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 : Thank you for all the great reviews- they drive me to feed the demon that drives me to write more! Please forgive any mistakes or repetitions in this chapter- I have had computer problems, but then, don’t we all?

Part 1 In the Darkness, Two Beginnings…
Chapter 5
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TA 2163

They made ready to depart after three weeks spent in the Greenwos its it was once known, ready to return to their homes in the protected vale of Imladris. They had been given tours around the wood, dined exquisitely and enjoyed the entertainment the Mirkwood had to offer in the form of song and dance unique to the Woodland Realm. They had also had the pleasure of sampling all the fine wines for which the Wood had grown famous. Elrond spent hours in the company of the King and the First Prince, the latter speaking rarely, but each word spoken by the young elf was treasured and praised by his father, in a definitive exhibition of the vastly diverging attitude of the Sindar King to one son as compared to the other. To this fine young elf he was the epitome of a doting father, supporting his statements or critiquing them in a gentle, teaching tone, while to his elder son he had spoken words Elrond, as a father, could not envision him ever saying to another elf, let alone his twin sons.

The King had as much as disowned Legolas, had held him at fault for the battle and those lost and had not listened either to his own imprecations to ease the punishment inflicted on his son, or those of Glorfindel who had to be escorted from the King’s presence by Elrond, and nearly forcibly at that, as the golden elf had been close to losing his nearly legendary temper on one whose temper was, if nothing, even more volatile. Incensed was an understatement of his fury after having born witness to the branding of the woodland prince, and that fury was not quelled easily. Shortly thereafter, when the Lord of Imladris and his ancient friend and advisor had been granted an audience with the King and Glorfindel had recklessly voiced his objections in no uncertain terms, Thranduil had stood to his feet with regal grace and deliberate and measured speed, his gaze steely cold, and his hands steepled on his ornate desk of dark wood, his silence more telling of his fury than any mere word could portray.

Glorfindel had stood resolutely before the desk, refusing to back down even at the pain in his shoulder as he stood taut and ready as if to pounce upon the callous Elven King of Mirkwood. He had stood straight and tall, every inch of him exuding the stalwart pride and power of the legendary Balrog-slayer, his eyes held level and as fiery as the King’s were icy, his posture tense while appearing as relaxed as a great cat, an ever-present yet deceptively misplaced wry smile upon his lips. To those who knew him well, it boded no good to see such a twist upon his fine lips, and served only to brandish his supreme annoyance. Glorfindel had toyed absently with the few trinkets upon the King’s desk, noting with disdain that each was inscribed with the signature, however immature, of the youngest prince of the realm; none bore the name of the disgraced archer-prince for whom Glorfindel felt called to defend when it seemed no other would. No matter his intense regard of the monarch or of Glorfindel’s own renown, Thranduil did not relent. Legolas would serve out his time in Imladris to earn the honor he lost and repay the debt as best he could to the families of those lost, of this Thranduil would brook no compromise.

They did not see the hapless elf except for rare glimpses as he was led somewhere surrounded by Guards they recognized as having been among those who had been under the command of the archer prince that day. While the others accompanying him were in uniform, never was he, rather, he wore plain clothes of woodland greens and browns or a black shirt which made his pale skin glow in the sunlight streaming through broken patches in the canopy of trees. His braids were still there, untouched; he had not been stripped of his title permanently, just until his service was completed. Glorfindel watched from a distance, ever mindfully attentive to the woodland prince’s presence. He noted another difference in the attire of the archer, that being the band of painstakingly interlaced filaments of bark worn as a necklace high upon the archer’s elegant neck. It seemed at the time to Glorfindel to be an object of beauty and supreme order given in a time of chaos and obloquy. It appeared so out of place, yet somehow oddly appropriate.

