Welcome back! I'd like to take this time to thank my new followers, as well as my long-time and loyal ones!
Quick by-the-way, but I looked a map of Middle Earth, and Gandalf had about 1000 miles to travel between Bree and Mirkwood.
Also, I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I've been putting more emphasis on Sigrid as Bard's helper. I was thoroughly annoyed at how the filmmakers painted her. Tilda I understood, but I thought as Bard's eldest Sigrid had more potential, and I will write her out as such...later. Right now, Bard's got more than Feminism to worry about.
Not that it's any excuse.
On the bright side, I'm graduated by this point. :) I hope my writing is better reflecting that.
Dark things ahead!
Lying there in my blood,
I swore that the day would come
When you hear my battle-cry
The fear never goes away
But I'm ready to fight it
Once I was the prey
Now I'm a Lion
-"Boudica"
Karliene
Princess of Cups
"My kidneys are going to hell." Megan sighed. Off nearby she could see a flash of orange and pink; dawn was showing her tits before she got shy and covered up yet again with more snow clouds. The Texas sun is a whore.Like Wynter's sister.
Megan recalled her parting words to Chyann. Their goodbye courtyard seemed to only have just happened. Everything was a blur beyond the exhilaration of cold slapping her face, branches snapping by her head, and a sense of flying on the wings of rage. The heat of the body at her back was the most comforting thing she had ever felt. She swayed back and forth with the breath of Beorn the Skinchanger.
It seemed a shame to want to sleep in the dawn. The dimness of the gray shades were unabated as Megan's eyes fought to stay open for her thirst for the sun. Yet even as she was drowsing and fighting to stay awake, the wetness of snowmelt on her pants reminded her that she needed to pee. So she lifted herself on creaking knees to go pop a squat where the snow was still clean.
Her pee was so warm on the snow that she could see wisps of steam rising. Even after she finished, she was too exhausted to move, or even bother to wipe. It seemed to matter so little right then. Unimportant, compared to the wildness she had known in the night. Decency was out the window and her nose was filled with bear-smell. Beorn panted behind her as some coarse dog, though about five times bigger and filthier.
Around them scraps of Orcs and wolves, their meat not yet cold, littered the bloodied snow. The snow colored red and her yellow reminded her obscenely of McDonald's.
Yet with the cold scent in her nose and the pristine expanse before her eyes, she felt comparatively normal, as if everything last night was just some dream she had woken from. It was easy to imagine the things from yesterday as a dream. As though she could go home any moment to cuddle between Chyann and Alyx in bed, to go get breakfast...about to go to class with Galdor.
But there was no home to go back to.
Her heart ached as normality passed like wind through her fingers, or sand through a sieve. Everything was back: all she had lost. I'm fine, she said to herself as the tears welled in her eyes, as she remembered Galdor's ghost reaching for her. I'm fine. I'm okay. Maybe if she told herself that she was fine enough times, those uncategorizable feelings would fall into place. Maybe then she could deal with it. Maybe could cope with losing her city, her school and other friends. Maybe she could learn to be without a guy to help prop her up. Everything's okay. Everything I ever hoped for is burned to death in a raging inferno, but I'm fine.
It didn't help to think like that. Not at all.
The minute she had been thrown into Mirkwood, abruptly half her life was not her own. She was a book filled with paper, stained with age-old ink and blood against her will that wasn't hers, then thrust into the hearth.
The one native of the land who hadn't handled her for his own gain, but treated her with nothing but love, was gone. She was Guy Montag, and she had lost her Clarisse McClellen. But he was gone. Everything was a violent and archaic mess.
No, Megan corrected herself. America was a mess, Texas even messier. The adoption system was shit. She knew that shit, where every night you were wracked with fear and doubt. Meanwhile, Mirkwood was American McGee's Wonderland, rather than the fairyland she had hoped she could spin it into: It had devolved into a madland.
Galdor loved me. He loved me. Tears fell down her eyes in hard streams before she could stop them. And now he's gone. Who will love me now?The fur rustled behind her as she sobbed, just rocking where she squatted, not even bothering to pull up her pants. Megan couldn't be bothered. She was tired and hungry and smelly and grieving.
At least Beorn was unevil. But what was she, that she didn't save Galdor?That I didn't see a plan to kill him, whether it was written or discussed? That Chyann wasn't protecting him, or Alyx See, or Chardonnay heal him? If she couldn't help the people she loved with her powers, then what was the fucking point?
She heard the branches creak above her, then Beorn growled, so she mustered herself enough to pull up her pants. The wet wool and cotton were itchy on her ass, but comparatively warm to the snow. She craned her neck up to see her gaunt captain overhead. Meg sniffled. Glorindall's gaze wasn't on her but on Beorn, whose growls and grunts were becoming louder. Megan turned, momentarily worried that her awesome mount was wounded, or would charge her captain, but it was not so. She wiped her nose.
Beorn was in the throes of his transformation. Megan was transfixed enough to forget her grief while he reared to his hind legs and his hairy body shrunk as she watched. The fur retreated beneath his skin, brawny arms emerged, and his face shrunk. A line of hair remained down his back. Beorn, as a man, stumbled to the snow before regaining his footing, and stood stark naked in the snow.
The interesting parts were kind of hard to miss. "Whoops," Megan turned her back on him. "Cloak," she called, and she heard the rustle of fabric. Glorindall's forest-mottled white cloak fluttered into her hands. It was warm. Megan squeezed her eyes shut as she thrust the blanket out.
