Chapter 29 ~ Blood and Roses

Thranduil jolted awake from a vivid nightmare in the early hours of the morning.  He sat up immediately in the dark, unsettling the dogs, a cold dread in the pit of his stomach.  In truth it had been less a nightmare and more a tortured memory of the first great invasion which had ultimately taken Lindóriel’s life.  He steadied his breathing and tried for a moment to sort his emotions from his senses.  Was it just a dream?

No, it was not.

All the lamps in his room and indeed in all the palace flared to life as he leapt out of bed.  “Gwaelas!” he shouted, tearing open the wardrobe.  “Gwaelas!”

Gwaelas appeared a few moments later in his nightclothes, eyes wide, looking as though he may well have fallen out of bed in his haste.

“There you are,” Thranduil said, pulling on his tunic.  “No, do not dress me.  Sound the alarm immediately.  Deploy the first guard and stand all reserves.  Have word sent to Oldoric and his Woodmen.  They are coming.”

Gwaelas went at once.  Soon all the caverns were ringing with trumpet blasts and the dull roar of a multitude rushing to their duties. 

Despite the gravity of the impending danger, Thranduil allowed himself a twisted smile as he secured his belt and stamped into his boots.  As diligently as Sauron tried to mask his movements, the spirit of the wood itself had betrayed him to them.  They would be ready.  As was now his habit before a battle, Thranduil spared a moment to fold the Queen’s silk pennon and slip it beneath his tunic over his heart.

Dressed, he loosely tied back half his hair and entered the next chamber, his private armory.  The Guardsman Neldorín was on duty that morning and he quickly assisted the King into an armored tunic with metal scales across the chest and shoulders.  Gloves, vambraces, bow, quiver, knives, sword, and his crown of twisted steel.  As he gathered himself, Thranduil separated the mute distress of the land from his own apprehension and hardened his resolve.  If Sauron was at last confident enough to move against them, so be it.  They could not be any more prepared than they were.

“Yes, we are ready,” he whispered to himself.  He turned to Neldorín.  “Are you ready?”

Neldorín smiled.  “Yes, my lord, I am.”  He was young, but very keen, as his attainment of his current position attested.

“Come, then.”

The army was already gathering outside in the moonlight.  When Thranduil appeared at the gate they greeted him with a roisterous war chant which, while rather ill-disciplined, spoke well of their morale.  A large contingent of his Guardsmen were waiting beneath his banner in front of a host of soldiers which was still growing.  Thranduil accepted his horse from Dorthaer and swung astride.

They marched south at a brisk but steady pace.  They had only to reach the southern border before the hosts of Dol Guldur, and they had the advantage of being able to travel by day as well as by night.  Sadly, they had not as far to go as they once would have; Mirkwood had been slowly encroaching upon them again.  Local emplacements of soldiers were reorganized into reserves behind the main force.  Those people who would not be fighting were sent north in a column to shelter in the caverns.  Thranduil and the largest divisions faced southwest, awaiting the attack which would almost surely come around the western spur of the mountains.  Anárion led a smaller division which protected the King’s eastern flank against any attack from the opposite direction.  Galadhmir would even now be marching to reinforce the northwest borders against any possible surprise from that quarter.

When the battlefield had been chosen and the soldiers assigned their posts, scouts were sent ahead to sound the alarm at the first sight of the enemy.  The eastern riverbank was fortified against enemy foot soldiers.  Everyone else took the opportunity to rest their horses and briefly refresh themselves with rations of waybread. 

Thranduil paced through the ranks, giving his horse a respite although he was too restless to be still himself.  The air felt thick with dread.  The birds had ceased their singing and the wood was unusually quiet. 

Legolas found him at the center of their lines.  “The northern positions have been secured as you ordered, my lord,” he confirmed.  Then he discreetly lowered his voice.  “Are you certain we should not lay a wider defense?”

