Author's Note:
There have been many new people reading this story lately and a lot of lovely comments. Every word goes right into my heart, and with your support, I can do this. Thank you for being here now - whether you're a new or old reader!
Chapter 37, Stolen Knife
The war was the same as ever.
King Thranduil stood on a hill, watching the tedious battles, and nothing was new. He had seen all of it before - too many times. Bodies sliced, lives wasted. People dying for nothing. Us, them, everyone.
"Fight for the glory, kill for a noble cause, go and save the world," they had been told, but that was a lie. It always was - there was no victory available for anyone today. Fight for glory, bah humbug, there was only destruction left.
The horses were the only wise creatures here. At least they knew what was waiting for them today, and their reluctance to proceed made perfect sense to the King.
Those beasts are much smarter than you. Choose life.
The despair made the trees ache. The land was abundant in tiny birches, and their delicate branches waved in the wind as if attempting to get someone's attention. The leaves were still small as if they had emerged out of nowhere just a dash ago.
The forest had something to say - it always did - but King Thranduil locked its calls out.
You have built a fortress of your grief.
In the distance, Thranduil saw two elves fighting side by side. It had been sixty years since he had seen those two together, but the long separation did not show in their fluidity. Instead, they lunged towards their enemies like it was just yesterday that they had been doing this.
The other wore the same coat as then, but his eyes were entirely different.
The other was clad in strange clothing that did not seem to belong in these woods. It belonged to different forests, different shades, and was altogether the wrong colour between these pines, these spruces, these tiny birches.
Hear me. It is I who has called you. The land is scarred. The people wounded.
The eyes of the other elf were different as well. This time it was shown in her eyes that it was not the comrade running next to her that she would shield. Today, she would cover this elf's betrothed.
And she would accomplish it by keeping this one alive. One arrow, one enemy killed.
It had been sixty years since Thranduil had seen those two together, and that day had ended in disaster. Another arrow sliced through the sky, yet another victim fell down. But this day would prove to be better.
Drop your arrogance! It is a perilous adversary that you are encountering today.
Of course, Thranduil had heard the calls of the forest - he always had - but decided to disregard them. The forest had disappointed him, and the beauty had been stolen - why would he listen to the woods who had abandoned him?
Hear me, and today shall not end similarly to the unfortunate day sixty years ago, nor like the day of desolation three thousand years ago. Become the King these people yearn for. Be the King they need. Let the southern breeze revive your soul.
The King concentrated his thoughts on his wife's death and tried to discern who had been behind it. Of course, he had speculated about it a lot. During the long miserable nights spent alone in his bed-chamber, he had not thought about much else. The whole turn of events had been strange. Out of the blue, something had emerged only to kill Glaneth.
Let me carry your trouble. Let me lead you to the path to true Kinghood. It is the King of the Forest your people need now. Will you be their real King?
It had been a peaceful time. Therefore, killing the Queen did not make any sense. It was as if the assailant had no other intention but to enrage Thranduil. Quite considerably, they had succeeded.
Mithrandir had always explained that Great Greenwood was grieving with the King and the Prince, which is why it was withered. But now Thranduil learned that the reason behind the deterioration of the forest might have been Uilosson - and this obscure Sorceress.
Uilosson's interference had, of course, crossed Thranduil's mind. He had chased him. He had sent scouts to every corner of the world and tried to whip the truth out of everyone who might have the slightest trace of knowledge about Uilosson's whereabouts - but to no avail. He was a mystery, a ghost - a damned bar of soap that slipped out of his hands every time he almost gained something beneficial.
But an evil sorceress, who might have tempted the poor elf? Someone who did not bow to Sauron? If that was true, the whole elvendom was in grave danger.
There was nothing behind the Grey Mountains, though. Of course, Thranduil had sent patrols there many times, but every time he received empty results. Occasionally, someone assumed they saw a shadow of something that could have been a wicked creature, but never any solid proof. The bastard was invisible.
Whoever was behind this had hauled his - or her - lair so far to the north that no one ever visited.
Or - possessed an ability to disappear from sight.
Whoever it was, had deluded everyone and showed up right now. Why now? That question had circulated in his mind ever since this all began. And when did it even start?
That was an intriguing question. Did it begin when the orcs attacked Lake-town a few days ago? Or did it start three thousand years ago when something emerged from the shadows, only to take Queen Glaneth,and then never again showed up?
Or did it begin a month ago, when Sauron was defeated, and the place for a leading star of all evil was free to be taken by whoever was filled with so much rancour that he - or she - could fill his shoes?
Was the Sorceress after all the powers of the world?
If she was, this might not be about Thranduil after all.
And yet, Noruinivel was convinced that Thranduil was the target - Noruinivel and the freaking forest.
For three thousand years, he had considered the possibility that whoever had been behind Glaneth's death was awaiting his - or her - second attack. If they wished to set the scores straight, they would not finish here. No matter how wretched his soul was, Uilosson was - or had been - an elf once and thus knew he could injure Thranduil most by hurting his loved ones.
