Deeper Than Skin

Chapter One: The Stranger “His great gaunt figure filled his cabin door,
And had he fallen inward on the floor,
He must have measured to the further wall.
But we who passed were not to see him fall.”
~ Excerpt from: The Figure In the Doorway by Robert Frost

Morning shimmered in an ethereal mist among the boughs of Mirkwood. Nothing seemed to stir in the wood. It was too late for the nocturnal creatures and yet too early for those of the morning hours.  But still, there were a few who did not linger in dreams at this early hour. The king of the wood, Thranduil, was one who stared into the grey morn’, still, and unmoving from his window. The blanket draped over his shoulders did little to comfort him, or warm the chill in his soul.

His family was on his mind this dismal hour, as it was often these troubled days. Evil lurked in every shadow, waiting it seemed to pounce on the struggling realm. The Elves were no longer the dominate predator in the wood. They were the prey.

Spiders, wargs, demons bred for the purpose of their annihilation. How could a forest such as Greenwood be turned into such a nest of vipers? This was no place to bring up a family. But what choice did he have?

“Duty to a great many people is a scourge that we must bear with valor and constancy,” was what his father had many times counseled. With every blight that fell on Mirkwood – yes, that was what they were calling the once lovely Greenwood the Great - Thranduil began to see ever the more clearly how true Oropher’s words had been.

Still, he mused, two of his sons had reached full maturity in these woods, along with a fine daughter. His two eldest sons were now warriors, both well-traveled and cunning with blade and bow, all the more important, their minds were sharper than their blades. But they had come of age long before the ongoing battle in Mirkwood had reached such a heightened state. Daily now, tidings were sent to him from scouts of conflicts on their borders. Their patrols were skilled and no less deadly, but the number of the enemy was quickly swelling.

But it was his third son for whom he grieved. Hardly come of age, his youngest was faced with maturing under the shadow of oppression that lurked over Mirkwood. His training as a warrior and defender of the realm would be doubtless along side the seasoned fighters in the numerous skirmishes that peppered the patrols’ watch. How he hated to think that perhaps Legolas would never know Mirkwood as it once was - free and emerald green, clean of darkness, an airy, beautiful wood.

Thranduil shook himself free of these dismal thoughts that plagued him. If his son – and all the youths of Mirkwood – would ever be given a home of peace, then despair would have to be put aside for the hopeless.

And Thranduil, Elvenking, was not without hope.

The mists were turning a brighter silver now as the sun began to ascend somewhere behind the trees. It wavered in the growing light, sparkling like a cloak of fine-spun mithril. Thranduil held his breath, sparing a few more moments for the aesthetic pleasure. There was still beauty in Mirkwood, hidden vales that yet struggled to remain green and alive. He must keep hope, it was their greatest weapon against the enemy.

Somewhere in the wood another being was awake. He was hooded with a cloak heavy with dew. His feet made no sound on the woodland floor. At his side hung a sword - the leather binding the hilt was worn, bearing testament to its use - and on his back, a bow was slung. Though his shadowed eyes bore straight ahead, he was in no matter oblivious of his surroundings. He moved carefully, senses always aware and searching for a threat. But on his ageless face, a ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. Was it malicious, or was it mysterious? Was that evil intent shadowing his eyes, or determination?

Whatever his motives or character, the soundless figure was moving steadily nearer to the gates of the Elvenking’s home.

---

Tulus, second son of the king, bore a glare that would make a slayer of Barlogs turn away– and certainly a younger brother - from the scathing intensity of it. Standing, hands akimbo before Legolas’ door, he did all in his power to keep his temper in check. No, he reminded himself on numerous occasions, murder was not an option.

Now, despite the rumors and common theory that Elves are far superior in every aspect, while it is true on some levels, that theorem does not at all apply to the relationship between siblings – especially brothers. Be it that they are of royal blood or not, siblings are in fact born with the natural tendency to argue. The same principle applies to the fact that younger siblings will indeed goad the elder – even those elder siblings having reached an adult age - more than not.

Tulus, in his mind’s eye, had no difficulty conjuring up an image of his youngest sibling, lying sprawled on his bed, a very much pleased, smug smile twisting his lips. That picture made his aggravation all the more acute, intensifying his anger and making matters worse.

Patience and dignity was only regained when he persuaded himself to count to ten as his father had many times counseled him when he was not yet come of age. 

Of course it usually required him counting to ten – ten times.

“Legolas,” he began, schooling his tone to a less wrathful level, “open the door.”

There was a pause, no answer came for a moment. Then came, slightly muffled: “Why?”

Inwardly his answer was, “Because if you do not do so, your door will be used as a weapon against you. They make excellent elfling paddles, you know.” But after another session of counting to ten – five times – he settled on a threat to tear Legolas’ body limb from limb, “Because I am your elder, no matter what argument you put up.” It was a response that would have made his father proud.

Though, it may make a father beam with joy at his offspring’s maturity, it did little good when conversing with a little brother. “You know I do realize that only amounts to a threat to tell Adar if I do not comply with your wishes.”

Tulus smiled on his side of the door. “Exactly, brother. Now open the door.”

Legolas proved to be more stubborn than a team of mules put together. “Do you really think I value my life so little?”

Sarcasm, I do wonder where he picked that up? “If you really valued your gift of life, then you would never have pilfered your niece’s lost tooth and hidden it in a fruit at the feast, a fruit that your father’s chief advisor ate, no less!” Tulus would, however, have to admit that if it had not been at such at inopportune time, and if he had not been a fully mature elf himself, and if it had not been his own daughter’s tooth (no doubt Legolas removed the loose object himself from his niece’s mouth) then Tulus might have forgiven the prank. Perhaps even urging their father to be lenient in his punishment. But as these were only ‘ifs’ and were not reality, he had not. Legolas, though young, needed to put these juvenile occupations behind him.

The voice on the other side of the door had moved closer. Tulus could picture his brother, looking slightly more worried now, perhaps checking the makeshift bolt on his door again. “Tulus, it was just a bit of fun, no one was harmed!”

It was true, the advisor had reacted fast enough to the painful crunch that no teeth – permanent teeth – were damaged. “That hardly makes it right, Legolas, it was a foolish thing to do.” The elder elf sighed in frustration. “But I don’t want to carry on this conversation through the door. I would prefer to speak to your face, Legolas.”

There was an uncertain pause. “How do I know you won’t simply knock my head into the wall and then tear me limb from limb?”

Disconcerting how he can read my mind like that…

“Just open the door, Legolas.”

Tulus heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor and then the sound of a bolt being drawn. Finally, the door swung open, but just enough for a face to peer out. Tulus’s first instinct was to grab for the throat connecting the head to the body, another session of counting to ten – four times this time – and he was fully composed again.

“What do you want?” The younger asked impertinently.

“For you to open the door,” Tulus should have known what was coming next.

“It is open.”

He was getting a lot of counting practice under his belt today. “All the way, child,” he hissed.

Legolas grimaced, then disappeared for a moment, obviously reluctant to give up his shield. He heard more scraping of chairs and some tinkering with the hinges, and – was that the sound of knives being sheathed?

About the time Tulus was about to bowl the door down, it swung open, almost mockingly. It was about time. “Thank you,” he said, much relieved that at least that stage of the battle was over with. Now came the gory part…

Legolas stared distrustfully at him, never taking his eyes off Tulus or turning his back completely as he closed the door. Tulus noticed with a smirk that Legolas failed to fully latch it, not at all willing to give up one of his most accessible escape routes. There was also a clear route to the window he noted. Excellent, it is very good for him to have a healthy fear of me.

“What do you want?” Legolas repeated, positioning himself strategically near the window.

“What I want, is something I cannot have,” Tulus remarked wryly. “But what I can have, is an apology.” The Elf issued a severe glare at the younger, silencing the protest that was already forming on his lips. “Not to me, but to your niece, your father, and Celebithil his advisor.”

Legolas responded with the expected scowl.

The second eldest frowned. “Legolas, you know how Adar scorns the self-pitying. Do not find fault of that indecorous trait in yourself.”

A deeper scowl entrenched itself on Legolas’ brow, but Tulus recognized the subtle change in his brother’s expression. He knew him all too well. Legolas was of the sort that pouted briefly (a flaw that he was blessedly beginning to outgrow with the coming of maturity), then as his good conscience awoke, proverbially beat himself over the head with the gavel of chastisement.

Downcast and appropriately chagrined, Legolas looked up from his studious examination of his bare feet. But then, something caught his eye somewhere outside of the window. Tulus observed his brother’s narrowed eyes and moved to stand beside him at the window, curiosity getting the better of him. “What do you see?”

Legolas shifted his shoulders, tilting his head to get a better view at whatever had snared his attention. “Look there,” he sighted down his arm, pointing toward the gates. “Do you see that? There’s someone alone approaching the gates, he’s cloaked and carries a great sword at his side.”

Tulus peered the direction Legolas indicated. True enough, there was a lone figure, cloaked in a mantel of grey with a sword and bow in his possession. His pace was almost leisurely as he neared the gates. There was something in the free movement of his limbs that even from this distance spoke volumes of his boldness – or as entered Tulus’s mind, ignorance and foolish bravado.

“Whom do you think it is?” pondered Legolas.

Though he could speculate, Tulus was unable to offer a definite answer. “Nay, but we at least will know presently if he offers a threat.”

His curiosity peaked as the lone figure came closer and closer. The question that most plagued his mind was: how had this stranger evaded their numerous patrols? It was disturbing to think that any silent footed creature could slip to and from their borders without their knowledge. Security was needed, especially now.

“He’s gone around the bend,” Legolas reported. “We would see better from the walls above the gates themselves,” then like a bird taking flight, Legolas rocked his weight back to launch himself to the branch adjacent to them. But Tulus was quicker, his hand shot out, catching the Elf’s collar before he had a chance to take flight.

