Feud
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-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
125
Views:
27,615
Reviews:
413
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Sigil ar Edron [Dagger and Key]
Feud
by erobey, erobey@gmail.com
unbeta'd
Sigil ar Edron [Dagger and Key]
The blade remained stationary, poised in the emptiness left by the flight of the Tawarwaith, eager for another strike, Thranduil's fist wrapped round it in a constricting clasp of rage and fear. Even in stillness the dagger menaced; its potential for violence compounding, its craving for death increasing and not until returned to its sheath or loosed from the hold of its current owner would the sense of peril it fostered dissipate. Indeed, its mere presence seemed an attack upon the molecules of air pierced by the destructive spike of exquisite artistry.
The metal gave off an effulgent gleam comprised of more than the reflected brightness of lamplight dancing from its deadly contours, for the sheen boasted a gory translucent overlay of crimson. Vivid and vibrant was the vermilion colour of Legolas' blood thus exposed to the atmosphere and next to it every other hue on display appeared drab, a monochrome assortment of sepia shadows that refused to draw the eye. The thick film of cruor coated the dagger almost to the hilt but could not adhere to it, sliding with languid slowness over the slick perfection of the finely honed edge, filling the inscribed Quenya words of power marking its body, gathering at the narrow, delicately curved tip. There the vital varnish clung, suspended until enough of the stuff accrued and gravity inexorably plucked the droplet from the tenacious and thirsty device.
Down, down dropped the scarlet drip in an infinity of seconds and Thranduil's eyes fixed upon it, travelled with it, dilated in shock as the tiny sphere of liquid life burst against the granite and spattered the lustrous patina of the outcast's discarded weapon with a mist of random red spots.
Thranduil's sight retraced the path even as another ruby bead broke free and plunged to join the growing stain at his feet. He watched for another minute as the sluggish viscous flow worked its way toward the knife's pinnacle, staring in amazed abhorrence as if seeing the dagger for the first time, as if attempting to comprehend how it came to be in his hand, stained with elven blood. The light glinting off the evil thing was boldly stygian and for a moment seemed to hold form and take substance from the sanguine grime encasing it. A sense of presence emanated from the shining implement, revealing to the Sindarin soul-catcher in what manner his trophy had been wrought and whence its ability to invoke terror originated. Thranduil's heart gave a strong double percussion and sent his own interior river of essential fluid coursing through him briskly. He cried out, casting away the instrument of Caranthir's consuming insanity to join the humble blade already on the floor.
It struck against Legolas' dirk with a raucous reverberation and lay cross-wise over the common, utilitarian stiletto, painting it not for the first time with its master's serum, pinning it to the ground with the weight of Ages, a multitude of devious and dire deeds done at the behest of the Noldo Prince's self-destructive vow.
The King's heart surged anew, this time with the commitment never to touch the despicable thing again. His features contorted in disgust to have been manipulated by whatever foul remnant of life was held bound in the weapon's core. Unconsciously, Thranduil wiped his hand against his leggings in an effort to remove from his person the sensation of thrill the unholy object garnered from its momentary sheathing in the flesh of the First-born. The idea that he had unwittingly fed the abhorrent genie revolted him and his gut churned as he stared down at the two weapons.
How did I ever see that as a worthy artefact to carry on my person?
As he viewed them now, the lowly knife kept by the Tawarwaith was pure in comparison, for it had served loyally, fending off danger and dispatching foes, enabling hasty surgery to remove embedded arrows, smoothing ash-wood into straight, hard shafts, trimming feathers into fletching, skinning game for food and pelts. But in another sense were the razored edges brothers, for both had sipped Legolas' blood, though the archer's dirk had been forced to do so by the wild elf's hand. The savageness of such moiety fell upon Thranduil with the magnitude of a lightening blast and he gasped as his foot flashed forward and kicked the knives away in a blaze of outrage. They went skittering across the raised platform and came to rest after plummeting over the edge and landing in a disharmonic clash of metal upon rock.
"Oh!" a startled exclamation broke from among the elves and a low murmur circulated through the gathering at their Lord's unexpected action.
"Melt them down!" he shouted, pointing at the weapons, eyes upon Iarwain. "Both have sampled what is sacred. We are not Noldor, delighting in letting flow freely that which should never be visible, stealing immortal life from kin and comrades. Render them unto vapour!"
The Councillor shared an astounded set of oculi with Aiwendil but received no indication the wizard wished to respond to Thranduil's statement.
"As you wish; your assessment is wise," he replied with a brief nod of his head. "Yet it is not within the making of the weapon that the harm is done," he added coldly, eager to impugn the ruler's noble proclamation. "Your hand has done this thing."
"You know nothing of what may be predestined in the casting of the metal!" scoffed the King.
The populace stared at their leaders in disjointed confusion, some nodding to affirm the Elder's sentiment others growling against it in low tones of which 'self-defence' was the primary audible phrase. Their scrutiny transferred almost universally to Thranduil. Every eye focused upon him, each soul filled with combined outrage and uncertainty, perplexed over which inclination should gain preference and expression: fury against their King for spilling the blood of the Tawarwaith or confounded dismay over Legolas' violent attack upon a kinsman. Lindalcon decided for them.
"You stabbed him! I cannot believe I witnessed this!" his shouted accusation filled the hallowed chamber and echoed with the fervour of his wrath.
"It was not a matter of choice," Thranduil turned to face him. "Everyone saw; he meant to cut my throat. I responded as anyone would in such a situation."
"He would never harm you, if only for the sake of Taurant and Gwilith!" Lindalcon snapped back, attempting to get free from Fearfaron who still had firm hold upon his biceps.
"It did not seem that way from my perspective! Verily I weary of hearing empty avowals of the outcast's much lauded concern for my offspring! Ending my life would not benefit them under any rational consideration of that term. Can you deny that you thought he intended to destroy me also and were rushing to stop him?"
"It is true," interjected the carpenter. "I did so believe, for he has been sorely tried of late."
The collected elves murmured their acceptance of this admission for it summed up their reactions appropriately.
Abruptly Maltahondo dropped to his knees beside the shunned weapons and took up the dagger he had provided for his charge so long ago. Oblivious to the conversation around him, he caressed the stippled blade with his thumb, wiping the crimson dots into a streaky smear. Tripping lightly along the length of the edge, his nail documented the numerous notches and nicks the deadly article had collected over years of harsh use and minimal care. That this accurately described his treatment of Legolas was a bitter realisation and the corpsman quietly broke apart into sobbing and tears, clutching the defiled knife against his chest.
"Nay," Lindalcon denied the King's charge. "I did not consider it even for a second for I know him too well." Valtamar's son spared the guardsman an indignant sneer, unimpressed with his sudden outpouring of remorse. "Legolas only wanted that stupid key to get at your jealously guarded treasure horde!"
"The key!" Thranduil called out, suddenly remembering it was no longer round his neck as his right hand flew there, fingering the unfamiliar loss of the chain's weight against his throat. His alarm was not due to the lack of the object so much as into whose possession it had passed. Now would come the proof he had both desired and denied himself, for if Fearfaron's reasoning proved true the Tawarwaith would know in a matter of minutes what was held bound in the small filigreed tool. The spirits in the vestibule of the Three Doors would recognise him, the blood flowing freely from the stab wound would call them as surely as nectar drew bees, for it was their means to freedom.
