In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past

In the Chains of Honor
Author: Tanesa Etaleshya, Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Author’s Notes: At long last there is a little of what you’ve all been waiting for! I know, I know I’m just a tease- the good stuff is coming!
Part 1 In the Darkness, Two Beginnings…
Chapter 4
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TA 2163

After a long dinner that night, during which the elf-prince maintained the act of being uninjured with what seemed like the greatest of ease, all except the slight pallor to his skin and the even less noticeable way he moved just a fraction slower than would be normal. Elrond only noticed it since he knew, but from all appearances, no other noticed. Elrond studied the young elf surreptitiously as the meal progressed, the way he remained utterly wrapped in silence unless spoken to, the way he deferred to his father, the way he glanced at the First Prince seated to his left with a glint in his eye that the Lord of Imladris could not place.

Elrond did not see the young elf until three days later when he was summoned to attend the King in the Hall of Audience. He had, at that dinner and those subsequent, at the remarkable likeness between Legolas and his brother, the First Prince. They possessed the same gold, silken hair, the same blue eyes, and the same facial shape. The three royals of Mirkwood bore a more remarkable resemblance than Elrond had seen before between those related. He had mused on it throughout that first dinner, and the interest in the puzzle had resurfaced with each view of the First Prince, and eaentiention of that elf. He was sure above all suspicion that the First Prince was the younger of the siblings by far, so why was it he, and not his brother, that bore the title of the heir? He had relayed his thoughts and observances to his oldest friend, Glorfindel, and all either couo wao was speculate on such matters, as Legolas’ absence precluded soliciting answers to questions they knew none other would give, and even with him it was doubtful as to the extent of what he would offer as explanation. Glorfindel’s interest in the archer-prince had not abated, only grown with the elf’s continued absence; they both worried over him, his well-being, knowing as they did that he had been wounded and had no hope of treatment aside from Elrond himself. But all such thought was forced from his mind as he stood in the Hall of General Audience, the less formal Hall in which all the elves in Mirkwood could assemble to have audience with their King if they so wished.

He was surprised to see the Hall filled with elves watching when he entered. The young Prince was standing rigidly before the King and his advisors, the First Prince at the right hand of the King; the elves behind the Golden Prince were easily recognizable to Elrond as those who had stood with Legolas in their defense. All were at attention, eyes forward, appearing unseeing. The Prince stood forward, turned sharply to kneel to Lord Elrond as he entered and was announced Glorfindel was announced a moment later his eyes fixed on the golden beauty standing before those assembled before him in stiff elegance. Two elven Guards in Mirkwood browns and greens directed them to seats beside Thranduil and it was not until they were seated that Legolas stood again and took up his former position, his face unreadable and seemingly calm.

The air in the Hall was stifling to the Imladrian Lord, heat from the summer combined with the heady arrogance of this reclusive, elven people and their egotistical, haughty king, a King so much like his father it sent shivers of apprehension and frustration up and down his spine at first sight of him, or at the first tone of his voice heard. The King was no different even now, his face rigidly set into what seemed a perpetual sneer when he looked upon his elder son, and it became ever clearer to Elrond the vast differences between father and son though their likeness in face seemed overwhelming. There was no mistaking the same tensile strength of both will and body in both of them, but well-marked disparity there was in their faces, their eyes. Where Thranduil’s face held tale of his arrogance, his pride in the set of his jaw, the uptilt of his head as he sat, waiting, the slight upward twist of his lips and in the very pose in which he sat, his back straight, his arms on either armrest, and his legs at the slightest angle to the right, as if appearing both stern and at ease. He exuded pride from this pose,ecteected as it was for effect, and from the condescending way he spoke before his son. In Legolas there was none of this, though he stood upright, straight, his shoulders squared and firm, his hands crossed behind his waist with his fingers straight. In his strict posture there was no hint of haughty arrogance, only an air of honorable pride, the strength of endurance led him to stand up tall before his sire knowing as he did that it would not be to his benefit. And no apprehension showed upon his fair face either. His face showed no tension, no remorse, no guilt, nothing. It had been schooled to an expression of quiet determination, his jaw set but not forced, his eyes unseeing, his lips straight but not pressed into the thin line of anger and a slight twist of a sneer upon the face of his father. No, Legolas was very different. He was remarkable for this. He had honor and his whole essence as it was emitted here, now, inspired respect unbidden.

