Dark
Leaf
by
JastaElf
"Nothing
except a battle lost is half so melancholy as a battle won."
Arthur
Wellesley, Duke of Wellington
Thranduil
watched, momentarily stunned by the danger implicit in every line of
Celeborn's body, as the Lord of Lórien strode away to join the waiting
Mithrandir. The Elven-king, like Elrond in his turn before him, was caught up
in a kind of confusion: Where am I?
What is perhaps more to the point, when
am I?? But then that plaintive young voice, the teeth-chattering whimper,
reached him from the suffering bundle in his arms:
"Ada,
I-im h-h-heledh!"
Thranduil
actually started in surprise, turning wide, anxious eyes upon his son. He
could feel the damp chill of Legolas' blood seeping into his own garments,
could feel the wetness through the soft wool of his cloak. At his side, Elrond
Peredhil was continuing to examine the Elfling's injuries, his eyes narrowed
with shared pain and a deep anger that harked back centuries to when he was
not quite the same Elf of peaceful ways that he was nowadays.
"I
know, tithen emlin, I know,"
Thranduil murmured soothingly, his eyes darting back and forth between
Legolas' wan, pain-pinched features and Elrond's creased brow, as if somehow
he could read in the Noldor lord's very expression some indication of whether
his child would live or die. "It will not be long. All will be well. It
will not be long now."
"Let
us get the child out of harm's way, Thranduil," Elrond said quietly,
tugging on the Elven-king's arm. "I do not even wish to guess what
Celeborn and Mithrandir will do, but if he said we must be out of the way,
then I think we should heed him."
"Yes,
yes, by all means."
Distracted,
awash in a terror the likes of which he had seldom experienced, Thranduil
allowed himself to be pulled away, walking carefully so as to not jar his son
any further than could not be avoided. He barely heard, much less
comprehended, as Elrond shouted orders, command naturally rolling forth out of
him like sunlight spilling through branches, but things began to happen all
around them. Regardless of their affiliation, be they Sindar, Noldor, Silvan
or Avari, be they from Lórien or Mirkwood or Imladris, those who heard the
voice of Elrond obeyed without question; for the first time since Dagorlad,
Elves of whatever tribe and kin simply did as ordered, rather than looking to
their customary leaders for approbation or approval.
The
wounded were picked up gently but firmly, and either carried or aided to walk
as far away from Dol Guldur as possible--back into the trees, as Celeborn had
ordered. Among those still standing, captains moved with hurried commands, and
within moments, the entire force was back under the twisted, dark eaves of
Mirkwood. Hands reached out to soothe and gentle the trees, which cried out in
pain and joy to feel the touch of the Firstborn once again; branches bent down
to shelter, leaves brushed in caress, and soft songs of peace were sung. It
was almost possible to see green-ness and healing spread throughout the trees
then, possible to see the darkness peel back like a blanket being unrolled.
From
the dark Tower itself there came a sense of anxiety and fear, and those
watching would not have been surprised if the building had suddenly begun to
rock back and forth like a nervous hireling about to be chastised by some
great lord. Those Orcs and Uruk and goblins and traitor Men who had not
already been killed, were herded away by those whose business it was to end
the torment of their existence; a necessary, if horrible, duty to perform to
put an end to it all. Most of those volunteering for this bloody work were
Avari and Silvan folk; they were gone and back in less time than it took to
toast bread, and the sight of oily black smoke smudging the skyline behind and
northwest of the Tower bespoke the final ending of those grim and vile
unfortunates. Other archers watched, keen-eyed in the late morning brightness,
and picked off any remaining scions of Shadow as they ran out of the Tower in
a panic, not caring how bright it might be or what fate awaited them outside,
so great was their terror at remaining in a place no longer safe.
All
this went on without the interaction of some of the expedition's seniormost
leaders, however, as each were busy at far more pressing tasks. Elrond strode
purposefully to a place of sheltered safety well within the treeline, hooking
one finger into the clasp of his cloak as he went; he swept the garment from
his shoulders, barely glancing to his right as he felt a familiar and beloved
presence draw abreast of him in the cool dimness: Glorfindel, a little dirty
and tired-looking, but mercifully whole and hale. He carried with him Elrond's
healing satchel, which he had rescued from the Lord's mount.
"I
shall need your cloak, my friend."
Glorfindel
gave a sad little grin. "Already here, my lord," and he raised his
arm fractionally, showing that he was ready. Elrond nodded fractionally and
dropped to his knees on a level space well covered with downed leaves. He
spread his own cloak, then turned to root through the satchel as first
Glorfindel, then one other placed their cloaks down atop the sward: Saeros,
appearing (as was his wont) out of nowhere to add his own garment for his
young prince's comfort. Thranduil folded gracefully and carefully to his
knees, and very gently lowered the shuddering form of his son onto the
makeshift bed. He lifted a blood-flecked lock of blond hair from the child's
face, turning it back out of the way; tormented blue eyes, wide with pain and
mortal fear, watched every move he made. Heart-rending little whimpers,
weakening perceptibly, were the only sounds Legolas seemed capable of making
any longer.
"All
will be well, tithen guren, "
Thranduil whispered, bending to kiss the sweat-sheened forehead, appalled at
how cold it felt. It was more like kissing marble than flesh, and he felt the
chill to his very marrow. Legolas just stared, desperate longing singing from
him. His father glanced sidelong at Elrond. "Can you give him something
for the pain?"
Glorfindel
knelt opposite him beside Thranduil, still murmuring instructions to any
nearby Elves, sending messengers off in various directions in search of items
Elrond would need: large stones warmed by the fires, boiled water, preferably
still warm; clean cloths, fresh herbs of healing if any could be found, just
in case. Glancing sympathetically at the Elven-king, Elrond shook his head
regretfully but decisively. "Not just yet. We must stabilize him first; I
dare not give him anything that will slow his system further. Here--" he
handed across a small cup, partly filled with water. "See if you can coax
him to drink some of this. He is badly dehydrated."
With
exquisite care, as if he handled the most frangible of porcelain dolls,
Thranduil cupped one hand behind his son's head and lifted fractionally.
Legolas opened his mouth on a soundless exhalation of pain, all the more
heartbreaking for its silence. Thranduil gently tipped the cup, dribbling
liquid between the blued lips; the water slid down Legolas' slack throat,
unaided by any movement of muscle. Glancing sidelong, Elrond made a murmur of
distress and reached across into his satchel; his fingers closed on a small
phial of miruvor. He added a dram of it to the water, and gestured for
Thranduil to continue. Around them, Saeros and some of his folk--Tuilinal,
Morilinde, Thalas, Hellan, and two others Elrond did not recognize--formed a
kind of protective circle, facing outward, weapons at the ready, as if daring
anything to interrupt this fragile process. Certain that between them, the
Mirkwood Elves and Glorfindel would make sure nothing untoward happened,
Elrond slipped seamlessly into healing rapport with the Elfling before him.
