Feud

by erobey | italics indicate thoughts |  (elvish translations in parentheses) |  This chapter un-Beta'd Said Duir a Cyfn (Dark and Empty Spaces)

"It was Antala Ajan Ek-tâ," (Giving the Holy Stab - a ritual of sacrifice) Haldir said solemnly, hunched forward in his chair beside the fire, slowly rolling the stem of a goblet between his palms, watching the blood-coloured liquid billow and quake, shimmering as the firelight bounced from its fluid surface.

He did not raise his eyes even when he heard Celeborn's sharp intake of breath. He had not yet washed the grime of battle from him, unable to move a muscle beyond this hypnotic rotation of the glass back and forth within his hands. Here he had hastened as soon as he'd arrived, so to make his report, but Celeborn knew him well and was prepared. Into this chair he'd been thrust, the goblet pressed into his hands, a calming hand upon his shoulder as he described the battle in the mountain tunnels, gaining ground by inches, the brave sylvans storming forward again and again, ancient and battered shields held forth to ward off arrows and swords and axes and clubs, common woodsmen beside them, all of them, men and elves, shrieking and bellowing incoherent shouts that were no longer battle slogans but feral howls of mad, wild, animal fury.

It was contagious.

Haldir shut his eyes against the images of the things he'd done, atrocities even when the targets were detestable Orcs. What base instinct had compelled him? These were not honourable tactics: hacking the wounded and dying to pieces, disembowelling and beheading and dismembering with a ferocious delight that was disgusting to him now. He'd seen others do the same or worse and he fought off these visions with a low groan. The hand on his shoulder tightened and was joined by the other as Celeborn massaged his tense muscles.

"Continue, mellon," Celeborn prompted.

"The losses were great; I brought back four fewer warriors than I took into battle. Thandir, Beldhram, Limgrist, and Tarias are dead. (Trusty One, Strong Blow, Swift Sword, Toughness) Among the men, I doubt that many more than four or five survived the fighting. As for the sylvans, they will be many days retrieving and burying the dead and many centuries mourning them." He took an automatic swallow of the wine to wet his dry mouth and tasted nothing, resumed his moody revolution of the glass.

Celeborn stared into the flames dancing behind the grate, disturbed not by his March Warden's confessions but the casual reference to this obscure and ancient ritual. The blood-letting free for all he had expected and was prepared to console Haldir and reassure him this was no reflection on his character. But Antala Ajan Ek-tâ was something so remote in the history of the sylvan people that few west of the Misty Mountains knew of it. Among the Galadhrim, the practise had disappeared early, long before Celeborn and Galadriel ventured to the Golden Wood, and that being the case he had assumed the same was true for Greenwood, since originally they were one people.

There was no point in asking if Haldir was mistaken; there was nothing else like Antala Ajan Ek-tâ, a ritual killing once practised to appease and please the hidden Powers far away who would not come to aid the beleaguered woodland folk. The use of a venerable dagger and its placement in the throat, severing the carotid artery, was conclusive. Celeborn swallowed. "You believe it was Legolas' hand that…"

"No other," Haldir interrupted sharply, shaking his head, eyes finally meeting his Lord's, fury, fear, and intense frustration warring for dominance. "Why is obvious and the Wood Elves did not seem to respond with anything other than terrible sorrow, veneration of the victim, mournful compassion for the executioner."

"They accept this?" Celeborn was relieved for that much if a bit perplexed. "How is that, I wonder, when he was condemned for the deaths of three warriors during battle?"

"Valar! Who can understand them?" Haldir got up abruptly and moved away, casting aside his muddy, bloody cloak in the corner of the room. "I need to wash, Hiren," he said tiredly and did not wait for permission to leave, stomping into Celeborn's bathing chamber. There he found the usual tall earthen ewers wrapped in their woollen coats to keep the water inside from cooling too quickly. His arrival had obviously been anticipated. The Greenwood, he decided wryly, had a very efficient communications system.

