Disclaimer: I do not own Legolas, Thranduil, or anyone/thing else that is Tolkien's. (Come to think of it; if I did claim they were mine, I would either be insane, or plain stupid...) Eärion, Morilion, and several others (Uär, Lasen, Elidhiel) are mine. Do not steal them.
Rating: T-ish
Summary: Dark past comes to surface, as strife races through Eryn Lasgalen. No one is beyond the evil that clutches the forest. No one is above it.
OF FIRE AND FOREST
PROLOGUE
Third age, 2647
Legolas stared in shock.
The sight of the charred decimated trees and clearing tore at his elvish heart. The ring of forest around the clearing had also been burned to the ground. The forest surrounding the deathly site was also scorched and withered. He slowly guided his horse around the black stumps, the steed snorting its disgust at the acrid air. Within the center of the clearing had been the largest tree for miles. He slid off his horse, his elvish eyes squinting; they had caught sight of something. He gently fingered the jagged charcoal surface of the tree stump, tracing the etched letters. He sighed sadly, looking around at the carnage, then lightly leaped back onto his horse. He nodded to his comrade, and they continued their way silently to Thranduil's deep halls.
But the single word was seared on his mind much like it was upon the dead tree.
HERE.
Chapter 1
Fourth age, 23 years after the crowning of the King
The battle was not going well.
A host of orcs, unlooked for had swept into the Mirkwood forest, making their way to the caves of Thranduil. Eärion, a young archer in the King's service, crouched in a tree, waiting for an opportunity to fell a goblin.
The elves, because of their small numbers, were using an indirect attack method. Their numbers had started at about 50, which were far too few to combat the orcs face-to-grotesque face. Instead, they had arranged themselves along the course the orcs were following, in the foliage and in the trees. They had engaged the orcs along two areas within a mile. The first group, once beaten back, was to flee behind the second group, and assemble in hiding in the foliage once more, to rain down a barrage of arrows upon the near-helpless orcs. Then, once the second attack force had attacked-and been attacked, they would pass up the first attack force (now ahead of them) and wait until the orcs came in sight to fire upon them a second time.
Eärion was part of the second force of two-dozen. The first group had fled past them a few minutes ago. But the first group had lost many more than they had expected - almost half. Yet there was no time to mourn their losses. The five hundred-strong army still marched on, driven with uncanny speed and agility through the eaves of Eryn Lasgalen.
Eärion's pointed ears twitched, as the war-song of the goblins found its way through the trees. He shivered, their fell voices grating on his nerves. He slowly withdrew an arrow from his quiver, the grey fletching and shaft blending to become one swift, deadly weapon. He nocked the arrow, and drew the bowstring back to his ear, his slender, muscled arm tensing. His grey eyes squinted, as the harsh singing grew ever nearer. Orcs rushed along the narrow path, carrying torches, lighting the forest on fire as they went. Eärion let his arrow go, it flying straight at an orc, landing with a satisfying thunk in its chest. The orc screeched, then fell, as many more arrows flew out from the trees, each finding a target. Eärion took another arrow, and sent it hurtling towards the horde of goblins. This time, with the clamor of the orcs, he did not hear it hit its target. And neither did he see it.
Eärion was blind.
Legolas galloped along the narrow path through Mirkwood, the sun shining faintly through the eaves of the forest. A band of thirty Mirkwood warriors followed him, each upon a grey or brown horse.
The attack of the orcs had been more than unexpected; it had been the first conflict since the crowning of King Elassar, and had taken all the elves of Eryn Lasgalen (Mirkwood) by surprise. The burning had been spotted the night before, and a troop of fifty elves (mostly archers), had been deployed. But a messenger had come back that morning, bringing news of the orcs. There were far more than they had thought, and though most of them were of the small kind that came from the Misty Mountains, at least a fifth of them were Uruk-Hai. Legolas was on his way with meager reinforcements to help the warriors holding back the army of orcs. It was ill fate that had the king and much of the population of Mirkwood away this week, thought Legolas. Indeed, it seemed like more than just coincidence…
The orcs had begun to retaliate. Their archers were firing their short arrows into the trees, and though the elves were well camouflaged, some of the arrows hit their mark.
Worse still, the Uruk-Hai had come up with axes, hacking away at the bases of the trees, both destroying the forest and sending the unseated archers crashing down at the same time.
