Chapter One: Failures
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: None so far, but with Legolas, you never know. This story will not have any romance or extreme violence. I prefer to keep my stories clean so all can enjoy. There may be some light elf torture in the next chapter, however. *evil grin*
A/N: Hey, everyone, here is my first try at an x-over. The idea of crossing Narnia and LOTRs has been plaguing my mind ever since I first watched The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and I finally decided I’d better do something about it before I go crazy. Thus, this story was born. I greatly appreciate all the advice and writing pointers I get, so I’d love it if you would review. Now, I’ll stop jabbering and let you read.
~ The Blades of Eru ~
– – – – – – – –
Chapter One: Failures
The cave was eerie and foreboding, and Legolas shot another glance at the sky, unwilling to enter the blackness. However, the sky was even darker then before, as the clouds boiled and churned. Streaks of lightning shot down from the sky and scorched the ground and trees, promising destruction to all it hit.
With a sigh, he left the green foliage and hurried up to the cave, entering it just as the first large droplets splattered on the ground, and a large clap of thunder boomed menacingly.
Shivering at the dampness, he sat rather awkwardly and removed his tunic, eyeing with weariness the bandage hastily wrapped around his stomach. It was stained crimson, and he carefully removed it, pulling a second white roll from a pack before inelegantly rebinding it.
Silently, he cursed the orc whose rough sword had left its jagged mark in his side. In quick, jerky movements, he replaced the tunic, but despite the anger which coursed through him, a deep ache plagued his heart, reminding him of what was lost. His entire patrol was dead because he had underestimated the orcs’ numbers. Now he was fleeing like a frightened deer before a herd of bloodthirsty monsters that were following his trail because of his failure.
Leaning back against the cave wall, he closed his eyes with a deep sigh. It wasn’t suppose to end this way. Not now, not ever. Blinking back the tears which threatened him, he drew a shallow breath, wincing as the movement pained him. His head felt light from blood loss and exhaustion, and he knew he must be careful lest he fall asleep. He did not think that the orcs would make any headway in the storm, but it would not do to underestimate them again.
Carefully stretching his legs out before him, he pulled his knives from their sheaths and laid them on the rock beside him. Letting his head rest against the stone behind him, he stared out into the raging storm, paying no heed to the roars of thunder that caused the ground to shake.
Loud, coarse voices jerked him awake, and he cursed himself for falling asleep. Darkness had fallen outside, and shadowy forms moved around the cave’s entrance, the soft pitter-patter of rain doing nothing to hide their careless movements.
Legolas pushed himself painfully to his feet, satisfied that the orcs had not yet seen or smelled him. But it was only a matter of time. His old, bloodied bandage would give him away surer than if he walked out now and surrendered.
He knew that his only hope lay in exploring the cave and trying to find an alternative exit, but he hated the idea of going further into the cave. Finally, with great reluctance, he silently sheathed his knives and gathered up his supplies, slipping into the yawning blackness of the cave’s deeper parts.
Even his elven eyes had trouble seeing in the dim light, and he had to feel more than see his path. His side screamed at him, but he forced himself to ignore it and continue on, random bouts of dizziness causing him to stagger.
Suddenly, a harsh, triumphant yell echoed down the narrow tunnels, and Legolas felt his heart sink within him. They had found his trail. Laying aside secrecy, he ran, desperation forcing him on. Something whispered that this had all been for naught, that there was no other exit, and the orcs would eventually corner him, but he paid the despair no heed. He would cling to what hope was left, even in this dark place.
Scarcely had he thought that, when the ground dropped from beneath him, and he fell. He landed on something both soft and hard, cold and comfortable, but agony shot through his side, and everything went dark.
o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o
His head pounded, his side ached, and he groaned, attempting to grasp and pull back the comforting blackness that was steadily slipping away from him. For a moment, he lay still, struggling to collect and connect thoughts. Why did his side hurt?
That single thought let loose a torrent of emotions and recollections. The fight. His wound. His escape. The cave. The orcs. His flight. The fall. With a gasp, he forced his eyes open and fought to sit.
Firm hands pushed him back down. “No,” a gruff but strangely gentle voice said. “Just rest, young one.”
His mind balked at the unfamiliar voice and words. Young one? His blurry vision soon cleared, and he stared at the sight before him.
