Feud

Title: Feud
Author: Nárcolindë, robey61@yahoo.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrond
Rating: NC17 overall
Warnings: AU, OOC
Disclaimer: Characters, events and locations recognizable from the works of JRR Tolkien are the property of his estate. This story is intended for enjoyment, not profit.

Summary: Meanwhile, back in Thranduil's stronghold. . .

Thanks: First to all the loyal readers who enjoy this story, most especially reviewers!
Second, to my absolutely fantastic beta, Sarah, [she is the best!] whose careful attention and insight improves the quality of this story immensely!

A/N: Again, apologies for this two-parter, and for lateness.

Chapter 34: Buiad Úbara [Unwilling Allegiance]
Part One

Through the soil stretched the veins and arteries of the forest, a tremendous network of conduits, varying in girth from the span of a warrior's calf to the macilency of the finest strand of elven hair. These unseen tendrils carried the flow of life that enabled the great trees to stand high among the living elements of Arda. Tawar breathed for Arda, shaded her, held fast the thin blanket of dirt that served as the skin of the earth and softened the contours of its rocky bone, and both provided for and protected the Children of Iluvatar, First and Second Born. The interlocking capillaries and vessels linked the green life in an unending system of nerves, a reticulum of the archeus, filaments of living consciousness not constrained by isolation into singular entities but rather comprising the mind of the most ancient, sage, and overlooked of all the creations of Yavanna.

Eru's Younger Children seldom even acknowledged the fact that these entities possessed life, and failed utterly to understand that there could be awareness in anything so unlike the form of Man. Even elf-kind had a tendency to relegate non-speaking beings to a lesser role, seeing the forest and the host of plants it housed as owning a more utilitarian sentience, part of the background, a comfortable structural support for their existence. It was much easier to think of this huge organism as merely a burgeoning flora created to supply their needs; a part of the Valar's Making of the World to fit it for the coming of the First Born. And so they taught themselves and their young to believe.

Few had the insight to even imagine another scenario; unable to contemplate that the Quendi had been awakened as much to protect the green essence with their voices and songs as to enjoy its bounty. Who among the First Born had considered it their task to ward off the destruction of the forests until the coming of Anor and Ithil, ensuring the continuation of Arda as fit for the advent of the Second Born as well? In fact, none among the Eldar were likely to consider the Ebennin [those born after the elves] as worthy to become the stewards of the earth, and could only look upon the changes their coming launched as something to fight against and prevent if possible, for as long as there was breath to breathe. Perhaps it is a trait of all oldest children everywhere to perceive themselves wiser by virtue of primacy, always the heir apparent rather than the herald.

If so, this was a characteristic not developed in Legolas, first-born of Ningloriel, or Tawar, first-created of Yavanna. Between these two was shared a common understanding of the necessary symbiosis of their respective kinds, and if anything Legolas tended to revere the forest's spirit and treated the human inhabitants as a part of Tawar. And so rare had such an outlook become that Tawar in turn cherished the Wood Elf, and spread knowledge of its champion's actions and well being through every fiber and thread of its rooted soul, from one end of the Greenwood to the other and beyond. Eveno tho the heart of Thranduil's stronghold where stood the Sentinel.

It had become the practice of Fearfaron to spend the opening and closing hours of his days at the Sentinel, for there he would be first to encounter any messenger seeking entry into or departure from the stronghold's inner courtyard. The humans did not always make it to their destination, he knew, overtaken by spiders or Orcs along the way. He had no way to tell how many, or, indeed, whether any of his letters had reached Legolas, and had himself acquired but one from the fallen prince, and none since his last appearance in the Realm, over two years ago. He kept this hopeful vigil nonetheless, confident that sooner than late word of the wild warrior would return to him. Besides, he felt closer to his foster-child there, where Legolas had spent so many elfling hours in silent and peaceful contemplation of his world among the trees.

