The Wrath of Dragon fire by Ysilme

Prologue

And then the time came when Morgoth was finally vanquished and Beleriand lost. They called it the War of Wrath, and minstrels sang tales of sorrow, death and dragon fire, and of the warriors who fought with great valour.
 
The fighting was fierce, and the death toll was high. Gildor Inglorion had fought many battles in his time, but here on the plains of Anfauglith life and everything he knew came apart, and something new began - but that he knew only much later. At the time, it was fire and hell and destruction.

-----o

“Gildor! Ai, Gildor, wait for me!”

The Noldo turned, his eyes lighting up at a lad running up to him.

“Thranduil! What has got you so excited?”

The blond Sinda stopped, panting and bestowing his mentor a bright smile. “I’ve got my armour, finally. It took so long to finish it, I thought I would have to go to battle with just my leathers!” Throwing back his cloak, he lifted his arms and turned around, proudly showing off a piece of great craftsmanship and beauty, clearly the best - and showiest - Oropher’s gold had been able to buy.

Gildor observed every detail with great diligence. “Who made this, Master Thavron? Exceptional work. But to be honest, I find the sight of you much more delightful.” He gave the young man a quick embrace. Not many of the Sindar had readily followed the Noldor King's call to arms, but Oropher and his young son were among them, duty-bound by their position at the High King’s court. They stuck with their own kind, though, and Gildor hadn’t seen his young friend for a while.

Thranduil’s smile vanished. “I know. Father doesn’t approve of my association with you, and while he turned a blind eye at court, he made it quite clear what he expects of me here. But I just had to see you for a moment, and show you this.”

Gildor patted the other on the back. “I’m happy to see you, too, Thran. Come, walk with me, and let me hear your news.”

Thranduil’s father Oropher was a Sinda of the late King Thingol’s court who had come to the Havens of Sirion after the fall of Menegroth. He despised the Noldor, who were, in his book, responsible for all evil that roamed Middle-earth, and while he accepted their association to further his own ambitions, any contact over the purely political with them was highly unsolicited by him, particularly where it concerned his only son.

Gildor Inglorion, a distant cousin of the royal family of little importance, was a free spirit, preferring to roam the forests and plains of Middle-earth, sometimes alone, sometimes with a small company, never growing tired of this still new and exciting land. Some fifty years ago, on one of his trips he had made the acquaintance of a very young Thranduil, who had escaped the confines of the city to find solitude among his beloved trees, and they had become fast friends over their shared love for trees and rivers and all things that lived. Thranduil had come with his father to the Havens only recently, finding it difficult to make new friends partly due to the strained relations between Noldor and Sindar and partly for his father’s haughty behaviour, and he had soon taken to the easy-going, dark-haired Noldo. Gildor, flattered by the open admiration of the attractive youngster, became something of his mentor, helping him find his place in a not-so-welcoming society and encouraging him to pursue his own interests. But when Thranduil grew older, his father had drawn him into his own affairs and deliberately limited the time the two could spend together, while Gildor’s own duties often brought him far away from the coast, to use his knowledge of the land in the increasing fight against Morgoth.

When the army marched north more recently, the friends were separated by kinship and duty, but found many occasions to meet during the march or in camp, or sometimes escaping together with a small hunting group. Nobody ignored the fate they were marching towards, but for Gildor and Thranduil it came with the hidden blessing of spending more time together than they had been able to in years. But the arrival at their destination meant separate camps for both peoples with as much distance in between as was still justifiable, and seeing each other became nearly impossible.

Lost in thought, Gildor had listened with only half an ear at Thranduil’s tales of the life in the Sindarin camp, until he had started talking about his new armour. Gildor, who wore a much simpler, but equally well-made, piece from the hands of the same Master smith, listened with interest to the surprisingly knowledgeable account of the armour’s finer detail, realising with surprise how much more mature and serious his formerly so carefree friend had become.

Thranduil might still be very young - in fact, he would be celebrating his first three-figure begetting day in only a few weeks - but none of his prattle could hide the fact that he knew precisely what was waiting for him, and that war was not an adventure. Nor that the lavishly gilded design of his armour hid the fact of it serving only one purpose: to protect its bearer and hopefully to preserve his life.  

-----o

Chapter End Notes

(Banner and photo by me)

War

Weeks passed with skirmishes and small encounters here and there, mostly ending in defeat for their armies, and without a single chance for Gildor and Thranduil to meet. When they saw each other again briefly on the morning of the final battle, Gildor was shocked to find Thranduil with such a passion and fire in the eye, so ready to kill and to avenge. Where had the Thranduil gone he had met so many years ago in the forest? The soft one, the kind one, who loved songs and stories and talked to trees?

But when Gildor saw the first dragon flying high in the sky, he understood. It was one thing to hear about the fiery beasts and their awful deeds, one thing to know about what Glaurung had dealt to Nargothrond, and quite another to see them with your very own eyes, to see the devastation and loss of life every single one of them had wrought. Thranduil seemed to thirst for blood, and for dragon blood even more.

They marched on towards the enemy host, the feeling of impending doom prevalent, and when the fighting began, there seemed little hope for victory. But then a formidable sight changed the fate of the day: Vingilot came sweeping down from the sky, chasing the huge, black winged beast, skilfully darting out of the way of its fiery breath. But the mariner’s ship was but one, and the dragons were numerous.

Gildor squinted into the blinding sunlight, trying to get an idea of the number of smaller dragons flying about, but the sheer number of them made an estimate impossible. Most were rather small, and some had already been slain by arrows or hauled swords or axes. It came as a certain relief that not all dragons were immune to their weapons and could be killed, but it was only the smallest, even though their fiery breath was as dangerous as that of their larger brethren and brought death and destruction to anybody who dared to put his life and weapon in their way. It seemed hopeless, and in a way, it probably was.

