AUTHOR NOTES: Please note that much of this chapter uses verbatim dialogue
written by Prof. Tolkien and it is his own work. I make no profit from
this. It is a labor of love.
Chapter XVII - Whispers of Home
"Before you enter, Prince Legolas, prepare yourself."
This was the only warning that Atavodain, war marshal of the House of Oropher, bestowed upon a wide-eyed boy who had just lost his mother to a Spider ambush at dusk the same evening. The older Elf would not look his prince in the eye, yet seemed to have his gaze fixed on something just beyond-seeing through the youth like a transparent wraith. He lifted a heavy hand and gestured to the starkly lit doorway. The anguish in the concealed room was a steady hum.
Legolas lifted the door curtain to the side and stepped blinking into the candlelit room. His senses absorbed everything at a rapid rate, his heart shuddering in his chest: long shadows, the smell of candle smoke, a slender bed with a form upon it, the heat of the small gathering of living bodies, the coldness of one. It took him a long moment before his eyes would focus upon the figure of his mother a few feet away.
Fimbrethil's perfect stillness gave her features a waxen quality. The natural blush in her cheeks was replaced with a white sheen like newly polished marble-not wholly unattractive, but alien and strange. Her eyes were closed, but only slightly. He glimpsed a dark glitter from somewhere beneath her dead lashes as though she were secretly watching him, playing a little game. The lips were slightly parted, grayed, but beautiful and full. Around her throat was a lovely white scarf that hid her death from her son's eyes-still, the creaminess of the cloth was giving way to a deep, crimson stain, slowly drying out in the warmth of the room. The fingers of her hands were slightly curved, forever frozen in an eerily lifelike position, beckoning to her child-her beautiful, treasured son.
Her husband sat beside her, invisible to the young prince, absorbed in nearly equal stillness. The king looked up for the first time when his son entered the room, still slow, still inert from sorrow. The sight bit into his heart. Thranduil did not like the look in Legolas' eyes. There was something silently screaming therein, their usually soft gray turned steely and cold. The prince stood rigid, unable to move forward or back. The tableau of his mother's death had frozen him in his stance. And Thranduil thought that if anything were to touch his son-a finger, a falling leaf-the wondrously sad statue would shatter into a million gleaming shards.
The king found his footing and rose. Somehow he walked across the room and reached out a quaking hand to steady Legolas' unmoving shoulder, softly whispering his son's name.
"Legolas..."
The vision awoke. Legolas swung his head up and threw his father a look of such fear and confusion that Thranduil felt himself overwhelmed with unexpected emotion. Legolas took a step back. And another. He reared back from his father's hand like an unbroken horse, taking the slightest inhalation of breath. Then father and son froze like waves upon a wintered shore.
"My son," the King entreated, his voice liquid with tears, trying to reach out again, seeking the comfort of contact.
But Legolas' reason had escaped him. He turned from his father, from his people, from his mother's body, and fled from the room as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard his father cry out wordlessly-or was that his name? He didn't care. He flew through the halls, hurled open the eastern gate and exploded into the night forest.
Still he ran. Farther and farther, and the trees did not hinder his strides. He leapt over protruding roots, over slender forest streams. Thorny branches and undergrowth scraped against his shins, but he was numb to all feeling other than the crushing sorrow boring down upon him. He thought he could sense pursuit in the back of his mind, something instilled in him by his teachers, but none of it mattered. Whether it was the Royal Guard coming to fetch him home and comfort him, or fifty renegade Spiders coming to slaughter him alive, Legolas didn't care. He plunged deeper into the woods until at last he glimpsed a ring of moonlight silvering the grass of a tiny clearing.
As soon as he reached the open air, his knees buckled and he fell forward onto all fours and wept. His tears were silent save for the heaving breaths blazing in his lungs. The nearly mute sound of Elven steps echoed behind him, but he was oblivious. A warm hand fell upon the small of his back, but it was too much to bear. He let the reaching embrace encircle him and collapsed breathlessly in his father's arms. He was thirty-five, long- limbed, finally beginning to bloom into the startlingly beautiful warrior his mother had whispered he would become. The tears ceased. The breath stilled. Father and son remained entangled as they had not been since Legolas was very, impossibly young.
For the first time in their short life together, they were irrevocably alone. It would not be the last.
* * *
Legolas could clearly see the outline of the great wall that rimmed the dike at Helm's Deep. It was considerably more ragged than it had been when the host arrived before the battle. With his race's sight he could just make out the rust-colored streaks of spilt blood that had dried down the sides of the rough-hewn stones. A few blonde heads could also be seen- soldiers moving along the wall, gathering arrows, attending to the dead and dying. He strained harder, slightly leaning forward onto his bow-no, none of those golden heads belonged to Eowyn.
A bit behind him, scores of Men were discussing the road ahead, and the White Rider stood in their midst, silently listening to all the suggestions. Many wished to return to Edoras, where they might regroup and strike out stronger. Théoden seemed somewhat unsatisfied with this route. At last the old king spoke up, looking to Mithrandir.
"And Saruman? What is to be done with him? Will he be able to strike out at us once more?"
Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "That I doubt."
"Then what shall we do with him?" Aragorn asked.
"We shall ride now to meet this wizard," Gandalf said coolly. "Though I think Saruman may have already been met with something he did not expect."
Legolas turned to the wizard, his eyes a question, but Gandalf glanced at the surrounding forest and smiled.
* * *
"There are eyes! Eyes in the trees!"
The riders stopped, horse hooves beating their panic into the grass- it flew through the earth and made the maddening leaves rustle.
A stirring came forth from the center of this wood, a small tremor felt only by Gandalf and the Elf, visible to the mortals simply as a little ripple in the grass around the forest's edges. Legolas urged Arod forward one step-then another. The eyes glittered in response. He could smell something old and fecund coming from the forest, something primeval and very powerful.
From somewhere behind him, the surprisingly small voice of Gimli issued forth. "Nay, Legolas! I do not wish to see such eyes."
