Feud

Gandalf and Radagast trod the metres separating the courtyard from the Great Hall of the Elven King in grim and silent drear, their ancient faces engraved with new lines of dour rancour as they considered the confrontation just enacted and the one still to be enjoined.

While an acute sense of hearing was not a notable attribute among the Maiar, the noise Elrond of Imladris generated en-route to his temporary 'quarters' was not the sort for which elevated auditory capabilities were required. Faint and distorted beyond recognition, his words reduced to inarticulate cries of raw emotion. The unguarded emanations of his rending mind carried on the cold, dead air and the wizards cringed, fighting to master crawling skin and rising bile as the sounds of humiliation, abandonment, and awakening terror washed over them.

Simultaneously both sighed as the subdued report of the storeroom door slamming shut prefaced the sudden silence of the frigid night. Distance and the barrier's density obstructed further exposure to the unpleasant incident. They were not of a mind to feel sympathy for the disgraced Lord, yet pity was not beyond their capacity. Possession by the Unhoused was not a desirable experience. They shared a brief, unvoiced exchange, each hopeful that the encounter would do Elrond good. Otherwise, it was naught but cruel torture.

The sound of their shoes upon the polished stone corridor was subtle and muted as if even the faintest whisper would be an affront to the solemn and sombre gloom engulfing the underground castle. Even the dissonance of the infant's frantic wailing had ceased and for this one minute indication of hope in a situation poised for calamity the Maiar were grateful. Indeed, the uproar and mayhem of the thwarted coup had been less ominous than the lonely, melancholy cries of Greenwood's prince.

The vaulted corridor leading from the entrance was empty; in fact the whole of the palace might as well have been deserted. Never had the austere and regal beauty of the fortress seemed more a barren cave than in the frail light of the archway torches and the subtle mutter of the wizards' boots. It required just the span of minutes to reach the massive, oak wood doors of Thamas uin Aran. (Great Hall of the King) Nearly seven metres tall they stood, each panel at least a metre across in breadth and thick as an elf's body, braced with tremendous iron hasps joined to hinges the girth of a dwarf's fist, all set into the solid beams that faced the bare rock of the cavern.

Upon the polished panels was carved the seal of the House of Oropher: a beech laden with mast, the spreading arms reaching out in welcome from the broad, strong trunk. This emblem was carved on both sides of the colossal doors for Thranduil was proud of this symbol and would have it seen whether the portal stood open or not. Indeed, rarely was the way shut. It was closed this night, however, the forbidding barriers looming in shaded tones of black and grey outlined in bright bands of brilliant yellow where light seeped through the minute space required to permit the doors to swing freely. Gandalf and Radagast halted before them.

No guards stood watch to bar their entry and the wizards did not feel the need to ask admittance. In accord, each grasped a handle and pulled, blinking in the glare revealed by the widening gap. They passed the threshold and heaved the doors to before progressing further, the rumbling concussion sounding like the knell of a terrible and portentous gong, the toll of doom and dire deeds, reverberating as the Istar proceeded deeper into the interior.

Already frowning, the wizards scowled more fiercely as their eyes peered through the august chamber and focused on the tableau in the centre of the room. There stood Iarwain and Fêrlas and the rest of the King's Counsellors, upright and stern in their pomp and dignity, wearing their formal garb, ranged by rank in a semicircular manner, their pages and aides grouped behind them, all diminished in this immense space devoid of its usual bustle and hum from the curious sylvan populace. The small knot of elves partially surrounded a lone figure before the dais, dressed in sumptuous clothes of satin and silk, laces and bead-work borders, frozen in fear, isolated in shame: Meril, Royal Consort to the Sindarin Lord. The space betwixt her and her judges was a veritable moat of disgusted antipathy; none wanted to so much as breathe the air in contact with her person.

There stood also another occupant of the household, one who had been a part of the King's life far longer than Ningloriel's diminutive replacement. In a simple gown of homespun hemp she presented herself, crisp white apron tied about her waist and sturdy leather shoes upon her feet. The yellow, dancing torch light was repelled by the drab display of her corona, a wavering film more of shadow than of light, shot through with nervous dread, dull and weighty and the colour of lead. She was not speaking, having just announced her desire to unburden her soul, for this was Ben'waeth, once Meril's bosom companion, Gildin's great-great grandchild's grandchild. In dismal determination she waited, eyes turned to the glittering granite floor, hands clutching at the apron, anxious to hear her King's reply.

