SUMMONINGS
„Misty tales and poems lost
All the bliss and beauty
will be gone.
Will my weary soul find release
for a while
At the moment of death
I will smile.
It's the triumph of shame and disease
in the end"
„And then there was silence" by "Blind Guardian"
I.
Neither Mardin nor Elrond had to search for a confrontation, when morning dawned, for it appeared in its own right, when both elves, anxious to speak each other, finally met; Mardin with the grim resolution to content himself with nothing less than Legolas´ release; and Elrond with pride on his tongue and desperation in his heart.
They met in Elrond´s private rooms, where Mardin had burst in without even bothering to knock. Obviously he´d not been detained, most likely due to his determinate pace, or the threat of violence on his face. The fact that he'd come thus far unhindered didn't escape Elrond's notice; leaving him partly angry, partly anxious.
Yes, for a moment he felt a touch of anxiety, how easy it had been for the wood elf – fully armed - to get to the heart of Rivendell. Never had he felt like this before, fearing and mistrusting another elf, but Saruman´s dark words had embedded themselves deeply in his subconscious mind : "Greenleaf knows his way around Rivendell… Poison is a treacherous weapon... he might seek revenge..."
Elrond nipped his anger about Mardin´s informal entrance in the bud. He was beyond such profanities now. What was more: One couldn't really expect formal manners from a wood elf anyway, when not even their king…
But Thranduil had perished, was gone like the most of his men. Elrond felt his throat tighten, realising once more how hard, and unexpected, the fall of the Mirkwood had hit the entire elvish people. How he wished that Thranduil, loud and far from diplomatic, but with his heart on the right spot, was here right now – all those misunderstandings among them would have been cleared in no time, by a good vintage!
But Thranduil was past, and his, Elrond´s, sorrows had to concern the living.
Belatedly Elrond finally rose; and shortly nodded his head into the direction of the wood elf. Mardin repeated his gesture. The look in his eyes was full of pride, and he seemed far from intimidated, thus proving quite some composure; for he too had to be on the edge, alone and in the lion's den. Most likely he hadn´t slept much the last few days, although he knew to hide it quite well.
The wood elf had almost sprung to attention, like an officer, taking orders from another, higher ranking officer.
Elrond chose to interpret his opponent's attitude as a sign of respect, while admitting to himself, although somewhat reluctantly, that he actually did respect the old war-horse from the Mirkwood, the elf which once had been one of Thranduil´s closest confidants, too. The sly fox had seen a lot – perhaps as much as Elrond had – so that only few things, good and evil, still had the force to shatter his stoicism; and Elrond knew instinctively, with a silent feeling of loss; that they could have been friends, under other circumstances.
So they stood, face to face, both of them characteristically for their people, Elrond composed, controlled, imprisoned by his responsibility, punished with wisdom and clairvoyance; and Mardin, proud, valiant, brave, skilled in the use of arms and equipped with the sure instincts life as a hunter brought with it inevitably.
Mardin was the first to interrupt the heavy silence hanging between them.
"You know why I´m here." he said, his voice ringing out demure, and almost metallic. "I´m here to demand the release of my… our king, Legolas Greenleaf, in the name of my people."
"Then you ask for the release of a presumed poisoner." Elrond answered, dryly.
Mardin´s eyes flashed angrily, his shoulders tautened; while Elrond lifted his chin. For a moment the wood elf seemed tempted to blurt out with wild accusations and a fit of anger; saying that these "poisoners" surely were to be found elsewhere, but he swallowed all those bitter words on the tip of his tongue, in less than a wink, and answered: "It's always been the privilege of each people to judge it's criminals themselves. For ages we, the wood elves, have exercised this right, in the forests of the Mirkwood. Why do you try to hinder us now in doing so? Hand Legolas Greenleaf over to us; and we will sit in judgement on him. If we find him guilty of the murder of his brother..."
"All signs indicate that..." Elrond said, but then he broke off with a small sigh. If Mardin could keep his wits about him; despite his now barely controlled anger; he, Elrond, surely could do the same.
Behind them a door fell silently.
Elrond looked up, straight into Mardin's face. "Very well then," he said. "I'm willing to submit myself to your laws and tradi..".
"Lord Elrond!" a voice, young, breathless and pressed, coming from the door interrupted him.
Elrond, rather angrily, turned, as did Mardin. The wood elf´s face was stoical, as usual, but he carefully brought his hands into the height of his hips. Although it most likely was an instinctive gesture, it plainly betrayed that he'd noticed the haunted expression of the palace guard interrupting their conversation all too well.
