Dark Leaf, Chapter 7: The Edge of the Greater Blade…

The chair in which she sat, watching as more splinters and cracks appeared in the era that had been known as the Watchful Peace, was very old. It had been old when her name was still Nerwen; then it had been her mother who sat here, watching various things unfold in places barely known to some of those Galadriel watched this night. She traced one long pale finger over the whorls and patterns made by the grain of the wood, and her deep blue eyes were focused many years into the past. Many long moments went calmly past, and still Galadriel's finger moved over the wood: she wrote names of loved ones and enemies alike, all now long gone; she drew little pictures of people and places among whom she had created her memories, or had them created for her. The lovely Tengwar calligraphy that made up one specific name kept appearing over and over: Legolas….

A horizontal line, then a gentle curve below; that was the first consonant. Straight as his young spine when he stood up to the Witch-King in the dungeon; gently curved as the softness of a young Elven cheek when he was first taken prisoner eighteen years gone…. The strong upstroke of the vowel, like a flag of challenge; then the second consonant, another straight horizontal stroke with two rounded curves below, ending in the upright downward line: the banner of the House of Oropher, dancing in the breeze above Dagorlad… the nestled form of a loving couple come together to bring new life in the birth of a son…. Galadriel closed her eyes and continued to trace: a second L with the impudent curve of another vowel diacritic above, and finally the sweet sweep of the terminal consonant, curved at the bottom like the tightly-furled frond of a fern before it has fully opened to the sunlight: Legolas… little Green Leaf….

It had been a difficult night so far for all of them. Military matters were Celeborn's forte, in a way that surprised many who did not know him from his youth; he had been everywhere in Lórien this night, quiet, reassuring, a steady presence, seeing everything, missing nothing. Galadriel had been privately amused at the many deep silences she had observed among her people, as busy, chattering groups of Galadhrim had suddenly fallen still in surprise to find Celeborn among, beside, behind -- and occasionally above -- their discussions, adding his opinion or giving a lightly worded command here or there. Now on horseback, often on foot, even up the trees, Celeborn had probably covered more of Lothlórien in the hours since breakfast than he generally did in a month or longer. Galadriel had caught his eye on any of a hundred occasions during the day, and he had looked somehow curiously more present, vibrantly alive and focused, even than he did on a daily basis to her observant and approving eye. He was in an element few who knew him slightly would have thought would suit him at all, and Galadriel was pleased that it should be so.

A little stirring of long-rested pots is a good thing, she thought, arching one slender eyebrow, pursing her lips in a thoughtful smile of great, deep amusement. Celeborn of Doriath, my dreamer, my forester… you do well to haul them back from time to time, that they may remember and be grateful!

But for Galadriel it had been not so busy a day, in terms of useful, helpful things -- things that busied the hands to help keep the mind from wandering. Her activity had all been of the heart and the mind, and of the Mirror, and it had been beyond wrenching. I am not so patient as Celeborn, she reminded herself, and both her brows drew down into a considered frown. I am long past the point of patience….

From across the glade she could feel his eyes upon her; Galadriel raised her head, turning unerringly to meet the familiar, steadfast beauty of his visage, the comforting quicksilver of Celeborn's eyes. He was all silver in the twilight: silver hair, silver robe, silver eyes, the pale wash of his skin and the brightness that was his inner flame, silver, all silver. He sensed her disquiet, sensed her pain, and tilted his head very slightly; it made him look very Wood-Elvish, and she thought: I have seen that same little gesture in young Greenleaf, his kinsman. Galadriel felt a twinge of poignancy. Adding a twitch of the eyebrow that was pure Noldor in its insolent surety, the White Lady returned that peculiar tilt of the head and dared him to say anything. But because he was Celeborn, he simply laughed at her, a deep, comforting sound that made her warm in all the deep places of her body and being. Some of those among whom he moved at the moment -- trusted captains, Elves who had ridden to battle behind him before, and some who did not even know how many weapons he had mastered in his millennia -- gazed at him in quiet amazement to hear him laugh at such a time as this, but Galadriel understood.

There are battlefields, my Síla'iaun, she thought at him, and there are battlefields. See to it you keep your spear straight and true for me before this night is through, sweet forester….

One corner of his sensual mouth tipped upward; hand to heart, he bowed slightly. Ever yours to command, bereth o hûn'nîn….

Galadriel closed her eyes once more on a wash of sweetness so powerful that it was akin to pain. She sat there for a long while, listening to the sounds of preparation for war all around her; restlessly, her fingers returned to their invisible calligraphy, tracing the name of Thranduil’s young son into the wood. Sometimes she traced the name of her only child, her daughter Celebrían, consecrating her pain along with that of the current captive: two beautiful young Elves, one moonlit, one sunshine, like threads of finest mithril and gold in a tapestry…. Celebrían’s heart had nearly been broken by a captivity of much shorter duration, and there had never again been any cause for joy in her life; not all the adoring devotion of her three children could save her, not even the healer's hands of her Lore-Master husband. In time she had simply taken ship to Valinor, rather than stay where her being was riven with fear and memory. Would it come to that for the son of Thranduil and Luthiél? If they could bring him safely out of the Dark Tower, would there be a ship in Legolas' future? Galadriel wondered briefly if Valinor was ready for a sweet-souled little spitfire like the youngest Mirkwood princeling, and had a chilling urge to laugh.

The last of Ingwë's line sent to Valinor… an Elf prince of the purest blood, raised by Orcs… she wondered what the great Vanyar High King would think of such a thing, and realized it would probably not be nice at all. The blood of millennia looks down upon us… Oh, what a pretty little tempest that would cause! After so many long years, they could probably stand the excitement….

While she was thus preoccupied, Galadriel heard the sound she had been waiting for most of the previous night and day. It started off fairly quiet, almost reasonable, certainly sleepy; the words were so slurred with weariness and other things, that she could not quite understand what was being said. But then, one clear sentence came out in a smothered roar:

"Then find Haldir and bring him to me. NOW!"

Much closer, she heard Celeborn sigh, a light sound of amusement and inevitability. "Another country heard from… I was wondering when he would waken."

Something made of glass broke with a vengeance; Galadriel opened her eyes, arching an eyebrow in the direction of the guest flet, wondering if that had been cup or vase. A quiet-eyed young Galadhrim backed down the stairway and jumped lightly to the ground, trying very hard not to laugh; he leaned his face into the trunk of the mallorn and concentrated on breathing, interrupted every few moments by a muffled chuckle. Another heartbeat, and another; then, regally dishevelled and looking far more rested than he had been in days, Thranduil of Mirkwood stepped out of the hut and leaned woozily over the balcony.

"And when you find that young pup, tell him for me I intend to re-arrange every part of him, such that his own grandsire will not know him for the change," he announced, shaking one angry finger at the younger Elf. "Tell him, in fact, that I shall turn him into knots. In places he did not think were possible to be knotted."

Another Elf, one of the servants, stood behind Thranduil on that balcony, and was preventing him from tumbling over to the forest floor below; she had both feet braced against one of the balcony supports, and was hauling back on the belt of the Elven-King. Watching the amazing sight, Celeborn wanted very badly to be annoyed -- but in fact he was uncommonly proud of Thranduil, and it was everything he could do not to simply burst out in appreciative applause. He just looked so magnificently rumpled, so completely, heroically sleepy -- in short, so utterly un-Thranduil-like, that Celeborn was expansively delighted with him.

