Feud
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Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
125
Views:
27,616
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.
Na Ennyn [At the Gates]
Feud
www.feud.shadowess.com
www.livejournal.com/users/tawarwaith
by erobey
unbeta'd
Na Ennyn [At the Gates]
The pounding of his feet upon the stone and the racing of his heart beneath his ribs were nearly indistinguishable one from the other. In and out his breath blew, a ragged paper-tearing sort of respiration enhanced by his thundering pulse, demanding parted lips and flared nostrils combined to draw enough air to keep him going. The sounds of his physical distress were so loud Legolas had to strain to hear the second set of footfalls pressing ever closer from behind.
Not heavy enough for Thranduil, stride too short for Fearfaron; it can only be Gladhadithen or Lindalcon.
A flash of anger razed through his mind and lent renewed speed to pumping legs. It was Thranduil he expected, Thranduil he required to complete his little drama.
Can he never do as he should for me? Valar what obstinacy!
"Legolas!"
He heard the healer call out faintly as from a great distance, but knew she must have caught sight of him to prompt the pleading cry. He ignored her and hastened even faster, though that seemed to be regrettably sluggish; his body unwilling to obey the commands sent to it.
Probably losing too much blood, he remarked to himself dispassionately.
It was true the wound bled freely, yet many times in the deep of the forest, far from any healer's care, Legolas had borne injuries at least as serious and still managed to move and act with agile legerity. He had not stopped to bind the gash, however, and did not intend to do so. Legolas pressed harder against the seeping shoulder and grimaced at the shooting blast of pain this initiated. Shiny and slick with the vermilion liquid, his fingers managed to hold onto his souvenir of the conflict. Absently he marked the soaked and dripping sleeve of his good hand, assized the tunic's degree of saturation where it adhered, heavy with the fluid's weight.
He did not care.
The bite of Caranthir's dagger left a peculiar sensation of icy emptiness. It felt like some part of him had been torn loose and yanked free and the resultant hole ached and trembled as the exposed nerves responded to contact with open air. His shoulder simultaneously protested the lack of the blade within the torn muscle and sinew while an incessant, throbbing wet heat coursed through the region as tissue and capillaries, vessels and flesh laboured unsuccessfully to re-knit, stem the crimson flood, and close up the vacancy. Legolas decided this end would be preferable to the solution he had envisioned and was for once glad about Thranduil's indifference.
Better to die without another confrontation, especially a hidden one, for that might give people enough cause to demand an accounting from their Lord.
As matters stood, it was indisputable that the King had acted instinctively out of the need for self-preservation and nearly the entire population could bear witness to that fact. No doubt he has thought this through already and come to the same conclusion; thus, he does not follow. I am always wrong when surmising what he will do.
The comprehension was unwelcome; Legolas had no wish to examine his underlying motives for baiting Thranduil. He could not entirely comprehend the perverse craving to force recognition from Greenwood's monarch beyond a desire to punish the Sinda for Ningloriel's many departures throughout his life. Instead he favoured the more noble concept of salvaging his siblings' happiness. And it was not merely self-delusion, the desire to think well of his deeds and lend them purpose, but a true sacrifice. If he must sunder his immortal essence from its failing house there were any number of places he would choose to spend his last moments and none of them included this dank abyss of suffocating murk to which he was drawn.
Berenaur's slumbering form, tucked neatly under the down quilt on their new feather bedding, curled up on his side with the long ebony locks strewn across his shoulder, naked and warm, entered his internal eye. Legolas halted and a shattered wail of despairing torment left his body, echoing in grating, screechy tones indicative of anger as much as sorrow, filling the passageway. He leaned the broken shoulder against the wall without even noting the vehement protest of the abused flesh so great was the twisting spike of woe within his chest.
Everyone he had ever loved had been taken from him: Naneth, Malthen, Elrond as an ideal father, Taurant and Gwilwileth, and now Berenaur.
Not so. It is only those I sought love from that have been denied me.
That was an equally dismal thought and Legolas shunned it, forcing the piercing mirage of his mate's allure from his mind. This was but a precursor of the real agony to come and he had tasted that before. In contrast, the fear of the Gates was minor and he straightened up, resuming progress with baleful determination.
Legolas arrived at the kitchen stairs and stumbled down them, gratified he was not going up, one hand holding the delicately decorated device staunchly against the injured shoulder as if it would bestow restorative benefits. The other limb, rubbery and leaden, slid along the knobbly wall to steady his shaky balance, sending stabbing jolts of anguish through his frame with every ridge and crevice encountered upon the stony skin. The pain was welcome, forcing him to concentrate and stay alert when what he truly wished was to sink down upon the steps and sleep.
"Nay! Daro!" [Stop!]
Gladhadithen sounded frantic but again he refused to acknowledge her having reached the landing where the way branched. One sloping corridor led to the underground cistern, the other to the vile dungeons and the King's Vaults. The image of the deep, still pool in the softly lit cavern filled his mind, its silent, motionless surface reflecting a replica of the torch-brightened interior within its untouched depths. That path continued on to the gardens; if he chose it he could seek the sheltering centre of Ningloriel's maze and there doze undisturbed.
Anor will be shining on the evergreen yew.
