Greater Than Death

Rating: R. Violence, angst, SEVERE character torture, tense situations.

Summary: After the death of his wife at the hands of Orcs, Thranduil learns that love always survives…but so does hate. (Note: Character tortures concerns Legolas.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien.

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Part One

The sound of the young Prince Legolas' sniffling was the only sound at the funeral except for the rain that softly beat down. It was a service for Kanoma, King Thranduil's wife and queen of Greenwood, who had died in a bloody and brutal Orc attack three days before. The people were in shock, and none less than Thranduil. He had been the one who had found her, bruised, cut, and stripped beneath an oak tree, the Orcs laughing and singing around her. Unable to contain his rage, the king had killed them all. He knew now that in doing so he had most likely drawn more Orcs to his realm, but how was he supposed to react?

The priest was speaking, though now the rain was so heavy that he could barely be heard. Thranduil did, however, catch the words "beloved wife and queen" and "cherished mother". The statements made a lump rise in his throat. But he would not cry. He could not cry. He had to be strong—for his people, and for Legolas. For the love of the Valar, the poor boy was distraught, sobbing into his advisor Quenwen’s leg. The sight almost made Thranduil break down himself. Yet with a tremendous effort, he controlled himself and instead knelt before his son, heedless of the mud staining his leather riding boots, and gathered the young elfling into his arms. Legolas let out a muffled wail and buried his face in his father’s shoulder.

"Ada," he sobbed. "Why, Ada? Why?"

It was a question that Thranduil had asked himself ever since he had found his wife dead at the hands of the foul creatures of Mordor, and one that he found he could not answer—not now, at least. So he gave the only possible answer he could to his young child.

"I don’t know, Legolas. I don’t know."

~

Later that night, after Legolas had taken a bath and Thranduil was getting ready to tuck him in, Legolas said in a very small voice, "I’m sorry, Ada."

Thranduil was confused. "Why, my son?"

The elf looked down, twisting the bedsheets in his hands. "Because…because…because it’s my fault that Naneth is dead!" he finally blurted out, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The king was stunned.

"What? Legolas, how could you ever say that? Nothing you could have done or have done will make you responsible for your mother’s death!"

"You’re wrong," Legolas said adamantly, still crying. "One day Naneth got mad at me, and…and I wished that she would die. And…and now she is dead. Oh, Ada, I’m so sorry," Legolas wailed, sobbing wildly.

Thranduil felt horrible. Oh, Valar, how could the boy think such a thing? He gently rocked the child, feeling Legolas’ sobs wrack his entire frame.

At that, Thranduil felt his own grief rise up and overwhelm him. Trying to keep the tears back simply was not working anymore. Laying his cheek on Legolas’ silky hair, he let the silver drops fall to land and glisten on the prince’s locks.

"Oh, Legolas," he whispered. "Oh, my little golden one. Did you think that I would blame your mother’s death on you?"

Legolas’s words were muffled and full of sorrow when he said them.

"I…I thought that. But I also thought that you wouldn’t love me anymore."

Thranduil slid a gentle hand under Legolas’ chin and raised it so he could look into his blue eyes, bright and clear as a summer sky, now wet with tears. "Legolas, listen to me," he said very softly. "I will never stop loving you. Never. Regardless of what you have ever done or ever will do, I will love you. Do you understand this?"

Legolas nodded, more tears seeping from his eyes.

Thranduil wiped them away. "Hush now, my son," he soothed. "Close your eyes and go to sleep."

"Ada," Legolas whispered, "will you stay with me tonight?"

The king was torn. For generations it had been the unspoken tradition that after the burial of a husband or wife, the remaining spouse stayed at the grave for a full night, but now…Legolas needed him. What was he to do?

"Legolas…" he began softly.

The little boy’s eyes filled again with tears, and Thranduil’s heart wrenched. Surely there had to be some way around this…

~

"Amandil," Thranduil knelt before the priest, "forgive me, but I cannot complete the ritual this night. My son is distraught and wishes me to stay with him. Please, in the name of Illuvatar, I beg you to allow me this small privilege."

The kindly older elf laid a gentle hand on the king’s head. "Of course you may stay with your child, my son. Go in peace."

Thranduil rose, bowed, and walked out to the inner court of the palace. His advisor and close friend, Quenwen, met him there.

"Well?"

Thranduil’s eyes were weary and sad. "He has allowed it. Yet I do not have anyone to stay with her for me."

"May I?" Quenwen’s voice was quiet.

Thranduil looked at him in surprise.

"It would be an honor, my lord," Quenwen continued. "I loved her as any subject should love a queen and I can think of no better way to honor her memory."

Tears of weariness and grief once again rose in Thranduil’s eyes. The simple request made his heart break, and one lone drop fell from his eye to trail down his cheek. Yet he nodded.

"Please," he whispered.

As Quenwen embraced him, he reflected that never would one elf-maiden be so missed.

Part Two

When morning dawned, it was a saddened Legolas that rolled out of his bed and pulled on fresh leggings and a clean tunic, listlessly running a brush through his long golden hair before twisting it into a slightly messy braid. He surveyed himself in the mirror, and watched his eyes slowly redden with the effort of holding back tears.

Legolas was so intent on trying to act like the young prince that he was and not weep like a child that he did not hear his father enter the room. Thranduil took one look at Legolas and sighed, shaking his head. What a poor mess the child is, he thought to himself sadly, and went over, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Legolas looked up sharply. When he saw that it was Thranduil, he turned away quickly, making the pretense of wiping sleepers out of his eyes while in fact he was scrubbing the tears away. But Thranduil was not stupid. Kneeling before the boy, he gently took him by the shoulders and turned him around.

"You need not feel ashamed to weep in front of me, my son."

Legolas shook his head, a tear spilling onto Thranduil’s leather vambrace. "I’m a man now, Ada. A prince. And…and princes don’t cry." Yet he wept as he spoke.

Thranduil enfolded Legolas in his arms for as many times in a day. "Legolas, Legolas, Legolas," he sighed. "How many times must I tell you? A prince is not judged by his weaknesses, but by his strengths. And sometimes simply having the strength to weep is a strength in and of itself." He pulled back and smoothed the elf’s hair away from his forehead.

