Mask of Innocence

Chapter Twenty-four: The Halls of Mandos

Guards swarmed Legolas, many trying to pull him away from the dead body only moments later. The grief-stricken prince did not hear them as they shot down the Orc that had penetrated their borders, the one who had fired the arrow with the message; he did not hear their cries of anguish upon seeing the body of their previous captain lying sprawled in the rain, mouth agape; he did not see their tears as they turned to the sky and cursed the Valar for bringing death upon one of their kin; he did not listen as they begged him to leave, to flee from this place where memories would be left forever, where his heart would remain, where Imrathon had died.

Legolas only saw the dead body of his best friend, the brother he never had, the ex-captain of the armed forces, the teacher, the student, his father's closest ally. And even when he heard his father's shout, he did not move from his spot, but only began to cry harder.

Thranduil had nearly collapsed when he found his young son sobbing over the dead body of Imrathon, rain drenching them both as lightning flashed in the dark sky. He had gathered his hysterical son into his arms, parchment clenched in his hand, and Thranduil stared in disbelief at the friend he had cherished who lay dead before him, not hearing the crashes of thunder that grew ever louder. Imrathon's eyes were wide open, his mouth slightly agape in a scream that never ended, his flesh white as snow and as cold as ice. He was frozen still, a small puddle of red merging with the rain around him as his blood drained through the open wounds in his back.

"We have to save him! He's not dead, Ada, he's just asleep!" Legolas cried desperately, his voice rough and frantic as he thrashed in Thranduil's arms, trying to get loose. He was begging his father to tell him that Imrathon was not dead, that what he had seen was not of his making, that he had not been poisoned with what he knew he had…

The king numbly held his son tighter, stilling his movements. His eyes briefly closed, and when they opened there were tears glistening in his eyes. He did not see his own guards run past him to merge with the sentries that had already arrived, or hear Taidîr collapse in the mud and let out a choked cry, or see them surround his dead friend and struggle to find any sign of life. Thranduil knew even before one of the guards had gazed up at him with a grim, mournful face and had turned back to Taidîr. Thranduil knew without looking at Taidîr, who had gone ashen-faced and sat staring at his captain, the Elf that had given him the strength and will to become the realm's captain, that Imrathon was gone.

"No, Legolas. You cannot save him now," Thranduil hushed him, his voice remarkably calm and soft. Legolas broke down sobbing in his father's robes.

No…it was not him…he could not have returned…no…no, no, no, NO!

"Imrathon is dead."

An anguished wail could be heard from the Woodland King's child as the rain only fell harder, as his worst fears were realized and the world as he knew it came crashing down. The words of the message flashed in his mind as suddenly as the lightning that struck miles away.

You have been warned.

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April 11th, 2063 – fifteen days later

Thoughts swirled in Legolas' mind wildly, surfacing in the forms as daggers, fire, ice, darkness, and Sauron.

"You are being a very good little Elfling, Legolas…"

Red, fiery eyes gleamed from the darkness before they faded from sight, and in a flash Legolas saw a glimpse of the dark towers of Dol Guldar.

"Who are you! What are you doing in my mind!"

"I've always been here, little one, and I always will be," returned the menacing voice sweetly.

"No, you haven't!"

Although he could not see it, Legolas felt Sauron smile.

"Yes, I have. Now, be a good little boy and do not tell your little father a word of the way your friend died. Understand? I am sure you are clever enough to have figured what happened, am I correct?"

Thoughts of Imrathon's death came to him, each one with his friend's dead body lying there in the rain.

"No…it is impossible…you cannot…I…"

"Child, whether you believe it or not Imrathon is dead, and it is your fault," the voice broke in harshly. No longer was it sweet and gentle. "He knew too much. If you tell your father, or anyone else, about anything that happened I will kill them. You have been warned."

"Legolas?"

With a cry Legolas sat bolt upright. He was sitting in the soft chair by the window, having drifted to sleep accidentally. The Valar knew he had gotten almost no sleep in the past two weeks, that he had locked himself in his room and had sat there and cried for hours at a time. He looked around anxiously. There was no dark, hissing voice, no cloaked figure, no chanting…

Someone touched his shoulder, and he whirled around to find Thranduil standing there. "It is time, little one."

Legolas briefly nodded, forcing the nightmare from his mind and got up, heading towards his wardrobe after glancing at his father's attire first. Thranduil's robes were a very dark green, almost black, and were adorned with the realm's crest of leaves. His golden crown entwined with springtime flowers had been exchanged for a simple gold circlet, noble yet elegant. He wore no light and festive colors this day.

Without a word Legolas shrugged into his best robes, a deep forest green instead of his normal silvers and blues while his father brushed his hair with his ivory comb. He plaited the silky pale-gold hair in several braids easily and then added the final touch with the beautiful silver circlet upon his brow. Now complete, Legolas followed Thranduil out of his bedroom and outside, where the rest of the realm was waiting.

