Dark Leaf, Chapter 8: Between a Rock and a Hard Place

(in which we begin with Leggy v. Angmar from the Silvan POV, and continue on to an unusual harvest in Lothlórien….)

 

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When the first shouts and sounds of wood breaking came from the Tower, the Silvan Elves looked at one another and grinned. Their Prince was at it again, of that they had no doubt; whatever had provoked this most recent outburst, they harbored the happy thought that the lad would give them hell for what they were forcing upon him. Never a meek child, Legolas had surpassed expectation for his father's people, listening to the one-sided struggle over the last couple of months especially. Good-natured he was, that much they knew; sweet and kind, capable of intense focus, and full of curiosity -- that was their little Prince, and the Silvan folk especially loved him for it. But of late, that which he had been forced to undergo was enough to try the very Valar themselves -- and dearly though they loved him, none of his father's people would go so far as to suggest he was one of Ilúvatar's own shining ones.

"Breaking points are to be expected, one might surmise," Hellan whispered to his swordmate, Thalas. His reply was a snorted chuckle.

"Breaking points indeed," Thalas retorted, as something large and heavy up in the Tower apparently either fell over or was hit with something hard.

Then they heard the voice of their young Prince, raised in the cry of battle -- an unmistakable call to which the Silvan folk and their Avari kin had been responding since before their other kin made to follow the banner of Ingwë. It had been ancient then…. Hellan froze at the sound, straining to hear more. Was that anger? Pain? A familiar cry to raise the spirit? But there was no further sound, not for several heartbeats. Confused, Hellan glanced to where Saeros stood.

The Tracker was out in the open on the tower hill, well within arrow range, and apparently not caring. His body, straight and taut with readiness, was so still he might have been carved there; Hellan could not see Saeros' eyes, but knew what he would see if he could, and suddenly realized he was glad he could not see.

Suddenly, Saeros threw back his head and gave the response to that battle call: a long, ululating cry that touched on at least three notes, bouncing off the Tower and echoing back into the southern depths of Mirkwood. The countryside rang with it. Stunned at the dark beauty of it, Hellan took up the cry in louder, closer echo; soon all the Silvan folk stood there on the hillside, ranged to either side of Saeros, giving the call. It might have been Thalas who then began to sing the oldest war song he knew, perhaps only half the words of which were Nandorin, the rest purest Avari; the others took it up and began to weave the ancient harmonies. As the battle response gave way to the song, Saeros fell silent, his eyes avid and laden with fury as he stared up at the Tower window, willing the Prince to respond.

Guide my hand, my ancient mentor….

Stillness enveloped Saeros, within and without, as he heard unmistakably the voice of the young one in his mind in a manner that had not occurred at any other time in all these eighteen years. Saeros thought toward that message, sent everything he had of himself, gave Legolas what he asked for. Something was about to die in Dol Guldur -- and by his life, Saeros the Tracker would not have it be his Prince.

Just there, young one. Flesh and bone yield best just there…an arm torn off cannot seize, a leg removed cannot stand. Place the thumb just so, curl the fingers in such a manner, yes…. Thus is a leg removed from living flesh. It is hard, for sinew does not readily yield… yes….

Screams were heard then, terrified screams over and over, and they did not come from the throat of the Elf within. Saeros' slender lips curled into the faintest of smiles; his nostrils flared, and his breathing became harsh. His eyes narrowed, glinting, and he felt a stirring in his groin that widened his smile fractionally.

All Orcs might die so, young one. Lead with the bones of your fingers, knuckles first… now open the fingers just so….yes, yes, it is good….

Saeros closed his eyes and gave a light sigh, his lips parting. "Nin khaun," he breathed, and felt a wash of delighted pride ripple through his entire being. "Nin lend khaun…."

Hellan was at his side. "Nin kherdir," he murmured, giving it the Nandorin pronunciation. Saeros turned, still smiling, and gazed at the younger Elf.

"There is not much Nandorin in the little prince," Saeros said with gentle ferocity. "But there is much of Nandor in the little prince."

Hellan well understood, and gave a minute grin. "Always it has been so, old one," he replied. "Even when he truly was a little prince."

"What is it, Hellan?" Hellan only shrugged; whatever he had been going to say seemed suddenly moot. Saeros' eyes strayed back to the Tower. From within came the sounds of what seemed a kind of battle going -- wood splintering, glass breaking, voices raised in alarm and terror . Yet there was another voice, Elven, beloved, cursing and challenging in Sindarin, Silvan, Quenya. There were other words, too, and Saeros chuckled, a deep, furry sound not often heard. "That was Khuzdul, did you hear?"

Hellan's eyes widened in stunned bemusement at the next phrase he heard Legolas shout. "And that, the Black Speech? Our Prince kens the Black Speech?