I wish by all the Valar that Elrond could see him like this, the Lord of Lórien thought to Galadriel. The White Lady did laugh then, a delighted trill of sound that was echoed in decorously smothered chuckles all around her. Fortunately Thranduil was in no condition to realize any of it.

"Do you know what that young thug of yours did?" the Elven-King demanded, spotting Celeborn below him and leaning perilously out over the balcony railing.  

"Would this be Haldir of whom we speak?" Celeborn queried, so sedulously polite that one could almost see social wickedness seeping out his pores.

Thranduil nodded, a gesture of wounded grandeur. "It would indeed."

"I see. And what did Haldir do?"

Thranduil drew himself up to his full height -- he had always been an impressive Elf, and had a fine sense of a moment when he was completely within his right mind -- and grasped at the revers of his sleep-rumpled robe. "He drugged me. The smug-faced little whelp drugged me!"

"Did he, now." Celeborn tucked his left arm in to his slender waist, cupping the elbow of his right arm in one hand; his right hand he brought up to cover his eyes, as if in bemused horror of what his watch-captain had done. Galadriel saw his shoulders shudder once, briefly, with amusement; such subtleties were utterly lost on the son of Oropher, fortunately.

"He did, indeed."

"And -- was that all he did?" the Lord of Lórien asked, when he had mastered the evenness of his tone. Galadriel was both impressed and amused at how well Celeborn schooled his expression to complete civility and calm.

Thranduil’s brows shot up; he drew back, blinking. "Is that not enough?"

"I should certainly hope it was," Celeborn retorted gently, and cleared his throat to cover what might have been an untoward snort. He waited a moment, then gazed up at his dishevelled kinsman with a look so bland it could not be mistaken for a veneer of mannerliness over devilry. "So, kinsman -- I take it then, you are well rested?"

Galadriel waited for the explosion, but it never came. Thranduil stared down at Celeborn with an endearing look of utter confusion in his blue eyes, and one could almost see the breeze lift his golden hair as that particular salvo flew right over his head without making any impression worth remarking upon.

"Well, I -- yes. I -- believe I am." He frowned slightly and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes. I am. Thank you for asking."

"Then join us, if you will, and help me firm up our plans," Celeborn said cheerfully, gesturing to either side. "Did you wish me to call for Haldir still?"

"Haldir?" Thranduil looked, if possible, even more confused. "Why would I want Haldir?"

"You were going to turn him into knots," Celeborn supplied helpfully. "In places he did not think were possible to be knotted."

"What a fantastical notion," Thranduil grumbled dismissively, and turned with great dignity to re-enter the hut, to repair his dishevelment. He seemed surprised to see the servant lass behind him as he turned; she gave him a politely bobbed curtsey, and he patted her atop her pale blond head as he passed. "Charming child. Delightful child."

Celeborn rolled his eyes in amusement, and reached for a map tube before he could find himself tempted to further mischief. He inquired quietly of an aide as to Haldir's current whereabouts, and was told the captain was on watch at the north-eastern Naith, awaiting the expected arrivals. The Lord of Lórien quirked an eyebrow at Galadriel and said nothing more, for though Thranduil's current situation was diverting, there was serious work to be done once Mithrandir arrived with Elrond.

Once he found his way down to the glade, the Elven-King was helped ceremoniously into a chair at the Lady's side, and he was given a bracing mug of tea to further bring him to wakefulness. Galadriel closed her eyes and went forth to ascertain how much time they might have; presently she turned, her focus serenely deepened, and placed one slender hand lightly atop the green-clad sleeve nearest her.

"They are coming. Elrond seems -- well."

Thranduil's brow tightened at the barely perceptible pause. The health of the Lore-Master had been, for these eighteen years, intimately connected to the health of young Legolas; it was but the longest-standing of so many oddities of alliance that had been the Elven-King's political burden since that hunt gone so tragically awry. He wanted very much to ask just how well was well, but schooled himself to patience. A distant part of him -- buried, he was sure, under many layers of the Vandal root elixir that young whelp Haldir had given him -- was already woefully embarrassed to ponder how his control had cracked before Galadriel and Celeborn a few nights past; he had no intention of allowing such a breach of social courtesy again.

He was too far gone with weariness and herbal remedies for stubbornness to recall, of course, that Galadriel could hear his every thought; she smiled sadly, reflecting that she had always been able to read him like a well-illuminated scroll in any case, and would not have needed recourse to the more esoteric means at her disposal. So proud, so stubborn, so very like his father… But knowing how proud the Sindar could be, and how utterly mortified the proud Elf would be if he realized, Galadriel politely and pointedly tuned out his thoughts. It would not gain much to read him at any rate… his tune has been the same sad chorus for eighteen years….

She sent for refreshment, and with her own hand served Thranduil. Moments later, Haldir stepped out of the twilight dimness, his step light with cheer and anticipation. It had been some time since their last assault on the "Mirkwood Situation," as Legolas' dire captivity had come to be euphemistically known among the Galadhrim, and Haldir was more than ready for some manner of substantive action. He steered out of Thranduil's immediate eye, of course, but still deftly managed to bow both to Celeborn and Galadriel without retrieving anything more than a disobliging smirk from the golden-haired King.

"My Lord -- my Lady -- Lord Elrond Peredhil, the Lords Elladan and Elrohir," he announced in a loftily good-natured tone. "Lord Glorfindel of Imladris -- and Mithrandir."

"So formal, child," Mithrandir retorted, smiling breezily at the Guardian. He shepherded Elrond and the twins past, prodding the Lore-Master in Galadriel's direction at her beckoning; the younger lords went to greet their grandsire with enthusiasm, properly remembering their manners long enough to bow before his great age and wisdom before enfolding him in their fond embraces. Elrond, looking decidedly weary, allowed Thranduil to maneuver him into the king's own chair, and took the goblet that was pressed into his hands.

"I swear there is nothing untoward in it," Thranduil murmured, pointedly glaring at Haldir from the corner of his eye. The Guardian had the grace to blush, and suddenly seemed to find the trees overhead to be of the utmost interest; Elrond tried to parse the discussion and failed completely, settling for a minute shake of his head and a sip at the light wine.

"Nice vintage."

"Old. But then, so are we."

Thranduil pressed his shoulder briefly and went to fetch another chair. Elrond wondered if he had stepped sidewise into some alternative existence where Thranduil was raised by someone less difficult than old Oropher, and suddenly felt an unpleasant jolt: an old jest, something the twins, perhaps, had teased one another with when they were very young: were you raised by Orcs or something?? Where are your manners! He had thought that in connection with Thranduil any of a hundred times over the centuries since Dagorlad; the old jest had appalling connotations now, and Elrond was far too readily susceptible. He shivered, drank the wine perhaps a bit too swiftly; felt the gentle brush of Galadriel's mind upon his: My son, be at ease, be still… comes the retribution. Have patience…

I hear that Celeborn has reached the end of his patience, he thought back before he considered what the words might sound like. Galadriel lifted a considering eyebrow at him, and nodded resolutely.

Indeed he has. All manner of mischief has my forester been up to, these several days. But you are not Celeborn.

Elrond gave another delicate shudder. That would probably be for the best….

