Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  Swivelling on his heels he faced his next opponent, an orc that was so tall it looked down on him with a vicious smile, its gloved hand shooting out to grab at his throat. Not fast enough though, for Legolas had drawn a long dagger in his left hand and sliced at the black limb, severing it, following it with his eyes as it flew to one side, and then almost panicked when the orc made no noise, as if the loss of its hand meant nothing at all - and it did not. He needed to distance himself from it and the only way was to flip backwards. When he landed, he took advantage of the surprised beast and sliced through its forearm, the limb falling to the ground with a thud.

  Legolas whipped his head back to the orc and still, it bore down on him and the novice's eyes bulged in disbelief.

  Bringing his sword up to protect himself from the black scimitar, his arms shuddered painfully under the sheer power behind the blow - he had to gain more distance. Swivelling on his heels, he side twisted, and then turned once more, his sword gaining impetus until he cut across the beast's neck, watching in morbid fascination as the sharp edge opened skin and muscle, and then grated over the bone at the back. Its hideous head tipped backwards and then toppled to the floor, closely followed by the frozen body, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dirt.

  A cheer went up and Legolas startled, only to find his kill had been the last, and the seasoned warriors had been watching him.

  He felt his face flush as he went to clean the muck from his sword, aware that his companions moved towards him and when he turned to face them, unsure of what they would say, Angion held up his right hand, the head of the dead orc firmly secured in his fist by its ropy hair.

  Legolas stared at it for a moment in abject horror, the thick, dark blood dripping from it, its face forever frozen in twisted agony. It all came back to him, the squishing of flesh and blood, the grating sound of steel over bone. It was too much and he dropped to his hands and knees and emptied his stomach pitifully.

  The warriors roared in laughter, slapping their thighs and each other's shoulders, not stopping even when Lainion made his way through with a bladder of water, a rye smile on his face.

  "Here," he said in exasperation, slapping the novice on his back. "Drink!" he said, before adding, "You did well, Silvan - you did very well." With that, the lieutenant turned towards the men and smiled mischievously. Both Lainion and Angion had earned a few coins…

  ….

  "So this - Lassiel - he met her before he met our mother?"

  "Oh yes, many years before. It was a public affair, looked upon with indifference for the most part, for she was not of noble blood and that was of no concern to anyone, so long as they did not marry. Our society, back then when your father was still a prince, was much more rigid than it is today. Their relationship was seen as an informal dalliance the prince afforded himself and Oropher made sure that was the way it remained, in spite of the truth."

  "That they loved each other, but could not marry…" anticipated Handir.

  "Yes - yet even if Oropher had bent the rules, something he was often wont to do he could not. His own hands were tied for the Sindarin nobles would never have condoned it. Had there been a clear Silvan leader at the time, had their been political equality it may even have been a convenient marriage, to bring together our multi-cultural society and I even tried that tack with Oropher. To no avail though, for the Silvans had no say in matters of state, and the puritans would have their way or veto the heir to the throne. This, Oropher would not accept and so he acceded to disallowing their marriage."

  "Even then, the rift had begun then?" asked Handir sadly.

  "Oh yes, even then. Now, Thranduil was devastated at the news, and Lassiel - Lassiel was heart-broken. They had both known it was a lost cause from the start, but they had clung to hope as lovers often do. The certainty of their doom was a cruel blow that Lassiel could not deal with…"

  "What do you mean?" asked Handir in mounting trepidation.

  "She - began to fade, Handir. The knowledge that she could never belong to the only elf she had, would, ever love was tearing at her immortal soul. She became delicate, her health often failing and Thranduil was beside himself with worry. You see, although it had been forbidden for him to marry, he had vowed to take care of Lassiel for all the days of his life, even if his father forced him to marry another, which we all knew he would, indeed within the week, your mother had been presented as the queen to be. "

  "And they were married?"

  "Yes, they were married, but Thranduil could not hide the truth from your mother."

  "And she sailed?"

