Chapter Twelve - The Pebble that causes the Avalanche
He stood atop of Orthanc, one of the Wild Men next to him. As to what the man's name was he did not know nor care: he was here to be used, it was that simple. It was the savages' own concern that he was too stupid to see it, not Saruman's. The wizard gained a small amount of pleasure at the pure discomfort in the face of the other – he was equipped with no gauntlet to protect his flesh from the talons of the eagle, which perched on his left arm with its eye cast upon the wizard, a perfect sphere of black and yellow glass that flashed occasionally as the bird blinked. It held contempt for him, the wizard knew, but it was the only bird he had, so it would do, despite the fact that it glared at him in a manner uncannily akin to the Elf.
The tight scroll was tethered to the birds' leg with a flourish of spider- like white hands, the eagle flexing great wings and chirruping in protest, threatening to bit the fingers, talons digging in all the more due to its malcontent.
'Throw it off,' Saruman commanded. The Wild Man had not even the need for the order, as the bird took of on its own accord, happily spreading graceful wings to their full span at the take off, climbing rapidly until the hanging cloud swallowed it.
Saruman cast his eyes to the ground, which lay so many feet below them. He could see the Ents, trundling about in their usual useless manner, idiotic fools that they were. Fools he could not be rid of – damn Gandalf for ordering them to guard him like a prisoner in his own home! No matter, they would all pay when he had carried through his plans with the Elf he held captive...
Legolas was the foundation of everything he wished to do, the keystone in the bridge. True, he had been most – displeased - when that weak excuse of a human had arrived with just the one of the three he had wanted: three were far better leverage than one, especially when one of them was the heir to the Gondorian throne. Then he could have used them to force Gandalf to shift the Ents and free him.
Wormtongue had suggested to him earlier that he take the tunnel out into Fangorn and thus escape. For that gross misjudgement he had received a clout from Saruman's staff – he would never abandon his home, all due to a few walking trees and a moronic wizard! No. It was much better to be here, where he could command the taking of lands ... especially ones in the North, namely Mirkwood. He had other Orc battalions in the mountains that he had directed to siege the realm of Thranduil ... and that letter he had just sent to the King of Mirkwood the Great would make the attacks all the easier. It was a sister letter to the one Gríma was to give to the Elf, only this one held no lies in it. The downfall of the House of Orophon was nigh.
~~
There it was, at long last: Edoras, perched upon the small hillock, an assortment of greys in the early morning mist, framed against the mountains which flamed in the new sun of the day, rays staining pink onto the white of the snow tops. But that was not something that Aragorn and Gimli paid any attention to.
They had ridden non-stop since the stream yesterday, a full gallop being maintained through the night – the horses knew this terrain better than either of their riders, so Aragorn proposed it unnecessary to stop for the return of light. Quite frankly, he was happy to take the risk of a tumble; Legolas was still in requirement of their aid, no matter what the condition of the light.
It was still a good three leagues to go before they would hit the city, so speed was not lessened, but more doubled, and this had nothing to do with the riders – the horses saw home, and were clearly desperate to reach the comfort of their stables.
~~
Battle after battle. Siege after siege. Loss after insufferable loss. Was there ever going to be an end to this constant misery? How much more could they deal with, how much more sufferance would they be able to put up with before his people collapsed? They were all stressed, and he had heard many a tear being shed over the losses that had been endured. It was inescapable that he should hear their pain, as he had ordered the entire kingdom to come to the palace for protection. Every home had been emptied of life, and so every life was now within the palace – one could not move for people. Still, it was better to be incapable of turning round without having someone else directly in your face than to have all of your subjects slaughtered...
Thranduil gave a heavy sigh as he made his progression through the corridors to his chambers, weaving his way between numerous subjects whom did not bow. That was not through their own choice, mind – Thranduil had ordered it to be so, considering the act as being more of a hindrance than a sign of respect; everyone had better things to do.
