Astorion drew in a hiss of breath and directed a muttered swear to the young guard kneeling at his side. The raven feathers and beads of onyx braided into the guard's auburn hair indicated his position as healer. The symbols permanently inked onto the backs of his hands marked him as a healer of high standing, but not high enough to avoid the Steward's growing ire.
Astorion's grumbling went unheeded. The healer's nimble fingers never paused in their ministrations. He pressed at the slice in Astorion's side, inspecting it carefully and wiping away the seeping blood with a pad of coarse gauze, then doused the open wound with a mixture of cold water and stinging astringent herbs.
"Must you be so rough?" Astorion's patience with being poked and prodded was at an end.
The healer stopped his work long enough to cut a glance at his patient's stormy expression, a spark of humour glinting in his bright green eyes. "Well, my lord, I must be certain there is no debris within and I must cleanse the wound thoroughly. The blades of the enemy are often tainted with filth." He turned his attention back to the task at hand. "If you desired the touch of a more gentle healer perhaps you should have remained behind the palace walls."
"Behind the -? Enough!" Astorion batted the offending hands away from his side. "Rest assured, Heledíl Maldírion, your sister will hear of your impertinence upon my return."
The guard sat back on his heels with a smirk, stuffing unused supplies back into a pouch at his belt. "Aye, I've no doubt. And I've no doubt she'll tell you the same as I."
Astorion's lips twitched as he looked away.
"That will need stitching," Heledíl said in a more serious tone with a nod towards Astorion's side. "If you would lie back, my lord, I will attend you."
Astorion snorted. "Not bloody likely. I believe I will wait for the touch of a more gentle healer." His thoughts strayed momentarily to Laleithien with her shining copper tresses and laughing hazel eyes. "Now off with you. There are others who need your attention more than I. Go torture them and leave me be."
"As you wish, my lord, though I was only doing the King's bidding. I will leave you to your misery." Heledíl gave Astorion a stern look before pressing a folded square of gauze into the Steward's hand along with a length of bandage for tying. "Please see that you do not bleed out before you make it back to Laleithien. She can be most frightening in her anger and I would rather not incur her wrath...or the King's." He rose to his feet, bowing with a courtly flourish and a sarcastic grin.
The Steward watched him go with a shake of his head, not bothering to stand. Gently, he pressed the thick pad of cloth to his wound, staunching the trickling flow of blood and holding it in place as he wrapped the long bandage several times around his waist. He gritted his teeth as he tied the ends tightly then redressed in his discarded tunic, careful not to aggravate his wound. Such a simple task felt like an inordinate amount of exertion, so much so that beads of cold sweat now glistened on his forehead. He leaned back against the tree behind him with a weary sigh, grateful for its support.
Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to rest here a while longer.
He laid a protective hand over his bandaged side. Breathing slowly and deeply, he willed his tense abdominal muscles to relax, easing a bit of his pain. His dark eyes drifted around the clearing, searching for some form of distraction while he waited for the King and tried not to dwell on the niggling worry lurking at the back of his mind.
A beam of sunlight glinting off silvery hair drew his eye and brought a small smile to his lips. The Elvenking stood with hands clasped behind his back and shoulders straight, a pale beacon amongst the shorter, darker Silvan guards. It made no difference that he was without his finery and garbed in the muted tones of the forest. His regality was innate and undeniable. Astorion studied the King's profile, noting the tense jaw and drawn brows, the only outward signs of his distress. He knew just how deep that distress ran, no matter how well the King hid it. Wincing, the Steward shifted his weight slightly, unwilling to draw attention to his growing discomfort. Thranduil was burdened with enough worry and he did not wish to add to it.
Astorion let his eyes wander from guard to guard, observing their expressions and catching snippets of murmured conversation. He remembered well his days in the Forest Guard, long before Oropher and his Sindar came to the wood. Few remained of those he had served with during his youth. Most had left these shores one way or another - either by ship or by sword. Those still living had moved on to more peaceful pursuits, leaving the fighting to the younger, less battle-weary generations. It was times like these when Astorion felt the weight of his years. He often wondered if perhaps he had lingered here too long, if he should have sailed and found his rest. He glanced back to Thranduil, remembering the vows that bound him and the faces of the ones who had so easily drawn the words from his lips. Astorion sighed. No, there would be no ship for him unless Thranduil was on it. He would follow his King to whatever end.
