Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

"Never that, brother," said Legolas vigorously. "The Company can never be disbanded for it is a bond of love and respect; that cannot be changed, nobody can change that, Ram en. If we are indeed separated, The Company will continue to learn and evolve and when the time comes, when we are all three competent, seasoned warriors, we shall come together once more and be great," he stressed, his eyes alight with the conviction that his words were true. "You will see…. When I am able, I will find you and we shall ride together – for our King and our forest, for our people," he smiled as his eyes fixed first upon Ram en and then on Idhrenohtar.

  "You truly are a leader of elves, Legolas. I have always known this and I tell you truly now, whatever I achieve in the years to come, you – will be my Captain," he almost whispered, his eyes bright with the emotion that pulsed through his veins.

  "And mine," said Ram en. "It is our destiny," he smiled, glancing at Idhreno to confirm he was not alone in this. "We choose you, and I swear all I do now, will be to make myself worthy of riding with you, Hwindohtar."

  A lone tear rolled down Legolas' smooth cheek, his eyes round and his mouth slack.

  "I do not deserve such fine words, brothers. I have yet to prove my meet in battle … I am…"

  "Nay – say not useless words, Legolas. There is nothing to prove, only to learn. You do not realize your potential yet, but I, we, we do. From the outside, things become clearer sometimes Legolas. I see your skill as a fighter, your heart as a protector, I see your intelligence as a military strategist, and I see your senses, stronger than any other I have seen. Go forth and learn, and come back to us the leader you were born to be."

  He could hold back no longer, all the bitterness of his loneliness forgotten, he rose and took his friends into his arms, holding on to their tunics as if his life depended on it. He had no words to express the gratitude he felt, no way to vocalize the joy he felt for their confidence in him and for the first time he believed, he truly believed that he could fulfill his chosen destiny.

  Later that day, the scene would play over and over in his mind, for they were indeed to be separated. Ram en and Idhreno would be together in the Eastern quadrant, but Legolas would ride with Captain Tirion and Lieutenant Lainion to the West. His only consolation was that Carodel would be with him, the Silvan recruit with a flare for the lyre.

  Tirion himself had given him his assignment, had seen the disappointment in his eyes and had but smiled and sent him off to prepare. He had dragged his feet back to the barracks where his friends waited. They shared no words though, for they had said them all that morning and so, with heavy hearts and pensive minds, they set about their final preparations for in two days, they would ride out for the first time, as novice warriors of the Greenwood.

  …

  Tirion watched the novice from afar as he performed his strange exercises, the ones the boy had invented for himself. It was beautiful to watch and the captain found himself mesmerized by the slow perfection of the movements, the power behind every lunge, every arc of the long sword and swipe of the shorter one in his other hand.

  Round and round he moved, his blades in slow but continuous movement, slicing and arcing, jabbing and swiveling in his hands, pointing one way and then the other as his body moved to accommodate them – strange, he realized. It was normally the other way round; the body moved and the blade accompanied but in this style the blade – the weapon was the vehicle and the body adapted to whatever movements were necessary.

  Tirion cocked his head to the side, assessing the virtues of the concept, watching the clever moves as they were performed at perhaps only a fourth of the speed with which he would need to do so in battle. It strengthened the muscles, he realized, perfected the move. The boy was good – he was very good.

  Movement to his left alerted him to Lainion's presence beside him but he did not turn to look.

  "I have read of the warriors of Gondolin that they trained in a similar manner – it is so foreign to our own methods and yet there is much merit in what he does," said Lainion, his own slanted eyes now anchored on the novice as he swiveled upon his heels and then flipped backwards.

  "Yes, it is in the war tomes, book II I believe. I have read it."

  Lainion smiled at his friend and soon to be captain. "How did he take the news?" he asked.

  "His face was an open book, Lainion. He looked so young then, faced with his impending separation with his friends. They have always been together, they are his only family and he is still so young."

