Chapter Text
The lights of the great hall were low, and the silver goblet in his hand gleamed but faintly as Thranduil ran his fingertip around its lip. Again and again, he drew a perfect circle on the metal rim as he gazed down upon the dark surface of the wine within. Gradually, shapes formed within the red darkness of the liquid. The images were indistinct at first, but grew clearer by the moment as Thranduil focused on them and continued to move his finger steadily in that same, even, circular motion.
At last, he made out a vision of his hunters traveling through the wood. They moved slowly, so much more drained and battered than they had been when they had departed from his Halls. They had been well-rested and bright-eyed then, but now their faces were weary, and more than half of them were visibly bruised or wounded. They carried something between them on a makeshift stretcher, but it was obscured, and Thranduil could not tell what they brought with them. He quickly counted the hunters. To his relief, he found that their number had not been reduced. All who had departed were returning, still on their feet. He smiled faintly, glad of that, though he was less pleased by the battered state of them. They had the air of Elves returning from a great battle, an air he knew well.
He hated to see even one of his people harmed. He frowned, and the vision disappeared from his cup. His was a simple form of scrying, which could show him events of the present from afar—but only those involving people or places he knew well. He had learned this art from his father, who had learned it directly from King Thingol himself.
Thranduil had sent out a party of his finest hunters to help him solve a mystery that had troubled him for the past several weeks. His scouts had been finding large numbers of the great spiders dead. Their ends had obviously not been peaceful ones. Thranduil was not sorry to see the spiders slain, but their deaths posed the question: what being had entered his wood that was powerful enough to kill the spiders so handily? Thranduil did not like the idea of such a force present in his lands without his leave or his knowledge.
Thranduil took a thoughtful sip from his cup. As troubling as the unknown identity of the killer was the fact that the upswing in deaths had not passed unnoticed by the spiders themselves. They had come forth in greater numbers—more widespread and more aggressive than usual, as if they sought vengeance for the deaths of their kin. The spiders were a relatively recent and unwelcome arrival to Eryn Galen. His people found their occupation difficult enough to suffer without the added concern of a surge in hostilities. They had already lost too much.
Thranduil needed to deal with the encroaching enemies strategically. The sheer unthinking violence with which the spiders were being slaughtered could in no way be considered "strategic". No, it was very much the opposite—which was why he and his advisors could not say for certain whether their unknown spider-killer was a beast or a person.
It was possible that his hunters carried the killer back with them, but Thranduil's vision had shown him only that they carried something, and had offered no clear clue as to what it was. Thranduil could have tried scrying again for a better look, but he had seen enough to know that the hunting party was drawing near. Soon they would be here, and he would know for certain what they brought with them. He should prepare himself.
He rose to his feet, leaving his cup of wine behind. He left the great hall, but he did not approach the great, stone doors through which the coming party would pass. Instead, he took a path deeper into the caves. The cool air against his skin calmed him. These caves provided his people with safety and shelter in uncertain times, and he was grateful to them. They were not so grand or so vast as the caves of Menegroth, but in the end, had not the very grandness of Menegroth brought its lords grief? He had loved Doriath well as a child, but he loved Eryn Galen more, and he did not long for any other land. This was his true home, and those who lived here were his own people.
The armory had its own thick, stone doors. They opened for Thranduil, because they knew him. He was greeted there by the face of his father. A sculpture of Oropher stood close to the entrance, crowned with stone beech leaves. Across Oropher's outstretched stone arms lay his sword, safe within its sheath. Thranduil had brought it back from the battlefield. He paused to study his father's features. The statue was an excellent likeness, so much so that it brought Thranduil equal measures of joy and grief to look upon it. Oropher's expression was grave, but his eyes and lips hinted at a smile mere moments away—a smile that was always promised, which would never come.
Thranduil stepped closer to the stone Oropher. Leaning in briefly, he brushed his lips against his father's cold cheek. His father's statue carried only his father's weapons, and they were not what he needed on this day. Instead, his steps brought him to the wall behind the statue. There, among other weapons, he located a long knife and lifted it carefully from its mount.
He unsheathed the weapon. The runes hidden within the designs on the ornamented blade read Lossë. The knife was as bright and white as the snow it had been named for. He understood the blade was one of a pair, but he had never seen its lost sibling, Fain. The fate of that weapon was unknown. Lossë was the work of the Smith of Nan Elmoth. It had special properties, which could be advantageous today. Thranduil resheathed it and attached the sheath to his belt.
As he left the armory, the door swung shut behind him. He stilled, as he heard the soft thunder of footsteps approaching. He waited, until a tiny form barrelled around the corner, charging at him. It did not stop until it had collided with his legs and announced triumphantly, "Ada!"
Thranduil reached down to stroke his son's fair hair as Legolas gripped his leg tightly. "Well, Little Leaf, you've caught me. Well done."
