Chapter 54: Forest Queen
Third Age 1277
Elladan was at his father's door before the day dawned. The Greenwood company should have arrived two days ago. When the sun set on the first day, his father pointed out the storms that had blown in from the north. On the previous evening, he suggested they wait a few more hours before dispatching scouts. Elladan stood watch the entire night, but he could wait no longer. He would ride out in search of the Greenwood company, with or without his father's consent. Elladan entered Elrond's study without bothering to knock and found him in the company of Erestor and Glorfindel.
"Father."
Elrond beckoned his son to join them.
"It has been two days," said Elladan, stating the obvious.
"So it has," Elrond agreed.
"Something is wrong," Elladan added.
"I am inclined to agree," said Erestor. "Queen Caladhel is always punctual, and if her company had been delayed, Lord Iordor would have sent a messenger ahead."
The sound of footfalls drew Elladan's attention to the hall. A few moments later a man appeared at his father's door. Argeleb, the Prince of Arthedain, waited to be welcomed by Elrond before entering the Lord's study.
"What news?" Argeleb asked upon being waved in.
"Nothing good," Glorfindel replied.
"If delayed, they would have sent a messenger ahead," Elrond explained.
"What path would they take?" Argeleb asked.
"The High Pass over Caradhras," said Glorfindel.
"Have you word of orc activity along their path?" Argeleb asked.
"Not since the dawning of the new age," Elrond replied.
Argeleb did his best not to project his annoyance. He had spent some years of his youth in Elrond's house, as his fathers had before him. And like many of his kin, he cared not for how easily Elvenfolk dismissed the concerns of Men. "I warned you, Lord Elrond. The far stretches of the Misty Mountains have grown wild. Our people have abandoned the northern settlements, from the foothills of Carn Dûm to Gundabad."
This was the first Elladan had heard such news. He rounded on his father, "You knew of this, and you said nothing?"
"I knew nothing," said Elrond. "Only word of the common folk brought by rumor to Fornost."
"Is this why you wished to call a council?" Elladan asked, his gaze moved from his father, to Prince Argeleb and back again.
"I asked your father to call a meeting," Argeleb replied. "He agreed."
"Did you send word to Greenwood?" Elladan asked.
"I informed both King Thranduil and his Queen of the council."
"Did you tell them the cause for which it was called?" Elladan asked.
"I told them the King of Arthedain had cause to call it," said Elrond. "There was no reason to say more."
"So, you did not warn them?"
"What was I to warn them of? Our people have seen no sign of orcs in the mountains for nine hundred years."
Elladan's mounting anger was tempered only by the great love and respect he held for his father. "I will assemble a search party."
"I will go with you," said Glorfindel. "Let us find your brother."
Elladan departed without another word.
"Elladan!" Elrond called after his son, but the young lord refused to answer and continued on his path. Elrond looked to Glorfindel, "See he does nothing foolish."
Glorfindel bowed to his lord and departed quickly to catch up with Elrond's son. Argeleb departed soon after, leaving Elrond in the company of his High Counselor.
"Your son's mood is strange," said Erestor.
"Not so very strange," Elrond replied. "Lady Daerel rides with them."
"The healer?"
"She is more than that to him." Elrond had initially hoped to allay his son's concern at the lateness of the Greenwood company. That hope faded with every hour that passed. Now he had cause to worry for more than Caladhel and her son, but for his own son's heart as well.
Thranduil examined each design, down to the smallest detail. He had commissioned all the greatest artisans and architects in the realm. They were under the command of Lord Vehiron, the same lord who oversaw construction at Limrond and Amon Lanc.
"Your wife has a fondness for this particular motif," said Vehiron. "I have heard her say so many times."
"It reminds her of Lothlórien's trees," Thranduil replied.
"You will see the design set here, leading to the private balcony. What do you think?"
"I think she will love it."
"Then if you are agreed, I will set the sculptors to work."
"You may do so."
Vehiron set the plans for the Queen's chambers aside and pulled out a second case containing more documents. "I also have the most recent plans for the lower levels. The kitchens, store rooms and the like – should you care to review them."
"I think it best you confer with Galion on such matters. He can provide more insights than I."
"Of course." Vehiron rolled up the parchments containing the approved designs and stored them back in their carrier. "Have you given thought to a name for your new city?"
"It will be my son's city one day," said Thranduil. "I will give him leave to name it."
Vehiron could not help but be amused to hear it. "That is generous of you," he said. "King Oropher did not build his son a city."
"No. He built one for my mother."
Vehiron's amusement faded at the memory of Naerwen. "That he did."
Vehiron was nearly done gathering together his many plans when the sound of running in the hall drew his and the King's attention to the door. Lord Feren burst into the King's study without the courtesy of a knock.
Thranduil rose to his feet as the ellon came, breathless, to a halt. "Feren?"
"My king, you must come!"
"What is it?"
"Your son."
Feren said no more, but turned on his heels to lead the King on.
