – bringing their army to make ruin upon Morgoth, all but done now, as Morgoth had retreated to the bowels of his mines at Angband. His hordes, his fell Wolves and Wargs, his Wraith and Balrogs and foul serpents, were all in defeat, retreat, or fleeing yet, pursued and held at bay to give relief to the innocent; time and chance to flee – to answer the summons of Ëonwë to make for the Undying Lands.

Hourly, like fallen, white leaves, tossed upon a turbulent lake, the great Teleri ships carried the Kin homeward, ever West; Telerian hearts moved to pity even those of Noldor descent that had foresworn the Fëanorian slaughter of their own kind, and bring them aid. Through all the conflict, unfailing they had been to uphold the lives of innocents, to bring solace where they, before, were given none.

"Thanduil, what do you see?"

A voice drew him from his thoughts, and he turned his head, then the head of his mount to face the other Elf as Amroth drew to a halt at the other side of the column of Elven non-combatants. He was one of the closest comrades remaining to Thranduil, a friend from childhood with whom he had fought in defence of Doriath.

"Abandonment," he answered before he could stop the word from slipping, unguarded, from his mouth.

"Your father," Amroth said, "I heard he means to take the road East once more, beyond the Great River. Is it true?"

"There are others of our Kin in the woodlands to the East, he said. He travelled much in defence of the Havens at Sirion." Thranduil sighed, glancing westward again to where the Mouth of Sirion should have been; somewhere in the midst of the tumultuous new ocean. His voice soft, he continued, "It was their scouts gave him warning of the movements of the Fëanorians, and the march of the Host of Morgoth."

"We would have been ill prepared, even with the arrival of the Valar, had it not been for that warning," Amroth answered. "Do not fear your father's denial of The Call."

Thranduil frowned. Did he fear it? He knew there were many, among Sindar and Noldor alike that had no desire to take the ships West and turn their backs upon the awakening in Middle Earth, the promise of life and stewardship without the strife of constant war with the Servants of Shadow – if they could but rid the land of Morgoth, not ensnare him under siege in his own realm. What were his feelings? What would he do?