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