Author's Note: My account at Fanfiction.net has been cancelled by a
malicious person, twice! Censorship is evil. There is a reference to
Hênvaethor [Warrior Child], which was posted there, in this
chapter. Please do not let this confuse you. Please accept that Feud
was written first, and though this is the first time this chapter has
posted anywhere, it is hardly the first time it has played through my
mind. This is the scene that inspired Hênvaethor, in which the
timeline is drastically different from Feud. Feud remains within the
timeline in which it began. I will try to get Hênvaethor posted
here just in case anyone is curious.
Osp Erin 'Waew [Smoke Upon Wind]
The King of the Woodland Realm watched the peculiar loss of composure
sweep away the Tawarwaith's bold assurance, mesmerising presence and
latent power. No longer confronted with a threatening challenger
demanding control of the Greenwood, Thranduil faced the disgraceful
product of Ningloriel's fickle-hearted carnal appetites. In the space
of a heartbeat Horthad-en-Taur [Hope of the Forest] regressed to
raeg-onnant tad-dal [misbegotten two-legged animal], an insignificant
and easily discounted archer, unworthy of recognition, granted leave to
live by virtue of his mother's status alone.
What can be the meaning of this bizarre behaviour? One moment cooly
derisive, the next instant quivering like a bowstring ready to snap.
This was a personality the Woodland ruler knew well and it would be
easy to resume his reflexive, offhand manner of dealing with the
faithless queen's only child. The urge to remind Hecilo of his place
was strong. Administering the censure earned by so brazen a trespass
upon the King's authority would be intensely satisfying. Thranduil
seldom hesitated long enough to consider other options when his
supremacy was infringed, but this time the possible consequences
refused to be squelched. Equally adamant was the warning bouncing and
dancing against his conscious will, admonishing and reminding that such
disdainful disregard was generated not from within his personal
evaluation of events but rather by the spiteful jealousy of an arrogant
Noldo Lord.
Indeed, the shame of having the intimate details of his life
choreographed by Elrond was a more potent motivator to resisting the
temptation to display his might than was the notion of stolen
fatherhood. If he responded as centuries of habit dictated then the
purpose of this staged trial would go unfulfilled and Ningloriel's
paramour would emerge triumphant, having destroyed both of Thranduil's
heirs. This he would not countenance. The Sinda Lord would forfend that
outcome and ally the wild warrior to his dominion though Eru himself
forbid it.
How shall I salvage him when he so defiantly demands to be crushed?
The Tawarwaith was concurrently an opponent to be dispatched, a
confederate to acquire, and the agent of the most precious and glorious
achievement of his long labour. Through the painful loss, abandonment,
and betrayals Ningloriel's child had borne the wonder of innocence had
arisen: Taurant and Gwilith. Such a concept was in direct opposition to
the Sinda's comprehension of nature's chaotic structure in which
purity, perfection, and order were pummelled into dishonour,
corruption, and bedlam.
It was a compelling example, for he had been attempting nearly all of
his life to raise up purpose and honour from the senseless destruction
of everything he had held dear in the world. Oropher's son was as yet
unable to compare his methods and the archer's, incapable of discerning
why the lowly outcast succeeded while, even with all his wealth and
power, Thranduil's efforts yielded only more misery. He wished to
preserve what Legolas' wrongful condemnation had enabled, yet to do so
he must lift the unjust conviction without endangering his elflings'
mother.
Neither could he ignore the provocation the Tawarwaith presented. Here
was a conundrum the King was ill-equipped to unravel.
Thranduil's keen green gaze gauged the elf before him; an incongruous
manifestation of repressed outrage and vulnerable wretchedness met this
scrutiny. The eyes staring back were not attentive to the present,
however, and remained disengaged as some interior reality reigned. The
strange look held a different sort of challenge, as if Legolas awaited
the King's next words to impart permission to express whatever dire
thoughts plagued him. Thranduil was willing neither to supply the spark
that would ignite this fury nor to endure the uneasy stalemate.
Oblivious as to the cause for this abrupt reversal of character, the
Sinda Lord refused to expend any more time in pondering the situation.
For Taurant's sake, I will see this through. I must act.
All of these reflections coursed through his mind in a streak of
flashing emotion and disjointed imagery, but the puzzle remained
unresolved. Calling upon the guard was not a solution whose
plausibility he wished to test. Should he summon Fearfaron to come
retrieve his fosterling? Would it be better to address the archer
directly, inquiring what might be amiss?
Nay, such might compound the confusion in his mind; too great is the
number of disasters weathered.
Whatever its cause, Legolas' peculiarly ominous fugue put Thranduil
back in command of his court. Vairë had favoured him with a
boon and he must snatch it up before the moment passed. The King
side-stepped around Legolas and paced to his chair, stopping behind it,
hands curling over the ornately carved back. He faced his subjects.
"This Council is convened to answer the legitimate concerns our people
hold concerning the events of Erebor." Every nuance of tone and
inflection matched the serenely benevolent expression of contrite
wisdom masking his patrician features. The sound of the convicted
kinslayer turning to follow his movements met his hearing, but Legolas
did not speak. Thranduil's eyes shown, a mixture of triumphant relief,
as they fell upon the eldest councillor. "Gandalf and Talagan have
spoken their summations of these woes. We have awaited the recovery of
Maltahondo in order to obtain a complete understanding of that dread
day. Let us hear from the corpsman, Elder."
