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Mitharas
Prologue
The Nazgûl sniffed the air. Unmistakable, that scent of living blood, the cram of his existence. The needs of mortal men had deserted him over an age ago; his kind found sustenance, such as they needed, in the sweet waning of life. And here, passing nearly under his nose, were mortals, brimming with life and something else that excited him: fear.
Beside him, Khamûl shifted. "Watch. Wait."
The other did as he was told, and soon felt what discomfited his companion. "Nolug-hai," he spat. [1]
"Nay, they are mortal. But something Elvish goes with them."
'A protective spell, perhaps,' Khamûl thought. 'A woman of power.' The protection they carried was powerful and very old, older even than the wraiths themselves. In any case, they hunted more important prey: the two who had eluded them, the two his Lord had sent them to find. They would not assail these strange mortals.
Vale of the Anduin, 41st Day of Echuir, TA 2509 [2]
Romhador held his knife in the flames of the fire for a moment, then withdrew it and held it up, allowing it to cool somewhat. Studying the man's bulbous leg, he drew a deep breath and lowered his knife. Mitharas looked away, feeling slightly queasy, though the man offered only a quiet groan. Romhador finished his work and pulled his captain aside with a look of dismay.
"All I know of mortal sickness is what I learned from those who care for the livestock," the healer admitted, his forehead wrinkled with discomfort. He felt utterly out of his depth, a rare thing for an elf. "What I would give for a healer of the Dúnedain just now," he said wryly.
"What ails him may be beyond even their skill," Mitharas said. "You have done all you can, yet he grows colder. He will not last the night, I think. Go and take some rest - I will finish binding his wound." He turned to see that Legolas and Iasernor had returned from their search for athelas.
"This may ease your pain, my friend." He applied a poultice to the wound and bound it in fresh bandages. He stood, feeling helpless and worried. Around him, the Wood Elves spoke in hushed whispers. Like their captain, they could not banish the vivid memory of Mordor or the dreadful Ylnaid. [3]
"Mitharas, what is wrong? Even the trees are disturbed - they speak of something unwholesome in the shadows." The dark-eyed elf watched him carefully, his head tilted toward the trees that bordered the Anduin. Even if the older warriors dared not speak of their fears within the hearing of the youngster, Legolas shared their sensitivity to the living things around him. He knew something was amiss.
"This man is afflicted with a Morgul wound," Mitharas said at last.
The younger elf's eyes widened. "Is he…will he die?"
Mitharas nodded. "There is little we can do to help him. Such a wound needs the skill of one such as Elrond or Aiwendil, and we could not bear him away in time. I do not think he will see Anor's rising." He wished his young cousin were not with the party, no matter how much confidence he had in the warriors he had chosen for this journey. He had intended to go as far as the Carrock, and more than ever, he wanted to know what tidings the Beornings might have. Now, he judged the risk too great. He could not put Legolas in danger.
He turned his attention to the making of camp and setting of watches. Legolas, as much out of curiosity as compassion, went to sit with the dying man. 'What brings you so far from home, Dúnadan?' Legolas wondered silently. The man seemed to sense his question.
"Your people have communion with the birds, perhaps you will send word to my Steward?" The man's face contracted in consternation. "Though it will bring him no joy, he must know we have failed him." [4]
"That will be done," Legolas promised. "But can we not do more for you? If there is a message to be delivered, perhaps we can carry it in your stead." He knew his father probably would not approve; Thranduil did not like to involve his people in troubles that did not concern them or their allies. He had enough to worry him within his own borders.
"My message will go with me to the grave, for so my Steward commanded of me and I took an oath to reveal it to none but its recipient.
"But I came north with a companion," he continued, "and we knew not the land, so that we came upon the lands west of Dol Guldur at night. We both felt a great and paralyzing fear come over us, and though I reached for my sword, I could not draw it. My companion's horse shied as the thing came nearer in the mist, and he was thrown. All at once, the dark horseman charged us and my horse bolted, so that I left my companion behind. No doubt, he was soon put to death. Yet I did not escape unharmed, for the horseman sliced my leg ere I escaped." The man closed his eyes, pain and exhaustion overcoming him.
He spoke again without opening his eyes, weakly squeezing Legolas' hand. "They say the touch of an elf is healing, and though I cannot doubt my demise, you bring me comfort."
"Then I will stay with you, if it eases your night."
Merciful death claimed the man before dawn, as Mitharas had predicted. Legolas knew the precise moment when the hand he held grew empty and lifeless. He wondered at the fate of the fëar of men. Some spoke of a place beyond the circles of the world - what did that mean? The void? Where Morgoth seethed in his imprisonment? Legolas shivered at the thought.
Mitharas faded from his dreams. The fire burned brightly; other elves were up and about. He saw that Legolas still sat with the man and frowned. Someone had drawn a sheet over the man's face. The elf slid out of his bedroll and went to crouch by his cousin.
"He is dead," Legolas said, his young face confused.
Unbidden, a memory buried beneath the centuries of his life came to the forefront of Mitharas' mind. He had spoken the same emotionless words over the shell of what had been his father. At Legolas' age, he had marched south into war. His father had been the first of the King's family to die, but not the last. The King's oldest grandson and the King himself had died in the ill-fated assault on the Morannon. He looked around him. These old warriors had seen brothers, fathers, sisters slain in the seven-year war.
Still, Mitharas had lost more than most. He had returned from Mordor to watch helplessly as his mother faded from grief. In later years, he had lost the lady he loved to his closest friend, and his friend to bitterness and then wargs.
His father had been Captain of the Guard before him, and the son had shown the same aptitude for military leadership. Despite his tender age, he had risen quickly to the forefront of Thranduil's army in Mordor. Upon return to the Greenwood, that wise King had named Mitharas and Faunil - a Nandorin elf from Ossiriand - as joint captains in charge of his realm's defense. Faunil had been both mentor and friend to the younger Captain. Mitharas had returned from Mordor a great warrior; he was a ruthless foe whom orcs called Kelk-ash, 'the cold one'. Yet he could not have become a great commander without Faunil's aid. More even in temperament, the Laegel had taught him prudence, and as a result, Mitharas had lost few warriors to Mandos. He had earned the devotion of the elves who served under his wise leadership. [5, 6]
If his work gave him an outlet for anger that might otherwise have consumed him, it could not restore the near-child who had set out for Mordor. He could not bear to see Legolas' innocence tarnished so soon.
Mitharas put a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "We must bury him. It will soon be light, and I would reach the forest before nightfall."
Legolas could see a rosy light upon the highest peaks of Hithaeglir, signaling Anor's ascent in the east. He suddenly had a great yearning to be safe under the beeches of his home; his skin prickled with the certainty that unwholesome things were about.
Even the party's return to the woods could not give him much comfort. The disturbance of the trees hummed even louder here than in the Vale and all of the Silvan members of the party were on edge. The following day, a sudden movement in the forest had the entire company ready with bows and spears.
"There!" Iasernor pointed to a tree a furlong into the wood. Suspecting a spider, he held his bow ready as he scanned the branches. Then he lowered his weapon and visibly relaxed. "We seem to have treed a boy."
Mitharas walked up to the tree. "If you wish to escape the elves of the wood, a tree will not avail you, young fellow." There was no response. "Come down, child. We will not harm you."
A rather dirty boy of perhaps thirteen climbed down from the tree, looking at the party in wonder. "Elves, did you say?" His Westron had an odd accent that Mitharas could not immediately place.
"Yes, we are elves. What brings a child alone into Mirkwood?"
"Elves of Northern Mirkwood? Of King Thranduil's realm?"
"Yes, yes." Mitharas wrinkled his brow. "But what--?"
The boy looked as if he would cry with relief. "We are saved then. I am the Master of Folcagard, and I have a letter from your King--." He faltered, realizing how ridiculous his words must sound.
Mitharas looked at the young 'Master' solemnly.
Seeing that the elf in charge, for so the boy understood Mitharas to be, would not laugh, the boy drew himself up and continued. "My people are hidden yonder. We have your King's promise to aid us, and it is many years old, but we hoped…we hoped he would honor it still."
"We are elves. We do not forget our debts. But what brings you hither now?" Mitharas motioned the child to sit, and followed suit, taking some bread from his cloak.
The child spoke not another word until he had finished the bread and some dried meat. At length, the elf-lord extracted the tragic tale of Folcagard's destruction. Orcs had swarmed from the mountain and besieged the town. The men had put up a brave fight, but in the end, their defenses had given way and most of their people slain. Among the dead was the boy's father, the previous Master of Folcagard. A few women and children had escaped as the town burned; hither this boy had led these survivors, hoping to reach Northern Mirkwood.
Once fed, the boy led them into the woods to a clearing; for mortals, they had disguised their presence rather well. The boy spoke in his own tongue and four women came forward, holding swords and knives. Mitharas waited with some impatience as the women questioned the boy in their own tongue.
"They wish to speak to my great-grandmother and see that all is well, for she has knowledge of such things."
Mitharas smiled. He suddenly knew of whom the boy spoke. "Tell her that Mitharas sends his greetings."
Two of the women remained behind, still holding their weapons, while the other two went further into the woods with the young Master. A few minutes later, a very old woman emerged from the trees.
"If my old eyes do not deceive me, 'tis the elf-lord I knew when I was young. And unchanged as if it were yesterday that I left the little one."