No matter how crowded and clogged his fine halls were, Thranduil felt as if the palace was a completely lonesome place. All because Legolas was not here. Here, where he should be, safe and with his people as their crown prince. Thranduil missed him dearly – it was so lonely without his presence ... he supposed that was because Legolas was so very much like his wife had been ... he looked like her, bore the same attitude to life as she did ... he even laughed like she had done, with the same smile, the same spark in his eyes, which were just as blue as hers had been.
Legolas' facial shape had come from Thranduil: chiselled and hard-lined, with a firm, strong square jaw. He had also inherited his stubbornness from him, the King knew – actually, Legolas was even worse than he was, and the father had lost many an argument with the son, much to the amusement of the rest of the Court.
He pushed open the ornate door, bidding the guards who stood guarding it so piously to go and find something better to do, a humourless smile on his lips. They bowed respectfully, and then moved off in the direction of the wine cellars. Thranduil could only chuckle at this: he too was a great lover of wine, as most of his people were, so he cared not that they went for a quick drink. He trusted them to not indulge too deeply, and they respected and honoured that trust.
It was totally devoid of any mess in this room, which was more than he could say for the rest of the palace. Papers were piled neatly on his desk, small labels informing him of what they concerned. The piles were even placed in order of importance, the most urgent being on the right. Unfortunately, this was the tallest heap, and he had procrastinated for far too long. This was something that Legolas gleefully teased him over, the pristine tidiness. Thranduil had pointed out dryly on many an occasion that order was better than chaos, as he had seen Legolas' own papers to be, spread over the floor of his study. To this the Prince always responded with a dignified voice, eyebrows arced and eyes closed: 'It is an organised chaos, Adar.' Indeed, there had been a time when a new maid had tidied the Prince's room – something which Legolas had memorably got very worked up about, complaining loudly that he could find none of his documents requiring his immediate attention. He had, of course, not blamed the maid of this, but graciously bid her to not do it again, being the gentleman that he was.
Thranduil parked himself behind the desk, eyeing the papers with his tongue prying in his cheek. He really did not wish to do this. Not at all. But he had left them for two days too long, and if he did not touch them now, then there would only be twice as many tomorrow, and he would have to call upon Lord Daerahil for aid.
He stretched out a tentative hand and drew the first document before himself. "Concerning the western attacks from the Misty Mountains" glared at him, the characters standing out as though they were each little Orcs wavering primed blades at him. He really did not wish to tackle this now... something else would be readily received at the moment...
The door reverberated as someone rapped their knuckles against the wood.
Thranduil cast it a dark look. He really had not meant it when he had wished for a distraction.
'Enter.'
The door opened tentatively, and a messenger poked his head into the room, a decidedly worried expression on his fair face.
'What is the matter?'
'I have come with a scroll, my Liege, borne by an eagle carried on the South wind...' the voice of the other faded away into nothing, his mouth apparently dry, as he swallowed several times.
'And?' prompted the King, a bite of impatience in his tone. He had a document to see to.
'It – it bears the emblem of – erm – of the Istari, Saruman.'
This took the King aback. He had not expected this at all: Saruman was now deemed an enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, and that included the Mirkwood Realm. Why? Why would he be contacting Thranduil of all of the various peoples? There had, in the past, been strong connections between Orophon's House and Orthanc, but those ties had died with the wizards' treachery.
'Bring it forth,' he beckoned.
The messenger advanced into the room, handing the scroll over to his King, offering a bow, and then stepping respectfully back, awaiting his next order.
Thranduil broke the wax seal with a small snap, and progressed to read, the lettering spidery and thin, a slight wobble to it as though the author of the letter – Saruman – had been incredibly excited about something.
As his eyes progressed down the page, Thranduil's heart stopped beating in his chest, and he slowly sank down into his chair, utter shock wiping his mind of all other thoughts, a tremble coming to his own hands.
After a minute or so, he looked down into his lap, seeing with disbelieving eyes the lock of blond hair that had fallen into it, like fine strands of blood-stained gold, along with the very small but heart-breakingly vital piece of evidence: Salyria's mithril chain. Legolas never wore it, but it was always on his person. Always.
