This tale is OC based. If you have read any of TreeHugger's tales you will
probably recognize the Silver Peacock. If you have read
Dragon_of_the_north's "A Night at Tumhalad" then you will know the identity
of the Skulking Cutpurse as well. If you haven't read her wonderful tale
then please do!
The Tale of the Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse
By Dragon_of_the_north and TreeHugger
Prologue
Trembling torchlight spilled through the small window of the cell that had once held Thorin Oakenshield during the dwarf's stay in the dungeons of Thranduil Oropherion King of the Woodland Realm as the dwarves returned to Erebor to reclaim what was theirs from the might of Smaug the Dragon. These dungeons beneath Thranduil's Hall were seldom occupied, and when the dwarves had strayed from the path through Mirkwood, stirred the spiders to greater activity, and generally been a nuisance, they had become the 'guests' of the Wood Elves. The cells had been put to good use then.
At the present moment only one cell had an inhabitant, but it wasn't a dwarf. It was an elf. On rare occasions, one of Thranduil's subjects would foolishly do something to incur their good and wise king's wrath and would find themselves contemplating their wrong deeds in a stone room, a real punishment for such lovers of trees and stars, and grass beneath bare feet, none of which were anywhere to be seen in these lower regions of the Wood Elf King's great Hall.
But stars shone in this cell, and trees grew. Elves lived here; as did spiders, goblins, dwarves, men, eagles, wargs, and even a wizard in grey robes. For the occupant of this particular cell, now known as "The Many Strange Happenings" cell, was busily painting the walls with deft 'creative' strokes. He was a fine artist and could draw anything in very lifelike detail when he so chose. On the occasion when he occupied one of the cells, which had indeed happened before, he usually drew everything that had happened to put him in this rather undesirable location. The paintings were done realistically to a point, but a small somewhat wicked part of him decided that the main players were better depicted in caricature . . . or nearly all of them. They are "brutally honest", he would tell his detractors, or one in particular who was not always amused by these renderings. "The caricature accentuates their natural . . . proclivities," he would say with a smirk and a pointed glance at the king who would sometimes smile affectionately - if his august person were absent from the picture - or glare imperiously and, from time to time, let forth one of his signature shrieks if he was the main focus of the portrait.
"I am merely capturing the true you, hir nin," the artist would say, crossing his arms over his chest, daring Thranduil to say differently. If the artist were in a particularly daring mood, he would merely smirk and say, "You can't handle the truth, can you, Oropherion?"
The king would glower and the artist would sigh dramatically knowing his sentence would be extended, and complete silence would reign, for the king would order that no one, under pain of severe and very painful torture, was to utter even one word in the prisoner's presence. It was at this time that the king would usually point out, quite correctly, that one figure in these 'honest' portrayals always managed to look noble, brave, or very put upon. The figure in question had a lovely spill of silver hair and a bow . . . oddly enough he resembled the artist. To which the artist would again repeat, "My art is brutally honest." Then with the same insufferable smirk, he would sit back upon the cell bench and watch as the king slammed shut the door once more with muttered imprecations and threats before sweeping imperiously away.
In truth, both the king and the artist knew that Mirkwood's grand ruler found these situations somewhat amusing or they would not have been allowed. Both king and artist played their respective roles to the hilt for the enjoyment of all.
The portraits on the cell walls had begun when Galion the butler, feeling rather sorry for his confined friend on the first instance of imprisonment many years before, had taken him - in silence- a box of paints and brushes from the artist's own room. Galion knew instantly that this was probably a mistake when after the first initial glance of gratitude and happiness, for the prisoner was chafing at the inactivity, the criminal's silver eyes had gleamed and his lips parted in a particularly wolfish grin, and the "Great Work" was begun.
The first cell to come under the gentle "honest" brush had come to be known as "A Study in Blueness" after a rather unusual trip to Imladris. Now ever successive imprisonment had found more cell walls covered in creativity, and this cell that the prisoner now occupied was busily being covered in scenes from recent life, dating from just before the Battle of Five Armies to the events that had brought him to this state of current time behind bars.