  "Strange, is it not, for to look upon him now, there is nothing boyish or innocent in his movements. He is strangely – threatening and yet, paradoxically – vulnerable."

  Tirion turned his surprised eyes to his friend. "Yes," he said in disbelief, "yes that is exactly it, Lainion. We have much work to do. We must teach him war craft, we must harden his mind, and we must lead him to closure where his family is concerned; prepare him for the truth he must soon hear, from us."

  "And I will see it done," said Lainion. "We, will see it done. He will make a good Captain."

  "Lainion," answered Tirion a little too quikly, now looking squarely at his lieutenant. "If I am right and we train him well, he will be more than a Captain, my friend," he said carefully, waiting for his friend's reaction before continuing. "There is something about him – something I cannot put into words – except this. The boy inspires loyalty – my loyalty…" he whispered, the shadow of incomprehension lurking beneath Tirion's stern features and, as he continued to watch Lainion, he saw his friend's surprise. And how could he not be surprised, mused the captain. Legolas was still a child, a child in the body of a strong warrior. He was a beautiful face that spoke of intelligence, a zest for life, an empathy so strong it emanated from him and wrapped those around him in a mantle of optimism and service. How could this Silvan child inspire the loyalty of a warrior such as Tirion? One who had seen many battles, much hardship, one who had ridden the southern reaches – felt the toxin of darkness brush against his soul?

  But Tirion and Lainion were not the only observers that morning, for Ram en Ondo and Idhrenohtar watched the scene from further afield, their faces showing the quiet acceptance of their pending separation.

  "They will take him away from us, won't they?" asked the Wall of Stone, the surety in his voice lending it a melancholic note.

  Ihdrenohtar turned to him, his face set in his own conviction.

  "Yes. I have always known they would…"

  "Then we must go on, and we must train. We will become the best we can be for he will come back, Idhreno – he will come back for us – for this his Company.

  "You are quiet this morning, brother. Has that Silvan representative riled your Sindarin blood," said Rinion blithely as he lounged upon the ample seating before the hearth of their family room.

  "No," replied Handir distractedly, and when he offered no further information, Rinion turned to face him.

  "Well,?"

  A deep sigh preceeded Handir's words.

  "I am busy, Rinion."

  "You have not but a moment to share in brotherly conversation?"

  "Since when do you, indulge in brotherly conversation Rinion? What is it you want?" asked Handir with a flick of his wrist.

  "I see I will have to change tactics," said Rinion with a snort, before sitting up and leaning forward. "What did that forest dweller want? You spoke to him privately after the council…"

  "Good morning…" came the strong voice of the king as he slid into the room and moved to pour himself a glass of wine.

  Both brothers stood and bowed, before sitting once more, Handir's eyes training on those of the crown prince.

  "He is concerned Rinion, 'tis all. The crops are compromised by the continuous orc incursions. They fear that by the time our warriors arrive that all will be lost. He seeks assurances."

  "What assurance does he think we can give him? We have lost a third of the Western quadrant in but two seasons. Does he think more meat for the orcish scimitar is easy to come b
y?" he scoffed.

  Handir's look of disgust was seconded by a hardening of the king's features.

  "Rinion, I do not believe that is what he thinks. What I believe he truly seeks is the knowledge that here, in the heart of the city, the Silvan villagers are esteemed by the Sindar well enough to feel for their plight. He seeks to observe, to understand, to know that all that can possibly be done is being done. He wishes to assure his anxious people that the Sindar are protecting them as best they can."

  The king listened silently and Rinion, Rinion huffed once more.

  "They seek favor in return for the successful harvest of our crops. They seek to pressure us with the threat of a harsh winter.

  "Rinion," said Handir, raising his voice for the first time as he stood and approached his brother.

  "You are overly skeptical, Rinion. You asked me what Erthoron wanted because you do not possess that information. Are you now to tell me you in fact know his motives for seeking private council with me? Why so keen to criticize?"