'Eärion! We must retreat!' cried a familiar voice in the Elven tongue. Eärion glanced over to his left, towards the tree that held Lasen, his closest friend. Eärion could hear the loud commotion in front of him. The archers still able to fight had begun to engage the orcs with their knives.
'No! They have not sounded the retreat yet!' Eärion called back.
'The Captain has fallen! You cannot fight an orc hand to hand!' Eärion gritted his teeth, and closed his unseeing eyes. He had ever rued his lack of vision since being a child.
'Very well, then! We must assemble behind the first troop!' Eärion replied over the din. He felt for a branch grabbed it, and then swung down to the forest floor. Lasen quickly joined him. Lasen took a small, wood and silver horn from his belt, and blew upon it, sounding the retreat call. Eärion flinched at the loud noise, but had no time to protest.
'Quick-follow me.' Lasen had learned early in their friendship that Eärion, despite his handicap, could navigate the forest well, as long as he followed someone. So Lasen ran, with Eärion close behind. Gradually Eärion's ears could hear the uproar and chaos fall behind, though he could hear the quiet sounds of his fellow Elves slipping along through the forest around him.
'Here; climb into this tree. I'll be to the left.' Lasen whispered, as they stopped. Eärion nodded, and Lasen's light footsteps could be heard making their way to the next tree. Eärion quickly took a sip of water from the small water skin at his side. Then he waited for the orcs to come within range again.
Legolas' horse pounded on, the faint shrieks of the battlefield reaching the prince's ears. They were close. He only hoped they had come in time, and with enough numbers. Legolas stopped as soon as he saw the waiting elves along the trail and in the trees. He called out to one of them. 'What news of the orcs?'
'Their numbers are still strong, my captain. Over 300. Our first group of warriors are engaging them right now.' The elf replied.
' And how are our numbers?' The elf paused before answering. Legolas dreaded the answer.
'It has been halved, sir. Two-dozen.' Legolas paused, the effects of the battle on his face. He sighed. He had to decide quickly what to do. He motioned to the five archers that had come with him.
'Stay with this group. The others and I will go on, and aid the warriors in battle. He dipped his head to the five, and they returned the salute.
'And may Elbereth help us.'
Eärion, in fact, had been the elf talking to Legolas. After most the horses (he counted twenty-five by their hoof beats) had left, Lasen whispered to him from the other tree.
'Do you know who that was?' he said excitedly.
'No. Who was it?' asked Eärion.
'That was Legolas Greenleaf, the king's son!' Lasen replied. 'He was before the Gates of Morannon when the Dark Tower fell.' Eärion felt his heart rise. Legolas was a deadly combatant in battle, whether with arrow, or steel.
'It is good to have him, then. He is a great warrior.'
'Yes. 'We shall win the fight, I now believe.' Lasen replied, with a determined tone to his voice. Eärion nodded. The attack had been sudden, and their forces were very depleted, due to the absence of King Thranduil and much of his army. But the reinforces were here, along with a great hero of Middle Earth.
He withdrew an arrow from his quiver.
Legolas and his warriors charged into the mass of goblins. The forests' denseness was hindering them from getting all their forces in one place. Legolas clung to his bare-backed horse with his legs, his arrows flying from his hands in one fluid pattern. One, two, five, eight, twelve, seventeen- He subconsciously counted as he slew orc after orc. But it hardly seemed that the goblins' number was depleted at all. The Elves' numbers were too few, even if each elf slew 15 orcs each. It almost seemed as if the earth had ruptured from its very heart, spewing an endless river of filth and fangs. At last his arrows ran out. He drew his sword; knives were no weapons for on top of a horse. Previously, he had been circling the battle, always moving, to keep out of the way of arrows. His armor was light; for riding, and he did not want to test its strength. But now that his sword was his only weapon, he would have to risk the exposure. He swooped down with his sword, decapitating an Uruk-Hai. He blocked a passing blow to his chest, and severed an orc's arm.
But the orcs were winning. Yes, they were cutting down the army in droves, but one by one, the elves were falling. And they could not take many more casualties. They were losing. They had to draw back to the archers, and hope they would take out enough orcs. Legolas sounded the retreat, then he waited for his men to go further into the forest.
Eärion withdrew another arrow. He touched the few arrows that were left. Orcs had come around the other fighting band and had attacked them. His eyes were useless, but he did not need them. His ears, already aided by his elvish blood, had sharper hearing than all his friends. Their graceful curves, ending in a soft point, caught any noise, even a pebble dropping onto the grassy earth. He fired another arrow, and singled out the shriek that belonged to the now-dead orc.