"Really?" Legolas asked in a small voice.

"Really." Thranduil gave him a smile as he looked at the tousled mass of hair Legolas owned. "What did you do, child, let a raven comb your hair?"

Legolas giggled. "No!"

"Well it certainly looks as though you did." Thranduil rose and reached for the brush. "Turn around."

~

When the two were finished, they walked down the hall together. Thranduil noticed with amusement that Legolas copied his every move: feet flat as they hit the stone floor, long strides (or as long as Legolas’ little legs could make them), hands clasped behind the back, a stern _expression. At the last, Thranduil could not help laughing at Legolas’ amusing facial _expression.

"Are you copying me, child?"

Once again, Legolas giggled. "No."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

Knowing what was coming, Legolas shrieked with laughter and ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the corner of a pillar and tried to hide behind it. But Thranduil was quicker, already there when Legolas peeked around the corner. With another shriek, the prince went to dash away, but Thranduil wrapped an arm around his waist and started to tickle him furiously.

Legolas laughed and shrieked at the same time. "Ada, let go!" he giggled. "Ada!"

"Ahem."

The two looked up. There stood Quenwen, a smile upon his fair face. "If you two are quite finished, there is a matter that requires your attention, my lord." There was a serious look in his eyes that belied the mirth upon his face.

Thranduil knew at once that his time with Legolas was over. He gently set him down. "Be off with you now, my son." Obediently, Legolas did as he was told, trotting off down the hallway.

Once Thranduil was sure that Legolas was gone, he looked at Quenwen. "What is it?"

"Let’s walk a bit, my lord."

As they did so, at a less than leisurely clip down the hall toward Thranduil’s study, Quenwen refused to say a word. When they finally reached the study, Thranduil was feeling tortured. "Quenwen, what is it?"

The elf shut the door and looked at him, eyes weary, nervous, and…frightened? Thranduil had no time to contemplate why before Quenwen said the words that would forever be ingrained in his memory whenever he looked back on the meeting.

"My lord…it is your nephew. He has returned."

The world seemed to tip for the king, and for a moment, he feared that he would fall, so great was his shock. At last he found the breath to speak.

"Mairwyn? But I…I banished him. How could he…"

"I know, my lord. He has returned regardless of your edict. And it seems that he still has no respect for you. Scouts were watching from the trees. The moment that he arrived back, he… he spat on your wife’s grave." Quenwen’s eyes were apologetic. "I am so sorry, my lord."

Mairwyn spat on Kanoma’s grave? The words made Thranduil’s hands clench into fists. "Does he remember why I banished him at the first?" he snapped. Quenwen nodded. "I would assume so, my lord. One does not easily forget such a thing."

"Then why in the name of the Valar is he back?" Thranduil asked, walking to the window and wearily passing a hand over his face. Quenwen did not answer for a moment, and it was then that Thranduil knew that whatever his advisor was about to say, it was nothing good. At last he spoke.

"I do not know, my lord. The scouts only heard him whisper something about ‘due revenge’ and nothing more."

Due revenge? What sort of revenge? Ai, Valar, Thranduil thought to himself, I have far too much to worry about right now then a deranged relative of mine. Out loud he said, "Very well. Inform Rasa and his scouts to keep an eye on this nephew of mine. Quenwen, tell Rasa that I order him to inform me immediately of any threatening moves he makes. Is that clear?"

Quenwen bowed. "Yes, my lord."

When he had gone, Thranduil sat in his chair by the desk with a sigh. What was he to do now? He had a young son who had just lost a mother, and now he had to protect him from a madman? From someone who would threaten his people’s lives and everything that they had worked for? And for what? For "due revenge"? What, exactly, was "due revenge"? And upon whom? Or what?

Thranduil’s face sank into his hands.

This was simply too much to take.

It really, truly was.

Part Three

Mairwyn smiled sardonically as he beheld the palace for the first time in many a year. His uncle, a ruler of caves? Yet how fitting. Caves were darkness, and that was exactly what he planned to bring to this kingdom. Darkness.

When the guards bowed him through the door, albeit stiffly, Mairwyn laughed to himself. How easy this would be! How terribly easy…

~

"My lord?"

Thranduil looked up from where he stood by the window, his eyes troubled. Quenwen hated to bring him this news, but there was no other option.

"My lord, your nephew has arrived."

The king closed his eyes briefly. This was sure to go the wrong way. But he had no choice. He had to face him. So he turned to Quenwen and uttered the one thing that he would forever curse himself for saying.

"Send him in."

~

Mairwyn was exactly the same as when Thranduil had last seen him: brown hair to the middle of his back, worn loose, as always, light blue eyes that were so much like his son’s, those chiseled features that could twist into such a mocking sneer. The revelation that he had not changed a day shocked Thranduil.

But no. As the elven king looked closer, he saw that Mairwyn had, indeed, changed. There was more hate in his eyes then the day that he had left, and something else—sadness. It sobered Thranduil, and at the same time saddened him. What had happened to this young elf that so much pain was present in those orbs?

Yet Thranduil said none of what he was thinking. He simply smiled at Mairwyn.

"Nephew." With a sideways look to Quenwen, he directed him to go. Quenwen gave a slight bow and departed.

Mairwyn sighed loudly at Thranduil’s last statement, trailing his fingers over the ornately carved wooden desk. "Dearest Uncle, please. If I am correct in my thinking we have been through this little game before—you pretend to be happy to see me when I in fact know that you are not."

Thranduil made no response. What could he say? Mairwyn was right—he wasn’t happy to see him. Wanted, in fact, to wring his neck for returning.

Mairwyn watched Thranduil carefully, and felt a smile trying to break across his face. This really was too easy—the king could hardly hold his emotions in!

Thranduil let out a slow breath. "Mairwyn, please. I do not desire to argue your first night here."

Mairywn nodded, smiling somewhat unnervingly.

"Then we shall not, Uncle."

Surprising Thranduil, Mairwyn stepped forward and embraced him. Thranduil tensed, expecting a knife in his back, but when Mairwyn appeared to linger, he returned the embrace—cautiously.

