tawarwaith

Adechui od Erestor (Resurrecting Erestor)

The Tawarwaith had staked a claim within the core of Thranduil's dominion.

Poised an arm's length from doom and beyond the reach of friends and family, the personification of rebellious defiance and mythical valour, Legolas flaunted his power. Here stood a warrior other soldiers would eagerly follow who paradoxically needed no army. This was a prophet who shared consciousness with Tawar yet neither desired nor required disciples for validation. An immortal marked for death with a wizard bound to his service and a Noldo Lord ensnared by his heart, yet it was he who had sworn undying allegiance and tendered over the totality of his battered soul.

Legolas was full of contradictions.

The very embodiment of the mystical beliefs the silvans would not give up juxtaposed against the pragmatic tenacity of the Sindar, Legolas had become the unofficial hero of a proud nation struggling under the growing threat of Darkness. He represented all that was lost and everything the forest folk longed to regain, the Greenwood's best hope for salvation and a return to peaceful harmony within the Music of Arda. The Wood Elves were thoroughly enamoured of their unpredictable champion and were both thrilled and anxious to see him behave so precipitously.

Engrossed in the drama unfolding before them, the populace froze in paralysed suspense, mesmerised by the potential for disaster. It was almost addictive, these great swinging arcs of emotion Legolas wrought upon them: from joy to despair, hope to despondency, terror to wrath. The sensation was as stirring to the blood as canoeing the cataracts of the upper rapids. They longed for Tirno to teach the King manners; they yearned for Thranduil to claim his shunned and rejected heir. They wanted an explanation for the misery in their lives that did not burden their feral redeemer with blame. The silvans craved stability yet anticipated the explosive confrontation that must follow Legolas' simple action of advancing upon the dais.

The wild elf's physical presence on a plane that could not be shared was a more potent denunciation of the King's right to rule than his earlier defence of Fearfaron. That deed had been an instinctive response provoked by Thranduil's aggressive rejoinder to the talan builder's complaints. This was a deliberate, goading, taunting move, an insult and a threat of gross proportions. The unqualified disrespect flouted in the Sinda Lord's very face must be squelched. The attending populace braced for the expected reprisal in nervous immobility, attention locked upon the Sinda Lord and his disinherited heir.

It was in that stalled moment that the elves realised Tirno was fully armed, quiver and bow at his back and the shining blade of a dagger captive beneath the plaited leather belt about his waist.

The collected ranks of silvan warriors must have noted this immediately upon the wild elf's entrance. This time no indecision hindered their reactions for their allegiance had been determined on the last occasion when the Tawarwaith had threatened the King. No offensive had been launched against Legolas then nor would they do so now.

Their Lord had since indicated his support of Tirno and here the truth of his words would be tested, the calibre of his character revealed. The soldiers were resigned to let this confrontation follow its natural course and would intervene only if Legolas required aid. Without Talagan there to direct the Sindar guards, it was Thranduil whose freedom was in jeopardy should speech decay into violence.

The small coterie of Legolas' hodgepodge family observed the standoff in stunned denial. Eyes collected images and fed them to the brain yet no acceptance of the situation could they encompass.

For once in her long life, Gladhadithen was uncertain of the best course to pursue. She frowned at the obstinate challenge Legolas presented and transferred her regard to the King, but he seemed as nonplussed as everyone else in the room. Uncertain exactly what was happening, she hesitated. This was not a facet of the archer's personality she had witnessed before.

Aragorn and Mithrandir would have recognised it easily. It was the same mood their friend harboured when baiting Orcs, enticing them into the traps or luring them away from comrades in battle. They would have understood immediately Thranduil's peril and might have warned him, even if the nature of the Tawarwaith's subterfuge was unknown. The mortal and the Maia were not in the Chamber of Starlight, however, having remained with Erestor in case he wakened while his mate was absent.

Aiwendil appeared to be either praying, concocting a spell, or both as he stood with head tilted down and lips moving in soundless entreaty. The grip upon his staff was enough to break it had the object been less than a conduit of the Istar's might. But Radagast was not Gandalf and he would not interfere no matter the danger. The Brown Wizard loved Legolas, but could not place himself level with Manwë nor consider his wishes above the will of Eru.

Lindalcon silently cursed; for he had not brought anything lethal with which to aid his brother should the need arise. Nonetheless, he tensed and mentally prepared himself, confident he could at the very least provide a physical barrier to absorb the warriors' arrows if it came to such extremes. That he could not get between Thranduil and the wild elf, this sank his soul to abyssal gloom.

