Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Feud	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 27149 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 114
- 115
- 116
Note
This Feud update is dedicated to Niccy, who has been a die-hard fan forever, and asked me to update as an xmas gift story.Well, we all know I cannot manage a short story or a short chapter. Everything turns out to be upwards of 15000 words. I promised a lot of stories that were new and updates of stories already started and this was back in November last year. Good intentions, but completely unrealistic for me. Niccy asked for some real punishment for Elrond for all he has done to Legolas and since Feäfaron cannot do that kind of thing, someone else must be 'Iluvatar's instrument of retribution', to quote Lindalcon. There is a long passage regarding the Unhoused Spirits who are loose and having quite a bit of influence on their dear brother/captor. They will deal out justice to him, too, but saving that for the next chapter. Evil cliff-hanger at the end and I am not a bit sorry about it LOL :D I am very very sorry that it took so long to get this out, Niccy. Hope you enjoy it and everyone else does, also.

Acharn egor Caun? (Vengeance or Valour?)

It was more than the absence of sound and motion invoked by the blighting breath of Winter's transient occupation. An abyssal stillness held the forest in sepulchre silence, defeated, vanquished so utterly the souls of the trees were no more, petrified by Rhîw's relentless advance, the assault unexpected and devastating in its victory, for could Tawar hide in hibernation, remaining viable in the face of so severe, so swift a withdrawal of Anor's warmth? Nay, Greenwood was dead, root and pulpy marrow alike destroyed, frozen dry and blown hollow, burned out, boiled off, empty husks piercing a rank and foetid haze where once the trees in grandeur soared. The towering bolls loomed, mute and motionless, lost in foggy limbo, stark in varying degrees of charcoal and grey where Ithil touched upon the wood through the jagged, leafless canopy.

The sterile, silver sheen gave no colour to the bark for Tilion could not bear to look upon so cruel a vision as this. Drifting, polluted air swirled in cloying clouds, a suffocating fume lingering in the tangled net of limbs, underscoring their unnatural stillness. No life scurried over ground devoid of soil and mould where roots stood exposed, duff and dirt reduced to indurate sub-straight. The desiccated remains of a buck lay sprawled in grotesque repose, flesh all but devoured, antlers stained dark by vaporised ichor, charred bones poking through the remnant of leathery hide stretched tight upon the once noble frame. Not so much as an insect remained alive. Twists of blue smog rose, threading toward the dun-coloured sky, borne up on remnant heat stolen from Greenwood's life, curling sinuously over charred stubs of branches and cracked, blackened trunks. No longer was this the abode of Tawar. Never again would this place bear the appellation great.

Lindalcon gasped and startled, shaking himself out of his stupor, eyes wide and staring about him, heart hammering, and breath loud and shortened, fearful of the mirage overtaking him as his mind sought rest. How many days had he been awake? He had left the stronghold only three days ago, yet before then an untallied number of sunsets had occurred and he had been fully alert for them all. He concentrated to fix the time in his consciousness and distract himself from the nightmare: the Council lasted one interminable day, Legolas and Erestor had remained in the bonding talan three days, the feast following that and its awful conclusion were another day, the Tawarwaith's unforgettable attack upon Thranduil happened on the next, Gildin's arrival was the evening of that same sunrise, and before dawn of the one succeeding it Lindalcon had relinquished the last iota of normalcy his short life possessed.

Ten days, an evil number to be sure.

Ten sunrises, ten sunsets and his future lay in ruin, scorched and seared, consumed as surely as the trees in his macabre dream. From beloved only child to prince to orphan and finally to this, self-appointed Nimrod for Greenwood's Council, the first and only to fill such a role. Did anyone in all Thranduil's kingdom care if he succeeded and brought Rochendil back to own his deeds and face his just punishment? Nay, the woodland folk would rather forget the horse-master just as they had forgotten Valtamar and Andamaitë. Lindalcon scowled and drew his cloak close about him. It was not for them he acted but for himself and his Adar. He had chosen this fate and there was nothing left for him to do but achieve it.

Yet it is taking a bloody long time to see it done.

He had not considered that, had gathered for no more than a few day's provisions, provided only one change of clothing, brought one blanket and one cloak. The way bread was already gone and while water was plentiful game was not. Most of the four footed creatures were in hibernation and those that remained alert were meant to be fodder for the Greenwood's wild predators. Lindalcon discovered himself to be in competition with the dire wolves over hares and voles. A large pack roamed the region and often he spied them on the hunt. The leader was a huge grey male with intelligent blue eyes that looked upon him with vague amusement, great jaws gaping in a mocking grin, wondering what he was doing out here alone. Lindalcon had no doubt that they would make a meal of him if he ventured from the trees when they were abroad.

