Dark Leaf, Chapter 6: Where Thought Accuses

Hellan, son of Glorilas of Mirkwood, paused momentarily to dab the light sheen of sweat from his brow and take new bearings.  It was nearly dawn; the Orcs they had been shadowing for the last several hours would be growing desperate to return to Dol Guldur.  All the better; desperate Orcs were even more stupid than usual.  Hellan smiled thinly, his dark eyes scanning, ever scanning the region around him.  Let them learn the toll to be paid for the outrages they have committed, he thought grimly.  Let them learn the cost of what they have done… what they may yet attempt to do….

Beside him, silent as a shadow himself, was the captain of their band: Saeros the Tracker.  Almost everything about Saeros seemed dark: the long, lush hair, black as a raven's wing with highlights of blue in the growing light; eyes of a deep greenish hazel, so deep they bled to black in the shade.  Only his face was pale, long and lean with more than a little hint of his Avari and Silvan ancestry, and handsome in a fey way.  He was somehow more Elvish even than most of the Firstborn in Mirkwood, and was old enough that he had known King Oropher in his youth.  He both frightened and drew Hellan like a lodestone, and the younger Elf--no child by any stretch himself, being of the same generation as Thranduil--revered him as befit the oldest and most powerful being one knew.

"Larger party this night," Hellan said, his voice the mere breath of a whisper.  Saeros's eyes slid sidewise to take him in; there were no words or actions to indicate he had heard, but Hellan had no doubt he had done so.  They both watched the Orcs pass by, so close they could smell them, could count rivets in armour.  Neither Elf made any audible sound as the last of them--a knot of five young Orcs, a little clumsy in their lumbering steps, their weapons grasped in over-eager fingers--were herded past by a more seasoned Orcish sergeant.  But both knew the other had seen the same thing.  Hellan turned, expecting they would rejoin the others, but Saeros remained still and watchful, seeming relaxed but taut as a bowstring, staring off the way the Abominations had gone.  Several heartbeats more, then Saeros turned without comment and trotted back to where the others waited, Hellan on his heels and matching him for silence.

"We follow," the Tracker murmured, when the band was reassembled.  "Hold yourselves ready to fight. The last five but one--make certain to kill them."

"The last five, my captain?" one of the others asked.  He was Silvan, but the dark fall of his hair was lighter, bespeaking a Sindar parent; his deep grey eyes regarded Saeros with a tinge of confusion.  "What if their battle order changes?  How shall we know them?"

"They are branded on the left cheek with a sigil you know well.  You will note it when you see it," Saeros said , after a somewhat longer silence than might have been expected. "None of them are to live.  They are five in number.  Mark them and kill.  Quickly and cleanly."

With that he trotted away, his strides lengthening as he moved, until he was loping with the grace and intense focus of a stag.  The others silently moved out to follow, and shortly they overtook the fleeing Orcs.

The slaughter was indeed quick, and the entire Orc band--some fifteen in number--were very quickly dead.  The cleanness of the kills bespoke the skill of the hunters, far more than it spoke of mercy.  The others in the party saw what Saeros and Hellan had seen; no one spoke, no one needed to.  The looks of pain and fury that passed from eye to eye said all that was necessary.  Let the Sindar and the lordly Noldor swallow their fury, or express it in divers ways odd or glorious; Silvan folk were made of sterner stuff, and had long had their own methods of making clear their perturbation.  Before the sun had crested the treetops, bathing Dol Guldur in light that made it glow balefully, the dead Orcs were piled into a pyramid and burned cheerfully on the crest of the hill.  Some of the younger Elves in their fifth or tenth century sang as they worked, and glared defiance at the silent tower.  Saeros merely watched, waiting.

Once, just once, almost ten years ago, he had been rewarded with the sight of the captive Prince.  There at the window that looked toward his father's more north-easterly palace, young Legolas had managed to clamber up to look out; he had remained there for some time, returning song for song as Saeros did all he knew to let the child know he had not been forgotten.  It was a memory the Tracker cherished, despite the pain it caused him, despite knowing in what manner of coin the child had paid for the presumption, for the longed-for sight of kith and kin.

Even now if he closed his eyes Saeros could see the beloved face, the bright flash of his golden hair, the piercing brightness of blue eyes.  Even now the pale hand waved, the sweet voice sang back to them… even now, abruptly disappeared, the singing replaced at first with silence, then with outraged cries of pain and fury….

And now clearly the child was no longer a child.  Now Saeros understood the sounds they had heard a few days before: Orcs in celebration (never a good thing when Elves were captive within the Tower), and the screams and pleading cries of a young one in torment.  Now the prince was of an age to be bred like a stallion, and already the abomination had begun to spread.

As I live, they shall all die, Saeros vowed silently, relaxing his hand on the grip of his bow when he realized he was gripping too tightly.  If I can, I will make certain my King never sees these vile creatures.  But as I live, they shall all die….

For the rest of it, well, the Valar knew their business, he supposed, and had some purpose in mind for why the youngest Prince of Mirkwood should suffer this vile durance.  But Saeros knew his business too, and suspected it had something more of practicality to it than the affairs of the High Valar.

