Feud
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Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
125
Views:
27,619
Reviews:
413
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Coll o Gweth [Coming of Age]
by erobey erobey@gmail.com
unbeta'd
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Coll o Gweth [Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age]
It must have been a fabulous feast worthy of the fêtes thrown by Turgon for his beloved daughter Idril's Begetting Day anniversaries. Parties in her honour lasted at least pae eraid [ten days]. Life in Gondolin certainly became gloriously inebriating once I achieved Coll o Gweth.
These disjointed thoughts rambled around between the shattering concussions pulsing through Erestor's skull with each and every beat of his strong Noldorin heart. The last time he had known this level of discomfort had been following a skirmish with Orcs along the West Road through Eriador in the middle Second Age during the battles against the Witch King. The seneschal had not seen stars when his head had connected solidly with a stout club of petrified wood; the explosion of luminous fire was rather more as he imagined the Lost Silmaril looked when Maedhros cast it and himself into a chasm cut by a molten river of bedrock.
The weapon that felled the advisor, wielded by a particularly robust specimen of Melkor's engineered ghouls, had knocked him unconscious for nearly an entire day. But for the elegantly sturdy helmet, its metal body engraved and inlaid with mithril and gold in patterns both beauteous and dreadful, the seneschal would surely have perished. Only upon regaining his senses had he fully appreciated the degree of misery such an injury could cause.
That was not a pleasant memory at all; thus, Erestor floundered through the pain stabbing his mind for alternative analogies until he recalled the rowdy gatherings hosted by the King of the City of Singing Stone. The symptoms were an excellent match: addled mental meanderings, every limb concurrently numb and weightier than the small yet massive black troll trapped inside his cranium, pounding against the bone in order to force a way out. And his eyes were closed; a sure sign he had either been wounded or consumed copious amounts of stimulants and intoxicants of various unidentifiable composition, both in liquid and sublimated states.
He did not really think he had recently been involved in battle and detected no other indications of serious injury. The agony coursing through his temples was thus more likely to be the result of unwisely combining a variety of dangerously potent chemicals to produce unforeseen heights of artificial euphoria and sexual prowess.
Not that I ever needed any enhancement to my inestimable endurance and stamina, even at that tender age, but ten days is a rather long time to stay up.
A giggly snort squeaked out through the advisor's nostrils and was followed by a low, grating groan of excruciation as his head throbbed in protest to this unnecessarily abrupt expulsion of hilarity. Every flaring nerve in the space between his ears attested to the high probability that his inflamed brain must surely be ricochetting off the interior walls of its calcified confinement.
At least I hope it was a celebration. Various brands of Orcish poison have been know to produce just this level of unbearable affliction, without the preceding enjoyment of liberal excess. Am I still immune to Mordorian Asp Venom 29c? That is a particularly nasty one.
The noble advisor to Elrond's Council of Governance tried to make his thinking process less bright and jarringly noisy, for it was hurtful enough merely breathing and the effort to formulate coherent ideas was making the labour far more agonising. Had he been seated next to Celebrimbor's anvil as the Noldo hammered elvish steel the ringing sensation vibrating through his ear drums could not have been more horrifically intense.
A strangely humming echo reminiscent of the combined grunting and snuffling of a herd of swine rooting for truffles buffeted betwixt Erestor's irregular observations. He actually imagined he was staring past the pudgy snout of one grey-bristled boar into its close-set, front-facing, beady black eyes.
"Erestor!" the pig mouthed, its minute mesmerising orbs opening wide as its forehead wrinkled up, and then the distorted, high-pitched decibels of the word followed, insanely out of synchrony, and again the advisor sneezed out a laugh. The hog frowned and snorted a threatening grunt at this affront.
The seneschal slammed his eyelids down, only in that second understanding he had dared try to open them, but this sent his scrambled cognitive activities reeling as his heart lurched in irregular distress, for swine were not given to speech as far as he was aware. A whimpery wail of pain and fear, possibly a prayer for a more merciful demise than being devoured by sentient warthogs, dribbled from his gaping lips. Erestor gripped his head with either hand and curled up into a foetal ball as he attempted to turn away from the bizarre oinking and squealing that rose in an unbearable crescendo all around him.