Sorely troubled was the son of Valtamar, for he had a task to accomplish and yet the trees would give him no aid. They slept. On their vigilant protection he had depended, assuming he would enjoy the same level of intimacy with Tawar he received when Legolas was near, mistaking the archer's gift for translation as a sort of initiation into the deeper communion necessary for survival in the deeps of the forest. He was sylvan, after all, and surely the abiding affinity Legolas felt for the forest was an innate characteristic of the Danwaith. Well, he was hearing and seeing these slumbering trees yet the message went in one direction only and he could not escape the feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare designed to cripple even so mighty an entity as Tawar.

It was more than a nightmare, he decided, that horrendous shift from winter's stark and frozen landscape to the smouldering aftermath of a great conflagration. Whether prophesy or propaganda, the spiritual assault was meant to terrify both him and the trees, and Lindalcon clung to the latter view, that being a lesser evil than accepting the repeated scene invading his reverie as foresight.

"It is winter; there has been no searing fire here," he spoke aloud so to reinforce the idea as he gaped at the alien landscape, worried, for the austerity of Rhîw mimicked the leafless, lifeless, soulless desert of fire-ravaged woods. This marked the third time he had witnessed the death of Greenwood by fire and while it was less harrowing than watching the violent destruction of his Adar, little comfort did that comparison lend his heart.

"I have never had any gift for skrying," he insisted to the voiceless ranks of dormant trees. Yet he could not deny that the images of his father's last moments were true ones.

Lindalcon inhaled a shaky breath, shivering as the icy pain assailed his throat and lungs, hugging his fur cloak closer as he peered into the murky depths betwixt the branches to the path below. No winter in all his life had reduced the trees to voiceless timber devoid of consciousness. This must be how Men view trees all the year round. Yet Tawar would never abandon its separate citizens during the frozen months and flee, seeking a more inviting population of hardwoods to grace with the dignity and might with which Yavanna had imbued the region. Would it? This emptiness, this vacant and soulless atmosphere was infinitely more troubling than the lurid vision of fiery death. The place was a dark graveyard of dead trees, gaunt and ugly and eery.

"May as well burn it," he mourned morosely and no sooner were the words spoken than his heart fairly stopped, terror blazing through his soul to have called this doom upon the Greenwood. "Nay! I did not mean it!" he cried out, standing and raising his face to the starless night.

Frightened and desperate, he bound the cape tight about him and set off through the stiff, brittle branches. He had not gone far when his weight generated a fulsome crack and a frozen limb gave way. A swift leap to the next tree saved him and Lindalcon clung to its trunk, heaving great clouds of mist into the air around him, reason abandoned as the untrained avenger shut his eyes, recalling Legolas' tales of turned trees that sought to destroy elves.

He shook his head wildly to drive out the image and willed himself not to think on it. Immediately new torments filled the void as he wondered how his naneth fared. Was she in the cells or had Thranduil quashed his account of her treachery, as she predicted? How were the children enduring this? With a furious shout he forced such thoughts from his heart and mind.

"I gave it all up the moment I spoke that vow." His voice rose strong and clear above his fears. "I understand this now; they are no longer mine to worry over. I am a child no more. I am Iluvatar's instrument of retribution, nothing more nor less, and because that is true, I will find my father's last enemy and bring him back to face his crimes alongside Meril."

"My, what bold proclamations from so young an elf. Then again, perhaps only one so young would dare to speak them."

"Ai!" Lindalcon nearly fell from the tree in his surprise to hear this sarcastic rejoinder. He was scanning the limbs about him when laughter, deep and throaty and almost like a hound's, arose from far below. He turned his sight downward and gaped in confusion; there was the leader of the wolves gazing up at him with that same smirking grin, showing his sharp, pearly fangs. Lindalcon frowned; there were tales of gaurhoth, but surely those were only that, stories to amuse and frighten children. Just to convince himself, he kept his eyes upon the wolf as he called out. "If you are a friend, show yourself!"

The beast cocked its head to the side. "How do you mean? In Man-form? That I cannot do until Ithil waxes full and round. Still, I am a friend. I am not surprised at your fear; even Legolas mistook us for his foes, long ago."

"It is another dream, then," muttered Lindalcon, passing his hand over his eyes in exasperation, for he had seen its jaws and tongue working to make speech. What manner of spirit was abroad to so disrupt his normal paths of rest? Yet that did not suffice, for his rest had been anything but normal for many long years. "Perhaps it wears on me and I am going mad."

"Dreams of madness, more like," chuckled the wolf. "I am here to warn you, for Legolas would have it so and my people owe him much. By his command the humans ceased hunting us and now we are allies against our common foes. Heed me: this is not a good time to wander in the woods. The Orcs are coming in great numbers; the Wraiths drive them. I can smell their stink even now and soon you will, too. Go back, little elf, before you are engulfed and slaughtered for their sport. Or worse." So saying the creature loped away amid the trees and disappeared into the darkness.

