Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  Melven nodded, unconvinced at the wisdom of it, but Legolas had a point and so he stayed by the door with no door, poking his head around the wall and watching as Legolas padded silently along the aisle, bootless and cloaked once more.

  The noise from before had died down to barely nothing. The odd murmur here and there, the clink of glass, the scrape of a chair.

  He was at the door he thought led to Handir's bed and so he carefully leaned around the wooden door frame and peered inside. His eyes immediately latched on to the elf in a large bed, his face as white as the sheets he lay upon.

  He looked dreadful, but he was alive, his chest moving rhythmically up and down.

  Creeping inside, he moved silently to the bed and looked down at the face that resembled his own.

  His hair had been carefully arranged around him, freshly washed and brushed and he smiled.

  Carefully, he sat on the side of the bed and lay his hand on his brother's naked shoulder.

  "Handir," he called softly. "Can you hear me, Handir?" he whispered, but there was no answer and he sighed softly in defeat. His brother was deeply asleep.

  A rustling on the other side of the bed startled Legolas and he visibly jumped, and then partially stifled the groan that escaped him as his collar bone moved. Someone had been sitting on the other side of the bed, in a chair shrouded in shadow - until now - and the figure that occupied it slowly leant forward until his face and loose hair moved into the light, and Legolas' world suddenly narrowed to that one spot, his eyes and his mind, his hearing and his sense of smell all trained involuntarily upon the face that stared back at him.

  Legolas' heart dropped to the soles of his feet and his breath would not come. His eyes trembled, as if overloaded, overwhelmed by the rush of detail, each clambering for his attention and a strange paralysis took him. He could not think, could do nothing but stare and hope that his mind would eventually work itself out and begin to order his tumultuous mind.

  It was him and yet it was not. This was the elf Legolas had despised all his life; the elf that had abandoned him, the elf that had created him for the purpose of perpetuating another, as if he himself had never been a part of the plan. This was the elf that had used him selfishly, so that his own heart would not break, so that he would not fade. This was the elf that reminded him of that, unwanted, Sindarin streak in him, the one he still could not come to terms with because it represented his father, a father he did not understand, a father he rejected deep down inside himself and yet did not want to.

  How could an elf that inspired in him such negativity, be so confoundedly, stunningly - beautiful?

  "You brought him back, warrior?" came the gentle, rich baritone voice of King Thranduil.

  His mouth opened, knowing instinctively that he should speak, but what to say! How to say it without giving himself away, giving away his stupor?

  "Yes, my Lord," said Legolas softly, his mind frozen almost in alarm, fear for what the king would say now, if he would order him to remove his hood… such muddled thoughts but he could not cope with the onslaught. He felt a sudden wave of panic at his own inability to react.

  "Then you have my thanks, warrior," said the king calmly, sadly almost.

  "It was an honour, my Lord," replied Legolas so softly it was almost a whisper and again he waited in trepidation, his entire body poised to flee, muscled bunched painfully and sending pulses of deep pain down his left arm.

  "What is your name?" came the dreaded question and Legolas closed his eyes under his hood.

  "Hwindohtar," he said, hoping against hope the king would not ask for his surname, that his warrior name would be enough.

  There was a prolonged silence before the king spoke again, one that seemed an eternity to Legolas.

  "Well then, Hwindohtar. You have served with honour, he said, and then slowly sat back, the incomprehensible beauty fading into the shadows once more, leaving behind but the sparkle of bright eyes to remind Legolas that he had, indeed, been there - it had not been a vision.

  Legolas stood somewhat stiffly, feeling the heavy weight of the king's gaze upon him even now. He bowed, and with a simple "by your leave," he left the room as slowly as he could manage and when he was in the aisle, making his way back to his room still he did not look back, dared not. When he finally reached his room he walked straight to the other side and then stopped, eyes cast to the floor and finally allowing his lungs to heave in the air he had starved them of.

  Melven approached him in alarm.

  "Hwindo?" he called, but there was no answer, and he set a calming hand upon the Silvan's shoulder.

