Chapter 21 ~ Hopeless Courage III

They scarcely spoke during their headlong ride back from Imladris.  Had they not been obliged to rest their horses, Thranduil would probably not have slowed at all.

The first flakes of snow were falling when they reached the west gate and passed beneath the boughs of the wood.  The small garrison, spying the party at a distance, had turned out to greet the king.

“Captain,” Thranduil inquired, dismounting and indicating that the others do the same, “what report do you have for me?”

“Your presence has been sorely missed, my lord,” the captain answered at once.  “Prince Legolas has been obliged to stand the army to repel ever bolder Orc raids.  Warg packs have been seen in greater numbers, and have killed many within the last fortnight.”

Thranduil wanted to spit.  “This excursion has been worse than useless.  We need fresh mounts at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

While the new horses were being prepared for them, Thranduil availed himself of the small amenities the guardhouse had to offer.  Not forgetting his companions, he poured three cups of a very respectable woodland wine and handed them to Gwaelas and Dorthaer.  “Fell deeds awake, my friends,” he said grimly.  “Let us pray we are equal the task.”

“If one cannot bestir himself to defend his own home, he does not deserve to claim it,” Dorthaer sneered.

“I followed you to Mordor,” Gwaelas said for himself.  “Orcs are no novelty to me.”

Thranduil raised his cup to their bravado.  “Perhaps I should have allowed the two of you to explain to Curunír what mere woodland Elves are capable of.”

“My lord, the horses are ready.”

The three of them threw back their wine and returned to their party outside.  If they went with all speed, they could reach the city by dawn.  The wood, it seemed, was badly in need of a purge.

They thundered across the bridge and through the palace gates just as the night lamps were being extinguished, giving the guard no chance to do more than blast the royal call on their hunting horns to signal the king’s return, throwing the population into a frenzy. 

Thranduil dismounted in the corridor and left their frothed and winded horses in the care of the grooms.  “Dorthaer, summon the captains and stand the army outside the gates at once,” he commanded, taking the path toward the throne room with scarcely a pause.  “Lancaeron, summon the lords there as well.” 

As he strode deeper into the heart of his caverns, all previous considerations and preoccupations were forgotten.  He could not mourn Lindóriel any longer, nor would she wish him to, but while he still drew breath he could honor her memory and her sacrifice.  It was cold comfort, but better than none.

Legolas leapt out of the king’s throne at his approach as if it burned him.  “Father!”  They shared a quick martial embrace.  “Dol Guldur has not given us a moment’s peace since your departure.”

“So the guard has informed me,” Thranduil said, unable to suppress a smile even under such dire circumstances.  “My throne becomes you, Legolas, whether you will it or not.  You did well to turn out our forces.  Now, prepare yourself and join the others in the armory.  There is dirty work to be done!”

When he arrived in his own chambers, Thranduil was not surprised to see Gwaelas was ready with the king’s armor.  By this time, they were almost of one mind.

“I had hoped my lord might have time to refresh himself after such a journey,” Gwaelas chided him, securing his leather breastplate.

“Violence can be quite refreshing,” Thranduil assured him, pulling on a pair of stout gloves.  “I know it may not seem so to a gentle soul like yourself, but sometimes there is nothing better.  Bring me the queen’s pennon.”

Gwaelas’ brow furrowed, but he retrieved a bit of the queen’s heraldry from its place on the wall.  Thranduil quickly folded it and thrust it beneath his breastplate, over his heart.  “Attend the wounded when they arrive,” he instructed.

He returned whence he had come with swift strides, already feeling the bloodlust rising hot within him.  All his grief, anxiety, and frustration were forged now into a smoldering rage he was desperate to unleash.

He was nearly at the armory when he saw the brown wizard moving to intercept him.

“I have no time to speak now, Master Radagast,” Thranduil said as the other fell into step beside him.  “Mirkwood has sorely overstepped its bounds.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Radagast agreed.  “It is my intention to assist you in casting it back.”

“Any assistance you can provide will be most welcome,” Thranduil assured him.  “But for you, it seems we shall be alone in the endeavor.”

Legolas was waiting in the armory with several of the King’s Guard when they arrived, all bristling with armor and weapons.  Thranduil quickly selected a bow of his own, and then bade them follow him to the gates.  On the way, they were met by four of his wolves, all of them yipping and yapping at his heels, excited by the prospect of a hunt.

Outside, the fading sward was crowded with those divisions of their army which were not currently dispatched into the wood.  Linhir and Anárion were there, Galadhmir and Luinlas presumably already on duty in the south.  Much of the rest of the population surrounding the capital seemed to be lurking in the trees and peering out of windows, aware that the king had returned and that fell deeds were afoot. 

