Chapter 22
On His Knees
The deserted lands stretched before him like a beige platter dotted with assorted servings of stumpy gray-green trees, gnarled bushes, and scattered stones. The sun's pale rays caused the blighted elves' shadows to reach out before them like phantoms straining to grasp the horizon as the light, dry wind mockingly hummed her empty tunes. They rode in darkness despite the glaring sun and their leader remained chained despite his release.
Reanur grasped Legolas' cloak and gently felt the delicate, surprisingly durable elvish weaving between his thumb and fingers, distractedly examining the nauseating reminder of the youngest prince's suffering by his hands, at least indirectly. He imagined carrying this cloak through the halls of Thranduil and to the great King himself.
"My King, I have come from the lost lands of the Avari where I have given my soul and taken your son. But I bring you this token to remind you of him. It is but a cloak, but as you can see, a part of him is permanently stained within its threads…."
Reanur shuddered and grimaced as a splintering headache cracked through his forehead like the unyielding jaws of a tiger. "But you see King Thranduil? You have at least some of your warriors and scouts back! Their doomed souls have been relinquished by their battered bodies, but they are back and they are all yours!"
The headache grew and soon Reanur could no longer focus on the rapidly approaching land ahead of them. With a yell that woke the few crows and sparrows that dwelled in their bramble hideaways, but had no effect on his morose companions, Reanur tumbled from his horse and landed roughly on the ground.
"By all the Balrogs of Morgoth! Have they no mercy on me!"
Reanur clenched his teeth and forced himself to his knees as the dust swirled around him, a billowing storm without a rumble. As his headache subsided, he slowly dropped his hands from his forehead, having finally fought away the crushing pain.
"I cannot do this. I cannot betray Thranduil this way!" Reanur murmured breathlessly. He turned and faced the other warriors. "I cannot do this!" His voice traveled on the backs of the galloping winds, but did not reach the deaf ears of his warriors. He trembled despite the afternoon heat and turned away, facing the glossy Rhûn sea that lay out like a petite jewel in the mammoth gulf of colorless sand.
"But I already have betrayed him…. There is no more I can do now… I know not what I do. I know not who I am…"
For several moments, Reanur remained perfectly still, unsure of what path to follow. If he went home to Thranduil, surely he would only do more to cause the King pain! He glanced at the bloodied cloak in his hand. No, not just pain – he would bring about the King's downfall. Even if he did not lose his mind completely to the treacherous oath that bound him, then the stained cloak alone would surely ignite Thranduil's impassioned temper into a fire that would burn down all of Mirkwood in its desire for vengeance.
Then perhaps I should return and fight Rómen . Fight him and free Legolas! Reanur's hand flew up to his forehead as another headache seeped into his brain, its poisonous tendrils choking his drowning mind with hallucinations and whisperings of a stronger betrayal than that he already made. He screamed again and violently shook his head, straining to shake away the terrible nightmares that took away his free will. How on Middle Earth could he possibly free Legolas at this point when he did not even trust his own hands!
In frustration, Reanur released another choked cry and threw the cloak violently to the ground.
"Elbereth! What have I done!?"
He then fell silent and gazed up in time to see a rider far in the distance, heading towards the Rhûn sea. The rider's yellow cloak had fallen off her head revealing waves of hair as white as the clouds above them. In front of her sat a small child with the same extraordinary tresses flying wildly about her small, pale head.
Reanur's eyes remained glued to the riders until they disappeared into the scenery, their surreal glows blending with the horizon.
"Ereb," Reanur whispered, remembering the elf charged with keeping watch over Legolas.
For several long moments he toyed with an idea that suddenly appeared in his mind like an epiphany, brought on by these white haired riders. Could he do it? Did he have the strength? The courage? Could he be so coldblooded?
He looked behind him at the dour faced warriors and considered his other options. But there were no other options. They have shown no mercy to us and so they deserve no mercy from me.
"I have already condemned my soul. What more have I to lose?" Reanur rose from his knees and grabbed Legolas' cloak. He then tossed it at one of the warriors and leapt onto his horse.
"Return home if you so desire! Let Thranduil know of the evil that has occurred in these lands, but tell him his son will soon be returned! Legolas will come home!"
Reanur watched as one of the warriors caught the cloak, a faint sense of confusion clouding his features. "At a price even Thranduil would not be willing to pay…" he added silently to himself.
