Title: Wherever the Surge May Sweep
Author: Partheon
Rating: PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.
Warnings: very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.
Summary: In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, Legolas is forced to take drastic measures in order to save Estel. Stretching from the destruction of Greenwood to the death of Aragorn, this sweeping AU examines what could have happened if the elves had made a terrible mistake.
Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story - they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.Chapter One: Iron in the Soul
He gave a deep sigh; I saw the iron enter into his soul.---Laurence Stern
In Rivendell, it was high noon but the day was dark as it would have been had late evening already fallen upon the settlement. Low banks of clouds drifted low and ominous over the gardens, waterfalls, and curving buildings; and no ray of sunlight could thread its way through to touch the cold ground below.
Even the trees seemed to weep, gently sweeping the ground with their long, feathery branches. Dew made the green leaves of flowers sag lower than before. And the birds had flown the gardens to happier places.
A quiet procession, full of silent steps and solemn faces, seemed to almost float over the damp grass. The long, dark robes of the elves brushed against their bare feet and their long, smooth hair swayed with every step. Faces were composed with an unnatural stillness as if each elf feared the slightest hint of an emotion would lead to an outpouring that none could hope to contain.
At the forefront of the group, four tall elves bore a bower of branches on their shoulders. Their clothing was in the fashion of Greenwood and their countenances seemed to be touched by a great grief. They led the other elves with rhythmic steps towards the great garden pavilion – a circle of rounded stone surrounded by long green vines and a wide stream, flowing towards the great Brunien.
When they reached the elegantly carved pavilion, a light spattering of rain broke out. Elves turned their eyes to the heavens and let the rain soak their skin freely. If nature would weep this day, they would not complain.
A composed body with a gold circlet atop its blond hair was laid on the pyre at the middle of the room. Wood was piled around it and then a blaze was touched to the dry kindling. Orange flames licked over the knotty wood and consumed the fine silken clothes and ate away at fair skin. Smoke curled and twisted in the air and the smell of roasting meat lingered in the damp air.
Legolas Thranduillion fell to his knees when the fire fully consumed the body and his shoulders quivered with the cries trapped within his chest. White hands were clutched at his head and eyes, gray like the ocean after a storm, were squeezed shut. Tears streaked down cheekbones that fairly looked carved from marble and a curved jaw that was just a tad to round to ever be considered overtly masculine. It was an all together striking face – even when grief had screwed itself across the pale skin.
One of the sons of Elrond knelt beside him and touched his hands to the prince's shoulders. His words were quiet – meant only for the ears of the grieved. His face was serene but comforting. Thick lashes framed warm green eyes and the soft gaze seemed to understand all of Legolas's woes before they were put into words.
So when the blond elf fell against his friend, tears leaking on the dark velvet, it was no surprise that the darker half-elf swept Legolas against himself, assuaging the muffled cries with nonsensical murmurs.
And when the fire had burned itself out many hours later, Elladan helped the young prince to his feet and allowed the willowy frame to lean against his own as they both walked towards the altar.
The long fingers shook as Legolas reached into the still warm ashes. Clumpy gray soot stuck to the pale skin and the prince wavered, his face turned towards the darkening sky. "May the earth and the sky," he said in a voice roughened with his numbing grief, "take back one of its own – allowing his soul to rest in the peace his life afforded. Thranduil, king of Greenwood." And his voice trailed off when tears once again sprang to his eyes
His steps were halting but sure as he made his way to the edge of the balcony and leaned over the wide stream that flowed by the small pavilion. With a noise that sounded like a deep sob, he opened his fist and turned his palm downwards – allowing the ash to fall from his smooth hand and into the gray waters.
When the last ash left his hand, his tenuous strength went with it and he sagged against Elladan. Blond hair shone dully as his head lolled back against Elladan's broader shoulder and blue eyes awash with tears slipped shut.
Lord Elrond with his regal face stepped closer to the two and laid one hand against Legolas's smooth forehead. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and Legolas's muscles lost any remaining tension and he began to topple toward the ground.