"You are her dearest friend, like a sister, even, to the accused. All this time you have held your peace and now you would speak out against her? Why?" Thranduil's tone was dry and cold, for he was not really curious at all and did not care a whit what her answer would be. It was required, for the infernal Record, that he ask this ridiculous question and so he did, seated straight and proud upon his gilded throne.

He was regal and removed and dreadful and wondrous, like some magnificent admixture of Elf and Ainu with piercing emerald eyes that surely saw all there was whether living or dead, dream or reality. His attire was luxurious, the material sumptuous, more splendid than any mere composition of ermine and velvet. It seemed he was clothed in living stuff, a robe of revenant souls clinging and swirling in the flickering light, pulsing with the throb of his heart, shifting in colour and density, now a heavy opaque drape, now a sheer veil of faint translucent hues. Amid this swash and swirl of sentient ether sparked the flash and glint of gem-struck fire, for each finger bore a ring set with diamonds, carbuncles, and spinel while every clasp or tie of his clothes was composed of mithril and gold.The crown upon his head this night was not the woven winter circlet of holly boughs and ivy but one reclaimed from Dagorlad at the Last Alliance. Thranduil wore Malgalad, the golden coronet of Amdír, once Lothlorien's King and the last sylvan to own such high estate.

Seldom did he reveal himself thus, for it was unnecessary, yet his ire was high and he cared not to conceal his might. He wanted them to know, to see and feel the strength at his command, the power he wielded to call to him the spirits of the dead. From the distance granted as much by right of his majesty as the expanse of the dais, he surveyed them whilst acknowledging none, neither wizards nor councillors nor subjects nor kin, save one. Upon his faithless, vicious, beloved Meril all his thought rested until surely she must break under the weight of such enmity. He would never permit that, though, for he wanted her sane and clear-minded. He wanted her to realise her doom fully and in whose hands its determination lay.

"The death of my ancient grandfather prompts my actions. My conscience bade me come forward, Your Majesty," Ben'waeth bowed low, gaze still upon the floor. "I owe no less to my forebear, Gildin, and to the innocents who suffered due to my long silence."

"Let it be so noted, Fêrlas: Ben'waeth chose to reveal this information only after Lindalcon's Writ of Accusation implicated her family," Thranduil denounced her with unhidden disgust. The King lifted his hand to stall Iarwain's inevitable counterpoint for he was aware of the wizards' approach and wished to wait until they drew near. He shifted on the throne, stretching his long legs forward as he leaned back, glancing to the Elf on his right just beyond his line of sight.

Beside the royal seat of power stood Celeborn the Wise, one hand permitted to rest upon the shoulder of the King as a sign of their solidarity and kinship, for none, not even he, self-proclaimed cousin to the Sindarin Lord, sat when Thranduil's presence occupied the throne. Celeborn was dressed formally yet with less opulence than one might imagine so revered and august a ruler deserved, but he was far from his home and next to this fey manifestation of Greenwood's monarch he looked almost plain. Yet none would mistake him for an underling and Celeborn was not unnerved by the seeming disparity. He needed neither circlet nor golden chair, nor jewels and chains of precious metal to project his innate nobility. The Lord of Lothlorien exuded a calm, fraternal demeanour: Thranduil's equal in rank and stature with perhaps greater experience, a more profound sagacity.

There was also the unmistakable import of his presence as a supportive ally against the infringement of Imladris upon the Woodland Realm. The leader of the Golden Wood was satisfied to stand together with his counterpart in Greenwood and for that choice to be recorded in whatever annals might survive the conclusion of this darkening Age.

Celeborn had the distinct sense of being present at a historic moment, though it was not a pleasing thought for the history of the First-born was filled with like moments of bitter strife and unspeakable horror. What new species of sorrow would this night produce? He knew no account of any Elf undergoing trial for wilful murder, the malicious and deliberate plotting to end the life of a spouse, the co-author of a child. A child conceived only to guarantee the ploy would bear the richest fruit possible. Lindalcon's lot is wretched indeed.

Not even Feänaro in his vile madness had envisioned such a horrendous thing. In Doriath, no charges had ever been proposed, no retribution exacted from the kinslayers, though Thingol's kin, and Celeborn's with them, had paid in blood for the Noldorin immigrant's futile vow. Nay, even Melian had refused to seek justice for the slain innocents and many had taken that as a sign that Manwë would not approve such measures. It was an unvoiced tenet accepted by all elf-kind: to Námo was reserved the adjudication of souls, be they innocent or sullied with the blood of thousands.

