tawarwaith

Note
This Feud update is dedicated to Niccy, who has been a die-hard fan forever, and asked me to update as an xmas gift story.Well, we all know I cannot manage a short story or a short chapter. Everything turns out to be upwards of 15000 words. I promised a lot of stories that were new and updates of stories already started and this was back in November last year. Good intentions, but completely unrealistic for me. Niccy asked for some real punishment for Elrond for all he has done to Legolas and since Feäfaron cannot do that kind of thing, someone else must be 'Iluvatar's instrument of retribution', to quote Lindalcon. There is a long passage regarding the Unhoused Spirits who are loose and having quite a bit of influence on their dear brother/captor. They will deal out justice to him, too, but saving that for the next chapter. Evil cliff-hanger at the end and I am not a bit sorry about it LOL :D I am very very sorry that it took so long to get this out, Niccy. Hope you enjoy it and everyone else does, also.

Acharn egor Caun? (Vengeance or Valour?)

It was more than the absence of sound and motion invoked by the blighting breath of Winter's transient occupation. An abyssal stillness held the forest in sepulchre silence, defeated, vanquished so utterly the souls of the trees were no more, petrified by Rhîw's relentless advance, the assault unexpected and devastating in its victory, for could Tawar hide in hibernation, remaining viable in the face of so severe, so swift a withdrawal of Anor's warmth? Nay, Greenwood was dead, root and pulpy marrow alike destroyed, frozen dry and blown hollow, burned out, boiled off, empty husks piercing a rank and foetid haze where once the trees in grandeur soared. The towering bolls loomed, mute and motionless, lost in foggy limbo, stark in varying degrees of charcoal and grey where Ithil touched upon the wood through the jagged, leafless canopy.

The sterile, silver sheen gave no colour to the bark for Tilion could not bear to look upon so cruel a vision as this. Drifting, polluted air swirled in cloying clouds, a suffocating fume lingering in the tangled net of limbs, underscoring their unnatural stillness. No life scurried over ground devoid of soil and mould where roots stood exposed, duff and dirt reduced to indurate sub-straight. The desiccated remains of a buck lay sprawled in grotesque repose, flesh all but devoured, antlers stained dark by vaporised ichor, charred bones poking through the remnant of leathery hide stretched tight upon the once noble frame. Not so much as an insect remained alive. Twists of blue smog rose, threading toward the dun-coloured sky, borne up on remnant heat stolen from Greenwood's life, curling sinuously over charred stubs of branches and cracked, blackened trunks. No longer was this the abode of Tawar. Never again would this place bear the appellation great.

Lindalcon gasped and startled, shaking himself out of his stupor, eyes wide and staring about him, heart hammering, and breath loud and shortened, fearful of the mirage overtaking him as his mind sought rest. How many days had he been awake? He had left the stronghold only three days ago, yet before then an untallied number of sunsets had occurred and he had been fully alert for them all. He concentrated to fix the time in his consciousness and distract himself from the nightmare: the Council lasted one interminable day, Legolas and Erestor had remained in the bonding talan three days, the feast following that and its awful conclusion were another day, the Tawarwaith's unforgettable attack upon Thranduil happened on the next, Gildin's arrival was the evening of that same sunrise, and before dawn of the one succeeding it Lindalcon had relinquished the last iota of normalcy his short life possessed.

Ten days, an evil number to be sure.

Ten sunrises, ten sunsets and his future lay in ruin, scorched and seared, consumed as surely as the trees in his macabre dream. From beloved only child to prince to orphan and finally to this, self-appointed Nimrod for Greenwood's Council, the first and only to fill such a role. Did anyone in all Thranduil's kingdom care if he succeeded and brought Rochendil back to own his deeds and face his just punishment? Nay, the woodland folk would rather forget the horse-master just as they had forgotten Valtamar and Andamaitë. Lindalcon scowled and drew his cloak close about him. It was not for them he acted but for himself and his Adar. He had chosen this fate and there was nothing left for him to do but achieve it.

Yet it is taking a bloody long time to see it done.

He had not considered that, had gathered for no more than a few day's provisions, provided only one change of clothing, brought one blanket and one cloak. The way bread was already gone and while water was plentiful game was not. Most of the four footed creatures were in hibernation and those that remained alert were meant to be fodder for the Greenwood's wild predators. Lindalcon discovered himself to be in competition with the dire wolves over hares and voles. A large pack roamed the region and often he spied them on the hunt. The leader was a huge grey male with intelligent blue eyes that looked upon him with vague amusement, great jaws gaping in a mocking grin, wondering what he was doing out here alone. Lindalcon had no doubt that they would make a meal of him if he ventured from the trees when they were abroad.

Sorely troubled was the son of Valtamar, for he had a task to accomplish and yet the trees would give him no aid. They slept. On their vigilant protection he had depended, assuming he would enjoy the same level of intimacy with Tawar he received when Legolas was near, mistaking the archer's gift for translation as a sort of initiation into the deeper communion necessary for survival in the deeps of the forest. He was sylvan, after all, and surely the abiding affinity Legolas felt for the forest was an innate characteristic of the Danwaith. Well, he was hearing and seeing these slumbering trees yet the message went in one direction only and he could not escape the feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare designed to cripple even so mighty an entity as Tawar.

It was more than a nightmare, he decided, that horrendous shift from winter's stark and frozen landscape to the smouldering aftermath of a great conflagration. Whether prophesy or propaganda, the spiritual assault was meant to terrify both him and the trees, and Lindalcon clung to the latter view, that being a lesser evil than accepting the repeated scene invading his reverie as foresight.

"It is winter; there has been no searing fire here," he spoke aloud so to reinforce the idea as he gaped at the alien landscape, worried, for the austerity of Rhîw mimicked the leafless, lifeless, soulless desert of fire-ravaged woods. This marked the third time he had witnessed the death of Greenwood by fire and while it was less harrowing than watching the violent destruction of his Adar, little comfort did that comparison lend his heart.

"I have never had any gift for skrying," he insisted to the voiceless ranks of dormant trees. Yet he could not deny that the images of his father's last moments were true ones.

Lindalcon inhaled a shaky breath, shivering as the icy pain assailed his throat and lungs, hugging his fur cloak closer as he peered into the murky depths betwixt the branches to the path below. No winter in all his life had reduced the trees to voiceless timber devoid of consciousness. This must be how Men view trees all the year round. Yet Tawar would never abandon its separate citizens during the frozen months and flee, seeking a more inviting population of hardwoods to grace with the dignity and might with which Yavanna had imbued the region. Would it? This emptiness, this vacant and soulless atmosphere was infinitely more troubling than the lurid vision of fiery death. The place was a dark graveyard of dead trees, gaunt and ugly and eery.

"May as well burn it," he mourned morosely and no sooner were the words spoken than his heart fairly stopped, terror blazing through his soul to have called this doom upon the Greenwood. "Nay! I did not mean it!" he cried out, standing and raising his face to the starless night.

Frightened and desperate, he bound the cape tight about him and set off through the stiff, brittle branches. He had not gone far when his weight generated a fulsome crack and a frozen limb gave way. A swift leap to the next tree saved him and Lindalcon clung to its trunk, heaving great clouds of mist into the air around him, reason abandoned as the untrained avenger shut his eyes, recalling Legolas' tales of turned trees that sought to destroy elves.

He shook his head wildly to drive out the image and willed himself not to think on it. Immediately new torments filled the void as he wondered how his naneth fared. Was she in the cells or had Thranduil quashed his account of her treachery, as she predicted? How were the children enduring this? With a furious shout he forced such thoughts from his heart and mind.

"I gave it all up the moment I spoke that vow." His voice rose strong and clear above his fears. "I understand this now; they are no longer mine to worry over. I am a child no more. I am Iluvatar's instrument of retribution, nothing more nor less, and because that is true, I will find my father's last enemy and bring him back to face his crimes alongside Meril."

"My, what bold proclamations from so young an elf. Then again, perhaps only one so young would dare to speak them."

"Ai!" Lindalcon nearly fell from the tree in his surprise to hear this sarcastic rejoinder. He was scanning the limbs about him when laughter, deep and throaty and almost like a hound's, arose from far below. He turned his sight downward and gaped in confusion; there was the leader of the wolves gazing up at him with that same smirking grin, showing his sharp, pearly fangs. Lindalcon frowned; there were tales of gaurhoth, but surely those were only that, stories to amuse and frighten children. Just to convince himself, he kept his eyes upon the wolf as he called out. "If you are a friend, show yourself!"

The beast cocked its head to the side. "How do you mean? In Man-form? That I cannot do until Ithil waxes full and round. Still, I am a friend. I am not surprised at your fear; even Legolas mistook us for his foes, long ago."

"It is another dream, then," muttered Lindalcon, passing his hand over his eyes in exasperation, for he had seen its jaws and tongue working to make speech. What manner of spirit was abroad to so disrupt his normal paths of rest? Yet that did not suffice, for his rest had been anything but normal for many long years. "Perhaps it wears on me and I am going mad."

"Dreams of madness, more like," chuckled the wolf. "I am here to warn you, for Legolas would have it so and my people owe him much. By his command the humans ceased hunting us and now we are allies against our common foes. Heed me: this is not a good time to wander in the woods. The Orcs are coming in great numbers; the Wraiths drive them. I can smell their stink even now and soon you will, too. Go back, little elf, before you are engulfed and slaughtered for their sport. Or worse." So saying the creature loped away amid the trees and disappeared into the darkness.

Lindalcon stared at the barren ground stuck between disbelief and dread, seesawing between the two, unable to act. If what he had just experienced was real and not a hallucination born of sleep deprivation, then he was in trouble of an entirely different calibre. It occurred to him that he had never even seen an Orc much less faced one in combat. His bow and quiver were with him but suddenly the idea of using them in defence of his life was utterly terrifying. Illusion or fact, Lindalcon decided it would be prudent to assume the latter and get to a safer location. No sooner had he concluded this than the long, mournful cry of the wolf rose amid the darkness and was answered by a chorus of keening canine voices. The desolate forest echoed with their battle song.

No further convincing was required. Shelter was needed and somewhere there had to be a talan high overhead, too well-concealed for the demons to spot. So Legolas had assured him often whenever Lindalcon asked where he lived, how he escaped from Shadow's minions, what place served as a haven when reverie was needed.

