Feud

Feud
By erobey, robey61@yahoo.com
www.feud.shadowess.com
Disclaimer: see initial chapter

Chapter 2: Tadui Lu Thell - Caro Puig Gyr [Second Time Resolved - Make Clean the Deaths]

The sound of scattering small stones and clinking and squeaking armor arose as another man heaved himself up the steep pathway to the ledge. "What is this, Bard? He is not one of ours; best hand him over to Thranduil’s folk," the soldier said.

"They will not have him; he tried to kill himself," Bard replied, regarding the elves in the distance as they secured their dead and wounded onto horses. "They seem to be leaving. One of them claims he caused four other deaths." The other man’s brows shot up in surprise as Bard gestured to the company of elves.

"But this is the archer that was trying to bring down Blog; his persistence drew its attention long enough for Beorn to break through and mangle the old monster. Do they not know?"

Bard shrugged in response. He had made the climb to this ledge with the express purpose of thanking the elven sniper for his help in bringing down the hated beast, as well as for felling over 200 of the lesser goblins and wargs. It had been his intent to honor this elf for his skill, only to find him in the act of destroying himself. Now his kin were leaving him to die in what was, according to one at least, an act of kindness.

All the other elves were mounted now and at an unspoken command they formed ranks and rode from the canyon. Not one looked back at their discarded comrade, and Bard could only shake his head in bewilderment.

"Come," Bard said, "help me get him down from here. If he lives we shall have to get the answers from him." Together they struggled to carry the limp form down the rugged trail, trying not to cause the wounds to reopen. Once on the firmer and flatter ground of the valley, they put their burden down to catch their breath. A disheveled and decrepit gray-beard caught site of them and began making his way across the battlefield, leaning heavily on his ornate and intricately carved staff that seemed taller than himself.

"That is the sniper; what has happened? There were no goblins on that cliff," the old man stated when he reached them. He stooped down and his face grew stern in lines of worry as he tentatively examined the elf.

"He did this to himself, Gandalf," Bard replied, indicating the bandaged chest wound. "I do not know about the rest."

"Maybe he fell and landed on his face," the other soldier suggested.

"First of all, elves do not just fall down," Gandalf snorted, shaking his head. "Second, even if that is how he broke his jaw it certainly does not account for that knife slash or the arm," he countered. "He is under some disgrace; the others of his company have left him," he continued as though to himself. Bard agreed and explained to the wizard what little he knew of the situation.

"I stayed his hand before the blade found his heart, so now he seems to be my responsibility. King Thranduil and his personal guard return to Laketown as we speak; perhaps he can do something about this."

Gandalf looked up in alarm. "I think we should wait to see if he survives before the Elvenking is apprised of the situation. Let us not heat things up just now as peace is at hand! Thranduil will not appreciate your interference in the laws and customs of his realm!"

Bard concurred and the elf was quietly placed in the care of the healers, who treated him as best they could but did not really expect him to survive.

The dagger's blade, while missing the heart, had done severe damage to one of the lungs and he had lost a great amount of blood. When the archer was still breathing the next morning they were pleasantly surprised and decided he was stable enough to be removed to the infirmary in Laketown. The elf hovered beneath consciousness all the next day and night, tossing and twitching as though in torment. He mumbled in elvish and sighed against the pain from time to time. In the mid-morning sunlight of the third day his eyes cleared and he awakened.

Disoriented by the strange surroundings, the elf turned his gaze about the quiet, clean, and airy room. The windows stood open allowing the fresh breeze, light, and muffled voices to flow through. Realization and memory burst upon him like a hammer’s blow and he leaped from the bed, wincing in shock and doubling over. Grasping the bed to steady himself and the sniper stared around wildly in despairing horror. He squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head vigorously.

{It must not be so. It cannot be so!}, his mind screamed silently and then opened his lips and screamed in earnest. The ear-splitting cry of desperate sorrow and agony brought every ambulatory human in the infirmary to his door and window where they froze, dumfounded.

The elf was breathing in noisy sobs, pulling open drawers and cabinets, spilling out the contents and crying out unintelligibly in Sindarin. He seemed not to notice the humans, or disregarded them if he did. At last he tugged open a cupboard and a pair of boots and a leather pack tumbled out. He calmed immediately and began rummaging among his belongings that had been carried from the battleground. A soft sigh of relief issued from his lips as he brought forth a slender and delicately deadly hunting knife from the bottom of the pack.

The humans watched entranced as the elf sat back on his heals, head bowed low, amid the scattered clutter of bandages, herbs, medical instruments, and linens. They listened spellbound to the quiet beauty of the elvish words he spoke, uttered in reverent tones, as would be a prayer. While the sound of the elven language was melodious beyond any mortal tongue, the timbre of his voice decried the depth of the immortal’s grief and sorrowful remorse.