And revenge. They will seek to invade him!
It would not be the first time such had occurred. Memory, awakened under the strident stimulation of conscience, revealed the healer's report of Legolas' experience upon stumbling into the antechamber following the bold theft of Oropher's bow. Then, the King had dismissed the information, ignored Gladhadithen's repetition of the youth's account, derided her claim that the unhoused feŠr had sought to evict him from his own body. Thranduil stared at the inward image of himself, seated in his private study, too busy with his work to accord the healer more than an irritated glance as she stood at the opposite side of the desk and gave her assessment of Legolas' condition, explaining the cause of the horrifying shrieks that had so disrupted the King's concentration.
The truth I have owned all these long centuries. Only Adaren's [my father's] blood would my brothers acknowledge, only a child of mine would they seek to claim.
So cold was his heart, so unrelenting his pride that he had denied this evidence of the youth's heritage rather than relinquish his self-righteous fury over Ningloriel's infidelity. His inner intellect mocked and scorned his pathetic refusal of the facts utilizing the absent Queen's taunting voice: 'He is no other's son but yours!'. And upon my first-born will both suffer and fulfill their vengeance!
As though his thoughts were an order issued, a spirit-ripping cry of intense affliction and anguished rage arose from the depths of the stronghold's honeycombed heart, unmistakably Legolas' even through the muffling mass of several metres of dense rock.
"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and black-hearted monster! Nay!]
"ion Edwen!" cried out Fearfaron and hastened through the throng, elves of every rank and profession giving way to let him pass.
"Ai Valar! It is already too late," whispered Thranduil morosely.
The King did not wait to consider the moral implications of his enlightenment. How could he face the shame for so grievous a betrayal? What manner of compensation could he offer? He concentrated instead on the immediate repercussions if the unhoused ones were successful, for it was obvious to him that he had at last discovered the true threat to his children and Legolas' connection. The outcast possessed would be a potent weapon for none would hinder the Tawarwaith. Death would follow quickly for Taurant and Gwilwileth. Unless it finds Legolas first. Thranduil turned and leaped from the dais following the carpenter's wake but just as quickly found his path obstructed as the warriors closed up their ranks and denied his passage.
"Stand aside! You do not understand the consequences should Legolas reach the gates with that key in his possession!" the King commanded.
"Nay, it is best to let him be," a stalwart silvan spearman warned.
"Aye, Tirno is in good hands," another added.
"What are you saying? Are you mad? Fearfaron cannot assist him and I assure you the guardians of the vaults will not respect Legolas' unique association with the Greenwood!" Thranduil shoved against the mass of bodies in an attempt to force through. "Let me pass!"
"Stay back!" another soldier hissed and the troops consolidated their bulk, becoming a resilient and impenetrable wall of resistance.
"Aye, it is too late to prevent him searching your hidden lair!" This from a Sinda captain of the Northern Patrol. "Your sorcery will not hinder the Tawarwaith."
"Whatever is concealed therein will be exposed this day!" another remnant of Oropher's people spoke up from the crowd.
"Fools! That is exactly the point! Your champion has no idea what awaits and only I can control them!"
Again a morbid shout drifted through the layers of stone to underscore the King's assertions, turning hearts to lead and thoughts to instinctive prescience of doom.
"Nay! This cannot be! Ada?"
In the Chamber of Starlight, the urge to flee grew palpable, taking on voice in the hyperventilated heaving of hundreds of lungs, exuding the stink of abject terror from the miriad of pores.
Silence enveloped the stronghold then as everyone waited for more from their feral tree Lord, but minutes raced past and nothing further could be discerned.
Thranduil redoubled his effort, twisting and turning in vain, seeking a chink in the insurmountable living barricade as more and more hands and arms snaked out to push back and fend off his advance.
"Peace!" shouted Aiwendil, and uplifted his staff to discharge a blasting wave of hot dry energy throughout the room, hoping to distract the people from their confusion and panic. "Cease this pointless contention!" He was utterly disregarded and dared no greater magic for fear of undue harm to innocents, even were he inclined to disregard his vows.
"Unhand the King!" a citizen suddenly called out, disengaging from the mob to assist his Lord.
"Throw him in the dungeons!" countered a dissenter and rushed up to block this demonstration of loyalty.
"Aye! He struck our Tirno!" declaimed a third who went to abet the second.
"Traitors!" seethed Thranduil, grasping the nearest arm rebuffing him and twisting it roughly, wringing a grunt from the warrior to which it was attached.
"Thranduil had no other choice, Legolas attacked first!" shouted one of the councillors but stayed well back from the fisticuffs.
The soldiers paid no heed to these outcries as the King became more forceful and they in turn increased their intolerance. A brawny hand curled into an angry fist and darted through the writhing agglomeration to land with a loud, dull thud upon Thranduil's cheek. He cursed in outrage and kicked back, and that was sufficient to unleash bedlam.
Instantly the situation deteriorated and the monarch found himself embroiled in a hopeless struggle against a virulent multitude. The warriors wrestled him to the floor and there held him bound as booted feet and stony knuckles scrambled to get access to his immobilised form, venting the pent frustrations and discontent of milennia. So many were engaged in the effort that they hindered each other, and this was fortunate for Thranduil who suffered fewer blows because of it.
For a second the collected populace merely stared in open-mouthed disbelief to see the Sinda Lord thus reduced to helpless cursing and fruitless commands to be released. Then one elf darted out of the throng and joined the fray, and like water through a sieve the remainder followed. Each one's kin and fellows hastened to lend aid, some to the King, others to the warriors, and a tumultuous, expanding melee engulfed the Chamber's occupants.
Not everyone could reach the major battle and the mob divided into pockets of confrontation as one group set upon another, each hoping to impede the actions of any opposed to their views. Many were fully supportive of the warriors and welcomed the downfall of Thranduil, eager for the return of a time when Wood Elves needed no sovereign beyond the omnipresent will of Tawar. No less numerous were they that feared the ousting of the strong ruler who had thus far shielded their world from the worst of the Shadow's evil encroachment, sensing the Sindar's might was beyond the ability of the Dark Lord's minions to overthrow. Most wished to simply get out of the altercation all together and escape to the safety of home and talan.
Shouting and shoving degraded into grappling and blows, mates sought to shield one another from harm, fear drove even the mildest of tempers into frenzy, and utter ruin was upon them.
Amid this chaos the entreaties of the councillors arose joined by the yelling of the wizard, each beseeching calm and restraint, yet their words were lost in the thunderous clamour of argument and schism. The peacemakers were rudely jostled and jammed against one another, drawn away from the centre of the discombobulation in the outwash of retreating elves fleeing for the exits. Iarwain found himself next to Radagast once more, who had taken hold of Lindalcon upon Fearfaron's retreat, the three of them surrounded by a small contingent of soldiers and councillors that slowly and steadily moved them toward the inner walls, out of danger.
