Beta: Anarithilen

So many apologies everyone. I missed the LAST chapter and posted this by mistake so the new chapter is actually Anglach's dwarf, chapter 4 and this is chapter 5. FFnet is really hard for me because it doesn't let me cut and paste. Don't why.

Thank you Anar for spotting this for me:)

Chapter 5: Orcrist

The feast had been quite spoiled for Thranduil and although he had given in to Anglach's suggestion/request/plea, he wished now he had had the dwarves escorted to the edge of the Wood and sent on their way. But there was something niggling away in the back of his mind.

He arrived back at his stronghold with his retinue, the excited babbling of noise and gossip of his lords and their ladies a trifle merrier than usual and more outraged because of it. Thranduil, however, was stone cold sober. He threw his cloak to Galion, and lifting the crown from his head and handing it to an attendant, he strode towards one of the audience rooms. This antechamber was deep in the caverns and away from the main throne room; here the stone had been delved and worn smooth by the fast flowing river long long ago before it retreated to pools and waterfalls under the hill, the pillars and columns twisted as if by design. There was a seam of quartz and a line of emerald running through the filigree of stalacmites and stalactites in the chamber, giving it the impression of an ethereal lake in a glade of willows. Moonlight and starlight filtered through some hidden chasm in the stone above and by the time it had filtered through trees and limestone, quartz and emerald, the light was dim and green.

Elves rushed ahead of him with torches and thrust them into the bronze sconces, but with a wave of his hand Thranduil brought the glass globes that were strung over the pillars and columns to brightness. There was a waterfall at one end and it fell like a stream of silver and filled the chamber with the sound of rushing water, falling into a wide, shallow pool that reflected the globe and torchlight.

Usually he found this chamber restful, but not tonight. It was very late, almost early, but he did not wait.

'Leave me,' he cried as he strode into the room, his retinue following in anxious attendance quickly melted away. But he pinned Thalos with a look that needed no words and his middle son followed him glumly. He saw Galadhon hesitate and glance at Thalos. Thranduil did not command him, knowing he would stay, but instead turned and flicked his fingers at the globes of light imperiously and they glowed more deeply until the chamber was bathed in a pale green radiance. In the middle of the chamber was a throne upon a dais with shallow carved steps leading up to it. He threw himself carelessly into the great carved wooden throne, its wings were carved like antlers and curved around him protectively. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers to think; dwarves in the Wood, no mere travellers, of this he was certain.

The patrol that had failed so miserably to keep track of the dwarves hung about the doorway, silent and guilty for he had sent others to do what they could not. Thalos stood ahead of them, as he should, Thranduil noted. Legolas stood just behind Anglach, hovering anxiously on the fringes of the group. He narrowed his slate-green eyes and regarded his youngest son suspiciously. There was a bruise on his jaw and a cut on his cheek.

'The dwarf did not want to go into the storeroom, my lord,' said Legolas ruefully and Thranduil nodded. His youngest looked seriously annoyed as he spoke and cast a look at Anglach that suggested they had not agreed. It was hardly surprising, Thranduil acknowledged, for Anglach was half silly child and half dangerous warrior.

'Bring the dwarf here. I wish to speak with him.'

'Immediately my lord!' The delight on Anglach's face would be comical if it was not so worrying. Thranduil regarded him for a moment and then said, 'Legolas, go with him.'

They scurried out and Thranduil beckoned Thalos to stand before him. Thalos bowed his head. Thranduil pressed his lips together, angry that this son, so competent and strong in the East Bite, holding it for years and years against the Shadow, should be so careless when it came to home. 'I wonder if you have forgotten that even here, Captain, we are beset.' He knew the words would bite, but better his words than arrows and blades in his child's flesh. 'These dwarves attacked us three times and it seems you know they were in the Wood but did nothing to prevent it.'

He watched how Thalos bristled but he also saw the shadows in his eyes and the tiredness in his face. It softened him a little and he sighed; how much longer could they hold? How many more men did his folk have to give? And how long before it was his own sons who were brought back lifeless and cold?

And there was the Dragon still.

Ten years ago he had finally sent Legolas, after Laersul had persuaded him. And Smaug had demanded he send Thalos next….

He stirred. He had lost himself in reverie and Thalos stood before him, head bowed.

Thranduil's gaze focused and sharpened suddenly; in his son's hand was a sword he had not seen for Ages past. And he had been but a child and in Doriath, clinging to his own father's hand…

He rose to his feet and swiftly stepped down from the throne and reached for the sword.

