Mae Govannen!
I hope anyone reading this is enjoying it, but i'll keep blabbing to a minimum:
so sorry for the long lull! Life is a hindrance to writing
disclaimer: i own nothing of J.R.R. Tolkien's work.
and please reveiw!
namarïe!
"What are we holding onto, Sam?"
"That there's some good in this world, Mr Frodo. And it's worth fighting for!"
-from The Two Towers.
Farewell we call to hearth and hall,
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
We must away, ere break of day,
Far over wood and mountain tall.
To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell,
In glades beneath the misty fell,
Through moor and waste we ride in haste,
And Wither then we cannot tell.
With foes ahead, behind us dread,
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
Until at last our toil be passed,
Our journey done, our errand sped.
We must away. We must away.
We ride before the break of day...
.
There comes a time in all tales, great and small, when events begin to align. Like the many stars who form the great constellations, or the seasons that shift to unlock the next. Time forges on; our heroes' sufferings and triumphs grow in size, nearing the end of a story. They despair...or, perhaps, they hope- knowing that soon it will all be over, and perhaps all for naught. While they try to deny it, they feel it. They know it, deep in their bones.
This was why a shadow hung over Haldir's heart as he and Lindir crept through the maze of Dol Guldur, their ears strained for the slightest sound of orcs. The Marchwarden steadied Lindir as he swayed, face white as bone. He had not a clue where they were, nor which way to go. It was only blind desperation that kept them going now. A burning hope that so small that it was agony to meet dead end after dead end. Greif and loss of hope hung heavy on Haldir as he stopped, a faint wind rattling the empty chains that swung from the black walls. It smelt like rot and death.
"We will not find a path out, Haldir," murmured Lindir, his hoarse voice defeated. "The way is shut to us, I think. This place has an evil mind of its own."
Haldir slammed a fist into the stone, trying to keep in a cry of utter misery. "We cannot give up. We cannot!"
"We may as well." Lindir clung to the wall, struggling to remain standing. His eyes were full of pain. "I can go no further. I am sorry, Haldir."
Haldir looked hard and deep at his fellow elf. How long had Lindir held out against the orcs, refusing to speak? His silence had been absolute. Elrond's advisor truly was a warrior. It was incredeble: the depth of strength and defiance.
Lindir drew a small, trembling breath, mouth a sad little curl. "We tried, mellon nîn."
"Gwador..." said Haldir softly.
Brother...
Lindir's eyes went wide, but on forged Haldir in that soft tone full of a deep and great kinship,
"You have the spirit of the Noldor of old." He took hold of Lindir's cold, shaking hand in his. "I am honoured to have met you, and I give you the name Belthûn."
Even as the sound of the approaching orcs rang out as a nightmare in the stillness, the two elves only looked long into one another's eyes, both filled with a deep, unabiding respect for each other as they turned as one to face the orcs.
And the creatures hesitated, for the two elves appeared taller and nobler than ever before, with fire in their eyes and faint stars on their brows. Lindir's scarred face was held high, his dark hair billowing out behind him in a phantom wind; a pennant of battle- muddied with sweat and blood. By his side, Haldir's pale-blonde tresses gleamed like white-spun gold, eyes alight with a blazing defiance. It seemed they resembled the great elven-lords of old, and the orcs shifted uneasily, their voices cast into low mutters.
Lindir took a breath, seeming to steel himself as the creatures finally surged forwards. Haldir cried a hoarse challenge, and then they were on them. Lindir did not flinch, nor falter and neither did Haldir.
I give you the name Belthûn.
Lindir Belthûn.
Braveheart.
The tremors that ripped through the ground sent quivers up Legolas's body as his ears beheld the shredding of earth and stone. Soon. It would not be long now. The ware-worms were vicious burrowers and a dark light was in the young elf's eye as he stared into the ragged gloom of the chasm. A wound torn into the side of the mountain.
A worm bellowed; the sounds of its frenzied gnawing rent the very air asunder as Legolas turned to face Azog.
"We arrive soon," snarled the pale orc, "and then elf, dwarf, and man will fall."
"How can you be so sure that the elves will come to their aid?"
Azog spat on the ground. "Your father's realm now lies in the hands of a feeble-hearted steward. That soft-skinned elf with hasten with aid."
"For Oakenshield?" said Legolas.
"The elves seek to aid the men, not the dwarves," sneered the orc. "The weak."
Legolas nodded, but within his chest a snarl of thorns tightened convulsively about his heart. A glimpse of his father, lying still in the greedy red water, pale grey eyes fixed longingly upon him drew a shudder. The weak...