The Maia and the Councillor exchanged despondent dread and watched from their enforced detachment as the silvans succumbed to the heightened emotions and fed on each other's hysteria. In futility they called for order; it was as asking rain to reverse direction or stars to dwell among the grass. Before their eyes they saw Maltahondo seized by an enraged pack of archers and spearmen, buffeted among their flailing arms and snarling curses as he ineffectually sought to defend himself. Legolas' dagger dropped from his hands to the granitic floor, the sound of its impact lost in the din of strife.
Lindalcon saw his predicament too and tugged free from the Istar. There was reason enough to wish Maltahondo's death yet the feeling that the unworthy guardian had something important to contribute to the Erebor story would not be squelched.
"Malthen!"
The speaking of this familiar name called the corpsman's attention sharply to the councillor's apprentice. A single caustic look passed between them and agreement was reached. Lindalcon plunged into the fight.
Aiwendil gave an alarmed shout and had no choice but to follow the young elf, fearing the Tawarwaith's brother would come to serious injury otherwise. Together they extracted the battered guardian with significant difficulty and not a few bruises. Once the incensed warriors realised who sought custody of the reviled elf, however, they relented, allowing the wizard to take him away. The winded, dishevelled corpsman, tunic ripped and nose spouting a red fountain, had to be supported as they slowly backed toward the group protecting the Elder, there depositing him for safekeeping.
Back into the commotion the prince's brother and the Istar dived, desperate to reach Legolas' side, treading the thrashing sea of undulating bodies like cirion [a sailor] adrift in the heaving swells of a typhoon, seeking to ride the storm's crest to the bounds of the chamber, there to be washed out into the service corridor and the rear stairway.
Thranduil was on his feet once more, assisted by a steadily growing compilation of Sindar soldiers and silvan citizens, struggling to regain the relative advantage of the dais, now overrun with rioting elves.
"To me!" he shouted above the ruckus. "All loyal to Oropher and the Greenwood stand with me!"
"Greenwood was never under your father's dominion!" someone yelled back.
Then a hand reached down and picked up the dirk of Caranthir the Dark, lifting the gory blade high. The flickering light of the lamps cast a fiery halo upon the outline of its solid volume that seemed to pulse with the disharmonic waves of fear and rage roiling through the throng.
In answer to this indeterminate threat rang the rasping song of a long knife leaving its sheath.
"Iluvatar beria m’n! [Iluvatar protect us!]" a shrill voice prayed.
"Na Eru, avo adanno agar an um sigil sen! [By Eru, do not give blood to this evil blade again!]" Thranduil fairly screamed in protest and it was enough to cause all activity to freeze as each eye found its way to uneasy sidelong stares at the vile implement of malice and murder.
It was at this propitious intermission that Celeborn arrived, stepping into the arrested pandemonium through the open archway, Haldir on his right and Talagan at his left. Rapidly he assessed the situation and accurately concluded he was present for the complete unravelling of the Woodland Realm, though as yet he had only supposition as to the catalyst for the cataclysm.
"Suilad, Aran Thranduil, gwanuren, H”r o Eryndor Ardh! [Greetings, King Thranduil, my kinsman, Lord of the Woodland Realm!]" he announced loudly, right hand uplifted, and sought the gaze of his cousin amid the multitude.
At once the populace turned to see this unexpected caller and a collective, inarticulate exclamation of amazement rose to the vaulted ceiling as if expelled from a single entity's throat. Not many would doubt who this august dignitary was and indeed most knew the Lord of the Golden Wood on sight from visits to family residing in Lorien. Immediately, grasping hands released their clutching holds on neighbours and friends and in embarrassed shame the silvans shifted, reordering their positions to grant each other room to breathe and space to think. In the whispery hush of smoothing fingers they made attempts to reorder their disarrayed garments, wipe away blood, constrain tangled tresses. With lowered heads they stood aside to let the Galadhrim pass as Haldir quickly stationed his warriors throughout the room to separate the flustered factions from each other and their King.
"Celeborn, gwanuren, H”r o Lothlorien, mae govannen! Aderthad m’n anna nin glass! [Celeborn, my cousin, Lord of Lothlorien, well met! Our reunion gives me joy!] And it was with real gladness that Thranduil responded with this traditional welcome between nobles of equal rank.
A gracious smile upended his lips, the lower one split and bleeding. Relief smoothed away the harried crevices marring his brow but could do nothing about the dark red abrasion at his temple or the swelling along his cheekbone. His long honey coloured hair was a mass of knots and in one place it seemed a handful had been yanked loose from his scalp, which was beaded with rosy gloss. With his elegant garments soiled and torn, Thranduil looked exactly the picture of survival that he was, and that this coup was but narrowly defeated was evident in his labouring breath and the glittering rage in his eyes of lapis blue.
Everyone knew it; not a single individual that had dared lay hands upon him would be spared punishment. Likewise, the warriors and Wood Elves whom had rallied to his side would find their circumstances significantly enhanced before day's ending. Talagan the King graced with a minute nod of approval; reassurance that his timely return with reinforcements would not go unrewarded.
"Talagan, take your soldiers and seal off access to Taurant, Gwilwileth, and their mother. Forget not the garden stairway! Guard the escape chutes also. None are to pass save myself. None! Most especially not the outcast nor any of his cronies!" he barked these orders brusquely and ignored the uneasy mumbling of his peoples' complaints.
"Aye, Lord. I will ensure it," the Sinda captain responded and left to do his King's bidding, bending his contemptuous eye upon the warriors involved in the upset, clearly identified by their virtual incarceration, ringed by the ruler's loyal fighters.
"You fear for your family's welfare?" incredulity limned the visiting Lord's question.
"Aye," the Greenwood's monarch confirmed with dire brevity.
Thranduil beckoned Lothlorien's leader and his lieutenant forward with a hand sporting badly skinned and bloated joints. Suddenly exhilarated in the aftermath of victory and the last splash of adrenaline, satisfied that his youngest children were safe, he advanced to the dais, there to right the overturned seat and return it to its place. He did not repose upon it, however, for a sudden flash of brilliance captured his notice as the loathsome weapon of the Noldo Prince was once more cast upon the stone with a brash clatter.
All interest was captured by the peril inherrent in the ancient masterpiece of Noldor metal work.
Celeborn paused in his progress and stooped to retrieve it, grimacing in severe distaste as soon as his fingers closed around the finely tooled hilt. Its filmy cardinal coat alarmed him but he kept his anger in check. His evaluation of the room's occupant's did not reveal anyone even remotely fitting the description of Legolas supplied by Galadriel's vision in the Mirror. He thus presumed, correctly again, the source of the gore. But he was not rash in decision-making and would not condemn the Woodland King yet.
At least not until I learn whether the outcast still breathes.
Thranduil tensed, rigid apprehension suffusing his frame as he watched to learn what reaction this respected refugee from Thingol's court would manifest over for such an abomination: the chillingly beautiful perfection created by the hands of his wife's first cousin besmirched with the vital essence of his nephew. He met Celeborn's eyes staunchly and knowledge passed between them; indeed the King did not seek to deny that the weapon was in his hand when it received its crimson annointing, nor that he would swear to justification for the act. But neither could he conceal his guilt and dread.