A badger stood staring at him from beside a… he blinked at the other creature. It had the body of a horse but the abdomen, chest, head, and arms of a man. The man/horse met his gaze unflinchingly, and he quickly adverted his eyes, knowing he was staring.
“Sir?” The badger stepped forward. “How are you feeling?”
Legolas clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open with astonishment. Did that animal just speak to him? This was crazy, just crazy. He closed his eyes and relaxed back into the pillows, he was on a bed after all, and moaned. “I am going mad.”
“Sir –” the badger began, sounding bewildered.
“Peace, Fornest,” a strong, powerful voice interrupted. “Do you not see he is confused?”
Legolas opened his eyes as the man/horse spoke, his uncertainty becoming a numbed detachment. “Yes,” he said abruptly, abandoning all the diplomatic mannerism his father had instilled in him, “I am extremely confused. I have no idea what is going on, where I am, and who or what you are. To add to that, I have never before seen or met an animal, beside the evil spiders in Mirkwood, which speaks. The last thing I knew, was that I was fleeing through a cave from the orcs which had killed my patrol when I fell into some dark crevice and awoke here.”
With effort, he pushed himself up on his elbow, ignoring the badger’s protests, and surveyed his surroundings. He was in what seemed like a small cave which was furnished and well heated, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The room’s furnishings were like that of a bed chamber, and the bed he lay on was low on the floor, having no mattress but being more an assortment of pillows. A wide corridor led out from the room, well lit by candles mounted on the walls, and opened into what looked like a kitchen along with a sitting and dinning room.
“I know not of any land called Mirkwood,” the man/horse replied. “In answer to your questions, we found you lying in the unconscious in the snow just outside my home. You are in the land of Narnia, and I,” he smiled slightly, “I am Tirnen, a centaur.”
“Mae govannen, Tiren,” Legolas answered, nodding with respect, as his mind struggled to take in what these creatures were telling him. “I am Legolas of Mirkwood.” He frowned thoughtfully. “How can you have found me in snow? It was summer in Mirkwood.”
Tirnen sighed heavily. “I do not understand where you are from, but here it is always winter as the white witch degrees it.” He spat out the white witch as if it were poison to his tongue. “She is a tyrant, who cares about nothing but her own power and glory. Narnia is more her slave than her kingdom.”
He paused, face suddenly both excited and fearful. “Are you a son of Adam?”
Legolas’ brow creased. “A son of whom?”
“Of Adam,” the centaur repeated. “A human.”
Legolas stared at him for a moment, unsure of whether to be insulted of amused. “An adan? No, I am not a man – I am an elf.” He winced at his tone, as the insulted side won over.
Tirnen studied him for a moment. “Are you an enemy of the sons of Adam?”
Legolas shook his head. “No, but our two kinds do not mingle much.”
Tirnen nodded slowly. “I see.”
Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Legolas pushed himself into a sitting position and gently prodded his wounds through the clean looking bandage. “How long have I been unconscious?”
The centaur looked somewhat startled by the change of topic but answered, “Almost a day.”
With a small smile, Legolas lifted his brown tunic and unwrapped the wound. As he had suspected, the wound was closed, only a light brown scar remaining. Tirnen and the badger gasped with surprise, and Legolas could not help but laugh.
“Quick healing is a gift to the elves,” he said. “Now come, Master Badger and Tirnen, and tell me of the country of yours. I still do not understand whether this is real or if it is all a dream, but tell me all you know.”
For many hours, he sat and listened to their tales of Narnia’s history: the old times when there was spring, the coming of the witch and the fall of winter, the prophecy of the chosen children of Adam, and of the Lion Aslan. The great Lion intrigued him, and he pressed them for information on Aslan, but the badger and centaur knew little. They said, however, that it was rumored that the Lion was gathering an army to overthrow the witch near the stone table, around fifty leagues to the west.
After a time, their talk dropped to comfortable silence, and the badger left to bring tea and cakes. Legolas could not help but smile at the creature’s words, for who would have ever imagined such words coming from the mouth of a badger? He sat cross legged on the bed before the now silent centaur, pondering all he had been told. He was now almost certain he had somehow dropped into another world, and he clung tightly to that belief, unwilling to think that somehow he had gone crazy. His best option was to go to this ‘stone table’ and see if the rumors were true. Perhaps Aslan would be able to help him in some way. Besides, his curiosity was aroused, and he wished to meet the Lion.
He slowly stood, grimacing as his side protested. Closed though the wound was, it still pained him. “Where are my weapons?” he asked. “Were they with me when you found me?”
