Lovely artwork was given to me by BookDragon20075—thanks to her and if you have any, feel free to send it my way. ;)
Chapter Twenty: Run—Legolas
We stumbled through the forest for a time, disoriented, unsure, cautious. I was not the only one who had been shaken by Duvainor's accusations.
Occasionally, one of my archers came beside me, offering a gesture or word of encouragement. "We do not believe him—anything that he claimed," one said, his gaze a fusion of spark and steel. Another placed a firm hand on my shoulder and nodded, jaw clenched with a determined strength.
My warriors may not be unbreakable, but neither could they be called weak. It was but only for their strength and my father's willpower that Eryn Galen remained standing. The lax tongue of a demented elf could not change that, though his words be heavy blows upon the belief of my warriors. It was then upon my shoulders to not doubt the fortitude of Mirkwood's defenses and hope—know—that Duvainor spoke of naught but lies.
We could not return to the stronghold quickly enough.
My feet scraped against a tree root and I was jolted from my mind's wandering. The trees, having silenced themselves to a low murmur many days past, shouted a warning before quieting again. There was a moment's pause—a half-held breath. I stiffened. A shadow neared.
I felt them before I heard them, and heard them before they appeared.
The leaves rustled for only a moment, but the slight sounds were indication enough. "Daro," I hissed. "Lasto..." The command was unnecessary, my warriors having heard the indications even before I spoke. There was a rustle followed by a hiss. My hand tightened upon my bow.
And then there was only chaos. Branches snapped, bushes were trampled, and spiders burst from the depths of darkness. I hardly breathed before a shout leapt from my mouth. "Stand your ground! Archers, to the trees, everyone else—engage but stay near." I had yet to finish my statement before my warriors were moving, a smooth force of resolve. Why the spiders would follow us this near to the stronghold, I did not know. Nor could I discern the number of our attackers but I knew—
There were too many.
The spiders came pouring from the distance, one and then another. Even as the beasts still appeared, I knew there were too many for my company. The spiders would swarm upon us as a wave in the darkening flood of this fight. My contingent of warriors was too sparse, too under prepared, stretched to their limits. Should the battle rage on... I feared who may still be standing at battle's end.
But determination thrummed and my warriors never ceased in their efforts. The spiders were coming, coming, coming—nearer and nearer, their legs crossing each other in a sea of spindles and torn silk. Their eyes flicked upon us, clicks sounding as they moved. I tightened my grip on my bow, waiting for them to be close enough—
But they had stopped. No longer did they advance, but they remained in their formation, strung along the outskirts, their legs forming a web of foreboding. They hissed and clicked, joining together and building to a cacophony of sound and doom. Their sound was as that of a war cry—unrelenting and condemning.
We could but only look on. The trees shook with anger. My warriors became rigid but did not move. What could they do? What should I do?
There was no time to think—only to act. But before I could so much as utter an order the spiders silenced themselves. Their movements stilled. Collectively they hummed—and then sank back into the depths of the forest's shadow.
I couldn't hesitate. Could not think of what we had just witnessed.
. "They're not coming yet. Run." My voices carried too loudly, too steadily for the terror that so suddenly gripped my heart, but if I could not offer confidence I could not offer anything.
There was an intake of breath. Caution abandoned, my warriors took to the trees. The whisper of their movement filled the eerie silence that had befallen. Once the forest floor was void of elves, I grabbed a branch and pulled myself upon it.
Any remnant of fatigue was forgotten as we rushed to the stronghold. The stakes were raised once again—there was no time to delay.
Perhaps it was hours or perhaps it was only a moment, but the stronghold came into sight. I came out of the trees, and my warriors followed, filing after each other. "Open the gate!" I called before my feet even hit the stone of the vine ridden bridge. "Feir!"
There was a call from one of the towers—probably identifying the company, perhaps a shout of urgency or confusion—I didn't care so long as the gates opened now.
The gates groaned and opened. I stumbled, my legs having forgotten they were moving a few furlong past. Somehow, I remained standing and walked past the walls of the stronghold. One of the Captains came to my side. "Legolas? What's happened—what did you find?"
I shook my head and would have cursed if I'd had the breath. "Far too much. I will report to the King and send word. There is little time to spare. See that my warriors' needs are seen to?"
"Aye." The captain turned away and called orders over the courtyard. His voice was solemn. His gaze was empty—he knew what was coming.
I continued toward the steps into the palace. My movements were heavy and I shook my head in an attempt to awaken awareness. It all felt so fake, as if I were in a reality not my own. As if, at any moment, the world would begin to shake and I would fall in a dizzying spiral towards darkness, only to awaken to my father standing over me, assuring me that it was but a memory of a world that could have been so much worse but wasn't.
