The Sylvanus

by Oliver McBride

  There was no talking, no light-hearted banter. They were alert, their eyes swivelling here and there, ears open to the slightest of discordant sounds, and when they finally found a rocky enclave within which they could set up camp, there was no fire, no hunting and no soft music from Lindo's lyre.

  Handir sat hunched over himself, his face pale but his nose as red as any summer rose, and Legolas approached him and then crouched down to meet his eyes. He softly placed his own cloak over his brother's shoulders and wrapped it around him, before nodding and moving away.

  Handir looked after him, regarding him for a moment, before the ghost of a smile graced his face and he pulled the welcome cloth closer around him, and allowed his mind to return to its musings.

  The following two days passed in much the same way, in tense silence and soon they were descending the mountain, and green grass began to peak through the carpet of snow. The wind had ceased its torture and the sun was slowly melting the ice and snow that still littered the ground.

  There was no sign of orcs, indeed Legolas' good spirits was always a trustworthy sign that they were safe for the moment.

  Quiet conversation had begun once more, and Handir sat a little straighter atop his horse.

  Melven listened to the warriors as they spoke of their things, simple impressions, things they would do when they got home, the food they hoped their mothers or sweethearts would cook for them - the kind of things he imagined friends shared with one another, the kind of things he had not spoken of for many centuries.

  A wave of self pity slammed into him and his eyes lost focus, his mind visually reminding him of why he had turned so bitter, so defensive, so offensive…

  A Noldorin warrior falling from his horse, a pretty maiden holding her hand up in silent farewell…

  Damn them, he spat to himself. Damn them for leaving him, curse them both for abandoning him to a life of solitude and grief. What had he done to deserve it? he asked rhetorically.

  A soft hand poised upon his own startled him and he jerked in the saddle, his eyes snapping to the elf upon his horse beside him, looking at him with eyes that seemed to know - know his pain.

  Idhrenohtar's grey eyes stared at him and then the Wise Warrior smiled softly.

  "You are doing well," was all he said, before trotting back to the rest of his companions.

  He had been abruptly jolted from his dark thoughts and the shock of it, the unexpectedness of those clear grey eyes, had somehow made those thoughts more distant. He would think on it, decided Melven as he came back to himself, to his position at the end of the line, behind The Company, the last warrior. But strangely enough, where before he would have considered it a slight, now, it was almost an honour.

  Thranduil's realm was alive with rumour and mounting expectation. With every day that passed, Prince Handir's escort drew closer to them, and with the escort, rode the Silvan, the king's illegitimate son, the warrior the Silvans claimed as their own.

  The Silvan had already made for himself a reputation as a soldier, having become first a novice, and then a warrior in record time, achieving the status of Master Archer even before riding on his first patrol. Who could have said he was Thranduil's child? They said.

  The statesmen and councillors spoke of the political implications, and the idle ladies spoke of his status, of what he would look like, of whether he sought a wife.

  Further afield, in the forest, the villages spoke of his return, of the end of an era of necessary secrets in which they had protected the child from those that would seek to eliminate him. They spoke of whether he would be accepting of what they had agreed upon, whether he would take up the responsibility and become their warlord.

  And amongst them, the Spirit Herders, with Golloron and Narosen at the fore, spoke of other, more abstract questions, for some months ago, there had been a great disturbance in the forest, one they could not explain, knew not the nature of. They were, however, convinced of one thing. That whatever it had been would soon make itself known - and for some reason, Narosen had been adamant that it had something to do with the boy, the Silvan.

  It would be as Erthoron had said. The Silvans would travel back to the fortress to welcome Legolas, and then to speak with him, explain to him what they wanted. They would show the Sindar what it meant for the Silvan people to regain their culture, their spirit, their art and their dance. They would tell the Sindar how mighty an ally they had, and just how dangerous they could be as an enemy.

  The air of expectation and enthusiasm was returning to the tired travellers, to everyone except Legolas, who grew quieter the closer they travelled to the fortress.

