Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Author Notes:

 

I would like to sincerely apologize for the length of time it has taken to update. I honestly meant for this chapter and its evil twin Chapter 11 (also known as Skippy) to have been up long before this… however, Life intervened again, and I have been in and out of doctor's offices for the last 2 weeks. I am well on the road to recovery now, and Chapter 11 is nearly finished, so there will be another update really soon now.

Thank you all for the wonderful notes, comments, reviews, and all; I've had a chance occasionally to talk with a lot of you on AIM or YahooMessenger, and we've been having a great time! More detailed comments will probably not be forthcoming this time, but for Meg and Ebony who have asked about illustrating, I would LOVE to see any pictures. (grin) TreeHugger did a wonderful Anime Leggy (arms crossed over chest, armed to the teeth, eyes all adorable and scowly) with the caption "Are we slaughtering Orcs yet?" and she faxed it to me one of the few days I made it to work that week. If she permits and I can get to a scanner, I will try to put the picture up somewhere so you can all see it. Also, reader Ann-Kathrin Schink of Germany did a very lovely picture of Our Leggy enjoying his sunbeam in peace and quiet for a change, from Chapter 5. When I get my web site up (which will hopefully be next week) I have permission to put up Ann-Kathrin's artwork, and will hope to have TreeHugger's permission as well. Thank you both so much!

And without further ado (Ada??) here is Chapter 10, at long last…

 

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter 10: The Ragged Edge of Disaster

 

Time has such a fluid nature, when all is said and done.

Like a river, it calmly flows on past whatever we place before it. One day, a thousand days…a thousand years…are they not all the same?

It is the Third Age. Only a few centuries, truly, have passed since we last rode to war like this. Celeborn looked not so very different back then, than he looks this very moment. The Gladden Fields happened only a short while ago, did it not? Dagorlad was but a few years ago, yes?

Glorfindel fought the Balrog and died only a century or so past, did he not? And then came back--sixteen centuries, a thousand, what matter? Mithrandir looked precisely as he does this moment… Glorfindel has not changed in appearance, save for the ancient wisdom in his eyes, which has deepened… and Mithrandir was already deeper than deep.

If I close my eyes long enough, I will see Gil-galad riding alongside me when I open them… will I not?

Elrond Peredhil was enmeshed in the waking dreams of reverie as they rode along, utterly trusting the Elf-raised horse beneath him to carry him along in safety. Reverie was best, given his tendency to see the past, present, and future all as a single whole; for everywhere he looked, that past and that present collided with astonishing ease.

Row upon row of Elves in war-harness rode behind Elrond, their horses swift and strong, their faces purposeful; the sky bright and shimmering, so clear it almost had a hardness to it like the edge of a blade, so blue it seemed like sapphire adamant. Celeborn rode before them, Mithrandir at his side, the banners of Lórien and Imladris and Mirkwood snapping above them. His silver hair flowed behind him like a river of mithril, bright in the summer sun, and Elrond knew an encompassing relief that he could not see the Lord's face, could not see the expression on the beloved features or the look in the familiar eyes. Ancient past rode with Celeborn like the wraith of a long-gone loved one. Elrond thought of the religions of Men, of the creatures known as avenging spirits, and thought: may their ancestors save them if they encounter Celeborn like this, for they will believe they have seen their angriest god of war!

It was all just a little unreal.

They rode hard throughout the day, swiftly covering ground: crossing the Anduin well before noon, and breasting the Vale as afternoon turned toward twilight. Celeborn called for one brief halt just before sunset, so that his warriors could ease their mounts, take water and lembas, and work the kinks out of saddle-stiffened muscles. Then they were off again, knowing there did not exist in this region an Orc force large or foolish enough to take on a battle-hardened and alert army of Elves, no matter how dark the night might be.

At one point, once they had continued on, Celeborn gestured that Elrond should join him. The Lord of Imladris shook himself to full wakefulness at Glorfindel's quiet call; spurring his mount, Elrond drew abreast of his marriage-father and managed an elegant bow from the saddle, even at full gallop.

"My Lord?"

"You look weary, my son," Celeborn said, not so much as glancing Elrond's way as his eyes scanned the land before them. "Tell me then, is it simply a warrior's honest exhaustion? Or are you and the little Prince holding converse when he should be asleep and you should be minding your path?"

Elrond gave a sidewise smirk. "If the child indeed can sleep, my Lord, then I gladly would see him do so," he retorted. "But in truth, I have spoken not at all with him since yestereven."

Celeborn glanced sidewise at Mithrandir, who grunted, shaking his head. "Very well then, not spoken--but have you touched his mind at all?" The Lord of Lórien did look at Elrond then, and his expression brooked no argument. "Were we less close to rescue, I would never suggest such a thing--but for now, I must insist that you not allow the child to wander throughout your being until this matter is concluded. We cannot take the time to keep your body and soul together when haste is such an issue, my son."

"I understand, my Lord, truly," Elrond said, a little annoyed that Celeborn felt such a command was required. But then he realized that Celeborn nearly always felt such commands were necessary--and that he knew all too well that the generations coming after Celeborn's own were rife with wilful, stubborn scions of the Firstborn, such as Glorfindel, or Elrond himself, and the irrepressible Thranduil. And who is to say it is NOT necessary for one such as Celeborn to take us all in hand? he thought, and sighed as he continued: "Were I able to keep the child from the playing fields of my mind, good my father, believe me when I say that I would have done so many more times than this--for all the relief and peace it gives the child, to know he is not alone."