The silvan Lord assimilated all this in escalating wrath and severed the connection as he held the weapon away from his body, point down-facing, and looked to Haldir. The worthy Galadhrim extended his hand but Celeborn then refused to relinquish the knife, reconsidering his options. This earned him a disgruntled frown from his March Warden which he answered with an apologetic half-shrug. He searched the chamber expectantly until at last his gaze lit upon the Brown wizard posed near the inner wall at the extreme back of the room, a youthful silvan at his side.
"Ah!" Celeborn bowed politely and signalled for the Maia to approach. "Mae govannen, Aiwendil! I am pleased to find you here. I had hoped it would be so, for your messages to Lorien were carried by avians of the forest rather than of the river's edge near Rosgobel." He looked the wily wizard over with a mixture of bemusement and concern, for clearly the Istar had participated in the fracas, evidenced by the loss of the sash for his formal robe and his bulbously swollen nose that must be quite tender. Nonetheless, the stout staff had spared the Istar much and he had fared better than most. "If you would be so gracious as to keep this unworthy blade out of reach for a time, my thanks would be limitless."
"As you wish, Lord Celeborn, and I am equally grateful for your auspicious arrival. However, an order has already been made to dissolve the relic," replied Radagast with a cheek-wrinkling smile and a respectful bow as he received the hilt from the valourous silvan. Without hesitation he dropped the hateful object into one of the pockets of his outer robe as if it were some worthless trinket. The very mountain seemed to exhale a sigh of gratitude for its concealment.
"Indeed? With that I concur!" Celeborn remarked with feeling, smiling rather coldly at Thranduil even as he gripped the wizard's shoulder warmly. "Hold it then until the furnaces are lighted."
"Aye, it will take special care to dispel the evil held in thrall within it. I do not wish such an entity freed to wander hence to Dol Guldur, there to be reborn in some new and loathsome form," added the King. By this time Celeborn had resumed his pace and Thranduil stepped down from the platform to greet his kinsman with a warrior's salute. The pair shared a long look fraught with the edgy strain of unvoiced accusation and latent distrust. "I had begun to fear your delay was due to an encounter with the less pleasant inhabitants within my woods."
"And so it was!" Celeborn averred. "Just before Talagan reached us we were attacked by spiders. No one was killed but two were bitten and I was unwilling to leave anyone behind in this blighted forest. Thanks to your worthy captain and the habit of supplying his soldiers with antidote for the poison, we were able to continue after a matter of hours in recovery rather than days. Truly, but for that our journey would have brought us here before dawn."
"I regret you were forced to defend your lives within my lands," pledged Thranduil gravely. "But at least it is plain enough why discord from within cannot be tolerated when so much tribulation assails us from beyond our borders."
"Aye," to this the Lord of the Golden Wood nodded. "Then we agree the Judgement of Erebor has proved divisive and detrimental to the silvan people."
"Indeed. I was about to have the last of the testimony regarding the unfortunate events stated for the Record when an unexpectedÉinterruption occurred."
As the two leaders conversed through the enforced politeness of diplomacy, the people calmed and gave them their attention, relieved that the brief insurgency was over with, eager to at last hear the final resolution of the Battle of the Five Armies.
"I see," Celeborn made no effort to camoflage his dissapproval of the current state of affairs within his kinsman's government. "Where is the condemned archer?"
"In the vaults; he has the key," Iawain spoke up finally, having worked his way from the outskirts of the chamber back into its centre once more. "Welcome, Lord Celeborn! I lament your exposure to the aberrations marring our world, and yet I am gratified that your presence has restored a modicum of civilised conduct."
"Orom‘ndil!" Celeborn could not suppress a chuckle at the elder's ingratiating tone. "I am honoured to attend this session of Greenwood's Council. If my participation provides some benefit here then I humbly offer whatever assistance is mine to supply. But as to Legolas, what is he doing in the vaults, may I ask?"
"Searching for Sauron's Ring," replied Aiwendil with a sad shake of his head.
"Nay, he is not." This quiet statement came from Lindalcon, standing just at the wizard's left shoulder, having followed when Celeborn summoned the Istar. The sombre apprentice valiantly attempted to present a dignified appearance despite unruly chestnut locks, a sleeve torn loose at the shoulder seams, and his purpled, tumescent right eye.
Celeborn's gaze fell upon him and he knew at once this was the other silvan elf in his wife's premonition. He smiled congenially at the youth, for it was apparent he was under some great duress, and motioned him forward.
"Do not attempt to protect him; everyone in this room observed the morning's events," warned Thranduil and the venom in his words caused the Lorien elves, including Celeborn, to startle.
"It is true! Legolas did all of this to prevent Maltahondo's testimony!" asserted the son of Valtamar. It was comprehension that had only just arisen in his mind, for he did know Legolas well. "My brother would never have permitted so dangerous a token to remain amid his forest world only to broach its existence at such a crucial moment. Search as much as you wish; the Ring is not in Greenwood." His speech raised a low hum of surprised, indistinct comments from the crowd. "You did not have to hurt him; never would he have so much as nicked your hide!" He pointed emphatically at Thranduil as he ground out this sentence.
"He drew his weapon and attacked!" Thranduil shouted, face scarlet in outrage as he attempted to get past Aiwendil to the insolent elf.
"Peace! Do not start up this contention anew!" pleaded Iarwain.
"Keep your place, son of Oropher!" boomed out Aiwendil, wheeling to block the King's advance.
"Let all remain calm!" commanded Celeborn and stepped between the Sinda and the Maia's dueling glares. Each retreated a pace and the Lord of Lothlorien exhaled a disconcerted breath through his nostrils, flicking a swift communication to Haldir through slate coloured eyes.
The March Warden responded instantly, relocating to flank Lindalcon. He found Thranduil's furious leer upon him but remained unruffled, returning the livid look with cool nonchalance and a faintly lifted left brow.
"How serious is the injury?" the Lord of Lothlorien addressed the apprentice, discounting the momentary abeyance of civility.
"I know not," Lindalcon shook his head. "He left here on his own power and our healer followed, but he truly did go down to the vaults, for we have heard his screams. Fearfaron is there now also, yet nothing more has been revealed."
"But why would he do such if he did not believe the foul ornament resided within?" queried Celeborn gently, a consoling hand offering strength through its emplacement on the young diplomat''s shoulder. "He generated a great deal of strife and confusion yet now that it is all past, still may the corpsman speak of Erebor. The banishment is to be lifted; surely this is something your friend must desire greatly."
"Brother," corrected Lindalcon, albeit politely and with a respectful dip of his head. "Legolas and I are brothers through Taurant and Gwilwileth, Lord. I do not understand why he insists upon it, but the Tawarwaith claims the Judgement must stand or our siblings will come to harm."
"Tawarwaith?" Celeborn's brows rose into arched astonishment. This was a portentous title to convey upon an outcast kin-slayer.
"Aye, Tirno is our Tawarwaith." A voice attested and a swarm of confirming 'yeahs' and 'ayes' succeeded the syllables, echoing ratification from the soldiers and the citizens alike, from those unswervingly loyal to Thranduil and the ones who had futilely opposed him. Whatever may have divided the silvan folk, it was indisputable that not a single one would deny their exiled prince his rightful place among them now.
It is no wonder Thranduil views him as a threat!