He stripped down mechanically, stepped into the copper basin, and scrubbed himself until his skin burned. It did not help; he could not rub out the memory of Lindalcon's bloated, decaying body from his mind, the emerald encrusted dagger protruding from the neck. This place! It leaves its taint on everyone. I feel diseased, as though the darkness has got into my very blood. He towelled off, took a clean woollen robe from the cupboard against the wall, and belted it round his body, realising with surprise that he did feel a little better. Or at least less like the mad elves in this vile and blighted forest. He re-entered the inviting study to find Celeborn calmly waiting for him, a tray of light victuals set upon the table, and Haldir smiled.

"Sit and eat, renew your strength," the Lord of Lorien enjoined and held out a small silver goblet. "Miruvor. I think you need it, mellon." He watched as Haldir threw him a soul-weary look and took the cup, draining it hastily before dropping in the chair again. Celeborn took a seat beside him. "So, whatever the reason, this ritual has changed over time and become something else here, something the Wood Elves respect or revere. We will need to know the particulars in order to know how to address the issue with Legolas."

"I do not believe he will want to have it addressed," announced Haldir, shaking his head as he picked at a golden loaf smothered in sweet honey. It was good and suddenly he was famished. As soon as the first taste touched his tongue, his appetite awoke and he devoured everything on the plate: bread, fruit, and dried venison.

Celeborn waited for him to finish and handed him another goblet, this time filled with more of the dark Dorwinion. "I understand why you feel that way, yet it will have to be addressed for that very reason. Legolas, from all accounts we have heard thus far, loved Lindalcon like a brother. We know the young one felt the same way. What they shared in those final moments is going to mark Legolas for whatever remains of his life."

"Aye, if he survives," Haldir agreed, his face contorted in a bitter grimace. "It would be better for him not to survive and while I grieve, Lindalcon had the easier fate. I fear only madness awaits if he ever awakens to comprehension of what has happened to him, what he was forced to do. I wonder if they had any chance to discuss it?"

"Eru! What a conversation that would be." Celeborn pressed fingers against his eyes a moment, for such things were not beyond his personal knowledge. He had seen horrors he preferred not to recall and found his mind bringing up faces of comrades he had not thought upon in Ages of time, warriors and friends he had released from the slow horror of being dismembered and eaten alive, others lethally poisoned, still other elves broken and twisted into traitors who cursed him and called him kin-slayer when he was forced to dispatch them to spare the lives of those they were killing and trying to kill. These were things he could only speak of with Galadriel, for she had shared similar experiences and knew the weight of guilt and responsibility such acts left behind.

"Aye," Haldir sighed. "Who can tell us about the ritual? Thranduil?"

"Nay, not he. Iarwain will know, yet I hesitate to go to him as it might give him the impression I am favouring him over my cousin. I do not want to do anything to upset the new balance of power here."

They sat in silence and sipped their wine, pondering the catastrophic events that had rocked this besieged kingdom. Yet for the moment Celeborn was more interested in aiding Haldir through the aftermath of this tragic war. He already knew the March Warden blamed himself for letting Lindalcon slip away from him. It was not so hard to imagine Haldir shouldering the burden of the young one's death as well. He observed the defeated posture: shoulders slumped, head bowed, mouth drawn in a dour scowl, eyes searching through memories for the moments when he had failed to see Lindalcon's dire fate looming, drawing comparisons where there were really none to find.

"He is not Rumil," Celeborn said softly and watched the proud face contract in pain as Haldir turned away. "Lindalcon was never your responsibility."

"Was he not? I alone understood what he was feeling." Haldir gulped down his wine but it left a sour taste and he set it aside.

"Really?" Celeborn let just a touch of scorn limn the word. "That is truly arrogant. These people here, they understand far better than you or I ever could. Indeed, we assume the young one felt as we would feel under such circumstances, yet neither of us has ever faced circumstances similar to the one that marked his entire life, from its very conception."

"I did not mean it that way," Haldir defended his thoughts. "I meant the way he wanted to avenge his father; this I understood well and might have aided him, prevented him from leaving the stronghold."

"You are entirely wrong," Celeborn shook his head slowly. "When Lindalcon left here, it was not merely to avenge his father. He intended to achieve the Warrior's Release that meant his Adar's spirit would be free to fly to Mandos. He left here knowing what his mother had done; what he was to her. He left here seeking his death and if we did not understand that it is because we are not part of this culture. Those who are let him go. They let him go, Haldir, these barbaric Wood Elves just let him go, one more sacrifice to salve their own consciences."

