Hmmm…. So how long has it been? 1… no…maybe 1 and a half? No… ok, 2 years – 2 YEARS since my last update – is that right? Could it really have been so long? Sigh – I'm afraid law school has a way of distracting me from the important stuff. But now that I've graduated and have a little spare time on my hands as I study for the bar, I think I'll try to finish this up… Not that I really expect there to be any readers left, but for my own peace of mind, I will bring this story to an end. And so, without any further ado….
Chapter 23
Bratherond's Oath
The shadow of Dol Guldur loomed ominously over the barren, steel land. Distant shrieks shook the air, but otherwise the forest was quiet except for the boorish laughs and excited murmurs of a dozen Orcs crowded in a circle, their short attention spans gripped by the extraordinary battle in front of them. An elvish prince of Mirkwood, once proud to a fault, now danced dangerously close to death at the hands, not of an Orc, but of his very own guardsman. A guardsman who had lost all sense of reality as he gave in to the dizzying vertigo of lies and deceit, embedded in his brain with the muttering of a simple oath - an oath that bound his mind and bent his spirit. The Enemy's nefarious spirit burrowed into the troubled depths of the very beings that fought him, turning brother against brother with sinister, enticing lies and deceptive promises that ignited the lust and avarice in the purest of hearts.
Bratherond gulped nervously as he stealthily pressed through the thick crowd. There is no hope of saving Merionè now. Valar forgive me for what I must do, he prayed as he momentarily shut his eyes to the terrible scene before him.
In the midst of the gray shards that punctured the metallic land surrounding Dol Guldur, the Orcs held their breaths and awaited the final blow against Prince Cièdron - a blow that would end this one small battle, but ignite a conflagration in the waning kingdom of Mirkwood. Could one prince's death be enough to toss Mirkwood's uneasy inhabitants into the bubbling cauldron of war that had been simmering under a loose lid ever since Sauron's fingertips graced the perimeters of Greenwood?
Yes, this was all the Enemy needed. The final insult. One by one the King's family had been stripped away. One by one another match was lit and thrown into the voracious flames. Just one more match and all of Mirkwood would be set ablaze with the combustible oil of Thranduil's temper. But who would help Thranduil now? Would the apprehensive men of the West come to the aid of a volatile elf King in a cursed wood? A King who did not even have a ring of power to protect his domain?
No. The men of the West would not come to Thranduil's aid. And they never would, at least not so long as Greenwood remained Mirkwood. But suppose that men and elves and perhaps even those other strange races of Middle Earth joined in a war against Sauron on many fronts besides that of Mirkwood? Suppose attacks were waged from all corners of Middle Earth and the Enemy's attention could be diverted, at least momentarily, from this wretched wood?
These thoughts raced through Bratherond's head as he finally felled the last Orc blocking him from his kin's battle. He did not know for sure if such a day when the races of Middle Earth would join together would ever arrive – he had seen too many battles to count on the loyalty of Men, and he certainly was not prepared to trust the other races of Middle Earth.
But then there was Aragorn. Indeed, the coarse ranger had impressed Bratherond with his wisdom and loyalty. Perhaps then there was hope for Man…perhaps there was hope for a renewed alliance… And then perhaps there would be hope for Mirkwood if she could just hold out a little longer… If Thranduil could hold out just a little longer….
Bratherond's muscles tensed with these thoughts as he watched Cièdron's desperate situation in the center of that terrible congregation of Orcs. To go to war now would be to condemn Mirkwood to death, to relinquish what was left of the elven wood to the concentrated powers of Sauron. My oath to Thranduil is more than to protect his son. It is to save Mirkwood. Should Cièdron fall, Thranduil will fall into madness. And should Thranduil fall into madness, Mirkwood too will fall.
In one swift move, Bratherond straightened, pulled out his sword and focused his fiery eyes on Merionè. "Alas, your time has now come, mellonin," he murmured.
Before they had a chance to react to the elf beside them, Bratherond beheaded the Orcs surrounding him and leapt furiously into his companions' battle. He swiftly struck down Merionè's falling sword, engaging him in battle before his deadly blow could reach Cièdron. Nay Sauron – you will not gain control over Thranduil so quickly. Not through this son. Not this time. Not yet. Not so long as I still stand.