The swine had been able to kill Glaneth because she made a mistake while protecting her son - only an elf would know how a mother fights. No matter how trained a warrior she is, she shall always put her child above all else. And whoever killed her knew this. No log-headed moron would understand this. Not even the world's mightiest sorceress would know this - it could only have been an elf who realised it.
After Glaneth, the only one left for the beast to use was Legolas. He had been heavily guarded during his youth, but the only threat they found was giggling Lake-town girls trying to take a sneak peek at the elven Prince.
All real perils towards the boy had vanished in a puff of smoke.
When Legolas had grown up, Thranduil had commanded the best available warrior to cover him - not that he needed much of the said protection, but nevertheless, there she had been, all this time. And she had been good. More than good. There had been all sorts of villains over the past millennia, but never anything even remotely reminding Thranduil of the dark shadows that had smothered Glaneth.
Whoever was behind this was not after Legolas.
Did the beast know he did not possess the required skill to kill Legolas? Or - this was a worrisome thought - was he awaiting something? Killing Legolas would only have freed Thranduil of this world, and he would have sailed to the Undying Lands.
Killing Legolas' betrothed would be the thing to ruin King Thranduil.
The timing was eerie.
All the time, the battle of Shadowland rampaged in front of the King. Arrows flew, swords hit the foes. There was no need for his interference - all elven soldiers knew what to do. The situation was under control. Sulrochil was safely hidden in the north with her group, and the elven army fought valiantly. Better than ever before - everyone understood this was the last of the wars, and now they had a purpose. All of them aspired to give their best for Legolas and Sulrochil.
Far in the east, he saw fluffy greyish fur on the ground. A lynx had hunted a hare, swiftly killed it, and eaten it for breakfast. If the King ever met the slayer of his wife, there would be no remnants left of the culprit.
Red moon hides, black sun dies.
Shout out, ice-a-melting,
Birch-a-flaming.
Dolls go round with me,
Round-round, roundy-round.
All Thranduil had was the foolish piece of poetry - did Lady Galadriel have nothing more to offer than a few shady words? Had she been deranged like everyone else in this wretched world? In addition to these words, there was only the ludicrous map drawn by the oh-so-artistic Captain Noruinivel.
Twice is more than,
Lark in the meadow.
Is it not?
Bluff is steep,
Death is sleep.
Go away,
Come again.
Who is here?
There was a steep cliff drawn on the map. Right where it did not belong - on the eastern side of Lonely Mountain. Yesterday, the King was surprised when the strange cliff was scribbled on the canvas - described by Sulrochil, drawn by Noruinivel. Two of his favourite rainbow fairies.
The world is full of ridges, so no need to draw false conclusions - perhaps Sulrochil recalled it wrong - and Noruinivel did not dare to oppose her will and drew it anyways. The entire map was filled with obscure stippled bogs and scribbles of trees - all sorts of adorable trees - that would not be anything of value unless they began whipping the enemies out of the blue.
Perhaps it would be best to forget the map altogether.
Bellow out, she is to come,
To win your love,
To send you a dove,
And fly you above
All the splendours
Of the world
You crave in your heart.
Screech out, queen-a-singing,
Branch-a-falling.
Knights go round with me,
Round-round, roundy-round.
"She is to come," said the poem. Could there be a seed of truth hidden in these lines?
King is here.
Sky, as well.
"O, but why, sky, my friend,
Are you weeping?"
No. The poem was abominable.
Whoever waffled this ghastly piece of poetry must have been insane. It did not make any sense. The poet should strictly stick to one style, not jump from one to another like the floaty sprite behind this jumble.
Just when one began to understand something, the tone changed.
"Ashes scream,
Sludges moan.
Do you hear it not?
Of fine wisps of mist,
Of tiny droplets of tears,
I crochet,
Handkerchiefs
For the woeful."
Just when one began to understand something of the poem, it changed, precisely like the elf who had just entered Thranduil's family - and heart.
Swoosh out, mayfly-a-shining,
Nightjar-a-spinning
No escape in death.
Ghosts go round with me,
Round-round, roundy-round.
Thranduil stopped. Nightjar.
Uilosson's signature bird.
There was absolutely no proof Uilosson could be behind everything - except vague feelings. But if it was not Uilosson, nothing made any sense. If it was him, all things fell neatly in place. All details got plausible explanations, and the story flowed smoothly.
But there was no proof - none whatsoever. The long-hidden vengeance simmered deep in Thranduil's soul, but he could not let it surface until he knew for certain that it was the same person behind Glaneth's death and today's occurrences.
Will you hear a story if I tell you?
If it was Uilosson, the only question remained - why? Why was this happening? Was Uilosson after revenge? But that was not plausible because he was an elf. If an elf was not chosen to be the King, he might feel defeated for a while but get over it in due time. The elf would soon realise the Kingdom had not been taken away from him - because it had not been his to take in the first place.
