Na Ennyn [At the Gates]
The pounding of his feet upon the stone and the racing of his heart
beneath his ribs were nearly indistinguishable one from the other. In
and out his breath blew, a ragged paper-tearing sort of respiration
enhanced by his thundering pulse, demanding parted lips and flared
nostrils combined to draw enough air to keep him going. The sounds of
his physical distress were so loud Legolas had to strain to hear the
second set of footfalls pressing ever closer from behind.
Not heavy enough for Thranduil, stride too short for
Fearfaron; it can only be Gladhadithen or Lindalcon.
A flash of anger razed through his mind and lent renewed speed to
pumping legs. It was Thranduil he expected, Thranduil he required to
complete his little drama.
Can he never do as he should for me? Valar what obstinacy!
"Legolas!"
He heard the healer call out faintly as from a great distance, but knew
she must have caught sight of him to prompt the pleading cry. He
ignored her and hastened even faster, though that seemed to be
regrettably sluggish; his body unwilling to obey the commands sent to
it.
Probably losing too much blood, he remarked to
himself dispassionately.
It was true the wound bled freely, yet many times in the deep of the
forest, far from any healer's care, Legolas had borne injuries at least
as serious and still managed to move and act with agile legerity. He
had not stopped to bind the gash, however, and did not intend to do
so. Legolas pressed harder against the seeping shoulder and
grimaced at the shooting blast of pain this initiated. Shiny and slick
with the vermilion liquid, his fingers managed to hold onto his
souvenir of the conflict. Absently he marked the soaked and dripping
sleeve of his good hand, assized the tunic's degree of saturation where
it adhered, heavy with the fluid's weight.
He did not care.
The bite of Caranthir's dagger left a peculiar sensation of icy
emptiness. It felt like some part of him had been torn loose and yanked
free and the resultant hole ached and trembled as the exposed nerves
responded to contact with open air. His shoulder simultaneously
protested the lack of the blade within the torn muscle and sinew while
an incessant, throbbing wet heat coursed through the region as tissue
and capillaries, vessels and flesh laboured unsuccessfully to re-knit,
stem the crimson flood, and close up the vacancy. Legolas decided this
end would be preferable to the solution he had envisioned and was for
once glad about Thranduil's indifference.
Better to die without another confrontation, especially a
hidden one, for that might give people enough cause to demand an
accounting from their Lord.
As matters stood, it was indisputable that the King had acted
instinctively out of the need for self-preservation and nearly the
entire population could bear witness to that fact.
No doubt
he has thought this through already and come to the same conclusion;
thus, he does not follow. I am always wrong when surmising what he will
do.
The comprehension was unwelcome; Legolas had no wish to examine his
underlying motives for baiting Thranduil. He could not entirely
comprehend the perverse craving to force recognition from Greenwood's
monarch beyond a desire to punish the Sinda for Ningloriel's many
departures throughout his life. Instead he favoured the more noble
concept of salvaging his siblings' happiness. And it was not merely
self-delusion, the desire to think well of his deeds and lend them
purpose, but a true sacrifice. If he must sunder his immortal essence
from its failing house there were any number of places he would choose
to spend his last moments and none of them included this dank abyss of
suffocating murk to which he was drawn.
Berenaur's slumbering form, tucked neatly under the down quilt on their
new feather bedding, curled up on his side with the long ebony locks
strewn across his shoulder, naked and warm, entered his internal eye.
Legolas halted and a shattered wail of despairing torment left his
body, echoing in grating, screechy tones indicative of anger as much as
sorrow, filling the passageway. He leaned the broken shoulder against
the wall without even noting the vehement protest of the abused flesh
so great was the twisting spike of woe within his chest.
Everyone he had ever loved had been taken from him: Naneth, Malthen,
Elrond as an ideal father, Taurant and Gwilwileth, and now Berenaur.
Not so. It is only those I sought love from that have been
denied me.
That was an equally dismal thought and Legolas shunned it, forcing the
piercing mirage of his mate's allure from his mind. This was but a
precursor of the real agony to come and he had tasted that before. In
contrast, the fear of the Gates was minor and he straightened up,
resuming progress with baleful determination.
Legolas arrived at the kitchen stairs and stumbled down them, gratified
he was not going up, one hand holding the delicately decorated device
staunchly against the injured shoulder as if it would bestow
restorative benefits. The other limb, rubbery and leaden, slid along
the knobbly wall to steady his shaky balance, sending stabbing jolts of
anguish through his frame with every ridge and crevice encountered upon
the stony skin. The pain was welcome, forcing him to concentrate and
stay alert when what he truly wished was to sink down upon the steps
and sleep.
"Nay! Daro!" [Stop!]
Gladhadithen sounded frantic but again he refused to acknowledge her
having reached the landing where the way branched. One sloping corridor
led to the underground cistern, the other to the vile dungeons and the
King's Vaults. The image of the deep, still pool in the softly lit
cavern filled his mind, its silent, motionless surface reflecting a
replica of the torch-brightened interior within its untouched depths.