The discordant ruckus only became worse, however, and he distinctly felt a cloven hoof prod him in the back as one repugnant rostrum worried his shoulder brusquely.
"Nay!" he shouted and thrashed out, satisfied when his altered hearing recorded a guttural gripe from one of the beasts and a surly snarl from the other. "Go eat grubs!"
For a moment all was quiet and he hoped the hogs were gone, but then a brash whoop of laughter sent his poor brain into an uproar of jagged flaming spiky anguish. The pigs were laughing at him. Erestor whined out a pleading entreaty for quiet and peace and rocked back and forth in place. It was at that moment he discovered he was in a very soft, plush bed of sorts, naked, covered over with a richly woven wool cover. He sought to burrow down into the fluffy comfort as far from the predatory swine as possible. The seneschal's next (semi)coherent thought was that hogs were not normally kept in domestic lodging.
"Ai Elbereth! Erestor, awaken, old friend, this is really too much! You just kicked Mithrandir in the stomach and he is probably considering whether or not to turn you into a grub," these normal sounding words flowed out into the air behind the diminishing peals of echoing gaiety and again a slight pressure landed on the advisor's shoulder. "What say you, will you open your eyes?"
This voice was familiar and definitely belonged to no four-legged barn animal nor any wild boar. The importance of that spoken name was certainly right on the edge of his comprehension. Erestor struggled to make his mind obey him but was finding it hard to get past the idea of the surrounding swine and their sharp, paired tusks. Some hideous amalgamation of warthog, human, and Orc bloodlines, mayhap. Yet such a creature could not possibly speak Sindarin. This notion perked up his spirits mightily.
"Open your eyes, son of Dammand!" a new voice commanded in deep majestic tones that allowed no obstinate refusal.
Cautiously Erestor's lids creeped up almost against his will until he had produced a narrow gap slightly wider than a boar-bristle's breadth to peer through. Two fuzzy figures were seated near him, hunched forward expectantly, awaiting his next move. Gradually his vision became more focused and the seneschal realised with great relief that he was staring at Aragorn and Mithrandir.
"Estel, Gandalf, please do not shout," he whispered through gritted teeth. The sighs of relief which left his companions' throats sounded more like a whistling north wind to his over-sensitised ears and Erestor winced.
"Good! You know us; that is something," said Mithrandir very softly.
"Of course I know you! Valar! The pounding is unceasing! Was I poisoned?"
"Aye, indeed you were," averred Aragorn seriously. "You told us to get out and eat grubs just moments ago, but even that was preferable to the lifeless stupor in which you have lain all these many hours. Do you recognise this place, Erestor?"
"I thought you were a herd of swine." The seneschal endeavoured to lever his head off the mattress in order to look about but this only served to make the discomfort far greater. With a groan he gave up, shut his eyes tightly, and dragged one sluggish arm across his face for good measure.
"It is too soon," Gandalf reproached Aragorn. "Perhaps you have a tonic that will ease the headache?"
"Eru's arse! I will not swallow any foul concoction designed to turn my guts inside out while it heals my hurts! Get me some miruvor if you wish to revive me. Valar! Why is it so bloody cold in here?"
"It must be an effect of the enchantment; Gladhadithen did say his body temperature had dropped quite low," murmured Aragorn.
"Enchantment? I thought you said it was poison."
"She did, that is true, yet the season has lent the evening air a slight edge. He may be overly sensitive to such fluctuations as the toxin leaves his system." Mithrandir replied to the Man as both ignored their patient.
"Perhaps." Aragorn shrugged.
"Pardon me, I am awake due to your jostling and shouting yet now you speak as if I could not hear you at all. Will you tell me what has happened?"
"In due time, Erestor, in due time. For now let Aragorn reduced the migraine and I shall see about retrieving more blankets," Mithrandir replied in placating tones, patting the advisor on the shoulder as he rose to fulfil his words.
Likewise, Aragorn left to gather his pack from the lower level sitting room, eager to ease his old tutor's agony and delve more deeply into the quality of the seneschal's memories. He could not repress an involuntary shiver himself, thinking on what effect the loss of recollection might produce in Legolas.
