Revision uploaded December 2022
Dramatis Personæ
Aglarebon – Woodland Stallion
Aragorn/Strider – Male, Chieftain of the Dúnedain
Baradon/Sculls – Male, Ranger
Camaenor – Male, Master at Arms
Cordoves – Female, Ranger
Eryndes – Female, Mistress of Carthal
Faron/Dusk – Male, Hunting Master
Foruyndes – Female, Mistress of Stores
Gueniel – Female, Midwife
Laeron/Wren – Male, Ranger
Lobordir/Joust – Male, Master of Stables
Mereniel/Swan – Female, Ranger
Mydedis – Female, Mistress of Housekeeping
Nestdôl – Male, Master of Healing
Sali – Female, Mistress of Kitchen
Sindar/Master Elf /Legolas – Sinda Male
Úrion/Bear – Male, Second in Command
Aglarebon stopped walking. His neck twisted; his ears perked to the wind.
Legolas eyed the forest as the horse took a long sniff, the powerful muscles under his legs and backside tensing.
"(Be calm)."
For half a day their smell fouled the air; a stench of death and defilement, rotting blood and flesh long dead adoring bodies never washed, but instead caked with grime and excrement.
The silence of the forest told its own story. Creatures of all shapes held quiescent in collective terror and disgust at the vulgar insult to the living world invading their home.
But more than that, Legolas felt the tingling of his spine, the dread in his very stomach; the orcs were close.
If Aglarebon's senses picked up their scent the time had come.
Legolas swung gently down to the ground; his boots soundless on the dried clutter of the forest floor. To continue now as they'd done so far was to invite catastrophe for both. Thus far they'd kept downwind but it would not be long before the orcs picked up the scent, the scent of elf and horse.
"(Do not fear)," he soothed, shifting the small provisions bag he'd prepared earlier that morning on his belt and secured the bottom to his thigh with a leather strap. Taking a quick once over he was satisfied nothing upon his person would rattle.
But he then checked again anyway. His life now relied on his ability to become one with the forest.
No trace, no beacon. There would be no chance for survival if the orc pack were to discover him.
He took Aglarebon's face to look into his eyes. "(Retrace our path, back across the river)."
Aglarebon started to fuss.
"(Hear me and obey)," he stopped the fuss by firmly holding his white nose still. "(Walk under the shadows and mist. Wait for my return. Go now)."
Aglarebon dropped his head low and pushed into Legolas' belly with a shameless nicker.
Running his fingers through the long luminescent white hair of his mane, Legolas smiled but his patience was waning. "(Go)."
Stepping away, Aglarebon did not raise his head and continued to sulk until reaching the line of dense forest. Cocking his head back to his master, Aglarebon stood waiting; waiting for one final chance Legolas might change his mind.
Legolas held his gaze unwavering, not allowing the sheer ridiculousness of Aglarebon's manner to reduce his resolve. There was no way to continue with him and survive.
Aglarebon capitulated with a soft snort. Pricking his ears and standing tall, the white of his hair slowly disappeared with every step into cover of the bushes and trees.
Legolas did not doubt he would do as instructed. Aglarebon was spirited but trained well. He would not disobey.
Resecuring the weapons to his back and supplies, well-hidden underneath the skirt of his jerkin, Legolas stalked over to the wallow which caught his nose earlier. Although still close to the untainted lands on the other side of the river, the mud was acridly pungent, telling of waters never disturbed and decaying organic matter. Though not nearly as potent as he would find in another fifty miles towards the mountains of Angmar, it still served his purpose.
Kneeling beside the wallow, Legolas did not hesitate. Cupping handfuls of the slimy and slightly green hued mud, he spread it on generously, coating his arms, painting over his chest and belly, and down each of his long legs.
The smell was awful but nowhere near awful enough to mask his scent entirely. This unfortunately meant not being able to get in close to the orc pack without being discovered. Until they came across the more decadent mud holes towards the heart of Angmar, distance would have to be maintained. Hopefully not too far to inhibit hearing their words and the plans they contrived.
Looking pointedly up at the sun breaking through the dense canopy overhead, it was worth considering he'd made a possible flaw in his plan. This side of summer, the muds of Angmar were undoubtedly drier, putting his ability to recoat later at risk.
If that were the case, his mission was already a failure. There was nothing else he could use to mask his scent from the orcs.
Unless he found a rotting animal carcass to befoul himself.
Using the tips of his fingers with a grimace, he carefully rubbed the mud around his eyes and mouth, and then handfuls rubbed into his cheeks, down his throat and caked into his hair, from root to tip. A strip of fabric quickly tied the mess back away from his face and eyes. His back was the easiest. Lying down on the ground he rolled into the edge of the mud, trying not to imagine how much of it seeped into his scabbards or the mess it made of his bow and arrows.
Taking a small dab in his fingers, he flocked the shiny metals of his buckles and the silver detailing on his quiver.
Of course, he might've just jumped into the wallow. Getting to his feet and resettling his weapons, Legolas eyed the mud with disgust.
No, he'd never jump in.
Taking a spare leather bag, he filled it with more of the mud and some of the foul water lying on top and tied it to the inside of his tunic.
Satisfied he stunk enough for even a dwarf to become ill, he pooled his senses. His nose was affected by the stench, but with the passing of a few minutes he would become accustomed to it.