But they were losing.
He needed no sight to know that. If the orcs had acted like they usually did, they would have fled after the second barrage of arrows penetrating their ranks. But no, they stayed. They stayed and fought, as if under a spell, and the lingering fear that gnawed at Eärion's stomach had only grown. Mingled with the brusque screams and yells of the orcs, were the moans and cries of elves. Elves that would die, either by slaughter of the orcs or by the slow, torturous pain of bleeding to death. Eärion gritted his teeth.
Lasen called out from below. A cry of pain.
"Lasen!" Eärion screamed. He leapt down from his perch, but then was uncertain on what to do. He was helpless, unable to do anything, no more useful than a rock. I can't see. Eärion's thinking blurred into one smeared, panicked thought.
I CAN'T SEE!
Eärion had never felt so useless. He barely had time to react at the sudden whoosh speeding towards his neck. He ducked by instinct, a millisecond before a resounding WHAM! - Sounded behind him. An axe imbedded in the tree behind him, most likely. The one meant for him. He stumbled forward, and hit the Uruk full in the chest. It grunted, but in a moment Eärion had taken out his knife and slit its throat before the orc could retaliate. He didn't give the orc a second thought.
"Lasen!" He cried. A low moan answered him from a few feet away. He ran over, blinking back the tears that came from his useless eyes.
"What happened?" He asked Lasen desperately, kneeling beside him. Lasen gasped for air, but said nothing. Eärion's hand felt his friends shoulder, and ran down his arm, trying to find the wound. His hand stopped suddenly just below Lasen's shoulder as it felt a warm, sticky substance. Blood. A cruel axe had hacked its way past Lasen's armor.
'Lasen.. 'What should I do?' He whispered, tear falling down his cheeks. But Lasen did not reply. He had passed out-or worse. Eärion feverishly tore his cloak off, and clumsily wrapped it around Lasen's chest, to help stop the bleeding. The battle had faded around him. He took Lasen's hand. It was cold. Eärion prayed to the Valar, to please, please spare his friend. His only friend.
Legolas and his men were surrounded, unable to flee to the other remaining elves. A little more than a hundred orcs were still alive, compared to their twenty. The remaining elves had their last arrows nocked, ready to pierce the throats of the first few orcs. There was no alternative except to make a last stand. Perhaps they could force their way through, and a few of the elves could escape on their freshest horses. He was about to give a quiet order to his men when something happened.
A large Uruk-hai suddenly stiffened, and slumped over on the ground. He could barely see the point of an arrow sticking out of his neck. Legolas looked around. None of his men had shot the arrow. Several more orcs fell over, arrows sticking out of their necks, and other vital parts. Legolas become aware of shadows all around them, behind trees, within bushes, all of them with longbows.
The orcs reacted to the unseen attackers with panic. They looked around, then shrieked, as more of them fell. Then they started to run away in chaos, in no way an orderly retreat.
A band of horses came around the bend, the shadowy archers coming out of their hiding places. Legolas tensed. Had they been rescued, just to be slaughtered by another enemy?
A single horseman, hooded and cloaked, rode up to Legolas, his palm outward, in a token of peace. Legolas tensed, but held his hand up, signaling his men to lower their last arrows.
The horseman halted a few paces away, and threw his hood back. Underneath was an Elf, his blond hair braided back for battle, almost-black eyes glittering like stars. Legolas sighed with relief. He slid off his horse, and bowed, his right hand to his left shoulder.
'Mae govannen, sir. I thank you for your aid in routing the orcs.' The Elf nodded, returning the bow.
'I am Morilion, and I have dwelt in Imladris.' Said the elf. 'I saw the Fires last night, and I knew that there were orcs abroad. 'But come, why are there so few of you? All the forest is empty of inhabitants, except for bird and beast.'
'My father, King Thranduil -' At this Morilion bowed -'Is visiting the lower marches of Mirkwood, now called East Lorien. He took a great company with him, so our dwellings are mostly empty.'
'So, then you are Prince Legolas Greenleaf, friend of the King?' Morilion asked. Legolas nodded.
'I am glad to meet you. The tales of your doings in the War of the Ring have been told far and wide.' Legolas nodded his head politely.
'Thank you for your praise, although I'm sure it is exaggerated.' Morilion smiled.
