Title & Chapter Number: Meleth Vrêg 2/8
Author(s): - Author's Index
Website: Hith a Naur
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own LotR or any characters, lands, or items from the Tolkien world. They belong to their respective copyright holders.
Warnings: Slash
Betas: Larien
Cast: Thranduil/Glorfindel
Timeline: TA
Spoilers: Nope
Summary: Glorfindel is sent to Mirkwood when Legolas sends a letter asking Lord Elrond's help with his father. When the Balrog-slayer arrives, he is not prepared for the changes he sees in the Elven-king.
Notes: None
In the dark, dim light of the small room, Thranduil looked sightlessly ahead of him. His eyes blazed silver, but no one was there to see. After a few moments, the mithril shade slowly turned glittering emerald. Thranduil let out a long, shuddering sigh and hung his head in his hands.
This dark force was slowly consuming his woods, and he felt powerless to stop it. He moved his realm further north from his father's original settlement after the Gladden Fields disaster, and he and his people had dug into the earth like Dwarves, seeking to protect themselves from the evil of Dol Guldur. Thranduil stood from his seat and looked about in a daze, as if seeing the small, rough-hewn niche for the first time. He felt rage boil from deep within him, a violent, territorial fury that caused him to fist his hands and let loose a hoarse, raw scream of frustration.
He felt the sting of tears come to his eyes, and he was swallowed by a tide of helplessness. Thranduil thought briefly on his father. Oropher would never have permitted the Shadow to consume as much of the Greenwood as it had... he would never have allowed it to become Mirkwood. He felt a surge of anger toward a father who had ill-prepared his son for ruling a people. Oropher had thought himself indestructible and had paid little attention to his headstrong son, and Thranduil had spent most of his days riding through Greenwood, rather than learning the ways of a King.
When he and the remaining third of his father's warriors returned to Greenwood following the fall of Barad-dûr, he was thrust onto the throne, and a crown placed on his head. How he had tried to live up to his father's legacy. Though none of his subjects ever gave complaint, Thranduil was sure he was lacking in their eyes. He was not Oropher, and instead of defending their homes in Emyn Duir, he had fled north and dug these halls. He knew his father would be as ashamed of him as he was of himself.
Oropher had ruled with a firm but compassionate hand. The great King had taken the dispersed Silvan Elves residing in Greenwood and created a thriving, growing realm. Their numbers increased and their lives were all enriched by the rule of Oropher. Thranduil had always felt he was different than his father. He loved the woods, loved the animals and the healing arts, but Oropher was a warrior and had insisted his only son be such as well. Thranduil had eagerly agreed to the training when he learned Oropher would teach him.
He had been mesmerized while watching his father with knives or sword. Oropher was like a shining beacon of goodness and strength to his wide-eyed son. Thranduil never felt his skills with blade or knife had equaled his father, but little could match the fluid dance Oropher could perform in training or on the field of battle. But, Thranduil tried, and Oropher had been proud of the talent his son showed for warfare. Thranduil then quickly abandoned his passion of healing for the feel of cold steel and the rush of battle.
Oropher had created a prospering community of Elves who needed little outside assistance. The Silvan Elves happily farmed and hunted, never wasting anything they had. The Sindar who accompanied Oropher from the west meshed into their Silvan cousins' traditions and lifestyle, leaving behind the more complicated lives of Lindon. Thranduil watched all flourish beneath Oropher's rule and had thought his father invincible. He believed he would never ascend to the throne of Greenwood and he continued his life, wiling away the years in the forest.
Then they had marched with Gil-galad. Thranduil had watched his people fall, had seen his beautiful and spirited father driven into the Dead Marshes and slaughtered with Amdir's warriors. Thranduil's heart still ached at the loss of the Silvan Elves. The Noldor, under Gil-galad, had lost many, but nothing compared to the loss of Greenwood and Lorien. Both realms lost their Kings, both realms lost their people, and both heirs accepted roles they had never thought they would be given.
The only light in his dismal existence since the loss of his father was Legolas. The golden being was what Thranduil considered the only thing he ever did right. Legolas had been born shortly after the return of the small host from the Last Alliance. He had been one of many children born when the Wood Elves began to repopulate their realm. Thranduil had lost his wife to Dol Guldur, though; many years after Legolas had reached his majority. Since then, the King had been lonely and solitary, spending most of his days in the last of the unaffected woods.
