Bee-Elves by darthfingon

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Bee-Elves 4

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When I returned to the bedroom, Canamírë was already in bed, groaning and fussing and looking sick to his stomach.  I was almost sympathetic until I came close enough to smell him and the overpowering stench of evergreen liquor hit my nose.

"Canamírë!  Are you..."

"Not intentionally," he moaned.

"How much did you drink?"

"Three mugs."

"Three mugs!"  I had barely managed one mouthful.  "You actually drank three mugs of that vomitous concoction of your own free will?!"

"It's an acquired taste.  But I acquired the taste in Ossiriand.  Stuff's not so strong there."

Disgusted, I sat down on my bed.  Canamírë was clearly far less sane than I thought if he enjoyed drinking dubious Sindarin evergreen liquor.  "We want to go home," I muttered to nobody in particular.

"Good," Canamírë answered, belching as he did.  "So do I.  Let's leave tomorrow."

"It's not as simple as that."

"Why not?  We pack our things and we leave.  Let's go.  You don't want to be here.  I don't want to be here.  We should go."

"We want to go home," I repeated, "but, we will not abandon the mission so easily.  Wanting to go home and deciding to go home are two very different things.  And even though we want to go home, we shall not."

He belched again.  Somehow, even his belch managed to sound confused.  "You... want to stay, then?"

"No, we do not want to stay.  We are obliged to stay."  I turned to look at him, meeting his bleary, red eyes.  "Canamírë, we must do our best to make these savage heathens understand the importance of working toward a united Elvish kindred in Valinor.  As soon as their war is done, Eönwë has promised to invite the Exiles back to the Blessed Lands."

"You told me that before," said Canamírë.  "I'll believe it when I see it."

I ignored his pessimism.  "We know it is the wish of the Valar for all Elves to live in peace in Valinor: Exiles and Moriquendi included.  Everyone.  It is our purpose to bring this news to the farthest corners of the world and ensure that the will of the Valar is done."

"And the Valar Themselves asked you to be their herald?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Did you not tell me in Ossiriand that Eönwë forbade you to interfere?"

"No," I said.  "He forbade us to participate in the war.  We are not participating in the war, are we?  This mission is entirely unwarlike."

"He forbade you to fight in the war because he didn't want you to be in danger.  You have no heir, Arafinwë Your Most Gracious Highness.  If you're killed, there could be civil war in Tirion as all the lords fight over your crown.  You told me that Eönwë asked you to stay safely on the Isle of Balar.  I'm sure he'd be overjoyed to hear you're out far off the edge of the map into the wild lands of the east with no warriors, no bodyguards, and nothing but two porters and a merchant guide between you and Melkor's armies."

"Having no warriors and no bodyguards was your idea!" I protested.

"That was before I knew who you were.  If I had known you were the King, I would never have suggested sneaking away from your entourage in the middle of the night.  But you told me when we met that you were a Vanyarin lord off on a jolly adventure because you wanted to write a book."

"You were foolish enough to believe it."

"I know.  That was a stupid mistake.  Everyone knows Vanyar don't write books."

"Anyhow," I added, "we did tell you the truth a few days later."

"Yes, and I would have turned around then and gone back for your warriors and bodyguards and minstrels and flag-bearers and cup boy and whatever other useless courtiers we'd abandoned, if we hadn't already crossed the Rathlóriel and-"

"We promised never to speak of that incident again!" I warned him.

"Right," he sighed.  "But my point is, I think we should go back.  I will take you back to Balar, where you can pretend you never left, and everything will be fine.  You can wait out the rest of the war and then go home."

"And our mission?  What of the Nandor and the Avari who missed their first opportunity to come to Valinor?  They must be given a second chance."

"Maybe they declined on their first chance for a reason."

He was not listening to a word I said.  I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to banish my annoyance and speak calmly.  "We shall discuss this further in the morning.  For now, though, there is to be no more talk of going home.  We stay."

"As you say," said Canamírë.  With a final belch, he rolled over to face away from me and went to sleep.