Thranduil bounded up the hill to stand at the top of the gate so that he might be heard by all.  The sky was thickly blanketed, threatening more snow.

“I see our enemy has pressed his advantage in my absence,” he began grimly, letting his voice carry across the clearing, “that the master of Dol Guldur would now seek to take what remains of our wood from us.  The Wise of this world will not aid us, for they imagine our cause to be hopeless, but I do not.  They believe the Galennath to be unequal the hardship of war, but I do not!”  He was angry now, and made no attempt to hide it.  “We are expected to flee and beg refuge in other lands, but I will not!  There is yet a king in Eryn Galen, and if the Necromancer would have my crown, he must be prepared to take it with my head on a pike!”

A roar of assent rose from the ranks, roused once again from their weary melancholy.

“We shall not rest this day until all the foul creatures of his vanguard are purged and set aflame!” Thranduil continued.  “We shall not suffer their pollution any longer.  Let the forest be cleansed with blood and fire even unto Emyn Duir!”

The ranks dispersed quickly, unleashed with their commanders in a mad dash into the south, prepared to slaughter whatever unsavory beasts could be flushed from cover.

Thranduil was with them, leaping down and charging into the forest with Legolas, Radagast, Dorthaer, and the rest of his guard.  His hounds raised a strident howl into the trees ahead, a harbinger of death which seldom failed to chill even the purest hearts.  Their call was taken up in turn by the others of their breed roaming the forest and dispersed through the army, eventually growing into such a cacophony that all the creatures of the wood fled into the light.

The onset of winter had robbed their quarry of some of their security in the treetops, and great masses of web thick with decaying leaves were plain to see.  The spiders were felled by archers, and the webs set alight with torches.  Enormous egg sacks were cut down and thrown onto hastily constructed pyres to burn with the grotesque corpses of the adults.  It did not take long for word of the purge to reach the forward ranks, and the air was soon thick with curling smoke, the howling of the wolves, and the war cries of angry Elves.

The screams of hawks, falcons and eagles pierced the canopy, unnatural flocks of them circling and diving overhead.  Clouds of black bats took to the air as they were flushed from their caves, but very few escaped the crushing talons above.  Vicious roars of snarling and barking erupted as the hounds baited wargs from their dens.  Trees corrupted beyond hope felt the bite of Elvish axes and crashed to the ground, felled in their dozens to fuel the burning.

It was a brutal and bloody rout, commanded by no one.  The raw fury of the Galennath had been set loose like wildfire in a great heedless plunge toward the mountains.

The midday sun was veiled by smoke when it rose above them, but Thranduil was too enraged to tire.  He was consumed by an insatiable thirst for vengeance which even this reckless violence did little to assuage.  The others kept pace with him, ripping up thorn vines, cutting through the choking undergrowth, and tearing down webs.

A seething mass of spiders as large as boar descended onto their path, determined to defend their eggs.  Thranduil turned his body to the side, allowing Legolas and Dorthaer to let fly their arrows, then struck the curling carcasses into pieces with his sword.  They briefly halted their advance to drag those pieces back to the nearest pyre, then returned for the web-bound tree.

Legolas leapt up into the branches as he was bidden.  Dorthaer tossed his king a flaming limb from the pyre, and Thranduil tossed it up to his son, who set the webs alight.  The web itself would not carry a flame, but the dry leaves caught up in its tangle were its undoing.   The spectacular blaze briefly bathed them in firelight, and left them wreathed in smoke.

Legolas dropped from the tree as the fire burned itself out, satisfied that it had not kindled any of its neighbors.  His father turned and plunged once more into the depths of the forest, giving him no choice but to follow. 

The king was relentless, cutting a wide swath of purifying destruction as he drove ever farther south.  Despite his own pent-up anger, Legolas could not help but feel a thrill of excitement as he followed his father into battle, as Thranduil was revealed for the consummate warrior that he was.  There had been little cause for violence during the long peace of Eryn Galen, but Legolas had been drilled severely from childhood in the martial traditions of their past.  Now those skills had purpose, and it was darkly exhilarating to see that he had skill enough to hold his own in Thranduil’s wake.

The entire wood was ringing with the blowing of horns and the baying of the hounds, and it seemed the largest of the beasts had elected now to flee rather than fight.  They came upon several more web-bound trees, the spiders gone, abandoning their young to the flames.  The Woodmen were rousted from their homes by the chaos and lent their swords to the work, sending their women and children behind the lines to assist with the fires.

