Deeper than Skin

Chapter Three: Marionette

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge,
but fools despise wisdom and discipline.”
~ Proverbs 1:7

The youngest son of Thranduil had finally taken the bait.

He was the perfect tool - young, impressionable, and full of curiosity. He was certainly not stupid, or even foolish, but he was a youth and that often dragged with it the naivete of the dangers of blind trust. Mithion had come to the conclusion though, that Legolas was and odd sort of elf. From where he would watch in the boughs of trees and shadows of the forest, only a handful of times had he seen Legolas in the companionship of his peers. In fact, the youth seemed to avoid most of them intentionally, skirting the gossiping bevies and melting into the trees in his spare time. His closest friends appeared to be that which he was named: the green leaves and tall trees.

Mithion had baited the young elf on one of these occasions through soft words and a hand that was willing to teach him deeper secrets of the forest and a wanderer’s life. Eager to learn, Legolas suspected nothing from Mithion’s tutoring. It was a kindness the younger most likely did not want to question. There were many more sessions like this out in the Wood. Legolas was a willing and sharp student. The warrior that trained him and the father that molded him should be proud. Legolas’ laughter would fill the Wood as he recounted many of his silly pranks to him. And many times, Mithion would find himself laughing quietly at Legolas’ tales.

It was on these occasions that the regret and guilt struck Mithion so acutely he almost requited his oath of vengeance. So tempting was it to give it all up, throw it aside and embrace a life that could be filled with the happiness he found himself enjoying on those long afternoons and early mornings in the forest. But Mithion knew that he could never be truly at peace until vengeance was wrought with deadly fury upon those that took his life – his true life – away from him.

And it was then, when his thoughts turned towards the long years of anguish and consuming agony that the familiar burning and choking rage washed thoughts of a different life from him on a boiling swell. Yes, he would see this through, gladly, and he would dance on the brutalized bodies of his enemies. There was no more time to stall, today he would begin his manipulation.

---

Mornings were now a joy to Legolas. With a spring in his step that was usually absent at such an early hour, he would slip from his window to the ledge beneath, from there to one of the outstretched limbs of a massive ancient oak, then across the river by way of the canopy of branches that draped over the water from either bank. Mithion would be waiting somewhere on the opposing shore. He thought it nearly impossible that one mind could hold so much knowledge! To think, he would muse with a smile, a Noldo knowing more of the wild things than a Wood-elf! What would his father say?

Legolas paused, his tunic halfway over his head, brow furrowing as the thought struck him. Yes, what would his father say? He had not thought of it ‘til now, well, only briefly that was. Pulling the airy shirt the rest of the way into place he slipped into the light shoes at his bedside. Unbidden, his feet carried him to the sill of the window from which he would take flight into the forest. There was always a silent call, beckoning him to the forest, the fresh scent of new growth and aging leaves carpeting the woodland floor never failed to bring closure to a day or an extra amount of beauty to a spring day. But the pull to take flight was all the greater with the anticipation of knowledge and learning at the hand of a great hero like Mithion.

Yes, Mithion was a hero. He had never spoken of the great battle to Legolas, and Legolas saw no reason to pry in places he had no business. Still, Mithion had sacrificed himself for his father and paid a dear price for it, so why should he not respect him?

“You may respect the opposing side in battle, for their cunning, their might,, but it does not mean you should trust them. You respect the teeth of a wolf, but you do not thrust yourself into its jaws.”

That had been his father’s words on the matter of respect. They came back to him now with strange clarity. But why should he not trust Mithion? He had done nothing to deserve such cold treatment from the one whom he had given the gift of life.

Defiance mounting in his heart, he climbed nimbly to the sill, much as feline preparing to spring into flight.

But the cat had an elder who was fleeter than his offspring, his many centuries failing to tell on his quickness. A hand wrapped around the collar of Legolas’ tunic, knuckles pressing into the nape of his neck. Ah, a move he was quite familiar with, he noted with a wince curtailed with a very un-Elvish face of annoyance. Curse Doron to the Void!

“Have I caught a thief, fleeing at morning’s light - or a son of a king who stands face to face, wearing no mask or pretension?”

The voice was too deep, too resonate to be his brother’s. It was a voice that Legolas had heard daily for more than forty years with a tone that had worn out his names over two dozen years back. Only Thranduil - his father - could discontinue Legolas’ suspicious activities without so much as raising an eyebrow.

Legolas watched enviously as a beetle skittered from its sanctuary under the sill and disappeared into the plentiful crags and shadowed places of the rock face. The Forest River could be heard rushing and laughing under the bridge that lead up the green terraces. Both river and beetle were free as the air, he doubted either had a father with a leash about their necks. Well, he corrected himself, the beetle obviously had a father, but he suspected that the parent had not a care for what his offspring did. But the river…

Where did it go? Rushing, rushing, always rushing away, below the bridge, over rocks, pausing to dance in little eddies, then breaking free it would speed away. Night and day, tirelessly it ran towards the horizon and into the unknown. And that was what caught the youthful Legolas in the excitement of it all, the unknown, and as for Mithion, well, he was Legolas’ key to it.

