Through Wind and Fire (LOTR)

XIX

The course of true love never did run smooth.

 - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

- Francis of Assisi

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

- Hebrews 11:1

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Completely winded the prince was, utterly wasted, both physically and mentally. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and grief overwhelmed him. There was no words to describe how he felt. He only wished he could be home with his soon-to-be wife, his mother, and his father. Mournful was his disposition, pitiful were his steps. Every foot forward was a struggle. Oh, but all this could have been prevented. From so much grief could he have saved his mother. It was terrible, all of it. None of this should have happened, this much death should have never occurred. King Elendil was dead.

His ada was dead.

Oropher, the great, mighty Sindar king of Greenwood the Great was dead. Lifeless was his body on the plains, almost unrecognisable was his face, bloody and bruised. The one who raised him, cared for him more than anyone. How he had taken his father for granted! It was too much, for sadness, despair, and grief poured over him like a terrible waterfall.

No, there was no way he was gone!, the prince thought to himself. Screaming in anguish, the prince buried his face in his hands, and collapsed on the ground near the campgrounds. He wept bitterly, and none of the soldiers who did serve under the dead king could have matched the grief that Thranduil bore. Impossible it was to rid himself of this ache. The one who sacrificed so much for him, loved him unconditionally, was dead, gone from this world. Never had he thanked his father for everything from the depths of his heart, and he was regretful of that.

If he could have turned time backwards and changed one thing, he would have told his father that he loved him, and how much he appreciated what he had done for the kingdom and for he, his son.

For a long while did Thranduil Oropherion sit crumpled on the dirty battleground, weeping and crying until there were no tears left to cry. There next to him was the king's body, mutilated and disfigured. One glance and the prince almost cursed aloud, wondering how Eru could take his father from him. Why must this happen? Why was there death? Elves were not meant to die, his father did not need to fall this battle. The Enemy was defeated, yes, but his father was gone. Middle-earth would rejoice, but little joy would Thranduil find in celebration, and the same would go for his dear mother. His mother.

No doubt his mother would sail, no longer finding joy in the world without her husband. And that left him in charge. Thranduil, the prince, now king? Oh, but he was not ready to be a king! How was he to do it? No wife had he, and alone he knew he was useless. Tradition must be abandoned, and he would marry as soon as possible. He would marry Bregoliel, though their engagement period had not yet reached one year. It seemed wrong though, to celebrate a marriage in light of his father's recent death. What would his father have wanted, Thranduil pondered?

Oropher would have wanted his son to marry and promptly begin his duties as king.

It was not right, now his father should be here to celebrate the victory with his men, but instead his body lay motionless and cold on the bloodstained battlefield.

Then did he truly realise why it was called the Gift of Men, why death was a gift. Pain this life had, and when one could no longer handle it, their time ended. An eternity would an elf suffer pain, endure this broken world, but Men would only see it for a short time. Sometimes he had scorned at how wise Men seemed to think they were, but now he understood. All the time in Arda was given to an elf. To Men, only a short time was allowed them, a little sliver of time.