Yet Legolas stared ahead, eyes focused nearly sightlessly upon the glistening wood. It was like home, but something more. There was something commanding hidden in this wood, almost like the presence of an Elven ring of power. But it was not an Elven feeling. It was something older still, old as the hills, a gift from the Valar themselves. He had to know what it was.
"Stay, Legolas Greenleaf!"
And quite suddenly, he stopped. Or Arod stopped on his own. All motion ceased. The very wind seemed to still at Gandalf's voice. At the core of his heart, Legolas felt a tugging sensation. His lungs burned a little with the effort to pull forward. They fought for a moment. But Gandalf was the stronger.
He turned his head and looked at the wizard, his gray eyes full of sorrow. Gandalf nodded a little, not chiding nor reprimanding, only equally aware of the Elvish desire to see a thing of his forefathers' world. Soundlessly, Legolas urged Arod back and they rejoined the company.
"It is a thing of great beauty to you, I know," said Gimli softly. "But let me tell you, Legolas, if it may ease your heart, of a beauty of a different sort. Let me tell you of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond."
* * *
That night, camped beside a few low hills, the company received little sleep. Legolas took no rest whatsoever-rather, he paced up and down the short length of the grounds, humming to himself, sometimes letting a few words slip through.
In far green fields beneath the stars
In twilight, wide and still,
She stands and dreams of distant wars,
Pale as the niphredil
He sang where they would not be able to hear him, and he sang in Sindarin, keeping away from both Gandalf and Aragorn. He was left to lull warriors to sleep, none guessing at the scandalous quality of his verses. The tired soldiers nodded their praise, thanking him for his beautiful voice. He nodded back, his eyes trained on the stars.
Eyes take the gray of morning mist
The moon alights her skin
Hair cascades in a golden wave
The fairest of her kin
A glance like ice, a step like rain
A touch like wind and water
She is both like and unlike me
She is a mortal daughter
I come from forest and from glade
Not bound by mortal ties
They count me lost among my kin
Entangled in her eyes
The wind became unspeakably cool for a moment, settling onto each pale hair on the back of his neck. He shivered, still distracted by his own lyric crafting, and then stopped. His senses became alerted to the presence of a very potent evil, slow and cunning, a condensing of the air racing toward them with frightful speed. He spun around and glared into the gloom. A few awakened soldiers saw him, his body rigid, eyes gazing into the blackness of the distance. They too looked where his focus lay, and saw nothing-for a moment.
If the night air could become thickened, a heavy mass rolling over the hills, thicker than water, thicker than blood-it did so then. The wind coagulated, the blackness of evening became a heavy, oozing shade that raced toward the encampment like a flood out of Mordor. Voices sounded in alarm. Warriors stood up uneasily, drawing swords.
Legolas turned away from the oncoming mass, desperately seeking Gandalf. The wizard's white robes made him glow a little, even without the moon above them.
"Stand your ground!" the wizard cried. "Draw no weapons. This is a gloom sent by Saruman. It will pass."
Bewildered, the Elf turned back to the blackness, now even closer. He let go of the hilt of his knife and felt it slide back into the scabbard. Behind him, a young warrior whispered something in the tongue of the Rohirrim, something that sounded like a prayer or a chant to ward off evil. A moment passed. Suddenly it was a few feet away. He planted his feet, closed his eyes, and ceased to breathe.
Like a wave of numbing madness the blackness washed into the camp. Legolas felt his footing strain-the pushing sensation was real. The darkness was tangible and it was flowing over him like warm water. It was clinging to his garments, to his hair, like a real liquid. And just as suddenly as it had hit him, it was over. He stood in the cool night unhindered, no trace of shadow left upon him. He turned his head and looked behind. Figures emerged from the black, as though the moon were casting light upon armored Men as it moved through the sky.
That was the only interference they felt that evening-still no one found any sleep, not even when dawn began to twinkle upon the hilltops.
* * *
When the host reached the gates of Isengard, Legolas had felt something that made his heart constrict within his chest-something that wounded his spirit, for it summoned up many memories, and most of them were of his father's kingdom far away in the North. For entering the perimeter of Saruman's fortress Legolas saw the torn stumps of many trees. He could see that once they had been great, for their rings remained visible, wide and many. They were as wide as tables, but raggedly sawn by stupid orcs with nothing but contempt for the living world.
Legolas dismounted from Arod to lead him over the awkward terrain. Bits of stone masonry the size of horses littered the ground. Everything was slicked with water. Vast pools reflected the gray sky. In the distance he saw Orthanc rising from the earth like a flume of black water. It was obviously Man-made, but something about it was off. It had been altered through a different craft, a craft he knew only one of the Istari could possess.
His blood boiled as he tasted the bitter essence of betrayal. He had not felt truly betrayed before that moment, not even when the reality of Boromir's death and Frodo's disappearance had become apparent. Legolas was an Elf who had, for much of his long life, been brought up amongst his own kind. He was unused to many things, such as the frailty of mortals, and their misuses when corrupted. He had seen evil Men. But this-a wizard was a thing of the Maiar world. Had the very Valar betrayed them?
He knelt and placed his hand upon the surface of one tree stump. The pain of its death seeped into his palm, a dying gasp, cool and numbing. He shut his eyes and sighed, then continued on his way feeling a terrible, gnawing sorrow.
But then something remarkable happened. Certainly it was not a miracle in the common sense of the word. It was only a voice: light- hearted, high-pitched, laced with mirth. And Legolas recognized it immediately.
"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard. We are the doorwardens."
* * *
Gimli had been the one who demanded to be allowed an audience with Saruman. Legolas had had no desire. But the dwarf seemed to have volunteered him, too, and so the company reached the gleaming steps of the tower of Orthanc, and stood at ready in its slender shadow.
Gandalf announced them, though such seemed unnecessary. Legolas recognized Wormtongue's scratchy voice inquiring, "Who are you? What do you wish?" The Elf almost laughed. He looked forward to having the little snake of a Man come to the window. His bow was at ready, after all.
