Reviewer Responses
"I told you this would work, Alagaith. You should have trusted me. They love me."
Alagaith grins wryly and chuckles, "You told me so, yes - but I was not aware that you had so many *female* admirers."
Tanglinna raises one brow and gazes at his companion with mild disdain.
"I beg your pardon? What exactly are you implying?"
A slow smile spreads over Alagaith's features, an innocent smile one would almost say, if not for the mischievous glint in his one eye.
"Do you really want me to answer that question in front of all these charming ladies?" he chortles.
The silver-haired archer glares over at him, but then a smirk crosses his lips.
"I should point out that kingmaker is not a female. Or did you forget that?"
"And," Alagaith rejoined with a grin, "he explicitly admires the ART, not the artist . . . . Please try to remain honest."
"I am always honest, unlike some people that I have encountered, Linlote," Tanglinna said, looking pointedly at the other elf, who merely smiled in an unnerving Noldor fashion and said smoothly, "'Always', Mordil, indeed . . . . Why should the evil witch queen claim that it is 'very good' that you are in prison then? For surely a dungeon is not a place for perfectly honest people." The Noldor elf winked suddenly and continued before the Silvan could reply. "And," he glanced back at the reviews, " Hel is 'not very surprised' that you were imprisoned for 'your actions'? Truly, that speaks highly of the reputation you have among your. . . .admirers."
"You are reading them wrong," Tanglinna growls bending over the reviews. "Nilmandra is ready to 'have words' with Thranduil about it. AND amlugwen says that Thranduil should charge people to look at my paintings. AND daw the minstrel says that I am a 'hoot'. So there!" He straightens, folding his arms over his chest and waiting expectantly for the retort, which is not long in coming.
Alagaith grinned once more, his eye sparkling with amusement.
"You do realize that you are answering the question Kal the Magnificent asked? You do behave like a peacock! Quite inexplicable that Hel should ask, 'why peacock?'! Why peacock indeed!" He slowly shakes his head in exasperation.
"I am NOT a peacock! And I do not know why you insist on calling me Mordil - Silver Peacock indeed -whereas your own nickname Linlote fits you perfectly. You ARE a skulking cutpurse, or so they are about to find out. I look like a . . . a. . . a morose warrior, tired of. . . of the necessity of war - certainly not a peacock! legolasluva is about to know only too well who you are. Yes, legolasluva, I am old, well over 7,000 years. Linlote here is probably even older than that . . . not that he behaves like he is older and wiser." Tanglinna watches, hoping to have wiped that imperturbable grin from Alagaith's face, but he soon realizes that it will take more than that to deter this Noldor.
"Too kind of you, Mordil. . . , but I shall treat this lack of respect for those older than you with the wisdom and lenience of my venerable age. . . See? legolasluva is also of the opinion that I sound 'really cool'." It was now Alagaith's turn to smirk. "I just wonder why Miss Aranel did not expect to see me 'popping up again'."
"Perhaps she had enough of you the first time around," the Silvan smirks back. Then he chuckled. "Be warned, Dear Readers, Alagaith shows up at the oddest of times and often without warning. Though, and I will say this - because if I don't, he will, insufferable thing that he is - he does show up on occasions when he is needed." Tanglinna turns to grin at Alagaith. "See? I can be nice to my elders when I must."
"I just assume this means you know well enough that you might need my selfless help now and then - you do tend to get into a lot of trouble," Alagaith said with a slight grin. "Though not as much trouble as some of our readers seem to believe. . . . Nilmandra is of the opinion that we must have met in the mines." He turns to look at Tanglinna, surveying him critically. "Have you ever been there? No - for all your being a 'morose warrior tired of the necessity of war', you still do not look as if you had gone through that torment. Very telling that Lutris cannot even imagine you as 'the confined elf' in Thranduil's dungeon. I cannot imagine you as a humble slave in the mines."
"No, I was never "a humble slave in the mines". Not unless there is something that Tree didn't tell me. I am merely a humble servant of the good and wise King Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood. That is trial enough," Tanglinna chuckles. "ember can't wait to see how we meet. A very odd meeting it was, I can tell you. As to why Thranduil would like dear Linlote to be imprisoned, well, Thranduil is overly fond of his dungeons at times. . . just as the dwarves." Tanglinna grins slightly. "But no, dear Dis Thrainsdotter, Thranduil doesn't think I had anything to do with the escape of those same dwarves. . . at least I don't think he does." The Master Archer frowns, now suddenly wondering if Thranduil were thinking just that. "I hope he doesn't," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "Ah, yes. My 'Great Work'! Jasta darling, I hope it does not take me a lifetime and beyond to complete, like poor Niggle. Of course, as slowly as Tree and Dragon write, that is entirely possible. That is when Tree isn't dead or in China, eh legolasluva?" He winks at the screen. "The Goblins are REAL Goblins, not the Tricksy Trio, amlugwen. Real goblins. . . ." The tall elf grimaces slightly at this remark, noting that Alagaith is frowning now as well. "Um, yes. Well, here is chapter the first of our tale." He grins at Alagaith suddenly. "It won't all be angsty, will it, Linlote?"
"No, Mordil. It will be utter. . . chaos soon," the Noldor chuckles, raising one brow. "Now on to the tale!"
Chapter 1 - In Which The Two Elves Meet
POV of Tanglinna
The sunset that night was red, as red as the blood-washed ground at my feet, as the blade of my sword or the tips of my spent arrows. Ragged clouds, black as fleeing crows, had raced across the crimson expanse of the sky. Red and black - the color of the enemies' fluttering banners that lay trampled and rent on the rocky flanks of the mountain, a tattered sign of defeat. Our own green banners of the Forest flew jauntily against the morning's sky, a sky as blue as the banner of the Men of Esgaroth. Dwarven banners of Dain of Moria and Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor also flapped colorfully in the cold air the day after what would be called in later times the Battle of Five Armies. These banners and pennants were shining symbols of triumph in a sky that was perfect and yet unfeeling for what lies spread beneath it in pitiful array. What does it care for the strivings of the beings that inhabit Arda? The Valar cared little more than the sky does, or so it seems at times.