How to find such a place was the problem. Cautiously he climbed higher, hoping the increase in altitude would afford a better perspective. The tactic worked; from this height he could make out a path amid the branches, easily discernible now that the leaves were gone and Ithil could reach the limbs. With no small relief Lindalcon set out upon this track, confident he would soon discover one of his adopted brother's hide-aways.

It was not to be. Valtamar's son had crossed the Forest Road hours ago and was out in the region where evil held sway among the trees, where even the elf-paths had been corrupted. The way he so eagerly chose led inexorably to the Central Mountains where the Orcs dominated, where goblin reinforcements from Hithaeglir were sure to muster, where traps were laid and ambuscades ready. Even in hibernation the branches remained frozen in this deceitful pattern, drawing any unsuspecting among the First-born to certain death, and Lindalcon fairly raced toward it.

scene break

Dûr Estel (Sombre Hope)

With a great, deep, collective breath of thanksgiving, the conscience of a nation was at last assuaged. The sombre, unquiet mood in the City of the Underground Fortress lifted, tension dropped to a lesser degree; it was finally over. News of Meril's imprisonment spread to every talan and flet throughout the realm, the Royal Consort's black heart confirmed, and even those most proud to see a sylvan in the seat of power suddenly recalled anecdotes which revealed her unclean nature, rank with the taint of the Shadow.

The result of the King's Tribunal was by no means pleasant nor would anyone be eager to have these recent events detailed in the stonework of the Chamber of Starlight, yet everyone, down to lowliest servant, felt delivered, absolved of guilt, their obscene fascination, horror mingled with delight, expunged. The Erebor Affair was settled. Tirno was exonerated fully, Malthondo condemned to go forth and take his place in shame and ignominy, the author of the whole devious undertaking safely locked away in the dank dark cells until her final doom could be determined. No one expected to ever see the horse-master again and the people were content that justice had been served. At long last, life could return to normal in Greenwood.

Now the Wood Elves could focus their anxious attention on the inexcusable conduct of the Noldorin Lord from Imladris, indignant and outraged and secretly glad to have an external source on which to pin their sense of disgust, their righteous fury over the scandalous treatment of their beloved champion. So much preferable was that to the constant soul-searching and the resultant conjuring of remorse and regret for their own debasement of Greenwood's chosen protector. Let Elrond of Imladris accept the burden of such sins and then would the peoples' transgressions not be expiated?

Never mind that twelve years of torture and torment had been dealt out to Legolas here within sight and sound of every talan ringing the compound. Suppress the memory of those long, violent nights, endured with nary a complaint, bereft of any contesting voice to mitigate his deepening shame and self-hatred. The folk of the woods had a ready excuse; the Judgement had been pronounced and the Laws invoked. No one was permitted to interfere or, indeed, even speak of the punishment exacted. Perhaps in all the populace, only Feärfaron was willing to admit the truth: it had simply been easier to accept Legolas' guilt, attested by warriors with whom he served, than to seek out the real culprit.

If a further diversion was required to channel the overwhelming emotions engendered by the high drama of the Council and its conclusion, then the frightening proximity of Orcish troops combing the fringes of the borders, massing along the southern side of the Forest Road, was ample cause for heightened nerves and uneasy hearts. The vile demons were seeking a means to drive through Talagan's doughty forces and inundate the very heart of the Woodland Realm. The Tawarwaith must be the target of this unprecedented assault, for such a concentrated attack of the foul beasts had never been attempted, and all of Greenwood prayed for his deliverance.

He was out there, somewhere, in the thick of it, wounded and weakened, braving death and its unthinkable alternative, capture and imprisonment in Dol Guldur, all to find his adopted brother and bring him safely home. With both pride and irritation the people considered his decision to go after Lindalcon. The youth was doomed; another death to lay at Meril's feet. Everyone could sense it. What hope could there be that he would find Ailinyero and serve justice to the coward for his craven deeds? The horse-master must be far from the Woodland Realm by now, probably headed for the Havens of Mithlond where none would know of his blackened record of betrayal and abuse. Lindalcon was more likely the first casualty of the Orc's attempts at invasion and Legolas would find only his bloody remains, dismembered and debased. This was not a cause worthy of risking their Tawarwaith.

Such were not the thoughts of Celeborn, too wise to waste energy in useless fretting over what could not be changed. What aid he could render Legolas had already gone forth, every Galadhrim warrior in his contingent allied with Greenwood's archers to rout the Orcs and gain victory for the Tawarwaith. Legolas would either survive or perish, his fate no different than any warrior's in this blighted land of meagre light and dense shadow. The august Lord had more immediate concerns as he followed Thranduil out of the throne room, hoping his influence would temper whatever punishment he might be envisioning for the convicted kin-slayer in the dungeons below the vaults. Even more, he wished to learn of the strange possession, for he could think of no other word applicable, which had overtaken the King just before pronouncing Meril's doom. Despite everything, Celeborn would salvage Thranduil.

It was not that he discounted the mass appeal of the newly arisen hero of the woods. Legolas' elevated status was truly a gift from the Valar. The Tawarwaith granted much needed hope and courage to a people in dire distress enduring a constant siege, forced back into this one last corner of green grace to which they held with such fragile tenacity. To his voice the Wood Elves listened, Sindarin and sylvan alike, and his words uplifted hearts, inspired noble thoughts. His sacrifices spawned a fervent yearning to be more like that, to reclaim that purity of purpose underlying his every work, to engage in like endeavours founded on the cause of justice and the desire for freedom. Nor did Celeborn disregard Thranduil's many failings, his dark deeds carrying him into the shadowed borderland betwixt evil and good where expedience determined which path to take.

Yet the defence of the Woodland Realm required more than a true heart and firm resolve, traits undeniably residing in Legolas' core. Nay, to hold back the power of the Wraiths and withstand the unending flood of malice and hatred spewing from Dol Guldur demanded something else. A leader wily and cunning, hardened by loss, defined by it, driven by it, willing to skirt the edges of decency to achieve an end none would deem anything but right, such a leader Greenwood's survival demanded. Such a leader was Thranduil. Whatever his flaws, whatever his sins, he was loyal to his father's memory and for Oropher's sake he would never let Greenwood fall.

Both were needed, valiant heart and bloody fist, but Legolas was beyond Celeborn's reach. Should the Tawarwaith fall this night, who would stand between life and genocide? Who would defy defeat, turn back the Wraiths, and deny victory to the hordes of Orcs? Above all, Celeborn must salvage the Wood Elves' King.

They jogged up the long, winding stair, Thranduil ignoring his queries and disregarding his existence. This proved a misconception for as they crossed the threshold of the royal chambers the agitated father demanded an explanation for the intrusion and in the next breath an introduction from his kinsman. Before that could be done, Erestor's presence registered and every nerve in the King's body bristled; he seemed to gain in height and mass, the regal robes more spectral and menacing than ever, the magnificent crown glittering at the pinnacle of his expanded aura.

"Out," he pointed at the Noldorin Lord and growled the command. "Should I find you near my son again you will join your kinsman's fate."

Elrond's seneschal, seeing the door blocked by this unexpected manifestation of awful presence, wisely chose to leave via the balcony and its stairway down to the gardens, bitterly cold though the night air was. He declined to remind the King that he was now bound to the monarch's first-born son and could not help but defy that command. Prudence allowed only a swift, silent, worried glance of parting to his Lorien lovers as he dodged through the arch.

Thranduil snorted a deriding sneer at Erestor's speedy disappearance, eyes marking the swish of midnight hair attesting to the rapidity of the seneschal's descent. His sight returned to the Galadhrim couple and the elleth cradling his infant prince. "Celeborn, these two belong to you, I believe?" he queried. "Give me the names of these trespassers and vouch for their intent if you want them pardoned."

"Fear not, Aranen." Before Celeborn could reply Dambethnîn stood and placed the slumbering babe in his sire's arms, instantly defusing the Sindarin Lord's wrath, and then proceeded to explain. "Never would I harm a child. I but wished to quiet the poor wee lamb's distraught and weary soul. He will sleep now many hours and awaken hungry, so be prepared for a fussy son."

"You were the one to quiet him. How is this possible? Have you used some herb or potion to force his unconscious state?" demanded the frantic father, adjusting the limp bundle carefully so to free a hand with which to poke and prod the babe, as if that could tell him what manner of medicine this unknown elleth had used. He gave her a searching scrutiny. "You are of sylvan descent?"

"We both are," Orophin interceded for his beloved, tone bold and stern, imparting his devotion and determination that Dambethnîn was not to be trifled with. "We would never use such means to induce a child to sleep."

"Allow me, cousin." Celeborn stepped into the room between the monarch and his unexpected visitors for Orophin's avowal had precipitated that stiffening along his kinsman's spine that generally heralded a sharp rebuke, often accompanied by forcible removal from his presence. "These are two of my most trusted guards, Orophin and Dambethnîn. They are here because of Erestor, who has for long centuries been part of their family."

"Ah! So you two are the ones!" Thranduil eyed them with keen interest but surprised himself by finding he had no desire to say anything unkind or demeaning to the couple, for they were quite obviously devoted to one another and must be equally true to Erestor to have come to Greenwood to aid him.

Beyond that, there was something in the elleth's eyes as she stared at him, something she wanted so badly she feared to name it, and this intrigued him. Her sight fell at last upon Taurant and within her visage a softness grew, filled with warmth the like of which he remembered trained upon him from his naneth's loving gaze, so long ago it was more an impression than a memory. He drew a quick breath and glanced back to the sleeping child.

"Tell me, how did you quiet him?"

"He is no different from other babes for all his lofty titles, Aranen," shrugged Dambethnîn, smiling gently. "He wants only to feel safe and loved."

"'Beth has a way with young ones," beamed Orophin, settling loving hands upon her shoulders.

"That she does," murmured Thranduil, nodding thoughtfully as he walked further into the room so to lay the child within his cradle. Taurant never stirred beyond a long, deep sigh and curled up under the blanket contentedly.

The King trailed gentle fingers over the head of downy golden locks, heart rejoicing for here was the very answer he had been seeking. How wonderfully fitting that the elleth's name should reinforce the notion. Surely this was an indication that his judgement was just and right, for the only obstacle to carrying it out was herewith removed, if he could secure consent from Celeborn.

"I would ask of you a great favour and it is good your Lord is here to sanction my proposal," said the King suddenly, turning and fixing the couple with his sharp, bright sight.

"What favour, Thranduil?" asked Celeborn, cautious but curious and hopeful, for he could almost see the idea collecting in the King's thoughts.