Tirnen hesitated, his brown eyes studying the elf carefully. “Are you leaving?”
Legolas nodded. “I must attempt to find this Aslan; perhaps, he will be able to help me.”
A smile touched Tirnen’s lips. “You are indeed wise, Legolas. The journey will not be an easy one, as the white witch will doubtless be alerted to your presence if she is not already.” The centaur sighed, his brow creasing. “Many of the free creatures of Narnia have been beguiled by her and work as her spies, and even some of the trees are on her side. It is possible that someone spotted us carrying you here.”
Legolas nodded and opened his mouth to reply, when the badger, Fornest, flew into the room, eyes glazed with fear. “She’s here!”
“Who?” the elf and centaur demanded in unison.
“The witch!” the badger gasped. “She also brought her wolves. Someone betrayed us!”
“My weapons!” Legolas snapped. “Where are they?”
Tirnen pointed to a closet, and Legolas ran over and jerked the door open, hurriedly strapping his quiver on his back and stringing his bow. He placed his knives in their sheaths and jogged from the bedroom into the main room.
Tirnen was peering out one of the windows, an old, rusted sword clasped in his hands, as Legolas stepped up to his side. A woman was approaching across the glistening snow, a long blue gown offsetting her blond hair which was done up in a peculiar style. She was beautiful, with dark green eyes that seemed to shout out fury, power, and knowledge. She also carried a strange staff-like object in her hands which seemed to be made partly from ice. Wolves slunk around her, their narrowed eyes sparkling with intelligence, and he doubted not that they could also speak.
He glanced at Tirnen who was looking extremely pale. “What is the weapon she holds?” he asked.
The centaur did not tear his gaze away from the witch, as he answered tremulously. “It is like a wand. If it touches you, it turns you into stone. She possesses many strange powers.”
Apprehension filled Legolas, and he ran his fingers thoughtfully down the smooth, dark wood of his bow. He knew little of magic besides that which Eru had given the Mirkwood elves to keep the palace somewhat protected, and he had rarely seen Mithrandir use it. That a potential enemy used it unsettle him, though his thoughts of home fueled an idea in his mind.
Stepping up to the door, he laid the palms of his hands on the wood and closed his eyes. Eru’s power was still within him – he could feel it coursing through him, strengthening him and bringing him courage.
“Nan Eru’s eneth, le innas dartho!” he command, and the door shuddered. “I placed a spell on the door. They will have to break it down now to get in,” he informed the startled centaur.
Tirnen swished his tail, staring at him with wide eyes. “You… know magic?”
“Only what Eru has given to me,” he answered, glancing quickly out the window. The witch had stopped her advance and was eying the door warily, as if she could sense that a spell was laid upon it. Tensing, Legolas laid a hand on the door and waited for her next move.
After another moment of scrutiny, the witch continued forward, a cruel smile curving the corners of her mouth. Stepping up to the door, she reached out and touched it with her hand.
Legolas jolted as her fingers brushed the wood, an unnatural pain shooting through his mind. He shut his eyes and forced back the pain, muttering, “Nan Eru’s eneth, dartho.” He knew, however, that there was little he could do if she decided to break through the door, for he knew nothing about the powers of a witch.
The witch laid both hands on the wooden door, whispering something under her breath.
Legolas jerked back as pain washed over him, but it was as if his hand was glued to the door. Cold fingers probed into his mind, feeling, touching… He cried out and fought against the strange invasion, but his resistance was feeble as he channeled his energy into the door. “Dartho,” he moaned the command to the door as his own strength was sapped within him. “Dartho.”
A will fought against his, attempting to force his concentration away from the door, but he refused to be baited. The fingers in his mind seemed to clench, and he fell to his knees with a choked cry of pain.
Tirnen caught his shoulders, confused and distraught. “What is happening?” the centaur cried, struggling to steady him as Legolas’ body convulsed, and the elf cried out once more.
“If I remove… my touch, she… will burst the door,” Legolas replied breathlessly, his voice strained as the agony continued to slice through his mind. “I cannot hold… much longer. Forgive me.” His silver-blue eyes glassed over with utter concentration, as he attempted to think and hold the door at the same time.