She eyed him with the introspection and compassion of both mother and Elder, and neither spoke nor thought more, waiting until Celeborn could finish his words with Mithrandir and approach them. The twins came to settle about her then, vying for her attention in their separate ways: Elladan, so very focused that one could tell he was of Celeborn's line, with his grandsire's fierce, quiet sweetness and gravity; Elrohir, bright-eyed and merry, seeming shallow and cheerful as a running creek but surprising in his deeper thoughts, reminding Galadriel with piercing clarity of her brothers. For the hundredth time that day she thought of this young generation of the Firstborn, beginning with the tier inhabited by Elrond and Celebrían and Thranduil, culminating in the bright, beautiful, dangerous children they had all produced: Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas….

The blood of millennia looks down upon us. The past in the eyes of our children….

Celeborn and Mithrandir spent several more minutes commenting, exclaiming, occasionally laughing over the maps spread out across the table. Elrond raised his dark eyes to the brighter blue of Thranduil's, and gave a smile that might have once been seen on a certain herald at Dagorlad.

"It chills me when Celeborn looks at maps and smiles," he said quietly. Thranduil almost laughed. Almost.

"Rejoice that you are not a creature of Shadow," the King murmured. "For so many reasons -- but not the least, that Celeborn of Doriath will never weigh upon you the gaze he bends upon the Dark Tower."

He gestured; Elrond followed the elegant flick of the powerful hand, and shivered again. There was death in the silver eyes of Celeborn, death and the collection of long-overdue debts, and he thought: there stands vengeance. Odd, how Death can walk daily among us as a beloved friend, and only occasionally show us the edge of the greater Blade…. He was staring at Mithrandir's hand, which rested atop the old map right at the point of Dol Guldur, and where most would see the map and its markings, Elrond knew Celeborn was seeing fire and fury and stars falling. Rejoice that you are not a creature of Shadow….

The gentle Lord of Lórien raised his eyes toward the group around his Galadriel, and for the sake of love and compassion, turned away again, for even Elrohir and Elladan subsided into silence at the unaccustomed vehemence in Celeborn's face. "Let us make short work of this, Mithrandir," he said, and gave a mirthless chuckle. "The children grow weary of that which is different from a thousand other dawns -- and I would have my patience back."

Mithrandir smiled kindly. "There are new fawns in the wood this year, Celeborn, and will be again in the autumn. Saplings to tend. This old world can recover from far more than we have tossed to it so far, to that we must cling."

"I will cling, and that gladly, when I have finished cleaving," Celeborn murmured, gazing through the thickness of Lórien wood and sweet twilight silence to narrow his eyes at the festering sore that was Dol Guldur, invisible behind the mist and miles between. "There is a wound long left to fester, and one green leaf that requires freedom to unfurl. I will see that matter dealt with, before I look upon another fawn or tend another tree."

There did not seem to be much to say to such a pronouncement. Thranduil and Elrond uttered much the same sound of fatherly distress at the imagery, and almost smiled to catch one another's gaze in the aftermath; but in the next heartbeat, they were caught up in the sound of Celeborn's voice as the millennia rolled back and time became quite a fluid commodity. Years both fled before him and curled comfortably about his feet like cats. It could have been Dagorlad, or Alqualondë, or Doriath, or any of the so-far failed attempts to raze Dol Guldur in the last few years, or none of those places, or all of them at once -- but in the end it did not matter. There was a deeper and angrier magic afoot here than Galadriel's or Elrond's, or even that of Mithrandir. Those captains among the Galadhrim who knew their Lord of old merely nodded, and Elrond lost his breath in renewed love for the silver-haired forester. Thranduil's memories were darker and thrummed with the shared blood of kin, deep currents indeed, but it was clear he too found a new birth of something that sloughed layers of pain and exhaustion off his being, snapped his spine more straight and reminded him of what manner of Elves he had been born…and all, all came from the mere reassuring power of the voice of Celeborn.

"Elladan and Elrohir, you will pick a company from among the Galadhrim and ride to Dol Guldur this very day," he commanded, gathering the twins to him with the barest flick of his gaze. "Present yourselves to the one they call Saeros the Tracker. Acquaint him with our coming, and have him teach you all he has learned about the Tower, all he knows about what happens within. Tell him and his kin that we shall be less than a day behind you. I wish no hint of our movements to be foreseen as best we can devise it, and so will expect you to set harbingers to await our coming. The fastness of southern Mirkwood will no doubt be sufficient to hide us until the time is right, but it has been many a long year since any of the Galadhrim have ventured there -- I will not lose a single Elf to any Shadow-born foulness before the attack commences."

The twins shared a look of muted excitement and delight; matched dark eyes turned to look at Celeborn, and were surprised to see the narrowed consideration he fixed upon them.

"Do not make me command you to prudence in this, sons of my daughter," Celeborn said pointedly. "Neither of you has a reputation for level-headedness in the heat of battle. You both well know the reason for that."

It was in their minds to pretend they had no earthly idea what he could possibly mean; Elrohir even managed a little scapegrace grin before the deep magic of Celeborn's silence cut the expression off a-borning. "Heed me," the Lord of Lórien murmured, and the twins found reason to look elsewhere as they blushed and owned the traits that led to such a command.

"Let those with ears to hear, listen," Elrond quoted with a faint grin. Glorfindel, who could remember similar pronouncements made both to Elrond and Thranduil on a very old and distant battlefield, smothered a nervous chuckle and said nothing, but his eyes spoke shelves full of volumes. Thranduil shifted nervously in his seat, eyeing the twins almost hungrily as they made their apologies and reassurances to Celeborn.

"Mithrandir -- any reason why they ought not to depart immediately?" Celeborn asked, deferring politely. The Maia shrugged, sucking on his pipe as he packed a new bowl of leaf.

"Sooner started, sooner arrived. Mind you do not take a larger force than needs must, though," Mithrandir recommended, and gestured with the pipe stem. "We'll get Angmar's attention soon enough, but for my choice, it will be later than sooner, if so we may devise by our craft and care."

Galadriel walked the twins to the edge of the glade, gave them her blessing and placed kisses atop their raven heads; they hurried off to make ready, disappearing among the trees. The Lady sent Haldir off on some errand or another, and glanced back to see Elrond rising, weariness marking his every motion. It both pleased her and tore at her heart, to see how not only the beloved and ever-watchful Glorfindel, but Thranduil likewise, followed the Lore-Master's progress with attentive care. It cannot be entirely a bad thing, can it, if so sad a situation makes old enemies into allies? she thought, and began to reason how she might cozen Elrond into a short rest before they rode out.

**********

Somewhere just below the eldest Oak in the Great Greenwood, there lived a fledgling malthenel-emlin. It hid safe in the snuggest part of the nest, protected by the other birds of the flock, until the day it learned to fly….

No, that will never do. We need a different start to the tale. That little bird fell from the nest on its first flight, and never found its wings again… definitely need a different start.

Somewhere just below the eldest Oak in the Great Greenwood, there lived a full-grown, bloody great BIG malthenel-emlin, with a very sharp beak and talons to rival the Eagles of Manwë…. It had the strongest wings and was utterly without fear, and tore the hearts of all his enemies right out of their big ugly mottled chests….

Legolas smiled, staring past the shoulder of the Orc female as she collapsed atop him, panting and chortling at the success of her mating. He could see the sunlight dancing off the walls as the dawn came and morning yawned onward. He strained his Elven senses to hear past her cheerful noisemaking as she clambered off his body. Somewhere someone was forging something; he could hear a roaring fire being stoked with sharp downward thrusts of an arm on the bellows-handle, then the hard clang of hammer on iron as the heated metal was worked by a skillful hand. There was Man-song coming from somewhere as well, and more faintly, though well within his ability to hear, Legolas could hear Elf-song as well. The tunes were disparate and sounded quite odd together, but Legolas was enchanted.