"You can stop, child." It wasn't Glorindall's sweet whisper but a sand-paper rumble, and she felt herself flush to hear Beorn's human voice. It sounded different in his memories, where there were mostly yells and pain. Beorn long ago buried his happier dialogues so deep that no Orc could tear it away.
A wide hand tugged the cloak out of her hands, and after a beat Megan chanced a peek. The cloak by no means covered everything, so he had wrapped it around his muscle-thickened waist. Damn. He was sweaty and chiseled and his chest was bare of hair that she could see (a lot) of, and while Megan was by no means a lumberjack groupie, he was pretty damn fine. Except for the nose. The guy had no bridge, and it reminded her of his animal heritage.
She realized they were staring at each other, him studying her just as much as she him, and she broke the ice first (hah, weather pun). "So do I look bigger now?"
He frowned, studying her. "Not by much," he rasped at last, "but a little." He reached out his hand and rubbed the top of her head hard enough to make her neck ache. But Megan felt a smile creep onto her lips.
It felt nice to have a reason to again. Humor was scarce under Glorindall, and the weather made it even more so, let alone anything else Megan was dealing with. She looked as her captain came beside her and greeted Beorn. In a brief second, it felt like introducing a boyfriend. Mom, Dad, this is my bear. No, seriously a bear.
"I know little of your enemy," Beorn began, but Glorindall said, "I would ask what you do know of anything. Scouts in black, or Orcs, and their numbers. If such a thing means anything to you." A wry light touched his eye, and Megan raised an eyebrow at her captain's joke. Odd times.
Beorn frowned. "Megan has show me much of this Elf. He is pretty as a girl, but no, I did not see him in the night. If I had," Beorn seethed, "I would have left nothing for the vultures to scavenge. But Orcs we have seen a plenty of, as you can see."
"And there is nothing to scavenge."
"You are so savage," Megan swooned. "I-" Megan twitched, and whirled on Glorindall. There. Tauriel was close by- Megan could see her leaving a cave, her arm wrapped in linen. Black ice flew by her as arrows lanced the air. Tauriel leapt-! Megan looked at her captain, then at Beorn. "Think you got one more ride left in you?"
"For you, child, there are some left."
As Beorn writhed into his bear form, and lay there panting, Megan tried to feel guilt for asking such pain of him, but found there was little pity left in her, for herself or anyone else. She just wanted to kill Morien and all his goons. Time to get the band back together.
The Bargeman
The leak in the hull was worsening, and he told them so. "Do not mind it," the Elf-woman snapped. "Keep this thing afloat long enough to the west shore, and we make repairs then. We are almost there..." She looked off, though Bard wondered what she could possibly make out in the thick mists that clung to the Lake. He shivered; his clothes were soaked, and the provisions were scant enough to keep him on his feet.
Bain, Tilda, Sigrid, he ached for his children. Were they eating enough without him? For two days Bard had been forced to man the tiller. The pay would not be coming in before Bard arrived home. If he were to die at the hands of these creatures, he hoped to wash ashore quickly. But hope was slight: the Master's system to aid orphans was a joke. The Master and his cronies would demand a body or a sizeable sum of money, whichever came first, in return for three days of food and, if lucky, a command to show to the people of the Lake to give the eldest son a job. But those jobs were evaporating. People needed to save money for when the prices rose, and rising they were.
He could not comprehend why the Elves needed him at all; surely if one sought to pirate a ship they must know something of watercraft. Yet it seemed not. The Elves avoided the water where they could, and kept close to the center of the deck as the waves bucked against the barge. The current was picking up. "Afraid to get your feet wet?" Bard asked. His wits were slipping with hunger.
The woman Elves scowled darkly at him. Their seamless composure was slipping. They were growing more agitated the farther south they traveled. Bard tucked his observations away, though, and silently urged his boat to make it to shore.
When the barge began to scrape hard against the gravel, the Elves gathered close to the edge nearest to land. "This is far as it goes. We must pull her to shore now." The Elf-woman ignored him and began calling to shore. "Ropes?" she asked, and Bard pointed to the hull where great lengths of moldy hempen rope were coiled. Bard never had use for them before now. The Elves gathered the lot of them and began tossing them to shore. Bard frowned. The water was cold, aye, but with the number of crew, the task would be swift. And who would haul them back?
The great pull Bard felt the next instant cut his question short, and he dreaded what he knew awaited him ashore: More Elves.
Indeed there were. A rising of full-lipped Elvish washed around him as his hands were seized and tied behind his back, then Bard was being shoved down his own ramp. A thin veil of mist disguised the number of Elves that were there, with their sullied white cloaks and pale skin.
Once again, identical eyes looked back at Bard, but his attention on one in particular. This Elf looked to be in charge, with a cruel set to his jaw and posture. Bard's pretty captor went to him and bowed her head, speaking, but Bard couldn't understand a word they were saying. The large Elf cut the woman off and she bowed again, but more deeply. She turned and gestured Bard forward.
As he approached, Bard thought he might have seen this Elf before on another ship, and the image persisted until he was standing right in front of him. Then Bard remembered. "Gilomil. Isn't it? You're of King Thranduil's Elvenguard. Pray, what is the meaning of all this?"
Gilomil smiled, and Bard saw in his mind's eye a grinning wolf with its teeth ground sharp. "Aye, you have a fair memory, Bard of Laketown. Are your children to your knee, yet?"