Mithrandir uttered one of those short, sharp barks of laughter that did not so much signify amusement as concurrence, on a deeper level of understanding than that at which the conversation was being conducted. Elrond flashed him a smile that was painfully close to peevish; Celeborn only sighed lightly and continued scanning the landscape.

"If there is something I need to know, I recommend you tell me now," he murmured, one elegant dark eyebrow curving upward. Elrond rolled his eyes.

"Well -- I have felt a certain anxiety from the little one most of this day," he admitted. "The Shadows seem to be keeping him drugged, however, so whether there is some awareness at Dol Guldur that their hours are numbered, and therefore the child is under greater duress than usual, I cannot say." His smile turned mildly feral. "Besides--between Galadriel and Saeros, it is becoming rather difficult to tell when young Legolas' mind is his own, or under the care of another. I think if we expended even a small effort, we could easily lose ourselves in some grey space between the four of us."

"That would not be recommended," Mithrandir said, with quiet force. Even Celeborn went to momentary stillness at the sound of the Maia's tone. Elrond looked across his marriage-father at the old wizard, and cocked a disobliging eyebrow.

"I never said it was the intention of any of us," he said, with such precise cordiality as to make it a rebuke. "It merely is a fact."

"Well, it is a fact that chills me to my innermost bone," Mithrandir shot back, and chuckled, though the look in his blue eyes was astonishing in its power and depth.

"Is it not lovely that we all are aware of the need for caution," Celeborn cut in blandly, his lips pursed with amusement. "Elrond, heed me. This may be the most dangerous two days of Legolas' entire imprisonment. Shadow will very soon realize it is about to lose its grip on the child. They may attempt to spirit him away, or they may try to turn him--or they may kill him. Given what has happened of late, turning him could be their easiest option; the son of Thranduil is not precisely in his right mind at the moment, and his very soul therefore hangs in the balance."

"Thranduil will not survive, if aught happens to the child now," Mithrandir added.

Celeborn nodded grimly. "He rides the ragged edge of disaster as it is--and Sindar though he may be, the son of Oropher was raised by Saeros and his ilk. Overlay that with the tendencies of his House, and I think we can all agree that none of us wants to see what Thranduil is capable of calling forth in a grief enraged."

Elrond felt a shudder run up his spine, and suddenly the simmering evening took on a remarkable chill. "No, indeed we do not," he agreed. "Father mine, I will do what I can to keep a clear head," he promised Celeborn. "But if Shadow drives the child to the brink, I cannot guarantee I will not hover there with him."

He paused; a look of deep sorrow flickered across his handsome face. "And prudence all aside, I find I cannot abandon the child, even mind-to-mind, no matter how great the danger to myself," he murmured, his voice laced with sorrow. "He has suffered more than I would have made my dearest enemy undergo, and if I can ease that even a little until we free him, then I must do what I must do."

Celeborn seemed to consider this, then he nodded, a decision made.

"Then should it happen, understand that we cannot stop," he said quietly. "I will leave a force with you to keep you safe, and I daresay Glorfindel will remain behind with you; I would order otherwise, but his brand of stubbornness is as well known to me as your own."

Glorfindel, riding a decent distant behind them, nevertheless had sufficiently keen hearing that his expression slid from attentiveness to amused resignation; Celeborn did not look back at him, but something in the eyes of the Lord of Lórien deepened with affectionate regard and stern necessity.

"But we will ride on if you fall, my son," Celeborn finished. "All I will ask is that you come on when you can, for I cannot spare you both. I trust this is clear?

Elrond nodded sharply. "Yes, my father, it is clear."

"Good."

"But--"

Celeborn looked at him in patient silence, no mean feat aboard a speeding war horse; Elrond almost smiled. "But I do not intend to miss this for all Middle-Earth," he finished, his grey eyes darkening with what might have been described as a feral twinkle. "After eighteen years of this madness, I think I have earned the right to gut a few Orcs for the sake of young Legolas and myself."

"I hear you, my son," Celeborn murmured after a moment. "And I confess that I share your view."

Into the silence that followed, deepening like the twilight around them, Glorfindel murmured something under his breath on a distressed note, and shook his fair head. Each time, we say never again, he thought wearily, and each time, something else calls out the need for blood and Doom. Each time….

More miles hurried past under the hooves of their onrushing mounts. Just as full darkness came upon them and the twisted, agonized trees of Southern Mirkwood could be seen in the distance by keen Elven eyes, Elrond felt his heart give a dreadful heave. He bent double over the bow of his saddle, clinging to the intricately carved leather; he heard Glorfindel shout beside him, but he could not respond. In reflex, Elrond's knees tightened on the flanks of his mount; he was barely aware of what was going on around him, but could hear voices overlain with voices, like participating in a Council meeting while hearing the children run and play outside, screaming as the young will in extremes of emotion.

Pain, lancing through his being… fingers going numb… then inexplicably, the image of Galadriel opening her arms, glowing like a torch of maternal peace and power amid the mallorns….

"We ride on!" the voice of Celeborn roared. "There is no time to pause--Glorfindel, see to your Lord!"

And Mithrandir: "Come along behind when you may -- do not tarry!"

Then there was an anxious quiet, suppressed, as if a storm were coming or there had been a death in the family. Elrond squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, cried out to the beleaguered child in the fell Tower: we come, tithen ernil, as swiftly as we can…for the love of all that is good and strong and fair, do not give in to them now! And in the silence pressing all around him, Elrond realized it was no silence, for there was sound all around him: horses whuffing with weariness, quiet voices soothing mounts and asking questions; the creak of leather and the rattle of war harness, the soft kiss of the night breeze. Even these small sounds hurt to hear, and Elrond moaned softly into his mount's mane.

