Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  Raising his heavy head for a moment, he realised he lay draped over a set of intertwined branches, just above the area he was supposed to have slept. He vaguely remembered having climbed to see the autumn stars. It was there, that he had fallen asleep.

  He wore only his leggings and one boot, for the other had dropped into the living quarters of the flet below. He had also managed to retain one vambrace, but the other hung from his wrist by its strings, swaying mockingly in the light morning breeze.

  Turning his head, he winced as his hair tugged painfully and he realised it had all come undone, only to snag in the finer twigs and drying leaves.

  He wanted to laugh, and then he wondered if it was his own sense of humor, or that of the sentinel.

  He knew he would never be able to free himself on his own. He would have to call for help, but that was not going to happen, said Legolas to himself, for he would surely be the laughing stock of the village.

  The night had been long and oh so memorable. He had become a warrior in every sense, and a master archer too. He turned his head as far as he could, smiling when the silver arm band came into view, sitting now upon his strong, naked bicep.

  His smile soon disappeared though, when his scalp was jolted painfully and he yelped, and although he had not moved, his hair was now, mysteriously free, falling around him almost to the floor beneath him. Smiling, he realised it was time to climb down.

  With a groan, he slowly made his way to the platform below and stretched his sore muscles. It was then, that hysterical laughter cut into his fogged senses and he turned in irritation to the source of the noise.

  There, sitting cross legged before a pot of steaming tea, were Idhreno, Ram en Ondo, Lindohtar and Dimaethor. They laughed and laughed and slapped each other upon the thighs and backs, their shoulders shaking and their eyes crinkled shut, tears of mirth collecting in the corners of their sparkling eyes.

  Legolas, or Hwindohtar, opened his mouth to protest, but no words were forthcoming and he reckoned he should first seek out a mirror, or a still pool, for he was surely a sight that merited such mirth.

  He smiled, in spite of his thumping head and resisted the urge to run his archer's fingers through his hair, for it was surely the source of their shenanigans.

  "You're only jealous," he murmured as he joined them upon the wooden flooring, reaching out as a cup of steaming tea was handed to him.

  "Your hair is, indeed glorious, Hwindo - but not today!" finished Ram en Ondo in a strangled voice that turned into peels of laughter once more, enough to send the four of them back to their raucous laughing.

  "There was a young Silvan of pure white skin and white golden locks, as long as the maidens of Great Rock Locks…" the tune was vibrant and undoubtedly Silvan - Lindohtar…"

  "He could pack a bottle of wine faster than an aunt of mine…"

  They laughed as the Bard Warrior sang on, witty words invented on the spot, until finally he came to the end of his tune and was rewarded by whistles, whoops and clapping, and even Hwindohtar was now grinning as he sipped on his steaming tea.

  "Well you will insist on sleeping under the stars," said Idhreno drolly.

  The tea was doing wonders for his pounding head and his body soon relaxed, in spite of the cold chill.

  "What is our agenda for today, Dimaethor?" asked Legolas quietly, his eyes slightly unfocussed.

  "We do not have one," said the Silent Warrior. "Today we are free for whatever we wish. We leave tomorrow and will be abroad for at least six months - some of you will have personal matters to attend to."

  "I must bid my sister goodbye," said Lindohtar a little sadly. "We are alone in this world and I would ensure she is well provided for before my departure. I will be back for the evening meal, and briefing," he said seriously.

  "And you, Hwindohtar? What would you do?" asked Dimaethor.

  "I must think," he said absently. The answer was not what Dimaethor had been expecting and so his eyes settled on his young charge expectantly.

  "Dima, there are many things I wish to do. I have ideas to write, books to read. I cannot march into Imladris ignorant, and with barely devised plans."

  "What plans do you speak of?" asked Idhrenohtar.

  "For the future. Ideas on warfare, combat, strategy. Ideas even on armour and weaponry, protocols …"

  Ram en Ondo chuckled but Dimaethor and Idhrenohtar's faces were deadly serious.

