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Arcane Land	By : alpham31 Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2529 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is not mine, and neither are its characters. I make no money with my writing. This story was written for the simple pleasure of it.

Chapter List
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Chapter 24: Into the Mirkwood

It was dark, and cold, and although it snowed copiously towards the north, it would not stick here, for the ground was humid, wet and sticky with the vile expulsions from the dead or agonizing trees.

After bidding their horses move northwards and hiding their larger panniers in the last of the healthy trees, they had walked south for three hours before stopping at a relatively dry spot, sufficient, at least, to sit and take some rest. There could be no fire here, for they would have company all too soon. It would also draw the moths and bats with the somewhat vile result of having to literally bat them away, or listen to the sizzling of papery wings as the flames caught on the huge, furry moths, attracted to the orange light and yet unaware of its danger. Lindo had even had a bat fly into his hair once…and Glammo had had to cut it out, taking a fair number of chestnut locks with him, some of which he had stuffed into his pockets for future use.

And thus they huddled together in relative silence, allowing themselves only to whisper, their breath visible as it puffed from their mouths in the frigid cold.

“The area has deteriorated much in these last months. We still have half a day’s travel before we reach Lithaldoren, and yet we are already well into the Mirkwood – I fear what we may find tomorrow,” whispered Pengon.

“The trees are all but gone, Hwindo, even if the village is still there, how would they have sustained themselves, for surely nothing grows here,” added Idhreno.

“There are still a few that harbor life, Idhreno, perhaps the Avar have managed to stave it off in some measure around their village, however you are right, Pengon, we may very well have our worst fears confirmed tomorrow.

Rafno sighed deeply. He remembered the first time they had come here; it had been his first ride with The Company, one that had been fraught with danger and strange revelations. They had ventured further south in search of three that had been taken, returning with only two, one of who was Swallow, the lovely child that had witnessed her father’s torture and agonizing death. ‘What of her?’ he wondered, ‘what of Tui?’

They fell into a waking slumber, or at least that is what Rafno had come to call it. Their bodies rested and their minds simply meditated, thinking of nothing in particular but not losing its ability to sense sound, movement or smell – a strange reverie that Elladan had learned to emulate, at least to an extent.

Glammo huddled close to Lindo, sharing his body heat and a tender touch under the blankets. Ram en’ watched with a raised eyebrow, as Rhrawthir grinned and Koron en’ rolled his eyes. Yet they were all endeared to the relationship that had flourished between the two warriors, even though they felt compelled to show disapproval on those rare occasions when they would flaunt their affair.

And so the night passed in silence, until the first inkling of light could be intuited and the warriors uncurled themselves, stretching silently and readying themselves for the trek ahead, their minds still harbouring a smattering of hope for the Avari villagers and Swallow, yet their stomachs and hearts were heavy for what their brains told them, logically, was the truth.

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The journey had been dour indeed, the mud and slime sucked in their boots, reaching way past their ankles.

It must have been around midday when they heard the first screams, and their stomachs dropped to their drenched boots. Shouts and screams for aid echoed around the barren trees, and the smell of burning wood assaulted them until it became so strong their eyes watered and their vision blurred. The trees were alight, and Lithaldoren’s village was under siege; they had not left, as Legolas knew they would not, and his heart clenched painfully.

The hour it took them to reach the area was the longest that Rafno remembered. They wanted, needed to run, yet their feet sank into the mud and slime, causing almost all of them to fall into the vile detritous. And as they waded through it, they all set to remembering those quiet, introspective villagers they had visited just a few months before, with the exception of Dorainen and Barathon. The incursion they had made to extract the three that had been taken, only to find one of them along the way, atrociously tortured and then slaughtered. The elf had been Swallow’s father – they remembered her especially, her lovely round, honey-coloured eyes, her innocence, the suffering they themselves had been forced to endure by simply looking upon her, knowing she had witnessed the torture and murder of her father at such a tender age – what of her now? What of her mother? Yet however much they pumped their frantic legs, the very earth pulled them back, sucked them down as if purposefully delaying their arrival.

