Deeper than Skin

Chapter Two: Mithion

“We don’t see things as they are,
we see them as we are.”
~ Anaïs Nin

The Sun rose the next morning as it had always done for many bygone years. Steady as the tide and faithful as the moon, she was never late and prompt to leave at the assumed time. Legolas rose with her that morning, greeting her with a bright smile. In turn, she pierced the morning mist and shone her warmth upon him and all the dwellers of that weary realm.

Legolas dressed quickly, having awoken earlier than his normal hour with a set mission in mind. All night he had laid in light dreams of the stranger and when the first blush of the Sun painted the east, he had risen without a tired yawn. He hoped, though he knew not whether it would come to pass, that his father would grant him at least an insight into the intrigue of the guest. He was sure that his father could, but whether he would was entirely another matter. As much as curiosity nagged at him like a persistent gnat that refused to be silenced by the blow of rolled paper, Legolas had no intent to nag at the king himself. A nuisance was the most unwanted of sons.

It was a short trot to his father’s bedchambers where he was most likely still preparing himself for the day. Not surprisingly, he did not encounter anyone on his brief trek to the king’s chambers. That was all the better since by all probability it would have been one of his siblings who would not leave him until he told them exactly why he was out at this hour. Though he was not doing anything illegal by definition, it was not a matter he wished to discuss with his brothers. Perhaps Lalorn, his sister, he would risk to confide, but certainly not his brothers. He knew all too well that Doron - yes, especially Doron - would not look kindly upon his mission for answers. Doron not only was protective of his siblings but also of their father. And when trouble arose in the court or in the kingdom, Doron was sure to be at the king’s side, shooing away whatever task he deemed trivial, and in fact preformed them himself when he could.

He would make an excellent king, no doubt of that, but he also behaved like a mother hen at times, a trait that never failed to drive Legolas to the precipice of madness.

Arriving at the king’s door, Legolas straightened his tunic out of habit and knocked. He winced at the loudness of his knuckles against the hard wood in the empty hall. His sharp eyes scanned the adjoining hall for signs of his brothers. Thankfully, all remained calm.

“Legolas, what are you doing here at this hour? Is something the matter?” His father asked worriedly, holding the door open to admit Legolas.

The hearth in the spacious chamber was lit with a slow burning fire, throwing light on still shadowed walls. Legolas tried to resist the urge to fidget as Thranduil took him in, instinctively checking for injury as one usually did when called upon early in the morning by their youngest offspring.  Now that it came down to it, Legolas wasn’t sure how to proceed. It wasn’t as if he was asking about the weather. It had not occurred to him earlier, but what if his father’s past with the stranger wasn’t something about which he wanted to discuss?

Feeling quite the silly young fool for being so inconsiderate to what his father’s feeling might be, he gaped for something to fill the silence, but Thranduil beat him to it, surprising Legolas and perhaps even himself.

“You are curious about the stranger that appeared at our gates yesterday morn,” Thranduil stated, taking a breath, foreseeing a lengthy narration. He noted the slight, but continued apprehension in Legolas’ eyes, smiling to put his son at ease. “I knew you would come to me sooner or later,” he said, a shade of regret tingeing his voice. Thranduil paced wearily towards the neatly – but obviously unused - dressed bed, patting the space invitingly next to where he sat. Eagerness was not very well disguised in Legolas’ movements. “It is a long story, one which I would spare you if I could. But you are a curious young elf and I know that if I do not tell it, you will likely go mad before you reach your full maturity.” Thranduil smiled, ruffling his son’s hair jestingly. “So I suppose I have no choice.”

“It was at the battle of Dagorlad, in the year 3434 if you remember, I with my father had come to the field of battle and joined with Malgalad of Lórien and his host of warriors…”

The sky was dark, the light of the Sun hidden by the ash that thickened the air. It was a horrible place to which they marched, of this they were well aware, Dagorlad - the Battle Plain that lay at the threshold of Sauron’s fist.

