Hi again. Loooong time no see, right? Probably thought I was dead, didn't you? I wouldn't blame you. Anyway, I really don't have any excuse for my extended absence except that I'm just lazy and milking my summer freedom for all it's worth. But since I've been away for so long, I have a special surprise for all my faithful readers down at the bottom. Oh, and thank you all so much for those wonderful reviews!
Standard disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all affiliated characters are not mine.
*****
In a quiet, grassy field near the outskirts of the elven city of Rivendell, a large tent of dark green and silver had been erected. Scattered hap-hazardly around the main area of the field burned several low fires. Against an orange backdrop of the crackling embers, the black outlines of people were silhouetted. They sat in tight circles huddled around the burning campfires, or lay camped out on the ground just on the edges of the fire's warmth. The murmurs of whispered conversations could be heard drifting up from these groups, but it did little to break the general stillness of the night. An ominous tension hung in the air.
Inside the single tent of the entire encampment near the far side of the field, the warm glow of candlelight flickered. Its floor was nothing more than the area of packed dirt over which it had been erected. A heavy silence hung in the air, only broken by the chirping of crickets singing their nighttime concert outside. On the inside walls of the canvas structure perfect crepe paper cut-outs of the tent's contents flickered and moved in the dancing candlelight.
Amidst the enlarged and somewhat elongated shadows of the room sat the still and motionless form of king Thranduil, elven lord and monarch of Mirkwood.
He sat on a short, collapsible stool near the edge of a low wooden table that served as a humble desk for the mobile establishment. Though Thranduil may have seemed proud and regal in his bearings – sitting straight and tall in his seat – a certain aura of weariness hung over him. His usually proud and squarely set shoulders sagged forward just ever so slightly (almost completely unnoticeable except to a well trained eye that knew the king's subtle body language and moods well) as if he had just thrown a heavy burden from off his back but was still feeling the press of its weight on his shoulders.
The elf-lord's usually meticulously pressed robes were wrinkled and creased as if they had been worn several days straight without wash or care. His long blond hair hung down the length of his back disheveled and fraying out from his unkept braids.
In the soft flickering light of the candlelight, Thranduil's face looked older, as if the countless years of his immortal existence were finally beginning to catch up to him and show their passing. Thin care lines creased his ageless face.
But the shocking change in Thranduil's appearance was nothing in comparison to the haunted look now shining in his ancient grey eyes. He stared out straight ahead towards the distant corner of the tent, seeing everything but nothing all at the same time. His face registered no inner emotions except for hi eyes which shined with a deep and painful grief.
In Thranduil's hand was a small square of folded paper. His long slender forefingers held the note between them as his thumb methodically rubbed over the soft, feathery edges of it. His fingers moved out of habit and without thought. His actions had become a sort of ritual, a subconscious act of mourning born out of the helplessness of pain and loss.
As if in a daze of lingering shock, Thranduil slowly looked down from his undefined point of focus on the far wall and stared down at the small note in his hand. A twinge of bitter anguish stirred in the elf-lord as he looked down at the folded square of paper. He could feel the unhealed wound buried deep inside his heart tear open once again and the colorless poison of grief bleed out into his soul.
He held in his hand the first message he had received from his nephew in Rivendell almost a week before which contained the then uncertain fate of his youngest child.
Thranduil could feel his throat beginning to constrict with an unbidden rush of emotions. The elven king's grip on the folded parchment tightened as he struggled to fight back the flood of grief that crashed over him. His eyes began to mist over, threatening a rain of anguished tears.
Though time had passed and the uncertainty of Legolas' future was no longer a mystery still hanging in the balance, Thranduil kept Toreingal's note. He could not bring himself to be parted with it. It was his last written testament to the life of his youngest child's life before it had suddenly disappeared from existence without him even able to see it go or say good-bye. But while the message spoke of almost inevitable doom, there was still some small frail and fragile hope hidden between its lines. There still existed the impossible chance that salvation might still somehow be won from Fate because Legolas was still alive.
But Fate had proven too powerful of a enemy to overcome and the youngest prince of Mirkwood now lay dead.
Fresh pain exploded through Thranduil's heart. His fingers slowly curled down over the weather-beaten memento and pressed it into the palm of his hand in a loose fist as he felt the emptiness in his heart swell. He could feel the salty sting of tears building in the corners of his eyes. He wanted to cry. Oh, Elbereth, how badly he wanted to cry.
But he couldn't. Not now. Not yet.
Crushing the battered note tighter in his fist, Thranduil turned his head to the side and shut his eyes, willing the threatening flood of tears to go away. Even in the privacy of his own tent he would not let his tears fall. Legolas' death caused him more pain than he thought he could ever possible contain, but still he could not let himself cry. Not when his death still went unavenged. He would properly mourn for Legolas later, once his murderer had been brought to justice.
