Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  "Alright. You will have my leave, Legolas. Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked in curiosity now.

  "Yes, one more thing."

  "What is it?"

  "There are dignitaries in our escort; Elladan Elrondion and Mithrandir ride with the Company, and leading our warriors, is Lord Glorfindel…" he finished, watching his father for a reaction.

  "Glorfindel," he repeated. "Elbereth…"

  "I know of his friendship with King Oropher," said Legolas carefully.

  "Friendship? Nay - they were brothers, Legolas. Inseparable, of like mind. Two mighty whirlwinds of strength and power. That was a legendary friendship," he smiled in remembrance.

  "Then I must tell you, that Glorfindel has become dear to me, and I to him," he said softly with a smile.

  Thranduil watched his son carefully. There was a hint of worry there, quickly hidden by millennia of experience. Glorfindel had been a constant in Thranduil's younger years, when the reborn warrior had leave to visit, which was admittedly rare. He had fond memories of those times, before he had met Lassiel and everything had changed.

  "The rest of Prince Handir's escort will arrive this evening." I will not ask you to dine with us this day for I know you will not, and of course you have not yet met Rinion. Tomorrow, perhaps," he said, and then added, "remember then. Come to me with your worries, either as my son or as a servant of this realm, and look to Dorhinen for guidance."

  "Of course," said Legolas, moving to replace his hood.

  "Leave it. There is no point."

  Legolas' hand froze, and then he nodded and drew a deep breath. He was anxious and Thranduil could not blame him for that. The boy was stunning to look upon and that in itself would garner him much unwanted attention. It also marked him unmistakably as a scion of the House of Oropher and that meant he was the king's bastard child, for some a blessing and for others, a shameful mockery that would bring insult, and perhaps more. No, Thranduil could not blame him for his apprehension, but it was a necessary step if anything was to be achieved.

  "I will call for you later, Legolas. Come if you so wish it," said the king with one last, long gaze upon his Silvan child. Pulling his own hood up, he turned in spite of his desperate wish to stay, and left the room, only to come face to face with Dorhinen and Melven, and behind them, the entire group of healers, with Nestaron at the fore.

  "My king," he said respectfully with a bow. "Prince Handir has asked for you," he informed with a satisfied smile.

  "How did you know?" asked Thranduil quietly, his frustration clear.

  "You forgot your ring, my Lord."

  Looking down, Thranduil's eyes registered the fact that he had not taken it off. It was no ordinary golden band of office but an emerald as large as a quail's egg, beautiful, save there was one peculiarity. It was roughly-carved, jagged, wild, and so very very bright, just like the elf that had gifted it to him.

  Legolas stood alone inside Nestaron's office. The door was open and beyond it, was utter silence, even though he felt the presence of many souls. His mind was still reeling, the face of his father floating before his mind's eye, the deep bass voice still echoing in his ears. He had met the king, had shouted at him, had smiled at him, had conversed almost normally with him. It sounded absurd, he realised and he almost laughed aloud.

  It had not gone as he had expected it to, for although the anger had been there, so too had other, deeper emotions, the ones laying beneath the anger, the ones that caused it and that Legolas did not want to bring to the fore. It had been all he could do to control them yet even so, they had threatened to spill over. It was some consolation though, that the king, too, had found himself overwhelmed at first, and he undoubtedly had many more years of experience and wisdom.

  Melven came to stand before him and his mind sharpened once more, first on the grey eyes of the Noldorin warrior, and then on his own weapons the Noldo carried with him.

  "Are you alright?" he asked in concern albeit his face remained rigid and unmoving.

  Legolas smiled sparingly, and then spoke so softly that Melven would later wonder if he spoke to himself.

  "Yes. It starts now… the real work starts here, now," he muttered, unaware of just how prophetic his words would turn out to be.

  Melven frowned, not quite understanding his meaning but nodded all the same, and then moved behind Hwindohtar to guard his back for the walk back to the fortress.

