Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter 11: The Blood of the House of Oropher

 

The flames of the bonfire flared and danced as the Nazgűl's mount glided slowly toward the ground, its wings fanning the blaze into ever-growing brightness, sparks flying upward to disappear into the star-filled darkness. As if carved from stone, Thranduil of Mirkwood remained as he was, arms out to either side, beckoning; his expression was eerily calm, his blue eyes glittering like deep midwinter ice. The very faintest of smiles played about his lips, and he missed no nuance of the approaching creature's demeanor.

For his part, Khaműl seemed almost unreal: a faceless Wraith, black robes billowing and snapping in the breeze, making no sound himself. To treetop level, then ever lower, closer and closer he came to the defiant figure before him. To those watching it seemed Khaműl was measuring his opponent, looking for a place to strike. Saeros observed it all with narrowed eyes, smiling; his only move was to bring up a hand to stay Elrohir, when the son of Elrond uttered a quiet oath in Westron and made as if to step closer.

"Nay, young one. It is his right."

"No one Elf can take on a Nazgűl and live!" the younger Peredhil murmured. Saeros allowed one eyebrow to curve up in amused reply.

"That you know of," the Tracker finished for him. Elrohir stared at him, but realized it did little good; for all the attention it got him, Saeros might have been staring through a window watching the sun rise. Frustrated and anxious, Elrohir looked back to see that Khaműl had nearly touched down. The feet of his creature hovered less than a Hobbit's height from the ground; the Nazgűl itself could have reached out and tapped Thranduil on the shoulder, so close were they now. And still neither one moved.

Then, so suddenly it made them all jump except for Saeros, the son of Oropher made his move. He brought Aikalerion's Gift in from the right, the blade catching the brilliance of the bonfire; palming the hilt in his two hands, Thranduil stepped forward almost negligently, but with a swiftness borne of many a millennia training in the arts of war. The blade struck home, slicing into the chest of Khaműl's mount as if the fell creature were carved of butter. The airborne mount let out a horrible scream of enraged pain and dropped to the ground like a stone; it foundered forward, almost unseating the Wraith, who brought his long black blade around with a ringing sweep, intending to separate Thranduil's proud head from his shoulders. But the King was not exactly where he had been, any longer; he had side-stepped the momentum of Khaműl's mount, and when the foul blade of the Wraith swept through empty air, Aikalerion's Gift met it with a ringing clash that could be heard all over the hilltop.

"Yes!" Elladan murmured, unaware that he spoke; he was gripping his twin's shoulder so hard his knuckles were white, but Elrohir neither seemed to realize nor feel it. They watched with the eyes of swordmaster connoisseurs as Thranduil kept his blade in contact with Khaműl's, using the blued length of the Enemy's blade as a kind of conduit, until the tip of Aikalerion's Gift slid home. Tearing open the jointed armour gauntlet on the Wraith's hand, the Elven blade slipped under the dark chain mail sleeve beneath the black robe; there came a hissing sound, and it seemed steam rose from Khaműl's arm as the Nazgűl let out a shriek of infuriated agony. Smiling almost kindly, Thranduil drew back the blade and single-handedly brought it around to his right, intending to drive the sword home into the Wraith's shoulder.

The mount chose that moment to recover itself, however, rearing up and back, so that Khaműl had time to switch hands and move his own blade to his right. The two swords met again, then a third time; Thranduil swore briefly as his foot slipped in a bloody patch beneath him, but it was for the best, as he felt the air part inches above him as Khaműl's blade passed harmlessly overhead.

Thank you, Lady Elbereth!

Thranduil rose up on one knee in a patient, watchful crouch; he sensed rather than saw as Khaműl's mount minced closer, side-stepping, its breathing labored from the first blow. Aikalerion's Gift was held up before the King like an icon; he shifted his hands minutely on the antler hilt, feeling the smoothness of the deerskin wrapping about it. The past rides with me this night… for the blood of the House of Oropher, for my little Greenleaf, guide my hand, O Valar! Luthiél, my bright beloved warrior, look down upon me from Mandos' Halls--help me bring our little one free from the hand of Shadow!