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Glammo knelt in the bloody mud, panting harshly, willing his heart to work faster and provide more oxygen for his starved lungs, for they were aflame. His body felt numb, yet throbbed strangely, pulsating violently with every beat of his desperate heart.

He still clutched his sword desperately with both his cut and bloody hands, his head bowed to the ground, the tips of his dark hair brushing the small pools of crimson.

He raised his head a little then, as a body came into view. Milky white skin streaked in bloody brown, long chestnut hair caressing one side of a heart-breakingly beautiful visage, the other half had been slit open to reveal the white orbit of a once deep amber gem, the cheek bone barred to the wind, the once full rosy lips split down to the jawbone, revealing perfect white teeth.

Glammo’s rebellious eyes continued downwards, settling on the severed arm, sliced from the shoulder, laying just a little off to the side of its body – enough to horrify the poor soul before death had ended the suffering. Further down did glittering grey eyes wander, registering the cloth gathered around the waist of the body, below which the blood and intestines coiled and pooled, still steaming. Once perfect white legs barred impossibly wide, twisted and uneven, the small white feet turned inwards unnaturally. Now he understood why he had not, at first, registered the green and yellow feathers of the arrow that protruded from the child’s forehead, yet which now stood out so starkly, the shaft bearing a minute carving of a simple leaf – an elf had killed this child – this child of no more than 10 seasons. And then, Glammohtar turned his head to the side, and vomited violently.

A hand at his shoulder brought him back to the battlefield as he looked up and over his shoulder, registering the face of Rafno, whose eyes briefly flitted to the ruined corpse of the young girl, before turning his own anguished eyes back to his companion.

“Come,” was all he could whisper as he held out a hand and helped his friend to his shaking legs.

Other elves were now wandering blindly back to the relative safety of the rotting trees, some in a daze, others walked with a purpose, especially those in dark leather jerkins. The field was strewn with the bodies of civilians, some writhed, others were still, men and women moaned and screamed as others wailed in grief, their loved ones, their friends - dead or dying in their arms.

They spotted Legolas then, flanked by Ram en’ Ondo and Idhrenohtar, who deftly snatched at a female who had made to attack the commander. The two warriors handed her over to her family members as they took her away, screaming and wailing her wrath at the one that had come too late.

And yet on he walked, until he reached the corpse of the girl, where Glammo had fallen to his knees in despair just moments before. Idhreno handed him a blanket which Legolas used to wrap around her stomach and hips, allowing him to hoist her up with some difficulty, before walking towards what tonight would be one collective funeral pyre for the elven dead.

His face betrayed no emotion, just a blank mask of apparent indifference, until they reached the designated area and he knelt down, placing her carefully upon the ground before kneeling back and observing her mutilated face and the arrow that had pierced the young, still pliant bone of her skull, through to her brain and causing instant death. He bent forward then, and tenderly smoothed back the beautiful hair and placed a single kiss to her forehead, before extracting the projectile and placing it inside his quiver.

Both Rafno and Glammo were choked with emotion, their eyes swimming, yet their brains in a whirlwind of incomprehension at how this elf had been capable of taking the life of this young one, whatever the stimulus had been – neither thought themselves capable of such an act; would it – nay should it be judged an act of mercy? The desire to speak out was strong, yet both held back, for they were confused. Ram en’ Ondo and Idhrenohtar were now watching them both, a stern grimace on their blood-streaked faces – they were being warned, thought Rafno, in no uncertain terms.

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The villagers had regrouped in what was left of their abode. The wounded lay on the ground or inside the half ruined huts, tended to by those that had been left relatively unscathed.

Legolas and his elves had regrouped just outside their glade, caring for their own wounded. A small stream ran through the area and here, was where their own make-shift healing sector had been established. Nanern stood watch to ensure they would be well-warned if any further danger was present, for the trees would not warn Hwindo, not here.

No one spoke, for the battle had been both long and hard. Once they had broken out into the clearing, out of the sticky mud, their worst imaginings had become reality and they had flung themselves at the attacking enemy, an enemy that had already done so much damage. They had been too late, yet there had still been civilians to save.