Almost
instantly he reeled back, stunned by the wave of agony radiating from Legolas.
How in the name of the Valar has he
survived at all? Elrond
thought, fighting down the urge to gag. Darkness clung to the child like a
shroud, and yet washed outward from the core of his being like bats from a
cave at nightfall. The stench of Angmar's vile ministrations was all over the
young Elf's psyche, almost blotting out that which was so familiar to Elrond
after years of interaction mind to mind. Nearly gone was the sweetness, the
desperate sense of humour; no sign anywhere of the bright, yearning intellect,
the warmth and lightness of being that had so startled him in bygone days by
the very fact of its survival amid the horrific nurture Legolas had been
receiving in Dol Guldur. All Elrond could sense was one mere fragment of Elven
selfhood, rapidly dimming in the encroaching face of Shadow.
No!
Legolas, lasto beth nîn--fight this, please, by all that's holy! We are here,
you are free, just--stay with me, please, neth ernil! Do not let them defeat
you!
But
he could also sense the despair, the terror, the deep-seated horror of death.
More wrenching still, Elrond could feel something of the sweet child he had
come to know, and that something was yearning toward him as an infant might
toward its parent--even as the child continued to flee deeper within himself
from the shades and grimness that latched onto his being. Elrond could sense
Galadriel out there somewhere, but for the moment she was entirely taken up
with the effort to destroy the dark Tower, her rapport directed toward
Celeborn and Mithrandir; no assistance could come from there. This would be
his fight and Legolas', a literal battle of life and death. Elrond felt
himself double over the prone form stretched out before him, his hand
clutching the bloodied, wounded hand of the child, willing life into him.
Anything else was beyond his power to sense; the world could come to an end,
and in the aftermath he would be right where he was, trying to keep the spark
of life from fading in this promising, tormented youngling.
As
Elrond fought the inner fight for Legolas’ life, the others did what they
could on the outward side. Boiling water was brought to cleanse instruments,
and cooler water, though still warm, was set beside them so that Legolas’
wounds could be cleansed for bandaging. Glorfindel brought forth rolls of
clean bandages, and Elrond's special mixture of powdered dried herbs: athelas,
comfrey, feverfew, vervain, mimulus, and several others. He wrapped heated
stones with thick cloth, and placed them near Legolas’ feet in hopes of
bringing warmth. Between them he and Thranduil started cleaning out the more
dangerous of the cuts, sprinkled them with the herbal mixture, and placed over
them fresh athelas leaves, pounded and split. Seeing that Thranduil was
gainfully employed in the binding of those wounds that could be bound,
Glorfindel then took up needle and gut, and began the slow, delicate task of
closing the horrific cuts in Legolas’ forearms. He numbed the raw edges with
bindweed, so as to cause the Elfling as little more pain as possible, lest
shock ensue. Then, gently cleansing and sprinkling and sewing, he set about
trying to repair the damage wrought by Angmar's blade. Always he was careful
to make certain there were no Morgul fragments left within; for if that were
the case, no amount of care could help the beleaguered child.
"Misbegotten
creatures of Udún!" Thranduil muttered beneath his breath, tears
streaming down his face as he worked. Cleanse,
sprinkle, bind; at least the bleeding will stop… "May the Valar
damn them all to twenty-four eternal torments!" Try
not to think too specifically. It is a training exercise, not the body of my
youngest child… "May Oromë Aldaron bind them within the hearts of
great, black trees on the edge of Doom… may the eagles of Manwë tear their
hearts out of their chests and feed them to their fledglings!" Luthiél,
Síla' bereth o guren, I beseech you, beg Mandos to spare our sweet son…
"Does
that help any?" Glorfindel asked softly. Thranduil looked up, eyes wild
with pain.
"No.
Why?"
"I
thought I might try it, if it did. Help, that is." Glorfindel raised his
shoulders in a vague shrug, never taking his eyes off the careful work before
him. Thranduil stared as the needle worked into his son's flesh, drawing the
terrible gashes closed; very little blood was seeping through the sutures now,
and while that might have been a comforting thing some minutes past, now it
chilled the Elven-king to the depths of his soul.
"Do
not make me hurt you, Glorfindel," he ground out, attempting to lighten
the horror of this moment with some kind of dark humour--an attempt that
failed miserably as he choked back a sob at the end of the fond jibe.
Glorfindel raised his eyes, piercingly blue in the gloom beneath the ancient
trees.
"If
it is not Legolas’ Doom to die now," he said with gentle practicality,
"he will not die. Take that to heart, Thranduil. For none of us have ever
believed the Valar would be so cruel as to allow us to free him, only to have
him die before our very eyes. It goes against all reason. You know this to be
so."
He
spoke so calmly, with such conviction, that Thranduil yearned to believe. Was
this not, after all, the same Glorfindel who fought the Balrog unto death
itself, then came back from Mandos' Halls? Did he not, therefore, know whereof
he spoke? But it was hard, so hard, with Legolas laying here between them,
still now, his eyes staring fixedly at the branches above--past speech, past
shivering, past, apparently, everything but the gentle lurch into the arms of
his ancestors….
"One
day very soon, we will sit somewhere eminently civilized and discuss
this," Thranduil breathed, his melodious voice gone harsh with the effort
to remain in control. His hands continued their work, and his eyes strayed
away from watching the careful in and out motion of Glorfindel's needle. Cleanse,
sprinkle, bind… now, at least, the vein behind his knee no longer bleeds! "We
will drink tea and eat little iced cakes, and philosophically discuss Mandos,
and Dooms, and the fates of princes, while my Legolas lays gently sleeping
under warm blankets in a soft bed, quite alive and whole and safe." Cleanse,
sprinkle, bind… stay with me, tithen emlin, I beg of you… cleanse,
sprinkle, bind… there, your ankle is bound up now. "That which
should seem reasonable, shall indeed be seen to be
reasonable. Everything we seem to know, shall prove to in fact be
so. And it will be a good thing."
