Mirkwood Manor Chapter 8
This is an AU, so it slips away from canon quite frequently, I'm sure. Forgive the obvious oversights, especially as it deals with the geography of Middle Earth, and forgive any additions and inconsistencies with Master Tolkien's brilliant works. I'm just about having fun here, and hope to offer a bit to you. Please comment if it pleases you to do so! And now, with your kind indulgence: On with chapter 8.
He rode for days, unsure if he were even traveling in the right direction, following clues, witness accounts and sometimes only Elven intuition, hoping to find his sworn enemy.
Valgur.
His wounds were slow in healing, aggravated by his activity. Every jarring step his horse took sent tendrils of pain through his body. He spent the first few days of his journey sitting bent at the waist, with his body resting against his powerful horse, in and out of consciousness. He thanked the Valar over and over again for a horse as smart as his. On his second night Legolas fell from his mare. He remembered hitting the ground, remembered feeling too weak to pull himself to his feet, yet had no recollection of how he ended up back upon his horse. He continued on, determined to let nothing stop him from finding his prey.
As he neared the Brandywine border Legolas spied a small home built of thatch. An old fire smoldered in front of the house, evidence that someone was recently there. He had need for water, not only for himself but for his horse.
He drew a deep breath and dismounted, steadied himself and moved cautiously toward the dark opening. Legolas peered inside.
Sunlight permeated the small one room dwelling through the window and small holes in the walls. There was a small table, broken, and chair, also broken, and several pieces of ovenware and earthen jars scattered in jagged bits across the floor. There was also a goodly amount of blood.
Legolas knelt down to touch it. Still fresh, still wet. He looked at his stained fingertip, then brought it to his nose to sniff. Human, he determined. He saw a thin trail of blood, and stood to locate it source. He moved to the far side of the dwelling, and saw where the trail of blood originated.
A small woman, of the race of man, lay upon her pallet. Legolas knelt quickly to check for signs of life. They were quite faint. He noticed that the blood came from a wound just below her heart, and that the wound was no doubt made not by a sword but by a knife. He brushed back strawberry blond hair from the victim's forehead. She was already quite cold. Pale blue, unfocused eyes filled with tears met his.
"Am I dying?" she asked weakly, blood gurgling in her mouth.
Legolas hesitated before speaking.
"Yes. Pray, who did this to you?"
"You."
"I?"
"Nay. Darker," she said.
"Valgur," said Legolas.
The woman seized at the sound of his name, and then fell limp. Her eyes remained open as her life deserted her broken body.
Legolas closed her eyes with a hand, then offered an Elven song of loss to gently escort her soul to her afterlife.
The treachery of Valgur grows, Legolas thought, and rose to his feet, and vowed that this woman's life would this night be avenged. With his last breath, he would see Valgur dead.
As a warrior.
Centuries had passed in a blur. The last time he had taken up arms for a cause, the cannon was the state of the art. So very long ago. He found himself looking forward to this confrontation. Not because he would bring justice to an unjust situation, but because he could once again be Legolas warrior Prince of Mirkwood, defender of the Woodland Realm, assassin, protector, soldier, enforcer. No longer simply the quiet, reclusive Mr. Greenleaf, hidden among men, the last of his kind.
There was a soft knock at his door. Legolas turned quickly and opened it.
"Miss Huffington?"
"I wanted to wish you luck. I don't know what else to say in this kind of situation."
Legolas nodded and went to his closet.
"Come in, I wish to show you something."
Charlita entered cautiously, looking around at the parsimoniously furnished room – a simple though large bed, its frame made of polished cherry wood, dressed in white linen and down, a wooden ladder back chair that may well have been over 500 years old, a simple table and a chest of drawers. The room was lit by at least a hundred candles, and open terrace doors lead to a vine and ivy covered balcony that overlooked the garden.
Legolas pulled open the double doors of his closet and pushed his few clothing items to the side. There was a false door inside, a secret door that he accessed by pressing one of the hinges.
"One of the previous owners, I was told by the seller, was a bootlegger, and used this hidden closet to conceal contraband from the authorities. I use it as a war chest."
Charlita peered over Legolas' shoulder. She gasped when he turned back to her with a large, sheathed sword.
"Whoa," she said, as he pulled the sheath away. The sound it made was a pure and resounding ring that sent a chill down her spine.
"This is Anduril."
Charlita was unable to move, unable to speak. Never had she seen anything as beautiful as this sword. When she could find voice, all she could do was repeat the name.
"Anduril."
"This sword, originally called Narsil, was broken in combat thousands of years before my birth. It was later reforged by Elven craftsmen, and given to Aragorn, King of Gondor, my closest and dearest friend."
"Why do you show this to me?" Charlita asked, breathlessly. She held a hand over her heart, fearing it would stop beating.