“How many times must I remind you to take the hallway like every other normal being does?” he chastised before releasing his sibling.

“Yes, yes,” breathed Legolas impatiently, too preoccupied to attempt argument.

Tulus caught hold of the youngster once more as he made to leave. “And where, may I ask do you think you’re off to in such a hurry?” he inquired, already aware of what his brother’s reply would be. “Before you go find yourself in any more trouble, why don’t you make up for the trouble you are in now.” Tulus leveled Legolas with a reproving look, “Make your apologies – sincere ones at that – and then you may go.”

Legolas looked nearly ready to contest with Tulus’s ruling, visibly chafing under his authority, but thought better of it when he recalled their earlier talk.  Lips tight set, he made off at a trot, nearly tripping over his blockade of chairs. Tulus shook his head, a small smile slipping onto his face unaware. He remembered all too well when he was Legolas’ age, equally brash and impertinent, if not more so. If not for their father’s strong hand and swift discipline for block-headed foolery, he hated to think what he would have become of him.

With another shake of his head and a short chuckle, he made off in the opposite way Legolas had just departed:

Toward the gates, where his father would undoubtedly be.

---

It was not until that evening did Legolas have a chance to find his answers. After issuing the apologies due, he had been hurried off to his studies without a moment to spare. For the remainder of the day, Legolas had lost himself in his much loved archery lessons and various defensive schoolings. But thoughts of the stranger nagged in the back of his mind always. Finally, when the call for the evening meal rolled around, he was free to inquire.

He was already going to be tardy as he had lingered too long at the archery field. Picking up a good clip, he trotted easily down the hall, his mind humming with various thoughts of bows and strangers.

As usually happens when one’s awareness is dancing on other plains, he neither sensed nor gave time to think that someone might be approaching around the other corner of the hall. The result of such a scenario is easily predicted. Legolas, no sooner had turned the corner, found himself from upright, to flat on his posterior, looking dazedly up into the unlined face and shadowed eyes of the very stranger he had been speculating about earlier.

“Do all young Wood-elves go charging about heedlessly down hallways when they should be at the evening meals?” The stranger smoothed his clothing. No longer was he hidden by the grey surcoat and Legolas was afforded a clear view of his appearance.

Though he was obviously of the Firstborn, he was simpler of countenance, but by no means less of noble mien. His hair was dark and grey of eye as one of the Noldor would be. In appearance, he did indeed greatly resemble a Noldo, but the glint of zealous pride and the arrogance of the House of Fëanor seemed to be lacking. But there were so few of the Noldor left on Middle-earth in this age, could it really be that this stranger was one of the remaining Noldo? There were so many unanswered questions he ached to ask of the stranger, but dared not. Surely his father would be able to clear the fog around this strange elf’s personage. No unknown being would be left to wander free within the stronghold. So with every speculation, Legolas’ curiosity swelled.

Legolas blinked, realizing the stranger was offering him a hand up. He took it gratefully, brushing himself off once he regained his feet, trying his best to look mildly presentable and worthy of calling himself a son of the king. Much to Legolas’ chagrin, the stranger looked slightly bemused, “Much better. Now, judging from your resemblance to the king, I assume you are one of Thranduil’s sons?”

The young elf felt a twinge of pride at the stranger’s words. Drawing himself up he gave his best effort to do his father honor. “Aye, I am Legolas,” he nearly slipped then to take the opportunity to question the stranger as to whom he was, but thought better of it as it was not quite proper etiquette for a youth to question his elder, and a guest.

They stood regarding each other, Legolas with youthful wonder and the stranger with either incredulity or silent amusement. Finally the latter broached the silence. “Should not you be on your way, son of Thranduil?”

For the second time, Legolas blinked up at the stranger, who was a good bit taller than him. He was right though, the sun had long departed and he had tarried here, not out of inconvenience, but curiosity. And that, he was quite sure, not do well as an explanation to his father. Offering a respectful bow to the stranger, he reluctantly continued on his way. As most do when they leave something they do not want to, Legolas looked over his shoulder, wishing for one last glance at the mysterious elf. But the hall was empty; there was no one to be seen down the long corridor. It was as if, Legolas noted with no small bit of alarm, the stranger had simply vanished.

---

The explanation Legolas had been formulating for his father turned out to an unneeded worry. Customarily, Thranduil would be easily seen seated at the head of the table, it had always been that way. But the high-backed chair was vacant, the place setting on the table untouched. Never had Legolas witnessed his father being late to anything, no matter how small or extravagant the occasion. It was his father’s own personal rule to which he held himself and his sons.

Slowly, he made his way to his seat to the right of Tulus and his family. His brother glanced at him suspiciously as he slid into his seat as subtly as possible. “And what trouble have you been finding for yourself that you show up so late to the meal?” Tulus asked softly, taking a sip from his slender goblet.

“I ran into the stranger we saw this morning – quite literally,” Legolas answered truthfully, helping himself to a golden roll. “Where is Ada?”

“Though I not if I am at liberty to say, I believe that he is meeting with that very stranger.” Tulus set to peeling a ripe fruit for his young daughter. “He, the stranger that is, joined us briefly for a bite. He said very little.”

“Then I take it you also have not yet discovered his name?”

Tulus shook his head, continuing to slice the delicate fruit. “As I said, he kept mostly to himself.”

For awhile, the subject turned from the stranger to lighter things. Legolas, usually one to enjoy every moment he had in the company of either of his brothers and both their extended family, but his pondering about the stranger lurked in the back of his mind. Why he could not take his mind off him, he did not understand. But there was something about the mystery that cloaked the stranger and the light in those grey eyes that enraptured the young elf.

The meal was waning when a head butted between them, interrupting their conversation. “And what, pray tell, are my two younger brothers plotting over here all on their lonesome selves?”

Legolas groaned, casting a barely tolerant look at Doron, the eldest of the sons of Thranduil. Doron smiled winsomely, “You needn’t worry so, Legolas, I do not bring tidings of your banishment – this time. Actually, Adar wishes to meet with both of us Tulus. In his study, if you will.”

Tulus frowned, a bit perturbed that after a long day he would not be afforded this time of relaxation with his wife, brother and daughter. But his obedience was to the king, and to his father.

So Legolas was left alone in the quickly quieting chamber. Ethuil, Tulus’s wife, had born away her child to bed and so only a few remained taking their leisure by the hearth. Legolas sat quietly for awhile, letting his mind clear and his muscles release the tension they had bound up from the day. With half an ear he had been listening to the hushed talk of the three elder elves by the fire, until his brain registered words of, “…the stranger” in their discussion. Sharp ears perked, having no difficulty overhearing what the trio said.

“Yes,” affirmed one whom Legolas recognized as Silmaorn, “the king was most agitated when he saw whom it was that stood at the gates.”

“Then why did he allow him to enter?” wondered the second, an elf of the court called Maersigil.

 
Brûngil, by far the one whom had seen the most winters of the three laced his fingers together, settling them on his lap. “Because, Maersigil, the king could not refuse safe harbor to one whom he served alongside in combat. He was a brother in arms; it would be unheard of to send him away from the gates without aid.”

Their conversation took a different route, leaving Legolas with a little more insight into how his father and the stranger related to each other. It answered one of his questions, but spawned a myriad of others.  

---

Thranduil was tired. He had not been thus worn since…since a very long time ago. His sons, Doron and Tulus, had noticed this despite his efforts to guise it beneath diplomacy.

It was late when he finally entered his room and closed the door behind him, shutting himself inside the emptiness of his bedchambers.  He heaved a heavy sigh, feeling the familiar ache of loneliness gnaw at his heart. The room flickered with the dim illumination of candlelight, the shades over the window had been drawn and the bedcovers had been turned down by the servants of the house. Though the bed looked extremely enticing in his weary state, he knew that there would be little sleep for him this night.

When Mithion had appeared as if from a dream, or nightmare, at the gates, he had felt on first impulse to refuse him entry to a ghost. But how could he turn away the very one that had preserved his life, that had fought bravely through horrors no child of Ilúvitar should face? Nay, that would not do, but what of the warnings that blared in his conscience? Though now, after a short audience with the he wished more than anything he could turn back the time and keep the gates closed and barred. 

Feeling as a mortal with scores of years upon his shoulders, he lay himself down upon the bed. The night breeze cooled the room and tossed the linens draping the window like ghostly phantasms. Tonight he let the candles burn low, strange, twisted shapes formed by the melted wax would be found in the morning no doubt, and it was a waste of candles to be sure. But it was a comfort he thought he would afford for himself this night as he lay awake and devoid of dreams, alone with the ghosts of his past.

TBC..

Deeper than Skin

Chapter Two: Mithion

“We don’t see things as they are,
we see them as we are.”
~ Anaïs Nin

The Sun rose the next morning as it had always done for many bygone years. Steady as the tide and faithful as the moon, she was never late and prompt to leave at the assumed time. Legolas rose with her that morning, greeting her with a bright smile. In turn, she pierced the morning mist and shone her warmth upon him and all the dwellers of that weary realm.

Legolas dressed quickly, having awoken earlier than his normal hour with a set mission in mind. All night he had laid in light dreams of the stranger and when the first blush of the Sun painted the east, he had risen without a tired yawn. He hoped, though he knew not whether it would come to pass, that his father would grant him at least an insight into the intrigue of the guest. He was sure that his father could, but whether he would was entirely another matter. As much as curiosity nagged at him like a persistent gnat that refused to be silenced by the blow of rolled paper, Legolas had no intent to nag at the king himself. A nuisance was the most unwanted of sons.