"Agreed, yet proper decorum must be observed." Iarwain retorted. He had
as little comprehension of what was happening as did the King yet was
equally eager to take advantage of the upset. "Tirno, come down, if you
please, that we may conclude the inquiry."
"What?" Legolas tried to stifle his internal turmoil and focus on the
events at hand.
"Here," Fearfaron pleaded. "Stand with me, Ion Edwen. [Second Son]"
"Nay, it is of no consequence; Legolas may remain," came Thranduil's
magnanimous, indulgent reply as he glanced over his shoulder to peer at
the fallen warrior, presenting a nondescript counterfeit smile.
Had the unexpected sound of his name falling so casually from those
fatuously upturned lips not recurred, the Tawarwaith might have
regained his presence of mind. He was faintly aware of Fearfaron's
entreaty, vaguely cognisant of the multitude of eyes verily boring into
him, yet he could not find a way to achieve clarity of thought. Fixated
upon Thranduil's crimson mouth, open just enough to show the faint
gleam of ivory incisors, he was totally absorbed by the nonchalant and
meaningless expression of congenial tolerance pasted on for the
public's benefit. Legolas hardly registered the words surrounding his
name, so strange did it sound uttered in the tone and timbre he had so
come to despise. It felt invasive; little else than that simple
designation belonged to him.
Twice in as many minutes after two millennia of silence! By what
right does he use that which Naneth conferred?
Yet his disposition had once been contradictory to his current mood. It
was not silence Legolas recalled as coherent thought foundered under
the inundation of memories swamping his brain, a heaving tide of
impressions from his formative years.
Legolas' first skill, predating speech and bipedal locomotion, had been
learning the Sinda's daily routine so that he could avoid the Lord's
notice. Before he could sit unaided in the cradle, earlier even than
his birth, Legolas recognised the heavy tread of Thranduil's boots
pounding out disappointed wrath as he stalked through the stronghold.
That sound was invariably succeeded by enraged shouting that buffeted
against the delicate membranes of the babe's sensitive ears and
inflicted a burden of responsibility upon the newborn's heart that
redefined his percipience, overriding whatever traits bloodlines and
heritage might impart. The connection between his wailing cries and the
stomping footfalls was muddled in the infant's mind; which caused the
other was secondary to the painful results. Legolas fostered quietude
so as not to lure those angry feet and their screaming voice.
A short interval of growth granted the toddler comprehension of the
sharp, deriding words aimed at his feä whenever he came within
the King's visual range. Pointedly descriptive and unmistakably meant
for him to hear, but spoken to others, for the imposing ruler refused
to address the queen's child directly. 'Orcion fuiol' [Disgusting
Orc-spawn]', 'gwaur úhîl' [foul pretender], and 'caul
úmaer' [useless burden] were the most commonly utilised
references to leave the King's mouth at such times. These were the
patronymics Ningloriel's spouse bestowed.
Thranduil never called him by name and the youngling could not
comprehend what he had done to arouse such profound antipathy. Legolas
was not yet of sufficient maturity to perceive the nature of his
parents' antagonism. Naneth called the cruelly dismissive elf his
father and this the child accepted, along with the blatant truth that
his father despised him. The impact was like robbing a seedling of
water and light; development became slow and stunted.
Even so, life will not be denied its fruition and the body must obey
such commands; the elfling advanced in stature of both mind and form.
The child and the monarch worked out an unspoken treaty: Legolas stayed
out of the way and Thranduil shunned him.
By the time Legolas achieved adolescence he understood all the sordid
details involving his existence. What he did not grasp was why he must
remain with this abhorrent charlatan. Why was he always left behind
when Naneth departed to visit his real father? Why did Malthen refuse
to answer any queries he posed concerning the Peredhel? Did the distant
Noldo Lord of Imladris even know of him; had he ever used his name?
Slithering beneath the surface of these questions was an insidiously
unshakeable dread that perhaps this unseen progenitor also loathed him.
That was negation of his existence on a level Legolas could not accept,
however, and he shied from it. There was too much anger centred round
those he loved and whose love he needed: Naneth, Malthen, and the
paternal eidolon far beyond the peaks of Hithaeglir. The youth chose to
foist his burgeoning wrath upon the local beacon of ill-will. If hatred
was all Thranduil would give him, then he wanted that to be heated and
lividly invidious rather than callously cold and indifferent.
His name became the locus for all these tumultuous considerations. So
often did his parents include his eneth-naneth
[mother-name] in their shouting arguments that he had no doubt
the Lord of the Woodland Realm remembered it. Legolas believed that by
refusing to say it Thranduil
sought to rob him of his fundamental identity. The speculation was
infuriating and he began a campaign of subtly aggressive insolence,
attempting to test the hypothesis and force the King to either speak
the word or admit his reason for such refusal.
On the next occasion of Malthen and his mother's retreat to Lorien,
Legolas launched his assault.