"My children are none of your business. What is, though, is why I have been taken prisoner and dragged across the Lake."
"You have the tongue of a true politician," Gilomil observed, "though perhaps not of a diplomat. You may wish to revise that tongue, if you want to keep it."
Bard said nothing to that, and Gilomil gave that terrible smile again. "Politician indeed. Just like your forefathers. Yes, such a sad thing to see the Mountain fall and the great city burning. Thranduil was quite adamant that those cities alone would burn. His is well due for a fire storm, don't you think?"
"You do not mean to meddle with the Dragon, do you?" asked Bard, alarmed. They would not be so foolish...! But Gilomil laughed. "No, little mortal. Just a figure of speech. See, I am quite glad Thurinel found you, of all Bargemen. We hear rumors on the river of your popularity as a people's champion; it sounds as though you have quite the following."
"I keep no following," said Bard, "I have never run for the Master's mantle. Nor did I ever wish to."
"Only a fool fails to seize power when he can."
"And only a glutton claims more than his share."
Gilomil struck him. Bard felt the blood well in his lip. "We cut our own shares, in this life. Are you so lazy as to take only what is given?"
"I do not need power." Bard retorted through the minor pain and growing fear. "I do not want it."
Gilomil snorted. "Ah. You're one of those.Fine; if you will not seize power, then we will make you take it." Gilomil turned to another pale Elf, this one in black. "Go Lake Town and seize Bard the Bargeman's children." Bard felt the blood drain from his face, and he immediately protested, but Gilomil silenced him again with a cuff to his ear. "If you do not agree to our terms now, then this Elf will be given orders to kill, not capture. Which do you chose?"
"I will listen to your demands," Bard grit out. The Master could not protect from Elves such as these. If Bard's children were missing, the town would be quick to suspect foul play, but it would be too late. He did not doubt the ease at which one Elf could make three children disappear. "My children are innocent. Leave them out of this-!"
"They are pieces of meat with some semblance of thought that scarce puts them above dogs," Gilomil replied, "And you are hardly better than a lowly fisherman. Now," he leaned close, "You are going to do exactly as I say."
Bard could scarcely believe his ears as Gilomil went onto explain Bard's role in all this madness. A sick feeling settled over him even more than when crossing the cold Lake with a knife to his neck. A Dark Elf, I didn't know that was even possible! "How can you expect me to help you, now?" Bard gasped. "You ask me to aid in the slaughter of my people!"
"Careful with that politician's tongue, Lake rat. Your children are not safe yet."
"You demand that I swear fealty to Sauron! I will not!"
"Do you think so?" asked Gilomil, so softly. "Take back those words, or that messenger will receive new orders. He is not far."
"I-I." Bard was spared answering as a child's scream tore the air. Gilomil swore, and as he turned, Bard saw a young child running away through the trees. Two Dark Elves followed. As she fled, her hair streamed behind her, revealing a black hood. "Why is that girl awake?!"
As a clamor was raised to give chase, Bard apologized to his children and swung his fist under Gilomil's jaw. He turned and wrested a longbow and quiver from a distracted aide, and Bard took an arrow and stabbed it through the Elf's eye, then strung and loosed it before anyone could stop him, and the bolt struck one Elf pursuing the little girl. The next arrow Bard fired only scraped the second Elf's ear, as Bard was tackled to the ground. Bard saw the little girl glimpse back at him, a dark pair of eyes in a small face, before she vanished.
"After her!" Gilomil was roaring. "Lose her- and we lose the witches! Go! You!" He grabbed ahold of Bard and gave him such a beating as Bard never had. His vision blurred as Gilomil pounded his kidney, but Bard could fully understand what was being said. "You will pay. Send word to Maldron! Take the left ear off each of the Lake-rat's children!"
Bain, Sigrid, Tilda... Forgive me...
But Bard felt in his bones that the flight of the child was not in vain, though he could not have said why...
Tauriel
"We must find Lore-Seer, as you say," Carabordid said as she emerged from the cover of the cave to join them. Tauriel stood with Aerion looking out to the forest, eyes sweeping the rows of sickened trees for any sign of scouts or Dark Elves. "Can you think of where she might be?"
Tauriel said, "She was under a command. As much as Megan tends to get her way of things, I doubt she could sway Glorindall, except in great need. But no- if she follows her sisters, then she will find Morien." Tauriel felt the side she would have felt her second dagger at, and thought of poor tired Megan, so small and vulnerable without her sisters to prop her up. She had hoped that working as a Scout would help her grow stronger. But perhaps it only spelled doom.
Tauriel looked out to the forest, so close in leagues to the Elvenking's gate yet so far for the danger. Morien was stronger than the Unseen anticipated, or else told Tauriel. A light snow was beginning to dust the air, and Tauriel dreaded another snow storm. Nothing seemed to be going right.
"Hurry, Megan," she whispered. "Come to us." Oddly, a tugging began in Tauriel's chest. She blinked and shifted, wondering if it was just the cold air in her lungs, but it was a warmth. The sensation persisted, even increased, as Tauriel stood on that rocky outcropping beyond the Kitchen staff's cave.
It was not the dread of the snowstorm. It was an anticipation, a breathless longing and a near-physical sensation. A face continued to come to Tauriel's mind when she was focused on the tugging. Megan's face. Her face emerged in a light ripple across Tauriel's mind's eye, and Tauriel held it there, just as when she walked among the stars. It was pervasive and all-consuming, like Alyx stroking those fingers across her soul, or Chardonnay's healing touch.