"It
will indeed," Glorfindel said, with a gentle calm so straight-forward, it
was like a handclasp to the forearm in sympathy and support. Thranduil bit
down on his lower lip to retain some semblance of his own calm, while his
hands continued at the task of binding his son's seeping wounds. He had a
sudden, bizarre recollection of Legolas as an infant, laying on the bed
burbling happily at something apparently only he could see, while Thranduil
changed his clout for him. The incongruity of it made the Elven-king laugh,
and then he could not stop the sob that welled up from deep within. Bowing his
head, he bore down to hang onto sanity. Cleanse,
sprinkle, bind… Glorfindel, for the love of everything good and holy I beg
you not to touch me, I will explode in a hundred thousand fragments of
bleeding agony….
Fortunately,
Glorfindel literally had his hands full, and no attempt was made to comfort
that which cannot be comforted. Within moments Thranduil had once more
mastered his pain, and returned to the mind-numbing sameness of his task. Cleanse,
sprinkle, bind--gently now… "Tuilinal?"
The
dark, lovely warrior turned instantly, coming to kneel beside him. "Aran
Brannon?"
Thranduil
took a deep breath. "Take these bandages; I will lift him, you bind his
chest."
She
took a fresh roll, made several quick pads of the clean linen, biting off
sections with her strong white teeth; then Tuilinal reached over, uncommonly
gentle, and took the phial of powdered herbs from Thranduil's shaking hand.
She gave him a faint smile, her green eyes glowing with affectionate concern
as she gazed at him from under her brows, then set about liberally sprinkling
the angry red weals of those lateral cuts in Legolas’ smooth, pale chest.
Thranduil watched her work, then when her eyes once again touched upon his, he
nodded and carefully, slowly raised Legolas’ upper body off the cloaks. From
deep within the healing trance, Elrond gave a murmur of concern; his eyes
flickered in confusion, and he half-raised one hand as if he might intervene.
"All
is well, nîn mellon,"
Glorfindel said quietly, placing one bloodied hand atop Elrond's where he held
onto Legolas. "We have the situation in hand. All is well."
Elrond
glanced across at him; his eyes were foreign and dark, glittering like stars,
and he did not entirely look to be himself. He nodded once, curtly, then
allowed his head to sink back down, after one brief sidelong glance at
Legolas’ face. Exhausted, unable to fight any longer, the young Elf simply
lay there, passive between his father's hands, as Tuilinal wound bandages
about Legolas’ chest, patting the pads into place over the more bloodied
areas.
And the fight went on….
**********
While
the struggle continued to keep the body and soul of young Legolas together,
the remainder of the strife was winding down. As the minutes flew past, more
Elves came running forth from the Tower into the waiting arms of their kin.
Tinuvîl of Mirkwood had placed some of his archers under the command of
Elladan and Elrohir, the better to facilitate picking off any stray Orcs,
Uruk-hai, or Goblins who might come running out of various ports in the dark
Tower; Legolas' uncle had, however, taken as his own duty the safeguarding of
one very frightened traitor of Dale, who had every reason now to fear for his
life. Per Thranduil's command, Aldor had indeed been brought forth alive from
Dol Guldur, his wrists bound before him, his mouth stopped with a bit-gag to
prevent anyone having to listen to any more foul bravado from his lips. Not
that he necessarily would have had any to utter, but one never knew.
Tinuvîl
knew all too well that this Man had once set eyes in lust upon Queen Luthiél,
who had been Tinuvîl's own younger sister. He had never attempted anything
beyond a few insinuating words, and many rude stares--but for those who knew
of his disgusting desires, that was more than enough. Luthiél herself had
been a warrior, as well as a lovely and tender mother and the passionate love
of Thranduil's lonely life; had Aldor ever been foolish enough to act upon his
dark ponderings, she would have rendered him messily and efficiently dead. Probably
kinder than what Thranduil himself would have done, Tinuvîl thought, and
narrowed his deep grey eyes at the Man. Aldor saw him looking, and gaped
anxiously; Tinuvîl stared back a moment longer, then smiled thinly. It made
him look arrogantly unpleasant, and Aldor cringed.
It
pleased Tinuvîl now to crouch there, a few feet away from the kneeling,
sweating traitor, and simply watch him. Thranduil wanted him alive. So much
the worse for Aldor. Tinuvîl was not adverse to frightening out of the Man
any wits he might have remaining.
"Queen
Luthiél was my sister," Tinuvîl said pleasantly in Westron, after a
moment. If possible, Aldor's eyes got even wider, and showed a lot more white.
"That of course makes me uncle to young Legolas. I trust I need not
explain what this will mean, should I hear tell that you ever even so much as thought
of harming the child in any manner?"
Aldor
made a panicked sound behind his gag, and slipped sidewise a touch. The Silvan
Elf guarding alongside kicked him back upright. Tinuvîl's smile became feral,
all straight, white teeth and uncivil fury.
"I
will enjoy watching our King mete out justice," he said. "As you
know, we do things somewhat differently in Mirkwood than is done in other
Elven realms."
There,
traitor pig. Ponder that for a
while!
Behind
him, Tinuvîl heard the voice of Eithelas of Lórien: "By my count, that
is all of our people."
"Excellent,"
replied Elladan, son of Elrond. "I will let Lord Celeborn know."
The
son of Elrond jogged over to stand beside his grandsire's mount, waiting
respectfully until the intense conversation between Celeborn, Mithrandir, and
the absent but still eerily present
Galadriel reached such a point that the Lord of Lórien could break off and
address the younger Elf.
"Is
everything in readiness?"
Elladan
obeyed the powerful impulse that washed over him, and bowed deeply to
Celeborn. "All is ready, my Lord. No Elf stands within the Tower, and all
that have come forth as enemies have been secured or killed."
"You
are certain?" Celeborn asked, more statement than question. "It is
not my intention that anything survive the next few moments of that
structure's existence."
Elladan's
eyes widened; he swallowed hard. "I am certain, Lord. Nothing remaining
in that Tower is a friend to any of us."
"Truer
words have seldom been spoken," Mithrandir murmured, more to himself than
to the others. His gaze went long, and it was as if he could see into the
dungeon--could see the vat before which Legolas had suffered so, into which so
much of his lifeblood had been leached. And perhaps he could
see, given who walked powerfully in his mind with his leave. Celeborn nodded
once, shortly, and turned his eyes on the Maia.
"Then
we are ready. Elladan--join the others. Make absolutely certain everyone
is beneath the trees--and make sure they are prepared for whatever happens.
The concept of this is not new to us, but the execution will be--somewhat
unique. The aftermath is likely to be extremely intense. Do you
understand?"