The junipers around the King looked suddenly anew. The day had been long, and the forest had changed in his eyes. Suddenly, his eyes opened to see there were more trees than the tiny birches in this forest. The spacious forest was like fabric in his eyes. The soft lichens covered the ground. Heathers and lingonberries hushed the voices and offered a perfect place for the magnificent forest to grow.
Under the family of tall pines and aspens, there were small junipers. Juniper - the spirit of the Forest. It was the most tenacious of them all. Regardless of the circumstances of nature, it grew. From south to north, it pertinaciously stuck to the ground. From east to west, it prevailed. Hot or cold, it was there.
For a long time, he had not truly wished to regard these trees, but now one of the junipers was looking at him with a question on its delicate needles. Will you hear a story if I tell you?
He turned his back to the tree and concentrated on staring at the battles in the distance. The black arrows flew in Shadowland, but fortunately, less and less as time passed. Elven soldiers grew more determined by the moment. One by one, the hits made the enemy fall.
As the all too familiar sight of fighting entered his eyes, he concentrated on dwelling on all aspects of Uilosson's story. It did not make sense if the Sorceress was after the Kingdom of elves, Thranduil mused. Soon the Kingdom would dissipate. All elves would be gone, leaving only empty chambers in the castle. Frayed curtains waving in abandoned windows. Hardly worth fighting for.
The juniper was insistent. I have invaluable information to offer you, it hummed.
Of course it did, but Thranduil had no inclination to listen to the tree. Uilosson's story was twirling in his mind, and he knew soon he would solve it - but the tree needed to stop.
You are curious, the juniper stated. Let me tell you Uilosson's story, but we must begin with the Sorceress. Ages ago, she developed an interest in Uilosson, because she believed he would become the King of Great Greenwood. She needed him for her wicked play. Well, to tell you the truth, she would have preferred a Queen, but she would settle for a King if needed. Therefore, she gained power over Uilosson, but to her disappointment, he never became the King.
Perhaps the drivelling bush indeed knew something significant. Thranduil had no inclination to speak to the forest that had failed him once, but if - and only if - it had something solid for his advantage, then he would use whatever he could get.
"I do not wish to talk to you,"Thranduil finally flung back at the juniper, still not turning to look at it.
"You already did", the juniper announced and dropped a few dry needles to the ground. "Finally, you are speaking to me. This is about you. It always has been."
"This is not the right time."
"This is exactly the time. The evil has risen - and it is more vicious than ever before. All the earlier forms of darkness were against everything good. This one has a different goal - you."
"Why me?"
"Should Ylvätär - that is her name - gain the heart of an elven King, or Queen for that matter, she would bring the whole world into her realm through that one soul."
"She shall not get me."
"No," the juniper concurred, "but only if you let me assist you. Only if you let the spirit of the forest fill the void in your core, can you succeed. Your heart is devoid of love, and there is an enormous void to be filled. Whether it shall be filled with the spirit of the forest - or you give Ylvätär a freeway to slide in and ruin everything that is left."
"You cannot force me."
"No, I cannot. You must discover the willingness inside you."
"There is none."
"You will attain it when the time is right. Keep your heart open for honesty. Alone you are on the faulty route. You need to embrace life. Choose love."
"Leave me alone."
"I will," the Spirit of the Forest said. "After you have heard my story. All this time, my Son, I have waited for you to ultimately listen to me. Hear me now."
On a fine day one lifetime ago, Ylvätär, the Lady of Jyrkkätörmä, was wandering between flourishing hillocks. (ylväs=noble, grand, high-spirited, -tär=lady) (jyrkkä=steep, törmä=bluff)
She was far south from her homeland, almost too close to the elven territories. All the surrounding greenness jarred her eyes, but this was not the time to retreat. A trickle of disarray had slowly flown to her senses all the way north - and she had to come and see what could cause the intriguing occurrence.
It had to be an elf.
It could be the elf, who Ylvätär had been waiting for. Someone with a crack in their soul for her to slither in.
She needed one of them - not anyone but their Queen. Of course, the Queen would be best, but a King would do as well, even though Ylvätär disliked the notion.
In the beginning, she had emerged from the black hollow of a northern mountain. From darkness, she was born, and she had one desire. Only one wish she had, and it filled all of her essences.
To hold all of the worlds for herself.
If one lived, it was for that alone. If there was a purpose for life, it was to expand, conquer, to defeat everything else in her way.
The meaning of life was to become one, to achieve one mind, one soul. And she was the goddess of the north who would finally succeed in uniting all life into one - hers.
Out of the dip of the bluff, she had been born, with a golden ring on her finger. Round and shiny it was, and beautifully it rolled on her finger. Roundy-round it rotated whenever it pleased her.