As per usual, no one was to speak with the prisoner as he had done something "questionable" after the battle not to mention a few incidences before the dwarves escaped, and the king felt some time in the dungeon was in order, a nice one with blank walls, of course. So it was with some disgruntled confusion that Ecthelhador lead a tall figure clad in a long blue cloak revealing little of its wearer's other clothing and, since the hood was pulled up, even less of his dark hair meticulously braided in Noldor fashion, towards the cell and kept throwing furtive glances at this stranger only to receive somewhat cheeky grins and winks.
Had Ecthelhador been more familiar with the subtlety of Noldor diplomacy - but how and where should an honest Silvan of Mirkwood have learnt much about that kind of devilry? - he would have been aware that those seemingly lighthearted smiles where the exact equivalent of the inscrutable expression a Silvan would put on if he wished to mask his thoughts and feelings, but even more effective, as the fact that something - and if it was a only certain amount of mischief - was displayed at all gave the illusion that nothing was hidden.
Almost the same was true of the moderately curious glances the visitor cast at the thick walls and the flaring torches; his interest appeared to be the limited one of someone exploring a place of equally limited importance for the first time. A very keen observer might have noticed, though, that the slightest hint of unease entered the elf's single eye now and then, but even this was not overly remarkable, for seeing a prison closely was certainly not agreeable to anybody.
The stranger could have told Ecthelhador that he had already seen rather too many prisons, and that he had not been there as a harmless visitor in most cases; for obvious reasons, he refrained from doing so; such a remark, let alone that kind of experience, would have been most inappropriate for the very respectable, if cheerful, Noldo walking down the hall with the gruff Silvan guard.
What he noticed in passing and interpreted at once with a mind sadly well- schooled in such matters did not please the visitor at all, but helped to enhance the worry he already felt for a certain prisoner - for if he had not been somewhat worried in the first place, and also battling slight feelings of guilt as he feared he was not entirely innocent of what had befallen the aforementioned prisoner, he would never have been foolhardy enough to venture right into King Thranduil's dungeons.
He had admittedly been amused when he had first learnt about what had happened to a certain silver-haired elf, and the lovely irony of visiting him in prison when he had been cast into the dungeon for a crime was part of what had incited the stranger to embark on this expedition.
But malignant delight did have its limits, especially as it was apparent that nights were likely to be cold and uncomfortable down here. At this time of the year, that was not a good thing, so, not even taking into account that the overall terms of imprisonment seemed to contain some less than kind elements, the prisoner deserved some pity. The visitor could imagine being in his place only too well.
If things proved to be very bad, he would not only give the prisoner the bottle he was carrying well hidden under his cloak but also that cloak itself when he left, if he was able to leave again at all. The prospect was highly unpleasant, and he forced himself to smile to chase it from his mind.
~ Why worry, even if I have to stay?~ he thought, making an effort to focus on the ironic side of the whole matter. ~ We have found ourselves in a dungeon together before, and I cannot claim that incident was not amusing.~
His smile instantly widened when he felt Ecthelhador's suspicious eyes rest on him, and, realizing that they had arrived in front of the right cell - well, was it the right one, or only a random one because this annoying Silvan had maybe become a bit too suspicious? - he cocked his head a little and waited.
The tall elven guard pulled a set of jangling silver keys from his belt and inserted one of them into the cell's massive engraved lock. The mechanism scrapped as he turned the key, then he yanked open the thick oak plank door.
As it was evening, with the first stars beginning to glimmer in the darkening violet hued skies, the king was dining with his family and though the stout-hearted guard had wondered if perhaps he should be checking about this visit with the king first, he decided that it might be best to leave the king to his repast with no interruptions. Indeed the stranger had assured him that alerting the king wasn't necessary, as the king already knew of it, for the good and wise Thranduil was aware of everything that transpired in his wondrous realm, was he not? As if to prove this, the rather flamboyant stranger also knew all the stipulations that surrounded visiting this particular prisoner, and he assured Ecthelhador that they had been waived for this visit as he and the prisoner were old friends who hadn't seen one another in ever such a long time and the good and wise king knew this.
~Highly suspicious! ~ Ecthelhador thought, eyeing the visitor once more before calling gruffly into the cell. He was feeling rather put out. Shouldn't he have been informed of all this BEFORE the visitor had arrived?!
