Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter 9: One Little Gobbet At A Time…

 

Mile after mile was eaten up by the relentless loping stride of the borrowed horse; sharp Elven eyes watched the trail, marked the passage of the smaller advance band commanded by the twin sons of Elrond. Soon. I will catch up with them soon….

He was alone, but did not feel so. Behind him, sure as sunrise, was an awareness of those he left behind: the understanding annoyance of Celeborn, the anxious pain of Elrond, the uncomprehending anger of Glorfindel… the strength of Galadriel, the mystic might of Mithrandir.

They will understand. They must. And if they do not, then I must not let it stop me. I will not turn back now, will not wait….

Thranduil Oropherion rode onward, grateful that Celeborn's taste in war-horses was as excellent as his own. The mare was surely of Rohan stock, the colour of starlight with black points; she ran like the wind, powerful and driven, her muscles lean and sleek under the pale hide. Thranduil sat lightly atop her, riding unencumbered as the Silvan folk rode. Had this been any other situation, the Elven-King would have ridden his own fine mount and used the handsome saddle, crafted many years before by a skilled Firstborn craftsman in Doriath; it had been his father's before him, and being Elf-made, was as fine a piece of work as it had been the day it was completed. The continuity of riding to war with that saddle, to rescue his father's youngest grandchild, would have pleased Thranduil -- as it would have done to use his own sword, which had also once belonged to Oropher. But these were unusual times, and getting out of Lórien unseen had been paramount. So, the arrows and the hands of Thranduil, in the absence of his more usual weapons, would more than serve.

Not that he was without recourse to other weapons, of great significance. The sword he bore had been a gift from a Silvan craftsman at the time of that youngest child's birth, and was meant for the little prince when he was old enough. The two long knives nestled between Thranduil's back and quiver had been obtained under similar circumstances. They had been Luthiél's birth gift to her lastborn child, made for her own father many millennia before, with fine white handles of old bone, incised with ancient Elvish runes on both blade and hilt, those runes filled with gold. Many an Elven warrior had borne them over many a long year, in places that were now legend; they were among the few things of his Queen's bloodline that Thranduil still held to pass on to his son. Somehow, he suspected Legolas would understand and approve.

The Elven-King's face twisted momentarily into a grimace of pain, and he bent a little lower over the neck of the speeding mare, willing the agony of spirit to pass through him, singing to it as it went. Almost unceasingly since he left Lothlórien, nearly ten hours before, Thranduil had sensed an ever-increasing fear, pain, and near-feral fury from his child. At first it had nearly halted him; he had clung, sobbing, to the mare's neck, begging the Valar for mercy and rescue for his poor captive son. But when the spasm of fatherly anguish had passed, Thranduil had gone on with even greater resolve, clinging to the words Celeborn had given him:

By your hand shall Legolas be free…You will walk in there and free him, and bring him home….

More hours passed. Daylight waned; Thranduil paused by a stream, well-protected against the rocks out of which it poured, and tended to the mare so she could recoup her strength. It was his intention to ride through the night, in hopes of either catching up to the twins or making it to Dol Guldur no later than noon of the new day; it would be a difficult ride, of course, because the need for caution would increase throughout the darker hours. But he could not bring himself to force the faithful mare to continue her punishing pace without a rest.

Thranduil removed the blanket from her back, and took a soft brush from the pouch at his waist. Working with circular strokes, he brushed the mare's back and flanks, restoring circulation and raising the sleek hair so it would dry more rapidly in the cool breeze of evening. She leaned gratefully into his ministrations, and the Elven-King gave a faint smile, reaching over to scratch behind her ears. The mindless simplicity of the task, which nevertheless gave the mare such pleasure, offered Thranduil a chance to ponder; he was surprised to find as many bright memories as dark in his train of thought.

The centuries had not always been kind to Thranduil, though it was not something on which he frequently dwelled. It was just a plain fact of his long life, as it had been a fact of his father's life before him, a legacy left to Thranduil as real and weighty as the rulership of Mirkwood, and the care of the Silvan folk over whom the Sindarin House of Oropher ruled. His childhood had been briefly typical: full of warmth and light and love, the days suffused in pleasure and peace, the nights sweet with calm and the security of being the only child of adoring parents. But then grief and sadness: wretched arguing between the stubborn Oropher and the equally proud, equally hard-headed Ingwion, son of the Vanyar High King, who had not given his approval for the marriage of his only daughter, the lovely Aziel, to one he considered an upstart. Vile words were traded on both sides; Thranduil could, without any effort at all, close his eyes and relive those horrible days in their terrible fullness. In the end, Oropher had insisted he would take wife and child back to Middle-Earth -- and Ingwion was equally insistent he would not allow his daughter to depart from him. Unable to choose between husband and father, Aziel had been driven mad with grief -- and had taken her own life….

