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 10: Each One for Whom He Loveth
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The heat was maddening.
Heartbeats thundered against his ribs; the fire danced, the world spun, and in the center of it all lay his child, his golden sunshine. Thranduil's knees slid against the ground as he lurched and pulled, unaware of tearing skin and spurting blood. The chains jerked and slid, slinking and grinding against stone. Specks of dirt flew up as Thranduil's knees dug deeper and deeper into the ground.
Gama stared, wondering if the elf would keep on until his wrists became detached. But he did not have long to wonder.
With a vicious pull, the elf heaved forward, and there was a tremor in the air. Gama's eyes caught the crack that shot up higher in the wall, steadily climbing upward. Rolof dove down to kiss the young elf's abdomen; the tremor came again, louder, with a moaning rumble. The crack was spreading through the stone walls.
"Rolof!" shouted Gama. Rolof looked up, and Gama lunged toward Thranduil. But the elf paid no heed; as the man swung his knife, the elf gave a terrible, ragged cry, and heaved forward; a great crash broke through the air as the chains burst from the wall link by link, shattering and spewing chunks and powders of dust and stone, and cracks in the walls climbed higher, higher, the entire portion of the wall beginning to crumble down, and as the human's knife came down, in a time-stopping blur of gold and red, the elf leaped forward – and Rolof was hurled from the table, into the roaring fire.
The human howled, leaped out of the flames, and ran out of the fortress, into the rain. Poised with his back against the child, chest heaving in a mess of red and gold, the elf fixed his savage gaze upon Gama.
Gama shakily clutched his knife. He threw himself breathlessly forward.
Thranduil moved in sync with the human. The young man was pinned against the stone slab, his arm twisted behind his back. "I should have killed them all," snarled the elf, raising his hand. "I should have killed you all."
A feeble hand clutched his arm.
"Ada."
Swiftly he kicked the human away, and turned to the youth on the table. The human crashed into the wall, and the lower wall gave way, and rain pelted in through the hole that continued to crack higher and higher.
Legolas' tremulous eyes glimmered up toward his father. "Don't say that, Ada," he breathed, "don't say things like that…"
The storm raged into the groaning fortress, and the howling night drowned the thundering screams of his soul; and in the heart of this darkness, as the grounds broke beneath his feet, his tumbling world was together at last, and Thranduil bowed his head.
"Legolas."
Raging eyes thickened with a glassy sheen. Tentative hands reached forth, hovering over his child's face, and Legolas slowly reached out a feeble hand, and brushed his father's face with weak fingers.
"Don't cry, Ada."
Thranduil closed his eyes, clutching that savior of a hand, a hot whisper broken over limp skin – and around them, the light of the flames danced, cracking with the rumbling of a breaking fortress.
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Gama ran straight into a tall slender shadow. He could not see, but he heard a young voice.
"You."
Recognition surfaced in young gray eyes. Gama sucked in his breath. One of the young lords of Rivendell.
Understanding was swift. The elf glanced at the fortress behind Gama, eyes narrowing upon the sight visible through the broken wall. Gama seized his chance.
With grim satisfaction, he moved away from the surprised elf. "Blame your fellow elves," he said before ducking away.
Feeling strangely numb, Elladan looked down, frowning upon the dark smear of red spreading against his side. He smiled wryly. He had been hasty; he was already exhausted from the magic he had used on Elrohir. But no matter...
With languid slowness, he pulled out an arrow, and shot it into the dark. With a satisfying thump, a shadow faltered. Elladan turned toward the fortress and hastened inside, stumbling at the crumbling threshold as debris of stone rained upon his head. Thranduil looked up, eyes widening at the sight of a wounded son of Elrond. Legolas turned and gasped.
Elladan leaned on the broken wall, as if feeling the tremor of the fortress with every fiber of his being. His eyes scanned Legolas, and then Thranduil – and then, he smiled.
"You are safe." He wearily swayed – and sank to the floor.
"Elladan!" Legolas' scream was swallowed by the roar of the storm.
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Elrohir panted, wishing his sight would clear. The drug was waning, but his eyes could not yet match his desperate feet. Grabbing a tree branch as his feet slid against sodden mud, he heaved himself up. He had no time; the rain was fast washing away his brother's trail.
The ground lurched. He blindly reached as his feet slid again. His body was slow to reclaim its sense of balance; he cursed as his hand swung wildly in the air, catching nothing. With a stumble, he fell, barely catching himself on his hands and knees.
For a while he stayed, panting. Then, with a grunt, he pulled himself back up to his feet, swayed, and landed on top of a bush. With a huff of frustration, he disentangled himself from the bush and shakily stood, his hands curling around something cool and metallic. Frowning, he pulled out a sword from the shrub: it was long, with stones of glittering green and white embedded in the scabbard. Elrohir held his breath, and swiftly groped around under the shrub. His hands pulled out everything they had found – a long knife, laced with etchings of gold, and a great black hunting bow. He gave no thought to the tightly-sealed ewer before him, and stared at the gold-inlaid quiver that held a pack of arrows. Mirkwood arrows.
