XXV
Shadow and Flame
It was dark and cold and Legolas was so very, very tired. He wanted to lay down in the snow, curl up under his cloak and wait for sleep to take him, but he knew he had to keep walking - how he knew that he wasn't sure, but whatever happened, wherever he ended up, he had to go on. Nothing was more important.
It was so dark and the snowfall so thick that he could see little, and at times he wondered if he moved forward at all. It's only a dream, he told himself. Tinuhen found me. He rescued me. My leg is broken; I shouldn't be able to walk. It's only a dream.
But it felt real. Maybe Tinuhen had been the dream.
Then he heard it again - the sound of someone weeping. Legolas looked up and around. It did not truly sound like a child this time, but he was certain it was the same voice he had followed to this place. Maybe if he found the source he would find a way out. Maybe that was why he must keep walking. Stumbling over his own feet in exhaustion, Legolas turned a little to the side in the direction of the sound.
The snow under his feet gave way for dry yellow grass. The darkness became a thick smoke that billowed over low hills. Pools of sick water glinted in the light of torches placed beside them, odd little lights that made him wonder, shuddering, who had lit them, and why. His foot hit something metallic and he looked down to find the ground littered with what looked like the remains of a battle - broken spear shafts, a banner trampled into the dust, a dented helmet, then a whole suit of armour, pierced by a sword but empty as though its owner had simply vanished.
When he heard the weeping again, he looked up, startled. It was close, only a few steps into the smoke; and when he saw who it was, Legolas began to weep as well.
"No change." Lord Elrond laid a hand on the child's forehead, brushing a strand of matted hair aside from the bruised face. "None at all."
Mithrandir did not answer. There was no need, either: the fear was written over the wizard's face as plainly as lord Elrond knew it was written over his. They had covered Legolas with all the blankets and furs they could find and stoked the fire to unbearable heat, but he was still as cold as death and not getting any warmer. Shock could have that effect, but lord Elrond had an unsettling feeling there was more to it than that. Everything about this night felt foul and twisted. He doubted it would go away so easily.
Mihrandir gave a deep sigh and his shoulders slumped, turning him into an old man where lord Elrond would have wished for the mighty wizard. The fury when he first learnt of what had happened, matched only by that of Glorfindel in that moment, had gone out like a candle flame when it was clear there was nothing he could do. Glorfindel had left to hunt for the men, but Mithrandir had remained, by lord Elrond's request, to help him tend the child - and keep his brother out of sight and mind until he would no longer be in the way. Both elf-lord and wizard had been occupied by that for many hours, but by now there was nothing left but wait. All their expertise had not been enough. Legolas did not wake. Lips blue, chest rising ans falling only barely under the blankets, he was lost to some deep dreams where lord Elrond could not reach him.
He sat down, tentatively, on the edge of the bed, and for a moment allowed himself to despair. When Lindir burst through the door on top of the library screaming that something had happened and Echail was hurt, when Tinuhen turned up on the courtyard with Legolas in his arms bleeding over his blue travel robes, when Elladan and Elrohir donned arms and armour and left with the darkness in their eyes only matched by the pain - it was all familiar to lord Elrond, that shock, that fear, that guilt. He had promised himself never to let it happen again. Never to let his children see such a thing through once more. Never to let anyone suffer as CelebrÃan had, if he could help it.
"No one saw this coming", Glorfindel had assured him before he rode after the twins. "No one, Elrond. Not even you."
Not even Saruman, lord Elrond mused now. It seemed nigh on impossible. He still blamed himself, always would.
He rose, smoothing down his robes with an absent-minded hand. "There is nothing else we can do here, and we have much to discuss. For now, let us leave Legolas in prince Tinuhen's care. He has waited long enough."
Tinuhen paced outside, as lord Elrond had known he did, having heard the sound of his heels up and down the corridor, loud at first but growing wearier and less distinct as time passed. His back was turned when lord Elrond opened the door, and he had a brief glimpse of a bowed head and hands picking nervously with the sleeves of his tunic; a tunic that hung loose and ill-fitting on a body reduced to skin and bone. Then the prince heard him, his head flew up, his back straightened, and he turned.
"How is - "
"The child is resting", lord Elrond said softly. He was not entirely sure what to say and what not to say at this hour. "Have you eaten? You must be hungry after -"
"Not at all", Tinuhen said. His voice was sharp as always, taking no heed of the tranquillity of the healing wing, but underneath the surface it was fragile as the leaves of last autumn. "May I go inside?"
