Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

 

Author Notes:

Thanks for all the lovely reviews, folks!  One note on this next chapter, and subsequent: flashbacks will occur from time to time as the story settles in.  They will be in italics, and set off by the following group of symbols:

 

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If you have not read my other story, "Leaf and Branch", it would be easier to understand some of what is going on here.  This is not a sequel per se; more like an extended Alternate Ending, a "suppose they had NOT succeeded??" kinda thing.  Oh yes, and a reminder: I did say that Legolas would not show up until Chapter Three. Sorry about that!  Hey come on now, enjoy the angst, folks!  Elrond is SO good at it! (grin)  Chapter Three is where some of the not-nice begins, poor Legolas….  And it will be up soon.

Curunír and Mithrandir, for those who may still be reading the canonical books of Tolkien, are the Elvish names for Saruman and Gandalf… as this is easily 400 years before Fellowship of the Ring, Saruman is still a Good Guy™.

And now, on with the tale….

 

Dark Leaf, Chapter Two: We Were Not In Time….

 

Elrond Peredhil sighed, staring out across the lovely view from his balcony.  All of the Vale of Imladris was spread out before him for his delight: the waterfalls, the lovely brightness of the Bruinen like a ribbon of silver through the peace of the community; the craggy ridges with Elven-crafted homes tucked in between; the trees and the flowers, blooming brightly as far as the eye could see.  It was, some had said, one of the fairest vistas in all of Middle-Earth.

At the moment, it was a vista utterly wasted on the Lord of Imladris.  He might as well have been staring at a blank wall, for all the good it did.

"Ithil will be full tomorrow night," a quiet voice murmured behind him.  "The stars seem dimmer for its brightness."

Elrond did not turn, though his eyes shifted slightly.  "Yes."

"He did not stop here this year," Glorfindel sighed, coming to stand at Elrond's right hand.  He carried a leather message packet, though he did not immediately extend it to the lord.  "I wonder, is that a good sign?"

What exactly would constitute a good sign at this point? Elrond wondered to himself, tipping his head back to stare at the brilliant white disc of Ithil above them, pure and cold in the sky.  A less well trained eye might think it full already, but Elven eyes could see the barely perceptible edge of flatness along one graceful arc of the circle.  The Lord of Imladris narrowed his eyes at it, as if rebuking the moon for daring not to be perfect.  Would 'good' be death?  Passing away into the West?  Would 'good' be freedom for the little one, or just becoming numb to his imprisonment?  Or would that be the opening of another whole kettle of fish entirely?

Elrond grimaced.  Little one.  Ai, Elbereth, not any more…

Glorfindel watched him in silence for a long moment, then fetched a sigh and sat down on the carved bench near to hand.  He did not need to guess at Elrond's train of thought.  None of them who had been involved in the unhappy circumstances would miss the significance of this full moon, the one that marked the summer solstice.  Glorfindel silently told off the roll of names: Elrond and himself, of course, and the twin sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir; Tinuvîl of Mirkwood, the Silvan Elves Saeros the Tracker and Hellan Glorilasion.  Then of course there were Celeborn and Galadriel, who had not been part of the hunt, but had hoped to be part of the solution--the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, who had tried to hold all the others together in some manner these past few years.

And then there is Thranduil, Glorfindel thought sadly, and closed his eyes in pain.  Glorfindel had been through much in his long lives; he was older than Elrond, and had died a long time before, only to be sent back from the Halls of Mandos to ensure the safety of Elrond, his brother, and their mother.  There had been a lot of pain in those long years.  But Glorfindel had never lost a lovemate, never lost a child.  Thranduil had lost his adored wife Luthiél, and of the five children they had made together, two had been lost to battle, while a third sailed West from grief at the loss of his twin sister.  Enough, that, to break the heart of the staunchest Elf.  But eighteen years ago… Ai, Elbereth have mercy, eighteen years ago….

Eighteen years had passed since the fateful day on which an Elf-child was taken by Shadow–a drop in Time’s bucket to the Elves, for the most part, though these years had passed with an agonizing lack of speed for some of the Firstborn.  Eighteen turns of the wheel, during which time Elrond had shared visions from the hell that was Legolas Thranduilion's life as an unwilling fosterling to the Nazgûl; eighteen years during which Orcish raids continued all along the fringes of Mirkwood.  Eighteen years during which Thranduil had done nothing to stop Orcs, goblins, and other such scions of Shadow from transversing his lands.  He dared not stop them, for the sake of his son, whom he had not seen in those long, wearisome years. His son, captive in the tower of Dol Guldur; his son, who had been but a child when last Thranduil set eyes on him.

