14
King Elrond was relaxing in his private chambers, warming himself by the fire and enjoying a goblet of amber mead when the door burst open, and a sweat-soaked, blood-stained elf ran inside.
"Your Majesty, your Majesty," he panted, forgetting to bow in his haste, "Lady Saryn has escaped!"
"What?" he breathed, unwilling to believe it. The goblet he had been holding slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the stone floor, splashing his wine robes with the cold liquid.
"It is so, sir," confirmed the breathless messenger. "She escaped and locked her guard in the tower. We tried to recapture her, but she and Telvryn resisted, wounding nearly a dozen men and killing six horses before they fled."
"Are any of the wounds fatal?" he asked sharply, pacing rapidly back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back.
"No sir, but they have taken one of our number," he answered.
"Who?" he queried, head snapping up.
"A young sentry named Cerek Blackbark. She wounded him in the neck, and when he fell, she placed him upon her horse and fled from the city on foot. Shall I organize a search party, sire? he said, already turning to give the expected order.
"No," he said.
The messenger slowly turned to face the king again, his eyes as round as pie plates. "No, sire?" he repeated, not sure he understood.
"No. That will not be necessary."
"But your Highness," he spluttered, "they have taken Cerek. If they are mad enough to oppose their own kind, surely he is in mortal danger!"
"Do you think I have taken leave of my senses since you entered my chambers, young one?" he thundered, unaccustomed to being questioned.
"Of course not, sire," he said, realizing his mistake, "but I do not understand why we do not act."
"Use you head for but a moment. It is obvious she has no intention of killing Cerek. If that were what she desired, she would have left him where he lay. Furthermore, even if that were her intent, it is not so simple a matter as hunting her down like a common dog. She is Lady Saryn, wife of Prince Legolas, and she carries his child. Though I suspect it would not much displease King Thranduil if we were to kill her, it would be quite a blow for Legolas, one I do not intend to inflict. No, this must be handled with much prudence. I must think. Is there anything else to report?" He looked intently at the by now flummoxed messenger.
"Yes. She left this," he said, holding out the blood-spattered parchment.
The king took it but did not read. Thank you, you may go," he said, suddenly feeling very tired.
He waited until the bewildered sentry had gone before unfolding the letter. His thin lips twitched in a wry smile as he read it. Ah, Legolas, how well you have chosen, he thought, absently, refolding it and tucking it inside his robes. For you, she would shed the blood of her own people. She would sacrifice a thousand lives, not all of them her own to protect you. His thoughts turned to Saryn. And you…what a firebrand you have become. You have exceeded all my expectations. You know yourself so well, yet not at all. Dare I turn your world upside down with the truth?
He stared into the flames, seeking an answer from their burning, wagging tongues. None came. A memory rose unbidden in his mind. An elven infant placed atop a merchant's cart in the driving rain, her stricken wails piercing the night air-
He pushed the image away with an effort. It would not do to think of that now. He needed counsel. He scoffed to himself at the irony of it. He, Elrond, wise counselor to all, needed advice. To whom could he turn? Galadriel. Yes. She would know what to do. He whirled and called out, "Guard."
The door opened, and the guard entered, bowing. "Yes, my lord?"
"Prepare my horse. Tonight I ride for Lothlorien."
15
Legolas squatted serenely beside the fire, savoring the beauty of the sunrise. The soft shafts of sunlight reflected off the morning dew, making it look as though the ground had been strewn with burnished quartz. The pleasant, oily smell of frying sausage filled his nostrils. Three days after King Elrond's unexpected and secret departure from Rivendell and one day before his determined wife would set foot in the Bog of Basylis, the fellowship was encamped at the crossroads to Lothlorien. Today they must choose the path they would take. As always the hobbits were busily cooking breakfast.
"Sausage, Master Legolas?" asked Sam agreeably, holding out a fat link.
"No. Animal flesh displeases me. I much prefer the luscious browned tomatoes you have there," he answered.
"Ah, Master Legolas, you have fine judgment!" cried Sam, handing him half a dozen of the slightly crispy slices.
Legolas smiled, popping one into his mouth. The browned outer skin dissolved in his mouth, leaving the juicy inner pulp. He rolled it across his tongue, relishing the sweet tang. "Wonderful, Sam," he said approvingly.