"In a minute. I want a word with you first."
Tinuhen stopped his pacing by a window, through which the moon had sunk too low to shine. There was a bite in the air that no fires could chase away, for this was the coldest night yet of the year and the hours before dawn are always the very coldest of all. He sighed, the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades rising under the tunic. None of the wood-elves had eaten well, and it would not surprise lord Elrond if the prince had eaten less than any other to spare the supplies, saying naught of it.
"I cannot spare you this", he said. "We know not if Legolas will wake. He has suffered severe trauma, perhaps more than meets the eye. What can be done has been done - it is up to him now."
There was no answer, hardly any reaction, only a shift in the prince's stance that told lord Elrond his body has gone tense.
"It is far too early to lose hope", he said, and it was true: "but we must be prepared for the worst. If he wakes, that will likely mean the danger has passed, and until he does, we can only wait and hope. You may of course stay with him for as long as you wish."
"Yes. Was that all?"
Elrond hesitated. "Legolas told us he was the son of your guard's captain - Beren. I though he would be with you."
"He is dead", Tinuhen replied, his voice flat as though he had spent all tears that could be spent already. Or maybe he could not care for Beren, not now, not when his brother might be awaiting the same fate.
"That was all, then. Go inside."
Tinuhen turned away without another word, and his silence spoke to lord Elrond of the effort it took him not to break down entirely. He wanted to tell him it mattered not if he broke down, mattered not if he could not be strong any longer - Legolas would not notice, and Tinuhen was not in charge, did not carry the safety of his company on his young shoulders anymore. But this was Tinuhen. This was how he handled things.
No reassuring sight awaited him in Legolas' room. The child looked better than he'd done when he was carried inside, and far better than he must have looked when the prince found him - barely alive, one of the other elves had said, her face scrunched in a mask of pain, and so pale the cuts and bruises on his face and hands stood out like beacons. Only little colour had returned to his cheeks yet, but the cuts had been cleaned, the bruises smeared with a soothing salve, and his hands were bandaged anew, resting now atop his battered chest. It would have looked bad enough on a grown elf, but it was jarring to see a mere child in such a condition.
"We will be outside if you need us", Elrond said, doubting Tinuhen heard him, and closed the door around the brothers.
The sound of heavy steps coming alerted them that one of the warriors had returned - no elf moved so audibly unless heavily armoured. Glorfindel rounded the corner, leaving footprints of melting snow over the floor.
"Glorfindel! How - "
"Is he awake? Is he alright?"
"No and no", lord Elrond replied, for the balrog-slayer needed no sweetening of the news, "but it is too early to lose hope. Why -"
"And Echail, where is he?"
"We will be notified when he awakes - he was lucky, and will recover."
Glorfindel let out a breath and came to a stop. "We tracked them south past the Serpent's Ravine, the way prince Tinuhen came. We found the mare - Marigold, the horse that Legolas rode. The tracks turned west by the ravine. We suspect they are heading for the lowlands. They should be easier to track down there."
"Then why did you return?"
Glorfindel shrugged, but his eyes were dark. "Only a feeling. We cannot yet tell how great this deceit is, but it has come very close to us, has it not? Even Saruman the White could not see through those men. I wanted to be here in case - in case I shall be needed."
"But the men must be found, or we have nothing to go on. You did not take all the scouts with you back, did you?"
"I put the twins in charge of those I left."
Lord Elrond thought of the darkness in his sons' eyes, their crazed lust for revenge - and the recovery they had made over the past weeks seemingly all but gone. "You think that was wise?"
"I think it was necessary", Glorfindel said. "Legolas is not their mother, but the way they have taken him to their hearts - I believe that, in a way, they wanted to give him the protection they could not give lady CelebrÃan. And yet they failed - again. If Tilwine and Scead escape us I fear they will never forgive themselves. And there is nothing they can do here but be in the way."
Lord Elrond did not answer. Perhaps Glorfindel was right; he found it difficult to look at the matter of his sons with any clarity. What Elrond desired was for Elladan and Elrohir to be here so that he could comfort them - but they had never allowed him to comfort them before, and he knew, as much as it pained him, they would not have allowed him to do so now either.
"You say there were signs of a sword fight where Echail was found", Mithrandir said.
"I think it is obvious what happened. How Echail came to follow the men I do not know, but he did, and he fought them."