The guard was still young. His chest rose and fell as if he had run, and he had hectic reddish spots on his normally pale face.
"Lord Elrond.." the elf repeated, for the third time now; and took a deep breath.
"Speak!" the elven king said, and it sounded sharper than he'd wanted it to sound. The guard involuntary stood at attention, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed it again.
"Sir!" All his insecurity, and frustration, lay in this one word. His gaze flew over to Mardin, then instantly back on Elrond. The wood elf warrior took a step closer. Instinctively Elrond blocked his way by gripping the young soldier's arm.
"Speak!" he repeated his previous command, calmer now, almost resigned, for his accurate, experienced instincts gave him ample warnings that he was about to precipitate a catastrophe. A catastrophe with no foreseeable consequences.
Again the palace guardian threw a timorous glance first at Mardin, then at Elrond, before he finally whispered: "The prisoner... Legolas Greenleaf...he's poisoned himself. They're fighting for his life right now. You might want to have a look after him as well.." He broke off, even paler than before, noticing Elrond's expression; and silently hung his head. Most likely he wished himself, like every messenger of bad news did, miles and miles away.
"Legolas poisoned." Mardin repeated sharply, his voice barely above a whisper.
The guard nodded his head unhappily.
"They're fighting for his life right now." Mardin continued, his voice still not louder than the whisper of a soft summer wind, but there was anger resounding in it, seething and intense like a volcano instantly before it's outbreak.
Elrond turned to face Mardin, his hands spread out in a defensive gesture, but Mardin shrank back from him, face distorted in abhorrence, his anger now unveiled and overwhelming.
"So you're fighting for his life, aren't you?" the wood elf jeered.
Elrond dropped his hands. Mardin's words echoed in his head, and their derision deeply ate into his heart.
Only now he began to understand the extent of the rage that was seething in the wood elves, poisoning their minds as well as their hearts, and only now he started to comprehend what they really thought.
"But Greenleaf is still alive!" the messenger said, having followed the exchange of words nervously.
"They have brought him to his brother, Elwyne, and our healers, and Gandalf, are taking care of him... perhaps..." The expression on his face belied his optimistic words.
Mardin hissed; it was a sound filled with hate. "You´ve not even handed us over the body of our fallen king," he said, and it sounded sad, and angry, at the same time. "Did you secretly fear the discovery of your own misdeeds that have led to our king´s death?"
The wood elf shrank back, seemingly aghast at his own words, just after he´d said them, but still, they had been spoken; and now there was no way to take them back again.
Elrond winced at them as if he´d been hit. He would have laughed at such wild accusations, normally, for they had been spoken in an uncontrolled emotional release, far from anything that was reasonable or proven. He would have laughed at them, normally, if he hadn´t known for sure that Mardin´s words just mirrored what the majority of the wood elves was thinking. That he´d killed Elwyne Greenleaf, and now was trying to do the same with his brother, Legolas, to gain the dominion over what was left of the wood elves´people, and treasures.
"Elwyne isn't dead," he then said gravely, knowing very well that by saying so he would either save the day, or turn a bad situation into a hopeless one. "He´s in our custody."
Mardin just stared at him, eyes wide open, dumbstruck. His jaw worked.
"He's been poisoned, and he is still very ill. Our healers hope that total isolation will save his life. At least there will be no second murderous attempt on him, as long as everyone believes him dead. That´s why…"
Elrond´s words had come in a rush; as he frantically tried to explain himself, but then, when he noticed his opponent´s expression, he broke off; and fell silent.
Mardin still just stared at him. There was a strange light in his eyes. "Hand them over to us, both of them." he finally said. He said it as if it were difficult for him to speak.
„They wrestle with death!" Elrond hadn't wanted to raise his voice, but he felt that he was loosing control; over himself, the damned wood elf in front of him, and the whole situation. Everything in his head had started to spin, had turned into a wild maelstrom of emotions, rage and fears, threatening to drag him under, merciless, into his dark depths. Again, an invisible demon seemed to dig its claws deep into his brain, painful and far worse than ever before, perturbing his senses, until thinking indeed seemed too big an effort.
"Don´t you think that Gandalf and my healers are more likely to find a cure for them as you will?" The latter he managed to say only in a whisper.
