Deeper Than Skin

Chapter One: The Stranger “His great gaunt figure filled his cabin door,
And had he fallen inward on the floor,
He must have measured to the further wall.
But we who passed were not to see him fall.”
~ Excerpt from: The Figure In the Doorway by Robert Frost

Morning shimmered in an ethereal mist among the boughs of Mirkwood. Nothing seemed to stir in the wood. It was too late for the nocturnal creatures and yet too early for those of the morning hours.  But still, there were a few who did not linger in dreams at this early hour. The king of the wood, Thranduil, was one who stared into the grey morn’, still, and unmoving from his window. The blanket draped over his shoulders did little to comfort him, or warm the chill in his soul.

His family was on his mind this dismal hour, as it was often these troubled days. Evil lurked in every shadow, waiting it seemed to pounce on the struggling realm. The Elves were no longer the dominate predator in the wood. They were the prey.

Spiders, wargs, demons bred for the purpose of their annihilation. How could a forest such as Greenwood be turned into such a nest of vipers? This was no place to bring up a family. But what choice did he have?

“Duty to a great many people is a scourge that we must bear with valor and constancy,” was what his father had many times counseled. With every blight that fell on Mirkwood – yes, that was what they were calling the once lovely Greenwood the Great - Thranduil began to see ever the more clearly how true Oropher’s words had been.

Still, he mused, two of his sons had reached full maturity in these woods, along with a fine daughter. His two eldest sons were now warriors, both well-traveled and cunning with blade and bow, all the more important, their minds were sharper than their blades. But they had come of age long before the ongoing battle in Mirkwood had reached such a heightened state. Daily now, tidings were sent to him from scouts of conflicts on their borders. Their patrols were skilled and no less deadly, but the number of the enemy was quickly swelling.

But it was his third son for whom he grieved. Hardly come of age, his youngest was faced with maturing under the shadow of oppression that lurked over Mirkwood. His training as a warrior and defender of the realm would be doubtless along side the seasoned fighters in the numerous skirmishes that peppered the patrols’ watch. How he hated to think that perhaps Legolas would never know Mirkwood as it once was - free and emerald green, clean of darkness, an airy, beautiful wood.

Thranduil shook himself free of these dismal thoughts that plagued him. If his son – and all the youths of Mirkwood – would ever be given a home of peace, then despair would have to be put aside for the hopeless.

And Thranduil, Elvenking, was not without hope.

The mists were turning a brighter silver now as the sun began to ascend somewhere behind the trees. It wavered in the growing light, sparkling like a cloak of fine-spun mithril. Thranduil held his breath, sparing a few more moments for the aesthetic pleasure. There was still beauty in Mirkwood, hidden vales that yet struggled to remain green and alive. He must keep hope, it was their greatest weapon against the enemy.

Somewhere in the wood another being was awake. He was hooded with a cloak heavy with dew. His feet made no sound on the woodland floor. At his side hung a sword - the leather binding the hilt was worn, bearing testament to its use - and on his back, a bow was slung. Though his shadowed eyes bore straight ahead, he was in no matter oblivious of his surroundings. He moved carefully, senses always aware and searching for a threat. But on his ageless face, a ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. Was it malicious, or was it mysterious? Was that evil intent shadowing his eyes, or determination?

Whatever his motives or character, the soundless figure was moving steadily nearer to the gates of the Elvenking’s home.

---

Tulus, second son of the king, bore a glare that would make a slayer of Barlogs turn away– and certainly a younger brother - from the scathing intensity of it. Standing, hands akimbo before Legolas’ door, he did all in his power to keep his temper in check. No, he reminded himself on numerous occasions, murder was not an option.

Now, despite the rumors and common theory that Elves are far superior in every aspect, while it is true on some levels, that theorem does not at all apply to the relationship between siblings – especially brothers. Be it that they are of royal blood or not, siblings are in fact born with the natural tendency to argue. The same principle applies to the fact that younger siblings will indeed goad the elder – even those elder siblings having reached an adult age - more than not.

Tulus, in his mind’s eye, had no difficulty conjuring up an image of his youngest sibling, lying sprawled on his bed, a very much pleased, smug smile twisting his lips. That picture made his aggravation all the more acute, intensifying his anger and making matters worse.

Patience and dignity was only regained when he persuaded himself to count to ten as his father had many times counseled him when he was not yet come of age. 

Of course it usually required him counting to ten – ten times.

“Legolas,” he began, schooling his tone to a less wrathful level, “open the door.”

There was a pause, no answer came for a moment. Then came, slightly muffled: “Why?”