Her Mountain had given her a task. "Conquer an elven Queen - or King - and you shall conquer the world." At first, the job had sounded frivolously elementary. Invade only one soul? Who could not succeed in an assignment as straightforward as that?
Ylvätär had journeyed through all of Middle-earth and circled all the elven Kingdoms. She had had grand plans for earning a hold on those kingdoms, but she had not gained the knowledge - yet - of how to sneak into their foxholes.
Now she knew why obtaining the possession of one elven leader would be the breakthrough for her. No matter how ugly they were, these pale creatures possessed wisdom that made them the stronghold of all Middle-earth. The sickening stickiness of the sentiment they called love coated their kingdoms firmly, and Ylvätär had to find the way to creep inside their covers.
All the elven kingdoms she found were impenetrable. The tacky love neatly shielded them. No matter how diligently she studied those creatures, she could not find a means to pierce their membrane. The love coated their surroundings as if it had been painted with honey. The love - huh - why unite only with one spirit if you can acquire the whole world?
But there was more than love to this puzzle. When Ylvätär moved her eyes from side to side, she saw the love was not the only substance holding the integrity of these uncanny creatures. If only she could ascertain the essence of their innocence, perhaps then she could finally find the way past their fortitude.
Aeons passed while Ylvätär scoured the world from east to west. Every nook she perused until finally, she found a small elven people in the north. As they called themselves, these wood-elves remained without a leader, and it lifted her hopes. If they had no Queen yet, perhaps she could slink into the soul of the poor one who is to become their Queen.
Patiently, she observed the people. Year after year, she watched them and finally found out that they would not choose a Lady to lead them, but one of the Knights as King.
It was evident who was the mightiest of them all, and thus, the one to become the King.
Uilosson was his name, and Ylvätär needed to meet him.
She shook her hair - and saw the elf. From a distance, they all seemed the same - straight dull hair with foolish braids, ugly pointy ears, and uninspiring clothing, but when she got closer, she felt exactly what she had wished to feel - hunger for power. "Interesting, indeed." Ylvätär lifted her ring and saw her own attire slowly change to something resembling the elven apparel. Her ears reshaped, but she was appalled and quickly returned them back as they were. Puffy, black curls disappeared, and shivers went down her spine as her all-too lank hair braided itself - and covered her ears.
A neat quiver with impeccable arrows popped onto her back. The bow that had appeared in her hands felt odd, but she had observed the elven archers enough to know how to hold it correctly.
As hideous as she looked, she had to meet the elf. The elf was ablaze with enthusiasm - and that was nothing out of order - precisely like this, one is supposed to be, when one is soon to become a King.
What intrigued Ylvätär's mind was the humbleness radiating from the elf's soul - what was wrong with him?
"You are a tremendously skilful archer, mellon nin," Ylvätär said. "The best of all the elves." (Elvish: mellon nin = my friend)
"No," Uilosson said. "I am not the best. So many are far greater than me." The stranger was beautiful - never had Uilosson seen eyes specifically like that, but they were mesmerising. Her braids were unusual but neat. Her ears were under her hair, but it was apparent she was an elf.
"Would you like to be?"
"I have other skills."
"You could be the best," Ylvätär said and rolled her ring over her finger.
"Who are you?"
"I can help you." The ring made three spins, roundy-round it moved around her finger. "Will you accept aid from me?"
"Aye," Uilosson said. "I highly doubt you can assist me with archery, but it will do no harm to try. I accept your help. I know a perfect place for practising nearby. Would you come with me? You have not introduced yourself yet. What is your name?"
The ring rolled again. Uilosson fell down to the soft moss. Vivid visions of beautiful archery lessons swept in his mind; his arms welcomed the new powers as he became more adept. All the time, more masterful he became, as the archery lessons inside his mind went on.
When he finally rose, the lady was nowhere to be seen, but it did not worry Uilosson. She had said she had other pupils to help far in the east. He had asked what she required as the payment for her lessons, and she had replied with the loveliest of smiles, "Nothing in return do I desire. My only humble wish is that you use your new talents for amenable causes."
Then she was gone, and Uilosson's arrows found the target like never before. He could put a small golden ring in the distance and shoot all his arrows neatly through it.
"Do you remember when you were elected to be the King of Great Greenwood?" the juniper said to King Thranduil. "Do you recall how particularly elevated they were when you expressed your reluctance to become a King? They clearly wanted someone unwilling to lead, someone, who was not bewitched by all the treasures and all the splendours of their homeland. You see, the seed had been planted into Uilosson's heart. Therefore, he could never have become the King. Without Ylvätär's interference, perhaps, but never after she had tasted his soul."
"And the poor elf who actually became the King of Great Greenwood," Thranduil said, "never wanted to lead the wretched land, so far in the north that snow and ice covered the surface half the year."
"Something a little different had been in your intentions, but what can an elf do when your heart is taken by the alluring lady of the land of snow and trees?"
"The trees. And the ridiculous inclination of the insane people of the north to climb them."