Eyes
wide, Elladan nodded, certain on some visceral level of his being that he
understood far, far better than he wished to. Having the understanding all
one's long life that one's own grandparents were ancient Firstborn elders,
possessed of skills and powers beyond imagining, was one thing. Were these
not, after all, the same elders who dandled one on their knee in play, who
teased frowns away and dried the tears of childhood? Was this not Mithrandir
of the smiles and tricks, the sleights-of-hand and fireworks? Had Elladan not,
at some point in time, used both of these males before him as his personal
pony in games under the trees of Lórien, or around the falls of Imladris? Was
not Galadriel his own dear grand-naneth, who told the most wonderful stories
and sang him to sleep as a child?
Were
these three not, now, the beings who would seal Shadow's Doom on this hill?
Yes,
knowing was one thing. Confronting it head on, that was something else
entirely.
"I
understand, my Lord." His voice sounded strained even in his own ears,
and Elladan was comforted beyond words at the small, quirked smile and lift of
the eyebrow with which his grandsire gifted him, before turning away and once
more becoming a legend before his eyes.
"Good.
Go now."
**********
Galadriel
took a deep, slow breath and shifted where she sat, cross-legged on the soft
mossy ground beside the little pool. She had long since sent everyone away
except for Haldir and a quartet of his fellow Guardians, and though to Mortal
eye it would appear she was alone, the Lady knew the five who watched her, who
looked out for her safety and solitude, were well-hidden in the forest around
her, here in the Naith of Lórien. The Guardians were at the four compass
quarters, and Haldir had taken up a watchful station just off-center from
where she sat; if she bothered to look in his direction, Galadriel knew she
would see him with a naked sword in hand, held up before him in guard
position, point toward the sky.
All
around them there was a profound silence. No bird called, no small creature of
the forest floor moved. Even the wind was still, as if the entirety of Ennor
was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen.
Galadriel
took another slow, deep breath, in through her nose, drawing it from the
center of her being. She thought distantly of Thranduil in the grove of the
Mirror: Erthilar would be pleased,
Lady, you breathe like a warrior… A small smile touched her lips,
knowing the Elven-king had been given the dark gift of precisely what he
wanted: his child was free. She only hoped he would remain alive to enjoy that
freedom.
The
next few moments would determine some portion of that hope.
She
closed her eyes then, not needing external sight for what lay physically
before her, and not wanting to stretch Mithrandir's gifts any further than was
absolutely necessary, given that his work would not be done even when they had
completed this monumental and necessary task. Before Galadriel's inner sight,
the images spread out like summer wildflowers: Celeborn, hardly even rumpled
from his exertions, his beautiful silver hair tied back like an Elfling's;
Mithrandir, perpetually careless about his appearance at even the best of
times, looking marvellously untidy and somehow inexplicably laden with power
and a kind of earthy majesty. Beyond, she could see the forces of the allied
kingdoms, Lothlórien, Imladris, and Mirkwood, eyes bright in the unnatural
dimness beneath southern Mirkwood's ancient, tortured trees--waiting, tense
and ready for whatever came. And there, in a daunting mix of fleeing shadow
and pulsating light, sometimes bright and flaring, sometimes dull and
desperate, the heart of the enterprise: a knot of Silvan Elves guarding, while
around that light knelt an anxious father, a stalwart friend, and a
Lore-Master who was far, far more than merely that.
Galadriel
spared one tendril of love and concern for the fading light that was Legolas,
brushing the hand of her essence across the pale, cold brow. She whispered to
him of hope and courage, and bade him hang on for just a little while longer,
but there was fear in the child, and longing, mixed with a frightening
resolve. For all unseen, at one shoulder there hovered the startling
brightness that was Varda, while at the other shoulder, a waiting, eternally
patient stolidity that could only be Mandos. Which of the Valar would reach
out, in the heart of an instant, and claim the tormented Elfling? Both, or
neither? It was not Galadriel's place to know, and she turned her face from
the watching Powers, trusting that things she had seen in her Mirror would yet
come to pass.
Just
because it was a good day to die, did not mean it necessarily had to be the
turn of the son of Thranduil to do so.
It
was time. Galadriel heard the voice of her grandson Elladan, disembodied and
muffled by distance, giving the welcome news that all the Firstborn were out
of the dark Tower. She felt Celeborn's resolve harden even further, so that
adamant would seem fluid beside him; felt Mithrandir gather himself, like a
great Eagle beating its wings preparatory to taking off into the face of the
wind. The Lady reached out, touching Celeborn's awareness: Look
about, my forester, and let me see what you see. Let me ascertain what is
needful.
Around
her, the watching Guardians shifted in focus, as if sensing what was about to
happen. Haldir's hands, long and pale and strong, moved fractionally on the
hilt of the great sword; he moved one foot slightly to one side, then reached
down into the earth beneath. All Shadow and its darkest might would not be
able to move him from this place, unless he chose to be so moved. And that was
not a choice he was prepared to make. His eyes, flashing silver-grey in the
shade and flickering green light of the forest, watched every breath taken by
the shining Lady before him.
Ennor held its breath….
**********
Celeborn
closed his eyes briefly, as if listening to something on the wind. His chin
came up; the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips. He opened his eyes upon
the brightness of the afternoon sky, and glanced calmly about the hilltop:
took in the waiting Elves, some of them barely pinpoints of light in the
fastness of Mirkwood; observed the purposeful quiet about young Legolas’
prone form; then moved to take in the near-vibrating spike of Dol Guldur. His
expression and every line of him was wonderfully casual, as if he were
standing on some mound within Lórien’s unassailable borders, watching fawns
graze under the eye of their mothers. A light sigh escaped him then, and he
glanced sidelong at the waiting, watchful presence of Mithrandir.
"Are
we ready then?"
"Why
yes, I would say so." Mithrandir leaned on his staff, and gazed down upon
the gold-set ruby that was Narya, the Ring of Fire. "I have taken the
needed precautions, so that Vilya will not distract Elrond from his current
labours; fire and water will be enough to do the job, and Middle-Earth itself
will happily eat the dust when we have finished."
"Well
then," Celeborn murmured, his eyes narrowing. "Well, then."
The
two of them strode then, side by side and matching paces, until they stood to
the south of Dol Guldur, facing the Tower but standing just outside the
treeline on that side. They were, by Celeborn's estimation, some twenty-four
yards from the place--far enough, with the proper shielding, to effect the
needed damage and not sustain any themselves. The Lord of Lórien drew his
sword and held it across his body, guard-wise; Mithrandir had already drawn
Glamdring, his Elvish sword, and held it point-down in both hands, conjoined
with his staff. Celeborn could not see the energy that sprang up at the
Istari's muttered words, but he could feel it all around him: guarding, but
never constricting. With one last, lingering look of disobliging annoyance at
the Tower, Celeborn closed his eyes and reached back with a flick of thought
to his waiting beloved.