Hear me, Lady Elbereth, he breathed to the sky, tipping back his head.  Hear me, and deliver the little one from the hand of the Abominations….

After a time Saeros trotted off to rejoin the others, waiting for him in the fringe of the forest at the foot of the hill.  Another day had dawned….

**********

There came noise from below his tower cell, noise that seemed frighteningly reminiscent of a day not too far in the past now, noise that roused Legolas from an uneasy sleep.  His dreams had been dark and unsettled--moreso than usual--and he had not slept well thereby; he stared about in the predawn dimness, smelling fire and the odour of burning flesh.  His stomach turned, but then he heard it: another sound, a far more welcome one.

Elven voices raised in song: a powerful deep tenor, the voice of Saeros, raised on the morning breeze.  In Silvan cleverly interlaced with Quenya, he sang of retribution and prices paid; Legolas closed his eyes and squeezed out weary, grateful tears, understanding that Saeros and his fellows had done away with the royal band of Orc-lings the Nazgúl had brought to life the day before.

"Never was blood better spent, old one!" Legolas cried out as loudly as he could.  "A blessing on you and your line!"

From outside the cell door came a disgruntled growl: "Shut up in there, Elf-brat!"

Legolas laughed, pulling on his chains.  "Make me, Orc-bastard!"

"Oh, it is far and away too early for this!" came the retort, and a sighing grumbling that told Legolas his guard had settled back down, too hot and sleepy to make the effort just now.  "Mayhap later.  Shut up and sleep, Elf-brat!"

His mind wandered then, drifting in and out of dreams; Legolas watched the sun rise, gradually changing the colour and the shape of shadows in the cell as the high window let in both light and heat.  His thoughts bent toward the stench of burning Orc from outside; he smiled distantly, picturing Saeros with clarity from the pages of memory, seeing him standing there beside the pyre.  No more baby Orcs…. Good-bye, baby Orcs….

The trouble with morgul intervention in such matters, of course, was that the Wraiths were not dependent upon the cycles of the moon for the making of their vile warriors.  Legolas had pieced together bits of conversation from among the Orcs, once he awakened from his swoon in the dungeon to find himself mercifully back in his cell, and he realized: the Nine could bring their Orc females into rut any time they wanted to, could create the means to make their progeny--his progeny!--whenever they felt the need.  That had been sufficient to make Legolas twitch; it meant they could take him any time they wanted, and more Orc babies would be forthcoming.

Ada, Legolas thought into the sunrise, knowing his father would hear him, for Thranduil always rose to watch the morning come.  I must be quit of here or die in the trying, Ada--I will not let Shadow take me.  I cannot.  I don't like it here….

He considered, glancing about the chamber.  Every detail here was now intimately familiar to Legolas.  He had had eighteen years to count the stones that made up the floor, to measure their general size and comprehend their shape.  Likewise the walls and the ceiling.  He had memorized the grain of the wood that fashioned the bedstead, and imagined pictures within the whorls and striations thereof.  Each picture had a specific story behind it, tales he told himself over and over, because he was at heart a storyteller.

Of course I am a storyteller.  I am an Elf.

He had counted off the number of warp and weft threads that made up the rough cloth of the linens; knew how many widths of his hand made up the laborious climb up toward the window.  He smiled up at the window now, narrowing his eyes at it.

I will climb up again someday and visit, he promised.  I thank you for showing me the face of the forest again, for letting me see Saeros and the others.

I will climb up again someday….

The tower came to life around him--if such could be called life, at any rate--with the awareness of the remainder of the garrison that the previous night's patrol would not be returning.  There were angry cries and outraged shrieks as the pyre was discovered; Legolas heard the sharp twang! of bowstrings, marked the near-silent swoosh and the peculiarly noteworthy sound an arrow makes when burying itself in something solid, and realized there was a scuffle going on outside under his beloved window.

Saeros will not be beaten back.  Legolas smiled smugly.  He may fade into the forest for a time, but he will not be beaten back.  He sent a silent command to his mentor and friend: kill them all, Saeros.  Then come and fetch me, and we shall break the fast together while their corpses roast in the background….

"Such a lot of bother," came an Orc voice from without, and Legolas tensed to hear a key turning in the lock.  He decided this was as good a day as any to be awake and watchful, maybe even a little defiant; Saeros would be pleased.

I am stone today, he decided, and smiled very faintly.  No one can break stone unless they are Anagram.  No Dwarves here… so I am stone….

"Ah, you're still awake, Elf-brat.  Lots of doings this morning, yes!"  The Orc threw a flask of water at the prisoner; Legolas stared balefully at it, but decided even stones could use a drink from time to time.  He emptied the contents down his throat, imagining what it must feel like to be a waterfall--

No, not the fall, but the rock down which the water falls.  I am stone….

"Damned Elves killed all your babies," the Orc went on cheerfully, and tossed a handful of dried meat and berries at Legolas' feet.  "So eat up now, you're going to need all your strength."

