Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its residents are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit is being made from this tale as is evident by my empty bank accounts.
Thanks again to those that have kept up with the encouragements, and all those who might be silently reading along. I hope you are enjoying the story.
-12-
Creeping Death
His body was failing him, he knew. Whatever grace the Valar bestowed upon him was nearly spent. His ribs ached with a new ferocity as they grated. The fever would claim him soon. Time was running short. With tremendous effort did he fly through the trees, running along the highest branches, swinging to lower when instinct advised. He no longer believed that he would survive the night. Too long had serious injuries remained untended. Too hot did the fever rage through his damaged body. But it was not for himself that he pushed onward. The survival of the elves of Greenwood very possibly rested in his hands. He alone had seen the creatures' lair. He alone had watched as the black army dug trenches that would later serve as graves if the elves attacked.
He had debated his course of action for moments only. He wanted only to reach the king, to tell him everything he'd seen and thought before his body folded in upon itself and gave up the struggle for breath. The most direct route would of course be through the great gates on the southern face of the mountain, which, due to the very large army surrounding it, was quite apparently not an option. All the northern exits had been sealed. He debated heading back into the tunnel through which he'd escaped, but horror at the thought of wandering blind through such evil again quickly had him abandon the notion.
Confused and weary beyond all imagination sent the elf north and away from the enemy force. He would find a way to breech the keep, even if he had to surmount the jagged cliffs to do so. And so he moved with speed and stealth that belied his hurts and did justice to his heritage. When the trees thinned and the soil grew rocky, he jumped from aloft and sprinted across the ground. As the rocks grew thicker, larger, closer to one another, piled high upon each other, he scaled them like mighty stairs, until he could see the valley beyond.
His chest burned and throbbed, the soft tissues surrounding the broken bones in his rib cage obviously torn and frayed beyond all reckoning. His breath came in shallow gusts now and he could hear a slow whistle with each exhalation. He probably punctured something. The metallic taste in the back of his throat grew stronger, and each small cough was wet and warm. Verenaur wiped his lips, his hand sticky with blood. He was not certain how much further he could go. His vision grew blurry now, his mind sluggish. His body was afire, and he shivered constantly in the chill, heavy air.
Blinking furiously at a fixed point at his feet, Verenaur tried to reassert some control over his body. He needed to move on. He lifted his foot to move on when some unknown thing froze him in place. He could not tell why he paused mid-step. He stretched out with all his senses, listening, smelling and staring into the innocuous valley below. Nothing stirred that he could see. Nothing breathed that he could hear. Perhaps the shadow had tricked him again, or the fever had gripped him too tightly. Perhaps his body could go no further.
The thought seemed to sap the last shred of energy from Verenaur and he sat heavily upon the cliff. Breath left his body in a moist hiss as his ribs shifted. The cold of the stone beneath him seeped through the light fabric of his leggings and sent a jolting shiver through his fever torn frame. With a quick glance about, Verenaur decided that here was as good a place as any to lay down for his final rest. He'd fought as long as he could against his inevitable death. Sorrow filled him to bursting, and his eyes leaked the consequences. A leaden hand wiped carelessly at the stray tear then hovered inches from his face as he examined the moisture. So strange a thing, a tear. No rhyme or reason for what should cause them. Thousands of thousands of tears had fallen throughout the ages, each with its own designated purpose. Tears of pain, joy, and sorrow. Probably dozens of reasons, emotions unnamed, pains unuttered, had wrung tears from countless eyes. And to what purpose did this straggler make its trek? What had caused this traitorous thing to pour forth unbidden? Certainly not sorrow for himself. He did not lament his passing. Perhaps he might have hours ago, but that was before he was so wearied. His body begged rest and he could deny it no longer.
Verenaur shifted onto his back to stare into the swirling madness above. No stars to sing to him, to guide him on this final journey. His chest felt constricted, like he'd strapped his quiver too tightly, and this time when the air left his lungs, it did so on a sob. Tiny nerve endings in his face traced the progress of another tear from the corner of his eye down the side of his face, over the delicate curve and taper of his ear before it disappeared from his notice, no doubt falling into the tangled hair beneath. So quickly they vanish. So fleeting.
He turned his head away from the empty sky and gazed out onto the valley below. The sideways perspective calmed him some, the pain receded from him like the tide from the shore, and his breaths came more shallow and less soaked. He faced northeast he knew, and that was both comfort and heartache, for to the northeast lay their new home which he would now never see. He fervently wished that his brother might see it, might dwell there happily within the haven that King Thranduil had carved for them. The thought brought him great peace, and the dying elf smiled.
The shivers ceased despite the cold leaching into his broken body. The dried tear track left a vague itch in its wake, and Verenaur wished to scratch it. Though he tried, his body would not heed his command. A finger might have twitched, but then that might have been a passing fancy of a fevered brain. The body that had served his whims for more than a thousand years now ignored his calls, remained as immobile as the mountains beneath it. His breath faded from him as he cast his gaze outward, focus fraying at the edges until all that remained in the world was his blood filled lungs and a tiny shrub on the valley floor.
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The merry tune that enveloped them all was a stark contrast to the cold, dreary corridor through which they now trudged, yet there was no denying its propriety. Their situation was grave of a certainty. The vast majority of their party was injured, some gravely so, and those that were not were weary from aiding the injured with little or no rest since the start of the attack. Few of them were armed, and even less were trained properly in the arts of war. They had to set a deliberately slow pace as injured elves supported one another in the quest for life and freedom.
Yet hope had been restored to them. Their queen had awoken, had come to them strong in their time of need and saved them from a certain and horrible death. She'd cast off the shadow like a dirty tunic and stood tall and beautiful and impossibly whole in the wake of such evil. Yet whole she remained. Perhaps a bit more than herself, for Legolas thought her more fair now than before. Even now did she lead their charge and song, illuminating their path with her torch and her being.
Legolas assessed his mother from the corner of his eye. Her raving confusion upon waking could have been just that. Yet the urgency of her pleas tugged at his mind. In dulcet tones he asked, "What child, mother?"
