Chapter 11: Death is not the greatest loss in life

Chin held high despite the sword against the back of her neck, Lindomiel ignored her son’s pleas for Manadhien to release her and strode swiftly through the secret door. She would have liked to look over her shoulder to see Legolas and Galithil one last time, if it were to come to that, which was undeniably possible, but she did not dare. She was determined that Manadhien should take no further notice of them, so she made herself move quickly, praying to hold Manadhien’s attention by forcing her to hurry if she wanted to control the prisoner she already had.

Of course, even if Lindomiel managed to lure Manadhien out of the sitting room, she still needed some way to close the secret door behind them before Legolas could charge through it. That problem, she had not yet worked out. Her mind swirled around and around it without encountering a solution. ‘Just stay back!’ she willed, but Legolas would never obey such a command even if she voiced it. He was just like his adar in that regard.

Manadhien had only just crossed the threshold into the passage when the bite of the sword against Lindomiel’s neck lessened. Manadhien had stopped following her!

Lindomiel tensed and slowed to a stop, casting about for some way to goad Manadhien into focusing on her….some way to keep Legolas from pursuing them…some way to make her household safe….

“Move,” Manadhien ordered, her voice oddly strained.

Lindomiel quite willingly took a few more steps.

Manadhien made a half panting, half grunting noise and did not seem to notice when her hostage walked away from her sword entirely.

Lindomiel turned her head just enough to see what Manadhien was wrestling with. Please let it not be Legolas! His voice was now nearly on top of them.

Stone ground against stone and darkness engulfed her.

The breath Lindomiel was holding burst out of her in an astonished laugh. It was done and Manadhien had done it to herself! She imprisoned herself! She obviously did not realize it yet, but she had. She could never harm Legolas, Galithil or anyone else again. There would be no more bloodshed.

Lindomiel’s jaw tightened. Well, no more assuming she could now escape herself. She had an idea how she could accomplish that, but she needed to act quickly.  

“It is blacker than the pits of Utumno in here!” Manadhien whispered, as if the darkness might shatter under the weight of a normal speaking voice.

‘You would know,’ Lindomiel thought as she reached in front of herself. Her fingers brushed the wall of the passage. Pressing against it, she slipped a few more paces away from the door.

“Where have you gone?” Manadhien called a moment later, her voice a little shrill. “Where are you?”

Lindomiel saw nothing but blackness—not even an elf could see in the complete absence of light—but she imagined Manadhien flailing her arms about, searching. She continued feeling her way along the wall as quietly as she could.

“Darkness take you! You cannot hide from me forever.”

Metal clanged against stone.

Lindomiel reflexively dropped into the lowest crouch she could manage and hugged the wall even more tightly.

The sound repeated again and again, rhythmically, swiftly, on one side of the passage and then the other, tiny sparks of light flashing with each blow. Manadhien was indeed flailing about. With Legolas’s sword!

Lindomiel’s mind raced. She either needed Manadhien far enough away from one of the doorways that she could escape without being followed or she needed a better means of defending herself if she were forced to remain in here for any amount of time. Either way, she needed distance.

“You are not trapping me in here!” Manadhien cried, her tone openly panicked.

The sword struck the wall directly opposite Lindomiel.

Rough cloth—the plain wool of Manadhien’s skirt—slapped Lindomiel in the face as Manadhien spun around for another swing, this time aimed at Lindomiel’s wall.

Lindomiel pulled at the ring on her finger, yanked it off, and flung it as far as she could. It jingled against stone midway down the passage.

“Get back here!” Manadhien shrieked, her voice turning away as she spoke.

Lindomiel held her breath.

Footsteps trudged through the powdery sand on the floor. A moment later, they stopped.

The passage was as silent as it was dark.

Lindomiel remained still, huddled against the wall, listening. How much distance had she managed to buy? Did Manadhien realize she had been tricked? Had she only figured out that she was giving her enemy an advantage by revealing her own location with all her noise? Was she still moving away or was she now coming back?

There was no way to know.

Lindomiel glanced behind herself in the direction of the sitting room. Did she dare try to dash back through that door?

And lose everything she had gained? Expose Legolas, Galithil, Thranduil and everyone else in the household to danger again if Manadhien was too close?

She shook her head, stood, and faced the wall. She would escape into the forest or not at all.  And since Manadhien stood between her and that door, she needed a weapon. She ran her hands carefully, slowly, over the smooth, cold stone at waist height. Where was the notch? Had she already gone too far? Her heart began to race. If she could not find it, she was in trouble.

There! An indentation in the stone.

Lindomiel slipped her fingers into it, but hesitated. Once she pulled, her location would be revealed.

“Curse this place!” Manadhien cried, dozen or so paces away. “I swear, when I find you, I will make you sorry for the foolish game you are playing!”

Metal began scraping against rock. It sounded as if Manadhien was raking her sword along one wall and something else—probably a knife— along the other, while coming closer. Fast.

“And I am going to find you,” she added with a snarling voice.

Lindomiel did not doubt it. She tugged on the notch and a small compartment yawned open with a rasping noise.

Manadhien gasped and, for a moment, her weapons ceased dragging along the stone. Then she continued forward again, twice as quickly.

Lindomiel slid her hands up and over, until her left wrist bumped into a torch stuck into a stand on the wall next to the hidden compartment. She reached up, a little higher, above the torch, feeling about on the ledge next to it.

Manadhien was so close that Lindomiel could smell her—the musty scent of the store rooms where she had been imprisoned clung to her clothes. She hastily seized the steel and flint she had been groping for on the ledge. A single, sharp strike produced enough of a spark to light the oil-soaked torch.

Lindomiel and Manadhien both flinched against the sudden brightness.

“You are going to regret that,” Manadhien growled. Her face was contorted with both anger and the effort to see. She held up her left arm, knife in hand, to shield her eyes. “The darkness was your only ally.”

“Not my only ally,” Lindomiel replied, stepping away from the open panel and sliding a sword from a cache of weapons—mostly pikes, with a dozen or so swords. She smiled grimly in response to Manadhien’s astonished look. “Surely you have guessed that this passage was intended to allow those sheltering in the stronghold a means of escape should the Gates fail,” she said. “Do you think we would turn our people out into a battle with no way to defend themselves?” She turned the sword this way and that, inspecting its blade and balance. “These are not high quality weapons. Not at all. The king would not allow his warriors to wield them, since they are forged from metal scavenged from the enemy. But they are functional. And I think you will agree that this one will serve to make this ‘game,’ as you called it, a bit more fairly matched.”

Manadhien narrowed her eyes and raised Legolas’s sword to a mid guard.

Lindomiel raised her own. “I do not have any desire to harm you, but neither will I ever open either of the doors in this passage. No matter what you do or threaten to do, I will not free you. You are trapped here until Legolas brings an army of guards to return you to your cell. Until then, you have only two choices. You can drop that weapon, sit down and wait for arrest or you can fight me. You would be wise to bear in mind that if you are found attacking me, the guards will do anything they must to protect me. If they find you already surrendered, no harm will come to you.”

Manadhien responded with a bitter laugh. “You think yourself so clever. You think you have seen all sides of this battle. But I was fighting battles three ages of this world before you were born. I see what you have not: if you cannot be forced to open the door at end of this passage—and that remains to be seen—when Legolas brings his army, they will not touch me if I hold you as my hostage.”

Saying that, she charged.

‘You will not have a hostage,’ Lindomiel thought, but she did not spare the breath to voice that assertion as she voided Manadhien’s attack and launched her own.

*~*~*

A scream jolted Thranduil out of a troubled slumber.

Nightmares, he mouthed while breathing out a sigh. Nothing new. He had nightmares—heard the screams of the dying—for years after the destruction of two homes in Beleriand and after returning from Mordor. The recent battles in the south could hardly be compared to any of those wars, but they were terrible. And, like in Beleriand, they had forced him to fight elves. That was, not surprisingly, enough to provoke more nightmares.

Somewhere in the fog that laid over his mind he heard muffled voices arguing. He dismissed them in an effort to return to the path of dreams, rather than nightmares.

“Aewen! No! Please, no! Do not be dead! You cannot be dead!” he heard a voice plead, just as he was almost asleep again.

Legolas? Was that Legolas? This was a truly odd nightmare and one that made his heart beat an unnatural rhythm against his ribs. His son sounded utterly grief-stricken and more than a little panicked.

“Galithil!” Legolas called a moment later. “Wake up, Galithil!”

A soft moan answered.