The sudden gift of life- a chance to continue breathing the air, foul though it may be - can be a dizzying shock to even the haughtiest of immortal young elven princes. When his mind finally accepted that it still remained in a head that still held its rightful place firmly attached to neck and body, Cièdron's hand instinctively grabbed his throat as if to confirm that he still lived. The smooth skin against his hand and the clinking of swords above him stirred him from this momentary shock. Like a squirrel scurrying away from a diving eagle, he quickly scrambled away from the new battle that unfolded around him. Though his body begged him to allow it to collapse, the angry shouts of the disappointed Orcs alerted him to the fact that this battle was quickly going to expand – he was a squirrel not in the path of one ravenous eagle, but rather a flock of ruthless vultures. Unable to find both knives, he clumsily grabbed one ivory handled dagger and forced himself to his feet, gladly slaughtering the very Orcs that only moments ago had cheered for his death, all the while battling his own lightheadedness. With a few helpful swings from Bratherond whenever he had a moment's respite from Merionè, the Orcs soon lay dead or wounded around them and the few left wiggled away from the deadly duo. Cièdron remained standing until the last two skirted his blows and fled the battleground. He then gave in to the overwhelming nausea that pulled on his mind and collapsed with a soft, drawn out moan. Shouts, murmurs and howls faded into the fuzzy whimpers of phantoms and specters, prophesying the coming of a bloody war, far bloodier than anything Cièdron could ever imagine. Bloodier than any of the inhabitants of Middle Earth could ever imagine. A war to end all wars…Cièdron sighed as he allowed his head to slowly succumb to the blackness that surrounded it,
"Not now Cièdron! Get up!"
A rough hand pulled Cièdron out of his daze and to his feet. Cièdron shook his head and focused his blurry vision. "Brather…I… I don't…the darkness…"
"You are stronger than the darkness, Thranduillon! Now fight it!" Bratherond hissed gruffly as he forced a discarded Orc sword into Cièdron's trembling hands before quickly turning to meet Merionè's calculated blows.
Cièdron staggered and clenched tightly to his sword as he viewed the battle between Merionè and Bratherond. Like a choreographed dance, each smoothly met the other's blows and Cièdron wondered if perhaps they would be frozen in this battle for all of eternity so equally matched they were in skill and grace. With a cursory glance at the leering Orcs behind him, who seemed to be debating whether to step into this fray or not, he narrowed his eyes and slowly stepped towards the elves' battle. As his hands tightened around the sword's smooth sheath, he released a shaky breath and murmured a quick prayer. It is time this battle ended, once and for all.
The air escaping the clashing of swords and wailing winds whipped through the trio's hair. Cièdron pushed a pale, errant lock which had escaped his coarse braids away from his cerulean eyes and readied his mind and body for battle. Imagine, we are at the foot of Dol Guldur where Orcs and Valar knows what else dwells and we are fighting each other, he thought ironically. Is this what you intended Mithrandir? Cièdron winced at the scorn that bit at this last, blasphemous thought and fought back the sudden critical judgment he felt towards the revered wizard. Even the greatest of wizards may founder after all – for who besides the Valar themselves can claim perfection?
Bratherond glanced to his side and met Cièdron's fiery gaze. He then quickly turned back and fended off more of Merionè's blows. "Hannon le, Cièdron you truly do have the blood of kings," he whispered under his breathBut when he turned again and caught a better glimpse of Cièdron, Bratherond's heart jumped to his throat.
"Cièdron, behind you!"
Bratherond swiftly turned on his heel and instinctively threw his sword like a lance at a looming shadow behind the prince. The next moment unfolded both instantly and as slowly as a ticking clock. Dumbfounded by Bratherond's sudden panic, Cièdron turned in time to see a giant, hideous Orc collapse behind him with Bratherond's sword lodged perfectly in the center of his neck. He then turned again in time to catch a weaponless Bratherond duck out of the way of Merionè's sword and then swiftly swing his leg to trip Merionè. Though Merionè lost his sword as he fell towards the ground, he quickly found Cièdron's other discarded knife and grabbed that instead. Yet Bratherond, in an almost unreasonable obsession with the black sword Merionè just dropped and had previously used against Cièdron, focused his attention on grabbing that instead of keeping out of the way of Merionè. Before Cièdron even had a chance to move a foot towards the two, Bratherond rolled over and Merionè dropped his knife on him.