"Valar!" Haldir seethed, gripping the arms of his chair fiercely. "How could they allow it? He was a child still!"

"Who are we to judge them?" Celeborn immediately reversed himself, issuing this stern rebuke, and saw the swift reaction of shock sweep through Haldir's eyes. "We do not have to exist in these conditions; we are protected. And Lindalcon was a child no longer. He made his decision based on customs we do not even now fully comprehend. Perhaps the shame was too much. Perhaps the grief was overwhelming and he preferred to die as a warrior rather than endure the agony of fading he had observed as Gildin expired."

Haldir stared, dumbstruck for several seconds. He could not have heard correctly and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "You cannot be condoning this appalling and unnecessary sacrifice. I am certain if I had taken the time to talk to him I could have convinced Lindalcon that there was another way."

"Why do you think that?" Celeborn challenged and set his own goblet aside, leaning forward. He pointed at Haldir's chest. "You are making assumptions without considering evidence that supports an entirely different conclusion. Everything we have seen here thus far would indicate that there was no other course for Lindalcon. Do you think he would have wanted Legolas to take up the Judgement again, after hearing his outspoken words in the Council Chamber?"

"Nay, perhaps not, but…"

"Do you think he would really want his siblings to lose their mother? Would he really want to see her brought before the Council and condemned, publicly banished and cast out from the city? Nay, surely not, for he loved her, but in a moment of bitter and unbearable hurt he struck out and hurt her irrevocably, as she had done to him. Once delivered, his accusation could not be withdrawn. What do you think he felt about that as soon as it was over with?"

"I…I cannot imagine it."

"I can," Celeborn said seriously. "He would not be able to even allow himself to acknowledge it, but underneath his spirit would be writhing in an agony of guilt and horror. For he is not like his mother and he would hate himself for doing this thing, whether she deserved it or not. Nor would he forgive himself for sealing her fate and also endangering his siblings' lives because of her loss. Do you see?"

"Ai Valar," Haldir breathed, pale and shaken. It was all so much worse than he had really envisioned it and he silently chastised himself, seeing that he was avoiding the truth because it was so terrible to bear it.

"Indeed," Celeborn shook his head sadly. "I think Legolas also understood all of this, whether he could admit it to himself or not. He has endured so much to protect those young ones and I can imagine he was not pleased with Lindalcon for naming their mother a kin-slayer."

"You are saying he meant to execute Lindalcon?" Haldir croaked, face contorted in dismay over such an unspeakable set of circumstances.

"No, I do not believe he would have been able to do it but for the fact of Lindalcon's capture. I do not think Legolas has ever been able to stomach the idea of drawing elven blood. He has suffered incredible hardship without retaliating very often. His explosion in the Council Chamber was a long, long time fermenting before the vessel blew," Celeborn explained. He was silent a time, considering the personality his unique kinsman had evolved over the course of his life. "I think, because he sees himself as a burden and hated by almost everyone, that he cannot condemn those in whom he sees flaws and faults and errors, even grievous ones. He has to believe, you see, that everyone is worthy of love and respect, no matter what they have done in their past, else there is no hope at all for him."

"That is completely perverse," Haldir announced, disgusted, but he could not dispute his Lord's reasoning. He stood and returned to the bathing chamber to fetch a comb, settling closer to the fire to work the tangles out of his mane as it dried. He glanced at Celeborn. "If he survives, what can we do to help him?"

"He has already survived," reminded Celeborn with a grim smile, "and there is much we may do to help him. First and foremost, we need to support Thranduil as he seeks the path to reconciliation with his son. After that, we need to minimise this ugly business with Elrond. Legolas is not going to want to relive everything through another soul-racking trial. Finally, we must learn about this death ritual. If there is some ceremony to honour the two of them, victim and executioner, we must make sure to be part of it. The Twins will also participate, for they have been forced to take elven life, too, and feel for him keenly. I want Legolas to know that other realms do not condemn him for this mercy killing."

"Hiren," Haldir intoned, "that is quite a lot more than I entertained. How long do you mean to stay here?"