That path continued on to the gardens; if he chose it he could seek the
sheltering centre of Ningloriel's maze and there doze undisturbed.
Anor will be shining on the evergreen yew.
He could verily feel the warmth of the sun and detect the chuckling
trickle of the hurrying brook. He would be refreshed there and could
tend his shoulder properly, bathing away the jagged bursts of
excruciation with the clean cold water. It was but a second's
hesitation, however, for there was no peace for him anywhere without
Berenaur. Neither would he suffer his young brother and sister to fall
into despair and perish. Better for the little ones never to remember
him than to bear the shame and grief of their mother's treachery.
Lindalcon would watch over them in his stead.
Legolas was overcome with sadness upon acceptance that fate would
prevent him from sharing the secret of the living puzzle with Taurant
and Gwilwileth. He would never hear Gwilith's laugh again or his baby
brother's voice, nor see them grown, assuming their proper places among
the Greenwood's community. Disgusted infuriation replaced the
self-pitying malaise and drove the morbid introspection out, for this
was a future of his own design after all.
Nonetheless, he could not suppress a bitter curse against the Royal
Consort for her part in all that had come to pass. Legolas plunged into
the gloomy tunnel that would take him to the Vestibule of the Three
Doors.
"Nienna's Tears! Why are you so stubborn?" the healer exclaimed as she
came to a stop upon the landing a few breaths behind him.
Gladhadithen heaved an exasperated sigh and glared into the
impenetrable darkness, hands fidgeting with the ends of her long
mahogany braids. For a brief span she had hoped he was going to
co-operate and allow her to take him to the healing ward. She could
hear Legolas' feet retreating and evaluated the health of the body
producing the inconsequential noise, finding it alarmingly depleted.
More than this, his shrill cry had raised goose-bumps upon her very
soul and a dark wet patch on the wall attested to Legolas' increasing
instability.
Whatever is down there, the archer is unfit to confront it.
She was, however, thoroughly cognisant of what awaited the Tawarwaith.
Another short snort of air left her nose, equally expressive of
determined resolve and the agitated annoyance she called forth, her
shield to ward off the encroaching mephitic malevolence emanating from
the black pit. Gingerly she embarked upon the loathsome trail but
stalled again after but a few paces. Like a solid barrier the bleak
division between the comforting jig of lamp-cast shadows and the
complete extinction of perception inhibited her passage. A stronger
epithet confirmed her anxious ire. Not only would the lack of lumens
hinder her skill, Gladhadithen had no medicinal supplies at hand.
Below, the object of her concern hurried onward. The absence of sight
was a shock for it was absolute and nearly instantaneous upon rounding
the turn in the stairwell. Legolas inhaled a short gasp and swallowed
to choke back the rising swell of panic and terror. The second he lost
his dominant sense the others became uncomfortably acute.
Damp and musty, overprinted with the acrid tang of faeces and urine
from crawling bugs and eye-less lizards residing in the depths, the
smell of the chiselled rock assailed him. The sour odours mingled with
the rich metallic aroma of his blood and the combination induced the
urge to vomit. With effort he mastered it.
He heard the displacement of air as three slithery reptilian tongues
darted out and catalogued his descent. An unpleasant patter of minute,
four-toed feet racing over the ceiling and down the wall on his left
made him shudder. He pulled his hand from the stone at once, for the
idea of brushing upon one of the blind creatures with his sensitised
fingertips brought bile to his throat again.
Up came his injured arm, stiffly reluctant, as he pressed slightly
numbed digits to lips clamped tightly against the surge of bitter
juices. Another forced gulp and the acids retreated. Legolas paused,
shrouded eyes swivelling to the place his hand should be, diaphragm
pushing out a relieved breath. Feeble it was in the sticky viscous mire
of palpable black air but his pearlescent nimbus was discernible
nonetheless. Sight was not truly lost merely disabled by the lack of
light and this was a comfort to him. He inhaled and held the air,
attempting to squelch his illogical fears, but it sounded like a moan
when he blew it back out.
Silence is a rare thing for an elf. he thought and
the incongruity of the concept with the dire circumstances raised a
smile. Any distraction was welcome and he encouraged his mind's little
rambling walk into trivia as he followed the winding stair.
Vision needs light but audition is impossible to prevent. There is
always something resounding through my ears, even if that is only my
heartbeat. How strange never to realise this before!
The soles of his shoes scraped and rasped against the fine film of dust
louder than Fearfaron's plane shaving wood. Like the pads of his
fingers, the balls of his feet achieved perception, supplying his
intellect with information he would normally discount were his eyes
functional. He noted that the carved steps were bowed in the centre
exactly where the toes touched down, worn away into a shallow
depression, the accumulated effect from thousands upon thousands of
years bearing the impact of Thranduil's boots going and coming from the
secluded chambers.
A draft blew across his face as his right foot landed upon the broad
floor at the base of the narrow passage. The left joined it and he
stood still. He was in the arched entrance of the Vestibule.
"Legolas! Can you hear me? I am going for a torch! Do not move!"
Gladhadithen called from above, her voice a wispy waft in the strangely
thick atmosphere. "Answer! Do you hear me?"