"And Tilwine won?" lord Elrond asked.
"No - not Tilwine. I saw him fight. He could not have hid his skill from me. It was Scead - it must have been."
"Are you surprised? That he fought -"
The balrog-slayer hesitated but a heartbeat. "I am surprised he was spared. Not that he fought. He lacks nerve, but not true courage."
"Nor heart."
Glorfindel turned to pace the corridor again, the sword slapping against his steel-clad thigh, and Elrond gathered his full robes and followed. Tinuhen's voice had died down behind the door, lord Elrond noted as they passed; perhaps he had fallen asleep at last by his brother's side. Whenever Elladan was wounded, Elrohir used to fall asleep by his bed; Elladan always did the same to him, and when once both of them had been wounded, Arwen had slept between their beds.
"So what now?" Mithrandir asked, when they had come to the end of the corridor and was on the way back again.
"Now", said Elrond, "we know that there is evil near or within the White Council, and we can only hope the men can tell us something about who brought it there. It will be fruitless for the Council to try to find a traitor among themselves, I fear. But it seems clear to me that among all our potential allies and enemies, we were wrong not to trust Greenwood, for they were victim to this deciet far more than we were - you were right, Mithrandir." He clasped his hands behind his back, straightening somewhat, for he knew what must be done - and it was a relief to feel confident in that at last. "There is much they must be told of - Legolas' injury, the traitor within the Council, the attempts to twarth their joining it - and Legolas' fulfilling of prince Tinuhen's task. This message must be brought to them at once."
"But a messenger must take the way prince Tinuhen came", Glorfindel said. "It would be a difficult journey. It would be best to wait until the High Pass can be breached."
"We will not wait at all", lord Elrond said. "But messages to Greenwood have failed us before. It took Tuiw's life, it has taken Beren's, and it shall not take another. I will speak to Thranduil or Gwiwileth myself. It is the only way."
Thranduil wept. He had not moved since his father left; curled up on the ground he still sat, face hidden in his hands, and if he had not known that there could be no use he would have begged the one who kept him here to kill him. How low he had sunken, then, that he would consider such a thing. Gone was the proud Elvenking, and the prince that had once rode to battle on this very field. He wept for them and he wept for the wretched creature he now was, trapped in a nightmare that had no end.
The sound of footsteps behind him, barely audible, made him fall silent. He straightened.
"Have you come to mock me again, father? I care naught for what you say."
There was no answer, only the sound of feet shuffling against the grass. Thranduil turned.
It was not his father standing there. There was just tiny figure wrapped in a thick pale-green cloak, with bandages on his hands about to fall off, his face bruised and battered, his eyes wide and hollow, his pale hair full of snow and sticks and dead leaves. How small he was; smaller than Thranduil remembered.
Perhaps it was yet another illusion. Perhaps Legolas had come to mock him like Oropher had done. He should be safe back in Rivendell; there was no way it could be him.
But Legolas stumbled towards him and Thranduil held his arms out, shivering, and it was all that he could do - Legolas could tell him outright that he was not real, and still Thranduil would let him come to him, still he would not push him away. And Legolas collapsed into his arms and he was light as a feather but he felt real, the weight of his slender body familiar, his hair soft and feathery under Thranduil's hands, thin arms and trembling hands grasping for a hold of Thranduil's robes. There were snow flakes in his eyelashes, and before Thranduil could wonder how that could be they had melted into small tears.
"Legolas?" he whispered. "Legolas, is it truly you?"
Legolas did not answer but curled up tighter against him, and Thranduil could not resist him if he had wanted to. He wrapped his arms around the shivering body, lifting it off the cold ground. "Hush now. I am here. I am here with you."
How could it be? Thranduil had thought he had it figured out. Elves can speak between minds because theirs are not confined to their bodies in the same way that men's minds are; in dreams and, with effort, in waking, they will travel far. That is how the eldest and wisest speak to each other from afar, and that was how Thranduil's mind had become trapped in this dark dream, in part created by himself, but tainted but the one that held him here. Thranduil's mind had been trapped. But Legolas should not be here with him. It was too long a journey for such a young soul; and how had he found him?
"Legolas", he said, his voice soft, "I understand that you are tired, and scared, and perhaps hurt, but I need you to tell me what has happened. You should not be here. It is dangerous. If you can, you must turn back the way you came."
Legolas shook his head, eyes shut tight as though he was in pain.
"What is the matter?"
