Sorry it took so long, but lots of people say winter is the time for miracles—and here we have them all around, both because of the chapter and…well, read on and see.


Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Darkness Before the Dawn

Beneath a moon obscured by cloud and snow, four young Elves and four noble horses huddled together within the shallow cavity of a drift that had already formed around them. All but two of their number were deep within chill slumber. Setting double watches meant less sleep for all of them, but in weather such as this it was imperative to avoid the dangers of drifting off. Should the storm shift direction or the snow suddenly collapse, they could very well awake to find themselves buried. While they knew they would need their strength, better to wake tired than not at all.

At the moment, the two on watch were the brothers Elladan and Elrohir. It was third watch; the first had been taken by Fuiniel and Elladan; the second by Elrohir and Legolas; the fourth would be the turn of the Greenwood children, although it was likely that the twins would take silent turns pretending to sleep rather than truly doing so. It was not that they did not trust the younger elflings; it was just that they still thought them elflings like any other innocent child, when their hardships had already formed steel in their young veins. The children would not give in to slumber when they were on watch, but the twins did not yet know this of their determination.

In order to keep themselves awake, the twins had spent much of their watch discussing all they knew of their destination. More of Erestor's lessons had sunk in than the advisor would ever have imagined, and they were not so poorly off as they might have been. Still, it was a land not often discussed or studied, and it had been long indeed since anyone had traveled either from or to. Celebrían's sons knew more than most Rivendell Elves, having spent time in their grandparents' lands which were much closer both in distance and in relations than the protected valley they called their home, but even Lórien had grown apart from their cousins in recent years. Thus, the most current information the twins could debate when it came to the ruler they were returning the two elflings to came from accounts told by Elrond, Glorfindel, and others of the Last Alliance nearly a millenium ago.

"And that was the last time adar saw him, wasn't it?"

"Ay; I do not think he has left since."

"Stubborn fellow, is he not?"

"Quick to take offense, too."

"That is not why he left," a small voice broke in sleepily. The twins jumped in surprise and looked down to find bright blue eyes watching them from within the cloak Legolas had wrapped himself in like a cocoon.

"I…what?" Elrohir asked disjointedly.

"He did not leave because Lord Elrond was mean," Legolas said around a yawn. "Ada left because we had been betrayed."

"…Betrayed?" Elladan asked slowly. "How was he betrayed?"

"Because Gil-galad said that they were going to defeat Sauron, but then the other Elves let the Men take away part of his power instead of destroying it," Legolas explained drowsily. "That is why the Shadow still exists and the yrch and everything foul and evil."

"Well, that is perhaps true in some ways," Elladan began slowly, "but not all that is ill or dark in the world could possibly be a result of the…Thing, even if it had not been lost years ago…"

"Ada says we were betrayed because the Men poisoned the minds of the other Elves since they shared a distant kinship, and used Greenwood's forces simply as an expendable tool. That is why daeradar and so many of our warriors died." Legolas yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop and pulled the cloak farther over his head. "All that and we still did not win…" He mumbled against the cloak as he drifted back into sleep. "Ada says that sometimes even Elves cannot be trusted…"

Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other in shock. They knew that Thranduil and their father had parted with bitter words on the battlefield, but for Greenwood to still be bitter… Yes, the Last Alliance had been full of tragedy, but it had been a victorious tragedy! Yet here was this elfling treating it as if it had been a defeat and not just that, but a betrayal! Was that why Greenwood had closed itself off from its neighbors—not because they were absorbed in their own doings, but because they felt the other Elves had betrayed them? The Last Alliance had left many wounds, that was true; but wounds of resentment that had yet to heal? Wounds that no one outside the forest even knew existed!

The night suddenly felt colder and the twins had the sinking feeling that the reception waiting for them at the other end of this journey might not be as warm as they had anticipated.

……………

The fading moonlight shone unimpeded on the chill trees of Greenwood yet beneath their still-leafy branches the darkness was almost complete. However, darkness was only the slightest of impairments, especially when kissed by even the faintest hint of moonlight, to those moving beneath the shadows of the trees and it was entirely welcome to those they hunted. Tiraran moved soundlessly through the frozen brush. He could still smell the foul odor of the yrch, still taste the oily coating their presence left on his tongue, still hear the trees whispering; he knew they were still near and he intended to find and dispatch as many of the hated creatures as he could. He heard no sound of his warriors although he knew they were nearby, and made a note to congratulate them on their silence.

