Chapter Thirty-One: By Blood and Blade
Mingled terror and anguish lent wings to the prince's feet and he fairly flew up the hallway with Lóthmir stumbling unsteadily behind him, unable to keep up with the exhausting pace. Legolas did not notice, his mind in turmoil. His harsh breaths hitched around half-formed sobs. The sight of his mother bleeding in his friend's arms had nearly undone him. How many ways more could his uncle wound him?
"Legolas! Legolas, dartho!" came Lóthmir's voice and his friend's hand yanked back sharply on his sleeve, halting him so fast he nearly tore the fabric.
Legolas jerked to a stop, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked down into his friend's face, his eyes glimmering with sorrow. Lóthmir was very pale and breathing laboriously, bent nearly double with his fingers still clutching the prince's sleeve.
"I'm sorry, Lóthmir," He said, helping his friend straighten so he could breathe easier. But the other elf shook himself with a shake of his head.
"No. It's all right… really," He added when he saw Legolas' disbelieving expression. Slowly, he put a hand on the prince's shoulder, squeezing it.
"It's going to be all right. She'll be all right," he said, trying to be reassuring as he attempted to regain his breath. Legolas quickly shrugged off his friend's hand and turned away, afraid that if he kept looking into Lóthmir's compassionate face he would break down entirely.
He halted abruptly as something moved in the shadows in front of him. The sweep of a dun-colored cloak and a glint of red hair startled both of them into immobility.
"What are you doing here?" Lóthmir demanded coldly. Legolas stared in shock at Nárvenien who lowered her hood off her face which was white as a specter.
"What are you hoping to do, tithen?" she chided condescendingly, her eyes on the prince. "All alone?"
"He is not alone," Lóthmir shot back angrily, wavering even as he spoke. Nárvenien cast a cold, sneering look at him.
But Legolas was through arguing with her- that would get them nowhere and every second his mother slipped closer to Mandos' Halls.
"Please, Nárvenien," he bade, abandoning all façades of pride. "There is no one else. If you do not help us, my mother will die. Please."
"Wouldn't you do the same for your mother?" Lóthmir asked quietly, his eyes on Legolas' face.
Something flickered behind the young woman's eyes. But it was gone in an instant and she stared hard at the golden-haired prince for a long time until he sighed and began to walk away. Abruptly, she grabbed his hand.
"Tolo! (Come on!)" she snarled at Lóthmir, pulling Legolas behind her.
They seized anything they could find: bed sheets, coverlets, and sitting on a nightstand, a porcelain basin of water its contents sloshing over the sides as Lóthmir walked as fast as he dared. Their small pile seemed woefully inadequate but it was all they could find and Legolas was anxious to return to his mother.
Sprinting as fast as they dared, and listening all the while for the sound of footsteps, they hurried back down the corridor.
Haldir had staunched the wound as best he could, pressing on it to alleviate the blood flow but his hands were stained dark with her blood and the Queen had passed into darkness long ago. The captain's face was very white as he listened frantically for the sound of returning footsteps, looking up sharply when he heard them and saw Legolas, followed by Lóthmir and a woman carrying blankets and linens.
"You have a habit of showing up at the right time," Haldir remarked, recognizing his mysterious messenger.
Moving as fast and as carefully as they could, Haldir and Nárvenien eased the Queen's limp body onto one of the spread out blankets, rewrapping fresh bandages around the gaping wound in her side that still bled sluggishly. Legolas gripped his mother's hand tightly through it all, his eyes on her face; Lóthmir hovered behind him with a hand on his shoulder.
Rameil stumbled over to them, his torn tunic and unsheathed sword bloodied. Behind him trailed Tirien and a remnant of his guard. The soldiers were woefully few and Haldir knew that the battle in the hall had turned fatally in their favor for he could no longer hear the clashing of swords.
"Sarithan is taking those who surrendered to the prisons," Rameil informed him absently, looking down at the fallen queen.
Tirien fell to his knees beside his liege lady, quickly glancing over his son and his friend.
"We must get her to a healer."
Haldir shook his head, ignoring the elven guard's incredulous look.
"There are none to tend her- we must do what we can here."
Tirien froze at his words, a cold sensation swooping through his stomach as he realized that the Queen might die. She was already so cold.
As though echoing his thoughts, Nárvenien spoke skeptically.
"She's going to die."