Thranduil lifted his eyes to their banner, finding strength for his heart in the streaming pennant of gold. Ever they drew closer, the barren plain, blackened and devoid of trees loomed nearer. Still, no spirit in the long ranks faltered in the putrid breath of malevolence. Gil-galad had every right to be proud of this army that united behind him and alongside him.

Now, here they were, standing before the plain, faced with a wave of heat blasting off the black land. Thranduil’s jaw clinched, his mind’s eye picturing beautiful Greenwood burned and turned into a wasteland such as this, overrun with the hoards of the Lord of Darkness. He was here to prevent that, to prevent his family from seeing this atrocity, to preserve all which was good and pure in the world.

“…Hardly had we set foot on the battle ground did the black masses sweep toward us, but our forces were ready. No commander could contest that our army was the finest yet seen of mortal and immortal flesh bound together against one doom. We waged war while all lost track of time and space. Was it days, weeks?

“Around me, both Men and Elves fell, but our great alliance held strong. Orcs and the beasts of darkness fell even as they came on, but they were relentless, seeming to flow as a contaminated river toward us.

“Then came an awful moment. My father, taken in the heat of battle, I could see running at the head of many of our strongest. It was a doomed advance, for he was struck down while I looked on, helpless to do naught.” Legolas saw Thranduil’s hand clench, his grief and anger barely restrained beneath the tight mask of impassiveness.

The world stood still, time slowed its mad rush. Thranduil himself felt as if he were frozen, only his mind whirled in a careless frenzy while around him bodies began to move again. Only he could not. Oropher had fallen, his father was slain, he had not been able to save him or be there to ease his parting. In the dark corners of his consciousness, he knew he must move, knew he must defend himself and see this horrible day to its end. But why?

“I did not feel anything but grief. I had seen beloved comrades fall by brutal deaths before, many times over had I lost a dear one. But nothing had, or could have quite prepared me for my father’s fall. I stood there, dumb and witless to all around me. The world in fact does not stand still for the grieving.” He gave his son a sad, wry smile.

“If not for Mithion, I would have surely been slain as well for the enemy sought to fall upon me. But Mithion came to my aid and defended me while calling aloud, ‘Rouse yourself, son of Oropher, and do not waste your blood without fight!’ Then the fog that had shrouded my mind lifted and I saw the peril around me and I raised my sword and together we fought, with rage fueling my strokes.

“But their number was too many and the price of my freedom was won only by Mithion’s sacrifice. Struck down by the scythe of an orc, he fell nobly taking with him many of their number.” Thranduil’s eyes dropped to his hands folded on his lap, beside him he could feel Legolas waiting semi-patiently for the rest of the account. “Until now, I have thought him dead. When at last that battle was over I sought to learn his name so I could honor him properly and morn him with the respect due. I found that he was indeed of Noldor descent, one of the few left upon these shores. How he came to be among Silvan ranks I can only muse, but I have no doubt that Ilúvitar had His hand on me.”

Legolas began to tie the stray, unexplained ends of the story together. “Then Mithion was not slain, perhaps coming to you now asking a favor?”

Thranduil nodded slowly, “Aye, and it is well that you say so for it shows a mind that thinks shrewdly and with careful consideration. You are correct in your assumption, but that is a matter that is not to be discussed here.”

Legolas rose, moving towards the open window. The air was crisp, promising a cool day. A breeze wafted over his face, doing much to clear his mind. Behind him his father rose to stand beside him. “When you spoke to the stranger, Mithion I mean, did you find out how he survived?”

His father shook his head, his brow pinching, “But I have my ideas which I fear are truth. Uglier things than death can be done against a body, Legolas.” Thranduil look down at his son. He was struck at how close the younger was to his own height. So fast did they grow… “The enemy is cruel. At all battles there are those lost, gone missing without a body to be counted. Mithion’s body was not to be found among the dead. But many were slain in that awful battle at Dagorlad, there were of course those that were not accounted for by error, so I assumed that Mithion was one of those missed in the count. For many years I believed this, but now I fear I was wrong.”

“So you believe he was taken by the enemy, that much is clear. But,” Legolas hesitated, watching his father’s face closely, “what happens to those taken? And who was left alive to do the taking? Where they not all slain?”

