So much time had passed that he no longer remembered anything but the darkness, no longer remembered being free and unfettered, save in his mind, and even that had begun to slip from him.  His world was narrowed to the gash between the stones where they had thrust him and then bricked away all light and sound. 

At first, in his terror, he had struggled against his bonds, straining in the yards of funerary cloth they had bound him in, but when he realized he would neither suffocate nor starve, his struggles ceased.  And then, after a time, he wept soundlessly around the clay with which they had stopped his mouth, for he realized he was not being condemned to death but to life.

* * *

The battle under the eaves of Mirkwood had been long and hard-fought.  For centuries the Shadow had crept through the forest, twisting among the trees and poisoning the waters, but now the final push of the enemy northward from Dol Guldur was more vicious than any threat the woodland realm had known since the time of the Dagor Dagorlad.

No one could say how the blaze began, but in the midst of battle, above the shouts, fire suddenly took both sides.  Stretches of woodland that had not seen light in centuries became an inferno, and the air was thick with the ash of burning wood and spider webs; as they ran for safer ground, harried by the enemy, the Elves heard the spiders themselves squealing, saw them plummet from the trees as flaming brands.

Somewhere between the flames and the mountains of Mirkwood, the Elves managed to regroup and, with reinforcements hastily brought south, engage the enemy once more.  Hours became days, with only brief intervals of rest between skirmishes, until at last, weary and ragged, the Elves brought down the last of their enemy or drove them into the darkest reaches of Mirkwood, where the spiders would deal with them.

Clouds rolled in on the eve of victory, bringing with it a downpour that checked the fire.  For a day and night the rain fell, and the next day dawned in a haze of watery mist and smoke.

Thranduil led his forces south into the burn area to assess the damage.  Acres lay blackened, a grievous sight for any Elf who loved the trees as he did, and yet the blaze had been beneficial in its own way, cleansing the forest of all that had polluted it over the centuries.  From experience, he knew that new growth would come and reclaim what was lost, and that once more this might be a place of sunlight and leaves.

If only the shadows do not return, he thought.

There was sorrow among the ashes, for the flames had spread so swiftly that not all had been able to escape.  In some places, fed by dead wood and leaves, a firestorm tore down the narrow paths, swallowing those who tried to flee.  Now began the grim task of trying to separate the dead. 

The woodland King walked among his warriors as they moved among the fallen Elves and Orcs; the former were gingerly placed in the supply wagons, wherever room could be found, while the latter were taken to the border and dumped.  His nose had long since become inured to the stench of charred flesh and wood, but the contorted poses of the dead struck him anew each time they came upon another corpse.  They had been alive when they burned, and in their agony clawed at the scorched earth and opened their mouths in screams that seared their lungs with burning air.  Thranduil could think of fewer deaths that were worse.

His captains had given him the names of the missing, yet the fire ensured they would never be able to identify the dead beyond their race; the families could not be certain whose body they received for burial.

On the fifth day after the battle, a messenger wearing the colors of Lórien was brought into the camp.  Such messages from the south were rare and, being assured that it was of the utmost urgency, Thranduil received the messenger at once.

A missive written in Lord Celeborn’s own hand was reiterated in the messenger’s tale of an assault upon the borders of Lórien.  Of course, such skirmishes were commonplace, in both realms, but Celeborn’s tone and that of his envoy indicated this was something beyond a mere yrch raid.

“Twice we have repelled them, aran daer, but great losses we took at the Northern Fences and the enemy was massing to strike again even as I left.”

Thranduil knew at once that the attack on his realm had not been an isolated incident, that it was part of some massive invasion staged simultaneously on two fronts.  Dol Guldur had grown mighty in the past few centuries; that the blow should fall now, at a time of such great upheaval, did not surprise him.

Sauron was making his move.  Elrond had confirmed as much in the message he sent east at winter’s end.  Although Thranduil did not like to be indebted to a Noldo for anything, especially not one who had sent his son on a dangerous quest without his leave, Thranduil was shrewd enough to heed the warning.  Border patrols were increased, and the southern defenses strengthened along the stretch of woodland that looked toward Dol Guldur.