"My Lord--how is it with you?" Glorfindel murmured gently from very nearby. Elrond flinched from the loudness of the voice; a shudder ran through his spare frame.

"Tie me into the saddle, Glorfindel," he whispered. "I must not fall. In my bags--there is a small bottle, miruvor and some herbs--give it to me. Quickly."

Glorfindel gave orders, and shortly Elrond was aware of rope and reins being used to secure him to horse and saddle. He slumped over the mare's neck, panting in agony; there was a stabbing pain on the side of his throat, for all the world as if some foul beast had bitten him--nay, not bitten, but sundered the very living flesh, tearing it until blood flowed freely. So powerful was the sensation that Elrond raised a hand to staunch the deadly stream, and was stunned to find his throat untouched.

Suddenly Glorfindel was there, holding the small bottle to Elrond's lips.

"How much?"

"Just a dram. Not much needed." Elrond took a sip, adjusted slightly for a little more, then waved it away. "Keep it safe, my friend."

Glorfindel carefully stoppered the bottle and leaned back to secure it in its cloth wrappings within Elrond's saddlebags. He double-checked the knots, making certain his Lord would not fall at the gallop; satisfied, he returned to see to his friend.

"Better?" Elrond nodded; Glorfindel looked hard at him, deciding he did look a little less agonized. "Was it--the child?"

Tears leaked out of Elrond's closed eyes, and he nodded. "Shadow grows desperate," he said, with an angry, ironic lilt to his tired voice. "I believe my sons and Thranduil have arrived together at Dol Guldur. Alas--I also believe the Nine know of this. It is--not well with the child."

Glorfindel briefly closed his eyes, knowing how terribly many permutations there could be, given Legolas' circumstances, to so simple a phrase as 'not well with.' "Are all Nine in residence, then?"

Elrond was silent for so long, Glorfindel thought he might have fainted. Just as he was about to ask, however, he started slightly; the Lord of Imladris raised his head minutely, his eyes glittering like pewter, hard and distant all in one.

"I do not think so. One--Angmar, most likely--or two at the most, and if two, then the other is likely to be Khaműl." Elrond's eyes swiveled to take in the small force Celeborn had detailed to guard them, and then moved to gaze consideringly at Glorfindel. "Can we take on two Nazgűl and win the day, old friend?"

Glorfindel skewed his expressive mouth sidewise, and cocked one dark eyebrow. "Nazgűl. Two, nine, a baker's dozen--what matter such as they to one who has defeated a Balrog?"

He surprised a snort of amusement out of Elrond, as he suspected he might do. "Would that not be just the veriest tad cocky?" the Lore-Master asked in wry tones. "If I am recalling correctly--and I suspect that I am--you died defeating that Balrog."

Glorfindel drew himself up with lordly disdain, tipping his chin back and placing his right hand over his heart. "The merest of details," he scoffed, his eyes twinkling. "The smallest iota of unimportant trivia. I died, yes, but I did defeat the Balrog."

"And then you came back--another of those mere little details you are so painfully fond of bringing up," Elrond retorted. "We shall forego mentioning that between the act and the fulfillment, there was a small matter of some sixteen centuries."

"A fortnight to such as we," Glorfindel said, managing to keep his disdainful expression for half a heartbeat until both of them began to laugh, remembering the one from whom that quote had originally come.  

"I miss Thranduil," Elrond sighed, the laughter sliding sidewise to almost tearful weariness. His head drooped; the Lord of Imladris buried his face in the mare's mane, and his shoulders shook briefly: perhaps with tears, perhaps mirth, perhaps a little of both. "That is either a sign of desperation, or my age is indeed creeping up on me."

"Or both, child," Glorfindel retorted, handing the reins back up to Elrond. "Do you need me to tie your wrists under her neck, or are you stable enough if the little one comes calling again?"

The little one… Elrond stared off into the darkness, his eyes all pupil nearly, and pictured what he had seen glimpses of. A slender body bowed in defeat, shaking with terror… shackled to the floor like a lamb before a butcher… surrounded by foes and Shadows on all sides, the very brightness of his Elven soul dimming ever more painfully as the seconds crawled over him like flies on the dead….

"No. For the love of the Valar, Glorfindel, let us ride -- Galadriel and Saeros have the child in their keeping, we can only join the others and hope for the best."

"Galadriel and Saeros," Glorfindel repeated, stunned at the implication. "What a pair."

"Better matched than you can imagine, " Elrond murmured, one side of his mouth curving upward into an angry smile. He tipped his chin in the direction of their destination. "Lead on, my friend. I have a great need to kill something."

 

**********

 

The bare hilltop of Dol Guldur was alive with dancing light even as darkness approached, for the Silvan Elves had built a roaring bonfire against the battle to come. Thranduil stood in the midst of all the cheerful mayhem, watching as his folk intermingled with the Elves of Lórien and Imladris who had ridden hither with Elrond's twins, and there was a grim smile on the proud face of Oropher's son. Under any other circumstance, this would all be so flatly amusing! Yet there it was: the dark and merry Elves of Mirkwood, so seldom seen at all by their Firstborn brethren and even less often seen at war in their company, went about their tasks singing back and forth to one another in a strange, ever-changing symphony of different tunes and themes, words both old and new--and as usual, there was much laughter. The Lórien Elves, more quiet and reserved than the Silvan folk to whom they were such close kin, watched and worked and stared at one another from time to time, looking just a bit nervous and extremely confused by such an attitude--though the sons of Elrond, who after all were Celeborn's grandchildren, did seem to be vastly amused. More than once, Thranduil heard the twins raising their voices in song with Saeros and Hellan, once they realized the words and caught on to the interesting logic of the tune.