Elladan caught the prince about the chest and hoisted him up to his arms – one arm beneath Legolas's knees and the other around his shoulders as the blond head rolled limply against his chest – a pale, worn-out doll.
"Take him to the house," the half-elf lord whispered. "He needs rest. The strain is great upon his mind."
"Yes, Ada." Elladan turned and began to carry Legolas to the main house and a soft bed for the prince to rest.
The throng of mourners parted before him as he walked through their midst. Their saddened eyes darkened just a little bit more at the sight of the limp, white prince in his friend's arms.
Songs of mourning wafted through the dark branches of the trees as the last of the ashes were swept away.
Rain was pattering incessantly on the carved rooftop when Legolas opened pained eyes and blinked at the room around him. He was tucked into a large, white bed with a fluffy pillow cushioning his head. The wall gave way to a window just next to the bed and Legolas could see the trees bending with the force of the storm.
How long would the heavens weep? He wondered and his roughened fingers squeezed the coverlet.
As surely as the forests of Greenwood had been overrun by darkness and the elves that had inhabited it been slaughtered and scattered, Legolas's soul was barren and cold. His mind, once eager to learn and explore – to gain new insight, to experience beauty and adventure – was forever changed by the losses he had suffered.
His world had been slashed in pieces by the same orcs who burned his home and murdered his people. Legolas's hair still had that flaxen color and he still possessed that noble brow and kind mouth that had marked him for centuries – but on the inside – in the deepest parts of his soul – he was forever altered.
Thranduil had died on the outskirts of Greenwood as the few remaining elves had fled the approaching orcs. The arrow had come from seemingly nowhere – later they found it had been a single orc scout – and had struck the tall blond king in the chest – piercing his lung. Legolas had held him in his arms while his father had choked and trembled. The distraught prince had even tried to stem the gaping, death wound with his bare hands. Viscid scarlet had covered his palms and his clothes for days afterwards as there had been no time to wash during the rest of their desperate flight.
Struggling to breathe, Thranduil had whispered for Legolas to be a strong leader and had died with a last bubbly exhale. Legolas had dim memories of clinging desperately to the body and refusing to release his hold as the army of orcs had gotten closer. Then guards had forcibly dragged him from his father's body and out of harm's way, ignoring his pleas to stay with his father until death came for him as well. Another two guards had carried Thranduil's limp body between them as they had fled to the safe haven of Rivendell.
Beyond that, memories shifted and hazed for Legolas. He remembered next to nothing about the five day journey across the mountains to Elrond's home. The arrival at Rivendell was a blur consisting of worried voices and warm hands. Elladan had told him that he had collapsed in the courtyard soon after their arrival and had slept for nearly three days.
"My friend?"
Already knowing Elladan was there, Legolas made no move at the query. "I am well," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the water droplets. "I thank you for your support this day."
Dark burgundy flashed in the corner of Legolas's eye as Elladan sat down next to him. Silence prevailed as both waited for the other to break the somber mood that had fallen over the whole of Rivendell. Thunder rumbled through the gray clouds and the rain increased its temp upon the roof.
"Will you sail then?" Elladan's voice was carefully neutral and he did not look at Legolas when he spoke.
The archer's jaw clenched for a moment at some inner pain that clawed up his insides. "No. I am bound to Middle-earth as of now."
"What?" Elladan's tone was clearly startled and Legolas felt a glimmer of faint amusement. The blond elf had known that all of Rivendell expected him to board the next ship to the Undying Lands with what was left of Greenwood's people – to forget his grief in the great green shores.
"My fate lies not in the West. Not yet." The words were a sigh and Legolas sat up in the bed, for the first time turning his bruised eyes to his friend. "I have had many dreams of late."
"Dreams? I never knew you to be blessed with foresight, my friend."