"You have a visitor."
The captive elf had turned with a start when the fist rasping of the lock was heard, his paint splattered countenance filled with surprise at this unexpected visit. It was not time for his meal, as they had brought that an hour ago. Surely Thranduil was not going to give in this soon! He straightened, the brush clamped in his teeth, the bristles filled with black paint, momentarily forgotten; the one held in his hand slowly dripping silver paint onto the stone floor.
It wasn't the king of Mirkwood that entered, but a tall elf in a dark blue cloak that swept the floor. Ecthelhador's eyes narrowed once more, wondering again whom this mysterious visitor was, for it appeared the prisoner didn't know either. But before the guard could form a proper question the strange elf turned to him with a disarming smile to thank him for his kind service in escorting him here.
Ecthelhador frowned at this, for he hadn't escorted him anywhere but down the long hall to the cell. The Silvan frowned. Who, he wondered, had escorted him into the palace into the first place?
After the guard had stared for a second more from the prisoner to the visitor he turned, muttering to himself while closing and locking the door.
The mysterious elf turned, the cloak swirling dramatically about his ankles and grinned as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back to survey the prisoner.
"Good evening, Mordil," he began in a conversational tone, raising one eyebrow as his eye swept over the paint splattered clothing the other wore.
Tanglinna's mouth fell open in shock of recognition, the brush dropping from his lips to splat messily upon the floor.
"So this is where utter respectability gets you, hm?" the visitor continued, turning one gleaming eye over the confines of the cell, then back toward the silver-haired elf. "There were rumors in Laketown - and I just happened to be there - that King Thranduil had arrested his Master Archer for disrespectful behaviour and lese-majeste and conspiring against His Majesty with a shadowy group of conspirators known as 'The Tricksy Trio', letting a dangerous prisoner escape, and countless other crimes . . . . Impressive."
The Master Archer stared incredulously at the one-eyed elf.
"Alagaith?!" he gasped, staring fixedly at his grinning companion.
"So, just how deep in trouble are you, Mordil?" Alagaith continued, seeming unaware of how his unexpected appearance had affected "Mordil". "Will I have to break you out of jail to repay old debts, or were they exaggerating and you will be released so soon that a few bottles of orcish brandy are all you need to survive this?" He grinned once more at the flummoxed look on Tanglinna's face. Chuckling slightly, he returned to surveying the freshly painted scenes on the walls.
One showed the Wild Berry War that had taken place at the last autumn feast before the dwarves had left Mirkwood under somewhat mysterious circumstances. This war had not been fought with conventional weapons, but with berries and much laughter. Another picture showed a rather unflattering portrait of an elf with long golden hair, blue eyes bulging in their sockets, the handsome face marred by the wild snarl on his lips. Cavorting beside him was a large black spider in courtly robes. Another picture showed a black ribbon of water and a silver circlet flying in suspended flight through the air above it. Yet another showed a dark haired elf dressed in very elegant clothing seated on the ground with the noble looking silver haired elf, the same one throwing the circlet into the black waters of Morn Nen, a bottle of wine or brandy on the ground between them. They both looked very happy, one might almost say too happy.
"My goodness that is some interesting artwork on the wall over there! Are you providing them with evidence against you on purpose?"
Tanglinna gazed over at his paintings and frowned, slightly perplexed. It did look as though he were condemning himself. That had not been his original intent.
"What are you doing here, Alagaith?" the artist asked, turning to look at the other elf before bending to pick up the fallen brush. "HOW are you here? Thranduil isn't allowing me any visitors, and he certainly wouldn't . . . ." He gazed toward the doorway wondering where Ecthelhador was, then dropped his voice to a mere whisper, leaning forward slightly. "He would never let you, of all people, into Mirkwood let alone his Hall!" he hissed, staring at the other elf in amazement.
Alagaith gave him a suspiciously innocent smile. "But why shouldn't he
allow me to go here, Mordil? He wanted to see me right here all the
time, or so I believe to remember..."
TBC
We hope you have enjoyed the first installment of "The Tale of the Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse". Thank you for reading.
