Chapter 14
Winter's first storm had blown through earlier that morning ahead of seasonal schedule, bringing with it a foot of snow and teeth-chattering winds.
Ebony colored crows flew in to roost on barren tree limbs while thick, grey clouds hovered low in the sky, blocking out the sun's colorful and impending death.
Flowing over the the hilltop through dark, snow-covered woods, an elvish song of mourning spread across the land and river valley. Howling winds and the cracking of naked, gnarled tree branches accompanied the chorus of elves as they made their way up the steep hill to the top.
At the top of the snow-covered hill the majority of Mirkwood's dark-green forests could be seen spreading out like a fan from the Forest River which flowed past the base of the hill.
To the west, a jumble of fir-covered, low-lying hills rippled up from the forest floor, growing in size as it made its way to the east, eventually forming a range nearly one hundred miles in length known as the Mountains of Mirkwood.
Far in the distance past the foothills lay the grand Misty Mountains which divided most of central Middle Earth into east and west.
Beginning at the base of the Mountains of Mirkwood in the far east of the range, a black river known as the Enchanted River slithered northwards under the dense forest canopy, it's dark waters almost completely hidden for most of its length until it flowed into the cleared Forest River valley and connected with the larger river in the east.
Thranduil's Halls lay to the east of the hill, it's vast stone halls hidden safely beneath the forests cover.
Further views from the hilltop were obscured because of the dense snow-filled clouds; the Lord of Rivendell told himself he would make it back to this spot in fairer weather to see more of the breathtaking view.
A hard gust of wind blew in from the west and Elrond turned his back to the view and proceeded to walk back to the foot of the newly made burial mound that looked over Mirkwood and the lands beyond it.
Elrond watched silently as the procession of elves entered the forest clearing and moved about each other as they found their places in a half-moon circle around the burial mound.
Even with leather gloves, Elrond's hands felt like icicles as he held a piece of parchment with the hand-written words he had scribbled from a book in the Hall's library earlier that afternoon in preparation for the funeral.
A shiver ran up his spine as the cold, wet snow melted around his leather boots and seeped through the hand-sewn seams.
Another gust of wind hammered his back, his dark brown hair danced as the wind swirled past him and around the barren clearing.
As spaces filled, the Lord of Rivendell scanned the audience to ensure all were in attendance before he began.
To his right stood King Thranduil, wearing his silvery-steel armor and a shimmering black cloak with maroon velvet underneath. Two steel branches twisted and wove together to create a slender tiara that rested upon his smooth, white-gold hair. At a military funeral such as this, it was customary for the king to don his battle armor.
To the left stood the members of the First Guard; all wearing gold plated battle armor with weapons at their sides. At the end of the funeral it was customary for the fallen soldier's company to chant the warrior's creed while walking up in single file to the grave to say one last goodbye. Though Tauriel was Guard Captain of the entire Mirkwood Guard, the First Guard was her direct company.
Next to the First Guard stood Lord Celeborn with a few of his advisors who had accompanied him from Lothlorien. It was out of respect for the fallen captain that he had stayed an extra day in Thranduil's Halls.
Behind Lord Celeborn were several elves who Elrond presumed were civilians based on their dress, and because he had never seen their faces within Thranduil's Halls. Behind the civilians were other soldiers and palace staff who he had seen but not met, officially.
Towards the center of the circle in the front stood Cestë, Masters Maethanar and Limiel, as well as few healers Elrond had yet to meet. Looking further in the back he noticed the apprentice healer Amondaer standing quietly behind Cestë with eyes downcast.
Earlier in the day Elrond had visited the infirmary to speak with Cestë about why she had missed the obvious dislocation in Legolas's leg.
The female healer had stared at him dumbfounded, for she swore up and down that she had fixed the dislocation during the initial mending process. Elrond questioned her thoroughly, and left the infirmary feeling more confused than when he had entered.
Cestë answered all the questions he threw at her correctly—she knew how to pinpoint dislocations, place them back into socket, and mend. There was no reason he could find that Legolas's leg should have been in the condition it was in when he examined it if she had in fact done the practices she recited to him.
