"Get up," said the commander, before handing him the two swords. "Show me your words are not a simple attempt to justify yourself," he said challengingly. The Noldorin warriors smirked but the Silvans, with the exception of Rhrawthir who had never seen Legolas fight, simply smiled as they turned to watch.
"Do it again, with two swords," said Glorfindel, who stepped back to watch, hands now folded over his chest in silent challenge.
And so Legolas did. Swivelling both blades forwards he began his slow dance, his head moving with the blades but his shoulders opposite to them, his legs well distanced, his steps smooth and powerful. He glided forwards, backwards, to the side and back again and Glorfindel watched in respect. With the first repetition came a new pattern. His left had began again, whilst his right hand began on the second move and Glorfiindel cocked an eyebrow in fascination. To sustain this pattern required much coordination and the concept sparked a distant yet ever present memory.
"Enough," he said, before turning to the Noldorin warriors, their smirks now gone. The commander said nothing for it was not necessary, but it was then that he knew; Legolas would be a great warrior, and Melven would, once more, be a problem. There was no respect on his face at all, only disdain.
'…she was murdered…'
Thranduil shot up, his silver hair flying around his head, sweat beaded upon his pale brow, light grey eyes wide.
"Lassiel," he whispered, before raking a hand through his dishevelled hair and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
It was still dark as he came to stand by the long windows, the view beyond breathtaking beneath the full moon that illuminated the giant trees of the Evergreen wood.
'… a single blade through the heart…'
"How you suffered for our love, died for it…" he murmured into the now steamy pane of glass.
'…Thranduil… Amareth is right, there is a traitor amongst us…'
"A traitor, yes…. and when I find him…"
Thranduil turned from the window, a look of such determination upon his face it seemed almost to have turned his beautiful features to stone, sucked the life from it, left it grey and grim for thus was the face of one who seeks retribution.
But as quickly as it had appeared, so it disappeared as his mind began to wander once more.
'…when you see him, if that is your wish, you will understand…'
The undoubtedly Sindarin features softened and the ice grey eyes darkened to a light blue.
'… a more beautiful child has never existed…'
The tired face smiled then, for the mother had been peerless in her beauty, her eyes…
'… she was murdered…'
The now deep blue eyes closed slowly, as if to shield any who looked on, shield them from the cutting agony of his pain. He had known she was dead but now, he was plagued with the sorrow of knowing she suffered, was persecuted, and then executed - all for the love of him.
Three Sindarin lords sat together in a highly decorated chamber. The walls were strewn with relics of the past, of days of splendour and such finery that had not been seen for two ages. Amor, swords, pikes and flags sat together with vases, ornate candle holders, silver ware and sculptures, paintings of the high lords of old… it was a tribute to the past, and a statement in the present. This is the land of the Sindar, behold our might.
Bandorion, brother of Oropher, first King of the Greenwood - the greatest she would ever know. His brother had been strong, in every way. His heart had never interfered with his duty to his people, his own emotions had always been second to the love of his land, its people. Oropher had been the epitome of Sindarin strength and leadership. Alas, he had been cut down in battle, the result of Noldorin arrogance, and in his place had come his son, Thranduil, Bandorion's nephew.
The Greenwood had welcomed him as king, for the Silvan people had easily accepted a Sinda king who bowed to their every whim. It had slowly but surely, whittled away their culture, their race, and should it be allowed to continue, the Sindar of old would one day, be no more and in their place, a hybrid would appear, neither Sindarin nor Silvan, a sad memory of what they once were.
The three lords had sat in contemplative silence for many minutes, until Bandorion could no longer stand the sound of Lord Draugole's fingers rhythmically tapping on the table before them.
With a withering stare from Bandorion, the dark haired Sindarin councillor, Drugole, stopped and sat back but his eyes did not leave those of his lord, the one he believed should be king.
"Amareth is at court," said Bandorion simply. It was an unnecessary statement, for they were well aware of the presence of Lassiel's sister.
"Do we know why?" asked Barathon lightly.
"No. Thranduil is silent on the matter," began Bandorion. "It is strange that the king should change so much in so short a time and that Amareth should be summoned shortly afterwards, do you not think?" he asked softly.
"He knows," said Draugole in nascent understanding, his eyes widening as they turned to Bandorion.
"Yes - I believe he does…" said the would-be king.
His dreams and contemplations from the night before still floated chaotically in his mind, but he could not allow them to affect him, not now when his son was about to arrive.
Crown Prince Rinion of Greenwood the Great, would tell him of his sojourn to the Eastern villages and then, Thranduil would tell him of his brother, his half brother.
The outcome of their meeting was no mystery to the king for he knew his son well. The only difference now, was that he himself had changed, had become a little more like the king he had once been so many centuries ago - this Rinion would not expect, and Thranduil would now have the unpleasant task of putting his son in his place.