Celeborn compressed his lips firmly, recalling when he had been glad to embrace this notion and forestall the stigma of additional censure from attaching to his Lady-wife. Banishment from Aman and her kinfolk across the sea was enough; she had found her own way to right whatever her wrongs might be. Yet now he stood here beside his cousin wondering if it was so fine a concept after all. Though outwardly reserved and calm, Celeborn believed Thranduil to be so near to explosive and violent revenge that he doubted anything could stop him, and if the King lost control, what of the people he governed? If only there was some established rule to which Celeborn might allude, mayhap he could take charge of this ominous hearing, lawfully referring the crime to an external tribunal. He glanced at the approaching wizards, hopeful for a second or two, but their stoic glowers affirmed that the Istari would hold to their vows of non-interference.

The pair stopped beside the gathered Elves and bowed solemnly to the King. "All is as you requested," Mithrandir said.

"Then let us proceed. I am eager to rout out all the vermin inhabiting my fortress. Speak, faithless Ben'waeth, and do not hold back a single detail nor the name of any other who might corroborate your words," commanded Thranduil, casting Iarwain's pious mewling out into the air for all to hear, amused even in his dark mood to see the Istar do his bidding so graciously.

"I will tell all I know, but there are no others involved," murmured the housekeeper.

With a short sigh Celeborn addressed the servant. "If what you claim is true and you had knowledge of Meril's conspiracy with Rochendil, then your failure to speak earlier is a grave offence. Legolas has suffered greatly at his hands. How could you remain silent in light of the torture he was forced to endure?"

"I did not know they were plotting anything together, Lord," Ben'waeth insisted. "I just know that we…Meril and I…talked of how it could be done, how Legolas might be…removed and Ningloriel driven off. I did not think anything would come of our idle chatter."

"Such gossip is hardly laudable yet I see no reason to name it betrayal," said Iarwain. "Merely suspecting Meril was involved does not make one responsible for what happened. I began to wonder about her complicity myself, as did Mithrandir, long before the Tawarwaith returned from the wilds."

"That is true, yet I had no way to link Meril to the events other than through gain," replied the wizard. "There was no doubt she and her family were the only ones to benefit from the horrible deaths, but I believed she was opportunistic rather than murderous."

"What say you, Ben'waeth? Did you know that Meril and Rochendil conspired over this abhorrent tragedy or not?" asked Thranduil.

"Nay, my Lord," the servant insisted, nervously twisting the apron between her fingers, eyes flickering over to Meril for an instant. "As I said, it was just talk, nothing more."

A small, contented puff of a sniff exited the former Consort's delicate nose. She felt every eye focus upon her; a grim smirk touched her lips. Ben'waeth's grudging admission would not be enough to save her, not against the damning account in her son's writ. She remained still, having made her denials earlier, citing Gildin's feeble mental faculties, calling Lindalcon's action the erroneous conclusion of a soul overwrought by grief. She twitched, an unwilled flutter of nerves, cognisant of Thranduil's attention, waves of anguish from a heart betrayed inundating her soul, the fierce outrage of a protective father breaking upon her shrinking psyche. Yet the weight of his inner turmoil was her only comfort for it revealed a heart still engaged, their bond not severed as yet, and if he loved her still then surely he would spare her.



"Then why are you wasting our time?" groused Mithrandir, beyond peeved, for he and Aiwendil wished to settle the matter as quickly as possible and move on to resolution of Elrond's trespasses.

"I'm the one who gave Meril knowledge of the royal family's personal affairs. I divulged everything amiss and how best to benefit from it. I knew what would drive Ningloriel away, who among the warriors most despised Legolas," she blurted out suddenly, eyes filling in shame and remorse. "If not for my help, mayhap Meril would never have discovered Rochendil's unreasoning hatred. Without him, her scheming would have come to naught. I regret telling her." She broke off suddenly and covered her face with the apron.

"Yet you did. What made Legolas your target, Ben'waeth?" asked Aiwendil, for this was something he simply could not comprehend. In all the years he had known Legolas, seldom had he heard the Wood Elf speak out against any of the staff in his father's keep. In fact, he rarely mentioned his childhood.

"Like many others, I considered Legolas a spoiled child, a younger version of his naneth. He was fey and aloof and never mingled with others of his age. Everyone knew he was not the King's son and we shunned him because of it. It was easy to discount him." The elleth drew a trembling breath to reign in her emotions.

"That is no reason to condemn someone. He was not responsible for how he came into this world," Radagast chastised her.

"Aye, it was not only that." She raised contrite eyes to the Brown Wizard and shook her head as she gave a meagre shrug.

"Have you not dwelled in this fortress since it was constructed?" asked Celeborn, frowning as she nodded. "Then he grew up literally under your feet. You must have seen that this less than kind picture you paint of Legolas was false."