The empty flask struck the Orc warrior in the back of the neck; he chuckled, reaching over reflexively to smack Legolas across the face.  "Brat…"

That hurt.  The stone is not amused.  Legolas stuffed the food into his mouth, chewing, chewing, trying to make it palatable.  The stone is hungrier than he thought.  I wish this were venison….

"Morgal is more than ready, brat," the Orc babbled on with good cheer, undoing the chains that generally bound Legolas to the wall for the better part of each day.  With almost affectionate roughness, he hauled the prisoner up off the floor whither he slid once the fetters were released.  "Many a fine young Orc will come forth from this mating, no doubt about that!"

Stone does not mate.

I do not think he can hear me….

"Stones do not mate," Legolas said aloud.  The Orc paused in mid-motion, and stared at him in utter confusion.

"You damned Elves and your poetry," the warrior sighed gustily, shaking his knobby head.  "I hate poetry.  I knew an Orc once that made poems--we killed him and ate him."

He rattled on in this vein as he half-dragged, half-carried Legolas over to the bedstead along one wall.  Legolas barely heard.  He suddenly did not have the heart to be stone; he felt fragile instead, and stone was not fragile, so he could apparently not be stone today.

Perhaps I am glass….

Dark thoughts always came to him on glass days.  Today was no different.

Fine young Orcs... my progeny.  How many of my kinfolk have these abominations killed?  How many of my kinfolk will kill this, my vile legacy?  I hope they all die, these fine young Orcs of the House of Thranduil...

Legolas chewed some more, and swallowed hard.  It hurt.

I am glass….

He wished he himself could die, but it was not likely to happen any time too soon.  He was an Elf of the purest blood, and would never sicken, never suffer illness, even here in this gross and horrific dungeon.  Nor was there any way the Orcs would kill him, risking the certain fury of the Nazgûl. Beat him until he bled, yes, for his blood was precious to them, for the making of Orcs.  Torture him and torment him, of course, because he was an Elf and they were Orcs, and the enmity ran deep. But until the Master said break it, kill it, make it an Orc itself and take it into battle, there would be no release of death that way.

Glass.  All the pretty shards in the sunshine….

The Orc dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed, stripped him to his skin, and tied his wrists together over his head.  Cackling cheerfully, he then patted Legolas on the head and ambled off to let Morgal know her little pet was ready to be mated.

Nothing to do but wait... sunlight streaming through the pretty glass….

Legolas dimly remembered hearing once that an Elf could die of a broken heart, but had no idea how such a thing was to be accomplished.  Surely by now, all that had happened to him was enough to induce such a death?  Surely the shame and horror he had endured over these last years were sufficient?  But no; apparently not.  And Legolas could not make himself blame Elrond Peredhil, the grave-eyed Elven elder who even now still frequently showed up in dreams... if not being rescued had not broken his heart, Legolas did not know of anything that would break it.

I do not really want to die -- do I?  While there is life, there is hope... it could happen.  Someone might rescue me.

Or I might escape.

That thought had occurred before, and Legolas' eyes narrowed as he pondered it now.  The daylight through his window was slanted almost in his direction.  He had figured out years ago that the window faced almost exactly north-east, on a line with the Long Lake and the land of the Dale-Men east of his home in Northern Mirkwood, through the simple means of climbing the wall one day when his bonds had been leather ties out of which he had squirmed.

A bit of knowledge worth the beating Galgrim gave me…

Legolas managed a shattered smile.  The knowledge, and the brief view of Saeros and the other Silvan Elves, his father's subjects, sitting at the edge of the clearing at the bottom of the treeless hill.... they had been worth the price.

If the glass can just survive Morgal's mating...

She just might happen to forget to return him to his chains, or perhaps would leave the key close enough to hand that he could reach it at the limit of those chains.  If he could remain here on the bed somehow until dark, when the warriors departed and it was just the females, there might be a chance.  Legolas was fairly certain he could undo the rope tying his wrists to the headboard. He smiled grimly to himself:

Or I could wrestle with the rope long enough to bleed, then slide out from the slickness....

The glass is full of blood.

The heavy wooden door swung open, striking the wall with a crash; Morgal stomped into the chamber, already disrobing, eager for her time with Legolas.  She slammed the door behind her, turned the key to lock herself in, and Legolas cringed.

She's in a good mood. Gods help me....

I am invisible, I am glass. See through me Morgal, I am not here….

"Little Elf," Morgal crooned, stepping out of the puddle of her clothing beside the bed and immediately straddling the pale, narrow body.  "Morgal's in rut today, bless the Master!  Going to make another fine Orc, yes!"

She ran her hands over Legolas' flesh with practiced familiarity, lowering her mouth to trail kisses and teeth-marks along his throat and chest.  He momentarily considered trying to make her be more affectionate, trying to convince her to free his hands--but the slobbering of her attentions made his gorge rise, and he could not stoop to let her take him easily.  As she leaned forward to nibble at his shoulder, Legolas worked one knee loose and pressed it against her chest.

"I don't care if you're in rut, you stinking bitch," he said coldly in Westron, and shoved as hard as he could.  Taken by surprise, she toppled backward and slid off the bed, snarling with annoyance and lust.  "Leave me alone!"