It was a short trot to his father’s bedchambers where he was most likely still preparing himself for the day. Not surprisingly, he did not encounter anyone on his brief trek to the king’s chambers. That was all the better since by all probability it would have been one of his siblings who would not leave him until he told them exactly why he was out at this hour. Though he was not doing anything illegal by definition, it was not a matter he wished to discuss with his brothers. Perhaps Lalorn, his sister, he would risk to confide, but certainly not his brothers. He knew all too well that Doron - yes, especially Doron - would not look kindly upon his mission for answers. Doron not only was protective of his siblings but also of their father. And when trouble arose in the court or in the kingdom, Doron was sure to be at the king’s side, shooing away whatever task he deemed trivial, and in fact preformed them himself when he could.

He would make an excellent king, no doubt of that, but he also behaved like a mother hen at times, a trait that never failed to drive Legolas to the precipice of madness.

Arriving at the king’s door, Legolas straightened his tunic out of habit and knocked. He winced at the loudness of his knuckles against the hard wood in the empty hall. His sharp eyes scanned the adjoining hall for signs of his brothers. Thankfully, all remained calm.

“Legolas, what are you doing here at this hour? Is something the matter?” His father asked worriedly, holding the door open to admit Legolas.

The hearth in the spacious chamber was lit with a slow burning fire, throwing light on still shadowed walls. Legolas tried to resist the urge to fidget as Thranduil took him in, instinctively checking for injury as one usually did when called upon early in the morning by their youngest offspring.  Now that it came down to it, Legolas wasn’t sure how to proceed. It wasn’t as if he was asking about the weather. It had not occurred to him earlier, but what if his father’s past with the stranger wasn’t something about which he wanted to discuss?

Feeling quite the silly young fool for being so inconsiderate to what his father’s feeling might be, he gaped for something to fill the silence, but Thranduil beat him to it, surprising Legolas and perhaps even himself.

“You are curious about the stranger that appeared at our gates yesterday morn,” Thranduil stated, taking a breath, foreseeing a lengthy narration. He noted the slight, but continued apprehension in Legolas’ eyes, smiling to put his son at ease. “I knew you would come to me sooner or later,” he said, a shade of regret tingeing his voice. Thranduil paced wearily towards the neatly – but obviously unused - dressed bed, patting the space invitingly next to where he sat. Eagerness was not very well disguised in Legolas’ movements. “It is a long story, one which I would spare you if I could. But you are a curious young elf and I know that if I do not tell it, you will likely go mad before you reach your full maturity.” Thranduil smiled, ruffling his son’s hair jestingly. “So I suppose I have no choice.”

“It was at the battle of Dagorlad, in the year 3434 if you remember, I with my father had come to the field of battle and joined with Malgalad of Lórien and his host of warriors…”

The sky was dark, the light of the Sun hidden by the ash that thickened the air. It was a horrible place to which they marched, of this they were well aware, Dagorlad - the Battle Plain that lay at the threshold of Sauron’s fist.

Thranduil lifted his eyes to their banner, finding strength for his heart in the streaming pennant of gold. Ever they drew closer, the barren plain, blackened and devoid of trees loomed nearer. Still, no spirit in the long ranks faltered in the putrid breath of malevolence. Gil-galad had every right to be proud of this army that united behind him and alongside him.

Now, here they were, standing before the plain, faced with a wave of heat blasting off the black land. Thranduil’s jaw clinched, his mind’s eye picturing beautiful Greenwood burned and turned into a wasteland such as this, overrun with the hoards of the Lord of Darkness. He was here to prevent that, to prevent his family from seeing this atrocity, to preserve all which was good and pure in the world.

“…Hardly had we set foot on the battle ground did the black masses sweep toward us, but our forces were ready. No commander could contest that our army was the finest yet seen of mortal and immortal flesh bound together against one doom. We waged war while all lost track of time and space. Was it days, weeks?

“Around me, both Men and Elves fell, but our great alliance held strong. Orcs and the beasts of darkness fell even as they came on, but they were relentless, seeming to flow as a contaminated river toward us.

“Then came an awful moment. My father, taken in the heat of battle, I could see running at the head of many of our strongest. It was a doomed advance, for he was struck down while I looked on, helpless to do naught.” Legolas saw Thranduil’s hand clench, his grief and anger barely restrained beneath the tight mask of impassiveness.

The world stood still, time slowed its mad rush. Thranduil himself felt as if he were frozen, only his mind whirled in a careless frenzy while around him bodies began to move again. Only he could not. Oropher had fallen, his father was slain, he had not been able to save him or be there to ease his parting. In the dark corners of his consciousness, he knew he must move, knew he must defend himself and see this horrible day to its end. But why?

“I did not feel anything but grief. I had seen beloved comrades fall by brutal deaths before, many times over had I lost a dear one. But nothing had, or could have quite prepared me for my father’s fall. I stood there, dumb and witless to all around me. The world in fact does not stand still for the grieving.” He gave his son a sad, wry smile.

“If not for Mithion, I would have surely been slain as well for the enemy sought to fall upon me. But Mithion came to my aid and defended me while calling aloud, ‘Rouse yourself, son of Oropher, and do not waste your blood without fight!’ Then the fog that had shrouded my mind lifted and I saw the peril around me and I raised my sword and together we fought, with rage fueling my strokes.

“But their number was too many and the price of my freedom was won only by Mithion’s sacrifice. Struck down by the scythe of an orc, he fell nobly taking with him many of their number.” Thranduil’s eyes dropped to his hands folded on his lap, beside him he could feel Legolas waiting semi-patiently for the rest of the account. “Until now, I have thought him dead. When at last that battle was over I sought to learn his name so I could honor him properly and morn him with the respect due. I found that he was indeed of Noldor descent, one of the few left upon these shores. How he came to be among Silvan ranks I can only muse, but I have no doubt that Ilúvitar had His hand on me.”

Legolas began to tie the stray, unexplained ends of the story together. “Then Mithion was not slain, perhaps coming to you now asking a favor?”

Thranduil nodded slowly, “Aye, and it is well that you say so for it shows a mind that thinks shrewdly and with careful consideration. You are correct in your assumption, but that is a matter that is not to be discussed here.”

Legolas rose, moving towards the open window. The air was crisp, promising a cool day. A breeze wafted over his face, doing much to clear his mind. Behind him his father rose to stand beside him. “When you spoke to the stranger, Mithion I mean, did you find out how he survived?”

His father shook his head, his brow pinching, “But I have my ideas which I fear are truth. Uglier things than death can be done against a body, Legolas.” Thranduil look down at his son. He was struck at how close the younger was to his own height. So fast did they grow… “The enemy is cruel. At all battles there are those lost, gone missing without a body to be counted. Mithion’s body was not to be found among the dead. But many were slain in that awful battle at Dagorlad, there were of course those that were not accounted for by error, so I assumed that Mithion was one of those missed in the count. For many years I believed this, but now I fear I was wrong.”

“So you believe he was taken by the enemy, that much is clear. But,” Legolas hesitated, watching his father’s face closely, “what happens to those taken? And who was left alive to do the taking? Where they not all slain?”

A pained expression crossed the Elvenking’s face. “That, young one, is a question I pray you never have to find the answer. All you need to know and all I wish that I knew, is that in the hands of Darkness even the light of the Elves can be extinguished and turned to a black fire to pave the way for the minions of Morgoth.”

Legolas felt his stomach turn. When his schooling as a warrior had first begun he had been told the ghastly truth of the origins of the Orcs. He remembered vividly trying very hard in that lesson not to be ill, but in the solitude of his room he had grieved openly. Still, after many years, the grief was still there. Perhaps, he wondered at times, he would never be rid of this feeling. He did not look forward to the day when he would come face to face with one of that twisted, perverted race.

“And as for your other question, it is also well thought. We did not know the count of the enemy when we marched, only estimates and musings. Hundreds might have been left unfound when at last we vanquished Sauron, thousands even, all fleeing from the place their master fell. But evil and pain is always the forethought of their minds and even the dying and wounded are not left to the silence of their mortal fate.”

His father laid a hand on his shoulder, the comforting weight drawing Legolas back from his thoughts. “You know nearly everything that I know about Mithion now Legolas, perhaps more than I should have told you. But do not dwell on it or let it carry your thoughts away from the present,” Thranduil admonished. He smiled then, a tired smile, but true none-the-less. “Look now,” he gestured out the window in a sweeping motion, “the sun has traveled far while we spoke; she has not been idle. Let us not speak further of this matter and let it be put from your mind. But take my advice, young one,” he censured, looking pointedly at Legolas, “stay clear of Mithion’s dealings, and of him.”

His smile returned, draping an arm about his son’s shoulders. “Your brothers will be worrying what has happened to both of us, and that is always an ugly thing.” Legolas laughed freely at his father’s jest.

Together they departed, both pushing thoughts of Mithion aside for the time and contenting themselves in the company of the other. 

---

Thaltarma grimaced at the latest work one of his apprentices had brought him. The bow was quite frankly, terrible. It was crooked, rough, and carved too thin, and of the wrong material at that! Was he really such an awful teacher?

“You seem to have delinquent learners.”

Mithion stood in the doorway of the armory, arms hanging casually at his sides. Thaltarma looked up briefly, no surprise showing on his face. “Nay, only young ones.”  He dropped his eyes back to his work, setting the useless bow beside him. Thaltarma had seen many centuries on these shores and there was little that startled him. Even when he had heard of the stranger’s coming at the previous night’s meal among the gossips he did not leap to making his own conclusions. It was his belief and his practice to never rush things that didn’t need to be. Though he did not think it himself, perhaps that was why he was such a fine craftsmen.

