Shadows Amongst the Leaves

“The air grows heavy, and my breath draws short,” said Aragorn as he rode his steed, Hasufel beside Gandalf. It was now the second day of their journey. The tremor of war and the threat of battle lingered in every heart, even in Aragorn, son of Arathorn. His destiny lay towards Gondor and now he willingly joined King Théoden, Lord of the Mark, in facing the dread forces of Isengard. If Isengard were to fall, then only Mordor would be their sole concern. Looking up at the sky, which was tinted with the hazy light of dawn, Aragorn saw no clouds. The air was dry and hot, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his thoughts.

“It is the heaviness of facing Saruman’s forces,” replied Gandalf as he gently urged Shadowfax on. The white horse cantered on obediently, bearing its rider’s weight with patience. “Look ahead, son of Arathorn and see what darkness lies behind us! Even now, it draws near, for we are approaching our destination.”

Following Gandalf’s counsel, Aragorn leaned forward and squinted his eyes. What he saw filled him with dread; yet, with the Istari, the White Rider next to him, there was nothing to fear. For from the East, where they were headed towards, a murky darkness seemed to overshadow the sun. To the North-west, as far as Aragorn could see, there were yet more shadows lurking. The Misty Mountains appeared dark and formidable, and the Ranger turned his sight away from their towering majesty.

Gandalf fell silent, as if pondering this strange occurrence, and then spoke his mind. “It is nothing to fear unless we fail in our attempt to dislodge Saruman from his plans. And failure is not something that will happen, Aragorn. I did not survive the fall into Moria and the battle with the Balrog to be slain or defeated by my fallen peer. We will battle hard and we will not lose heart. The Men of the Mark and their king are stout-hearted, steady even in the face of slaughter and darkness. We will conquer all who challenge us, although it is with pity that we must slay some who have been tricked.”

“This is indeed a black night.”

“Of course it is, my good friend. You do not expect to ride to war gaily, do you?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Nay! War is never an event that sane men will ride to with joy. Only crazed men, filled with bloodlust would seek swords and screaming and death, never caring about one life or another. Gimli is eager for Orc-heads; however, he is seeking vengeance against those whom destroyed his people in Moria. He is not lustful for death; no man alive would, unless he is driven from his mind. I wonder about our friend, though.”

“You speak then of Legolas?”

“Yes, for we need his help in this battle. An Elf would greatly benefit us with his keen eyes and swift bow, and there is no better than he. Hopefully, he is strengthened from his rest in Rivendell. There is but one thing that troubles me: he is afraid to slay those who gave him much torment. How shall he fight if his mind is unsettled between enemy and kindred? We cannot have him wavering in indecision, lest he should forfeit his life!”

“It is his struggle, and yet, he will join us for this battle we are about to enter. My heart tells me he will come, for he is still part of our Fellowship. Alas for his choice! It is a bitter one that will consume him slowly; only he could free himself.” Gandalf began to ride ahead of Aragorn but Aragorn cried out.

“Gandalf! What of his curse?”

“That is something I cannot aid him with.”

_________________

Blood flowed down the trees; crimson rivers running through the stripped bark. He ran, fearful of shadows and fell things. He could no longer see or find his father – where had his father gone? Pain gripped his shoulder in a brutal vise, and Legolas stumbled, blinded by agony. Unable to see, he tripped over his feet and fell to the ground; his body hit the dark earth, awakening fire near his neck. Wincing, he brought his fingers towards his collarbone and felt wetness. As he pulled his hand back, he noticed that it was blood.

Where had his father gone? Did he not say that he would not abandon him? In this forsaken darkness, he could see no light. Where was his path that ere was lit for his feet? Legolas could not move, so stricken was he by pain. This pain brought on by treachery and malice, from a knife wielded by his brother’s hand. He had never thought that Mornereg would stoop to fratricide, for that was a lowly business best suited for evil minds.

And yet, he was not dead. He could not be, since he still dreamt.