Morgal crawled back up to her knees beside the bed and slapped him, then drove her fist into his stomach, taking the wind out of the young Elf.  She scrabbled for more rope and efficiently tied his ankles to the side rails as well, with just enough length on each side to allow him a small amount of comfort--and sufficient spread for her to get between his thighs.  Then she wormed an arm behind his shoulders and pulled Legolas into her embrace, pressing him against her enormous muscular bosom.

"You're mine, my little pet, and mine you'll stay," she informed him, stroking his face and hair, trying in her way to soothe him from the pain she had inflicted.  "Stop arguing with Morgal now, I'm in no mood for games with you today."

And though he struggled, hating her rough kindness and desperate to not be used like a stud animal, there was no rescue from it--none at all.  Morgal knew exactly how to make his body respond whether he would or no; her rough hand did things to his genitalia that made him harden, and then her mouth did more things that made him squirm and weep and want....

The Orc sat down atop him, sliding his member into her turgid flesh, and began to ride him--slowly at first, but then with increasing speed and insistence.  Morgal leaned down over his chest, sucking at his nipples and biting them until she drew blood.  Legolas was almost relieved when he felt her hand at his backside, felt the now-familiar intrusion of her fingers into his body, rubbing and milking at the spot that always guaranteed an explosive ejaculation, because it meant she would be done, successfully mated, and she would go away, leaving him to curse and weep and wish in peace.  And so it seemed would be the case today.

Now the glass will be empty….

Morgal grunted and screamed her way through her own orgasm, clawing at his chest in her release; she ground her hips against his, taking in as much of his seed as she could, and then rose up as she had so many times before.  Legolas closed his eyes, feeling hot tears slide out of the corners, down his cheeks and into his ears.

Done, thank Elbereth she's done... now just go away, please, go away....

But Morgal did not leave.  She untied his ankles, and to his absolute horror, Morgal snuggled down onto the bed beside him, gathering his body into her arms and nuzzling him as if he were her best beloved.  This had happened before, with some of the other females as well as with Morgal; as near as Legolas had been able to figure out, this behaviour signalled several hours' worth of the unwanted attentions he always dreaded receiving.  He could feel his flesh shuddering with disgust; he kept his eyes squeezed shut as Morgal grunted and grumbled to herself in the Orcish tongue, her hands roaming over his body, her legs locked about his.  Her tongue did disturbing things to his shoulders, his throat, his back.  She made little claw marks in his flesh, raising blood, and contentedly suckled against the wounds she made, lapping and licking, chuckling with amusement when the healing so natural to his Elvish heritage caused the little broken bits of flesh to close up again.

Glass, I am glass…. I will be wood tonight.  Perhaps I shall hit her and make her bleed.

Eventually she aroused him in her efficient way a second time, and molested him again; he lost track somewhere in the midst of it all, swooning from hunger and hatred and a horrifying sense of relief that someone was hugging him, holding him, murmuring comforting words into his ears.

Some attention is better than none, is it not?

Legolas threw his head back and began to upbraid himself aloud in Sindarin, crying out at the injustice of it all, begging Elbereth to hear him and transport him immediately to the Halls of Mandos.

How could the Valar allow this?  Thought takes the glass to the abyss… it makes the glass cry out for this, where it might actually decide it wants this–

Beside him, unseen by Legolas in his inner agony, Morgal narrowed her eyes; she knew the approach of one of his most feral moods, those times when he became so violent and unreachable that no beating, no rape, no kindness could touch him, and even the Orc warriors had learned to avoid him.

She locked arms and legs about the shuddering, slender body in her embrace and bit down hard on the side of his throat, tearing the delicate flesh, making the blood flow.  The pain distracted him, surprising a shout of agony from Legolas; Morgal clamped her lips over the blood flow, sucking powerfully, intending to weaken him so there could be no struggle.

"No! You cannot drink from this glass!  Leave it alone!"

He tried to wriggle free of her, but there had been little food or water this day, and he was already exhausted by the violence of her copulating….  Well before the torn flesh healed over, Legolas lay panting in Morgal's embrace, unable to even focus his eyes on the wall barely an arm's length away.

She held him until the panting ceased and his eyes, much-dilated, lost all coherence, glazing over and staring off into some realm of Elvish nightmare.  Morgal continued holding him as he slept from sheer exhaustion, noting how he twitched in his sleep from time to time, murmuring brokenly in Sindarin; the beseeching phrases struck some chord deep within Morgal, who had, after all, been born an Elf herself, long, long centuries ago.  She petted him then, smoothing back the fine, silken hair, dotting his high, pale cheeks with kisses, and noted with amused calculation that all unaware, Legolas snuggled, whimpering, into the bizarre comfort of her affection.  She reached up to untie his wrists, gentling his arms down; the sleeping Elf turned into her embrace, nuzzling against her shoulder, and there he remained for hours.

As he slept, Legolas dreamed...