  "Why would you think on such things? You speak as would a commander general, one to takes such decisions. I understand your thirst for knowledge on warfare and strategy, but - why not stick to what affects you directly? To the things you will need to know as a warrior?" said the Silent Warrior.

  Legolas turned his eyes upon his friend then, and a soft smile graced his lovely face. "That is what I do, Dima."

  Lain ion was taken aback for a moment, and his puzzlement was clear for all to see.

  Idhrenohtar though, had known Legolas all his life, as had Ram en Ondo. The Wise Warrior knew exactly what Legolas meant. He meant that one day, he would be a commander of warriors and, perhaps, would be able to contribute actively to such questions. Legolas had ideas on practically everything that warriorship entailed, and he also knew his friend kept an extensive journal, in which he would write his ideas on training programmes, render sketches of weapons, clothing, flets and wagons; all these words and illustrations dotted the pages of this most fascinating of books; there were even drawings of people, accompanied by comments and impressions. Indeed he knew himself to be amongst those pages, his warrior name written in slanted Tengwar and beside it - the words 'wise, knowing…" he smiled for a moment, before pulling his mind back to the present.

  "Then think you must," said Dimaethor. "I have nothing of import to do," he said, but almost before he could finish his sentence, a softly spoken question took him completely by surprise, sending the small group of warriors into utter silence.

  "Lainion. Who is Lassiel?"

  Legolas had said his goodbyes to Thavron and Erthoron, but it was his farewell with Amareth that stuck stubbornly in his mind.

  At the time he had explained it away as the logical reaction of a mother to her recently promoted warrior son. She worried for his safety and that was to be expected. Yet now, as he sat and pondered it, her reaction had seemed, uncharacteristic, as if she thought perhaps, that she would not see him again.

  And strangely enough, even Lainion seemed distracted, as if he sat upon the edge of a seat, undecided as to when he should stand. Something was wrong with the lieutenant, but Legolas was still not close enough to him to intrude upon his intimacy. He would simply have to wait for an opportunity to present itself.

  Legolas distractedly browsed the pages of his journal, stopping here and there to remember the faces he had drawn and the words he had scrawled upon the yellow pages. Thavron, Amareth, Idhreno, Ram en, Lorthil, Narosén, Sarodel and his child, Tirion, Lainion. On the penultimate page though, was the face of one he did not know, the face of a Sindar lord that had stared at him from afar on the night he had became a novice warrior….

  "Prince Handir departs at first light, my Lord. Will you fare him well?"

  "Of course," came the monotone answer, soft and apparently unconcerned.

  "With both princes abroad, my Lord, I have asked Colophon to assist us, if that is acceptable?"

  "It is," came the equally unemotional response.

  "Very well my Lord," said Aradan, hesitating for a moment, before turning, and leaving the introspective king to himself and his thoughts.

  The heavy oak door clunked shut and Thranduil closed his brilliant blue eyes for a moment, before opening them once more and turning to the window behind him.

  Autumn was advancing and with every day the weather became colder and the landscape waxed brown and grey - so like himself - he mused. Cold and grey, withered and exhausted - alone.

  His sons were gone - everyone had gone - and he remained, rolling as would a boulder with the inertia of an emp
ty life, one that made no sense except to administer the land his father had colonised and then left in his care. It was his only motivation to continue on Arda. It was enough, but he was profoundly unhappy.

  To his three children on Arda, he meant nothing, their respect for him fuelled only by his status as King. He had lost them in all the ways that matter, their regard for him spanning from civil to downright cruel. Any attempt he had once made to explain, to show his love for them had been counteracted by their disappointment in him and the absence of their mother - an absence he had precipitated with his disloyal conduct, his cruelty to the elf he had taken as his queen.

  Nay he had lost them, and his only hope for happiness was when he finally stepped upon blessed soil and kissed the hand of Lassiel and, perhaps, the child they had created together, the one that had served to save her life, to deliver her into the healing lands of Elvenhome.