Le ni meleth, ion nîn...
The sindarin was alien and strange to his torn ears, but the fluid, liquid-like quality haunted him. "Why can I not remember him?"
Azog glanced sharply at Legolas. "What?"
"My father. I know who he is, yet I do not remember him." Legolas searched the scarred face, feeling unsure for the first time in his life.
"You were merely an elfling," said Azog roughly. "Memories fade over time. Perhaps it is better that way."
Before, Legolas would have agreed without question. But now, he felt torn. Now, for the first time, he began to doubt the words spoken to him by the orc. Thranduil had claimed that they had stolen him away as a child...if that were true...
No, he thought. It cannot be...elves were liars. Fell and fey...Or so said the orcs. Could the orcs be trusted then? Legolas bit his lip and dug deep into his mind, searching for something, anything, that would help him decide. He had to know. Had to pick a side.
...A brush of fingers on his hair, cold armour under his little hands as he clung to a steel-gloved leg...
Legolas stumbled back, heart racing. A thick, cloying fog seemed to rise within his head, uncovering his mind, and he doubled over in pain as it struggled to remain.
...Thranduil going down on a knee, pressing Legolas's small palm in his. "I need to lead our people, my little leaf."
"Lead them in what?"
"Against the orcs."...
A flood of memories cascaded like a tidal wave through Legolas's mind, flotsam and jetsam of agony- searing pain as it burst through the barrier of thorns that had kept them hidden.
...Thranduil, lying on his back, covered with white bandages, drawn face full of pain as Elrond bent over him. Vilya glowing- trying to halt the deadly march of the dragon fire. Legolas holding fast to his father's unburnt hand...
...Seated astride his father's elk, Thranduil's strong arms about him, whooping as the beast pounded through the forest. Their hair trailing out behind them in ash-blonde banners as they laughed...
...Thranduil's fingers on his arms as he adjusted Legolas's grip on the bow, showing his how to grasp it properly. How to draw back the string and shoot...
...Lying sprawled on his father's chest, out under the trees of Greenwood, carpet of amber leaves crinkling as Thranduil and his mother sang softly to him. Her brown eyes were filled with love, her sweet face radiant as she lay beside her husband and son, chestnut brown hair in stark contrast to Legolas and Thranduil's pale tresses...
...Trying to comfort his father as he sobbed alone in his silent chambers, knowing it was because of his mother's death. But how do I help him when I feel the same? the little elf thought to himself. If I go and say a thing, then I will begin to weep too...Did you not need to be dry-eyed when you set out to comfort a person? So, Legolas stood there with his own tears, half in the door, and listened to Thranduil's gut-wrenching sobs...
...And...
...Standing on the bridge that led to the elven gate, waiting for his father to return. Hearing the orcs, but not being able to flee in time. Their filthy claws grabbing at him, tearing into him as he screamed for help. Struggling. Crying for his ada. The lock of blood-sodden hair that they had left behind to fool the elves, stiffening on the stone of the bridge. The long nights' march: chains so heavy that the little elfling could hardly walk. The gleeful mutters of the orcs of how it had destroyed Thranduil.
...Sitting alone in a dark cell in Dol Guldur, sobbing softly. Alone and scared in the murky darkness. Of the shadow that came unbidden and laid hands on Legolas's sweaty brow. Of the pain that tore through him at the touch. Of screaming for his father. Then...nothing...
Legolas reeled, nausia rising in his throat. I... I killed my father...for what? A life of lies?
Le ni meleth, ion nîn.
A sickening pang smote Legolas deep in his chest, tearing at his heart as, finally, he understood.
I love you, my son.
"Al." The word tore from his lips. The sindarin as natural as breathing. How could he have forgotten its melody? The soothing ebb and flow of his tongue? "Furn pân endir nîn."
It was all a lie.
Legolas swallowed as Azog turned to him with a satisfied snarl. The worms must be close. What did he do now?
The orc beckoned to him with his remaining hand. "Come. We ride now."
"Why would you offer us aid, master elf?"
Galion sighed. "I do so in my king's stead. I would not see you suffer after the bond forged in the Last Alliance."
The two of them watched the eager survivors of Lake-Town unload the elven wagons, hope now fresh in their faces as they beheld the food and drink.
"Where is King Thranduil?" asked Bard suddenly, noting the absence of the imposing and elegant elf king.