'Come, my father will be returning to his halls today. Will you and your assembly be our guests in our house?' Morilion nodded and bowed.
' I would be in deep gratitude if you would exhibit such hospitality. We are tired, and would enjoy a rest.' 'As are we,' said Legolas with a wry grin.
Then it was settled. Legolas was glad to have the talk over; he had no great love of formality and protocol. His elves and Morilion's tended to the wounded, and tended to the dead. There would be mourning and songs of lament upon their return.
Legolas was so busy with the preparations of returning, so that he never had time to analyze the battle. His only thoughts were how glad and fortunate they were that Morilion and his band had been close by, and had been able to beat off the orcs.
Chapter 2
Eärion rode back to the Halls on a horse whose owner was no longer alive. Lasen was propped up in front of him, unconscious, but still alive. The bleeding had stopped, but Eärion was still worried that Lasen might not make it. He yearned to yell at his company, to spur them on to a gallop, because Lasen might die without a healer. They would reach the Doors of Thranduil tomorrow in the afternoon; a relatively short trip. But it seemed like an eternity to him.
That night, they camped in a clearing that had been burned by a fire hundreds of years ago; this was evident by the black-streaked soil, and rotted, charcoal stumps. For some reason Eärion felt uneasy; being left alone in a tent with the sleeping Lasen didn't help, either. He curled his knees to his chest, feeling like a lost child. Stop it! He reprimanded himself. I am a grown elf, nearly 400 years old. I have made a place for myself in the kings army-as an archer, no less. I have been an orphan-a blind orphan for as long as I remember. But the tense feeling did not go away. He sighed. This was ridiculous. He laid down, hands behind his head, listening to the crackle of the fires outside, and the quiet chatter of the elves. This was the last thing that he remembered before drifting to sleep…
The house in the woods had been attacked without notice. Often warned about the lack of safety so far from the King's dwelling, Uär was now paying the price for his stubbornness. He had had no time to grab his curved sword. He was only wakened by the wail of his son, coming from the forest.
He leapt up, his wife sitting up in bed. Her soft, grey eyes caught the moonlight within them, glimmering like stars.
"Uär.." She trailed off, fearful. That was when the orcs had burst into their bedroom, cruel scimitars pointed at the dark-haired elf and his wife. They grabbed her first, and her scream echoed the desperation that was in his son's voice moments earlier.
"Elidhiel!" He roared. He lunged at the disgusting orcs, but stopped. They had a sword to her neck. The raucous orcs howled in laughter, snickering at the helpless elf's plight. Uär snarled, matching their ferocity tenfold. One of the orcs held his dark sword. He lunged at it, with the speed of an elf. But the orc had anticipated his move, and leaped out of reach. Elidhiel whimpered, as the scimitar dug into the side of her neck. Another orc held a sword to Uär's neck where he had fallen on the floor.
"Enough." The commanding voice echoed in the house, sending a shiver of fear and anger through Uär. He gritted his teeth, a dangerous fire lighting in his eyes. But he could do nothing.
"Bring them outside." The steps of the One outside the bedroom door receded, and Uär and Elidhiel were forced out of the room, and out to the clearing surrounding their house. There their son stood, hands tied behind his back. He cried quietly, the two orcs behind him holding him tightly.
"It is almost good to see you again." What was it about the man? He seemed so familiar, yet not so- Uär never got to finish his thought. The Commanding figure swiftly drew a shining blade and thrust it into Uär's chest. He gasped, and slumped to the ground. Elidhiel wailed and screamed, her husband's incandescent face turned upwards to the luminous moon, his dark eyes and hair standing out against his pale skin.
"Ada.." The boy whispered, sobbing uncontrollably. Who was this horrible person, in league with orcs, murdering his father? The hooded figure spoke again, now to the woman.
"You don't remember me, do you." Elidhiel stared at him, anger branded on her face.
"Well, then.." he reached up with a slender-fingered hand, and drew back his hood. The moon glimmered in his golden hair. Elidhiel gasped, her grey eyes widening. Then they narrowed; hate pouring into her face like white fire. The Elf smiled cruelly.
"I hope the last image you see is far from pleasant." The Elf thrust with his sword again.
Elidhiel fell to the ground, on Uär. Dead. The Elf turned to the small boy-elf, gazing at him brusquely. The boy cried silently, tear slipping from his large grey eyes like torrents. His Fate would be death. But he would take it bravely, like his father and mother. But oh how he wished to avenge them! The Elf smiled. A dead smile.