But Wormtongue did not come. A wizard came.
Legolas had first heard of Saruman from his father and the elders in his homeland. They said that he had the power to assume any guise he wished. Thus Legolas was unsure whether or not this old man was indeed the manifestation of the wizard Saruman. He saw white hair streaked with black and keen, dark eyes. He could not help but notice that the eyes were startlingly similar to those of Gandalf.
When Saruman spoke, his voice was fair as that of an Elf-lord's. Its lilt was musical and smooth, like water rushing over stones. But Legolas could sense the poison hidden within the stream. As he glanced around at the faces of his mortal companions, he saw that many of the riders could not sense this. They stood rooted, as though they had been bewitched. Only Aragorn seemed truly unaffected by Saruman's voice.
The wizard of Orthanc addressed Théoden first. He went on in lyrical prose about the greatness he could still offer to the King of Rohan. He poetically mourned the apparent 'needlessness' of the battle they had fought two nights ago. He promised glory and forgiveness. Legolas seethed. Théoden seemed dangerously reflective.
But Théoden was cut from the same cloth as Eowyn. Legolas thanked the Valar for the stubbornness of the Rohirrim. He retaliated against the syrupy voice, his aged tone sounding brassy against such flowing music. He stood strong and denied any such peace with the former White Wizard and the wrath of Saruman exploded above them. Down rained insults and jeers with a bite that could actually be felt. But then the wizard calmed himself, and turned his gaze.
He looked at the Elf.
Legolas, who had stood silent and as equally defiant as his companions, suddenly felt a wave of nausea come over him. He remembered the darkness of the months before-the stinging of the Black Breath, the horror of the Nazgûl-yet this was a different evil, not fully born of Sauron. For the first time, his gaze fell from the tower. He stood blinking at the ground for a moment, trying to compose himself. It was a pain as though he had been staring directly at the sun. Looking up again, his Elven sight revealed Saruman staring at him intently and with keen interest.
"Ah, yet here at least is one member of your party whose royal blood cannot be questioned. Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion. How came the nobility of Greenwood the Great to slip to such a level as to mingle with the feeble hopes of Men? Have you not thousands of years upon these children on horses? The last true prince of your people, *here* among this rabble! Among the ragtag Fellowship as well it would seem! You are but an ambassador of a forgotten people to a doomed cause. How far the Eldar have fallen."
Legolas resolved to remain silent. Saruman chose otherwise.
"Why is it you allow them to lead you, perhaps to your death? Or worse? The Lord of Mordor will take no pity upon the Fair Folk. You must flee, Legolas Greenleaf, while you can and take your entire people with you. They cannot survive this war."
He thought of Galadriel's warning and felt a pang of cold fear and bitter sadness. Part of him-a part he had tried to conceal-suddenly cried out for his father. A breeze drifted in from the North. But still he was silent for a long moment, measured, still, and then he spoke.
"You were great once, Saruman, and moved many of my forefathers. You were trusted with knowledge we never should have bestowed upon you. And now: you have fallen beyond redemption. It is true. I *am* an ambassador. And as a representative of my people I may tell you freely that you shall find no safety nor welcome among our kind when your doom has been wrought and the friendship of Mordor fails you. Go forth from your fallen relic of a tower while the other races are more lenient."
Yet the wizard only laughed, and continued in a keener tone: "And you? Where will *you* go when this fruitless war has ended? Do you know of the battle your father fights under the eaves of your home? Many of your people have lost their lives. The Spiders stir, stronger than ever. They assault the Woodland Realm in droves, as they have never before been mustered since the days of Ungoliant. The Mountain Goblins brave the wood as well. Fires rage through even the strongest parts of your precious forest. Thranduil's grasp on his kingdom slips a little each day. The stress of a lost son would break him, I think. Let us pray nothing befalls you, for his sake. Then again, he is already so broken." He paused, his face unreadable, then spoke with a maliciously calm tone. "I have seen it, Legolas, and you know that I have no reason to lie to you. I see that your father ages like a mortal Man. He is weakened by your absence, and he is wounded. Your people rally around him, but they have put their hope in a flawed vessel. They grow weaker each morning. Scores of them are lost to the darkness as evening comes, for this night is unlike the peaceful starry evenings of which you Elves are so fond. This darkness is stronger than anything you have ever seen. It flows freely from that southern tower your kind will not name. You know of which I speak."
*It's a lie, he is lying, he is trying to ensnare you as he did once before. Do not give him the satisfaction. Fight him. Gandalf is here. Galadriel watches over me. My father is strong and my people resilient.*
"I speak the truth, Prince Legolas. You may choose to turn your eye from it if it is your will. Would it not hurt King Thranduil to be thus neglected? And what is to become of your leafy home?" Saruman stopped and laughed breathily, his eyes gleaming. "The wrath of Dol Guldur has been unleashed."
"Enough!" bellowed Gandalf, raising his staff, spreading his arms. "Let him be, Saruman, betrayer of the Free Peoples, and seek to turn your eye from the Elves. They have turned themselves from you"
Suddenly, the noise from the tower was a high-pitched shriek so horrible that it took Legolas a moment to realize it was a voice speaking. "Have they? Have they? Yet I find uses for them still, the Ghostly Race, the Faders! I find many countless uses. Especially with these stupid Mirkwood Elves so close by, without a little ring to shield them. Ha!" There was a cackling laugh. "Ah, but this little prince does know of that which I speak once again! Quite clever is Thranduil's boy. Not clever enough, though. He thought they were taken to Dol Guldur. Wrong tower, Prince Legolas, wrong tower. Now the prince knows, for every vein in his heart is full of the truth of it."
Legolas heard a small voice inside him chanting a horrid thing. Anguished, he ignored it, staring up into the wild eyes above. Saruman stared back. The wizard's face was changed into something hideous and inhuman. He looked positively orc-like, a demon of the early years of the Quendi. The Elf caught his breath.
