The Dooming Wound
By Ithilien

A/N: It’s been about forever since I posted a story on this site. That’s not to say I haven’t been writing, it’s just that my latest is a little darker than what typically goes up here. If you are interested in my work, please go to the Links section and follow from there.

This story is a little late in the offering -- more apropos for Halloween really -- but the bunny didn’t bite me until that particular eve. Vampire bunny. A real bloodsucker. Ouch.

Anyhow, enjoy if you will. Nothing really grotesque here, but I’m giving it a PG-13 rating anyway, for the sake of the kiddies.

Onward.

Oh, by the way, for this story, paragraphs shown in italics indicate a flashback sequence. I was getting too many complaints about the confusion I cause with the way I typically handle backslides into memory, so hopefully this should make the story easier to follow.

The Standard Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and subsequent characters/locations are the property of the J.R.R. Tolkien estate. Nothing here belongs to me except a very strange plot and a few secondary characters. Absolutely no profit is being made in this endeavor; it’s done simply for fun. I have a very twisted idea of what fun is.

Summary: Orcs, Spiders, Nazgul, and a Morgul Blade! Throw in some angst and call it a surreal horror story with Thranduil at its center. Featured parts for Legolas and Oropher.

Thranduil would not falter. He fought to keep his breath while he pushed one leg before the other in his race. They were near the hospital camp and the precious object in his arms was not something he dared to slow for. Behind him many others bore equal weights, some feeling the same sense of trepidation for theirs as he did his.

He came into the camp made up of a cluster of buildings. Word had come before them and many were running out to meet Thranduil and his company. “Calonin to me!” he called to the healer he well knew, not allowing any to hesitate about who would serve him. He wanted a healer with experience and he would choose. He knew all could understand what was in his heart, for it did not take a wise man to decipher the bulk of his burden.

“Here!” the healer pointed, indicating the stretcher that could serve in need as a surgical table. “What has come to him?”

“We were attacked,” the king weakly supplied. He watched as the healer bent over the body, laying his head upon the chest. “Can you help him?” Thranduil asked, but the healer was too caught up in his work to pay him heed.

The patient’s cloak was drawn aside. Copious amounts of blood poured from the wound and he immediately pressed the cloth back into place. The ravaging effects of the battle had been laid bare to him in that glance. “It is a Dooming Wound,” Calonin murmured. His eyes came up swiftly, making contact with Thranduil’s before he turned his head to each side. Healers and their aides were at work all around making it difficult to discern what other possible injuries there were.

Thranduil supplied what the healer sought. “One is dead,” he recounted grimly, “Four others suffered the sting of the forest spiders in the same attack. Twelve more were wounded by Orc blade, but no other is like him.” He nodded to the elf before them.

The healer fixed him with steely eyes. There was a reason Thranduil had cried out for this particular elf and he waited for confirmation of what he likely suspected.

Thranduil knew he must speak words he wished never to say. “He took the wound from a morgul blade,” the king supplied, his voice cracking in choked fear. “He suffered the full of the Nazgul’s wrath.”

The healer paused, the impact of this news working over his features. And then he swallowed it, accepting what he must do. “Not the full. If he had, he would be dead now,” Calonin said as he returned to his examination with grim determination. “He suffers the vile clutches of the Black Breath,” the ancient elf pointed out, shaking his head as he watched his patient’s eyes open briefly. They were red-rimmed and filled with fear, and it was clear that this elf was unaware of where he was or what was happening to him. His breath came in quick gasps. His eyes drifted closed as he lapsed into nightmare dreams. The healer lifted the cloak, glancing again at the injury and using a clean rag to wipe away new blood. The cut was clean but he was not pleased. “It struck near his heart.”

“I know this.” Thranduil said, tiring of the redundancy in the exam. He sought action as he turned desperation upon the physician. “What I would know is if he will survive it?” He knew what fate had delivered them; what he wanted was its truth revealed.

“Your son has a strong will,” the healer said indicating the patient before him. But he said no more, and Thranduil was left without an answer. In his life he had seen the Nazgul’s handiwork many times. Sometimes an injury would be minor while other times the wound had a fatal effect. And usually the Black Breath played a part, causing the victim to fall into agonizing despair, trapped in dreams of horror while the body fought off this affliction without aid.

But there was worse that could happen. Thranduil shuddered at the thought of it but he knew it well. If the wound was tainted and a remnant of the Nazgul’s blade was left within, the victim could become as one with his assailant; he too would become a Wraith.

One time before he had witnessed such a fate. It nearly broke him to act on it then. He did not think it was within him to do so again.

The healer set to work, calling others to his aid. They lifted the stretcher quickly carrying it into the nearest building and putting it into the cross braces that brought it to table height. Thranduil helplessly watched while Legolas was made ready for the rigors of surgery. His hands reached out to caress the fingers of the younger elf, tenderly offering to sooth though he knew Legolas’ mind was beyond all knowing. He felt the subtle tremor of a body in stress, and he willed his heart into his son’s, praying for relief from any suffering.

Legolas’ face contorted with pain, though the king could not be certain its cause. It was either the wound or the hellish dreams induced by the Nazgul’s bane. Both were enough to bring hopeless agony. Thranduil felt a small sob escape him as the grips of his own terror mixed with the convoluted chokehold of worry and guilt.

“Do not mourn him yet. Not all situations are as dire as those of your recollections,” a soft voice whispered into his ear, and though Thranduil did not turn his head, he knew who spoke.

“I must see to my men,” he said, ignoring the voice, choosing instead to disengage from the hospital scene. He gently laid his son’s hand upon the table and turned to the healer he was entrusting with his son. “See to it he survives,” he commanded Calonin. Their eyes met. “You know what it is I speak of. Do not let this be his fate.”

“I will do my best, my lord,” the healer said, bowing his head. Indeed he did know, but the outcome was not his to decide, and Thranduil knew he was putting an undue burden on the elf.

“You are not so cruel as that,” the cool voice admonished from behind, but Thranduil walked from the building.

He must keep himself occupied and concern for his men always distracted him from his own worries. “Athedon,” the king called out to the first elf he saw, “Report to me.”