"Ah, but you should find the little one much changed," Mitharas said warmly.
Legolas looked at the woman with reverence. He retained some memory of the blond woman who had nursed him, for the minds of young elves grew more quickly than their bodies. He knelt before the elderly woman and took her withered hands in his. "I am forever in your debt, Naneth Iphant. But perhaps now we can repay your kindness." [7]
Viduwyn did not say it, but she knew that the elf had already repaid her. She had felt a shadow upon her in their journey, yet somehow, she had known it would not touch her. Her bond to the baby she had nursed remained strong, as did the magic of his people. Her certainty in this had given her people the courage to pass under the very nose of darkness.
"But why did you not send word for help, as we promised the Master of your village?" Mitharas asked.
A woman - the boy's mother, Mitharas guessed from her protective arm around his shoulder - answered him. "But we did, lord. Yet none came."
"Your messenger must have been waylaid."
"That could not have happened, for we gave our message to the Elder One and a companion visiting him at the time. I delivered it myself."
She meant Aiwendil, and Mitharas wondered at this. True, they had seen little of the wizard in recent years, but Aiwendil had ever been a friend to the men of the Vale. "Was the Elder One to have delivered it?"
"He was. But his companion bid him not, and said he would deliver the message, for he had business in Northern Mirkwood."
Strange! "Describe for me this companion."
"He was old, like the Elder One, and had long, white hair and robes."
Mitharas said no more, but the woman's words troubled him. The sooner they reached the safety of their realm, the better, he judged.
Northern Mirkwood, 46th Day of Echuir, TA 2509
Ríadel started as her dreamscapes melted abruptly into the present. She rose and wrapped a shawl about her shoulders. Stoking the fire, she sat in its faint glow. Regrets flitted through her mind; she would miss this wood and the good King she had served for the better part of two ages. Yet in her heart, she felt no uncertainty; the joy of her fëa eased her decision. It was time for her to go.
The Sea had always called to the Falathrin elf, but not as it called to the Sindar of the forests or to the Noldor. No, it had never before beckoned her to cross it - she was content to be near it. Every so often, she made the long journey to Mithlond and stayed there some rounds of the sun, returning with the thick brogue of her people and renewed vigor.
It was not her way to delay once her heart had reached a decision and she set off to see the King as early as practicable.
"You will be missed," Thranduil told her with a sad smile. Yet he understood what compelled her to leave Ennor. The love of his life could not return to him and he could only envy the lady and her rehoused husband.
Nonetheless, his sympathy could not alter the facts of the matter. How was he to honor her request when they could not cross Hithaeglir safely? The fetters that bound his realm grew more monstrous each year and he could not loosen their hold.
Galion interrupted these grim thoughts. "Aranen! An eagle has brought this."
Thranduil took up the message immediately. Out of respect for Manwë's servants, the elves rarely used the eagles as messengers; they did not trouble the great creatures for trivialities. He knew the importance of the letter even before he recognized the seal of Imladris.
The letter from Elrond's councilor was short and terse. Thranduil set it aside wearily. He would have to answer it without delay, but now he lacked the strength. In the recesses of his mind, he could hear the slam of a heavy iron door, hear its bolts thrown fast. The face that peered hopelessly from the barred window was his own.
Northern Mirkwood, 47th Day of Echuir, TA 2509
Night had fallen when the party reached the caverns. Having sent Legolas with the women and children of Folcagard to find Galion and arrange their lodging, Mitharas sought the King. He wished he could have put off this meeting until the morn; his tidings would not bring cheer.
Thranduil sat in his library amid discarded sheaves of foolscap and set aside the letter in progress without regret. "Mitharas! I did not expect you to return so soon," he greeted his sister-son. "None have met with misfortune on your journey, I trust."
"Legolas is quite well," Mitharas smiled, answering the King's unspoken question. "But I thought it prudent to return, for things are stirring and my news is not good."
Thranduil grimaced. "I too, have had unfortunate news. Perhaps you should find your cousins and Brónalm, for this affects us all."
When the others had arrived, Mitharas began with the tale of the women of Folcagard. "They sent a messenger to Aiwendil, requesting our help, but it seems it did not reach us."
'Alas, that we have failed in our pledge to those good people!' Thranduil regretted silently.
Brónalm rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yet Folcagard is only the latest settlement in the Vale to be destroyed. We have known for some time that the Balchoth and orcs have killed or chased away the men of the Vale."
Mitharas nodded. "The women of Folcagard report that the Stoors abandoned their hamlet some years ago. Those north of Rhosgobel have escaped unmolested - the enemy must respect Aiwendil's power and its servants fear the Beornings. They know what strength those men possess. But there is more." He continued with the story of the messenger from Gondor. "It seems that the Ylnaid watch the way north."
"It concerns me that the Ylnaid have grown so bold," Innolas said. "Dol Guldur has been careful to mask its strength thus far, though we have never doubted that the thing holding the fortress would reveal itself at the opportune time."
"It seems that this is the opportune time," Thranduil said grimly. "An eagle came just yesterday with news still more grave. Lady Celebrian and her guard were attacked on Cirith o Charadhras by orcs. The lady was taken captive and though her sons have rescued her, she endured great suffering." He glanced at the difficult response that had taken most of the day to compose. Silently, he thanked the Valar that Legolas' foresight had dissuaded Innolas from his journey to Imladris and perhaps a similar fate. [8]
"Ai, it is indeed grievous that this kind lady should suffer so," Mitharas said soberly. "And we must accept that the way west is now closed to us."
Thranduil sighed, having come to that conclusion himself. They found themselves utterly alone, pushed to the farthest corner of a forest the elves had once roamed freely. Should Dol Guldur turn upon them, his people would have nowhere to flee.
Brónalm sensed his King's despair. "We have strength here. The Ylnaid fear us and the Dark Lord has not the power he once had. He will remember the strength of your line. He has not the weapons of the one he served - Morgoth's demons of fire, the balrog and the dragon, are no more." [9]
"So it seems," Legolas interjected, surprising everyone. He wore a troubled expression.
Thranduil suppressed a shudder. He had never seen these fearsome creatures, though he had heard Mablung speak of them in Doriath. He cast a worried look at his son. A moment earlier, he had thanked the Valar for his son's prescience. Now, he recalled how it had affected his sister. Laigil's far sight had at times been more a curse to her than a gift.
As they parted, Thranduil stopped Mitharas. "There is another matter of particular interest to you. Ríadel has announced that she intends to go West."
"We have just established that is impossible." Mitharas chastised himself for his relief at Ríadel's unfortunate timing.
Thranduil nodded. "But Mitharas, she will go when the way is safe again. You must accept that."
---------------------------------------------------
Mitharas found the little hut Ríadel had once shared with Faunil still lit despite the late hour.
"Mitharas! I am surprised to see you. I thought you were to be gone longer." The elf wore a scarf over her hair. Several crates lay half-filled on the table.
"And you hoped to leave before I returned."
She shook her head sadly. "I would have waited until your return."
"It appears you do not plan to wait long at all," he argued, waving his hand at the austere room, stripped of all but essential items.
Ríadel sighed. "I have a great deal to do before I leave. The King has sent word to your sister in Dorwinion, for someone must take my place as Bassoneth. Until her granddaughter arrives and knows all that I can teach her, I must remain." [10]
He moved a box from a chair and took a seat. "Faunil did not stay long in the keeping of Mandos."
"He lived blamelessly - he had no regrets, no grievances in death."
'As I cannot claim,' Mitharas thought. Too late, he had forgiven Faunil for loving and capturing the maid he also had desired. "I am afraid you will have longer than you think to train your replacement. The mountains have become impassable. It is too dangerous now to attempt a crossing."
"Mitharas! I have spoken to the King already. He has given me leave. If you will not accompany me, then I will find those who will." Her voice softened. "You, of all people, must understand what compels me to go."
"It is not my decision. Things have changed. I do not speak falsely of the danger, and as Captain of the Guard, I forbid it."
"I will go alone if necessary," she snapped.
"Alone or accompanied, you risk the same fate as the Lady Celebrian. I do not have the authority to stop you, but I will not commit even one of my warriors to a reckless errand."
"The Lady Celebrian! Whatever has befallen her?"
"She was taken by orcs - she has been rescued, but is perhaps not whole."
Ríadel blinked back tears. "That dear lady! But I did not know…it is of course unwise to try the pass now." She sank into a chair, disappointment for her own delay mingled with compassion for the injured lady.
Mitharas paced his chambers restlessly that night, his dreamscapes utterly deserting him. He knew his words left much unspoken, knew that Ríadel deserved compassion, not shameful self-interest. A poor friend he made - he did not wonder that Ríadel had chosen to bond herself to another.
---------------------------------------------------
Only the deepest snow could keep Thranduil from his morning ride. Sometimes, he rode with one of his sons, sometimes alone, but no matter how much the business of the day pressed upon him, he considered his ride as necessary as food and drink. On this morning, he had asked Innolas to accompany him. Ordinarily, he avoided matters of state during these rides, but the events of the previous night weighed heavy on his heart.
They rode without speaking for a time, holding the horses to a walk, and enjoyed the play of Arien's light through still bare branches of the tall beech trees. Thranduil had spent his entire life among the Silvan folk and their western cousins, the Laegrim of Doriath, and he had learned to find comfort in nature's beauty even in the darkest of times.
"You are concerned about the message that did not get through," Innolas reluctantly broke the silence.