Only Fearfaron was able to comprehend some of his foster-son's motivations. He had not seen Legolas in the grip of a killing frenzy nor watched him teasing foes others hoped never to encounter, but he recognised the grim caste to the warrior's eyes easily enough. Thus had Annaldír looked after the loss of his beloved and their child. It was an expression of hunger and despair, a desire for death, a longing to induce significant results by obtaining it.

Legolas had chosen his purpose upon accepting the role of Tawarwaith on the morning of the Judgement's twelfth anniversary. His growing devotion to Lindalcon and strong sense of responsibility for the younger elf's grief had undoubtedly intensified his dedication to this calling. Taurant's birth on a more recent dawn had brought Legolas a new brother and sister to love, deepening his commitment to the Greenwood. His consuming hope was to give to them a peaceful childhood amid the security of a devoted family, doting parents who mutually adored one another.

With the prospect of losing Erestor once the seneschal awoke, Legolas felt he must act quickly to ensure at least partial fulfilment of his goals before he faded. He would settle the Erebor question, he would re-establish balance between the ruling factions in the Wood Elves' world, and he would free the Lost Warriors.

The stoic Spirit Hunter unwillingly yielded to the primacy of the Tawarwaith's intractability. This was ultimately Legolas' choice and Fearfaron had already exhausted every argument he could fathom to dissuade his son from surrendering faith. That he had failed was manifest before his eyes.

The humble carpenter had felt the ominous diapir of molten fury rising inside his adopted child when the archer pulled the Noldo from the tainted stream. Heat of this magnitude was either slow to dissipate, gradually altering everything surrounding it, or vented in a violent expulsion of energetically destructive force. The outburst of scurrilous accusations upon Lindalcon had not been enough to quell it.

Indeed, Legolas had not even bothered to look as Lindalcon had bolted from the clearing, returning to his mundane chore of making up the bed. Fearfaron had watched him haul the seneschal onto the feather mattress before climbing right up onto the highest flet and stepping over the prone Noldo Lord. Legolas' scowl was no deterrent and Fearfaron seized him by the biceps and shook him hard.

"What are you thinking? How could you speak those foul lies?" These were the harshest words he had ever sounded to Legolas, filled with more reproach than his pronouncement during public sentencing seventeen years ago.

"Nay!" Legolas had shouted back and pulled free. "You do not understand! He wants me to go on suffering because I have not been able to release Valtamar. I have tried, yet nothing helps. I cannot bring back Lindalcon's father nor even send him to honoured remembrance in Mandos."

"Legolas, this is not what Lindalcon had in his heart when he planned this stunt," Fearfaron calmed himself and tried reason, hearing the underlying guilt in his second son's words. "Nor does he feel you deserve such a punishment. He has never held you accountable for Valtamar's death; this you know. These thoughts arise in your soul, not Lindalcon's, generated from the belief that you are undeserving of the happiness Erestor brings. Do not project them onto your younger brother."

The Tawarwaith turned away and shielded his heart beneath folded arms and tightly balled fists. He knew Fearfaron was right; Lindalcon had never expressed any anger toward him.

Yet it must be there just the same.

The younger elf had refused to accept Legolas' apologies and fervent assertions of his intent to salvage Valtamar from Wandering.

If he will not even hear my pleas, how shall he ever forgive me?

It had been easy to overlook this unresolved debt whilst both elves had shared in common the complaints of grief and loss. Now that Legolas was suddenly granted the blessing of a bond-mate, the dearth of love in Lindalcon's life was pronounced and unbearably unjust. Legolas could not get past it, yet neither could he accept that he must relinquish his heart's contentment. He bowed his head under the weight of the dilemma.

"I did not mean to love him, but I do," he whispered. "I do not want to lose him; I shall die if he parts from me."

"Aye," Fearfaron sighed. "That is enough for Lindalcon to shoulder, for he can see the depth of your bond to Erestor. You must forgive him, Legolas."

"Ai, Ada!" Legolas cried. "I have harmed him yet again! First I take his father from him and now these allegations of treachery and vengeance! Mayhap I do deserve this fate!"