The Lord of the Golden Wood realised his task might be much more complicated and difficult to achieve than even Galadriel had guessed.
TBC
by erobey, erobey@gmail.com
unbeta'd
The blade remained stationary, poised in the emptiness left by the flight of the Tawarwaith, eager for another strike, Thranduil's fist wrapped round it in a constricting clasp of rage and fear. Even in stillness the dagger menaced; its potential for violence compounding, its craving for death increasing and not until returned to its sheath or loosed from the hold of its current owner would the sense of peril it fostered dissipate. Indeed, its mere presence seemed an attack upon the molecules of air pierced by the destructive spike of exquisite artistry.
The metal gave off an effulgent gleam comprised of more than the reflected brightness of lamplight dancing from its deadly contours, for the sheen boasted a gory translucent overlay of crimson. Vivid and vibrant was the vermilion colour of Legolas' blood thus exposed to the atmosphere and next to it every other hue on display appeared drab, a monochrome assortment of sepia shadows that refused to draw the eye. The thick film of cruor coated the dagger almost to the hilt but could not adhere to it, sliding with languid slowness over the slick perfection of the finely honed edge, filling the inscribed Quenya words of power marking its body, gathering at the narrow, delicately curved tip. There the vital varnish clung, suspended until enough of the stuff accrued and gravity inexorably plucked the droplet from the tenacious and thirsty device.
Down, down dropped the scarlet drip in an infinity of seconds and Thranduil's eyes fixed upon it, travelled with it, dilated in shock as the tiny sphere of liquid life burst against the granite and spattered the lustrous patina of the outcast's discarded weapon with a mist of random red spots.
Thranduil's sight retraced the path even as another ruby bead broke free and plunged to join the growing stain at his feet. He watched for another minute as the sluggish viscous flow worked its way toward the knife's pinnacle, staring in amazed abhorrence as if seeing the dagger for the first time, as if attempting to comprehend how it came to be in his hand, stained with elven blood. The light glinting off the evil thing was boldly stygian and for a moment seemed to hold form and take substance from the sanguine grime encasing it. A sense of presence emanated from the shining implement, revealing to the Sindarin soul-catcher in what manner his trophy had been wrought and whence its ability to invoke terror originated. Thranduil's heart gave a strong double percussion and sent his own interior river of essential fluid coursing through him briskly. He cried out, casting away the instrument of Caranthir's consuming insanity to join the humble blade already on the floor.
It struck against Legolas' dirk with a raucous reverberation and lay cross-wise over the common, utilitarian stiletto, painting it not for the first time with its master's serum, pinning it to the ground with the weight of Ages, a multitude of devious and dire deeds done at the behest of the Noldo Prince's self-destructive vow.
The King's heart surged anew, this time with the commitment never to touch the despicable thing again. His features contorted in disgust to have been manipulated by whatever foul remnant of life was held bound in the weapon's core. Unconsciously, Thranduil wiped his hand against his leggings in an effort to remove from his person the sensation of thrill the unholy object garnered from its momentary sheathing in the flesh of the First-born. The idea that he had unwittingly fed the abhorrent genie revolted him and his gut churned as he stared down at the two weapons.
How did I ever see that as a worthy artefact to carry on my person?
As he viewed them now, the lowly knife kept by the Tawarwaith was pure in comparison, for it had served loyally, fending off danger and dispatching foes, enabling hasty surgery to remove embedded arrows, smoothing ash-wood into straight, hard shafts, trimming feathers into fletching, skinning game for food and pelts. But in another sense were the razored edges brothers, for both had sipped Legolas' blood, though the archer's dirk had been forced to do so by the wild elf's hand. The savageness of such moiety fell upon Thranduil with the magnitude of a lightening blast and he gasped as his foot flashed forward and kicked the knives away in a blaze of outrage. They went skittering across the raised platform and came to rest after plummeting over the edge and landing in a disharmonic clash of metal upon rock.
"Oh!" a startled exclamation broke from among the elves and a low murmur circulated through the gathering at their Lord's unexpected action.
"Melt them down!" he shouted, pointing at the weapons, eyes upon Iarwain. "Both have sampled what is sacred. We are not Noldor, delighting in letting flow freely that which should never be visible, stealing immortal life from kin and comrades. Render them unto vapour!"
The Councillor shared an astounded set of oculi with Aiwendil but received no indication the wizard wished to respond to Thranduil's statement.
"As you wish; your assessment is wise," he replied with a brief nod of his head. "Yet it is not within the making of the weapon that the harm is done," he added coldly, eager to impugn the ruler's noble proclamation. "Your hand has done this thing."
"You know nothing of what may be predestined in the casting of the metal!" scoffed the King.
The populace stared at their leaders in disjointed confusion, some nodding to affirm the Elder's sentiment others growling against it in low tones of which 'self-defence' was the primary audible phrase. Their scrutiny transferred almost universally to Thranduil. Every eye focused upon him, each soul filled with combined outrage and uncertainty, perplexed over which inclination should gain preference and expression: fury against their King for spilling the blood of the Tawarwaith or confounded dismay over Legolas' violent attack upon a kinsman. Lindalcon decided for them.
"You stabbed him! I cannot believe I witnessed this!" his shouted accusation filled the hallowed chamber and echoed with the fervour of his wrath.
"It was not a matter of choice," Thranduil turned to face him. "Everyone saw; he meant to cut my throat. I responded as anyone would in such a situation."
"He would never harm you, if only for the sake of Taurant and Gwilith!" Lindalcon snapped back, attempting to get free from Fearfaron who still had firm hold upon his biceps.
"It did not seem that way from my perspective! Verily I weary of hearing empty avowals of the outcast's much lauded concern for my offspring! Ending my life would not benefit them under any rational consideration of that term. Can you deny that you thought he intended to destroy me also and were rushing to stop him?"
"It is true," interjected the carpenter. "I did so believe, for he has been sorely tried of late."
The collected elves murmured their acceptance of this admission for it summed up their reactions appropriately.
Abruptly Maltahondo dropped to his knees beside the shunned weapons and took up the dagger he had provided for his charge so long ago. Oblivious to the conversation around him, he caressed the stippled blade with his thumb, wiping the crimson dots into a streaky smear. Tripping lightly along the length of the edge, his nail documented the numerous notches and nicks the deadly article had collected over years of harsh use and minimal care. That this accurately described his treatment of Legolas was a bitter realisation and the corpsman quietly broke apart into sobbing and tears, clutching the defiled knife against his chest.
"Nay," Lindalcon denied the King's charge. "I did not consider it even for a second for I know him too well." Valtamar's son spared the guardsman an indignant sneer, unimpressed with his sudden outpouring of remorse. "Legolas only wanted that stupid key to get at your jealously guarded treasure horde!"
"The key!" Thranduil called out, suddenly remembering it was no longer round his neck as his right hand flew there, fingering the unfamiliar loss of the chain's weight against his throat. His alarm was not due to the lack of the object so much as into whose possession it had passed. Now would come the proof he had both desired and denied himself, for if Fearfaron's reasoning proved true the Tawarwaith would know in a matter of minutes what was held bound in the small filigreed tool. The spirits in the vestibule of the Three Doors would recognise him, the blood flowing freely from the stab wound would call them as surely as nectar drew bees, for it was their means to freedom.
