Author's Comments: Thank you Dark Eyes for catching my mistake on Chapter 14 – I noticed it too, but I didn't correct it until you saw the same thing as me. It's now corrected, as are all of my formerly vague areas that others have pointed out. Thanks to all you guys for feedback and for your sharp eyes! Also, answering Dark Eyes' question, just in case anyone is confused: the reason why Thranduil sent for his sons is because he's going back to Mirkwood. His sons had taken over his leadership for the time being. Now that he's headed back, he wants them to meet Legolas just to see how he is after his healing – Thranduil knows the situation but he's not able to stay long enough to see a fully recovered Legolas by himself. Therefore, he sent Mornereg and Nimthôn as messengers; in order to do that, they will have to meet with Legolas – hence the confrontation. Hope that didn't confuse anyone! ;;;
Shadows Amongst the Leaves
Chapter XVLegolas narrowed his eyes as he stepped back, away from Mornereg. His brother smiled at him, a malicious expression that only further enraged the young prince. "This is the reason for your quarrels with me? This is why you detest me beyond all things? Tell me, Mornereg – when have you ever considered others your equals? Your arrogance is hateful. As for Mother's death, I am innocent of all blame. Nimthôn knows, for he witnessed Mother's last moments."
Mornereg shook his head, laughing softly. "Legolas, Legolas – you still do not understand. I do not care for Nimthôn's testimony, or for your protest. I saw what I saw upon entering. Are you accusing me of being false?" So saying, the Elf approached Legolas. "Your denials blacken your name and Father cannot see that, for he is blinded by his wealth. Tell me, Legolas but one thing: did you allow Mother to die?" Seizing him by the chin, he forced his head up, and Legolas glared at him, wrathful. "Did you?"
"Mornereg, that is enough!"
"Silence, Nimthôn!" snapped Mornereg. "Hold your tongue, else I decide to silence it for you!"
"Mornereg!" Legolas wrenched his jaw away from his brother's rough grasp, and turned his back on him, walking towards the chair. He could not remove the feeling of Mornereg's fearsome hold on his face, for his brother's strength rivaled his own. He feared losing his composure; the situation nearly came to blows. If it did, blood would flow and murder could easily become anyone's first prerogative in times of pressure. He did not want to desecrate lord Elrond's sacred home; the Elven abode of Imladris. Unbuckling his baldric, he placed his quiver and bow on the chair. As for his knife, he laid it on the table.
There would be no bloodshed during this confrontation.
"My brothers, lay your weapons aside. I already fear the outpouring of blood and violence beyond our means. The lord Elrond keeps a quiet house and our shouts will not be coupled with death and injury."
"That is wise counsel, Legolas," said Nimthôn as he unstrapped his short sword and bow and quiver. "For I know how easily you are insulted by haughty words. Mornereg, follow suit. Your anger is quick and vile."
"I see. Both of you against me, as it used to be. Very well then, my brothers – I will forego my weapons. Legolas, speak fairly when you address me. You are younger, and therefore you must show courtesy."
"Courtesy is shown when respect is given, Mornereg. You only give me disdain. Place your weapons down; it matters not where. No blood will be shed. Your words reflect the speech of one that I confronted down in the great hall ere I met you."
"I see," said Mornereg as he unbuckled his sword from his hip. "Is that why you bleed, my brother?"
Legolas bit his lip, seething within. How did Mornereg become a thorn in his flesh? Though his brother harbored bitterness and hostility, Legolas did remember the days when Mornereg was at least approachable. He used to ride with his brothers, when Nimthôn was not yet a peacemaker or Mornereg such a nuisance and troublemaker. Mornereg did occasionally irritate him but during those years of merriment, they did not threaten to spill blood with every quick word. It was only after their mother's death when the flames of rage and misunderstanding destroyed their peace.
It was the day when all grievances were unleashed.
"Yes, Mornereg. You agree with the Elf; however, I do not wish to contest you on that. Your accusation has broken out yet again, and I have protested it on many occasions. And yet, it falls on deaf ears."