Thranduil rolled onto his side, to face his bedroom door, struggling to make sense of all he was hearing. That was the problem with nightmares. They never made sense.

“Guards!” Legolas shouted a moment later. His voice sounded closer, as if he were now in the main corridor of the family quarters.

Wood slammed against stone once and then again—the inner and outer doors of the family quarters flying open.

“Lanthir!”

That call echoed as it would in the antechamber.

Thranduil rubbed a hand over his eyes and tried to clear his mind. “Dreaming about Legolas in a battle,” he muttered, this time out loud to himself. No wonder, after hearing just a few hours earlier that his son was actually in the south. Not just in the village, like Galithil, which would be bad enough, but in Rhosgobel. And near a nazgul. That was a true nightmare.

“What is wrong, my lord?” Lanthir answered, his voice remarkably clear for a dream and drawing nearer with every word.

“Find Dolgailon. He is outside somewhere. Check the Oak. Tell him to take Galudiron—and you go with him too—to the back side of the stronghold. To the hidden passage. Manadhien is trying to escape through it.”

“Manadhien!” both Lanthir and Belloth exclaimed. “She is in her cell,” Belloth added, also coming closer.

“I assure you, she is not,” Legolas snapped. “And send Hallion to me. I need him as fast as you can get him in here to open the door in the sitting room.”

“What door, my lord?” Belloth asked. “What hidden passage?”

“Lanthir go!” Legolas shouted. “Belloth come with me. And give me that bow.”

Silence followed.

Thranduil shifted, plumped his pillow a bit and tried to settle himself more comfortably into it, forcing himself to relax. Hopefully, this disturbing dream was ending. It was a little too real. Manadhien escaping! Valar forbid!

A sharp cry—it sounded like Belloth—caused Thranduil’s whole body to tense again. The guard and Legolas spoke rapidly, but Thranduil could not make out their words.

“What is going on?” Hallion called after a few more moments. “Oh my…! What…? Legolas, what in all of Arda?” He sounded…openly alarmed, at the very least.

That was something Thranduil had not heard since the war in Mordor. His fingers tangled in the bedsheets. This could not be a dream or even a nightmare. He was not asleep. His waking eyes took in the room around him. His own room. In the stronghold. Lit only by a crackling fire in the fireplace.

“No time to explain,” Legolas replied. “Open the door!”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows. His young son’s tone was nothing short of imperious. ‘He sounds just like his grandfather,’ Thranduil thought and he could not help but laugh at that idea as he pushed himself up to a seated position slowly, so the room would not spin too badly.

“The door?” Hallion repeated. “But Aewen…”

“Aewen is beyond help,” Legolas interrupted. “If we are to prevent nana from following her…”

A frown replaced Thranduil’s smile. What did that mean? Wait! Did Legolas say moments ago that Aewen was dead? He shook his head and immediately regretted it. Aewen could not be dead, he thought while pressing both hands against the pain in his temples. She was a child. Still a child. And what would she be doing in the stronghold at this hour? That had to be part of the nightmare. But…. Thranduil’s eyes darted around the room he shared with his wife. Where was Lindomiel?

“…simply obey. Open this door. Right now!”

That definitely sounded like Oropher. The command was punctuated by the sound of flesh hitting stone.

Heart pounding, Thranduil searched in the flickering light for slippers while reaching for his robe. None of this had been a dream. He was definitely fully awake and something was certainly very wrong. What else could possibly induce Legolas to speak to his uncle in such a manner?

Just as he arose from the bed, one hand grasping a bedpost for stability, the other still pressed against the pounding in his head, stone ground against stone.

Thranduil’s gaze snapped in the direction of the noise.

“Oh!” both Legolas and Hallion exclaimed at once.

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!” they cried in unison a moment later.

Thranduil repeated that prayer in a whisper as everything he had heard thus far suddenly coalesced into place. Legolas was insisting Hallion open the door! The hidden door in the sitting room! And he had sent Dolgailon to its other end. With warriors. Because…. Thranduil drew a long breath.

Manadhien had not really escaped her cell, surely!

The breath rushed from his lungs. Lindomiel could not be involved!

The sound of clanging swords sent Thranduil charging out of the room, even if he had to catch himself from falling several times by clutching at furniture along the way when his injured leg failed him. He pulled his own sword from the wall and limped into the corridor.

He immediately caught a glimpse of three forms…ellyth…he only got a decent look at the last of them...dashing through the open door to the family quarters and disappearing into the sitting room. Thranduil pursued them in time to see the last elleth—Maidhien—drop the knife in her hand and fall to her knees on the ground just inside the room. It took him a moment to realize why: Galithil was slumped there too, leaning against the wall. Maidhien held him upright with a hand on each of his shoulders as he clasped his head between both his hands. His knife lay next to Manadhien’s, on the floor. Arthiel hovered over them. Her knife was also in her hand.

“What is happening?” Thranduil yelled, running towards them, supporting himself along the wall.

“I did not mean for any of this to happen!” an almost tearful voice answered him.

Thranduil scowled. Noruil. He had not noticed him, hunkered down, almost hiding behind Galithil.

The child cringed and flinched back the moment Thranduil’s gaze met his. “I am so sorry!” he cried.

Thranduil had no interest in Noruil. Not now. He only wanted to find out for certain what was happening, starting with why his foster son was on the floor.

Galithil had finally managed to look up, but could not quite focus on Thranduil. “I am uninjured, uncle,” he mumbled, trying to rise.

He clearly was not. A blue bruise and lump were already forming on his temple.

Maidhien was trembling, glancing between Galithil and something behind Noruil, but she was able to steady Galithil and prevent his ill-advised efforts to get up.

“What has happened here!” Thranduil demanded again.

Arthiel looked with wide eyes from him, past the children on the floor and into the sitting room. “There has been some sort of…fight,” she managed to whisper.

Thranduil faced the room. Over-turned furniture, goblets, broken glass, spilt wine and food littered the floor. Eirienil was crouched over a heap of yellow cloth on the far side of the room. No, not just cloth. A person. A body. And the floor was…stained. His breath caught. That was not wine. It was too red. It could not be blood! There was so much of it!

Eirienil turned at the sound of his gasp and looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. Her movement revealed an elleth. Aewen! It was her blood.

Thranduil struggled to draw his next breath. His vision blurred, as if to reject the sight that his mind involuntarily blended with memories…horrors…he thought were two ages behind him.

This could not be, but…. Aewen had to be dead. Dollion’s daughter had been killed, right here, in the family sitting room.

Impossible!

He tightened his grip on the sword in his right hand.

“Hold!” Dolgailon’s voice ordered from inside the hidden passage, where clanging swords still heralded an intense battle.

Thranduil turned towards the noise.

Manadhien! It had to be her. But who fought her? Hallion? His heart raced at the thought. Then it stopped altogether at the possibility that Legolas might be Manadien’s opponent. “Impossible,” he said again, this time out loud to add force to the sentiment. Belloth had been with Legolas. Surely he fought Manadhien. He and Hallion would never allow Legolas to engage her.

But where was Lindomiel?

Thranduil froze as Legolas’s words to Hallion replayed in his mind. If they were to prevent Lindomiel from going the way of Aewen….

“No,” he whispered, launching himself towards the open door. His plea echoed in his ears with each labored step towards the passage, each strike of sword on sword, each pounding heart beat. He was not going to see his wife fighting Manadhien. He was not going to see Hallion, Legolas or any member of his family fighting to avenge her.

He raced through the door.

Inside, Legolas and Hallion stood nearest the entrance. Neither wielded a sword, but their bows were drawn. Belloth was just in front of them, doubled over on his knees, his sword on the ground next to him, hands pressed against his side. He was heaving in what appeared to be a largely failing attempt to breath. A knife protruded from his ribs!

On the far side of the passage were Dolgailon, Galudiron and Lanthir. Dolgailon also had his bow drawn, undoubtedly because his still recovering leg would not support a sword fight. Galudiron and Lanthir stood to either side of him, weight forward, blades ready, eyes following…. searching….

The tip of Thranduil’s sword sank to the ground and he leaned against it, lest he collapse.

Between Legolas and Dolgailon, Lindomiel fought Manadhien.

Lindomiel fought her!

Instinct born of long experience overcame his mind’s second attempt to deny what his eyes showed him and he joined the guards, analyzing the battle for the best place to enter it.