Wha-? Legolas nearly leapt out of his bed. His forehead was damp with sweat, and the air in his tent seemed stuffy, despite the cool fall air. He laid back down again, and then with sudden decisiveness, he threw off his blankets, and swiftly put on his light boots.
He stole out of the tent, threading his way quietly through the camp towards the center. The moon was full, shining down in the clearing with almost as much brilliance as the sun. Legolas stopped in the middle of the clearing, placing his foot on a stump, and resting his arms on his thigh. A sudden voice spoke out, not loud, but seeming so because of the silence.
"I did not know any one was up." Legolas turned his head slowly. It was Morilion.
His yellow hair gleamed in the moonlight. Legolas tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that had come over him. He didn't trust the elf, he realized.
"I was thinking about the battle. I thank you again for driving off the orcs." Morilion bowed cordially.
"I am always glad to help anyone who is against the orcs." Legolas raised an eyebrow at the strange comment. Luckily, his face was turned up to the stars and Morilion didn't see it. Aren't all Elves bitter enemies of orcs? Legolas glanced down at the stump his foot rested on for a moment, then looked back up at the moon. The luminous light lit up the clearing with a ghastly light, accenting the charred ground. Legolas shivered.
"This is a ghastly place, don't you think?" Legolas asked absentmindedly.
"It is far from the worst place in the world.." Morilion replied, smiling. Legolas frowned. The elf was strange, very strange. Legolas stood, and bowed to the elf.
"I think I will go back to bed. Goodnight, and may you enjoy Elbereth's stars." Morilion smiled, and nodded. Legolas didn't give him a second glance. If he had, he would have seen the tall, pale elf watching him as he went.
Songs were sung as Eärion, the other Mirkwood warrior's, and Morilion's band came down the road leading to the Sylvan caves. Behind the warriors, the King followed them, with many elves, including most of the army that had been away during the attack. The women threw flowers; one of them nearly scared him half to death as it silently brushed his face. Eärion allowed himself a small smile. Lasen had yet to wake up, but he had been told by one of the healers that his color was better.
Yet as they passed, there were wails heard mingled with the shouts of joy. Eärion looked with vision-less eyes at the crowd that would soon learn that husbands, fathers, and brothers had died to protect their forest. He sighed sorrowfully. This was the eternal curse of battle, and it touched all Races. There were two covered wagons following the mounted soldiers, in which the wounded sat or lay within. Most of the soldiers dismounted, but Legolas and the other captain went inside the enchanted doors of Thranduil. Eärion stopped, but did not get off his horse, feeling lost and out of place, even at his home. The chaos of the crowds and the other soldiers was loud, even if it fell far short of the noise in the old days, before many elves left for Valinor.
"Elf! Get out of the way," cried a voice in his direction. He glanced over at the voice, but was at a loss at what to do. The elf yelled at him again, and Eärion started to panic.
"Erisin. Wait a moment," a voice said. A horse clopped its way over to Eärion's side. "Are you blind?" The elf asked. Eärion nodded haltingly, his demeanor guarded. "I am a healer. May I?" Eärion nodded silently again. The noise around them seemed to fade, becoming as much of a distraction as a breeze. Eärion felt cool hands touch his closed eyes; he involuntarily flinched at the contact.
Suddenly he felt a Presence invading his mind like a probing hand. He tried to shut the Presence out, but It was strong. He fought valiantly, using every tactic he had to drive it out. But the Presence fought back, with as much strength as he.
"Let go." The words rang inside his head like a bell. Slowly he receded, allowing the hand to move around in his mind. But something was wrong! He shouldn't let It do this!
He was about to resume fighting the Presence when a shooting pain raced from his eyes to his brain, burning and freezing. He gasped for air, instinctively opening his useless eyes.
Light streamed into his pupils, making them shrink rapidly. He saw a tall, gold-haired elf sitting upon a black stallion next to him, just removing his hands from his face. The elf smiled. This was no dream.
He could see.
Chapter 3
Legolas joined his father in a private library. Scrolls, papers, and books were stacked within niches cut into the walls. Two great wolf skins (washed, of course) were upon the stone floor. Diagonal shafts cut through the ceiling allowed faint sunlight to stream in, but the main source of light in the room was a huge fireplace, five feet wide along one wall. Legolas sank into a chair upholstered with deerskin. He sighed, taking in the warmth and softness around him. It had been the first time he had truly relaxed since his father had left two weeks ago.
