Chapter 12 – Spirit of the Sword
Galion heard the muffled sounds of battle and knew that Legolas had finally brought help. He had never wanted to join Carasgon, Lord Carasgon, he hastily corrected himself, but he had no choice in that matter. That was the only way to stop his agony and guarantee his family's safety. He had seen how that elf dealt with opposition.
One other elf, his childhood friend, a captain, had hesitated in fighting his own kind. Lord Carasgon had seen it and threw a blade at him, leaving him to bleed to death. Galion had watched him leave.
There had been no last words, only a quiet determination that still burned strongly in his eyes.
The captain seemed to be urging him to further his cause, even as pain and weakness tore at him.
Then the fire had gone out.
Some Easterlings had been sent to locate his family and exterminate them. They returned quickly, weapons stained with rich red elven blood. Galion could only imagine the fate of the unfortunate elves. He had then grown afraid, slashing wildly at everyone within the Palace.
The captain had confided in him about rebelling against Carasgon, Lord Carasgon, but he had not been willing to cooperate. He had been cowardly, he had feared too much. And he had failed. Now, with the death of his closest friend, he had known what he had to do. He had rushed to where Prince Legolas was kept, and pulled him up. He had been unable to look at the royal being; his own guilt and conscience constrained him.
Now, he looked at Lord Carasgon. No, he would no longer submit to that demented elf. Carasgon was leaning over a small table, as though deep in thought. Galion moved quickly. There were twelve Easterlings in this room. Only twelve. Perhaps he could… He knew he did not dare raise his hand against Carasgon yet, but these twelve could go. A plan formed quickly in his head.
Carasgon seemed to have lost many of his elven gifts. His mannerisms were no longer graceful, his hearing was no longer delicate, and he even spoke the black tongue without flinching. Even so, Galion knew that Carasgon was still dangerous, perhaps even more so, now that he had lost his conscience. He felt his heart begin to pound more wildly as adrenaline flowed fast throughout him.
Would this be expedient?
Did he stand a chance?
What if…
Thranduil was singing softly, and that seemed to give him renewed courage and hope.
What if he didn't try?
What if he succeeded?
It certainly seemed much more pleasant to die trying than to watch others depart and not do anything.
Taking a deep breath, he acted.
The guards would listen to him, this he knew. They feared him almost as greatly as they feared Carasgon, for the latter showed much favour and delight in him. He motioned for the guards to gather. They obeyed instantly, cowering somewhat at the angry eyes of the elf.
"There is a traitor among us," Galion said in the Easterling tongue, "five of you have betrayed Lord Carasgon."
They looked at each other uncertainly.
"Do you not own up?" he asked.
The Easterlings were now in a totally uneasy silence, especially after beholding the elf's fiery countenance.
"Is there not any of you who knows who the traitors are?" he raised his voice a little.
Then, without warning, he raised he sword and thrust it into the one nearest him.
To the dying man, he spoke as coldly as he could, "You shielded the traitors and shall die for their deeds."
The other Easterlings only grew more fearful as they watched the man give his last spasm.
"Who else is hiding information?" Galion almost roared, knowing that Carasgon would be too deep in reverie to bother.
"I-I know one of them," someone spoke up and plunged his scimitar into the one before him.
Soon, the Easterlings were beginning to finish each other off. Galion could have laughed at their foolishness. He brought his sword down onto the last few that were still standing. It would seem that this was not that bad a strategy after all.
He turned to see Carasgon beside the King. The King had struggled long and hard with Carasgon, and Galion had not wanted to involve himself. With the help of some Easterlings, the King had been swiftly bound, but Carasgon was not at all pleased with the cuts the King had given him, one of which was still bleeding even after so long.
Now Carasgon stabbed the King implacably in revenge. Galion could see how much that hurt, based on the expression in the King's eyes alone, and the King's resolve, his refusal to cry out.
A worthy King, Galion thought, one who has proven himself over and over.
He ran to the door, the King's eyes still frozen in his memory.
In his haste, he fumbled over the knob.
He had to find help fast. If only he could locate those who Legolas had brought…
Oh, why wouldn't that accused door open!
Then, it finally did.