If she had actually done the mending practices she recited to him.
But, Elrond did not feel any dishonesty within the female healer; she seemed genuinely compassionate and competent—so what was he missing?
A flash of blonde caught his eye as he stared through the crowd immersed in his own thoughts. Re-focusing, Elrond saw Legolas walking in alone through the snow-covered trees into the clearing, quickly finding his place next to his father.
For the occasion the Prince of Mirkwood had donned his own formal military garb consisting of a dark moss-green suede jerkin beneath a fitted leather vest; the decorated neck-piece comprised of dyed leather scales layered on top of one another until coming to a point at his sternum. The same dyed leather made up his three-tiered leather pauldrons that protected his shoulders and upper arms. Covering his forearms were leather vambraces decorated with gold threaded detail work that matched the leather greaves covering his lower legs and boots. A dark forest-green cloak draped itself over his shoulders, tying at the neck and hanging down to his calves.
Once in his spot, Legolas folded his hands behind him and kept his gaze downcast towards the alfirin covered grave that lay freshly made in front of him; his hollow cheeks and nose rosy from the bitter cold winds that assaulted them all.
A twinge of worry pulled at the healer as he watched the Prince of Mirkwood, for Elrond could see the physical signs that something deeply disturbed the young warrior. Legolas's weight had dropped quickly in the last week and it was beginning to become noticeable in his hollowing face and narrowing frame. His normally warm and golden glowing skin had turned a sickly grey, and the purple shadows which settled under his eyes told that he had not been sleeping.
Elrond glanced down at the freshly made mound of earth in front of him. A woven net of white, star-shaped alfirin flowers covered the grave; tied to the woven net were medium-sized rocks that created a natural perimeter between the snow and grave while holding down the net from escaping with the winds.
The elf who lay beneath the flowers and soil should not have been there, Elrond thought to himself. When he had examined her body earlier—before speaking with Cestë—he had found unsettling levels of orc-made poison contaminating her body.
The Lord of Rivendell had never seen a weapon able to administer such toxic quantities of poison before, and if Tauriel had in fact been inflicted with such a potent piece, she should have died within hours, not days.
And once again, Cestë had claimed that the correct cleansing practices had been done immediately, and though the levels initially declined, something seemed to happen internally and they began to rise again and they were unable to regain control. These odd symptoms lead them to believe that her bones had absorbed the poison and then leached it slowly back into her system.
A loud, pronounced cough brought the healer back from his contemplations; glancing over to the source of the interruption he met the ice-blue eyes of the elf-king, silently telling to him it was time to begin.
Elrond nodded to his friend and cleared his throat, allowing a moment for the whispers to quiet.
Unfolding the piece of paper, he began to read the poem which spoke of honor in life and on the battlefield. He had also added a Silvan poem one that he felt might begin mending the wounds this unfortunate situation had cast on so many.
A loud crack followed by a muffled thud resounded from somewhere in the frozen woods. Pausing, Elrond glanced up through the falling snow to a camouflaged scout sitting high above in a barren tree. With hand protecting his eyes, the scout scanned the forest below for the source of the noise. After a few tense moments of everyone holding their breath, the scout signalled they could proceed.
The congregations attention came back to Elrond and he concluded his eulogy, gesturing to Thranduil to take his place at the foot of the grave.
Thranduil nodded his understanding and stepped forward, his steel boots crunching the wet snow beneath them with every step. The two friends clasped hands as they exchanged places, Elrond filling the hole that Thranduil had left beside Legolas.
To Elrond's surprise, a strong scent of alcohol betook his senses when he fell into the elf-king's place. Looking around, he couldn't be sure of the exact source, for there were elves all around him, any one of them could have been the source.
With the South of Mirkwood to his back, Thranduil stared at the grave for a time; his white-gold hair swirling and dancing with the strong winter winds. As he stared in silence in front of the crowd, a look of immense sadness overtook his features that even surprised Elrond, for though his friend felt deeply, he rarely allowed anyone to see him do so.