If the truth be told, Mairwyn was, indeed, on the verge of putting his dagger in Thranduil’s back, but he restrained himself. Now was not the time. There would, however, be a perfect time—in front of all the people, and in front of Thranduil’s spoiled little brat of a son.

~

"Cousin Mairwyn!"

Mairywn turned. He knew that voice, and he burned inside to hear it. Yet he plastered a great smile on his face and knelt to sweep Legolas into an embrace, ruffling his golden hair, then pulling back to look at him, an _expression of mock horror on his face.

"Illuvatar, Legolas, have you grown that much? Why, I feel a dwarf!"

Legolas giggled and began pulling at Mairwyn’s sleeves. "You brought me something, I know you brought me something, where is it, cousin Mairwyn, where is it?"

Despite himself, Mairwyn had to laugh at the sight of the six-year-old boy trying to dig his hands into every crevice of his relative’s clothing he could find.

"All right, all right," he finally said, and stood—first glancing inconspicuously to see of Thranduil was watching, which he was. Perfect.

With a flourish, Mairwyn drew out a small golden ring set with a blue stone and handed it to the boy.

Legolas gasped.

Thranduil felt rage fill him. Damn the elf! He had seen that very ring in the marketplace the other day and was intent on buying it for Legolas. He knew, he just knew, that Mairwyn had done this to hurt him. How typical.

Legolas was still gazing at the ring in rapture, handling it as if he thought that he might break it. Mairwyn sneaked a peek at Thranduil, and couldn’t keep the smile off of his face as he spoke.

"It is called an edhirian, Legolas," he explained. "It is only to be worn on special occasions, mostly, but, well…" Here he openly looked in Thranduil’s eyes and grinned.

"I couldn’t help myself."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes.

He was wrong.

Mairwyn hadn’t changed a bit.

~

The ring looked beautiful sitting on the elf’s small finger. As the three dined that night in the great hall, the lights from the torches caught the stone’s hue and made its many facets dance and shimmer. Mairywn complimented Legolas on it twice.

Thranduil was still fuming.

Once during the meal, Legolas asked, "What’s wrong, Ada? You look upset. Are you angry with Cousin for giving me the ring?"

Oh, by Mandos, am I ever, Thranduil thought grimly, but he forced a smile and shook his head. "Of course not, love. It is truly a valuable gift, and one that any young elf should be honored to wear."

Mairwyn gave a snort. Thranduil threw him a glare that would have frozen the torch flames, which, thankfully, Legolas did not notice.

Long after the prince had gone to sleep, Thranduil and Mairwyn sat up, staring at each across the burning hearth, saying nothing. Finally Mairywn spoke.

"You are furious with me."

Thranduil looked at the dancing flames. He did not answer, and Mairwyn gave a slight chuckle. "Oh, come now, Uncle. Surely we are more than children and can talk this over."

"Talk what over?" Thranduil said sharply, turning to face the younger elf. "You stole from me that which I found most precious. I was going to buy it for him. You took away that opportunity!"

Mairywn laughed aloud. "Does it really mean that much to you, this affair?"

Thranduil glared at him.

"Since Kanoma’s death, everything is precious to me."

Mairywn nodded seriously. "Ah, I see. So that whore of a wife of yours really did mean something to you?"

Thranduil was out of the chair so fast that Mairwyn had no time to prepare himself as the king slammed him up against the wall by the front of his shirt, hard enough to make Mairywn dizzy.

"Whore?" Thranduil spat. "Whore? You could call your aunt by birth such a name?"

Somehow Mairwyn managed to shrug in Thranduil’s iron grip. "I considered her such, to have married such a man as you."

Thranduil growled at him, but then put him down—in a heap, as Mairwyn unceremoniously fell to the floor. Yet he was laughing.

"Oh, Uncle. If this much makes you so violent, imagine what it will be like when I k—when I am still here three months from now."

"If you continue acting like this you will not be," Thranduil spat. "Now get out of my sight."

Mairwyn rose, and, giving an exaggerated bow, walked out.

Thranduil slumped back down into the chair. How could one elf possibly be so trying? he wondered, as he stared absentmindedly at the silver ring with its green stone that he wore on the first finger of his right hand—the royal signet ring, which he had inherited from his father Oropher before he had died in battle, so many years ago. Then his thoughts suddenly drifted back to what Mairwyn had said.

Had the elf been about to say "kill"?

That thought disturbed Thranduil greatly. He knew that his nephew was capable of murder, which made Thranduil very nervous. Valar, he had a son and a people to protect!

Sighing wearily, Thranduil massaged the bridge of his nose. This had to stop—this incessant worrying. If the Valar so decreed that Mairwyn was to cause destruction, then Thranduil would have to accept it.

But by the gods, what he would not accept under any circumstances was the hurting of his son. He loved the young elf more than life itself, and felt no regrets about dying for him if need be, but he would not—could not—tolerate any pain that Mairwyn caused him. He swore to himself that if the elf so much as threw any threatening looks in his direction, he would have the creature executed without hesitation—despite the fact that he loved the elf.

Yes, he cared for Mairwyn, even though he had turned from the ways of the Valar and was now so obviously evil. That hadn’t changed—never would change.

But what of his threat? Would he make good on it?

And if he did, was there anything that Thranduil, really, could do?

Part Four

It had now been two months since Mairwyn had arrived at Greenwood the Great, and so far, nothing had occurred. Thranduil was beginning to wonder if his fears were unfounded, when one morning, those fears were realized.

A cry in the courtyard alerted Thranduil as he came around the corner, still in his riding garb from—what else?—his morning’s ride. Fearing the worst, he sprinted over immediately.

What he saw haunted him.

Mairwyn was standing over a relatively young elf, his dagger in his chest, a cruel _expression on his face as he twisted the weapon, driving it deeper into the breast of the guard. Thranduil was furious with anger and grief.

"MAIRYWN!"

At his uncle’s shout, Mairywn spat a curse in elvish and ran. Thranduil, too, ran—to the elf’s side, but to his mounting grief, found him already dead. Rising, blood on his leggings, he stared after Mairywn and let out a roar.