Legolas nodded fiercely, tightening his grip to the limits of his strength. In another moment, the expected attendant arrived, his head lowered respectfully, face half-hidden by his chestnut hair. Maeven was one of a small coterie of Elves who had been assigned to guard and care for Legolas. It was no small task, as Legolas was given to adventuring and had to know and see everything there was to be known or seen. "Apologies, my lord. Legolas was insistent on finding you. I told him—"
"It is no matter. I am very pleased to be found, in this case." Thranduil took hold of Legolas and lifted him up, at which point the child finally, reluctantly, let go of his leg. "He is already a fine tracker." Legolas' bright gaze was fixed on him, and Thranduil pressed a kiss to his forehead.
Legolas laughed. "Ada, I wanted to see you."
"And so you have. I'm glad to see you, too. It is about time for you to rest, is it not?"
Legolas shook his head. "I don't want to rest. I want to stay with you."
"I would much rather stay with you, too, but we both have our duties. You understand, don't you?"
After a hesitation, the Elfling nodded. "Yes, Ada."
"I will take him to his rooms, my lord," said the attendant.
"Yes, make sure he rests safely, until morning."
The words, simple as they were, had an immediate effect on Maeven, whose eyes widened. This exact phrase was a signal to indicate that there was possible danger, and that the prince should be kept under guard. "Of course, he will be safe and sound."
Thranduil passed his son to the now-worried attendant. Thranduil had not given the signal for the greatest possible danger. There was no immediate threat to him or his people, but something unknown was in his realm, and it was drawing near. It was better to take more precautions than necessary, than to take less. Legolas grabbed at his wrist, and Thranduil took hold of his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'll come to see you in the morning. Can you wait for me until then?"
"Yes, Ada."
"If you sleep, it will be as if no time has passed before I visit."
"A little time," Legolas corrected.
Thranduil laughed. Legolas had a way of bringing light into the dark. "Yes, but only a very little." He gave Maeven a nod and what he meant to be a reassuring look.
Maeven nodded in return. Thranduil could tell from the steely look in the attendant's eyes that he was ready to give his life in defense of the prince, if need be. Thranduil hoped there would be no need.
As the attendant departed with Legolas in his arms, Thranduil frowned anew. If they were bringing the Spider-Slayer to the Halls, then why? If it was dangerous, surely they would have neutralized the threat or expelled it from his kingdom. The spiders that they had found dead had not been killed by any weapon. No, it was as if they had been torn to pieces by a great force. A great force that opposed the spiders, yes—but its opposition to the spiders did not mean it was a friend to the Elves.
He would have to trust in them. He did not believe his hunters would behave rashly where the safety of their people and the residence of their king were concerned. He returned to his great hall to await them, resting a hand on the knife at his side as he ascended the dais and took his seat upon his throne. The weapon was silent and still, which reassured him, although he remained troubled by the enigma and the question of how it should be dealt with. With each choice he made, he remembered that the protection of his people was crucial—held above any other concern, including his own safety. The duties of a king were ever complicated, but he had never expected them to be otherwise. He had learned the tragedy of kingship when he was yet a child.
Thranduil was not kept waiting long. What he had foreseen soon came to pass. Tobrien, the leader of the hunting party, appeared before him. Where his own people were concerned, Thranduil had little time or use for escorts and formal announcements. If one of his warriors wished to approach his throne, they could do so directly. The Elves dwelling here knew each other well, and guards allowed hunters to pass without issue.
"My lord, we have returned with news," Tobrien said, lowering her head briefly before straightening to regard him directly. "Our mission was a success." Her hair had come free from its braids, and her clothes were torn, but apart from a fresh bruise on her temple, she appeared unharmed.
"I am glad to see you back." He was relieved to hear this confirmation that all who had left the Halls had returned safely. A mission during which a hunter was lost would not be deemed a success by any measure.
"We found the one you bid us seek."
"I am eager to hear what you've learned."
She hesitated. "My lord, in the deep wood, we tracked the creature, and we discovered—an Elf."
The destroyed spiders had been torn apart, without the use of a weapon. An Elf would have had to use bare hands or teeth to do that. It had always been a possibility that one of his own kind was responsible for the violence, but he had not deemed it the most likely one. "An Elf," he said slowly.
"I—yes, it is. But my lord, I have never seen an Elf like this." Her words came quick and urgent. "He was so difficult to track. The way he moved, so swift and light—and when he finally reached him, he seemed to have lost all reason. We spoke to him, but he did not listen. He had no speech, and there was a light upon him."
The news she brought him did not clarify the issue. It deepened his uncertainty. "What kind of light?"
"I do not know how to explain it. He is—covered in soil, but a light shines from him."
"And you brought him here?"
She did not question the fact that he knew something of their movements. His people were accustomed to his scrying. "My lord, we had to. There was a madness on him. We could not leave alone him in that state. He is an Elf."