"Nay my contact with him was not so extensive as you imagine," the elleth protested. "I am the housekeeper, not a wet-nurse or a nanny. Ningloriel employed others to fulfil such duties. My sister was one of his minders and it was she who told me this. When he was on the cusp of maturity, Legolas was a wilful and sullen youth. He deliberately baited the King and drew down wrath upon those charged with his warding. There were reprisals, among them reduction in wages, loss of privileges, no escort for journeys beyond the borders of the forest.

"My sister grew angry and soon wearied of it, for Legolas did not care about her suffering and refused to cease his impudence. She resigned her post and left Greenwood, intending to reside in Lothlorien. Whether killed by Orcs or reduced to fodder for the spiders I shall never know, neither she nor her mate ever arrived there. I held Legolas to blame for it." Ben'waeth inhaled deeply before continuing. "I learned just recently why Legolas was so belligerent, so troubled. It was during this time that Maltahondo first took him to his bed. Almost immediately after that, Ningloriel and her lover once again abandoned him, departing for an extended visit to the Golden Wood."

The silence that followed this account was charged with combined horror, sorrow, and shock; crammed unto bursting with a profoundly raw sensation of disbelieving revulsion, for among the room's stupefied occupants only a few knew this truth. Thranduil, the wizards, and Iarwain were in turn dismayed, for while the King had once wondered subsequent worries drove the question from his thoughts. The rest had never suspected Ben'waeth was aware; thus, no one had cautioned her to hold at least this one degrading facet of Legolas' life in confidence. Now the ugly fact must be entered into the Record as part of her statement, documented for all time, open to any who wished to learn of the Erebor trial and its aftermath.

Mithrandir groaned, eyes squinched shut and head bent low as gnarled fingers clutched at his stomach. Aiwendil shared his indignation with Iarwain. Thranduil trained such a vicious glare upon the elleth that she shook with fright. Meril gasped aloud and stared at her friend, mouth agape, recalling the half-lie told her that fateful night following the Tawarwaith's intrusion upon her infant son. The Councillors and their pages exclaimed startled and incoherent noises of denial and repudiation. Celeborn's fingers dug into his cousin's shoulder as he gripped hard, struggling to retain his composure.

"Maltahondo bedded your child?" he sputtered out in hoarse, discordant tones, shifting so that he could meet Thranduil's eyes. "When? How? Elbereth, what manner of land is this? What breed of Elves do you govern? These are the ways of fiends and Orcs!" The noble Lord was deeply disturbed by this revelation and troubled by guilt, for never had he attempted to intervene on the young Elf's behalf, unwilling to involve himself in the conflict between Elrond, Ningloriel, and the Woodland King. "Had I known, had I suspected such was possible…" but he failed to complete his thought, for it was far past the time when aid from him might prevent the deed and his rationalisations availed Legolas naught.

"I am not adding this to our history," announced Fêrlas angrily. "Is it not enough that all his other torments are documented? Must this shameful abuse be put on display? Lord Celeborn is right; we show ourselves to be as base as mortal Men."

"Peace," whispered Aiwendil. "Blessed Manwë, there must be peace for Legolas soon."

After this all the voices died down again for none could summon words to express the depth of their repugnance. Simply hearing of it was beyond their capacity to bear and each felt the strong desire to quit the room and suspend the trial. Yet, no one had the energy to disperse and under the weight of this grotesque confession all were rendered physically immobile, impotent of thought, emotionally paralysed.

"I never imagined such a thing. I would have stopped it, this I swear." Ben'waeth was openly weeping, repeatedly wiping at her streaming eyes with the hem of the apron. "I regret my poisonous thoughts and venomous tattling, truly. I would do anything to…"

"You cannot undo it anymore than I," snapped Thranduil. "Stop wallowing in this drama! No one knew. Maltahondo is no fool and practised his vile seductions in secret. Do you suppose the healer would have ignored visible signs of harm upon my son's person? Would your sister?"

"Nay, Lord, she never dreamed anything so heinous and would have informed you at once, no matter her displeasure over Legolas' rebellious nature." Ben'waeth gasped out, her stuttered reply masking the sound of everyone else inhaling sharply as one. Thranduil had just named Legolas his son, for the Record. Paying no heed to their amazement, he continued the ranting derogation.

"So really you brought all this up because you wish to admit your wrongs and be shriven," Thranduil's mocking tone made Ben'waeth flinch. "No thought at all for what effect this unburdening of your conscious may have upon others. I am not moved by your tears; it will not be so easy as that. Nay, the truth is that you fear to share in Meril's punishment. You worry that she will name you her accomplice, thus you have turned on her first, rationalising your omissions and distracting our purpose by revisiting another's sin that we cannot now amend."