Legolas lifted his chin. "I am not. Never before have I dreamed with purpose but I know that these are visions sent from the Valar themselves – and they bind me to this land until they are fulfilled. I have spoken to my father's councilors. A number of my people will remain here for a time in hope that Greenwood will once again be restored to it former light."
"Is that your dream? The resurrection of your home?"
"No." Legolas settled himself back and paused to still his mind and heart. "My dreams are much more – important than that." The deep blue eyes clouded over and the elf's thoughts wandered away from the room. "I will speak to your father," he said when his gaze once again sharpened on his friend. "And we will wait to see what the fates have in store for us."
The pavilion was deep in the lower gardens of Rivendell. Few elves knew of its existence and even fewer elves ever took the time to walk to its secluded location several miles from the main buildings. Large trellises of white flowers surrounded the stone circle and the rich smell of pines lent their fragrances to the setting. The stone was white and polished with elven runes scripted around the outer edges and chairs were strategically places between them.
In this quiet place, Legolas Thrandullion knelt before Lord Elrond and prepared to receive his father's crown. His blond hair was done in the traditional warrior braids and looked to be made of spun gold. His tunic was a silvery green with an ornate collar and long sleeves. The impossibly soft material fell down in silky waves to his knees and was bound to his slim waist by a delicate golden belt. His leggings were the same silvery green as his tunic and clung to every contour of his muscled legs and ended at the soft brown leather of his boots. Green and gold – the colors of Greenwood.
On the chairs sat the leading elves of Rivendell as well as those members of Greenwood council that had been blessed to survive the holocaust inflicted by the orcs on the wood elves.
Elladan and Elrohir were also in attendance, sitting quietly near their father in their matching burgundy robes. Their faces were set but, in their eyes, they could not hide the pride that they held for their friend.
Wind brushed the leafy branches as Legolas took the oath of the kingship of Greenwood and swore to protect the few remaining people of his land until the time he would pass the crown on to his own successor. His voice was tremulous but his gaze was clear and when the golden circlet of leaves was placed upon his head, he rose with the grace of a dancer.
He tilted his head back and the sunlight reflected off his golden hair to form a slight glow around the crown – highlighting the nobleness of his brow and the deep courage in his river blue eyes. In that moment, all those in attendance knew – without any reservations or doubts – that Valar had laid their hands upon this elf and set him apart for the noblest of deeds.
The moment passed as the sun was hidden behind a bank of clouds and once again Legolas was a young elf who had just been stripped of everything he had known. He accepted their quiet applause with grace but there was a lingering tightness about his eyes – a subtle undercurrent of fear that perhaps he was not brave enough or fast enough or intelligent enough to take on this responsibility. Perhaps he should have sailed and let someone else take this rule.
But Legolas – for all his diplomatic training and strategic planning – could not see how naturally the crown sat on his head or the way his shoulders had straightened just a little since the coronation.
He could not see the changes – but all others could.
Galadriel stood in silence before her mirror. The water pitcher stood near, waiting for its mistress to make use of it. Her posture was calm but the trees could sense the deep uneasy turbulence in her soul.
Greenwood had been destroyed and its sovereign slain. The news had come from Rivendell and she had seen the visions of horror from her mirror. Elves fleeing for their lives before a wicked tide of orcs springing up from Dol Goldur – a tide that no one had expected or been able to prepare for.
Dol Goldur had been a splotch of darkness on the otherwise peaceful woods – a patch of thorns amidst a garden of tulips. It was considered small and aggravating but generally thought to be harmless as long as one did not venture to close. The haunted castle that was coexisting with a serene village.
When the first reports of orc activity came in from the borders, the elves had not been too concerned. Every a hundred years or so, Dol Goldur would attempt to rise up against its neighbor but would always be swiftly beaten down by the larger, more skilled warriors of Greenwood. By the time the elves had realized that this had been no ordinary uprising, it had been too late and the orcs had swept through their defenses – killing all in their path.