He wished that he could release the door and fight the witch, but he could not, for the spell refused to free him or the door. His energy was drained, and once the witch broke the spell, he would be helpless against her. Tension built between the two minds like a raging inferno traveling toward a pool of oil, creeping ever slowly towards the point of explosion. Legolas was no longer aware of anything outside of his mind but the pounding of his own heart and his ragged breathing. They formed a rhythm with his thoughts, forcing the words through his sluggish brain. Dartho, dartho, dartho…
No! He felt his tentative control slipping, felt the spell weakening. He could not fail, not again! He fought to regain what was lost, but it was too late. His control wavered as if balanced on the brink of a cliff before plunging off into nothingness. And abruptly, the spell broke under the witch’s power.
The nails holding the hinges to the wall ripped out, and the door flew backwards into the room, throwing Legolas back before it. He slammed into the table and dropped to the floor as the door flew overhead and smashed into the far wall. He lay stunned, teetering between reality and unconsciousness, his vision blurry and colorless. Sounds seemed to meld together, but he clearly heard the snarling of the wolves and the angry cries of Tirnen and, to his surprise, Fornest. Abruptly, there were two strange noises that seemed almost like ice shifting in a river, and all fell silent.
He tried to will himself to move, to reach for a knife, but his body would not cooperate. His hand merely twitched and remained stationary. The pain in his mind was gone, replaced instead by a deep fatigue that made the darkness of unconsciousness seem like paradise.
For a brief moment, his eyesight cleared, and he looked up into the face of the witch. Her eyes were sparkling with a cruel pleasure, yet there was also fear. However, she smiled maliciously as she met his gaze, her fingers dancing over her wand. Then, his sight misted over once more, and he felt the black oblivion of unconsciousness sinking its long talons into his weary mind.
The last thing he heard was her smooth, but hate-twisted voice before the void claimed him. “You are strong, Son of Adam. Too strong…” And all dissolved into the wondrous darkness.
Translations:
Mae govannen ~ Well met (an elvish greeting).
adan ~ man
Nan Eru’s eneth, le innas dartho ~ By Eru’s name, you will hold
Nan Eru’s eneth, dartho ~ By Eru’s name, hold
Dartho ~ Hold
A/N: To all you elvish speakers out there, I know that some of my elvish is probably incorrect. I welcome your advice on how to improve and/or fix it.
Namárië ~ Ila
Warnings: None so far, but with Legolas, you never know. This story will not have any romance or extreme violence. I prefer to keep my stories clean so all can enjoy. There may be some light elf torture in the next chapter, however. *evil grin*
A/N: Hey, everyone, here is my first try at an x-over. The idea of crossing Narnia and LOTRs has been plaguing my mind ever since I first watched The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and I finally decided I’d better do something about it before I go crazy. Thus, this story was born. I greatly appreciate all the advice and writing pointers I get, so I’d love it if you would review. Now, I’ll stop jabbering and let you read.
~ The Blades of Eru ~
– – – – – – – –
Chapter One: Failures
The cave was eerie and foreboding, and Legolas shot another glance at the sky, unwilling to enter the blackness. However, the sky was even darker then before, as the clouds boiled and churned. Streaks of lightning shot down from the sky and scorched the ground and trees, promising destruction to all it hit.
With a sigh, he left the green foliage and hurried up to the cave, entering it just as the first large droplets splattered on the ground, and a large clap of thunder boomed menacingly.
Shivering at the dampness, he sat rather awkwardly and removed his tunic, eyeing with weariness the bandage hastily wrapped around his stomach. It was stained crimson, and he carefully removed it, pulling a second white roll from a pack before inelegantly rebinding it.
Silently, he cursed the orc whose rough sword had left its jagged mark in his side. In quick, jerky movements, he replaced the tunic, but despite the anger which coursed through him, a deep ache plagued his heart, reminding him of what was lost. His entire patrol was dead because he had underestimated the orcs’ numbers. Now he was fleeing like a frightened deer before a herd of bloodthirsty monsters that were following his trail because of his failure.
Leaning back against the cave wall, he closed his eyes with a deep sigh. It wasn’t suppose to end this way. Not now, not ever. Blinking back the tears which threatened him, he drew a shallow breath, wincing as the movement pained him. His head felt light from blood loss and exhaustion, and he knew he must be careful lest he fall asleep. He did not think that the orcs would make any headway in the storm, but it would not do to underestimate them again.
Carefully stretching his legs out before him, he pulled his knives from their sheaths and laid them on the rock beside him. Letting his head rest against the stone behind him, he stared out into the raging storm, paying no heed to the roars of thunder that caused the ground to shake.