The Nazgűl's mount stepped closer; he could smell blood and iron, the nails spiking from the hooves of the creature, and he briefly closed his eyes. It almost felt as if there were a hand on his shoulder; the waft of a long-gone sweetness came to him, overriding all, a mixture of honeysuckle and citrus and spice. Thranduil smiled more peacefully than he had in the thirty years since his soul-mate Queen had been so cruelly taken from him.

For Legolas, a voice seemed to say close to his ear, perhaps even inside his head and heart. Nin tithen guren….

With an economical wrench of his wrist, Thranduil brought Aikalerion's Gift about to his right. Palming hilt and hand within his left, the King dove upward beneath the wingspan of Khaműl's mount and aimed for the Nazgűl himself. He struck something that resisted but briefly; realizing he must have found a chink in Khaműl's breastplate, Thranduil drove onward with all his strength, pushing, growling under his breath, humming something that threatened to burst forth into song at any moment.

Khaműl gave a rising shriek that touched on several notes almost simultaneously; this close to hand, the sound was horrible. Something black and hot splashed across Thranduil's face, momentarily blinding him; fighting for purchase on the increasingly uncertain ground, the son of Oropher continued to push home his blade, shoving with his shoulder at the large unmoving bulk of the dark mount, ignoring the buffeting of its wing against his back.

Then quite suddenly his eyes cleared, and looking up, Thranduil realized he was almost face to face with Khaműl, and that Aikalerion's Gift was buried in the Wraith up to the hilt. For a moment only they stared at one another; then Thranduil put all the force of his weight against the sword, twisting, then yanked it free. He stumbled back, catching the creature's wing full in the face; Thranduil went down hard on both knees, shaking his head to clear it, and never saw the Nazgűl's blade as it descended toward his unprotected shoulder.

 

**********

 

Nin tithen guren….

Legolas fought to raise his head, surprised at the voice he heard within himself. "Nana?" he breathed, the word faint and plaintive, hardly voiced at all. A shudder wracked his frame as he knelt there on the hard stone, the irregular surface cutting into his aching knees. Galgrim still stood watchfully behind him, one clawed hand fisted in the long, tangled fall of his hair; how long the two of them had been there in the horrific tableau, Legolas had no way of knowing. In the dungeon there was no friendly sunbeam to show the passage of time; no access to a peek out the window to see if even a few stars were visible at night. Here there was only odd darkness.

His legs no longer had any feeling in them, nor his hands; his wrists were no longer pinioned behind his head, but the shackles were tight and cut into his flesh as his arms hung useless before him. It did not even seem to matter when Galgrim, hearing the breathy whisper, cuffed Legolas into silence.

"Hold your tongue, Elf-brat!"

All around them, at least two rows deep, stood newborn Orcs who had been pulled from the viscous grimness of the vat over the last few hours. In a manner too repetitive to not be a ritual by now, each had been dragged forth screaming in pain and outrage; was beaten down, and branded; then made to stand, naked and dripping with the foul fluid, behind Angmar as he directed the creation of this new horrific battalion. Legolas gazed bleary-eyed upon them and hated them all: tall, broad-shouldered fighting Orcs, their hair long and matted and as golden as his own, their flesh mottled, and their faces foul parodies of features he had long since learned to recognize on loved ones.

I hate you. I hate you all. You will die--you must!

Even now, Angmar was directing the stirring of more blood and seed into the vat; even now, small clawed Orc-hands and little screaming faces with wide mouths full of sharp teeth occasionally raised up from the liquid. The stench and the noise were horrible, and there was nowhere to go physically to escape it. Legolas felt as if he were caught wide-awake in the middle of a nightmare, and sought any relief he could achieve. If his body were chained here at the mercy of Angmar and Galgrim, at least his mind was loose in Middle-Earth. He could feel desperate anxiety and incredible focus from Elrond of Imladris; could sense the healing beacon that was the Lady of Lothlórien, and the curiously twinned presences of Saeros and Thranduil, so near and yet so terribly far away. Snippets of battle, overlain with a mounted rush through the darkness; behind his eyelids, Legolas could see bonfires and moonlight and strife, could hear the thrumming of hoofbeats and the scream of a Nazgűl challenging someone.