"I must agree." Celeborn was truly sickened and only with effort maintained an even tone. "Had you given Rochendil's name at the time of the Judgement, or even at any point thereafter, in conjunction with revealing these 'idle chatterings' between you and Meril, then the true culprits would have been questioned years ago. Most likely, the Council would have rescinded Legolas' banishment. Twelve years of torture, Ben'waeth. Sufficient blood stains your hands to condemn you."

"Nay! Nay, I couldn't be certain! I asked her and she denied any involvement; there was no proof of it!" Ben'waeth pleaded frantically but found no compassion in the eyes watching her display. "I beg you, be merciful!" The housekeeper turned to Mithrandir in hope of a more sympathetic ear. It was a foolish notion.

"Mercy? Did you spare any for Legolas?" boomed his powerful voice. He had not wished so strongly for the might of his staff within his fist since learning of Elrond's betrayal of the wild elf. "What reason can you give for holding your tongue so long? What explanation could serve to mitigate your just punishment?"

"Reason? No one cared about Legolas; there was no concept of betraying someone already outcast, reviled, universally discounted." A brittle and fractured voice interrupted, issuing not from the lowly housekeeper but the former Consort, for Meril was no longer willing to stand quiet before her Lord. Mayhap she recognised that the conclusion of Ben'waeth's testimony must usher in the culmination of her trial and had no wish to learn what her sentence would be. "Why do you ask her such when it is obvious? Why does no one ask Thranduil what caused him to so quickly affirm a battlefield Judgement with such dire consequences? He wanted to get rid of Legolas as much as anyone, nay, even more."

"Silence!" thundered the King, arising quickly, impelled from the throne by the vehemence of his wrath. "You have recited your version of this story and it has been proven naught but lies. I will hear you no more."

"Strange that a King and a commoner may benefit from the same sin, yet only the sylvan must bear the burden of guilt for it," she said bitterly.

Thranduil's face turned crimson and his eyes blazed as he stepped down and crossed the floor to his beloved, subjecting her to the same towering intimidation which Legolas had borne. It made his heart swell to see her cower down, too stricken in dread to even cry out, though whether this emotion permeating his soul was delight or despair he was unable to distinguish. He heard the subtle sound of Celeborn's shoes as the Elven Lord left the raised platform, hastening to his side.

"To benefit from unforeseen events is far removed from being the cause of those events," Celeborn stated, reseating his steadying hand on the monarch's shoulder.

It was enough; Thranduil calmed, several long breaths venting his lungs, and stepped back from Meril. This was not the place or the moment for such displays of anger. A swift glance at Fêrlas decreed resumption of the Record. With a startled little jerk the Councillor nudged his page to commence writing and Thranduil sent them each a decidedly unpleasant smile.

He breathed in and circled his beloved with slow and purposeful movements, evaluating her keenly, seeking to find what he had once seen in her. She was not worthy of him or his bloodline. He could not love so lowly an elleth; he could never love so foul a thing as a kinslayer. And yet I do. A swift, slicing agony pierced his chest and Thranduil had to halt and gulp back the groan that rose to his lips, steeling himself against the reeling confusion and absolute despair bursting through his thoughts. He staggered and found a hand on his elbow: Celeborn.

"Na him, garo gorn, muindoren," (Be steadfast, have courage, my brother) came the whispered entreaty, too low for any ears except his own, the grip firm and strangely comforting as it tightened around his arm. Thranduil looked at his cousin and found only concern and sympathy; the Lord of Lothlorien certainly knew a bit about loving someone with grievous flaws.

The pain eased; it was not as terrible as that he'd suffered when his Naneth died nor when Oropher fell on the field before the Black Gates of Mordor. Not yet, at least. I must think of the little ones. I must persevere. Thranduil stood tall again as the spasm passed, acknowledging Celeborn's support with a grateful nod, and his eyes fell once more on Meril. A sudden rage flared through him to behold her subdued and humble stance, head bent, eyes down, hands clasped over her breast. Somehow he knew this was all a farce. Within her soul she was laughing at his display of weakness.

I do not love her. It was never love, only base lust and desire, the long years of frustration over Ningloriel's rejection. I will not mourn over this vile affair's ending.