Just as the ancient king felt the worst of his grief subsiding back into its dull and ever present ache in the pit of his heart, a soft tentative tap sounded from the closed flap of his tent.
Thranduil paused and looked up calmly from the note still clenched possessively in his fist. Not even the tiniest perceptible change of emotions crossed his ageless face. He made no move to answer, and merely sat, silently staring at the doorway.
His unknown visitor seemed to interpret Thranduil's hesitation of answering as not being heard and made another quiet tap – this time with a bit more directiveness behind it.
"Enter," Thranduil finally said, breaking out of his reflectful trance. His deep and sonorous voice was as empty and devoid of emotions as his facial expression.
A moment of hesitant silence ensued before the heavy tent flap was finally pulled aside to allow entry. A solid black wall stood beyond the mouth of the tent way where the candlelight of the tent could not reach. Another stretch of immeasurable time elapsed before the late night caller finally emerged from out of the darkness and timidly stepped into the light, as if he had come to Thranduil's tent out of sheer obligation and out of no free will of his own.
With the same sluggishness of a prisoner being lead to the gallows, the slim figure of Toreingal slowly filled the entrance of the tent.
"Uncle," he said softly in a hollow, empty voice from the doorway.
No visible signs of emotions crossed the elven king's face in reaction to the sudden and unexpected appearance of his nephew. An uncomfortable silence filled the air, creating a suffocating vacuum between the two.
Seeing that he was going to receive no such greeting from Thranduil, Toreingal shifted uneasily under his uncle's unwavering gaze. He slowly stepped into the tent and let the flap swing back into place behind him. As he came to stand in front of the stoic king, the younger elf's eyes immediately dropped down to the floor.
Now illuminated in the warm glow of the candles, Toreingal's unusually stern face looked limp and sickly. Dark circles stood out against the elf's pale, waxy skin beneath a set of swollen red eyes. The sharp contrast of Toreingal's pale grey irises against the veiny, red-stained whites of his eyes gave him the appearance of a wild demon that had escaped from out of the dark recesses of some ghastly nightmare.
Toreingal shifted between his feet uneasily, unable to meet his uncle's gaze. His red rimmed eyes darted across the earthen floor, desperately searching for something to focus his attention on. His eyes finally seemed to find a satisfactory spot and stared with rapt fascination at a small tuft of grass popping up out of the ground several inches in front of Thranduil's left foot. He could feel the air around him steadily grow thicker with ever passing second the elven king continued to silently stare at him. Toreingal imagined he could see the silent accusation burning just behind the hardened shell of his uncle's cold grey eyes.
Toreingal did not know how long he stood there in that maddening silence with Thranduil' unbroken gaze boring into his soul, but as the second's continued to crawl by, he began to realize that if he did not say what he had come to say quickly, he never would. If he lost his nerve now and did not confess his sins now, he knew he would almost assuredly die of shame and guilt. Or if the Valar did not see fit to grant him such a merciful punishment as death, he knew the festering guilt that was slowly eating away at him would only continue to haunt him like the ghost of some restless spirit for the rest of his life.
Toreingal involuntarily shuddered. The horribly dismal prospect of living out the rest of his immortal existence with such guilt was what finally made him find his voice.
"I – I am sorry, uncle," he finally managed to choke out in a timid voice, "I failed you..."
Thranduil said nothing, nor offered him any encouragement as to wether to go on or stop. Toreingal's eyes remained riveted to his chosen point on the ground. He did not have to look up to know his uncle's gaze had not slackened in the slightest from off him.
"I came as soon as I heard your message to Lord Elrond," Toreingal said hurriedly, as if afraid to let the heavy silence of the room return. "I had to see you...I – I had to apologize..." A noticeable waver entered the elf's voice, making his words shaky and hitched. His eyes began to mist over with renewed grief and shame. Toreingal had resolved himself long before coming to Thranduil's tent that he would not disgrace himself by crying like a child in front of his austere uncle. But now that he actually stood in front of Thranduil, he seemed unable to restrain the flood of tears threatening to overspill his defenses at any second.
"I am sorry. I failed you. I failed Legolas," he choked out in an extremely unstable voice. Shameful tears began to form in the corners of the distraught elf's eyes despite his attempts to hold them back. He began to ramble, and take on a slightly hysterical tone as he pushed on. "I do not deserve to stand before you and beg for your forgiveness. I am a disgrace for my failure. I do not deserve to be called a warrior of Mirkwood, for I failed in my duties to both you and Legolas... If I wasn't for me, he might still be alive. I failed him. I should have been there. Legolas–" Toreingal broke off sharply with a hollow sob, unable to continue. Unrestrained tears leaked down from the corners of his eyes and streamed down his pale and waxy cheeks in small rivulets of salty water. The once proud and self-righteous elf's shoulders quivered with somehow restrained sobs as he hung his head lower in deeper shame.