The jovial hobbit beamed with pride. He began to hum as he worked. Legolas watched the other party members as they went about their morning rituals. Boromir, as was his custom, was brooding sullenly in the corner. Gimli sat polishing his axe. The hobbits were still attacking humble Sam's offerings with gusto, and Gandalf sat meditatively smoking his pipe. His keen eyes noticed a member of their company was nowhere to be found. "Sam, where is Strider?" he asked.
"Oh, he went off early this morning to scout the area, see if there were any orcs about. You know how he is," Sam answered casually, concentrating on not burning Frodo's third helping of toast.
Legolas nodded. He knew exactly how Strider was. Aloof and brooding, he rarely spoke, excellent traits for the nomadic, elusive Rangers he supposed. Everyone knew his true identity as Aragorn, heir to the man-king Isildur, but it was not a name he was willing to claim. Pursued by his emotional demons, he was ever-vigilant against real ones. Legolas often wondered if he slept at all. He'd noticed him more than once prowling the campsite in the dead of night, searching for intruders. He was a fierce and proud man, one he was glad to have as an ally.
As if summoned by Legolas' thoughts, Strider appeared from behind an outcropping. His hair was tousled and full of nettles. "There are no orcs about," he declared, coming to stand beside the cooking fire.
"Ah, splendid," said Gandalf, rising to his feet. "Now that you're here, we can come to a decision about the path we should take."
The fellowship gathered in a loose circle to debate the issue.
"I suggest we take the mountain trail. The mountain is so treacherous and inhospitable that no orc would dare attempt it," said Gandalf.
"What?" said Boromir, flabbergasted. "That is a journey of eighty days. We have no time to waste. While we struggle against the mountain, Sauron will be orchestrating our end. Why not take the southern trail? We could reach Lothlorien in a mere thirteen days. Surely that is the better way."
"No," said Gandalf vehemently, "Now that Isengard and Saruman have betrayed us, the southern passage will be crawling with his spies as well as orcs. It is too dangerous. The mountain is our only choice."
"I agree with Gandalf," said Frodo in his small, timid voice.
"What a surprise," muttered Boromir under his breath. Frodo blushed furiously but said nothing.
"What about the mines of Moria?" Gimli spoke up, prompting everyone to turn his way. Seeing he had everyone's attention, he continued. "We could reach the outskirts of Lothlorien in just four days," he explained, growing more excited as he spoke, "and my cousin, Balin, is lord of the great underground city. We could enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves before resuming our journey."
"No," responded Gandalf flatly, all the color draining from his face. "I would not venture into that place for all the money in the world."
"Why?" said Legolas, his curiosity piqued.
"Some things are better left undisturbed," he replied harshly and turned away. The matter was no longer up for discussion. Up the mountain they went.
Mount Cadharas was a craggy, snow-covered peak towering eighty- thousand feet into the sky. Its howling, cutting winds had frozen many an unwary traveler to death, and yet, as he climbed, Legolas could not help but feel exhilarated. Here was a place unspoiled by the hands of man or dwarf or elf. The cold air that entered his lungs and re-emerged in a bright white plume was pure and clean, invigorating his rapidly numbing limbs. The snow, unmarred by dirt or fire smoke, was so pristine he had to squint against its brightness. Its beauty swelled his heart in momentary gladness, and he burst into song.
"I see you're feeling much better about our journey, young master elf," grunted Gimli, falling into step beside him. "No longer concerned with the welfare of your wife?"
"I worry for her every waking moment," he replied, growing serious once more. "Each day my longing for her grows greater, but my worry can change nothing. I have resolved to dedicate myself to this quest so that I may return to her all the faster. She is safe in our bower, and I have confidence she will remain so until I return."
"That is the first sensible thing I've heard you utter, master elf," chortled Gimli.
Ignorant of the fact that his wife was anything but safe, he continued up the trail, nimble feet dancing lightly over the soft-packed snow. So light were his steps that he left no footprints. Behind him, his companions were not so lucky. They stumbled and slogged through the knee- deep snow, the unfortunate hobbits tripping incessantly over their large, cumbersome feet. Every few paces, they would misstep and fall face first into the blanket of white, spluttering and flailing to right themselves again.