"I hear," he called back and the words echoed in other voices around
him. "Do not return. Send Fearfaron."
The name reverberated in magnifying decibels that grew steadily in
venom and hatred, reaching a cacophonous crescendo before exhausting
the energy his lungs had supplied. Legolas was left with only the noisy
rhythm of his pulse to accompany his panting respiration. He suddenly
wished he had not sent the healer away for he was not alone.
The Guardians of the Gates were tangible, indefinably substantive
within the subconscious, distinctly manifest despite their incorporeal
state and essential invisibility. They raised a crawling itch beneath
his skin strangely reminiscent of the horripilation created by the
Release of Annaldír. The ghosts advanced, a rolling cloak of
glacial ether heralding their encroaching menace, and inspected the
intruder. Barring his way and crowding close they hovered in hopes of
chasing him out.
Swifter than the coursing rapids of the Forest River the mood shifted.
An audible long drawn sigh filled the space, a deep exhale of intense
satisfaction that was nearly post-orgasmic in timbre.
A jolt of gelid agony stabbed the Tawarwaith's shoulder as formless
frigid fingers probed the wound and he ground out a renitent grunt,
lurching left deeper into the anteroom to evade the contact. Legolas
buttressed his shivering frame against the wall as a sub-audible wheezy
buzz circulated through his thoughts, damped and distorted by the
deafening roar of his over-stimulated vascular muscle. The meaning was
intelligible, however.
No longer ordering his retreat, instead they questioned his identity,
arguing with each other, discussing whether this was the same elfling
encountered centuries past or not. Two concurred it must be for well
they knew their own blood. The sight and scent of it, boldly garish and
sweetly ferric, splattered over tarnished armour and unhelmed hair. Its
texture, thickly unctuous, cascading over skin to nourish barren earth
beneath bodies crushed and cleaved. The taste of it, acerbic and brash,
as it filled mouth and nose, spilling from lips exhaling terminal
gasps. Such was the catalogue of perception's last record.
Unquestionably, here stood a descendent of Oropher's failing lineage
and a fitting drone to accomplish their vengeance.
They demanded his hroa.
"Make haste, Gladhadithen." The Tawarwaith held his ground and fought
the incursion. "Light would be welcome," he mumbled through chattery
teeth.
Light would be welcome, a voice in his mind
mimicked in mocking tones and a deriding guffaw floated through the
stifling chill.
Immediately three torches braced upon the rocky walls burst into flame,
one after the other, revealing the Gates in an eerie contrast of
dancing shadow on cold black polished gleam. They looked to be made of
obsidian rather than iron, so glossy was the surface of the austere
design. In the instant before he blocked the image, Legolas realised
the entirety of the construction, both its form and composition, its
shape and the pattern of the intricate geometric filigree, was an
instrument of incarceration. The Gates were not obstacles to prevent
thieves from breaching the vaults but a prison created to hold the
spirits fast.
Legolas cast his arm across his eyes, shielding them from the sudden
flash of brilliance. The unexpected display of the three spirits'
abilities was more than astonishing and he inhaled sharply in stupefied
amazement.
And drew them in.
Deep down into the core of his being the freezing essence of the
unhoused feär poured into his soul. A convulsion jerked his
rigidly immobile spine and he exhaled with a painful intensity that
emptied him to the bottom of his lungs.
"Ai!" Legolas unleashed an unholy shriek of terror and rage combined as
the reaving entities fought with one another to seize control of his
body and drive him out. Sides heaving for oxygen he could not seem to
retain, he trembled with the icy fire of their bloodless energy. He
found himself on his knees bent low, propped up with the right hand
pressed against the floor, still grasping the gore-coated key. He shook
his head wildly for he could hear them clearly now. They had ceased
contesting for dominant possession, realising they would need to
combine strength to gain control of their surprisingly resilient
vessel.
Relent, for you are ours. Yield and we will not expel you.
Surrender and join us, kinsman.
Within his mind a vision materialised and Legolas beheld a writhing
dragon, iridescent in colours of leaping flame, and about its neck was
bound a chain of gold. Ivory teeth gleaming and ebony talons bared, the
beast radiated outrage and lust for revenge. This bizarre configuration
held two distinct souls, this was clear, forced to assume a conjoined
manifestation. Beside the scaly snake stood an elf, an archer clad in
green, and he held the fire-drake leashed.
"Nay!" Legolas whispered, desperately fighting the compelling chant of
the foreign voices. "You are no kin of mine!"
Abruptly the vile mantra ceased and the spirits stilled. Within his
brain he felt their wondering curiosity.
He does not know.
The unspoken voice belonging to the deceased woodland archer was low
and lucid, brimming with remorseful urgency. With it came a sweeping
concurrence between the triad and instantly knowledge of their
identities was thrust into Legolas' comprehension. They were not
nameless, formless, spiteful demons nor abominations of Melchor's
divinations, as he had believed. Here confined to metaphysical slavery
were the King's elder brothers and a silvan warrior slain upon the
Sinda's entry amid the trees.