Loud, coarse voices jerked him awake, and he cursed himself for falling asleep. Darkness had fallen outside, and shadowy forms moved around the cave’s entrance, the soft pitter-patter of rain doing nothing to hide their careless movements.
Legolas pushed himself painfully to his feet, satisfied that the orcs had not yet seen or smelled him. But it was only a matter of time. His old, bloodied bandage would give him away surer than if he walked out now and surrendered.
He knew that his only hope lay in exploring the cave and trying to find an alternative exit, but he hated the idea of going further into the cave. Finally, with great reluctance, he silently sheathed his knives and gathered up his supplies, slipping into the yawning blackness of the cave’s deeper parts.
Even his elven eyes had trouble seeing in the dim light, and he had to feel more than see his path. His side screamed at him, but he forced himself to ignore it and continue on, random bouts of dizziness causing him to stagger.
Suddenly, a harsh, triumphant yell echoed down the narrow tunnels, and Legolas felt his heart sink within him. They had found his trail. Laying aside secrecy, he ran, desperation forcing him on. Something whispered that this had all been for naught, that there was no other exit, and the orcs would eventually corner him, but he paid the despair no heed. He would cling to what hope was left, even in this dark place.
Scarcely had he thought that, when the ground dropped from beneath him, and he fell. He landed on something both soft and hard, cold and comfortable, but agony shot through his side, and everything went dark.
o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o
His head pounded, his side ached, and he groaned, attempting to grasp and pull back the comforting blackness that was steadily slipping away from him. For a moment, he lay still, struggling to collect and connect thoughts. Why did his side hurt?
That single thought let loose a torrent of emotions and recollections. The fight. His wound. His escape. The cave. The orcs. His flight. The fall. With a gasp, he forced his eyes open and fought to sit.
Firm hands pushed him back down. “No,” a gruff but strangely gentle voice said. “Just rest, young one.”
His mind balked at the unfamiliar voice and words. Young one? His blurry vision soon cleared, and he stared at the sight before him.
A badger stood staring at him from beside a… he blinked at the other creature. It had the body of a horse but the abdomen, chest, head, and arms of a man. The man/horse met his gaze unflinchingly, and he quickly adverted his eyes, knowing he was staring.
“Sir?” The badger stepped forward. “How are you feeling?”
Legolas clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open with astonishment. Did that animal just speak to him? This was crazy, just crazy. He closed his eyes and relaxed back into the pillows, he was on a bed after all, and moaned. “I am going mad.”
“Sir –” the badger began, sounding bewildered.
“Peace, Fornest,” a strong, powerful voice interrupted. “Do you not see he is confused?”
Legolas opened his eyes as the man/horse spoke, his uncertainty becoming a numbed detachment. “Yes,” he said abruptly, abandoning all the diplomatic mannerism his father had instilled in him, “I am extremely confused. I have no idea what is going on, where I am, and who or what you are. To add to that, I have never before seen or met an animal, beside the evil spiders in Mirkwood, which speaks. The last thing I knew, was that I was fleeing through a cave from the orcs which had killed my patrol when I fell into some dark crevice and awoke here.”
With effort, he pushed himself up on his elbow, ignoring the badger’s protests, and surveyed his surroundings. He was in what seemed like a small cave which was furnished and well heated, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The room’s furnishings were like that of a bed chamber, and the bed he lay on was low on the floor, having no mattress but being more an assortment of pillows. A wide corridor led out from the room, well lit by candles mounted on the walls, and opened into what looked like a kitchen along with a sitting and dinning room.
“I know not of any land called Mirkwood,” the man/horse replied. “In answer to your questions, we found you lying in the unconscious in the snow just outside my home. You are in the land of Narnia, and I,” he smiled slightly, “I am Tirnen, a centaur.”
“Mae govannen, Tiren,” Legolas answered, nodding with respect, as his mind struggled to take in what these creatures were telling him. “I am Legolas of Mirkwood.” He frowned thoughtfully. “How can you have found me in snow? It was summer in Mirkwood.”
Tirnen sighed heavily. “I do not understand where you are from, but here it is always winter as the white witch degrees it.” He spat out the white witch as if it were poison to his tongue. “She is a tyrant, who cares about nothing but her own power and glory. Narnia is more her slave than her kingdom.”
He paused, face suddenly both excited and fearful. “Are you a son of Adam?”
