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Some time, a long time later, Nifael slowly regained consciousness.
Basic survival training instinctively took over, and he lay still, eyes
closed, listening intently. As far as he could tell, he was alone.
There did not seem to be anything, anyone near him. Cautiously he
opened his eyes. It was dark, and it was raining heavily. He was wedged
half on his side, half on his back, between the ground and an outcrop
of rock. There was a fiery pain in his back, and every breath hurt.
Slowly he pulled himself upright, leaning against the rock for support.
Gingerly he touched the back of his head, ignoring the pounding ache.
There was a large bump there, and his hair was stiff with dried blood,
but at least it seemed to have stopped bleeding. His arm was gashed by
one of the sharp splinters of rock that littered the slope, a long deep
cut that still bled sluggishly.
Finally he brushed his hand across his back. The shaft of the arrow had
snapped off, leaving a stub about two inches long still protruding.
Steeling himself, he grasped the end and tried to pull. The pain was
nauseating. With a sob of agony he fell to his knees again, breathing
deeply, determined not to pass out. It was no good; the arrow would not
budge, it was too deeply embedded.
As the pain receded a little, he lifted his head and looked around. A
short was away was a sheer drop, much too close for comfort. Above him
the slope rose steeply towards the path he had fallen from.
It was clear he could not stay here. With a sigh of futility, he
salvaged the arrows which had fallen from his quiver, then slowly and
painfully began the ascent to the path. On hands and knees he crawled
laboriously up the slope, stopping frequently to catch his
breath. The slope was littered with loose stone and scree,
fragments of rock broken away from the mountains by constant freezing
and thawing.
Once finally at the top, he moved across the path and halted under the
cliff. Here he was partially concealed from the caves above. He leaned
against the rock wall, exhausted already. As he fought for
breath, he pondered the attack. He had seen nothing, but here in
the passes of the mountains it was most likely to be orcs. They
must have thought him already dead – and if it had not been for the
treacherous slope and the lethal drop beyond, they would surely have
checked, and found out their error. He shuddered uncontrollably
at the thought of being taken alive by orcs. He had heard such
stories …
After a while Nifael pushed himself upright again, and began to make
his way down the track. At the side of the path he glimpsed something
familiar, the message pouch he had been carrying. It was clear the orcs
had been through it. The letter which Prince Legolas had written to his
father, and entrusted to him to deliver, was gone. The only thing left
was a few wafers of lembas, nothing else. It was very little, but it
was better than nothing. And what of Morlai? He had
also heard that orcs were partial to horseflesh. Morlai had been
faithful, and deserved better.
Moving on again, he stopped frequently, both to gather his strength,
and to look ahead along the path to the next place where he would stop.
There was a darker patch of shadow against the night, and he peered at
it uncertainly. The shadow gave a soft snort, and he moved
closer. “Morlai?”
The black horse waited patiently for him to approach. Finally, he
wrapped his arms around the horse’s head, and leaned against him.
“Oh, Morlai,” he whispered. “What have we got ourselves
into?” It took three attempts before Nifael could haul himself
onto Morlai’s back, but he finally succeeded. Leaning forward, he gave
a sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, he would make it back. He drank,
sparingly, from the skins of water Morlai carried, and found a dry
cloak in one of the packs. He wrapped it closely around himself, easing
the chill which seeped into his bones from the wet clothes.
He rested against the horse’s neck, the position easing his pain a
little. “Take us home,” he whispered.
In a surprisingly short time they came to the place where the trail
branched off. It was obvious, now, which was the correct route. To the
right the track descended back down to Imladris. To his left, it
climbed steeply, leading over the pass. It took only a momentary
decision. Imladris was nearer, downhill, famed for its healers.
But Lasgalen was his home, and he was honour-bound to deliver his
message. He turned Morlai to the left. “Take us home,” he repeated.
The journey back was slow and painstaking. A day to cross the pass and
drop down to the plains, two days to reach the ford, newly repaired.
Crossing was easy, the water level safely below the flat clapper stones
of the bridge. Morlai moved at a slow, steady gait, his stride smooth
so it would not jar Nifael. He rode draped across Morlai’s back, hands
clasped beneath his neck. He dozed, only semi-conscious, as the horse
plodded steadily across the grasslands between the Anduin and the
forest. Once or twice Nifael found himself on the ground, with no
recollection of how he had got there. The first time he somehow managed
to pull himself onto Morlai, but the second time he had to stumble
alongside the horse to a boulder on the plain and use that to mount.
