Chapter Eleven - Tears of Blood
He was aware of the cold, and that was something that he knew he did not aught to be able to feel – not like he was doing, anyway. It was unnatural for one of his kind to be so conscious of the lowness of temperature as he was right now. He had felt it in all its intensity when he had been ill, he knew, and Aragorn had told him that it had not actually been even remotely chill. But that had been different. He had been very sick when that had happened, and now he was perfectly fit – despite the odd broken bone, that was.
He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Not once had he slept, not during the whole three days (had it been that long?); he could find no ease or rest of mind in this hovel, and he doubted that he ever would, even if he did succumb to sleep – there would be no sweet dreams that his mind would conjure as a method of psychological escape.
His back was firmly pressed against the slick stone wall, whose moisture had seeped through the material of his jerkin and shirt, giving him a wholly unpleasant feeling on his skin, and he had no wish to know where the water had been before it had traversed its course down the stone. It made him feel as though he were extremely dirty – although the coldness of it did a little something to ease the pain in his back from where he had been kicked. There was pain all over, in fact, though he was not willing to let it get to him too much. It was particularly poignant at a point on the right side of his back, half way down his ribs; it hurt every time he breathed in, every slight movement that he made using his torso – which was more or less everything. Pain was something he ought to be used to by now, he knew, and he tried to convince himself that he had certainly felt worse than this in the not so distant past. It had been particularly nasty of that rat to send his witless wonders down to him like that.
He had dragged himself into a sitting position, though it hurt to do so. It hurt so very, very much... Knuckledusters. He could not get over that – why use those, of all weapons? Against an unarmed being the use of those was a truly vile thing to do.
He stretched his mouth, parting his jaws to their full extent despite the protest they made thanks to the bruising that he knew coloured his face imaginatively. He felt dried blood restrict his skin as it clung, and then came the sensation of the fine film splitting with the flexing of his flesh – but he cared not for it, rubbing his face half-heartedly on his shoulder to try and get a bit off. But where was the point? He was not going to see anyone soon that would care whether or not he had dried blood coating his face. Non that would care...
Feet curled beneath himself, Legolas remained shackled to the wall, one arm dangling from iron chains and the other cradled in the belt that was still draped about his neck. Phenomenally, his broken arm had not been touched during his beating, something that he had not expected at all. The fact that they had allowed him to keep his broken arm in its' sling without so much as a rope to his wrist was something that surprised him greatly. He had expected them to chain it with his other one – not that he complained.
This whole scenario brought to him memories and thoughts that he did not necessarily wish to think, that he had deemed long buried in the depths of his soul. Clearly not.
Legolas shuttered his eyes against the perpetual dark. Really it was no different from having them open; but closed they remained, since he did not have the heart to remind his senses of his prison, a deep, depressed sigh escaping his dry, split lips...
It was long passed the hour when he had been bid to go to bed, he knew that perfectly well – in fact, it was two hours ago that the candle had meant to have been blown out, and it now burned low in its holder, the sunken flame flickering. But that did not bother him, nor did it matter – all that mattered to him was not getting caught.
The charcoal grated softly on the parchment, fine powder being left in its wake, obscuring what he was trying so very hard to draw. A gentle breath rushed it away, though, and he could see clearly what he was trying to do. A scowl crossed his fair face as he observed with a critical eye what he had done. As far as he was concerned, it looked nothing like what he was trying to draw for his naneth - it was a scrawl compared to the actual thing it was meant to be. He set the tip of his charcoal stick down again...
The cat moved, stretching lazily on the bed covers, needle-like claws protracting briefly before disappearing again into the soft toes of her paws. Legolas cursed the creature avidly for this unforgivable crime ... to which she rolled over and began to purr in what the young Elf swore - literally - was mockery.
The door opened abruptly, too fast for him to hide what he was doing – so he slumped against the pillows, pretending that sleep had claimed him long ago.
'Legolas, what do you think you are doing?' That was his naneth's voice, he knew, though he selected ignoring her as the best option at the moment, just to make his performance as believable as was possible.
'I know that you're awake, little one, so you may stop pretending now.'