"No! She's not!" Legolas cried, leaping to his feet threateningly. "How dare you say that!" Nárvenien handled his outburst silently, her eyes on the Queen's pale, pale form.
Behind her, Tirien and his remaining guard had gathered, their eyes flickering from their Queen back to the bloody hall.
"We must find him. Now."
"I fear it will be too late."
Nárvenien was beginning to edge away from the group, her eyes flickering back and forth uncomfortably. Tirien caught her by the wrist and looked sternly down at her.
"I recognize you. You are Eraeriel's daughter- she was deep in his counsels. Where is he?"
She said nothing.
"You don't want Ainan to rule. That much you have proven by aiding us," Rameil said. "You know what he's capable of."
Lóthmir sighed in impatience and stared hard at her, a hand on Legolas' shoulder who did not look up from his mother's face. "Nárvenien, for once in your life help someone other than yourself," he pleaded.
"Why should I? What have you ever done for me that I should help you?" she snarled right back.
"Young lady," Tirien began very gravely and her eyes snapped to his face. "If you have been helping him, there are ways- we can pardon you. The King will grant you clemency- but only if you help us."
"You have helped us before, why not do so again?" Rameil entreated.
Nárvenien shook her head furiously, her expression conflicted.
"I can't! I can't! You don't understand!" her voice broke and she shuddered deeply, restraining her tears. "He has eyes and ears everywhere!"
"Do you think Ainan will let your family live if he should gain the throne? If the last of those who oppose him are dead?" Haldir put in, his silver eyes staring up at the woman. Nárvenien shot a sharp, stricken glance at him. Her eyes darted nervously around the group of grim-faced elves, armed and bloodied. She blinked and her shoulders bowed as though with great weariness.
"The throne room."
Ainan faced the bowed head of the Elvenking with savage triumph glittering in his half-mad eyes. In his hand, he held a long, gleaming sword sparking with orange flame in the torchlight.
On either side of him only a handful of guards stood, their faces suffused with mixtures of wonder and horror.
"I want you to die," he hissed sibilantly so that only Thranduil could hear. "With the knowledge that you have lost everything that you hold dear: your kingdom, the loyalty of your friends, your family. Everything." He raised the sword up in a slender-fingered hand and touched the Elvenking's neck, ever-so-slightly digging into the soft skin at the hollow of his throat.
"Be comforted, Thranduil," he taunted mockingly. "Know that your wife and child will join you in Mandos' Halls. Soon." He laughed, the sound echoing horrendously in the vaulted chamber.
Cobalt eyes, crackling with defiance to the last, stared impassively up into the silver-blue of the serpent's.
"Ainan, I pray you will find peace," he said quietly, fear for his family cutting him to the soul.
Ainan sneered.
"Foolish sentiments, brother." He turned away momentarily, a satisfied smirk breaking across his narrow features.
"How perfect an executioner's block!" he crowed as he dragged the resisting but pain-filled King to the dais. Two of Ainan's guards forced the King to his knees, their doubt and dread plain on their pale visages; clearly they had never expected this to go so far. But Ainan paid them no heed. His ultimate triumph loomed ever nearer now as he raised the sword, its edge flickering with orange tongues as though of flames running up and down the steel. The shadow of it cast a straight line across the back of the King's neck.
"Navaer, muindor," he swung as a last taunt.
Dead silence hung thick as a pall upon the air.
The doors to the vaulted chamber suddenly slammed open, rebounding off the walls and Ainan twisted round, startled. But the arrow had already been released. He screamed in pain as the bolt knocked him over backwards, deeply embedded in his shoulder. He tripped over the throne stairs and fell flat on his back, the sword skittering from his grasp as he clutched at the arrow haft.
Thranduil raised his head, shocked, releasing a breath in unimaginable relief to see his Captain of the Guard striding towards him and at his heels, Legolas with Haldir following close behind, a small limp bundle in his arms.
Tirien held a bow loosely in one hand, his face set and grim.
"Are you all right, hir-nin?" he asked as he helped the Elvenking to his feet and sliced his bonds but Thranduil had eyes only for his family as he swooped upon his son and drew him into a tight embrace.
Legolas had felt his heart stop when he had seen his father under his uncle's sword. Now tears of joy and relief welled up in his eyes as he returned his father's hug. After a long moment, the King released his son and turned towards the Lórien captain who stood quietly by.