He could verily feel the warmth of the sun and detect the chuckling trickle of the hurrying brook. He would be refreshed there and could tend his shoulder properly, bathing away the jagged bursts of excruciation with the clean cold water. It was but a second's hesitation, however, for there was no peace for him anywhere without Berenaur. Neither would he suffer his young brother and sister to fall into despair and perish. Better for the little ones never to remember him than to bear the shame and grief of their mother's treachery. Lindalcon would watch over them in his stead.
Legolas was overcome with sadness upon acceptance that fate would prevent him from sharing the secret of the living puzzle with Taurant and Gwilwileth. He would never hear Gwilith's laugh again or his baby brother's voice, nor see them grown, assuming their proper places among the Greenwood's community. Disgusted infuriation replaced the self-pitying malaise and drove the morbid introspection out, for this was a future of his own design after all.
Nonetheless, he could not suppress a bitter curse against the Royal Consort for her part in all that had come to pass. Legolas plunged into the gloomy tunnel that would take him to the Vestibule of the Three Doors.
"Nienna's Tears! Why are you so stubborn?" the healer exclaimed as she came to a stop upon the landing a few breaths behind him.
Gladhadithen heaved an exasperated sigh and glared into the impenetrable darkness, hands fidgeting with the ends of her long mahogany braids. For a brief span she had hoped he was going to co-operate and allow her to take him to the healing ward. She could hear Legolas' feet retreating and evaluated the health of the body producing the inconsequential noise, finding it alarmingly depleted. More than this, his shrill cry had raised goose-bumps upon her very soul and a dark wet patch on the wall attested to Legolas' increasing instability.
Whatever is down there, the archer is unfit to confront it.
She was, however, thoroughly cognisant of what awaited the Tawarwaith. Another short snort of air left her nose, equally expressive of determined resolve and the agitated annoyance she called forth, her shield to ward off the encroaching mephitic malevolence emanating from the black pit. Gingerly she embarked upon the loathsome trail but stalled again after but a few paces. Like a solid barrier the bleak division between the comforting jig of lamp-cast shadows and the complete extinction of perception inhibited her passage. A stronger epithet confirmed her anxious ire. Not only would the lack of lumens hinder her skill, Gladhadithen had no medicinal supplies at hand.
Below, the object of her concern hurried onward. The absence of sight was a shock for it was absolute and nearly instantaneous upon rounding the turn in the stairwell. Legolas inhaled a short gasp and swallowed to choke back the rising swell of panic and terror. The second he lost his dominant sense the others became uncomfortably acute.
Damp and musty, overprinted with the acrid tang of faeces and urine from crawling bugs and eye-less lizards residing in the depths, the smell of the chiselled rock assailed him. The sour odours mingled with the rich metallic aroma of his blood and the combination induced the urge to vomit. With effort he mastered it.
He heard the displacement of air as three slithery reptilian tongues darted out and catalogued his descent. An unpleasant patter of minute, four-toed feet racing over the ceiling and down the wall on his left made him shudder. He pulled his hand from the stone at once, for the idea of brushing upon one of the blind creatures with his sensitised fingertips brought bile to his throat again.
Up came his injured arm, stiffly reluctant, as he pressed slightly numbed digits to lips clamped tightly against the surge of bitter juices. Another forced gulp and the acids retreated. Legolas paused, shrouded eyes swivelling to the place his hand should be, diaphragm pushing out a relieved breath. Feeble it was in the sticky viscous mire of palpable black air but his pearlescent nimbus was discernible nonetheless. Sight was not truly lost merely disabled by the lack of light and this was a comfort to him. He inhaled and held the air, attempting to squelch his illogical fears, but it sounded like a moan when he blew it back out.
Silence is a rare thing for an elf. he thought and the incongruity of the concept with the dire circumstances raised a smile. Any distraction was welcome and he encouraged his mind's little rambling walk into trivia as he followed the winding stair. Vision needs light but audition is impossible to prevent. There is always something resounding through my ears, even if that is only my heartbeat. How strange never to realise this before!
The soles of his shoes scraped and rasped against the fine film of dust louder than Fearfaron's plane shaving wood. Like the pads of his fingers, the balls of his feet achieved perception, supplying his intellect with information he would normally discount were his eyes functional. He noted that the carved steps were bowed in the centre exactly where the toes touched down, worn away into a shallow depression, the accumulated effect from thousands upon thousands of years bearing the impact of Thranduil's boots going and coming from the secluded chambers.
A draft blew across his face as his right foot landed upon the broad floor at the base of the narrow passage. The left joined it and he stood still. He was in the arched entrance of the Vestibule.
"Legolas! Can you hear me? I am going for a torch! Do not move!" Gladhadithen called from above, her voice a wispy waft in the strangely thick atmosphere. "Answer! Do you hear me?"
"I hear," he called back and the words echoed in other voices around him. "Do not return. Send Fearfaron."
The name reverberated in magnifying decibels that grew steadily in venom and hatred, reaching a cacophonous crescendo before exhausting the energy his lungs had supplied. Legolas was left with only the noisy rhythm of his pulse to accompany his panting respiration. He suddenly wished he had not sent the healer away for he was not alone.
The Guardians of the Gates were tangible, indefinably substantive within the subconscious, distinctly manifest despite their incorporeal state and essential invisibility. They raised a crawling itch beneath his skin strangely reminiscent of the horripilation created by the Release of Annaldír. The ghosts advanced, a rolling cloak of glacial ether heralding their encroaching menace, and inspected the intruder. Barring his way and crowding close they hovered in hopes of chasing him out.