Damn. She was good at this – much better than Adar was. He straightened himself, and looked at her with the best I've-just-been-asleep-why-have-you- awoken-me expression on his face that he was able to muster. She was standing with her hands on her hips at the doorway, disappointment across her beautiful face as though someone had been at her with a quill and ink and written it there in bold lettering.
'Legolas, why were you cursing the cat?'
'Because she moved.' He tried to keep his voice as innocent as possible, tried to emphasise in his tone that this was a major offence in his eyes.
'That is hardly a good enough response, Legolas. And where have you heard such foul language?'
'Adar,' he replied simply, to which his Mother raised a brow, a sigh running passed her lips at her husband's free tongue.
She crossed the room in a series of graceful steps and, rather than coming to his bedside, went to sit in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed.
'And why are you still awake?'
'I can't sleep.'
'Have you even tried?' she asked gently.
There was a brief pause before: 'Yes.'
She laughed musically at him. 'Liar.'
Legolas' naneth patted her lap, indicating to him that she wished him to come to her. He slipped from beneath the covers, his small feet slapping on the stone flooring, and was gently lifted into her lap, his head cradled in the crook of her left arm, feet over the arms of the chair. She rocked steadily as she held him close to her, her cheek resting on his rumpled nest of blond hair.
'You're getting too big for this.'
He snuggled into her warm body as she ran her fingertips soothingly across his scalp, moving occasionally to his cheek, the chair ever going back and forth, back and forth.
'I love you dearly, do you know that, Legolas? I love you so, so much.' He felt a warm, damp sensation on his head from her cheek, but he never allowed it any thought, his heavy eyes lidded against the faint candle light.
'I love you too, Naneth.'
'How much,' she asked, trying to put the extra spark into her voice, trying to drag it back to what it should be, rather than chocked with tears.
'More than Adar loves his treasure,' replied a muffled voice.
She laughed again. 'You are his treasure, Legolas. You are worth more to us than anything that this world has to give. Just remember that your Naneth loves you, Legolas, no matter where she is – she will always love you above all else.'
She proceeded in humming quietly to him, a soothing melody that, combined with her gentle, relaxing fingertips massaging his skin and the steady rock of the chair, he gradually yielded to sleep. He was comfortable, safe and relaxed; just here with his Naneth, completely happy in his little room in his Adar's impregnable palace.
So warm, so calm. Perhaps he would finish the picture tomorrow...
His eyes fluttered opened again, though he knew not why. It was completely dark in his chambers, the dead of night. But there was something wrong - what it was he had not the faintest idea ... all he knew was that it had awoken him from an interesting dream about a mountain and a horde of treasure guarded by that dragon that he knew lived in the East.
He heard running in the corridors, commanding shouts – one of the voices, he could tell, was that of his adar. He sounded frantic, screaming out orders. He never screamed out orders...
Legolas' feet pattered on the flags of stone as he trotted to his door, which he opened without hesitation, even though he knew he would undoubtedly get in some form of trouble for it.
Soldiers were haring passed in full armour, quivers filled with arrows rattling on their backs as they ran. They were all heading towards where the stables lay.
'Find the Queen! Find the Queen! Ride hard 'til you recover her!' That had been the Captain of the Guard yelling out then, and it was not long after his voice had echoed through the corridor that the Elf himself appeared, accompanied by Lord Daerahil and King Thranduil, Legolas' father and ruler of Greenwood.
All of this shouting and activity at such an unnatural hour had unnerved the young princeling considerably, and when he had heard the words "find the Queen" he had become thoroughly distressed, and now stood in the open passage, tears streaking down his face. He did not understand – where had his naneth gone? Why were the guards in such a fluster?
King Thranduil set his eyes upon his son as he strode down the length of the passageway and quickened his pace, scooping up the child, welcoming the pleading outstretched arms which had begged him to pick Legolas up. He held him close, hushing the child as he continued his urgent walk which threatened to break out into a run.
'How did she get out in the first place?' This question had been directed at the Captain, the usually calm, smooth voice brimming with fearful anger.