Then the eagles came and, with them, the tide turned as they took on the winged beasts and allowed the warriors to concentrate on the enemy on the ground. Gildor was fighting as he never had before, ploughing his way through waves and waves of orcs and whatever Angband had spawned and, after a time, he felt as if he was just an extension of his sword, covered by blood and gore, dealing death with every strike. He hadn’t seen a familiar face for the last hours or so, when a loud shriek above him made him look up.

One of the smaller dragons, a fierce, blue beast, was fighting with one of the eagles. The eagle must have been wounded, for his feathers were smeared with blood, and it didn’t have the blackish shimmer of Morgoth’s creatures. Something bright shone from the back of the eagle, and Gildor couldn't believe his eyes that the enormous bird had a rider! A rider with long, blond hair streaming out from under his mithril helmet. Gildor’s heart sank. By the stars, Thran, how did you get up there?

There was no doubt of the rider being Thranduil, and he was briefly reminded of some of his friend’s daredevil acrobatics he had witnessed over time. Gildor would have expected to find the young Sinda among his kin’s infantry, protected by more seasoned warriors. He might be skilled with a blade and a good fighter in his own right, but lacked the experience and endurance of a seasoned soldier, never having fought in battle before. Taking such a risk, though? But of course, passionate Thranduil would throw everything he had into this fight, not caring for his own well-being when larger things were at stake, and was now riding a wounded eagle, fighting one of the deadliest foes of Ennor with desperate resolve.

Gildor gasped. For a moment, it looked as if Thranduil was falling to his certain death from the back of his weakened mount, and in the next as if he would be taken out by the powerful slashes of the dragon's tail.
But his friend surprised him with a move he wouldn’t have thought possible: he stood up on the back of the eagle, crouched down and then leapt - yes, he leapt on the back of the dragon! The Noldo cried out in shocked amazement and then again in pain when his inattention caused the attack of another orc. Spinning around, Gildor used the fury incited by his fear for his friend and beheaded one, stabbed another, and forced away a third before he could look up again.

Thranduil was clinging with his legs to the back of the blue dragon, seeking purchase with his sword. But the beast was a tough one, already old enough that his scales had become impenetrable, and it looked as if the Sinda’s intent was doomed. Thranduil had obviously come to the same conclusion, drawing his long knife and trying to work its tip under the scales in the neck, while the dragon tried shaking him off by turning and twisting around, letting out ear-piercing screeches. A larger, greyish-green dragon turned in his direction, probably to help him, but was attacked by another eagle and vanished out of Gildor’s line of vision. The distraction caused one of the blue dragon’s wings to come within Thranduil's reach, and he hastily put back his knife, took his sword in both hands, and slashed the thinner and more vulnerable webbing of the wing.

With a blood-curdling cry, the beast fell from the sky and dropped inelegantly into the middle of a group of fighters, squashing friend and foe alike. Gildor, who had slain three more orcs while watching the air-bound spectacle, tried to get to Thranduil, who miraculously still was on the back of the dragon and seemed uninjured, but he was hindered by another attack and could only slowly slay his way towards his young friend. He was still too far away to do more than observe when he saw Thranduil now forcing the tip of his knife under the scales in the desperate attempt to injure or kill the beast which, unable to fly with a wing hanging limp, was crawling around in circles, screeching in pain and flinging warriors and orcs around like flies with the blows of his neck and tail.

The next time Gildor was able to look, Thranduil was aiming with his sword at a gap he had made between the scales. He rammed it with all his force into the dragon’s body, which  reared up with a deafening roar. Gildor froze. He had by now seen enough dragons to know what the flaring up of the underside of it's gorge meant: it was going to spit fire.

“Thranduil, no! Get down!” he cried in desperation, but he was too far away to be heard over the roar of the beast and the clamour of the battle. Time seemed to stand still when the head of the dragon turned, the snout opened and flames shot out. Gildor wondered why he could see them emerging slowly, one by one, in a completely soundless world, but it didn’t matter any more because the flames were now hitting his friend’s armour which seemed to change its form under the onslaught of unbelievable heat, light and intensity. He saw Thranduil, his hair briefly aflame, falling on the ground like a crumpled toy, with the head of the dragon dropping alongside. Thranduil had dealt him a deathly strike, but at the cost of his own life.

A desperate sob escaped Gildor’s throat. With renewed vigour, he took his sword in both hands, hacking and slaying his way over to his fallen friend, but a new surge of enemies came and swept him away.

-----o

Wrath and Ruin

“Gildor? Gildor, can you hear me?”

Opening his eyes, Gildor stared in a youthful face he dimly remembered, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He tried to lift his head, but a wave of nausea overcame him, and cool hands were pressing him gently back.

“Don’t move,” he heard the same voice say, “the nausea will pass if you keep your head still. There, that is better.” A cool cloth smelling of mint was first held to his nose and then laid on his brow, and the nausea subsided again. He wanted to say something, but only a croak came out, and another wet cloth moistened his lips.

“Suck,” said the voice, “if you lift your head to drink you will get sick again.”

Again? Dim memories surfaced of blinding pain and nausea, desperate retching ending in welcome oblivion, and the ever-present feeling of his head being cleaved in two. Careful to keep his head still he took in his surroundings, realising he had a canvas roof over him, and lay in one of several cots in what must be a large tent. The cloth at his mouth was replaced with another moist one, and he managed to quench most of his thirst in this way. Now he also identified the medicinal scents of herbs, liniments and poultices overlaid by a faint aroma of dried blood, and knew he was in a healing tent.