Astorion let his head fall back against the tree behind him. He watched Heledíl for a while, trying to pick out the similarities between the rough-handed guard and his gentle sister. The beginnings of a smile quirked Astorion's lips but he caught it before it could spread. He begrudgingly admired the efficient skill with which the Silvan healer stitched up a long gash on the arm of another guard. Sensing he was being observed, Heledíl looked up, meeting Astorion's dark gaze with a frown of concern. His keen healer's eyes flicked over the Steward, noting his pallor and sheen of perspiration. Astorion narrowed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. Heledíl's frown deepened but he returned his attention to the wounded guard sitting stoically before him.
He knows.
Astorion could only hope that the healer would keep his suspicions to himself and not trouble the King with an unnecessary report on the seriousness of his wound. It pained him more than it should, burning like a slow-spreading fire simmering beneath his skin. His head ached, pounding with every beat of his heart, and the beginnings of nausea churned his gut - all tell-tale symptoms he could not ignore. He stifled a groan, mentally cursing orcs and their proclivity for poison.
He had unleashed his wrath on the pathetic creature who had cut him, dispatching it perhaps more cruelly than necessary while uttering dark words that had not left his tongue in an age. Still, his anger lingered, though it was now directed more at himself for the momentary lapse in concentration that had allowed the beast's blade to touch him in the first place. It was not the first time he had been poisoned but it had been a long time since, and that long time had dulled the memory of just how miserable it was. He was certain he would survive...mostly certain...as long as he made it back to the healing ward and Laleithien's skilled hands in time. Astorion closed his eyes, resigning himself to a long, excruciating walk home.
o0o
The Elvenking stood in a patch of shifting sunlight, painfully aware that he could still feel its warmth while the dead before him could not. He had served with both of the fallen long ago during his time in the Forest Guard and even briefly during the Battle of the Last Alliance. He looked on, expressionless, as the two brothers were laid on make-shift litters for their final journey home. Their captain, Eluon, knelt beside each of them in turn, carefully cleaning away the blood and arranging their limbs into some semblance of peaceful repose. How many times had Thranduil himself wiped away the signs of battle from pale, still faces? How many lives had slipped through his fingers? He had stopped counting long ago.
The remaining guards in the glade had fallen silent as they waited respectfully for their captain to attend the dead, though few words had been spoken between them since the earlier skirmish. Quickly and methodically they had fashioned the litters, collected their arrows from enemy corpses, and tended the wounded. Now the guards would undertake the solemn task of carrying the fallen brothers back home and laying them to rest, returning their bodies to the earth where they would nourish in death the trees they had so loved in life.
Eluon finally rose to his feet, satisfied with his work, and gave a nod to the King. Thranduil bowed low to the dead, one hand over his heart, and spoke the names of the fallen to the trees.
"Arion. Alinar."
The others in the clearing followed suit, bowing in respect and sending the names of the dead to drift away on the forest breeze.
Thranduil frowned slightly at the hand he pulled away from his heart, studying its blackened fingertips before quickly tucking it away behind his back. He lifted his chin, trying to convince himself of the veracity of Astorion's earlier words:
"There is nothing there...There is no darkness upon you, no darkness within you...You are the Elvenking...You are untainted."
Thranduil heaved a sigh, drawing a concerned glance from Eluon, but one imperiously arched brow was all it took to send the captain's attention elsewhere. Surely someone would have reacted in some way if his skin was truly stained.
Or would they? Would they dare?
Not a soul had looked upon him with anything other than the usual reverence and respect. There were no suspicious glances, no horrified expressions. Thranduil wished to believe that Astorion spoke the truth, that these dark stains did not mar his skin. He did not know which was worse: bearing the stain of evil or seeing things that were not there. The thought set his heart pounding. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his face towards the heavens, sending a silent plea to the Valar.
He drew in a calming breath and exhaled it slowly, relaxing the fists clenched behind his back and composing himself before opening his eyes. His icy gaze roamed the faces of those within the glade, discreetly assessing each guard and trying to determine if his momentary weakness had been observed. None seemed to be paying him any particular attention, though all were vigilant and wary after the attack.
Thranduil took great pride in his Forest Guard and their determination to face any foe that crept up from the southern reaches. In the centuries since he had served within their ranks, the forest had become much darker and more dangerous but the Forest Guard never wavered. Its numbers swelled with Sindar and Silvan alike, all willing to lay down their lives for the protection of their beloved Eryn Galen and its people. They had a well-earned reputation for ruthlessness in battle, even among the other Elven realms. That reputation had been proven true on the Dagorlad when they fought under his father's command, though more than half the army had perished before the end. "Savages" they had been called by some of their kin there, the Noldor in particular. "More dangerous and less wise" they had been called by the Men. Thranduil scoffed at the notion.