No one, least of all Oropher, had been surprised that when love finally found Thranduil's heart, he had chosen an Elf-maid who bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Aziel. The fair Luthiél, she of the deep golden hair and the pale blue eyes -- raised among the Silvan folk, for her mother was one of those proud and secretive Elves, though her father was of a bloodline similar to Oropher's: Sindarin with Vanyar connections -- she had been the perfect mate for the mercurial, passionate Thranduil.

The Elven-King finished grooming the mare and took her to the stream, now that she was sufficiently cooled to drink without harm. As the creature stepped into the running water and happily began lapping at it, her soft nose dripping every time she raised her muzzle, Thranduil let his thoughts wander; a smile stole across the severe handsomeness of his face at the memories that came to him.

They had started out rivals, he and Luthiél. She had a drive to be the fleetest of foot, the most accurate with bow and arrow; he was the King's son and heir, and was equally determined to best everyone at everything, to prove to the Silvan folk that the Sindar were a force with which to be reckoned. They had come perilously close to hating one another's living guts any number of times -- an attitude not helped by the knowledge that their elders were watching indulgently, wagering on how long it would be until they realized they were meant to be mated, and which of them would make the first move. It had been a painfully wonderful courtship that was nearly over before either of the principals were even aware it had begun -- and it had culminated in the middle of the dance grove during a midsummer feast, with the Crown Prince and his lovely, flashing-eyed lady shouting at one another as couples moved gracefully around them, shamelessly listening and laughing.

There had been applause when Thranduil finally lost his temper, told her to cease being such a foul-mouthed Goblin-wench, and stopped her angry retort with his lips….

Several beautiful children had resulted from the union, along with many an argument and the delights of making up at the end of same. Ereinion, the firstborn, had harkened back to one of Luthiél's Silvan ancestors for his dark beauty, hair the colour of chestnuts framing his square-jawed face, with eyes the same startling azure as Thranduil's. A century or two later there had been the fraternal twins, Aduialas and Rodwenil his sister; silver-gilt of hair Aduialas had been, with eyes the colour of a storm at sea, sometimes grey, sometimes blue, just as often hazel, while Rodwenil had been as black of hair as the wings of a raven, with eyes like amethyst in the mithril-pale setting of her fey, pointed little face. A warrior like her mother and father, Rodwenil had died at Dagorlad, her slender form spitted on the lance of an Orc footman. Sundered by his grief, Aduialas had taken months to recover from wounds suffered in the same battle, and then, finding nothing of light or love or peace any longer in his homeland, he had sailed West in sorrow.

Ereinion had been found slain on one of the lesser battlefields of the Last Alliance, a mere skirmish in the final history of it all, but it was said of him that he died like a true warrior…. His broken body had been burned with the remains of his slain warriors on the field where they had fallen. Of the children of Thranduil who had accompanied him only the youngest, Brethilas of the golden hair and the grave blue eyes, had survived completely unscathed to return home whole -- and that only because he had been too young to ride as anything other than an esquire to his father, not allowed into the thick of the fighting once the evil plans of Sauron became clear….

Thranduil rested his forehead against the mare's neck, seeing behind his closed eyes the faces of these lost children, finding but scant comfort that Aduialas lived yet in Valinor, knowing it would be many a long year yet before Thranduil himself would venture to leave Mirkwood forever. He had come home from Dagorlad a King long before he had expected to have to become one, bearing back to Luthiél the body of her marriage-father and her eldest daughter; she had remained behind with the recently born princess, Minuial, a child of the forest if ever there had been one. Dark like Ereinion, with eyes the colour of young leaves in springtime, she had done much to save her parents' sanity in the months following those dreadful days….

And then Legolas arrived…. Little Greenleaf, the unlooked-for lastborn child. No one had been more surprised than Luthiél, to discover she had conceived; she had not even been considering it at the time. Minuial and Brethilas had both been fully adult, and the nursery had long since been closed up to await the royal grandchildren. Conceived as a surprise, Legolas then was born some weeks prior to when he was expected -- arriving in the middle of a serious conference between Imladris, Lothlórien, and Mirkwood, with Mithrandir present to represent the Istari -- and suddenly there he was, bright-eyed, golden-haired, squalling and singing by turns, never a quiet moment until that dark and terrible day when the Hunt came home without him….