"That is because I am true in my belief."
"And I say that you are false! I attempted to save her life! Only ill timing and a turn of fate's hand prevented me from doing so. There were Orcs to kill; how could I reach her if my path was barred? Can you not understand that?"
"That is your argument but paying heed to it will make me a fool. I see the anger lit in your eyes; you despise me, do you not?" Mornereg laid his sword and bow and quiver aside, propping them against the wall. As Nimthôn gave him a look, the Elf stepped away from his weapons, for they were still too close at hand.
"I could say the same for you," replied Legolas as he strode away from the table, keeping his sight on Mornereg. He did not trust his brother; he once did. Once, many years ago, when they did not accuse each other of hatred and murder. But those days were past and he now had to confront the ugly truths that he had ignored during his innocent years. He was full-grown and able to stand his own ground against his foes, be they foul or fair. However, he did not know which torments were worse – those of his people or those of his enemies. He walked over to the bed and instead of sitting – a mistake if there ever was one, should Mornereg assail him – leaned against the bedpost, letting his sight wander from the aggravated Nimthôn to the confidently smirking form of Mornereg.
How his eldest brother could twist a smile! A Silvan Elf, Sindarin in origin, could not be this callous, this presumptuous! His father told him that during the Second Age, Sindar Elves were the bearers of fair songs and peaceful thoughts. Even during the First Age, from gleaning through some ancient manuscripts in his father's study, he read that the Noldor were glorious warriors. All of their Elf-lords held high ranks and many fulfilled their deeds, while some fell to their pride and was thus destroyed. He had shuddered reading about their fate and now, this same chill meandered along his spine as he scrutinized Mornereg's crafty expression.
He did not like it.
"Legolas, you remained silent during my questions. So answer them now. How came you to become the Orcs' captive and why, my brother, is your hair shorn? It is most unbecoming of you."
"Mornereg, has he not told you that those were a fool's questions?"
"Nimthôn, do not attempt to dissuade me. He stands as if alert and I only wish to test him, seeing if he still has his senses intact." In saying this, the gauntlet was thrown and Legolas took it, for insults he would not have.
Crossing his arms, the Elven prince spoke. "Most uncouth, my brother. Very well then, you shall receive your answers. I am saying them by my own will, and not by your coercion. I fell because I sought to bring aid to my companion, a valiant man from Gondor. In coming to his aid, I became captive. As for my shorn locks, you can undoubtedly guess with your noble knowledge what befell me. Lord Elrond has told you much; you need not ask for anymore from me."
"And did you save this man of Gondor, Legolas?"
A stab of guilt, of painful knowledge. Boromir died. He had failed to save or protect him, although he tried his hardest. Merry and Pippin were also taken and Gimli was struck during his own stand. Legolas tasted bitterness welling within his throat; he swallowed hard. He had jested to Gimli for his slowness of foot; now the Dwarf could say the same and he could not deny it. He had fallen behind them all, in both speed and grace. Reluctantly, Legolas lowered his eyes. By doing this, he admitted to Mornereg that he had not saved Boromir and his silence carried the message. His speed was stripped ere Aragorn and Gimli found him, for he could not walk or run, nor stand. As for his grace, that was taken as well by vengeance. This was a bitter loss for him and a triumph gained by his brother.
Mornereg chuckled beneath his breath and in that laughter Legolas heard unveiled contempt.
"Hmph. So I thought. You failed to save Mother and you also failed your companion. This seems to be your bane, does it not, Legolas?"
"That is none of your concern."
"It is my concern!" These words were nearly shouted and Legolas looked up, so sudden was his brother's reaction. He glanced quickly at his second brother; Nimthôn gazed warily at Mornereg and retreated a few steps. Nimthôn's face bore fright and Mornereg stared back at him, as if able to feel his dismay. Something cold entered into Legolas' soul and he uncrossed his arms, letting them hang by his side. Tension crossed his brothers' faces and Legolas felt the atmosphere around them change. He gazed hard at Mornereg, now mindful of his every movement and word. "It is my concern, youngest brother! Because of your faulty ways, you can never save those that matter to you!"