Erestor shuddered in achy ague, a subliminal, sympathetic tremor linked to the fatigued depletion of the Tawarwaith deep in the fortress' vaults. He twitched restlessly on the down filled bedding, uneasy distress filling his feä as he tried to identify the surroundings without success. It was somehow very important, this location, and a dread akin to panic began building in his palpitating heart as he struggled to make the connection. He was very aware of two facts: he was no longer in Lorien and the seasons had changed from summer's end to winter's advent during the time he had been unconscious.
The dip in temperature that had spawned the early snow had moderated to a more tolerable and customary level of chill by the time the Council of Erebor had at last concluded to the satisfaction of the Wood Elves' King and his Council. Yet it was an inadequate resolution, stale and dry upon the palate, for the monarch's lately contentious and unpredictably unruly subjects. For the moment, the state of their uninvited guest's mental capacity was forgot as the intriguing inconsistencies in the tale recounted by the various witnesses' testimony were uncovered. Even though a formal sentence of this nature had never been reversed in all the Ages past, it came as no surprise that the Judgement was denounced, yet having the guilty one's identity exposed only made matters more perturbing. Had anyone bothered to demand a complete accounting seventeen years ago, no reprieve would have been required and Rochendil would not be free upon Arda while his victims continued to suffer.
This was not victory.
Nay, success was meant to bring joyous exuberance and ecstatic expressions of congratulatory tidings between friends and kin. Too intoxicating would be the fullness of relief and the release of this excess of magnanimity would initiate an outpouring from every heart to the accompaniment of tears, endearments both whispered and shouted, and much grasping of arms and clasping of loved ones to the chest for snug reassurance that it was all true and real and good. An impromptu feast would be indulged, singing and dancing for long days and nights beneath the thinned shadows of the bare-limbed oaks and beeches. Many an elf would celebrate the triumph even Ages past, for it would be their begetting day. No such activity was likely to be spawned by this dreary conclusion of the Council of Erebor.
Lindalcon looked around at the Wood Elves collected in the Chamber of Starlight; friends and comrades, elders that knew his parents and theirs' also, vague acquaintances he recognised by sight but not name, others he could not place at all so far from the stronghold city did they dwell, hidden in small enclaves throughout the trees far to the north of Orod Ime'laith [the Mountain amid the Trees]. Everywhere were the signs of emotional strain and exhausted discomfort, mates assessing each other's injuries to determine whether the care of the healer was required, whole clans conglomerating again and sharing subdued talk of their experiences and opinions, their shock and dismay over the low estate to which their people as a whole had succumbed.
The warriors were stone faced as they watched the large number of their comrades, disgraced for their part in the attempt to unseat the King of the Woodland Realm, led away by Talagan and his Sindar lieutenants. Too many were included in this category for their punishment to involve expulsion from the guard, for Greenwood had need of every able blade and bow. It was likely, however, that many of these would go forth into the most dangerous zones of the Shadow's encroachment never to return.
That the majority of the soldiers came from the lower ranks of the Danwaith, archers and spearmen all, was no surprise, for the sting of prejudice inflicted by their Sindar counterparts was as a needle under the nails and for centuries out of time had they grudgingly borne it for the sake of their families' well-being. Thus the split among the troops was in part unhealed, for who among the woodland citizens could bear to see a brother or sister, son or daughter, parent or mated spouse brought to such an unmerciful doom?
Valtamar's son, so close to achieving Coll o Gweth [Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age], marked this display of weary discontent, no less submerged in gloomy worry for those dear to his heart, but found he could not progress beyond the distinctly offensive sour rancour remaining over the cause for his father's death. He had so strongly held to the notion that acquiring this insight would allow him to put it behind him. Lindalcon had fully expected to receive a sign from Valtamar that all was set to rights again, balance restored and the riddle unravelled, the path to the Halls of Waiting revealed for the Wandering feä to finally follow.
Peace, that was the goal of all this upheaval, was it not? Why then does my heart still languish and my soul twist in the same dire torment that has plagued me these last seventeen years?
