Strongholds
Chapter 2
On the morning of the second day of travel the elves found themselves on the bare head of a rounded hill. Elven eyes widened with horror at the sight before them. Where only days earlier there had been verdant forest and trees laden with the fruits of late summer, now all that remained were rotting remains. Shattered tree trunks and the bloated carcasses of deer and birds told a tale of wanton destruction, and of slaughter to the extent that even orc bellies were overfull.
"This is a great evil," said Legolas, his eyes wide and dark with his distress as he turned to his father.
Thranduil moved his horse nearer to that of his son, his distaste at the sight before him etched on his features. Behind them the ranks of elven warriors waited, taking in mere sips of air to avoid the stench of orc and decay.
For a long moment the Elven King stared down from the hillside. He exuded power, sitting still and straight as a carven image, his black armour so highly polished that it appeared almost silver when it caught the light. His was the icy strength found in the savagery of the winter storm, and in the ageless and mighty glaciers that carved the highest mountains. His twin swords, sharp as the edge of the finest cut diamond, seemed almost to shiver with it as they caught and threw back the rays of the sun.
Beside him, Legolas resonated with a power of his own, that of vibrant, exhilarating youth. His was the strength in the soar of the eagle, the flex of the strongest, most supple bough, the headlong rush of the melt-water river. It rippled in the scales of his armour and in the fine green cloth of his tunic.
If any passing stranger had seen them, they would have appeared as remote from each other as fire and ice, and yet at the same time it was unmistakable that they were family, the tilt of their golden heads alike as they sat their horses, knee almost touching knee in an unconscious invasion of personal space.
"Give no mercy."
The Elven King turned his ice-blue gaze upon his son; it held him, intent, as though Thranduil wished to say something more. Legolas waited, hope hardening into bitterness on his features as his father turned away, leaving the younger elf with only the view of a stern profile.
"Have a care, Legolas."
He was gone in a thunder of hooves, black cloak and pale hair flying like a flag over the bright flash of his armour as he led his column into battle.
With no time to reply or to wonder about the words that were so nearly spoken, Legolas gave a great shout and swung his arm high and turned to the west. His warriors would herd the intruders into the valley from the far side, thus closing the jaws of the trap his father had set. The enemy would be crushed between them until there was not an orc or a goblin or a spider left alive in that part of Mirkwood.
The fighting was fierce. For the first two hours Legolas had little time for anything other than the instinctive direction of his troops and the slash and hack and leaping and diving of hand-to-hand combat. Gradually the forces of evil were forced into the valley and down the slopes until they collided with the enemy being driven before the Elven King. There they milled around in confusion, slipping on their own spilled blood and guts and making a stand in small groups, hemmed in by both elves and the valley sides. It felt as though the end must be approaching, but each time Legolas's elves seemed to be winning through, another group of orcs or goblins formed a resistant huddle. Legolas fired arrows until his were all lost and even the black orc arrows around him had mostly been re-used. Every time he caught sight of his father's warriors, more spiders descended from the ruins of the forest and again there was time only for the slicing of knives and swords and the stabbing of spears.
Finally, sometime in the third hour, Legolas saw that the throng of evil was thinning, stretching narrow along the valley bottom. Soon they would be able to break through. His father's forces were now easily visible, fewer in number than they had been, but fighting with vigour on the far side of the shallow river that meandered in its rocky bed through the low ground. A shout of encouragement went up from his own side of the valley and was answered as elf saw elf and knew the battle was almost won. The pace of the fighting picked up, weary sword arms and bloodied bodies forgotten in a rush of adrenaline.
At last Legolas caught a momentary glimpse of blond hair among the reds and browns of Silvan heads and was shocked by the intensity of the relief that flooded through him. It was then he understood, with startling clarity, that the feeling of dread burning beneath his breastbone for the entire day had been fear, fear that his father would fall before Legolas could ever find out the truth, and simply fear that he would fall and be gone forever beyond his son's reach. When this battle was over, he resolved, he would gather his courage and question the Elven King outright. Immortality was too long a span to wonder if your father cared if you lived or died.