"Adar," Legolas said quietly. "Naneth… he, Vedhir, he-"
Thranduil's countenance clouded with grief as he approached Haldir and tenderly touched the cold brow of his wife. Anariel's eyes slowly floated open and Haldir quickly though gently transferred her to her husband's arms. Anariel, who had slightly regained her senses, wrapped her arm around his neck, cradling her face against his chest with her other, bloody hand clutching at the wound in her side.
"My lord! Tiro! (Look out)," Tirien shouted in warning.
Thranduil felt an arm strike his back and he tumbled to the ground with his wife clutched protectively in his arms as a shrill waspish hiss sliced the air and an arrow skipped off the stone not an inch from where the Elvenking sprawled.
Tindómëtir drew another arrow to his ear. In the bright torchlight, his hair shone a deep russet red. Tirien froze, his eyes hard and unyielding as he stood over his monarchs. Haldir had jerked Legolas behind him.
"You will die for that, traitor," the elven guard hissed. The dark elf drew the longbow from his shoulder and pulled another shaft tight to the string. Nárvenien suddenly leapt forward and seized Tindómëtir's arm, spoiling his aim.
"Adar, daro! Stay this madness!" she cried. The dark elf's eyes widened then hardened. With a sharp backhand, he struck his daughter to the floor and simultaneously lunged at Tirien.
It happened before anyone had even seen it.
Tirien drew his sword and leapt back to avoid Tindómëtir's blade. But there was nothing in the dark elf's hands.
Then Nárvenien started screaming.
Tirien stumbled and a wondering hand reached up to his throat. Hot wetness drenched his hands and as he drew his fingers away, he realized they were soaked in blood. In shock, he touched his neck again where a small silver knife lay deeply embedded.
"Adar," Lóthmir's hoarse whisper dropped dreadfully into the sudden silence.
Tirien turned to look at his son and dropped to the floor, his lifeblood spilling over the black marble.
"NO!" Lóthmir's anguished cry broke the heavy silence as he collapsed beside his father's body.
Tindómëtir merely smiled awfully as he lunged forward again. Rameil leapt forward to intercept him.
"Enough!" a strong voice echoed boomingly through the arched hall and all battle immediately ceased. Tindómëtir checked his advance, stunned abruptly into immobility. Ainan looked up, his mouth curling in a thin sneer as Thranduil, wavering only slightly, strode towards him.
The King of Mirkwood, battered and beaten, dressed in only a torn tunic and his breeches, bereft of his crown and all trappings of royalty- even so, the aura of veiled power pulsed about him. His long golden hair gleamed in the torchlight and determination sat upon his brow and strength in his hand as he strode purposefully forward, his blue eyes gleaming.
"I will not allow another drop of elven blood to be spilled!" the monarch said grimly, his voice rolling like thunder in the cavernous hall, grief at the loss of his dear friend evident on his face.
Ainan bared his teeth at the King; a dark fire kindled behind his eyes as he ripped the arrow from his shoulder, unflinching. He rose swiftly, swayed for only a moment before finding his feet. He shrugged out of his scarlet mantle, allowing it to flutter to the stairs as he picked up his long sword from where it had fallen.
"But for yours," he answered, sweeping closer as Rameil pressed Tirien's blade into the King's hand hurriedly.
Outside the large windows high on the left side of the chamber, they could see white flakes of snow hurling themselves against the panes. The wind howled through the chinks in the stone, screaming down the corridors. Inside, all was silent.
Locking eyes, the two elves circled one another slowly, blades bared and flickering in the torchlight that cast ominous shadows fleeing into the corners, enlarging the massive shapes of the two combatants on the walls.
Blood oozed slowly, spreading over the white silk shirt Ainan wore beneath his royal robes. He did not look remotely charismatic or kingly now. His long hair had fallen free of its elegant braids, matted with his own blood. His white-knuckled grip on the steel in his hand, tightened still further as he approached to within a few paces of the King.
Legolas and Haldir along with their fellow soldiers kept well back along the walls. Ainan's guards stood frozen as statues. They knew the price for interference. Tindómëtir still stood poised with Nárvenien on the floor beside him.
All stood breathless, watching the battle unfold before their very eyes. It was horrific to witness. The two brothers, both evenly matched in strength and skill, fighting for the sake of the very kingdom at the tips of their swords. None had witnessed the like of it before. To think that such treachery could rise at the very heart of their realm!
Ainan lunged first, a long sideways sweep at the King's side. Parrying it nimbly, Thranduil danced back a step, chancing a glance over his shoulder to make sure his wife and son were safely out of the way. But Ainan came on, unheedingly.