The answer was not so difficult to define, for the culprit and true betrayer of the Woodland Realm had escaped unscathed. Lindalcon's vision scanned the diminishing crowd, his hands compressing into resentful fists as his spirit hardened in acrimonious disgust. His scrutiny likewise catalogued the leaders collected in the centre of the chamber before Thranduil's seat of authority.
Iarwain quietly conferred with his peers and the King over the exact wording of the writ of detainment, arguing over how much needed to be specified of the disgraceful failure of the Law and Custom to serve the cause of justice in this case. The Eldest felt as little possible should be shared and gave as his reason protecting the reputation of the Realm from humiliation among the lesser peoples of Arda. Thranduil concurred, stating his desire to forestall any possible implication of weakness such a gross error might present to the rest of the elven realms and the minions of Darkness as well. Celeborn agreed also, saying it was a private matter between the families affected and Legolas that must not be allowed to undermine the fragile stability of the Greenwood. Even Radagast voiced no dissension this time, for he considered the actual arrest of the miscreant secondary to removing the various enchantments of binding throughout the forest and abolishing the artefacts of Thranduil's crimes.
What a dismal lot we are. This is indeed an infamous day, one we shall all seek to forget and shove beneath the overlay of new and more pleasant events, even as was done after the Judgement of Erebor was rendered. Thus has memory and appreciation for the warriors who gave their immortal lives in that desolate canyon been shirked and ignored. I can see that Thranduil will have no difficulty steering his subjects' attention back to the delight over his new heir's health and happiness.
Lindalcon had no wish for his brother to weather any disagreeable circumstances yet it seemed wrong that Taurant should fail to understand exactly what price had been paid to ensure his welfare.
Not only his future but his existence itself.
He was certain no one would be likely to expound upon Valtamar's gruesome demise or retell the shameful denigration Legolas had suffered in its aftermath, nor explain the further ignominies and tortures inflicted for so many years. Who could even comprehend what it had been like for Tirno, alone and forgotten in the worst of the wilds, the hunter and the prey both, much less tell of it to the prince and princess? It would all be pushed down into the depths of denial and the desire to restore order, equilibrium, and normalcy to their lives.
None will demand censure for Talagan, when surely he should be stripped of rank and expelled from the troops. the bilious lamentation continued. As he swept the room once more his gaze locked upon the dejected figure of the former guardsman stooped and defeated, eyes averted downward upon his hands. With a surge of jealous anger Lindalcon saw what held the traitor's attention there, for somehow he had once more come into possession of Legolas' dagger and clutched it tight as his fingers caressed the flat of the blade.
And here is Maltahondo, free to go on about his business as though nothing untoward had occurred; daring to retain a memento of the elf he so basely used! A swift flare of rage coursed through Lindalcon's veins and he strode to the vile offender's location, avoiding the reaching fingers of Haldir who attempted to halt him one second too late.
"Why do you not use it?" he shouted at the flinching elf and his unexpected demand startled the populace into soundless dread, for they had endured as much of this upheaval as could be borne. "Legolas had no such hesitation, by your own account! Strangers stopped the knife from piercing his heart while his dearest friend stood aside and did nothing!" The virulent pronunciation of these syllables was venomous enough to chill the heart and steal away breath.
Radagast and Haldir met a scant foot from the youth's side and shared a rapid communication of the eyes before returning attention to Lindalcon.
"No good can result from such denouncements. Do not venture anew into violence," exhorted the wizard. "Legolas would not want this."
"Neither will your father benefit from it," added Haldir with quiet urgency.
"You cannot know what will aid Adaren [my father] or not," countered Lindalcon. "And I did not hear any calls for an end to the injuries done to Legolas all these years," he scolded the Istar. "Why was it impossible for you to intervene for him yet you will do so for this despicable example of the eldar?"
"I seek not to impede justice but to alleviate a burden from your soul, already overladen. What you do here will remain with you always. Be careful of the encumbrance you shoulder," said Radagast.
"As for me, I sought to alleviate the pain of my parents' deaths by destroying every entity of the Shadow's hold I could discover. Many years I spent in this endeavour to no avail. No matter how many lives I took my heart was not at peace. This is not the way," Haldir cautioned.
