Chapter 15 ~ The Challenge

Four uneasy years had passed since the sudden invasion of the north, and it had become apparent that their lives would be very different from that point on.  There was hardly a family among them that was not touched by loss, for their casualties had been heavy.  Their wounds had healed, their dead had been buried, but the emotional scars were still evident.  The woodland Elves had become much more vigilant, more guarded and suspicious since their homes had been violated, traits that would serve them well in the coming days.

The shadows of Mirkwood continued to advance, but could not quite engulf the whole forest.  Whether repulsed by the power of the king or culled by merciless hunting, the evil beasts which infested the rest of the wood could not overrun the north.  Still, one had to keep one’s wits about him like never before.

Despite the darkening of the wood, despite their shaken confidence and an uncertain future, the one thing which never wavered was the Galennath’s determination to defend their homes rather than abandon them.  They had absolutely no intention of leaving the forest that had sheltered them for generations.  With that determination came a fierce loyalty to their king who had vowed to stand with them.  They rallied around Thranduil and the other Sindarin lords without hesitation, trusting in their experience to guide them through the dark years ahead.

Thranduil was aware of the trust placed in him, and he did everything in his power to prove equal their expectations.  There were no more concentrated attacks; it seemed the might of the Necromancer’s army was spent for the present, that he was content to simply harry them with roving bands of Orcs and whatever other foul creatures he could conjure.  Perhaps he lacked the power to do anything else.  In any case, he had done quite enough damage already.

Thranduil lay down his quill, too restless to sit still, though plagued by a deep weariness which penetrated his very bones.  He barely had enough energy to conduct his affairs, let alone to hunt down spiders and Wargs each day, though he made as good a show of strength as he could.  He was well aware of the cause, but was not willing to give it up just yet.

Lindóriel lay on the divan in the corner of the study, sleeping lightly.  Thranduil did not like to be separated from her for any length of time anymore.  Time was too precious.  Her wound had mended well enough despite leaving a terrible scar, but only after several days spent in the deepest sleep the healers could induce.  Even then she might have died but for his desperate efforts to anchor her spirit in place while her body healed itself.  Unfortunately, the wasting effect of the poison and whatever dark curse lay on that weapon had proven very difficult to counteract.  He selected two of the various elixirs sent from Imladris, preparing her midday regimen.  None of them seemed to be having much effect, but no one was ready to stop trying.

Like clockwork, Noruvion appeared in the doorway with a cup of diluted wine.  Thranduil accepted it with routine weariness, mixing in the medicine as Noruvion prepared to bleed her.

Anxious to spare her any discomfort he could, Thranduil sat gently beside her and lulled her into an even deeper sleep as Noruvion bound her arm and produced his blade.  After all else had failed, they were reduced to attempting to slowly bleed the poison out of her.  Hope was wearing thin.  It was a miracle she was alive at all.

“I am not certain how you are doing it,” Noruvion said at last with a small note of displeasure as he bound the small puncture on her arm, “but do not exhaust yourself in what may be a hopeless struggle.  We need a king, Thranduil, not a martyr.”

Thranduil merely glowered.  Noruvion was right, of course, but knowing that made the situation no easier.  It was impossible for him to choose between his wife and his other duties.  He had considered it many times and it remained impossible.  He had somehow managed to grasp Lindóriel’s ebbing life at the last moment, and no power on earth could force him to open his fingers now.

When Noruvion had left them, Thranduil coaxed her awake.  She was apparently still in some amount of pain, and the scarring in her lung made it difficult for her to breathe properly, but she still managed to smile when she saw him.

“Is it that time again already?” she asked, eyeing the cup in his hand. 

“I am afraid so, love,” he said.  “At least it does not seem to be doing you any harm.”

She dutifully swallowed the unpleasant mixture, just as she did every day.  At the very least, it eased her pain.

“There, you see?” Thranduil said, with a certain measure of false confidence.  “We shall have you back on your feet soon.”

Lindóriel attempted another smile, though it lacked conviction and soon faded.  She was under no such illusions.  “You are the only thing keeping me alive,” she said, reaching up to stroke his face.

Thranduil’s expression fell as well.  They were not deceiving even themselves with these pointless routines and treatments.  The only reason she had not died on the night of the attack was because he had lent her the strength to live, just as he had been doing each day for the last four years.

Unable to bear the feeling of helplessness, Thranduil leaned in to kiss her, allowing her to draw upon his life force once again, though he felt dangerously sapped.  Lindóriel allowed it for a few moments, but then pushed him back, breaking that intimate connection.

“You must keep your strength,” she protested.

“I am strong enough for the both of us,” he lied.  He was exhausted.

