Title & Chapter Number: Dark Council 10 (5-6)/11 Sequel to Solace
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: LOTR
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any of J.R.R.R. Tolkien's characters. Only Garand is mine. I needed a beautiful male elf - don't we all? :o)
Warnings: None
Betas:
Cast: Thranduil/OC (Garand)
Timeline: AU/Pre-Fellowship
Spoilers: Nope
Summary: King Thranduil and his son Legolas are still struggling with the grief of losing their beloved wife and mother, when a young visitor to the palace teaches the king that comfort can come from unexpected places.
Notes: Inspired by Elisa's Photo Mainp "Sire", as seen at Lassegalen's Laire
"You may desist in this little drama, Rymir," Thranduil said between clenched teeth. "I know `twas you who did this," he spat, indicating his unconscious lover as he leaned protectively over him.
"What, *too* sincere?" the Councilman asked innocently. "I thought I displayed just the right amount of astonishment and distress. I could have been an accomplished thespian, do you not think so?"
Thranduil glared silently in reply. As he crouched over Garand, his flaxen hair spilled wildly across his shoulders. A feral snarl formed on his beautiful lips, his aqua-blue eyes glittering with fury in the flickering torch light. "What do you hope to gain from this?" he demanded.
The smug smile vanished from Rymir's face, and his chin lifted in defiance. "Satisfaction," he said insolently.
"For *what*?"
"For his self-righteous rejection of me," the Council member said haughtily.
"If you think him self-righteous, then you do not know him at all, Rymir. If anything, Garand has never thought himself good enough."
Rymir argued vehemently, "He has always thought he was *too* good for me."
"He is," Thranduil replied quietly. "But then, I can think of no one who *isn't*."
The silvery eyes of the Councilman flashed angrily.
Realization came over Thranduil then, and he shook his head in disbelief. "You think I keep Garand as a possession, and forbid him any other relationships. I've no doubt that is how you conduct your so-called romances, Rymir, but `tis not the way of *our* love. Garand is no prisoner here; he has bound himself to me of his own free will, and I to him, and for that reason alone, I call him mine. But you cannot understand that, can you? You have never known how to wait for something good to come to you; you think the way to acquire what you want is by grasping, and clawing, and scheming to *make* it yours. You have been such a fool," he added a little sadly. "Garand's friendship is a wonderful gift, to be cherished, but you will never know it, now. He finds you loathsome, and you have no one to blame, but yourself."
Rymir sneered furiously. He ripped the cloak from his shoulders and drew a sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. "I grow weary of talking; we will fight now, yes?" he asked sarcastically.
King Thranduil rose to his full height and regarded the Councilman calmly. "You have lured me here to challenge me for Garand. I will not fight you for his love. It is not something to be won in a contest; he alone can give it, and he gives it to *me*. But you dishonor him and me with your malicious schemes, and you have harmed my people in the carrying out of those schemes, and for that, we *will* clash."
Shrugging the cloak from his broad shoulders, and without taking his eyes off the other, the blonde Elf reached into the top of his boot to draw out a long knife. Rymir began to sneer at the comparatively small weapon the King brandished, but when Thranduil reached over his shoulder to pull a sword from the scabbard on his own back, the sneer froze on the Council member's face. It had never occurred to him that the Mirkwood ruler was skilled in the ancient Elven fighting style of using two blades at once, but he was determined to see this through, and he clutched his sword powerfully, advancing toward Thranduil. The King moved away from the unconscious Garand, drawing Rymir away from him also.
The Councilman made the first move, swinging his sword in a tight arc aimed at the King's chest. Thranduil blocked it easily with the long knife, and when the two blades collided, the impact of it sent shockwaves rippling up the length of Rymir's arm. Thranduil stood in the same spot, unmoved by the blow; it hadn't even jarred him. Rymir recalled suddenly, hearing tales of the uncommon physical power of the King of Mirkwood, but he'd never believed it before. He himself was an accomplished swordsman, but he suspected now that sheer ability would not be enough. He would have to take another tack.
"You think I lured you here to challenge you for Garand, my lord Thranduil? `Tis *much* too late for that. Besides, it wouldn't be very imaginative, would it? There is a much grander plan at work here."
The King's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you talking about?" he growled.