Lindalcon, too, was often at the knees of the grandfatherly beech at tinnu, for only then was he free to wander from his duties in the fortress. True to his word, he had relinquished his demand for appointment into the guard, and as such was not required to be long hours in the training grounds honing his skills with the bow. Instead, his mother had secured him an apprenticeship of sorts to one of the older Council Members, a distant relation through his father's people. There Lindalcon was set numerous tedious tasks designed, in his mind; to cause him to favor anarchy over governed rule.

To say the elfling despised the cavernous cut-stone chambers and artificial light of oil lamps would be to drastically misrepresent the depth of his disgust. Lindalcon positively suffered under the servitude, caught in a miasma of recording the Councilors' droning speeches and conducting unending research to support them, using texts so faded he occasionally made up the words just to speed his task along. He more than longed for the feel of fresh air, the smell of brown earth and green wood.

The comfortable companionship of the Sentinel and Fearfaron was his primary destination as soon as each day's session adjourned. There he could relax; glad to be once again near an elf who was not afraid to speak to him of his father. And in the presence of the aged tree he felt a kinship to Legolas, who had sheltered there through much of his youthful years.

Lindalcon had come to understand, in a smaller sense, what it must have been like for the former prince to live in the royal household. Not that the screaming arguments of Ningloriel and Thranduil were duplicated, quite the opposite. His mother ran her new accommodations with the same quiet calmness she had always exercised in their modest talan in the city. Indeed, her son was amazed at how easily she took up the task of ordering the daily affairs of the King's House, and how quickly the resident servants responded to her new authority. In fact, all were exceedingly grateful for her steadying influence on their King, and glad of the new air of peacefulness that permeated the mountain fortress.

All save Lindalcon the Usurper.

The adolescent seethed at every look the Woodland King directed toward his mother, despaired at every smile she returned, and raged against even the most fleeting of physical contacts between them. Lindalcon still could not comprehend how his own mother could so soon forget his father. How could she turn away from the love they had shared? How could this odious and temperamental Sindar King compare with the compassionate and loyal devotion his father had always given? Could his own mother truly feel the possession of wealthier housing and higher social station was worth the sundering of her eternal bond with Valtamar? If so, this could only mean her love for Valtamar had been false, and that was a truth he could not encompass, for it made his whole life a lie.

Meril and her son were seriously at odds over the matter, and no pleas she spoke could justify her betrayal to his satisfaction. Her reminders that nothing could now undo Valtamar's death, and that he would wish for them to find some manner of good from the catastrophe meant nothing to Lindalcon. Upon hearing this argument, the elfling asserted that, had his mother been the one to die, Valtamar would never have sought a replacement, and certainly would not have traded their family for a chance at prestige and power. Lindalcon could not believe his father would want his link to his family destroyed, no matter what might befall him.

The deciding blow had come when Thranduil had interrupted one such argument, admonishing the youth never to speak to Meril in so insolent and disrespectful a manner ever again, and drew her out of Lindalcon's room and away to his. Since that day, he had avoided them as much as possible, taking meals with the others apprenticed to the Councilors, or with Fearfaron, and slipping into his own rooms to sleep without bothering to let his mother know he had returned.

It had hurt him terribly the first time he returned late and she had not been there waiting for him, a mixture of anger and relief washing over her features.

The carpenter helped as he could, which was to say he listened to Lindalcon wail and rant against this terrible injustice against Valtamar. The youth could only remember, this was all of his father that remained, an idea frozen in the young one's mind of a doting parent and fierce protector, eternally courageous and true. Their family had been perfect, their life idyllic, their future secure in the boundless bond between his parents. Meril's new status threatened to utterly disperse the visions her son was so desperately clinging to as he struggled with his grief.

Fearfaron felt for the elfling, but knew there was no remedy for the anguish he was undergoing other than age and wisdom. Even with these inimitable teachers, he felt it would be all Lindalcon could do to master the most basic semblance of resignation and stoic acceptance. The carpenter found he was unable to encourage forgiveness and understanding, uncertain if he would be able to manage those himself, were he in a similar situation. Instead, he simply offered friendship, and this grewm thm their shared outrage over the rest of the population's ability to so quickly forget the Lost Warriors and from their common interest in the fallen archer.