They had not moved; to the northeast, perhaps three miles away. The orcs own senses would be also hampered by the smells, sights and sounds of the forest but unlike an elf born to it; they were unable to filter it out as well. This was perhaps why orcs preferred barren wastes to rich life-filled forests.
That and their loathing for anything fair and living.
Legolas stood tall and strong, his legs and arm muscles flexing in anticipation, his breathing as steady as the beat of his heart.
Without further thought, he took to a silent run in the direction of the orcs.
Timing was crucial.
The orc standing guard looked away from his post to run a crude rock across the blade, and Legolas reacted, leaping across the space from one tree to another. Taking his weight with one hand, he swung his body up and wrapped a leg around a trunk. There he remained motionless, poised and waiting.
Again, the orc looked down at his axe, running the stone at the opposite angle. Legolas vaulted, pushing off the anchor of the trunk and branch, landing in a squat behind a bushel of crimson autumn leaves some three metres higher.
Abruptly the orc looked up into the trees, his black eyes tracking high, and Legolas froze perched precariously balanced on a branch no thicker than the balls of his feet.
The branch begun to sway under his feet-
Just in time the guard's interest in the trees waned and he returned to his sharpening. Legolas took no time to breathe a sigh in relief. Gaining what push-off possible from the weak branch, he leapt hard. Soaring through the tender growth, Legolas kept his eye trained on his target; another branch but far sturdier. Reaching out on the downwards fall, his right hand locked onto it with a sure grip, his shoulder taking the sharp jolt from the sudden stop.
Keeping a wary watch on the orcs down on the ground, he released his grip and bent his knees.
Landing smoothly, Legolas was satisfied he'd made it unseen.
Crouching low through the thorns and dense leaves of the rampant blackberry covering the rocky outcropping, he snuck on his hands and feet to a position of the greatest advantage.
Lying down over the unkind edges of the rocky ground, he fixed on the party arriving on horseback along the heavily overgrown track to the orcs' camp.
Four days had passed since the orcs' unknowingly gained a hidden stowaway.
Thus far they'd remained ignorant. Unfortunately, Legolas still hadn't learnt enough of value to pay his undertaking of the mission. Resolute not to return to the Dúnedain empty-handed, it was time for greater risks.
The first few days spent shadowing the orcs were no harrowing task. The density of the forest and the orcs' ineptitude traversing through it made stalking them far easier than perhaps was to be expected. It felt more like he was once more in the lands of his father, trailing a pack of spiders back to their nests or orcs returning from raiding human settlements, unwisely tracking through his forest.
Back in the Dúnedain borders, the orcs displayed a talent for disappearing into thick bushland where the rangers were unwilling to go except in great numbers. The rangers lost their advantage to the orcs in the closed quarters of the forest; though the rangers were better skilled, the orcs' greater natural strength and agility to move about the trees left the rangers vulnerable.
This time however, this forest's lack of established canopy meant the undergrowth was even denser than those in Carthal lands, choking the first three metres with thick woody bushes and thorny creepers. Not even the agile orcs' could dance their way through thickets only birds and rodents dared.
The orcs' solution: hack their way through because even though the trail they were following showed evidence of heavy use, the regrowth was rampant. Those orcs at the front slowed to a mere walk, swinging their axes and blades into the tough blackberry while the thorns tore into their skin.
The forest was under an enchantment of sorts. One could see the re-growth beginning to repair the damage the orcs inflicted; bright green spears stretching out from the cuts in the bushes, growing at a rate of three inches an hour. The forest was determined to cut off the trail once more before the orcs came through again.
As for the identity or purpose of the spell-caster? There were many magical beings in the world, especially this far into the north. Legolas was not concerned by the enchantment, for if the trees welcomed him and the bushes turned their thorns out of his path as they did, the spell caster paid no ill will to elves.
And an elf of the Woodland realm needed no trail.
The lack of canopy did mean less cover, but the young trees spread their branches wide and spurted bushels of green leaves to capture the sun and Legolas had remained well hidden to the orcs.
Legolas' eyes watched at the expected party rode over the last rise and down towards the orcs' encampment. His and Aragorn's estimation to the raiding party's number had been on the mark. Fifty-six orcs made their cumbersome way along the track, marching at a mediocre pace of little over thirty miles per day. Only three hours ago had the party finally stopped their struggling march through the forest, coming upon the built-up camp with a further seventeen orcs in residence.
The camp was very poor; a stream dammed by rocks, flies and beetles feasting on bones and skin from the orcs' last few meals carelessly tossed aside, the ground cleared, and fire pits dug.
The camp was just as poorly guarded. Fires lit up the night. Over seventy orcs lounged and slept massed together, surrounded by high stone and trees.
Even at night, twenty Dúnedain archers could freely sneak up and they'd all be dead before any grasped their weapons.
Such was the arrogance of the orcs this side of the river.
Legolas' fingers twitched involuntarily, imagining the ease of their slaughter. Eager was his desire to end their filthy existence.
But not even Legolas could take on seventy Angmar orcs single handily. Nor would he try to pick off any of them. That was not his mission.
The orc guard closest to him stood and cried out a warning of the approaching party. There were three of them and Legolas bit down the bile rising to his throat.
Humans.
Not just any humans. The markings they sported on their darkened robes and horses' leathers was unmistakable:
The order of the Carn Dûm; these were the disciples of the Witch-King. Spell casters dabbling in dark magic. Descendants of the first Dark Númenóreans and those said to have created the plague which tore through the Númenor, bringing the ancient kingdom to its knees.