Elrond, my friend, you would be stunned! Thranduil thought, a faint grin slipping across his mouth. But then, as a Lore-Master, you're just as likely to be enchanted. What a world this is….

Thranduil took everything in, but gave little hint of his inner turmoil. Instead, he busied himself with moving through the ranks of his people, greeting them by name, looking long and hard into their bright eyes, smiling and nodding to acknowledge the ferocious love he saw therein. He also kept an eye on, and spoke at length with, the Lórien Elves and the sons of Elrond. His own people he could command to the death, but these were another matter: subjects of other lords, sons of an old friend, and Thranduil had no desire to bring pain to anyone else over the loss of a child. He was far too intimately acquainted with the sensation, having lost three of the six he had sired--four, if one counted Aduialas, who was as good as lost in Valinor with his grief. As he paced and spoke and laughed and encouraged and paced some more, Thranduil knew a tearing of his heart easily as great as that he had felt the morning before Dagorlad. It felt no less painful for removal by the distance of years; if anything, it felt as immediate as if this were the waning days of the Second Age, and more than once the Elven-King found himself looking for, or rubbing a thumb over, old wounds in his hands and arms--and felt a certain confusion as to why he could not actually see or scent the blood.

Impending combat always awakened in him twin sensations of Doom and exhilaration; it had always been thus, but his experiences in the Last Alliance had served to cement the impressions deep within the Elven-King's being. Part of him dearly wanted to be caught up in the encompassing delight being exhibited around him: the delight in a warrior's skill, the chance to spill the blood of the Abominations and strike at the heart of Shadow. Revenge clamoured for release, revenge not only for Legolas' long years of durance vile, but also for the depredations committed upon the trees and creatures of Mirkwood by those same foul, fell creatures.

Another part of him, however, was rent with the deepest, worst trepidation a father could feel. Hovering now on the brink of rescue, knowing it was at worst a matter of hours before he would once again clasp his beloved son to him, the weight of the eighteen weary years bore down on Thranduil like boulders. More than ever before he felt a desperate need to know what was going on in there. His eyes kept slipping sidelong to gaze upon Saeros, to try and gauge by what the Tracker might be doing, but Saeros was a focused, unreadable column of deep-toned power. It was impossible to tell what was going on in his mind as he prowled the hilltop like an angry lion, singing and ever-smiling that faint, portentous smile of his.

Where was Legolas? What had they done to him, or worse, what were they doing to him at this very moment? To be so close and yet largely helpless to act was hideous. Thranduil felt as if a particularly bad-tempered badger had taken up angry residence in his guts, and was clawing its way to freedom the hard way.

Anar is setting, the day wanes. Soon, soon they will come forth. Elbereth, hear me: guide my hand and my eye, give me Your grace!

The whole bare hilltop around the base of Dol Guldur was eerily lit by fading daylight and bright fire. It looked like something out of a horrific vision, that nevertheless possessed a certain wild and insane beauty: the backdrop, perhaps, for a masque on the tale of Glorfindel versus the Balrog. Even the movements of various warriors as Saeros commanded them into position, all seemed part of some great, measured dance. Thranduil closed one massive, long-fingered hand about the hilt of the sword he bore. It had been made by one of Mirkwood's most renowned master bladesmiths, Aikalerion; closing his eyes, the Elven-King could see the ancient-eyed one kneeling before Luthiél that first time she had come forth from her chambers to show off the infant Legolas:

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Gowned in velvet the colour of old moss, her warrior-braided hair falling about her slender shoulders like a sheet of golden flame, Luthiél held on her knee the tiny little scrap of Elfling, wrapped about in a fine coverlet of greens and browns and silver. Thranduil stood by her side, a powerful presence in a regal over-robe of that same mossy green over an intricately embroidered formal robe of deepest silver-grey. One by one the great and humble of Mirkwood came to honour the lastborn child of the House of Oropher; the pile of gifts had been growing over the hours. Bright-eyed and laughing in her utter joy, Luthiél was a picture of beauty and grace; in her arms, the infant occasionally yawned, or burbled, or whimpered as seemed most meet, and his remaining siblings--Brethilas, the Crown Prince, and fair Minuial, the lovely forest-child--vied for the chance to hold their little brother, both of them sufficiently advanced in centuries to consider him a novelty rather than a potential annoyance.

Many and varied were the gifts: lengths of spider-silk to fashion garments for the little princeling; homely hand-made items like belts, impossibly small archer's bracers, a baby-sized bow and quiver that had Brethilas and Thranduil fighting not to laugh, they were so tiny…little embroidered shirts and robes, shoes and slippers, toys of all sorts and descriptions, and all manner of things both immediately useful or meant to be put aside until later, much later.

Then there had been a stir in the watching crowd of courtiers and subjects, Sindar and Silvan and the occasional shy Avari, as Aikalerion the Ancient-Eyed strode down the length of the hall. Aikalerion was so old he called Saeros the Tracker pen-neth, "young one." He bore across his powerful arms what was very clearly an example of his craft; none could mistake the shape and size. But the actual form of it was hidden from immediate view by a wrapping of deerskin that had been incised and painted with many a mystic symbol. As he came and bowed his head before the King, his eyes fixed on the bright-eyed infant--and he sank to his knees before the Queen, speaking fair words in his ancient tongue, but his attention was fixed on the unwavering gaze of the baby princeling.