Time ceased to have any meaning.  With the sky choked with smoke and the forest lit by firelight, none knew day from night.

Legolas had finally exhausted his quiver of arrows.  Thranduil turned and offered him a large handful of his own with a nod, for he had been much too occupied with his sword to draw bow.

A frothing warg crashed out of the brush and struck the king to the ground.  The hounds immediately leapt upon them, but Thranduil had already thrown his weight atop the beast and plunged his dagger into its heart with several heavy blows.

Legolas threw himself in the way of the second warg to fly at them, driving his blade through to the hilt as he too was crushed into the dirt.  Before he could kick free of the body, Thranduil’s fist seized it by the scruff and heaved it aside.

“Come,” the king said gruffly, offering Legolas his hand.  He was bloodied, and the warg’s bite could be clearly seen in the punctures on his leather spaulder, but he seemed otherwise unfazed.  There was also a spark of grim paternal pride in his eyes which Legolas found immensely gratifying.  “We shall make the mountains yet.”

It was during the final assault on Emyn Duir that they met their true foes at last.  A cry went up with the unmistakable shouting of Orcs.  All the captains began blowing their horns, trying to reassemble their soldiers in some kind of order.  Elves surged forward from all throughout the wood, an unofficial company forming itself behind the king.

Legolas and the other archers loosed their shafts as Thranduil and the swordsmen closed the distance, plowing into the Orcs with almost unstoppable force.  The battle was fierce but did not last, for the Orcs were not very many and they were ill-prepared to stem the charge of the Elves.  Their line crumpled and the survivors fled into the hills. 

Thranduil gave chase.  Lord Galadhmir appeared with his company from the west, Lords Linhir and Luinar from the east.  Together they drove the fleeing Orcs off their intended course and into the steep places of the mountains.

The terrain became treacherous and it might have been prudent to give up the chase, but their blood was up and they thought only to press their advantage.  The passes narrowed, forcing many to forge new paths over the rock face.  Legolas leapt to the side and climbed a large outcropping of dark stone, seeking higher ground, and as he crested the summit, he saw that what remained of the Orc band was trapped on a ledge overlooking a sheer drop into the ravine below.  At least a hundred arrows were trained on them from archers like himself, but they all hesitated for a moment.  The soldiers crowded below on the narrow way parted as well as they might as the king thrust his way to the front.

Thranduil stood blocking their escape, the reek of the burning blotting out the sun above him, his bloodied blade drawn.  He was plainly still in a dark temper and whatever touch of madness had driven him there lingered as he held his captives at sword point.  “Name your master,” he demanded in a dreadful voice.  “Or shall I name him impotent and craven?”

The silence was filled only with the crackle of lightning which arced from the filthy clouds.

“Give him answer, foul perversion of Morgoth,” Radagast commanded them.  “The king compels you.”

The Orc nearest them twisted his face into a sneer.  “The king should not be quick to name another craven when he would use his women for battle shields.”

Legolas shot him where he stood, startling the entire company.  His father turned sharply to look, but did not rebuke him.

“Very well,” the king said instead.  “Nameless he shall remain so long as he fears to declare himself to me, wretched master of slaves and shadows.  Return to him now, if you will, and remind him that Thranduil will never relinquish the north.”  He advanced on them with his blade.  “If you reach the falls with your lives, you may keep them, which is already more mercy than I am wont to waste upon your kind.”

The Orcs growled and cursed him in their own speech, but swift arrows felled three of them at once.  The rest flung themselves from the precipice, and each was dashed to death on the pitiless rocks below.

Thranduil said nothing, cleaned his sword upon his cloak, and then turned back whence he had come.

It was not until he had descended from Emyn Duir and emerged again into the smokey darkness of the forest that Thranduil allowed the fury to drain out of him.  In its place was left lethargy and gnawing hunger.  Dawn had come once again, and it would be a long, weary walk back to Arthrand Lasgalen.

The last remnants of the purge were still being cleared away and thrown to the fires.  Beyond all hope, a much more pleasant aroma than burnt spider wafted in the air.  The Woodmen’s wives had anticipated the army’s needs, and they were ready with steaming cauldrons of stew.  They searched the pot with special diligence to include a decent piece of meat in the Elvenking’s portion.

Thranduil cradled the bowl in his hands for a moment, just appreciating the warmth of it.  Galadhmir soon appeared out of the trees, and with him their two sons.

