Okay, so. In spite of my arsehole-ness for not updating, I now offer chapters 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15 to anyone who's still reading.
I still don't own anything you recognise.
Chapter 10
Mercia walked deep in the forest, his feet sure on the ground. In the distance, he could hear spiders scrabbling in the undergrowth, but he knew they were only small woodland creatures going about their business of spinning webs and living as best they could. They were not children of Ungoliant, but small, harmless spiders. In recent years, Thranduil's forces had driven the venomous children of the darkest spider of all deep into Mirkwood. Exactly where the spiders now lay, brooding and dark, none knew but it was whispered that they had colonised Sauron's stronghold of old, Dol Guldur, drawn by the evil and malice that lingered around the place.
Above the sound of the spiders moving on their delicate legs, there were other sounds, the secret chirping of insects communicating in a language of their own and the leaves and branches swaying gently, rustling together. The trees were restless. In fact, Mercia realised, the whole night was restless and he himself was equally unsettled. If anything was going to go wrong, it would go wrong soon. Legolas would be caught or Estel would hesitate a moment too long or Thranduil would arrive to speak with the human and discover the subterfuge. Trying desperately hard not to allow his thoughts to linger on Legolas' possible fate, Mercia trailed his fingers over the smooth bark of tree on his left. He knew immediately that the tree was a silver birch and that in the moonlight it would glow like a beacon in the gloom of the forest.
Moving away from the tree, Mercia slipped further into the forest, listening for footsteps or the sound of hooves, ready to melt into the darkness at an instant. Since the loss of his sight, his sense of hearing had seemed to improve steadily as though his body was trying to compensate him for its failings. He knew that he could hear more and further than most elves in the forest and he used that to his advantage, moving like a whisper among trees and plants that seemed to caress him as he passed, soothing his troubled mind.
Although he and Hanfrith had spent the majority of their time together patrolling the borders of Mirkwood, it was in the depths of the forest that Mercia felt closest to him. Sometimes, when fortune had allowed it and they had both been relieved of duty for several days at a time, Hanfrith and Mercia had gone deep into the forest, sharing each other's company and without consciously knowing it, Mercia's feet were leading him to the place where they had made camp one night. Normally, they would have rested in one of the countless trees around them, after the fashion of the Galadhrim, but that night Hanfrith had lain on the ground and taken Mercia into his arms, a gentle embrace that Mercia wished one day to feel again. In the halls of Mandos, perhaps his love awaited him with a heart as eager as Mercia's was bruised.
Though the idea was a comforting one and one that had sustained Mercia through many years when he had wanted to let himself fade, he was not entirely sure whether he believed it or not. He often wondered if it was selfish of him, to want Hanfrith to have to endure centuries of lonely waiting and whether or not their story would have ended more happily if he had died that night when the Orc's deadly claws raked across his vision.
Interrupting his thoughts came a sound from far away, as though of many people walking in many directions. Listening intently for a moment, Mercia realised that the footsteps were closer than he had first thought. The elves who were walking, and Mercia believed there were ten or more of them, were making every effort to muffle their footsteps. Still facing the direction of the sound, Mercia backed away carefully, placing his feet gently upon the ground. From the sound of their footsteps, all the elves had started walking from the same place but had fanned out as they moved.
In an instant, Mercia knew they were searching for something. He did not immediately assume that they were searching for him, though he knew it was a possibility. It was also possible that an intruder had been sighted and they looked for him. Whatever the case, Mercia had no wish to be discovered alone in the woods when the King's son was supposedly in his care. Turning his back on the sound of feet, Mercia walked as quickly as he could manage without making a noise. No matter how fast and how far he moved, the sound of footsteps was always behind him, never further away but never closer either.
And then, from the direction of the footsteps, Mercia heard another sound. The noise was falling quietly on the soft ground, muffled by leaves and mulch, but still unmistakeable. It was the sound of a horse's hooves. In his fear, Mercia forgot his need for concealment and fled hurriedly into the trees, his arms held out before him to feel his way, his hands desperately pushing aside trailing vines and thin, whip-like branches that snapped back against his skin.
It was all to no avail because dimly, through his fears and anxiety, Mercia heard the footsteps changing direction in response to a soft cry. Unmistakeably, the walkers had changed their directions and were now forming a circle around Mercia. They were still some distance away but they drew closer with every step and there was nowhere that Mercia could go. Desperately, he felt around him and his hands encountered a tree. Thanking the Valar, Mercia reached upwards and found a branch. Pulling himself up smoothly, he balanced on the limb for a moment and then moved upward again, feeling for another sturdy branch. He climbed until he could go no higher, resting against the trunk of the tree and hoping against hope that the lower branches would conceal him.