A strange smile ghosted the stranger’s lips. He stepped farther into room, his eyes lingering over the finely crafted weapons that lay neatly on tables, leaned and hung against the walls in various stages of repair and construction. Swords, knives, bows – all specially and lovingly built to perfection as works of art, to be handed down through families from father to son.

Thaltarma observed Mithion’s interest and quiet admiration of his handiwork. He appreciated it, as any craftsman would, but did not revel in it. “You like what you see, I believe?”

“Aye,” Mithion collected himself, almost reluctantly pulling his gaze from the beautiful weapons. “I have not seen such work for more than perhaps two-thousand years.”

“You mean at the Last Alliance.” Thaltarma did not look up from his work; his eyes remained fixed on the rough wood in his hands.

The Noldo did not refute Thaltarma, but neither did he affirm him. Slowly, cool eyes met across the room.  Thaltarma’s hands did not cease their work, but that did not lessen the intensity of his level gaze. To an observer, the sparks from the clash of wills might be almost tangible. Finally Thaltarma broke the lock, blinking slowly and returning his attention to his work. Mithion backed down as well, folding his arms against his breast.

The tension, though still flavoring the air, drained slowly away. “Do you supply all the arms, or is there another who aids you?”

“It would be unconventional to supply a great number of warriors with only one pair of hands, but not impossible.” Thaltarma, disliking the notion of supplying this suspicious Noldo with information as to any of the workings of Mirkwood, gave as vague an answer as he thought appropriate. Though his distrust of Mithion he did not hide, he would not be discourteous. After all, the king had offered the stranger harbor. It was his duty then to be a gracious host, if not out of his own will, but out of his allegiance to his liege.

If Mithion felt any annoyance at Thaltarma’s ambiguous answer, he did not show it, matching the Wood-elf’s unrevealing expression perfectly. The conversation obviously over and discussion closed, Mithion bowed genteelly with the appropriate farewell and withdrew.

---

Patience was a thing learned well when bound to stone night and day with only the lash of a whip to anticipate. Mithion had learned patience through failure, but not without great pain. The smithy had proved of small help, but it mattered very little to him. There were other ways to find out the strength of Mirkwood.

If Thranduil would not help him willingly, then he would simply give the Elvenking no other choice. It was Mithion’s belief that the end would justify the mean. He knew how to accomplish his goal and he would take whatever action it took to extract his revenge. With every lash of the whip he had pledged it.

And he never went back on his word. 

---

Legolas had been finding it no easier to put Mithion out of his thoughts now that he knew more about the strange Noldo. But now they were not the childish thoughts of curiosity, but something akin to worry. According to his father’s explanation, there was no assurance that Mithion could be trusted. The logical side of him agreed. But the youthful side couldn’t quite be convinced by the logical side that strongly suggested that he should perhaps steer clear of the stranger, for now at least.

And as it usually goes, Fate threw a stumbling block at the feet of the already swaying.

For the second time, Legolas found himself on his back looking up at the dark eyed stranger.

“You certainly do have a way of greeting people, Legolas Thranduilion.”

Legolas winced and pulled himself up. He feared that this would be quite the ill-fated day. “You have my most sincere apologies Master, forgive me, if you will, for my rudeness.”

The Noldo held up a hand, “Have no worry, no harm has been done.” Legolas felt a strange stirring in him as Mithion offered him a phantom of a smile. “A small amount of grace must be afforded to the young.” Legolas nodded his thanks, knowing that he should take this opportunity to excuse himself, but his feet were strangely rooted where he stood, unwilling to take him anywhere. 

Mithion remained where he was, waiting patiently for Legolas to either speak or move aside. Holding Legolas’ gaze, his grey eyes seemed to bore through the youngest of the king. Legolas struggled for something to say, anything to break the odd trance that Mithion seemed to hold sway over him.  “I,” he began haltingly, “I really must be going.” But though he said so, his feet did not carry him away as they should. Again Mithion smiled, a warmer smile now and not so mysterious as before. Nodding, he stepped a little to the side, providing Legolas a clear path to take. He had only to move his feet. With a great effort of will, Legolas pushed his desire to remain with the stranger aside. The temptation quelled, he bowed and hurried past Mithion, forbidding himself to look back.

If he had, he would have seen only a shadowed forest.

---

Thranduil was regretting his admittance of Mithion more and more with every passing hour.

It was not that he had spies following the Noldo elf, but he was not without intelligence of Mithion’s wanderings. He had visited both the armory and the schooling grounds where the younger generations were training. Those were only the known visitations. Mithion completely avoided the places of beauty and little streams of cool, uncontaminated water.  Places most visitors, expected or not, eventually found themselves. 

It was all too suspicious, and it being that the suspected was Mithion made it all the more suspicious. But the dilemma Thranduil was facing was that he had no clear idea of what to suspect of him. He could not simply accuse Mithion of foul activities (of some sort) and expel him on those grounds, as much as he wished he could.

“Let us not speak further of this matter and put it from your mind.” was the counsel he had given Legolas, but he was having great difficulty doing so himself. There were matters to attend to, things to be done and here he stood idle. What sort of a king was he and what was the example he was setting for Doron who would perhaps – if they lingered on these troubled shores – take the throne one day.

The son of Oropher drew himself up, letting go a deep breath, exuding his tension with it. Ai, yes, how it chaffed him, but there was little he could do besides keep one wary eye on Mithion and, reluctantly, keep on the matters of his house and kingdom. That was both his duty and his curse and he would hold to it. He hoped.

TBC...

Deeper than Skin

Chapter Three: Marionette

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge,
but fools despise wisdom and discipline.”
~ Proverbs 1:7

The youngest son of Thranduil had finally taken the bait.

He was the perfect tool - young, impressionable, and full of curiosity. He was certainly not stupid, or even foolish, but he was a youth and that often dragged with it the naivete of the dangers of blind trust. Mithion had come to the conclusion though, that Legolas was and odd sort of elf. From where he would watch in the boughs of trees and shadows of the forest, only a handful of times had he seen Legolas in the companionship of his peers. In fact, the youth seemed to avoid most of them intentionally, skirting the gossiping bevies and melting into the trees in his spare time. His closest friends appeared to be that which he was named: the green leaves and tall trees.

Mithion had baited the young elf on one of these occasions through soft words and a hand that was willing to teach him deeper secrets of the forest and a wanderer’s life. Eager to learn, Legolas suspected nothing from Mithion’s tutoring. It was a kindness the younger most likely did not want to question. There were many more sessions like this out in the Wood. Legolas was a willing and sharp student. The warrior that trained him and the father that molded him should be proud. Legolas’ laughter would fill the Wood as he recounted many of his silly pranks to him. And many times, Mithion would find himself laughing quietly at Legolas’ tales.

It was on these occasions that the regret and guilt struck Mithion so acutely he almost requited his oath of vengeance. So tempting was it to give it all up, throw it aside and embrace a life that could be filled with the happiness he found himself enjoying on those long afternoons and early mornings in the forest. But Mithion knew that he could never be truly at peace until vengeance was wrought with deadly fury upon those that took his life – his true life – away from him.

And it was then, when his thoughts turned towards the long years of anguish and consuming agony that the familiar burning and choking rage washed thoughts of a different life from him on a boiling swell. Yes, he would see this through, gladly, and he would dance on the brutalized bodies of his enemies. There was no more time to stall, today he would begin his manipulation.

---

Mornings were now a joy to Legolas. With a spring in his step that was usually absent at such an early hour, he would slip from his window to the ledge beneath, from there to one of the outstretched limbs of a massive ancient oak, then across the river by way of the canopy of branches that draped over the water from either bank. Mithion would be waiting somewhere on the opposing shore. He thought it nearly impossible that one mind could hold so much knowledge! To think, he would muse with a smile, a Noldo knowing more of the wild things than a Wood-elf! What would his father say?

Legolas paused, his tunic halfway over his head, brow furrowing as the thought struck him. Yes, what would his father say? He had not thought of it ‘til now, well, only briefly that was. Pulling the airy shirt the rest of the way into place he slipped into the light shoes at his bedside. Unbidden, his feet carried him to the sill of the window from which he would take flight into the forest. There was always a silent call, beckoning him to the forest, the fresh scent of new growth and aging leaves carpeting the woodland floor never failed to bring closure to a day or an extra amount of beauty to a spring day. But the pull to take flight was all the greater with the anticipation of knowledge and learning at the hand of a great hero like Mithion.

Yes, Mithion was a hero. He had never spoken of the great battle to Legolas, and Legolas saw no reason to pry in places he had no business. Still, Mithion had sacrificed himself for his father and paid a dear price for it, so why should he not respect him?

“You may respect the opposing side in battle, for their cunning, their might,, but it does not mean you should trust them. You respect the teeth of a wolf, but you do not thrust yourself into its jaws.”

That had been his father’s words on the matter of respect. They came back to him now with strange clarity. But why should he not trust Mithion? He had done nothing to deserve such cold treatment from the one whom he had given the gift of life.

Defiance mounting in his heart, he climbed nimbly to the sill, much as feline preparing to spring into flight.

But the cat had an elder who was fleeter than his offspring, his many centuries failing to tell on his quickness. A hand wrapped around the collar of Legolas’ tunic, knuckles pressing into the nape of his neck. Ah, a move he was quite familiar with, he noted with a wince curtailed with a very un-Elvish face of annoyance. Curse Doron to the Void!

“Have I caught a thief, fleeing at morning’s light - or a son of a king who stands face to face, wearing no mask or pretension?”

The voice was too deep, too resonate to be his brother’s. It was a voice that Legolas had heard daily for more than forty years with a tone that had worn out his names over two dozen years back. Only Thranduil - his father - could discontinue Legolas’ suspicious activities without so much as raising an eyebrow.