"Take it," Legolas urged her, proffering it to her.
Charlita reached out with hesitant, trembling hands and took hold of the sword. It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as she feared it would be, by its appearance. It gleamed in the candlelight. She gasped as she was hit by a wave of images. The floor shook and walls seem to reverberate with the sounds of battle. Fires raged, metal clashed, arrows whistled through the air in swift, violent arcs. As quickly as the images began, they disappeared, leaving a ringing in her ears.
"Whoa!" she said again, once she remembered to breathe. "What was that?"
"Memories."
"Yours?"
"Some, yes."
"Why did you want me to see this?"
"As precious as the books and maps are to me, even more so is this. Anduril is symbolic of my entire life, of everything I am, everything I have done, everything I was ever meant to do or be. Everyone I've ever known. Of all the possessions I've brought forward from my long existence, this one thing is of greater worth to me than my own life. If I should not return tonight..."
"Wait a minute..."
"Please, hear me out. If I should not return, I request that you keep good care of it for me. Put it in a place of safe-keeping. Preserve it, protect it, and let it not end up in some antique auction or under some vapid collector's bed to gather dust, rust and ruin. Keep it, and when Tristan is of the age of maturity, I want you to give this to him."
"Legolas..."
"He will be the last of my kind. Into his hands it should rightfully fall. Will you do this for me?"
Charlita could not answer. She stared at Anduril, then looked back to Legolas with eyes filled with tears.
"I will do as you say."
"You have my thanks."
Legolas gently removed the sword from her tense grip, and placed it safely back in it sheath.
As he turned to put back the sword, he heard Charlita begin to quietly sob.
She covered her face, shamed, embarrassed, and quickly wiped away her tears.
Legolas turned back to face her. He placed his hands gently upon her shoulders.
"Why do you weep, Charlita?" he asked softly.
"Because...because I've brought all this upon you. I am so sorry. So sorry for bringing all this trouble to your door."
"Trouble is a thing that often comes unbidden. Do not blame yourself, or take responsibility for something when it is not yours to take."
"But Valgur is my problem. This is not your fight!"
"But it is, Charlita. It has always been my fight. Thousands of years before you were born, we met in battle, Valgur and I, and I failed. If there were anyone to be faulted, let it fall upon me. For if I had killed Valgur when I had the chance, you would not have suffered under his yoke."
Legolas reached out with a thumb and tenderly wiped away the last of Charlita's tears. She looked down at the floor discomfited by his kind gesture.
"One good thing did come of all this," Legolas whispered. "Your son. Take comfort in that." Charlita nodded and attempted a smile.
"You'd better come back then," she said. "He's very fond of you."
"I am equally fond of him. And as you can see..."
Legolas moved back to his closet and removed a black leather long coat with a hood from a hanger. He slipped into it, then checked the inside panels. There, tucked inside the coat, were his long knives.
"... I am well armed," he spoke with a confident smile. "Now, I will need keys, and your address."
Charlita reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced for Legolas her keys and a piece of paper on which she had written down her street.
"Tonight, if it is the will of the Valar," Legolas said as he pulled his black leather hood over his head, a stark contrast against his glowing skin, "Valgur will be no more."
He had been sitting in the dark room for more than an hour waiting for her. Charlita's recent lack of respect and blatant disobedience was beginning to wear on Valgur's nerves. Perhaps it was time to teach her yet another lesson, he considered, and thought of the last time her rebellious nature had driven him to such a necessity.
She had feebly attempted to protect the old man for whom she worked and denied outright Valgur's request for certain valuable items to be secreted out of her employer's safe. When Charlita showed up empty handed, Valgur gave her a taste of Elven-forged steel – a small knife he carried concealed in his boot for occasions such as these. It was not his intention to kill her - she was much too valuable to be rid of at the time – but to frighten her, which it did. The wound, though superficial, bled profusely, and left a scar she would keep as a reminder for the rest of her life.
"Think of it," Valgur had said, "as my mark upon you."
Perhaps Charlita had finally outlived her usefulness.
If she appeared empty-handed and defiant tonight, Valgur saw little choice but to dispatch of her and move on to fresher, greener pastures. As for the boy, his half-breed son, it might be fun for a time to abscond with him. He imagined all the great tricks and schemes he could teach the boy. Imagined the many ways in which the boy could be used to gain riches and favor. And if the boy protested, Valgur would not allow sentimentality to stand in his way. He would simply send him to meet his mother in whatever afterlife awaited the race of men.
He was considering what continent he had yet to befoul with his presence when he heard a soft noise just outside the door. Something deep in his Elvish nature made him stand and prepare to fight. Something told him that whoever made that noise outside the door was not Charlita. Valgur stepped back into the deep shadows as the door slowly opened.
