Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter 12: One Star Out of the Storm

 

"Ada! NO, Ada!!"

Ada… they've killed Ada. I will kill them all!

His strength ever-waning, Legolas fought sobbing against the restraining chains, against the taking of his blood, against the truncheon with which Galgrim continued to strike him in the attempt to silence him. It was time for everything in the world to come to a halt; it was the end of hope, and the son of Thranduil had no intention of quietly giving in. They had killed his beloved father. So close to reunion and rescue, they had somehow done the unthinkable and killed Ada.

Legolas decided in his heart of hearts that nothing of Dol Guldur would live, so long as he was alive. Then he would go to Mandos and beg to be reunited with his parents. It was almost a happy thought.

It was just a matter of getting out of these chains and overcoming the bone-chilling weakness, the creeping cold that burned through his body and spirit. Once he was loose, things would die. That was all there was to it. Yes.

"I am stone!" Legolas shouted at Galgrim, his throat raw with all the screaming he had been doing. "We will all go to Mandos with Ada! The stone decrees it!"

Galgrim felt rather than saw Angmar gliding closer, hissing with annoyance; determined to silence the Elf-brat and thus show his competence, the Orc-captain seized Legolas by the chin, barely avoiding the snap of even white teeth as the child attempted to take off a hand for Galgrim's presumption.

"Shut your yap, brat!" the Orc snarled, squeezing hard against the bruised jaw, bringing his own face as close as he dared to that of the Elf. "You will do as you're told, and that'll be that! I don't care who is outside, you'll do as you're told!"

Galgrim felt a burning cold on his shoulder as Angmar touched him, propelled him out of the way. The Orc fell to one side in a heap, whimpering in pain, and watched with narrowed eyes as the Nazgūl approached the weeping, snapping Elf-prince. Angmar stared down at Legolas for a long moment, watching the youngling struggle; he considered how those struggles were weakening, and in consultation with seven of his scattered brethren--Khamūl being beyond conversation at the moment--came to a decision. Time, it is time….

Angmar put out a hand toward the child. Legolas cowered away, suddenly very afraid, not wanting the Nazgūl to touch him again; but the chains made it impossible to move very far. The pale, skeletal hand came on inexorably, fingers splayed, to cover the Elf's bruised, grief-ravaged face. It was cold and clammy to the touch, and left traces both of fire and of ice. Legolas gave a hitched, sobbing gasp, and fell utterly silent; a spike of agony went through his entire being, then passed on like the notes of a half-heard song. In its wake there was nothing, no death, no life, the end of everything in blood and torpor.

Legolas stiffened, every part of his being gone rigid. He could not have fought if he wanted to, and quite suddenly, he could not make himself want to. Agony of another kind altogether washed over him: the chilling realization that he was now utterly alone in the face of the worst possible enemy, that no matter who walked within his mind, and no matter who fought outside, it had all come to naught--again. Only this time, Thranduil had paid with his life for the latest attempt to free his son. There was nothing left but death.

A sound came out of Angmar then, a sound that might have been a laugh, were he predisposed to such utterances. We have reached the end of our patience, the Witch-King announced, knowing that somewhere in his being, his fosterling could hear and comprehend. It is time. You have been taught all that We can teach you. Now you will die--but not before you make the Orcs that will destroy your foolish Elders!

He released the Elf; as the battered form slipped sidewise to lay on the cold stone floor of the dungeon, Angmar drew a knife, its blade long and wicked and gleaming dully in the half-light. There was now more glimmer to the dark weapon than to the Elf that lay before him, mouth still frozen in outcry, eyes filled with tears, staring sightlessly. Legolas could hear and see, but could not make himself move, and he thought:

This is what it feels like to be a hunted thing in the forest. A victim of spiders, perhaps. Poisoned and unable to move, waiting for the final stroke. Ada, Nana, help me please!

The Nazgūl reached out and, seizing a handful of the long golden hair that fanned out behind the child, dragged the unresponsive Elf back onto his knees before him. Tossing Legolas back into the arms of Galgrim, the Nazgūl then gestured.

Hold him.

Galgrim took Legolas by the wrists and held the pale arms out to either side, leaning the Elf somewhat back toward the Orc's own chest; the blond head lolled forward, hair hanging like a curtain.

Saeros, help me to die well…. I beg of you, help me to die well!

But there did not seem to be any response from the Tracker, nor could Legolas sense the presence of the Lady of Lórien any longer. Gone, too, was the presence of Elrond of Imladris. For the first time in weeks, Legolas felt utterly alone inside his own being. He discovered he did not like the sensation at all.

I am glass… I am glass, and I shall break. All the blood will spill.

Angmar surveyed his fosterling in silence for a heartbeat or two; then he brought up the knife and embedded the blade through Legolas' left arm just below the elbow. Without so much as a twitch, not the slightest sound, the Prince screamed with all his might and fought like an enraged Vala, but it was to no avail; his body and being remained passively before the Nazgūl, awaiting the next layer of torment. The tilt of Angmar's head seemed to indicate he sensed some of the turmoil below the deceptive calm of the Elf's surface inaction. Eyes wide and staring, nostrils flared with terror, Legolas could not tear his gaze from that of the Enemy. With economy of motion, the Witch-King bore down and slit the imprisoned flesh to the centre of the hand, easily moving between the two bones of Legolas' forearm, meeting only a moment of resistance at the wrist before the blade popped through the ligaments. The action was repeated on the right; with the second cut, Legolas' body jerked in response, and horrific comprehension shuddered through him. Angmar gestured; Galgrim and one other Orc placed the Elf flat to the floor, and held him down as stronger and more purposeful twitches began to wrack the lithe body.

Angmar's blade continued its work, slicing down the centre of Legolas' chest from just at the top of the breastbone down to the belly, a deep cut but not fatal; he then made lateral chevron cuts in the slender chest, all connecting to the cut down the torso.

It seemed to Legolas then that if an Elven heart could break, this is what it would feel like. His eyes slid shut, squeezing out hot tears. There was only one reason Angmar would do as he was doing; blood would stop flowing if Legolas died too quickly. This would be a slow matter of burning cold, slow drips like snowflakes in winter, and now there was no one to stop the process. Despair gripped his mind.

They have won. It is over. Blessed Elbereth, help me to die quickly…I do not want to be an Orc!

Angmar continued his work, concentrating like a master craftsman. All Legolas felt was the burning intrusion of the blade for several long moments, torment that barely registered amid the torpor. But then it seemed he felt something stirring--a presence he had not expected to feel again--and the beloved voice spoke into his mind once more:

Fight them, my Legolas, do not give in!

The voice sounded like both his parents at once, as if the same thought had occurred to them and they had spoken it at the same moment, with the same urgency. It made sense, and that sense launched Legolas into action. Of course they would speak as one! Nana had obviously met Ada as he crossed over, and now they awaited him--or wanted him to fight and preserve his life? He could not tell which, and frustration boiled over. Weakly at first, but then with the growing strength of desperation, he began to fight this final intrusion, the stealing of what blood remained, the profaning of the House of Oropher. He arched his back off the floor, giving a whimpering snarl of outrage; undeterred, Angmar began slicing through the major blood-points of Legolas' hips and legs, never cutting deeply enough to sever a vein, but cutting down its length to insure that the blood would flow.

"No! By my father's command!" Legolas cried hoarsely, writhing in the attempt to break Galgrim's hold. With a muttered curse, the Orc-captain reached over and set a hand on either side of Legolas' right shoulder; he twisted neatly, popping the joint, dislocating the bones. Agony shot through the young Elf, almost immediately replaced by a prickling sensation and the loss of movement in his right arm. It flopped back to the floor and lay there, leaching blood into the stone of the dungeon floor. He was helpless to prevent it, and whined in angry anticipation to see the other Orc move to repeat the gesture with his left shoulder. Then for good measure, Galgrim rose from his crouch and brought the heel of one booted foot down onto the limp hand before him; the prickling sensation was replaced with a fiery agony of exquisite pain as the collection of small bones in that long-fingered, delicate hand shattered. A choked cry of anguish bubbled past Legolas' lips; his eyelids fluttered as he fought, not sure at all whether he was fighting to stay conscious or fighting to die.

Galgrim looked up to see his opposite number grinning at him in appreciation; he gestured.

"Do it. That way he cannot resist."

The Orc on Legolas' left did as bidden, smashing into the remaining hand with a large chunk of stone it found nearby. Legolas' mouth opened on a scream that could not find purchase to come forth; his head swung weakly back and forth in denial, but the pain refused to cooperate, continuing to racket around through his body like a maddened rodent. All the while, Angmar went on coldly making his cuts.

Bring hooks. Chains. String him up over the vat--We do not wish to lose a single drop.

While Galgrim's folk went to obey, looking for strong chains with hooks on the ends, Galgrim himself seized a handful of rags and began mopping up the blood spilled by Angmar's butchery. As each rag became red with the stuff, the Orc-captain tossed it into the vat, while the overseer directed his assistants to continue stirring the horrific soup within. Bare clawed feet appeared beside him as he worked; Galgrim looked up to see a soldier-Orc holding a length of stout chain perhaps some fifteen feet in length, At one end, dangling negligently from the soldier's hands, there was a large iron hook, easily the size of an Uruk-hai's forearm. The soldier was grinning.