Swifter than the coursing rapids of the Forest River the mood shifted. An audible long drawn sigh filled the space, a deep exhale of intense satisfaction that was nearly post-orgasmic in timbre.
A jolt of gelid agony stabbed the Tawarwaith's shoulder as formless frigid fingers probed the wound and he ground out a renitent grunt, lurching left deeper into the anteroom to evade the contact. Legolas buttressed his shivering frame against the wall as a sub-audible wheezy buzz circulated through his thoughts, damped and distorted by the deafening roar of his over-stimulated vascular muscle. The meaning was intelligible, however.
No longer ordering his retreat, instead they questioned his identity, arguing with each other, discussing whether this was the same elfling encountered centuries past or not. Two concurred it must be for well they knew their own blood. The sight and scent of it, boldly garish and sweetly ferric, splattered over tarnished armour and unhelmed hair. Its texture, thickly unctuous, cascading over skin to nourish barren earth beneath bodies crushed and cleaved. The taste of it, acerbic and brash, as it filled mouth and nose, spilling from lips exhaling terminal gasps. Such was the catalogue of perception's last record. Unquestionably, here stood a descendent of Oropher's failing lineage and a fitting drone to accomplish their vengeance.
They demanded his hroa.
"Make haste, Gladhadithen." The Tawarwaith held his ground and fought the incursion. "Light would be welcome," he mumbled through chattery teeth.
Light would be welcome, a voice in his mind mimicked in mocking tones and a deriding guffaw floated through the stifling chill.
Immediately three torches braced upon the rocky walls burst into flame, one after the other, revealing the Gates in an eerie contrast of dancing shadow on cold black polished gleam. They looked to be made of obsidian rather than iron, so glossy was the surface of the austere design. In the instant before he blocked the image, Legolas realised the entirety of the construction, both its form and composition, its shape and the pattern of the intricate geometric filigree, was an instrument of incarceration. The Gates were not obstacles to prevent thieves from breaching the vaults but a prison created to hold the spirits fast.
Legolas cast his arm across his eyes, shielding them from the sudden flash of brilliance. The unexpected display of the three spirits' abilities was more than astonishing and he inhaled sharply in stupefied amazement.
And drew them in.
Deep down into the core of his being the freezing essence of the unhoused feär poured into his soul. A convulsion jerked his rigidly immobile spine and he exhaled with a painful intensity that emptied him to the bottom of his lungs.
"Ai!" Legolas unleashed an unholy shriek of terror and rage combined as the reaving entities fought with one another to seize control of his body and drive him out. Sides heaving for oxygen he could not seem to retain, he trembled with the icy fire of their bloodless energy. He found himself on his knees bent low, propped up with the right hand pressed against the floor, still grasping the gore-coated key. He shook his head wildly for he could hear them clearly now. They had ceased contesting for dominant possession, realising they would need to combine strength to gain control of their surprisingly resilient vessel.
Relent, for you are ours. Yield and we will not expel you. Surrender and join us, kinsman.
Within his mind a vision materialised and Legolas beheld a writhing dragon, iridescent in colours of leaping flame, and about its neck was bound a chain of gold. Ivory teeth gleaming and ebony talons bared, the beast radiated outrage and lust for revenge. This bizarre configuration held two distinct souls, this was clear, forced to assume a conjoined manifestation. Beside the scaly snake stood an elf, an archer clad in green, and he held the fire-drake leashed.
"Nay!" Legolas whispered, desperately fighting the compelling chant of the foreign voices. "You are no kin of mine!"
Abruptly the vile mantra ceased and the spirits stilled. Within his brain he felt their wondering curiosity.
He does not know.
The unspoken voice belonging to the deceased woodland archer was low and lucid, brimming with remorseful urgency. With it came a sweeping concurrence between the triad and instantly knowledge of their identities was thrust into Legolas' comprehension. They were not nameless, formless, spiteful demons nor abominations of Melchor's divinations, as he had believed. Here confined to metaphysical slavery were the King's elder brothers and a silvan warrior slain upon the Sinda's entry amid the trees.
Every memory that belonged to them gushed over into Legolas' mentality with all the concomitant emotions associated with Thranduil's betrayal, so complete, so merciless. Disoriented and stunned, Legolas physically flailed as though this would fend off both the information and the uncomfortable infusion of so much ensorcelled energy. He could not encompass it and proximity to such horror nearly caused him to desert his hroa in order to escape.
"Ulunn! Ulunn gortheb ar huneb morn! Nay!" [Monster! Vile and black-hearted monster! Nay!]
Raw and rancorous the words flew from his lips and condemned the woodland King, a resonating knell that penetrated into the minerals of the very rock and carried to every pocket of open space within the fortress. The Tawarwaith could not but react to the festering accumulation of hatred these lost souls bore for Thranduil. Indeed, he had reasons enough of his own to reciprocate this wave of antipathy.
Tê-telch. [Straight Stem]
The long-dead Wood Elf gave his name, quickly assaying Legolas' approaching collapse, hoping to distract him from the disquieting truths to which he had been so harshly introduced. Though Tê-telch now had his prey at the point of expulsion, the fey feä reversed his intent. He no longer desired to claim this one's existence, for he detected something familiar within the elf, akin to the fragrance of Ithillyth [Moon Flowers] under a midnight sky or the scent of rain upon wind. Recognition washed through the insubstantial apparition, recollection of a splendrous moment from his childhood, racing through the treetops just for the joy of it, chasing the dip and swell of the breeze-brushed limbs. Thus he had first encountered Tawar. It was an experience he was positive his prisoner shared.