Legolas’ brow creased. “A son of whom?”
“Of Adam,” the centaur repeated. “A human.”
Legolas stared at him for a moment, unsure of whether to be insulted of amused. “An adan? No, I am not a man – I am an elf.” He winced at his tone, as the insulted side won over.
Tirnen studied him for a moment. “Are you an enemy of the sons of Adam?”
Legolas shook his head. “No, but our two kinds do not mingle much.”
Tirnen nodded slowly. “I see.”
Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Legolas pushed himself into a sitting position and gently prodded his wounds through the clean looking bandage. “How long have I been unconscious?”
The centaur looked somewhat startled by the change of topic but answered, “Almost a day.”
With a small smile, Legolas lifted his brown tunic and unwrapped the wound. As he had suspected, the wound was closed, only a light brown scar remaining. Tirnen and the badger gasped with surprise, and Legolas could not help but laugh.
“Quick healing is a gift to the elves,” he said. “Now come, Master Badger and Tirnen, and tell me of the country of yours. I still do not understand whether this is real or if it is all a dream, but tell me all you know.”
For many hours, he sat and listened to their tales of Narnia’s history: the old times when there was spring, the coming of the witch and the fall of winter, the prophecy of the chosen children of Adam, and of the Lion Aslan. The great Lion intrigued him, and he pressed them for information on Aslan, but the badger and centaur knew little. They said, however, that it was rumored that the Lion was gathering an army to overthrow the witch near the stone table, around fifty leagues to the west.
After a time, their talk dropped to comfortable silence, and the badger left to bring tea and cakes. Legolas could not help but smile at the creature’s words, for who would have ever imagined such words coming from the mouth of a badger? He sat cross legged on the bed before the now silent centaur, pondering all he had been told. He was now almost certain he had somehow dropped into another world, and he clung tightly to that belief, unwilling to think that somehow he had gone crazy. His best option was to go to this ‘stone table’ and see if the rumors were true. Perhaps Aslan would be able to help him in some way. Besides, his curiosity was aroused, and he wished to meet the Lion.
He slowly stood, grimacing as his side protested. Closed though the wound was, it still pained him. “Where are my weapons?” he asked. “Were they with me when you found me?”
Tirnen hesitated, his brown eyes studying the elf carefully. “Are you leaving?”
Legolas nodded. “I must attempt to find this Aslan; perhaps, he will be able to help me.”
A smile touched Tirnen’s lips. “You are indeed wise, Legolas. The journey will not be an easy one, as the white witch will doubtless be alerted to your presence if she is not already.” The centaur sighed, his brow creasing. “Many of the free creatures of Narnia have been beguiled by her and work as her spies, and even some of the trees are on her side. It is possible that someone spotted us carrying you here.”
Legolas nodded and opened his mouth to reply, when the badger, Fornest, flew into the room, eyes glazed with fear. “She’s here!”
“Who?” the elf and centaur demanded in unison.
“The witch!” the badger gasped. “She also brought her wolves. Someone betrayed us!”
“My weapons!” Legolas snapped. “Where are they?”
Tirnen pointed to a closet, and Legolas ran over and jerked the door open, hurriedly strapping his quiver on his back and stringing his bow. He placed his knives in their sheaths and jogged from the bedroom into the main room.
Tirnen was peering out one of the windows, an old, rusted sword clasped in his hands, as Legolas stepped up to his side. A woman was approaching across the glistening snow, a long blue gown offsetting her blond hair which was done up in a peculiar style. She was beautiful, with dark green eyes that seemed to shout out fury, power, and knowledge. She also carried a strange staff-like object in her hands which seemed to be made partly from ice. Wolves slunk around her, their narrowed eyes sparkling with intelligence, and he doubted not that they could also speak.
He glanced at Tirnen who was looking extremely pale. “What is the weapon she holds?” he asked.
The centaur did not tear his gaze away from the witch, as he answered tremulously. “It is like a wand. If it touches you, it turns you into stone. She possesses many strange powers.”
Apprehension filled Legolas, and he ran his fingers thoughtfully down the smooth, dark wood of his bow. He knew little of magic besides that which Eru had given the Mirkwood elves to keep the palace somewhat protected, and he had rarely seen Mithrandir use it. That a potential enemy used it unsettle him, though his thoughts of home fueled an idea in his mind.