He felt brittle, like glass, today -- but also like overworked iron, left too long in the forge, made too hot to stay tempered under the hammer. But this mating was over, thank the Valar; this was Grimla, who always tried to be kind, for she was not the brightest of the Orc females, and did not have the wit for more sprightly meanness as did some of her sisters. Legolas did not know whether to be horrified or grateful for the fact that she had actually made a joke while forcing herself upon him -- and even harder to swallow, he had actually laughed in reply….

Glass. A malthenel emlin made of glass. Such a pretty thing….

Three more of the Orc females had gone into rut since the previous day, their cycles blending perhaps with Morgal's, perhaps with the phase of the moon; Legolas no longer cared, it was all the same in the end. One, Rhukhal, had bred from him in an almost matter-of-fact manner, then went on her way; Grimla, this morning, was almost clumsily affectionate, and seemed pleased in her dull-witted way when it seemed she might actually have brought him some pleasure in the midst of her rutting. Legolas was not looking forward to the next one, whenever she chose to show up, for it was Gharkal, who never sought to be anything but pernicious.

She should be mated with a Balrog. Or a spider. Maybe they would eat her all up. Good…

Legolas doubted his chances of that were very likely, but one could always hope. Mithrandir had once told him that hope springs eternal. Of course, he had also said Hope was a thing with wings.

A golden thing with wings. I am Hope. I hope all the Orcs will die. Legolas laughed then, a frail and brittle sound, and then he remembered: I am glass today…

His mind wandered, making up stories about an increasingly bad-tempered goldfinch that could, by the time he was nearly satisfied with the tale, spit fire from its eyes and dripped poison from its beak -- but of course, a poison that only affected Orcs. Well, and disaffected traitor Dale-Men. The goldfinch was named Acharn of Greenwood, and it possessed the happy talent of being able to tell good Dale-Men from traitorous ones. He thought long and hard about the kinds of tunes he would weave for this amazingly peeved goldfinch. And Legolas laughed quietly to himself, often and brightly.

The sunbeams climbed up the wall opposite the window, marking time, illuminating the thick oak door of the cell, making the hinges look burnished and almost comely in the brightness.

Ah, there is the sound. The warriors are back, because it is daytime and they fear the light. They also fear Saeros. I wonder how many Orcs Saeros has killed this night. I hope he has carved many interesting runes in their flesh as he worked.

Saeros writes a fine and steady hand….

Legolas shifted in his bonds, twitched with an unpleasant grumble. It had been a long time since the Orcs had allowed him to have a bath. Perhaps it was time he complained to the Nazgûl. He wondered if they were in residence today, then remembered: no, the Three had departed late last night for points unknown. No one ever knew where they went, how long they would be gone, when they might come back, or in what number. It did not exactly reassure Legolas to have realized, long years before, that he and the Orcs shared a common dislike of the occasions when all Nine came to Dol Guldur at the same time. Mutual antipathy was a strengthener of odd bonds….

"Elves can die for lack of a bath," Legolas commented, as the door to the cell swung open with a crash. It was a blatant lie, of course, but there was always a chance that whatever Orc was coming now to visit might not understand such subtleties. Subterfuge had worked occasionally in the past to gain him some favour: an extra blanket, a more healthful supper, permission to go one floor down in the Tower to practice archery with the instruction of some clumsy git of a Dale-Man.

"Elves can die for lack of air, too, little brat," said the Orc who entered the chamber. Legolas gave her his "Thranduil look": an imperiously cocked eyebrow, chin in the air, an expression of utter, regal disdain on his slender face. That was what Mother had called it, at any rate, as she laughed merrily -- quite the opposite effect he had been intending -- to see it on the face of her little fledgling all those long years ago. The Orc -- blessed Elbereth help me, it is Gharkal! -- was no more fooled by that look than Luthiél had been, and was similarly amused, though her reaction was far less merry and significantly more unpleasant. She strode over to the bed, easily matching Legolas for sheer imperiousness, and took him by the throat, squeezing powerfully until he found he could not breathe at all.

"See what I mean?" Gharkal snarled, smiling hideously as his face first lost colour, then became red, tinged with blue, as he fought for a breath that could not move past her restraining paw. "Don't push me, bratling, or this will be the day I forget my place and kill you."

She did eventually let go, fearing far more to face the Master than she desired to have the blood of yet another Elf on her hands -- but not until she had made her point. Gharkal gave him a sound beating for her trouble as well, then went to divest herself of her clothing, laughing uproariously as Legolas gagged and coughed and spluttered, trying to drag air into his lungs. She came over and stood there, staring down at him, her face unreadable; her yellow eyes narrowed in frank consideration of the slender, bound form before her. Legolas calmed his gasping and stared back, thinking:

Push, vile one. Push the Prince. He is glass today, and glass can break -- but when it does, the edges are sharp.

Push the Prince. Do it. Break the glass and make it strong with hate.

She only laughed and sat down cross-legged on the bed beside him, her body a block of mottled, muscular fat, stinking of things he barely wanted to consider. Gharkal watched him in silence for a long while, and Legolas amused himself by thinking his hatred back to her. Of all the Orcs in Dol Guldur, this was the one he could say without qualification that he hated, right down to the very fiber of his being. If Orcs were ugly, she was the queen of ugliness. If mean, she was the meanest of them all. With Gharkal, a slap did not suffice where a fisted smack would do just as well; never enough to let blood, but that she had to open a vein. If she had been made male, she would have been an Uruk-hai of the worst possible stripe, of that Legolas had no doubt.

Of course, she was also completely impervious to any Elven mischief whatsoever -- which would have been sufficient right there to make him hate her. The greatest of his few pleasures was pulling wool over the eyes of as many Orcs as possible, as often as he could manage, and he had never won the game with Gharkal.

Legolas narrowed his eyes at her, then smiled very, very sweetly. "I think I shall kill you, Gharkal. Would you like that?" he lilted.

She smiled back, showing many sharp and dirty teeth. "You will die trying, slave of a scutling Elf-brat."

Gharkal sidled up beside him then, stretching full-length against his body. She snaked one muscular arm under his back and drew him into her embrace; he let her do so without much struggle, making the merest token resistance. He never gave in meekly if he could help it, especially with Gharkal. But there was something hot like blood singing in his mind this morning. The air was hot and tense in the Tower; the day would be all heat and fire and fierce brightness, and Legolas was glass. Glass… hot and flowing, not yet hard and frangible. Gharkal would have some ways to go before she could break this particular malthenel-emlin….

She ran knowing fingers up and down the sleekness of his shaft, chuckling rudely at how readily the flesh stiffened under her hand. "This is all an Elf is good for, little Prince," she sneered, and bent to bite down hard on his chest, raising a welt that she then pierced with her teeth, drawing blood. "The Valar put you here not to lord it over all, but to serve. To make Orcs for the Master."

"You lie," Legolas told her evenly, and something in the back of his mind jumped in surprise at how much he sounded like his father in a very bad mood. He so liked the concept that he tried it again, plucking back into memories of bad council sessions, or unpleasant diplomatic situations with the Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain. "You have the stink of a lie all over you, pig of an Orc," he pronounced, letting the look of his sire settle down over his youthful features, and allowing all of Thranduil's learned arrogance sing through his young voice. It did not have the same deep effect the Elven-King's melodious baritone might have had, but it was impressive in the ears of his son, and Legolas' smile deepened. "If you are very, very fortunate, I will kill you quickly and cleanly." Then, knowing it would annoy her the most, he said in a lordly way: "It is the way of the Firstborn to be merciful, even with Abominations."