"Ylvätär bewitched Uilosson," the forest hummed, "hoping to gain the elven kingdom under her regime, thus gaining the souls of the elves to herself. She got the elf, but not the kingdom."
Ylvätär hid herself in Jyrkkätörmä and waited for her prey.
Finally, she detected that the Great Greenwood was preparing for the King's coronation - and it was that information that got her out of her cave. As she was nearing the elven forest, she felt vindictiveness and became startled. If the people were going to celebrate their brand-new King, the kingdom should radiate nothing more than icky sentimentalism and pompous nobleness.
But there it was - vengeance.
The wrathful hailstorm exploded in her core when the truth hit her - the fools had picked the wrong King. Some pallid namby-pamby plank was to become the King and not the one She had chosen!
Nothing was to be done to the selection. So the people rejoiced, the paths were paved with flowers, but the incorrect King remained.
All Ylvätär had left was the soul of one elf who was not the King. The elf deserved to die! Ylvätär almost sent her best regards to Uilosson for the last time, but suddenly she halted. If her Mountain had taught her something, it was never to give up. Perhaps, she could utilise the dolt.
Uilosson walked into the forest; his heart swelled with rancour.
"It should have been you, mellon nin," Ylvätär said. "That became the King."
"Go away," Uilosson snapped but did not make the slightest movement himself. Instead, he turned to look at the form who spoke to him. Something in her appearance resembled something familiar, but he could not grasp if he had met this elf before. Her eyes mirrored his own longing for peace. "Who are you?"
"Come with me," Ylvätär said. "And I will give you all the authority and splendour you crave."
"You are tempting me, you devil," he said, as he was shown all the kingdoms of the world that could be his. All the people walking on earth were following him, bowing to him, singing to him. "Go away, demon."
Ylvätär left him alone. It was not the authority this creature craved, but something more profound - of course, the gloopy honeydew! Exactly that she would give to him. It would be only a matter of time until she conquered the elf. Tiny strands of her power had already begun weaving their way to the innermost core of the elf's soul and now she knew which thread was the right one for her to pull - when the time was right.
The elf dwelled in the forests north of Great Greenwood, all the time sauntered here and there. Months passed, years passed, and Uilosson decided to visit his brother. Dathon was as welcoming as usual, but the whole kingdom was changed. It was not his homeland anymore.
All places were teeming with white flowers as Uilosson crept out and let his feet take him wherever they pleased. Familiar hillocks pulled him closer.
Ylvätär let him be alone - for a decent time - until she again approached him, "Come with me, and I shall give you all the love you crave in your heart."
"You cannot decide who you love. It grows when you do not expect it in the slightest."
"Of course you can," Ylvätär said. "Are you a fool? The old way of interpreting love is entirely wrong. Of course, you can determine who to love - how else could it be? If you cannot choose your loved one, it cannot be love at all. If you cannot choose, it is forced by someone else, something else - thus not worth a needle on the ground."
The elf - who had forgotten his name - gawked at her eyes. The beauty of the magnificent lady enchanted him - if only he could open his heart and let her in. Her love felt soft and beguiling, but something in his soul prevented him from being pulled into her mesmerising charm.
"Come with me," Ylvätär said. "And I shall give you all the love and power you need. Together we shall rule the world with our passion. You and I shall conquer the world."
Her love lured him closer until something in the deepest corner of his soul shouted, "Go away, you -!" He tore himself out of the reach of the creature to whom he did not have a name and ran away.
Ylvätär's eyes blackened as she raised her ring finger at the fleeing elf. Roundy-round, the ring rolled - what was it that they desired if not power - or even love?
The elf went to the woods. He weaved around the trees, pressed his forehead against them for a while, and then resumed his search. Ylvätär watched his antics for a long time. The foolish wandering in the woods made no sense to her - what was the elf seeking in the forest if not power or love. Was it wisdom he wished for? Or was he after magical powers?
The forest hummed the foolish songs as always was its wont. Usually, it made Ylvätär sick, but slowly she understood. The thing the elf coveted deep in his heart was not anything to do with the others. He did not desire power - that was too superficial for his tastes. It was not even the love he wanted. His mind was in havoc - and all he begged for was calmness.
Now she finally would succeed.
"Mellon nin," she said to Uilosson. "You are seeking what you believe only the forest can grant you."
"And that is?"
"Peace of mind," she said. "Come with me to the north, and I will show you the place of abundant quietude."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Ylvätär," she replied. "I am the Lady of Jyrkkätörmä."
"I have never heard of such a place."
"It is far north from here. Much further than Varjovuoret - you call them Grey Mountains." (varjo=shadow, vuori=mountain, -et=plural form)
"No one can live there."