Tê-telch's hold upon the golden chain tightened and the dragon thrashed in impatient belligerence, claws poised to rip the vulnerable, exposed soul of their quarry to shreds.
Cautiously the trespassing phantom pressed for entry into his host's psyche and found the way blocked. Again the silvan projected his surprise; few could withstand the onslaught of possession and none before had prevented the spirit's inquiries from yielding up a complete reckoning of his victim's persona. Tê-telch reverted to the ways of the living for the news he sought.
Man eneth lín? [What is your name?]
By this point Legolas was huddled on the cold rock floor, eyes still sealed, curled up with the key once more pressed against the injured shoulder. He gave no answer.
He is ready. Why do you hesitate? One of the Sindar questioned from within the shimmery foaloke. Unleash us.
There is another way. We must invoke it, for he will never accept alliance.
He has not the choice. This is a debt owed to us and he carries the blood of our tormentor; thus, it is right he should accommodate our feär and conform to our will. Leave if you would but do not hinder us.
A rather rattlely laugh startled the three spirits from their discourse and returned attention to their host from whence it issued.
"I will not do your bidding. I owe you nothing. Even were that false, there are other debts due ahead of any you may claim. Stay if you like but I will not submit and together we will all die, the three of you the second time!" Laughed Legolas.
Die? Why would you wish this? What are these other obligations?
Tell us, we are your father's siblings. We would know you.
"Know me? You only wish to cast me out and use my body to execute your long-contrived retaliation. That is counter to my goals. You have other kin through Thranduil's seed, and these would I protect from your wrath."
Who? Name them. The dragon ordered, intrigued.
None of us wishes to punish innocents, yet Thranduil must account for his wrongs. Tê-telch added more diplomatically.
"It is one and the same thing. If the King is lost, how shall the little ones bear it? They have no comprehension of the depraved cruelty of which their father is capable; they only feel love for him and security in his keeping. Thus it shall remain; you will not contend with him through me."
Legolas had never seen a dragon for even Smaug had been felled by Bard's arrow days before the Wood Elves reached Erebor. Yet despite this lack of personal experience he was quite certain that it was uncommon for such a beast to smile. This one was grinning.
The elder sons of Oropher could not fight the surge of appreciation for the tone and manner of their defiant captive. Here was a temperament they were well acquainted with and one they missed and mourned. The appearance was not similar, but the elf in their clutches was more like their father in personality than were they. Tenacious beyond reason but also passionately protective of the young and defenceless, in life Oropher would not be turned from his duty once he had defined it. There was no need to confer; their silvan keeper was correct, nothing would sway such intractability.
The pair found they could not maintain their fanatical thirst for destruction and lost the heat of their fury. Eagerly they longed to promote such a genuine reproduction of their father's character. Thus the Sindar brothers conformed to their fellow spectre's efforts.
Muindorion [Brother-son (Nephew)], we are Tramborlong and Thurin'aur [Heavy-fist and Hidden-flame], Sindar from Neldoreth, the first and second born of Oropher, Thranduil's siblings slaughtered at our father's side at Dagorlad. Speak your name and teach us your part in our history.
Now it seemed to Legolas the three beings squatted beside him though he knew they had not withdrawn from his body. The sense of perilous danger vanished, the symbolic ferocity of the fire-drake dissolved away revealing his kinsman as once they had been: proud, noble, and arrogant.
Dressed in the sturdy armour they had worn into battle, bereft of the rips and rends and stains of carnage, the brothers presented the valorous glory of the First Age rather than the desperate intrepidity of the Second. Tall and fair, broad and strong with the bearing of swordsmen, their similitude of face and form with Thranduil was undeniable. Tawny tresses bound back in Sindarin manner; aristocratic brows, high and smooth, topped noses straight and refined; eyes, one set a pale olivine, the other pair darker than highland spruce; mouths resolute and grim, the family likeness documented their shared heritage with the Woodland monarch.
Thus shall Taurant appear some day. the Tawarwaith thought, forgetting in the moment his reticence to divulge himself.
Tê-telch discerned the slight relaxation of the elf's prodigious defences and immediately acted to initiate a complete removal of the barricade. The silvan reached out as he would to any wild thing of Arda, enveloping the reluctant being in the stanza of the Song particular to his own essence, pouring out this bit of sentient Music upon his host, offering not only friendship but entrusting his feä to his hostage. Even as he had suspected, Tê-telch felt the resonating chord of empathy within the resistant soul and encouraged the reciprocation.
For his part, Legolas at first panicked and sought to retreat, but then the essential anthem of the intruder lulled and soothed his fears, for it evoked the gentle harmony of the Greenwood with all the life it sheltered. He felt as he had in his elfling days, resting in the Sentinel, snugly cradled in the interwoven arms of the ancient beech, removed from the tumult and turmoil of the mountain fortress. His instinct was to trust this silvan spectre and he acceded, allowing himself to be drawn into the comfort of an understanding mind.