The broad-shouldered elf he jumped to Thranduil’s side. Orc blood still smeared one cheek, and a cut was visible across his brow. His clothes bore the brownish stain of spider venom, but Thranduil knew that was likely a remnant of the man he had aided. “Epheron is the only casualty thus far, my lord. All the others are being seen to.”

“And you?” the king asked, catching the lost look in the elf’s eyes. Thranduil saw shock there. The attack had come as a complete surprise and the elf could not be immune to it. He was yet young and new to these fighting forces. But it was hard to know without asking if he had the sense to take responsibility for his own healing.

“I am next on the healer’s list, my lord,” Athedon returned, and Thranduil was pleased. The elf was not so naïve as to think such an ordeal could go without effect.

“Good,” Thranduil said, patting him on the shoulder as he continued to make his rounds.

“And what of you? Will you not see to your injuries?” the voice asked, finding him once again though it had been Thranduil’s intent to escape such queries.

Thranduil sighed as he marched further on. It was inevitable that a confrontation must occur. As he walked, he could not help recognizing remnants of the past. Each tree, stone, statue and wall that he saw spoke to him from a time before, when life had had grace.

They had established this refuge at the old palace some time back when they had started their fight in the darkest regions of the wood. From time to time the healers’ camp had to be moved, but usually the battlelines were drawn near this place and more than not the elves were able to protect this safe house.

Yet for Thranduil, it was not safe. Memory marred it.

“This is my fault,” he finally said to his follower, laying the blame before them.

“Do not be so ungentle. Legolas is accountable, not you. It was his tenacious ambitions that brought him to these circumstances. It had been his intent all along to vanquish this foe. Your situation only gave him the impetus to act upon it.”

“Nay, it was my doing,” Thranduil objected. And at that moment he could see the scene that had led to their current predicament. He saw the battle and the felling wound. Confusion had ruled in the moments of battle and still Thranduil had seen it. He should have tried to stop it.

They had been caught at complete unawares. Night had only just fallen and it was not typical for their enemy to strike so early. Usually it was far later in the evening before the forest’s evil made its appearance. It was as if they had expected Thranduil and his forces to be in this place at exactly this moment.

The elves had been moving, stealthily darting through the trees. They had thought they were advancing on the enemy camp and had scouted the location carefully. They had thought this, but they were wrong.

The spiders were first to come, dropping from the trees. Within seconds, orcs followed, leaping out from seemingly nowhere. They came from all sides. Two elves were stung before the others could compensate for the rush. But they fought, recovering as best they could, taking far fewer wounds than might have been expected given the ferocity of the charge.

Thranduil was locked in a tight battle, meeting the blows of a sizeable foe. Taking advantage of a misstep, Thranduil plunged his sword into the belly of the creature, finding nothing but soft matter to meet the biting edge of his blade. The creature fell, and the king looked around, using the brief moment to assess where he might strike next.

To his left, a group of his men maintained the advantage, while on his right, several others fought one-on-one with their orcish foe. Further on, could see the few spiders that remained being annihilated, limbs being hacked through. Legolas was among them, and he too found time enough to meet Thranduil’s eye. He nodded and then he wheeled around and was instantly engaged in a new fight, his sword clanging as he parried an enemy strike. But Thranduil did not follow his actions. He knew Legolas was skilled and he would not fall when they were so evenly matched. The elves had the advantage.

Thranduil then saw an elf who was flagging, and he jumped to his aid. Fleetingly, as the fight went on, he was able to glance around enough to see that his men were winning. This fight would soon end.

But that was when he sensed the greater part of evil. It was like a shroud falling over his soul and his mind turned from jubilation for what was to be victory to dread of the deepest kind. He could not even put it into his mind what was happening, so deep was the disturbance, and an uncontrollable shudder moved through him.

“Nazgul!” somebody gasped, and Thranduil was able then to affirm the sensation. That was what he felt.

A shattering cry tore the night apart. He felt the air leave his lungs as Thranduil dropped to his knees. So paralyzing was the Nazgul’s call. About him he saw elves collapsing in terror. They shrank in the pending darkness of the Wraith’s presence, each crying out their lament for this peril. But that gave reason for the orcs to fight even harder. Thranduil was on his feet immediately, pulling his men upright, crying to them to fight, to fight!

And then Legolas was there, doing the same, urging them on. Pride filled Thranduil’s heart, pushing away the doom that pierced his heart. His son had the strength in him to fight, as he knew he would. They should all fight. They wanted only to live!

Still, the elves were weakened where the orcs found strength. And though the orcs’ numbers could no longer match that of the elves, they smiled with glee for the disheartening effect such a presence had.

Their might was shadowed by the phantom menace. The Nazgul drew forth toward the clearing and despite their efforts to overcome it, the pervading gloom penetrated any light encouragement could bring. The Wraith was there and there was time no more for cowering or fear. A fresh horde of orcs followed in his path, and again the battle commenced.

Thranduil had no time to think. He merely reacted, parrying, lunging, thrusting, slaying as best he could.

For a minute the Nazgul merely watched, as if trying to decide where he would put his energies. But after that minute the focus of his attack became clear. He sought Thranduil.

The orcs that had been pressing the elf stepped aside, but the king found himself backing away despite their withdrawal. The dark phantom edged near, meeting Thranduil’s defenses.

The clang their swords threw up sparks. Strike for strike the ringing sound of those aggressive blows filled his ears. Thranduil pursued thrusts of his own but the effort was fruitless. The Wraith was there with every move.

But like a lightning flash someone came into the periphery of his vision and Thranduil realized someone had come to his aid. He barely could look aside to see who, for the fight went on. He did become aware of his surroundings though. It was as if he had been released from some spell. The clacking of the spiders’ racket, the clang of swords, the screams and cries of both elves and orcs alike -- all filled his ears. And above the din, Thranduil realized it was Legolas that fought at his side.

Their eyes met as they simultaneously dashed past the Nazgul threat. In that instant, Thranduil read his son’s intent. It had been there all along, only now the opportunity had been availed to him. The king knew he should have predicted such a thing for he had seen that fierce expression countless times over the years. He had fostered it. So fast was the motion. But the king knew, without an ounce of doubt, his son meant to kill the Nazgul.