Glorfindel waited as more elves of the Sylvan realm shuffled quietly into the cavernous chamber and settled into silence once the movement of cloth ceased. He waited and watched the elf-prince standing before them with curiosity he could barely conceal so rapt was he. Indeed, he did not notice when Elrond muttered something to him in a whisper so low it was meant for no other than he, and he missed as well the corresponding look of exasperation tempered by tension that followed his lack of attentiveness to his Lord and friend. Butond ond let it slide and the golden-haired elder continued his examination of the prince, watching the way he breathed to assure himself that the elf was healing. He was enraptured by the mingling of torchlight and sunlight was reflected in those azure eyes now lit with the fire of the sun in what seemed fiery spirit reigned in if only by the skin of the teeth. He studied the form of the elven prince, the long legs of corded muscle he could see from the side where his robe split from his arm down its length in the Mirkwood style.

The prince wore formal robes of the same green color as the Guard uniforms, but embroidered richly in darker greens and browns with traces of gold, a robe that came to its end at mid-calf, letting the elf lord have a clear view of the elf’s fine leather boots seemingly wrapped about his finely shaped legs. The cold, hard tiled floor beneath his feet only drew greater emphasis to the light radiating from the elf. His tunic beneath the fabric of the robe was a soft blue silk that shimmered in soft cadence with his eyes shining in the firelight from the torches lighting up the room with their soft, flickering brilliance. Glorfindel saw precious little else in the vast room, not the murals painted upon the walls, the tales of Oropher and of Greenwood the Great as it had been known portrayed in vast pictures filled with figures of elves, animals and the twistedtefuteful forms of the Orcs. He missed the depictions of the Last Alliance, the fall of Oropher, the migration north of the Wood Eld Elves, and much more so engrossed was he in the light-given-form before him. Legolas was a sight to behold, and a sight from which Glorfindel was sure he would never recover, let alone forget.

He took note of the graceful line of his jaw, the sculpted high cheeks appeared as if carved from the finest white marble by the most skilled craftsman, his noble nose, and the delicate point of his ears. And it came to his mind unforeseen that he wanted to draw his tongue along the lines of that ear to taste the elf and to feel him squirm and moan beneath him at the intimate action upon one of the most sensitive places of elven anatomy. He blushed slightly from the sudden warmth spreading through his body and pooling in his groin as he continued this line of thought.

He watched as the breeze blowing into the room through the passages stirred the gold-blond hair, the way the light made his hair shine radiantly, and he noticed as the elven prince shifted slightly in his stance under the weight of the elven lord’s drawn-out stare. It was then, and only then, when Glodel del knew that he had pushed it too far that he allowed his gaze to drift elsewhere, his thoughts still anchored well upon the sight of beauty before him, the memories of the sight embedded into his mind, though sound, smell and fell begin to trickle into his awareness.

The two Imladrian lords could hear the torches burning in the weight of silence hanging about the large, cavernous room, the corners of which were untouched by the light so far above they were and so hidden by onlookers. It was not often the Prince of Mirkwood was brought before the King, and as many as could be here were. It was impressive to have this many gathered in one room, no matter how vast, and the silence among them was eerie, drawing a worried frown onto the raven-haired elf-lord’s normally placid face. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Something was not right here; he knew it, could feel it in every draught of air taken into his lungs. Turning to Glodel,del, he knew the other felt the same as his senses returned to him after the spell of enchantment had been broken by embarrassment.

It was before either Elrond or Glorfindel could speak that the King nodded to the elf on his left to raise the staff and bring it down sharply upon the floor to mark the beginning of the audience. The King slowly stood to his feet, his entire bearing severe and forbidding, as if daring any to make even the slightest noise, none did. He paced the length of the dais upon which they all sat, then back again, his fists clenched at his sides, white slowly creeping into his knuckles with his the emergence of his anger to the surface of his being. Glorfindel marked the change in the elf-king’s face, the lips straightened, pressing together to form a white line with a dark center, like a slash across his face drawn by a blade. His eyes appeared to have turned to ice as he stared hard at the Golden Prince. Red splotches bloomed upon his fine, high cheeks in irate frustration. He then halted.