The question dragged her from the reverie of her song, immersing her in confusion. It took a moment for her to comprehend the question and another to formulate the response. What child, indeed? She still was not certain why those ancient steel blue, deep set eyes troubled her. Never had she laid eyes upon the dark haired, fair eyed youth, yet visions of him haunted her. "I know not. Only that in him lies great hope." She turned a serious gaze upon her son and said, "Never have I met him, but well do I know him. His steely eyes are brave and sure, but a great uncertainty surrounds him. We must protect him." In the ensuing silence, Legolas wondered how they should protect one they did not know. The thought was idle and easily bypassed by thoughts of one he did not protect.
Ever intuitive, the queen said, "Something presses heavily upon you my son. It is more, I think, than this evil." Legolas began a denial before rethinking it and falling silent. He had no wish to lie to his mother. Nor did he wish to speak of the unbearable guilt that weighed on him. Now that they had left the keep, his abandonment was complete, his betrayal absolute. Verenaur had fallen into shadow and he'd left him behind. The prince's head hung low with shame.
"I left him behind."
Linnaloth turned quizzical green eyes upon him. "Who, dearest?"
"Verenaur." Legolas felt more than saw Luinaur stiffen, but the other elf said nothing. "The ground opened beneath us and we fell. I climbed back out of the chasm. Verenaur did not."
The queen smiled, and Legolas frowned in response. She hadn't known him blinded as she was, but her heart held little doubt that the elf that she'd guided from the darkness was her son's lost friend. With her free hand she took Luinaur's and guided him to her side, between herself and her son and whispered in his ear, "Be at peace, young one. Your brother yet lives."
The makeshift staff that Luinaur had been carrying clattered against the rocky ground as the young elf gaped at the Queen. The entire procession had ceased with the clatter, all attention riveted to the conversation at the head of the procession. Luinaur and Legolas both stared at the Queen, each running through the list of questions in their minds before hurling them at her in a barrage. She held up her hand in a gesture for silence, and both elves quieted themselves. "When the darkness took me, I was neither sleeping nor unconscious. I walked in reverie, though I did not know it at the time. In truth, I'd thought myself dead, trapped in a nightmare. And I suppose I was, in a fashion. But it was not mine alone."
Luinaur's eyes were huge as he listened and he twisted his burned hands together impatiently. Legolas took the burned appendages in hand before his friend could damage himself further, and turned his attention back toward his mother.
"On my sad, lonely path, I met with your brother, though I did not know him at the time. We were of the same mind; his heart was heavy and mind weary. We two were both blind to each other and the world about us, and I think we both were ready to succumb to our woes. But still did I pick him up from the floor and drive him forwards until we came out into the night air." Linnaloth purposely abridged the story, trimming away the more disturbing aspects. Mithrandir had always taught them that the darkness was no place for the telling of evil tales, and the Queen of Greenwood was not one to dismiss great wisdom from great sources. The stories would keep, and probably grow more grand and less horrifying in the retelling. For now they still chilled her blood. "Last I left him up a tree, and then I was myself again and you know the rest."
"This is glad news indeed!" Luinaur cried, tightening his grip on the prince's hands. He beamed at Legolas. "I must admit that I feared the worst for my poor, lost brother. In my worry and grief, I fear I may have wounded you Legolas."
"Nay, mellon," Legolas protested.
"No, I must speak this to you." The earnest tone and expression halted the prince's protestations. Luinaur was never in earnest, for that was almost entirely Verenaur's domain. "Never did, nor would I blame you for my brother's fate. The Shadow that attacks us this night is responsible. Fate is responsible. Not you, my prince."
"'twas I that left him." Legolas choked, hiding his face.
"What could you have done? Could you have found him?"
"I did not even try." Shame sharpened every word, honing them so they pierced Luinaur's heart.
"We left you behind tonight." The burned elf reminded him, touching his bandaged forehead to emphasize the point.
"I told you to do so," the prince defended, not wishing to assuage someone else's guilt while still shouldering his own.
"Do you believe that my brother would have you kill yourself in search of him? What purpose would throwing yourself into a deep pit serve? Other than perhaps advancing the cause of the shadow." Luinaur held the prince's hands firmly, waiting for a response. When the upper lip curved upwards in a sideways smirk, the platinum haired elf knew he'd gotten it.
"Since when do you speak logic? That is always your brother's tactic."
Luinaur sighed theatrically, stooping to reclaim his shoddy weapon. "Well, let us do our best to reclaim him so he can go back to lecturing you while I make faces behind his back." The two friends chuckled merrily while the queen resumed both her singing and procession. The other elves had followed the exchange with their eyes and the song with their hearts as they limped slowly down the passage.
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Thranduil had not thought much on his expectations when he reached the throne room. In truth, thought had not been easy at all. Failure pressed upon him, filled him with great shame. He had failed. His people were leaderless now, undertaking the great pilgrimage alone. That his warriors were well trained was of little consequence to the Elvenking. He was not there to lead them, nor was his family or his most trusted second. They were abandoned.
His family. Greater, more personal shame swelled in Thranduil. His eldest son had been missing for weeks, and the new affront on their home only dimmed Thranduil's hopes that he would ever see Belegalad again. His beloved wife had fallen under some evil spell, and he'd abandoned her to the care of his youngest. He sent them to that throne room believing they would be safest there. Had he kept Legolas by his side….
"Do not do this to yourself, my lord. 'twas neither your fault nor doing." It was mine, Thalgaladh left unsaid, but the king tilted his head at him as though he'd heard the words anyway. A deep sigh was the General's only response as the two approached the Throne room. The heat of the fires that the warriors set behind them warmed their backs as the chilling sight of the final corridor filled their vision.
"Valar." The soft exclamation came from just behind them as one of the warriors caught sight of the carnage strewn hallway.
My sentiments exactly, Thranduil thought, though he remained silent. He turned wide, blue eyes upon the General noting the detached look that arranged the fair features. That his friend was capable of such acts was not surprising to him. He'd fought beside Thalgaladh in many battles, had witnessed first hand his abilities. That his friend had thrown himself into such a fray with no care for his own life did not shock the king. It simply annoyed him.