Not possessing his father's talent for illusion, Legolas hugged the ground with a weathered breath. The Dark Númenóreans were nowhere near as complacent or stupid as orcs. Any movement now could spell his doom.
Yet, the words they would speak in mere moments were worth the risk.
The trio slowed their weary mounts with a hard yank of their reins . . .
Legolas focused. Drawing in deeply, he sought to touch the power within him; the light of the Eldar, and with it he pooled all his concentration, all his meagre magic into his most powerful weapon. His senses. With his ears sharpened and fixed upon the three humans, their hushed murmurs started to silhouette into words-
"-onwards. Your master does not take your languid pace well. You have two days!"
The leader of the three, the one who'd spoken to the orc commander, pulled his horse's head sharply about and they took off once more, back up the rise whence they'd come.
Legolas sighed quietly but in great frustration. So much for hearing vital intelligence. The humans were nought more than messengers.
The orc leader gestured rudely at the departing humans, laughing in profanity. Then he moved back to his lieutenants, "Get them up! We're moving out!" Striding past them, the commander took to his soldiers, kicking and slamming his fists into them, "Get up you scum! Those not on their feet will lose 'em!"
A cry sounded. Then another. Then so did all; their collective cry echoing and all rose for immediate departure.
Legolas carefully looked about him. Their trail forth was very close to his cover, but he waited. They must all pass him before risking getting up. Four days he'd trailed the orcs and was no closer to discovering their plans. His mud camouflage was beginning to thin, and he was sure the orcs would soon smell him.
What choice did he have?
The last orc passed. Legolas remained still, not even risking setting his breath free less the orcs hear it.
Straining his ears and uncanny awareness about him to ensure there were no stragglers, Legolas finally rose to his feet. Already he felt the life in the forest rejoicing and the rampant regrowth beginning to erase the footprints of the orcs.
Frowning, Legolas looked passed the orc pack. The blackberry and other bushes ahead of them was thinning, right before his eyes. The human spell casters lifted the enchantment to allow the orcs an easier passage?
Squeezing his fists tight, Legolas surveyed his own path. With the forest retreating in haste from the dark magic, cover was soon to thin out as the land smoothed in another five miles, merging into an open and barren wasteland filled with dark red rocks and mud wallows. Long low-lying plains led straight up to the tall north end of the Misty Mountains, filled with cattail clumps, sickly coloured mosses, toadstools and long dead trees.
If the mission was to be a success, he was going to have to get closer.
Biting back the need to add his own brand of profanity to the day, Legolas took off after them.
The orcs ran the remainder of the night, through the day, stopping long after the sun gave way to the moon that next night. Many of the orcs collapsed the moment the order to rest was given.
Legolas, for his part, was holding up well but was honestly grateful for the break. It had been a tough nine days since leaving Carthal and the constant threat of death kept his nerves on edge.
Easing himself upon the jagged edges of the dark red rocks, he pulled out his small skin to take a mouthful of water. So far, his supplies were lasting, but if they did not reach their army's main encampment soon, he may have to consider allowing them to continue without him and follow their trail once he'd sourced out drinkable water and something edible.
He was reluctant though; the best chance of discovering their intentions, strengths or any other vital information was to remain close enough to eavesdrop.
At present, Legolas kept a distance. During the run he'd kept a two-mile gap between them. He'd even stopped once to wade armpit deep through a completely stomach souring mud wallow before catching up.
When they'd finally stopped to rest, he crept up and climbed to the highest shelter available. From his higher vantage point, the orcs were below and continued about their ways.
Their present path made Gundabad their unlikely destination. It would seem their master, whoever he was, commanded his forces from Angmar's northernmost stronghold, Carn Dûm. This was the more unfortunate of the two, since its isolated location meant neither the Dúnedain nor his father's spies knew of the goings on there. Not for the past thousand years at least.
There were of course stories, folktales; blue wizards, Dark Númenóreans, sorcery and dark spells. The remnants of the Witch-King's realm, still holding fast to their lord's evil ways.
But they were stories, glorified by imagination and lack of tangible truth.
Some of the stories could now be seen as fact; Legolas experienced the turbulent weather over the plains of Carthal and saw the human sorcerers and the markings they bore. He'd seen the opposing enchantments battling for control of the forest.
What more there was to find with each mile covered? What truths lay just over the next sunrise?
"Where's the others, the vermin?"
Legolas peered over the razor rocks and down at the orc camp. Mainly the orc who controlled the others through threats, fear, and actual maiming or killing. But there was always a leader. This leader, the one who spoke to the humans yesterday, was taller than the others and far louder. His protruding jaw encouraged Legolas to designate him 'Nagor' (Biter).
Thus far Nagor hadn't spoken anything of consequence.
"Maybe they ate it instead of bringing it back," another orc answered.
"Then they will take its place," Nagor growled, pushing his way through his troops. "Rest, you slackers. We run again at first light."
Getting to his feet, Legolas decided to follow him. Nagor was waiting for something to be brought back and surely would eventually reveal more. The bushes were stunted in the harsh, rocky soil but leafy enough to offer enough cover so long as he maintained a diminished profile and kept to the shadows.
Nagor walked around through the camp, kicking and punching whoever took his fancy with no decided purpose.
Legolas stopped, crouching behind a sprite cattail clump and considered returning to wait for dawn. Nagor was not doing anything of importance, and he was taking unnecessary risks in his desperation.
