23.
"They were bound and dragged from this place. Northward, toward Thranduil's abode," Caranthir said, scanning the ground for what signs remained of Thorin's company.
More than a week had passed since the Dwarves and his kinsmen had camped in that clearing, where they had been herded by Thranduil's archers. Neither forest floor nor trees bore any sign of the Woodland Elves' passing, but it was not hard to surmise what had befallen the Dwarves… and the Elves that traveled with them.
"Fettered and escorted as prisoners?" Fëanor ground his teeth, eyes narrowed as he peered through the trees on either side of them. They were deep in Silvan territory and no doubt, their presence had been espied, but nothing hindered their advance as they swept through Mirkwood in search of their kinsmen. "No more than I expected from these people," he spat the words and rose from his crouch in the fragrant grass.
Fëanor steeled himself against a fresh wave of exhausting anger and willed his frustration to abate. But it was so very difficult…
Fear and hope and anger and despair had raged in their hearts and clashed in draining thunderstorms as they tried to prepare themselves for what they might find and could not accept that the worst had come to pass. Fëanor knew that his sons had not perished, the grief of it would have felled him where he stood, but they had been taken so many days ago and he dared not even think what being kept alive by spiders for so long entailed.
He and his sons had scoured Mirkwood without cease, by bleak daylight and blinding darkness. They could not rest while the signs were still so clear to read and the fate of their kinsmen lay written in spider silk. Going ever deeper into the oppressive twilight of that forest, they came upon traces of another pursuit and guessed that two of their former companions had escaped capture. Bilbo's unshod feet and Dwarven boots had left prints that were still readable and the Elves concluded that the two of them had tried to find their companions as well. Although what could a little Hobbit and a young Dwarf (probably Ori, by the size and depth of the tracks he had left) do against a whole colony of spiders?
The sight that greeted them in the heart of the spider colony filled father and sons with immense relief and awe. The place was littered with decaying corpses and no living thing stirred. They doubted anything ever would, the defilement ran too deep there. Covering their mouths and noses against the unbearable stench, they searched among the black and oozing carcasses for any signs that would tell them what had come to pass. Between the five of them, they finally read the tale of how the prisoners had hung from tall branches, but had been cut free. Bilbo's daring rescue and the stone throwing he had felled so many spiders with could be guessed at, making the Elves shake their heads in wonder and agree that it had not been a bad idea to let the Hobbit live, after all.
The tracks leading out of that foul place showed that both Elves and Dwarves had been injured and weary, but alive, thank Eru! Fëanor saw that one of his sons had been carried by the others, his feet leaving halting prints on the moldy forest floor. His fists clenched and his heart ached with anxiousness and anger. Many times, he and the four sons he had kept at his side cursed the stupidity of letting Celegorm and the twins be parted from them. Not knowing whether they were still alive and then seeing evidence of their suffering at the mercy of Ungoliant's spawn was more than Fëanor thought he could take and he cried out his frustration so loud that the trees looming over him shivered. Perhaps the outburst would draw more fell beasts upon them, but so be it. They all hungered to kill and vent some of the terrible frustration gnawing them.
Further east, as evening fell and began to blot out what little light passed through the canopy, Maglor came upon the enchanted stream and even from the lip of the ravine it trickled through, they could smell the poison drifting through it. On the bank, there were signs of a struggle and the prints of many feet. One or more in the company had drunk the foul waters and had been enchanted. A blood-red strand of hair had been trampled in the haste to remove the fallen from that place. Amrod… he may have fallen into the stream or been pushed into it, as Fëanor doubted his son would not have sensed the waters were unclean.
With his mind's eye, he saw what had come to pass next, as though Caranthir's words painted the pictures before his eyes. They read the signs not yet blotted out by the fall of leaves and rain and the passage of time, learning that the company had rested among high pillars of beech, in all likelihood at a loss for what to do. They probably had no provisions, no weapons to hunt with and no edible game (Fëanor had seen it himself and knew that nothing in those tainted woods would be fit to eat). Wounded and weary and with more than one of them cast into the arms of unnatural sleep, what would they have done?