Every memory that belonged to them gushed over into Legolas' mentality
with all the concomitant emotions associated with Thranduil's betrayal,
so complete, so merciless. Disoriented and stunned, Legolas physically
flailed as though this would fend off both the information and the
uncomfortable infusion of so much ensorcelled energy. He could not
encompass it and proximity to such horror nearly caused him to desert
his hroa in order to escape.
"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and
black-hearted monster! Nay!]
Raw and rancorous the words flew from his lips and condemned the
woodland King, a resonating knell that penetrated into the minerals of
the very rock and carried to every pocket of open space within the
fortress. The Tawarwaith could not but react to the festering
accumulation of hatred these lost souls bore for Thranduil. Indeed, he
had reasons enough of his own to reciprocate this wave of antipathy.
Tê-telch. [Straight Stem]
The long-dead Wood Elf gave his name, quickly assaying Legolas'
approaching collapse, hoping to distract him from the disquieting
truths to which he had been so harshly introduced. Though
Tê-telch now had his prey at the point of expulsion, the fey
feä reversed his intent. He no longer desired to claim this one's
existence, for he detected something familiar within the elf, akin to
the fragrance of Ithillyth [Moon Flowers] under a midnight sky or the
scent of rain upon wind. Recognition washed through the insubstantial
apparition, recollection of a splendrous moment from his childhood,
racing through the treetops just for the joy of it, chasing the dip and
swell of the breeze-brushed limbs. Thus he had first encountered Tawar.
It was an experience he was positive his prisoner shared.
Tê-telch's hold upon the golden chain tightened and the dragon
thrashed in impatient belligerence, claws poised to rip the vulnerable,
exposed soul of their quarry to shreds.
Cautiously the trespassing phantom pressed for entry into his host's
psyche and found the way blocked. Again the silvan projected his
surprise; few could withstand the onslaught of possession and none
before had prevented the spirit's inquiries from yielding up a complete
reckoning of his victim's persona. Tê-telch reverted to the ways
of the living for the news he sought.
Man eneth lín? [What is your name?]
By this point Legolas was huddled on the cold rock floor, eyes still
sealed, curled up with the key once more pressed against the injured
shoulder. He gave no answer.
He is ready. Why do you hesitate? One of the
Sindar questioned from within the shimmery foaloke.
Unleash
us.
There is another way. We must invoke it, for he will never
accept alliance.
He has not the choice. This is a debt owed to us and he
carries the blood of our tormentor; thus, it is right he should
accommodate our feär and conform to our will. Leave if you would
but do not hinder us.
A rather rattlely laugh startled the three spirits from their discourse
and returned attention to their host from whence it issued.
"I will not do your bidding. I owe you nothing. Even were that false,
there are other debts due ahead of any you may claim. Stay if you like
but I will not submit and together we will all die, the three of you
the second time!" Laughed Legolas.
Die? Why would you wish this? What are these other
obligations?
Tell us, we are your father's siblings. We would know you.
"Know me? You only wish to cast me out and use my body to execute your
long-contrived retaliation. That is counter to my goals. You have other
kin through Thranduil's seed, and these would I protect from your
wrath."
Who? Name them. The dragon ordered, intrigued.
None of us wishes to punish innocents, yet Thranduil must
account for his wrongs. Tê-telch added more
diplomatically.
"It is one and the same thing. If the King is lost, how shall the
little ones bear it? They have no comprehension of the depraved cruelty
of which their father is capable; they only feel love for him and
security in his keeping. Thus it shall remain; you will not contend
with him through me."
Legolas had never seen a dragon for even Smaug had been felled by
Bard's arrow days before the Wood Elves reached Erebor. Yet despite
this lack of personal experience he was quite certain that it was
uncommon for such a beast to smile. This one was grinning.
The elder sons of Oropher could not fight the surge of appreciation for
the tone and manner of their defiant captive. Here was a temperament
they were well acquainted with and one they missed and mourned. The
appearance was not similar, but the elf in their clutches was more like
their father in personality than were they. Tenacious beyond reason but
also passionately protective of the young and defenceless, in life
Oropher would not be turned from his duty once he had defined it. There
was no need to confer; their silvan keeper was correct, nothing would
sway such intractability.
The pair found they could not maintain their fanatical thirst for
destruction and lost the heat of their fury. Eagerly they longed to
promote such a genuine reproduction of their father's character. Thus
the Sindar brothers conformed to their fellow spectre's efforts.
Muindorion [Brother-son (Nephew)], we are Tramborlong and
Thurin'aur [Heavy-fist and Hidden-flame], Sindar from Neldoreth, the
first and second born of Oropher, Thranduil's siblings slaughtered at
our father's side at Dagorlad. Speak your name and teach us your part
in our history.
Now it seemed to Legolas the three beings squatted beside him though he
knew they had not withdrawn from his body. The sense of perilous danger
vanished, the symbolic ferocity of the fire-drake dissolved away
revealing his kinsman as once they had been: proud, noble, and arrogant.