Balancing himself with his fingers dug into the small rocks at his feet, he turned to follow his footsteps back to his hideout. And stopped.
A figure.
A figure sat shrouded in the darkness, the stink emanating from it only now reaching Legolas' already taxed senses. How did this figure creep upon him so?
Legolas blinked. No, the figure was prone, and the stench left no doubt. The figure had not appeared like an apparition out of the night air.
The figure was long dead.
Curious, Legolas maintained a close vigil of the surrounding brush and the location of the orcs, and crept closer. Reaching the cover of the larger boulder, Legolas slowly moved his head to the side. It was as he thought; the remains of a human.
Nagor came back into his sight, his feet hard against the ground in purpose.
Legolas froze. Halting his breath, he poised himself. If Nagor showed any further indication he'd been discovered, he was prepared to fight.
He would not win. But neither would he allow himself to be taken alive. Legolas was determined to take out as many of the wretches before his heart beat its last.
Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around the knife handles . . .
Nagor came striding by him then stopped.
Legolas breathed in, his muscles tensing in anticipation . . .
Nagor reached up one of his hands, then tore a small rodent in two with his jagged teeth. Stepping away from the boulder where Legolas hid, Nagor passed the body of the human and laughed from his belly as he threw a kick at the corpse. Taking the other half of the dead rodent into his mouth, Nagor moved on and out of sight.
Not allowing his eyes to close for a second in relief, Legolas kept watch for ten minutes before allowing himself to move once more.
That had been too close.
Still on his hands and feet, Legolas eased himself out from behind the boulder, careful to not disturb any brush or stone and mark his presence. Around him the air was still, and he chanced it. Feet and hands silent against the earth and stone, he crawled over to the body.
The rotting stench was overpowering the closer he got, even compared with the combined smells the powerful acrid mud and the general foulness of the orcs.
Part of the skeleton was visible on half the face, the stomach and bowel eaten away, the flesh of his hands, arms and legs eaten and some fingers gnawed off.
It was a man; was a man. Tied up to the tree Legolas could only guess he'd been left to die slowly with the help of birds and beasts looking for an easy feed.
It was a common form of torture. Legolas learnt it well, but orcs were the masters. This was their favourite way of killing their elven captives. Given the time it took for an elf to die of exposure, hunger or thirst, or general eating by wildlife, the orcs had their sport well made for them.
Humans were lucky for their frailty in this instance, death coming far swifter and brought an earlier end to their torment.
Close enough for an examination, Legolas studied the body. His hair was dark and skin light but both eyes were missing. Judging by the length of his legs and torso he'd been either a tall man, or one of the Dúnedain.
Six of his remaining fingers were broken and there was evidence of burning and branding on the toughened skin on the chest.
Torture. This man suffered greatly before his life mercifully ended.
Peering in even closer, Legolas scanned what remained of the man's skin and clothing for any clues to his identity. His cloth was of poor-make and mended many times over. This made the case of him being Dúnedain increasingly likely. His boots were deer leather but with no decorations or markings.
Setting his stomach against the smell and with as much respect as he could manage, he forcibly opened the man's jaw. There was nothing out of the ordinary in there though he was missing three teeth from the back.
Almost giving up, Legolas pulled his tattered clothing away from what remained of the abdomen and found something.
Not much, but something.
A belt and buckle.
Slowly and silently, he eased a knife from his back and quickly cut off the belt. Re-sheathing the knife, he pocketed the buckle.
Fixing the body back the way it was before, Legolas held his hand to his breast, whispering no louder than the flap of butterfly wings, "(Forgive my leaving you this way. May you have peace in death)."
Retreating without a trace, he returned to the shelter of the shadows.
He could go a week without sleep, perhaps eight days. Nine at most.
Another day the orcs would reach Carn Dûm. At least, those were the demands made from their master. From the moment they reached the valley of the ancient city, Legolas would find out nothing more.
Not even his father with his bag of illusionary tricks could gain him entrance to the fortress. And just like Eryn Galen, enchantments were said to guard the gates and towers.
Unlike Eryn Galen, beasts were also rumoured. Drafted in from the harsh icy wastelands further north, they were said to have hides of wool and tusks as hard as dragon-spikes, running on two and four legs with an appetite for any beast of red blood. Despite his years, Legolas never saw one, only the vague illustrations in his father's library.
No, whatever Legolas was going to discover would not be from inside Carn Dûm .
Lying back in spot overlooking the orc camp, Legolas watched the stars warily. He could ill afford to be taken by them, but their beauty helped fortify his mind and stave off the want for sleep . . .
A roar shook the earth beneath him.
Legolas blinked away his memories and eased himself forward to look over the camp.
Another roar joined in and for a moment Legolas wondered if Nagor had decided to move them out early.
Spotting movement, it was sadly clear that was not the case. The group Nagor had been impatiently waiting for had returned.
Another cry chilled the air. This one innocent and young.
Of the dozen orcs returning from their hunt, eleven carried their kills over their shoulders, elk. The twelfth held a captive, bleating in terror.
An elk calf.
Orc number twelve slung the squirming and kicking baby across to Nagor who took it under his arms, cackling cruelly at its cries.
Legolas closed his eyes in despair. Elves of the Woodland might enjoy the discipline and thrill of a successful hunt, but they never allowed an animal to suffer needlessly.
This poor creature was about to suffer horrifically before being allowed join his brethren.