The air was cold and invigorating, yet choked with the vapors of war, strong with the scent of death and ash; the stench of lives lost and of destruction. Perhaps if I had held my breath, kept my eyes fixed on the vastness of blue above my head, above the Dwarves' mountain, if I held my breath refusing to exhale and draw another, I could have pretended that it is a lovely day, a normal day, one not filled with bruising anxiety and crushing sorrow . . . or even the senseless beating of anger.
But the breath was released, another drawn - painful, as my lungs filled the tainted air of devastating conflict.
All around me there were the signs of life, people moving in and out of my sight; some are familiar and loved, some are strangers to me, yet we fought together against the menace from the north and in the end were triumphant over it. But at what price? Friends, allies, foes . . . lives poured on the ground like water. The image was familiar, calling up memories of another battlefield at the end of the last Age of this world: Elves, Dwarves, Men, and our foes. Death does not discriminate. Yet that day, the day after the Battle of Five Armies, surrounded by smoke and sorrow, I could rejoice in saying that my king did not fall, not this time. I saw him then in the distance, a bright shining presence in his armor, his golden hair a beacon in the gloom. ~His father would have be proud of him, I thought, even as I continue to be proud of him.
No, that day others mourned the loss of their king, for Thorin Oakenshield, who had grasped what was his at last, fell even as victory flew in on the wings of swift eagles. We all mourned, for though we started this conflict as enemies, we ended it as allies, and thus we lamented the passing of those who fell by our sides, whether Elf, Dwarf, or Man . . . even as it was at Dagorlad.
I allowed myself to gaze over this section of the battlefield, for we had ranged wide across those southern spurs of Erebor. We had set about the grim but necessary task of gathering our dead. The goblins, wargs, and wolves we burned, giving them up to the blue sky. Our dead we took home with us, home to Greenwood, though most now call it Mirkwood, forgetting it was once different before the Shadow returned in the south. But Greenwood is what it will always be to me and to those of us that traveled to this great forest with Oropher so long ago to make a new home, a new beginning. Our fallen are always honored, always mourned, always remembered.
I recall hearing the sound of laughter, even amidst the sound of laments sung in the cold air of day. I had turned to see a group of our young warriors, vibrant, alive and gratefully so. They laughed as they told one another stories of the brave deeds they accomplished during the fighting, forgetting their fear for a time, forgetting their sorrow. Their laughter seemed out of place in that land of death, but they are young and resilient; this is how they survive what had happened. All of life lies before them, and though they had been christened as warriors in that conflict, christened in the blood of fallen enemies and friends alike and realize that life can be cut short even for elves, they are still children, innocent, not yet understanding that tomorrow when the fight comes to us again, it may be they that fall. This is their innocence. Those of us who have survived other battles know that the conflict is never over. If ever my king looks south, he is troubled; this is why Thranduil is ever mindful, ever vigilant; why his eyes fill with the sorrow of ages even as he gazes at his own children in times such as these. I believe he envies the young ones. I know I do. Innocence lost is never regained. Not in this life. Let them be children for as long as they can.
My steps took me slowly down the rocky slope still slippery with blood. No, innocence does not return. The young ones turned as I neared them, so certain that I would put a stop to their boasts and brags, as their voices faltered. But I allowed them this moment. I wished I could lose myself for a time in boasts and laughter, could find a way to forget the horror even for a short time. My life has never allowed me this and I don't begrudge them their laughter. I smiled at them, seeing their hesitance, then their relief showed in their answering smiles. As I moved past them, their youthful, earnest voices filled the air once more.
The morning sun sparkled on the river in the distance to the south, running into Greenwood. I allowed myself the selfish thought that it would be good to go home, to stand beneath those darkling trees with only the crisp cold air smelling of winter's approach or the rich earth that was preparing for slumber beneath the fallen leaves. But where I stood, the air was filled with other scents, other smells. There were more bodies, felled during the first rush against the goblins. I slowed my breathing, knowing that the bodies would be those of my friends, people I would recognize, people I had fought beside; people I knew and cared for.
It doesn't matter how often you encounter death, the pain is always fresh and sharp. Death is an inevitability of war, yet it tears the soul no matter how prepared for it you believe you are. You don't want to see their faces, as still and pale as marble . . . and as cold. But a grim sort of fascination grips you, drawing your eyes to the lifeless forms on the ground; they become faces you do know with eyes you have looked into, a mouth that has smiled at you. They are friends and family, those nearest to your heart. The pain is expected, but always a surprise in its intensity.
I knelt beside a young elf, one of his arms flung wide, his hair obscuring his features. Though I dreaded the moment, I gently eased the dark hair back and the suddenly he was no longer merely a slain elven warrior; he had a name: Calenmidh. His leaf green eyes were vacant, staring at the perfect sky above. I gently closed the lids, remembering this quiet young Silvan who had so proudly received his warriors' weapons not long before this encounter, his mother's eyes shining with tears of joy and pride. Tatharhoss' eyes would fill with tears once more, but it would not be the same, and I feared for her. This is a grief I know too well, one that I shared with her: the loss of a child. My heart went out to Calenmidh's mother, knowing her heart would die within her breast at the news we would bear to her on our return. You never recover from such a grievous wound. You may continue to live, but the grief is always there, beating like a black bird in your heart with every breath.
I whispered a quiet prayer, sang a few soft words in parting. It never gets any easier.
As I rose from my knees, my eyes wandering over the rocky terrain between the mountain and the forest, I spied a small mouse, intent on its journey, a scrap of dark cloth between its teeth. Winter was coming and well the little animal knew it; this piece of a warrior's cloak or tunic would make a nest warm and snug against the winter's chill and bitter winds. The mouse didn't care for the battle that had been fought here, he was probably not even aware that such a great clash had taken place over his home, only that there had been a great deal of frightening noise. He didn't care for Dwarf treasure or the might of Bolg the goblin leader and the fear he had inspired for so long. This tiny mouse was merely worried about his family surviving the winter. Such simplicity. I envied him that. Simplicity . . . that was what Oropher though we might obtain in Greenwood among the welcoming Silvans. A life not complicated by all that we sought to leave behind in Doriath as it lay in ruin; a simple life, carefree and joyous. Some things are unattainable it seems.
