Sigil ar Edron [Dagger and Key]
The blade remained stationary, poised in the emptiness left by
the flight of the Tawarwaith, eager for another strike, Thranduil's
fist wrapped round it in a constricting clasp of rage and fear. Even in
stillness the dagger menaced; its potential for violence
compounding, its craving for death increasing and not until returned to
its sheath or loosed from the hold of its current owner would the sense
of peril it fostered dissipate. Indeed, its mere presence seemed an
attack upon the molecules of air pierced by the destructive spike of
exquisite artistry.
The metal gave off an effulgent gleam comprised of more than the
reflected brightness of lamplight dancing from its deadly contours, for
the sheen boasted a gory translucent overlay of crimson. Vivid and
vibrant was the vermilion colour of Legolas' blood thus exposed to the
atmosphere and next to it every other hue on display appeared drab, a
monochrome assortment of sepia shadows that refused to draw the eye.
The thick film of cruor coated the dagger almost to the hilt but could
not adhere to it, sliding with languid slowness over the slick
perfection of the finely honed edge, filling the inscribed Quenya words
of power marking its body, gathering at the narrow, delicately curved
tip. There the vital varnish clung, suspended until enough of the
stuff accrued and gravity inexorably plucked the droplet from the
tenacious and thirsty device.
Down, down dropped the scarlet drip in an infinity of seconds and
Thranduil's eyes fixed upon it, travelled with it, dilated in shock as
the tiny sphere of liquid life burst against the granite and spattered
the lustrous patina of the outcast's discarded weapon with a mist of
random red spots.
Thranduil's sight retraced the path even as another ruby bead broke
free and plunged to join the growing stain at his feet. He watched for
another minute as the sluggish viscous flow worked its way toward the
knife's pinnacle, staring in amazed abhorrence as if seeing the dagger
for the first time, as if attempting to comprehend how it came to be in
his hand, stained with elven blood. The light glinting off the evil
thing was boldly stygian and for a moment seemed to hold form and take
substance from the sanguine grime encasing it. A sense of presence
emanated from the shining implement, revealing to the Sindarin
soul-catcher in what manner his trophy had been wrought and whence its
ability to invoke terror originated. Thranduil's heart gave a strong
double percussion and sent his own interior river of essential fluid
coursing through him briskly. He cried out, casting away the instrument
of Caranthir's consuming insanity to join the humble blade already on
the floor.
It struck against Legolas' dirk with a raucous reverberation and lay
cross-wise over the common, utilitarian stiletto, painting it not for
the first time with its master's serum, pinning it to the ground with
the weight of Ages, a multitude of devious and dire deeds done at the
behest of the Noldo Prince's self-destructive vow.
The King's heart surged anew, this time with the commitment never to
touch the despicable thing again. His features contorted in disgust to
have been manipulated by whatever foul remnant of life was held bound
in the weapon's core. Unconsciously, Thranduil wiped his hand against
his leggings in an effort to remove from his person the sensation of
thrill the unholy object garnered from its momentary sheathing in
the flesh of the First-born. The idea that he had unwittingly fed
the abhorrent genie revolted him and his gut churned as he stared down
at the two weapons.
How did I ever see that as a worthy artefact to carry on my
person?
As he viewed them now, the lowly knife kept by the Tawarwaith was pure
in comparison, for it had served loyally, fending off danger and
dispatching foes, enabling hasty surgery to remove embedded arrows,
smoothing ash-wood into straight, hard shafts, trimming feathers into
fletching, skinning game for food and pelts. But in another sense were
the razored edges brothers, for both had sipped Legolas' blood, though
the archer's dirk had been forced to do so by the wild elf's hand. The
savageness of such moiety fell upon Thranduil with the magnitude of a
lightening blast and he gasped as his foot flashed forward and kicked
the knives away in a blaze of outrage. They went skittering across the
raised platform and came to rest after plummeting over the edge and
landing in a disharmonic clash of metal upon rock.
"Oh!" a startled exclamation broke from among the elves and a low
murmur circulated through the gathering at their Lord's unexpected
action.
"Melt them down!" he shouted, pointing at the weapons, eyes upon
Iarwain. "Both have sampled what is sacred. We are not Noldor,
delighting in letting flow freely that which should never be visible,
stealing immortal life from kin and comrades. Render them unto vapour!"
