'Will you pack it in, damn you!'
Blackie plunged against Wren's grip of the rein, pulling the old man jerkily through the snow and forcing him into quite comical pirouettes as Wren tried – and failed miserably – to fit the aging saddle to the animal's back. Blackie neighed loudly, tossing his head up and down as though in amusement.
He's laughing, Legolas could not help thinking. The horse is actually mocking you! To say that a horse mocked a man would be a ludicrous imagining, one which would have been deemed insane by any who heard it second-hand. But Legolas was forced to think if anyone else was watching this with him, they would definitely concede that yes, the horse was laughing.
Legolas had reluctantly agreed to the saddle. Though Wren had been loath to give it away anyway, Winnera insisted that it would be far easier and safer to ride with a saddle; she had put together several packages of food for him, even managing to produce water pouches of milk for the baby. 'Now then,' she had said to him, raising her brow and forming her mouth into a flat line like a matron, 'be sure to get to this village of yours quick, because this cow's milk's too hard on his little tummy, though it'll keep him for a bit. And be sure that it's warm when you give it to him, mind, he can't have it cold; don't make it too hot, or you'll burn his little mouth! Test it on the back of your hand, just to be sure of it.'
She did not stop there: Winnera had put together a whole feast for him in two leather saddle bags, giving him cheese and travelling cakes, seed cake and dried meats, complete with a loaf of bread and a couple of water pouches containing nothing more adventurous than water. The small Elfling in Legolas silently wished for milk to be in his pouches as well, but was swiftly quashed by the far more grateful and mature version.
'I don't know how to thank you,' Legolas said awkwardly as Winnera handed him the heavy sacks, the cold wind seeming to do nothing to her matriarchal posture despite all of its battering, the snow flecking her dark grey hair with white.
'Well,' she replied, smiling at him warmly, like a mother to her son who is embarking on a long journey, 'it's my thanks to you, really.' When he furrowed his brow in confusion, she added: 'When I was a young lass, you and a company of soldiers rode through my village on your way to somewhere in the south. Men were not so suspicious of Elves in those days, and they hadn't forgotten your sacrifices in the War, and you were welcomed to stay for a time.' She smiled at the recollection, and at Legolas' expression as she told her tale.
'You were leading them, I remember, on a great grey horse with no saddle or reins. My father told me that was how the Elves rode, that they did not need such things because they understood their horses in a way that Men cannot understand. I told him I wanted to ride a great horse like that, and even though you were across the street, you heard me, and you spoke to my father and he sat me in front of you on your great war horse, and we galloped out and round the lanes. I was the envy of all the children that day and for many days after…' her smile broadened as her eyes became distant. 'All of the other children used to call me names and throw stones at me. Not after Prince Legolas let me ride on his horse, never again.'
Legolas was at a loss for what to say. He remembered that day all those years ago – well, to Winnera, sixty-two years would be termed as "all those years ago"; to Legolas, it was little more than a raindrop to a river. She was right, that had been a time when the efforts of the Elves were still remembered by most, and he had to wonder what had happened in the past sixty or so years to change that. He could still hear her shrieks of joy as they galloped through the village.
'When did you realise it was me?' he asked quietly. All pretence of him being Baerahir could be dropped now, and he gave his brother's borrowed name back more than happily, settling for his own willingly now that he was discovered.
'Oh, long ago, my dear,' she said kindly. 'When we picked you up on the roadside I knew who you were. I may be old, but I don't forget things as easily as my husband does.'
Legolas shook his head slowly. Shame crept about his chest and to the tip of his tongue. 'Winnera, look, I'm sorry I lied to you, I-'
'-No,' she said flatly, holding her hand up to silence him. 'I don't need an explanation. You were protecting yourself and the baby, and I completely understand that.' She took his forearm gently, making him look her in the eye. 'And do not feel ashamed at using your brother's name tonight. You did not do it out of disrespect, but of love for him. He knows that. You need feel no shame in yourself for it.'
He smiled weakly at her, only wishing he could dispense of this horrible guilt as easily as she thought he should.