He disappeared down a hole that I would never have seen. Smiling, I had knelt, taking the last of my morning's repast and laying it before the mouse's home. I could do nothing to ease the pain that Tatharhoss will feel, but I could help a mouse survive a little longer this winter. It is a small kindness, more of the sort of thing that Brethil Bronaduion would do, certainly not 'Old Sourpuss'.
I had glanced back then to where the young warriors I had passed earlier were still standing. I was glad that they could take comfort in one another's company, I was glad they had survived to brag and boast and bolster one another with laugher. I only wish that Calenmidh was among them.
I have tried to prepare them to defend themselves and others; I have tried to prepare them for battle, but how can one be prepared for this? Suddenly I was acutely aware of the bow at my back. My bow . . . . That slender yet supple curve of wood that is so beautiful and so deadly. There are times that I hate it and what it represents, and then I felt the revulsion rise in me. I teach the children to use this implement of war, how to kill efficiently with it and quickly, else they be killed. Yes, at times I hate my bow . . . .
No, I reminded myself sharply. I was indeed thankful for the ones that did survive, using the skill I had taught them, the skills that others had spent years teaching them, and I hoped that perhaps war would not come to plague us again for some time. I gazed skyward, pleading for a moment's peace, begging that swords and war bows could be put away for a time, that my bow need not have any function but to put food in our mouths. I don't know if I was heeded or not.
With these thoughts in mind, I headed down the slope toward the more level ground, seeing death all about me, but holding thoughts of those who yet lived. It is how one stays sane in times like these.
Vultures had begun to gather in the sky, circling the battlefield, awaiting their moment of feasting. I felt anger swell within me, though I knew that this is what they had been created for, and thus it always was.
~It is their way, ~ I told myself, forcing my eyes from their slow dance on the air currents. ~It is how they survive. ~
But then a flash of richest green embroidered with red and gold caught my eye. There was only one warrior that wore garments embroidered with the flashing crimson and gold: Lalven, one of my oldest friends. Hope stirred in my breast, for surely I had seen movement and that meant that he yet lived! I moved forward eagerly, joy stirring in my heart. This is the moment we all wish for, life among the dead; that faint stirring of hope as one thought gone was still here and not standing before Mandos to be judged.
It was in that moment that I saw him . . . .
~*~*~*~*~*~*
POV of Alagaith
Fortune is fickle, and it seems that the Valar or other powers yet nameless ruling our fate take a wicked delight in hiding ill luck beneath a promising surface. For promising and friendly the early morning after the great battle that was to be known as the Battle of Five Armies later appeared, that is - promising and friendly to the eye of a robber of the dead.
The fight had raged for a long time and had been terrible; we had even been forced to move our camp farther away from the battlefield last night because we had felt that we were too close and might be in danger - we who had seen so many battles in the course of the years and had never failed to find a safe hiding place where we could watch and wait.
'We' - we were a ragged handful of outlaws most of whom had been thieves and followers of carrion for countless years, condemned to this hardly desirable sort of life by various circumstances and never lucky enough to discover the well-filled war chest of some rich lord or anything valuable enough to put an end to this misery.
Oh, now and then, there were good days, 'good' meaning that none of us remained hungry and cold, or even very good days - rare, but cherished the more because of that - on which the sale of some precious piece of loot enabled us to stay at an inn for some time, given that nobody asked too many questions so that we were able to keep up the unconvincing pretence of being a harmless party of travellers on their way to an imaginary destination.
The last weeks or even months before the Battle of Five Armies could not be numbered among the good ones, not even among the more or less bearable ones; they had been exceedingly bad, in fact, and there had not really been any very good days since a seemingly harmless wound had become inflamed and had nearly killed me during the last weeks of winter.
Now winter was approaching again, rather too rapidly for my taste, and we needed some good loot to get us over the cold months, coins, preferably, or one or the other precious object that could be exchanged for food during the dark time of the year when even hunting got difficult and breaking into houses was very risky.
Above all, however, I needed a cloak to keep me warm, for the wretched excuse for one that I wore at that time (or, more precisely, that hung down sadly from my shoulders and made me look like a dishevelled crow, as my tactful father had dared phrase it the other day) was too ragged and thin to keep the cold away.
I had had a much better cloak not so very long ago, dark blue and made of good cloth. I had come across it by chance in spring, and it had survived until the first chilly days of autumn had made me aware that Alagant - the little elfling had been growing far too quickly this last year! - needed a new cloak. The only thing I had managed to find at that time was the rag I was wearing now - and such a threadbare old piece of fabric had not been good enough to make a cloak for my son out of it. My blue cloak, in turn, had still looked quite decent, and it had not taken me long to make a cloak and a hood for the child.
I was actually quite pleased with the results of my needlework, and Alagant did love them - they had been ada's cloak once, after all, and I was secretly glad that he was happy about them mainly because of this and not because he was overly aware yet that having a good cloak bordered on luxury. How long until he would see things more clearly, a year or two?
I should have been proud that he was growing and learning, and actually, I was; yet, I found myself wishing to preserve the precious innocence of his thoughts and ways for some more time. Our life was grim enough even for the little one, so I was grateful for every further day he saw it in the friendly colours the sweet ignorance of childhood painted it in, an ignorance that would vanish soon enough; there were already inquisitive glances and moments of thoughtful silence indicating that a gradual change was taking place.
At least, I could spare him the sight of the battlefields or their worst parts, and while I made my way towards the actual battlefield, passing first fallen warriors - all commoners, I could tell that there was nothing or little worth taking left on them - I was glad to know that Alagant was well looked after - or, well, was busy "looking after Uncle Seven", as he had said when I had left, putting a protective little arm around my sneezing friend.