  "I - I have just met him…" he said, still stunned almost speechless.

  "Met who?" asked Melven in mounting realisation.

  "The king - I just met the king."

  Legolas dozed fitfully, for sleep would not come. He was too nervous, felt too vulnerable, and he was still stunned at the chance meeting with his father.

  The extraordinary face floated behind his mind's eye. The finely chiselled features, the strong brows and noble nose, the curved lips so like his own and the perfect, porcelain skin that shone with a brilliance few elves could boast. His hair was almost silver, lighter even than his own and the sum of it was was nothing short of breath-taking. This was the father he had rejected all his life, the one he had hated, and then had come to think of with cold indifference.

  He was Sindarin, there could be no denying it, for features aside, it was his bearing, his expression. The deep blue eyes held long wisdom, the set of his jaw spoke of pride and authority and Legolas rather thought that in times of peace he would be lovely, and coveted, but in times of battle, he would be terrifying to behold.

  It was not what he had been expecting - but then what had he expected? he asked himself. Had he even stopped to think about it?

  He heaved an irritated sigh and sat up with a quiet groan, so as not to wake Melven who dozed beside him. It was the dead of night and his restlessness took him to the small window on the other side of the room.

  The moon was full and cast a soft blue haze over the courtyard beyond and he suddenly wanted to be there, outside, feel her soft caress upon his skin, sooth his chaotic mind so that he could once more think straight, put some order to the mess of thoughts and emotions that would not cease to plead for his attention.

  With one last look at Melven, he floated from the room, wrapping his cloak clumsily around himself and flipping the hood over his head.

  Soon he was outside, perched upon a stone bench that sat in a quiet corner and although he was surrounded by stone, the view of the sky was unhindered and he tilted his head back. His skin felt the blue light, absorbed it; he seemed to flare in joy at its touch, and in spite of his conflicting emotions, the bone-deep anxiety that gnawed at his gut, he smiled softly.

  Thranduil sat in his study, but today he did not sit at his paper-strewn desk where he would normally be found; he sat upon the window bank, one knee folded under his chin with his other leg left to anchor him to the stone floor below.

  He looked so young, mused Aradan from the door, vulnerable even, an adjective he would never have thought to use with the king and yet it was the truth. There was a melancholic air about him this morning and the advisor knew he would not have slept, not with Handir so sorely injured.

  "Good morning, my Lord," he said with a bow that went unnoticed and Aradan did not insist, rather he turned to the table and sat before it, waiting for Thranduil to acknowledge his presence.

  Soon enough the king turned silently and rose, gliding over to the table and catching the advisor's eye.

  "He is here," he said quietly.

  "Handir, yes," said Aradan with a frown, wondering why the king would state such an obvious thing.

  "Legolas, Legolas is here," rectified the king, watching as the news sunk in and Aradan's eyes widened in shock.

  "What? Why didn't you tell me! My Lord I…"

  "Peace, Aradan," came the king's voice. "It was a chance me
eting in which his identity went - unaddressed."

  There was a silence, in which Aradan desperately struggled to understand what had happened, what his friend was talking about.

  "He was the warrior who brought Handir back. He visited his sick bed when he thought there was no one there," he explained, watching as Aradan's face remained as confused as before.

  "He was cloaked and hooded, Aradan. I could not see him but I knew him all the same."

  Aradan was silent, his face now blank.

  "He knew who I was of course but he did not reveal himself, Aradan. He used a nickname, thinking I would not know of it, and I did not want to antagonise him, not there. It was neither the time nor the place for such meetings…" he trailed off and Aradan watched him closely, knowing he had not finished.

  A maid momentarily interrupted them as she set a tray of tea upon the king's table, curtseyed and then left.

  It took a while for the king to speak once more but when he did, Aradan startled, for it was so soft, so distant.

  "His hands are strong and caring, his hair is the colour of the snow pumas of the Northern Evergreen wood, his voice deep and soft…"

  There was a yearning in the king's voice that tugged at Aradan's heart, for that sadness he had noted no sooner he had arrived was still there, had not dissipated in spite of the arrival of his son.