Galion hesitated. "In Rivendell," was all he said eventually. Bard must have read something in the elf's dark eyes, for he bowed his head and did not ask again. "You say Oakenshield will not give you what he promised?"
"Aye. He has barricaded himself and his companions within that mountain and will reason with none." Bard shook his head with a grimace. "I fear that it may come to a fight."
"You need hardly trouble yourself if only thirteen reside within the halls of Erebor, Dragonslayer."
"These men have never fought in their lives. We are short of weapons...and they whisper amongst themselves that you have come to swell our ranks."
Now Galion looked troubled as he glanced about him. It was true, what Bard had said, for the men and women of Esgaroth were watching the elves with fleeting looks and excited whispers. "We have not come for war." Indeed, though the elven forces were clad in their resplendent armour, it had been for their own safety on the road to Dale.
"You seem to have brought all your people," commented Bard.
"Near enough," said Galion. He debated before sighing. "We will stand beside you when you make your claim. But we will not fight. I do not wish to see death today. Not of Man, nor Elf nor Dwarf."
Bard nodded. "You have my thanks."
"Excuse me! Excuse me! Bard!"
The barge man turned, and Galion saw Oakenshield's halfling scampering up the stone. His face smeared with ash and sweat. He drew to a halt before them, puffing as a small bellows, bent double to rest his palms on his knees.
"Master Baggins?" said Bard in surprise. "What are you doing here? Did Thorin-"
"He hasn't sent me," said the hobbit, still a bit out of breath. "He will not part with a single coin. And his heart hungers still for the Arkenstone. Worse than before, even..."
"Then why have you come?" asked Galion. The hobbit's gaze was drawn by the sight of the elf. Bilbo's face was blank for a moment before recognition struck and he laughed in delight.
"Why, it's Master Galion! What brings you here?"
Galion gestured to the carts wearily. "It seems that we elves must play privy to others' needs. We came to aid the people of Esgaroth, just as my king aided you and your company all those few nights ago."
Bilbo's face darkened, expression now grave. It was a queer look on the halfling. "I know. I came to honour the aid that both you and Bard gave us." From within his torn, dusty blue coat, he withdrew a tightly bound bundle, only slightly larger than his hand. "I came here to give you this."
He offered it to Bard, who took it and drew back the fabric. Awe came into the man's face as a soft, silvery light shone on his face. Galion's eyes flew wide as he beheld what the Dragonslayer bore within his hands.
"Mîr i aranlin..." he breathed.
The king's jewel...
The Arkenstone of Thrór gleamed with a soft shimmer as Bard turned it over in his hands. He seemed beyond words. It was a long moment before he turned to the hobbit, voice full of wonder. "How is this yours to give?"
"I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure," said Bilbo. He paused, seeming to steel himself, and Galion's respect for the brave little halfling grew. "Now, Thorin values this stone above all else, and I believe that for its return, he will give you what you are owed."
"Bilbo Baggins!"
The three of them turned to espy Gandalf the Grey striding towards them, Tauriel by his side. The istari's blue eyes were dark with forebodings, face covered with bruises and blood.
"Gandalf!" said Bilbo in delight.
"Míthrandir," said Galion, bowing slightly in respect.
"Galion..." the wizard scrutinised the elf deeply before Tauriel came forward, her eyes anxious.
"Galion, where is our king?"
His heart sank. He had known she would ask such of him...what could he tell her but the truth? "Im glinanadh cuil ar gûr." He watched her expression fall at his heavy words. Saw the fear enter in at her eyes. Saw the guilt ghost over her beautiful face.
He hangs between life and death.
"An duínar Legolas." She looked sick.
He went after Legolas.
Galion nodded; face twisted in grief. "He is in Imladris with Elrond, but..." He swallowed as the words were like to choke him. Finally, he managed to force out, "Sainar fir innas Peredhel."
Half-Elven thinks he will die.
Haldir strained against his chains, not caring as the steel bit into him, his knees aching from the accursed stone beneath them. It could not end like this. Not here, not now. He cried Lindir's name as the dark-haired elf was flung down onto his back, the torturer of Dol Guldur placing a great foot on his chest.
Lindir turned his head weakly as Haldir called again, only to have an orc force a strip of filthy cloth between his teeth, gagging him.
"Shut up!" spat the ugly creature.
Haldir choked as bile rose into his throat at the taste of the rag, but he forced it down, wishing with all his heart that they could have been far gone from this evil place.