Without breaking eye contact on Toreingal, Thranduil slowly rose to his feet and stood to face his sobbing nephew. Toreingal tensed and cringed back, expecting Thranduil to finally speak and confirm everything he had just confessed: that it was his fault Legolas was dead, that he failed in his duties, and that he was a disgrace to the royal family...
But no such harsh reprimands came. Instead another stagnant silence filled the tent.
Toreingal waited for what felt like eternity. He stared with rapt focus down at the small tuft of grass several inches in front of where Thranduil stood. Finally unable to bare the empty silence of the room any longer, the elf chanced a glance up at his uncle's face.
But instead of finding the elven king's gaze set firmly on him as he so dreadfully believed they would be, Toreingal found Thranduil staring down at a small square of folded paper laying in the palm of his hand. The elf-lord looked to be lost in deep thought.
Toreingal stood uncertainly, wondering whether to wait for Thranduil to speak or to try and make another apology to break the silence.
But before he had to make any such decision, Thranduil finally spoke.
"I sent you to Rivendell with Legolas to protect him..." he said quietly in a distant sort of voice. His tone was soft and edged with pain. His liquid grey eyes slowly rose from off the object in his hand and met Toreingal's. "Why weren't you there to protect him?"
There was no hint of accusation in the king's question, only an attempt to understand why things had gone wrong. But Toreingal still felt like his heart had just been skewered through with a hot stake of guilt.
"I –I am sorry, uncle," he murmured as his eyes dropped like dead weights back down to the floor. He could not stand to see the pained anguished swirling in Thranduil's eyes because he felt he was the one responsible for causing it. He stared down at the ground, wishing the earth would just open into a bottomless chasm and swallow him whole so that he would not have to hear the confused pain of his uncle's voice any more. "I – I tried to watch over him, but... I failed. It is my fault Legolas is dead. If I hadn't gotten into a fight with that dwarf, I may have been there by Legolas' side when it happened. I may have been able to stop it... But I wasn't there. It was all my fault..."
The elf's shoulders shook with mounting hysterics. "If I had known, I would have never left Legolas..." he cried piteously into his own chest, avoiding Thranduil's gaze at all costs. His hands clenched and unclenched agitatedly at his sides, as though barely restrained from flying up to cover his tear-streaked face. But even in his distraught state, the proud elf still retained some sense of pride and would not allow himself to do such a shameful thing as hiding his face in front of the one who he had come to admit his failure to.
Thranduil stood as still and silent as a statue, watching Toreingal break down before his very eyes despite the elf's obvious attempts to control himself. A deep pain shined in the father's ancient grey eyes as he looked down upon his sobbing nephew with emotionless detachment.
"He trusted you," Thranduil said quietly, sadly looking back down at the well-fingered note in his hand, "Legolas always trusted you. You were his only cousin on his mother's side. He trusted you like a brother. He once told me years ago that he would have trusted his life in your hands..." The elven king slowly shut his eyes and closed his fist, crushing the note bitterly into the palm of his hand. "But he's gone now..." he whispered more to himself than his nephew.
Whatever had been left of Toreingal's self control was instantly demolished in that moment by the painful truth of Thranduil's words. Flood gates were opened as he hung his head even lower in shame and guilt and sobbed loudly in unabashed tears. His lower lip trembled uncontrollably as tears soaked down his sickly pale cheeks. Violent sobs shook the elf's slender shoulders. "I'm sorry, uncle," Toreingal cried out miserably, shaking his head as if trying to unroot the memory of his failure. "I'm sorry...It was all my fault..."
Without warning, Thranduil swept forward and wrapped his distraught nephew in his arms, crushing the elf to his chest. Toreingal froze, not knowing what to make of this. His tears were momentarily forgotten. He stood stiffly in perfect silence, unsure of what to do. Thranduil had never embraced him before and he found himself rather taken off guard by Thranduil's sudden actions. He had never known Thranduil to ever show make such an intimate gesture before in his entire life. Becoming slightly uncomfortable in such close proximity to his usually reserved and stoic uncle, Toreingal was about to make another feeble apology to Thranduil for his failure just to break the awkward silence of the room when he suddenly felt a soft sob choke out beside his ear.
Startled, Toreingal tried to pull away from Thraduil's embrace, but only felt himself hugged tighter to the older elf's chest. Toreingal stood frozen in panic as another hitched sob sounded against his neck from his uncle. Thranduil was crying! He had never seen his uncle cry, let alone show much of any outward signs emotion under his regal, stone-like stoicism. Though not directly blood-related, Toreingal was closer to his uncle in this aspect than almost any of the king's own children. Now clutched to his weeping uncle's chest, Toreingal found himself frightened, scared, and completely unsure of what to do or say to consul the grieving elf. He wanted to run and hide. He didn't know what to do. With Thranduil as either the commanding monarch or stoic elder male family-figure, he knew where he stood and how he was expected to act. But now, with Thranduil reduced to this sobbing, wretched mass, Toreingal felt helpless and naked in knowing what to do. He had never had to try and comfort another's emotional distress before in his life.