That was false, every word of it, and well he knew it, but just now he could not own the truth, not if he would survive this night and do what needed doing. There was no other who could, nay, only he possessed either the courage and the skill required. He must see it accomplished for the sake of Taurant and Echuiross if for nothing else. That this should be the mother of his youngest children disgusted him. Whatever Ningloriel was guilty of it was as nothing compared to this abomination's dealings, this Orc in Elven guise. Death was too good for her. Thranduil spoke:

"You call yourself common but it is your deeds that expose your lack of breeding, your renunciation of morality," Thranduil hissed at her suddenly and everyone shifted in awkward discomfort. "You are not fit to be counted among the sylvans, prattling of benefits and burdens whilst striving to squirm free of responsibility. That is the concept that divides thee, deceiver, from me, Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Greenwood. Responsibility.

"Everything I have done has been open for all eyes to see, while you seek to blind even yourself to your real intent. Whatever decree I have made was proclaimed in words chosen to convey their actual purpose, for any other's tongue to denounce that would. Your declarations, whether of love and constancy or grief and woe, are but a fraud filled with misdirection. Whatsoever I have willed is the design of my mind, my thoughts, that any might oppose who possessed the conviction to so do. Your deeds reflect a mind conquered by Shadow governed by a black and corrupted heart.

"I stand by my works and say to you the responsibility for those actions, and whatever consequence befalls me and mine due to them, all rests upon my shoulders, upon my honour and dignity. I say to you, kinslayer, bane of your bound mate, murderer of your child's Adar, that I regret not a single one. What say you, Meril? Will you own your treachery and defend its purpose? Have you any remorse to express or will you cling to your denial of guilt?"

In the glorious showcase of the King's throne room, everyone waited to learn the answer to this query, recognising this was Meril's last opportunity to admit fault and plead for clemency. Time dragged by; no answer came.

"You must respond," stated Iarwain, stepping forward to flank the downcast elleth. "Your fate has not been determined yet; perhaps if there is some reason, some cause which we may be made to comprehend…"

"Nay, her punishment is clearly indicated and shall surely fall upon her," interrupted Thranduil. "That cannot be averted now. It is for the children that I have offered her this chance to speak, for the nature of the penalty is yet under my consideration."

Meril's head snapped up and she met his gaze of feigned loathing with real malevolence. "They must not suffer!" she shrilled, hands tightening into rigid fists at her side. "You would not commit them to the languishing death of bereavement for loss of their Naneth, your own elflings. Taurant is your heir and Gwilwileth the very sun in your world. You will spare them!"

"Spare you, I suppose you really mean to say," growled Thranduil, determined to remain unmoved by her sudden display of fiercely maternal concern. He was glad she brought up their offspring; this served to harden his hatred, for it was her lack of trust that set them upon the path of this doom, even as Legolas had warned. And I aided her, fool that I was, but no more. "Are you experiencing some form of regret for your dealings now? How short-sighted of you not to anticipate this outcome and plan accordingly." His cutting sarcasm fooled none, however, for Thranduil could not keep the tremor from his voice.

"Have I not?" Meril lifted her chin, a sadistically confident smile curving her lips, eyes alight in the assurance of her hold over the King. "You would not do harm to your own children, you who suffered the death of your mother. You will not part me from my elflings; they have need of me.

"All of this is merely happenstance, circumstance and coincidence, the vagaries of Vairë taking silly fantasies shared between old friends and transmuting them to fate. Must I pay for foolishness with my life? It was all Rochendil's doing; the deaths were his plot. He was at Erebor, not I. He was cruel and brutal; we all have seen what injuries he inflicted on Legolas. Perhaps it was Ben'waeth who relayed our wicked musings to him."

"That is a lie," said Ben'waeth.

"Is your word more worthy than mine?" laughed the discarded Consort. "I am the mother of Greenwood's prince and beloved of Thranduil."

"And still a liar and a murderer," Celeborn interceded on his kinsman's behalf, for he could see this sudden assertion of innocence was a shock for the King. He did not know if Thranduil could render judgement, now that its time was nigh, and hoped there might be some aspect of sylvan custom that would relegate the task to the Council. "Your own son condemns you, who must bear greater love for you than Thranduil. Gildin sacrificed his chance for healing and peace in Aman to return here and give his confession. Your best friend indicts herself to confirm your long-held plans to usurp Ningloriel's place. These facts outweigh the slender doubt your claims inspire."

"As for Rochendil, he will meet his doom by and by; have no concern for his escape, fair fiend. To name him the sole miscreant is folly, for that Elf earned no benefit from this endeavour save the twelve years of sick pleasure he indulged." sighed Thranduil, staring at the defiant form of his beloved. "It could all have turned out so differently," he murmured in distraction, for he would have forgiven her anything, concealed all her errors, covered over her crimes in an avalanche of misdirection had she believed in his love for her. Again he felt the gentle pressure of his kinsman's grasp upon his shoulder and turned away from Meril, striding back to resume his seat upon the gilded chair.