"C-cold", came a weak answer. "D-dont want... t-to go back."
Thranduil was filled with such fear that he could hardly breathe. "What do you mean..."
A screeching, metallic rumble, loud enough to make the grasses tremble, caused his voice to falter. Legolas whimpered, hiding his face against Thranduil's chest. Thranduil closed his eyes. He knew that sound. He had heard it once before, though then at a great distance. Across the ranks of waiting soldiers, after hours of breathless waiting, that sound had filled all hearts with doubt and fear, followed as it was by the thunder of thousands of marching feet.
Taking Legolas into his arms, Thranduil stood up and turned. For so long the Black Gates had towered above the marsh as he waited in loneliness and despair for them to open. Now they did. Wheels were turning, gears driven by invisible hands, and a gap opened between the iron doors. Slowly they swung open, revealing nothing but impenetrable darkness. A wind went through the grasses. The torn banners were lifted from the ground and dissolved into ashes. The pieces of armour scattered all about stirred. With a moan the gates came to a stop, fully opened.
Thranduil held his breath and waited. How he had dreaded this moment. He wanted to run; he had always known he would want to run. Had always known he would fall to his knees and beg for his life; he could not face this, not again.
But now Legolas was here. And that changed everything.
He stood still, when a flame appeared in the middle of the darkness, and the flame took the vague shape of a person. He held his ground when the figure of fire grew in size until it was twice that of an elf.
I can sense your fear, Thranduil Oropherion.
The voice was like a gust of wind, strong enough to force Thranduil half a step backwards, dreadful enough to trap his breath inside his lungs for a moment. He tried to speak but no sound would come.
You have no power left. There is no way out. You have only one choice.
Thranduil closed his eyes. His head bowed as though by a will of its own, as though the muscles in his neck could not stand against that terrible voice.
You know this. You have known it for a long time. You are the last Elvenking. None shall come after you. None shall remember you.
It was the threat that stirred the anger within him. The Dark Lord could kill him over and over for all that Thranduil cared, but he must not touch his sons. Not Tinuhen. Not Legolas. He opened his eyes and stared into the flames.
"Release my son."
For a moment the figure of fire was silent, as though taken aback. Release him? And why should I do your bidding, Elvenking?
"My son has done you nothing. Release him!"
There was laughter, low and triumphant. It was not I who trapped your son here. He came on his own. Got lost on the way to his death.
"Death?" Ice cold fear settling on the bottom of his stomach, Thranduil turned his head to find his son looking up at him, eyes wide yet knowing. He was no longer trembling.
If I release him, nothing will keep him from the Halls of Mandos. His body is weakening each moment. But submit yourself to my will, Thranduil, and I will save his life. Be my servant, and your son will live to see you rule the world at my side.
Do it, you fool, his father said. Do as He bids. Or do you wish to see your son die like you saw me die?
"No", Thranduil whispered. He could not see his father; perhaps he stood behind him, or perhaps there was only his voice. He had only eyes for Legolas. "I do not."
Then submit to him.
"I will not."
There is no other way!
"You are dead", Thranduil told him. "Your words are all His, and His words are all lies. I will not bend my will to you", he said, turning to the figure of flames. "If you do not release him, I will wrench him from your grip by my own hands. You will not touch him!"
The figure of flames laughed and sank through the darkness until its feet scorched the yellow grass. Thranduil turned his back on him, setting Legolas down on his feet again. Somehow he knew what must be done.
"Go ahead", he said. "Back the way you came. All the way. Go back and live."
"I don't want to go on my own."
"I will come after as soon as I can." He knew it was a lie. The Wise would tell him it was only another illusion, but Thranduil had always known who hid in the ruins if Dol Guldur, and he knew it was the same being that stood here with him now. In a fight against the Dark Lord he could not win. "Do not wait for me. I will come."
"I'm scared!"
"I know." Thranduil pressed a kiss to his forehead. How cold, how utterly cold he was. Death walked behind him like a shadow. "You have been so brave, little leaf. Just a little more now. Just a little more."
As Legolas turned to walk from him, tired feet stumbling in the grass, Thranduil felt for a moment that he could not - would not let him go. Legolas was so small, so helpless. The lightest of winds would blow him off course. What if it was true, that he was dying? Stay with me, Thramduil wanted to say. Do not go.
But the Dark Lord stood behind him. The heat from his flaming spirit - a body it was not - made the grass crackle and curl.
