Chapter 20: Running to Stand Still
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"The King has fallen!! Alas, alas! He has fallen! King Oropher is slain!"
Heaving, Merionè pulled his bloody sword from the writhing body of a dying Orc. As he struggled to catch his breath, he turned towards the panicked cries, not fully processing the actual words. The dancing shadows that had only just a few moments ago accompanied the clashing of weapons and puncturing of flesh, gave way now to scatterings of light and darkness as the late afternoon sun neared the end of its daily journey, leaving only a faint, pastel landscape with none left alive to interrupt the rays' paths. As he pushed a lock of bloodied, yellowish-white hair out of his eyes, Merionè peered at the deceased beasts around him. They may have fallen by his own hand, but Merionè had fought too many battles to be comforted by seemingly still bodies. Slowly and gingerly he stepped through the gruesome mess, ready to strike out at any who may still show a sign of life.
But thankfully the fierce storm had subsided, after many long days and nights of her treacherous onslaughts of Orcs and wargs terrorizing the mighty forest of Greenwood. A King of Men had felled Sauron in the distant land of Mordor where Oropher currently led a large army of elves - or so Merionè had heard, though not until now that the calming breezes whispered songs of a long awaited peace, did he finally start to believe it. Could it be my time here is done? Merionè thought as he kicked aside an Orc, assuring himself the foul creature no longer breathed. At Gil-galad's and Cirdan's request, he had traveled to Greenwood to help the small population of Sindarin and Sylvan elves defend the newly founded forest of Greenwood from the armies of Sauron as Oropher and much of his elves went East to join in the Last Alliance. During the endless days and nights of battle, he had grown fond of those he fought aside, the formidable, resolute, proud elves of Oropher – the few that stayed behind to protect their kingdom as their King fought in battles greater than they could ever imagine. Indeed, though relieved the battle was finally coming to an end, a part of him regretted the upcoming parting of ways with King Oropher's elves. He had even become enamored by Greenwood itself – the great wood, imperial with her emerald green trimmings, grand, radiant beeches and all the warmth and light of the elves that had only just begun to inhabit it, called to him just as the sea always did.
"Ai! Ai! King Oropher is slain!"
Merionè gasped and quickly looked up. Slain?! Nay, it could not be! Paying no heed to the blood streaming from his own multiple wounds, his continuing search for live Orcs and the much awaited brightening sun, he broke into a frantic sprint towards the source of the cries through a labyrinth of great beeches and over the bloodied bodies of wounded Orcs and elves.
Suddenly, Merionè came upon a great clearing where he skidded to a stop and his fair face, stained and bruised, froze into a terrified gape. He then fell to his knees amidst a sea of broken bodies, strewn across the earth like dead fish thrown on the beach by fishermen emptying their nets. But a closer look revealed these bodies were not so carelessly strewn, but rather carefully laid down, their hands folded over their bodies. More warriors on horseback rode into the clearing, leading horses behind them carrying two or even three bodies. Merionè shook his head in disbelief. "Ai! More return dead than alive!"
One warrior rode up to Merionè and leapt gracefully off of his horse. "Aye, it is Thranduil's orders that we bring them all back. He wished not to leave them in that cursed land."
Merionè's heart stopped at the mention of Thranduil's name. Thranduil's orders. Alas! He had forgotten the cries that brought him to this clearing! "King Oropher?" he breathed quietly.
The warrior bowed his head and mouthed a quick prayer before answering, "Thranduil is bringing him."
A deep frown creased Merionè's young face and he once again had to push away a strand of stiff, bloodied hair as he looked away, watching distractedly as the warriors of Mordor continued to lay the bodies before him. He shook his head again. "So many… so many keep coming…"
"Aye, but it is in victory they return. Sauron is defeated," the warrior returned, though his voice wavered slightly as if he still had to convince himself that Sauron was actually defeated. That the battle had been worth it.
Merionè fell against his heels and dropped his sword to his side. "Defeated…" he echoed faintly.
Suddenly, the elves fell still and silent and those who still remained on their horses quickly dismounted and fell to their knees with the rest of their companions. Merionè followed their gaze and watched in awe as one magnificent horse, followed by six others, slowly entered the clearing. Upon the front horse rode an elf who though visibly weary, radiated imperially through his mournful visage. The elves bowed their heads as he approached. Meione however could not tear his eyes away from this image of Oropher. How the son resembled his father! Indeed, Thranduil even shared his father's perfect, confident posture and steady, commanding gaze. When he stood well within the clearing he considered the genuflecting elves warily and then dismounted and faced the other three who followed him. One of the horses had no rider, but pulled behind it a cart draped in silky cloths. The four elves on the other horses quickly dismounted and released the cart from the horse. They bent over the body in the cart and carefully lifted him on their shoulders. Quietly, they then walked ahead of the horses and into the midst of the clearing where they were surrounded by the few who had survived both the war in Mordor and the battle within their own wood.
An eerie lament filled the air and the entire wood fell silent in mourning. The trees glowed through the ephemeral mist as if the souls of all those who had died infiltrated the pearly bark and emerald leaves, causing them to glow radiantly in adoration of their fallen King. Such a phantasmal jewel this forest was indeed – almost surreal in her otherworldly splendor – fitting for a King who was destined for immortality, if not in his physical form, then in the enduring legends of the future generations of spritely woodelves and the spirits of his own kin. His son. His grandson.