"In anger, young one, best to use the enemy's weapons against him." Saeros dipped his chin and gave a scowling smile. "He will walk free of there more Silvan than before," he murmured, and the thought was cheering.

"Iaur kherdir, look!" one of the others called out softly, pointing toward the southeast. "Black Riders come!"

Saeros' scowl deepened; he drew arrows and ran, the others trailing behind him. Hellan swore sharply in Sindarin under his breath and paused, nocking, waiting until Saeros fired. In moments, Elven arrows rained down; Saeros fired two at once and struck the lead of the two Nazgûl in the chest, but the creature barely reacted, riding onward. Narrowing his eyes in annoyance, Saeros nocked and fired with blurring speed, targeting the foul horses, but he was not in time; the Nazgûl disappeared into Dol Guldur, the postern gate clanging shut with a heavy metallic thud.

Reinforcements come, khaun nin, he thought desperately. Kill as many as you can, then retire… know which battles to fight….

"Come get me then!" they heard him cry. "Surely you big, bad Orcs do not fear one little bratling baby Elf!"

More shouting, more Orcs screaming and crying out in agony or anger, more wood splintering. Saeros stared up at the Tower window, as if he could force it somehow by sheer will to show him what he could not see. There came an explosive sound, and a dark wave of power; Saeros' eyes burned with hatred for the Nazgûl, and he thought: kill that child and I will kill you. I will kill you and eat your soul as it flees… if you even still have a soul… The silence rolled outward, enveloping the region. To lessen his own tension, Thalas lightly hummed a prayer-song to Elbereth; Saeros allowed him to, appreciating that Legolas dearly loved and worshipped the Star-Kindler.

You could help him better than this, Fair One, the Tracker sighed inwardly, and cast an annoyed glance toward the heavens, whither the stars would gleam soon enough at the close of this day. Can a goddess keep worshippers when she does not grant favour for prayer?

Silence… many a heartbeat, many a moment, and still the silence. Saeros willed the silence to sing through him, and heeded the breeze, the shift of creatures under the branches, the sound of leaves stirring in the darkened, mourning trees of Southern Mirkwood. Silence, break…

Then it did, and Saeros fell still, unsurprised but grieving nevertheless. A sound came forth from the Tower, low at first, but growing, ever-growing.

It was a world-stopping sound. Even the breeze seemed to have ceased, as if the entire region were holding its breath to see what would happen next. The Silvan folk could have been statues carved from living alabaster; for a long, taut space of moments none of them moved. Whatever they had been doing or about to do at the instant of that sound, they stopped. Breath was held; eyes remained where they had been trained, hands stilled at their work. Hackles rose of their own accord, save on such elders as Saeros who could still even that reaction.

The sound grew -- a keening wail that rose, melodic and pure and horrible on the air, ever-increasing in volume. It was the same beloved voice, and yet it was not -- could not possibly be, the gods would not allow such a thing. Surely they would not allow....

But then it came again, louder, more anguished, the cry of an animal maddened with pain, defiled beyond sanity. Again and again, torn from a throat raw with agony, came that hideous cry. Saeros felt that agony tear through his own being as a physical thing, but he stiffened his spine against it, willed himself not to react beyond the curling back of his lips in a snarl of intense hatred for Shadow. But in his deepest being, he just knew his heart had frozen over….

Quite suddenly, the wail cut off. There was silence once more. Among the Silvan folk, none moved.

The sun itself seemed to be blotted out at the darkness and Shadow that roiled from the Tower then, flowing over the darkness of Mirkwood's interlocked, ancient trees, shriveling the hearts of that stalwart band of Elves. Saeros stared up at the Tower even as that Shadow threatened to engulf him; he cared little for it, and sang to the pain it caused as it rolled through him and went on its dark way. Saeros knew darkness intimately that might make even the Nazgûl shrink back in dismay, and he thought: all shall die. All shall die….

In the great and terrible silence that followed Shadow's progress into the darker corners of the forest, Saeros tipped his head back and stared at the sky. Then he opened his mouth and began to sing aloud, quietly at first, but with ever-increasing volume. It was a song of power and patience, of Shadow survived and base, cowardly defilement endured. It was a song of peace and vengeance, ancient when Saeros was himself a youth, and he sang it over and over, until it might even have a chance to seep into whatever shreds of sanity the young prince might still possess.

Somehow, Saeros knew the prince would hear it, and understand.

All shall die…. Heed me, Shadow. All shall die….

 

**********

 

Galadriel stared down into the surface of the Mirror, silently fitting together pieces of a scattered puzzle. The images she saw were profoundly disturbing, and yet in some bizarre manner, also deeply satisfying; for every ounce of destruction and agony, there was a dollop of hope and patience, of stunning mystery and fearful clarity. There had not been scenes like this in her Mirror since the last time she had attempted to search out the location of the One Ring, to determine if it even still existed in Middle-Earth.