As the speech ended, his voice broke down into a shattering sob that shook his entire frame, and he fought a moment for control. At last he raised his head and his tangled golden locks fell away to reveal tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that focused inward, oblivious to the humans’ eyes upon him. Slowly he lifted his hands, palms turned upwards, upon which rested the gleaming knife.

As soon as the mithril blade glinted in the sunlight, one of the healers suddenly comprehended the scene unfolding and made a leap into the room. With a shout for assistance, he snatched the weapon and raced to the window, shoving it into the hands of a startled looker-on.

The elf reacted with another piercing scream and lunged for the window to retrieve his weapon, his release, and his salvation, cursing the humans in rage and anguish. The healer grabbed him but the sniper was healing rapidly and had regained enough strength to throw the man off. By then, more people had entered the room and with the help of two recuperating soldiers the healer forced the elf back onto the bed. Deciding to take no chances of a repeat performance, the healer had sturdy rope brought and bound him securely to the bedframe.

In the encampment of the Elven King an unnatural stillness constrained the air around the smoking embers of the dying fire. The King’s tent stood to one side while the bedding of his twenty-four personal guardsmen lay neatly rolled and positioned with military precision all about it. The banner bearing the beechleaf standard of the Woodland Realm drooped lifelessly in the stagnant air, and the King himself sat motionless before the pavilion, legs crossed beneath his severely straight-backed frame. His elves sat or stood together in clumps of two or three, matching his stilled alertness, watching now and then towards the far end of Laketown, eyes glancing upon the low, white-washed building that housed the infirmary.

They waited.

A full account had been delivered by the fallen elf’s captain; including the corpsman’s report of the Human's interference in obstructing the dagger and deflecting death. All knew the disgraced archer was in the human healer’s care, and the tension arising from this intervention with ancient and revered rites of warriors’ honor shimmered through the atmosphere with a palpable hum.

They waited for their prized sniper to die. Their collective minds and souls silently willed his life to flee. This was a battlefield debt their archer owed to the comrades he had failed, whose immortal lives he had wasted. By custom such a debt must be paid with the blood of the culprit, upon that same day and upon that same plane of combat. The fallen warriors' deaths must be cleaned of the shame with which his errors had besmirched them. Given the interruption by the Human, an uncharacteristic extension had silently been granted by their King. If the debt was not satisfied then retribution would be required and Judgement pronounced.

They waited.

All day and through the night they waited; ears, keener than an eagle’s eyes were sharp, receiving the sounds of the warrior’s unconscious torment. They rose en masse at the startled scream that issued from the cheery sun-blessed hospital when the unfortunate being awoke, all eyes intent upon the building as though they could penetrate the mud-brick walls and see the activity within. They could hear the quiet prayer distinctly and tensed in anticipation at its close. The resounding yell of despair and fury that followed seconds later swept through their ranks like wind upon grass and they cringed involuntarily, turning away almost as one. The King and his two senior guards silently left the camp, crossing the distance separating it from the town quickly.

Gandalf and Bard were already halfway to the infirmary when the second cry broke from the tortured elf’s throat and reached the room in time to see the two soldiers completing their task of immobilizing the patient. They entered the room unnoticed as the warrior repeatedly made demands in his own tongue to be released and struggled mightily but futilely against the well-tied ropes. His initial efforts to evade confinement and the continued thrashing against the bondage re-opened the wounds and blood flowed freely onto the sheets below him. Then his eyes locked on the visage of the old wizard and his entire being seemed to calm.

"Mithrandir," he sighed in his soft Sindarin dialect. "Tell them to release me. Tell them to give me back my weapons!" His voice pleaded calmly, certain now that the humans would be made to understand and all could be salvaged. Gandalf took a breath and slowly let it out but made no move either to speak or untie the ropes. A sheen of panic flickered through the elf’s eyes.

"You must do this! Mithrandir, you know me; you must remember me! I have to get free of here quickly!" The words edged in distress rose in pitch and volume.

"It is long since last I passed through the Woodland Realm; I am not sure if I do know you, or what it may mean to let you free. How is it you are apart from your people?" said Gandalf and the elf realized the wizard was no more inclined to help him than the Men were. Panic broke out in earnest then and he thrashed wildly against the bonds and howled piteously. Bard’s eyes grew large and he jumped back a bit while Gandalf quickly tried to placate the elf.

"You must stop this! Tell me what is going on! Why are you trying to die?" he demanded. The elf was too exhausted to continue struggling against the restraints, but his wrists and ankles were already raw from the exertion.

"Please! I must, I must!" The howling cries had reduced to rending sobs and unending tears and the elf seemed not to hear the wizard’s words. "Please let me go! I have to release them; their deaths are from me! I beg this of you, please!" The words poured forth over and over between the choking breaths of the clearly hysterical elf.