Manadhien’s back was to the far wall, in a bend of the passage way. She held a sword in her right hand and a knife in her left. She kept Lindomiel at close range, even given the narrow confines of the passage, and had maneuvered her so that any arrows the archers loosed would have to go through Lindomiel to get to their target. So that any attacker with a sword would have to approach head on, to be met with the same fate Belloth had suffered—a thrown knife.

Thranduil leveled a glare on Manadhien as he raised his sword. She understood the mechanics of this battle, he had to grant her that.  But she was badly outnumbered now. The single knife she still wielded—the sheath at her waist was empty and he saw no other hidden weapons—was not sufficient advantage to stop him, Dolgailon, Hallion and all the remaining guards. This was going to end before either Lindomiel or Legolas was injured. He opened his mouth to order a charge.

Before he could speak, Legolas loosed two whistles. The first Thranduil did not recognize, but it was the same sort of pattern used to identify individual warriors in a battle when issuing them orders. His gaze snapped to his son when he registered the second signal’s meaning: it was the call the patrols used to order warriors to withdraw from the enemy. Pull back and leave Lindomiel to Manadhien? Not likely! What was Legolas thinking! He must have mistaken the signal he intended to use. It was no surprise that Dolgailon and the guards did not move.

But Lindomiel did!

She knew the patrol’s signals?

Apparently so. She sidestepped—deftly sidestepped, Thranduil could not help but notice—the savage blow Manadhien aimed at her shoulder and, rather than following up with an attack of her own, she leapt back, towards the center of the passage, trying to move out of range and hold Manadhien on point.

Legolas, Dolgailon and Hallion pulled their bowstrings to full draw, shifting closer, searching for a clear shot, but Lindomiel had not managed to move far enough from their target. Manadhien pursued her, closing inside sword range again, while sheathing her offhand weapon. She used her now free left hand to grab at any part of Lindomiel she could reach. She caught a hank of hair and pulled.

Lindomiel aimed a vicious cut at Manadhien’s thigh.

Rather than voiding or parrying, Manadhien held off the attack by letting go of Lindomiel’s hair and grasping the wrist of her sword arm. She twisted it, attempting to pull Lindomiel off balance, but Lindomiel was her equal in strength, so she accomplished little. While Manadhien kept Lindomiel’s sword occupied, she reached her own around Lindomiel’s back and used the flat of the blade to hold her close.

She intended to use her as a shield. A hostage.

That could not be allowed! Ignoring how his head swam and his injured leg throbbed, Thranduil rushed forward.

Someone seized his arm from behind.

“No,” Engwe called.

Thranduil made no more response than to wrench his arm free. He pressed forward.

Engwe grasped his collar, shouldered around him and planted a hand on his chest, as much to hold him upright as to stop him. “You are in no condition,” he said, positioning himself between Thranduil and the battle. “You will make matters worse, not better. Stay back. Let your guards and warriors handle this.”

“Get out of my way,” Thranduil growled, still shoving against his uncle.

Engwe did not obey.

Golwon, Isteth and Berior, all carrying bows, raced around them to stand next to Legolas and Hallion.

As one, Legolas and Dolgailon called the signal for them to spread out and surround the enemy. They did, weapons drawn.

“Let her go, Manadhien,” Legolas shouted, tracking Manadhien with his arrow. Dolgailon yelled a similar order.

“I will kill her first! Stay back!” Manadhien shrilled.

“What is happening here?” Mithrandir’s voice sounded in the sitting room. “Oh!” he cried. Then, a moment later, he repeated the same exclamation, his voice a little clearer and louder. Three gasps immediately followed. A glance showed they came from Elrohir, Elladan and the healer from Imladris. They all stood in the doorway of the passage with their mouths frankly hanging open.

Lindomiel loosed a keen cry.

Thranduil spun back around.

A rapidly expanding line of blood stained the delicate fabric at the waist of her gown. Thranduil tamped down panic to determine its source: Lindomiel’s struggles to pull away had forced Manadhien to use the cutting edge of her blade to hold her in place. It sawed into Lindomiel’s side as they fought. Manadhien’s off-hand still clutched Lindomiel’s wrist, grappling for control of her sword.

Lanthir and Galudiron leapt forward.

“I will cut her in half if you come any closer!” Manadhien yelled.

Rage and terror exploded in Thranduil and he renewed his efforts to push past Engwe, gaze fixed on his wife. He could not watch her die. He would not.

Lindomiel’s left hand was now fumbling at the bodice of her gown. A moment later, something glinted in the torch light. Her jeweled dagger! She drove its needle-sharp point into the hand grasping her sword arm.

Manadhien shrieked, but did not let go.

Lindomiel was able to use Manadhien’s pain to put a slight distance between them. She took advantage of it to shift her sword to her free hand and raise it over the arm still clutching her right wrist.

Eyes widening, Manadhien made an incoherent noise, released Lindomiel and back-peddled.

She was not fast enough.

Lindomiel brought her blade down across Manadhien’s arm, not far from where the little dagger still impaled her hand.

Manadhien loosed a scream that reverberated off the passage walls and stumbled away. The motion dragged the sword still pressed against Lindomiel’s waist deeper through flesh, wrenching another cry from her. Blood welled over the blade.

Thranduil’s heart raced so hard that the resulting pain in his head was nearly enough to blind him.

Manadhien staggered back and launched one, final, desperate attack, slicing her sword in front of herself in a wide arc.

Off balance, Lindomiel leapt backward and parried awkwardly.

Thranduil pushed against Engwe. Lindomiel was faced away from him. He could not see. Had she jumped far enough? Had she deflected Manadhien’s attack?

Bows twanged.

Distance between Manadhien and Lindomiel was all the archers had been waiting for. Three arrows flew straight through Manadhien’s sword arm and splintered against the wall.

Manadhien’s scream rose in pitch and her sword followed the arrows an instant later, flying from her pain-weakened grip at the end of her swing to clatter against the wall. She doubled over, cradling her left hand between her body and her injured sword arm. Her voice failed, reduced to panting gasps, and she raised her gaze. Her eyes shone with hatred.

Her right hand slid along her waist.

Thranduil sucked in a sharp breath to call a warning. She was reaching for her knife.

Before she could draw it, before Thranduil could speak, Legolas sent a second arrow through her right shoulder, forcing her to stagger back several more steps and finally lose balance. She sprawled onto her backside in the dirt.

At the same moment, Lanthir lurched forward, grabbed Lindomiel with an arm around her waist, and threw her, bodily, away from danger, against the far wall of the passage. He pinned her there, blocking her from all view. Dolgailon and Galudiron also interposed themselves between her and Manadhien.

Thranduil willed them to move aside, just enough that he could assure himself Lindomiel had avoided further injury. That she stood under her own power. But he could see nothing other than guards who would not move until the enemy was subdued. He swung his attention back to Manadhien.  

Whimpering, she yanked her knife from its sheath.

Legolas and the other archers again fit arrows against their bowstrings and took aim, but they did not release.

Manadhien held her knife in front of her, close to her body. Disarming her would mean sending an arrow through her hand and into her gut. A fatal shot for certain and a terribly cruel death.

The same death Lindomiel faced if Manadhien’s last cut had landed.

Thranduil’s hand shook on the hilt of his sword and he swore an oath to himself: if Lindomiel were fatally wounded, he would give Manadhien whatever death she had given his wife.

“We have done this before,” Legolas said, interrupting Thranduil’s dark thoughts with a calm and even voice—one Thranduil knew himself to be incapable of at the moment. “On the Forest Road. It took three arrows to put you down there. Must it take three again?”

“She is going to pay for what she did!” Manadhien cried, still searching for a glimpse of Lindomiel, but sparing a glance at her left hand. It dangled grotesquely by a slim bit of flesh. It was all but severed! Blood soaked the front of her dress and slickened her grip on her knife. “She will pay!” Her gaze shifted to Legolas. “If not with her own blood, then with the blood of one she holds dear.”

Thranduil pushed a step towards his son in response to that threat, despite Engwe’s hand still firm against his chest.  At the same moment, Hallion moved to stand between Legolas and Manadhien.

Face contorted in anger, Legolas shouldered Hallion aside. “Enough!” he yelled and drew his arrow back further, now aiming it at Manadhien’s nose.

Not even breathing could be heard in the passage.

“You want pity for what nana did to you?” Legolas continued. “You are insane! You attacked her first. After attacking me and Galithil and killing Aewen! You killed nana’s parents. And Berior’s adar. You sold me and Anastor to men. You sent Tulus to Dol Guldur and tried to send Dolgailon there.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened at that accusation. He had not heard it before.