The Company was used to this, although for Rhrawthir, Dorainen and Barathon, this was new, for although they had seen their share of bloodshed, they had not experienced suffering on this scale, and had certainly not witnessed Sîdhoneth. They wore their expressions openly – their features twisted into grimaces of pain and grief, their faces tear-streaked, their expression one of incomprehension and confusion, even Barathon had shed tears.

The veterans had taken it upon themselves to help their less experienced comrades, with the exception of Barathon, who had wandered off, his mind in a turmoil. As they sat with Rhrawthir and Dorainen, they spoke to them, answering their questions and concerns while Rafno began to tend to the injuries that had been sustained, listening quietly as he did so. Their faces were the very picture of confused misery, and even now, Dorainen struggled with the very concept of ‘peace-giving’. Who had the right to take a life, whatever the circumstances? He argued, surely only the Valar had that right, as they had been the very instigators of life…’ Pengon argued kindly with him, almost as if speaking to a child, reminding him that Legolas was a Protégé of a Vala, and that even if he were not – what purpose had the girl’s suffering served? What had it mattered to die seconds before or after?’ The young warrior had not answered, but his anguished face remained.

Dorainen’s mind told him that Pengon was right, and yet his heart would take some time to come to terms with it, and meanwhile, his impression of the commander had changed dramatically, for he was no longer the beautiful, gentle yet skilled warrior he had previously perceived - he had been capable of kinslaying, whatever the circumstances had been – and now, he was just a little apprehensive of him, for he was fierce, consequential to a fault, and just a little – barbaric…

Pengon had done this many times, however, and he knew that this thought process was essential for any effective Greenwood warrior, especially one of The Company – you could not fight in the Mirkwood and not accept Sîdhoneth - it was an experience they must necessarily have, however difficult it proved to be. It would take some time and perhaps a little weariness towards his commander, but he would come to terms with it, for the necessity of the act would become so plain to him with time, that he would eventually wonder how he had not understood it sooner.

Glammo, however, had not doubted the necessity of it, for he had been close to where the girl had finally fallen, had seen her traumatic ordeal play out before his very eyes – yet what had truly shocked and upset him, was the fact that he had been incapable of acting, had been within striking distance of the Uruk that held her, but he had hesitated, frozen in panic and indecision – he had not had the courage to do it, and now, his feelings of guilt were grating on his soul.

Thus, he busied his afflicted mind with the tasks he had been set by Dimaethor. He had collected his fourth armful of arrows and was now setting them down before Koron en’, who sat rinsing, whittling and sharpening the tips, leaving them ready for re-use. Glammo stood once more, and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder – Lindohtar.

“Come,” he said, as he lead Glammo to an unused corner a little further upstream.

There was a soft cloth and a bar of soap set to one side. “Bathe, Glammo. Take your comfort, for we will be needed again soon. Soothe away the dirt, and the sorrow – Glammo?” he asked, as he placed a finger under his down-turned chin, revealing an expression fraught with sorrow and tears, for the face of the child would not leave him, and his heart ached painfully for the young light, so cruelly snuffed out amidst the torture inflicted upon her, the green and yellow fletchings of the arrow that pierced her skull a macabre reminder of what had been necessary to end her plight, what the darkness and brought about, what he had been incapable of doing. He turned his afflicted eyes upon the knowing ones of his comrade, his face one of compassion and understanding, wisdom born of many trials he had endured in The Company, and Glammo sunk into the comfort that was so freely offered. Burying his head in the strong chest, he heaved a great, gasping wail that was muted by the leather of Lindo’s jerkin, his whole body tensing under the onslaught of raw, uncontrolled horror and grief. The Bard Warrior stroked his hair and hummed a simple tune, as he held the distraught warrior, until he was once more silent.

