19
MIRKWOOD MANOR
Chapter 11
by Lacadiva
We're getting to the homestretch here. I hope you're enjoying it. Mirkwood Manor strays way far from Tolkien's canon, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Please feel free to respond and review. There will be a chapter twelve and there it shall all end. Hope you'll stick around for it. Until then, on with Mirkwood Manor.
From the previous chapter:
And then the boy's eyes widened as he cried out, "Legolas! Watch out!"
Injury had so slowed Legolas' reflexes that he had no time to move before Valgur hauled back and stabbed his knife into Legolas' back.
Legolas arched backwards and let out a thin gasp. Then, suddenly, the blade was pulled violently from him. Warm blood poured from his already battered body, pooling on the floor before him. He looked up into Tristan's shocked, tearing eyes.
"NO!" the boy cried out, then, to his father, "I hate you! I hate you!"
"Now that's my boy," Valgur said to Tristan. To Legolas, he spat, "Avo thano rûth vi gûr alfirin. Do not kindle anger in an immortal heart."
Shivering in pain, Legolas looked over his shoulder at Valgur holding the bloody knife, smiling victoriously.
"Avo dhago hain!" he pleaded, pushing Tristan behind him, still trying to protect the boy, "Don't kill them."
"I promise I won't, not until I'm safely out of the country, anyway. You, prince of Mirkwood, may die now."
Valgur gave Legolas a harsh kick, sending him to the floor.
Tristan was there in an instant, trying to pull Legolas back to his feet.
"Get up, Legolas! Please, get up."
"I am not yet ready to die," he whispered through clenched teeth to Tristan. "I will not die. I will not abandon you. Estelio nin, trust me."
"I'm sorry, cousin," Valgur said, stepping over Legolas' prone body to grab his son again, "but as much as I LOVE the idea of you being my servant, I'm accustomed to doing things my way. And my way says, trust no one but ME."
Legolas' face hit the floor hard as Valgur pulled Tristan away. He looked up to see the child struggling as Valgur held him by the back of his sweater.
"Yro! Delio!" Run, hide!
Tristan threw his arms up and slid out of his sweater, pulling away from Valgur and racing down the hall, into the dark.
Valgur tossed the sweater away and turned to give chase. He thought better of it, and turned back to Legolas, knife held high, prepared to deal his last deadly blow before going after the boy.
Legolas was gone.
All that was left upon the floor was a still warm pool of Legolas' blood.
"LEGOLAS!" Valgur cried out in frustration and fury, his voice reverberating through all of Mirkwood Manor.
"LEGOLASSSSS!"
Chapter 11
Charlita searched her memory, her fingers clutching her scalp, thin dreads cascading over her face. What were the numbers to the combination? She could kick herself. She had been so intent on saving her son that she could not remember this one thing that might help her do that very thing!
How could she be so –
And then she remembered. She reached for the knob and quickly spun it to the number twelve. The second number she remembered instantly and spun it in the other direction to seventeen. The last number gave her pause to think. What was it?
"Think!" She yelled at herself, the anguish of her situation compounded by her fear of inadequacy. How could she forget! Her son's life was at stake! She banged her fist angrily against the safe door, and felt pain reverberate up through her elbow. And then she remembered.
Three. Three!
She spun the knob again and pulled the lever.
Yes!
There was far more than fifty thousand dollars in Legolas' safe. Some of it felt old and brittle. She dismissed her observations and concentrated on shoving as much of the cash as she could in her clothing to deliver to the library. Currency littered the floor as she nervously fought to collect it.
As she turned to leave, someone was standing before her, blocking the way.
"Mom!"
She dropped to her knees and Tristan instantly flung his arms around her. She kept hold of the money and the heavy weapons.
"Wow, look at all THAT stuff!" He marveled at the sight of the bow, reaching for one of the arrows.
"No! Don't touch. I want you to stay in here until I come back and tell you it's safe to come out!"
"No, I want to come with you. I want to help!"
"You can't."
"You can't do it alone!"
"Alone? What do you mean alone? Where's Legolas?"