"Uncle...?" he ventured timidly, completely lost at what else to say.
As though regaining some control over himself, Thranduil slowly raised his head from off Toreingal's shoulder with a muffed sob. Silently cupping the back of his nephew's head in his hand, Thranduil abruptly pulled the younger elf's head down into the hollow of his shoulder in an almost paternal gesture and rested his tear-streaked cheek atop Toreingal's head.
Quietly, in a voice of strained composure, Thranduil finally spoke, his voice muffled into his nephew's disarranged blond hair which reminded him painfully of his dead son's. "Do you remember that one summer when you and Legolas were only about twenty years old, and decided the two of you were going to go off into the forest alone and hunt giant spiders?" he said softly.
Despite his unease, guilt and grief, Toreingal felt an unbidden smile of reminiscence pull across his face at the slightly embarrassing memory. "How could I forget?" he conceded, "Legolas and I thought that if we captured a giant spider, we could earn ourselves warrior status before we were even old enough to braid our hair..."
A choked kind of laugh sounded from Thranduil as a small smile also unconsciously formed across his wet, tear-stained face. "I remember the way you two looked when you came back..." he reminisced with a faint chuckle with tears still glistening in his eyes, "Wet and looking like a pair of drowned rats..." He felt a reluctant shudder of suppressed laughter vibrate up against him as Toreingal also recalled the image of two young elves returning from the forest: cold, wet, and hungry after a sudden summer thunderstorm had cut their adventurous excursion short; leaving them empty handed, giant spider-less, and with nothing to show for their troubles but the shattered egos of two young, overconfident elflings. Both their mothers had not been pleased, and it was several weeks later until the two cousins were allowed back out onto the palace grounds by themselves again...
"It was all Legolas' idea to go out..." Toreingal murmured defensively into Thranduil's shoulder, starting to feel himself become strangely comfortable and safe there in his uncle's arms.
"Interesting..." Thranduil mused to himself, "Legolas always said it was your idea..."
A chortle of muffled laughter broke out between the two as the flickering candlelight of the tent reflected off the glistening trails of still-fresh tears on their cheeks. Their soft laughter slowly died away and a reminiscent silence returned, filled with the heavy presence of the dead and his memories left behind.
Sobered by the crushing return of reality that the one they spoke of was gone forever and never to return, Toreingal felt himself again struggling to hold back a flood of renewed grief. "I will miss him..." he whispered. Though he tried not to shame himself any more than he already had, tears were again beginning to seep down from the corners of his steel-grey eyes and soak into the soft fabric of Thranduil's robes. He buried his face into Thranduil's shoulder. "I am sorry, uncle..."
A sob, muffled into his hair, was all that answered him. Though Toreingal could not see his uncle's face, he knew it was a swimming kaleidoscope of grief and pain.
Struggling to hold his composure, Thranduil closed his eyes and nestled his cheek deeper into the soft pillow of his nephew's thick blond hair, trying to somehow find some link back to that distant past when he had used to cuddle his youngest child's head up under his chin when Legolas had still been nothing but a tiny infant in his arms.
"Legolas was stolen from both of us..." he said quietly as tears of anguish began to well up in the corners of his eyes, "I do not blame you, my nephew... I blame the dwarf that took my son away from me." Like a floodgate breaking open, all his bitter despair and grief came rushing to the surface. He hugged Toreingal closer, burying his face into the younger elf's flowing mane of hair. "I always tried to warn Legolas of the treachery of Dwarves, but he never listened..." he muffled as his shoulders began to shake with helpless sobs. Hot and bitter tears began to crack through the proud and cold exterior of Thranduil's stoic-king facade, revealing him for the thing he truly was deep down beneath all those layers of pointless stoicism: a grieving father. "He was too innocent and naive in many ways of the world. He believed that good existed in all people... It was a gift and a curse... He trusted too readily. And now look where his faith and good-will in people got him..." he cried piteously into his nephew's hair. Breaking down into hysterical sobs, Thranduil clutched the younger blond elf to his chest and began to rock back and forth on his heels, swaying to the rhythm of his grief.
Choking on his own tears, Toreingal felt the final bit of self-control he had been holding onto crumble to pieces at the sound of his uncle's anguished pain. Unable to feel anything but bitter grief welling up in his heart, Toreingal's arms slowly rose from where they had been laying limp at his sides and wrapped themselves around his uncle's back, finally returning the hug he had either been too proud or too embarrassed to return only minutes before. Though Thranduil had said he did not blame him for Legolas' death, he could not help but think that there was something he had missed. Something he else he could have done that would have prevented his cousin's death. He still could not help think it was his fault Legolas had died. He buried his face into Thranduil's shoulder, mingling his bitter tears and cries of lament with his uncle's as Thranduil continued to gently rock him back and forth in his arms, as if not only trying to comfort his grieving nephew but also himself.