"Puzzles upon puzzles…" spoke a quiet voice from the other side of the Mirror. Galadriel glanced up.

"Yes."

A shimmer of deep laughter. "Luthiél's line was always a little fey in its way."

"Never anything like this." Galadriel's eyes narrowed; she reached into the hazy, stupor-clouded mind of the captive Prince, exclaiming softly at the things she saw there. A snatch of song floated by; she caught it and sang it to its end, and felt some of the deep, encompassing sadness shift away into nothingness, leaving some measure of peace behind.

"You dance almost as close to the edge as does Elrond."

"Yes." Then: "It is needful."

"I suppose." Silence, then a soft sigh. "That was a lullaby. A Mirkwood lullaby."

"A Nandorin lullaby," she corrected, and twitched a faint smile. "Mirkwood was not always a place of darkness, old friend."

"No, nor was it always Mirkwood."  

"It will be something else again, before the time of the Firstborn ends," she promised. Together, they watched more scenes play themselves out. Galadriel sighed, shaking her head in pain at the sight of her grandsons: bright flashes of steel upon steel, arrows flying through the air, fire and fury indeed…. A tall, proud, utterly enraged figure, darker of hair that she was wont to see him, bringing up a bright blade to clash against the sword of an even darker, far less fair figure. The blades meeting with a harsh ring; light struck as if from a flint, and fire, and death…. Then through the heart of it all, his steed bearing him to the very gates of Dol Guldur and beyond, the flashing silver fire of her forester, his proud face alight with grim, focused power….

"Chains," she whispered, even as the images flickered and altered. "Chains upon chains… poor little bird!" And her hands came up, as if cupping something to her breast in comfort. "Poor little bird…"

He watched her in silence, glancing from time to time into the heart of the Mirror, but most often letting the images reflect in her ancient eyes and watching them there. When the last picture faded and the Mirror fell silent, reflecting only the light of the heavens stretched above them, Mithrandir let out a quiet breath and lit his pipe from fire conjured at his fingertips.

"Hard lessons," he murmured, and shook his head gently. Galadriel looked at him for a long, silent moment, barely moving. Then one eyebrow rose in agreement.

"For many, yes, but they will all serve in the end." She glanced back at the quiet Mirror, and touched her fingertips to the water. "Ai -- normalcy will be a welcome boredom," she breathed, and Mithrandir laughed.

"You assume much, to think anything will be even remotely normal for some time to come!" he exclaimed, and Galadriel laughed, but her eyes were still troubled. Poor little bird….

"Come. They have harvested something odd from a willow, and I think we shall be needed."

 

**********

 

Wood… I am wood, they have rooted me to the ground and I am one with the earth….

Legolas shifted slightly on his knees, attempting to find a position in which he could be more comfortable. Comfort was, at this juncture, a most relative term; after the assault by Angmar, the young Elf possessed new definitions of many words, none of them pleasant. He had not thought it possible to have a less pleasant way to conceive of defilement; his mind would not wrap itself around the concept that there were worse ways to experience pain and rape and befoulment, but there you were. And yet he was still able to lean, at least in his mind, toward the warmth and stark cherishing that came from deeper within than Legolas even realized he had depths.

Back and forth, back and forth, like branches in the wind… the little leaves curl up seeking the light, showing their backs… the storm is coming, the wind has shifted, must seek the light….

His body was anchored to the floor of Dol Guldur's dungeon, so that when his Nazgûl foster-father needed him, he would be right there. Legolas' wrists were shackled together, chained by a short length to the iron collar that bit into the soft flesh of his throat; another length chained him to the floor like a lamb awaiting slaughter in a butcher's death-house. Another pair of iron fetters bound his slender ankles, and chain likewise ran from them to the collar, only in the back. Nude, filthy with blood and grime, he knelt there swaying gently in nonexistent breeze; from time to time he became aware of his surroundings, and terror threatened to swoop down like a queasy dark bird. But then, from those deep places in his mind there would come voices, beckoning: the soft, kind, compelling voice he had long since been told was the Lady of Lórien, who always spoke to him in Quenya so that he would remember who and what he was; the deeper, stronger tones of the Lore-Master, Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, who had saved his sanity any number of times over the years with his powerful presence. Of course there was always Ada, Thranduil, proud and fierce and despairing; to know he was there and still somehow willing to try anything to make freedom for his child was a hinge on which Legolas' very mind hung, clinging with desperation.

And since the death of Gharkal, there was another voice, no less well-known for its recentness, no less beloved….