When we went out onto the battlefields or sites of smaller fights to pillage, one of us used to stay with Alagant, and this day, Seven, whose nickname referred to the fact that he had but seven fingers left, which was part of the reason why he had become an outlaw, had been the natural choice as he was suffering from a bad cold. He had caught it after he had fallen into a small river some days before, and if the cold that had resulted from this mishap was already bad enough, the fact that he had lost his scimitar in the fall and had not been able to retrieve it later was even more annoying, although I could not have foreseen what this - or rather the fact that I had lent Seven my sword in order not leave Alagant and him weaponless - would bring about.
At that time, though, I was presumptuous enough to believe that the dagger I was carrying would be sufficient to defend myself, especially as I planned to look for some sort of sword, preferably a scimitar, to replace Seven's lost weapon. As to Seven, it was probably a very good thing that he was ill. I remembered only too well how his eyes had shone when he had seen the splendid scimitars of the goblins of Bolg's bodyguard from afar while those formidable warriors had passed us by in the distance some days ago. I would not have been surprised if Seven had ventured out rather too far onto the battlefield in the hope of finding one of the magnificent curved swords undamaged.
I had to admit that I could have been tempted by those exquisite blades as well, but my desire was not great enough to make me lose my common sense. I was not especially keen on getting myself caught, and leaving the edge of the battlefield to search for loot out in the open would have meant to draw rather too much attention to what I was doing.
While I did not know anything about what the dwarves would do to a robber of the dead - frankly speaking, I did not even want to know what they would do! - and had only some vague ideas on what the laws of the Men of Esgaroth might prescribe in such a case, I knew very well what would happen if I fell into the hands of elves.
Elven laws - dare I say our laws? - were not especially lenient to thieves, although getting caught for the first time had not been that terrible, really. Of course, there had been a most tedious trial the outcome of which had been a foregone conclusion, and the punishment had been both humiliating and painful, but at least, I had been free again after some days, and hardly anything remained now to remind me of what had happened - that is, nothing but a brand.
Whatever they had rubbed into the wound - for understandable reasons, I had not asked what exactly it had been at that time - had made the scar that had formed on my right wrist dark and not very pleasant to look upon, although, out of sheer vanity, I used to claim that, for a brand, it was rather beautiful and that the branding iron used had most certainly been the masterpiece of its smith, who had skilfully forged the metal into the shape of the first letter of the Quenya word cam-tehta, 'hand-mark'.
Speaking of vanity - it proved to be my undoing, for it incited me not to take the first more or less acceptable cloak that came into sight, a greyish something that halfway covered a dead goblin in sad mockery of a proper shroud, but to move a bit closer to the actual battlefield, into the narrow stretch of land between the river and Ravenhill where mostly fleeing goblins and pursuing elves had fallen.
It was there that I found what I had been looking for, or rather something better than I could ever have hoped for. At first, I did not even see the most important thing, but only spotted something glinting in the sun, and, hoping to have discovered a precious clasp or a jewel on the armour of a person of some importance, I moved nearer to the spot, foolish enough to leave the cover of the rocks and boulders between which I had been skulking before.
There was a silver clasp indeed, shaped slightly asymmetrically like an elm leaf, fine engraved lines imitating the veins of the leaf so realistically that, had it not been for the colour, it could have seemed as if it had fallen straight from a tree. It was a superb piece, almost too beautiful to sell it, but I was certain that it would be able to buy us a few very good days.
However, that was not all: the clasp was holding the most gorgeous cloak I had seen for a very long time. The fabric, green like leaves in early summer, robust, yet soft to the touch, was covered in sumptuous embroidery, vines of gold and red twining on the rich green. There were only minor bloodstains on it, and they would hardly be noticed by anybody later, when the cloak would be able to fall down in gentle folds instead of lying spread out as it did now, having come to rest on the stony ground as nicely by pure chance as any expensive garment carefully displayed on the table of a merchant's stall - and it was mine for the taking.
I felt vaguely reminded of another cloak, one that had been worn by a young warrior of Nargothrond long years ago, not green, but of the darkest shade of red, less precious, yet decorated with similar vines and just as soft and warm. Halfway without noticing it, I smiled a little, for those had been better times, perhaps not as glorious as they seemed now when thinking of them, but deserving fond memories, for back then, that young warrior had been... well, a young warrior who still had both his eyes and some hope, and not a branded, one-eyed outlaw.
Then my glance came to rest upon the face of the fallen elf wearing the cloak, and my smile vanished; I was here to obtain a cloak, not to indulge in memories of days long past. Getting too nostalgic on battlefields and allowing one's heart to govern the mind was not only bound to bring about a most melancholy mood, but could also be fatal. Yet looking at this dead warrior - tall and dark-haired, probably at least a captain - felt strange. It was not simply compassion that I felt. It might have been most appropriate to mourn the fallen, but if I had contemplated each and every one of them with regret and pity, it would have cost me my sanity.
So while I had to admit that the fate of this warrior had not been the most agreeable one, the goblin arrow that had ended his life still protruding from his chest, I did not feel the vague grief that sometimes results from the death of a stranger, but had to deal with an unfamiliar thought. Perhaps it was due to that slightest bit of physical resemblance between the two of us, or to the fact that the sight of the cloak had stirred memories of better times, but I could not help thinking that this dead captain had been what I could have been as well if. if several things had turned out differently than they had actually done in my life.
For an unpleasant moment, old sorrow returned, sharp and biting as the cold morning air and accompanied by memories of the foolish dreams I had harboured for some time after I had been thrown into the life I led now, dreams of becoming an honourable warrior again so that all would be well, of past mistakes being forgiven, if not forgotten, of deeds promising more glory than stealing from the dead on battlefields, of.
Enough of this! Telling myself that, if I had become someone like this worthy warrior, I would probably also be as dead as he was now, I cast a last suspicious glance over to Ravenhill and bent down to rid the dead captain of his cloak.
The clasp had already wandered into my pocket, and getting the cloak was not overly difficult either. I had done such things before and knew how to proceed with heavy and cumbrous dead bodies. In almost no time, I had managed to turn the dead warrior of Mirkwood, thereby rolling him off his cloak that was not held by that nice elm leaf any more. Picking up the garment, I rose; it was time to leave.
It was in that moment that I saw him..