Stepping up to the door, he laid the palms of his hands on the wood and closed his eyes. Eru’s power was still within him – he could feel it coursing through him, strengthening him and bringing him courage.
“Nan Eru’s eneth, le innas dartho!” he command, and the door shuddered. “I placed a spell on the door. They will have to break it down now to get in,” he informed the startled centaur.
Tirnen swished his tail, staring at him with wide eyes. “You… know magic?”
“Only what Eru has given to me,” he answered, glancing quickly out the window. The witch had stopped her advance and was eying the door warily, as if she could sense that a spell was laid upon it. Tensing, Legolas laid a hand on the door and waited for her next move.
After another moment of scrutiny, the witch continued forward, a cruel smile curving the corners of her mouth. Stepping up to the door, she reached out and touched it with her hand.
Legolas jolted as her fingers brushed the wood, an unnatural pain shooting through his mind. He shut his eyes and forced back the pain, muttering, “Nan Eru’s eneth, dartho.” He knew, however, that there was little he could do if she decided to break through the door, for he knew nothing about the powers of a witch.
The witch laid both hands on the wooden door, whispering something under her breath.
Legolas jerked back as pain washed over him, but it was as if his hand was glued to the door. Cold fingers probed into his mind, feeling, touching… He cried out and fought against the strange invasion, but his resistance was feeble as he channeled his energy into the door. “Dartho,” he moaned the command to the door as his own strength was sapped within him. “Dartho.”
A will fought against his, attempting to force his concentration away from the door, but he refused to be baited. The fingers in his mind seemed to clench, and he fell to his knees with a choked cry of pain.
Tirnen caught his shoulders, confused and distraught. “What is happening?” the centaur cried, struggling to steady him as Legolas’ body convulsed, and the elf cried out once more.
“If I remove… my touch, she… will burst the door,” Legolas replied breathlessly, his voice strained as the agony continued to slice through his mind. “I cannot hold… much longer. Forgive me.” His silver-blue eyes glassed over with utter concentration, as he attempted to think and hold the door at the same time.
He wished that he could release the door and fight the witch, but he could not, for the spell refused to free him or the door. His energy was drained, and once the witch broke the spell, he would be helpless against her. Tension built between the two minds like a raging inferno traveling toward a pool of oil, creeping ever slowly towards the point of explosion. Legolas was no longer aware of anything outside of his mind but the pounding of his own heart and his ragged breathing. They formed a rhythm with his thoughts, forcing the words through his sluggish brain. Dartho, dartho, dartho…
No! He felt his tentative control slipping, felt the spell weakening. He could not fail, not again! He fought to regain what was lost, but it was too late. His control wavered as if balanced on the brink of a cliff before plunging off into nothingness. And abruptly, the spell broke under the witch’s power.
The nails holding the hinges to the wall ripped out, and the door flew backwards into the room, throwing Legolas back before it. He slammed into the table and dropped to the floor as the door flew overhead and smashed into the far wall. He lay stunned, teetering between reality and unconsciousness, his vision blurry and colorless. Sounds seemed to meld together, but he clearly heard the snarling of the wolves and the angry cries of Tirnen and, to his surprise, Fornest. Abruptly, there were two strange noises that seemed almost like ice shifting in a river, and all fell silent.
He tried to will himself to move, to reach for a knife, but his body would not cooperate. His hand merely twitched and remained stationary. The pain in his mind was gone, replaced instead by a deep fatigue that made the darkness of unconsciousness seem like paradise.
For a brief moment, his eyesight cleared, and he looked up into the face of the witch. Her eyes were sparkling with a cruel pleasure, yet there was also fear. However, she smiled maliciously as she met his gaze, her fingers dancing over her wand. Then, his sight misted over once more, and he felt the black oblivion of unconsciousness sinking its long talons into his weary mind.
The last thing he heard was her smooth, but hate-twisted voice before the void claimed him. “You are strong, Son of Adam. Too strong…” And all dissolved into the wondrous darkness.
Translations:
Mae govannen ~ Well met (an elvish greeting).
adan ~ man
Nan Eru’s eneth, le innas dartho ~ By Eru’s name, you will hold
Nan Eru’s eneth, dartho ~ By Eru’s name, hold
Dartho ~ Hold
A/N: To all you elvish speakers out there, I know that some of my elvish is probably incorrect. I welcome your advice on how to improve and/or fix it.
Namárië ~ Ila
Re: The Blades of Eru
