Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  "You have no command, Legolas, and you are but seven hundred and forty-four years old. This will not sit well with the Commanders."

  "I know and hence - I need your council, Handir. With some luck, Lord Glorfindel will write a favourable report to Commander Celegon, but even so, that would make me a lieutenant, and as such I would be obliged to ride under the command of a captain. I could not carry out my work under those circumstances."

  "No, no you could not. The question is, everything is achievable, as son of the king, Legolas. But if I know you just a little I know that is not enough for you. You feel the need to show that you are the right elf for an honourable cause. It is as much a political issue as it is military," he mused.

  "I suggest," he continued as he thought, "that you become the best warrior you possibly can, for this alone will bolster your claim. If we can somehow show that there is no finer warrior, it would qualify you to lead this initiative."

  "Yes - yes I see that. Even so, I believe there will be some Sindarin opposition."

  "Oh there will be a lot of that, Legolas. Make no mistake. Even if we achieve this thing, you will have Lord Bandorion and his sympathisers breathing down your neck at every turn, waiting for you to make a mistake, and when you do, they will pounce, they will try to discredit you at every turn."

  "You make it sound so brutal…"

  "It is, Legolas. Politics is a dangerous, cruel game. You must excel in your military skills and you must use everything within your reach to impress, to outwardly show what is already inside you. Be the warrior you already are, be the Lord you are destined to be, the leader our land needs in the forests. But make no mistake, Legolas; it is not enough to be these things. You must show them, publicly announce them…"

  "I am loath to do so. It seems arrogant."

  "I know. But it achieves the desired effect, Legolas. Do you trust me?" he asked carefully.

  "I do trust you Handir," said Legolas with a smile, as if only now realising that indeed he did.

  "Then heed me if we are to do this together. I will instruct you, dress you, council you and when the time comes, present you. Show our people that the claim you stake is a just one, that you are the one to do this thing."

  Legolas stared back at his brother. He knew he was right but that did not make it any easier, for it all went against his Silvan upbringing. Handir surprised him then, as if he had read his mind.

  "You are half Sindarin, Legolas. This gives you an extraordinary advantage. You can content the Sindar and the Silvan. Show them you are both, and that neither one is better than the other. Show them in your deeds, in your words, in the clothes you wear and the aid you lend. You are Silvan, you are Sindarin and you are Avarin - you are the forest…," he smiled widely.

  Legolas had listened to the impassioned words and he smiled, for it all suddenly clicked in his own mind. Everything his brother had said was true. He had to win the favour of the people, with every weapon he had at his disposal and he would do it, for the forest, the greater good for in light of his purpose, his own wishes were no longer important.

  "Thank you," he said sincerely.

  "You are welcome, my Lord. Let us do this together then, brother to brother, Prince and Lord and our first objective, is to convince our Lord father of the merit in this plan."

  Legolas nodded and then added with a frown, "what you said about 'instructing' me on lordship… what exactly…"

  "Ah. Tomorrow, tomorrow you lend to me and Lord Erestor. A trip to the tailors and the jewellers is in order…" said Handir with a sly smirk, before throwing an arm around his young brother and pulling him close.

  "I am glad to have found you, brother," said Handir, watching Legolas' face.

  "As am I, smiled Legolas. "You have no idea how much it…" he broke off then, unable to continue in spite of the fact that he was still smiling. Handir's smile broadened but he said no more.

  "Lord Bandorion, you have the floor," stated the Greenwood's Chief Mediator.

  "My Lords," began the ancient Sindarin elf, brother of Oropher himself. "I, and I am sure many of you, wish to express our displeasure at the King's official stance concerning the bastard child Legolas," he began, amidst gasps from the other politicians in the halls, for the lord's words had been harsh indeed, and many eyes were now turned to the king, who sat placidly upon his chair, his face completely devoid of emotion.

  "It is not mete, we believe, to concede a lordship under these circumstances. To reward the result of infidelity, to encourage mixed blood is not the act we deem worthy of a Sindarin king," he said somewhat patronisingly and again, gasps and expressions of outrage rang through the vaulted halls.