Galion stood in shock as Prince Legolas moved a step towards him, nocking, drawing, aiming, releasing an arrow before he could even blink. He froze, knowing that even if he had not, he would have been unable to react in time anyway.
He managed to close his eyes.
The arrow flew past him. His body was still frozen. Some ten beings charged past him. The second door flew open, and another ten elves poured into the room.
Legolas saw his father bound in the chair, eyes closed, and felt a hitherto unknown rage boil within him. All that searching only to find this! He released the arrow without thinking, ignoring the elf that stood in his way. He pushed unknown objects and beings away, running to his father's side.
"Ada!" he called, "ada!"
No response. He knew he had shot that mad elf fatally, and ignored his father's attacker for the time being. He vaguely heard shouts of "My Lord!" and "King Thranduil!" from behind him, but he could only think of one thing: he was too late.
He untied his father, his heart breaking at how tightly his father had been bound. It was as though every strand of rope burned his own flesh, cut his own heart.
He bent over the limp body, still calling to his father. How he wished his father could just awake! He had never missed his lectures and scolding until now. If there was anything he could do, he would. Anything!
He held onto his father tightly, trying to give him some strength. He could imagine the misery, the hurt he had felt. Perhaps he had wished for Legolas to come. Perhaps he should have come earlier. He should have thought of this place; he should have known!
Warm tears dripped from his eyes, and he brushed them away, hard.
"Ada…" the voice died away, his soul, the bitterness, the regret flowing with the words.
Aragorn wore a haunted look on his face; this was all too similar, too real! But he came over quickly, determined to stop Legolas before the elf went any further. The healer in him quickly sized up the injuries suffered. The King's light had faded almost completely, and his pulse was very weak.
He tore a strip of fabric, bound the King's thigh securely, then went on to work on the neck wound, making Legolas hand him herbs and material in a bid to distract him. He needed Legolas to be strong for his father and people. Despair and self-pity would bring him nowhere.
Carasgon had stopped just before he had severed an artery. King Thranduil was only that little away from definite death. Legolas saw that his father had lost much blood and needed immediate attention. He nodded to Aragorn. The others elves of their group would ensure that Carasgon was kept down and that the other groups would be notified.
Legolas quickly picked his father up, carrying him carefully across his back. Aragorn ran ahead, and Himorn joined them as the rear guard. The other elves were still fighting the miraculously alive Carasgon when they left.
Carasgon was completely incensed. How had such a thing happened? How could such a thing happen? He saw elves coming at him, a man and two elves hovering around his prey.
"No!" he screamed.
He attacked wildly; his only thought was that the elf, his game, was being carried out, carried away. Another regiment joined the elves fighting him. There were so many of them. Where were his Easterlings? They should have done something!
And so, it began.
Sudden noises. Loud. Persistent. The sharp clang of metal. The metal impacting on flesh. There was a lot of confusion. He thought he heard a small, clear voice in the gloom. Straining his ears, he tried to listen out for it. But there was nothing. Only noise, noise, noise. He felt totally numbed. His arm was swinging on its own accord, and his legs were in constant motion. Before him the carnage continued. He knew that once he stopped to think he would not live to see the dawn. How had things gotten to such a stage!
Soon, he could no longer remember why he was here; other than he was leaning very close to victory. He even wondered what his own name was. A sword slit through his abdomen, but he felt nothing. Everything was going by him slowly. He could feel the air move whenever a sword sliced through it, cutting through it as though it was cloth. He could feel the ground pulsate from deep down with every single movement.
Then the pain came. Excruciatingly tormenting him. He felt himself slowing down. He knew he had to. But he also knew that he had to run, away from all that to his primary objective. It was no use. He felt that he could barely move. And he did not seem to want to. The pain was screaming and screaming at him, and he just felt so, so, so tired. He did not want to do anything anymore. He just wanted to rest. Was he hanging on to blind hope that help could come? Then he would not.
It was as though a great weight was lifted off him. He felt almost comfortable. The pain and aches meant nothing now. He was slipping, drifting, floating. On and on, he went, aimlessly walking, dreams now mixing into reality. He saw a large soft cushion, and flung himself onto it without thinking. He felt its softness, its comfort. It surrounded, not suffocated him, wrapping around him warmly. He pounded on it instinctively.