On the day they were to leave, packing done, horses readied, Elrond and Glorfindel descended the stairs of the stone-carved palace to the open square with Thranduil leading them, all formal politeness, though it was only manifested under the tight reign of his continuing annoyance with the Balrog-slayer of Gondolin. For Elrond, it had been easier to get along, both of them preferring to keep their attentions upon their stately duties and discourse between them on a strictly formal level. Ever the diplomats they remained in each other’s company. It was not so for the King when Glorfindel was in his presence. The infernal elf never let go his haughty scorn of the Woodlandg, ag, and the punctuated derision of the ways of him and his kin struck a nerve within the King that began to throb and sting the very moment the caustic Gondolindhrin either began to speak or even entered the room when few were present to distract them both with more neutral banter. The truth be told, Thranduil was grateful they were leaving, though he had but marginal hopes that the frail agreements between the two lords would hold, he was glad to be rid of their presence and their steady criticism of woodland ways, especially that of the elder of the two, an elf whose very name struck a chord of deep and resounding respect, a chord that rang hollow for Thranduil once he had met the elf.

The King was also rather satisfied that they would be taking his wayward son with them and he and the Wood would be released from the ill wind of uncertainty and strife that seemed ever to hang upon his son’s heels. He, and he was not alone, had hopes that the departure of the archer would prove beneficial to the Wood. It seemed only an additional blessing that he would be rid of this shameful stigma upon his life and that of his family; he was relieved to be liberated of the elf whose very being sullied his memories of love and the life they and the Wood had had before. He turned to those memories as he walked down the corridor, turning his mind away from the spiteful Lord walking just behind him to the days when he and his Queen had anxiously been awaiting the birth of their first child, the joy they had had in choosing a name, readying the room in which the young elf would reside once old enough to leave its mother’s side. The Greenwood was still known by that favorable soubriquet, and Light still shone throughout the length and breadth of the Wood, as the power of the Shadow had just been pushed back with tragic consequences and great sacrifice. It had been a moment of victory, of peace so short lived it seemed now to have been, especially in the minds of the Sindarin Elves of Mirkwood, and most notably in the mind of the King, for the illusion of peace and prosperity hard won had faded with the birth of the illustrious son of Thranduil, and only validated later when tragedy had struck.

Thranduil had had his heart set upon a son, eir eir to the Kingdom if some fell fate came upon him. The Queen, however, longed for a daughter as well as a son, that she may have the experiences of raising both. It was with bitter tears that she learned of her fate as foretold while she yet remained in her first, and what was to be her only, pregnancy. Thranduil had reacted with anger, lashing out at any and all who crossed his path in the helplessness that overwhelmed him at his inability to ease his dear wife’s despair. Together they had made it through to the birthing day.

He remembered holding his son in his hands for the first time, the joyful squeals mingled with the cries of anger in his memory. He remembered the happiness he had felt at naming his son, but ever his delighted contentment was tempered and tainted by his wife’s protracted sadness. She had rallied and accepted what fate had bestowed upon them and they had gone forward, both doting upon the First Prince of Greenwood with all the love a parent could. It was with a faint smile that they reached the courtyard, having descended the steps, his feet stopping on the last step, and he dropped the smile at the same time he saw the woe-begotten son for whom he had no sympathy standing away to the side, silent and waiting, the symbol of his standing around his neck. The one that should not have been, he thought to himself as he stared at the archer prince for but a moment, Perhaps he will not return. Perhaps he will find his merciful end before the day fate will return him to this wood.

The King forced himself to smile again for the sake of his guests, shook each of their hands in a show of good faith and friendship, feigned the loss of their good company, and bade them a safe journey and then he stood sternly as if carved out of the very stone of his Keep waiting for them to mount and leave.

No flowery words would be uttered from those lips and Elrond doubted the King knew how to speak with kindness. He certainly had shown no kindness to his son, only cruelty and disregard. The elf prince had been disgraced and humiliated with all of Mirkwood as witness and Thranduil had not mentioned him again by his own volition, and had strenuously resisted Glorfindel’s or his own attempts to broach and maintain the fallen archer as the topic of discussion. Elrond supposed that he would not discuss his ‘son’ freely until this ‘service’ was complete.

As their party turned to leave and after they left the gates, Glorfindel nudged the dark-haired elfd’s d’s shoulder to direct attention with an inclination of his blond head to the elf prince clad in greens and browns with a black shirt underneath his tunic joining the party on foot. The Imladrian elves at the rear of the group waited for him to walk before them, but he deferred, bowed, and followed behind them, his bow, quiver, long knives and a pack on his back, refusing to let another ease his burden, no matter that all could readily see his limp, slight and concealed as it was, nor could they miss, given the bright light of the clearing in which they sat upon their horses, the harsh bruises coloring the otherwise pale skin of the archer.

