Mask of Innocence

Hello everyone!

Justa slight warning here before we dig in to the next chapter; this chapter does contain some explicit adult themes; i.e. thoughts/actions relating to suicide and depression (if that counts at all). Please use your discretion in reading. And while we are on this topic, please be aware that this is the beginning of a series of chapters that include very serious themes such as torture, extreme grief, and (perhaps) death. The rating shall remain at a strong PG-13, but please alert me if a stronger rating is needed. An additional warning for this chapter goes out to Thranduil-lovers and cliffhanger-haters - things are getting nasty. ;)

Chapter Thirty-five: Confrontations & Fears

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"…Sleep, angels will watch over you,
and soon beautiful dreams will come true.
Can you feel spirits embracing your soul?
So dream while secrets of darkness unfold…"

-Prayer, Hayley Westenra

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Thranduil was silent as his horse trotted along swiftly beneath the dark eaves of the forest. It had been long since he had ridden this far south, and he was appalled at how terrible the forest now looked.

"'It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, cannot be heard, cannot be smelt,'" Thranduil repeated to himself softly, his emerald eyes wide. "'It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, ends life, kills laughter.'+ So the mortals' riddles are true."

This riddle, at least, was indeed terrifyingly accurate. Darkness indeed had no odor, form, or sound, but the very air seemed to reek of it, and it seemingly threatened to extinguish the bright aura of ethereal light around the Woodland King. Nay, this is not normal darkness. This is evil.

Abysmal darkness hung thickly over Thranduil's head as he passed blackened tree after blackened tree. He had not realized how terrible things had gotten so close to his realm, and he was not only troubled but furious by this discovery. Out of safety for his warriors he had drawn the sentries closer to the palace after Legolas' capture so close to home, losing land that was once protected and surveyed closely but saving precious life. He thought it had been wise at the time, but now he realized how erroneous he had been in doing so, and how he had nearly caused the death of the wood.

Every bit of ground seemed swallowed up by the shadows. He could not see where his horse treaded, but trusted the stallion immensely. Even his heightened senses could not pierce the darkness around him within a couple hundred feet, which unnerved him greatly. As he traveled farther south his visibility and hearing only grew worse due to the suffocating blackness that surrounded him.

The sound of a nightingale caught Thranduil's ear far to his right. He returned the soft noise, and urged his horse faster. That was the signal. The yrch encampment was within a league, and now it was time for Thranduil to continue alone. So with a heart beating wildly in his ears, the noble Elven-king clutched his son all the tighter and fastened his fierce gaze on the path ahead of him, readying himself for the nasty confrontation that was sure to follow.

Within several minutes he knew he was drawing close to the encampments. The stench of Orc was in the air, and Thranduil's nose wrinkled at the hideous smell. His conscience gave a sharp warning, and instincts cried for him to turn back now. Keep riding, Thranduil. Ignore your mind. This is the right thing. Everything shall be fine…

Click

A red flag sprang up in his mind.

STOP!

But it was too late. He had blatantly walked into a trap, and Thranduil closed his eyes in horror as bolts from either side of him sang from the darkness. Sweet Valar…

His stallion reared and shrieked, and Thranduil wondered vaguely if what he heard was the horse shrieking or if it was the ringing in his ears from the pain. The horse stumbled after it landed on all fours once more, and the Woodland King felt him breathe heavily and shudder beneath him before he steadied himself. But Thranduil slumped forward, panicking as his breath suddenly failed him and darkness crept in to overtake him. He realized what he was clutching so terribly fast to, and immediately his eyes opened wide. His thoughts transferred instantaneously from the arrow buried in his side to his child. Is he hurt! His little one was breathing normally, and his pulse was at a safe level. Thranduil's frantic hands encountered no arrow as they fumbled over Legolas' body, and he nearly collapsed from the relief. Only two bolts had been fired then; one from his left and one from his right. It was the one of the right that had found the small gap in his armor on his side and embedded itself deeply into him, and the other had struck his poor stallion. The steed appeared to be in a considerable amount of pain, but was not in any danger of death at the moment. Thank Eru we are safe…

"Look what our trap caught, boys," a voice suddenly hissed. "A messenger has arrived, eh?"