"Do not make it worse than it is." The carpenter reached for him then, gratified that Legolas allowed the comfort of the older elf's hand gently squeezing his shoulder as he was turned round. Fearfaron closed the distance between them and encircled the archer in his hold. "You did not kill Valtamar nor cause him to die. Lindalcon has spoken almost these exact words to you and wishes no ill will upon you. What must he do to convince you this is true?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Legolas shook his head against his father's shoulder and uncrossed his arms, wrapping them tight about the willowy elf's body. "I would not blame him if he did hope for this to happen. I cannot forgive him for there is no wrong to be pardoned."

"That is what he would say to you as well, were he here," Fearfaron reassured.

"It does not help," Legolas straightened up and disengaged from his father, meeting the carpenter's eyes with a look of fevered bewilderment. "I cannot accept this fate! Why must this be?" he demanded in the strident tones of impotent rage. He turned and knelt beside Berenaur, surveying his mate's impassive features and sleeping sight. He drifted the tips of his fingers across the smooth perfection of the refined cheek. "Where is his feä walking? Am I there?"

But Fearfaron could not answer this. He leaned down and softly caressed the wild elf's tangled mane. "Do not add torment to your worries with such speculation. He may not be affected by the water and you must hold to Gladhadithen's prognosis of deep reverie and nothing more."

For several minutes they were silent, the carpenter quietly stroking his son's hair as Legolas' fingers entwined in the advisor's ebony locks. Then the Tawarwaith shifted and gazed up at his father.

"Ada, boe darthon erui na Berenaur." (Ada, I need to be alone with Berenaur.)

"Nay, avon vadel." (Nay, I am not leaving.)

"Le Boe!" (You must!)

"Avon." (I will not.)

"Man?" (Why?)

"I know what you will try, Legolas, and I refuse to let you face the inevitable defeat without support. It has never succeeded yet I also realise nothing I say will deter you. I will be down on the first level."

With that Fearfaron knelt briefly and hugged Legolas tight, dropping a quick kiss upon his forehead before moving to the rope still dangling from its knotted encirclement of a sturdy branch. At the edge of the platform he paused.

"He loves you, Legolas. Even if he does not remember the last four days, you are whom he chose to love. His feä will not forget." Fearfaron did not expect or wait for a reply, disappearing over the side to take up his vigil in the cosy sitting room.

Legolas could hear him moving around, the subdued shuffle of his soft-soled shoes compressing the carpeted floorboards. The ponderous, rattlely screech of iron hinges turning followed by the nondescript dull clunking as fuel was expertly stacked for lighting within the grate. The pleasant clink of metal upon glazed pottery accompanied the muted chuckle of liquid falling into an empty vessel. The carpenter was boiling water for tea. A cupboard was opened and shut, a china cup connected with its saucer, a drawn out sigh eased between the leafless limbs and finally the barely perceptible sound of the cushions' compaction signalled that Fearfaron had settled down on the sofa.

He truly means to stay.

Now the Tawarwaith hesitated. How could he proceed with an audience attending? Yet he must try, even as Fearfaron had averred. Legolas was bound to test the healer's theory, for if Berenaur was only locked in profound reverie, then he should be rousable. And the wild elf had a fair idea of the means to do it. Still, the carpenter's presence was a formidable impediment.

Valar! I cannot seduce my lover while my father sits below!

Legolas frowned; he must master this bashfulness. The advisor had to return to him, memories, heart and feä intact. He did not care about horror stories and legends from the past of others' attempts ending in failure. These tales were woefully lurid accounts; tragedies that ended with the death of one or both of the mated elves at the culmination of the act. He and Berenaur would be the exception; the depth of his passionate love for the Noldo would return him to consciousness. Legolas scanned the recumbent elf longingly and paused, straining his ears to listen, imagining Fearfaron doing exactly the same thing. He sighed and shook his head.

Far! (Enough!) He is Ages old and does not care. In fact, I have shared this with him before.

In the darkened space of the silk draped flet, Legolas blushed as he recalled the Spirit Hunter's aid during his first attack of grieving. Fearfaron had handled him intimately and skilfully that night yet never became aroused in turn. He had treated the archer's deeply suppressed needs as the most natural and basic of drives, regardless of the gender of the object of those desires. When the flood of his ardour had subsided, Fearfaron had cleaned him without embarrassment and then held him in safety as he slept, free of tormented dreams for the first time in years. Legolas had never before been encouraged to seek pleasure without feeling shamed and degraded, as though his appetites were depraved and indecent, his love for his guardsman a flaw to be hidden, allowed expression only when Malthen sanctioned it.