~

Feeling like a hunted animal—which indeed he was at the moment—Mairywn sprinted through the woods, trying to find a suitable place to hide. The only problem was, every tree that he passed was too small, and his pursuers were getting closer by the minute.

As he came crashing through the underbrush, two dozen soldiers of Thranduil’s guard leaped out and aimed their bows at him. Mairwyn turned to run again, but he was caught by the arm and hauled back to the center of the circle the elves had made.

As he got closer, he saw that Thranduil was there as well, and his heart rose up in his throat in rage. He meant to put a knife in the king, right there and then, but there were too many soldiers to attempt anything at the moment. So he stood and waited for Thranduil to speak.

But all that the king did was raise his hand.

Mairwyn tensed involuntarily. He knew that signal; he had seen it enough when his uncle’s father was alive.

It meant that he was about to die.

"Shall I give the order, my lord?" one of the soldiers said, tightening his bow. But Thranduil lowered his hand.

"No. I first want an explanation out of this elf. And if it is good enough, then perhaps he may be allowed to live." Thranduil’s eyes were hard.

Mairwyn’s chance had come.

Trying to be as sincere and contrite as possible, he hung his head. "I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to kill him. Yet he attacked me. He cursed me and drew his sword, trying to rush me. I know now that I should not have done what I did. I did not mean to kill him."

Thranduil looked skeptical.

No. No, I will not see this fall apart before my eyes! "Please, Uncle," Mairywn pleaded. "Do not kill me, I beg of you. It was a ridiculous mistake, but please, do not kill me." Mairwyn knelt in the leaves.

"I throw myself on your mercy, my lord."

The soldiers were deathly silent, and some glanced at Thranduil. It was the law of Greenwood that if any living being, be it elf, dwarf, or human, asked for the king’s mercy, then the king was obligated to give it. Thranduil’s heart was turned back to compassion at his nephew’s plea, anyway. His story seemed true, and despite his notorious record for being a liar, Mairwyn seemed to be telling the truth. Thranduil sighed.

"Rise," he said softly. "You are forgiven."

Mairwyn could hardly contain his evil joy. What a twist of fate in his direction! How the Valar were shining their light on him at this moment!

For once.

Trying to remain chastised, his head bowed, Mairwyn said quietly, "Thank you, my lord. I will be forever grateful for this."

Many of the soldiers in Thranduil’s elite guard rolled their eyes. They knew that all Mairwyn truly wanted was a shot at the throne and to be ruler of Greenwood. He meant none of what he said, for it all came from his black heart.

~

Early the next morning, before Anor had shown herself above the treetops, Mairwyn was up and ready. It was time.

Going into Legolas’ room, he shook him. The young elf came awake slowly, and then, when he saw his cousin leaning over him, frowned sleepily.

"What is it, Cousin Mairwyn?" he whispered.

Mairwyn shook his head. "Hush, child. Dress yourself and come with me."

Personally, Legolas thought that anything that was to drag him out of bed at such an hour was not worth getting up for, but he did not protest. Pulling on his clothes and throwing a light cloak over his shoulders to ward off the chilly morning breeze, he followed Mairwyn outside, onto a grassy knoll overlooking one of the streams that ran through Greenwood, and he was bidden to sit.

Once he did so, Mairywn drew out a thick book. "Do you know what a ladhier is, Legolas?"

Legolas shook his head. Mairwyn smiled to himself. This was unbelievably simple. Yet he continued.

"It is what most grown warriors have. It is a little like a teacher, but it is more than that. It is mostly a guide, one to help you stay on your path in life. I am sure that you know of lots of other warriors that have one."

Legolas nodded. He was excited. Could it be...?

Then Mairwyn said what the young prince had been hoping to hear. "Your father has told me that you are of the age appropriate to have a ladhier, Legolas. And he has appointed me yours."

Legolas could hardly breathe. Him, appointed a ladhier? How special he felt! So his father did not think him a child after all, which Leolas sometimes felt was the case ever since his mother had died. He actually clapped his hands a little.

"When do we start?" he asked eagerly.

Mairwyn smiled.

"Now."

Oh, this would be precious to him.

It would be precious indeed.

~

Legolas’ lessons began the next morning, at dawn. Mairywn took him into his chamber and had him read parts of the old texts, ones that were difficult even for old elves to decipher, but which Legolas was learning at a rate that shocked everyone.

Yet once he stumbled over a word. Without warning, he felt the sting of a hard slap. He yelped, and held his cheek.

Mairwyn’s eyes were hard. "That is the wrong pronunciation. Try again."

Legolas did so, and again felt a slap. This time, tears rose to his eyes at the pain. Mairwyn saw them and snorted.

"You weep? I suppose that you still are a child. Hardly old enough to have a ladhier. Perhaps I should tell your father that."

Fear spiked through Legolas. The last thing he wanted was for Thranduil to think him weak. So he roughly scrubbed away the tears and stood tall.

"I’m not crying, Cousin."

"Good," Mairwyn said harshly, walking around him. "Know this, Legolas–this is but part of your training. When I strike you, I do so to strengthen you. Remember that."

~

By the end of the day, Legolas’ cheeks were raw from the slapping, and his eyes stung from keeping in the tears. Yet he could tell no one of what was going on, not even Thranduil, for Mairwyn had warned him that his father had instructed that Mairwyn do this to him. That, of course, was untrue, desperately untrue, but little Legolas did not know that. And Mairwyn intended that it be kept that way.

The nephew of Thranduil was pleased with Legolas’ progress, very pleased indeed. This heralded that he could soon move on to other, more...difficult...ways of punishment. Perhaps he could even teach Legolas to lie. And maybe, just maybe, through cunning lies of his own, he could raise Legolas to hate his father...and then raise him to kill him.

Legolas knew none of the dark thoughts that were going through Mairwyn’s head. He only knew that if he cried, he was considered weak. If he did something wrong, he would be punished. If he did somthing wrong more than once, he would be punished more severely, and not just by Mairwyn’s harsh words. There was a whip that the elf always carried, and it was a weapon that Legolas feared greatly. He had never been whipped before in his life, but he had known others that had, and the tales they told were less than pleasant. Every time that he was about to make a mistake, he would glance at that whip and it would cause him to right himself, figuratively speaking.