Thranduil had never moved with such speed through his own halls. He did not need to ask where they were going, for Feren turned down the path to the healing ward. When they arrived, Thranduil spied a crowd gathered around a bed. They parted way as he approached. Thranduil saw him then, his pale hair crusted with dried blood. The right side of his face was an angry purple. The healers were tending a gash on the side of his head. Terror gripped him, a fear such as he had not known since that day by the riverbank.
"What happened?" he asked the healer. He was a young one, younger than Daerel by centuries.
The healer would have ignored anyone who dared to break his concentration - anyone but the King. "He struck his head," the healer stated. "He will not waken." The healer went back to work, barking orders for others to bring him potions and herbs. All the while he had his hands resting on Legolas' head, and when he was done with his commands he started chanting, low and steady under his breath.
Slowly Thranduil regained control of his senses. His son was here, in Limrond. Who brought him back? Where were the others? He took in the whole of the room now. There, at the back of the crowd, collapsed against the wall, stood Roewen. The others in the room faded away as his gaze fixed upon her.
"When did this happen?"
Roewen was beyond exhausted. She had ridden both day and night. She rode until the horse that bore them from the battle fell dead. She called another, and another, and blessedly, the beasts came. Both horse and deer aided them in a swift journey home. Roewen had done what she could to keep the Prince stable, but she knew only a few simple healing spells taught to all wardens, none so powerful as Legolas required. Roewen leaned heavily against the wall, watching the healers work. She was only vaguely aware of her husband's presence, and those other wardens who took over when Roewen finally reached the safety of their wood. The King arrived at the healing ward only a few minutes after them. He stared down at his son in silent horror. She waited. He would find her soon enough, and then she would be done.
Thranduil's eyes fell upon her in time. Roewen pushed off against the wall and used what strength she had left to stand for judgement. He spoke. He needed an answer. Could she recall?
When did this happen?
"Upon reaching the foothills of Caradhras."
The King's gaze abandoned her then, but not for long, Roewen knew for whom he looked.
"Where is Caladhel?" he asked.
"She commanded me to protect her son," Roewen said in answer.
"Where is she?" he repeated.
"We broke through their line. She was riding with me and then I heard arrows fly."
"You left her behind."
Roewen saw it in his eyes, the swell of rage rising in him. She had witnessed it before, that fury, but never had she been its target. She knew this moment would come, from the instant she agreed to her queen's command.
"She commanded me not to turn back," said Roewen. "Not for anything."
"You left my wife to die!"
Roewen thought not of herself in the moment when her king's fury took hold. She worried only for her mate and her friends, who were not prepared for it.
With the first blow she wondered only when it was Thranduil had come so close. His boot landed at her center, throwing her back into the wall. She felt her sternum crack beneath the force and her head collided with the wall. The latter left her dazed for half a second and after she felt herself lifted into the air. His hands wrapped around her throat made it impossible to breathe, more so than the broken bone.
"I commanded you not to leave her side!"
Thranduil's roar was deafening. And she had no defense, not in words, or will. She had accepted this day would see her end. If she could change but one thing, it would be that Faentôr was not there to be a witness.
Roewen had judged rightly. The other wardens were so focused on their prince, they did not mark the danger until it burst forth. Shock and horror made them slow to respond. Haldor was the first to act, or dare to. By the grace of Thranduil's single-minded attention on Roewen, Haldor managed to put his king in a choke hold, but it was not enough to bring him down. Haldor's actions moved others. Faentôr and Feren took each of Thranduil's arms in a lock designed to break his grip - or his elbows.
"My king! I beg you. Release her." Haldor pleaded with his king, but he did not loosen his grip.
Thranduil continued to fight against them, but the longer Haldor kept pressure on his neck the more lightheaded he became. His strength waned and finally Faentôr and Feren were able to free Roewen from his grasp. She collapsed in a heap to the floor, gasping for breath. Two brave healers rushed to aid her.
"Be gone from my sight!" Thranduil roared at Roewen's crumpled form. "Should I set eyes upon you again, you will dream of dying at the hands of orcs!"
Haldor and the others struggled still to hold Thranduil back. He continued to fight against them with every ounce of strength he had left.
"Get her out of here!" Haldor shouted. And the healers obeyed. One lifted Roewen from the floor and carried her away.
Haldor pressed harder on Thranduil's neck, blocking the flow of blood from his head. It took longer than he hoped but eventually the king went limp in his grasp. He turned to Faentôr.
"Get her out of Limrond," Haldor said. "You must flee before he wakes."
Faentôr's haunted gaze passed over his friends. Both wore the same expressions. "What about you? He will not forget this."
Haldor looked to Feren, and Feren to him. A wordless decision passed between them.
"We will await his judgment," said Haldor. "Go. Now. Before it is too late."
Faentôr laid Thranduil's arm gently at his side. He looked upon the King, an ellon he had long called friend, and said a silent goodbye before he fled.
It was the smell that woke him. Not the stench of orcs, but that of smoldering flesh. He could not forget it, no matter how many ages passed - the dragon fire, the graves at Dagorlad, his friends and kin burning, turning to ash.