What do Men know anyway? Dangerous, yes, but less wise?
The Silvan merely possessed wisdom of a different kind - wisdom gleaned from nature itself, not ancient scrolls hoarded by ancient Elves.
It was true that the more "untamed" Silvans made up the majority of the Forest Guard, those who preferred to dwell under tree and star as their ancestors had rather than accept a place in Thranduil's halls. They still upheld the ancient ways, still performed the old rituals woven with words so powerful they could stir the very forest itself. They inked their skin with patterns of sacred symbols and words, and they adorned themselves with feathers, polished bits of stone and carved bone. It lent them an air of deadly wildness, an otherness that set them apart from the Sindar within their ranks. Thranduil was sure their counterparts in Lothlórien observed many of the same practices, especially the Marchwardens who spent the majority of their time amongst the trees, though as a whole the Lothlórien Elves were more subtle about it and less wild in their nature.
Eryn Galen's Silvan population took pride in keeping their vibrant traditions alive and had been encouraged to do so by Thranduil's father. Despite the disapproval of his peers, Oropher had been an enthusiastic participant in all of their celebrations and traditions, even down to the inking of his skin - a thing unheard of and quite scandalous among the Sindar nobility. Oropher had been invited to receive the marks of kingship when he had taken up the crown. He had humbly accepted, sitting unflinching and without complaint for hours as the intricate pattern was pricked into his skin. During the Battle of the Last Alliance, Thranduil too had been marked by his fellow warriors, even more so than his father. Graceful lines of flowing Silvan design trailed down his back and across his shoulders and chest, mingling with ancient symbols and knotted patterns. Words of warding and words of strength banded his upper arms and his thighs and, upon his father's death, the mark of kingship had been added over his heart.
After witnessing the mindless brutality of the enemy during the nightmare of the Dagorlad, all Elves of Eryn Galen who had not been marked, whether Silvan or Sindar, soon chose to be. The markings bolstered their spirits and reminded them of what they left behind but more importantly, they served to identify their remains should the worst befall them. The enemy was merciless in its butchery, whether the victims be living or dead, high-born King or simple soldier. Oftentimes the personalised markings were the only way to know who they were burying.
Thranduil inhaled a ragged breath and shook off the heavy memories of war, dragging himself from the shadows of the past and back into the present. He glanced in Astorion's direction, automatically seeking the Steward's steady, comforting presence. Astorion sat leaning against a tree, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, one hand resting lightly over the wound on his side. He looked a bit too pale for Thranduil's liking and the fact that he was seated was troubling, but at least the healer had attended him despite Astorion's protests.
The Elvenking crossed the clearing with long strides to stand before his Steward, observing the sheen of perspiration on his brow with a slight frown.
"Are you well?" He lowered himself to one knee and peered more closely at his Steward's face.
"Aye, my King. Well enough," the Steward replied without opening his eyes. "Forgive me for not rising to receive you."
Thranduil scoffed. "I would rather you stay seated. You look terrible."
Astorion opened his eyes only wide enough to give an effective scowl. "Thank you for your kindness, my lord. Are we ready to depart?"
Thranduil surveyed the activity in the clearing before answering. "Yes, I believe so. Eluon's company will bear the brothers back to their village and see them returned to the earth. They had no family left on these shores. It is fitting they died together, for one alone would not long survive his grief." The King returned his gaze to his Steward who watched him with shrewd, dark eyes.
"You wish to go with them."
Thranduil sighed and rose to his feet. "Of course I do, but I know I cannot."
"No, you cannot," Astorion grunted as he heaved himself into a standing position, ignoring Thranduil's outstretched hand and the dizziness that brought little points of darkness into his vision. He held himself very still until the dizziness passed, disliking Thranduil's conspicuous scrutiny. "How is your hand?"
"My hand?"
"Aye, it seemed to pain you during the fight." He motioned to the sword now hanging at Thranduil's hip. Astorion had cleaned it thoroughly and returned it to the King before Heledíl tended him, but Thranduil had yet to explain his strange behaviour when handling it. "Why did you leave the other behind? It is rare indeed for you to arm yourself with only one of the pair."
His attempt to divert the King's attention seemed successful. Much to the Steward's grim satisfaction, the King appeared to be disconcerted by his question. At least his attention was temporarily drawn from Astorion's own ailment.