There was another smell, too; faint and almost overpowered by the scent of foul yrch. It was familiar, but Tiraran could not quite place it. Sweet and putrid at the same time, it stirred a revulsion within the Elf as if his body remembered what it foretold but his mind had managed to forget. Unease wrapped itself around him and ran bone-cold fingers up his spine. The nearby presence of the foul horde pushed the warrior onward, but something tugged at the edges of his awareness, warning him to turn back before he remembered. The whispers of the trees stilled with a shuddering and the forest fell silent. He stepped forward into the thick, smothering quiet hesitantly, hand white-knuckled around his sword.

Then he froze and broke the silence himself with a short, inarticulate cry that tore itself from his throat. A sword that no enemy had ever dashed from his grip fell from suddenly nerveless fingers and the unyielding Elvish gon dropped to his knees in the snow. His grey eyes filled with an anguish darker than the blackest night and he trembled in helpless shock and rage.

Tiraran stared unblinking through eyes too hurt to fill with tears at a sight his worst fears would never have prepared him for.

Hanging limply and blood-coated from the beloved trees of his homeland was a broken and mutilated corpse of one he had long called friend. Tiraran's mouth moved but no words could force their way past his tongue. He shook like the frailest leaf despite the stillness of the night and nearly collapsed upon his face in the snow. The only reason he did not was that he could not rip his eyes away from the desecrated remains hanging like some perverse roadsign in the branches of the trees above him.

His mouth was silent but his mind was screaming, one word over and over, a long and anguished wail: Aglarmegil! Aglarmegil! Aglarmegil!

……………

The dark, twisted corridors hewn roughly from the rocky tunnels amplified and carried the sounds of a harsh lash from a distant chamber to the outer cave where most of the yrch were gathered. They snarled at each other in their own tongue as they argued over their foul meal of dripping meat and cheap ale. Every now and then one of them would look up at a particularly loud crack of the whip, but on the whole they seemed barely aware that somewhere, someone was being punished. They were yrch, and such an occurrence was hardly rare. That it was one of their own number rather than an enemy captive meant little to the foul creatures; the lash was a fact of life for the yrch.

Shrugging that he'd had it coming to him anyway for daring to fail the Master, the yrch paid little mind to the echoing sounds of lash or the occasional cry it elicited from its target. As long as the whip was not across their own backs, what did it matter to them? Focusing on the much more important task of securing the choicest bits of dinner, the yrch soon forgot the sounds of punishment.

That proved harder to do the closer one came to the source of the echoing cracks, for within the confined space of the small chamber the lash was almost painfully loud. Every now and then the orch that was being targeted gave a yelp or curse as the whip bit into his thick flesh. A grunt or two came from the orch that was doing the whipping, but if he was bothered on some level to be injuring his brethren he gave no sign. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying the activity and did not let up until a whisper broke through the resounding cracks.

There was another figure in the small chamber, although this one had made no noise until it spoke. It was heavily swaddled in ragged, filthy robes and bandages. Its identity—indeed, its species—was impossible to tell through the shrouding wrappings, but whatever it was there was something wrong with it. It was hunched deeply into its hooded robes as if in constant pain and when it moved it was off-center and jerking. Still, its steps were silent, with only the faintest breath of sound coming from its tattered robes as they dragged across the rough stone floor.

"Enough," it hissed, its voice a spitting lash that sent a jerk though both victim and tormentor that rocked them more than the rawhide whip ever could. Both yrch fell silent, not even daring to hiss in pain, and turned dark eyes that flashed with a brief flicker of fear towards the frail figure. The chill cave seemed to darken, its shadows drawing deeper and closer around the hooded creature as the harsh whisper of the Black Speech filled the small chamber. "Ufnakh, have you anything to say in your defense?"

The bloodied orch trembled slightly as he stared up at its Master. "Yes," he croaked from a throat raw and hoarse. "The cursed Rivendell-Elves found the elf-brats and dragged them into their magical valley. How were we supposed to get them back from that?" he demanded.