A pained expression crossed the Elvenking’s face. “That, young one, is a question I pray you never have to find the answer. All you need to know and all I wish that I knew, is that in the hands of Darkness even the light of the Elves can be extinguished and turned to a black fire to pave the way for the minions of Morgoth.”

Legolas felt his stomach turn. When his schooling as a warrior had first begun he had been told the ghastly truth of the origins of the Orcs. He remembered vividly trying very hard in that lesson not to be ill, but in the solitude of his room he had grieved openly. Still, after many years, the grief was still there. Perhaps, he wondered at times, he would never be rid of this feeling. He did not look forward to the day when he would come face to face with one of that twisted, perverted race.

“And as for your other question, it is also well thought. We did not know the count of the enemy when we marched, only estimates and musings. Hundreds might have been left unfound when at last we vanquished Sauron, thousands even, all fleeing from the place their master fell. But evil and pain is always the forethought of their minds and even the dying and wounded are not left to the silence of their mortal fate.”

His father laid a hand on his shoulder, the comforting weight drawing Legolas back from his thoughts. “You know nearly everything that I know about Mithion now Legolas, perhaps more than I should have told you. But do not dwell on it or let it carry your thoughts away from the present,” Thranduil admonished. He smiled then, a tired smile, but true none-the-less. “Look now,” he gestured out the window in a sweeping motion, “the sun has traveled far while we spoke; she has not been idle. Let us not speak further of this matter and let it be put from your mind. But take my advice, young one,” he censured, looking pointedly at Legolas, “stay clear of Mithion’s dealings, and of him.”

His smile returned, draping an arm about his son’s shoulders. “Your brothers will be worrying what has happened to both of us, and that is always an ugly thing.” Legolas laughed freely at his father’s jest.

Together they departed, both pushing thoughts of Mithion aside for the time and contenting themselves in the company of the other. 

---

Thaltarma grimaced at the latest work one of his apprentices had brought him. The bow was quite frankly, terrible. It was crooked, rough, and carved too thin, and of the wrong material at that! Was he really such an awful teacher?

“You seem to have delinquent learners.”

Mithion stood in the doorway of the armory, arms hanging casually at his sides. Thaltarma looked up briefly, no surprise showing on his face. “Nay, only young ones.”  He dropped his eyes back to his work, setting the useless bow beside him. Thaltarma had seen many centuries on these shores and there was little that startled him. Even when he had heard of the stranger’s coming at the previous night’s meal among the gossips he did not leap to making his own conclusions. It was his belief and his practice to never rush things that didn’t need to be. Though he did not think it himself, perhaps that was why he was such a fine craftsmen.

A strange smile ghosted the stranger’s lips. He stepped farther into room, his eyes lingering over the finely crafted weapons that lay neatly on tables, leaned and hung against the walls in various stages of repair and construction. Swords, knives, bows – all specially and lovingly built to perfection as works of art, to be handed down through families from father to son.

Thaltarma observed Mithion’s interest and quiet admiration of his handiwork. He appreciated it, as any craftsman would, but did not revel in it. “You like what you see, I believe?”

“Aye,” Mithion collected himself, almost reluctantly pulling his gaze from the beautiful weapons. “I have not seen such work for more than perhaps two-thousand years.”

“You mean at the Last Alliance.” Thaltarma did not look up from his work; his eyes remained fixed on the rough wood in his hands.

The Noldo did not refute Thaltarma, but neither did he affirm him. Slowly, cool eyes met across the room.  Thaltarma’s hands did not cease their work, but that did not lessen the intensity of his level gaze. To an observer, the sparks from the clash of wills might be almost tangible. Finally Thaltarma broke the lock, blinking slowly and returning his attention to his work. Mithion backed down as well, folding his arms against his breast.

The tension, though still flavoring the air, drained slowly away. “Do you supply all the arms, or is there another who aids you?”

“It would be unconventional to supply a great number of warriors with only one pair of hands, but not impossible.” Thaltarma, disliking the notion of supplying this suspicious Noldo with information as to any of the workings of Mirkwood, gave as vague an answer as he thought appropriate. Though his distrust of Mithion he did not hide, he would not be discourteous. After all, the king had offered the stranger harbor. It was his duty then to be a gracious host, if not out of his own will, but out of his allegiance to his liege.