TBC
"I told you this would work, Alagaith. You should have trusted me. They love me."
Alagaith grins wryly and chuckles, "You told me so, yes - but I was not aware that you had so many *female* admirers."
Tanglinna raises one brow and gazes at his companion with mild disdain.
"I beg your pardon? What exactly are you implying?"
A slow smile spreads over Alagaith's features, an innocent smile one would almost say, if not for the mischievous glint in his one eye.
"Do you really want me to answer that question in front of all these charming ladies?" he chortles.
The silver-haired archer glares over at him, but then a smirk crosses his lips.
"I should point out that kingmaker is not a female. Or did you forget that?"
"And," Alagaith rejoined with a grin, "he explicitly admires the ART, not the artist . . . . Please try to remain honest."
"I am always honest, unlike some people that I have encountered, Linlote," Tanglinna said, looking pointedly at the other elf, who merely smiled in an unnerving Noldor fashion and said smoothly, "'Always', Mordil, indeed . . . . Why should the evil witch queen claim that it is 'very good' that you are in prison then? For surely a dungeon is not a place for perfectly honest people." The Noldor elf winked suddenly and continued before the Silvan could reply. "And," he glanced back at the reviews, " Hel is 'not very surprised' that you were imprisoned for 'your actions'? Truly, that speaks highly of the reputation you have among your. . . .admirers."
"You are reading them wrong," Tanglinna growls bending over the reviews. "Nilmandra is ready to 'have words' with Thranduil about it. AND amlugwen says that Thranduil should charge people to look at my paintings. AND daw the minstrel says that I am a 'hoot'. So there!" He straightens, folding his arms over his chest and waiting expectantly for the retort, which is not long in coming.
Alagaith grinned once more, his eye sparkling with amusement.
"You do realize that you are answering the question Kal the Magnificent asked? You do behave like a peacock! Quite inexplicable that Hel should ask, 'why peacock?'! Why peacock indeed!" He slowly shakes his head in exasperation.
"I am NOT a peacock! And I do not know why you insist on calling me Mordil - Silver Peacock indeed -whereas your own nickname Linlote fits you perfectly. You ARE a skulking cutpurse, or so they are about to find out. I look like a . . . a. . . a morose warrior, tired of. . . of the necessity of war - certainly not a peacock! legolasluva is about to know only too well who you are. Yes, legolasluva, I am old, well over 7,000 years. Linlote here is probably even older than that . . . not that he behaves like he is older and wiser." Tanglinna watches, hoping to have wiped that imperturbable grin from Alagaith's face, but he soon realizes that it will take more than that to deter this Noldor.
"Too kind of you, Mordil. . . , but I shall treat this lack of respect for those older than you with the wisdom and lenience of my venerable age. . . See? legolasluva is also of the opinion that I sound 'really cool'." It was now Alagaith's turn to smirk. "I just wonder why Miss Aranel did not expect to see me 'popping up again'."
"Perhaps she had enough of you the first time around," the Silvan smirks back. Then he chuckled. "Be warned, Dear Readers, Alagaith shows up at the oddest of times and often without warning. Though, and I will say this - because if I don't, he will, insufferable thing that he is - he does show up on occasions when he is needed." Tanglinna turns to grin at Alagaith. "See? I can be nice to my elders when I must."
"I just assume this means you know well enough that you might need my selfless help now and then - you do tend to get into a lot of trouble," Alagaith said with a slight grin. "Though not as much trouble as some of our readers seem to believe. . . . Nilmandra is of the opinion that we must have met in the mines." He turns to look at Tanglinna, surveying him critically. "Have you ever been there? No - for all your being a 'morose warrior tired of the necessity of war', you still do not look as if you had gone through that torment. Very telling that Lutris cannot even imagine you as 'the confined elf' in Thranduil's dungeon. I cannot imagine you as a humble slave in the mines."
"No, I was never "a humble slave in the mines". Not unless there is something that Tree didn't tell me. I am merely a humble servant of the good and wise King Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood. That is trial enough," Tanglinna chuckles. "ember can't wait to see how we meet. A very odd meeting it was, I can tell you. As to why Thranduil would like dear Linlote to be imprisoned, well, Thranduil is overly fond of his dungeons at times. . . just as the dwarves." Tanglinna grins slightly. "But no, dear Dis Thrainsdotter, Thranduil doesn't think I had anything to do with the escape of those same dwarves. . . at least I don't think he does." The Master Archer frowns, now suddenly wondering if Thranduil were thinking just that. "I hope he doesn't," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "Ah, yes. My 'Great Work'! Jasta darling, I hope it does not take me a lifetime and beyond to complete, like poor Niggle. Of course, as slowly as Tree and Dragon write, that is entirely possible. That is when Tree isn't dead or in China, eh legolasluva?" He winks at the screen. "The Goblins are REAL Goblins, not the Tricksy Trio, amlugwen. Real goblins. . . ." The tall elf grimaces slightly at this remark, noting that Alagaith is frowning now as well. "Um, yes. Well, here is chapter the first of our tale." He grins at Alagaith suddenly. "It won't all be angsty, will it, Linlote?"
"No, Mordil. It will be utter. . . chaos soon," the Noldor chuckles, raising one brow. "Now on to the tale!"
Chapter 1 - In Which The Two Elves Meet
POV of Tanglinna
The sunset that night was red, as red as the blood-washed ground at my feet, as the blade of my sword or the tips of my spent arrows. Ragged clouds, black as fleeing crows, had raced across the crimson expanse of the sky. Red and black - the color of the enemies' fluttering banners that lay trampled and rent on the rocky flanks of the mountain, a tattered sign of defeat. Our own green banners of the Forest flew jauntily against the morning's sky, a sky as blue as the banner of the Men of Esgaroth. Dwarven banners of Dain of Moria and Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor also flapped colorfully in the cold air the day after what would be called in later times the Battle of Five Armies. These banners and pennants were shining symbols of triumph in a sky that was perfect and yet unfeeling for what lies spread beneath it in pitiful array. What does it care for the strivings of the beings that inhabit Arda? The Valar cared little more than the sky does, or so it seems at times.