'Straight through the main gateway, my Liege; she took twelve of my best men with her-'
'I DON'T CARE IF SHE TOOK THE WHOLE GUARD WITH HER! THE ENTIRE FOREST IS SWARMING WITH ORCS! THEY HAVE NOT A HOPE IN VALINOR OF NOT GETTING ATTACKED!'
Thranduil hastened his step as he bellowed these words, as though they made the situation all the more desperate for what they stated. He looked down at his only son, who stared right back with reddened eyes. The King gave Legolas a tight squeeze and kiss on the forehead before handing him over to Daerahil.
'Take care of him,' he bid his closest friend, who gave a nod of acknowledgement. The King turned away, leaving his son in the arms of the dark-featured Elf.
'Adar!' Legolas cried, extending a hand to the retreating back.
'I will come back to you, Legolas, I swear it!' And then Legolas' father's form was swallowed by a corner in the corridor, leaving him in the total charge of the family friend.
Lord Daerahil sat with his prince for a full two and a half hours – which, he felt, were the most trying of his life: it was no easy task trying to calm a distressed child of such an age where explanations meant about as much to him as a book to a troll. The child had writhed in his arms, screamed and cried, until noises coming from the outside of his bedchamber attracted the young Elf's attention. Lord Daerahil - fearing the worst due to the sounds of the voices – tired to grab the boy before he could open the door ... but to no avail: the princeling had clearly inherited his father's agility, and had slipped passed the Elf and out of the door before he could be retained.
Legolas would never forget that image of that night when they brought his naneth back home, dying, with poisoned black shafts protruding from her chest and stomach. At that age, though, he had not known what those black pieces of wood were, or what the stained, torn feathers meant, and so he had accepted Lord Daerahil's hand as it guided him back to his chamber. As far as he was aware, his naneth slept – an odd way to sleep, but there you go.
The palace was still the next morning: not a soul uttered a sound as they went about their chores. The place was cheerless. There was a palpable sense of loss that weighed heavily in the air, and even Legolas – young as he was – could feel it, and knew in his heart of hearts what it meant.
He took himself to the Great Hall. All he wanted to do was see his adar, and the guards permitted him entry to the huge room without a moments hesitation, eyes welling with sympathy as they watched their prince go to see their king.
He walked over to the king, who sat on his throne with his head leaning into a hand, tear-reddened eyes observing Legolas as he crossed over to him. He extended his arms to his son and lifted him onto his knee, and brilliant blue met slate grey as they locked eyes.
'Is Naneth sleeping now?'
There was a pause as Thranduil looked at his child, his heart close to breaking. 'Yes,' he replied gently. 'Naneth is sleeping.'
Legolas leant into his adar's chest and cried with intense grief, Thranduil soothing his head and rocking him back and forth, tears streaming down his own face. He knew that Legolas was intelligent. He had known that he would have worked it out for himself, but that made it no easier on either of them. All they had left was each other, and they both knew this as they cried out their endless pain...
He felt a cold, wet trail progress down his cheek, which made him frown. How he had managed to sleep he had no idea, but he fervently wished that he had stayed awake, and tried to swallow down the pain that blocked his throat.
A hand seized his face in an icy grip, and he started, eyes snapping open to see his attacker. Saruman's black eyes met his own, a glowing light being emitted from his staff. Legolas froze as a sudden gush of terror clamped his senses. He pressed his back as firmly against the wall as he could, trying desperately to pull his head free from the hand of warg-like strength, but to no gain.
Rational thought is not often associated with fear, and Legolas' rationality had disappeared completely from his mind. And that was why he tried to strike out with his free arm, forgetting everything. But Saruman intercepted it, gripping his forearm exactly where the broken bone was and squeezing, causing the Elf to emit a muffled cry of pain, as his mouth had been sealed shut by the hand which pushed both jaws together. Legolas screwed his eyes up in agony, teeth bared in a pained grimace.
'Why do you cry, Legolas Greenleaf?' the wizard whispered. 'What thoughts could an Elf such as yourself have that install such need? Here where there are none to listen to your pains.'