  "I move to revoke the royal band, and ban the elf Legolas from participating in the king's council, as would be his right as a Lord of the realm. Let him serve in our army for I have heard he is an acceptable warrior, but any inclusion in these hallowed halls will be deemed an insult to our departed queen, a reminder of King Thranduil's indiscretion," he sneered finally, his deep blue eyes boring into Thranduil's, challenging him, goading him.

  Aradan's blood boiled, and he knew he was not alone. He was reminded then, of the king's extraordinary talent for holding his peace, for in spite of the insults Bandorion had so regally pronounced, Thranduil had not flinched, and a sinking sensation began to take hold of him. It was times like these when the king was at his most dangerous, when he was capable of the most daring acts.

  Be that as it may, it was his own turn to speak and so Aradan rose and took the floor.

  "I, Lord Aradan, Chief Councillor to my King Thranduil, am outraged at your words, Lord Bandorion, and while I will not discuss my Lord's personal affairs in these public halls, I will defend his honour with my life," he paused, his own heavy gaze meeting Bandorion's chilling glare.

  There were words of encouragement and agreement around the hall, but they quickly died out as Aradan continued.

  "Lord Legolas is a child of the forest, born to Lassiel of the Silvans," he said pointedly, glancing at the forest representatives, who nodded back at him in satisfaction. "You insult one you have never met, one you do not know the worth of, under the simple pretext of being a bastard. Tell me, Lord Bandorion, are there no worthy bastards? Are all bastards evil and inept, deserving of the most deplorable insults? Are they not then, elves to be judged with the same measure as any other? Is it simply who they are born to that matters to you? Are you that - prejudiced, my Lord?" he finished with a smile that was not friendly at all.

  A mighty cheer went up amongst the Silvans, indeed many Sindar were nodding their heads in approval of Aradan's words. The king, however, remained impassive.

  It was Draugole who next took the floor and everything was silent again.

  "There are rules and laws that govern our lives. As elves we have legislated and passed them - they are there for a purpose and in this, Lord Aradan, you must concede. A child born outside the bonds of matrimony cannot be heir to a king, cannot be a prince of the realm for to allow it, what then, is the point of matrimony? Why would a king secure for himself and his realm, a queen that is both noble and honourable, if he is then free to impregnate the first elf that takes his fancy?" he said theatrically, and the gasps were back, some Silvans even rising to their feet in protest.

  "I do not mean to offend, my Lords, only to illustrate my point," said the councillor calmly. "Laws exist for a reason. The Silvan child must not be given a lordship, for to do this would be to infringe upon those laws," he concluded and then sat with an approving nod from Bandorion.

  "Lord Erthoron," called Aradan, conceding the floor to the Silvan from Broadtree.

  "My Lords," he began in a voice that was both sad and frustrated. "This," he gestured to Bandorion, "is the reason the Silvan people are discontent," he paused as he gazed upon all the Silvan and Avarin lords that had travelled from the forests for the summit. "This, discourse, this disdain, the sarcasm and the patronising words. The overt insult and the unveiled sneers. Had thi
s child been Sindarin," he emphasised, 'bastard' would be 'illegitimiate', 'child' would be 'son', indeed had he been Sindarin, you may well have taken advantage of his existence and turn him to your own, racist ways if you thought there was some personal gain in it."

  Bandorion was smirking but Aradan was not fooled. Oropher's brother was not as skilled as he believed himself to be and on the inside, there was no doubt that his anger was on the brink of boiling. But Erthoron had not finished.

  "You speak against an elf that shares your blood, Lord Bandorion, you speak against your own king and you speak against the Silvan people. You call him 'Silvan' but he is half Sindarin. You say he is a passing warrior when we, the forest dwellers know he will be the greatest warrior of our time. You take every advantage to mock and to scorn and to disqualify and I will tell you what we think, my Lord. We think you are scared, scared that with the appearance of this new Silvan lord, your dreams of Sindarin dominance will be dashed!" he shouted and the roar that followed his words was inflamed and angry, and Aradan closed his eyes. This was not going to plan for the Silvan people had been awoken, and Bandorion did nothing but to add timber to the already roaring fire.