"That is a false assumption - and you think that only because the wizard is all too content with himself and does not desire peace. My people live there, but Harmaahölmö - Mithrandir in your language - never found our kingdom even though he almost stumbled upon our threshold once. Your people have made jaunts there, as well, but no one discovered our place. I shall soon be the Queen of Jyrkkätörmä, as my father - the King - is withering away." (harmaa=grey, hölmö=fool)
Uilosson did not reply.
"It is the place of balance," Ylvätär continued. "All creatures live in harmony by our river. Whoever arrives there will be met with everlasting peace of mind. It is the place of a soothing mountain view, calming river. Our home is on the steep bluff by the river of hope. Will you come with me?"
Ylvätär touched the elf's soul with pacifying calmness, an offer for comforting rest and the promise to give him everlasting contentment.
It was all he ever wanted - the balm to his mind, the soothing of all his troubles, the peace he craved in his soul.
The weary ghost of an elf did not have it in him to resist the lure anymore.
"Therefore," Thranduil concluded, "Ylvätär's target is not killing the King, and not even to make him suffer - but to gain his soul."
"Her intention is to gain the soul of the Elvenking. To jinx him and use him for whatever these wicked witches always intend - to gain the dominion of the world."
"This will be easy for me," Thranduil said. "No matter what she is going to attempt, she is not going to succeed in subjecting me to her witchcraft. Therefore, whatever her plans are, shall prove to be a dead end."
"You are mistaken," the forest said. "There is more to this. Things I would rather keep secret."
"Alright, she wanted the King but chose the wrong target. Today, she is after me."
"You have been her target from the beginning, and she… I would rather not reveal everything to you because I fear for your sake. The whole forest fears what you might do if you knew-"
"Tell me everything."
Years passed in Jyrkkätörmä when Ylvätär introduced localities to her new visitor.
A dark dungeon in a scanty dip of a mountain. Lashings of her whip when she imprinted the peace of mind to the poor elf.
Years passed as she befriended the elf with her respite by sucking him dry of his own will. Strand by strand, she cracked the resolution of the elf and squeezed him into the mould she had arranged for him.
Eventually, he was charged with the harmony of Jyrkkätörmä.
It was everything the elf ever had wished for - all disruptive thoughts disappeared, and his soul - his precious soul - was loaded with the soothing calmness only his Lady could provide. All of his past began to fade. He once had been evil, but now his pure self was arising from the ashes.
He once had a name, but it was long forgotten. He had pleaded many times for Ylvätär to give him a new name, but she had always told him it was not time yet. Instead, she would give him a name when he would be ready to rule the world by her side.
Ylvätär ascended to the dark dungeons, as always. What the creature in there saw was the flowing cascades of beautiful waterfalls, as always. The running water calmed, and Ylvätär was as beautiful as ever - her dark curls formed unruly patterns as she talked.
"Are you ready now?" Ylvätär said.
"To get my name? Yes, I am."
"You shall gain your name if you reminisce about the awful creatures south there - the ones with whom you once associated. To make our dwellings even more peaceful, we need the soul of either Queen or King. Preferably Queen, but the King will do if his soul is easier to gain. So, please, tell me, into which one shall we plant the seed?"
"It is impossible to plant your seed into either of them, my Lady."
"We must act soon," Ylvätär said. "And we need one of them!"
"We do indeed, my Lady, but we cannot get their peace by planting the seed into their souls. It is impossible. They are shielded with the nasty slimy goo they call love. What we need to do, is to break one of their souls. We must kill one of them, either the King or the Queen, and make the other suffer."
"Let us kill the King," she said. "Then I… we can have the soul of the Queen. Kill the King and the boy as well. That will destroy her."
"No!" he shouted. "The boy must be kept intact. Without the boy, the one who is left will sail to the Undying Lands, and we gain nothing. Those creatures are wicked."
"It is true, then," Thranduil hissed as he grabbed his sword. The blade glimmered in the sunlight, waiting for its victim. "They slaughtered Glaneth."
A lynx would leave fur, but a snake swallowed his prey in one piece.
"Aye," the forest whispered. "Do not let them mangle your soul. Follow the wisdom of the forest."
"We have old scores to settle."
"Ylvätär is powerful. You cannot beat her."
"She might be the most powerful sorceress that land has ever met, but she has one weakness - they all do."
"Please, do not-"
"Ylvätär is dependent on Uilosson," Thranduil said. "Were she not, she would already have outclassed Sauron and gained sovereignty over the world. Alone, the witch is useless, but Uilosson is flesh and blood. It is in my power to kill the leech and thus destroy them both. All I need is to find them."
"Wait! You have not heard all of it. There is a wicked plan to get you. Please, hear all of it so that you shall not fall into her temptations. They are going to use Sulrochil."
"They are not going to get her easily. She is good."
"They have something up their sleeves - or should I say something around her finger."
"If Ylvätär is foolish enough to believe she will suppress me by killing Sulrochil, she is even more witless than your usual devil."
"Drop your arrogance! It is not killing her that Ylvätär wants to do."
"If not to kill Sulrochil, then what?"