The Councillor shared an astounded set of oculi with Aiwendil but
received no indication the wizard wished to respond to Thranduil's
statement.
"As you wish; your assessment is wise," he replied with a brief nod of
his head. "Yet it is not within the making of the weapon that the harm
is done," he added coldly, eager to impugn the ruler's noble
proclamation. "Your hand has done this thing."
"You know nothing of what may be predestined in the casting of the
metal!" scoffed the King.
The populace stared at their leaders in disjointed confusion, some
nodding to affirm the Elder's sentiment others growling against it in
low tones of which 'self-defence' was the primary audible phrase. Their
scrutiny transferred almost universally to Thranduil. Every eye focused
upon him, each soul filled with combined outrage and uncertainty,
perplexed over which inclination should gain preference and expression:
fury against their King for spilling the blood of the Tawarwaith or
confounded dismay over Legolas' violent attack upon a kinsman.
Lindalcon decided for them.
"You stabbed him! I cannot believe I witnessed this!" his shouted
accusation filled the hallowed chamber and echoed with the fervour of
his wrath.
"It was not a matter of choice," Thranduil turned to face him.
"Everyone saw; he meant to cut my throat. I responded as anyone would
in such a situation."
"He would never harm you, if only for the sake of Taurant and Gwilith!"
Lindalcon snapped back, attempting to get free from Fearfaron who still
had firm hold upon his biceps.
"It did not seem that way from my perspective! Verily I weary of
hearing empty avowals of the outcast's much lauded concern for my
offspring! Ending my life would not benefit them under any rational
consideration of that term. Can you deny that you thought he intended
to destroy me also and were rushing to stop him?"
"It is true," interjected the carpenter. "I did so believe, for he has
been sorely tried of late."
The collected elves murmured their acceptance of this admission for it
summed up their reactions appropriately.
Abruptly Maltahondo dropped to his knees beside the shunned weapons and
took up the dagger he had provided for his charge so long ago.
Oblivious to the conversation around him, he caressed the stippled
blade with his thumb, wiping the crimson dots into a streaky smear.
Tripping lightly along the length of the edge, his nail documented the
numerous notches and nicks the deadly article had collected over years
of harsh use and minimal care. That this accurately described his
treatment of Legolas was a bitter realisation and the corpsman quietly
broke apart into sobbing and tears, clutching the defiled knife against
his chest.
"Nay," Lindalcon denied the King's charge. "I did not consider it even
for a second for I know him too well." Valtamar's son spared the
guardsman an indignant sneer, unimpressed with his sudden outpouring of
remorse. "Legolas only wanted that stupid key to get at your
jealously guarded treasure horde!"
"The key!" Thranduil called out, suddenly remembering it was no longer
round his neck as his right hand flew there, fingering the unfamiliar
loss of the chain's weight against his throat. His alarm was not due to
the lack of the object so much as into whose possession it had passed.
Now would come the proof he had both desired and denied himself, for if
Fearfaron's reasoning proved true the Tawarwaith would know in a matter
of minutes what was held bound in the small filigreed tool. The spirits
in the vestibule of the Three Doors would recognise him, the blood
flowing freely from the stab wound would call them as surely as nectar
drew bees, for it was their means to freedom.
And revenge. They will seek to invade him!
It would not be the first time such had occurred. Memory, awakened
under the strident stimulation of conscience, revealed the healer's
report of Legolas' experience upon stumbling into the antechamber
following the bold theft of Oropher's bow. Then, the King had dismissed
the information, ignored Gladhadithen's repetition of the youth's
account, derided her claim that the unhoused feär had sought to
evict him from his own body. Thranduil stared at the inward image
of himself, seated in his private study, too busy with his work to
accord the healer more than an irritated glance as she stood at the
opposite side of the desk and gave her assessment of Legolas'
condition, explaining the cause of the horrifying shrieks that had so
disrupted the King's concentration.
The truth I have owned all these long centuries. Only Adaren's
[my father's] blood would my brothers acknowledge, only a child of mine
would they seek to claim.
So cold was his heart, so unrelenting his pride that he had denied this
evidence of the youth's heritage rather than relinquish his
self-righteous fury over Ningloriel's infidelity. His inner intellect
mocked and scorned his pathetic refusal of the facts utilizing the
absent Queen's taunting voice: 'He is no other's son but yours!'.