"It is our way!" hissed Lindalcon and turned away from the March Warden and the Maia to glare upon the round-eyed, white-faced elves still frozen in disbelief that the awful scene was not yet over.
"Thus is the Law of our people," the son of Valtamar began again. "We are elves not Orcs. Shall we suffer the vile practices of those perverted mutations among our own kindred?"
"Nay!" one among the warriors shouted back. "Maltahondo is worse than a traitor!"
"This Council is not the place to vent your wrath," complained Iarwain. "All that can be done to bring your father's murderer to account has been set in motion. You must be patient and…"
"Patient? Talagan did not remain detached at Erebor but demanded immediate justice, while this elf stood by passively and thus allowed a terrible iniquity to be inflicted on an innocent. He knew Legolas did not cause the rocks to fall nor allow his position to be observed yet did not defend him!"
"Aye, Lindalcon is right," another anonymous elf called out.
"We need to settle this; it is not only Valtamar and Andamaitë that must be freed from this quandary," a third affirmed.
"Thranduil, it is imperative you stop this from going further," urged Celeborn, drawing close and couching his words in low tones so that the sound did not carry beyond the King's hearing. "Surely this rudimentary set of edicts cannot be encouraged to continue after nearly destroying your Realm. Now is the opportune time to renounce such archaic practices. Will you not interrupt this?"
"By the agreement arranged between Oropher and the Council, the Customs pertaining to the feä remain in the hands of the Elders. The King has no jurisdiction over the fate of Lost Souls," Thranduil whispered in return, a rather smug grin stretched across his lips.
The Lord of Lothlorien stared in astonishment at the hubris required to utter such a hypocrisy, for under the Greenwood's branches Thranduil had done more to hinder the unhoused feär of the deceased save Sauron.
"Believe me," seeing this expression of aghast dismay, Thranduil leaned close to his noble kinsman and expounded, "there is good reason to permit Lindalcon this small vengeance. Maltahondo defiled a youngling."
Horrified to learn this, Celeborn whipped his gaze back upon the corpsman once more, taking in the bright glint of fearful guilt beneath the thin film of remorse coating his hazel eyes. Maltahondo had dropped to his knees with the Tawarwaith's dagger gripped between his hands as his vision shifted in rising terror from one disgruntled and disgusted face to another. Celeborn's vision darkened and he silently renounced his counsel, refraining from further admonishment of his kinsman in this case.
"A blood debt you owe to me for the loss of Valtamar," Lindalcon accused the guardsman. "You failed on that ridge, for of what use were your long centuries of experience in battle if you could not even cover the safety of so valued a weapon as is our Tirno? Even then he was renowned for his skill, and your negligence rendered it inconsequential. Had you done your duty, Legolas would never have been endangered by Rochendil's actions on the heights above. Let everyone gathered here bear witness to the charge!" Lindalcon's arm stretched out and encompassed the assembly in an agitated gesture that ended with a resounding slap upon the corpsman's upturned face.
"Far! Daro! [Enough! Stop!]" Aiwendil spoke as he reached for the former usurper's wrist. His grip was impatiently flung away.
Haldir opened his mouth to speak but caught the subdued cough from his Lord, generated specifically to gain his attention. The March Warden turned to see the clear command not to intrude further upon the youth's speech and reluctantly held his tongue.
"Nay, alfar! [Nay, not enough!]" spat Lindalcon with an equally sharp glance at the wizard before turning back to berate the cringing warrior. "How do you answer?" But he did not pause to grant the warrior opportunity to do so. "Great are your sins against Legolas, both of aggressively selfish manipulation and passive omissions of obligations incurred by the previous trespasses of your ancestor. The Valar have placed before you so many opportunities to amend these errors and each one you have shunned in your haughty pride.
"You could have warned him of Rochendil's movements, but you were not minding the crest of the spur. Why? What were you doing? Was your confidence in Legolas so wanting that you felt the need to monitor every shift of foot, each twitch of a finger? But for this, my father would still be at my side to lead and advise me, to share with me remembrance of his own Coll o Gweth while I prepare for mine.