"Does it matter?" Celeborn shrugged. "Galadriel will maintain Lorien, as she has done for all this time already. She instructed me to save Legolas if at all possible, for she saw my heart and knew he would become a burden on my soul if I did not at least try. So. We shall try, yes?"

"Aye, Hiren. We will try to make him whole again," Haldir agreed, smiling, but then he frowned. "Although, I do not believe he has ever been whole."

Thranduil stood outside the cell in the dark, the dark of empty places filled with ancient malice and crowded with fear and anger and remnants of minds, fragments of deathly thoughts, memories of final moments before hroa and fëa were riven. Old places like this barren abyss filled with such detrital energy as surely as a well drilled into the ground drew water. The lost found their way here; the forgotten and rejected drifted into these holes to mourn the life taken from them, the banished and condemned fled and sought refuge in foul pits and cracks and crevices where Eru would not bother to look for them. In the dark underbelly of the world they were swallowed up and slowly digested, nevermore to be disgorged, housed in the absolute pitch of the lowest halls of hell.

Thranduil was familiar with such shattered shards of extinguished light and feared them not. The impression of vitality was false; they were no longer sentient. These were but the echoes of spirits trapped by their own sins, terrors, or mistakes. The bottom-most caverns of his stronghold were a fitting place for their final transformations. Indeed, he often syphoned off small quantities of this end product of life and used it to bolster the wards he employed throughout the fortress. He felt them like a thick, sluggish current moving through the stagnant air, twisting and writhing about him, desire to be near, terror to be discovered powering the convection. He carried no lighted candle, no lamp or lantern, no torch to illuminate the long dusty hallway between the dungeon's tiny chambers. In the glow of his aura he could see his own person and nothing more, but that was more than enough. He stirred.

How long have I been standing here?

Instantly he knew he would stand in this place again and again and again over the Ages that passed and saw the wreck he would become because of it. Just as quickly he banished that future and gathered his courage close; he had children who needed him, a people who depended upon his strength, a son to reclaim.

He faced the door without seeing it, envisioned it in his mind, beheld it as clearly as if he held a blazing brand aloft in his hand. The barrier was solid oak braced with bands of iron and set into the rock wall on heavy hinges. A ponderous lock adorned the outer surface, snapped through ornamented hasps engraved with runes of such confining power that any who sought to break through would be caught and crushed with such fear that they would cower frozen upon the floor, no action possible beyond the wild beating of their hearts as visions of horrific torments passed through their thoughts. Beyond the door, beyond it, there inside the empty space filled with the cold boil of raw quintessence, she was in there. Thranduil stirred, jerking out of his funk to prevent his brain from wounding him by producing her face and form. He drew breath and spoke.

"I have news for you. Have you a mind still? Can you reason and think and comprehend my words, Gwarth?" (Betrayer)

No answer came, no sign of movement or of life, but he did not open the door nor summon light to check on the prisoner. He could not bear to look upon her, whether she was alive or dead, and did not know which would be easier for him to face. He waited; if she was dead he need not waste his breath here, but if she still breathed then he must deliver her to her just punishment.

Judgement was a duty laid upon the ruler of the people in ancient days, something his Adar inherited from Iarwain and passed along to him, but enforcing the sentence was wholly the right of the wronged, or the surviving loved ones such as he: a betrayed husband, an outraged father. Even had custom not been so, his participation was required under the agreement reached with his brothers' spirits and, Thranduil was convinced, with the Powers. Now, after he endured this last devastating perfidy, this loss, this abandonment, now the curse would be removed and his children would thrive; their futures assured, their happiness guaranteed. He had to believe; what more could he give? What more could he lose? Hastily he turned from such thoughts for he had so much that was precious to him.

And still he waited, face close to the door, forehead almost touching the wood, breath fogging the metal of the steel and mithril lock. He felt her in there, a weighty presence, a bulky, blobby, foul excrescence, base and adulterated, all that remained after anything pure, anything essential to the spirit of elf-kind was stripped off, a living and breathing mass of offal too repellent to be exposed to light and air. Yes, he felt her and his heart contracted so sharply he lost his bearings and almost unlocked the door. Yet he refrained, hands trembling as they clasped together and held one to another, the mighty King and the forlorn inner child finally joined in this unbearable grief. The painful spasm passed; he inhaled and filled his lungs; the forlorn child hid himself behind the mighty King.