Captivated and heartbroken, Merionè watched the King, still beautiful, still radiating with unyielding courage and power, ignore the cries and sobs of his people below him as he lay dead upon the shoulders of the few victorious warriors of Greenwood. The very few. As he let out his own choked sobs, Merionè turned his gaze to the King's son who now kneeled at the head of his father amidst the strewn bodies of what were now his people. Chills tickled Merionè's spine as he gazed at the still form of Thranduil, his head bowed in mourning for his father. For all Merionè knew, hours, even days could have passed before Thranduil finally raised his head. With control that seemed to outdo even the warriors who quivered ever so slightly with remorse, he eyed the remaining warriors that stood around them. He then gazed at those who had died for the King, whose spirits now filled the air around them. Ai! So many had died!
Thranduil's bright eyes rested upon the scattered bodies. Though his face remained stoic, the troubled gleam in his eyes betrayed his grief. He examined each one carefully, pausing briefly at the ones he recognized, and then with a deep breath he momentarily shut his eyes to the graveyard around him where his beloved father now reigned. A few other lone warriors crept up beside Merionè and hesitatingly put down their arms as they watched the scene before them. After so much fighting, so much pain, it was hard to believe the battle was over. But it was impossible to believe their King was dead.
"Ai! What is left of our people! More have died than have lived!" one elf lamented softly beside Merionè.
Merionè bit his lip and gazed again at Oropher. Having traveled from Cirdan's realm in Lindon, he felt somewhat removed from the Sindarin and Sylvan elves who now mourned one of their own, yet his heart ached with remorse. Such blithe creatures deserved no pain – through so many nights, as Merionè quietly contemplated their dire situation, the woodelves would merrily sing tales and legends of ages past. Rarely could he resist joining them in their merry-making. Just to watch them now somberly take in not only their King, but so many of their own kin, brutally slain, broke Merionè's heart. In years to come, he would continue to watch sadly as the woodelves' blithe nature necessarily grew more suspicious and distrustful, as fate continued to test the bounds of the elves' strained hearts.
"Alas that the son should carry his father in such a state."
Merionè furrowed his eyebrows at these words and moved his eyes from the King to the warriors beneath him. Thranduil had taken the lead position, stoically shouldering his deceased father.
And so begins King Thranduil's reign in Greenwood, amidst a dead army. Valar willing, this will be the last of such wars he will have to see.
Slowly, the elves walked through the clearing and towards the Forest River whose rapids gurgled musically. The kneeling elves around them rose and followed somberly in this procession. Merionè too rose and followed the King's final journey. When they arrived at her banks they paused as two elves quickly appeared with a plank and the same cloth that lay draped over the cart. All of the other elves bowed their heads and one sang a spine chilling lament as they laid Oropher on the draped plank and wrapped him in the cloth. A final elf brought forward a flaming torch which he handed to Thranduil.
Thranduil grasped the torch with hands that quivered ever so slightly and gazed upon the solemn, ghostly figure of his father. The plank lay at edge of the river and its cool water lapped at the silken cloth that draped over the edges. The elves' lament ceased as they all considered the King's son, his features glowing from the brilliant flame. Suddenly, he broke into a lament and his strong, beautiful voice filled the entire wood with its mourning. The elves all fell to their knees and Merionè wondered if like him, they found they no longer has the strength to stand as Thranduil's voice haunted and chilled his very soul. At the end of the lament, the plank was pushed carefully into the river and Thranduil carefully held the torch over his father, its flames catching on the opalescent cloth. He then placed the torch in his father's hands and allowed the plank to float freely into the rapids. A moment later, as it floated rapidly down the river's currents, it burst into magnificent flames, a beacon for the remaining elves of Greenwood who stood now at the edge of this river. Thranduil stood and watched flames until they disappeared over the horizon. Then, with a soft wail, the formidable prince – who now was destined to be a King over a people whose wars had only just begun – collapsed to his knees in uncontrollable grief. His sobs shook his body and his muffled cries filled the wood. A few warriors stood over him, their heads still bowed, as the others returned to begin placing the rest of the bodies into the river to follow their King. Laments continued to haunt the wood as one by one, Greenwood's fallen warriors – the heroes of the War of the Last Alliance, disappeared after their King. As the last of the dead floated beyond the horizon, Thranduil continued to sob for the father he had lost – too soon, too suddenly. As the sun slowly began to set, the elves slowly began to disperse. Merionè hesitated as he watched the trembling form of Thranduil, but a light hand on his shoulder gently pushed him away.
"Come. The son must be given his time to grieve. Only Elbereth can comfort him now."
Merionè nodded and slowly walked away. Indeed, the stars of Elbereth slowly began to peak out and watch the new King of elves mourn his departed father. Their radiant beams shone on his form, causing Thranduil to glow with all of the departed spirits of those who had given their lives so that he could be here now, in the midst of Greenwood the Great, at the brink of a great kingdom to come.