Slowly, he turned as Thranduil’s grip on his collar was released. His father’s face was calm, as it nearly always was when dealing with his interminably naughty elfling, but it was not lost upon Legolas the underlying emotion of great displeasure. It was honestly not his wish to displease his father, at least when his mind was not clouded by irreverent thoughts and in the flush of self-righteous anger. But now, very much in the heat of that crimson flush, he cared little and saw not the suffering on his father’s face, but that ever infuriating expression of smug satisfaction at the foiling of just another one of his son’s exploits.  

“And what if I said that I would rather be the thief than the caged son of a king?” Legolas retorted hotly.

“Then I would bind you hand and foot in the dungeons as I would any other thief.” Thranduil did not break his mask. Dismissing his son’s snide remark, he went on. “And do not lie to me, son of mine, when I ask to whence you flee so eagerly,” Thranduil fixed the younger with a stony look, “for I already know.” Legolas’ mouth opened as if to speak, to give some hasty insult that would do nothing but stab a pronged barb into his father’s heart, but Thranduil was in no such mood to give his wayward son quarter. “But,” he recommenced, “I would give you the chance to tell me truthfully, with repentance.”

Resisting falling into the childish posture of arms crossed defensively, Legolas dropped back into the room from the ledge. “You have not asked, so why would I answer?” Impudent. Only subconsciously did he admit that was what he was being.

Sarcasm was a trait that Thranduil did not look kindly upon, especially when coming from the underdog of the confrontation. A step toward the younger brought him authoritatively close, nearly toe to toe with his son. “You, Legolas, are both out of line, and in a very bad spot. I would suggest that you not make it any worse.”

Ire rising dangerously, Legolas’ eye narrowed, his hands clinching spasmodically. “Tell me what I have done to deserve this interrogation?”

What resolve Thranduil had gathered while collecting himself outside his son’s door to be above all, patient, was quickly dissolving. “An interrogation, Legolas, is when one party is trying to find out what the other party knows. But I already know what you have been doing, so this falls from that label.”

“Then what do you want? Have you come simply to – ”

“Enough, Legolas!” Thranduil’s voice shook with both anger and the volume of his command. “Remember your place, young one, and do not tread farther. The ground already shifts beneath your feet.” He exhaled, eyes finding Legolas’ slightly taken aback at the unexpected sharp censure. Outside a bird’s wings could be heard beating the air as it took flight in the sudden explosion of sound. “Did I not tell you, Legolas, to stay away from him?”

“You advised me, if you recall, there was no command.” The tone was still stony and temper driven, but controlled now.

Thranduil’s anger faded to pain, “But were your ears not open? Did you not hear of what I told you?”

“All I heard was a tale of a great hero who saved my father’s life and paid a grievous price.”

“Aye, indeed, that much is true, but there is more, more that I cannot yet admit to you.” The king’s face twisted from the anguish of secrets yet unrevealed.

“Tell me.” Legolas was growing wearier by the day of these secrets, he knew that yes, not all the comings and doings of the realm could be accounted to him, but when they caused such strife and chaffing between father and son, wasn’t that reason enough?

Thranduil grasped Legolas’ shoulders suddenly, “Ai, Legolas! I would, but as I said, I cannot. Not yet.” His eyes pleaded for his son to understand, to accept what he said…

Anger flared heatedly again in Legolas’ heart, though what provoked it he never really understood. Wrenching himself out from under his father’s hands, he stepped back towards the window, almost it seemed daring Thranduil to try and stop him. Knowing full well - but not really giving a mind - that what he was about to do next would most likely land him in a world of trouble, he gave one last sharp comment of, “Then I suppose there is nothing left to say,” and bound out the window. To an onlooker with an unwanted eye on the confrontation, it may have looked as if the child of the king had leapt to his death, but with the fleetness and agility of his kind, Legolas had already disappeared down the hillside and away across the river.

The fist that drove itself through a painting would have been disappointed, if it had had a consciousness, that its owner did not register the pain of the bloodied knuckles. The grimace that laced Thranduil’s face and the anguished moan was not a result of the physical pain, but of another agony much deeper and crippling.

---

How dare he? was the first indignant thought of many that spiked into his hazed mind as step after step, his feet carried him deeper into the wood. The sounds of life about him did nothing to calm his fevered thoughts as they usually did; they seemed only a cacophony, trying to be heard above the groaning of his mind.

“It is not everyday that one sees a Wood-elf crashing through the forest like a mad oliphaunt.”