“And no doubt my kinsman wishes me to send aid, yes?” he asked the messenger.  He was tempted to add that the last time his realm had sent assistance to another Elven kingdom, his father and most of his army had perished, but as the words rose to his lips he realized the Elf before him was not the target of his frustration.

Besides, this one was clearly young and inexperienced, and though he wore the gray and green of the Galadhrim and carried a bow, Thranduil could see by his carriage that he was not a warrior of the Naith.  Celeborn could not spare any other, it seemed.  “Look around you, pen-neth, and tell me what you see.”

The young Elf flushed with embarrassment at the epithet.  His eyes anxiously swept the clearing.  “I-I see a burnt wood, aran daer.”

“Now look at me,” said Thranduil, wiping the back of a dirty hand against an equally dirty cheek, “and dispense with the formalities.  I am but a king of ashes and corpses.  Aye, the forest has burned, and that may be a blessing in the end, but you have not looked hard enough.  Do you not see how ragged and weary my warriors are?  Did you not mark the charred corpses they labor over?”

In the messenger’s reflexive swallow he saw that the youth had noticed the dead.  “Then you will return to Celeborn and tell him all you have seen, and that I have neither the numbers nor the inclination to march at once as he wishes.  That is not to say I am deaf to his plea, for he is my kinsman, but he must be patient and hold his defenses until I am able to come to him.”

* * *

He marked the moment when his narrow world changed.  In a dream he had been drifting, lost in the memories of happier times, of far-off Gondor, imagining he could feel the breeze tease his hair as he climbed the flanks of Mindolluin and looked down on the tiers of the White City so far below.

In his mind he could almost hear the voice of his father.  Eärnil had ever been exasperated with him for his recklessness, for his impatience.  The last time he had seen his father had been in the House of the Dead in the Rath Dínen, a stone effigy, the last in a line of marble ancestors.  And into his father’s hands, imagining the anger in Eärnil’s voice at his folly, he had placed his crown, the onyx and pearl and silver gleaming against the marble….

A shudder suddenly passed through him and he caught back his breath, spasming against his restraints when he realized he could not breathe.  Sensation returned to him, flooding him with fear and desperation, and in a moment he felt the weight of stone pressing down upon him as it had not done in all the uncounted days he had been here.  Whatever kept him alive, it was no more.  He was free of the spell of living death that kept him bound to Arda, and yet, in the next frantic heartbeat he knew no one was coming to let him out into the light.  

Had he not been bound so tightly, he would have thrashed against the walls of his narrow tomb.  He felt his throat strain with a soundless cry, his lungs strain for air that was not there.  Red appeared behind his eyes, and it was the color of the denial that was his last conscious thought.

* * *

Two more weeks passed under the eaves of Mirkwood.  The dead were already on their way back home, where Thranduil’s wife and elder son would see to the burial arrangements; Thranduil himself chose to remain. 

He had not seen Celeborn in more than an age, and they were not close cousins, but wars and the inevitable fading of Arda left Thranduil with few relations east of the Sea.  He had not lied to the young messenger; if it was in his power to send aid to Lórien, he would, though it did not sit well with him to have dealings with Celeborn’s Noldorin wife.  For some reason, Galadriel’s presence unnerved him as it had unnerved his father, only Oropher had shown genuine distaste for her.

While they yet dwelt in Doriath, in Neldoreth near the house of Celeborn and his new wife, Oropher had cautioned his son to keep a healthy distance between himself and the Noldorin woman.  “Do not bare your thoughts before her, ion-nín, for she will perceive all your secrets.  These kinslayers who come from across the Sea, they are not natural creatures.  Thingol was wise to bar his realm to them.”

So he waited for word from the south while he gathered to him reinforcements and supplies.  The forest was unusually still, with not even the distant hissing and scuttling of spiders in their webs to disturb the silence, yet Thranduil knew better than to relax his vigilance.  This was birthing season in Mirkwood, and always were the young spiders ravenous.  Patrols went out in fives or sixes, scouring the burn area for the creatures, who somehow always managed to return after a forest fire, and for any new incursion by the enemy.  Orcs were constantly trying to pierce the gloom of Mirkwood, for what purpose Thranduil knew not, and those who managed to avoid being ensnared by the spiders were a menace.