"Megan," Tauriel started forward on the icy rock, straining for anything of Megan that she could sense. "Come to us," she called.
"She is not near," Caraborid was saying while the woods were yet silent.
Then they weren't. A great roar filled the air beyond, echoing across the great expanse of frosted trees and fragile air. "Yes, she is," Tauriel said smiling in fierce pride, "and she is not alone."
"Beware!" cried Caraborid, and she was retreating to the cave. Comotion and a great buzz of activity began. Beorn's name was bouncing in the air, but panic was averted under Caraborid's commands, yet not inactivity. "I have seen that Skinchanger rip apart an Elf just as soon as an Orc, should the madness strike him. Get ready!"
"Megan is with him," Tauriel murmured. "We will be fine."
She could see Caraborid stare at her in her periphery. "You have not seen what that race can do."
"You have not seen what Megan can do." Though this is new. It was so strange; a new clarity of knowing was endowed on her, and Tauriel knew that Megan was with Beorn, or rather, he with her. When she questioned this, the knowing was weaker. Intuition was a slippery tool, it seemed.
Then the terror fell upon her. Oh, Elbereth, she shuddered, I must answer an Unseen as to why her sisters are captured and I am not. And she rides a Skinchanger!
Aerion seemed to guess her thoughts. "Be calm. Lore-Seer knows her sisters." He rose and ushered her a few steps back as the crackling in the woods grew louder. "He moves so fast," Tauriel breathed. Her eyes pricked with tears.
"We have a chance of victory now, Tauriel," Aerion said, his plain face stolid even in offering comfort. "Remember that no matter her wroth."
Beorn was getting closer. The woods were crashing near enough that her ears throbbed, and her extended eyesight was no longer needed as the bear became visible. He was next to heedless of the fragile vegetation around them. Tauriel could hear Megan yelling in exaltation, whoops and hollers that sounded so in place among the wilderness.
"Bows at the ready!" Caraborid was commanding. "Do not draw unless he charges first!"
Tauriel felt slow and sluggish as Aerion yanked her out of the way. Beorn leaped through the treeline, scattering branches and skidding on the ice-covered rock just a arrow's length away from where she had been.
Caraborid had been right: Tauriel hadn't ever seen anything so great. Not in all of Tauriel's time dwelling in Mirkwood had she ever truly beheld Beorn.
Megan slid from the bear's back, who was whuffling and snarling as the Elven archers assembled. Megan paid Beorn no more mind than one would a kitten as she threw her arms about Tauriel's waist and crushed her wounded arm to her body.
Tauriel swallowed her pain, a small price to pay for her failure, and embraced Megan tightly with her good arm. She looked so much like Alyx it seemed ridiculous they had ever been mistaken for cousins. Full-blooded siblings looked less alike. A sister in truth, your blood sister. Oh, how did you two never know? That Mikimoto person had lied to the girls. But why? A question for another day, a conversation for another time. And there is no avoiding what is to come.
In her arms Megan began to shake, whether with cold or relief, Tauriel could not tell. "I missed you," Megan whispered as she nuzzled against Tauriel's green undershirt. She moved the fur blanket she wore around Megan's shoulders. "And I you, little one." Tauriel knelt. Shadows hung darker beneath Megan's eyes more than before she left, and her cheeks and hair were wind-blown. Yet Megan was so much more alert. Her gaze was in the present. The focus unnerved Tauriel. "We have much to discuss."
"Where's my cousin? Is Chardonnay awake? I know it's early." Megan's eyes began to glimmer in the dim daylight, but she furrowed her dark eyebrows and they dimmed. She has gotten better at control, Tauriel was relieved to see.Galdor will be proud.
Tauriel took a breath. "They are not here, Megan." Her hand braced Megan's face as it folded in confusion. "But you're...Did you come without them? Are they in the palace." Tauriel shook her head. A lump was caught in her throat and she struggled to speak. "They... We were...we need to save them."
Megan's eyes burst with light so quickly Tauriel winced. But she stood her ground and allowed Megan's power to scour her mind. Her eyes flicked and shuddered as images unseen to Tauriel flew across Megan's sight. Beorn began snarling, and Caraborid raised her hand.
This is getting out of hand, Tauriel thought dizzily. Yet what was there to do? Nothing, except to accept Megan's fury.
"Fuck!" Megan's fingers clawed her bangs back from her scalp. Tears welled in her eyes. "You cannot be serious! Are you kidding me?!" She shoved Tauriel to the cold stone. Tauriel saw Caraborid hold one of Aerion's nephews back. The Elves were watching. "You actually listened to them? How could you?!"
"I ask myself the same," Tauriel whispered. Megan was trembling, her arms stiff at her side. Seeing that Tauriel meant it, those arms wrapped around her body, and she turned away. "I left them with Radagast the Brown. We were nearly overrun by ungol, and-." Tauriel cleared her throat. "Megan. Is there any word from the King, or Galdor? We must get send for aid immediately-"
"Galdor's dead."
Tauriel's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Silence dropped hard among the Silvan Elves, none dared sing a lament.
There were no word.
Beorn roared in Tauriel's face, spraying spittle and unbearable hot air. But she stood her ground. As it ended, Tauriel could hear from afar Gildor and Glorindall approaching.
Seeing no response from Tauriel, Beorn retreated with smoldering eyes next to Megan, where he settled down, and she leaned into him.