"Iarwain, I believe there is sufficient evidence to rule," announced Thranduil, his gaze clear but not upon the accused, righteous authority filling his voice. "No further testimony shall be heard on this issue."

"So noted," intoned Fêrlas.

"Nasan," (So be it.) the eldest Councillor bowed deeply to his King and then in quiet whispers Greenwood's elders conferred. It did not take long. "We have reached a decision, my Lord."

"Speak."

"We accept the death-bed testimony of Gildin, as reported by Lindalcon, first born of the accused and to whom it was spoken, as truth. We accept the account of Ben'waeth concerning the association between Meril and Rochendil as truth. Meril is judged the author of the deaths of Annaldír, Andamaitë, and Valtamar. In equal measure must the burden of responsibility be shared between her and Rochendil, whose hand brought the crime to fruition. Ben'waeth is judged a co-conspirator for withholding this information, assuring that the wrong party was convicted and punished for these reprehensible deeds."

There was a quiet sigh from Ben'waeth, a sound something like relief, followed by fresh tears as she once more buried her face in the damp and wrinkled apron. From Meril there was no reaction at all. She remained as unmoving and silent as the hibernating trees. Celeborn stepped up onto the dais, perhaps to counsel his cousin before sentence was pronounced, but Radagast intervened.

"My Lord," Aiwendil's voice was filled with weary dismay as he addressed Greenwood's King, "there has been enough of sylvan justice. I plead, indeed, Thranduil, I beg for you to abjure your sovereignty and permit the greater Powers to determine the penance owed by these Elves."

"No." Surprisingly, it was Mithrandir who supplied the rebuttal. "I do not approve of the Wood Elves' so-called Law, but I am not Elf-kind, Aiwendil, nor are you. It is not our place to revoke the customs that mould their world. However, like Lindalcon I am weary of its strangely random application. If it is Law then it should fall upon all who break it."

"Olórin, this vengeful path is not the way of Iluvatar," argued Radagast, shocked to hear his brother Maia contradict him.

"This is not Aman and the will of Iluvatar is that Middle-earth shall be under the jurisdiction of whoever has courage enough to stand against the Shadow and strength enough to govern those who would stand with him. In Greenwood, that person is Thranduil," said MIthrandir.

The King rose. "Nothing further will be heard on that point. Any who oppose my right to rule will be escorted to the borders." No one dared even breathe much less to speak and Thranduil was satisfied. His cold eyes landed upon his children's mother while his words addressed his kinsman. "Celeborn, I would ask of thee a favour."

"It is granted, whatever you may require," answered the sombre Lord, saddened for his cousin. It was clear to him that Thranduil did love this elleth, despite his outward demeanour of scornful contempt. He could not imagine having to pass judgement on his beloved Galadriel and would do what he could to see Thranduil through this odious duty.

"Ben'waeth and all her kin still dwelling in my realm are banished from Greenwood for as long as the forest lives. I have no desire to place hardship on those of her people who are innocent. I ask that they be granted refuge in Lothlorien, should they desire it."

"Thank you, my Lord!" gasped Ben'waeth, falling to her knees, profoundly grateful that her failings would not afflict her family too severely.

"You cannot stay either, of course," remarked Thranduil, almost as if just now reflecting on the matter. "Take up what you need and flee to the Havens. Journey over sea and place yourself before the Valar for your punishment, for I know not the real extent of your malice. I believe that fear silenced you, for if your dear friend had no compunction against killing her own mate, what value could mere friendship hold?"

"Praise Elbereth! You are most merciful, my Lord," gushed the stunned housekeeper. Ben'waeth did not wait, scrambling to her feet and flying from the room, the door's hinges groaning in protest as she shoved it briskly ajar.

"What of Meril?" asked Iarwain. "Will you commit her to the Tasks of Release?"

Now she reacted, stared boldly at Thranduil as she crossed her arms before her, fully expecting him to reject that pronouncement for it was still there, glimmering in the depths of his emerald eyes, the spark of his adoration for her. He stood quiet, eyes distant, considering the elder's words, and of a sudden Meril was bitten by a small and spidery fear. She inhaled and addressed him: "May I speak?"

"The trial is done," Iarwain's irritated reprimand sang out.

"I accept the rule of the Council," she said contritely, "but would ask for lenience from my Lord."

Thranduil shifted, roused from his inward pondering, and permitted his sight to lie upon her upturned face, observing the way the light of the torches played over her features. So fair. Even now, I would forgive her and find the means to salvage our life. "I will permit this plea."