Lindalcon stared at the barren ground stuck between disbelief and dread, seesawing between the two, unable to act. If what he had just experienced was real and not a hallucination born of sleep deprivation, then he was in trouble of an entirely different calibre. It occurred to him that he had never even seen an Orc much less faced one in combat. His bow and quiver were with him but suddenly the idea of using them in defence of his life was utterly terrifying. Illusion or fact, Lindalcon decided it would be prudent to assume the latter and get to a safer location. No sooner had he concluded this than the long, mournful cry of the wolf rose amid the darkness and was answered by a chorus of keening canine voices. The desolate forest echoed with their battle song.

No further convincing was required. Shelter was needed and somewhere there had to be a talan high overhead, too well-concealed for the demons to spot. So Legolas had assured him often whenever Lindalcon asked where he lived, how he escaped from Shadow's minions, what place served as a haven when reverie was needed.

How to find such a place was the problem. Cautiously he climbed higher, hoping the increase in altitude would afford a better perspective. The tactic worked; from this height he could make out a path amid the branches, easily discernible now that the leaves were gone and Ithil could reach the limbs. With no small relief Lindalcon set out upon this track, confident he would soon discover one of his adopted brother's hide-aways.

It was not to be. Valtamar's son had crossed the Forest Road hours ago and was out in the region where evil held sway among the trees, where even the elf-paths had been corrupted. The way he so eagerly chose led inexorably to the Central Mountains where the Orcs dominated, where goblin reinforcements from Hithaeglir were sure to muster, where traps were laid and ambuscades ready. Even in hibernation the branches remained frozen in this deceitful pattern, drawing any unsuspecting among the First-born to certain death, and Lindalcon fairly raced toward it.

Dûr Estel (Sombre Hope)

With a great, deep, collective breath of thanksgiving, the conscience of a nation was at last assuaged. The sombre, unquiet mood in the City of the Underground Fortress lifted, tension dropped to a lesser degree; it was finally over. News of Meril's imprisonment spread to every talan and flet throughout the realm, the Royal Consort's black heart confirmed, and even those most proud to see a sylvan in the seat of power suddenly recalled anecdotes which revealed her unclean nature, rank with the taint of the Shadow.

The result of the King's Tribunal was by no means pleasant nor would anyone be eager to have these recent events detailed in the stonework of the Chamber of Starlight, yet everyone, down to lowliest servant, felt delivered, absolved of guilt, their obscene fascination, horror mingled with delight, expunged. The Erebor Affair was settled. Tirno was exonerated fully, Malthondo condemned to go forth and take his place in shame and ignominy, the author of the whole devious undertaking safely locked away in the dank dark cells until her final doom could be determined. No one expected to ever see the horse-master again and the people were content that justice had been served. At long last, life could return to normal in Greenwood.

Now the Wood Elves could focus their anxious attention on the inexcusable conduct of the Noldorin Lord from Imladris, indignant and outraged and secretly glad to have an external source on which to pin their sense of disgust, their righteous fury over the scandalous treatment of their beloved champion. So much preferable was that to the constant soul-searching and the resultant conjuring of remorse and regret for their own debasement of Greenwood's chosen protector. Let Elrond of Imladris accept the burden of such sins and then would the peoples' transgressions not be expiated?

Never mind that twelve years of torture and torment had been dealt out to Legolas here within sight and sound of every talan ringing the compound. Suppress the memory of those long, violent nights, endured with nary a complaint, bereft of any contesting voice to mitigate his deepening shame and self-hatred. The folk of the woods had a ready excuse; the Judgement had been pronounced and the Laws invoked. No one was permitted to interfere or, indeed, even speak of the punishment exacted. Perhaps in all the populace, only Feärfaron was willing to admit the truth: it had simply been easier to accept Legolas' guilt, attested by warriors with whom he served, than to seek out the real culprit.

If a further diversion was required to channel the overwhelming emotions engendered by the high drama of the Council and its conclusion, then the frightening proximity of Orcish troops combing the fringes of the borders, massing along the southern side of the Forest Road, was ample cause for heightened nerves and uneasy hearts. The vile demons were seeking a means to drive through Talagan's doughty forces and inundate the very heart of the Woodland Realm. The Tawarwaith must be the target of this unprecedented assault, for such a concentrated attack of the foul beasts had never been attempted, and all of Greenwood prayed for his deliverance.

He was out there, somewhere, in the thick of it, wounded and weakened, braving death and its unthinkable alternative, capture and imprisonment in Dol Guldur, all to find his adopted brother and bring him safely home. With both pride and irritation the people considered his decision to go after Lindalcon. The youth was doomed; another death to lay at Meril's feet. Everyone could sense it. What hope could there be that he would find Ailinyero and serve justice to the coward for his craven deeds? The horse-master must be far from the Woodland Realm by now, probably headed for the Havens of Mithlond where none would know of his blackened record of betrayal and abuse. Lindalcon was more likely the first casualty of the Orc's attempts at invasion and Legolas would find only his bloody remains, dismembered and debased. This was not a cause worthy of risking their Tawarwaith.