Thranduil glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot while he thought of what to say, then met Astorion's calculating gaze.
"I had only one good hand when I left the palace, so I brought only one sword."
Astorion took a step closer, speaking quietly. "You said you would explain when we were alone. We are alone. If something ails you, Thranduil, I wish to know of it."
The King huffed a short, humourless laugh. "Yes, I could say the same of you. I know what you are trying to do, Astorion, and it will not work."
Astorion merely lifted one dark brow in response.
"We will discuss this upon our return if you still wish it, but not here. Not now."
"Very well then, my King." Astorion gave a tight smile and pulled his cloak from a nearby branch, draping it over his broad shoulders with a flourish. "Shall we depart? Time runs short and I must see Laleithien upon our return. And so should you." He gave the King a pointed look.
Thranduil did not relish the thought of explaining himself to his copper-haired healer but if anyone had answers or knew where to look for them, it would be Laleithien. He paused mid-thought as his mind suddenly grasped his Steward's other words.
"What do you mean, 'time runs short'?"
Astorion carefully brushed bits of forest debris from his clothing to avoid meeting Thranduil's sharp eyes. The King would not be pleased.
"We are expected back within a reasonable time, else your sudden departure will no longer remain a private affair. Himdír has instructions to seek out Brannam if neither of us returns."
Thranduil swore sharply. "This was not meant to be a Council matter. I simply -"
"Thranduil, you are King," Astorion snapped in a harsh whisper. "You cannot simply do anything. What were we to think? Our King had disappeared, leaving a bloody mess behind him and no indication of what he intended. What else was I to do? You have no heirs, and if neither of us returned, Valar forbid, it is up to the Silvan people and Brannam as their Chieftain to select a new ruler. I have kept this as quiet as I can for as long as I can, given you as much time as I can." Astorion paused and calmed himself, laying his hand over his side and swiping the perspiration from his brow. He immediately regretted his sharp words.
"You are right of course," Thranduil murmured, glancing away across the clearing.
Astorion sighed. "Forgive me. I did not mean to speak harshly. I am not in the best form."
The King arched a brow. "Are you not? I had not noticed."
His sarcastic tone was not lost on the Steward, though Astorion chose to ignore it. "We should go. Himdír will most likely send out another search party if we are much delayed and I doubt this search would go unnoticed."
"Another?"
"Yes, another. Did you think he would not send the Royal Guard to search for you? It was done with the utmost discretion, I can assure you, though they were bound to fail."
"Bound to fail indeed," Thranduil scoffed. "I selected them myself, Astorion, for their loyalty and discretion, for their skill in battle. They are the best warriors in Eryn Galen."
"Yet useless at tracking you," came the muttered reply.
"Come now, Steward. Everyone is useless at tracking me. Except you."
Astorion gave a smug smirk. The King narrowed his eyes and regarded his Steward in thoughtful silence.
Astorion's smirk slowly faded as the silence lengthened until a small frown of concern took its place. "Why do you look at me so? What are you thinking?"
"I am thinking you will not like what I am about to do."
The frown deepened as Astorion's suspicion grew. "Why? What are you about to do?"
Thranduil looked away, his eyes searching, then beckoned over his chosen subject with a regal gesture. Astorion turned his head slowly to follow the King's line of sight.
Heledíl.
The healer had a somewhat startled look on his face as he uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the tree he had been leaning against. He glanced over his shoulder in an almost comical fashion to be sure it was indeed he who was being summoned.
"Thranduil…," Astorion began in a warning tone. "Do not do this."
"Do you think to command me, Steward?" The question was asked quietly, the King repeating his words from their earlier meeting with a raised brow.
Heledíl arrived just as Astorion opened his mouth to answer. The Steward swallowed the retort he had thought to give, repeating with resignation his own earlier words instead. "Not in the company of others, no. I would not dream of it."
Thranduil smiled tightly. "Good."
"My King," Heledíl said with a deep bow. "How may I serve you?"
Thranduil acknowledged the auburn-haired guard with a nod then fixed his pale gaze on his Steward. "You may tell me what ails my Steward."
Heledíl glanced between his King and the Steward, sensing the tension, and cursed his poor luck for being brought into whatever was transpiring. He realised with a sinking sensation that either one or both of them were sure to be displeased with his answers.
He threw an apologetic glance at Astorion before answering. "He has a bruised rib, possibly two, and a significant laceration which requires stitching, my King, but…"
Thranduil arched an eyebrow, prompting the healer to continue.