 

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"We were not in time," Glorfindel admitted, staring at the ground, unable for a long time to meet Thranduil's eyes.  "The Nazgûl barred our way; the Orcs escaped us, and made it to Dol Guldur."

He dared a look up at the strangled utterance he heard then.  Thranduil stood there, fists balled up at his sides, white-knuckled; his expression seemed calm enough, but the nostrils of the proud nose were flared, and the blue eyes, so like those of his young son, were awash with horror and tears.

"You were not in time," he repeated, his voice low and almost musical with agony.

Glorfindel winced.  "No, we were not."

Another long silence.  One could almost hear grass growing, it was so quiet.

"Well."  Thranduil reached out and briefly clasped Glorfindel's shoulder, then the hand fell limp at the Elven-king's side once more.  "You did what you could.  I thank you for that."

"Thranduil --"

"No, I understand," the son of Oropher sighed, and half-turned away.  "We all tried. Lives were lost from Imladris, Mirkwood, and Lórien--we all tried.  My son--"

He could say no more.  Thranduil fought it, but the sob burst forth from him anyway; just one, wrenching and abject, but one was more than enough.  He stared back toward the ridgeline, at the spiked tower of Dol Guldur.  Stared at the bright, sweet sunlight, felt the soft breeze of summer, fancied that the beauty of the day mocked him.

"I am for Lothlórien," he said, when he had mastered himself once more, fighting down the grief.  "For pity, Galadriel must show me what has happened to my Legolas.  We will find a way to free him somehow."

He turned back to stare hard at Glorfindel, his fine white teeth gritted against the pain in his gut.  "We must find a way.  We must!"

 

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Glorfindel sighed, shaking himself free of the memories.  From that day to this, he had spent much time worrying over the two who seemed the most affected by that dreadful day.  The day when, though every effort was made and many lives were lost, they had failed to rescue Thranduil's young son, Legolas, from the Orcs who had taken him captive, alive.  It had happened after a brief running fight between a Shadow patrol and a Mirkwood hunting party--the little prince's first such outing, meant to be a happy occasion, a rite of passage.  They had come so close… so terribly close.

They had even seen the Orc who carried the unconscious child, had seen the Nazgûl sweep down from the sky just at the point of rescue….  Glorfindel knew that if he saw the horrible scene over and over in his own mind's eye, how much worse it had to be for Elrond, who had been within an easy bowshot of overtaking the Orc, had come so horrifically close to losing his own life when the Morgul blade borne by the Witch-King had slashed downward, striking the Lord of Imladris.

Elrond had fallen to the ground writhing in agony, but damnably coherent to see the Nazgûl pluck young Legolas from the arms of the Orc, and bear him away to the fell tower that had been his home to this day.  Thranduil's forces had arrived in time to see it all, too--rescue failing by such a little--and for days after the King had been half-mad with sorrow, as Galadriel went back and forth between trying to heal Elrond, and trying to reason with Thranduil so they did not lose him to his grief.

"There has been word from Isengard," Glorfindel murmured now, hoping Elrond would be coaxed out of his own sorrow long enough to find something of hope.  He was heartened to see the fractional shift in the lord's shoulders, to see Elrond's dark head come up slightly.

"Has there?"

"Yes." Glorfindel held out the message packet.  "I am hoping it contains good news.  Curunír would only say he could not tell us, last time.  This time--"

Elrond took the packet, opened it, marvelled that his fingers did not tremble.  He read the message in silence, then re-read it for good measure.  When he looked up, there was a hint of something in his eyes that was close kin to hope, if not hope itself.

"Mithrandir has been located," he breathed.  "Through Curunír he sends his great sadness and regret to learn of what has befallen young Legolas, and says that he will arrive here soon--within the sevenday."

Glorfindel tried to sound amazingly calm, grimacing at the slight tremor in his voice.  "That is good news," he murmured.  "Is it not?"

Elrond gave him a long, measured look that spoke volumes.  Then he skewed his mouth sidewise in a disobliging smile.

"Beloved idiot," he growled, and folded the single sheet of parchment back into its packet.  Glorfindel unbent so far as to actually smile.

"New eyes on an old problem generally mean good things," he retorted.

"Yes."  Elrond sighed softly, allowing himself just the faintest breath of something he almost--almost!--might have been tempted to call hope.  He turned to stare out over the valley, actually seeing the lovely view for the first time in months.

Hang on to your soul, young Prince, the Lord of Imladris thought, hoping that the son of Thranduil would hear him as he had so many times before.  For the love of the Valar, hang on to your soul!

 

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