“You commanded orcs in a battle that leveled two villages,” Legolas continued. “I pity more the people whose lives you destroyed. You have done enough! Do not doubt for a moment that I will do whatever it takes to prevent you from injuring another, single person in this realm. Yield! Now!”

Thranduil stared at his son. Most people—elves, men, dwarves and possibly even orcs— would have obeyed that command, or any other thusly delivered, and there was no denying it.

Manadhien was not like most people.

“I would rather you shoot me than send me back to that cell,” she retorted, brandishing the knife, but still not throwing it. “Do it!”

Thranduil did not want to see his son kill an elf. Not even Manadhien. Why did Hallion or Dolgailon not do something? How dare Engwe hold him back! He reached for his uncle’s wrist to pull it down.

Legolas’s grip on his bow tightened. Then he took several deep breaths and relaxed it. “Despite your murders,” he finally said, his tone once again even, “I have no desire to kill you. Do not force me to it. Put that knife down. Just put it on the floor and everyone will survive this, including you.”

Manadhien shook her head, her eyes darting from person to person, her breath coming in gasps.

“We should all just pause for a moment to gather our thoughts. And our wisdom,” Mithrandir intoned.

Thranduil did not begrudge him the effort—at least he had made one—but he did not believe even Mithrandir could cool this fire. Legolas had himself under control, for the most part, but Manadhien had neither wisdom nor even self-restraint to appeal to.

No one moved.

“Valar preserve us!” Tureden cried from the doorway. He, Galuauth and Pendurion, all wearing their quivers and sword belts over night shirts and hastily donned leggings, rushed into the room.

Manadhien started and glanced at them.

In that moment of distraction, Galudiron dove on her. He pinned her against the wall and slammed the hand holding the knife against a rock until her weapon fell to the ground.

Thranduil loosed the breath he was holding, lowered his sword and ceased pushing against Engwe’s hands.

Legolas did not release his draw. “Galuauth. Pendurion,” he said, pointing at Manadhien with a jerk of his chin as Tureden took his place beside him. “Help Galudiron.”

They approached her, bows drawn. Pendurion held an arrow on her while Galuauth kicked aside the knife she had wielded and helped Galudiron pin her arms to begin searching her.

Thranduil watched long enough to be certain that Manadhien was fully subdued and his son was safe. Then, every muscle taut with dread at what he might see, he turned to look for Lindomiel, only vaguely hearing Legolas’s orders to the guards—something about finding a key and keeping Noruil in the sitting room. In his peripheral vision, he saw Pendurion depart through the secret door and Elrohir rush to Belloth’s side. Elladan and Helindilme ran into Thranduil’s line of sight, towards the far wall, where Lindomiel was still surrounded. Her guards parted to allow the healers’ approach and Thranduil finally caught a glimpse of her.

Relief flooded over him so forcefully his head spun as the air rushed out of his lungs.

Lindomiel was leaning against the wall, but she stood!

Thranduil raked his gaze over her body. She bore deep gashes across her side at waist level. They appeared to cut muscle—a serious, but not mortal, wound. Another, shallower cut oozed blood on the front of her torn gown. Manadhien’s last effort. It had failed.

“Thank the Valar!” he whispered, not capable of more voice. He pushed around Engwe and raced after the healers, arriving at Lindomiel’s side as swiftly as he could manage, desiring nothing more in the world than to hold her.

She let her sword fall to the ground and held out her hand to him, smiling, though tears welled in her eyes.

He reached for her hand, but hesitated to embrace her, fearing to hurt her. She seemed completely unaware of any injury. The rush of battle. Thranduil knew it well. And he knew what happened when it inevitably, and all too quickly, wore off. He could not bear to think of the pain she would soon endure. He closed his eyes and carefully drew her to him with a hand on the small of her back. Ignoring anyone else’s presence for the moment, he pulled her tight against him and savored the sensation of her closeness.

“I am not seriously hurt,” she said as Helindilme began to examine the gash on her side.

“By the grace of the Valar,” Legolas muttered.

Thranduil opened his eyes to see Legolas holding his mother’s outstretched left hand in both his own, his bow slung over his shoulder. Thranduil frowned slightly. Legolas was clutching his mother’s hand, in truth. The calm facade he had worn moments before was completely vanished. He looked…relieved, frightened, grief-stricken….

“By the skill of my blade,” Lindomiel retorted in a stronger voice.

Legolas scowled and pointed to the sword on the ground next to her. “Where did you get that?”

Lindomiel nodded towards the wall.

Like Legolas, Thranduil followed her gaze. Only then did he see the hidden weapons compartment open. He looked back at the sword she had wielded. Why was she fighting with one of those weapons? And how had she come to be in this passage? He glanced at Manadhien. The sword she had lost was Legolas’s! And the bow Legolas carried was not his own. What had happened here?

Legolas was shaking his head, fear and grief rapidly disappearing to be replaced by anger. “Even knowing those swords were here, what you did was insane, nana. Unnecessarily dangerous. You should have let me handle her. I never again want to see you take such risks. Not for me.”

Lindomiel laughed—a genuine laugh that seemed entirely out of place under the circumstances, except it came from Lindomiel, who always laughed. “I am your mother, Legolas. Of course I will take such risks for my child, every time the need arises. Depend on it. Moreover, I am the queen of this realm. It is mine to defend and not for you to command otherwise. And, I will remind you that I have nearly thirty years more training with a sword than you have.”

Thranduil closed his eyes. “Thirty years,” he whispered to himself.

“I am every bit as capable of defending myself as you are,” Lindomiel concluded.

Legolas all but snarled while sucking in a breath to respond.

Thranduil turned to him at the sound. “Mind to whom you speak,” he intervened in a soft voice.

Still frowning, Legolas seemed to fully register his father’s presence for the first time. He strove, with much less success than he normally managed, to bring his expression under control.

Thranduil could forgive that lack of decorum after all he had just witnessed.

“You would have allowed this?” Legolas settled for asking, directing his frustration at his father and sweeping an arm in front of himself to encompass the carnage in the passage.

Thranduil regarded him levelly, unaccustomed to being addressed in that tone by anyone and much less his son. “Not if I could prevent it,” he replied.

Legolas nodded with a ‘you see my point’ expression.

“But an age of experience has taught me that your naneth follows her own council,” he concluded.

“Enough of that,” Lindomiel said. “And that,” she added, pulling away from Helindilme. “My injuries are not serious.”

“Respectfully, my lady, I will be the judge of that,” the healer replied.

Thranduil, for once, agreed with a Noldo.

“Rather than worrying over me…” Lindomiel let her words drift off as she looked over to Belloth. Elrohir had his hand pressed against the guard’s side while Golwon and Hallion lifted him from the ground. Isteth hurried out the passage ahead of them, saying something about fetching Nestoreth and medicine. “Has anyone looked after Galithil?” Lindomiel continued. “Or…” she cut herself off with a worried glance at Legolas.

Legolas grimaced and half turned away, but he answered in a relatively normal tone of voice. “Galithil was already regaining consciousness when Hallion arrived to let me in here.”

He paused, visibly bracing himself.

In the silence, Elladan nodded and mouthed, ‘Concussion’ and ‘But he will recover.’

“Aewen is dead,” Legolas concluded.

Lindomiel’s body tensed in Thranduil’s arms. “Oh, Legolas!” she cried, reaching for him.

Legolas sidestepped and then turned his back on her altogether. “Dolgailon,” he called.

Lindomiel tried to catch the shoulder that pulled away from her grasp. Failing that, she clutched Thranduil’s arm. “He must be…simply devastated. Get him out of here,” she whispered in his ear.

“My lord?” Dolgailon responded, stepping forward to stand before Legolas, apparently awaiting orders.

Thranduil’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.

“Secure that door.” Legolas gestured to the far end of the passage. “Then, make sure Glilavan is still in his cottage. If Manadhien tried to escape…” he let that sentence drift off.

As Dolgailon nodded, Thranduil frowned. Over the last season, he had watched Legolas use work—or over-work—to distract himself from the horrors he had witnessed or been forced to commit. He could not allow Legolas to continue on this path. He had a right to what remained of his childhood. And he needed to mourn Aewen properly.

“Once you have seen to Glilavan, find Dollion, Menelwen and Delethil and bring them to the Hall,” Legolas concluded.

Face grim, Dolgailon bowed and moved off to do as he had been bid. Galudiron followed his charge.

“Thranduil,” Lindomiel whispered, grasping his arm even tighter. “You have to stop this. Legolas cannot speak to Dollion. You cannot let him.”