  How long would he have to wait? How long before he could allow himself to disconnect from Arda, leave behind his children, and set sail?

  But he could not, for however much they reminded him every day of his own sins, of what he had done to them, he could never leave them behind. He could never do what the queen had done. There was nothing on Arda that could move him to sever his connection with his children.

  He looked down for a moment, his nostrils flaring subtly for a moment before raising his eyes once more, only to settle upon a small book, sitting between two larger tomes upon a dark, dusty bookshelf.

  Slowly, he moved towards it, his hand reaching out tentatively until his fingers brushed over the small, weathered book. His index finger hooked over the top and softly pulled it out, until it finally rested in his white, manicured hands.

  He looked away for a moment, but his eyes were drawn back to the diary, and with a heavy breath, he opened it.

  There, upon the ancient paper, was a drawing, one he himself had rendered, partially obscured by a summer leaf, one that was now brown and crisp. It had once been a supple, vibrant green - just like her eyes.

  As he finally allowed himself to admire the features that had mesmerised and captivated him since he had first set eyes upon them, tears welled in his own burning eyes and his heart clenched painfully. One shaking hand reached out to trace the outline of the face, the wave of chestnut locks, the slant of her extraordinary green eyes, the strong brow and the high cheekbones.

  "My queen," whispered Thranduil shakily, his finger now brushing softly over the full pink lips, marvelling for a moment at the characteristic shape of them. "Will I ever see you again?" he whispered wistfully, a lone tear finally escaping him. It burnt a trail down his pale face, like the shallow cut of a sharp blade, the one that stabbed him in the heart every day when he thought of her.

  He closed the book with a harsh thud and strode to the shelf once more, replacing the diary in its almost hidden home.

  Turning, his face was stern once more, the tear swiped away angrily as he came to stand before the overhang of his rooms.

  The Evergreen Wood rolled away into the distance, its beauty calming his grief enough to make it bearable once more. His head cocked to the side of a sudden, for there was a song on the air. Concentrating, he tried to discern the feelings it evoked for only in that way could he understand the trees.

  Pity, sorrow, forgiveness, understanding, trepidation. Trepidation? He repeated to himself.

  Furrowing his brow in concentration, he tried again. The same emotions came through clearly but there was more…

  Trepidation, and an overwhelming sense of bliss - why would they sing such a thing? Their land was assailed by darkness, their people and the trees suffered and died. Why would they sing of bliss? It was surely offensive.

  Patience, understanding, reprimand, joy…

  He shook his head in frustration, but tried one more time, for now, Thranduil's curiosity had been peaked - what were they trying to say? Were they mocking him for his moment of self-pity?

  Fool, grief, pride, victory, Lord…

  "What…" he said aloud. Striding to the door, he opened it.

  "Aradan!" he shouted, before turning back into the room and to the window, trying one more time to understand the strange strong of the Evergreen Wood.

  "Patience, pride, courage, Lord - Lord of the Forest."

  Thranduil's eyes bulged. Did they speak of him? Had they called him Lord of the Forest?

  "My Lord," hailed Aradan as he entered slowly, concern written on his face for Thranduil had not shouted in many, many years.

  "Aradan. Do you hear the trees?" asked the king urgently.

  "Not as well as you do, my Lord." said Aradan carefully, trying and failing to read the conflicting emotions on his monarch's face.

  "But do you hear them?" he shouted in frustration, and all Aradan's senses were alert. Thranduil never lost control, never shouted, never - expressed deep emotion, be it good or bad. Whatever had happened must have been - transcendental.

  "I hear them, but I do not know what they say, my Lord."

  "I will tell you what they say, Aradan," whispered Thranduil, his eyes glinting in the failing light, a look so intense on his face that Aradan shivered.

  "They speak of joy, of bliss, they speak - of a new Lord; one they have named as their own."

  Aradan's eyes widened of their own accord, before he found the wherewithal to ask the first of many questions that had jumped into his mind.