"You´ve done enough for us." The despise, the hate in Mardin´s face was difficult to bear. The wood elf seemed to have understood nothing of what Elrond had said, or felt right now, captured in his own rage, his own pain, the elven king could even understand him.
In the beginning, after the destruction of the Mirkwood, the survivors of Thranduil´s people had searched shelter in their hate of the orcs, to get over the horrible things that had befallen them; to cloud their sadness until they were finally ready to face the truth, and to grieve.
Now, when they had been confronted with the fact that the popular and beloved son of their perished king most likely was a monster, a murderer, they reacted exactly the same way, turning their grief over the loss of their ideals concerning the royal family into hate. Into concentrated hate on the Rivendell elves and their leader, which was to blame for the downfall of their king as well as for Legolas´ poisoning, at least in their eyes. It was that hate which forced Elrond to fall silent.
He didn´t move when Mardin finally, menacingly said: "I won´t repeat my demands, and no wood elf will be trying to come to terms with you a single second longer, Lord Elrond. All attempts to do so seem to be doomed. We´ll leave Rivendell forever with Elwyne and Legolas Greenleaf. Nothing that you´ll say or do will keep us from doing so, unless you´re planning to kill us all." Then he turned, infuriatingly slow, as if he was daring Elrond to try and hold him back, and left.
Elrond did not move.
II.
His demon was much nearer than the elven king suspected; and far too real. He lurked before Elrond´s private room; ready to sow the last seed of poison into the hearts of the wood elves; since the moment the sad news of the poisoning of Thranduil´s youngest son had been reported to him.
Of course an apprehensive wizard had hurried to the hastily arranged sick bed of the elf, face cavernous, his eyes reddish – out of sorrow, as Gandalf and the healers did interpret, or misinterpret it, for they were the signs of a sleepless night, which Saruman had spent in a rush of eager anticipation and impatience. With malicious gloating he´d observed Gandalf, while the old fool was trying to stabilise the waning marrow of the elf. His efforts would be in vain; that much was easily to predict.
Elrond had not even been notified of Greenleaf´s critical state when a messenger, looking for the king, had burst in, announcing the arrival of an enraged, and armed wood elf. When the messenger had left the sick room, in which a dozen people now had gathered, still in search of Elrond, Saruman had followed him, only moments later, knowing that an opportunity had been afforded to him that would allow him –with some luck – to put one last wedge between the wood- and the Rivendell elves.
The one which would drive them to war.
He was proven correct.
With the sleepwalking security of an experienced intriguer he chose exactly the right moment to leave the niche he´d been hidden in thus far, in front of Elrond´s private rooms, and he was wearing exactly the right air, a mixture of disheartenment and resignation, to casually collide with the retreating wood elf.
Mardin shrank back as if he´d been burned. For a moment his face mirrored abhorrence, but the elf had regained his control almost immediately. His eyes searched for Saruman´s face, and there was a silent question in them. Saruman returned the look, trying to hide the antipathy he felt for the old warrior. Then he averted his eyes and shook his head, silently. Mardin drew in a sizzling breath, his eyes widened in horror. He staggered back a step, and then started to pass Saruman, almost running. The wizard´s hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-tracks. "I´m sorry." he said. "Legolas Greenleaf has died this very morning. I fear his brother will follow him to the shadows. Soon." He fell silent, biting his lower lip, to hide the triumphant smile that threatened to creep onto his face.
Hate fell like a curtain over the eyes of the wood elf. He shook off Saruman´s hand.
III.
The wood elves did summon. Some of them were still occupied making some last arrows; others checked their bows and swords on their availability.
But most of them just stood there, waiting silently, their faces solemn and stony, and they offered a fierce, savage sight, standing side by side, row by row, tall, proud figures; and yet a sad one, for if one would have looked at them more closely, one would have noticed that their weapons were sparse and hurriedly made; and that they did not wear anything that was worth being called "armour", apart from their leathery chemises; and not a single wood elf did call a helm it´s own.
Yes, they were armed with nothing but their bows, and their legendary skills with this weapon, and tenacity and anger; and an experienced old fox as their leader.
They were few; and poorly armed; thus resembling tramps more than proud elves – and still every experienced commander of an army would have feared them; them and their desperation, the resignation that could be seen in their eyes and in their every gesture and which they carried in their hearts.
An experienced commander of an army would have recognised them for what they really were: lost souls, root- and homeless, deprived of everything that had been precious to them; and perilous. They were like beasts of prey, trapped in a wolf trap, knowing instinctively that they were lost; and still their nature made them fight to the last; regardless of their own lives, for which they did not see a future anyway.