The task was near impossible. Thranduil knew as much, as did his son. But only a few days before he had revealed their close history with this vile creature. If there was ever a time when the idea had been affirmed, it was then. He should not have spoken of it!

He tried to cry out, to stop Legolas. But the actions around them both were too fast, a blur to his eyes, and all he could do was try to maintain his part, defending himself from what was before him.

His breath was coming fast; he was assailed once more, only now the orcs had rejoined the fight. And Legolas? Where was he?

He was thrown to the ground; he’d been struck from behind, waylaid by some orc, but the action was not completed. The creature backed away, leaving Thranduil open for the Nazgul’s blade. The demon had his sword in hand. Thranduil gazed up to where eyes would have been had the creature such things. He tried to read the monster, but he could not.

The blade was poised, fixed to his heart, and he knew what was coming. He closed his eyes to the killing blow.

It never came. Instead a familiar cry rang out and startled, he looked up to see Legolas plunge his knife into the Nazgul’s spine. The creature cried out. What a terrible noise. He turned to face his assailant. His scream was the same piercing noise that had earlier sent his men to their knees. Yet this time, Thranduil did not shrink under the violent cry. He watched as the dark creature drew a knife from the scabbard at his waist. This was done in the same motion as his turn yet the motion seemed to take on a lazy stillness. Legolas appeared paralyzed by the confrontation, shocked even, as if he could not believe that the creature was still standing. Legolas did not raise a hand in his own defense as the Nazgul struck the blade into his chest,

“No!!!” Thranduil screamed, finding himself suddenly on his feet, running to his son.

The Nazgul was gone, fleeing into the darkness, but Thranduil did not bother to follow. He was fixed on his son, crying out some nonsensical yelp as he watched Legolas’ eyes lose focus and his head fall back. The young elf’s knees folded beneath him but Thranduil was there to catch him before Legolas’ body could meet the ground.

That memory was forced back into his mind as he sobbed with the anguish of it. He was shaking; tears spilled from his eyes. He sought out the solace that his soul might offer, but he tossed it aside in the same breath.

“I instilled it in him,” he insisted to the other who had been taunting him. He would not let his guilt be tempered by reason. His son was blameless. Deep in his soul he sought a means for forgiveness. He desperately craved it even if he could not give it to himself.

The other was still there. He was always there, though unlike their usual ways, this time a long silence followed. The words of absolution Thranduil had grown accustomed to hearing were not there. Instead whispered words came to him, “I cannot help you if you would take this only upon yourself.”

The other moved away even though Thranduil had not yet met his gaze. Absently the king wondered how long it had been since he had tried to do such a thing. A long time, he conceded. There would be no peace until he was willing to take that step.

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling sardonically. There was no mirth in the expression. He was not ready though he had the will still to live. “Very well then,” he said, “This is truly your fault, Father.”

The specter of Oropher gazed back at him, voided by means of a body and enshrouded in shadow where form was meant to be. The ghost did not smile. His expression remained grim. “That is not progress,” he said, turning again to walk away. Thranduil was left without aid. He had nothing to do but think about what might come while self-recrimination, his other companion, remained.

Thranduil stared at the fire as he waited for word from the healers. His elven warriors gathered along with him as the night deepened. He realized their presence and knew they were there to console him if he should ask it of them. They cared for Legolas too and he appreciated their concern.

As the night had gone on, those stung by the spiders had begun to come about. The elves who had suffered injury at the hands of the orcs were also bandaged and resting under the healers’ care. And the slain elf was being delivered, even now, into the hands of his kin. All that was unknown was Legolas’ condition.

The king’s eyes lingered on the coals within the blaze. It seemed so odd, the peace that pervaded given the earlier horror. It feels much as it had only days ago, he thought.

And it was, for they had been sitting about the campfire then as well. Only Legolas had been with them as they had exchanged tales of ancient times and lore. Despite the dark place where they resided, their spirits were high. They had been laughing.

Thranduil blinked and looked about him now. Hidden beyond the overgrowth of what had once been a sparring court, Thranduil saw his father gazing at him. He stood in the arched doorway of the old armory building. Go away, ghost! he thought, but he knew the elf was there as a reminder what had happened before.

“My lord.” Calonin called from the door of their improvised healing house.

Thranduil jumped to his feet. He knew he was disappointing the warriors who waited for word, but he could not know this here.

Calonin led him to Legolas’ bed. A blanket was tucked around his son’s waist. He was bare-chested and a white bandage was wrapped about his shoulder and chest though there was little difference in the color of that to his skin. Though unnaturally white, an exerted flush touched his cheeks and the light sheen of fever was visible on Legolas’ brow. Thranduil watched as it furrowed, then he noted the twitches and gasps of an unseen torment. It was telling. Legolas remained quite ill.

He took his son’s limp hand into his own then looked to the healer. The concern marking his face said what words could not.

“We could find no shards of the blade within the wound, and we have repaired what harms we found. We think it is the Black Breath that plagues him now.”

Thranduil leaned in close, finding a chair suddenly materializing beneath him. Calonin had quietly brought it to him, knowing with a healer’s perception that the king would not be parted from his son’s side.

“The Black Breath,” he repeated. “Do you know this with certainty?” He ached to hear some good.

“No, my lord.”

Thranduil squeezed the hand tighter as he swallowed the words. “Does he show any signs of...?” He could not complete the thought over the lump that was choking him.

“We have only detected the physical agonies so far,” Calonin replied in as consoling a voice as could be mustered given the circumstances. “What you are seeing may be the vexation of his dreams alone. We can know no more until time has passed or he awakens. The signs will become clearer then if indeed his blood is turning dark. We must wait, my lord.”

Legolas sighed in his dreams, as if catching a breath after a race. His head turned to the side with his moan. “Not long,” Thranduil said as he drew his hand to his son’s brow. “If I recall, once the change comes, it is swift.”

“We are ready should it need be done,” Calonin replied. Thranduil did not need to know what it was. He was already familiar.

“Is there nothing you can offer for this?” he asked, indicating his son’s misery as Legolas moaned out a sob.

“Athelas is being brought,” the healer answered and no sooner had he said it did attendants appear bearing the steeping pots. Thranduil nodded. The weed might help clear the toxic airs of the demon rabble.