He began insinuating his person within Thranduil's daily routine. The
rejected heir suddenly appeared at Council and Court, soundlessly
listening in while his cold, defiant glare raked the monarch's form.
Where before he had studiously avoided participation in state
functions, the Queen's solitary offspring regularly attended feasts,
conferences, fetes and games. He found reasons to be striding in the
opposite direction when the King exited his study en route to the
stables or the dining hall. If Thranduil was ascending the kitchen
stairs, Legolas was on the way down. Should the Lord decide to visit
his library, the novice archer invariably popped in to find a book as
well. It was quite obvious the youth had Thranduil's habits memorised.
Only to the vaults would Ningloriel's child refuse to follow.
Inadvertently, this plan earned Legolas a host of fresh antagonists
among the stronghold's staff. These good folk, employed to provide
education, supervise activities, and attend the needs of the deprecated
prince, were in general apathetically amicable to the neglected
elfling. It was an oft stated rule that the child was not to be near
the King if Ningloriel and Maltahondo were absent. Before his
rebellious indignation arose Legolas had agreed to this edict with
equal enthusiasm, eagerly vacating the caverns to shelter among the
branches of the Sentinel or vanish into the verdant cover of the canopy
as soon as completion of lessons and duties permitted. It was thus with
alarm that the tutors and valets viewed his new policy of persistent,
overt presence.
The Sinda Lord's discomfort and displeasure over the radical change was
evident though he attempted to disregard the unexpected imposition. The
conspicuous failure of that policy thrilled Legolas and he began to
crave the infusion of potency that coursed through him each time
flustered irritability overtook the King's normally suave control,
presaged by a meteoric rise in colour as his temper flared. There was a
place in his mind where Legolas acknowledged the aberrant nature of his
delight in this deliberate goading, where he could admit that the idea
of forcing Thranduil to acknowledge him, even if only to shout at him
in anger, was an intoxicatingly alluring concept. He would show the
haughty ruler who was in control.
The plot succeeded beyond his imagination's scope; he garnered the
King's full attention. The results, however, never approached the
outcome he desired. Legolas' obstinate encroachment into Thranduil's
world prompted swift and escalating retaliation.
The King countered the sullen juvenile's atypical behaviour by engaging
Talagan as a buffer, relegating to his faithful comrade the chore of
introducing Ningloriel's child to ministers, emissaries, dignitaries,
and guests at any official function. Legolas was usually announced
impersonally as 'the Queen's son and Greenwood's heir' which placated
the silvans and afforded their Sinda Lord the distance he preferred. In
response everyone addressed Legolas by nameless title, puzzled by the
strange contention but eager to be plain in their intent to appease
Thranduil.
Between these battles in effrontery, Thranduil called forth the
prince's minders and demanded explanations, for he had no comprehension
of what was at the root of the bold hostility. None could they give for
no one but Maltahondo had gained the youth's confidence and he was in
Lorien. The King refused to accept their excuses and instituted
sanctions for failing to control the wayward upstart.
The reprisals were minor at first but rapidly matriculated in
proportion to Legolas' audacity. Access to the stronghold's pantries
and wine cellars was restricted, demotion to less prestigious positions
and reduction of pay followed, withdrawal of escort during travel to
Lorien or Mithlond was added. In response the tutors passed on their
Lord's anger, administering to their charge the tongue lashings and an
occasional ringing blow their Lord would not condescend to deliver
personally.
Still Legolas was not deterred. In fact the lack of success pushed him
to
greater degrees of insubordination, culminating in the theft of
Oropher's war bow. Yet even this failed and he regretted his foolhardy
bid to establish dominance. The caning, delivered in wordless ferocity,
taught the untried warrior his place in Thranduil's Realm with
incontestable finality. Legolas abandoned the experiment that night.
At minuial, the Sinda Lord commenced his counter-attack.
Legolas' freedom was curtailed. Where before the teachers, minders, and
attendants had been ordered to keep the youth away they were now
instructed to make certain of his continued inclusion in court affairs.
Should Legolas fail to be present, the domestics suffered additional
disciplinary penalties and either one of the woodland warriors or
Talagan himself was sent to retrieve the delinquent. If the veteran of
the Last Alliance had to hunt for the stubborn miscreant, Legolas' paid
a heavier price, for the silvan fighters only wielded scathing words
while the captain preferred the cane. Both left scars upon the young
archer's soul.
Ningloriel's child was forced to follow a rigid schedule of meaningless
activities in which he was expected to be seen without contributing
anything substantive, and everyone knew why. He was not to speak unless
formally addressed by Thranduil which never occurred. Legolas was not
to respond if approached by visitors, a rare occurrence prompted by the
more malicious warriors who would deliberately send some unsuspecting
guest to do so. He must stand apart from the King but near enough to
benefit from his disdainful regard, always under the looming
surveillance of either Talagan or one of his lieutenants. He became a
living representation of Thranduil's chillingly aloof primacy. This
continued for over six years and not until his mother's return to the
Greenwood was a reprieve granted.
And never once did the King speak his name.
Until this day. Why this day? What manner of sadistic game is he
about now?