It was resignation, not pride, which made the wood elves take up their arms,as it would be resignation that would enable them to march against Rivendell in a maddeningly absurd attack – if Elrond indeed would call in his warriors – trying to free the one son of their fallen king which was still alive; and to get hold of the body of the other. And to revenge them both, if everything else would fail.
An experienced commander of an army knew that even blunt weapons were deadly, wielded with resignation.
IV.
A single orc is a pretty ugly matter. Being physically as well as psychically deformed, his limited mind occupies itself only with feeding, fighting and killing, whereby he´ll choose a conspecific as a victim as well as anyone else; if boredom forces him to spoil for a fight.
He´s unreckonable, because he does not calculate much, not in the long run. That's what makes him dangerous; but still if he's on his own, he´s a cowardly figure, attacking from an ambush; and fleeing if his victim struggles too much; or shows its teeth unexpectedly.
An orc will leave his prey to the lion, if he is forced to; then feed on the rest they eventually leave behind.
A group of orcs is something very different. In numbers they have a great deal of courage and strength they lack if left alone.
Orcs in groups attack more openly and even stronger enemies. Their determination has a completely different dimension; for they only falter in their attack if most of them lay dead in their own blood.
A horde of them is dangerous; and their look does not only fill the hearts of the elves with hatred and abhorrence. Even the land feels their foulish presence, groaning and sighing under their footfalls, becoming grey, dark, and stained, and every life still capable of fleeing will desert it.
But most dangerous the orcs are if a mighty and capable mind knows how to direct their brutal force according to his wishes; and to buy their loyalty with promises of rich prey. His fee for such efforts will be a mighty, menacing, and merciless army, a plundering, parching, robbing and killing horde, its look sufficient to bereave even experienced men of their courage. Orcs will turn into a incredibly mighty weapon in the hands of someone knowing how to use them – and they fitted into Saruman´s hand perfectly well.
V.
The orcs did summon; a black, dark, blood-thirsty horde they were, their armours as wildly conglomerated as their weapons, united only in their impatience, their lust for a fight and their hunger for prey.
They did summon in the north, in the woods, and they were like bloodhounds on the first hunt after a long idle winter, slobbering and panting, tearing at their chains, when the rush of a chivvy once again did infatuate their senses.
VI.
Elrond stood on the front terrace of his house and watched the deployment of a battalion of his most skilled warriors with silent resignation. They offered a beautiful and proud sight, with their glistening gold and silver armours, their helms, and their masterly produced weapons. They acted disciplined and watchful, and they were commanded by capable officers, but, unbeknown to them, they had a wavering leader.
Yes, he, Elrond, was wavering – something that not even the king's worst enemies would have accused him of in the past – and unsure of what was to be done next; a hesitance that paralysed his mind, thus keeping him from acting, and which, as he secretly feared, was also conferred to the other Rivendell elves.
It was costly, his hesitance, for time wore away mercilessly, painfully fast like the first hours of amorousness, time he surely would miss later, trying to keep the wood elves from their desperate acts.
Deep inside he knew. He could even comprehend the wood elves' anger, and their rage, after having heard Mardin's accusation; knowing very well now how the news of Elwyne´s imprisonment and Legolas' arresting – and poisoning - must have affected them.
He´d not wanted to call up soldiers, but his counsellors had had a different opinion. Albeit Elrond was still willing to spare the wood elves under all circumstances; he could not – and would not – have his own way at the expense of his people.
His gaze wandered back to the warriors which now guarded his house; and all other houses in Rivendell. "Perhaps…" he reflected, "…their martial sight will be enough to discourage the wood elves. Even they will have to accept that they are no match for us – if were are determined to resist their intrusion." His intellect still clang at such reasonable thoughts. His instincts said something different.
Then the messenger he´d sent a few minutes ago was finally back. Elrond acknowledged the elf's respectful greeting, and then asked without transition: "Did you find Aragorn; and my daughter?"
The messenger shook his head.
„They took two horses out of the stables yesterday, the late morning, and rode away. They didn't leave a message, and their whereabouts are unknown." he said; and turned his gaze to the floor.
"They have left yesterday morning." Elrond repeated, thoughtfully, self-absorbed; and the messenger mutely nodded and carefully avoided the king's questioning glance, as if he didn´t want to see the painful trait that had formed around his king´s eyes. Then, when Elrond seemed not willing to say anything further, he bowed, and withdrew.