Their anguished cries sang a soft lament as they stood there locked in each other's arms. Bound together in the solidarity of their grief, they clung to each other for support. And as they shared in each other's pain and loss, they felt a certain connection form between them – a connection of comfort and strength. A connection born from the realization they did not have to suffer their pain alone.
Thranduil felt his tears slowly begin to subside and a sense of control return, as if the worst of his grief was finally being drained out of him like a venomous poison being leeched from his system. He slowly raised his head. His cheeks glistened with a coat of salty tears. Toreingal's face still remained firmly planted in the crook of his neck, weeping softly. Bringing one hand up, Thranduil tenderly stroked at the back of his nephew's head, as if trying to coax out the pain from the distraught elf. Toreingal's muffled sobs only increased as he felt Thranduil gently resettle his cheek on the top of his head and hug him closer, as if in reassurance. As he quietly pet the back of his wife's sister-son's golden head, the ancient king suddenly realized how tired he was. How tired and... empty.
Closing his eyes, Thranduil took a deep breath. "Do not worry..." he whispered softly as he drew his nephew's head closer up under his jaw. "Legolas will not go unavenged..." Toreingal's sobs slowly lessened, as if quieting to listen to his uncle. Biting back the bitterness in his voice, Thranduil whispered in a low, conspiritous tone, "The one that did this to Legolas will not go unpunished. He will pay for his crimes. If Elrond will not hand over the treacherous dwarf that killed my son, then we will go and seek justice ourselves... That dwarf will pay – him and everyone else that stands with him. He will rue the day he ever thought to assassinate my son... Before tomorrow's sun sets, Legolas' soul will finally be able to rest peacefully in the Halls of Mandos knowing that his murder has finally been avenged..."
But as Thranduil hugged his nephew closer, the younger blond elf had to wonder if such vengeful bloodshed would ever actually put his dead cousin's soul to rest.
******
The night was dark. Dark and bleak.
Celion hugged herself subconsciously as a chilly nighttime breeze whistled past her and across the open clearing in which Thranduil's army of warriors camped. Standing at a distance from any of the glowing campfires, she stood on the far edge of the grassy field just under the outstretched reachs of the surrounding trees' canopies, hidden in darkness. Silver shafts of moonlight filtered down around her through the leafy boughs and branches. The tall trees of the ancient forest through which her king and his division of warriors were marching through stood like towering sentinels of wood around her, flanking her like the royal guards of some woodland princess.
Around the perimeters of the flickering campfires of the encampment, Celion could see the sharp outlines of her fellow warriors sitting like black paper cutouts against a background of orange. Every so often she would catch a small snatchet or whisper of murmured conversation drift across to her on the wind, but for the most part, all that filled the vacant vacuum of sound was the soft chirping of insects singing their nighttime concerts. And she liked it this way.
She need to be alone to think. To somehow piece together and put into perspective all that had transpired in less than the span of a week; all that now moved her and all those around her in what seemed like some crazy downward spiral that was slowly dragging all of them down into some unknown darkness of uncertainty and doom; Legolas... the youngest son of her king, the one sole cause of all the pain and grief that was single-handedly leading them down this path of darkness and destruction they all now traveled.
As she watched the flickering light of the campfires dance in the distance where no sound could reach her, Celion stood pondering the one whose death had erupted this war she now found herself about to fight. Thranduil wanted revenge, and he wanted it in the justless slaughter of dwarves, the ones he blamed his son's death on.
~Legolas... I never knew you myself, but I knew of you...~ the voice in the back of her head whispered. She felt she had to direct her train of thoughts directly at Legolas, as though she were talking right to him, so that in doing so she might somehow understand and see what had made this elf so special or important that the lives of so many innocent people now stood on the brink of destruction just because of his ill-fated death.
~From what I have heard from those that knew you, you were a brave and noble person – a true prince. One who would readily give his life for another... If even half of what they say about you is true, then you were truly one to mourn for, and one I will regret never knowing... I cannot imagine what your father must be going through – the pain of losing a child... Unimaginable... But why does he so blindly seek revenge?~
She paused and looked thoughtfully up above into the vast, silver-speckled dome of the heavens, as if trying to divine answers from the endless sea of stars.