The black sword fell loosely from Bratherond's grip, its opal blade shimmering tremulously as it fell to the ground.
"NOOO!"
Forgetting the pain in his side, the nausea in his stomach and the cloudiness of his mind, Cièdron leapt at Merionè the moment he tugged the knife out of Bratherond's flesh. But to his surprise, when his sword clashed with Merionè's knife, the latter fell loosely from Merionè's grip. Cièdron started and followed Merionè's stunned gaze to the ground beside them. A moment later Merionè's gaze seemed to pull him to his knees at Bratherond's side.
Shocked by the blow, Bratherond carefully lifted a hand from his stomach to reveal a dark, sticky wound, surrounded by an ominous, growing red circle. The elf blanched at the sight of his own mortality draining from his body and he turned fearful, questioning eyes towards the speechless Merionè.
In an inexplicable panic as the evil hold on Merionè's mind temporarily loosed its grip, perhaps out of sheer cruelty to torment the elf, Merionè ripped at his own tunic and tried to stop the terrible bleeding. Cièdron too quickly dropped by their side, but when he glimpsed the wound, he halted, becoming as still as the silenced air around them. All the clothes on his back could not absorb the blood that rapidly drained from the elf's side. With grim realization there was nothing more he could do, Cièdron halfheartedly ripped a part of his tunic anyway and gently placed it over the wound, if only just to comfort Bratherond. He then shifted and cradled Bratherond's head.
Cièdron bit his lip and stroked the elf's cold cheek. "Bratherond, forgive me…"
Bratherond's face contorted in pain and he weakly lifted a hand and laid it over Cièdron's. With great effort he moved his mouth to speak, but no voice lent itself to Bratherond's words. Cièdron shook his head sadly and lightly squeezed Bratherond's hand. "I know what you wish to say…"
Bratherond's eyes flitted wildly and the elf finally mustered the strength to release a raspy whisper, barely audible against his own breath, but laced with his characteristic annoyance all the same.
"No! You…" he paused and squeezed his eyes shut before brusquely resuming, "do not."
Cièdron raised his eyebrows and leaned in closer to Bratherond. Suddenly, Bratherond's clammy hand shot up and grabbed Cièdron's pallid face, drawing it close to his own. In the seeping gray mists of Mirkwood's dreadful graveyard, the two elves locked gazes not as a challenge, but out of respect and even endearment. Behind them, Merionè gazed intently with empty blue eyes, much as he had watched the body of Oropher laid to rest, many ages ago.
Bratherond's face relaxed slightly as he gently stroked the younger elf's cheek and made a valiant struggle to gain enough breath to speak.
"Cièdron, your wound… you must get help….must get out of here and get help...that sword…you'll be taken…"
Cièdron tensed and was about to respond when Bratherond shook his head anxiously and continued. He lifted his other hand from his wound and despite the blood dripping off his fingers, cradled the prince's face. Cièdron did not wince at the sticky liquid that stained his fair cheek and Bratherond sternly narrowed his eyes. "Do NOT fight me now, prince. Do as I say… For once, listen to me…"
A small smile tugged at Bratherond's blue lips and his hand lightly ran over Cièdron's forehead, smearing it with streaks of red. "Stubborn, spoiled fool. You have proven yourself a thousand times over to me. Now return home so your father will learn of your feats." He paused and his eyes widened slightly as he added softly. "I promised your father, Cièdron...I promised at least one son would return…"
Tears welled up in Cièdron's eyes and he grabbed Bratherond's hand. "And mayhap Legolas already did."
Bratherond glanced sharply at Cièdron. "You will too, Thranduillon. You will too." Suddenly, Bratherond's eyes shone proudly and then froze. A final breath escaped his lips carrying away the elf's demons and neuroses once and for all.