  "What? NO! No. She was not naive, Handir. She knew their marriage was one of convenience, she knew Thranduil held no love for her… I am sorry," added Aradan as he saw the hurt on his young apprentice's face.

  "The question is that they continued to see each other, secretly, for many, many years. You were born and Thranduil came to respect your mother very much, but you see," he said, leaning forward now as his hand went to his chin. "She did not only respect him, but came to love him. She loved him so much she bore his children and became the perfect queen. She bore his infidelity with quiet dignity; all she asked was that he be discreet and not humiliate her."

  Aradan took a steadying breath, staring at Handir to judge his mood before moving to the final part of the tale.

  "Elbereth," whispered Handir as he rubbed at his face. "They were found out then?"

  "No. Thranduil was nothing if not cautious, for by then his father was long gone and he was king. Besides, his respect for his wife would not allow him to compromise her in that way. No, it was Lassiel. She was slipping, slipping into grief so far it frightened her. With each day they saw each other, deep in the forest, she was paler, weaker, frailer of health and spirit, she was dwindling and they both knew it.

  Thranduil, with a heavy heart, bid her sail. He pleaded day in day out for her to save herself but she could not leave him, even if she was doomed to meet with him on these, secret, somewhat sordid circumstances. What to do? Asked Thranduil - for months he debated, indeed I was there, every bit a part of his suffering.

  "The child…"

  "Yes - the child. That was to be the solution. They would create a child so that a part of Thranduil would always be with her, get her safely to Aman, a safe passage if you will, her last life line. And so, soon enough, the news came that she was with child. She would begin her journey to the undying lands and give birth to the child there…"

  "They conceived a child for the wrong reasons…" muttered Handir.

  "No, Handir - you underestimate the terrible loss of love - to love that one, soul mate and confront the finality of their death is a terrible thing, and conceiving a child to avoid it seems - an acceptable way of avoiding tragedy. You must look at this in perspective."

  "And you thought that is what happened? That she would be waiting for him on the white shores with her child, their child?"

  "Yes, that is what I thought, Handir. I believed them both across the sea, as does Thranduil. That his son is here, tells me that she never crossed and so she is either alive, and no longer fading, or she succumbed before she could sail…"

  Handir sat, allowing Aradan's last words to sink in. And then a question popped into his mind.

  "Aradan - how did mother find out? I mean that is what must have happened, she found out a child had been created."

  "Yes, she found out, although we never knew how that came to be. All we could conclude at the time was that someone must have told her…"

  "But who would benefit from such a thing? The purists would simply let it be, for a Sindarin king and queen sat on the throne, it would not be in their interest, surely?"

  "Apparently not, but who is to say there were not - personal - interests? That someone from that faction wished to take the throne for themselves?"

  Handir started, before he blurted, "Bandorion? nay he would not be so bold!" exclaimed Handir.

  "Bandorion would not force the issue, no, but if he sa
w an opportunity to allow things to simply - spiral - he may well have taken it. Unfortunately, we have no way of discerning the truth Handir, only that someone else knew, and saw fit to tell the queen."

  "So you know nothing of this boy, then," asked Handir rhetorically.

  "Nothing. What …. what is he like, Handir?" asked Aradan carefully.

  "He is … difficult to describe, Aradan, but I will tell you this much. He is quite simply - beautiful. I do not know what his mother looked like, but she must have been stunning. His eyes…"

  "Are the color of summer moss?" said Aradan gently.

  Handir stared at Aradan, before nodding. "Yes, just that, Aradan.

  Minutes passed in silence, before Aradan spoke once more.

  "I am glad you told me, Handir. And I can see why Lainion came to you with this. The situation is potentially volatile at the least," said the councillor, back to business now.

  "I know, Aradan. Lainion was aware of all this, I assume?"

  "Oh yes. He was your guardian, of course. He ran many errands for Thranduil. He knew Lassiel well."