But Thranduil would never know what Reanur now planned to do – he could not, for he would never approve of such cruelty and the guilt would burden both him and his son. He will not know. Legolas will not know and nor will Thranduil.
"I will make sure of that." Though he thought he would faint from the splitting headaches that stabbed his rebellious mind, and though sinister voices warned and threatened him and taunted him with all-too-real hallucinations, Reanur turned his horse around and sprinted towards the Rhûn sea, following where the strange, white haired elves previously rode. The rest of the warriors watched him curiously and continued on their dreary return to Mirkwood, guided by a phantom chain pulling them ever closer to their own dooms.
"King Thranduil?"
The light voice broke through the cacophony of swords and weapons being sharpened and readied for battle, excited chatter of warriors and the bustling orders of Filinor and Käriler. Thranduil furrowed his brows and turned on his heel, prepared to dismiss the tentative request, but bit his tongue when he laid his eyes on the young elf that asked for his attention.
"Aradea," he sighed. "Alas your fair eyes must take in these dark days." Thranduil frowned and placed a strong hand on the elf's smooth cheek. Her bright eyes did not flinch at the words of the king and she visibly tensed as his hand fell lightly from her cheek to her shoulder.
"King Thranduil, your sons…" her voice wavered ever so slightly as she uttered these words and Thranduil squeezed her shoulder in response.
"They will return, Aradea. You have my word. Cièdron will return to you," Thranduil murmured. Alas even young love is sundered by our plight… The King then forced a small smile, desperate to bring some levity to what he hoped to be his future daughter-in-law's lonely heart. "The memory of your face will bring him back…and the celebration we will have when he does return…"
Aradea's eyes widened ever so slightly at Thranduil's words. They then rapidly filled with unshed tears and her lip quivered nervously. She tore her gaze away from the King's and gently shook her head. Thranduil stiffened at this and without a word lifted her chin so that her eyes returned to his. Ai Elbereth! Do not tell me he broke this jewel's heart! I shall have much to say to him if he did…
But it was not a broken heart that caused Aradea such grief. It was good-bye.
"Nay, King Thranduil," she whispered, her voice barely containing the grief that choked her soul. "The memory of my face will not bring him here."
Thranduil dropped his hand and he tensed, though he still remained silent, awaiting Aradea to continue.
Again, the elf shook her flaxen head and when she stopped, tears stained her powdery skin. "He told me to leave here, King Thranduil. He told me to go West."
Thranduil's eyes widened and for a moment, he could not speak as his heart dropped to his stomach. The King's voice, normally strong and regal, foundered weakly like a broken string when he finally spoke. "He what?" he breathed, his heart already ripping in pain.
"I am going West, King Thranduil, just as your son has bid me to do. My heart cannot breathe in this world anymore, my King."
"This is good-bye then.." Thranduil said flatly. His mind fluttered with images that would never be – images of celebrations… He could practically hear the woodelves' merry songs of love, the taste of the Lakemen's best wine, pouring forth like waterfalls from overflowing barrels, the smell of lilacs and lavender… and his son, celebrating his devotion to his beloved amongst the great trees of Greenwood - just as he had celebrated his love for his own wife many years ago. But the coldness of reality crashed against him as suddenly as a fierce, merciless storm. Such joy simply did not exist in Mirkwood anymore. This time it was he who shook his head and he gazed imploringly at Aradea.
"He did not mean it, I am sure…"
"King Thranduil, I do not go West just because Cièdron told me to!" Aradea interrupted sternly, her face hardening with stubborn determination. She then softened and looked down. "It is as I said. I cannot breathe in this wood anymore..."
"Could you not wait Aradea? Could you not wait until he returned…"
"Nay, because I could not bear it if he did not return. I could not bear the news you may bring to me. I would rather wait for eternity with the hope that the new day will bring him to me than live the rest of my life knowing he will never come." She paused and gazed again at Thranduil. "I called you to bid you farewell and to give you my blessings. May the Valar bring both of your sons and you home in peace."
"My child, this is not farewell. We will meet again. We all will. Your wait will not be in vain."