Dressed in the sturdy armour they had worn into battle, bereft of the
rips and rends and stains of carnage, the brothers presented the
valorous glory of the First Age rather than the desperate intrepidity
of the Second. Tall and fair, broad and strong with the bearing of
swordsmen, their similitude of face and form with Thranduil was
undeniable. Tawny tresses bound back in Sindarin manner; aristocratic
brows, high and smooth, topped noses straight and refined; eyes, one
set a pale olivine, the other pair darker than highland spruce; mouths
resolute and grim, the family likeness documented their shared heritage
with the Woodland monarch.
Thus shall Taurant appear some day. the Tawarwaith
thought, forgetting in the moment his reticence to divulge himself.
Tê-telch discerned the slight relaxation of the elf's prodigious
defences and immediately acted to initiate a complete removal of the
barricade. The silvan reached out as he would to any wild thing of
Arda, enveloping the reluctant being in the stanza of the Song
particular to his own essence, pouring out this bit of sentient Music
upon his host, offering not only friendship but entrusting his feä
to his hostage. Even as he had suspected, Tê-telch felt the
resonating chord of empathy within the resistant soul and encouraged
the reciprocation.
For his part, Legolas at first panicked and sought to retreat, but then
the essential anthem of the intruder lulled and soothed his fears, for
it evoked the gentle harmony of the Greenwood with all the life it
sheltered. He felt as he had in his elfling days, resting in the
Sentinel, snugly cradled in the interwoven arms of the ancient beech,
removed from the tumult and turmoil of the mountain fortress. His
instinct was to trust this silvan spectre and he acceded, allowing
himself to be drawn into the comfort of an understanding mind.
This unhoused warrior had known the communion of Tawar and yearned for
it even as Legolas did, cut off from the great entity far below the
stony solidity of the forest stronghold. Together they shared a lesser
mingling of mental conjunction not unlike his internal interchange with
Mithrandir. He comprehended that through Tê-telch, the brothers
of Thranduil were able to divine the essential facts if not the
entirety of the mystical experience. Just as Legolas' education had
occurred subitaneously so perception of his predicament was delivered
with precipitate entirety to the invasive souls.
All that he had endured was revealed to them and though these three
knew better than any the depth of Thranduil's malevolence, even so were
the bound souls overwhelmed with aversion and disgust for the wrongs
the King, both wilfully and through blatant neglect, perpetrated upon
his first child. The Sindar and their silvan partner found the scars
upon their victim's feä as severe as theirs and were moved to
compassion. For an instant the dragon reformed, suddenly desirous of
claiming the unwilling body and adding Legolas' injuries to the
catalogue of crimes their brother must redress. The weakening hroa of
the wild archer protested anew and Oropher's sons reverted to more
natural representations.
Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar, Tawarwaith. Tê-telch
intoned reverently and once more sought to mitigate their medium's
elevating distress.
Forgive us; we would not harm you more.
Not only was the truth of his haphazard upbringing laid bare to them,
the ghosts learned the purpose of the Tawarwaith's presence in the
Vestibule. Through his memory they beheld the contentment and joy
encompassing the brief time spent with the Woodland Realm's prince and
princess. Legolas' determination to ensure for his young siblings that
which had been denied him was unshakeable, as they had already
perceived. Added to this was the retention of responsibility for three
Lost Warriors and the fallen archer's commitment to fulfil this final
obligation and set them free. Lastly, the knowledge of Berenaur and the
burden of insurmountable grief his status engendered set the three
phantoms to keening despair, for all bore the same agony over sundered
bonds of heart and spirit.
The martyrdom Legolas was prepared to undergo in order to expiate this
collection of miseries was indisputable.
Nay! We would not have you perish, the brothers
exclaimed as one.
No other can check Thranduil's scheming
conceit.
Death is not the only option to achieve what you seek.
claimed Tê-telch.
Nor does separation of hroa and feä remove the ravages
of heartbreak. We know not the disposition of our loved ones and for
all these centuries have carried the dread that Thranduil's spiteful
malice ensnared them also. If you have any capacity for pity, tell us
the fate of our mates, our offspring. Tramborlong, being
minuion [first son], spoke for both.
"I am not Thranduil!" Legolas bristled at the implied flaw; he was not
lacking in compassion. He understood their intent was to force him to
consider the repercussions of his chosen solution, however, and could
not fault them. His decision would indeed be difficult to bear for many
he counted as friends and for Fearfaron might prove unendurable.
Legolas sighed, realising the break with sanity his persistent pursuit
for extinction reflected. His single-mindedness was in some respects
unpleasantly comparable to Thranduil's obsessive behaviour.
Is this horrendous imprisonment the result of derangement
following after grieving? he wondered.
Do not concern yourself over such; no resemblance to him do
we note in you; either in form or mentality. What of our families?
Tramborlong pressed.
Shifting uneasily, the Tawarwaith fretted for he did not have the
answer they sought, and at once this was transmitted through the link
with Tê-telch. He felt the brothers rising frustration, sensed
the re-emergence of the appalling spectacle of their unquenchable
wrath, and hastened to forestall it.