Mairwyn was almost a month into Legolas’ "training", and he could already see that the prince was ripe for the picking. Soon there would be a disaster that would fall upon Greenwood the Great...disaster the likes of which had not been seen before–not in any skirmish, not in any battle, not in any war. It would be disaster that was to be complete and final.

And it would all be orchestrated by Legolas.

His prize pupil.

His protege.

And it would be his uncle’s downfall.

The downfall of all of them.

And especially the prince.

Part Five

The weeks passed. Thranduil was not a fool of a king, and he knew by Legolas’ reclusive manner that something was very wrong. There was also the matter of the disturbing bruises on the young elf. How had they gotten there?

When Thranduil asked Legolas that question, the prince’s eyes widened with a fear that made Thranduil want to stumble back for shock. What in the name of the Valar had happened to the boy?

"I…I fell," Legolas said quickly—too quickly, Thranduil thought. "On…on the stones in the courtyard."

"And from that fall you received this?" Thranduil asked incredulously, reaching out to touch one particular nasty bruise on Legolas’ cheek. The elf flinched, and that one flinch made Thranduil feel as though his heart had been ripped down the middle. What on earth was the matter?

"Legolas, what has happened?" he asked softly, reaching out to him, wanting to embrace the boy, for he had seen the tears that were now streaking Legolas’ cheeks. But Legolas moved away.

"Nothing, Ada, I-I swear, it’s nothing," Legolas said, sniffling. "Really, it’s nothing, Please believe me."

Thranduil wanted to say that he did not, that he believed none of what Legolas was telling him, but he held his tongue. Now was obviously not the time to reveal that little aspect of this conversation. So he simply nodded, as hard as that was to do.

"Very well. You can go."

And go Legolas did, as fast as his legs would carry him away. Thranduil watched him, shaking his head painfully. Quenwen walked by then and caught him at it.

"He has told you nothing, my lord?"

Thranduil sighed and turned to Quenwen. "No, Quenwen, he has not. And I fear that something is going on that would break my heart should I find out about it."

Quenwen was uncharacteristically silent. He knew as well as Thranduil did that there was something seriously wrong with this picture, but as to what, he didn’t have a clue.

The king found his silence less than comforting.

~

As soon as Legolas had emerged from behind the wall of the palace, he was grabbed and roughly thrown to the ground. From there, he immediately curled in on himself, knowing who it was and what was coming.

Sure enough, he heard Mairwyn’s voice.

"What were you doing in there?" he roared. "Hmm? Telling what has been going on between us? Answer me, you spoiled little brat!"

"No, Cousin, never, I-I would never tell on you, I swear, I-I was just…" His words trailed off as he saw what Mairwyn had in his hand.

The whip.

"I think," Mairwyn said viciously, "that you need to be taught a little lesson."

~

It was a good thing that Mairwyn had moved out of the king’s chambers and into a more private dwelling in what could be called the "basement" of the palace. Legolas’ screams of agony were so loud that he half feared that Thranduil or another of his simpering servants would hear. But to his immense relief, no one came.

Legolas was sobbing. "Cousin, please, stop, please…" But Mairwyn only spat at his feet.

"Do you think that just because you’re a prince, Legolas, you can receive special treatment and leave the rest of us in the cold? Hmm? Well, I am truly sorry to tell you this, but that isn’t how things work.. Not in my world, and not in yours. There are some who would give anything to have power and be accepted, Legolas, and I think that it is time that you learn my intentions." He smiled cruelly.

"Do you love your father, Legolas?"

Fear rose in Legolas’ eyes. Just what kind of madman was Mairwyn?

Mairwyn saw the fear easily. "So you do," he said, walking around the trembling and bleeding little elf. "That’s very good to know, Legolas, very good to know."

"Why?" Legolas whimpered.

Agaian the whip fell, and Legolas gave a small cry, writhing in his bonds. Mairwyn barked at him.

"Never ask me why! Haven’t I taught you anything?" Then he smiled once more. "But since you’ve asked, I might as well tell you.

"I’m going to kill your father, Legolas—very slowly, and very painfully. In fact, I might even do it with that jeweled dagger that he loves so much, the one that he always sleeps with, the one that’s always in his belt."

Legolas began to shake with terror. So Mairwyn had been in his father’s room; had most likely stood over him and watched him sleep, knowing how easy it would be to kill him. Oh, Ada, Legolas cried out inside, please be careful. Oh, please be careful.

"Yes, Legolas," Mairwyn went on, "he is going to die. Perhaps not tonight, nor the next day, nor the next, but eventually. He will bleed into the ground he was born of." To his great satisfaction, Legolas began to cry. So he revealed the last, and best, part of his plan. He leaned close to the elf’s ear. "And do you know what I am going to do after I kill your father?" Legolas shook his head fearfully.

Mairwyn smiled to himself, and whispered—

"I’m going to kill you too."

~

That night, as Thranduil tucked Legolas into bed, he noticed that the young elf was so sore that he could barely lie down comfortably. His brow furrowed in concern.

"Are you all right, my son?"

Legolas looked up from where he was snuggled under the covers, his eyes empty. "I’m fine, Ada."

That emptiness made Thranduil’s heart bleed. What was wrong? Why was Legolas being so secretive? He had always been able to come to the king for anything. Why was he now pulling away?

Unable to keep watching his son act the way he was, Thranduil sat on the edge of the bed. "Legolas, you were always able to talk to me. Why is it that you are suddenly so reluctant to tell me what is bothering you? I need to know if something is going on that is harming you."

Harming him? Legolas would say so. Every day now Mairwyn whipped him repeatedly, often until the young elf was broken and bleeding before him. But he could not tell his father. Mairwyn would kill the both of them if he found out, Legolas knew, with no hesitation. There was no reason for Mairwyn to make idle threats. So he just turned over so that his back was to Thranduil.

At that, Thranduil’s jaw tightened.