Aradea smiled weakly and boldly placed her hand on the King's cheek. She curiously examined his worn face – the tired eyes and small lines drawn by the hands of Wisdom and Pain, making him all the more beautiful as elves do become with the accumulation of years. "Aye," she whispered, answering her own unasked question. "Your hope is strong. You still have faith in this wood. That is good. I have seen this same strength in Legolas – yes there is hope left for this world, there is- I can see it." Thranduil narrowed his eyes, noting how Aradea pointedly mentioned Legolas, but not Cièdron. He almost pressed her on this when sudden realization stopped his heart and his head suddenly swam in grief making it nearly impossible to even stand, let alone speak. Indeed, no pain could match the pain of farewell! Alas that he had to know the pain of a thousand farewells! How much he had sacrificed! How much he had lost for his dream!
Aradea noticed the King's eyes glisten and she dropped her hand, lightly taking his hand in hers instead. "You will have your celebrations. They will simply be in another world – a better one, my King."
Unable to face Aradea anymore, Thranduil pulled his hand away and turned brusquely. "No world is better than this one Aradea and I swear on my life, I will not leave until I see this belief vindicated. But you have my blessings, for you are like a daughter to me. Farewell – I do not know when we will meet again." With a curt nod he left Aradea alone to her farewells, lost hopes and abandoned dreams.
With a long sigh Thranduil shut his eyes and thought of the future that would never be and the past that wrote his and his sons' destinies. Destinies that they were slavishly bound to, though they led to a future none of them wanted and created pasts they would always wish to change. "Forgive me, forgive me my sons, my daughter, my wife for I have failed you all. I was deceived. I looked at this wood and saw greatness when all that was there was a curse. And now I am bound to this curse, and you have suffered for my blind devotion. Forgive me."
Thranduil unsheathed his sword and then examined his own face in its slender surface. Though he frowned slightly at how worn, how old, he looked, his mind did not allow such vain contemplations for long as images of his wife and family floated into that shimmering pool - those days of long ago that still seized his mind. Their faces were distant, like departing ships, and when he tried to picture them, he found that the years had slowly, cruelly begun to erase certain lines, certain angles from Thranduil's memory so that the faces remained incomplete and fading. Thranduil struggled to fill in these shadows and lines, to picture the faces from every possible viewpoint, but the long years would not grant even his sharp, elvish memory such mercy. The memories Thranduil lived for more and more became lost in the past and the future he hoped for grew more distant so that Thranduil was left in a limbo with nothing to hold onto behind him or ahead of him besides the present which offered no promises or respite – just his sword with which he vowed to fight with until his dying breath.
The present did not give anyone firm ground on which to stand. Leagues away, the memories of one, unlike those of Thranduil, were now becoming all too clear – so clear, he lost himself in them, unable to distinguish between the past and the present, dreams and reality. In those memories he found moments of respite from the present nightmares that tormented him, but the price he paid for that respite was arguably more than even Thranduil in all his anguish would be willing to pay. For the price was the very ground on which Merionè stood. As the past swallowed Merionè, as his memories rivaled the present, he fell deeper into an abyss from which he could not escape. As Thranduil searched his memory for the shadow that outlined his deceased sons' eyes when they stood under their favorite tree, Merionè, in his torment and his delusions, saw all too clearly each and every shadow that haunted his past.
Merionè jumped to his feet when Bratherond nearly fell at the barrage of arrows that flew through the gnarled trees. Orcs swiftly lured Bratherond and Cièdron into their own battles and Merionè quickly followed suit, wishing not be left out of this siren's deadly call to war. But alas, no one was calling Merionè to war except his own treacherous mind. As he dove into the frothing sea of Orcs, they sneered and laughed at him, but they did not fight him. They did not lure him as they lured the others. They had no need to.
The winds furiously whipped his pale hair and the furious storm darkened all of Dol Guldur in a whirlwind of cries, heckles and elves.
Elves?
Merionè staggered. Nay, they were Orcs! This cannot be… this cannot be… His hand shakily gripped his knife as he took in the merry woodelves surrounding him. Heckles turned into their musical laughter, shouts into songs, rocks and boulders into the great beeches and birches of Greenwood that protected the King and his wife from the sun's harsh glares, that the princes merrily flitted through, and under which the great spirit of Oropher still dwelled. As Merionè took in these idyllic dreams of what could have been, tears filled his eyes. Do my eyes deceive me? Am I now in a dream? A haunting, peaceful lament glided through the air with delicate fingers reaching through the soft rustle of leaves and seducing the willowy birch trees. Merionè could see his own breath blow out in front of him, could feel the goosebumps poke through his skin, could smell the clean dewey air so perfectly he knew it could not be a dream.
