Chapter Three: Spirits of the Forest

His feet picked their way nimbly between the jutting roots and obscurely placed rocks, though his mind paid no heed to what his feet did. He was too busy belittling himself to care about what happened around him, or indeed to where his body was being lead, even if his mind was not yet ready to follow.

Curses. He knew so many, in practically all the tongues of Middle-earth, but to him not one of them was strong enough to serve an adequate punishment for his sheer stupidity. Not only was he responsible for his own future demise, but the death of his horse. His idiocy had killed Blazen, and his alone.

“Why do I not listen? If I had accepted AdarÂ’s company today, he would never have let me go down that trench, and the Orcs would never have killed BlazenÂ…” He swallowed. The action pained him greatly, as his throat was badly bruised from the punch he had received. He was very much uncertain about whether his voice would work properly or not after the treatment of his throat – mind you, that did not really bother him, as he seriously doubted that he would need to use his voice againÂ…

A flake fluttered down lazily to rest unconcernedly upon his outstretched hands. He watched it as it melted away with his heat, the water running with building speed as though it were being pursued by some formidable foe down the steep curvature of his hand. It was closely followed by many fellows, who increased both in consistency and size. Despite himself, Legolas permitted a small smile to tip the corners of his mouth. He loved snow – it had always fascinated him as a child and had presented him with the most abundant and special toy to play with, probably due to its short, seasonal stay. Now though, it installed in him a small pleasure through its quiet beauty alone. Many a patrol he had staged during the colder times of year when the forest was carpeted white. The desire to simply let go and sink back into childish habits was almost overwhelming. He knew Lord Daerahil called him “boringly serious” behind his back, and Legolas held his love of snow as a small advantage over the other. Daerahil could claim all he wanted that he held the key to the PrinceÂ’s darkest secrets, but he did not know this one thing. “Simple little thingsÂ…”

His attention snapped back to the present as an Orc drew his warg up beside him. Legolas recoiled slightly as the beast snapped at his face, its foul breath washing over him. The Orc, however, did not care about the actions of his mount, and watched the Elf with a kind of disturbing humour playing across his face.

‘IÂ’m looking forward to when we arrive at Dol Guldur,Â’ he observed, mock blandness in his tone. But he could not hide his excitement when he said: ‘We will make you squeal like a stuck pig. We have Â… tools Â… there that the best demons of the night have never conjured for your pathetic mind. We will satiate our thirst with your blood as it drips when your body is ripped apart. There will be so little of you left when you eventually die from the pain that your own mother wonÂ’t recognise you. But that is only when we have tired of you, of course…Â’

The Orc watched, waiting for Legolas to react in some way. But the Elf kept his head high and back straight – though he had to fight to stop the icy finger trailing down his spine from making him shudder. He felt his face blanch, though, and the Orc gave a harsh laugh at this.

‘Dear dear,’ he hissed. ‘What will the mighty King Thranduil the Foolish do without his only son?’

Legolas swallowed, only this time he paid no attention to the hurt in his throat. The pain in his heart was far greater. When his father received the news of his death at the hands of these monsters, it would destroy him. His father was alive simply because Legolas was alive. The King would die, and the Woodland Realm would be thrown into complete disarray, making it vulnerable in its time of weaknessÂ…

Something made his senses flare. His awareness of his surroundings peaked, and he carefully made a discrete analysis of the forest about them, his eyes and ears picking up on the slightest movement. He could not work out exactly what it was that made him suddenly so alert, but he was unable to drive the feeling that it was something definitely worthy of his attention from his mind. He stole a glance at the mounted Orc, whose eyes were centred at the head of the line. The Orcs, Legolas knew, were just as sensitive as Elves, as they shared the same roots – but his captors were showing no signs that they too detected something in the forest.

He became increasingly conscious of the other presence in the trees, however, not even slightly put off that the Orcs were giving no indication that they felt the same thing. Perhaps they did not. Perhaps he only imagined it. But the possibility of there being someone else in the vicinity preyed upon his desperate brain, and the very thought that there could be others out there who might be able to rescue him was driving him mad. The urge to simply turn around and look was so intense it was nearly painful, but he kept his eyes forward and face steadily impassive.

Yet after a time the feeling abated, and LegolasÂ’ heart sank. He was not going to be rescued.

He was going to die.

***

“This place is so very dreary,” he thought to himself as he sat astride his horse. The beast pawed nervously at the blackened earth, great head tossing. He knew that, but for the fear of his master, the dapple-grey would have bolted hours ago. He wouldnÂ’t dare. The thought made him smile.