Legolas watched enviously as a beetle skittered from its sanctuary under the sill and disappeared into the plentiful crags and shadowed places of the rock face. The Forest River could be heard rushing and laughing under the bridge that lead up the green terraces. Both river and beetle were free as the air, he doubted either had a father with a leash about their necks. Well, he corrected himself, the beetle obviously had a father, but he suspected that the parent had not a care for what his offspring did. But the river…

Where did it go? Rushing, rushing, always rushing away, below the bridge, over rocks, pausing to dance in little eddies, then breaking free it would speed away. Night and day, tirelessly it ran towards the horizon and into the unknown. And that was what caught the youthful Legolas in the excitement of it all, the unknown, and as for Mithion, well, he was Legolas’ key to it.

Slowly, he turned as Thranduil’s grip on his collar was released. His father’s face was calm, as it nearly always was when dealing with his interminably naughty elfling, but it was not lost upon Legolas the underlying emotion of great displeasure. It was honestly not his wish to displease his father, at least when his mind was not clouded by irreverent thoughts and in the flush of self-righteous anger. But now, very much in the heat of that crimson flush, he cared little and saw not the suffering on his father’s face, but that ever infuriating expression of smug satisfaction at the foiling of just another one of his son’s exploits.  

“And what if I said that I would rather be the thief than the caged son of a king?” Legolas retorted hotly.

“Then I would bind you hand and foot in the dungeons as I would any other thief.” Thranduil did not break his mask. Dismissing his son’s snide remark, he went on. “And do not lie to me, son of mine, when I ask to whence you flee so eagerly,” Thranduil fixed the younger with a stony look, “for I already know.” Legolas’ mouth opened as if to speak, to give some hasty insult that would do nothing but stab a pronged barb into his father’s heart, but Thranduil was in no such mood to give his wayward son quarter. “But,” he recommenced, “I would give you the chance to tell me truthfully, with repentance.”

Resisting falling into the childish posture of arms crossed defensively, Legolas dropped back into the room from the ledge. “You have not asked, so why would I answer?” Impudent. Only subconsciously did he admit that was what he was being.

Sarcasm was a trait that Thranduil did not look kindly upon, especially when coming from the underdog of the confrontation. A step toward the younger brought him authoritatively close, nearly toe to toe with his son. “You, Legolas, are both out of line, and in a very bad spot. I would suggest that you not make it any worse.”

Ire rising dangerously, Legolas’ eye narrowed, his hands clinching spasmodically. “Tell me what I have done to deserve this interrogation?”

What resolve Thranduil had gathered while collecting himself outside his son’s door to be above all, patient, was quickly dissolving. “An interrogation, Legolas, is when one party is trying to find out what the other party knows. But I already know what you have been doing, so this falls from that label.”

“Then what do you want? Have you come simply to – ”

“Enough, Legolas!” Thranduil’s voice shook with both anger and the volume of his command. “Remember your place, young one, and do not tread farther. The ground already shifts beneath your feet.” He exhaled, eyes finding Legolas’ slightly taken aback at the unexpected sharp censure. Outside a bird’s wings could be heard beating the air as it took flight in the sudden explosion of sound. “Did I not tell you, Legolas, to stay away from him?”

“You advised me, if you recall, there was no command.” The tone was still stony and temper driven, but controlled now.

Thranduil’s anger faded to pain, “But were your ears not open? Did you not hear of what I told you?”

“All I heard was a tale of a great hero who saved my father’s life and paid a grievous price.”

“Aye, indeed, that much is true, but there is more, more that I cannot yet admit to you.” The king’s face twisted from the anguish of secrets yet unrevealed.

“Tell me.” Legolas was growing wearier by the day of these secrets, he knew that yes, not all the comings and doings of the realm could be accounted to him, but when they caused such strife and chaffing between father and son, wasn’t that reason enough?

Thranduil grasped Legolas’ shoulders suddenly, “Ai, Legolas! I would, but as I said, I cannot. Not yet.” His eyes pleaded for his son to understand, to accept what he said…

Anger flared heatedly again in Legolas’ heart, though what provoked it he never really understood. Wrenching himself out from under his father’s hands, he stepped back towards the window, almost it seemed daring Thranduil to try and stop him. Knowing full well - but not really giving a mind - that what he was about to do next would most likely land him in a world of trouble, he gave one last sharp comment of, “Then I suppose there is nothing left to say,” and bound out the window. To an onlooker with an unwanted eye on the confrontation, it may have looked as if the child of the king had leapt to his death, but with the fleetness and agility of his kind, Legolas had already disappeared down the hillside and away across the river.

The fist that drove itself through a painting would have been disappointed, if it had had a consciousness, that its owner did not register the pain of the bloodied knuckles. The grimace that laced Thranduil’s face and the anguished moan was not a result of the physical pain, but of another agony much deeper and crippling.

---

How dare he? was the first indignant thought of many that spiked into his hazed mind as step after step, his feet carried him deeper into the wood. The sounds of life about him did nothing to calm his fevered thoughts as they usually did; they seemed only a cacophony, trying to be heard above the groaning of his mind.

“It is not everyday that one sees a Wood-elf crashing through the forest like a mad oliphaunt.”

Legolas whirled on the voice behind him. It was unexpectedly Mithion. Not once had he appeared to Legolas normally. He never found Mithion, Mithion always found him. Feeling quite foolish being found in such a mindless state and seeing nothing immediate he could do to redeem his actions, he satisfied himself to stand patiently until Mithion chose to speak. Which thankfully wasn’t to far in the future.

The Noldo remained crouched back on his heels with his spine pressed against a tired, old tree. His eyes were half-lidded, almost closed. “You seem to be preoccupied.”

Frowning, Legolas caught a leaf in his palm that was fluttering from the canopy, down to the woodland floor. It seemed so lost as it lilted haltingly from its home to the earth. Caught between two stages of its existence there on his palm he let it slide from his open hand to the ground. “Aye, I had a,” he paused, “a discussion with my father this morning.”

“You mean an argument,” Mithion stated. It was not a question. Though his head was tipped towards the ground and his eyes slightly closed, he could tell that Legolas had turned uneasy. The sound of leaves crackling meant weight was being redistributed - meaning shifting feet which was a universal sign for discomfiture. It had definitely been a quarrel, and he had a good feeling that he knew about what.

“You needn’t speak of it. I think that this is a matter to be kept between you and your father.” Mithion rose, silent as a wrath from the shadows.  

And that was the end of that. The topic was dropped and left at the place of their meeting as they moved deeper into the forest. Mithion made it a point that early morning to teach Legolas how to read, and remain unread, when it came to the quirks of body language. “It is perhaps one of the most important skills you can teach your eye,” Mithion explained. “Especially if you are ever entertaining thoughts of allying yourself with any partner or nation.”

The morning wore on, and if Legolas had been better practiced in the finer points of reading into one’s behavior, he might have noticed the agitation building in the Noldo.  As it drew nearer to the time Legolas would have to be heading back, Mithion’s consciences began to war. This was the perfect day when Legolas’ anger was turned towards his father to wean what details he needed from the son of the king. Today was his best chance; he mustn’t loose it!

They had stopped in a small open area where the trees grew thick about them creating a dark hedge that rose high to the heavens. The air was quiet and the birds sang at ease. Still Mithion kept a close eye on the surroundings for the many threats of the Wood. Legolas knelt not too far off working on the practice he disliked the most – foraging.

“It is strange that a realm that has successfully fended off the attacks and badgering from the shadows, have no obvious defending force.” Mithion noted off-handedly.

The plant Legolas had been working to uproot with as little damage as possible sprung out of the ground as if it had given up its footing in the soil by choice. Of course, like the last two Legolas had attacked, the roots were still in the ground and he was left with a slowly bleeding stump of a weed in his hand. With a muted grunt of frustration he set after the next one. “That is because our forces do not prance about the streets in crowded ranks to simply show their steel and feathered plumes.” Legolas remarked with a hint of disdain.

“But then where are they?”

Legolas glanced up from his work, the broken weed still in his hand as he sat back on his heels. It was perhaps the first real non-rhetorical question Mithion had asked of him. Why was he so interested?

His father had warned him on occasion when they stood before the doors of a great banquet or gathering to give no military information to the guests, especially if asked pointedly. But what did his father know? He could not tell who his true allies were from vileness that haunted the Wood. He pushed down all feelings of hesitance – and logic – deep into the corners of his mind. “They trek the forest continuously, North and South. Many warriors also wait within the harbor of the walls ready for duty or call.”

“Dig deeper first and then proceed to work the roots loose.” Mithion crouched next to Legolas, his hands working the soil deftly and then, “Like this,” and the plant eased out of the ground as if it had been nothing but a flower in a vase of water.

Legolas could have sworn the plant’s leaves tweaked upward into horns and it blew a raspberry at him. Mithion sat back and let Legolas try his hand at it again. “How many strong are they?” He ventured again, boldly.

Legolas stopped this time, resting his hands on his thighs as he studied Mithion with some hint of suspicion. “Why so interested?”

The Noldo leaned his back against the fallen stump, beginning to slowly whet his knife on a stone. “You forget, Legolas, I am a warrior as well. A warrior would naturally wonder about the force of his allies.” Mithion supplied, for the most part, honestly. “Do not gape at me such, Thranduilion, I know that your father told you about our past. But do not ask me how as it would only confuse and confound you further,” he added with a ghost of a smile.

Legolas never would have though Mithion was the sort to wonder about anything, much less ask. He obviously had his ways of intelligence, never having need of other people, unless he needed information from them…

No, that was an awful thought that Legolas chose to shove aside and not even delve into. Mithion was not that sort. Mithion was truthful and strong he would not manipulate him such – would he?

The subject was dropped after that and Mithion returned to his silent, watchful state.