Tauriel released a shuddering breath, fighting back tears in remember sweet Galdor. "I am sorry," she said at last. "Galdor was...long in friendship with my family."
"What happened to them? Are they dead, too?"
"Yes."
Megan did not move, but it seemed a hairsbreadth of tension left Beorn, who laid his head down. "I hope you're sorry." Tauriel could have laughed at the absurdity of that, but didn't. "We need to find them, Megan. Morien hates the MacKennas. They will not live long."
"Oh, yeah," Megan recalled as she nestled against the great behind her. "Chyann keeps whooping his ass. Still." Megan turned and watched Tauriel with bloodshot eyes. "I'm pissed at you. And it looks like you're outta commission. Make it up to me later." Megan sniffled. "Hi, Aerion. Miss me? Anyways," she turned to Tauriel, "so you're out of commission. But I," she said as she draped herself over the hide of Beorn, "have got an awesome idea..."
Two Days Later
...
The Elvenking
At last the cries of the Dark Elves were silenced. Twenty-three amber-eyed bodies were dragged from the courtroom, leaving only the echo of their curses behind. If those monsters still had fea left to return to Mandos, they would go; no haunts were made that night that Thranduil could sense.
He tapped the solid wood of his seat of power, wondering why he no longer felt any ghosts within his halls. Long had he tried to convince those spirits yet in his palace to pass on, but since the Unseen had come, the palace spirits were awake and active. Now they were simply...vanished.
Just as the Unseen were. Those girls are more trouble than they are worth. Even as he thought it, Thranduil knew is was untrue. They were worth twice their weight in gold. Or priceless.
Yet the disturbing coincidences persisted, and as much as Thranduil knew their value, he wondered how much control he had over anything as long as the Unseen were in his realm. Least of all their safety.
The King waited until his guards formed ranks to escort him out before descending from his throne, each step heavier than before. Rest called him, but he was loath to lay down until all the amber-eyed rats were crowfood against the mountainside. But he knew that his strength must be maintained. And he desired to know if Alyxandra had any news for him.
Hermit...and the Grey Cloud... Did she mean to that the Istari would come to their aid? Was the Unseen's presence so strong that even the wizards could sense them? If Gandalf the Grey was coming to their aid, then so too was Radagast the Brown, and there was no sign of either of them. He scoffed under his breath at the bumbling wizard who lived so near Thranduil's own doorstep and yet he was nowhere near.
The King stepped into the winter air and let it wash over him. The cold was refreshing, if a bit foul. He was reluctant to step outside the clean air of his walls, but his presence was necessary, and none of his soldiers reported any visions. The day was dim, another of several, and more flakes fell, though with less urgency than that terrible night when the Unseen vanished and Galdor was murdered.
At the thought of Galdor floating dead in the river, the King gave his signal, and the bodies were flung out to the mountainside, just as he had promised Avrith.
Avrith stood at attention, a new wound on his face, just next to Legolas. Neither were looking at the bodies. A pity. One must appreciate their own work.
"My king! A rider approaches! He carries the white flag!" The call went out, and Thranduil followed the direction his soldiers were pointing to. He saw, as they said, one of Morien's scum bearing the peace banner, as though a scrap of fabric would protect him. So much blood painted Thranduil's palace that it would drown the purest of white, and bodies that would have housed the best the Eldar were forever made still. Bows were bent, and at Legolas's signal, a volley was fired in warning, and the rider was hard-pressed to keep his mount from bucking.
The rider kept his seat, unfortunately. Hatred seethed among Thranduil's ranks, but before Legolas could send the Ill-Begotten's parley to Mandos, the King held up a restraining hand.
"You come at a favorable time," Thranduil called down.
The Dark Elf was fair-haired and lithe. "So I can see. The bodies make a lovely addition to your walls." Thranduil could hear in his mind what the youth would have rather said. Your head would be even more lovely. He was almost sad that the Darkling didn't. He cared little for anything Morien had to offer besides his own head on a platter and the hostages safely returned home. We are found and bound...
"Speak your piece, Dark Elf, and you may walk away from this."
Thranduil could see the smirk erupt on the youth's mouth. "I have a token from the Lord Morien, Son of Sauron." A cold chill ran down Thranduil's spine. He bluffs. "I have little use for that. Speak. Or die." The bows were bent again, and the youth reached into his cloak and procured a white and brown bundle. "A present, really. For you, Great King. I'll even dismount and hand it to one of your guards to give to you. I must ask that you alone open it, though. Lord Morien was adamant to that. Don't worry," the Dark Elf said to Thranduil's cold smile. "It is not a viper or poison. Just a bit Your Majesty might appreciate."
The Dark Elf did dismount. His horse shied away without the Elf's restraining hand, and bolted before he could stop the beast. Not that he tried to. He strolled around the perimeter of arrows and approached the lower keep door in on side of the mountain beneath where they stood. Obviously he was stationed there, once. He knows the workings of the walls.
Immediately the guards of that door erupted to halt the Darkling's progress, and seized him. "Our King," they called, "do we execute him now, bring him forth?"
Fear for the guards' safety knifed through him, but nothing happened. It was daytime, even for the overcast. The Shadows were stronger in the night. "Bring him here."
"My King," began Galion, but Thranduil raised a hand to stop him there. "Has there been any sign of Shadow activity outside of the norm?"
"No, my lord. And fire keeps them at bay.
"Then keep a torch on that little twit and we shall have no problem. I'll see what Morien has chosen to gift to me. Then we will send this one's head back into the forest."