“We are spread thin enough,” Thranduil said.  “I suspect it is not primarily our territory the enemy seeks to capture.  Wherever we place ourselves, he will find us.”

Legolas nodded grimly, bowed, and took his leave without another word, though Thranduil landed an affectionate clap on his armored shoulder in passing.  The battles in Mirkwood had become increasingly battles of blood, and Thranduil was uncomfortably aware that he and his heirs were the targets of special malice.  He could never command Legolas to stand down and shelter in the caves, sorely though he might be tempted.  He would have preferred to keep his son forever beyond Gorthaur’s reach, but that was not within his power.

His messengers returned from the Woodmen that night and brought news that the enemy host had crossed the Old Forest Road and would likely reach them the following night.  Oldoric had retreated before them as planned and would wait to attack from the rear after the Elves had sufficiently bled them.

The last preparations were made.  Advance ranks of clandestine archers fanned out ahead of the main force.  There was nothing left to do but wait.

Thranduil closed his eyes in the gloom, appreciating the fragile silence as evening lengthened.  His initial fears had calloused into a simple anxious anticipation, but he sought to quiet even that.  You are one of the Meliannath of Doriath, she had said, and you have ruled this wood for a thousand years.  You will succeed because you have no choice.   Her memory was as alive as ever.  He was aware of the pulsing life of the soldiers all around him, of Anárion to the east, Galadhmir to the north, Linhir in the caverns, but most acutely of Legolas in the ranks behind him.  There truly was no choice but to succeed.

A distant horn call was their first warning of the attack, the signal that the first of the advance archers had exhausted their arrows and were falling back behind the second.  A flurry of movement swept through the waiting army as they all pulled themselves to attention and readied their weapons.  Thranduil mounted his horse and retreated a bit from the frontline with his guard as his commanders had implored him to do.

Again the horns sounded, nearer now, as the second rank of archers fell back.  The first rank regained the main lines and reformed into reserves in the rear.  One of them came to make his report.

“It is a great host, my lord,” he said, regaining his breath, “of both Orcs and Men.  And they have trolls.”

“How many?”

“Three at least.”

“Delightful.”  Thranduil turned to his right.  “Dorthaer, trolls.”

The captain nodded and turned to sound the alarm.  “TROLLS!”

The foremost ranks immediately began stringing fine nets of rope between the trees above the height of the mounted horsemen.  It would not hold them long, but any obstruction could prove advantageous.

The third rank of forward archers scrambled across the river, up the far bank and behind the lines just moments ahead of the enemy assault.  A howling mass of Orcs surged towards them out of the darkness, but their progress was rudely halted by a thick barrage of arrows.  The ranks behind continued to press on over the fallen but were themselves struck down by a second volley.  Still the others pressed forward in an irresistible wave until the archers were obliged to give way to the spearmen. 

The Elvish lines were holding well, but then all three trolls crashed through the wood and entangled themselves and their great clubs in the nets.

“Reserve archers, take them!”  Thranduil commanded, and all those who had gathered behind him turned their shafts upon the beasts, aiming primarily for the mouth and eyes.

The trolls roared beneath the onslaught and thrashed violently against the nets.  One succeeded in uprooting the trees which bound him, sending them crashing down on those Elves who were not quick enough to scatter.

“My lord, come away!” Dorthaer barked, turning his horse against Thranduil’s to push him back as the troll tore free and dragged itself upright.  Scores of foot soldiers rushed in to defend the King’s retreat.  Reluctant to leave them, Thranduil nevertheless turned with the others and rode to join the western flank.

The troll, however, in its blind fury began smashing its way toward the western ranks as well.  Thranduil and his guard moved once again, this time to the east.  The troll wheeled about and lumbered after them.

Thranduil drew rein sharply and turned to face it.  Nothing remained of its eyes but thickets of spent shafts, yet he had begun to realize this troll was not so blind as it may seem.  Recognizing the game and whose will ultimately drove the confrontation, he drew his sword to meet the Necromancer’s assassin.  Better to have done with it than allow it to continue trampling his army.  “Flight is futile,” he said to Dorthaer.  “Follow me and bring it down.”