"He remembers the two who were taken...not long ago...just beyond the borders of that precious palace he calls home."
The nausea turned to horror, welling up inside him, threatening to burst from him in the form of a scream. Saruman, in his cunningness, had managed to dig up that monumental guilt he has just managed to hide.
"And he knows, for he is learned. Once he was even wise. He knows what uses an Elf may provide, even now, even dwindling and weak." Another low chuckle. "Get them to speak? No, no, not Elves. They will reveal nothing to you. They will not swear to you that they know nothing of any such Ring of Power. No, Elves are strong, as cool as ice, immovable." High above them, he grinned. "Until you twist them. Until you use them." The chuckle erupted into a torrent of laughter. "Did you not pause, Legolas Greenleaf? Did you not see something familiar in those Uruks you butchered so blindly?"
*Stop*, his mind and heart pleaded. *Stop.* Silindë's face was everywhere. The smell of Elf-blood wafted all around him. They were calling his name, frightening whispers, demanding that he remember.
The ring of Rohirrim was silent, confused by the confrontation, yet they gathered some of what was being implied. Eomer shuddered a little against his will. He remembered the whispered stories of the Fair Folk's fallen kindred who now roamed in the dark places of the earth, twisted and hideous. Théoden, too, knew a little as well. None knew better than Legolas, certainly, but both Gandalf and Aragorn had been stunned into silence.
Saruman's laughter ceased and he went on. "Yes. It is true. It has not been done since the Dark Days. Since the time of the very first Dark Lord. But times have changed. Times have changed." The wizard cackled again. "You would have been proud, though. They fought me till the bitter end. No amount of pain or torment could break them. Mirkwood Elves through and through. But what good did it do them?" Saruman fixed his gaze on Legolas again. The Elf no longer looked at Saruman. He looked straight ahead, but his eyes saw nothing. "Even their names I never learned. But it does not matter. Their lives were meaningless to your own kind-else they would never have been mine to corrupt. But I gave them uses. I made them into something truly powerful."
Legolas let out a breath, his eyes still sightless, and felt his knees giving way. In a heartbeat Aragorn was beside him. He leaned heavily upon the Man, thankful for the strength he felt. Aragorn did not look at him. He let Legolas withstand his pain as he would have wanted.
"You hide many things from them, Legolas Greenleaf!" came the final words addressed to him-for in the next fleeting instant, the Elf realized how much he had let his guard down and focused his eyes. He took one step back away from Aragorn, cast his gaze upon Gandalf and said, "I am through with him."
Gandalf nodded, though his eyes reflected the sorrow and pity he held for the Elf-prince. When Mithrandir turned his glance and looked up at Saruman, his gaze was so powerful that the entire tower seemed to shudder. "Saruman!" he bellowed. The other wizard shrank away from the window a little bit. But then the wizard lessened the intensity of his tone. "It is I who have come to speak with you, and it is with me whom you must now contend."
Saruman smiled. "Ah, but you, Gandalf! For you at least I am grieved, feeling for your shame. How comes it that you can endure such company? Murderous cavalry, would-be kings, immaterial Elves. For you are proud, Gandalf-and not without reason, having a noble mind and eyes that look both deep and far. Even now will you not listen to my counsel?"
Legolas was staring at Gandalf, gazing longingly at the wizard's upturned profile. He wondered whether or not Saruman could pierce Gandalf as he had pierced his own, Legolas', heart.
But Gandalf was one whom the Elves had always trusted, Mithrandir who had come to Mirkwood when Legolas was not yet half his father's height. Gandalf was a Maia, one who had been tested by the Valar. Had not Frodo offered him the ring? Gandalf was the stronger. He would prevail.
The wizards continued their parlay, and Saruman was beaten down-not harshly, no, but with the wisdom of Mithrandir, the White Rider. His staff was taken from him and broken: the top fell from the tower and splintered near Legolas' feet. At last he disappeared from view, and a shadow lifted from every heart-none more than that of Legolas.
But something glinted above their heads. Legolas looked up swiftly and ducked out of the way, seizing Aragorn's shoulder and taking him with him. A black crystal globe slammed into the stair they had been standing on. The stair shattered, but the ball was unscratched and whole, nestled in the crater it had made. Then it rolled away into a pool at the base of the stairs, and Pippin went after it.
"A palantir," Aragorn breathed.
Legolas looked up. "Saruman would not be one to toss down things from the window. Wormtongue."
Gandalf retrieved the globe from Pippin. "It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away." The company began to descend the stairs. Gandalf rested a hand on Legolas' shoulder and said, "Be at peace, son of Thranduil. Many suffer in the time of war. Do not suffer needlessly, at the dark arts of a fallen rogue." His dark eyes twinkled. "Besides: Sauron will not be pleased when he learns he has been thus tricked by his servant."
Legolas smiled with great effort. His heart still felt as though it had been sliced in two. Gandalf saw the dullness in the Elf's eyes and said, "Legolas, I wish for you to come with me." He nodded to Aragorn and Gimli. "You two as well. There is someone you must meet."
They passed under the archway of the gates of Isengard, stepping into the sunlight. A wood surrounded the basin-a glittering, shifting forest full of life and movement. Legolas smiled weakly at it, though it stirred up even more homesick feelings that burned his throat.
"It is beautiful," he said to Gandalf, thinking the sight his gift.
But from between the trees came something remarkable. They were like the trees themselves, woody and green, moss-laden and leafy-but they had eyes, dull golden eyes that glowed like summer fruit. They were tall, and their steps graceful, and they came striding up to meet the companions.
"Here are three of my companions, Treebeard," Mithrandir said, beaming. "I have spoken of them, but you have not yet seen them. Here is Aragorn of Men, Gimli of the Dwarves of Erebor...and Legolas, who hails from the Elves of Mirkwood."
Legolas and Treebeard locked eyes, and all the sorrow and pain lifted from the Elf's wounded heart.
-Fin-
Please review.