"He's dead. I think. I saw him. He…my father…stabbed him in the back. There was blood everywhere."
"You saw it happen?"
He nodded. Tears ran down the boy's cheeks again.
"He said he wasn't ready to die yet. But I don't think anybody can live after that."
"I'm so sorry you had to see that, baby. I promise you'll never have to see anything like that again. Not after tonight."
"Mom…please let me help you."
"You can help me by staying here and being safe. If you're safe, then I know I can do what has to be done. I almost lost you once tonight. I never want to feel that again. Without you, I would die. My heart would break and never mend. Do you understand that?"
He didn't want to, but he nodded.
"Good. Then stay here, and be safe. I want you to …"
And then they heard a sound reverberating through the house that set her teeth on edge and struck fear deeper into her heart.
"LEGOLASSSS!"
Charlita quickly pushed Tristan into the war room and closed the secret door before the boy could protest. She could hear him, calling out to her angrily, banging on the door, but she could not relent, she could not give in. She had to protect him at all costs.
Holding on dearly to the money and the Elven sword, the quiver and bow bouncing hard against her back and the knives slapping against her legs, Charlita raced out of Legolas' room for the library.
He was hiding in the library, behind a heavy tapestry, not in fear, but to gather his strength and formulate a strategy.
Legolas was grateful to Iluvatar that he had been granted the speed and strength needed in that moment to get away, but this boon was a short-lived, fleeting thing. Legolas felt physical weakness begging to overcome him. His bullet wound ached deeply, and his fresh stab wound throbbed mightily, though luckily the bleeding had already slowed to a thin trickle. He felt the rush of a fever radiating all over his body, burning under his skin. Not a good thing for an Elf to suffer. But he could not let this weakness be revealed to Valgur, for his wretched cousin would take every advantage. Charlita and Tristan's safety depended on Legolas' strength now. And he was determined that the two of them would live.
And then he heard someone entering the library. He could tell by the footfalls – smallish feet, though not quite as small as a boy's. Not stealthy, as Valgur would be as he hunted his prey. He deduced, with great relief that Charlita had finally arrived. He prayed she had been successful.
He pushed the tapestry away from him slightly and whispered her name. Charlita reacted with a jolt, but finally looked his way. Her eyes widened with grave concern and fear as she saw the deluge of drying blood covering the Elf.
"Ssshhh… Avo bedo!" he bid her in a commanding whisper.
She did not understand the words, but she understood the sentiment. Do not speak.
She quickly placed all the money upon the coffee table in the center of the room, then slipped behind the tapestry to join him, fighting to calm her breathing and the trembling that started once she entered the room.
And then she handed over Anduril.
Instantly, Legolas felt the strength he needed begin to fill his body, once the cold hilt filled his hands and quickly warmed.
"Where is Tristan? Is he safe?"
"I locked him in your war room," she whispered nervously.
"Good," he said. "Leave the other weapons – keep one of the knives for yourself, just in case."
She nodded and shrugged out of the quiver and bow. She felt a sudden surge of power when she put her hands on the knives still hanging from her belt loops. She removed one and held onto the other.
"Now what?" she whispered.
"Hide in the garden until I come for you."
"No, I don't want to hide. I want to help you."
"No, Charlita!"
"This is my fight too!"
"I will not argue with you! It is too dangerous. "
"Legolas, please…"
"Avo bedo!" Legolas said suddenly, his eyes wide as he listened. Then, turning to her he said: "He is here."
Charlita could feel her heart beating harder, and felt a fearful sickness rising up inside her.
"Stay," was all Legolas said as he deftly brought up the sword without disturbing the tapestry, without giving away their hiding place.
She nodded and gripped harder the handle of the long knife.
Anduril shook slightly in Legolas' grasp as bands of muscles quivered in his arms from exhaustion and stress of injuries. Even so, he would not tire. He would not fail. Failing was not a thing he could allow or afford.
They waited in silence for Valgur to find them.
Valgur stopped at the doorway, his eyes fixed so completely upon the stacks of money on the table in the middle of the room that he for the moment forgot that he was in search of his immortal enemy. He nearly swooned at the sight.