"Answer if you live."

"I hear," a faint voice sounded, whispery, tense and wary.

Frightened.

Fragile.

Helpless.

False. "Ahhhhh," Thranduil sighed long and low and pressed his palm against the stony wall to support his weary frame. He heard them now, the shadow sounds woven within her once endearing voice. The unspoken words they formed were cunning, cruel, cold. Why did it have to be like this? "I could have forgiven anything save the child's fate," he said.

"Your child's fate you determined before his birth," Meril hissed. "Do not saddle me with his woes; I am not Ningloriel."

"Nay, assuredly you are not and only now do I see the foolishness of my stubborn pride. Ningloriel was fair and noble, descended of wise and courageous people, worthy to be Greenwood's Queen. If not the best naneth, at least she would never have done Legolas harm purposefully. As best she knew how, she loved him, and Legolas is likely the only other person beside herself for whom she had true feelings."

"So you regret sending her away? What of the love you professed to me? How fickle is your heart!"

"You speak justly, for I was ready to be rid of her without ever attempting to learn if she spoke truth to me or not. I used her and she allowed it for the sake of her people, yet even then I was jealous and would not permit her to be happy even in a minor way. I did not love her nor she me and what she gained from our union was robbed from her by the lover she trusted. Was the solace that lover provided her too much to ask of me in return for the heir she bore?"

"Apparently so," sneered Meril. "You need not have burdened yourself with her in the first place, but you were so arrogant, Thranduil, so haughty! A simple sylvan maid was not fit for you. Thus, extraordinary measures were required to return Greenwood to the rule of her own people."

"Do not speak my name for I shall not say yours, and there is nothing simple about you, Gwarth. A more twisted mind, a more perverted heart I have never known. Legolas is sylvan, as well you know and I have learned, and but for what has been done to him would be a fine successor to rule here. No interference from you was required."

"What gall! You have done worse and the name you give me now should belong to you! Those things were done to Legolas and it is you who sanctioned them. You made certain we had no one to replace you; I simply could not accept that."

"I have not done anything like your sin," Thranduil said, both stern and sad, for he did not understand how she had come to be this warped. What terrible thing was done to her to make her so? "What sins my soul bears I do not attempt to justify but admit them freely and state the reasons I undertook such actions. At least be honest with yourself now that all has been laid bare."

"Where are your brothers, mighty King?" she scoffed, laughing again, but it died away when he did not answer her, transformed into a gasp of shock. "Nay! Nay!" she keened, realising at last that the spirits were in the cell with her. She ran to the door and pounded on it desperately, threw herself against the boards. "Please! Let me out! Make them go!" She shrieked, a piercing screech of misery that died away into whimpering snivelling.

"You are in no danger; they have no wish to inhabit such a person's flesh," advised the King.

A long silence filtered away into the stale air as Thranduil relived his days with her, bewildered and hurt that he could love her, really love her, only to learn she was so vile his stomach churned over the intimate scenes and tender moments. Why was it his fate always to be thwarted? She bore my children; are they tainted now? At once he knew this was not so, for Lindalcon had been nothing like her. He gathered himself and stood tall in the caliginous corridor between the ranks of cloistered cells.

"This is all spurious, our carping words of blame and fault and sin. It is not my child I meant," he announced. Behind the door, he heard her scrambling to her feet, felt the pressure of her hand where she set it softly against the door. If he really listened, he could hear her heart; it was racing. "Does your heart still feel, Gwarth? Did it ever?"

"Not Legolas? What is wrong with my children? Is it Taurant? Is he grieving for me? Will you sacrifice our precious princeling on account of that disgraced bastard?" she demanded. "Let me go to my children or their deaths are on your hands!" She pounded on the door again when he did not answer. "Thranduil! Let me go to them! Do you not care if they perish from grief? Free me! Free me and let them live!"