Sharp, biting cold lanced through him over and over, making his flesh shudder and dulling his senses. He wondered if he were dying. Is that why I hear you, Nana? Have you come for me, to bring me to Mandos' Halls? Oh, Nana, I am so tired! If he could have done, Legolas would have liked to just slip quietly to the floor and rest his cheek against the stone. Sleep…just want to sleep. So tired…. But Galgrim's fist in his hair made that impossible, so Legolas hung there, swaying with weariness, wracked by chills.

Yet even in the midst of the all-pervading cold, there were spikes of heat that left him feeling sick to his stomach and decidedly hazy. Legolas did not know what to do; the usual rules of the Tower apparently no longer applied. Ada was at the gates, Lord Elrond was on his way, and now he was hearing his long-dead mother in his mind. Another chill shuddered up Legolas' spine, raising gooseflesh; he wished he was back in his cell, even if it meant being in chains, because at least there he would not smell the baby Orcs or hear their horrid wailing. He might even be permitted to have a blanket, and perhaps then he would not feel so cold.

Droplets of blood slid down his chest from the collar about his throat. The slow trail they left was like ice running down Legolas' pale skin. He struggled to take a clear breath, wondering why everything either hurt, or had no sensation at all to it.

So tired. Cannot think. I will think about it later. Please let me sleep….

There was a horrible screeching hiss, a sound of cantankerous anger and annoyance; Legolas felt his eyes widen at the sound, and he sluggishly raised his head to stare at Angmar. The Chief of the Nazgűl stood before him, staring down at him in a kind of calculating tilt to his head; the reddish eyes were narrowed as they glowed from within the dark recesses of the voluminous hood. Suddenly unable to look away despite the exhaustion, despite the torpor, Legolas began to shake all over--but not with fear, and not necessarily with cold.

You know. They are out there, and you know. My father will destroy you. Saeros will pull you to pieces and burn what remains. You know….

Angmar made the painfully unpleasant sound that for him passed as amusement. Legolas drew back his lips in a silent snarl, and lunged forward; with an exclamation, Galgrim hauled back on the long golden hair, yanking Legolas against him. The Orc captain's fist came down, truncheon in hand; even as the Elf struggled, reaching with ever-failing force to try and touch the Nazgűl, to strike it or hurt it if he could, Galgrim beat him down until he simply did not have the strength to struggle any more. As he hung there shuddering from Galgrim's hand, Legolas stared at the Nazgűl with a hatred sufficiently old as to strike back to when Angmar was still a Man.

It will do you no good, child. It serves nothing but the cause of your pliancy.

Angmar cupped the young Elf's chin in one skeletal hand, reveling in the deep, angry emotion so foreign to such a sweet face. Then he gestured curtly toward Galgrim with his free hand.

Blood. More blood.

 

**********

 

"We have found them!"

One of the advance riders came pelting back, gesturing behind her. "Lord Glorfindel--the main body is just ahead!"

Glorfindel closed his eyes briefly and sent a prayer of thanks winging to the Lady Elbereth. It had been a difficult two hours, riding hard enough to try and catch up, and yet having a care for Elrond's condition; now it was nearly the end of the night. Minuial was but a few moments away; the sky was just beginning to lighten ever so dimly in the east. Whatever was happening at the Tower, there would be time to re-group, time to hopefully screen Celeborn's main force against detection from within Dol Guldur. Once the sun rose, only the Uruk-hai and any Goblins garrisoned there would be able to stand the light of day--and the traitorous Men, of course--but Glorfindel doubted there would be enough of those to come against a force such as Celeborn commanded this day. Praise to the Valar for excellence of timing! Glorfindel thought, and glanced sidewise to where Elrond clung doggedly to his racing mount.

"Did you hear, my lord?" Glorfindel called. "We have caught up to them. All will be well now!"