"It is good to see you, again," Thranduil said, jerking Legolas out of his reverie. "I would like to know exactly what happened. There are rumors floating around like clouds, but I wanted to hear it from you." Legolas smiled tiredly, and took a sip of yellow wine from Dale. Then he told his father how they had seen fires close to the south-east borders of Eryn Lasgalen four days ago. The next day a few elves that had been walking the woods alone came to the Halls. They were weary and dirty from the long run they had taken, to tell them of the large orc-band running through Mirkwood, making their way north. Legolas had sent the first troop of elves that afternoon, then following them seven hours later.
But that was not the most important part of the battle.
"What I do not understand, Ada, is why the goblins were startled by Morilion's attack and not ours.." Legolas mused. "We attacked them with just as little notice as he, and yet they did not show any signs of running, not even the Misty Mountain breed." Thranduil frowned, his brilliant grey eyes, showing great wisdom, flickered.
"Indeed, that is strange. Although, I would also like to know what Morilion was doing here, after all these years." Legolas looked at his father in surprise.
"You mean you know the elf?"
"Yes. In fact, he used to be a general in my army."
"Really? I do not think I have heard of him," Legolas said. Thranduil took a sip from his glass.
"He was not in that position for very long. And I believe you were up north for a good amount of that time, in Ered Mithrin." Legolas closed his eyes. That had been a nightmare of a journey.
"I see. So why did he not stay a general?" Thranduil sighed, glancing at his son with keen eyes.
"That is a complicated question. Part of which I do not for sure know the answer. But of what I do know, I shall tell you."
Eärion felt dizzy and disoriented. The Sun was so bright, the colors so vivid, the Doors of Thranduil so immense. He had no time to even thank the elf, before he smiled strangely, and told Eärion to find him later. Then the elf that had granted this great gift to him was gone, through the heavy Doors. Not knowing what else to do, Eärion made his way to the wagon that Lasen lay in. He took his unconscious friend and carried him in the Gates, down a wide hallway, and to the healing ward. The only way he knew how to get to the places of healers was the same as before his sight was restored; he followed someone. After Lasen was laid in a small yet cozy room, Eärion left to find supper.
Not that he needed it; indeed, he did not feel hungry, especially after the tumultuous events of earlier that afternoon. But eating was a ritual that he hoped would calm his nerves. Then, perhaps, he would be able to sort out the thoughts and clandestine images floating through his head, set loose by the intruding Hand sorting through them.
After Eärion had eaten, he took a small flask of red wine back to Lasen's room. To his great surprise and joy, Lasen was awake, and quite ready for the events of the battle after his injury. But Lasen gaped when Eärion came into the room, eyes glinting with the understanding and knowledge that comes with sight.
"Eärion- can you see?" Asked Lasen. Eärion smiled tiredly.
"Yes, I can. An elf healed me, though I am not sure how.." Lasen stared at him. He lifted his (unharmed) right hand, holding up three slender fingers. Eärion burst into laughter even before Lasen spoke.
"How many fingers-"
"Lasen! Please! I can see quite well, thank you. And without your silly examination." Lasen grinned, but continued to hold up his hand.
"I won't stop asking until you tell me." Eärion grinned, and sighed.
"Three. But you must remember that the wounded are often delirious, and should not be giving orders, however minuscule the may be." Eärion raised an eyebrow in mock sternness. Lasen grinned.
"Delirious, aye? If I were allowed to get out of bed, you would be flat on the ground. Huh! Insane, indeed." Lasen grumbled. Eärion laughed.
"See? Your violent intentions prove my point." Lasen glared at him, a humorous glint in his eyes.
"Just you wait, when I am out of here, I will lay you on your back." Suddenly Eärion grew somber, thinking of the state of his friend just yesterday.
"Lasen.. You almost didn't make it back. All of us were nearly slaughtered."
Lasen sighed, staring at the flames flickering in the small fireplace.
"I know."
Just then, a healer came into the room, telling them it was high time for Lasen to rest. So Eärion took his leave, and went to his quarters in another wing of the Caves. He sank into his bed, and drifted off to sleep.
Mother is dead. Father is dead. These thoughts ran incessantly through the boy's head, as he stared at their lifeless bodies. He looked up at the terrible, horrible elf, so fair looking, but with a heart as black as the deep parts of Mirkwood. The elf smiled at him. A dead smile. The boy felt fire rising up in him. Oh, how he wanted to slay this elf, to avenge his parents' death! The elf stared at him with intense, dark eyes. He smiled cruelly.