"You know not what you say!" Legolas shot back fiercely. "In both times, there were foes on either side of me! How do you expect me to save lives if I could not even save my own? The savior must be living first!"
"Then you are not a proper savior!"
"How can you claim that, Mornereg? Is it because you were able to defeat the Orcs with your soldiers? I fought alone, slaughtering my path through the palace! I knew our mother was unguarded and therefore I seized the initiative to fight my way to her!"
Mornereg tipped his head upwards, as if snubbing his reply. "And yet, you failed."
"That is unjust, brother," said Nimthôn cautiously. "We were all out fighting alongside Father and our kinsmen against our foes. You yourself did not notice Mother's peril till it was too late – do not look at me like that. That was the truth. Did you not remember Legolas' stand during the Battle of the Five Armies? He proved himself worthy and he also saved your hide."
"His past achievements cannot blot out his errors."
"Let fall your pride, Mornereg!" His brother's stubbornness matched his, and Legolas gritted his teeth in annoyance. Perhaps Mornereg did this to raise a din in lord Elrond's house, which he did not want to be a part of. Striding towards the table, he glimpsed his silver-hafted long knife. His bow and quiver lay on the chair, untouched and marked by his hands alone. But he did not need his weapons now. Turning around, he faced Mornereg who stood near to his corner of the wall. "This is getting us nowhere. Unless we wish to disturb lord Elrond's peace, I say that we should call a truce."
Mornereg crossed the floor in four swift paces, coming face to face with Legolas. He placed his hand on the table and in doing so, also snatched Legolas' wrist. "There will be no truce this time, brother of mine. We are going to talk about this in our own manner. Nimthôn, should you feel yourself not worthy enough to stay, you may leave." He tightened his grip, and Legolas glared at him, infuriated. Mornereg's fingers dug into his flesh and already he felt pain.
"Very well then, brother. We shall talk about this in our own way."
Thranduil dismissed his manservant from the throne room. There was yet another task done during the night, and the Elf-king now felt weary. Upon his arrival back at Mirkwood, his subjects greeted him gladly, for a kingdom without its king was indeed dull; however, Thranduil had no doubt that his people spent their time in feasting and song. He did not begrudge them their leisure, as long as they were not too drunk to do their duties. Seventy years ago, he found two of his Elves in the wine cellar asleep; they had drunk much of his wine. For their punishment, they became patrol archers – they had allowed all of the Dwarves to escape.
But he did not find that anymore. With the threats issuing from Dol Guldur and with dark forces about the lands of the Free People, his kinsmen became disciplined and alert. Constantly, they patrolled the borders of Northern Mirkwood, growing ever cautious as they neared Southern Mirkwood. The Enemy's stronghold stood tall and menacing there, and none of the Silvan Elves could topple it down with their arrows. It was a desperate fight to stay alive, for both Elves and Men.
He could not bring himself to sleep as of yet. Legolas had stood in his dream and walked; for a while, his path was lit and the young Elf hastened ahead. The tears before were forgotten. Thranduil still remembered his terror at hearing his other sons' names being spoken in Legolas' anguished voice. But now, his youngest child had met his brothers, albeit he sensed that something had gone awry. Legolas stiffened, as if in response to a threat and he bared his teeth in anger. Who was it that provoked him so?
Could it be Mornereg, his eldest? He remembered the ill feelings the two shared ere the Fellowship formed, and Thranduil could only watch in Legolas' dream as the Elf spoke words defending his honour and dignity. It was about his late wife, the queen. Were they still quarreling over this?
"The Orcs have shorn your hair. What pretty work they did, Legolas," Mornereg mocked, reaching for Legolas' hair in malicious amusement. "What else did they do to you, brother? Do you bear scars elsewhere, for your face is absent of their treatment."