  Dorhinen entered then and approached Legolas for the first time, and if Melven was good at masking his emotions, this Sinda was even more so, yet his eyes told a different story, one Legolas could not quite understand. There was recognition there behind the cool grey, but Legolas was sure he had never met this elf.

  "Hadorion," was all the Sinda said with a curt nod at his comrade, before turning and leading the way out of the room and into the Healing Halls and behind him, Legolas, his face no longer hidden, free of the cloak that had masked his identity. It no longer served any purpose for the time had come to show the Greenwood who the Silvan was.

  Healers and patients alike stood watching, transfixed almost, only grudgingly opening a path for the three elves as they passed, leaving it until the last possible moment to do so; everyone wanted to look upon the elf in their midst for it was surely him, they whispered. Indeed the murmurs around them were mostly expressions of shock, poorly stifled gasps of utter disbelief.

  Soon they were outside, walking away from Danir and Llyniel who had been their allies. They watched him leave from afar in sorrow and respect, and Nestaron, Master Healer, watched him in skepticism and fascination.

  Their boots clicked over the stone courtyard, and Lieutenant Galadan saw him from afar, remembering their desperate flight to Imladris and the extraordinary events that he would never forget. The warriors too, looked on - this was the Silvan, they said - this was the young warrior who was a Master Archer, and the Sindarin warriors sneered at them; foolish wood-elves, they smirked, so eager to find a hero for themselves, even in one so lowly, so inexperienced, so sure of his own skill.

  A small group of Sindarin warriors surged forward through the almost silent crowd, catching Dorhinen's eyes, but before he could warn Melven, the Noldo shouted, "down!"

  Legolas ducked and shielded his face with his forearm. Whatever it had been had missed him but seconds later, something impacted with his raised hand. Another object hurtled towards him, but Dorhinen grabbed Legolas and spun him round, taking the stone in his own forehead.

  Dorhinen and Melven drew their blades simultaneously, Sindarin and Noldorin steel shrieking its terrible warning to any that would come close enough to taste their bite. They opened their arms and danced around Legolas protectively, their eyes searching the crowds for the slightest of suspicious movements, but Legolas held out his good hand, silently bidding them to ease down, for Legolas' eyes were now trained on the perpetrator and his friends.

  Above them, drawn by the sudden silence below, Thranduil strode to the window of his office, watching the strangely still crowds with a deep frown on his face, and then spotting the hair of his son. He could not hear what transpired but it was painfully obvious that a volatile situation was playing out and so he watched in unsettled silence as the scene played out silently before him.

  'If anyone thought the danger was not real,' mused the king, 'I am sure they have just changed their minds.' They were divided so clearly - it had become a tribal thing, he realised. This was no longer about individual beliefs but about clans.

  Surely now, only a miracle could pull the Greenwood back together again…

  Slowly, Legolas walked towards the now wide-eyed Sinda who nevertheless stood his ground, in spite of the tall, powerful blond warrior that was approaching him, his face set in a frown of anger, eyes glinting dangerously in the mid-morning sun.

  Soon, they stood before each other and Legolas spoke, loud enough for the closest elves to hear him perfectly.

  "That hurt," he said sarcastically, tipping his head to one side,
eyes boring into the brilliant blue eyes of the seething Sinda who slowly, seemed to be cooling off.

  "It was meant to…" he answered with a hiss, but almost before he had finished, Legolas cut him off.

  "Why."

  "Why what?" asked the Sinda with a sneer.

  "Why would a warrior attack a fellow warrior?" asked Legolas, his eyes slanting as he waited for a reply.

  Melven and Dorhinen shared a frantic glance with each other, but held their defensive stances behind their charge.

  "Warrior?" sneered the Sinda. "You are a child playing war games, you do not deserve to serve in our king's army."

  "Yet I do. So tell me, why would a warrior attack his comrade? Why is color important to you? What has the color of my hair or the hue of my eyes have to do with my service to my king and our people?"

  "It is not color - it's your bastard blood."

  There was a gasp from the crowds, but Legolas was already speaking.

