Part Five – Phantoms of the Past
Envy is a terrible thing. Nothing corrodes the soul quite like it. And nothing, in my life, has incited me so far along the path of darkness. With it's cold and insidious touch it can suffuse the purest of hearts with the breath of shadow, and embitter the strongest and most joyous of alliances. There are few conflicts in this world which cannot be attributed, in some part, to envy. It lies at the root of many evils; poisoning the mind, and eroding the will.
I soon learned the truth behind the rumours concerning my brother and Avlareth. From what I could gather the two of them were in the early stages of courtship, which is usually a long and complex process, particularly for relatively young Elves, who are generally dissuaded from marrying too young, and consequently tend to instigate rather lengthy betrothals. My only cold comfort, therefore, was that Avlareth and Tirion had not yet entered into any irrevocable union. Nor were they expected to, in the immediate future at least. It is customary, though not legally required, that a couple who wish to wed receive the blessing of their respective parents. And while it was speculated that Tirion and Avlareth had been deeply in love for several years (unbeknownst to all but their closest friends), Tirion would not think of initiating a betrothal until Thranduil returned from the war, and granted them his sanction.
I have never been able to articulate how I felt during that time. I was appalled by the sheer depth and violence of my feelings for Avlareth – the moiling, visceral lurch of my gut when the mere thought of her drifted like a pale ghost through the deathly silence of my mind. I became cold and withdrawn. The virulence with which I began to despise my brother was simply colossal. I tasted nothing but the brackish tang of venom at the back of my throat, gagging on the pungency of my own spite. Envy had taken root in my blood, and I succumbed to it entirely. It is not to be wondered at, I suppose – that a force, which has brought kingdoms to the ground, and may vein even the staunch sinews of the Gods with bitterness and loathing, had little trouble in conquering me. I dwelt in a darkness to which I saw no end.
I think malice was all that threaded the shards of my heart together. And yet I had one pallid, desperate hope to which my heart still dared to cleave, like a remote jewel hanging somewhere in the deep shadows of my soul. Bleak though my situation might have seemed, I refused to relinquish my dreams of Avlareth, or to accept, truly, that she would never be mine. I did something then of which I shall always be ashamed, though at the time it seemed my only chance of salvation. I made a Vow. A Vow to sever whatever bond lay between Avlareth and my brother. Of all the decisions I have made in my long life, I have never regretted any more bitterly. Though I was motivated, to a great extent, by my honest and desperate desire for Avlareth – by my love, if love it could be named – I will not pretend that spite and selfishness played no part. No good could ever have come from such a Vow, or from any word uttered in malice and cruelty, as I would learn in due course.
---
The ailing spirit of summer still clung to the whispering leaves of the woodland realm, though the waspish wind that stole secretly between the ancient trees bespoke the gathering ghost of autumn. There was a sweet mustiness to the air, the subtle scent of unrest that marks the soft melancholia of the shifting season, the overture of exquisite decay. The sky was a hard and fragile blue, smudged with wind-combed strips of fraying cloud.
Legolas' footfalls resonated eerily along the cold subterranean corridor. He had lately taken to wandering the lesser-used halls and passages of the Palace, and had, to his curious delight, discovered many secret ways and chambers hewn into the darkness of the native rock, some of which did not appear to have been used since their origination. These deep, deserted halls had probably been designed as dungeons, though they had lain empty and uninhabited for long years. The young Prince, who endeavoured to shirk his official duties wherever possible, had adopted this dark region of the Palace as an occasional refuge. No one had ever thought to search for him here, though he suspected Tirion was thankful for his absence. Legolas' behaviour had, quite predictably, taken a severe turn for the worse over the recent months. Since learning of the attachment between his brother and Avlareth, the young Prince had made no effort to suppress his simmering rage against Tirion, and had viciously spurned his brother's every attempt to reason with him. The antipathy between the two brothers had mounted to an alarming level – they could barely occupy the same room without sniping and snarling at one another like two caged wolves.