The air was cold and invigorating, yet choked with the vapors of war, strong with the scent of death and ash; the stench of lives lost and of destruction. Perhaps if I had held my breath, kept my eyes fixed on the vastness of blue above my head, above the Dwarves' mountain, if I held my breath refusing to exhale and draw another, I could have pretended that it is a lovely day, a normal day, one not filled with bruising anxiety and crushing sorrow . . . or even the senseless beating of anger.
But the breath was released, another drawn - painful, as my lungs filled the tainted air of devastating conflict.
All around me there were the signs of life, people moving in and out of my sight; some are familiar and loved, some are strangers to me, yet we fought together against the menace from the north and in the end were triumphant over it. But at what price? Friends, allies, foes . . . lives poured on the ground like water. The image was familiar, calling up memories of another battlefield at the end of the last Age of this world: Elves, Dwarves, Men, and our foes. Death does not discriminate. Yet that day, the day after the Battle of Five Armies, surrounded by smoke and sorrow, I could rejoice in saying that my king did not fall, not this time. I saw him then in the distance, a bright shining presence in his armor, his golden hair a beacon in the gloom. ~His father would have be proud of him, I thought, even as I continue to be proud of him.
No, that day others mourned the loss of their king, for Thorin Oakenshield, who had grasped what was his at last, fell even as victory flew in on the wings of swift eagles. We all mourned, for though we started this conflict as enemies, we ended it as allies, and thus we lamented the passing of those who fell by our sides, whether Elf, Dwarf, or Man . . . even as it was at Dagorlad.
I allowed myself to gaze over this section of the battlefield, for we had ranged wide across those southern spurs of Erebor. We had set about the grim but necessary task of gathering our dead. The goblins, wargs, and wolves we burned, giving them up to the blue sky. Our dead we took home with us, home to Greenwood, though most now call it Mirkwood, forgetting it was once different before the Shadow returned in the south. But Greenwood is what it will always be to me and to those of us that traveled to this great forest with Oropher so long ago to make a new home, a new beginning. Our fallen are always honored, always mourned, always remembered.
I recall hearing the sound of laughter, even amidst the sound of laments sung in the cold air of day. I had turned to see a group of our young warriors, vibrant, alive and gratefully so. They laughed as they told one another stories of the brave deeds they accomplished during the fighting, forgetting their fear for a time, forgetting their sorrow. Their laughter seemed out of place in that land of death, but they are young and resilient; this is how they survive what had happened. All of life lies before them, and though they had been christened as warriors in that conflict, christened in the blood of fallen enemies and friends alike and realize that life can be cut short even for elves, they are still children, innocent, not yet understanding that tomorrow when the fight comes to us again, it may be they that fall. This is their innocence. Those of us who have survived other battles know that the conflict is never over. If ever my king looks south, he is troubled; this is why Thranduil is ever mindful, ever vigilant; why his eyes fill with the sorrow of ages even as he gazes at his own children in times such as these. I believe he envies the young ones. I know I do. Innocence lost is never regained. Not in this life. Let them be children for as long as they can.
My steps took me slowly down the rocky slope still slippery with blood. No, innocence does not return. The young ones turned as I neared them, so certain that I would put a stop to their boasts and brags, as their voices faltered. But I allowed them this moment. I wished I could lose myself for a time in boasts and laughter, could find a way to forget the horror even for a short time. My life has never allowed me this and I don't begrudge them their laughter. I smiled at them, seeing their hesitance, then their relief showed in their answering smiles. As I moved past them, their youthful, earnest voices filled the air once more.
The morning sun sparkled on the river in the distance to the south, running into Greenwood. I allowed myself the selfish thought that it would be good to go home, to stand beneath those darkling trees with only the crisp cold air smelling of winter's approach or the rich earth that was preparing for slumber beneath the fallen leaves. But where I stood, the air was filled with other scents, other smells. There were more bodies, felled during the first rush against the goblins. I slowed my breathing, knowing that the bodies would be those of my friends, people I would recognize, people I had fought beside; people I knew and cared for.
It doesn't matter how often you encounter death, the pain is always fresh and sharp. Death is an inevitability of war, yet it tears the soul no matter how prepared for it you believe you are. You don't want to see their faces, as still and pale as marble . . . and as cold. But a grim sort of fascination grips you, drawing your eyes to the lifeless forms on the ground; they become faces you do know with eyes you have looked into, a mouth that has smiled at you. They are friends and family, those nearest to your heart. The pain is expected, but always a surprise in its intensity.
I knelt beside a young elf, one of his arms flung wide, his hair obscuring his features. Though I dreaded the moment, I gently eased the dark hair back and the suddenly he was no longer merely a slain elven warrior; he had a name: Calenmidh. His leaf green eyes were vacant, staring at the perfect sky above. I gently closed the lids, remembering this quiet young Silvan who had so proudly received his warriors' weapons not long before this encounter, his mother's eyes shining with tears of joy and pride. Tatharhoss' eyes would fill with tears once more, but it would not be the same, and I feared for her. This is a grief I know too well, one that I shared with her: the loss of a child. My heart went out to Calenmidh's mother, knowing her heart would die within her breast at the news we would bear to her on our return. You never recover from such a grievous wound. You may continue to live, but the grief is always there, beating like a black bird in your heart with every breath.
I whispered a quiet prayer, sang a few soft words in parting. It never gets any easier.
As I rose from my knees, my eyes wandering over the rocky terrain between the mountain and the forest, I spied a small mouse, intent on its journey, a scrap of dark cloth between its teeth. Winter was coming and well the little animal knew it; this piece of a warrior's cloak or tunic would make a nest warm and snug against the winter's chill and bitter winds. The mouse didn't care for the battle that had been fought here, he was probably not even aware that such a great clash had taken place over his home, only that there had been a great deal of frightening noise. He didn't care for Dwarf treasure or the might of Bolg the goblin leader and the fear he had inspired for so long. This tiny mouse was merely worried about his family surviving the winter. Such simplicity. I envied him that. Simplicity . . . that was what Oropher though we might obtain in Greenwood among the welcoming Silvans. A life not complicated by all that we sought to leave behind in Doriath as it lay in ruin; a simple life, carefree and joyous. Some things are unattainable it seems.