Thranduil stood regally, facing Legolas, expressionless face gleaming in the soft light. He stepped forward until he was standing three paces from his son who did not move or shift his gaze, still staring forward hard but without seeing, as if staring through his father’s face as the King looked down at him as if from on high. Glorfindel was unprepared for what happened next, Thranduil stretched out his hand to his side, and a guard placed a knife in the King’s hand. The King’s face did not change, even as he raised his other hand and struck the young elf, causing his head to whip around, although the young elf did not lose his balance or even a step. When he turned back to face his King and father, blood trickled down from a cut in his cheek where his father’s ring had cut deeply, a bruise already forming under the palely luminescent skin. “Before all here, and before the Lords of Imladris, your Service shall be decreed.” He paused, continued after the few murmurs in the Hall died down, “Legolas, your failures have led to the deaths of three of your own guards, guards who entrusted their lives to your care and leadership, guards I entrusted to you to lead as they should be led. You have failed them and you have failed me, you have failed Mirkwood. But your offenses do not stop there, no; you had to disgrace Mirkwood, your King, your father, and yourself by your failure to protect our honored guests at a time when the peace and alliance between us is only as tentative as the first blooms of spring and just as subject to a sudden frost. You have brought that frost and have threatened the very future of the Wood you claim to love, the Wood you swore an oath to protect. You failed this wood too many times to overlook. If not for you light would still fill this Wood, but you add insult to injury.” Thranduil stepped back, turned away from the elf who did not flinch, and stood as if made of stone spewed from the floor and solidified permanently in place. “Five from Imladris have traveled to the cold loneliness of the Halls of Mandos as a result of your foolishness so much like that we have seen before. You knew then as you knew this time what should have been done and you did it not! Five and three lives lost for your stupidity,” and the King struck him again, harder to punctuate his words though his steady, frigid tone had not faltered or fluctuated.

Legolas still did not lose a step, and faced forward as his father continued, his voice emanating the feeling of coldness, chilling the room until Glorfindel shivered, “Five and three lives, Legolas. Five and three lives that shall never breathe the air of Arda again. Five and three lives lost that cannot be regained. Five and three lives for which you will serve the houses of those so lost under your command and from your failures. Lives that should be still here to protect the protected Vale of Imladris and this wood. Who will die in the future because they are not there when they were needed? Who will still be lost? And what of the alliance? Ever you seem to disappoint and bring dishonor upon our names and the name of this Wood; you will suffer for the opprobrium you bring upon us and yourself. Perhaps this time you will take your malediction with you on the path you should have taken long ago rather than prolonging this shame you ever seem to bring to our realm.”

Legolas did not move as Thranduil raised the blade, shining oranges and yellows from the torches reflecting on it surface, used the blade to push the ornate robes from his son’s lithe frame. The fabric dropped to the floor around his feet. “The full period of thirty years for each life lost is my decree,” Thranduil cut the blue silk shirt, slitting up his sleeves, then over his shoulders; the shirt fell on top of the soft green robes and still the Prince did not shift, blood trickling across his cheek down to his jaw, now dripping onto the pale, well-defined alabaster of his chest. “You will serve the Lord of Imladris first, as his loss was the greater, as our honored guests and allies, and under your protection at the time or the attack.”

Thranduil signaled and two of Legolas’ Guards stepped forward, took his arms in theirs, and turned him to face his own guards, “Or would you ask those you led to aid in your service, to share the disgrace you have brought upon them?”

Legolas did not hesitate, his voice strong and controlled, echoing hollowly through the chamber as he answered, “I will not. The fault is mine, and mine alone. I failed them; I failed our honored guests and allies, and I failed this wood that has sheltered me and given me life. I will accept what fate has to offer me, and I will serve as is the decree of my Lord.”

