Laerorn’s family had come with Oropher, refugees from a ransacked Kingdom who had quickly made their home among the wood-elves of the Greenwood. She had been young, still old enough to ride upon her father’s shoulders as they fled.
She had told him once how her father had swept her onto his back and grabbed her mother by the hand, and how they had run. Her sister ran ahead, darting off to the stables, but the Noldor had come before them.
She had seen her sister cut down by merciless arrows.
But she and her parents had escaped, escaped and wandered through the woods with the rest of those who had survived the massacre at Doriath. They had found welcome in the eaves of Greenwood and made new lives for themselves, but they did not forget.
She had not forgotten when Oropher had called upon any willing to march upon Mordor. She had volunteered to go out of loyalty to her King, and out of obligation as one of his Guards. But she did not forget that many of those their army would march beside had slaughtered her friends and relatives.
She had scoffed at the very idea that any in their company would willingly listen to Gil-Galad. “High King! The Noldor do not rule all the Elves!” She had spat, and many around her nodded and murmured their agreement; Laerorn was not the only one among them to have lost family in Doriath.
Barandir crinkled a smile at her, hefting a spear he had carved himself. “We have no need of any High King. Oropher will not lead us astray.”
But Laerorn returned from that War with one arm, and although Barandir had marched with all three sons and a daughter-in-law, of those only one son returned home.
And now she was dead. It was almost unbelievable! Barangolf had been sure that if any of their companions had survived it would be her. Instead they had to bury her and Thoronchen, and hope against hope that the others would still be alive when they found them.