“It’s good to have you back with us,” the voice said. A young face with dark hair swam into his line of vision, a familiar face, but he couldn’t put a name to it. He found that he remembered surprisingly little, but was too exhausted to care. He dozed off again, often waking for a moment or two, listening to the sounds around him, and obediently sucking whatever was placed to his lips. It went dark and light again, and then the elf with the distinctly familiar face was back. Gildor woke properly when he realised the elf was a healer examining him, taking his pulse and carefully feeling his head. The touch hurt, but less than before.

“Wha’ happen’d?” he managed to croak.

“You got a bad blow to the head and cracked your skull. You were unconscious for several days, but you’re healing fine now. Just take it easy for a bit, and you’ll soon be well again.”

Gildor tried to feel his head, but his hand was caught and firmly put back down.

“Leave your head alone. I will now give you a healing treatment, which will make you drowsy. You might also feel a short increasing of pain or nausea. Please try not to move even if you feel uncomfortable in the next minutes, it will pass as soon as I am finished.”

The healer placed his hands on the left side of Gildor’s head and closed his eyes. A deep feeling of warmth spread through him and concentrated where the pain was worst, which indeed did increase for a moment. He also felt faintly sick, but then the discomfort ebbed away and was replaced by more warmth, and a slight pulsating which felt nice. Gildor yawned and gladly succumbed to sleep.

-----o

When he woke next, it was dark again, and all he could hear were the sounds of breathing and the occasional soft snore. He felt distinctly better and dared to turn his head a bit and, when no wave of nausea crashed down over him, to raise it up. His head started to pound, but not too badly, and the movement soon brought soft steps and a familiar face smiling down at him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” said Gildor. “I feel like I can drink properly now.”

A soft laugh answered him, and a hand raised his head while the other held a cup to his lips.

He drank greedily. “Thank you.” He looked at the healer whose name still escaped him.
“What did you do this morning?” he wanted to know. “Did you heal my injury?”

The healer sat down. “Your body heals itself, but I can use my healing gift to quicken and augment the process.”

“Why didn’t you heal me right away, then?” Gildor was curious. He didn’t know much about the healing arts and thankfully hadn’t needed such a treatment before.

“The body sets its own pace, I can only follow along. Also, using my gift costs energy, and many are in the need of it. I can help more injured if I use my gift in small amounts.”

“Of course,” said Gildor, embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of that. And then, suddenly, his memory came back. The young healer was Elrond, of course, Elrond Peredhel whom he had met at the High King’s court on the Isle of Balar, and who had become friends with Thranduil. Thranduil, who had fallen fighting the blue dragon… he couldn’t repress a sob at the recollection of his friend’s last moment and the horrible loss his death meant to him.

“What is it, Gildor?” The healer - Elrond - observed him with a worried glance. “Are you in pain?”

Gildor shook his head slightly. “The battle - you are Elrond - I just remembered. I couldn’t recall your name until now, when I remembered a friend who fell, and recalled that he was also your friend.” He didn’t try to stop his tears which were now running freely. “He died killing a dragon, all on his own. I was there, but I couldn’t get to him in time.”

“Hush, calm down,” Elrond said with a soothing voice, taking Gildor’s hand in a comforting grip. “I’m very sorry to hear your friend has fallen. It must have been terrible to witness it in this manner. But who is it, if he is also my friend? I don’t recall anybody among the fallen who fits the description.”

“Thranduil,” Gildor said, his voice tired. “He attacked one of the dragons on his own and managed to kill it, but he fell to the dragon’s breath.”

“Oh, but Thranduil didn’t fall,” Elrond said. “He was badly injured, true, but he survived.”

Gildor couldn’t believe his ears. “Thran lives? Really?”

Elrond nodded. “Yes, but I’m afraid that's about all the good news there are. He was burned by the dragon he killed and is in a bad state.”

“I know, I saw it. It was horrific. He slew that dragon single-handedly! But then I saw how the fire consumed him, and I thought him dead.” Gildor bit his lip when the anguish of that moment came back into his mind.

Elrond patted his hand. “He’s alive, and his injuries will heal over time. Most of them, anyway.”

“Most of them? What does that mean?” Gildor’s eyes searched the face of the young healer.

“The dragon’s breath hit him at the face and upper body and burned him badly. It would have been worse but for his mithril armour and helmet; I think he wouldn’t have survived without them. But the flames blinded him, and he lost the sight of one eye. We’re confident the other will regain full use with time, though, and the burns will heal.”

Mithril! So the pretty armour had been even more precious than Gildor had thought. As little use as Gildor usually had for Oropher’s extravagance, he wholeheartedly thanked him this time for outfitting his son with the best available. But blinded in one eye! His heart went out to his friend. “Can I see him?”

“As soon as you can get up without feeling dizzy, maybe in a day or two. But if you like, I’ll pass him a message.”

-----o

It took four more days until Gildor was allowed up and out on his own, and Elrond offered to bring him to Thranduil.

As promised, the young healer had passed a message to the injured Sinda who sent one back, and from then on Elrond served as courier, bringing word each time he saw one of the two. Gildor had also had all the news in the meantime, learning that the battle had been won - which was good -, most dragons including the big black one had been slain - with was better - and Morgoth had been vanquished - which was incredible news. Much less welcome, of course, was the news about the losses, as the fighting had been desperate and the cost unusually high, also the continued business with the Silmarils, but Gildor chose not to care about that at the moment. He was grateful that he had relatively few losses to mourn, as bitter as each one was. But, right now, he only had the energy to concentrate on the living. The mourning and regret would have to remain for later.