That wasn't the truth though. And I would face the fate that had come to be, with or without my wish.
I was in the middle of the courtyard when my thoughts were broken. "Legolas!"
My head rose at the voice I recognized. Forven had already descended the stairs and now crossed the distance between us. I struggled to quell the anger that rose in me at the pain that still visibly hindered the ease of his step. It was barely there—but I'd searched for hidden wounds often enough to see it.
There was a fire in Forven's eyes as he neared, and I imagined that my own gaze was much the same. We came to face each other and instantly, Forven gripped my shoulders. "What happened?—You're hurt—where?"
I knew there was still blood dried on my neck—the dark stains on my shirt could be my blood or that of an orch or even another elf. We could never know for certain upon a glance. "Daro, it's nothing." I gripped his wrist, pushing his hand away. "Where is my father? What has happened here?"
Forven shook his head. "Too much. I'll send word to your father—we'll meet in your study and a healer will see to your injuries, no matter how minor you believe them to be."
I did not bother to argue. It would only delay the inevitable. "Fine, but quickly. We haven't long."
Forven called a page over, relaying a series of tasks whilst I loosened my leathers. Sending the page ahead of us, he ducked his head close to mine. "The trees have been anxious for your return. They fell silent hours ago. All they would tell us was that there was danger somewhere, somehow. We didn't know who was dead or alive."
"No one dead, but it was too close. Caneir was a knife's tip away from death, and I can only imagine how near others were. Something is coming—I cannot identify it in its entirety but it's bad. The forest is held captive by a shadow far more malevolent than we thought. Someone from the past has come to rear his head."
"I know." His voice was flat.
"What?" My eyes narrowed at his declaration, not of confusion but of disbelief. "How?"
"You're not the only one to have learned far more than desirable, gwador. We only learned of it a short time ago and I have yet to understand it all, but I know. There have been traitors in our midst and there may be those we have yet to discover, and still those we cannot trust. The King can explain further and more adeptly than I can—for now, take a seat. The healer will be here soon."
We reached the doors of my study, arrows crossing over a bow embedded in the wood, and Forven pushed them open—wincing slightly as the movement pulled on the wound that could hardly be considered even halfway healed. "How is your side?"
"Inconsequential. Healing without major difficulty. Far greater threat is in the enemy looming before us. We have much to discuss.
I sighed but sank onto a chair opposite the door. Mindlessly, I loosened the straps of my quivers, allowing it to fall to the ground beside me. The same I did for my sword, unsheathing it, noting that the blade needed proper care, and propping it against the wall. This fight felt endless. Before I could voice my frustrations, there were distant sounds in the hall. The footsteps were familiar as they neared, and I straightened in my seat. Forven leaned against the side of my desk.
There was hardly a moment's wait and then the door opened. I caught a glimpse of my father's robes, but it was a heartbeat more before he entered. Turning behind him, he murmured something—I assumed to his guards. A muffled reply, a subtle objection—and then my father entered, trailed by Imrathon. It hardly mattered who heard my news. It seemed the entire stronghold was on edge from news of something.
"Ion," my father said, relief near imperceptibly relaxing his posture. "You're safe."
I laughed. Raw, bitter. "And yet we always end up in the same place. Safety does not matter if it cannot last."
My father did not argue. He didn't argue but neither did he give credence to it. It was an empty statement, not quite truth and not entirely a lie. Just momentary constant or a passing veracity. "Every day alive is another day we fight. Remember."
I acquiesced, leaning forward in my seat. It would benefit no one for me to lose morale now. "Naneth—did she have a brother?"
Tension fell on the air, the climactic crash of an endless wave. My father's eyes clouded—memory swirled in their depths and resentment hardened like spreading frost. "What of him?"
There was something about the way he stiffened that spoke of something I did not know. I bit back a string of curses hardly suitable for speech. "So it's true. He wasn't lying. Ai, I had hoped... We were taken captive in the forest. There were not yrch, awaiting us, but elves. Trained warriors sent to detain us though it would not have taken excess prodding to drive them to kill."
Anger rose in the air.
"He spoke to me. Called himself Duvainor. After that he just—let us go. Why have I not heard of him? Why has no one spoke of him?"
Forven's gaze remained trained on the ground. He knew nothing more than me. Imrathon stayed in the room's shadows but there was something about his demeanor—he knew. "What did he tell you?" My father's gaze held my own but it was tainted by shadowed memory.
I didn't want to speak. Didn't want to tell him the lie I had been told. "He is twisted. He claims—" the words were thick on my tongue "—he claims that naneth died not by the blade of an orch... but by your hand."