A shuffling of confused footsteps came from beside the Lord of Rivendell. Turning, he saw that Legolas had apparently been blown too hard by the wind and almost fallen onto the snowy floor—his shuffling boots barely catching and righting him. Elrond tried to make eye contact with the unbalanced prince, but Legolas kept his gaze low as he shook his head and rolled his shoulders back to stand straight and tall as expected.
Thranduil didn't seem to hear or notice his son's fumble, only raising his sky-blue eyes a few moments after, a wet sheen could be seen glimmering within them in the dim dusk light. Steeling his features, the elf-king cleared his throat and began to speak; his voice deep and steady, always confident in his words.
Thranduil spoke of Tauriel's courage and bravery, of her prowess as a warrior and her ability as a leader. He praised her profusely and lamented her passing.
The crowd encircling the grave nodded in agreement and shook their heads in sadness, moved by the king's powerful, heartfelt speech.
To Elrond's confusion, he felt hostility building the air as Thranduil's continued to speak; like the scent of alcohol in the air, he couldn't tell from who it resonated, but he presumed both oddities came from the same source.
With every passing word the emotional cloud grew more and more volatile, leaving Elrond in a heightened state of concern.
Thranduil continued to speak to the crowd about the fallen captain, about how proud he was of her as a warrior and elf, and how he had always been impressed by the strength of her moral compass and her tenacity to follow it even when everything was against her.
"And what of the dwarf?" a voice shouted from the crowd.
Thranduil stopped speaking and scanned the area of the crowd to see who the voice came from.
The static hostility in the air grew so dense that its friction could almost be heard. Elrond saw a flash of blond flit past the corner of his vision.
"You did not seem so thrilled by her heart's choice, then. Did you, Adar?
Legolas stepped forward into the small opening within the half-moon circle. Facing his father like a young lion does eventually to their alpha father, Legolas stepped towards the elf-king with staggered steps. Stopping at the head of his friend's grave, he swayed unsteadily as the blustering winds blew harshly around him.
Thranduil tilted his head, a look of anger flashed in his ice-blue eyes as he watched his son approach.
"You would have sent her to an early grave by your own blade for standing up for what she believed." Legolas accused with a slight slur, the wind and snow roared around them and darkness grew deeper in the grey sky. Legolas raised his voice, "So do not stand here now and give this—this eulogy of lies; it is a disgrace to her memory." Legolas's speech slurred more as the cold air tightened his lips and jaw.
"Legolas," Thranduil's voice deepened in warning, "Watch yourself."
"There is nothing to watch." Legolas shouted back with a small smirk at the edge of his mouth. Sweeping his arms out wide he staggered back a step, "There is nothing you can do to me that has not already been done." his arms then dropped to his sides as his gaze fell to the flower covered grave and his face went slack as his eyes seemed to see through the dirt to what lay inside.
"This is not the time to speak of this. Stop, now."
Lifting his glistening, dull eyes, a calmness seemed to overtake Legolas as he look to his father, "It is entirely the time to speak of this. And I cannot stand here silently as you say things about Tauriel that you do not mean nor honestly believe."
Thranduil's jaw muscle tightened like a tension wire about to snap as his body straightened, his icy gaze locked onto Legolas, "You of all people should know that I do not say what I do not mean, or believe." He raised his chin slightly as his eyes narrowed, "Do not think that you are the only one who has lost someone dear to them; though Tauriel and I had our differences, she was like a daughter to me, and my heart aches deeply with her loss."
A strong, howling gust of wind blew in from the west, colliding against the upright bodies upon the hill; the night's darkness finally devouring every last bit of light left in the sky.
Little golden lights began to pop up around the circle as elves began to light their lanterns, the cold gusts of wind attempted to blow the flickering flames out, but the lantern's glass walls protected them.
Thranduil and Legolas stood in the darkness with their unyielding sights locked in battle with one another, each contemplating their next verbal attack.
To Elrond, this fight between father and son did not come as much of a surprise. The only reason these small collisions did not happen more often was because Legolas would usually step down at the last minute to avoid an all out confrontation such as this one. And their tendency to clash idealistically kept them both emotionally at arm's length from each other. But Elrond knew that eventually, Legolas would stop submitting to his father's domineering will and the real fight would happen—and Elrond wasn't so sure how the stubborn elf-king would handle that uprising.