"I have need of a nurse for Taurant, a substitute naneth. I would ask Dambethnîn to serve in that role until the child is two years of age and ready to be weaned. What say you?" Thranduil spoke his answer to Celeborn but his eyes held to the Galadhrim couple.

"So then you will send Meril over sea?" asked Celeborn, hopeful and relieved.

"You ask much," Orophin said softly, uneasy about the implications of such a request.

"Yes!" Dambethnîn exhaled right after, avoiding her husband's eyes and smiling in joy toward the cradle.

"'Beth! We would not be able to go home; we would forfeit our seniority in the guard. I would not see my brothers or you your cousins. All this for a child that will never be our own and in the end we would have to give up," Orophin warned, squeezing hard to make her turn from her longing gaze and hear him.

She did so, smiling into his worried eyes and cupping his face, bringing his lips to hers in a soft kiss. "Be at peace, I know whose child this is, but he is just a babe after all and needs someone to nurture and tend him. Let it be us, Pen Raug. Who could be better suited?" she whispered.

"There is no need to fear you would be forced to abandon the prince," Thranduil went on eagerly, spinning out the fantasy in his mind as he spoke. "He will have need of tutors in warcraft and who, indeed, would be better to teach him archery than two of Lord Celeborn's most trusted guards? There would be no restriction against travelling back to Lothlorien to visit, if you should so wish, nor on any family coming here, either. You could stay as long as you wish, until his majority if you like, with my cousin's permission, of course."

"I would not object to an exchange of warriors. Let two of your fine archers return with me to Lorien that the loss of my guards be lessened, and I am content," smiled Celeborn, watching the hope and happiness bloom in both Dambethnîn and Thranduil's eyes.

"Agreed. Choose anyone you wish," the King offered.

Celeborn refrained from naming Legolas and Lindalcon, however much he might deem it wise. The Tawarwaith would never abandon his Greenwood and Lindalcon would not forsake his siblings.

"Ai, 'Beth! Consider carefully. Our ways are not the ways of the woodland folk and these trees are not our Mellyrn." Orophin alone remained sceptical and wary of the contract, concerned over the volatile nature of the Lord they would serve. Yet to see his beloved so near to her heart's desire, after so many centuries of painful longing, was impossible to disregard. He sighed. "Ai, 'Beth."

"Orophin? Serve here with me and be the prince's mentor," she coaxed, her need so raw and filled with unbearable emptiness that there could be no way to love her and refuse. Orophin loved her more than anything else in all of Arda.

"So be it," he nodded, smiling as he kissed her back, hands falling to her waist. "This is an honourable task, to tutor the son of Greenwood's King in warcraft and wood lore." His wife threw hers arms about him, laughing, crying, thanking him, kissing him all at once. It was enough to make even Thranduil smile and Orophin met the monarch's gaze over his wife's shoulder. "I would be proud to accept a commission in your guard, Aranen, as long as it is understood such a position is ancillary and secondary to the loyalty and obedience tendered to Lord Celeborn. Should need arise, I would expect to be released from duty to defend my homeland."

"Then it is settled," Thranduil concluded. "I will remove to my former suite and you two may move in here. Echuir'oss has chambers just there," he pointed to an adjoining door within an arched alcove. "I will introduce you and explain everything to her when she wakes. Send bearers to Lorien to retrieve whatever personal items you may need. Now, excuse me for there is much to which I must attend." He bent and pressed a kiss to the sleeping babe's head and left the nursery, calling commands for the reordering of his affects, striding off to the great stairs again, Celeborn hastening to catch up.

"I am pleased, Thranduil. Letting the Valar decide the fate of the mother is best. I know she holds your heart and you would spare her, yet this is necessary. You will be reunited in the future and then the love you bear her will at last find true fruition," he murmured this encouragement as they descended, but Thranduil ignored his consoling words.

"Celeborn, I have need of yet another favour," he halted suddenly and turned to ask.

"Anything," Celeborn gripped his arm warmly.

"I beg you will retrieve from Aewendil the foul dagger of Caranthir, for I intend to dismantle the gates and melt them down, freeing my brothers' spirits at last and forever. That vile blade must also be reduced to liquid and the twisted soul bound within it transferred to a less dangerous tomb."

The Lord of Lorien could hardly refuse such a request and, while uneasy in his heart, he thought perhaps this desire to undo the binding of spirits was a positive development. Yet he failed in this simple task, for neither Aewendil nor Mithrandir were anywhere in the fortress and none of the councillors knew whither they had gone. He returned without the dagger to find Thranduil already removed to the vaults. There, too, he descended, curious in spite of himself, eyes darting beyond his kinsman's form to glance upon bright gems and shining metal, a hoard more vast and more precious than anything he had beheld since his youth in Doriath.

Celeborn remained just over the threshold of the vestibule of the Three Doors, one foot still comfortably poised upon the lowest step in case a hasty retreat was in order, caught by the image before him, speechless and frozen in both dread and wonder. Thranduil worked to remove the heavy wrought iron barriers from their hinges, the ringing echo of his mallet on the iron chisel resounding rhythmically through the cavern.

Stripped to the waste and barefoot, broad back straining as muscles flexed to wrestle the metal free, he strived against the barrier with diligent perseverance for the welds were made to be permanent. There lay his formal finery discarded on the floor and with it was cast aside Malgalad, forgotten as quickly as any paltry bit of fob and fancy. There lay his noble and mighty mien with them. No kingly power exuded from this toiling ellon, skin bright with the sheer sheen of labour. No kingly power but power of a more visceral sort, anger and fury poured into every action, lending their heated energy to the task, internal weapons channelled, directed, controlled as only a seasoned veteran of innumerable wars and strife could wield them. Thranduil attacked the gates, bent upon their utter destruction.

As compelling as this sight was, it was not his kinsman's efforts that so engaged the elder lord's attention. To the King's right and behind him a pair of spectral overseers monitored his progress. Celeborn had spied shades before but none so fully formed as these and he had no difficulty recognising the brothers. Indeed, he had been pleased to treat them as younger brothers long ago when he and Doriath were both young, enjoying the privilege to the full, and they had returned that friendship until Oropher left, taking his clan with him. Tramborlong (Heavy Fist), the eldest of the brothers, favoured the comrade of his youth with a smile.

"It is good that you are here."

The spirit's lips moved but the voice belonged to Thranduil and this gave Celeborn a severe jolt as his sight fled to the King. He inhaled deeply to steady his racing pulse, unsure at first to whom he should reply, but Thranduil remained committed to his task, no indications apparent that he realised he had company of any sort in the place.

"Trambor," Celeborn began and faltered, finding the usual greetings and pleasantries just did not apply. "I am saddened and shocked. What is happening here? Is your younger brother bewitched, possessed?"

"He does as we demand." Oropher's middle son replied, his words issuing also from the monarch's mouth.

"Was it you in the throne room; was it your doom pronounced or his?" Celeborn could not say why this seemed so vital to make them admit, only that instinct warned the spirits before him were not as they had been in life. The long centuries of imprisonment had twisted and distorted their once honourable natures and he sensed only the desire for vengeance and revenge.

"His doom, our will," answered Tramborlong calmly. "This must be redressed." His vapourous hand gestured toward the elaborate gates and still the cryptic words fell from Thranduil's lips.

"What will you do?" Celeborn found his skin crawling with aversion, imagining the freed feär crowded inside Thranduil's body, forcing the King's soul out. Destroying the gates suddenly seemed like a bad idea.

"Thranduil will do it and thus shall his transgressions be remitted and our unjust captivity avenged. He will suffer as he has caused others to suffer. All that he loves will be lost to him and yet remain near at hand lest he forget."

"Tell me what you mean to do," urged Celeborn. "Would you steal his body and banish him to Wandering? Mayhap he deserves such a fate, yet there are innocents to consider."

"Aye. Though you cannot see it, what we demand will be better for them. They should not grow up here in the tutelage of our brother's demented pride, reared by a murderess who has now driven her first-born to certain death as well."

It was too much, the children's doom uttered so calmly in their father's haughty tones. Were Tramborlong and Thruin'naur as they had been in life, then Celeborn might agree the prince and princess of Greenwood would benefit from their insight and wisdom, their courage and compassion. These corrupted phantoms of Neldoreth's princes were not fit influences for impressionable minds. Alarmed, Celeborn stepped forward and laid his hand upon Thranduil's shoulder, shaking him roughly.

"Kinsman! Thranduil, hear me and answer!" he commanded.

"Celeborn?" Thranduil stopped his work and turned, an expression of irritated indulgence settling over his features, for the Lord of Lothlorien was one of the few elves to whom he would defer. "Forgive me, I was so fully absorbed in my task that I failed to hear your step. What is amiss?" An instant of dread overtook him as he worried after his little babe, but the fortress was still and peaceful. He smiled, recalling his bargain with the Galadhrim elleth and her over-protective mate. "You look as if you've seen the Spirits of the Gates," he joked.

"So I have," nodded Celeborn, observing him closely. "They are here now." Yet when he glanced aside he found them gone and new fear arose. He took a step back from his cousin. "Thranduil, do you recall the hearing just concluded?"

"Of course." The King peered at Celeborn intently, seeing his kinsman's elevated state of alert, and then let his eyes traverse the vestibule. "I will never forget this horrendous night and its vile conclusion. Yet the Guardians are not here; I would surely know it for they despise me. They want nothing less than to destroy me." Thranduil patted his kinsman's shoulder in consolation, lightly amused to see the effect his captive brothers' had upon the noble and fearless Lord. "They would not try to do you harm, even were they here."

"Nay!" Celeborn slapped the hand away. "You spoke of possession before; you feared these spirits would use Legolas' body as their vessel. You must acknowledge that there are others here who share their blood, whose hroa would as easily, even more fittingly, to their thoughts, serve."

"Nay, there is only me and the children. Little can the babes do to effect my brother's vengeful plots," he chuckled darkly and propped his fists atop his hips. "Surely you do not imagine I would permit them to inhabit me, do you?" He shook his head, a fond smile upending his lips and a bright twinkle in his emerald eyes. Long had it been since anyone worried so for his welfare.

Celeborn did not find anything amusing in the situation, for he was sure he caught a darker glint in Thranduil's eyes, a darkening of the irises far from normal. Surely this indicated the foreign presence still had hold of him. How to treat with them? Could he still reach Thranduil or was all of this a mockery, the brothers manipulating their tormentor for their own amusement and his befuddlement. The King laughed abruptly and again settled a heavy hand on his elder's shoulder, and involuntarily Celeborn shrank from it.