He disappeared down a hole that I would never have seen. Smiling, I had knelt, taking the last of my morning's repast and laying it before the mouse's home. I could do nothing to ease the pain that Tatharhoss will feel, but I could help a mouse survive a little longer this winter. It is a small kindness, more of the sort of thing that Brethil Bronaduion would do, certainly not 'Old Sourpuss'.
I had glanced back then to where the young warriors I had passed earlier were still standing. I was glad that they could take comfort in one another's company, I was glad they had survived to brag and boast and bolster one another with laugher. I only wish that Calenmidh was among them.
I have tried to prepare them to defend themselves and others; I have tried to prepare them for battle, but how can one be prepared for this? Suddenly I was acutely aware of the bow at my back. My bow . . . . That slender yet supple curve of wood that is so beautiful and so deadly. There are times that I hate it and what it represents, and then I felt the revulsion rise in me. I teach the children to use this implement of war, how to kill efficiently with it and quickly, else they be killed. Yes, at times I hate my bow . . . .
No, I reminded myself sharply. I was indeed thankful for the ones that did survive, using the skill I had taught them, the skills that others had spent years teaching them, and I hoped that perhaps war would not come to plague us again for some time. I gazed skyward, pleading for a moment's peace, begging that swords and war bows could be put away for a time, that my bow need not have any function but to put food in our mouths. I don't know if I was heeded or not.
With these thoughts in mind, I headed down the slope toward the more level ground, seeing death all about me, but holding thoughts of those who yet lived. It is how one stays sane in times like these.
Vultures had begun to gather in the sky, circling the battlefield, awaiting their moment of feasting. I felt anger swell within me, though I knew that this is what they had been created for, and thus it always was.
~It is their way, ~ I told myself, forcing my eyes from their slow dance on the air currents. ~It is how they survive. ~
But then a flash of richest green embroidered with red and gold caught my eye. There was only one warrior that wore garments embroidered with the flashing crimson and gold: Lalven, one of my oldest friends. Hope stirred in my breast, for surely I had seen movement and that meant that he yet lived! I moved forward eagerly, joy stirring in my heart. This is the moment we all wish for, life among the dead; that faint stirring of hope as one thought gone was still here and not standing before Mandos to be judged.
It was in that moment that I saw him . . . .
~*~*~*~*~*~*
POV of Alagaith
Fortune is fickle, and it seems that the Valar or other powers yet nameless ruling our fate take a wicked delight in hiding ill luck beneath a promising surface. For promising and friendly the early morning after the great battle that was to be known as the Battle of Five Armies later appeared, that is - promising and friendly to the eye of a robber of the dead.
The fight had raged for a long time and had been terrible; we had even been forced to move our camp farther away from the battlefield last night because we had felt that we were too close and might be in danger - we who had seen so many battles in the course of the years and had never failed to find a safe hiding place where we could watch and wait.
'We' - we were a ragged handful of outlaws most of whom had been thieves and followers of carrion for countless years, condemned to this hardly desirable sort of life by various circumstances and never lucky enough to discover the well-filled war chest of some rich lord or anything valuable enough to put an end to this misery.
Oh, now and then, there were good days, 'good' meaning that none of us remained hungry and cold, or even very good days - rare, but cherished the more because of that - on which the sale of some precious piece of loot enabled us to stay at an inn for some time, given that nobody asked too many questions so that we were able to keep up the unconvincing pretence of being a harmless party of travellers on their way to an imaginary destination.
The last weeks or even months before the Battle of Five Armies could not be numbered among the good ones, not even among the more or less bearable ones; they had been exceedingly bad, in fact, and there had not really been any very good days since a seemingly harmless wound had become inflamed and had nearly killed me during the last weeks of winter.
Now winter was approaching again, rather too rapidly for my taste, and we needed some good loot to get us over the cold months, coins, preferably, or one or the other precious object that could be exchanged for food during the dark time of the year when even hunting got difficult and breaking into houses was very risky.
Above all, however, I needed a cloak to keep me warm, for the wretched excuse for one that I wore at that time (or, more precisely, that hung down sadly from my shoulders and made me look like a dishevelled crow, as my tactful father had dared phrase it the other day) was too ragged and thin to keep the cold away.
I had had a much better cloak not so very long ago, dark blue and made of good cloth. I had come across it by chance in spring, and it had survived until the first chilly days of autumn had made me aware that Alagant - the little elfling had been growing far too quickly this last year! - needed a new cloak. The only thing I had managed to find at that time was the rag I was wearing now - and such a threadbare old piece of fabric had not been good enough to make a cloak for my son out of it. My blue cloak, in turn, had still looked quite decent, and it had not taken me long to make a cloak and a hood for the child.
I was actually quite pleased with the results of my needlework, and Alagant did love them - they had been ada's cloak once, after all, and I was secretly glad that he was happy about them mainly because of this and not because he was overly aware yet that having a good cloak bordered on luxury. How long until he would see things more clearly, a year or two?
I should have been proud that he was growing and learning, and actually, I was; yet, I found myself wishing to preserve the precious innocence of his thoughts and ways for some more time. Our life was grim enough even for the little one, so I was grateful for every further day he saw it in the friendly colours the sweet ignorance of childhood painted it in, an ignorance that would vanish soon enough; there were already inquisitive glances and moments of thoughtful silence indicating that a gradual change was taking place.
At least, I could spare him the sight of the battlefields or their worst parts, and while I made my way towards the actual battlefield, passing first fallen warriors - all commoners, I could tell that there was nothing or little worth taking left on them - I was glad to know that Alagant was well looked after - or, well, was busy "looking after Uncle Seven", as he had said when I had left, putting a protective little arm around my sneezing friend.