A chorus of snickers surrounded Thranduil, and he suddenly felt very alone as he gazed upon the hideous grins of the Orcs that glared up at him hungrily.

"Aye, I am a messenger, and I bear a message to your dark master," Thranduil replied fiercely, despite the pain screaming up his side. He turned his piercing gaze upon each and every one of the Dark Lord's minions before him, and even they could not help but recoil at the penetrating eyes that bored into them. They shifted uncomfortably, and hastily reached for their weapons. Their leader made no movement to stop them, but instead gazed upon the Elf with lust and hatred. This one was different than the others they usually preyed upon. Ologûk sneered at him, angry that he could not understand the difference between this Elf and the others they tortured and brutally slew under the dark eaves of the forest. This one's cloak hid him and whatever lay against him beneath the dark fabric, and the Orcs could only see radiant emerald eyes gleaming out from the darkness of the hood.

"What message do you bring, Elf?" Ologûk spat at the horse's feet. "We shall tell it to our master if we deem it worthy. Speak, scumbag!"

The Elf turned his cold gaze to Ologûk and stared long and hard at him. "You shall not speak to me as if I am a slave, arrogant beast," he at last hissed darkly, eyes flashing beneath the shadowy hood. But as his anger was focused on the leader of the Orcs he did not detect the abrupt approach of one behind him. Without warning, the Elf tumbled to the ground with a small cry, the crushing impact of a club bruising his back badly, and the bundle beneath his cloak slipped from his grasp and landed heavily nearby. The Elf crumpled to his knees when he hit the ground, harsh breath barely audible from the perfect lips beneath the hood as a white hand emerged to press tightly at his side. It was then that an overly curious and greedy Orc lunged forward, its mangled and hideous hands seizing the still form that had fallen with the Elf. It was a terrible mistake that he paid dearly for.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck the kneeling Elf, and suddenly the being's arm darted back over his shoulder and a flash of silver blinded the Orcs. There was the sickening sound of steel slicing through flesh, and the Orc that had touched his precious item collapsed dead at the Elf's feet. The Elf calmly wiped the bloody sword on the ground and re-sheathed it over his back. He seemed to realize where the point of attention had shifted to, and the emerald cloak was cast swiftly over the bundle, hiding the form from view. The Elf raised his cloaked head slowly; rage-filled eyes riveted on the hideous, stout captain of the party of yrch, and Ologûk recoiled under the wrathful stare. But suddenly the sharp determination and fury in those eyes rekindled a memory in the Orc's dim and twisted mind; and through his mind's eye Ologûk saw a beautiful little child, his crystal eyes wide with horror and anger as he crouched in the brush watching a prisoner as he was beaten.

Ologûk's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who are you?" He hissed, a hint of fear in his cruel voice, breaking the apprehensive silence. The Elf gave no answer at first, but gracefully rose to his feet, standing tall and great as the emerald eyes glittered down at the Orc. With a quick tug his long cloak again concealed the motionless bundle at his feet. But then he reached up slowly with a pale hand and in one swift movement swept back the hood of his cloak, and every Orc in the clearing took a step backwards. They gazed on in shock at the Elven-king of the realm, his eyes fierce and cold in his fair face. Power and ethereal light emanated from the being unhindered, and not one Orc noticed the dark stain that was spreading far too rapidly beneath pale fingers at his side.

"I am King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, Son of Oropher, and I travel to Dol Guldur to discuss terms with the Dark Lord Sauron," The Elf announced intensely, his sweet voice firm and strong. "You shall wound me no more, or you shall face your master's wrath." Thranduil took the opportunity to pierce every one of them with his icy gaze, an act of defiance that was not missed by Ologûk. The Orc drew his blade and pointed it threateningly to Thranduil.