And my first-born will both suffer and fulfill their
vengeance!
As though his thoughts were an order issued, a spirit-ripping cry of
intense affliction and anguished rage arose from the depths of the
stronghold's honeycombed heart, unmistakably Legolas' even through the
muffling mass of several metres of dense rock.
"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and
black-hearted monster! Nay!]
"Ion Edwen!" cried out Fearfaron and hastened through the throng, elves
of every rank and profession giving way to let him pass.
"Ai Valar! It is already too late," whispered Thranduil morosely.
The King did not wait to consider the moral implications of his
enlightenment. How could he face the shame for so grievous a betrayal?
What manner of compensation could he offer? He concentrated instead on
the immediate repercussions if the unhoused ones were successful, for
it was obvious to him that he had at last discovered the true threat to
his children and Legolas' connection. The outcast possessed would be a
potent weapon for none would hinder the Tawarwaith. Death would follow
quickly for Taurant and Gwilwileth.
Unless it finds Legolas
first. Thranduil turned and leaped from the dais following
the carpenter's wake but just as quickly found his path obstructed as
the warriors closed up their ranks and denied his passage.
"Stand aside! You do not understand the consequences should Legolas
reach the gates with that key in his possession!" the King commanded.
"Nay, it is best to let him be," a stalwart silvan spearman warned.
"Aye, Tirno is in good hands," another added.
"What are you saying? Are you mad? Fearfaron cannot assist him and I
assure you the guardians of the vaults will not respect Legolas' unique
association with the Greenwood!" Thranduil shoved against the mass of
bodies in an attempt to force through. "Let me pass!"
"Stay back!" another soldier hissed and the troops consolidated their
bulk, becoming a resilient and impenetrable wall of resistance.
"Aye, it is too late to prevent him searching your hidden lair!" This
from a Sinda captain of the Northern Patrol. "Your sorcery will not
hinder the Tawarwaith."
"Whatever is concealed therein will be exposed this day!" another
remnant of Oropher's people spoke up from the crowd.
"Fools! That is exactly the point! Your champion has no idea what
awaits and only I can control them!"
Again a morbid shout drifted through the layers of stone to underscore
the King's assertions, turning hearts to lead and thoughts to
instinctive prescience of doom.
"Nay! This cannot be! Ada?"
In the Chamber of Starlight, the urge to flee grew palpable, taking on
voice in the hyperventilated heaving of hundreds of lungs, exuding the
stink of abject terror from the miriad of pores.
Silence enveloped the stronghold then as everyone waited for more from
their feral tree Lord, but minutes raced past and nothing further could
be discerned.
Thranduil redoubled his effort, twisting and turning in vain, seeking a
chink in the insurmountable living barricade as more and more hands and
arms snaked out to push back and fend off his advance.
"Peace!" shouted Aiwendil, and uplifted his staff to discharge a
blasting wave of hot dry energy throughout the room, hoping to distract
the people from their confusion and panic. "Cease this pointless
contention!" He was utterly disregarded and dared no greater magic for
fear of undue harm to innocents, even were he inclined to disregard his
vows.
"Unhand the King!" a citizen suddenly called out, disengaging from the
mob to assist his Lord.
"Throw him in the dungeons!" countered a dissenter and rushed up to
block this demonstration of loyalty.
"Aye! He struck our Tirno!" declaimed a third who went to abet the
second.
"Traitors!" seethed Thranduil, grasping the nearest arm rebuffing him
and twisting it roughly, wringing a grunt from the warrior to which it
was attached.
"Thranduil had no other choice, Legolas attacked first!" shouted one of
the councillors but stayed well back from the fisticuffs.
The soldiers paid no heed to these outcries as the King became more
forceful and they in turn increased their intolerance. A brawny
hand curled into an angry fist and darted through the writhing
agglomeration to land with a loud, dull thud upon Thranduil's cheek. He
cursed in outrage and kicked back, and that was sufficient to unleash
bedlam.
Instantly the situation deteriorated and the monarch found himself
embroiled in a hopeless struggle against a virulent multitude. The
warriors wrestled him to the floor and there held him bound as booted
feet and stony knuckles scrambled to get access to his immobilised
form, venting the pent frustrations and discontent of milennia. So many
were engaged in the effort that they hindered each other, and this was
fortunate for Thranduil who suffered fewer blows because of it.