Saruman cocked his head at the Elf, a slight smile touching the corners of his lips in a sadistic manner. He could still see the salt tear trail down the soft skin – he had been there to see it when it had first emerged. He released the arm and raised his finger to where the tear had originated, tracing its course down the cheek with a sharp nail, pressing hard, and openly laughing with pleasure at the hiss of sharply inhaled breath at the pain. He watched the tiny beads of blood as they gathered on the scratch mark with apparent fascination, observing them as they grew ... rich, dark berries on pale snow.
'But of course! You cry for your mother – a true jewel in the sun was she, brighter than the stars ... until she passed into madness, that is.'
He saw the blue eyes flash with anger, and in that moment he knew that the spell he had used to install terror in the Elf had been thrown off by the sheer intensity of his rage. He enjoyed this total control that he had over the Elf, jerking his emotions from one extreme to the other, a puppeteer tugging at strings.
He dug his fingers into the flesh a little more, feeling his nails sink further in – whether or not he had actually pierced the skin he knew not – grasping the bone as he pressed his fingers under the actual jaw bone itself, caring not for the bruising that this kind of handling would cause to the flesh.
'Perfect creature,' he mused, now analysing the different aspects of the Elf: his bone structure, the muscle, the complete lack of natural blemishes. 'So ideal. It is not a wonder that the first Dark Lord chose your race to adapt ... such a perfect specimen you are...'
Saruman released the jaw, and laughed softly as the Elf drew away, pressing as close to the wall as he was physically able.
'Yes, such a perfect example ... it would be interesting to see if the Old Art could be ... reborn. I am sure that you would become the most elite of them all.'
Legolas' eyes widened with terror, nostrils flared with icy fear, and it had nothing at all to do with the spell Saruman had cast. He knew what the wizard implied in his words, and it chilled his heart.
The wizard rose to leave. He was too cold now, and had had enough of watching his breath smoke away, though seeing the effect his words had was something that he deemed would never bore him. He reached the door and turned before he closed it, saying: 'You really should guard your dreams better than that – anyone could read them.' With that he shut the door, still smiling to himself. Yes, it would certainly have been better for the prince if he had learned to guard his dreams. Much, much better...
Gríma sat at Saruman's desk, loaded quill in hand, observing the practice sheet of parchment that he had laid out before himself, eyes studying the tengwar characters carefully with an eye for detail. If he was gifted at anything, it was forging lettering – but this was particularly difficult to copy: it had taken him at least twelve attempts to get the precise shape of one particular curve...
He finished his study and went back to the fresh parchment before him, on which the letter that he was copying was taking form. To his left was Saruman's version, which he had written as soon as he had emerged from the dungeons, practically skipping with happiness. Gríma knew not of what had occurred down there, but, from the sheer glee in the wizard's attitude, he could tell that things had not gone the way of the Elf... definitely not, and they were about to get an awful lot worse.
To his right was situated a letter which had been intercepted two months ago. It was about the drop in grape supplies to Gondor, something not overly important. The importance of this letter fell in the respect of whom it had been scribed by: Lord Daerahil of Mirkwood, and it was his characters that were being copied.
The ink glistened as it was applied, making the material look like a spider had swum in the inkwell and then run all over it.
Saruman hovered in the background, occasionally peering over the shoulder of the other to inspect his doings. "Yes," he thought delightedly, "this is certainly going to be of use."
Gríma fixed himself upon the hardest task of all: the signature. This was also a trial with Men, but with Elves, he found, it was a completely different matter. Such a flurry of curves and pinnacles as he had never perceived before in so compact a space! If he did this wrong, then he was doomed to do the entire thing again: an experience that he deemed he could go through life without. He knew that, if he were to do it slowly, then it would look deliberate: a sure sign of a forgery. So he gritted his teeth and sent the quill nib to motion across the small space he knew he could occupy with the scrawled lettering, carrying through the action with an underlining that passed beneath the signature twice.
He sat back to observe his art, only to have it snatched from before him by a long, thin hand which snaked out and jerked it back. Saruman stood and observed it with a shrewd eye, brows knitted. He suddenly leant over the desk, pushing the parchment back into Gríma's hands, a horrible glimmer in his eye.
'Perfect!' With an evil, sadistic smile playing across his mouth, he gave the final command that was to promise inevitable ruin: 'Deliver it!'