Blackie gave a particularly loud neigh, rearing up and nearly lifting Wren from his feet. 'Damn you!' the old man barked. 'Elf, you going to ride this balrog away or not?'
Winnera left him in the snow for a moment, rushing back into the house. She emerged seconds later a little more sedately, carrying a bundle carefully in her arms. Arathorn was wrapped in more pelts than Legolas was sure he had ever owned, his tiny face barely visible through the folds of soft fur. 'Here we are,' the old woman said softly, showing the Elf the bedding she had made. The entire package was wrapped in a linen sling, which would leave the Elf free to use his arms whilst riding. For a moment, he even envied the tiny body in the warm furs … what he would have given to be so comfortable and content while another toiled! But that was not the way of the world, and he carefully took the baby into his own arms. For some reason, he relaxed a little, feeling the warm weight of the baby comforting to his spirit. They had a difficult time ahead of them, of course they did, but Legolas felt somehow more complete with the baby back fully in his care.
As the Elf approached, Blackie became distracted from his tormenting of Wren; his ears flickered attentively as he regarded the other, though he still shifted. He gave a soft whinny as Legolas reached his head, and before either Wren or Winnera could protest, Legolas offered Arathorn to the beast. Blackie paused for a moment, and then stretched out his long neck to sniff at the furs, taking long deep pulls at the air. Wren made a move to protest, but Legolas silenced him with a quiet shake of his head. When the stallion had finished, Legolas mounted, carefully placing the sling over his shoulder so that Arathorn was nestled in his chest. The horse never even flinched, his feet remaining firmly planted. All he did was look at his back at the baby for a moment, and then put his head forward, not even thinking about biting Wren, who was standing dumb-founded with the reins still in his hand.
The saddlebags were buckled on, and they were ready to go, Blackie standing perfectly awaiting the command to set off. Legolas looked down at the couple who had, even if it had been a little reluctantly, saved their lives. 'Thank you both for what you have done for us,' he said. 'Truly.'
Winnera beamed up at him. 'Bless you both, dear. And be careful.'
Legolas glanced at Wren. The old man's face was unreadable. But he gave a small nod, which Legolas returned, a little surprised at the potential acceptance. Legolas shifted again in the saddle he found so uncomfortable and clicked his teeth. Blackie sprang forward obediently, and they cantered from the couple who had done so much for them into the swirling storm's embrace.
Visibility was practically non-existent. The snow heaved mockingly before the eyes of horse and rider, and they both found it impossible to visually see where they were trying to go. Fortunately, Blackie had some evident knowledge of where he was going, and took them up a steep incline, labouring against his load and the gradient of the slope. He did not relent though, and stopped only when he heaved himself to the top – evidently he had not been out that much of late, and Legolas could not say he was too surprised by this fact, considering the hateful relationship between horse and man.
Legolas stopped the horse for a minute to allow him a brief rest when the direction of the wind changed completely and the snow eased so dramatically he was stunned by it. The finally flurries swirled energetically about them, as though resisting the pull of the earth … but they carried with them a chilling sound. Legolas froze in horror. Horses neighing shrilly into the night, and the sound coming directly from whence they had come. Fear closed his throat, its fingers wrapping too tightly for him to breath. Ai Elbereth no, please no!
Fragments of pot crunched beneath his boot as he wandered through the house, casually observing the broken shelving and ruined furniture. They seemed to have had many things for folk of such a meek existence. Well, they still did technically have many things; the said things were simply in bits now.
'I have been in your barn, I have been in your hou- hut,' Gwareth affirmed steadily in a tone that indicated that he was not particularly bothered as he continued to pace. He picked up the fresh loaf of bread from the floor and ripped a chunk out of it. 'I know he was here, the entire sad little affair reeks of him. But what I cannot seem to ascertain is exactly where he is. I was wondering if you might be so glad as to help me this time, seeing as you were so reluctant last time, hum?'
Winnera's arms screamed painfully at her as the man at her back pulled on them to force her into an answer. She glanced to her husband. Wren's face was filled with pure terror, his eyes hardly daring to fix on anything.