But he still felt frightened and if this continued, his will would crumble and eventually forsake him. That would make Saruman’s curse binding; he would never break it, then.

“Father! Where are you?”

“He speaks, although it is a plea for our father,” said Nimthôn, looking quickly at the lord Elrond. “Long has he dwelt in unconscious thoughts, and I feared for his life. That accursed brethren of mine knew what he did. The wound was severe and has cut deep and he has lost much blood.”

“Alas that this wound was struck by an Elf!” Elrond replied. “Fell wounds of the Enemy I can heal and it would only leave a scar but this injury is not by their hands. This was given by an Elf to an Elf, and wounds as such are not easily mended. Elves have ceased kin-slaying, and we live harmoniously during this age. However, from what Glorfindel and Lindir have told me, Legolas’ treatment here has been less than hospitable. Some of the higher Elves have shunned him, which stems from our prejudices. You do not hold such thoughts, Nimthôn, am I correct?”

“I do not. He is my brother and he is younger than I. I fear for his welfare as well as any other Elf living in Mirkwood. Why should I give him more pain when he is not responsible for what befell him?”

Elrond looked down. “That is wise knowledge, son of Thranduil. It will aid your brother much when he returns home after these ill tidings. Your eldest brother’s blow was fierce and violent; be glad that it was not his sword he used. Rather, he wielded Legolas’ own knife, according to your words. But even a long knife is deadly and it has cut deep. Indeed, this wound is beyond my measure to fully heal, for wounds inflicted by Elvish weapons heal slow, if not at all. And in his situation, another Elf assailed him – that only worsens the injury.”

“Is there aught you could do, lord Elrond?”

“I have healed as much of it as I could but it still bleeds. Should he move quickly, the wound might open on its own accord. If that should happen, bleeding to death would be the only end for him. One of my people tended to him, dressing his wound and stitching it, as that is the only way to secure it. But there is nothing else that I could do. We could only hope that he would give himself time to recover.”

“Why should fate turn her hand against him?” asked Nimthôn mournfully.

“Only she knows that, Nimthôn son of Thranduil.”

He heard the lord Elrond’s words, for he had received back his hearing. It was the first sense that he grasped a hold of, and Legolas did not release it. There was no hope for his wound, for it had been struck by an Elf wielding an Elvish weapon. His own. This irony set bitterness deep within his heart; Legolas wondered at what sort of mishap had occurred. In order to prevent bloodshed, he ordered them all to remove their weapons, be it bow and quiver or sword and knife. And in doing so, it had led to near death, for the knife used was his own.

Accursed night! His shunning by his kinsmen, the blow given by the Elf-lord, and Mornereg’s brutal assault all happened when that dark cloak shrouded their world! Was it still night, blackness without stars or moon? Where was Mornereg? Did any of the Elves accost and seize him, or did he flee back to Mirkwood? Questions upon questions – hopefully this time there would be answers. Legolas thought about laying his hand upon his weapon, only to find himself lost in yet another question. Could he use his knife again, after it nearly severed his life from his body? Would he be able to wield it without bringing back terrible memories?

He needed answers to those questions as well, and he could not do so if he were asleep.

He opened his eyes.

“Legolas! You have awoken!” Nimthôn cried out, overjoyed. So his second brother was still here. He was lying in his bed, with the sheets draped over his lower body. As for his torso, he was stripped to the waist and the area from his right shoulder to the underside of the left side of his chest was wrapped. Blood stained the bandages, scarlet in the light. It was a little past dawn, and the sun rose slowly. The lord Elrond sat in a chair on his right; Nimthôn stood on his left.

“Nimthôn?” asked Legolas, turning his sight over to his raven-haired brother. His brother nodded, and Legolas could see relief and happiness on his face. “Thank you for watching over me. Where is our brother, Mornereg? Has he fled?”