Gharkal's first blow was calculated and very painful. The second was like unto it; by the fourth, Legolas was not able to feel much except a roiling sense of wounded outrage, fed by the blood of generations in his veins. The rape she gifted upon him was truly that, in the worst possible sense; accompanied by blows and hissed, angry words intended to hurt, in the Black Speech of the Orc-folk. The culmination, when it came, seemed to cut loose some last remaining shred of sanity that kept Legolas moored to his sense of self. As the agony of peaking came upon him, and his seed erupted upward into the darkness that was Gharkal, the young Prince poured his abiding hatred and fear of her out through body, mind and spirit; he writhed beneath her, seeing nothing before his eyes but red haze. He might have been impressed to realize how many words and concepts he had picked up in that very same Black Speech -- might have been stunned to consider that very few of the Firstborn had ever attained his level of fluency in that vile language -- but to Gharkal's dawning sense of terror, Legolas Thranduilion did not appear to be aware of much of anything beyond the overwhelming, horrible joy of his utter, contemptuous hatred for her.

You have pushed the Prince… thank you for pushing the Prince….

All his Elven rage at the very concept of Orc existence rose up and focused on Gharkal. She stumbled back off his body and stared as first one hand, then another, became freed from the bedpost -- she had not realized he had grown so strong as to be able to snap such thick deerhide fetters as those with the merest tensing of muscle. The straps binding his ankles likewise went away, as easily as if they were parchment. He lay there for a moment, panting, nostrils flaring; then his lips compressed into a hard line, and his eyes glazed over until his forty years on Middle-Earth washed away from his being, and something so old it might have given pause to a Maia came into those lovely blue eyes.

A flick of muscle, and quick as a deer Legolas was standing in the center of the bed, balanced, perfectly balanced. Smiling… the considered smile of a hunter, pleased with the prey he has chased down… knowing the clean kill can be done with one choice, the challenge kill with another….

A familiar voice cried out in Legolas' mind like a bell of warning: Blessed Valar…. No, oh please! But he was miles from any true contact with his mind, and he paid it no attention. He laughed, a singularly polite and civilized sound that overrode the sudden whimper of confusion that bubbled up out of the cowering Gharkal, and he raised a hand, beckoned to her, aping the motions Angmar had made to him in the dungeon. It was an imperious, regal motion of summoning, and Gharkal backed away from it, unable for sudden stark terror to raise her voice and call for help.

Well then, if you will not come to your Prince, your Prince must come to you! Legolas tipped back his head and cried out at the top of his lungs, a darkly cheerful Silvan battle call, intending for it to penetrate the very stone of the Tower and sing out to Saeros. Guide my hand, my ancient mentor….

He leapt upon Gharkal then with the same intensity she had so recently levelled upon him. She barely knew what hit her, though in the mere seconds before her life became a moot point, Gharkal knew a terror unlike anything she had ever experienced in the presence of the Master and his kin. She felt limbs severed from her torso, felt the fist that breached her flesh and ribcage to clench in radiant fury about her heart; Legolas was smiling with that same pervasive sweetness as he squeezed the life out of her, and a delighted laugh was surprised from him as the blood of Gharkal fountained up over his hand, down his arm, to pool on the floor beneath his bare feet.

Legolas was vaguely aware of others pouring into the chamber then: Morgal, her expression gratifyingly stunned; Galgrim, blank-eyed with terror at the realization that this was happening on his watch and it would be his job to deal with it. The Prince laughed again; he felt uncommonly pleased with himself, and laughed once more at the friendly little sound it made when Gharkal's heart flew unerringly from his hand to land on Galgrim's face.

So much for that. Legolas glanced down, disappointed to realize Gharkal was quite dead. He flung what remained of her torso onto the floor, and sought amusement elsewhere; the bedstead came apart quite readily before his ire, and he used various parts of it to belabour the Orc soldiers who came at him in the attempt to subdue him.

Morgal had managed to get hold of her sister-Orc's remains as the fighting roiled back into the depths of the chamber; she tucked the grisly burden under one arm and ran into the corridor, hoping someone in the dungeon had the skill to keep the embryo safe until the Master could return. She skidded to a halt, slipping on the blood that dripped from Gharkal's meat, and goggled at the sight of the Master, Angmar himself, and Khamûl his dark lieutenant, hovering at the top of the stair.

The screams they emitted were singularly piercing and hideous in their anger. Morgal dropped the torso and cowered, covering her ears….

**********

"Blessed Valar…. No, oh please --"

The wine glass slipped from Elrond's nerveless fingers and shattered with a poignant, flatted splatter against the inlaid wooden planking of the dais. He dropped like a stone in its wake, heedless of the glass shards cutting into his knees and hands; Thranduil reached him first, picking him up bodily with as little effort as if the Lore-Master were a child.

"Elrond -- what is it?" he pleaded, even as Glorfindel directed him to a low, broad bench where Galadriel hastened to lay a cloak for some semblance of comfort. "What has happened?"

Unable or unwilling to answer, Elrond clutched at the Elven-king's arm with hands that unintentionally hurt. He glanced once, briefly, at the other, but it was literally too painful to look Thranduil in the eyes, so alike were they to the eyes Elrond was seeing in his mind, sometimes viewing as a horrified observer, sometimes -- The Valar forfend! --sometimes, seeing through, as a participant once removed from a scene of unbelievable carnage. He turned away -- found himself looking directly into the sea-haunted depths of Galadriel's eyes -- and Elrond cried out in pain, his back arching, then stiffened. He felt himself falling, whether in his mind or his body he could not have said; Mithrandir was suddenly there, gently but urgently displacing Thranduil, commanding Celeborn to "see to him, please…"

Celeborn took his kinsman in hand, hauling Thranduil away from the frightening scene by main force. The Lord of Mirkwood tried without much success to fight against Celeborn's insistent hold, but then realized the vainness of the struggle, and gave up. He fell limply to his knees, clutching the railing of the dais in white-knuckled hands.

"I cannot," he breathed, his voice laced with unshed tears. "Forgive me, kinsman -- I cannot watch this. I do not want to know what they do to my child now -- I must save all I have left to break him free of that place!"

"We will," Celeborn growled quietly. "Together, this time we will not fail, Thranduil. I will not have it. Nothing will stop us this time."

Thranduil closed his eyes, not wanting anyone to see the flare of hope, and clutched at Celeborn's forearm. "If we fail, I shall die," he breathed, heart-wrenchingly calm. "I shall walk into that place, slay my son, and take my life."

"There will be no need of that. You will walk in there and free him, and bring him home."

Thranduil shuddered violently, wanting to believe. He felt Celeborn's hand take him by the chin, tipping his face up.

"Look at me, child," he commanded with gentle power. It never occurred to Thranduil that he should not obey; the eyes slid open, stared up, stunned with pain like a blind-sided deer, and were caught in the quicksilver net of Celeborn's gaze. "Legolas will walk free of Dol Guldur. And I will break down its doors my own self. By my hand shall it be done, and by yours shall Legolas be free." He quirked a frosty smile. "I will have it so, Thranduil Oropherion."