TRANSLATIONS
Naneth – Mother Adar - Father
He was aware of the cold, and that was something that he knew he did not aught to be able to feel – not like he was doing, anyway. It was unnatural for one of his kind to be so conscious of the lowness of temperature as he was right now. He had felt it in all its intensity when he had been ill, he knew, and Aragorn had told him that it had not actually been even remotely chill. But that had been different. He had been very sick when that had happened, and now he was perfectly fit – despite the odd broken bone, that was.
He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Not once had he slept, not during the whole three days (had it been that long?); he could find no ease or rest of mind in this hovel, and he doubted that he ever would, even if he did succumb to sleep – there would be no sweet dreams that his mind would conjure as a method of psychological escape.
His back was firmly pressed against the slick stone wall, whose moisture had seeped through the material of his jerkin and shirt, giving him a wholly unpleasant feeling on his skin, and he had no wish to know where the water had been before it had traversed its course down the stone. It made him feel as though he were extremely dirty – although the coldness of it did a little something to ease the pain in his back from where he had been kicked. There was pain all over, in fact, though he was not willing to let it get to him too much. It was particularly poignant at a point on the right side of his back, half way down his ribs; it hurt every time he breathed in, every slight movement that he made using his torso – which was more or less everything. Pain was something he ought to be used to by now, he knew, and he tried to convince himself that he had certainly felt worse than this in the not so distant past. It had been particularly nasty of that rat to send his witless wonders down to him like that.
He had dragged himself into a sitting position, though it hurt to do so. It hurt so very, very much... Knuckledusters. He could not get over that – why use those, of all weapons? Against an unarmed being the use of those was a truly vile thing to do.
He stretched his mouth, parting his jaws to their full extent despite the protest they made thanks to the bruising that he knew coloured his face imaginatively. He felt dried blood restrict his skin as it clung, and then came the sensation of the fine film splitting with the flexing of his flesh – but he cared not for it, rubbing his face half-heartedly on his shoulder to try and get a bit off. But where was the point? He was not going to see anyone soon that would care whether or not he had dried blood coating his face. Non that would care...
Feet curled beneath himself, Legolas remained shackled to the wall, one arm dangling from iron chains and the other cradled in the belt that was still draped about his neck. Phenomenally, his broken arm had not been touched during his beating, something that he had not expected at all. The fact that they had allowed him to keep his broken arm in its' sling without so much as a rope to his wrist was something that surprised him greatly. He had expected them to chain it with his other one – not that he complained.
This whole scenario brought to him memories and thoughts that he did not necessarily wish to think, that he had deemed long buried in the depths of his soul. Clearly not.
Legolas shuttered his eyes against the perpetual dark. Really it was no different from having them open; but closed they remained, since he did not have the heart to remind his senses of his prison, a deep, depressed sigh escaping his dry, split lips...
It was long passed the hour when he had been bid to go to bed, he knew that perfectly well – in fact, it was two hours ago that the candle had meant to have been blown out, and it now burned low in its holder, the sunken flame flickering. But that did not bother him, nor did it matter – all that mattered to him was not getting caught.
The charcoal grated softly on the parchment, fine powder being left in its wake, obscuring what he was trying so very hard to draw. A gentle breath rushed it away, though, and he could see clearly what he was trying to do. A scowl crossed his fair face as he observed with a critical eye what he had done. As far as he was concerned, it looked nothing like what he was trying to draw for his naneth - it was a scrawl compared to the actual thing it was meant to be. He set the tip of his charcoal stick down again...
The cat moved, stretching lazily on the bed covers, needle-like claws protracting briefly before disappearing again into the soft toes of her paws. Legolas cursed the creature avidly for this unforgivable crime ... to which she rolled over and began to purr in what the young Elf swore - literally - was mockery.
The door opened abruptly, too fast for him to hide what he was doing – so he slumped against the pillows, pretending that sleep had claimed him long ago.
'Legolas, what do you think you are doing?' That was his naneth's voice, he knew, though he selected ignoring her as the best option at the moment, just to make his performance as believable as was possible.
'I know that you're awake, little one, so you may stop pretending now.'