Legolas was faintly aware that rumours of the family feud had leaked out into the general public consciousness. Speculation was rife that the two brothers were engaged in a bitter power-struggle, and that Legolas, young though he was, had attempted to wrest the sceptre of rule from his brother's hand (figuratively, or literally, depending on who was telling the tale) and claim sovereignty over the woodland realm in the absence of the King. It was perfectly untrue of course, as anyone in a position of genuine authority knew, though Legolas had noted the dubious glances he was now earning from certain members of the household, who evidently regarded him as a mercenary young upstart with designs on the throne. He didn't much care, provided the real motivation behind his hostility towards Tirion remained a secret.
Despite his violent need for solitude, Legolas found himself meandering up through the levels of the Palace, gravitating towards the light and the bustle of the upper floors. He could only endure the silent gloom of the dungeon-halls for several hours at a time, for even devoid of jailers and prisoners, they were a dark and ominous place to behold. He made his way towards the main vestibule, hoping to escape the stone confines of the fortress unseen and spend the remainder of the day wandering the ways of the forest alone. As he crossed the echoing hall, there came a sudden, high-pitched exclamation from behind him. He turned with a jolt, and beheld the small scullery maid, Glórien, hurrying towards him.
"My Prince!" she squealed. "They are all searching for you!"
She seized hold of his arm, her huge green eyes wide and anxious.
"Do not touch me!" he snapped.
"Forgive me, Sir!" she gasped, withdrawing her hand as though she had been stung. "Yet you must make haste. You are wanted urgently in your brother's study. Word has come from the marches of Mordor, I hear tell."
"Of the battle?" He demanded.
"Aye, Sir. Though I know not what goes forth."
Without another word, Legolas turned and hurtled up the stairs. He passed like a flame through the passages leading towards Tirion's study, and threw the door open upon a deathly silent room. His brother was there, surrounded by a gaggle of Oropher's chief advisors. Their faces were all as stiff and cold as stone. The royal scribe, Inglon, sat quietly in the corner rolling a sheet of parchment into a scroll. The paper was adorned with his calm and careful lettering – a message that had, presumably, just now been dictated to him by the Prince. Tirion glanced up and addressed Legolas quietly. "My brother, news has reached us at last concerning the progress of the Allied Host," he reported in a low, formal voice, not meeting Legolas' gaze. "The reports claim that the Silvan regiment, led by King Oropher, launched an impetuous assault upon the forces of Mordor, against the counsel of Gil-Galad. They breached the Black Gate and besieged the fortress of Barad-dûr, yet our grandsire was slain in the attempt."
There was a silence, during which Legolas merely gazed at his brother blankly.
"Our father lives," Tirion continued shakily. "He has assumed command over the Greenwood host in the absence of King Oropher."
Legolas stood quietly, attempting to digest the disturbing news. Neither he, nor any of his siblings had enjoyed a close relationship with their grandsire. Oropher's stern and remote manner had hardly been conducive to affection, and Legolas could not recall the King having ever regarded him with anything but stony indifference (when the young Prince was well-behaved), and occasionally contempt (when he wasn't). Nonetheless, the news of Oropher's demise shook him to the core, with a horror that was not quite grief. Somehow, he simply could not adjust to the notion that he would never see his grandsire again.
"We must think of the Kingdom," Galdír said stiffly, turning his stoic eyes upon Tirion. "Word of the King's demise will greatly disturb and distress the people. My Prince, you must address your public before the day is out, and speak words of courage and comfort to them. Such comfort as we can design."
"Aye, I know it," Tirion answered, his head bowed. "Inglon, would you kindly bring me the scroll."
The scribe rose and handed it to the Prince, inclining his head respectfully. Tirion smoothed the parchment out across the desk, dipped his quill in ink and made his mark upon it.
"Thank you," the Prince stated, his tone quiet and void of emotion. "You are dismissed, Inglon."
"Very good, Sir," the scribe responded softly, bowing low before exiting the room, casting Legolas a subtly suspicious glance as he departed.
"My brother," Tirion said gravely, carefully furling his scroll. "I ask you to bear this message to Telemir of the Home Guard. His outpost lies three leagues north of the Palace, as I am sure you are aware. Please ask him to relay the news to the other officers. I would sooner they learned of the King's death from an official source. I am trusting you with this task, Legolas. It is of great importance." He held out the scroll, and fixed his brother with a slightly red-rimmed gaze.
"Am I to be grateful?" Legolas muttered darkly, plucking the scroll from Tirion's grasp.