Legolas smiled privately, an edgy grin quickly hidden lest someone see. He raised his head and glanced quickly about with eyes that were no longer his own…. There were guards, but they paid him no attention; it was clear there would be no escape.

We do not need escape. We require vengeance. The wind has shifted….

Sometimes, his being seemed to shift as well. He went from being himself, though drugged stuporous, gazing blankly about the dungeon in stunned weariness; to being something else, a supremely feral, magnificently angry creature who waited for just the right chance to strike. And sometimes it seemed he was not there at all, but rode along the dark lanes of the forest in the company of many others… or walked abroad in the body of Saeros, watching the Silvan folk prepare for something -- what, he could not tell.

And sometimes he was in the mind of another, focused, sharp, angry, determined, as that someone loped across a broad, open expanse of countryside, bow in hand, reciting a painful litany: there will be no failure, by my hand shall Legolas walk free, the tide has turned, Shadow will not prevail….

It was amusing to be so many places at once, and Legolas laughed to consider it. One of the guards struck him to silence the laughter; his eyes cleared for a moment, and he struggled to find some manner in which he might pull upright, some way that he might strike back and attack, but the chains held fast. Legolas collapsed back to the hard stone floor, growling under his breath, but then he smiled.

Patience, tithen guren. Patience. There will be no failure…. That was the cool, soothing voice of the Lady of Lórien, and Legolas felt his heart rise up to meet her, as a child might reach from its cradle toward the one that gave him life. She felt unaccountably nearer, somehow. Legolas curled up on his side on the cold floor, rubbing his cheek against the stone, and closed his eyes on a frisson of pleasure that ran through his being. Soon….

 

**********

 

Elrond Peredhil sighed deeply, shaking his head.

"We should have seen this coming," he said wearily, lifting the goblet to their patient's lips and making the woozy Elf drink again. "You said he had been too well behaved… we should have seen this coming."

Galadriel arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. She concentrated on the task at hand, and kept her eyes on the dazed ones before her, willing the Elf to look at her, and looking the more deeply into the scattered silver-blue confusion. When Elrond took the goblet away, Galadriel put her hands back to either side of Haldir's long face and schooled her own expression to blank calm.

"Haldir accepted any number of risks when he became a Guardian," Celeborn said flatly from somewhere behind them. "Among them was a knowledge of what consequences arise from his actions. He should count himself fortunate this was all he received."

Elrond glanced at him, looking away just as quickly. Time having become an even more fluid commodity than the slow murmur of the Nimrodel, the Lore-Master was losing his grip on the here and now every time his eyes touched Celeborn. To see him in even partial armour, softened though it was by the deep verdant velvet of an over-robe, was to look back over Elrond's own shoulder to times long past, and the glimpse brought such pain and hope that it made the Lord of Imladris dizzy to contemplate it.

No less so than now, when Celeborn of all people was a bright flare of suppressed anger….

"One might think, half a step sidewise, that you approve of what Thranduil did to him," Mithrandir murmured, and Elrond was stunned to hear a note of amusement in the Maia's tone. Then he set aside his amazement, because of course, it would be Mithrandir to have the courage to speak so to an utterly angry Celeborn… Mithrandir or Galadriel, he pondered.

Galadriel has other things on her mind just now, the White Lady thought to him, her expression tilting slightly toward the whimsical as he stared at her, his dark eyes exhausted.

"Approve?" Celeborn repeated, biting off the word. "No, hardly that. Understand, perhaps, but no, not approve."

"The hard-headed idiot," Glorfindel growled from nearby. If anything, he sounded even angrier than Celeborn; Elrond glanced at him from the depths of a kind of sluggish surprise. "Does he think he is the only one whose child has ever suffered?" Glorfindel continued, gesturing widely. "Does he think he is the only father to ever worry so?"

"I think that will be enough," Celeborn ground out, in what for him was about the most angry tone Elrond had ever heard. They all fell silent and went motionless for more than half a heartbeat -- even Galadriel, though to her credit, she only paused to make certain she had Haldir sufficiently well enough in hand to protect him should the explosion actually happen. Glorfindel recovered his presence of mind first; after death and Balrogs, after all, Celeborn was a powerful but not insurmountable object.

"I do not wish to offend, my lord, but Thranduil's actions simply stun me," he said, his expression and tone considerably more in control than they had been. Celeborn turned very slowly and looked at him from under drawn-down brows; Glorfindel took a deep, considered breath. "He had to have known this would delay us. His son's life hangs in the balance."

"And you feel sufficiently expert in the matters of a father's heart to judge him?" the Lord of Lórien said, his deep, melodious voice calmer, and somehow the more daunting for that calm. Glorfindel could only stare, not certain where this line of inquiry might go. He took a single step back as Celeborn rose and stalked toward him, the defining picture of control and leashed fury.