Such were not the thoughts of Celeborn, too wise to waste energy in useless fretting over what could not be changed. What aid he could render Legolas had already gone forth, every Galadhrim warrior in his contingent allied with Greenwood's archers to rout the Orcs and gain victory for the Tawarwaith. Legolas would either survive or perish, his fate no different than any warrior's in this blighted land of meagre light and dense shadow. The august Lord had more immediate concerns as he followed Thranduil out of the throne room, hoping his influence would temper whatever punishment he might be envisioning for the convicted kin-slayer in the dungeons below the vaults. Even more, he wished to learn of the strange possession, for he could think of no other word applicable, which had overtaken the King just before pronouncing Meril's doom. Despite everything, Celeborn would salvage Thranduil.

It was not that he discounted the mass appeal of the newly arisen hero of the woods. Legolas' elevated status was truly a gift from the Valar. The Tawarwaith granted much needed hope and courage to a people in dire distress enduring a constant siege, forced back into this one last corner of green grace to which they held with such fragile tenacity. To his voice the Wood Elves listened, Sindarin and sylvan alike, and his words uplifted hearts, inspired noble thoughts. His sacrifices spawned a fervent yearning to be more like that, to reclaim that purity of purpose underlying his every work, to engage in like endeavours founded on the cause of justice and the desire for freedom. Nor did Celeborn disregard Thranduil's many failings, his dark deeds carrying him into the shadowed borderland betwixt evil and good where expedience determined which path to take.

Yet the defence of the Woodland Realm required more than a true heart and firm resolve, traits undeniably residing in Legolas' core. Nay, to hold back the power of the Wraiths and withstand the unending flood of malice and hatred spewing from Dol Guldur demanded something else. A leader wily and cunning, hardened by loss, defined by it, driven by it, willing to skirt the edges of decency to achieve an end none would deem anything but right, such a leader Greenwood's survival demanded. Such a leader was Thranduil. Whatever his flaws, whatever his sins, he was loyal to his father's memory and for Oropher's sake he would never let Greenwood fall.

Both were needed, valiant heart and bloody fist, but Legolas was beyond Celeborn's reach. Should the Tawarwaith fall this night, who would stand between life and genocide? Who would defy defeat, turn back the Wraiths, and deny victory to the hordes of Orcs? Above all, Celeborn must salvage the Wood Elves' King.

They jogged up the long, winding stair, Thranduil ignoring his queries and disregarding his existence. This proved a misconception for as they crossed the threshold of the royal chambers the agitated father demanded an explanation for the intrusion and in the next breath an introduction from his kinsman. Before that could be done, Erestor's presence registered and every nerve in the King's body bristled; he seemed to gain in height and mass, the regal robes more spectral and menacing than ever, the magnificent crown glittering at the pinnacle of his expanded aura.

"Out," he pointed at the Noldorin Lord and growled the command. "Should I find you near my son again you will join your kinsman's fate."

Elrond's seneschal, seeing the door blocked by this unexpected manifestation of awful presence, wisely chose to leave via the balcony and its stairway down to the gardens, bitterly cold though the night air was. He declined to remind the King that he was now bound to the monarch's first-born son and could not help but defy that command. Prudence allowed only a swift, silent, worried glance of parting to his Lorien lovers as he dodged through the arch.

Thranduil snorted a deriding sneer at Erestor's speedy disappearance, eyes marking the swish of midnight hair attesting to the rapidity of the seneschal's descent. His sight returned to the Galadhrim couple and the elleth cradling his infant prince. "Celeborn, these two belong to you, I believe?" he queried. "Give me the names of these trespassers and vouch for their intent if you want them pardoned."

"Fear not, Aranen." Before Celeborn could reply Dambethnîn stood and placed the slumbering babe in his sire's arms, instantly defusing the Sindarin Lord's wrath, and then proceeded to explain. "Never would I harm a child. I but wished to quiet the poor wee lamb's distraught and weary soul. He will sleep now many hours and awaken hungry, so be prepared for a fussy son."

"You were the one to quiet him. How is this possible? Have you used some herb or potion to force his unconscious state?" demanded the frantic father, adjusting the limp bundle carefully so to free a hand with which to poke and prod the babe, as if that could tell him what manner of medicine this unknown elleth had used. He gave her a searching scrutiny. "You are of sylvan descent?"

"We both are," Orophin interceded for his beloved, tone bold and stern, imparting his devotion and determination that Dambethnîn was not to be trifled with. "We would never use such means to induce a child to sleep."

"Allow me, cousin." Celeborn stepped into the room between the monarch and his unexpected visitors for Orophin's avowal had precipitated that stiffening along his kinsman's spine that generally heralded a sharp rebuke, often accompanied by forcible removal from his presence. "These are two of my most trusted guards, Orophin and Dambethnîn. They are here because of Erestor, who has for long centuries been part of their family."

"Ah! So you two are the ones!" Thranduil eyed them with keen interest but surprised himself by finding he had no desire to say anything unkind or demeaning to the couple, for they were quite obviously devoted to one another and must be equally true to Erestor to have come to Greenwood to aid him.