“I will give you your peace,” Calonin said when all was properly administered. “I will be near should you need me.” He bowed his way out leaving Thranduil alone with his son.

“Legolas,” he whispered, leaning over the pale elf’s form. Though he knew it a fruitless exercise, he willed himself into his son’s dreams. For a moment, Legolas’ brow smoothed.

“I am with you,” he continued, encouraged. “Nothing more will befall you, my son. Stay with me.”

But Legolas’ dreams took a bad turn and he cried out once more

“Hush,” he soothed, finding himself drawn into the makeshift bed. He lifted his son’s limp form to him gently, cradling the head and shoulders as he continued to croon quieting noises and to stroke the fair head.

Legolas’ gasps and sobs slowly stilled within the protective walls of his father’s arms, and after a time it seemed he dozed. Thranduil dared not move feeling yet the hovering fever that heated his son’s skin. It reminded him again of the warmth of the fire a few days before, and the merriment they had felt had warded off the oppressive nature of the dark forest surrounding them.

They had been talking about the Last Alliance, and most specifically the battle that had destroyed so many in that war.

“You must understand; Oropher did not easily take orders, even in his days under Thingol’s rule,” he had been explaining to the warriors about him. “Any who had served with him -- Celeborn being within that number -- knew he was a good general. They also knew that there was a way to handle the elf, and most certainly a way not to. You did not just make demands and expect blind obedience from Oropher. His song was of a different note than that.”

The elves nodded in understanding, some having served with Oropher and having first hand knowledge, others not knowing him but imagining him through their own experiences in life. Secretly Thranduil thought they might also be agreeing because they saw this trait in Legolas, and perhaps himself as well.

It was Legolas in fact who confirmed what Thranduil had been leading to. “And that is why he did not follow the direct orders of the High King,” the elf added.

Thranduil nodded. He lowered his voice as he spoke. “It is not that he did not follow the orders, it was that he disregarded the timing of them. My father was unaware that Gil-Galad had a tandem act going that would have served a distraction for the Mirkwood forces. Had Oropher been told, the timing could have been worked to better effect.”

“What was it the High King feared in not sharing his plan?” someone else asked.

“Gil-Galad did not fear sharing, he was simply pressed to get the details out to all the parties that be,” Thranduil answered. “Time was short and much was decided on a whim. Yet when the plan had been constructed my father had not been present. He was told his duty but not the reasoning why; the details were omitted. That is where Gil-Galad failed. He should have realized my father was capable of tasking more than what he was given and could have been a good aide had he been put to it.”

“I have heard Lord Celeborn say as much,” one of the warriors commented.

Thranduil smiled. “It pleases me much to know this has been said.”

“Tell of the battle,” Legolas prompted, his eyes bright with pride.

“You know the tale as well as I. You tell it,” Thranduil chided, smiling at his son’s eagerness, even if the subject was a painful one.

“But you were there,” the younger said.

Thranduil’s smile slipped. “I was that,” he said. “We had no idea what it was we would encounter.”

“The Nazgul,” Legolas supplied, his expression watchful as a dark dread fell over the group.

“That was Oropher’s end, was it not?” one warrior asked among them.

“It was,” Thranduil conferred.

“But his death led to knowledge which may yet bring the downfall of our foe,” Legolas added with clear optimism.

“It did,” Thranduil agreed, cheering slightly, “for it was Oropher who learned the means of destroying the Witch King.”

“So has been said, my lord,” the elf nearest Thranduil remarked, “but I have never learned how he came to do this.”

“Please tell it, my lord,” Legolas urged once again. Thranduil smiled at his son. Legolas had heard this tale a hundred times at least since infancy and could probably recite it from his heart. He seemed to love the glory of his grandfather’s sacrifice, and despite the loss of a king, he flourished under the knowledge that the elves of Mirkwood knew something of their fate through the fabric of that story. There was pride in the light of the elf’s eyes and Thranduil could not quell that. Besides, the king suspected there was magic in an elder’s spoken words. What harm could come through inspiration such as this, especially in knowing the elves before him might have to make like sacrifices?

He bowed his head as he mentally put himself into the tale. “The skies were dark over those wicked grounds. The land was menaced with the foul grips of destruction and gloom. The Dark Lord’s reach was long, and darkness spread from the walled fortress of Mordor, leeching the lands to the north of anything just. It was there that we fought in those days, marching relentlessly into battle day after day, year after year, spilling the blood of countless foe only to find for all ground taken, it was lost again in the days after. That was the make of the war. It continually raged. There was no respite.

“But we had made headway at last and had passed beyond the Dagorlads, nearing the gates of Mordor. We had managed a breech in the forces and fought past. Our hold was precarious at best, and all knew that our advantage would be short-lived if we did not act quickly. There was little that stood between us and the gated wall, which had been broken in an earlier attack. But there was no time to regroup our thoughts and strategize the best plan. A strike had to be made. Perhaps in hindsight it might have been better to retreat, knowing we had wounded our enemy rather than to go blindly into the damning hell that we did.

“You should know that Gil-Galad was a most valiant king. His words had power, and few ever disagreed with his counsel. And Oropher too was an elf of strong means. His only failing was that he demanded clear understanding. He could be a magnificent ally when given so, for when he learned of all nuances to a plot, his mind was very quick. He could see what others might never think to ask and make suggestions that drew a plan to nigh perfection. He was very cunning. Yet if information was lacking, he would hesitate or was prone to err, for always was he thinking ahead and trying to find the greatest solution.

“Such was the case on that fated day. Gil-Galad sent word for Oropher to attack on the left flank at the time when the moon was cresting the horizon. He had a diversion planned for the same moment at the middle reaches of the enemy front but he had not told my father what he would do. Instead all we were told was the attack point and the time.

“But Oropher was wary. He knew that flying demons had been seen in the sky and the Nazgul, the most potent of Sauron’s defenses, had taken to wing. He saw a gathering of them before our forces, in the place that we were to attack. But more, he knew nothing of the diversion Gil-Galad had planned. He was not aware that at the appointed time, winged fighters of our own -- the Eagles -- were to come and engage in battle with the Nazgul menace. He only had knowledge enough to see if he followed orders as given he was dooming his men to certain death.