The Elven King, for his part, had fought with equal determination both the enemy and his own desire to be close to his son. It made strategic sense that they led two separate groups of warriors. Legolas was not only one of his most trusted commanders, but also Thranduil's heir. Common sense dictated that they fought separately. However unpleasant the thought, the reality was that their bloodline was more likely to survive if they adhered to that rule.
The Elven King was also distinctive, and that was reason enough to keep his son at a distance as Thandruil attracted the unwelcome attention of many who wished for the fame of being his slayer. He was not one to fight in disguise, this being in part a matter of honour, but also the correct deduction that attention turned on him was attention turned away from his elves. As it was, he was readily identifiable to his own forces, giving them a focal point, and a sense of pride at being an elf of Mirkwood.
For all that, the needs of common sense and of heartfelt desire are rarely parallel. Thus Thranduil, knowing his decision was sound, nevertheless spent the entire battle in a state of uneasiness, concerned for the welfare of his son. Nothing would have pleased him more than to be fighting at his son's side, with Legolas close to the protective arc of his father's weapons. It was therefore with a sense of immense relief that he finally caught sight of his son on the opposite side of the river.
The Elven King fought, as he always did, at the forefront of his warriors, an imposing figure as he burst through a group of orc and forged his way relentlessly forwards over the jumble of rocks that formed the riverbank. He fought with controlled savagery, a true warlord, with a snarl on his face and his silver swords taking life with every stroke. Watching him, just for a moment, Legolas was transfixed, in the same way a small elfling is stunned when they first see their father in full fighting glory. It wasn't by any means the first time he'd seen his father fight; perhaps it was merely the vantage point, or perhaps the influence of the thoughts that had been running through his mind, that inkling suspicion that he knew his father, yet did not really know him at all.
It was in that brief moment of inattention that an orc, playing dead beneath Legolas's feet, snaked out a hand and tangled the elf, following through immediately with a vicious strike from his war hammer. Legolas fell, his natural agility enabling him to tuck and roll despite all the breath being knocked out of his body. He unfurled on the damp grass, flat on his back, gasping for air against the grate of broken ribs, and desperately seeking the strength to rise before the orc was upon him.
Fighting his way through a knot of orcs on the top of the rocks, the Elven King saw Legolas fall and heard his pained cry. It was as though he'd been struck himself. In a purely reflexive swing, his sword slashed through an orc neck as easily as a hot knife through butter, but all of his horrified attention turned to his son, who lay prostrate beneath a war hammer that was raised for a lethal blow. There was no possible way to reach Legolas in time to save him. Thranduil let out a shout of rage and fear as he hurled the sword from his left hand. It flew, arcing end over end like an over-sized throwing knife, although its balance and weight were not for that purpose, so that when it struck the orc the angle caused it to slide down oiled leather and armour.
The hammer was driven down.
On the far side of the water, without a sound, without moving a muscle and with no outward change, the Elven King shattered. The explosion of a thousand million crystal pieces of his fae were deafening in his own ears, their brilliance momentarily blinding. His only coherent thought was that it would be far preferable to fall upon his remaining sword than to ever take another breath.
Seeing the Elven King's distraction, not caring of the cause, a small goblin slipped from a cleft in the rock and leaped high onto his shoulders. Thranduil sank automatically into a crouch and cast the goblin away with a fluid movement. Rising again, he skewered the creature almost as an afterthought and sent the small corpse tumbling from the rocks. His gaze was drawn back to his son, and he almost fell with the shock of relief when he saw that Legolas had somehow evaded the strike and, rolling to the side, had snatched up a spear lying next to him, wedged the shaft into a gap between two stones and allowed the looming orc's own momentum to drive the spearhead into its chest.