He thought he saw spring. There was green grass all over the hills. White and pink flowers covered the trees on this side, and bright orange ones dotted the bushes. The sun was shining brightly, bathing the land with a rich golden glow. He ran through the fields, exhilarated.
There were so many blue, yellow, green, purple, brown hues and shades. He would be content to stay here forever and ever. Here, the air was cool and fresh and he could breathe freely, deeply and live as though he did not have a single care in the entire world. Every single colour was so rich, so meaningful that everything he ever had seen paled in comparison.
But that in itself was not appealing enough.
In the distance there were feasts and dances within a stone palace. Figures moved with exceptional grace and surprising agility, leaping, soaring and landing lightly on the soft grass, coming towards him. He felt his strength return completely. He took a deep breath and ran forward again, towards the figures. He wanted to join them, to sing loudly, to dance freely, to play once more. No matter how hard it would be to reach that distance, he felt he could run.
A branch came into his way. He knocked it away, hard, with his arm. His momentum brought him dangerously close to a tree trunk, but he managed to swerve at the last moment, and knocked it over for good measure. It was almost fun. He had never known that he was that strong. He would reach them, what ever it took.
They came again, but he would not be stopped. He heard cries, heard loud clashing sounds. It will soon be over, just a little more, only a little! His lungs felt as though they were bursting, but he did not care, did not want to. He only thought of the beautiful palace, dances, and music, and the feast, all the food and rest that he could get after he had finished everything! His legs were aching once more, his arms were stinging badly. He was reaching, he was reaching! Just before he could move another step, he felt himself double over, the ground rising to meet him.
No! his mind screamed, not when it's so close!
He willed himself to rise and take those few steps, but he could not. The centre of gaiety moved away and away from him, and he reached out an arm, as though reaching for it, as though pulling it back. "No, no, no!" He sighed heavily, his body causing the dust on the ground to fly up, swirling, mesmerising. He gave up; he gave in.
Until…
He saw them again. Straight ahead. He flung himself forwards that last one that was blocking his way to his treasure. His swordplay was good, but so was that blur's. Then he grew careless. No, he was not careless. He just had to admit that he was getting older, and everyone else was taking advantage of that. Just as they always did to him and his family.
The dagger lodged in his heart, but he felt nothing. Every injury had already ceased to bear any meaning. Pain was a foreign sentiment and would be evermore. He carried on, chasing that stubborn elf, parrying faster, hitting harder. Why wouldn't that elf give way! And a thought suddenly occurred to him.
He should flee. Flee, not in cowardice, but as a wise move. He would then come back again and finish this game. Yes, that would be more prudent.
He knew where he was now. It was near. Somewhere here.
"I've not lost yet!" He shouted as he ran towards the secret exit.
There were more elves here. But he did not stop to fight them. He only ran, on and on, determined to reach the exit. The elves were only treated to half-hearted swordplay as he moved with only one objective in mind.
At least that persistent one wasn't following.
Elladan and Elrohir heard the battle approach. Then, they saw the elf, still fighting in spite of the blood that coated his body and marked his passage. He seemed to be trying to go somewhere… towards them. They clashed swords, but that elf only tried to ward off their advances and move on. From what Elladan could see, he was heading towards a wall. Why would he do that?
Unless…
Elladan quickly rejoined Haldir and Elrohir, trying to keep him away from the wall. Many times they cut flesh, but the elf still fought on, as though he was immune to weapons. There was a dagger in his heart, a broken arrow protruding from his back. How could he have survived all that? Bewildered, but with no time to think, they tried repeatedly to engage him. At the very least, they could wear him out.
Belegil and the other trainees were growing restless, and almost longed to be part of the action. The soft metallic clangs seemed to have stirred up something within them. Although most of them remained somewhat fearful, all could say that they would not hesitate to fight now.
Belegil remembered a time many centuries ago, when he had been held captive by men. They had then grown weary of him, and brought him to the orcs. Those creatures were merciless, they tortured him cruelly, endlessly, before his father had finally found him almost three entire years later and rescued him.