Unfortunately, choice had not been given to the despondent company for too long. With such uproar at his borders, Thranduil had sent his hunters to investigate and it must have been the easiest thing in the world to come upon a group of weary but no doubt still very noisy Dwarves. There were no signs of a fight to be read, but that did not mean the Dwarves had gone down easily or simply agreed to be escorted to the halls of their declared enemy. As the the five Noldor followed their trail closer to Thranduil's Halls, they began to debate what course to take and how to free the company, if Thranduil had indeed cast them in his dungeons. Perhaps strolling before the Woodland King and making demands of him, as Fëanor intended to, was not the best course of action. But even Maedhros had lost his patience and would have happily wrung the neck of anyone in his path if they kept him from his brothers.
"On your guard, all of you. Something is coming," Maglor warned, picking up his bow and nocking an arrow in a blur of movement.
Fëanor scanned the trees and their great, intertwined coronas, but nothing stirred there save for the chill morning breeze. It can't have been spiders, not a single living one had crossed their path and after the slaughter inflicted upon them, whatever remained of that evil spawn had probably retreated to the darkest places in the forest. But Thranduil's scouts had no doubt marked their coming and taken the news to their king. Archers were likely sent to welcome the Noldorin trespassers and they had finally decided to make themselves seen.
"We're surrounded," Maedhros said, pointing the tip of a Lothlorien arrow at the invisible targets.
Reaching out with senses sharper and deeper than sight or hearing, Fëanor felt them too, many shapes creeping in noiselessly.
"It was about time, I began to think nobody is guarding this wild little realm," Curufin muttered.
"Stand ready," Fëanor bid them and they drew closer together, their backs to each other in a small circle . The made an easy target in the middle of that clearing, with the sun beaming a bright spotlight on them. They would not be able to fire the Lorien longbows at the shadows lurking beneath the trees, but Fëanor knew that the Woodland Elves would not shoot them. They would try to disarm them and make prisoners of them, but unlike Thorin's company, he meant to put up a fight. And he would kill anyone who withheld his sons from him.
Strings taut and arrows poised, the five Elves waited tensely and felt many eyes on them as the circle of unseen pursuers closed around them.
"Lower your weapons!" a strong but unmistakeably Elven voice commanded.
"Show yourself!" Fëanor shouted in reply.
With no more than a whisper of wind through the trees, a whole company of archers stepped into the clearing as one, just as poised to shoot as the five Noldor they targeted.
"Put down your weapons!" their captain commanded and Fëanor could see him from the corner of his eye. A tall Elf, too broad to be Silvan and too grim in his scowling countenance for Fëanor's liking.
"Command your archers to do the same!" he retorted.
"Who are you and why do you trespass our King's lands?"
"Such courtesy you show to your own kindred..." Caranthir muttered darkly.
"I am Fëanor and these are my sons, Curufin, Caranthir, Maedhros and Maglor," Fëanor declared in a challenging tone, although the Sindarin names still rolled off his tongue like pebbles and he would never be able to associate them with his sons. "We search for Amrod, Amras and Celegorm, whom we believe you have taken. And we will NOT put down our weapons to be trussed up and carried to your king!" his voice boomed and swept as a shudder through the circle of archers.
"There is no need for that, I am here," a figure pushed past the line of Woodland Elves and although he bore the same attire as they, the Elf's bearing alone gave him away as one of high rank.
"Thranduil Oropherion," Fëanor said with a small, mocking smile. "What an honor," he tilted his head slightly and pointed his arrow at the Sinda's chest.
"The honor is entirely yours," Thranduil retorted, impassive in the face of threat. He bore no weapons save for the curved blade at his side and he advanced unperturbed, as though he purposed to make himself into a better target. "So, the rest of the kinslayers finally arrive. Your sons have not lied in claiming so."
"Where are they?!" Fëanor snarled, rage blazing through him at the other Elf's flippant tone. "Where are my sons? What have you done with them?!"
"Lay down your arms and you shall join them presently," Thranduil replied smoothly, a faint smile on his alabaster features.
"Have you imprisoned them?! Speak, Sinda! Don't test my patience!" Fëanor growled.
"Atar...," Maedhros whispered.
"Hold your tongue, Nelyo! This is no time for diplomacy or courtesy! Can you not see the sneering look of that one?" Fëanor replied in the High Tongue, uncaring if anyone save his sons understood.