"Nice work." Thranduil commented, voice pitched for the General's ears alone. A small smirk broke the placid look for a moment.
The king marched to the doors, thumping hard upon them, hearing the chatter of evil spiders beyond. "Would you like us to break it in, my lord," the General asked cautiously. Thalgaladh saw the dread pass over and through the king in a heartbeat just before he slipped a long, thin dagger from some concealed sheath on his person. With an arched brow, Thalgaladh watched as the Elvenking worked the dagger between the wooden doors with all the expertise of a practiced burglar. A swift movement of wrist, and Thalgaladh heard the heavy iron bar crash to the ground on the other side of the doors. The king winked at him, gave him an impish grin before schooling his features back into a kingly guise.
"On my command," Thranduil thundered, and the warriors fell in behind him with bows, swords and torches at the ready.
Thalgaladh stared hard at him for another moment, unblinking, before drawing his sword from its sheath. Thranduil, it seemed, would always be full of surprises. Without a signal between them, the King and General threw open the doors to the room, flaming arrows flying past them to clear their path. The thin dagger had vanished again, replaced by the king's mighty sword, but the sight before them shocked them all into stillness.
Nothing.
There was nothing in the room, save a heavy draping of spider silk. The king scanned the floor and walls, then finally the ceiling only to witness a few infant spiders skittering through the high shafts above. The General stood as thoroughly confused as he'd been when he'd stared into the empty corridor outside the Royal Chambers and turned that confusion toward the king.
"Where is everyone?" The absence of spiders struck him as odd, but the surprise was indeed pleasant. It was the absence of all the elves that had occupied this room that worried him. Perhaps they had disobeyed and headed toward the northern caves before his command? While irritating, the thought was pleasing to him. For if the elves were not here, then they might yet be safe. "Do you think they escaped before the attack?"
The blue eyes that peered back at him danced merrily, for if his suspicions were correct then it boded well indeed for all. "Nay, not before."
"Then where are they?" The General asked, casting darting glances around the room and at each warrior present. They all looked around in confusion, unvoiced questions lingering on their faces. The king's smile remained fixed as he strode to the rear most wall, whispered to it, and watched it slide aside. The way was littered and smeared with pieces of crushed spider and Thranduil exhaled a relief.
Thalgaladh gasped at the revelation of the secret passageway. In all his years of service, he'd had no idea that such a path existed. He stepped besides the king to the astonished 'oohs' and 'aahs' of the warriors, and said, "Why did you never tell me?"
Thranduil's smile was tempered slightly by a creeping sadness. "I'm sorry, my friend. Only Linna, Belegalad and myself know of this pathway. It is a matter of safety and precaution."
The General tried not to bristle under the implications of such a statement. He knew that the king trusted him with his life and more importantly, the lives of his family. Still, it stung that Thranduil could have kept such a thing from him. Stuffing away the injury of it all, Thalgaladh asked, "Not Legolas?"
Thranduil shook his head once. "I had never told him, though I meant to. He was so rarely a fixture in this room that it never occurred to me to tell him of it." The General heard the self deprecation in the king's tone and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Then this means that the queen is conscious once again. That is good news, indeed." He declared, hoping to steer the king from his dark thoughts.
Thranduil smiled at him again, bright as the sun itself. "Aye. Let us hurry after them. They can't be far ahead."
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The time for action was near, it knew, though how it came by such knowledge remained hidden. It did not dwell on the thought as it flexed limbs stiff with inactivity. That it had the knowledge was its only concern. A deep sniff and twitch, and it settled again, fingers and claws twitching with anticipation. In the swirling tempest of its mind only one image, one thought, one word shone brightly. Greenleaf.
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Movement. Rustling. The ghost of wind through leaves perhaps, but unfocused blue green eyes blinked. He had not felt the wind. Couldn't feel anything to be precise. His body had melted into the earth leaving only a small spark of consciousness behind. That consciousness detected something and blinked again, squinting into the darkness for any sign of anything.
The shrub that filled his vision remained still and unmolested and he stared at it harder, drawing more of himself back to concentrate on the image before him. A twinkle beyond the shrub caught his waning attention, brought it back full and clear as possible and his eyes locked onto the source of his disturbance.
A figure sat curled up, folded down into the grass, blending near flawlessly into the shrubbery in which it hid. Had it not been for the subtle movement, a glint of animal eye perhaps, he never would have noticed its presence. Were he more himself, he might have taken a moment to chastise himself for such a blatant oversight. But his body was no longer at his disposal, and now he saw it clear and live and his mind fixed its identity before he'd thought to wonder. He'd seen this before, though perhaps not exactly in this form. Sometimes it was a hawk, sometimes a wolf. A squatting silent stalker, a predator awaiting its prey and the opportune moment in which to strike. This creature, folded so neatly in half in such stillness stirred enough fear into Verenaur to bring him back to his body. Numb fingers twitched, felt the cold stone beneath them. Toes wiggled in their soft shoes. His arms tightened, abdominal muscles attempting to pull him upright. His ribs flared hot and bright, reminding him of his weakened state, and he almost gave in to unconsciousness again.
It was a song that sliced through the heavy fog in his mind. Deceptively merry voices, filled with pain and fear, murmured one of his favorite songs. It was a tune the Queen favored, one that she would sing to all the young elves to quell their fears, stanch their pains, and ever had he loved it and her. The sound came up through the rocks beneath him, as if the mountains themselves were lulling him, comforting him. Had it been five minutes earlier, Verenaur might have believed that to be the answer. Now, despite the delirium that high fever and intense pain threatened, he knew it was not the mountains that sang, prayed that illness had weakened his mind beyond all repair. His hopes died when the silent predator unfurled itself, stood tall and thin, a sapling amongst bushes. Verenaur knew that it was no conjuration of his mind. It heard it too. Its prey had arrived.
Elbereth, give me strength, he prayed as he pushed himself upright. The slow movement went unnoticed by the stalker in the shrubs, its sharp eyes too focused on some point in the mountain face below him. His pain dulled mind fought for a solution. Had he bow and arrow, he might have been able to kill the thing. As he stood now, alone and injured, awaiting the spring of the trap, Verenaur could think of nothing.