Legolas rushed his archers forward to deal with the rampaging troll but arrived just as the King and his entire guard charged into the fray.  It looked like utter madness to him, but there was no stopping it now. 

As Thranduil rode in diversionary maneuvers, the others took up the fallen ropes and ran them around the beast’s legs and the nearest trees.  Realizing its peril, the troll began swinging its club wildly and managed to land a shattering blow which sent both the King and his horse tumbling across the field. 

Every available soldier rushed in to overwhelm the monster.  Legolas and two Guardsmen went to recover the King.  Thranduil was crawling out from under the wreck of his dead horse, bloodied and a bit stunned at the very least, struggling to regain the breath which had been knocked out of him.

“Ai, Father!” Legolas complained, harsh in spite of himself.  “A little more caution from you would be appreciated.  I have no desire to see you die today.”

Thranduil coughed and glared at him tolerantly, though he accepted the hand he was offered and pulled himself to his feet.  He took a quick inventory of his injuries and found himself bruised but unbroken, though several armored scales had been torn off his chest.  “Where is my sword?” he demanded.

The ground shook as the troll was at last pulled off its feet.  Its limbs were bound ever more tightly by the Elves swarming over it.  Guardsman Neldorín recovered the King’s blade and returned it to him.  It was a clear relief to all involved to see Thranduil was still fit enough to rejoin the battle and dispatch the beast.  With one blow he swept away the broken shafts and then thrust his sword into the eye socket, forcing it in up to the hilt.

The other two trolls were brought down in similar fashion nearer the front, their mouths and faces choked with arrows, their bodies now an extra obstacle to the invading army. 

Trees were burning, though some attempted to contain the flames by throwing water from the river.  There was no rest as wave after wave of enemy Orcs came against them, always beaten back, but at a mounting cost.  Legolas could not help but notice that each new enemy charge seemed spearheaded exactly where Thranduil placed himself, leaving him with the eerie impression that the Necromancer was present on the field somehow.  He did not have to ask his father if he was aware of it; Thranduil seemed to be quite adeptly turning the situation to his advantage, moving tirelessly up and down the lines, goading his enemy into attacking the strongest ranks in turns. 

After several hours of bloodshed, the scouts confirmed that the invading force had been reduced to half its strength.  Thranduil sent them to Oldoric and the Woodmen who were waiting west of the battle after their feigned retreat. 

Before the trap could be sprung, the enemy assaults resumed with renewed fury.  The Master of Dol Guldur had grown weary of the stalemate and was determined to break the Elvish lines.  Hordes of monstrously large Orcs and Wargs threw themselves against the bloodied defenders.  A few did breach the lines and had to be dealt with by the dwindling reserve ranks.  The western defenses buckled beneath the strain, but a contingent of lightly wounded veterans newly returned to the battle rushed forward to secure the King’s flank.  Then the lines to the east faltered, forcing Thranduil to sacrifice half his strength in the center to reinforce them.  The Orcs pressed their advantage, suffering ruinous casualties but pounding the thinning Elvish defenses again and again and again until finally the force of it broke through the center.  The King himself charged forward with his guard in a desperate attempt to hold the line and rally his beleaguered soldiers.  The ferocity of his attack did halt the enemy advance, but his standard bearer was slain and the King’s colors fell.

Confusion and dismay threatened to overwhelm the last defense, but Thranduil pulled his banner up again and wielded it like a javelin, making himself extremely visible for the benefit of his army.  He was entirely too visible for Legolas’ comfort.

The horns of the Woodmen sounded in the west as Oldoric and his army swept in to rout what remained of the invasion.  The Elves sounded their horns as well, both to welcome their allies and to intimidate their foes.  Victory was near.  The lines bristled anew, inspired with fresh hope and purpose.  Then a great black arrow struck the King in the chest. 