“But thinking this, he thought perhaps if he acted before the given time, our army’s attack would draw the Nazgul away enough that the second wave could vanquish their foe.

“And so he ordered us to the middle fore and we fought there.

“It was a fatal error. Though we did break up the Nazgul dominance, the Eagles were forced to attack at the left instead of the center as planned. The bigger mistake though was that the charge never reached the breach.

“But a bit of trickery was revealed to us, and we can take it as a spoil of war, even if it cost us our king. For it was Oropher who heard it; he was there when the Witch King came to battle and he was the one who engaged in the attack that unveiled this evil.

“We fought side by side with men in that war, and in that particular fight they too broke their lines and came to our aid. Their forces meshed with ours, and we stood together in battle. But Angmar, the Witch King, came as well and that changed that dynamics of our war. It is said that the Nazgul strike such terror in the hearts of men that they will collapse from the horror alone. It is also said that no man can bear the presence of more than one Wraith at a time. Those words are false for I saw Men fight those demons. Some shrank away in the shadow of their coming, but those with valiant hearts persevered and challenged the Black Guards. Yet for all their courage, none could strike them down.

“One man -- his name was never known to me -- used whatever advantage he had in the chaos of battle, and he struck the Witch King through the heart with his blade. It was the first time any had made such a strike and for a moment all the battle seemed to come to a halt. There was dead silence as the knife stuck. And then the Nazgul screamed, and it sounded like all the mercy of this world had been vanquished. Such terror did that din bring! All eyes were drawn there. But there was hope in the gazes, for it seemed an impossible task had been done: Angmar had been delivered a fatal blow.

“It was not to be though. No sooner had the Wraith cry ended did the man who had cut through him fall to the ground. He was a lifeless heap. And then worse than the Nazgul scream came the Nazgul’s laugh. The demon was not dead. The blade fell to the ground beside the dead man’s body, and the Witch King taunted, ‘Foolish Mortal! No Man shall ever have the power to kill me!’

“Those words are what rallied my father, for he ran into the event and took up the man’s sword. ‘No Man may do this thing, but I am not Man!’ he said.

“For a moment the Witch King looked as if to flee. Once more he screamed his deafening shriek but Oropher did not retreat. And then he took up his weapon and hissed, ‘Try then, little Elf! But do not be sure of yourself for my attention is on you and your kind.’

“Oropher fought and the war around them suddenly raged again. Had I been near enough, I would have joined in my father’s fight, for I too saw his meaning. Elves had the power to slay that evil. It had been told in that small show of fear from the Witch King. Man may not do this thing, but all that are not man may. And in knowing that, the Nazgul would not be complacent in their battle with the elves. Angmar fought with precision. And my father was cut down... cut down before I could come to his side. When I finally did reach him, I carried him away from that damnation. He died in my arms that night.”

Silence fell over the group and Thranduil waited for them to recover before he spoke again. Finally he said, “The Nazgul are a terrible enemy to us, from that day to the present. They know we have the power to destroy them. But since that day they have been wary of us; they will not allow any to get near enough to pierce their hearts.”

“I shall be the one to do it,” one elf in the group called out, laughing.

And others joined in the sudden exuberance of this brag. “Nay, it will be my sword that strikes.”

“Nay, mine.”

And so it went on, but Thranduil silenced them with his raised hands. They needed to learn the caveat of this secret. “Do not be keen on this venture, for if you have not known what may come of such an occurrence it is time you did. Even for elf-kind, the strike of a Nazgul’s blade can cause death... or worse.”

“What is worse?” asked the nearest elf, making it clear he did not know.

“If a Nazgul blade should strike through the heart, and even a mere sliver of that weapon remains, the victim could fall into the clutches of evil. He or she could also become like that of the Wraith. Their body would succumb to the darkness and their faer would be lost to the healing of Mandos.” Thranduil watched as some of those closest him shuddered, despite the heat of the fire. “Do not be eager to sacrifice yourself unless you are prepared to lose everything,” he warned.

No one said anything, and Thranduil was glad to see the competition among them had ended. Though the Nazgul were a horrible menace to the wood, he would not let his warriors think they were invulnerable. He shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “Of course it makes it hard to weigh such a choice when the Nazgul do not venture to the challenge. They have not been seen in the last hundred years at least.”

A cold chuckle ran through the group. “Cowards,” someone murmured in a low voice.

Legolas spoke then, adding his part to the grim determination of this cluster. “Still they remain. They hold up in their tower. The feel of them pervades that ground.” And among them he was the only one who would know for he had ventured far in his fight against the darkness.

From the gathering came the question, “Is it true that Angmar has fled to the south?”

Another chimed in, “I had heard he no longer lives in the towering heights of Dol Guldur.”

Legolas responded. “I have heard it said too, and also that it is one named Kamul who rules there now. I think it makes little difference though for the fate of all the Wraiths is the same.”

“So they may all be slain in the same way?”

“I believe it true,” Legolas said.

A younger elf among them then spoke. “My sister used to sing a song to me of Amon Lanc, before it was the sinister place that it is now. She said it was lovely and strange and she used to go there as a child.”

“Sing it to us, Athedon,” he was urged, and Thranduil smiled at the youth’s optimism. He was equally pleased by the elf’s voice, for it was clear and unshaken; it had the power to strip away the darkness. Thranduil admired the gift.

The singing of one song led to another, and soon the mood had changed and the warriors no longer exchanged tales of their terrible foes but of happier times and merriment. Thranduil used this as an excuse for his retirement. To his surprise he found Legolas rising to leave as he did.

“I will follow you,” the younger said.

“How strange to find you weary,” the king remarked. Legolas had much vim in his quest for life and he seldom saw the younger fatigue.

“It is more an excuse for a private moment between us than any need for rest,” Legolas explained.

“Oh? What might you seek?” Thranduil asked.

“Only confirmation of my own suspicions,” the fair elf said. “I too have heard tales, and one that distracts me though I have never heard it said by you.”

“And that tale would be...?” he prompted.

“That there is more to Oropher’s death than just a fatal wound.”