There were no sounds of struggle as the parley was brought up. He was terribly cooperative, though wise enough to wipe the smile from his face. Avrith knocked the prisoner to his knees, and Legolas put his knife to his throat. Thranduil felt pride well in him for his son's ruthlessness.
The Elf offered with both hands the strange package. Thranduil, as he reached for whatever it was Morien sent him, could see Elf deliberately roll the parcel so that the brown was revealed up close. It was blood on a piece of bedding linen. Thranduil felt the blood drain from his face.
The Dark Elf could scarce hide his mirth, and, feigning an accident, let the package fall to the snow-covered stone. Thranduil was too dumb to reach for the package covered in virgin's blood. It fell open; out rolled a long brown braid, tied at one end with a lock of reddish hair, the other with one of bright orange. A horrible picture came to Thranduil's mind of a plucked bird, or a naked flower. The Dark Elf started laughing.
Avrith caught his breath, as one does before attacking, but Thranduil already had his hand about the Dark Elf's throat, lifting him up, squeezing. He tried to pry Thranduil's hand from his throat, but to no avail. Thranduil dug in his nails, and bared his teeth as nothing less than an animal.
"We are coming for the Ill-Begotten. Go, with all the swiftness you have. Tell your master that King Thranduil rides to saw his head from his shoulders, and not all the spell-work on this earth will stop him." Thranduil threw the piece of filth to the stones, where he gasped and massaged his throat. Where he touched his neck, his hand came away bloody.
A new thought came to Thranduil's mind. "Shave him. Do not bother being gentle. Then put him our swiftest horse." Thranduil examined the blood on his nails. "See to it, Galion, Avrith. I do believe that is your sweetheart's hair at one end."
"My Lord," Neithan came to his side as Avrith and Galion hauled the Dark Elf to his feet and began pummeling him, "if...if Morien does have the support of the Dark Lord... What do we do?"
Thranduil wiped his nails on his sleeve. Heat burned his chest as he looked at the bloodied linen. Morien had no lust for Fire-Born. His hatred for her went deep and beyond bodily passions. Perhaps for Chardonnay, whom was held to be meeker than Chyann, but there was just one spot of blood. He answered Neithan. "If we strike at Morien before he reaches the support of the Dark Lord, we have a chance. Our walls will not protect from a magical assault without the aid of Megan Lord-Seer. Have seeking her be...first priority." Her hair was not among those there. Lore-Seer may yet be free...
"Galdor made her his heir? Galdor was disowned, My King."
Neithan would not stop prattling. "Joint. All the Unseen share his belongings. I will not strip them of his possessions. They have already lost his life. But Megan knows his work best. We will prepare for a siege." Neithan frowned. "We already are under one, my lord. And I thought Far-Seer was the stronger in magics."
"She is. Now keep your tongue and ignorance to yourself."
The King knelt and retrieved the braid, still warm from the Dark Elf's keeping. Grief for one such as Far-Seer to be humiliated and stripped of dignity burned inside of him. Inside. Thranduil shook his head violently at the thought. But the blood-stained linen was still there on the snow, and disgusting questions Thranduil craved the answer to filled his mind like poison. Did she scream? Thrash and fight? What did Morien whisper as he took her?
His fist tightened on the braid, and, oddly, it soothed him as a whisper from its owner might. The hair was no longer alive with her energy, but if Thranduil closed his eyes...he could just smell her scent. The MacKennas were there, too, but all he wanted was that scent of blue velvet, of moonlight and oak trees and fire. He wanted that scent safe at his side. He brought the braid to his lips, and swore to find her. The heat then turned to determined ice, and the world came back into clarity.
He knew what had to be done.
Gandalf the Grey
The snows were still blowing south. Gandalf grateful for his study Bree horse. It was no Rohan-bred runner, nor a reliable Shire pony, but it bore Gandalf's weight with considerable good manners. Yet he longed for a Rohan war-horse. The stronger the horse the better, for all the cold.
Time is running out. Gandalf could see in the distance the roiling clouds in the distance. Darkness, in truth. Something foul was at work beyond the evil in Mirkwood. He regretted not seeing it sooner. Still...
"Take back your homeland." Thorin appraised him shrewdly over his mug of ale. "This is no chance meeting, is it, Gandalf?"
"No," Gandalf admitted. "It is not."
Thorin was crucial to reclaiming the east. But if the Darkness destroyed the east before he could...well, then that was a fine waste of bread and ale.
Gandalf exhaled and drew his pointed hat further over his eyes against the wind. The winter was gathering fiercely. It was January. The frosts were killing the plants, the snows dampening the roads, ruining firewood, and any last bits of food to be gleaned from the forests. "Please let me not be too late...!" The miles to go were far, and his horse was tired. Gandalf swore under his breath, and prayed to reach Imladris soon, at least. Looking at the ring on his hand, Gandalf closed his eyes and reached for Elrond. Perhaps his old friend could provide some aid.
Elrond...mellon, I call to you. Hear me...!
Elrond was slow in replying, and when he did, Gandalf sensed the Lady Galadriel to be with him. My Lady...!
Mithrandir, forgive me. I had dire need of counsel.
No apologies are needed, except on my part. I am delayed, my Lady. It will take me a great deal of time to yet reach Rivendell. But to reach the great forest in the east... Perhaps I will be late.
A wizard is never late, she replied.