He moved for the table, a hand outstretched, just wanting to touch it. He had seen much money in his time, but it never ceased to be a thrilling and satisfying sight.
When his hand did touch the money, he held his breath. All that mattered was the money. This was his way out of this mess, and on to the next place. Once again, to the victor go the spoils.
And then he heard a sound he was not expecting. Something WHISHING through he air, a tremendous rush that came down hard and fast and before he could react. Valgur realized his hand was still upon the money, even though his body had fallen backwards upon the floor.
Someone had cut off his hand!
"LEGOLAS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
Valgur tucked and rolled across the floor, holding on to the bloody stump, his body shaking from the shock of this unthinkable physical trauma.
Legolas stood panting, hunched over before him, the sword still upon the table, Valgur's blood wet upon it, the hand a lonely extremity left to grow cold.
Sweat poured down Legolas brow, down his chest, burning like a fire in his open wounds. But he would not let that stop him, not as long as he was so close to finally stopping Valgur.
"I think it is quite fitting," Legolas said, "that the thief should lose that which has been his bread and butter. What other offensive part of you shall I remove? What else has been the source of misery? Your cunning mind? Shall I remove your head? Or your tongue, for the lies that fell from it? Your shriveled, unkind and uncaring heart, shall I cut that out?"
Valgur tucked his bleeding stump inside his shirt, holding it up as if in a sling, and spun his long knife in the other, still good hand.
"I think you've removed quite enough. Apparently, cousin," he continued with a shaky voice filled with pain, "you've forgotten that it was you who trained me to be ambidextrous as a swordsman. So I can still give you one last, good fight, before one of us leaves this wretched existence."
"Yield now," Legolas said, "and I will spare you life."
"To do WHAT? Languish for all eternity in prison? Or to be followed around by you for another thousand years? Do you think you can rehabilitate me, teach me to be quiet, kind and gentle? Face the truth, we will never see things eye to eye, cousin. So let us just end it here and now. We fight! Maetho 'nin gurth! Fight to the death."
Valgur raised his blade and brought it down hard. It fell upon Anduril with a resounding clang.
"Perhaps your introduction to Anduril was not dramatic enough for you?" shouted Legolas, and swung Anduril high and hard down upon Valgur's blade. He could feel the weaker blade giving a bit under the power of the Flame of the West.
"T'was not the drama that impressed me. Just that you…sentimental you…still claim the sword of King Aragorn, as if it could bring him back. Pity you do not carry your Father's sword. Perhaps that would bring you some false comfort as well."
Valgur struck back hard.
Legolas took a deep breath, calling upon all the strength he could muster, and lifted Anduril and struck at Valgur again. He missed. He had let his anger lead him, instead of his training, instead of his mind.
Legolas again lifted the sword to re-address his not yet retreating foe.
Tristan could hear the fight even behind the secret door. He pounded upon the door until he thought his fists would bleed, but the walls would not yield. Frustrated, he stepped back to see if there was something in the room he could use to extricate himself. He looked around in the candlelit room, and gasped when he saw what weapons remained. He found a second set of arrows and a handcrafted bow, similar to but smaller and much less elaborate than the set his mother had carried. He picked up the bow. It fit his hand as if it had been fashioned for him exclusively. Had this belonged to Legolas when he was but a child? His first bow an arrow, upon which he first learned to shoot? How amazingly perfect and normal this foreign thing felt in Tristan's hands.
Slinging the weapon and arsenal upon his back, he searched more earnestly for the way out. There had to be a way.
Charlita kicked the tapestry away from her and came out screaming from under it with a blade held high to strike out at Valgur. The combatants both stopped – froze with blades in mid-air – to stare at Charlita. What did she think she was she doing?
Embarrassment claimed her for only a moment.
And then the combatants resumed.
They moved too fast and too randomly for her to even begin to plan a strategy or offer help. Despite the momentary discouragement, she was determined that she would not let Legolas stand alone in this fight. She would die, or Valgur would die – either way, she swore to herself that she would never be enslaved by his violent nature again.