A flash of cold anger shot from beneath the concealing hood and Ufnakh's defiance wilted as the orch shrank back. He could have broken the twisted figure in half with one hand, but terror kept him pinned to the floor of the cave as it spoke bitter words or recrimination and blame. "I sent you to bring me two elf-children. You assured me you would not fail as Urglug did. You promised to have the brats back in my hands before the first snowfall." Ufnakh shrank back, trying to disappear as the figure leaned closer and dropped its voice. Somehow the quiet tone was more frightening than any roar of wrath. "There have been many snowfalls since you left this accursed forest, Ufnakh. And now you come crawling back with no elf-child in tow." The orch trembled, its dark eyes darting around the cavern as if searching for an escape. "What do you think I ought to do with you for your failure?" the twisted figure asked in a sibilant whisper.

Ufnakh was saved the trouble of finding voice with which to answer when they were interrupted by a commotion. Krumlak, one of the yrch that Ufnakh had lead across the Misty Mountains and back in hopes and then despair of catching the escaped child, burst into the room. He was panting and stunk of having run a great distance at desperate speed, but his eyes shone with the lust of prey and battle.

"Master!" Krumlak exclaimed with as much breath as the exhausted orch could muster, "the Elves come!"

A flash of irritation came from the robed figure as it turned to regard the new speaker. "What Elves?" it asked harshly. "Do you speak of Greenwood?"

"No," Krumlak panted triumphantly, "Rivendell!" Everyone stared at him in silent shock, even the Master. "We saw a group of the cursed creatures ride out into the snowfall. Their path takes them to the mountains! They mean to try the pass!"

"Did you attack?" the figure asked quickly.

Krumlak faltered for a moment. "There are too many of them, and they're armed well," he stammered an excuse. "But we thought they might be trying to return the elf-brats to the gold-head-slaughter-son and thought…"

"Thinking was never your strong suit, Krumlak," the figure sneered from within its concealing robes, "yet in this instance at least it has proved fortuitous. I do not want the Elves attacked, not yet. Let them leave their lands and try themselves on the Pass, let them tire themselves on the crossing. We will intercept them as they cross the border of Greenwood and slaughter them there." A bright gleam came from within the shadowing hoods, and the hissing voice that spoke from its depths seemed to talk more to itself than to the yrch around it that it had all but forgotten in its excitement. "We will reclaim the elf-brat that eluded us, and when Imladris's warriors do not return they will send word to Greenwood. False Thranduil will know nothing of it, and reply as such. Rivendell will insist and Greenwood will deny, and they will tell the cursed king that they were returning the son he thought lost.

"If we can intercept the messengers we may even be able to manipulate Greenwood and Imladris into war with each other. Let the Elves slaughter one other, and we shall reap the benefit of their treachery." The twisted figure stayed silent for a moment, savoring its dark thoughts. Then with a rustle of dry cloth like dead leaves scraping dry bone, it turned abruptly and stalked awkwardly down the rough corridors. "Come!" it snapped to the yrch who scrambled to follow. "We have much to do…"

………

Soft Elven boots made no sound on the gentle wood floors of Greenwood's palace halls, but Tiraran's steps might have rang as loudly as the horns of war and they would not have been loud enough to drown out the screaming in his mind. Words had long ago ceased to have meaning and had given in to a long, inarticulate wail that roared between his ears. The gon's sight was blurred but he did not need his eyes to find his way. Even had he not known every turn of these halls as well as he knew the sword that hung buckled at his waist he could have found his way blindfolded for it was not his eyes that led him but his heart and the anguish within it.

Knocking aside the delicate wooden doors with as much force as if they'd been made of stone, Tiraran stormed into the king's bedchamber. Tarlas leaped to his feet in shock.

"Tiraran, what—" he asked but the warrior passed him without seeing the look of surprise in the other Elf's eyes or feeling long fingers pluck at his bloodstained sleeve. He didn't stop until he'd reached the bed in which the fading shadow of their precious aralor lay unresponsive to the world.