Towards the end of the fourth day he drew near to one of the villages
of men that had grown up under the eaves of the forest.
Relations between men and elves could best be described as an uneasy
truce. Neither entirely trusted the other, but there was not outright
fear and hate. Thranduil suspected the men of poaching deer along the
edges of the forest. The villagers feared Lasgalen – or Mirkwood as
they termed it – the spiders, the darkness, the ghosts which many were
convinced haunted the area. A suspicious few spread rumours that
the elves encouraged these perils to keep intruders out.
Legolas had been trying forge bonds between the different inhabitants
of Lasgalen, but with only a little success. Very few of the villagers
were prepared to put aside their traditional mistrust, and many of the
elders were fiercely independent. Added to that, most of the elves
could see no good reason to concern themselves with the men, who had
nothing to offer them.
Even through the haze of his confused thoughts, Nifael decided it would
be better to avoid the village. But as he skirted the area, he came
across a man reaping the last of a crop of vegetables before the
winter’s frosts.
The man straightened, and looked at Nifael curiously. “Greetings,
stranger. It’s been a while since we saw one of Thranduil’s people
here.” Then his gaze sharpened, as he took in Nifael’s drawn face and
the bloodstains. “You’re hurt! Come with me, my village is near, we can
help you.”
Nifael shook his head. “No, I cannot stop, I have to return.”
The man put down his spade and the sack he had been filling, and drew a
grimy hand across his brow. He approached Nifael cautiously.
“You’ll not make it anywhere like that. It’s not far. My wife is a
healer of sorts, I’ll take you to her.”
Nifael shook his head, wincing at the movement. “No. I thank you, but I
must go on,” he insisted. He was already past the man, and
rode on with Morlai, leaving the villager behind.
~~**~~
The man watched as Nifael swayed and almost fell off his horse. Shaking
his head, he turned and hurried back to the village, shouting for his
wife as he approached. “Mara? Mara! I need some of
your medicines. I just met an elf, he’s badly injured, but wouldn’t let
me bring him here.”
She looked up from her baking. “An elf? Injured, is he? So where
is he now?”
“Gone. He said he had to return. To Mirkwood, I suppose, he was wearing
Thranduil’s colours. But he’ll never make it through the forest like
that. The spiders will have him for sure.”
“So you ...”
He was gathering provisions as he spoke. “Mara, the elves helped
us a lot when we had the floods two years back. And long, long ago,
when I was a child, there was a sickness. My father said many died. The
elves sent one of their healers, gave us medicines, and sowed the
crops when there was no one well enough to work the fields. My father
said they saved the village.”
She nodded. “Darian? What are you going to do?” she asked, already
knowing the answer.
“I’m going after him. If he won’t let us help, at least I can make sure
he gets there in one piece. It’s the only way I can repay what they’ve
done for us.”
He snatched the pack Mara thrust at him, a loaf, some died meat, and
dried fruit and nuts. He found his hunting knife, a short bow and some
arrows. When Mara’s attention was distracted, he added several more
arrows. He feared he would need them if the spiders sensed easy prey.
Hastily saddling Inda, a shaggy brown pony, he rode after the elf. Inda
was no match for the elf’s magnificent, midnight black stallion – but
they had been travelling very slowly. He caught up with them just
before they entered the forest.
As the elf realised he had a companion, he turned to Darian. After
staring at him in puzzlement for a while, he said slowly: “Did you not
hear me? I cannot go with you. I carry a message which I must deliver
safely.”
“I know you won’t stop. But I will travel with you, if I may. My name
is Darian.”
The elf’s protest was halted by a harsh coughing spasm. He bent
forward, gasping for breath. When he could speak again, he nodded. “All
right. Thank you, Darian. I am Nifael.”
They rode together through the darkening forest as night approached.
Nifael was adamant he could not stop, and Darian did not wish to linger
in the forest any longer than he had to. Deciding not to halt unless
absolutely necessary, they continued to Lasgalen.
At last the two reached the outer boundaries of Lasgalen. Although
Darian could not hear it, an alert rang throughout the forest at the
sight of a stranger, and a wounded elf. They were trailed by sentinels
until they passed the boundary trees. At last they came to an open
stretch of grass that lay in front of a bridge. Beyond that lay the
halls of the wood elves.
They were expected. Two stood waiting silently, and behind them
were ranged several archers.