A novice shot from his bow would see the calf liberated, speeding him on the way to the next world and away from further harm.
But to do so would give away his position.
The bleating turned to agony, and it tore into him. No elf would sit idle when a creature called out to him for mercy. The calf looked directly at him, begging, pleading, reminding him of the primordial sacrament his family shared with its kind.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Legolas did the only thing he could and bit down hard on his lip and remained hidden. The pain helped to drown out the cries of terror and misery from the young elk.
But most importantly the pain helped him remain in control, stopping him from doing something extremely foolish.
Clenching against the pain and anguish assaulting his soul, Legolas concentrated on the light within him, his immortal spirit and prayed for a quick end.
But the haunting cries of the young life suffering continued to rip into him, getting louder and louder, echoing inside him until it was all he heard. The pleading in its eyes the only thing he saw.
Biting down harder, nothing helped when without warning something within him broke.
The shielding around his heart cracked then shattered.
The loss left him exposed and there was no defence; nothing between him and the pain of his past.
And like the elk, the very symbol of his family's legacy was assaulted without mercy, so too was he; assaulted by memory . . .
A beautiful lady in a body of glistening silver armour, her sword ripped from her hand, and thrown to the ground sodden with the blood of her people. A young elf barely at the age of full height, screamed in desperation, leaping over the slain bodies and blades, sprinting hard.
But the distance was too great.
The lady's hollow cry filled the battle-marred valley, blood spilling from her mouth and the jagged blades tearing into her tender flesh. More blows came, strike after strike, blades piercing her armour and pale skin, bones shattering. Slowly her cry faded until it was no more.
The youth reached them at an inhuman speed, ripping through the lady's assailants, a tidal wave without mercy against the shore. His blades singing a terrible melody of death, carving with ease through each in his path, his only thought of reaching the fallen lady.
But it was too late. As the last enemy fell to pieces to join its fellows, dark red blood covered the beautiful lady's face and hair, her gaze unwavering up into the heavens.
She drew no breath.
Falling to his knees, the young elf lifted her lifeless head into his lap, cradling her broken body in his arms. "Mother?" he shook her. "Mother?" his voice broke, and hot tears fell down his cheeks and mixed with the red streaming down his mother's face. The sight sickened him, and he quickly brushed away the blood only to add the black blood of his slain to her pale skin. With a sob he pressed his head to hers; begging her to hear him, "Wake. Please! Please do not leave me."
She did not answer.
Burying his face against hers, her long thick blonde tresses smearing his skin in her blood, he wept, "Please return to me. Please mother."
Time stood still without a care, and still he wept.
"Take-take my son," a hollow voice ordered, "take him."
The youth raised his face, wet with tears and the blood of his mother, "Father?"
His father didn't respond, his eyes trained down at the lady in his arms. "Take my son away."
"Father?" he begged but what he was begging for he did not know. Did he think the powers of the great elf-king could bring her back?
Did his father blame him? Was it his fault?
"Father," he pleaded, the sound pitiful to his own ears.
"I said take him!" his father roared; his eyes still unmoving.
He felt harsh hands grab at his arms and shoulders, wrenching him up and from under his mother. She fell from his grip to land upon earth not fit to hold her, "No! Stop! Leave me! Mother, please, do not leave! Father?!" he wrestled against his father's soldiers, but the pain in his heart weakened him and his effort only saw him landing on his knees. "Father?" he begged once more.
His father refused to look at him, still staring down at his wife. "Take my son! Leave!"
The soldiers doubled and they dragged him away, the last he saw of his mother was his father falling on his knees, cradling her lifeless body as he had done, but the great king did not shed a tear. He only held her tightly to his breast, the same way he had always done.
Never again would her pale cheeks blush and smile at being playfully pulled into her husband's lap or a hasty embrace behind the pillars and corners of their home.
Nor the silver of her eyes to shine as she looked upon her son with the purest of love, or to hold him captive within her arms, peppering his face and brow with kisses until he pleaded for mercy.
The youth's eyes did not leave them as the king's soldiers continued to drag him away. His parents, his beautiful and kind mother, bloodied and torn, and the dead grief on his father's face, the once bright everlasting light in his eyes now darkened evermore.
And the youth vowed 'never again'.
Never to fail again.
And lady's greatest love, the king's son, never wept again . . .
Legolas blinked, his hard laboured breathing and the pain in his heart were overwhelming, but squeezing every muscle, every ounce of strength to gradually gain control of his memories once more. Deep, deep he buried the memory; down so deep; so far to a place it could no longer control him.
Silence filled the air. Opening his eyes, Legolas saw why.
The calf was dead.
The death was much to the displeasure of the captors.
He knew not whether it had been his prayer or circumstance, more likely to be his young body could not handle the torment. All he knew it was now at peace and safe once more, far out of the reach of its molesters.
Legolas wiped at his mouth, and his dirty fingers came away with a red smear; in desperation to gain control of his memories, he'd drawn blood.
Not a lot of blood, but even a smear could be enough to alert the orcs.
Turning away from the sight and the wave of nausea the sight of his blood brought, he upended his water skin into his hand, washed his mouth with his precious water, and then carefully spilt more water over his hand.
At least the elk kills would help to disguise the scent.
He paused. Still . . .
Pulling out the pouch with the stinking slimy acidic mud, he quickly rubbed some more into his face and around his hands.
There was no harm in being certain.