Thranduil gave a quiet, hysterical laugh, quickly cut off on a note of pain. "I believe you, pen-iaur."

Celeborn held him there, cradling the proud, slender form in silence for many minutes, willing him not to look to where, behind them, Elrond cried out in abject horror and struggled against Galadriel's touch upon his mind, even as Glorfindel and Mithrandir expended all their strength to hold him down. It seemed odd that it should be so, but Thranduil felt bizarrely comforted; he drifted, his mind awash with damped fear and frightening resolve. No one had held him like this since the night his mother died, an appalling number of millennia ago now. He clung to belief in the eyes of Celeborn and of their power, and grasped again and again at the command: by yours shall Legolas be free….

"Will Elrond forgive me, do you think, if I leave?" Thranduil murmured after a moment, loathe to break the huddled peace of this moment, but suddenly needful of being elsewhere. "I -- find I cannot bear to think what must be causing his distress."

"Go wheresoever you must, Thranduil, but be ready to leave soon," Celeborn told him, helping him to his feet, setting a cautionary hand under his elbow until he was sure the other could stand unaided. "It is my intention that the full force be away within two hours at most after the twins have departed."

"I have a message for them to take to Saeros," Thranduil said, gazing out over the silence of Lórien beyond the pool of Elrond's torment. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, calming breath. "The Tracker is very much his own Elf, and will require a certain -- handling."

"I find that to frequently be the case with the Elves of Mirkwood," Celeborn said flatly, with not a little irony. Thranduil turned slowly to bend a considering gaze upon his elder kinsman. Then, surprisingly, he smiled.

"You will not be surprised to discover that I share your view," he murmured, and Celeborn lifted a silently vocal eyebrow in agreement. The Lord of Lórien watched as Thranduil gave a slight bow and strode away toward his flet, then put the Elven-king out of his thoughts and turned back to the maps, knowing that Galadriel's hand was better at the work of assisting the stricken Elrond. Celeborn stared at the sketches of Dol Guldur, and pondered. An interesting objective, this.

The Tower was at the top of a rise, and all the trees that had once been there were long since gone: torn out by the roots, and killed for sport by Shadow, then used for kindling. Nothing grew on that rise save the Tower itself, like some vile mushroom; grass would not take root, nor vine, and therefore one was exposed as soon as the cover of the forest line was breached. We must be cautious, then…. Saeros has had eighteen turns of the year's wheel to study the place, he will know somewhat more of what we must do. He will know that this time, we will not fail.

Echoes of horror shed from Galadriel's mind like dark water; Celeborn allowed himself to shudder once, then bore down with finality and refused to give the darkness any more satisfaction. It occurred to him to wonder what condition the child would be in, once they had gotten him free. He bowed his head, sorrowing to recall the state in which his daughter had come home from torment at the hand of Orcs: an adult, a brilliant and brave one at that, but so badly torn and broken… all Elrond's skill had been employed, and Galadriel's as well, and eventually Celebrían had been healed in body. But from that day until he had seen her last, when he journeyed with her to the Grey Havens to say farewell as she departed Westward, the knowledge of her inner pain, the ongoing torment of her mind, was with Celeborn. It was with him yet, and he feared for the sundering of so young a mind, so sweet and pliant a child as the fey and fiercely proud Legolas….

Shaking his head, Celeborn turned from the gloom of his thoughts and sent his own fierce, loyal love through the halls of his mind to his Galadriel, where she walked ever to do battle with Shadow in all its forms. Somehow he knew it would be enough.

**********

There was something to be said, after all, for living all those years among the dark and glorious Silvan folk. Something to be said for all the forest lore, and the herbal knowledge, and the many ways in which grim purpose could be taught, inhaled with the very air, learned and taken to heart. Thranduil Oropherion was not their King simply because they would have it so; he had not attained his considerable catalogue of years by lack of study and observation. Once out of sight of the glade, he moved with swift and purposeful steps through the wood of Lórien. A small decorative flask slipped out of the pouch at his belt, into his hand; he smiled at it, swirled the dark contents within, and ducked deeper out into the woods where none would see.

It was the work of a few minutes to unbraid the glossy golden silk of his hair, the work of a few minutes more to work through those golden strands the contents of that flask: a distillate of walnut hulls and other herbals, carefully mixed and generally used for the colouring of foodstuffs -- but meant for a slightly different sort of aim this night. It would wash out in a few vigorous scrubbings. The action took him back to the few pranks of his childhood, pranks he knew had been repeated by any number of young Elves of Sindarin lineage living among the Dark Elves and the Silvan folk: Come, steal away with us, we shall go and bedevil the Naugrim, or the Men of Dale, and none shall know, for without those tresses of silver or gold, not even your own lady Mother will know her child… Thranduil smiled secretly to himself as he worked, first to alter the regal colour of his locks, then to swiftly dry and braid them, careful to use some vaguely remembered Silvan pattern rather than the immediately recognizable many-stranded braid of the House of Oropher, and the sidelock braids of a Sindarin warrior.

It will be enough to get me out of Lórien, he mused, his mouth slipping sidewise into a disobliging smirk. But not quite yet. Not -- quite….

There was one last thing needful, a point of pride -- and Thranduil was nothing if not a prideful Elf. Among a kindred known for their Doom-laden flashes of arrogant insistence on pride and protocol, Thranduil knew all too well that he came of a line notorious for the trait on both sides. Oropher and Aziel had come of Elves overburdened with pride and polity, and their son was true to both bloodlines….

He shrugged out of the understated elegance of his somber but regal travel clothing, and donned simpler garb more suited to a deadly hunt: dark shirt, dark leggings, dark tunic, shades of green upon green and brown upon black. Shaking back the counterfeit of his darkened hair, now a deep golden brown, he doubted anyone would recognize the arrogant King of Mirkwood in the shadow he had made of himself. A shadow to tilt at Shadow… it is an appropriate song. By my hand shall my Legolas be free… even Celeborn cannot say he did not directly command it to be so.

No one seemed to have noticed, when first he arrived, that the bow he carried, the sword strapped by his side, were not those he usually bore. The arrows in his plain and serviceable quiver bore the markings of his House, and his own golden band and fletching, but he had scrupled to wrap them in cloth to hide that fact. When it came time to kill Orcs, they would die with the arrows of Thranduil in their hearts and heads and throats, for his father's heart rankled at the long and tragic imprisonment of his child, and he would free the lad in a manner befitting his House. They shall know the penalty as they pay it… They shall know whence Death comes for them.

But first….

Thranduil finished his disguise, and set out on silent feet to find the one he needed to speak with before he departed. Centuries of living among the Silvan folk, hunting in their company, riding to war with them, helping them defend his borders against Orc and Goblin and spiders and more, had served the son of Oropher in good stead; he was a fine tracker, a capable hunter, had never come home without the largest stag or the fiercest boar. One Lórien Elf among many should not be too difficult a prize to attain.

Ah, there you are, youngling…. Thranduil smiled kindly, cocking one eyebrow and allowing himself the merest hint of a smirk at the sound of sighs and sharp, panting moans of pleasure, the converse of love and coupling in two voices, both male, one of them the voice he hunted. Parting the branches of a low-slung willow with a sure and careful hand, he beheld a proud, golden-haired young Galadhrim warrior rising up from the bent-over, happily gasping form of another. Warrior's comfort, warrior's ease, on the eve of battle…some of the oldest traditions are among the sweetest, are they not, young one? The Elven-King waited patiently as the two youths exchanged heated words and even more heated caresses, then separated with a long and deep touching of mouth upon mouth. One of them -- the one he did not seek -- then gathered up mussed and hastily discarded clothing, and disappeared with a low-throated laugh into the woods, with sweet challenge:

"Until you return, O Guardian! I shall hunt you down and claim you for my own!"