All
is prepared, bereth o hûn'nîn.
Whenever you are ready…
She
did not spare strength for words, but he could feel Galadriel's presence
beside him, behind him, within him, as surely as if she stood there in the
flesh. Celeborn heard more words of power coming from Mithrandir, could feel
the results of those words crackling around him like the electric fission of
all nature. He braced himself, and so did not actually take even a small step
when the force that was Galadriel joined with his own essence; Celeborn opened
his being to Mithrandir's direction, and felt as if he stood at the centre of
existence. He was not so much in
the eye of a storm, as he was the
eye of a storm….
What
happened then, none of them could have said later, other than perhaps
Mithrandir and Galadriel; for it was at their bidding that the power moved,
gathering, seeking release and vengeance with the full might of the Valar
behind it. An unnatural and yet wholly Light-bound wind arose as if from
nowhere; it whipped at the flames of the bonfires that crackled about the
bodies of the fallen minions of Shadow, and it plucked at the branches of
Mirkwood all around them. The trees whined and screamed, not so much in
terror, as in release and exultant pain--the sort of pain one feels as a
blade, buried deep, is swiftly withdrawn by the hand of a healer, hot with
agony yet bringing with it the beginning of rebirth and freedom.
From
up out of the very ground of the hilltop there came a mist, at first quite
fine; but as the seconds passed, the mist grew greater, darker, more
encompassing. It was as if a massive thunder-cloud had come down from the
skies, for within its mighty blackness there shot bolts of light and colour,
illuminating the cloud from within in bursts of energy. It grew and engulfed
Dol Guldur until naught could be seen of the structure save the pillar of
cloud all around it.
And
from within the Tower, there came a sound the likes of which no one on that
hilltop had ever heard before. To call it a scream would have been to
drastically understate the nature of screaming; it was hideous, fraught with
terror and anguish and death, and most of the Firstborn sheltering beneath the
trees covered their ears to try and block it out. Most, that is, save for the
Silvan folk--who stared when others averted their eyes, who listened, mouths
open in astonishment, eyes glittering with something very close to delight,
when others would have gladly been stricken deaf, at least for the duration.
To the Mirkwood Elves this was the very justice of the Valar themselves,
visited upon Shadow for the grief it had rained down upon them and upon their
little Prince, and they did not intend to miss a moment of it.
Celeborn
and Mithrandir simply stood there, buffeted by the wind and yet not moved,
channelling the power as it came from all around them and from within them.
Over in the healing circle that Elrond had called up to protect them, all was
silence and sweet light as if they knelt in the deepest chamber of Thranduil's
cavernous palace, in some place where neither door nor window would admit
entry of anything that was not already there, nor any wall be pierced by the
dreadful sound as justice rained down on the hilltop.
Save
for one thing, and one thing only….
As
Dol Guldur began to tear itself apart from within, attempting to escape the
retribution of the Light, the fateful vat below in its dungeons howled and
bucked and gasped with a failing horror, filled to the brim as it was with the
last of young Legolas' forced progeny, fed upon his lifeblood. Beneath
Elrond's hands, the child suddenly seemed to come back to awareness: of
himself, of the pain, and dreadfully aware of what transpired mere yards away.
A ragged, gagging gasp of terror welled up from his being; his eyes snapped
open, twin pools of silent panic, and latched onto the hovering face of
Thranduil. The lips, mostly colourless in the wan face, moved slightly, but
Legolas did not have the strength to speak. Blood called to blood; the King
felt pulsing echoes of the agony tearing through his child, but for Legolas'
sake he dared not attempt to look away. Biting back his own panic, Thranduil
willed himself not to react as Elrond bent double in pain over Legolas’
body. He even managed a slight smile, and nodded as if this were all the most
commonplace of occurrences.
"Stay
with me, tithen emlin,"
Thranduil murmured, smoothing the blood-laced hair back off his son's face.
"Ride the storm, child--it will end soon, all will be well."
A
hundred other nonsensical utterances, soothing in tone and mindless, came from
the Elven-king as he attempted to keep Legolas’ mind from dwelling on, much
less participating in, the destruction of the Tower. Glorfindel put both arms
about Elrond's shoulders, which were shaking violently with the effort to
contain whatever it was that he and the stricken Prince shared. Thranduil
could not find coherence to guess at what might be happening; he only knew
that his son was in terrible pain and probably dying, and all he could do was
sit here, watching it happen, helpless to intervene.
Meanwhile,
all around them the whirlwind swirled. Deafening roars, like a thousand angry
lions, punctuated the ever-present wail of the unnatural wind; screams and
undulating cries of hideous fear rent the air. Suddenly there came a massive
explosion, then another; the ground shook like a living being enraged and
maddened with pain. Huge gaping cracks opened up in the hilltop; the resultant
trenches never made it as far as the treeline, though wave after wave of an
unknowable energy swept over the entirety of the region, striking the ancient
forest and dissipating into the glaring brightness of the afternoon, only to
be replaced by more of the same.
Those
watching saw it clearly when Dol Guldur lost its tenuous hold on the hilltop.
The great dark Tower collapsed upon itself, tumbling over onto its side with
an indescribable crash, felt as much as heard; in the last seconds of
structural integrity, before it crumbled into nothingness, the spiked crest of
the place seemed to point in an easterly direction, as if gesturing toward the
vile place from which it had sprung. The land for miles around gave a great,
wracking shudder. Clouds of dust and debris of all descriptions flew up into
the whirlwind, obscuring everything for some minutes. Fading, ever fading,
could be heard the terror-filled cries of those who had been trapped within,
and who lost their existence with Dol Guldur itself.
Celeborn
did not move--did not dare to move, had no idea of whether he even could
move. Beside him, equally motionless, stood Mithrandir. Transformed he seemed,
no longer the image of a mere Man, no longer even the seeming guise of an
Istari--far, far more than either, he was an elemental force in the grip of Ilúvatar
Himself, tall and straight and mighty, unmovable as the underpinnings of Ennor
itself. Staff and sword glowed with red, eerie light. Celeborn's weapon,
pointed groundward now as if too heavy to be lifted, also seemed to glow from
within, the living metal alight with the force of the energy called up.
When
the dust settled at long last, there was nothing left on the hilltop of the
Tower than had blighted the landscape for so long. There was only a smoking
hole in the ground, its sides as smooth as black glass, with no other
distinction or feature save that brilliant, adamantine surface, gleaming
balefully in the sun.