Imrathon took a half step forward. "Lies! That demon has spun nothing but mistruths since the moment he—"
"Sidh, Hir Imrathon, I do not believe him. I would not have spoken of it if I did not deem it necessary."
"And rightfully so." My father crossed the room, robes rustling as he came to stand in front of the tall bookshelf. "You were but an elfling then, hardly of an age that you might remember it. Your mother passed in a time of true darkness. Though your birth had brought hope to the people it could only do so much, and there were always doubts swirling. It mattered not what we said or what hundreds of others said—there were always rumors and still are. Those that linger I know you have heard."
And I had. They said the King of Greenwood did not love his queen, that he couldn't. That no emotion rested in his heart and therefore the prince of the realm could not have been by birth but of an illegitimate lie. That those of my own kind could spread such vulgar ideas—it was sickening.
" There were other opinions, less known, almost nonexistent, but still present in their minute number. There were so few to witness—" at this he paused and though it was hardly even a second of hesitation it spoke more than his words for my father never held fault in his speech—"too few saw the yrch attack your naneth. Only that I returned with a broken body and wide-eyed elfling."
His hand traveled over the spines of the books, brushing over the small gap between each. His fingers searched, tracing the scrawl that marked each book's title.
"Duvainor—who it seems you have met—was not always so demented. When your mother and I married, he was rarely around. He often traveled alone and returned the same way. When he was in the stronghold, I rarely saw him though he occasionally visited with your naneth whilst I was occupied with the kingdom's needs. She spoke to me of his visits, though infrequent they were. Nothing remarkable occurred though there were times that he hinted at disapproval of our marriage. Not blatantly but just enough for notice to be taken.
He paused, pulling a book from the shelf and fingered its pages. When he did not immediately continue, I stood, standing near to Forven but behind my father. "What happened?"
There was a huff—not entirely of jest but disbelief. "He disappeared. It was not unusual for him to be gone for long stretches at a time. But a few months turned into a year, then another. We received no word from him for nearly a decade. We had no indication as to where he went and therefore could not search for him. We thought perhaps he had crossed over the sea." A distant look had captivated my father, and he stilled but for the tightening of his hand on the book he held.
Seeming to take notice, Imrathon came forward, continuing where my father had ceased. "Then the yrch came and you know the entirety of that event."
I nodded. It had been a constant in my memory—ever since I had pestered everyone I met, asking if they knew where my nana was—until my father did his best to explain and I then understood as best as a child could that nana was not going to sing lullabies anymore.
"When Duvainor returned three months later, suddenly and with ferocity, he came with a bitter and mourning heart. No one knew where had gone nor why he returned, only that anger had overwhelmed his very being. He had not been here for his sister's death, and therefore had only others to blame. For days he walked the palace halls, fuming. Then the accusations began, much the same to what you have heard—but somehow worse. He claimed that the King had no interest in the safety of Greenwood, nor its queen. That he wanted to domineer the people, and he allowed the yrch inside the borders only to scare them into submission."
Forven spat a curse, and I turned a warning eye on him. There was no regret upon his face. It felt as if old wounds were being torn open after centuries of healing. Forven felt it too, I could see. His mouth was a thin line and he did not regard the hair that whisked across his forehead. He understood loss, had been too near it himself with the deaths of those he loved. But this was different—this was memory hardened by an evil far greater than was found in the happenstance itself.
Duvainor was a darkness in its purest form. And now he spread as ink spilling upon parchment, ruining, destroying, tainting.
"The accusations were taken further. Duvainor found some vague rule in the records of court dealings and turned it upon the council. He was allowed an audience with the King and his council—and accused the king of treason. All present were forced to listen, allow him his argument. It was a long hour—and then the decision was unanimous. Duvainor's claims could not be given credence, and therefore he was dismissed. Subsequently, his presence was more alarming to those in the stronghold than all else, and—with reluctance—it was conjectured that he should be banished from the stronghold. Should his presence remain, he would be tried, convicted, and executed on the grounds of threatening the King of Eryn Galen."
"So he left then?"
"Not without protest. He truly believed that I had taken her life." My father interjected, having continued to look through the book in his hand. "The scribes recorded his final declaration, however, and all the events leading to it. I hid the recording in your study centuries ago, so the event would not become widespread knowledge. I hoped not but suspected that Duvainor would return."
He handed me a slip of paper, its edges crisp from lack of handling. I scanned the writings on it, all that was there only confirming that which had been spoken. Then I reached the end of it, where the writing was shaky, unsure at best.
