Twists of Fate

By Littlefish

Littlefish592002@yahoo.com

PG-13—For Violence

Summary—Tervanis is back, and he still has Legolas in his sights.  This time, however, he has a plan to make the elf-prince his own.  Innocence is caught up in the assassin’s evil plot, and the lives of those Legolas holds most dear hang in a delicate balance.  Sequel to ‘Hostage of Hate.’  Features Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli…and a few others. ^_^  Set ten years after ROTK.

Disclaimer—All of Middle Earth and the characters therein belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and I am using them only for my own warped sense of amusement.  Furthermore, any mention of familiar names, places, or events is unintentional…most of the time.  Finally, all animals in this story were tortured under the direct supervision of the Animal Humane Society.

A/N—Well, at long last, here is the sequel to ‘Hostage of Hate.’  I would like to thank everyone for their support in this and my other two stories.  You guys are truly the greatest.  This story is for all of you who have ever left a review, emailed me, or put me on your site or favorites list. You have been such an encouragement to me, not to mention a motivation to keep on writing.  So thank you very much.

Also, I would like to thank everyone who sent me suggestions for this story.  I wanted to list you all by name, but I received such a response that there would be no way to do that.  Still, you know who you are, and you have my deepest appreciation.  All of the suggestions were wonderful.  I am only sad I will not be able to use them all.  Still, they provided me with great ideas, and I have used what I could. I hope you enjoy, and thank you very much!!

 Finally, thanks to Ithilien, the best beta ever!  And Michelle, the best friend ever!

The Shadow of a Great Man

The Shadow of a great man

Is sure and long and wide.

Wisdom’s at his beck and call;

He holds against the tide.

His arm is long, lethal, lean;

Each foe just blowing sand.

His steady stance demands respect

From Kings in every land.

With natural grace he greets each trial,

Through fire he’s been tried.

His piercing gaze a beacon’s blaze.

And all must in his wake abide.

Mia-Philosephet

Prologue: First Kill

****15 years before Return of the King****

The wind was howling, slapping violently against the flimsy wooden slats of the small, abandoned cabin.  Heavy drops of rain rode the invisible currents of air, a wall of moisture so thick as to obscure all sight beyond a few meager feet.  Each drop flew from heaven as if hurled from the hand of some angry giant, exploding upon the earth in a violent display of nature’s temper.  Bright fingers of lightning traced iridescent patterns across the sky, and the heavy voice of thunder echoed in a continuous monotony.

A young boy huddled inside near the back of the worn down cabin, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, and his hands clasped firmly over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the roar of the storm.  His small form trembled violently, his soft sobs barely heard over the heavy pounding of the rain on the cabin roof.  Eyes wide and filled with terror darted uncomprehendingly around the little room, as if searching for an avenue of escape, or perhaps for the source of some unnamed horror that held him firm in its grip.

 Blood.

It covered the boy, staining his shirt and breeches in large, ugly splotches.  It covered his hands, his arms, and his face.  Even the light brown of his hair was smeared with the sticky substance.  Its sharp smell hung heavy in the confined air of the cabin.

The wind scraped the branch of a tree roughly against the side of the cabin and the boy jumped, rising to a crouch, a sharp gasp escaping his pale lips.  He looked for a moment like a deer frozen before taking wild flight from a hunter.  Yet there was nowhere for him to run, as the boy was all too aware.  He sank back to the floor of the cabin, his face taking on a resigned look that was far too old for his young features.

“Mama,” he groaned softly, beginning to rock slowly back and forth.  “Mama,” he repeated pleadingly, large drops of tears cutting through the splotches of blood on his face. 

There was no response to his call and the boy buried his head in his hands and began to moan, calling to his mother over and over again.

“Mama…mama…mama!”

CRACK!!!

The boy barely jumped at the sound of lightening splitting a tree somewhere nearby, his mind firmly trapped within his own misery.

“Mama…mam—”

BOOM!!

The thunder shook the cabin violently, but the boy was beyond noticing or caring.  His eyes had taken on a slight glassy look as he continued his low chant in a voice devoid of life or hope.

“Mama…mama…mama…”

She would not come.