Suddenly, a figure appeared before Merionè that immediately caused him to fall to his knees in shock and deference. Dream or not, Merionè could not control this automatic genuflection. Though no words could ever find their way out of his constricted throat, his glowing, moist eyes revealed all of the devotion, loyalty and love within him that were awakened by the one who now approached.
"Your time here is over, Merionè. You have fulfilled your oath to Thranduil. You have kept your honor, given your service, and now Greenwood has reclaimed her glory. And now it is your turn to find your own." The velvety voice sung to Merionè, a regal lark in this enchanted land.
"I may go now?" Merionè breathed, his voice weak with emotion. After all these years...these long years, so far from where his heart dwelled, could it be he could finally return? "To Lindon, I may go to Lindon now?" He gazed again unbelievingly at the brightened trees that emanated around him with the sheer brilliance of those of Valinor. A sudden image of the dark land he, Bratherond and Cièdron had stumbled into momentarily interrupted his thoughts. "But there were Orcs…"
"Not anymore, Merionè," the great elf interrupted. "Your oath has been honored. You owe no more to Thranduil."
For several long moments, Merionè stared quietly at the elf. "I owe no more to Thranduil…" he finally repeated slowly and the dark image – the evil memory of what once was – disappeared.
"Your time in this world is over."
Merionè nearly lost his breath from the shock and joy that overtook him. Tears stained his fair face as he disbelievingly shook his head. "Aye, Lord Gil-galad, you are right… You are right… It is over." The towering trees surrounding Merionè shimmered in the vivid yellow sunlight and the sky above rivaled the sun's citrus glow with its radiant opalescence. Everything around him seemed to glow as if they had swallowed bright pearls emitting a pale light through their thin, silkscreen skins.
Gil-galad smiled and placed his hand under Merionè's chin. "The past is over, mellonin – it is time you left it behind you. You have done what you could for Thranduil and his people."
As Merionè took in these words, he glimpsed one of Thranduil's sons not far behind Gil-galad. He could not control his smile as Cièdron angrily ran towards them, impatiently pushing through the other woodelves. With a small chuckle he again addressed Gil-galad. "I certainly have done all I could, for even my long years at battle could not compete with the temper of that one– nor can I control the brother who seems to find it so amusing to ignite that temper!" Gil-galad chuckled at this, but made no other response.
With an angry shout, Cièdron violently shoved aside the onslaught of Orcs, their murky bodies complementing the opaque, noxious land. "You will take your hands off him! You will release him now!" he cried as he strove to make his way to Merionè. The iron clouds above gathered angrily and the storms continued to screech as to Cièdron's distress, Merionè fell to his knees at the foot of a sneering, sinister Orc whose black sword trembled threateningly against the elf's chin.
But as Cièdron finally came within a few meters of the elf, he stopped suddenly and staggered. Merionè was laughing. He was laughing merrily as if he had just shared some lighthearted joke with the Orc! Tears rolled down his face and Cièdron could have sworn they were tears of joy. Trembling, he gaped at the two of them, unable to move for of all of Merionè's hallucinations and strange acts, none struck fear into the young prince's heart as much as the sight of the formidable warrior on his knees in a flurry of joyous tears in the midst of the nefarious Dol Guldur.
Merionè gazed amusedly at the bewildered prince. "I would think even a prince of Greenwood the Great would be wise enough to show some deference to his lordships…"
Cièdron's eyes widened and flashed angrily. "I will not bow to him and nor shall you," he breathed. As he approached, he easily twirled his daggers, one in each hand, to the condescending amusement of the Orc. But the Orc had little time to laugh as a moment later it found itself in the midst of a whirlwind battle with the angered elf prince.
Merionè flew to his feet and unsheathed his own dagger. "Cièdron! What are you doing!?"
"Releasing you!" Cièdron grunted in return as he lodged his knife into the Orc's shoulder and fended off a blow with his other one.
Merionè lunged to the Orc's defense, but Cièdron swiftly knocked the elf to the ground with a powerful shove. In a flurry of motions, he then kicked the Orc and stabbed it again in the side. The Orc flailed, but still retained enough strength to swing its black sword at Cièdron's neck. Nearly simultaneously, Cièdron ducked out of the way and spun around to strike the Orc in the back. This final stab was enough to cause the Orc to lose whatever strength remained and it fell to its knees, gasping and heaving for breath. To be sure, Cièdron took one final stab at the back of its neck, finishing it off once and for all to the stunned horror of Merionè.