"Soon Vairë granted you a chance to impede the spread of harm due to that mistake. Blithely did you ignore it! Why did you fail to speak up when Talagan condemned your ward, the elf you were sworn to serve even before his birth? Was it fear? Admit it, you craven hypocrite; you did not want the captain's censure to single you out! You feared the Judgement would fall upon your head and eagerly allowed the Sindar to spend his rage on an innocent! How disappointed you must have been when the human stayed Legolas' hand."
"Nay, nay!" Malthen cried but his shadowed eyes revealed the truth of his accuser's words.
"By Elbereth, young one, this serves no good! Please cease this diatribe," urged the Maia sadly, though he knew in his heart the plea was not even heard, so overcome with emotion was Lindalcon at this point.
"Nay, it needs be answered!" the youth shouted and his piercing glare journeyed the room's circumference to share his outrage with his countrymen and his King, the elders and the guests, Galadhrim and woodsmen alike. "For if others may hide their guilt by shifting it upon another, I cannot. I, too, owe a debt to Legolas, for though it was unintentional I have wronged him nonetheless. Let me do what I can by offering recompense in this manner, by acting as his brother and demanding equity. Surely there must be others who share this view, for many aided the ill-planned joke that has become such a source of despair for our Tawarwaith."
"Lindalcon speaks truthfully. I would undo my part in this, but since I cannot then let the weight of the Law fall upon the guilty one who might have prevented all of the battle's bitter legacy," said one citizen and a host of voices raised a chorus of agreement.
"The Council concurs," responded Iarwain, "yet Maltahondo is not solely responsible or even principally to blame. We must wait for the capture of Rochendil for these proceedings to bear fruit. Only the true culprit can effect the Release of the Lost Warriors."
"That is a lie!" scoffed Lindalcon. "Legolas freed Annaldír and we have just established that the Task was never his to accomplish! What form of justice is this? Are we so selective in how our Laws are enforced? Why was Legolas deserving of our most severe sentence while this elf is not even asked to own up to his faults?"
None could answer such a query although it was undeniably pertinent. Many bowed their heads in crimson-hued shame. But the Lord of Lothlorien took up the role of reason's advocate, seeing Aiwendil, Thranduil, and Iarwain unwilling to respect the moral urgency of Lindalcon's grievance.
"I hear your words, son of Valtamar," spoke Celeborn as he slowly approached, left hand over his heart. "What would you? Maltahondo has already claimed these errors openly. Can more speech erase the burden of your grief or undue the damage to your brother?"
Lindalcon stood silently as his sombre brown eyes allowed the noble silvan to probe every crevasse of his ruptured soul. Nothing did he attempt to shield; not his thirst for vengeance or his sorrowful anger for the sense of abandonment the child within cried against; not his resentment of Legolas for Annaldír's freedom nor his terror lest an even greater betrayal by one even nearer to his heart be exposed; not his guilty shame for wishing, even if only in a fleeting moment of wrath, to trade both his younger siblings for Valtamar's return; neither his anguished longing to give in and fade, thus to become the guide his Adar required to reach the hallowed lands of Námo's dominion.
Equally did Celeborn open the interior of his heart, sharing compassion and lending strength, granting forgiveness, reassuring the youth that his reactions were neither unexpected nor unseemly. He accepted all of it willingly and without scandalised shock, acknowledging the maturity Valtamar's child had achieved in owning these failings without justification, silently declaring Lindalcon's right to demand the fullness of citizenship and its accompanying privileges, regardless that his Coll o Gweth was yet three years away. The duty to defend the honour of one's House and the declaration of a blood debt against it; these were included with enfranchisement and were still a component of the Code of the Galadhrim as well.
The nascent adult inhaled sharply and blinked to clear the blur of tears that inundated his vision upon receipt of validation from so esteemed and noteworthy a source. Lindalcon set his jaw in resolute purpose despite the raw emotions rampant in his heart and bowed to his regal protagonist.
"My Lord, what you say is true, and yet there are words to be spoken that would go far toward correcting this heinous abuse of trust and reversing the blatant diversion of justice. If I may continue?" the youth's countenance turned to Thranduil for this last request.
Thranduil was wise enough to understand his wife's first child had no wish to bring her low. After a brief survey of his subjects' mood regarding this anticlimactic outburst, which was unilaterally sympathetic to Lindalcon, the King gave a short nod of acquiescence.