Beyond that, there was something in the elleth's eyes as she stared at him, something she wanted so badly she feared to name it, and this intrigued him. Her sight fell at last upon Taurant and within her visage a softness grew, filled with warmth the like of which he remembered trained upon him from his naneth's loving gaze, so long ago it was more an impression than a memory. He drew a quick breath and glanced back to the sleeping child.

"Tell me, how did you quiet him?"

"He is no different from other babes for all his lofty titles, Aranen," shrugged Dambethnîn, smiling gently. "He wants only to feel safe and loved."

"'Beth has a way with young ones," beamed Orophin, settling loving hands upon her shoulders.

"That she does," murmured Thranduil, nodding thoughtfully as he walked further into the room so to lay the child within his cradle. Taurant never stirred beyond a long, deep sigh and curled up under the blanket contentedly.

The King trailed gentle fingers over the head of downy golden locks, heart rejoicing for here was the very answer he had been seeking. How wonderfully fitting that the elleth's name should reinforce the notion. Surely this was an indication that his judgement was just and right, for the only obstacle to carrying it out was herewith removed, if he could secure consent from Celeborn.

"I would ask of you a great favour and it is good your Lord is here to sanction my proposal," said the King suddenly, turning and fixing the couple with his sharp, bright sight.

"What favour, Thranduil?" asked Celeborn, cautious but curious and hopeful, for he could almost see the idea collecting in the King's thoughts.

"I have need of a nurse for Taurant, a substitute naneth. I would ask Dambethnîn to serve in that role until the child is two years of age and ready to be weaned. What say you?" Thranduil spoke his answer to Celeborn but his eyes held to the Galadhrim couple.

"So then you will send Meril over sea?" asked Celeborn, hopeful and relieved.

"You ask much," Orophin said softly, uneasy about the implications of such a request.

"Yes!" Dambethnîn exhaled right after, avoiding her husband's eyes and smiling in joy toward the cradle.

"'Beth! We would not be able to go home; we would forfeit our seniority in the guard. I would not see my brothers or you your cousins. All this for a child that will never be our own and in the end we would have to give up," Orophin warned, squeezing hard to make her turn from her longing gaze and hear him.

She did so, smiling into his worried eyes and cupping his face, bringing his lips to hers in a soft kiss. "Be at peace, I know whose child this is, but he is just a babe after all and needs someone to nurture and tend him. Let it be us, Pen Raug. Who could be better suited?" she whispered.

"There is no need to fear you would be forced to abandon the prince," Thranduil went on eagerly, spinning out the fantasy in his mind as he spoke. "He will have need of tutors in warcraft and who, indeed, would be better to teach him archery than two of Lord Celeborn's most trusted guards? There would be no restriction against travelling back to Lothlorien to visit, if you should so wish, nor on any family coming here, either. You could stay as long as you wish, until his majority if you like, with my cousin's permission, of course."

"I would not object to an exchange of warriors. Let two of your fine archers return with me to Lorien that the loss of my guards be lessened, and I am content," smiled Celeborn, watching the hope and happiness bloom in both Dambethnîn and Thranduil's eyes.

"Agreed. Choose anyone you wish," the King offered.

Celeborn refrained from naming Legolas and Lindalcon, however much he might deem it wise. The Tawarwaith would never abandon his Greenwood and Lindalcon would not forsake his siblings.

"Ai, 'Beth! Consider carefully. Our ways are not the ways of the woodland folk and these trees are not our Mellyrn." Orophin alone remained sceptical and wary of the contract, concerned over the volatile nature of the Lord they would serve. Yet to see his beloved so near to her heart's desire, after so many centuries of painful longing, was impossible to disregard. He sighed. "Ai, 'Beth."

"Orophin? Serve here with me and be the prince's mentor," she coaxed, her need so raw and filled with unbearable emptiness that there could be no way to love her and refuse. Orophin loved her more than anything else in all of Arda.

"So be it," he nodded, smiling as he kissed her back, hands falling to her waist. "This is an honourable task, to tutor the son of Greenwood's King in warcraft and wood lore." His wife threw hers arms about him, laughing, crying, thanking him, kissing him all at once. It was enough to make even Thranduil smile and Orophin met the monarch's gaze over his wife's shoulder. "I would be proud to accept a commission in your guard, Aranen, as long as it is understood such a position is ancillary and secondary to the loyalty and obedience tendered to Lord Celeborn. Should need arise, I would expect to be released from duty to defend my homeland."

"Then it is settled," Thranduil concluded. "I will remove to my former suite and you two may move in here. Echuir'oss has chambers just there," he pointed to an adjoining door within an arched alcove. "I will introduce you and explain everything to her when she wakes. Send bearers to Lorien to retrieve whatever personal items you may need. Now, excuse me for there is much to which I must attend." He bent and pressed a kiss to the sleeping babe's head and left the nursery, calling commands for the reordering of his affects, striding off to the great stairs again, Celeborn hastening to catch up.

