Hey there! Thought I was dead, didn't you? I wouldn't be surprised... With school, work, and the start of a brand new season of hard-hitting lacrosse, trying to find time to write is nearly impossible!! (BTW... we've already won two of our first three games and we came out fourth in rank for our indoor LAX league! Go Rebel lacrosse!!) Anyway, I finally got another chapter to add to that dreadful cliffhanger I left you all with last time. Hope I just didn't scare too many people away with Legolas dying and all... Because if I did, they're going to miss out on a LOT. And I mean that! Just stick with me a little longer!
But before we get to the story I have a few things I felt needed to be shared because they've been bugging me...
1. There have been some minor revamps in the first two chapters. I've started on the much needed revision to this work so far and am doing it in small installments. There's no major changes in them, just a little elaboration in some minor parts that I feel I just breezed over before, so if it behooves you, check it out.
F.Y.I: Legolas' mother' name has been changed from whatever horrible elvish name I saddled her with before. (Just so you're not confused when it comes up in this chapter) Also on that note, I will not be going into great detail about Legolas' mother's death or his brothers and sister, etc etc... Other people have covered those areas and they just aren't really that important to this story, so I'm not going to waste people's time with my own take on it.
2. As some of you may have noticed (as I myself have found out) this story doesn't exactly follow the Tolkein timeline. Since starting this story, I've finished reading Two Towers, Return of the King, the Hobbit, the Silmarrillion, and am currently in the midst of Unfinished Tales. So needless to say, I realize this is kind of AU, but you don't mind that do you? Just go with the flow right? It's a little too far gone to try and force into Tolkein's timeline...
3. I just want to say thanks again to everyone for their great reviews that make me feel so warm and fuzzy inside... But even more so, thank you ZeroCool. You are seriously my new favorite person! I could just hug you!
So enjoy the chapter!
Disclaimer: You know the drill... But if you REALLY need to see it again see chapter one.
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Mist hung low between the tress. Beneath the leafy canopy of the dense forest, the dark shadows of the night melted away as a faint light pierced a distant corner of the star filled heavens. Creeping over the eastern horizon, the flame wreathed head of Arien burst forth over the jagged mountain rim and spilt her charge's light over the sleeping world, dispelling the night and all its shadows and secrets.
Dew clung heavily to the slender blades of the grass in a narrow but level clearing of the steep but trackable pass of one of the nameless pinnacles of stone that made up the long chain of peaks aptly dubbed the Misty Mountains. The open ground shimmered like a carpet of diamonds in the golden light. But what would have otherwise been a peaceful and tranquil stretch of untamed land stained in a brilliant wash of gold by the raising sun, was laden with the heavy tension of impending death and destruction in the air.
Trodden under the hooves of sturdy war horses, areas of grass lay trampled and gave off little reflection of the early morning sun. A half dozen rings of blackened earth smoldered in the grassy clearing. Whispy tendrils of white smoke wafted up from the dying fires and snaked through the air before finally disappearing into the chilly air. Laying in huddled groups along the ground, at least three legions of elven archers, swordsman, and infantry slept. Watchful guards patrolled along the outskirts of the large encampment, their polished armor gleaming in the growing sunlight.
Thranduil, leader of this war-party and elven king of the northern woodland realm of Mirkwood, stood in the entrance of his private tent. The elf-lord stood motionless with his arms folded across his slender but solid chest, feet planted wide beneath his shoulders. In the dim morning light, Thranduil looked like the carved statue of an ancient god; stern and proud, beautiful but dangerous. Beneath an elegant arrangement of braided long blond hair and a thin silver circlet that testified his social position, Thranduil's ageless face was unreadable. His fair and delicate elven features betrayed none of his emotions. After so many centuries of ruling a country and bearing the weight of such responsibility, Thranduil had learned to wear his face like a mask. But he was not ascetically without depth or spirit. His deep and ancient grey eyes sparkled with an inner power and fiery pride that warned both enemies and allies alike of a volatile temper that was often threatening to break loose should he suffer either injury or insult to his person. The twin orbs of swirling blue-grey liquid could captivate almost any living being with their piercing intensity.
Dyed the shades of it's owner's kingdom, the green and silver shelter had been pitched on the far side of army encampment, near the edge of the surrounding mountain forest. Around the king were encircled the most elite and seasoned of Mirkwood's warriors, skilled in almost every conceivable weapon and form of battle.