Relief turned immediately to horror as Thranduil slowly slid down the pole of his standard and landed heavily on his knees.  His guard immediately surrounded him and his banner fell again.

Legolas clawed his way through the confusion.  “Stand!” he roared at the wavering ranks, dragging up the royal standard and thrusting it into the hand of the nearest soldier.  “As you love your King, stand!”

Thranduil was still conscious, though his jaw was firmly set against the pain and his breathing was shallow.  The shaft had penetrated his damaged armor and lodged dangerously near his heart.  He said nothing, but Legolas could see the grim fear in his eyes.

“My lord, take him to Noruvion!” Dorthaer begged him.  “We will hold the line in his stead!”

Legolas needed no encouragement.  He grasped his father’s hand and helped him regain his feet, and together they headed behind the lines.  Somehow Thranduil managed to find the strength to walk under his own power most of the way, though Legolas felt him leaning more heavily upon him with each step.  Then he stumbled and collapsed, unable to draw breath and drained of all living color.  Legolas quickly gathered him in his arms and carried him the rest of the way, beginning to fear the worst.  At last he reached the house bearing the master healer’s colors and kicked open the door.

Noruvion looked up from his work and immediately paled.  “Ai, Elbereth!   Get off my table!” he shouted at a soldier with a less worrying wound.  Legolas lay the King down and Noruvion immediately checked for a pulse.  “Still very strong,” he said, grimly bemused.  “But his lung has clearly collapsed; he cannot breathe properly.  Expose the wound,” he instructed his assistants. 

As they began cutting away what remained of the armored leather and the tunic beneath, Noruvion selected his tools.  “This will be a delicate task,” he told Legolas.  “If by some miracle his heart is whole, it will be difficult to remove the barb without injuring it.  Yet we do not have the luxury of time.”

Legolas did not answer, and Noruvion did not seem to expect it.  It was all horribly familiar, the same way his mother had died, the curse of the Necromancer which relentlessly stalked his family.  He felt maddeningly helpless in the face of it.  Would each of them endure this fate in the end?  Who could really hope to outlast such malevolent hatred forever?

When the King’s armor and clothing were pulled away, Noruvion abruptly stopped.  “Fanuilos!” he breathed.  “Dare we hope?”

Legolas looked and saw that the arrow had driven a folded green cloth into the wound.  The breath went out of him as well as he recognized his mother’s pennon.

Noruvion gently pried the wound open and teased out the bloody cloth, bringing the barb with it.  “I would not have believed it,” he said with a triumphant smile, “but she has saved his life again!  It is his own rib that has pierced his lung and done the damage.  Now, let us do our work and not disappoint her.  Legolas, hold his arm.”

Legolas took firm hold of his father’s left hand as instructed.  Noruvion felt for the correct place and then stabbed a slender metal tube into Thranduil’s side.  That brought him around with a strangled shout that had more blood in it than voice.

“Thranduil, be still!” Noruvion commanded him.  “It may have been much worse.  Be still, and you may yet live.  I need you to breathe.”

Thranduil did his best to comply, and as the blood drained he could indeed breathe more evenly and some of his color returned.  Yet the ordeal was far from over.  Noruvion was obliged to enlarge the wound and―with the help of many hands―pull aside the flesh and damaged bone to repair the deepest injury, which he began to carefully stitch closed with a strand of Thranduil’s own hair.  The King had thankfully lost consciousness again by then, already enduring greater agonies than anyone could be expected to tolerate gracefully.

Despite his renewed hope, Legolas was deeply perturbed by the sight of his father’s beating heart exposed, blood coming from his mouth, draining from his open chest, dripping off the table.  Despite all Thranduil’s renowned strength, despite the vigor of his immortal life and how deeply the force of his presence was entrenched into the very life of the forest, he was truly never more than a heartbeat away from death.  None of them were. 

Legolas hoped he would never again have so lurid a reminder.

