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Mirkwood Manor
Chapter 9
Again I thank all of you for your kind comments, and apologize for the lengthy wait until this update. I'll try to address chapter 10 a bit faster. Please enjoy and by all means encourage others to read it. I know that Mirkwood Manor slips away from Master Tolkien's canon, but I hope you will stay with this story until the end. On with chapter nine.
"YIELD!" Legolas cried as he struck blade against his kin and foe, Valgur.
"NEVER!" shouted Valgur, though Legolas could see that his cousin was fading, weakening, in both physical endurance and tolerance. Even still, he fought well – not surprising, as he had been trained in the art of war from the very blond Elf that now opposed him.
Legolas had found Valgur again, hunted him down, tracked him to this place at the edge of the world where Valgur had attempted to hide and wait until the very last of the ships came by these shores. His plan was to board it and escape to the Grey Havens as if nothing had ever happened. As if he had never done any wrong against man or Elf.
Legolas had thwarted his plans.
They had been fighting without stop for breath or rest or sustenance now for what may have been hours. And though both were exhausted beyond all reason and bleeding profusely from wounds superficial and possibly life-threateningly deep, neither would yield, both fighting by sheer force of will or some dark madness.
Would someone someday write songs of this bleak time, Legolas found himself wondering? And what lyric would they choose to tell the tale of these two immortals, locked in relentless struggle? Would any Elf but the two of them remain to remember or care?
His musing cost him dearly, as Valgur's sword found Legolas' side. The agony of the blade puncturing his flesh nearly paled by comparison to the sound of it. Nearly.
Legolas faltered on his feet, yet did not fall. Valgur pushed harder, sending the blade deeper into Legolas' body. He shuddered, but still he did not falter, nor did he cry out or consider asking for mercy. He merely brought up his own sword and introduced his blade to Valgur's flesh and innards. Both fell, releasing the other.
Legolas found his back against a craggy, sun-baked boulder, and watched as Valgur began to crawl upon his blood-drenched belly, heading toward the shore. Consciousness, like Valgur, took opportunity to flee from Legolas.
When consciousness returned a short time later, he allowed himself the luxury of crying out, as mere movement of a finger was cause for great agony. Pain and suffering were becoming constant and demanding companions to Legolas. This time, however, he believed each breath would be his last, and was surprised when it was not.
Legolas looked down at his broken body. There was Valgur's blade still buried to the hilt in his side. He could feel the tip of the blade scraping against the boulder where it protruded from his back. There was so much blood covering him, soaking the ground around him, that he could smell the scent of it, feel the warmth of it quickly turning cold.
Several feet away, where water met sand, lay Valgur. In far worse condition, Legolas noted. Legolas knew better than to count him dead however, until the foul one's body had begun to stiffen from rigor and stink of decay. Only then would this dark vigil be over, unless death came first for the Prince of Mirkwood.
And then Legolas saw them, in the distance, shimmering in the last of the sun's light before dusk. So tiny were they, yet their markings still obvious and painfully familiar.
The last ships.
Was it too late? Could he make his way to the shore? Would they see him? Would they turn back for him?
Legolas tried to lift himself, but was far too weak to raise even an arm. His voice was too damaged and made feeble by fight and exhaustion to call out to his kin to turn about and come back for him. Even if they could see him and come back, Legolas believed he would not live through the journey.
The bitterness of this was far too much to bear.
Sadness deeper than any he had ever felt overwhelmed him. Despair claimed his heart as he prepared to surrender himself to death. He called out weakly to the Valar, hoping they would grant him a kindness and lead his spirit gently to what lay beyond.
There was an odd and sudden stirring in the wind. Death was coming to claim him, he was certain. He felt the world quickly growing darker and colder around him.
His last thought was of Aragorn, dear friend Aragorn. Legolas wished he were here, so that he could bid his friend – no, his brother – nayaer, farewell. As if his heart had conjured this very desire, a thin veil appeared before Legolas. A shimmering before his eyes that at first had no real substance, but in a blink of an eye revealed itself as Aragorn. He was as he had been at the time of the Fellowship – young and strong, long dark hair and a thin beard without sign of age; the Ranger Strider, with a heart of both flesh and steel. Brave and uncompromising, a warrior on the outside and a King in the making within. Legolas knew this was merely a product of his fevered dreams, a hallucination heralding his death, but he smiled nonetheless and enjoyed his delusion.