  "Are you not happy then, my Lord?" he asked rhetorically.

  "Happy?" he asked, as if surprised at the question. "No, not happy, Aradan. How can I be when I cannot embrace my own son openly? How can I when I see him flinch at my presence. He did, you know. When he realised who it was who sat in the shadows he froze, like a hunted rabbit."

  "I understand his anxiety, Thranduil. It does not mean he will reject you," said Aradan carefully as he poured their tea and set a cup before the king.

  "What will you do?" he asked as he sat back and stirred his tea.

  The piercing blue eyes settled on Aradan and the advisor could see the change in his features now. He had steeled himself, snapped his introspective mood and made a decision.

  "I will seek him out. I do not wish to antagonise him, Aradan. I want him to see I will not push him into something he does not want, unless it will endanger him. I must try to make him see my intentions are good ones."

  He paused here, turning for a moment and brushing down his hair in an uncharacteristic show of apprehension.

  "I will visit Handir, and then I will find him and speak to him alone, before everything spirals out of control and any chance of gaining his confidence is lost."

  "Your presence in the healing halls will not go unnoticed, Thranduil. You will have no privacy there," said Aradan.

  "It will go unnoticed," he said resolutely. "Send for Galion, Aradan, and have Dorhinen ready to accompany me in thirty minutes."

  "Thranduil, are you sure this is the best…"

  "I am sure, Aradan. If I summon him here, I am his king and as such I must act. I wish to meet him first as a father."

  Aradan looked into Thranduil's deep blue eyes, saw the determination, the desire to do things right with his son but he could not help but wonder if he was opening the door to his own heartbreak, that by offering the child this moment of equality, Legolas would turn on him. But he could not say that. He would be overstepping his boundaries as an advisor, and there was no mistaking Thranduil's confidence in that his tactic was the right one.

  "I wish you luck, my friend," he said softly with a smile which was returned by the king, "enjoy the moment, if you can…" and then the advisor left, in search of Galion and Dorhinen, his critical mind wading through all the possible scenarios and all of them, without exception, were as complicated as they were unpredictable.

  Truth be told it was not only about all that would begin this day, it was his own unbearable curiosity to meet the elf that had turned Greenwood inside out, that had the power, if he so wished, to return their land to what it had once been, and with it, restore her powerful monarch in all his Sindarin glory.

  'Enjoy the moment, if you can…'

  Yet in truth he felt sick to the stomach. He would see his face, watch him speak, move - he would see Lassiel again…" he abruptly turned to the window once more, composing himself for what he had to do now would require all his skill, all his control. He would dress simply, hide his features and get himself to the Healing Halls. He would end this unbearable misery, confront these fears, his uncertainty. If Legolas was to reject him then so be it, there were still political decisions to be made, decisions in which Legolas would participate, in spite of their personal relationship, or lack thereof. But if there was any chance, the slightest hope of a future together as family, Thranduil would seize it and nurture it, redeem himself if he could, not for love of Lassiel -that mistake he had already made. He would do it for Legolas.

  Galion arrived then, together with the imposing figure of Dorhinen.

  "Galion, Dorhinen. What I have to say now is of the utmost secrecy and must not be discussed outside this room, to anyone," he began, watching as the two elves nodded their understanding.

  "Galion, find me some simple, civilian attire and a cloak that will sufficiently cover my identity. Dorhinen," he said, turning to the imposing Sindarin lieutenant, you have been briefed?" he asked expectantly.

  "I have, my King. I am to guard your son Legolas until such time that any potential danger passes."

  "Have you been told nothing else?" he asked, his eyes searching the blank features of the Sinda.

  "I know he is called the Silvan, I know he is a Master Archer - that is the sum of it, my King."

  "And how do you feel about this duty, Dorhinen?"

  "I am honoured to carry out your bidding, my king."

