Convergence of the Banners: Chapter One
Tread Softly, My Dear
Rating: PG-!3 (for violence, intense themes, and some inappropriate scenes). May increase to an R.
Genre: Drama/Angst.
Premise: Prince Legolas Greenleaf and his father had been separated by long and bitter strife — and so, when ties between Mirkwood and Gondor begin disintegrating rapidly, Gondor uses that fact to her advantage, and somebody decides to attempt Thranduil's assassination. Both the Crown Prince and the second and third-in-line are good-for-nothings, so the stakes are tremendous if the King ends up getting killed. Prince Legolas is the only option with any hope left for Mirkwood — and yet, soon his own siblings begin turning upon him, trying to achieve his death, while Legolas himself is tremendously pressed by his supporters to usurp the throne by force. And it becomes up to him to uphold the longest standing imperial dynasty of all Arda, to exorcise the intrigues and corruptions from his home court — and to thwart the mysterious assassin's plans to topple his ruling house. And in the process, he is forced to choose where his true loyalties align.
Disclaimer: I do not own Thranduil, nor Legolas, nor anybody else that Tolkien made up — and as for all the Original Characters, they own themselves.
A/N: It will be extremely interesting to see how complex political intrigues evolve — that is my favorite type of fic, apart from pure full-out angst angst angst. And, it is even sweeter to see former Fellowship members being turned on each otheryou WILL be getting major supporting roles from ALL members of the Nine (including Boromir — this is Alternate Universe for that one fact, I resurrected him), as well as major secondary characters, fighting each other on both sides. You shall also see major racism playing again. Hell, a full-blown war, anybody? Have fun
And so, we let this madness commence
Convergence of the Banners
Tread Softly, My Dear
"Ignorant bastard!"
A sharp crack echoed throughout the vast hall as the elven prince was backhanded violently across the face, his porcelain-like skin slashed across the cheek by a jeweled ring. A cruel smile contorted the pale lips of Thranduil as he watched his own son loll his head about in agony, pale-golden hair static and utterly disheveled. A gurgle emancipated from the latter's lips and a slight trickle of gleaming red escaped from the corner of his mouth.
"I beg to differ," Legolas Greenleaf slurred slowly, forming each word with acute difficulty. He righted his head and opened his mouth to receive air into his crushed lungs. "I am no bastard."
"You ARE!!" screamed the King, and another sharp crack followed the epithet. Legolas dug his heels into the cold marble tiling and his neck gave a loud crick as his head was whip-lashed violently back again.
"For what would I care, whether the King of that accursed nation may be your friend, or not?" hissed Thranduil, his voice now dangerous and low. "These menthey say one thing, and their mindsare completely different. They desire power above all else, scum, powerand they care not for anything that may bar the way to their petty goals."
"I am not scum either," retorted Legolas, and he raised his chin defiantly at his father's terrifying expression — a glare with starting eyes, beyond fury.
"And has nearly thirty centuries of my teaching and preaching gone down the drain?" barked Thranduil.
Legolas trained his glittering cerulean eyes on the silver ones of his superior, and his lower lip compressed as it was bit. "He and I are companions," he answered, fighting for his voice to remain smooth.
Thranduil snorted in disdain and paced about the first step of the high marble dias, where his throne was occupied. "He and you were companions," corrected the King, and the green robes swished to face the Prince. "To the race of Numenor, the past holds no bond. For personal benefit they are able to sever anything, give up anything! Their ties are not nearly as strong as that of us the Eldar. Hmph! So he and you are friends. We really shall see if that holds true for long."
"I do not understand," Legolas said obstinately, and the Prince stood up a bit taller, yet he did not dare to reach up a hand and wipe the oozing blood off the swipe on his cheek. "I have not known of any ill will arising between Mirkwood and Gondor lately."
A loud stomp echoed as Thranduil abruptly halted in his pacing. "Indeed!" he cried, jolting his son with the sharpness of his voice. "You spend your endless days, nose buried in your - affairs - in the privacy of your quarters — either that, or you're joyriding all day long from one end of the kingdom to the other, going with these lowly war parties and ensnaring hoards of temptresses along the way. And you remain oblivious to anything else. Cad, no better than a stable boy! What have you been doing lately?"
The silence was so thick it was possible to penetrate with a dagger.
I do not joyride, Legolas thought fiercely, and it took all of his willpower to not let his disgust be obvious on his fine face.