He barely saw Thalos' wide eyes as he reached for and took the sword and in one movement, drew it from its scabbard.

Shrrriiinggg

It cried shrilly as it was tugged from its jeweled scabbard.

Petcotumo!

He had heard it before, that great cry of defiance and triumph! Standing outside the broken gates of Erebor, he had dreamed; there had been the clash of battle, arrows swooshed, and he had held in his hand the great sword that sang with him, clasped his hand as he clasped it; Petcotumo! Its Song rang like a deep bell…Hot black blood spurted over his hands, over the glorious blade, and he had plunged into battle... The Eagles are coming! he had heard a voice cry and around him the cry was taken up…There had been a child running across the battle field...

He knew this. He had dreamt it before. And now, as if the sword had been imprisoned or slept and suddenly awoke in his hand, its voice rang, thrilled his blood. Thranduil gazed at it in awe.

'This is Orcrist,' he said, the sword moved his tongue, spoke the words of its spirit: I am the sword of Gondolin! I am Orcrist. I am made by the Spirit of Fire for Ecthelion of the Fountain and for his hand. I am blood. I am steel. I cleave. I strike with swiftness. I have done hurt to Valarauki and their fire. I am clasped by the hand of he who loves me. I am of the Fountain. I am steel. I am water against the fire of the Valarauki. I am ….

He came to himself when he felt Thalos' hand on his arm and blinked, breathing hard.

'Ada? Ada!'

He stared at the sword, stunned by its possession of him. Yes. Possession. It had swept over him, burst over him like a wave.

'It is Orcrist then,' said Thalos softly. 'I thought it was lost.' He stared at the sword in awe and slowly reached out to touch it. It seemed to glow under his touch and his lips parted in a breath of admiration.' This is the sword that struck down Gothmog in Gondolin, that Ecthelion carried in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad,' he breathed. Glancing up at Thranduil he smiled. 'You were speaking Quenya. It was speaking through you...You should carry it.'

The balance was perfect in his hand and the metal of the hilt was warm, an exact fit. How strange to think it should come to him like this? 'Yes. It has come to me.' He stared at the engravings upon its blade. Petcotumno. It was as it should be.

Thalos touched his father's sleeve and Thranduil blinked again. He came to himself as the sounds of a scuffle came at the entrance to the chamber. A muffled shout and stifled grunt of pain turned his head and he saw Legolas and Ceredir struggling with the dwarf, Legolas was clutching his eye. He was even more surprised to see that Legolas kicked the dwarf hard and shoved it into the chamber.

'Legolas!' Anglach tutted and shook his head disapprovingly. He was following on behind and had an air of concerned disappointment ' You cannot treat it that way. You have hurt it once already.'

Legolas muttered something and looked murderously at the dwarf but Thranduil saw how the dwarf strode into the chamber now on his own, head raised and eyes blazing defiantly and fixed upon the sword now drawn in Thranduil's hand.

'That is MY sword!' the dwarf cried and his voice was resonant. Deep like all his kin. But there was something else. Thranduil narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to look more closely. A fine cloak, boots well made if scuffed and worn. And deep, dark eyes that burned with jealous self-righteous anger.

'Orcrist?' Thranduil stepped lightly down from the dais. 'An elven blade in the hand of a Naugrim? And how did you come by it?' He lifted the blade so it flashed in the light from the globes strung between the pillars. 'You stole it,' he said, looking obliquely at the dwarf. 'For its master is long gone and Orcrist lost until now'

'It was given me,' the dwarf declared. 'And by one who had the right!'

'Who has the right unless he be of Gondolin?' Thranduil doubted very much that anyone had given the dwarf this blade; it had claimed him, its song rang in his soul. No dwarf could have released the sword in that way.

He regarded the dwarf more closely. Black hair, wiry and thick but coiled into braids he had not seen since Erebor fell, and those eyes that burned with a hatred for him that he had only seen in the eyes of Orcs. Thranduil leaned closer, his slate-green eyes narrow and intent and he stared at the dwarf's face. From Erebor certainly. He did not know this dwarf...and yet...there was something familiar.

'Tell me who gave you Orcrist,' he demanded softly.

The dwarf folded his arms over his chest and planted his feet firmly on the ground. 'I have told you. It was given me by one who had the right.'