"Aragorn," he whispered weakly.
"Legolas," the vision of Aragon said back.
Legolas coughed, tasting his own blood as it filled his mouth.
"Now is not the time to sleep, mellon nin," Aragorn's image said.
"Pray, when may I? For my body is weak, and my heart is broken."
"Not for a very long time. You must live, Legolas, and not only for yourself. Awake and rise. Your wounds are severe, but time and care will bring strength and healing."
"No," Legolas protested gently, "I have not the strength, and time has already abandoned me."
"There are many who will need you."
"Who will need me? I am the last of my kind. All have gone on to the undying lands. I am alone."
"Those who will need you are yet to be. They will be your kin and kind. They will need your guidance. They will need you to teach them everything you know."
"I do not understand."
Aragorn smiled. "You will, someday, many years from now. You will remember. Those who are yet to be, await you."
Aragorn was no longer there. Neither was there light. Legolas slipped into a deep, dreamless unconsciousness.
When he awoke, he found himself again surrounded by men in a house of healing. His wounds were bound, his body washed and hair brushed and braided by the wife of a chief healer. Legolas had many questions, but the chief healer refused to entertain any query until Legolas had taken sufficient nourishment – water and a bit of Lembas – to strengthen him.
After Legolas had eaten, King Aragorn himself had come to his bedside.
"Again, I find you at death's door. Promise me, no more such meetings in the house of healing, my friend. My heart cannot take the strain."
"I beg your forgiveness," Legolas managed to say.
"I forgive you. And I order you to be well."
He held Legolas' hand close to his chest.
"Manen anann?"
"How long?" Aragorn repeated in the tongue of men. "Long. You were unconscious for several days. We feared you would never return from such a deep sleep. Yet you did, thank the Valar. You were in and out of consciousness, sick with a dark fever, for longer. Your wounds are healing and will soon be but a shadow of a memory. I am told however, that it is imperative that you rest well and eat to encourage a full recovery."
"Did I dream of the ships, or were my eyes deceived? Did I truly see them pass by? Am I, as I fear, left behind?"
Aragorn could not answer right away, but Legolas knew his fate by the deep despair etched on his friend's aging face.
"It was not a dream, mellon nin. It is as you feared. The last ships have sailed on. But fear no more, for I have a fleet of merchant vessels and war ships standing by, at your disposal. The men know not the way to the Grey Havens but will stop at nothing to find it and reunite you with your kin, if it is your wish."
Legolas felt his body strengthening at the thought.
And then another thought occurred to him.
"What of Valgur? He lay dying upon the shores of Lhun, as was I until you found me. Tell me Valgur was there, and is now dead and buried or burned?"
Again, the answer was upon Aragorn's face.
"There was much blood," said Aragorn, "and there was evidence of another near where you lay. But we found no one."
"Then I can only assume that he has once again escape me. Again I have failed, and Valgur lives."
"No one could live long baring such wounds, not man nor elf!"
"I did," Legolas said in a savage whisper.
"Perhaps," Aragorn continued, determined to encourage and relieve his friend of his anguish, "perhaps he was carried off by some beast. Or the rising tide washed him out to the depths of the sea."
"I would have suffered a similar fate, which would be preferable to living with the shame of my failure."
"No, Legolas –"
"Leave me," he pleaded, turning his face away from Aragorn, hiding his shame.
"Legolas!"
Legolas said nothing. Aragorn gently released Legolas's hand and stepped back.
"Do not despair, my friend, my brother," the King spoke, reaching out from his heart, "for there are many forces at work here, and you have yet to understand your part in all this. Perhaps Valgur was meant to escape. Who knows what the future holds, or what task or calling awaits you? Rest now. Eat and strengthen. There are many who need you."
Legolas' heart quickened at Aragorn's words. Words he had heard before in his vision of Aragorn many days ago on the shores of Lhun. He turned back to face the King again.