By way of answer Maltahondo walked through the open archway from the
courtyard flanked by a pair of spearmen from Thranduil's own guard.
Legolas watched in abstracted disbelief as his former lover entered the
drama while his bonded mate lay insensible in a place the three of them
now shared, an asymmetric circle locked in a disharmonic wobble of
which he was the unsteady centre.
The appearance was not unexpected for he was well aware of the King's
intent to make the guardsman testify; indeed he had been dreading the
moment since the Council's commencement. Legolas had assumed, however,
that Berenaur would be at his side for this. When fate robbed him of
his mate's support, he had devised a strategy certain to prevent the
corpsman from ever having the opportunity to say a single word.
Thranduil's surprising familiarity had tossed him into the morass of
unresolved conflict from his past and somehow time had got away from
him before he could carry it through. In a cockeyed juxtaposition of
recent and recollected events, he decided Thranduil had not arbitrarily
chosen the number of times to pronounce his praenomen.
Once for each of the loves I have lost.
Legolas felt his throat tighten up until he was certain he would choke
for failure to draw air through his windpipe. A slight twitch of his
head in denial and negation rustled the heavy locks falling fluidly
down his back. All his senses converged upon the small procession.
Malthen was halfway through the congregation, passing among the
solemnly expectant masses on weary feet, head bent low. Legolas
retreated as the corpsman advanced, halting when his heel met the edge
of the raised platform.
"Nay."
No single syllable ever contained so much defeat. Though barely
exhaled, the abyssal silence of the crowded chamber accorded the word
sufficient volume to carry clearly to every elven ear.
It stopped the corpsman in mid-step and he lifted his amber eyes to
meet the turbulent confusion swirling through the darkly shadowed
sapphire gaze fixed upon him. Maltahondo felt all the air rush from his
lungs; he had seen this look before.
An infinite second of time froze the pair in public communion of
private converse, a trial of the guardsman's soul conducted through the
will of Tawar for all to see but none to perceive. For the witnesses
were invisible phantoms of the phases of the archer's life only the two
of them could share.
Memory called forth for both the first testimonial: Legolas at
twenty-two, a gore begrimed warrior-child, tears streaking down his
face as one hand upheld a necklace bearing three mithril rings and the
other presented the cloth wrapped digits that had worn them, all that
remained of the silvan soldiers that had accompanied the elfling on a
simple hunting exercise in a purportedly safe region of the forest. The
only survivor of the Orcs' raid, Legolas had been missing five days
when Malthen found him in the company of a small group of humans
traversing the Forest Road.
Then, Maltahondo had been the trusted mentor and confidante, a
substitute father, free to follow his instincts and gather the
traumatised youngling up into his embrace. He dared not imagine doing
so now and the loss of that privilege was shockingly painful, but less
so than the knowledge that Legolas wanted him to suffer this anguish.
More than that, Legolas desperately needed to feel he possessed the
power to hurt Malthen, and forced the guardsman to comprehend why
through the next visual duet.
The scene presented was commonplace enough: a cluster of off-duty
guards lingering in the barracks yard jesting and boasting to each
other. Legolas was there, an adult archer newly inducted into Talagan's
company, stiffly uncomfortable amid the group, trying unsuccessfully to
appear disinterested and unperturbed while attempting to stop the tale
being told about him. Malthen recognised the narrator: the minor
beaurocrat from Imladris to whom he had given Legolas.
As the crude elf
gave explicit details of their most recent coupling, the audience
guffawed and smirked, casting patently speculative leers that stripped
and groped the subject's tensely rigid form. The spy from Elrond's
court also let it be known that his new partner had not been untouched
after-all, and the barrage of lude conjectures over who had been the
first ranged from various household servants, including the prince's
bodyguard, to Talagan and Thranduil.
"Was it your father who taught you what that fine, firm arse is for?"
On that query the apparition vanished.
The significance of this question from Legolas' perspective flooded
Maltahondo's perception. He was unaware of the strange and strangled
gargle that escaped his throat. The murmuring discontent of the
assembly went unheeded. He did not hear Thranduil speaking.
Malthen could not avert his gaze from the wild elf's piercing
examination nor cast out the infused revelations from his brain. He
would never touch Legolas again, neither body nor soul.
Do you
care; does it hurt? The disembodied, divided demand sliced through
his mind, part accusation and part entreaty, words laden with agony
that inundated every atom of his being. The corpsman's feä
writhed in torment and tried to give answer attesting to his regret.
Liar.
He knew not whether it was Legolas' consciousness or his that refuted
the claim.
Futilely he fought to regain command of his mental world, vainly
wondering why no one in the room moved to intervene or tried to speak,
unable to comprehend the level of exclusion in which this moment
reposed. Nothing of the surroundings breached the intensity of the
Tawarwaith's relentlessly probing psyche, imploring what was impossible
to give: the purpose, the reasons, some believable justification that
would explain the past away and clothe the present with a more bearable
logic. That Malthen could not supply this, his charge's last request of
him, shrivelled up the wilted remnant of the soldier's self-respect.
Through tear-filmed eyes his soul begged for pardon and watched the
dewy blue orbs transform into hard, crystallised lenses of focused fury.
