Deeper Than Skin

Chapter Five: Going Home

The misty lights of the searchers abruptly ceased movement as a loud whistle - distinctive in tone and pitch as being that of the king – cut through the still air. Even the ambitious crickets stilled for a brief moment before continuing their serenade.

“Come from the shadows, Mithion, and show yourself more than a coward.”

Legolas could hear and see his father, but from Thranduil’s words, his father could not see them. Mithion stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder with no weapon drawn – yet. There was no use in running, Legolas had seen the speed at which Mithion was capable of drawing his blade. His throat would be cut before he was two paces away. But Legolas could feel the tension in Mithion’s hand denoting his anxiety. He had not intended to be sensed by the horse and had certainly not wanted to negotiate when so many others stood by.

Inwardly and outwardly, Legolas chaffed at his bondage that rendered him helpless. He was to be the stranger’s ransom, a tool to suit Mithion’s needs. He could only accept it and be prepared to act when the opportune moment arose.

Mithion nudged him forward while keeping a tight hand on his shoulder, strategically near his neck. “We shall have it your way, Thranduil. I am not unwilling to bargain.” Legolas felt Mithion’s breath feathering against his neck as he spoke.

“Name your terms, vile filth.”

Mithion scoffed, “You already know them, oh pure king.” He pushed on, not pausing for the sake of drama. “And you know the treasure that will be lost to you if you fail to acquiesce with them.” The hand on Legolas’ shoulder tightened as a finger slid across his throat in the mime of a blade. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Painfully so.”

“Excellent. Now lower that sword and loosen the hold on that fine horse of yours. No need to punish it with a harsh hand.”

Thranduil complied, though his hand did not stray far from the hilt. “Have you thought this through, Mithion? Do you realize the innocent blood that will be spilt for vengeance.”

Behind Legolas, Mithion gave no sign of concern. “What do you think I did all those long years of torment? It was the one thread of hope that I held onto while all others were severed.”

“And what of the innocent blood, Mithion, even if you did somehow manage to survive this fool’s errand then a new weight would be placed on your heart. How would you avenge them?”

A smile ghosted Mithion’s lips. “So alike are you and Legolas. Both so concerned for the innocent.” The violated smile fled from Mithion’s face. “But there is no innocent blood in this world, Thranduil. To be innocent would be to be blameless and sinless, but all have sinned, have they not?”

The hiss of a sword being unsheathed stung Legolas’ ears and then the cold kiss of the flat of a blade caressed the flesh of his throat. “Even your fine son has erred in his ways, has he not?” It was a parent’s most painful truth to admit that their child was not blameless. Truth was often times more painful than lies.  Mithion pressed Thranduil for an answer.

“He has,” Thranduil conceded reluctantly. 

“That means he is guilty?” Mithion coerced.

Thranduil’s fist tightened around the reins, his face showing every line of distress. Mithion knew what emotions ate at his heart; there was no cause to guise it.  “Of what, Mithion?”

“Of life, Thranduil. The guilty are to be punished are they not? Yes, that is as I thought.” The blade rotated from the flat to the edge. “Then the blood that is spilt would not be innocent. Thus, there is no cause to weep.”

“Grace, Mithion!” Thranduil cried, “Have you not heard of such a thing? Repentance, forgiveness - these are all things that Eru has offered us as a gift. He gives us the gift to err from our wrong-doings and return to the path he has set before us.”

Mithion let out a harsh laugh. “Do not speak of those things to me, I know just as well the myths. But there are exceptions. Exceptions for the ruined who have no hope.”

Frustration and desperation fueled Thranduil’s words. “But there is hope if you would let go of this unreasonable anger. You cling to it as if it were all you had!”

Mithion was silent then, his face stony. The sword wavered, blade dropping a fraction from Legolas’ throat. All three remained very still, not a breath being drawn. The hope that his father spoke of so passionately warmed Legolas’ heart. He wished he could see Mithion’s face, gauge his thoughts…

But the hand tightened again, the jaw clinched and the blade was brought up sharply. The dream of Mithion free from these chains of anger passed from Legolas’ vision as the edge of the blade caught his breath. “Perhaps it is, and I shall take it down with me to my doom if that is what fate proclaims.”

“Think then, Mithion! Use the logic!” Thranduil insisted, his tentative hold on his own anger rapidly slipping. He mustn’t let this happen. “You would take our few warriors, search out and attempt to destroy wherever the vile ones breed knowing full well that it would be a battle you or any that followed you, would not return? And for what, to sate your palate for anger?”

The blade tightened to the point of pain at Legolas’ throat. In the woods, the forgotten searchers looked on, horrified but powerless to stop what was transpiring. Except for one that moved silent from tree to tree.

“Enough talk, Thranduil, give them the order that no harm comes to me and that I am their commander. You will also recall your parties to the caverns and inform them of the change in command. Young Legolas here will remain with me.” Mithion took a step back, pulling Legolas with him.

Thranduil did nothing, a deeper wraith in the night had caught his eye.

