The Last Elf Queen of Arda

Chapter 3 - Tears of the Sun

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Consciousness came slowly, teasing at Thranduil like a reticent lover as it remained just beyond reach. Awareness of his body remained elusive even as his mind gradually came back into focus. For a fleeting moment he thought he beheld the sun, come to visit him in a fair form even as he lay there. He couldn't be sure if he actually saw with his own eyes or in his mind though, and eventually Thranduil was lost again to dreams.

"Will he live, hiril-nin*?"

Frowning, Anthelísse turned away from the bedside of the stricken prince. It had been two days since the battle before the Morannon, and still her charge did not awaken. Brushing back a long strand of golden hair that had escaped its bindings, she shook her head.

"I cannot say. He is lucky to be alive now; had the spear tip gone even a finger's width further and likely he would have drowned in his own blood."

The Sindarin elf before her looked crestfallen, his gaze still fixed intently on Thranduil where he lay. The prince of the Greenwood had been under her care since the Lord Elrond had brought him to the healers after the battle. In the time since Anthelísse had been using all her considerable skill at medicine to restore Thranduil to his people. If it had been the blood loss, he surely would have awoken by now. Thus far there had been no signs of festering in the wounds, and so she just could not say when or if he would recover. Anthelísse suspected it was more than likely the sheer shock of battle that Thranduil's mind rather than body was attempting to recover from.

Such a vague answer would hardly satisfy the Captain of the Woodland Guard. A tall and sharp featured elf, Gurithon had scarcely left his prince's side in the past forty-eight hours.

The armies of the Last Alliance still remained encamped on the plains outside Mordor, and there they would remain until such time as the most grievously wounded could be moved. There was also the grim task of burying the dead to attend to before such time as they could return to their homelands. The count of the fallen was steep indeed for all involved, but especially so for the armies of the Greenwood and Loríen . Of the original thirty thousand troops whom Oropher had led in that ill-fated first charge, only a scant third remained. These survivors sat in groups around empty fires or wandered their camp hollow-eyed, as if still in shock that they should remain when so many comrades and kin had been killed. Most had moved their tents closer to the central encampment of Gil-Galad's army though, as if by proximity they could better await any scrap of news regarding Thranduil's death or survival.

With a sigh, Gurithon leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. Anthelísse pitied the poor Sindarin captain; much had been left to him in the absence of other leadership. It was just as bad in the camp of the elves of Loríen , now bereft of their king. Only just that morning Amdír, the Lord of the Golden Wood had been laid to rest with full honors alongside his fallen warriors.

Lifting the bowl of bloodied water and soiled cloths she had been using to cleanse Thranduil's wound, Anthelísse left Gurithon at the prince's side. There were many, many others to attend to in the tent of the healers. Everywhere there was a deep aura of sadness. All were grieving, be they Noldorin, Sindarin, Silvan or mortal alike. High King Gil-Galad had fallen to the hand of Sauron himself in battle, as had the human king Elendil. The thought of Gil-Galad brought a lump to Anthelísse's throat and a stinging to her clear blue eyes. Hastily rubbing her cheek with the back of a hand, the elf lady made her way from bed to bed tending her patients. There would be time enough to mourn later...for now the wounded needed her care.