Long after Legolas returned to his duties, Mithion sat in the clearing, pondering what he had learned. It suited his scheme perfectly.

TBC...

Deeper Than Skin

Chapter Four: The Wool Is Lifted

“A stranger they simply will not follow,
but will flee from him,
because they do not know the voice of a stranger.”
~ John 10:1-5

Thranduil had never been one to pace like a caged beast, but perhaps that habit was about to change. Many things had changed over the past few days, so it was not improbable in any case. One thing that had most definitely changed, as it usually did during times like these where tension was on his pallet, was his dining habits. Instead of missing meals and abbreviating his breakfasts – as one might guess - he in fact was extremely punctual (though that in itself was not a rarity) and eager to join his family for meals. It was not the food which drew him as you can guess, but the company of his children. Perhaps, as some whispered, his love made him weak, but they were what made him strong in hard times. Mayhap his ‘dependency’ as they called it, did make him weak, but not in his eyes.

And that could be why the sight of his youngest seething beneath a calm exterior, all anger and dispassion directed at him, made him so off kilter. All the parenting advice that his father, and his late wife, passed on to him shrieked that he was breaking a cardinal rule when he yearned so badly to please his children, to appease and to conform himself to what they wished. “That will produce nothing but elflings set on their own selfish desires and no such material worthy of honor.” That was what his late wife would admonish him with a serious brow and pursed lips. It had been her mandate and by it she had held, keeping a strong, but guiding hand in everything she did. Constancy was her walk. Now, he must follow his wife’s instructions and put aside his own feelings.

His heel scuffed the floor as he pivoted and started back towards the opposite wall.  Fourteen steps across, exactly to the toe, each one he counted off. I certainly could have handled that better, he chastised himself, mulling over his confrontation with Legolas. This whole matter had risen a notch in difficulty when Doron had reluctantly reported to him that Legolas was leaving in the dark hours of the morning and arriving late to tutoring. There was no need to ruminate over what or who or even why Legolas was drifting into the Wood every morning, it was inevitably for one very obvious reason – Mithion. The Noldo himself had been taken note of wandering across the river at early hours. The woven rug puckered beneath his foot as he turned and started back the way he had come. How had it come to this?

A sharp rap on the door provided him another means of distraction though after pulling the heavy door open, he wasn’t sure if it was the distraction that he was hoping for.  Both Tulus and Doron stood in the doorway, Doron wearing and expression of roused ire and Tulus, one of concern. 

Who spoke first, they couldn’t tell.

“Where is he?”

---

The king and his two eldest marched down the halls towards the gates. With Thranduil at their head and Doron and Tulus flanking him they struck an untouchable impression.

“Sire,” said a warrior waiting at an arch for them,  “my scouts have completed a preliminary search of the woodlands along the river’s edge at least – ”

Thranduil turned on the Elf, looking him directly in the eye. “But have you found him?”

The warrior made an effort not to grimace, shaking his head reluctantly. “I’m sorry, my liege we have not, no sign at all.” He made no excuses for himself, or his scouts. He knew his place and what his job was.

“Then I would suggest you search deeper.”

It had been nigh on six hours since Legolas was expected for tutoring, and there had yet to be a breath of him. Mithion was missing as well. No one but a handful of scouts had been notified of the disappearance. Thranduil, despite his very real concern, did not wish to create a situation worse than it was.  He needn’t the added weight of public affairs atop his imagination of all that could go wrong, or all that was going wrong at that very moment and he was doing nothing to stop it.

Mithion had prevailed and succeeded where he had failed. Muscles tightened in his jaw as he took the reins to a fine dappled stallion from a waiting groom’s hand. Mithion had taken action, as he had promised that first day when he had entered, straight backed, into his study.

That seemed a very long time ago now, even in his immortal mind’s eye.

---

Five hours earlier…

The morning of the memorable argument between Legolas and his father were apart of the past now, a day behind him. But time did not quell the chafing of it on Legolas’ heart. It always went like this when no words were shared after such a confrontation, guilt and regret pulling his heart down like anchor, dragging him deeper and tearing at his chest with a physical pain.

It was always worse when he came to realize that perhaps he was in the wrong. No, not perhaps, but was. As he had lain awake and dreamless upon his bed the previous night with his conscience for company and his thoughts for food, he had found that this instance would be no different.

Morning failed to bring the comfort of self-righteousness and it withheld anticipation. Even when Mithion had appeared from the deep shadows cast by pre-dawn’s sleepy light, no excitement widened his eyes.

As always, Mithion saw the change and outwardly noted it with no more than the twitch of an eyebrow. He addressed it, then said no more, asking no more of Legolas when the door was shut. Legolas had asked few questions and had lacked the luster and zeal that he had usually offered Mithion. His eyes had wandered from sky to earth, from tree to bark, but saw little.

Perhaps, if his mind had been sharper he would have seen the change in Mithion as well, for when he had, it was already too late.

His mentor had led him deeper into Mirkwood than he had ever ventured on foot. The Sun had crept from her hiding place and with alarm when Legolas had taken note of her progress, he realized that there was no way he could make it back to the river and his room in time. He even hazarded to query to Mithion, but the Noldo did not even turn. A second time he spoke, but no answer was invoked.  Thrice now, uncertainty coloring his voice and when no answer came, his feet stopped along with his questions.

Standing there deep in the Wood, with suddenly a distant stranger, his father’s words haunted him “…stay clear of Mithion’s dealings, and of him.”

The trees pulled back their boughs, their foliage hissing back in a gust of wind as Mithion, the stranger, turned. “Come along, Legolas,” he had said, eyes having lost their kindness.

Legolas had pulled back, hands at his sides and confusion clouding his face. The tortured stranger had stayed where he was, making no advance, a new emotion flooding his face. Pleading. “Please, Legolas, come with me.”

The veil suddenly fell from Legolas’ eyes, realization of his own foolishness striking him with a force that knocked him back a physical step. Mayhap it was Mithion’s eyes that betrayed him, but whatever the key, all became clear and whom he had thought his friend, was now his adversary. Confusion fell with the veil and anger warred with grief to fill its space. “You are no friend of the king, and you are using me though I know not for what,” he had said, his brows knitting while his hand clinched the white hilt of his long knife. It was an instinct that Mithion himself had honed in him, but it had yet to enter his mind if he could bring himself to use it.

Mithion saw the blinding blanket fall from the younger elf’s eyes. He could fool him no longer though, ai! how he wished he could. He saw Legolas’ hand drop to his side, every well defined graceful muscle coiling for action. Elbereth! His soul had prayed, If ever you shone on me, do not let him draw that blade!

But his petition was not granted.

The scream of steel against steel shattered the stillness of the wild. His long blade pressed against Legolas’ shorter, sleeker blade. They danced for a time, both hedging each other, reluctant to engage. But though Mithion had schooled Legolas carefully in the steps of this play, he had not been fool enough to advance him to a stage above himself. Blade and knife met, bringing them close. No doubt raging against his betrayal, Legolas’ face was tight and his teeth set. Icy eyes had met his, and as their weight pressed them closer, he could see agony binding the shards of steel in their depths. Then in his mind he resolved that this could go on no longer, he had an oath and to it he would keep.

With a pledge to be as swift as he might, he withdrew abruptly. Legolas’ balance having been thrown off, stumbled forward. Faster than the mortal eye could follow, Mithion’s leg struck out, his heel catching Legolas’ wrist and sending the knife spinning from his grip. Then the same gust of momentum had brought him around behind Legolas, and he let the hilt of his sword fall.

---

The heat of the day had just reached its peak when Legolas’ eyes drifted open to face the bitterness of reality. He found himself well protected from the rays beneath the hoarding shade of a boulder carpeted with all manner of creeping moss. Though it appeared by the angle of the shadows that he had been senseless for some time, he had only a mild, but sincere throb at the back of his skull to confirm that all that had transpired had not been a delusion.

He blinked, as most do – even immortals - when waking from an unwanted and forcefully induced slumber. The wood was very still and a beetle thrummed lazily somewhere on rotting log. There was no sign of the stranger.

As his senses gradually returned, he realized that he was lying on his side and his hands were bound securely, but not cruelly, behind him. He found his feet in likewise condition. Mithion had taught him both how to escape from common knots, and how to tie those which were near impossible to free one’s self unless they had the help of another, or a well placed sharp edge. Unfortunately, Mithion had used the latter and as it were, there were no well placed sharp edges. Still, it was instinct to test his bonds, even when Mithion stepped from behind the boulder at his back.

“It is futile, you know.” The Elf crouched in front of him, his forearm draped across his thigh.

Legolas noted with a grimace his own knife tucked in Mithion’s belt. “Most likely, but you do not really expect me to simply stand for this? Or should I say, ‘lay’?”

Mithion gazed at him for a while, his head bent slightly to the side as if contemplating him. “You still do not quite understand, do you?” 

Legolas’ eyes narrowed, his fists clenching behind his back. “I understand you betrayed my trust,” he struggled to a sitting position, fire glinting in his eye. “I understand that you gave into your anger and proved just how we weak you really are.”

A fist shot out, grabbing a handful of the front of his jerkin and pulling him the rest of the way up and bringing him close to Mithion’s face. If there had been a fire in Legolas’ eye, there was a raging inferno in Mithion’s. “You know nothing of anger, Thrandulion. You know nothing of pain, agony, or loss. Any beings lesser in stature than I would be rotting in his cell if he had gone through what I went through.” Mithion leaned closer, a queer light coming to life in his emblazoned eyes.  “And they did. All of them did, except I.”

The stranger sat back on his heels, his brow dark, but his voice calmer.  He let go of Legolas, letting him slump back against the rock. “None withstood His fires, they all fell and I could do nothing. Nothing.” He peered close at Legolas, grief and hate clearly twisting his features, “Do you understand that, Thranduilion? Nothing. There is no thing worse than the incapability to do something.”