Elrond spoke, pulling the Elven prince’s attention over to the right. “He attempted to but Glorfindel met him on the way and caught a hold of him, demanding why his sudden flight. The Elf-lord sensed something amiss, and had been heading up to confirm or deny his suspicions. As it turned out, Mornereg held your sheath, which Glorfindel found strange. The bloodstains on his garb immediately convicted him once we found you. As of now, the Elf-lord and seven other battle-hardened Elves are taking him back to Mirkwood. In this way, he cannot flee and he cannot lie his way out of the incident.”

“My apologies, lord Elrond.”

“What apologies are needed, Legolas son of Thranduil? It is not your fault that Mornereg decided on fratricide; rather, Nimthôn told me you already knew the discussion was coming to an ill end. I commend you for the decision to remove your weapons, as well as commanding your brothers to do so as well.”

“It prevented nothing,” said Legolas, lowering his eyes. “If I had had my knife sheathed, perhaps there would have been no bloodshed. It was my weapon that Mornereg turned on me with.”

“And if not yours, perhaps his own. Do not lay blame upon yourself without cause, Legolas! You are young but I will not consider you unwise. Even your brother here saw your calm instruction. Lay still for a while, young prince, for your wound mends slowly. ‘Tis an ill day when Elf would strike against Elf!”

“I heard your words ere I awoke, lord Elrond. Will my injury forever be like such?”

Elrond looked at him with such sorrow that Legolas already foresaw the answer. “It is beyond my means to heal, Legolas. As such, I would not try fate with your wound, for it still bleeds and is perhaps cursed. If you should choose to leave your bed, let Nimthôn aid you. His concern is true and there is no malice in his heart like Mornereg. As for your knife, that is being cleansed at this moment.”

“Cleansed? How so?”

“It has been stained with Elvish blood. You cannot wield it into battle without it clamoring for justice unmeted. The purification of the blade is with water and ashes, for it must undergo dirt to shed its coat of blood. Once that is completed, the blade must be reforged. It will be returned to you ere noon, if you should choose to take it to hand again.”

Legolas closed his eyes and leaned back against his pillow, his mind heavy with thought. He had asked himself this question not long ago, and even now it troubled him. There were a lot of conflicts within himself that he had to overcome. The slaying of Orcs who were once Elves, his own willpower confronting Saruman’s curse, his self-worth after his defilement, and now the wielding of his own blade that nearly ended his life. Should he take it to hand again? It was just a simple weapon, forged out of silver and used for battle. It was not responsible for his hurt; that alone belonged to Mornereg.

“I will take it again ere noon, lord Elrond. Much thanks.”

“Very well, then. I will tell one of the Elves to bring it to you sheathed and wrapped in cloth. Where shall you be ere noon, Legolas son of Thranduil?”

Nimthôn turned his grey eyes on him, and then gazed directly at Elrond. “Where is a safe haven for him, my lord? Is there any place of solitude and quiet where we can speak undisturbed?”

“There is. Towards the eastern side of Imladris, there is a porch. Legolas, you know the way, for you were once there many months ago. You know of the passages and the steps and the garden.”

“Yes, I do know of it. That was where the Fellowship formed.”

__________________

Thranduil never felt so distraught in all his life. He could no longer find his son in his dreams; it was as if they had yet again been separated, and this time the chasm was wide. Legolas was nowhere in sight. He had lost him after Legolas fell, screaming a name that Thranduil knew with cold certainty. Mornereg. Mornereg was also his son – his eldest; his heir to the throne should anything befall him.

Did Mornereg do something shameful to Legolas? Did his eldest son disgrace his name? If so, then Thranduil knew the reason for his sudden severance from his youngest child. A name tainted would instantly cast the entire family, relations and all, into gloom and darkness. This was what happened between Legolas and he.

It was not a pleasant feeling, and Thranduil knew what had to be done when his sons returned. He would question them for their truthfulness, seeking for any cause or reason for this disturbance. Nimthôn could not have done any ill will to Legolas – the second brother loved the youngest with all his heart. That left only Mornereg, whose name Legolas cried out in his dreams. When he had named his eldest, he intended it to be a title of strength and nobility.

Now, it seemed an ill omen.

_________________

“So this is where the Fellowship formed?”