"At Erebor you made your choice to abandon dignity and honour, turning your back on your comrade in order to save yourself. Thus, your initial error of distration was compounded by this egregious betrayal," Lindalcon's voice was calmer as he once more directed his harangue to Maltahondo, but if anything the loss of fire gave the phrases the weight and clarity of authority his impassioned outburst had lacked.
"I formally denounce you, kinslayer, equally to blame for Adaren's death along with Rochendil. Further, as Legolas' brother and in his stead, I name you oath-breaker and traitor. You have already stated your fault; now I demand the fullness of justice under the Laws of our land."
"So noted," declared Fêrlass.
The guardsman stared in boggle-eyed disbelief at his old friend's only son. No compassion was housed in the severe demeanour and dour visage trained so intensely upon him, however; and he quickly removed his sight to gauge the reaction of the soldiers and the common folk to this request. Maltahondo had scarcely credited his luck when no pronouncement of doom fell from Thranduil's lips following the completion of testimony and the reversal of the outcast's sentence. He had actually dared to hope he was to be granted a reprieve, a chance to find his own way to make amends to Legolas. The corpsman swallowed with difficulty as he garnered the unspoken evidence of the peoples' vituperation of his character and their heightened anticipation of his punishment.
"I accept the validity of Lindalcon's mandate," mumbled Malthen as he hung his head. "No explanation for my inaction can mitigate the results produced. Willingly I submit to the code of the Realm. I only ask that my earnest remorse and humble desire to atone for these wrongs be officially noted. I do not ask for remission of my errors, for such my deeds do not deserve."
Not a whisper stirred the throng as all awaited the final adjudication of this reprobate ellon's fate.
"Nasan [It is so (Quenya)]," said Thranduil quietly and took a breath as he shared a glance with Lindalcon.
He appreciated what the youth was doing; Rochendil was beyond their reach for the time being yet resolution was desperately needed, for the populace as a whole as well as Lindalcon. The King was well pleased to have so visible a target upon which to direct his subjects' thoughts; indeed, this was nearer to realisation of his scheme than he had deemed possible after the riot. Readily he endorsed the request of Meril's first-born; every elf that was laden with blame for Erebor decreased the likelihood of suspicion gathering near her. Thranduil stepped closer, scowled down upon the despised guardsman, and stretched forth his pointing hand to invoke damnation.
"Maltahondo, your failure condemned your brethren, the victims of careless incompetence, to the Wandering. Your shameless treachery against your charge, permitting Legolas to accept blame and punishment for your fault, is beyond comprehension and unknown before this day among our people.
"The rights of the battlefield you have forfeited and you are forbidden to seek death by your own hand and will." Thranduil opened out his palm for the Tawarwaith's dagger and sneered at the voluble gasp the corpsman exhaled upon tendering it over. The King in turn passed the humble weapon to Lindalcon.
"I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kinslayer and an oath-breaker; no elven realm will grant you refuge. Neither shall you sail from the Grey Havens to Valinor, nor pass through death to Mandos. What family you spring from will know you no more. You are less than an Orc, for even as low as they are they would spurn you."
A second or two of silence followed the verdict's announcement, broken only by the subdued sobs of the defamed elf. Then Iarwain stepped forward and faced Maltahondo.
"Aran Thranduil pídiel [King Thranduil has spoken]," he intoned soberly, peering at the disgraced warrior with disdain before turning toward the ranks of soldiers still in the room. "Who among you rode with Talagan's company that day?" he asked.
Two swordsmen moved out from the mass of tensely rigid bodies of collected warriors and advanced to flank their former comrade. Without preamble they grasped him by the arms and hauled him to his feet, half-leading and half-dragging the now wailing elf out of the Chamber of Starlight and into the courtyard.
Lindalcon followed and indeed the room emptied as everyone jostled and shoved to witness the final step in the sentencing. In minutes the warriors had Maltahondo stripped, hands bound with his own belt, and forced him to kneel in the dirt in the centre of the gathering. In disgust one spat upon him and gave a brutal kick to his exposed thigh. Then both receded a few paces and waited.