Thranduil draped one arm about the mare's neck and clung, his hand fisting in the dark mane. "I must free him," he whispered, as the creature raised her dripping nose from the stream and flicked a concerned ear. "My tithen emlin. This is madness -- all the times we have tried, by fair means and foul, and all we have won for him is beatings, and worse. I must free my son!"

The mare gave a low whicker like the clearing of a throat; Thranduil laughed, just this side of the edge of hysteria. It was the same call generally given to foals, when mares perceived nervousness in their offspring. How curiously appropriate! he thought, and reassured her with more ear-scratchings. She leaned her head toward his hand, and rubbed against his broad chest in that familiar way most Elven-raised horses tended to have.

"Ah well, my beauty, rest yourself for a while," he recommended with a heavy sigh. "And I shall see what can be done about amending my appearance, lest Saeros think I mock him. That would not be a happy thing!"

Taking a clean cloth and some soap from his pack, Thranduil made himself comfortable at the edge of the stream, undid his Silvan braids, and commenced the several hair-washings it would take to remove the walnut dye and restore him to his more customary look. As he worked, he pondered, long and deep….

The twins and their party had left only the most minimal of trails, but Thranduil had been trained from youth by trackers of astonishing capabilities -- the dark and glorious Saeros among them -- and it had been a fairly small matter to find and follow the hoofmarks left by a troop of unshod Elven horses. Given the relative freshness of the tracks, he knew he would catch up to them just before they arrived, if luck were with him -- just after, if anything got in his way during the dark hours of the night. Thranduil gave a disobliging smile, bending double to duck his head in the chill water of the stream. He did not know whether he wanted it to be a clear ride, or actually hoped he might encounter some small number of foes… just enough to work off the edge of his murderous rage at Shadow, but not enough to delay him for too long….

After eighteen years, he had thought himself essentially over any impatience concerning the captivity of his youngest. But the closer it came to this confrontation, the less patience Thranduil had with much of anything. Watching Celeborn and Mithrandir pore over maps had all but driven him to the brink, especially in light of whatever had happened to drive the Peredhil to his knees in abject agony. Action was called for, not toiling over old paper and dwelling on past failed battle plans. For Legolas' sake -- for Elrond's sake -- this attempt could not fail. It could not, in fact, even be an attempt. It had to be a rousing success, with as few casualties as possible. It had to succeed, to the point of freedom for Thranduil's sweet child, and the death of any and all Orcs, Uruk-hai, or what-have-you that Shadow might have created from any part of Legolas. Healing of body they could accomplish, and Thranduil knew it would be needed. Healing of mind and spirit -- well, such things took far longer and were far less certain. But the Elven-King knew if any of those Shadow creatures survived, the child would somehow know -- and that was a burden he would not allow anyone or anything to place on Legolas. The Valar knew, the child had suffered more than enough!

The coldness of the water cleared his head even more. With his hair restored to its accustomed Vanyar gold, Thranduil allowed his fingers to roam over it in the familiar braiding patterns he usually wore: the kin-braid of the House of Oropher down the back, and Silvan-style warrior's sidelock braids, ending in an elaborate twist which showed his royal status. He did not have to think as he worked; more than twenty-five thousand Man-years had slipped on past Middle-Earth since Thranduil Oropherion was first permitted to braid his hair like a proper adult. In all that time, he knew he had made as many mistakes as any other Elf, and had won as many victories, if not more; he had been stubborn, fell, proud, foolish, perhaps even daft, and certainly dangerous. There was no doubt at all in his mind this night, that he would need every one of those qualities to bring Celeborn's words to pass.

By your hand shall Legolas be free…You will walk in there and free him, and bring him home….

Thranduil changed his clothing to make ready for battle. The browns and greens of Mirkwood, in leathers both smooth and suede; the brightness of the mithril shirt; the black velvet of his cloak, with its golden clasp of oak, ash, and thorn -- these were all he needed. No requirement to don armour, no need to wear a crown; this night, and every night until his son was safe at home in his own bed, the naturally regal grace of Thranduil would be more than enough. As he strapped quiver and scabbards onto his back once more, he prayed to the Star-Kindler that he might survive the coming conflict -- not for his own sake, but for the sake of his son. Legolas certainly did not need the added burden of having his sire perish as the price of freedom!