This unhoused warrior had known the communion of Tawar and yearned for it even as Legolas did, cut off from the great entity far below the stony solidity of the forest stronghold. Together they shared a lesser mingling of mental conjunction not unlike his internal interchange with Mithrandir. He comprehended that through Tê-telch, the brothers of Thranduil were able to divine the essential facts if not the entirety of the mystical experience. Just as Legolas' education had occurred subitaneously so perception of his predicament was delivered with precipitate entirety to the invasive souls.
All that he had endured was revealed to them and though these three knew better than any the depth of Thranduil's malevolence, even so were the bound souls overwhelmed with aversion and disgust for the wrongs the King, both wilfully and through blatant neglect, perpetrated upon his first child. The Sindar and their silvan partner found the scars upon their victim's feä as severe as theirs and were moved to compassion. For an instant the dragon reformed, suddenly desirous of claiming the unwilling body and adding Legolas' injuries to the catalogue of crimes their brother must redress. The weakening hroa of the wild archer protested anew and Oropher's sons reverted to more natural representations.
Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar, Tawarwaith. Tê-telch intoned reverently and once more sought to mitigate their medium's elevating distress. Forgive us; we would not harm you more.
Not only was the truth of his haphazard upbringing laid bare to them, the ghosts learned the purpose of the Tawarwaith's presence in the Vestibule. Through his memory they beheld the contentment and joy encompassing the brief time spent with the Woodland Realm's prince and princess. Legolas' determination to ensure for his young siblings that which had been denied him was unshakeable, as they had already perceived. Added to this was the retention of responsibility for three Lost Warriors and the fallen archer's commitment to fulfil this final obligation and set them free. Lastly, the knowledge of Berenaur and the burden of insurmountable grief his status engendered set the three phantoms to keening despair, for all bore the same agony over sundered bonds of heart and spirit.
The martyrdom Legolas was prepared to undergo in order to expiate this collection of miseries was indisputable.
Nay! We would not have you perish, the brothers exclaimed as one. No other can check Thranduil's scheming conceit.
Death is not the only option to achieve what you seek. claimed Tê-telch.
Nor does separation of hroa and feä remove the ravages of heartbreak. We know not the disposition of our loved ones and for all these centuries have carried the dread that Thranduil's spiteful malice ensnared them also. If you have any capacity for pity, tell us the fate of our mates, our offspring. Tramborlong, being minuion [first son], spoke for both.
"I am not Thranduil!" Legolas bristled at the implied flaw; he was not lacking in compassion. He understood their intent was to force him to consider the repercussions of his chosen solution, however, and could not fault them. His decision would indeed be difficult to bear for many he counted as friends and for Fearfaron might prove unendurable. Legolas sighed, realising the break with sanity his persistent pursuit for extinction reflected. His single-mindedness was in some respects unpleasantly comparable to Thranduil's obsessive behaviour.
Is this horrendous imprisonment the result of derangement following after grieving? he wondered.
Do not concern yourself over such; no resemblance to him do we note in you; either in form or mentality. What of our families? Tramborlong pressed.
Shifting uneasily, the Tawarwaith fretted for he did not have the answer they sought, and at once this was transmitted through the link with Tê-telch. He felt the brothers rising frustration, sensed the re-emergence of the appalling spectacle of their unquenchable wrath, and hastened to forestall it.
“I am not certain. Though I have at times discerned the presence of distinct beings within Tawar, it is not easy to determine identities of specific individuals. They are but fleeting impressions; a face I have never seen before, a memory not my own. I know not if any of your children that died in battle are among these.
“Rumour shared within the ranks of warriors attests that your mates departed for the Undying Lands upon learning of your demise; there they survive. The same is noted in the Record concerning your sons' wives and heirs. All that remained of your House have gone West, for none could abide the jurisdiction of Thranduil yet had not the desire to confront him, fearing more bloodshed and the schism of our people. More than this I cannot say."
Truly, he did not wish to reveal his supposition; that the feä of any elf lost at the Last Alliance, be they Danwaith or Sinda, was either dispersed within the Greenwood's trees or ever-drowning in the Enchanted River.
If a ghost had the capacity to blanch, all three of the uninvited guests inside the wounded Wood Elf would have done so, for again the juncture with Tê-telch granted insight to Legolas' ruminations. Placid darkness filled the place of the vivid image that had dominated the Tawarwaith's awareness as Tê-telch withdrew, comprehending the need for the brothers to converse with their nephew privately.
A second more the Sindar remained, soul-shocked to learn from their kinsman the ultimate fate of their offspring, for each had a sole son felled at Dagorlad, diffused amid the Greenwood's trees within the consciousness of Tawar. In silence they gazed upon Thranduil's first-born a moment, struggling to harness the resentment this notion conjured. That their captor should have not one but three living descendants was bitter to digest. Yet the entrapped warriors had never imagined they could feel sympathy for the progeny of their gaoler, and they mastered the virulent rage for Legolas' sake.
A better doom than ours. Tramborlong [Heavy Fist] relayed this assessment of their heir's ends as his image returned, wavery and wan. Release us; we would join them, for the will of Mandos is denied them now and to endure eternal isolation from all they have believed must be unbearable.
Ai! Such is not the way when the deceased merge with Tawar. It is peaceful and a unity you cannot perceive is achieved. Nonetheless, willingly would I undo Thranduil's evil, yet I do not possess the knowledge of such magic.
You reside within the enlightenment of Tawar, corrected Thurin'aur. Thus within you are we whole. You possess the key; indeed, you are the key. Look upon us as our brother truly holds us bound.
