CHAPTER 27. THE KING OF MIRKWOOD
The messenger staggered along, guided roughly by the Elves that held his arms in a vice-like grip. He could see nothing, and if ever his guards spoke, it was in their native tongue, which was as gentle and elusive to his ears as the trickle of water. He could not even hear the soldiers that accompanied him, whose footsteps left no marks and made no sound – they travelled as swiftly and silently as birds through the woods.
All he had to mark his travels, therefore, was the ground beneath his feet; the crunching leaves of the forest, at first, but then the solid drum of wood – branches, he supposed, parts of the forest path wound up into the trees. His captors – for he had decided now that this was what they were – kept him balanced well enough, and he was almost glad that he was kept blindfolded; he did not truly want to know how high from stable ground he travelled.
After an incalculable time, the wood beneath his feet turned to stone. He could hear talking ahead, and then the creak of metal joints groaning into movement – they were opening the gates.
After another moment or two the company halted, and abruptly; the messenger felt his shoulders jerk unpleasantly in their sockets as he was yanked to a stop. There was a question asked, met with a hasty reply by the leader of the group. A few brief exchanges later and he was led forward, just a few paces, and suddenly the hands gripping him tightly dropped off, leaving him standing alone, still blindfolded.
"Is this how Gondor chooses to bear news?" asked a voice derisively, in a tone so apathetic and cold that the messenger felt as though he had been doused in icy water. He did not know to whom he spoke, but he took an immediate disliking to him.
"Is this how Mirkwood chooses to treat guests?" he replied indignantly, masking his nerves under a mascaraed of boldness.
The voice chuckled humorlessly.
"Do not make the mistake," he enunciated slowly, "of thinking that you are a guest here. Nonetheless, you are entitled to some degree of hospitality. That I shall grant you."
He felt hands tugging at the knot that tied his blindfold, and suddenly the fabric was pulled away. The messenger was blinded by the sudden light, and blinked away the glary shimmer painfully. Slowly, the world came back into focus, and as he glanced around at his surroundings, thunderstruck.
He was standing in a vast, cavernous space. All throughout the hall towering pillars stood, carved straight from stone. The roof was so high that he could barely make it out, and the ground an utter mystery – he felt like an ant. In every place that met his eye, the rough, natural stone met the ornate etchings of the Elven aesthetic effortlessly. Chambers peeked out of the walls, with winding corridors leading off in every direction, and bridges and stairways climbed far above his head. Narrow walkways linked the huge pillars like strands of an elaborate web, below them a dizzying drop down into pure blackness. The halls were dimly lit with warm light, filtering like amber into the space from some unseen source far above, and lanterns hung where the sunlight could not reach.
It was entirely unlike anything that had ever greeted his eyes, and in spite of himself, his jaw dropped. As soon as he realized his gaping, he shut it firmly, but not before a sarcastic huff emanated from behind him.
He whipped his head around hastily, and his eyes widened in surprise. Before him stood a grand throne, which took the shape of a set of antlers, improbably and unnaturally large. Settled with arrogant ease at their base was an Elven figure, clad in long, flowing robes like liquid silver. His face was sharply angled, and held in it some sort of ferocity, that even in his idleness he appeared formidable. His eyes were the blue of icy water, his hair like pale gold. About his pointed, leaf-like ears he wore a crown woven skilfully from leaves and branchlets, but the messenger did not need it to realize who stood before him – he was a mirror image of his son.
So this is the mighty Thranduil of Mirkwood, he thought, taking in the sight of the king with a ripple of nervousness.
"I have granted you my favor. Now you shall grant mine." the Elf stated unemotionally. "Why do you trespass on this forest?"
"I bear urgent news from Elessar, the King of Gondor, as no doubt your guard have told you." the messenger replied, attempting to hide his impatience from his voice – this was a king in his own right, and he knew how swiftly such leaders could be angered.
"Ah, yes, they have." Thranduil acknowledged, gentle mockery in the arches of his brows. "I am merely curious as to why I should hear it."
"Why you should – " the messenger repeated confusedly, before he was cut off.
"Indeed. What news has this Elessar," he uttered the name like it was a vile, loathsome creature, "that aims to sway the mind of the lord of Mirkwood? Our kingdoms are not allied. I owe Gondor no favors."
"If you would but read the letter – " the messenger interjected, but was interrupted again.
"I do not think I have the time." he drawled, getting to his feet and turning away with a theatrical sigh. "Do not take offence - my time is very sought after, you must see. I simply haven't the time to deal with such menial matters as – "
"Are you deliberately perverse, or is it mere habit that makes you so unbearably difficult?" the messenger exclaimed angrily at his back. "Your son's life hangs in the balance and you waste your time playing cat and mouse!"
Thranduil froze as suddenly as a drop of water in a winter storm. He turned back towards the Gondorian, his face no longer fearsome but fearful, eyes wide with shock.