The boy knew this, even as he continued to call for her.  He knew she was gone, torn from him as violently as the leaves were torn from the trees outside by the wind.  There was no going back, no changing the past.  His sobs threatened to choke him even as the glassy expression in his eyes increased. 

“Gone,” he whispered tightly, and the storm outside seemed to pick up intensity, laughing at him through the thin slats of the cabin, its response floating eerily on the night air.

Forever…

****Earlier that same day****

He had gotten into another fight.  

He knew his mother would be disappointed, but he had been unable to hold back.  It was the same gang of boys who had attempted to goad him into a fight last week.  He had been able to ignore their taunts then, but this time they had insulted his mother!  He had held his temper for as long as he was able, but the boys, sensing his riled anger, had become all the more foul in their insults.  

At last he had snapped, leaping for the lead boy—who was several years older than him and at least a head taller—with clenched fists.  The quickness of his assault had taken the boy by surprise, and he had been able to get a few good blows in before the rest of the gang had converged on him like flies on a rotting piece of meat.

The rest of the incident was rather unpleasant to recall.  A nearby merchant had at last broken up the brawl, but not before the gang had left their definite mark upon him.  They had also torn away from him the loaf of bread and small bag of shriveled apples that he had managed to steal from the merchants' square earlier that day.

The lost goods were almost worse than the black eye, bloody nose, and split lip combined.  It meant another night he and his mother would go hungry.  

‘Perhaps father will bring something home today,’ he thought briefly, dismissing the idea almost as soon as it entered his mind.  The only thing his father would be bringing home would be ale, the majority of it already stored away in his fat belly.  That was, of course, if his father came home at all tonight.  He had learned long ago that he could not depend upon his father for anything.  With his mother’s frail health, the responsibility of providing food was his, a burden he had carried for as long as he could remember.  

And today was a day of failure, and all because he had allowed the taunts of the street gang to get to him.  He supposed he could try to go back to the square to acquire more food, but he had doubts as to his success if he did.  The day was winding down into evening, most of the merchants already packing up their stalls for the night, their gazes fixed on the dark storm clouds fast approaching from the east.  The square was quickly clearing of citizens, and if he returned he would be rather conspicuous to the few remaining merchants.  He had lived the life of a thief for far too long not to realize that the risks far outweighed the slim chance of success.  Tonight he and his mother would go hungry.

He started for home with a soft sigh, the sound carrying a weight that seemed much too old for his mere nine years of life.  He didn’t mind going hungry himself, but he still wished he had something to give his mother.  He had not failed like this for some time.  

He was an accomplished thief, his shrewd mind and deep understanding of the city giving him a sharp advantage over the greedy and fat merchants who set up shop every day in the square.  His skill over the years had grown, so much so that he could now manage to steal goods without the merchants ever being aware anything was missing.  And if he was noticed, he knew how to disappear into the shadows and mazes of the city streets with the silence and the speed of a cat, losing any would-be pursuers long before the chase ever really began.

For the most part he kept his burglary to food, having learned the hard way that any money or pretty babbles he stole for his mother would merely be taken by his father to buy more ale.

He wiped at the dribble of blood on his nose and chin, wincing at the sharp sting.  He had received far worse beatings before, most at the hands of his own father, but he knew his mother would still be worried.  She was constantly worried for him, despite his never ending attempts to assure her.   He could already see the look on her face when she saw him with a bruised and cut up face.  

“Oh darling,” she would say, scooping him up into her thin arms, “Whatever has happened to you?”  Then she would sit him in her lap like she had when he was smaller and would carefully wash out the cuts, humming to him softly.  Then, in order to ignore their hungry bellies, she would tell him one of her stories.  

He always loved listening to her stories; tales of distant lands and mighty kings, of warrior knights, and beautiful princesses.  Sometimes she would tell him stories of dwarves and elves, strange beings who lived far from their borders.  Such tales always ignited a strange sensation within his chest, an odd restlessness and yearning for adventures of his own.  Sometimes the desire would grow so strong that he would almost weep with need for it.  

“Don’t worry, my dear,” his mother would say softly, seeing the wistfulness in his eyes.  “You will not be trapped here forever.  You are meant for so much better than all this.  One day you will leave here and begin your own adventure.  You will become a great man!  Kings will respect you, and your enemies will fear you.  So much waits in store for you!  You are the best, my darling.  The best.”