I know of your plight, Elrond broke in. I can send to you swift aid. Though perhaps... Gandalf could sense a smile on Lord Elrond's face. Well, what? Galdalf asked. Really, I am quite open to suggestions.
If you must call upon Gwaihir's brood, do so. Elrond said. Though know that they move only at great need. Is your errand so urgent that you would call upon Thorondor's kin?
Yes, Gandalf and Galadriel answered together. Galadriel continued. I have seen them aid Men for lesser reasons than saving the East. For you, they would brave the pits of Morgoth. Call them, Mithrandir. And may your carrier be swift as the wind.
As I hope as well. However...
What is it now, Mithrandir?
All the moths seem to have died in the freeze. Perhaps you could...? I am nigh to Amon Sûl. I shall be waiting there.
I shall see to it, Mithrandir. Galadriel withdrew her presence before Elrond could protest his competence, and Gandalf withdrew as well, and dismounted his poor horse. "And now, my friend," Gandalf petted his broad side. "We wait. Let us hope Gwaihir is as swift as his forefather."
The Magician
The night air was close. As Morien stepped out from his tent, he nearly felt stifled. The clouds obscured any light from the moon and stars, a good sign, for him, yet even the hot firelight seemed dim to his eyes. They were not as far as he would have liked, as daytime weakened his Dark Elves, but night was best for gathering strength, both for himself and his soldiers.
Chyann glowered at him from her place beside the roaring flame at the center of the camp, but even her glimmering chains could not please him. Her wrists were healing more quickly than he thought they would, and her bruises were vanishing.
Morien looked to where Chardonnay sat, tied a safe distance from her sister. Chardonnay MacKenna looked innocently at him, positively glowing in the peak of health: color bloomed in her cheeks, her back was scabbing well, and her sister was not a waif yet. And here I hoped the lashing would break her.
Morien bit back the urge to strangle her. Yet he needed her to keep Chyann in line, and in turn, keep Alyx in line. It was a delicate balance of whom to threaten, but Chardonnay was the only one he could safely punish. He needed Chyann whole and unspoiled. But the MacKennas were looking too pleased by half. A reminder should serve.He called within the tent. "Alyxandra. Come here." As he heard her approach, Morien held the tent wide for her, his pale child-bride, but she shied away from his touch. Irritation gnawed at him, but he held his temper steady. Her face was wan and seemed thinner behind her curtain of bangs , and her eyes almost looked dun in the dim light, and he almost wished she had the rage to stand against him.
But Morien caught sight of Chardonnay's hands tightening on her ragged cloak, and Chyann straighten up, and the regret abated. Almost.
"Walk with me, my dear." Alyx hesitated only briefly before starting after him. Good girl. "It is dark tonight, isn't it?"
"You're really asking me about the weather?" Morien nearly laughed. There you are, he wanted to say. Dear spitfire. "A conversation on observation, really." She said, "You rhymed. Good for you."
The roar shook the air. Morien halted, bringing Far-Seer to a stop with him. "What was that?" His heart beat fast for a moment before it slowed again. Alyx said, "I thought that was yours. It's not?"
He seized her by the shoulders and shook her once. "That was your doing."
The roar came louder this time. Beorn. The Dark Elves scurried from their tents, their motions sluggish from exhaustion. Alyx raised an eyebrow at the chaos. "I can honestly say that wasn't. I'd like to, but I'm a terrible liar."
"Liar," quipped Chyann near the fire. "See?" Alyx smiled sweetly at Morien. "Terrible."
His Elves were moving in close, seeking his protection, though they did not consciously realize it. They were chattering about his safety, yes, but inside them the darkness that possessed the Elves did not want to perish. Another roar shook the ground under his feet. The Dark Elves flinched. Morien scowled. "Move away. That beast is too far away. He only sounds near."
"The skinchanger, Lord?" one of his servants asked demurely. She stepped away obediently. Morien nodded without a word as he listened. "He has scented the Orcs. A pity."
"Yes," said the female. There was the sound of a bow snapping, and an arrow sprouted between her eyes, and she was felled in an instant. Alyx barked with laughter, but when Morien threw his face up to the trees, searching, it was for naught; the archer was gone. "Glorindall," he snarled, then called out. How can they see?! A lucky shot. Perhaps that arrow was for him. "Here I am, old one. Care to take your shot now?" He watched patiently for Glorindall and his team to make the mistake of dropping into the illusion barrier and find 200 Dark Elves waiting.
Unfortunately, Glorindall was wiser than that, and there was no one to see. Looking down to the arrow, he espied that there was a piece of rough parchment rolled along the shaft. More than a little curious, Morien drew the string that held the message. The wind rose, and the paper unfurled and flew away out of his reach. As he was about to command one of his Elves to pursue it, the paper caught on a snow drift, and its message was bared to Morien.
A crude bear paw was drawn atop very distinct handwriting: In case you didn't get the memo: Rawr rawr motherfucker. Beneath that was the Unseen's quartered circle and sickle-moon, all of its quadrants savagely shaded. The message continued: Overcompensation because we have A FUCKING BEAR, BITCH! Have a nice dia-rrhea. "Dia" is Spanish for "day", by the way, but I actually hope you have diarrhea some time soon.
Morien snarled, and the message went up in flames in his hands. "That thrice-damned brat! You'll be mounted on the walls for that." The ululation of Morien's wolves alit the forest with warning. Megan has control of that beast. Even as they dissipated, the next set of packs raised the cry again, but this time they were ending in terrified yelps of pain.