"Mordor take you," he hissed, stunned to hear her exclude Lindalcon as though he had never lived. "My children are well, though frightened and confused about where you have gone. Taurant has a fine nurse who cherishes him and I fear will spoil him, save that her mate is so stern a guardian and takes his duty so seriously he will not permit it. Taurant thrives with the three of us doting on him and Gwilwileth clinging to him. She is sad and misses you, but no longer asks about you, for she has noticed that her brother left the same time you did. She is old enough to understand the gossip the servants share."

"Lindalcon?" she spat, trying to summon rage while her voice quaked with terror.

"So you do recall your first-born."

Silence followed this remark, unfolding into an immense choking cloud, clogging the vast emptiness of Meril's cell with the unspoken voice of Valtamar's son: the boastful, proud, loving quotes of childhood, the fiery anger and outrage of disillusioned youth, the unrelenting integrity of a devoted son and brother grown to maturity too soon, the resigned and mortified words of despair inked across a pale parchment.

"Lindalcon?" she whispered, shivering, scarcely able to draw air, and thought she heard him answer. But it was Thranduil speaking.

"What have you to say about your first-born? Have you no worries for his health in light of all that has come to pass?"

"Lindalcon? Nay, what shall I say of him? He has betrayed me, his own naneth," she said with dark petulance. "Why did he do this? It was the influence of the immoral ellon your cast off child became. I was wrong to let my son near that kin-slayer. He would not have said those things of me otherwise. Lies! All lies! He accepted the rambling fantasies of a fading soldier over the word of his own naneth. He shames me and his father. He is…"

"Dead," Thranduil interrupted her tirade, voice steady and quiet, neither rage nor disgust nor shock within it, but only the solemn tone of Judgement. "He is dead, Meril."

"Dead? Nay," she denied with a shaky laugh. "Nay, you are saying this to punish me for my part in Legolas' fall from grace, though that part was so small compared to others' influences on his life."

"How telling are your denials. Lindalcon is dead and you are the cause of his death, even as you intended from the moment the thought of making him entered your mind. Tell me now my sins equal yours, Gwarth. Can there be a worse betrayal than to generate life only to condemn it in the same moment?"

"I do say it!" she shouted, beating the door again. "What did you do to Legolas but condemn him?"

"I wanted him and made him with the desire to raise up a potent heir for my Adar's lineage, not to sacrifice him for a chance at wealth and position."

"Didn't you?" her mocking voice rang out. "What more were you striving for than to be the great King of the Woodland Realm, a monarch in the manner of Thingol, mightiest of all the Kings of old! Yes, you made an heir instead of a son."

"I made both and both were stolen from me by others, a number in which you belong for you meant for him to die," Thranduil countered, inwardly marvelling at the dispassionate manner he maintained as he addressed her. He did not feel anything just now, neither wrath nor sorrow, and he hoped this would continue until he was finished. "I would have loved him dearly but for the interference of outsiders, and my own hubris. For that I owe him a debt it will take eternity to repay, yet I will remit it in full. There is much in him to admire, much to engender pride and cause me to marvel that I am his sire."

"Oh, duplicitous King! Can you not acknowledge your own self-serving falsehoods? Coward! As fine as a hair is this distinction between me and thee. Ai! Listen to your rationalisations! An heir for your father's House? A son to carry on the noble bloodline?" She howled with laughter and went on for some seconds before abruptly stopping short. He heard her shuffle close and lean upon the door and the malice in her seeped round the edges of the barrier, poisoning the air so that he stepped back. "Yet it shall not be. You shall not rewrite this tale to suit your conscience and cover your crimes. I tell you now that you and all your line are…"

A horrific scream of agony replaced her words, the curse aborted as the unhoused Princes of the Woodland Realm came to the defence of their kin, niece and nephews innocent of ill-deeds who deserved no further invocation of evil upon them. Before her they paraded the befouled garments with which she had chosen to clothe herself: a cloak of unwarranted discontent and false indignation to obscure a gown of covetous hunger for position and power, skirts comprised of esurient desire to control, manipulate, and possess. Unveiled at last, her eyes beheld these inglorious robes as they were, rotten rags mouldering in her malignant self-pity, ill-made and ill-suited for elvish form, revealing beneath them the monster she had become. When at last the brothers relented, she was near to madness and they relinquished her soul only on the brink of shattering her mind. Through it all Thranduil remained rigid and unmoving, hands braced against the rough stone, eyes squeezed shut though he could not see her frantic writhing.

