Chapter Eight

Legolas stood and looked into his father’s eyes. It was obvious that the king was concerned. Even had he not been seeking his father’s help, Legolas knew it would have been impossible to hide from Thranduil the fact that something within him was not as it should be.

Now that Legolas was facing the one he had sought out, how did he begin to explain? How did he tell his father, the one who had such faith and pride in him, that he had murdered another elf and not just any elf, but Arondo?

Thranduil could see the confusion in his son’s eyes and behind that, the pain. He wanted so much to grab Legolas in an embrace and tell him that no matter what the problem was everything would work out for the best. That was his heart speaking. His head told him to be patient. “I am here to listen, Legolas.” By way of encouragement, Thranduil gently squeezed Legolas’s shoulder but said nothing more.

Legolas continued to look into his father’s face and then he shivered. It was the cold wind blowing through his soul again. He had felt it just before the time lapses had begun, and it frightened him that it was happening again.

Thranduil both saw and felt the tremor that ran through his son’s body. He also became frightened. “Legolas?”

As the young elf watched, the concerned face of his father faded until there was nothing but darkness. He ceased to be conscious of what was happening around him.

Thranduil witnessed the change take place in his son’s eyes. It occurred so fast that he wasn’t sure what was happening. In a flash, he felt the connection to his son vanish. The king was mystified. He was looking at Legolas. He was even touching him, since he had not removed his hand from the young prince’s shoulder, yet the being that stood before him was no longer connected to his spirit, as only a child could be. This was not his son. This was not Legolas.

The elven ruler jerked his hand away from the figure before him. The eyes he was looking into now were cold and filled with malice. Their color had gone from their normal bright blue-gray to the almost-black hue of a summer rain storm. The how and why of it stumped Thranduil, but he managed to say, “Who are you, and where is my son?”

“I knew from your son’s mind that you are perceptive.” Saeragar sneered in obvious triumph as he said, “Your son is dead. His body lives, as you can plainly see, but the essence of who he was is gone.”

Thranduil was stunned beyond measure. Despite the break in the connection with Legolas, he, like Aragorn, refused to believe what he was being told. “You lie!”

“Do I? Then tell me, King Thranduil, why do you no longer feel the presence of your son’s spirit? Why do you feel as if he has been snatched from your own soul?”

Thranduil could not answer. Not only was his mind reeling, but he could not answer the questions he was being asked.

“Do you not hear the trees weeping? Would they weep for a silvan elf, who is still here among them?”

The eyes of the king widened. He had not heard it before, but now that he had been reminded of the trees’ song, he listened. They were indeed weeping. A sorrowful song of lament flowed through the forest in all directions. This could not be true! It could not. There had to be another explanation. Thranduil grasped at the idea that the trees must be lamenting whatever was wrong with Legolas, not his death, though the depth of their sorrow was profound.

Saeragar smiled at the emotions that were flickering across the elven king’s face: fear, confusion, denial, anger.

“You lie,” Thranduil repeated. He knew what he heard from the trees. He knew the sundering from his son that he felt. Yet his heart would not allow him to believe.

Even though he wanted to savor the moment, Saeragar knew he could not take the time. He had to do what he came here to do and then proceed to the palace stronghold to announce the demise of the king and his guards. And then, as Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, he would ascend the throne and take control of the realm.

Beyond becoming king, the evil being thought only in grand terms. He would secure Mirkwood and then spread his reign to other realms until he would eventually rule all of Middle-earth. He did not care for details, since he was convinced he was too powerful for such things to be any kind of stumbling block to his desires. No one could stand against his will. He decided what he wanted and everything would fall into place with only a minimum of effort on his part. If anything unexpected came up, he could, and would, handle it.

Saeragar looked at Thranduil. His eyes turned as black as a crebain’s wing, just as they had done when he had met the elven family in the forest. Saeragar knew this king was much more powerful than any ordinary wood elf, but he also had supreme faith in his own abilities to control whoever he chose.

Saeragar now put his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder and stared into the king’s turmoil-filled eyes. “You are mine, Thranduil. You cannot escape my control.” Saeragar felt resistance, but he continued. “Your son is gone, and you have no one left to love. Your life has become useless. It is time to say goodbye to the life you knew.”