'Send for Lord Daerahil immediately.'
'But my Lord Daerahil is attending to the equipping of-'
'DO YOU DARE DEFY YOUR KING? I DON'T CARE IF HE IS IN THE MIDDLE OF BATTLING A BALROG, I WANT HIM HERE NOW! THE LIFE OF THE PRINCE IS IN DANGER! FETCH HIM IMMEDIATELY!'
The messenger blanched at the King's roar, giving a hasty bow before fleeting from the room.
This was not what he had meant when he had wished for something else...
It was not five minutes before Lord Daerahil entered, without knocking, as usual. At this present time, from what the messenger had said, knocking was not a necessity.
'What is wrong, Thranduil?'
The King merely held out the letter to Daerahil, and the other Elf read the dead look in the grey eyes before progressing to the document. He read it, dismay etched across his dark features. He swallowed before: 'He has Legolas, with the intention to kill him.'
Thranduil said nothing.
'Surely, though, it is not possible: I mean, how could he? The Prince would not – it just can't be naught but a lie, mellon nin.'
'This is no lie,' Thranduil responded dryly, holding the bloodied hair and chain. 'None but Legolas has a chain akin to this.'
Daerahil was in total shock. How could this be? True, the Prince had not been seen by any of Thranduil's court for nigh on a year. But capture? It just was not like Legolas to get caught - pursued, yes, on many an occasion, but actually intercepted? And why, out of all of the thousands of enemies that the former White Wizard had, did he have to capture this one? Daerahil had heard of the ailment Legolas had recently had at Helm's Deep, but, from what Lord Aragorn had said, he was well on the way to recovery...
'What do you wish to do, Thranduil?' Royal formalities were forgotten now, as they often were between the pair – they had grown together, and each viewed the other as equal to himself.
'Get three hundred men ready to ride within two hours, and make ready my horse.'
'You will leave the realm?'
'I will go to get my child back,' came the terse response. 'And you will come with me.'
'As you wish.'
TRANSLATIONS
Mellon nin – My friend
He stood atop of Orthanc, one of the Wild Men next to him. As to what the man's name was he did not know nor care: he was here to be used, it was that simple. It was the savages' own concern that he was too stupid to see it, not Saruman's. The wizard gained a small amount of pleasure at the pure discomfort in the face of the other – he was equipped with no gauntlet to protect his flesh from the talons of the eagle, which perched on his left arm with its eye cast upon the wizard, a perfect sphere of black and yellow glass that flashed occasionally as the bird blinked. It held contempt for him, the wizard knew, but it was the only bird he had, so it would do, despite the fact that it glared at him in a manner uncannily akin to the Elf.
The tight scroll was tethered to the birds' leg with a flourish of spider- like white hands, the eagle flexing great wings and chirruping in protest, threatening to bit the fingers, talons digging in all the more due to its malcontent.
'Throw it off,' Saruman commanded. The Wild Man had not even the need for the order, as the bird took of on its own accord, happily spreading graceful wings to their full span at the take off, climbing rapidly until the hanging cloud swallowed it.
Saruman cast his eyes to the ground, which lay so many feet below them. He could see the Ents, trundling about in their usual useless manner, idiotic fools that they were. Fools he could not be rid of – damn Gandalf for ordering them to guard him like a prisoner in his own home! No matter, they would all pay when he had carried through his plans with the Elf he held captive...
Legolas was the foundation of everything he wished to do, the keystone in the bridge. True, he had been most – displeased - when that weak excuse of a human had arrived with just the one of the three he had wanted: three were far better leverage than one, especially when one of them was the heir to the Gondorian throne. Then he could have used them to force Gandalf to shift the Ents and free him.
Wormtongue had suggested to him earlier that he take the tunnel out into Fangorn and thus escape. For that gross misjudgement he had received a clout from Saruman's staff – he would never abandon his home, all due to a few walking trees and a moronic wizard! No. It was much better to be here, where he could command the taking of lands ... especially ones in the North, namely Mirkwood. He had other Orc battalions in the mountains that he had directed to siege the realm of Thranduil ... and that letter he had just sent to the King of Mirkwood the Great would make the attacks all the easier. It was a sister letter to the one Gríma was to give to the Elf, only this one held no lies in it. The downfall of the House of Orophon was nigh.