Rymir's demeanor suddenly took a drastic turn. The smirk on his lips, and the arrogant expression in his eyes were gone, replaced by a look of desperate terror.
"Members of the Council," he began his speech, "I cannot think what came over the King. He was enraged, insane with jealousy. When I received his note asking me to meet him in the wine cellar, I could not imagine what it was about. I found Garand dead when I arrived, and His Majesty lying in wait for me. He repeatedly accused me of being Garand's lover in secret, saying that he knew we betrayed him and had been laughing at him all along. I could not reason with him; had I not slain him, my fate would surely be that of poor young Garand's. Forgive me; he gave me no choice."
Thranduil regarded Rymir in utter disbelief, one eyebrow raised as he shook his head. "You are mad as an Orc, Rymir. Not one member of the Council will believe that story, and why would you kill Garand, anyway? You have openly hungered after him these many years."
"He had his chance," the black-haired Elf scornfully replied. "Now you will both pay for his pride. My only regret is that you will go into the Halls of Mandos together; even in death I cannot separate you two, it seems. But you will both be out of my way, at least."
"You have miscalculated, Rymir; Garand is not dead."
The insolent smile returned to Rymir's face. "The evening is young," he purred.
The remark had an unexpected outcome. Storm clouds gathered in Thranduil's bright eyes, and the muscles of his chiseled jaw worked furiously, as he ground his teeth in rage. He threw back his golden head and bellowed his wrath to the ceiling. Rymir stood rooted, fully expecting the King to charge him with all his strength. What he did instead caused the Councilman's mouth to fall open stupidly. Hefting the sword in his hand, Thranduil turned to the stone wall of the wine cellar, nearly twenty feet away, and hurled it. It sang as it sailed through the chilly air, and the unnerving scrape of metal on stone rang through the chamber, as the sword embedded itself deep in the rock. The hilt, and a mere eight inches of the blade were all that protruded from the wall, and they swayed crazily back and forth, reverberating with the force of the impact.
Rymir dragged his widened eyes away from the sword to look at Thranduil again. The King regarded him with unreadable eyes as he stood holding only the fighting knife.
"You see, Rymir?" he said softly. "I have given you an advantage; come to me now, this ends tonight."
The Council member swallowed hard. The scene was not at all playing out as he'd imagined it would. He expected to be facing a ruler who'd grown soft and complacent from the many meetings and banquets he'd been required to attend over the years. The confident warrior King before him was never a part of his fantasy. He would never be able to best him in combat.
"I could have satisfied Garand in ways you never dreamt of, your Majesty," the Councilman baited the King impudently. Clearly, the stinging remark was intended to stir up Thranduil's jealousy and ire, and push him into making a careless move, something the blonde Elf instantly recognized, by the desperation in Rymir's voice and eyes. He would never have a more perfect opportunity, so the Mirkwood ruler played along.
"So, your `grand plan' is to kill both Garand and me, portray me as Garand's assassin and then what, Rymir?"
A self-satisfied smile lit Rymir's face as he answered, "And then Mirkwood will be mine."
Thranduil was genuinely stunned for a moment, but he managed to hide it. He continued with the pretense of believing the Councilman's outlandish words. "How do you hope to accomplish that?" he asked. "The Council will never accept your story. Do you think they are children?"
"I think they are mindless sheep!" Rymir spat furiously. "They will believe whatever I choose them to believe."
"You have forgotten someone, have you not?" Thranduil asked indignantly. "What of my son? He will never tolerate these actions from you."
"That whelp?" the Councilman laughed in derision. "He *is* a child. I will lead him by the hand, and he will come to trust me as a surrogate father and mentor. I can easily manage *him*, your Majesty."
Thranduil drew a deep breath, and visibly relaxed. He lowered his weapon and gazed calmly at his adversary.
"Have you heard enough, Councilmen?" he called into the shadows of the wine cellar behind Rymir.
~*~*~*~
"The `mindless sheep' have heard more than enough, your Majesty," an angry voice said quietly.
Rymir whirled around to see the other remaining members of the Council step out of the deep shadows at the back of the wine cellar. Legolas was with them. It was Throlas, the friend of Thranduil, who had spoken. He stood silently with the other Councilmen who now fixed Rymir with angry, accusatory stares. The black-haired Elf looked from one to the other, his mouth working furiously as he struggled to dig himself out of the deep pit he now found himself in.