Darian stopped at the sight of the silent welcoming party. He
swallowed, no longer sure if he had done the right thing in escorting
the injured elf. His eyes were fixed on the tall, dark-haired elf in
the centre, unarmed, but quite clearly the leader of this group. The
elf stepped forward towards Darian, who tried to move Inda backwards.
Then, quite suddenly, he smiled. Darian’s uncertainty vanished.
“Thank you, my friend, for helping our brother. Please join us, take
food and rest before you return.” He waved a hand, and one of the elves
came forward to greet Darian.
“Come with me. I will see that your pony is looked after as well.”
Before Darian could move, the elf he had escorted tried to dismount,
and began to crumple to the ground. The others turned to help him.
~~**~~
Nifael fell off his horse in a haze of pain and confusion. Alfiel
caught him, and gently lowered him to the ground. He turned and called
for Tirana.
Throughout his journey, Nifael knew he had been given a message to
deliver from Legolas. It had been the only thing that kept him going.
Somehow it seemed imperative that he delivered that message - he had
promised. Struggling to breathe, he knew he had to pass it on to Alfiel.
His hand groped for the letter Legolas had written to Thranduil, but
then remembered he had lost it in the attack. No matter. He drew a
breath and repeated the message with the last of his strength. “I
have a message from Prince Legolas. He said he will be back when the
last of the trolls is dead.”
His voice was so faint, Alfiel had to lean close to make it out. He
could barely hear the breathy whisper, but the urgency behind it was
unmistakeable.
“Message .... Prince Legolas ......... is dead.”
Alfiel sat back on his heels in shock, his face white. “Nifael? Tell me
again. I - I did not hear that right. What happened?”
“Trolls ...” Nifael’s willpower deserted him then, and he let the
darkness claim him, satisfied that he had finally delivered Legolas’
message safely.
Alfiel looked across at Tirana, unable to believe what he had just
heard, but he could see his own shock mirrored in her eyes. “What did
he just say?” he asked her, needing reassurance. There was none she
could give.
She gave a jerky nod. “I know. He said ... he said ...” her voice
broke. “He said Legolas is dead.”
Alfiel bowed his head, staring down at Nifael. What had happened? They would have
to wait for Nifael to awaken before they could get the full story. He
raised his eyes to Tirana. “Look after him. Try to find out what he can
tell you.”
“I can try.” She ran her hands over him, assessing the gash on his arm,
the lump on his head, the arrow wound. “He has been badly injured. I
think he will recover, but it will be a while before he tells us
anything else.” She looked up at Alfiel as he got to his feet. “Where
are you going?”
“There is something I have to do” he said, dreading it. “I have to find
the King.” He stood still for a moment, steeling himself, gazing down
at Nifael in disbelief. Legolas was not just one of his closest
friends, not just the army commander. He was the prince.
Lasgalen was doomed.
~~**~~
Darian had been unable to hear any of the message, but its effect was
amazing. The elves appeared shocked and bewildered. They looked at each
other in disbelief, and several were weeping openly. No wonder the
mysterious messenger’s errand was so important, if it was so
devastating. He had clearly been forgotten, despite the earlier
greeting, so Darian turned slowly away, ready to take Inda back home.
Before he had gone more than a few steps, he was stopped by the elf who
had offered to care for Inda. “You must think us very
discourteous. We offered you food and hospitality. Come. We
have not forgotten what you did.”
“What was the message?” asked Darian curiously. “It seemed like - bad
news.”
The elf nodded, his expression bleak. “It was. The worst. Our ...” he
stopped, swallowed, then continued: “Our prince is dead.”
“Oh,” said Darian. It seemed dreadfully inadequate. “I’m sorry” he
added lamely.
“Come. We can give you shelter, replenish your supplies, and tomorrow
escort you home. You will not have to ride through the forest alone.”
Darian, who had been rather dreading the journey home - there was no
denying it, he was afraid of the spiders, and the darkness - followed
the elf, aware of the sense of gloom that was settling over the forest.
~~**~~
Alfiel found the King in the Great Hall, hearing petitions from traders
from Lake Town. Tionel was overseeing the supplicants.
Alfiel spoke to the steward softly. “Get rid of them, all of them. Now!”
Tionel looked startled. “But ...”
“Just do it!” There was an unaccustomed harshness in Alfiel’s voice.
As the next man stepped forward, Tionel stopped him. “This audience is
now closed. If you still wish to be heard, please attend the next
audience in three day’s time.”
The men muttered resentfully, but left without question.
Alfiel and Tionel turned to see Thranduil watching them both. “Why was
that necessary?”