Elrond kept his eyes forward, only nodding to indicate he had heard. All would not be well, not in the universal sense, until this insanity was truly over--until the son of Thranduil was free and alive, until their hardest task was to try and piece back together a young mind taken to the edge of sanity and terror. Even now, Elrond could sense the desperation, the slow slipping away, as if the child literally hovered over the edge of a high precipice, clinging by one hand to a failing anchor. He sensed disorientation, and an anguish that went so far beyond physical that Elrond could scarcely believe the child was even still alive, much less had any sense of self left. He could sense Galadriel within Legolas' overpopulated mind, could hear her quietly speaking to the child, singing, reciting old tales, reminding him over and over who he was and of what proud line he had sprung. He could sense Saeros, and Thranduil: could pick up, as clearly as if he were there with them, images of the fighting. The bonfire, the blood, the bizarre flicker of shadow and light against the dark spike of twisted architecture that was Dol Guldur; the oak-branded Orcs, the hovering vileness of the Nazgűl and its mount… all was there in Elrond's mind's eye, tormenting him with the distance still to be covered.

Nazgűl… Thranduil--the child--no. NO!

He stared ahead, straining to see in the shadowy, mist-filled dimness of the predawn, and could see the moving mass of Elves and horses that was Celeborn's main force. Ahead at the very front were the banners, dark in the uncertain light; there, the shining beacon that was Celeborn, and there, the bright flame of power that was Mithrandir.

No! This cannot happen! Mithrandir!

Suddenly, Elrond hauled back on the reins of his mount, shouting a warning to Glorfindel. The horses careering behind him parted and went to either side of him like water around a river boulder, though there were some close misses; Glorfindel's mount reared almost as hard and noisily as Elrond's did. Wrenching free of the bonds where his friend had earlier tied him to the saddle, Elrond stood in his stirrups and shouted with all the considerable power of his lungs:

"Mithrandir! To me, Mithrandir!"

Elrond threw down from the saddle then, and tossed the reins to a waiting esquire. Glorfindel stared at him as if he had gone mad. Suddenly, the treeless thoroughfare that opened up in the side of Southern Mirkwood like a scar was full of milling horses and confusion. Dol Guldur shone darkly in the distance. In less time than it took to consider why such a thing might be happening, Glorfindel realized two things: Celeborn had given orders to encircle Elrond's small contingent with the main force, and Mithrandir, apparently all too well aware of why Elrond had called to him, was riding hell-for-leather back to join them, the end of his staff already glowing with gathering power so that within seconds it was not possible to see the Istari's face for the brightness of the light. Minuial became like noontide, there in the narrow, barren causeway leading to the dark tower.

I know not what this is, Glorfindel thought, but then I do not need to. He shouted orders to his people to get back and meld into the circled forces protecting them all; Mithrandir literally threw himself out of the saddle and seized Elrond by the shoulders. The Lord of Imladris had in that heartbeat taken something from around his neck, well-hidden under clothing and mithril: something that glowed blue and painfully bright as he slipped it on his finger. He drew his sword with a ringing sweep and brought it, point uppermost, so that the hilt was before his eyes.

"The staff," Mithrandir commanded, his voice sounding a hundred times louder and deeper than was its wont. Elrond nodded, gripping both his sword and the ancient polished wood with both hands; upon his uppermost right hand glowed Vilya, the Elven Ring of Air, pulsing with sudden power. As Mithrandir bracketed Elrond's hands, the staff and sword upright between them and growing more bright with every passing second, an arc of red light like glowing blood joined with the blue of Vilya. Narya, the Elven Ring of Fire, met its counterpart and became mirrored in the realm of magic as it was in more mundane life: air feeds fire, fire leaps to life.

"I will guard the child," Mithrandir said, in tones that brooked no argument. Elrond nodded silently, locking his eyes to those of the Istari; they were alone in the heart of a light brighter than that which rose up whenever Elrond healed, and all he could see were the eyes of Mithrandir, glowing an otherworldly blue. There was a wrench that nearly sent Elrond off his feet, but he felt Mithrandir's hands tighten about his, and somehow they both remained standing.