His eyes turned out to scrutinise the forest below him. Skeletal arms of trees stretched with yearning desperation for the feeble daylight, escaping the suffocating darkness below. Mirkwood was such a dismal place, and altogether boring, in his view. His vision panned the greater distance to the north. The scene was obscured by a veil he knew to be snow – it was going to snow here, too. The smell of it filled his nostrils over the filth of the place. But no snow would ever settle here…

He cast a glance over his shoulder, observing the black fortress behind him with small interest. It was no lighter since the Necromancer had left, and those who now inhabited it as their fortress were no less daunting. Still. He held no fear of them. They needed him for this task, as there was no other in Middle-earth with such a Â… specialised doyen that could be bought. Not cheaply, mind.

He had no actual allegiance with Dol Guldur, or even its Dark Lord, whose shadow was presently trying to choke the idiotic Gondorians. The principles and actions of Sauron were of no interest to him. He had not pledged his life to any king he would never meet, like most fools with talents akin to his. No lord could claim to have him under his belt. He needed no king. He was his own.

The black gloves were fished from his saddlebag, as the chill finally managed to provoke him into putting them on. They made his hands look longer, and he flexed his fingers in front of his face. Such perfect hands, unbeatable in their gift. All whom had being imbecilic enough to challenge his skill had fallen at their stroke.

Some had dared to call him narcissistic. They never said it again. Actually, they never said anything againÂ…

He scowled as he fixed his eyes on that point in the north that he so loathed. That was where they dwelt. That accursed kingdom where he knew his mother originated. He despised her and her weakness. But the strength of his hatred for her race burned with more heat. The chance to engage his skills with one of them was rare, but it gave him a thrill whenever it happened. Their agility against his, their millennia of experience pitted against his many decades. He always triumphed – but he had heard of one in particular that was said to be as highly skilled as he. His ego burned to be tested against him. He wanted to see if he could shed the blood of this “unchallengeable” warrior…

‘Sir?’

He turned at being addressed to observe the young man who stood next to his leg with a nervous glint in his eyes. Well, man was a bit of an exaggeration – barely matured child was a better definition, in his opinion.

‘The men are ready sir, as are the Orcs.’

He blinked, and turned his head back out to look over the forest. ‘I gave the command that Orcs were not to attend this mission.’

The boy swallowed at the cool, dangerous tone. The older man had to fight to keep his lips from twitching in amusement.

‘The – um – the Nazgûl lords demanded it, my Lord.’

He made a low hiss of consternation. He could not go against their wishes, no matter how much he desired to. But the presence of Orcs was not going to be pleasant, and he viewed them as a greater hindrance than any invalid ever was – they were filthy, vile, and altogether displeasing. “Wonderful. This is all this blasted mission needsÂ…”

‘What of the Orcs I sent out yesterday on reconnaissance? Have they brought their stupid backsides back yet?’

‘Not yet, my Lord – though they did send forth a messenger.’

He waited for a continuation of the message, expecting the boy to carry it out. When he simply stood looking up at him, his temper flared, and he administered a sharp kick with his toe into the otherÂ’s thigh, which caused him to stumble and cry out briefly.

‘And?’

The boy straightened, his face red. ‘They have a prisoner with them,’ he said hurriedly. ‘An Elf of the Woodland Realm, by all accounts. The messenger said he was their prince.’

His eyebrows peaked. ‘Their prince, is he? Not for much longer, I dare say – what do they plan to do with him, exactly?’

‘The Orc said something about blood and some “interesting tools”. Apart from that, he said nothing else.’

“Pity,” he thought to himself. “I would have liked to have a go myself; it would have been quite entertaining to arm him and kill him myself – one does not often get to extend oneÂ’s hospitality to royaltyÂ…”

‘A prince is a rare catch,’ he thought aloud, giving his chin an idol scratch. But then a thought struck him: ‘What do you know of the prince?’

The boy looked startled by the sudden interest, but dared not hesitate for too long – ‘He is the second born son of King Thranduil, two-thousand five-hundred and nine years younger than the first born brother, Prince Baerahir, who died when the younger was two hundred years of age. He is now the leader of the Mirk-’

An impatient hand waved the boy into silence. ‘I’m not interested in that dribble! Know you anything of his abilities with a weapon?’

