Author: Mirrordance
Title: Love, War
Summary: The War brought them together, but the peace will tear them apart. How much is a man willing to pay to keep a friendship, and how much is a friend willing to lose for revenge? WARNING: Slash.
ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:
The Sang-age Tribe: a tribe name created from Latin roots which means 'belong to blood.' They a creation of the author and is supposed to be one of the multitude of Easterling tribes, not particularly powerful but also influential. Excuse any possible inconsistencies haha.
Nathaniel: the King of the Sang-age tribe.
Nicolo: Heir of Nathaniel, a renown and vicious warrior.
Danielli: the king of another Easterling tribe, and a dear friend and ally to Nicolo.
Nadina: Nathaniel's daughter, Nicolo's sister, and Danielli's wife.
Lilian: Legolas' murdered betrothed. An elf from Lothlorien.
Mikael: Legolas' personal guard.
Adriano: Nicolo's impulsive young aide and valet.
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PART ONE: Those Lost
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Chapter Two: Where It Begins
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Eastern Borders of Eryn Lasgalen
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The allies of Elessar were closing in.
The Eastern edain tribes who made the fatal mistake of allying with the evil forces of Sauron were set to pay the lethal price at last. The fall of the Dark Lord after the War of the Ring sealed their fates as well.
From end to end of Middle-Earth, the armies of Eryn Lasgalen, Lothlorien, Rohan and Gondor formed an unprecedented column of soldiers marching East. Failure was an impossibility. The only question was how much success was going to cost, and it was a strict, hideously frugal barter with fate.
The warrior tribes of the East were scattered in defense of their lands. For the first time in their notorious histories of war-mongering, they were pressed into their borders and facing a definitive defeat. The armies of the West were flexing their newfound muscle, and ironically purchasing peace through the threat of a massive, destructive power.
The King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn, held no illusions about what the peace could cost. If he could attain it through the fear of his foes and their resulting surrender or agreement, then he shall see it done. It was the way of the world, perhaps, or maybe he was speaking in the only language the warrior tribes of the East could truly understand: force, and only through this could they gain respect.
This was a lesson that was learned only too harshly; before resorting to this decisive attack, an envoy of negotiators met their untimely demise at the hands of the Easterlings.
But Aragorn, although justly enraged, remained a man of honor and hope; all who surrendered would be treated fairly, and their lands preserved as belonging to their respective kingdoms. He was, after all, not a conqueror. He did not come to occupy and take what was theirs; he came ultimately to protect what was his.
More than the force of Elessar's massive armies, he was a sovereign made of sterner convictions. King Eomer of Rohan followed this light, as did the dwarf-lords. The mysterious elves held their own quiet reasons of serving in this war, which Aragorn hoped would be the last one ever in the history of the Earth. Either way, the glorious elven warriors stalwartly held the North, and chief amongst them was the lines commanded by Legolas Greenleaf.
The elf-prince was of noble descent and even nobler deeds. A prince of Eryn Lasgalen, and all at once lord of the elven colony in Ithilien, the sole elf in the Fellowship of the Ring… his friendship with Elessar, coupled with his convictions toward a better world seemed unquestionable reason enough for him to stand guard and fight so vigilantly against the long-foes of the West.
But a seasoned Easterling warrior, looking from the eyes of a sworn enemy, saw something else entirely in the flashing light of his keen, ice-blue eyes.
Price Nicolo of the Sang-age tribe was the heir to a medium-sized country and general of a persistent army that always held a considerable area of northwestern Rhovanion. This made them one of the twin forces the elven kingdom of Mirkwood had to weather for centuries, coupled with the southern assaults from Dol Guldur.
Between these men and King Thranduil of Mirkwood's elves, there was no love lost at all. This was a sentiment undoubtedly shared by the elven kingdom's golden prince.
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It was nighttime, and raining too. Nicolo could hear the dull sound of the sky falling from his makeshift prison, shackled to the posts of a tent in the elven encampment. His army completely fell some hours ago with his capture and their consequent surrender. He was being keenly watched by a pair of ranking elven soldiers; they tended to look the same and when they switched around and changed shifts, he wasn't quite sure who stood where or who did what and if they were still the same ones from minutes or hours ago.
Nevertheless, he did recognize one famous face. This elf dismissed the other guards almost flippantly, so used was he to getting his way. The elf then walked toward him, strides calm and claiming the ground they trod on. This elf had a curious air about him, one that the other elves, for all of their inborn nobility, still did not have.
Nicolo heard it said that this air was made of the very rawness of his power; Legolas of Mirkwood had lethal eyes and an even more lethal pair of hands, as the legend goes. Some said it was his aristocracy, with this noble brow, this unquestionably tall stance. But when Legolas approached him and stopped a good, wide step away, Nicolo realized it was something else altogether. The restrained movements of the graceful elf held a potent anger too. He was not quite sure if the elf-prince looked upon all his other foes in this quietly threatening manner, but Nicolo felt that potent rage; it was filling the room, it was claiming his air, and he did not quite understand why such spite was directed particularly at him.
"Prince Legolas," Nicolo greeted him evenly, "An honor."
The elf stared at him for a long, silent moment, before nodding in respectful return. The courtesy almost seemed as if it was being forcibly wrenched from him. It was like watching blood being squeezed from a rock.
The elf drew out keys from the folds of his robes. He removed the shackles from Nicolo's wrists, and stepped back to survey his intrigued quarry.
"Are you well?" Legolas asked him quietly.
"As well as can be expected," Nicolo replied, wringing his sore wrists and tilting his head in curiosity at the elven prince. "What is this game you are playing?"