For a second the collected populace merely stared in open-mouthed
disbelief to see the Sinda Lord thus reduced to helpless cursing and
fruitless commands to be released. Then one elf darted out of the
throng and joined the fray, and like water through a sieve the
remainder followed. Each one's kin and fellows hastened to lend aid,
some to the King, others to the warriors, and a tumultuous, expanding
melee engulfed the Chamber's occupants.
Not everyone could reach the major battle and the mob divided into
pockets of confrontation as one group set upon another, each hoping to
impede the actions of any opposed to their views. Many were fully
supportive of the warriors and welcomed the downfall of Thranduil,
eager for the return of a time when Wood Elves needed no sovereign
beyond the omnipresent will of Tawar. No less numerous were they that
feared the ousting of the strong ruler who had thus far shielded their
world from the worst of the Shadow's evil encroachment, sensing the
Sindar's might was beyond the ability of the Dark Lord's minions to
overthrow. Most wished to simply get out of the altercation all
together and escape to the safety of home and talan.
Shouting and shoving degraded into grappling and blows, mates sought to
shield one another from harm, fear drove even the mildest of tempers
into frenzy, and utter ruin was upon them.
Amid this chaos the entreaties of the councillors arose joined by the
yelling of the wizard, each beseeching calm and restraint, yet their
words were lost in the thunderous clamour of argument and schism. The
peacemakers were rudely jostled and jammed against one another, drawn
away from the centre of the discombobulation in the outwash of
retreating elves fleeing for the exits. Iarwain found himself next to
Radagast once more, who had taken hold of Lindalcon upon Fearfaron's
retreat, the three of them surrounded by a small contingent of
soldiers and councillors that slowly and steadily moved them
toward the inner walls, out of danger.
The Maia and the Councillor exchanged despondent dread and watched from
their enforced detachment as the silvans succumbed to the heightened
emotions and fed on each other's hysteria. In futility they called for
order; it was as asking rain to reverse direction or stars to dwell
among the grass. Before their eyes they saw Maltahondo seized by an
enraged pack of archers and spearmen, buffeted among their flailing
arms and snarling curses as he ineffectually sought to defend himself.
Legolas' dagger dropped from his hands to the granitic floor, the sound
of its impact lost in the din of strife.
Lindalcon saw his predicament too and tugged free from the Istar. There
was reason enough to wish Maltahondo's death yet the feeling that the
unworthy guardian had something important to contribute to the Erebor
story would not be squelched.
"Malthen!"
The speaking of this familiar name called the corpsman's attention
sharply to the councillor's apprentice. A single caustic look passed
between them and agreement was reached. Lindalcon plunged into the
fight.
Aiwendil gave an alarmed shout and had no choice but to follow the
young elf, fearing the Tawarwaith's brother would come to serious
injury otherwise. Together they extracted the battered guardian with
significant difficulty and not a few bruises. Once the incensed
warriors realised who sought custody of the reviled elf, however, they
relented, allowing the wizard to take him away. The winded,
dishevelled corpsman, tunic ripped and nose spouting a red fountain,
had to be supported as they slowly backed toward the group protecting
the Elder, there depositing him for safekeeping.
Back into the commotion the prince's brother and the Istar dived,
desperate to reach Legolas' side, treading the thrashing sea of
undulating bodies like cirion [a sailor] adrift in the heaving swells
of a typhoon, seeking to ride the storm's crest to the bounds of the
chamber, there to be washed out into the service corridor and the rear
stairway.
Thranduil was on his feet once more, assisted by a steadily growing
compilation of Sindar soldiers and silvan citizens, struggling to
regain the relative advantage of the dais, now overrun with rioting
elves.
"To me!" he shouted above the ruckus. "All loyal to Oropher and the
Greenwood stand with me!"
"Greenwood was never under your father's dominion!" someone yelled back.
Then a hand reached down and picked up the dirk of Caranthir the Dark,
lifting the gory blade high. The flickering light of the lamps cast a
fiery halo upon the outline of its solid volume that seemed to pulse
with the disharmonic waves of fear and rage roiling through the throng.
In answer to this indeterminate threat rang the rasping song of a long
knife leaving its sheath.
"Iluvatar beria mín! [Iluvatar protect us!]" a shrill voice
prayed.