"It is you and not he, then, with which I speak. I would have Thranduil come forth; I would address the King of Greenwood," he ordered, voice feigning fortitude he did not feel in his heart.

"What? Celeborn, it is I, Thranduil. What has come over you?" the King peered at him warily, for he had not considered the dilute and distant link to this Elven Lord sufficient for his brothers to employ. Yet he did not sense the spirits' presence in his kinsman's aura and frowned. "You truly believe me possessed."

"I watched as it happened, not knowing or expecting such, in the throne room. The wizards did not react and did nothing to intervene," Celeborn answered, licking dry lips, eyes darting between Thranduil's, which had momentarily cleared of the unwholesome gleam. "Perhaps there is some ward or spell Mithrandir knows that may preserve you from a recurrence. Come quickly!" He seized Thranduil's forearm and yanked him toward the stairs.

"Ai! Far! (Enough!)" Thranduil balked and freed himself, scowling at Celeborn. "You are mistaken. It is contrary to the nature of the spell for them to gain power over me. Go and leave me to my work." He turned and resumed his battering at the stubborn hinges, the ringing clamour invading the place and rendering speech impossible.

Deeply disturbed, Celeborn thought the wizards might be better equipped to manage the situation, for Thranduil had no inkling he was enthralled, yet the Istari were not inclined to interfere. That puzzled him, though he could not deny there was a kind of justice in the macabre situation. Aewendil especially might be disposed to permit the Woodland King to endure the fate he had imposed upon countless others. Yet given what he understood of such spells, the enchantment should be impossible, the reality before him unattainable. Had not Thranduil admitted a form of consent was required from the victim?

Aye, and Thranduil would never grant them access willingly.

Perhaps the brothers' hold was not as sure as they wanted it to appear. He watched his kinsman in silence a moment and considered the decision to begin the gates' dismantlement at this particular time. Surely if they were melted fully then the spirits would be utterly unbound and would try to make their hold on their brother's hroa permanent. Celeborn understood that the one elf who could stop them was the one they had successfully possessed. He needed to reach Thranduil and centred his hopes around the one point he believed might get through to him. He reached for the swinging arm and halted the next battering stroke.

"Cousin, surely someone else is better fitted to this arduous demolition process. Assign the chore to one of your trusted warriors and go to your little prince. Surely he has suffered today and your loving presence would ease his sleep and comfort his heart. What say you?" asked Celeborn in cordial tones.

"Nay, but I thank you for such concern." Thranduil acknowledged his kinsman, that strange, eery glint in his darkened eyes. "There is no other Elf here who possesses this skill. In Imladris, perhaps, there are Noldorin smiths who comprehend this art, but even they know nothing of casting souls. It was my will that imprisoned my brothers in the metal and only my will can free them absolutely."

"Yet you feared Legolas had become possessed with their essence," reminded Celeborn, crestfallen to see the prince's well-being made no impression. "How could that be if they are bound here?"

"Enough. It was amusing for a time but we will not play at this game. Too serious is our need, Celeborn," Tramborlong answered with Thranduil's tongue. "The spell that binds us permits invasion of a living host, for so we kept the robbers from our muindor dithen's keep. Even so, once a living host passes beyond the bounds of the stronghold, we are compelled to relinquish our claim and condemned to resume our posts, literally.

"Yet one of our bloodline, that hroa we can fully inhabit; the only body deserving of such intrusion is this one, though we did reside alongside our nephew's soul briefly. Once before when Legolas was but a child we tried to take him over yet even so young he resisted with greater success than any other has before or since. Full, true possession requires consent and he was not willing."

"While Thranduil is? What madness do you try to make me accept? He would never agree to this."

"You understand so little," Thurin'naur resumed the lecture, the King's condescending tone fitting to his brother's cold words. "He is no longer our keeper. In taking the key from Thranduil, Legolas became Master of the Gates. Whatsoever the Master commands, the Spirits of the Gates must obey, yet before that a blood offering is demanded to secure the right to rule. Not just any blood, but blood of the same lineage, our lineage, the heritage of Oropher. He was bleeding unto death, by all accounts. More than enough to satisfy the enchantment."

Celeborn found this a blatant misdirection and said so. "That has nothing to do with Thranduil granting consent to this embodiment. As to being your Master, from all I have heard and seen, neither would the Tawarwaith order such a thing. His concern is only for his innocent siblings and he would spare Thranduil for their sake."

"Aye, he would," Thurin'naur's voice mellowed and he smiled. "Yet he cannot see how detrimental Thranduil's influence will be on those elflings. There is darkness in our youngest brother that cannot be burned out. Legolas cannot see it anymore than you can."

"Consider what you see before you," Tramborlong continued, his spectral arm raising his brother's to point toward the ghastly gates. "He devised this punishment specifically to mock us for all time, for we denounced his lust for wealth and reminded him always of Thingol's Doom. He made us his Gatekeepers to spite us."

"As we make him the instrument of his own destruction. It is just and fitting. He knows, of course, and writhes in misery here in the hidden recesses of his child-heart, but can do nothing to hinder us now."

"Nay, I do not accept this," Celeborn shook his head. "Tramborlong and Thurin'naur would not do this. The Elves I knew were not vicious and cruel. Release Thranduil. Leave his fate to the Valar. Turn from this evil vengeance and go in peace to Mandos." he exhorted, mindful that as yet they had not revealed the fullness of their design.

"Ah, we cannot go to Námo now, kinsman," sighed Thurin'naur. "We seek immersion within Tawar but that cannot happen as long as the Gates and the Lock and the Key remain. They must be melted down and Thranduil will see it done."

"What of Oropher?" Celeborn reminded, hoping desperately to awaken dismayed repentance in the ravaged spirits' consciousness. "Will he be pleased or heart-broken to see what has become of his offspring, all three turned to Shadow?" His question provoked a horrific reaction, for Thranduil gnashed his teeth and howled, turning to yank at the open-work of the wrought iron prison as though to pull it down with the might of his rage. Yet the spirits' fury was impotent and their brother sagged against the cold, black whorls in defeat before turning on Celeborn.

"Our friend of old would not torment us this way, seeing what we have suffered," accused Tramborlong. "We do what must be done and know well enough what Adar would think of this. Yet we will never see him again, nor our mates, unless Yavanna frees us from Tawar in the Last Days. We consider that sufficient to atone for whatever precepts of the Valar we must defy to bring about this reversion of Thranduil's evil."

"Evil does not beget good, Trambor. You know this," Celeborn reminded. "Do not fall prey to your brother's demented rationalisations while dwelling in his flesh. Think! There is much more to be decided here than personal grievances, serious though yours are. The fate of two realms is tied up in this mess. Is it right for you two to oversee the trial and determine the punishment of Lord Elrond of Imladris? No wrongs has he done to either of you."

"No wrongs?" Thranduil's voice was hard and sharp with Thurin'naur's words. "Legolas was wronged and he is our nephew. He will be avenged."

"He would not want that," argued Celeborn, watching in dismay as a new sense of purpose overtook Thranduil's features and he cast away the tools he held.

"Yet it must be done. The Peredhel Lord is more than he seems, as is Legolas. Both must be healed."

Thranduil hurried to the stairs and was bounding up them as the brothers' spoke, Celeborn following, dread and guilt gripping his heart. His speech had put Elrond in the spirits' awareness and what befell him now must lie to some degree at his feet. The wizards were needed and at the kitchen door the Lord of Lothlorien turned away to find them.

Baul Gellui (Triumphant Torment)

The cold assaulted him with winter's passive violence, stealing his breath and forcing him to hasten, arms circling his chest with protective insulation, hands burrowing into the underarms, eyes squinting against the voracious and frigid air. Erestor meant to circle around through the garden to the side entrance into the Chamber of Starlight but just before he ducked in a figure rounded the curve of the mountain and he paused, recognising Feärfaron, and waited, eager to learn if he had word of Legolas. The grim ellon was shaking his head even before Erestor could pose his questions, for his hope was in his eyes.

"We will likely hear nothing more tonight or even on the morrow, for the trees are deep in sleep as the freeze worsens. Even Tawar cannot raise them in such conditions and the one alert already rendered is all we can expect." Feärfaron sighed and reached out to settle an encouraging grip on the Noldo's biceps, much as he would do for Legolas. Realising that, he offered a bemused smile to the seneschal, for somehow he had adopted this one as well.

"I must try, then, and escape the wizards' ban and go forth to find him," said Erestor. "Do not oppose me, Feärfaron, for I know you want him back as much as I."

"Aye, but I have known him longer than have you," reminded the kindly carpenter. "He would never forgive me if I permitted you to leave the safety of the city. I can do nothing less than add my edict to Mithrandir's: you are to remain in the fortress until the fate of your kinsman is decided."

Erestor's brows rose up; he had all but forgotten Elrond's arrival. "Where is he?"

"The storage room."

The seneschal could not prevent the gasp of shock this answer initiated. Though he had been in the fortress many days, he had not had courage enough to enter that vile place. Well he knew its part in Legolas' history but Erestor felt no desire to visit the setting where his beloved Pen-Rhovan had been so cruelly defamed and debased, shame and self-hatred incised into his flesh. Now he would go, eager to confront his cousin and make certain Elrond was duly impressed with the harsh reality of Legolas' life in Greenwood. He moved to step past Feärfaron and at once the carpenter's hold tightened and snatched him to a halt.

"He is to be redeemed; that is Legolas' will."

"Legolas is generous to a fault and mayhap there is nothing of my cousin's former nobility to save, yet I mean only to speak with Elrond."

Feärfaron studied his law-son's eyes for truth and found it. With a brisk nod he released Erestor and went on his way, heading for the comfort of Annaldír's bedroom where both his sons had found rest and refuge. He could do nothing now but wait and pray.

It was but a short walk to the humble oak barrier behind which Legolas' darkest torments had been staged. Nearing it, Erestor tried to put himself in his heart-mate's place, attempted to feel what it must have been like to go willingly to such torture. Though he had brought Pen-Rhovan to peace over it, Erestor could not suppress the nausea and rage that filled him when he imagined the wild elf taking up that whip and flaying his flesh with it. He reached the door and threw it wide, expecting it to be locked, and the heavy boards slammed against the stony wall with a loud report. In the dim light, he saw a kneeling figure startle and cower in the reverberating noise.

"Who is there?" Elrond's voice was high and laced with fear, the smell of his terror strong, the sound of his respiration audible.