~

That day before the banquet marked the last time Oropher spoke exclusively Quenya to me.  From the next morning onward, he insisted on Sindarin.  He spoke very slowly so that I had a better chance to understand, and employed the occasional Quenya word when our conversations became mired in hopeless confusion, but for the most part Sindarin became the only permissible language.  He began to ignore me when I spoke anything else.  For conversations requiring any action on my part outside of 'good', 'yes', and 'no', Canamírë was forced to act as interpreter.

Canamírë started giving me Sindarin lessons whenever Oropher was not monopolising our time with his incessant nonsense, which meant that my learning was usually confined to a few hours before we went to bed.  It was a slow process.  I would not leave Eryn Galen until I had convinced Oropher to relocate to Valinor, he would not listen to my proposal until I could deliver it in Sindarin, and I could not learn Sindarin overnight.

Months passed.  We had arrived in the height of summer, and we were still there, practising Sindarin, when the leaves of the trees turned yellow, red, and brown and scattered on cool winds blowing down from the north.  By then, the palace roof was finished.  The dining hall still had not been started, though, so all meals were moved inside to Oropher's private audience chamber.  This new, more intimate setting improved the dining experience, since I was no longer on display before the entire court.  But the quality of the food and drink did not change.

By this time in late autumn, Oropher had decided to help Canamírë with my Sindarin lessons.  He seemed to take an unnatural delight in teaching me the most useless vocabulary he could find.  Under his guidance, I memorised the specific Sindarin words for 'light, pleasant spring rain that does not fall too harshly' and 'the screeching sound made by a frightened rabbit', but not more commonplace words such as those for 'tired' or 'shiny'.  I learned how to conjugate the verb 'to stir something using a slow, round motion of the arm', but not 'to try'.  My education was far from ideal.

The Sindarin lessons frequently took place while walking, as I found it helpful to learn the words for things as I saw them: 'candle', 'table', 'tapestry', 'gate', 'road', 'fountain', and 'garden'.  We explored the mostly-built palace and the surrounding land, the town and the forest, and I memorised Sindarin words.  Many of them were close enough to the Quenya that it took little effort.  The Sindarin word for 'stone', for example, was very similar, as was 'cloud'.  It was almost like cheating.  All I needed do was pronounce the Quenya words in a truncated, bee-buzzing voice, and that was Sindarin.

"Root," I said to Canamírë in Sindarin as he and Oropher and I walked the perimeter of the town and worked at nature words.  "Tree.  Leaf.  Branch.  Beetle."

"Where is the beetle?" he asked.

"The beetle is on a log beside the tree," I answered carefully.  Remembering the proper mutation of all those bee-words was a tricky task.

"Very good!  Now, what colour is the bird on the branch above us?"

I looked up.  "The bird is brown and has a red breast."  This was the easy part.  We always began with very simple sentences, reviewing what I had already learned.

"Where is the manticore?" asked Oropher, and Canamírë grunted with disapproval.  He, very sensibly, considered Oropher's preference for impractical words to be counterproductive.

"The manticore is not real," I said.  "But were it real," I continued, proudly stressing my ability to conjugate in the subjunctive, "it would live in your forest."

"It certainly would!" said Oropher, beaming.

I smiled pleasantly back at him.  He did not know how fierce was my wish that a manticore truly did live in his forest.  Or several of them.

By this time, we had come around to the invisible pathway by which Canamírë and the porters and I had come to Galadhost.  Every time we passed it, Canamírë could not help but look for the hidden way through.  He had not yet found it.  Nor, I suspected, would he ever.  At least not until the Sindar allowed him to.  On this day, however, as soon as he poked his head into the little glen that marked the entrance to the hidden path, one of the green-clad Sindarin warriors stepped out.  Not even I could see whence he came, staring closely as I was, but he was soon followed by another.  Then another followed after the second, and a third after the fourth.  An entire parade appeared out of nowhere.  Nearly thirty of them came out of the forest, one by one, and it was still impossible to see how they did it.  I was so engrossed in the mystery of the disappearing pathway that I did not even notice who the warriors held captive until the shouting started.

"You!" said a familiar voice, addressing Oropher.  "I knew it!"

"You knew me?" Oropher replied.  He added something else, but it was too quick for me to catch.