Damn. She was good at this – much better than Adar was. He straightened himself, and looked at her with the best I've-just-been-asleep-why-have-you- awoken-me expression on his face that he was able to muster. She was standing with her hands on her hips at the doorway, disappointment across her beautiful face as though someone had been at her with a quill and ink and written it there in bold lettering.
'Legolas, why were you cursing the cat?'
'Because she moved.' He tried to keep his voice as innocent as possible, tried to emphasise in his tone that this was a major offence in his eyes.
'That is hardly a good enough response, Legolas. And where have you heard such foul language?'
'Adar,' he replied simply, to which his Mother raised a brow, a sigh running passed her lips at her husband's free tongue.
She crossed the room in a series of graceful steps and, rather than coming to his bedside, went to sit in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed.
'And why are you still awake?'
'I can't sleep.'
'Have you even tried?' she asked gently.
There was a brief pause before: 'Yes.'
She laughed musically at him. 'Liar.'
Legolas' naneth patted her lap, indicating to him that she wished him to come to her. He slipped from beneath the covers, his small feet slapping on the stone flooring, and was gently lifted into her lap, his head cradled in the crook of her left arm, feet over the arms of the chair. She rocked steadily as she held him close to her, her cheek resting on his rumpled nest of blond hair.
'You're getting too big for this.'
He snuggled into her warm body as she ran her fingertips soothingly across his scalp, moving occasionally to his cheek, the chair ever going back and forth, back and forth.
'I love you dearly, do you know that, Legolas? I love you so, so much.' He felt a warm, damp sensation on his head from her cheek, but he never allowed it any thought, his heavy eyes lidded against the faint candle light.
'I love you too, Naneth.'
'How much,' she asked, trying to put the extra spark into her voice, trying to drag it back to what it should be, rather than chocked with tears.
'More than Adar loves his treasure,' replied a muffled voice.
She laughed again. 'You are his treasure, Legolas. You are worth more to us than anything that this world has to give. Just remember that your Naneth loves you, Legolas, no matter where she is – she will always love you above all else.'
She proceeded in humming quietly to him, a soothing melody that, combined with her gentle, relaxing fingertips massaging his skin and the steady rock of the chair, he gradually yielded to sleep. He was comfortable, safe and relaxed; just here with his Naneth, completely happy in his little room in his Adar's impregnable palace.
So warm, so calm. Perhaps he would finish the picture tomorrow...
His eyes fluttered opened again, though he knew not why. It was completely dark in his chambers, the dead of night. But there was something wrong - what it was he had not the faintest idea ... all he knew was that it had awoken him from an interesting dream about a mountain and a horde of treasure guarded by that dragon that he knew lived in the East.
He heard running in the corridors, commanding shouts – one of the voices, he could tell, was that of his adar. He sounded frantic, screaming out orders. He never screamed out orders...
Legolas' feet pattered on the flags of stone as he trotted to his door, which he opened without hesitation, even though he knew he would undoubtedly get in some form of trouble for it.
Soldiers were haring passed in full armour, quivers filled with arrows rattling on their backs as they ran. They were all heading towards where the stables lay.
'Find the Queen! Find the Queen! Ride hard 'til you recover her!' That had been the Captain of the Guard yelling out then, and it was not long after his voice had echoed through the corridor that the Elf himself appeared, accompanied by Lord Daerahil and King Thranduil, Legolas' father and ruler of Greenwood.
All of this shouting and activity at such an unnatural hour had unnerved the young princeling considerably, and when he had heard the words "find the Queen" he had become thoroughly distressed, and now stood in the open passage, tears streaking down his face. He did not understand – where had his naneth gone? Why were the guards in such a fluster?
King Thranduil set his eyes upon his son as he strode down the length of the passageway and quickened his pace, scooping up the child, welcoming the pleading outstretched arms which had begged him to pick Legolas up. He held him close, hushing the child as he continued his urgent walk which threatened to break out into a run.
'How did she get out in the first place?' This question had been directed at the Captain, the usually calm, smooth voice brimming with fearful anger.
'Straight through the main gateway, my Liege; she took twelve of my best men with her-'
'I DON'T CARE IF SHE TOOK THE WHOLE GUARD WITH HER! THE ENTIRE FOREST IS SWARMING WITH ORCS! THEY HAVE NOT A HOPE IN VALINOR OF NOT GETTING ATTACKED!'