Inwardly his answer was, “Because if you do not do so, your door will be used as a weapon against you. They make excellent elfling paddles, you know.” But after another session of counting to ten – five times – he settled on a threat to tear Legolas’ body limb from limb, “Because I am your elder, no matter what argument you put up.” It was a response that would have made his father proud.

Though, it may make a father beam with joy at his offspring’s maturity, it did little good when conversing with a little brother. “You know I do realize that only amounts to a threat to tell Adar if I do not comply with your wishes.”

Tulus smiled on his side of the door. “Exactly, brother. Now open the door.”

Legolas proved to be more stubborn than a team of mules put together. “Do you really think I value my life so little?”

Sarcasm, I do wonder where he picked that up? “If you really valued your gift of life, then you would never have pilfered your niece’s lost tooth and hidden it in a fruit at the feast, a fruit that your father’s chief advisor ate, no less!” Tulus would, however, have to admit that if it had not been at such at inopportune time, and if he had not been a fully mature elf himself, and if it had not been his own daughter’s tooth (no doubt Legolas removed the loose object himself from his niece’s mouth) then Tulus might have forgiven the prank. Perhaps even urging their father to be lenient in his punishment. But as these were only ‘ifs’ and were not reality, he had not. Legolas, though young, needed to put these juvenile occupations behind him.

The voice on the other side of the door had moved closer. Tulus could picture his brother, looking slightly more worried now, perhaps checking the makeshift bolt on his door again. “Tulus, it was just a bit of fun, no one was harmed!”

It was true, the advisor had reacted fast enough to the painful crunch that no teeth – permanent teeth – were damaged. “That hardly makes it right, Legolas, it was a foolish thing to do.” The elder elf sighed in frustration. “But I don’t want to carry on this conversation through the door. I would prefer to speak to your face, Legolas.”

There was an uncertain pause. “How do I know you won’t simply knock my head into the wall and then tear me limb from limb?”

Disconcerting how he can read my mind like that…

“Just open the door, Legolas.”

Tulus heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor and then the sound of a bolt being drawn. Finally, the door swung open, but just enough for a face to peer out. Tulus’s first instinct was to grab for the throat connecting the head to the body, another session of counting to ten – four times this time – and he was fully composed again.

“What do you want?” The younger asked impertinently.

“For you to open the door,” Tulus should have known what was coming next.

“It is open.”

He was getting a lot of counting practice under his belt today. “All the way, child,” he hissed.

Legolas grimaced, then disappeared for a moment, obviously reluctant to give up his shield. He heard more scraping of chairs and some tinkering with the hinges, and – was that the sound of knives being sheathed?

About the time Tulus was about to bowl the door down, it swung open, almost mockingly. It was about time. “Thank you,” he said, much relieved that at least that stage of the battle was over with. Now came the gory part…

Legolas stared distrustfully at him, never taking his eyes off Tulus or turning his back completely as he closed the door. Tulus noticed with a smirk that Legolas failed to fully latch it, not at all willing to give up one of his most accessible escape routes. There was also a clear route to the window he noted. Excellent, it is very good for him to have a healthy fear of me.

“What do you want?” Legolas repeated, positioning himself strategically near the window.

“What I want, is something I cannot have,” Tulus remarked wryly. “But what I can have, is an apology.” The Elf issued a severe glare at the younger, silencing the protest that was already forming on his lips. “Not to me, but to your niece, your father, and Celebithil his advisor.”

Legolas responded with the expected scowl.

The second eldest frowned. “Legolas, you know how Adar scorns the self-pitying. Do not find fault of that indecorous trait in yourself.”

A deeper scowl entrenched itself on Legolas’ brow, but Tulus recognized the subtle change in his brother’s expression. He knew him all too well. Legolas was of the sort that pouted briefly (a flaw that he was blessedly beginning to outgrow with the coming of maturity), then as his good conscience awoke, proverbially beat himself over the head with the gavel of chastisement.

Downcast and appropriately chagrined, Legolas looked up from his studious examination of his bare feet. But then, something caught his eye somewhere outside of the window. Tulus observed his brother’s narrowed eyes and moved to stand beside him at the window, curiosity getting the better of him. “What do you see?”

Legolas shifted his shoulders, tilting his head to get a better view at whatever had snared his attention. “Look there,” he sighted down his arm, pointing toward the gates. “Do you see that? There’s someone alone approaching the gates, he’s cloaked and carries a great sword at his side.”

Tulus peered the direction Legolas indicated. True enough, there was a lone figure, cloaked in a mantel of grey with a sword and bow in his possession. His pace was almost leisurely as he neared the gates. There was something in the free movement of his limbs that even from this distance spoke volumes of his boldness – or as entered Tulus’s mind, ignorance and foolish bravado.

“Whom do you think it is?” pondered Legolas.