The voices were close now. No more were they mere echoes through rock. They sounded throughout the valley, soft and sweet, and Verenaur listened for the forest's answer. Silence was the only response to the song, and perhaps a deep, welling sadness. Nothing that would save the elves. Nothing they'd notice until they'd taken their final, fatal steps.
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Linnaloth slowed at the mouth of the cave, bringing all the elves to a stop. Something was off, though she sensed nothing foreign without. One of the injured elves caught a whiff of fresh air, cried out and bolted past the three leaders of the trek.
"Nay wait!" Linnaloth cried, but it was too late. The elf was out into the night and disappearing into the darkness. She half expected him to be cut down as soon as he stepped without. When nothing happened, she felt her foolishness keenly. The other elves were staring at her warily, even her son and his friend exchanged puzzled looks. She shrugged at them, hoping the gesture enough explanation for the others. "I simply wished for caution."
Legolas tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, assessing his mother, before nodding. "Then I shall go out first." Well, second anyway.
"Not alone." Luinaur declared, and moved beside the prince, staff clutched tightly in his ruined hands. The two elves stepped outside into the night, each filled with wonder and horror in turn: wonder at the kiss of the free air on their skin, horror at the heavy shadow that lay across their land. The night was still and steady, and the two elves moved cautiously out into the valley. Each took stock, assessed their surroundings, before signaling to the other elves to come forward.
Gratefully, slowly, they stepped out and moved through the valley, each casting wonderfully horrified glances around. The Queen still led them, singing a light tune as she began their march out of the caves and into the dark air.
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Verenaur heard the dismayed cry a second before the first elf came into his sight, darting forth in a limping sprint into the valley. He was amazed that the waiting predator had not immediately killed the hobbled elf. Hoping to avoid that outcome, Verenaur opened his mouth to cry out a warning, gasped and choked instead on his own blood, and could only watch in mute horror as the predator stepped into the elf's path and grasped him. The elf fell dead in silence, his murderer slipping back into the brush to melt flawlessly into the background.
Verenaur moaned in dismay, rolling onto his knees in an effort to do something, anything, other than watch the skillful and silent murders of these elves. He rose slowly, gasping and wheezing into his cupped hands, catching the warm spray of blood. He heard voices, saw the tops of two heads just beyond the outcropping he stood upon and tried to cry out again. His parched throat croaked, bleeding lungs shuddering under the effort and sending a painful convulsion through his burning, broken body. He fell to his knees on the cliff, spit a mouthful of blood onto the rock below and panted.
The elves were exiting the hidden cavern now, moving slow and stiff and following the very familiar figure of the Queen. Tears poured from his eyes as he watched the elves follow her in a line, the initial two taking rearguard. Now that they were moving and he could see them clearly, Verenaur felt the entirety of his world tilt.
"Nay." The word was wet breath, punctuated by a spasmodic diaphragm and intense coughing fit. His arms weakened and nearly gave out beneath him, but he fought through it, inhaled deeply and bellowed, "NAY!"
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Legolas's head snapped around, eyes seeking the source of the yell. He'd been certain that the cave had been emptied. Luinaur scanned the valley before them as he searched behind. He saw nothing out of place, no one that could have produced the yell whose echoes still rebounded off the towering mountains.
"What do you see, Legolas?"
"Nothing," he replied, which upped his hesitant worry a notch. The other elves moved on, heedless of the noise, following the soft singing of his mother.
A soft snap and whisper was all the warning that they had before chaos rained upon them in the form of black arrows. The elf nearest his mother fell with an arrow through the throat, and the Queen dropped to her knees beside him in a futile attempt at aid. The move saved her from his fate as another arrow whizzed past her head, stirring the strawberry kissed hairs before thudding into the tree nearest her.
Legolas had an arrow nocked as he scanned for any target. "Do you see them?" He asked Luinaur as he peered into the inky woods.
"Nay." Luinaur responded from behind the cover of a tree, swearing when another volley of arrows flew into the mass of unprotected elves. He longed for a more useful weapon. Staffs could do well enough in hand to hand combat, but against projectile weapons and distant, hidden enemies, they were utterly useless. He swore at his futility, annoyed that the time for battle had come and he could not participate.
Legolas fired blind in the direction the arrows had come from, thought he might have heard a small grunt answer his shot. As an elf, the trees will aid you. Legolas heard his father's seemingly prophetic words resonate through his confused mind and he yelled out, "To the trees!" The elves left alive and standing did their best to obey, pulling themselves up into the branches and scattering. Legolas fired again and again, trying to give as much cover as possible, buy as much time as he could for his people to reach safety. Luinaur stood behind the tree, doing his best to avoid arrows while waiting for the prince. "Go!" Legolas shouted, but the other elf did not move. "Luinaur, go!"
"I'll not leave your side," came the indignant reply and Legolas only nodded. There was no point in, and no time for debate.
"Then we go together." Legolas stowed his bow and leapt into the tree, Luinaur right behind him. He ascended with all the speed and grace of his people, and began making his way through the high branches. A soft dismayed cry behind him spun him around in time to see Luinaur dragged down to the ground by a lithe, gray creature. "Luinaur!"
Legolas lowered himself, descending the tree as rapidly as his arms, injured knee and gravity would allow when something hit him with the force of a battering ram. His arm went numb, fingers lost their solid grip, and he was falling. Sharp branches cut and lashed him as he whipped by them at dizzying speed, and the ground smacked him hard along the length of his back.
Stars exploded across the black sky above as he gasped for air. His shoulder ached and burned and he tried to focus his blurry eyes on the source. He saw it rising from his arm like a proud elm with a canopy of black feathers. Shaking fingers closed around the angry shaft of the arrow, caught somewhere between the want to leave it and the need to remove it. Both options were lost to him when a gray skinned creature climbed atop him, feral eyes glistening in the darkness. It sat upon him for a long moment, tilted its head as if pondering him. Spindly fingers pressed around the shaft of the arrow, and Legolas cried out. The pressure was firm, and while it did not relent, neither did it increase. It was the pressure of one stanching blood flow, perhaps. Healing pain, though it made little difference to the injured prince. Legolas panted wildly, tensed as if to move, when its face folded up into a hideous mask. The prince did not know what to do. He wiggled, trying to move out from beneath the creature seated astride him. Its eyes opened and a crooked smile split its face as it closed its fingers around the prince's vulnerable throat.