Thranduil knew he was sleeping, but was so deeply content that he had no desire to stir yet, enjoying that oblivious and timeless twilight before waking when the paralysis of sleep had not yet dissipated.  He was aware of being very comfortable and warm, his head resting on her lap, the gentle weight of her hand on his chest, the drifting scent of her hair.  He wanted to open his eyes to look at her, but was reluctant to disturb the perfect tranquility of the moment.  Instead, he drew a deep breath of her perfume, but was surprised by the stabbing pain which now quickly dragged him back to consciousness.  It took him a moment to comprehend his surroundings as all his senses returned to him, and at first he thought he recognized her eyes above him.

Legolas smiled gently.  “I am pleased to see you finally awake, my lord,” he said.

The sight of him was probably the only possible salve for the bitter disappointment of realizing where he really was.  “How long have I slept?” Thranduil asked.

“Nearly seven days,” Legolas confessed, “and it was a blessing that you did, though it did little to comfort the anxieties of your people.  Some have already begun elaborate plans for your burial.”

A large vase of the Queen’s roses stood beside his bed, which must have partly inspired his dream.  His whole chamber was decked with roses, and he was certain their perfume had been applied to his pillow.  “And did you expect me to leave you that way?” he asked.

Legolas smiled.  “No.  You are far too stubborn to die, Father.”  He tried to make light of it, but his concern was obvious. 

As he recalled his fractured memory of the battle, Thranduil himself did not like to dwell on how near a miss it had been.  He saw his chest was still tightly bandaged, and he was not particularly eager to see the damage yet.  “Just how elaborate were these plans?” he asked wryly.

“You would have been proud,” Legolas assured him.  “They tell me even your coronation was not half so grand.”  He sobered and retrieved something from the bedside drawer.  “I do not know how much you remember, but Noruvion wanted you to know that this is what spared your life.”

Thranduil accepted it with a sudden pang of a thousand emotions.  Lindóriel’s pennon was still folded, though rumpled and saturated with his blood.  The tip of the barb had left a clear impression, but the silk had not torn.  He had been prepared a moment ago to dismiss his dream as a pleasant fantasy, but this felt like more than mere coincidence.  Perhaps that was irrational, but there it was.

“Mithrandir has come,” Legolas told him.

Mithrandir always seemed to come when he was worse for wear.  Thranduil stowed the bloody pennon beneath his pillow and forced himself to swallow the raw sentiment of the moment.  “Help me up,” he said, trying to shift his sluggish body into an upright position.

“What?”

“Come now, I refuse to be entirely unpresentable.”

“He has already seen a great deal of you in far worse condition,” Legolas protested, but he obliged.  He then went to the door to instruct the guard to summon the wizard.

When Mithrandir swept inside, he looked as inscrutable as ever.  “I see you have been living dangerously again, my lord,” he said brusquely.  “Still determined to spend yourself in a hopeless war with the arrogant thought that you might outlast the wrath of Dol Guldur?”

“Hopeless, is it?” Thranduil snapped back.  “It is not I who has been found wanting on the battlefield these six hundred years.” 

Mithrandir’s face broke into a smile with a sharp twinkle in his eye.  “Oropherion, if Middle-earth knew more lords like you, the great Elvish armies of the last age would still stand.  But you did give us all a fright in these last days.  Do not imagine I do not value you.  Now, if you will indulge me, I would see your wound.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  He never ceased to be amazed by the ease with which this enigmatic figure presumed to command him in his own halls.  “Why?”

“Oh, come now.  Legolas promised to show me again, but your waking has denied me a more convenient opportunity.”

Thranduil relented, as he always seemed to do, and Legolas cut away the bandage.  The flesh wound seemed to be largely healed except for the fading bruise and the new red scars which marked Noruvion’s handiwork.  The bone was still sore, but it would heal soon enough.