Every facet of the dynamic, complicated Tawarwaith was revealed there:
the betrayed and shattered ghost of the bright and beautiful elfling
ruined by lustful vengeance, the passionately adoring lover, spurned,
traded away to preserve anonymity; the tenacious albeit untested sniper
abandoned upon that ledge of sombre stone at Erebor, a bleeding soul
grieving the loss of a newly bonded life-mate, a determinedly
protective elder brother prepared to die to guarantee his siblings'
future.
Remember, for I will never be able to forget.
The silent sentence resounded through the corpsman's skull.
The eternal
instant ended.
Maltahondo dropped his gaze to the floor.
Legolas' sight transferred to Fearfaron, his resolve recovered and his
objective redefined. The faintest light of a smile glowed within the
brilliant blaze of defiant wrath that burned anew within the aqua eyes.
He had confronted the individual responsible for the most injurious
sequences in his history without succumbing to the terrible rending
affliction of grief. He was suddenly almost euphoric and struggled to
contain the exuberant energy, storing it up for the tribulation to
follow.
He shared this victory with Lindalcon as well and added what
reassurance he could manage at such distance and without words. The
corresponding expression his brother returned was a flimsy forgery of
dauntless perseverance, a veneer of fortitude over appreciable
apprehension. That Legolas could not instantly remove that fear was
maddening, and yet it strengthened his determination.
For Gwilwileth, Taurant, and for Lindalcon. I will not falter now.
The talan builder exhaled a great sigh, rejoicing to behold the spark
of recognition in his adopted son's soul once more. Too like the
disordered disassociation of fading had the archer's state been for his
comfort. He squeezed Lindalcon's shoulder, around which his arm was
wrapped so tightly the muscles were cramping, even harder for a brief
span. It was reassurance he needed just as badly. Fearfaron was not
well pleased by this strange combination of dire purpose and manic
fervour so apparent in his foster child's demeanour.
Smouldering
embers that threaten to burst into a raging conflagration at the
slightest whisper of provocation. Still, Legolas with his wits
sharp was more likely to survive whatever transpired next.
His amelioration diffused rapidly through the chamber, enveloping
Aiwendil and the healer foremost before distribution amid the throng.
The Wood Elves soaked up the assuaging wave of succour readily, aided
by the visible rejuvenation of their champion's compelling personality.
The people were gratified to have the voice of Tawar return and take
over for their rejected atheling. A stray hand reached out and prodded
the corpsman into motion again; a second repeated the gesture and
Malthen resumed his march.
He moved sluggishly and kept his face pointed at the polished granite
passing beneath his boots, for he could not lift it without seeking the
archer's eyes and he feared to look again upon the horrors that resided
therein. The guardsman reached the collected councillors and their
attendants and took a place between Iarwain and Fêrlass,
raising his sight for an instant to record their identities before
settling on concentrated examination of their shoes.
"What in Mordor ails you, soldier? Answer when your King addresses you!"
Thranduil's strident words at last reached Malthen's ears and his head
rose with a disoriented shake. He felt as if he had returned from a
drunken daze, complete with the throbbing headache that generally
accompanied such overindulgence, yet he had not consumed a drop of
spirits. That he knew for certainty while doubt cloaked everything he
had just experienced.
Did any of it truly occur? No one else in
the room seemed to be aware of it. Mayhap his nerves were unravelling
under the press of so many staring faces and the magnitude of the
confession he had agreed to publicly proclaim. He decided it did not
matter where or how the insight had originated; the realisations were
genuine and he must act accordingly. His duty was to Legolas as it ever
had been.
"Forgive me, my Lord, what did you say?"
The Sinda stared in undisguised contempt. "What can you add to the
Erebor question?" he repeated with phlegmatic, exaggerated slowness.
"Nay, he shall not speak!" The Tawarwaith moved from his spot at the
extreme end of the dais to confront the King again.
"Enough of this!" The Lord of the Realm spun to counter the outcast's
second attempt at arrogation. The expression of harried befuddlement
that accompanied Thranduil's outburst would have been amusing in other
circumstances yet in this arena promised only disaster. "He will make
his statement for the record and then this Council will make its
ruling. No more interruptions will I tolerate!"
Valar! Challenger to child and back again; it is unnatural!
These thoughts were but a façade to hide the resurgent prickling
of instinctive warning working its way up the back of his neck. The
perverse temerity moulding Legolas' features was alarmingly familiar;
thus had Oropher appeared when last he turned to look upon his youngest
son, just before calling the charge to battle at Dagorlad.
For his part, Maltahondo had received his orders and firmly pressed his
lips together, refusing to utter a sound.
"There are no words he can offer that will alter what has passed. Even
if such could be wrought, would you wish it, knowing this would revoke
the existence of Taurant and Gwilith?" Legolas demanded.
"Silence!" Thranduil thundered, closing the distance between them and
towering over his adversary with all the menacing anger those remarks
incited.
Do not play his game. The inner intellect cautioned
but failed to quell the defensive reaction. "You will stop foretelling
doom upon the innocent!"
