Deeper Than Skin

Chapter Four: The Wool Is Lifted

“A stranger they simply will not follow,
but will flee from him,
because they do not know the voice of a stranger.”
~ John 10:1-5

Thranduil had never been one to pace like a caged beast, but perhaps that habit was about to change. Many things had changed over the past few days, so it was not improbable in any case. One thing that had most definitely changed, as it usually did during times like these where tension was on his pallet, was his dining habits. Instead of missing meals and abbreviating his breakfasts – as one might guess - he in fact was extremely punctual (though that in itself was not a rarity) and eager to join his family for meals. It was not the food which drew him as you can guess, but the company of his children. Perhaps, as some whispered, his love made him weak, but they were what made him strong in hard times. Mayhap his ‘dependency’ as they called it, did make him weak, but not in his eyes.

And that could be why the sight of his youngest seething beneath a calm exterior, all anger and dispassion directed at him, made him so off kilter. All the parenting advice that his father, and his late wife, passed on to him shrieked that he was breaking a cardinal rule when he yearned so badly to please his children, to appease and to conform himself to what they wished. “That will produce nothing but elflings set on their own selfish desires and no such material worthy of honor.” That was what his late wife would admonish him with a serious brow and pursed lips. It had been her mandate and by it she had held, keeping a strong, but guiding hand in everything she did. Constancy was her walk. Now, he must follow his wife’s instructions and put aside his own feelings.

His heel scuffed the floor as he pivoted and started back towards the opposite wall.  Fourteen steps across, exactly to the toe, each one he counted off. I certainly could have handled that better, he chastised himself, mulling over his confrontation with Legolas. This whole matter had risen a notch in difficulty when Doron had reluctantly reported to him that Legolas was leaving in the dark hours of the morning and arriving late to tutoring. There was no need to ruminate over what or who or even why Legolas was drifting into the Wood every morning, it was inevitably for one very obvious reason – Mithion. The Noldo himself had been taken note of wandering across the river at early hours. The woven rug puckered beneath his foot as he turned and started back the way he had come. How had it come to this?

A sharp rap on the door provided him another means of distraction though after pulling the heavy door open, he wasn’t sure if it was the distraction that he was hoping for.  Both Tulus and Doron stood in the doorway, Doron wearing and expression of roused ire and Tulus, one of concern. 

Who spoke first, they couldn’t tell.

“Where is he?”

---

The king and his two eldest marched down the halls towards the gates. With Thranduil at their head and Doron and Tulus flanking him they struck an untouchable impression.

“Sire,” said a warrior waiting at an arch for them,  “my scouts have completed a preliminary search of the woodlands along the river’s edge at least – ”

Thranduil turned on the Elf, looking him directly in the eye. “But have you found him?”

The warrior made an effort not to grimace, shaking his head reluctantly. “I’m sorry, my liege we have not, no sign at all.” He made no excuses for himself, or his scouts. He knew his place and what his job was.

“Then I would suggest you search deeper.”

It had been nigh on six hours since Legolas was expected for tutoring, and there had yet to be a breath of him. Mithion was missing as well. No one but a handful of scouts had been notified of the disappearance. Thranduil, despite his very real concern, did not wish to create a situation worse than it was.  He needn’t the added weight of public affairs atop his imagination of all that could go wrong, or all that was going wrong at that very moment and he was doing nothing to stop it.

Mithion had prevailed and succeeded where he had failed. Muscles tightened in his jaw as he took the reins to a fine dappled stallion from a waiting groom’s hand. Mithion had taken action, as he had promised that first day when he had entered, straight backed, into his study.

That seemed a very long time ago now, even in his immortal mind’s eye.

---

Five hours earlier…

The morning of the memorable argument between Legolas and his father were apart of the past now, a day behind him. But time did not quell the chafing of it on Legolas’ heart. It always went like this when no words were shared after such a confrontation, guilt and regret pulling his heart down like anchor, dragging him deeper and tearing at his chest with a physical pain.

It was always worse when he came to realize that perhaps he was in the wrong. No, not perhaps, but was. As he had lain awake and dreamless upon his bed the previous night with his conscience for company and his thoughts for food, he had found that this instance would be no different.

Morning failed to bring the comfort of self-righteousness and it withheld anticipation. Even when Mithion had appeared from the deep shadows cast by pre-dawn’s sleepy light, no excitement widened his eyes.

As always, Mithion saw the change and outwardly noted it with no more than the twitch of an eyebrow. He addressed it, then said no more, asking no more of Legolas when the door was shut. Legolas had asked few questions and had lacked the luster and zeal that he had usually offered Mithion. His eyes had wandered from sky to earth, from tree to bark, but saw little.

Perhaps, if his mind had been sharper he would have seen the change in Mithion as well, for when he had, it was already too late.