Thranduil smiled wryly. "You know me too well. The description sounds like Mithrandir."
"I cannot imagine that he would have failed to deliver the message. If he were waylaid, he would have found a way to contact us."
His father glanced at him, a grave expression on his face. "There are things I have never told anyone save Elrond, things I will not relate lest you come to harm. Yet this much I will say: I fear that we can no longer trust the Ithryn."
Innolas shook his head vigorously. "We can trust Mithrandir. And though Aiwendil seems distracted, I cannot think that he would fall under the spell of the Shadow. He is a servant of Yavanna and the withering of the forest is as much a grief to him as to our people." The loremaster was silent for a moment. "But Curunír would fit the description." He hesitated. "I do not wish to pass judgment based on resentment - that he would not do as we wished when the White Council met is not reason enough to hold him suspect. We cannot fathom the ways of the Ainur."
"'Do not interfere in matters of the Ithryn,'" Thranduil quoted with a smile.
"But I know that my report troubled you when I returned from the Council." The elf sighed in frustration. "I would feel better if we could consult with Imladris."
"I know. So long, my father only wished us left to our own devices. Now, that has come to pass and I feel as if we are caught in a noose that grows ever tighter."
"That has been done on purpose," Innolas said flatly. "But Brónalm is right - the Shadow would not go to such lengths to isolate us if it did not fear us."
Thranduil nodded. He could still mount an army of considerable size and experience. He had to hope that this threat would hold back assault on his realm. He changed the subject, seeing no reason to dwell on problems that presented no solution. "You will need to go to Dale to discuss the future of our mortal guests with Lord Castram."
Innolas nodded. Theirs was an Elven realm and his father did not wish to encourage mortals to settle within it.
"I do not expect him to refuse us, if we guarantee their support."
Innolas turned this over in his mind. "Are you certain you wish to pledge support of these folk? It could be costly."
"It is the least we can do, given that we could not come to their aid as we promised."
---------------------------------------------------
"Well done, Adelaeg," Legolas called.
The little elf glowed at these words of praise, and Brónalm smiled. The little ones regarded the young elf-lord with awe, and rightly so - they would never see a more gifted archer. He waited while Legolas dismissed the children. After a long dearth following the end of the Watchful Peace, the Wood-Elves had again begun to bear children; the darkness of the forest around Northern Mirkwood could not dampen their natural resilience for long. The bow-master had engaged the help of his favorite student, for he found he could not give adequate attention to each youngster.
"Have you given thought to the emblem you shall choose?" Brónalm asked as the younger elf took up his bow and aimed at one of the targets.
Legolas grimaced. It was customary among highborn elves to select some embellishment of their lord's herald. It had a practical purpose: in a great battle, such elf-lords would oversee command of the troops, and the standards raised would help to identify the various companies in battle. Mitharas had chosen a stag, Innolas a lamp. Often, an elf revealed his emblem on his fiftieth begetting day, but Legolas still had not settled upon one that seemed right.
In truth, the question ran deeper than his choice of a decoration. He had reached his majority, but the path before him remained obscure. He knew that Innolas had always wished to become a master of lore and that Mitharas came naturally to his role as Captain of the Guard. Legolas had no such leanings. The thought of shutting himself in a dark library filled him with dread, and he preferred to follow rather than lead. As a son of the King, he could not avoid the latter - even Innolas commanded troops at necessity. He enjoyed teaching the young ones, but he had not the stern eye of the Cúcherdir. If he was not meant to be a teacher, a loremaster or a captain, then what was he meant to become? It unsettled him to feel so lacking in purpose. In time, his father had promised, the Lady would show him his way, but thus far, she had proved unforthcoming.
Ethuil, TA 2510
With the Lord of Dale's assent, the Folcagard refugees had left Mirkwood to settle in his town. Viduwyn, however, remained in the caverns at the King's request. The old woman deserved some material comforts in her waning years and did not say no to the King's invitation.
Legolas spent much of his free time with her, sitting by the river when the weather was fair or hiding in Gíleg's kitchens when it was not. The elf found a font of wisdom in his one-time nursemaid. Elves revered the elders among them and it appalled them to see that men had so little respect for the old. Still, Viduwyn would have been considered young, even a contemporary of Legolas, were she an elf. It seemed to him that mortals learned timeless wisdom more quickly; if elves too often wallowed in regret, those mortals who became wise in old age saw mistakes and setbacks of the past as experience, as lessons of life. This idea was not new to Legolas, for the Wood Elves held similar beliefs.
"He was a good man, my husband," she said one day, as they sat under a great oak by the river. "Lived to be 80, and that is a ripe age for our kind. He never touched a drop of drink, and he said that accounted for his long life."
"When did he…die?" Legolas asked, looking up from his fletching.
"Oh, it was a long time ago. Some thirty years."
"But mortals can marry again, can they not?"
Viduwyn laughed. "I was too old, child. Too old to bear children, and so not much use, as men see it. And none could take the place of my Dukalan. We loved each other well."
Legolas smiled. "I suppose that is what everyone seeks in taking a spouse. But how do you know that you have chosen rightly?"
The old woman looked sideways at the elf. "Is there a maid you have in mind?"
"More or less," he answered, blushing to the tips of his ears.
"When just a moment with your love seems worth more than time uncounted without her, you will know."
"Yet time uncounted is not for men as it is for elves, for mortals may die."
"And does not death stretch through time uncounted?"
"Then you do not keep hope that you will be reunited in death with your husband?"
"Does not your Pengolodh say that men await the end of Arda in the Houses of Waiting?" [11]
"You have been listening to my brother too much," Legolas laughed. "But what do you think is the fate of men?"
"If elves do not know it, how are men to know? But our people hold that a land of song and feasting among the gods awaits us."
"That seems a kinder fate to me."
Viduwyn smiled. "I think I so, too."
---------------------------------------------------
Mitharas rarely used his own study. When he had to attend to correspondence - a task he fiercely disliked - he usually worked in Innolas' library. Tonight, however, he felt the need to be alone - or, perhaps more accurately, he knew he was not fit company, even for his placid cousin.
More than ever, he was haunted by his failure to make amends with his dear friend Faunil; more than ever, he wondered what gave him the fire to go on. Thranduil had weathered the loss of a wife and the love of his heart because he would always be wed first to his kingdom and people. Innolas had long ago pledged his heart to musty books; young Legolas had that Silvan constancy that permitted him to weather any storm. Mitharas approached his vocation with zealous fervor, dispatching with the enemies of elves without mercy. Yet, he could not say he was wed to his role as Captain. At least, he hoped this was not the case. What happiness could come of bloodshed or vengeance?
He loved Ríadel as he would never love another, and she had chosen another. Though it pained him, he found some reassurance in her nearness, and now he must lose even that.
He wrote carefully lettered but curt responses to captains in distant parts of Northern Mirkwood. Fortunately, they were accustomed to their superior's austere style and would not take offense. He had collected a fair stack of minor matters requiring his attention - of late, he had participated more actively in the oversight of Mirkwood's defense. He needed to occupy himself and quiet his mind, and he had genuine concerns for the realm's security.
Reports from both Dale and his own warriors told of what amounted to a sizeable mobilization, and Mitharas was worried even though the orcs continued south. He had sent a small party of elves to track the orcs, for he feared that they would gather strength and return north to assail Northern Mirkwood. Such intelligence reported that the orcs continued their march well south of the realm before cutting through the forest at the East Bight. They seemed anxious to avoid the elves, but this did not comfort Mitharas, for it only pointed to a strong leader at Dol Guldur. The orcs were preparing for a grand assault - but where?
"Híren?"
Mitharas looked up, grateful for the interruption of this hated chore. "Come in, Brónalm."
The bow-master settled himself in a chair. Mitharas' study was sparsely furnished - it had neither the comfort of Innolas' library nor the elegance of the King's. Brónalm felt at ease here, nonetheless, for his was a simple existence. His hut was but a place to sleep and eat; his home was the forest.
"I understand that you have not yet moved Legolas into the active patrols."
Mitharas nodded.
"Think you not that his skills would be better employed elsewhere?"
"Is he unhappy with his duties?"
"Of course not. He finds his reward in a task well done. He is not one to complain."
Mitharas had the feeling that the Cúcherdir's words had an underlying meaning. "Then what, exactly, is the problem?"
"I think you are sheltering him." Brónalm leaned forward. "I know he is young, and I am no more eager than you to sully his innocence. But he is too fine an archer to waste his talents."
"Can you blame me if I want him to have what I did not? Fifty is not so very old."
The ancient elf put a hand on the Captain's arm. "This is not Mordor. Yes, there is evil about, but there is still much good here. Moreover, you and Legolas are not alike. He finds his strength in the forest and within himself. A few dead spiders will not change him.
"You are much like your grandfather," Brónalm continued with a sad smile. "He was a great King. He won the love and devotion of the Silvan folk, and under his guidance, we again became an ordered people. Yet, in the end, his griefs consumed him. Do not make the same mistake, Mitharas. The present is as it is, and it is a dangerous thing in our kindred to tread the past."
---------------------------------------------------
Anor still shone brightly when Legolas left the archery range, though he noted the clouds gathering to the west.
"It will rain, I think," Brónalm said as Legolas approached the hut.
The younger elf nodded. "The trees will be glad for it." He disappeared inside, though he left the door open; only at night or in foul weather did the Wood Elves shut up their dwellings.