All around the tree on the forest floor, footsteps were drawing nearer until finally, Mercia could hear the tiny sounds of a large group of people trying to remain silent. There were sounds of minute leaves being broken as they were pressed to the ground, the tiny noises of breathing and above all, the gaping silence that a two-legged presence caused among the insects of the wood. Finally, a voice came from below him and Mercia knew that all was lost.
"Mercia Brethil-Dîn," Thranduil called. "Set your feet upon the ground and stand before your King."
Seeing no possible alternative, Mercia began the slow descent from his futile hiding place. As his feet touched the ground, he heard a sound as though of restrained movement and knew that one or more of the elves that stood alongside Thranduil had made to seize him but had been stopped.
"My liege," Mercia began, but his voice failed him and he could think of no words. He knew that nothing could excuse him from whatever fate the King had in mind for him.
"The midst of the forest is not the proper place to discuss your doom, Mercia," Thranduil said and Mercia bowed his head. "We will return to the citadel," Thranduil called and immediately, Mercia felt hands take hold of his arms. The hands were not rough but they left no room for him to move, not even to twist his arms limply in their grip. Truly though, Mercia would not have attempted escape even if it had been possible. A deep gloom had descended upon him and he knew that he was reaping the rewards of betraying his King.
After a brief walk, Mercia was set upon a horse and behind him went the King. They soon outpaced the elves that were travelling on foot and the King's horse made their ride back to the citadel a fast, smooth one. The horse came to a halt and Mercia felt Thranduil dismount. Carefully, Mercia turned and slid towards the ground, his feet hitting the earth with an echoing thump. Then immediately, his arms were taken hold of once more and he was led away, into the hall of King Thranduil where all decisions regarding the future of Mirkwood and its elves were taken. Inside the room, Mercia was led to a hard wooden chair that he knew faced the throne of the King. Mutely, Mercia sat on the chair; his mind idly wondering what manner of death would be devised for him.
Behind him, the door to the hall was opened and a herald announced the entry of the King. Mercia sat stiffly in the chair and listened as Thranduil ordered away the servants and guards who occupied the room. Their footsteps trooped away, leaving Mercia alone with Thranduil. He heard Thranduil sit on his throne and for a long while there was only silence.
"Do you have any defence for your actions?" Thranduil asked finally.
"None, Lord," Mercia stated honestly.
"Mercia, you have long been among my closest friends and most trusted advisors," the King said. "It grieves me to see that you have turned from me in this manner." The King sighed at Mercia's silence. "In accordance with the laws of my land, I should claim your life in return for your betrayal"
"I know the law, my Lord, and it is at your disposal," Mercia said softly.
"It is," Thranduil mused. "And yet I am not cruel and I am not without feelings. I will not have your life, Mercia Brethil-Dîn. Rather you shall go forth from the land of Mirkwood never to return. I banish you from my Kingdom and revoke all vows of friendship I made with you."
Mercia sat silent in his chair. Never again to hear the sounds of the forest? Never to feel the moonlight cascading like water through the branches of the trees? Never again to visit the places where he had known love ever enduring? Truly, he almost felt that Thranduil had taken from him something that was of far greater value than his life. Still, he knew that Thranduil was showing all the mercy that he could muster in such circumstances.
"It is traditional," the King continued, "to grant a final request from those who are banished. In memory of our long years of companionship, I shall adhere to this tradition with only two conditions. First, that you do not ask leave to return and second that you do not request the freedom of the Heir of Isildur. Think and speak quickly, for this offer will not be open to you for long."
In silence, Mercia thought swiftly. After only a brief moment's thought, he spoke, his voice low in the quiet room.
"My Lord, I would ask only one thing: That you have mercy. I do not ask this for myself. You have already shown me more mercy than I am due. I ask rather that you look within your heart and find mercy there for your son, Legolas Thranduillion and for Aragorn son of Arathorn who is called the Hope of men"
"You ask much, Mercia Brethil-Dîn," Thranduil said gravely. "And yet, you ask from a love of all beings and I will do as much to grant your request as is in my power. Go now from my Kingdom and wander where you see fit. If you should return to Mirkwood, you shall be killed."
Bowing low, Mercia stood and walked to the door of the hall. Outside, he was accosted by guards who led him to his rooms and watched as he gathered a few meagre possessions. From a locked chest, he took a bow and a quiver of arrows that he had used when he was a warrior. When he went forth into the wild, he would need some form of protection, even if it was only a single bow that had not been in use for many hundreds of years. The bowstring had not sagged and weakened, as Mercia replaced it often, finding the familiar routine a comfort in dark times.
When he had robed himself in a dark cloak and placed all of his possessions into a small bag, he was led by the guards on a long march to the western borders of Mirkwood. There they left him and he walked alone in the wilderness between the borders of Mirkwood and the River Anduin, never again to return to the land he so loved.
Brethil Dîn Silent silver birch in Quenya / Sindarin
tbc