A wild scritching and scraping commenced in the pause that followed, for all the pages were busily scribbling down this unprecedented concession. None of the Councillors knew how to respond and so they simply waited in silence. Aiwendil muttered a prayer of thanks but Mithrandir was not pleased, anymore than was Celeborn. Neither felt this elleth worthy of further consideration.

"What I have done, I have done." Meril began, seeing she had everyone's full attention but directing her speech to Thranduil alone. "Sometimes tragedy must be endured to ensure future happiness. None comprehend this better than you, my Lord. If I have benefited from sorrow and misfortune, so have you, so has all of Greenwood. I gave you an heir who is the pride of your heart, a princess who is the delight of your soul. Two children and I would gladly bear you more," she said, her voice entreating, couched in the soft and mellow wiles it was her wont to use. "Do not discard the love we have discovered and nurtured, for such you will not know again in this life. Let me remain at your side; do not part me from our babes."

"You go too far," barked Mithrandir. "You ask not lenience but complete remission."

"This is Greenwood and Thranduil rules here; did you not just assert this fact?" Meril countered. "It is our Lord who will assign my doom, not outlanders, spies of our enemies."

"What nonsense do you utter now?" demanded Celeborn. "Are the Valar your foes? Mithrandir and Aiwendil are emissaries from Aman, not Mordor."

"All such aside, the children must be considered. I will not condemn my own flesh and blood by sending their mother into the wilds," Thranduil broke into the petty bickering.

"Thank you, my Lord!" Meril enthused, pleased as she bowed before him. As she straightened, her victorious gaze locked with Thranduil's and a gloating, predatory cast stole over her soft features, robbing them of the tender contours love produced, revealing them for the false mask they were.

Thranduil saw it clearly and felt the same combination of crawling revulsion and soul-rending abandonment Lindalcon had experienced. He sucked in a deep breath, his pain audible and visible as he slowly sank into the chair, gripping tight to its arms as if he might not be able to remain conscious otherwise. His awareness vaguely registered Celeborn's presence bending low, speaking in his ear, tugging at his shoulder, trying to tear his sight from the false elleth. He could not look away.

She does not love me, or if she does it is some permutation of that feeling unknown to me. She will be the end of me.

He swallowed to keep the acid in his gut where it belonged. A sound like the roaring cataract of the upper falls resounded through his ears as a dense sensation of gelid presence collected around his person. Thranduil shuddered in its icy grasp and gasped out, his exhaled breath a misty fog in the living vapour. Again he felt the weight of a hand upon his shoulder but it was not Celeborn's.

See how she mocks you.

Will this go into our annals, that Thranduil fell victim to a broken heart, pining for one who despises him?

You give her the Regency, for Taurant is only a babe.

She would steal our Adar's legacy and destroy all your efforts to strengthen this land.

Was Ada's death for nothing?

You must not surrender so easily

Hold to your resolve. Do what you know you must.

The babes will flourish; they possess mighty spirits like their father and their brother.

Do not shame the memory of our Adar by forsaking his eldest grandson.

Avenge him.

The words slithered through his thoughts and he opened his mouth, permitting them to pluck life from his vocal chords. "Avenge him." Thranduil stood, the manifestation vanished, and the cold dispersed in the heat of his anger.

Now Celeborn had drawn back in amazement and no small dread as this occurred, retreating from the dais to join the wizards. From their expressions he knew they were as alarmed as he while the sylvan Councillors looked ready to bolt and some of the pages had already done so. The Lord of Lothlorien regarded his cousin anew, doubting no more the presence of the spirits of the gates.

Before any of them could regain their wits, Thranduil spoke directly to Meril. "I will not send you weaponless and alone into the harsh wilderness beyond my borders, but neither shall you stand by my side. The evil you have done cannot be reversed yet neither must it be ignored. Clemency is denied."

Meril gasped, shaking her head in disbelief, raising her hands imploringly, hastily reorganising her features to present the gentle demeanour Thranduil so adored. "Nay, Thranduil! Our children!"

"I will consider carefully what manner your sentence shall take, for I am not unmindful of the needs of my little ones. Yet they are not without family and will never be without love, whether you are here to give it or not. Until I decide your fate, you shall be detained in the dungeons."

A collective gasp escaped the Elves still present, for the cells had never been used to harbour one of their own, yet none could find the means to countermand this order.

Thranduil stepped down from the dais, passing the stunned form of his former Consort and moving across the floor toward the doorway. "See it done," he called over his shoulder and he exited the throne room.

TBC