"I am pleased, Thranduil. Letting the Valar decide the fate of the mother is best. I know she holds your heart and you would spare her, yet this is necessary. You will be reunited in the future and then the love you bear her will at last find true fruition," he murmured this encouragement as they descended, but Thranduil ignored his consoling words.

"Celeborn, I have need of yet another favour," he halted suddenly and turned to ask.

"Anything," Celeborn gripped his arm warmly.

"I beg you will retrieve from Aewendil the foul dagger of Caranthir, for I intend to dismantle the gates and melt them down, freeing my brothers' spirits at last and forever. That vile blade must also be reduced to liquid and the twisted soul bound within it transferred to a less dangerous tomb."

The Lord of Lorien could hardly refuse such a request and, while uneasy in his heart, he thought perhaps this desire to undo the binding of spirits was a positive development. Yet he failed in this simple task, for neither Aewendil nor Mithrandir were anywhere in the fortress and none of the councillors knew whither they had gone. He returned without the dagger to find Thranduil already removed to the vaults. There, too, he descended, curious in spite of himself, eyes darting beyond his kinsman's form to glance upon bright gems and shining metal, a hoard more vast and more precious than anything he had beheld since his youth in Doriath.

Celeborn remained just over the threshold of the vestibule of the Three Doors, one foot still comfortably poised upon the lowest step in case a hasty retreat was in order, caught by the image before him, speechless and frozen in both dread and wonder. Thranduil worked to remove the heavy wrought iron barriers from their hinges, the ringing echo of his mallet on the iron chisel resounding rhythmically through the cavern.
Stripped to the waste and barefoot, broad back straining as muscles flexed to wrestle the metal free, he strived against the barrier with diligent perseverance for the welds were made to be permanent. There lay his formal finery discarded on the floor and with it was cast aside Malgalad, forgotten as quickly as any paltry bit of fob and fancy. There lay his noble and mighty mien with them. No kingly power exuded from this toiling ellon, skin bright with the sheer sheen of labour. No kingly power but power of a more visceral sort, anger and fury poured into every action, lending their heated energy to the task, internal weapons channelled, directed, controlled as only a seasoned veteran of innumerable wars and strife could wield them. Thranduil attacked the gates, bent upon their utter destruction.

As compelling as this sight was, it was not his kinsman's efforts that so engaged the elder lord's attention. To the King's right and behind him a pair of spectral overseers monitored his progress. Celeborn had spied shades before but none so fully formed as these and he had no difficulty recognising the brothers. Indeed, he had been pleased to treat them as younger brothers long ago when he and Doriath were both young, enjoying the privilege to the full, and they had returned that friendship until Oropher left, taking his clan with him. Tramborlong (Heavy Fist), the eldest of the brothers, favoured the comrade of his youth with a smile.

"It is good that you are here."

The spirit's lips moved but the voice belonged to Thranduil and this gave Celeborn a severe jolt as his sight fled to the King. He inhaled deeply to steady his racing pulse, unsure at first to whom he should reply, but Thranduil remained committed to his task, no indications apparent that he realised he had company of any sort in the place.

"Trambor," Celeborn began and faltered, finding the usual greetings and pleasantries just did not apply. "I am saddened and shocked. What is happening here? Is your younger brother bewitched, possessed?"

"He does as we demand." Oropher's middle son replied, his words issuing also from the monarch's mouth.

"Was it you in the throne room; was it your doom pronounced or his?" Celeborn could not say why this seemed so vital to make them admit, only that instinct warned the spirits before him were not as they had been in life. The long centuries of imprisonment had twisted and distorted their once honourable natures and he sensed only the desire for vengeance and revenge.

"His doom, our will," answered Tramborlong calmly. "This must be redressed." His vapourous hand gestured toward the elaborate gates and still the cryptic words fell from Thranduil's lips.

"What will you do?" Celeborn found his skin crawling with aversion, imagining the freed feär crowded inside Thranduil's body, forcing the King's soul out. Destroying the gates suddenly seemed like a bad idea.

"Thranduil will do it and thus shall his transgressions be remitted and our unjust captivity avenged. He will suffer as he has caused others to suffer. All that he loves will be lost to him and yet remain near at hand lest he forget."

"Tell me what you mean to do," urged Celeborn. "Would you steal his body and banish him to Wandering? Mayhap he deserves such a fate, yet there are innocents to consider."

"Aye. Though you cannot see it, what we demand will be better for them. They should not grow up here in the tutelage of our brother's demented pride, reared by a murderess who has now driven her first-born to certain death as well."

It was too much, the children's doom uttered so calmly in their father's haughty tones. Were Tramborlong and Thruin'naur as they had been in life, then Celeborn might agree the prince and princess of Greenwood would benefit from their insight and wisdom, their courage and compassion. These corrupted phantoms of Neldoreth's princes were not fit influences for impressionable minds. Alarmed, Celeborn stepped forward and laid his hand upon Thranduil's shoulder, shaking him roughly.