We do not have time to flee. Not even horses could out run Beorn, when the beast put it's rage to it, and if Megan had control of that monster... Then he had Morien's scent, and there was no chance to survive this except if they overwhelmed him. Morien just needed some time...
"My Lord!" cried one of the barrier-keepers, "He comes!"
"Brace yourselves!" Morien shouted, though he despaired. The beast is swift.
Beorn charged out of the tree line even as Morien raised his hand to reinforce the spell as an actual wall against Beorn. It did no good. The magic overbalanced and crashed for all the weight of the skin-changer, and Beorn was inside the camp. Just as the illusion fell arrows rained down from above, and somehow the fires were exploding about the camp, leaping to high proportions and catching any Dark Elves near. He looked for Alyx, and saw her kneeling on the ground, up to her wrists in snow and her jaw clenched.
His Dark Elves were scattered. There was nothing to be done. Archers were ineffective so close, and so quick a target was impossible to hit. Beorn was too swift, too powerful. But Morien felt his heart sing as Beorn barreled for where Nienniel was held, and he heard her scream. Her keeper ran. He could hear Chyann yelling, and was likely straining in her chains, and Morien smiled even more.
Nienniel was fleeing as Beorn charged her, and Morien was certain she would be bowled over and crushed. His jaws opened wide in a yellow-toothed roar, and Morien smiled as he imagined her auburn head crushed in his jaws. Kill her! Morien exulted as Chardonnay kept screaming. Let us see how well Beorn discriminates in a rage. He laughed aloud at the idea of Lore-Seer actually thinking she could control the beast-! Her sister-in-arms was going to die.
Beorn caught Nienniel's shirt and flung her into the air. As she shrieked and descended, pale arms reached out and caught her. Morien felt his jaw fall almost comically until the skin-changer turned and revealed the other passenger. Wild brown hair that had been camouflaged by the bear's fur became visible as Megan Wayne sat erect and caught his gaze with her burning blue eyes. She looked so animalistic and furious it seemed no surprise that she had tamed the skin-changer. Galdor is dead then.
Just as quickly as they had come, Megan wheeled Beorn around and they were gone, and Morien was short an Unseen.
The weight of his miscalculation crashed down on him as he beheld the wreckage of his camp, the bodies of his following, and heard the laughter behind him. Morien whirled and kicked Alyx savagely in the stomach. He heard her gasp for breath. "Be quiet, bitch."
"Hey," Chyann protested as she approached him, and Morien swung with all his weight to strike her face. She was thrown to the snow, her cheek white and red and bleeding by her mouth. She stared him down but wisely withheld from spitting at him, though he could see her cheek working. Morien seethed, then realized Chyann's keepers had run, and must have dropped the key for her chains.
Chyann smiled. Haloed with fire the same color as her hair, she seemed as Tulkas come to dominate Morgoth. Morien had but an instant to prepare, and it wasn't enough. Her chains whipped out to his face, and as Morien jerked back those chains closed around his neck. Desperately, he called for aid from his servants, but so many were dead, or dying, or fled.
"Chyann!" he heard through the blood in his ears, "if you don't go now, you won't make it!"
"Well, come on then!" His trachea was breaking. Morien fell to his stomach, helpless to harness enough power to match Chyann's strength as he lost air. The Unseen were arguing. He craned his head up to see Alyx pushing Chyann. "I won't make it! Chyann-go!"Chyann gave a good tug. "I'm not just fucking leaving you! And I am not leaving him alive!"
His vision was blurring and his head ached. But Morien could sense his servants returning, and so could Chyann, he knew.
"Fuck!" She threw down the chains. If she embraced Alyx Morien could not tell-his eyes were beginning to black out before he struggled out of the chain.
Morien's throat was on fire and he could not breath. His servants surrounded him, massaged his neck, tried to breath into his mouth. Air burned, and his neck was an angry red.
Even more red was his mood. As soon as Morien could stand, he started in towards Alyxandra. Traitorous bitch-! She knew!
She stood her ground, though Morien would have prefered to give chase. It cooled his passion to see her so calm after his defeat, which had taken all but twenty minutes. He stepped and lowered his eye to hers and said, "When I call for you, you will obey me, pet."
"Or else...?" Alyx's eyes sparkled, then bulged as Morien drove his fist into her stomach. "That," he promised, "or worse."
Rubbing his neck, he strained his voice to command that they move camp immediately. They were compromised there. His barrier had proven useless against Beorn. Concealment did not mean hiding the scent of over two hundred people. And while he doubted Megan could rile the skin-changer for a second assault, he'd rather not remain on losing ground. Retreat, then, farther south. Let the forest destroy them.
"Go," he said to one of his Dark Elves as Morien's camp came trickling back, "Take a pack and eliminate any living creature you see. For all we know, squirrels may be reporting to Lore-Seer."
"Do we seek for MacKenna?"
Morien scoffed. "That fire-bitch is gone. And I cannot hold her and the next barrier at the same time. Go. I expect results within the next two hours."
Within one hour he was gifted with a head. It was a Silvan Elf with strong cheekbones and flopping hair, smelling of flour and fire. His mood was lightened to feel one of Aerion's nephew head in his hands, so much that Morien smiled. More heads were brought to him, eight in all, but forty were dead among his numbers, once counted, and Morien commanded that they leave the carcasses there.
I am done with this chapter.
Galadriel is really not taking any chances, is she?
Oooh, and why did Mellianor wake up? She's been under an enchanted sleep, after all... :3
Review!