“I am not certain. Though I have at times discerned the presence of
distinct beings within Tawar, it is not easy to determine identities of
specific individuals. They are but fleeting impressions; a face I have
never seen before, a memory not my own. I know not if any of your
children that died in battle are among these.
“Rumour shared within the ranks of warriors attests that your mates
departed for the Undying Lands upon learning of your demise; there they
survive. The same is noted in the Record concerning your sons' wives
and heirs. All that remained of your House have gone West, for none
could abide the jurisdiction of Thranduil yet had not the desire to
confront him, fearing more bloodshed and the schism of our people. More
than this I cannot say."
Truly, he did not wish to reveal his supposition; that the feä of
any elf lost at the Last Alliance, be they Danwaith or Sinda, was
either dispersed within the Greenwood's trees or ever-drowning in the
Enchanted River.
If a ghost had the capacity to blanch, all three of the uninvited
guests inside the wounded Wood Elf would have done so, for again the
juncture with Tê-telch granted insight to Legolas' ruminations.
Placid darkness filled the place of the vivid image that had dominated
the Tawarwaith's awareness as Tê-telch withdrew, comprehending
the need for the brothers to converse with their nephew privately.
A second more the Sindar remained, soul-shocked to learn from their
kinsman the ultimate fate of their offspring, for each had a sole son
felled at Dagorlad, diffused amid the Greenwood's trees within the
consciousness of Tawar. In silence they gazed upon Thranduil's
first-born a moment, struggling to harness the resentment this notion
conjured. That their captor should have not one but three living
descendants was bitter to digest. Yet the entrapped warriors had never
imagined they could feel sympathy for the progeny of their gaoler, and
they mastered the virulent rage for Legolas' sake.
A better doom than ours. Tramborlong [Heavy Fist]
relayed this assessment of their heir's ends as his image returned,
wavery and wan.
Release us; we would join them, for the will
of Mandos is denied them now and to endure eternal isolation from all
they have believed must be unbearable.
Ai! Such is not the way when the deceased merge with Tawar.
It is peaceful and a unity you cannot perceive is achieved.
Nonetheless, willingly would I undo Thranduil's evil, yet I do not
possess the knowledge of such magic.
You reside within the enlightenment of Tawar,
corrected Thurin'aur.
Thus within you are we whole. You
possess the key; indeed, you are the key. Look upon us as our brother
truly holds us bound.
Legolas did as they bid and gasped to see the tattered remnants of
noesis that floated freely in his mind. Their feär were torn
asunder, one part incorporated in the sturdy mechanism securing the
Gates, the other insinuated within the convoluted pattern of molecules
comprising the mithril devise clasped in his palm. It radiated a heat
he had not questioned before, assuming it was absorbed from his blood
soaking the implement. He saw this was untrue; the faintly pulsing
energy discharged from the shining surface had its origin in immortal
essence.
He understood then why the pair had displayed a single representation.
Even that had required the assistance of the silvan to maintain, for
Tê-telch's life-long devotion to Tawar had left him with the
ability to facilitate such linkage. Without him, Tramborlong and
Thurin'aur would have degraded into revenant poltergeists devoid of
reason.
"Nay! This cannot be!" Revulsion rippled through the wild elf as a sob
broke from his soul over the heartless brutality that had designed such
a destiny.
Forgive us; we would not impart further affliction upon you
but there was no other way to make plain our need. Release us, Legolas.
And the next instant the unhoused spirits left him.
"Ion edwen!" down the curling steps the strident call flowed, preceding
the clatter of the carpenter's bounding feet as he descended by threes
and fours to reach his adopted son. Hearing the distress and anguish in
Legolas' cries had spurred the lanky craftsman's pace considerably and
he burst from the darkened stairwell in a panting frenzy before the
echo of his voice diminished.
"Ada?" Legolas stared at Fearfaron in confusion, uncertain about the
passage of time during the unlooked for communion with his uncles and
the silvan archer.
"I am here." The pragmatic talan builder was already kneeling in the
congealing crimson puddle collected beneath Legolas' body. Quickly he
tore open his son's new tunic and ripped out the garment's sleeve to
press against the gaping gash. "Ai! A constant worry you are to me!
More so than Annaldír ever was. This is deep and should have
been bound at once."
Much less dramatic was Gladhadithen's return mere moments later, torch
in hand and a medicinal pack slung over her shoulder. She stared at the
lighted braziers ringing the anteroom and scowled, shoving hers into an
empty bracket near the stairway portal. The volume of the ruby liquid
smeared across the granite made her frown deepen. Beyond that she saved
her comments for later and took over from the carpenter, settling her
patient carefully back into the taller elf's supporting arms.
"Why is he still bleeding?" demanded the anxious father, gently lifting
the unruly golden mane away from the injury to make her job easier. He
was glad for Legolas' compliant acceptance of their aid, having feared
he would attempt to hinder them and thus expire. The Tawarwaith's head
rested on Fearfaron's shoulder but he was staring off toward the Gates
with a disquietingly intense expression, for there was nothing to see
but the elaborate iron-work of the barred entry.