  "On the battlefield, we all bleed red, warrior, we all serve our king," he said and then moved closer still, so that there was no distance between them at all.

  "I would die to protect your brother, your sister. I would die so that your father or mother could live. I would give my life for yours - thus is the way of the true warrior, be he a bastard, high-born or a peasant. It is this," he shouted as his hand fisted over the Sinda's heart, "this that you should look to for your judgement. Look to the heart and what it holds and your judgements will never be false," he said finally, his eyes lingering on the warrior before him.

  The crowds were now silent, and further behind, Lieutenant Galadan smiled, and before any could react, a mighty cheer went up amongst the Silvans, and even some of the Sinda warriors wore soft smiles.

  Legolas swivelled on his heels and then fell back in line with Melven and Dorhinen who did not sheathe their swords until they had reached the main door and the click of boots turned to a thud as they marched upon ornate carpets and rugs.

  Narrowed Sindarin blue and grey eyes beheld the Silvan bastard, the shame of their nation, spawn of a lowly woman with no name or renown, and the Silvan lords, few that they were, watched him in interest and practiced restrain.

  Legolas' hand was bruised and scraped, and Dorhinen's head trickled blood where the stone had hit him squarely on one side of his forehead but they could not stop, not until they had delivered their charge to his assigned quarters, and even then they would not move from his door, not until The Company arrived and so, breathless and tattered, the three strode past Thranduil's entire court, through a roiling sea of thoughts and feelings; so many pre-conceived ideas, a myriad of expletives, of compliments and insults that could surely not be reconciled and yet in one thing they all agreed; this child of Thranduil, bedraggled though he was, boasted a beauty that was not common. His eyes were too bright, his aura too strong, his hair too thick and long and his face, was too beautiful to describe. He was Oropher and yet he was not - for beautiful though the ancient king had been - this one was beyond the comprehensible.

  As Legolas finally walked through the door that Dorhinen held open for him, it seemed that short walk had lasted an age. It was as though he had marched those final steps out of one life, and into another, one there was no turning back from and the thought brought sadness with it.

  "Are you alright?"

  "I am fine, Dorhinen, just - annoyed," he said with a flurry of his good hand.

  "You should not have confronted him, my Lord. Your life was in danger," he said plainly, boldly.

  Legolas turned and came to stand before him, his eyes glancing over the rapidly forming bruise on his head.

  "That is why I did - why I should have confronted him. See to that," he said, pointing at Dorhinen's head and then turning away.

  "I need a uniform," he said absently. "I cannot traipse around in this flimsy clothing," he said, eying his bruised hand. Had he worn his vambraces this would not have happened.

  "I can arrange that, my Lord. 'Tis better you be ready should anything untoward happen. There is more danger than we had initially expected."

  It was the longest sentence Dorhinen had strung together since he had met him and Legolas was strangely heartened by it. For some reason, that skirmish had riled him, enough to shake his growing anxiety at the arrival of Dimaethor, dead or alive he did not know.

  "I would be alone for a while, Dorhinen, Glamohtar," he said more softly now.

  "Of course, my Lord," said one, while the other nodded curtly.

  "And Dorhinen - thank you."

  The Sinda stopped for a moment, and then left in silence and Legolas watched him, before sighing and shedding his cloak. Walking to the open balcony that stretched the entire length of one wall, he looked out over the back of the fortress and for a moment his breath was lost as his eyes tried to register what it was that swept before him. He gasped as he came closer, because for the first time he beheld, in all its natural beauty, the Evergreen Wood, hidden domain of Thranduil's Realm.

  All thoughts of conflict fled his mind as he finally, truly gazed upon it. This was no childish daydream, no illustration in a school book. The vast expanse of trees and lakes and snow-capped mountains was real, and his mind was suddenly alive with colour, texture and aromas, teaming now with whispers as yet inaudible, unfathomable - he closed his eyes and willed it to stop for somehow he knew, that if he opened his mind to it, he would be lost, swallowed - engulfed in a sea of thoughts that were not his own.