Thranduil lowered his gaze. “A fatal wound is not sufficient?”

“I had heard he fell under circumstances such as those you described,” Legolas hinted.

Thranduil paused. He had dreaded this moment, though he knew Legolas would eventually piece it together. He never told the tale of Oropher’s end without giving warning of what a Morgul Blade might do as well. “Such as succumbing to the poison at the end of a Nazgul knife?”

“Aye. I speak of what comes in a Wraith’s existence. Is it true? Was that his fate?” the young elf asked, his eyes following the king.

The guilt of this confession hurt more than Thranduil could have expressed. “It is true,” he finally said. “Oropher was doomed by a blade to his heart. He fell to the curse.”

There was a long silence as the younger elf’s had dipped and his face was shadowed by a curtain of hair. He finally spoke though his words came as a whisper. “I thought it so though you never spoke of it to me.”

The elder sighed. Because of the pain he suffered each time he thought on it, he had long refrained from relaying this part of the tale. “I granted him a merciful death,” he said, wishing he could believe it. He then added, “By my own knife I ended what he was to become.”

In the distance, Thranduil could hear his warriors yet singing their songs, and it seemed an odd contrast to think of his father’s death while hearing those merry tunes.

And in the corner of his eye he could see the ghost that had haunted him ever since and his heart twisted in pain.

He did not wait for Legolas to ask him more. He could not take the misery this recollection brought him. Mechanically he put words to what happened while in his heart he was writhing with pain. “We could not know at first the effect the wound would have, for none of us had thought it possible an elf could be turned from his nature into that of a Wraith. But swiftly into that night the wound became ruined in black and my father’s losing battle was clear. The villainous wound was consuming him, and I watched helplessly as it tried to take his soul.

“I wept for him, for I did not know what I might do. But he supplied the answer to me, just as he always had.

“’Kill me, Thranduil,’ he begged me in one of his few lucid moments. The dark wound had driven him into maddening dreams and cries of sorrow. But his eyes had opened, and he called out for an end. ‘My soul is lost to me,’ he said. ‘Make it end here so that I still might journey into Mandos’ care. It is not too late.’

“I shook my head, finding what he was asking impossible to do. Kill my own father? Such was the crime of Kin-Slayers. It was not in me.

“Yet I saw the wicked darkness that was taking him away. His eyes were changed -- had been changing ever since the attack -- and the wound stood outlined where the poison had seeped in. It crawled over his skin and a transparency was beginning to seize him.

“’Kill me,’ he said again. I did not wish it, but if he asked it I would grant him anything. Still I did not know how I was to achieve this request.

“He seemed to read my mind, and without realizing his reach, I heard the swift ring of my long knife being pulled from its sheath.

“Kill me before I use this to kill you,’ he said, and I could see he had my weapon poised to do exactly that. There was menace in his eyes and I did not know him in that instant. He was a demon. But his hand relaxed and he placed the knife into mine. ‘Do it,’ he said, not bothering to explain more. ‘Now.’ It was a command -- his last one to me.”

“You killed him,” Legolas whispered, shock clearly written in his expression.

“Had there been any other option I would not have considered his death.”

“But he was your father,” Legolas choked.

“I will not lie -- it hurt beyond anything I might have imagined! But I also knew it was the right thing to do.”

The younger elf said nothing, feeding into the guilt that seemed painted over Thranduil’s feeble excuse. His son seemed struck by the revelation and his eyes were wide and filled with something of panic.

“You see now why I could not reveal this to the men,” Thranduil said trying to make light of the situation and speaking only consolingly.

Legolas looked up. He swallowed and nodded. “You were right.”

Thranduil was gladdened by his son’s reprieve. He clapped a hand to Legolas’ shoulder. “Aye. They would not have understood.”

“Nay, not that.” Now Legolas mirrored his father’s stance putting out a hand to the older elf. “I mean that you were right to have ended Oropher’s life,” Legolas said, then lowered his gaze. Quietly he added, “It was what he asked of you. There was no hope beyond that act. It was for his salvation. I would have asked the same of you were I in his position.”

It choked Thranduil to imagine such a thing, but he nodded. Their eyes met but he could not read what was in his son’s mind. He only knew he could never repeat that action again. The guilt of it would surely kill him.

“He understood,” the ghost of Oropher said, waking Thranduil from his reverie.

For a moment, Thranduil forgot that the specter had been near and had been doggedly haunting him in recent days.

No others could see or hear the spirit; it seemed Oropher was Thranduil’s personal phantom. At least, thought Thranduil, he is a benevolent ghost for he always appeared when the king’s sense of doubt was greatest. It was an irritant having a specter following you when your pain was greatest, but at the same time he helped Thranduil gauge moments when he needed to assert himself. Fear was as a constant companion in these dark times, and Thranduil was certain that was why the ghost remained at his side now.

“He will understand,” Oropher said. Thranduil blinked, trying to read the meaning in the shift of phrase.

The king looked where his father directed. Legolas’ brow was fevered still and his breath now quaked as if he was bitterly cold.

“Legolas,” he whispered once more as a means to sooth, but the elf’s answer was only a moan.

“He will understand,” the ghost repeated. Oropher was staring at something about Legolas.

Thranduil followed his gaze and noticed that blood seeped from the bandage wrapped around Legolas’ chest. And then he gasped.

Was it...?

The stain on the bandage was black, not red.

With shaking fingers, he brushed the skin on Legolas’ chest. Was he seeing it? Black veins were becoming visible beneath the pale surface.

“He will ask for his death. You will see.”

Without thinking, he backed away from the bed. “Calonin!” Thranduil called for the healer, wishing his reason for panic confirmed.

“He will understand why you must kill him,” Oropher said.

“Calonin!” Thranduil called again for the healer, running to the door. He gazed outside into the darkened hall. No one was there.

“Legolas,” he gasped as he raced back to the bed. He began shaking his son to wake. He had to see his eyes. “Please!” he begged. Tears filled his eyes and he sobbed. He could see the evil leeching into his son’s soul. “I can not do this again.”

Oropher watched Legolas as well. His eyes remained fixed, as if he willed a change to occur there.