"...but he refused to allow me to stitch it."
"Did he indeed?" Thranduil asked in mock surprise, his eyes still locked with Astorion's. "And why would my Steward refuse to be stitched?"
Astorion's jaw twitched, his lips drawn into a thin line.
Heledíl glanced between the two again, wetting his lips, and decided to come to the Steward's defence. "I do believe he wanted my supplies to be used on the injured guards rather than himself, my King. Our thread is indeed in short supply with the rise in attacks and we had several who required stitching."
Thranduil looked sharply at the healer. "I was not aware of a shortage of medical supplies. Is this the case with all patrols or only yours?"
"I believe it affects all but those in the northern reaches, my King. We supplement our supplies from nearby villages whenever necessary."
"I will speak to Lord Noenor and see that your supplies are increased. It will no longer be necessary to take from the villages."
"Thank you, my King."
Thranduil's eyes drifted back to Astorion. He did his best to maintain a neutral expression and not smirk at Astorion's simmering anger. "Is there anything else I should know about the state of my Steward's health?"
Heledíl was silent, weighing the wisdom of his next statement. "I suspect…"
"You suspect what." The words were spoken with a deceptive calm, but it was clear in the way they were enunciated that the King was displeased.
Heledíl swallowed the lump of nervousness in this throat. "I suspect the Lord Steward has been poisoned by the orc's blade," he said in a rush, not daring to look at Astorion.
Astorion opened his mouth to speak but the Elvenking held up a silencing hand.
"I share your suspicion. Heledíl, is it?"
"Yes, my King."
Thranduil studied him for a moment. "You are Laleithien's brother."
"Yes, my King."
"And you chose to join the ranks of the Forest Guard instead of accepting your father's seat on my Council and his position in the Healing Halls."
"Yes, my King." Heledíl gave the King a lopsided grin, his trepidation forgotten. "Laleithien is far better suited to it than I. I've no wish to be confined behind palace walls." He glanced at Astorion with mischief in his eyes. "Though my sister seems to enjoy her...position on the Council very much."
"Indeed." Thranduil raised a brow, unable to suppress the amusement in his voice or the quirk of his lips when he saw the flush that stained his Steward's pale face and pinkened the tips of his ears. "The...Council is fortunate to have one such as she. I am sure she will have stern words for my Steward upon his return."
Astorion turned his head away from Thranduil's infuriating smirk and Heledíl's laughing eyes. "If you are quite finished, my King, we should be on our way. We are expected."
"Yes, some of us more anxiously than others."
Astorion crossed his arms, as much as it pained him to do so, and waited impatiently for the King's permission to depart.
"And here is the part you will not like," Thranduil said in warning, receiving a dark and suspicious glare from his Steward. "Heledíl, see that a litter is built for the Steward. You and one other of your choosing will escort him back to the palace while I go on ahead. This must be done with all due haste. Stubbornness alone will not delay the black poison of the orcs, though it may sustain him long enough to see the fury on your sister's face. We will rely instead on your speed and skill. Go now, and send your captain to me."
Heledíl placed one hand over his heart and gave a deep bow. "It will be done, my King. I will not fail you. Or my sister," he added, giving the Steward a cheeky wink. He sprinted across the glade, calling to one of his companions who followed him without question.
Thranduil met his Steward's glare with one of his own. "I did say you would not like it."
"Thranduil - "
"Do not fight me on this, Astorion. Walking will only speed the poison. You would not survive the journey back, no matter how stubborn you are." Thranduil paused, frowning as he looked his Steward over.
Astorion wore his anger openly. His dark eyes glittered with it and his lips were pressed tightly into a hard line. Thranduil could tell he was biting the inside of his lip in an effort not to speak.
Thranduil sighed, his expression softening slightly. "I have no wish to lose you. You would be impossible to replace." It was as close to an open admission of affection the King would give.
Astorion looked away with a sigh of his own, his anger lessening whether he willed it or not.
"Tarphen would never cease hounding me for your position, you know, though I would rather give it to Melehil or Idhrephen." He paused, gazing off into the distance with feigned thoughtfulness. "Idhraphen is the most tolerable I suppose. He is an excellent conversationalist, though a bit long-winded. At least there would be no lull in conversation over dinner. And his knowledge of foreign affairs is exemplary." Thranduil glanced at Astorion, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a sly grin. "Or perhaps Laleithien."
The Steward's shoulders stiffened at the mention of her name but he refused to look at the King.