Down below the orcs feasted and while they did, Legolas watched the stars. Yet, just like in Carthal, the beauty of their shimmering light did little to appease him.
The fate of the elk calf and the assault of memory left a wave of fierce emotion. It was all he could do to remain lying still in hiding. He longed to escape the waves of feeling still crashing against his already battered heart. There was no relief. So there he lay, waiting for the orcs to move and to continue his mission. He listened all night, hoping Nagor would reveal something of importance.
Alas, it was a quiet night and Legolas as left to churn and simmer.
Until the first stirrings of dawn grew and the lightening of the sky. The sound of grass and rocks moving caught his attention. Turning back onto his stomach, Legolas spotted a group of orcs slinking off into the darkness.
Watching them go, he didn't make the decision.
He simply slid up onto his feet, checked none of the orcs or camp guards were looking in his direction.
And followed.
They roared but their efforts to remain hidden from the other orcs worked against them. Ten thousand roars would not be heard by any of their fellows this far away. They'd left the camp to head west, far and away from the others, heading back into the forest.
Where they were going, their purpose?
None of it mattered.
He strode towards them, long strides brimming of confidence, unblinking eyes filled with cold malice. His hate, his anger would feast in the spilling of blood.
The orcs didn't bother to regroup for battle, sparing not a single glance at each other. They held their weapons aloft and ran at him.
Without breaking gait, Legolas drew both blades from his back, twirling them about his wrist with cocky ease before dropping his hands to his side. He didn't bother with posturing or setting into a defensive position; he would not defend.
He would take them apart.
Hatred saturated him, three thousand years of anger and grief fuelled his rage until he was blind to everything but violence.
"Long way from home, elf-scum!" the quickest of the orcs yelled just before reaching him.
"I have no home!" No, they took it from him the moment they took her.
The orc lifted his axe and threw it down upon him. Legolas sidestepped, bringing up his blade and cut him from stern to neck and their leader was dead before hitting the ground.
Too quick. Their deaths should be slow, torturous.
The others roared. They hefted their weapons. They charged him.
Muscles twitching, straining under the enormous weight of his feelings, he once more allowed them to get close.
Then tore into them.
His beautiful twin blades struck into arms, legs, bellies, spilling blood and soft organs. Each strike was deliberate, targeted damage without immediate death. Slowly the six orcs were hacked down with sadistic languish. The face of death hovered in front of his eyes; the face of death on a beautiful lady, the face of death on his father, alive but darkened inside. With every hit and cut, with every drop of black blood spilt, he tried to shred the image.
And relieve his guilt.
The last remaining orc stopped, stepping away to look at his comrades. His yellow eyes flicked at the damage, the body parts then spat at him with pure hatred, "Legolas the Merciless? The Orc Hunter?"
"I am," he answered cockily.
"My master will be generous when I hand him your head, elf-prince!"
"With thousands of orcs to my name," he laughed coldly and advanced, "you will be the one to remove my head?"
Hesitation filled the orc's face and took half a step back, his eyes darting about him.
"Run, coward, and I promise, I will lengthen your death. You know of me; you know I am true to my word."
The orc decided to try anyway. With a quick turn, the orc leapt into desperate flight, his feet digging hard into the ground-
He fell to the earth not three paces from where he started, one of Legolas' knives cleanly through his shoulder and the other in his guts.
Legolas sauntered over to his victim, hands twitching with dire need to make this orc pay. Make this one the bringer of all his pain, all his grief and loneliness, to unleash the wealth of anger and hatred upon him. Tear him to shreds, slowly, and perhaps in doing so maybe the pain would ease.
Or more likely, diminish the last shred of that young elf whose heart was lost on that battlefield so long ago.
But he couldn't.
Perhaps that was the line he'd yet to cross.
Hauling the orc to its feet, the orc snarled and twisted in his grip to throw a fist full of dagger straight towards his face. Legolas used the momentum of the orc's turn to push him off balance and twisting him around, the knife going wide.
Acting on instinct, his hands took the orc's jaw, wrenching hard, snapping its neck.
The orc dropped to the ground with a thud.
He stood motionless. Many long-drawn breaths passed his lips before he was calm.
The forest around him returned to life. Birds and beasts cried out in rejoice for their enemy was slain.
Legolas shook his head. The powerful and usually well-hidden passions which so defined his character would surely be the death of him.
Well, he mused, at least it would not be this day.
Looking around at what he'd done, he sighed but not with displeasure. The world was better without their kind. They were an insult to nature and creation.
Yet, he did have to move quickly. However unlikely any of the other orcs would come looking for their missing number, it was sheer folly to risk his life on assumptions and guesses.
One by one he dragged the bodies to the mud wallows and using much strength, awkwardly tossed them towards the centre of the stinking well. It was not fool proof, but the mud should help disguise the bodies and cover the smell.
Alas though, the bodies did not sink. Legolas watched, his jaw squaring, hatred and frustration getting to him once more.
"Delos!" he cursed, causing the birds to take rapid flight from the trees around him.
Taking a long calming breath, he fought to gain control.
With an exasperated shake of his head, he waded into the putrid wallow. Reaching the bodies, one by one he climbed on top, stomping and jumping with excessive force until they were submerged down into the depths of the mud then waded back.
Washing his hands from any remains of the black blood, too his face and clothes, he took palmfuls of more stinking mud and reapplied thickly.
He stopped; his hand poised over his neck.
The forest was quiet.