I trusted the carpenter then; shall I let those old lessons prevent me from delighting in my bond-mate now?

Nay, this was to be the initiation of the couples' domestic cohabitation and tradition demanded a coupling the first night, anointing the untried bed with the outpouring of their love. Resolutely forcing his reservations into the background, Legolas focused anew upon the insensible elf in his keeping.

He is mine, dark hair and smirking mouth, long lean limbs and clever hands.

Legolas reached for one and brought the limp appendage to his lips, kissing the warm palm and pressing it against his neck over the small purple badge earned through desire's fulfilment. The weight of the arm was ponderous and underscored the lack of response to this tentative foreplay. He laid it carefully back down upon the quilt and chided himself; this would never do to entice Berenaur were he cognisant, why should such a tactic kindle any flare of aphrodesia as he slept? Legolas procrastinated, fearful to execute his plan successfully only to be rebuffed.

What if he wakes and calls out for one of his other mates?

A cold shiver ran over the Wood Elf's frame and his heart compressed as a painful stab lanced up toward the fragile organ from the nexus of the old dagger wound. A sharp breath escaped Legolas and instantly called the carpenter to attention.

"Ion Edwen, do not do this!" Fearfaron whispered softly in sorrow. "I fear to lose you; put me not upon the brink of such despair, I beg you!"

But Legolas did not respond and the talan builder groaned aloud, getting up as the steamy song of the copper kettle incongruously broke the silence with its homey cheer. The sweet scent of the steeping leaves soon filled the atmosphere and calmed him.

Legolas will survive; it is not as if the Noldo has died. Cuil anna estel. (Life gives hope.)

Fearfaron decided he needed to distract his mind from the activity above and moved to a cabinet, drawing out the set of wood-working tools he had given Legolas so long ago. Used little, the implements had resided in Annaldír's room previously. Fearfaron was still completing a project for the new couple's home, his bonding-rite gift to them, and soon the comforting scrape of a blade planing wood offered a screen to the subtle sounds of displaced clothing and shifting bodies that began anew on the uppermost platform.

Determined to induce recovery, Legolas had begun removing Berenaur's borrowed attire, hoping the sight of his lover's magnificent physique would inspire a bloom of lust and stir his thus far dormant libido. It would be difficult to arouse his mate if he could not feel the heat of desire flowing through his veins. Legolas had just bared the seneschal's smooth, broad chest, gleaming softly with the light of his golden glow, and bent to kiss a dark brown nipple when the repetitious rasp of the carpenter's tool met his ears. Legolas froze a scant centimetre from the enticing flesh, cursing quietly as he crawled over his lover to the edge of the flet and peered down into the half-lit parlour.

"What are you doing?" Spiky and grating, the phrase discharged a corona of irritation from the kernel of every word. The sound of the plane ceased.

"Working."

"With no light? Do you not fear to amputate a fingertip?" Exasperated sarcasm hissed out from the shadowy silhouette above.

"Long have I practised my trade; my hands have sight keener than the eyes of Gwaihir." (Lord of the Eagles). This answer was gently spoken for Fearfaron understood the stress building in his distraught son's soul. The illumination spilling through the brazier's openwork grill was ample and both knew it. "Shall I stop?"

Legolas stared at the flickering play of light upon the features of his benefactor and regretted his caustic speech, simultaneously comprehending the reason for the older elf's unlikely labour. The woodland warrior bowed his head to the floorboards with a weary sigh.

"Nay, Gohena nin, Ada." (No. Forgive me, Papa.)

"Sîdh, pân vaer, Legolas." (Peace, all is well, Legolas.)

Fearfaron returned to his task and the light husk of filings curling from the furniture's surface obscured the muted patter of Legolas' retreat to the mattress.

The Tawarwaith decided to divest his mate of the opened tunic and shirt completely before resuming his interrupted undertaking to animate his lover. He heaved the lax frame forward, raising the Noldo's shoulders enough to allow complete removal of the silken garb. It was a cumbersome chore, grasping the slack body in one arm as the other worked to get the sleeves of the garment free. Legolas achieved the objective and flung the clothing away impatiently, panting a little from the effort.

Undressing the seneschal is more difficult than it seemed before.