The healing tents of the Sindar were close to their camp, which was still situated as far away as possible from the Noldor encampment. Gildor was sweating and felt dizzy when they arrived, ruefully admitting the healer’s earlier verdict as true. Elrond led him to the smallest tent, explaining it was to give the worst cases as much quiet and privacy as possible. Upon entering, he saw about twenty cots arranged in two rows, most of them occupied. Two or three of them were separated off by hanging blankets, and another cot was just being made by an aide. Gildor noticed the sudden grimness on Elrond’s face at the sight and followed him silently to the back of the tent.

Elrond had informed him about the extent of Thranduil’s injuries and the many burns he had suffered, which were all healing well, even the most severe ones, but Gildor was still shocked at the sight. The slight form of the young Sinda was covered with a blanket up to the waist, and most of the body above was swathed in bandages. His long, blond hair was partly missing on the left side, and had even been shaved in some places.

“Hello, Thranduil,” the healer said, “it’s me, Elrond. I have brought you a visitor.”

The injured raised his right hand, and a slight smile appeared on his face on the same side. “Gi’or?”

Gildor fell to his knees before the cot and took the offered hand, squeezing it carefully. “Yes, it’s me, Gildor,” he said with a shaky voice. “I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought I saw you die, Thran! I was there when you fought that foul beast, and saw you killing it, and then it spit fire and you fell.”

Thranduil’s smile deepened, though he winced slightly when this seemed to cause him pain. “Not tho ph’etty now.”

It took a moment until Gildor understood what Thranduil was saying, then he laughed and lightly swatted the unbandaged right arm. “No, indeed not. You shouldn’t mess with a dragon if you’re concerned about your looks!”

A chuckle was the answer. Thranduil was considered fair even among his kin but couldn’t care less, and making fun of the admiration he received had become a kind of sport among his friends. Gildor was relieved to find this hadn’t changed.

Elrond, who had brought a stool for Gildor, now joined in: “Thranduil is regrowing most of the tissues of his left cheek as well as a couple of teeth, which makes speaking difficult and painful for him at the moment. We’re mostly using a couple of signs, and if he has more to say, there is a slate on the bed stand. He also can’t turn his head. Make sure to sit as close to him as possible, so he can reach you with his right hand. You already seem to understand his mumbling well enough.”

“Yes, we have some previous experience,” Gildor said absent-mindedly, while he drew the stool nearer and carefully looked his friend over. His remark caused another smile ghosting over the visible part of Thranduil’s face, and Gildor grinned at the memory. On one of their trips, Thranduil had wanted to prove that he wouldn’t be stung by some hornets he tried to become friends with, and had spend a couple of days with a lip so swollen he could barely eat and drink.

“I see.” Elrond smiled. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t overtax yourself, Thran, you know you still have a lot of healing to do. Gildor won’t run away.”

Thranduil gave a dismissive wave and then let his hand wander to Gildor’s shoulder and, from there, to his face. His fingers touched Gildor’s nose, eyes and brow and then slid down to his lips, slowly following their shape.

“Miss’d you,” he whispered, and tears emerged from under his bandage. “Thought you dead.”

Gildor laid his hand over Thranduil's and squeezed it fondly. He knew already, from their earlier exchange-by-Elrond, that Thranduil had thought him dead as well, as he hadn’t been able to inquire after him when Gildor never showed up.

“I was lucky,” he said, “but I can’t really recommend getting one over the head. The imagery is beautiful, all those coloured stars and fireworks, but the nausea isn’t worth it.”

Thranduil chuckled again and let his hand sink back to the cot, obviously exhausted. “Stay w’ me?” he asked. Gildor nodded and, realising his friend couldn’t see it, squeezed the hand he still held. “Of course, as long as you want. Just rest, I’ve got you.”
The other relaxed visibly and, soon after, his breathing evened out.

After a while, another healer came over and took in the scene. “Is he sleeping?” When Gildor nodded, he said: “That is good. He is in much pain which keeps him awake, but we can’t give him more poppy juice as he already gets all that we can safely allow. The more he sleeps the faster he heals, though.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Gildor answered, “all the time if it helps.”

“We’ll see about that.” The healer obviously wasn’t happy with the continued presence of a Noldo.

-----o

Gildor stayed at Thranduil’s side for most of the day, gratefully accepting a bowl of stew at noon when Thranduil was fed broth and soaked bread. He left only when Thranduil got his nightly dose of poppy juice and Elrond, who had come back for a healing treatment, assured him that he would sleep soundly through the night.  

The next days were spent in a very similar fashion. Gildor came in the morning, sat at Thranduil’s cot, holding his hand, sometimes talking, sometimes just caressing his hand, sometimes he was politely shown outside during a treatment or a change of dressings, and leaving in the evening when his friend had been administered his nightly poppy juice. Thranduil slept most of the time but, each day, he was a bit stronger, stayed awake a little longer , and could speak with more ease and less pain. The mumbling hadn’t improved, though.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why ah you coming each day to sit with me? You ah always theh when I wake up.”

Gildor looked up, surprised. “Am I imposing on you? I can stay away, or come less often if you prefer.”

Thranduil’s hand fumbled for his and squeezed it. “No, of couhse not! I’m glad you come, but I don’t know why you want to.”

Gildor cleared his throat. “Well, you are my friend, and I have the leisure. I’m not allowed yet back to my company, so what better use for my time than spending it with an injured friend?”

Thranduil nodded slightly - he was now able to move his head a bit as the lesser burns on his neck and shoulder were mostly healed. “Ahen’t theh otheh fhiends to visit?”

Gildor considered the question. “No, not really,” he said. “I don’t have many I really care for, and among those who survived, no other is seriously injured. But I’m not coming here because I have nothing better to do, Thran! I would come as often as possible even if I were back in my company or had lots of friends to visit. You are the one I prefer to spend my time with.”