"Will these do, Cap'n?"

Galgrim gave a gargled chuckle. "Aye, they'll more than do, Lugbash. Here, let me show you."

Angmar had finished his work; the Nazgūl stepped back, observing, as Galgrim took the hook in one hand, and placed another hand under the right shoulder of the feebly struggling Elf. The Orc captain felt along the scapular bone for something, then grinned, showing many broken, pointed teeth. With a powerful downward stroke from the front, Galgrim embedded the wickedly sharp point of the hook through the centre of Legolas' shoulder; they could hear the solid 'chunk!' as the point thudded against the stone beneath, seconds before a weak cry and a series of disbelieving whimpers broke from the throat of the Elf.

"Now just like that on the other side. Toss the other ends up to the lads on the rafter, and mind you get the bratling right over the vat! We don't want to lose a drop!"

With a cheery "Right, Cap'n!" the Orc repeated what Galgrim had done, tongue sticking out one side of its mouth in concentration. Legolas' eyes widened again in agony; the pupils dilated further, nostrils flared. Angmar bent low over his fosterling to watch, pleased with the reaction. Then the Witch-King lowered his lips to the cool, sweat-sheened forehead in salute.

Now, son of Thranduil, you will die….

The Orcs made quick work of tying guy-ropes to the free ends of the chains, thence tossing them up toward the rafters, where more Orcs waited to catch them. It took very little effort to haul the lightweight Elven body upward, so that Legolas dangled a scant yard above the surface of the vat. The jolt as his body left the floor and weight tugged on his shoulder blades wrenched a weakened cry of pain from Legolas' torn throat. Grimly delighted, the golden-haired Orcs standing by cheered and slapped their broad feet on the floor in rhythmic applause as their progenitor was swung into position to finish his unwilling masterwork. Legolas hung there helplessly limp, arms and legs rendered useless, shudders occasionally wracking his lithe form. Blood flowed in a steady, mind-numbing trickle from all of Angmar's carefully mapped cuts; moaning softly under his breath, Legolas begged the Valar for release. He received a kind of response when, deep in shock, he felt his eyes roll back up into his head, and swooping blackness claimed his being.

Do not fail to lower the carrion into the vat just before he dies, Angmar commanded, then swept majestically out of the dungeon, followed by all those of his creatures who could stand to go out in the light of the dawning day. The little Prince will make a fine captain for the Orcs of the House of Thranduil.

 

**********

 

The relief party thundered up the treeless roadway in the growing dawn, banners furled to prevent prying eyes of Shadow from knowing exactly what was afoot. With a brisk order to keep the main body of their forces well within the treeline of Southern Mirkwood, Celeborn of Doriath spurred his mount up the hill toward the tower of Dol Guldur, and drew rein near the knot of Elves standing about staring at something in their centre. Mithrandir was beside him, Elrond and Glorfindel but a few paces behind; the experienced captains of Lórien and Imladris marshaled their warriors and retreated under the twisted eaves of the old forest, watchful and ready for anything that might issue forth from the vile Tower.

"Blessed Valar," Celeborn murmured, as the circle of warriors parted to reveal a nerve-wracking sight: the lean, dark form of Saeros the Tracker bent anxiously over the spread-eagled, still form of Thranduil Oropherion, the ground all around them blackened and scorched, churned and bloody from the fighting and its aftermath. Someone had carefully removed a sword from the Elven King's hand; it lay to one side, wrapped with insulating cloth at the base of the hilt and partway up the blade, as if someone had realized touching it bare-handed was not a good idea. Celeborn's grey eyes narrowed; head tipped slightly, he observed the scene before him in silence, only glancing sidewise when he heard Elrond utter a stunned gasp.

"Oh please, let that not be true!" he breathed, and excused himself to sprint past his marriage-father, dropping to his knees opposite Saeros. "How is it with him, pen-iaur?"

The Tracker slowly raised his head to stare at Elrond. The Lord of Imladris' eyes widened at what he saw in the expression of the Mirkwood warrior.

"He lives," Saeros murmured, in a voice that was not quite his own. Elrond arched an eyebrow; he would have sworn up until this moment that the Tracker's eyes were a greenish hazel, yet the eyes that stared back at him in measuring challenge were a deep, clear blue. Those eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint smile touched Saeros' mouth; he looked down upon the unresponsive face of his king, and the smile deepened. "Even now he wakes."

Elrond glanced at Thranduil, who had neither moved nor made a sound; he was startled when Saeros reached out a hand to grasp the Lore-master's forearm.

"There is little time, son of Eärendil, " the Tracker said quietly, yet with great force. "The child is dying even now. We have run out of time. You are a healer--you must help me awaken the King."

He was never sure from that moment on exactly where the knowledge came from, of what to do first and how to proceed. All Elrond knew, was that suddenly it seemed the most normal thing in the world to be taking orders from Saeros, and to obey that command by reaching to take Thranduil's nearer hand, his left, and cradling it between his own. At first his eyes were locked with those of Saeros, and curiously, it was as if he looked into the eyes of the son of Oropher.

"Lasto beth nīn, Thranduil," Elrond commanded, only vaguely aware that someone was making the warriors stand back. He tore his gaze from that of Saeros, and stared down at the Elven-king. "Awake and rise--this is the hour we have awaited for eighteen years. Legolas needs you, Thranduil. Arise!"

The staring blue eyes seemed to gain something of comprehension; the generous mouth twitched, but still Thranduil lay there motionless. Elrond bore down and tried again, pushing harder at the fog he could sense in the other's mind; all around him, beyond the circle of Silvan folk, the Lord of Imladris could sense more purposeful action as Celeborn and Mithrandir went about whatever tasks the situation seemed to be calling for. Run out of time indeed! "Thranduil, hear me! Legolas needs you, now! Arise!"

The vacant stare of the blue eyes seemed to focus into sensibility for just a heartbeat. Saeros muttered something in Avari under his breath--Elrond recognized the accent and the tonalities, but could not translate the curt, angry phrase--and vaulted up and over the King's prostrate form, to gather Thranduil up into his arms and sit behind him, bolstering him. Elrond gathered the burned, bleeding hands between his own, and all but straddled Thranduil's legs to get a better purchase on whatever was holding him unconscious. "Son of Oropher, if you do not wake up and heed me, your son will die!"

Behind Thranduil, the Tracker froze at those words and stared hard at Elrond. His expression was one of deep anger, at whom or what none could say. Elrond lifted an eyebrow at the warrior, but whatever he might have been about to say was drowned in surprise. Utterly unexpected, Thranduil's body suddenly arched up in their mutual hold, and he gave a deep, tormented gasp of ragged inhale. It sounded unnaturally loud, as if he were trying to draw air from the bowels of Moria. Disoriented, he fought at the hands that restrained him; it took everything both Elrond and Saeros possessed to not be thrown off. The Tracker pinioned both arms behind his king with one long arm of his own, and wrapped his free hand about Thranduil's brow; Elrond looked down into the fury-twisted visage, putting everything he had by way of healing power and command into the eyes with which he locked.

"You are safe, Thranduil, the dark one is gone--you have defeated him!" Elrond said strongly. "Your son is not as fortunate. Will you come with us and find him now? Legolas needs you!"

Thranduil's eyes widened impossibly, all pupil; nostrils flared, he jerked his head back against Saeros' restraint. Then it seemed he was mouthing something, and Elrond could just make it out: Legolas.

"Yes, Legolas needs you. He is still in the Tower, and he is dying. Do not fight me, Thranduil!"

For several moments the Elven-king said nothing, did nothing, only lay there rigid and on the point of further struggle. Then just as suddenly, he went limp; his eyes slid shut. Ignoring the whispers of worry that rose up around them from those who watched, Elrond bore down, knowing this was what he had waited for. The white light of his healing power rose up all around him, engulfing himself, Thranduil, and Saeros in its brightness. Augmented as it was from Galadriel and the far nearer power of Mithrandir, the energy was powerful indeed; Elrond could only ride the wave of it, swiftly locating every cut, bruise, laceration, wound and burn on the body that now lay quiet before him. For some reason Elrond could not fathom, though, it felt as if the body was uninhabited--that the spirit normally animating it had stepped out for the nonce, leaving no forwarding address. Yet it was clear, very clear, that Thranduil Oropherion was quite alive--and beginning to fight through to regain his equilibrium.

The healing went on. In the heart of the moment, Elrond suddenly could see with damning clarity images of what awaited them inside the Tower, though he could not tell from whence they came. Too many Orcs, too many goblins; the Witch-King himself, and a dying child of the Firstborn, strung up quite literally, dripping his life away by slow degrees in sad little droplets of crimson. Saeros saw it too, and with a smothered sound of grief and fury, bowed his dark head over Thranduil's. Elrond almost retched with shared agony.

Run out of time indeed….