"Kinsman! Thranduil, hear me and answer!" he commanded.

"Celeborn?" Thranduil stopped his work and turned, an expression of irritated indulgence settling over his features, for the Lord of Lothlorien was one of the few elves to whom he would defer. "Forgive me, I was so fully absorbed in my task that I failed to hear your step. What is amiss?" An instant of dread overtook him as he worried after his little babe, but the fortress was still and peaceful. He smiled, recalling his bargain with the Galadhrim elleth and her over-protective mate. "You look as if you've seen the Spirits of the Gates," he joked.

"So I have," nodded Celeborn, observing him closely. "They are here now." Yet when he glanced aside he found them gone and new fear arose. He took a step back from his cousin. "Thranduil, do you recall the hearing just concluded?"

"Of course." The King peered at Celeborn intently, seeing his kinsman's elevated state of alert, and then let his eyes traverse the vestibule. "I will never forget this horrendous night and its vile conclusion. Yet the Guardians are not here; I would surely know it for they despise me. They want nothing less than to destroy me." Thranduil patted his kinsman's shoulder in consolation, lightly amused to see the effect his captive brothers' had upon the noble and fearless Lord. "They would not try to do you harm, even were they here."

"Nay!" Celeborn slapped the hand away. "You spoke of possession before; you feared these spirits would use Legolas' body as their vessel. You must acknowledge that there are others here who share their blood, whose hroa would as easily, even more fittingly, to their thoughts, serve."

"Nay, there is only me and the children. Little can the babes do to effect my brother's vengeful plots," he chuckled darkly and propped his fists atop his hips. "Surely you do not imagine I would permit them to inhabit me, do you?" He shook his head, a fond smile upending his lips and a bright twinkle in his emerald eyes. Long had it been since anyone worried so for his welfare.

Celeborn did not find anything amusing in the situation, for he was sure he caught a darker glint in Thranduil's eyes, a darkening of the irises far from normal. Surely this indicated the foreign presence still had hold of him. How to treat with them? Could he still reach Thranduil or was all of this a mockery, the brothers manipulating their tormentor for their own amusement and his befuddlement. The King laughed abruptly and again settled a heavy hand on his elder's shoulder, and involuntarily Celeborn shrank from it.

"It is you and not he, then, with which I speak. I would have Thranduil come forth; I would address the King of Greenwood," he ordered, voice feigning fortitude he did not feel in his heart.

"What? Celeborn, it is I, Thranduil. What has come over you?" the King peered at him warily, for he had not considered the dilute and distant link to this Elven Lord sufficient for his brothers to employ. Yet he did not sense the spirits' presence in his kinsman's aura and frowned. "You truly believe me possessed."

"I watched as it happened, not knowing or expecting such, in the throne room. The wizards did not react and did nothing to intervene," Celeborn answered, licking dry lips, eyes darting between Thranduil's, which had momentarily cleared of the unwholesome gleam. "Perhaps there is some ward or spell Mithrandir knows that may preserve you from a recurrence. Come quickly!" He seized Thranduil's forearm and yanked him toward the stairs.

"Ai! Far! (Enough!)" Thranduil balked and freed himself, scowling at Celeborn. "You are mistaken. It is contrary to the nature of the spell for them to gain power over me. Go and leave me to my work." He turned and resumed his battering at the stubborn hinges, the ringing clamour invading the place and rendering speech impossible.

Deeply disturbed, Celeborn thought the wizards might be better equipped to manage the situation, for Thranduil had no inkling he was enthralled, yet the Istari were not inclined to interfere. That puzzled him, though he could not deny there was a kind of justice in the macabre situation. Aewendil especially might be disposed to permit the Woodland King to endure the fate he had imposed upon countless others. Yet given what he understood of such spells, the enchantment should be impossible, the reality before him unattainable. Had not Thranduil admitted a form of consent was required from the victim?

Aye, and Thranduil would never grant them access willingly.

Perhaps the brothers' hold was not as sure as they wanted it to appear. He watched his kinsman in silence a moment and considered the decision to begin the gates' dismantlement at this particular time. Surely if they were melted fully then the spirits would be utterly unbound and would try to make their hold on their brother's hroa permanent. Celeborn understood that the one elf who could stop them was the one they had successfully possessed. He needed to reach Thranduil and centred his hopes around the one point he believed might get through to him. He reached for the swinging arm and halted the next battering stroke.

"Cousin, surely someone else is better fitted to this arduous demolition process. Assign the chore to one of your trusted warriors and go to your little prince. Surely he has suffered today and your loving presence would ease his sleep and comfort his heart. What say you?" asked Celeborn in cordial tones.

"Nay, but I thank you for such concern." Thranduil acknowledged his kinsman, that strange, eery glint in his darkened eyes. "There is no other Elf here who possesses this skill. In Imladris, perhaps, there are Noldorin smiths who comprehend this art, but even they know nothing of casting souls. It was my will that imprisoned my brothers in the metal and only my will can free them absolutely."