‘Yes, my Lord: Prince Legolas is the finest warrior the kingdom has ever seen, and stands unrivalled in archery and knife-craft. He has lead the Mirkwood forces to battle and ultimate victory many a time, save one, where he challenged Dol Guldur when he was younger. Most of the battalion he lead were slain, and he too nearly succumbed to death, but-’

‘-That will do!’ he snapped, raising a hand to silence the other. But then he looked at the slightly quailing boy at his side, and his brow creased in confusion. ‘How came you to know all of this?’

‘My mother taught me, sir.’

He gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Your mother,’ he said with a sneering voice. ‘Women are good for only one thing, and believe me, it has nothing to do with teaching stupid little boys about Elves.’

The young man paled at his words, but remained silent, despite the remark that sat waiting on his tongue. His mounted superior was somewhat disappointed by this, but he did not show it. To show disappointment would be to show weakness, and weakness could be exploited by anyone, no matter how young or stupid they were.

‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Tell the men and those abominations to convene here in five minutes, fully equipped and ready to march.’

‘To march, my Lord?’

The man clenched his jaw. ‘That sounded very much like a question, boy. To question my order is to question my authority, and to do that exhibits insubordination. Insubordination is punishable by a most imaginative death, which would amuse me and hurt you rather a lot. So. That was not a question of my order, was it?’ He fixed the green eyes of the boy with his own pale grey ones, and they glinted like deep ice in the weak light. Just as hard, and equally cold. The boy shied under that stare, and uttered a submissive: ‘No, my Lord.’

‘Good. Be on your way.’

The young man backed away, gyrating to the side, and then ran, never presenting his back to his elder. “Good. He might just live through today, if he does not irritate me further.”

He focused his attention back on the north. The Elf prince. That was certainly interesting. The one Elf he actually wanted to meet – even if it was only to kill him – and he was going to Dol Guldur just when he was leaving. He was, to be frank, rather angered by this. But to have this opportunity to fight the Elf whose fabled ability as a warrior had come close to shadowing his own taken away irked him greatly. He wanted to see that skill himself, to engage in that deadly dance with the Elf. Predator against predator. Elves were, as a rule, more difficult to kill than any other being, and ordinary men found it to be a near impossibility.

“Then again, I am no ordinary manÂ…”

***
Their progress took them into a trench, along a lowered roadway. Their track was not barred by any growing thing, save the odd bramble that strayed from the high banks. Trees towered over their heads, creating an emaciated archway, through whose boughs the snow had no trouble streaking between.

Legolas could no longer see much further than ten feet in front of himself, the snowstorm was so intense. It had become so dense that even his hands were covered, their warmth no longer an obstacle to the large flakes. He squeezed his eyes shut in order to dislodge the few flakes that had actually succeeded in settling on his eyelashes. It still pounded into his face, though, the veritable tunnel they were in acting as a funnel for the wind.

The Orcs were hissing and cursing. Snow in all its purity – to an Orc – was like a suffocating cave to an Elf. They detested the clean wisps as they tumbled onto their black skin, and were all the more angered by the fact that it settled on them.

Legolas shook his head in an almost dog-like manner to rid his hair and shoulders of white. As much as he loved snow, he was not so keen on the way it melted on his scalp and trickled down his face and neck. The tickling droplets made him shudder as they advanced over his skin, an army of water he was unable to wipe away. Just a simple scratch would have relieved him – then again, such a thing was not achievable with bound wrists. “Still,” he thought to himself, “this will be the last time I ever see snow, so perhaps having it dribbling on my head is not such a bad thingÂ…”

Birds started to call to each other. An owl screeched into the blizzard, and another returned its shout. Legolas frowned with perplexity at this – what were owls doing being so active in the middle of the afternoon, in a snowstorm of all things? The owl type that voiced itself at that moment was, he knew, almost religiously nocturnal.

His ears gave a twitch, and his back straightened ever so slightly as his senses kicked him for the second time that day. “Listen!” they screamed. “Hearken to what we have to say!” His sharp eyes tried to see passed the storm, but the cloak of white was too tightly wrapped about him for his eyes to be of any use. However, above the wailing of the wind, he detected the tiniest shuffle, as of a foot finding a steadier purchase on unforgiving ground. He instantly deemed it a silly thing to focus on, as he was surrounded by feet – but this one sounded different. Shod, not like a padded paw. “It was too much like my ownÂ…”

But he could not dismiss the sound of groaning bows, and his head snapped to the side, eyes training upon what he thought to be the origin of the noise, just as the Orcs gave startled shouts of alarm.