'I don't know who you're talking about-'
Gwareth flung the uneaten loaf to the corner violently and slammed his dagger into the floor inches from the terrified woman's face.
'No! Wrong answer! Try again!'
He had been in the barn and seen the stall. He had even nearly stepped in the horse dung. There had been a horse in there not more than an hour ago, the Elf was so close, he could feel it … but this was simply too much fun to give up and chase after the Elf, and besides, the snow had covered the tracks remarkably well, and he did need a general direction to go in.
The old woman had tears streaking her face, and she shook so violently Gwareth was amazed it did not make the whole house judder. But she stayed her tongue. What had the Elf done to gain such complete and utter loyalty?
'If you answer me, I may let you live.'
She seemed to be considering this as the shaking eased slightly. Then: 'What do you want with him? Baerahir is just a common Elf, no more.'
Gwareth laughed heartily at her words. 'Oh,' he chuckled, 'is he now? "Baerahir" is dead. Legolas, on the other hand, is alive and - unfortunately for you both – well!'
'I will tell you!' Wren blurted.
'Wren, no! You c-'
'-Quiet, woman! I won't have us killed for some Elf you've taken a shining to! He rode west not ten minutes ago. Said he was taking the brat he had with him to some village.'
Gwareth smiled. 'Thank you,' he said courteously.
With those words, he turned to the men holding Wren and gave a curt nod. A knife flashed. There was a sickening gurgling and the fruitless thrashing of limbs panicking and fighting for breath. Then stillness, horrible terrible stillness.
Winnera's scream of agony was an ear-splitting, heart-wrenching wail, and had Gwareth the heart to care, he would have. But he did not, and he simply stood and stared at her contemplatively for a minute or so, before claiming his knife from the floor and drawing his blade across her screeching neck. He wiped the reddened plains on her back before sheathing it at his belt.
'Burn it down,' he told the men in the room, ignoring the Orcs as they hovered in the background. 'The Elf is watching. I want him to see what has been done in his name.' As Gwareth set to walk out, the Orcs rushed past him to the bodies, a sickening eager light in their black eyes. He paused, staring at them for a moment as they squabbled between themselves over the fresh meat. 'And bar the door,' he added to one of his men. 'They make me nauseous.'
The man nodded his head to the assassin, and all left, closing the door silently behind them.
Gwareth stood straight in the freezing air, breathing it in deeply. The weather was clearing, the wind dropping a little. The smell of burning and alarmed shrieks of the Orcs filled the night. He did not look at the hut, but straight up a hill some way from the house. At the peak stood the silhouette of a horse with a man slumped on his back, perfectly still save for the wind that jostled his hair. He looked as though he was ill, the way his back was bent over.
The assassin held out his arms in the fierce glow of the fire, a mad smile on his face as his body flashed red and amber. 'DO YOU SEE THIS, ELF? DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?' The figure on the horse straightened suddenly and turned his mount, and the horse took flight out of sight.
Gwareth ran to his horse, mounting in one fluid leap. The dapple-grey reared and roared as his master kicked his sides, thrashing his legs. They hit the frozen earth with a thud and took off instantly. Gwareth was not willing to wait for the others; if they were too slow, then so be it, he did not want them with him anyway. They galloped through the scrub at break-neck speed, taking on the incline with all the ferocity of an angered balrog, the man standing in the irons to make it easier for the horse. This was the thrill, the part of the hunt he craved, the bit leading to the kill. He could hear the others behind him, straining their horses to catch up, but he refused to wait, there was no point in waiting and allowing him to get away. Fresh tracks marked his path for him and he followed them, leaning forward against his horse's plunging neck. 'Faster! FASTER!'
Blackie tore through the scanty scrub, his new master urging him frantically forward, raised slightly in the stirrups to ease the pressure on the stallion's back. Their flight was slowed by the icy ground and rocks that were so well concealed in snow, seen by nothing save the thundering hooves of a horse trying desperately not to trip on them at full pace.