*****

He was a child again, a very little child, laying in a huge bed between his parents.  Spooned up against the comforting strength of his father, he could feel Thranduil’s arm over him, could hear the baritone rumble of the king's voice in his ear and feel his heartbeat through his back.  Thranduil was singing as Elves tended to do especially when they were happy, and at this moment he was quite content indeed.  Legolas could see his beloved mother, Luthiél, from a strange angle--for she was cuddling him on her shoulder, one slender hand tickling and petting her adored youngest child, while her free hand toyed with one of Thranduil’s sidelock braids.  Legolas could hear his mother's heartbeat as well, and the dual, steady rhythm of life within both of his parents was a thing of incredible comfort.  He felt so sleepy, and safe, and loved. Even as his gaze began to lengthen past the sweet swell of Luthiél's bosom beneath the pale green of her bedgown, and more frequent yawns punctuated his humming accompaniment to his father's song, Legolas just knew it was possible to remain like this forever....

Legolas...

It was a voice he knew, had heard many times before, and it was not the voice of either of his parents.  He shut his eyes, shaking his head.

No, please, I don't want to leave here.  Let me stay right where I am; it truly is so much safer in the past...

Legolas, hear me, the voice persisted.

No. I hear nothing, save my father's singing and the beat of his heart, and my mother's heart.  There is no other sound--it is the dead of night and I am safe, safe, safe!

Then rest, little prince, the voice sighed, a note of pain and acceptance in its tone.  Far be it from me to add to your burden... I will not shake you out of the past.

*****

Elrond Peredhil was awake, refreshed, and even somewhat relaxed by the time Mithrandir arrived the next morning.  All of the usual loving courtesies were observed; Imladris was renowned for its welcoming nobility of spirit, and Elrond's people loved Mithrandir well.  He arrived on horseback, bearing with him saddlebags full of interesting old scrolls and books he had discovered on his most recent journeys.  These he knew would bring a light to the eyes of Elrond who, as a Lore-Master, was a voracious reader--and would have been so, even if he were not responsible for the keeping of Elvenkind's collective racial memory.

Old indeed was Mithrandir, even older than Elrond or Celeborn or Galadriel, for he was one of the Maiar--great and powerful wizards, worshipped as gods by some races in the Elder days--yet there was a youthful twinkle in the blue eyes shining out from under the shaggy brows, as he dismounted amid the songs of welcome from the people of Imladris.  A little goldfinch, its feathers ruffled, landed with a flick of its tail between the ears of Mithrandir's horse. The Maia accepted all greetings--embraces, kisses, handclasps--as he made his way through the happy crowd to greet Elrond and his family.  The broad brim of his tall, pointed hat shadowed his features somewhat, but Elrond could see Mithrandir had not changed a very great deal since his last visit, now nearly a hundred Man-years into the past, barely long enough for an Elf to become even vaguely impatient.

Barely time -- in normal circumstance, Elrond thought, and sighed inwardly.  In the back of his mind, cold dread wandered like an uncontested thief, taking leisurely stock of a place he intends to plunder, halted by no one due to the familiarity of his presence.  Dread had become a daily companion, and Elrond no longer looked to it with anything other than anticipation of some terrible waking nightmare, shared with the captive Prince of Mirkwood.  The Lord of Imladris touched a hand briefly to his own brow, willing the headache to go away, and raised his face to Mithrandir's.  His smile looked almost normal; even Glorfindel was impressed.

What Mithrandir saw as he gazed into the eyes of Elrond, however, was the Istari's affair--for he said nothing, only looked, then smiled from within the swirling grey of his long beard and held out his arms to the Lord of Imladris.

"Ah Elrond, it has been too long--far too long!" he announced, laughing with delight at the reunion.  Elrond took those arms in a fervent handclasp, then pulled the wizard to him in a quick, hard embrace.

"Long enough, my old friend--as some folk might reckon the years," he retorted fondly, though there was a hint of sadness in his tone that Elrond could not hide, and Mithrandir noticed immediately.

"Long enough to have many things of which we need speak," the wizard said, and was unsurprised that Elrond turned to lead him into the House.  Mithrandir glanced at those present of Elrond's adult children as he passed them--smiling a greeting to the severe sweetness that was Elladan, and his mirror-likeness, the merry, bright-eyed Elrohir.  When younger, both would happily have thrown themselves into Mithrandir's arms for an embrace and to share in his delightful conversation.  Now, they apparently felt themselves too grown up for such things.  Or was that the same sadness in their eyes that deepened Elrond's expression? Mithrandir glanced at the hovering Glorfindel, saw a look of weariness that spoke deep volumes, and sighed lightly.  He sorted through all the news he had heard of late from various sources, and wondered which bit of information would prove to be the key to this mystery.

He did not have long to wait.  Elrond led him into the library, leaving instructions with various responsible persons along the way that they were not to be interrupted, save that food and drink were to be brought for Mithrandir.  The wizard made himself comfortable in a chair, exchanging pleasantries and news of the outside world with Elrond until the servants had come and gone.  Then, in the awkward silence that briefly followed, Mithrandir glanced at the curious item on one end of the table, to which Elrond's attention was occasionally drawn.

"That is an interesting toy you have there," the wizard murmured, and sipped at his wine.  "By the make and markings I would take it to be a bow of Mirkwood, such as Thranduil’s Elves use.  But it is rather small for a warrior--and broken, to boot."