Legolas stopped what he had been doing--sucking on one tiny fist--and stared at Aikalerion as if he were re-discovering a very old friend. The eldest and youngest beings in Mirkwood stared at one another in rapt silence for several long minutes, longer than any would have thought so new-born an Elfling capable of paying attention. Aikalerion set his burden down at Luthiél's feet and, without words, asked for the child; without hesitation she handed him over. Tucked in the crook of that powerful arm, Legolas had let out a single bright burble of a sound, a little mewling crow of delight; the damp fist struck out and seized on the end of one of Aikalerion's midnight-coloured sidelock braids.

The master bladesmith then did something few of them could remember him ever doing before: he laughed. Threw back his raven head and laughed, pleased, delighted, as if he had been waiting for this birth since before any of the rest of them were even born. Thranduil was never certain where that thought came from, just: he has been waiting for this. I know not how I know, but it makes a certain bizarre sense….

Then Aikalerion handed the babe back to its mother, and unwrapped the blade he had fashioned for the little Elfling. It had a hilt of antler wrapped with leather in an intricate criss-cross pattern, capped and guarded in iron chased with purest gold; the blade was fullered on both sides, and etched all down its length with designs and symbols that were older than Middle-Earth itself. Being Elvish-crafted, it was both exquisitely beautiful and completely deadly in a utilitarian way. Aikalerion presented it hilt-first across his forearm to Luthiél, who exclaimed at the sight of it and hefted it with her free hand. The balance, not surprisingly, was superb; the Queen all but purred with delight, and brought it back down with a ringing whoosh! to show the hilt to her son.

Legolas reached for it with both hands, but it was made for an adult to wield; both those slim, pale little hands could barely encompass the acorn-shaped cap at the butt-end of the hilt. But every warrior watching, both female and male alike, understood well the significance of an infant claiming its future arms--and the rejoicing applause was great, making the rafters ring….

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"Aran brannon! "

The voice of Saeros rang across the hilltop, bringing Thranduil's thoughts back to the here and now. The Elven-King tore his attention from the heart of the bonfire's flame; his head came up, alert as a stag scenting the presence of danger, and he stared at the Tracker, eyes narrowed. Saeros stood motionless as a signpost, one hand pointing toward the central entrance to the Tower; a rumbling of wood on metal and stone came from within, as if a massive bar was being removed from inside those doors, or perhaps some great portcullis was being cranked upward.

Thranduil gave a snarl of relief and fury and delight; he drew the sword old Aikalerion had made for his son, the metal ringing against the metal cap of the scabbard, and the sound called to more than one of the Elves within hearing. Thranduil drove the blade point-first into the earth before him, and unlimbered the bow from his back; swords were close-in weapons, and the first wave of the fighting would be massed bow-work. Time enough after the first softening of the Orc attack, to mix in hand to hand with the Abominations!

They heard the low, rumbling roar of many Orc voices, long before they saw the first foul warriors come out into the growing night. The rhythmic slap of feet, whether booted, or bare, or sandaled, could then be heard. It became the accompaniment to swords, spears and bows being rattled upon shields; the roar grew both in ferocity and volume. Far at one end of the Elvish battle order up against the treeline of Mirkwood, the voice of Thalas could clearly be heard:

"Steady on--here they come!"

Within the same heartbeat, Thranduil and the twins gave the command to fire. Nevalkarion, Eithelas, and Hellan echoed them; a volley of Firstborn arrows, thick as midges in high summer, flew high into the air then arched downward in a rain of death. In the few seconds it took many of the Orcs to raise their shields as protection, the second line fired on a lower trajectory. Several Orcs fell, their throats pierced, their yellow eyes staring in stunned hate.

The second Elvish line nocked arrows and waited, bows at full draw, for the chance to pick off individual foes; the front line--the stronger warriors-- drew swords and ran forward to engage more directly. The Lórien folk charged with battle cries on their lips; those few from Imladris, including the twins, simply waded into the fray, opponents already chosen, death in their eyes as blades met blades in ringing shock. Saeros, Hellan, Thalas, and the other Silvan folk ran lightly forward, faces alight with battle-joy, singing with rare beauty and an excitement that was positively sexual. Verse for verse, they attempted to cap one another in wit and intricacy of execution. Many Orcs died even more terribly in those next seconds--terribly and swiftly, for as generally is the case, the sooner such an attack is repulsed, the better. The horrible cacophony of battle screamed aloud to the heavens, as the bonfire continued to roar, shedding light and heat over the already simmering hilltop.

Thranduil could not spare a moment to keep his eyes on the twins any longer, and murmured a swift prayer that the Valar would spare the younger Elf-Lords to be reunited in victory with their sire. He brought up Aikalerion's Gift with a ringing sweep, catching the downward arc of a blade borne by an enormous, foul-smelling Uruk-hai; the two weapons met with a dull, thudding clang, and the shock of it reverberated up Thranduil's arm to his shoulder. He bared his straight white teeth in a feral snarl, and shoved up and back with all his own considerable strength; the Uruk-hai staggered backwards only briefly, but it was enough.

