Shadows Amongst the Leaves

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he stepped back, away from Mornereg. His brother smiled at him, a malicious expression that only further enraged the young prince. “This is the reason for your quarrels with me? This is why you detest me beyond all things? Tell me, Mornereg – when have you ever considered others your equals? Your arrogance is hateful. As for Mother’s death, I am innocent of all blame. Nimthôn knows, for he witnessed Mother’s last moments.”

Mornereg shook his head, laughing softly. “Legolas, Legolas – you still do not understand. I do not care for Nimthôn’s testimony, or for your protest. I saw what I saw upon entering. Are you accusing me of being false?” So saying, the Elf approached Legolas. “Your denials blacken your name and Father cannot see that, for he is blinded by his wealth. Tell me, Legolas but one thing: did you allow Mother to die?” Seizing him by the chin, he forced his head up, and Legolas glared at him, wrathful. “Did you?”

“Mornereg, that is enough!”

“Silence, Nimthôn!” snapped Mornereg. “Hold your tongue, else I decide to silence it for you!”

“Mornereg!” Legolas wrenched his jaw away from his brother’s rough grasp, and turned his back on him, walking towards the chair. He could not remove the feeling of Mornereg’s fearsome hold on his face, for his brother’s strength rivaled his own. He feared losing his composure; the situation nearly came to blows. If it did, blood would flow and murder could easily become anyone’s first prerogative in times of pressure. He did not want to desecrate lord Elrond’s sacred home; the Elven abode of Imladris. Unbuckling his baldric, he placed his quiver and bow on the chair. As for his knife, he laid it on the table.

There would be no bloodshed during this confrontation.

“My brothers, lay your weapons aside. I already fear the outpouring of blood and violence beyond our means. The lord Elrond keeps a quiet house and our shouts will not be coupled with death and injury.”

“That is wise counsel, Legolas,” said Nimthôn as he unstrapped his short sword and bow and quiver. “For I know how easily you are insulted by haughty words. Mornereg, follow suit. Your anger is quick and vile.”

“I see. Both of you against me, as it used to be. Very well then, my brothers – I will forego my weapons. Legolas, speak fairly when you address me. You are younger, and therefore you must show courtesy.”

“Courtesy is shown when respect is given, Mornereg. You only give me disdain. Place your weapons down; it matters not where. No blood will be shed. Your words reflect the speech of one that I confronted down in the great hall ere I met you.”

“I see,” said Mornereg as he unbuckled his sword from his hip. “Is that why you bleed, my brother?”

Legolas bit his lip, seething within. How did Mornereg become a thorn in his flesh? Though his brother harbored bitterness and hostility, Legolas did remember the days when Mornereg was at least approachable. He used to ride with his brothers, when Nimthôn was not yet a peacemaker or Mornereg such a nuisance and troublemaker. Mornereg did occasionally irritate him but during those years of merriment, they did not threaten to spill blood with every quick word. It was only after their mother’s death when the flames of rage and misunderstanding destroyed their peace.

It was the day when all grievances were unleashed.

“Yes, Mornereg. You agree with the Elf; however, I do not wish to contest you on that. Your accusation has broken out yet again, and I have protested it on many occasions. And yet, it falls on deaf ears.”

“That is because I am true in my belief.”

“And I say that you are false! I attempted to save her life! Only ill timing and a turn of fate’s hand prevented me from doing so. There were Orcs to kill; how could I reach her if my path was barred? Can you not understand that?”

“That is your argument but paying heed to it will make me a fool. I see the anger lit in your eyes; you despise me, do you not?” Mornereg laid his sword and bow and quiver aside, propping them against the wall. As Nimthôn gave him a look, the Elf stepped away from his weapons, for they were still too close at hand.

“I could say the same for you,” replied Legolas as he strode away from the table, keeping his sight on Mornereg. He did not trust his brother; he once did. Once, many years ago, when they did not accuse each other of hatred and murder. But those days were past and he now had to confront the ugly truths that he had ignored during his innocent years. He was full-grown and able to stand his own ground against his foes, be they foul or fair. However, he did not know which torments were worse – those of his people or those of his enemies. He walked over to the bed and instead of sitting – a mistake if there ever was one, should Mornereg assail him – leaned against the bedpost, letting his sight wander from the aggravated Nimthôn to the confidently smirking form of Mornereg.