“Yes. I sat in that seat and waited my turn, dreading when I shall be the one speaking. We lost Sméagol, also known as Gollum, remember Nimthôn? Father sent me as a messenger, and I went bearing this ill news. Never did I think that my life would be changed here. Lord Elrond sent me as a representative of our people, for I was one of the Nine Walkers.”

“Do you regret obeying Father’s order, Legolas?”

This question, asked so gently and caringly, threatened to break his composure. Legolas turned his sight away from his brother and glanced at the mountains looming far above. He followed his father’s orders, expecting to return in a few days after the council. It was his first innocent thought, though it soon proved false. Instead of riding home to Mirkwood, he departed on foot with Mithrandir, two Men, four Halflings, and a Dwarf. During their quest, they encountered a Balrog in Moria – Elf’s bane – and lost their guide. They fled towards Lothlórien and received rest and comfort there, only to confront evil in the guise of Orcs near Amon Hen. Their Fellowship soon broke apart, and he fell into captivity and cruel torment. Did he regret listening to his father’s command?

“It cannot be blamed on Father. He did not know, Nimthôn. None of us knew what would happen.”

“If Father had known, he would not send you even as a messenger. Perhaps he would have sent Mornereg or I. Although I dread to think of what his haughtiness would do for the other members of the Fellowship.”

Legolas laughed but it sounded hollow to his ears and it stung of pain. “Aragorn and Boromir were both noble men, in their title and presence. Mithrandir would not stand for our brother’s arrogance. Gimli, as I know, would be glad to deprive him of his tongue.”

“That would benefit us much.”

“Perhaps,” said Legolas. Nimthôn held him carefully, with gentle hands that had once freed a hare from a hunter’s snare. The weight of his brother’s arm around his shoulders comforted him, as did the hand that was pressed against his chest. His wound still bled, and Nimthôn was cautious, treating him like a fragile thing. At one point, this would have annoyed Legolas, for he never considered himself weak. But now, after all he had been through, he did need his brother’s help. He could walk on his own but he could not aggravate the healing injury.

Nimthôn turned his calm grey eyes upon him, understanding on his face. “Do you think you would be willing to forgive Mornereg for his treachery, brother?”

“Alas! That is a question that for me has no answer.”

__________________

The air grew heavier and drier, and Aragorn took a small drink from the flask he carried with him. Wiping sweat from his brow, he watched as the Riders of Rohan cantered on, disciplined and in one formation, unified and ready to stand against darkness. Ahead of them, Théoden rode, commanding his people with that innate gift of leadership that few men possessed. Éomer rode in front of his own contingent of soldiers, his white-tailed helm ever bright in the dreary gloom.

It would soon be noon. The sky was overcast, with black clouds surging across the expanse like celestial armies. Light, golden and radiant, shone from above but it never pierced through the dark mantle hanging over them. Aragorn raised his eyes and beheld the clouds rising high above his head. It was a storm breaking, he thought wearily. A storm that called forth all evil things, whether they be flesh or spirit. Gandalf told him that from behind, the storm of Mordor followed them.

So it was that they proceeded to go into war.

Aragorn lowered his sight and looked ahead. They still had many hours left for riding, and what their fates were only time and the deities knew. The deities of Man, of the Elves, and of many other creatures unknown. Whether or not these fell beings were even considered by someone divine was a matter that he knew naught of.

“Mornie alantië,” he said, speaking Elvish to himself.

Darkness had fallen.

_________________

“This is your knife, Legolas. Here, take it.” Nimthôn took it from the hand of the Elf that brought it, strode over to where he sat, and placed it into his hand. Legolas curled his fingers around it, feeling the smooth cloth giving way beneath his grasp. “Thank you, my friend. May the blessings of Thranduil’s household fall upon you.” The Elf bowed and then went his way, stepping down the small stone stairs with elegant ease and grace.