"Go!" Thranduil said again, and Legolas went on, head bowed, ashes settling in his hair. The figure of flames moved forward, reaching out.
Thranduil caught his white-hot arm and held it.
"No", he said. "You will not touch him. You will not touch him!"
The Dark Lord struggled, tried to break free, but Thranduil grabbed his other hand and held fast, digging his heels into the ground and putting all his weight behind. He felt his palms melt and burn. The flames leapt twice as high as he stood, the hands enclosed his own but Thranduil knew that if he could just stand against it a little while, just a little more, Legolas would be gone. It was all that mattered.
A face formed within the flames, distorted and terrible, a face that had once been beautiful and looked all the more jarring for it. It growled and snarled and then with a roar it wrenched its arm free and laughed as Thranduil staggered backwards, his nostrils filled with the smell of his own burnt flesh.
How? How will you stop me? You think you can fight me, Elvenking?
"You are weak", Thranduil spat. "I saw you once and you are nothing to what you were then!" He bent, picking up the broken shaft of a spear with a rusted point still attached to the end. With all his strength he thrust it into the flames and hit something solid, something hard but yielding that cracked under the steel tip like a piece of scorched wood; the figure of flames snarled, grasped for the spear, tried to force it away from its chest but again Thranduil put his weight behind it, pushing. For a moment it moved neither way - then there was the smell of burnt wood, and the shaft broke in two. The laughter came again, flames leapt out and Thranduil backed away. The spear shaft dissolved into ashes like the banners had done. The steel point dropped to the ground.
Weak, perhaps, but I do not need much strength to defeat you.
The flames grew larger, the heat unbearable, and behind the Dark Lord darkness poured out through the gates. There was the sound again, that of thousands of marching feet, heavy on protesting ground, relentless and unyielding. They were too many. Thranduil could not fight all of them on his own. The figure of fire laughed.
Then voices were crying out, and behind Thranduil the pools of stagnant water churned and heaved; from their depths dead elves rose, hollow faces mournful and rotten, torn cloaks billowing for an invisible wind, hair of reeds flowing around their heads. Low they moaned as they formed lines once familiar, and they raised their broken spears and shattered shields and met the host of darkness head on. They were struck down, all of them, and screeching rose again. The Dark Lord laughed no more. A mace was in his hands and he turned again to Thranduil, raising it. Thranduil saw it glint above his head and brought up his hands though he knew he could never hold it back - but he never needed to. His father stood before him, and he was no longer scornful - no, this was Oropher, as Thranduil knew him in his heart; not the Oropher that the dark one had created for him. And his father grabbed the shaft of the mace and grappled with the figure of flames. Valiantly he fought, until the figure tossed him to the ground, planted his foot on his chest to keep him down, and brought the mace down to crush him. His father moaned once and went still.
The Dark Lord looked up at Thranduil and smiled.
And Thranduil ran the spear-point through his throat.
Sauron staggered. The steel went deep inside the flames and ashes that made up his body, and Thranduil pushed it deeper yet, coming to stend chest to chest with the Dark Lord; fire caught his hair and his clothes and his skin, and there again was the sickening smell of burning flesh. But Sauron screamed in pain, and the scream turned into a choked rattle as his throat was torn apart. Burning hands grabbed Thranduil's and tried to tear the point away; then they grabbed instead his for face, and the pain was unbearable, and Thranduil could not get any air.
He staggered too, near uncounscious. But when he broke free long enough to look over his shoulder, he saw that Legolas was gone. Maybe he would find the way back. Maybe he would not go to the Halls. As long as Legolas had a chance, nothing else mattered; Sauron could kill him here and now, or torture him until the end of time. It did not matter.
And thus you will die, Thranduil, last of the Elvenkings, the Dark Lord said.
"And thus", he croaked, "I will."
And that was when the light came. It broke through the shadows like the sun after a storm.
"Thranduil", the light said. "You have been dreaming for very long. It is time you wake up now."
Thranduil was on his knees, heaving though his dream-body was empty; the figure of flames had backed away. "I cannot. I have tried."
"Then I shall help you", said the light, and a hand sought Thranduil's, and he took it, and was no longer tired. The shadows were giving way. But the figure of flames gnarled and roared and the fire leapt high.
You cannot defeat me, Peredhel. You dare not.
The figure of light threw its head back, and something bright flashed on his finger - or so Thranduil thought, but it was gone too quickly for him to be certain. Then he was pulled up, and up, and up into the light.