"Legolas, look at me."

There was no response.

"Legolas, now."

The young elf knew that tone, and reluctantly he turned back over, gazing sorrowfully at Thranduil. As always, the look Thranduil was given tugged at his heartstrings, but he remained firm.

"I want to know what is going on, Legolas, and I want to know now. Do you understand?"

Half of Legolas wanted to tell him, to just get it out in the open, but he couldn’t risk forfeiting his father’s life. So he shook his head violently.

"No."

Thranduil’s eyes flashed. "Now, Legolas!"

"No!"

Thranduil reached out and gripped the elf’s shoulder, turning him back around to face him, as Legolas had tried to turn away again. "I said tell me!"

Legolas whimpered, and tears rose in his eyes. "Stop it, Ada, you’re hurting me." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, I’m hurting you?" He took hold of the elf’s shoulder again and gently rolled up the tunic so he could look at Legolas’ back. What he saw made him gasp.

Welts and bloody scars covered the whole of it.

"Legolas…Legolas, what…" Thranduil could barely speak for shock. "Who has been doing this to you?"

"Ada, it’s nothing," Legolas tried, but Thranduil shook his head disbelievingly. "Legolas, I am no fool. I have seen my share of wars and torture and these are the marks of a whip." His eyes, Legolas noticed, were wet.

"My son, who has done this to you?"

Legolas began to cry. "I…I can’t tell you, Ada, he told me not to…he said that he’d kill us both…please don’t make me tell…"

Thranduil felt as though a knife had just been plunged into his heart. He knew well who the "he" was.

"Has Mairwyn been doing this to you?"

Legolas only buried his face in his father’s shoulder and sobbed. Thranduil felt cold. His mind was numb as he gathered the little elfling into his arms and softly began to rock him. Legolas just cried and cried, and Thranduil well knew why—Mairwyn’s threats were very real to the boy. Yet at the same time, Thranduil knew that they were more than threats—they were statements of facts. Mairwyn would do anything to get the throne, and anything to rid himself of anyone who would get in his way. He had to be stopped, and stopped immediately.

Yet when?

And how?

Either way, Thranduil was going to kill him first.

Part Six

It was with a heavy heart that Thranduil watched Legolas sleep that night. Many things ran through his mind—not the least being that of how he could have let this happen to the child he loved more than anything else in the world. Just what kind of a father was he, to let his own nephew beat his son?

Yet the rational part of his mind told him that there was nothing that he could have done; that Mairwyn had been doing this in secret for a long time and none had known of it. Still, the thought did nothing to soothe his broken heart.

Long after the moon had dipped below the horizon and the first birds begin to sing did Thranduil sit at the window, watching Anor rise in the east and trying to think of a way that he could summon Mairwyn to his throne room without getting himself and his son killed the moment that the elf stepped into the room. Nothing came to his weary mind.

At last he went to the priest, unable to bear his sorrow any longer. To his credit, the older elf did not berate him, but instead smiled sadly and sat upon a stool.

"Have you known that this has been going on, my son?"

"No, Amandil," Thranduil said miserably. "I have failed my own son, I have failed myself, and I have failed my people. If this were to get out…that I let my son…" he trailed off, feeling tears begin to sting his eyes. In denial of them, he shook his head painfully. Now was certainly not the time to fall apart, not when, as soon as he left the shrine, he had to somehow get Mairwyn into the throne room and prevent anything drastic from taking place.

The priest sighed. "I can offer you no advice, my son, except this: face your fears. Confront this evil that has caused you and your son so much pain…and rid yourself of it."

The soft words made Thranduil shiver involuntarily. Rid yourself of it…the only problem was, the evil was Mairwyn, and he could not simply kill his nephew in cold blood.

It was time to send word to Pelendis.

~

The next morning, as Thranduil was saddling his horse for his morning ride, he heard fast hoofbeats coming from the north. He knew whom it was even before the rider had dismounted and come towards him.

"Pelendis."

The two embraced tightly. "My brother," Thranduil sighed. "It has been too long."

Pelendis, three thousand years Thranduil’s senior, a wise and learned elf, looked into his eyes. There was something in Thranduil’s tone that alerted him all was not well.

"What is wrong, brother?" he asked in low tones. "Your message was brief and yet wanting—this is more than a simple visit, is it not?"

Thranduil nodded. Then he looked around. "I was about to leave for a short morning ride. Would you care to join me?"

Pelendis could see that it was not an invitation, but almost a demand. He swung up on his own stallion again and gave one succinct nod.

~

The woods were green and full of light, but at the moment it seemed to Pelendis as though he had been plunged into the dark deeps of Melkor’s domain. What Thranduil had just said to him replayed through his mind.

Pelendis could not believe the next question that came from his mouth, but he had to ask it. He had to be sure.

"Thranduil, if this is jest, it has now reached the point of no amusement. Do you…"

"Do I lie?" Thranduil said, rather sharply, reining his horse to a stop and turning it to face Pelendis. "Do I lie? Would I lie about something such as this, Pelendis? Do you honestly think that I would tell you such a thing if it were not true?"

"I am only trying to insure that…"

"That what, Pelendis?" Thranduil spat. "That your son is perfect? That he can do no wrong? That the scars, the welts, and the blood on my son’s back I created from my imagination? Hmm? If that is what you think, brother, than you are sadly mistaken!"

By now Thranduil’s voice had risen to a roar. Pelendis was quiet for a moment, just letting Thranduil settle down. Then he spoke, voice quiet.

"No, I do not believe that you lie. What you have told me does not bear lying. However, I also do not think that you should just simply summon Mairwyn into the Great Hall to judge him."

"What?" Thranduil yelped.

Pelendis sighed, and when he did, his eyes were very sad. "Thranduil, think of what has happened to your son thus far. If you do this to Mairwyn there will be retribution that you cannot even begin to think of. Do you really wish to put your son through more of what he has already been through? Do you truly want to have him suffer again?"

"Of course I don’t, you fool!" Thranduil shouted, thoroughly aggravated.