Thranduil made no notice that Legolas had spoken, only continued on as if he never had, “Today and everyday until you leave for Imladris and until you have restored their honor you will serve them.” Thranduil motioned and Legolas was pushed to his knees before his Guards, then the King looked out at the Guards before him, “Take no mercy on him because of his birth for this alone does not protect his or your honor, and neither does it protect my own. Our honor is at stake because of him, this son of mine. Would that I wish he were not, but my son he is and he will regain the honor he has lost us all however you and his masters see fit!” It was at this point that Legolas could not maintain his quiet reserved, stone-like dignity. At those harsh words Legolas’ face momentarily fell, then his customary composure reasserted itself tortuously and he acted as if the words had not been uttered. Glorfindel did not miss the unexpected and unbidden contextually eruption of emotion and he felt a burning hot anger seethe within him at the foul, dishonorable treatment of the Golden Prince, as well as the ruthless words. He hated Thranduil as he had hated no other elf in all his long life seeing how he degraded his son, sullying his name for all time before what would be the whole of Mirkwood ere long. And Glorfindel nearly screamed at Legolas in bitter frustration for not defending himself when he knew he should have, and knew he had the grounds to do so. It was only with the steadying hand of Elrond’s upon his quaking shoulder that he gripped the armrests of his chair in a white grip and held back his tongue in uncharacteristic fashion.

For Legolas the shame was utterly consuming. He heard the echoes of his father’s voice in his mind as if from a great distance, his conscious mind unwilling to accept the truth of his situation, the finality of it. He had finally gone too far, given his father the weapon with which he could, at last, be fully destroyed in the eyes of all in the Wood and without. He felt the weight of each word upon his shoulders and upon his soul as if one great weight after another was settled upon him, his breath only haltingly entering his chest as if the very air was unwilling to aid him in disgust, the same disgust he felt emanating from all who deigned to look upon him where he knelt before his Guards. He fought to keep his shoulders straight, to maintain at least the pretense of dignity in light of this… this ritual humiliation made public.

He tried to keep his face straight, to keep a tight reign upon his steadily increasing heartbeat, tried to force the unwilling air into his starving lungs burning with sha He He closed his eyes but briefly to forestall the tears biting his eyes; he would not give into tears before all present; he would not exhibit the weakness his father expected of him, the weakness now made readily evident already in the healing gashes upon his arm and side, held closed by the careful stitches of Elrond’s steady hands, and in the marks upon his chest where the arrow had embedded itself. He knew his father could see the corresponding wound upon his back and he tensed himself to stop himself from cringing. His father would know he allowed his defenses to be breeched. He stared forward without sight; his face now blank of any and all expression as he fought for some tether to fleeing hope.

Thranduil stood triumphant above the form of his eldest son, but he tried to constrain his mirthless victory lest some of his people believe him heartless. He had his hand upon the elf’s shoulder and he could feel the slight trembles resounding through his taught frame. He knew Legolas was fighting a war within himself, a war to control his outward expressions and he could not help but smile to see his son on his knees in public. Long had he desired to have his son before him on his knees in blatant subjugation when all he could manage by benefit of title was public deference thus far. He had so longed to see his son as he alone saw him when they were alone: Legolas submissive and subservient, acquiescing to his every desire in acceptance of an earlier, secret decree of King to Prince, and father to son. None would know of this, however, and it pleased Thranduil to see him thus, knowing it would ruin not only Legolas to have made public the memories running rampant through his mind. With the thoughts as fuel to the fire of reality at his feet, Thranduil felt himself stir to life and was smugly grateful for the thick robes he wore, hiding any evidence of his arousal. He looked down at his son, smiled weakly, feigning sorrow at having been forced to speak so harshly to his son, while inwardly relishing the expressions of mingled pity, sadness, and mistrust on the faces of the many elves bearing witness to this humiliation.

Thranduil then turned and nodded approvingly to the First Prince, who, though standing in deference to his father and King, was still upon the dais and was trying to keep his own expression nearing neutral. Thranduil did not try to change his younger son, for his innocence and purity were worth more than all the gold and mithril this world could produce and he would do anything to keep them alive for as long as he could. He would do nothing to harden the heart of this noble young elf against his elder brother, though he had driven a wedge between them long ago. He wanted his youngest son to pity the eldest, for it played well among the Elves of the wood.

‘Would that I wish he were not, but my son he is.’ Elrond felt Glorfindel tense with the same anger that was swiftly flowing through his own veins as they heard those words, but the intricacies of what they were hearing was a mystery to them, the realities of what this golden beauty was being sentenced to was not apparent, for few outside of Mirkwood knew anything of the ways of these guarded and enigmatic elves who tended to remain in these woods, a reserved and cautious elven people in the presence of outsiders, elven or human. Elrond did not like this, but he was a guest here and was powerless to interfere. What this service was he would find out, for the young elf would be in service to him and his house for a century and a half, but what would be expected of him and his house in regards to the elf’s treatment?