He managed to stand and scoop her into his arms.  Some time outside in the open air would do them both good.

Once they had emerged into the sunlight, Thranduil sat down on the green lawn beneath a young maple tree and gathered Lindóriel into his lap, her head on his shoulder.  He could smell the life of the forest, and that was enough to revive him.  He hoped it could do the same for her.

For a time neither said anything, content merely to appreciate each moment they could share together, moments they might not otherwise have had.  Life was easily taken for granted.  There was once a time not so long ago when they could have forgotten that death in fact walked among them, that loved ones might be snatched away without warning.  When he was in this mood, Thranduil could well understand the draw of the West, the yearning for a world as immortal as they were.  But his heart was still rooted in Middle-earth, the only world he had known.

“I dreamt of the ships again last night,” he said at last.

“Could you still hear your father calling you?” Lindóriel asked.

“Yes,” Thranduil said, “but I still cannot guess what it means.”

“It must mean something.  You have dreamt it often enough.”  She sighed, sinking her toes in the warm grass.  “Perhaps you are meant to be encouraged.”

“Ships which come from the West never bode well for anyone,” Thranduil said sourly.  “And ships which return there are no help to me now.”

Lindóriel was quiet for a time before venturing to speak again.  “Have you never thought of going into the West?” she asked.

Thranduil was taken aback for a moment, but the question was not unthinkable under the circumstances.  “Never seriously,” he admitted.  “My place is here.  My family is here.”

“We all have family there as well,” she said quietly, immediately bringing to mind the faces of his parents, grandparents, cousins, and all their other kinsmen who were now a distant memory.  The thought that they might all live in that immortal paradise beyond the horizon was at once a comfort and a temptation, but Greenwood’s hold on him was still far too strong.

“I am sorry,” Lindóriel said, feeling him tense.  “I have thought a great deal about it recently.  But I may not require a ship to take me.”

“Nonsense,” Thranduil said firmly, tightening his grasp on her.  “You are here with me now, where you belong.”

But, despite all his protestations to the contrary, he was not blind to the intrinsic selfishness of his motivation.  Though his heart rebelled and every instinct urged him to hold tighter, he knew there was one person who could convince him to let go, and he realized he had never asked her.  She had always been there for him, even before he had learned to appreciate it.  They were so intrinsically a part of one another now that to lose her would be to lose half of himself, a thought too crippling to imagine.  But could he really demand that she linger solely for his sake?

He understood now why his mother had left them so soon to follow Oropher.  She had been lost without him.  If Lindóriel died, he would not be free to follow her.  He would have to stay and carry on as best he could.

“Lin,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady, “do you want me to let you go?”

She looked up at him for a long moment, apparently with no ready answer.  “I am sorry,” she said at last, beginning to cry.  “I never wanted to be a burden to you, but neither can I bear to leave you and Legolas.  Not yet.”

It wrung his heart to see her suffer, but Thranduil adamantly swallowed his own tears for her sake.  “Stop crying, Lin,” he said gently, holding her closer.  “You know you cannot breathe when you cry.”  Sure enough, she began to cough.  Flecks of blood stained her hand, but not enough to cause any undue concern. 

The sound of approaching hoofbeats made them look up.  Legolas rode across the bridge and turned toward them, his entourage wisely turning the other way to leave the royal family in peace.  He had obviously been hunting, with half his arrows spent, stains on his sleeves, and a green leaf caught in his hair.

He dismounted and sat beside them on the grass, apparently in so similar a mood that no words were necessary.  There was a cold desolation in his eyes, the emptiness which always remained when revenge failed to satisfy it.  He had rescued his betrothed from the Orcs who had captured and brutalized her during the invasion, but the damage had been done.  She was pushing him away now for shame, another living casualty.

“Are you feeling better, Mother?” Legolas asked, obviously very concerned about her as well.

“Yes, much better,” Lindóriel said, wiping her eyes, though it was an obvious lie.  “What did you find in the wood today?”

“Spiders,” Legolas said.  “More spiders.  Once they breed, it is difficult to control them.”

“How is Lorivanneth?” Thranduil asked delicately, not wishing to pry.

“She still refuses to see me,” Legolas said matter-of-factly, a storm of emotion contained by a false calm, “though I have not stopped trying.”

“Keep trying,” Thranduil tried to encourage him.  “When she recovers, she will be glad of it.”

Legolas seemed to have his doubts.  “What if she does not recover?” he asked, squarely facing the worst scenario.

Thranduil swallowed hard, realizing that whatever answer he gave would apply to himself as well.  There truly was no escaping it.  “If you love her,” he said at last, “you must do what is best for her, and try to accept it as best you can.”