"It is I." Erestor entered and left the door open, making his way in the faint illumination to a shelf upon the far wall. There he found a lamp and flint and lit a flame to light the place. He raised the candle high and surveyed his cousin, marking the chains that held his wrists bound to the posts, arms outstretched, face downcast in mortification. "Look at me, Elrond." He waited but the defamed Lord refused, giving a half-hearted shake of his head. Erestor uttered an impatient noise and set down the lamp in order to close the door. He turned the latch and noted with satisfaction how Elrond's spine twitched in response.

"What…what are you going to do?" asked Elrond, daring a swift glance at his old friend. He caught the light of the new bond at once and his mouth dropped open in amazement.

"I just need to hear you admit your errors," Erestor answered, drawing near. "I am pleased to see you confined as Legolas was. To whom must I express that appreciation?"

"The carpenter. He is some kind of Spirit Master," mumbled Elrond. "He said Legolas would have me returned to Imladris restored to my former status, yet I find that impossible to imagine."

"Why say such insulting things to me? Do you not know he is my mate now? You try me to the limit and beyond! Ai! But for Legolas' strong conviction would I not use this opportunity to inflict a penance such that you would never forget it? Truly do you deserve it!" spat Erestor, furious to hear this odious Lord malign Pen-Rhovan's compassionate spirit.

"Aye, yet I meant no insult; my words were poorly chosen. I only meant it is difficult to envision that I will ever be the same again. Listen to me, Erestor; I have seen the depth of my descent into dishonour and regret every iniquitous act. The Wardens of the Gates so instructed me; be thankful your chastisement has been less gruelling."

"Is it so?" Erestor surveyed him keenly and suddenly stooped low to meet his kinsman's eyes. "What can you know of the castigation tendered to me? Spirits have visited you while the Valar have shaken me in their teeth like a hound with a hare."

"And yet rewarded you." A quick flash of jealousy ignited in Elrond's heart and he gave it voice. "The bond is plain to see; how did you manage that with two others already linked to your soul?" Erestor's reaction was swift and painful and Elrond's cheek stung with the force of the slap that landed there.

"Do not speak to me thus," hissed Erestor, rising. "I was never bound to them and well you know it. It seems the Spirits did not excise all the spiteful rancour from your heart. I know what prompts such words; you desire him. In the covetous contours of your twisted soul you want to punish me for receiving the grace of his love."

"Preposterous," scoffed Elrond but his eyes could not bear his cousin's stare.

"Nay, I know all about it." Erestor's voice took on the perilous timbre of a predator's growl. "I have heard the lies you spread throughout Imladris regarding my reasons for being here. Treason! You dared speak the loathsome word in conjunction with my name and not in private, old friend, but to the council, to Glorfindel! No one has served Imladris as whole-heartedly; no one has been as loyal to you as I. Who was it that cared for your grieving heart after Gil-galad's death? Who else has been beside you to share the deepest secrets of your soul and still named you friend?"

Elrond said nothing, his face averted in belligerent defiance, fingers rigidly wrapped around the chains at his wrists.

"Speak!" shouted Erestor and struck again, knuckles boring into a soft, unguarded eye. "When have I wronged you? What was my crime?"

"Never! Nothing!" The skin at the corner of the lid split as Elrond howled his answer, head snapping back with a jarring explosion of scintillating stars. "Saes, Erestor, I was not in my right mind when I made those accusations. Rest assured, every one of them will be retracted and your honour restored. Saes, say that you will forgive me and call me friend still." Elrond pleaded, real remorse in his voice. He dared a glimpse into Erestor's face, wincing beneath the furious glare focused upon him.

"Forgiveness. I am so angry right now I dare not say yea or nay to that," Erestor shook his head in disgust, aggrieved to have succumbed to such strong emotion, and stepped aside for a moment to collect himself. "We share the same blood and yet you turned against me while I alone stood before the King, his council, and all the populace of Greenwood attempting to answer for our misdeeds. The expressions on their faces, Elrond! Never have I been regarded with such contempt. Never have I been so deserving of it."

"I am truly sorry, mellonen; I should have been the one to absorb their just anger," Elrond consoled, struggling to focus through the uninjured eye as the other quickly swelled shut.

"Aye." Erestor faced him once more, not entirely displeased to observe the battered countenance Elrond presented. "Yet I am glad I was there instead of you for the trial was horrible for Legolas and he could not have borne it had you been present to witness his abasement. Thranduil told them all, Elrond. Before everyone he revealed what sport we made of the Tawarwaith, how he fell victim to our seductions. I still cannot comprehend how you conjured the venom penned into that vicious note. What made you do it? Had you not hurt him enough?"

"Nay! The letter was used as evidence?" Elrond had forgotten that missive in his encompassing self-pity. Now he ground his teeth in futile repudiation of his vindictive action.

"Worse than that. Aragorn destroyed the document and so Thranduil forced Legolas to admit it himself. Standing there, watching this, I could not deny any of it; indeed, by my ineffectual attempt to cast doubt on Thranduil's words I ended up confirming them. Nor could I be at Legolas' side and help him through it because of my own part in these black deeds. The betrayal I perpetrated on Legolas is so terrible it makes me ill to recall it."

"Aragorn has seen that? Ai! What he must think!" Elrond moaned, head low upon his breast.

"Valar! Can you not get past your own circumstances for even an instant? You should be asking if Legolas has knowledge of it. Can you still refuse to feel the depth of humiliation your actions inflicted upon him? By the stars, I will not have it!" Erestor roared, quite beyond reason as the scenes of the hearing replayed and he witness again his beloved wild elf's mortification. Enraged, he inflicted another blow, the dull thud of his fist against Elrond's cheek bone echoing in the confined space, the cry of pain and surprise following just as loud. Breathing hard, fingers curled into ready weapons, Erestor leaned close, wild-eyed and fey. "Tell me, what do you most fear will happen here, mellon?"

"What? Erestor, please, I am prepared to answer for my crime but this abuse is uncalled for," Elrond protested, heart rate increasing as the menace in the seneschal's tone escalated. "I want to make amends."

"Bah! Empty is that proclamation, spawned as it is by fear instead of contrition." Erestor lashed out again and bloodied his cousin's nose. "Nor are words sufficient to reveal the real horrors Legolas endured, particularly those performed in this room," Erestor scolded. He folded his arms before him and gazed in speculative appraisal upon his long time friend, pleased by the unstemmed flow draining from the exalted ruler's nostrils, the gaping mouth noisily gulping air. "And I know you well; you are always ready to ply pretty words to convince others of your sincerity. Such does not serve Legolas' purpose." He strolled around Elrond completely and then smiled a dark and vengeful grin as he slowly unsheathed his dagger and held it up, suddenly wishing it was the one that had so long teased Legolas with the solace of death.

"Wait!" Elrond gasped and thrashed in his chains, the noisy clanking harsh and mocking. "You would not pierce the flesh of your cousin and Lord!"

Erestor did not reply, darting forward and taking firm hold of Elrond's tunic. Faster than the eye could follow, he passed the blade through the elegant fabric from neck to hem, quickly doing the same down the length of each arm. The ruined garment fell away to the floor and the seneschal treated shirt and undershirt to the same destruction, ignoring Elrond's panting breath and panicked eyes. When the famed Lord of Imladris was bared to the skin, Erestor stepped back and nodded in satisfaction as the cold worked goose-pimples upon the exposed flesh. Yet it was not enough, for Legolas had been forced to strip down completely whenever he entered this room. Erestor crouched on his heels and sliced the leggings from waistband to crotch, front and back, relishing Elrond's alarmed cry and roughly snatching the destroyed garment from each leg. Then he stood and glared down at the Elven Lord naked and vulnerable before him.

"Aye, that is better," he said, nodding with satisfaction at Elrond's unsuccessful attempts to shield his genitals from view and recover some semblance of dignity. "That vile Ailinyero made him undress under his lecherous leer. At least you are spared so grotesque an encounter."

"Erestor, please…"

"Nay! Beg no boon from me, Elrond! If I had that disgusting whip I would put it in your hands and demand you endure what Legolas inflicted upon himself." Erestor fought the urge to land a forceful kick in the Lord's groin, turning and pacing into the depths of the chamber and back. Yet his efforts failed and he planted his booted foot solidly against the exposed balls, watching with malicious glee as Elrond screamed a shrill shriek and tried to curl over the abused glands.

The chains held him upright and he groaned, gagging on the blood draining from his nose. The agony took some little time before the throbbing ebbed and he was sufficiently recovered to speak. "But why? I am not the one who called down the Judgement of Erebor upon Legolas."

"Can you still be so resistant to owning your sins?" Erestor was beyond disgusted and felt the need to throttle the throat that had uttered such a self-serving sentence.

Instead he struck a wringing slap against his cousin's tender ear that was completely unsatisfying and stomped away in frustrated rage. He paced about at the back of the room, became aware of the small table stuffed into the corner, moved toward it. Resting on its surface was a neat, dark coil and he reached for it, fingers encountering the cold contours of steel loops linked into a chain no greater than a finger's width in dimension. The sound as it lifted into the air was almost lyrical, like the tones of temple bells tolling or wind chimes singing. At its terminus was a smooth wooden handle that fit his hand with perfection and Erestor nodded, accepting his role as the Tawarwaith's avenger, a role brought into being during his confrontation with Malthen. He returned slowly to his cousin and showed him the instrument of his chastisement, pleased as Elrond's eyes grew large and filled with horror.

"Erestor," Elrond swallowed down more blood and panted out two noisy breaths. "I am not recalcitrant. I swear to you my remorse is real. This level of brutality is not required to make me feel it."

"So true, yet Legolas had not the option to plead as you are doing now for there was no one in all this great forest who cared enough to heed him, and that lies at your feet, also." So saying Erestor lifted the whip and laid down the first lash upon Elrond's shoulders. In its wake a long red wound appeared and the Lord of Imladris gasped aloud, jerking in his bonds as the burning flash of agony burst upon him.

"Nae! Far, Erestor!" He lifted disbelieving eyes to his kinsman, unable to encompass that he must endure this savagery.

"Still thinking about your own woes?" sneered Erestor and added another stripe to the pale white back, gratified to raise a cry of pain this time. "Without your interference in Legolas' life, he would have become Thranduil's beloved heir. I have no doubt the King would have recognised the similarity between his first-born and his deceased father. Even I can see it, now that Feärfaron has pointed it out, and I did not know Oropher well. That would have endeared the elfling to his sire despite the uncanny physical resemblance to Ningloriel. Indeed, his birth would likely have healed the rift between them, so grateful would Thranduil have been for such a gift. It was you who prevented that, Elrond. I know about the talisman you sent the King just prior to Legolas' birth."