His mother was often telling him he was the best, and though he was not entirely certain what she meant when she said it, he still felt a thrill of hope each time she did.  Her soft voice was so calm, so assuring that he could almost believe that something else besides the skulking life of a thief awaited him.  Perhaps one day he would be ‘the best.’

A rumble of thunder brought him out of his thoughts, and he glanced up at the darkening sky.  The storm was approaching fast and looked as if it would be a violent one.  He hurried his steps.  Despite the fact he wouldn’t be bringing anything to eat with him, he was anxious to see his mother and spend the evening with her.  With any luck, his father would be away getting drunk in some cheap tavern with his two contemptible friends, leaving the small house alone to him and his mother.  He wasn’t in the mood to deal with his father’s surly attitude and violent temper tonight.  His father would only laugh at his mother’s stories and call her insulting names, something which never ceased to enrage him.  Interfering, however, only gained him a black eye, or worse if his father was particularly drunk.  At his mother’s pleading he had learned to grit his teeth and ignore the insults.

His mother told him his father had not always been so bad; once he had been quite charming and respectable.  He was not sure if he believed this, but it did not matter now.  The dark and abusive father was all he could remember.  Whatever had caused his father to change, he did not know or particularly care, though he suspected it might have something to do with Charak and Drand, his father’s two friends.  At least they were the ones, according to his mother, who had first started his father to drinking.

The wind was picking up in intensity when he at last turned down the final street that led to the small cabin he shared with his mother and father near the outskirts of the city.  Using the sleeve of his coat he attempted to wipe away any remaining blood from his face as he hurried to the door of the house and scurried inside out of the worsening weather.

The interior of the cabin was dim, the only light coming from the guttering flame of a candle set on a small table near the center of the room.  The air inside was thick, smelling heavily of ale, and he grimaced in distaste.  

‘So father is home,’ he thought gloomily, feeling his spirit sink.

His mother was curled up on her mat in the far corner of the room, her back turned to him.  His father’s loud snores could be heard from the cabin’s only other room.

He tiptoed over to the table to retrieve the candle, then moved over to the washstand, trying hard not to make any noise that would wake his mother.  She had been ill lately and needed her rest.  He would clean up as best he could and then wake her later.

He peered critically at his reflection in the broken mirror above the washstand, gingerly dabbing at his left eye, which was already beginning to turn a spectacular shade of purple.  His lower lip was swollen to almost half of its normal size, and another bruise was forming on his right cheekbone.  It was apparent that no matter what he did he would be unable to conceal the affects of the fight from his mother’s  gaze.  

He sighed softly, then wrinkled his noise as he became aware of a sharp, unfamiliar smell to the air, its unpleasant scent nearly hidden beneath the overwhelming odor of alcohol.  He did not recognize the strange smell and cast a worried glance in the direction of his mother, wondering if she had been sick again while he was gone.  

“Mama,” he whispered softly, picking up the candle and moving across the room toward her pallet.

She must have been extremely tired, for she didn’t even twitch at his soft call.  He knelt down behind her and put a small hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently.  “Mother, I am home,” he whispered, frowning as he caught yet another whiff of the strange odor, this time even stronger.  

His mother still showed no signs of waking, and he frowned at the cold feel of her skin beneath his hands.  Why wasn’t she covered with her blanket?

“Mother,” he repeated, this time raising his voice slightly above a whisper, casting a nervous glance toward the door leading into his father’s room.  His mother’s lack of response was causing a strange sensation to curl in the pit of his stomach, an odd sort of dread that he could not comprehend or explain.  He pressed on his mother’s shoulder, rolling her onto her back and opening his mouth to call her again.

He froze.  

His mother’s eyes were open, staring at him lifelessly, her face a pale mask frozen in an expression of surprised pain.  A thin trail of blood, already partially dried and turning black, snaked down from the corner of her lips onto her neck.  The front of her dress had been torn open, revealing her chest and the gaping wound directly beneath her breasts.  Blood was everywhere, soaking the tattered remains of her dress and forming into a large pool on the pallet beneath her.  