"Why should I not kill you now, fool of a king?" He sneered, even as his bowed legs quaked in terror.

Thranduil offered a dark smile. "My son bears the mark of your master-" He effortlessly tugged his cloak back to reveal the little prince curled up at his feet, asleep, "-and Sauron has requested my answer to his terms. My army shall destroy you right here if you harm me or my child again."

"I see no army," Ologûk remarked smugly, thinking he had outwitted the mighty king.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "They surround you even now, and you cannot detect their presence? I always knew the foul beasts of the likes of you were dumb. I shall show you. Leithio i philinn!"

All at once the sound of the rushing wind sounded through the forest around them, like the gusts of air that hissed through the mountain trees. They looked about in confusion and with narrowed eyes, but only a split-second later did they realize that the soft sound slicing between the tall trees was not the air. Shrieks exploded from the army when arrows rained in upon them, and chaos ensued for only an instant while Thranduil watched on. Soon a third of them lay dead, two dozen others wounded when the arrows ceased.

Now it was the Woodland King's turn to return a smug look. "They will not hesitate to fire at my command," he warned quietly. "I suggest you order your troops to drop their weapons, or the only weapon they will possess will be an Elven arrow in their thick skulls."

Ologûk reluctantly ordered his contingent to stand down. He was beginning to loathe this Elf with a passion; no prisoner of his should have the power to intimidate him. The Orc swore he would exact his revenge somehow. He watched in hatred as the king bent and gathered his motionless son into his arms, cradling the little body gently.

"Let me see the mark," Ologûk ordered sharply, strutting forward boldly. Thranduil shot him a fierce glare, as if daring him to take one more step. Ologûk stopped abruptly, but clenched his teeth and growled under his breath. "I will have you and the boy shot otherwise. You will be dead before your petty army can nock their arrows."

Although he doubted the truthfulness of the statement, Thranduil did not wish to put his child in a situation that would further endanger him. He could not afford anything going wrong now. So he parted the folds of the warm blankets Legolas was wrapped in and unfastened the thick tunic, and pulled it open to reveal the blackened scar. Ologûk's eyes narrowed and a slimy hand shot out in an attempt to touch the scar on the pale skin. Cold steel at his neck stopped him, and he froze.

"Do not touch him!" The Elven voice rang sharp in the command, and there was a wild and defensive look in those emerald orbs. Ologûk backed away immediately, but he snarled and his red eyes flashed angrily.

"Fine!" He spat. "We shall take you to the fortress! I shall leave the majority of my men here in case you fail to cooperate, and if that occurs they shall attack your stronghold. But you shall run with us, and your hands will be bound. The boy will be tied to the horse. For the little filth's sake I hope the beast is strong enough to make it," Ologûk snickered, noticing how the horse's eyes were clouded with pain. He expected a retort from the king, but it shocked him to see the noble head dip in humble acceptance.

"So be it," Thranduil murmured.

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Taidîr smiled grimly as he watched the red fires flicker far below him as the Orcs moved about from encampment to encampment. Long had he waited for this opportunity, and the anticipation of striking out against the enemy triggered the thrilling rush of adrenaline that streaked through his veins.

They had traveled long and hard over the past hours, setting out the moment they believed Thranduil had reached the Orc encampment. He had traveled slowly, taking a day to reach them, but Taidîr and his men were confident that they could reach the Orcs in half that time. So they had set out, half moving east and the other half northwest. Those who set out east followed the River Running as it swerved south. The others took the Forest River west for nearly thirty-five leagues, but then turned south and slipped through the forest without a sound. In this way did the Elves effectively skirt around the encamped Orcs.