  They were close now, and the land smelled different, felt different. Even the sounds, for the birds sang a distinctively woodland song, unmistakable to any Silvan or Avarin elf, and exotic to the Noldorin members of their group. And then there was that underlying emotion Legolas instinctively knew was not his own, the source of his connection to the trees, the one he was rapidly learning to tap into on a voluntary level, rather than allowing it to overcome him, take him by surprise and make a fool of him, not to mention scare the living daylights out of those that accompanied him.

  Now, that presence was humming with expectant joy, that was how he knew it was not himself, for Legolas was anxious, unsettled, and that was how he would remain for the rest of the day, until their camp was set and they rested for the evening.

  Glorfindel had allowed two hearths to be lit, one for cooking and one for their own comfort. With only two days' ride separated them from the mountain fortress of Thranduil King, the trees spoke of safety, lulling them all into a sense of security that for the moment, Glorfindel seemed to accept.

  Handir sat writing as he talked quietly with Mithrandir, and Elladan too, wrote in his own journal. He had found some plants that he had pressed inside the pages and was now busy documenting them. On the other side of the fire, Melven sat pensively and quietly as he stirred the stew he was preparing. He was almost always alone, and he had born it well enough. Now, however, so close to the end of their journey, Lindohtar approached and sat beside him.

  "What are you preparing?" he asked.

  Melven almost jumped again, his startled eyes meeting Lindohtar's blue eyes for a moment, before they turned back to the pot over the fire.

  "Rabbit stew," he began, and then added as an afterthought, "I use white and orange roots when I can find them, and sage - and thyme if it is to be had. The herbs lend strength to the sauce."

  Lindo bent over the bubbling pot and smelled the creation, closing his eyes against the rising steam and filling his lungs with the mouth-watering aromas.

  "It smells good," he said sincerely.

  "Thank you," replied Melven quietly.

  "Melven," continued Lindo, sitting a little further back from the pot and watching the strange Noldorin warrior. "You have done well, we think. You have served quietly and obediently. You have done your share of the work and you have been diligent. We have seen no sign of antagonism towards Legolas and you have, sagely, kept yourself to yourself."

  Melven watched Lindohtar as he spoke, the hint of hope in his light grey eyes, but he kept silent.

  "We have not seen battle and for that alone we are unsure as to what we will say to Legolas, the opinion we will give him, but know this. If you are a good enough warrior, we will give you a chance, at least."

  Melven's eyes were round and Lindohtar suddenly realised he was surprised, that he had thought they would reject him and send him back to Imladris in disgrace.

  "You have nothing to say?" prompted Lindohtar.

  Melven smiled sparingly, but the inkling of hope was still in his eyes. "I am grateful then, for the chance," he said. "I hope to ease your worries regarding my military skills in the Greenwood."

  Lindo nodded and moved to rise, but Melven stopped him with his next words.

  "Lindohtar," he called. "Don't get me wrong. My silence is not apathy. It is just me - it is the way I am, or so I have been t
old. I want this," he said, "I want this more than you can know…."

  Lindohtar held his gaze and saw the truth in his eyes but he himself was Silvan, and every thought that flitted through his mind was duly reflected upon his features, he willed it or no. He smiled and his eyes lost their severity. It was a Noldorin thing, perhaps, he mused, for Elladan too, was good at hiding his emotions.

  "All right. When we are home, you shall have your chance, Noldo," he said cheekily and then nodded, and left to join the others.

  With only a day to reach the borders, and one further day before they would arrive at Thranduil's fortress, their journey was almost done, but Dimaethor was far too experienced to allow himself to relax, indeed he was sure they had already been seen by the guards. A quick glance over at Legolas confirmed his suspicions for the Silvan had pulled his ample hood up over his features. Funny, he mused; he had returned to the Greenwood so often after patrols, but this time, it was as if they journeyed into enemy territory. Legolas' long-awaited arrival would have garnered a whole array of emotions and intentions from the people of the Greenwood, ranging from euphoria to murderous intent. Meeting the border guard would be their first opportunity to observe their behaviour, their treatment of Legolas.