Legolas controlled the reins with only one hand, his free arm braced protectively about the bundle at his chest. A numb disbelief blurred clear thought in his mind. He killed them, that man slew them in their house because they had helped him.
DO YOU SEE THIS, ELF? DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?
They're dead because of me…
My fault.
The thought was crippling, and try as he might he could not shift it from the forefront of his mind. The guilt clenched him tightly, restricting his chest and making him pull for breath. Tears streaked his face as the wind whipped them into jarred angles right into his hair. But a thought emerged from the darkness, and it fought its way to his attention. I will kill him. Once my duty is done, I will hunt him down and colour the snow with his lifeblood. The snide observer in his head immediately voiced that Gwareth was doing rather a good job of hunting him down at present, and it would be his lifeblood staining the earth soon, but Legolas blanked it. The thought steeled him against his guilt, and it became a burning fire in the pit of his stomach, fuelled by his furious ire. He had never felt the burn of such cold hatred…
They entered a small cluster of scrawny trees at a terrific speed. There was no pathway here, only what Blackie could pick out for himself, leaping any rocks that lay in the way. Legolas could hear his horse panting with the strain of maintaining his pace, and he could not quell the rising panic in his chest when Blackie began to slow. His great head sagged, saliva streaming in the form of white froth from his gaping mouth. He had been pushed too hard for a horse that had been stabled for so long, and Legolas was forced to remember that he was a farm animal, not a war charger.
It was not long before Gwareth's dapple grey could be heard behind them, the hoof-falls coming ever closer with each surging leap…
Legolas reined Blackie in sharply and changed direction. Through the trees he could see a pathway cut by animals to a steep incline. The track would more likely than not be slippery underfoot with ice and rock, but they had no other real option. Blackie obediently took the path down the slope, and Legolas scanned it sharply to see where he was taking them. It was a deep ravine, at the very pit of which churned a river whose flow was so fierce it could not be stilled by winter's might. The track they were on descended into the gully and levelled out into a wide pathway high above the water, but far below the level of the ground from whence they had come. Blackie staggered down the sheer gradient, snorting as his feet skidded on the frozen earth. Come the moment when they reached the flat rock, he gave a great leap down, as though exhilarated by the very idea of running on flat again. It was more sheltered here and there was far less snow, just a mere smattering, and Blackie seemed to find it easier to find purchase on its thin crisp surface.
Legolas cast a startled glance behind them at the clatter of hooves. Gwareth was directly behind them, gaining ground with alarming speed. The man drew a long, curved blade from its scabbard as his horse began to draw level with Blackie. Legolas could not use a bow, he was too restricted with the baby on his chest; the only weapons left open to him were his knives, and he drew one of them, emitting a sharp metallic ring as it emerged, the white blade gleaming in the darkness and its keen edge ready to bite.
As they finally levelled, Man and Elf glared at each other for a second, mad exhilaration on the face of one and pure execration on the other. Legolas' white knife sang as it arced into Gwareth's swipe, throwing it back at him with all the strength he could muster. The man was quick to recover, bringing his sword back in a sweeping motion for Legolas' neck. The Elf's hand shot from protecting Arathorn to the remaining hilt between his shoulders, bringing the blade up to deflect Gwareth's fatal blow a split second before it fell. The force of the impact forced him forward in the saddle, and he only just caught himself on Blackie's neck. While he was down for that slightest of seconds, Legolas saw something in the eye of his horse that he had never borne witness to before in an animal. It was complete and masterful cunning, raw intelligence echoing deep into the dark eye.
While their riders battled, an equally violent struggle happened beneath them. Blackie and Gwareth's grey battled for supremacy, throwing their legs out and straining violently to gain the lead … or, at least, the grey was. Blackie was sending the other horse straight down the path to ruin, running him flat-out against himself. The black stallion's mouth closed, still framed by the white froth, ears flat, and he watched the other with his one eye, waiting … until it happened. The grey's eyes rolled madly and his tongue finally lolled as he fought with himself to maintain the pace his master desired of him and the other horse had set. Blackie accelerated, finally giving all he was really capable of.