Lindóriel choked quietly as though she may begin to cry again.  She reached for Legolas and caught his hand.  Though all their dreams seemed to be crumbling, at least they had not yet lost one another.

Gwaelas hurried out of the gates.  Laden with Thranduil’s arms and armor, he obviously had no choice but to interrupt their reverie. 

“My lord,” he said, only slightly winded, “fresh Orc sign has been discovered along the river.  The hunt is being assembled to track them while retaining the advantage of daylight.  They await your convenience.”

The presence of Orcs within his borders was insufferable, and though Thranduil resented the intrusion into his time with his family, the call could not be ignored.  He gave Lindóriel a firm kiss before he gave her to their son and hauled himself to his feet.

“Legolas, stay with your mother,” he commanded as Gwaelas armed him.  He still felt weaker than he would like, but weakness was inexcusable now.  The anger smoldering in his heart once again proved a surprising source of strength.

He turned and stalked across the lawn toward the stables where doubtless his horse stood ready.  If it ever lay within his power, the Necromancer would pay dearly for the ruin he wreaked in Eryn Galen.

The sun was setting as Thranduil returned from the stables.  Everyone else on the green did well to step out of his way.  He was covered in lurid splashes of mud and gore, and made no attempt to conceal his foul temper.  A startling amount of his own blood ran in scarlet rivulets down the side of his neck from a superficial but surprisingly painful wound on his ear.  He was tired and smelled like Orc filth, and he wanted nothing more than a hot bath where he could brood in peace.  As he neared the gates, however, it appeared he had an unexpected guest waiting, attended by several of Dorthaer’s guards.

The travel-worn Man in rough gray robes looked up and smiled through his great beard as Thranduil approached.  “Ah, you are the Elvenlord of this wood,” he said.  It was not a question.

“Yes,” Thranduil said curtly.  “And you?”

“Oh, just a traveler who has seen much and yet wishes to see more,” the stranger replied cryptically.  “Your kinsman in Imladris speaks very highly of you, and I can see he has clearly not understated your courage.”  He seemed rather amused, observing the king’s frightful appearance.  “But I can also see that it may require more than simply raging about on a battlefield to maintain yourself here.”

Thranduil drew himself up, in no mood to mince words.  Who was this vagabond who dared to offer him criticism in the face of his own guard?  “You will do well to hold your tongue if it cannot learn civility, mithrandir,” he snarled.

“And you will do well to accept whatever aid may be offered you, Oropherion.”

The guards were openly shocked by his impudence, but somehow Thranduil could not bring himself to return a snappish answer.  There was a strange authority in that voice which he could not help but recognize, however grudgingly.

“I have just arrived beyond the Misty Mountains,” the old Man continued, leaning on a gnarled staff.  “I have heard a great deal of the Elvenking of the north, and I felt your presence upon entering the wood.  I have come to present myself and to offer assistance.”

He was intriguing if nothing else, and Thranduil resolved to hear him out.  “Welcome, then, to what remains of Eryn Galen,” he said, still too distracted by the pain in his ear to be completely cordial.  “Will you not give me your name?”

The old Man smiled again in that strange grandfatherly way.  “The one you have given me seems as good as any other,” he said.

“Very well.”  Thranduil was too tired to argue.  “Lancaeron will show you to your quarters.”

After Thranduil had bathed and changed into something more comfortable, he and Lindóriel took their dinner privately in the king’s study with the dogs.  The queen was warmly wrapped in furs, susceptible to chills now even in summer. 

Legolas joined them later as he did every evening so that his father could keep him abreast of the kingdom’s affairs.  Not much had transpired that day, except that Thranduil had received a complaint of bandits encroaching on the western border, the Dwarves of Erebor were now demanding a higher price for their metals, and the bowyers guild had requested and received permission to cultivate greater numbers of ash and yew trees.  The Orcs had been insignificant in number, only seven, and had been dispatched quickly once they had been flushed from their holes.  A stronger watch was positioned in the area for the time being.

“Is that all?” Legolas asked at last, looking over Linhir’s closely written records.

“That is all,” Thranduil sighed, leaning back in his chair.  “But stay.  There is someone I think you should meet.”  He gestured to Gwaelas, who disappeared immediately to summon their mysterious guest.

While they waited, Thranduil generously refilled their wine glasses and poured a fourth.  He laced Lindóriel’s with another dose of her medicine, for whatever it was worth.  “To whatever end,” he said wryly.  With a nod, they all drank to that.  As a family, perhaps they were occasionally guilty of trying to drown their woes.  They had cause enough.