He did not want to open his eyes. He wanted to pass into forever, wherever it led, to Mandos, or into nothing instead. It mattered not, so long as he was freed from this place.
His spirit reached out to the light, bright and shining, but too distant to grasp. He could not reach it. Something held him tethered, something cold and biting, sharp as a shard of glass. It would not set him free.
Iordor's eyes fluttered open. He was bound to the trunk of a tree, his arms stretched out painfully beside him. His gasps drew their attention. Those nearest to him laughed. They were orcs, for certain, but such as Iordor had not seen since the First Age. An ancient race. The Laiquendi of old told tales of them. They believed these orcs to be the first, the oldest of their kind, perhaps even the lost children of elves.
One of these pale giants approached. His armor was sunk deep into his flesh. His dead eye was as malevolent as his live one.
"Surprised you are not dead?"
He spoke in the common tongue, slow and halting. Iordor understood him but refused to speak.
"Can you feel it? Why your spirit has not fled?" The orc took hold of the arrow buried deep in Iordor's shoulder and ripped it out with one swift jerk.
Iordor was ready for it. He choked back a scream.
The orc was amused by his struggle to keep silent. He turned his sight to the tip of the arrow. Beneath Iordor's blood, smeared on the arrowhead, was a substance black as pitch.
"Some say it stings like ice, others that it burns like flame." The orc returned his attention to Iordor. "He made this poison at the beginning of time. Your spirit cannot flee to your gods while He has his claws in you."
Iordor could not stop himself from eying the arrowhead. He could feel it now, creeping outward from his wounds, the talons of an ancient evil sinking in.
"Tell me, elf, have you ever wondered why your gods cast him out, but failed to destroy his creations?"
A wave of anger swept over Iordor. Was it his, or did it belong to someone else? He could no longer tell. All he could see was the arrow. All he could feel was a burning hate. Why had the Valar cast Morgoth out, but not his creations? Why ever had they let his people suffer? Why did they let him suffer now?
The orc sneered at Iordor as madness took him, as the poison crept further in.
"I saw you during the battle," the orc said. "You fought as one who has seen many lifetimes, as I have. Though unlike me, this battle is your last."
He threw the arrow to the ground and called out to one of his own. "Thrak tob!"
Iordor could hear movement but could see nothing beyond the pale orc.
"I will send you to your gods," the orc said, "if you answer me one thing."
He stepped aside and another came forth, dragging something behind him. He dropped it at Iordor's feet.
Iordor had no wish to see what lay before him, but he could not resist. He cast his eyes downward. He could hear her breathing. She was not dead, merely unconscious, with one arrow buried deep in her side. He had seen the arrow strike her but could do nothing amid the attack.
"You tried to help her escape," said the orc, "this one and the elfling. Why?"
Iordor lifted his gaze from Caladhel. It was more difficult than he expected to say nothing. He bit the answer back.
"Tell me, and I will kill you quickly. Tell me not…," The orc took hold of Iordor's bound arm and wrenched it upward, causing the bone to crack. The jagged end sliced through sinew and flesh meeting air and starlight. Iordor cried out in agony as his own blood splashed the side of his face.
The orc waited until Iordor's cries abated before he finished his thought. "Tell me not, and you die a piece at a time."
It took much for Iordor to regain his senses. The rage burning within him was an aid this time. Jaw clenched, he glared at the orc, but offered him no answer.
The orc who brought them Caladhel cackled, and turning to the other, he said, "Golug opash ma daumab."
The orc who snapped Iordor's arm sneered.
"Is he right, elf? Do you enjoy pain? Perhaps you will enjoy this as well." He stepped back and reached down, tearing the arrow from Caladhel's side.
The sudden shock brought Caladhel back. She screamed, and her cry was met by a chorus of dark laughter.
"She has a pleasant scream. Would you like to hear it again?" The great orc taunted him. From the nearest fire he drew a metal blade burning red. He pressed it to the elleth's side, searing the wound, halting the flow of blood. Caladhel shrieked and darkness took her once again.
The orc discarded the blade. "What do you say now? I know your kind do not fear death, not your own. And I promise you, we will not kill her quickly. That wound is poisoned. Like you, she cannot escape."
"Zo Goth!"
A smaller, wretched beast crept forward. He held an elven satchel in his hands. He reached in and withdrew an item carefully wrapped for the journey.
"Gru thos ishi," he said and handed the item to his commander.
The pale orc tore away the wrapping and cast it aside. When he did, a hundred evil eyes were drawn to the light of a thousand stars shining. A diamond crown of such magnificence, no orc had ever seen.
Iordor's tormentor held the crown aloft and his gaze fell upon Caladhel.
"Tau Gothlob!" he cried with wicked delight, an evil joy shared by all who heard him.
All but Iordor. He had never heard those words before, but he knew what they meant.
The company of orcs cackled and shrieked with as much happiness as their wicked race could express. The pale orc fixed his gaze upon Iordor, his dead eye smiling.
"We won't be needing you, after all."
A/N: I've been waiting to write that scene with Thranduil and Roewen for years. And these with the orcs. Sorry not sorry.