"SPEAK!!" roared Thranduil.
Yet another silence reigned.
"Nothing of what you have just said," Legolas muttered finally, hands fidgeting with each other, and right after the words had issued from his mouth he pinched his lips tightly together.
"Then what?" whispered Thranduil, leaning forward slightly. He laughed coldly. "Whatever you could have been doing, whilst away from my supervision, I am quite sure that it is not anything of either extreme importance or extreme benefit. And so" he clapped his hands. "This is exactly why I have called you. For your ignorance on political matters — and for yourlack of intelligent activities" he paced across the throne room and seized a scroll of parchment from a low-lying table. "I shall be sending you on a diplomatic trip. Your very first as well, I believe."
"You are mistaken, my lord," Legolas countered. He let his hands drop to his sides. "I believe I had received a similar assignment a few years ago —"
"That was only to deliver news to Lord Elrond," snapped Thranduil. "But this time I shall not send out my own son to be a petty messenger boy. You shall be an ambassador — and you will travel to Minas Tirith to smooth our affairs out for us with the King Elessar Telcontar."
A cold pang of fear stabbed Legolas in the chest. Him, Prince Legolas Greenleaf, an ambassador?
"I thought we had plenty of bureaucrats for this sort of errand," he seethed.
"This IS no errand!!" thundered the King, silencing Legolas. "If you would still have any wits about you to see, this is an extremely important mission, especially considering the fact that our kingdom's relationship with Telcontar's has been spiraling downward for quite some time already. And so, to make a long thing short and direct," said Thranduil, snapping each syllable as he spoke, "if you fail, my boy" and he pointed a long finger at Legolas, "Mirkwood shall be over. And I shall personally see to your disposal."
He walked over and clapped the large scroll into Legolas's hand — which shook.
"When do I leave?" asked the Prince, weakly.
"Your instructions are all written inside this scroll," said the King, "as I have plenty of better things to do than to instruct you by my own tongue. And now, get out of my sight, and get yourself smartened and ready, or else I shall have you skinned alive!!"
Once outside in open air Legolas wrenched a gasp and collapsed against one of the many beech trees of the courtyard. His mind was swirling, still not responsive to what had just happened to him — it had all come too quick, unprecedented. A slender finger reached up and grazed the spot where it stung on his face, and it came back to him, smeared entirely in a dark color he took to be red in the darkness.
"Ambassador," he said slowly, heart hammering. "To Gondor."
Indeed, he didn't know what was going on. Not that he did not pay any attention whatsoever to political news and tidings, as Thranduil had assumed — but, Mirkwood, and Gondor, on the verge of blows? They had to be, if one single mishap on a diplomatic errand would result in, as Thranduil had put it, the "end" of the kingdom. But — Legolas refused to entirely believe his father, even if he was Lord of Mirkwood — King Aragorn was his friend. If there was any sort of political tension, it would have been perpetuated by him, definitely, or somebody high in the ranks of his administration — certainly it would not be spontaneous.
Or indeed, the sparring could have been his own father's fault. How was he to know?
It was not that Legolas was only a pleasure-seeker — he had had an avid ear for intrigues and such within his home court; only ever since having gone and returned from the Quest of the Ringbearer, a decade ago, he had given up such interests. There had been enough politics — and oh yes, enough fighting — in the War of the Ring to last any elf a generous number of Ages upon Middle-Earth. But, truly — if Mirkwood was really in such a precarious situation, why, Legolas still would've known of it even if he had been locked up in one of the palace's cavernous grain storage sheds. He was the King's own son, for the sake of good Ilúvatar.
Then, could it have possibly been a plan of Thranduil's — to simply get rid of him?
That was entirely possible. Legolas Greenleaf, indeed, was the youngest child of his, and the only one who had ever even thought of consorting with other races — and for that one aspect rendering him a queer amongst the Royals of Mirkwood, a degenerate in the eyes of his elders. And, for that reason or some other, his father had yielded a very strong dislike for him, as far back as he could remember. Thranduil had been angry enough when he had made contact with Rohans and such while on excursions out south of Mirkwood — and after he had come back from the Quest, absent for two years, the first thing he had told his father was that he had made friends with a Dwarf. And indeed, that had perhaps entirely sundered their delicate relationship, right there and then. Legolas remembered what had followed his blurting — a deep gash on his throat, he recalled, which explained all the horrified looks his subjects had given him on the way back to his quarters, and the blood had completely run down and stained the collar of his robe brown — but to think of it, that was exactly why Thranduil always wore fancy and ostentatious bands on his fingers when administering blows. He prided in scarring Legolas, and only Legolas — for he was his youngest, his least favorite of alland the most perfect, most flawless, most beautiful of all.