Thranduil gave a rueful grin. “And I’m so much fun to be with!”

“Don’t cut the allure of your shining personality short.” Gildor chuckled. “No, I’m rather glad about some peace and quiet after these last horrid months. It’s good to have time to think when you sleep, and just nice to sit with you when you're awake.”

“What are you thinking about?” Even with only a part of his face visible there was no mistaking of Thranduil’s mischievous grin. Gildor smiled, lightly squeezing the other’s hand. “About us, for example.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Remember when we first met?”

Now Thranduil laughed outright. “By the stahs, I was quite full of myself back then, wasn't I?”

“Quite. But I found it charming.”

“Tell me. I would like to heah how you rhemembeh it.”

-----o

The Wood sprite

Gildor stopped, following the escaping doe with a regretful gaze. He had been so close; just a few moments more and he would have been well within shooting range without any trees impeding his arrows. Where had the sudden noise come from? For hours he hadn’t heard anything except the sound of the forest and could have sworn nobody else was close; not here, far away from any known elven or human habitation.

He loved the light forests of Arvenien, the seemingly endless rows upon rows of slim, agile birches of western Nimbrethil, where elves and men only came when new ships needed building. Most of the time, only animals and trees were his companions when he came here to delight in the beauty of this land which felt still new and undisturbed to him.

Gildor was a restless spirit and, as often as his duties at the Noldorin court permitted, he made his escape, following the urge to get away and back in touch with nature. Every so often he needed, at least for a time, to live like their ancestors did; with the land and by the land, just with his bow and arrows, tinderbox and knife.

There was the noise again, a very faint sound of stone hitting stone. Putting away his bow he drew his knife and made his way as quietly as possible towards the source of the sound. There was some movement on his left, more sensed than seen, and he froze and waited for endless seconds before he moved on, even slower and with more stealth than before. The forest grew lighter in front of him, and another few steps brought him to a small clearing. Soft grass was covering the ground, and dancing rays of sunshine touched tufts of fragrant wild-flowers. In the middle, still as stone, sat a slight figure.

Gildor froze. His eyes wandered around the perimeter, making sure he wasn’t walking into a trap, before coming to rest on the stranger. A surprisingly small person, an elf by the looks of the bearing, clothing and long, flowing hair. Gildor put away his knife and stepped out of the trees, slowly making his way over until he faced the elf, his hands raised showing he meant no harm. The still figure didn’t react in any way. He sat utterly immobile, eyes closed and hands placed flat on the ground, and he seemed completely immersed in an inner world. In front of him, a pyramid of smooth stones sat in the grass, likely the source of the noise Gildor had heard. Clad in a faded green tunic and a threadbare pare of trousers of a greyish-brown colour, the stranger seemed to melt into the backdrop of the forest except for his hair which gleamed bright like sunshine. Gildor wasn’t sure where to place him. His stature and clothing indicated a young Nando, but he had never seen a blond among their people. So perhaps he was a Teler, but in that case he would be still a boy, at his size.

He suddenly realised the blond had opened his eyes. “Le suilon!” he greeted.

“Le nathlam hí,” said the other in accent-free Sindarin. “Are you done staring at me?”

Gildor blushed. “Forgive my bad manners. I didn’t expect to come across somebody out here, and seeing you sitting so still I was trying to decide whether you were a wood sprite.”

“I’m not. I was listening to the earth.”

“I see.”

Gildor came closer, now finding himself under close scrutiny. “I could have killed you with one arrow,” he remarked.

The other smiled slightly. “No, you couldn’t,” he said.

“You seem to be very sure of yourself,” Gildor said. “You were so lost in your earth-listening, you became aware of me only when I stepped in front of you.”

“Wrong.” The young elf's smile deepened. “True, I was very immersed, but I knew you were there, and I knew you presented no danger to me.”

“You are very sure of yourself,” Gildor repeated.

“Perhaps, but that is not the reason for my assessment.”

“No? Then what?”

“The trees would have warned me.”

“The trees?” Gildor knew how to read nature and how to use the tree’s whispers and warnings, but only in a very general way. He never had heard of somebody interacting with them in the way the young elf seemed to indicate.

“Yes, the trees. They are my friends.”

“Are you Nandorin then, tree-friend? With your hair colour, I thought you might be Telerin.”

“I'm neither, I’m Sindarin, from Menegroth. My name is Thranduil.”

“I'm Gildor, and I’m sorry.”

Thranduil frowned. “What for? That you thought me to be a lowly green-elf, or that I’m not a noble Teler?”

Gildor fidgeted. The Sinda’s perpetrating stare made him uncomfortable, particularly because he hadn’t been completely off the mark. Despite his roaming the lands of Middle-earth and the many friends he had made among all people and races, including the Nandor, he knew well enough that he wasn’t always free of prejudice. He might be only a distant cousin of the noble House of Finrod but, being born in Valinor himself, he took the reverence of the Moriquendi only too often for granted. “Neither,” he said. “I’m sorry for the loss of your home.”

The young Sinda nodded, letting his frown relax. “I see. But I didn’t. Lose my home, I mean. I might have been born and raised in Menegroth, but it was never my home. The forest is, and the earth. I’m at home everywhere where there are trees, and I call them my family.” He looked up at Gildor who was still standing in front of him and gave him a warm smile.

Gildor finally accepted the unspoken invitation and sat down, crossing his legs and getting comfortable. “What are the stones for?”

Thranduil laughed. “Nothing special. They are pretty, and I like to hold them in my hand. I can feel the breath of the earth in them.”

“You are rather special even for a Sinda, aren’t you?”

“I suppose. I confess even among my people, most consider me to be odd.”