"I see it. Very well," Maedhros said gruffly and with a chilling edge to his voice.
"Surrender your weapons," Thranduil repeated his captain's command. "Then we may have a civil conversation and I will tell you about your kinsmen."
"You will speak now! You will tell me that my brothers are safe and well treated or I will kill you!" Maglor burst angrily, his own arrow pointed at the haughty king.
Thranduil flinched and his eyes widened as they fell on a figure he recalled from the distant and bloody past. All around the clearing, the archers prepared themselves to shoot.
"You would die before your arrow flies!" the captain barked in reply.
"Would we?" Fëanor spared the Elf a glance, surprised but not ill-pleased with Maglor's fierceness.
"I see you recognize my face, little king," Maglor carried on, his lovely voice thick with contempt. "The face of a kinslayer, yes," he ground out as Thranduil's countenance darkened further. "I know your face as well. I let you live in Doriath, whelp! Speak to me of my brothers or I will be more than pleased to remedy my mistake."
Fëanor could not bite back a smile even as he heard Maedhros' sharp intake of breath. His own wrath simmered beneath a thick layer of self-imposed calm, but Maglor's outburst cooled him somewhat.
"We are surrounded, yes. And we may be killed, but does any of you want to become a kinslayer?" he said smoothly, taking advantage of how rage had locked Thranduil's jaw. "Do you want to stain your hands with Elven blood unjustly and spend Ages of damnation for your crime beneath the merciless eyes of the Powers? And for what? We mean you no harm. We are searching for our kinsmen and our friends whom we have lost in the darkness of these foul woods. Does any of you wish to bring a curse upon your name only to stop a father from finding his sons?"
"We will not shoot to kill," the captain retorted as a shiver passed through the ranks of his archers and they whispered uncertainly among themselves.
"Oooh, but WE WILL shoot to kill and we will take many of you down before we are felled," Caranthir declared. "Do you wish to die today and by Lothlorien arrows, no less? Surely the Lady Galadriel has not gifted us with these bows herself to have us use them in defense against her Silvan friends and allies. But we will not let you take us alive!" he shouted the last words, eliciting another stirring of pride in his father.
"ENOUGH!" Thranduil bellowed. "Hold your tongues and cease threatening my people, accursed kinslayers!" he demanded, striding forward fearlessly.
"Perhaps your people should cease threatening us?" Fëanor offered, eyebrow raised at Thranduil's approach. He slid the arrow back in its quiver and shouldered his bow. Behind him, his sons fanned out and trained their arrows on the Mirkwood king. "I come in peace," Fëanor raised his open palms, but his smile was mocking and Thranduil seethed beneath it.
"Peace?! Peace was broken when you and your foul spawn were returned to soil these lands once more," the Sinda spat venomously.
"Father, please let me kill him!" Curufin growled.
"You need not dirty your hands," Fëanor replied breezily, too amused to take insult. "I care not for the impotent frothing at the mouth of a savage king. Come at me, Sinda. Give me your best shot."
A deeper darkness than that of wrath and disdain passed over Thranduil's face and his eyes narrowed further. Fëanor surmised that his sons had treated Thranduil to the same niceties and if he knew for sure that they'd been well enough to do so, he could bicker all the cold beauty before him wanted.
"I need not dirty myself either," Thranduil refused the bait.
"Good. It is unwise to engage in war of words with me. Or any kind of war, for that matter. We could be here for a very long time. So, what to do, My Lord?" Fëanor sketched a bow that served to infuriate Thranduil more.
"How to break the dead-lock? You won't take us alive and we will kill many of you before we die," Maglor said.
"But is that really necessary? I ask nothing more of you, king, but news of my sons. Do you have them? Are they well? Come now, give a father that much, at least," Fëanor honeyed his words, but beneath them, he swore that one day, Thranduil would answer for crossing him so brazenly.
"I do not have your goddamned sons!" Thranduil hissed.
"You do not?" Fëanor started. "But you would have me believe that to trap me."
"That was before you vowed to murder my people."
"You first," Curufin said. "Before your archers turn me into a pin-cushion, I will put an arrow right between your eyes. So think on it, fair people. Is is worth losing your king over this?"
"He means it, does he not?" Thranduil tilted his head, eying Fëanor intently. "He would kill me."