Elrond turned forward again, a frown pinned firmly upon his face as he descended deep into thought. Hope burned in his chest for the fallen prince now that they were, at last, leaving the darkened woods Legolas would call home. It heartened him to some considerable degree that in Imladris the elf-prince could be s a d a different life and could, perhaps, find a modicum of contentment while Elrond could protect him. The year in which Legolas would return to the land of his birth seemed distant even to him, as ancient as he was, and remote- almost as if he did not expect the young elf to return at all. He hoped he would not, but he knew even then that it was but a hollow, empty wish. Legolas’ sense of honor would not permit his abandoning the Wood of his birth; he could see it now in the archer’s eyes, the way he seemed loath even now to depart the shadows and the ghosts lingering here. Too strong was the elven prince’s dedication to duty, and tied to the Wood was the archer indelibly as if bound by chains of mithril. It would never be.

The pacleacleared the edge of the forest and still the Mirkwood Guards escorted them, guiding them alongside the edges of the wood, taking to the cover the trees provided when they stopped to rest, preferring the relative protection there to the openness of the valley through which the River Anduin flowed ever southwards, swelling gradually from the steady, sedate flows at the north of the valley running parallel the Misty Mountains to the swift, white-frothed rapids after it passed through the Gladden Fields, where Isildur fell to myth and mystery at the end of the Second Age, with the Ring of Power in tow, and where the waters of the Anduin were bolstered by the Gladden River and more. The valley was wide and the river cut back and forth through it, the smell of water was on the air and the green grass was tall and sweet. Legolas kept a respectful distance behind all others, far enough not to be out of sight, but far enough behind that conversations seemed to him as no more than the whisper of distant trees to him, restricted to a humming sound slightly louder than the song emanating from the trees of the Wood, farewell comfort to the departing Sindarin prince.

He breathed deeply of the fresh, sweet scent of the grass, tall to his knees in this lush, wet valley, relishing the aroma of life apart from the ever-darkening paths of Mirkwood. He basked now in the bright autumn sunlight breaking through scattered clouds, letting the warmth suffuse him, warm him, push back the lingering darkness. He enjoyed himself despite the fact that they neared the site at which his present disgrace had originated. Even knowing this he reveled in the unhindered brightness of the sun, the heat of it penetrated his skin and his battered soul, soothing him, and alleviating the gloom seeping into him as it was the forest itself.

He knew this sharing of shadows was the price he had paid, and was still paying to remain in the Hither Lands; his bond to the Wood granting him life and strength when he had had none, and since that time, the Wood had not left him to stand alone, ever was it with him, in him. He felt both the joy and the anguish within the Wood through the song he now heard, the slow, steady creep of evil was felt by him as it was by the Wood itself. Indeed, he felt the growing darkness keenly, the bond the Wood had blessed him with had led not only to his continued life when he should not have lived, but also had led him to share in the slow pain of the Wood as the creatures of the Necromancer crept ever further into the trees, blighting them and turning them against the peacefulness once known beneath the canopy. He felt the slow death of trees whose voices had joined so many others in song every night, and he grieved for their loss, and felt the guilt of their loss weigh heavily upon him, the growing shadow pained him as much as it did the Wood, for their lives, the lives of the Wood and Golden Prince were joined inseparably. He forced that aside and focused on the joy in the song flowing all around him and allowed the radiant warmth of the sun to sustain him, refresh him as he walked; the fresh scent of the grass, the cheerful glow of the tall, yellow irises were as balm to his soul.

. It would not be long now before they reached the Old Forest Road and the crossing of the Anduin where once there had been a bridge, built during the time of the Last Alliance to faciliatat the crossing of the armies of both Men and Elves, in a time when need spoke loud enough to break the hold of misconceptions upon the minds of all races. The bridge had long fallen into ruin and further thence into myth, just as had Isildur not far from here in the last age when Legolas was but newly brought into this world, and even then he had been ill-welcomed like one would welcome a cold wind bidding the approach of a hard winter. And upon their approach to the ford, he felt the imminent shift of course in his life, and again he turned to the song and sun to ease his apprehension.