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The next day, Merionè stood aside and gathered his belongings as the woodland elves around him began to resettle into their home and begin their new lives in Greenwood the Great. The silvery trees glistened in the morning dew which flickered and reflected prismatic rays of light off the smooth lustrous leaves that danced softly in the light breeze, blowing forth from the rich blue sky above – what must indeed have been the face of Manwe himself, for never had a sky appeared so pure and magnificent. Merionè closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp air, allowing his entire body to relax and lose itself to the melodic songs of larks and bluejays and the fragrant smells of fresh blossoms, their syrupy sweet nectar rich and alluring to the musical bees and hummingbirds. This must be what Valinor is like. The Valar themselves must have blessed this land! Merionè thought.
When he opened his eyes, he noticed with a small start, a tall proud elf approaching him, his golden hair shimmering in the sun's faint rays, and with his own majestic glow. Merionè quickly fell to his knee and bowed his head in respect to the new King of this enchanted wood.
Thranduil raised an elegant eyebrow and gazed warmly at the young elf. Only his glittering blue eyes betrayed his slight discomfiture at this display of deference to him. With a small wave of his hand which seemed to emulate the willowy, graceful waves of the supple branches of the grand trees in the wind, he motioned for Merionè to rise.
Merionè obediently straightened and met the King's gaze with his own grey-blue eyes. Immediately, he was taken aback by the formidable strength and authority in the young King's eyes – as if Oropher's own soul had immediately found a home within Thranduil.
Calmly, Thranduil studied Merionè's face for several long moments. Finally, in a velvety, refined voice, he spoke.
"You are one of the very few of our elves who have survived this slaughter and yet you remain in the shadows as if you are undeserving of any credit, any recognition for the victory you have won for our wood while the rest of us fought in Mordor."
Surprised by these words, Merionè took a moment before responding. "My lord… I do not believe merely surviving is any cause for recognition."
"Perhaps not, but that is not what I said," Thranduil responded sternly. "It is the victory, the reclaiming of our wood that is a cause for recognition."
Merionè nodded slowly and gazed at the bright, glistening trees surrounding them. "Aye, it has been an honor to fight for your people," he whispered.
Thranduil cocked his head and raised both eyebrows at this. "Ai… forgive me…You must be one of the mariners of Lindon, sent to us by Gil-galad and Cirdan…"
Merionè nodded. "Yes, my lord, my name is Merionè Ambaraer. As I said, it has been an honor fighting for your people. For your father."
Thranduil's eyes averted briefly towards the ground at the mention of his father, but he quickly looked up again. "I am sorry for your loss," he then said softly.
Merionè looked up in confusion and hesitated before he spoke. "Sorry, my lord?"
Thranduil gazed at him and opened his mouth as if to speak, though no words came forth. He then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You have not heard then. Gil-galad has been slain."
Merionè gaped at Thranduil and his eyes widened in shock. "No…no, it cannot be…" he breathed.
"Aye, it is… I saw it with my own eyes..."
Merionè shook his head in disbelief. "Nay, not the High-King! It cannot be! Alas these days that our great leaders are slain! Oropher, Gil-galad! Ai, what will become of us?"
Thranduil frowned and gazed quietly at the ground. Immediately regretting his words, Merionè grasped Thranduil's shoulders. "Ai, forgive me, 'tis not what I meant…"
Thranduil shook his head and interrupted, "Nay, Merionè you are right. Our greatest leaders have fallen and now the fate of Middle Earth must fall on the shoulders of those less experienced…"
The two stood silently for a few moments in mourning of the memory of their great kings. Thranduil was the first to speak. "If it is a release you are waiting for, you need not wait any longer. I am sure Cirdan awaits your return. He will be taking Gil-galad's place as Lord Elrond must remain in Imladris." The King then studied Merionè carefully and for the first time Merionè noticed the shadows of doubt behind his strong visage – the doubt of a new King, of a son who had just witnessed his father's death, and who now inherited the responsibility of protecting and guiding a battered people, each of whom had lost a loved one – a people who had barely survived themselves.
Though it is true Merionè had been waiting for permission to leave, now that he had it, an inexplicable reluctance washed over him. Two thirds of Oropher's army had perished! Two thirds… And who was left? A few broken warriors, grieving the loss of their kin and leader… A son who somehow had to build a kingdom for these forlorn elves out of the ashes of this war. Nay, this war is not over, Merionè thought. Wars do not end with the termination of battles – not when there is so much left to be done, so much to heal and mend. Indeed, in his heart Merionè knew if there was one place in Middle Earth that needed protection it would not be the havens – nay, for Cirdan had a jewel that would keep them blessed. Greenwood had no such jewel however, only the steadfastness of the elves. Merionè sighed – though his heart yearned for the sea, it also yearned to help these elves, this young King, in the inevitable struggles to come.
Finally Merionè shook his head. "Nay, King Thranduil. I will not return so soon. You have more need for me here than Cirdan does in the havens." He looked determinedly at Thranduil and then bowed his head respectfully.
"I pledge my service to you until the elves of Greenwood can live safely and merrily in the abodes of this wood, without any fear of invasion. I pledge to help you build a kingdom here worthy of your father. You have my word, King Thranduil, I will not abandon you so soon. I would stay and serve you and the elves of this wood, for it is here where my heart tells me I can be the most use." Merionè paused for a moment and hesitatingly looked up at the surprised King. "If you would have me, that is."