~It was a terrible thing what happened to you – an accident and tragedy, that is no doubt... But why? Why must your death spell the deaths of so many countless others. Surely you would not have wanted such a thing. Why instead of mourning for his son, must Thranduil start war and only cause more pain and death? Does he truly believe it will ease the pain he already carries? I fear for the future and what it holds. I fear what will happen when Thranduil goes to make his revenge...For this will come to no good...~
Celion stood silent and still, gazing up at the night sky. As she listened to the quiet drone of insects around her, the night seemed to grow even darker and lonelier than when she had first broken away from the company of her fellow warriors. She could feel the empty hopelessness of the doom she knew was to come press in around her, making her feel alone and frightened. Many were going to die tomorrow. Many innocent lives were going to be destroyed. And for what? The aimless revenge of a grieving father.
The thought made Celion both frightened and angry. She felt pity and sorrow for Thranduil's loss; just as all elves mourned for the loss of all innocent life. But she could find no pity in her heart for her king and what he was doing. So many lives – both Dwarves and Elves– were to be forfeited, and all because of one. Was that really right? Was there really any balance or justice in that? What closure for his son's death would Thranduil find in the pointless killing of so many others?
The blond field commander sighed wearily.
There was no justice. There would be no closure for Thranduil's pain because he was just causing more. It was so wrong, but she was helpless to stop it. Celion shook her head sadly. It was just so wrong...
"No good will come from this..." she murmured as she shook her head slowly in despair. The world was so unfair and cruel.
It was with mild disgust and contempt for her helplessness and the cruelty of the world in which she lived that the elf turned to return to camp. But as she moved to step back out into the silver moonlight of the field, a quiet feminine voice echoed out from the darkness of the forest behind her. "Perhaps the good you speak of is all in the eye of the beholder..." it whispered like the touch of ice on skin.
Celion immediately tensed and spun around on her heels, her hand flying to the long elven knife at her side. "Who's there?" she demanded as her eyes scanned the impenetrable wall of darkness before her. Her heart hammered against her chest as she unsheathed her weapon and held it before her defensively. She could see nothing in the moonlight-streaked gloom of the dark forest. "Who's there?" she called out again into the deep shadows, her voice hitched with the faint note of fear. She could hear the frightened pulse of her blood pounding in her ears. She knew not how or why, but she knew this voice meant her no good. As like a foreboding sixth sense, she could feel an aura of evil permeating the air.
"You are afraid of the coming war..." the voice whispered softly from out the depths of blanketing darkness of the surrounding trees, as if it had emanated from the very air itself; unplacable – everywhere and nowhere all at once. "I can smell your fear," it commented omnipresently to the frightened elf, "It practically seeps from your pores. I can smell it like the scent of perfume..."
"Who are you?" Celion demanded again as she took a hesitant step deeper into the shadow-draped forest of trees, searching to pin-point the location of the mysterious speaker. She took another step. She didn't know what possessed her, but she felt compelled to seek out this voice. A frightened buzz rang in the back of her head as she scanned the gloomy shadows of the surrounding trees. She was scared, she was not about to deny it.
"Ah, what a wonderful scent fear is..." the voice sighed as if in appreciation, "I have missed it for too long..." As if hypnotically drawn to the mysterious voice, Celion continued to slowly advance deeper into the forest, intent of finding its speaker. "It is such a wonderful scent," the voice continued, " Almost an aphrodisiacal aroma of salty-sweetness. Do you know why fear is such a wonderful scent? Because it is the smell of power, the smell of domination, the smell of control over those lesser than you who are at your complete mercy... Oh, it has been too long since I last smelled it... What a wonderful scent... Once my revenge is complete, I will perfume the world in this scent. My darkness will flow over the world and I will make the scent of fear become so strong that those that cower under my power will choke on it..."
By now, the low flicker of campfires from Thranduil's camp had disappeared behind a wall of trees. Celion stopped, and with a sharp jolt of realization she realized she could no longer see the clearing or any of her company. She was now alone and surrounded by ghostly shadows and darkness. Dark outlines of trees ringed around her, hewing her in. A shiver of apprehension ran up her spine. Knife drawn up in front of her chest, the female elf looked around warily. "Who are you? What do you speak of?" she demanded in the strongest voice she could muster as she stopped and began to turn in a slow circle, scanning the entire perimeter of where she stood.
"Who I am is of no importance to you..." the mysterious speaker replied dispassionately in an icy cold voice. "But what I plan to do is..."
Celion could now detect a cold presence in the air around her, like the cold breath of winter on the back of her neck. She stood frozen in place, desperately searching for the mysterious voice's origin. Raw fear sat in the pit of her stomach like a pile of ice cubes. She felt as though she could feel the very eyes of Evil on her, watching her from the shadows. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, matting several stray strands of blond hair to the sides of her face. A small voice like a warning bell was now screaming through her head to flee from this mysterious voice, to run and escape while she still could.
But she couldn't. She felt strangely drawn to the voice by its dark and ominous words, like a magic spell had been woven into the mysterious woman's words. Celion felt as if all her will to resist had been drained from her body.