Then he was back aboard the mare, reveling in the renewed power of her strides as they sped through the gathering darkness. Fast as the wind she sped, finding hoof-rhythm in the songs Thranduil sang. He cast his mind ahead, calling out to Saeros the Tracker:

I come, pen-iaur… the sons of Elrond are nearly there, if not already… this time, there will be no failure. This time, we shall show the Shadows together what Mirkwood is made of….

 

**********

 

Saeros was relaying instructions to his people when he felt the tickling presence in the back of his mind. A shiver of pleasure passed through his lithe form. This was more like it… this was as it should be! He looked at the others, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"The aran brannon comes," he announced to his folk, and marked how eyes widened with delight all around him. If Thranduil was on his way, things would happen. No more waiting…. "The sons of the Imladris Lore-Master come as well, bringing people of their own. The aran brannon wishes Shadow to know of what Mirkwood is made. This thing we will do."

Hellan and Thalas grinned sidelong at one another. They had walked for years beside Saeros, and understood as much of what was not spoken, as they understood of what was. Thalas took a whetstone from his belt pouch and began checking the edges of all the weapons he carried; some of the younger ones, Elves only a few thousand years old, came to him for the inspecting of their own weapons. Hellan took care of the archers' equipment, deferring only to his sometime lover, Ascarion, when the question as to an arrow's fitness concerned fletching. There was no finer fletcher in all Mirkwood than Ascarion, whose main occupation back at Eryn Lasgalen was to make the arrows of the Royal Family.

Saeros knew his subordinates would make all the necessary preparation, and so was free to busy himself in other matters. Sending forth the strength of his mind, he reached into the drug-fogged senses of the young one within the Tower.

He saw almost nothing at first, for the young prince was in that dream-state between waking and sleeping, and his eyes were clouded with exhaustion, overlain with whatever vile potion they had poured down his throat to control him. Regretting the need, Saeros pushed a little harder, beckoning, calling, chivvying the lad to wakefulness, trying to push back the mists of confusion, fear, and pain. What he saw when Legolas shifted to waking made no sense at first: a low stone wall a few feet before him, in a dark place poorly lit by guttering torches. There was more light coming from the Elven glow of the child himself than from any other source, and it bathed the immediate surroundings in a softness of blues and golds, like lamps through the mallorns of Lórien. Shared agony shot through Saeros, and the chill of the stone beneath the chained captive; the Tracker gained an intimate awareness of what had happened to cause the horrific cry they had heard the evening before, and his eyes narrowed with fell fury.

I shall enjoy this, when the time comes, Saeros thought, as young Legolas raised his head and stared about the dungeon of Dol Guldur, confused and disoriented. While he could, Saeros marked where everything was in the vile chamber, and knew any other information he might need would be there, in the prince's mind, when they required it.

Hear me, pityo. Your sire comes; the might of the Elven realms will be but short space behind him, and I myself have sent for reinforcements from Mirkwood. Hear me….

He felt a stirring from deep within the child, hope piercing the fog; music rolled out of his soul, and his pale, trembling hands reached out from within the cruel shackles. Legolas lifted his head -- then cried out, startled and angry, when hands seized him and hauled him upright, striking him. Saeros could see the Orc who manhandled him, close and leering, and he thought: I will kill you first. First and slowest, and in great pain. One little gobbet at a time….

It would not be long. Thranduil would come, the sons of Elrond would arrive, and then the others, piecemeal to enter the fray. Saeros smiled thinly. Shadow was clearly busy with some new mischief, but he counted upon the young one to keep them occupied for a little while longer.

Your pain will be consecrated in victory, khaun nin. This I swear….

 

**********

 

In dreams he walked through the darkness of southern Mirkwood, singing bravely under the trees. The ancient branches, twisted by the presence of Evil, creaked and strained toward the song, daring to hope that the Firstborn were coming back and there would be cleansing once more.

"My father the King is coming," Legolas told one gnarled, tormented old oak, whose bark was cold and hurt to touch. But Legolas was brave, and did not shrink from it, willing his touch to heal. "The might of the Elven realms will be but short space behind him, reinforcements come from the north of Mirkwood. Hear me!"

"I said, no singing!"