Pelendis gripped him by the shoulder. "Then listen to me, brother…"

~

Mairwyn knew that something was up. His father and his uncle were both being far too quiet and secretive, which could mean only one thing—they knew about him and Legolas. Mairwyn was furious. So the little brat had gone and tattled, had he? Something had to be done about that—something that would ensure that he would take the throne, and that also ensured the people of Greenwood would never see their precious king and prince again.

~

"Stop! Cousin, stop! Please…"

Screaming resounded through the room—screaming and sobbing, all of which were coming from Legolas. Mairwyn was beating him worse than ever before—and the times before had been extremely awful. But this time, the fury and the hate was multiplied a thousand times a thousand in every stroke of the whip that fell upon the bleeding elf.

Legolas looked up from where he knelt on the floor in a steadily growing puddle of his own blood. His eyes were hopeless and pleading, all at once.

"Cousin, please…" he whispered hoarsely.

Mairwyn bared his teeth in a snarl and let the whip fall again. Legolas was knocked into the wall, hard, and yet another wound was formed.

"Stop, Legolas? Not until you are dead."

Part Seven

The screams had reached the ears of every living soul in Greenwood, from the old to the very young. One by one the people turned out of their dwellings to see what was happening.

The screams had reached Thranduil and Pelendis as well. Thranduil knew well whom the screams were coming from. At a sprint, he entered the bowels of the palace, hardly noticing that Pelendis and all of Greenwood were right behind him. What he saw was a sight that made him draw his sword instantly.

At the sound of ringing steel, Mairwyn let his hand fall. Legolas, expecting another endless crack of the whip, whimpered in the corner, still kneeling in what was now a virtual lake of his own body fluids.

Not one spoke.

Not one dared.

At last Thranduil did, voice as cold as a block of ice, yet filled with a rage to match that of Melkor’s.

In answer; in frantic panic, Mairwyn cracked the whip and cut an X neatly into the side of Thranduil’s leggings, drawing a fine line of blood. "Not yet will I surrender, Uncle," he hissed.

Sensing battle, the people drew back, as did Pelendis, though anguish was in his eyes.

"Think, my son," he pleaded.

Mairwyn turned on him with hate-filled brown orbs and spat at his feet.

Thranduil, who until now had held his weapon point down, pointed it at Mairwyn. "If it is to be so," he said quietly, "then fight."

Mairwyn let out a scornful laugh. "Do you believe you can best me, Uncle? I have been trained by the men of Harad in swordfighting and the art of the whip." He smiled evilly.

"…As you can see by your son’s condition."

In an instant the tip of the sword was at Mairwyn’s throat. "Speak once more," Thranduil said softly, "and you will see Mandos."

Mairwyn ducked from under the blade and cracked the whip again, meaning to take the sword from Thranduil’s firm grip, yet Thranduil simply cut the whip in half with the blade, and it fell in two at his feet.

But Mairwyn was by no means finished. He drew a dagger and threw it at Thranduil.

For the king, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. He saw the dagger; saw that it was heading for him at an incredibly fast speed, and all he could do was turn.

But it was not sufficient. To everyone’ s horror, the dagger slammed into his chest and stuck.

There was utter silence, except for Legolas’ anguished cry.

Thranduil staggered back against the wall, a look of agony on his face. Pelendis’ heart stopped. Valar… if the blade had been poisoned….

Mairwyn laughed as he watched Thranduil slowly slide down to the floor. He said nothing, but watched as the blood began to show through on Thranduil’s tunic, a dark red stain.

Pelendis heard the sound of Legolas’ sobbing, and went to him, kneeling beside the boy and gathering him into his arms, heedless of the blood now soaking into his leggings.

"Ada," Legolas wept.

"He will be dead in less than a day," Mairwyn suddenly announced, to the horror of all standing there. "The blade was poisoned with lomuial, which, as all of you well know, is an extremely deadly concoction." He then looked to Legolas. "Your little prince will be dead by nightfall, as well. He has lost too much blood, as is obvious. So you have three choices: come after me and take retribution, save the king, or save the prince. Either way, you are all quite doomed."

And he fled.

Not one made a move to go after him. The guards flew to Thranduil’s side, and the healers to Legolas’. Without a word they began to move them to the interior of the palace.

~

Pelendis did nothing but pace the entire time the healers were in with Legolas and Thranduil. He was worried sick. If either or both of them were to die…

When the moon rose, one of the healers at last emerged. Pelendis hurried to his side.

"What news?"

There was relief in the healer’s eyes, but there was also sadness—a horrible amount of sadness. Pelendis’ heart leaped within him, and he almost gave a cry.

"Which?" he whispered.

The healer’s eyes filled with tears. "Your brother, my lord. He has almost departed from this world."

The elf began to weep. No, no, NO! He could not lose Thranduil…not now…not when he had a son to care for…not when he was in the prime of his immortal life…No!

"I need to see him."

The healer graciously stepped aside.

~

Thranduil looked up as Pelendis entered the room, reaching out to him. "Brother," he said weakly.

Pelendis was heartbroken. Yet he came to the bedside and took Thranduil’s hand in his, holding it firmly.

"What is it, brother?"

"Take…take care of Legolas for me," Thranduil said quietly. "Please. You are as close to a father as he has now."

Pelendis knew.

"No, brother," he begged. "No, please…"

Thranduil smiled sadly at him. "Do not argue with fate, brother. Go, please. Go to my son."

Pelendis stared at him. Then, with tears falling, he backed away from Thranduil and slowly walked out of the room, head bowed.

~

"No! No! I won’t believe you…no…"

Legolas beat at Pelendis with his fists. "You’re lying! You’re lying! Ada isn’t dying; you’re lying…"

Pelendis caught the young elfling’s hands and forcefully drew him into his arms, burying Legolas’ face against himself as he rocked him. Yet the elf’s wails could still be heard.

"No…no…I don’t want him to die…why?"

Pelendis shut his eyes and sadly shook his head. "The healers had two choices, Legolas: help you or help your father. If your father dies, you, at least, will carry on the royal line. But if you die, little one, then there will be no one left to rule once your father has passed on. It must be so, Legolas."