As
they watched, even that remnant disappeared. The hole closed over itself with
a sound similar to that of ancient trees being uprooted, only multiplied
several millions of times. Ennor itself cried aloud at the sound, wrenching it
up from the core of Existence. So loud was the noise of that closure that no
one standing there could actually hear it with their ears; it was felt in the
soul, and experienced as a rush of wind and intense pressure.
And
then all was silence. It was as if Dol Guldur had never existed.
Presently,
the wind picked up once more; only this time it was soft and sweet, coming
from the West, bringing with it vague hints of honeysuckle and lavender.
Mithrandir and Celeborn looked at each other in silent wonder, for the moment
was beyond words. Then Mithrandir smiled solemnly.
"Galadriel
is always thorough," he murmured, not at all ironic. Celeborn nodded.
"That
she is."
They
stared at the hilltop in cautious gauging, but all seemed unbelievably normal.
None of the warriors seemed to wish to be the first to dare movement out of
the treeline, but many a curious Elven face peered out from under, as if
awaiting the next breath of Doom. Mithrandir took a deep cleansing breath, and
dabbed with one sleeve of his robe at the sweat upon his brow.
"See
to the children, would you?" he asked, curiously formal in the aftermath
of it all. "I must look to Elrond and his Elfling." He glanced that
way, sighing; this had been weary work, but he knew the fight was not over.
"We should not remain here this night. As soon as possible we should
leave, and find more wholesome ground on which to camp; the land needs must
recover, and that is a task that will take many a year. We may as well allow
it to get started."
"Yes,
of course," Celeborn said gently, placing a hand on the Istari's
shoulder. "Leave all that to me. Go, they have need of you."
Far faster than most would have credited him with the ability to move, Mithrandir hurried through the encompassing silence toward the Circle beneath the trees. Purpose was in every line of him, but dread was his companion; he had felt the current of terror and pain lancing through the destruction of the Tower, and the wizard feared for what he would find….
**********
"Elrond?"
The
Lord of Imladris tried to raise his head at the sound of his name, recognized
the speaker as Glorfindel, but had no strength with which to reply. He knelt
there beside the now-still form of young Legolas, cradling the sad, broken
left hand between the warmth of both his own hands; the Elfling apparently did
not have even so little strength as to shudder, though Elrond could still feel
the pain that crested and broke through his being like waves on the shore.
Stunned with exhaustion and anxiety, all he wanted to do was sleep. He was so
worn and jagged from the effort to keep Legolas alive that he was actually
nauseous.
But
Glorfindel deserved some kind of response, so Elrond reached into his core
being and pulled forth what he thought was a fairly passable grunt of
acknowledgement. He sensed Glorfindel leaning closer, and watched as one pale,
long-fingered hand moved to feel for a pulse on the side of Legolas’ throat.
He must have found something; Elrond could hear him speaking to the others,
but could not parse the words. Mildly surprised, he watched as Glorfindel then
began wrapping Legolas' arm and hand in many bandages, padding it;
comprehension seeped through with a slow dullness, as he observed his friend's
actions and realized the lord of the Gondolindrim was splinting that abused
appendage from elbow to beyond the end of the bloodless fingertips with their
blued nails. Yes, yes, that is a good
idea…. He had no idea why, of course, not being capable of comprehending
whether Legolas was even alive to benefit from the action. But it seemed the
correct thing to think.
Centuries
passed as Elrond knelt there, and presently, Mithrandir was among them. There
was a shift of something as the
Istari dropped to his knees opposite Elrond, beside Thranduil; even as the
Elven-king moved slowly to repeat Glorfindel's actions on Legolas’ other
arm, it seemed something else was happening. Elrond squinted, trying to pay
attention to the conversation-like sounds that drifted through to him, like
words spoken beneath deep water.
"…
sure? Every wound is bandaged? It is important that you be certain."
"Everything
is bandaged," Thranduil replied in a broken whisper. "But there is
very little life left in him, Mithrandir! His fëa seems so dim, so
distant!"
"Now
now, while there is even the smallest spark, there is hope," the Istari
murmured, trying to sound cheerful. He placed his staff on the ground beside
him, and glanced at the three adults. "Come along then, and let us see
what we can do. If insufficient blood is the problem, then we must fix
that."
"I
cannot imagine how," Glorfindel breathed, casting anxious glances
sidelong at Elrond. The Lore-Master blinked owlishly at him and said nothing.
Mithrandir gave a dry chuckle.
"Then
it is for the best that you are not a wizard, old friend," he said, and
reached across to pat the warrior's arm. "I know what I am doing, never
fear."
"Then
do it," Thranduil ground out.
"Unless you wish to journey to Mandos to bring my son back, that
is?"
"Not
just at the moment, no," Mithrandir said wryly, "though I will do so
if I must."
He
bent over the comatose Elfling, a considering expression of deep compassion on
his lined face. Legolas actually looked as if his spirit had fled; there was
no animation, even of a negative kind, in his pinched, pale face. The eyes,
half-open and staring, were without spark; his chest, swathed in bandages of
linen, did not move. Mithrandir would not detect any hint of pulse, either by
sight or feel.
"Glorfindel--see
to Elrond," the wizard instructed, pushing back his sleeves and reaching
to cup Legolas’ face between his hands. "Give him some miruvor, and see
if you can get a response out of him. I shall have need of his assistance in a
moment."
Looking
rather somewhat pole-axed himself, Glorfindel dubiously moved to obey.
Thranduil watched the Istari's every movement like a hawk watching a creature
upon which it intends to dine.
"What
are you doing?" he asked. Mithrandir smiled thinly, but did not look up.
"If
lack of blood is the problem--and I see it is--then we must remedy that,"
he said, as if this were the most commonplace thing in all the world. He felt
rather than saw Thranduil's eyebrows climb in astonishment; with a soft mutter
of phrases, sibilant and strong, the wizard set to work.
There
was a lengthy, turgid silence. Elrond sipped the miruvor that Glorfindel
brought to his lips in an incongruously delicate little bottle; warmth and
strength flowed through him, though he realized it would be quick to wane.
Coherence was slower to come, but returned with a gasp and a pained twitch
when Legolas suddenly reacted to whatever Mithrandir was doing. The young Elf
gave a ragged gasp, then another; he coughed weakly, then subsided into
silence once more.
"There's--blood
seeping through here," Thranduil murmured anxiously, gesturing. Even
though he knew the comment was not directed toward himself, Elrond
nevertheless raised his eyes to see; Thranduil was indicating his son's
bandage-covered chest, where indeed there was a fresh presence of blood
staining the snowy whiteness of the linen. Mithrandir nodded distractedly.
"That
is normal. Tell me if it becomes more of a problem; a trickle is to be
expected."