His own weapon, cleansed and reforged. Swiftly, with slender fingers, the Elven prince unwrapped the knife from its white covering. It lay within its sheath, gleaming and unmarked, for doubtlessly the smiths had polished it ere they sent it from the forge. The silver-hafted handle shone cleanly, as if it had never been marred by blood. Grasping a hold of the handle, Legolas smoothly withdrew the long knife and gazed upon it. It was as if there were never any stains, be they blood or gristle; the smiths had done their task. Turning the blade this way and that, Legolas watched as the sunlight shone off it, reflecting nothing but silver.

“It is yours, as it always was, my brother,” said Nimthôn softly as he took his seat next to Legolas. “Forget its use by our brother. Use it wisely, as you always have. It may be necessary in times of great need.”

“It is mine but now my own blood has stained it, and that is a bitter memory.”

“Can you not forget it?”

Legolas turned the knife towards him so that its flat surface reflected his face. It had been a while since he had last seen himself. “I do not know if I have the heart to forgive Mornereg. If forgiveness is difficult, forgetting will be just as hard.” Seeing himself in that polished surface, Legolas reached forward with his other hand and stroked the blade. His hair graced his face gently, like sunlight lacing the edges of clouds. As for his eyes, they were no longer dead or dull but sadness and knowledge dwelt in them; they seemed like lakes in which all the mysteries beneath could never be fully dredged. His face had regained its flesh, returning to its former slenderness, losing the gauntness that he abhorred. Looking at himself, Legolas saw a fair visage that had lost much gaiety and innocence. It was like beauty veiled by shadow.

This was now he.

“I have changed, Nimthôn.”

“Not all turned paths are treacherous, Legolas. Seek your own.”

“I am, brother. I have lost my way, though and the search is leading me to darker shadows. I do not know where to go. All of my comfort is gone; I cannot give myself solace.”

Without speaking a word, Nimthôn leaned forward and embraced him even as Legolas placed his knife down upon his lap. “If you cannot find or give yourself solace, allow me to give you mine then, brother.” Years ago, Nimthôn had held him like this; close in brotherly love and without shame. It was shortly after their mother’s death when Mornereg accused him of wrongdoing and murder. Still in shock over the brutal find of his mother’s corpse, he found himself unable to take Mornereg’s accusation without losing his composure. He had fallen to his knees in front of his father and the entire court, trembling with anger and sorrow. Before his eldest brother could speak another word, Nimthôn raced in and comforted him. His second brother defended him angrily, thus starting the feud between the three of them.

But it was not Nimthôn’s fault; he had saved him from despair and bitterness that day. And now, his brother held him closely, promising to heal his hurts if he could not do it himself. Legolas felt all of his sorrow, anguish, and relief welling up within him, and he reached forward. He had never sought another’s comfort before, unless it was that of his brother and of his companions, Aragorn and Gimli. How long had Nimthôn lived his life without experiencing the closeness of family? Were they only kin by blood or were they kin by similar traits and emotions? Thinking like this, Legolas returned his brother’s affection.

“Thank you, Nimthôn.”

“As much as I thank you, Legolas. It is difficult to endure in Mornereg’s presence; how glad I am for a brother like you! And you resemble our mother so much, from her appearance to her composure. It is just as well – with all of the turmoil in our family, we need someone tranquil and innocent.”

“But I am innocent no longer,” said Legolas sadly, pulling back from Nimthôn. “It has been taken from me with each hurt that I have endured and survived.”

“Do not say that, brother. You believe falsely. I see much innocence in you, else you would not have stood against Mornereg like that. Many fear those who are stronger and mightier than they but not many would confront their foes. You seem melancholy – it is almost fearful on your face, Legolas. Have you wept yet?”

“Nay! Only once in my wretchedness when I looked upon myself after my deliverance; it is not yet time to weep for these new agonies.”

“Legolas! That would bring you a swift death if grief overtakes you!”