Grimly satisfied with his victory, Cièdron triumphantly pushed the body of the Orc off his dagger. As he caught his breath and ran a bloodied hand over his forehead, a shiver ran down his spine. The storm's angry gusts ebbed slightly, but this was no comfort to Cièdron as the sudden silence seemed more like the angry breaths of a waking dragon than the dying breaths of a slaughtered enemy. He concentrated on his own breathing and struggled to focus his senses. But for all his efforts, he could not deny the terrible feeling that washed over his body of two incensed eyes glaring into his very soul. With a gulp, he momentarily closed his eyes and steadied his pounding heart. He then slowly raised his head and turned to meet the fearsome gaze of Merionè.
"What have you done?" Merionè hissed as he straightened and raised his own dagger.
Cièdron frowned and automatically backed away slightly from the other elf. "Merionè, you are not yourself."
Merionè's hand tightened around his dagger and he began to pace slowly around Cièdron like a lion circling his prey. "Traitor…"
Cièdron stiffened and gripped his own knives. "Traitor?" he whispered. "It was not I who was kneeling, Merionè!"
"Do you know who you just murdered? Do you know whose blood you spilt?"
Cièdron turned his body and followed Merionè's careful movements. "It was an Orc Merionè! An Orc! Your eyes deceive you!"
"My eyes do NOT deceive me! For the first time I do believe I am seeing clearly! All the time I have devoted to your family, and for what? For what!? For an arrogant, greedy King and his haughty brats!"
Cièdron's eyes flashed, but he stifled the growing fire within him. "You do not mean that," he answered, his voice dangerously low.
Merionè halted his pacing and faced Cièdron. "I could have been great! I was a mariner of Cirdan, a servant of the high King Gil-galad. I gave it all up and for what? FOR WHAT?!" He glanced up at the blackening sky and let out a small eerie laugh. "For what?" His voice cracked momentarily in a beseeching sob.
Cièdron shook his head sorrowfully. "Merionè, but you are great…"
Merionè looked up and his stony eyes rested once again on the prince. He then tossed aside his dagger and grabbed instead the deceased Orc's black sword, the very one Cièdron had seen pressed against Merionè's throat – and that Merionè had seen as Gil-galad's gentle hand. "Nay, but I will be," he whispered as he raised and pointed the sword at Cièdron. Though Merionè could not explain it, the other woodelves disappeared around him and he stood alone with King Thranduil's second youngest. The blue skies swirled like spilt paint into gray storm clouds and the body of Gil-galad vanished into dust. His purpose and thirst for vengeance slipped away, yet he continued to raise the dark sword against the young prince. He no longer needed a purpose. His mind could no longer be capable of any such intentions.
Cièdron stiffened and tentatively raised a dagger. "I will not do this Merionè. I will not fight you."
A veil fell over Merionè's eyes, shielding their deep blue depths once and for all from the lights of the sun, the sea and the very ones he loved the most. Fate's final blow cruelly took away the last of the memories that gave Merionè weight and fought back the controlling arms of the oath. "The choice is not before you." The voice was strange and reflected the dying breaths of regret within his soul, as if he really meant to say, "The choice is no longer before me."
Cièdron heard these unspoken words and with a sinking heart he understood the inevitability of what lay before him. The ivory clad daggers of his departed brothers, passed on to Legolas and him, shook in the Prince's trembling hands. Eerily, the Orcs around them had cleared away, forming something of a semi-circle around the two elves. They hissed and cheered, making Cièdron feel as if he were a rooster in a cockfight. Beyond them, Bratherond battled his own cluster of Orcs.
"May the loser feed the rest of us!" one of the Orcs yelled triumphantly to the joy of his companions.
Cièdron's eyes darkened at this, but he fought the violent temptation within him to turn and unleash his fury upon the terrible creatures. Instead he kept his eyes on Merionè and satisfied himself by muttering darkly under his breath. "I will rip the limbs from each of you before you had a chance to come near either of us."
Suddenly, Merionè erupted into a fit of laughter, unlike any laugh that ever escaped the elf's lips. "An inexperienced prince against a warrior of Mirkwood! Do you really think you will win son of Thranduil?" He laughed again and then repeated his question only in a terrible language no elf could bear to hear.