Legolas was shaking uncontrollably and he cried out as if in pain. The king could not help his fears. “Calonin!” he tried one last time though his voice was weak. He no longer needed the healer to tell him. It was real!

“He understood what you did for me because I asked it of you. If it is to be, Legolas will ask it of you too,” Oropher said.

He was choking. His breath would not come past his tears. “I cannot!”

“You did it for me,” the ghost reminded, but the words seemed almost a taunt. “You granted me mercy.”

“Why do you do this to me?” Thranduil cried, suddenly enraged. “Why do you offer me guilt? You are to be my better self,”

“What makes you think that?” Oropher replied. A chill ran down Thranduil’s spine.

But his attention was drawn away as Legolas moaned once again. The elf’s eyelids fluttered and Thranduil was there. His hands were on either side of his son’s face. Blue eyes opened.

The voice was a whisper. “Father,” the young elf blindly called out.

He grasped his son’s hand in both of his, stroking, trying to ease any pain. “I am here,” he gently said, his voice consoling.

The elf’s eyes were lost, searching. “The knife!” Legolas sobbed.

Thranduil’s brow furrowed. “What knife?”

“Your knife,” he said and he continued to seek out his father. He cried out desperately.

“Legolas, look at me!” Thranduil called, shaking the elf slightly. Their eyes met. Was it there? Was he seeing what he had seen in his father’s eyes all those years ago? “I cannot do this. Do not ask it of me.”

But the knife was there, being handed to him over Legolas’ body. Oropher held it. Thranduil had not even heard it being drawn from its sheath.

“Use it,” Legolas said, looking past his father to the ghost. It suddenly dawned on Thranduil that Legolas could see Oropher.

Thranduil looked from his son to the ghost then back again. “No! You are wrong!” But the veins around the chest wound were darkening, spreading.

“You wished it upon him,” Oropher pressed.

“Why would I wish such a thing?” Thranduil objected.

“You want to kill him,” Oropher accused.

“No!” Thranduil cried, panic seizing his heart. But somehow in the deep recesses of his mind he knew he had been expecting the wound to go black. He had been waiting for this moment to come. Yet he certainly did not want it!

Suddenly, Legolas’ hand was clutching at his father’s chest. “Slay me!”

“No!” Thranduil shouted, trying to pull away.

The young elf hissed. “Do it before I turn upon you.” Eyes met eyes and Thranduil realized new panic. It was true. Legolas’ eyes were different! They were changed! Before him, Legolas was transforming into a Wraith!

With a sob, he grabbed the knife. He felt a kinship with the balance of the tool as his fingers curled around the handle. He lifted it. He knew his face to be a terror as he poised the weapon over his son’s heart.

But the balance was lost as he looked into his son’s face. For an instant, Legolas appeared composed, relaxed.... normal. And then the monster presence was back and he saw the demon curse altering his son. Which was real? He could not tell! His hands shook with his uncertainty.

“Kill me,” Legolas said in a voice that was a poisonous hiss. Blue fingers with blackened nails reached up to the knife and pulled at the blade. “Kill me!” Legolas repeated.

But Thranduil’s eyes could not maintain any certainty. The vision of his son kept shifting. In a blink, Legolas was at peace, gentle and sleeping, in the next he was a demon, an advocate for death. “Which are you?” he cried, pulling his hands to his chest and shrinking to his fear. Was madness claiming him?

“You choose,” Oropher whispered, and Thranduil looked up to the ghost. “Choose for him just like you chose for me.” And with this Thranduil saw his father’s features change as well. Eyes glowed a piercing red while only a shadow of his elven form remained. The body twisted and grew taller while a new sense of evil annihilated anything fair.

And below, Legolas snarled, pulling at Thranduil’s hands, reaching for his chest. Demons were all around him and he quailed in answer to Oropher’s ghost. “You asked it of me! You begged me to end it!” Thranduil cried. The knife was shaking furiously in his hand.

“Did I? Or was my plea only in your mind?” the ghost asked, hovering at his ear.

“You asked it of me!” Thranduil claimed. Oropher had demanded his death. Or had he? He could no longer be sure. The weight of his guilt was sapping his strength.

“Kill me!” Legolas moaned again. His hands weakly reached to the king, as if he were pleading for this mercy.

“Do it!” Oropher demanded. “Now!”

And then Legolas’ movements were no longer enfeebled. There was strength in his grip and he was fighting for the knife.

“This is your only chance,” Oropher urged as Legolas’ hands curled on the handle in the effort to turn the blade. He was turning it and now its point was directed at Thranduil’s heart!

Legolas was going to kill him! “No!” he exclaimed as he found his own control over the blade. He did not wish to die!

“Grant him mercy! Grant him peace! End his misery! Do what you did for me!” Oropher shouted as Thranduil and the Wraith form fought for the knife. The weapon was a looming threat to Thranduil’s life.

“I do not want this!” he shouted. He did not think he could live with the knowledge that he had taken the life of his kin again! It was too much for him!

“I cannot help you if you would take this upon yourself! Examine what is before you! Will his death really be that of your making? Was mine?” Oropher argued.

“Why do you not help me, Father? I need you!” Thranduil cried. Tears were blinding him, and he truly could not see who or what it was he fought.

“I help you, but you must recognize the truth for yourself. Answer my query and end the battle you wage. You think yourself a murderer!”

It was true! All along, Thranduil had kept from putting a name to his guilt, but that is what he felt. He had murdered!

“Admit as much!” Oropher urged.

“Yes!” Thranduil wailed. The admission was as painful as the death he had inflicted and new tears spilled from his eyes.

“But can it be murder, Thranduil, if it was asked for?” the ghost asked.

“I did not want it! I could have chosen otherwise!”

“And had you?” his father continued.

And had he his father would have become a monster of the darkness, his soul lost, his song severed, not even relinquished to the healing cares of an elf’s greater fate. “But I know this!” he cried, finding the question futile and unredeeming.

“Do you think I did not?” Oropher then asked.

Thranduil had to pause, and his fight with the evil seemed to slacken. “You would not have asked,” he suddenly grasped. “You would not have asked if the darkness was not claiming you!” Thranduil cried as he justified the actions fully in his mind.