As soon as he thought this, Legolas recalled that he had never actually disrobed his lover, for Berenaur had stripped himself for Legolas' delight on their first joining in the bonding talan and both had remained naked thereafter. He dismissed the encounter in the glade, uncertain who had denuded the seneschal that night. As he carefully tried to lower Berenaur again the Noldo's head flopped backward and struck the cushiony mattress first with a dull thump.

The wild elf uttered a small, dismayed cry and stilled; the noise from the carpenter smoothing the wooden frame faltered for an instant, but the advisor remained oblivious. Fearfaron's competent hands resumed their utilitarian motion.

With a disgruntled sigh of disappointment Legolas focused his attention on the leggings, quickly untying them and yanking to work them loose. It was easier to accomplish than he had thought it would be and in a matter of minutes he had Berenaur fully exposed. The slender, slackened pink penis lay nestled upon the warm bulk of the scrotum and its heavy contents; pale pearly skin contrasting against the thick thatch of tight black ringlets. It should have been erotic and arousing, but instead the sight of his lover's lifeless torso was disconcerting.

Something about the way the arms and legs rested, perhaps, or the faintness of respiration upset Legolas and he was almost frightened to touch Berenaur. The rakish Noldo Lord should not be reduced to this vulnerable state, helpless and defenceless.

He should be in my arms, hands, lips and tongue exploring every inch of me.

Abruptly Legolas began tearing away his clothes, hoping the conjunction of their naked flesh would at last ignite his lust, filling his cock and setting every nerve afire with urgent need. But Legolas' body remained as neutral as Berenaur's.

Frantic, he cast his argent aura atop his love's golden glow, fervently kissing and caressing every millimetre of skin, longing to make Berenaur squirm beneath him, desperate to hear him plead for more. The tips of both ears were nipped, sucked and lapped without result. Ruby lips were impressed with his feverish cinnabar ones but did not part to admit his imploring tongue. Dark nipples refused to perk and harden no matter the attention bestowed. He nuzzled Berenaur's ticklish spot with his nose yet the body was immune to stimulation. He stroked and pulled, petted and palmed, licked and suckled the relaxed genitals to no avail.

"Beloved, hear me, awaken!" With a forlorn whimper Legolas straddled Berenaur's waist, grabbed his shoulders and shook him. The dark head wobbled back and forth under the force but no resistance met this assault. Legolas tried to make the glassy eyes focus on his but they remained half-closed, intent upon the interior dreamscape where he could not go.

Legolas released him and climbed off, turning away from the inanimate ellon.

There was but one zone the wild elf had not exploited, for he had hoped to have his love's full participation by this time. Yet surely if he could activate that core of fiery yearning hidden deep within the Noldo's body the intensity of the sensation would jolt him sensible in an ecstatic eruption of bliss and sperm. With effort Legolas rolled Berenaur onto his side and lay down next to him, snuggling against the unyielding spine. The warmth of the inert body soothed the silvan; this would be easier to accomplish without meeting that unseeing stare.

But his cock remained flaccidly uncooperative.

He closed his eyes, letting memory supply an image of Berenaur's fingertips teasing his physical topography, duplicating the touches upon his mate. One hand softly caressed the compact muscles across the seneschal's shoulders, slipped down over the contours of his thigh and cupped the rounded swell of his buttocks. Legolas breathed out a slender sigh and gently brushed away the dark drape of luxuriant tresses, granting his lips access to the resilient skin. His tongue dabbed over the old scar and eagerly licked it all the way down to its termination at the hip. Berenaur tasted of all the foreign lands in which he had dwelled during his long life.

From among the host of elves he has known over these many centuries, I am the one he chose to love.

Legolas' pulse quickened at this thought and he kissed his way back to the nape of the neck, tenderly trying it with his teeth. He breathed deeply the scent of his beloved and sidled closer, rubbing his groin against the supple arse, feeling his penis stir at last as it snagged within the dividing crevice. He pushed against this resistance and the friction urged him to fullness.

A soft moan, faint but definitely impassioned, reached his hearing and Pen-rhovan rejoiced, barely holding in an exuberant shout. Eagerly he shifted to access the tantalising mounds, carefully parting the cheeks to delve his tongue within and lap against the relaxed annulus. The wet red muscle swiped across the closure and he felt a slight tremor flicker over the quiescent body. Excited to perceive this minimal effect, Legolas plunged his tongue inside and worked it rapidly in and out to make the entrance slick. His cock twitched. He grabbed it, pumping in time with his darting tongue, unconsciously matching the steady metronome of the carpenter's plane as it scraped across the wood.