"Yet you feared Legolas had become possessed with their essence," reminded Celeborn, crestfallen to see the prince's well-being made no impression. "How could that be if they are bound here?"

"Enough. It was amusing for a time but we will not play at this game. Too serious is our need, Celeborn," Tramborlong answered with Thranduil's tongue. "The spell that binds us permits invasion of a living host, for so we kept the robbers from our muindor dithen's keep. Even so, once a living host passes beyond the bounds of the stronghold, we are compelled to relinquish our claim and condemned to resume our posts, literally.

"Yet one of our bloodline, that hroa we can fully inhabit; the only body deserving of such intrusion is this one, though we did reside alongside our nephew's soul briefly. Once before when Legolas was but a child we tried to take him over yet even so young he resisted with greater success than any other has before or since. Full, true possession requires consent and he was not willing."

"While Thranduil is? What madness do you try to make me accept? He would never agree to this."

"You understand so little," Thurin'naur resumed the lecture, the King's condescending tone fitting to his brother's cold words. "He is no longer our keeper. In taking the key from Thranduil, Legolas became Master of the Gates. Whatsoever the Master commands, the Spirits of the Gates must obey, yet before that a blood offering is demanded to secure the right to rule. Not just any blood, but blood of the same lineage, our lineage, the heritage of Oropher. He was bleeding unto death, by all accounts. More than enough to satisfy the enchantment."

Celeborn found this a blatant misdirection and said so. "That has nothing to do with Thranduil granting consent to this embodiment. As to being your Master, from all I have heard and seen, neither would the Tawarwaith order such a thing. His concern is only for his innocent siblings and he would spare Thranduil for their sake."

"Aye, he would," Thurin'naur's voice mellowed and he smiled. "Yet he cannot see how detrimental Thranduil's influence will be on those elflings. There is darkness in our youngest brother that cannot be burned out. Legolas cannot see it anymore than you can."

"Consider what you see before you," Tramborlong continued, his spectral arm raising his brother's to point toward the ghastly gates. "He devised this punishment specifically to mock us for all time, for we denounced his lust for wealth and reminded him always of Thingol's Doom. He made us his Gatekeepers to spite us."

"As we make him the instrument of his own destruction. It is just and fitting. He knows, of course, and writhes in misery here in the hidden recesses of his child-heart, but can do nothing to hinder us now."

"Nay, I do not accept this," Celeborn shook his head. "Tramborlong and Thurin'naur would not do this. The Elves I knew were not vicious and cruel. Release Thranduil. Leave his fate to the Valar. Turn from this evil vengeance and go in peace to Mandos." he exhorted, mindful that as yet they had not revealed the fullness of their design.

"Ah, we cannot go to Námo now, kinsman," sighed Thurin'naur. "We seek immersion within Tawar but that cannot happen as long as the Gates and the Lock and the Key remain. They must be melted down and Thranduil will see it done."

"What of Oropher?" Celeborn reminded, hoping desperately to awaken dismayed repentance in the ravaged spirits' consciousness. "Will he be pleased or heart-broken to see what has become of his offspring, all three turned to Shadow?" His question provoked a horrific reaction, for Thranduil gnashed his teeth and howled, turning to yank at the open-work of the wrought iron prison as though to pull it down with the might of his rage. Yet the spirits' fury was impotent and their brother sagged against the cold, black whorls in defeat before turning on Celeborn.

"Our friend of old would not torment us this way, seeing what we have suffered," accused Tramborlong. "We do what must be done and know well enough what Adar would think of this. Yet we will never see him again, nor our mates, unless Yavanna frees us from Tawar in the Last Days. We consider that sufficient to atone for whatever precepts of the Valar we must defy to bring about this reversion of Thranduil's evil."

"Evil does not beget good, Trambor. You know this," Celeborn reminded. "Do not fall prey to your brother's demented rationalisations while dwelling in his flesh. Think! There is much more to be decided here than personal grievances, serious though yours are. The fate of two realms is tied up in this mess. Is it right for you two to oversee the trial and determine the punishment of Lord Elrond of Imladris? No wrongs has he done to either of you."

"No wrongs?" Thranduil's voice was hard and sharp with Thurin'naur's words. "Legolas was wronged and he is our nephew. He will be avenged."

"He would not want that," argued Celeborn, watching in dismay as a new sense of purpose overtook Thranduil's features and he cast away the tools he held.

"Yet it must be done. The Peredhel Lord is more than he seems, as is Legolas. Both must be healed."

Thranduil hurried to the stairs and was bounding up them as the brothers' spoke, Celeborn following, dread and guilt gripping his heart. His speech had put Elrond in the spirits' awareness and what befell him now must lie to some degree at his feet. The wizards were needed and at the kitchen door the Lord of Lothlorien turned away to find them.

TBC
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Feud

Note

Acharn egor Caun? (Vengeance or Valour?)

Dûr Estel (Sombre Hope)