It was like embroidery. The needle dancing in and out of the fabric, leaving a trace of red yarn where it went through. Like dancing, feet light on the ashen ground, every step calculated. And it was dreadful, and ugly, and mechanic, and Merilin knew she would be sick over it afterwards - but she thought of the needle, and she thought of the dance, and before she knew it it was all over.
The plan had been simple, and it had been successful, as simple plans are wont to be. The orcs followed the tracks they had lain out for them into the clearing, and they stopped before Merilin - that was only part of the plan that could have gone truly wrong. When she raised her sword, elves hiding by the opening behind the orcs pulled at their ropes and brought down the trees they had hewn halfway through before. Trapped, the orcs knew not yet what was happening, and before they understood lights blazed up as the elves among the trees uncovered their lanterns and kicked the fires to life. Arrows prepared with dry grass and birchbark caught fire in an instant, and on Duneirien's command they flew high and swift, striking the ground around the orcs and trapping them once more in flames. With the opening blocked and fire on their flanks there was but one way they could go: forward, towards the dais upon which Merilin stood, no longer afraid but tense as a bowstring. She opened her arms as though to invite them, but closed them just as quickly when they came: dropping low as her father had once taught her, she steeled herself for their charge. But she was not alone. When the orcs neared the dais, the elves behind her burst from the trees with their swords and shields, Brand screaming in their midst; and Ninniach and her elves charged from the left with their spears and pikes. Merilin would never forget the confusion turning to fear in the orcs eyes. Brand later told her he had never heard anyone laugh like she had, but she could not remember laughing at all.
But simple as it was the plan did not give them any more advantage than that of surprise, and the slaughter was like that of any even battle, slow and tiring. Merilin pulled her sword out of the chest of an orc with a sickening wet sound as though the bared flesh wanted to suck the blade back in, and a fan of red drops scattered from it when she raised it high; strands of hair that had come loose from her braids blew into her eyes, and she jerked her head free of them. Her blade met another, the force of the impact trembling through her arms, but she was not yet tired. Her veins were filled with the fire of battle-fury - the one they told about in songs of glorious battle, and the only thing the songs got right. She drove the other sword down and away, backed and swung, parried and thrust. Her blade went through leather and skin and flesh and sinew. Red eyes met hers before they lost focus.
"Merilin!" Ninniach cried behind her, and Merilin turned again - and there he was, the adder-eyed orc that wore her father's ruined crown.
"You!" she screamed. "You!"
The orc laughed at her and lifted his mace. Merilin ducked as he swung at her, and the mace passed above her head so close that she could feel the gust of wind in her hair; her arm flew out before she knew it, and her shield struck the orc in the chest with such force he lost his breath.
"You!" she roared, pulling back and striking him again over the chin as he doubled. The silver crown glinted in the light of the fires and filled her with a rage that she had never known before; it was not his to take, it belonged to Greenwood, to her father, he had no right. The rage drew her on. She raised her sword and swung it sideways. One clean cut, and his throat was off. Blood bubbled into his mouth and gushed down his jaw. She took the crown from his head before he fell to the ground before her feet.
"I told you I would kill you", she mumbled to his unhearing ears. "You should have listened."
It was a moment's triumph that could have cost her life, and when Ninniach screamed again the remembered where she was. Swirling around Merilin was still too slow to block the scimitar coming towards her. For a moment she was sure she would die: then the orc went stiff, gasping for air, and the scimitar never hit its mark. Ninniach pushed her spear all the way through, then angled it down and let the orc slide off of it. She gave Merilin a wolf-grin, shaking the hair out of her face with a toss of her head.
"Careful", she said, as calmly as though Merilin had just put a misplaced stitch in her embroidery. "Never lose focus during a battle."
Then there went a shiver through the trees. The orcs did not seem to notice, but the elves did. Something lifted - the air was suddenly easier to breath, the darkness not so thick, and deep in the ground something came alive that had been slumbering. The Shadow - it trembled, wavered like a candle in a draft.
Then the orcs noticed. They noticed that their leader were dead. They noticed that the power that had sent them on their errand no longer stood behind them. A wave of fear surged through them. Merilin lifted the silver crown above her head.
"Greenwood! Greenwood the Great!"