And revenge. They will seek to invade him!
It would not be the first time such had occurred. Memory, awakened under the strident stimulation of conscience, revealed the healer's report of Legolas' experience upon stumbling into the antechamber following the bold theft of Oropher's bow. Then, the King had dismissed the information, ignored Gladhadithen's repetition of the youth's account, derided her claim that the unhoused feŠr had sought to evict him from his own body. Thranduil stared at the inward image of himself, seated in his private study, too busy with his work to accord the healer more than an irritated glance as she stood at the opposite side of the desk and gave her assessment of Legolas' condition, explaining the cause of the horrifying shrieks that had so disrupted the King's concentration.
The truth I have owned all these long centuries. Only Adaren's [my father's] blood would my brothers acknowledge, only a child of mine would they seek to claim.
So cold was his heart, so unrelenting his pride that he had denied this evidence of the youth's heritage rather than relinquish his self-righteous fury over Ningloriel's infidelity. His inner intellect mocked and scorned his pathetic refusal of the facts utilizing the absent Queen's taunting voice: 'He is no other's son but yours!'. And upon my first-born will both suffer and fulfill their vengeance!
As though his thoughts were an order issued, a spirit-ripping cry of intense affliction and anguished rage arose from the depths of the stronghold's honeycombed heart, unmistakably Legolas' even through the muffling mass of several metres of dense rock.
"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and black-hearted monster! Nay!]
"ion Edwen!" cried out Fearfaron and hastened through the throng, elves of every rank and profession giving way to let him pass.
"Ai Valar! It is already too late," whispered Thranduil morosely.
The King did not wait to consider the moral implications of his enlightenment. How could he face the shame for so grievous a betrayal? What manner of compensation could he offer? He concentrated instead on the immediate repercussions if the unhoused ones were successful, for it was obvious to him that he had at last discovered the true threat to his children and Legolas' connection. The outcast possessed would be a potent weapon for none would hinder the Tawarwaith. Death would follow quickly for Taurant and Gwilwileth. Unless it finds Legolas first. Thranduil turned and leaped from the dais following the carpenter's wake but just as quickly found his path obstructed as the warriors closed up their ranks and denied his passage.
"Stand aside! You do not understand the consequences should Legolas reach the gates with that key in his possession!" the King commanded.
"Nay, it is best to let him be," a stalwart silvan spearman warned.
"Aye, Tirno is in good hands," another added.
"What are you saying? Are you mad? Fearfaron cannot assist him and I assure you the guardians of the vaults will not respect Legolas' unique association with the Greenwood!" Thranduil shoved against the mass of bodies in an attempt to force through. "Let me pass!"
"Stay back!" another soldier hissed and the troops consolidated their bulk, becoming a resilient and impenetrable wall of resistance.
"Aye, it is too late to prevent him searching your hidden lair!" This from a Sinda captain of the Northern Patrol. "Your sorcery will not hinder the Tawarwaith."
"Whatever is concealed therein will be exposed this day!" another remnant of Oropher's people spoke up from the crowd.
"Fools! That is exactly the point! Your champion has no idea what awaits and only I can control them!"
Again a morbid shout drifted through the layers of stone to underscore the King's assertions, turning hearts to lead and thoughts to instinctive prescience of doom.
"Nay! This cannot be! Ada?"
In the Chamber of Starlight, the urge to flee grew palpable, taking on voice in the hyperventilated heaving of hundreds of lungs, exuding the stink of abject terror from the miriad of pores.
Silence enveloped the stronghold then as everyone waited for more from their feral tree Lord, but minutes raced past and nothing further could be discerned.
Thranduil redoubled his effort, twisting and turning in vain, seeking a chink in the insurmountable living barricade as more and more hands and arms snaked out to push back and fend off his advance.
"Peace!" shouted Aiwendil, and uplifted his staff to discharge a blasting wave of hot dry energy throughout the room, hoping to distract the people from their confusion and panic. "Cease this pointless contention!" He was utterly disregarded and dared no greater magic for fear of undue harm to innocents, even were he inclined to disregard his vows.
"Unhand the King!" a citizen suddenly called out, disengaging from the mob to assist his Lord.
"Throw him in the dungeons!" countered a dissenter and rushed up to block this demonstration of loyalty.
"Aye! He struck our Tirno!" declaimed a third who went to abet the second.
"Traitors!" seethed Thranduil, grasping the nearest arm rebuffing him and twisting it roughly, wringing a grunt from the warrior to which it was attached.
"Thranduil had no other choice, Legolas attacked first!" shouted one of the councillors but stayed well back from the fisticuffs.
The soldiers paid no heed to these outcries as the King became more forceful and they in turn increased their intolerance. A brawny hand curled into an angry fist and darted through the writhing agglomeration to land with a loud, dull thud upon Thranduil's cheek. He cursed in outrage and kicked back, and that was sufficient to unleash bedlam.
Instantly the situation deteriorated and the monarch found himself embroiled in a hopeless struggle against a virulent multitude. The warriors wrestled him to the floor and there held him bound as booted feet and stony knuckles scrambled to get access to his immobilised form, venting the pent frustrations and discontent of milennia. So many were engaged in the effort that they hindered each other, and this was fortunate for Thranduil who suffered fewer blows because of it.
For a second the collected populace merely stared in open-mouthed disbelief to see the Sinda Lord thus reduced to helpless cursing and fruitless commands to be released. Then one elf darted out of the throng and joined the fray, and like water through a sieve the remainder followed. Each one's kin and fellows hastened to lend aid, some to the King, others to the warriors, and a tumultuous, expanding melee engulfed the Chamber's occupants.
Not everyone could reach the major battle and the mob divided into pockets of confrontation as one group set upon another, each hoping to impede the actions of any opposed to their views. Many were fully supportive of the warriors and welcomed the downfall of Thranduil, eager for the return of a time when Wood Elves needed no sovereign beyond the omnipresent will of Tawar. No less numerous were they that feared the ousting of the strong ruler who had thus far shielded their world from the worst of the Shadow's evil encroachment, sensing the Sindar's might was beyond the ability of the Dark Lord's minions to overthrow. Most wished to simply get out of the altercation all together and escape to the safety of home and talan.
Shouting and shoving degraded into grappling and blows, mates sought to shield one another from harm, fear drove even the mildest of tempers into frenzy, and utter ruin was upon them.
Amid this chaos the entreaties of the councillors arose joined by the yelling of the wizard, each beseeching calm and restraint, yet their words were lost in the thunderous clamour of argument and schism. The peacemakers were rudely jostled and jammed against one another, drawn away from the centre of the discombobulation in the outwash of retreating elves fleeing for the exits. Iarwain found himself next to Radagast once more, who had taken hold of Lindalcon upon Fearfaron's retreat, the three of them surrounded by a small contingent of soldiers and councillors that slowly and steadily moved them toward the inner walls, out of danger.
The Maia and the Councillor exchanged despondent dread and watched from their enforced detachment as the silvans succumbed to the heightened emotions and fed on each other's hysteria. In futility they called for order; it was as asking rain to reverse direction or stars to dwell among the grass. Before their eyes they saw Maltahondo seized by an enraged pack of archers and spearmen, buffeted among their flailing arms and snarling curses as he ineffectually sought to defend himself. Legolas' dagger dropped from his hands to the granitic floor, the sound of its impact lost in the din of strife.