Two more tearing strikes fell.

Elrond struggled to breathe, his echoing scream having deprived him of every ounce of air in his lungs, the pain excruciating, driving all else from awareness. An indeterminate amount of time passed as the fire gradually cooled and the trickling blood clotted leaving dark tears trailing from the open gashes. When his brain could produce something other than the demand to flee, Elrond wondered in confusion over his kinsman's claim. Slowly he raised his bowed head to gape at his worthy advisor, chest heaving for oxygen, body trembling in agony.

"You know? How? The only reference to it is a note in my personal diary. Did you…?"

"Nay, your guess is incorrect." Until this Erestor had remained still and silent, watching for the realisation to collect in Elrond's face. Now the words revealed another charge of betrayal and his lip curled in sneering disgust. "I have never invaded your privacy thus. Thranduil was pleased to share with me the very items he will bring to your trial. These will establish your malicious intent to disrupt the royal family and destroy the House of the Beeches; testimony written in your own hand. What your punishment will be he refuses to discuss, even with Celeborn."

"Celeborn." Elrond's wan cheeks paled even more and he felt a powerful surge of bile rise up, envisioning his law-father's reaction to this evidence. The response likely from his sons made him wail in sorrow. "Elrohir will never forgive me. You know he always wanted to find Legolas and bring him to Imladris, certain Ningloriel's child was his brother."

"Your sons are honourable, as you were once. They love you and in time they will grant you pardon, but only when you have fully exerted every ounce of your ability to repair the damage you have wrought upon Legolas and this beleaguered realm. Let this be the beginning for you. You are counted wise among elf-kind and your sense of justice has ever been sought when conflict arises between people or even between nations. Tell me what your verdict would be in such a case as this."

"What do you mean?" Elrond knew very well what he meant but hoped to forestall so terrible a fate.

"Let us imagine the situation in reverse," Erestor persisted calmly, crouching low on his haunches and smiling as he slowly drew the gory chain across his palm, its sound less melodious now. "Thranduil and Talagan have crossed the borders of Imladris. Their design to locate Arwen and seduce her then blame this debauchery on their victim, accusing her of absent morals, licentiousness, and promiscuity, dissolving the natural dignity and grace bestowed by Eru and reducing her to despair." He paused, studying the one good eye as it filled with horror, observing Elrond's struggle to master the urge to retch.

"Is this truly the first time you have viewed your crimes in these terms?" He gave a soft snort of derision. "Well, then, consider it thoroughly before rendering your decision. I would hear it from your own lips, Elrond. How many lashes does such evil deserve? But nay, do not answer hastily. Remember that the scene described is but one small incident in a long chain of events Thranduil has inspired, all designed to ruin the life of an innocent."

Seconds sped away into eternity as the two stared each other down. At last Elrond grimaced and gave a faint shake of his head.

"I would not demand corporal punishment," he said and knew it for the lie it was. The falsehood earned him another lash as Erestor leaped up and snapped the chain against his buttocks.

"Try again."

Breathing hard, Elrond nodded in dejected defeat, for there was no escaping his culpability, no denying he would rip to pieces anyone who so much as threatened the reputation of his beloved youngest child, much less anything worse.

"Aye. 'Tis the truth," he struggled to speak through the pain, aware of the hot streaks of blood dripping down his thighs. "I would demand a stiff penalty. So be it, Erestor; I will speak my doom even as I would impose it on anyone who acted as I have done. A lashing is a paltry punishment indeed, for the wounds will heal while the damage such dealings as mine inflicted is permanent. I cannot go back in time and unwrite that letter which condemned Legolas to his father's cold hatred."

"No, you cannot."

"Nor can I stop Malthen from taking advantage of his lowly estate, abusing his heart and his body, teaching him to long for pain and believe that is all he deserves. It has already happened to him and cannot be undone."

"Aye, you begin to see."

"I can never return to him that dream of a distant father, noble and good, who might someday send for him and welcome him proudly," Elrond whispered, suddenly finding his voice choked more with tears than the fire of his wounds. "I think that was the worst betrayal, for it was the very last dream of his elfling heart, the very last hope snatched away and used to bludgeon his innocent soul."

"Yes, that is what we did to him. Tell me, what should such vile people endure to compensate for these evils?" Erestor asked, shoulders slumped and head hung low in bitter shame.

"There is no means to expiate such sins," Elrond mumbled, shaking his head.

"Even so, you must pass judgement."

"Then beat me until the floor runs red and my senses leave me. Cast me out and banish me from Imladris, disown me and name me traitor." Elrond groaned, ready to endure this penance, finding it insufficient and trifling in comparison to the wrongs weighing down his soul.

"No, that is too much and Legolas would not forgive me. How many lashes?" demanded Erestor, giving the whip a short jerk so the chain rattled its high-toned taunt.

Elrond raised his head and gazed at his old friend and kinsman, seeing that he must choose the number and finding this fitting. He smiled a wan smile and offered a soft, self-deriding laugh. "What was his sentence? Twenty-four years banishment for each warrior lost? Give me the same in blows."

"Seventy-two lashes." Erestor spoke the sentence to confirm it.

"Aye, seventy-two. No need to deduct those already applied, consider them payment for the unjust charges I levelled to besmirch your good character, mellonen."

"So be it," agreed Erestor, "and when I am done you will give the same number to me." He moved a step away and readied his stance.

"No, that would not be fair," argued Elrond, straining to look over his shoulder and meet his cousin's gaze. "You were not the instrument of this scheme and you were not involved in destroying Thranduil's regard for his son. Twenty-four is more than enough for you to bear."

"Twenty-four it shall be," Erestor nodded, a serene smile overwhelming his features, and he raised his arm for the first blow. "One," he said quietly and the whip descended with a sickening wet sound as it burst the skin and ripped it away, Elrond's cry of anguish still echoing as the next lash fell and then the next and sixty-nine more after that until the floor was painted crimson and the seneschal spattered with the dark, vermilion spray.

Farad Heria (The Hunt Begins)

Legolas paused for the third time, resting in weary and impatient disgust against the trunk of the silent tree, lungs heaving and a fine film of sweat adhering to his skin for all the bitterness of the deepening freeze. Now when speed was so essential he found his body unable to obey, the loss of blood and his ensuing pleasures with Berenaur more sapping of his energy than he had calculated. The wound ached with a hollowing, gouging pain, surging and ebbing with his elevated pulse, protesting the exertion of climbing and running through the limbs, and he gingerly slipped a hand beneath the woollen tunic and silk shirt, touching the bandage, fearful of finding the linen damp and warm. With relief he felt no indications that Gladhadithen's meticulous work had been undone and shivered, pulling the panther-skin cloak closer to his body.

Touching the fur made him smile in spite of the dire situation. Never had he been so well dressed as this, for Berenaur, understanding that he must go forth, had taken pains to cover him in many layers, the actions ritualistic and solemn as though calling down the protection of the Valar with every garment added, his touch gentle, reverent, and lingering as though it might be the last time his fingers ever caressed the marred skin and Legolas was moved beyond speech. Never had he felt so loved and he spent long minutes simply leaning against the Noldo's broad chest, secure in Berenaur's arms, the hold enveloping, possessive, filled with fear the older elf would not voice.

To feel his mate's breath ghosting through his hair, the faint pressure of lips gracing the golden strands with tender endearment, the warmth of the virile body supporting him was an experience so unique and new he could hardly accept it as reality. To hear the quietly spoken avowal of love, to see the proof of it in dark eyes bright with the sheen of unshed tears, raised up his soul to heights unimagined even in his fairest dreams, and Legolas reached for a long tendril of the seneschal's ebony tresses, slicing it free and weaving into a thin plait. Smiling, both proud and shy, he knelt and wrapped this token around his ankle, covering forever the white reminder of that which had been there for so long a time.

It had been too much for Berenaur, this traditional sylvan gift of parting between lovers, and he had dropped to the floor, fingers running over the criss-crossed braid, silver tears wetting it, yet he did not speak, made no demands that Legolas give up this quest, knowing full well such words could only add to his Pen-Rhovan's burdens. Much as he longed to do it, Erestor could not accompany Legolas, for his skill in the trees was negligible and his presence would only force the sylvan archer to become his living shield, preventing any harm befalling his beloved.

They had not even discussed it, a long look passing between them when the carpenter brought Lindalcon's note to his heart-brother. All objections, regrets, trepidations, and hopes flowed from one soul to the next and back, the boundaries dividing their spirits all but vanished. Fearfaron left them to manage the parting as best they could and finally the moment arrived. Erestor stood again and settled Oropher's cape over the Tawarwaith's shoulders, fastening it with the great ruby Hûn-en-Ûr as he claimed a long and pleading kiss, begging not for him to stay but to return, promising to be there waiting when he did.

The quiver was last of all and because the great King had been an archer, too, the cloak was made to accept the strapping without obstructing movement or lessening the insulating properties of the fur. Spontaneously each clasped the other's hand, raising it to venerate the symbolic circles of their eternal bond with reverent lips. Only then did the carpenter return, having waited at the talan's base all this time, bearing a new pair of low leather boots for his adopted son and a small pouch of provisions. Father to a warrior an Age before Legolas was conceived, Fearfaron made no fuss about his leave taking, simply commanding his Ion Edwen to return whole and hale and with Lindalcon in the same condition. There had been nothing left but for the Tawarwaith to go from his family and he did so, leaping to the ground and racing from the clearing that had been his haven since childhood.

High in the denuded canopy, Legolas sighed in contentment. Quite different was this departure from his last for now he had a home to return to, a mated spouse who loved him and a doting father waiting there. Before, only Fearfaron had cared to make certain he had what he would need in the wilds. Then, it had been the carpenter fixing the rough wolf skin cloak around him, fussing about the crude manufacture and insubstantial bulk of the pelt. The comparison brought forth an unexpected sensation of nostalgia as the memory of an earlier winter in Greenwood came to mind; the winter of his fourth year in exile. Then, he did not have even that rugged cloak of wolf fur to shield him from the relentless cold.

As is the way of remembrance, one image spawns another and he recalled the day he had acquired the thick salt and pepper pelt. That had been a winter's night much like this, but Ithil was bright and round then, the trees and the ground beneath them dusted with glistening snow.