Legolas felt the change beneath his legs. Muscles bunched under him, exhibiting a true power that had not been seen by the Elf or anyone else beforehand. They shot forward, leaving a dismayed Gwareth behind on his ruined steed. It was like he rode a fresh horse, a racer, and Legolas could not stop the grin of pure elation spreading across his face. He could hear his hunter screaming at his horse, could hear the sword the man carried being used to beat the animal's rump to make him catch up. But it was not to be done, and the dapple grey fell further and further back in the throws of failure.
The joy of the Mirkwood Prince was short-lived. As they rounded a sharp bend in the track, a great wall of rock loomed ahead, at the base of which the path widened further, like a great hand had scooped the rock out of it to make a massive ledge. There was no path to follow any more, not unless they could defy the laws of Nature and gallop up the sheer rock face. The Elf reined the stallion in, gyrating him, trying to find a way out of this horrible predicament. But there was nothing open to him, nothing at all, and he finally stayed his horse facing the way they had come in, waiting with a nasty knot in his gut for Gwareth to come round and trap them in here for good. He held both weapons before him in defiance, ready. If it was here they were to finally clash, so be it…
They appeared seconds later, and not just Gwareth: his band had caught up, all of them flanking their leader with arrows notched. The man grinned evilly.
'And here we have it,' he toned quietly on his panting horse, 'the remaining Prince of Mirkwood trapped like an animal in a cage of his own choosing. The child shall be first to die; it will be the last thing you see as the blood drains from your own veins.'
Legolas' response was to brace his knives across his chest, a protective shield of deadly art. Arathorn began to voice his apparent grievance at the man's words. He cried, a course wail. Gwareth chuckled, staring at the Elf and babe from under his brows. He raised his own object of his craft.
'You try it,' Legolas hissed. 'Here I wait: you come to me. All of you. We shall see whose life the land drinks this night, and I tell you it will not be his.' For all his words and rock-like stance, Legolas felt true fear running through him. He could not defeat so many, not cornered like an animal with nowhere to run. The very bulk of the baby stopped him being able to extort his Elven agility, restricting him heavily in a fight where he needed everything in order to be victorious. Even on his own, this would be doomed to be a difficult and potentially fatal battle, but at least he would have been free to take as many with him as possible.
Arathorn's cries became more deafening.
Blackie pawed at the rock. He started to nicker and throw his head back and forth as the noise became louder…
The men charged as one.
The stallion's nickering became a full bellowing roar. He reared up as Legolas braced himself for the last battle of his life. But, to his immense surprise, Blackie turned on his heel and bolted straight for the edge of the precipice. Panic ripped through his rider as they accelerated. At the other side lay a sure get away, as the opposite side of the ravine was level and treed with no towering wall of stone to pen them in … but it was way beyond anything any horse could ever leap, and the only thing that could possibly come of this was their end. They would plunge into the raging waters below, never to be seen again save as corpses washed up on the shore. He sheathed his white knives faster than he had ever drawn them and took up the reins, pulling back hard to stop their flight to certain death, but Blackie simply lifted his head up, galloping blind.
'Blackie! BLACKIE NO, NO!'
The stallion did not hearken to his panic-stricken screams, his muscles gathering like taut bows. The little amount of ground before them disappeared. It was going to happen, there was no turning back now, and the best thing Legolas could do in his thralls of his terror was to at least go to his death riding like a true horseman. He raised himself in the stirrups to allow the stallion the mobility to make the jump that was doomed to fail, laying his body flat against Blackie's neck and gripping Arathorn's still screaming form tighter to his chest, horror forcing his eyes to remain open.
It happened. Blackie's legs gathered tightly beneath his body and unfurled with a mighty kick. His long forelegs pointed gracefully before him, ears back in extreme effort as the men on the solid earth watched, struck dumb by what they witnessed, and Legolas' unrestrained scream reverberated through the stone passage.