The final testament of Lord Duvainor Hrivonion, brother of the late Queen Lothiriel Hrivoniel of Eryn Galen and brother of the law to the King Thranduil Oropherion of Eryn Galen was as follows:
"Heed my words: this forest will burn and its people with it—I have seen it and know it to be certain. The trees will smolder and fall and I will bask in the glory of the rising ashes. Do not doubt the power of flame for it will bring your ruin alongside this kingdom."
Here ends the time of Lord Duvainor Hrivonion inside the walls of Eryn Galen, sentenced to exile from the borders of Eryn Galen. So says the King.
I looked up at the document's end. The King's signature of approval was scrawled across it. "He plans to burn the forest?"
"I fear so—and not only from that record. The assassin, Morinaur, was interrogated. He too spoke of flame, and not as an empty threat."
I struggled not to crumple the parchment in my hand. "He has convinced others as well then. Ai, how many do we face?"
"That is not at all you have yet know." Forven stepped closer to my side. His hand rested on my shoulder but he would not raise his gaze from the ground. "You recall Iaewneth?"
"Aye, undoubtedly. Has she left? Did we send an escort? The forest is hardly safe for travel."
"No, not quite. Iaewneth—she is in league with Duvainor. A spy. She is how we heard of his return before your arrival."
"What? When?" Our trust had been misplaced. Somehow, under the guise of Imladris she had crept into our midst. How had she kept her nature hidden? And for what purpose would she have joined with Duvainor?
"Tis more of a story than needs telling. All you need know is that you were right. She is a traitor. And—and she's Earandur's brother. She colored her hair to make herself appear Noldorin but I would wager she is as fair-haired as her brother."
"Ai, Valar, will it end?" I shook my head. "I should speak with her—them. See if there is aught else that we might glean from discussion."
"Aye," my father said. A knock on the door immediately followed his words. Imrathon crossed the room, opening the door to allow entrance. It was a moment, but Glassade entered, bag in hand. "But first I believe you should allow Glassade to look over your wounds, should you deem them serious or not."
I sighed but took a seat, waiting the expected reprimand from Glassade. "Now, now, what have I told you these past weeks? You look for naught but trouble, all of you. Saes, caun-nin, remove your shirt. I can see the bloodstains you so cleverly tried to hide with those leathers."
Short minutes later, at Glassade's proclamation that I was free of any serious injury, we were on the path to the dungeons. The halls were empty, echoing our footsteps along their lengths.
Elros was no longer on duty, so his second met us at the top of the staircase. He was solemn, respectful. He guided us to the cells, handing the keys to Imrathon. "They have not spoken since you were last here, aran-in." And he left.
I stood in front of my father, both out of caution and curiosity. The two cells were near each other but not near enough that Morinaur and Iaewneth might see each other. That did not mean they could send subtle signals and when dealing with kinslayers we could never be too careful. I glanced inside Morinaur's cell—he sat against the wall, forearms resting on on his knees. His head was bent and as I stared at him he did not move.
My father would have obtained as much information as we could force from him. Anything more would need to be voluntary.
I stood a hair's breadth from Iaewneth's cell door. At first, my presence went unnoticed. Then she looked up, her eyes widened, and she stood. "Legolas!" Breath seemed to escape her as she gasped. She swallowed, lips tightening. "If you have come to berate me, then I have no need of it. I regret nothing, though I wish your death would have been by the quick swipe of a blade."
"No regret?"
"None."
"Tell me, my lady, why are your hands shaking?"
Iaewneth faltered, looking down then to the side. "I have no fear of you."
"I never said that you should. You've come this far—I never doubted your courage. Though I do wonder—why?" If my voice sounded like my father I would be the last to admit it. But if there was a certain ice to it—I would not deny it.
"This realm has suffered long enough. My brother fights for it, he sacrifices his safety for people like you." She walked nearer to the bars, her face a breath away. "Our father and mother worry for him every day because they know—you know, he was not born to be a warrior. He won't pass his warrior trials and will forever be a novice until one..." She laughed, once, hard. "One day, he makes a mistake and is in the wrong place at the wrong time and he becomes another number—just another visit, reluctantly informing those who love him that he's dead. And hundreds of others will be just like him. It makes me sick."
I took a step back. My vision flashed red. "Your brother trains for a fight that he believes in. That we believe in. Hope. You would have done well to do the same."
Turning, I faced those who had accompanied me. "We haven't long. Spiders followed us nearer to the border than we've seen them in months. They are preparing for an offensive much greater than in the past. We must prepare—battle is coming."
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To be continued...
Translations:
Feir : now
Lasto : listen
Good? Awful? Despicable? I would love to hear your thoughts!