"Without blinking," Fëanor nodded.
"Then you are come for more blood and murder! Curse you, curse you forever, and the folly of your jailors for setting you free!" Thranduil shouted.
"Father, please... this cannot be borne. I HAVE to kill him!" Curufin seethed, but Fëanor motioned him to be still.
"My sons, Thranduil. And we walk out of here without any trouble," he said to the enraged king. "You will not push your people into damning themselves and putting arrows in our backs. But you will give me my sons."
"Your filthy get are gone from my halls! I do not have them. They have escaped!" the Sinda burst before he could catch himself.
"Escaped? Then... they are alive and unhurt?" Fëanor's shoulders sagged in relief, but at the same time, his vision clouded with anger against the fools who dared lay a hand on his sons. "You imprisoned them?! But they walked out alive and unscathed? Is that what you are saying?" he barked. Hand on the hilt of his sword, Fëanor advanced menacingly, looming over the Sinda before him.
"They were put in the dungeons along with the Dwarf rabble. But all are gone now. A creature of magic lurked in my halls and freed them unseen."
"Bilbo Baggins..." Fëanor could not bite back a bark of relieved laughter.
"What?"
"A creature of magic and excellent wit. So... you had our company in bonds but lost them. Am I to believe that?" Fëanor frowned a moment later, but he knew that nobody would make up such a creature to use it as an excuse for complete incompetence.
"Perhaps you would like to visit the dungeons and see for yourself?" Thranduil suggested, earning himself a smirk for the effort.
"Perhaps not," Fëanor grinned inwardly, unwillingly appreciative of the brazen Elf before him. Perhaps there was more to Thranduil than the hatred twisting his features into such and ugly scowl. "But how is it that one slippery little creature could fool countless guards and free sixteen people? How could they all flee unnoticed? What kind of kingdom do you run, Sinda?"
Twin splotches of red blossomed on Thranduil's cheeks and his eyes blazed.
"They had help!" he hissed between clenched teeth. "My own son!"
"Your son?"
"He has been deceived and ensnared and twisted into betraying me! Your devil offspring have taken Legolas with them!" Thranduil continued to dish out precious information and Fëanor barely refrained from patting his back, part in congratulations and part because it seemed that outrage would choke the Elf before long.
"Let me get this straight... Your son has taken both Elves and Dwarves out of your dungeons and gone with them? Why? Where?"
"No! I know not what madness has seized Legolas, but he went with your sons. The creature set Thorin Oakenshield free and put the Dwarves in barrels. They escaped downriver in my goddamned wine barrels!"
Fëanor threw his head back and laughed uproariously for a good long while. Even his sons behind him chuckled and exchanged unflattering remarks, but their aim did not waver, in case the enraged king dared strike their father.
"Oh, that is priceless," Fëanor wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "I can't have hoped for better or more hilarious news. Stand down," he beckoned his sons.
"But atar...," Maglor protested.
"We are in no danger, put away the bows and calm yourselves," Fëanor said, much calmer than he had been in days and pleased with how easy it had been to infuriate the Sinda into telling him everything he wanted to know. "Tyelkormo and Ambarussa are safe. They have gone to Lake Town, no doubt, that is where the river would have taken the Dwarves. And that is where we shall be off to, as soon as this rabble disperses," he gestured vaguely toward the archers.
Eying each other uncertainly, the four of them did as told, but they held themselves coiled to spring in case anyone dared harm them or their father.
"How can you be so sure he speaks the truth?" Maglor hissed.
"Who would make up such a thing? It makes the Woodland Elves look like proper fools and why would a king lie about his own son's betrayal? It is the truth," Fëanor said, offering Thranduil a taunting smile and showing him how little he cared for the dozens of arrows still pointed at them.
"Legolas has been bewitched," Thranduil said, his gruff voice full of contempt.
"Let me guess... was it Tyelkormo or one of my red-haired minxes?"
The flash of sheer hatred that lit Thranduil's eyes upon hearing Celegorm's name made Fëanor wish to put those eyes out with his bare hands. He promised himself that he would hear the full tale from his sons and he would personally dismember the Elf before him if a single hair on their bodies had been disturbed.