“You certainly made your presence known very quickly,” Galadhmir said wryly, receiving his portion of stew in turn. “Can we maintain ourselves as far south as this?”

“Only time can tell,” Thranduil answered.  “This wood is tainted still, but I am satisfied that we have banished the worst of its evils for now.  I would have them as far removed from Arthrand Lasgalen as possible.”

“Is it true that the Wise have refused their aid?” Calenmir demanded, clearly troubled by the rumor.

“That was indeed their decision,” Thranduil confirmed bluntly.  He had accepted it now, and his anger was spent for the moment.  “It is left to us to hold Eryn Galen by our own wiles.  Those who do not imagine themselves equal the task may flee to other realms, but I shall not be numbered among them.”  He frowned.  “Legolas, you are very quiet.”

“I must apologize for killing the Orc out of turn, Father,” he said.  “It was impetuous and reckless of me.”

Thranduil gave him a knowing smile.  “Save your extremely correct and equally insincere apologies,” he said.  “You merely spared him my sword.  Come, you and Calenmir must stop feeling sorry for yourselves and get something to eat while you still may.”

“What is it?”

“I am not entirely certain,” Thranduil admitted, peering into the mixture of broth and root vegetables.  “Rabbit, I believe.”

The forest was a much more peaceful place as they walked back into the north.  It had not yet shed all of its grim shadow, but it had certainly been made cleaner by their efforts.  Everywhere the pyres were reduced to smoldering embers in great pits of ash and bone.  Silent plumes of smoke mingled with flurries of new snow which would soon blanket the scarred landscape.

“I have made my home on the western edge of the wood, my lord,” Radagast said, keeping pace with Thranduil.  “From Rhosgobel I shall keep a wary eye upon the doings of Dol Guldur, and endeavor to keep you abreast of what moves in the south.”

“I shall be glad of whatever observations you can provide, Master Radagast,” Thranduil assured him. 

“I may be of greater assistance yet,” the wizard continued.  “The birds are my allies, and the great eagles are my eyes.  I shall teach you their speech if you wish, that you may command them if you will.”

Thranduil regarded him with renewed interest.  “Yes, Mithrandir bade me learn from you,” he said.  “I suppose it was you who summoned the falcons?  Most impressive.  Be my guest in Lasgalen for a time and teach me what you will.”

Mithrandir had not been wrong when he had counseled him to accept whatever assistance might be offered him.  Despite his bravado, Thranduil suspected they would need a great deal more than raw courage if they were not to be swept out of the wood like vermin before a fire.

When they had at last arrived back at the caverns, Thranduil warned his lords and commanders that he would allow them a short time to refresh themselves before he expected to see them in council.  There were many plans in his mind that he wished put into motion immediately.  

In a mere half hour, clean and dressed in a soft but sturdy warrior’s jerkin, Thranduil returned to the main hall.  Legolas, Galadhmir and Brilthor were waiting for him as he ascended the stairway and resumed his throne.  It was not long before they were joined by Linhir, Anárion, Luinlas and Noruvion.  Dorthaer came as well with a company of his commanders.

“I fear the peace we have enjoyed in Eryn Galen is now lost beyond all hope,” Thranduil told them.  “As many of you have heard or guessed, the Wise of this world already consider us lost, and no aid of theirs shall be forthcoming, save perhaps from Mithrandir and Radagast.”

They all regarded him in grim silence.  There was no fear or dismay on their faces, only a dispassionate dread.

“If we are to survive in Mirkwood,” he continued, “we must adapt to a much darker life.  I shall stay and fight the long siege, but I cannot compel any others to do so.  If anyone feels he is unable to face a life in the shadow of the Necromancer, he may go without shame to seek his peace elsewhere.  I cannot promise happiness for those who remain, but only my loyalty, for I shall not leave Rhovanion again while the shadow endures.”

No one spoke.  For a time, it seemed no one dared to speak.  It was at once the end of everything they had known and the beginning of a bleak new age.  For a moment they stood on the brink, asked to choose their fates.

“This is our wood,” Dorthaer said at last, his dark eyes aflame with the tenacious pride of the silvan people.  “It has been our wood since before the moonrise, bought with the blood of our fathers, for which they forsook even the call to the Immortal West.  We have never looked to others to defend it.  The Wise understand little if they expect us to surrender it now.”

“It was not lightly that I gave my lordship over to our Sindarin kings,” Brilthor said for himself.  “If this son of Doriath will remain in Eryn Galen to the last, how can we do less?”

“You have been our brother since the ruin of the Elder Days,” Galadhmir said.  “Whatever our peril, we shall meet it with you.”