She saw Legolas turn and look at her quickly. She honestly thought, with all that was going on, that she recognized a flash of disapproval in his eyes. She would not run, she would not hide. She would fight. She would stand ready if, by some stroke of misfortune, Legolas fell.
Every hit upon Anduril reverberated into the most painful places on Legolas' body, but he did not allow this agony to dissuade him. He fought hard and furiously, never once allowing Valgur the advantage he so furiously sought.
"Have you not yet had enough?" Valgur demanded. "I'm through toying with you!"
"Your attempts to disarm me psychologically will not work. You forget, I have much to repay you for, Valgur."
He sliced deeply into Valgur's upper arm and heard him cry out. Valgur nearly dropped his blade, but recovered himself quickly.
Legolas also noticed how profusely the stump bled. How much longer could he last?
"For Aragorn!"
He sliced into Valgur's left thigh.
"For the woman at Lhun!"
He spun and stabbed at Valgur, knicking his opponent's side.
"For my father."
He sliced a thin line across Valgur's chest.
Despite the many bleeding places decorating Valgur's body, he would not yield, would not weaken. Indeed, the pain only seemed to fuel him, feed him.
Valgur spun and stabbed Legolas' right upper arm, his intention to weaken his opponent's grip upon Anduril and thus disarm him.
Legolas merely used his other hand to hold Anduril steady and continued to fight, undaunted.
Time seemed to take on a quality of unreality, as if the two were suspended in a place where the past met the present. They may well have been on the shores of Lhun, or in the forest outside of Gondor. For all that mattered, Mirkwood Manor may have just as well been an illusion.
Legolas, tiring, let himself be lead by the timelessness he felt, rather than fight against it. He swept his sword by Valgur, missing him, but managing to knock from the table a large, unbound stack of money. Currency floated in many directions.
Valgur saw this and panicked, his eyes glued to the money that was seemingly getting away from him.
Charlita saw this. She now had a strategy, a way to help. She knew she could always depend on Valgur's greatest weakness – selfishness – to be his undoing.
Charlita raised her long knife – not at Valgur, but at the money. She hit hard. Several hundred dollars' worth flew across the room and into the smoldering fireplace. The fire, fed by the dry paper, re-ignited and grew to life again.
To Valgur's sheer and utter horror.
Valgur leaped for the fireplace and using his sword, scraped out as much of the money not yet burnt as he could. Legolas and Charlita both watched in awe and amazement at Valgur's anxiety and greed.
Legolas swung Anduril like a baseball bat, sending more money into the fire. Charlita followed suit, sending even more bills scattering and burning.
Valgur let out a frustrated cry as he scrambled for the cash again.
"QUIT BURNING MY MONEY!"
"I will," Legolas cried, "if you do for me one thing."
"NO DEALS!" Valgur shouted.
Legolas made a move to swipe the last of the cash into the fire.
"ALL RIGHT! WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
"Tell me," Legolas said, fighting to control his breath, forcing his body to keep moving despite the agony competing against him, "where are the children?"
"Children? What children?" Valgur asked, then realized. "Oh, them."
"What children?" Charlita echoed.
"Tell her," Legolas demanded.
"Tell me what?" she demanded. She grabbed a fistful of money and held it toward the growing fire.
"NO!" Valgur cried out. And then he relented.
"Suffice to say, Tristan is not my only child. I have a few…others."
Charlita swallowed hard, trying not to let show hearing this crushed her heart.
"How many others?"
"I don't remember," said Valgur.
Charlita edged closer to the fire.
"HOW MANY?"
She could feel the heat prickling her flesh, yet she moved closer still. The currency began to singe and smoke around the edges.
"I honestly don't remember exactly how many! Perhaps two…two hundred would not be far from accurate."
"Two…hundred?"
It was as if all the air in the room had been pulled out. Charlita felt light-headed, alarmed, and angry, all at the same time.
"Two hundred," she repeated.
"We're talking about a few hundred years' worth of romantic alliances…most of them were actually sired before we met. I did have a life before you, you realize."