"I?" Legolas laughed up into the rage-flushed visage and turned to
share his incredulity over the King's dense-headed obstinacy with his
foster father. He observed only worry in the carpenter's glance,
however, and resumed his scrutiny of Thranduil. "Once more I will say
this: It is you who continually puts my siblings in jeopardy through
the selfish desire to hide your true motives. It is not Maltahondo who
has admissions of fault to make. Let this matter drop now or I will
insist on full disclosure."
A sinuous ripple of querulous discontent snaked through the gathered
onlookers and warriors alike, for once in accord in their confusion and
rising indignation. What was he talking about? Was the King withholding
information? Was Tirno implying Thranduil was responsible for Erebor,
as had the carpenter? But he had supported the King's reasoning
earlier, had he not?
The Sinda Lord wondered something more disturbing as he slowly relaxed
his threatening posture and evaluated the calmly collected elf before
him.
He has evidence against Meril. Legolas had to be bluffing.
He might suspect, indeed by her own declaration the outcast had
privately accused her, but there was no proof of any link between Meril
and the Lost Warriors other than that of grieving widow and bereft
mother.
Unless that corrupt horse-master told secrets during their sessions
of chastisement.
That was actually possible and Thranduil felt a dense concentration of
heaviness collect in his gut as all the blood drained from his features
and extremities to settle there. Perhaps Ailinyéro had boasted
of his connection to the new consort, the hold he possessed over her,
how he would use the knowledge to obtain favours. Mayhap he held some
tangible proof of her involvement; a letter or some token given to
demonstrate the faith between them and seal the unholy partnership.
How Legolas would have come to possess such an article, should its
existence be more than a spectre, did not quite engage the distraught
father's reasoning capacity. Likewise, the fact that Rochendil had
never sought to utilise this alleged advantage to enhance his position
escaped Thranduil's consideration, for the monarch was almost on the
verge of panic.
"What are you trying to do?" he whispered.
The query wafted across the Tawarwaith's face, displacing a fine strand
of hair that had escaped imprisonment in the ropy twists. He replied by
sending Thranduil a cold, indifferent smirk. He gave no other answer
and the two remained locked in soundless, ocular combat, both
determined not to back down.
"Ion Edwen, do not pursue this course," implored Fearfaron. Alone among
the rooms occupants, he had determined what his second son intended,
and dearly hoped to change his mind.
Beside him, Lindalcon stared between his brother, the carpenter and the
King in accumulating distress, though he had no inkling of what was
going to happen. Legolas was in a dangerous place, Fearfaron was
terrified, and there were too many elves blocking his path to the dais.
The humble craftsman held his arm in a grip so tight it pained and he
seemed unlikely to relinquish it. The son of Valtamar exchanged his
anxiety with Gladhadithen, but this time her demeanour was anything but
encouraging. The briefest uplift of her shoulders emphasised her
helpless dismay. Lindalcon glanced at Radagast and discovered his
attention fully engaged elsewhere. The wizard seemed to have somewhat
forgotten the two perpetrators of the present state of unrest and was
attentively scanning the crowd, monitoring the fluctuating levels of
energy roiling through them.
The scent of Thranduil's fear was instantly detected by the
congregation and they edged toward hysteria, milling and billowing in
the cramped confinement, grumbling and snapping at one another in
rising volume as they argued over their opinions. Some wanted the whole
mess thrown out of both court and council, stricken from Record and
shoved as far into oblivion as the capacity of the mind would allow.
Others were weary of the conflict but felt the full account must be had
or peace would never reside in their green world again. The majority
considered the distressing break between their civil and spiritual
leaders an omen of a terrible fate about to overwhelm them. As yet no
move toward physical expression of these volatile emotions appeared
eminent, but the pressure was building even as the volume of their
merged voices increased.
"Peace! We must remain patient and temperate or vital facts may go
unheard!" Iarwain admonished. The eldest elder was not one to lend
Thranduil assistance yet neither did he want the dire mood to
deteriorate further. He searched for faces he trusted among the people,
desperately trying to make visual contact and gather some control of
the mob. Suddenly Aiwendil joined him and a surge of appreciative
relief washed over the councillor.
"Good folk of the woodlands, be calm and let this inquiry continue,"
the Brown wizard added in a congenial tone. "Our Tirno will explain."
His placid smile was warm and genuine, consoling and gentle. An
uplifting compassion flowed within the soothing timbre of his voice, a
river of restoring grace sorting through the effusive load, washing out
ambivalence and leaving the more substantial grains of persevering
faith.
Almost at once the silvans responded to the Istar's benediction. Here
was an emissary from Manwë himself; certainly the Vala must be
overseeing these proceedings and would not let ill come of it.
Aiwendil's unwavering confidence in Legolas was sufficient to bring
them to a more consolidated attentiveness and the boil settled into a
simmer. The citizens stopped disputing one another and resumed their
unified concentration on the dais and its occupants. They did not wait
for their champion to begin his elocution, but instead interrogated
their King in tones of remonstrance and irritation. Thranduil was
principally responsible for Legolas' life-long purgatory whether there
were reasonable grounds for the Erebor invasion or not.
"What say you, Lord?" demanded one of the silvan warriors.
"Aye, is Tirno right? What more is there to this tale?" a voice among
the citizens joined in.