Before the Elven prince could reply back, a fleet-footed Elf clad in grey bounded up the stairs and across the porch. His eyes were bright and wide; Legolas could see urgency and wonder in his expression. “Lord Elrond bids me to bring you forth! There is an eagle here, summoned by the Lady Galadriel! Something about needing your services for battle, Legolas son of Thranduil! The eagle mentioned taking you to a place called Helm’s Deep, though we Elves have never heard of such a place!”

Legolas quickly stood. Could this be the battle that Gandalf mentioned ere he left them? Helm’s Deep – was it near Rohan? Nimthôn glanced at him, confused and concerned, and Legolas nodded, knowing his thoughts. He felt fear as well as excitement, for he soon had to make a decision about whether he would slay Orcs or not. This was a choice that was still undecided – would this fight help him find his answer? Or would it only increase his fear of slaying his twisted kinsmen? And yet, he would soon meet Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli! He sorely missed them and he wondered if they felt the same.

“Let us go quickly then,” he said, sheathing his knife and sliding it into his belt. “Nimthôn, would you mind if I ask you to retrieve my bow and quiver from my quarters? I need to meet with lord Elrond and the eagle!”

“I will fetch them for you, my brother.”

“Thank you, Nimthôn. Now then – lead on!”

___________________

He could not find Legolas. Thranduil sipped absentmindedly at his wine, and then placed the chalice down. It was a pleasant afternoon; yet, without his son’s presence close to him in their intertwining dreamscape, the Elf-king felt something significant lacking in his life. Where was Legolas? Did he stray so far off that there was no hope in finding him?

“Legolas, please find your way. And please, my son, reveal yourself to me.”

__________________

“Gwaihir the Windlord! Lord Elrond, what is this urgent matter?”

“Ah, young Legolas! Gwaihir wishes to bring you to Helm’s Deep, a fortress manned by the Men of the Mark. According to the Lady Galadriel, she has foreseen your part in this battle. It is one that you will fight alongside with Gandalf, Aragorn, and Gimli. You will be battling against the forces of Isengard.”

“Isengard?” asked Legolas in consternation. Ever since his confrontation with Saruman, he had no wish to cross paths with the Istari again. But if his companions were there, surrounded by allies, why should he fear? “When should I leave, lord Elrond?”

Gwaihir lowered his beak until he nearly touched Legolas’ chest. “At this moment, Legolas son of Thranduil. Time presses and waits for no one. We must be at Helm’s Deep by nightfall, or else the lack of your presence there might be disastrous for all. Come now – are you armed and equipped?”

“No – not quite yet.”

“I see. Where are your tools of war, young Elf?”

“My brother is off to fetch them, for I cannot exert myself.”

Elrond spoke, almost fatherly and sagacious. “Because of your wound, I would take care of yourself, Legolas. Do not use your bow, for it would most certainly rip the injury open. If you must fight, use your knife – it is a safer weapon to wield without the use of tremendous strength.”

Legolas bowed. “Thank you, lord Elrond. If it were not for your wisdom and skill, I would not be alive by now.”

“It is nothing.”

“Legolas, my brother!” Nimthôn ran towards him, carrying his quiver and bow. Legolas noticed the addition of a few arrows in his quiver; the fletching was that of his brother’s own make. Nimthôn smiled, and handed the weapons over to him. “There! At least when you go off to war, you will be able to properly defend yourself!” Then, as if a sudden tempest passed by his brother’s face, the dark-haired Elf gazed at him sadly. The emotion in Nimthôn’s clear grey eyes startled Legolas, for he saw much love there. “Come back to us, all right, Legolas? Do not die during these battles, be they in foreign lands or near our home. Come back to Mirkwood, even if it is only to greet Father and I.”

“I will come back. I promise that to you, Nimthôn. And if possible, please tell Father that I love and miss him, for he has aided me much during my struggles.”

“It shall be done, Legolas my brother. Now go, for your friends await you.”

Holding his brother’s compassionate gaze forever in his mind, Legolas turned around and faced Gwaihir’s golden stare. “Gwaihir, lord of Eagles – take me where I must go!”

And saying thus, he strapped on his weapons.

He was going to Helm’s Deep, wherever that may be.