Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the plot and some minor characters.
Rating: PG -13
Summary: In the bloody aftermath of dire mistakes, both father and son choose their own roads to right the wrong. But faced with a mortal vendetta and a resurfacing of a sinister past, can Legolas and Thranduil find redemption before it's too late?
Author's Note: This story contains references to To Love and to Sin, and picks up the thread of Legolas' pilgrimage at the end of From Twilight to Dawn. You can follow my order of posting for maximum effect, but the chronological order is also listed on my bio page.
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By Kasmi Kassim
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Road to Redemption
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Chapter 9: In the Throes of Love and Hate
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Elladan pulled Elrohir close, resting his chin atop his brother's head. But try as he might, he could not shield his brother from the merciless rain.
The storm roared with vehement fury, brightening the world in blinding blue. It was just like those storms in Imladris, when he and Elrohir would run to their parents' rooms in fear. And there they would cuddle between their parents, safe and unafraid – until their mother was gone from this world. And then, everything changed.
Their visits ceased, despite their fear; greater was the fear of facing the silence of his father's room, the hush of his empty bed. It would be Glorfindel who came to their rescue, seating them on his lap before a great fire, telling tale after breathtaking tale, warming the night away into the pale hush of dawn. And when they grew old enough, they would similarly seek out Legolas in his guest room, wide-eyed and alone, and take him to their bed, tuck him into the sheets between them. And eventually, Arwen would learn to come to them as well, preferring to sleep between two, or sometimes three, brothers rather than a solitary father. And as they giggled under the sheets, told each other tales, the storms would lose some of their terror.
Arwen had wept when she heard of the path of slaughter that trailed Legolas' steps.
Lightning clapped, and it was as bright and terrible as it had been before they had learned to go to Glorfindel. Elrohir moaned in his fevered sleep. Elladan pulled him closer.
He needed to go to Legolas, before they could hurt him. But he could not leave Elrohir. What to do?
Elladan bit his lip. He knew this feeling, helplessness – he had experienced it too many times to count. Nana. Ada, who almost faded after Nana had set sail. And little Leaf.
He would not lose another loved one. Never again.
Blinking rainwater from his eyes, he gently grasped Elrohir's arm, and began to chant. A low, soothing chant – fervent with wishes, enmeshed with every fiber of healing magic that he possessed.
Hating orcs was easy. To blame them, kill them, for the warriors that he and Elrohir had become, their father's sorrowful smile, their sister's lingering silence. But who could they hate this time?
Elrohir's skin began to glow under his touch. Soft light spread and enveloped the younger twin, encasing him in a protective veil.
Who would answer to Arwen's tears? Who would wipe the blood from Legolas' knives? Who would be punished for Thranduil's wordless anguish?
And who would replace the sorrow, the pain, the hate? Who would heal them all, bring back all that had been lost?
The light completely wrapped around the twin, and then Elrohir's form vanished from the tree. Placing a kiss upon his twin's invisible brow, Elladan rose to his feet.
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Thranduil woke to a hot breath on his neck.
Realizing that he was on his knees with wrists in chains, his gaze swept the chamber, and pinned down his child not five strides away. Legolas' head was turned, watching him, and flickered as Thranduil's gaze cleared. "Ada," he whispered. The young man looked up from the fire.
With a surge of ferocity, Thranduil pulled on the chains around his wrists. Blood spurted bright, and Rolof flinched away. But the chains were embedded into the wall; they did not budge.
Gama barked out a laugh. "How touching." He ran a hand through blond hair hanging from the table. "A reunion between father and son."
"Why such ill-founded hate for the child?" snarled Thranduil, tugging viciously at the chains once more. A steady pump of blood began to run.
Gama raised a red-hot knife. "I never got to experience such a reunion." The blade pressed into the young elf's arm. Thranduil cried out. Legolas shut his eyes.
"Release the child!" More creaking and grinding could be heard from the rusty chains. Legolas held his breath; he had never heard his father so desperate with panic. "It is I that you want; take your revenge upon me! Release the child!"
Legolas bit down a hiss of pain.
Say no such things, Ada, he whispered silently. Say no such things.
He had his share of battles. He feared no pain, no torture, no cage. His world was strong, his home held proud, and his father always stood before him, his broad back protective, his strong voice ever calm. And not five strides away, bound and on his knees, his father – his tall, proud, strong father – was breaking. And with him broke Legolas' world.
"You can thrash, elf-king," said the man, turning the blade and slashing across fair skin. "But you cannot save your child. You suffer the price of justice."
"I pity you."
Gama's breath stopped. He stared at the young elf beneath his blade. Clear blue eyes bore into his. "You, who knows no path than hate and revenge – you shall be ever tormented by your past, haunted by your sins. I pity you, child of Man."
Gama stepped back, as if burned.
"Hurt me, if it eases your suffering. Kill me, if it brings you joy. But you cannot tear us asunder, my father and I, and it will only add to your misery." Melodic voice glided like steel. "Your thirst for blood may be quenched, but your jealousy and resentment will grow with each torment you inflict, for my father and I will ever sacrifice for each other. Why subject yourself to this display?"
Gama stared hard. There was silence; the king had stopped moving, watching intently. Gama stepped away further. "Rolof," he ground out.
Rolof quickly climbed onto the table and straddled the adolescent elf with glee. Father and son looked into one another, and Thranduil paled. Legolas bit his lip. As hands began to roam, a trembling sheen thickened in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ada," he whispered, voiceless. "I'm sorry."
Now he remembered. His father had held him tight, burying his face in his hair, as he had rocked him back and forth, back and forth.
I love you, my little Greenleaf. I love you.
And holding the wide-eyed elfling close, the king had wept.
I never wished to make you cry, Ada.
A crystalline trail traced his face, and seeped woefully into cold stone.
I never wished to hurt you thus.
His father remained frozen as his son continued to watch him, heedless of the hand that stroked his face. "Ai, Little Greenleaf," he breathed at last, a trembling sigh. His eyes shimmered with a shaky smile. "It was not your fault."
The man began to unlace the youth's tunic. Eyes ablaze, Thranduil tugged again with renewed ferocity.
Legolas struggled convulsively, only to be subdued by the man's weight. His limbs were weak, and his vision swam – days of sedative after sedative had made him completely helpless. His mind was dizzy, aflame with red heat. There was no escape; every move was easily subdued, and he was so tired. And the man – he was touching him like Roloth, and he was once again falling, falling into that abyss of confusion and helplessness – and somewhere far away, his father's voice, that melodic voice that ever sang gentle songs, was torn with anguish.
Do not look, Ada, he whispered silently, as he allowed himself to drift into soothing blackness.
The heart-wrenching scream of the elvenking rang against the night sky, as heated flames danced away.
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Elrohir woke to the scream of winds. The tree beneath him groaned, whipped by gusts carrying scents of blood and rage.
He moved, and started when his elbow broke through a translucent sheen of magic. He rose in alarm, only to sway as lightning struck a nearby tree, illuminating the empty branches around him.
Elladan was gone.
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To Be Continued
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