Legolas refrained from replying and instead turned his back upon the man, boldly and deliberately, as if daring Nicolo to try something crazy. The Sang-age prince did not bother, and instead just waited as the elf prince murmured words in his own tongue to some unknown listener from outside. The words were elaborate in structure, but persistently melodious as they rolled from his tongue in an even tone that he soon knew to be some sort of command.
Another captive was led into the tent, just before his elven escorts left. Nicolo's eyes softened at the sight of his faithful valet and aide, a feisty young man named Adriano.
"My lord," Adriano greeted his prince, bowing low and tossing an angry glare at the impervious elven royal who stood with them.
"You may assist your lord," Legolas told Adriano evenly. When the defiant boy refused to move, he added, "Or of course, you can choose to simply stay still there and watch as he is slaughtered where he stands."
With a growl, Adriano walked to a corner of the tent and retrieved Nicolo's previously confiscated armor and weapons. He respectfully laid the considerable armload upon the tribe prince's feet, but picked up the chain mail and raised it up, as if to assist Nicolo into wearing them.
Nicolo raised an eyebrow at Legolas with inquiry and those keen, clear eyes met his gaze squarely.
"Are you well?" Legolas asked again, "Harmed or incapacitated in any way?"
Nicolo stared at him for a long moment, hazarding a guess. "I assume you want to know if I am fit for a good fight."
"I deserve my satisfaction," Legolas replied, "I will get it. But I will get it fairly. Are you well?"
Nicolo favored him with a thoughtful, sidelong glance as he let Adriano assist him into his warrior's garb. Legolas watched quietly, gaze unyielding as Nicolo was helped into his armor, the aide fastening the straps to his swords and shields and daggers. There was a pall about the room. Nicolo knew his death was near. Legolas knew this too. And both knew the other knew and so on in this ridiculous, confusing game that didn't quite end even when it never really began.
"I heard it said you were an honorable person," Nicolo said, when he was almost fully ready. He was missing his sword, which Adriano picked up last, and thoughtfully stared at. The boy's eyes raised up to his prince's, the orbs burning with his determination. Before Nicolo could stop him, Adriano removed the sword from it's sheathe and swung it toward the elven prince.
Legolas sidestepped and disarmed him easily; Adriano was much younger than he or Nicolo, and certainly much clumsier. He fell in an embarrassed and frustrated pile of robes to the ground. Breathing harshly, his clawed hands made for the elf's neck as he lunged forward, but the attack was once again quickly neutralized. Legolas all but simply stepped aside and tripped him. Clear eyes glinting, the elf towered over his fallen foe and placed the tip of the Sang-age sword threateningly against his young, trembling throat.
"Go ahead," Adriano spat, "Kill me."
He didn't. The elf prince lowered the sword and looked at Nicolo ironically, as if to ask, What the hell is this, not even favoring the tempestuous boy with too much of his attention.
"A fair fighter to be sure, I see this too," Nicolo said wistfully, continuing his line of thought from earlier. The elf could have easily killed the boy, that was plain enough to see. But instead, Legolas sheathed the intricate sword as Nicolo discreetly waved at Adriano to hold his ground. The boy obeyed him unquestioningly.
The Sang-age prince's sword was beauty and death meshed in ridiculous harmony. It had an indulgently carved ivory handle. Heavy and impractical, yes, but it was carefully aged by blood, and honor, and history. Legolas offered it to Nicolo with both palms up, reverently, respectfully, even as his eyes burned with his anger and restlessness. He was inextricably a warrior still, one of honor, and for this revenge to feel as right as he deems his cause to be, things had to be done the right way.
"But you look at me with such spite," Nicolo observed, "Not unlike the inherited anger of our kin, for yours and mine have crossed blades for as long as we care to recall. Not unlike it at all, yes, but that, sharpened by something else altogether. I've wronged you not as a people, but you as a person, an individual. Now I think I know why." He paused, watching Legolas' face.
The elven prince looked back at him steely.
"Perhaps," Nicolo looked at him more closely, "Perhaps a woman… one you had loved."
"You will not be able to recall her from the multitude of defenseless faces you've slaughtered," Legolas said evenly, unwilling for this knowledge to be used against him, "But I guarantee you will not forget me, and what her killing is going to cost you. I will kill you tonight. But I will get all my satisfaction when all that is you and yours burns to the ground."
"Hm," Nicolo murmured thoughtfully, "Well. Just so. But let me teach you one final thing, dear prince. All that is truly grave and tragic begins not with death and killing, which is a given as long as there is life, especially in times of war. All that is truly grave and truly tragic begins with vengeance."
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That night, Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen cleanly divested Prince Nicolo of the Sang-age tribe of his life.
The same sword Legolas handed the enemy warrior-prince before the duel was now back in his hands, wrapped in the dead man's bloodied cloak, an already scarlet one to begin with, emblazoned with the symbols of his Royal House. The elf prince secured it upon his horse's pack, and he rode from north to south bearing his prize, flanked by the loyal Mikael and a loose troupe of four escorts bearing their own burden; a defiant young prisoner and witness by the name of Adriano.
The horse rode as frustrated as his restless master, hooves tearing across the ground. But it did not drown the sobs of an enraged Adriano, and both things did not drown the elven prince's tumultuous thoughts and his pounding, pounding heart.
All that is truly grave and tragic begins not with death and killing, which is a given as long as there is life, especially in times of war. All that is truly grave and truly tragic begins with vengeance.
It sounded like a curse, especially from the mouth of a dead man. Or perhaps it was only, and very simply an indisputable truth. Either way, he did not feel as if he ended something this night—certainly not the pain of her death, certainly not his anger, certainly not his restless hunger. Nothing ended. But something began.
All that is truly grave and truly tragic begins with vengeance.
To be continued…