Legolas watched the great masses of orcs swarm towards the gates of Erebor, feeling the rumble of all the feet as an earthquake in the marrow of his bones. Now, elven sight was a curse as he saw the looks of horror on the faces of men, elves, and dwarves alike. Even Gandalf. So, the wizard had escaped Dol Guldur. Good.
"Why do you not fight?" asked Azog, his eyes narrow.
"I..." Legolas did not know what to say. He looked to his hands, stained with so much blood. So much pain and suffering...even death. All for a life of lies from the pale orc's tongue. He had hurt his own kin- had killed his father...he had been the perfect weapon for them. Why had he not seen it before? Enough was enough. Legolas felt the fire of the Eldar spark to life within his chest and turned a glare on Azog.
"Furn pân endir nîn,"the elf said softly.
Shock spread across Azog's cruel face, then hardened to a dark contemplation. "What did you say?"
"I said 'It was all a lie!'," snarled Legolas, incensed by the contempt in the monster's cold eyes. "You stole me away- raised me on evil lies! I killed..." his voice broke, pain seeping into his aching heart. "I killed my father because of you..."
Azog cocked his head. "And now?" He smiled, baring his teeth. "You can never go back, Legolas Thranduilion. They will never allow you to return."
It was a hit to the heart, and the elf doubled over as though physically struck, breath ragged as he fell to his knees. Legolas barely had the strength to struggle as two orcs seized him, binding him with chains colder than Minas Morgul. Azog's words danced to an agonizing drum within his head.
He had sundered himself from his own kin.
Galion ran light-footed down the ruined streets of Dale, his hair flying wild about him. He had not meant for his kin to fight. Though they were armoured, he knew that the streets of this ruined town would run red ere the day came to an end.
"Galion!" Bard emerged from a vine girdled building, sword in hand. "We need aid: the children are barricaded in a hall, but we cannot keep the orcs back much longer!"
Galion nodded. "Show me the way."
Two small orcs approached Lindir and the tall monster, one bearing a red-hot rod of iron, the very air about the steel rippling and distorting from the heat.
Horror rose in Haldir's throat, choking him as he thrashed against the orcs who held his chains. They only laughed and Jeered at him in black speech as the iron was handed to the tall orc.
Lindir didn't struggle. He must have known that it was pointless. Or perhaps he truly had no strength left. The orc bent and seized a handful of the elf's dark hair.
Abandoning all reason, Haldir flung his mind wide open, uncaring of corrupting darkness, and sent a call with all his remaining might.
Heryn nîn Galadriel, ni nathlamen le o urn!
My lady Galadriel, I beg of you; Help us!
Legolas could hear the sounds of the battle.
The screaming and bellowing, the clashing of swords…but he turned his face away, kneeling on the cold stone, watching Azog lurking on the edge of Ravenhill. The pale orc was shrouded in mist, and Legolas longed for nothing more than to go push the foul being off the edge.
It was the blade at his throat preventing him, held there by the orc that stood behind him.
Azog turned and made his way over, looking down at the elf with amusement. "Do not worry. Once this is over, we will fix you. Our master will fix you."
"I do not need to be fixed!" cried Legolas in Westron, trying to pull away. The flat of the blade dug into his pale throat and he stopped with a cough. A twitch in Azog's eye revealed his thoughts on the elf's defiance.
"This time, he will simply destroy your troublesome memories." Azog crouched down. "This accident will not occur again."
Feeling nauseous, Legolas could find nothing to say in answer. Freedom had been so fleeting…
Azog tapped the scarred side of the elf's face. "You are one of us, Elvenking. You will lead us against your people."
The honorific startled Legolas, before he remembered that he had killed his father. Bled him out by the side of a clear forest river. Defeated, he watched Azog return to the signal flags and shout another command.
Am I really one of them?
Am I really…a monster?
Galion stood with his back to the oak doors, hewing desperately at the flood of orcs with his elven blade, trying to drive them back.
Only he remained, the bodies of elves and men alike lay like fallen leaves amongst the snow at his feet. Sounds were becoming too loud now, the wound in his thigh sending a tide of red down his leg. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears, see the vivid red blood splattered all over the stones. Starbursts of color amongst the cold grey.
"Galion!"
He darted a quick glance up at a stone ruin to see Bard perched atop the roof. "The children are out! They are safe!"
A sense of relief flowed through the elf. The young ones were safe. His sword was struck from numb hands to clatter on the stones, body shaking from exhaustion. A powerful blow sent him stumbling back against the doors, the oaken panels falling open at the touch to reveal the empty void. Galion spilled onto his back, vision blurring as he struck his head.