Time slowed as Legolas entered. His senses were heightened with the thought of battle, his eyes seeing despite the dark, his ears attuned to every nuance of sound. He felt the presence of Valgur in the room like a heartbeat. He pulled the long knives from his coat, whipped them through the air, and took a defensive stance.
"Of all the faces I ever expected to see in my long life," Valgur said from the shadows, not yet revealing himself, "yours was the least among them, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood."
"Show your face, Valgur of Lorien. Hiding in the shadows is for cowards and deceivers."
"And if I do, what kind of reception should I expect, son of Thranduil? A duel taste of your long knives? Or boring, verbose, self-righteous prattle about all the horrible wrongs I committed?"
"Do you deny you are deserving of either?"
"I deny nothing, I admit nothing. By the Valar, let it go! It is ancient history!"
"Do not mention the Valar," Legolas demanded, "for it is a curse and not a blessing from your foul mouth."
"Oh, really, Legolas, it's been a few thousand years! Can't we find some common ground and be at peace? I leave you alone, you leave me alone? There's a certain harmony to it. What do you say?"
"I say, step into the light, and we shall discuss it further."
And so he did. Valgur took two steps, and the ambient light from the street filtering through the window bathed him in a soft glow. He smiled.
"I have to say, Legolas, despite your ill albeit passionate attempt at vengeance, it is oddly good to see you, fellow Elf. The years have been good to you. You must admit it is quite pleasant to be in the presence of ones own kind after so long. Being surrounded by the race of men over time has proven to be quite trying. Have you noticed?"
"I am not here to wax nostalgic with you, Valgur..."
"Yes, I know," Valgur said patronizingly, "you've come to kill me. Well, if we are to fight, let us get to the fighting, shall we? And may the best Elf win."
With that, Valgur pulled from the deep pocket of his own long coat a gun and fired.
It had occurred to Legolas, en route to Charlita's apartment that Valgur would not give up easily. Nor would he choose to fight fairly. It was simply not in his nature. So Legolas knew to expect the worst.
He did not, however, expect to be shot.
He ducked and rolled across the floor, coming back to his feet quickly, and lunged at Valgur with two swift strokes of his twin knives. He heard them slicing through the air, but was disappointed to know that he had missed Valgur both times.
He would not allow that to happen again.
Valgur was quick on his feet as well.
"That was thrilling!" Valgur sang.
"This is no game!" shouted Legolas, and came at his prey again. He felt the knife hit deep flesh this time – once, twice - and knew his aim was true when Valgur cried out in agony.
"No fair!" Valgur exclaimed, looking at the now bleeding gash on his upper right arm, and the stab wound in his right side. He tore away a piece of his long coat.
"This was brand new!"
He aimed the gun again and fired.
Legolas leaped out of the way as the bullet tore through a lamp and drilled a hole into the wall the size of a quarter just beside the blond elf.
"Guns!" Valgur cried, "a wonderful invention! Man can claim little good when it comes to his contributions to the world, but he certainly knows how to kill and destroy, I'll give him that. You know, I nearly died because of one of these things. The bullet drove into my chest, a mere hair short of my heart. I nearly drowned in my own lung fluid. Bloody painful it was."
"You should have died, and rid the world of your malicious, traitorous heart."
"Why do you try so hard to insult me? Still angry about that little tiff with the King of Gondor? Or are you merely belly-aching over being left for dead at Lhun? It wasn't personal. You were denying my escape, and I wouldn't have it."
Legolas moved to strike again, but Valgur raised the gun, aiming directly at the point between Legolas' eyes.
"Let the fight end here, dear cousin."
"Do not call me that," Legolas spat.
"DEAR COUSIN. We are kin. Not even time can change that. Because of this unresolved conflict, we both missed our chance to diminish into the west with our loved ones. Aren't you tired yet? Let it go, Legolas. Let bygone days be at rest."
"No more talking, Valgur. If you intend to shoot, I suggest you do it, for I will NOT back down! I will not spare you, or allow you to cross that threshold alive. Your mere existence is a stain upon this world. I will not allow you to ruin another life."
"Do you truly care for these people, Prince of Mirkwood? When are you going to realize, they are not worthy of you! Face it, Legolas. This is all about Aragorn. Aragorn is gone now. DEAD. Nothing left of him, not even dust, or a footnote in ancient history. You need no longer seek vengeance. What's done is long since done."
"Men and Elves died that day, because of your treachery!"
"Again, all in the past."
"I would let you go, Valgur, bane of Lorien, if I thought for one fleeting moment you would do no harm. But as I have learned, and as you have aptly displayed, you are not one to be trusted or pardoned. Your disdain for life sickens me. You are a blight upon the race of men. A violent beast without remorse or pity. You bring shame to the race of Elves and our legacy."
"Who cares about our legacy but you and I?"
"Perhaps your son?"