Not heeding the dew that soaked along the hem of the long green robe that mantled his riding clothes beneath, Thranduil stood trying to absorb what little unmarred beauty remained to the mountain sunrise. But the elf-lord found no peace in the golden dawn. The brilliant rays of pure light only reflected off the armor and weapons of his troops and reminded Thranduil of his mission, and of the one that had brought him with such urgency to this uninhabited section of Middle-Earth in the first place: his youngest son Legolas, who lay poisoned and dying in the distant elven city of Rivendell.
Perhaps if the letter he had received almost three days before hadn't said how his son had fallen into such a state, Thranduil may have only taken with him a small escort of guards to hasten himself to Legolas' side. But his nephew's message had clearly stated by who the youngest prince of Mirkwood had been stricken ill. The Dwarf. The same bearded little miner that had shown up on Thranduil's doorstep only several years before beside his son, proclaiming friendship with Legolas.
Even from the beginning he had said Legolas' friendship with a dwarf would turn out ill in the end. He had even voiced his opinion to Legolas on several different occasions, but his son had always stubbornly refused to listen to wisdom. In fact, Legolas had taken a very venomous stance against Thranduil concerning the issue of his friendship with a dwarf. And it was that same hard-nosed stubbornness he had inherited from his father that was responsible for several explosive shouting matches that had broken out between the father and son.
What was that Dwarf's name anyway? Ah, yes!- Gimli... How could he forget? He was the spawn of one of those other hairy little dwarves he had caught tramping through his land more than sixty years ago, and had escaped from the dungeons after heisting a good amount of his wine and food.
It now seemed as though Thranduil's suspicions of Legolas' naive friendship with such a deceitful creature had finally been proved truth. But the elven king had little to gloat over. Legolas now lay dying. What grim satisfaction of proving a rebellious child wrong could a father find in this?
Yes, perhaps if Toreingal hadn't said who had poisoned Legolas then Thranduil would have been making better time through the treacherous Misty Mountain passes without the hindrance of a hundred and fifty of his most skilled and battle-seasoned warriors to slow him down. But he intended to exact revenge for the Dwarf's treachery. And he intended to use the edge of his blade to achieve it. The paternal rage Thranduil felt welling in his heart in response to the harming of one of his children only seemed to double with every passing mile that brought him ever closer to his ill son and the Dwarf.
Having ridden hard for almost two days straight now, Thranduil was now on the eastern border of Imladris, perhaps only four days outside of Rivendell.
The son of Oropher's sharp and piercing steel-grey eyes continued to stare intently at the rising yellow ball of light in the east as it climbed ever higher into the sky over the surrounding mountain peaks, illuminating the snow capped summits in a golden radiance.
As he silently watched the sun glide along on its heavenly track, the king continued to stare out into the distance as if entranced by the dawn. Though Thranduil appeared to be lost in thought, he was in fact very aware of his surroundings. His keen ears did not fail to detect the faint rustling of bed rolls and blankets as his company began to stir. Brought out of his silent revery, the ancient warrior watched as his troops pulled themselves from their dreams to face a new day.
Thranduil was used to being one of the first to rise before the crack of dawn. He knew few others shared his habit and preference of waking in the dim hours of the morning before the world began to awake, but today a slight twinge of annoyance nagged at him. He wanted to be off, continuing their march towards Imladris and the city of Rivendell. He would have ordered his troops onward throughout the night, but the pass was too steep to navigate by only moonlight, and it had been raining on and off all yesterday, making the rocky mountain trail even more slippery and treacherous. It would have just been too dangerous. So he had reluctantly halted the small army.
It would take at least another hour to break camp. Under normal circumstances, especially with a company as large as the one that accompanied Thranduil, this would be considered good time, but to the king, it seemed like an eternity.
Several soldiers bold enough to brave the chilly morning air were already rekindling some of the burnt-down fires from the night before. The rest would soon follow and rise to eat a quick morning meal and then ready their horses for departure.
Sweeping his critical eyes one final time over the stirring camp, Thranduil turned and slipped into his tent, knowing his standing there like a lurking troll would not hasten their departure any faster. Dropping the tent flap down behind him, the elf-lord slowly trudged to the far end of canvas shelter. The dark green sides of the structure let in only a dim hint of light from the bright morning sun outside. But the shadowy cave seemed to suit Thranduil's mood.