Thranduil hastened his step as he bellowed these words, as though they made the situation all the more desperate for what they stated. He looked down at his only son, who stared right back with reddened eyes. The King gave Legolas a tight squeeze and kiss on the forehead before handing him over to Daerahil.
'Take care of him,' he bid his closest friend, who gave a nod of acknowledgement. The King turned away, leaving his son in the arms of the dark-featured Elf.
'Adar!' Legolas cried, extending a hand to the retreating back.
'I will come back to you, Legolas, I swear it!' And then Legolas' father's form was swallowed by a corner in the corridor, leaving him in the total charge of the family friend.
Lord Daerahil sat with his prince for a full two and a half hours – which, he felt, were the most trying of his life: it was no easy task trying to calm a distressed child of such an age where explanations meant about as much to him as a book to a troll. The child had writhed in his arms, screamed and cried, until noises coming from the outside of his bedchamber attracted the young Elf's attention. Lord Daerahil - fearing the worst due to the sounds of the voices – tired to grab the boy before he could open the door ... but to no avail: the princeling had clearly inherited his father's agility, and had slipped passed the Elf and out of the door before he could be retained.
Legolas would never forget that image of that night when they brought his naneth back home, dying, with poisoned black shafts protruding from her chest and stomach. At that age, though, he had not known what those black pieces of wood were, or what the stained, torn feathers meant, and so he had accepted Lord Daerahil's hand as it guided him back to his chamber. As far as he was aware, his naneth slept – an odd way to sleep, but there you go.
The palace was still the next morning: not a soul uttered a sound as they went about their chores. The place was cheerless. There was a palpable sense of loss that weighed heavily in the air, and even Legolas – young as he was – could feel it, and knew in his heart of hearts what it meant.
He took himself to the Great Hall. All he wanted to do was see his adar, and the guards permitted him entry to the huge room without a moments hesitation, eyes welling with sympathy as they watched their prince go to see their king.
He walked over to the king, who sat on his throne with his head leaning into a hand, tear-reddened eyes observing Legolas as he crossed over to him. He extended his arms to his son and lifted him onto his knee, and brilliant blue met slate grey as they locked eyes.
'Is Naneth sleeping now?'
There was a pause as Thranduil looked at his child, his heart close to breaking. 'Yes,' he replied gently. 'Naneth is sleeping.'
Legolas leant into his adar's chest and cried with intense grief, Thranduil soothing his head and rocking him back and forth, tears streaming down his own face. He knew that Legolas was intelligent. He had known that he would have worked it out for himself, but that made it no easier on either of them. All they had left was each other, and they both knew this as they cried out their endless pain...
He felt a cold, wet trail progress down his cheek, which made him frown. How he had managed to sleep he had no idea, but he fervently wished that he had stayed awake, and tried to swallow down the pain that blocked his throat.
A hand seized his face in an icy grip, and he started, eyes snapping open to see his attacker. Saruman's black eyes met his own, a glowing light being emitted from his staff. Legolas froze as a sudden gush of terror clamped his senses. He pressed his back as firmly against the wall as he could, trying desperately to pull his head free from the hand of warg-like strength, but to no gain.
Rational thought is not often associated with fear, and Legolas' rationality had disappeared completely from his mind. And that was why he tried to strike out with his free arm, forgetting everything. But Saruman intercepted it, gripping his forearm exactly where the broken bone was and squeezing, causing the Elf to emit a muffled cry of pain, as his mouth had been sealed shut by the hand which pushed both jaws together. Legolas screwed his eyes up in agony, teeth bared in a pained grimace.
'Why do you cry, Legolas Greenleaf?' the wizard whispered. 'What thoughts could an Elf such as yourself have that install such need? Here where there are none to listen to your pains.'