"You are welcome to try, silly one," Haldir of Lórien retorted with a pleased lilt to his deep voice.

His partner laughed and was gone into the silence. Thranduil allowed a patient smile to curve along his lips, and gifted his eyes with a leisurely perusal of Haldir's lithe young form, as the Guardian slipped noiselessly into the pool beside which he had sought his warrior's comfort this night. Only fair to allow you to cleanse yourself first, youngling… it might be a while before you have such a chance again.

It was a pleasant enough sight, and only improved as Haldir's head broke from beneath the water, the gold of his hair as sleek as an otter's pelt, bright liquid dripping from the ends as he wrung them out and stepped boldly forth from the pool. He tipped his head back and watched the sky above him for a long while in lulled silence, letting the breeze dry his muscular body; all that while, the patient watcher in the willow observed, smiling, shaking his head at the complacency of youth. At last, Haldir stooped to fetch his own garments, dressed unhurriedly, and bent to fetch his bow and quiver where he had carefully placed them against the bole of the very tree from which Thranduil observed his actions.

"I think not, child," a voice purred in his ear, as one powerful hand slipped across his mouth whilst another nipped Haldir's wrists together behind his back. The Guardian stiffened to stillness all over his body, only the racing beat of his heart betraying how utterly he was taken by surprise. Thranduil pulled the stunned Elf back against his broad chest, hitching the wrists up just enough that Haldir had to rise on the balls of his feet to compensate, and lost some purchase of his balance. "We have just the barest little modicum of unfinished business, you and I. And say what you will, but I could not bring myself to depart from Lórien without tying up a few loose ends."  

Haldir gave a smothered sound of surprise beneath the King's hand. Thranduil chuckled warmly.

"Yes, I've no doubt you're a bit taken aback," he agreed equably. "I am going to remove my hand from your mouth, my child, and believe me when I tell you, you would not be pleased at what I will do to you if you make even the merest attempt to cry out or signal." He leaned closer to the delicate ear beside his cheek. "I have your word that you will remain silent?"

Haldir nodded, eyes wide and silver in the tree-shaded dimness. He recognized the voice, but could not reconcile the little of appearance he had managed to glimpse; the Guardian all but vibrated with confusion.

"Excellent," Thranduil purred, and released Haldir's mouth. It was the work of a moment to bind the younger Elf's hands behind the supple back with a scrap of leather; Thranduil turned the Guardian to face him, and smiled down at his prize. "Well met, Haldir. Lovely morning, is it not?"

Haldir's expression was a masterpiece of utter incomprehension. "King Thranduil?" he whispered, his voice a few notes higher than was his wont. The son of Oropher grinned wickedly.

"You have eyes in your head, child, I will grant you that. You could use them to better effect, but then I suppose I ought not to fault you too heavily; a stag on his own hunting ground is rarely as watchful as he ought to be, now is he?"

The Guardian stared, bemused, at a rather different looking Thranduil than he was accustomed to seeing. Haldir decided he was unseated in his sanity, perhaps by his great grief. Haldir further decided he could therefore afford to be gentle. In fact, he determined it was probably in his best interest to be extremely kind and considerate; he took a deep breath, and opted to try sweet reason. "Good my lord King, I beg of you --"

Thranduil held up a lordly hand. "Oh, Haldir -- never beg," he commanded, dipping his chin and levelling upon the younger Elf a consideringly predatory look. "That is -- not unless you want to. But I am not in a conciliatory mood just now, and my time is short. I have no patience for games with you."

"M-my lord King, if this is because of the tea --"

"Ah yes, the tea," Thranduil said, caressing the syllables with his deep, melodic voice. "The Vandal root tea -- with enough root in it to halt a hoard of charging Uruk-hai. That is not the way I customarily take it, Haldir. And one of my age and stature is accustomed to having his tea just so."

Haldir decided it was time to take the traditional prerogative of Guardians: he fell back on his orders. "Lord King, I beg you to be understanding," he hurriedly explained. Thranduil bared his teeth in a pleasant grin, and shook his head.

"There you go, begging again," he sighed, as Haldir swiftly ran over his words with the rest of his explanation:

"Lord Celeborn told me to drug you and string you up from a tree if you tried to depart, Lord King! I was only --"

"Following orders?" Thranduil finished, and laughed. It was a lovely sound, calculated to chill Haldir's spine; it worked splendidly. "Child, as one who often gives orders not likely to be pleasant to the recipients, I can tell you such a defense will only take you so far. And you have already gone well past."

He reached into his belt pouch once more and pulled forth a length of fine cloth. A handful of leaves and bark pieces followed; making sure to work where Haldir could see him, Thranduil bundled the leaves and bark into the cloth, and rolled it tightly until he had a cylinder about two inches long and an inch or so in thickness. Smiling, Thranduil eyed the younger Elf from under drawn-down brows. "Open your mouth, child."

"But Lord King --"

"Yes, exactly like that," Thranduil purred. With one hand about the back of Haldir's head, and the other pressed at the sides of his jaw, the Elven-king forced his captive's mouth wider open, and stuffed the little roll within. A second cloth was brought forth, and with nimble fingers Thranduil tied it over Haldir's mouth as a gag. Placing a friendly arm about the Guardian's shoulders, he said pleasantly, "You will eventually have no choice but to calm down, my child, for those were the leaves and bark of Vandal root. The cloth within your overly glib mouth was soaked in it earlier, too -- in the very teapot with which you drugged me last night." He grinned cheerfully. "I do so enjoy the irony of such a thing. Age and experience, Haldir, will overcome youthful exuberance every time. It may take a while -- but in the end, your Elders will always be at least one step ahead of you."

Haldir darkly hoped Thranduil's elders would be several steps ahead of him, and armed with cudgels, to boot -- but of course he had no way to communicate this to the smug Elf standing before him, save with dark looks from eyes that were already beginning, ever so slightly, to dilate from the Vandal root he was taking in. He swayed slightly in Thranduil's hold, hoping the King would not notice.

His hope was in vain. "Oh my, mustn't have you hurting yourself," Thranduil said solicitously, and hooked Haldir's legs out from under him. The Guardian tried to squirm away, but was increasingly finding himself too sleepy to move; he could only watch with a certain dawning frustration as Thranduil removed from his belt a slender length of fine Elven rope. "And of course one cannot just leave you sleeping on the ground like a hedgehog," the King continued, smirking as he looped a slip-knot about Haldir's ankles with little resistance from the woozy Guardian.

With an unerring toss, Thranduil sent the other end of the rope over a stout branch of the willow. He patted the trunk and murmured quietly to the tree; though there was no breeze in the clearing, the willow suddenly shook gently, as if laughing. Which, of course, it was. Thranduil then tugged with economy of motion and great strength, and just that easily, Haldir of Lórien was hanging about a foot off the ground, upside-down, by his ankles. Age and experience indeed, he thought muzzily. I shall never live this down….

He glanced sidewise as Thranduil sat down cross-legged on the sward beside him; the Mirkwood lord was smirking. "Someone will find you eventually," he suggested cheerfully. "In any case, there's just enough Vandal root coursing through your frame right about now, that you'll have a lovely nap and wake up with a stunning headache, to remind you of your manners in future. Once it all wears off, headache or no, even you should be able to get yourself down from there; it is only a slipknot, after all."