Another
lengthy silence, broken only by the occasional murmur from Mithrandir and
almost matching gasps from Legolas; one hand still resting on the Elfling's
chest, Elrond could feel it when the heart began a laboured but steady rhythm.
"Heart,"
he whispered, and cleared his throat. "I--can feel--his heart.
Beating."
"Good."
Mithrandir moved Elrond's hand so that it rested right over that heart.
"Think through to it, my friend. Make certain it continues beating."
A
moment more, and colour began to slowly seep back into Legolas’ face, a
little bit at a time. His lips lost their blue cast, and the eyes rolled
upward, the lids sliding shut. Elrond felt a second's panic, but then realized
the child had simply drifted out of consciousness again--if indeed he had ever
fully awakened.
"There--that
should do for the moment," Mithrandir said at last, and brought his hands
away, carefully placing Legolas’ head back down on the padding of the
cloaks. He brushed the pale cheek gently with his fingertips. "I have
trebled his blood within him; we will not lose him now."
Elrond
closed his eyes on a momentary relief, but shook his head. Such things always
came with a price attached, and this would require wages far beyond
Mithrandir's own weariness, or Elrond's. Even to the Lore-Master's dulled
senses, Legolas’ flesh seemed dangerously cold to the touch still. Moreover,
the child was very weak, and apparently in a great deal of pain. He himself
could feel it through the ties that had bound them throughout these horrific
eighteen years.
"Then--he
is healed?" Thranduil wondered aloud, a note of panicked disbelief in his
tone. Mithrandir sighed and shook his head.
"Hardly,
my friend. He is alive, and for the moment that needs must be enough." He
looked up, catching the Elven-king's eyes with great gentleness. "Healing
Legolas will take many weeks, and even then there may be damage the extent of
which we simply cannot now guess. We dare not even entirely sedate him until
we are absolutely certain he will remain alive through it--is that not the
case, Elrond?"
Somehow
Elrond found the energy to reply. "I fear so," he breathed, his
voice a thready whisper. "E-even now, I dare not do anything that
might--separate him--from life." He raised his head fractionally and
gazed at Thranduil, his expression a daunting combination of begging for
understanding, and demanding it. "He is in pain, and I am sorry for that.
But it will go away eventually, when we can
give him something to dull it. For the moment, let us--simply--"
His
words trailed off wearily. Glorfindel cleared his throat.
"Let
us simply be glad he is unconscious, and hope that what he can still feel is
not so terrible?" he finished. Elrond nodded fractionally.
"It
will have to do," Thranduil said, sighing heavily. He reached across his
son's inert form and gripped Elrond's shoulder in a gentle grasp. "Thank
you, Elrond. Thank you for what you have done to help my son--thank you, all
of you." He included Mithrandir and Glorfindel in his gaze, and nodded
tiredly. "You have saved his life, and I am grateful. Truly I am. I am
simply--stunned at the moment."
"As
are we all," Mithrandir said understandingly, and levered himself to his
feet with the help of his staff. "Celeborn is giving orders for the
warriors to move out. It does not seem prudent to remain here tonight, on land
so newly reclaimed from Shadow; we will head westward and find cleaner water
and better ground near the river."
"How
can we move Legolas?" Thranduil asked worriedly. "He is in no
condition--"
Mithrandir
could afford to be patient. He encircled Thranduil's shoulders with one arm,
and gave the Elf a brief hug and a bracing shake. "We cannot afford to not
move him. When the Tower fell, did he react at all? Blood of his blood was in
that place, and became one with the destruction; you yourself must have felt
it."
"Yes,
of course--but--"
"No
'buts' about it," the Istari said firmly. "The sooner Legolas is
away from here, even by a few bare miles, the better it will be for him. One
of the sumpter wagons can be unloaded, and well lined with cloaks; we will
bring him along like so much baggage, albeit most gently. Beside the running
waters of the Anduin, he will be far happier than he would be on this poor,
blighted hilltop. You will see."
There
was no arguing with him, of course; they all knew it to be so. Nodding
decisively, Mithrandir gave Thranduil one last quick embrace, then was off to
find a moment's solitude for his own replenishing of spirit. Glorfindel went
off to see if clean water could be found, for it would be some time before
they were completely ready to move--and he was of the opinion that young
Legolas would benefit as much from having all the excess blood washed away,
that had not already been so handled during the bandaging process, as he would
from any more esoteric means of bringing health and wholeness.
This
left Thranduil alone with his unconscious son and a near-swooning Elrond.
Practicality and a manic need to do
something took over; the son of Oropher borrowed a cloak from Morilinde and
wrapped Elrond in it, giving him more to drink from a flask of water. Saeros,
who had turned from mute contemplation of the destroyed Tower to see what more
he could do to assist, commandeered Hellan's cloak as well as Thalas's, and
used them as blankets for Legolas. Each in their own way, they puttered
through commonplace tasks in the attempt to deal with the anxiety.
When
at length Glorfindel returned, bringing warm, clean water and fresh cloths,
Thranduil knew what he needed most to do.
"I
will stay here with the child," he told the warrior gently but firmly.
"I think it would be best if you got Elrond away from here, find
something for him to eat--surely someone has some lembas or what-have-you.
When the time comes, he and Legolas can ride in the same wagon."
"Are
you certain?" Glorfindel asked quietly, taking Thranduil by the shoulders
with the privilege of an elder, and gazing deep into the Elven-king's eyes.
Thranduil nodded wearily.
"Yes.
Please. I--need to--be with my son."
Glorfindel
stared at him in silence for several moments, then nodded once. "If you
are sure," he relented.
"I
am as certain as I can be of anything, just now."
Reassured
but not fooled, Glorfindel gathered the exhausted Elrond to his feet and
helped him walk, moving along the treeline edge and away to be with his sons
and Celeborn. Saeros, head tilted to one side in a stance of question, stared
in silence at his king, waiting.
"Your
eyes bore through me, pen-iaur,
like a joiner's peg through a beam," Thranduil sighed, dropping to his
knees beside his son once again, and beginning the ministrations of as much of
a bath as he could receive under these circumstances. "If you have aught
to say, best to say it and be done."
"I
have no words, aran brannon,"
the ancient warrior murmured. "I am all relief and worry, wrapped up as
one."
"Then
we are alike, you and me." Thranduil gently, carefully wiped the dried
blood from Legolas’ thighs, a little at a time, letting the numbing
repetitiveness of the task keep his mind from attempting to comprehend what he
was actually doing. "Saeros, I--truly do need to be alone with Legolas.