For a brief moment, compassion broke down the wall of indifference Legolas had erected around his heart. Mithion had no hope for himself, and yet he continued to strive to free his conscience of the guilt that fed itself on memory. Legolas began to see ever the more painfully clear what Mithion’s scheme was, and if he was right, he could not allow it to happen – as much as he wished he might.

Mithion stood slowly, turning his back to Legolas. Once he had seemed so tall, towering above him like a silent, wise sentinel, but now, though he was yet physically tall, he seemed worn, shrunken and thin. “I swore an oath, Legolas, like all hot-headed fools in the flush of their rage do,” he confided quietly. “And like any other oath, it was a pledge for vengeance, not just for retribution for my own suffering, but for the others taken from that field of death and thrown into a pit of eternal suffering; for those that didn’t escape.”

Legolas said nothing, seeing the need in Mithion to vent his frustrations. He was a tortured soul, and though he was free from physical bonds, he was bound to his past. It clung like a beast to him, claws digging into his heart and with every hour that passed he slipped a little farther from reach.

“Do you see now, Legolas, the reasons for my actions?” Mithion remained facing away from him, but his face turned slightly to the side so Legolas could see only half his face. Still, Legolas remained silent. A sigh escaped the stranger’s chest. “I think you do, but I know it does not quell the anger and betrayal you are feeling at this moment.”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Mithion,” Legolas said softly, trying to keep the pity he felt from falling into his speech. “Simply tell me what you plan to do. Wealth will give you no pleasure, that much I will tell you now.”

“Wealth?” Mithion turned finally. “I have no interest in the king’s riches and wine. Arms, Legolas, that is my goal. I gave Thranduil a chance to help me freely, but he refused. Therefore I have undertaken other paths to reach the means.”

Legolas felt the lead weight in his chest sink deeper into the pit of his stomach. Surely, Mithion was not so mad to think that all the warriors of Mirkwood could reap any such revenge that would spite Darkness?

“I see your thoughts, Thranduilion, you think me crazed, mad beyond hope.” A wry smile laced his lips. “Perhaps you are right. But I am far from a one-bodied army, I would get no farther than drawing my sword if I were to go on such a fool’s errand by myself.”

“Then you would drag those who have no lot with you to their deaths for your vengeance? We have no such force to undertake what you plan. The enemy multiplies like flies! You would be slaughtered!” The pity shrank from Legolas’ heart, disbelief and disgust hardening his features. “What about their blood, Stranger? Who will avenge theirs’?”

Mithion laughed scornfully, “You, if you wish.”

Behind his back, Legolas’ fists clenched and face tensed with barely restrained ire. His jaw was tight set, but the language of his body spoke volumes.

Mithion moved away, melting into the forest. Before he vanished from sight, he left Legolas with a few parting words. “Rest yourself Legolas, we will not move until tonight.” 

But there would be no resting for Legolas.

---

The crickets were oblivious to the drama taking place or it was a matter of too little importance to their symphony. They paused for nothing unless a foot placed itself too near, then with an indignant off key screech they would rustle off without a trace. But the indifference was mutual.

Elves on the move searched high and wide, and with every hour that passed in slow procession, more were joined to the search. Inadvertently, but unavoidably, any shred of secrecy had been lost. Still, there was not a breath or upturned leaf of the youngest of the king, or the stranger and the night was ever encroaching on their search.

Thranduil, as could be expected, would not tire, therefore he neither rested. Horseback, he had plunged into the Wood with sword naked. All through the forest, lamps could be seen bobbing like giant fireflies, blinking behind trees and then reappearing closer, or farther away. If Thranduil could have blocked out the thought of his son somewhere in these deep, dark woods with a potentially dangerous fiend, then he may have been able to imagine himself back in the painfully few golden years. When Mirkwood was yet Greenwood, airy with light and sparkling like a precious emerald gem, there had been dances and feasts in the Wood that had gaily spun with laughter and merry making until the first shy blushes dawn. But that was a thing of the past that was eternally engraved in the undying and unfading memory of the Wood-elves.

The dappled neck of his horse abruptly pulled up, ears pricked forward and nostrils wide. Thranduil was immediately put back on guard. Lintion was a dependable steed and his senses never lied. In the gathering gloom with fog descending oppressively, the lights of the searchers lamps had faded to dim misty highlights. Lintion’s eyes needed no aid though. His head then dived low, neck outstretched, peering at something near of which only his eyes had caught sight.

Lintion’s bugle rent the still night air as he gave up the call that announced the coming of an unknown creature. The lights almost immediately began to bob their way accompanied by soft whistles.

“Call them off, King, or you will soon be deprived of one heir.”

TBC...

Deeper Than Skin

Chapter Five: Going Home

The misty lights of the searchers abruptly ceased movement as a loud whistle - distinctive in tone and pitch as being that of the king – cut through the still air. Even the ambitious crickets stilled for a brief moment before continuing their serenade.

“Come from the shadows, Mithion, and show yourself more than a coward.”

Legolas could hear and see his father, but from Thranduil’s words, his father could not see them. Mithion stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder with no weapon drawn – yet. There was no use in running, Legolas had seen the speed at which Mithion was capable of drawing his blade. His throat would be cut before he was two paces away. But Legolas could feel the tension in Mithion’s hand denoting his anxiety. He had not intended to be sensed by the horse and had certainly not wanted to negotiate when so many others stood by.

Inwardly and outwardly, Legolas chaffed at his bondage that rendered him helpless. He was to be the stranger’s ransom, a tool to suit Mithion’s needs. He could only accept it and be prepared to act when the opportune moment arose.

Mithion nudged him forward while keeping a tight hand on his shoulder, strategically near his neck. “We shall have it your way, Thranduil. I am not unwilling to bargain.” Legolas felt Mithion’s breath feathering against his neck as he spoke.

“Name your terms, vile filth.”

Mithion scoffed, “You already know them, oh pure king.” He pushed on, not pausing for the sake of drama. “And you know the treasure that will be lost to you if you fail to acquiesce with them.” The hand on Legolas’ shoulder tightened as a finger slid across his throat in the mime of a blade. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Painfully so.”

“Excellent. Now lower that sword and loosen the hold on that fine horse of yours. No need to punish it with a harsh hand.”

Thranduil complied, though his hand did not stray far from the hilt. “Have you thought this through, Mithion? Do you realize the innocent blood that will be spilt for vengeance.”

Behind Legolas, Mithion gave no sign of concern. “What do you think I did all those long years of torment? It was the one thread of hope that I held onto while all others were severed.”

“And what of the innocent blood, Mithion, even if you did somehow manage to survive this fool’s errand then a new weight would be placed on your heart. How would you avenge them?”

A smile ghosted Mithion’s lips. “So alike are you and Legolas. Both so concerned for the innocent.” The violated smile fled from Mithion’s face. “But there is no innocent blood in this world, Thranduil. To be innocent would be to be blameless and sinless, but all have sinned, have they not?”

The hiss of a sword being unsheathed stung Legolas’ ears and then the cold kiss of the flat of a blade caressed the flesh of his throat. “Even your fine son has erred in his ways, has he not?” It was a parent’s most painful truth to admit that their child was not blameless. Truth was often times more painful than lies.  Mithion pressed Thranduil for an answer.

“He has,” Thranduil conceded reluctantly. 

“That means he is guilty?” Mithion coerced.

Thranduil’s fist tightened around the reins, his face showing every line of distress. Mithion knew what emotions ate at his heart; there was no cause to guise it.  “Of what, Mithion?”

“Of life, Thranduil. The guilty are to be punished are they not? Yes, that is as I thought.” The blade rotated from the flat to the edge. “Then the blood that is spilt would not be innocent. Thus, there is no cause to weep.”

“Grace, Mithion!” Thranduil cried, “Have you not heard of such a thing? Repentance, forgiveness - these are all things that Eru has offered us as a gift. He gives us the gift to err from our wrong-doings and return to the path he has set before us.”

Mithion let out a harsh laugh. “Do not speak of those things to me, I know just as well the myths. But there are exceptions. Exceptions for the ruined who have no hope.”

Frustration and desperation fueled Thranduil’s words. “But there is hope if you would let go of this unreasonable anger. You cling to it as if it were all you had!”

Mithion was silent then, his face stony. The sword wavered, blade dropping a fraction from Legolas’ throat. All three remained very still, not a breath being drawn. The hope that his father spoke of so passionately warmed Legolas’ heart. He wished he could see Mithion’s face, gauge his thoughts…

But the hand tightened again, the jaw clinched and the blade was brought up sharply. The dream of Mithion free from these chains of anger passed from Legolas’ vision as the edge of the blade caught his breath. “Perhaps it is, and I shall take it down with me to my doom if that is what fate proclaims.”

“Think then, Mithion! Use the logic!” Thranduil insisted, his tentative hold on his own anger rapidly slipping. He mustn’t let this happen. “You would take our few warriors, search out and attempt to destroy wherever the vile ones breed knowing full well that it would be a battle you or any that followed you, would not return? And for what, to sate your palate for anger?”

The blade tightened to the point of pain at Legolas’ throat. In the woods, the forgotten searchers looked on, horrified but powerless to stop what was transpiring. Except for one that moved silent from tree to tree.

“Enough talk, Thranduil, give them the order that no harm comes to me and that I am their commander. You will also recall your parties to the caverns and inform them of the change in command. Young Legolas here will remain with me.” Mithion took a step back, pulling Legolas with him.

Thranduil did nothing, a deeper wraith in the night had caught his eye.

“Did you hear me, oh King? Or does your son mean so little to you?” The edge of the blade bit deeper, though blood still having yet to be spilt. But Mithion’s hard voice was beginning to waver.