Authors' Note
Mordil means "Silver Peacock". Alagaith found this to be a rather fitting name for Thranduil's Master Archer as you will see in upcoming chapters.
The Tale of the Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse
By Dragon_of_the_north and TreeHugger
Prologue
Trembling torchlight spilled through the small window of the cell that had once held Thorin Oakenshield during the dwarf's stay in the dungeons of Thranduil Oropherion King of the Woodland Realm as the dwarves returned to Erebor to reclaim what was theirs from the might of Smaug the Dragon. These dungeons beneath Thranduil's Hall were seldom occupied, and when the dwarves had strayed from the path through Mirkwood, stirred the spiders to greater activity, and generally been a nuisance, they had become the 'guests' of the Wood Elves. The cells had been put to good use then.
At the present moment only one cell had an inhabitant, but it wasn't a dwarf. It was an elf. On rare occasions, one of Thranduil's subjects would foolishly do something to incur their good and wise king's wrath and would find themselves contemplating their wrong deeds in a stone room, a real punishment for such lovers of trees and stars, and grass beneath bare feet, none of which were anywhere to be seen in these lower regions of the Wood Elf King's great Hall.
But stars shone in this cell, and trees grew. Elves lived here; as did spiders, goblins, dwarves, men, eagles, wargs, and even a wizard in grey robes. For the occupant of this particular cell, now known as "The Many Strange Happenings" cell, was busily painting the walls with deft 'creative' strokes. He was a fine artist and could draw anything in very lifelike detail when he so chose. On the occasion when he occupied one of the cells, which had indeed happened before, he usually drew everything that had happened to put him in this rather undesirable location. The paintings were done realistically to a point, but a small somewhat wicked part of him decided that the main players were better depicted in caricature . . . or nearly all of them. They are "brutally honest", he would tell his detractors, or one in particular who was not always amused by these renderings. "The caricature accentuates their natural . . . proclivities," he would say with a smirk and a pointed glance at the king who would sometimes smile affectionately - if his august person were absent from the picture - or glare imperiously and, from time to time, let forth one of his signature shrieks if he was the main focus of the portrait.
"I am merely capturing the true you, hir nin," the artist would say, crossing his arms over his chest, daring Thranduil to say differently. If the artist were in a particularly daring mood, he would merely smirk and say, "You can't handle the truth, can you, Oropherion?"
The king would glower and the artist would sigh dramatically knowing his sentence would be extended, and complete silence would reign, for the king would order that no one, under pain of severe and very painful torture, was to utter even one word in the prisoner's presence. It was at this time that the king would usually point out, quite correctly, that one figure in these 'honest' portrayals always managed to look noble, brave, or very put upon. The figure in question had a lovely spill of silver hair and a bow . . . oddly enough he resembled the artist. To which the artist would again repeat, "My art is brutally honest." Then with the same insufferable smirk, he would sit back upon the cell bench and watch as the king slammed shut the door once more with muttered imprecations and threats before sweeping imperiously away.
In truth, both the king and the artist knew that Mirkwood's grand ruler found these situations somewhat amusing or they would not have been allowed. Both king and artist played their respective roles to the hilt for the enjoyment of all.
The portraits on the cell walls had begun when Galion the butler, feeling rather sorry for his confined friend on the first instance of imprisonment many years before, had taken him - in silence- a box of paints and brushes from the artist's own room. Galion knew instantly that this was probably a mistake when after the first initial glance of gratitude and happiness, for the prisoner was chafing at the inactivity, the criminal's silver eyes had gleamed and his lips parted in a particularly wolfish grin, and the "Great Work" was begun.
The first cell to come under the gentle "honest" brush had come to be known as "A Study in Blueness" after a rather unusual trip to Imladris. Now ever successive imprisonment had found more cell walls covered in creativity, and this cell that the prisoner now occupied was busily being covered in scenes from recent life, dating from just before the Battle of Five Armies to the events that had brought him to this state of current time behind bars.