"Before I begin my second reign of darkness," the dark voice said, "I want to see the final sunderance of my two greatest enemies. I want to see them spill each other's blood and destroy whatever last little shred of alliance may still exist between them. They have done well in alienating each other and planting the seeds of mistrust between the two races themselves, but I want to personally see the final coup de grâce that will shatter the possibilities of any such future alliances as the first one that sealed me away in that cave all those years ago." The voice was now sadistically gleeful, excitedly reciting all of her plans of revenge. "All I needed to do was set the ball in motion and give them a little push in the right direction... It will be so sweet of a revenge to just sit back and watch them destroy themselves..." An cold, mirthless laugh rang out through the darkened shadows of the forest.
Celion, who knew nothing of what the dark voice spoke of, stood in a frightened trance of confusion. What was this woman talking about? What...
But then it all began to make sense. Thranduil. The war. Legolas. The Dwarves.
Had Prince Legolas' death somehow been plotted to be nothing more than a catalyst for this dark voice's revenge? Was the impending war between Elves and Dwarves nothing more than the workings of an old grudge?
To Celion, she knew how impossible and unlikely it all seemed. But it all fit. What else could this dark woman be talking about?
The war...
The single thought shot through her brain like a red hot poker.
~I must warn the king~ she thought with an intense jolt of urgency. Like a moment of crystal clear vision, she knew what she needed to do. She had to warn Thranduil of this. She had to stop all this from happening.
But as she went to turn and race back in the direction of the elven camp, Celion found herself unable to move. It was like all the muscles of her body had suddenly been paralyzed. Her mind raced in panic as she desperately struggled to make her body respond to her urgenty calls to flight. But nothing happened. She could not even make the tips of her fingers twitch; so powerful and complete the unnatural paralysis of her body was.
"Now, now..." the dark voice tisked admonishingly in a cold humorless tone, "Don't be so quick to run away just yet. That's rude. There is still one more thing I must do before tomorrow's battle. Only one more thing I have to do to make sure that there will be no unexpected problems that could potentially ruin my plan..."
The darkness around the paralyzed elf deepened. She could now feel a distinct chill in the air as if all the warmth had been sucked right out of it. Staring helplessly ahead, she watched in horrified disbelief as a dark shadow seemed to separate itself from the surrounding gloom of the forest directly in front of her and materialize into what looked like the form of a person. She could see no face or features in heavy gloom surrounding the dark figure, but she could see it was a person; tall, extremely thin, and unexplainably evil.
"Hmm, yes, just one more thing to do..." the shadow figure sang tunelessly, "One more thing. One last step..."
The shadow figure slowly glided towards the paralyzed elf like a predator moving in for the kill. As she watched the black figure move toward her, Celion felt fear, like bile, rise up in the back of her throat. She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to escape this nightmare she was in. The tiny voice of self-preservation was now ringing through her skull, screaming at her to flee from this dangerous apparition of darkness. But she couldn't. She was frozen where she stood, helpless to do anything but watch as the ghostly form continued to slowly advance on her.
"Yes...Just one more thing..." it whispered with dark, sinful pleasure. It glided ever closer, its prey staring back at it with bright, fear-widened eyes.
It was getting closer. Fifteen, ten, now less than five feet away.
The female elf watched in horrified terror. The dark shadow was now almost close enough to touch her. Her blood throbbed in her ears; her muscles strained to move even the tiniest bit to somehow defend herself, but still she could not. She was paralyzed.
"One more thing..." the shadow sang as if chanting a dark and sinful prayer to some ancient god of death.
As Celion helplessly watched in the grips of some paralyzing spell of black magic, the dark shadow slowly stepped into a dim shaft of moonlight that had managed to filter down through the thick canopy of leaves above. And as the silver moonlight lit the dark shadow's face, Celion felt the terror that had been slowly coiling itself into a tight ball in the center of her chest explode. She would have gasped or screamed in horror and revulsion if her voice hadn't been silenced in her throat by the dark spell holding her captive. Her instincts screamed at her to run. But she couldn't. She couldn't!
"Just one more thing..."
A pale, skeleton-like hand slowly reached out for the frozen elf. Its bony fingers groped the air greedily as they drew ever closer to the warrioress' face.
~No! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!~ Celion wanted to scream at the top of her lungs as the emaciated hand drew ever closer to her, like a grandmother reaching out to stroke the cheek of her favorite grandchild. But she could find no voice in her throat to cry out in fear. She knew it was no tender touch she was intended to receive. She could actually feel the coldness radiating out from that wretched, skeletal hand; she could feel its malcontent. She knew that whenever it finally did touch her skin, it would be like the touch of Death; cold, dark and pitiless.