“It is no small thing to challenge an enemy about whom we know so little,” Thranduil warned them.

“The Necromancer concerns me not at all,” Legolas said bitterly.  “Let him attempt to break us if he will.  You are my father and my king, and this is the land of my birth.  Life elsewhere would be meaningless.”

Though his heart swelled with pride, Thranduil did not allow himself to express it.  “So be it,” he said instead.  “There is much to be done, and I fear our time has run very short.  Luinlas, you will oversee the organization of a new stockpile of arms and the refitting of the army.  Linhir, you will secure the materials necessary to make this possible; empty the treasuries if you must.  Brilthor, see that everyone indeed understands the choice to remain or to depart; if any are to go, I would have them travel together for their protection.  Galadhmir and Anárion, dispatch fresh patrols throughout the territory north of Emyn Duir lest we forfeit all we have gained today.  Report to me early and often.”

They dispersed to their tasks, but Legolas lingered a moment.  His features were set with fierce determination, but a vestige of doubt remained.  “Are we outmatched, Father?” he asked.  He wanted the truth, but it was plain that it would in no way alter his decision to stay.

Thranduil sighed.  “I cannot say,” he admitted.  “Perhaps no one can.  Even if our enemy is indeed the vanquished lord of Mordor, I cannot know if he is reduced to a shadow of his former evil or if he is in fact gaining strength enough to rout us.  We must play for time until we know which it may be.  He chooses to remain nameless for now, feigning perhaps an insignificance which will encourage great lords to neglect him.   Sauron has ever been a deceiver.”

“And if the Dark Lord should at last reveal himself,” Legolas asked, “his power restored, intent upon taking the north, would you leave then?”

“No.  My place is here, even if only to defend the last retreat.  He shall never take the wood uncontested while I yet draw breath, whatever his name.”

“Then I shall stay with you,” Legolas said, dreadfully earnest, “even unto certain death.”

Thranduil put a hand on his son’s shoulder, touched by his devotion.  “Even death is rarely certain,” he said, “and there is much we can do yet before we are brought to such a pass.  It could be that even we are surprised by what strength lies in our hearts when we are put to the test.  But, if indeed we should come to that final doom from which there is no escaping, and we must make an end worthy of immortal memory, I shall be very glad of your company, Legolas.”

The king’s instruction regarding those who wished to flee the encroaching shadow was received with mixed emotions.  Their love for their home ran very deep, but some were already scarred beyond all healing Greenwood could provide.   A party of nearly one hundred quickly gathered in the capital whence they would be led by Lady Illuiniel across Eriador to the havens at Mithlond and there take ship into the West.  The snows would not hold much longer, and the mountains would soon be impassible for another season.

Legolas sullenly kept his own company on the summit of their great hill, feeling too wretched at heart to care about the frosty bite of the wind on his face.  He wanted nothing to do with the tearful farewells far below.  There was a reason Lady Illuiniel had been willing to lead that party, to leave the Lasgalen of the Oropherionnath and be separated from her husband and son.  Her daughter, Lorivanneth, was among them.

Lorivanneth had never completely recovered after her bestial treatment by the Orcs.  Legolas had tried to comfort her in every way he knew how, but she had withdrawn at every turn, too ashamed to be close to him.  He had waited patiently for years, hoping time would heal the wounds he could not, stung by her sudden inability or unwillingness to trust him.  Now, without so much as a word to him, she had determined to seek her peace elsewhere.  He had suffered their final parting when their betrothal was officially broken, and he would not endure it again.

Through the barren winter trees, he could see the column as it began winding its way onto the forest road.  He wanted to feel nothing, to be as cold as the north wind.  He was not entirely successful.  He could not help being angry.

At length, his father found him there.  Thranduil came alone, stood a few paces distant, and left him undisturbed for a time. 

“I wish you could have parted on better terms,” the king said at last.

“That was more by her will than mine,” Legolas complained.  “I would not have been parted at all.”

“Do not judge her too harshly,” Thranduil said gently, coming to stand beside him.  “Not everyone’s trials are the same.  Something was taken from her which she had intended to give to you.  Until she finds a way to be whole again, she cannot be bound to anyone.”

Legolas said nothing, watching as the column gradually became indistinguishable amid the forest.  He could not comprehend how so intimate an understanding could have been brought to naught so quickly, resentment still the only solace for his own grief.

“If you cannot forgive her now,” his father said, “it will be enough that you find it in your heart to pity her.  The malice of Morgoth continues to ruin many beautiful things long after he has gone.”