Halting his breathing, ears straining hard, his eyes darted about the shadows. Had they come looking for their missing comrades after-all? Had they tracked the scent of blood?
Bolting up from his knees beside the wallow, Legolas sprinted hard for the tree-line. Reaching it, he jumped, using the lower branches to swing up higher, climbing quicker than any tree-fairing creature. Almost to the top, he hid behind the trunk and kept his eyes sharp. Up there in the trees he was trapped, but if they weren't looking for him, then it was the best place for him to hide.
If they were looking, ground or tree would not matter. He could not outrun them.
Heartbeats turned into seconds, seconds into minutes.
Just when Legolas started wondering if he'd got it wrong, he heard them. Faintly, no more a breath of evil upon the wind. But it gradually grew, louder, closer, one murmur of sound becoming many. A horn bellowed no more than two miles to the north.
The space between his brows knitted. The orcs he'd been trailing were to the east when he'd left them. They could not have doubled back and come around from the west so quickly.
Straining hard to distinguish between the whispered sounds, the answer came like a smack to his face.
What he was hearing was not the orc party.
The number of feet multiplied. Metal striking against metal. The creak of wheels and slaps of whips. Cries and bellows of creatures not yet known to his ears stabbed through the air. And the orcs. His nose hampered by the stench of the wallow and the mud caked upon him, he'd not noticed before.
What he was hearing was beyond any doubt; a large army moved along the base of the mountains in a direct line for Carn Dûm .
Legolas could hide from seventy orcs, risking his life for what information he might've overheard.
But an army? With so many more eyes and noses, so many talking and moving making hearing much more difficult, there was not much to be gained.
Yet his ears could not tell their number or even their condition or nature. He had to see for himself.
Though the orcs path through the mountains was well etched in Legolas' mind - an important discovery to relay onto the Dúnedain, Legolas could not retreat now. Not taking this opportunity to discover their strength would be unforgivable. Furthermore, he hadn't truly compromised himself.
It was unlikely those leading the army would be on the lookout for him.
Only two more miles and his mission would be over, free to gladly return to Carthal.
Pulling out his small skin, he took a sip. The space between him and the encroaching army remained thick forest. He could move far quicker through the treetops than down on the ground.
Replacing the skin to the inside of his jerkin, he leaped through the air in the direction of the noise . . .
"Seventy-five years ago, your father sentenced you to read each book and scroll thrice. Five seasons passed and yet you still had to complete your penitence."
Legolas didn't bother looking up, "Your point, Lanthir?"
"The library was never a place to find little princeling. Unless for seeking the labyrinth to hide from his father's wrath," Lanthir stood menacing over the desk, "Or mine."
"You are wrong. I never feared anyone's wrath, least my father's. I simply sought solitude from all the noise."
Lanthir snorted, "Truly?"
Legolas sat up with a grunt, "Why are you here?"
"Pardon, prince. Your father bid me bring you this gift in commemoration of your conception day."
The stewing bitterness re-awakened in his heart, "My father lies under his own banishment. I wonder at all he had the wisdom of the date."
"He knows the date. This day marks your coming of age. Your people await you at the celebration-"
"You may make my excuses," he cut him off and returned to the book.
"I don't recall being a prince's nursemaid." A heavy thud landed on the desk; a chest of wood, intricately detailed with long flowing carvings and largely rectangular. "Make your own excuses."
Curiosity almost got the better of him. Curiosity was always his bane and secretly he yearned to look inside. What had his father arranged?
Or had he? Had he simply ordered Lanthir to do it for him?
Holding fast to his bitterness, Legolas kept his eyes trained on the book. The book's words however, no longer passed through his eyes, "If my lord wishes to bestow a gift, surely it is polite to be the one to give."
Lanthir's long pale fingers played with the chest bolt, slowly, deliberately opening the lid to reveal the contents.
Curiosity finally won just as Lanthir knew it would.
Legolas' eyes widened.
"A peace offering?" Legolas looked up at his old tutor in hope, "Did this gift come with a message?"
Lanthir stare was emotionless as ever, "No. He did say when he ordered their construction that if his son chose to use weapons of a barbarian instead of a sword of his noble race, then so be it."
All the hope he'd so fleetingly held faded at once. He reached over and knocked the lid back down.
"Legolas?" Lanthir demanded.
He didn't answer. All the gold, silver and mithril blades in the world would not buy what he truly wanted.
"The king expects your gratitude."
Legolas again remained silent.
"You are one hundred years old now. The time has passed for adolescent tantrums. Your father will expect-"
"Be silent!"
For a handful of minutes Legolas tried to read, tried to silence all the bitterness and hurt, but in the end, he glared up at the silent elf, "Speak!"
"The king grieves," Lanthir hissed. "Have you considered he fears unwillingly unleashing it upon you?"
Legolas turned away.
"And you? Locked in this library, reading about the fell things to the north, planning your vengeance? Angmar will not be defeated by a single elf. Not even you."
"I will see the end to their kind."
"Killing orcs will not win your father's approval."
"Neither will being the dutiful prince, sitting in court and smiling at dignitaries. I will end their kind, not for my father, but for myself."
"There are millions of them! If there was a way to rid the world of them written in this library, would not they already be vanquished?"
Legolas gestured to the book, "Information is a faultless weapon. There may yet be clues."
"No," Lanthir soured, "Wisdom. Wisdom is the faultless weapon. How quickly your memory fails?"
Legolas felt his top lip curl.