"Yes, broken," Elrond replied softly, his fingertips almost touching the shattered weapon.  Almost, but not quite, for touching the bow in the past had always brought on such interesting reactions.  "Broken in battle against the Orcs some eighteen years ago."

"Ah," Mithrandir sighed, and a flicker of sadness crossed his strong features.  "Then it would be the bow of Prince Legolas, son of Thranduil."

"Indeed it is."

When Elrond said nothing more, Mithrandir rose to join him. He picked up the bow in two hands, noting how it was shattered at the deerhide grip, the string snapped about at its middle as well.  He also noticed Elrond's expression as the wizard touched the weapon--one hand half-raised, mouth opening as if to protest or forbid, then a kind of sigh, and Elrond shook his head.  "So you know of the young one's fate, then."

"Some," Mithrandir acknowledged.  "I have had correspondence with Galadriel and Celeborn of course, and I have instruction directly from Curunír.  Having heard of the capture of an Elf of some consequence, I of course wished to find out more.  They spoke but little of it--and with evident sadness, at that.  At first, all Galadriel would reassure me was that it had not been yourself, or any of your children."

"And yet you know more," Elrond said flatly.  Mithrandir nodded.

"A little information may open many a door," he said, cocking one eyebrow.  "I have my ways of learning and seeing, my old friend. Celeborn told me as much as he knew.  Galadriel of course held her own counsel for her own reasons; she knew I was on my way here."

Elrond gripped the edge of the table.  "I--see," he whispered.  "Mithrandir, if Celeborn has told you all he knows, there is little else I can say to enlighten you.  But if you have seen Legolas by some other means, you know more than I.  Please--tell me what you saw!"

Mithrandir gazed long and silently at the Lord of Imladris, then sighed a little and glanced down at the broken Mirkwood bow.  He could sense a great deal of energy in the shattered wood and the gut of the sundered string.  He could also sense a connection between this weapon, its former owner, and the current keeper.  It was a connection that unnerved him, knowing as he did how seriously Elves took such matters of honour.

"Elrond, my old friend, you did what you could eighteen years ago," he pointed out, trying to sound both consoling and reasonable.  "I am deeply grieved to hear that one of Thranduil’s remaining sons was forced into captivity by the Orcs.  You and the others did the best you could, but it happened.  You of all beings should know there is a reason for everything.  A reason for the saving as well as the losing--a reason for the weary years of captivity.  And there will be a reason why we shall be able to free the lad and bring him safely home."

"Is there also a reason for making the lad father Orcs?" Elrond demanded, his voice harsh with the effort to control his emotions.  "Nay, never mind, forget that I spoke," he then sighed, waving a hand as if to brush the words away.  "The world goes as it wills, not as you or I would have it do."

Mithrandir looked with compassion upon Elrond's bowed head.  "I believe you asked what I have seen," he murmured.

The Lord of Imladris froze, then slowly raised his eyes to those of the wizard.  "Yes."

Mithrandir did not reply right away.  When he did, he chose his words with great care.

"The prince has indeed come to nearly his full growth.  With the young, one must always be aware they may have another growth spurt coming, be it the width of a finger or the span of a hand--but if surroundings are aught by which to judge, he is easily the same height as his brother Brethilas--though slender, far more slender."

Mithrandir narrowed his eyes at Elrond, measuring the familiar form, and smiled faintly.  "He is not so tall as yourself, but may eventually close the gap."  He held one hand up to about the centre of Elrond's face.  "I made him to be about so tall."

Elrond closed his eyes.  It was a measure that matched his own guesses, based on less direct contact.  "What more did you see?"

"I know you are aware what he looks like," Mithrandir said neutrally, giving the bow a significant look as he set it gently down on the table.  "So I will only say this: his colouring he has from Thranduil, but without a doubt he is Luthiél's in frame and form.  Not surprisingly he looks in need of several very filling meals, though--he has grown somewhat hollow about the cheeks and eyes."

After a moment, Mithrandir added: "He has a way of looking, when angry, that all but shouts Oropher to those who knew the old King."

Elrond felt a light shudder pass through him.  He had seen some of Oropher's rages, which had always begun quietly, even calmly, then had built to tremendous fury.

"I see," the Lord of Imladris said.

"If I had not been on my way here already," Mithrandir murmured gently, "I would have come on the strength of what I have learned."  When Elrond turned, his eyes full of dread, the wizard nodded. "There is a great deal of power in the boy, something the Nazgûl may realize by now, something that may even have seeped through to the lackwit Orcs.  Luthiél's line was always a little fey in its way--but never like what I saw."

Mithrandir went on to describe what he had seen: the moods moving rapidly between despondence, defiance, and curious joy; the playful exercise of fantasy that almost always bled over into anguish and retreat from sanity.  As he listened, Elrond's expression became more and more still, his eyes wider and more stunned.

"When you have rested, we must go to Lórien with all haste," the Lord of Imladris said at last.  "For wherever you saw this, and by whatever means, it mirrors what I have shared with him, mind to mind.  I fear for him, Mithrandir--moreso with every passing day."