  Thranduil trusted this guard implicitly, for he had been his own fathers body guard for many centuries, had been with him when he had fallen. Dorhinen had suffered terrible guilt for centuries more, chastising and berating himself for not having protected his beloved king, indeed since then he had never taken up a similar post, preferring instead to serve in the southernmost patrols.

  "I know you are loyal, Dorhinen, but I asked you how you feel," he emphasised, and then waited for the stern warrior to reply.

  "I am, surprised, my King, surprised that you would trust me with the protection of your child."

  "Then you should be pleasantly surprised, Dorhinen. I never blamed you for the fall of my father - I trust you implicitly, and - I need you to remember - that the danger may come from within. There may be factions amongst the Sindar, your own people, that would seek to harm him."

  "That will not stay my hand, my King," said the blue-eyed Sinda with golden hair.

  He was cold and reserved, an elf of few words and no outward emotions, but Thranduil had known the depths of his love for the first King of Greenwood, his desolation when he had fallen.

  "Dorhinen. The child is here, in the Halls of Healing. We go there now, undercover. I need you to guard us while we speak."

  Dorhinen turned his eyes to the king. "Why not here, my King? it is surely safer."

  "I beg to differ, Dorhinen," was all the king said, before leaving to change, under the puzzled and curious gaze of the Sindarin guard.

  Legolas awoke with a groan of pain for in his sleep he had turned onto his bad side.

  "Here," said a deep voice from beside his bed. Melven.

  "Have you slept at all?" asked Legolas tiredly as he sat up and accepted the mug of hot tea, his hand rubbing at the throbbing bruise on his face.

  "No," was all Melven said and Legolas snorted at the Noldorin warrior. I should have named you Dimaethor, for you are as Silent as a tomb, my friend."

  No sooner had he said it and his stomach flipped. Dimaethor could be dead, he remembered, the Avari's pale face coming back to him, bleeding upon the floor.

  His dark thoughts were cut off by the arrival of Danir, the Silvan healer that had tended to him the night before.

  With a smile and a nod, he walked ov
er to the bed, his eyes assessing his patient as he approached.

  "How is that shoulder?" he pointed, waiting for Legolas to deposit his tea on the side table.

  "A little sore," he admitted, and Danir tutted as he rolled his eyes. "Warriors!" he exclaimed as he pulled back the loose shirt and inspected the bandages. "Drink your tea and then I will change these," he said with a practised voice of authority.

  "How is Prince Handir, Danir?" asked Legolas, watching the healer carefully to discern the truth of his words.

  "He awoke not minutes ago. Master Nestaron says he will recover."

  Legolas visibly sagged, a rush of air leaving him somewhat palid. "Thank the Valar," he breathed.

  "Have a care, Hwindohtar," warned Danir. "It is rumoured your escort is but a days' ride away. It seems our warriors have intercepted your group and are riding in with the wounded. These halls may be busy later this evening."

  "Is there anywhere private? A room with a door?" he emphasized.

  "No, only the Master Healer's office, but Nestaron is Sindarin, and I am unsure as to his reception of you, Hwindohtar."

  "Then we will just have to stay here. If the group arrives this evening, then that is all I need," he said, and then added, "do they - do they mention any deaths?"

  "No, only wounded, but this is the report of a warrior, not a healer. We must wait."

  "Of course," said Legolas, as Dimaethor's face came to his mind's eye once more.

  Before long, Legolas was dressed simply in his breeches and boots, and a shirt that marked him as a patient of the Healing Halls. His uniform had been stained and taken away for cleaning no doubt. Only his long hooded cloak remained and so, with a little help from Melven, he draped it over his shoulders.

  His hair was still loose, but only because Legolas was incapable of doing anything about it with only one arm, and it was Melven who gestured to it now. Gathering the thick Avarin twists into a high tale at his crown and tying it off with the hair itself as he had seen Dimaethor do, he took a large portion at the temples and weaved thick archer's plaits on either side, finishing them with an intricate knot that denoted mastery. The rest was left to hang loose down to the small of his back.