"The seamstress was here. You are to see her tomorrow so that she can begin work on your summer clothing."
Legolas changed into clean leggings and tunic. He left the hut and sat down on the grass to re-braid his hair. The older elf watched him in amusement; he could not see any stray hairs requiring such care. Elves were meticulous about cleanliness, but Brónalm had never before seen one who actually repelled dirt.
"Have you given more thought as to your emblem? The seamstress will want that."
Legolas shook his head. "Did you always know, even as a child, that you would become a master of archery?"
To his surprise, Brónalm said that he had not. "I knew only that my place was to serve Heru Denweg. In his memory I sought to hold my people together after his death, and when I came to your grandfather, I knew him as my lord's heir, and thenceforth I have served your family." [12]
Legolas considered this. He knew that Brónalm was more than a teacher; the ancient elf served as captain and advisor, as keeper of his people's lore and as spiritual guide to his King's family and subjects.
"I know that I wish to serve the realm, but I do not know in what manner, Cúcherdir."
"That I cannot tell you. Your fate is woven already, as it is for all our kindred. Let Ilúvatar's song guide you and even if you cannot see your path, you shall not stray from it." He smiled at the young elf. "Your heart will reveal Ilúvatar's plan to you when you are ready to hear it."
Late Ethuil, TA 5010
"Stay, lord. She is not there. She passed during the night."
Legolas looked at Viduwyn's granddaughter quizzically. Slowly, the elf grasped her meaning and turned away, bewildered by this loss. Elves did not die so - they died of injuries or in great angst, but never in their sleep.
The woman put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "She died without fear and without pain. It is all that we mortals can hope for in death."
They buried Viduwyn, as Thranduil had deemed appropriate, in the glade where Legolas' mother and Faunil lay. Her young great-grandson spoke the words of ceremony that the Masters of Folcagard had used for centuries, wishing the woman much joy in the Halls of the Gods.
Afterward, Viduwyn's granddaughter approached Legolas. "You brought contentment to her final days. She saw her last child into adulthood and went to the Halls of the Gods without regret."
Legolas could not find comfort in Viduwyn's peaceful passing. He thought it a great unfairness that Eru would take one of His children, though the woman suffered neither grief nor injury.
Evening fell over the burial ground, where Mitharas found his cousin in vigil over the silent cairns. He sat down next to the younger elf. The upper airs were full of stars and night birds chattered to one another, not the least disturbed by the two elves.
"Brónalm says that the fëar of men mingle to produce the spark of new life."
Mitharas considered this. The notion veered far from the teachings of the Wise, yet he supposed that the ancient elf knew as much as did Rúmil or Pengolodh, for even to the Valar, Ilúvatar had not revealed such things.
"Why is it that our fate is not the fate of men? Why should immortality be given to us and not to them?"
Mitharas gave him a twisted smile. "Death is called the gift of men. You are young yet - you do not know weariness with the world. Perhaps you shall never know it, for does our Cúcherdir not also say that the fate of the Silvan folk is sundered from that of the Eldar?"
"Aye, that he does. And yet I am also of the Sindar." The elf was troubled. "Have you thought to go West with Ríadel?"
The captain stared at his cousin. He had never spoken to the younger elf of his love for the lady. Legolas' perception was sometimes too keen for comfort.
"I am sorry. It is not my place to ask."
"I have felt much sorrow of late, but I am still needed here, I think."
"You are still wanted here, Gwanur." [13]
Mitharas squeezed his hand. Yes, he would miss Ríadel. Yet, she had no claim to him. He was bound by ties much stronger to his family - to his King, who referred to him as a son - to Innolas, his companion and his comfort - to young Legolas, his hope and future.
"I think our fate is not so different from that of men. We, too, may die or pass over the Sea, yet we live on in all that we leave behind, in the places and people we have touched."
There could be no life without death, for nature must constantly renew itself. For the first time, it occurred to Legolas that the Firstborn were an aberration of this law. Men had risked everything time and time again to wrestle Ennor from Morgoth and his foul lieutenant. As elves withdrew from a world they no longer understood, men fought to change it. They never ceased in their pursuit of perfection, and this quest, the heritage of men, captivated the young elf.
His mother's great-grandmother had once predicted that Legolas would be a friend to mortals. What this would entail remained murky, but he knew his fate was entwined with the hope of the Abonnen.
Legolas got to his feet. "They will be missing us." As they made their way out of the burial ground, he glanced behind at his cousin. "We have thought ourselves lost, you and me. Yet perhaps we have not been so much lost as unwilling."
Mitharas shook his head at the youngster's words. Still waters indeed ran deep.
1st Day of Laer (Midsummer), TA 2510 [14]
Legolas found the glade deserted; the Midsummer feast had ended at dawn and elves slept late this day. He had left his boots behind and reveled in the feel of morning dew under his feet. Wrens sang sweet songs to one another and the trees rustled in greeting to the young elf as he walked beneath them. He came to his favorite, an old beech, and pulled himself up into the branches. The leaves danced in a morning breeze, tickling the elf's feet, and the tree purred in adoration of the precious thing it held.
He closed his eyes against the bright rays of the sun and let his mind empty itself, until he was aware only of the tree's loving cradle and the rush of the nearby river.
He found himself in Mirkwood, but it did not look much like Mirkwood. More precisely, it did not feel like Mirkwood. The trees were free and unguarded; animals big and small frolicked under the stars without fear. A horn sounded in the distance. The animals raised their heads and pricked their ears toward the sound of thundering hooves. Whatever was coming, clearly they welcomed it, and the branches of the trees almost danced in happy anticipation.
The air of the forest and his Elven senses told Legolas he had nothing to fear. Still, he did not expect what he saw: a steed of great size, with a coat that shone silver in the twilight, yet in place of neck and head rose the torso of an elf, bow slung across his shoulders. The elf-horse came to a stop before Legolas. [15]
"Airë Oromë," he whispered, kneeling in awe. [16]
"You are far from your time, young elf. You walk now in the forest as it was made for the Quendi by Yavanna, though in your day you see ruin of that forest as no elf should see. Yet, I tell you now, the Shadow shall one day be vanquished, and you shall see the forest as it was in your grandfather's day.
"You are to be a hunter, Legolas Thranduilion - a hunter not of deer or boar but of the creatures of Morgoth and his fell lieutenant."
"As you are," Legolas said, looking at the Vala in awe.
"As I am. A great task awaits you, young elf. Your hunt will take you many leagues from these woods, yet in its pursuit shall the forest be reborn."
Legolas opened his eyes to find himself returned to his own time. In grief, he reached out to the trees of his father's realm, for beneath their contentment, he felt their sorrow for their brethren to the south.
To heal the hurts of Arda - for this, the Silvan folk had chosen to remain in these woods, heeding neither the invitation of the Valar nor the threat of Morgoth. It sometimes seemed to Legolas that for each hurt mended, three more were struck by Sauron. He desired nothing so much as to see the forest at last released from the Shadow.
Yet, the Vala's charge would exact its price upon him, he foresaw. It would bring him sorrow. He might lose everything he loved, even his life.
He would take the Great Rider as his emblem. Elves of the wood had long carved this incarnation of the Lord of the Forest into bows and burnt it into their quivers. The image was said to bring Oromë's protection.
Legolas had a feeling he would need it.
Prologue
The Nazgûl sniffed the air. Unmistakable, that scent of living blood, the cram of his existence. The needs of mortal men had deserted him over an age ago; his kind found sustenance, such as they needed, in the sweet waning of life. And here, passing nearly under his nose, were mortals, brimming with life and something else that excited him: fear.
Beside him, Khamûl shifted. "Watch. Wait."
The other did as he was told, and soon felt what discomfited his companion. "Nolug-hai," he spat. [1]
"Nay, they are mortal. But something Elvish goes with them."
'A protective spell, perhaps,' Khamûl thought. 'A woman of power.' The protection they carried was powerful and very old, older even than the wraiths themselves. In any case, they hunted more important prey: the two who had eluded them, the two his Lord had sent them to find. They would not assail these strange mortals.
Vale of the Anduin, 41st Day of Echuir, TA 2509 [2]
Romhador held his knife in the flames of the fire for a moment, then withdrew it and held it up, allowing it to cool somewhat. Studying the man's bulbous leg, he drew a deep breath and lowered his knife. Mitharas looked away, feeling slightly queasy, though the man offered only a quiet groan. Romhador finished his work and pulled his captain aside with a look of dismay.
"All I know of mortal sickness is what I learned from those who care for the livestock," the healer admitted, his forehead wrinkled with discomfort. He felt utterly out of his depth, a rare thing for an elf. "What I would give for a healer of the Dúnedain just now," he said wryly.
"What ails him may be beyond even their skill," Mitharas said. "You have done all you can, yet he grows colder. He will not last the night, I think. Go and take some rest - I will finish binding his wound." He turned to see that Legolas and Iasernor had returned from their search for athelas.
"This may ease your pain, my friend." He applied a poultice to the wound and bound it in fresh bandages. He stood, feeling helpless and worried. Around him, the Wood Elves spoke in hushed whispers. Like their captain, they could not banish the vivid memory of Mordor or the dreadful Ylnaid. [3]
"Mitharas, what is wrong? Even the trees are disturbed - they speak of something unwholesome in the shadows." The dark-eyed elf watched him carefully, his head tilted toward the trees that bordered the Anduin. Even if the older warriors dared not speak of their fears within the hearing of the youngster, Legolas shared their sensitivity to the living things around him. He knew something was amiss.