"An artery is punctured; did you not sense this?" the healer shook her
head in disapproval as she answered one and interrogated the other.
With exigent celerity she strived to halt the flow. "Legolas, does it
hurt or is it cold and numb?"
"It burns but the rest of me is freezing."
"What does that signify?" asked the carpenter.
"Nothing, she is trying to determine if I am still coherent," Legolas
murmured, grateful for the warmth infiltrating his body from his foster
father's form.
Gladhadithen huffed and tossed her long locks petulantly but smiled at
the remark in spite of her worries. She did not encourage further
banter, however, and had to enlist the distraught carpenter's help in
order to get the broken conduit stitched shut before Legolas succumbed
to shock. His response to the treatment, entirely too docile for the
nature of the reconstruction, underscored his dwindling physical
capacity. She worked as rapidly as skill and caution combined
permitted, and at last the healer sat back, satisfied the immediate
danger was past. Galdhadithen bandaged the closed incision and rose to
her feet.
"Keep him still but do not let him sleep yet. I am going for blankets
and fresh water." She did not wait for a response as these were orders
not supplications and she had no doubt of the carpenter's obedience.
Fearfaron sighed and gently squeezed Legolas round his middle where
both arms were firmly wrapped, kissing the warrior's sweat-beaded
temple.
"I am sorry," Legolas mimicked his father's melancholy exhalation. "I
did not mean to cause you more strife. I refused to consider what my
choice would cost you."
"Never mind that now. I should not have yelled at you over this. What
is done is done."
"Ada, this key; you must get in into the lock and open that door."
"Please, Legolas, do not spare any further thought about the Ring.
Above us the hearing of Erebor goes forth, though Thranduil sought to
follow you down. Let go of this plan of yours for it has failed."
"He did? Then why is he not here? He should be here!"
"Nay, Ion Edwen, he does not belong anywhere near you right now. You
must stop this!"
"Ai, Ada, you misunderstand. That is not what I…there is something here
far worse for not unlike Sauron is our Sinda Lord."
"What are you saying?" Fearfaron was uncertain if his charge was
completely rational.
"The key."
But the voice that uttered these two words did not belong to Legolas.
Frail and muted, the syllables drifted to their ears from the locked
vault's ornate barricade. Turning to follow it back to its owner, the
carpenter and the Tawarwaith gazed upon the vague and shimmery
apparition of Tê-telch waiting there beside the weighty latch of
glistening onyx metal.
"Valar!" Fearfaron whispered and clutched Legolas tighter.
"Open the lock." The spirit's gauzy outline faded away before the
meagre strength of his speech failed.
"We must do more than that," the Tawarwaith's weary tone yet held his
disgusted outrage over the nature of the Vestibule's prominent
features. "They must be dismantled and melted down. I hold one half of
Tramborlong and Thurin'aur's feär in my fist while the remainder
is isolated in that lock. Within the beauty of the polished iron scroll
work you see is Tê-telch held captive. All for Thranduil's pride
has this been done. He is worse than a kinslayer. He should die!"
So saying, Legolas pulled free one of the carpenter's callused palms
and slapped upon it the sanguine key.
Aghast, Fearfaron stared at the small object resting in his hand. He
lifted stricken eyes to Legolas' determined ones and could not deny the
truth there. Carefully lowering his adopted son to rest on the
uninjured elbow, the carpenter arose to accomplish this task.
The instant the metal pieces connected the tumblers aligned themselves
and unaided the Gate swung free in soundless motion upon its hinges.
Once more the anteroom was permeated with the presence of the unhoused
spirits but no malignancy surrounded the wounded warrior and his kindly
protector.
Fearfaron nonetheless hurried to Legolas' side and gathered him close
to his heart. Even as he watched, the empty space created by the
opening of the barred portal took on form and substance. He beheld an
unlikely triad of ethereal comrades: Thurin'aur and Tramborlong, the
elder sons of Oropher, and Tê-telch, who had felled the Sindar's
cousin so long ago, standing shoulder to shoulder expectantly.
"Speak the words," Thurin'aur usurped the prerogative of eldest from
his brother and spoke for all, though his image could not be described
as actually forming the sounds from the disembodied spectre of his soul.
"I know them not!" Legolas replied in exasperated dismay. He uplifted
his disgruntled visage to his adoptive parent. "That is what I wanted
Thranduil here to do. They need to be freed from this unnatural
entombment. He invoked the spell that bound them and knows the
incantation that will make it null."
"Speak the words," Tê-telch encouraged and managed to convey a
feeling of having smiled upon the Tawarwaith.
"Valar! By Eru, if I could see it done you would be liberated from such
a vile hell as this! I cannot even reach Tawar inside this disgusting
place much less find means to…" Legolas stopped speaking mid-sentence
for he was quite suddenly no longer in the dreary cave. He gaped at the
startling glitter of sunlight skipping over the tree tops of the
forest's canopy and realised at once he was ensconced within the
ancient arms of the Sentinel at the boundary of the stronghold
courtyard.