Legolas turned his head, as to thwart the unkind touch of his brother's hand. "Most uncouth, brother. Not only do you mock my honour in defending my companions and our esteemed late mother, but you also demand to see what should be hidden. Would it that Father were here to see to our quarrel! Mayhap you would still your vicious tongue in his presence."
Mornereg was not an Elf that liked the truth. More so, he disliked eloquence from an inferior, and he considered Legolas as his subordinate. This was not secret in Thranduil's house even amongst the youngest – Nimthôn well knew this. As for the prince caught in the snare of his brother's malice, Legolas indeed found himself trapped. With Mornereg's fingers bruising his wrist and the terrible glare in his brother's grey eyes, the younger prince felt as if he faced another descendant of Gothmog. That, and his weapon were so close at hand. With a dreadful premonition of things to come, Legolas attempted to wrench his wrist away.
"What is it that you fear, Legolas?" Mornereg said icily, leaning closer. "Is it the fact that you are no longer pristine? Or that the Orcs have made you one of them? What did they do to you, brother of mine?"
"Mornereg!"
Nimthôn's tremulous voice mirrored the feelings roiling within Legolas' breast. What did Mornereg want from him? Did he want to know that Saruman bound him to an ominous curse that tormented him? Or that the Orcs beat and brutalized him until he sought death? Was that what Mornereg so wanted to hear from his lips? "Mornereg, that is not for you to know," he replied, holding his brother's cruel gaze. Truly, Elven prejudices were strong! And they were now his bane!
"Let me know if my assumptions are correct, brother. We all know the Orcs punished you with rod and lash, for you bear their marks. They corrupted you with darkness, for your eyes do not lie. Beauty is one thing they hate, and they sought to remove it. Your reluctance to reveal further details only leads me to a baser thread of thought. Is that not so?"
Legolas stared back, silent.
"Let me tell you your worst fear, Legolas. It is a fear that even now slithers around your heart and seeks its destruction. You feel tainted, do you not? The beatings, the breaking of bones, and the drawing of blood are small compared to the injuries of the soul. The Orcs have done more to you than you will let us know. After all, what is a minor ailment like the stripes across one's back?" Mornereg smiled smugly, as if pleased at himself for guessing Legolas' turmoil. "They seized you, did they not? They were not amused by your strength, and under the guidance of their rabble, sought to break it."
Nimthôn strode closer, albeit staying a safe distance from the two. "Brother, please hold your tongue!"
Mornereg continued as if he never heard his kin's plea. "They plundered you, am I right, Legolas? Not satisfied with the violence already visited on your body, they vanquished you through the only means they had left. I am amazed that you continued with your broken fellowship with such dire injury! A violated soul is no good for the purity of the journey!"
As his brother spoke, Legolas ceased his struggle, only to blanch at the accuracy of Mornereg's words. Not only were his brother's assumptions correct but also the scorn in his voice clearly revealed how Mornereg thought of him. Tainted. Unclean. Foul. Fell, like the same creatures that broke him. So corrupted and shattered that he clearly was of no aid to the remaining members of the Fellowship. Whereas once he was distinctly Elven, a creature of light and beauty…now…now, he was a fallen soul. A soul that wandered the paths woven by fate and her emissaries. A soul seeking redemption – a tortuous road that continued to gnaw at him from within. Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf insisted in his help for the rest of the quest; this was but a small honour. And yet here, he heard words that violated his resolve; that breached the walls already built in his heart.
Legolas crumbled, his knees weak. Every word his brother spoke was a missive of hate, of anger. As he felt Mornereg releasing his grip, the Elven prince sank to the floor, his smaller frame trembling. Sobs threatened to tear his chest, to pour unbidden from his closed eyes. Choking in the realization of such hate and the memories of his torment, Legolas found it hard to breathe. He was tainted! This he knew from his own experience, and also the coldness of Elrond's formerly hospitable abode. He thought he had cast it aside, had left it to wilt as his spirit grew stronger – but alas! He was still frail, still unable to see himself as the once innocent, laughing, and singing Elf that left Imladris. According to Mornereg, he was nothing.