  "Because you are overly naïve, brother. You do not see how he tries to manipulate you into sending more troops sooner, more supplies, more boons – he plays on your inexperience and you see it not."

  Handir held the ice-cold eyes of his brother, his own blue eyes fixed and confident. "You confuse naivety with objectivity, brother. 'Tis not always necessary to have an immediate opinion – sometimes one must wait and observe – you would do good to try for you speak of our citizens, be they Sindar or Silvan; do not presume the worst possible scenario but more importantly, brother, do not show them you presume the worst – possible – scenario."

  The king raised an eyebrow, his keen eyes moving from Handir to Rinion.

  "Clever words, councilor. And that is all they are. Keen is your mind but you are still so young, have never seen battle and likely never will. You cannot see the sacrifice of our warriors, all you see are the demands of the foresters and the political implications. You do not understand what it costs to protect those villages, those crops," he said as he moved closer to his brother.

  "Heed your own words, brother. Be objective and consider at least, the possibility that you are being played."

  "I never discarded it, Rinion, I said only that you cannot presume that is, indeed, the case. I certainly will not."

  They stared levelly at each other for a moment, before Rinion nodded and moved away, nodding at his father before leaving the room.

  "I fear Rinion moves ever closer to Lord Bandorion and our cousin Barathon," he said, almost as if he spoke to himself. "With every day that passes I sense a growing – disdain – towards the Silvans. It is misplaced, unfounded, and dangerous."

  "Handir," said the King, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room, his voice although soft, was loud enough to draw Handir's attention and pull him out of his inner musings.

  "Father."

  "Watch him. Anchor him if you can. This rift must not be allowed to grow for the Silvans already feel they are treated as inferiors by the Sindar majority here in the city."

  "And they would be right," said Handir.

  "Yes," said the king carefully. "Alas that is a growing reality, but what we forget is that out there," he pointed to the Evergreen Wood, "out there, they are the majority – and we cannot live without the forest, Handir. If the Silvans revolt, we may have civil war on our hands."

  Handir listened to his father with growing concern, for although they were of like mind on this point, Handir had not realized just how volatile the situation was.

  "You think it a possibility?" he asked.

  "Yes, yes I do. If this slow but persistent skepticism persists, Handir, if those Sindar barons are allowed to continue with their subtle poisoning, sooner or later, with the right guidance, the Silvans will turn on us."

  Handir's eyes were wide, his avid mind a whirlwind of information.

  "I will do all I can, father, but our uncle's influence at council is considerable, this you know."

  "I do, but we have Aradan, Handir – and we have you," he smiled most uncharacteristically and for a moment, Handir felt grateful for his father's words.

  Smiling tightly, he nodded, and then turned to leave, but his father's words stopped him in his tracks.

  "Handir."

  "Father?"

  "You did well…"

  It took a moment for Handir to process the words of praise, but instead of enjoying the moment, the words simply confused him. Why could he not simply apply his own theory and take them at face value, that his father had taken a step towards him, had reached out to him, instead of wondering now, what it was his father wanted?

  He spent the rest of that day pondering the question, for his father was an enigma to Handir. If he had, indeed, reached out in his own, mercurial way, then Handir would take his hand and try at least, to understand him, understand why he had done – whatever it was he had done. He realized then, that the mystery and the scandal, the gossip and the hearsay surrounding the departure of their mother was the product of ignorance. He had not the information necessary to understand, and if he could not understand, why had he judged his father negatively? Was that not what his own brother, Rinion, had done with the Silvans? An attitude Handir had reprimanded him for?

  He was a fool, still unable to be consequent with his own words. Rinion was right in that at least, he had much to learn. The question was, could he approach his father and discern the truth from him? Could he draw him out and hear the tale from his own lips, give himself closure – for good or for bad?