"I will give you your wish, wretch. You will live, and you will hope to have revenge against me. But I lay this curse upon you." The boy cowered, terrified. But still the fire inside him grew.
"These images will ever be branded in your mind, ever-present, never ceasing. This will happen. I would start running. The fire will eat up your parents, and never will they have the proper burial. Go. GO!" The elf screamed. The boy ran, angry, but terrified. He stopped within the shadows of the first few trees. The elf was setting fire to the house, and the trees around it. The flames licked eagerly at the wood, and flames surrounded the house in seconds.
The elf mounted onto a black horse, and galloped away from the blaze. The orcs followed him, shrieking and yowling. But the small elf stood rooted to the ground, tears running down his face, gusts of hot air blowing past him. The surrounding forest caught fire, and before he knew it, the boy was confronted with a howling wall of fire. He stood rigidly before the ever-hungry flames, unflinching. He had nothing to live for. So he would die.
As if hearing these thoughts aloud, the flames sank for a second to half of their height. Then they roared past the boy, leaving a small part in which he stood. He coughed, the smoke and heat almost overcoming him. But then the flames were past, continuing their path of destruction further into the forest.
He went back to where his house had stood, and looked at the smoking remains. He could not leave his parents here, with no memorial, or token to their memory. So he took a sharp stone, and went to the charcoal stump that was left, right beside where his house stood. It had been an incredibly tall tree; too tall for him to climb. But now it was nothing more than black remains of a memory. He took the stone, and carved as deeply as he could into the tree. It was one word.
HERE.
The elf-boy made his way, stumbling through the forest, going north, towards the halls of Thranduil. The night was cold, and the moon looked down in frosty indifference. The images of the elf and his parents' death never ceased to flash before his open eyes, over and over again. The tears on his face started to come down again, as the eastern sky started to turn gray.
"Go away. Go away!" he wailed. But the curse held its grip on him. He fell to the ground, shaking with sobs of agony. After a long while, he got up to his knees. His was jaw set, the fire in his eyes growing again. "If that is all I will see until the End, then I will choose the other path. I will see nothing. Do you hear? Nothing!" He screamed. But the forest was silent, after the echoes of his voice died away. Suddenly, the Sun rose, and by some enchantment, it shone around the boy as if at the noon hour. The bright light made him squint, and his vision blurred, and darkened. Then the light faded, and the usual dawn light shone ever so faintly through the dense trees. But the elf's vision did not return with the absence of the blinding light. He had chosen.
He was now blind.
Chapter 4
Legolas woke to heavy pounding on his bedroom door. It was nearly dawn. He moaned, and threw off the soft covers that surrounded him.
"My Prince, there has been fire spotted. You are needed." Legolas threw on his clothes quickly, and then raced towards the main Hall of the King.
It was all happening again. This thought occurred to him, however intuitively. This was too out of place, these burnings so suddenly, and after a long time of peace. The strange thread of events had to be connected, and after his discussion with his father, the pieces were falling into place.
"A great evil has now been removed from Middle Earth." He vaguely remembered Gandalf saying, before he had left for Valinor. Yes, Sauron's presence had been removed from the lands. "A Great Evil." But this did not mean that all evil was vanquished.
Indeed, this evil was more akin to the vicious Kinslaying of ages past, than to a dark lord bent on conquest of all that is fair and free. But it was still evil. Legolas ran with light feet, but skidded to a stop at the end of the passage, and entered the Throne Hall in a more respectable manner. There were elves buzzing around, with axes, and picks. Though they were loath to do it, in great need they chopped down trees in the Forest, and removed them to take away fuel for the fires. His father and a few other key elves were standing around a great table. Used for dining, but had become the temporary home for an extensive map of Mirkwood. Legolas hurried over, and Thranduil turned, with a grave, stern look upon his face.
"Legolas. You are needed to head a group of fire-warriors a little south of here. That is where the flames are highest." Legolas nodded, and bowed to his father. He was about to turn away, when Thranduil grabbed hold of his shoulder, in the customary greeting or farewell.
"May Elbereth help us."
It was more horrible than Legolas could have ever dreamed in his worse nightmare. The smoke required him and his group of forty to wrap cloths soaked in water around their mouths more than a mile away from the actual fire.