Why, he had come to think that Thranduil was jealous about his own son's beauty surpassing his.
"The bastard," Legolas muttered bitterly, and he slowly raised himself out of the sitting position he had slumped into. "If there is any bastard within the Royal House of Greenwood, it's him."
The bloodstained fingers fumbled for the silk ribbon that tied the scroll, and the parchment leapt out when it had been undone. He lifted it up and strained his eyes — it was extremely dark, under the eaves of the beech, but he was not in the mood to walk up to a pathway torch. "Legolas Greenleaf, Fourth Son of Thranduil, Prince of Greenwoodto be Ambassador to the King Aragorn Elessar Telcontar of Gondor, and shall leaveon the morrow"
"Morgoth damn that son of a bitch!" he spat, flinging the scroll onto the ground. A few seconds flew by before he realized he had dirtied the thing, and that would have been a potential cause for more punishment — so he cursed anew under his breath and attempted to brush off the soil that had been flecked onto its creamy surface.
But there was at least one thing that was good, out of all the dilemma. Legolas was going to see his friend Aragorn again. And, no matter how highly-ranked Aragorn was, King of Gondor, King of Ithilien, King of Middle-Earth, Varda's hair, King of Arda — that would not make a single difference. Aragorn, in his heart, was still Aragorn, just like he had remained Strider to the hobbits even after his true lineage had been revealed — and an old friend was still a friend.
Perhaps, then, the trip was not going to be so bad, after all.
With a mournful sigh, Legolas slipped out of the trees and righted himself onto the lit pathway. The scroll was now clutched, behind his back — and he kept his eyes trained on the stones, counting them as he stepped over them, his hair swaying in rhythm to his footfalls. For those few moments he had drifted away from Middle-Earth, lost in his own thought — and his keen elven senses failed to notice the slight updraft that swirled at his robes to the side.
"So," drawled a low voice, and a tall figure, taller even than himself, stepped onto the path in front of him, barring his way. "Isn't it Legolas Greenleaf."
Legolas jolted and looked up into the face of another elf — and he recognized his eldest sibling, Prince Nimaran, heir to the throne of Mirkwood. He let his fine lips curl into a snarl. Even though the two were brothers, they were separated by some five hundred years — and they were virtually archenemies of each other.
"Get out of my way," he muttered angrily, and attempted to shove his way past his brother.
Nimaran simply scooted back a few paces and spread out his long arms, again putting himself in front of Legolas. The latter gritted his teeth — he had always hated, among so many other things, the way Nimaran would use his size advantage over him for such grating purposes. Indeed, the elder was several inches taller than Legolas, and much broader in build — so definitely, much, much stronger.
"What's bothering poor Leggy today?" he wheedled, smirking as he mocked him. "Has Pops given him a leetle something annoying to deal with?"
"You are the annoying thing he has given me to deal with," Legolas retorted. "And back off, Nimaran, because I have something far more important than shuffling around with the likes of you to take care of."
The smirk on Nimaran's face disappeared and was replaced immediately by a glare. "What?" he lashed out. "Is that the way you talk to your elder, you delinquent good-for-nothing?"
"Yet even the delinquent is the one here who hasn't confused his family standings," Legolas shot back sharply. "You are not my elder simply because you number more than me in years. My only elders are my father and mother; and as for you and I, Nimaran, we exist upon the same rankings."
"Indeed," Nimaran hissed, and he leaned forward until his auburn locks were nearly grazing Legolas's face. "Yet five hundred years is still ample time for me to have become more refined and educated than you, you little conceited prawn, so still you must at least show me some respect!" Then, he raised two hands, convulsed into claws, and gripped Legolas's arms -
"Oh, Nimaran!" cried two other voices from the woods, and Nimaran jumped.
"WHAT?!!!" he roared, furious at being interrupted in his little play-around. The claws dropped off.
Two shadowy figures emerged in the dark fringes beyond the path.
"Didn't you know?" the voices cried. "Our very own Legolas Greenleaf has been sent as an ambassador to Gondor!"
Gaerdrin and Tirilan, the second and third sons of Thranduil, respectively, jumped out of the darkness and landed next to them.