Thranduil could feel the cold grip of fear invade his heart. As he stared back at the features of his beloved son, he saw quite clearly that Legolas’s face had been contorted by hate and an evil he could only guess at. Legolas did not possess the ability to project such evil. It was not in him.

Thranduil’s thoughts returned to the focus that Saeragar intended. ‘My son is gone. Legolas truly is dead.’ Those words to himself stung as painfully as any mortal wound could have. More so even than that. Had he been burned alive, he didn’t think he could suffer such pain as he did at the thought that his beloved child was lost to him.

Perhaps it was better to let go and sink into the oblivion that grief provided for any elf willing to embrace it.

Control over his own thinking was so minimal, at this point, that Thranduil never even entertained the idea that this creature might be defeated and Legolas rescued.

Saeragar felt the weakness of grief growing in the king, and it was that moment of weakness that the evil being seized upon. He was not willing to let Thranduil get the chance to change his mind about his son‘s demise. A battle of wills with this wood elf would take too much out of him. He would be forced to let Legolas take over again, and once Thranduil was reconnected with his son, the battle would be a monumental one to win.

Thranduil knew the moment he lost control of his will. He had been so upset about Legolas that he had given this evil creature the opening he needed. He was dismayed when he heard the command, “Dismiss your guards.”

Woodenly, Thranduil’s voice replied, “They will not leave me.”

The reply was angry. “You are the king. They will do as you say.”

“In this they will not. Their only duty is to go where I go and protect me. They swore an oath on their lives. They will not leave.”

Saeragar became even angrier at the explanation. “Then they will die!” he spat.

The king’s eyes widened. He wanted to yell a warning, but he could not get the words past his throat. He screamed in his own mind not to kill them, but he knew that even if the words had been shouted for all to hear, the guards would not listen. They would run toward him, not away, and they would die trying to protect their king and their prince.

Thranduil stood in complete immobility, his heart constricting in horror as he watched his son, or the being that he had been forced to regard as his son’s killer, make his way toward the guards, entice them all to dismount and then slaughter them without mercy before his very eyes.

Just as with Arondo, none of the four warriors had any idea they were not in the presence of Prince Legolas. And just as with Arondo, Saeragar was able to fool them, get close and then attack.

Mariath, the lead warrior and the last one standing, found it hard to react to the violence. Surely the prince was not the one he was watching commit murder against his fellow warriors.

Mariath defended himself as best he could, but his training and experience as a protector was so ingrained in his being that he could not bring himself to seriously attempt to stop Legolas by killing him. He did try, unsuccessfully, to disarm the young prince, using every trick of hand-to-hand combat he could think of. As he did so, his mind kept telling him over and over that there had to be some mistake in what he was witnessing. He died believing that.

Saeragar couldn’t help but gloat over what he had just done. He could have simply taken over the warriors’ wills, as he had done earlier with the elven family and with Thranduil. However, he had wanted to kill these elves. He loved killing. He loved blood, especially that of his victims. He observed the four bloody bodies with a smug expression. He wanted to remain a while and enjoy his kills, but now it was time to continue with his plan.

In the time it had taken Saeragar to walk back to where Thranduil waited, he had come to the conclusion that maybe it would be best not to kill the king just yet. There may be things the king needed to do that perhaps Legolas knew nothing about. He had no doubt that if the king died suddenly, there were rules in place for the succession of the prince to the throne. Still, if the transition could be made easier by gaining more knowledge, lessening the chances for suspicion and thus lessening the chances for opposition, then why not do it that way? It would quicken his ultimate goal. Thranduil would simply be eliminated later.

Saeragar told Thranduil to mount his horse. He then did the same. As the two headed for the palace, Saeragar told Thranduil to tell him everything that he needed to know to become the new king. There was no resistance to this request.

*~*~*~*

Galáril saw the horse almost directly ahead of him. He did not recognize the robed figure, but it took only a second for his keen sight to spot the fact that the person whose back he was seeing was riding behind another. He saw a dark head with shoulder length hair and an arm clad in black leather, holding the reins. Neither rider was elven.

Knowing he could not get too close before they heard his horse, Galáril decided to stay back until he could make out who rode in front. It didn’t take long.

As the elf watched, the rider in black turned his head to speak to the robed figure. “Aragorn,” Galáril said aloud. Keen observation told him the ranger was not being held against his will. The elf was happy to see the man and urged his horse forward at a run.