  "What worries me the most, Aradan, is that this boy is, in Lainion's words, the best novice warrior he has ever seen. That and his extraordinary looks will draw attention to him. All it will take is a veteran to see his face and declare him Oropher reborn. So far, he has lived in his village, deep in the heart of the Greenwood but now, in the king's militia… it is surely only a question of time before someone asks the wrong questions…"

  "Yes, and there is no telling how the king will react, first to the question of whether Lassiel lives or not, and secondly, what he will do with the boy. And then there is Rinion…"

  "Rinion would see him as a threat. Another brother, a bastard, Silvan brother. I cannot see him accepting that at all. Maeneth, however, would probably be overjoyed!" he snorted, his lovely sister's face floating in his mind's eye, wondering how much longer she would stay in Lorien.

  "There is one more thing," said Handir, deep in thought. "The boy has a nick name, they call him The Silvan, the one Rinion mentioned at lunch. My brother has taken it upon himself to seek the boy out when they ride in - we cannot allow it, Aradan."

  "Nay. You must write to Lainion and warn him. What did Lainion suggest, by the way?"

  "He wanted me to keep him informed of any talk, of any suspicions that may arise. He knows he will have to tell the boy soon enough but he needs to know that he will not be jeopardising his charge, or indeed the king, by doing so. I sense in him a desire to protect the boy, Aradan. Almost as if he were a younger brother."

  "It does not surprise me, Handir. He became good friends with Lassiel."

  "Aye, well. What now? This is so, convoluted, Aradan, the ramifications are… endless."

  "Yes, and we must not take rash decisions. We must sit for a while and digest what we have learned, observe those around us and above all, we must listen - listen to every bit of news that comes from the field. The slightest indication that rumour is starting, is when the king must be told, before he hears it from someone else and thus, the boy must also be told, and when that happens, I suggest he not be here, that he be assigned somewhere abroad, so that he not be caught in the storm that will surely be unleashed."

  "That makes sense, yes. You know," said Handir, his face deep in thought as he spoke. "I could always ask my father once more about the possibility of traveling to Imladris as part of my apprenticeship - with Lord Erestor."

  Aradan smiled, nodding slowly as he did so. "That would be interesting, yes. You would need a patrol to accompany you…"

  "Yes… it is perfect. I prepare the king and then precipitate my journey when the need to act becomes paramount."

  "Alright," said Aradan as he stood. "We wait and we listen, you meanwhile, will speak to the king and remind him of your desire to travel, I will put in a word for you. When the time comes, your journey must be made - only then will I tell the king and you, you will tell the boy he has a family…"

  The patrol sat quietly together, sharing a hot tea. They could not make much noise for the enemy was on the move and they had been on pre-alert for the entire morning.

  But talk they did, discussing this and that albeit quietly, none of the boyish exuberance of the day before. Legolas too, now an integral part of their unit, listened and asked questions - incessantly. The warriors did not mind though, for they had rarely worked with a novice that took so much interest in his training, that asked such poignant questions and seemed to respect them as much as he obviously did.

  One such question was on the wisdom or otherwise of shedding ones boots at bedtime. There were chuckles and some knee-slapping as Faunion attempted to explain why he, as a Silvan warrior, would personally never do such a thing.

  One moment, Legolas' attentive face was sucking in every word he said, but the next, his eyes turned to the side and he leaned back, as if surprised, or listening, perhaps.

  "Boy!" joked Faunion - "I am imparting great wisdom here, the least you can do is pay attention," he said in mock irritation, but it had been enough to draw everyone's attention to the now, completely blank stare of their absent novice.

  "Hwindo …"

  "Legolas!" hissed Lainion, waving a hand before the unseeing eyes.

  "What is wrong with him?" asked Angion, perplexed.

  "I do not know," answered Lainion with a frown, sharing a worried glance with Tirion.

  "Legolas…?" tried the Captain softly, and then nearly started when the boy finally spoke.

  "Something is wrong…"

  "What, what is wrong?" prompted Lainion.