Thranduil brought the sword of his son around to his right in an economical one-handed twist of an arc, and danced back a step or two to embed the blade in his foe's gut almost to the hilt. The Uruk let out a furious bellow of agonized rage, but the sound was cut off into a surprised gurgle as Thranduil cupped the hilt and his own hand in his left, squeezed hard, and eviscerated the towering creature in a single swift motion that left the Uruk split open from belly to chin. Blood spurted; bowel uncurled from the stinking cavity, and spilled onto the ground. The Uruk-hai was so deeply impaled that the Elven-King had to push it backward off the blade with one booted foot, both his hands still holding tightly to the intricate hilt.

He spat into the cooling remains, and whirled to find his next opponent.

 

**********

 

Elladan swung powerfully and tightly about him with the sword Celeborn had given him when he attained his majority. The only addition made to the weapon since that day, was several strands of silver hair woven above the hilt like a pattern of precious mithril, inter-braided with a silk ribbon of deep blue: the ribbon and the hair had belonged to Elladan's mother, Celebrían, and had been placed upon this instrument of death by her son after she was rescued from the Orcs many long years before. It gave him great courage and a constant reminder of his duty to kill Orc-kind and all their allies; he knew his mother would have been horrified to know of the lengthy captivity of so young and innocent an Elf-child, and having her present at this fight, at least in this small wise, was a thing of great import for her son.

He was aware of his brother nearby, a dark and angry presence, as Elrohir too made use of his long Elven sword to clear a path for other fighters about him. Dashing blood out of his eyes, Elladan glanced over one shoulder and found himself back to back with Saeros the Tracker; the ancient one apparently preferred a pair of shorter Elvish blades, and was making an intricate, rather lovely dance of the death he was wielding all about him.

Must not get caught up in it all, Elladan reminded himself, glad that he had tied back his long raven hair before the fighting had begun. To stay focused is to remain alive!

He wondered where Thranduil had gone, and Nevalkarion; glancing sidelong, Elladan could see Eithelas holding his own in a fierce, rather one-sided contest with a burly young Orc. The scholarly Eithelas, who back in Lórien could more often be found in the library reading old scrolls than out on the practice courts, was nevertheless a fearsome warrior when roused. The pale blue of his captain's tunic was stained with a great swath of black Orc-blood, making it clear this was not his first opponent of the short, sharp fight so far. Seconds before Elladan returned his attention to more immediate matters, he saw a grin of anger cross that calm Galadhrim face--and sure enough, the duel ended with an Orc tumbling backward, its head departing from its shoulders as the rest of the body toppled to the bloodied ground.

"Not bad, brother mine!" Nevalkarion called out from somewhere in the treeline, his voice loud and merry over the cries of anger and the loud roar of the bonfire. "But mind you don't lose your focus!"

The unmistakable twang of a bowstring could be heard; Eithelas glanced up one eyebrow cocked sardonically, as his brother's arrow embedded itself in the forehead of an Orc that had been bearing down on him. The captain grinned at Elladan, and shook his head.

"I shall never hear the end of this," he sighed, hefting his sword once more. "Saved by a bratling. Oh, the shame of it all!"

"I think you will live," Elladan retorted, just before he ducked out of the way of Saeros' flying blades, and came up under the Tracker's left arm to cut the legs out of an onrushing Uruk-hai. The two Elves exchanged a grin, then turned as one at Eithelas' cry of warning:

"Ai! 'Ware for the King!"

 

**********

 

Thranduil worked his way toward Dol Guldur one dead Orc at a time, with the occasional traitor Man-child or Uruk-hai for variety. Just because they had all agreed this fight could best serve the overall purpose as a feint to disguise the coming of the greater attack, did not mean the Elven-King did not intend to make as much of it as he could! He hoped against hope that Legolas knew they were there, was in some part of the Tower where he could hear and sense that rescue was close.

Wielding Aikalerion's Gift one-handed, Thranduil swept off his back one of the white knives of Luthiél's father, Farafael. History of the best possible sort bracketed the Elven-King, and his battle-song grew even more lovely, his steps ever lighter as he stalked toward the foul Tower.

I am coming, tithen emlin, he thought, and opened his mind to his son, so Legolas might hear the song of battle and take heart. Thranduil tried not to take it as a bad omen that there did not seem to be any response; Saeros doubtless had the child well in hand, and would be more than enchanted with the concept of sharing the battle with the captive princeling.

"Well, old fool of an Elf! We meet again!"

The discord of the Westron words, accented with the tones of Dale, grated on Thranduil's ears and made him halt, turning his loping stride into an almost poetic movement of dancing grace as he whirled to face the source of those words. A knowing smirk touched his mouth, and he chuckled.  

"Aldor," the King murmured, shaking his fair head slightly. "Why am I not surprised? To find a foul traitor, look in a stinking nest of Shadow!"

The Man laughed harshly, mocking the other's motion by shaking his own head. "As always, you have a unique point of view, foolish old Elf," he sighed.

In the next heartbeat, Thranduil was fighting for his life; the traitor Dale-Man, in the company of two Orcs and an Uruk, attacked as a unit and overpowered the Elven-King by sheer force of numbers; he found himself face-down on the slick, muddy ground, arms hauled cruelly behind him, and the knee of the Uruk in the middle of his back. Struggling furiously, Thranduil fought against the restraint; but the sword and knife were stripped from his hands, and he was beaten until the Abominations could pull him up onto his knees. He raised his eyes, looking pure hatred at the Man.

Standing there backed by two tall, strongly-built young Orcs, Aldor was feeling very brave indeed. He stuck thumbs in his belt and leaned back cockily, gazing at Thranduil; his dark eyes traveled insolently over the strong lines of the Elf's powerful body, and made a kind of 'tsk-ing' sound with his tongue. "Your little one has grown to favor you in look, at least," he added with a short bark of a laugh. "Though he's a skinny little runt, for all that--I'm remembering his mother as a sweet little handful of stuff. I believe he takes after her in form."