"Na Eru, avo adanno agar an um sigil sen! [By Eru, do not give blood to
this evil blade again!]" Thranduil fairly screamed in protest and it
was enough to cause all activity to freeze as each eye found its way to
uneasy sidelong stares at the vile implement of malice and murder.
It was at this propitious intermission that Celeborn arrived, stepping
into the arrested pandemonium through the open archway, Haldir on his
right and Talagan at his left. Rapidly he assessed the situation and
accurately concluded he was present for the complete unravelling of the
Woodland Realm, though as yet he had only supposition as to the
catalyst for the cataclysm.
"Suilad, Aran Thranduil, gwanuren, Hîr o Eryndor Ardh!
[Greetings, King Thranduil, my kinsman, Lord of the Woodland Realm!]"
he announced loudly, right hand uplifted, and sought the gaze of his
cousin amid the multitude.
At once the populace turned to see this unexpected caller and a
collective, inarticulate exclamation of amazement rose to the vaulted
ceiling as if expelled from a single entity's throat. Not many would
doubt who this august dignitary was and indeed most knew the Lord of
the Golden Wood on sight from visits to family residing in Lorien.
Immediately, grasping hands released their clutching holds on
neighbours and friends and in embarrassed shame the silvans shifted,
reordering their positions to grant each other room to breathe and
space to think. In the whispery hush of smoothing fingers they made
attempts to reorder their disarrayed garments, wipe away blood,
constrain tangled tresses. With lowered heads they stood aside to let
the Galadhrim pass as Haldir quickly stationed his warriors throughout
the room to separate the flustered factions from each other and their
King.
"Celeborn, gwanuren, Hîr o Lothlorien, mae govannen! Aderthad
mín anna nin glass! [Celeborn, my cousin, Lord of Lothlorien,
well met! Our reunion gives me joy!] And it was with real gladness that
Thranduil responded with this traditional welcome between nobles of
equal rank.
A gracious smile upended his lips, the lower one split and bleeding.
Relief smoothed away the harried crevices marring his brow but could do
nothing about the dark red abrasion at his temple or the swelling along
his cheekbone. His long honey coloured hair was a mass of knots and in
one place it seemed a handful had been yanked loose from his scalp,
which was beaded with rosy gloss. With his elegant garments soiled and
torn, Thranduil looked exactly the picture of survival that he was, and
that this coup was but narrowly defeated was evident in his labouring
breath and the glittering rage in his eyes of lapis blue.
Everyone knew it; not a single individual that had dared lay hands upon
him would be spared punishment. Likewise, the warriors and Wood Elves
whom had rallied to his side would find their circumstances
significantly enhanced before day's ending. Talagan the King graced
with a minute nod of approval; reassurance that his timely return with
reinforcements would not go unrewarded.
"Talagan, take your soldiers and seal off access to Taurant,
Gwilwileth, and their mother. Forget not the garden stairway! Guard the
escape chutes also. None are to pass save myself. None! Most especially
not the outcast nor any of his cronies!" he barked these orders
brusquely and ignored the uneasy mumbling of his peoples' complaints.
"Aye, Lord. I will ensure it," the Sinda captain responded and left to
do his King's bidding, bending his contemptuous eye upon the warriors
involved in the upset, clearly identified by their virtual
incarceration, ringed by the ruler's loyal fighters.
"You fear for your family's welfare?" incredulity limned the visiting
Lord's question.
"Aye," the Greenwood's monarch confirmed with dire brevity.
Thranduil beckoned Lothlorien's leader and his lieutenant forward with
a hand sporting badly skinned and bloated joints. Suddenly exhilarated
in the aftermath of victory and the last splash of adrenaline,
satisfied that his youngest children were safe, he advanced to the
dais, there to right the overturned seat and return it to its place. He
did not repose upon it, however, for a sudden flash of brilliance
captured his notice as the loathsome weapon of the Noldo Prince was
once more cast upon the stone with a brash clatter.
All interest was captured by the peril inherrent in the ancient
masterpiece of Noldor metal work.
Celeborn paused in his progress and stooped to retrieve it, grimacing
in severe distaste as soon as his fingers closed around the finely
tooled hilt. Its filmy cardinal coat alarmed him but he kept his
anger in check. His evaluation of the room's occupant's did not reveal
anyone even remotely fitting the description of Legolas supplied by
Galadriel's vision in the Mirror. He thus presumed, correctly again,
the source of the gore. But he was not rash in decision-making and
would not condemn the Woodland King yet.