~~
There it was, at long last: Edoras, perched upon the small hillock, an assortment of greys in the early morning mist, framed against the mountains which flamed in the new sun of the day, rays staining pink onto the white of the snow tops. But that was not something that Aragorn and Gimli paid any attention to.
They had ridden non-stop since the stream yesterday, a full gallop being maintained through the night – the horses knew this terrain better than either of their riders, so Aragorn proposed it unnecessary to stop for the return of light. Quite frankly, he was happy to take the risk of a tumble; Legolas was still in requirement of their aid, no matter what the condition of the light.
It was still a good three leagues to go before they would hit the city, so speed was not lessened, but more doubled, and this had nothing to do with the riders – the horses saw home, and were clearly desperate to reach the comfort of their stables.
~~
Battle after battle. Siege after siege. Loss after insufferable loss. Was there ever going to be an end to this constant misery? How much more could they deal with, how much more sufferance would they be able to put up with before his people collapsed? They were all stressed, and he had heard many a tear being shed over the losses that had been endured. It was inescapable that he should hear their pain, as he had ordered the entire kingdom to come to the palace for protection. Every home had been emptied of life, and so every life was now within the palace – one could not move for people. Still, it was better to be incapable of turning round without having someone else directly in your face than to have all of your subjects slaughtered...
Thranduil gave a heavy sigh as he made his progression through the corridors to his chambers, weaving his way between numerous subjects whom did not bow. That was not through their own choice, mind – Thranduil had ordered it to be so, considering the act as being more of a hindrance than a sign of respect; everyone had better things to do.
No matter how crowded and clogged his fine halls were, Thranduil felt as if the palace was a completely lonesome place. All because Legolas was not here. Here, where he should be, safe and with his people as their crown prince. Thranduil missed him dearly – it was so lonely without his presence ... he supposed that was because Legolas was so very much like his wife had been ... he looked like her, bore the same attitude to life as she did ... he even laughed like she had done, with the same smile, the same spark in his eyes, which were just as blue as hers had been.
Legolas' facial shape had come from Thranduil: chiselled and hard-lined, with a firm, strong square jaw. He had also inherited his stubbornness from him, the King knew – actually, Legolas was even worse than he was, and the father had lost many an argument with the son, much to the amusement of the rest of the Court.
He pushed open the ornate door, bidding the guards who stood guarding it so piously to go and find something better to do, a humourless smile on his lips. They bowed respectfully, and then moved off in the direction of the wine cellars. Thranduil could only chuckle at this: he too was a great lover of wine, as most of his people were, so he cared not that they went for a quick drink. He trusted them to not indulge too deeply, and they respected and honoured that trust.
It was totally devoid of any mess in this room, which was more than he could say for the rest of the palace. Papers were piled neatly on his desk, small labels informing him of what they concerned. The piles were even placed in order of importance, the most urgent being on the right. Unfortunately, this was the tallest heap, and he had procrastinated for far too long. This was something that Legolas gleefully teased him over, the pristine tidiness. Thranduil had pointed out dryly on many an occasion that order was better than chaos, as he had seen Legolas' own papers to be, spread over the floor of his study. To this the Prince always responded with a dignified voice, eyebrows arced and eyes closed: 'It is an organised chaos, Adar.' Indeed, there had been a time when a new maid had tidied the Prince's room – something which Legolas had memorably got very worked up about, complaining loudly that he could find none of his documents requiring his immediate attention. He had, of course, not blamed the maid of this, but graciously bid her to not do it again, being the gentleman that he was.
Thranduil parked himself behind the desk, eyeing the papers with his tongue prying in his cheek. He really did not wish to do this. Not at all. But he had left them for two days too long, and if he did not touch them now, then there would only be twice as many tomorrow, and he would have to call upon Lord Daerahil for aid.