Rough hands pulled him out of his dreams, hauling him back to his knees; those hands cuffed him to silence when he snapped back like an angry dog, growling and attempting to strike out. Wildly Legolas struggled, reveling in the pain as the iron of collar and fetter and chain cut his flesh. But Galgrim was there, his face livid with a fresh scar from the battle in the tower cell, and the Orc captain was in a particularly foul mood.

He curled the fingers of one cold paw about the collar and hauled Legolas as far off the floor as the short chains would allow, forcing the young Elf into an unnatural and painful position. Legolas stared at him with narrowed eyes, panting with the force of his hatred and the pain.

"I will kill you first," the Prince ground out between clenched teeth. "First, and slowest, and in great pain. One little gobbet at a time."

"When you are an Orc under my command, you will obey like all the others," Galgrim snarled back, equally ferocious in his hate. He hauled back and struck Legolas full in the face with all the strength of his arm; red stars exploded in blackness behind the Elf's eyes as his head snapped back, and he hung there limp and helpless as someone unlocked the chains securing him to the floor. The presence that had strengthened him seemed to recede. Galgrim's powerful grip tightened; he dragged the captive across the floor, throwing him down next to the wall of the vat, and knelt behind him across his splayed legs.

Galgrim planted one muscular knee in the small of the youth's back and pulled the Elf against him in an intentionally painful parody of an embrace. With the assistance of one of the others he forced Legolas' bound wrists behind his lolling head, and the fetters were securely locked to the back of the collar. Just as a kind of dazed awareness was returning to the blue eyes, Galgrim leaned in past one bound arm with malicious delight and bit down on the side of the Elf's throat, tasting his blood.

"Now, little Prince," the captain sneered, "let us see if my touch can equal the Master's for loving attention!"

The Prince's mouth opened on terrible silence, lips drawn back, his entire being yearning toward a scream that reverberated through his mind when his voice failed him. He could not move, stretched out against Galgrim's body and the chains as he was; instinctive animal panic seized him, and exquisite pain, as the Orc took him by the groin then brutally thrust three long clawed fingers up inside his most private flesh. The scream he fought to utter was cut off by the feel of Galgrim's teeth against his throat once more, tearing, the vile mouth and tongue hot and wet over the sudden gush of blood. Legolas' struggles became ever more weak; he felt rather than saw when the Orc spat great mouthfuls of Elven blood into the vat, and when he peaked helplessly into Galgrim's hand, he knew with horrific certainty where that fluid was going, as well.

A fine little army of Orcs from the House of Thranduil....

 

Galgrim wiped blood from his mottled chin and stared down at the Elven fosterling. At a hissing inquiry from Khamûl, the Orc hurriedly nodded.

"The Elf lives, my Master!" he assured the Nazgûl. Nodding his satisfaction, the Wraith looked back at the overseer stirring the bubbling concoction within the vat.

More blood, the Wraith hissed. More…. Nodding his alacrity, Galgrim lowered his mouth to the wound in the long alabaster throat and sucked harder. Beneath his hands Legolas tried to stir, strove valiantly within himself to react in some fashion, but was helpless to make his body obey.

His eyes rolled back, and in his mind he was walking along a path in a forest of golden brightness, a place no Orc would dare to tread. The lovely Lady held out her white arms, beckoning, and Legolas fled to her, sobbing as if his heart would break….

 

**********

 

Thranduil reached the twins and their war band just before dawn, when they were within sight of Dol Guldur, looming over the trees near the southwestern corner of the great Forest. They paused, supposing it was a messenger; Elladan called a halt, and the Elven warriors glanced back, curious to see what would transpire.

Every face showed some measure of surprise to realize the messenger was, in fact, the Elven-King of Mirkwood…. With a muttered oath, the twins hauled their mounts around and rode back to meet him.

"Did my father not trust us to lead properly?" Elladan called out, when they had nearly drawn abreast. "Or did you not trust us? King Thranduil, this is an affront -- "

"Save it, child, I am in no mood to coddle your temper this morn," Thranduil ground out, leaning forward to gentle the mare, who snapped her teeth at Elrohir's mount when the younger twin came a little too close for her comfort. "Believe me when I tell you, I am the absolute last being your father would send to keep his sons out of trouble!"

The twins glanced sidelong at one another, assured by long years of Elrond's harried expostulation concerning the Mirkwood king that this was, in fact, quite true.

"Then why are you here?" Elrohir demanded. Thranduil gazed at them from under drawn-down brows.