"Much more, and none of it has anything to do with Erebor's dead
soldiers, or conspiracies and spies from distant Realms, or Judgements
and justice under the eaves of our homeland," Legolas threw these
titillating hints out into the air and watched the throng eagerly
pounce upon them.
"What, then! Tell us!"
"No more subtleties, we would hear the truth!"
"Aye, you cannot protect Greenwood with allusions and inference!"
Perturbed confusion erupted throughout the Chamber of Starlight anew as
one faction yelled against the contentions of another. Legolas was
teasing them to divert attention from the corpsman. The King was using
Maltahondo as another scapegoat. Tirno must be cleared. No one but the
Tawarwaith could bear the burden of the Judgement and see it through;
the sentence must remain.
Their disarray was mirrored in the King's mind. He could not make any
sense of it, for he had convinced himself that Legolas truly wished to
protect Taurant and Gwilith. Yet these insinuations threatened to turn
the discontented elves into a rioting canaille bent on ousting their
King. Had this been Legolas' plan all along? Did he mean to take the
throne by force after all, usurping his younger brother's title?
And why should he not, it would be the perfect revenge upon me for
how he was treated.
"I will not permit this," he said with quiet finality, a narrow glare
of bitter vitreous hatred fused with the matching signs of despisal
within Legolas' flinty orbs of beryl.
"And how far will you go to prevent me?" taunted the Tawarwaith and
turned his back on the King to look upon the thrashing sea of shouting
mouths, gesticulating limbs and livid faces. He was unconcerned; they
were as he meant them to be.
"Far." [Enough.] Legolas let the simple word lightly leave his lips and
with it the hallowed dignity of Tawar fell upon the crowd. He waited
for them to quiet and they did not disappoint their feral atheling.
"What I have to say supersedes the Judgement, the Lost Warriors, and
any other personal considerations claimed by anyone in this room.
"Long have our people been subjected to hardship and persecution from
the Dark Tower of Amon Lanc. I ask you now to think on how this came to
be. Why so much interest in our quiet trees while rings of power lie
uncontested in the elven Realms to the West and South?"
"Nay!" Radagast whirled round to gaze in shock at the woodland warrior,
for his eyes were opened and he understood what Legolas meant to
reveal. "This is not the time for news of that nature!"
"The reason resides here, below these floors," the Tawarwaith ignored
the interruption and continued. "In the vaults, hidden among the vast
stores of guarded treasure. King Thranduil's wealth is so great, he
does not even realise himself what is harboured there. But the Dark One
wonders and is determined to turn that curiosity into surety, to our
detriment."
"I beseech you, Tirno, do not spread a rumour so injurious to our
Realm," Iarwain also comprehended Legolas' intent, and while he could
see that fact was something of a surprise to the wild elf, it was
equally apparent that too much had already been divulged. The crowd was
silently anticipating the conclusion of this speech, and should Legolas
stop they would be just as enraged and uncontrollable as the news would
render them. The ancient elda was grateful no elflings were present
lest they be trampled under foot in the chaos he was certain must
result.
"This is a deviously clever lie!" Thranduil was incensed. "I know every
item in those caverns, down to the lowliest copper bracelet. Sauron's
Ring is not there." And thus he stole the moment of universal epiphany
from his cast-off heir.
A collective gasp went up from the mass of agitated elves and they
froze, the fearsome concept overwhelming every attempt at coherent
speculation.
"Prove it!" challenged Legolas leaping into the momentary lull and
commandeering their attention anew. Once more he placed himself under
the ruler's very chin. "Give that key around your neck to Aiwendil and
bid him search! No unhoused spirit will hinder him and our people trust
his integrity."
Low murmurs of approval sprouted up here and there and the people
visibly calmed. Tirno had the situation well in hand; his suggestion
was sound. There was enough doubt to prevent outright bedlam, and the
throng remained tensely controlled, for in their Tawarwaith they placed
hope. Legolas would not fail them.
"Aye, let the wizard seek this dire thing!"
"If it lies in Greenwood, Radagast must take it hence. Let him search!"
"Give him the key!"
"It is not a question of keys; it is a matter of trust. You dare imply
I am guilty of deceit? I will not submit to an accounting when there is
no reason to doubt my word!" the King yelled at his subjects but the
end of his nose remained scant centimetres from Legolas' forehead,
emerald-fire focused relentlessly against the archer's retinas. "And
how can you suggest I would want such a vile instrument of evil in my
possession? Do you accuse me of wishing to wield that soul-withering
extension of Melkor's hate?"
"Peace!" shouted Fearfaron. "He did not so state; Legolas said you did
not know!"
"Aye, he has not accused you of anything!" added Lindalcon.
But the antagonists heeded them not, for this was a confrontation that
had been building since the day Legolas was born. Nothing short of a
catastrophic cave in could forestall it any longer.
"Your words reveal you, for never did I assign any unworthy inclination
to your actions! Who can say what you would do should the talisman come
into your hands?" Legolas' words hissed through the minute space
between them. "Mayhap you would only keep it secret, hoping the Shadow
Lord would thus never arise. Then again, you might be lured to try and
use it to aid the Woodland Realm. That was ever my mother's demand, was
it not, to return our forest to peace?"