His mentor had led him deeper into Mirkwood than he had ever ventured on foot. The Sun had crept from her hiding place and with alarm when Legolas had taken note of her progress, he realized that there was no way he could make it back to the river and his room in time. He even hazarded to query to Mithion, but the Noldo did not even turn. A second time he spoke, but no answer was invoked.  Thrice now, uncertainty coloring his voice and when no answer came, his feet stopped along with his questions.

Standing there deep in the Wood, with suddenly a distant stranger, his father’s words haunted him “…stay clear of Mithion’s dealings, and of him.”

The trees pulled back their boughs, their foliage hissing back in a gust of wind as Mithion, the stranger, turned. “Come along, Legolas,” he had said, eyes having lost their kindness.

Legolas had pulled back, hands at his sides and confusion clouding his face. The tortured stranger had stayed where he was, making no advance, a new emotion flooding his face. Pleading. “Please, Legolas, come with me.”

The veil suddenly fell from Legolas’ eyes, realization of his own foolishness striking him with a force that knocked him back a physical step. Mayhap it was Mithion’s eyes that betrayed him, but whatever the key, all became clear and whom he had thought his friend, was now his adversary. Confusion fell with the veil and anger warred with grief to fill its space. “You are no friend of the king, and you are using me though I know not for what,” he had said, his brows knitting while his hand clinched the white hilt of his long knife. It was an instinct that Mithion himself had honed in him, but it had yet to enter his mind if he could bring himself to use it.

Mithion saw the blinding blanket fall from the younger elf’s eyes. He could fool him no longer though, ai! how he wished he could. He saw Legolas’ hand drop to his side, every well defined graceful muscle coiling for action. Elbereth! His soul had prayed, If ever you shone on me, do not let him draw that blade!

But his petition was not granted.

The scream of steel against steel shattered the stillness of the wild. His long blade pressed against Legolas’ shorter, sleeker blade. They danced for a time, both hedging each other, reluctant to engage. But though Mithion had schooled Legolas carefully in the steps of this play, he had not been fool enough to advance him to a stage above himself. Blade and knife met, bringing them close. No doubt raging against his betrayal, Legolas’ face was tight and his teeth set. Icy eyes had met his, and as their weight pressed them closer, he could see agony binding the shards of steel in their depths. Then in his mind he resolved that this could go on no longer, he had an oath and to it he would keep.

With a pledge to be as swift as he might, he withdrew abruptly. Legolas’ balance having been thrown off, stumbled forward. Faster than the mortal eye could follow, Mithion’s leg struck out, his heel catching Legolas’ wrist and sending the knife spinning from his grip. Then the same gust of momentum had brought him around behind Legolas, and he let the hilt of his sword fall.

---

The heat of the day had just reached its peak when Legolas’ eyes drifted open to face the bitterness of reality. He found himself well protected from the rays beneath the hoarding shade of a boulder carpeted with all manner of creeping moss. Though it appeared by the angle of the shadows that he had been senseless for some time, he had only a mild, but sincere throb at the back of his skull to confirm that all that had transpired had not been a delusion.

He blinked, as most do – even immortals - when waking from an unwanted and forcefully induced slumber. The wood was very still and a beetle thrummed lazily somewhere on rotting log. There was no sign of the stranger.

As his senses gradually returned, he realized that he was lying on his side and his hands were bound securely, but not cruelly, behind him. He found his feet in likewise condition. Mithion had taught him both how to escape from common knots, and how to tie those which were near impossible to free one’s self unless they had the help of another, or a well placed sharp edge. Unfortunately, Mithion had used the latter and as it were, there were no well placed sharp edges. Still, it was instinct to test his bonds, even when Mithion stepped from behind the boulder at his back.

“It is futile, you know.” The Elf crouched in front of him, his forearm draped across his thigh.

Legolas noted with a grimace his own knife tucked in Mithion’s belt. “Most likely, but you do not really expect me to simply stand for this? Or should I say, ‘lay’?”

Mithion gazed at him for a while, his head bent slightly to the side as if contemplating him. “You still do not quite understand, do you?” 

Legolas’ eyes narrowed, his fists clenching behind his back. “I understand you betrayed my trust,” he struggled to a sitting position, fire glinting in his eye. “I understand that you gave into your anger and proved just how we weak you really are.”

A fist shot out, grabbing a handful of the front of his jerkin and pulling him the rest of the way up and bringing him close to Mithion’s face. If there had been a fire in Legolas’ eye, there was a raging inferno in Mithion’s. “You know nothing of anger, Thrandulion. You know nothing of pain, agony, or loss. Any beings lesser in stature than I would be rotting in his cell if he had gone through what I went through.” Mithion leaned closer, a queer light coming to life in his emblazoned eyes.  “And they did. All of them did, except I.”