Cièdron's eyes widened and he cringed as Merionè switched into the Black Speech. His heart leapt to his throat in shock and he momentarily forgot he even had weapons in his hands as Merionè suddenly lunged after him, the black sword of the Orc raised. Instantly, Cièdron regained his senses and met the sword with his own long daggers, gracefully dancing out of the way of Merionè's deadly swings – to those watching, it was like observing the swings of a ghost chasing a lightfooted bird, unwilling to fly away.
Bratherond shuddered at the Orcs' cheers. The howls and hisses fell in peaks and troughs, quieting only to explode in a fury of drunken excitement. Above him the angry, tremulous sky calmed and the winds relaxed their wails only to be replaced by the shrill, bloodcurdling wails of Dol Guldur. Another chill shook Bratherond and his mind spun with warnings.
"Cièdron!"
He spun and struck down two Orcs, struggling to see beyond his own menacing cluster to where the flurry of energized cheers burst out of the crowd. His stomach churned at every cheer and howl. They have him!
"CIÈDRON!!"
With a gasp, Bratherond doubled over as an Orc took advantage of the elf's distraction with the ominous crowd. But just as another tide of hoots and howls rose from the small sea of Orcs ahead of him, he straightened and struck the laughing Orc to the ground.
"Perhaps the winner should feed us all as well! It's a two-for-one deal tonight boys!"
Bratherond froze and nearly lost his head at this shout. Literally. Though he ducked in time to miss the sword swinging at his neck, his rubber arms flayed at their chance to take down the would-be victor against him. With a leering grin, the Orc again raised his sword, ready to take his second shot at the faltering elf. Panicking, Bratherond lashed out and struck the Orc's side with his sword, but the Orc still did not fall. With a swift kick, he knocked Bratherond down and another Orc suddenly appeared above him.
Bratherond rolled away from the sword only to feel the sharp edge of another strike his shoulder. Another flurry of cheers caused him to falter again before he could reach for his fallen sword beside him. With horror, he watched as a third Orc lifted it out of his reach and raised it against him.
"Three for one tonight…." The Orc laughed, clearly impressed by his own unimpressive joke. Bratherond desperately kicked out against the Orcs and writhed out of the way of falling swords. Though he succeeded in finally raising himself to his knees, the pithy extent of his success became apparent as the trio of Orcs raised their swords, one of which was his own, ready to release a triple bladed guillotine. Bratherond tried to back away, but only fell against the knees of a fourth Orc. The deafening cheers shut out all other noise around him and Bratherond groaned as he braced himself for his final breath. Alas, the last noise I should hear is the applause of my companions' own falls!
But before the blades fell on Bratherond, the cheers exploded at their highest peak yet and were abruptly cut off by a collective gasp. When moments later his head still remained firmly attached to his neck, Bratherond slowly opened his eyes and with a start found himself alone. The other four Orcs had quickly forgotten their vanquished prey and eagerly joined the awe-struck crowd. Bratherond clumsily grabbed a dagger from a fallen Orc beside him and leapt to his feet. Checking himself, he fought the urge to dive murderously into the crowd and instead quietly snuck up behind, grabbing another Orc sword on his way. Even as Bratherond came within a meter of the crowd's edge, not one Orc paid the least bit of attention to him. His stomach once again turning at the implications of the Orcs' infatuation with whatever was occurring in the center of their circle, Bratherond's muscles tensed and his mind raced to figure out the best way to get into that center. With a small sigh of resignation, he decided there was only one way to reach that center and after allowing a moment for his muscles to tense in preparation he dove murderously into the crowd.
Amazingly, the Orcs barely blinked their eyes at Bratherond as he swiftly gored three of the entranced spectators. Too interested in the battle unfolding before their eyes, the others could not care less about their fallen brethren or the furious elf taking down more of them one by one. In a blink of an eye, Bratherond forced his way from the outer to the inner edges. But the sight before him caused him to pale and stagger fearfully to the smirking delight of the Orcs beside him who tightly grabbed his bloodied tunic.
"CIÈDRON!"
The prince glanced at Bratherond before quickly turning to fend off another blow from Merionè. Bratherond warily eyed Merionè's fallen knife and returned his eyes to the prince's wounded side. He then noted Cièdron now fought with only one knife. Elbereth! Did Merionè have the other? Did he dare stab the prince with that knife!?
His pulse racing as hot blood flushed his cheeks Bratherond struggled against the Orcs who now gripped tightly to each of his arms. But a bright gleam caught his eyes – the gleam of an ivory handle not far from where the prince now clumsily avoided Merionè's blows. Bratherond caught his breath and instantly whipped his eyes to Merionè's weapon – a glistening black sword, unlike any of the filthy swords of the other Orcs. Though Bratherond could not explain it, his mind screamed at the very sight of that sword.