That, Thranduil could not disagree with. Speaking to Dollion about his daughter’s death was too much. He placed a kiss on Lindomiel’s cheek. “I will look after Legolas.” His brow knit as he noticed Lindomiel was now bent over slightly towards her left side, the length of her left forearm pressed against her waist. “You allow someone to take care of you.”

She nodded and released his arm.

Helindilme resumed her work and Thranduil’s brow furrowed even more when he realized Lindomiel needed the healer’s aid to remain standing. She had not been hanging on his arm solely out of concern for Legolas. He turned and spoke into Elladan’s ear. “She has never had a wound like these,” he whispered, throwing a glance in Lindomiel’s general direction. “She has no idea how bad…. I want her drugged to unconsciousness before you clean and close them. Understood?”

“Of course,” Elladan agreed at once.

Watching the healers help Lindomiel from the passage, Thranduil wish he had ordered Elladan to produce whatever drugs he had immediately. She did not make it to the door before her knees buckled. He needed to manage Legolas quickly so he could go after her.

His son was now standing over Manadhien. Her head rested against the wall behind her and her eyes were closed. Weakened by her injuries, she made no reaction to his presence, but Legolas’s bow was back in his hand and Tureden was at his shoulder, sword raised.

“You and Lanthir take her back to her cell,” Legolas was saying to Galuauth, holding out a key clenched in his hand. “Fetch Nestoreth to look at her wounds and once she is done, bring the key back to me.” He started to walk away. “Perhaps this time, we can keep her in place,” he muttered.

Lanthir took a step after him. “I…I beg forgiveness, my lord. On my part and Belloth’s. I do not know how she escaped, but I can say she did not come through the antechamber. I swear it.”

“I know how she escaped and it is not your fault, Lanthir,” Legolas replied quietly. “It is mine. Do not think on it. Just get her out of…” He cut himself off mouthing, ‘my sight.’ “Here,” he concluded out loud. “Back to her cell.”

Lanthir bowed and helped Galuauth pull Manadhien away.

Thranduil watched her stumble through the door. How could her escape have been Legolas’s fault? He looked back at his son. The wizard was approaching him.

“What happened here, pen neth?” he asked.

Legolas turned towards him, eyes wide. He had clearly not noticed the Maia’s presence before now. He only managed to hold his gaze a moment before looking down at his feet. “I am…utterly horrified that you were forced to witness this,” he whispered. Then he clenched his jaw and glanced at Mithrandir again before looking back at the ground. “I was careless with the key to Manadhien’s cell,” he continued in a stronger, almost normal, voice. “As a result, Galithil and Belloth are injured, nana was almost killed, and Aewen is dead.”

Thranduil stared at his son. He had been careless with the key? Thranduil found that very hard to believe. There had to be more to this.

“You might have been careless,” Mithrandir replied, making his tone gentle in response to Legolas’s obvious discomfort. “That I cannot judge, because I do not know the facts. But if you were careless, you rectified your mistake. That elleth is once again your prisoner. And you cannot be held to blame for any of the injuries you named. You did not inflict them. She did. You restrained yourself from repaying violence with violence.”
 
Legolas’s shoulders tensed and his back stiffened. “I nearly killed her, as you no doubt saw. I wish I could tell you that I made threats with no intention of carrying them out, but I fear I cannot. You must judge that as you will, but, just as the queen has the right, and obligation, to defend this realm, so do I.”

Mithrandir put an arm around Legolas’s shoulder and began to lead him from the passage. “You do, my lord,” the wizard said. “I would never question that. My words were not intended as a veiled criticism.” He smiled. “You will find I am more direct than that. I meant what I said sincerely. But my judgment, since you asked for it, is this: while I well understand there are many ways a ruler is called upon to sacrifice himself for the sake of the people he has sworn to defend, a wise ruler is one who, while making those sacrifices and defenses, understands that death is not always the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”

“I do understand that, Mithrandir,” Legolas whispered.

The wizard tightened his grip around Legolas’s shoulders. “I believe you. I saw you demonstrate it just now. And so, though I realize it is a great deal to ask, I hope you will continue to find pity in your heart for that elleth you just sent away. Doing so might lead you both to life.”

Legolas said nothing to that as he allowed Mithrandir to draw him towards the secret door. They only paused for a moment—long enough for Legolas to study something on the sandy floor and bend over to pick it up.

Scowling disapproval, Tureden silently followed.

Thranduil was little better pleased. He did not appreciate the wizard’s interference. Not at all. But before he could pursue his son, his gaze fell on his foster son.

Berior’s eyes were still wide and the knuckles of the hand gripping his bow were white. He looked little different than he did the night he killed Lagril. Still, his was one of the arrows that struck Manadhien’s arm.

“I am fine, uncle,” Berior said in response to Thranduil’s scrutiny, trying and almost succeeding to sound confident.

“You did well,” Thranduil replied, reaching to put an arm around Berior’s shoulders.

A thunderstorm of voices erupted from the sitting room, forestalling any further reassurances Thranduil might have made.

“You have no right to hold my son responsible for what Manadhien did!” Dolwon shouted.

“He is only a child,” Lalfien cried, her voice tearful.

“I sincerely do not think he understood what he was doing,” Dannenion said in a quieter voice.

“I did not,” Noruil agreed.

“Be silent, the lot of you,” Legolas commanded, speaking over them.

Again, Thranduil heard Oropher.

Berior exchanged an openly concerned glance with Thranduil, and they both, along with Engwe, rushed out of the passage in time to see Legolas finish stalking across the sitting room, Tureden at his shoulder.

Near the door, where he had been cowering when Thranduil first emerged from his bedroom, Noruil was now being pulled in two directions. Pendurion held firmly onto one of his arms, keeping him in place, while Lalfien clung to her son’s other arm, trying to draw him away from the guard and out of the room. Dolwon was beside them, shaking off Dannenion’s attempt to prevent him from advancing on Legolas.

Tureden, right hand on the hilt of his sword, appeared more than ready to succeed where Dannenion might fail.

Maidhien, a slightly steadier Galithil, his guard, Colloth, Arthiel and Mithrandir all gathered around them. Maidhien, Galithil, Colloth and Arthiel blocked the door.

Thranduil blinked at their little group. Anastor stood with them, his astonished, betrayed, furious gaze boring into his cousin.

Eirienil still stood over Aewen’s body.

Legolas ignored everyone but Noruil. “You explain to me, right now, why you stole that key,” he demanded, fists clenched at his sides. He stood toe-to-toe with Noruil.

“My son would not have stolen…”

“Keep him quiet or remove him,” Legolas interrupted, never taking his eyes off Noruil.

Tureden and Colloth stepped forward, coming along either side of Dolwon, hands on their weapons.

Mouth open in mid-complaint, Dolwon’s wide-eyed gaze darted between the guards, Legolas and his son.  After a moment, he closed his mouth and settled for resting his hand on Noruil’s shoulder.

“Surely not!” Thranduil exclaimed, finally putting together Legolas’s earlier reference to poorly guarded keys leading to Manadhien’s escape, his order that Pendurion keep Noruil in the sitting room and Noruil’s panicked reaction earlier. Noruil had helped Manadhien escape? Impossible! He could not be involved in his father’s crimes! He was no older than Legolas!

No one seemed to hear him.

“Explain yourself!” Legolas repeated when Noruil only gaped at him. “Speak!”

“Honestly Legolas, I am sorry,” Noruil began. His tone did not entirely match his words. Not enough to have satisfied Thranduil, had they been standing in court.

“And you are going to be a good deal sorrier,” Legolas said through clenched teeth, stepping even closer to him.

Noruil’s eyes widened, but he drew himself up and held his ground.

“Why would you do this? Why would you help her?” Legolas demanded. “Even if you would not believe me when I told you she is evil, how could you not believe Anastor? He is your own cousin and she sold him to Men!  Her servants tried to kill your uncle. How did the loss of Dannenion’s arm not prove to you the danger she represents?”

“I understand very well how dangerous she is,” Noruil retorted with a glance at Dannenion. His voice was still pinched, but he managed to lift his chin and puff out his chest a little.

Legolas’s hands, already balled in fists, tightened further. He thrust them behind his back in a way that left Thranduil wondering if he had done it to prevent himself from laying hands on his friend. Legolas’s back was to the room, so Thranduil could not see his son’s expression, but it must be very dire given how Noruil now shrank away from him.