Thranduil clasped his hands behind his back and paced a leisurely circuit, casting an occasional glance in Astorion's direction. "I find her company most agreeable. She is wise and worthy of the title of Steward. Apparently even worthy of the title of Queen, according to Tarphen. Did you know she was on his latest list of approved elleth?
"I am aware."
"Ah. Of course, you are. Apparently, he and his cohorts would approve of a Silvan bride as long as she is a Silvan with a high enough status. Imagine that."
"Yes, imagine that."
"You do not seem happy with the prospect."
Astorion was silent.
"That settles it then. You must live. You must continue as my Steward in order to avoid Tarphen's ultimate banishment and to save Laleithien from an unhappy marriage to an ellon she does not love."
Astorion's lips twitched. He shook his head. "You are insufferable."
"So you say. And quite often, I might add. Not very Stewardly of you."
Astorion finally looked at his King and snorted inelegantly. "Would you rather that mindless sycophant Tarphen?"
"Of course not. I would rather Laleithien than either of you but alas," he spread his hands, "here we are." A smile tugged at Thranduil's lips as his Steward struggled to maintain a stern expression. "You will do this for me, yes? You will allow Heledíl to escort you back."
Astorion regarded him for a long, silent moment before answering in a subdued tone. "Yes, my King, I will do as you ask." He bowed slightly, refusing to acknowledge the pain burning in his side as he moved or the nausea roiling in his gut.
"Command, my Lord Steward. I did not ask. I commanded." Thranduil gave his Steward a smug smile and a curt nod before striding away to meet the approaching captain.
"Commanded," Astorion muttered under his breath.
Rather ungracefully, he lowered himself to sit upon one of the roots at the base of the tree. He could hear Thranduil issuing orders to Eluon as the pair slowly walked away. Astorion narrowed his eyes. He must remember to have a word with the captain himself and ensure that none present would speak of the King's unexpected excursion. Eluon and his guards would keep silent, Astorion had no doubt. The Steward smiled grimly as he attempted to make himself more comfortable. The loyalty of the Forest Guard was absolute. They were as bound to the Elvenking as he was and to Astorion, that was a comforting thought.
o0o
Vales of the Anduin
Forthwine had wanted him to flee, to carry a warning back to the waiting Éothéod. Osric had truly meant to obey his Lord's last command. He had reluctantly turned the horses around and galloped away but the war cries of his friends had called him back. He could not let them stand alone. He released the other two horses with the hope they would return home and serve as some sort of warning to his people, then rode hard back towards his embattled friends. He leapt from his horse near the cluster of boulders that had previously hidden them from the monster's sight, but the horror of what he saw froze him in place.
Éomon had been sent flying by one of the sentient yew trees and was lying in a crumpled heap. Forthwine struggled against roots and vines that ensnared his legs, but could not free himself to help their fallen friend. Osric cried out his denial, unheard by his friends but drawing the eye of the bearded tree monster. He dove behind the boulders before he could be seen. The hands gripping his axe sweated inside their leather gloves as he panted, eyes wide and heart pounding.
Get up. Get up!
But his legs would not obey. His blood felt like ice in his veins when he heard the monster speak, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck.
"Do you think to escape, or do you know you have come to die?"
Is it speaking to me?
He heard Forthwine's defiant reply. "I do not fear death, monster. I will go gladly to the halls of my fathers knowing I have wounded you."
Osric squeezed his eyes shut. His friends needed him.
Get up, you coward!
The monster made a rumbling noise deep within its throat. "But you have not wounded me, not enough. Will he go gladly as well, or will he fight it?"
Osric's eyes flew open.
Does it mean me? Are they coming?
He forced himself to peer over the tops of the boulders, soon wishing he hadn't. The two yew loomed over Éomon, watching as his wounded friend attempted to drag himself towards the sword lying in the grass nearby. Forthwine struggled frantically but to no avail. He could not hear the words his friends spoke to each other but he saw the resignation on Éomon's face.
"No," he whispered.
His denial did nothing to stop the nearest yew from lifting its leg and stomping Éomon into the ground again and again until only a bloody mess remained. The tremors shook the earth beneath his feet and, as much as he wanted to, he could not look away. He watched apprehensively as the bearded monster lifted Forthwine from the ground and held him close to its face.
"Do you see now? Do you see that your kind cannot win? Do you see your end?"
Osric stood on legs that felt too weak to hold him, his hope of saving his friends vanishing.
"I see nothing of the sort. I see only a tree," Forthwine said, raising his axe. "And trees can be cut!"