"Those who are yet to be?" he asked.
"I know not of those yet to be, only that I need my friend beside me as my days grow fewer. It is autumn for the King of Gondor, and winter is quickly approaching. And there are those who still seek to usurp the throne."
"If it is as you say, then I shall put the burden of my shame behind me and offer you my bow and my life. If the Valar so wills it, I will face Valgur again someday. Until that day, I am your friend, and I shall forever remain by your side and at your service."
Aragorn smiled.
"I know, mellon nin. I know. Quel esta – Rest well."
"Manen anann?"
These were his first words in several hours. Charlita wished she could understand him. He'd been speaking in this strange tongue since he'd succumbed to this state of semi-consciousness. She moved closer to hear him, a cool cloth in hand, to wipe the sweat from his brow. He opened his eyes and clouded blue eagerly sought answers in hers of sable brown.
"Manen anann?" he repeated, a bit more insistently.
"Ssshhh," she whispered comfortingly, and placed the cloth along the side of his face, and felt fever heat radiating from his skin. "You're going to be fine," she tried to assure him, though she did not know for certain herself.
"Manen anann?" he asked yet again, then closing his eyes to think, to concentrate, he found the English words for which he had been grasping. "How long?"
"Um...You passed out, as soon as I got you to the couch. You've been in and out of consciousness all night long."
Legolas nodded. "Water?"
Charlita quickly reached to the floor where she had placed a glass of fresh water, waiting for an opportunity to present it to him. She held it to his mouth, and he drank from it, but only a bit.
"Hannonle," he said, pulling away from the glass.
"English, please," she gently demanded as she set the glass aside. "I have no idea what you just said."
Legolas let a smile tug at his dry lips and said, "It means thank you."
Legolas pushed back the blanket that covered him and tried to sit up. Pain quickly discouraged him, and he lay back to breathe through the threat of unconsciousness returning. Uncharacteristic cold sent a disturbing shiver through him. Charlita reached over and pulled the blanket back up to his neck.
"Tampa tanya!" he ordered.
"You tampa tanya!" she volleyed back, "whatever that means! You may be a fast healer, but you're not out of the woods yet. That bullet tore right through your side and exited through your back!"
She reached down to the floor and held up as visual proof two previously white towels that were now soaked and stained with Legolas' blood.
"There's no telling what kind of damage was done to your internal organs," she continued, "or whatever you've got in there. I know you're not human but you're still in bad shape. And if you die, I don't know what to do with you. So do yourself and me a huge favor and accept my help, accept that you're not a hundred percent and tampa tanya, please."
Legolas merely watched her, and remembered long ago hearing quite similar words from a most insistent friend. After a fierce battle, or after one of many adventures where things had gone awry, he remembered Aragorn's pleading and demanding that the elf realize the potentially debilitating nature of his blood being spilt and accept the man's help. Legolas would insist they press on, return home or fight on. And Aragorn would protest vociferously, to the point that Legolas had no choice but to acquiesce to Aragorn's wisdom as a healer and compassion as a friend.
The elf's wounded pride often took longer to heal than his broken body.
"I will comply," Legolas said. "Do with me as you see fit."
Charlita huffed and tossed the spoilt towels back to the floor.
"Good," she said, at a loss for what else to say, and what to do, now that she had his full cooperation.
Legolas felt along his side and found thick, makeshift bandages covering his wound.
"I couldn't find a first aid kit, so I had to do what I could. Those are sheets. Rather, were sheets."
"This is a far better dressing that I would have applied," he said, hoping to encourage her and thus improve her mood.
"Yeah, well, it wasn't easy cleaning your wound or getting that on you."
Legolas only stared at her, waiting for further explanation.
"You clipped me."
"I 'clipped' you?
"Yeah," Charlita said, and pointed to her chin, "here. I think it was a right hook."
Legolas looked closely and saw that there was a small bruise forming along her chin. He closed his eyes as his heart sank.
"I have hurt you. I am deeply sorry."
"It's okay. It's not like you did it deliberately. You were thrashing about. You were in pain."
"Does it hurt?" he asked, reaching to touch the darkening wound gently.
"Not so much anymore," she confessed. "I can take it."