Lindalcon saw his predicament too and tugged free from the Istar. There was reason enough to wish Maltahondo's death yet the feeling that the unworthy guardian had something important to contribute to the Erebor story would not be squelched.
"Malthen!"
The speaking of this familiar name called the corpsman's attention sharply to the councillor's apprentice. A single caustic look passed between them and agreement was reached. Lindalcon plunged into the fight.
Aiwendil gave an alarmed shout and had no choice but to follow the young elf, fearing the Tawarwaith's brother would come to serious injury otherwise. Together they extracted the battered guardian with significant difficulty and not a few bruises. Once the incensed warriors realised who sought custody of the reviled elf, however, they relented, allowing the wizard to take him away. The winded, dishevelled corpsman, tunic ripped and nose spouting a red fountain, had to be supported as they slowly backed toward the group protecting the Elder, there depositing him for safekeeping.
Back into the commotion the prince's brother and the Istar dived, desperate to reach Legolas' side, treading the thrashing sea of undulating bodies like cirion [a sailor] adrift in the heaving swells of a typhoon, seeking to ride the storm's crest to the bounds of the chamber, there to be washed out into the service corridor and the rear stairway.
Thranduil was on his feet once more, assisted by a steadily growing compilation of Sindar soldiers and silvan citizens, struggling to regain the relative advantage of the dais, now overrun with rioting elves.
"To me!" he shouted above the ruckus. "All loyal to Oropher and the Greenwood stand with me!"
"Greenwood was never under your father's dominion!" someone yelled back.
Then a hand reached down and picked up the dirk of Caranthir the Dark, lifting the gory blade high. The flickering light of the lamps cast a fiery halo upon the outline of its solid volume that seemed to pulse with the disharmonic waves of fear and rage roiling through the throng.
In answer to this indeterminate threat rang the rasping song of a long knife leaving its sheath.
"Iluvatar beria m’n! [Iluvatar protect us!]" a shrill voice prayed.
"Na Eru, avo adanno agar an um sigil sen! [By Eru, do not give blood to this evil blade again!]" Thranduil fairly screamed in protest and it was enough to cause all activity to freeze as each eye found its way to uneasy sidelong stares at the vile implement of malice and murder.
It was at this propitious intermission that Celeborn arrived, stepping into the arrested pandemonium through the open archway, Haldir on his right and Talagan at his left. Rapidly he assessed the situation and accurately concluded he was present for the complete unravelling of the Woodland Realm, though as yet he had only supposition as to the catalyst for the cataclysm.
"Suilad, Aran Thranduil, gwanuren, H”r o Eryndor Ardh! [Greetings, King Thranduil, my kinsman, Lord of the Woodland Realm!]" he announced loudly, right hand uplifted, and sought the gaze of his cousin amid the multitude.
At once the populace turned to see this unexpected caller and a collective, inarticulate exclamation of amazement rose to the vaulted ceiling as if expelled from a single entity's throat. Not many would doubt who this august dignitary was and indeed most knew the Lord of the Golden Wood on sight from visits to family residing in Lorien. Immediately, grasping hands released their clutching holds on neighbours and friends and in embarrassed shame the silvans shifted, reordering their positions to grant each other room to breathe and space to think. In the whispery hush of smoothing fingers they made attempts to reorder their disarrayed garments, wipe away blood, constrain tangled tresses. With lowered heads they stood aside to let the Galadhrim pass as Haldir quickly stationed his warriors throughout the room to separate the flustered factions from each other and their King.
"Celeborn, gwanuren, H”r o Lothlorien, mae govannen! Aderthad m’n anna nin glass! [Celeborn, my cousin, Lord of Lothlorien, well met! Our reunion gives me joy!] And it was with real gladness that Thranduil responded with this traditional welcome between nobles of equal rank.
A gracious smile upended his lips, the lower one split and bleeding. Relief smoothed away the harried crevices marring his brow but could do nothing about the dark red abrasion at his temple or the swelling along his cheekbone. His long honey coloured hair was a mass of knots and in one place it seemed a handful had been yanked loose from his scalp, which was beaded with rosy gloss. With his elegant garments soiled and torn, Thranduil looked exactly the picture of survival that he was, and that this coup was but narrowly defeated was evident in his labouring breath and the glittering rage in his eyes of lapis blue.
Everyone knew it; not a single individual that had dared lay hands upon him would be spared punishment. Likewise, the warriors and Wood Elves whom had rallied to his side would find their circumstances significantly enhanced before day's ending. Talagan the King graced with a minute nod of approval; reassurance that his timely return with reinforcements would not go unrewarded.
"Talagan, take your soldiers and seal off access to Taurant, Gwilwileth, and their mother. Forget not the garden stairway! Guard the escape chutes also. None are to pass save myself. None! Most especially not the outcast nor any of his cronies!" he barked these orders brusquely and ignored the uneasy mumbling of his peoples' complaints.
"Aye, Lord. I will ensure it," the Sinda captain responded and left to do his King's bidding, bending his contemptuous eye upon the warriors involved in the upset, clearly identified by their virtual incarceration, ringed by the ruler's loyal fighters.
"You fear for your family's welfare?" incredulity limned the visiting Lord's question.
"Aye," the Greenwood's monarch confirmed with dire brevity.
Thranduil beckoned Lothlorien's leader and his lieutenant forward with a hand sporting badly skinned and bloated joints. Suddenly exhilarated in the aftermath of victory and the last splash of adrenaline, satisfied that his youngest children were safe, he advanced to the dais, there to right the overturned seat and return it to its place. He did not repose upon it, however, for a sudden flash of brilliance captured his notice as the loathsome weapon of the Noldo Prince was once more cast upon the stone with a brash clatter.
All interest was captured by the peril inherrent in the ancient masterpiece of Noldor metal work.
Celeborn paused in his progress and stooped to retrieve it, grimacing in severe distaste as soon as his fingers closed around the finely tooled hilt. Its filmy cardinal coat alarmed him but he kept his anger in check. His evaluation of the room's occupant's did not reveal anyone even remotely fitting the description of Legolas supplied by Galadriel's vision in the Mirror. He thus presumed, correctly again, the source of the gore. But he was not rash in decision-making and would not condemn the Woodland King yet.
At least not until I learn whether the outcast still breathes.
Thranduil tensed, rigid apprehension suffusing his frame as he watched to learn what reaction this respected refugee from Thingol's court would manifest over for such an abomination: the chillingly beautiful perfection created by the hands of his wife's first cousin besmirched with the vital essence of his nephew. He met Celeborn's eyes staunchly and knowledge passed between them; indeed the King did not seek to deny that the weapon was in his hand when it received its crimson annointing, nor that he would swear to justification for the act. But neither could he conceal his guilt and dread.