"This man is afflicted with a Morgul wound," Mitharas said at last.
The younger elf's eyes widened. "Is he…will he die?"
Mitharas nodded. "There is little we can do to help him. Such a wound needs the skill of one such as Elrond or Aiwendil, and we could not bear him away in time. I do not think he will see Anor's rising." He wished his young cousin were not with the party, no matter how much confidence he had in the warriors he had chosen for this journey. He had intended to go as far as the Carrock, and more than ever, he wanted to know what tidings the Beornings might have. Now, he judged the risk too great. He could not put Legolas in danger.
He turned his attention to the making of camp and setting of watches. Legolas, as much out of curiosity as compassion, went to sit with the dying man. 'What brings you so far from home, Dúnadan?' Legolas wondered silently. The man seemed to sense his question.
"Your people have communion with the birds, perhaps you will send word to my Steward?" The man's face contracted in consternation. "Though it will bring him no joy, he must know we have failed him." [4]
"That will be done," Legolas promised. "But can we not do more for you? If there is a message to be delivered, perhaps we can carry it in your stead." He knew his father probably would not approve; Thranduil did not like to involve his people in troubles that did not concern them or their allies. He had enough to worry him within his own borders.
"My message will go with me to the grave, for so my Steward commanded of me and I took an oath to reveal it to none but its recipient.
"But I came north with a companion," he continued, "and we knew not the land, so that we came upon the lands west of Dol Guldur at night. We both felt a great and paralyzing fear come over us, and though I reached for my sword, I could not draw it. My companion's horse shied as the thing came nearer in the mist, and he was thrown. All at once, the dark horseman charged us and my horse bolted, so that I left my companion behind. No doubt, he was soon put to death. Yet I did not escape unharmed, for the horseman sliced my leg ere I escaped." The man closed his eyes, pain and exhaustion overcoming him.
He spoke again without opening his eyes, weakly squeezing Legolas' hand. "They say the touch of an elf is healing, and though I cannot doubt my demise, you bring me comfort."
"Then I will stay with you, if it eases your night."
Merciful death claimed the man before dawn, as Mitharas had predicted. Legolas knew the precise moment when the hand he held grew empty and lifeless. He wondered at the fate of the fëar of men. Some spoke of a place beyond the circles of the world - what did that mean? The void? Where Morgoth seethed in his imprisonment? Legolas shivered at the thought.
Mitharas faded from his dreams. The fire burned brightly; other elves were up and about. He saw that Legolas still sat with the man and frowned. Someone had drawn a sheet over the man's face. The elf slid out of his bedroll and went to crouch by his cousin.
"He is dead," Legolas said, his young face confused.
Unbidden, a memory buried beneath the centuries of his life came to the forefront of Mitharas' mind. He had spoken the same emotionless words over the shell of what had been his father. At Legolas' age, he had marched south into war. His father had been the first of the King's family to die, but not the last. The King's oldest grandson and the King himself had died in the ill-fated assault on the Morannon. He looked around him. These old warriors had seen brothers, fathers, sisters slain in the seven-year war.
Still, Mitharas had lost more than most. He had returned from Mordor to watch helplessly as his mother faded from grief. In later years, he had lost the lady he loved to his closest friend, and his friend to bitterness and then wargs.
His father had been Captain of the Guard before him, and the son had shown the same aptitude for military leadership. Despite his tender age, he had risen quickly to the forefront of Thranduil's army in Mordor. Upon return to the Greenwood, that wise King had named Mitharas and Faunil - a Nandorin elf from Ossiriand - as joint captains in charge of his realm's defense. Faunil had been both mentor and friend to the younger Captain. Mitharas had returned from Mordor a great warrior; he was a ruthless foe whom orcs called Kelk-ash, 'the cold one'. Yet he could not have become a great commander without Faunil's aid. More even in temperament, the Laegel had taught him prudence, and as a result, Mitharas had lost few warriors to Mandos. He had earned the devotion of the elves who served under his wise leadership. [5, 6]
If his work gave him an outlet for anger that might otherwise have consumed him, it could not restore the near-child who had set out for Mordor. He could not bear to see Legolas' innocence tarnished so soon.
Mitharas put a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "We must bury him. It will soon be light, and I would reach the forest before nightfall."
Legolas could see a rosy light upon the highest peaks of Hithaeglir, signaling Anor's ascent in the east. He suddenly had a great yearning to be safe under the beeches of his home; his skin prickled with the certainty that unwholesome things were about.
Even the party's return to the woods could not give him much comfort. The disturbance of the trees hummed even louder here than in the Vale and all of the Silvan members of the party were on edge. The following day, a sudden movement in the forest had the entire company ready with bows and spears.
"There!" Iasernor pointed to a tree a furlong into the wood. Suspecting a spider, he held his bow ready as he scanned the branches. Then he lowered his weapon and visibly relaxed. "We seem to have treed a boy."
Mitharas walked up to the tree. "If you wish to escape the elves of the wood, a tree will not avail you, young fellow." There was no response. "Come down, child. We will not harm you."
A rather dirty boy of perhaps thirteen climbed down from the tree, looking at the party in wonder. "Elves, did you say?" His Westron had an odd accent that Mitharas could not immediately place.
"Yes, we are elves. What brings a child alone into Mirkwood?"
"Elves of Northern Mirkwood? Of King Thranduil's realm?"
"Yes, yes." Mitharas wrinkled his brow. "But what--?"
The boy looked as if he would cry with relief. "We are saved then. I am the Master of Folcagard, and I have a letter from your King--." He faltered, realizing how ridiculous his words must sound.
Mitharas looked at the young 'Master' solemnly.
Seeing that the elf in charge, for so the boy understood Mitharas to be, would not laugh, the boy drew himself up and continued. "My people are hidden yonder. We have your King's promise to aid us, and it is many years old, but we hoped…we hoped he would honor it still."
"We are elves. We do not forget our debts. But what brings you hither now?" Mitharas motioned the child to sit, and followed suit, taking some bread from his cloak.
The child spoke not another word until he had finished the bread and some dried meat. At length, the elf-lord extracted the tragic tale of Folcagard's destruction. Orcs had swarmed from the mountain and besieged the town. The men had put up a brave fight, but in the end, their defenses had given way and most of their people slain. Among the dead was the boy's father, the previous Master of Folcagard. A few women and children had escaped as the town burned; hither this boy had led these survivors, hoping to reach Northern Mirkwood.
Once fed, the boy led them into the woods to a clearing; for mortals, they had disguised their presence rather well. The boy spoke in his own tongue and four women came forward, holding swords and knives. Mitharas waited with some impatience as the women questioned the boy in their own tongue.
"They wish to speak to my great-grandmother and see that all is well, for she has knowledge of such things."
Mitharas smiled. He suddenly knew of whom the boy spoke. "Tell her that Mitharas sends his greetings."
Two of the women remained behind, still holding their weapons, while the other two went further into the woods with the young Master. A few minutes later, a very old woman emerged from the trees.
"If my old eyes do not deceive me, 'tis the elf-lord I knew when I was young. And unchanged as if it were yesterday that I left the little one."
"Ah, but you should find the little one much changed," Mitharas said warmly.
Legolas looked at the woman with reverence. He retained some memory of the blond woman who had nursed him, for the minds of young elves grew more quickly than their bodies. He knelt before the elderly woman and took her withered hands in his. "I am forever in your debt, Naneth Iphant. But perhaps now we can repay your kindness." [7]
Viduwyn did not say it, but she knew that the elf had already repaid her. She had felt a shadow upon her in their journey, yet somehow, she had known it would not touch her. Her bond to the baby she had nursed remained strong, as did the magic of his people. Her certainty in this had given her people the courage to pass under the very nose of darkness.
"But why did you not send word for help, as we promised the Master of your village?" Mitharas asked.
A woman - the boy's mother, Mitharas guessed from her protective arm around his shoulder - answered him. "But we did, lord. Yet none came."
"Your messenger must have been waylaid."
"That could not have happened, for we gave our message to the Elder One and a companion visiting him at the time. I delivered it myself."
She meant Aiwendil, and Mitharas wondered at this. True, they had seen little of the wizard in recent years, but Aiwendil had ever been a friend to the men of the Vale. "Was the Elder One to have delivered it?"
"He was. But his companion bid him not, and said he would deliver the message, for he had business in Northern Mirkwood."
Strange! "Describe for me this companion."
"He was old, like the Elder One, and had long, white hair and robes."
Mitharas said no more, but the woman's words troubled him. The sooner they reached the safety of their realm, the better, he judged.
Northern Mirkwood, 46th Day of Echuir, TA 2509
Ríadel started as her dreamscapes melted abruptly into the present. She rose and wrapped a shawl about her shoulders. Stoking the fire, she sat in its faint glow. Regrets flitted through her mind; she would miss this wood and the good King she had served for the better part of two ages. Yet in her heart, she felt no uncertainty; the joy of her fëa eased her decision. It was time for her to go.
The Sea had always called to the Falathrin elf, but not as it called to the Sindar of the forests or to the Noldor. No, it had never before beckoned her to cross it - she was content to be near it. Every so often, she made the long journey to Mithlond and stayed there some rounds of the sun, returning with the thick brogue of her people and renewed vigor.