She let the money fall from her hand and looked to Legolas for strength. He offered his hand to steady her, but she refused.
She stood erect, breathed deeply, and looked down at Valgur with the most hateful expression he had ever seen.
"I pity you," was all she said.
"Where are they?" Legolas asked again, his voice calmer yet stronger than Valgur had ever heard it. "I wish to find them. All of them."
"Whatever on earth for?"
"To help them."
"Help them what?"
"Cope with life. Understand their differences. Teach them the way of elves and the way of man, and give them a chance at a life unlike yours."
"Must you always be so insulting, cousin?"
"WHERE ARE THEY?"
"They're everywhere! They're here, they're there! Everywhere!"
"Make an attempt to be specific, Valgur. My patience grows weak."
"As does your body, I can tell. I too grow weary of all this fighting. Let us strike an accord. In exchange for my freedom, I'll give you the location of each and every one of my offspring."
"Don't believe him," Charlita said.
"Do we have a deal or not?"
"No deal," said Legolas.
"Too bad. It's the only one I was prepared to make."
Valgur struck out again with his blade, and the fighting was renewed. Valgur came at Legolas with a tremendous force, beating the fair-haired Elf down until his knees bent under the pressure of the blade. He pushed Legolas to the floor, then swept around and hit Charlita across the face with his bloody stump.
Her blade flew from her hands across the room. Valgur grabbed Charlita, an arm around her throat, his bloody stump leaking blood down Charlita's shirt. She cursed under her breath for allowing herself to be caught off-guard.
Valgur brought the blade to her chest.
"Move, and Tristan is an orphan."
Legolas remained still, his bright eyes wide, his mouth held tight with anger.
"Kill him!" Charlita shouted to Legolas.
"He won't, Charlita darling, not as long as I have you. Now, Legolas, I have new terms for surrender. Give me Anduril."
"Where would you like to receive it?"
"Very funny. Give me the sword. NOW. Put it on the floor."
Legolas did as Valgur instructed.
"Now, send it to me. Gently. Keep in mind that the blade I hold will easily find her heart. I know exactly where it is."
Legolas hesitated merely a second, and Valgur slashed the blade across Charlita's throat.
Charlita gasped, shaking, expecting a torrent a blood to spill from her.
It was merely a superficial wound, a thin line, meant to frighten, meant to convince Legolas to cooperate, not to kill her.
It worked.
Legolas gave the blade a push with his foot, just enough that it ended up just at Charlita's feet. Valgur slung his blade to the floor and quickly scooped up Legolas' surrendered sword.
"The legendary Anduril, Flame of the West, re-forged by the Elves. How appropriate that it should be in the hands of the one person it could not kill. How even more appropriate it should be the sword that finally slays the Prince of Mirkwood."
Finding his way out of Legolas' war room was easier than he thought it would be. Tristan was proud of himself, even though he knew he'd probably find himself in great trouble for disobeying. It would all be quite worth it if he could protect his mother and avenge his friend.
Tristan moved so quietly down the stairs that even he was surprised. He heard raised voices, could hear his mother, and knew she was alive. But he knew that he must do something if he wanted her to remain that way.
When he heard Legolas, he was relieved, but could also tell by the strain in the Elf's voice that his strength was soon to leave him. Tristan notched the arrow, surprised at how natural it all felt in his hands, and pulled back. He knew by the lightness of the bow that it would not have much kick, but it could be used to distract, if not to dispatch.
He stepped into the hall and made his way to the library.
Legolas held his back wound and knew by the feel that he was in danger. Though it had begun to heal earlier, so much activity as fighting had caused it to reopen and bleed freely again. His bullet wound was also inflamed now, the pain having changed from a dull throbbing to a constant burning. His skin felt hot, and he was sweating far more than any elf should. His entire body felt heavy, and it was becoming harder to move, harder to breathe, even harder to think. He knew he needed rest and aid soon or he would suffer greatly later.
Or die.
His greatest problem, however, was not his wounds, but that Anduril, which he had sworn to protect and preserve for the rest of his life, was now in the hands, or rather, hand, of Valgur.