How his eldest brother could twist a smile! A Silvan Elf, Sindarin in origin, could not be this callous, this presumptuous! His father told him that during the Second Age, Sindar Elves were the bearers of fair songs and peaceful thoughts. Even during the First Age, from gleaning through some ancient manuscripts in his father’s study, he read that the Noldor were glorious warriors. All of their Elf-lords held high ranks and many fulfilled their deeds, while some fell to their pride and was thus destroyed. He had shuddered reading about their fate and now, this same chill meandered along his spine as he scrutinized Mornereg’s crafty expression.

He did not like it.

“Legolas, you remained silent during my questions. So answer them now. How came you to become the Orcs’ captive and why, my brother, is your hair shorn? It is most unbecoming of you.”

“Mornereg, has he not told you that those were a fool’s questions?”

“Nimthôn, do not attempt to dissuade me. He stands as if alert and I only wish to test him, seeing if he still has his senses intact.” In saying this, the gauntlet was thrown and Legolas took it, for insults he would not have.

Crossing his arms, the Elven prince spoke. “Most uncouth, my brother. Very well then, you shall receive your answers. I am saying them by my own will, and not by your coercion. I fell because I sought to bring aid to my companion, a valiant man from Gondor. In coming to his aid, I became captive. As for my shorn locks, you can undoubtedly guess with your noble knowledge what befell me. Lord Elrond has told you much; you need not ask for anymore from me.”

“And did you save this man of Gondor, Legolas?”

A stab of guilt, of painful knowledge. Boromir died. He had failed to save or protect him, although he tried his hardest. Merry and Pippin were also taken and Gimli was struck during his own stand. Legolas tasted bitterness welling within his throat; he swallowed hard. He had jested to Gimli for his slowness of foot; now the Dwarf could say the same and he could not deny it. He had fallen behind them all, in both speed and grace. Reluctantly, Legolas lowered his eyes. By doing this, he admitted to Mornereg that he had not saved Boromir and his silence carried the message. His speed was stripped ere Aragorn and Gimli found him, for he could not walk or run, nor stand. As for his grace, that was taken as well by vengeance. This was a bitter loss for him and a triumph gained by his brother.

Mornereg chuckled beneath his breath and in that laughter Legolas heard unveiled contempt.

“Hmph. So I thought. You failed to save Mother and you also failed your companion. This seems to be your bane, does it not, Legolas?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“It is my concern!” These words were nearly shouted and Legolas looked up, so sudden was his brother’s reaction. He glanced quickly at his second brother; Nimthôn gazed warily at Mornereg and retreated a few steps. Nimthôn’s face bore fright and Mornereg stared back at him, as if able to feel his dismay. Something cold entered into Legolas’ soul and he uncrossed his arms, letting them hang by his side. Tension crossed his brothers’ faces and Legolas felt the atmosphere around them change. He gazed hard at Mornereg, now mindful of his every movement and word. “It is my concern, youngest brother! Because of your faulty ways, you can never save those that matter to you!”

“You know not what you say!” Legolas shot back fiercely. “In both times, there were foes on either side of me! How do you expect me to save lives if I could not even save my own? The savior must be living first!”

“Then you are not a proper savior!”

“How can you claim that, Mornereg? Is it because you were able to defeat the Orcs with your soldiers? I fought alone, slaughtering my path through the palace! I knew our mother was unguarded and therefore I seized the initiative to fight my way to her!”

Mornereg tipped his head upwards, as if snubbing his reply. “And yet, you failed.”

“That is unjust, brother,” said Nimthôn cautiously. “We were all out fighting alongside Father and our kinsmen against our foes. You yourself did not notice Mother’s peril till it was too late – do not look at me like that. That was the truth. Did you not remember Legolas’ stand during the Battle of the Five Armies? He proved himself worthy and he also saved your hide.”

“His past achievements cannot blot out his errors.”

“Let fall your pride, Mornereg!” His brother’s stubbornness matched his, and Legolas gritted his teeth in annoyance. Perhaps Mornereg did this to raise a din in lord Elrond’s house, which he did not want to be a part of. Striding towards the table, he glimpsed his silver-hafted long knife. His bow and quiver lay on the chair, untouched and marked by his hands alone. But he did not need his weapons now. Turning around, he faced Mornereg who stood near to his corner of the wall. “This is getting us nowhere. Unless we wish to disturb lord Elrond’s peace, I say that we should call a truce.”

Mornereg crossed the floor in four swift paces, coming face to face with Legolas. He placed his hand on the table and in doing so, also snatched Legolas’ wrist. “There will be no truce this time, brother of mine. We are going to talk about this in our own manner. Nimthôn, should you feel yourself not worthy enough to stay, you may leave.” He tightened his grip, and Legolas glared at him, infuriated. Mornereg’s fingers dug into his flesh and already he felt pain.