Looking back, Legolas would tell himself later, it was inevitable that things happened the way they did. No one was particularly troubled when Frodo stumbled and tumbled backward down the slope because he'd done it several times already. No one even looked around. Then his sensitive ears heard the sharp gasp of horror.
Turning, he saw the red-cheeked hobbit sprawled in the thick snow. His small hand was groping about his slender neck, and for a moment he couldn't understand why. Then he saw that Frodo's large blue eyes were riveted to something a few feet away. He followed his gaze. The chain that held the Ring glittered in the snow. It had broken in the fall and now lay like a dead snake on the ground. Instinctively, Legolas reached for it, but Boromir was closer. He scooped it up and dangled the chain loosely from his fingertips.
Everyone froze to watch what would happen next. Legolas suddenly felt like he was breathing through electrified cotton.
"Strange that so much care and worry should be bound up in such a small thing," whispered Boromir to himself. His dark eyes bore into the deceptively simple ring he held in front of him like steel rivets.
"Boromir," Strider said in a commanding voice, "give the Ring to Frodo." Legolas noted with no great surprise that his hand had moved to the hilt of his sword.
Boromir did not move. He was a statue, rooted to the spot and murmuring secretively to himself. In his eyes, Legolas could see the same cold greed he'd seen at the council, and the same thought he'd had then returned to his mind. He is the weak link among us. His right hand strayed unconsciously to his bow.
"Boromir," Strider repeated more loudly, his hand tightening on his sword, "give the Ring to Frodo."
This time Boromir flinched as though he were coming out of a daze. "Oh….yes, of course," he said. He flashed a feeble smile, but the smile did not reach his eyes. Greed still festered there, an infection in his soul that was simply biding its time. He marched woodenly across the snow and dropped the chain into Frodo's outstretched hand. Only then did Strider relax his grip on his sword. "I care not." He barked a hollow laugh and sauntered away.
But Legolas knew he was lying. He did care. Quite a bit, in fact. He needed to be watched. Closely.
King Elrond was relaxing in his private chambers, warming himself by the fire and enjoying a goblet of amber mead when the door burst open, and a sweat-soaked, blood-stained elf ran inside.
"Your Majesty, your Majesty," he panted, forgetting to bow in his haste, "Lady Saryn has escaped!"
"What?" he breathed, unwilling to believe it. The goblet he had been holding slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the stone floor, splashing his wine robes with the cold liquid.
"It is so, sir," confirmed the breathless messenger. "She escaped and locked her guard in the tower. We tried to recapture her, but she and Telvryn resisted, wounding nearly a dozen men and killing six horses before they fled."
"Are any of the wounds fatal?" he asked sharply, pacing rapidly back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back.
"No sir, but they have taken one of our number," he answered.
"Who?" he queried, head snapping up.
"A young sentry named Cerek Blackbark. She wounded him in the neck, and when he fell, she placed him upon her horse and fled from the city on foot. Shall I organize a search party, sire? he said, already turning to give the expected order.
"No," he said.
The messenger slowly turned to face the king again, his eyes as round as pie plates. "No, sire?" he repeated, not sure he understood.
"No. That will not be necessary."
"But your Highness," he spluttered, "they have taken Cerek. If they are mad enough to oppose their own kind, surely he is in mortal danger!"
"Do you think I have taken leave of my senses since you entered my chambers, young one?" he thundered, unaccustomed to being questioned.
"Of course not, sire," he said, realizing his mistake, "but I do not understand why we do not act."
"Use you head for but a moment. It is obvious she has no intention of killing Cerek. If that were what she desired, she would have left him where he lay. Furthermore, even if that were her intent, it is not so simple a matter as hunting her down like a common dog. She is Lady Saryn, wife of Prince Legolas, and she carries his child. Though I suspect it would not much displease King Thranduil if we were to kill her, it would be quite a blow for Legolas, one I do not intend to inflict. No, this must be handled with much prudence. I must think. Is there anything else to report?" He looked intently at the by now flummoxed messenger.
"Yes. She left this," he said, holding out the blood-spattered parchment.