"Legolas," said Valgur, "it pains me to bring this chapter of our long lives to an end, but it must be done. I'm bored, and it's simply time to move on. Wouldn't you agree? Before I kill you, however, I want to assuage your curiosity. Many of my seed are scattered freely around the globe, but the majority of them – the youngest ones - are indeed in Australia. Something about Australian women…hmm…but I digress. Some are in England, Morocco, Greece, one or two in Italy. A few in Dakar, and…jah, in Sweden. Not all of them live as long as your average purebred Elf would. Pity. As for where the rest of them are, I'm afraid I've lost track. Fathering a child was far more appealing to me than actually being a father. So…now that you know…."
Valgur lifted Anduril, targeting it at Legolas' heart.
"…you can die. Say goodbye, Legolas Greenleaf."
THWACK
Something swished through the air and slammed into Valgur's back. He cried out, letting go of Charlita, body twisted in pain.
It was a sensation he had not felt in several thousand years. He did not need to see it to know that there was an arrow protruding just below his left shoulder blade.
He turned, nonetheless, to see who had shot him.
"Tristan!" Charlita cried.
"Tristan?" parroted Valgur.
Legolas merely smiled.
Valgur raised Anduril as if he would charge the boy. Tristan stood frozen for a beat, then, with trembling hands attempted to notch a second arrow. He could not. The arrow clattered to the floor. He looked up and saw the fury in his father's eyes and felt his small body shivering with fear.
Legolas leapt from where he stood and tackled Valgur to the floor, wrestling him for possession of the Flame of the West. Valgur managed to aim every blow at Legolas's wounds, but Legolas would not relent, would not let go. This time, he meant to finish this battle once and for all.
Charlita reached for the long knife Valgur discarded in favor of Anduril. Taking the hilt in both hands she stabbed downward hard, penetrating Valgur's shin, past bone, and pinning Valgur's leg to the floor.
Valgur screamed and let go of Anduril, reaching for his wounded leg with his existing hand. He could not move very far without great pain. The blade held him fast to the boards. He wasn't going anywhere.
Legolas stood over him, bloody, broken, but not yet crushed, the sword of his dearest friend reclaimed and held to deliver the final blow.
"I yield! I yield! Mercy."
"Too late," Legolas spat.
"Wait! Wait, please. A word for my son before I die?"
No one spoke in protest, so Valgur took that as a yes.
Tristan came the rest of the way into the room. He had the second arrow notched now, just in case, and held it aimed at his father.
"I want you to know, son, what you mean to me. Less than nothing. Of all my offspring, I consider you the greatest failure. Take that with you for the rest of your unnaturally long life."
Valgur smiled when he saw the single tear born of rejection and grief slide down Tristan's cheek.
Tristan increased the tension on the bow, prepared to shoot.
"No!" Charlita cried. "Tristan, don't. Please. This is not for you to do. This is not for you to remember for the rest of your life. Please. Put the bow down."
"Tristan," Legolas whispered to the boy, "Your mother is right. If you do this, your heart will always carry a scar that will never fully heal."
Tristan let his eyes look up to meet Legolas', then his mother's. He slowly let the tension out of the bow, and returned the arrow to the quiver on his back.
"You're lucky they were here," Tristan said cockily to Valgur, then stepped back and allowed his mother to put her protective arms around him.
"It's over," she whispered in her son's ear.
"Charlita."
She looked up at Legolas.
"I want you and Tristan to leave."
"Why?"
"I must finish what I have started, and I do not wish you to be here for it."
"Fine. We'll be upstairs."
"No," Legolas protested. "Go home. I do not want you anywhere near this place for a time. And I want you to call the Authorities and tell them where they can find me."
"Why? You shouldn't be punished for this."
"That is where you are wrong. To take a life – any life – is a serious matter. I must accept full responsibility for my actions."
"But Legolas…" Tristan began. He did not know what words to use to dissuade the Elf, but knew he needed to speak up.
Charlita gently urged Tristan aside and stepped up to face Legolas.
"You have put your life on the line for us since the beginning. Let me be here when the police arrive. All we have to do is tell the truth."