Continued in Chapter 18: The Quendi and the Edain (which will include a good ol' confrontation with Aragorn, who's going to discover a bit about his Elf companion)
Chapter XVII - Whispers of Home
"Before you enter, Prince Legolas, prepare yourself."
This was the only warning that Atavodain, war marshal of the House of Oropher, bestowed upon a wide-eyed boy who had just lost his mother to a Spider ambush at dusk the same evening. The older Elf would not look his prince in the eye, yet seemed to have his gaze fixed on something just beyond-seeing through the youth like a transparent wraith. He lifted a heavy hand and gestured to the starkly lit doorway. The anguish in the concealed room was a steady hum.
Legolas lifted the door curtain to the side and stepped blinking into the candlelit room. His senses absorbed everything at a rapid rate, his heart shuddering in his chest: long shadows, the smell of candle smoke, a slender bed with a form upon it, the heat of the small gathering of living bodies, the coldness of one. It took him a long moment before his eyes would focus upon the figure of his mother a few feet away.
Fimbrethil's perfect stillness gave her features a waxen quality. The natural blush in her cheeks was replaced with a white sheen like newly polished marble-not wholly unattractive, but alien and strange. Her eyes were closed, but only slightly. He glimpsed a dark glitter from somewhere beneath her dead lashes as though she were secretly watching him, playing a little game. The lips were slightly parted, grayed, but beautiful and full. Around her throat was a lovely white scarf that hid her death from her son's eyes-still, the creaminess of the cloth was giving way to a deep, crimson stain, slowly drying out in the warmth of the room. The fingers of her hands were slightly curved, forever frozen in an eerily lifelike position, beckoning to her child-her beautiful, treasured son.
Her husband sat beside her, invisible to the young prince, absorbed in nearly equal stillness. The king looked up for the first time when his son entered the room, still slow, still inert from sorrow. The sight bit into his heart. Thranduil did not like the look in Legolas' eyes. There was something silently screaming therein, their usually soft gray turned steely and cold. The prince stood rigid, unable to move forward or back. The tableau of his mother's death had frozen him in his stance. And Thranduil thought that if anything were to touch his son-a finger, a falling leaf-the wondrously sad statue would shatter into a million gleaming shards.
The king found his footing and rose. Somehow he walked across the room and reached out a quaking hand to steady Legolas' unmoving shoulder, softly whispering his son's name.
"Legolas..."
The vision awoke. Legolas swung his head up and threw his father a look of such fear and confusion that Thranduil felt himself overwhelmed with unexpected emotion. Legolas took a step back. And another. He reared back from his father's hand like an unbroken horse, taking the slightest inhalation of breath. Then father and son froze like waves upon a wintered shore.
"My son," the King entreated, his voice liquid with tears, trying to reach out again, seeking the comfort of contact.
But Legolas' reason had escaped him. He turned from his father, from his people, from his mother's body, and fled from the room as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard his father cry out wordlessly-or was that his name? He didn't care. He flew through the halls, hurled open the eastern gate and exploded into the night forest.
Still he ran. Farther and farther, and the trees did not hinder his strides. He leapt over protruding roots, over slender forest streams. Thorny branches and undergrowth scraped against his shins, but he was numb to all feeling other than the crushing sorrow boring down upon him. He thought he could sense pursuit in the back of his mind, something instilled in him by his teachers, but none of it mattered. Whether it was the Royal Guard coming to fetch him home and comfort him, or fifty renegade Spiders coming to slaughter him alive, Legolas didn't care. He plunged deeper into the woods until at last he glimpsed a ring of moonlight silvering the grass of a tiny clearing.
As soon as he reached the open air, his knees buckled and he fell forward onto all fours and wept. His tears were silent save for the heaving breaths blazing in his lungs. The nearly mute sound of Elven steps echoed behind him, but he was oblivious. A warm hand fell upon the small of his back, but it was too much to bear. He let the reaching embrace encircle him and collapsed breathlessly in his father's arms. He was thirty-five, long- limbed, finally beginning to bloom into the startlingly beautiful warrior his mother had whispered he would become. The tears ceased. The breath stilled. Father and son remained entangled as they had not been since Legolas was very, impossibly young.
For the first time in their short life together, they were irrevocably alone. It would not be the last.
* * *
Legolas could clearly see the outline of the great wall that rimmed the dike at Helm's Deep. It was considerably more ragged than it had been when the host arrived before the battle. With his race's sight he could just make out the rust-colored streaks of spilt blood that had dried down the sides of the rough-hewn stones. A few blonde heads could also be seen- soldiers moving along the wall, gathering arrows, attending to the dead and dying. He strained harder, slightly leaning forward onto his bow-no, none of those golden heads belonged to Eowyn.
A bit behind him, scores of Men were discussing the road ahead, and the White Rider stood in their midst, silently listening to all the suggestions. Many wished to return to Edoras, where they might regroup and strike out stronger. Théoden seemed somewhat unsatisfied with this route. At last the old king spoke up, looking to Mithrandir.
"And Saruman? What is to be done with him? Will he be able to strike out at us once more?"
Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "That I doubt."
"Then what shall we do with him?" Aragorn asked.
"We shall ride now to meet this wizard," Gandalf said coolly. "Though I think Saruman may have already been met with something he did not expect."
Legolas turned to the wizard, his eyes a question, but Gandalf glanced at the surrounding forest and smiled.
* * *
"There are eyes! Eyes in the trees!"
The riders stopped, horse hooves beating their panic into the grass- it flew through the earth and made the maddening leaves rustle.
A stirring came forth from the center of this wood, a small tremor felt only by Gandalf and the Elf, visible to the mortals simply as a little ripple in the grass around the forest's edges. Legolas urged Arod forward one step-then another. The eyes glittered in response. He could smell something old and fecund coming from the forest, something primeval and very powerful.
From somewhere behind him, the surprisingly small voice of Gimli issued forth. "Nay, Legolas! I do not wish to see such eyes."