Grouped in a tight cluster near the archway, the Galadhrim watched in fascinated horror as the bizarre ritual unfolded. They glanced askance at Radagast and Haldir, but though his features revealed his displeasure no action would the Istar take to intervene and neither was it the March Warden's place to extract the convicted elf from the barbaric proceedings.
Celeborn, Thranduil, and the Counsellors had remained within, even though by right the King should have participated on behalf of his rejected child. Thus, there was only Lindalcon to complete the degradation and banishment.
Valtamar's son watched the blubbering elf a few minutes, unmoved by this display of remorseful distress and the repetitious pleas to the Valar for forgiveness and mercy. At last he walked with slow purpose to face Maltahondo, bending down to gather up a fistful of gravel and dirt, leaning in close to the corpsman's ear as he did so.
"I know. Every soldier here, even Thranduil, comprehends the purulence that oozes from your vile, unfeeling heart of lead. For what you did to Legolas, this is insufficient castigation. How dare you ask for clemency and absolution? I hope the Wraiths find you; Dol Guldur is too clean a place for you. May you be raped unto death by every Orc the Necromancer's Tower holds," he murmured in low and seething notes, coldly flinging the handful of debris in the despicable elf's face.
His heart contracted in painful regret, recalling the first time he had performed this action, but no pity could he spare for Maltahondo.
"I claim Warrior's Release from you and demand the full penalty of twenty-four years exile in exchange for the waste of Adaren's [my father's] honour and valour in battle.
"For your betrayal of Legolas, there is no length of years sufficient to remove the black abscess in your soul for never has a guardian so completely abused the trust bestowed upon him. Our Laws do not even have a name for what you have done. Let the burden of your sins thus remain until your feä is released and speeds to Námo for either acquittal or expulsion into the void."
A deeply in-drawn breath confirmed Maltahondo's comprehension of the protracted nature of his liability and he hunkered down in submission, burying his face against the ground with his arms extended before him, finally accepting the weight of his crimes.
Lindalcon leaned to seize him by the long braid trailing against his spine and yanked him upright to endure the revilement and contempt displayed in the eyes of his countrymen and peers. Then Lindalcon took his brother's dagger and sliced the thick plait away from the bulk of the guardsman's auburn hair.
"That is for my father; an elf you claimed as a friend and comrade-in-arms," he threw the woven strands upon the ground and cut away another handful. "This is for Legolas, who looked up to you, trusted you, obeyed you unquestioningly." A third time he brandished the dirk.
"For Ningloriel, whom you also betrayed."
Valtamar's son chopped away at the glorious crown of burnished copper tresses, claiming a segment for the last warriors, himself, and each of his younger siblings as well. When he was done, Maltahondo was shorn and had ceased crying, staring in dull-eyed dazedness at the clump of locks before him.
Lindalcon stood aside, nodding to the pair of silent warriors standing behind their fallen comrade.
Together they knelt beside the collection of amputated tresses and a shower of sparks followed the ringing strike of steel on flint. The hair erupted into a bright, acrid column of yellow flame and thin blue haze; in seconds it was consumed. One of the warriors deposited a bundle of plain undyed linen garments beside the outcast, hurriedly supplied by the tailor's daughter no less, and the other cut his bonds. Wordlessly the courtyard emptied, leaving Lindalcon next to the corpsman.
As all the Wood Elves scurried away and the Galadhrim retreated back inside the Council Chamber, a lone figure was revealed at the perimeter of the courtyard. Open-mouthed he stared as Maltahondo hastily donned the clothing and staggered to his feet. The outcast broke into a dead run as he fled toward the docks behind the fortress.
"By the Valar!" breathed Aragorn, for it was he. "Is this what Legolas endured?"
Lindalcon gazed at him sadly a moment before realisation forced him to understand why the Man was here. Vehemently the young elf shook his head, backing away and holding his hands before him to fend off the ill news he could read within the human's solemn grey eyes.
"I will not be the one!" he shrieked in despair. "You must tell him; I cannot destroy him thus!"
He wheeled and raced for the garden, certain that Aragorn's solitary arrival could only mean the seneschal had awakened with no recollection of his time with the Tawarwaith.
Tbc
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