Both Aragorn and Begrin heard the approaching horse at the same time. The ranger pulled his own horse to a stop and turned it toward the sound of the hoof beats. In only a few seconds, Aragorn recognized the approaching elf.

“Do you know him?” Begrin asked.

“Yes. He is a seasoned warrior scout for Thranduil, and he has known Legolas all of his life.” Aragorn paused and then added, “He will be reluctant to believe your story, as much as I was.”

When the elven warrior reached the two riders, he stopped next to them. “Mae govannen, Aragorn.”

“Mae govannen, Galáril.”

Galáril gave an appraising look toward Begrin. He then looked at the ranger, obviously waiting for an introduction.

Aragorn nodded toward the figure sitting behind him and said, “This is Begrin. He, uh, works for the Valar.” The statement would have brought a laugh under other circumstances.

Galáril hid his surprise well and inclined his head to the stranger. Ever the warrior intent on protecting the realm, said. “I can use your help, Aragorn. I fear that Legolas may be in trouble.” Again looking at Begrin, he added, “And your help also, if indeed you do the Valar’s bidding.”

Aragon took a deep breath before saying, “Galáril, Legolas killed Arondo.” Even as Aragorn said the words he had a hard time accepting it.

The look on the elder elf’s face was indescribable. Shock and horror were the dominant expressions. “I found his body, but I cannot believe Legolas did such a thing.”

“It is not Legolas,” Begrin said without the slightest hesitation at interjecting himself in the conversation. There wasn’t time for the niceties of being a stranger. “We must get to Thranduil quickly.”

The implication was unacceptable. Galáril glared at Begrin. “Are you saying that Legolas is going to kill the king, his father?”

Momentarily ignoring the elf, Begrin put his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “We must leave---now. We can explain to Galáril as we go.”

With a nod, Aragorn turned his horse around and continued the interrupted journey to the palace.

The warrior was instantly beside them, easily matching their pace.

Between them Aragorn and Begrin told the elf what they knew, and as expected, Galáril found it impossible to accept. He was being asked to believe that Legolas had killed Arondo, by cutting his throat no less, and was now evidently planning to do the same to the king.

Begrin realized that this elven warrior was making the same mistake that Aragorn kept making: They kept thinking that it was Legolas that was doing all of this. Once again he was impressed by the high level of loyalty that the prince inspired among those he knew. Once again Begrin turned to a doubting person and said, “You are right. Legolas is not committing these crimes. It is Saeragar that is the killer.”

Without commenting on Begrin’s words, suddenly Galáril pulled his horse to a stop and held his hand out for Aragorn to stop his.

“What is it?” Aragorn quite naturally asked.

“Someone comes.” He paused and then added, “Two horses.”

The three were soon hidden from the approaching riders by a group of four trees growing close together. They did not dismount but peered through the small spaces between the trees.

Many yards away rode Thranduil and Legolas. They seemed to be in deep conversation. At least Legolas was. He was the only one talking.

They were too far away to be heard, but their demeanor was plain, even to the less keen-sighted ranger.

The fact that Thranduil rode straight-backed was no surprise. However, now he appeared to be stiff, almost wooden. His face was a blank mask, as he stared straight ahead. No one, not even the elf, Galáril, could clearly see his eyes. But judging from his face, his eyes were most likely just as blank.

Begrin frowned. “The king is under Saeragar’s control.”

“Thranduil is too powerful to succumb,” Galáril said flatly. “He has the strong will of a wood elf king.”

Begrin only shook his head. “Look at him,” was all he had to say.

It was only after a closer inspection of the king, who was getting nearer to their position, that Galáril was forced to consider Begrin’s words. He was not ready to admit the truth of it just yet, but he was smart enough to weigh all the possibilities, no matter how improbable they seemed. Doing so had often saved his life.

Aragorn wanted nothing more than to ride out to Legolas and assure himself that the hope for his friend’s recovery was still a possibility. However, he knew that was a move that might have very bad results. He wasn’t willing to risk failure just because he couldn’t control his anxiety about Legolas’s welfare or that of the king. Biting back his anxiousness and letting practicality tale over, he turned to Begrin. “Should we confront them or follow them?”

TBC