“You understand?” Legolas repeated, with a soft, carefully controlled tone. “You clearly do not understand much. First of all, you want to remember to whom you are speaking. At this moment, I am not your friend. Far from it. I am the person who will order your fate. I am who these guards,” he pointed to Pendurion, Colloth and Tureden each in turn, “are going to obey when I do so.” He paused briefly as Noruil’s mouth fell open and he blinked rapidly.

Thranduil found himself staring as well, first at Legolas and then at the guards, whose postures confirmed Legolas’s assertion. Indeed, every person in the room, except for Noruil’s parents, looked to Legolas, clearly ready to obey any order he might give. Everyone. Even Engwe. Thranduil laughed silently. Engwe only obeyed the High King when it suited him! He sobered. Even Dannenion appeared ready to aid Legolas. There was a transformation.

“Secondly,” Legolas continued, focused solely on Noruil, “you want to remember that your words—and attitude—are going to determine what my orders will be.”

Lalfien loosed a frightened little cry,

Legolas ignored her. “Now, tell me why you did this,” he demanded once again.

Noruil spluttered a few incoherent sounds, while looking from his uncle to Anastor to Galithil to Berior to Maidhien for support. Seeing none, he spread his hands wide in front of himself. “She said…Manadhien said…well, it was actually Fuilin who first said it…they said they would do worse to me. And my parents. And Anastor’s family. Worse than sell us to men…”

“Fuilin is dead. And how could Manadhien be any threat to you or your family—or any one else’s family—while locked in a store room in this stronghold?”

“She has allies….”

“You heard me tell the people on the Green that all her allies are dead. You were standing right next to me when I announced that.”

“You cannot be sure you killed them all…”

“I knew I had all but one. I confess, I never guessed you were that one.”

“I am sorry, Legolas.” This time Noruil sounded completely sincere. “I was afraid of her. She sent Fuilin after me. And some orcs. Orcs, Legolas!”

“You are lying. Fuilin is dead…”

“This happened before the battles…”

“You are still lying. Orcs could not get anywhere near the stronghold. Or maybe you were so far outside the range of the Guard that you deserved to run across orcs…”

“Here now!” Dolwon exclaimed.

“No one deserves to run across orcs, Legolas,” Thranduil intervened.

“I may have gone a bit too far hunting,” Noruil said, speaking over them. “But I am not lying. I saw them. Fuilin said they would come after all of us—my parents and everyone—if I did not do what he asked. I had to do it!” Noruil stopped speaking, out of breath, nearly crying, his expression now wholly remorseful.

Legolas faced him silently for a long moment, fists still clenched.

Thranduil drew a breath to take charge of this interrogation. It begged thorough understanding. But Legolas spoke first.

“Start at the beginning, Noruil. Go slowly and tell me every detail. When did you first see Fuilin? When did you see orcs? Where? How long have you been aiding Manadhien? How, precisely, were you involved? What did you do at her command? Who else was involved? Tell me everything.”

Noruil looked down, nodding and twisting his hands. He remained silent for a few breaths. “I first saw her…” he finally began, glancing up. “Do you remember when we were in your uncle Aradunnon’s village? After he…died? On the way home from Selwon’s village?”

Legolas took a step back. “This goes back that far!”

Noruil avoided his father and uncle’s gaze as he nodded. “I followed adar and uncle Dannenion into the forest while we were there. I only wanted to see more of the trees. They were so…dark. But adar and uncle Dannenion were meeting with…her…”

“She was there? In that village? Even then?”

Noruil nodded again. “I was hiding, because I did not want adar to see me following him. I heard her telling adar and uncle Dannenion that she would take control of Aradunnon’s village and to do so, she needed information. About when Thranduil traveled. And Dogailon. And your guards. And…things. I do not remember all her demands because I did not understand it all.”

Dolwon and Dannenion both shifted from foot to foot, glancing from under partially bowed heads towards Thranduil.

“Uncle Dannenion told her to be satisfied with what she had accomplished and use it to help the forest,” Noruil continued, “and she threatened him. Him and my adar. She said she would make them pay for disloyalty.” His frown deepened. “While she was talking to them, Fuilin found me. He had orcs with him….”

“Orcs!” both Thranduil and Legolas exclaimed at once. “Then?” Legolas continued. “In that village? Do you think she orchestrated the orc attacks even then?”

“I know she did, Legolas,” Noruil whispered. Dolwon and Dannenion nodded. “She said she did. And Fuilin made the orcs with him grab me. They had me. They grabbed my arms and clothes and hair. Anything to keep hold of me. It was…terrifying….I thought they would kill me…. They took me over to Manadhien and my adar. Adar was so frightened. And angry, afterwards. But, because of her threats, adar and uncle did as she asked. Until Tulus caught Demil. Adar told us that he heard in court that Demil admitted he intended to kill…everyone. Your whole family. When they heard that, my adar and uncle tried to break with Manadhien.”

Dolwon and Dannenion were now watching Thranduil steadily with worried expressions. No doubt afraid Noruil would reveal something they never had. Thranduil’s own fists clenched. He had enough of this!

“They really did try to break with her,” Noruil repeated. “Uncle Dannenion actually did it. He killed the hawk she sent to him. You know what that got him. You were there.”

“Anastor, sold to men,” Legolas responded.

Noruil nodded. Then he looked sidelong at his mother. “It was after that happened. I was hunting…quail…because uncle Dannenion cannot hunt anymore, so I was trying to help…and I went too far. Fuilin was there…along with Glilavan…. to free his brothers and…” His voice drifted off and his gaze darted to Berior.

Berior’s back straightened and his chin went up.

“Fuilin saw me.”

Lalfien gasped and tightened her grip on Noruil’s arm.

“I tried to run away, but he recognized me and chased me down. He showed me…Celonhael. I saw what they….” Noruil’s voice strangled and he could not continue.

A sob escaped Lalfien. She buried her face against Noruil’s arm.

“I saw it too, Noruil,” Legolas said softly.

Noruil met his gaze, tears now running freely down his cheeks. “Fuilin held…him…right in my face and said to me: ’This is the king’s uncle, who had guards and warriors with him. Imagine what I will do to your family.’ And he told me to get my adar’s loyalties straightened out or I would be the next one sold to men. Or maybe my naneth would be. And then he described what Men would do to nana.”

Lalfien made a strangled gasp.

Thranduil felt bile rise in his throat, both in response to her distress and the fact that Noruil’s expression made it plain that Fuilin’s description was thorough. Certainly more than a child should hear. His chest tightened painfully. He had failed to protect them.

Of course, they had refused to trust him. To let him know that they needed his help.

“I did not want to tell adar any of that. He would have been so angry. But it is why I begged him and uncle Dannenion to stay in the stronghold.” Noruil continued, looking at Thranduil, straight in the eye. “Adar would not agree to go back to helping Manadhien. He refused. Flat. And the next time I went hunting, orcs grabbed me.”

Dolwon’s mouth fell open and he stared with wide eyes at his son. Lalfien clutched at him.

“Fuilin was there then too. He asked me when he could expect hear from my adar. I was so afraid. I did not want him to come after my adar or nana or me or…anyone. But we had to go out to hunt. So I told him adar sent me…”

Dolwon groaned. “I swear I did not,” he whispered.

“He did not,” Noruil confirmed, “But I said he did, so Fuilin would leave him alone. And I promised that I would be delivering messages…that I would tell him everything I could find out. So Fuilin made the orcs let me go.” He looked back at Legolas. “I thought I would never tell them anything important. Because you never tell us anything and adar does not work in the court anymore, so I would not know anything to tell. I thought no harm could come of it. The only thing I ever told them was that it was you and not one of the guards that killed Demil—I heard Anastor and uncle Dannenion whispering about that. And I only told them that because they were getting angry and I realized that telling them nothing was not going to work, so I needed to tell them something good.” He sighed miserably. “And I told them I did not think Thranduil was in the capital anymore. I guess he had gone south to fight in the battles.” He shook his head. “And…” he shrugged. “And that is all, I guess. I never meant for any of this to happen. I meant to keep it all from happening.”

With that, Noruil fell silent, staring at Legolas, his cheeks wet with tears.

Legolas stared back at him, his posture still angry.

Thranduil felt his own anger rising. If Noruil had asked for help rather than trying to manage this on his own…. Of course, why would he do that? He was his father’s son, after all. “Helping her escape is not the way I would have chosen to prevent ‘all this from happening,’” he said.

Noruil flinched.

“Too right,” Legolas snapped. “Nothing you have said explains why you did that! She was safely hidden away, where she could not harm anyone else, but you wanted to let her go! You snuck into my room, like a thief…”

“How dare you name my son a thief!”