Legolas did as they bid and gasped to see the tattered remnants of noesis that floated freely in his mind. Their feär were torn asunder, one part incorporated in the sturdy mechanism securing the Gates, the other insinuated within the convoluted pattern of molecules comprising the mithril devise clasped in his palm. It radiated a heat he had not questioned before, assuming it was absorbed from his blood soaking the implement. He saw this was untrue; the faintly pulsing energy discharged from the shining surface had its origin in immortal essence.
He understood then why the pair had displayed a single representation. Even that had required the assistance of the silvan to maintain, for Tê-telch's life-long devotion to Tawar had left him with the ability to facilitate such linkage. Without him, Tramborlong and Thurin'aur would have degraded into revenant poltergeists devoid of reason.
"Nay! This cannot be!" Revulsion rippled through the wild elf as a sob broke from his soul over the heartless brutality that had designed such a destiny.
Forgive us; we would not impart further affliction upon you but there was no other way to make plain our need. Release us, Legolas. And the next instant the unhoused spirits left him.
"Ion edwen!" down the curling steps the strident call flowed, preceding the clatter of the carpenter's bounding feet as he descended by threes and fours to reach his adopted son. Hearing the distress and anguish in Legolas' cries had spurred the lanky craftsman's pace considerably and he burst from the darkened stairwell in a panting frenzy before the echo of his voice diminished.
"Ada?" Legolas stared at Fearfaron in confusion, uncertain about the passage of time during the unlooked for communion with his uncles and the silvan archer.
"I am here." The pragmatic talan builder was already kneeling in the congealing crimson puddle collected beneath Legolas' body. Quickly he tore open his son's new tunic and ripped out the garment's sleeve to press against the gaping gash. "Ai! A constant worry you are to me! More so than Annaldír ever was. This is deep and should have been bound at once."
Much less dramatic was Gladhadithen's return mere moments later, torch in hand and a medicinal pack slung over her shoulder. She stared at the lighted braziers ringing the anteroom and scowled, shoving hers into an empty bracket near the stairway portal. The volume of the ruby liquid smeared across the granite made her frown deepen. Beyond that she saved her comments for later and took over from the carpenter, settling her patient carefully back into the taller elf's supporting arms.
"Why is he still bleeding?" demanded the anxious father, gently lifting the unruly golden mane away from the injury to make her job easier. He was glad for Legolas' compliant acceptance of their aid, having feared he would attempt to hinder them and thus expire. The Tawarwaith's head rested on Fearfaron's shoulder but he was staring off toward the Gates with a disquietingly intense expression, for there was nothing to see but the elaborate iron-work of the barred entry.
"An artery is punctured; did you not sense this?" the healer shook her head in disapproval as she answered one and interrogated the other. With exigent celerity she strived to halt the flow. "Legolas, does it hurt or is it cold and numb?"
"It burns but the rest of me is freezing."
"What does that signify?" asked the carpenter.
"Nothing, she is trying to determine if I am still coherent," Legolas murmured, grateful for the warmth infiltrating his body from his foster father's form.
Gladhadithen huffed and tossed her long locks petulantly but smiled at the remark in spite of her worries. She did not encourage further banter, however, and had to enlist the distraught carpenter's help in order to get the broken conduit stitched shut before Legolas succumbed to shock. His response to the treatment, entirely too docile for the nature of the reconstruction, underscored his dwindling physical capacity. She worked as rapidly as skill and caution combined permitted, and at last the healer sat back, satisfied the immediate danger was past. Galdhadithen bandaged the closed incision and rose to her feet.
"Keep him still but do not let him sleep yet. I am going for blankets and fresh water." She did not wait for a response as these were orders not supplications and she had no doubt of the carpenter's obedience.
Fearfaron sighed and gently squeezed Legolas round his middle where both arms were firmly wrapped, kissing the warrior's sweat-beaded temple.
"I am sorry," Legolas mimicked his father's melancholy exhalation. "I did not mean to cause you more strife. I refused to consider what my choice would cost you."
"Never mind that now. I should not have yelled at you over this. What is done is done."
"Ada, this key; you must get in into the lock and open that door."
"Please, Legolas, do not spare any further thought about the Ring. Above us the hearing of Erebor goes forth, though Thranduil sought to follow you down. Let go of this plan of yours for it has failed."
"He did? Then why is he not here? He should be here!"
"Nay, Ion Edwen, he does not belong anywhere near you right now. You must stop this!"
"Ai, Ada, you misunderstand. That is not what I…there is something here far worse for not unlike Sauron is our Sinda Lord."
"What are you saying?" Fearfaron was uncertain if his charge was completely rational.
"The key."
But the voice that uttered these two words did not belong to Legolas. Frail and muted, the syllables drifted to their ears from the locked vault's ornate barricade. Turning to follow it back to its owner, the carpenter and the Tawarwaith gazed upon the vague and shimmery apparition of Tê-telch waiting there beside the weighty latch of glistening onyx metal.
"Valar!" Fearfaron whispered and clutched Legolas tighter.
"Open the lock." The spirit's gauzy outline faded away before the meagre strength of his speech failed.
"We must do more than that," the Tawarwaith's weary tone yet held his disgusted outrage over the nature of the Vestibule's prominent features. "They must be dismantled and melted down. I hold one half of Tramborlong and Thurin'aur's feär in my fist while the remainder is isolated in that lock. Within the beauty of the polished iron scroll work you see is Tê-telch held captive. All for Thranduil's pride has this been done. He is worse than a kinslayer. He should die!"