A heartbeat, then another; moments passed, lengthening into centuries. Thranduil uttered a low groan that sounded as if it had been summoned from the soles of his feet, and had worked its way up through his being via Mount Doom's forge; his hands twisted in Elrond's grip, then turned about and seized the Lore-Master in a powerful grip.

"I think you can let me up now," said the son of Oropher in a hoarse whisper, not without irony. He cocked one surprisingly dark eyebrow and tilted his chin toward his knees--which could not be seen, as Elrond was sitting astride them. Startled by the other's sudden clarity, Elrond actually laughed.

"If you are certain," he hedged. Thranduil gave a disobliging snort.

"As certain as I can be of anything right now, I am of this." He tipped his head back to look at Saeros. "As for you, pen-iaur, I think you owe me two new shoulder joints. Where did the dark one go?"

Unapologetic, Saeros unlocked his hold on Thranduil's arms and assisted his king to a more comfortable sitting position. "The Nazgūl disappeared in flames, aran brannon," he murmured, and the faintest of grins slipped briefly across his mouth. "It was, as they say, a sight to see."

"Flames." Thranduil eyed Elrond in silence for a long moment, then smiled. " When all this is over I must sit down with you and Mithrandir, and the Lady of Lórien. Knowing what devilry we got up to a while back would probably be prudent."

Elrond gave him a look of transparent innocence. "I daresay it will be a fascinating conversation," he commented, and rose up to a crouch. "Are you able to stand?"

"I have no idea." Thranduil looked almost puckish. "Are you able?"

"I had better be, and so had you." The Lord of Imladris glanced back toward Dol Guldur itself, over Thranduil's broad shoulder. The main body of troops were drawing up into battle lines; as he watched, Elrond could see Celeborn in earnest conversation with several captains: Glorfindel, Eithelas, Elladan, Nevalkarion, Thalas, and of course, Mithrandir. "It would appear Celeborn is about to pay a call on Angmar. We should probably not be this close to yon tower when he knocks."

The Elven-king's eyes widened slightly; he took a deep breath, and slowly gathered his legs under himself. With assistance from Saeros and Elrond, he successfully stood; he retrieved Aikalerion's Gift from where it lay and sheathed it with economy of motion, taking a moment to be certain he still carried both of Farafael's white-handled knives while he was thinking of it. The weapons of my son… I am coming, tithen emlin, bearing the steel of your ancestors! They carefully began walking the king away from the Tower, diagonally down the hillside toward the trees where some of Celeborn's army still waited, insurance of a second wave should the first attack fail. While he was attempting to right his breathing, Thranduil asked, "What of Legolas? Have we any idea how things are with him? Where he is within the tower?"

"He is not where he was," Saeros muttered darkly, glaring up at the too-familiar window high on the Tower's dark, gleaming side. "I believe he is in the dungeon. But I cannot now tell, as all is pain and darkness for him."

Before any kind of response could be made, there came a shout of warning from the forest. Elrond, Saeros and Thranduil turned to look; Glorfindel was sprinting toward them, his words indistinguishable at distance, but his gesture clearly indicated something back beyond the treeline to the east, and his expression showed a deep satisfaction. When they turned to look, the Elves beheld a gladsome sight: an army of Elves from Mirkwood, reinforcements, perhaps a hundred and fifty of them, mounted on matched horses of a lightish roan with black points, tails, and manes.

At their head rode the remaining brother of Queen Luthiél, Lord Tinuvīl Farafaelion, Legolas' only uncle. He stood in his stirrups and shouted a greeting to Thranduil as they rode up; the Elven-king had a strange smile on his face, as if relieved to have reinforcements and yet burdened over who commanded, but he waved back to indicate he had heard.

At Tinuvīl's side was the lithe and lovely Tuilinal, one of the fiercest and most deadly of the archers of Mirkwood, and the mate of Saeros for more centuries than anyone save they themselves could remember. She was as dark as Tinuvīl was fair, and it was very clear they were of two different tribes; Tuilinal was Avari back three generations in her lineage, with only a little Silvan thrown into the mix, while Tinuvīl was Sindarin upon Telerin to his eye-teeth, and perfectly happy to let anyone know this at great length. But Tinuvīl was first and foremost a warrior and a diplomat, and in this moment it mattered not to him whence he had come by blood or kith or kin. Elves were aligned against Shadow, in a matter personal to Tinuvīl's heart, and he did not want to miss a second of it if he could help it.

Elves and horses swelled through the darkened trees, spilling over the small, difficult track from the eastern side of Mirkwood, to trample down the undergrowth and burst out onto the hillside. Some of them shouted glad greeting to various kinfolk among the allied forces on the hill; Saeros did not move from Thranduil's side, but he straightened and allowed a small, pleased smile to touch his long, serious face at the sight of Tuilinal. For her part, she had long since picked him out of the group. Tuilinal did a forward flip off her mount's back, trusting the creature to watch its own affairs, and landed with a tucked roll that brought her, quite prepared to sprint, to her feet. She paused briefly to bow, fisted hand to her heart, to Thranduil; the Elven-king returned her salute with a courtly bow and a grin, and gestured with one hand to where the Tracker stood, his arms open to receive her. With a glad shout, she threw herself at her mate. They had been parted for most of these eighteen years as he kept his vigil over the sanity and Elvishness of Legolas; her infrequent visits with relief parties bringing new supplies had been all well and good, but she was glad to be back with her beloved once more.

"Did we miss any of the killing?" Tuilinal asked in Avari, the words rolling off her tongue with a northern accent one could cut with a knife. Elrond's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline; he was one of the few non-Avari who was even slightly literate in the tongue, and could read it or write it down, but hearing it spoken by a native was an experience rare and bizarre. Saeros only laughed shortly.

"Some," he admitted, fitting his lean body to hers in a crushing embrace. "But not all. There will be more-- the Silver Lord is about to indulge in a little dancing with Nazgūl."

"Oh well then, it is good!" she sighed happily against his mouth. Thranduil only laughed at them both, and turned to greet a wind-rumpled, eager-eyed Tinuvīl. As the moment protracted, Elrond began to fidget.

"We have got to get into that Tower somehow," he growled to Glorfindel, who was staring at Saeros and Tuilinal as if they were both oddly familiar and completely alien. His friend sighed, shaking his head.

"Unless there's another entrance, we're all going to have to fight our way through," he said, and glanced sidelong at Dol Guldur with an affronted expression on his slender face, as if the Tower represented everything that annoyed him on a regular basis. "There have almost got to be other ways in there--Shadow is thick, but not stupid. Ai, Saeros--you know this damnable place better than any. How if we were to try and gain entrance some other way?"

"There are two other ways, pen-tādonnen," the Tracker murmured, narrowing his eyes at the Tower, even as Thranduil, overhearing the honorific--"twice-born one"--grinned behind his hand and continued giving orders for the disposition of Tinuvīl's troops. "One is a tunnel that exits in the wood; the other is hidden in the side of the Tower, and appears as if by some means of foul magic. Hellan has been watching it--so far Shadow has not made use of it."

With a sharp whistle, Saeros summoned Hellan to his side; the younger Elf, who was of the generation just after Elrond and Thranduil, lightly ran over the hilltop leaving his subordinates to watch the hidden entrance. He made a gesture of respect and gazed at the Tracker expectantly.

"Nīn kherdir?"

"Hellan, show the hidden entrance to these lords and the aran brannon," Saeros commanded. And, glancing at Thranduil: "Your command, nīn brannon?"  

Thranduil pondered, gazing levelly at Celeborn and Mithrandir, who were disposing troops all about the main entrance and clearly preparing to receive whatever attack Angmar might make. Elrond, for his part, had caught the eye of his son Elrohir, and had beckoned the younger Elf over to him; they conversed quietly for a moment, then Elrohir sprinted off to take some word to Celeborn. Thranduil's brow creased in thought, then he nodded.

"You're with me, Saeros," he said quietly. "Choose any of these Elves as you think best, in whatever number--as soon as that entrance opens, we're going in to free Legolas."

"I have sent Elrohir to inform Celeborn of your reinforcements," Elrond murmured quietly to Thranduil. "Will Tinuvīl wish to accompany you, or command from here?"

"What he might wish and I might require of him are generally two different things," Thranduil said with a smirk, "but he will do as he is told. I will place him at Celeborn's beck, and we shall hope for the best. Tinuvīl is at his most useful in situations not requiring stealth."

Thranduil turned to his marriage-brother; he opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came--for quite suddenly there came a terrific explosion, followed by the sound of something very large cracking with a vengeance.

"Down! Get down!" Elrond shouted, dropping to the earth in the growing light of dawn, hauling Thranduil with him. Tinuvīl dropped instinctively; Saeros and Tuilinal seemed to simply disappear into the growing brightness of the morning, so skillfully did they move to avoid whatever had just happened. They all fell face-first in the sparse grass, several feet from where they had been standing. Not a second too soon; a massive wave of something incredibly powerful washed over them and away into the forest, causing the twisted trees of Mirkwood to whine and cry out, their branches cracking and trembling with fear and hope. Smoke and dust roiled out of the front of the Tower, where once there had been doors; a great shout went up from the Elven attackers without, and an equally loud retort from the defenders within.