Barathon’s mindset was unreadable, for he sat alone further downstream, trying and failing to order his mind. He felt weak and incapable - for the first time he felt unsure as to whether he could do this – had his cousin been right all along? The very thought of failure pushed the sadness to the depths of his convoluted mind and pushed the all too familiar bitterness to the fore, as his jaw clenched, trying and failing to swallow his feelings of ineptitude and incompetence.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

The village dwellers had gathered around the large, raised platform where the dead had been lovingly placed, dry wood underneath for when the time came to destroy their lifeless bodies, and set their souls free. Yet there were no healthy spruce trees here to mask the stench of burning flesh.

The Company stood together behind Hwindohtar, a little off to the side, their faces stern, carefully controlled, mirroring that of their leader. The bereaved cried softly, cradled in the arms of their families and friends. Yet the tragedy that had played out that day, gave special significance to the young mother, who stood as if lost, staring at the pyre as if unable to comprehend what it was that she was doing there. She had already lost her mate just months before when The Company had been unable to save him from his torment, she had not even had his body to give rites to. They had brought back her Swallow though, had saved her…

Legolas moved forward then, staying Dimaethor’s intention of following him with a subtle shake of his head. Walking slowly to where the mother stood, he called softly to her, before the stunned expressions of her family.

She turned to face the Forest Lord then, the Peace Giver as he was also known, yet her face was still a blank parchment as she stared at the elf before her.

Legolas understood then – knew exactly why she showed no emotion – for the feelings were too intense, too overwhelming to be expressed – it neutralized her capacity to feel; he remembered, he knew, for he had felt that sensation himself once. And so, he acted in the only way he knew he would get a response. He ripped the shirt from his body and knelt before her, bare-chested as he opened his arms to the side in a signal of utter surrender – he placed himself at her mercy, that she may do as she saw fit.

The silence was absolute, his warriors tense lest she kill him, the child’s family looking on in wide-eyed dismay at the temerity of this warrior.

Her head cocked to the side as she seemed to be seeing him for the first time. This was the elf that had ended her Swallow’s life; he had pierced her with an arrow, expertly placed between her young brow. Her eyes filled with tears. They had cut her, held her in front of them, mocking and jeering the warriors as they sliced at the corner of her lovely lips, and then cut off her arm, making her scream, her face ripping open down to her jawbone. The shouting, the screaming and hail after hail of arrows could not stop the macabre spectacle she remembered, as a lone tear traced its way down the side of her face, scorching her frigid skin. The orc that held her from behind had lifted her white dress and fondled her, before another orc moved before her and impaled her on a thick branch. Her Swallow had screamed, she remembered, as another tear fell. The scream had confused her, for it had not come from her daughter – no, it was the cry of a wolf or some such wounded animal – yet it was, it was her Tui, she had still been alive, after all that had been done to her ten-year-old body, a body she had given birth to, nurtured and loved. She staggered the final meters that separated her from the kneeling elf as she threw herself down before him, bashing blindly at his face, pulling his hair visciously, scratching him, batting at his head – yet not once did he use his outstretched arms to defend himself. As she struck him, her mind saw what it had not processed – her own pitiful screams for it to stop, for someone to make it stop, the face of utter concentration on the warrior as he drew the string back, sighting along the arrow as his lips moved around words she could not hear…

She clutched in desperation at his long hair then, and let out a mighty wailing scream that echoed around the glade, as it finally turned into a plaintive wail and she threw her own arms out to the side, lurching into the now inviting arms of the kneeling lord, who took her fiercely into his tender embrace and held her tight as he rocked her, her family now kneeling and crying openly, their hands over their mouths for fear they may lose control of their emotions. And amongst the warriors, there were no dry eyes to be seen, and once more, Rhawthir and Dorainen were struck by this gentle, barbaric warrior. Barathon, however, simply stood, no tears washed his face, yet his expression gave his emotions away, for there was sadness, but there was also self-loathing, anger, and if one looked closely, yearning.

Later, the pyre was lit and the songs were sung, until the elves left in search of comfort. Small hearths were lit, dotting the ruined land, offering a modicum of heat and comfort on this, frigid winter evening.