Thranduil gave ground before him, blocking his furious strikes, allowing him to expend himself a bit, consumed by his fury as he sought to beat the King down. They wove back and forth past the pillars, underneath the guttering torches entrenched in their sconces.
Even injured, Ainan was desperately strong, driven by the knowledge that if he lost here, he would lose all, including his own life.
Sweat poured down both their faces, streaking their temples, their bright, fervent eyes fixed upon one another, sword blades flashing like lightning in the dim hall, fighting to gain the upper hand.
Thranduil thrust his blade forward, aiming at his opponent's chest.
Swifter than an adder, Ainan slid aside, pivoting on his heel to slash at the back of the King's neck as he stumbled past, thrown off by the lack of resistance. Thranduil threw himself under the whistling blade, twisting around catlike to land a sharp slap with the flat of his blade to the back of the usurper's sword wrist.
With a cry of pain, Ainan released his blade.
Tindómëtir lunged forward a step and stopped. Even he dared not interfere.
Diving for his dropped weapon, Ainan leapt back to his feet to see Thranduil calmly waiting for him a few paces away. Incensed, the tyrant bounded forward, grasping his sword with both hands and swinging down with chopping force that would have knocked the blade from his adversary's hands and cloven him in two.
Sweeping his sword around in a semi-circle, the King swung his blade up to meet the strike, halting it abruptly halfway. Stinging shockwaves raced up both of their arms and they struggled, locked together as each tried to unbalance the other. Swiftly disengaging his blade, Thranduil caused Ainan's to resound sharply against the marble floor, leaving a cloven scar in the stone.
Ainan cried out in pain as the flat of Thranduil's sword struck the splintered arrow haft in his shoulder driving it in deeper. Leaping well away, Ainan snatched up his fallen mantle. With a snarl, he cast it before his enemy's eyes, withdrawing as he did so a long slender blade from his waist, thrusting it through the cloth- aiming for his brother's heart.
"Adar!" Legolas screamed in warning, racing forward but Haldir restrained him.
A sharp sting erupted across his chest as the King heard Legolas' alarm ring in his mind. Thranduil parried the lethal stroke in the very nick of time and thrust the slashed cloak aside, his teeth gritted and shaking the sweat from his eyes.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Ainan dove forward and viciously struck Thranduil's blade aside, sheathing his own to the hilt in the King's shoulder, thrusting him back against a pillar. Thranduil screamed against the agony, quickly choking it off as Ainan's silver-blue eyes blazed into his own.
"You lose, muindor," he whispered softly, his voice haggard with exertion and pain, his face not an inch from his hated adversary's.
"Not yet," Thranduil gritted out, his face grim. Ainan blinked slowly and glanced down at the King's dagger- impaling his side.
"Adar!" Legolas screamed again, breaking free from Haldir but Kirar wrapped his arms around the young elf.
"No, my prince!"
The evil elf stepped backwards, a gasp escaping his lips as he wrenched himself from the end of the blade and ripped his from the King's shoulder with a vicious twist. Thranduil groaned and pressed a hand to the freely bleeding wound as he slumped against the wall, his legs buckling.
The King had not managed to strike a fatal blow, knowing that his wife still loved her brother and would not have him slain.
But Ainan was bleeding badly by now. The wound in his shoulder stained his once-white shirt a dark, ugly crimson and now the blow to his side had torn it again. His face was white as the marble pillars.
Stumbling backwards, dizzy with blood loss, pain and rage, his heel struck the first of the broad dais stairs and he crumpled to the ground. Ainan fell hard on his side, managing to stagger back to his knees, his sword hanging from his limp fingers. He gasped in labored breaths as Thranduil slowly pushed himself away from the wall, a hand pressed to his shoulder, sword still raised.
Summoning the last of his fearsome anger, Ainan lunged to his feet with a hiss, his blade scything out, aiming at the King's neck. Thranduil dodged the fatal blow, seized his brother-in-law's arm and threw him to the floor.
Ainan fell hard and did not rise again. He rolled onto his back and Thranduil quickly kicked the weapon from his hand, his sword pressing warningly over the traitor's heart. Hate-hardened eyes blazed into his own and Thranduil felt the weight of that gaze as he never had before.
Ainan realized he had lost; he could not fight nor indeed even rise and the defeat shone bitterly in his silver-blue eyes. Drawing aside his bloodstained tunic to expose his chest, he raised pleading, cold eyes to his brother-in-law.