"So it begins," Elrond murmured, raising his head to stare about him, bleary-eyed. He glanced at the other two. "Celeborn has opened the ball. I think it best we dance while we may!"

With a gesture, he gathered them up and headed toward the sound of the shouting. Thranduil seemed to have found his second wind, for he did not seem to be in any distress; seconds later the Elves stood, staring in amazement at a sight they all remembered too well from earlier in their long lives.

There on his battle mount before what remained of the doors to Dol Guldur sat Celeborn of Doriath, armored but helmetless, the silver waterfall of his hair fanned about his powerful shoulders like a silken cape. In his hand, held almost negligibly before him, was the fabled Elven sword he had borne since his father had given it to him, unbelievably many centuries before. Celeborn's left fist rested on his thigh, and there was an expression on the severe handsomeness of his face that any watching hoped never to see leveled upon themselves. He seemed untouched by the clouds of dust and smoke still settling about them, as did the Maia by his side: Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, his dark robes gathered about his spare frame like a regal mantle, his face grim with purpose. The Istari still had one hand held out toward the Tower, his staff raised in the other. Forever young and forever old, both ancient, and both, at that moment, the nexus of every positive iota of power in all Ennor, they looked like gods of the elder days, very Valar for their might and majesty.

Ranged behind the two and their mounts, battle flags unfurled to the morning breeze, was the bulk of the combined Elven force: mostly Lórien and Imladris Elves, with a smattering of Silvan folk among them. Silent and watchful, these sons and daughters of the Firstborn race waited for the signal, tense and patient all at the same time. The mixed colours of their liveries made a lovely tapestry against the early dawn semi-darkness of the forest all around them, growing and changing as Anar crept higher and higher in the sky. Elrond caught his breath at the beauty of it all, the regal might and natural pageantry of the sight. He heard a sigh beside him, and glanced at Thranduil; the Elven-king had tears in his eyes, and there was the faintest of hopeful smiles on his lips, as if he almost dared to believe, at last, that something good would befall the House of Oropher for a change.

Within the main court of Dol Guldur sat a sizeable force, though radically different from the callers who presented themselves in the dawn. Where without, all was light and righteous wrath, bright Elven eyes watching and waiting for the moment to exact justice and vengeance, within was a poem of darkness and ancient hatred, twisted forms of evil and growling, stirring like the roiling burble of some vile concoction out of a nightmare. Angmar sat atop his customary mount, a great, fell horse of unknown and fearsome lineage; there was no expression to read in the facelessness of the great black hooded cloak, but his hesitation, and the hissing sounds of annoyance issuing from him, were indication enough of his surprise at what awaited his forces.

With him were more than three score of Goblins, and perhaps slightly more of Uruk-hai; mixed among them were an assortment of Men of various stripes and sorts, wearing clothing and armor that suggested any of several points of origin. All told, the force appeared to number somewhere around a hundred, though packed in as they were, it was difficult to be certain. An odd and uncertain silence fell as the Shadow forces attempted to assimilate what sat there waiting patiently for them; Thranduil only just barely quelled a light-headed desire to waggle his fingers in a wave of hello when Angmar's head swiveled to take in the group of Elven leaders standing there off to the side.

Angmar turned back to consider Celeborn, with whom he had sparred before. The Lord of Lórien smiled thinly and raised his hand in a provocative greeting. Palm up, hand held slightly away from his body, Celeborn crooked the fingers of that hand in an unmistakable gesture of beckoning: come out and play….

Saeros laughed quietly, and unlimbered his bow from his back. Tuilinal handed him a sheaf of arrows she had brought with her; they shared a secret grin of anticipation, and Tuilinal cocked an ironic eyebrow.

"Let me get my hands on any Orc who has hurt my tithen khaun," she growled, and readied her own weapon.

"That would be all of them by now," Saeros informed her, as they followed Thranduil and Elrond toward the Tower. He gathered up those of the Silvan and Mirkwood folk whom he thought best suited to the more subtle business of breaching the Tower's hidden defenses and effecting the rescue of the young Prince, and was careful to include, with the exception of Tinuvīl, any among the reinforcements who were survivors of that ill-fated hunt party eighteen years ago: those who had borne the pain of seeing their little princeling carried off, kicking and screaming, by the Orcs.

Comes vengeance, crying out like a wounded Warg in the forest, O Shadow! Saeros thought. Is it a good day for you to die? The thought pleased him so much, he began to sing quietly to himself. Tuilinal heard the tune, and added her own soft harmony; Saeros took her hand, and together they strode toward the moment they had both awaited all these long years.

"My lord--I think we've found that entrance," Glorfindel cried suddenly, pitching his voice downwind toward Elrond and Thranduil. The two lords looked up whence the lord of Gondolin gestured. There, at the back of the Tower under the watchful, waiting eye of Hellan's subordinate and her crew, was the sign they had awaited: about thirty Uruk-hai came boiling out of the hidden exit, weapons brandished in dark, clawed fists. Elrond took Thranduil by the shoulders and turned him about.

"Take your people and go find the child!" he urged. "We haven't much time left--while they're preoccupied by Celeborn's attack, go! And watch out -- only the Valar know how many Orcs there are in that place!"

"I will," Thranduil said, and drew one of Farafael's long knives, gazing at the mithril-filled Sindarin script on hilt and blade. He had not seen Luthiél's sire in perhaps three hundred years, since he sailed West to Valinor; the ancient Elf, one of the finest warriors ever to serve the royal house, had never even seen Legolas, though Thranduil did not doubt the old one knew of the existence of his daughter's best-beloved child. "Make certain Celeborn knows we need this distraction."

He looked up then, his eyes gone almost silver in the sweet morning light. Thranduil took a deep breath, raising a free hand to clasp Elrond's forearm. "I will see you soon."

Elrond nodded encouragement. "Glorfindel and I will hold this entrance for you," he said quietly, locking eyes with Thranduil. "Bring the child to me as soon as you can. Seconds count at this juncture. May the Valar be with you!"

Thranduil nodded once, then turned and sprinted to where the others of his folks awaited him. Tinuvīl gathered up the rest of the reinforcements and followed Eithelas of Lórien to whither Celeborn wished these fresh archers to be placed; as they passed, Elrond took one Mirkwood Elf by the arm and murmured Thranduil's parting wish, that the Lord of Lórien be made aware of what was needed. He watched as the younger Elf trotted up to Celeborn, mindful of where the lord's great war-stallion was putting its feet; Elrond felt a thrill of love and awe as Celeborn's silver-grey eyes searched him out and touched him. The elder smiled faintly and nodded, speaking evenly over the noise of battle, yet clearly audible to Elrond's Elven ears: "Then we must see to it the enemy are kept occupied. Take your place, pen-neth, and may your arrows fly true!"

Elrond smiled, realizing Celeborn's words were as much for himself as they were for the young Mirkwood archer. He took his own war bow from his back and chose an arrow from his quiver, then hurried to join Glorfindel in time to take the brunt of the attack as Thranduil and his folk charged through numerous very surprised Uruk-hai, as they attempted to sneak out of the Tower from what they had believed was a hidden entrance.

Doubtless Shadow is much mistaken in this and many other things, Elrond thought, and let fly an arrow with deadly accuracy. The might of Manwė be with you, Thranduil--free the little bird from his cage!

 

**********

 

It was close, almost claustrophobic work, fighting through the corridors of Dol Guldur. More accustomed to the wide open of outdoors, the Silvan folk would ordinarily have shunned this clinging darkness and the narrow, insinuating shadow-corridors of the dark lair. But each of them could sense the culmination of what was easily the hardest eighteen years Mirkwood had ever had to endure as a society, and that was as much as the party of twenty needed to fight through. Fortunately it was also reasonably quick work, for most of Dol Guldur's denizens were either outside fighting for their lives, or were elsewhere in the Tower; Thranduil and his warriors had only encountered token resistance from the Orcs, who could not brave the outdoors now that Anar held full sway, bathing Dol Guldur and its befouled hill with bright, hot summer sunlight.

Thus it was that within minutes of the short, sharp fight to get through the fleeing Uruks--who apparently were under orders to get themselves outside for whatever purpose, and did not tarry to truly grapple with the Elves--Thranduil and Saeros came out into the main central chamber of the second level, to find a few Dale-Men and Orcs waiting. They had upended tables to use as breastworks, and it was from behind these that a hail of arrows greeted the arrival of the Elven-king. Growling with focused fury, Thranduil beat off the projectiles with a blurringly fast sweep of Aikalerion's Gift, timed perfectly; Saeros ducked to avoid the swing of the blade, and joined Tuilinal and Hellan in giving back as good as they got, in a display of bow work that amply demonstrated why Mirkwood was known for producing Middle-Earth's finest archers. Several Orcs and a few of the Men fell, never to rise again; from among them strode a figure Thranduil recognized all too well. The King stood forward, smiling with great satisfaction.

Aldor…

"Well well, human scum, we meet again," Thranduil called out cheerfully. "As I recall, we have a modicum of unfinished business, you and I!"