The Elves used the geography of the forest to their full advantage. The Forest River, the river that flowed in front of the king's palace, was stretched the entire width of the northern section of the forest. One of its tributaries was the Enchanted River (the very river a group of strange-looking stunted beings whose attempt to cross safely ended up disastrous centuries later), and this river flowed north from the Taur-nu-Fuin, creating a natural barrier that ran from the mountains to the Forest River. Nearly forty leagues east lay the River Running that ran south through Esgaroth and the Long Lake. So it was that a patch of the forest was enclosed on all four sides by natural barriers; the Forest River to the north, the Enchanted River to the west, the Taur-nu-Fuin to the south, and the River Running to the east. The Orcs had made their encampments along the east bank of the Enchanted River and the northern borders of the mountains. So the Elves positioned themselves on the western border of the Enchanted River while the others scaled the mountains.

And there they waited for dusk.

Scouts now watched in the treetops as the sun stained the sky around it blood red, the eerie light fading fast. They called down softly for the soldiers to prepare to fire, and the army obeyed swiftly and silently. And then, when the sun slipped out of sight of the bloody sky, arrows sang through the darkness and found their fatal marks in the hearts of the Orcs. The enemy dropped silently, only a few shrieks uttered beneath the dark eaves, and soon there was silence in the patch of forest the Elves examined grimly. There were no cheers when all were pronounced dead, no grins or congratulations, for they knew that the hardest part now lay before them. Only Taidîr's heart was glad, for they had overcome the first great obstacle in the plan. And as he and his men descended from the jagged rocks of the mountains, their minds were closed to the outside world as they thought heavily about their future and the fate of their king.

So not a single Elf noticed when a hunched figure darted ahead of them.

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When the Orc party stopped for the night Thranduil was not encouraged by the fact that he felt weary. But he had refused to give in to the torments of the twisted beasts that had whipped him and taunted him throughout the past twenty-four hours he had been in captivity. The last time he had made a sound of pain was when he had been clubbed to the ground from the horse and the arrow shaft had broken, but since then the king had done his best to ignore the throbbing and focus his thoughts elsewhere. He forced himself to cope with the pain, despite the fact that his breathing no longer came easily but instead with harsh, shallow gasps, for he knew that there would be nothing but more pain before the blissful darkness captured him.

When he was at last allowed respite he was secured tightly to a tree, the ropes biting into his tender flesh, and there he was doomed to sit for the night. The Orcs bedded down, and after the fire died it grew terribly quiet. Here and there the glint of a creature's eyes flashed in the dark but disappeared almost instantly. The shadows cloaked this place in such darkness that his eyes had difficulties piercing the still of the night around him. But he could see his child across the clearing, still fastened to the horse. The faint glow that surrounded the boy and Elvish horse gave them away, and for a moment Thranduil worried that a creature would seek to attack them. But he reached out to the child and his noble steed, and through his mind set a barrier around them, proclaiming to the world that they were of his house and should not be touched. But then a pang of worry and guilt wrenched the hurt king's heart. I never should have done this…I put the child in too much of a risk……I should have given him the sweetness of death, and guaranteed the safety of his soul by sending him to Mandos. But instead I chose to hand him to the enemy, and if I fail somehow Legolas' torment will never end, not even after death.

Thranduil laid his head back and shut his eyes. Tears threatened to take hold, but he refused to show weakness in the enemy's presence. He had promised himself he would not cry out when the torture came. But the king was not sure he could keep that promise. The thought of the torture and mutilation that awaited him suddenly welled up fiercely, and this time Thranduil did not have the strength to hold back the thought. The past day and night he had been forced to run he had been able to block the idea out. It had been easy then. He would look at the trees he was passing and conjure up memories of being in this place long ago, when the air was not so stale and the forest not so dark and lifeless. The instant he had procured a memory the Elf latched on to it and threw himself franticly into his sweet thoughts, away from the harsh world so he would not feel the stinging of the whip at his legs nor the agonizing dread in his heart that only grew with each step he took. There the Woodland King had hid in secret, away from the mere thought of the screams and pleas that his lips would soon utter. And he cursed himself for his weakness. I should have faced those thoughts with strength, Thranduil thought. But he no longer had the strength to do so. He had resigned himself to death, and the heavy weight on his heart was beginning to take the toll on his mind and body. Grief began to tug at the corners of his mind, threatening to yank him down and smother him under waves of guilt and depression. And the Elven-king began to let the grief and terror overcome him. The anguish of his soul longing for freedom started to eat away at his strength, draining him of the valor and courage he once had so much of. The ethereal light that had shone so brightly thirty leagues north when he had encountered the Orc encampment now waned. The fierce light in his eyes was dimming.