Thranduil said nothing, only narrowed his eyes; he dipped his chin, and his smile became sedulously murderous. Aldor only grinned.

"Of course, I never had Luthiél--more's the pity--but if she was as sweet a taste in the mouth as your little princeling, then the loss of her is a sad thing indeed." He cocked his head to one side. "Do you suppose the Orcs who killed her had a chance to ride her before she died?"

"I shall miss you, Aldor, when you are dead," Thranduil purred, his calm purchased at very great price indeed. "Not much, nor for long--but I shall indeed miss you. When you are dead."

Aldor chortled. "Brave words, old Elf," he retorted. "But come, old friends such as we should not quarrel. I am here to make introductions! Surely you must realize by now, your sweet little princeling is old enough to be ridden himself? And such a fine, tender little pony he is, too. The Nazgűl have asked me to bring you a gift from them, by way of your dear son!"

Aldor gestured; the Uruk seized Thranduil by a thick handful of his hair and pulled him to his feet, still pinioning the powerful wrists in one massive paw. Alert to whatever it was Aldor had up his sleeve--fearful that he knew all too well what it was--the Elven-King made no struggle, only rose and waited, willing the pain to sing through him.

"The ladies of Dol Guldur present you with your grandchild, old Elf," Aldor laughed, shoving forward one of his two Orcish henchbeings. "Luzbekh, meet your Papa's sire, King Thranduil! Your very own grand-da! He's a king -- you know what that makes you?"

"Still a pig of an Orc," Thranduil grated out, staring in wide-eyed horror at the creature that advanced upon him. Nostrils flaring, he took note of the livid, suppurating shape of an oak-leaf branded into the face of the Orc, so that the lines of the brand outlined the eye, peering out from within the beloved emblem Thranduil had known since babyhood. He felt his gorge rise, could not fight back the thought: how did they make this one from you, tithen emlin? By blood, or seed? Was it born or created? I swear to you, Laeglass nîn, this thing shall die!

"Have some respect, Grandsire!" the young Orc growled, and slapped Thranduil across the face with a backhand from one powerful paw. Eyes watering from the force of the blow, Thranduil wormed one hand out of the Uruk's grasp; the creature scrabbled to regain control, but Aldor gave a dismissive wave.

"Let the old fool greet his grandchild!" he commanded. "Elves have always enjoyed doting over their get!"

Growling, the Uruk-hai did as it was told, releasing Thranduil and stepping back. The Elven-King stood there, looking stunned; one hand half-rose as if it might touch the young Orc, and the youngster reached out impetuously to seize that hand. Pressing it to the raw redness and infection that was the oak-leaf brand, the Orc grated,

"We are of the same line, Grandsire! Fine Orcs for the House of Thranduil!"

Thranduil swallowed hard against a bitterness clambering up from his stomach, and stared in shocked wonder. "Child of my child," he breathed, and gave a choked sob. With his free hand, he rubbed at the small of his back as if in pain; the Uruk-hai struck him from behind without warning, knocking Thranduil back to his knees.

"Bid farewell to your get, Elf!" the creature hissed.

Aldor laughed pleasantly. "Oh, only for a little while," he said, shaking his head. "We will not kill the good King just yet! I know the Master will want to see him--and doubtless the old fool would like a tender reunion with his little slave of a son. Then we shall have a fine family gathering with all the Orcs of King Thranduil's line!"

He gestured; the young Orc leaned forward, grinning rudely, to try and seize Thranduil. But the King rose up eagerly from his knees, one arm held out in entreaty, and seized the Orc by one wrist.

"Child of my child," he repeated softly, tears gathering in his eyes. Then, in a movement too fast to see, much less counter, he whipped Farafael's second white knife from the sheathe hidden behind his belt in the small of his back, and inserted it into the royal Orc's groin as easily as hot iron sliding through ice. "The fate of my House is in my hands!" he cried. "This vengeance is for my son!"

As he rose to his feet, Thranduil brought the knife with him; the young Orc writhed horribly, spurting hot black blood and the contents of its sundered bowels over the Elven-king's hands. The knife came at last to rest in the creature's heart; Thranduil pulled the Orc close, and punched his right hand into the broken chest. With one quick, economical squeeze, he ended the life that should never have begun. Then he curled his fingers about the remains of the ribcage and tossed the carrion backward onto the Uruk-hai, for all the world as if the many pounds of dead Orc-meat were a second weapon.

At Aldor's shouts of alarm, more Orcs joined the fray; Thranduil was at the unlucky point of being dragged inexorably toward the entrance to the Tower, when a sudden onrush of Elves broke the forward momentum of the strategic retreat. A sword cut through the air just over Thranduil's head, causing him to duck as a precaution; Elrohir Elrondion grinned down at him and wished him a cheerful hello, then took the King by one arm and pushed him backward into someone's arms. Thranduil growled in annoyance and tried to fight free of those restraining arms, but then realized, from the deep, furry chuckle in his ear, that the arms belonged to Saeros.

"Time to go, aran Brannon," the Tracker told him, pulling Thranduil to his feet and returning to him one of the white knives, and Aikalerion's Gift. Hauling him along by main force, Saeros slid down the muddy hilltop.

"Morgoth take you, pen-iaur!" Thranduil shouted. "I'm not done up there!"