Aldor looked more than a little anxious; he sidestepped a downed Orc, trying to remain as close to his fellows as he possibly could.

"Go to hell, old Elf!" the Man shouted, his sword wavering in his hand. "You've walked right into the Nazgūl's den, you have--just surrender peaceably, and we'll reunite you with your little princeling so you can die together!" He watched nervously as Saeros, covered by swift and constant firing from Tuilinal, drew his long knives and began working his way through some of the bolder attacking Orcs, toward a curve of the chamber wall that had two doors built into it. "Stay back, damn your eyes!"

"Surrender?" Hellan murmured from the side of his mouth. "Did he say surrender?" The archer nearest him--young Morilinde, an Elf-lass of Legolas' own generation, though his elder by some seventy years--raised her expressive dark brows in ironic humour.  

"That's what the Man said," she replied pleasantly, and picked off another Orc who was standing very near the impertinent Man that had spoken so rudely to their King. Just to make this Aldor nervous, she narrowed her leaf-green eyes, then picked off the Orc who was nearest the Man's other side. The Elves closest to Hellan chuckled appreciatively; clearly Mirkwood had the upper hand here, and Aldor's bravado was amusing. Thranduil chuckled, advancing a step or two as his archers continued to pick off the panicked or unwary among Orcs and Men.

"If anyone is going to surrender, Aldor, I do believe it ought to be you," the King purred, his rich, melodic voice like honey. "And if any are to die, my princeling will not be among them. Saeros--which is the dungeon door?"

"This one, aran brannon," the Tracker announced, indicating the door with the largest lock. He sheathed his bloodied knives and wrested a massive sword from the hands of a dead Orc; he measured the lock for half a heartbeat, then raised the weapon and brought it down on the door with a quick, short sweep and a loud, bright clang of metal on metal. The door gave, pieces of lock skittering every which way across the stone floor, and the first two boards of the heavy oak were cleft from their iron bandings. Thranduil watched, pleased; he nodded, glancing back at Hellan.

"I want Aldor taken alive," he commanded, indicating the wide-eyed, sweating Dale-Man with the tip of his sword. "What condition he may be in, I do not much care--but take him alive. And cover that door--we will be in haste when we return."

He gathered Tuilinal, Morilinde, and Thalas to his side with a look. "You three--with us." Then he turned, smiling unpleasantly at Aldor, and sprinted to the sundered dungeon door. Saeros was right behind him as the King stepped onto the upper landing.

Their eyes grew quickly accustomed to the diminished light of the deep, shadowed chamber below. Thranduil suddenly stopped, catching himself nearly in mid-stride; Saeros ran into his back, almost sending both of them down the steep curving stairs. The Tracker scrabbled for a handhold, barely gaining purchase with his fingertips on a slightly protruding rock within the wall nearby; he caught himself on the King's shoulder, murmuring a startled apology even as he made certain they both had their footing. He squinted down into the dimness, trying to see whatever it was that had halted Thranduil.

His heart almost stopped in his proud chest. Sensing was one thing, knowledge another; the sheer impact of facing the truth of it, with no room for denial, was overwhelmingly vile. Saeros' eyes went nearly all pupil; he felt his nostrils flare in disgust and horror, and could only imagine what Thranduil's reaction must be. He was suddenly glad he could not see the King's face.

The scene below was like something out of a particularly vivid nightmare from the wretched mind of some drunk, insane creature. There were perhaps eight tall young Orcs lined up next to a large, low, circular vat of stone built into the floor; each Orc had a fall of long, matted hair, golden and gleaming in the torchlit dimness, and they were stamping their feet rhythmically, all the while chanting something in their vile Black Speech. With them were a much older Orcish overseer and his assistants, as well as a small group of Orc warriors, seasoned veterans by the look of them. They too were stamping and chanting, a hellish scene of celebration. All that registered in less than an Elvish heartbeat; both Thranduil and Saeros had seen far too many episodes like it in their long years of fighting these Abominations.

Saeros squinted, trying to find the place he had expected Legolas to be, sifting swiftly through memory to find what he had seen through the eyes of the tormented Elfling. Where are you, nīn khaun! he thought desperately. There are the chains; there, smears of your blood….

"Laeglass!" Thranduil cried out, the tormented exclamation torn from his throat. "Nīn hźn faeg!" And then Saeros saw, and he understood the gasps of disbelieving horror from the three behind him.

Suspended from the ceiling right over the vat, his limply dangling feet barely inches away from the vile, bubbling liquid below, was Legolas. It could only be him, though it was certain none of them had ever seen him like this before. His hair was long, nearly reaching the backs of his knees; filthy and slick with gore, it hung about him like a curtain veiling his agony, shifting almost gently with each fading shudder that wracked his body. His body… Nearly every inch of his bare skin, where it could be seen, was red with thick blood, trailing down his limbs to drip inexorably into the vat beneath him. The shrouding mercy of the overlong golden locks hid the worst of it, for even Saeros' eyes could not determine exactly how the young Prince was anchored in his terrible position. The chains disappeared into the matted cloak of hair, only unnaturally-shaped lumps in the outline hinting at what they would find.

Ranged beside him, the young Orcs of the House of Oropher chanted and stamped, celebrating this final sacrifice of their progenitor. They did not seem immediately aware of what was transpiring above, but that altered dramatically in the next heartbeat.

From the breaking heart of Thranduil there rose a stunned, animal-like bellowing wail of pure rage. The sound swelled as he stood there for several heartbeats, arms limp at his sides, gripping Aikalerion's Gift by the hilt until his knuckles were white. That outcry of grief and disbelieving fury rose and swelled until it drowned out everything: chanting, stamping of Orc feet, and the fading sound of fighting behind him. Millennia of balanced Elven civility shed from Thranduil like rainwater from a Lórien cloak as he dove down the staircase, taking the steps three and four at a time; with Saeros and the others right behind him, the Elven-king of Mirkwood ploughed into the nearest Orcs while they were still staring upward, mouths open in shock, eyes staring in great confusion.

Elves? Where did THEY come from? Realizing their peril too late, they were only just beginning to stir to reaction when it was completely too late.

Still bellowing wordlessly in his outrage, Thranduil struck out left and right with unerring skill, all his warrior training taking over and pure instinct guiding his every move. Aikalerion's blade, fashioned forty summers ago as a gift for the youngest Prince of Mirkwood, shone with a fell Elven power, seeming to call to it every smitch of light that existed in the foul chamber, converting it to more fuel for a father's inherent fury. Thranduil was aware of nothing, saw nothing, heard and felt nothing, but the cleaving of Orc-flesh before his wrath. He was unaware of Saeros leaping across the vat to begin the carnage from the other end of the chamber; would not have noticed Thalas, Tuilinal, or Morilinde if they had been so foolish as to get in his way.

But they did not, for a new song arose in Dol Guldur's dungeon: a four-part harmony of Silvan voices, singing darkly of vengeance and death. Well aware of their King's state of mind, the others avoided the sweep of his long arms and the longer reach of the sword; they themselves drew blades for the close work of hand-to-hand battle, and soon there was a very great deal more blood in the dungeon than had ever been the intent of the Witch-King. Thranduil did not join their song; he was too Vanyar, too Sindarin for that. However, the fierce, murderous hatred burning through him like a cleansing fire fed more from the Silvan upbringing he had received once he came to live in Mirkwood as a very young Elfling, than ever it did from the logical, measured gravity and courtliness that had suffused his life as a babe in Valinor. All his singing was silence, notes belling out within him like a knell of doom, swinging sweet and cold throughout, sweeping all before them. It only stopped when he ran out of opponents, and while cleaving the head from the shoulders of the Orc overseer, came face to face with the wilted body of his youngest son, dangling barely three feet before his wild, staring eyes, hooks sticking out through the flesh of slender shoulders, half-hidden by the overlong golden hair.

Most of the madness leached out of Thranduil then. He watched, head tilted slightly to one side, as droplets of thick red dripped mournfully off the twitching feet into the hungry, roiling fluid within the vat; his gaze traveled upward, tears gathering, taking in what had been perpetrated upon his child.

"Ai, nīn lend anu-hźnedhel!" he breathed on a ragged sigh of pain. "Legolas--can you hear me, pen-melui? Please, tithen guren, speak to me! It is your Ada--please, by all that is good and holy, speak to me!" Blind and deaf to the continued fighting around him, Thranduil frantically searched for the means to bring his son down from his ghastly perch. All the while he kept up a litany of beseeching; but there was no response. The blue eyes, wide and glazed, stared sightlessly downward into the vat, holding nothing of the sweet child Thranduil so desperately needed to see. The drooping head, bent forward like harvest-heavy wheat at the tip of a broken stalk, only moved when the faint tremors shook Legolas' pendant frame.

Dying. My child is dying. Luthiél, nīn sķla' bereth, help me…I cannot bear to send you another of your little ones. He is too young to journey to Mandos! Sweet Elbereth, help my child!