Another tremble rippled against his spearing oral muscle and Legolas quickly repositioned himself, eager to bring about the seneschal's rejuvenation in such a gloriously successful way. He imagined Berenaur's eyes clearing as the orgasm overtook him, gazing in astonished rapture at his mate as Legolas' cock stroked his prostrate over and over, calling for Pen-rhovan and clasping him tight against his chest as he came.

With a softly lubricious grunt Legolas pressed in and gave a strong shove. Traction was slight and he soon established a comfortable rhythm, rocking in and out, still matching Fearfaron thrust for stroke as the Spirit Hunter increased the pace of his work. Legolas leaned down to trail kisses upon the compliant back, as was his wont.

"Valar, how I love you," he whispered into the swirls of an elegant ear, pushing his cock in farther so he could reach the pointed tip and enclose it between his lips.

He hummed as he sucked, pounding against the body rocking beneath him, imagining these were not merely residual movements corresponding to the force of his vigorous penetration. Legolas felt his release building and reached down between the Noldo's legs to grasp the hard column of hot, seeping flesh thus to stimulate a simultaneous ejaculation.

His hand closed upon the velvety tube and the hairless sac; the testicles shifted under his manipulation and the penis rolled easily in his fingers, wilted and empty, as torpid as the dreaming elf beneath him.

Legolas collapsed atop Berenaur and snatched his hand back, shocked. A strangled sob left him as he pressed his face against the passive torso. His desire drained away; his cock deflated. Legolas pulled out and sat up, staring at the motionless form. Twisting away, he covered his face in his hands to completely block out the sight.

It was obvious; the moans had been his own voice or perhaps a vivid hallucination heard only in his mind. The trembles sprang from his over wrought nerves, not his mate's thrill of sexual gratification, the movement merely transmitted to the seneschal by their intimate contact. How could he have thought otherwise knowing the volume and gusto with which the Noldo directed his efforts to strike the small locus of internal delight?

But I must have reached it, always have I done so before!

Reality settled in then; Gladhadithen was wrong. If this could not lift the veil of slumber from the advisor's mind, nothing would. No reverie claimed his bond-mate; it was the sapping poison of Thranduil's cursed mote. Berenaur was to be his no longer.

He found that he was too empty for tears, too depleted to think, too lost to feel wrath. He was glad for the absence of sensation, for this strange mental stupor was preferable to soul-tearing agony. The next instant brought a contradictory spasm of jealousy. Should he not be ground within the teeth of grieving's cleaving torment? Now the wrenching pain seemed a privilege revoked, denied because their bond was dissolved.

Or never existed at all.

Legolas suddenly felt wrong, ashamed, as if he had violated this elf. He turned Berenaur on his back again and grabbed a blanket, spreading it over the prone form. Seeking some resemblance to normalcy, he posed the arms atop the covers and smoothed out the mussed tresses. Legolas reached for his leggings, slipping them on before stretching out next to the Noldo. Tentatively he draped one arm across the sturdy chest and let his forehead rest upon the seneschal's shoulder.

Thus had Fearfaron found them.

The gentle craftsman had listened to the exertions overhead, waiting for the moment when Legolas would understand the futility of his efforts. The imploring cry from his adopted child had torn his heart and stilled his hands. He had not known a more chilling instant of time than this barring the searing of his soul upon viewing Annaldír's decapitated remains. Fearfaron leaped from his place before the grate and scrambled up to the topmost talan. He lingered on the edge, breath suspended, until Legolas' doleful vision lifted to his.

A great rush of relief fled the Spirit Hunter's lungs and he hurried over, unceremoniously kicking off his shoes and lying down against his son's back, encasing him in solace and comfort. Throughout Ithil's hours he whispered encouragement and enjoined the archer not to relent to despair. Just before minuial, Legolas had arisen and prepared for the council hearing, making no reference to the events of the night or anything his father had said regarding them.

Watching him now, Fearfaron experienced that same cold and heavy burden accumulate within his chest again. He did not know which Legolas intended: to force Thranduil to kill him or for the King to so order the guards flanking them, but surety of the scheme would not make its fulfilment acceptable. The carpenter abruptly transferred Lindalcon back to Gladhadithen's care and moved toward the dais.