Falling onto a nearby wooden stool that served as one of the few pieces of furniture in the mobile establishment, the king heaved a tired sigh. As he did so, the elven king's hardened exterior dissolved, melting away into the tired facade of grim reflection. For a moment, he sat there motionless, slouched upon his chair where no one else could see the toll of his emotional exhaustion and worry. Then, slowly he reached under the folds of his green robe and pulled free a small slip of wrinkled paper folded into a tight square. The edges were soft and worn, as though the creased parchment had been handled and thumbed continually for some time.
Unfolding the creased piece of paper, bits of flowing elven script gradually sprang into view. So slow and methodical did Thranduil do all this, it was plain to see these motions had become something of a habit to the stoic and proud elf-king. Smoothing back the last section of slightly weathered parchment, the scrawled and slightly tilted handwriting of a younger elf came into view. Thranduil's eyes scanned over the short block of words before him, not actually reading them. He had read and reread that note so many times, every word and phrase was now forever committed to memory. But still he kept it.
Ever since the message had come to him, Thranduil had felt some strange attachment to that single piece of paper. At times when he was alone with no one else there to see him, Thranduil would find himself fingering the small square of paper, or opening it to gaze upon the writing like he was doing now; as though he held some small hope that the words might have changed since the last time he laid eyes on them. But the thin black sweeps of ink continued to stare back at him, mocking him:
My Lord and Uncle,
I write to you with grave and urgent news. While here in Rivendell under the hospitality of Lord Elrond, your son Legolas was poisoned by a dwarf named Gimli. Legolas was attended to by Lord Elrond, and the poison slowed for the time being. But he is fading fast. Elrond says he knows of no cure. Time is short. Your presence is requested here at once. Gimli and a small company of other dwarves remain in Rivendell under the protection of Elrond. Military force suggested. We await your arrival.
-Toreingal
The flowing elven script began to blur as Thranduil continued to stare down at the letter that had torn his world asunder. He could feel his throat beginning to tighten as he fought back the flood of emotions that assailed him. Although the elf-king's eye misted with the anguish his nephews note still managed to wrestle from him, Thranduil would let no tears stain his cheeks. Thranduil was not one to ever be considered emotional. Other than the rare times he let himself be caught up in a moment of merriment, or when his temper managed to get the better of him, the king of Mirkwood was unreadable and closed. Over the years, many had accused him of being cold, even to his own family. And in some distant corner of his heart, that hurt.
It wasn't that he did not love or care for his sons and daughters, it was just that he never could find the proper way of expressing his feelings. He had tried many times to, but his actions and words always came across as awkward and clumsy. He just didn't feel comfortable pouring his heart out to others. It made him feel vulnerable. And after his wife's death only several decades after Legolas' birth, he had stopped trying all together.
And yet, despite his relatively impersonal nature, he had always felt a certain bond between himself and his youngest son; the last child his wife Aelin had given him before she had died. And it was in Legolas Thranduil found some lasting remnant of his deceased wife. Not only did his son resemble the beautiful maiden the young crown prince of Mirkwood had asked to be his wife, Legolas had also inherited Aelin's adventurous and untamable spirit. He would not lie, they had their disagreements and rocky times, but Thranduil always knew he and Legolas shared a stronger bond then they sometimes let on. The thought of now losing Legolas like he had Aelin was unthinkable.
~Legolas... Why did this have to happen to you? I warned you that a friendship with a Dwarf would only prove troublesome. But you were too stubborn to see the wisdom in my words. I knew I should have forbidden you to continue your acquaintance with that dwarf, but I did not heed my own instincts. But he will pay. That dwarf will pay if anything happens to you. No one poisons my child and lives to tell about it... ~
All of a sudden as muffled tap came from the entrance of Thranduil's tent. The soft but insistent knock sounded through cavernous interior and startled Thranduil out of his thoughts. Regaining his composure quickly, the elf-king called out, "Yes?" His stern voice was devoid of any hint of the emotional distress he had been suffering only a moment before.
From beyond the closed tent flap, a tentative female voice answered. "My Lord? I carry an urgent message." Thranduil immediately recognized the voice as being that of one of his field commanders in charge of a division of the archers that had been ordered to accompany him to Rivendell.
"Enter."
Pulling aside the green flap of canvas, the lithe outline of a female warrior stood silhouetted against the bright morning light that poured into the tent behind her. Her flowing mane of pale blond hair was pulled back from her face in a single braid, and glowed like a halo of light around her head as she stood in the tent door. Thranduil blinked back the sudden brightness as his commander slipped into the dark interior of king's private tent.