  He looked over his shoulder first at Handir, and then Mithrandir and the rest of The Company around them. Everything was in order, but somehow, the Avari had managed to plunge himself into a spiral of troubled thoughts.

  Legolas' features showed that he too, was troubled. There was a nervous unrest about him that had not been there before and he supposed he himself must look that way too, for Legolas reflected what he himself felt; anxiety, vulnerability, suspicion, apprehension.

  He placed a hand on Glorfindel's vambrace, and with a poignant look, he fell back and joined the Silvan, under the intent stare of the Commander. Once their horses were abreast, he leaned towards him, and quietly asked, "what is it?"

  Legolas shook his head. "I am unsure. There does not seem to be any immediate danger, not at least that the trees recognise as such and yet - and yet I am uneasy. You feel it too," he said confidently as he looked back at Dimaethor.

  "Yes - I do, and I do not like it. Make sure The Company is alert, Legolas…"

  He nodded, and then turned to the others as Dimaethor resumed his position beside Glorfindel and bowed his head to inform their commander.

  No one had missed the movement of course, and mere seconds passed before they all sat straighter, their senses on full alert, hands subtly checking the readiness of their weapons.

  After a while, Legolas approached Glorfindel and spoke quietly in his ear.

  "These trees are strange - they are shifty, nervous. They say one thing and then another - they are strangely, distressed. Glorfindel, if I could just approach the tree line for a moment, I may be able to garner some information…"

  The commander considered for a moment, before nodding. "Stay within eyesight, Legolas."

  Handir and Mithrandir watched carefully as Legolas saluted, and then cantered towards the line of trees to their right and dismounted, his steed trailing behind him. Its intelligent brown eyes watched closely, as if it understood why the elf with the long, flowing mane placed a palm against the bark and bowed his head. After a few moments he moved to the next tree, and still nothing. It was the third tree though, that finally told Legolas what he had been dreading for the past few hours.

  The horse neighed and whinnied and pranced from side to side but it did not flee, it's strange dance turning everyone's head to the sight none had wanted to see, for even from that distance, they could clearly see the beacon of blazing green energy that shone from Legolas' eyes.

  Turning to his distant patrol, his head throbbing in pain, Legolas could do no more than signal where the danger came from, for the enemy would be upon them before he could return to them. His hands frantically signed how many there were, finally drawing a circle in the air with his index finger - they were surrounded.

  Glorfindel's heart sank to his boots, and with his powerful battle voice, barked out his orders, but even as he did so, a thick black shaft whistled from the trees and then thudded, straight into the centre of its intended target and stunned silence fell over them all.

  "NOOOOOOOOOO!" shouted Legolas and Dimaethor simultaneously, and then watched in horror as the prince's horse pranced and then bolted towards Legolas' position with Handir atop it, half-heartedly struggling to remain aloft, but the closer he came to Legolas' position the more he leaned to one side, until he fell with a thud to the ground and the horse danced to one side.

  "Handir!" screamed Legolas as he sprinted the short distance that separated him from his brother's still form upon the ground, a thick, black shaft protruding from the centre of his chest, his tunic already soaked bright crimson.

  Glorfindel and The Company, their faces still twisted in stunned horror, had made to follow but the enemy was already upon them, they could not move from where they were, for arrows were raining down on them.

  "Go, Dima! Help them!" said Glorfindel urgently to the lieutenant at his side.

  Dimaethor's deep blue eyes glinted, his only answer to the commander and Glorfindel watched him go, praying that between Legolas an the Avari, they would somehow, beyond all hope, be able to defend the fallen son of Thranduil, that if he was still alive…

  Dimaethor thundered away, dismounting even as his horse still galloped, and then running to a halt beside Legolas, sparing a worried glance at Handir.