A subdued laugh drew attention to his left and he gazed into a set of
deep green eyes belonging to an elf he never met in life but whom he
now recognised as well as he would Lindalcon.
And who knows
all about me also. The idea did not produce embarrassment or
shame, however, for the impression of acceptance emitted from these
calm and thoughtful orbs was unimpeachable. And there was something
else, sentiments Legolas had seldom encountered from his elders:
appreciation and gratitude.
"More than that. It is respect you see. Is this so unknown to you?"
Thurin'aur was fully aware this was the case and reached out to gently
rest a palm against his nephew's cheek, noting the surprise in the
sparkling azure eyes.
"You hand feels warm with life!" the Tawarwaith blurted, staring from
one to the other, for all three were present.
This was no dreaming encounter as when Annaldír had reached out
to him. Every detail of the eudaemon's physical appearance was
substantive and notable, from the strands of hair escaping their braids
and flouncing amid the breeze to the weight of their bodies upon the
branch. Legolas marvelled at the intensity of the transfiguration.
Eternity might pass by and yet he would never forget the sight and the
sound of these elves.
"Aye, you do well in this element. We will not be this distinct to you
ever after this, however. But I wished it, and Tawar loves you well,"
Oropher's middle child replied to the unspoken thoughts.
“The confluence with this Forest Spirit is more soothing than you
indicated. We are insulated no longer but mingle freely with all of the
others comprising this indescribable being,” Tramborlong noted with a
peaceful smile. “Our sons await us. We shall not be unhappy here.”
"You are no longer confined?" Legolas managed to ask.
"Nay," confirmed Thurin'aur. "The binding spell has been retracted but
your insight was accurate; to complete the extrication the gates and
the key must be destroyed. Within the molten metal were we cast and
thus only from the liquefied alloy may we completely arise." He
carefully grazed his fingers over the new, white bandage beneath
Legolas' ripped and ruined tunic. "We could not tell it was so serious
an injury. Our senses were diminished in that condition of division."
"Aye, too near to death do you play. You are needed alive; this
fixation with self-immolation must cease," added Tê-telch. "You
will find no solace that way, nor grant it to any other. It is not the
voice of Tawar that whispers such lies to you. Be cautious, for your
soul is open in reverie and vulnerable to those who would abuse it."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Legolas warily.
"Hebo rîn uin falas." [Keep remembrance of the beach.] said
Tramborlong seriously. "That was more than a dream."
"Ai! You mimic my own words to Mithrandir!"
"We know not who was behind it, but it is a subtle and powerful entity,
slipping past the protection Tawar extends, fooling you into believing
such horrors arise from your latent desires," continued Thurin'aur.
"How shall I combat what cannot be defined?" Legolas demanded urgently,
observing that the coherence and clarity of the apparitions' presence
was fading.
"We cannot advise you," Thurin'aur shrugged apologetically.
"Men maethyr, alistari," [We are warriors, not wizards.] reminded
Tê-telch.
"Hannad mín, hîl od Oropher!" [Our thanks, heir of
Oropher] called Tramborlong with opened hand and heart uplifted.
Legolas could barely hear them and the light of Anor had dimmed; its
warmth retreating as a dry chill invaded to the Tawarwaith's marrow.
The lacy interlocked limbs of the Sentinel receded, replaced by a
featureless, cheerless dull black and grey domain of formless shifting
shadows. Someone was shouting and Legolas tried to cover his ears. At
the same time his entire frame was vigorously rattled and the
newly-stitched muscle of the stabbed shoulder screamed its protest.
"Legolas! Awaken, awaken! Nay, Legolas, you are not to sleep!" the
strident voice was Fearfaron's, volubly concussing his foster-son's
ear-drums as he forcefully jostled the lax form.
"Daro! Ada, saes!" Legolas' eyes focused in a trice and he snarled out
a reproachful moan as he fastidiously cradled his injured arm against
his chest. "I was not sleeping. The three spirits of the gates have
been delivered."
With the realisation that he was still in the frigid anteroom, Legolas
comprehended it was he that had withdrawn from the unfettered
feär, not the other way round. He smiled up into the concerned
brown eyes of his patient benefactor, a subtle, enigmatic
reorganisation of his features that bespoke his incredulity over the
revelation.
"I am not ready to join them."
TBC
Odd Words, seldom seen?
ensorcel: v. to bind or curse by sorcery or magic.
gelid: adj. very cold.
horripilation: n. the uplift of hairs on the body due to distress.
legerity: n. swift, graceful, nimble
mephitic: adj. noxious, poisonous, foul smelling, suffocating.
noesis: n. awareness, perception, cognition, the cumulative
psychological amalgamation of same.
olivine: n. a ferromagnesian silicate mineral, (MgFe)2SiO4, significant
component of mafic-ultramafic igneous rocks, magmas, and basalts. Its
natural colour is pale, translucent green to citron yellow.
reave: v. to take by violence.
renitent: adj. involuntarily, reluctant, resitant
revenant: adj. returning, recurring.
subitaneously: adv. immediately, instantly, suddenly, abruptly.
TBC
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