Thranduil gazed in shock at the elf and at first did not respond. Suddenly, a wide grin stretched across his face and he clasped the other elf's shoulder, pulling him into an embrace. "I would be a fool to turn you down!" He then pulled away and held Merionè at arm's length. "Merionè, this is an honor. I accept your service. But I know how your heart must yearn for the sea." His grin quickly vanished and a sad, doubtful gleam returned to his eyes. "The battle may be over for now, but I do not believe Sauron to be defeated. I cannot explain it, but my heart tells me the war against him is not yet over. You need not stay with me until it is, Merionè, for who knows when the final battle will be won. But I do know this wood will soon flourish with my people and a great kingdom will be built even despite this lingering threat – for now at least, that threat is too distant to suppress us. Stay as long as your heart bids you to-that is all I ask."
Merionè nodded. "Aye, my heart tells me the same. And so you have my word, King Thranduil. As long as my heart allows me, I will remain with you in Greenwood."
King Thranduil grinned and exclaimed joyfully to the woodelves around them, "Ulmo has sent us a gift! A great mariner of Lindon, of the service of the High-King Gil-galad and Lord Cirdan, and now a protector of Greenwood!"
Merionè smiled shyly and avoided the curious gazes of the elves around him. "Aye, I have been honored indeed to serve such great elf-lords. And it is an honor for me now to serve yet another, for you too will join the ranks of these great Kings – the Valar have deemed it so, I can tell. A great age with many great Kings await us."
Thranduil cocked his head and considered the young mariner in front of him, suddenly wondering whether Merionè truly was as young as he originally thought. "Aye, a great age is ahead of us indeed," he murmured.
* * * *
Merionè awoke with a start, gasping for breath and struggling to regain control of his racing heart. Or did he wake? Perhaps this was the dream. He gazed fitfully around him at the scowling trees, bent over and paralyzed in shadow, dripping with poison and choking from the noxious fumes emanating from Dol Guldur. As long as my heart allows me…Merionè mouthed these words and deliriously searched for Thranduil. It is time then! I must leave… I must leave now… My heart bids me to leave! He shuddered and choked from a sudden intense feeling of claustrophobia. Everything seemed to be threateningly closing in on him – the trees, the rocks, the thick clouds, the sneering Orcs…
Orcs?
Merionè gasped and jumped to his feet, immediately whipping out his dagger, ready for a full-fledged battle with the two hideous creatures. Creatures that had brought so much pain to Greenwood – who had made Thranduil both an orphan and a grieving father. The creatures who kept him from the sea for so long with their endless torment of this once enchanted wood! Aye, they would pay for their carnage, for the plight of the woodelves, for everything…They would pay and then Merionè could return to Lindon. To the havens where the gulls whistled their winsome melodies, where the sea churned and released her salty breath into the fresh, cool air, and the stars shone brightly with stories of days long past. Where he would one day build a ship and sail over the sea – not to Valinor, not to anywhere in particular – nay, it was the sea Merionè wanted and nothing more. As soon as he took care of these Orcs, he would beg Thranduil permission to leave.
But then something strange happened that caused Merionè to pause. The Orcs did nothing – they just sat there! One of them slowly put down an arrow which he had been sharpening incessantly and the other slowly unsheathed a beautiful ivory knife. They both stiffened and rose from their seats, clearly not eager to fight him. Merionè shook his head and shakily held on to his knife, unsure of whether he should attack first – ai, of course he should attack first! He would be a fool to wait for attack! Yet something stayed his hand, something held him back, though he could not say what… Ai! Fight it! You must fight it! Break these chains! Fight!
Merionè gritted his teeth and with all the determination he could summon, he held up his knife and lunged at one of the Orcs.
"MERIONÈ!"
Suddenly, a powerful force grabbed Merionè and knocked him to the ground and his mind slipped into darkness again.
Purple wine splashed and stained the leafy forest ground as goblets joyfully clinked together in honor of the new Queen, and the elves' beloved King. She was as beautiful as the radiant trees of Greenwood, and she and Thranduil were the personifications of young love.
Thranduil laughed and spun his wife to the elves' merry songs. Merionè smiled and quietly watched, remembering the battle that took place on this ground so many years ago. Where so many had died… where those he fought beside fell at the bloody swords of merciless Orcs…Orcs who now trampled upon this party… sneaking up on the joyous King and his wife… ready to attack, ready to kill Thranduil…
Terrified, Merionè let out a powerful scream and lurched awake (or perhaps back into sleep?). He opened his eyes, ready to stab the Orc attackers, the demons who tormented him so, the servants of Sauron that haunted even the happiest of celebrations…
"It is time! It is time I leave and you as well!" he shouted passionately as he lunged forward, ready for attack.
But suddenly a strong arm wrapped around him, restraining him, and instead of an Orc, a terrified prince stood numbly in front of him, his shaky hand nervously holding up an ivory knife in defense.
Merionè blinked and gaped stupidly, quickly scanning the area for the two Orcs he had previously seen. Then resting his eyes once again on the Prince, he breathed incredulously, "Cièdron!?"