And still, Thranduil did nothing.

He could not do it, but he must! He had come so far, planned so long, suffered so much! Mithion’s steady hand shook, the blade quivering against the flesh of Legolas’ throat, his decisive spirit swaying madly as if in the midst of tempest at sea. All his resolve melted away in the face of the unthinkable possibility that if Thranduil did not bend, he would indeed have to spill the young one’s blood.

He had unknowingly depended on Thranduil to give without thought. How had it come to this?  He was a fool, he knew that now, and it ironically did not bring self-condemnation, but freedom he had not felt for many years. Vengeance was not worth the price of a friend’s blood nor was it worth his.

The sword slacked in his grasp. His pride broken.

But the revelation had come too late.

The green fletched arrow that was sent flying from Doron’s bow with fate etched on its shaft was not noted until it sank critically deep into Mithion’s back. Eyes hardly widened, as if nearly expecting the blow. Legolas heard the sickening sound of tearing flesh and felt the slackening in Mithion’s grip. And as he turned to catch his fall, he found that Mithion was no longer a stranger.

The Elf staggered, staring intently into Legolas’ eyes as his legs gave way and he pitched forward, caught by waiting arms. Legolas gave no utterance, for the ability had fled him. Mithion’s limp weight pulled Legolas with him to the earth, the sword slipping from his grip and falling beside him. Already, elves were springing into motion, advancing to remove Legolas from the scene to what they deemed safety. But Thranduil had seen the change, had even moved to stave Doron’s attack, but no, this had been meant to happen, for here it had. So by a quiet word he kept the elves back.

Blood seeped through his fingers as Legolas sought to slow the flow of life departing Mithion. He was helpless to stop it and he could not slow the time.

“I am sorry,” Mithion struggled to confess, eyes remaining focused for a blessed moment. “And yet,” he pause, choking, “yet I am not.” Legolas understood what he meant.

“You are forgiven, accept it and be at peace.” Mithion would die; Legolas could not rest in denial of it. Even with the best care, the lethal tip had sunk too deep.  If only he could ease his passing.

A smile - a true, warm smile - gave life to his face, even though physical life fled him. “I do, Legolas. Thank Ilúvatar, I do.” He trailed off then, eyes failing and voice catching as mortality clenched its painful grasp.

Legolas felt the sting of tears on his cheeks.  Mithion’s eyes were losing their focus, slowly beginning to set his sight on the unseen that lay beyond the bindings of these shores. The smile remained with pain forgotten. One last word was breathed, only for Legolas to hear.

“Free.”

And shedding the last heavy chains of the past, Mithion slipped from suffering.

Mithion was gone, but Legolas was left still supporting the earthly body. So fast; it had all happened too fast! He was reeling and his hands shook as if the weight of the empty shell was too much to bear. Questions and doubts crowded his mind, all clambering to gain the place as his forethought.

Doron moved to draw his brother away from the scene, but Thranduil placed a restraining hand on his arm. “You did what was necessary Doron, but Legolas would only vent his anger on you. He would say words that he would later regret.”

The eldest son nodded understandingly, stepping aside and melting out of sight until the appropriate time. Tulus, who had appeared at the scene almost immediately after the shot was fired, followed in suit. Both were reluctant to leave but obeyed.

Thranduil had witnessed many deaths, some more tragic than others. The initial shock had lost its hold on him as his eyes had grown callused to many horrors. Still, the sorrow had not lost its potency and grieving would come.

But his son, his eyes were yet untouched by many of the gruesome ways of the outside world. Thranduil would give life and limb to preserve Legolas’ rose-colored outlook on the world, to keep him in the peaceful shade of the family tree, yet the time had obviously come for his son to step outside of the balmy protection of his young mind and face reality. He hated to acknowledge it, hated to accept it, but this same time had come in different fashions and varying severity for his other three children. He had known it would come for Legolas eventually.

“All has been put to rights, now it is our turn to move forward as Mithion has chosen.” Thranduil moved closer, progressing slowly and giving Legolas a bit of time to collect himself.   “You hold onto a shell only.”

He knelt by his son’s side, peering into the pained face that remained locked in an unbelieving trance. Thranduil loosened Legolas’ frozen hands, removing Mithion’s body from his grip. Grief mingling with bitter joy, he closed the sightless eyes. Grief for the loss of immortal life, and joy for the gain that Mithion had reaped when he accepted the forgiveness and redemption that Ilúvatar offered.

The young one wore his shock openly, his eyes unable to rivet themselves from the body. Thranduil forcefully brought Legolas gaze away, bringing his face aside with the palm of his hand.  “Come away, Legolas. It is time to go home.”

---

Three days had passed, slow but patient. The Sun, she rose as always, shone the same though muted by an unseen cloud.

The morning after Mithion’s death, he was laid to rest at the foot of an ancient oak that stood alone in the middle of a clearing that he had taught Legolas many things. Legolas himself had chosen this place. No word was spoken of his shortcomings; no dark thought of him was pondered. The attendance to the burial consisted of the king, his sons and a chosen few.

But the whole realm mourned his passing.

The king had spoken; Mithion’s sins were no more. They were to be forgotten, and were. He had saved their king’s life in war, and he had been a patient mentor to his youngest son. That was who Mithion had been.

Yet closure did not come to Legolas’ heart. He had not dreamed, or dared to try for fear that he would have no control over them. No food had he taken and he had yet to speak a word. His face seemed older now, the youthful shine having left his eyes and aura.

He stood at his window, one of the few looking out from the hill face in which a great kingdom was hewn deep into its stone. He was tired, but he did not wish to sleep, he was hungry, but had no appetite, he was soiled, but could not rid himself of the ash that filled his soul. The hands that pressed against indifferent stone either side of the opening seemed hardly enough to hold his form upright.

Lifting weary eyes, his gaze was lost in the forest. He tried to remember the wonderful hours he had gathered as priceless treasure but they refused to come to mind. Only the face of Mithion in his death filled his mind’s eye. Yes, he had been freed, he had found peace that both he and Legolas knew he never could really find on these shores. But Mithion was gone when their friendship had just begun.

When Mithion was just beginning to live again.

It wasn’t right, Legolas had raved in the confining chambers of his mind, that he should have to go through so much suffering to be rid of it. Why, oh Death? Couldn’t Mithion have lived, been forgiven, and then would have left Middle-earth and passed beyond the crashing waves with the blessing of the Valar?

“You will see him again, Legolas. Death is not the end, even for us.” Thranduil stood beside him, having come silently and undetected.

“But it is not meant for us to experience,” Legolas retorted bitterly. Bringing his arms down to rest on the sill of the window. He bowed his head, leaning heavily upon his hands. 

Thranduil gently corrected him, “Unless Ilúvatar deems that it is for us to taste.” 

“Mithion had been through enough, he needed no more pain.”

“Then you would say that Ilúvatar acted wrongly? Are you wiser than the one that knows the tune and tempo of the last notes of the Song?” Thranduil reprimanded.

The breath that heaved from Legolas’ chest was deep and long. He closed his eyes and straightened. “Nay, I do not.”

“Then there was no mistake.”

Legolas shook his head, “Nay, there was not.” Blood-shot eyes lifted to meet Thranduil’s steady gaze. “But why?”

Thranduil gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Many a warrior has asked that very same question. But that is not for us to know, Legolas. Even the discordant notes that are struck in the Song are not unexpected to Him.”

Legolas passed a hand across his face, trying to rub away the weariness. “That should bring me comfort, bring me the same peace as it does for you, but I fail to receive any.”

“It is not a cure-all, Legolas. The simple knowledge of it does not bring with it comfortable euphoria. We cannot depend on it as a way to help ourselves.” Thranduil was the one to sigh this time. “Only by His grace can we understand and be comforted. Mithion understood this.” Legolas turned his head away, a scoff building in his throat. Thranduil continued, “Do not lock yourself away, Legolas. Your grief is not a sign of weakness. You are unable to help yourself in this matter. Your pain will only fester to bitterness.” 

Taking Legolas by the shoulders, he turned his son to face him. “Take to heart the last lesson that Mithion offered you.”

For a moment, Legolas peered at his father through scrutinizing eyes. “You really mean what you say, don’t you?” He frowned, the words sounding mixed and jumbled to his ears. He tried rephrasing. “I mean, you believe it?”

Thranduil smiled and nodded once. “I do. And if my ‘child-like’ trust in it makes me appear weak in the eyes of mine enemies, then they laugh at not just me, but the Creator of this land as well.”

Legolas released another drawn out breath, turning back to the view of the rapidly flowing river. And as he watched it, gushing and bubbling towards the horizon, he did not feel the same ache to follow it wherever it ran. He found himself quietly content to stay where he was and not rush the world to show him its ways, and though he did not know it while he realized his changed feelings, the world would come for him soon enough.

“Then he is truly free,” Legolas confirmed softly, finding at last peace in the thought. “Mayhap he will even return one day.”

Again, Thranduil nodded. “Aye, you never can say.”

---

It would be nice to end here and say that then all was well with Legolas and his family and the woodland realm of Mirkwood. But the encroaching darkness grew and fed itself on the trees and pure, living things in Mirkwood, turning leaf and branch to naught but rotting skeletons. To say that the menace of the spiders left, the dark presence that haunted the Wood dispersed and never returned would be a lovely ending.

But lessons would be forgotten if there was no occasion to put them into practice.

Legolas saw all these things progress and taint the land. He grew in stature and wisdom, training both his hands and his mind to be keen, remembering always the lessons Mithion had taught him. As the years passed, he saw death and became familiar with its pain; he felt fear and learned to respect the forewarning it gave. With every mistake, he was taught.

And so, life continued.

End