Though he could speculate, Tulus was unable to offer a definite answer. “Nay, but we at least will know presently if he offers a threat.”

His curiosity peaked as the lone figure came closer and closer. The question that most plagued his mind was: how had this stranger evaded their numerous patrols? It was disturbing to think that any silent footed creature could slip to and from their borders without their knowledge. Security was needed, especially now.

“He’s gone around the bend,” Legolas reported. “We would see better from the walls above the gates themselves,” then like a bird taking flight, Legolas rocked his weight back to launch himself to the branch adjacent to them. But Tulus was quicker, his hand shot out, catching the Elf’s collar before he had a chance to take flight.

“How many times must I remind you to take the hallway like every other normal being does?” he chastised before releasing his sibling.

“Yes, yes,” breathed Legolas impatiently, too preoccupied to attempt argument.

Tulus caught hold of the youngster once more as he made to leave. “And where, may I ask do you think you’re off to in such a hurry?” he inquired, already aware of what his brother’s reply would be. “Before you go find yourself in any more trouble, why don’t you make up for the trouble you are in now.” Tulus leveled Legolas with a reproving look, “Make your apologies – sincere ones at that – and then you may go.”

Legolas looked nearly ready to contest with Tulus’s ruling, visibly chafing under his authority, but thought better of it when he recalled their earlier talk.  Lips tight set, he made off at a trot, nearly tripping over his blockade of chairs. Tulus shook his head, a small smile slipping onto his face unaware. He remembered all too well when he was Legolas’ age, equally brash and impertinent, if not more so. If not for their father’s strong hand and swift discipline for block-headed foolery, he hated to think what he would have become of him.

With another shake of his head and a short chuckle, he made off in the opposite way Legolas had just departed:

Toward the gates, where his father would undoubtedly be.

---

It was not until that evening did Legolas have a chance to find his answers. After issuing the apologies due, he had been hurried off to his studies without a moment to spare. For the remainder of the day, Legolas had lost himself in his much loved archery lessons and various defensive schoolings. But thoughts of the stranger nagged in the back of his mind always. Finally, when the call for the evening meal rolled around, he was free to inquire.

He was already going to be tardy as he had lingered too long at the archery field. Picking up a good clip, he trotted easily down the hall, his mind humming with various thoughts of bows and strangers.

As usually happens when one’s awareness is dancing on other plains, he neither sensed nor gave time to think that someone might be approaching around the other corner of the hall. The result of such a scenario is easily predicted. Legolas, no sooner had turned the corner, found himself from upright, to flat on his posterior, looking dazedly up into the unlined face and shadowed eyes of the very stranger he had been speculating about earlier.

“Do all young Wood-elves go charging about heedlessly down hallways when they should be at the evening meals?” The stranger smoothed his clothing. No longer was he hidden by the grey surcoat and Legolas was afforded a clear view of his appearance.

Though he was obviously of the Firstborn, he was simpler of countenance, but by no means less of noble mien. His hair was dark and grey of eye as one of the Noldor would be. In appearance, he did indeed greatly resemble a Noldo, but the glint of zealous pride and the arrogance of the House of Fëanor seemed to be lacking. But there were so few of the Noldor left on Middle-earth in this age, could it really be that this stranger was one of the remaining Noldo? There were so many unanswered questions he ached to ask of the stranger, but dared not. Surely his father would be able to clear the fog around this strange elf’s personage. No unknown being would be left to wander free within the stronghold. So with every speculation, Legolas’ curiosity swelled.

Legolas blinked, realizing the stranger was offering him a hand up. He took it gratefully, brushing himself off once he regained his feet, trying his best to look mildly presentable and worthy of calling himself a son of the king. Much to Legolas’ chagrin, the stranger looked slightly bemused, “Much better. Now, judging from your resemblance to the king, I assume you are one of Thranduil’s sons?”

The young elf felt a twinge of pride at the stranger’s words. Drawing himself up he gave his best effort to do his father honor. “Aye, I am Legolas,” he nearly slipped then to take the opportunity to question the stranger as to whom he was, but thought better of it as it was not quite proper etiquette for a youth to question his elder, and a guest.

They stood regarding each other, Legolas with youthful wonder and the stranger with either incredulity or silent amusement. Finally the latter broached the silence. “Should not you be on your way, son of Thranduil?”

For the second time, Legolas blinked up at the stranger, who was a good bit taller than him. He was right though, the sun had long departed and he had tarried here, not out of inconvenience, but curiosity. And that, he was quite sure, not do well as an explanation to his father. Offering a respectful bow to the stranger, he reluctantly continued on his way. As most do when they leave something they do not want to, Legolas looked over his shoulder, wishing for one last glance at the mysterious elf. But the hall was empty; there was no one to be seen down the long corridor. It was as if, Legolas noted with no small bit of alarm, the stranger had simply vanished.