  The Sindarin Lord Falagar was next to speak.

  "My Lords," he shouted over the din, "Let us please calm these harsh words we throw at one another. We should be discussing the state of the land and offering constructive suggestion as to how we can better manage our resources. This Sindar - Silvan confrontation is as destructive as it is unnecessary. There is no reason for it and I bid you all stop it. We all do that which is best suited to our skills, to our very nature. The Silvan people care for the forest, harvest her bounty, nurture Yavanna's creation. You care for the trees and replant when they are lost and that is a noble thing. We Sindar command our militia because that is in our blood, our history. We legislate the land for we have held great kingdoms and have the experience to do so efficiently. This too, is noble. Can we not simply accept this reality and move forward?" he asked sincerely.

  The Silvan Lord Lorthil stood then and moved to the centre of the circle.

  "Thank you, Lord Falagar, for your sincere words. However, although I appreciate your good will, you are nevertheless wrong in your assumptions.

  Think you there was no strife under the trees before the Sindar came from abroad? Think you we lived in chaos? incapable of ruling ourselves? We have spent millennia here, under the trees and then more together with the Sindar. Even if you were right my lord, even if you Sindar do come from a war faring culture, do you not think that millennia is enough to learn? Do you not think our brave warriors capable, in all that time, of commanding a patrol as well as any Sinda?

  Tell me then, why there are ten Sindarin captains to every one Silvan captain, when sixty percent of our troops are Silvan, my Lord? Tell me, why there are even less Avarin captains. Tell me why our music does not play in your halls, at your feasts. Tell me why Silvan councillors do not advise the king? Tell me why our books of lore are not read in your schools, or why our villages are raided systematically, without the necessary number of troops to protect us. Are you ashamed, my Lords, to rule over the Silvan people?" he asked finally, softly, sadly and this time there were no cheers, only bowed heads.

  "Lord Barathon," conceded Aradan after a long pause, his own voice soft and melancholy.

  "Lord Lorthil," began Bandorion's son. "You exaggerate of course and I understand you do this to rally your people. I too, could rally my own and where would that get us, tell me? Our commanders are just and if they choose a Sindarin captain over a Silvan one, then that is his professional criteria, it is not racism, it is common sense."

  There were murmurs here, even between the Sindarin lords who watched Barathon with concern.

  "You claim for yourselves a Silvan lord that will speak for you, return to you what you consider was once lost but that is not the answer. The answer lies in understanding the truth. We all excel in certain things, as Lord Falagar has already suggested. We Sindar are good warriors and commanders, and you Silvan are excellent troops and archers. The land finds its own balance, naturally, without the intervention of anyone. Let things lie, my friends, let us take the burden of rule so that you may enjoy your forests and your lore. It is as it should be."

  Aradan studied the Silvans carefully and there could be no mistake in what he saw. Their initial euphoria had turned to sadness, and after that had come Bandorion and his son, Barathon. They had turned that sadness into quiet, smouldering outrage, deep hurt that would surely not go unanswered.

  A chestnut haired elf stood then, and Aradan did not recognise him.

  "I would ask permission to speak, my Lords. I am Saroden, Chief Forester of Silver Vale."

  Aradan rose briefly and nodded.

  "My Lords," he said, and then cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. He was nervous for he was not a public speaker; he was a humble Silvan elf of the deep forest.

  "I have a story to tell," he said, his voice tentative and soft, his face unsure but his heart steadfast and determined.

  "It is the story of a Silvan elf. A warrior barely out of novice training. He travelled on his first mission to the small village of Silver Vale where he and his patrol stayed for three days. He worked hard to fulfil his captain's orders. Humble and servile, he toiled along with the rest of us. He was witty and kind, unassuming and quick to help - and the source of much giggling from our younger maidens," he smiled as he remembered, garnering a few soft chuckles from the crowd that had now settled in to listen to Saroden's story.