When we went out onto the battlefields or sites of smaller fights to pillage, one of us used to stay with Alagant, and this day, Seven, whose nickname referred to the fact that he had but seven fingers left, which was part of the reason why he had become an outlaw, had been the natural choice as he was suffering from a bad cold. He had caught it after he had fallen into a small river some days before, and if the cold that had resulted from this mishap was already bad enough, the fact that he had lost his scimitar in the fall and had not been able to retrieve it later was even more annoying, although I could not have foreseen what this - or rather the fact that I had lent Seven my sword in order not leave Alagant and him weaponless - would bring about.
At that time, though, I was presumptuous enough to believe that the dagger I was carrying would be sufficient to defend myself, especially as I planned to look for some sort of sword, preferably a scimitar, to replace Seven's lost weapon. As to Seven, it was probably a very good thing that he was ill. I remembered only too well how his eyes had shone when he had seen the splendid scimitars of the goblins of Bolg's bodyguard from afar while those formidable warriors had passed us by in the distance some days ago. I would not have been surprised if Seven had ventured out rather too far onto the battlefield in the hope of finding one of the magnificent curved swords undamaged.
I had to admit that I could have been tempted by those exquisite blades as well, but my desire was not great enough to make me lose my common sense. I was not especially keen on getting myself caught, and leaving the edge of the battlefield to search for loot out in the open would have meant to draw rather too much attention to what I was doing.
While I did not know anything about what the dwarves would do to a robber of the dead - frankly speaking, I did not even want to know what they would do! - and had only some vague ideas on what the laws of the Men of Esgaroth might prescribe in such a case, I knew very well what would happen if I fell into the hands of elves.
Elven laws - dare I say our laws? - were not especially lenient to thieves, although getting caught for the first time had not been that terrible, really. Of course, there had been a most tedious trial the outcome of which had been a foregone conclusion, and the punishment had been both humiliating and painful, but at least, I had been free again after some days, and hardly anything remained now to remind me of what had happened - that is, nothing but a brand.
Whatever they had rubbed into the wound - for understandable reasons, I had not asked what exactly it had been at that time - had made the scar that had formed on my right wrist dark and not very pleasant to look upon, although, out of sheer vanity, I used to claim that, for a brand, it was rather beautiful and that the branding iron used had most certainly been the masterpiece of its smith, who had skilfully forged the metal into the shape of the first letter of the Quenya word cam-tehta, 'hand-mark'.
Speaking of vanity - it proved to be my undoing, for it incited me not to take the first more or less acceptable cloak that came into sight, a greyish something that halfway covered a dead goblin in sad mockery of a proper shroud, but to move a bit closer to the actual battlefield, into the narrow stretch of land between the river and Ravenhill where mostly fleeing goblins and pursuing elves had fallen.
It was there that I found what I had been looking for, or rather something better than I could ever have hoped for. At first, I did not even see the most important thing, but only spotted something glinting in the sun, and, hoping to have discovered a precious clasp or a jewel on the armour of a person of some importance, I moved nearer to the spot, foolish enough to leave the cover of the rocks and boulders between which I had been skulking before.
There was a silver clasp indeed, shaped slightly asymmetrically like an elm leaf, fine engraved lines imitating the veins of the leaf so realistically that, had it not been for the colour, it could have seemed as if it had fallen straight from a tree. It was a superb piece, almost too beautiful to sell it, but I was certain that it would be able to buy us a few very good days.
However, that was not all: the clasp was holding the most gorgeous cloak I had seen for a very long time. The fabric, green like leaves in early summer, robust, yet soft to the touch, was covered in sumptuous embroidery, vines of gold and red twining on the rich green. There were only minor bloodstains on it, and they would hardly be noticed by anybody later, when the cloak would be able to fall down in gentle folds instead of lying spread out as it did now, having come to rest on the stony ground as nicely by pure chance as any expensive garment carefully displayed on the table of a merchant's stall - and it was mine for the taking.
I felt vaguely reminded of another cloak, one that had been worn by a young warrior of Nargothrond long years ago, not green, but of the darkest shade of red, less precious, yet decorated with similar vines and just as soft and warm. Halfway without noticing it, I smiled a little, for those had been better times, perhaps not as glorious as they seemed now when thinking of them, but deserving fond memories, for back then, that young warrior had been... well, a young warrior who still had both his eyes and some hope, and not a branded, one-eyed outlaw.
Then my glance came to rest upon the face of the fallen elf wearing the cloak, and my smile vanished; I was here to obtain a cloak, not to indulge in memories of days long past. Getting too nostalgic on battlefields and allowing one's heart to govern the mind was not only bound to bring about a most melancholy mood, but could also be fatal. Yet looking at this dead warrior - tall and dark-haired, probably at least a captain - felt strange. It was not simply compassion that I felt. It might have been most appropriate to mourn the fallen, but if I had contemplated each and every one of them with regret and pity, it would have cost me my sanity.
So while I had to admit that the fate of this warrior had not been the most agreeable one, the goblin arrow that had ended his life still protruding from his chest, I did not feel the vague grief that sometimes results from the death of a stranger, but had to deal with an unfamiliar thought. Perhaps it was due to that slightest bit of physical resemblance between the two of us, or to the fact that the sight of the cloak had stirred memories of better times, but I could not help thinking that this dead captain had been what I could have been as well if. if several things had turned out differently than they had actually done in my life.
For an unpleasant moment, old sorrow returned, sharp and biting as the cold morning air and accompanied by memories of the foolish dreams I had harboured for some time after I had been thrown into the life I led now, dreams of becoming an honourable warrior again so that all would be well, of past mistakes being forgiven, if not forgotten, of deeds promising more glory than stealing from the dead on battlefields, of.
Enough of this! Telling myself that, if I had become someone like this worthy warrior, I would probably also be as dead as he was now, I cast a last suspicious glance over to Ravenhill and bent down to rid the dead captain of his cloak.
The clasp had already wandered into my pocket, and getting the cloak was not overly difficult either. I had done such things before and knew how to proceed with heavy and cumbrous dead bodies. In almost no time, I had managed to turn the dead warrior of Mirkwood, thereby rolling him off his cloak that was not held by that nice elm leaf any more. Picking up the garment, I rose; it was time to leave.
It was in that moment that I saw him..
TBC