Thranduil was proud of the Elf Legolas had grown to be. The Prince was a skilled diplomat and a soothing presence within the dark confines of the caves. Legolas brought light and laughter to the echoing halls and his people adored the young Prince. Thranduil had taken great care in preparing Legolas for ruling Mirkwood, though the Elven-king had hoped to leave a bright and flourishing forest for his son to inherit.
But, his own weakness had led to the polluting of the Greenwood and now the forest was infected just as his own heart was. He could feel the slow decay of the wood, could feel a little of himself lost with each tree taken, each animal turned, and every stream blackened. One thing Thranduil had that his father had not: he had a soul-deep connection with the forests and rivers of Mirkwood. Thranduil knew all the trees and every animal that resided within his protection. He also knew their sadness and heartache when that protection failed them.
A tear spilled down his cheek and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. So much lost, and he fought with all he was to maintain what ground he still held. The wolf could have been taken this night, and Thranduil felt he had betrayed his trust when the spiders had almost caught him. The Elven-king did something then he had never done before. He merged himself with the spirit of the wolf and offered the creature his endurance and strength. His friend had made it back to the protected woods. But how much longer before even the magics of Thranduil would cease to offer comfort to the animals of Mirkwood?
Thranduil's head snapped up and he sniffed at the air. He could smell the distinct scent of his son. Thranduil closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, smiling to himself for a moment as oak and sunlight wafted over him. His brow furrowed, though, when the sour smell of apprehension cut through the pleasant aroma of his son. Thranduil opened his eyes and frowned, calling out to Legolas. "Ion," he said, his voice gruff and short.
Legolas crept into the room, his head high and his shoulders squared. He looked at his father with a curious expression. "Ada, you knew I was there?" Thranduil nodded. "How? You should not have been able to hear or sense me."
"I could smell you, ion," he said, pointing to his nose.
"Smell me?" Legolas asked in disbelief. "Ada, are you well?"
Thranduil nodded and walked to stand in front of his son. "I am well, Legolas. Is there something you needed?"
"You left before you finished your evening meal, and it is well after mid-night. I grew worried when you did not come to bed and came looking for you, Ada. Has something happened?" Legolas' bright, open eyes caught and kept Thranduil's emerald ones, worry and love shining from the bright orbs.
"The wood is dying, Legolas."
"I know, Ada," the young Sinda replied softly. "Is that why you seek solitude?"
Thranduil ignored the question. "A glamhoth has been sent out. They will be in our wood in less than a day." (orc-host)
"How do you know this?" Legolas asked, seeing the answer reflected in his father's eyes even as the words left his lips. "Nannech ad flâdnorol!" (You were skinriding again!)
"And?" Thranduil warned, narrowing his eyes.
"You know the dangers better than I, Ada. The wood grows dark; you have said so yourself. Every tree we lose to the Shadow draws a little more strength from you. What if you were unable to return? What if the animal were to be killed?!
"The healers remember well those many years ago when the hawk you were riding was shot down. Three days and nights you lay still as death while they battled fever and delusions until you at last returned to yourself. That was before the fall of Dol Guldur, and you were at full strength, Ada. If that were to happen now, you may never return!" The words were harsh, but Legolas' eyes held more pleading and fear than anger. The power his father drew from the forest was fading, more than anyone knew and more than Thranduil would admit. He was afraid that his father would continue to take these risks until he found himself stranded or killed.
"Would you rather the orcs took us by surprise, hacking and burning a path to our door?" Thranduil stood up, towering over Legolas in the confined space.
Legolas took a step back, but retorted quickly, raising his voice. "Of course not! But we have *patrols*, Ada! It is not necessary for you to keep watch on the entire Fuinglad yourself!" (Mirkwood)
"If I don't, who will? The trees *scream*, Legolas! Can your patrols silence them? I must do what I can to help my realm and my people!" Thranduil's head snapped around, as though hearing a distant sound. He rushed down the passage, pushing Legolas aside as he did so.
The Prince stumbled, but recovered himself and ran after his father. Thranduil's speed surprised Legolas, and by the time Legolas emerged into the main hall, Thranduil had disappeared.
~*~*~*~
Thranduil cut through the forest with practiced ease. His rage fueled him and gave him speed he'd not known possible. Only when Thranduil heard a new sound amongst the cacophony of the wood did he slow, catching a low branch and swinging into the safety of a tree. He listened again. It was Legolas and six -- no, seven -- bowmen setting out after him on horseback. The range of his hearing astonished him; the Halls were more than three leagues from his position, but Thranduil could clearly hear Legolas calling orders to the detachment.