Yet Legolas stared ahead, eyes focused nearly sightlessly upon the glistening wood. It was like home, but something more. There was something commanding hidden in this wood, almost like the presence of an Elven ring of power. But it was not an Elven feeling. It was something older still, old as the hills, a gift from the Valar themselves. He had to know what it was.
"Stay, Legolas Greenleaf!"
And quite suddenly, he stopped. Or Arod stopped on his own. All motion ceased. The very wind seemed to still at Gandalf's voice. At the core of his heart, Legolas felt a tugging sensation. His lungs burned a little with the effort to pull forward. They fought for a moment. But Gandalf was the stronger.
He turned his head and looked at the wizard, his gray eyes full of sorrow. Gandalf nodded a little, not chiding nor reprimanding, only equally aware of the Elvish desire to see a thing of his forefathers' world. Soundlessly, Legolas urged Arod back and they rejoined the company.
"It is a thing of great beauty to you, I know," said Gimli softly. "But let me tell you, Legolas, if it may ease your heart, of a beauty of a different sort. Let me tell you of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond."
* * *
That night, camped beside a few low hills, the company received little sleep. Legolas took no rest whatsoever-rather, he paced up and down the short length of the grounds, humming to himself, sometimes letting a few words slip through.
In far green fields beneath the stars
In twilight, wide and still,
She stands and dreams of distant wars,
Pale as the niphredil
He sang where they would not be able to hear him, and he sang in Sindarin, keeping away from both Gandalf and Aragorn. He was left to lull warriors to sleep, none guessing at the scandalous quality of his verses. The tired soldiers nodded their praise, thanking him for his beautiful voice. He nodded back, his eyes trained on the stars.
Eyes take the gray of morning mist
The moon alights her skin
Hair cascades in a golden wave
The fairest of her kin
A glance like ice, a step like rain
A touch like wind and water
She is both like and unlike me
She is a mortal daughter
I come from forest and from glade
Not bound by mortal ties
They count me lost among my kin
Entangled in her eyes
The wind became unspeakably cool for a moment, settling onto each pale hair on the back of his neck. He shivered, still distracted by his own lyric crafting, and then stopped. His senses became alerted to the presence of a very potent evil, slow and cunning, a condensing of the air racing toward them with frightful speed. He spun around and glared into the gloom. A few awakened soldiers saw him, his body rigid, eyes gazing into the blackness of the distance. They too looked where his focus lay, and saw nothing-for a moment.
If the night air could become thickened, a heavy mass rolling over the hills, thicker than water, thicker than blood-it did so then. The wind coagulated, the blackness of evening became a heavy, oozing shade that raced toward the encampment like a flood out of Mordor. Voices sounded in alarm. Warriors stood up uneasily, drawing swords.
Legolas turned away from the oncoming mass, desperately seeking Gandalf. The wizard's white robes made him glow a little, even without the moon above them.
"Stand your ground!" the wizard cried. "Draw no weapons. This is a gloom sent by Saruman. It will pass."
Bewildered, the Elf turned back to the blackness, now even closer. He let go of the hilt of his knife and felt it slide back into the scabbard. Behind him, a young warrior whispered something in the tongue of the Rohirrim, something that sounded like a prayer or a chant to ward off evil. A moment passed. Suddenly it was a few feet away. He planted his feet, closed his eyes, and ceased to breathe.
Like a wave of numbing madness the blackness washed into the camp. Legolas felt his footing strain-the pushing sensation was real. The darkness was tangible and it was flowing over him like warm water. It was clinging to his garments, to his hair, like a real liquid. And just as suddenly as it had hit him, it was over. He stood in the cool night unhindered, no trace of shadow left upon him. He turned his head and looked behind. Figures emerged from the black, as though the moon were casting light upon armored Men as it moved through the sky.
That was the only interference they felt that evening-still no one found any sleep, not even when dawn began to twinkle upon the hilltops.
* * *
When the host reached the gates of Isengard, Legolas had felt something that made his heart constrict within his chest-something that wounded his spirit, for it summoned up many memories, and most of them were of his father's kingdom far away in the North. For entering the perimeter of Saruman's fortress Legolas saw the torn stumps of many trees. He could see that once they had been great, for their rings remained visible, wide and many. They were as wide as tables, but raggedly sawn by stupid orcs with nothing but contempt for the living world.
Legolas dismounted from Arod to lead him over the awkward terrain. Bits of stone masonry the size of horses littered the ground. Everything was slicked with water. Vast pools reflected the gray sky. In the distance he saw Orthanc rising from the earth like a flume of black water. It was obviously Man-made, but something about it was off. It had been altered through a different craft, a craft he knew only one of the Istari could possess.
His blood boiled as he tasted the bitter essence of betrayal. He had not felt truly betrayed before that moment, not even when the reality of Boromir's death and Frodo's disappearance had become apparent. Legolas was an Elf who had, for much of his long life, been brought up amongst his own kind. He was unused to many things, such as the frailty of mortals, and their misuses when corrupted. He had seen evil Men. But this-a wizard was a thing of the Maiar world. Had the very Valar betrayed them?
He knelt and placed his hand upon the surface of one tree stump. The pain of its death seeped into his palm, a dying gasp, cool and numbing. He shut his eyes and sighed, then continued on his way feeling a terrible, gnawing sorrow.
But then something remarkable happened. Certainly it was not a miracle in the common sense of the word. It was only a voice: light- hearted, high-pitched, laced with mirth. And Legolas recognized it immediately.
"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard. We are the doorwardens."
* * *
Gimli had been the one who demanded to be allowed an audience with Saruman. Legolas had had no desire. But the dwarf seemed to have volunteered him, too, and so the company reached the gleaming steps of the tower of Orthanc, and stood at ready in its slender shadow.
Gandalf announced them, though such seemed unnecessary. Legolas recognized Wormtongue's scratchy voice inquiring, "Who are you? What do you wish?" The Elf almost laughed. He looked forward to having the little snake of a Man come to the window. His bow was at ready, after all.
But Wormtongue did not come. A wizard came.