She tried to scream, but her throat felt constricted and silenced by the same paralysis that seized her body. She tried to struggle, but she was nothing more than a living statue of flesh and blood. The fingers kept moving closer and closer. She could feel the air around her grow colder as the hand continued to slowly extend out towards her as though that single moment of time had been stretched out to span the entire length of eternity.
"Just one more thing..."
She couldn't let those fingers touch her. She couldn't...
But then they did.
A rush of cold shot through her body like shards of ice driven through her flesh. The cold seemed to seep into the very core of her being and freeze the marrow of her bones to ice. Her mind stiffened in shock though her body remained as stiff and rigid as ever under the spell of unnatural paralysis that froze her body. Fear and surprise shined in the female elf's eyes as she stared back helplessly into the cold, merciless blue eyes of her attacker.
~No... Help...~
A wicked grin spread across the ghastly face of her dark attacker at the sight of unmistakable fear shining in the elf's eyes. A mouthful of crooked, rotten teeth set into the mold of blackened gums smiled back at Celion.
"Just one more thing..." The very voice of Death whispered to her from behind those rotten black teeth. "One more thing..." And with that, the horrible apparition swooped in on the paralyzed elf.
One of the last things Celion saw before a cold and empty abyss of endless darkness rushed up to meet her like liquid tar, was her attacker's brilliant blue eyes – immortal elven blue eyes, she thought with sudden jolt of realization– ablaze with a dark and unholy light that froze her very soul cold. And as the elven demon Eronel leaned down over her helpless victim, a strangled cry of utter fear and horror finally broke free from Celion's throat from under the dark and powerful spell rendering her motionless and rang out through the night until it finally faded into the distance and from the air...
A heavy, unbroken silence hung over the forest as the moon continued to cut its eternal path across the midnight sky high overhead. Hesitantly, a single squeak of cricket legs rubbing together somewhere deep inside the still forest sounded, breaking the suffocating silence like a hammer to a piece of glass. As if a signal of all clear had been given, the drone of insects slowly began return and fill the void of silence as they struck their nighttime choirs back up into full operetta. The hypnotic drone continued to deepen until it sounded like nothing had even happened at all.
As the night returned to normal and the heavy aura of tension seemed abate, a lone figure slowly emerged from out of the heavy darkness of trees and stepped into the soft silver moonlight of the wide, grassy field Thranduil's escort was encamped. The pale moonlight shined off the slightly disheveled blond half of the slender figure, ringing her head in a silvery halo of light.
Returning the naked blade of her elven knife back to the sheath at her hip, Celion glanced in the direction of Thranduil's camp. Standing in the moonlight, the warrioress calmly scanned her eyes over the camp, as if silently appraising it as she watched some of the dark figures sitting around one of the low burning campfires nearest her quietly break away from the group and head in the direction of several bedrolls laying scattered across the ground several yards away.
A small smirk slowly spread across her face as she broke her eyes away from the camp and held one slender hand up in front of her face. She turned it from front to back as if both admiring her nails and reading the delicate lines of her palm at the same time. Finally dropping it back down at her side, the corner of the elf's lips curled up into a roguish grin.
"Let the game begin..." she smiled devilishly as she turned her eyes back onto the elven camp several hundred feet away and grinned even wider. To anyone observing the elven shield-maiden at that moment, they might have noted the strange and unnerving glint shining in the fathomless black pupils of her eyes. And they also might have shuddered at the icy coldness of her voice as a low and sinister chuckle rumbled under her breath like the ominous roll of thunder on the horizon.
But no one was there to have witnessed Celion reemerge from the dark depths of the forest or now see her toss her head back over her shoulder and laugh with a malicious sort of glee that could have chilled blood.
"Oh, yes..." she whispered into the night, "This body will do just fine. I will have front seat for all of tomorrow's events..."
And with that, she turned and headed for the camp.
*****
TBC... August 9th
*****
Did anyone catch that? If you didn't, scroll back up a little and look at that teeny tiny blurb about to be continued...
Hm hm hm... okay, everybody back?
No! Your eyes did not deceive you! You read right. Since I've been on such a long hiatus, not only have I written chapter 11 for "Writings on the Sword" but also chapter 12!!! Is anybody else as shocked about that as I am? But yes, chapter 12 will be promptly posted on August 9th, 2003 (that's a Saturday, by the way).
I am leaving tomorrow to go on vacation down to Orlando (ha ha... anyone else see the irony in that), Florida for a week with my friends and won't be back until then. Assuming I don't have any lay-overs or delays in that vast maze/insane asylum I like to call the Pittsburgh International Airport, I should have it up and posted sometime by early evening.
So keep an eye out for it because it's... (hmm, how do I put this that you'll be compelled to read it?)... the chapter you've been waiting for...
'Till then,
I'm LAXgirl,
signing out
P.S. Please, I really hate to beg and grovel, but can I please please please have a review? Please...?