Gandalf was alarmed, never before having witnessed such loss of composure in any of the First Born in all his time on Middle Earth. He leaned over the bedside and grasped the elf’s shoulders, shaking him roughly in an attempt to focus his attention and break through the terror.

"Stop this! I cannot let you go if you plan to harm yourself! There are no others to release here. Why do you think yourself the cause of these deaths?" He spoke sternly, close to the elf’s ear, and the effect was immediate as the injured warrior stilled.

{Is he truly ignorant of this?} the sniper wondered and looked up at the Maia incredulously, not certain he had heard these words.
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"Answer!" Gandalf shook him again more gently. "Tell me what is happening to you!"

A slight shake of the head came and the desolate immortal’s face displayed his realization that Mithrandir did not understand at all. "O sen, avpedim." [Of this, we do not speak], he whispered and turned his head away then.

Gandalf let go and drew back with a deep scowl on his features.

"Who is he, then? He seems to know you at least," Bard queried, taking advantage of the lull in activity to demand a translation, which the wizard provided.
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Gandalf scrutinized the elf, not sure what to do next. At least he was calm, but the panic had been replaced with a sense of complete withdrawal. The wizard did not want to turn the young warrior loose only to witness his suicide. On the other hand, as soon as Thranduil learned of the unsuccessful second attempt there was no telling how he would handle the continued interference of outsiders. And, if this injured elf was who he thought he was, the repercussions could be exceedingly worse than anything these humans were likely to imagine. At least that much he had to know, he decided, before he could plan his next step. He leaned back over the elf.

"Are you then, as I suspect, Legolas, Thranduil’s child?" he asked softly and heard Bard catch his breath in surprise.

The Man might not understand all the elvish words, but he knew the names of the royal elves of Mirkwood well enough. He had never seen the prince before, but then realized that this elf was not dressed any differently than the other warriors, and he might have seen him countless times when traveling within the borders of the forest.

"Nay, Mithrandir," the answer came crisp and expressionless from behind them, and all three started as their eyes turned to the tall stony-faced elf in the doorway. "There are no children of my blood so named," the Elven King finished as he glared down upon the bound elf. He walked into the room and approached the bed, and both Gandalf and Bard rapidly moved away to be closer to the door. They found the hallway blocked by two sturdy warriors, equally grim as their Lord.

"And you," the King was speaking, "there will be no retreat to Mandos for you. You failed and your failure now condemns our brethren, the victims of your careless incompetence, to the Wandering. How could you? They earned a warrior’s death and their families deserve to know peace. You will live and face them and your punishment according to our laws.

"The rights of the battlefield you have forfeited and you are forbidden to seek your death by your own knife and will. You will return with us to be judged formally, but you have already been judged and cast out by your peers, who were with you to see your failure. I will confirm this judgement now, before those assembled here." The voice was low, menacing, and filled with a depth of disgust and shame rarely heard from any Eldar’s lips.

The stricken youth’s eyes were riveted to his King in dread acceptance and cold terror, and his breath came in rapid panting gasps.

"I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kinslayer; 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. Equetienyes; nasan. [I have said it; it is so.]" Thranduil finished his awful proclamation and left, but his two guardsmen came in at once. They completely ignored Bard and Gandalf, who chose that moment to move over to the doorway out of the line of sight of the armed warriors.

They quickly cut the ropes, ungently slicing into the already abused flesh of arms and ankles. They pulled their former comrade off the bed and out to the center of the small room, kicking the bed away to allow more space, and commenced to inflict a vicious beating with fists and boots, interspersed with shouted curses and acrimonious taunts.

Bard made to break into the grisly scene but Gandalf jerked him brusquely by the arm out through the door, vigorously and silently forbidding any further interference. The Elven King had spoken and the humans had no authority to override his decisions concerning his own people. Furthermore, his royal guard was still within the borders of the town, and twenty-four seasoned elven warriors could easily lay waste to the remaining able-bodied human soldiers. Once they were safely out of the building, Bard demanded to know what the King had said, and stood speechless upon hearing the meaning of the words he had heard.

Thranduil’s warriors emerged from the infirmary dragging the unconscious, battered prisoner, bound hand and foot. They ignored the horrified attention paid them by the mortals and on reaching their camp threw Legolas over the back of one of the horses, tying him down firmly like a piece of baggage. During the preceding events, the rest of the warriors had set to breaking camp, and within minutes of their commanders’ return all were mounted up.

In stoic and bitter silence the Elven King lead his guard from the settlement in the direction of the Greenwood, uncharacteristically dismissing the business of the undivided fourteenth share of Thorin’s Treasure.

No purchase of gold or silver could redeem the honorless victory the elves carried back with them to their homeland.

Tbc