Rafno and Glammo sat with The Company, eating quietly, for no one felt the desire to talk. Yet Rafno was a healer, and he had seen the damage that the mother had inflicted upon their commander.

“Where is Hwindo?” he asked, breaking the solemn silence.

“Leave him be, Rafno, he wishes for solitude,” said Ram en’ Ondo. The truth was that he, like his veteran companions, were done with explanations. It was now up to each elf to draw his own conclusions – they, would allow no more rebukes towards their leader.

“Ram en’, I am a healer. He has had his solitude, and now, he needs heeling. If he wishes for solitude still, he will have it. Now tell me, where is our commander?” he asked, his voice one of command.

“If you inopportune him, Rafno – I will not be pleased with you,” warned Ram ‘en, his brothers watching Rafno, their eyes telling the healer he had spoken for all of them.

“I will not inopportune him, brothers,” began Rafno as he held Ram en’s imposing gaze. “Hwindo is my leader, yet more than this he is my friend. I have no qualms with today’s events – I could not have done it, but that does not make it wrong – “ he said pointedly as he glanced at Dorainen, whose eyes rounded a little, before falling to the ground. “I admire him, for his courage, and I love him – for his sacrifice.”

There was silence for long moments, before Koron en’ broke it. “Then go, with our blessings, brother,” he said with the hint of a smile on his otherwise serious countenance.

A while later, Elladan found his battered friend sitting cross-legged on the mossy bank of the stream that ran parallel to the village. He had bathed and partially dressed himself, but had not seemed to have the strength to finish the task, for his jerkin lay in his lax hand, as he stared into the sparkling water.

“Hwindo,” he called softly.

“Um? ah, Rafno, come, will you help me?” he asked, pointing to his swollen and bruised cheek, his split lip and scratched forehead.

“Of course,” he said as he knelt beside him, depositing his healing kit beside him.

He spoke not, he simply cleansed the wounds and soothed them with the various pastes and liquids he had made up before leaving the fortress.

The warrior was impassive, he simply let Elladan work, not once flinching, even though Rafno knew his healing must have caused more than a little discomfort. Legolas was devoid of emotion again, his mask was up, his defenses working to the limit.

“Did my father ever tell you about the nature of Noldo healing?”

Legolas turned to look at Elladan, emerging somewhat from his place of peace.

“Yes,” he murmured, “he once told me that healing is not only about the closing of wounds and the staunching of blood, but also about comforting the soul,” he said, remembering well that first day he had arrived in the valley.

“You remember well, Legolas. I am a healer, I was my father’s faithful apprentice until I gained my rightful status. I am good, Legolas, for I know when healing is called for, and when it is not – and today, you, my friend, need healing,” he whispered as he turned Legolas’ face to meet his eyes, searching them for a sign of emotion, anything to show that he had broken through.

Legolas looked at him squarely, before answering him.

“Rafno – I cannot. I know your intentions are good, but to acknowledge my deeds, to open my heart and show my soul would render me useless. This army needs me, I cannot falter, this much I know.”

“It would render you useless for a short time, my friend. You would be back in the fray before you know it.”

“Nay – I would not, for the depth of those emotions is unnerving – I know, for I tried once, and failed, and do you know why? Because it frightened me…. It horrified me – I cannot trust myself to react well and see my warriors to safety.”

Elladan considered his words, and decided not to press the issue. There would be time enough for healing, not in the Greenwood, but perhaps in Imladris when next he visited. Elladan would see it done, for this sacrifice was the single most heroic deed he had ever witnessed, and if he already respected this warrior king, now, he regarded him as a friend the likes of which he had never had, would never have – the best of friends, and he would not be parted from him, he had meant what he had said just a few months back, although he himself had not realized that he had meant it literally. He had told Legolas that he had his ‘undying friendship’, to which Legolas had laughed, reminding him of the peculiar choice of words, for Elladan was Peredhel, his choice still unproclaimed. He had not believed him, and Elladan himself had said the words without thinking. Soon, he thought, soon he would repeat them – and mean them.
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Arcane Land