"Councilmen," he said in a placating voice, "surely you did not take my words seriously. Perhaps it was in poor taste, but I meant only to avenge my `injured pride'. I never intended to carry out those threats, you must know that."
His lip curled in disgust, the Prince turned to the shadows behind him and beckoned with his hand. Isil-Gar and Vilmaril stepped forward together and silently advanced on the Councilman, confining him between them, their onyx eyes boring into him menacingly.
"Even if they believed you, Rymir, how do you explain Garand's state? He is *bleeding*," Thranduil injected from where he now knelt beside his lover.
"That *is* unfortunate," Rymir explained reasonably. "When he came in, ahead of you, I am afraid our conversation got out of hand. Accusations were made, we argued, and I am ashamed to say that I lost control of my good judgment. I struck him when he turned his back, and for that I am deeply sorry."
"There is only one flaw in your explanation," Garand said as he sat up and gingerly touched the shallow cut on his scalp. "We never spoke, I never saw you, and if I had, I most certainly would never have turned my back on you." He turned his beautiful face to Thranduil and smiled gently. "Are you all right, dearest?" he asked, concerned.
Thranduil laughed, shaking his blonde head. "Am *I* all right? Here you lay, injured, and you ask after my welfare!" His face grew serious. "When I saw you lying there, I thought my heart would burst, until I realized you were still breathing; then I remembered that the tiniest nick in the scalp can cause profuse bleeding, and I knew with certainty that you would recover from this. If I had thought otherwise, Rymir would not still be standing. I love you so, Garand," he said tenderly as he held his lover's face in his hands, "and I swore to the Valar that if they did not take you from me, I would shout my love for you from the pinnacle of the palace for all to hear."
The auburn-haired Elf smiled as his heart swelled with a flood of warmth at Thranduil's words. "I would not ask it of you," he whispered. "'Tis enough that you *would* make good on your oath to the Valar."
Then the King of Mirkwood did something he'd never done before. In full view of the Council, he kissed Garand fervently, clutching him to his chest, fraught with the knowledge of how easily he could've lost him this night. When they parted, the young warrior gazed at his King and lover in wonder. Thranduil smiled at him and stood, leaning down to help him up from the dirt floor. With a strong arm around his shoulders, the King guided Garand past Rymir, who now stood dejectedly between Thranduil's two most loyal Guards. When the two lovers stood before Legolas, Thranduil hugged him gratefully.
"My beautiful, brilliant son," he murmured. "How did you know to come here, and to bring help?"
"I saw the note in your study that was supposedly from Garand. At first I assumed it *was* from him, until I looked more closely." He held up the note for his father to see. "An impressive forgery, with the exception of one thing." He pointed. "This letter is all wrong. Garand has a very distinctive way of writing it. You would not know that, unless you sat beside him during many years of study. I went to your bedchamber to look for him, and found the other note. I knew before I read it, that its contents would be almost identical to the false note from Garand. After finding Isil-Gar and Vilmaril, we rounded up the members of the Council, and came here as quickly as we could. What do you think, Rymir?" he called out, looking past the King. "Not bad for a feeble-minded whelp, wouldn't you say?"
The Councilman only glared at him hatefully, refusing to answer.
Legolas took his father's hands in his, squeezing them lovingly. "I was so afraid for you, adar," he said. "But when we entered through the passageway, and heard Rymir's words, I knew you would not want us to interfere until he had made a full confession. I desperately wanted to come to your defense ….. until I saw you draw your blades. I'd forgotten you were still so skilled in battle."
Thranduil smiled in amusement. "So, you thought your decrepit old father needed aid?" His face grew serious again. "I train with Isil-Gar frequently. I would not send my warriors into battle if I myself am not prepared to fight. Thank you for your concern, Las. I have said it before, but it bears repeating. You are a truly extraordinary son." He reached out to gently touch the Prince's face.
A defiant voice behind him rang out in the chilled air. "You have yet to prove *anything*," Rymir challenged.
Before the King could reply, Vilmaril spoke. "Your Majesty, may we?" he asked.
"Of course, Vilmaril," Thranduil replied, his voice slightly hesitant. He glanced questioningly at Isil-Gar, who only smiled in reassurance.
Looking beyond the group of Councilmen, the second in command of the King's Guard called out sternly, "Elvynd, Fyril, step forward."