It was not her way to delay once her heart had reached a decision and she set off to see the King as early as practicable.
"You will be missed," Thranduil told her with a sad smile. Yet he understood what compelled her to leave Ennor. The love of his life could not return to him and he could only envy the lady and her rehoused husband.
Nonetheless, his sympathy could not alter the facts of the matter. How was he to honor her request when they could not cross Hithaeglir safely? The fetters that bound his realm grew more monstrous each year and he could not loosen their hold.
Galion interrupted these grim thoughts. "Aranen! An eagle has brought this."
Thranduil took up the message immediately. Out of respect for Manwë's servants, the elves rarely used the eagles as messengers; they did not trouble the great creatures for trivialities. He knew the importance of the letter even before he recognized the seal of Imladris.
The letter from Elrond's councilor was short and terse. Thranduil set it aside wearily. He would have to answer it without delay, but now he lacked the strength. In the recesses of his mind, he could hear the slam of a heavy iron door, hear its bolts thrown fast. The face that peered hopelessly from the barred window was his own.
Northern Mirkwood, 47th Day of Echuir, TA 2509
Night had fallen when the party reached the caverns. Having sent Legolas with the women and children of Folcagard to find Galion and arrange their lodging, Mitharas sought the King. He wished he could have put off this meeting until the morn; his tidings would not bring cheer.
Thranduil sat in his library amid discarded sheaves of foolscap and set aside the letter in progress without regret. "Mitharas! I did not expect you to return so soon," he greeted his sister-son. "None have met with misfortune on your journey, I trust."
"Legolas is quite well," Mitharas smiled, answering the King's unspoken question. "But I thought it prudent to return, for things are stirring and my news is not good."
Thranduil grimaced. "I too, have had unfortunate news. Perhaps you should find your cousins and Brónalm, for this affects us all."
When the others had arrived, Mitharas began with the tale of the women of Folcagard. "They sent a messenger to Aiwendil, requesting our help, but it seems it did not reach us."
'Alas, that we have failed in our pledge to those good people!' Thranduil regretted silently.
Brónalm rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yet Folcagard is only the latest settlement in the Vale to be destroyed. We have known for some time that the Balchoth and orcs have killed or chased away the men of the Vale."
Mitharas nodded. "The women of Folcagard report that the Stoors abandoned their hamlet some years ago. Those north of Rhosgobel have escaped unmolested - the enemy must respect Aiwendil's power and its servants fear the Beornings. They know what strength those men possess. But there is more." He continued with the story of the messenger from Gondor. "It seems that the Ylnaid watch the way north."
"It concerns me that the Ylnaid have grown so bold," Innolas said. "Dol Guldur has been careful to mask its strength thus far, though we have never doubted that the thing holding the fortress would reveal itself at the opportune time."
"It seems that this is the opportune time," Thranduil said grimly. "An eagle came just yesterday with news still more grave. Lady Celebrian and her guard were attacked on Cirith o Charadhras by orcs. The lady was taken captive and though her sons have rescued her, she endured great suffering." He glanced at the difficult response that had taken most of the day to compose. Silently, he thanked the Valar that Legolas' foresight had dissuaded Innolas from his journey to Imladris and perhaps a similar fate. [8]
"Ai, it is indeed grievous that this kind lady should suffer so," Mitharas said soberly. "And we must accept that the way west is now closed to us."
Thranduil sighed, having come to that conclusion himself. They found themselves utterly alone, pushed to the farthest corner of a forest the elves had once roamed freely. Should Dol Guldur turn upon them, his people would have nowhere to flee.
Brónalm sensed his King's despair. "We have strength here. The Ylnaid fear us and the Dark Lord has not the power he once had. He will remember the strength of your line. He has not the weapons of the one he served - Morgoth's demons of fire, the balrog and the dragon, are no more." [9]
"So it seems," Legolas interjected, surprising everyone. He wore a troubled expression.
Thranduil suppressed a shudder. He had never seen these fearsome creatures, though he had heard Mablung speak of them in Doriath. He cast a worried look at his son. A moment earlier, he had thanked the Valar for his son's prescience. Now, he recalled how it had affected his sister. Laigil's far sight had at times been more a curse to her than a gift.
As they parted, Thranduil stopped Mitharas. "There is another matter of particular interest to you. Ríadel has announced that she intends to go West."
"We have just established that is impossible." Mitharas chastised himself for his relief at Ríadel's unfortunate timing.
Thranduil nodded. "But Mitharas, she will go when the way is safe again. You must accept that."
Mitharas found the little hut Ríadel had once shared with Faunil still lit despite the late hour.
"Mitharas! I am surprised to see you. I thought you were to be gone longer." The elf wore a scarf over her hair. Several crates lay half-filled on the table.
"And you hoped to leave before I returned."
She shook her head sadly. "I would have waited until your return."
"It appears you do not plan to wait long at all," he argued, waving his hand at the austere room, stripped of all but essential items.
Ríadel sighed. "I have a great deal to do before I leave. The King has sent word to your sister in Dorwinion, for someone must take my place as Bassoneth. Until her granddaughter arrives and knows all that I can teach her, I must remain." [10]
He moved a box from a chair and took a seat. "Faunil did not stay long in the keeping of Mandos."
"He lived blamelessly - he had no regrets, no grievances in death."
'As I cannot claim,' Mitharas thought. Too late, he had forgiven Faunil for loving and capturing the maid he also had desired. "I am afraid you will have longer than you think to train your replacement. The mountains have become impassable. It is too dangerous now to attempt a crossing."
"Mitharas! I have spoken to the King already. He has given me leave. If you will not accompany me, then I will find those who will." Her voice softened. "You, of all people, must understand what compels me to go."
"It is not my decision. Things have changed. I do not speak falsely of the danger, and as Captain of the Guard, I forbid it."
"I will go alone if necessary," she snapped.
"Alone or accompanied, you risk the same fate as the Lady Celebrian. I do not have the authority to stop you, but I will not commit even one of my warriors to a reckless errand."
"The Lady Celebrian! Whatever has befallen her?"
"She was taken by orcs - she has been rescued, but is perhaps not whole."
Ríadel blinked back tears. "That dear lady! But I did not know…it is of course unwise to try the pass now." She sank into a chair, disappointment for her own delay mingled with compassion for the injured lady.
Mitharas paced his chambers restlessly that night, his dreamscapes utterly deserting him. He knew his words left much unspoken, knew that Ríadel deserved compassion, not shameful self-interest. A poor friend he made - he did not wonder that Ríadel had chosen to bond herself to another.
Only the deepest snow could keep Thranduil from his morning ride. Sometimes, he rode with one of his sons, sometimes alone, but no matter how much the business of the day pressed upon him, he considered his ride as necessary as food and drink. On this morning, he had asked Innolas to accompany him. Ordinarily, he avoided matters of state during these rides, but the events of the previous night weighed heavy on his heart.
They rode without speaking for a time, holding the horses to a walk, and enjoyed the play of Arien's light through still bare branches of the tall beech trees. Thranduil had spent his entire life among the Silvan folk and their western cousins, the Laegrim of Doriath, and he had learned to find comfort in nature's beauty even in the darkest of times.
"You are concerned about the message that did not get through," Innolas reluctantly broke the silence.
Thranduil smiled wryly. "You know me too well. The description sounds like Mithrandir."
"I cannot imagine that he would have failed to deliver the message. If he were waylaid, he would have found a way to contact us."
His father glanced at him, a grave expression on his face. "There are things I have never told anyone save Elrond, things I will not relate lest you come to harm. Yet this much I will say: I fear that we can no longer trust the Ithryn."
Innolas shook his head vigorously. "We can trust Mithrandir. And though Aiwendil seems distracted, I cannot think that he would fall under the spell of the Shadow. He is a servant of Yavanna and the withering of the forest is as much a grief to him as to our people." The loremaster was silent for a moment. "But Curunír would fit the description." He hesitated. "I do not wish to pass judgment based on resentment - that he would not do as we wished when the White Council met is not reason enough to hold him suspect. We cannot fathom the ways of the Ainur."
"'Do not interfere in matters of the Ithryn,'" Thranduil quoted with a smile.
"But I know that my report troubled you when I returned from the Council." The elf sighed in frustration. "I would feel better if we could consult with Imladris."
"I know. So long, my father only wished us left to our own devices. Now, that has come to pass and I feel as if we are caught in a noose that grows ever tighter."
"That has been done on purpose," Innolas said flatly. "But Brónalm is right - the Shadow would not go to such lengths to isolate us if it did not fear us."
Thranduil nodded. He could still mount an army of considerable size and experience. He had to hope that this threat would hold back assault on his realm. He changed the subject, seeing no reason to dwell on problems that presented no solution. "You will need to go to Dale to discuss the future of our mortal guests with Lord Castram."
Innolas nodded. Theirs was an Elven realm and his father did not wish to encourage mortals to settle within it.
"I do not expect him to refuse us, if we guarantee their support."
Innolas turned this over in his mind. "Are you certain you wish to pledge support of these folk? It could be costly."
"It is the least we can do, given that we could not come to their aid as we promised."
"Well done, Adelaeg," Legolas called.