From then on, he had learned to fight. From then on, his vision was much brighter. Kept in the dark caves and holes, his eyes had learnt to see under low light, and even in recent years, they hurt under direct sunlight. His captivity was a mixed blessing, as he grew more mature than others, but he lost his childhood innocence. He viewed men and orcs with deep hatred.
Men, with the exception of Lord Aragorn.
Looking at the Palace, the desire to kill grew stronger within him. Easterlings. The very people who had held him. How he wished he could remove every last one from Arda! He had learnt the different forms of combat diligently, waiting, only waiting for a chance to use it against such people.
He stopped himself then.
What was he sounding like?
Was he still an elf? Or had he turned into an orc wearing the disguise of an elf?
He froze, shocked by himself. He was still…himself, wasn't he? He… He was no better than that elf they were fighting, then. The one who even he condemned.
And he was rushing down the same path of blind hate.
How do you put away hatred that has consumed you for so long? How do you return back to your previous life? How can you form friends from your enemies? Can you pretend nothing has happened?
Belegil wondered what had gone wrong with him. He knew that he had never cried. He knew that he was always alone. Detached, even though merry faces and voices surrounded him. As though there was some barrier between them and him.
Strangely, it was Lord Aragorn that had made him feel cared for and involved. Although it was a painful lesson, he knew that the man bothered about him. He had made him feel the way no one ever managed to do. The man had stood firm on his own stand and was the first to make him see that his own ways were not perfect.
But now, he no longer felt anything.
Aragorn, Legolas and Himorn ran on, pursued not by physical beings, but their worry for King Thranduil. The King had not woken much, and was growing increasingly pale.
"Are you alright?" Legolas called to Himorn who was struggling to catch up.
"Y-Yes,' a panting and shaky voice replied.
"You did well, mellon nîn," Legolas reassured him, "you did what you had to."
"Iston," Himorn said somewhat mechanically, "I know."
They were near the main entrance now. Legolas shifted his father's weight slightly. Light as the older elf was, Legolas was unaccustomed to running so quickly with someone on his back, not that his father was a burden to him. It was also not easy ensuring that his movements were not too jerky to jolt his father badly.
"Hurry!" Aragorn pressed them on.
They had to get the King to the healing wing, which was some distance away. The Palace's herbal supplies had almost been depleted, following the sorcery and recent battle injuries. In addition, wherever there was a crazy elf on the loose, there would be no safe place in the vicinity. What the King needed most now was rest for his body to recover.
Carasgon was infuriated. Did the elves know of the exit? Why were they blocking his way! He managed to throw two of the elves off; one last one before freedom! But he could not wait that long. He did not know what was holding him back, but he knew he wanted freedom. He wanted it so badly. The freedom to do whatever he wanted, the freedom to command, the freedom to make them understand. Pure exhilarating freedom!
He pushed hard against the wall, not caring if that elf's blade went through him.
Freedom awaited just that wall away!
Outside, he could walk among the trees; trees that had that sturdy, solid look to them, trees with dark green leaves that were just a shade away from black. He could reside in the dark caves where no one would ever question him. There was the sky too. He remembered it was blue, but what he liked about it was that on certain nights, it would be all pitch black and beautiful.
The wall only slid a crack. He panicked. He had gotten to the right place, hadn't he? If this was not correct, there would not be elves guarding it! The moonlight filtered in, glaring right into his eyes. That would be one more thing he would have to endure before he could reach home. And after proper planning this time, he would return and make Mirkwood beautiful again.
He pushed harder, wondering why that elf under him looked so shocked.
Elladan froze, gasping as the elf allowed himself to be impaled upon his sword, but his shock was even greater as the wall he was forced to lean on gave way under that elf's force. He tried to stop himself from stumbling, but failed.
He fell backwards, watching that elf make to run on him, watching as moonlight suddenly flooded the entire room. He saw that Elrohir and Haldir were equally stunned, so were the other elves who had been pitching a stroke or two into the trio's interwoven swordplay.
He landed on the ground, hard, feeling the air rush out from his lungs as that senile elf trod down on him.
Commanding all his strength, he forced himself up, readying himself to throw his weight onto the elf. As long as he was alive, that elf would never, ever escape.