"GreenLeaf" it rasped, voice and eyes filled with loathing. Strong, claw tipped fingers dug into the soft skin, wringing and squeezing with all its strength.
Legolas stared at the creature above him with shock and horror. No! He knew it now. This had been his attacker in the darkness. Eyes clouded with hatred hovered inches from his own and he could see. He knew those eyes more surely than he knew his own, yellowed and animalistic as they were. He wrapped his fingers around the wrists that choked him, trying to pry them from his neck. He thrashed as best he could but the world was fading, darkness collapsing around him. One word danced through him, died on his lips for its lack of air. His mouth formed the word his voice could not and it was the last thing he knew before darkness took him.
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He could not grasp the horror unfolding before him. Volleys of arrows flew from the surrounding woods where unnoticed enemies lay in wait. The moment that all the elves were in the valley, the arrows flew, cutting down elves where they stood. He watched as his brother and his prince took cover, saw Legolas fire arrows rapidly and blindly into the trees. Two of the four shots struck true, taking down unseen enemies. Verenaur climbed to his feet again ignoring the screech of his ribs and the throb of his head.
"To the trees!" the prince ordered, and Verenaur watched as the elves scattered to obey. The prince continued offering cover fire, his brother only three paces away. With all the speed that his broken body could muster, he descended the cliff. Leaping was out of the question as it might just send a rib fragment into his heart and kill him instantly. He could not afford to die yet, not before he did something to aid those he loved.
He lowered himself down with careful speed, heard Legolas shout for his brother to go and knew what his brother would say before he spoke. The refusal sparked a simultaneous pride and anger in Verenaur. He never does as he is told, the older elf snarled to himself.
"Luinaur." The anguish in the prince's voice tightened Verenaur's already pained chest. The fevered elf spun so quickly that he almost lost his precarious balance. He righted himself, saw a great predator pounce on his brother and jumped down to the lower ledge. Pain rattled his teeth and Verenaur almost vomited from it. He swallowed heavily and looked out again at the battle he was all too slowly approaching.
The crouching predator, the only one he'd spotted, had a bow drawn in its hands. It was sighted on its target, locked and ready when the queen flung herself full force into it. The arrow flew but the fevered elf did not track its progress, he was too busy watching another foul beast pummel his brother.
With the last bit of strength in his body, Verenaur climbed over the final ledge and dropped to the loamy earth. Without thought or care for himself, he charged at the creature that had his brother pinned to the ground.
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She'd led them out into the darkness to deliver them from death, despite the pervading sense of foreboding. Singing, she led them, foolishly believing that she'd somehow won the day. When the first twang of a released bowstring reached her ears, she understood her folly. The shadow had fixed its eye upon them, had toyed with them and batted at them as a cat does with an injured mouse. Herded them and drove them out into this field to hurl its final weapon at them. The Necromancer had swung his scythe, and the poor elf beside her fell with an arrow through his throat. She dropped to her knees, felt something tug at her hair, but paid no heed. The anonymous elf who'd sought solace in his queen gurgled on his final breath, drowned in his own blood without the courtesy of a final word. Shaking fingers closed the vacant eyes for both their benefits, for she could no more look at their dead glaze than they should have to stare into the infinite nothingness above.
Moments only had passed, she knew when she looked around. Elves were scattering and she could only watch as they did. She heard Legolas shout, "To the trees!" and watched as his subjects sought to obey him. An elf limped to her, stammered out "my queen," before she dragged him to the ground. The arrow flew past him, grazing his back so close that it snagged his tunic.
"Stay down, precious one, else they will kill you." The elf looked at her with equal parts relief and horror. He opened his mouth to speak but white fingers silenced him. "Quickly, now. To the trees." Brown eyes begged her to come but she looked away, heard her son yell out to his friend.
Then she saw it. Tall, gangly and full of deadly intent. Its yellow eyes were fixed on a single point high above their heads and she followed its gaze, noted its target as it nocked an arrow and drew.
She unfurled like a leaf, sprung like a rabbit and hurled herself at the murderer with the might of a lion. "Do not touch him!" she commanded.
The creature turned enraged yellow eyes to her and she gasped. Faster than thought it grabbed her, dragged her against it. She shuddered at the cold flesh and the realization of her earlier vision. For a foolish moment she thought it would blind her, rip her eyes from their sockets with vicious claws. Slowly, comprehension seeped through the fear. She knew these arms, had been within their circle before. The thought brought her comfort as cold fingers cupped her chin. She said a brief prayer as the hands combed through her hair, whispered "my son," as the fingers clenched. Her green eyes fell upon the open mouth of the cave and she smiled, breathed "farewell, my love" as the grip tightened and wrenched.
The cave vanished from her vision, replaced by the image of her fallen son. Her Greenleaf, bleeding upon the earth. Sorrow flitted over and through her as the sound of snapping bone filled the world. Bright pain followed by a tingling numbness, and regret, fear, worry and life were all knocked from her as she was dropped upon the wet earth.
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"I'll not leave your side," he'd yelled, and he hadn't meant to do. He'd waited until Legolas had stowed his bow to drop the pathetic excuse for a weapon that he'd been carrying in order to ease himself into the tree. The strength of the creature that grasped him about the waist stunned him and he hit the ground with a hard thud. He 'oofed' out the air in him, felt his ribs strain with the gasp for breath when the creature that attacked him kicked him full in the gut. His still healing body protested the abuse and he curled in on himself to prevent further injury.
The creature above him slashed at him with claws, rending cloth and flesh in its violent attack. Luinaur kicked at it, swiping its legs from beneath it and regained his footing, scanning for his abandoned weapon. The creature bounced up and attacked again with dizzying speed. Claws slashed his face, nicked the corner of his eye sending a stream of tears into the fresh wound. The injured eye shut despite his commands, turning the entirety of his left side into a blind spot. Something hard and heavy crashed into his temple, putting his brain into a flat spin. He barely registered that he'd hit the ground again before his attacker was upon him with tooth and nail.