Legolas swung his glare onto Dolwon. “Being a thief is the least of his crimes, but he is a thief. He stole the key to her cell out of my pocket.” He turned to Noruil. “Correct?”

Noruil only nodded again.

“Then, knowing she wanted to kill my entire family….

“I swear she said she only wanted to escape…”

“…you led her into my family’s rooms, where I have invited you, as a guest….”

“She said she would escape through some secret passage. Escape, go away and never come back, since she had lost Fuilin and everyone else. I thought she meant she would use that door that goes into the garden. I did not see how she would get over the wall. I thought she would be trapped there. I did not know about…” he pointed at the open door behind Legolas.

“You led her into my room and you gave her my bow and my sword. I am your friend, Noruil!”

Noruil threw his hands wide. “When Manadhien saw me on the Green…. Did you see how she looked at me?”

“I saw her looking at someone. I never guessed it was you,” Legolas replied.

“I thought she would do it. She said she would do it—get to my family somehow—unless I helped her. Fuilin might be dead. If you say he is, I suppose it is true. But all the orcs are not dead. She could have sent them after us…”

Legolas’s hands reached towards the front of Noruil’s tunic and he only just stopped himself from grabbing him. He grasped the edges of his own tunic instead. “How would Manadhien get orcs into the capital? How would she get them past the patrols and the Guard? All while locked in a cell inside the stronghold. How could she accomplish that?”

Noruil shook his head and tried to speak, but he had no answer to that. “She has managed everything else she threatened to do,” he finally whispered. “Even capturing you, which should have been impossible, since you have guards and….everything. I thought she if she could do that, she could certainly get me and my parents.”

“Please,” Lalfien begged. “My lord,” she added hastily. “He is only a child.”

Legolas glared at her. “He is my same age,” he replied, once again managing a controlled voice. “I am perfectly capable of better choices. If Noruil had been also, or if he had the sense to ask for help, even his adar’s help, if not mine, none of this,” he pointed behind himself, “would have happened.”

Noruil looked where Legolas pointed and his gaze landed on Aewen. That was enough to make him sob again. “I am so sorry, Legolas. So sorry about… And Lindomiel….is she…”

“The queen will live,” Legolas replied, cutting him off. “Aewen…” His voice broke over her name.

Noruil’s face crumpled. “I am….”

“Sorry,” Legolas finished for him, his tone dull, anger gone from it. “So you have said. You are also guilty of treason. Do you understand that?”

Noruil took a step back, shaking his head and looking with ever widening eyes between the guards, Legolas and Thranduil.

“No!” Lalfien and Dolwon exclaimed at once.

“Treason is what you call it when you attack the king, queen or their heir,” Legolas said.

“I never…. I did not mean for any of this…. She said she only wanted to escape. I am so sorry,” Noruil whispered, tears choking off any stronger voice.

“He is a child! He is not responsible!” Lalfien pleaded.

Legolas ignored her and remained focused on Noruil. “I believe that you are sorry. I will grant you that. And that you are not smart enough to foresee the likely consequences of your choices. But that is not enough. It undoes nothing. Nothing at all.” Legolas paused and wiped a hand across his face before looking back at Noruil, sidelong. “I am so very glad—and you should be too—that it is not my place to decide your ultimate fate. Even believing your remorse—and utter ignorance—I am still furious with you. I doubt I could judge you with even the slightest modicum of objectivity, not if I waited a hundred years for my temper to cool. You are responsible for Aewen’s death, Noruil. You were nearly responsible for a good many more deaths. You let Manadhien out of her cell, knowing what she was capable of, and you did not make a single move to stop anything she did—not her attack on Galithil, me, Aewen or the queen. If it were my decision and I had to make it right now, I would send you from this forest. Right now. Tonight. And permanently.”

Noruil loosed a shocked noise and Lalfien another sob. Dolwon clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

Legolas took a step back, apparently ready to walk away. Then he stopped himself and turned a glare on Noruil, hands again in fists. This time he did nothing to hide them. “You should also be glad I am who I am. If I were not the king’s son…. If I were free to react as anyone else might…. For causing Aewen’s death—and for forcing me to watch a mad elf attack my naneth with a sword—I would give you a walloping that would finally beat some sense into your thick head.”

Defiance automatically flared in Noruil’s eyes and he looked up at Legolas.

Thranduil still could not see his son’s expression. Whatever it held now immediately quenched Noruil’s anger.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” he whispered again.

“So you have said,” Legolas repeated, his tone openly tired. “We will see what the king will do with you.”

Thranduil remained silent. He was certainly not in any frame of mind to pass judgments at this moment.

Legolas did not seem to expect anything different. He turned away from Noruil and faced Pendurion. “I do not trust him to remain in place while waiting to face justice. Put him in a cell in the store rooms.”

“No!” Noruil protested, and his parents echoed his cry. “Manadhien is there. She will…”

“She will not be able to touch you, Noruil,” Legolas interrupted. “You will be separated by solid stone.”

“Legolas, please!” Noruil pleaded as Pendurion began trying to pry him away from his now panicked parents.

Thranduil took a step forward. Noruil was a child, after all. And he appeared sincerely repentant. Granted, if he was not properly guarded, his lack of…well, even basic common sense would, very likely, lead him to rash acts that would only worsen his situation, but the cell next to Manadhien would almost certainly exacerbate that possibility. Surely there was a better way to keep him safe while he awaited justice.

“Please, my lord,” Noruil begged.

Thranduil looked back at him, but found him still addressing Legolas.

Legolas clenched his jaw. Only someone who knew him very well would know he had only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He took a deep breath. “I do not want him locked in the guest quarters or in a cottage, where his father will help him escape…”

“I will not help him escape. I swear,” Dolwon interjected, sounding desperate.

“…or make life miserable for what ever guard we set on him,” Legolas continued, without pause. “If we do not put him in the store rooms, where can we put him?”

“Somewhere in the family quarters?” Arthiel suggested. “Dolwon cannot get in here.”

To his credit, Dolwon remained silent and kept his expression largely neutral.

Legolas, in contrast, looked at Arthiel incredulously.

“Do you honestly believe Noruil to be a threat, my lord, or only foolish enough to try to flee?” she asked.

“The latter,” Legolas admitted.

“We could put him in the suite we are preparing for Maidhien and I,” Galithil offered. “No one is using it yet. It already has some cushions in it he could sleep on. And it has the same bathing facilities as our other rooms, so keeping him here will not be as much work as keeping Manadhien in the storerooms. I can fetch the key. If you wish, my lord.”

Legolas sighed and nodded. “If that is acceptable to both you and Maidhien.”

“It is,” Maidhien immediately agreed.

The poor child looked so miserable for her cousin and so desperate not to show it in Legolas’s presence that Thranduil’s heart went out to her. He reached to put an arm around her shoulder, which she readily accepted and which, amazingly, elicited no reaction other than possibly appreciation from Dannenion.  

“Take him there and guard him until Galithil brings the key,” Legolas said to Pendurion. “Search him and the room for weapons or anything that might be used as a weapon before you leave him in it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Pendurion replied. This time, he managed to pull Noruil free of his mother’s grasp and out of the room.

Dolwon and Lalfien followed on his heels.

“I will go with them and escort uncle Dolwon and aunt Lalfien out after Noruil is settled if you want, Legolas,” Maidhien said as they left. “You look a little tired. Which is reasonable, under the circumstances,” she hastened to add.

Legolas smiled wanly at her. “I cannot ask you to do that. I will deal with them. And I will survive doing it,” he added when Maidhien appeared ready to protest. Then his smile immediately evaporated. “Unlike others, I will survive,” he whispered.

Galithil grasped Legolas’s shoulder. “Come with me to get the key. Then I will go with you to deal with Dolwon. And to speak to Dollion.”

Legolas fixed his cousin with an appraising look.

“Elladan already said I will be fine…”

“I have been knocked unconscious before,” Legolas said, “and I was nauseous for days afterward.”

“…if a little sick,” Galithil continued, speaking over him and folding his arms across his chest. “I must face Dollion. I brought Aewen up here. I told her she could persuade you to come outside and…”

“This is not your fault, Galithil…”

“It is Manadhien’s, I know,” Galithil agreed. “But I will help you speak to Dollion just the same.”

Legolas matched Galithil’s scowl, but the depths of his eyes held worry. And grief. He drew a breath to continue arguing.

Thranduil stepped between them. “Galithil,” he said in a quiet voice.

