Dark Council- *added Epilogue*

Chapter 10/Part 5


“You may desist in this little drama, Rymir,” Thranduil said between clenched teeth. “I know ‘twas you who did this,” he spat, indicating his unconscious lover as he leaned protectively over him.

“What, *too* sincere?” the Councilman asked innocently. “I thought I displayed just the right amount of astonishment and distress. I could have been an accomplished thespian, do you not think so?”

Thranduil glared silently in reply. As he crouched over Garand, his flaxen hair spilled wildly across his shoulders. A feral snarl formed on his beautiful lips, his aqua-blue eyes glittering with fury in the flickering torch light. “What do you hope to gain from this?” he demanded.

The smug smile vanished from Rymir’s face, and his chin lifted in defiance. “Satisfaction,” he said insolently.

“For *what*?”

“For his self-righteous rejection of me,” the Council member said haughtily.

“If you think him self-righteous, then you do not know him at all, Rymir. If anything, Garand has never thought himself good enough.”

Rymir argued vehemently, “He has always thought he was *too* good for me.”

“He is,” Thranduil replied quietly. “But then, I can think of no one who *isn’t*.”

The silvery eyes of the Councilman flashed any. y.

Realization came over Thranduil then, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You thinkeepkeep Garand as a possession, and forbid him any other relationships. I’ve no doubt that is how you conduct your so-called romances, Rymir, but ‘tis not the way of *our* love. Garand is no prisoner here; he has bound himself to me of his own free will, and I to him, and for that reason alone, I call him mine. But you cannot understand that, can you? You have never known how to wait for something good to come to you; you think the way to acquire what you want is by grasping, and clawing, and scheming to *make* it yours. You have been such a fool,” he added a little sadly. “Garand’s friendship is a wonderful gift, to be cherished, but you will never know it, now. He finds you loathsome, and you have no one to blame, but yourself.”

Rymir sneered furiously. He ripped the cloak from his shoulders and drew a sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. “I grow weary of talking; we will fight now, yes?” he asked sarcastically.

King Thranduil rose to his full height and regarded the Councilman calmly. “You have lured me here to challenge me for Garand. I will not fight you for his love. It is not something to be won in a contest; he alone can give it, and he gives it to *me*. But you dishonor him and me with your malicious schemes, and you have harmed my people in the carrying out of those scs, as, and for that, we *will* clash.”

Shrugging the cloak from his broad shoulders, and without taking his eyes off the other, the blonde Elf reached into the top of his boot to draw out a long knife. Rymir began to sneer at the comparatively small weapon the King brandished, but when Thranduil reached over his shoulder to pull a sword from the scabbard on his own back, the sneer froze on the Council member’s face. It had never occurred to him that the Mirkwood ruler was skilled in the ancient Elven fighting style of using two blades at once, but he was determined to see this through, and he clutched his sword powerfully, advancing toward Thranduil. The King moved away from the unconscious Garandawinawing Rymir away from him also.

The Councilman made the first move, swinging his sword in a tight arc aimed at the King’s chest. Thranduil blocked it easily with the long knife, and when the two blades collided, the impact of it sent shockwaves rippling up the length of Rymir’s arm. Thranduil stood in the same spot, unmoved by the blow; it hadn’t even jarred him. Rymir recalled suddenly, hearing tales of the uncommon physical power of the King of Mirkwood, but he’d never believed it before. He himself was an accomplished swordsman, but he suspected now that sheer ability would not be enough. He would have to take another tack.

“You think I lured you here to challenge you for Garand, my lord Thranduil? ‘Tis *much* too late for that. Besides, it wouldn’t be very imaginative, would it? There is a much grander plan at work here.”

The King’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you talking about?” he growled.

Rymir’s demeanor suddenly took a drastic turn. The smirk on his lips, and the arrogant expression in his eyes were gone, replaced by a look of desperate terror.

“Members of the Council,” he began his speech, “I cannot think what came over the King. He was enraged, insane with jealousy. When I received his note asking me to meet him in the wine cellar, I could not imagine what it was about. I found Garand dead when I arrived, and His Majesty lying in wait for me. He repeatedly accused me of being Garand’s lover in secret, saying that he knew we betrayed him and had been laughing at him all along. I could not reason with him; had I not slain him, my fate would surely be that of poor young Garand’s. Forgive me; he gave me no choice.”

Thranduil regarded Rymir in utter disbelief, one eyebrow raised as he shook his head. “You are mad as an Orc, Rymir. Not one member of the Council will believe that story, and why would you kill Garand, anyway? You have openly hungered after him these many years.”

“He had his chance,” the black-haired Elf scornfully replied. “Now you will both pay for his pride. My only regret is that you will go into the Halls of Mandos together; even in death I cannot separate you two, it seems. But you will both be out of my way, at least.”

“You have miscalculated, Rymir; Garand is not dead.”

The insolent smile returned to Rymir’s face. “The evening is young,” he purred.

The remark had an unexpected outcome. Storm clouds gathered in Thranduil’s bright eyes, and the muscles of his chiseled jaw worked furiously, as he ground his teeth in rage. He threw back his golden head and bellowed his wrath to the ceiling. Rymir stood rooted, fully expecting the King to charge him with all his strength. What he did instead caused the Councilman’s mouth to fall open stupidly. Hefting the sword in his hand, Thranduil turned to the stone wall of the wine cellar, nearly twenty feet away, and hurled it. It sang as it sailed through the chilly air, and the unnerving scrape of metal on stone rang through the chamber, as the sword embedded itself deep in the rock. The hilt, and a mere eight inches of the blade were all that protruded from the wall, and they swayed crazily back and forth, reverberating with the force of the impact.

Rymir dragged his widened eyes away from the sword to look at Thranduil again. The King regarded him with unreadable eyes as he stood holding only the fighting knife.

“You see, Rymir?” he said softly. “I have given you an advantage; come to me now, this ends tonight.”

The Council member swallowed hard. The scene was not at all playing out as he’d imagined it would. He expected to be facing a ruler who’d grown soft and complacent from the many meetings and banquets he’d been required to attend over the years. The confident warrior King before him was never a part of his fantasy. He would never be able to best him in combat.

“I could have satisfied Garand in ways you never dreamt of, your Majesty,” the Councilman baited the King impudently. Clearly, the stinging remark was intended to stir up Thranduil’s jealousy and ire, and push him into making a careless move, something the blonde Elf instantly recognized, by the desperation in Rymir’s voice and eyes. He would never have a more perfect opportunity, so the Mirkwood ruler played along.

“So, your ‘grand plan’ is to kill both Garand and me, portray me as Garand’s assassin and then what, Rymir?”

A self-satisfied smile lit Rymir’s face as he answered, “And then Mirkwood will be mine.”

Thranduil was genuinely stunned for a moment, but he managed to hide it. He continued with the pretense of believing the Councilman’s outlandish words. “How do you hope to accomplish that?” he asked. “The Council will never accept your story. Do you think they are children?”

“I think they are mindless sheep!” Rymir spat furiously. “They will believe whatever I choose them to believe.”

“You have forgotten someone, have you not?” Thranduil asked indignantly. “What of my son? He will never tolerate these actions from you.”

“That whelp?” the Councilman laughed in derision. “He *is* a child. I will lead him by the hand, and he will come to trust me as a surrogate father and mentor. I can easily manage *him*, your Majesty.”

Thranduil drew a deep breath, and visibly relaxed. He lowered his weapon and gazed calmly at his adversary.

“Have you heard enough, Councilmen?” he called into the shadows of the wine cellar behind Rymir.


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