And then he realized a truth that had not been availed to him before. Oropher had loved life as much as Legolas did. He would not relinquish to death if he were not changed. It was the demon that had claimed his father and it was that demon that had begged for an end. And realizing that, he knew Oropher had already been beyond the pale reaches of life. Guilt was unfounded for him because all Oropher had wanted was to hold to life in whatever form it might take. The mercy had been real, for what more could be given when life no longer remained.

“There! There!” Oropher exclaimed, drawing Thranduil back to his task as he took control. The knife once more was directed over the black spot that marked Legolas’ heart.

With one last breath, he looked into the eyes of the monster beneath him, trying desperately to find something of his son there. He could see once more, but haloed orbs of red were the only things visible to him, and he knew in that instant his son was gone.

“Forgive me, please,” he said as an oath, “Be free from this agony. Were you my son, I would not do this. But you ask... you ask, and I cannot doubt that to mean that my son is destined for salvation. Were you Legolas, the wound I inflict would mean nothing.” He plunged the knife into the monster’s chest.

And then he screamed.

Pain suddenly filled him in a torrent so unexpected and real he could only find it in him to howl in tortured suffering. The agony shook him, filling his chest, his lungs, seizing all of his strength. He looked down. The knife was impaled within his own chest.

Weakly he lifted his hands there, feeling the blood that sprang from the now prominent hole. He did not know how such a wound came to be. The knife had been turned on the monster, not him.

So why was it his blood that spilled crimson past his fingers, over his garments, onto the blankets?

“I want to live,” he gasped feeling his life slipping away though he fought to keep it.

He wanted to live but he was falling, falling into arms that reached out to grab him, to claim him, to protect him. And then he realized that he need not fear. This wound would not see him dead though he felt utmost certainty that the demon of guilt was now gone.

Silence vanquished his war.

Legolas’ eyes came to focus as he lifted his head from the bed. He had not meant to sleep, but somehow he had. The athelas had had a calming effect, and had managed to lull him into a drowse.

He reached a hand down to his father, who was resting peacefully, brushing his fingertips over the elf’s cheek.

“How do you fare, Legolas?” Calonin asked as he approached the bed.

“I am well,” Legolas answered the healer. And then he added, “The fever has broken.” He rested the back of his hand on Thranduil’s brow.

“The worst seems to be passed,” the healer said as he began work on the dressing that protected Thranduil’s wound. “He is healing well.”

Legolas nodded, pleased to hear what he already had affirmed in his mind. “It was a difficult night,” he said, recalling his father’s cries and writhing torment. He had spent the better part of it trying to sooth the elf king, to placate his frenzied panic after the nightmare of the battle. Tough decisions had been forced upon him, and for the better part he had been unsure, for he saw signs that things were turning a darker way. Until his waking, he had been uncertain if Thranduil was falling to the same fate his father had succumbed.

But the demon had never appeared. Thranduil had never cried out for his death and Legolas attributed that much to the strength of the elf. According to Calonin, the curse of the Black Breath had been responsible for much of what his father had endured, for the injury had not been fatal. But that did not mean Thranduil could not succumb to the doom of fading. If his father had thought himself beyond hope, the wound could have killed him whether it was tainted or not.

Fortunately that had never happened, and despite the nightmares his father fought through, he had struggled in favor of life.

“Legolas?” the healer called. He lifted a long knife lying at Thranduil’s side. “How did this get here?”

“What is it?” the elf asked, uncertain what it was the healer held.

“It is Thranduil’s knife, I think. How did it get here?” Calonin asked, his brow perplexed.

“I do not know,” Legolas answered, thrown uncertain by the appearance of a weapon that had not been present when last he was aware. He then added, “I have never seen that knife in my life. Are you sure it is my father’s?”

“I know it,” Calonin admitted, turning the knife over in his hands, “but I have not seen it for many a long year.”

“What do you mean?” asked Legolas, confused. He knew his father’s weapons. “Where do you know it from?” He reached for the weapon and ran his fingers over the inlay on the handle.

“He carried it with him into the battle before the gates of Mordor,” Calonin replied.

“You mean in the engagement where Oropher fell?” Legolas asked, truly mystified now. Was this the knife that his father had used to do that horrible deed?

“It was lost to him shortly after the siege,” the older elf nodded.

“When he granted his mercy upon my grandfather,” Legolas murmured, not truly asking. He knew the healer perceived his meaning.

“Aye,” the healer said, bowing his head in remembrance of that sorrowful event. “But how did it get here? That is what I wish to know, for it was lost to him shortly after. None could find it. I remember because he wished it to be buried with Oropher.”

“Perhaps one of the warriors brought it in while we slept,” Legolas offered. “I know many have fought with my father since those days, and though I would never think any would steal, it may have been recovered here, on the grounds of the old palace.”

But the healer shook his head. “This weapon is not tarnished. It has been well-tended. Further, I stood at the door all night should you have needed me. None came into this room after the athelas was steeped.”

Legolas was confounded. He had no idea where the knife had come from. But he realized he could not be distracted by such mysteries. He shrugged, placing the knife upon the table near his father’s bed as he said, “I imagine he will be pleased to learn it has been returned to him. Let us leave it at that.”

The healer nodded, and that said everything in Legolas’ mind. His father was better. He would recover. And that was all that mattered.

He squeezed Thranduil’s hand in a further sign of encouragement. And then he turned back to Calonin. “I must see to my men,” he said, excusing himself so the healer might attend to his duties. The warriors around the camp had waited the night to learn what they might, and now that the horror was past, he felt comfortable reporting the news to them that their king would live.

He entered the darkened hall outside the healing room and walked the corridor toward the yard. As he pushed the door open, morning light blinded him briefly. Squinting into the glare, a movement in the shadows caught his eye. He turned, and for a fragment of a moment he saw a figure there. It was an elf, tall, lean, fair of face and color. It struck Legolas that the elf seemed familiar to him.

And then he blinked and the elf was gone. Legolas frowned, uncertain if a figment of his mind had tried to fool him.

But he let it go, just as he let the knife go. Evil touched too much of his world to let the whims of burdened thoughts rule him. There was life to live after all, and for all the darkness, that gave him -- his father -- all the elves -- hope. That was what had import on this day. He took a step into the light.

THE END