"That does not mean you should."
"Forget it. Are you hungry?"
"No, but I am aware that I should eat."
"What do you eat?"
"There are vegetables in the garden."
"You want them raw, or like a broth?"
"Broth sounds wonderful."
"Let me go pick something, and I'll be back."
Charlita grabbed up the spoilt towels and headed for the door.
"Charlita?"
She stopped quickly.
"Thank you."
"No. Don't thank me. If it weren't for me, if you'd never met me, none of this would have happened. I should be thanking you. You fought for me. You fought for me. Do you have any idea what that means to me? People don't open doors for each other anymore, or let anybody through in traffic, much less stand up for someone when they're too weak to fight for themselves."
"You are not weak," said Legolas. "You are the strongest woman I have ever met."
"Maybe you should get out more."
"Please hear the truth. Your strength may not be in arms, but it is in your character, in your heart. Look at your son. He is as he is because of you. And as for me....You have done more for me than you can possibly imagine. You've given me a cause. And a chance to right a great wrong. For this I will be eternally grateful."
Charlita felt tears burning, threatening to spill from her eyes.
"Rest," was all she could say as she turned to leave the room.
Charlita wandered through the garden, spellbound by the lushness of the vines and foliage surrounding her. It was late in the year yet this place was as verdant as early summer. She took in a deep breath and as the freshness filled her lungs she felt a calm settle upon her unlike any other. No wonder Legolas spent so much time out here, among the trees and green.
As she reached down to pull a vaguely familiar leafy vegetable from its place in the earth, another feeling crept into her psyche, sending a chill through her. Charlita quickly stood. Someone was here, or nearby. Someone was watching her. She was rarely given to such prescient thoughts but when she was she knew to take heed. She looked around, given close scrutiny to every branch and leaf and possible hiding place, but saw nothing. She chalked it up to exhaustion from sitting up all night with Legolas, and the stress and strain of the past few days. Even so, she quickly pulled vegetables from dirt and vines and returned immediately to the security of the manor, making a mental note to tell Legolas what she had experienced.
"Can I come in?"
"Tristan!" Legolas, ignoring the pain, reached out his hand. "Mae govannen. Please come in. Such good company I cannot afford to turn away."
Tristan entered sheepishly, looking over his shoulder.
"Mom said I was to leave you alone, but I had to see if you were okay. You're okay, right?"
"Thanks to you and your mother, yes. I will be quite fine in short order."
"Where is she?"
"In the kitchen, preparing a meal. Are you hungry?"
Tristan nodded.
"Then we shall eat together. Tolo, mado go nin. Come and dine with me."
Tristan sat legs akimbo on the floor near the couch.
"Mom said he shot you."
Legolas wished he could spare the half-elven boy the truth, but knew deep down a lie would do him little good.
"It is true."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
"Can I see it?"
"I am afraid it is rather well hidden under all the bandages. Perhaps later, if you still have a care to."
"How do you say I'm sorry in Elvish?"
"Im naer," said Legolas.
"Im naer, Legolas."
"Why?"
"He's my father."
"What is the basis of your shame? Did you choose Valgur to be your father, knowing what kind of character he possessed? No. You are an innocent here, and have no reason to feel shame."
"I wish," Tristan began, but embarrassment quickly overcame him.
"What is it that you wish?"
"I wish you were my father. I wish you could teach me everything you know."
The words reverberated through him like a chill wind, shaking him to the core. Words from a fever dream, long ago and yet not so long ago were unearth from his psyche, repeated in his mind, chiseled onto his heart, and emblazoned on his Elven soul.
"Those who will need you are yet to be. They will be your kin and kind. They will need your guidance. They will need you to teach them everything you know."
Aragorn, in the vision, spoke these very words to him on that long ago battlefield. He now understood the telling the vision had given him. It was a duty most imperative, an obligation, a cause that no one else could take on but Legolas.
"Are you all right?" Tristan asked, scooting closer to Legolas.
Legolas could not yet speak. He was lost in memory. And realization.
He remembered his confrontation with Valgur, and his smug proclamation:
"I have sired hundreds of sons in my long years."