"If they do not believe us, you may face a term of imprisonment. I cannot allow that."
"It's not your choice."
"Can you stand to be separated from your son? Are you prepared for that consequence, Charlita?"
She looked at her son, and instantly tears sprang to her eyes.
"He needs his mother," Legolas said. "Besides, I have survived nearly ten thousand years. Twenty years in prison will not be so dreadful, if that is indeed my fate."
"You'll probably look the same when you come out," Charlita said lightly. "I hate that."
Legolas allowed himself to smile back at her.
"How do I thank you?" she asked.
"You already have."
Charlita held out her hand to Tristan, who instantly reached for it.
"Come on, Tristan. Let's go home."
They headed for the door. Both turned back to give Legolas one last look. And then they were gone.
Legolas knelt down to Valgur.
Valgur laughed, blood spilling from his mouth.
"The worm turns yet again, Prince of Mirkwood," he said weakly. "You're going to have many, many admirers in prison. If you last long enough. You will come to know a despair unlike anything you've ever experienced. Mark my word. You'll be begging for death."
"I doubt that, Valgur."
"Well, get it over with. Finish it."
Legolas pulled a pillow from the nearby couch.
He was surprised when Legolas actually lifted Valgur's head and placed it gently upon the pillow.
"You're not going to start speechifying again, are you? Bore me to bloody death? Is that how I am to die? Where's the dignity in that?"
"I only wish to know one thing. How did my father die?"
"I'll never tell."
Legolas grabbed Valgur by the scruff of his shirt and pulled him up violently. Valgur coughed and spat blood. Death was not very far away. Legolas, regretting his anger at that moment, lay Valgur back upon the pillow.
"You've got eternity to suffer not knowing," Valgur said. "Pity I won't be around to watch you agonize. But I'll die happy, knowing I've hurt you. Hurt you deeply. I may not have succeeded in killing you, but I've hurt you."
"When you stand at the Hall of Mandos, cousin," Legolas spat, "I pray they not only toss you out, but send you to a hell fashioned especially for you."
"No hell can surpass ten thousand years of your self-righteous proselytizing, Legolas Greenleaf. If you're going to kill me, kill me now."
Legolas could see that Valgur was weakening fast. His face glistened with sweat, his body jerked with small spasms. He could barely keep his eyes open.
"Go ahead, do it. End my misery. Send me to my eternal doom."
"No," said Legolas. "You're already dying. I can wait."
And then Legolas began to sing.
As much as Valgur wanted to be angry, he could not help but smile.
"My ears have longed to hear such songs," Valgur whispered. "I'd all but forgotten."
Legolas continued to sing.
Valgur remembered a time when such a song could easily move his heart. Fleeting memories of more joyous times, sparring with wooden swords with his young, fair-haired cousin. Laughing and running through the forest of Mirkwood. Perilous adventures traveling to Rivendell. Memories of lying under dense green trees – the smell of sweet moss, the feel of warm air against his skin on a summer day. All these thoughts – memories - filled his mind. Valgur smiled, and coughed again.
Legolas repositioned Valgur so that he would not drown in his own blood.
"You realize," said Valgur, "that if the tables were turned, I would not sing to you, nor hesitate to take your head off."
"Of that I am sure."
"I did love you once. Dearly love you. Remember your nine hundredth birthday? I gave you the double long knives with the white handles. You said you had never seen any weapon more beautiful. We were so happy that day. So happy. Do you remember?"
"I will never forget it."
"Do you still have them? The knives?"
"Yes."
Valgur smile. But his smile did not last long.
"Tiro – look! The lights have gone out."
Valgur's lips moved to speak again, but nothing came out.
He was quite dead.
"Losto mae," Legolas whispered. Sleep well.
Legolas closed his cousin's eyes with the back of his bloody hand, and, despite all he had been through, all he had suffered at the hand of Valgur, he said a prayer to the Valar that there would be forgiveness for him.
And then, he let his own exhausted, battered body fall to the floor.
End chapter 11
One more to go! Hope you liked it.