"Galion!" came Bard's shout of horror as the grinning orc plunged his blade into the elf's chest, jeering down at the fallen warrior. The golden armour buckled, giving up its last defence and the blade pinned Galion to the ground, wedging itself between two cobblestones. The elf's face grew white, but he never let go a cry, only gasped faintly- hand flying to grasp the blade now jutting from his body as the orc scuttled away.
Haldir turned his face away as the monster brought the steel rod down to the pinned elf's face. Lindir's agonized scream tore into his heart as it ripped through the air- a high keening wail of torment and pain.
"It's your turn next," hissed one of the orcs holding him, glee in his eyes.
Anger rose up in Legolas like never before.
A dark roiling mass of utter rage. With one swift movement, he seized the blade from the orc and slew the accursed beast, black ichor splattering his face.
By the time Azog turned, all he saw was the dead orc, and scattered, broken chain-links.
Legolas was gone.
Galion was graceful, even in his agony. His body lay in an elegant sprawl, hair flung out to frame his pale face. As Bard looked down at his body, spread out on the stone, the man almost thought the elf merely sleeping.
If not for the heaving of the chest, and the pain in those shuttered eyes. Gently, Bard took a hold of the sword, bracing himself. Galion gave him a weak nod.
"Hold fast," warned the man, and he began to pull.
A bright light filled Haldir's eyes and a gentle voice rang on the air, powerful, yet gentle and calm.
"I am here, Haldir. Rest."
Legolas ran as he never had before, the wind drying his tears before they could fall.
Galion's eyes fluttered open, a weak gasp of pain passing his lips. Faintly, he heard Bard calling his name but tasted blood as he went to answer. He knew then that his time drew near.
Haldir let out a strangled sob as he gazed up into the ageless face of his lady.
Galadriel placed a soft hand on his brow. "Rest."
Legolas could never remember ever feeling so nauseous in his life.
As he walked the ruined streets of Dale, ragged groups of survivors clustered in the snow, he focused rather on the pain of his bound wrists, the firm grips of an elven soldier on each arm. The still bodies that littered the street were cruelly broken and bloodied, but the looks of utter betrayal in the eyes of the living were so much worse. It made it harder and harder to keep on walking; the ropes so tight against his skin, he could hardly feel his fingers. The weight in his chest felt like leaden fingers, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs, ears ringing with a distant clamour of bells.
He was jerked to a halt as one of his captors began to speak in a low undertone to another warrior. Legolas had surrendered himself into the custody of Tauriel when she had found him on Ravenhill.
Now all that he wanted was to run far away and to never return. He felt small; like a scolded child told to sit in the corner until he was once again ready to behave.
He soon became aware of a low voice, murmuring words meant to soothe, and tentatively raised his head to see a dark-haired man cradling a fallen elf against his chest. Gently holding him fast as the elf shook, struggling for breath-his head lolling to the side, blood pooling at the corners of his mouth. His armour had been removed, exposing the hideous wound in his chest, red soaking his undershirt as he heaved breath past numb lips, pain stark in his eyes.
"Easy…" soothed the man. He meant it well, though his efforts were in vain. "Easy…"
Painful memories came rising to the surface once again:
The elf sparring with a small elfling, laying the foundation for when he was older.
Comforting the young prince as he cried outside the door to his father's chambers. Elrond within, trying to halt the dragonfire that sought to end the Elvenking.
Always having an answer for the inquisitive little elfling.
Always there for him and his father.
And then Legolas knew him, and his voice broke as he cried out in pain, "Galion!"
The Steward of Mirkwood weakly turned his head. "Hîr nîn, Legolas." His voice was a wet rasp as he said to the elves holding the prince, "Release him."
The rope was cut and Legolas fell to his knees beside the man, who scrutinized him through liquid-brown eyes. "Galion…I…"
"It is alright, ernil nîn," whispered the sindar elf, blood bubbling at his white lips. "I do not blame you…for the will and evil of the dark lord are hard to resist, and you were but an elfling."
The man's face was full of a helpless anger as Galion hacked a cough, body trembling. "Who are you?" he demanded of Legolas, who flinched.
"He is the son of Thranduil," breathed Galion, before catching hold of one of Legolas's hands. "Hîr nîn, listen to me. You must go onwards to Imladris. Your path now leads there. I may not say why, for Lord Elrond has forbidden me. Take the King Under the Mountain with you."
Galion drew one last desperate breath, his whole body trembling, before he lay still- eyes unseeing, mouth slightly parted. He was in the arms of Mandos now.
Go to Imladris…