That quickly, that simply, Elrond found himself in three places at once: back in Lórien with Galadriel, who stood still as stone at the very edge of her realm, back straight, eyes wide and focused into the distance toward Dol Guldur; chained and shivering on the dungeon floor nearby with Legolas, hearing and sensing and seeing and smelling everything the child did, feeling himself slip away by little sad pieces; and on the hill of Dol Guldur itself, stuck somewhere between a King and a Tracker, fighting for his life against the Nazgűl with Thranduil, meeting every thrust of the foul blade, ducking every sweep of the mount's slow-beating wings, feeling furious paternal outrage and a warrior's angry focus, yet all too well aware that strength was waning….

Just when Elrond did not think he even knew where his own self was currently residing, there came an odd prickle at the base of his neck like the tickle of a storm rising, like the sense that something is about to be born--or die in great and terrible pain. It swelled and grew, and Elrond was powerless before it; he was a conduit, at the mercy of his Elders, the nexus through which the son of Thranduil had survived these long, sorrowful years of imprisonment. Mithrandir's gaze seemed to bore through him, possessing him, bracketing him between the rising wave of power behind, and the solid wall of fire before. He was Galadriel, and he was controlled by Galadriel; he was Mithrandir, and equally helpless to evade, nor did he wish to. And he was Legolas, and Thranduil, and Saeros, and he was somehow miraculously still Elrond.

And then he was nothing, and no one, and everything, as the wave hit with the force of a storm at sea and washed all before it, powerful and irresistible and burning. Light exploded from the heart of it all, and a great flare shot heavenward from the conjoining of Elrond's sword, Mithrandir's staff, and the two Rings of Power. The explosion, when it came, was silent--and yet was heard all over Middle-Earth….

 

***********

 

It had been a very long time since anyone had seen the eyes of Saeros the Tracker widen with surprise. Elladan noticed it first, having sensed something both familiar and alien emanating from several places at once: it seemed to come from within the Tower, and yet from Thranduil, and yet from Saeros--and from somewhere nearby, as if he had chanced to look up and suddenly saw a falling star of great size and brightness. Elrohir felt it in the same heartbeat, and tore his eyes from the duel between Thranduil and Khaműl; then there was no time to feel or think or decide, as something became unleashed on the hill of Dol Guldur.

The raging bonfire paled to insignificance; all of them were sightless in the aftermath, and merely stood there like creatures newly born, unable to think, unable to feel, unable to react….

 

**********

 

"Ada."

Legolas suddenly straightened in Galgrim's grip, eyes widening; he raised his head to stare at Angmar's back as the Chief of the Nazgűl floated away from him to complete the next phase of his creations. "Ada, no!"

Galgrim struck him with the truncheon, harshly commanding him to silence; Legolas twisted around in the Orc captain's grip and stared at him, eyes wide, leached of colour, mouth partly open in astonished surprise. Then there was a sharp, burning sensation beyond agony, as if the beleaguered young Elf had been hit by a massive bolt of lightning; he screamed, silently at first, but then found his voice, and the sound rose in volume and pitch until his cry was indistinguishable from the outraged bellow of the Nazgűl. Galgrim and the other guards fell away from him, stunned; Legolas shook in the heart of the blast, aware that somehow arms were holding him, keeping body and soul together, though he did not know how that was possible. He could not think enough to even consider it; the pain overwhelmed all, the power coursing through him overtook all his senses and shook him like a broken doll.

Ada no…Ada, please, no….

 

**********

 

Thranduil dropped to both knees like a stone, stunned on some level that he could even still lift his weapon. But there it was: Aikalerion's Gift, blade-to-blade with the dark, vile length that was Khaműl's weapon, even as the Nazgűl bore down upon him. He could not quite comprehend it, but the Nazgűl was all he could see; there was a brightness all around them, and he could no longer see the darkling sky, the bonfire, the trees, the watching, waiting Elves. What devilry is this?

Ada no…Ada, please, no…. the familiar beloved voice wept in his mind, filling Thranduil with new resolve.

"Comes the judgement, Minion!" he roared at Khaműl. "Where does a creature of Shadow go, when it falls into Shadow itself? May the Valar grant you learn that lesson this night!"