Elrond turned around to look over Rivendell once more. Once more he felt like being caught in ice, for he was freezing, freezing to the marrow, even though the spring sun had found back to it's old forces; and he felt alone, very much so.
In an almost physical effort Elrond tried to rouse the army leader inside him, the determinate, merciless strategist which moved his soldiers like men on a chessboard; the one which would stand victorious, at the end of the game, after all moves had been made, the one which had managed to preserve most of his pawns, and knights, and towers.
The sun was warming his face while he gradually realised that he lacked the strength he was desperately searching for.
And finally, with a vague feeling of loss, Elrond suddenly knew what was missing. The wood elves had lost their king, that much was undeniable, but his starting point was no better, for he lacked his queen; and a knight. The realisation came almost painful: His chessmen in this game were positioned wrongly, completely wrongly, and he, the king, was uncovered.
Elrond feared the start of the game.
VII.
He didn´t know how long he´d stood there, blinking into the sun that shone over Rivendell. All he knew was that he suddenly felt a presence behind him; a presence of someone he had not heard coming. "May I have a talk with you." Gandalf´s agreeable voice interrupted his black thoughts, and the elven king mutely nodded. He did not even need to turn around and take a look at Gandalf´s face to know that it were no idle matters his old advisor and friend wanted to discuss with him, for he could feel the distress the old wizard radiated, thus mirroring his own feelings. Gandalf looked over his shoulders, as if he was searching for something, or someone.
"Very well then." He cryptically said. "Let´s go somewhere private."
VIII.
With his thumb Saruman softly, abstractedly, caressed the feathers of the black bird with the knowing little eyes. The screeker instantly hacked at his finger, inflicting him a small, bleeding wound. The wizard ignored the pain, most likely didn´t even feel it; for physical pains did not bother him, now, in the rush of his success, now, that Elrond's ring was at arms length to him.
„The wood elves are prepared and ready to attack..." he repeated the words of his dark spy. „They summon in the north, where the forests of Rivendell are dark and thick; and carelessly observed."
An evil smile was on his thin lips when he remembered the hate he'd read in Mardin´s eyes; after telling him about Legolas' death. The elf hadn't doubted his words, not even for a second - just as little he´d doubted that Elrond indeed had disposed of Greenleaf´s brother.
It was very convenient that the elves did trust more in him than they had ever trusted each other…
Well, he´d sown his evil seed; and soon it was ready to be harvested, for he knew for sure now that tomorrow the wood elves would attack Rivendell; and not only in trying to free Elwyne Greenleaf, but also with the desperate appetence for revenge, revenge for Legolas´ supposed death.
Elrond - which still did underestimate the danger on the part of the wood elves by far – would be caught completely unaware; confronted with the sight of the unleashed wood elves. Had he at least thought of positioning some guards in Rivendell?
Not that it did matter. Even if he would have summoned many soldiers – with what the wood elves would spare, his orcs would have a walk over. As they had had with Thranduil´s people, in the days the Mirkwood was burning.
Venom was penetrating his thoughts like the first sun rays penetrated the morning mist.
"Well, Elrond," he jeered. „Did you ever imagine that things would come so far that you´ll have to position warriors to defend your house against your own kind?
Soon, oh so soon you´ll be forced to watch the downfall of your people; and you will watch helplessly, with no chance to change your fate. Soon you´ll stand in front of the wreckage of your realm, and your life, and then you´ll kneel in front of me, bereft of your arrogance, your pride, your power and your lordlyness; and you´ll kiss your on ring at my finger.
Your downfall will be my raising, when I, Saruman, will declare myself as the new ruler of Rivendell, a triumph that will be the first one among a long row of triumphs, when I finally have all elven rings under my sway. My orcs stand behind me, ranks closed. Where are your friends, now that you need them, Elrond of Rivendell?"
To be continued…
Author's note:
NEW! NEW! NEW! The new chapter of this story has been beta-readed by Elise, also writing for fanfiction.net. I'm truly happy that you didn't spare the effort to read through the whole chapter in such a short time!!!
Well, my story's already quite long… over 60'000 words I guess… and I'm not getting too many reviews (SpaceVixenX and Morloth, do not read this, I'm very happy about your nice comments!!!)… so if there's anyone else out there who has read thus far…. Could you please !!! leave a comment… just "Yep, read it" or "ok" or something like this…