He stared at her in horror for a moment, shock washing over him, turning his limbs to water.  His heart felt as if it had stopped beating inside his chest and he could not seem to remember how to breathe.   A flood of warmth, followed just as quickly by a chill as cold as ice swept over his body.  A heavy weight seemed to settle upon him, like invisible chains whose black links closed around him tighter and tighter, squeezing all life and warmth from his limbs.  Dark spots began to swirl around his vision and the world began to tilt and sway precariously.

With a strangled gasp he broke free, lurching forward as though drunk and throwing himself on his mother.  His thin arms snaked around her limp body, lifting her lifeless form against him, trying vainly to pass some of his own warmth into her cold body.  He could feel her blood soaking into his tunic, and his hands fumbled wildly against her, attempting to cover the gaping hole in her chest.  “No,” he moaned desperately, rocking her back and forth.  “Mother…”

This was all a dream, a terrible nightmare.  At any moment he would wake up in his mother’s arms, her sweet voice whispering soft comforts.  It was all just a dream!

His small body was shaking violently, his jaw clenched so tightly it was in danger of breaking, yet he did not even notice the pain.  He clutched his mother’s body against him and cried, aching sobs of loss and fear.

“Please,” he choked, his tears streaming down his cheeks.  “Please wake up, mother.  Please help me.”

But she did not wake up, and neither did he.  He was trapped in this nightmare, and as the minutes dragged by he knew he would never wake up.  This was reality, terrible and horrible, and yet unavoidable.  His mother was dead.

Eternity seemed to be possessed in only a few short minutes as he held her tightly, struggling to breath, to comprehend.  His mother’s blood had thoroughly soaked into the front of his tunic, and her cold skin was robbing his body of all its heat where it touched his flesh.   His shock was slowly fading, replaced by an odd sort of numbness.  He did not fight it, but allowed it to seep over his body and mind, blocking out all thought.  Only the pain remained, a wrenching sense of loss that went too deep to be soothed.  For several long minutes he lost all sense of awareness, his body slipping into a state not unlike unconsciousness.

A low moan, followed by a loud thud, came from the room where his father slept, jerking him out of his trance. A loud clash of thunder heralded the arrival of the storm, and he could hear the soft patter of raindrops against the roof of the cabin.

He moaned softly, looking down into the still face of his mother.  ‘Who had done this?  Who was capable of such brutality against his beautiful, sweet mother?’  It did not make sense, and his heart cried out in agony against it.  Yet even as he asked himself these questions, he already knew the answers.   

His father.  His father was the one who had done this.  He knew it was true.  It would not be the first time the man had attacked his mother.  He had beaten her into unconsciousness on several occasions.  He had merely gone a step further this time.

But why?

He glanced toward the room where his father’s snores had resumed, his expression uncertain and filled with desperate pain. He blinked a couple of times, then quietly laid his mother back down on the pallet.  Gently he closed her staring eyes, then tenderly smoothed her hair with hands stained with blood. He reached for the tattered blanket at the end of the pallet and carefully covered her with it, hiding the horrendous wound in her chest.  With the end of his sleeve he softly scrubbed away the blood on her chin and neck.  When he was finished it almost looked as though she were merely sleeping.  Only the ashen pallor of her skin gave away the lie.

He rose to his feet, his movements jerky and mechanical. His expression had taken on an odd sort of detachment, and it was almost as if his body was moving without the consent of his mind.  He glanced again toward the room where his father slept, then slowly began walking in its direction, his face blank and devoid of all emotion.

As he entered his father’s small room, the stench of alcohol and sweat was strong enough to sting his nose.  His father lay sprawled on the pallet beneath the window, his head turned toward the wall, his snores ripping through the silence inside the cabin.  His right arm hung crookedly off the edge of the pallet, an empty bottle of ale lying where it had fallen a few inches from his limp fingers.  His left arm, which was flung across his chest, held a long, sharp dagger, its blade stained red with blood.

Looking down at his drunken father, he felt a surge of rage and hatred so strong it threatened to choke him.  Tears blinded him, and his hands curled into fists at his side.

“Why?” he demanded in a voice choked with anger.  “Why did you kill her?”  His father didn’t even stir at his question, his snoring continuing on unbroken.