Gildor grinned. “We have something in common, then. I might be a Noldo, but I don’t care much for the typical Noldorin pursuits, such as smithcraft, lore, or the pursuit of power. I prefer to roam the lands of Ennor and be in tune with the earth.”

“In that case, welcome to my forest,” Thranduil said. Gildor didn’t doubt the other’s right to call it ‘his’ forest.

“You were hunting, weren’t you?”

Gildor nodded. “Yes. Do you mind?”

Thranduil shook his head. “No. Ilúvatar created all beings to be of service to each other, though I don’t eat animals if I can help it. They are my friends. Here in the forest it’s easy to find food.”

“True. I don’t hunt often, and only what I really need. But I require leather, tendons and a bladder for a new water-skin.”

Thranduil’s face shadowed slightly, but he nodded. “I understand. I can never get away for a long time, so thankfully I can live without any hunting when I’m away.”

“Are you living close?” Gildor asked. The other shook his head.

“No. My father is quite ambitious and decided our fate lies best with the Noldor, so he brought us to the Havens.”

“The Havens?” Gildor frowned. “This is my home as well, but I don’t think I have seen you around. Would you tell me your father’s name?”

“It’s Oropher, but I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of us. We came only two years ago, and despite his best efforts he hasn’t yet been very successful in getting a foot into the first circles.”

Gildor cleared his throat, knowing only too well how difficult it was for any of the Moriquendi to become noticed or accepted among his kin. Thranduil saw it and smiled again.

“Don’t worry, it is rather his own fault. He isn’t exactly known for his friendly, engaging personality, and I fear he is also not very subtle in trying to reach his goal.”

“Well,” Gildor said, “it looks like we haven’t met for the last time today. Not that I mind.” He bestowed his warmest smile on Thranduil, who answered in kind.

“Neither do I. It’s a delight to meet somebody who has so similar interests,” he said.

-----o

Chapter End Notes

Le suilon! = I greet you!
Le nathlam hí = You are welcome here

Love

“We had a good time togetheh, that fihst time,” Thranduil said in fond memory.

Gildor nodded. “Yes, we had. I also remember your father thoroughly disapproving of our friendship until he realised your association with an offshoot of the royal line might be just what he needed.”

Thranduil chuckled. “You saw right thhough his motives, and he hated you foh it but needed to keep up the phetence to stay in youh good ghaces.”

Gildor had made a point in seeking out the Sinda's father after his return to the Havens. He liked the young elf and wanted to ease his way into the Noldor-dominated society, which was easiest achieved through helping his father doing the same. But young Thranduil sought him out more and more frequently, and the easy camaraderie they had found in the forest grew soon into a solid friendship. Oropher hadn’t been happy about this development, but after a time of close scrutiny and after making sure the Noldo never overstepped the bounds, he allowed his son to find a mentor in the older elf. Their friendship had deepened over the years, and after Thranduil had reached his majority, they often escaped together to spend a few precious weeks or even months in the wild, ‘talking to trees and feeling stones’, as Thranduil jokingly called it himself.

Gildor’s thoughts were interrupted by Elrond, who approached with a tray of jars, flasks and dressings. As usual, Gildor stood to leave, but Thranduil held him back.

“Please stay,” he said and turned his head to where he had heard Elrond’s greeting. “I want Gil to see how I look.”

“Are you sure?” Gildor gave his hand a quick caress. Thranduil nodded. “Yes.”

“If this is your wish, Thranduil, it’s fine with me,” said Elrond and threw Gildor an appraising look. Gildor nodded slightly.

“All right.” Elrond put the tray down on the bed stand and rolled up his sleeves. “Let the fun begin.”

Thranduil made a face. “You really have a weihd idea of fun, El,” he joked, but without his usual humour.

“El?” Gildor asked. He knew the Half-elf abhorred his name being abbreviated.

Elrond nodded. “Thranduil may call me that until he can pronounce an ‘R’ again. I’d rather be ‘El’ than ‘Elhond’!”

Gildor laughed. “I should count myself lucky then that my name is Gildor and not, say, Erestor or Glorfindel. Even ‘Gildoh’ is bearable.”

Thranduil laughed as well. “Yes. ‘Ehestoh’ is as bad as ‘Glohfindeh’.”

“Quiet now,” Elrond said, suppressing a grin, and started to cut away the bandages on his patient's arm and torso.

Gildor still held Thranduil’s hand and felt him tense when the healer lifted the first dressings, and relax again when the expected pain stayed away. He tried not to flinch at the sight of the raw, red welts covering Thranduil’s left arm and upper body. Elrond examined the burns carefully, muttered something rather pleased and unscrewed a jar with ointment which he then spread gently over the healing skin. When he reached the hand, Gildor bit his lip. The healing was clearly progressing well, and Gildor had seen burns before and marvelled at the ability of his kind to regrow even tendons, sinews and nerves after such an injury. But with the hand looking still so bad after nearly two weeks of healing, he didn’t even want to imagine the original damage. He wondered if it would heal completely.

“This looks good, Thran, the healing is proceeding as expected,” Elrond said. “Your hand looks already better than I hoped. Are you ready to continue?”

Thranduil nodded, and Gildor felt him tense again. The removal of the dressings on the face took longer, as the burns were deeper and not yet as healed, and Thranduil hissed repeatedly when another piece of oil-soaked gauze was lifted. Gildor couldn’t stifle a gasp when he saw the ruin of his friend’s face. And he had thought the arm and hand looked bad!

“That bad?” Thranduil asked, surprisingly composed. “Look closely, please, I want you to tell me later.”

Gildor could only nod and squeeze his hand, and then followed his friend’s request.