He strode onwards, his fingers brushing over the tallest of blades, letting the flowers tickle his palms and his emotions remote. He was of two minds concerning his journey at present. He longed to remain in what he had known as his home, the only home he had ever known. Yet his fondness for the Wood was tempered by long experience. While Mirkwood was his home, and was a source of strength and comfort for him as such, residence within the Wood had its own perils and pains. Long had he labored amongst the trees to rid it of the encroaching shadow, and the struggle had been fierce, but now, now he was leaving the Wood to the hands of others, exiled to servitude was he now for one and a half centuries, what was but the blink of an eye to the elven lords before him, or so he thought, yet long enough it was when the source of his strength would soon be far from his sight. Imladris, on the other hand, was unknown to him, and the Elves who made it their home seemed strange to him. And in Imladris, he was the stranger, a Grey Elf, disgraced prince raised in a mindset of mistrust, if one was to put it lightly and most diplomatically, and in a mindset of outright dislike if one did not. He would enter it as no more than the humblest of servants and he did not know what to expect. He steadied himself and put an end to that train of thought, replacing the apprehension with the resignation he always fell back upon when he knew his fate was not in his own hands

Legolas watched in near enraptured silence as Lord Elrond spoke with the ethereally graceful Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, the legend of Gondolin, as they rode. He studied them both. Raised he had been not to trust the Noldor, but these two lords had shown him no cause, indeed, they had shown him naught but concern and tacit kindness. He had heard of the latter’s staunch defense of him and he marveled that the elf would speak so vociferously in defense of one he knew but for moments upon the field of battle. Legolas found himself staring and quickly averted his gaze to a stand of tall, yellow irises, a hint of what was to come further south in the Gladden Fields, for these joy-giving flowers were the inspiration for the name. He smiled faintly, allowing thoughts of the golden elf ahead of him to penetrate the gloom of his thoughts, his current misgivings.

He watched the Mirkwood Guards as they both led and followedse Ese Elves that had come from Imladris, watched the circumspect way they behaved around the Noldor, and the way in which they responded in kind. None of the two parties interacted but on a formal level and only then when it could not be avoided. Their mutual standoffish behavior evinced their mistrust of those each other, how each group spoke mostly among themselves, leaving as little contact between the Sindarin Elves and those of the Noldor. Much mistrust had been bred into the hearts of both elven realms in the aftertimes of the Last Alliance. Legolas himself had been raised to hold such a mindset- the pompous, egotistical and arrogant Noldor had been the cause of much strife to all elven kind, and had caused the deaths of so many of the woodland kin. Yet, between the lines, Legolas had realized like some others, that Oropher, his own grandsire had much to do with the loss as the High King of the Noldor, in that neither could accept the other as commander and so they went their own ways, with a bitter-high price to be paid by both sides in the end. He knew it would not be much longer before they would not need be so circumspect, for the Guards would turn back when they reached the crossing of the Anduin and the Old Forest Road.

Again his gaze was drawn to the blond lord ahead of him, too far to hear even the murmur of his voice, yet he felt as if he could hear the elf’s easygoing laughter. He was drawn to this elf; he knew it, and he drew some manner of comfort from it, and thereby his tensions were eased with the panacea of curiosity mixed well with admiration and respect. He would do honor to his name; he would serve and he would not disappoint when he was appointed the privilege of knowing such admirable elves as those who rode now amongst their own kind. Even then he felt the tacit approval of the Wood, felt the gentle nudge of encouragement, as if the Wood knew something he did not. He then looked almost longingly upon the wood to his left, felt himself reaching out once again to seize onto the connection that existed between the two entities and let it fill him with its chatter. And with the song in his heart and the hum of its tune on his lips he strode through the grass, patently ignorant of his own discomfort and unease, releasing himself to follow the path honor, fate and duty would lead him down, having enough confidence in himself now to know he would do his utmost not to fail the Lord of Imladris or his illustrious and alluring friend.

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To Be Continued…