So saying, Legolas pulled free one of the carpenter's callused palms and slapped upon it the sanguine key.
Aghast, Fearfaron stared at the small object resting in his hand. He lifted stricken eyes to Legolas' determined ones and could not deny the truth there. Carefully lowering his adopted son to rest on the uninjured elbow, the carpenter arose to accomplish this task.
The instant the metal pieces connected the tumblers aligned themselves and unaided the Gate swung free in soundless motion upon its hinges. Once more the anteroom was permeated with the presence of the unhoused spirits but no malignancy surrounded the wounded warrior and his kindly protector.
Fearfaron nonetheless hurried to Legolas' side and gathered him close to his heart. Even as he watched, the empty space created by the opening of the barred portal took on form and substance. He beheld an unlikely triad of ethereal comrades: Thurin'aur and Tramborlong, the elder sons of Oropher, and Tê-telch, who had felled the Sindar's cousin so long ago, standing shoulder to shoulder expectantly.
"Speak the words," Thurin'aur usurped the prerogative of eldest from his brother and spoke for all, though his image could not be described as actually forming the sounds from the disembodied spectre of his soul.
"I know them not!" Legolas replied in exasperated dismay. He uplifted his disgruntled visage to his adoptive parent. "That is what I wanted Thranduil here to do. They need to be freed from this unnatural entombment. He invoked the spell that bound them and knows the incantation that will make it null."
"Speak the words," Tê-telch encouraged and managed to convey a feeling of having smiled upon the Tawarwaith.
"Valar! By Eru, if I could see it done you would be liberated from such a vile hell as this! I cannot even reach Tawar inside this disgusting place much less find means to…" Legolas stopped speaking mid-sentence for he was quite suddenly no longer in the dreary cave. He gaped at the startling glitter of sunlight skipping over the tree tops of the forest's canopy and realised at once he was ensconced within the ancient arms of the Sentinel at the boundary of the stronghold courtyard.
A subdued laugh drew attention to his left and he gazed into a set of deep green eyes belonging to an elf he never met in life but whom he now recognised as well as he would Lindalcon. And who knows all about me also. The idea did not produce embarrassment or shame, however, for the impression of acceptance emitted from these calm and thoughtful orbs was unimpeachable. And there was something else, sentiments Legolas had seldom encountered from his elders: appreciation and gratitude.
"More than that. It is respect you see. Is this so unknown to you?" Thurin'aur was fully aware this was the case and reached out to gently rest a palm against his nephew's cheek, noting the surprise in the sparkling azure eyes.
"You hand feels warm with life!" the Tawarwaith blurted, staring from one to the other, for all three were present.
This was no dreaming encounter as when Annaldír had reached out to him. Every detail of the eudaemon's physical appearance was substantive and notable, from the strands of hair escaping their braids and flouncing amid the breeze to the weight of their bodies upon the branch. Legolas marvelled at the intensity of the transfiguration. Eternity might pass by and yet he would never forget the sight and the sound of these elves.
"Aye, you do well in this element. We will not be this distinct to you ever after this, however. But I wished it, and Tawar loves you well," Oropher's middle child replied to the unspoken thoughts.
“The confluence with this Forest Spirit is more soothing than you indicated. We are insulated no longer but mingle freely with all of the others comprising this indescribable being,” Tramborlong noted with a peaceful smile. “Our sons await us. We shall not be unhappy here.”
"You are no longer confined?" Legolas managed to ask.
"Nay," confirmed Thurin'aur. "The binding spell has been retracted but your insight was accurate; to complete the extrication the gates and the key must be destroyed. Within the molten metal were we cast and thus only from the liquefied alloy may we completely arise." He carefully grazed his fingers over the new, white bandage beneath Legolas' ripped and ruined tunic. "We could not tell it was so serious an injury. Our senses were diminished in that condition of division."
"Aye, too near to death do you play. You are needed alive; this fixation with self-immolation must cease," added Tê-telch. "You will find no solace that way, nor grant it to any other. It is not the voice of Tawar that whispers such lies to you. Be cautious, for your soul is open in reverie and vulnerable to those who would abuse it."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Legolas warily.
"Hebo rîn uin falas." [Keep remembrance of the beach.] said Tramborlong seriously. "That was more than a dream."
"Ai! You mimic my own words to Mithrandir!"
"We know not who was behind it, but it is a subtle and powerful entity, slipping past the protection Tawar extends, fooling you into believing such horrors arise from your latent desires," continued Thurin'aur.
"How shall I combat what cannot be defined?" Legolas demanded urgently, observing that the coherence and clarity of the apparitions' presence was fading.
"We cannot advise you," Thurin'aur shrugged apologetically.
"Men maethyr, alistari," [We are warriors, not wizards.] reminded Tê-telch.
"Hannad mín, hîl od Oropher!" [Our thanks, heir of Oropher] called Tramborlong with opened hand and heart uplifted.
Legolas could barely hear them and the light of Anor had dimmed; its warmth retreating as a dry chill invaded to the Tawarwaith's marrow. The lacy interlocked limbs of the Sentinel receded, replaced by a featureless, cheerless dull black and grey domain of formless shifting shadows. Someone was shouting and Legolas tried to cover his ears. At the same time his entire frame was vigorously rattled and the newly-stitched muscle of the stabbed shoulder screamed its protest.