No new threat was discovered, nor did any news come.  The days passed until, at the beginning of Gwirith, one of the patrols returned with a stranger in their midst.

This messenger, like the last, wore the colors of Lórien, yet unlike the other he was one of the Galadhrim.  In the same breath that he gave his name, Seregon, the warrior handed Thranduil a message bearing Celeborn’s seal.

The missive, less hastily scrawled than the last, only reaffirmed what the messenger himself said, that a week earlier Celeborn had led many of the Galadhrim across the Anduin in boats and taken Dol Guldur with little resistance.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow at Seregon.  “And neither Khamul nor the Witch King opposed you?”  Many times before had both Lórien and Mirkwood gone on the offensive against Dol Guldur to try to drive out the shadow in their midst, but always they were repelled.  Thranduil did not see how this time should have been any different. 

“Nay, hir-nín.  We have been told that they have fallen,” answered Seregon, “though we know not how or where.  Still, we do not question what the Lady may see in her mirror and always she speaks true.  There was no challenge to us, save by a few minions whom we easily slew.  When I left, already our people were beginning to tear down the walls of that accursed keep.”

Although Thranduil had no interest in hearing about Galadriel or whatever sorcery she might practice, his ears hungered for more of this news.  “Always we have been told these wraiths could not be slain by any man, be he mortal or Quendi, and yet you say they are fallen?”

Seregon frowned slightly, as if annoyed that his word and the word of his Lady was being questioned.  Then, as he remembered to whom he spoke, his composure returned.  “As I said, hir-nín, I know not how these things have come to pass.  There is even talk that the Dark Lord himself has fallen, yet again I could not tell you if this is the truth or some tale.”

The Dark Lord is fallen?  Such strange tidings had come to Mirkwood in the past year that Thranduil did not doubt this was but another.  Still, although all other tidings had proven true, this last he did not quite believe.  “Another thing your Lady has seen in her mirror?”

If Seregon read the subtle insult, he did not respond.  “The enemy babbled such when we broke through the gates of Dol Guldur.  Ever have they been known to lie, hir-nín, and we do not put much faith in their words.   It does not matter; their stronghold is securely in our grasp and our Lord much desires to speak with you.”

* * *

Notes:

aran daer: (Sindarin) great king

yrch: (Sindarin) orc

pen-neth: (Sindarin) young one

ion-nín: (Sindarin) my son
Gwirith: (Sindarin) April

hir-nín: (Sindarin) my lord

Dol Guldur was the stronghold of Khamul, while the Witch King resided at Minas Morgul. 

In T.A. 2050, Eärnur of Gondor accepted the Witch King’s challenge and rode forth to reclaim Minas Morgul for Gondor.  He was never heard from again.  How he came to be buried alive under the stones of Dol Guldur, under the control of Khamul, I leave to the reader’s imagination.

A trumpet call from the heights announced the arrival of visitors. 

Celeborn had grown accustomed to such calls, for everyday messages or supplies came from Lórien, as well as more personal missives from his wife.  Always businesslike even in her most passionate utterances, Galadriel told him that once the borders of their realm were secure, she would join him to oversee the destruction of Dol Guldur.  He wrote back to her on whatever scraps of parchment he could find in the ruined fortress, saying that he had begun some of the work himself, yet assured her that he would leave the greater part to her if she wished it.

Yet this call came not from the south but from the north.  The realization came to him at the same moment as one of his Galadhrim came down from the walls and informed him that a party of riders was approaching from the direction of Mirkwood.

He rose from his camp stool, nearly upsetting the table where he had been studying a map of the fortress and its surrounding countryside.  An aide quickly set the table to rights and asked if he was well.  Celeborn started to say that he did not know, but then nodded and, in an unsteady voice, ordered the Galadhrim to admit the riders.