Eyes snapping in rage, Tiraran grabbed Thranduil's painfully thin shoulders and shock the limp king violently. "Curse you!" he screamed at the blank blue eyes and the pale, unmoved features; at the limp pale hair of shineless gold that had once been their beacon of hope. "Curse you for your stubbornness! Your people are dying, your land invaded, and you can think only of your own grief!" A strong grasp closed on his shoulders but Tiraran shook the taller Elf off, hardly noticing that Tarlas had attempted to interfere. "You are our lord, by all the Valar! How dare you abandon us! We need you!"

Firm hands closed over the gon's wrists and wrenched him away from the limp form of the king. Tiraran, face whiter than snow save for two small spots of red in his cheeks, spun angrily to look at Tarlas.

"What are you doing?" the advisor demanded in horrified shock. "Have you lost hold of your senses?"

"I am not the one lying insensate while around me my kingdom disintegrates into a darkness from which there is no other to pull it back!" the warrior snapped back, almost hysterical under the smothering combination of rage, grief, and helplessness. "Ask not if I have lost my senses, but whether all of Greenwood will be pyre enough to form the grave-gifts our king seems determined to give his son!"

Tarlas rocked backwards, hands dropping from Tiraran's sides, as if he'd been struck a physical blow. "You do not mean that," he immediately responded in a low voice of pain.

But pain could not cow Tiraran; he was in too much agony to note any lesser prickings that his words might cause. "I mean it with all the strength in my form," he retorted. "Our people are in danger, Tarlas! They are dying!" His hands clenched into fists so tight that the nails of his fingers bit into his palm and drew small drops of red blood. "The yrch have free reign, and they are aware of it! They know that Aran Thranduil is not going to fight them and I cannot Tarlas, I cannot! I am not the aralor, I cannot lead our people! I can lead troops, I can lead soldiers—but that is not enough to fight them!"

"He cannot lead them either!" Tarlas shouted back, pained. "Thranduil is fading, he is not—"

"The yrch slowly creep up on our border," Tiraran continued, speaking loudly over whatever words the other tried to interrupt him with. "Moving with impunity, nearly unchallenged! They mass in numbers, they are organized! We face more than the mindless rabble we have been exchanging sorties with these past thousand years! They—"

His voice cracked and he turned away, swallowing against a sick feeling in his stomach, in his heart. "They torment their victims and hang their mutilated corpses in our trees to mock us," he forced out with a trembling voice. Shining, tear-filled eyes met Tarlas's confused gaze. "Aglarmegil," the gon spoke in a strangled whisper. "The yrch…hung him in our very trees…" His voice failed, and he could speak no more.

Tarlas placed a hand upon the warrior's trembling shoulder. He was about to speak, words wise with both comfort and counsel no doubt, when another voice interrupted him.

That voice was weak and whispery, the faint gasp of dead leaves that cling tremulously through a fearsome storm to the slim branch from which they once drew nourishment. It was no more than a ragged gasp, but it froze both Elves in place as if it had been the loudest shout.

Thranduil, thin and pale and almost incorporeal, wavered slightly as he rose from the bed with a whisper.

"Bring me my sword."


All right, hopefully everyone's seen all the stuff about review-response policy…so unfortunately, no more reviewer responses here. I personally think they're better within the story because sometimes questions are raised and…well, whatever. It's not my site, I just use it. So I'll comply, which means the end of response for all unsigned reviews (and you'll have to bear with me while I find the time to respond to the reviews of last chapter, I don't really even have time to post this tonight, but, well…) However, I wanted to extend special thanks to Lyn, and hopefully I'll remember not to do anything like that again. Oops… I'll leave it for now, because I don't even have time to write, let alone re-write…and we'll say that Elven biology is different from humans, so it isn't dangerous for them. And I'll slap myself on the wrist, because while I did do research on hypothermia, it obviously wasn't enough. My apologies, and my thanks, Lyn!

So…Thranduil, huh?
In celebration, let me post something from an e-mail Katatonia sent me ages ago, that's absolutely perfect timing right now: Thranduil's Jingle Bells. Thanks, K.

Jingle bells, all orcs smell,
Mayhem all the way,
Oh what fun it is to read,
Rhy's stories - yay!