"I am his kinsman and his equal, Glorfindel, and I will not judge him," he said, and even as she continued working on clearing Haldir's muzzied head, Galadriel's eyes slid sidewise to gauge whether intervention would be required on a second front. "What he has done is boundlessly prideful, more than a little stupid, and pointless to the greater enterprise -- but Haldir's actions were no less so. When one eavesdrops on the conversations of one's betters and takes actions above one's station, one must learn to receive with equal grace the response such behavior is likely to garner. We have taught similar lessons in our time, you and I, and this is no different."

"His son's life hangs in the balance," Glorfindel repeated, though he did so on a weary note of sad comprehension. "I should have thought that Thranduil would consider that above all things. I wish I could say his actions surprise me -- but after what Mirkwood undertook at Dagorlad, nothing accomplished by the House of Oropher truly takes me aback."

"It is in the blood," Mithrandir sighed, but he chuckled as he spoke. Glorfindel stared at him in some shock.

"Does such great age bring the ability to laugh at foolishness and destructive pride?" the Elf-Lord exclaimed. "Then the Valar defend me from ever reaching such an age!"

"I think," Galadriel murmured sweetly into the tension, "that of all of us, you would be the least likely to so pronounce, Glorfindel." He turned to look at her in confusion; she smiled upon him very faintly. "The Valar sent you back from Mandos, dear friend. I would guess by that it is their intention you remain here for a good long while."

Mithrandir laughed openly at that, more because of the expression that crossed Glorfindel's finely drawn features than at Galadriel's actual words. He clasped the stunned Elf on the shoulder briefly in an affectionate gesture.

"No one is laughing at the pride of the House of Oropher," he explained. "No one laughed, certainly, at Dagorlad; no one will need to laugh now, for this is but a diversion. All unwitting, Thranduil may have helped more than he hurt -- though I doubt not young Haldir will disagree, when he is capable of movement on his own again."

Young Haldir, it seemed, was more than able to stand on his own at last, for Galadriel released him at that utterance, and gestured for him to stand. Still a little unfocused-looking, the Guardian straightened and rose; Elrond hovered at his elbow just in case, but between them he and Galadriel had cleared all but the most thready remnants of the Vandal root from Haldir's senses, and the younger Elf kept his balance. He looked first at Galadriel, and whatever he saw there made him blush deeply; then he went to bend the knee before his annoyed Lord, and into Celeborn's eyes Haldir just did not feel able to look.

"My lord, I humbly beg your pardon," he breathed, the slight tremor in his voice making it clear how unsure he was of the apology's acceptance. "It was foolish of me to offend the King in such a manner."

"It most certainly was that," Celeborn retorted. Haldir's shoulders twitched as if he had been struck; the Lord of Lórien dropped one slender, powerful hand to the blond head bowed before him, and sighed. "The next time you take it in your head to commit such a breach, the very least favour you could do me is not to allow yourself to be caught at it!"

"My - Lord?"

Celeborn's hand moved to cup the younger Elf's chin; he raised Haldir's face to his, making the Guardian look at him. "I will not chastise you further, Haldir, but hear me, and we need never speak of this again."

"Your pardon, Lord. I listen."

"Well, listen and heed, and I will be satisfied," Celeborn said, with a faint smile that on any other face would have been a smirk. "Thranduil Oropherion is a kinsman and my guest. All aside from that, he is King of Mirkwood; you owe him at least the dignity of his age and station. Perhaps if I had not winked at your original error of having ears too sharp for your own good, you might not have thought yourself permitted to act as you did -- and for that reason, this once I will overlook it. No lesson is entirely lost, however -- and I think Thranduil himself has driven home the point about as well as any.

Haldir had the grace to blush once more, even more deeply; Celeborn patted his cheek in a proprietary fashion meant to seat the brick home, as it were. "I will expect you to apologize to the King of Mirkwood when we have returned," he finished, and gestured that the Guardian could rise.

"Haldir --" Galadriel beckoned a moment after Celeborn turned away. The younger Elf lost another shade of color; Elrond felt a great pity for him, having come under the scrutiny of his own elders -- including these very same two -- in his time, but he knew it was an important lesson Haldir learned today. He had always been a prideful youngster; the very fact that he was still even considered young, when he was nearly three thousand Man-years old, said a great deal for how that pride found reception among the Firstborn. He had earned his responsibilities as Guardian of Lothlórien, and then some -- but like all Elves, he occasionally ran face-first into the wages of pride. Of all the Elves to choose -- you had to go up against Thranduil, Elrond thought, and sighed as he shook his head. One of the most dangerously prideful Sindar lords ever born, with rock-headed, arrogant Elves on both sides of his lineage!