"Daro!" commanded the Tawarwaith. He did not need to turn around to know those footfalls heralded Fearfaron's approach. "Avo deli sí." (Do not come here.)

Fearfaron halted at once but refused to return to his place in the crowd. Over the wild elf's shoulder, his eyes briefly engaged the disturbed depths of Thranduil's and noted the circumspect surprise within them. The next instant the Sinda's attention reverted to Ningloriel's child.

Frozen in a confused amalgamation of outrage, bewilderment, and wary foreboding, the youngest son of Oropher stared down at the cool disregard of the elf before him. Evaluating the readiness in the wild warrior's stance, his hand swiftly found the hilt of the knife at his hip. He watched a brief flare of intense menace dance through his opponent's eyes at the defensive motion, but otherwise the outcast made no response. Legolas simply stood there waiting.

An man? (For what?)

This was not the behaviour the King had anticipated. Where was the weeping soul-shattered wreck he had envisioned upon hearing Talagan's tale? Instead he must treat with this primitive throwback; a being convinced of his status as the chosen emissary of an ancient deity everyone else had forgotten two Ages ago. A champion beloved by the woodland folk, both elf-kind and human, revered as their hope for a cleansing of Greenwood and a return to peace. A feral fighter who had earned the respect, admiration and loyalty of the warriors, apparently without even planning it.

And one that has been single-handedly, and effectively, making war against spiders, Orcs, and Wraiths for the last seventeen years.

This, Thranduil decided, was a dangerous combination of extremely volatile elements. He inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly, willing his body to remain limber and prepared, and took a step back.

Legolas advanced into the vacancy.

Iarwain could not even muster up the gumption to be pleased with the King's discomfort, for he was too concerned over the emergence of a radically unpredictable leader oblivious to his influence. The eldest elder did not fail to acknowledge the unspoken solidarity of the ranks collected on the dais' perimeter, for as one entity their focus was aimed upon the Tawarwaith. That determined his loyalty with definitive finality; he must back Legolas. The question remained whether Legolas would accept such fealty or not.

"What will you, Tirno?" Thranduil's voice was low and edged with warning when at last he spoke. "Is this how you express gratitude for the complete remission of responsibility regarding Erebor?"

"It is, for you have not the right to determine fault or rescind liability. You have brought me to this place with your stubborn stupidity and refusal to act in the interests of the victims and innocents affected by this travesty. Everything you have done, even long before Smaug took possession of Dale, has only been to serve your exalted pride. Erebor is decided; such things cannot be altered by you."

"Legolas, nay!" whispered Fearfaron in horror. He would have leaped upon the stone platform but Aiwendil detained him, gripping his arm strongly; the beech wood staff lowered before his chest, presenting diagonal impedance to progress. The Istar shook his head firmly and the carpenter learned what a lie was the wizard's outward semblance of decrepit weakness, for he could not break the hold.

"Your words and actions are designed to provoke," murmured Thranduil quietly, "It is a game I have played for longer years than you have lived. I cannot be so simply motivated to unweighed measures." Yet his visage belied the calm tone of the remarks, for his colour had darkened to deep maroon and his jaw tensed convulsively.

"Indeed, there is no need for any dispute or denouncements of character," Iarwain spoke up and inched forward out of the knot of politicians. "We are trying to remedy a wrongful decision, nothing more. Can you not accept our..."

"Echado dîn." (Be silent.) Legolas addressed the Councillor but his gaze did not waiver from Thranduil's features. The demand was delivered softly but the echoing undertones left no doubt that obedience was expected. The elder complied immediately.

"The people wish this, Legolas," Thranduil cajoled and was so amazed by the result this brief preamble produced that he did not finish his thought.

As he watched with baffled fascination the Tawarwaith's complexion drained to a pasty hue reminiscent of wood exposed in a lightening-blasted oak. A fine coat of perspiration arose, lending the pallid pigment an unhealthy gleam. Legolas' lips contracted, an inflexible stroke of vivid scarlet beneath nostrils flared and eyes afire with unfathomable resentment. His entire frame stiffened in unnatural rigidity as his hands coiled into fists at his sides. A series of fine tremors began racing over his body, waves of subtle infuriation in counterpoint to inaudible breaths taken and expelled in rapid suspiration.

"What did you say?" the taut, strained quality of the question matched the elf's stricken demeanour.

Never before had Thranduil spoken his name.

Tbc.

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