Legolas whirled on the voice behind him. It was unexpectedly Mithion. Not once had he appeared to Legolas normally. He never found Mithion, Mithion always found him. Feeling quite foolish being found in such a mindless state and seeing nothing immediate he could do to redeem his actions, he satisfied himself to stand patiently until Mithion chose to speak. Which thankfully wasn’t to far in the future.

The Noldo remained crouched back on his heels with his spine pressed against a tired, old tree. His eyes were half-lidded, almost closed. “You seem to be preoccupied.”

Frowning, Legolas caught a leaf in his palm that was fluttering from the canopy, down to the woodland floor. It seemed so lost as it lilted haltingly from its home to the earth. Caught between two stages of its existence there on his palm he let it slide from his open hand to the ground. “Aye, I had a,” he paused, “a discussion with my father this morning.”

“You mean an argument,” Mithion stated. It was not a question. Though his head was tipped towards the ground and his eyes slightly closed, he could tell that Legolas had turned uneasy. The sound of leaves crackling meant weight was being redistributed - meaning shifting feet which was a universal sign for discomfiture. It had definitely been a quarrel, and he had a good feeling that he knew about what.

“You needn’t speak of it. I think that this is a matter to be kept between you and your father.” Mithion rose, silent as a wrath from the shadows.  

And that was the end of that. The topic was dropped and left at the place of their meeting as they moved deeper into the forest. Mithion made it a point that early morning to teach Legolas how to read, and remain unread, when it came to the quirks of body language. “It is perhaps one of the most important skills you can teach your eye,” Mithion explained. “Especially if you are ever entertaining thoughts of allying yourself with any partner or nation.”

The morning wore on, and if Legolas had been better practiced in the finer points of reading into one’s behavior, he might have noticed the agitation building in the Noldo.  As it drew nearer to the time Legolas would have to be heading back, Mithion’s consciences began to war. This was the perfect day when Legolas’ anger was turned towards his father to wean what details he needed from the son of the king. Today was his best chance; he mustn’t loose it!

They had stopped in a small open area where the trees grew thick about them creating a dark hedge that rose high to the heavens. The air was quiet and the birds sang at ease. Still Mithion kept a close eye on the surroundings for the many threats of the Wood. Legolas knelt not too far off working on the practice he disliked the most – foraging.

“It is strange that a realm that has successfully fended off the attacks and badgering from the shadows, have no obvious defending force.” Mithion noted off-handedly.

The plant Legolas had been working to uproot with as little damage as possible sprung out of the ground as if it had given up its footing in the soil by choice. Of course, like the last two Legolas had attacked, the roots were still in the ground and he was left with a slowly bleeding stump of a weed in his hand. With a muted grunt of frustration he set after the next one. “That is because our forces do not prance about the streets in crowded ranks to simply show their steel and feathered plumes.” Legolas remarked with a hint of disdain.

“But then where are they?”

Legolas glanced up from his work, the broken weed still in his hand as he sat back on his heels. It was perhaps the first real non-rhetorical question Mithion had asked of him. Why was he so interested?

His father had warned him on occasion when they stood before the doors of a great banquet or gathering to give no military information to the guests, especially if asked pointedly. But what did his father know? He could not tell who his true allies were from vileness that haunted the Wood. He pushed down all feelings of hesitance – and logic – deep into the corners of his mind. “They trek the forest continuously, North and South. Many warriors also wait within the harbor of the walls ready for duty or call.”

“Dig deeper first and then proceed to work the roots loose.” Mithion crouched next to Legolas, his hands working the soil deftly and then, “Like this,” and the plant eased out of the ground as if it had been nothing but a flower in a vase of water.

Legolas could have sworn the plant’s leaves tweaked upward into horns and it blew a raspberry at him. Mithion sat back and let Legolas try his hand at it again. “How many strong are they?” He ventured again, boldly.

Legolas stopped this time, resting his hands on his thighs as he studied Mithion with some hint of suspicion. “Why so interested?”

The Noldo leaned his back against the fallen stump, beginning to slowly whet his knife on a stone. “You forget, Legolas, I am a warrior as well. A warrior would naturally wonder about the force of his allies.” Mithion supplied, for the most part, honestly. “Do not gape at me such, Thranduilion, I know that your father told you about our past. But do not ask me how as it would only confuse and confound you further,” he added with a ghost of a smile.

Legolas never would have though Mithion was the sort to wonder about anything, much less ask. He obviously had his ways of intelligence, never having need of other people, unless he needed information from them…

No, that was an awful thought that Legolas chose to shove aside and not even delve into. Mithion was not that sort. Mithion was truthful and strong he would not manipulate him such – would he?

The subject was dropped after that and Mithion returned to his silent, watchful state.

Long after Legolas returned to his duties, Mithion sat in the clearing, pondering what he had learned. It suited his scheme perfectly.

TBC...