  There was no saying, only a decision to be taken. Would he try, or would he desist? But then – had that choice not been taken away from him just yesterday? Had Lainion not shattered any hope of a status quo in which the royal family would continue to live its life of incommuniation, of veiled contempt and reproach? He knew he was right, for the finer hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he drew a deep breath.

  He had no choice. He must seek a way to draw out the truth and to make his own, founded judgement, end this unhealthy stalemate in which they all simply tolerated each other. He had a brother, one that was oblivious to his roots, one that, sooner or later, would learn of them. He could not begin to imagine the shock of it, and the consequences it could bring.

  He visibly shivered, feeling his own conviction bolstered. Handir was no coward, even though he was not a warrior. He would do this, the question was, could he do it in time, before everything spiraled out of control?

  Prologue to Part II

  Once, the elves of the Great Greenwood had lived in cultural harmony. The Sindar, the Silvan and the Avari had not cared for their respective origins save for the exotic curiosities to be had and the diversity it lent their lives. There had been no division of authority, no casts, no prejudice. Together, they had built a mighty kingdom, a realm that extended from the mountains, where they had built an impenetrable fortress that shielded their true treasure from the rest of the world – the Evergreen Wood, as yet impollute, pure and just as beautiful as the undying lands.

  Yet although it had been a time of relative peace, the king had created an army unequaled by any other elven realm, with thousands of warriors from all the races that constituted the Greenwood. Aye they were at peace, but that may not last, he had suggested, prophetically, they would come to realise.

  And yet along the way, at some, undefined point in their history, politics had taken a strange turn, bringing with it a Sindarin majority of politicians. Powerful families, including that of the king, placed their firstborn sons in Thranduil's council rather than on the battlefield, and as the time of war faded in the minds of those young enough to forget, the king found himself in an ever deepening circle of ambitious Sindar who found in their Silvan and Avarin brothers, the perfect weapon with which to secure their positions.

  They were not racist, they did not speak ill of the forest dwellers, for it was in no one's interest to do so, and yet a division had begun to take hold, and slowl
y, but surely, the Sindar had found their place of authority, and had taken root in the forest's centre of power – the king's council. Lord Bandorion, brother of Thranduil, together with his son Barathon, the king's nephew, were foremost in this movement, and Rinion, Thranduil's heir, was sympathetic to their views, however much he was not completely a part of their circle.

  Thranduil, as shrewd as he was wise, had hastened to secure his own position, not that it had been threatened in any way but the king was ever vigilant, ever protective of his realm. He had married a Sindarin noble and with her, had fathered three children. It was a time of prosperity and relative peace, a time of security and good government, of bustling trade and abundant harvests.

  It was in this time of euphoria, that Thranduil had made his biggest mistake, one he lived to regret every day of his life, for with it had come his wife's departure to the undying lands, and his children's hard, cold eyes.

  A passing fancy, they said, a whim, but a momentary blink in an eternal life – it was of no consequence for he is king and kings sometimes err. But whereas his subjects had dismissed the subject as anecdotical, Crown Prince Rinion, Councilor Handir, and Maeneth, Thranduil's only daughter, could not forgive their father this trespass. Their mother had sailed to the undying lands, taking with her the secret of how she had been able to leave her children on the strength of her husband's infidelity alone, and Thranduil – he never spoke of it.

  And so the rift widened between those of the royal family, bringing with it an equally escalating political situation that favored the Sindar majority.

  And then, the times began to change. Darkness was once more spreading from the South and the Silvan foresters were hard pressed to harvest their bounties and to protect their families, and although help was readily sent, it was considered insufficient.

  Leaderless, the Silvans organise themselves as best they can, appointing Erthoron as their spokesperson at Thranduil's court. New patrols were to be sent out to the East and West, patrols in which half the warriors were novices and most of their officials Sindar. It would not be enough, they said. Crops, trees and lives would be lost and it would be the fault of the Sindar for not organizing the campaign when first the Silvans had spoken of their plight.