The silvan Lord assimilated all this in escalating wrath and severed the connection as he held the weapon away from his body, point down-facing, and looked to Haldir. The worthy Galadhrim extended his hand but Celeborn then refused to relinquish the knife, reconsidering his options. This earned him a disgruntled frown from his March Warden which he answered with an apologetic half-shrug. He searched the chamber expectantly until at last his gaze lit upon the Brown wizard posed near the inner wall at the extreme back of the room, a youthful silvan at his side.
"Ah!" Celeborn bowed politely and signalled for the Maia to approach. "Mae govannen, Aiwendil! I am pleased to find you here. I had hoped it would be so, for your messages to Lorien were carried by avians of the forest rather than of the river's edge near Rosgobel." He looked the wily wizard over with a mixture of bemusement and concern, for clearly the Istar had participated in the fracas, evidenced by the loss of the sash for his formal robe and his bulbously swollen nose that must be quite tender. Nonetheless, the stout staff had spared the Istar much and he had fared better than most. "If you would be so gracious as to keep this unworthy blade out of reach for a time, my thanks would be limitless."
"As you wish, Lord Celeborn, and I am equally grateful for your auspicious arrival. However, an order has already been made to dissolve the relic," replied Radagast with a cheek-wrinkling smile and a respectful bow as he received the hilt from the valourous silvan. Without hesitation he dropped the hateful object into one of the pockets of his outer robe as if it were some worthless trinket. The very mountain seemed to exhale a sigh of gratitude for its concealment.
"Indeed? With that I concur!" Celeborn remarked with feeling, smiling rather coldly at Thranduil even as he gripped the wizard's shoulder warmly. "Hold it then until the furnaces are lighted."
"Aye, it will take special care to dispel the evil held in thrall within it. I do not wish such an entity freed to wander hence to Dol Guldur, there to be reborn in some new and loathsome form," added the King. By this time Celeborn had resumed his pace and Thranduil stepped down from the platform to greet his kinsman with a warrior's salute. The pair shared a long look fraught with the edgy strain of unvoiced accusation and latent distrust. "I had begun to fear your delay was due to an encounter with the less pleasant inhabitants within my woods."
"And so it was!" Celeborn averred. "Just before Talagan reached us we were attacked by spiders. No one was killed but two were bitten and I was unwilling to leave anyone behind in this blighted forest. Thanks to your worthy captain and the habit of supplying his soldiers with antidote for the poison, we were able to continue after a matter of hours in recovery rather than days. Truly, but for that our journey would have brought us here before dawn."
"I regret you were forced to defend your lives within my lands," pledged Thranduil gravely. "But at least it is plain enough why discord from within cannot be tolerated when so much tribulation assails us from beyond our borders."
"Aye," to this the Lord of the Golden Wood nodded. "Then we agree the Judgement of Erebor has proved divisive and detrimental to the silvan people."
"Indeed. I was about to have the last of the testimony regarding the unfortunate events stated for the Record when an unexpectedÉinterruption occurred."
As the two leaders conversed through the enforced politeness of diplomacy, the people calmed and gave them their attention, relieved that the brief insurgency was over with, eager to at last hear the final resolution of the Battle of the Five Armies.
"I see," Celeborn made no effort to camoflage his dissapproval of the current state of affairs within his kinsman's government. "Where is the condemned archer?"
"In the vaults; he has the key," Iawain spoke up finally, having worked his way from the outskirts of the chamber back into its centre once more. "Welcome, Lord Celeborn! I lament your exposure to the aberrations marring our world, and yet I am gratified that your presence has restored a modicum of civilised conduct."
"Orom‘ndil!" Celeborn could not suppress a chuckle at the elder's ingratiating tone. "I am honoured to attend this session of Greenwood's Council. If my participation provides some benefit here then I humbly offer whatever assistance is mine to supply. But as to Legolas, what is he doing in the vaults, may I ask?"
"Searching for Sauron's Ring," replied Aiwendil with a sad shake of his head.
"Nay, he is not." This quiet statement came from Lindalcon, standing just at the wizard's left shoulder, having followed when Celeborn summoned the Istar. The sombre apprentice valiantly attempted to present a dignified appearance despite unruly chestnut locks, a sleeve torn loose at the shoulder seams, and his purpled, tumescent right eye.
Celeborn's gaze fell upon him and he knew at once this was the other silvan elf in his wife's premonition. He smiled congenially at the youth, for it was apparent he was under some great duress, and motioned him forward.
"Do not attempt to protect him; everyone in this room observed the morning's events," warned Thranduil and the venom in his words caused the Lorien elves, including Celeborn, to startle.
"It is true! Legolas did all of this to prevent Maltahondo's testimony!" asserted the son of Valtamar. It was comprehension that had only just arisen in his mind, for he did know Legolas well. "My brother would never have permitted so dangerous a token to remain amid his forest world only to broach its existence at such a crucial moment. Search as much as you wish; the Ring is not in Greenwood." His speech raised a low hum of surprised, indistinct comments from the crowd. "You did not have to hurt him; never would he have so much as nicked your hide!" He pointed emphatically at Thranduil as he ground out this sentence.
"He drew his weapon and attacked!" Thranduil shouted, face scarlet in outrage as he attempted to get past Aiwendil to the insolent elf.
"Peace! Do not start up this contention anew!" pleaded Iarwain.
"Keep your place, son of Oropher!" boomed out Aiwendil, wheeling to block the King's advance.
"Let all remain calm!" commanded Celeborn and stepped between the Sinda and the Maia's dueling glares. Each retreated a pace and the Lord of Lothlorien exhaled a disconcerted breath through his nostrils, flicking a swift communication to Haldir through slate coloured eyes.
The March Warden responded instantly, relocating to flank Lindalcon. He found Thranduil's furious leer upon him but remained unruffled, returning the livid look with cool nonchalance and a faintly lifted left brow.
"How serious is the injury?" the Lord of Lothlorien addressed the apprentice, discounting the momentary abeyance of civility.
"I know not," Lindalcon shook his head. "He left here on his own power and our healer followed, but he truly did go down to the vaults, for we have heard his screams. Fearfaron is there now also, yet nothing more has been revealed."
"But why would he do such if he did not believe the foul ornament resided within?" queried Celeborn gently, a consoling hand offering strength through its emplacement on the young diplomat''s shoulder. "He generated a great deal of strife and confusion yet now that it is all past, still may the corpsman speak of Erebor. The banishment is to be lifted; surely this is something your friend must desire greatly."
"Brother," corrected Lindalcon, albeit politely and with a respectful dip of his head. "Legolas and I are brothers through Taurant and Gwilwileth, Lord. I do not understand why he insists upon it, but the Tawarwaith claims the Judgement must stand or our siblings will come to harm."
"Tawarwaith?" Celeborn's brows rose into arched astonishment. This was a portentous title to convey upon an outcast kin-slayer.
"Aye, Tirno is our Tawarwaith." A voice attested and a swarm of confirming 'yeahs' and 'ayes' succeeded the syllables, echoing ratification from the soldiers and the citizens alike, from those unswervingly loyal to Thranduil and the ones who had futilely opposed him. Whatever may have divided the silvan folk, it was indisputable that not a single one would deny their exiled prince his rightful place among them now.
It is no wonder Thranduil views him as a threat!
The Lord of the Golden Wood realised his task might be much more complicated and difficult to achieve than even Galadriel had guessed.
TBC