"Oh, no," I heard Canamírë mutter.

I forced myself to look away from the mystery path, and when I did, the first thing I noticed was that only two-thirds of those that had appeared were Oropher's warriors.  The rest were also warriors, but outfitted very differently in grey and white, and every one of them looked seethingly angry.  The man at their fore looked angriest of all.  He was also tallest, towering nearly half a head above his fellows, and his brilliant silver hair shone white in the midday sun.  The sight of him made my legs weak and my head spin; I suddenly understood Canamírë's oh-no.  I thought I had overcome this obstacle back at Lake Nenuial.

Whatever abuse it was that Celeborn was hollering at Oropher, I did not even try to listen.  I took two slow steps back until my shoulder bumped Canamírë's.  "We believe we must go now," I murmured to him.

"Good idea," he whispered in return.  But before we could make our escape, Oropher's meddlesome voice rose above the din to very clearly enunciate the exact words we did not want to hear.

"I did not know you were in the forest.  I was just out walking with my good friend King Arfinu of Tirion, and his valet, Conuvir."

"Arfinu of..." Celeborn gasped.  His glance wildly scanned the assembled party and landed, inevitably, on my golden hair.  "Oh," he said, visibly deflating.  "You."

"Yes, my friend Arfinu," Oropher confirmed.

Celeborn shook his head, looking more than a little irritated.  "No, Oropher, that is not Arfinu of Tirion.  That is some Midhren lord writing a book."

"You're writing a book?" Oropher asked me.

"Erm..." I said.

"And you're not really the King of the Golodhrim?"  He suddenly looked very excited.

"Erm..." I said again.

"Wonderful!" he cried.  "We can have a big fight about this!"

"No!" shouted Celeborn, interrupting.  "There will be no fight!  Warden Oropher of Brethil, I am here to arrest you on charges of treason!"

That is what I assumed he said.  I did not know if the words he used truly were 'arrest' and 'charges', but they fit with the context of the sentence and with the officious-looking papers he brandished.  I did understand 'treason'.

"Treason for what?" asked Oropher.

"For betraying King Dior and causing his death!"

Oddly enough, the verb 'betray' was one Oropher had taught me just the previous day.

The rest of what Celeborn said sounded like a rehearsed speech, full of large words spoken in a condescending manner, and I could only understand a fraction of it.  He mentioned something about a royal guard and the sons of my brother Fëanáro.  I tried my best to listen, but shortly into the speech a dog appeared, no doubt attracted by all the commotion.  Its barking further confused anything Celeborn was trying to say.  The only clear sentence he managed to scream, breaking from his prepared speech, was, "Make that dog be quiet!"

Oropher knelt down and draped his arm over the dog's back as if they were casual friends.  "What was that?" he asked the dog.

The dog barked, growled, and barked again.

"You have something important to tell me?" asked Oropher.

Again, the dog barked.

"Yes, I can see that you're a dog."

Bark, bark, bark.

"A barking dog!  That's very good.  And you're right: dogs should bark."

Growl.  Bark.

"I know.  You already told me you're a dog.  What else?"

Celeborn growled something of his own and turned his back to Oropher, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he did.  He looked nothing short of exasperated.  In the background, Oropher continued his conversation with the dog.

"Now let us go," I said to Canamírë.

He needed no more incentive.  We backed up slowly, ducked behind the corner of a house, and fled the scene.

~

The whole story unfolded quickly after that.  News of Prince Celeborn's arrival sped through town like the wind, and within minutes it became the only topic of conversation on the streets.  Everyone had an opinion.  Everyone already knew why Celeborn had come.

Oropher had not been born a prince.  Rather, he had been born into a family of farmers in a small village on the river Malduin.  At the age of forty-four, he appeared in Brethil and shortly thereafter took up a position as a warden of that forest.  But Oropher's bright-burning spirit chafed under the stringent rules Thingol imposed on the wardens.  His passion would not allow him to be ruled by force.  In secret, and in opposition to the law that required all low-ranking wardens to be unattached men, he married.  He had a child: a daughter, named Istilien.  She parted from him only recently to remain on the other side of the river with the man she loved.