  "A new lord? What does that mean - there is danger? Someone seeks to overthrow you, what…"

  "No!" shouted Thranduil again, ripping his intricate crown off his silver locks and placing it unceremoniously on his table. "Not a usurper, a Lord, a Lord of the Forests…"

  Aradan straightened, the skin of his scalp tightening painfully and sending his ears to sitting low on his head. 'please,' he pleaded, to the Valar perhaps, 'please give me time, two days - only two days.'

  The king's unnerving eyes were now riveted on Aradan and the king almost rounded on his Chief Councillor, until his furious face was but inches from his own.

  The cold, blue-grey eyes narrowed until the king finally spoke.

  "Tell me what you know, Councillor. Tell me everything you know."

  Meanwhile, deep in the forests, a young elf stared into the still waters of a rocky pool. Upon his face was shock, terror and panic, all of which had set his lip to quivering, his breathing harsh.

  'Who am I? he pleaded into the water. 'What is happening to me?' he pleaded.

  Servant of Yavanna, Kementari.

  The words were clear in his mind. This time there was no confused noise, just plain Silvan dialect.

  He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to steady himself but he could not, and he opened them once more, his stomach flipping once more when his own green eyes shone back at him, not because they reflected the light of the moon, but because they shone from within - there was a fire behind his eyes.

  'This is not natural. It is wizardry… I have been spelled….' he whispered, his eyes widening in realisation.

  'Not magic, energy.'

  'Who are you?' whispered Legolas, although he thought, perhaps, he already knew the answer.

  But there was no answer, for whatever the nature of his connection to the trees, it had never worked as a dialogue, but a monologue - it was always himself who answered his own questions. Indeed not moments later, he did just that.

  'I am Legolas, Hwindohtar, the Silvan. I am the forest…'

  "Tell me everything you know …," said the king, his keen eyes boring into those of Aradan, sparkling with a depth that only time and suffering can cause.

  Aradan's agile mind spun furiously. He would not lie to his king, his friend, but neither could he reveal more than strictly necessary, not until Handir's caravan was safely at the borders.

  "All I know, my Lord, is that the Silvans are whispering."

  "Whispering?" asked the king a little sarcastically, "whispering of what?"

  "I am not sure, as yet. It is not something that has
transcended to the court proper, my Lord, but there is movement of some kind."

  "The trees proclaim a Lord!" exclaimed the king, as if Aradan had not yet realised the import of what he had heard.

  "Then they know more than I do, my Lord." Aradan's voice had come out more aggressively than he had wanted it to, a testimony to the stress he suffered, for the time for truth was almost upon them. He did know of what they spoke, although proclaiming Legolas as a Lord was, indeed, something he could never have imagined; he desperately needed news from Lainion and Handir, but that would take days to get back to him, there would be no help from whatever they could tell him.

  Thranduil held his gaze for a while, before turning abruptly and facing the window once more in a flurry of silken robes.

  "Forgive me, Thranduil. As soon as I have something to tell you, I will."

  "It is something of import, Aradan, there can be no mistake about that."

  "Do you perceive a threat, my Lord?"

  "They do not perceive it as such, no. They rejoice…" he said with a frown and Aradan could see the puzzlement, his struggle to understand the cryptic message from the trees. It was the first event for centuries, that had managed to wrench from the frozen king a reaction, an emotional reaction that told Aradan in no uncertain terms that he was, still alive.

  "I will ride out tomorrow if you wish it, my Lord, ride into the nearby Silvan villages and speak to my contacts, see what I can ascertain."

  "I will come with you," was the king's answer, and Aradan hid his sudden alarm. The king had not ridden out of the fortress for many years. He needed to proceed with caution, for Thranduil was nothing if not intuitive.

  "If that is your wish, Thranduil, your company would be most welcome," he said carefully. "And, I believe, our people will be glad of your presence amongst them once more - it has been too long since the Silvan people had contact with their king."