His eyes moved further upward, past the defeated loll of the head; Thranduil marked how the chains seemed to disappear in the dimness of the high ceiling, and in confusion, he squinted at them. No wait, those are ropes secured to the chains. But then where?

Within the same heartbeat that he realized where the ropes were anchored, his keen eyesight had at last differentiated shadows from anchorage. Thranduil sheathed Aikalerion's Gift even as he ran, reaching up easily to where a much-shorter Orc hand had tied the ends of the two ropes. Seizing them above the hook onto which they were tied, the Elven-king drew one of Farafael's long knives. Bracing himself so as to cause the least possible movement when they were sundered, Thranduil brought the wicked sharpness of the blade down hard on the knots, and cut the ropes free.

"Saeros!"

The Tracker had taken a wounded Galgrim in hand, recognizing the Orc captain as one of Legolas' most persistent tormentors and suspecting the King might like to kill this one himself; he had then stood in silence, waiting, watching Thranduil free his son, smacking the Orc whenever he grumbled in terrified protest. Now he handed the creature over to Tuilinal, and leapt to the side of his King. A look passed between them; Saeros nodded his understanding, and took powerful hold of the ropes above where Thranduil held them.

"Go, nīn khīr," he breathed. Thranduil hurried back to Legolas' side, yanking at the clasp of his cloak as he went; reaching up to wrap the shuddering form into his arms and tucking the warm fabric about the chilled limbs, as Saeros paid out the ropes and chains as slowly, gently as he could. When all the suspension uplift was off the slender shoulders, Thranduil was stunned at how heavy and lifeless felt the body he cradled. The pendant chains hung like emblems of office from bruised and broken flesh; the King gathered them up so that their dragging would not further torment his child.

Pain came flooding back with something of awareness as new agony rolled over the tormented princeling; Legolas uttered a wrenching groan, his eyelids fluttering. The glassy eyes rolled back up into his head; the broken, bloodied hands twitched. Every breath came as a dragging struggle for air, and was exhaled in a stuttering whimper. Shudders wracked the too-slim form, and to Thranduil's agonized gaze, it seemed every bit of colour had been bled out of his son. Unlike the rest of his body, there was almost no blood staining the hollow-cheeked face; bruises here and there, and a cut on one side, but that had long since ceased to bleed.

The reality of how the Abominations had suspended Legolas over the vat was like a battering ram to the heart, bringing hand-in-hand as it did the awful realization that he dared not remove the great hooks from his son's flesh, for fear of injuring him further and pushing him over the brink into a shock from which Legolas might not awaken. Tears spilled out from the Elven-king's eyes, and terror clutched at his gut. Please, do not let me be too late! He hugged Legolas to his chest, bending to kiss the marble-cold forehead. "Sweet Varda, blessed Gilthoniel, I beg of you!" he whispered, the rest of the entreaty cut off by a sob of anguish, and he bent over almost double with grief.

"A-ada?"

Almost too soft to be heard, like the whispered coo of a dove; Thranduil froze, uncertain of whether he had imagined it. Without moving, he whispered back: "Legolas?"

"Ada, wh-where are you?" Desperate, hoarse, it came again; he had not imagined it. "Ada?"

Thranduil sat up gingerly, not wanting to jar the fragile child. The chains chimed against the stone floor with every motion. "I am here, guren nīn. Ada is here, nīn tithen emlin. We have come to take you out of this vile place."

He stared anxiously into the pinched, wan face, and was rewarded when the dark lashes flickered. Eyes stared back at him, fever-bright and panicked. "Ada--the baby Orcs!" Legolas gasped weakly. "Must kill--baby Orcs!"

"All are dead, nīn brannon," Saeros murmured at Thranduil's elbow, even as he cut the guy ropes off the chains, and prepared to disengage the chains from the hooks embedded under Legolas' scapular blades. The King gave him a grateful, fractured smile.

"Did you hear, my Legolas?" he breathed, kissing the pale cheek. "Saeros is here too. All the baby Orcs are dead. All of them, nīn lend maethor!"

"S-saeros?" Legolas whispered, closing his eyes briefly against a stab of pain, but he smiled. "Thank you, nīn iaur kherdir!"

Saeros took a deep, calming breath and managed a smile of his own, though he knew the child could not see it. "I rejoice that I am able to serve you, pen-neth." He glanced sidelong at Thranduil. "We should leave this place, aran brannon. What would you have us do with the vile one, there?" And he jerked his chin toward the snarling, terrified Galgrim.

Thranduil turned slowly to regard the Orc captain, with an expression in his eyes that was reserved for lower forms of life. The Elven-king's lips curled into a smile of feral disdain; shifting Legolas gently in his arms, Thranduil said, "Bring it over here. There is one with a greater claim to its miserable life than our fury can claim for either of us."

Saeros beckoned, and Tuilinal frog-marched the Orc over to them, forcing Galgrim to his knees beside the King. Thranduil smiled down at his son with great tenderness, and once more drew forth one of Farafael's long knives. Holding it where Legolas could see, he murmured, "Do you recognize this, nīn tithen emlin?"

Legolas squinted at it, unable to see at all clearly. He whimpered in protest, turning his face to hide in Thranduil's tunic. "C-can't see it. Wh-what is it, A-ada?"

His father reached down to place the hilt carefully in Legolas' right hand, wrapping the warmth of his own hand about the sad, broken appendage. "It is one of the white knives of your grandsire Farafael," Thranduil said. "The knives your mother wanted you to have when you reached your majority and became a warrior. I have borne them for you in this fight, along with Aikalerion's Gift. All have drunk deep of the blood of your tormentors."

Legolas shivered, but not just from the cold pervading every part of his being. He struggled to take a clear breath, frustrated that he could not; his teeth chattered, but his bloodless lips curved upward at the corners in the faintest quirk of a smile. He knew those knives--oh yes, he most definitely knew them. Many times he had been allowed to touch them, hold them, while sitting either on Nana's lap, or Ada's, or sometimes even Brethilas' lap. Always the refrain was the same: these were borne by Farafael, and he left them to Nana before he sailed West… someday they will be yours, Legolas! He could feel the smooth bone of the hilt under his swollen, aching hand, and it sang to him of home.

"That is g-good, Ada," he whispered, and dragged into his protesting lungs another inadequate gulp of air. Thranduil hugged him closer, one ear cocked to hear the thready, weak whisper; he carefully, gently arranged both of Legolas' hands about the hilt, cupping his own around them, willing warmth and strength into the colourless, quaking hands, willing freedom from pain and trying to heal with the only weapons he had: love and revenge.

"It is time that you wielded your weapons, maethor o Taur-e-Ndaedelos," Thranduil told him, with quiet pride. "I will help you, tithen guren. Together we will strike. Now, take a good, deep breath and hold it!"

Legolas raised his pale face and tried to focus on the beloved features that swam before him. Somehow he was able to reach within and find that deep breath; he held it as hard as he could, and barely felt it, at first, when Thranduil rose up from his kneeling crouch, guiding the knife and Legolas' throbbing hands into position. The younger Elf seemed to be floating in a haze of pain so exquisite it was pleasurable; he smiled mistily at the touch of Thranduil's lips on his forehead, and gazed up, bleary-eyed, at the dark shape beyond that had to be the quivering Galgrim.

"All the baby Orcs are dead," he whispered, almost sing-song, sounding half his age. "Bye-bye, baby Orcs. Im heledh, Ada! Good-bye, Galgrim. Good-bye!"

Thranduil shifted his son minutely in his embrace. He looked up at the terrified Orc, over hands conjoined on the ancient bone hilt of Farafael's white knife. With a smile both grave and terrible, the Elven-king drew back slightly, then drove forward with a powerful shove; the keen Elven blade entered Galgrim's body just below the base of his ribcage, dead centre. With an economical twist intended more to save Legolas as much pain as possible than to spare Galgrim a swift death in mercy, father and son angled the knife upward and to the left. The Orc captain barely had time to open his mouth on a scream he could not seem to utter before all his ribs had been sundered, and his heart beat its last on the tempered metal of Farafael's blade. Legolas thought for the briefest of seconds, from the midst of his own agony at the movement, that he could feel other hands encircling Thranduil's: the hands of Luthiél, the hands of Farafael, perhaps even the hands of Saeros, and Elrond, and the beautiful Lady of Lórien. A sweet chuckle bubbled up from somewhere as he felt Galgrim die; it twisted into a sob as Thranduil pulled the blade free, and Tuilinal hauled the body backward with a disdainful snap of her wrist. The Orc carrion slammed up against the wall several feet away; Thalas and Morilinde watched it fly back, and grinned at one another to hear the damp thud Galgrim made as he became part of the décor.

Legolas gazed blankly up at his father, nostrils flaring, his eyes all dilated until the blue was nearly black. The sweetness of his smile danced close to breaking Thranduil's heart; the words he breathed on a fading whisper wrenched a sob from the Elven-king's lips:

"I knew you would come, Ada. I knew--"

Then the pain and relief overwhelmed him, and the eyes rolled back once more; Legolas slipped into feverish unconsciousness, his body shuddering with a mortal chill. Thranduil sheathed the knife, and carefully arranged his cloak around Legolas as best he could; he eased to his feet with great care, and glanced at Saeros' swordmates.