Arrows sang their deadly mantra above the windÂ’s bellowing, thudding dully as they found flesh. It was the wargs that were first aimed at, their yelps shredding at the air in awful strident shrieks. Their riders were thrown into the hindering snow, but the temporary lapse in the rain of arrows as their assailants fitted more projectiles to the string was enough. Their own black shafts screamed in the trench, cries of pain telling the foul creatures that their aim was true.

Legolas was completely unarmed. Worse than that, he was bound, tethered as tightly as a sheep about to be slaughtered for mutton. The fact that he had not been hit yet was a wonder, but not one he cared to spend too long marvelling over. He ducked behind the dead warg which had previously dragged him along, and a grin spread across his suddenly much happier face when he saw the fletching of the arrow that had slain it. Brown, broad feathers, the pointed tips clipped. The feathers came from a certain type of goose, and he only knew of one particular people who used them for flights.

The Orc under whose guard Legolas had been was dead, his eyes staring blankly in shock, an arrow protruding from his throat. Legolas regarded the corpse coldly. This Orc had been responsible for BlazenÂ’s death. “Just justice.”

LegolasÂ’ long hands felt over the body, patting the filthy cloth in a frantic search for what he desired. But for all his hunting, the belt was empty, as were all pockets on the creatureÂ’s person. There were no saddlebags to sift through, and nothing in the wretched beingÂ’s boots. No blade at all.

An arrow zipped inches passed his ear, its head burying itself in the road feet away from him. The Elf hurriedly scrambled for it, plucking the shaft from the soil with his bound hands, before shuffling back into the relative shelter of the fallen warg and clenching the wood in his teeth, his mouth as close to the arrowhead as he dared. His arms moved methodically as he sawed at the rope, his eyes crossed in an attempt to focus on the knot that was so very close to his face. The fibres were reluctant to give, toughened with age and treatment. But give they did, snapping and coiling like the tendrils of black vines.

The remnants of the twisted fibres finally snapped, falling from his chaffed wrists with no apparent order or grace.

He flexed briefly, like a hawk that had spent too much time in the mews.

“But this hawk has had his wings clipped.”

Legolas had no idea where his weapons were. Just when he really required them, they were nowhere in sight. A bow, any bow, would have been more than welcome in his capable hands – especially if it came with arrows. Yes, there were arrows littering the place, but no bows.

All too soon, an Orc realised his escape, and was swift to alert his fellows about the matter. Being the key focus of several OrcsÂ’ attention, particularly in the midst of a battle and unarmed, was never classed as a good thing. Legolas straightened, his feet treading back slowly, eyes never leaving his advancing adversaries.

He dared a fleeting glance at the battle, flitting his gaze passed the black shoulders and raised scimitars long enough to take in the scene… The snow was stained black with blood, strewn with bodies which were already beginning to become concealed by snow. There remained no live wargs, and – thankfully – the Orc numbers were dwindling: where once there had been thirty, there were now eleven, and that included those five trying to re-attain their ownership of the escaped Elf.

Somewhere up the bank to LegolasÂ’ left, a voice shouted a command, swiftly following a shower of black shafts from the Orcs. The tone practically dripped with authority, and over a dozen bows answered its demand, creaking above the howl of the wind.

The Orc closest to him raised his scimitar and brought it round in an arc. Legolas stumbled back from the action, taking himself clear of the intended strike to his midsection. But his heel caught on a root, causing him to stumble back. The temporary loss of balance was all the Orc needed, and the ElfÂ’s blue eyes widened with horror and the anticipation of death as the blade dived towards his chest-

A bellowed command to loose arrowsÂ…

-The strike never came.

The Orc fell to the side, an arrow protruding from his neck. His comrades fell in a similar fashion; their dying shrieks soiling the air for the last time.

It was over. No Orcs remained alive – Legolas was amazed, frankly, that he was still alive – and he turned in a kind of numb trance to face the man who came down the slope to see him. Legolas blinked and shook his head slightly. “That was too close for my liking, far too closeÂ…” He rarely found himself in a situation in which he had no means of self-defence and was able to look so closely at the sharp end of an enemy sword. “In the name of the One, I even saw the notches in the blade!”

The man reached the Elf – who was still fighting to get his head in order after his near-fatal encounter – and he bowed in the elven fashion of greeting.

‘Mae govannen, Thranduilion,’ Cirnan smiled, the Ranger’s eyes warm with respect and friendship.