Legolas had first heard of Saruman from his father and the elders in his homeland. They said that he had the power to assume any guise he wished. Thus Legolas was unsure whether or not this old man was indeed the manifestation of the wizard Saruman. He saw white hair streaked with black and keen, dark eyes. He could not help but notice that the eyes were startlingly similar to those of Gandalf.
When Saruman spoke, his voice was fair as that of an Elf-lord's. Its lilt was musical and smooth, like water rushing over stones. But Legolas could sense the poison hidden within the stream. As he glanced around at the faces of his mortal companions, he saw that many of the riders could not sense this. They stood rooted, as though they had been bewitched. Only Aragorn seemed truly unaffected by Saruman's voice.
The wizard of Orthanc addressed Théoden first. He went on in lyrical prose about the greatness he could still offer to the King of Rohan. He poetically mourned the apparent 'needlessness' of the battle they had fought two nights ago. He promised glory and forgiveness. Legolas seethed. Théoden seemed dangerously reflective.
But Théoden was cut from the same cloth as Eowyn. Legolas thanked the Valar for the stubbornness of the Rohirrim. He retaliated against the syrupy voice, his aged tone sounding brassy against such flowing music. He stood strong and denied any such peace with the former White Wizard and the wrath of Saruman exploded above them. Down rained insults and jeers with a bite that could actually be felt. But then the wizard calmed himself, and turned his gaze.
He looked at the Elf.
Legolas, who had stood silent and as equally defiant as his companions, suddenly felt a wave of nausea come over him. He remembered the darkness of the months before-the stinging of the Black Breath, the horror of the Nazgûl-yet this was a different evil, not fully born of Sauron. For the first time, his gaze fell from the tower. He stood blinking at the ground for a moment, trying to compose himself. It was a pain as though he had been staring directly at the sun. Looking up again, his Elven sight revealed Saruman staring at him intently and with keen interest.
"Ah, yet here at least is one member of your party whose royal blood cannot be questioned. Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion. How came the nobility of Greenwood the Great to slip to such a level as to mingle with the feeble hopes of Men? Have you not thousands of years upon these children on horses? The last true prince of your people, *here* among this rabble! Among the ragtag Fellowship as well it would seem! You are but an ambassador of a forgotten people to a doomed cause. How far the Eldar have fallen."
Legolas resolved to remain silent. Saruman chose otherwise.
"Why is it you allow them to lead you, perhaps to your death? Or worse? The Lord of Mordor will take no pity upon the Fair Folk. You must flee, Legolas Greenleaf, while you can and take your entire people with you. They cannot survive this war."
He thought of Galadriel's warning and felt a pang of cold fear and bitter sadness. Part of him-a part he had tried to conceal-suddenly cried out for his father. A breeze drifted in from the North. But still he was silent for a long moment, measured, still, and then he spoke.
"You were great once, Saruman, and moved many of my forefathers. You were trusted with knowledge we never should have bestowed upon you. And now: you have fallen beyond redemption. It is true. I *am* an ambassador. And as a representative of my people I may tell you freely that you shall find no safety nor welcome among our kind when your doom has been wrought and the friendship of Mordor fails you. Go forth from your fallen relic of a tower while the other races are more lenient."
Yet the wizard only laughed, and continued in a keener tone: "And you? Where will *you* go when this fruitless war has ended? Do you know of the battle your father fights under the eaves of your home? Many of your people have lost their lives. The Spiders stir, stronger than ever. They assault the Woodland Realm in droves, as they have never before been mustered since the days of Ungoliant. The Mountain Goblins brave the wood as well. Fires rage through even the strongest parts of your precious forest. Thranduil's grasp on his kingdom slips a little each day. The stress of a lost son would break him, I think. Let us pray nothing befalls you, for his sake. Then again, he is already so broken." He paused, his face unreadable, then spoke with a maliciously calm tone. "I have seen it, Legolas, and you know that I have no reason to lie to you. I see that your father ages like a mortal Man. He is weakened by your absence, and he is wounded. Your people rally around him, but they have put their hope in a flawed vessel. They grow weaker each morning. Scores of them are lost to the darkness as evening comes, for this night is unlike the peaceful starry evenings of which you Elves are so fond. This darkness is stronger than anything you have ever seen. It flows freely from that southern tower your kind will not name. You know of which I speak."
*It's a lie, he is lying, he is trying to ensnare you as he did once before. Do not give him the satisfaction. Fight him. Gandalf is here. Galadriel watches over me. My father is strong and my people resilient.*
"I speak the truth, Prince Legolas. You may choose to turn your eye from it if it is your will. Would it not hurt King Thranduil to be thus neglected? And what is to become of your leafy home?" Saruman stopped and laughed breathily, his eyes gleaming. "The wrath of Dol Guldur has been unleashed."
"Enough!" bellowed Gandalf, raising his staff, spreading his arms. "Let him be, Saruman, betrayer of the Free Peoples, and seek to turn your eye from the Elves. They have turned themselves from you"
Suddenly, the noise from the tower was a high-pitched shriek so horrible that it took Legolas a moment to realize it was a voice speaking. "Have they? Have they? Yet I find uses for them still, the Ghostly Race, the Faders! I find many countless uses. Especially with these stupid Mirkwood Elves so close by, without a little ring to shield them. Ha!" There was a cackling laugh. "Ah, but this little prince does know of that which I speak once again! Quite clever is Thranduil's boy. Not clever enough, though. He thought they were taken to Dol Guldur. Wrong tower, Prince Legolas, wrong tower. Now the prince knows, for every vein in his heart is full of the truth of it."
Legolas heard a small voice inside him chanting a horrid thing. Anguished, he ignored it, staring up into the wild eyes above. Saruman stared back. The wizard's face was changed into something hideous and inhuman. He looked positively orc-like, a demon of the early years of the Quendi. The Elf caught his breath.
"He remembers the two who were taken...not long ago...just beyond the borders of that precious palace he calls home."