"Thalas--Morilinde--you two go on ahead and make certain there are no unpleasant surprises awaiting us upstairs," he commanded, mastering the fear that shook through him at the sight of Legolas' wan face. "Tuilinal, go you up and out, and alert Lord Elrond of our coming--he will want to see the young one as soon as possible."

The three saluted, hands to hearts, and bowed; then they fled up the stone stairs as lightly as if they ran over snow in a gentle meadow. Saeros helped the Elven-king to steady his hold on the young one, and glanced significantly at the still-bubbling vat.

"Evil grows in yon cauldron, aran brannon," the Tracker murmured. "We cannot leave it--what must we do?"

Thranduil stared at the bubbling liquid, stained with the blood of his son. He saw the movement within, the little claws that reached, the mouths full of pointed teeth, the mockingly pointed ears so painfully close to those on the true Firstborn; he closed his eyes briefly in homage to the courage of his child, who had suffered so terribly in this place, and then he shook his head.

"It is up to Mithrandir and the Lord Celeborn to deal with such as this," he breathed, clutching Legolas to him in a spasm of protectiveness. "We need to get him out of here now, into the sunlight, where he can see the sky and hear the trees. Leave wizardry to the wizards, pen-iaur."

"You know best, nīn gwador," Saeros breathed, staring at the vat with an expression of angry horror. "Come, let us leave this place--I have your back."

 

**********

 

It occurred to Celeborn of Doriath that he had not done anything like this in rather a long time; the business of fighting was a messy, rather illogical thing, rather like a violent making of music or a murderous choreography of some bizarre dance. Artistic, but deadly all around… not to mention dirty. He paused in the midst of the carnage to perform an indulgent act. Balancing his sword across his lap, he took a length of soft leather lacing from the pocket of his over-robe, and tied back his long, silver hair--like any young anu-hźnedhel, he thought, and actually grinned, albeit briefly, to ponder applying such a term to someone quite as old as himself.

"Not going to make it up into a topknot?" Mithrandir asked from very nearby. Celeborn arched one expressive eyebrow and gazed meaningfully at the Istari.

"It would shock the children, if I did such a thing," the Lord of Lórien murmured, then he chuckled. "But then, I suppose they are shocked enough just to be here like this. It is good, Mithrandir my friend, that battle is such a terrible thing; else we might stand to become too fond of it."

"Spoken like a warrior," the wizard laughed, and gazed up at the sun. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since Thranduil had led his folk through the hidden entrance to Dol Guldur. "I hope they do not take much longer. Young Legolas has an uncommon will to survive--but even in a prince of the Firstborn, there is only so much strength and blood!"

"Indeed." Celeborn felt a shudder run throughout his being, and was aware it came not entirely from his own self; Galadriel was fighting her own private fight, both to maintain strength for the required final blow against Shadow, and to keep hold of her tenuous link to the little Prince, lest he fall into that Shadow alone. For her sake, too, speed was necessary. Even she had only so much strength to give.

"I have not seen the Chief of Foulness in some minutes; where do you suppose he has gone?" he asked, after a heartbeat of silence. He turned about in the saddle, leaning one hand against the muscular spine of his stallion. "I still have a few things to say to Angmar."

"I daresay you will have your chance, my friend," Mithrandir said, not without irony. "I do not doubt we shall see him before all this is resolved."

All around them, there were little pockets of fighting going on. The initial movements on both sides, with grandly ordered forces and flags snapping in the wind, had quickly degenerated as was their wont; it had all become a matter of picking an opponent, doing one's best to dispatch it, then moving on to the next, all with a weather-eye out watching for Thranduil's return. Celeborn had specific plans for the Tower, once he knew all the Mirkwood folk, and especially the young Prince, were safely out of harm's way. After many long years of peace--sweet, simple, occasionally boring peace--Celeborn had done more sheer physical labour of fighting and had killed more Abominations in a matter of a quarter hour, than he had done since the battles of the Last Alliance. He smiled wryly to realize that, just as he wished for some sort of excitement during calmer times, he was in the midst of battle hoping for the arrival of the good old commonplace, even boredom.

Go not to the Elves for counsel, he thought, and smiled privately to think it. For they will say both yea and nay!

He glanced about, making mental note of his various commanders, captains, and certain Elves very well known to him. The bonfire still blazed like a beacon one side of centre in the clearing, due to the constantly added fuel of Shadow carrion; leaping flame burned brightly, dancing upward in accompaniment to an oily black cloud of smoke that wafted ash aloft, to be scattered for miles on the morning wind. The daylight held sway by now, however, contending with the bonfire for the greater light. It made an eerie backdrop to the contention all around it. Elrond and Glorfindel, almost back-to-back as usual, were holding their own with clean-up tasks to do away with some still-resisting Goblins; they did not seem to require any assistance. In fact Elrond had sufficient leisure that he was frequently gazing at the Tower in expectation, checking first the back entrance, then the main one, to see if there was any sign of Thranduil's success. Celeborn considered that it must be disconcerting for his daughter's husband, that after eighteen years of uncomfortably intimate knowledge of everything happening to young Legolas, Elrond should suddenly find himself cut off into silence from the beset youth. From too much information, to woefully insufficient… feast or famine!

Elladan and Elrohir were enjoying themselves far too much, not too distant from where Celeborn now sat, close by the main entrance to the Tower. The Lord of Lórien watched them with drawn-down brows, and decided it was probably time for another go-round of "That Discussion": time to remind the youthful Noldor lordlings that war was a messy, dirty business for a reason, and ought not to be indulged in as if they were a pair of Silvan folk born and bred….

Shame on you, my silver forester, Galadriel's voice whispered good-naturedly in his mind, and he smiled wearily, shaking his head. And you a Silvan Elf, born, as you say, and bred…. Whatever would Thingol and Melian say!

Doubtless they would have something wise and clever to say, my shining star, Celeborn retorted. Nevertheless, it is past time the Twins reined in their indulgences just a tad, would you not say?

There was no specific reply, but he knew she agreed with him. The Valar knew, both Galadriel and Celeborn had had their wilder days in their long-gone youth--but enough was enough. He winced to see Elrohir come painfully into connection with an Orc's shortsword, taking the dark blade through the fleshy part of his right upper arm--his dominant fighting arm, that!--but fortunately Elladan was right there, ably backed up by Eithelas of Lórien, and the minor, inconvenient wound remained just that, not able to be escalated into something far worse. He felt nothing but relief to see that Elladan insisted his brother leave the field, to be seen to by the healers.

"Come, son of Oropher, we have not got all day!" Mithrandir muttered, gazing darkly at the Tower from under drawn-down brows, willing Thranduil to appear. Celeborn arched an eyebrow at him.

"We have all the time we need," he said quietly, glancing hopefully toward the so-called "hidden" entrance. Of course no one materialized; Celeborn sighed. "It is how much time the Valar have allotted to the little one, that I worry for."

"Yes." Mithrandir seemed to gather from deep within himself some new resolve; he sat up straighter in the saddle, and looked about expectantly. "Ah--here comes Angmar now. It would seem he wishes to continue the discussion!"

Celeborn gave a negligent glance in the direction Mithrandir indicated. From above, on an airborne mount much like the one on which Khamūl was said to have fled just before they arrived with the dawn, came the daunting presence of the Witch-King. Those Uruk-hai and Goblins still on their feet gave cries of welcome, expectant of some last-moment reprieve from defeat; Celeborn gave a quiet huff of annoyance, and wrapped one powerful hand about the hilt of his sword, and balanced himself in the saddle.

"Flashy. Very flashy. And a pointless use of his energy, to make the creature fly."

Mithrandir chuckled appreciatively, and backed his mount away from Celeborn's, giving him room to maneuver. "Let me know if you need assistance, old friend."

Celeborn flashed a wicked smile. "You will be the first to know," he promised, and raised his blade in response to the hissing cry the Nazgūl offered by way of challenge. "Come, foul one--you have sparred with children and youths, time you paid your respects to your elders!"

Angmar gave a ringing cry in answer, and dove his mount down from the sky. The dragon-like creature stooped like a hunting hawk, folding its wings back and up for greater air speed; Celeborn waited, calmly patient, until the very last second when it seemed the creature must reach out with its clawed feet and seize the Lord of Lórien right off his horse. At the bottom of the dive, however, the creature wavered and screamed; with exquisite timing, Celeborn rose up to stand in his stirrups, and drove his sword home up to the hilt in the thing's belly, just about at the midpoint. It uttered a shrieking wail, and its flight became erratic at best; it skittered off the leading corner of the Tower and fell in an ungainly heap, some foul, burning substance pouring out of the gaping wound onto the ground below in a bubbling mass. It was several minutes before the creature could right itself; it stood there shivering in pain thereafter.

Angmar just barely managed to roll free, hissing and spitting in fury; he whirled about in a welter of black robe and cloak, and ran at Celeborn with intent to maim. The silver-haired forest lord gigged his mount about with a gentle hand and the tiniest pressure of one foot; gathering its muscles, the horse leaped forward and then cut to the left at the last second. In that second, Celeborn vaulted from the saddle and came down almost on top of the Witch-King, slashing downward.