Perhaps he truly was nothing.
"Mornereg, you blackheart!" Nimthôn spat, his footsteps loud against the floor. "Whatever possessed you to say those words, brother? If Father was here, he will have your heart in his hands! You do not have the right to judge what you have not undergone!"
Legolas could sense Mornereg's sneer. "But what I said was no falsehood, looking at the pathetic form at my feet. He is nothing, Nimthôn. It is a shame that Father could not have borne a son more worthy of his title. Instead, Mother and he conceived what I consider something less than a bastard. Even a bastard child would have more courage than him."
"You!" The second brother nearly yelled. "I consider you less than even that for your words! You are no brother of mine!"
Pain flooded Legolas from Mornereg's invective. Tears streamed hotly down his face, over the fingers hiding his eyes, and dripping to the receiving floor. Breathing was difficult as he choked on his tears, feeling his body shaking from the force of his sorrow. His mouth was dry and salty, tasting of brine and his hands shook as if controlled by his inner agony. Screams of pain from within tore at his throat, seeking release. If only his Father was here! Ada, he called his father even now, sometimes in guilt. The last he called him that was in his dream. He never met his father in person from the day he left for Imladris. He sorely missed him, and the thought of his father's face if he heard Mornereg's insult only soothed him for a moment.
His father was not here.
"He is a blemish upon the House of Thranduil. He must not be allowed to represent us."
"Mornereg! If you think that Father considers you better, I pray to the Valar that your pride will be your downfall."
"Legolas is not my brother. As you have forsaken your ties to me, I no longer consider him such. He was ill chosen for this quest, and has jeopardized not only his own life but also the lives of his companions. I will not suffer him to live!"
Nimthôn's voice rang in clear and sharp. "You will not suffer him to live? Who gave you the judgment of who lives and dies, you fool? Father will have your head if you even touch Legolas! Put down the knife, Mornereg!"
Legolas opened his eyes, startled by the vehemence in his usually mild brother's voice. Nimthôn was never so violent in his speech, even when disagreeing with Mornereg. However, this was soon forgotten as he glanced at his hands. Saruman's curse came back to him in an agonizing tide of memory, and the prince screamed. The sound of his brothers turning to stare at him was lost in the confusion of his mind.
"Mornereg!"
"He has been stricken by darkness, Nimthôn you fool! I will blot out this error, and pray that the House of Thranduil is spared!"
The young Elven prince staggered, falling onto his side as the horror of his situation overtook his weakened mind. He was an Orc! Saruman had not lied! Legolas stifled a sob, only to feel the inside of his chest constricting from panic. He was unclean! What was he after he manifested as this? Tears flowed wretchedly down his face, cooling as they trailed the path of his cheeks. He glanced upwards, only to violently jerk back as the white gleam of his knife became terribly apparent. His eldest brother intended to send him prematurely to the Halls of Mandos, to be rid of his presence within the realm of Mirkwood. But that could not be! His legs refused to stand; Legolas blocked his face out of reflex, shriven against the floor that now claimed him.
"Mornereg, no!"
The keening cry of death screamed down on him, ripping a red haze through his suddenly shattered senses. Blood wetted his side, soaking profusely the formerly immaculate clothes bestowed to him by the lord Elrond. Pain screamed in unison with his own voice, now torn and ragged, crying out shrilly against his brother's malice. Nimthôn stared at him in disbelief and agony, even as he held back Mornereg's murderous hand that threatened to complete the bloody task. Fire burned through him, sharp and searing, jerking him in painful seizures. His voice lost its intensity and faded, even while his vision blurred.
"Legolas! No! Hold on, brother!" Nimthôn screamed. Another cry to match the one still lingering in his ears.
The last he saw was the form of Glorfindel seizing Mornereg and the hands that lay before him. His hands – they were no longer that of fell creatures but of his own. Pale, slender, and perfect – above all else, pure.