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By the time Legolas finally bade goodnight to his father, and returned
to his rooms, it was very late. The window shutters were open, as
they were in all but the foulest, coldest weather, and the cool dark
air drifted in, along with the sounds of night.
He changed quickly into a light night robe, but did not retire
immediately, despite his tiredness. He looked around the room,
gaze lighting on familiar possessions – books; histories of the ages
and legends of different races. A carved cedarwood chest containing
clothes. The writing desk, the unread letter from Elladan still
waiting for him. A work table, littered with tools and papers and
a small, sharp, silver-hafted knife he used for fletching arrows.
There was comfort in the familiar items.
There was a long seat fitted under the window - a simple opening cut in
the wall - and he sat there, gazing unseeingly out over the forest,
slowly relinquishing the tension that had driven him since his first
abortive attempt to reach Dol Guldur.
He was alone at last. Since his return there had been
interminable questions from Tirnan and the army captains, and reports
made to his father and to Mithrandir. Mithrandir especially had
wanted to know every last detail of the Nazgûl who had confronted
them; his appearance, every word he had spoken. In particular he
wanted to know everything the three survivors could recall of the
winged creatures they had seen. Legolas had the distinct
impression that the sudden appearance of the beasts had caught the
wizard by surprise. Although the wizard always had an air of
knowing everything before it had happened, this time he seemed startled
and dismayed.
But now every last detail had been discussed and debated, and he was
finally free. He sat alone, revelling in the blessed solitude,
while around him the night deepened, and the peace and tranquillity of
the forest surrounded him.
He finally stirred from his silent reverie, aware that it was very
late. The halls of Lasgalen had fallen silent, and there was no
sound from the kitchens or dining halls, no hum of voices, no bursts of
song, no muffled laughter. Everyone, apart from the guards
ceaselessly patrolling the perimeter, and the sentries on the main
doors, was asleep.
Legolas found exhaustion sweeping over him like a wave, and he crossed
to the bed wearily, and slept, the first true sleep since he had left
Lasgalen. However his mind still raced with all he had seen and
done, the horrors he had witnessed, and he dreamed.
The patrol was back at Dol Guldur, but still struggling to cross the
last few yards of forest to the edge of the clearing. Savage
brambles blocked their way, deep crevasses opened in front of them, and
impenetrable spiderwebs covered paths previously clear. Despite the
urgency, they struggled in vain to move forward. A cloaked, black
figure rose up in front of them, further blocking the path, mocking
them in a peculiar hissing whisper.
Its arm lifted, and a white, skeletal hand reached from the darkness of
the sleeve. Although the figure was some distance away, its hand
reached endlessly towards him, a bony finger stretching out to touch
him. He tried to back away, but was held, unable to move.
Beside him, Alfiel and Taniquel watched, immobile. The finger
grew closer, and closer …
With a start, he jerked awake, heart pounding, looking around
fearfully. Then he drew a deep breath, feeling foolish. A
nightmare, nothing more, but something he had not experienced for many,
many, years.
Slowly, he relaxed, and slept again, but was plunged straight back into
nightmare. This time he saw Eléntia. She looked at
him reproachfully, her eyes shadowed. As if over a long distance,
he heard her voice, crying in despair, her fear, and he relived
everything his imagination feared had occurred before their arrival at
Dol Guldur, everything they had witnessed, the brutality and the terror.
He lived again and again Eléntia’s final moments, her pain and
fear, and the worst of all - the moment he had shot Eléntia,
reliving his guilt and sense of failure. He watched as the Nazgul
wrenched the arrow from her. They turned their backs on her, and
behind them, unseen, unheard, she gave a cry of agony and straightened,
blood pouring from the wound. She was at the mercy of the orcs
and their masters, forgotten, abandoned, left for dead, and he had left her there. He saw
her face, cut and bloodied, her eyes wide and clouded with pain.
She called to him endlessly, repetitively, her tone pleading.
“Why did you leave me here? Come back, come back for me, help me,
please!” Her voice finally died away on a wail, and there was
silence, an ominous, waiting silence.
The Nazgûl was there again, reaching out. Legolas shrank
away from it, turning his head in a vain, futile effort to
escape. It was no good. This time it touched him, first on
the arm, then he could feel the brush of its cold fingers on his
face. With a gasp of pure terror he fought the deadly paralysis
that gripped him, and with an immense effort of will struck out,
knocking the hand away.
“Legolas, stop that! Wake up! What is wrong, ion nîn?”
Breathing hard, he sat bolt upright, his eyes wide. Thranduil
stood beside him, staring at him in concern. His father’s hand
was still outstretched, a red mark showing on his wrist. As
recognition returned to his eyes Thranduil added more gently:
“You were dreaming.”
He did not reply at once, still shuddering with the aftermath of the
dream. “Why are you here?” he asked his father.
Thranduil sat at the edge of the bed, now level with him, and answered
slowly. “I awoke, I felt there was something wrong. I could
sense your distress, so I came here. I heard you call out.
When I came in and tried to wake you, you did not seem to know me.”
Legolas looked at his father, calmer now. “Forgive me,
father. It was a bad dream.”
“There is nothing to forgive – this is not the first time I have
comforted you after a nightmare. It was about Eléntia?”
“Yes. And the Nazgûl. I dreamt that she was still
alive when we left, calling for help. And then that - creature -
tried to touch me. I could feel its fingers on my face..”
he stopped and drew a deep breath.
Thranduil made a soothing noise, and placed one hand on Legolas’s
shoulder, drawing him closer. “That must have been when I tried
to wake you. No wonder you fought me!”
“Fought you? What did I do?”
“Nothing. You just pushed my hand aside, that is all.”
Legolas looked away, feeling self-conscious, and slightly ashamed of
his reaction to the dream.
Thranduil continued: “You are not the only one to be thinking of
Eléntia, I think. I saw Taniquel earlier, in the library.”
“Taniquel? Is she still there? I should go to her.”
He slid out of bed, pulling on a loose robe.
“No, leave her. Tirnan was with her. Legolas, wait a
moment. About Eléntia – I want to ask you something.
Do you regret what you did?”
Legolas looked at his father in surprise. The question was not
what he had expected, but he considered it carefully before
answering. “No. I regret that it was necessary, would give
anything to have been able to rescue her. But I had no
choice. I do not regret what I did. It is not easy to live
with, but to have done nothing, to have left her there – that would be impossible to live
with.” He realised that the answer was nothing but the simple
truth – for the first time, he did not regret what he had done.
“Thank you, father,” he said very softly.
Thranduil released him, and stood with a smile. “You are still
tired, elfling. You need to sleep. Goodnight.” He
leaned forward, kissed him, and left.
Legolas knew he would be unable to sleep again, and did not want to
risk sinking into the nightmare again. Instead he dressed
swiftly, and left silently. He headed for the stables, and there
found Pavisel, head down, half asleep, but more than ready for a
pre-dawn ride.
They left the boundaries of Lasgalen and rode east, along a wide
logging trail built by the men of Laketown. Pavisel could gallop here,
and the smooth ground would not strain the half-healed wound. Before
long they reached the borders of the forest. Here Legolas halted,
looking out across the distant lake, still shadowed by night. The ride
had blown the fatigue and fears of the night away, and driven the
cobwebs from his mind.
Times would still be difficult, for him, his father, for the other
members of the patrol, and most especially for the grieving families,
but the first measure of healing had started, and for now he was
content to stand here quietly, watching as dawn broke, and the first
rays of sunlight shone over the still lake. He watched,
tranquilly, as the sun rose, reflecting off the water. It was
going to be a beautiful day.
The
End
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