Standing to address her, Thranduil hastily shoved Toreingal's message back beneath his green robe, hiding the note from his commander's questioning gaze. He didn't want anyone else to see it. The letter had become in some odd way a link to his son, the last connection Thranduil had to Legolas. And the king was not about to share that with anyone else.
"What news do you bring, Celion?" he asked curtly.
"We have just intercepted a carrier pigeon flying in the direction of Mirkwood," Celion explained, standing at attention before her liege. "It carried with it a message addressed to you, my Lord. It is stamped with the seal of Lord Elrond of Imladris."
Holding out her hand, the warrioress offered a tiny scroll, no longer or wide then a person's little finger. A knot of undefinable dread tightened in Thranduil's stomach as he took the proffered roll of paper. Bowing low, Celion immediately turned and slipped from out of the tent. She knew it was not her place to be there to discover the contents of Lord Elrond's letter. Whatever it was, she had a strong feeling that it wasn't good. Rarely did the elf-lords of Middle-Earth communicate by way of carrier pigeons. Many times the birds would lose their course and the message would end up lost and never delivered. Only under the most direr of circumstances, when time was of the essence and when the bird's wayward tendency would have to be risked were they used.
Meanwhile, Thranduil had not even noticed his commander's exit. All he could focus on was the tiny scroll grasped tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Unbeknownst to the king of Mirkwood, he shared the same apprehension as his commander. The last time he had received such an urgent message, it had been from his nephew telling him his youngest son Legolas had been incurably poisoned.
Turning the thin roll of paper over in his hand, Thranduil indeed saw Elrond's seal adorning the side. A glob of thick red wax had been melted over the edge of the scroll to seal the paper in place. The signature mark of Lord Elrond - a six-point star- had been emblazoned boldly into the wax when it had still been warm. Thranduil stared down at the blood-red dot of impressed wax with a foreboding twinge of dread stirring in the pit of his stomach.
~What kind of message would Elrond have to send me with such urgency?~
Some tiny voice in the back of his head told him he didn't want to know. But the overwhelming need to know what the letter contained was too much for the king to ignore. What if it held news of Legolas? He had to know.
Gingerly snapping the wax seal apart, Thranduil let the tiny scroll unfurl into a loose loop of curled paper in the palm of his hand. Grasping either end of the narrow slip, the king pulled the scroll of parchment taunt between his hands. A moment of hesitation ensued before Thranduil finally let his eyes decipher the flowing elvish characters of Lord Elrond's message.
As he finished the note, Thranduil's grip on the scroll slackened, and the slip of paper fell to the ground at his feet. Backing slowly away from the partially curled piece of paper laying so innocently there on the ground, the elven king could not hide the utter horror that spread across his face. Clamping a trembling hand over his mouth, Thranduil continued to back away until he finally bumped into the far back wall of the tent His blue-grey eyes were wide with disbelief and shock.
~No...Legolas....~
Trying to steady himself against the flimsy canvas side of the tent, Thranduil found the energy drained from his body. His trembling knees buckled beneath him as several hitching sobs escaped his constricted throat. Slowly sinking to his knees, the proud king's vision began to blur with tears.
And in that single moment, for the first time in Thranduil's life, he could not control the overwhelming grief that assailed him, and he finally succumbed to the bitter betrayal of his emotions. Tears tumbled down Thranduil's grief twisted face.
~No...my son...~
The elf-king's shattered mind struggled to comprehend Elrond's letter. It was too much to take in. It just could not be true!
~No. It cannot be...~
A whirling tempest of memories stormed the ancient elf-king's mind, all of his youngest son Legolas. The images flooded over him, stealing him of his will to try and stop them; because memories were all he had now.
Thranduil's helpless sobs only intensified as he remembered the first time the tiny bundle of his newborn son Legolas had been placed into his arms. He could still picture his youngest child's pudgy face looking up at him curiously with his mother's sapphire-blue eyes, and the delightful way the babe's delicately pointed ears framed its perfectly round head. He could still feel the downy softness of the infant's hair on his skin as Legolas cuddled against his chest, nestling his head into his father's shoulder.
~No...Legolas. It's not true. You can't be gone...~
The image of the newborn baby slowly faded into that of a young elf, not even a hundred years old. The boy's vibrant blue eyes sparkled with a carefree, innocent joy as he played in shadows of a sunlit forest. The ghost of a distant past smiled warmly, his mischievous gaze directed to that of his father. Slowly the boyish features transformed into those of a newly acknowledged warrior, his piercing grey eyes kindling with the inner fire of an adventurous soul. The innocence was gone, replaced by the longing to travel and meet new people, to fight in battles and explore the world.