Councillor Aradan had wanted to stay but Thranduil had been adamant. This task would not be easy on either of them, and the king did not wish to humiliate his son, however much he had to show him that his behaviour would no longer be tolerated. Even so, the king's closest friend and advisor had insisted on remaining close by and the king had not been able to dissuade him.
With a curt wrap upon the door, his son strode into the room, cloak swirling around his calves and his hand upon the pommel of his sword. He was cold and fierce - imposing, and Thranduil was momentarily impressed, and proud.
"Rinion," greeted the king with a nod. The Crown Prince bowed and then stood silently, no words, no joy at being in is father's presence and so, Thranduil began his strategy.
"Report," was all he said, and Rinion did. He told the king of his travels, of the people he had seen, of the complaints and the petitions he had received. He spoke of how he had handled it all and of the boredom he had endured and when he finished, he stood in silence once more, his eyes staring through the windows behind his father, as if he wished for nothing more but to be dismissed.
Thranduil watched him for a while, drawing out the silence, knowing the effect this would have on his over-confident son.
"You should be in the field, commanding our troops in the absence of Lord Celegon…"
"Yes," said Rinion, his eyes momentarily focussing on his father and lingering for a while, before turning back to the windows.
"You have been unfairly sent on a menial mission that another could have done just as well…"
Once again, Rinion's eyes sharped, a little longer, but again they wandered, and Thranduil watched.
"You were sent away for a reason. You were sent away because you could not be trusted…"
Rinion's eyes snapped to his father, his brows furrowing deeply.
"You were sent away because you cannot control your temper, cannot control your anger…"
"I…."
"Silence," said Thranduil softly with a wave of his hand, watching as Rinion flinched as though he had shouted the command.
"Much has happened in your absence, Prince, many things have changed," he continued, his eyes briefly glancing at his son, whose face showed his rising bafflement.
"Gon
e," he said, louder than his previous words, only to soften once more as he continued, "are the days in which a Crown Prince insults his king, sneers in the face of his Lord, gainsays his decisions, whispers in silent collusion with those that seek to discredit him…"
"You…"
"Silence," he said once more, a note of disappointment creeping into the cold words and Rinion's jaw clenched. Anger was beginning to take hold, as it always did with his eldest son.
"We sent you away so that you would not endanger this land with your own, self-centred, ill directed anger. Had you stayed you would have been a liability, and that does not speak well of your position at this court, my son."
There was no answer, and this time, Thranduil spotted a spark of fear behind his child's cold grey eyes. There, that was what he had been looking for.
"Whatever happens now, Rinion, you will comport yourself as is befitting a Crown Prince, with quiet dignity and respect for your king; no sarcasm, no hatred, only discipline - is that understood?" asked Thranduil softly, calm as his deep blue eyes riveted on his son's face, impressing upon him the importance of his words.
"Yes, my King," was the curt answer he received. It was enough and so he continued.
"The events of which I speak, those you could not be trusted with, are things that affect you personally, things related to the circumstances of your mother's departure…
Rinion's eyes were now focussed on his father, his eyes wide and expressive.
"Your mother did not leave me, leave us, because I had a lover, Rinion. She left because I had a soul mate, with whom a child was conceived …"
"What!" was the uncontrolled shout that Rinion could not hold back.
"Silence!" roared the king - louder and fiercer than the voice of his son as he came to stand but inches from his cold face, his eyes piercing his son's mercilessly, daring him to speak out of turn once more.
"Lassiel was my soul mate, the one I was forbidden to marry. Instead, your mother was chosen as a suitable queen and the rest you know. Someone," stressed the king meaningfully, "made sure the queen came to hear of the child and this she could not condone. Thus, she left me, her people and you, her son; she left us all for although she always knew I did not love her, was not my chosen mate, she could tolerate this in exchange for the favour of her sons and daughters. Yet once that was challenged, everything changed…"
Rinion's eyes were round and bright and his breathing was too heavy. Thranduil felt pity then, pity for the strategy his own son's uncontrollable wrath had forced him to adopt.
"Now, you may speak," he said coldly, and then waited for the tirade that would surely ensue.
However when Rinion did speak, it was low and monotonous and for the first time, Thranduil saw deep emotion churning behind his frigid eyes.
"Did you never think of her? Were you too wrapped up in your love for Lassiel, too blind to the pain you would inflict on your children?"
"No - I was ever aware of it, I still am. And you? Are you too wrapped up in your hate for me that you fail to see my pain? Too saddened by the loss of your mother that you cannot see it was inevitable? I lost the love of my life, sacrificed it for the good of this land, to appease the Sindarin lords, and in return, I gained your disdain - every day."
Silence followed for a moment before Rinion spoke once more and a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.
"I loved you once, father," he whispered as he desperately tried to check his emotions.
Thranduil came to stand before him once more, his own eyes bright, his face determined.
"And I still love you, my son," said the king with a soft smile, dismissing the stab of hurt that lanced through his heart.