  "All the villagers watched him with a soft smile, for he was the perfect Silvan child; simple and servile, joyous yet witty.

  Yet one day, a cry went up from our brothers in the distant fields. 'Fire!' they cried, 'Fire in the woods!'. The patrol organised itself, leaving two behind at the pumps, for should the wind change, the flames would engulf our village.

  And so they worked, one Sinda and one Silvan. They worked and they worked until their hands shook but still, our people came for water. It was then, though, that the Silvan warrior tensed and then turned to his brother in arms.

  'I must go,' he said, and so, securing a villager to take his place at the pump, he ran into the woods. He ran away from the rest of his patrol that fought the flames to the East, for he ran to the West, a clarity in his mind that none could understood. He passed our farmers, showing them the way back through the thick, choking smoke but he did not turn back. He pressed on until finally, he came to a small glade that was being consumed by the flames.

  At the base of a mighty beech, our foresters shouted and cried and agonised over what to do, for you see," he paused for a moment, watching his now avid audience, "there were two children high in the boughs of the tree…

  The Silvans gasped, not because they did not know the story for they did, indeed they had added to it themselves. It was the emotion it provoked in them and it was contagious, for now, the Sindar sat on the edge of their chairs, and even the king was leaning forwards.

  "They told him it was impossible, that the bough upon which the little ones sat would not take the added weight of another elf, that instead of two deaths there would be three. The children were forfeit but their carers could not grasp the concept, could not accept the inevitability of their death - for inevitable it was," he emphasised, Saroden now so engrossed in the story he did not see the expectation his story had built.

  "But the Silvan warrior did not believe it, and he did not doubt. He climbed the smouldering trunk until he was high above the ground and then he was lost to their sight. The truth is, that after minutes of tentative hope, and then more minutes of crushing grief, the villagers left, forced by the burning flames and the choking smoke that now turned upon them in fury, pushing them away lest they lose their own lives."

  There were more gasps now, not only Silvan elves but Sindarin too, as if they had forgotten where they sat and had suddenly been transported into the forests, into the burning glade.

&nb
sp; "It was as they had feared. The two children had been lost and with them, the beautiful Silvan warrior that was himself, little more than a child. We sat and we lamented, we sung to the guardians of the world and we shed tears, yet no one more than I, and my wife for you see, those children were my sons. My beautiful, innocent children had been lost to the flames and I was inconsolable."

  Heads were now bowed in grief as the sad story unfolded, but Saroden had not finished.

  "It was the following day when the remaining warriors sat in quiet contemplation before the tree line, that a lone figure appeared. From the smoke and the ashes, a Silvan elf stood, one child upon his back and the other hugged before him. He was unrecognisable then, smudged almost black with the ashes, just as the children were. His eyes streamed and his throat was burned but he was alive and my children with him!"

  He paused and took a deep breath, a breath that echoed around the utterly silent hall.

  "He was taken to the healers and my children hugged and kissed, and then whisked away in worry but also in such joy I cannot explain… This is the story of a Silvan elf; a warrior barely out of novice training. An elf more beautiful I have never seen, for his hair was a silver blond river and his eyes the color of spring river moss. This is the story of The Silvan, the one we have always known resided amongst us, have always known would one day come into the light.

  That day has come, for this is the story of Legolas Thranduilion, son of Lassiel, Lord of Greenwood the Great…"

  His final words were slow and emphasised and so very significant.

  "…you will it or not…" said Saroden finally, a last, lingering stare at Bandorion.

  Aradan's eyes were wide and his breathing too quick. This humble Silvan forester had rallied his people more than any of them had managed to do, with his simple story and yet he had also, it seemed, reached the hearts of the Sindar, for they smiled softly now, for the moment had been memorable and so utterly illustrative of what they wanted, nay demanded. Suddenly it did not seem so bad, did not seem to be a concession at all.