Mirkwood: The Forest
They had known immediately when they had reached the forest of Mirkwood. Who could have ignored it? They had crossed vast and empty plains where no sign of life had been detected and where the pounding of the hooves on the damp ground had only echoed the silence and they had then been facing high trees. Mirkwood's essence was not a calm and peaceful atmosphere, rather a threatening presence that had descended upon them when they had been a few leagues away from the Woods.
The twins, used to the soft and comforting attraction of the surroundings of Lorien when they travelled on that side of the Mountains, had felt it first among the Elves. As much the travellers reaching the realm of the Lady of Light were attracted by the invisible light emanating from the forest of mallorns, so the air surrounding Mirkwood was thicker, warning whoever approached the woods not to go farther. It was a very strong awareness that the horses had felt keenly, becoming agitated and nervous, then reluctant to be led toward that direction. It had then hit the Firstborn, slowly and insidiously. They had tried to ignore it but had remained alert and ready to face whatever threat might have appeared. But nothing had come save for the silence that had seemed to become heavier. Bit by bit, that fated sense of foreboding had become stronger and stronger with each step taken by the horses, reaching its peak when it had come in sight.
The forest.
Like a dark and threatening mass rising from nowhere it appeared. The leaves of the trees had yellowed because of the passing of seasons, making a sombre contrast between the forest and the dark shade of the ground, yet enhancing the baleful impression.
All had paused at that point of their journey and they had contemplated the sight offered to their eyes. Most of them had never seen Mirkwood and had known the forest only by stories told during the evening gatherings. They had listened to the tales told about that place and, even if they had understood that life was not easy for the Wood-Elves, they had assumed such stories were exaggerated and that the inhabitants of that place were poor fighters to let themselves be repelled by some goblins and spiders.
But now, as they faced the forest, they were forced to revise their judgement as lumps formed in their throats. The whole forest radiated an impression of evil and hatred. Suddenly, many felt less sure of themselves. Helping Mirkwood would not be an easy task as it would mean fighting against the very forest. The oldest and wisest Elves had always told such things to those who were willing to listen. But, even if they had known it, they only realized now what it meant really.
Taking deep breathes, they pushed aside their own apprehensions to soothe the fears of their mounts and encouraged them to advance. They pushed back the feeling of bad omen into a corner of their minds and entered the woods, trying to ignore the full evil of that place.
But soon they forsook the mere idea to follow their journey on the back of their horses as the many trees bordering the narrow paths reduced their sight and slowed their mounts. On a simple signal by their captain, they dismounted; their light feet making little noise on the ground. They led their horses through the forest; one hand holding the reins, the other clutching forcefully their weapons, not willing to be surprised by the Shadow. They followed the path; their eyes quickly scanning the area, while their ears picked up distant sounds.
The forest was really a strange place made of moving shadows and repressed screams. What struck the eye was the complete absence of young plants. There were only old and distorted trunks whose barks wore the stigmata of many centuries. It looked as though the youth had been stifled by the oppression of the oldness, as though the many roots emerging from the ground had prevented the birth of new lives. Everything seemed fixed and frozen. A particular atmosphere was hovering upon it, enveloping the trees in its invisible arms, caressing their faces with its long fingers, slowing every life. No animal could be seen in that wood...no squirrels running from tree to tree; no birds nestling in the branches nor singing or flying through the forest. No life. Just something looking like death and desolation.
None of what they had seen or met before might have prepared the Elves from Imladris for such an encounter. The forest seemed to have a life of its own and its overwhelming presence was absolutely not comforting. They felt as though they were constantly watched by the knowing eyes of an invisible observer. The air was damp and its heaviness had not lessened since they had entered that Valar forsaken place. It made each intake of breath difficult, almost painful. The ground was crackling; the horses stumbled on the emerging roots. It became difficult for them to hide their presence. Would they have screamed their presence, they would not have made more noise. It was as if the forest wanted to slow their progression and prevent them from going farther.
Everything was dark and threatening and they knew it had nothing to do with the lasting thickness of the foliage of the trees, which smothered the daylight. The darkness came from the forest itself. The persistent impression of claustrophobia was enhanced by dull sounds coming from the trees themselves: cracklings of the scruffy bark, rustling of the dried leaves, branches moving when no wind was blowing to relieve the disturbing sensation of confinement. And each time they raised their gaze to find the source of those resonant noises, it was as if the trees were closing up on them with frightening scowls; their sturdy branches as multiple parodies of hands ready to seize them; their dark frames enhancing the reddish shade of their foliage.
Everything they saw reminded them that they were intruders in that place and that the forest rejected them. Everything they heard reminded them that they did not belong to those Woods and that at the first moment, it would avenge itself of that intrusion. It was a strange impression but the riders were warriors who had seen many horrors and manifestations of the evil within things, and so they kept on journeying, refusing to be impressed by the maleficent aura of the place.