Please, take the others and see if there are things that need doing. Come back
for us when Celeborn is ready to ride out, or if I call."
Saeros
nodded his understanding, and removed his warriors from Thranduil's side. The
Elven-king sat down cross-legged on the ground, a sigh escaping his lips.
By
your hand shall Legolas walk free of Dol Guldur.
Walk?
Not likely. Not for a while.
But
he lives….
For
a while.
He
reached out with a trembling hand to caress Legolas’ hair, wringing water on
the long, thick locks and wiping them free of blood. It was difficult going,
as the blood seemed days old rather than hours. As he worked, Thranduil began
to softly sing; it was an old, old lullaby, one that Luthiél had been wont to
sing to their children when they were but tiny Elflings, still in the cradle.
At first the music and the ancient words brought him peace of mind, gave a
rhythm to his work. But then, he felt his eyes filling with tears.
"My
poor tithen emlin," he
breathed, and bent down to kiss Legolas’ unresponsive cheek. "I know
not what to do, child--if I could, I might bring them all back so I could kill
them again, one at a time, just for you!"
He
tried to maintain his dignity, but it was all too much. The adrenaline ran
out, the agony took over; the encompassing fear of loss, the terror that yet
another of his children would be snatched away to Mandos' Halls out of season,
flooded in to take the place of all reason. Proud Thranduil bent double to the
ground beside his son and wept, burying his face in the bloodied folds of the
cloaks piled up beneath him, so that no one would hear.
"Ai,
nîn lend anu-hênedhel!" he sobbed, the words muffled by fabric and
forest. "Nîn hên faeg…."
The soft summer breeze drifted past, carrying the soft, sad sound away, but there was no comfort in its passage for the grieving, relieved King. Nor, he suspected, would there be any such thing for many days to come.
**********
TBC….
Translations:
Im
heledh:
I am bitterly cold
Síla'
bereth o guren:
shining Queen of my heart
Aran
brannon:
Lord King
Tithen
emlin:
little yellow bird, one of Thranduil's many pet names for Legolas
bereth
o hûn'nîn:
queen of my heart
Lasto
beth nîn:
Listen to me
Nîn
hên faeg!:
my poor child!
Ai,
nîn lend anu-hênedhel!:
Oh, my sweet Elfling!
pen-iaur:
ancient one
Neth
ernil:
young prince
Pen-iaur:
ancient one, old one; an honorific
Author
Notes, Take Two
The
Chapter Title this time comes from one of the wisest things ever said by
Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington (Commanding officer of Sharpe [Sean Bean,
yum!] in the Sharpe Series):
"Nothing
except a battle lost is half so melancholy as a battle won."
Which,
I think you'll agree, most of our Elven friends are feeling at the moment,
with the exception of those dark, merry, and perhaps a little wacky Silvan
Elves… (grin)
FYI:
I went back recently and re-read my story so far, and found a number of
inconsistencies. Because I am a Nit-pick Geek and level my own standards upon
my own work, I will be going back and fixing those; if you happen, in the next
few days, to see lots of update notices from the ff.net bots about my stuff
here, that's the reason. (I don't know if the bot fires when an old chapter is
updated; I think it might just bump the story to the top of the category
listings. But just in case, I offer the warning.)
Not
the least of these is the idea that Legolas, at age 40, has reached his full
growth as an Elf. Some reference is made to this in a couple of places, most
notably in Mithrandir's discussion with Elrond in Imladris, before they head
for Lórien. I note the following, brought to my attention by Astrochick in
her own "Folly of Starlight" works
(http://www.ithilas.com/fos/el.html) where the footnotes are just as
entertaining as the fiction:
"The
Eldar grew in bodily form slower than Men, but in mind more swiftly. They
learned to speak before they were one year old; and in the same time they
learned to walk and to dance, for their wills came soon to the mastery of
their bodies. Nonetheless there was less difference between the two Kindreds,
Elves and Men, in early youth; and a man who watched elf-children at play
might well have believed that they were the children of Men, of some fair and
happy people.... The same watcher might indeed have wondered at the small
limbs and stature of these children, judging their age by their skill in words
and grace in motion. For at the end of the third year mortal children began to
outstrip Elves, hastening on to a full stature while the Elves lingered in the
first spring of childhood. Children of Men might reach their full height while
Eldar of the same age were still in body like to mortals of no more of seven
years. Not until the fiftieth year did the Eldar attain the stature and shape
in which their lives would afterwards endure, and for some a hundred years
would pass before they were full-grown."
"Of
the Laws and Customs Among the Eldar", Morgoth's Ring: pp209-10
Going
by this, Legolas truly is still a child, still growing, and a lot less mature
than I was originally picturing him to be. However, you may have noticed
during this chapter that, in many ways, Legolas’ development has been
arrested, owing to what has happened to him since he was captured.
Essentially, he is still a child of the equivalent of eight years old:
dependant upon his father (and elders in general), but wanting his
independence; chafing at restriction, but desperately needful of being
restricted in some sense; teetering in that precarious childhood world of kids
that age, who want to run before they have the wit to keep themselves safe,
ricocheting back and forth between daring and neediness, defiance and
clinging. When I was that age I still slept with a teddy bear, but would have
cheerfully killed anyone that taunted me for it.
Legolas’
row to hoe is not going to be an easy one, for he is physically 16, mentally
8, and is possessed of pain and knowledge far beyond anyone else his age (and
then some!). He can kill an Orc with his bare hands, but cannot write well or
read well in his cradle tongue; he can face down Angmar, but cannot sleep
without a nightlight. You have seen some of what he has been through, but not
all; remember that the flashbacks only show bits of his torment, there are
eighteen years' worth of alternating terror and crashing boredom, days of too
much of the wrong sort of attention followed by lengthy periods of being
cruelly ignored. He knows what starvation feels like, what it does to your
head; he knows mental and physical anguish, and a longing for the
companionship of his own kind that no child should have to endure. He is
desperately clingy, and yet deeply, inexplicably angry (to his mind anyway) at
the very same father to whom he clings. He is, in short, a survivor of a very
specific and focussed abuse--what one reviewer has very cannily liked to
post-traumatic stress syndrome as seen in prisoners of war and concentration
camp survivors. The easy part will be healing him of his various physical
ailments (and you've seen how "easy" (NOT!!) that has been so far,
in this chapter). Stay tuned for the rest of the ride. I estimate there will
be about five more chapters to this, before we move into sequel-land.
TBC
(The
usual disclaimers apply. Silinde is the property of New Line Cinema & the
adorable PJ; book-Elves and situations are copyright Tolkien, certain
characters are made up by me, no infringement intended.)