Out of the shadows that had hidden the Council, two young members of the King's Guard emerged uncertainly. They glanced furtively at the other Elves in the cellar, unable to meet their eyes.
"If I were you, I would make amends to my King *now*," Isil-Gar said to them roughly.
They dropped to their knees at Thranduil's feet instantly. "Forgive us, Lord Thranduil," Fyril stuttered, while Elvynd added, "Our motives for doing such a terrible thing were purely ambitious and selfish, and we have nothing acceptable to say in our defense."
"To their credit, my Lord, they stepped forward and confessed to us several days ago," Isil-Gar injected.
"Confessed what?" the King asked, looking down in confusion at the two prone guards at his feet.
"Tell him, cadets," Vilmaril said quietly.
Before they could speak, Thranduil bent and took the elbow of each in his hands, easily pulling them to their feet.
"I will have no one groveling before me," he said. "Now, look at me and tell me what this is about."
Elvynd, the older of the two brothers, began recounting how they'd been approached by Rymir in secret, with an offer to help them advance themselves. All they had to do was destroy an irrigation pipe near the farming community in Mirkwood, then keep their mouths shut and wait for events to unfold. The Councilman had told them that if all went according to plan, a new regime would take effect, and they would find themselves in positions of high standing within the King's Guard. The opportunity to move up quickly through the ranks of the Guard, and make their parents proud, was more than they could pass up and neither brother had questioned the Councilman's plan or considered how others would be affected by their actions. When, several days after their nocturnal attack on the irrigation pipe, Councilman Rymir had confided to them his plans of random physical assaults on Mirkwood's citizens, the young Guardsmen were mortified. Nothing they said could deter the Council member from his intention, however. When they told him they would go to their captain about it, he reminded them of their part in the scheme, pointing out the discipline they would face, and the humiliation and disappointment their adar and naneth would suffer. The brothers knew then, that they were involved in something truly horrific, from which they wouldn't be able to extricate themselves. From that moment on, they avoided Rymir like the plague, something that he seemed content with, since they'd served their purpose already. The guilt became unbearable eventually, and they made good on their threats to take their knowledge of Rymir's intentions to Captain Isil-Gar and Lieutenant Vilmaril. Despite incurring the wrath of both of their commanders, Elvynd and Fyril were relieved to have done the right thing, finally. Now they stood before their King, repentant and miserable, begging his forgiveness for their treasonous act.
Thranduil stood silently looking from one brother to the other, deep in thought. To their great relief, he didn't bellow at them as Isil-Gar had, although they knew they deserved it. He turned to Rymir and shook his head. "You truly are scum, Councilman," he said in revulsion.
Rymir took a step toward Elvynd and Fyril, his fists clenched. "You wretched little brats," he screamed. Isil-Gar and Vilmaril grabbed his arms, holding him securely between them. "Let go of me," he hissed indignantly.
"I think not," the Captain of the Guard purred in his ear.
Rymir tried once more in vain, to wrench his arms from the vise-like grip of Isil-Gar and Vilmaril, before giving up and glaring silently at the floor.
Thranduil turned back to the brothers. His eyes were sad now, and the young Guards felt a new twinge of remorse. "I think you both are well aware that what you did was very wrong, no matter your intentions. If you think that by hurting and betraying others you can advance yourselves, you have much to learn. But I can see that you are truly repentant, and the fact that you confessed all in order to bring an end to this disaster will go far in making up for what you have done."
He turned to Isil-Gar and Vilmaril now. "Captain, Lieutenant, I see no reason to step in, in this matter. I leave the disciplining of these cadets up to you."
The austere, beautiful faces of the two commanders turned to Elvynd and Fyril. "We are not quite as forgiving as our King," Isil-Gar said. "You will have to *prove* yourselves to *us*."
Thranduil laughed softly at the stricken faces of the two brothers. "Do not look so dejected," he said. "They are stern, but they are also fair."
He turned back to the Council, and was about to speak when Rymir did something very strange. His legs buckled and he sank to the floor on one knee, his head drooping. Isil-Gar and Vilmaril reflexively released his arms, looking at him in confusion. From where he stood facing the scene, Legolas' eyes grew wide in horror, and his breath caught in his throat for one second before he was able to react.
"Blade!" he cried.
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