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Galadriel thought privately to Elrond, never taking her considering gaze from her droop-shouldered Guardian. Elrond wondered if she was trying to be funny, and discarded the notion, but there was a decided twinkle in her eyes as Haldir went to his knees before her chair.

"My Lady?"

"When we have returned with the young Prince, there will be a great need for caution, kindness, and careful treading," she said with gentle force, and after a heartbeat, both Elrond and Glorfindel realized she was making this a lesson wrapped in a general announcement. "The child has spent nearly as many years among Orcs, Wraiths and traitors as ever he spent among his own kind -- and I will have nothing said, done, or even intimated while he is here, that might make more onerous the burdens he has already borne from far too young an age. I trust you comprehend?"

There was a look of hangdog acceptance in Haldir's face when he glanced up at her, making it clear he understood not only what she said, but even more what she implied. He knew the reputations he had garnered among the Galadhrim, and he knew the reasons for them; but because he was, at the heart of it all, an Elf of immense courage as well as pride, he stiffened his spine for her. Haldir raised his silver-blue eyes to hers and put every ounce of his respect, adoration, and obedience into that look.

"Lady, by my hand and bow, nothing even so little as a featherweight will be added lightly to the child's burden," he promised, choosing his words with great care. He was rewarded when her gaze turned more kindly, and she smiled.

"Some weights cannot be helped, young Guardian, but I thank you for these assurances. You will accompany us to the borders, then, Haldir," she commanded, as Celeborn clarified his strategy to her silently, mind-to-mind. "There it will be your duty to guard and protect, and oversee the preparation of the healers -- for there is little doubt many will come home in need of their care, before this is over. I myself will remain at the frontier with you, to await my Lord's return with the young Prince. You know what will need doing."

"I do indeed, Lady, and will obey with all my heart and skill."

Galadriel smiled distantly; her entire spirit leaned gratefully toward Celeborn's, relieved to sense the inner calm and clarity that was at the foundation of his waking anger. Even annoyed to his utmost at both Thranduil and Haldir, even concerned for the captive young Prince, even deeply angered at Shadow for making any of this necessary, at his heart of hearts Celeborn was true to himself, was still the same beloved forester who had captured her wild heart long millennia before. Something of that tenderness, yes, and something of the wildness, was in her deep gaze as she smiled upon Haldir now. He had the wit to know whither it was focused in truth, but the sight of it charged his own heart with a love and worship he scarcely realized he possessed. He staggered when he rose, for the very force of it; when he was dismissed to go about his duties, he strode away with the vehement purpose of a young god.

"Ah, to be young," Mithrandir murmured, his tone bland with the effort not to chuckle.

"I still think Thranduil is seventeen specific kinds of fool," Glorfindel grumbled quietly to Elrond, and stared out over the beauty of Lórien with hard eyes. The Lore-Master chuckled darkly.

"Only seventeen?"

Celeborn lifted an eyebrow at the two of them.

"Of us, only Galadriel and I have come so close to losing a child so -- and I will not judge him," the Lord of Lórien said, in tones of quiet power. There was a long pause, bearing the sense that only one boot had dropped; sure enough, Celeborn added: "At least -- not yet…" and he glanced at Galadriel.

She gave him a considering smile. "Oh yes, of course I have," she said aloud, in response to the unspoken query. "With our daughter's husband keeling to his knees every time young Legolas turns around, would you think I would not look in the Mirror?"

Elrond did not know whether to be offended or amused. "I have tried," he said, feigning that he was aggrieved. "I cannot be faulted that the Wraiths keep finding ever more inventive ways to torment the poor child."

"That will soon come to an end," Celeborn murmured, his eyes narrowing. "My Galadriel, you know something of this," he accused, and descended upon her with a faint smile twitching the corners of his mouth. She looked evenly up at him, pursing her lips.

"I think I know what Thranduil is up to," she admitted. "And though I agree with Glorfindel that he is quite specifically a fool -- I also agree with you, my love. His is a father's heart riven with a very unique agony -- and he has never been one to believe without a fight that anything good will ever come to the House of Oropher. Can he be blamed for centuries of his own father's turmoil? Nay, Glorfindel --" and here, she held out one long, elegant hand in supplication, drawing the twice-lived Elf-Lord to her with the gesture -- "He has done what he has done because he believes we will fail in this attempt too."

"There is reason, I suppose, for him to think so," Glorfindel said, grudgingly relinquishing some of his annoyance with the Lord of Mirkwood. "The Valar know, we have failed in the past despite the best we could do."

"Despair is a powerful weapon," Mithrandir commented gently from his seat on the railing. He had observed all in his quiet way over the last little while, saying little, but already ideas were beginning to form, concepts beginning to take life. "The little golden Prince has put it to good use these last weeks. His father will also wield it well; it is the blade of choice, in Mirkwood."