They seldom spoke of their fears for Legolas' fate, which accrued as time continued and no word from him arrived by messenger. They had to be satisfied with the accounts of his activities from the woodsmen, and after a year the report came back that the wild elf had left the central forest to venture ever closer to Dol Guldur. Fearfaron and Lindalcon could not share their horror at what this might mean for their friend. Instead they reassured each other, constructing flimsy rationales for his long absence and pretending they were utterly sound.

While Fearfaron could not sense Tawar as Legolas now did, he yet was more attuned to the trees than many of his kith and kin in the Greenwood, it being his trade to handle wood and walk in the arms of the trees in the deeps of the forest all his days. There had been times during the last two years when he had become suddenly overwhelmed with worry and dread as he stood by the Sentinel, convinced that some dire danger was besetting his adopted son. Only twice had he felt anything of a positive nature from the ancient tree. Most of the time, the Sentinel just waited and watched, as had been its way for centuries out of time.

Four days after Legolas learned the truth about Malthen, then the old beech very nearly rended itself into kindling as the shock wave of the wild elf's grief and rage rolled through the Greenwood's nerves and reached the stronghold. Fearfaron had wept in despairing terror as he watched the frenzy of the hardwoods, writhing and scraping their limbs in outrage while not a wisp of a wind moved through the still summer air to account for the reaction. The carpenter had feared to touch the Sentinel, dreading he would learn that what he prayed against had come to pass: Legolas was dead.

The bizarre disturbance set the whole community on edge, and great was the audience in the Council's Chambers the following day as the Sylvan folk sought an explanation.

Now Thranduil was apprised of the curiously ominous windless thrashing of the forest and had seen for himself that the reports were true. He was not raised in the ways of the Woodland folk, however, and so he found nothing overly portentous in the event. He immediately suspected the Masters of Dol Guldur, for nothing as simple as an infestation of spiders or a stray band of Orcs would promote such an unprecedented reaction among the trees. The Sinda ruler had none of the superstitious nature he scorned in his subjects, and found no need to search for additional reasons for the Greenwood's distress. Prophecies and portents, he found, did not make the struggle any easier, and in his opinion created a tenancy among the Danwaith to hold back, to endure fate rather than strike out against the evil.

Throughout the long night, Thranduil heard the pleas and prayers of his subjects begging the Valar for protection for the Sylvan folk from the dread doom they feared must be approaching.

Unlike the carpenter, the King would be the last to ever suspect the explanation would involve his former heir. Unlike the citizens of his Realm, Thranduil did not associate with the woodsmen that sometimes came to trade goods, and thus he had heard nothing of the emergence of a protector of the humans in the southern regions, Tirno, a fighter of renown against Orcs and Wraiths alike.

Yet his subjects had heard these tales and through them knew their disgraced prince yet lived. A fair number wondered if he was somehow involved.

Following Annaldír's Release, the Wood Elves had begun to take notice of Legolas' activities with greater excitement. They began to question how it could be possible for one elf alone to accomplish these things, and had gone to the Council for answers. There had been plenty of lines of old script the elder Eldar were only too willing to ascribe to this new champion, and the Sylvan folk began to hope that their forest would be released from the spreading Shadow of evil.

It was expected of their King to attend this Council, Thranduil knew, rather than summoning the Councilors to his throne room as he normally did. An appearance within the confines of their power was required toure ure the population of his proper respect for the Council's authority in interpreting the more philosophical and esoteric aspects of the Wood Elves' existence. He would have to suffer through the reading of possible prophecies that might be forewarned by the unusual agitation in their home. He sighed, aggrieved to have to endure the endless hours of arguing and debate, as one group after another ascribed either dire or beatific fortunes to the strange occurrence, brandishing scrolls and ragged old tomes alleged to back their cases.

He had already dispatched extra patrols to seek out and hastily report back regarding any corresponding movement of the Orcs outside his boundaries near the Central Mountains. This, he was certain, was behind the event, and nothing more. That was more than enough reason for the Greenwood's travail of creaking fury.