Luinaur did his best to block the raining blows, but his injured hands and refreshed head wound weakened him substantially. Another vicious blow to his throat tore more flesh open, spilling hot sticky blood onto the ground beneath him. He punched at the creature, aiming for the exposed throat and succeeded only in dealing a glancing blow across the hard bone of its chin. Riled, it raised clawed hands to slash again and Luinaur winced and waited.
The blow never came. The weight vanished from him as suddenly as it had pounced and he heard the creature thud to the ground beside him. He cracked open one eye in time to see his brother drop his lost staff, kneel beside him, tear a piece of his tunic off and press it to the heavily bleeding neck wound.
"Thank the Valar!" Verenaur whispered to his brother's peeking eye. "Are you alright?"
Luinaur sighed and allowed his brother to help him to his feet. "Well met brother." Luinaur had never been quite so happy to see anyone in the entirety of his life. Despite the Queen's story from earlier, he hadn't allowed himself the luxury of believing the tale lest it prove false. He was not certain he could survive the grief.
"Well met indeed," Verenaur replied, before crashing to his knees. Luinaur caught him before he landed face first in the dirt, cried out when he felt his brother's heated skin.
"Verenaur!" He gasped, unable to reconcile the twitching, fevered form in his arms with the unflappable warrior he knew his brother to be. "Awaken," Luinaur commanded, cradling his brother in his lap and smoothing his hair away from his sweat dampened face. The elf in his arms did not stir, save for the occasional rasping breath. Verenaur was unconscious, blue-green eyes sealed to the world, face distended in pain.
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The first one had been a treat for it, its master said. Do it right, and there would be more. Do it wrong, there would be pain. Snaga didn't like pain. So it waited until it could hear the rushed thud of a heart, taste the salt of skin on the air, smell the fear so close it filled its mind. It waited until so soft footfalls were near, so near, and it grabbed it, snapped it, snuffed it out and dropped it lifeless to the floor.
No pain.
With a broken smile it slipped back into the shadows, stood perfectly still, and waited.
It came out. GreenLeaf. The gold thing with the sweet, hot blood. Fingers tensed, twisted in anticipation, yet it remained still as the trees. It called the shadows, catching tendrils of it with its broken will and drew it on. They couldn't see it, couldn't sense it.
Dozens of heartbeats and it heard them all. Different cadences, dips and swells, beats and rests, each one pounding on a different nerve in its body. One rising rhythm set its eye to twitch, another made his canines ache. Red rose up like a rushing wind, a crashing wave and it dug sharp nails into fleshy palms to keep steady. Everything that existed within its reality honed in on the GreenLeaf, the rest of the world slipping away until all it heard was the thud of a brave heart and the twang of a sure bow.
It smiled as they scampered off, ignoring each one's passing and knowing that something would catch them soon. Piercing, shining eyes narrowed down the black arrow, sighting carefully for its target's center. A warm bead of moisture pooled on its lip, gray tongue swiping out to collect the salty stuff before relaxing its fingers.
Something hit its side, knocking the arrow off its true path by mere centimeters. It didn't bother watching the arrow, knowing instinctually that it would wound, not kill, and instead turned its rage upon the thing beside it.
"Do not touch him!" The soft, glowing thing decreed, and some part of it longed to obey. The vision before it warmed something that had ever been cold. It wanted to touch the radiance, and almost lifted curious fingers to the beatific face. Pain, bright and blinding, clutched its ragged mind, and it snarled a response. With all the speed its master had instilled in it, it grasped the thing before it, pulled it flush along the length of its body.
The pretty entity in its arms shuddered and gasped, warm breath tickling the hand that held its chin. Sweet sounding words poured forth in soothing tones, but it knew nothing of sweetness or soothing, only pain. The sweet words hurt Snaga deep in its chest, someplace that it could not place or name but felt all the same. Free fingers lay across the silk strewn pate, combed through soft hair once, before tightening and twisting with a dull thud. The voice was silent. The pain gone.
Dropping the once living-now dead thing to the dirt, it searched for signs of its target. The GreenLeaf lay gasping and bleeding sweet, hot blood upon the earth and it stalked to and pounced on it. The blue eyes brimmed with pain and fear, and it took a deep whiff before fixing hungry eyes upon the GreenLeaf again.
/'Lie still.'/
Something warm filled its mind. It knew this, had been here, precisely here before. Yet, it knew nothing of before. There was nothing until there was and it knew all of that. Remembered its master's voice howling in its mind as its first memory. Birth memory.
/The body beneath his hands trembled with tense pain. White fingers of one hand soothed the damp brow while the other clamped on a shaking shoulder. Black feathers swayed to and fro with each pained movement of the body and fingers pressed harder to still the moaning form./
It canted its head, staring at and through the purple flecked blonde beneath it. He watched a tear slide through the dirt dusting the creamy skin, saw it disappear into the torn braids.
/A brief glint of light forced already watering eyes to squint and a traitorous tear slipped free to mingle with the light sheen of sweat coating his face. A sharp blade vanished into the bloodied green velvet, slicing through fabric to expose the wound beneath. The sound of rending fabric echoed in the silent forest, punctuating the horror of the black shaft of wood jutting through torn flesh.
'It's deep.' The voice was as distracting as the whimpers and he repositioned his hand to surround the offensive projectile./
It reached out and mimicked the white hands, wrapping around the black arrow, pressing down. Digging deeper for the memory, willing its broken mind to understand.
/Whimpers escalated into groans and he mumbled a quiet apology.
'We cannot force it through. The bone is in the way.'
'But if we pull it back out, we will cause further damage.'
The two voices amalgamated in a din, abrading his already raw senses./
The ever-present black voice murmured, whispered, cajoled before ordering and commanding. A sharp shake of its head and it was gone again, lost to memory.
/Legolas whimpered again, bucking up and forcing blood to ooze from the injury.
'Perhaps we should leave it. Take him back home.'
'What if it is poisoned?'