Belegil saw something happening in the wall. It was falling, and there were figures. His eyes were already well adjusted enough to tell him what he needed. He saw someone wearing the Imladris style of clothing falling…
In a flash, his arrow was flying.
"No!" the elf-child beside him gasped, "he's the elf from Imladris!"
Belegil remained calm, his face stoic, ignoring him. He knew his aim would be true, despite the great distance between them. He had worked hard on this, for this. Whatever the elf did would be too late for his arrow. He had no escape.
He should have been happy, but he felt nothing.
Carasgon did not know why this arrow hurt, but he stumbled as the elf behind him pushed him down then, falling forward. He felt the arrow enter deeper, heard the shaft snap and the tremors it sent up his body. What had happened? As if in response, pain radiated all over his body. He was still confused. He was supposed to be free! Not… dead. He squinted, seeing a faint-outline of the archer behind the raised bow.
Another elf-child, he thought, the next time round, I'll come for you.
And he passed on into the unknown.
He was finally free… from himself.
The elf-children beside Belegil watched the shaft intently. Then they saw what he had been aiming for. And turned to stare at him with fallen jaws. Before he knew it, Belegil was raised and flung into the air twice, the elf-children holding a small celebration for that shot.
Elves whom he had not even known came and congratulated him. There were some mumbled apologies, there were well wishes. Some wished for him to help them with their training. Others asked if he could come for tea.
Belegil felt awkward at all the attention showered on him. Were they only so friendly after he had proven himself?
But an elf sauntered up to him rather unsteadily and hesitantly.
""Goheno nin an un cared nîn," he said, tears misting up in his eyes.
He nodded vaguely, surprised, although the sight of the elf grinning foolishly at his reaction was interesting indeed.
"Hannon le, gwador nîn," another voice chimed in sincerely, "hannon le a phan."
In that sentence, he not only expressed his heartfelt thanks on behalf of all of Mirkwood, but also the acceptance that Mirkwood would always have for its elves. He would always be one of them, even if he did not wish it.
Belegil felt happy.
After many centuries, he had come home.
Legolas held his father's hand while Aragorn and Himorn checked on the wounds, hoping to give every modicum of strength he could. The King accepted it readily, and was starting to regain some colour. Legolas looked tired, Aragorn noticed. Perhaps now that there was nothing he could do, the fatigue was catching up with him.
"Legolas," Aragorn said softly, "you'd better take a rest."
Legolas made to protest, but was cut off.
"We do not need another patient to care for," Himorn added firmly, "Aragorn and I will take care of the King."
Legolas nodded. He knew he was tired. But –
Aragorn seemed to know his hesitation.
"Why don't you rest there?" he asked, pointing to an adjacent bed, "we'll let you know if anything happens."
Many of the poisoned had recovered, especially under Aragorn's healing touch, and there was no shortage of beds now. Legolas smiled, grateful for the suggestion.
A few hours into the night, Himorn bade Aragorn sleep as well. Thranduil still had not woken, though he had been thrashing on the bed occasionally.
"Admit it, Aragorn, you're human," he said teasingly.
The man was too tired to even think of a rejoinder.
The only one awake, Himorn sighed, still wondering if he had done the right thing. The fight with his uncle left him physically and emotionally drained, and even now, it was still replaying in his mind. A slash aimed at the neck. An effective parry. A semi-turn. A thrust. And that dagger through the heart.
As the Chief of the Royal Guards, he had a duty to the King of Mirkwood, but as nephew to Carasgon, he had an obligation to carry out, whether Carasgon was exiled or not. Family was supposed to be more important, was it not so? Immediate family above the family of Mirkwood. What would his father say to his deeds!
Legolas had shot him; why had he still run on? Why couldn't he have given up trying to pursue them? Carasgon had once said that it was his duty to avenge the wrongs done to the family, but Himorn had never agreed with a single word he had spoken. Did that justify his act in any way?
Carasgon was already well dead when Himorn stabbed him. Was it truly necessary to have struck? He only remembered following his battle instincts, unaware of anything else. He had saved his liege, somewhat, but at the cost of family? What had he done? Just what had he done!