"You may leave, if you so wish, but you are confined to the fortress for today. This conversation has not concluded," he said with a nod of dismissal before he turned his back on his son, knowing the cool grey eyes were watching his every move and so Thranduil stood before the tall windows and waited, waited for the rustle of fine cloth and the clank of lethal metal and then finally, the soft clunk of doors shutting.
Silence - and Thranduil closed his eyes, willing his frantically beating heart to still. It was true; he loved Rinion in spite of his disregard. He was too young to understand, to empathise with the one he believed had been the cause of his own misery; too young to see through the veil of suffering and to the other side, where another reality stood waiting, waiting for a time in which he could finally see it, and understand it. Thranduil would not blame him for that, for his youth and inexperience. He could only wait and trust that his heart was still good, trust that those loyal to Bandorion would not take advantage of Rinion's weakness and use it against them all.
But luck was not a contender in this game, and Thranduil knew then, that he would have to play it well if he was to regain his Crown Prince, know the love of his son once more and close the gaping wounds that stood open and bleeding between them.
Harsh footsteps echoed through the stone corridor and two guards shared a concerned glance at each other, before resuming their rigid, unmoving positions. Solid oak slammed into stone and then there was silence save for the soft patter of dust settling once more.
Rinion leant heavily upon a table, his breathing erratic and his mind in turmoil.
'A child was conceived…'
How dare he…. push his mother away, banish her in all but word, for what alternative had been left to her?
With a strangled moan, Rinion's hand closed around an ornate vase and hurtled it across the room, smashing it into small pieces, before whirling around and setting his hands on all that lay upon his bookshelves, pulling it all away, smashing it all to pieces, just like his father had done with Rinion's life.
Break it, break it all, shouted his mind as his eyes searched and his hands reached. Smash, break, tear it all apart….
Rinion sat with his legs sprawled out before him, panting and sweating, everything in utter disarray around him. He wanted to scream, to roar his ire to the skies and although he had broken everything that could be broken, still it was not enough and his jaw clenched furiously.
How could he have done the one thing - the one thing that would push her away; show his devotion in the clearest and most unequivocal way to another, one that was not her. For if he knew anything at all about his mother, it was that she loved the king beyond all reason.
His face hardened until it was chiselled ice and his eyes seemed lighter, the irises almost gone. Anger had invaded his soul.
'I loved you once…'
'I love you still…'
You love me but you sent her away, his mind screamed, as if his father could hear him; you sent her away as surely as if you had decreed it. Is the love a father feels for a child secondary, less powerful than the love of his soul mate? Is it? Is the love of a mother undermined by the love she feels for her spouse?
You sacrificed your soul mate for love of king and land, just as surely as you sacrificed the happiness of your own children.
How could you? How could she?
Rinion pulled his knees up and circled them with his arms and there, he lay his head and passed the day, his mind unable to release itself from the endless loop of incomprehension. Who should he blame for this mess his life had become? His father? His mother?
It had always been his father, damn him, and yet now, as soon as he had allowed his mind to ponder the question, the seed of doubt had wormed its way into his soul and he no longer knew.
Elrond glided into his office, Erestor and Prince Handir at his side.
"The rhetoric of it, Prince, is what will lend strength to your words, instil them upon those that listen to you, just as semiotics will back them up. For instance…"
"Glorfindel. You are - studying," said Elrond, and both councillors stopped short, their conversation summarily ending as they searched for the object of Elrond's disbelieving words.
Sure enough, Glorfindel sat amidst a pile of books, not unlike the way Elrond had found Legolas j
ust days before. The commander's curt nod and ensuing silence was testimony to just how engrossed he was in his studies.
Elrond approached the table, while Erestor and Handir sat nearby, quietly continuing their own debate.
"Anything I can help you with?" asked Elrond as his eyes glanced over the books with interest.
"Qalma liltie …" murmured the commander as he worked.
"Qalma liltie," repeated Elrond, searching his mind. "Fell dance… ah," he said in sudden understanding. "You wish to learn it?" asked Elrond incredulously.
"Already know it," muttered Glorfindel as he skipped through the pages of the book before him.
Elrond's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline at the dismissive claim, for to dance the Qalma liltie was a skill unheard of in this age.
"Then why are you researching it?" asked the lord in utter incomprehension.
"Moves I have forgotten…"
"Glorfindel, for the love of the Valar will you look at me for a moment," whispered Elrond in mounting irritation. "What is going on?" he asked.
Glorfindel breathed deeply and sat back, his blue eyes meeting Elrond's sparkling grey irises.
"There is another. After all these centuries, there is another who may know it…"
"You speak of the child? Of Legolas?"
"Yes, yes I do, Elrond. I do not know if he knows the entire routine, but there are moves that he performs in the stances that suggest he has some knowledge of it. We began short sword training yesterday and he was incapable of it. And do you know why?" asked Glorfindel, sitting forward now.
"No - why?" asked Elrond, his head slanting marginally to one side.
"Because he fights with two swords, one in each hand."
"That was still relatively common in the second age, Glorfindel. It does not mean he knows the Qalma Liltie," said Elrond carefully.
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