Chapter Two: Lord Daerahil's Honey

Warm bread and honey. Blackberry tea. Butter from the fresh keg the Lake men had traded them. Dried fruits from the summer past. All of them fine, good foods.

Thranduil poked the bread with a long finger. Newly baked that morning, the aroma that arose from it was certainly tantalising enough. But he could not eat a single bite of it. The whole notion of breakfast was one he had never quite been able to acquiesce with. Eating as soon as you got out of bed, in the opinion of the Mirkwood King, was wrong.

'Come, Thranduil,' Daerahil probed from the other side of the small table, his mouth full of bread. He had never been one for good etiquette at the morning table. Daerahil held no objection to eating as soon as he rose – actually, he had no issues with eating at any time of the day. 'If you fail to eat that bread, Terenë will be most displeased with you: she did get up early to bake that, you know.'

'Along with all the other dozens of loaves she prepared for the Court.'

'Yes, those too.' Daerahil bit into his bread again after slapping on more honey. Thranduil was amazed that he managed to keep such a huge amount from dribbling back onto his plate from the slice.

'Legolas' little trip concerns you,' the Lord pointed out in a matter-of-fact manner with a sticky voice.

Thranduil peaked a brow at this. Like his father, Legolas held a certain distaste for breakfast. Unlike his father, he had the common sense to simply not turn up to a meal he knew he would not eat. So how, exactly, Lord Daerahil knew of the absence of the Prince was certainly interesting.

'How came you by such knowledge of his leaving?'

Daerahil raised his brow at his King. 'As shocking as this may seem to you, Thranduil, stable hands talk.'

Daerahil, sensing the eyes of the King upon him, lifted his gaze from the new slice of bread he was attempting to drown with honey. 'I have had absolutely nothing to do with his decision.'

'No,' the King said, his tone mockingly sincere. 'And I don't suppose you had anything to do with the new order for extra honey from the South, either.'

'That is no fault of mine, dear King: your son keeps eating my supplies.'

Thranduil snorted. 'He's been making that cursed tea of his again.'

'Tea? Which one? He has so many – oh, you mean that tea.'

'Yes, that tea.' The King paused. 'Daerahil,' he sighed, 'I know he confides in you. I've known it ever since he burnt the hole in the desk – don't say it was you, I know the truth – but I am worried about him, so please, what has he said to you?'

'Nothing.'

'Daerahil,' Thranduil warned, a bite of impatience stabbing at his voice, 'do not lie to me about something as serious as this!'

Daerahil placed his bread on his plate in exasperation, fixing his friend with a firm glare. 'I lie not, Thranduil, it is the truth! The Prince has been avoiding me, if anything – the last time he confided in me was two months ago.'

Thranduil sighed, leaning back in his chair, pushing the plate away from himself. He had not gone back to sleep after his talk with Legolas the previous night, he had been so wrapped up in trying to fathom Legolas' problem.

'He dreams, Daerahil. Nightmares. I have awoken for the past six nights to his screams in the most unnatural of hours, and then he gets up! He actually decided to go riding at two this morning; clearly he had the intention of avoiding me, as he dressed to go at such an odd hour...'

Lord Daerahil sat pondering for a while before he eventually said: 'He is not gifted with foresight, is he?'

'No – his grandfather was not, nor am I, nor were – were his mother and brother...'

'I think,' the green-eyed Elf said slowly, 'that he might be having visions.'

'Visions? Legolas? Are you sure?'

'No. But it seems likely, to me. It would explain much, like the reoccurrence of these bad dreams he seems to be having.'

Daerahil picked the bread up again carefully, minding that he did not spill any of the honey. Legolas was indeed exhibiting odd behaviour – it was very unlike him to not tell someone of his problems, and the fact that he had resorted to drinking that abysmal tea of his was certainly disconcerting. If he was indeed foreseeing the future, and a bad one at that, then he needed to inform someone about it...

'I shall talk to him when he returns,' Thranduil stated firmly. 'I will make him tell me as his father, and if he refuses that, then I shall make him tell me as his King. I will give him no choice in the matter.'

Daerahil frowned, shaking his head slowly. 'He will not appreciate that, Thranduil,' he warned. 'I fear that if you take that approach, then he'll simply pull into himself and tell no-one anything at all.'