Even worse were the orcs that had come on them with no warning. They had no proper weapons they were used to, and the axes were not the typical weapons for elves. Few of them had anything bigger than short knives. So they fought grimly, against Fire and Foe, the smoke burning in their eyes, the flames creeping through the forest closer and closer.
Legolas drove a pickaxe through a goblin's armor in the area of its heart; the orc did not get up again.
Suddenly an arrow whirled through the smoky air, driving straight towards an elf with deadly accuracy. The elf fell with a pained look, an arrow in his heart. Legolas stared, aghast. The arrow was of elf-make. He followed the arrow's path back to the one who fired it. A man-no, an elf rode on a black horse through the smoke, reaching for another arrow from his quiver. The elf had long, blond hair braided back for battle, his almost-black eyes glinted a fiery light within.
Morilion. He had come back for revenge against the Forest and Its Keepers.
Eärion galloped through the hazy forest with a determined look on his face. He now knew that Morilion, the one who had healed him, had done so for his own purpose.
To bring his curse down on Eärion again.
Eärion had defeated it once, choosing total blindness, within and without, rather than to live with the abysmal visions of his father and mother's death. But Morilion had healed him of his blindness, and, instead of giving him a great gift, he gave him a great curse.
Eärion had dreamed that night, and the images still floated through his head like specters.
So Eärion would remove the curse, once and for all.
He would kill Morilion.
There had not been the slaying of an elf by another elf since the Elder Days, but he did not think of it that way. He only thought of it in one term. Revenge. Indeed, had Eärion known it, Revenge was the same thought that drove Morilion to his foul deeds. But those thoughts were far away, perhaps troubling someone who was not under the spell of long-sowed hate and bitterness.
Eärion's quiver was strapped to his back; his bow, already strung, was in his left hand. He saw an elf in a crimson cloak. It was one of Morilion's soldiers. He strung and fired an arrow at the elf. He fell, dead. Eärion galloped past him, trampling his bloodied body.
Legolas looked desperately around. Morilion's warriors were firing arrows through the murky smoke, killing elf after elf. What has happened? Legolas thought, ducking behind a tree to escape a shaft. Legolas nearly wept. He had been told of the Kinslaying, especially the horrific tale of the slaughtering of the Teleri, but it was so much more terrifying, horrifying and different to see it with your own eyes. And he would be next.
Legolas heard hooves pounding the earth, and yet another figure came through the haziness, galloping through the forest towards Morilion and his men. The elf looked familiar, his blond hair streaming past him. He suddenly realized it was the elf he had talked to in the forest two days ago. Eärion. He had a strange, fell light in his eyes. The same light Legolas had seen in Morilion's. He watched as Eärion drew back an arrow and fired.
Morilion fell from his saddle with a thud.
Eärion stood over the gasping form of Morilion in triumph, glaring down at the slaughterer of his family. He had revenge, at last.
"You have failed. Your revenge has failed, and I will live in happiness, even if my parents will not." Morilion's eyes opened for a second, a dead smile crossing his lips for a second.
"The curse does not end with my death. You will now bear a double guilt, for the death of your parents, and also the guilt as I have, the slaying of Kin." Eärion glared down at him, his eyes flickering with the deadly Fire.
"No! You will never win!" He screamed down at the elf. He took Morilion's own shining sword, and with one swift movement, drove it through his chest. Morilion gasped one last time, then was still.
The images flashing through Eärion's mind sped faster, the unmerciful death of the soldier in the forest and Morilion's demise intermingled with his parents'. He looked with desperate eyes at Legolas, who had started to run towards him. He looked down at Morilion's glinting, now bloody sword in his hand. He dropped the sword with a dull thud; but as he did, an arrow from one of Morilion's guards pierced him from behind. Eärion fell beside Morilion, never to breathe again.
Legolas walked the halls of his father, lost in thought. The fire had been quenched in the forest, though there was still a grim reminder but a few miles from the Gates. But the fire of revenge had not been quenched in the souls of two elves, and had consumed them in the end.
Morilion had been a general in Thranduil's army. Until, Uär, Eärion's father had taken this position from him. It was a sad story, reflecting the dark side of the ages long past. Ever did Revenge cut off the hand by which it was made.
Legolas sighed, tracing the grooves in the stone wall. Morilion and Eärion had never been found. So maybe it should be. But amid the great wreckage of the fire, one word was carved on a black stump.
HERE.
THE END