Forthwine threw the axe with a defiant yell. It flew true and embedded itself in one of the creature's luminous green eyes. The monster roared in pain, flailing its arms as it stumbled back, but Forthwine remained trapped in its grip. The creature pulled the axe from its eye and flung it away. Osric followed its arcing path through the air, the early morning sun glinting off bright metal.
His eyes snapped back to the monster holding his friend. It drew Forthwine nearer to its face. Osric was sure it was going to bite him in half but instead, it bellowed its rage, a green mist pouring from its remaining glowing eye and a viscous black liquid oozing from its mouth and crawling over its skin. Osric's axe fell from his slack fingers, all hope for survival lost.
How can I defeat such a thing? How can I fight it?
A peal of mad, strangled laughter carried to him when the monster ceased its roaring. Forthwine was laughing fearlessly in the face of his own death, increasing Osric's burning shame. Osric opened his mouth to call out, to let Forthwine know he was not alone in his last moments, that he would be avenged, but his words died in a whisper as the horrible sounds of choking gasps and bones breaking could be heard. The oily blackness that oozed from the creature crept along its hide and made its way to Forthwine, covering his skin and filling his mouth. Osric sank to his knees and leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the boulder. He couldn't watch anymore, couldn't forgive his own cowardice that kept him rooted to the spot. Where was the vengeance that had burned so brightly in his blood? Where was the bravery that had made him so sure they could destroy this impossible creature? It had deserted him, just as he had deserted his friends. He was ashamed, completely and utterly ashamed.
How could he redeem himself? He could fling himself at the monsters, dying in hopeless battle as his friends had, or he could ride away and tell Forthwine's father and sons of his demise, warn his people of the horror that lurked in the Vales of the Anduin.
He rose to his feet, watching over the tops of the boulders as the bearded monster dropped Forthwine's lifeless body to the ground. It looked down at its victim, its beard swaying gently in the breeze as it studied its handiwork, then turned to walk over to the waiting yew. They followed behind the creature as it neared the forest but it stopped abruptly, halting the yew in their tracks. The three of them stood for some time in silence, staring at the forest. They rumbled to each other occasionally, the deep melodic sounds much like a conversation or a song, and creaked like trees in the wind as they swayed slightly.
Death is better than living in shame. I've nothing left to lose.
Osric swallowed hard though his throat was dry. Decision made, he retrieved his axe from the ground, hefting its familiar weight easily and turning it until his fingers fit into their well-worn grooves. He crept slowly in the monsters' direction, treading as quietly as he could. His face was set in grim determination, painted with the dried blood of the son and the brother he had lost in the previous night's attack.
I should have died with them last night. I should have died today with my friends.
He glanced up at the early morning sky and felt the blood cracking and pulling at his skin as his mouth curved into half a grin.
There's still time. They wait for me now.
He held his axe at the ready as he approached and was nearly a stone's throw away before the great bearded monster turned to face him. Osric froze. Its eye was different now, not the glowing green that it had been but a deep, warm amber. A dark, sap-like liquid bled from its closed wounded eye. The creature watched him curiously, frowning at the axe he held. The two yew stood watchful yet unmoving, silent sentinels behind the one who had created them.
"I have come to die," Osric said quietly, his voice sounding distant in his own ears.
The creature raised its bushy brows. "Come to die? Hoom, well now. How like a Man to be so hasty." It bent a bit lower, turning its head to the side to peer at him with its one good eye. "Perhaps you should go back to your own people, little Man. There are only Elves this way," it said, gesturing towards the forest, "and Elves don't like folk dying on their doorstep."
"What?" Osric blinked, bewildered. He frowned and pointed his axe to the sea of trees in the near distance. "Those Elves have watched my people die on their doorstep for years and did nothing to stop it. They don't seem to give a shit one way or another. And it didn't stop you and your pets from murdering my friends over there!" He flung his arm in the direction of his friends' bodies, unsure if he was feeling bolder or simply impatient for his imminent death.
The monster straightened and stroked its mossy beard, looking down at him in surprise. "Murder, you say! Barrarruuum." The creature rumbled in its throat, frowning as it spoke a long string of words Osric did not understand.
"Aye, murder. And you shall have to murder me too, Fellroot, for I shall not let you leave this place unscathed!"