The king took it but did not read. Thank you, you may go," he said, suddenly feeling very tired.
He waited until the bewildered sentry had gone before unfolding the letter. His thin lips twitched in a wry smile as he read it. Ah, Legolas, how well you have chosen, he thought, absently, refolding it and tucking it inside his robes. For you, she would shed the blood of her own people. She would sacrifice a thousand lives, not all of them her own to protect you. His thoughts turned to Saryn. And you…what a firebrand you have become. You have exceeded all my expectations. You know yourself so well, yet not at all. Dare I turn your world upside down with the truth?
He stared into the flames, seeking an answer from their burning, wagging tongues. None came. A memory rose unbidden in his mind. An elven infant placed atop a merchant's cart in the driving rain, her stricken wails piercing the night air-
He pushed the image away with an effort. It would not do to think of that now. He needed counsel. He scoffed to himself at the irony of it. He, Elrond, wise counselor to all, needed advice. To whom could he turn? Galadriel. Yes. She would know what to do. He whirled and called out, "Guard."
The door opened, and the guard entered, bowing. "Yes, my lord?"
"Prepare my horse. Tonight I ride for Lothlorien."
15
Legolas squatted serenely beside the fire, savoring the beauty of the sunrise. The soft shafts of sunlight reflected off the morning dew, making it look as though the ground had been strewn with burnished quartz. The pleasant, oily smell of frying sausage filled his nostrils. Three days after King Elrond's unexpected and secret departure from Rivendell and one day before his determined wife would set foot in the Bog of Basylis, the fellowship was encamped at the crossroads to Lothlorien. Today they must choose the path they would take. As always the hobbits were busily cooking breakfast.
"Sausage, Master Legolas?" asked Sam agreeably, holding out a fat link.
"No. Animal flesh displeases me. I much prefer the luscious browned tomatoes you have there," he answered.
"Ah, Master Legolas, you have fine judgment!" cried Sam, handing him half a dozen of the slightly crispy slices.
Legolas smiled, popping one into his mouth. The browned outer skin dissolved in his mouth, leaving the juicy inner pulp. He rolled it across his tongue, relishing the sweet tang. "Wonderful, Sam," he said approvingly.
The jovial hobbit beamed with pride. He began to hum as he worked. Legolas watched the other party members as they went about their morning rituals. Boromir, as was his custom, was brooding sullenly in the corner. Gimli sat polishing his axe. The hobbits were still attacking humble Sam's offerings with gusto, and Gandalf sat meditatively smoking his pipe. His keen eyes noticed a member of their company was nowhere to be found. "Sam, where is Strider?" he asked.
"Oh, he went off early this morning to scout the area, see if there were any orcs about. You know how he is," Sam answered casually, concentrating on not burning Frodo's third helping of toast.
Legolas nodded. He knew exactly how Strider was. Aloof and brooding, he rarely spoke, excellent traits for the nomadic, elusive Rangers he supposed. Everyone knew his true identity as Aragorn, heir to the man-king Isildur, but it was not a name he was willing to claim. Pursued by his emotional demons, he was ever-vigilant against real ones. Legolas often wondered if he slept at all. He'd noticed him more than once prowling the campsite in the dead of night, searching for intruders. He was a fierce and proud man, one he was glad to have as an ally.
As if summoned by Legolas' thoughts, Strider appeared from behind an outcropping. His hair was tousled and full of nettles. "There are no orcs about," he declared, coming to stand beside the cooking fire.
"Ah, splendid," said Gandalf, rising to his feet. "Now that you're here, we can come to a decision about the path we should take."
The fellowship gathered in a loose circle to debate the issue.
"I suggest we take the mountain trail. The mountain is so treacherous and inhospitable that no orc would dare attempt it," said Gandalf.
"What?" said Boromir, flabbergasted. "That is a journey of eighty days. We have no time to waste. While we struggle against the mountain, Sauron will be orchestrating our end. Why not take the southern trail? We could reach Lothlorien in a mere thirteen days. Surely that is the better way."
"No," said Gandalf vehemently, "Now that Isengard and Saruman have betrayed us, the southern passage will be crawling with his spies as well as orcs. It is too dangerous. The mountain is our only choice."