Cièdron gaped at Merionè as he carefully backed away. The lush enchanted wood melted away, purple wine turned into venomous sap, and celebratory songs morphed into the howls and groans of Mirkwood.
Merionè blinked and frantically tried to fight off the arms holding him back. "Orcs! There were Orcs! Where are they? We must…" He trailed off when a shivering Cièdron offered no response but merely shook his head wide eyed and white with fear.
"Nay, Merionè, there are no Orcs here…" Cièdron whispered sorrowfully.
"But…but, I saw them…I saw them! They were threatening Thranduil – his wedding… your mother…No, no I mean the battle… the last battle, Oropher's funeral…Or no… Ai! They're always there! Always! But I tried to kill it – did you not see? I attacked it… I blacked out…" Merionè paused and thought for a moment, then suddenly cried triumphantly, "Ai! It was a dream! The funeral, the wedding – I was not there… It was the oath holding back my hand! Ai, just as it had before, but I fought it…I fought it…"
Another voice from behind Merionè interrupted him.
"Nay, Merionè, it was I who held back your hand."
Merionè froze at Bratherond's soft voice and again gaped fearfully at Cièdron. Several long moments passed when only the hushed murmurings of the wind broke the stony silence. "Who are you?" he breathed.
Cièdron's eyes widened and his lip trembled before he could bring himself to answer. Howls and moans filled the wood – perhaps these too belonged to the warriors of the War of the Last Alliance. But even these legendary spirits could no longer offer any protection. "Merionè! You know who I am…" Cièdron murmured,
Merionè fell limp in Bratherond's grip. "Do I? Or is it now that my eyes deceive me? Tell me is it Greenwood I am in, but Mirkwood I see? There were Orcs here, I swear it… Ai I do not know what I see and I do not see what I know! "
Cièdron dropped his knife and ran up to Merionè, roughly grabbing his shoulders. "Merionè! It is us you see and us you know! It is Mirkwood you see, but Greenwood you are in! If it is Thranduil's son before you, then your eyes do not deceive you!"
Merionè trembled and tightly shut his eyes. "Aye, it is Thranduil's son I see…" he whispered.
Thranduil shook his head in frustration as his two youngest once again stormed into his meeting, squabbling over Valar knew what this time. A smile tugged on Merionè's lips, though he fought back the impulse to laugh, as did the others currently seated beside their King, as the two young elflings demanded their father's attention to resolve yet another battle between them.
"You have a mother also, you know!" Thranduil bellowed angrily above his sons' bickering.
"But Ada, I wish not to bother her now as she is defenestrating," Cièdron replied matter-of-factly.
A baffled silence fell over the King and his companions, which included the venerable Lord Elrond who now fought valiantly to control his smirk and a rather grumpy Bratherond who sank into his chair, clearly annoyed with this interruption. Thranduil furrowed his eyebrows and stared incredulously at his sons.
"Your mother is what?" he asked slowly, enunciating each word.
"Defenestrating," Cièdron repeated. "She told us that whenever we fight, she defenestrates and we should never interrupt her while she defenestrates. She said to see you instead."
As usual, Legolas remained silent as Cièdron spoke, though his features revealed that at least on this one topic, he was in perfect agreement with his brother.
Lord Elrond raised his eyebrows and humorously considered the two young elves. "It seems Lady Galeraen has found an interesting way to pass her time, King Thranduil."
Thranduil frowned and sighed angrily as he sank into his chair. "Aye, I shall have to speak to her later about this new pastime. Last time it was prevaricating, but Legolas somehow knew the meaning of that word, so it didn't quite work…" he muttered. Elrond's smirk grew and he released a small chuckle. When Thranduil was seated he looked again at his sons and let out another exasperated sigh. But it was Merionè who finally spoke up.
"My young princes, as you can see, we are having a very important meeting right now…"
Cièdron straightened and then looked shamefully towards the ground. "Aye I am sorry… it is just that Legolas…"
Merion shook his head and held up his hand. "Now, now, there is no need to apologize. But perhaps you will be able to help us…"
Both Legolas' and Cièdron's eyes lit up and the two straightened with anticipation.
Merion smiled seeing that he had the elflings' full attention. "It is a riddle you see… Lord Elrond has been trying to figure it out, for it is of utmost importance to the elves of Imladris…"
Cièdron nearly jumped with excitement at this. "I am very good at riddles! What is it? I could figure it out!"
Merion raised his eyebrows and eyed the two princes closely. "I will tell it to you… But you must promise not to return unless you have figured it out, for we will need the utmost concentration on our parts…"
This time Legolas decided to speak up. "We will not! What is it?"
Merion leaned back and paused, allowing the suspense to build in the young elves' hearts. "What runs without legs and whistles without a mouth?" he finally asked mysteriously.
The two brothers looked at each other, each mouthing the riddle questioningly.
Thranduil cleared his throat and impatiently spoke up. "Yes, yes, that is the riddle. Now figuring out this riddle is even more important than your mother's defenestration, so I suggest you go to her for help – you can tell her I sent you. Now go and we too shall try to figure out this puzzle…"
Cièdron and Legolas nodded, and distractedly left the room, both lost in thought as they searched their minds for an answer. As soon as the door shut behind them, Thranduil loosed a sigh and Elrond sat back, an amused look still coloring his features.