“Very well then, brother. We shall talk about this in our own way.”

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Thranduil dismissed his manservant from the throne room. There was yet another task done during the night, and the Elf-king now felt weary. Upon his arrival back at Mirkwood, his subjects greeted him gladly, for a kingdom without its king was indeed dull; however, Thranduil had no doubt that his people spent their time in feasting and song. He did not begrudge them their leisure, as long as they were not too drunk to do their duties. Seventy years ago, he found two of his Elves in the wine cellar asleep; they had drunk much of his wine. For their punishment, they became patrol archers – they had allowed all of the Dwarves to escape.

But he did not find that anymore. With the threats issuing from Dol Guldur and with dark forces about the lands of the Free People, his kinsmen became disciplined and alert. Constantly, they patrolled the borders of Northern Mirkwood, growing ever cautious as they neared Southern Mirkwood. The Enemy’s stronghold stood tall and menacing there, and none of the Silvan Elves could topple it down with their arrows. It was a desperate fight to stay alive, for both Elves and Men.

He could not bring himself to sleep as of yet. Legolas had stood in his dream and walked; for a while, his path was lit and the young Elf hastened ahead. The tears before were forgotten. Thranduil still remembered his terror at hearing his other sons’ names being spoken in Legolas’ anguished voice. But now, his youngest child had met his brothers, albeit he sensed that something had gone awry. Legolas stiffened, as if in response to a threat and he bared his teeth in anger. Who was it that provoked him so?

Could it be Mornereg, his eldest? He remembered the ill feelings the two shared ere the Fellowship formed, and Thranduil could only watch in Legolas’ dream as the Elf spoke words defending his honour and dignity. It was about his late wife, the queen. Were they still quarreling over this?

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“The Orcs have shorn your hair. What pretty work they did, Legolas,” Mornereg mocked, reaching for Legolas’ hair in malicious amusement. “What else did they do to you, brother? Do you bear scars elsewhere, for your face is absent of their treatment.”

“That is enough, Mornereg!” Nimthôn only stood away from them before but now he moved and swiftly. Quickly, he grabbed a hold of Mornereg’s arm, forcing it away from Legolas. “It is ill to see my brother abusing his own kin like the way the Orcs did!”

Legolas watched, incensed as Mornereg shoved Nimthôn away with brute force. The slighter Elf stumbled back, nearly losing his balance. At that moment, when his eldest brother’s attention was no longer on him, he reacted. Bringing both hands forth, he pushed Mornereg off him and ran around the table, attempting to place some distance between his brother and he. But Mornereg had more years of experience in hunting and battle, and the Elf crossed the gap, blocking Legolas’ retreat. His mind working swiftly, Legolas ducked beneath his brother’s arm, for he was shorter and lithe, able to move quickly when needed. Nimthôn, no longer reluctant to physically divide the two, raced in between Mornereg and Legolas.

However, Mornereg proved the strongest. Snatching his second brother by the tunic, he pushed him away. Legolas glanced quickly at Nimthôn and ignoring his own plight, knelt down to help his brother back to his feet. Something in his mind warned him of his folly in turning his back to his opponent; nevertheless, sacrifice was always warranted for others in need.

Nimthôn gasped. “Legolas!”

Legolas turned around to look and Mornereg grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, lifting him to his feet and throwing him into the wall. As his body slammed into the hard surface, Legolas felt himself sagging and he placed his hands upon the table to avoid falling. His breath came in broken gasps and he wondered at his brother’s sudden madness and hatred. “Mornereg, cease this! You are not yourself!”

“Tell me one more thing, youngest brother: do you consider yourself worthier than I?”

“What sort of question is that?” cried Legolas, afraid of the cold malice in Mornereg’s voice. This could not be his brother! “Mornereg, let this go! This is worthless prattle by a lunatic!”

Mornereg advanced on him, pinning him against the wall with his hand. “Do you consider yourself worthier than I? Do you consider yourself a better heir to Father’s throne?”

“I will not answer that!”

“Do so!”

“Never!” That last word tore its way out of his throat; Legolas stared at Mornereg for a brief moment in fear and pity, and then shoved him aside. He wanted to flee, to escape this terrifying madness that seized his brother. Mornereg was no longer himself! Who was his eldest brother – a foul or a fair creature? Was he even an Elf with a disposition as such? Turning around, he gazed at Nimthôn and at Mornereg. His brothers, his kindred, his blood. Two who looked like Sindar Elves; one that did not. That one was he. Glancing around the room again, he felt a premonition of ill omen. Something was not right; something had gone wrong.