"NO! CIÈDRON! CIÈDRON, TELL ME HE DID NOT WOUND YOU WITH THAT SWORD!"
Cièdron furrowed his brows at Bratherond's distant screams. How do you think he stabbed me? With his nails? he wanted to yell back. As he once again fended off a blow, he stumbled slightly from the pain that ripped through his side. Merionè fought as elegantly as he ever did, smoothly and skillfully outmaneuvering the comparatively inexperienced prince. Cièdron gritted his teeth as his mind vacillated and floundered. In a final attempt to reach Merionè, he used his waning strength to stop his opponent's sword in midair and catch his empty eyes with his own.
"Merionè, you know not what you are doing," he pleaded, his normally powerful voice breathless and weak.
No emotion whatsoever betrayed itself as Merionè swiftly brought his sword down and struck Cièdron's leg.
Gasping, Cièdron fell to his knees and his second knife dropped out of his hand to his side, a few feet away from the other. The ivory handles, dimmed by dirt and grime still stood out brightly amidst the steel colored land. With every last ounce of strength he forced his darkening eyes to focus on his opponent. Bratherond yelled feverishly above the Orcs' joyous howls, but they fell upon ears that no longer heard the cries of his friends. Cièdron dizzily looked up at Merionè who towered over him, his radiant eyes void of their previous soul. As he caught those vacant orbs, the blood drained from his face and despite his best efforts to remain firm and proud, as he thought any soldier should right up until his final breath, his body shook uncontrollably with fear that only comes when one is suddenly faced with their own mortality – a fear that is tenfold for one who is too young to be prepared for such a journey. But it is one thing for a mortal youth to suddenly realize how precious and precarious life can be – it is another for an immortal youth to realize even he could die. As Merionè slowly raised his sword for the final blow, Cièdron tightly closed his eyes and pictured the faces of his family and loved ones. He let out a small sob as he thought of Legolas – how he had hoped to see him again! Just one more time! He did not even know if his brother still lived! With a shudder, he opened his eyes just in time to see the sword coming down on him and in a sudden panic, he scrambled out of its path, adrenaline pulsing through his veins despite the searing pain in his body. But as soon as he had escaped its original path, Cièdron found himself in the midst of a new path and he instantly knew his battle had become futile. Yet even so, the young elf, instinctively determined to cling to every thread of life offered to him, twisted and ducked away from each swing in a pathetically unbalanced test of survival as the impatient Orcs cheered on the deadly strikes of Merionè.
And at that moment, two minds coincided as perfectly as the moon and the sun during an eclipse. Legolas tossed frantically in his sleep as images of his brother haunted his darkened mind. His brother in pain. His brother on his knees. The image was so striking and poignant, Legolas released a small cry.
The images lured painful memories into his tormented dreams and Legolas' sleeping body shook from the seismic shift within his mind. The entire world seemed to turn against all of them, and Legolas did not even have the strength to fight, to take the first step. Indeed, one by one the Mirkwood elves were falling, giving way to the pain and anguish that Sauron unleashed against them. The future for them dimmed and the present became too unbearable. Thus they retreated into the past – Valinor and the ancient glory that filled the great tales of ages long ago. This was the woodelves' escape from the world that no longer welcomed them. At least we do have the option – at least we can escape this world, if not our memories of it…
But what of those for whom Valinor did not offer escape? To whom could they turn when all turned against them? What of those who chose to bind themselves to Middle Earth? What of those who forfeited their right to Valinor? What would be their fates?
What of those who claimed they tied themselves to nothing, not this world, nor the next? Is such a state of being even possible? Or were they slumbering souls, ready to waken when the incoming tides washed upon their guarded shores? Ereb pondered these last thoughts as he wearily watched the prince toss and turn in his tormented sleep despite the calm murmurings of a kneeling woman at his side. Not without regret, Ereb conceded that even he could not escape the oncoming storm. With a sigh he continued sharpening his knife against his whetstone, its metallic scratching nervously echoing through the dark, cavernous halls.
"And what do you plan on doing with him Ereb?" the woman softly asked in her own language. Her extraordinarily white hair, which did not match the youthfulness of her face, reflected the flickering torches of the cavern.