"Ah, yes, sweet little Tristan. Pray, how is he? Not that I care. You see, Tristan is really not so special. He's not my only son. I have sired hundreds of sons in my long years. Many recently. And many are still alive. And many have come to loath the race of man as I do. The boy is just one among many. And one day soon, the many will rise up with me and retake that which we should have taken before the dawn of the fourth age. This world."
"I thought you merely a traitor and vainglorious usurper. Now I know the truth. You are quite mad."
"Now that is insulting!"
Valgur fired again.
Legolas flipped, legs flying, in a swift arc, landing on his feet right before Valgur. He thrust with his blades, once, twice, stabbing Valgur in the abdomen and slicing him across the chest.
Valgur, caught off guard, fell to his knees, losing his grip on the gun, which fell upon the carpeted floor. Legolas deftly kicked the weapon away, then with the same foot, kicked Valgur in the face.
Valgur yelled, threw himself with all his might against Legolas, knocking the wind from him and sending him crashing to the floor.
Valgur moved to the door, ready to run through it, but stopped to turn back to Legolas one last time.
"Don't be an idiot, cousin. Realize the potential here! We are gods among men. Join me. You are still the best fighter I have ever faced. You and I together could change the fate of the world."
Legolas lay upon the floor, willing himself to rise, but unable to, breathing hard, but not yet daunted.
"I will change the world," Legolas said, "and that change will begin and end with your death."
"No, for again, you failed. History repeats itself once more. Perhaps you should learn from your mistakes, dear cousin. I spare your life tonight in the hope that you will see my grand vision for you and join me. If not, the next time we meet, you shall certainly die."
Valgur ran out the door.
Legolas moved to get up, to pursue. A hot, searing pain abruptly stopped him, taking him back down to the floor, the room moving strangely around him. He fought not to cry out as he pulled back his long coat and looked down at his left side.
Blood.
Charlita was waiting, determined to wait all night until Legolas returned. She had tucked Tristan into bed at nine, reassuring him that Legolas would return and all would finally be well. After much protesting her son finally fell into a deep, quiet sleep.
It was a few minutes past eleven when exhaustion had driven Charlita to the soft leather couch in the library. The moment she sat down, she knew she was bound to sleep. When she awoke with a start, she looked at her watch and saw that more than an hour had slipped by.
Then she heard the door open.
Charlita lunged for the door and met Legolas in the hall. She smiled.
"You're back," she said.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Valgur is injured. I know not how severely. But once again," he said without hiding his disappointment, "he slipped through my fingers."
"But you hurt him, right? Maybe he'll get the message and go, leave us alone, finally."
"I do not believe that will be the case," he said despondently.
Legolas moved slowly into the library. Charlita followed him.
"It is only a matter of time," he continued, "before Valgur regains his courage and returns to finish this fight, once and for all."
Legolas turned and looked Charlita in the eyes.
"Perhaps you should leave, you and Tristan. Go where he cannot find you. In case I fail you again."
She could feel the depth of the Elf's despair, radiating from him like a fever. She reached out and touched his arm.
"You won't fail," she said, as reassuringly as she could manage. "I won't run. I won't hide. There is no need to."
Legolas stared into the cold fireplace, despair overtaking his spirit.
"I let you down. I led you to believe I could help you, and I failed."
"At least you tried."
Legolas quietly gasped, and bent slightly at the waist.
"Legolas? What is it?"
"I seem to have a problem."
"What?"
Legolas pulled back his long coat.
"I am injured."
His gray shirt was soaked with slick blood. There was a dime size hole, with the greatest concentration of blood surrounding it, oozing from it.
"Oh my God!" Charlita cried. "We have to get you to a hospital, now!"
"No!" Legolas insisted. "Hospital is out of the question. They cannot treat me without my true nature being revealed, and that would be a catastrophe. I will be fine."
"You have a bullet wound! You are a long way from fine."
"You don't understand. Elves heal quite fast."
"Even when they're nine thousand years old?"
"Well, somewhat faster than what you might consider normal," he said before losing his footing again.
She caught him before he collapsed and fell toward the fireplace. He pulled away from her, and stood tall again.
"Let me help you!" Charlita pleaded.
"I do not need your help. I will survive this."
"But you're bleeding all over your floor."
"I shall take measures to staunch the bleeding, and in time...in time...wha..."
Legolas nearly fell again. Again Charlita kept him on his feet. His body tensed with annoyance from the woman's attempt to help.
"Don't let pride be your undoing," Charlita whispered.
Legolas considered her words, and they seemed true.
"Thank you, he whispered, and allowed his weight to fall upon Charlita. She led him to the couch and helped him sit. She could see he was in some pain.
"I have a feeling," Charlita said, "this is going to be a long, difficult night."
"Aye," was all Legolas could say.
End chapter 8 Hope you liked it. Please feel free to review. Eat your peas.