And then he remembered again with an odd clarity the words spoken by Aragorn's vision:
"They will need you to teach them everything you know."
It occurred to him that all these things had happened for a reason, that he was destined to fulfill a purpose far greater than his desire for justice. His failure to stop Valgur had nothing to do with falling short or lacking ability, but by divine order. Had Iluvatar known all along – predestined – that this moment would take place? That through this child Tristan, his true purpose would be revealed? To find those who were not yet born in the time of his vision, but now existed, and were scattered around the world. To teach them everything he knew – what it means to be an Elf in the time of Men. To ease their troubled hearts, to assuage their confusion and help them find the answers to the questions that no doubt plagued them – "What am I?" and "Why am I different?"
The children of Valgur, Tristan's brothers and sister, Legolas' own cousins, needed him to guide them through life.
"I will teach you everything I know," Legolas said, turning to Tristan, "and more." He reached out and took Tristan's small, dark hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"You will?"
"Gweston," he said, "I swear."
Evening fell gently upon the manor, bringing with it a light shower and cool winds. With Tristan's help, Charlita prepared for the evening by closing windows and building a fire in the library to keep them warm and cozy. She warmed more vegetable broth and saw to it that her son ate his fill. The rest she divided between herself and Legolas.
They sat quietly, the crackling find within and the soft blowing wind without the only sounds. Tristan lay upon the floor reading his favorite X-Men comic for the umpteenth time, and Charlita sat in a chair near the fire, her eyes growing heavy with fatigue.
"Charlita?"
She quickly snapped back to wakefulness and turned to Legolas.
"Yes? What?"
"You are exhausted. Please, take my room. You'll find the bed most comfortable. Caedo, losto. Lie down and sleep."
"I'm okay," she assured him.
It was then that she noticed his still full soup bowl.
"You have to eat."
"I have eaten enough."
"Eat more."
"I do not wish to eat more."
"Stubborn elf," she said with a playful grin. Since she could not get Legolas to follow her quite sensible orders, she decided to turn her attentions to her son.
"Tristan, it's getting late. Go get ready for bed."
"I'm not sleepy yet. Can't I stay up a little bit longer?"
"No. You need your rest, and so does Legolas. He doesn't need you keeping him up all night long."
"I won't!"
"Tristan..."
Realizing the fight was already lost, Tristan rose and headed for the door, but stopped short of it.
"Can I come back and say good night?"
"Yes," Charlita acquiesced. "Now get going."
Tristan ran out of the room, and bounded up the steps with light and agile feet.
Charlita turned to Legolas now.
"And you..."
"I've done nothing to raise your ire, gentle woman."
Charlita smile. "Actually, I was going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you join me?"
"I would be honored."
"It's just tea."
When Charlita returned with a tray and two steaming cups of tea, she was surprised to find that Tristan had not yet rejoined them.
"How long does it take to wash up and brush your teeth?" she asked as she set the tray down.
"Tristan?" she called out to him.
There was no answer.
"Tristan!"
Again, no answer.
Charlita turned to Legolas.
"Something's wrong," she said in a frightened whisper. And then memory returned of her time in the garden. The ill feeling that swept over her was with her once again.
When Legolas saw the sudden look of distress and fear etched on Charlita's face, he forgot whatever pain or discomfort he was feeling and rose to a sitting position.
"Charlita? What is it? Tell me."
"When I was in the garden... I felt something. I think it was him. I didn't see anything. It was just a feeling."
Legolas rose and called out himself this time. His voice reverberated through the house.
"Tristan! Tristan, answer!"
Charlita made her way for the door, but a strong hand grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back.
"What if it's Valgur? What if he has Tristan?"
"Then he shall face me one last time," Legolas said. "Stay here."
His hair unbraided and loose, his feet and back bare, wearing naught but pants, Legolas made his way quietly up the stairs, holding his wounded side. When he arrived at the top, he found a sight that made his elven heart ache beat harder with fear, anger and hatred.
Valgur stood with Tristan, holding the boy about the shoulders, a long knife to his throat.
"Legolas, dear cousin, I believe you and I have some unfinished business."
End chapter 9
Conclusion coming.
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