Gwaelas reappeared at the door with the nameless stranger.  Legolas’ eyes narrowed, mirroring Thranduil’s initial bemusement.  It was indeed difficult to know exactly what to make of him.  The dogs merely wagged their tails, and that was always a good sign.

“Please, be seated . . . Mithrandir,” Thranduil said, still uncertain how to address him.  He indicated a nearby chair as Gwaelas offered the wine.

“Ah, thank you, my lord,” he said pleasantly, accepting the refreshment and the seat.  “This is your son, I presume, and your lady wife.”

“Yes, my son, Legolas, and Queen Lindóriel.”

“Very well,” he nodded, “but enough pleasantries.  I am making myself known to each Elvenlord in Middle-earth.  I have spoken to Círdan in Mithlond, to Elrond in Imladris, and to Amroth in Lórinand.  You, Thranduil, cause me the most concern.  You have no doubt become aware of the usurper in your wood.”

“I had noticed him, yes.”  Thranduil said, guardedly.

“I and the others of my order are investigating the origin of this shadow, so do not think you are alone in your concern.  Do you intend to stay and defend this woodland realm against Dol Guldur?”

“I had not considered otherwise.”

“Ah, yes.  I have been warned that you are very . . . persistent, shall we say?  But you are aware that this foe may be beyond you?”

“He has yet to prove himself so,” Thranduil said, with more bitterness than confidence.  “Let him unseat me if he can.”

The old Man nodded gravely, though grim smile lines appeared around his fathomless eyes.  “The day may come when you live to regret that challenge, Oropherion,” he said, “but I am confident you will never shrink from it.”

That night, Thranduil was once again unable to sleep.  His mind was far too restless.  When Mithrandir had left them for the evening, he and Lindóriel had spent quite a bit of time speculating about his origins and purpose.  They had both decided there was the distinct aura of the Maiar about him, and thus his purposes were best left alone.  Lindóriel had suggested that his coming to Middle-earth with the others of the order to which he had alluded may perhaps be the cause of Thranduil’s recurring dream of the mysterious ships.  It was as likely an explanation as any other.

He did not like to leave Lindóriel alone, but he was burning with curiosity.  He climbed out of bed and dressed in the darkness.  Mithrandir had intimated that he may be gone by morning, and Thranduil was determined to speak with him at least once more.  He felt strangely drawn to him, as though this stranger possessed the answers to questions he had not yet thought to ask.

Gently closing their bedchamber door behind him, Thranduil tried to discern Mithrandir’s presence.  The only thing of which he was certain was that he was not in the guest quarters.  Making inquiries of the guards along the corridors, he at last established that the wizard, or whatever one might call him, had last been seen leaving the gates.

A full moon and myriad stars lit the grounds.  Undaunted by a climb he had made many times, Thranduil turned toward the summit of the hill.

Mithrandir was indeed there on the crest, looking quite eerie cowled in his long robes and enormous hat.  He stood very still and did not look round, yet Thranduil felt strangely that he had been expecting him.

“They say the spirit of the wood never sleeps,” Mithrandir said, his voice low and gruff.  “Apparently, neither do you.”

“It is more difficult now than one may expect,” Thranduil replied.

Mithrandir grunted thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off the forbidding landscape to the south.  “I am afraid you may find the same to be true of many things before this is ended, Aran Thalion.”

Thranduil’s own misgivings had been unsettling enough without Mithrandir’s chilling speculation.  How much worse would their plight become before it became unbearable?  Perhaps it was best not to know.

Mithrandir turned to him then, and Thranduil felt those eyes pierce him to the core.  “You perhaps have already guessed the danger you may be facing,” he said with a new intensity.  “That darkness out there is intent upon swallowing you whole, and indeed you are the most vulnerable.  Yet, if you have but half of your father’s tenacity, there is no other to whom I would more willingly entrust the safety of the north.”

Thranduil felt his heart quicken.  Had Mithrandir known his father?

“I promised you assistance when I arrived,” he continued, “and you shall have it.  Another of our number is determined to make his home here on the border of your wood.  He is a master of birds and beasts, and can teach you their speech.  Learn from him, Thranduil.  Learn all you can, for a day may be coming without a dawn.”

“Where can I find him?” Thranduil asked, more agitated than he had been in a long time.

“He will find you,” Mithrandir assured him.  “He has a gentle touch, but do not hesitate to apply yourself with all the ferocity your bloodline can boast.  And that, I fear, brings me to the condition of your dear queen.”  He looked Thranduil squarely in the eye once again.  “Even the strongest of us are hard-pressed to wage two wars at once, my lord, and you cannot cheat death forever.  You have fought it admirably thus far, but it will have its way despite you.  You will need all your strength if you are to weather this storm.”