She did not need to explain further. Elves were of one kin. They were not to injure each other, but to help each other—although that great and natural law had not always been obeyed. Thranduil would not defy that law. His gaze went to the bruise on her brow. "He harmed you."
"Yes, he fought to free himself. I do not think he intended to harm us, or—he would have dealt us greater harm. We had to use our darts on him, but my lord, we used so many." Her gaze on him was beseeching. She sought his guidance and wisdom in the face of the impossible. "We began to think we would not be able to stop him."
The darts of the hunters were coated in a clever concoction, to be used when the desired result was not to kill, but to bring sleep. It should take no more than a few of them to make any single Elf lose consciousness. Thranduil touched his fingers to the knife again, but it gave no sign that an enemy was near.
"The others are still with him, outside," said Tobrien. "We do not know how long it will be before he will wake."
This was Thranduil's decision to make. He did not hesitate. "Find a place in the cellars to secure him. The stoutest of the storerooms. I will speak to him when he wakes."
"It will be done, my lord."
There were no dungeons within their caves. The Silvan Elves had not had cause to imprison any of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. Thranduil would not have done so without great cause. There was reason enough for wariness in this case: he had found an Elf where no Elf should be, acting as no Elf was known to act. An Elf of great power and almost unheard of killing strength. An Elf with a light upon him. Such an Elf was very unlikely to be one of the Servants of the Enemy, but such an Elf was likely to bring trouble with him. Thranduil did not want trouble in his kingdom. He had enough of that already.
In recent years, the spiders had turned their encroachment into a stronghold. Attempts to repel them had had some success, but always, the monsters replenished their numbers and returned. His people had begun to move northward, gathering in closer to the halls, so that they might find refuge there when danger threatened. The caves had first been made fit for Elven habitation during Oropher's reign. Thranduil had expanded and improved them throughout the years, so that they could house more Elves, more comfortably. He wished to be sure his people would have a place to flee to when needed, a place where they could be safe.
As his hunters finished their work, Thranduil continued to puzzle over the identity of the stranger, but he did not have enough information to guess who he might be. He would have to attempt conversation with him. Tobrien said he had not spoken, but it could be that respite would return a portion of his reason to him. The effort had to be made. He needed to know what new power had come into his wood, and why.
If the strange Elf had not yet woken, he could be moved with relative ease. Thranduil's hunters would work swiftly, bearing their charge through the wide stone doors and down into the cavernous cellars. He did not need to scry again to know that. It was fortunate that they moved so quickly, because one of the party shortly hurried into the throne room, to tell him the stranger seemed to be waking. Thranduil descended at once, flanked by his guards. His curiosity grew with each moment.
Eager as he was to see the Elf they had found, Thranduil paused outside the storeroom door, listening to the nearby voice of the river, low but lively. The waterway was a road for trade, but it would also present a means of escape, if his people were under siege. Its song was a comfort to him. Contrasting the river's voice, he became aware of another sound, another voice—it rose from the storeroom, something like a sigh and something like a growl. It did not resemble an Elf's voice, but what else could it be? For a final time, Thranduil touched his fingers to the hilt of the white knife. He drew it partway from its sheath, glancing down. He was reassured by what he saw there: nothing of note.
The guards stood by watchfully as Thranduil opened the door. There, on the stone floor, lay the Elf he had been promised. Sprawling and huge, the stranger took up more space than should be possible. His entire long body was caked with filth. Here and there, Thranduil could see through the dirt to the aged, decaying rags beneath. His hair was so matted and caked with soil and leaves that Thranduil could not guess at its actual color. Despite the Elf's soiled condition, the report of Thranduil's hunters was not false. There was a luminousness to him, shining faintly through the cracks in his layer of filth. How long had he been in this state? He seemed as one who had lain in the earth for an age or more. The only part of his skin that was more or less visible was his face. He must have wiped the muck from it at some point, so he could see. His features were clear enough, but completely unfamiliar to Thranduil.
His eyes were closed, though odd, animal-like noises emerged from his parted lips. He shuddered and twitched, his fingers curling into fists before uncurling again. The sight of him did not make his identity clearer, but deepened the mystery of him. Thranduil remained motionless in the doorway, staring at his unwanted and inconvenient guest in consternation. He was not afraid of him; he was perplexed by his appearance and exasperated at his unexpected and audacious arrival.
Suddenly, the Elf's head whipped to the side, his eyes snapping open. His gaze focused instantly on Thranduil, with a grave intensity. Those eyes were of such an arresting pallor that Thranduil almost took a step back. A pale, pale gray, almost as white as his knife. The Elf did not speak, but stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Thranduil did not fear him, but an unlooked for sympathy softened his exasperation. He had never before seen an expression that attained such a perfect balance of ferocity and sorrow.