Lanthir placed a hand on the book, "Angmar's destruction - the destruction of the orc will not ease your pain. You see the truth of this. I know you do because in all the years I trained you, not once were you this stupid."
Legolas rose to his feet, closing the book on Carn Dûm and taking the knives from the chest, "You may tell my lord Thranduil I will acknowledge his gift once it has earned the blood of a thousand orcs."
When he walked out the library, Lanthir spoke no more and did not follow.
Once in his personal quarters, Legolas fixed the scabbards to his quiver mount, and he buckled it on his back. Adjusting the straps until each knife was within easy reach, then buckling to his back and drew them together as one. Moving them about experimentally, swishing through the air with ease but discovered he was overcompensating for weight that was not there. The blades were lighter than his old knives and would take some time to adjust his style to suit.
Still, they were beautifully crafted, long gleaming blades of mithril. Handles of white and gold. Truly weapons worthy of an elf-prince.
As Lanthir suggested they were probably a peace offering; a public acceptance to Legolas' chosen style of fighting; close and intimate. Barbaric his father had called it in his attempt to persuade him to change his preference to swords.
He took a fresh stack of arrows fashioned by his own hand and added them to the quiver along with his hand-crafted short and long bows.
Retaking the knives, he returned them to his back.
"Not overly the look of a barbarian."
Legolas froze. There was only one, one elf in all Middle Earth who could sneak up on him; one whose powers of illusion could willingly fool even Legolas' superior sight.
But why was he there? He'd not come to his personal quarters since Legolas was still afraid of apparitions and monsters under his bed.
"Legolas."
Swallowing, he turned to face him for the first time in months. The great elf-king was as he remembered; all accept the shining light in his eyes remained dimmed.
"Where are you going?"
Legolas fixed his bracers to each wrist, "On patrol with the guard. I am of little use here." Though he wasn't about to admit it, Lanthir was right. Angmar, Gundabad and Carn Dûm could not be taken down by a lone elf. Instead, he would satisfy his need for revenge by protecting the people of his realm.
Yet, the bitterness and hurt deepened when Thranduil didn't contradict him.
"You are of age now. The choice is yours."
With barely a nod to acknowledge his father's words, he walked past and headed for the gangways to lead him to the outside world.
"My son."
Legolas stopped, stunned. It had been so long since his father called him so familiarly. Hope filled his veins-
"The Creator protect you."
Legolas inclined his head and struggling to ignore the tear in his heart, "And you, Father."
Taking to the gangways, Legolas didn't look back . . .
Four days later, Legolas once more stood facing the fast-moving waters of the Carn Dûm river. The sun shone over the water and the Angmar side of the bank. Once he'd retreated, his path had been easy. Still keeping his senses attuned to any trouble, he was able to run at a decent pace through the high mountain forests, the dark red rocks of the wasteland, and back through the rocky bluffs to the river.
A further four days at a good horse pace would see him returned to Carthal.
Even though he was certain there were no orcs following him and the forest was alive with the promise of safety, Legolas did not call out for Aglarebon.
There was neither sight nor sound of him, but Legolas knew he was there. The young horse had not disobeyed him.
Walking down to the river cautiously, keeping a good eye out about him, he pooled the cold water into the palms of his hands and vigorously washed the mud off his face and hands. It was a decent swim to the other side, and with his head under water, he didn't wish to get any of the mud in his eyes.
Standing up, he bent his knees, swinging his arms back then hard forward and kicked off the ground. Legolas landed arms extended in front of him some five metres from the bank.
The tales of the river were wrong, he thought as he surfaced another ten metres towards the other side.
Aglarebon swam him across the first time, Legolas swam the second and nothing dark or magical had befallen them.
Feet hitting mud, Legolas pulled himself forward and waded up onto the bank. Taking another cautious look around, he still did not call out to Aglarebon.
There was life surrounding him and no whisper or smell of orc. There was another smell though.
With a little more vigour than necessary, he shook much of the water out of his hair and clothes as he could then dropped back down into the water.
Legolas was after-all unapologetically vain and righteously so to his way of thinking. As such, he was quite particular about his upkeep and appearance. He and Aragorn often jested with each other; Aragorn for Legolas' meticulous self-maintenance and Legolas for Aragorn's complete lack thereof.
Aragorn would have a great laugh seeing him now, dunking time and time again, trying to rinse off the mud and stench of Angmar with river water.
Conceding none more would wash off without hot water and soap, Legolas breathed in and let out a long, crisp whistle. Anyone overhearing would think it the call of a most beautiful bird.
Aglarebon however . . .
A sharp snort answered the whistle, so too then the beating of hooves and the sound of branches being tossed aside.
With a smile, Legolas watched his young friend break through the thick foliage and stride over to him with little care for stealth.
"(I am joyous to see you, my friend. But did you forget this place? We are still far from safety)."
Aglarebon snorted again, tossing his head in impatience before shoving his face into Legolas' chest.
"(Were you troubled)?" he smirked, giving him a scratch behind his ears, "(You must still learn. But come; shall we please return to our friends? I have need of cleaning)," he sniffed in disgust, climbing onto Aglarebon's back.
Not waiting for permission, Aglarebon took off at a fair flight.
"(Halt, empty-head! Did you forget something)?" Pulling him up, Legolas pointed him to the trail back up to the top of the bluff to collect his belongings.
He did chuckle though; perhaps Aglarebon thought he needed a bath too.