He kept his composure, but he could feel the tension radiating from his friend as the King pushed the Golden Elf’s hair over one shoulder, leaving the broad, muscled shoulders uncovered. Elrond could see the ghosts of old scars laced up and down that stiffly upright back, muscles held firm, and hace ace forward. A Guard stepped forward and took hold of Legolas’ wrists, holding them firmly in front of his face as if the elf would struggle. A shadow came over the room in Glorfindel’s mind as his ghostlike fears came into reality.

Glorfindel started to push himself up out of his seat, and Elrond followed him, but held his friend back with a hand holding his arm in an unyielding grip. Glorfindel was nearly quaking as the King raised the blade to that pale skin, and tried almost frantically to control his anger with breathing as the blade was pushed deep into that pale-skinned flesh. The elf tensed, but did not lose his composure as his father continued.

Minutes later, his back red with blood from his left shoulder, the King handed the blade away and took a bottle of black paste from an elf in exchange. He took a small piece of wood from the elf, opened the bottle, and used the wood to scrape the black paste from the bottle onto the elf’s back over the carvings done in his flesh. The elf suffering the ministrations cut off the sharp cry of pain as the substance was spread and pushed into the cuts, preferring only to let out a slow hiss as he pressed his eyes closed tightly.

Glorfindel tried to turn away to stop the sight from angering him further, and looked at Elrond instead.

Then it was finished; the King handed the bottle aside, “You are no Prince, have no honor, and are no member of this house until your honor and ours is restored.” And the King turned back to the dais and the First Prince, as well as the advisors, who rose and intoned with the King, “Let it be done.”

Elrond and Glorfindel took their places behind the King to leave the hall. Elrond wrapped on arm about the slim waist of his friend in order to support him; his boiling fury having sapped the little strength that had returned him in the few days of rest he had, by then, regained. He felt his friend shaking as the approached where Legolas remained upon his knees. And the two Imladrian lords could not stop themselves from glancing down as they walked by in order to see what had been done to the young elf on his knees before his men. The word ‘disgraced’ was carved in careful elvish letters into the pale, now-reddened skin on the young elf’s back. He did not move, or even appear to breathe as the elven lords walked past him, did not even raise his head to acknowledge any presence but those now before him. The audience also filed out slowly, muttering quietly amongst themselves. His punishment was between his Guards and himself. That, at least, gave Elrond some comfort, however inappropriate it was.

Once everyone was out of the Hall, the doors were shut. Elrond and Glorfindel started speaking in low tones between themselves and the elves that had waited for them outside of the Hall, staying close enough to the doors to hear the muffled sounds coming from inside the great room as Legolas was beaten by his own Guards. It was not long before the stoic elf could not hold back short cries of pain muffled by the great doors.

They stayed there for only so long as their increasing anger and discomfit was not overly obvious, then walked sedately into the suite of rooms allotted to the Imladrian lords during their visit. Elrond paced back and forth while Glorfindel collapsed into a chair. Neither spoke much except Elrond’s wise words said in an attempt to mitigate the desire in the blond elf to do something rash in freeing the elf he had become entranced with over so short a time. Not believing in his own words or, at least, not believing he had to speak them and, by this, implicitly condoning the horrific actions, he said that this was not their home, and the laws of society were different here, and those laws they, as guests, must respect and not condemn if they wish to put an end to the mistrust between Imladris and Greenwood, not to start the disputes anew while on the very doorstep to better relations between the elven realms.

Glorfindel listened to his speech with nary a word, preferring to set his glowering gaze on the seemingly sarcastically bright and cheerful day outside, and for this Elrond was grateful, for he did not have to bear the weight of his friend’s gaze, and neither did he have to withstand the withering anger. He let his voice trail of and found thankfully that the blond elf was suffering under the weight of his anger to the point at which he was unable to speak, and so they sat in silence for what remained of the day, each trying to let the peaceful serenity of the garden outside calm their tempers in a vain attempt to sever themselves from judgment.

It put a strain on the rest of their talks, but the golden King seemed to have forgotten the incident had ever happened, as if his son did not exist and went on with life as if it had not been. Elrond played along, Glorfindel stayed to their rooms most of the time under the pretense that he was still recovering, but really to keep him from doing something he should not, his only outward protest. For this also was Elrond grateful.

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To Be Continued…