“Did you hear me, oh King? Or does your son mean so little to you?” The edge of the blade bit deeper, though blood still having yet to be spilt. But Mithion’s hard voice was beginning to waver.

And still, Thranduil did nothing.

He could not do it, but he must! He had come so far, planned so long, suffered so much! Mithion’s steady hand shook, the blade quivering against the flesh of Legolas’ throat, his decisive spirit swaying madly as if in the midst of tempest at sea. All his resolve melted away in the face of the unthinkable possibility that if Thranduil did not bend, he would indeed have to spill the young one’s blood.

He had unknowingly depended on Thranduil to give without thought. How had it come to this?  He was a fool, he knew that now, and it ironically did not bring self-condemnation, but freedom he had not felt for many years. Vengeance was not worth the price of a friend’s blood nor was it worth his.

The sword slacked in his grasp. His pride broken.

But the revelation had come too late.

The green fletched arrow that was sent flying from Doron’s bow with fate etched on its shaft was not noted until it sank critically deep into Mithion’s back. Eyes hardly widened, as if nearly expecting the blow. Legolas heard the sickening sound of tearing flesh and felt the slackening in Mithion’s grip. And as he turned to catch his fall, he found that Mithion was no longer a stranger.

The Elf staggered, staring intently into Legolas’ eyes as his legs gave way and he pitched forward, caught by waiting arms. Legolas gave no utterance, for the ability had fled him. Mithion’s limp weight pulled Legolas with him to the earth, the sword slipping from his grip and falling beside him. Already, elves were springing into motion, advancing to remove Legolas from the scene to what they deemed safety. But Thranduil had seen the change, had even moved to stave Doron’s attack, but no, this had been meant to happen, for here it had. So by a quiet word he kept the elves back.

Blood seeped through his fingers as Legolas sought to slow the flow of life departing Mithion. He was helpless to stop it and he could not slow the time.

“I am sorry,” Mithion struggled to confess, eyes remaining focused for a blessed moment. “And yet,” he pause, choking, “yet I am not.” Legolas understood what he meant.

“You are forgiven, accept it and be at peace.” Mithion would die; Legolas could not rest in denial of it. Even with the best care, the lethal tip had sunk too deep.  If only he could ease his passing.

A smile - a true, warm smile - gave life to his face, even though physical life fled him. “I do, Legolas. Thank Ilúvatar, I do.” He trailed off then, eyes failing and voice catching as mortality clenched its painful grasp.

Legolas felt the sting of tears on his cheeks.  Mithion’s eyes were losing their focus, slowly beginning to set his sight on the unseen that lay beyond the bindings of these shores. The smile remained with pain forgotten. One last word was breathed, only for Legolas to hear.

“Free.”

And shedding the last heavy chains of the past, Mithion slipped from suffering.

Mithion was gone, but Legolas was left still supporting the earthly body. So fast; it had all happened too fast! He was reeling and his hands shook as if the weight of the empty shell was too much to bear. Questions and doubts crowded his mind, all clambering to gain the place as his forethought.

Doron moved to draw his brother away from the scene, but Thranduil placed a restraining hand on his arm. “You did what was necessary Doron, but Legolas would only vent his anger on you. He would say words that he would later regret.”

The eldest son nodded understandingly, stepping aside and melting out of sight until the appropriate time. Tulus, who had appeared at the scene almost immediately after the shot was fired, followed in suit. Both were reluctant to leave but obeyed.

Thranduil had witnessed many deaths, some more tragic than others. The initial shock had lost its hold on him as his eyes had grown callused to many horrors. Still, the sorrow had not lost its potency and grieving would come.

But his son, his eyes were yet untouched by many of the gruesome ways of the outside world. Thranduil would give life and limb to preserve Legolas’ rose-colored outlook on the world, to keep him in the peaceful shade of the family tree, yet the time had obviously come for his son to step outside of the balmy protection of his young mind and face reality. He hated to acknowledge it, hated to accept it, but this same time had come in different fashions and varying severity for his other three children. He had known it would come for Legolas eventually.

“All has been put to rights, now it is our turn to move forward as Mithion has chosen.” Thranduil moved closer, progressing slowly and giving Legolas a bit of time to collect himself.   “You hold onto a shell only.”

He knelt by his son’s side, peering into the pained face that remained locked in an unbelieving trance. Thranduil loosened Legolas’ frozen hands, removing Mithion’s body from his grip. Grief mingling with bitter joy, he closed the sightless eyes. Grief for the loss of immortal life, and joy for the gain that Mithion had reaped when he accepted the forgiveness and redemption that Ilúvatar offered.

The young one wore his shock openly, his eyes unable to rivet themselves from the body. Thranduil forcefully brought Legolas gaze away, bringing his face aside with the palm of his hand.  “Come away, Legolas. It is time to go home.”

---

Three days had passed, slow but patient. The Sun, she rose as always, shone the same though muted by an unseen cloud.

