Chapter 8
Elladan twisted his body, simultaneously ducking to avoid the thick branches between the two arching trees in front of him. His horse rode swift and easy, now seemingly incognizant of the mounting darkness, lost in the fray of battle with a strong elf riding him.
Through the stuttering rush, Elladan tracked the sounds of his brother, reaching his elven hearing out for every sound in the forest he could identify. He listened for the the enemy, rearing his horse around when the creaks in the trees revealed them. Turning to the left yet again, he leapt into the nearest branch, leaving his steed to ride on without him. Instinctively, the elf felt his brother had reached the trees as well. He leapt a branch higher and peered through the darkness. He could sense more than see that the enemy was still focused on following their horses' crashing hooves. The reverberation of the cracking twigs giving them the distraction they required.
As he climbed, Elladan caught a brief flash of his brother across the clearing that divided them. The turn of smoky eyes and a concise nod told him Elrohir saw him as well and was ready before he disappeared altogether.
Drawing one of the arrows Elrohir had spared from his own quiver, Elladan prepared to fire. A bolt of lighting dashed dazzlingly bright over his head, the intensity almost painful to his eyes and the resulting explosion of thunder so loud he feared he might be shaken from his branch. As it was, he barely maintained his grip on Elrohir's arrow and his open hand hastily sought a more secure hold on the wood bracing him.
At that moment, all sense of balance became painfully absent—a strange ache swirled into his head. He closed his eyes as echoes of the shaking thunder vibrated to the tips of his ears. Gripping the tree more tightly he stilled himself in elven form and waited for the sound to end. The woeful roar grew dimmer and dimmer until all he heard were the lingering echoes of someone's far off scream.
Every motion and sound in and out of the room ceased as Legolas screamed. For an instant even the darkness that besieged them seemed to recoil at the sound, before surging back in delight.
Gandalf stepped forward from his observing position near the door, wanting to act but not act out of hand. He noted the definitive and succinct change rippling in the air in response to Legolas's cry. Quickly he followed the reactions of the room's inhabitants in turn, looking for clues to this power that seized them.
Haldir had moved himself back against the wall, his entire focus on the hand in front of his face. The fear from his gaze reminding Gandalf of the brief flashes of fear elves displayed when speaking hushedly of balrogs or other evils of the ancient deep—evils beyond an elf's nature to completely comprehend. Haldir was also holding his body stiffly, as if holding off an unseen pain.
Aragorn had returned to his knees, Legolas slipping from his grasp as they were again forced to the floor. He gasped and coughed in a failed attempt to draw air. Gandalf could tell the young ranger would not stay conscious through this fight. Unless they were able to act, and act soon, he would succumb to the darkness.
Lord Elrond himself looked pained—as though the very language of Mordor whispered in his ear. The stoicism in his stance was there, but barely maintained. The Elf Lord looked out the window with defiance and a thin veil of calm before casting stares of intense concern between Aragorn and Legolas.
On the ground between them, Legolas's eyes were closed, his brow furrowed. Blood was blooming across the wounds once hidden by his tunic. Gandalf felt a cold shiver along his spine. No, he thought, the coldness freezing him in place. They could not allow the evil to overtake them here. The stronghold of Rivendell had to remain theirs for sometime more. But as he watched, he had another thought. The enemy betrays himself.
He set his mouth grimly as comprehension dawned.
The realizations came quickly then, and with them the Istari steeled his reserve—holding himself back from any foolish attempt to help his comrades. The only actions that mattered now were the actions that would free them from this misery.
Whatever evil breached the Imladris borders would not withstand the power of these elves. It could not. Not yet.
"Lord Elrond," he spoke boldly, bringing his staff around in front of himself as he moved towards the lanai window. "The enemy speaks." Catching the ruler's sharp eyes with his own, he continued, "The Imladris borders are breached a second time, there can be no other reason for this madness."
Elrond turned to respond, but his words were cut off by yet another strike of electricity—splitting a soaring tree outside the balcony archway in two. The creek and shudder that went through the air as it fell sent a violent ache through the Istari's soul, echoing the emotion created by Legolas's scream. He nearly bent with the pain. When he looked up again it was straight into Elrond's resolute and comprehending eyes.
This enemy would not linger here for long.
The tree Elrohir clung to trembled and swayed long after the curiously echoing elven cry dimmed—aching and creaking in its wake. In his own head, dizziness swam in black circles at the reaches of his vision. He had to wait for several moments before feeling entirely capable of moving again. Quietly he pulled deep breaths of air through his nose, pushing closer to the tree in the hope that he had remained concealed through the strange ordeal. He worried that his balance would not return before the enemy found him.