Blade met blade with a ringing clash of metal grating on metal. The sound called to more than one Elf on that hilltop; they considered themselves privileged to witness the uncommon sight of Celeborn in battle, though his twin grandsons knew a sudden anxiety for the person of their mother's father, and from the healers' sideline station they watched and worried.

Elrond knew no such worries, for he could see Celeborn's strategy from the start, from the privileged viewpoint of having been this route before. He observed with a discerning and pleased eye the supple smoothness of Celeborn's swordplay, honed over millennia; the silver forester had been trained in his youth by Elves whose names were legend, and lack of frequent practice since then had not cut into his ability at all. His blade never lost contact with Angmar's; every move the Nazgūl attempted, Celeborn was there a half-second before him, meeting it and countering with swift thrusts and counter-parries. Angmar was good, but he was woefully out of his league. Still, it was a magnificent fight.

Not made of the same grim stolidity as the erstwhile Khamūl, Angmar knew when he had been bested, and did not scruple to press on toward some faint hope that the lithe Elven lord might slip on a patch of blood-soaked ground, or some other little miracle of the battlefield. Hissing and complaining in supreme annoyance, the Nazgūl threw a wave of dark power at his foundering mount; the creature perked up considerably, though its travail became obvious when Angmar vaulted into the saddle, causing his mount to groan in anguish and stumble before finding a perilous footing once more. The Witch-King hauled on the reins and prodded the beast skyward; flying erratically, the creature tried hard to obey, bellowing its fright to the bright blue of the summer sky.

While this was transpiring, Celeborn noted from the corner of his eye that there was a flurry of movement at the broken-down remains of the Tower's main entrance. A handful of Mirkwood Elves ran out into the sunlight, singing lustily at the tops of their lungs; Celeborn tipped an ear to catch the words, and closed his eyes before a powerful wave of relief, for the songs spoke of freedom and safety, of families reunited and travail ended. He very much doubted any of Legolas' travail was truly over, but songs were songs, and reality was just that; the end was the same. Legolas Thranduilion was free at last, and safety could still be within his grasp if the Valar continued to be watchful and kind.

Celeborn seized a war bow and two arrows from a very surprised Nevalkarion, then sprinted over to the bonfire, only a few yards away. He thrust the arrows point-first into the flame, catching up on the sharp metal some burning gobbets of Orc-flesh to help spread flame down the shafts; with urgent speed and superb aim, he nocked the fiery projectiles and sent them skimming skyward after the fleeing Nazgūl. Those who observed his actions watched for a tense few seconds--then cheered mightily as they slammed home, and the back of Angmar's fluttering black robes burst into flame. With a horrific scream, Angmar and his fell mount disappeared into the morning.

It would be many a long and happy year before he was ever seen again.

In the midst of that celebration, however, Celeborn's focus had already moved on elsewhere. He handed the bow back to Nevalkarion, apologizing good-naturedly for the loss of his two arrows; the young archer captain only grinned at his lord and bowed, telling him it had been worth the cost of two arrows to see such a shot, and know it was made with his bow. Smiling distractedly, Celeborn patted the younger Elf's shoulder and whirled to confront the next anxious task: even as he ran to intersect Thranduil's departure from the Tower, Celeborn was shouting for Elrond. As he hurried forward, the Lord of Lórien desperately tried to read the expression on his Mirkwood kinsman's haggard face.

 

**********

 

It had been a somewhat more problematic matter to get out of the Tower, than it had been to get in. Going in, there had only been enraged Uruk-hai to contend with; once inside, token resistance by Orcs, and terrified Men who knew justice had come riding in with bright Elven eyes and hearts of adamant. Coming out, the Elves of Mirkwood had had to contend with the distaff side of evil, as the remaining four Orc females had gathered, weapons in hand, to harry their male-folk to further courage with threats dire and dark. It had been an ugly fight, to be sure.

From the harrowing scenes he had witnessed through his son's eyes and Galadriel's mirror, Thranduil recognized all the females, and even knew one of them by name: Morgal, the alpha female. She had borne down on the Elven-king with his precious burden, seeing a flash of the golden hair from within the bundled cloak; Morgal had no intention of losing her precious little Elfling stud, and so had prepared to do battle with Legolas' father for possession of the Prince. Thranduil had given her a look riven with anger and cold hatred, then dispatched her by a simple formula: he paused in his forward flight to the exit, and gazed at Saeros and Tuilinal.

"My kinfolk--behold the Abomination who first violated my innocent child!" he announced, and even Thranduil found himself somewhat taken aback at the blaze of incredible rage and feral joy that shone out from the faces of the Silvan pair. Tuilinal bared her fine, straight teeth in a white grin; hefting her shortsword from one hand to the other, she stared hatred at the Orc female and advanced with slow, measured steps.

"Shall we see whose rage is the greater, creature of Shadow?" she asked with cheerful malice. "That of a deprived Orc wench, or that of an Avari daughter of the Firstborn?"

Morgal had glanced about, terrified to realize Saeros was circling about behind her, when she had never even seen him move; death was in his eyes, and in the green eyes of the she-Elf, and there was little Morgal could do, save to die game. She was not given the chance to do so; Tuilinal had the Orc's heart out of her chest before Thranduil could even blink, much less sidle past the rest of the milling Orcs as his people closed in on them. The last thing he saw before he stepped into the summer warmth, was the sweet-faced mate of Saeros spitting a bite of the still-twitching heart into the face of its previous owner.

Now, the Elven-king blinked in the brightness as he stepped out of the Tower ruins and began frantically searching for either Celeborn or Elrond, preferably both. He saw Celeborn first, and hurried toward him; they met in the middle, and the Lord of Lórien placed a fatherly hand on Thranduil's shoulder, pressing it in comfort even as he gazed down upon the shivering bundle in the King's arms.

'Shivering' was, of course, a relative term; in truth, young Legolas was shaking so hard he appeared spastic, his young face twisted with pain and the glazed-over eyes brimming with terror. Thranduil whispered soothing words to his beleaguered child, but it seemed to help little; teeth chattering, his voice hoarse with pain, all Legolas could seem to whisper was a plaintive "Ada… Ha helch, Ada, Im heledh!" over and over in ever-weakening tones. Thranduil stared at Celeborn with eyes that were wild with rampant anxiety.

"Where is Elrond?" he pleaded. "For the love of Elbereth, where is Elrond!"

"He is coming," Celeborn soothed, and reached down to place a hand on either side of young Legolas' face. Hiding his dismay at the underlying chill of the Elfling's flesh, the lord gazed lovingly upon him and spoke softly in his own cradle tongue, the seldom-heard Doriathrin dialect. Thranduil was too distracted to comprehend, but whatever he said seemed to calm the youngster; some of the all-pervading terror seemed to ease from his eyes, and the heart-wrenching shudders seemed to lessen somewhat.

The kind smile was still on his lips, but Celeborn's eyes had already begun to harden with a new resolve as he glanced up at Thranduil. "Are all your people out of there now?"

"Nearly so," Thranduil said, his voice unsteady. "Give orders to Saeros, he will clear the place."

"Good. Take the child to Elrond now." He looked hard at the Elven-king. "Get everyone a good ways from this place, Thranduil. Back into the trees. Do it now."

"Where are you going?" Thranduil asked, confused, as Elrond came up beside him and began a cursory examination of Legolas' grievous state. Celeborn gave a curt wave of one hand.

"Mithrandir and I have work to do," he announced. "As do you and Elrond. Take the child and go. Go now."

And he strode away toward the Tower, confident he would be obeyed.

 

*********

 

Translations

 

Tithen khaun: little prince, with Nandor lenition

Ada: Daddy in Sindarin, diminutive of Adar, father

Nana: Mama in Sindarin, diminutive of Naneth, mother

Pen-iaur: ancient one, old one; an honorific

Lasto beth nīn: Listen to me

Aran brannon: Lord King

Tithen emlin: little yellow bird, one of Thranduil's many pet names for Legolas

Farafaelion: son of Farafael, Tinuvīl's family epithet

Pen-tādonnen: twice-born one, an honorific Saeros gives to Glorfindel

Nīn kherdir: my master, with Nandor lenition

Nīn brannon: my king

tithen khaun: little prince, with Nandor lenition

pen-neth: young one

Nīn hźn faeg!: my poor child!

Ai, nīn lend anu-hźnedhel!: Oh, my sweet Elfling!

Tithen guren: my little heart, one of Luthiél's epithets for Legolas

Sķla' bereth: shining Queen

nīn khīr: my lord, with Nandor lenition

Guren nīn: my heart

Nīn lend maethor: my sweet warrior

maethor o Taur-e-Ndaedelos: warrior of the Forest of Fear (Sindarin name for Mirkwood)

nīn gwador: my brother (said of a chosen brother, not one of blood)

Ha helch: it's bitterly cold

Im heledh: I am glass

 

Chapter Thirdteen

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