  'This is the pride of our people,' he said to himself. 'Never to be spoken of lest it be placed upon a map. This is what we fight for, this is our true home, Yavanna's greatness upon Arda,' he said, and then realised that he had given voice to those thoughts, as if it had been a prayer, a statement of what it was that had only today began. His work as Yavanna's Protege started here, now, and with a slow blink of an eye, he finally accepted his destiny, finally put aside his own suffering and self-pity. From this day forward, his life was dedicated to the people, to the forests of Arda, and to this end he would prepare himself, to the very limits of his own capabilities.

  Later, while Legolas rested, Dorhinen watched Melven from the other side of the door they guarded, a long, calculating stare that soon had Melven frowning.

  "What is it, Dorhinen?"

  "You are Hadorion…"

  "Yes," he said, his frown deepening.

  "I knew your father. I was there the day a mighty Noldorin warrior fell…"

  Aradan strode into Thranduil's office, stopping in the middle of the large room. His head was full of the events down at the courtyard, events he himself had not witnessed. The rushed comments and whispers had reached him though and his keen mind was reeling at the implications.

  His eyes were afire with excitement, yet it was not only his own news but the king's first meeting with Legolas, and Aradan had no idea as to how that meeting had gone.

  His eyes bored into the king's back as the monarch looked out over the Evergreen Wood.

  "Is it true? What they say, is it true?" he asked in mounting excitement.

  But there was no answer, and Aradan's heart thudded uncomfortably. It had not gone well, he deduced.

  "Thranduil…"

  Nothing.

  "By the Valar if I have to go to that room and present myself to him then…"

  "Peace," came the steady voice from the window and Aradan jumped.

  Thranduil slowly turned and once he was fully facing the advisor, Aradan's heart soared to the very heavens for there stood the king, the king he remembered from a millennia ago, the one that had inspired him, lit in him a fierce loyalty that would never be tainted. There, was the Sindarin king Thranduil Oropherion; his light was back, his mind in the present once more, his heart - was back and Aradan's eyes filled with the tears he had not shed in all those years of darkness.

  "You're back," he whispered in reverence as he slowly approached the smiling monarch. One hand reached out and he slowly, hesitantly, placed a palm over the beautiful
cheek, feeling one single tear as it rolled down his own face for the skin he touched was warm and pink, not cold and grey, and the blue eyes were no longer blank, empty shells, but sparkled with life renewed.

  "Tis a miracle," he whispered and then smiled delicately.

  "Tis not a miracle, Aradan. Tis hope rekindled."

  The sky had turned to dark blue, yet the Golden Sun blazed with an intensity that would have blinded any stupid enough to look upon it with the naked eye.

  Golden hair slapped against exquisite armour, dirtied and torn, and brilliant blue eyes sparkled and glinted with steely resolve.

  Ornate boots of leather and golden filigree resounded over stone, carpet and then stone once more, and the burgundy cloak of fine velvet swirled agitatedly around the powerful frame, lapping at strong, booted calves.

  There was an urgency in his stride; worry, a deep anxiety lending him a fierceness that sent any passing elf off his path in a flurry of robes and startled eyes. Even the guards that sought to stop him could not, watching him instead, as he passed for he was known; he was the blazing sun at night, the beloved brother of Oropher had returned. He would not be stopped, none would dare to try.

  Gripping the handle, he opened the door, the wood banging against the stone wall and waking the sleeping elf upon the bed.

  Barely acknowledging the dark elf standing quietly in a corner, he walked slower now, watching as Legolas rose sluggishly from his bed, his face telling Glorfndel he had been deeply asleep. One arm rested in a sling but he was well and suddenly, the tension left him sagging. He was well, and although injured, he had found a way to keep safe.

  Legolas walked towards him, his eyes an open book as they fixed on Glorfindel's. So many emotions, swirling behind those eyes, mused Glorfindel, and none of them controlled but left to fly free and reek havoc. He watched as Legolas breathed in deeply, no longer the brave young warrior he had come to love but the vulnerable child that wished only to feel the strength of a father's arms.