  "Do not be distracted, Hwindo, he said, as the distant sounds of battle erupted. "We circle around him, protect him with our lives if it comes to that, but do not try to help him now," warned Dimaethor as he crouched low and waited for the first orcs to meet them.

  "I will not fail," said Legolas, his voice steady and strong, his long spear now in his hand, twirling menacingly in his skilled hands as he moved it from one to the other.

  "Steady, brother, steady," said Dima to Legolas. He was a lieutenant, and an experienced one and although he had fought with Legolas on various occasions, he had never seen him in a situation as stressful as this. A prince of the realm lay unconscious behind them, his brother, and nothing but the two of them to keep him from Mandos against what were surely grim odds.

  Legolas' eyes were still shining, lending him the fiercest mien Dimaethor had ever seen, and although beautiful, he rather thought Legolas was more terrifying to look on in that moment, than any orc he had ever confronted, and he was an Avari. It was no wonder then, that the orcs that ran towards them slowed to a halt before engaging, their roars of primal fear drawing the attention of friend and foe alike, their teeth barred as if they could somehow scare the green-eyed warrior away. They circled the two elves, reaching out as if to touch, to hit, but they pulled back as if burned and Legolas snarled, making even Dimaethor's skin crawl.

  All it took was one of the larger orcs to rush forward and have its throat slit in return, for the spell to be broken and they lurched forward as one. Each with their own particular battle cry, hefted their weapons and stepped into the mass of black bodies.

  Dima beheaded one with his sword and almost simultaneously slit the throat of another with the curved dagger in his other hand while Legolas distanced himself a little and whirled his mighty spear over his head, catching the first orc in the chest and swiping him aside with a sickening thud.

  The clash of Dima's sword and the sound of heavy wood moving through air marked the onslaught of a fierce stand in which the Avari and the Silvan-Sinda fought the battle of their lives, and close by, The Company, together with Glorfindel, Mithrandir and Melven did likewise, but the distraction was great, for two of their brothers fought alone, defending their wounded prince who lay worryingly still behind them.

  A thick black shaft sailed through the air, and then pierced Rhrawthir through the upper arm, jolting him painfully back to reality and throwing him to the ground. He was quickly on his feet and with a harsh grunt, he pulled out the arrow and smelled it,
before throwing it to the ground and drawing his sword. Another arrow landed in the mud at Lindo's feet and he danced to the side lest the archer sight him again.

  Ram en Ondo shoved the pommel of his sword into an orc's face and then side-stepped and beheaded another, while Melven worked his sword at his side, slashing and stabbing

  Strangled shouting suddenly rang in their ears, it was Legolas' unmistakable voice. Something had happened, as they had known it would, for it had surely been inevitable ….

  "No!" shouted Legolas as he struggled to push back the waves of goblins, while shouting, "stay down!" stay down, Dima!" "Dima?" he shouted, for he needed a response - but there was none. "Dima!" he tried again, but nothing.

  It was all he could do to stop the enemy from overrunning them and so with a mighty cry of anger and frustration, fuelled now by despair, he hefted his spear aloft and began to move it around him, gaining some space so that he could, at least, look back and see what had happened.

  He could not lose focus - he knew Handir had been hit but he had not been prepared for the sight that greeting him, for his brother lay still beneath the body of Dimaethor, who did not move, a hideous black arrow straight through his side.

  "No!" he roared, before turning back to the fight and swiping two orcs to one side and then turning back. Handir's eyes were closed but he still drew breath, and so did Dima, but it was clear they had both been gravely wounded, that the Avari had thrown himself atop his prince in what may prove to have been a futile attempt to save his life.

  Anger welled from the depths of his soul, so great it surged through his body and took over every conscious thought. With a bone-chilling scream, he wielded his spear faster than the orcs could follow, his movements precise and yet powerful, every blow a death stroke and the more he killed the less emotion he showed.