"Celeborn's messages speak of reaching the end of patience," the Maia murmured, one eyebrow arching up expressively.  Elrond felt a shudder go up his spine, whether from anxiety or the thrill of resolution hoped for, he could not have said.  Perhaps both…

"I would not want to be the Nazgúl that got between Celeborn and the end of his patience," Elrond said, his eyes glittering with long-suffered patience of his own.  He could feel his restraint ravelling like an unwaxed bowstring.

"I would not want to be anything that got between Celeborn and such a concept," Mithrandir chuckled humourlessly.  "Still waters run deep, and you know what water can do.  I have seen the Bruinen dance to your tune."

Elrond closed his eyes, nodding distractedly.  Celeborn's messages speak of reaching the end of patience… this is the way the world ends.  Still waters run deep….

"We can leave with the dawn in the morning," Mithrandir said into the silence, and drained his goblet.  "Tonight I shall watch you sleep--if you mind not, old friend, I need to see what happens if the young Prince walks in your mind while you sleep."

"It need not wait upon sleep," Elrond murmured, surprising a grunt from the wizard.  "But yes, if watching an old Elf sleep pleases you, be welcome."

Mithrandir chuckled kindly.  "Child, it will be my pleasure to do so. In the meantime, I have scrolls and books for you--things to amuse a Lore-Master, if you will have a look."

Grateful for the distraction, Elrond nodded his delight.

*****

"No, Thranduil. What you ask is simply not possible." Celeborn stared down at his long, pale hands, steepling them before him, his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair.  If he moved his fingers just so, they bore a distinct resemblance to the bare branches of trees he remembered from winters in distant Doriath, in his equally distant youth.  It seemed poignantly poetic to think on it now; he was therefore smiling slightly, his expression distant and kind, when he raised his quicksilver eyes to gaze upon the King of Mirkwood, his kinsman.  "No. I regret to have to say it, but no."

The son of Oropher had never been a particularly patient Elf at any point in his existence to date.  Exhaustion and the expenditure of much grief, along with an utter disruption of his customary routine of life, had left Thranduil less than balanced in his walk upon Middle-Earth in these latter days, so Celeborn's pronouncement did not cause the advent of any untoward outburst.  But it would have been a drastic understatement to suggest the words had little effect.

"I am a guest here, kinsman, and so I will overlook the implication of your speech," the Elven-king murmured, and Celeborn silently congratulated him for only allowing the slightest colouration of sarcasm to mar his tone.  "It has been a number of years since anyone told me I might not come or go as I please--and you are neither my sire, nor one of the Valar.  I will leave in the morning at first light, will you or no."

"You shall not," Celeborn said politely, his expression bland, his eyes almost twinkling.  He had forgotten how entertaining Thranduil could be, when contriving to be difficult.

The Elven-king lifted both eyebrows at that, and made a show of wiggling a finger in one delicately pointed ear.

"It may be that birdsong has affected my hearing," he rumbled, almost smiling, "or perhaps the heat has dulled my ears.  But I would have sworn you told me I shall not depart."

"Or words to that effect," Celeborn said, nodding.  Thranduil closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep, considered breath.

"Explain."

Celeborn decided he could afford another dollop of patience.  "We have decided it would be prudent for you to await the coming of Mithrandir and Elrond," he said, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in the faintest lift of amusement.  "This cannot come to pass if you depart, kinsman.  For sweet reason's sake you must remain."

"I am not, generally speaking, held to be a person of sweet reason," Thranduil said.  He opened his eyes and stared at Celeborn; his powerful hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs.  The Lord of Lórien raised one eyebrow in agreement.

"No, that you are not."

"I will not be spoken to so," the King said then, quietly stubborn, but in a faraway manner that tugged at Celeborn's heart.  "You know what rankles in my heart, kinsman.  Your child was there once, too.  For the sake of what Celebrían suffered, you cannot deny me the right to try again, to free my child."  He looked up then, eyes luminous in the twilight dimness that was the heart of Lórien. Thranduil's tone shaded toward the kind of hopeless sorrow that suggested he knew he spoke in vain, but had to try anyway.  "All I ask is resolution.  Surely that is no great matter."

"You stun me with how often you presume the answer will be what you hope it will not," Celeborn said, and sighed lightly.  He unlaced his steepled fingers and touched one considering hand to his chin.  "Not a one of us fails to share your hope, son of Oropher.  We all want Legolas' freedom to be won.  We have tried before, and we will not cease from trying.  The odds are better now."

Thranduil raised one ironic eyebrow.  "Are they, then."

Celeborn did not need to reply.  They all knew what had gone forth over the years since Legolas' capture.  Twice in force, and at least twenty times twice in smaller groups, Elves of Lórien, Mirkwood, and Imladris had made forays against the dark tower of Dol Guldur.  Elrond had led them, Glorfindel had led them, Thranduil himself had led them.  Many Orcs and Uruk-hai had died; numerous Elves had paid with their lives as well.  They had come so very close on at least two of those occasions.  But always, either the Witch-King or his chiefest lieutenant in the Tower, the Nazgúl known only as Khamûl, had returned in time to sway the balance in favour of Shadow--and as Galadriel had wryly put it, "it was not the time to do battle with the Nine."