Crouched close to the trunk, the Tawarwaith hunkered down in miserable discontent as an icy blast of wind got inside his meagre defence against the cold. Wearing little more than tattered leggings and the hide of a buck complete with head and antlers which rested atop his scalp, he cursed the weather, demanding of Yavanna the reason for such a distinction between seasons. The strange costume was useful as much for camouflage as for warmth, for the rich chestnut colour of the deer's coat helped him blend in against the leafless branches where his pale skin and golden hair were easy to spot.

He needed superior vigilance during winter for the Orcs knew their advantage and pressed hard, hunting him relentlessly. Every stream and pool of clean water was watched; each place where game might be had guarded. Yet for all they viewed him as one, Legolas was not an animal and, in any case, every wild thing had sense enough to plan and provision for the long cold months. He was not less wise than the voiceless creatures of Greenwood. It was while en route to one of these hidden caches that he found his way blocked and by the most unexpected gathering.

The place where his provisions were stored was in one of the ancient rings of oaks, formerly a sacred site and still a safe haven amid the expanding pockets of turned trees dotting the central region of the forest. At the far end of the circle and just behind its largest member stood an immense hollowed oak, its innards carved out by an animal or some blight of evil perhaps, the gaping hole patched over by Legolas using bark and branches gleaned from deceased hardwoods. The carefully concealed opening permitted him to hide the foodstuffs he had worked so hard to collect during summer. Now he had need of the supplies and thus had come to his secluded refuge only to find the clearing filling with dire wolves.

They loped in from the opposite side of the glade, arriving in pairs or threes almost at the same time he reached the perimeter. Frustrated and hungry, he was about to fire an arrow to scare them off when the beasts formed a circle within the space and sat down nearly in unison. Lifting their lupine muzzles skyward the wolves began baying at the moon, their song both mournful and majestic, the tones rising and falling in that eery and mysterious cadence specific to the breed. They seemed to be calling for something or someone, the reverberating chant replete with longing anticipation, or perhaps it was a kind of enchantment, a ritual of magic to mark the first full moon of winter.

Legolas was mesmerised, listening to their voices, learning their song, and just when its meaning began to reach his awareness the first of the transformations occurred. Before his very eyes, two of the wolves changed shape, becoming human in form, male and female, and to one another they turned in both joy and sorrow. Naked under the light of Ithil, they embraced and kissed, speaking now the silent language of love, and coupled there amid the moonlight.

The others changed also yet not all had mates and those lacking partners took upon themselves the duties of the pack, gathering wood and lighting a ring of fires just inside the bounding trees to provide light and warmth. The red and orange flames danced and crackled, lending the writhing bodies atop the snow their colour, and Legolas, knowing he should not be watching, could not tear his eyes away. They were beautiful to see and their passion ignited a hunger of an entirely different nature in his loins. So long had he been alone and he found that he envied them, for though they must wait for this reunion of flesh until the summit of Tilion's monthly journey, yet it was far better than the encounters he endured among his people in the same interval.

"A deer up a tree, now here is a sight to recount to the young pups next summer."

Legolas startled and turned to locate the source of the voice, finding a pair of amused amber eyes regarding him from the base of the oak, their owner a tall, sinewy male sporting shoulder length black and silver hair and nothing else. He was well formed and knew it, standing with his arms crossed over his chest beneath which dark hair peeked, legs planted wide, a proud erection rising between muscular thighs that were equally hairy. Legolas swallowed, not entirely in lustful anticipation, for this was not an elf and he was not so sure what kind of manners these creatures possessed. If this gaur (Wolf-man) tried to force him he would have no choice but to kill it, and that would be a great shame.

"Standing there with mouth agape serves none, wild elf; come down and join us," coaxed the werewolf, his eyes freely wandering over Legolas lean figure beneath the deer-skin cloak. "And do cast off that ridiculous outfit. Does not fool anyone, save Orcs perhaps."

"That is who it is supposed to fool," retorted Legolas. "Why should I come down, gaur? I have no wish to become the main course in your wolvish feast."

The gaur laughed. "A feast of flesh you are, indeed, but not for satisfying the belly. There are other hungers to feed as I suspect you may be aware. Come down; join me."

"Nay, you come up here," Legolas challenged, believing that old yarn regarding dogs being unable to climb trees and feeling quite safe. It was with shock he perceived the triumphant gleam in the gaur's eyes as the beast easily clambered up the trunk. Instinctively, Legolas reached for his dagger and held it out, edging away as the werewolf settled beside him on the branch. "Stay back!" he warned.

"I am unarmed," reminded the wolf-man, extending his hands wide to emphasise the point. "You did invite me, wild elf, and I intend you no harm, though you have hunted my kind on more than one occasion."

"I have not done so with purpose," objected Legolas, horrified to think the wolves he had once tracked and trapped were gaurwaith (were-wolves) instead. Hastily he stowed the knife back in its proper place. "I did not know."

"That is why we assign no blame to you. It was our choice to remain hidden and but for your discovery this night we would have remained so."

"Why? I do not understand you; are you seeking death?"

"Better death on the hunt than the yolk of evil to which the Wraiths would bind us as wargs. There is honour in the hunt. What of you? Are you not seeking death out here alone in these wastes of evil trees and Nazgûl?"

"I am here to undo a great wrong," Legolas said, looking away. He sighed heavily and rose to his feet. "Better that I leave you folk to your time of reunion. My presence here is likely to draw only trouble."

"So noble, so heroic, so self-sacrificing," the gaur intoned and chuckled darkly. "We can take care of ourselves, wild elf. Go if you must, but if you do be honest about it; admit your fear of me."

"I do not fear you," Legolas denied, angry over the mockery and rather unsettled as the creature's eyes again took his measure from crown to feet, even as his own gaze ran the length of the werewolf, pausing at the groin. The gaur rose and he retreated until his back met the bark.

"Perhaps I misspoke. It is not me, as an individual, that you fear. It is what you feel, seeing me, being this close to me, that causes you so much distress. Why is that?" He reached out and gently caressed the wild elf's cheek, smiling as Legolas at first tried to duck the contact and then leaned into it. He bent low to nuzzle against the elf's throat, just there where the jugular was so rapidly pulsing, and dabbed his tongue over the vital vein, inhaling his quarry's fear and arousal. It excited him and he pressed closer, hot erection meeting the coarse hide of the wild elf's leggings.

"There is no need for such dread over what would surely be pleasurable to us both, hmmmm?" he whispered, one hand groping the hardness beneath the elf's simple garment. With the other the gaur dislodged the deer head hood. As it fell back, its weight dragged the rest of the cover away and revealed the smooth, naked chest with its twin points of ruby flesh. The werewolf touched them, pressing against the hard nipples, grinning when this raised a low moan. "What is your name, wild elf?"

"Legolas. What is yours, gaur?" He spoke with difficulty, finding he needed to concentrate on breathing rather than speaking, and cautiously settled his hand around the thick column of rigid flesh so insistently poking his hip.

"Ah! Your touch is like fire!" the werewolf gasped, pivoting into the grip around his shaft and pulling Legolas close to taste his lips. With a triumphant growl he sampled the mouth that opened for him. "I am Celebanc." (Silver Tooth) He retreated only so far as needed to clearly view the elf's blue eyes, so conflicted and yet so eager. Celebanc sighed. "I would not harm you, Legolas. My mate is lost to me, as is yours."

"You know?" Legolas' mind had difficulty encompassing the idea for Celebanc's hand was now inside his leggings, gliding over his penis, cupping his balls. "Nay, I cannot," he groaned and spread his legs wider even as he said this.

"Why? Because of that oath you were made to swear? Look at me. I am not elf-kind; your Law says nothing of my kind and thus nothing is forbidden. Get these deplorable pants off, Legolas." Celebanc was smiling as he nibbled his way up the long pale throat, lapped at the small earlobe, and then, unable to rein in his curiosity, nipped at the scarlet tip protruding from the golden hair. The response was unexpected but entirely gratifying as Legolas cried out aloud and his whole body was shaken, the spasm ending as the slender cock twitched, straining against his hold.

"I do fear this," Legolas admitted, "though I want it and your need excites me. Proud and honourable you may be, but I have no wish to join your kind."

At this the gaur threw back his head and laughed long and loud, the sound taking on more of the wolf's gruff bark than he might wish. "Ai! It does not work like that," he declaimed once he reined in his hilarity. "Not with the First-born in any case. We can turn a mortal, a human, but not an elf. Be at peace, what we would share will not change you."

With that his hand slid down to cup Legolas' jaw, lifting his mouth to claim it, no longer soft in the contact but dominant and insistent. He did not spend long at it, just time enough to establish mastery and then retreat. Now his hands loosened the knotted leather tie securing the leggings and quickly tugged them down. Through all this he kept his eye locked with the immortal's, smiling reassurance and welcoming the elegant fingers that reached out to stroke the hair on his chest.

"Like it?" he asked, the words a low growl of contentment as the digits continued exploring, testing the response of his nipples.

"I have never felt anything similar," whispered Legolas, for the hair was soft and silky. He was pleased to find the dark red flesh nestled within it as responsive as his and ducked his head to lick the nipples, finding the sensation of the short strands against his tongue strange but not offensive.

Celebanc did the same to him, opening the clasps securing the quiver and easing it off, deftly setting the weapon in the crook of a tree limb, laughing and lightly passing his hands down Legolas' spine to settle on the elf''s tight round arse. "Verily are you naked but for the hair on your head and this small thatch of curls." He fingered the mass of golden pubic hair as he spoke and moved on to grip the hard penis again, pumping vigourously. "The wind must be a torment to you."

"The wind has not your skill," panted Legolas, imitating Celebanc's stimulation, eagerly fisting the rigid cock between the gaur's legs. "Valar, you are hard! Has it been long?"

"Aye." The werewolf thrust into his hold forcefully and the motion nearly sent them both toppling backwards into space. Legolas' quick snatch of a jutting limb prevented it and Celebanc found himself crushed tight against the sylvan body. "By Yavanna, how do you folk manage this in the trees? No wonder there are so few elflings."

Legolas laughed, rubbing sinuously against the hairy chest. "I imagine it is done the same way as any other people do."

"Well, I know nothing about the culture of the Wood Elves, but I know what we both need. Turn about and let me take you." Celebanc did not wait for Legolas' reply, taking him at the arms and helping him move, the sensation as his cock dragged against bare buttocks too much to endure without action. Quickly he gripped the slender hips and positioned himself, boring in with a harsh grunt as he breached the taut ring of muscles.