'A name. And if he does indeed have the right, I will return it when you leave,' said Thranduil. But he doubted it. Glorfindel was not the only one to have come from Gondolin, he believed, but he did not think that any elf would give the sword of Ecthelion to a mere dwarf.

'It is mine and to keep it is to steal it!' the dwarf cried. 'But that is no more than I expect from the King of Mirkwood!'

There was an outraged cry from the assembled elves. Thalos shook his head in disapproval and Legolas shouted some curse and insult. Even Anglach looked shocked. Thranduil held up his hand for silence.

'We will leave the matter of your theft for the moment,' he said. There was no point, he had already decided; dwarves were only interested in gold and jewels and stone. They had no honour, no integrity. This one was as much a liar as all the others he had ever known. But he was curious as to why the dwarves had invaded their feast...and there was a sense of something imminent, the slick oily sense of Power in the air of the glade after the dwarves had left...and yet it was not here now with this dwarf, who was clearly their leader?

'Why did you attack my people at their merry-making?' Thranduil asked, his face stern.

'We did not attack them,' the dwarf replied stonily. 'We came to beg because we were starving.'

'Where are your friends now?' Thalos came forwards and stood before the dwarf now, his arms crossed over his chest, he looked down upon the dwarf. 'What was your plan when you attacked us? There are not enough of you to defeat us?'

'I expect they are starving in the forest.'

'What did you hope to achieve by attacking us?'

'We were hoping to meet with mercy and food, as we were starving in the forest.'

'How can you be starving!' Legolas cried from the crowd. 'That is a lie!' He was still nursing his jaw and the bruise over his eye had turned purple.

The dwarf turned furiously to the gathered warriors. His voice rang throughout the chamber as if the stone itself responded to this son of Durin. 'We had no food! No water! Nothing! We were starving! We thought the elves might have pity on us, but I should have known better!' His scorn was implacable.

'What are you doing in the forest?' Thalos demanded, shooting an irritated look at Legolas for interrupting his interogation.

'Looking for food and water because we were starving.'

'What brought you into the forest at all?' demanded Thranduil.

At that, the dwarf shut his mouth and would not say another word.

Thranduil knew that look; he had three sons and Galion to deal with over the centuries and knew there was no point in questioning the dwarf further. 'Very well,' he said, turning away from the dwarf and looking at his warriors. 'Take him away and keep him safe until he feels inclined to tell the truth, even if he waits a hundred years.'

He flicked his fingers towards the dwarf dismissively and after a moment's hesitation where the warriors hung back, Legolas gave a heavy sigh and stepped forwards to seize the dwarf and march him back out of the chamber. This time the dwarf went willingly.

Thranduil sank back down into the carved wooden throne and waved everyone away. Thalos left last with a long look at his father.

Thranduil sighed and beckoned to Galion for wine, for Galion never did as others and only did as he pleased. Thranduil rested one long hand against his forehead and thought; when the dwarves had blundered into the clearing, he had felt something like an implosion under water. Power had rippled across his own enchantment like a stone in a pool. Not magic, not the vibrant energy of the Wood, or of Water or Fire or Air. No. This was something quite different.

It was gone now.

Galion handed him a long-stemmed glass filled with good wine. He noted that Galion poured another glass for himself and drank it too quickly, filled his glass again and ignoring the disapproving looks from Thranduil, plonked himself on the shallow steps of the dais.

The dwarves had brought Power into the Wood, thought Thranduil. Their leader would be able to tell him what it was and why they had brought it. But the dwarf was intractable. He twirled the fine stem of the goblet in his long fingers. Light from the glass globes that hung between the pillars and fluting columns, the filigree of stalacmites and arches caught in the ruby ring on his fingers. His father's. He stared into it for a moment and let his sense extend beyond the stronghold and reach out into the Wood. He let his perception grow and shape into the spirit of the Wood, a white hart, and sent it flying through the trees beneath the deep canopy, flying over soft ground where the beech leaves lay thickly, leaping over the fallen trunks and between the shadows...following the silvery trail of Power as it wound and drifted and careened through the Wood...Spiders were there. The dwarves were cocooned in the spiders' webs...Softly suffocating. Slowly poisoned.

Erebor.

He knew where they were.

He knew who they were.

He knew why they had come.

I need time, he thought, for he had always known this day would come.

With a flick of his wrist and a mere thought, he sent elves after them.

0o0o

tbc