“WHY!?”  This time he screamed the question, but his father merely snorted softly and continued sleeping, too drunk to care about the pain and grief he had caused.  A small smile was pasted on his grizzled face, the grin mocking the boy even in sleep.

It was too much.  

With a scream of rage he leapt for his father, his small fists striking the man’s face again and again.  He was like a wild animal, his actions no longer completely controlled by rational thought.  His emotions were a bonfire inside his soul, fueling his rage and giving him strength behind his blows.  He hated his father and wanted to hurt the man, hurt him badly!  

Yet even this seemed beyond him.  In his drunken slumber, his father seemed barely even able to feel the blows.  He merely let out a low groan and turned his head away, his right arm rising in a half-hearted swipe, as if attempting to chase away a pesky insect.  He rolled over onto his side, and a flash of lightening from outside glinted off the dagger he still clutched in his left hand.

A second later he was prying the dagger out of his father’s hand, choking on his sobs of rage.  He jerked the weapon free, then without pausing for thought plunged it deep into his father’s side.  It was not enough though, and he yanked the weapon free only to stab down again, and then again, and again. Blood splattered across his face and into his hair, but he didn’t even notice, too intent upon burying the blade over and over again in his father’s soft flesh.   His rage and hatred exploded within him with a force that left his eyes hazy and his body trembling.  His father didn’t even have a chance to fully wake before he was dead.  Even then, his body was left to the mutilating tear of the sharp dagger.

“I HATE YOU!” he screamed, his voice filled with all the wild furry of an animal.  Then he stumbled back from the bed, gagging and choking at the same time, tears flooding down his face.  The stench of blood was overpowering.

Lightening flashed outside, followed by the loud crack of thunder, and his rage began to drain from him, leaving him feeling weak and lightheaded.  He stared for a moment at the mutilated body of his father, feeling slightly nauseated by the sight.  The full impact of what he had just done was beginning to settle upon him, causing his small form to shake in growing fear.  He looked down at his blood stained hands, the dagger still clutched in one of them, then turned and fled.

He raced from the cabin and into the storm without a backward glance, the terror that filled him now just as strong as the rage that had held him moments before.  He ran.  Ran from the horror left behind him, ran from the memories, ran from the blood.  Ran from himself.  All he knew was that he had to escape, even as he realized escape would be impossible.  

He fled the city and into the surrounding forest just as the storm tore free from all its restraint and attacked the earth with violence not unlike the repeated stabbing blade of a dagger.

*****

The glazed expression in the boy’s eyes faded slowly as his mind returned from its memories.  He put his head down on his upraised knees, feeling tired and hopeless.   He had never felt so alone in his entire life, and if he had had any tears left he would have wept. 

‘What do I do now?’  he thought wearily, listening to the fading sounds of the storm as it moved further west.  He couldn’t sit in this abandoned cabin forever.  Sooner or later he would need to leave to find food.  The thought terrified him. 

He could not go back to the city, that much he knew.  Charak and Drand would eventually find his father, and when they did they would start looking for him.  If they ever found him, they would kill him, of this he was sure.  Yet he did not know where else he could go.  He had never been far outside the city of his birth before and didn’t even know the direction or distance to the nearest city.  Even if he did manage to find it, he had no idea what he would do or where he would go.  His life seemed destined to be bleak and short no matter what he did.

A wave of despair washed over him, bringing with it new tears.  His mother had always told him that he would one day leave the city and begin an adventure of his own.  Now that it had actually happened, he wanted nothing more than for things to go back to the way they had once been.  His mother’s death had left a whole in his heart that he knew would never be filled.

“I miss you mother,” he whispered softly, hugging his knees even tighter and fighting down the sobs.  He didn’t think he had the strength to cry anymore, not without shattering.

He wanted to go home.  Even if he never returned to the cabin where he had lived with his mother, he needed the familiarity of the city.  The fear of Charak and Drand was all that stopped him from returning.  He knew the violent tendencies of his father’s friends.

“I hate them,” he whispered harshly, his jaw clenching.  “It is their fault.  This is all their fault.  And now they are keeping me from going home.”

The fierce rage that had come over him while in his father’s room was returning, bringing with it resentment and bitterness.  ‘They are probably the ones who convinced father to kill mother,’ he thought furiously, his hands clenching into fists.  ‘ They were always encouraging him to do foolish things.’