"Scour your heart," the Forest said. "Consider truly what could be the thing to consume you - to truly destroy everything you believe in. What would ruin the purity of her flesh? You have refused to see it, and I understand. It is not a pretty sight."
"You cannot mean-" Thranduil gasped.
A dirty hand neared its victim. Howls of laughter echoed between snowy mountaintops when the filthy paw groped the white skin. The prey recoiled but could not escape the crushing grip.
"What else?" the Forest whispered. "Ylvätär shall do everything in her power to defeat you."
"We shall kill the Queen," the still-nameless creature who once had been an elf said in his thoughts. "The King shall suffer, but he will stay in the land of the living because of the boy."
"I see no reason why we should not kill the King. I assume the Queen would grieve more and thus be easier to break."
"If the Queen lives, she, of course, shall grieve her late husband, but she shall get strength by loving her child. If the King remains alive, he shall mourn more because he knows his wife lost the possibility of seeing her child grow. There is a special bond between the mother and her child, thus he shall mourn more because his child is forced to live a motherless life. It shall prove to be enough. Then we only wait until our last move."
"Please, mellon nin, do tell me your whole plan."
"The boy is now six. Old enough to remember his mother but still young enough not to try something foolish to defend her. He is the glue that will stick the old fool firmly to this world. He shall not leave the boy alone, and he will suffer when his wife is gone."
"The King suffers, but it still does not bring him to us."
"We shall get our revenge when the boy gets betrothed. It shall be the last straw to break the old fool's back. You see, to destroy the soul of a father elf is to take her daughter - or if there is none available, the betrothed of his son. We must be quick and do it in the very early stages of their betrothal. Then they are most vulnerable."
"How do we know in advance when it happens?"
"May I ask you to cast a spell on their tiresome forest, my Lady?" the creature with the long-forgotten name said. "The Great Greenwood shall decay alongside the grief of the King and the boy. Then, when the smallest echoes of love dwell in the boy's heart, the spell will begin to dissolve. Let it be that lilies-of-the-valley grow in the forest for us to know in advance."
"Would it not be more straightforward to kill the boy and not wait all the time to kill his betrothed? It could take many millennia."
"Patience, my Lady, patience. Besides, killing neither of them would not bring the revenge we seek: to destroy the soul of the old fool so that we get ahold of his peace and calmness. No, killing the child would only lead him to sail to the icky islands. And we are not to kill the chosen lady of the boy. No. We are to take her and dishonour her - rip her clothes and disgrace her body. It is the only way to devastate the King's soul. This way, he shall lose his mind, he shall seek revenge on us, and therefore his soul shall be ruined. When he finds out what has been done to her, he shall be distorted. He shall torture us until his very own soul is so disfigured that he has no return back to the living anymore, and all the tranquillity he has gained shall be released for us."
"We shall gain his soul," Ylvätär whispered. "All the elven splendour will be mine."
"Ours."
"Of course," Ylvätär whispered. "Ours."
The dungeon was gloomy. Ylvätär wished to get out of it, but she knew she had to reward her guest after this kind of progress. Year after year, he had quivered in his jail, and now something of use had finally flickered in his mind. "You shall be called Lokowid."
"Lokowid?" the guest whispered, not yet fully believing he had gotten a name. "What does it mean in the language of Jyrkkätörmä?"
"It means…" Ylvätär stopped to think. Are you a fool? I would never disgrace my language by calling a worm like you with my own words! Of course, that name does not mean anything in any language, but it shall sound magnificent enough to the hordes of orcs you shall create for me.
I need pawns, and you shall produce them for me. We shall proceed with the plan you formulated because those creatures, called elves, are revolting. Every attempt I have tried has been in vain. The only opportunity, before they leave this morose land, is with your plan. I supply you with peace of mind - my peace - and you shall give me what I need. Everything.
"It means the Supreme Knight of the North," Ylvätär finally spoke.
Grey clouds gathered in the sky. Thranduil swallowed as he saw the enormity of Shadowland - and the devilish vision of Sulrochil in the hands of the filthy creatures. The front of her coat was ripped, ugly fingers penetrating her cleavage.
They have not got her, he reminded himself. However, Sulrochil's screeching invaded his mind all the time. He shrugged it off - it was only the witch's wicked illusions. She was trying to get under his skin and make him buy all her lies.
She would fail.
This was the day Thranduil had awaited for a long time.
Year after year, he had awaited this day. Finally, he had found the lizard who would soon meet its end. This was the day of payback.
The ghoulish dead orcs dotted the ground when he gathered whatever was left of his wife for him to find. All the time, his soul was being whipped by the trees that had deceived him. The ring was stuck on her swollen finger, and with the remnants of his strength, he yanked it off.
A murder of black crows was sneering at him as they flew by.