"I doubt he is able to think so clearly, but it is this very despair that will drive Thranduil -- and us -- to victory this time," Galadriel agreed. "The determined heartbreak of a father, and the power of Mithrandir's might behind us, will break the back of Angmar."

"This time," Glorfindel sighed, taking her hand. Celeborn laughed beside him, and clasped Glorfindel's shoulder.

"I will take my victories one at a time, my friend," he said, and bent a considering gaze upon Mithrandir. "This will not be the final reckoning -- but it may be that they will think twice before attempting another such foulness upon the Firstborn."

"Nothing happens for no reason, even prideful foolishness," Galadriel murmured quietly. "Every step we take is a step on someone's body -- and yet it all becomes a body of work. In the end, we will possess all the lore we need to drive Shadow forth forever." She glanced about at the others. "Does it matter so very much if it is this time, or the next? Celeborn is wise; we must take our victories where we find them, and for this time, that victory is named Legolas."

Elrond felt a shudder go up his spine as she spoke. There were so many presences in the harrowed mind of the young Prince now, that Elrond himself was beginning to feel like the keeper of a small chest where far too many precious things have been stuffed. That victory is named Legolas… and Saeros… and Elrond… and Thranduil… and Galadriel! he thought, and closed his eyes on a twist of pain that started right between his eyes, then branched out to every bone in his body. Little golden birds of glass, and wood, and stone… fire, blood, fury, and oak, and ash, and thorn…. Sweet Valar, what a song all this will make when it is done! And we shall never be able to sing it, for fear it will break hearts from here to Valinor and beyond….

"If we are done, then," Celeborn said, "I think it is time we were away." He held out his hand; Galadriel placed hers within his, and stepped up beside him. The Lord of Lórien gazed deeply into her eyes for a long moment of silent communion, then turned to gather the others in.

"It begins," he said simply. "Now, it begins."

They were to horse and away before the mallorns were another hour older.

 

**********

 

 

Translation Notes:

 

Nin khaun, nin lend khaun = my prince, my sweet prince (with Nandor lenition)

Nin kherdir = my master (herdir in Sindarin, but Saeros and Hellan are not Sindar… (g)

Iaur kherdir = ancient master -- an epithet of honor

tithen guren = my little heart, an endearment (guren is a composite meaning 'my heart')

 

Author Notes:

 

Well, here we go again. (grin) I promise, by my life and bow, that there will be a battle in the next chapter -- and not one of words, or one of poor Legolas hanging onto his sanity by his fingernails -- but a real, honest-to-Valar, knock-down drag-out Orc-bashing festival. And I'm not just saying this because Celeborn has a sword across my throat (though it has done wonders for my posture…)

Some comments gleaned from reviews and private e-mails:

The majority seemed amused at Thranduil's escapade with Haldir, but I did receive at least three very carefully thought-out, well-considered comments on it from the other POV. Yes, it was intended all along that Thranduil be the victim of hospitality abuse on Haldir's part; remember that this tale takes place at least 400 years before Fellowship of the Ring, and all the younger characters (the twins of Imladris, Arwen, Legolas, Haldir) are not yet as grown as they will be by then, and are still prone to make mistakes. Haldir thought something was implicit in what Celeborn said to him, and rather foolishly acted on it. He got taken down for it, too -- or is that taken UP for it?? -- at the hands of age and experience. But yes, it was a breach of hospitality, which is one of the reasons Celeborn was Not Amused™.

Thranduil, on the other hand… the comments I received were along the lines of "he should have known better!" and "look at the time he wasted…" and "what the hell is he up to NOW??" One letter was downright harsh on him, suggesting that Celeborn should flay him alive when they next meet. (grin) Well OK, our silver Forester is, on some levels, angry enough to do so… but.

The scene is there for a number of reasons. Character-wise, things ain't over between Thranduil and Haldir; they are being made use of this way, because I feel they both often get short shrift in fan fiction, and I like them both. But also: they are both often portrayed, I think quite rightly, as prideful. In fact, since MOST Elves are prideful as a race, Haldir and Thranduil are downright arrogant. Thrandy probably has a better excuse; he is a king after all, and comes of a hard-headedly, stubbornly proud people. I have a bone to pick with many fan fictions, and that is that the Elves are rarely given their due as a proud and ancient race that lives (generally speaking) forever, is not given to rash action, and have had a long, long time in which to develop ritualistic behavior that makes the most prideful of human societies look laid back.

Think hide-bound upper-class Victorians. Think Wilhelminian matrons at the court of Kaiser Wilhelm (I *or* II!). Think Samurai, think Egypt at the height of the Pharaohs; think the court of Marie Antoinette. Now add in levels of Elvishness: magic, ancient wisdom, and all that. These are, in fact, people who would find dueling a delightful pastime, and would have all kinds of amusing ceremonial things to keep their minds and hands occupied. (Are you beginning to understand even MORE, now, why by the time of Fellowship, Legolas has evolved into a Prince who rarely wants to stay home and be princely?? FAR more fun to run around with Rangers, make friends with Dwarves, etc. etc.)