But time, as Celeborn might have indicated had anyone scrupled to ask, has a habit of changing almost on the turn of a breath.  Something deep within him said it was time, and more than time, to bring the battle back to its fullness….

All he said to Thranduil, however, was this: "Mithrandir is with us this time."

"Marvellous," Thranduil grumbled, settling back in his seat.  "More grandiose plans and the befouling of the air with pipe-weed.  That will make a great difference indeed."

"You splendid young pup," Celeborn breathed on a fond note, shaking his head.

Thranduil only growled, skewing his mouth sidewise.  The silence deepened between them; at last, the Lord of Lórien spoke once again.  "No further talk of leaving then."

"I have not decided."

"Ah well, I have," Celeborn pointed out.  His northern kinsman slowly raised his head, the blue eyes glittering.  Celeborn boxed up his patience neatly, leaning forward with narrowed eyes, just the merest shade of deepness added to his measured voice.  "If I must drug you and chain you upside-down from a tree, Thranduil, rest assured I shall.  You try my poise, young one, truly you do.  It is not a sport for the faint-hearted."

Thranduil subsided, knowing all too well of what Celeborn was capable when roused; but he could not help one final volley: "I have yet to be considered faint of heart, myself."

Celeborn gave a smile that was remarkable for its lack of pleasantry.

"There is a first time for everything, kinsman."

They spoke no more of such matters, for it was nearly time to break their fast, and Galadriel was expecting them to table.  Thranduil begged a moment to make himself presentable; Celeborn nodded gravely and rose to make his unhurried way through Caras Galadhon, to the lovely, airy chamber where he and his beloved generally took their private meals.  On his way past, the Lord of Lórien beckoned to his watch captain; Haldir glided soundlessly to his side and bowed deeply.

"My lord?"

"I know it is not your watch, Haldir, but indulge me," Celeborn commanded mildly, the fingers of one hand brushing the guardian's pale blue sleeve.  "You know his state of mind; if he goes even a mile past where he is residing, he is to be restrained."

Haldir gave a faint grin. "Is there a preferred drug, good my lord?" he asked cheekily, knowing beyond doubt that Celeborn knew he had overheard all.  Celeborn lifted an eyebrow in absolution.

"No. Nor is there a preferred tree.  To the best of my recollection there is no canonical method for the binding of stubborn kings, either."

"Upside-down, my lord?"

Celeborn gave the lightest of sighs, gazing off in the direction Thranduil had gone.  "Whatever succeeds, Haldir.  I shall trust your discretion."

*****

Far be it from me to add to your burden... I will not shake you out of the past….

Silence.

Lack of the Elder's voice pushed Legolas toward wakefulness, and the guilt, the shame, came flooding back.  He tried not to open his eyes, did his best not to hear the snorting, grumbling sound of Morgal's snores, but the very act of trying to ignore them made the sounds all that much more obvious.

Legolas slowly opened his eyes the merest little bit, and inwardly gave a silent cry of pain--for the shoulder on which his head lay pillowed was not that of his mother, but was the mottled, roughened flesh of his tormentor, Morgal.  Luthiél was long dead of course, would never know of her son's captivity and shame, and Legolas was glad of it for the first time.  As long as she lived in his dreams, there was nothing of defilement or shame for her....

He wanted to free himself from Morgal's embrace, but could not, for her arms and legs were rigidly locked about him.  He glanced down at her puckered belly, with the long stretch marks of her many successful matings, and thought with loathing of the creature growing within her now--a creature he had made, that the Shadow would take and bring to full adulthood in those nasty vats below, then send out against Elf-kin, or Men, or Dwarves.  Legolas wished there was a way to stop it--to kill her, perhaps, and prevent the abomination from ever truly existing, and prevent her from ever touching him again.  But there were four other females in the Tower, all of whom had borne his progeny, and after he was severely beaten as punishment for killing Morgal, his blood would be taken from him to make even more Orcs, and the other females would rape him for his seed, one after another as they came into rut.  Or the males would ravish him, and collect the seed they forced him to spill, and the result would be the same...

Despair, his only reliable friend, came back with a rush.  Legolas closed his eyes and let the tears come, swallowing the sobs so Morgal would not awaken.

If only she will remain asleep until sunset, when Galgrim comes bellowing for assistance with his armour... then she will dress and go away, and perhaps this time, she will forget the key, leave it where she dropped it... or forget to lock me into the chains....

But despair's quiet, resigned whisper echoed in his mind:

You cannot do it, there are too many of them, and anyway -- how can you ever go home and be normal, knowing what has happened to you?  They won't have you back, you know that to be true.  Better to go with the devil you know... 

Despair sounded exactly like himself to Legolas, these days.  Choking with the effort not to wake his tormentor, the young Elf made himself ignore the pain in his guts, cramping and burning all at once, as he refused to give vent to the sorrow and anger....

Mustn't break the glass.  Pieces will be lost like starstuff, and there are not enough Eagles to claim them all anew….

**********

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