"I agree with Gandalf," said Frodo in his small, timid voice.
"What a surprise," muttered Boromir under his breath. Frodo blushed furiously but said nothing.
"What about the mines of Moria?" Gimli spoke up, prompting everyone to turn his way. Seeing he had everyone's attention, he continued. "We could reach the outskirts of Lothlorien in just four days," he explained, growing more excited as he spoke, "and my cousin, Balin, is lord of the great underground city. We could enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves before resuming our journey."
"No," responded Gandalf flatly, all the color draining from his face. "I would not venture into that place for all the money in the world."
"Why?" said Legolas, his curiosity piqued.
"Some things are better left undisturbed," he replied harshly and turned away. The matter was no longer up for discussion. Up the mountain they went.
Mount Cadharas was a craggy, snow-covered peak towering eighty- thousand feet into the sky. Its howling, cutting winds had frozen many an unwary traveler to death, and yet, as he climbed, Legolas could not help but feel exhilarated. Here was a place unspoiled by the hands of man or dwarf or elf. The cold air that entered his lungs and re-emerged in a bright white plume was pure and clean, invigorating his rapidly numbing limbs. The snow, unmarred by dirt or fire smoke, was so pristine he had to squint against its brightness. Its beauty swelled his heart in momentary gladness, and he burst into song.
"I see you're feeling much better about our journey, young master elf," grunted Gimli, falling into step beside him. "No longer concerned with the welfare of your wife?"
"I worry for her every waking moment," he replied, growing serious once more. "Each day my longing for her grows greater, but my worry can change nothing. I have resolved to dedicate myself to this quest so that I may return to her all the faster. She is safe in our bower, and I have confidence she will remain so until I return."
"That is the first sensible thing I've heard you utter, master elf," chortled Gimli.
Ignorant of the fact that his wife was anything but safe, he continued up the trail, nimble feet dancing lightly over the soft-packed snow. So light were his steps that he left no footprints. Behind him, his companions were not so lucky. They stumbled and slogged through the knee- deep snow, the unfortunate hobbits tripping incessantly over their large, cumbersome feet. Every few paces, they would misstep and fall face first into the blanket of white, spluttering and flailing to right themselves again.
Looking back, Legolas would tell himself later, it was inevitable that things happened the way they did. No one was particularly troubled when Frodo stumbled and tumbled backward down the slope because he'd done it several times already. No one even looked around. Then his sensitive ears heard the sharp gasp of horror.
Turning, he saw the red-cheeked hobbit sprawled in the thick snow. His small hand was groping about his slender neck, and for a moment he couldn't understand why. Then he saw that Frodo's large blue eyes were riveted to something a few feet away. He followed his gaze. The chain that held the Ring glittered in the snow. It had broken in the fall and now lay like a dead snake on the ground. Instinctively, Legolas reached for it, but Boromir was closer. He scooped it up and dangled the chain loosely from his fingertips.
Everyone froze to watch what would happen next. Legolas suddenly felt like he was breathing through electrified cotton.
"Strange that so much care and worry should be bound up in such a small thing," whispered Boromir to himself. His dark eyes bore into the deceptively simple ring he held in front of him like steel rivets.
"Boromir," Strider said in a commanding voice, "give the Ring to Frodo." Legolas noted with no great surprise that his hand had moved to the hilt of his sword.
Boromir did not move. He was a statue, rooted to the spot and murmuring secretively to himself. In his eyes, Legolas could see the same cold greed he'd seen at the council, and the same thought he'd had then returned to his mind. He is the weak link among us. His right hand strayed unconsciously to his bow.
"Boromir," Strider repeated more loudly, his hand tightening on his sword, "give the Ring to Frodo."
This time Boromir flinched as though he were coming out of a daze. "Oh….yes, of course," he said. He flashed a feeble smile, but the smile did not reach his eyes. Greed still festered there, an infection in his soul that was simply biding its time. He marched woodenly across the snow and dropped the chain into Frodo's outstretched hand. Only then did Strider relax his grip on his sword. "I care not." He barked a hollow laugh and sauntered away.
But Legolas knew he was lying. He did care. Quite a bit, in fact. He needed to be watched. Closely.