"My brother," Tirion replied wearily. "In light of what has befallen, can we not cast our paltry differences aside? There is no good reason for the enmity between us to continue – there was never any sense to it in the first place, unless I am much mistaken. I truly regret whatever part I have played in this folly."
Legolas met his brother's gaze. Tirion was plainly attempting to extend the hand of friendship and forgiveness – a rather noble gesture, given Legolas' recent spate of appalling behaviour. The elder Prince clearly had not identified the actual source of his brother's hostility, and still regarded their feud as a matter of commonplace sibling rivalry. In truth, Tirion was an infuriatingly difficult person to despise, and had Legolas' rage and anguish concerning Avlareth not been quite so acute, he would have had severe difficulty in perpetuating the antagonism. As it was, her ghost seemed to hover between them even now, instilling his blood with a hard and silent pain. It was a constant ache, as sharp and bitter as a blade twisting between his ribs. His dark eyes hardened. If Tirion was angling for an apology, he was going to be sorely dissatisfied.
"Good day," Legolas snapped coldly. He turned and left the chamber without being dismissed, slamming the door as he departed.
---
The noon sun hung like a burnished pearl in the dazzling blue heavens. The early autumn weather was unseasonably warm, and the glossy green leaves of the forest glinted smoothly in the heat, wafting in the restless breeze that slid its way between the whispering branches. A multitude of little white butterflies haunted the flower-lathered slopes and dells, rising and settling like quivering clouds of smoke.
Legolas passed through the bright woodland world in silence. He had set forth from the Palace an hour ago, laden with the scroll, and rather more provisions than he was likely to need – the weather was fair enough, and he had decided to remain out of doors for as long as he pleased. He could not face the prospect of returning to the Palace tonight. The open air and the sunlight caused his spirits to rise a little, and prevented his thoughts from becoming thoroughly enmeshed in sorrow and darkness. The further he was from Tirion, and from his pale, embittered memories of Avlareth, the better.
Of a sudden, Legolas fancied he caught a faint sound from ahead. It was at least forty feet distant, but clear. Someone was tramping through the forest, making a ridiculous amount of noise (by Elvish standards). Legolas smirked, hazarding a fairly strong guess as to the source of the clamour, and quickened his pace. After a minute of slipping silently between the trees, he spied the ungainly flaxen-haired figure ahead, travelling in almost the same direction as he was. Crouching swiftly to the ground, he picked up a small round pebble and aimed it deftly at the figure's head. There came a muffled exclamation, and Legolas giggled softly.
"Legolas!" Saeglin cried, his blue eyes wide as saucers. "Why must you always creep up behind me!"
"It is difficult not to, my friend," Legolas chuckled, moving forward and clapping his companion on the back. "You make as much racket as a small herd of oxen."
It was true. The Elven race was famed for its poise and effortless grace, but there were a few unfortunate exceptions to the rule – a small number of awkward and inelegant individuals – and Saeglin was most certainly one of them. "Where are you bound, anyway?" Saeglin asked, a little moodily
"Telemír's outpost," Legolas answered shortly, brandishing his scroll. "I bear a message from the Crown Prince Tirion."
"It is true, then?" Saeglin spurted bluntly, his eyes wide. "About the King, I mean."
"King Oropher fell in battle on the marches of Mordor," Legolas replied quietly.
"I am sorry," Saeglin said with a hint of quiet sympathy, lowering his eyes. "Are you well?"
Legolas was reluctant to explain the curious relationship he had shared with his grandsire. Despite their obvious blood-bond, Oropher had been his King, and little more. It would have sounded callous to point out that he himself probably had little more affection for Oropher than the average member of the Greenwood population. But in truth, the virtue of being the King's grandson seemed to have earned him few enough privileges, least of all any kind of intimacy with Oropher himself.
"Of course," Legolas affirmed, turning away from his friend.
There was a long and uncomfortable pause.
"Do you wish to journey with me, to Telemír's outpost?" Legolas continued awkwardly.
"Aye, if you desire it," Saeglin responded, grinning lopsidedly. "I was on my way home, but mother can wait a few hours I suppose."
Legolas smiled – mostly for show, though the sight of his friend's crooked smirk had indeed raised his mood a little – and started on his way, with Saeglin traipsing noisily at his side.