"This is not a matter of trust," he informed them. "I am here to see to it we do not fail, this time. If you choose to see that as a condemnation, then on your own heads be it."

He stared at the visible portion of the Tower with narrowed eyes, hard as lapis. "I do not mean to affront either of you," he said more quietly, though he did not look at either of the younger Elf-Lords. "Celeborn and the others are but a short while behind me; I have no idea how long they were delayed, but I felt the need to come on ahead."

The twins yet again exchanged amazed looks, both of them far too well aware of their elders' opinions of Thranduil to not realize he had acted without their accord. Elladan stepped his mount sidewise, closer to Thranduil's, and stared hard at the king.

"And what exactly did you have in mind, by coming on ahead so?" he asked. Thranduil snorted elegantly.  

"My folk have been guarding this Tower, watching out for my son, every day for eighteen years," he retorted. "Doing what I have not been able to do, lest Shadow kill him -- or worse. Do not mistake me, sons of Elrond -- I know that your brave band, here, and all the Silvan folk under Saeros' command, are not sufficient to take the Tower and defeat the dark creatures within. But I think, if we proceed with some care, we might make them think this is all there is to the attack -- and while they are occupied with attempting to take us down, methinks a few very great surprises will be on their way from the direction of Lórien."

He turned then and fixed the blue hardness of his gaze on the twins. "After all," he said, almost drolly, "your noble grandsire is somewhat passing annoyed. Shadow cannot begin to conceive how bad a thing that will be for it, when the song is all told."

"And -- is the Lord Celeborn passing annoyed at Shadow?" Elrohir asked, with a disobliging smile. "Or just with you?"

Thranduil laughed. "Doubtless both," he admitted. "But at least he knows that his fatherly heart and mine share a similar pain -- and his anger I will be able to bear when my son is restored to me, whole and safe. Celeborn can beat me senseless, if he cares to. I will care not, if Legolas is free; it will be but small price to pay."

"It would be a brave Elf indeed, who could so blithely face the anger of Celeborn of Doriath," Elladan said, and there was a note of sneaking admiration in his tone. "What exactly did you have in mind, O King?"

"I have many ideas," Thranduil murmured, cocking an eyebrow over the angry smirk called forth by Elladan's words. "But it were purest folly to consider any of them in seriousness, without speaking first with Saeros. Yon Tower looks to be less than an hour's ride away; there may be Orcs between here and there, but this close to the dawning, they will be thinking only of relief from the rising of the sun. Shall we?"

Without waiting to hear what the twins might have to say, Thranduil tapped the mare's flanks with his heels, and they trotted away. Elladan sighed heavily, one eyebrow curving up darkly over his grey eyes; Elrohir almost laughed to realize anew just how much the expression made him look like Elrond.

"Father is going to kill us," the elder twin said, as he gestured with an outflung hand and gathered the band up to follow Thranduil. Elrohir chuckled.

"Nay -- Grandfather will get us first," he said, surprising a laugh out of his brother. "Then at least the death will be clean, and fairly swift."

"We will be locked in our chambers at home for the remainder of this Age," Elladan snorted, but his eyes glittered with anticipation nevertheless. "By the Valar, though, say what else one will -- there does not seem to ever be a dull moment, when the son of Oropher is involved!"

"Why yes!" Elrohir said, and urged his mount forward to match his twin's faster pace. "And look at it this way: if Grandfather does us in, at least we'll be dead before Grandmother can get to us!"

They were still laughing when they caught up to Thranduil, who simply looked sidewise at the two of them and smiled. Ai, it will be a lovely day, he thought. Be patient but a little while yet, tithen emlin… your Ada is almost there!

In fairly short order they were within sight of the waiting band of Silvan Elves. Thranduil, riding a length or two in front of the twins, saw them first and knew that Saeros saw him as well. The Tracker did not seem surprised in the least to see his King, a fact that cost the twins several moments of confusion. Saeros and his folk stood there, silent as statues and as unmoving; they waited until Thranduil dismounted with an elegant leap from the mare, then as one, in a chevron like birds flying south for winter, they knelt before the Elven-King. The others bowed their heads, but Saeros, locking eyes with Thranduil, touched first his heart, then his lips, then his forehead, in salute.

The King of Mirkwood surveyed them in silence for a long moment, while the Lórien Elves sat their horses behind him and stared in wonder. They did not often have the chance to see the dark and different Silvan folk in their own element, and this was like a scene from some very old song. Thranduil looked unaccountably foreign, somehow, for all his Vanyar Sindarin handsomeness; the homage paid him by these fell and merry Elves of his was a sight to see.