The stranger sat back on his heels, his brow dark, but his voice calmer.  He let go of Legolas, letting him slump back against the rock. “None withstood His fires, they all fell and I could do nothing. Nothing.” He peered close at Legolas, grief and hate clearly twisting his features, “Do you understand that, Thranduilion? Nothing. There is no thing worse than the incapability to do something.”

For a brief moment, compassion broke down the wall of indifference Legolas had erected around his heart. Mithion had no hope for himself, and yet he continued to strive to free his conscience of the guilt that fed itself on memory. Legolas began to see ever the more painfully clear what Mithion’s scheme was, and if he was right, he could not allow it to happen – as much as he wished he might.

Mithion stood slowly, turning his back to Legolas. Once he had seemed so tall, towering above him like a silent, wise sentinel, but now, though he was yet physically tall, he seemed worn, shrunken and thin. “I swore an oath, Legolas, like all hot-headed fools in the flush of their rage do,” he confided quietly. “And like any other oath, it was a pledge for vengeance, not just for retribution for my own suffering, but for the others taken from that field of death and thrown into a pit of eternal suffering; for those that didn’t escape.”

Legolas said nothing, seeing the need in Mithion to vent his frustrations. He was a tortured soul, and though he was free from physical bonds, he was bound to his past. It clung like a beast to him, claws digging into his heart and with every hour that passed he slipped a little farther from reach.

“Do you see now, Legolas, the reasons for my actions?” Mithion remained facing away from him, but his face turned slightly to the side so Legolas could see only half his face. Still, Legolas remained silent. A sigh escaped the stranger’s chest. “I think you do, but I know it does not quell the anger and betrayal you are feeling at this moment.”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Mithion,” Legolas said softly, trying to keep the pity he felt from falling into his speech. “Simply tell me what you plan to do. Wealth will give you no pleasure, that much I will tell you now.”

“Wealth?” Mithion turned finally. “I have no interest in the king’s riches and wine. Arms, Legolas, that is my goal. I gave Thranduil a chance to help me freely, but he refused. Therefore I have undertaken other paths to reach the means.”

Legolas felt the lead weight in his chest sink deeper into the pit of his stomach. Surely, Mithion was not so mad to think that all the warriors of Mirkwood could reap any such revenge that would spite Darkness?

“I see your thoughts, Thranduilion, you think me crazed, mad beyond hope.” A wry smile laced his lips. “Perhaps you are right. But I am far from a one-bodied army, I would get no farther than drawing my sword if I were to go on such a fool’s errand by myself.”

“Then you would drag those who have no lot with you to their deaths for your vengeance? We have no such force to undertake what you plan. The enemy multiplies like flies! You would be slaughtered!” The pity shrank from Legolas’ heart, disbelief and disgust hardening his features. “What about their blood, Stranger? Who will avenge theirs’?”

Mithion laughed scornfully, “You, if you wish.”

Behind his back, Legolas’ fists clenched and face tensed with barely restrained ire. His jaw was tight set, but the language of his body spoke volumes.

Mithion moved away, melting into the forest. Before he vanished from sight, he left Legolas with a few parting words. “Rest yourself Legolas, we will not move until tonight.” 

But there would be no resting for Legolas.

---

The crickets were oblivious to the drama taking place or it was a matter of too little importance to their symphony. They paused for nothing unless a foot placed itself too near, then with an indignant off key screech they would rustle off without a trace. But the indifference was mutual.

Elves on the move searched high and wide, and with every hour that passed in slow procession, more were joined to the search. Inadvertently, but unavoidably, any shred of secrecy had been lost. Still, there was not a breath or upturned leaf of the youngest of the king, or the stranger and the night was ever encroaching on their search.

Thranduil, as could be expected, would not tire, therefore he neither rested. Horseback, he had plunged into the Wood with sword naked. All through the forest, lamps could be seen bobbing like giant fireflies, blinking behind trees and then reappearing closer, or farther away. If Thranduil could have blocked out the thought of his son somewhere in these deep, dark woods with a potentially dangerous fiend, then he may have been able to imagine himself back in the painfully few golden years. When Mirkwood was yet Greenwood, airy with light and sparkling like a precious emerald gem, there had been dances and feasts in the Wood that had gaily spun with laughter and merry making until the first shy blushes dawn. But that was a thing of the past that was eternally engraved in the undying and unfading memory of the Wood-elves.

The dappled neck of his horse abruptly pulled up, ears pricked forward and nostrils wide. Thranduil was immediately put back on guard. Lintion was a dependable steed and his senses never lied. In the gathering gloom with fog descending oppressively, the lights of the searchers lamps had faded to dim misty highlights. Lintion’s eyes needed no aid though. His head then dived low, neck outstretched, peering at something near of which only his eyes had caught sight.

Lintion’s bugle rent the still night air as he gave up the call that announced the coming of an unknown creature. The lights almost immediately began to bob their way accompanied by soft whistles.

“Call them off, King, or you will soon be deprived of one heir.”

TBC...