Cièdron froze and his eyes widened at the sight of Bratherond's suddenly lifeless body. They then rapidly scanned the elf's face and limbs, searching desperately for a sign of his now departed soul. With a choked sob, he dropped Bratherond's hand and impulsively backed away in disbelief as if death itself was a contagious virus.
"No, no it cannot be…" he breathed softly and he again leaned in and closely examined Bratherond's vacant eyes, not knowing what else to do and not sure death was a phenomenon he could truly bring himself to believe in even now that it laid itself before him, open, true and cold as any other tangible object one could feel and carry in their hands.
Cièdron jumped in surprise when suddenly a long hand rested momentarily upon Bratherond's eyes and closed the lids hiding once and for all those stubborn blue orbs.
Silently, Cièdron slowly raised his head and met Merionè's somber, distant gaze. Ice shot through his veins at the sight of those frigid eyes, but Cièdron did not say a word. It was Merionè who finally spoke.
"I know not what I do," he whispered in a trembling voice, a voice that revealed its lack of self-control, its loss as to whose soul it now belonged to.
The words fell flat in the sporadic winds and Cièdron did not answer. The ominous winds bemoaned the continuing death and destruction of Mirkwood, whose heart slowed at every new death among her once blithe keepers.
Tell me, Ada, what is it we are fighting for? Why are we here? We should have long ago left these shores. Cièdron closed his eyes momentarily from this nightmare and unconsciously ran his hand over his wound. He frowned when he glimpsed the purple streaked blood that soaked his tunic, remembering the time Legolas had been struck by a spider not far from their home. Poison had nearly killed his brother. Poison , whose singular mark now streaked his own vulnerable blood. But he pushed these memories and the sickening realization of his own fate out of his mind and rested his eyes again on Bratherond.
If only it had been just poison.
"We must take him away from here." He shuddered at the very thought of the Orcs finding the elf's body.
Merionè looked up and watched as Cièdron slowly stood and struggled to lift the body.
"Wait."
Cièdron raised a suspicious eyebrow at Merionè's command before slowly straightening to his full height. With a soft prayer, Merionè lifted the vial of ocean water from his neck and slipped it over Bratherond's. "Forgive me my brother."
Cièdron's stance softened and hot tears stung his tired eyes at this tiny gesture. A cool breeze teased Bratherond's soft mane and Merionè had to carefully untangle the strands of hair that wrapped around the charm's string as he laid the vial on Bratherond's chest. Soft prayers fell from Merionè's trembling lips and Cièdron turned away, unable to watch the scene before him. With a long sigh he closed his eyes and joined in Merionè's prayers.
Ortírielyanna rucimme, Aina Eruontari, alalye nattire arca·ndemmar sangiesseman ono alye eterúna me illume ilya raxellor alcarin Vénde ar manaquenta…Ortírielyanna rucimme, Aina Eruontari, alalye …
Suddenly, a high pitched shriek shook the air around them causing Cièdron's eyes to snap open in shock and Merionè to double over and collapse with a scream.
When the shriek died, Cièdron shakily dropped his hands from his head and gazed fearfully at Merionè who now trembled violently as he shouted and writhed in pain.
"They are coming! Ai! They are coming, they are coming!"
Cièdron stumbled forward and grabbed Merionè's wrist, but quickly recoiled as Merionè lashed out against him, shouting again in the dreadful Black Speech. Another screech shot through the air, accompanied by another terrible yell by Merionè.
"Cièdron! They are coming! They are coming for me!" Merionè yelled again, though Cièdron understood not one word of this, hearing instead the terrible cadences of the Black Speech.
Cièdron breathlessly turned and staggered as a hideous winged creature flew out of the gaping tower of Dol Guldur. His eyes widened and he jumped to his feet as the winds fiercely regained their previous strength like a tornado descending upon them whipping furiously the few lighter objects that dotted the barren land.
"We must go now!" he whispered, his voice shaking uncontrollably from fright. "We must go…Merionè, we must…"
Cièdron clumsily got to his feet and again struggled to lift Bratherond, but stopped as Merionè suddenly tightly grasped his slender wrists.