He could tell from the orc's suddenly less stealthy murmurs that they'd fallen into some confusion and that most of them were still seeking their prey by listening to the hard clomping gallop of their now riderless horses. His eyes immediately sought the location of his brother, relieved to find him secreted on a high thick branch nearly covered in leaves. He was difficult to see—the air between them hazed over with blackness plucked from nothing.
If sight was to be taken from them they would have to win this battle soon, before all hope was truly lost.
His mother's experience in the den of orcs sprang to his mind and his eyes flashed dark in response to the memory.
Calming himself, he focused, sweeping his eyes in an arc, their elven grace cutting through the black to seek out the positions of all the creatures he could locate. He would not lose his brother to his mother's fate, nor if he could help it—himself.
Finding his targets, Elrohir notched an arrow, letting it fly very close to Elladan. He hoped the orcs near himself hadn't heard his weapon's hiss, but didn't wait to find out. He silently swung across two branches, positioning himself quietly behind two crouching creatures, aimed, and an arrow sailing between their heads. This time he waited, watching as it struck an adjacent orc whose companions immediately sent spears into the two he crouched behind.
Gripping another branch he swiftly moved higher. The earlier dizziness he'd felt was now dissipating rapidly, for which Elrohir was grateful. The voices of the orcs behind and above him made it clear they were no longer following the decoy of still moving horses. They were tracking them, fulling engaged in the twisting battle he and Elladan were now spinning.
A pronged arrow flew by him, slicing into his shoulder as a reminder of how close this battle would be. He ignored the pain and kept going. He had to stay lost in the trees—he had to keep moving.
"Haldir!" Millennia of command rang in Elrond's distinctive voice from where he crouched gripping Aragorn and Legolas's prone bodies in opposite hands. Haldir's pained eyes met his and Elrond realized he was more horrified by the young elf's reaction to his touch than the mayhem rolling without. "Haldir, Aragorn cannot breathe."
Gandalf had moved behind them, standing between the fallen youths and the arching gloom at the window. His staff was raised and he was shouting the words of the Istari's power in a bold attempt to hold back the dark.
Elrond knew it would not be enough. He had to shout ever louder to be heard over the crashes of lighting and Gandalf's rising voice. "Haldir! You are an elf from the Golden Wood. He needs your help."
The Lórien Captain's lucid eyes met his. Finally, he gave a nod of assent. Elrond realized the clarity in his eyes had much more to do with the wood elf's allegiance to Imladris than trust in himself. Just the same, he crouched near Aragorn in imitation of Elrond's stance and closed his eyes, drawing dark air through his nose as his trembling fingers reached for the ranger's shoulder.
Elrond's stoicism gave way to none of his worry, but when the elf's elegant fingers touched his son's tunic he recognized his silent prayers were near panic. Aragorn was motionless, utterly silent and growing pale.
Haldir opened worried eyes, but anything he might have said was cut off by Aragorn's sudden gasp for air. He sucked in one breath, then another and another, though his eyes remained closed. Haldir looked only moderately relieved.
"Lord Elrond," Gandalf's voice commanded his attention. "There is no more you can do for them here—we are running out of time."
"Hold him," Elrond commanded. Haldir tightened his grip on the man's shoulder while both their gazes fell to Legolas. His head arched back and forth as if he was in pain but he continued to breathe. Elrond brushed the tips of his fingers along the young elf's forehead, eyes closing while his lips moved in silent command of ancient elvish, watching Legolas shudder and settle slightly.
He rose then, rushing from the room without a backwards glance. Gandalf was right, they had to move quickly. He ran down the empty hall and trotted briskly down the stairs, catching the bitter scent in the outside air. His kingly feet moved smoothly over the felled branches from their tallest trees. The electricity in the air pulled at his skin—the dark lighting striking down with increased intensity. Near the step's base a snapping outburst of sound forced him to quickly dodge yet another breaking tree.
When he finally reached the open pathways beyond the stair's base he saw those of his house gathering near the main passage to his halls—awaiting word from their lord. Undoubtedly wanting to know and understand what had seized their valley.
Beyond them, Elrond saw yet more of Rivendell's citizens, standing intrepidly within the arched coverings of their fair city's winding paths—gracefully and boldly sheltering from the crushing dim but visibly waiting to know what was needed of them—to know what Lord Elrond would have them do.
With a silent signal, both calm and commanding, those of his guard separated themselves from the others and joined him in his purposeful stride to the stables.
"My Lord?" One of his captains spoke, still having to shout over the rumblings from the sky.
Elrond said nothing, leading them unflinchingly to the stables.
"Search," he commanded when they entered, his level elven voice cutting straight through all other sound, using a pitchfork himself to sweep aside the straw at his feet. "Search for anything the orcs may have left behind."
Complying without question the elves began sweeping purposefully through every crack and corner.
tbc