"Meril!" he wailed in broken-hearted sorrow. He swallowed with difficulty and found his chest heaving, tears running down his face, this wound worse than all the rest and the sign he had prayed not to receive. She meant to curse them, the very children they created together in love, curse them to dark fates and ill ends solely to spite him. It was some little time before he composed himself and he was grateful for his brothers' spiritual presence, let them in without resistance and listened to their comforting words and promises of protection for the little ones, for Legolas, for him. He almost retreated and let them take over completely, but they insisted he continue, for this was part of his punishment as had been agreed.

"Now you will hear of the death of Lindalcon and the burden his loss places upon Legolas," he said and described it for her, knowing she would understand for she was sylvan. The populace whispered of the ritual killing perpetually, a sacrifice for Greenwood, and of course he had heard. The recitation did not take long and so he added the horror of the Tawarwaith's soul held captive while he remained alive to know it, easily bound by the guilt he bore. "Lindalcon died to free his father's soul, the death you crafted for him, yet it was a better end than you intended, sanctified because he accepted it and the Tawarwaith delivered it. Thus, it is your soul that bears this double stain," he concluded and then corrected himself. "Nay, the stain is so ingrained your soul must long ago have fled or suffocated, blotted out in the deluge of blood you've spilt. What is inside you I shiver to think, for I have lain with it." And he did shudder violently as revulsion rolled through him.

"What I have done is no worse than your own dark deeds," she insisted, though her voice was faint and she knew there was no hope for her now. Yet, she could not help but beg, for if she had him beside her to suffer with her, then her burden would be lessened. "You could forgive me these errors as I have overlooked yours. Together, we can cleanse the woods of the horrors that have settled upon our hearts and turned them inside out. You love me still and I am your devoted mate, the naneth of your prince and princess. Salvage me and in so doing gain remission for your wrongs, Thranduil. Take me from here and all will be forgot in a sun's round."

He was amazed at her ability to still bargain after the ordeal of recognising her utter ruin. In the quiet that followed, Thranduil was surprised to learn that he was not tempted to do as she said. His love for her had become an ulcerous lesion on his heart and he knew the pain of it would plague him forever. The joy that had once underlain that love was stripped away, eroded as surely as acid etches stone, and all his memories of their time together would become nothing but a bitter torment to endure until the end of days.

"Nasan," he said again and sentence the burden willingly that his children might be spared and their futures cleansed.

He sighed heavily and reached in his pocket for a key, set it into the lock and turned it. At once the door was pulled open by Meril's eager hands, her gloating, exultant expression revealed in the mingled gleam of their elvish light. He hardened against her, grasped her at the arms to prevent her stepping over the threshold.

"No," he commanded and pushed her in, followed. "You are not leaving here, never. I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kin-slayer; no elven realm will grant you refuge. Neither shall you sail from the Grey Havens to Valinor, nor pass through death to Mandos' Halls. 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. Man pídiel, sen boe cared." [What has been said, this must be done.]

"No! The children!" she screeched and thrashed to get free of him in vain.

"Be still!" he ordered sternly and his voice was so cold she instantly obeyed, all triumph vanished from her staring eyes.

"You would do this?"

"The doing was yours," he stated. "Yet I am not without pity. See what I have brought and mayhap you will understand that once I loved you." He reached into his tunic and removed a small white candle newly made, faintly emitting a sweet perfume. He heard her gasp and saw her flinch from it, covering her mouth. "Flint I have here and a striker you may find useful." So saying he retrieved from his waist a dagger, ornate and finely wrought, almost a work of art with rubies in the handle and mithril inlaid upon the blade, runes written there. Again she cringed, falling back against the wall as she dropped to the floor in stricken disbelief, unable to speak. "Will you take this blade?" Thranduil held it forth, but she hid her face against the rock and whimpered. "Nasan. Light the candle and as it burns contemplate the fate you have crafted for yourself. I will not strike the blow, for you are unwilling and I must go to our children from here. How can I touch them if I have their Nana's blood on my hands?"