Legolas felt that feeling in the pit of his stomach, the incredible sensation describable only as flying. He chanced a glance before them, not daring to even consider looking down. The land of the opposite side of the gully loomed at them, vast, free earth that held no threat to them. And as the wind ripped at his hair and Blackie's mane whipped his face with sharp stings, he felt a growing sense that this was going to work. The angle of Blackie's flight was right, but only just; it would be a serious quirk of fate if they made it through, one that would cast Blackie through the scrolls of history as The Horse That Could.
The black ears flicked forward as the earth suddenly seemed to rush up at them, the horse bracing himself for the impact. Legolas steeled himself also, ready to potentially jump from the horse's back should he fall upon their landing … his already aggravated stomach dropped. They were short, mere inches separating them from life and plunging into the gaping maw of the gorge below...
There was a resounding thwack as hooves touched at the edge of safety, and Legolas felt Blackie's rear dip towards oblivion. The Elf threw his weight forward in the saddle as the horse brought his hind legs under himself to scramble at the rock. There was a sickening cracking sound, and the stone beneath Blackie's hooves began to shift for the water's cold embrace. He gave a sharp squeal of panic, his eyes rolling fearfully as the crumbling ground passed under his belly.
'COME ON, BLACKIE!' Legolas bellowed in his horse's ear. 'NEARLY THERE! COME ON, MELLON NÍN!'
Blackie made a final surge; his forefeet discovered the solid ground in their frantic search, and he leapt again, forcing himself up on a massive chuck of falling stone. The horse stumbled as his feet impacted on the hard, good earth, yet he somehow managed to retain his balance and cantered from the edge, turning to glare at it with his ears flat, Legolas laughing on his back, relief and gratitude towards his horse and the fact that Gwareth sat glaring at him over the water fuelling his new-found happiness.
Across the river, the joyous peels of laughter fell heavily on Gwareth's incensed mind. He snarled at the Elf, cold fury colouring his face. He had expected them to fail and drown, and though it would not have been death by his hand, it would have been death all the same. But the Elf and child were alive and more than well at the other side of the raging waters, the Elf openly mocking him, his scratched face alight with his success.
He would not allow him to get away so! Gwareth forced his grey steed into a gallop, whipping his hide with an arrow until welts appeared in the dark coat. But his horse shied from the edge, planting his feet firmly and refusing to budge any closer to the great abyss that yawned at him. He tired to push his horse through the jump again, bringing him round and kicking him so hard in the ribs it was sure to cause bruising. Gwareth did not care for such things, however, and only after the third attempt did he gave up trying with this animal.
Gwareth's rage became blinding as the laughter continued into the night; he could feel it around him, the very air hummed with it, and as the wind shook the branches high above them, it was as though the trees laughed with the Elf. It had to stop. Now.
The arrow whistled shrilly as it sliced the mocking air. This one was twice as deadly as any other; its tip was of a toxic metal he had discovered men to be using when he had travelled in the south. It was slow and evil in nature, a true collaborator to the vengeful spirit. All it had to do was clip, and the life would be over in a matter of hours … all Gwareth wanted was to watch.
The laughter stopped. Legolas had always been renowned amongst his people as being blessed with incredible speed and accuracy, even for an Elf. It took him less than a second to push Arathorn out of the way to his back, fit an arrow to the string and loose it with pin-point precision. Gwareth's poisoned arrow never made it half way, splintering into pitiful fragments mid-air as the longer, stronger Elven arrow clove the shaft in two.
'You think yourself a master of your craft?' Legolas questioned quietly, his tone deadly serious. 'Well I am a master of mine, and I will not allow any blade of yours to mark him while he is in my charge.' Legolas clicked Blackie into a trot, and they left Gwareth to scream his rage to the wind as he watched his prey disappear into the trees.
Author's Note: That was quick, wasn't it? Bet you're all in shock! Some of you may be thinking about the geography of the south boarder of Mirkwood, and you would be right in saying that there is no river just to the west of the forest. That would be correct: I made it up. Nothing wrong with playing with the rules every now and again. However, for the flow of the story and the scene that has been dancing round my head to run properly, there had to be a river installed to this sequence. It is not the Anduin, I haven't moved that.
Aside from that, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon - I've yet to write it, but perhaps next week could see this story extended...