"They are coming for me Cièdron. Just me."
Cièdron pulled back his arms and tripped over a small rock as he backed away, shaking his head in confusion at Merionè's strange speech. "We must go…We must… Where are the horses!" He frantically turned and searched the surrounding forest, calling out desperately to their loyal companions.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity as the winds and screeches ripped the air around them, an anxious neigh answered his call and he spotted three horses hiding in the shadows of the wood.
"Merionè, come! We must go!"
The winds now whipped dust and small pebbles impeding the elf's vision as the mind numbing wails muted all other sounds in his ears.
Merionè lunged at Cièdron causing the elf to once again lose his grip of Bratherond's body just as he attempted to lift it. Merionè's frenzied eyes matched the furious winds and he fell to his knees at the prince's feet, beside the body of Bratherond. He then tightly gripped the elf's legs before reaching out and again grasping his wrists.
"They are coming for me Cièdron! They are going to take me! He is going to take me! I cannot escape, I cannot…" Merionè's words inexplicably slipped again into the Common Tongue.
Cièdron stared wildly at Merionè. "You can! We must, Merionè we must…"
"No! You do not understand! They will come for me wherever I go! Nay! They already have me! They have my body, and now they come for the rest of me! They have me as their slave and now they come to seal my fate for this world and the next!"
Cièdron gaped fearfully at Merionè, but could not find the strength to speak. Merionè dropped his wrists and then grabbed his black sword – the very Orc sword that had so concerned Bratherond - and held it up to Cièdron.
"You must do for me what I do not have the strength to do myself," he whispered. "Alas, I do not have the strength of your brother who now roams the Halls of Mandos. Please, Cièdron, you must…there is only one way for me to escape."
Cièdron gaped at the sword and backed away, still shaking his head. "No, no Merionè, I cannot…" he breathed.
Another shriek echoed against the trees and Merionè continued to hold out the gleaming black sword. "Cièdron, please! If they kill me, I am theirs! Do not let me fall to this fate! Do not let me suffer these delusions any more! Release me! My prince, I beg you – release me!"
When Cièdron still made no move to take the sword, Merionè's arms fell limply, though the sword remained in his hands. "Please. Allow me the honor of dying by the hands of a son of Thranduil rather than the dagger of the Nazgul. Let me die by your sword Prince and then mayhap the Valar will have mercy on me and allow my soul to enter the Halls of Mandos! Do not condemn me to this fate, Prince Cièdron! I may deserve it, but I beg of you to have mercy on me! I would that I die by your honorable hands than the enslaving hands of Sauron!"
Merionè yelled again at the next shriek and he coiled into a trembling ball. "Do not let them take me! Take me before they can! Please!"
Cièdron's mind raced frantically as Merionè trembled, on his knees before the prince. Could he do it? Could he kill one of his own? Would that not make him a murderer? Or would it be worse to leave his companion to the terrible fate that now swallowed him and taunted his mind? Cièdron now had the power to give Merionè the escape he desperately longed for. The escape that blessed men, but was denied the Eldar who had to shoulder the ever mounting burden of the years for as long as the world may last – or at least until those burdens became too heavy for any heart, even an elvish heart, to carry.
Slowly, Cièdron lifted the black sword from Merionè's hands and raised it over the trembling elf. But before he could bring it down, Bratherond's yells and final words echoed in his memory. TELL ME HE DID NOT STAB YOU WITH THAT SWORD… YOU MUST GET HELP – YOU WILL BE TAKEN.
With a start he dropped the sword as if its steel handle had scorched the palms of his hands. When they were first spoken, Bratherond's words made little sense to him, but now dreadful realization washed over Cièdron as suddenly as a tempest. He warily eyed the sword's tip and with a rapidly sinking heart he noted the black liquid oozing over its tip. He then swiftly looked down at his own wound and stumbled from a sudden, debilitating fear as his mind made the connection between the poison in his own blood and the poison on the tip of the sword. The Enemy's sword. It's pearly black sheath glowed despite the lack of natural light. 'Tis more than mere poison...