"For the moment you are, child," Saeros grunted, grinning. "We must re-group; they are sending forth another wave to the attack."

Thranduil swore with heartfelt earnestness, gritting his teeth; as Saeros Elfhandled him down the hillside toward the trees, the Elven-king realized he had a deep cut across the back of his left shoulder--something he had not noticed until it began to throb in protest at the treatment. Elladan and Elrohir were right behind them; the four of them slid to a rather ungraceful stop, into the waiting arms of Elves from the Lórien contingent. A moment to untangle limbs and regain their bearings, then Elladan was cutting the tunic away from Thranduil's wound, and sliding a pad of bandage wadding in to staunch the bleeding.

"Leave it, child," the Elven-King growled, wincing at the unexpected sharpness of the pain. "It will heal on its own, given time."

"In the middle of this, you speak of time?" Elladan chuckled, rolling his eyes unseen from behind the King. Saeros and Elrohir scrupled not to laugh. "In any case, best to make sure it is not poisoned. Others have not been as fortunate."

"Deaths?" Thranduil asked, briefly closing his eyes as Elladan carefully but rather painfully cleaned out the sword cut. Saeros shook his dark head.

"Not yet. But not all the enemy blades have been clean." He spat disdainfully to punctuate his disgust. "Beasts!"

"Indeed," Thranduil murmured, wincing to contemplate his deceased Orcish grandchild. "How do we stand?"

Elrohir swiftly explained that there were conservatively some fifty dead Orcs and Uruk-hai, and three Dale-Men; in amongst the Abominations had been a small contingent of Goblins, but those were all dead now. "There are reinforcements coming out of the Tower at this moment, but Eithelas, Nevalkarion, and Hellan have them in hand. Do we have any ides how many Orcs and hangers-on that Tower shelters?"

Thranduil glanced at Saeros; the Tracker shrugged sparely. "The tithen khaun thinks there may have been as many as two hundred at some point. He has counted at least that many separate faces."

"Well, then it is not over yet," the Elven-King sighed.

As indeed it was not. They repulsed the second wave or Orcs, adding to the number of the dead by another fifteen. Two Silvan Elves fell into final sleep at the hands of that wave, and one Elf of Imladris; it seemed after that there might be a respite, for the Tower doors clanged shut with an ominous, ringing thud, and any Orcs trapped outside were swiftly sent to receive whatever of justice such things can receive from the Father of All.

Thranduil's shoulder wound had re-opened in the fighting, and Elladan, sensing this was the break that would be long enough to allow some serious healing work to be done, made the Elven-king sit down and let him be tended to. Those others among them with the gift of healing saw to their comrades, and at Saeros' orders, the bodies of the slain enemy were hurled onto the bonfire for disposal. Thranduil watched them burn, listened with dark pleasure to the songs his people sang in derision to the dead Abominations, and thought: tithen emlin, may you rest easier this night, knowing we are here. It will only be hours now, this I swear!

The captains and commanders gathered about to make report, and to comment on the actions just fought. Thranduil ordered that food be distributed, and that those who could, should take some rest. Only Saeros stood staring off into the dark, starlit expanse above them, the brighter light from Ithil shedding over the blood-muddied hilltop like a soothing benison.

"It seems we may have frightened them inside for the rest of the night," Nevalkarion suggested, smiling with relief. It had been a hard couple of hours' worth of fighting, and they were all weary; more than one of the Elves who overheard the comment, nodded in hopeful agreement.

"Nothing ever stays as we might wish it," Saeros murmured neutrally, gazing up into the skies. He thought he could see something miles away, almost like the shimmer of heat rising off a road at noonday, but the brightness of the moon and the bonfire played tricks even on Elvish eyes.

"Yes, we must be ready for almost anything," Eithelas murmured, plucking at the bandage Elrohir had wrapped about the Galadhrim's wrist. "Frightened they most assuredly are, but they know we are not many in number. This night is not over yet."

"No indeed," Saeros breathed, and turned wide, considering eyes on his King. "Aran brannon--forgive me. A Nazgűl comes." And he pointed up into the sky, where that shimmer of darkness overlain on darkness was even now resolving into the shape of a huge flying creature and a Black Rider.

"So much for a quiet night," Elrohir sighed. "How far behind you did you say Celeborn is?"

"Not close enough to help with this, alas," Thranduil sighed, and pulled himself upright on Elladan's arm. They all stood there in stunned silence, watching as the creatures drew ever closer. The flying mount--dragon-like in its immensity, with a massive wingspan-- seemed to fill the darkness; atop the creature was the hooded form of its Rider, draped in black, with blued, rusty armour showing wherever the robe and drapings hitched up in the wind created by the steady, powerful rush of the wings.

"What shall we do?" Hellan asked quietly, instinctively looking to Saeros. Before the Tracker could reply, the son of Oropher smiled unpleasantly and patted Hellan's arm.

"We shall do nothing," Thranduil grated. "This wraith is mine."

He drew Aikalerion's Gift and stalked to the open space at the foot of the Tower, arms spread to either side as if welcoming the creature. There was blood in his eye, blood and murder.

"Khaműl!" he shouted, tipping his head back to stare balefully at the approaching creatures. "Hear me, Khaműl! You have tormented my son long enough! It is time for you to taste the steel of a full-grown Elf of my line and House!"

The Nazgűl descended to treetop level and hovered there, seeming to consider the Elf who stood so defiantly before him. Then slowly, almost lazily, it began to descend once more, drawing its long, wicked blade.

 

Chapter Eleven

Go Back