Grief, Thingol reminds himself, grief has removed our armor, will make us feel and think things we shall regret.
One of Thingol’s councilors enters, Daeron at his heels. Both have grave faces. “There was another attack, in the corridors of the palace set aside for the various refugees. One of the elves from Mithrim turned and started killing the injured Laegrim that were sleeping there. Luckily one of the healers heard the noise and was able to stop the man. He won’t explain why he did it before he died, only whispered the name of the Belegruth before he died. The people are badly frightened.” Long pause. “Among the dead were injured children, and some of their surviving lords.” A longer pause. “I have spoken to some of the Laegrim; they no longer trust the safety of Menegroth. Many are planning to return to Ossiriand.”
“How many died?” the king asks and wonders why he thought his weariness would subside when he reach the walls of his home. His people no longer trust him to provide safety. As Daeron reads out the list of the dead, Thingol doesn’t hear the names. Ithilbor is the only one that stick in his mind, one of the Wise among the Laegrim, whose loss will be keenly felt. All Elu hears is his own thoughts. My people of whom chose me as their king, even after I had been lost to them, left them alone to face dangers without the guidance I promised them, who still chose me when I returned, and I have failed them. I have failed. I could not save Denethor. I could not save his family. I cannot even save his people. I have failed as king. I owe their trust in me to never fail again.
“What of this man – did he come with the last group of refugees under Eredhon? Was there a connection, could he have been working under his lord’s orders?” Is there any answer to this more concrete than just a shadow of the Dark One’s malice that Melian sees hanging over the world? Elu cannot swing a sword at the impressions of shadows.
“No,” Daeron says, his tablet of reports in front of him like a shield. “The man was from a different group of Northern refugees, from the group fleeing from the plains north of Dorthonion. They never spoke to each other during their time here.”
The news brings the opposite of comfort.
“Can we tell friend from foe?” Thingol demands, “know for sure who has gone over to the side of the enemy?” He stares directly at Melian, looks into the light of her eyes that usually burn as bright as the memory of the Two Trees.
“I thought I could,” the Maia answers in a soft voice, looking at her fingers that twist among themselves like so many serpents each trying to escape one another. “I thought Eredhon was truthful in that he had managed to evade Bauglir’s hand, that he would bring no harm to anyone.”
“And Linkwînen and others paid for our mistake.”
“You are too harsh, my husband,” Melain says, but he brushes it off.
“No. I was not harsh enough. I was naive, and thought no enemies could come to us in our home. That rats could not sneak behind our doors. I have been too trusting; I ignored the warning of my own kin,” and here he nods towards Eöl, who looks up startled from his own dark corner, private personal nightmares gnawing at the young sword-smith’s mind. “I thought all our enemies would come in foul shapes, would look like wolves and orcs. I thought that an elf could not hurt another elf. And now my kin and my people have died for that folly.”