In the middle of the night, when he finally was alone in his bed-chamber, he shucked off all the grimy clothes he happened to wear on the day when his world ended. Into the fires, he threw the unholy rags and burned them into ashes. The whole room was thick with the fumes, and a desperate longing hammered in his heart - to suffocate in the haze. The moonless night would fall upon him - the sweet finale of all misery in this world.
For the entire night, he washed the ring. He drowned it in water, but the blood did not go away. In his dreams, a lovely mother with her adorable son strolled under a rainbow - and all he could do was wash the damned ring.
With his forefinger, he slowly traced her scars on his own body. The map of her wounds would be eternally imprinted on his skin, forever tarnishing his existence.
Then she whispered to him for the last time. Only one word did she say, but it was enough. "Legolas." And he knew what he needed to do.
To be with the little boy and see him grow to be like her. Each day with their son would remind him of her absence. The child wore her smile, her piercing gaze, the curve of her nose - each glance at him would be a stab into his heart.
For the boy's sake - and hers - he would do it.
Her spirit lingered in the room, just a blink longer. Quietly, she departed, and winter fell upon the world. He did not cry because one cannot shed frozen tears.
The joy of watching her son grow up was defrauded of her. A wife and a husband would meet again. Therefore, no matter how long it would take, he could endure the sorrow, but she had been deprived of the motherly joy. The boy would grow up without his mother, and the realisation tortured his heart more than anything.
The most valuable treasure had been plundered from her, and today, Thranduil would make the perpetrator suffer. The witch used Lokowid as a tool for her wicked purposes, and demolishing the abettor would be the thing to smash the sorceress.
Suddenly, the King was wrenched out of his thoughts when an unutterably unpleasant scene from the battlefield grabbed his attention.
In the middle of the fighting, Legolas shouted something to Tauriel and pointed towards the forest, indicating they should head there. That, of course, was nothing new - they had been running together for centuries, but it was Tauriel's response that alarmed the King. She refused to go alone with him and instead organised a large group with them, against Legolas' wishes.
No, not this.
Noruinivel ran towards the King with a knife in her hands, "My Lord," she shouted. "They have taken Sulrochil!"
There was only one reason in the world why Tauriel would do what she did. The rules were clear, and she knew each of them. Never before had there been a need for this specific procedure - until now.
The knife was laid on his hands. The handle was simple, without carvings, and there was no doubt about its owner. There had been no doubt about anything after Tauriel's actions.
"A man brought it to our soldiers," Noruinivel said. "He had been terror-stricken and endlessly mumbled the words, 'Warmest greetings to the King.' Someone had told him to bring the knife and the message to the elves, but they could not get anything more out of him."
"What else?" the King inquired, and turned the knife around in his hands, trying to find more information.
"Sulrochil's guards are killed, but she is alive. Captured."
"Go with Legolas," the King said. "He cannot face this situation alone. You are well educated about these matters, and he needs you now." Noruinivel had promised Lady Whirlwind she would shield the King today. Until now, it had been all the same for the King, but now he needed to get rid of the persistent Captain. That is why he did not even hint that he already knew Legolas had the situation under control. Besides, a little flattery never failed.
Noruinivel did not reply. She stood silently and weighed her options. She had promised Sulrochil she would defend the King, but now Sulrochil herself was in danger.
"I know you promised her that you would shield me," the King said. "I hardly need any supplementary keepers. Look at this crowd - more people than trees." He waved his arm towards the elven guards around him.
Noruinivel bowed. Something in the King's eyes was not right, but she had no time to ponder it more closely. The King was safe - Sulrochil was not. The decision was easy. The nearby junipers swayed, trying to catch her attention. Not listening to them, Noruinivel hastened away.
When she was out of hearing range, the King said to the guards, "Go to the eastern side of the battles. Fight alongside the men and make sure all the children of Lake-town shall not become orphans after today."
Everyone around the King diligently obeyed the orders and left.
"Do not let your ancient burden define you," the Forest rustled when the King was finally standing alone. "You are not your sorrow; you are not your pain. Be the King our people need. Be the King of the Forest for them to follow."
"You vowed to leave me alone if I regarded your yarns. Now, I have heard all I need to know. Go away."
"Beware of Ylvätär's allure so that you do not fall prey to her."
Thranduil pulled his sword, and with one gracious slash, he cut the juniper. All tiny needles jerked in shock when the top of the tree fell to the ground.
Resin seeped out of the sliced core. The forest stilled.
The silly twig had disclosed everything Thranduil needed. As he slid his sword back to its sheath, he turned his eyes to the west, towards the steep bluff on the mountainside. The one drawn on the map, the one that did not belong there. His destination would be there, and he would answer the invitation of the knife with heartfelt wishes. Be well and all the best, he would say to them with his sword - just like he did to the pitiful bush a moment ago. Respectfully yours, forever.
This was the moment he had waited for all his life. He knew what he had to do - he had had enough time to consider what he would do if he ever found the lowlife behind his wife's death.
This was the time of retaliation.