Elrond never doubted his friend's love for his son, but the scars of life had sealed away any emotions that could portray the elf-king as vulnerable or weak; and as a consequence, his only son had grown up in a home where coldness and disapproval were the only signs of caring or love.
Now, Elrond watched the father and son in the fighting ring, eyes locked upon one another as each waited for the other to attack. The crowd watched in awe, for most had never seen the pair speak more than a few sentences—mainly military orders—to each other, let alone have an argument. Only those close to the family knew how deeply strained their relationship was.
Deciding that this particular argument could be had another time, Elrond strode across the icy ground and gently grabbed Legolas's arm, silently suggesting the prince step down.
Legolas yanked his arm away from Elrond's suggestion without ever turning his head.
"You treated her like the dirt beneath your boots." Legolas spat, "For years she trained and worked herself to the bone to impress you and make you proud of her; yet all you did was turned your nose up at her. Nothing she did was ever good enough. Not once did you say the words you say now—the words she so desperately needed to hear you say." the prince's voice cracked and he quickly turned away, regaining control of his emotions.
"Legolas, please." Elrond whispered.
Thranduil stepped down the snow-covered incline and closed the gap between him and Legolas. He towered over his son, and in a low, caustic voice he said, "In your currently inebriated state, you forget the amends that were made during the Battle of Five Armies; for Tauriel and I came to an understanding that day which mended the old wounds that both of us had inflicted. And despite our many differences, Tauriel was like a daughter to me and I treated her as such. You do best to remember that before you go accusing me of lying at the foot of the dead."
Sliding his gaze up to meet his father's, Legolas's upper lip raised in a snarl as he retorted, "Then I guess I will just have to be six feet in the ground as well to know what you truly think of me too, Adar."
A flock of raven's flew from their roost in a nearby tree as a loud smack shook the cold, damp air. A quiet gasp swept through the crowd of onlookers as the elf-king slapped his son across the face.
"That is enough." Elrond hissed as he stepped in between the two elves.
Legolas's head hung to the side as he glared somewhere off the hilltop; a reddening handprint materialized upon his cheek. The prince stood rigid like a stone statue, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists and the tendon in his jaw rippled with repressed rage.
Due to Legolas's intoxicated state, Elrond was unsure whether the prince would be able to walk away now as he usually would, so the Lord of Rivendell readied himself to grab and hold the prince back if he decided to continue the fight physically.
Thranduil's own anger seemed to simmer and cool as his hardened features softened. Turning to Elrond, his voice now calm and collected, "Lord Elrond, please accompany Legolas to the infirmary, I believe he is dehydrated and in need of rest."
Elrond felt Legolas's muscles tense beside him and the healer quickly placed his hands on the prince's shoulders in an attempt to sooth and restrain him.
"I would be happy to." Elrond bowed his head to Thranduil, then turned to the seething prince, "Come now, Legolas." he whispered as he pulled him away from his quietly gloating father.
The two elves turned and faced the slack-jawed crowd who all quickly averted their gazes and acted as if nothing had happened. Master's Maethenar and Limiel stepped apart so that Elrond and Legolas could exit the circle—a gust of wind at their backs helping in their efforts.
A lantern was shoved into Elrond's free hand by someone in the crowd, and he escorted Legolas as they walked back through the icy wilderness to the warmth of the Halls.
Author Note: Well, there you go. I hope this wasn't too bad. Honestly, this chapter was a bitch and I finally just needed to get on with it so that I could continue to other much more fun chapters. I felt that I got it to at least a decent level, I hope ya'll feel the same.
As for the whole funeral scene, there is very little given about elvish funerals/burial practices besides they most likely did in fact bury them in mound type graves when it was possible. The rest I just felt would possibly be in an elvish funeral.
Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, I love to hear ya'lls thoughts on what is going on or what it makes you feel, it helps me figure out what ya'll are getting from this and how best to get the story across to you. And I just really appreciate you taking the time to read this and review =) .