The little elf glowed at these words of praise, and Brónalm smiled. The little ones regarded the young elf-lord with awe, and rightly so - they would never see a more gifted archer. He waited while Legolas dismissed the children. After a long dearth following the end of the Watchful Peace, the Wood-Elves had again begun to bear children; the darkness of the forest around Northern Mirkwood could not dampen their natural resilience for long. The bow-master had engaged the help of his favorite student, for he found he could not give adequate attention to each youngster.
"Have you given thought to the emblem you shall choose?" Brónalm asked as the younger elf took up his bow and aimed at one of the targets.
Legolas grimaced. It was customary among highborn elves to select some embellishment of their lord's herald. It had a practical purpose: in a great battle, such elf-lords would oversee command of the troops, and the standards raised would help to identify the various companies in battle. Mitharas had chosen a stag, Innolas a lamp. Often, an elf revealed his emblem on his fiftieth begetting day, but Legolas still had not settled upon one that seemed right.
In truth, the question ran deeper than his choice of a decoration. He had reached his majority, but the path before him remained obscure. He knew that Innolas had always wished to become a master of lore and that Mitharas came naturally to his role as Captain of the Guard. Legolas had no such leanings. The thought of shutting himself in a dark library filled him with dread, and he preferred to follow rather than lead. As a son of the King, he could not avoid the latter - even Innolas commanded troops at necessity. He enjoyed teaching the young ones, but he had not the stern eye of the Cúcherdir. If he was not meant to be a teacher, a loremaster or a captain, then what was he meant to become? It unsettled him to feel so lacking in purpose. In time, his father had promised, the Lady would show him his way, but thus far, she had proved unforthcoming.
Ethuil, TA 2510
With the Lord of Dale's assent, the Folcagard refugees had left Mirkwood to settle in his town. Viduwyn, however, remained in the caverns at the King's request. The old woman deserved some material comforts in her waning years and did not say no to the King's invitation.
Legolas spent much of his free time with her, sitting by the river when the weather was fair or hiding in Gíleg's kitchens when it was not. The elf found a font of wisdom in his one-time nursemaid. Elves revered the elders among them and it appalled them to see that men had so little respect for the old. Still, Viduwyn would have been considered young, even a contemporary of Legolas, were she an elf. It seemed to him that mortals learned timeless wisdom more quickly; if elves too often wallowed in regret, those mortals who became wise in old age saw mistakes and setbacks of the past as experience, as lessons of life. This idea was not new to Legolas, for the Wood Elves held similar beliefs.
"He was a good man, my husband," she said one day, as they sat under a great oak by the river. "Lived to be 80, and that is a ripe age for our kind. He never touched a drop of drink, and he said that accounted for his long life."
"When did he…die?" Legolas asked, looking up from his fletching.
"Oh, it was a long time ago. Some thirty years."
"But mortals can marry again, can they not?"
Viduwyn laughed. "I was too old, child. Too old to bear children, and so not much use, as men see it. And none could take the place of my Dukalan. We loved each other well."
Legolas smiled. "I suppose that is what everyone seeks in taking a spouse. But how do you know that you have chosen rightly?"
The old woman looked sideways at the elf. "Is there a maid you have in mind?"
"More or less," he answered, blushing to the tips of his ears.
"When just a moment with your love seems worth more than time uncounted without her, you will know."
"Yet time uncounted is not for men as it is for elves, for mortals may die."
"And does not death stretch through time uncounted?"
"Then you do not keep hope that you will be reunited in death with your husband?"
"Does not your Pengolodh say that men await the end of Arda in the Houses of Waiting?" [11]
"You have been listening to my brother too much," Legolas laughed. "But what do you think is the fate of men?"
"If elves do not know it, how are men to know? But our people hold that a land of song and feasting among the gods awaits us."
"That seems a kinder fate to me."
Viduwyn smiled. "I think I so, too."
Mitharas rarely used his own study. When he had to attend to correspondence - a task he fiercely disliked - he usually worked in Innolas' library. Tonight, however, he felt the need to be alone - or, perhaps more accurately, he knew he was not fit company, even for his placid cousin.
More than ever, he was haunted by his failure to make amends with his dear friend Faunil; more than ever, he wondered what gave him the fire to go on. Thranduil had weathered the loss of a wife and the love of his heart because he would always be wed first to his kingdom and people. Innolas had long ago pledged his heart to musty books; young Legolas had that Silvan constancy that permitted him to weather any storm. Mitharas approached his vocation with zealous fervor, dispatching with the enemies of elves without mercy. Yet, he could not say he was wed to his role as Captain. At least, he hoped this was not the case. What happiness could come of bloodshed or vengeance?
He loved Ríadel as he would never love another, and she had chosen another. Though it pained him, he found some reassurance in her nearness, and now he must lose even that.
He wrote carefully lettered but curt responses to captains in distant parts of Northern Mirkwood. Fortunately, they were accustomed to their superior's austere style and would not take offense. He had collected a fair stack of minor matters requiring his attention - of late, he had participated more actively in the oversight of Mirkwood's defense. He needed to occupy himself and quiet his mind, and he had genuine concerns for the realm's security.
Reports from both Dale and his own warriors told of what amounted to a sizeable mobilization, and Mitharas was worried even though the orcs continued south. He had sent a small party of elves to track the orcs, for he feared that they would gather strength and return north to assail Northern Mirkwood. Such intelligence reported that the orcs continued their march well south of the realm before cutting through the forest at the East Bight. They seemed anxious to avoid the elves, but this did not comfort Mitharas, for it only pointed to a strong leader at Dol Guldur. The orcs were preparing for a grand assault - but where?
"Híren?"
Mitharas looked up, grateful for the interruption of this hated chore. "Come in, Brónalm."
The bow-master settled himself in a chair. Mitharas' study was sparsely furnished - it had neither the comfort of Innolas' library nor the elegance of the King's. Brónalm felt at ease here, nonetheless, for his was a simple existence. His hut was but a place to sleep and eat; his home was the forest.
"I understand that you have not yet moved Legolas into the active patrols."
Mitharas nodded.
"Think you not that his skills would be better employed elsewhere?"
"Is he unhappy with his duties?"
"Of course not. He finds his reward in a task well done. He is not one to complain."
Mitharas had the feeling that the Cúcherdir's words had an underlying meaning. "Then what, exactly, is the problem?"
"I think you are sheltering him." Brónalm leaned forward. "I know he is young, and I am no more eager than you to sully his innocence. But he is too fine an archer to waste his talents."
"Can you blame me if I want him to have what I did not? Fifty is not so very old."
The ancient elf put a hand on the Captain's arm. "This is not Mordor. Yes, there is evil about, but there is still much good here. Moreover, you and Legolas are not alike. He finds his strength in the forest and within himself. A few dead spiders will not change him.
"You are much like your grandfather," Brónalm continued with a sad smile. "He was a great King. He won the love and devotion of the Silvan folk, and under his guidance, we again became an ordered people. Yet, in the end, his griefs consumed him. Do not make the same mistake, Mitharas. The present is as it is, and it is a dangerous thing in our kindred to tread the past."
Anor still shone brightly when Legolas left the archery range, though he noted the clouds gathering to the west.
"It will rain, I think," Brónalm said as Legolas approached the hut.
The younger elf nodded. "The trees will be glad for it." He disappeared inside, though he left the door open; only at night or in foul weather did the Wood Elves shut up their dwellings.
"The seamstress was here. You are to see her tomorrow so that she can begin work on your summer clothing."
Legolas changed into clean leggings and tunic. He left the hut and sat down on the grass to re-braid his hair. The older elf watched him in amusement; he could not see any stray hairs requiring such care. Elves were meticulous about cleanliness, but Brónalm had never before seen one who actually repelled dirt.
"Have you given more thought as to your emblem? The seamstress will want that."
Legolas shook his head. "Did you always know, even as a child, that you would become a master of archery?"
To his surprise, Brónalm said that he had not. "I knew only that my place was to serve Heru Denweg. In his memory I sought to hold my people together after his death, and when I came to your grandfather, I knew him as my lord's heir, and thenceforth I have served your family." [12]
Legolas considered this. He knew that Brónalm was more than a teacher; the ancient elf served as captain and advisor, as keeper of his people's lore and as spiritual guide to his King's family and subjects.
"I know that I wish to serve the realm, but I do not know in what manner, Cúcherdir."
"That I cannot tell you. Your fate is woven already, as it is for all our kindred. Let Ilúvatar's song guide you and even if you cannot see your path, you shall not stray from it." He smiled at the young elf. "Your heart will reveal Ilúvatar's plan to you when you are ready to hear it."
Late Ethuil, TA 5010
"Stay, lord. She is not there. She passed during the night."
Legolas looked at Viduwyn's granddaughter quizzically. Slowly, the elf grasped her meaning and turned away, bewildered by this loss. Elves did not die so - they died of injuries or in great angst, but never in their sleep.
The woman put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "She died without fear and without pain. It is all that we mortals can hope for in death."
They buried Viduwyn, as Thranduil had deemed appropriate, in the glade where Legolas' mother and Faunil lay. Her young great-grandson spoke the words of ceremony that the Masters of Folcagard had used for centuries, wishing the woman much joy in the Halls of the Gods.
Afterward, Viduwyn's granddaughter approached Legolas. "You brought contentment to her final days. She saw her last child into adulthood and went to the Halls of the Gods without regret."
Legolas could not find comfort in Viduwyn's peaceful passing. He thought it a great unfairness that Eru would take one of His children, though the woman suffered neither grief nor injury.