"Legolas! Awaken, awaken! Nay, Legolas, you are not to sleep!" the strident voice was Fearfaron's, volubly concussing his foster-son's ear-drums as he forcefully jostled the lax form.
"Daro! Ada, saes!" Legolas' eyes focused in a trice and he snarled out a reproachful moan as he fastidiously cradled his injured arm against his chest. "I was not sleeping. The three spirits of the gates have been delivered."
With the realisation that he was still in the frigid anteroom, Legolas comprehended it was he that had withdrawn from the unfettered feär, not the other way round. He smiled up into the concerned brown eyes of his patient benefactor, a subtle, enigmatic reorganisation of his features that bespoke his incredulity over the revelation.
"I am not ready to join them."
TBC
Odd Words, seldom seen?
ensorcel: v. to bind or curse by sorcery or magic.
gelid: adj. very cold.
horripilation: n. the uplift of hairs on the body due to distress.
legerity: n. swift, graceful, nimble
mephitic: adj. noxious, poisonous, foul smelling, suffocating.
noesis: n. awareness, perception, cognition, the cumulative psychological amalgamation of same.
olivine: n. a ferromagnesian silicate mineral, (MgFe)2SiO4, significant component of mafic-ultramafic igneous rocks, magmas, and basalts. Its natural colour is pale, translucent green to citron yellow.
reave: v. to take by violence.
renitent: adj. involuntarily, reluctant, resitant
revenant: adj. returning, recurring.
subitaneously: adv. immediately, instantly, suddenly, abruptly.
Reviews!
Well it has been too long since I answered all the wonderful folks who take the time to review! Thank you one and all!
Nightbreeze: You're right! Thranduil will not like hearing 'Limlas let me, Ada, why not you?' from Gwilith! And we will see what, if anything Erestor remembers fairly soon. I really REALLY need to finish up the Erebor council though, and with Celeborn present it will finally be resolved.
Nimue: Oh your words were so wonderful and kind! I thank you very much for them. I try hard to make Feud work, some chapters better than others and I do have a bit of trouble with pacing, but maybe I will improve with practice. I should have explained the situation about the Mirror chapters better; my beta warned me so! Those chapters were only occuring in Galadriel's mirror. Whether it will come to pass or not, now that she and Celeborn have expelled those renegade elves, is debatable.
Shanna: Gracias! Thank you for your reviews and kind words! I do not know spanish very well, I am afraid. I need to learn; it is good to know other languages.
Sarah: My thanks for your ever-present support!
Sivan: Thank you! I have been very behind in reading, that is why I have not reviewed lately. I promise I will catch up on your wonderful stories soon. I miss them, spending too much time on work to read! And trying to finish Feud, too. When I start reading, I don't get any writing done, and the end is hard for me to write. Thank you again for always being so generous with praise!
MorierBlackleaf: Thank-you! Thranduil will get his. I am sorry I have been so lax in reviewing. I have put myself on restriction from reading so I am forced to write when I have spare time. I will enjoy catching up on your story as soon as this story is done.
Faceted Mind: I am sorry about the disappearance from ff.net! It is so ridiculous to be removed not once but twice, and the second time I did not even have any stories posted yet! I got removed just because a malicious person decided they would try to 'get' me. Well they are just pathetic! Folks can find Feud so many other places!
Thank you for your review! I agree with you about Thranduil, he is one brutal and cold-blooded character. Does not care about anyone but himself! I cut a dark introspection bit within his mind and am trying to get it back in. Legolas agrees with us too especially now, and will not let him just walk away without answering for his crimes. I have not been reading lately and thus I have not reviewed anyone, but I will get back to your intriguing stories as soon as get some of this Feud stuff finished and done with!
Seshyangel: Thank you for this review! It means a lot to me when the chapter afects someone strongly enough for them to tell me so! I am glad you found Feud here. If aff.net ever crashes, check out feud's website: www.feud.shadowess.com. I usually update there first, let the chapter sit a day or two, reread it there, make changes, then post here.
I am sorry about the cliff hangers! But from here to the end nearly every chapter will be a cliff hanger. I am sorry to say this story is finally winding down. As to how many more chapters, I honestly do not want to make a prediction, but I am so close to the end, where my story actually began in my head, so not too many. But, there will be other stories, including 'Balrog' to be finished and then 'Yet Again' the Glorfindel/Legolas tale I have been promising forever, it seems! Thank you so much for this review! And I really like Thranduil as the good-guy, like in Balrog, but for this dark and bitter story it just would not have worked for him to love Legolas' mother. Thanks again!
Diane: Thank you so much for this wonderful review! It pleases me much to know I made the OC's real enough for you to care about! I am so sorry to be so tardy with this update! I will try to do better. I like your comments about the twins and agree 100% with your reasoning on their reactions to all this. It has all been quite a lot for them to absorb so suddenly! But they love their father, and maybe it is that which will finally get through to Elrond. He is very blessed to have such a family and maybe he wil start appreciating them more.
You speak with my mind when you mention Erestor. I agree, he has made a nice turnaround and is proving to be very noble and true, after all his long years of philandering! Yes, Radagast might have a thing or two to say to Thranduil about what he just witnessed! We shall see that in the next chapter! Thank you again for your support and compliments!