Legolas smiled back, returning the respectful gesture. ‘Mae gov-’ The archer’s voice halted in his speech, his hands shooting up to his throat, clutching at it.

Cirnan stepped back a pace, shock registering on his face at the action of the other before concern took over. All formality was cast aside as he regarded the clear intense discomfort that so obviously ailed the Elf. ‘What in all of Arda has happened to you?’

Legolas licked his lips as he tried to gauge just how loudly he could speak without causing himself any further pain. He never expected this amount of soreness to occur after that one punch, nor indeed had he anticipated the uncharacteristic crackle, either.

‘I was ambushed and caught,’ he managed to force out, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. ‘I protested when they killed my horse, and they hit me in the throat.’ He would have said more, but his throat decided for him that it had had quite enough of talking.

‘I see,’ Cirnan murmured. ‘Not to worry – we have some salves that will help with the bruising. You’re an Elf, so you’ll heel quickly anyway,’ he added needlessly. ‘Come, our caravan awaits us.’

Legolas walked forward to the other’s invite, and they strode up the slope together, Rangers bowing respectfully to the Elf lord as he passed. The Rangers and Mirkwood Elves had a very strong relationship, as did the Imladris Elves with these people. It was not a rare occasion that a troop or even just one of the Dúnedain would turn up on the doorstep of the Woodland Realm seeking shelter, and they were never turned away. The Dúnedain were too much like Elves for Thranduil to do such a thing…

‘Caravan?’ Legolas dared to ask, though his throat reminded him sharply that it had bidden him to be silent.

‘Yes: we are travelling to our village in the mountains with the Lady Diyrenë – you remember her, don’t you? Arador’s wife – you have, doubtless, heard tell of his death at the hands of cave trolls?’ Legolas gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Well, she is heavily pregnant, hence we travel to the village for her safety.’

Legolas nodded again. He had, of course, met Diyrenë – several years prior, actually. The information his memory supplied him with was somewhat dated, and in dire need of an update. The last occasion they had met, Lady Diyrenë had been wearing rather bloody garb as she tended to a band of wounded Rangers in Legolas’ own home’s healing wing. She had passed him a hasty greeting, informing him hurriedly that there were simply too many wounded to take to Imladris, whose overall structure was far smaller than that of Oropher’s House. Even the enormity of the Woodland King’s infirmary was barely adequate, and Legolas had found himself fervently thanking the Valar for the good fortune of the troop he had just brought back from scouring the surrounding forest following rumours of Orc activity.

She was, he reflected, thoroughly unfeminine – she had not hesitated to tend the wounded, not even flinching at the blood that stained her clothes and hands. She even had some in a streak of hair which had fallen across her face. She flitted from bed to bed, helping the Elven healers re-set broken bones and restraining thrashing men as their wounds were cleansed and sewn. Completely unladylike, and yet a complete lady – an observation of such a high contradictory level that Legolas had become lost in the thought before he snapped out of his trance and rolled up his own sleeves to offer his aid. In that view, she was the perfect wife for a Ranger, and it was an occupation she enjoyed immensely – well, had enjoyed. Legolas had not come in contact with her for a full seven years, and so had not seen her after the death of her beloved husband…

‘She will be keen to see you,’ Cirnan continued. ‘You are very high on her list of favourite people – oh yes,’ he confirmed at Legolas’ stunned face. ‘Ever since you assisted her in the absence of her husband those seven years ago, she has held you in high favour.’

‘I could not simply leave her to it,’ Legolas replied with a scratching voice.

‘I know – but she respects you for it; never did she think a member of the Royal family would role up his sleeves and offer his services in such a vast and bloody task.’

His brow quirked at this. He had not been harboured from the full horrors of battle: in the view of his father, if he was “going to dabble in the art of war and leadership, then you must have at least a foundation knowledge of the art of healing”. He was perfectly capable of tending wounded men, and his skills had been called upon on many an occasion, even for use on himself.

“It will be good to see her again,” he concluded to himself. “We have much to discuss.” But he smiled at the thought – “discussing” was not something he would able to do much of for the next few days.

_________________________________________

Quick note: Diyrenë absolutely is NOT me in any way, shape or form, before any of you start shouting MARY-SUE! at your computers. They are simply friends, as you will see, so no false accusations! *grins* Chapter four is on its way, although there is the rather large issue of not having written it yet that I have to tackle before you can read it. Obviously.

Lindir