If Mithion felt any annoyance at Thaltarma’s ambiguous answer, he did not show it, matching the Wood-elf’s unrevealing expression perfectly. The conversation obviously over and discussion closed, Mithion bowed genteelly with the appropriate farewell and withdrew.

---

Patience was a thing learned well when bound to stone night and day with only the lash of a whip to anticipate. Mithion had learned patience through failure, but not without great pain. The smithy had proved of small help, but it mattered very little to him. There were other ways to find out the strength of Mirkwood.

If Thranduil would not help him willingly, then he would simply give the Elvenking no other choice. It was Mithion’s belief that the end would justify the mean. He knew how to accomplish his goal and he would take whatever action it took to extract his revenge. With every lash of the whip he had pledged it.

And he never went back on his word. 

---

Legolas had been finding it no easier to put Mithion out of his thoughts now that he knew more about the strange Noldo. But now they were not the childish thoughts of curiosity, but something akin to worry. According to his father’s explanation, there was no assurance that Mithion could be trusted. The logical side of him agreed. But the youthful side couldn’t quite be convinced by the logical side that strongly suggested that he should perhaps steer clear of the stranger, for now at least.

And as it usually goes, Fate threw a stumbling block at the feet of the already swaying.

For the second time, Legolas found himself on his back looking up at the dark eyed stranger.

“You certainly do have a way of greeting people, Legolas Thranduilion.”

Legolas winced and pulled himself up. He feared that this would be quite the ill-fated day. “You have my most sincere apologies Master, forgive me, if you will, for my rudeness.”

The Noldo held up a hand, “Have no worry, no harm has been done.” Legolas felt a strange stirring in him as Mithion offered him a phantom of a smile. “A small amount of grace must be afforded to the young.” Legolas nodded his thanks, knowing that he should take this opportunity to excuse himself, but his feet were strangely rooted where he stood, unwilling to take him anywhere. 

Mithion remained where he was, waiting patiently for Legolas to either speak or move aside. Holding Legolas’ gaze, his grey eyes seemed to bore through the youngest of the king. Legolas struggled for something to say, anything to break the odd trance that Mithion seemed to hold sway over him.  “I,” he began haltingly, “I really must be going.” But though he said so, his feet did not carry him away as they should. Again Mithion smiled, a warmer smile now and not so mysterious as before. Nodding, he stepped a little to the side, providing Legolas a clear path to take. He had only to move his feet. With a great effort of will, Legolas pushed his desire to remain with the stranger aside. The temptation quelled, he bowed and hurried past Mithion, forbidding himself to look back.

If he had, he would have seen only a shadowed forest.

---

Thranduil was regretting his admittance of Mithion more and more with every passing hour.

It was not that he had spies following the Noldo elf, but he was not without intelligence of Mithion’s wanderings. He had visited both the armory and the schooling grounds where the younger generations were training. Those were only the known visitations. Mithion completely avoided the places of beauty and little streams of cool, uncontaminated water.  Places most visitors, expected or not, eventually found themselves. 

It was all too suspicious, and it being that the suspected was Mithion made it all the more suspicious. But the dilemma Thranduil was facing was that he had no clear idea of what to suspect of him. He could not simply accuse Mithion of foul activities (of some sort) and expel him on those grounds, as much as he wished he could.

“Let us not speak further of this matter and put it from your mind.” was the counsel he had given Legolas, but he was having great difficulty doing so himself. There were matters to attend to, things to be done and here he stood idle. What sort of a king was he and what was the example he was setting for Doron who would perhaps – if they lingered on these troubled shores – take the throne one day.

The son of Oropher drew himself up, letting go a deep breath, exuding his tension with it. Ai, yes, how it chaffed him, but there was little he could do besides keep one wary eye on Mithion and, reluctantly, keep on the matters of his house and kingdom. That was both his duty and his curse and he would hold to it. He hoped.

TBC...