When Thingol's bureaucrats discovered Oropher's clandestine marriage, he was dragged down to Menegroth to explain himself.  Instead of a grovelling apology and swift resignation from the company of Brethil, as expected, Thingol received nothing but contempt.  It was unjust, Oropher argued, for wardens to be denied the comfort of marriage.  Forcing them to live in loneliness improved neither their loyalty nor their work ethic.  Had he not been an exemplary warden, despite being married?  His performance in Brethil had not suffered.  Rather, he had been commended by his captain on numerous occasions.  Was he not living proof that the law held no merit?

Thingol had not accepted the excuse.  In Doriath, the law was absolute.  For defying his king, Oropher was sent to prison, where he remained for thirty-two years.  His release happened only by chance.  Thingol was killed.  In the chaos that followed, when the Dwarves of Nogrod came to plunder Menegroth, all prison doors were thrown open in the hope that every last man might fight against the invaders.  And although the battle was lost, Oropher survived.

He returned to Brethil.  His daughter, who had been a child at his arrest, had become a young woman.  His wife had grown distant and cool.  Thrown into poverty, forced to rely on the charity of others for survival, she resented the stubbornness that led to Oropher's imprisonment.  Had he only apologised and resigned, as Thingol wanted, he could have returned to her thirty-two years earlier.  They could have left Doriath and sought her kin in Ossiriand, and started a new life.  Instead, he languished in prison while she took alms from the other wardens, performing meaningless odd jobs in exchange as a matter of pride.

He returned to Menegroth.  Even if the wardens had been able to take him back, it would have made no difference; the government of Doriath lay in ruins, and there was no money in the treasury to pay its soldiers.  So he set himself to work doing the only thing he could think of to restore his family's good fortune.  He would not flee as a refugee to Ossiriand only to end up relying on the good will of his wife's family.  No, the only way to ensure prosperity would be to reassemble Doriath's tattered remains and restore what had been destroyed.

He had one blessing on his side.  He had always been charismatic: a natural leader.  When he spoke, even as a warden of low rank, others listened.  Men naturally fell into line behind him and followed his command.  In Menegroth, the royal guard, bereft of leadership, began to join his cause.  The wardens, too, saw that his vision held promise.  The common people took his side.  They believed that Oropher was the one who could rebuild Doriath, not as it had been before under Thingol's decadent autocracy, but as something better.  He promised a new society where all were equal.

But there was an obstacle.  While he had easily gained support from the soldiers and commoners, both groups that claimed him as one of their own, Oropher found himself constantly fighting against the nobles.  The Tyrant of Doriath, they called him: an uppity nobody out to steal power from those who held it.  The one who held the most power at that time was Celeborn, which made him Oropher's primary opponent.  The political situation became a battle of heredity versus popularity.  In the end, heredity won, though not through Celeborn.  The nobles of Doriath managed to hold Oropher off long enough for Dior, Thingol's heir, to appear out of the east and claim his throne.

Dior's arrival suppressed Oropher's rebellion, but did not destroy it.  For four years, it simmered in the hearts and minds of many of the lowlier citizens of Doriath until, one winter, the conflict came boiling up like a volcano.  A riot raged at the gates of Menegroth, and Dior issued a warrant for Oropher's arrest on charges of treason.  It was never executed.  The very palace guards sent to perform the arrest were sympathetic to the rebel cause.  Instead of bringing him in chains before Dior, they divulged all of the King's plans and warned him to flee for his life.  And so Oropher fled.

But he did not melt away into the night like a criminal on the run.  Instead, he summoned his closest supporters and made a proposition.  They would leave Doriath.  Under his leadership, they would journey into the east and make a new home far from the reach of Dior and his lords.  He expected some dozens to follow him, perhaps a few hundred.  Nearly two thousand went.  In a matter of days, in the middle of winter, nearly two thousand people packed up their lives and simply walked away into the east, and Dior was powerless to stop them.  Of those that went, half were fighting men, Doriath's wardens and soldiers, and those fighting men included over two thirds of the palace guard. 

When the army of the sons of Fëanáro came for the Silmaril only five days later, the crippled skeleton of Menegroth's defences could not even hope to stop them.