"Well done, Master Merionè. That should keep them for a while…"
Thranduil frowned doubtfully and gazed at the door. "You do not know my sons, Lord Elrond…"
Bratherond grunted. "Aye, I give them one minute before they begin to fight over the answer to this riddle!"
As if on cue, the door flew open with Legolas leaping in triumphantly with Cièdron at his heels. "The wind! It is the wind!" he yelled. Merionè laughed as Thranduil groaned. But then he gasped as a shadow suddenly engulfed the two young sons…
"NO!!!"
Cièdron grabbed Merionè again and shook him lightly. "Merionè! Merionè, peace!"
Merionè collapsed to his knees and let out a small cry, before falling limp again in Bratherond's embrace, giving into the darkness of yet more delusions and memories. The wind whistled her eerie laments and ran her long fingers through Merionè's hair as the elf trembled and lurched in his troubled sleep. Bratherond cradled his head in his lap and ran his own fingers through the elf's hair. With a sigh, he took Merionè's knife and carefully placed in into his belt.
"You should sleep, Cièdron," he murmured wearily, never removing his eyes from Merionè.
Without a word Cièdron slid down against a tree, but did not shut his eyes. The two sat in silence as yet another day slowly began to creep through the thick canopy. Gradually, Merionè grew more still in Bratherond's care as if subconsciously his rebellious mind decided to once again trust the touch of his comrade. When the storm finally subsided within the quivering elf, Bratherond carefully reached over to Merionè's pack and began to rummage through its contents. Cièdron lackadaisically watched as Bratherond pulled out wrapped lembas biscuits, a whetting stone, cloth and arrow heads. Bratherond frowned disappointedly at these findings and was about to throw the pack aside, when a small object caught his eye. Catching the elf's sudden interest in the pack, Cièdron leaned forward to get a better look at whatever it was Bratherond found.
Bratherond held it up and a sad smile bent his lips. Cièdron furrowed his eyebrows curiously. A small, crystal vial hung from Bratherond's hand, filled with clear water that lapped gently against its smooth inner surface. Bratherond looked up and caught Cièdron's gaze.
"Sea water," he stated simply, quickly closing his fist protectively around the vial. "He must have been carrying this for thousands of years…"
Bratherond once again furrowed his brows in thought and searched the grounds around him. Then a sudden idea lit up his face and after carefully laying the vial on Merionè's chest he reached around his own neck and pulled out a long string holding a tiny charm that lay hidden beneath his tunic. After fingering the charm for a moment, he pulled the necklace over his head and proceeded to untie the string and slip off the charm, which he promptly placed in his own pack.
"If he cannot go to the sea, then I shall give the sea to him," he whispered as he slipped the vial onto the string and retied it. He then carefully pulled the necklace over Merionè's head and pulled through the elf's hair so that the vial hung loosely around his neck.
Cièdron raised his eyebrows and cocked his head sadly at this gesture. "Nay, Bratherond. He will see the ocean again. He will return to it," he quietly, but firmly murmured.
Bratherond did not respond and once again they fell into silence. For several long moments they sat when finally with a sigh, Cièdron rose and stroked the necks of one of the horses. "We should continue now," he said resignedly. "We still have a long way to go, and my mind speaks of much evil approaching."
Bratherond dropped his gaze and remained quiet for several long moments. "You have not noticed then," he finally whispered.
"Noticed what?" Cièdron asked eyeing Bratherond carefully as he tried to read the elf's enigmatically stoic features.
When Bratherond looked up, his normally steely eyes fully revealed their watery anguish, their absolute hopelessness. Cièdron nearly gasped at this sudden loss of resolution in the once resilient warrior. "Bratherond…"
"Look around you Cièdron!" Bratherond yelled suddenly, his voice high and panicked. "Look! Do you not see it?! Do you not see!?"
Cièdron staggered, but obediently looked at their bleak surroundings. "See what?" He asked. When no answer came, he turned violently towards Bratherond. "See what!?!" he demanded.
Bratherond straightened and pulled out his bow, quickly taking aim and shooting at a gnarled tree just behind Cièdron. Cièdron angrily turned towards the target and grasped the knife at his side, but just as he was about to press for an explanation, he froze. Fearfully, Cièdron walked towards the tree until he stood but a foot away from its bark.
"You have shot this tree before…" he breathed as he stared at the punctured bark.
"Aye, I shot it this morning. And last night. And yesterday morning," Bratherond sighed.
"But it is not possible… It is not possible! We have gone so many leagues since then… we have been traveling nonstop!" Cièdron now yelled as he yanked out the arrow.
He whipped furiously around and once again faced Bratherond who now stared indolently at Merionè.
"Bratherond? It…it is not possible… we are being deceived – I can feel it. We are hallucinating just as Merionè was! This cannot be…" Cièdron trailed off upon realizing his words fell on deaf ears.