With a ragged cry, Osric charged. The creature swatted him with one long arm, knocking the breath from his lungs with the impact. He felt himself flying weightlessly through the air until he collided hard with the ground, tumbling and rolling until his body came to a stop. He lay there, staring up at the clear sky and gasping for breath. There was a sharp pain in his chest, the familiar pain of broken ribs, and his shoulder felt dislocated. He sucked air into his emptied lungs with short, shallow breaths, cursing silently and waiting patiently to be crushed like Éomon. He felt the ground tremble beneath his back as the monster approached and leaned over him.
"Fellroot indeed!" the creature grumbled. A thick drop of dark liquid dripped from its eye onto Osric's face. "Barrarruuum. Leave this place, axe bringer. Go back to your people. Find another place to die and speak no more to me of murder." The monster gave him one final disgusted look before it began its slow march towards Mirkwood, rumbling a nonsensical song as it went:
The age of man is done, Stones will break and roots will squeeze,
The time of growing has come.
Beware the forests and green places.
Beware the walking trees with faces.
Strength once lost has now been found
By the roots within the ground.
Vines will grow and bend all knees;
Mushrooms hunt and thorns yoke,
Weeds strangle and flowers choke.
The age of skin is done.
The hour of bark has come.
Osric lay there helplessly and watched them go. He was alive, regrettably so, and because of his cowardice, his closest friends had perished. Hot tears spilled down his filthy cheeks as he let loose a hoarse, keening wail filled with rage, despair and regret. The pain of his shame and the pain of his ribs mingled in his chest until he could not separate one from the other.
o0o
Thranduil was ready to be on his way. He had just accepted his bow from Eluon, secured it across his back and turned to go when he felt it - the abrupt silencing of the forest's Song. The captain's voice droned on for a moment longer before he realised something was amiss.
"My King? Are you well?" Eluon repeated his question, but Thranduil did not answer. The Elvenking stared beyond him into the trees, his head cocked to one side, a small frown upon his brow.
Thranduil was holding his breath...listening, waiting, just as the forest was waiting.
Eluon glanced to Astorion for help. The Steward rose to his feet with difficulty and approached slowly, one hand over the wound in his side. He placed his other hand on the King's shoulder and leaned close to speak quietly in his ear.
"What do you hear?" He watched for a reaction but received none. "Thranduil?" He gave the King's shoulder a slight shake. "What do you hear?"
Thranduil turned wide eyes to his Steward, ignoring the presence of Eluon altogether. "Nothing," came the whispered reply. "I hear nothing. The Song has stopped, just like last night. The forest is silent."
Astorion glanced to the captain, silently signalling him to have his guards ready for an attack. Eluon nodded his understanding and lifted his arm, passing on the silent command. All in the clearing readied their weapons, some taking to the trees to keep watch unseen.
"What is happening?" Astorion asked, squeezing the King's shoulder to draw his attention.
Thranduil's gaze had strayed back to the trees in search of an answer. "I know not," he murmured, sinking to one knee. He dug his fingers into the earth and closed his eyes in concentration. He could feel the pulse of life, the thrum of excitement...and a power unknown. It was closer now, much closer than the night before. Whatever it was, it was here. His eyes flew open. "It comes!"
Astorion's hand went to his sword. "What comes?"
Eluon drew his knives and took up a protective stance with his back to the King and the Steward. Two other guards with bows drawn stepped forward and took up positions opposite their captain, keeping the lords between them. Every guard in the clearing was on high alert.
Astorion knelt beside the King, ignoring his own pain and focusing entirely on Thranduil. He kept one hand on Thranduil's back as he watched his face intently. "Thranduil? What comes?"
The King glanced sharply at his Steward and Astorion's heart faltered. An unearthly green light had flashed across the normally pale blue irises of the King, gone as quickly as it had come, but there was no mistaking it.
Did he speak the truth, then, about what he saw in the mirror?
The possibility sent a chill of fear up Astorion's spine. He pulled his hand away and rose to his feet, watching the kneeling King warily.
Thranduil's breath was shallow, shaky. His heart beat in time with the pulse of the forest. With the same abruptness that had silenced it, the Song began again, swelling with an exuberance so loud that Thranduil yanked his hands from the soil and covered his ears in an attempt to block it out. He gritted his teeth to stifle the cry in his throat and squeezed his eyes closed. Never in all his years had he felt the forest react in such a way. Never had the Song soared to such heights. Never had he felt such a surge of raw energy, of power unimaginable. It was frightening yet exhilarating. His heart and his mind were filled with the Song until there was no room for anything else. The power washing through the forest floor called to his very fëa. It called him South.
The trees rejoiced. The Elvenking collapsed.
o0o
TBC…..
Thanks for reading - L.