At least not until I learn whether the outcast still
breathes.
Thranduil tensed, rigid apprehension suffusing his frame as he watched
to learn what reaction this respected refugee from Thingol's court
would manifest over for such an abomination: the chillingly beautiful
perfection created by the hands of his wife's first cousin besmirched
with the vital essence of his nephew. He met Celeborn's eyes
staunchly and knowledge passed between them; indeed the King did not
seek to deny that the weapon was in his hand when it received its
crimson annointing, nor that he would swear to justification for the
act. But neither could he conceal his guilt and dread.
The silvan Lord assimilated all this in escalating wrath and severed
the connection as he held the weapon away from his body, point
down-facing, and looked to Haldir. The worthy Galadhrim extended his
hand but Celeborn then refused to relinquish the knife, reconsidering
his options. This earned him a disgruntled frown from his March Warden
which he answered with an apologetic half-shrug. He searched the
chamber expectantly until at last his gaze lit upon the Brown wizard
posed near the inner wall at the extreme back of the room, a youthful
silvan at his side.
"Ah!" Celeborn bowed politely and signalled for the Maia to approach.
"Mae govannen, Aiwendil! I am pleased to find you here. I had hoped it
would be so, for your messages to Lorien were carried by avians of the
forest rather than of the river's edge near Rosgobel." He looked the
wily wizard over with a mixture of bemusement and concern, for clearly
the Istar had participated in the fracas, evidenced by the loss of the
sash for his formal robe and his bulbously swollen nose that must be
quite tender. Nonetheless, the stout staff had spared the Istar much
and he had fared better than most. "If you would be so gracious as to
keep this unworthy blade out of reach for a time, my thanks would be
limitless."
"As you wish, Lord Celeborn, and I am equally grateful for your
auspicious arrival. However, an order has already been made to dissolve
the relic," replied Radagast with a cheek-wrinkling smile and a
respectful bow as he received the hilt from the valourous silvan.
Without hesitation he dropped the hateful object into one of the
pockets of his outer robe as if it were some worthless trinket. The
very mountain seemed to exhale a sigh of gratitude for its concealment.
"Indeed? With that I concur!" Celeborn remarked with feeling, smiling
rather coldly at Thranduil even as he gripped the wizard's shoulder
warmly. "Hold it then until the furnaces are lighted."
"Aye, it will take special care to dispel the evil held in thrall
within it. I do not wish such an entity freed to wander hence to Dol
Guldur, there to be reborn in some new and loathsome form," added the
King. By this time Celeborn had resumed his pace and Thranduil stepped
down from the platform to greet his kinsman with a warrior's salute.
The pair shared a long look fraught with the edgy strain of unvoiced
accusation and latent distrust. "I had begun to fear your delay was due
to an encounter with the less pleasant inhabitants within my woods."
"And so it was!" Celeborn averred. "Just before Talagan reached us we
were attacked by spiders. No one was killed but two were bitten and I
was unwilling to leave anyone behind in this blighted forest. Thanks to
your worthy captain and the habit of supplying his soldiers with
antidote for the poison, we were able to continue after a matter of
hours in recovery rather than days. Truly, but for that our journey
would have brought us here before dawn."
"I regret you were forced to defend your lives within my lands,"
pledged Thranduil gravely. "But at least it is plain enough why discord
from within cannot be tolerated when so much tribulation assails us
from beyond our borders."
"Aye," to this the Lord of the Golden Wood nodded. "Then we agree the
Judgement of Erebor has proved divisive and detrimental to the silvan
people."
"Indeed. I was about to have the last of the testimony regarding the
unfortunate events stated for the Record when an
unexpected…interruption occurred."
As the two leaders conversed through the enforced politeness of
diplomacy, the people calmed and gave them their attention, relieved
that the brief insurgency was over with, eager to at last hear the
final resolution of the Battle of the Five Armies.
"I see," Celeborn made no effort to camoflage his dissapproval of the
current state of affairs within his kinsman's government. "Where is the
condemned archer?"
"In the vaults; he has the key," Iarwain spoke up finally, having
worked his way from the outskirts of the chamber back into its centre
once more. "Welcome, Lord Celeborn! I lament your exposure to the
aberrations marring our world, and yet I am gratified that your
presence has restored a modicum of civilised conduct."