The morning sun now fully rose above the decrepit wood and a faint mist draped over the three elves. Cièdron tightly gripped the arrow and gazed at the forlorn figures of Bratherond and Merionè, two formidable warriors brought down by grief and deceit, by their own love for their kingdom. Bratherond continued to gently cradle Merionè whose hand now rested lightly over the vial hanging loosely around his thin neck. In the mist, their bodies emanated a faint glow as a light drizzle began to fall around them.
The sun's faint rays continued to break through the mist and bounce off the light raindrops. With a sigh Cièdron's hand dropped to his side, never releasing the arrow and he looked up towards the sky. The elf nearly jumped in surprise when he caught sight of the clouds above him – the clouds that had remain hidden for so many days by the thick oppressive canopy. But here a small break in the canopy opened above them like a window, reminding them of the world outside of Mirkwood. Cièdron gazed in wonder through this window, ignoring the pelting rain against his face, counting the clouds as they quickly sailed by, allowing even the sun to peek into the darkened wood from time to time.
With a small laugh, Cièdron again looked towards Bratherond. "Bratherond, look up! It is a miracle indeed! It must be a sign!"
Bratherond raised an eyebrow and warily followed Cièdron's gaze up. For a moment, the elf's face lit up in wonder and a light trickled back into his shadowed eyes. Quickly Bratherond gazed back down at Merionè and gently shook him.
"Merionè! Merionè, the sky! You would surely love this, mellonin," he whispered joyfully.
Though Merionè did not respond, Bratherond looked up again, holding up a long hand to shield his face from the rain. And for the first time ever, Cièdron heard the surly elf laugh.
"Imagine that, Cièdron! It seems the shadow of Sauron has missed a spot! Alas elves cannot sprout wings and fly!"
Cièdron raised both his eyebrows and let out a stifled giggle which quickly grew into an uncontrollable laugh. If only Legolas could hear this! For once, Bratherond spoke not as a tightly wound-up soldier of men, but as a woodelf.
"Alas we were not better woodelves for then we could climb through that window and simply walk on top of these trees all the way back home!" Cièdron laughed.
Bratherond raised an eyebrow at this, but could not hold back his laugh which sputtered from him in a ridiculous snort. "Then we are fools, for we could have made this trek and been back already, if we had just gone over the trees! Ai! Some woodelves we are indeed! A shame really, we cannot live up to our reputations…"
Cièdron laughed and shook his head, "Ai, a shame indeed…"
Suddenly, a massive black shadow flew over the trees, blocking out Cièdron's window and immediately turning day into night and the flittering warmth gave way to ice. The laughter disappeared from Cièdron's and Bratherond's lips, replaced by the anxious whinnies of their horses and the terrible, screeching yells and wails from the creatures that flew above them. Cièdron's wide eyes met Bratherond's and neither needed to speak a word to communicate their fears. After a failed attempt to wake Merionè, Bratherond quickly lifted the elf and place him on his own horse in front of him. With a quick glimpse at Cièdron, who had already mounted his own steed, the elf gave a swift kick and the horse broke off into a sprint, quickly followed by Cièdron and Merionè's horse.
"Bratherond, what is that?!" Cièdron yelled frantically against the rain.
With one arm, Bratherond held tightly to Merionè as he swung his horse in an abrupt turn to the left. "Just stay behind me, Cièdron!" he returned.
Cièdron's horse skidded through wet leaves and mud into the turn, never falling far behind Bratherond. Another earsplitting wail shook the wood and Cièdron had to fight every impulse within him not to let go of his horse to cover his ears. Ahead of him Bratherond leaned in further and ordered his horse to speed up. Cièdron did the same though the chills racing through his spine nearly paralyzed his movements. Once again, Bratherond made a sharp turn, this time to the right. Cièdron bit his lip and just as he pulled on his horse's mane to command her to go right, a loud, agonized neigh and a pained cry echoed ahead of him. Stiffening with fear, Cièdron tugged on the mane, desperately trying to get his horse to stop, but it was too late and the horse had been going to fast. As sudden as an explosion, the landscape beneath the horse changed from matted leaves to sharp gray rocks and the trees gave way to scattered boulders. Just ahead of them, Bratherond's horse excitedly whinnied and neighed as she jumped to her back legs. Not from her, Bratherond was slowly pushing himself up and Merionè lay unconscious beside him. Cièdron's heart jumped when he realized he was but a second away from trampling both of them and he frantically pulled back on his horse causing her to skid and lose her balance. Not wanting to fall with the horse, Cièdron quickly leapt off the opposite side to which the horse fell, landing hard on the rocky ground, just beside Bratherond and Merionè.
"Bratherond! Bratherond, are you ok!!" Cièdron yelled against the whipping winds. A nasty gash zigzagged across Bratherond's cheek and he rubbed his arm, but he nodded his head quickly before moving to Merionè's side.
"He is waking!" Bratherond yelled as Merionè twitched uncomfortably. As Bratherond bent over Merionè, examining the elf for injuries, another screech pierced the air, the loudest yet, and Cièdron whipped his head around in time to see the same shadow that had passed over them before fly towards a great tower in the midst of this rocky, stormy gray clearing. The horses continued to jump and neigh frantically in the gusty winds and rain.