"I see how it must have happened. Probably Tyelkormo. You know your brother," he looked over his shoulder and met Curufin's knowing smile. "Kingdoms would fall for that one. Princes would betray their fathers... Ah, well. Thank you for the information, My Lord," Fëanor tilted his head in another would-be bow. "With your leave, we shall be on our way and out of this damned forest before the day is out. You need not escort us."
Half expecting Thranduil to give the order and have his archers either shoot or spring upon them, Fëanor readied himself as well. He would pounce and have a knife at the Elf's throat before any of his people could draw breath, let alone act upon his command. But the order did not come.
"Surely you do not believe I will simply let you walk away unchallenged," Thranduil seemed to recover some of his composure, although his cheeks still flared as he knew he had been duped.
"I do believe that. And I have not another moment to lose, tarrying here and exchanging barbs with you. I have not run like mad from Dol Guldur for weeks and scoured this evil place you call home to have an impudent little king bar my way now!"
Suddenly, Thranduil's expression changed and he too motioned his archers to stand down. Not unexpectedly, mentioning Dol Guldur sobered the Sinda better than a slap to the face.
"You have been to Dol Guldur?" Thranduil closed the distance that separated him from Fëanor and lowered his voice in indication that perhaps not all his people were meant to hear their exchange.
"We have. Else we might have fallen prey to spiders and then to your misguided people."
"What have you found there?" Thranduil asked. "Was the Necromancer...?"
"Have my sons said nothing to you about this?"
"Celegorm raved something about the Dark Lord, but I believed he lied to taunt me," Thranduil replied, uncertainty and apprehension in his eyes.
"He did not lie. Those wise and kind Istari I am sure you know well, Gandalf and Radagast... they have taken us into the very fortress of the one you know as Necromancer. But the evil masquerading under that name is none other than Sauron. We felt him. He was there. He fled before the combined forces of the wizards, we do not know where. East, into the wastes where his unclothed spirit may burn under the unforgiving sun. But he set three of the Úlairi upon us. My sons and I fought them and Curufinwe was wounded. If not for the wizards and Galadriel herself come to our aid, he may have suffered a terrible fate. So now do you understand why I have no time and no patience for this charade?" Fëanor finished angrily, staring down his shocked opponent.
"It was Sauron in Dol Guldur all along...?" Thranduil shuddered.
"Yes. And the wizards have guessed it a while ago. But I am sure nobody has bothered to inform you about it. Why do you think Mirkwood has become such a terrible place? Why are spiders lurking everywhere and encroaching your home?"
"These are grave matters," Thranduil said, his eyes staring through Fëanor as he tried to process what he had just heard. "I would know more. Why would the White Council say nothing to me? Why would they send the likes of you to fight off such a terrible enemy?"
"Why do you think?" Fëanor huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "We were not released from Mandos to twiddle our thumbs. And I believe we are expendable to your precious White Council. If we succeeded against Sauron... three cheers. If not... tough luck. Out of my way now, I truly do not have another minute to spare trading barbs with you, Thranduil."
"Wait," Thranduil barred his path when Fëanor made to walk past him. "You rouse evil in the south and then purpose to wake the dragon in Erebor as well and you expect me to simply let you do so?"
"Do NOT get in my way!" Fëanor snarled, feeling his patience unravel and genuinely surprised that it had held for so long.
"I will not, gods damn you!" Thranduil bit back. I know what it is to stand in the way of the House of Fëanor. But you will tell me everything that has come to pass in Dol Guldur. You will let me know why Thorin Oakenshield means to wake the dragon and why you of all people assist him!" Thranduil grabbed Fëanor's arm and squeezed hard, trying to drive his point across and utterly unaware how close he was to having his arm snapped in two. "Why do you aid Thorin Oakenshield? For the treasure?"
"What the hell else?" Fëanor spat, shaking himself free. "Order your archers to break ranks and let us leave. And if you do not find it too appalling to walk beside a kinslayer, see me out of this damned place and I will tell you everything you want to know. Including how to get your errant son back," he said over his shoulder, throwing Thranduil a challenging look.
A/N: After this chapter, updates may be less frequent. The muses have been fickle and, as the story draws to its most important part, I believe more care and more time should go into the writing. Thanks so much to all of your for reading and reviewing, for the favorites and the follows and for giving me such wonderful motivation to continue.