Thranduil gave a dark chuckle then, and his expression became something far more fey, far less civilized, and even half-asleep, Haldir shuddered to see it. "And if you don't get down, well, you'll have an even worse headache by the time I return and cut you loose myself," he said quietly. "Ah well, life is full of choices."

He glided up to his haunches and leaned over, checking Haldir's eyes; then he chuckled again. "Have a nice morning, Haldir. Should not be too onerous, I should think." The disobliging smirk became briefly, positively feral; he glanced upward to where a certain bulge could be seen in the well-fitted leggings. Haldir blushed furiously behind his gag and made a strangled sound of embarrassment.

Thranduil patted the Guardian roughly on the cheek. "After all," he said cheerfully, "I've heard you rather enjoy this sort of thing."

Then he was gone, silent and deadly into the dimness of the deep forest, leaving Haldir of Lórien to ponder the wages of excess, and the tolls to be paid in life when one deals with age and experience….

**********

From within the tower cell, the sounds of splintering wood and outraged Orc warriors in pain filled the air.

"Come get me then!" cried a young voice in lilting Sindarin, with the accents of an upper class Elf of impeccable lineage. "Surely you big, bad Orcs do not fear one little bratling baby Elf!"

Angmar glided closer to the entryway into the cell where dwelt his fosterling, trusting that Khamûl would see to the rescue of the Orc embryo from within the torso of the unfortunate Gharkal. The heavy oaken door hung crazily in its frame, one hinge about to let go; within, Legolas was unchained, naked as the day he was born, ankles and wrists slick with blood, torn from where he had fought mindlessly to get free. Intrigued, the Witch-King moved through a parting tide of Orcs to see what more he could discover.

The entire chamber was a shambles, nothing contained within had not suffered some kind of breakage -- and the young Elf was making a fair attempt at taking down that huge, thick door from within, the remaining hinge rattling ominously every time he threw his weight against it with whatever he had found to use as a weapon. The Orcs had gathered near that door, some of them brave enough to go near and attempt to shore it up -- but they were not having much luck. None of them relished trying to contain the prisoner, should he actually get through the door before exhausting himself utterly on the unfortunate Orcs trapped within.

The Lord of the Nazgûl gazed upon the masterwork of its own creation: one not-quite-sane, virile young Elf, nearly at his full adult growth, feral and lucid and utterly enraged. The sight was enough to make the former King of Angmar pause; then he employed the simple tactical maneuver of blowing down the cell door from the corridor side, and filled the doorway with his own impressive self.

As Angmar had believed it would, the sudden release of the door from the opposite direction made Legolas leap back. The Nazgûl took a moment to assimilate, however, that the young Elf was not afraid of what had come through that door -- not even a little. Rather than shrinking back in terror as he might have done on any other occasion, Legolas stopped in the centre of the chamber, crouched down in a combat stance plucked from memory and not hampered in the least by lack of frequent practice over the years.

He, like the walls around him, was covered in blood from head to foot -- Orc blood, black and bitter, splashed and oozing on his body, mingled with Elf blood like war paint on an Uruk-hai. His golden hair, matted with the stuff, hung in his face; the blue eyes, narrowed and glittering, peeked out between like the eyes of some creature in the dark woods. In his bloodied hands were an Orc knife, long-bladed and wicked, and a sizeable piece of wood from what had once been the bedstead.

He was smiling and humming to himself as he crouched, looking for the tiniest opening, ready to spring when he found it. For the first time in a very long number of years, the Nazgûl was actually enchanted. Such a lovely sight…

Angmar gestured; the Orcs disappeared with alacrity. Within seconds, there was only the Lord of the Nazgûl and his fosterling, a pleased, supremely insane Elf, facing one another in the middle of an abattoir.

Come to Us, lovely one.

Legolas cocked his head to one side as Angmar held out its arms. He smiled once more, and in his low, musical voice uttered words not generally found in the vocabulary of young princes. The words passed judgement upon Angmar's original birth, his parentage, and his proclivities -- but in the end they added up to "No." The Witch-King tried again.

Come. You know in the end We will have Our way. Come to Us. You are truly Our child now.

Legolas laughed softly, a light, almost burbling sound. It hurt the Nazgûl to listen to it.

"No."

Angmar took a step forward, shrieking with annoyance, but still the thin, skeletal arms reached out, beckoning. You must obey. In the end you must obey. Do not make this difficult, child. Come to Us. You will know pleasure such as you cannot imagine. There is much to admire about the Shadow.

The Elf's laughter rang out again, colder now, no longer quite so sweet. The eyes became like chips of ice in the slender alabaster face, but the smile never wavered.

"So I have learned in the years of my fosterage," he murmured pleasantly, and tossed aside the length of wood. Moving the Orc knife from hand to hand and back again, Legolas grinned impudently at the Nazgûl. "Everyone else at Dol Guldur takes what they want from me. I give nothing. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil the son of Oropher, of the Sindarin Kings of Mirkwood the Great. I am a child of Eru Ilúvatar, and only to my gods will I willingly give anything. Whatever it is you think you want from me, vile one, you shall have to take."

He laughed again, and there was a glittering edge to the sound. "And even though I know you have powers beyond my means to fight -- I promise you this, dear foster-father! I will do all I can to kill you."

Brave words. Angmar was even more enchanted. Almost I regret the necessity of this lesson, my child.

Legolas threw himself to the left, having seen the slightest hint of motion toward the right; Angmar's first attack skittered harmlessly off the wall behind where the Elf had been standing a moment before, the dark blade of his sword clanging at the encounter with stone. The Nazgûl turned, hissing with amused outrage, but Legolas was not where he had first landed. Seconds later, an Orc knife was buried in Angmar's throat from behind; he laughed, making a gurgling sound amid the hiss, and let the Elf think he had scored some blow.

As We are already dead, it is somewhat passing pointless to try and kill Us, the Nazgûl pointed out. Legolas made an angry sound like a snarled chuckle, and twisted at Angmar's neck. The creature was amazed and delighted at the strength in those young Elven hands.

Pull Us to pieces if it amuses you, child. We cannot die, and you will only have annoyed Us for your efforts. Angmar allowed the Elf to try a few more similar maneuvers, then decided it was time to make an end. He flung himself against the wall with all his own considerable strength, momentarily stunning the maddened Elf; then with hands far more powerful than they appeared he lifted Legolas bodily off his back and over his head, then flung the youth to the floor. Breathing Shadow over the Elf, Angmar was pleased to see the feral eyes glaze over, even as they continued to look up with utter hatred and the intent to kill.

Now that you have obeyed Us, the Nazgûl hissed, reaching down to take the lithe form in its embrace, We will reward you, little prince. One should never neglect the schooling of the young, after all, and We have been sadly remiss in teaching you your lessons….

**********

Endnotes:

Translations:

Síla'iaun: shining sanctuary

Bereth o hûn'nîn: Queen of my heart

pen-iaur: ancient one

Malthenel-emlin: golden yellow bird = goldfinch

Acharn: vengeance

Re Galadriel's invisible calligraphy: If you have not seen Legolas' name written out in Tengwar script, drop me a note, and I'll send you a cliplet of it. Or you can download a Tengwar font and see it first-hand. It is very pretty….  

Chapter Eight

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