"Oromëndil!" Celeborn could not suppress a chuckle at the elder's
ingratiating tone. "I am honoured to attend this session of Greenwood's
Council. If my participation provides some benefit here then I humbly
offer whatever assistance is mine to supply. But as to Legolas, what is
he doing in the vaults, may I ask?"
"Searching for Sauron's Ring," replied Aiwendil with a sad shake of his
head.
"Nay, he is not." This quiet statement came from Lindalcon, standing
just at the wizard's left shoulder, having followed when Celeborn
summoned the Istar. The sombre apprentice valiantly attempted to
present a dignified appearance despite unruly chestnut locks, a sleeve
torn loose at the shoulder seams, and his purpled, tumescent right eye.
Celeborn's gaze fell upon him and he knew at once this was the other
silvan elf in his wife's premonition. He smiled congenially at the
youth, for it was apparent he was under some great duress, and motioned
him forward.
"Do not attempt to protect him; everyone in this room observed the
morning's events," warned Thranduil and the venom in his words caused
the Lorien elves, including Celeborn, to startle.
"It is true! Legolas did all of this to prevent Maltahondo's
testimony!" asserted the son of Valtamar. It was comprehension that had
only just arisen in his mind, for he did know Legolas well. "My brother
would never have permitted so dangerous a token to remain amid his
forest world only to broach its existence at such a crucial moment.
Search as much as you wish; the Ring is not in Greenwood." His speech
raised a low hum of surprised, indistinct comments from the crowd. "You
did not have to hurt him; never would he have so much as nicked your
hide!" He pointed emphatically at Thranduil as he ground out this
sentence.
"He drew his weapon and attacked!" Thranduil shouted, face scarlet in
outrage as he attempted to get past Aiwendil to the insolent elf.
"Peace! Do not start up this contention anew!" pleaded Iarwain.
"Keep your place, son of Oropher!" boomed out Aiwendil, wheeling to
block the King's advance.
"Let all remain calm!" commanded Celeborn and stepped between the Sinda
and the Maia's dueling glares. Each retreated a pace and the Lord of
Lothlorien exhaled a disconcerted breath through his nostrils, flicking
a swift communication to Haldir through slate coloured eyes.
The March Warden responded instantly, relocating to flank Lindalcon. He
found Thranduil's furious leer upon him but remained unruffled,
returning the livid look with cool nonchalance and a faintly lifted
left brow.
"How serious is the injury?" the Lord of Lothlorien addressed the
apprentice, discounting the momentary abeyance of civility.
"I know not," Lindalcon shook his head. "He left here on his own power
and our healer followed, but he truly did go down to the vaults, for we
have heard his screams. Fearfaron is there now also, yet nothing more
has been revealed."
"But why would he do such if he did not believe the foul ornament
resided within?" queried Celeborn gently, a consoling hand offering
strength through its emplacement on the young diplomat''s shoulder. "He
generated a great deal of strife and confusion yet now that it is all
past, still may the corpsman speak of Erebor. The banishment is to be
lifted; surely this is something your friend must desire greatly."
"Brother," corrected Lindalcon, albeit politely and with a respectful
dip of his head. "Legolas and I are brothers through Taurant and
Gwilwileth, Lord. I do not understand why he insists upon it, but the
Tawarwaith claims the Judgement must stand or our siblings will come to
harm."
"Tawarwaith?" Celeborn's brows rose into arched astonishment. This was
a portentous title to convey upon an outcast kin-slayer. From the
humans he might expect it, for they were a superstitious lot and wont
to look to the eldar co-habitating the woods as magical and even close
to the status of Maiar. From the Wood Elves he had imagined such old
beliefs to have waned over the passage of time. Now here was the
ancient, prophetic nomenclature reasserting itself, attached to his
lowly cousin!
"Aye, Tirno is our Tawarwaith." A voice attested and a swarm of
confirming 'yeahs' and 'ayes' succeeded the syllables, echoing
ratification from the soldiers and the citizens alike, from those
unswervingly loyal to Thranduil and the ones who had futilely opposed
him. Whatever may have divided the silvan folk, it was indisputable
that not a single one would deny their exiled prince his rightful place
among them now.
It is no wonder Thranduil views him as a threat!
The Lord of the Golden Wood realised his task might be much more
complicated and difficult to achieve than even Galadriel had guessed.
TBC
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