'Silence!' he bellowed, raking bloody fingers through his hair. 'You are driving me mad!' He wiped his hands on his tunic, pulling open his pouch to retrieve what was needed. 'Light a fire,' he barked. 'Now!'
Kindling, spark. Words. 'What do you mean to do?'
'Sometimes the cure is worse than the ill.' Cryptic. Horrible.
Moments only before the fire burned hot and furious, and he held the blade in it, watching the strong metal heat until red…./
Burning pain lanced through it, incinerating the memory to a mere pile of ash. Never happened, its master whispered. Figments, all. A trick of the GreenLeaf, worked to hurt, cause Snaga pain.
It made sense and it snarled at the tensed form, eyes settling on the punctures that peppered its neck. With the self-same claws that inflicted those wounds, it grasped the pale column of throat and squeezed.
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"Do not touch him!" The words echoed through the cave, reverberating and gaining intensity until they reached the Elvenking's ears.
"Linna," he gasped, and took off in a sprint. Thalgaladh kept pace with him as fear spurred him to outdistance his warriors. Never had he heard such ire in her fair voice. Until now, he would have sworn it impossible for his gentle wife to ever vent the rage he'd heard in those four simple words.
Four words with countless implications.
He ran hard, feet flitting over the ground, barely touching it in his mad dash forwards. He felt the cool draft on his face, smelled the blast of fresh air tinged with blood and pressed even harder to reach it.
A sharp pain in his chest sent him crashing to his knees, skidding along the ground for several feet before sliding to a complete stop. He landed on his face and panted for several moments, knowing and denying the cause of the pain.
/Farewell, my love./
"My lord?" Thalgaladh, panting and worrying by his side, aiding him to his feet. "Are you well?"
Thranduil gave no answer, just sprinted toward the valley he knew lay ahead. The sight that greeted his entrance nearly stopped his eternal heart. Bodies lay strewn about, most dead, some dying. His blue eyes scanned for his wife, landed instead upon a creature choking the life from….
"Nay!" Thranduil roared, drawing his sword and rushing forward before Thalgaladh had finished processing the atrocity before him. Here lay the slaughter he'd hoped to avoid. Here lay the ambush! He cursed himself a fool as a foul creature leapt for him, armed with a bright sword. Thalgaladh danced backwards, unsheathed and deflected the blow in one move. Two more came, deadly efficient strikes of blade, movements almost too quick for him to detect. He was dimly aware of more warriors emerging, of some being struck by deadly arrows before they'd had a chance to breathe the open air, and he switched tactics, moved from defensive to offensive blows in a series of sharp slashes. Each one rang off the other blade, and the General found himself dumbfounded, at a loss. Gray eyes sought out the hidden ones of his attacker and when they met, the last piece of the unearthly enigma fell into place.
"They are elves!" He heard the answering cries of his warriors, felt tears prick at his eyes. Elves killing elves! He did not know if he could do it, never believed that it would come to this….
Thranduil did not hear the General's cry as he threw himself into the body straddling his son. The king and creature rolled several times before coming to a rest, with Thranduil's back pressed firmly into the dirt. The murderous monster above him snarled down at him, pulling a knife from out of thin air. The king saw the glint off the blade, noted the bloodied ivory handle and roared.
With every ounce of strength in his millennia old body, he hurled the monster from him and rolled to stand before it. The ivory blade (his blade, Legolas's blade) hummed as it sliced through air, and Thranduil brought up his sword to parry it. The creature danced around him merrily, movements fluid and graceful as his own. The king stepped into an attack, and the creature caught the edge of his blade with the back of its own, slid around him shoulder blades to shoulder blades and completed the spin with a deadly slash. The king parried the move instinctually, his sword between his back and the other blade before he'd even realized it. His fingers and body went momentarily slack with realization.
He knew that move. Knew it because he'd taught it to him. Thranduil spun around, sparks skidding between the short blade and his own as they clashed off one another. He looked at the creature before him, really looked, and saw the awful truth.
"Belegalad?"
The creature that had been Belegalad did not acknowledge the king, just flung itself into battle. He fought with renewed fervor while the king's moves grew sluggish and automatic. He parried each attack, his heart breaking at the blank, evil stare in his beloved son's animal eyes. "Belegalad, what have they done to you?"
Again the creature gave no answer, save a grimace that might have passed for a smile. A guttural growl rose in his throat and he slashed at the king, blazed a trail of blood across his chest, and snorted in merriment.
Thranduil gasped and stepped back from the rushing blade, fingers weakening under the weight of his grief. He considered his ruined son for a moment, watched as he licked the blood from the blade's edge and purred. Bitter bile rose to the back of his throat, and Thranduil wasn't certain whether he'd rather vomit or weep at the sight of the sadistic thing before him.
Belegalad's feral eyes turned back toward the unconscious Legolas and Thranduil straightened. The broken prince eyed the fallen one with hunger and malice and the king leapt when he moved toward the prostrate form. His sword pierced flesh and his son howled at the pain of it. Thranduil's eyes welled. "Please do not force me to do this, my son."
The creature screeched at him, slashed with knife and claw, but the king only parried. "Fight this evil, Belegalad," he begged as claws tore through the fabric of his tunic, grazed and scraped, but did not split the skin beneath.
With a desperate wail, Belegalad threw himself into the king, knocked him off balance before springing with upraised blade at his fallen brother. He did not see the sword that pierced him until its point protruded from his chest. The ivory handled blade thumped onto the soft dirt below, and the once prince turned to face his attacker.
He knew him, he realized. Somehow he knew the one before him. Lips that had been created for snarling and screaming parted on a mewl and he collapsed to his knees before his aggrieved father.
"Father." He choked, voice full of blood. So many things he wanted to say now that he found his voice. His life was his own again, too late for him to claim it. He was dead, he knew, slain by his father. "Father," he gasped and fell backward, strong arms catching him before he fell down and drove the sword deeper still. Bloodied hands reached upwards, cupped a wet cheek. "Forgive me."
Thranduil protested, begged his son to forgive him, but he was already dead and gone, his soul fled from his ruined body. The king wept into the dull black hair that was once shining gold.