The King grunted grudging acknowledgment to this, realising his trusted friend was, most likely, correct in his judgement of Thranduil's planned course of action.

'Ai, Elbereth: why do we have children, Lord Daerahil, why?'

'Ah, correction: why did you have children. Myself and Fetrenya have none.'

'Yes... I sometimes think you were both wise in that decision. Legolas was one of the last to be born into this merciless world; the things he has been subjected to in his life are simply unfair. Sometimes I think we did him such a great wrong by bringing him into this world of hate...'

Daerahil picked up on the slight knot in his friend's voice, and his brows knitted in sympathy. 'Thranduil,' he said softly, 'listen to me: you have done no wrong bringing Legolas into the world. Neither of you did. As much as I despise saying this, if you had deemed having him later at the time, then Legolas would not be here with you.' Thranduil's eyes snapped up at this, fixing on Daerahil, glassy, reddened and angered. 'Yes, he has been through much, but so have you,' Daerahil continued, determined to say what he had intended. 'Your son is a gift, Thranduil. He is here for a purpose; the Gods gave him to you, and it seems clear to me that Fate has some important role for him in this life. Do not doubt yourself so, Thranduil Orophinion.'

Thranduil ran a hand through his fine hair, dragging it from its braids with his upset. He swallowed constantly to dispel the lump from his throat, but it remained there, just as his pain had never left him, even after all of the years since their passing...

The loss of their eldest son had been a blow Thranduil had found near impossible to bear – but his Queen and dear wife, Salyria, had not coped at all with the heart-wrenching loss of the one she loved so much, and her death had nearly killed Thranduil himself. But it had not all the same, simply because of Legolas. He had known all of those years ago that Legolas was his only anchorage to life. He could not have left a small child alone with no parents... Thus it was that Thranduil formed his stead-fast bond with his remaining son, his love for him unrelenting and boundless. But if something were to happen to Legolas, Thranduil knew without question that he was lost...

'You are right, Daerahil: he is due home next day at noon – we shall have a subtle word with him then.'

Daerahil nodded his head at this and sipped at his blackberry tea. 'On the subject of children,' he began, setting down his mug, 'whatever happened to Geldan's boy?'

'What, you mean Salire? He is posted in the human settlements around Rhovanion. Discreet intelligence is the name I gave it, I do believe.'

'Is this the same Salire that nearly lost his hands for cheating eighteen men out of their money at dice, and was saved by the Prince just in time when the town executioner was sharpening his sword?'

'Yes, that would be the one.'

Daerahil raised his brow at this. 'Was it entirely wise to administer Salire with discreet intelligence?'

'No. But he is clever, albeit rather reckless, and I was rather hoping that giving him such a dangerous task might force him to take care of himself a little better. But he likes to outsmart Men, and one day he will be caught at his own game. Again.'

'Yes, he is an intelligent lad,' Daerahil confirmed. 'But he is a bit of a rabble-rouser.'

Thranduil chuckled at this. He had heard from Legolas of the many times the younger Elf had gotten himself into the worst scrapes the King had ever heard of. 'The remarkable thing though, Daerahil, is that he manages to get himself out of whatever mess he creates, no matter how deep the swamp...'

Thranduil sat thinking, staring with unseeing eyes into his full plate. And then a thought struck him...

'You don't think that Legolas will get into any trouble, do you? I mean, he can be a bit rash at times, and that incident with those men the other month was, I admit, rather extreme...' His voice faded away, and he frowned at the well-meaning grin on his friend's face.

'Thranduil,' said the other gravely, trying to hide the amusement from his voice, 'your son is one of the most sensible people I know – painfully so, at times. He has gone for a quiet trip through the forest, with no intention of getting into any trouble. Absolutely nothing will happen to him, I assure you.'

His senses came back to him. Then he wished that they had not. He could not move his hands, for they were bound behind his back, and his head pounded as though someone were rather nastily riding a horse over it. His shoulder burned furiously at the point where he had landed on it with the fall, and a crude gag of filthy material stuffed into his mouth prevented him from being able to shout out his discrepancy.

But that was not the worst of it. His ears were assailed by the frantic sound of his horse. A frenzied screaming was more what it was, his terror coming to the Elf as tangibly as biting hail. Legolas threw open his eyes, only to see his horse, his companion, his friend being tormented by wargs. Blazen was roped to a tree, his efforts to get away from the snapping teeth and dagger-like claws getting him nowhere. Orcs stood about, watching and laughing as they allowed the horse to be played with in such a manner.