Saruman cocked his head at the Elf, a slight smile touching the corners of his lips in a sadistic manner. He could still see the salt tear trail down the soft skin – he had been there to see it when it had first emerged. He released the arm and raised his finger to where the tear had originated, tracing its course down the cheek with a sharp nail, pressing hard, and openly laughing with pleasure at the hiss of sharply inhaled breath at the pain. He watched the tiny beads of blood as they gathered on the scratch mark with apparent fascination, observing them as they grew ... rich, dark berries on pale snow.
'But of course! You cry for your mother – a true jewel in the sun was she, brighter than the stars ... until she passed into madness, that is.'
He saw the blue eyes flash with anger, and in that moment he knew that the spell he had used to install terror in the Elf had been thrown off by the sheer intensity of his rage. He enjoyed this total control that he had over the Elf, jerking his emotions from one extreme to the other, a puppeteer tugging at strings.
He dug his fingers into the flesh a little more, feeling his nails sink further in – whether or not he had actually pierced the skin he knew not – grasping the bone as he pressed his fingers under the actual jaw bone itself, caring not for the bruising that this kind of handling would cause to the flesh.
'Perfect creature,' he mused, now analysing the different aspects of the Elf: his bone structure, the muscle, the complete lack of natural blemishes. 'So ideal. It is not a wonder that the first Dark Lord chose your race to adapt ... such a perfect specimen you are...'
Saruman released the jaw, and laughed softly as the Elf drew away, pressing as close to the wall as he was physically able.
'Yes, such a perfect example ... it would be interesting to see if the Old Art could be ... reborn. I am sure that you would become the most elite of them all.'
Legolas' eyes widened with terror, nostrils flared with icy fear, and it had nothing at all to do with the spell Saruman had cast. He knew what the wizard implied in his words, and it chilled his heart.
The wizard rose to leave. He was too cold now, and had had enough of watching his breath smoke away, though seeing the effect his words had was something that he deemed would never bore him. He reached the door and turned before he closed it, saying: 'You really should guard your dreams better than that – anyone could read them.' With that he shut the door, still smiling to himself. Yes, it would certainly have been better for the prince if he had learned to guard his dreams. Much, much better...
Gríma sat at Saruman's desk, loaded quill in hand, observing the practice sheet of parchment that he had laid out before himself, eyes studying the tengwar characters carefully with an eye for detail. If he was gifted at anything, it was forging lettering – but this was particularly difficult to copy: it had taken him at least twelve attempts to get the precise shape of one particular curve...
He finished his study and went back to the fresh parchment before him, on which the letter that he was copying was taking form. To his left was Saruman's version, which he had written as soon as he had emerged from the dungeons, practically skipping with happiness. Gríma knew not of what had occurred down there, but, from the sheer glee in the wizard's attitude, he could tell that things had not gone the way of the Elf... definitely not, and they were about to get an awful lot worse.
To his right was situated a letter which had been intercepted two months ago. It was about the drop in grape supplies to Gondor, something not overly important. The importance of this letter fell in the respect of whom it had been scribed by: Lord Daerahil of Mirkwood, and it was his characters that were being copied.
The ink glistened as it was applied, making the material look like a spider had swum in the inkwell and then run all over it.
Saruman hovered in the background, occasionally peering over the shoulder of the other to inspect his doings. "Yes," he thought delightedly, "this is certainly going to be of use."
Gríma fixed himself upon the hardest task of all: the signature. This was also a trial with Men, but with Elves, he found, it was a completely different matter. Such a flurry of curves and pinnacles as he had never perceived before in so compact a space! If he did this wrong, then he was doomed to do the entire thing again: an experience that he deemed he could go through life without. He knew that, if he were to do it slowly, then it would look deliberate: a sure sign of a forgery. So he gritted his teeth and sent the quill nib to motion across the small space he knew he could occupy with the scrawled lettering, carrying through the action with an underlining that passed beneath the signature twice.
He sat back to observe his art, only to have it snatched from before him by a long, thin hand which snaked out and jerked it back. Saruman stood and observed it with a shrewd eye, brows knitted. He suddenly leant over the desk, pushing the parchment back into Gríma's hands, a horrible glimmer in his eye.
'Perfect!' With an evil, sadistic smile playing across his mouth, he gave the final command that was to promise inevitable ruin: 'Deliver it!'
TRANSLATIONS
Naneth – Mother Adar - Father