"Finish it quickly, Thranduil."
The Elvenking's sword came up and leveled at his throat. Then slowly lowered.
"I swore after I buried my father that I would not bury another family member," Thranduil vowed quietly, struggling to keep his legs from buckling.
"Bind him!" the King thundered at several of his guards who leapt immediately forward at his command. "Perhaps a few hundred years in the dungeons will mellow your temper, muindor."
Seven elven warriors surrounded the trapped elf. Ainan glared at his brother-in-law with acute hatred, never moving as the guards bound him in chains and dragged him away.
Thranduil leaned heavily upon his sword, gasping as Kirar released Legolas who ran to his father and hugged him tightly. But he felt no triumph- only a nearly overwhelming sense of relief and mingled sadness for all the pain and heartache that had been caused by all of this. There was no triumph for those families who had lost those dearest to them because of Ainan. His death would not bring their loved ones back.
But it was over at last.
Nárvenien had regained her feet, leaning against one of the scarred columns in the great hall, her face white and lip bloody as her eyes nailed themselves to the sleek form of her father who also stood as still as stone, watching everything with a keen, wary eye, looking to his master for instructions. There was a dark glint beneath those half-lidded eyes.
As the guards advanced towards him, Tindómëtir suddenly snatched a javelin he had held concealed beneath his cloak and cast it with a savage snarl- not at the King- but at Legolas.
"No!" Thranduil screamed, leaping up with lightning quickness.
But not quick enough.
It happened so fast Legolas didn't even see it. He felt a sharp shove between his shoulder blades and the breath expelled his body with a whoosh as he hit the stone hard. A heavy weight thudded painfully onto his legs and the prince quickly wriggled free, spinning around in horror.
"Haldir," he whispered in anguish.
When he had seen the javelin, Haldir had not hesitated to put himself between his young friend and death.
A dozen hands laid hold of Tindómëtir, wrestling him to the ground. A vicious blow rendered the mad elf senseless and other hands lifted him and dragged him away as Rameil and Ancadal immediately rushed to their fallen captain's side. Legolas crawled towards him who lay prone on the ground, his blue eyes wide, frantically searching, praying, hoping his uncle hadn't found one last way to wound him.
Kirar had crouched beside the Lórien commander worriedly as others of his command gathered around their lieges. One of them was anxiously pressing a gauze pad to the King's wounded shoulder.
"Oh, Haldir, I'm so sorry," Legolas whispered brokenly. "I'm sorry- everything I said, I did. I'm sorry!"
"Please, my prince we must tend him," Kirar said, gently pushing him aside as another soldier gingerly pulled free the javelin that had pierced the elf captain's side.
Legolas scrambled hastily back out of the way and nearly fell, staggering to regain his footing. His head swam and he suddenly realized that he hurt all over. Turning away from the sight of his friend's bleeding form, he caught sight of Lóthmir, kneeling over his father's lifeless body.
Legolas dropped beside him and enfolded him in his arms. But his friend pushed him away with a shake of his head. He seemed not to see the small, silver knife embedded in his father's throat nor the glassy look in his half-open eyes.
"He's not dead, Legolas," he said though his voice choked with sobs. Denial was etched into every line of his young face. "He's-he's just sleeping right? He's going to wake up any minute now!" he gasped desperately, urgently shaking his father's shoulder. "Come on, Adar, wake up! We've got to go home. Naneth'll be worried…"
Legolas felt his throat clench and he knew tears were streaming down his face. He grabbed his friend's arm and drew him tightly against him.
"Lóthmir, he-he's not going to wake up," he whispered. "He's dead, all right? He's not…He's not coming back." The thought that this elf had saved the lives of his father and himself at the cost of his own was tearing the prince apart inside. He hadn't known he was capable of hurting this bad even in his uncle's hands.
Lóthmir trembled fitfully in his arms, staring wide-eyed at nothing. Then, his face crumpled and he buried his face in the shoulder of his friend's tunic, crying as though his heart would break. The prince stroked his hair gently, looking anywhere but into Tirien's empty gaze
Rameil knelt beside the both of them and gently closed the elven guard's eyes as he drew his grey cloak over the still corpse. Legolas hugged Lóthmir harder, his voice shaking.
"Shh, it'll be all right, mellon-nin." He didn't know how it could be though…
It would never be all right.