Nimaran turned with wide eyes and a mouth open in incredulity to Legolas. "Is that so?" he cried, and the short sentence dissolved into a high laugh. He clapped his hands in glee. "Why, congratulations, my dear brother!"
"Who told you this?" Legolas gagged out, smoldering eyes flickering to the other two. Gaerdrin and Tirilan weren't exactly his favorites, either.
"Father did," Trilan proclaimed, and he tossed his black hair proudly. "I guess you barely left after we two came in."
"And when do you leave for Gondor?" asked Gaerdrin, eagerly, and to Legolas's acute abhorrence he also latched two hands onto his shoulders.
"Tomorrow," the latter answered curtly, and he wrenched himself free from Gaerdrin's grasp. "And I suppose that would make all three of you quite happy, indeed, for you probably aren't going to see me for a month afterwards, or for several -"
Of which I am glad, he thought bitterly, but decided against adding that to his retort. It would only prompt Nimaran to send him flying with a single kick into the upper branches of a neighboring tree.
"Oh, no, Legolas my dear, you misunderstand us completely!" cried Tirilan, and Legolas bit hard into his lip until the blood flowed to prevent himself from retching at hearing him. "We're worried about you."
"Very worried about you," Gaerdrin chimed in.
"Spare you concern," spat Legolas, "and spend it on more worthwhile things. Like your lovers, to say about them, or each of your several lovers —"
"But Manwë above, Legolas, we'd think something's notnormal, with you, if you aren't seeing girls!" protested Tirilan. "And really, what IS the problem with you? Are you STILL a virgin?!"
Gaerdrin and Nimaran erupted into hysterical fits of laughter.
"Shut up!" cried Legolas, and his voice echoed and wove amongst the upper boughs of the brambles.
"Really, though, we'd think twice about simply sauntering into that White City of theirs, if we were you," said Tirilan, his composure regained. "Those people don't like elves."
"Don't like?" Gaerdrin echoed incredulously. "That's a blatant understatement there, dear Tirilan. More like, they — HATE — elves."
"Jerk off," snapped Legolas, and seizing his chance he sidled past the gap in between their bodies in a flash. Oh, how he hated his brothers
"Surely, though," drawled the voice of Nimaran, "I would consider you lucky if the Gondorians did not siimply decide to shoot you down at the gates —"
"You would be shot down, for you are too fat and slow-witted even to avoid the coarse crossbow bolts of Men," Legolas said tightly, and he slowly turned around. "And as for myself, I am a friend of Gondor's King Elessar, and he would not give me anything besides a friend's welcome for me."
Three voices laughed softly in the night — simultaneously - mockingly. "Legolas Greenleaf," they chorused, " do you even know what is happening between the houses of Thranduil and Telcontar at this very moment?"
Two fine black eyebrows lowered themselves, and the lips slowly drained themselves of what scarce color they had.
"What?"
Pause.
Quite suddenly, a flourish of trumpets blared, violently, breaking the still, and hair flew about as all of the four heads whipped about in their direction.
"Dinner banquet!" proclaimed Tirilan, totally disregarding the loose end of the conversation, and the last Legolas saw of them were their retreating backs, ornate robes billowing in the flickering torchlight as they ran back long the pathway.
"See you there, dear Legolas!" Gaerdrin echoed mockingly.
Legolas let out a slow hiss of breath and tilted his chin up. Damn brothers and pompous attitudes, his mind snarled, and slowly, with limbs of lead, he shifted, his back as straight and stiff as a ramrod, and also proceeded to walk up the path, very slowly.
And damn their ridiculous play. Utterly and totally preposterous.
Aragorn is my friend.
Yet, what did Legolas know?
End Part One
A/N: I have only skimmed the Silmarillion and the appendices to LOTR — so if anybody knows for real what the names of Legolas's siblings and relatives are, or how many he has, send it in via review column and I shall be eternally grateful.
Final A/N: Well? I know it has not gotten anywhere, plot-wise — but first chapters are always so. Reviews shall determine whether this continues or not. I just seem to adore the idea of choosing loyalties (and spurning former die-hard friends and even relatives to turn on each other, nay, stab each other in the back). If you like it, tell me, and I shall try to stoke the fire of inspiration inside my head (plus feed my Muse). And at the request of my readersin a few days, this fic shall either be updated, or it shall be deleted from Fanfiction.Net. Good day to you all, and Namarië ~ Verok.