Merionè slowly looked up and opened his mouth to continue his pleas, but Cièdron met his gaze before he could speak. "I cannot do it with that," he stated flatly, his voice hollow as he struggled to control his fear. "Alas, I do not know where I dropped my knives…"
Merionè shuddered. "Prince Cièdron, please, I beg you…"
Cièdron bit his lip at the desperation in Merionè's eyes, but he did not say another word as to the sword, not wanting to burden Merionè's already heavy heart with yet another boulder of guilt. Merionè did not know the sword he used was tainted with a spell worse than mere poison. He did not know he had already sealed Cièdron's fate with the very one he so dreaded and now begged Cièdron to release him from.
Controlling the tears that blurred his vision, Cièdron reached behind him and pulled out his bow. He then quickly dislodged two arrows from a felled Orc beside him. "I cannot do it with that because it will take too much of my strength," he whispered lamely, unable to come up with a better explanation.
Merionè stiffened and sat up as Cièdron raised his bow. "Thank you, Prince Cièdron. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. Tell your father everything and ask him to forgive me. I have only ever wanted to serve him. I have failed, but I do hope your father will weep for me."
Cièdron's hands shook and he could barely see his target through the thick veil of tears that covered his eyes. "Merionè, we could leave…."
His trembling voice was interrupted by another wail and Cièdron looked up in time to see the Nazgul swoop down above them. In a desperate final attempt to avoid the painful act he almost had to carry out, he lifted his bow and took aim at the beast. But his solitary arrow had no hope of finding its deadly mark on the body of either the Nazgul or his steed. Rather, he only succeeded in angering the Nazgul and with another shriek the creature dove towards Merionè. Merionè yelled and cowered as the creature raised his knife in preparation to land his fatal stab on the elf in just a matter of seconds.
"Now! Do it now! Please!" Merionè shouted.
A storm of swirling pebbles and dust cluttered the air and confused Cièdron's senses. In a panic, Cièdron shot his last arrow as the Nazgul dove through the chaotic cloud of debris towards Merionè.
The fierce wind and shrieks suddenly fell silent and Cièdron slowly lowered his bow. The cries of Merionè now only echoed in his mind. Through a wall of tears, Cièdron observed the elf lying motionless at the foot of the Nazgul, a single elvish arrow lodged in his heart.
The Nazgul bent over Merionè and instinctively, Cièdron grabbed the black sword he had dropped earlier and raced towards the creature swinging it madly. But just as he came within feet of the Nazgul, the Nazgul leapt onto his steed and with a shriek they shot up above him.
After a swift glance at his retreating enemy, Cièdron dropped to his knees at Merionè's side. With a cry he grabbed the elf's head in an embrace and dropped his own head into the soft, pale blond hair which now muffled his uncontrollable sobs. After what seemed like hours, though was probably not even a minute, Cièdron lifted his head and grimaced as a shriek cut the air above him. With every bit of strength left within him, he steadied his shaky breath and pulled Merionè closer to him. "You are free now mellonin. Go now to the sea – do not go to Mandos' halls, for your heart does not belong there. To the sea, to the sea….," he whispered softly. Suddenly, Cièdron straightened and he repeated. "To the sea…that is where you belong…." With a burst of energy, he turned and glanced at Bratherond and the panicking horses in the distance. "Where you both belong."
Another shriek reminded Cièdron that the Nazgul did not yet fully retreat and he hurriedly whistled for the horses as he gathered Merionè in his arms.
All three horses obediently came to their remaining master's whistle and Cièdron quickly laid the bodies of Bratherond and Merionè on one of them. As they slowly began to slide off, Cièdron frowned and rearranged the bodies so that one lay on top of the other. He then leapt on to the horse behind them. Thank the Valar for the light bodies of elves, Cièdron thought as he reached over and grabbed the horse's mane. With a brusque elvish shout, the horse broke into a sprint, closely followed by her two companions.
As the Nazgul shrieked above and circled the tower of Dol Guldur, Cièdron and the bodies of his former companions disappeared back into the gaping cavernous forest of Mirkwood.
TBC
A Quenyan translation of Sub tuum praesidium.