Both Galithil and Legolas started. They had obviously forgotten he was present.

Thranduil did not spare the effort to ponder the somewhat guilty expression now clouding his son’s face. “Take the key to Pendurion and then both of you go to bed. I will manage the rest of this, including speaking to Dollion. I cannot permit either of you to face such a terrible conversation. Not after all you have already endured.”

Legolas was already shaking his head. “I will see this through, adar.”

It was a declaration, Thranduil noted with raised eyebrows, not a request. And his son’s tone was unusually firm. Ignoring that impertinence—Legolas had been through a great deal tonight, after all—Thranduil placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have no idea how difficult it will be to face Dollion and tell him….”

“It will be no different than speaking to the villagers and warriors’ families after the battle,” Legolas retorted, cutting him off and pulling away from his hand. “Galithil and I did that.”

Thranduil stared at them.

Legolas met his gaze unflinchingly. So did Galithil.

Had they truly spoken to the villagers? Where had Dolgailon been? Recovering, Thranduil immediately realized. In Rhosgobel.

“I loved her, adar,” Legolas said. His expression had not changed, but his voice was a rough whisper. “I accepted years ago that she…. That we would never…. But I owe her…. She died trying to defend me.”

Thranduil drew a shocked breath.

“She died because I failed to keep a dangerous prisoner secure. The least I can do to repay her courage and make amends for my negligence is speak to her family. And I intend to do so.”

Thranduil only shook his head. The loss Legolas felt. The grief. And the guilt. He understood them all to well.

“Before you go, Legolas,” Maidhien said softly into the silence, “you need to change your tunic. And wash your face.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted from Thranduil to Maidhien. He frowned at her in obvious confusion.

“You are covered in blood,” she explained. Then she took a step away from Thranduil’s embrace and towards Aewen. “While you clean yourself up, I will…prepare…bathe….” She loosed a frustrated noise. “Well, if Dollion and Menelwen should not see…” she gestured at the blood splattered across Legolas’s clothes, “…they certainly should not see Aewen…like this,” she finally managed. Her voice was as resolute as Legolas’s, even if she struggled for words.

“I will help,” Arthiel immediately said.

“We can take her to my room,” Eirienil suggested. “And she can have one of my gowns.”

“I will help you carry her and then I will clean…our sitting room,” Berior said, looking around himself at everything except the blood.

“I will fetch some rags and a bucket with water,” Anastor offered. “I know where to find both.”

They all began to disperse.

“No!” Thranduil exclaimed.

Everyone turned to him.

He could not allow this! Arthiel was an adult. Barely. But surely Dolgailon would not approve of her being subjected to such atrocities. And Maidhien! Eirienil! They were both children! Golwon would be furious! He was stunned Dannenion had not already dragged Maidhien and Anastor away. He closed his eyes briefly. Worst of all—Berior and Legolas! They were both far too close to this same sort of grief to face it again so soon.

“We cannot ask a maid to do this,” Berior said, interrupting Thranduil’s thoughts. “Anastor and I can manage it.”

Anastor took a long step sideways to stand shoulder to shoulder with Berior. “We can,” he agreed.

Eirienil turned a pleading look on Thranduil and hurried to speak right after her cousin. “Aewen is my closest friend, uncle.”

“And mine,” Maidhien added.

“Let me help,” Eirienil continued in a rush. “Let me do this one last thing for her.”

Maidhien nodded, looking simultaneously determined and lost.

Tears welled in Thranduil’s eyes at Eirienil’s words and Maidhien’s expression. He could not hold them back. How had this happened, again? This time in the realm he had sworn to protect?

“They have earned the right to see this through,” Engwe whispered in his ear.

Thranduil turned his head to scowl at his uncle. “They are children,” he whispered back, using the same argument Engwe himself repeated over and over to protest the responsibilities Thranduil had seen fit to bestow on his son and foster sons. He expected his words would earn him offended silence. Instead they earned him a shrug.

“Perhaps they are children,” Engwe replied. “By tradition, if not in practice. Of course, that is a Sindarin tradition that, like every other tradition not solely based in merry-making, the elves in this forest value only when it suits them.”

Thranduil loosed a scoffing puff of air, both at Engwe’s slight of the Silvan and his words in general. “I am Sindar,” he began. ‘And so is my House,’ he intended to add.

“And I am Silvan,” Legolas interjected.

Thranduil’s brows rose involuntarily and he could not prevent his posture from stiffening.

“I intend no offense, adar,” Legolas continued. “But I was born in this forest and that makes me, by definition, Silvan…”

“Of Sindarin parents, which makes you, by definition, Sindarin,” Thranduil countered.

“Of Sindarin parents who gave him a Silvan name,” Engwe said airily.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at him.

Engwe shrugged again, “Laegolas is a perfectly good Sindarin word, which you chose to ignore…”

“Silvan. Sindarin. Neither is relevant. Nor is my age,” Legolas said, before Thranduil could fully turn on his uncle. “What is relevant is that I have managed the affairs of this House for the last month, for good or ill, and I was managing them the moment Aewen was murdered. Therefore, Dollion and Menelwen have the right to hear me explain how their daughter died and I have the responsibility to face them. I am not a coward, adar. I will not shrink from this, no matter how painful it will be. Nothing could make me. Not my adar. Not even my king. This is an argument you will not win, so I recommend you do not pursue it.”

Thranduil stared. He had found himself staring at Legolas several times this night. Staring at a son he did not entirely recognize. His son, for whom he now felt an irrepressible swell of pride. And an overwhelming surge of grief. It must have been the grief that made it to his face.

“I know what concerns you, adar,” Legolas said softly, taking a step towards him. “Of course I do. You want to protect me. Us. My cousins and I.” He shook his head. “We do not need protection. We have the strength of our upbringing. More importantly, we have each other’s support. Together we will do what we can for Aewen and her family. And each other. We all loved her and together we will mourn her.” He paused before adding in an even softer voice. “‘If we stay together, we will not just endure, we will flourish.’ Are those not the words my cousins and I were taught in lesson after lesson to believe? We have learned them, adar. Now we will act upon them.”

For a moment, Thranduil could not breath. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, he felt Engwe tense as well.

‘Together we will not just endure, we will flourish.’

Oropher had first, to the best of Thranduil’s knowledge, said those words to buoy the spirits of the people he led, in the dead of winter, from Menegroth to Sirion as refugees. He repeated those same words when he led the Sindar again—this time east, to the forest. Thranduil had used them to persuade his father to join the Last Alliance. He had used them again when the capital moved north to this stronghold. Legolas was correct that those words had begun many chapters in the lives of the House of Oropher.

Thranduil knew they were intended to be comforting. Given the ultimate fates of Sirion and so many of the people that followed Oropher east—including those in this stronghold—he found them a little bitter.

“Legolas has long used his parents’ own arguments against them,” Engwe said drily.

“Now is not the time for your bile, uncle,” Legolas replied without looking at Engwe. He kept his gaze fixed on Thranduil. A gaze that he had, apparently, learned to use to some effect. Thranduil found it difficult to meet.

His resolve crumbled. It sickened him. He would have gladly given his life to prevent these children from ever knowing such grief. But they did. And Legolas was right. “Go, then,” he said softly.

With an audible sigh of relief, Anastor darted out of the sitting room and down the corridor to the cupboard in the dining room, where the servants stored cleaning supplies.

Berior threw his cloak onto the floor next to Aewen and he, Maidhien, Eirienil and Arthiel lifted her onto it to carry her from the room.

Legolas closed his eyes as they passed.

Galithil silently grasped his cousin’s shoulder.

Mithrandir stepped forward to grasp his other. “You said some very wise words a moment ago,” he whispered. “Trust now that they were true.”

Legolas nodded, eyes still closed. “I will be fine,” he said. “We should go to Dollion and Menelwen,” he added a moment later. His voice was not normal. It was definitely tinged with deep grief. But it was still strong.

Despite his own grief, Thranduil could not have been more proud of his son. Of his family.

*~*~*

Adar/ada — Father/dad
Naneth/nana — Mother/mum
ion nin — my son
ellon — male elf
elleth — female elf
pen neth—young one

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” —Unattributed, as far as I can tell.

AN: I am so sorry. It has been a really horrible year in a lot of ways. I never intended to leave this story hanging for a year. I just couldn't find it in me to post this chapter amongst everything else that was going on. I am going to try to be more on top of things. A chapter every week? Not likely. But regularly? I promise. I really do appreciate everyone that reads so much! I hope you continue to enjoy.