"What did you say?" he uttered, lucidly.
"Your son, my lord. He is… ill. Very ill." the messenger answered with discomfort. "Without your aid, he will not last to the week's end."
And even with it, he may not last so long, the man thought, but refrained from saying it aloud.
He was unable to regard the man before him without pity. The Elf-king, just moments ago so regal and distant, now seemed truly brought to his knees. He made no effort as the emotions flittered across his face – alarm, confusion, dread. There was even, he thought, guilt among the mix, though perhaps he mistook it for something else, something that tugged at the Elf's heart like a lead weight.
For several moments the king made no sound, but merely stood, rooted to the spot. His head was bowed and his eyes clamped shut, as if in pain, or prayer. The Elven guards that stood a short distance behind the Gondorian regarded their king with surprise and alarm, as if they had never seen an outburst like this from their ruler.
"M-my lord?" the messenger stammered. "My lord, it is of utmost importance that you act with haste. Will you receive Elessar's letter?"
The Man gestured to the leader of the guard, who still held the scroll in his hand. He strode unsurely forwards and held it out to the king.
"Hîr vuin." the soldier murmured gently, and Thranduil finally looked up, eyes empty with silent grieving. He took the scroll and broke the seal in one fluid movement, scanning the writing hastily. Suddenly he turned towards the guard and began to speak, the flowing words falling out of his mouth with haste and deliberation. Several Elves hurried off in response, and the Gondorian looked on in confusion.
"My lord, I do not understand your speech." he interjected quickly. "What is it that you –"
"We shall ride for Minas Tirith." he answered shortly. "If we make haste, we may reach them before the passing of three days."
"We, my lord?" the messenger repeated, frowning confusedly as the king turned his back. "Surely you cannot leave on such short notice! Have you not duties?
Thranduil turned to meet his gaze, an earnest solemnity in his features.
"I have a duty to my son."
~~~{###}~~~
A grey cover of cloud had passed over the city, masking the sunlight, dulling the shine of the white marble from which the citadel was hewn. Aragorn felt it apt, as he himself felt dull, clouded. The days of action and travel had caught up with him, and he was fatigued – he was, after all, not as young as he once was, though probably still more able than most. There was a tiredness in his bones, and a weariness of the heart, also. So much uncertainty and strain had begun to take its toll on his body, and his mind in equal part. When he could summon the energy, he attended to the undertakings expected of a king – negotiations, treaties, overseeings – but for the most part, his lethargy kept him by Legolas' bedside, watching his breaths rise and fall unsteadily, and wondering for how much longer they would continue.
Arwen watched him with growing concern. He might be oblivious to the whispers, but she was not. She heard the murmurs among the palace staff, speculative but respectful as ever. He is losing hope, they said pitifully.
She knew that they were wrong.
Aragorn was not losing hope – that was the problem. He couldn't give up hope, even as his friend's chances of survival grew more and more slim. Perhaps if he were to give up, the news would be easier to bear, when it inevitably came. But he refused to even contemplate the idea that Legolas might not awake.
After all, what was she to do – crush him with reality, or allow him to be crushed in due time? Both were equally grim outcomes, and Arwen dreaded the thought of either.
But what would she do if all were to fail, as she almost knew it would? How could she possibly light the shadows left on his face after such a loss? There was already weight on his shoulders with his royal duties, and soon there would be more – just weeks and they would have a child to raise. She saw no way that Aragorn could be fit for this, after the hurt he was sure to experience. She saw no way to cushion the blow, nor any way to prevent it, and so all she could do was watch as her husband grew closer and closer to an injury she was not sure he could recover from.
All the while, Aragorn floated about the infirmary, unaware that he was watched by a concerned wife, unaware of the pain that riddled his friend's body even in sleep, and unaware that the aid he so desperately hoped for was still days away.
"Aragorn?"
His head flicked at the sound of his name, not curious as to who had uttered it – he knew Faramir's voice as well as his own – but as to how. There was a barely subdued excitement in his tone that Aragorn had not heard since lighter days.
"Aragorn, a company has arrived." Faramir went on, smiling elatedly.
His eyes widened in surprise, and he strode towards the doorway. "So soon? They must have rode faster than the wind to – "
Faramir's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a look of apologetic guilt crept into his features.
"No, not the company from Mirkwood, my lord." he explained as Aragorn's face fell, and the Steward cringed, evidently sorry to have raised his friend's hopes unduly. "We do not expect the Elves for another few days yet, I am afraid. No, this party hails from Rohan."
The King frowned uncomprehendingly, shaking his head in impatience. "Faramir, explain the meaning of – "
"Alright, lad, you've had your chance to explain." came a rough voice from the hall, and a few heavy footfalls later, the stout figure that belonged to it appeared. "I've waited around long enough, and I won't wait any longer!"
Aragorn found a grin brought to his face as he laughed incredulously.
"Gimli, your face is a most welcome sight."