Legolas gasped as the familiar jolt of pain was overprinted by a bright flare of exquisite delight as Celebanc claimed him, the loud slap as their bodies collided exhilarating. He pressed back as the organ retreated, hanging on to the branch bearing his weight, awaiting the return thrust impatiently, calling out as soon as the long cock once more stroked his inner core. "So good," he moaned. "Harder, Celebanc."

The werewolf did not respond verbally, increasing his pace and the pressure of every invasive shove, fucking the wild elf with a frantic, frenzied urgency. It did not take him long to near his peak and as his loins gathered for the climax he reached beneath Legolas and grabbed at his cock, pumping it in time to his motion. Celebanc came with a victorious roar, seed spurting hot and thick deep inside his conquest. He continued to rock against the resilient body as he stroked Legolas to completion, relishing the long cry of ecstasy the wild elf emitted.

He let go and pulled out suddenly, his weight vanishing from Legolas' frame, and the Tawarwaith blinked in confusion, gasping for breath, one hand locked around the tree branch and the other around his cock. It was not yet dawn, moonlight streaming down upon the clearing beneath the oak and Legolas found his eyes focused on the intelligent gaze of a great silver wolf. Maw gaping in a toothy grin, tongue lolling, the beast regarded him with what could only be amusement. Legolas groaned in misery and dropped his forehead to his supporting arm, realising he was alone in the tree. It had only been a dream. Carefully he sat back, finding his position draped over the branch rather unstable, nose wrinkling in disgust at the scent of his semen and the sticky mess coating his fingers. He shook them and wiped the excess against his leggings, which gaped wide.

Silently berating himself for succumbing to so bizarre a fantasy, he tied the leggings shut again and shivered, searching the tree for the deerskin cover, glad he still had his weapons securely about his person. The antlered buck hide was no where to be found and he cursed, realising it must have fallen to the ground, and then startled when the wolf gave forth a long, mournful cry. Legolas leaned cautiously out and peered down at the inspiration for his erotic dream, relieved to find the leering grin gone, replaced by a serious, almost speculative expression.

"What do you want, draug (wolf) ?" he asked.

The animal gave no answer, standing and trotting into the centre of the clearing where it sat again and lifted its muzzle to Ithil. Again the silence was shattered with its lonely call, but this time another voice answered. The rapid barks of the pack calling back to its leader grew ever closer until ten or twelve more wolves loped into the clearing. Legolas held his breath, wondering if his dream was about to prove true, but the beasts were agitated and just as swiftly departed, entering the woods as another sound caught his notice. Right on the wolves tails came the distorted snarling and gnashing of wargs, their mutated cousins, and it was clear a hunt was in progress. The opposing forces clashed and a horrible battle of tearing teeth commenced, the howls and barks and yaps of pain terrible to hear.

All at once, the creatures tumbled in a roiling mass back into the glade, the leaders of the enemy packs locked in vicious combat, biting and ripping at one another, each trying to get at the other's throat as the remainder of the animals circled around them. The warg was bowled over by a fierce pounce and the silver wolf's fang's sank into the foul neck, sawing down to the jugular. A high yelp and a bright spurt of red announced victory but not before the warg's claws managed to rip open the wolf's belly. In minutes both expired and the rest of the beasts set to howling.

Overwhelmed with fury he had no need to define, Legolas rose and began firing on the wargs. One and all he killed them, following after those that fled, and when he was done found tears upon his cheek. He made his way back to the glade and there the wolves remained gathered about their fallen leader, all of them baying a lament into the night. They fell silent as Legolas neared and as one fixed him with their bright canine eyes. He sensed no danger from them and dropped to the ground, joining them beside the silver male. He knelt and gently caressed the thick fur, sighing. Somehow he felt responsible, as though he should have sensed the presence of the wargs and alerted the wolves. His dream had prevented this and attracted the curiosity of the pack leader.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, running his hand over the noble head, settling the tongue back inside, closing the blood stained jaws.

"You did not kill him," spoke a voice at his ear and Legolas cried out, leaping to his feet, arrow nocked instinctively, but the wolves disregarded his threatening stance, merely staring at him patiently.

"Did you…you can speak," he stuttered, addressing the closest, another male with clear blue eyes and a coat of black and grey. Realisation dawned and he hastily put away his weapons, reddening in embarrassment. "Forgive me, I was surprised."

A throaty, growling laugh came from the wolf's grinning jaws. "That is evident, but there is nothing to forgive. We would ask a favour of you, wild elf."

"Speak; if it is within my power it shall be done," Legolas replied, understanding that in some strange way the dream and reality had meshed. He must have spoken with Celebanc before surrendering to exhaustion, lapsing into deep reverie and its typically mortifying result.

"It is not right for him to rot, providing fodder for scavengers. We would see him buried," the wolf said. "He was our leader; he was my father."

"I grieve for your loss." Legolas bowed, hand over his heart, distressed to hear this and eager to do what he could to ease such a burden. "I will make him a fitting grave." He moved to find a branch to aid in the digging but the wolf called him back using a word seldom applied to the sylvan elves any more.

"Wait, Tawarwaith, there is more to say. We are not droeg, as you have already guessed, but gaurwaith. We were Men before we were changed and I would have my father restored to his human shape ere he goes beneath the ground."

"I know not how I can answer your plea," said Legolas, troubled. "I am no wizard."

"A wizard could do not better than you," replied the werewolf. "It is easily done; take his skin."

"What?" Legolas was horrified and stepped back, glancing at the ring of canine faces in dismay. "I would not wish to dishonour Celebanc by mutilating him; the warg has done enough!"

"You know his name?" Now it was the gaur's turn to be amazed. "Then it is even more fitting and he chose you for the task, for we do not give our names easily. You must remove the skin and he will revert to his true form again. Please, if you honour him, do as I say."

Legolas relented and watched in grim fascination as the denuded creature changed into the comely man he had seen in his dream. Dolorous and mystified by his strange connection to Celebanc, he wrapped the body in his deer hide cloak, murmuring what prayers he knew for peace of the spirit. As he dug the grave there in the middle of the glade, he sang a song of mourning and loss and all the wolves joined him, using an eery mix of Sindarin and wolvish to make their dirge. When the funeral was complete and Celebanc's remains covered over, they all stood in silence around the mound for a time. Then the werewolves departed, trotting away in twos and threes, until only the black and silver male remained.

"You will keep the skin and remember Celebanc. You will remember us and hunt us no more," he said and turned to go.

"I will hunt you no more," Legolas answered, "neither shall the woodsmen or any of my people. Your enemies are mine and my friends shall become yours."

"Well said, Tawarwaith," the gaur paused to peer over his shoulder, grinning again, "though our enemies are many and your friends so few." Then he loped away, calling for the pack, and their voices answered their new leader.

Legolas was returned to the present by the cries of the wolves for the sound was not confined to memory. Since that meeting there had been others, but never had he encountered the gaurwaith in their human shapes. It all seemed so long ago, almost part of another life-time. Yet he had come to understand the language of the gaurwaith and tonight they sang not of love and reunion but of Orcs moving, converging on the paths to the Central Mountains. The soulful howls described a chase as a trio of First-born, trying to escape to the River Running and the safety of Laketown, was being driven into ambush.

Two of Talagan's warriors must have found Lindalcon, perhaps Talagan himself, and now all three are in danger.

So thinking, Legolas could spare no more time for rest and remembrance. He moved out into the branches once more, setting his course to intercept the elves.

TBC

Note
There it is, a Feud update finally completed! Please don't even ask how long it has been; it is more than a year. I don't know how well this meets anyone's expectations. Mean and hateful as Elrond has been in this story, I found it very difficult to deal out such a harsh sentence. Initially,Thranduil was to be the one, under the direction of the Spirits, but you can see I changed my mind after writing it all out. Thranduil has been shown to have an abhorrence for spilling elven blood and must be severely provoked to do so, as when Legolas leaped at him with dagger drawn. Yes, he administered a harsh caning to his rejected son once long ago but again the provocation was extreme in Legolas' theft of Oropher's bow. So in the end it just did not seem likely and since Erestor was going to have a bitter confrontation with his cousin anyway, I decided he was the only one who cared enough about Legolas to do it. And, he has already exhibited his ability to deliver a violent reprisal in his impromptu bludgeoning of Malthen during the Council hearing.

I gave Dambethnîn the child she has so long desired and in doing so presented hope for the children's survival, or at least the babe's. That will be an interesting dynamic, no? Pen-Bara, Pen-Raug, and Pen-Rhovan together in Greenwood while the little prince grows up. Erestor will eventually have to return to Imladris and be forced to split his time between the two realms, leaving his new mate with plenty of time to get to know the Galadhrim couple. That should make an interesting little vignette.

Now to explain the werewolves. Long ago, when chapter five first posted (Wild Life on the Forest River), a reader remarked over the fact that Legolas had at first tried to hunt down the dire wolves, so to prevent more wargs from being created. This reviewer expressed regret that the wolves were once again represented as dangerous and fit only to be destroyed, as humans have done throughout the USA in order to usurp the natural habitat for the use of grazing cattle and other livestock. That made a deep impression on me and I have never forgotten. This scene arose from that comment, as I decided to explain how Legolas actually received the wolf's pelt, allowing him to come to a new understanding of the wolves in his woods.

The reversal of 'traditional' werewolf transformations is intentional, by the way, as I thought it made more sense. Werewolves would surely be viewed as evil by the simple human woodsmen and would be executed once their nature was known. Difficult to hide that sort of thing in a small, close-knit community clinging to survival in the midst of darkness. By living the majority of the time as wolves, the gaurwaith can more easily find refuge within the confines of Tawar's protection. So in my universe, only when the moon is full can they resume human shape.

And it should be clear we are now in the final scenes of this long long story. We are following Legolas and Lindalcon and we all know the encounter will be violent and Legolas will suffer. Lindalcon's fate seems inescapable. I am of a mind to just go ahead and finish this, though I know people are eager to return to Aearlinn, as am I. It is interesting; there are many who never want the tale to end, myself included, and yet it must. I just ask that you all bear with me and let me finish it now. I have a whole week off and while I may not do much more writing today, tomorrow I think I need to catch up with Lindalcon and the elves who finally found him, and officially reveal Meril's sentence and its impact upon the children, especially Echui'ross who is old enough to understand. Thanks to one and all for still reading!