"Dol Guldur," Cièdron breathed. "Bratherond! Bratherond, we must get out of here! Hurry! We must leave now!" Cièdron leapt to his feet and ran towards his horse, desperately shouting commands for her to calm down to no avail. Panic gripped his heart and he turned again to Bratherond. "Bratherond, do not wake him! Just take him and leave! We must leave!"
Terrified, Bratherond looked up and quickly scanned their surroundings. Then turning back to Merionè, he frantically struggled to lift the elf, but with an agonized cry, he collapsed back to his knees, gripping his forearm in pain.
Without even taking the time to inquire about Bratherond's injury, Cièdron raced to his side and lifted the slowly wakening figure of Merionè. "Can you mount your horse, Bratherond?" Cièdron gasped as he vainly tried again to calm down his own horse enough so that he could place Merionè on it.
"Of course I could!" Bratherond snapped, obviously slightly embarrassed that he needed Cièdron's help at all. But before he even had a chance to prove himself, an arrow shot past him, just grazing his ear.
"Into the wood! Draw your weapon and get into the wood!" he yelled.
But Cièdron had already done just that and he skidded to a crouch behind a tree just before Bratherond appeared behind a tree just beside him.
"Orcs!" Cièdron hissed, not having seen the arrow, but the creatures themselves. He quickly leaned Merionè against the tree and drew out his bow.
"Aye, I noticed," Bratherond gritted sarcastically, as he pulled out his own bow.
The two then let out a slew of arrows, unaware of the soft groans of their companion as he gradually came to. Merionè's eyes fluttered open, though whether he saw hallucinations or reality, Orcs or the King's son, not even he knew for sure. Cièdron glimpsed at the elf and noticing he was awake, he quickly lowered his bow and grabbed his shoulders.
"Merionè! Merionè, it is me, it is Cièdron!" he hissed. Merionè furrowed his brows, but did not reply. Undeterred, Ciedorn continued, "Listen to me, Merionè, we are under attack – you must fight… There are Orcs here now – you must defend yourself against them…"
Looking up again, Cièdron quickly lifted his bow and loosed another series of arrows. Beside him Bratherond grunted. "I am all out." As he reached to his side to grab a sword, he glanced at Merionè.
"Cièdron, he is awake!"
Having run out of arrows himself, Cièdron dropped his bow and unsheathed his dagger. "Aye, Bratherond, you must give him a weapon."
Bratherond stiffened, but after a fleeting glimpse of the Orcs coming ever closer to them, he quickly realized what Cièdron already knew – they had little hope as it was protecting just themselves. If they had to protect Merionè as well, they had no hope at all. With a brusque nod he pulled out Merionè's long knife and crouched beside the elf.
"Merionè, there are Orcs – there are many Orcs. We cannot defend you my friend, you must fight for yourself now."
Merionè narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "Nay, do not give this to me. I do not know you… I do not know myself…."
Bratherond bit his lip and was just about to take back the knife when a sword swung into the tree above him. Merionè's face lit up and he immediately straightened, grabbing the dagger from Bratherond. Having no time to take back the knife from Merionè, Bratherond jumped to his feet and after a short battle quickly felled the Orc whose sword had just missed his head a moment earlier. He then jumped out of the wood and into the pool of Orcs at the foot of Dol Guldur, where Cièdron already valiantly fought off the tide of deadly beasts. Even with one injured arm, Bratherond easily relieved Cièdron of some of the battle, cutting through Orcs as if they were weeds. But another wail sounded above him causing him to release his own tormented yell as the undulating air around him both simmered and froze and the Orcs continued their onslaught. Cièdron's relief did not last long as Bratherond was swiftly pulled away into his own battle.
"Cièdron!" he tried to yell above the winds, wails, and Orcish shouts and commands. "Ai, Cièdron! This is more than anyone imagined!" He did not know whether Cièdron heard him, but regardless, he continued. "Ai! So many! We must inform Thranduil!" He paused to swing a sword through the body of one Orc and then quickly jump out of the way of another sword. "We must leave here and inform Mithrandir and Thranduil immediately!" Again he had to pause in order to pierce two Orcs beside him and a third behind him. "Cièdron, these are armies, not mere rogues! Sauron is gathering armies! He is preparing to strike Mirkwood!"
Bratherond gasped as a sudden movement caused a searing pain to rip through his injured arm, but he continued nonetheless to slaughter the Orcs around him. "Cièdron, if I do not make it, you must find a way out of here! You must tell your father! This can only mean one thing! Ai, if Sauron is gathering such a force it can only mean one thing!"
A sword cut into Bratherond's side and he bent over in pain, but he quickly straightened and killed the Orc that struck him. "Ai, it means, but one thing…" he gritted. "He is rising again… He is close…"
A slight lull in the battle as he downed another Orc allowed Bratherond to look up in search of Cièdron, but the young elf prince was no where in sight. He straightened and looked about him frantically. "Cièdron?" With a grunt, he stabbed another Orc and then he exclaimed in panic, "Cièdron!"
Bratherond's heart raced when no response came and the rising storm continued to pull him back. Ai! He could have kicked himself for so quickly losing sight of the King's son!
But he could have killed himself for losing sight of Merionè.
TBC
Told you it would come shortly ;)