As the six riders came through the broken gate, he saw one of them had golden hair crowned by a rough circlet of oak leaves.  He drew a sharp breath and held it in anticipation.  They say Thranduil wears red leaves and berries in the autumn and flowers in the spring.  Like some unmannered Avari chieftain, Galadriel would say, but Celeborn had long sensed that there was no love lost between her and Oropher, and surely that sentiment extended to Oropher’s son.

But surely he would not come so soon, even if he agreed to my request.  For never before had Thranduil agreed to meet with him as one ruler to another, never since the days of the Last Alliance when a weeping, angry prince bore his father’s body from the battlefield and led the survivors of Oropher’s army back to Greenwood had he deigned to have personal dealings with Elves outside his realm.

The golden-haired Elf, if Thranduil he was, stood taller than Celeborn remembered, and was grim of face, but the gray eyes were those of Oropher.  He wore the greens and browns of Mirkwood; these were stained with travel, battle and soot, but this was not unexpected.  Celeborn’s first messenger had returned with tidings of the fire whose smoke the Galadhrim had seen from the Northern Fences, and he knew many lives had been lost.

Thranduil walked up to Celeborn and nodded.  “Strange tidings I have had these past few days, gwanur,” he said.  “It is now for you to tell me which of them is true.”

Celeborn found his hands were trembling and quickly thrust them behind his back.  It is he, and with the same hard tone as in his letters.  He had always thought it strange that Thranduil willingly traded with and gave aid to the Men of Dale and Esgaroth and yet could not be bothered with the concerns of other Elves.  And yet, he quickly reminded himself of his words when Galadriel voiced the same contradiction, that Thranduil had no reason to place his trust outside his own realm when his people had been so poorly served by it in the past.

“And he has done much, for all that he rules and holds back the Shadow without one of the Great Rings,” Celeborn had added.

“I would not call Taur-nu-Fuin the result of holding back the Shadow,” Galadriel answered.  “Mirkwood they call it in the mortal tongue.  What was once a place of beauty is now a thicket of horrors as terrible as the Black Land itself.  Many times have we offered our aid, and always has your cousin refused.  I do not deem it such an achievement, but rather the same pride and stubbornness that killed his sire.”

But the White Ring that kept Lórien free of the Shadow was one of the works of the Noldor, and Celeborn knew Thranduil did not trust such things.  And there were times when Celeborn himself secretly hated Nenya, for it diminished his wife’s joy in Middle-earth and made her long for the West where he had no desire to go.

“If my messengers have told you that the Witch King and his wraiths have fallen, that is true,” he told Thranduil.  “And if they have said that the Dark Lord has also fallen, then that, too, is true.”

A moment of silence passed.  Thranduil’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated this news, perhaps debating with himself whether or not to believe it, and then, slowly, a smile lit his grim face.  “Is it even so?  Then it is as I have said, gwanur, that many strange tidings have come to me of late.”

* * *

The destruction was methodical and it was thorough.  As Celeborn escorted him through the fortress, Thranduil could see that the people of Lórien did not intend to leave a single stone standing.  The work was new and much remained to be done, particularly in the main keep, but already several buildings had been pulled down.

“Such horrors were here,” murmured Celeborn, turning his head to look toward a ruined outbuilding.  “After so many ages, one would think I would be beyond surprise or revulsion, yet always the enemy outdoes us.”

This stirred Thranduil’s interest, for over the centuries many of his people had disappeared into the thickets of darkness and death that surrounded his halls, and whose lifeless, cocooned husks were not found later.  “Were prisoners kept here in torment, then?” he asked.

“They may have been,” answered Celeborn, “for in the depths of the keep we have found bones tossed into cisterns, yet whether these belonged to mortals or Quendi we know not.  No living prisoners have we discovered.”  Once again his eyes strayed to the ruins, and Thranduil wondered what was so compelling about them.  “There was one, I think, but we came too late.”

Without a word to his cousin, Thranduil ventured toward the ruin.  There was no clue as to what the function of this particular building had, nor did the Galadhrim with their hammers and mallets intend to leave him any idea.  Already Celeborn had spoken of asking Gondor for some of its catapults and other siege engines to assist in the destruction of the keep.