He stretched out a tentative hand and drew the first document before himself. "Concerning the western attacks from the Misty Mountains" glared at him, the characters standing out as though they were each little Orcs wavering primed blades at him. He really did not wish to tackle this now... something else would be readily received at the moment...
The door reverberated as someone rapped their knuckles against the wood.
Thranduil cast it a dark look. He really had not meant it when he had wished for a distraction.
'Enter.'
The door opened tentatively, and a messenger poked his head into the room, a decidedly worried expression on his fair face.
'What is the matter?'
'I have come with a scroll, my Liege, borne by an eagle carried on the South wind...' the voice of the other faded away into nothing, his mouth apparently dry, as he swallowed several times.
'And?' prompted the King, a bite of impatience in his tone. He had a document to see to.
'It – it bears the emblem of – erm – of the Istari, Saruman.'
This took the King aback. He had not expected this at all: Saruman was now deemed an enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, and that included the Mirkwood Realm. Why? Why would he be contacting Thranduil of all of the various peoples? There had, in the past, been strong connections between Orophon's House and Orthanc, but those ties had died with the wizards' treachery.
'Bring it forth,' he beckoned.
The messenger advanced into the room, handing the scroll over to his King, offering a bow, and then stepping respectfully back, awaiting his next order.
Thranduil broke the wax seal with a small snap, and progressed to read, the lettering spidery and thin, a slight wobble to it as though the author of the letter – Saruman – had been incredibly excited about something.
As his eyes progressed down the page, Thranduil's heart stopped beating in his chest, and he slowly sank down into his chair, utter shock wiping his mind of all other thoughts, a tremble coming to his own hands.
After a minute or so, he looked down into his lap, seeing with disbelieving eyes the lock of blond hair that had fallen into it, like fine strands of blood-stained gold, along with the very small but heart-breakingly vital piece of evidence: Salyria's mithril chain. Legolas never wore it, but it was always on his person. Always.
'Send for Lord Daerahil immediately.'
'But my Lord Daerahil is attending to the equipping of-'
'DO YOU DARE DEFY YOUR KING? I DON'T CARE IF HE IS IN THE MIDDLE OF BATTLING A BALROG, I WANT HIM HERE NOW! THE LIFE OF THE PRINCE IS IN DANGER! FETCH HIM IMMEDIATELY!'
The messenger blanched at the King's roar, giving a hasty bow before fleeting from the room.
This was not what he had meant when he had wished for something else...
It was not five minutes before Lord Daerahil entered, without knocking, as usual. At this present time, from what the messenger had said, knocking was not a necessity.
'What is wrong, Thranduil?'
The King merely held out the letter to Daerahil, and the other Elf read the dead look in the grey eyes before progressing to the document. He read it, dismay etched across his dark features. He swallowed before: 'He has Legolas, with the intention to kill him.'
Thranduil said nothing.
'Surely, though, it is not possible: I mean, how could he? The Prince would not – it just can't be naught but a lie, mellon nin.'
'This is no lie,' Thranduil responded dryly, holding the bloodied hair and chain. 'None but Legolas has a chain akin to this.'
Daerahil was in total shock. How could this be? True, the Prince had not been seen by any of Thranduil's court for nigh on a year. But capture? It just was not like Legolas to get caught - pursued, yes, on many an occasion, but actually intercepted? And why, out of all of the thousands of enemies that the former White Wizard had, did he have to capture this one? Daerahil had heard of the ailment Legolas had recently had at Helm's Deep, but, from what Lord Aragorn had said, he was well on the way to recovery...
'What do you wish to do, Thranduil?' Royal formalities were forgotten now, as they often were between the pair – they had grown together, and each viewed the other as equal to himself.
'Get three hundred men ready to ride within two hours, and make ready my horse.'
'You will leave the realm?'
'I will go to get my child back,' came the terse response. 'And you will come with me.'
'As you wish.'
TRANSLATIONS
Mellon nin – My friend