---

The explanation Legolas had been formulating for his father turned out to an unneeded worry. Customarily, Thranduil would be easily seen seated at the head of the table, it had always been that way. But the high-backed chair was vacant, the place setting on the table untouched. Never had Legolas witnessed his father being late to anything, no matter how small or extravagant the occasion. It was his father’s own personal rule to which he held himself and his sons.

Slowly, he made his way to his seat to the right of Tulus and his family. His brother glanced at him suspiciously as he slid into his seat as subtly as possible. “And what trouble have you been finding for yourself that you show up so late to the meal?” Tulus asked softly, taking a sip from his slender goblet.

“I ran into the stranger we saw this morning – quite literally,” Legolas answered truthfully, helping himself to a golden roll. “Where is Ada?”

“Though I not if I am at liberty to say, I believe that he is meeting with that very stranger.” Tulus set to peeling a ripe fruit for his young daughter. “He, the stranger that is, joined us briefly for a bite. He said very little.”

“Then I take it you also have not yet discovered his name?”

Tulus shook his head, continuing to slice the delicate fruit. “As I said, he kept mostly to himself.”

For awhile, the subject turned from the stranger to lighter things. Legolas, usually one to enjoy every moment he had in the company of either of his brothers and both their extended family, but his pondering about the stranger lurked in the back of his mind. Why he could not take his mind off him, he did not understand. But there was something about the mystery that cloaked the stranger and the light in those grey eyes that enraptured the young elf.

The meal was waning when a head butted between them, interrupting their conversation. “And what, pray tell, are my two younger brothers plotting over here all on their lonesome selves?”

Legolas groaned, casting a barely tolerant look at Doron, the eldest of the sons of Thranduil. Doron smiled winsomely, “You needn’t worry so, Legolas, I do not bring tidings of your banishment – this time. Actually, Adar wishes to meet with both of us Tulus. In his study, if you will.”

Tulus frowned, a bit perturbed that after a long day he would not be afforded this time of relaxation with his wife, brother and daughter. But his obedience was to the king, and to his father.

So Legolas was left alone in the quickly quieting chamber. Ethuil, Tulus’s wife, had born away her child to bed and so only a few remained taking their leisure by the hearth. Legolas sat quietly for awhile, letting his mind clear and his muscles release the tension they had bound up from the day. With half an ear he had been listening to the hushed talk of the three elder elves by the fire, until his brain registered words of, “…the stranger” in their discussion. Sharp ears perked, having no difficulty overhearing what the trio said.

“Yes,” affirmed one whom Legolas recognized as Silmaorn, “the king was most agitated when he saw whom it was that stood at the gates.”

“Then why did he allow him to enter?” wondered the second, an elf of the court called Maersigil.

 
Brûngil, by far the one whom had seen the most winters of the three laced his fingers together, settling them on his lap. “Because, Maersigil, the king could not refuse safe harbor to one whom he served alongside in combat. He was a brother in arms; it would be unheard of to send him away from the gates without aid.”

Their conversation took a different route, leaving Legolas with a little more insight into how his father and the stranger related to each other. It answered one of his questions, but spawned a myriad of others.  

---

Thranduil was tired. He had not been thus worn since…since a very long time ago. His sons, Doron and Tulus, had noticed this despite his efforts to guise it beneath diplomacy.

It was late when he finally entered his room and closed the door behind him, shutting himself inside the emptiness of his bedchambers.  He heaved a heavy sigh, feeling the familiar ache of loneliness gnaw at his heart. The room flickered with the dim illumination of candlelight, the shades over the window had been drawn and the bedcovers had been turned down by the servants of the house. Though the bed looked extremely enticing in his weary state, he knew that there would be little sleep for him this night.

When Mithion had appeared as if from a dream, or nightmare, at the gates, he had felt on first impulse to refuse him entry to a ghost. But how could he turn away the very one that had preserved his life, that had fought bravely through horrors no child of Ilúvitar should face? Nay, that would not do, but what of the warnings that blared in his conscience? Though now, after a short audience with the he wished more than anything he could turn back the time and keep the gates closed and barred. 

Feeling as a mortal with scores of years upon his shoulders, he lay himself down upon the bed. The night breeze cooled the room and tossed the linens draping the window like ghostly phantasms. Tonight he let the candles burn low, strange, twisted shapes formed by the melted wax would be found in the morning no doubt, and it was a waste of candles to be sure. But it was a comfort he thought he would afford for himself this night as he lay awake and devoid of dreams, alone with the ghosts of his past.

TBC..