On a table in the center of a small, ruined courtyard lay a long object covered by a tarpaulin.  The smell that emanated from it was enough to make Thranduil gag and clamp his hand over his mouth.  He retreated half a pace, into Celeborn’s shoulder.

“Aye, it is a body,” said Celeborn.  “A message I had from Galadriel two days ago urging me to pull down the stones of this building.  I did not know why she was so intent on my destroying this particular structure, for it is small and does not seem to have served much purpose save as a storage room.  She must have seen something after my departure.”

“In her mirror?”  This time the question was phrased without its usual undercurrent of scorn. 

“Not all things she sees come from the mirror.  I know not what she saw or how, for her message did not say,” answered Celeborn.  “I have some inkling of what she might have seen, and why she did not speak of it.”  He waited a moment to let Thranduil think on those last words.

“That is not a vision I would wish to have, gwanur.”

“Nor I,” said Celeborn.  “He is only recently dead, and yet the building is very old.  Even the mortar that sealed his tomb was old and crumbling.  Some sorcery was involved here, I have no doubt.  Do you desire to see his body before we leave here?  I realize I have been a poor host and offered you neither rest nor refreshment.  I would not keep you any longer.”

Thranduil shook his head; the smell alone would kill any appetite he had.   “I have seen the corpses of people who have suffocated and have no desire to look upon another.”

“Aye, he is terrible to look upon.”

“I would know only if he is one of our kind.”

“Nay,” said Celeborn.  “Much twisted and shrunken he was, but enough remained that we could see he was mortal.  Galadriel bids me return the body to Gondor, to the new king.  She says not why, only that it is time this poor soul rests among his fathers.  But it does not always require words to understand her meaning, so long have we been together and know each other’s minds.”

“I would not desire to dwell under the same roof with a spouse who could perceive my thoughts so clearly.”

Celeborn smiled.  “It is not everyone who can bear her gifts.  I learned to accept them when we were bound, and now we are of such like mind that I find no strangeness in it.  There is no shadow in her sight, save only in what she may perceive.  This Man’s death has shaken her deeply, for long have we all wondered what became of the last king of Gondor after he challenged the Witch King and was taken at the gates of Minas Morgul.  The new king will wish to know, I am sure, and give him the honor so long denied him.”

Of the politics of Men in distant lands, Thranduil had little interest.  “Of this new king, I have heard him called Elessar and Aragorn in the same breath.  If it is that one who at times came into my realm bearing the name Strider, then he owes me much for the sake of that wretched creature he left in my keeping.  Kindness we showed that creature, which he repaid with treachery and death.”

“I am told that creature did much good before he died,” said Celeborn.

“Let this new king return my son to me whole and hale and I shall forget the matter.”

“Legolas and his companions passed through Lórien some three months ago, in Narwain.”  Celeborn took Thranduil’s arm and gently steered him out of the courtyard, to a place where the air was fresher.  “He was well, for all that the road they traveled was hard and fraught with much danger and grief.”

Thranduil stopped his cousin on the path.  “He was not injured in any way?”

“As I said, a hard road they had taken,” answered Celeborn.  “Some cuts and bruises he had, as must be expected, but we healed him of all such hurts.  He and his company left Lórien much refreshed, with many gifts.  We clothed them in the garb of our own people and gave them the gift of lembas to sustain them, and to your son I gave the gift of a great bow and arrows.”

“Famed are the bows of Lórien,” murmured Thranduil.

Celeborn nodded.  “This one was of my making, and the arrows that went with it also were made by me.  Gladly Legolas received the gift and offered his own bow and quiver to me in return, for nothing finer had he to give, he said.”

Hearing those words, Thranduil’s heart swelled with pride, for both Celeborn’s generosity and his son’s humility in accepting it.  “Many thanks you have from me for your kind treatment of him and for your gifts.  Gifts I will send to you and your Lady on my return home.”