It was nearly dusk on this clear evening, only a fortnight after Imrathon's death. Silence hung over the golden heads of Thranduil's people, only a few singing softly as they lamented the death of their prince and king's great friend and the realm's greatest captain. The forest whispered of pain and grief, their sorrow mirroring that of its people, and most of all they sang of their worry for the prince. Legolas heard the forest's lamentation, and the worry for himself, but he did not care. He could feel it in his heart that he was slowly slipping away again. The forest's faer was fading, his father and friends beginning to blur into faceless masks, his happiness and love draining steadily. And he knew that no happiness of the forest, no magic, no love could save him now.

It was with utmost silence and grief that Thranduil and Gandalf descended the palace steps that led to the courtyard, oblivious to the growing peril that the child beside them was in. The entire realm was gathered in the forest, on the bridge, in the courtyard, wherever there was room for them to stand and watch the burial of one of their kin. They had been told that it was uncertain why and how Imrathon died, for only Legolas had been there when his immortal flame had been extinguished so abruptly. And Legolas was not going to tell anyone, no matter how much it mattered.

"Ada?"

Thranduil turned to the owner of the soft, shaky voice next to him. Legolas was looking up at him, eyes wide and full.

"Where will Imrathon go, now that he is dead?"

"He will go to the Halls of Mandos, tithen-pen, in Aman," Thranduil squeezed his child's hand gently, talking very softly.

"So he will go to Valinor?"

"Yes."

"That is good, Imrathon will be happy."

Thranduil turned to Legolas, a puzzled look crossing his face for an instant. "Yes, he will be. But why do you say that?"

Legolas looked up at his father. "He told me that he wanted to go to Aman, and now he can," Legolas said simply, and turned back to face the path that they followed with a heavy heart.

Thranduil gazed down at his child with a mixture of sorrow and pride; grieving that his son had to witness death at such a young age yet proud of and awed at his innocence.

Legolas stared at the faces of his father's people when he passed them. He saw their grief, their pain, their sorrow, and even their tears. Taidîr was there, standing tall but with paths of silver tears running down his cheeks. Saeldur was there, and Daernesta, and Aradan, and everyone else of the royal court and council. All were silent, watching gravely as their comrade and friend was borne upon a stretcher-like bed from the great golden gates of the palace.

Slowly and carefully the warriors entrusted with bearing their captain to his final resting place bore the cot laden with flowers down the steps. Now quiet weeping could be heard echoing throughout the silence of the evening, broken only by the occasional mournful twitter of a bird. Legolas saw the body and faltered, feeling his heart quicken with a sudden pang. Thranduil gently squeezed his hand reassuringly, and led him on.

Thranduil and Legolas stood near the front of the procession, watching as the body was carried slowly down the long stretch of steps. The Elves were singing a lament, remembering the great captain and his many great deeds in life. They sang of his death, a death apparently painful and slow, but without a purpose. Legolas bowed his head silently, tears coming unbidden to his eyes.

You do not know what happened. I killed him. I am a murderer. It was me. He died because of me…

Legolas broke into silent sobs abruptly, and comfortingly Thranduil picked him up and drew him close, hushing him gently. Tears of his own sparkled in his eyes, but he kept walking towards his friend's grave, tall and proud. Grief may claim his heart, but it would not claim his body. The deceased was slowly lowered into the fresh grave, and Legolas turned around as the Elven voices rose in a soft crescendo, waiting for the body to finish its descent to the bottom of the grave. Before his friend's body sank beneath the surface as they lowered him down, Legolas caught a glimpse of him; he lay outstretched, his head crowned with silver, and dressed in a light blue robe. His cold hands were clasped upon his chest, with his head lying upon a light pillow. Imrathon's eyes were closed, but Legolas would have sworn that he could have only been sleeping. Thranduil gently set Legolas down, and the child walked tentatively over to his friend who lay at the bottom of a dark, earthen grave.

Legolas gazed down upon his dead friend as the Elves slowly covered his body with the rich soil, not shedding a tear even as his hands were clutched at his sides so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palm. He no longer heard the Elven laments as everyone soon joined in farewell. Only when Imrathon's face was finally covered, and his body returned to that which he loved most as one of the Elven race, did Legolas weep. Sinking to the ground, the prince buried his face into his hands, crying openly for the friend that he had lost, the brother he had inadvertently killed. He did not hear as the laments slowly died away, moving to continue in the trees of their home as one by one the people disappeared into the night, their voices barely to be heard above the light breeze that filtered through the forest.

I have killed him. I killed Imrathon. Sauron is back. He still has power over me, and over my friends and father. Valar, help me…he's taken Imrathon away from me…what if he takes Ada? What if Ada dies? Valar, please, watch over my Ada. He cannot die. Saes, I love Ada very much…But if I tell him what is happening to me, Ada will die…like Imrathon…he will die if I tell him…I told Imrathon, and he was killed…no…I cannot tell him, ever…not if I want him to live…

Without knowing it Legolas had somehow found his father's embrace and was now sobbing uncontrollably into Thranduil's shoulder. If only Thranduil knew that it was not out of grief that Legolas wept, but out of terror.

TBC