Thranduil dropped easily down to the ground below the rocks; no duty or protocol would now keep him from his son's side; only the feel of living bone and flesh beneath his hands would convince him that Legolas was still alive.
It was a small leap for an elf and yet on landing Thranduil stumbled and would have fallen if it were not for the support of a large boulder against his right thigh. He halted, bewildered, becoming aware of something solid brushing the underside of his chin and a terrifying restriction on the left side of his chest. He fumbled above his collar, his fingers finding the shape of a knife handle. With a pained grimace, he drew it carefully upwards, past the side of his face, feeling the nauseating horror of a long, cold blade sliding free from his chest. The goblin's dagger was so sharp that at first the wound did not hurt, and Thranduil stared at the bloodied length of the weapon in his hand in disbelief. Then, as though the sight of his own blood dripping from the blade freed his nerve endings to feel, he felt agony so intense that he made a small and involuntary sound of distress. It was not loud enough to be heard by the elves nearby, although it made an orc turn its head in interest.
The Elven King raised his head slowly, his eyes seeking out his son as the colour seemed to leach out of the day.
Legolas's gaze met his briefly and then moved on as the younger elf sought and found his bow. By the time he looked again, his father, standing tall, was facing a large orc. In haste, Legolas stooped to snatch up a couple of orc arrows, careful not to touch the arrowheads, which were most likely poisoned.
Thranduil was fighting a losing battle to stay upright as the orc approached. It sneered at him, reading weakness in the ragged shudder of his breath and the shake of his sword arm. The Elven King was now easy prey.
It was so cold, thought Thranduil in a vague way; all the heat of the battle and the warm day seemed to have drained away. He was finding it hard to concentrate even on the peril before him, wanting only to get to Legolas. He was suddenly so very tired, too weak to even raise the sword in his right hand, far too weak to cross the small river.
The orc grinned at him with rotting, green teeth and took hold of him with its lumpy fist. It shook him, grunting its pleasure, toying with him like a cat with a mouse. The Elven King exerted all his will and managed to bring his sword up enough to slash at the creature, but the blow did nothing other than enrage it. It cast Thranduil away in disgust, so that he sprawled in a boneless way across the top of the boulder at his side.
It hurt too much to scream, far too much to breathe; there was only fiery pain and the sight of the orc above him. The sword slipped out of his numb fingers, tumbling and twisting down onto the stones. It was too late, too late to talk to his son, to tell him that he loved him just as much as his mother had. A tear of pure despair slid like a translucent pearl down the side of the King's fair face, disappearing into the pale strands of his hair where it draped across the boulder. Too late.
Then there was a shout and the thud and crunch and spray of an arrow breaking a skull and the orc was gone. Light elven feet scattered small pebbles and Legolas had hold of his shoulders, panic clear in his wide eyes.
"Lord King?" On a rising note. "Adar!" It had been forever since that word crossed the lips of the younger elf.
Beneath Legolas's shaking hands, Thranduil moaned, blood on his lips and on his bared teeth. He tried, so hard, to say something, but the day disappeared in tattered flags and left only darkness.
"Ai, ai!" The cry that burst from Legolas brought elves running in their direction as his hands jerked open the fastenings of Thranduil's armour, revealing the small entrance wound that was the only mark of such terrible injury. Blood still pulsed in a slow and sluggish tide from the purple edges of the wound, but the touch of his father's fae on his own was the brush of the lightest of feathers.
"Ada! Please!"
Then Legolas was thrust away without care for his station and he went willingly because it was a healer who bent over his father, and also unwillingly, terrified that by releasing the physical being he would also somehow set adrift the tiny remaining sense he had of his father's soul. He hovered near to Thrandruil's feet, oblivious to the pain in his own ribs, his life slowly breaking into discordant pieces as his fingers slipped in the blood painted on the armoured boots of mithril.
To be continued…more soon. Love to know what you think?