He leapt up from the ground, blade scraping against blade as Khaműl hissed defiance. Then something hit the Elven-king in the middle of his back, pushing him almost into the arms of the Nazgűl. The two swords became locked hilt to hilt; Thranduil bared his teeth and prayed as he had never prayed before, for the strength to destroy this foul scion of Darkness. For my Legolas…for the blood of the House of Oropher! He pushed harder, riding the crest of whatever this power was that filled him and overwhelmed him.

Suddenly Khaműl uttered a sound beyond description, a screaming, tormented hiss and howl that went on and on. Unbelievable pain blossomed along every nerve in Thranduil's body; there was a smell of copper and heat and burning, a taste of metal unpleasant on his tongue, and some vaguely coherent part of his mind said: lightning has hit nearby. I did not notice a storm coming!

Then he knew no more, toppling backward like a felled tree, even as Khaműl fled back upward into the darkness, still screaming in agony. As if released from whatever had held them all, Saeros ran and threw himself at his king's side; he drew in a deep, sharp breath. Thranduil lay there, eyes wide and staring, unseeing; Aikalerion's Gift was clutched in his right hand, its hilt singed, the hand black as if burned, the flesh of the fingers split open and seeping blood.

"It cannot end here," the Tracker whispered, setting his mouth in a hard, grim line. "I will not have it so. It cannot end here!"

 

**********

 

Galadriel's eyes widened in stunned amazement when the light cleared away. She caught herself in time to keep from falling, and instead folded gracefully to her knees beside the still forest pond. The images had faded as she released her share of the energy that had dispersed the Nazgűl; breathing deeply, the Lady of Lórien willed Nenya the White, the Elven Ring of Adamant, to obey her, and she stirred the water of the pond with one long-fingered, shaking hand.

Images began to flow, confusing at first, more like flickers of memory than true Sight: encompassing light, bright swathes of pain like flecks of blood, vaguely heard and half-understood shouts of command. She had known, of course, whence came the bolt of Power, how Mithrandir had known what was coming; she did not know how Saeros had known, and made it a point that she would speak with the mysterious Silvan Elf as soon as she could. Regrettable, that the child had had to be the fulcrum on which it all turned; she doubted he had much strength left at all, and hoped that however Celeborn had to adjust his plans, they involved getting into the Tower as soon as possible to free young Legolas before he simply ceased to be in the heart of it all.

Then she heard it: the scream of denial. Staring into the pond, she could see the son of Thranduil: naked, chained, laved in blood both his own and others', chained to the dungeon floor and straining against the iron bonds, struggling like a maddened animal. Galadriel felt hot tears slide down her face, and tried to reach out to him, to soothe, to do whatever she could at this remove. But he seemed beyond her reach now, and as she probed deeper, she thought she knew why.

Images of the Tower hill: the bonfire burning with a deceptively merry brightness, as Minuial painted the eastern sky with purples and pinks and oranges to herald the coming of morning. And there, in the centre, surrounded by cracked and blackened ground, lay Thranduil spread-eagled and still, his golden hair disordered about him like a bloodied fan, his face as expressionless as Oropher's had been when death claimed him all those thousands of years ago at Dagorlad. Silvan Elves and Lórien Elves stood about, trying to comprehend what had just happened; the Tracker knelt beside his King, staring, those extraordinary eyes narrowed in deep concentration. Galadriel saw her grandsons, wounded but not seriously, and spared a breath of deep relief for them; the scene looked like a tragic tapestry, static and wracked, telling the tale of great sorrow in the attempt to comprehend it all.

Then the image flickered and righted itself once more; Galadriel could see Legolas thrashing in his chains, could hear the tormented cry: "Ada! NO!! Ada!!" Saw Angmar reach out a hand toward the child, covering Legolas' twisted face with one pale, skeletal hand… saw the child stiffen, heard him fall eerily silent.

Saw Angmar release him, saw the battered young body slip sidewise to lay there on the cold stone, mouth still frozen in outcry, eyes filled with tears, staring sightlessly….

Galadriel closed her eyes and let her own tears come, then.

Chapter Twelve

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