Elrond moistened a cloth in some liquid and carefully cleaned off ointment from around the eyes. When he was done, he laid a clean, folded cloth on the left eye. “Open your right eye.”

Thranduil obeyed, blinking. The eye looked red and inflamed, and the pupil wasn’t focusing. But Thranduil suddenly smiled. “It’s better! I can see more light this time, and I think I make out your shapes.”

Elrond smiled as well. “Excellent,” he said and opened another jar of ointment.

“Aren’t you going to check the other eye?” The question was out before Gildor could stop himself. He cursed when the smile vanished from Thranduil's face and he realised what he had said.

“There is no need,” Thranduil said quietly “my left eye is blind.”

“I know, Elrond had already told me before. Please forgive me for asking such a thoughtless question, Thran, I’m such an oaf.” Gildor laid his free hand at Thranduil’s uninjured cheek and wished the floor would open and devour him. “I’m truly sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

Elrond cleared his throat. “Well, the good news is that I’m convinced you will regain most of the sight of your right eye back, Thran, if not all. It might take even longer than regrowing your teeth, as the eye is the slowest to regenerate. But given what you're already able to see again, the prognosis is clearly positive. I’ve also other good news for you. The skin has now regrown everywhere except at the most severe burns on your hand. It already looks much better than expected, and I dare say the scarring will be less grave than we feared, probably without any restriction of movement.”

Scarring? Restriction of movement? This time, Gildor managed to check his thrice-damned tongue, but he couldn’t help a horrified stare in Elrond’s direction. The healer shot him such a furious look that he ducked.

“Leave him be, El,” Thranduil said. “I’d rather have him put his foot in his mouth than tip-toe around my injuries. And don’t forget I asked him to look closely.”

“Your speech is better,” Gildor noticed.

“What?” Both Elrond and Thranduil turned towards him. Gildor couldn’t help a wide grin at seeing Thranduil looking at him. The cloth on the left eye had fallen off and he was looking at him now with both eyes. True, the right one was as red as before and blinking badly, and the left one was milky-white where it was not inflamed, and the regrown skin was raw and shiny and looked odd. But it was Thranduil’s face which was so dear to him, and it looked as beautiful as ever. It would always be beautiful, no matter how many scars he would keep and if his eye was blind. But Thranduil’s very essence was still there, the small things that made his face the mirror of his soul: the spark in his right eye which was there, no matter how well he could see with it, the tiny crinkles around his lips which came from his easy smile, the - he couldn’t even explain it.

“Gildor? What is it? And what do you mean with my speech?”

Gildor took a deep breath. “Since your dressings are off you seem to be able to pronounce the ‘R’ again. Say ‘Erestor’!”

“Erestor.” Thranduil laughed. “You’re right. El, have you heard? Rrrrr.” He turned his head to the healer.

Elrond nodded and grinned. “Yes, and it’s ‘Elrond’ again, now. You know our deal.”

Thranduil moaned in mock despair and looked back at Gildor. It was obvious that he enjoyed the freedom of movement as much as the ability to use his eyes - eye, even if he couldn’t see much.

Elrond applied more ointment and began to redress his patient. “I’m sorry I have to wrap you up again, but your eye needs darkness to heal, and the skin is yet too fragile.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’m ready to show my pretty face around anyway.” For the moment still able to see as much as he could, he extended his good arm towards Gildor. He felt for his hand, grabbed it and drew him near with surprising strength. “And now, my friend, I want you to tell me why your voice has suddenly changed so much.”

“In a moment. You have quite changed yourself, Thran. You seem much more energetic and - yes, alive. How did that happen?”

Thranduil smiled, obediently lifting his head for Elrond to bind his eyes again. His being strong enough to lift his head on his own was another huge step. “I - I realised something. But you’re not getting out of this, Gil, I insist you tell me what is up.”

Gildor cleared his throat.

Thranduil grinned. “Is it something you can’t say in front of Elrond?”

Gildor threw the healer a look which caused him to raise a single eyebrow in innocent curiosity. “No, though it feels quite private in a way.” He took his friend’s hand with both of his.
“When I saw your face - all of it, without any bandages - I realised how beautiful you are, Thranduil.”

Elrond drew in a sharp breath, but Gildor wasn’t to be deterred. “I realised that it’s not unblemished skin or two hale eyes that make you beautiful, or the becoming looks Ilúvatar graced you with. You have always been very easy on the eye, my friend, but you wouldn’t be beautiful without what comes from within, from your heart, from your soul. And that is all still there, no matter how you look now or later. And when I look into your face, I see it. The spark in your eye is still there, the spark that comes from your soul. I see it in the way you smile, in the way you raise your eyebrows, in all these tiny little things.”

“Oh.” Thranduil sank slightly back into the mattress, and suddenly tears were coming out again from under the dressing. He gripped Gildor’s hand with force. “Thank you, thank you my dear friend. That is a wonderful thing to say.”

Elrond had stopped with the bandaging, and catching a pleading look from Gildor, he cleared his throat. “I - erm - I think I need more bandages. I’m right back, Thran.”

Thranduil actually giggled when Elrond’s steps receded. “Very perceptive of him. But I wouldn’t have minded to say also to his ears what I’m going to say to you now, Gil.”

“Uh-huh?” Gildor was dabbing the tears away from the freshly-anointed skin.

“You wanted to know why I’m so changed, right?”

“Yes. It must be more than your regained ability to speak.”

Thranduil snorted. “Too true. Well, you see, I realised that all this time, when I thought you to be just my friend - though the best friend one could wish, mind! - I was already loving you.”

Gildor’s head spun. “You - what?”

“I love you, and I think I always have, from the beginning.”

Gildor was at a loss for what to say, but his hand was pressed.