~You cannot be gone, Legolas... You cannot leave me again~
Thranduil's memories then jumped to a certain autumn morning not too long ago when he had gone to bid his son a safe journey to Rivendell. The young prince was leaving to inform the Lord of Imladris of the escape of a wretched little creature named Gollum who had been entrusted into their care by the wizard Mithrandir. Thranduil still remembered how reluctant he was to let his youngest son leave that day, no longer a boy but as a fully recognized adult ready to forge his own path in the world and embrace his future. The father also remembered how afraid he was at the lurking thought of possibly never seeing his son again.
~No... My son. Legolas, you cannot be gone...You cannot be dead!~
Unable to contain the swirling tempest of grief any longer, Thranduil's heart broke and he cried forth the name of his youngest son, the one whose life had been stolen from him.
"LEGOLAS!!... NO!"
Even from across the wide clearing, the anguished howl rang with such utter despair and loss, the elven warriors preparing to continue their march to Rivendell immediately dropped everything they were doing at that moment and turned towards Thranduil's tent, startled. The king's hollow cry echoed off the surrounding hills and mountains and faded into the distance. A stinging silence followed in its wake.
For a moment, there was no movement, no sound, not even the hint of breath as the large company of elves waited tensely for something to follow, confused by this sudden outburst. Slowly, realization dawned on the warriors.
The anguish seeped into every syllable of that single name sent up by Thranduil spoke everything they needed to know. That cry had been the wail of a father hopelessly calling for a lost child that would never return to him. And it was the mournful announcement of their youngest prince's defeat to a vile poison.
Prince Legolas was dead.
A wave of despair and disbelief slowly spread through the assembled warriors. The soft weeping of mourners gradually rose into the chilly morning air, filling the empty void of silence with grief. Many of the elves bowed their heads low, taking a moment of silence to pay their respects to their departed ally and brother-in-arms. Several chocked back sobs.
Legolas had trained beside many of the warriors for several hundred years, learning the skills of warfare to protect his homeland and people. He had been more than just a prince or a warrior. He had been a faithful friend and companion to all that knew him. He was the type of warrior both Elves and Men trusted their lives to without a second thought. But now he was dead, gone forever. The sorrow and grief of the elves of Mirkwood was overwhelming. It seeped through the air and cast a dark shadow over the dawn lit mountain side clearing.
Alone beside her horse on the outskirts of the army's camp, Celion hung her head in sorrow. With Thranduil's cry, her deepest suspicion had been confirmed. Mirkwood had just lost one of its finest warriors and most noble elves. Like the rest of her company, Celion was grieved by Legolas' passing, but beyond the remorse, the female elf perceived a cold chill creeping along the edges of her sorrow. She could feel a certain doom hanging in the air.
~What now, my Lord?~ she pondered as she looked towards the dark, grief seeped tent of her king. ~ Will you continue on with your campaign of hate and revenge, or will Death claim even more innocent lives?~
But in the grips of his anguish, Thranduil's mind could not see things quite the same as his commander. All he knew was the burning rage that managed to pierce through the blinding fog of grief that clouded his mind. An unsateable thirst for revenge began to fester and grow in the king's broken heart.
~That dwarf... He stole my son from me. He murdered Legolas.~
Diverting his energy to the building rage in his chest, Thranduil began to regain some control over himself. His tears began to slow and his mind began to clear as he let the anger claim him.
~That dwarf... He will pay. He murdered my son. He will pay.~
Sucking in a shaky breath of air, the anguished father slowly pulled himself to his knees. A surge of renewed purpose pulsed through his veins, overshadowing his despair and grief. He would avenge Legolas. His son's murderer would not go unpunished. Wiping the shameful remnants of tears from his cheeks, the proud king resolved himself to rise. As he stood, the sorrow disappeared from his face. By the time Thranduil straightened and squared his shoulders defiantly against the weight of grief that still pressed down on him and threatened to bend his spirit, his elven facial features had hardened into the set expression of boiling determination and rage. Mourning would have to wait. He would not rest until his son's murderer was brought to justice, until he had his revenge. And his revenge would not be completed until the blood of the dwarf Gimli stained the edge of his sword....
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TBC...
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OK, things are shaping up nicely. I've already started on the next chapter where we'll head back to Rivendell and see the devastation left in Legolas' wake... I would have had more in this chapter, but that would have taken at least another week and I didn't want you all to wait too long.
So 'till then,
I'm LAXgirl, signing out!
Please review?