Legolas felt hot rage surge through his veins. He instantly began to work at the gag with his tongue, pushing at it to dislodge it from his mouth. It took him what felt like an age, but the black cloth eventually fell to the ground. He flexed his jaw, wet his parched tongue as best he could, rising to his feet in a fluid notion.

'STOP IT!' he bellowed. 'Leave him be!'

The Orcs fixed their evil eyes on him, glimmering with the thrill of their sport.

And they laughed.

An Orc of particularly tall stature crossed the short distance to the archer. They both stood glaring at each other.

'Please,' Legolas pleaded, 'let him go.'

The Orc's lips curled. 'You heard him, lads. Let him go.'

Legolas' heart stopped as one of the wargs was loosed from its rope, his eyes watching in horror as it flung itself onto his horse. He slammed his eyes shut, but that did not prevent the shriek of agony, nor did it shield him from the sounds of the wolf-like creature savaging Blazen. Legolas screamed out to drown the noise in his ears, but it did not work.

Rage and grief consumed him, engulfing the little that there was left of his senses. He lashed out at the Orc responsible for the death of his horse, kicking savagely at the creature. He managed to catch it in the shin, an action that made the Orc holler in pain. But the pain subsided rather quickly and was replaced by anger, and he advanced upon the Elf with a determined stride. Legolas stood tall against his enemy, preparing himself to counter any attack that he was sure would be made – but he had not expected the lightening-like speed with which the Orc punched his throat. Legolas gagged and chocked, panicking as he was unable to breath as pain exploded in his neck. Dimly above the roar of his blood in his ears and his own spluttering, he heard the seemingly distant screeched laughter of Orcs.

I can't breath!

Calm down, his logical side told him. Stop panicking. Think about your breathing, and everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine...

He awoke to rough hands unbinding his own, no care being given as to whether they pinched skin or not. He did not know how long he had been unconscious for; however, judging by the dimness of the light, the day was waning to night already.

'Awake now, are we? Good, because we're going – and you're coming too.'

Going? Going where? Legolas' insides went cold as a thought struck him – Dol Guldur! If I go in there, I shall never see the light of day again-

A knife buried its sullied point into the small of his back, not enough to pierce the skin, but certainly enough to make him move. He walked steadily forwards, steered by the knife; he had to steel his stomach against the wave of nausea that engulfed him due to the putrid breath being huffed at him by his guard.

The warg pack had been saddled, the hideous beasts awaiting their riders. Legolas did not cast his eyes to the tree. He did not want to see what lay between its roots... He kept his eyes straight and face impassive as he was pushed to one of the wargs. The animal observed him with small, hungry eyes, black beads of glimmering evil in the half-light.

'We're going to give you a little exercise,' the Orc at his back hissed into his ear. 'It'll be interesting to see if you can keep up with this beauty.'

Beauty? Surely you mean "abomination."

His hands were bound again, this time in front of him, the end of the rope being tied to the creature's saddle. The warg turned its foul head to him, a snarl peeling the lips of the beast back to reveal huge, yellowed teeth.

The Elves tended to leave such monsters well alone. Unlike the Spiders, wargs had intelligence and wit, making killing them very difficult – and highly dangerous. They were a different kind of dangerous to Spiders. They could turn an ambush to their own advantage, deceiving their hunters and then striking when their opposition thought the battle won. Legolas knew of this from a surviving soldier from such an expedition, when the army had been not under his control, but that of Rohdulas. Rohdulas had attempted to corner a warg pack in a gully. He assumed the battle won, allowing his senses to role in sloppy foolishness, letting the guard down at the rear. Consumed by the stupid idiocy of victory, it was not noticed until it was far too late that the rest of the apparently complete pack had penned the soldiers in, and all were slaughtered save one, who later died of his injuries.

Intelligence is a deadly tool.

The Orcs mounted their hideous steeds, caring not for the mess that they left in the small clearing. Legolas scowled as the rope tethering him to the saddle snapped taut and he was tugged forward, forced into a trot as the animals were spurred on, heading to the south. Legolas' pride inspired him to hold his head up, even though his spirit was quaking. He was going to Dol Guldur. He would not be coming out again.