And to hear, for as Thranduil moved to take Saeros by one elbow and raised him to his feet in what was clearly some kind of ritual, the remaining Silvan Elves began to chant quietly. It was an old and lovely tune, hauntingly pentatonic; even the twins, who had been given a very thorough education by their Lore-Master sire, could only clearly translate about two words in ten. Thranduil smiled gently upon them, as if they were his children (as indeed, in some sense they were); when the chant rolled to a halt, echoing off the smooth, baleful sides of Dol Guldur, the son of Oropher waited a heartbeat and then sang back to them. His voice was a deep and powerful baritone, exquisitely well-trained; but the music he made in response to his subjects was unlike anything any of them had heard from him before, in all the eighteen years he had been making his sad annual pilgrimage to Lothlórien, to sing out his grief among the mallorns. More than one of the Elves of Lórien felt a shudder go up their backs, for this was ancient history alive before their very eyes: in a place of great power and darkness, the one shaft of brilliant, hard-glittering light.

Then Saeros the Tracker spoke to his king. The words were purest Sindarin, but there was a distinct accent, one the twins at least recognized as uniquely Nandor in its timbre.

"Aran brannon, we welcome your presence here in this place," the ancient Elf began. His voice was soft but carried powerfully, like the distant rumble of thunder on a summer evening. "We likewise welcome these your friends, kinsmen and allies, for if they be kin to you, they are kin to us."

"It is good to be here," Thranduil agreed, glancing up toward the one window visible on the walls of the Tower. "You have watched well, wrought well, and fought like the very Valar themselves over these long and wearied years. Only strive a little longer, and your watch in this place will be accomplished."

"They are worse on ritual protocol than the Noldor," Elrohir breathed out of one side of his mouth to his twin. Elladan shushed him, his eyes riveted with avid attention on the tableau before him.

"Beleg brannon, son of Oropher, I speak now with the words of my heart and of my mind," Saeros said, narrowing his eyes at the taller Thranduil. "Beyond all doubt, I tell you from the center of my being that the khaun Laeglass will be brought forth from this place of great darkness. He will be alive, and his soul is in my keeping. The Lady has willed it so."

Those watching could almost see the power emanating from the ancient eyes of Saeros. Those eyes, almost black in the predawn, bored into Thranduil's; the Minil-blue of the Elven-King's eyes were distinguishable across the glade, so bright a blue it almost hurt to look upon them. Silence reigned over the region for several heartbeats; the son of Oropher stared in anticipatory tension at his bold warrior, as if he expected Saeros to burst into flame, or turn into an Eagle. Hard to tell which, but in that fraught moment, either seemed equally likely.

Then, nostrils flaring, Thranduil allowed his expression to change to stunned amazement. Saeros had been old when Thranduil first opened his eyes upon Elbereth's creations in the heavens. He had been a fact of the Elven-king's life, all his life, and Thranduil knew exactly what colour the ancient one's eyes were, could describe the curve of his powerful jaw, nay -- could, having seen it so often, studied it at such length, easily have drawn a portrait of him that would be Saeros to the iota, all from memory. Never, until this moment, had he looked upon the face of the Tracker -- and seen eyes of a bright Vanyar blue looking back at him….

Then a feral smile touched the curve of the Elven-King's sensual mouth, though his own eyes began to glisten with unshed tears. To the confusion of the onlookers from Lórien, he stepped forward and seized Saeros in a bone-crushing embrace, which Saeros met and returned with equal fervor.

"Whatever else happens this day, Old One, you are my brother," Thranduil said, sealing his words with a kiss of peace, placing his lips upon the mouth of the Tracker. They parted, and clasped forearms as brothers and fellow-warriors; then, still holding Saeros by one wrist, Thranduil gestured to the sons of Elrond.

"Come -- we must make our plans now, while the light is with us."

"What just happened?" Elrohir asked in a hushed whisper, as he and his brother dismounted and made to follow Thranduil. Elladan lifted his powerful shoulders in a shrug.

"I have no idea, my brother," he sighed. "I wish Father were here; he would surely know, and could tell us."

He gestured, gathering in the two senior Lórien captains who had come along, Nevalkarion and Eithelas, and together they followed the others to the fringe of Southern Mirkwood.

Chapter Ten

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