There was nothing more to say. He set the candle and the blade on the crude cot and stepped out, locking the door behind him. He did not stay, turning and ascending, yet he spoke once more ere he reached the narrow stairwell to the vestibule of the three doors: "Echado calad!" (Make light!)

In the dungeon, Meril wept, watching the candle's form wax and wane in its softly pulsing glow, lungs inhaling the delicate odour of the perfumed smoke with every sob. Abruptly, she lunged forward and snuffed it out with her hand, laughed uneasily, wiping her eyes. "Úechado calad!" she mocked. Before the sting faded from her palm, the wick bloomed bright with orange light and her mirth died. There in the unsteady glow she saw a figure coalesce upon the bed, a warrior she did not know, the handle of a dagger protruding from his throat. He smiled at her and picked up the ruby studded blade.

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Chapters

• Bauth ar Awarth
• Tadui Lu Thel
• Namië
• Leithad-en-Maethyr
• Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sír
• Naeg ar Annad
• Laithad en Maethor
• Manadh an Annaldír
• Tûr ar Torthad
• Pelol
• Idhren teriais, ar ÿr eden.
• Echui na Rûth
• Edair, Ionath, Gwenyr
• Tirn-en-Tawar
• Mael nuin Daedelu
• Dolen enath útummen
• Nasto naith lîn born, tharn nedhnîn!
• Aniron isto; úcíriel le ross?
• Abross
• Gwedh Saer
• Thang Helch
• Cardh Delu
• Iaun a Dambeth Um
• Introspection
• Caro Nad Tîr
• Gwain Gonathras
• Onnad Pannen-bant
• Trenared Balch
• Mellyn Evyrn
• Gwain Erthad
• Gwaedh O Gwend Uireb
• Buiad Úbara
• Dagor Minui: Auth dan Yngyl
• Agar Mael
• Thavron ah Aran
• Gûr Gweriant
• Na Falas
• Bronwe Talt
• Tadui Dagor: Maeth dan Yrch
• Trenared Teithannen
• Aderthannen
• Thranduilion
• Gwaedh o Gwenyr
• Gûr o Iarwain
• Tôl Bar Crebain an Idh
• Lond o Rîn
• Min Gannen, Min Dolen
• Legolas thêl amarth o noss tîn
• Legolas and Meril
• The Sons of Elrond
• Amarth od Erestor
• Dregad Trihant
• Govadel o Erebor
• Prestad Dhaer vi Eregion Dithen
• Tiriathach?
• Amarth o Maltahondo
• Caro Meleth Enni
• Thranduil sui Adar
• Ben'waeth
• Thranduil ar Meril
• Ithil'lî vi Talan?
• Gwedhel Istar
• Gwanun Ûl Gâd
• Fîr Úgerth
• Galadhrim ar Brannon Ûbrand
• Athrabeth 'oeol
• Celeborn Hortha ar Eringalen
• Minuial o Rhîw
• Bardolel Mereth
• Legolas Nestannen
• Loss Talt bo Iûl
• Cared Dengwith
• Cast of Feud and Erebor Facts
• Gwedeir ar Gwedeir vi Gwaedh
• Cuil o Erestor addelia nedhnî hin tî.
• Díhenad Vreg
• Adechui o Erestor
• Osp Erin 'Waew
• Sigil ar Edron
• Na Ennyn
• Dambeth od Erebor
• Ben Gladhadithen
• Coll o Gweth
• Gladhadithen Trenar Tolad
• Tangadad Buiad
• Ind-en-Erestor
• Ist Thurin
• Aderthanen
• Gwaeth Aer
• Iâr, Acharn, Guruth
• Lindalcon ar Meril
• Nedhan Dor Nîr ar Naeg
• Elrond Hecilo
• Amarth o Meril
• Amarth od Elrond
• Baul Gellui
• Erin Fen-en-Gûr
• Anc-en-Gurth
• Baudh-en-Lindalcon
• Auth-en-Rhîw
• Him Vraig
• Amarth o Rochendil
• Awarth
• Gwaedh-en-Fael'ur
• Gwanath-en-Lindalcon
• Leithian
• Adel Annon 'Lan
• Abauth
• Said Duir a Cyfn
• Echui
• to be
• to be
• to be
• to be
• Epilog