“Gwanur, Galadriel and I have no need for material goods,” said Celeborn.  “We only desire your friendship, for it has been long centuries since words last passed between us.  Too many centuries, I would say.  Having your son as our guest in Caras Galadon was gift enough.  There is much of you in him, as I remember you from your youth.”

“You may not wish my gifts but nevertheless, you will receive them as I see fit to send them.  My children are precious to me, and those who treasure them as I do have both my love and my generosity.  I do not give either lightly.”

Celeborn allowed himself a small smile.  “You have grown as stubborn as your father.  Very well then, gwanur, we shall accept your gifts.”

Thranduil offered no comment as to the comparison between him and Oropher; he had heard it said many times before.  “As for Elrond, next time let him send another, perhaps that precious Balrog-slayer of his, or go himself.”

“Do not be too wroth with him,” said Celeborn, “for there was wisdom in his choice.”

Elrond had already offered that wisdom in his letter, pithy as his explanation was.  There was, however, truth in his words, and that was the only reason Thranduil did not call up his warriors and ride personally to Imladris for the peredhel’s head.  But if anything had happened to Legolas, I would have hunted down those responsible, and then gone to Imladris.  “When my son is safely home, I will perhaps find it in my heart to forgive the half-Elf.”

* * *

The next day Thranduil departed Dol Guldur to return home.  He was more than glad to be quit of the black fortress with its foul stones and sad ghosts, the latest of which would be returned to Gondor. 

“Should you find other dead hidden in this place of torment,” he told his kinsman, “and find they are Quendi, send word to me and I will bring them home to my halls for burial.”

“In Lórien, too, some of our people went missing,” answered Celeborn.  “But I will not argue with you over those whose fëar have since passed to Mandos.  I pray that no more dead are found here, but I know the Shadow and I expect we will find more such victims before we are done with this place.  Half the dead I shall send you and half send to be buried under the mallorn trees in Lórien.  Even if they are not Quendi, I would have them rest in some better, greener place than this.”

Celeborn rode with Thranduil part of the way, as far north as the burnt eaves of Mirkwood where the spring breeze stirred the ashes.

“Some good may come out of this destruction,” he commented.  “The shadows in this part of the forest are gone.”

Thranduil was not so optimistic.  “This is not the first time a forest fire has swept through here, and always the darkness has returned.”

“Aye, but now that the Shadow that sustains the darkness and its creatures has fallen, I think we may at last defeat it.”

That gave Thranduil pause.  “We, cousin?  Are you not going into the West with your wife?”

Celeborn shook his head and for a moment his face was clouded with sorrow.  “Valinor does not call to me as it calls to her, gwanur.  I will abide in Middle-earth a while yet, until I am weary of it.  In that time, we should renew our friendship as it was of old, and finish the work of pushing back the shadows.  This was a beautiful realm once.”

“There is still beauty here,” Thranduil said tightly, “if one knows where to look.”

“Indeed, though never have I seen your halls or the parts of the forest you have reclaimed from the Shadow.  In time, we shall reclaim it all and the name Eryn Galen, Greenwood the Great, shall be spoken again.”

Thranduil thought on this a moment.  “My sons have never seen the wood as it was before the Shadow came, and always I have rued that,” he murmured.  “But Greenwood belongs to another age, and I would not give them the gift of the past.  Rather I would give them the gift of a green future, and the beauty of sunlight falling through green leaves.  Eryn Lasgalen it shall be called instead, the Wood of Green Leaves, should that day come.”

* * *

Notes:

Celeborn crossed the Anduin and assailed Dol Guldur on March 27.  He and Thranduil met on April 6.  Although in the Appendices of The Return of the King it states the meeting took place in Mirkwood, for the purposes of this story the initial meeting occurs in the ruins of Dol Guldur, then moves to Mirkwood in keeping with the canon.

Gollum was captured by Aragorn, then given into the custody of the Elves of Mirkwood.  By treachery means he arranged his escape and slew many of his Elven guards in the process.

gwanur: (Sindarin) cousin, kinsman

Narwain: (Sindarin) January.  The Fellowship reached Caras Galadon on January 17.