Ereb pursed his lips and hesitated before answering. "I do not know. I do know I want nothing to do with any of this. I am growing weary of being Rómen 's slave."
The woman frowned and continued to gently wipe Legolas' brow. "He is young Ereb. We should help him."
Ereb's eyes flashed and he angrily shot up from his seat. "We will NOT help him!" he shouted, his voice echoing furiously off the cavern walls. Though Legolas stirred slightly, other more powerful voices kept him in the world of dreams.
The woman turned away from Legolas and icily glared at Ereb. "And why not? You said you wished not to be Rómen 's slave anymore? You wanted nothing to do with this? Well, what better way to declare your independence than to release his little prize?"
"I said I wanted nothing to do with any of this - not that I wish to start my own war!" Ereb retorted, lowering himself again to his seat – a hard slab of cold stone.
The woman again faced Legolas and resumed her cleaning. "You have no choice Ereb. The war will come to you whether you bid it or not," she whispered.
Ereb furrowed his brows and stared quietly at the woman. "That is exactly what Rómen said."
"Then Rómen is not as insolent as I thought." She dipped her cloth into a small bowl of water and gently squeezed out the excess moisture before carefully dabbing the area around Legolas' shoulder. This bit of care relaxed her and she continued in a less agitated voice as she carefully prepared to stitch the gaping wound. "I saw today a group of warriors travel across these lands. They wore the garb of the Western elves. I presume they are returning to their King to tell him of the evils that are occurring outside of his wood… Yes, war will come whether you welcome it or not." The woman carefully examined Legolas' wound and gently traced her fingers over it before finally beginning the first stitch. She bit her lip as Legolas stirred and she gently placed her other hand over his. "Not yet, young Teler. Keep sleeping –the pain in your dreams is less than the pain you will find when you wake."
Satisfied that Legolas seemed to obey her wishes, she continued with her stitching. "We must release him Ereb. He is a prince. We ought not to play with the sons of Kings." When she completed the stitching of Legolas' wound, she once again turned towards Ereb, her amber eyes flickering with concern. "We wade deeply into the waters of the Valar's fury. I wish not to dive in further."
"The Valar?" Ereb breathed incredulously. "Since when did you fear the Valar? Kings yes, I could see why you would fear them, though his King hangs to his kingdom by a thread these days."
The woman did not answer right away, seemingly too distracted now in wiping aside Legolas' bloodied locks of hair. "I have always feared the Valar, Ereb. I feared them too much to ask for forgiveness for my ancestors' wrongdoing and I fear them too much to beg for their acceptance. My fear dooms me to live in darkness. But mayhap, I can at least do enough to remain in this world in darkness and not fall into the abyss that is neither darkness nor light." She stroked Legolas' hand and squeezed it as the prince stirred again, haunted by his tortured dreams. "Besides, if his father's kingdom hangs by a thread, that is all the more reason to return his son."
"I would not fear those who have forsaken you. And as for returning lost sons to their fathers, I do not believe that is our business." Ereb muttered. He then stiffened and carefully gazed around him. "Did you hear that?"
The woman looked up and listened to the deafening silence around them. She suddenly straightened and looked fearfully at Ereb. "Where is Lyrelle?"
Ereb's eyes flashed and he looked furiously around him. "Lyrelle!" he yelled, but only his own echoes returned. "Lyrelle!"
The woman quickly joined Ereb in his cries, but they were to no avail. Ereb unsheathed his dagger and turned to her. "I will find her – you stay here."
"I will come with you!"
"No! No, my love – do not worry, she probably wondered outside to play and cannot hear our calls….You stay here in case she should return."
Light footsteps behind him interrupted Ereb and the woman quickly rose to her feet just as a Sindarin accented voice greeted the two with a sight too terrifying for any parent to endure. With a gasp the woman fell to her knees and Ereb froze, too frightened to even allow his body to collapse.
"I think, Master Ereb, you ought to pay more heed to your wife's wise words and release Rómen 's 'little prize' or else I too shall have to keep my own little prize..."
TBC
Hey guys! First of all, as usual, thank you thank you thank you. Quick note – Lollipop: You were not the first to point out the "ok" – sorry about that! When I get really into writing, I tend to slip into modern vernacular – I usually catch it on the re-read, but then, I'm ashamed to admit, I don't always re-read…Anyway though, I do appreciate your reviews, including the "nitpicking" helps me to be a better writer.