He turned his senses south and listened for the glamhoth. The trees whispered to him, passing along the orcs' location from ash to oak and maple to beech. They were closer now, but still a fair distance from the healthy wood. A sound began low in the back of his throat, and Thranduil was only mildly surprised to realize it was a growl. And why not, he decided. This was still his realm. What right did these intruders have to come with their axes and torches?
Thranduil could see the sky begin to lighten through the canopy of leaves. The orcs would have to stop soon and burrow in the diseased earth lest the sunlight scorch them. Elves did not have that problem, though, so the Sinda King leapt from the branch and hit the ground running. Legolas would not be stopping either, and Thranduil was determined to reach the orcs before his son reached him.
He called out to the animals as he ran, asking their pardon for cutting through territory and entreating their assistance. Most of the beasts of this land knew the Elf-lord as a friend and kept the way clear for him. Where a raging stream would have slowed passage, a bear pushed a tree down to form a bridge. Where a jaguar waited for a meal and would not be moved, a pack of jackals taunted the cat until it gave up and sought another feeding ground. When Thranduil felt the pull of hunger, the rabbits dug up turnips and carrots and laid them along his path.
His Elven endurance added to his unparalleled speed, and he reached the border of the clean wood several hours before nightfall. The Sinda relaxed in the shade of a particularly large tree and looked back toward the north. He had just run nearly forty leagues in a little over eight hours, and he was barely winded. He could no longer hear Legolas and the others; he was simply too far ahead of them.
The glamhoth, though, he could hear as though they were beside him. Even under the ground, Thranduil could hear their uneasy slumber, the unholy grunts they made even in their sleep. But those sounds were not the only ones he heard. He had visited this same area a month ago and had been struck by the stillness. The animals seemed to have forsaken this place because of the corruption that lay so near. Now, though, Thranduil could not believe he'd ever thought the area silent. He could pick up the trickling sound of tiny brooks, the tittering of squirrels in boltholes they'd found in the trees, even the burrowing of earthworms inching through the soil. So much life was left here. So much that he could not allow to be taken from the world.
Thranduil stayed in "his" part of the woods, drawing strength from the trees and rivers, for a further three hours. When the sky first began to darken, he prepared to cross the threshold. It was not yet night, but Anor had passed far enough that the thick cover and strangling vines of the corrupted forest would shield the glamhoth from the rays.
Just as he was about to continue his journey, he picked up the sound of the horses that had been following him. Thranduil calculated they were perhaps two hours away, judging by the sound of their pace. So much the better. By the time they got there, he would be gone. He summoned up all his rage and hatred for the destroyers and corrupters that lay ahead and charged forward with a speed to make his former pace seem like a leisurely stroll.
In a matter of minutes, Thranduil was within sight of the shambling horde. Perhaps twenty orcs were digging themselves from the ground, pulling their disfigured forms into the air. Thranduil hid in the underbrush surrounding this clearing and reflected on his options. Only now did he stop to consider that he was alone, unarmed, and hopelessly outnumbered.
But, no, he suddenly realized that he wasn't alone. He caught a familiar scent from the other side of the clearing. He looked in that direction and saw a gleam reflecting back at him. His wolf-friend had obviously detected Thranduil's passage and followed him here. His lips parted in a feral grin, and his muscled tensed.
A moment later, both predators leapt into the clearing with twin howls of fury.
~*~*~*~
Ithil was high in the sky when Legolas and his party reached the clearing. The Prince had never seen any creature move as fast for as long as Thranduil had. He ran as though the Dark Lord himself were following. Legolas had not known what to expect when he arrived. He'd feared the worst, of course; that his father would be killed by the orcs, torn apart and utterly destroyed. But when he entered that clearing, he instantly realized that fate was not the worst one after all. What he saw, however, *was*.
The smell of rotting flesh hung in the air like a fog. The horses refused to cross beyond the trees, and Legolas had to lead the archers on foot. Blood coated the ground, and orc bodies lay strewn along the field. Few of the corpses were whole, though: arms and legs had been torn off and tossed aside; chests lay open and shredded. And in the middle of it was the most disturbing sight of all.
His father lay on the ground sleeping beside a massive wolf. The two were curled together, nose to... well, tail. Black orc blood was splattered across both of them. The wolf's muzzle and paws were coated in the ichor, as were both of Thranduil's arms all the way to the elbow. Both wolf and Elf twitched their noses as they picked up the new scent. Apparently, they deemed Legolas to be safe, because they barely stirred.
"Oh, Ada," whispered Legolas, "what have you done?"
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