“As Master Noruvion tells it, it is a miracle you still live, Thranduil,” Mithrandir said grimly.  “But so it has been for many ages, I understand.  There must be some power looking after you.”  He straightened again and leaned on his staff.  “As I see you are well enough, I will leave you to mend in peace.  I must go to confer with Radagast and see if we may determine what damage you have done to the Necromancer’s army.  Oh, and if I may be so bold as to offer a bit of advice,” he said as he turned to take his leave, “if these are the kinds of weapons and dangers you will now be facing, my lord, you may do well to reconsider the sort of armor you wear.”

Too restless to remain in bed, Thranduil spent much of the afternoon slowly pacing about his chamber coaxing some life back into his limbs.  Legolas returned to join him for supper in the evening, apparently reluctant to leave him for more than a few hours at a time. 

“You need not linger here all day, Legolas,” Thranduil assured him.  “I am glad of your company, but surely you have other concerns.”

“You are all I have left to me,” Legolas said quite candidly over his wine.  “I have no more pressing concern than to see you whole again.”

Thranduil was both touched and sorry to hear him say it.  Would his son ever find a worthy companion and sire sons of his own?  Not if he continued as he was in an attitude of self-imposed celibacy.  “I need not be,” he protested gently.  “It grieves me to see you still alone.  Is there truly no one else in this wood you could love?”

Legolas scoffed under his breath.  “I have noticed that Captain Caladwen seems to have developed feelings for me.”

Thranduil considered the possibility and shrugged.  “She has certainly proven very capable,” he said.

Legolas shook his head.  “I cannot reciprocate, certainly not in any way that would be satisfactory to her.  Therefore, I have studiously ignored it.”

Thranduil sighed heavily.  “Love is a wonderful thing that often makes everyone feel wretched,” he observed.  “Speaking of which, whether by design or not, I dreamed of your mother.”

Legolas’ smile was bittersweet.  “I hoped you would.  Perhaps it was cruel, but I thought you might rest better with thoughts of her.”

“It was pleasant while it lasted,” Thranduil said, feeling equally fortunate and desolate.  He supposed they must do what they always did and somehow make the best of it.

After sleeping for so long Thranduil found he had absolutely no desire to sleep any more.  That night he made his slow and careful way along the path toward the top of the hill in search of the stars.  They shone as bright and clear and familiar as they ever were, one of the few aspects of near-permanence in their world.

Did those same stars shine upon the Blessed Realm?

“Where are you, Lin?” he asked, not expecting an answer, however desperately he wanted one.  Sometimes she felt so close that he could not be certain whether it was entirely an illusion of his own imagining.

The pain was still surprisingly raw.  It never healed, and by now he suspected it never would.  He had learned to dull the grief of all the other countless bereavements he had suffered in his life, but this was different and far more intimate.  How, while surrounded by his friends, his son, and his chosen people could he still be so unbearably lonely?  No one could fill her place, and the ever-present emptiness would not be forgotten.  For a moment he regretted that he had not been killed, though once again he felt she had somehow intervened to hold him to his appointed task.  The only thing he would find more intolerable than living without her would be to disappoint her.

When he returned into the caverns Legolas met him with a collection of sketches.  “Forgive our initiative,” he said, “but some days ago, as Mithrandir suggested, I took it upon myself to commission some proper plate armor for you.  The best smiths have submitted their visions for your approval.”

Intrigued, Thranduil leafed through them but only had to look once before he knew his favorite.  “This one,” he said.  “This one knows me.”  The branching tree patterns on the breastplate recalled his father, Oropher.  The articulated plates across the shoulders and the subtly fanciful leather feathers which lay like wings over the mantle recalled Oropher’s father, Thoron of Doriath.  It evoked in one image the rugged pride of his bloodline, its fragmented history and yet its common purpose.  If the sketch alone was compelling enough to inspire him out of his melancholy now, he could only imagine wearing it would strengthen his resolve for years to come.  He returned the drawings to Legolas.  “He may begin his work at once, and compliment him on his fine eye for detail.”

“As you wish, my lord.”