"He lives." A soft voice whispered somewhere near, and Thranduil lifted his head from its coarse cushion to gaze hopefully at the son in his arms. "Legolas lives, my lord."
With an abbreviated sob, the Elvenking lowered his dead son to the earth, careful not to disturb the sword. He pressed a soft kiss to his child's brow, whispered something that would forever remain a secret between them, before rushing to his youngest child's side.
Legolas was a ruined mess on the forest floor. The thick black arrow was lodged deeply in his shoulder, the wound spilling obscene amounts of blood onto the already stained earth. The prince's delicate throat was ringed with black bruises, deep gouges both new and old seeping blood.
"We must remove the arrow, my lord."
Thranduil only nodded, not trusting his voice to maintain its integrity just yet. Words might just cause what small quantity of composure he possessed to crumble. Thranduil felt as if he might fly apart at the slightest disturbance, never to find or recover all the shards of himself.
Thalgaladh knelt beside him, though when the General had joined him he couldn't say. Perhaps it had been he who'd been speaking all along. "Would you like me to do it?" Thranduil recognized the tone as the one his friend used when gentling his frightened steed. A quick headshake was all the king could manage before he withdrew the impossibly thin dagger from its hidden sheath. A quick slice and the wound was laid bare for his scrutiny. A vial was stuffed into his hand and Thranduil met the steady eyes of his friend. Thalgaladh read the question written in the painfully young, incredibly old blue eyes. "For sterilizing the blade."
Thranduil wiped the blade with the unction, shaking as he approached the ruptured skin. Thalgaladh eyed him warily, fearing that the king might do more damage than good in his current condition. He did not speak the thought however, and when the blade touched the skin, all tremors ceased and Thranduil's movements were the precise, efficient movements of a skilled surgeon. Two slashes to widen the wound, retracing the faint remnants of an identical scar, and the arrow was smoothly withdrawn. The General had bandages at the ready, the bottom ones soaked with the witch hazel unction he carried, while the top remained dry and wrapped tightly around the injury. The prince moaned at the pressure, a fact that was heartening and heart wrenching, and he saw the king veritably break at the sound.
Thalgaladh cleaned the shallow wounds around Legolas's throat while Thranduil struggled for composure. The General would not look at his friend, could not bear the naked grief written across his features. He feared that were he to cast a sympathetic glance, lay a reassuring hand, the king might dissolve before his eyes. So he kept intent on his task, dabbing and wrapping, until all the bleeding injuries were nursed and bandaged.
Thranduil watched the play of his friend's expert hands over his son's skin, heard the shifting and maneuvering of the warriors around him. The sounds of battle had ceased, the ensuing silence an offense to his senses. The elves that lay dead in this valley died because of him. Thirty elves, plus those that had followed his son south, and it was he that sent them all to their doom. He might as well have skewered them each upon his sword as he'd done to his son. Thranduil swallowed the sob and fingered the thin blade that had set them down this path. The tip was still vivid red with Legolas's blood. Two of his blades bore the blood of his sons. Never would they come clean. Never again would he carry the sword that had murdered his eldest. Thranduil thought on this as he wiped his dagger clean and slipped it away. He unclasped his cloak and spread it upon the ground, lifting Legolas with as much care as he had when he'd been a mere infant, and lay him on the sturdy garment. Drawing the edges together and around, he hefted his precious bundle into his arms.
"Thalgaladh, please bring my wife and son," Thranduil said, unable to look upon the fallen again lest he lose himself to his grief. He could not afford such a luxury. His wife and eldest lay dead upon the earth, but Legolas yet lived. For him alone would Thranduil endure. He gazed at the slack, bruised face as he stepped past the bodies of the dead and marched from the valley.
The General stared confusedly at the retreating king, unable to comprehend his liege's words. He watched the king walk away without a backward glance, his mind busy processing Thranduil's order. His eyes fell from the king to the fallen foe and realization dawned. He cried out in horror at the sight of the crown prince skewered on his father's sword. A few paces from him lay his mother, neck twisted impossibly, eternal light extinguished.
"Oh grievous day." He whispered, as the Elvenking began the trek to his new halls. The warriors, all sickened by the necessary kin slaying, wept openly at the sight of their fallen prince and queen. Thalgaladh crawled toward the dead prince, his beloved student, and cradled him in his arms. What tortures had the evil beast of Dol Guldur inflicted to put out so bright a light and poison so fair a soul? Kissing the prince's hand, he pledged his vengeance. All his many long years crashed upon him at once, and the General felt wearied and stooped with age. So very weary as he pulled the king's sword from the dead prince. The pull wasn't clean, the sword catching on a rib as he withdrew it. He braced one hand against the small of the boy's back and tugged with his right. The sword came free with a rip and slurp, the ruined body twitching once before laying still. He felt dizzy and ill as Belegalad's blackened blood trickled onto the gore soaked earth, and was unable to stem the flow of his tears before the other elves. Mercifully, one of the warriors had shucked his cloak and laid it over the prince, hiding the horridly beloved face from his sight. A distant howl punctuated the moment, bringing the General at least partially back from his grief. Wolves or wargs. Or some other fell beast. It mattered little for the fact remained that they needed to go. Their stand tonight was over, their time in Emyn Duir finished. Thalgaladh lifted the crown prince into his arms. "Bring all the dead," he pronounced. "We shall leave no elf behind to feed the beasts of this Necromancer."
Morthaun, who had aided Luinaur with binding his brother's broken ribs, rose quickly to relieve the General of his burden. "If it please you, my lord, I counted the Prince among my dearest friends. I would be honored to bear him home." The General felt no desire to relinquish his burden. He glanced down at the enshrouded figure in his arms, saw small blood stains blossoming where it still trickled from the gaping maw in the elf's chest. He did not want to give him up for it would be the last chance to ever hold him. But then there was the Queen…. With a small nod, he handed the incredibly light prince to his friend, heard the soft cries of the grieving, and lifted the queen's broken body into his arms. Oh my fair Queen. What ever will we do without you?
With weights on their hearts and laments on their lips, the warriors of Greenwood bore up their dead for the long journey home.
The End.
I'm joking. I wouldn't end the story there! There is one more chapter and will be up soon.