But the young boy refused to believe it. "No…I want him to live…why couldn’t I have died instead…"

And unbeknownst to Legolas, Pelendis wept.

~

Thranduil grew worse as the night wore on. At times he was wracked by pain so intense that he cried out. Pelendis could not bear it. He prayed to any of the Valar that might care to turn an ear to his cries to let his brother live.

Toward dawn, the king grew peaceful, lying quietly, breathing slow and measured. Pelendis was no fool. He could see the peace on his face, and knew it would not be long.

Fury built in him. Corralling one of the healers in the hallway, he grabbed him by the collar and shook the poor creature.

"Tell me there is something that you can do for him!"

The healer’s eyes filled with tears. Pelendis let go of him and stepped back, a painful lump in his throat, eyes stinging.

"I am sorry, my lord," was the elf’s anguished whisper. "There is nothing we can do." Then he paused, contemplative. "Unless…"

"Unless what?" Pelendis asked frantically.

"Unless there is athelas to be found. We may be able to grind it into a powder and administer it to him orally."

"Do you mean as in a liquid potion?"

"Precisely, my lord…yet there is no athelas to be found in these woods."

Without a word, Pelendis headed toward the stables.

~

He would not lose his brother. If there was a way, any way, that he could keep him in this world, then he had to make quick time. Thranduil did not have much left.

So help him, if Thranduil died, he would tear Mairwyn limb from limb, whether he was his son or no. If he—

Suddenly he was thrown backward off of the horse and landed in a painful heap on the rough earth, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the beast as it feel, an arrow embedded deep in its flanks. What in the name of the Valar—?

"Well, well, well. Aren’t we noble."

Pelendis knew the voice at once. It could only be one elf—the one who was responsible for Thranduil’s present condition. He looked up with hate-filled eyes.

"Mairwyn."

Part Eight

As dawn approached, Thranduil grew weaker and weaker. At last the priest entered, and after looking at the king and seeing the young elf prince in the room, he sighed, shook his head sadly, and turned to the guards.

"Remove the prince. He need not witness this."

Legolas knew.

"No!" he screamed, sobbing and kicking at the guards as they began to pull him from the room. "No! Ada! Ada!"

The priest raised his hands and began a slow litany in Quenyan.

~

Mairwyn chuckled. "Yes, Father, it is I. Did you think that I would miss the opportunity to rob you of your brother?" He laughed again, and it was then that Pelendis noticed the small clump of athelas that he held in his right hand. His eyes hardened.

"Relinquish it," he ordered.

His son sighed, shaking his head mournfully. "Father, Father, Father," he said. "I had thought that you would have learned by now that you do not order me. I walk a different path."

"That is plain."

"Oh is it?" Mairwyn said, eyes becoming cold and cruel. "Then perhaps you will understand when I tell you that at this very moment, the priest is with your brother and is giving him the Last Rites."

Pelendis felt as though someone had just poured ice water onto his heart. He snarled, "You are a poor excuse for a son of mine."

"Am I? Then perhaps we should end this now!"

And he lunged at him.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Before he’d realized what he was doing, Pelendis had retrieved his sword from its place on the back of the horse and had thrust it through Mairwyn’s stomach.

~

At long last, the priest bowed his head and turned to the guards assembled in Thranduil’s chamber. "Find the king’s brother and bring him home. There is nothing left to be done.

"He is going to the Endless Shores."

~

Pelendis stood in shock. Mairwyn looked up at him, eyes wide, blood streaming from his mouth. Then, with a strangled cry, he fell back, torn from this world.

At that moment, four of Thranduil’s guards, led by Rasa, thundered into the clearing. Whne they saw the scene before them, they stopped in shock.

Pelendis looked up at them with tired eyes, then back down at his son. He laid a gentle kiss to his brow, and whispered, "May you find the peace in death that you could not find in life."

"My lord…?" Rasa said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"I…my lord, your brother is…he is…near death. You must come.

Without a word, Pelendis mounted behind Rasa, athelas in hand, and they rode.

Part Nine

"You are not allowed in!"

"He is my brother!" Pelendis shouted, in a rage.

"Let him in."

The voice was Quenwen’s, and it was firm. "He is the king’s kin. Let him by. And if I am not mistaken," he said, glancing meaningfully at the athelas in Pelendis’ hand, "he may be able to help him."

Reluctantly, the guards moved aside, and Pelendis brushed by them without so much as a glance.

When Pelendis saw Thranduil, he felt his throat close painfully. The king lay deathly still, his face pale and, when Pelendis touched it, fearfully cold. He hoped he was not too late.

The elf went to work.

~

It was early afternoon when Pelendis emerged from Thranduil’s chamber, swaying on his feet. Immediately Quenwen took his aside, eyes anxious. Pelendis took a breath, and then—

"He will live."

A sigh of relief echoed throughout the corridor. Quenwen took Pelendis’ arm and led him down the hall to an empty chamber, where Pelendis again swayed on his feet.

"Rest, young one. You have had a trying night."

Pelendis was only too happy to oblige.

~

Early the next morning, a much-bedraggled Thranduil stood in the doorway of his antechamber, where Legolas was asleep, tears on his cheeks. He had as yet not been told of his father’s recovery. Thranduil walked over and lightly touched his shoulder.

The young prince rolled over, eyes averted, expecting to be told his father was dead. When he saw Thranduil, he at first was in disbelief.

"Ada?" he said quietly.

Thranduil smiled softly.

"Yes."

With a cry of joy, Legolas leapt into his father’s arms. Thranduil held him gently, dreading the news that he had to give him. At last he pulled away from Legolas and tilted his chin up.

"Legolas," he said gently. "Your cousin Mairwyn is dead."

Legolas’ little brow furrowed. "Why?"

Thranduil sighed. "It is a long story, Legolas, and one that does not bear the telling. For now…" The king choked. "Just let me hold you."

~

Peace was once again restored to the realm of Greenwood the Great. Their people grew and prospered, as did young Legolas. Before long he could match the skills of any guardsman with a bow.

Peace, indeed. Peace, something that everyone needed after the long ordeal that they had all gone through. Peace.

For peace is the greatest gift of all.

THE END