"Greenwood the Great!" Ninniach echoed. The shout was taken up by one elf after another until the sound alone of their combined voices was loud enough to make the trees shiver. And the trees answered. Their voices were still faint, but the elves heard them in their hearts and in their bones: Greenwood! Greenwood the Great! The orcs fled, some by leaping over the faltering fires, but few came far; the undergrowth hindered them, the entwined branches blocked their path, roots caught their ankles. They shoved each other as fear turned to panic, and the elves laughed behind them and pursued.
Merilin did not follow. She was tired now but stood on the dais and listened until the dying wail of the last orc echoed and was gone. Then it became very quiet. In the silence, there was a humming of sorts, like the long, slow breaths of something alive. It was the forest, of course. It was awake, if barely. The Shadow was not gone, but it no longer felt as though it watched - instead it seemed to have turned its gaze somewhere else.
And they had won. It had not been an easy victory, nor a cheap one. They would have little time to enjoy it, for as soon as they could they must move out. But they had won.
With the pursuit over, and in a confused blend of triumph and grief, the elves began the long slow task of tending the injured and the dead, and comfort the dying. Merilin stood alone on the dais, her mind working to count the days until they could reach home - would the Shadow have come even further by now, or would it be slowed by their victory? Would there be other orcs, or spiders? It was a long way back, and they were no longer very fit for another fight. How far until they could send a message back home to ask for reinforcements?
"Ninniach", she said as the copper-haired elf stepped up onto the dais beside her. Ninniach had a cut across her cheek, a slash of red among the pink burn scars, but took no heed of it. She was grinning, and held something behind her back.
"My lady?"
"What now?"
Her question was so vague that Ninniach tilted her head in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Did I prove it?" Merilin lowered her voice, didn't want anyone else to hear. "That it is not a defeat to follow us? That we will fight as you want to? Ninniach - will you come with me home?"
"Home", Ninniach said, and her voice was wistfully soft. But she did not answer right away. Instead she said: "The orcs will come back. There will be more of them, and they will be angry. They will burn everything they see."
Merilin was silent, and waited.
"The spiders will spread and breed. The Shadow will deepen. There will be hardly anything to hunt, no plants to eat, no water one dares to drink." Ninniach made a gesture as though it should be obvious where she was getting to. "There was never a choice. We all knew it, but we refused to see it. Perhaps we will all see it now when we know what it is we are leaving for." She looked up, the smile back. Then she brought out what she had been holding behind her back: a crown of red berries on dry stalks, picked from the trees that grew around the clearing. "Yes, your highness", she said and put it gently on Merilin's head. "We will follow you home."
The dead grasses and sick pools were gone, and so was the figure in the fire, but Legolas wished he could go back. He didn't understand why father had told him to leave. He had promised to come after him, but he hadn't, and now Legolas was back in the dark and the cold and he no longer knew where to go. He was so tired.
Then at last - it felt as though he had walked for a hunded years - he came to a door that stood ajar, spilling light over a doorstep. Frowning he walked towards it. When he came closer he saw beyond the door a great stone hall, its walls hung with tapestries, and others walked in there - shapes as light as feathers, deep in their own thoughts. Rivendell, he thought. It looked a little bit like Rivendell. Light fell on his face. He could feel the warmth coming from the hall and wanted so badly to go inside - but as he stumbled closer a man clad in a long black cloak appeared in the doorway, and he was shaking his head.
"Go back, young one", he said, "this road is not for you."
"I've nowhere to go."
"Go back", said the cloaked man. "This road is not for you."
"But I'm weary!"
The cloaked man shook his head again. He had a solemn face, and his voice was deep and mournful like the ringing of a lone bell, but Legolas would never be able to describe him. "Go to the light, young one. Your brother is waiting for you. Go back to the light."
When he thought of Tinuhen, Legolas could hear him call his name - faintly, but loud enough that he could tell in which direction it came from. He gave a last look to the feather-light figures behind the cloaked man, then turned and walked towards Tinuhen's voice. On the way he picked up his poor battered body, and returned to the world of light.
My deepest apologies for not updating in so long! I had such a hectic Christmas and January, and then I got hooked on roleplaying on tumblr, and it was simply so difficult to get back into writing on this story regularly again. I swear that I still have all the intentions to finish this story, and that I will try to update it regularly again - life isn't so hectic for me now, so if I can only stop being incredibly lazy, that should be possible.
This is also why I haven't replied to any reviews on the last chapter. They were all very much appreciated!
And as some of you have guessed by now, next chapter will not be the last. Now there are two chapters left, however. Thank you for your incredible patience, dears!