Thranduil knew that he was fading.

And so as the Elven-king slumped fully against the tree the terrible thoughts he had worked so hard to hold back slipped past the weak barrier he had erected, and his mind was assailed.

An hour later Thranduil awoke from a fitful sleep. He was grateful for the darkness, as it hid the streaks of dried tears upon his face and the misty look in his dim eyes. His imagination had wandered unchecked, and his heart had paid dearly for it. Weakened and grief-stricken, Thranduil no longer felt the dull ache in his side from the arrow. He no longer cared. His mind had given him the gift of terror through the horrible predictions of how he would die, and now it wreaked havoc upon his heart and soul.

Although grief and depression had set in and ripped at his heart, Thranduil begged for the light. Nothing in his memories seemed beautiful, the forest no longer whispered comforts, and his life did not feel cherished.

End it now, before I suffer more…

The ropes hurt him. Thranduil shifted in a desperate attempt to alleviate the chafing, but succeeded in discovering the way to escape the terrible life he led in brushing the arrow in his side.

His arms were pinned to his sides, and if he was simply able to get his right elbow over the shaft of the arrow the ropes would do the rest; the pressure would force his arm back against his side, and the arrow would be driven farther inside of him through his lung. If he was lucky the arrow was still long enough to reach his heart and he would die quickly. If not, he hoped he would be dead by morning.

But it was so easy to end it right now. He would not have to suffer and die in Dol Guldur. He could die under the trees, even if they were dead and lifeless, and it might be quick. The temptation was tearing at his thoughts. Do it before they wake! You will not have time after this, for they shall force you to run the last half of the journey without stopping, and then you shall die slowly and painfully under Sauron's gaze!

Thranduil could not resist the temptation that was seizing him. Tears of frustration trickled from his emerald eyes, and with a desperate moan he began to work furiously at pulling his arm over the arrow. He needed death so desperately now. He could not stop the urge to simply throw his arm over the arrow shaft and let his straining muscles relax. As he drew near to the position he required, Thranduil looked up and let his eyes rove over what he was certain would be his last sight. But as he prepared himself to let his arm muscles relax so the ropes could take over, he spotted his son.

Legolas.

And in that instant he remembered why he was here. As he gazed upon his beautiful son that still slept across the clearing, his heart was filled with so much love for that little child that all thoughts of death escaped him, and he only thought of Legolas. Thranduil knew in that very instant what he had to do, and it seemed as if the sight of the Elfling gave him ten times the strength and courage he had possessed going into this adventure. He felt life and light flowing through his veins again, and the world seemed to look a little brighter. A weary and faint smile blessed the features of the Elven-king as his tense muscles relaxed as the sight of his little boy made his heart swell with happiness.

But the smile turned to a cry of pain a second later.

Realizing too late that his muscles had given in, the Elven-king gave an involuntary gasp and whimper of pain as the arrow dug sharply into him. His arm would not react to him as he struggled desperately to pull his arm off the arrow shaft, and there was an abrupt severe pain deep inside him, worse than what he had ever felt before. NO! With a gasp he threw all his strength into yanking his arm back, and this time he succeeded. His breath harsh and panicked, Thranduil laid his head back against the tree in exhaustion as his side began to throb in newly discovered pain. Thranduil dared not move now as the arrow was positioned directly between two ropes, and the slightest of movement would cause the ropes to shift which would in turn disturb the arrow. But he risked a flare of more pain by turning his head carefully, and after blinking the sweat and tears from his eyes spotted what he was looking for.