Just as he was about to fix his sight upon Mornereg again, it struck him and he froze.

His long knife was missing from the table.

“Mornereg! Do not do this!”

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Legolas screamed aloud in that darkness, again fallen from his path. He cried out in terror, protesting some ill action of Mornereg’s. Thranduil watched, horror-stricken, as his son’s voice grew wild, as if unable to still and fall silent. Legolas was terrifying when he showed fear; it was an emotion that Thranduil dreaded to see, for it did not suit his child’s visage well.

“Mornereg! Do not do this!”

“Legolas! What is it?” he cried forth, already racing towards his son. But Legolas fell back, as if shielding himself from harm. Terror had weakened his legs, and the Elven prince could barely stand. He appeared so feeble and fragile, unlike the strong warrior he once was.

“Mornereg!”

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Even before he could finish crying out his brother’s name, Mornereg unsheathed his long knife and swung at him. This was not his brother! His brother could hate him but Mornereg was a Sindar Elf! According to their history, Sindar Elves were peaceful! Was his brother fated to allow his pride to consume him, or was this yet another ill occasion of treachery and kin-slaying? Elves no longer sought to slay each other; that was during the First Age! What had happened to his brother?

Dodging the wild blows of his own knife, Legolas raced for the doorway, eager to flee. Mornereg crossed his path, cutting him off and stabbed forward. This time, the Elven prince did not move swiftly enough. The silver blade plunged into his shoulder, and Legolas fell back against the wall. Blood painted the wall behind him crimson; Nimthôn watched in shock and dismay. Stunned into silence, Legolas did not even have a chance to draw breath before the knife sliced upwards, severing an artery. Agony wholly seized him and the Elf choked in his pain, for it devoured his mind. His breath was already short and he felt himself fading into darkness.

Then Mornereg screamed in hatred and Legolas saw why. In his fear and distress, he had allowed his will to falter. He raised forth his hand and the truth glared at him, naked and terrible. He had assumed the guise of an Orc. Forcing his willpower to strengthen, he saw the illusion wither and vanish. But great dismay filled his heart, and Legolas’ mind reeled. Saruman’s curse had now begun its course. Once started, it could only worsen.

Legolas felt powerless.

“Legolas!”

Nimthôn. His second brother had to witness this – this terrible act of retribution for a misunderstanding and for ill words exchanged. Was he frightened by what he had just seen? The knife moved yet again; Legolas cried forth in pain, clutching at where his collarbone was, for the blade was now lodged above that. Mornereg stepped back, as if surveying his hideous work, and suddenly he turned and fled. Did his brother do that purposefully or was he stricken with madness? Would someone apprehend him ere he fled for Mirkwood to spread his lies?

“Legolas!”

Grasping a hold of the bloodied knife, Legolas found that he did not even have the strength to pull it out. Falling to his knees, the Elven prince broke his fall by placing a hand upon the floor. Scarlet dripped from his severe wound and stained the smooth floor, spreading across it like a shimmering red lake. He could not breathe – he could not! Tightening his already slippery grip upon the knife hilt, he used the last of his strength to withdraw it. Metal sliced against flesh, grated against bone, and more blood spilled over his hand; he winced, refusing to scream. Mornereg had struck him vitally; was this wound mortal? Would he die?

Aragorn, and Gimli, and Gandalf. He still had much to speak to them about, and he had to assist them in their battles. He could not die here in Rivendell, in lord Elrond’s house! Nimthôn spoke to him, softly but urgently and nearly frantically, and in his agony, Legolas almost did not hear him.

“Do not fade, Legolas! Do not! I will go and find lord Elrond and Glorfindel! A curse be on Mornereg during his years on Middle-earth! I would strike him myself if I had the strength! Legolas!”

He could not speak. Releasing his knife, he let it clatter to the floor in a pool of blood. His sight was dimming and he could not feel his body. He felt light, as if shedding his flesh. The agony faded to a mere searing pain; Legolas felt his strength deteriorating and he crumbled to the floor. As he did so, the knife came into his sight. It gleamed, webbed with gore. Legolas stared at it and reached forth, touching the keen blade with trembling fingers. His own weapon, used against him. Used against him by his own brother. His brother, Mornereg.

Darkness shrouded him; Legolas fell into a deep slumber.

And once again, his dreams plunged into nightmares.