Elrohir let out a tremulous breath. Putting the items back into their hiding, he rose and ran. The king of Mirkwood was here. And yet – something was terribly wrong.
Stumbling through the woods under the pelting rain, Elrohir prayed that he had not lost another beloved one.
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Legolas's breath hitched as Thranduil ripped open Elladan's tunic, swiftly binding the deep wound. Blood continued to seep through the fabric, merging into a river of blood upon the floor; heavy chains shifted and clunked every time Thranduil moved, digging into bloody wrists and adding to the running river of red. As Thranduil moved to shield the younger elves from the rain, Legolas held the unconscious elf close, whispering under his breath, summoning the healing magic he had vowed never to use again.
"Elladan, Elladan," he whispered, desperation shaking his voice. "Come back to the light, brother, come back. Return to me. Elladan," he choked, gripping the older elf, "do not leave me!"
Thranduil looked up in alarm. "Legolas, we must-"
The ground shook; like a streak of lightning, the hole in the wall split up to the ceiling with an angry crack. The fortress began to cave in with a shuddering sigh.
And with a violent roar, it collapsed.
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The fortress was a site of ruin. Elrohir circled it desperately, searching for a way in.
"Elladan!" His voice was feeble against the angry roar of the sky. "Legolas! King Thranduil!" He found a puddle of blood, trailing into the rubble. "Are you here?" A deep, gut-wrenching terror began to shake his hands. "Elladan!" he cried again. "Elladan!"
And then, a small crack. Dark eyes shot forward. A tiny rock rolled down from atop the center of the debris. Hastily Elrohir neared the center, and leaned close. "Is somebody there?" he called again, hope and despair tearing his voice.
A moan. And then, a whisper. "Elrohir?"
The young elf clamped his hand over his mouth, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. "Aye," he choked.
The voice was silent for a while, and then it came again, even softer.
"Legolas is here with me. Elladan should be out there."
Elrohir jumped to his feet, and looked around frantically. He once again circled the area, and this time found an arm protruding from a dusty bush that stood near the rubble. Hastily he cut the shrubbery aside, and revealed the pale face of his brother.
"Is he well?" inquired the tired voice. "I threw him out without looking."
Elrohir swallowed hard, feeling his brother's steady pulse. Blood lined his body, but its flow had been staunched with immediate healing.
"Yes," he whispered. "He is well."
No answer.
Fear once again rose to his throat; Elrohir hurried back to the rubble, and began to frantically pull on an enormous block of stone. "King Thranduil!"
"Do not waste your strength, Elrohir," said the tired voice. "Go and get help."
"But-" Precariously balanced on shards of rock, Elrohir tugged again. The broken slab of stone did not budge. He panted, fever rushing up to his head, as the world whirred around him.
"Get help, Elrohir." For the first time, Elrohir recognized a hidden edge of pain underneath. "I cannot hold out much longer."
Swallowing hard, Elrohir backed away from the rubble. "I will be back!" he cried, and whirled around. The world lurched around him, but he did not notice. He slipped and fell, and fell again, and ran into trees and ravines, his desperate calls echoing through the woods as the storm died away.
The black of the night was giving way to dark blue, and in the wake of the waning rain, a thick fog began to settle in. And hidden in the fog, there was a tremor – a distant rumble of hoof beats. Elrohir slowed to a halt as his heart began to pound erratically.
"Elrohir?" called out a familiar voice. Elrohir choked back a sob.
"Ada!"
He collapsed onto his knees as shadows approached against the indigo sky: his father galloping toward him on horseback. Flanking him, along with a dozen of Rivendell warriors, was keen-eyed Erestor. Elrohir was in no state to wonder at the advisor's presence; he struggled to his feet, and began to stumble back toward the site of ruin. "Hurry!" he cried, when a strong arm circled his ribs.
"Get on my horse," commanded the deep voice of his father, and he was scooped onto the saddle. Seating his child before him, Elrond spurred the entourage on.
Their progress slowed more and more, blocked by the rolling fog. And then, they stopped altogether. Elrohir turned to protest, and then fell silent.
In the eerie stillness, they were surrounded by arrows, barely visible through the fog. Elrohir realized his shouts could be heard all over the forest.
"Not an inch, orcs," hissed a voice from the thickening fog.
"We are not orcs," called Elrohir, hope rekindled. "We are elves! We are your kindred!"
"So they always say." Black shafts rose; spearheads loomed ominously in the dark blue horizon. "We are murderous, and have no time for this. Rest, and be out of our way."
Warriors around Elrond gripped their weapons. With horror, Elrohir realized that spoken entreaties had no power in these lands without sight; Mirkwood orcs imitated the voices they heard.
"Ada, no," he whispered desperately. Elrond stared into the mist. Arrows pointed frankly down; elves of Rivendell nocked their own bows. "My Silvan kinsmen, can you not see us?" Elrohir cried.
A blood-hurdling screech resounded in the fog.
All turned to the direction of the cry. It was followed by another scream, venomous with rage and terror.
Elrohir felt faint. The screams came from the site of ruin.
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To Be Continued
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