It is in light of this kind of society, as I envision it, that a monarch of Thranduil's age, station, intelligence, dangerousness, and arrogance would take quite unpleasantly indeed the manner in which he is treated by Haldir… who, though Guardian of Lothlórien and all that, is just not in the same social stratum. An Underling has made him look foolish in front of kin: and not JUST kin, but Thranduil's Elders, people to whom he has been made to look up all his life, despite the underlying political and social issues that normally would divide them. Originally, he was going to "break bad" on Haldir and do some serious duel-type damage on the lad (thanks Tree-Hugger for the terminology…), but then Irena and I came up with a much more light-hearted treatment. And as I said, it ain't over yet…. (grin)

(BTW, to the correspondent who then asked "have you forgotten that in Real Time, Thranduil, Galadriel, Celeborn, and probably Elrond too, all cordially hate one another's guts over the Kin-Slayings etc?" I say nope, haven't forgotten. And I would clarify that Elrond probably has issues at least with Galadriel, and certainly with Thranduil, but that there is not much I can see by way of hatred between Elrond and his scary, darling mother-in-law. I doubt he wants to go visit her every other weekend, but I am sure he looks up to her, reveres her, and hopes she won't stay too long when she visits. (grin) Anyway, all that to say yes, I do realize the Issues involved. Officially in this AU of an AU, the issues have been long since put aside; Galadriel knows all along the kid will survive, be free, and will be one of the Nine Walkers. Thranduil doesn't know any such thing, but is willing to be bedfellows with whoever can actually help him free his son… BUT, it was a good question.)

Some more of Thranduil's feelings on the matter may have been cleared up in this chapter; there will be more discussion in the next, in between Orc-poundings and the messing up of certain plans. The poor Elf has gotten it into his head, because of the failed attempts of the past, that this one will fail too -- hence he has decided to take matters into his own hands. But as you have just read, Galadriel and Mithrandir are not all that wrought up over it -- and they have their reasons. Galadriel can, in fact, afford to be very calm, because she pretty much knows how it will all fall out -- and she's more worried about what happens when they come back, than what will happen in between. Celeborn keeps his own counsel as always, and the others only know this has got to end soon, because Elrond and Thranduil both are going to fly apart at the seams if it does not.

As a side note, here are some fics I recommend if you think you might wanna see other authors' handling of Elves I think are smashingly Elvish: Maggie's "Veiling of the Sun" shows a different family for Legolas, and Oh God Do They Rock as Elves…. The story is also flat-out fantastic, and I love it, and I recommend it heartily. PLEASE Maggie, post a new chapter soon… I'm begging here…. (grin)

RiikiTikiTavi's handling of Legolas in her story "Stardust" is nothing short of luminous, intensely and beautifully Elvish, and it too is a finely crafted tale. (Warning, it will make you wish an Elf like that would appear in YOUR window…) Nimue's handling of Legolas in "Unraveling the Tale" is also quite nicely aligned with the bookverse, and she did more of the same in "When You Are With Me" -- two very nice stories I read over and over. Deborah's "As Little Might Be Thought" also contains superlative Elvish behavior; Deborah does a lot of writing in the pre-LOTR eras, and I recommend them highly. Both of Ithilien's Legolas stories are also Elf-approved (grin) and have the decided benefit of being complete, so you don't have to suffer chapter angst. (wry smirk of shame…) And Dwimordene, who writes like a goddess, always does fine and excellent things with her Elves. These are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head; if it ain't listed here, it doesn't mean I don't like it, I just couldn't think of it at the moment.

And I am delighted that everyone is so fond of Celeborn, and his dark twin Saeros… (snicker) Talk about two diametrically opposed Elves…. Saeros is having fun running rampantly Nandorin through my poor Imladris brain, and we will see more of him, both in this story and in others. OH the things I'm being told about his younger days… (grin)

Anyway, I'd better shut up here and get to work on the next chapter, before Legolas burns a hole in the side of my head with his "Thranduil look". Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, folks, and please, PLEASE always feel you can say whatever you are thinking when you review. ALWAYS. Like it, loathe it, wish you could figure out what the heck I'm doing, I like knowing what my writing calls up in folks. I absolutely LOVE reading all your thoughts, have been known to respond at length when I'm written to (and sometimes when not! (grin), and can often be found online in the evening on Instant Messenger, as (surprise, surprise…) JastaElf, both on AOL and on YahooMessenger.

 



Chapter Nine

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