From her mirror, Galadriel had seen the burning capital – the blood running through the streets and gaping faces of orcs as they feasted on the elves they had killed. She had thought all of their Greenwood kin to be lost in the carnage. Then Elrond had sent word of a small band of survivors – led by Thranduil's son – that had escaped to seek refuge in Rivendell.
Such darkness had not come to taint Middle-earth since the day that the Last High King of Arnor had been killed in the icy fields – leaving the throne to stewards that rendered the once proud kingdom to a poor imitation of its former glory.
The dark pupils of her blue eyes darkened as she remembered the day that Aranarth, son of Arvedui, had arrived at Rivendell, holding his own son Arahael in his arms. He had given his son to the elves before departing to become a chieftain of the Dunedain so that the Northern kingdom could be continued in some way.
It was then, over five hundred years ago, that the elves had taken an oath to protect the line of Isuldir until the time that the throne of Gondor could be reclaimed by the true king.
Hope had been held for awhile that the line could be carried through Anárion. But then Eärnur had fallen in Minas Morgul only seventy years later and Gondor had been passed to the Stewards.
But now – she shook her head as her mouth curved in sorrow – the darkness was growing and the blood was weakening. She feared that one day the only way to ensure Middle-earth's survival was to end the line of Isuldir and find a new heir to sit upon the throne. Their blood was weak – would the day come when their blood was too weak to be allowed to continue?
Her dainty hand smoothed over the pitcher's curved handle and she then lifted the silver instrument above the mirror, watching as the clear water splashed down into the polished basin.
Legolas Thranduillion was vital in the great scheme of Middle-earth. Galadriel had felt the Valar's blessing upon him since the first time she had seen the little elfling over a thousand years prior. A luminescence had surrounded the shy blond and when those huge blue eyes had peered up at her, Galadriel had known that Legolas was destined for things greater then even she could ever foresee. Born under the Light of Eärendil, the young prince exuded tenderness and nobility as roses exuded pleasant fragrance.
The water in the mirror grew dim and she waited, clearing her mind and opening her heart to see what the future might hold.
Flames ate away at a green forest and orcs celebrated in the background – the past. Legolas knelt before Lord Elrond, receiving the crown of his father – the present. Darkness covered the mirror for a moment and then lifted to reveal Legolas and Lord Elrond, obviously arguing. Legolas riding from Rivendell with the sun rising behind him. Legolas crumpled on black stone while someone who vaguely reminded her of Isildur stood above him. The specter of Legolas then vanished and the water was filled with a soul-wrenching blackness that devoured all in its path and a gold ring seemed to tumble from the side of the mirror and into the center. The ring hovered there amidst the growing darkness and then seemed to grow until it consumed everything.
Galadriel gasped as she recognized the ring and the vision was lost. After a moment of tense wondering, she forced herself to settle into a state of calmness and reached out along the link she shared with Elrond, sending the vision she had just seen along with a few words
The destruction of Greenwood puts events in motion that neither of us can ever hope to forestall. Darkness is coming.
Elrond's words were slow in coming as he reached back to her across the miles, taking his time to understand each image she had sent to him. Is there no hope left for this world, then? Are we to flee across the sea and let the earth and its inhabitants fade into ruin?
Darkness will come but I foresee that there will yet be hope. Galadriel's mental voice faded to a sigh. Our time is ending, my old friend. The son of Thranduil will play on a grander scale then either of us will in the coming days.
He has refused to sail to the Undying Lands. His coronation was today. He will be a good king.
The son of Thranduil is blessed by the Valar – in their sight, he is esteemed over many others. He will be blessed in whatever they call him to do. Keep him safe, Elrond. Galadriel withdrew from the link and turned her gaze up to the bright spots of light in the dark sky.
For the first time in her life, Galadriel acknowledged that sometime in the near future, she would no longer be called to play a part in the battle for Middle-earth. Her time would come to an end and she would diminish and fade over the Sea.
Earthy smells touched her senses and she allowed the soothing song of the trees to ameliorate her worried spirit.
Destiny would come whether she was here to see it or not.