"What impudence! I can scarcely fathom why you speak of her; she
abandoned you to your fate from the very beginning!" Thranduil mocked,
straightening up his back to maximise his advantage in height and bulk.
"You drove her away! You caused her to ever flee from here and leave me
behind! Do not disparage my Naneth!"
"That is a lie and we all know what drew her to Lorien! Do not place
the fault for her lack of propriety on my shoulders!"
"It is you that are false and base!" Legolas shrieked back. He pointed
his index finger right between the Sinda Lord's eyes for effect. "You
seek to divert attention from the true menace. I say you must be hiding
something important to go to such lengths to keep it covered."
Neither one realised how like the verbal wars betwixt the King and
Queen was this scathing shouting match. The woodland folk, however,
were entranced by the spectacle and thoroughly engrossed in the show.
They quite forgot Malthen and the Judgement of Erebor. Warriors,
civilians, councillors and wizard, all were caught up in the emotional
whirlwind and could but hang on to every soupçon of meaning the
screaming voices presented and hope their world survived when the storm
was spent.
"I will not be spoken to thusly by such as you, convicted and banished
Hecilo!" raged the King. "You invented this ridiculous claim to seize
control of the Realm, to exact revenge! I name you the prevaricator for
claiming to have Greenwood and the prince's interest at heart while
plotting to undermine any hope of his elevation to power!"
"You are an ignorant fool!" slandered Legolas. "It is you who
manufactures irrational scenarios of enemies plotting and scheming
against you when no one has ever contested your ascendancy since first
you achieved it. Exactly how does having the treasury examined
translate into making me a king?" His scoffing tone earned a few
snickers at Thranduil's expense.
"Do not treat our people so casually, playing their fears against them
so baldly, assuming they are not wise enough to comprehend your ruse.
Your fraudulent tale of the Ring is designed to incite frenzy and
generate instability. No doubt under your illustrious connection with
Tawar, you will promise relief by ridding us of Dol Guldur's attention,
eliminating a Ring that was never there. Thus does an inventory of my
resources serve your goal!"
"You dare insinuate I would use Tawar in such a fashion? You know
nothing of my role here! I serve Tawar, not the other way round!"
"Lay aside the tone of noble umbrage; I am not the idiot your addled
brain imagines me to be. Your actions of late serve no one besides
yourself, least of all my elfling heir and his sister!"
"If you wish to ensure Taurant's future, you will allow the inspection."
"Threats again! I have every right to confine you to the dungeons for
such treason; you and your perverted Noldo Lord! That must be where
these absurd ideas come from; the two of you are plotting together! Do
not deny it!"
"That is not true! Leave Berenaur out of it; he has done nothing to
you!"
"You must be excluding invasion of my kingdom and starting this
reprehensible gossip about the Ring! Mayhap you are so naive you really
do not comprehend the nature of your relationship. He is using you to
create this frenetic upheaval in our world; can you not see that? Why
else would he link his fate to yours? He is acting under his Lord's
directions and you are their dupe!"
"Nay, nay, you are wrong and I will not hear this! You seek to divert
me from the issue! Why do you refuse to open the vaults? What do you
fear will be uncovered? Give me the key!"
"No orders of yours will be heeded here, hênellon. Fearfaron,
come take this, this…"
Thranduil struggled for a sufficiently foul epithet to use and Legolas
tensed expectantly, ready for the wounding words to slash his soul.
"…get this edlethron Orcion [exiled son of an Orc] out of my sight!"
In silence the Tawarwaith sprang, right hand at Thranduil's throat as
his left swept the dagger from its confinement at his waist and poised
it for a fatal jab into the monarch's jugular.
"Legolas!" Fearfaron and Lindalcon shouted in tandem and surged forward
toward the dais.
Thranduil was quicker, seizing the wild warrior's wrist to halt the
burrowing fingers searching for a throttling hold on his oesophagus,
unsheathing Caranthir's dirk in a blur of flashing mithril accompanied
by the softly eerie hiss of friction as the blade left its scabbard.
And this knife knew the taste of the outcast's blood and craved more,
biting in and sinking deeply into Legolas' left shoulder, deflecting
the threat to the King's neck.
"Elbereth, no!" Malthen shouted hoarsely and reached for a sword he did
not have.
Legolas gasped and leaped back, staggering as the fiercely cold metal
left his body and the heat of his blood gushed out. A noise captured
his attention and his eyes followed it to the floor where his dagger
lay. In an instant of precognition, he knew he would never feel its
hilt in his hand again. Instinctively clapping his right palm over the
bleeding wound, Legolas realised he had achieved his objective
regardless the price. Entwined within his clutching fingers was the
chain from the king's neck, for it was this his blade had moved to
sever, and under his hand he felt the solid mass of the key pressing
into the gash.
Legolas spared Thranduil an accusingly victorious glint of blue and
swiftly sped from the room.
TBC
Odd words:
canaille: crowd, pack or dogs, mob.
eidolon: an image of an ideal.
percipience: the ability to perceive things clearly.
praenomen: first name
soupçon: small amount, minute increment, crumb
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