As per usual, no one was to speak with the prisoner as he had done something "questionable" after the battle not to mention a few incidences before the dwarves escaped, and the king felt some time in the dungeon was in order, a nice one with blank walls, of course. So it was with some disgruntled confusion that Ecthelhador lead a tall figure clad in a long blue cloak revealing little of its wearer's other clothing and, since the hood was pulled up, even less of his dark hair meticulously braided in Noldor fashion, towards the cell and kept throwing furtive glances at this stranger only to receive somewhat cheeky grins and winks.
Had Ecthelhador been more familiar with the subtlety of Noldor diplomacy - but how and where should an honest Silvan of Mirkwood have learnt much about that kind of devilry? - he would have been aware that those seemingly lighthearted smiles where the exact equivalent of the inscrutable expression a Silvan would put on if he wished to mask his thoughts and feelings, but even more effective, as the fact that something - and if it was a only certain amount of mischief - was displayed at all gave the illusion that nothing was hidden.
Almost the same was true of the moderately curious glances the visitor cast at the thick walls and the flaring torches; his interest appeared to be the limited one of someone exploring a place of equally limited importance for the first time. A very keen observer might have noticed, though, that the slightest hint of unease entered the elf's single eye now and then, but even this was not overly remarkable, for seeing a prison closely was certainly not agreeable to anybody.
The stranger could have told Ecthelhador that he had already seen rather too many prisons, and that he had not been there as a harmless visitor in most cases; for obvious reasons, he refrained from doing so; such a remark, let alone that kind of experience, would have been most inappropriate for the very respectable, if cheerful, Noldo walking down the hall with the gruff Silvan guard.
What he noticed in passing and interpreted at once with a mind sadly well- schooled in such matters did not please the visitor at all, but helped to enhance the worry he already felt for a certain prisoner - for if he had not been somewhat worried in the first place, and also battling slight feelings of guilt as he feared he was not entirely innocent of what had befallen the aforementioned prisoner, he would never have been foolhardy enough to venture right into King Thranduil's dungeons.
He had admittedly been amused when he had first learnt about what had happened to a certain silver-haired elf, and the lovely irony of visiting him in prison when he had been cast into the dungeon for a crime was part of what had incited the stranger to embark on this expedition.
But malignant delight did have its limits, especially as it was apparent that nights were likely to be cold and uncomfortable down here. At this time of the year, that was not a good thing, so, not even taking into account that the overall terms of imprisonment seemed to contain some less than kind elements, the prisoner deserved some pity. The visitor could imagine being in his place only too well.
If things proved to be very bad, he would not only give the prisoner the bottle he was carrying well hidden under his cloak but also that cloak itself when he left, if he was able to leave again at all. The prospect was highly unpleasant, and he forced himself to smile to chase it from his mind.
~ Why worry, even if I have to stay?~ he thought, making an effort to focus on the ironic side of the whole matter. ~ We have found ourselves in a dungeon together before, and I cannot claim that incident was not amusing.~
His smile instantly widened when he felt Ecthelhador's suspicious eyes rest on him, and, realizing that they had arrived in front of the right cell - well, was it the right one, or only a random one because this annoying Silvan had maybe become a bit too suspicious? - he cocked his head a little and waited.
The tall elven guard pulled a set of jangling silver keys from his belt and inserted one of them into the cell's massive engraved lock. The mechanism scrapped as he turned the key, then he yanked open the thick oak plank door.
As it was evening, with the first stars beginning to glimmer in the darkening violet hued skies, the king was dining with his family and though the stout-hearted guard had wondered if perhaps he should be checking about this visit with the king first, he decided that it might be best to leave the king to his repast with no interruptions. Indeed the stranger had assured him that alerting the king wasn't necessary, as the king already knew of it, for the good and wise Thranduil was aware of everything that transpired in his wondrous realm, was he not? As if to prove this, the rather flamboyant stranger also knew all the stipulations that surrounded visiting this particular prisoner, and he assured Ecthelhador that they had been waived for this visit as he and the prisoner were old friends who hadn't seen one another in ever such a long time and the good and wise king knew this.
~Highly suspicious! ~ Ecthelhador thought, eyeing the visitor once more before calling gruffly into the cell. He was feeling rather put out. Shouldn't he have been informed of all this BEFORE the visitor had arrived?!
"You have a visitor."