Alfiel approached him hesitantly. “It was my doing, your Majesty. I -
have news.”
Thranduil regarded him impatiently. “Well?”
“Nifael has just returned from Imladris. He carried a message.” Alfiel
hesitated again, wishing he was somewhere, anywhere else - even back at
Dol Guldur. “He said - he said your son, Prince Legolas, is dead.” He
bowed his head, unable to look at Thranduil. “I am so sorry, Sire,” he
finished, his voice a mere whisper. “Forgive me for bringing this news.”
There was a moment of total silence. Thranduil uttered just one, hoarse
word. “How?”
Alfiel shook his head. “We do not know yet. Nifael was injured, Tirana
is with him now. But - he said something about trolls. That
was all.”
Thranduil spoke just once more. “Leave me.”
“But ...”
“Go!”
Exchanging a glance, Alfiel and Tionel left, followed by two servants
who had been standing, rigid, in the shadows.
As the door closed behind him, Alfiel was bombarded with questions.
“What happened?”
“Legolas is dead?”
“Are you sure?”
The blank, empty look in Alfiel’s eyes was answer enough. They all knew
that he was - had been - a close friend of the prince. Tionel repeated
his original question, the only one that mattered. “What happened?”
“Only Nifael knows that. He was unconscious. Tirana cannot tell when he
will be able to tell us anything. He said something about trolls.”
~~**~~
Alone in the Great Hall, Thranduil sank back into the throne. The
everyday sounds of Lasgalen faded away, until the only sound he was
aware of was the harsh beat of his heart. He did not doubt for a minute
that Alfiel’s anguished words were true.
A vivid, waking dream of a few days ago came to him - a portent, he
realised now. In it, he saw his son, battling against three mighty
trolls. He saw Legolas standing alone, dwarfed as one of the creatures
towered above him, firing at it, sending it crashing to the ground. He
watched helplessly as another of the trolls swung its club, dealing
Legolas a crushing blow, knocking him to the ground to lie motionless,
lifeless, on the cold ground.
He could never recall how long he sat there, images from the dream
replaying over and over again, while Alfiel’s words rang repetitively
in his head. There were scenes from the past, Legolas’s birth, their
shared grief at Telparian’s death a few short years later, his son’s
first archery lessons and first horse, his first battle.
Slowly Thranduil became aware of himself again, and moved to the
windows at the end of the hall to stare out at the trees. The news was
spreading fast. He could hear whispered conversations, gasps, cries of
denial, stifled sobs. An air of gloom hung over Lasgalen, and for the
first time he found himself thinking of the forest by the name
outsiders used. Mirkwood. It had never been more appropriate.
Sadly, feeling every one of his long years, Thranduil crossed the hall
again to the heavy wooden doors. Opening them, he followed the
stairways that led upwards through Lasgalen from the Great Hall to his
own chambers. There were times when he passed others. Some looked away,
avoiding his eyes, others stopped to try to say something. He was not
really aware of any of them, and reached the privacy of his rooms
uninterrupted. With a sigh of relief he shut the door. He was alone at
last. Alone with his grief, alone with his memories, alone with his
uncertainty over the future.
Why had the Valar cursed him like this? Everyone he had ever
loved had been taken from him. Oropher had been lost in that
first headlong rush towards the hordes of Mordor. Telparian and
Lissuin had died too, and he still did not understand why. Now
his son; his sun, the bright, shining centre of his world had been
entinguished, and his life was forever darkened.
He stood by the open window, dry-eyed, looking unseeingly at the
forest. It was late autumn, and the remaining leaves on the trees were
a hundred shades of bronze. Legolas had always loved this time of year,
and the blaze of colours that slowly crept northward.
‘No one should have to bury his own
son,’ thought Thranduil despairingly. ‘But I cannot even do that. The old
linger, and the young perish.’ The grief was like a
physical pain, a burning ache that threatened to overwhelm him.It
seemed so wrong that Legolas should lie so far away, and never return
to his beloved Lasgalen. Soon, before winter deepened, Thranduil would
arrange to go to Imladris, to see - to see his son’s grave. The thought
was too much to bear. He turned away from the window, bowing his head
as bitter tears began to fall.
Tomorrow he would have to talk to Tionel, to Alfiel and Tirnan.
Tomorrow he would have to send messages to the other Elven realms, and
to Lake Town, tomorrow he would have to think about the future of
Lasgalen. Tomorrow he would see Nifael, and discover the details of his
message, what had happened. But not now. Today he was alone with
his grief.
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