Evening fell over the burial ground, where Mitharas found his cousin in vigil over the silent cairns. He sat down next to the younger elf. The upper airs were full of stars and night birds chattered to one another, not the least disturbed by the two elves.
"Brónalm says that the fëar of men mingle to produce the spark of new life."
Mitharas considered this. The notion veered far from the teachings of the Wise, yet he supposed that the ancient elf knew as much as did Rúmil or Pengolodh, for even to the Valar, Ilúvatar had not revealed such things.
"Why is it that our fate is not the fate of men? Why should immortality be given to us and not to them?"
Mitharas gave him a twisted smile. "Death is called the gift of men. You are young yet - you do not know weariness with the world. Perhaps you shall never know it, for does our Cúcherdir not also say that the fate of the Silvan folk is sundered from that of the Eldar?"
"Aye, that he does. And yet I am also of the Sindar." The elf was troubled. "Have you thought to go West with Ríadel?"
The captain stared at his cousin. He had never spoken to the younger elf of his love for the lady. Legolas' perception was sometimes too keen for comfort.
"I am sorry. It is not my place to ask."
"I have felt much sorrow of late, but I am still needed here, I think."
"You are still wanted here, Gwanur." [13]
Mitharas squeezed his hand. Yes, he would miss Ríadel. Yet, she had no claim to him. He was bound by ties much stronger to his family - to his King, who referred to him as a son - to Innolas, his companion and his comfort - to young Legolas, his hope and future.
"I think our fate is not so different from that of men. We, too, may die or pass over the Sea, yet we live on in all that we leave behind, in the places and people we have touched."
There could be no life without death, for nature must constantly renew itself. For the first time, it occurred to Legolas that the Firstborn were an aberration of this law. Men had risked everything time and time again to wrestle Ennor from Morgoth and his foul lieutenant. As elves withdrew from a world they no longer understood, men fought to change it. They never ceased in their pursuit of perfection, and this quest, the heritage of men, captivated the young elf.
His mother's great-grandmother had once predicted that Legolas would be a friend to mortals. What this would entail remained murky, but he knew his fate was entwined with the hope of the Abonnen.
Legolas got to his feet. "They will be missing us." As they made their way out of the burial ground, he glanced behind at his cousin. "We have thought ourselves lost, you and me. Yet perhaps we have not been so much lost as unwilling."
Mitharas shook his head at the youngster's words. Still waters indeed ran deep.
1st Day of Laer (Midsummer), TA 2510 [14]
Legolas found the glade deserted; the Midsummer feast had ended at dawn and elves slept late this day. He had left his boots behind and reveled in the feel of morning dew under his feet. Wrens sang sweet songs to one another and the trees rustled in greeting to the young elf as he walked beneath them. He came to his favorite, an old beech, and pulled himself up into the branches. The leaves danced in a morning breeze, tickling the elf's feet, and the tree purred in adoration of the precious thing it held.
He closed his eyes against the bright rays of the sun and let his mind empty itself, until he was aware only of the tree's loving cradle and the rush of the nearby river.
He found himself in Mirkwood, but it did not look much like Mirkwood. More precisely, it did not feel like Mirkwood. The trees were free and unguarded; animals big and small frolicked under the stars without fear. A horn sounded in the distance. The animals raised their heads and pricked their ears toward the sound of thundering hooves. Whatever was coming, clearly they welcomed it, and the branches of the trees almost danced in happy anticipation.
The air of the forest and his Elven senses told Legolas he had nothing to fear. Still, he did not expect what he saw: a steed of great size, with a coat that shone silver in the twilight, yet in place of neck and head rose the torso of an elf, bow slung across his shoulders. The elf-horse came to a stop before Legolas. [15]
"Airë Oromë," he whispered, kneeling in awe. [16]
"You are far from your time, young elf. You walk now in the forest as it was made for the Quendi by Yavanna, though in your day you see ruin of that forest as no elf should see. Yet, I tell you now, the Shadow shall one day be vanquished, and you shall see the forest as it was in your grandfather's day.
"You are to be a hunter, Legolas Thranduilion - a hunter not of deer or boar but of the creatures of Morgoth and his fell lieutenant."
"As you are," Legolas said, looking at the Vala in awe.
"As I am. A great task awaits you, young elf. Your hunt will take you many leagues from these woods, yet in its pursuit shall the forest be reborn."
Legolas opened his eyes to find himself returned to his own time. In grief, he reached out to the trees of his father's realm, for beneath their contentment, he felt their sorrow for their brethren to the south.
To heal the hurts of Arda - for this, the Silvan folk had chosen to remain in these woods, heeding neither the invitation of the Valar nor the threat of Morgoth. It sometimes seemed to Legolas that for each hurt mended, three more were struck by Sauron. He desired nothing so much as to see the forest at last released from the Shadow.
Yet, the Vala's charge would exact its price upon him, he foresaw. It would bring him sorrow. He might lose everything he loved, even his life.
He would take the Great Rider as his emblem. Elves of the wood had long carved this incarnation of the Lord of the Forest into bows and burnt it into their quivers. The image was said to bring Oromë's protection.
Legolas had a feeling he would need it.
- [1] Nolug-hai
- Elves (Black Speech). Nolug, 'elven' comes from David Salo's neo-Black Speech as it appears in 'The Treason of Isengard' on The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack. The ending -hai, 'folk' is attested in LOTR and appears in the compounds Uruk-hai and Olog-hai.
- [2] 41st Day of Echuir
- The dates are important at the beginning of the story because Tolkien gives exact dates for the events preceding the battle at Parth Celebrant (this story assumes that Celebrian was captured very late in 2509). However, I have to admit that they are not as exact as I would like - I've relied upon Lalaith's excellent calendar for 2941 (ref Lalaith's Middle-earth Science Pages - see my homepage for URL), but the dates of 2509 would not match. However, the Elven calendar did not vary that much from year to year in comparison with the calendar of Gondor - both had to adjust from time to time to keep them in sync with the sun and the seasons. The Elven New Year seems to have varied by about 16 days around the Vernal Equinox. At any rate, even I am not geeky enough to do the math to come up with an accurate calendar for 2509, so I've simply converted the Gondorian dates to the Elven calendar of 2941. (ref Unfinished Tales, 'Cirion and Eorl' p 311 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
- [3] Ylnaid
- Ring-wraiths (Neo-Sindarin). This is derived from Q. Úlairi, and literally means, 'hideous being'. For a full etymological explanation, see 'A Proposed Deconstruction of Úlairi' on my homepage.
- [4] 'perhaps you will send word to my Steward'
- This is a slight deviation from canon. Three pairs of messengers were sent to the Eothéod in the North to request their help, and the fates of the second two pairs were never known. Of the first two, one was slain by arrows as they passed Dol Guldur and the other reached Framsburg. This fellow is meant to be one of the untold four, so he couldn't have been found by the elves. (ref Unfinished Tales, 'Cirion and Eorl', p 311 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
- [5] Laegel
- Nandorin Elf
- [6] Kelk-ash
- lit. 'cold one' (Black Speech). kelk, 'cold', isolated from kelkum, 'coldness' from David Salo's neo-Black Speech as it appears in 'The Treason of Isengard' on The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack; ash, attested in the Ring Rhyme as 'one'.
- [7] Naneth Iphant
- Old Mother
- [8] Cirith o Charadhras
- Redhorn Pass
- [9] 'the Dark Lord has not the power he once had'
- Sauron was much weaker in the Third Age than in previous ages. (ref The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter No 183 p 243 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- [10] Bassoneth
- lit. 'bread-giver'. This was the highest-ranking female in an elven society. She alone knew the secret of making lembas.
- [11] 'Does not your Pengolodh say that men await the end of Arda in the Houses of Waiting?'
- The narrator of 'Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth' states that this is only a theory of the elves, not certain fact. I have no idea whether Pengolodh is actually the narrator of this discourse. (ref Morgoth's Ring p 340 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- [12] Heru Denweg
- Lord Lenwë (Silvan). heru is derived from PE kherú. Proto-Eldarin kh becomes h in Nandorin (attested by hrassa). I've assumed that final -ú becomes -u - we have no examples of this, but Nandorin tends to preserve final long vowels as short vowels (though they may become different short vowels - without more evidence, it is impossible to determine). Denweg is attested as the Nandorin name for Lenwë. (ref The Lost Road, 'Etymologies'; The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar' p 412 pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- [13] Gwanur
- Kinsman. We lack a word for 'Cousin'.
- [14] 1st Day of Laer (Midsummer)
- The Elvish day technically begins at nightfall.
- [15] 'a steed of great size, with a coat that shone silver in the twilight, yet in place of neck and head rose the torso of an elf, bow slung across his shoulders'
- This is based on the Centaur of Greco-Roman mythology, not Tolkien. I don't mean to deviate from the canon image of Oromë and Nahar, rather to suggest that this was not the only form in which he appeared. The Valar could assume any incarnation they chose, and it would offer a Tolkien-like explanation for the myth of the Centaur in later ages.
- [16] Airë Oromë
- lit. 'Holy Oromë' (Q). This is one of those cases in which I think even a Sindarin elf might use Quenya, preferring the formal sound of the language when greeting a Vala. Airë is the proper title to use in addressing one of the Ainur. (ref The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Shibboleth of Fëanor' p 363 pub. Houghton Mifflin)