From his balcony Thranduil watched the steady influx of elves into the stronghold's inner courtyard as minuial approached. They clustered in restrained apprehension, waiting impatiently for the Council to convene its session. While there was no reason he knew of to demand it, as most of the Woodland folk preferred the evening twilight, the Council always convened as the first sunray broke over the horizon.

{Which none of them have ever seen, I would wager,} he mused.

The tension lifting off the gathered throng had quite spoiled his appetite for breakfast and marred his quiet indulgence in Meril's companionship before the day's duties began. They were seated together there as on any other day for the past five years. Thranduil sighed in irritation.

"You will need to tread lightly today, my King," the royal consort gently warned and reached across to squeeze her hand over Thranduil's where it rested upon the table between them.

"I have been dealing with such nonsense for centuries," the sharp edged words fell from his frowning lips as he stared at her and removed his hand. "Are you now presuming to teach me the ways of my court, Meril?"

The Danwaith inu was unperturbed by the caustic reprimand, however, and presented a serenely patient smile as she shook her head.

"I would have you heed the ways of my people, no more."

"That, also, I have done for time out of counting!"

"In that case, perhaps you should spend a small amount of this's 's allotment of time to listening! Or do you not consider your subjects' thoughts and impressions worthy of your acknowledgement?"

Rather than feeling wrath or rage for this outburst, Thranduil actually smiled appreciatively. Meril never spoke idly, and this was her way of telling him there was gossip in the city of which he should take note. She knew something. {Well, that is an understatement; she finds out every bit of dubious blethering passed from lip to ear in the Realm!} he thought. He expected her to enlighten him at the evening meal, and her request took on new layers of interest. She wanted him to hear what her people were saying now, how the gossip was changing in light of the previous day's activity.

"You will not attend?" he queried.

"Nay," she shook her head, "I have much to do this day, as summer draws closer to its ending. Soon I will have even less freedom, and so I mean to enjoy these warm waning days under Anor's rule!"

Thranduil gave her a small smile and took her hand back within his own, carrying it to his lips to impress the slightest of caresses upon her fingertips. With a less frustrated mind the Woodland King rose and left the balcony, entering their shared suite to ready himself for the ensuing conclave.

These were not his old bachelor's chambers, kept during his years with Ningloriel. Neither were they Meril's previous accommodations, situated in the guest's quarters of the stronghold. Instead, the King had ordered the renovation of an entirely different part of his fortress, utilizing several rooms hitherto relegated to visiting dignitaries. This apartment comprised a voluminous cluster of high-ceilinged caverns, adjoined through a cleverly constructed series of archways linking room to room, from the outer receiving parlors to the inner circle of the couples' private grotto. These portals were artfully concealed in the foremost domains, limiting admission to the secluded boudoir to all but a select few servants.

The couple's suite opened out onto the balcony overlooking the magnificent walled gardens. In the midst of the drear of the half-lit woods, this was a brightly sun-drenched oasis of Anor's glory, and numerous plants grew here that could never survive the eternal shade of the canopy's cover. A winding stone stepway had been cut into the outer surface of the rock for convenient access, an unprecedented act, for previously such contrivances had been viewed as breeches of safety. But Meril disliked the long trek through the fortress required to reach her garden haven, and so Thranduil had ordered the work. Beyond the walled terrace, the gallery allowed a clear view of the stronghold's courtyard and gates.

The apartment had become a haven for him, something of a personal surprise, for his original intent had been to secure a place for his new mate and their offspring far from his own chambers. Those he scarcely frequented anymore, abandoning them almost totally after the first year of their cohabitation. For where Ningloriel had been derisive and argumentative, scathing in her disgusted recriminations whenever he attempted to touch her, Meril was willing and even adventurous in their amorous endeavors. And while Thranduil had enjoyed his share of lovers over the bitter centuries of his marriage to Ningloriel, those had never been other than outlets for carnal lust.

With Meril, there was something more.

Continued in Part Two.