  Tirion, meanwhile, let out the caw of a blackbird to request a status report from the warrior on duty. After a prolonged silence, the guard's answering call resounded in the otherwise deathly silence - all was well, he said.

  Tirion turned back to Legolas, who seemed to be coming back to himself.

  "Something is wrong," he mumbled, shaking his head from side to side.

  "Angion reports nothing, Legolas," said Lainion.

  Legolas slowly held his hand up before his own face, horrified now to see it visibly shaking before he repeated again, "something is wrong…"

  Faunion could stand it no longer and stood, his hand upon the pommel of his sword, for his fine hairs were standing to attention and his skin crawled - there had been something in the boy's voice, in his conviction he simply could not ignore.

  Tirion called back to Angion and they all waited in mounting trepidation once more for his answering call. This time, the answer took longer than it should have, but when it did reach them, it was now an alert warning. That meant one of two things; that there was a threat still far enough away to give them time to prepare, or - the warrior was unsure.

  "Break camp. We move now, prepare your weapons," said Tirion urgently, turning once more to a slowly rising Legolas, still, apparently not completely back to his usual self.

  The boy stood before the grey, waning light of a darkening forest, and of a sudden his long hair and strange green eyes seemed brighter than they normally did. He was a vision to behold in that moment, and if Tirion had looked behind him he would have realised he was not alone in his impression. He startled then, as Legolas spoke once more, his voice unsteady.

  "What is wrong with me?" he whispered as his eyes suddenly focussed once more and a cold shiver ran down the length of the captain's spine.

  "Nothing," he lied. "Come, we break camp - we are leaving," he said curtly, waiting for the boy to move before jogging to the fore and leading them out. There would be time enough to broach the subject - later. For now, Tirion trusted his instincts. They would move to higher, safer ground before resting for the night.

  The patrol began their cautious trek through the wood, their senses now on full alert. Whatever it was that had happened to their novice, it had frightened them all, left them with the uncertainty of whether the boy was right, that there was danger; after all, Angion had not been sure and it had been that fact alone,
that had finally set them to moving once more.

  Their eyes moved from one tree to the other, up and then down as the light became dimmer and dimmer and the forest seemed to close in around them. They were seasoned warriors but there was something about this night that unnerved them all, especially Legolas, who was still silent and withdrawn, occasionally checking his own hand which still shook, in spite of the fact that he had managed to calm himself.

  Lainion cast worried glances at him, and Tirion turned back to check his patrol more than he usually would.

  The hoot of an owl stopped them all dead in their tracks - Angion signalled a proximity warning.

  "Positions," hissed Tirion, watching as each warrior took up his designated place, Legolas climbing the nearest tree, slower than he usually did. He would have to keep an eye on the boy for he did not seem to be himself as yet. Distraction and his first spider battle could be a recipe for disaster, he knew. Lainion would be thinking the same, no doubt.

  All too soon, the clicking sound of spiders invaded the unnatural silence and the warriors were thrust into a silent, frantic conversation of hand signals and bird calls, conveying orders from the ground to the trees and vice versa.

  The cry of an eagle preceded Angion's shadow as he finally joined the patrol. "Spiders - at least 10 and they are not small.."

  Legolas' eyes bulged, oblivious to the calculating stares he was receiving from the rest of the patrol. He had been right, something indeed had not been right, but how had he known? What strange malady had taken him that it set his head to thumping, his vision swimming and his hand shaking? Anxiety took hold of him for a moment and his breathing became erratic. 'Stop,' he scolded himself; 'Stop lest you make a fool of yourself again,' he repeated silently. Closing his eyes, he remembered his own invented exercises to centre himself before training. Applying it now on the threshold of battle would be a challenge at the least, but try he did, and soon, as he opened his eyes once more and evened his breathing, he knew he had been at least partially successful, for there was suddenly nothing but the spiders, moving through the bows, their clicking and clanking, their hissy whispers.