He swallowed hard, fighting down his rising anger.  The more he thought about it, the more sure he became that Charak and Drand had played a part in his mother’s murder.  He did not recognize the dagger his father had used to kill his mother, and guessed that it had likely come from one of them.

His eyes moved toward the door of the cabin where he had dropped the dagger.  When he had fled his home he hadn’t even been aware that he still carried it.  It wasn’t until he had found this old abandoned cabin and had run inside to escape the storm that he realized he still clutched the weapon in his sticky fist.  He had dropped it immediately then and had moved to the farthest corner of the room away from it.

“Why?” he asked the stillness, repeating the same question he had been asking himself over and over again since this nightmare had first begun.  “Why did this happen?”

You are the best, my dear.  The best.

His mother’s voice haunted his memory, teasing and mocking him about the futility of his situation.  His mother had been wrong.  He wasn’t the best.  If he were the best he would have been able to save her.  He would have been able to stop his father before he had killed her. 

Instead he had arrived too late.

Yet he had avenged her.  He glanced again toward the dagger that had killed both his mother and father.  How appropriate that his mother’s blood be covered by that of her murderer, his father. 

‘But it is not enough,’ he thought bitterly.  It would never be enough.

Kings will respect you and your enemies will fear you.

He almost laughed aloud at the thought.  He was the one cowering in fear, trapped here in this abandoned cabin.  Once again his mother had been wrong.  He was not a great man, nor would he ever be one.  His enemies, Charak and Drand, were not cowering in fear.  Right now they were probably passed out drunk.  But eventually they would wake and come looking for him.  It was only a matter of time.

Unless…

He suddenly sat up straighter, the shadow of a thought flickering at the edges of his brain.  The picture of his father’s two companions passed out drunk had sparked an idea in his mind.  It was a frightening idea, one which would likely get him killed, and yet he could not completely push it away.  It occurred to him that the only way he would be rid of the threat posed by Charak and Drand would be if they were dead.  It had been easy enough for him to kill his father, drunk as he was, what was to say that it would not be just as easy to kill his father’s two friends.

A shiver ran through his body, brought on by a mixture of revulsion and excitement.  He wanted to return to the city, but Charak and Drand stood in his way.  If he were to dispose of them, he could continue his life in the place he knew, the place where he would have at least a chance of survival. 

“This is crazy,” he whispered softly, “They’ll kill me if they catch me.”

But even as he attempted to dismiss the idea, he found himself rising and moving over to the spot where he had dropped the dagger.  He knelt and picked it up, looking at it more closely than he had before.  He was sure he had seen the knife hanging from Drand’s belt before.  The realization sent waves of white-hot rage through his blood. 

If he killed the two men, the revenge of his mother would be complete.  He knew it would not be too difficult.  He knew the city streets well enough, and sneaking into the two men’s homes would prove extremely easy if they were anywhere near as drunk as his father had been.  He could kill them quickly in their sleep and no one would ever know what he had done.  His fate would be back in his own hands.  He would have a chance to make a life for himself, a life that would make his mother proud.

His hands were trembling, and he realized that he was afraid. 

“A great man would not be afraid,” he told himself grimly.  “A great man would not cower here alone, but would do what needed to be done.”

He could see his mother’s face within his mind.  She was smiling at him, her gentle brown eyes offering him encouragement.

For her.  He would do it for her.

As he finally made up his mind, he felt his fear fade, replaced by determination.  He allowed his anger and hatred to burn hot, providing him with the strength he would need to see this task done.  These men deserved to die, just as his father had deserved to die.  He would see it done.  But he would have to hurry.  He had to get back to the city before morning.

With a small sigh, the child, Tervanis, rose to his feet and left the cabin, becoming part of the night outside.

TBC…

Yay!  One chapter down, only fifty more to go.  Just kiddin…maybe. ^_^  Well, I wanted to let you all know that I am now back in school and dealing with a rather busy schedule.  That said, my updates may not always be on a regular basis.  I will do my best, though, I promise.

 I can’t wait to hear what you all thought of this chapter.  Shameless hint, I know, but I just can’t help myself!