In the brief amount of time he had before sleep overcame him, Thranduil's gentle eyes never left the form of his sleeping child. He would only be able to rest for a few hours before the Orcs woke him and untied him. They would begin traveling, and the Orcs would find that Thranduil was stronger than ever. This time Thranduil's gaze never left his son as he ran along, never stumbling. The Orcs grew angry that their prisoner was not weakening. But their leader promised them that all would be amended soon. He made sure he spoke loud enough so that the Elf could hear, and told his men how Sauron would wipe the defiant look off their prisoner's face, and how the Dark Lord would break the Elf-king and his little child.

"Not so loud!" One of the Orcs hissed in horror at Ologûk. "The king's archers will hear us!"

Ologûk merely grinned back at him, shaking his head. His beady eyes flashed over to Thranduil, making eye contact with the Elf with eyes flashing greedily.

"They don't follow us now," he hissed in return. His grin widened. "We're almost there."

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Nearly eighty-five leagues north lay an almost-deserted kingdom. It was silent there as a young Elf wandered about the corridors of the Elven-palace where the remainder of the population had relocated to temporarily. It was here that the handful of young ones just beneath the century mark and several of the women had lived for the past two days. The young Elf, upset that he was not allowed to fight, had spent the past hours trying to keep his mind off the fates of his friends and family that had gone off to battle. As he went about from room to room searching for a distraction, he suddenly found himself heading down the hallway that eventually led to the royal stables. The sound of a horse whinny startled him, and his footsteps quickened as the neighing grew more desperate and upset.

Rounding the corner to the stables quickly, the sight of a stable-hand struggling to calm the horse saddened him, and the Elf stopped at the door. He stayed there for a while, taking in the rich smells of the straw and horse in the dim sunlight that streamed in from the open windows. The stables were built on the very edge of the mountain palace with access to the outside. It was situated on the back of the mountain with corridors that easily could be sealed off should the enemy attack from the north. The king had requested that fresh air be readily available to his steeds, so windows had been carved out of the stone walls for sunlight and fresh air.

"Steady, Nimbaran!"

The concerned whisper of the stable-hand brought the Elf back to his senses. The stable-hand had just begun to settle the poor horse down. It is a beautiful horse, the Elf thought. From the forehead to the muzzle was shimmering white, a sapphire-silver streak as the perimeter of the large blaze. The rest of the horse was a warm burgundy color. The stallion was tall and well-built; muscles rippled in his chest and legs – he had grown much over the year. His eyes were a startling blue, and this surprised the Elf.

Nimbaran reared suddenly and the stable-hand backed away slightly. "Nimbaran, daro!" he cried gently. "What ails you, pen-neth?" Nimbaran gave a distressed whinny, but let the stable-hand approach and stroke his soft coat comfortingly. The stable-hand closed his eyes and leaned against the horse's muzzle, sighing deeply. He stood there for a long while, still patting the horse softly.

"What is wrong?" The Elf standing at the door moved forward slightly, his fair face troubled. The stable-hand turned his head and gazed at the young one with sadness in his gray eyes, his hands not leaving the horse's mane as Nimbaran bowed his proud head, a hoof pawing at the ground.

"He fears for his master," the stable-hand answered softly.

The young Elf's eyes widened at the stable-hand's words, for he understood the dread that was all too clear in that sweet voice that had moments ago whispered comforts to the Prince's horse.

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And so the first stage of the plan was set, but the hardest - and most terrifying - part was yet to come.

TBC

+One of the many great riddles from Professor Tolkien's The Hobbit, the answer to which is 'darkness.'

Note: Nimbaran is a real horse – one of my best friends' neighbors has a horse that looks just like Nimbaran. I saw Moo (they thought he looked like a cow – which he kind of does, but only because of his colorings) when he was several months old and I knew I had to put him in this story. Now he's almost a year old, and he's grown quite big – almost larger than his mother! I did not want his appearance at the beginning of the story to be his only one, so I discovered a way to bring him back now that he's older. Thanks Tiana for taking me to go see Moo!