The morning after Mithion’s death, he was laid to rest at the foot of an ancient oak that stood alone in the middle of a clearing that he had taught Legolas many things. Legolas himself had chosen this place. No word was spoken of his shortcomings; no dark thought of him was pondered. The attendance to the burial consisted of the king, his sons and a chosen few.

But the whole realm mourned his passing.

The king had spoken; Mithion’s sins were no more. They were to be forgotten, and were. He had saved their king’s life in war, and he had been a patient mentor to his youngest son. That was who Mithion had been.

Yet closure did not come to Legolas’ heart. He had not dreamed, or dared to try for fear that he would have no control over them. No food had he taken and he had yet to speak a word. His face seemed older now, the youthful shine having left his eyes and aura.

He stood at his window, one of the few looking out from the hill face in which a great kingdom was hewn deep into its stone. He was tired, but he did not wish to sleep, he was hungry, but had no appetite, he was soiled, but could not rid himself of the ash that filled his soul. The hands that pressed against indifferent stone either side of the opening seemed hardly enough to hold his form upright.

Lifting weary eyes, his gaze was lost in the forest. He tried to remember the wonderful hours he had gathered as priceless treasure but they refused to come to mind. Only the face of Mithion in his death filled his mind’s eye. Yes, he had been freed, he had found peace that both he and Legolas knew he never could really find on these shores. But Mithion was gone when their friendship had just begun.

When Mithion was just beginning to live again.

It wasn’t right, Legolas had raved in the confining chambers of his mind, that he should have to go through so much suffering to be rid of it. Why, oh Death? Couldn’t Mithion have lived, been forgiven, and then would have left Middle-earth and passed beyond the crashing waves with the blessing of the Valar?

“You will see him again, Legolas. Death is not the end, even for us.” Thranduil stood beside him, having come silently and undetected.

“But it is not meant for us to experience,” Legolas retorted bitterly. Bringing his arms down to rest on the sill of the window. He bowed his head, leaning heavily upon his hands. 

Thranduil gently corrected him, “Unless Ilúvatar deems that it is for us to taste.” 

“Mithion had been through enough, he needed no more pain.”

“Then you would say that Ilúvatar acted wrongly? Are you wiser than the one that knows the tune and tempo of the last notes of the Song?” Thranduil reprimanded.

The breath that heaved from Legolas’ chest was deep and long. He closed his eyes and straightened. “Nay, I do not.”

“Then there was no mistake.”

Legolas shook his head, “Nay, there was not.” Blood-shot eyes lifted to meet Thranduil’s steady gaze. “But why?”

Thranduil gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Many a warrior has asked that very same question. But that is not for us to know, Legolas. Even the discordant notes that are struck in the Song are not unexpected to Him.”

Legolas passed a hand across his face, trying to rub away the weariness. “That should bring me comfort, bring me the same peace as it does for you, but I fail to receive any.”

“It is not a cure-all, Legolas. The simple knowledge of it does not bring with it comfortable euphoria. We cannot depend on it as a way to help ourselves.” Thranduil was the one to sigh this time. “Only by His grace can we understand and be comforted. Mithion understood this.” Legolas turned his head away, a scoff building in his throat. Thranduil continued, “Do not lock yourself away, Legolas. Your grief is not a sign of weakness. You are unable to help yourself in this matter. Your pain will only fester to bitterness.” 

Taking Legolas by the shoulders, he turned his son to face him. “Take to heart the last lesson that Mithion offered you.”

For a moment, Legolas peered at his father through scrutinizing eyes. “You really mean what you say, don’t you?” He frowned, the words sounding mixed and jumbled to his ears. He tried rephrasing. “I mean, you believe it?”

Thranduil smiled and nodded once. “I do. And if my ‘child-like’ trust in it makes me appear weak in the eyes of mine enemies, then they laugh at not just me, but the Creator of this land as well.”

Legolas released another drawn out breath, turning back to the view of the rapidly flowing river. And as he watched it, gushing and bubbling towards the horizon, he did not feel the same ache to follow it wherever it ran. He found himself quietly content to stay where he was and not rush the world to show him its ways, and though he did not know it while he realized his changed feelings, the world would come for him soon enough.

“Then he is truly free,” Legolas confirmed softly, finding at last peace in the thought. “Mayhap he will even return one day.”

Again, Thranduil nodded. “Aye, you never can say.”

---

It would be nice to end here and say that then all was well with Legolas and his family and the woodland realm of Mirkwood. But the encroaching darkness grew and fed itself on the trees and pure, living things in Mirkwood, turning leaf and branch to naught but rotting skeletons. To say that the menace of the spiders left, the dark presence that haunted the Wood dispersed and never returned would be a lovely ending.

But lessons would be forgotten if there was no occasion to put them into practice.

Legolas saw all these things progress and taint the land. He grew in stature and wisdom, training both his hands and his mind to be keen, remembering always the lessons Mithion had taught him. As the years passed, he saw death and became familiar with its pain; he felt fear and learned to respect the forewarning it gave. With every mistake, he was taught.

And so, life continued.

End