“No, don’t say anything. I don’t expect you to answer to this, and I don’t expect you to return my feelings. It doesn’t matter. The important thing is - for me - what I feel for you. It gives me strength and courage and confidence, and I needed to realise that so I can actually find that strength and all. I will be needing it.”

“Do I get a say in this as well?” Gildor grinned. Thranduil had seemed so self-assured when he started, and became delightfully flustered when he realised what he was saying.
“Or, to be precise, I don’t really need to speak, I just need you to shut your busy mouth for a moment.”

Thranduil lay utterly still, his face turned towards the man he loved.

Gildor looked the slight figure slowly over. Took in the long, blond hair, partly missing and partly dulled by neglect and the enforced bed-rest. The bandage around the head which hid a blind eye and another which would take a long time to see again. The red, welted skin where the bandages were still missing on face, neck, upper body and arm. The poor left hand which looked more like a claw than a hand, despite the healing that had already taken place. The soft glow of the uninjured skin which was still there despite the pain and injury. The fine dusting of hair on Thranduil’s good arm, and the light smattering of freckles across his nose. The minuscule dimple in his right cheek - had he also had one on the left side? Gildor couldn’t remember. The translucent skin of his torso and right arm, where the veins were so clearly visible and seemed to indicate fragility while the slim but defined muscles showed only too well the strength the arm possessed.

He bowed over, letting Thranduil sense his breath so he wouldn’t be startled, and placed a tiny kiss on the right shoulder. Thranduil drew in his breath. Another kiss, higher up, on the jaw, and another, just besides the corner of the mouth. More kisses all the way up to the brow, including a very tender one on the bandaged eye, and then proceeding to the cut hair and then the shaved parts of the skull. And then back. A kiss on the bandage over the left eye, and then, light as a feather, anxious he might cause pain but determined to also kiss there, just the merest brush against the new skin in the same places he had kissed on the right side. Equally careful on the jaw, the neck and the shoulder, and then down the injured arm. Last came the place he was most frightened of, as by the looks of it any touch must cause pain. But Thranduil flinched only the tiniest bit when he breathed kisses on the parts of the hand he could reach.

And then back up again, more solid kisses now over the navel, on the breastbone and into the hollow of the throat, back up again on the good side of the jaw, on the corners of the mouth. Then he stopped for a moment and took Thranduil in who was laying in complete abandon, his face relaxed in a beatific smile. Gildor lowered his head again and claimed his lips, slowly, tenderly, sensually.

Thranduil lifted his hand, feeling for Gildor’s head, and drew him close.

-----o

Epilogue

The sun had just come up over the horizon when two riders emerged from the gates of Forlond. They made a stunning picture: one blond, slim and wiry on a mare as black as a moonless night, and the other dark-haired, strong and well-muscled, atop a grey so light he was almost white. The horses snorted, their breath steaming in the cold autumn air, and the pair laughed out loud for sheer joy.

After all these years of war, destruction and loss, down to the demise of the land that had been their home, this past year had been the first of what could pass for a normal life. The survivors of the destruction had settled around the Gulf of Lune, with three larger settlements slowly growing into cities. Here, at the North, most of the Noldor had remained in the newly founded Forlond at the High King’s court, and here also Gildor had made his home among his kin. Thranduil’s father Oropher had chosen instead to follow Lord Celeborn to Harlond, to establish the Sindar on the other side of the Gulf. He wanted his son to follow him as soon as he was allowed out of the healer’s care, but Thranduil didn’t intend to cater to the wishes of a father who had become even more distant after his son had ‘suffered injuries which were disfiguring as well as crippling’, at least in Oropher’s perception. Elrond, who still supervised Thranduil’s recovery despite having been ordered to a military position at his court by the High King, had insisted the Sinda remained under his care even three years later with the excuse that Thranduil had a lot of adaptation to do to get used to his blind eye, and to regain the use of his left hand. But eventually, even this pretence couldn’t be kept up any longer, and he finally had had to release Thranduil out of his care.

This had been two weeks ago, and the couple was now escaping on a final trip together before winter set in, and before the confrontation with Oropher became unavoidable. Thranduil had already made a place for himself at the High King’s court and found support among Gildor’s kin, not to speak of the equally deepening friendship with Elrond. But he knew his father well enough to know it wasn’t going to be easy. He didn’t even know which had been worse: that he chose to live among the Noldor and at the High King’s court, or that he chose a male partner - a heavy blow for a father who expected his only son to do his duty towards the ambitious plans of his sire.

But that was for another time - now the forest called, and Thranduil had no intention to let this call go unheeded. He turned his head when Gildor called out to him - he was, as usual, riding on the right, so his blind side was covered by his partner. With a laugh, he caught the apple Gildor was throwing, closing his slightly clumsy left hand over the fruit.

“See? You caught it,” Gildor smiled. “All that training has paid off after all. I knew you were able to learn it again.” He urged his horse forward and rode off.

Thranduil nodded, giving his beloved a fond smile. The most difficult thing to learn had been - no, still was - the adjustment to the loss of three-dimensional vision, but he made up for what he could no longer do either with relentless training or with sheer stubbornness, and sometimes with a clever device Elrond had come up with. But it didn’t matter, like the scarring on his cheek and hand nor the stiffness of both, or the fact his whole left side ached in humid weather, or that he still couldn’t see well enough to read and write. The only thing that mattered was the love he had found, the other half of his soul, somebody who completed him in a way that meant that together, they were much more than two single beings combined. He loved trees and earth and stones because he could feel the music of the Ainur in them, and now, he could feel it also in his very soul.

“Ai, Gildor, wait for me!” Urging his mare on, he followed with a happy laugh.

~ The End ~