Saruman gathered his white robe tightly about himself, his gaze locked on the small portal that led out of Orthanc's dark insides. His mouth was turned downwards and his eyes were cold shards of black ice.
So, he thought, Greenwood has fallen into darkness and Thranduillion has been crowned. It is as I have foreseen.
Shiny black marble reflected his face and his lip curled in disgust. The elves, he knew, had grown complacent as they realized that their time was drawing to an end. They could not even guess at the tide of darkness that was speeding rapidly towards them. They thought that the slaughter of Greenwood was horrible – wait until they saw what Saruman had planned.
He imagined the proud city of Minas Tirith bending to his every whim. He saw the broad shoulders of the Rohan horse lords stooped beneath heavy loads of brick as they slaved away for him – Lothlorien and Rivendell remaining only as haunted, abandoned villages. He pictured the elves chained in rooms of stone, their cries bouncing off thick walls as they pleaded for sunlight, air, and trees just one more time before they succumbed to the weaknesses of their immortal bodies.
An almost worshipful respect filled his eyes when he turned to look at the palantir sitting on its little pedestal. Yes, he had foreseen all of this with the help of this dark orb – with the help of the true lord of Middle-earth.
Sauron had seen the discontent in Saruman's heart. He had seen how this wizard's strength was legions above the other petty Maia who inhabited Middle-earth. He had seen – and he called Saruman out from the midst of their petty rabble. He had offered the wizard innumerable riches and far-reaching power. He had offered wisdom and resources, pleasure and wealth.
The fallen Vala had offered. And Saruman had taken.
It was only a matter of time now, the wizard knew, until all the plans came to fruition and Saruman ruled this land with the iron fist of power. It was only a matter of time… and a few delicate details that had yet to be worked out.
In all the wizard's wanderings of future paths, he had only come across one that may not bode well for his assets.
Legolas Thrandullion could not be allowed to interfere with the line of the kings. Saruman knew that his power would be complete when he took possession of the one ring of power – and had turned an heir of Isildur to his side.
Men were weak – the wizard chuckled – the offer of power and happiness and wealth was often enough to turn the strongest man to the side of darkness. The few men who could bypass those bribes, would often succumb under the influence of the right amount of pain. And the line of Isildur had proven itself exceptionally vulnerable to both of those tactics.
However, Saruman had seen how the Valar had blessed the young elf prince. He had seen in his palantir the natural glow that exuded from the elf. With the eyes of the Maia, he had witnessed the way nature seemed to cradle Legolas and protect him from all harm. Legolas was special and Saruman had no doubt that if anyone could render an heir of Isildur invulnerable to Saruman's touch and see them seated in the White City under the banner of peace – it would be this elf.
The young elf had the power to strengthen a man's spirit and resolve – to make a man's soul impregnable to the devious plots of the darkness. In his visions, Saruman had seen the prince and a young dark haired Gondorian standing side-by-side while Orthanc was razed by armies of men and elves.
Something, however, stayed Saruman's hand whenever he thought of doing away with the young elf in the near future. Legolas was gifted – incredibly so. If all of that power and strength could somehow be bent to serve the wizard… well, the benefits would be beyond even his own visions.
But, he knew that Thranduillion – despite his assets – would have to be killed before he was allowed to influence an heir of Isildur.
Author's note: yup, this is another setting the stage chapter. Next chapter, we start getting some action. But I do hope you enjoyed this beginning – as it was rewritten about four times in a multitude of different styles. Anyways, let me know what you think and we'll move on from there.
Updates will be rather sporadic – mostly depending on when I have time to post. Basically, with my incredibly hectic schedule, I will be posting whenever I have time. That may be twice a week or once a month – so please have patience : - )
Thanks to all of my reviewers and kudos to those of you who got all the names – it took me forever to get them all straight in my head. The next time we see any new names is chapter eight – and then I have lots of time to explain who they are.
Once again – thanks for taking the time to read this little (okay, it's very long) story of mine.