The captive elf had turned with a start when the fist rasping of the lock was heard, his paint splattered countenance filled with surprise at this unexpected visit. It was not time for his meal, as they had brought that an hour ago. Surely Thranduil was not going to give in this soon! He straightened, the brush clamped in his teeth, the bristles filled with black paint, momentarily forgotten; the one held in his hand slowly dripping silver paint onto the stone floor.
It wasn't the king of Mirkwood that entered, but a tall elf in a dark blue cloak that swept the floor. Ecthelhador's eyes narrowed once more, wondering again whom this mysterious visitor was, for it appeared the prisoner didn't know either. But before the guard could form a proper question the strange elf turned to him with a disarming smile to thank him for his kind service in escorting him here.
Ecthelhador frowned at this, for he hadn't escorted him anywhere but down the long hall to the cell. The Silvan frowned. Who, he wondered, had escorted him into the palace into the first place?
After the guard had stared for a second more from the prisoner to the visitor he turned, muttering to himself while closing and locking the door.
The mysterious elf turned, the cloak swirling dramatically about his ankles and grinned as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back to survey the prisoner.
"Good evening, Mordil," he began in a conversational tone, raising one eyebrow as his eye swept over the paint splattered clothing the other wore.
Tanglinna's mouth fell open in shock of recognition, the brush dropping from his lips to splat messily upon the floor.
"So this is where utter respectability gets you, hm?" the visitor continued, turning one gleaming eye over the confines of the cell, then back toward the silver-haired elf. "There were rumors in Laketown - and I just happened to be there - that King Thranduil had arrested his Master Archer for disrespectful behaviour and lese-majeste and conspiring against His Majesty with a shadowy group of conspirators known as 'The Tricksy Trio', letting a dangerous prisoner escape, and countless other crimes . . . . Impressive."
The Master Archer stared incredulously at the one-eyed elf.
"Alagaith?!" he gasped, staring fixedly at his grinning companion.
"So, just how deep in trouble are you, Mordil?" Alagaith continued, seeming unaware of how his unexpected appearance had affected "Mordil". "Will I have to break you out of jail to repay old debts, or were they exaggerating and you will be released so soon that a few bottles of orcish brandy are all you need to survive this?" He grinned once more at the flummoxed look on Tanglinna's face. Chuckling slightly, he returned to surveying the freshly painted scenes on the walls.
One showed the Wild Berry War that had taken place at the last autumn feast before the dwarves had left Mirkwood under somewhat mysterious circumstances. This war had not been fought with conventional weapons, but with berries and much laughter. Another picture showed a rather unflattering portrait of an elf with long golden hair, blue eyes bulging in their sockets, the handsome face marred by the wild snarl on his lips. Cavorting beside him was a large black spider in courtly robes. Another picture showed a black ribbon of water and a silver circlet flying in suspended flight through the air above it. Yet another showed a dark haired elf dressed in very elegant clothing seated on the ground with the noble looking silver haired elf, the same one throwing the circlet into the black waters of Morn Nen, a bottle of wine or brandy on the ground between them. They both looked very happy, one might almost say too happy.
"My goodness that is some interesting artwork on the wall over there! Are you providing them with evidence against you on purpose?"
Tanglinna gazed over at his paintings and frowned, slightly perplexed. It did look as though he were condemning himself. That had not been his original intent.
"What are you doing here, Alagaith?" the artist asked, turning to look at the other elf before bending to pick up the fallen brush. "HOW are you here? Thranduil isn't allowing me any visitors, and he certainly wouldn't . . . ." He gazed toward the doorway wondering where Ecthelhador was, then dropped his voice to a mere whisper, leaning forward slightly. "He would never let you, of all people, into Mirkwood let alone his Hall!" he hissed, staring at the other elf in amazement.
Alagaith gave him a suspiciously innocent smile. "But why shouldn't he
allow me to go here, Mordil? He wanted to see me right here all the
time, or so I believe to remember..."
TBC
We hope you have enjoyed the first installment of "The Tale of the Silver Peacock and the Skulking Cutpurse". Thank you for reading.
Authors' Note
Mordil means "Silver Peacock". Alagaith found this to be a rather fitting name for Thranduil's Master Archer as you will see in upcoming chapters.