The nausea turned to horror, welling up inside him, threatening to burst from him in the form of a scream. Saruman, in his cunningness, had managed to dig up that monumental guilt he has just managed to hide.
"And he knows, for he is learned. Once he was even wise. He knows what uses an Elf may provide, even now, even dwindling and weak." Another low chuckle. "Get them to speak? No, no, not Elves. They will reveal nothing to you. They will not swear to you that they know nothing of any such Ring of Power. No, Elves are strong, as cool as ice, immovable." High above them, he grinned. "Until you twist them. Until you use them." The chuckle erupted into a torrent of laughter. "Did you not pause, Legolas Greenleaf? Did you not see something familiar in those Uruks you butchered so blindly?"
*Stop*, his mind and heart pleaded. *Stop.* Silindë's face was everywhere. The smell of Elf-blood wafted all around him. They were calling his name, frightening whispers, demanding that he remember.
The ring of Rohirrim was silent, confused by the confrontation, yet they gathered some of what was being implied. Eomer shuddered a little against his will. He remembered the whispered stories of the Fair Folk's fallen kindred who now roamed in the dark places of the earth, twisted and hideous. Théoden, too, knew a little as well. None knew better than Legolas, certainly, but both Gandalf and Aragorn had been stunned into silence.
Saruman's laughter ceased and he went on. "Yes. It is true. It has not been done since the Dark Days. Since the time of the very first Dark Lord. But times have changed. Times have changed." The wizard cackled again. "You would have been proud, though. They fought me till the bitter end. No amount of pain or torment could break them. Mirkwood Elves through and through. But what good did it do them?" Saruman fixed his gaze on Legolas again. The Elf no longer looked at Saruman. He looked straight ahead, but his eyes saw nothing. "Even their names I never learned. But it does not matter. Their lives were meaningless to your own kind-else they would never have been mine to corrupt. But I gave them uses. I made them into something truly powerful."
Legolas let out a breath, his eyes still sightless, and felt his knees giving way. In a heartbeat Aragorn was beside him. He leaned heavily upon the Man, thankful for the strength he felt. Aragorn did not look at him. He let Legolas withstand his pain as he would have wanted.
"You hide many things from them, Legolas Greenleaf!" came the final words addressed to him-for in the next fleeting instant, the Elf realized how much he had let his guard down and focused his eyes. He took one step back away from Aragorn, cast his gaze upon Gandalf and said, "I am through with him."
Gandalf nodded, though his eyes reflected the sorrow and pity he held for the Elf-prince. When Mithrandir turned his glance and looked up at Saruman, his gaze was so powerful that the entire tower seemed to shudder. "Saruman!" he bellowed. The other wizard shrank away from the window a little bit. But then the wizard lessened the intensity of his tone. "It is I who have come to speak with you, and it is with me whom you must now contend."
Saruman smiled. "Ah, but you, Gandalf! For you at least I am grieved, feeling for your shame. How comes it that you can endure such company? Murderous cavalry, would-be kings, immaterial Elves. For you are proud, Gandalf-and not without reason, having a noble mind and eyes that look both deep and far. Even now will you not listen to my counsel?"
Legolas was staring at Gandalf, gazing longingly at the wizard's upturned profile. He wondered whether or not Saruman could pierce Gandalf as he had pierced his own, Legolas', heart.
But Gandalf was one whom the Elves had always trusted, Mithrandir who had come to Mirkwood when Legolas was not yet half his father's height. Gandalf was a Maia, one who had been tested by the Valar. Had not Frodo offered him the ring? Gandalf was the stronger. He would prevail.
The wizards continued their parlay, and Saruman was beaten down-not harshly, no, but with the wisdom of Mithrandir, the White Rider. His staff was taken from him and broken: the top fell from the tower and splintered near Legolas' feet. At last he disappeared from view, and a shadow lifted from every heart-none more than that of Legolas.
But something glinted above their heads. Legolas looked up swiftly and ducked out of the way, seizing Aragorn's shoulder and taking him with him. A black crystal globe slammed into the stair they had been standing on. The stair shattered, but the ball was unscratched and whole, nestled in the crater it had made. Then it rolled away into a pool at the base of the stairs, and Pippin went after it.
"A palantir," Aragorn breathed.
Legolas looked up. "Saruman would not be one to toss down things from the window. Wormtongue."
Gandalf retrieved the globe from Pippin. "It is not a thing, I guess, that Saruman would have chosen to cast away." The company began to descend the stairs. Gandalf rested a hand on Legolas' shoulder and said, "Be at peace, son of Thranduil. Many suffer in the time of war. Do not suffer needlessly, at the dark arts of a fallen rogue." His dark eyes twinkled. "Besides: Sauron will not be pleased when he learns he has been thus tricked by his servant."
Legolas smiled with great effort. His heart still felt as though it had been sliced in two. Gandalf saw the dullness in the Elf's eyes and said, "Legolas, I wish for you to come with me." He nodded to Aragorn and Gimli. "You two as well. There is someone you must meet."
They passed under the archway of the gates of Isengard, stepping into the sunlight. A wood surrounded the basin-a glittering, shifting forest full of life and movement. Legolas smiled weakly at it, though it stirred up even more homesick feelings that burned his throat.
"It is beautiful," he said to Gandalf, thinking the sight his gift.
But from between the trees came something remarkable. They were like the trees themselves, woody and green, moss-laden and leafy-but they had eyes, dull golden eyes that glowed like summer fruit. They were tall, and their steps graceful, and they came striding up to meet the companions.
"Here are three of my companions, Treebeard," Mithrandir said, beaming. "I have spoken of them, but you have not yet seen them. Here is Aragorn of Men, Gimli of the Dwarves of Erebor...and Legolas, who hails from the Elves of Mirkwood."
Legolas and Treebeard locked eyes, and all the sorrow and pain lifted from the Elf's wounded heart.
-Fin-
Please review.
Continued in Chapter 18: The Quendi and the Edain (which will include a good ol' confrontation with Aragorn, who's going to discover a bit about his Elf companion)