They were slowly advancing as the low branches unmercifully whipped their faces, leaving red marks on their pale skin. Many had taken their bow or their sword in the hand holding the reins, using the free one to protect their eyes from the limbs threatening to blind them, feeling the weakness of their position but not knowing what else to do.
As they reached a sort of crossing, another sound reached their keen ears, distinct and very near. It was not the same kind of noise as before as it did not seem to belong to the forest. But it came nonetheless from the trees. None of them would have been able to tell what it was exactly. But all of them knew there was something there and that something was about to happen.
Maybe it was another crackling of branches...
Maybe it was another rustling of the leaves...
Maybe.
But it was different and their instincts told them so. It was stronger and nearer and, in the space of a mere second, bows were ready to fire and arrows were secured in the thin strings, ready to sing in a lethal melody. In a mere second, everything had frozen and no one moved as their eyes scanned the whole area in a derisory attempt to find the hidden foe. Time stopped as many held their breath. Hands clutched more stronglyto their weapons.
And then it happened again. Another crackling resounding more strongly than ever.
But this time, it was all around them, in the foliage of the trees, hidden behind the dried leaves. They felt then...many...about ten or twenty scattered in their immediate surroundings. But who or what? They would not have been able to tell whether the presence was friendly or not for they were overwhelmed by the full evil of the woods. So, the Elven warriors tensed, their eyes narrowed with concentration and their jaw clenched with expectation; ready to fire but not daring to do it without being assured of the dangerous nature of the trackers.
Silence arose, filled with tension and watchfulness. But it was broken as a voice ordered, Elven by its musicality, "Lower your weapons."
Many sighs of relief were smothered. They were guards patrolling through the woods. However they did not react immediately, because, even if the presence they had felt had revealed itself to be kin, the hidden Elf's voice held an unmistakable undertone of threat that was not missed by the warriors of Imladris and they decided to wait for Turelio to encourage them to drop their weapons. But, he did not do so. Silence answered the order. Bemused, the warriors quickly glanced toward the red-haired Elf. Their captain was standing at the head of the group, his face unreadable and his eyes clearly expressing his suspicions. For some unending seconds, he kept his bow aimed toward one of the trees, the string stretched by a hand that did not waver. Suddenly, the Imladrin fighters were not aware anymore neither of the evil nature of the forest nor of the dull sounds it released. They only heard the silence of the hidden Elves. They were unable to tell where they were exactly.
Tension increased to an unbearable height. Then, slowly, almost regretfully, yet never ceasing to fix a determined point into a close tree, Turelio relaxed his grasp on the string and lowered the weapon to the height of his hips; ready to aim quickly again if necessary. Taking that gesture for the awaited signal, one by one, the other warriors imitated him.
Then, multiple lithe frames stepped out the darkness of the foliage, their green clothes identifying them as warriors of Mirkwood. Yet as they aimed sharpened arrows at the hearts of the Imladrin warriors, their eyes strangely cold and unfeeling, a slender and nimble Elf jumped from the tree close to Turelio to the ground. He landed gracefully and effortlessly in a halo of light a few feet away from the group as his golden hair flew around his fair face. He was clad in the same fashion as the others stationed in the trees, but no weapons were in his hands as his long knives were hung on his leather belt and his bow was slung across his shoulders. As the blond Elf levelled his hands to show clearly he was no threat, the grasps the other Wood-Elves had on their weapons tightened, their precise aims redirected toward those who might be a threat to the one that appeared to be their captain.
The blond Elf's eyes quickly scanned the crowd as though seeking an unnoticed threat. He seemed to halt his emotionless gaze on a point lost among the warriors but he quickly averted his eyes, as if made awkward by what he had seen. If one might have had the opportunity to take a closer look at the Wood-Elf, he would have seen an unexpected emotion flickering behind the cold pretence.
When he spoke, the Imladris Elves recognized the same voice which had ordered them earlier to lower their weapons. "Who is in charge here?"
Elrohir, who was in the middle of the gathering, averted his attention from the silent warriors perched in the high trees when he heard that voice again. It seemed strangely familiar to him, and as hope rose in his heart, he tried to see who the speaker was. But he only earned a dark sidelong glance from his twin, who was more interested in the lack of a friendly attitude from the guards than in the conversation.
In the front of the gathering, Turelio had taken a few steps toward the Wood-Elf, completely lowering his bow and giving the weapon to one of the nearby warriors. Tilting his head slightly, he answered the cold gaze with his own before stating simply, "I am Turelio, son of Calimo, captain of these warriors ..."
For some seconds, no one moved as the two Elves assessed each other; neither of them willing to avert his gaze first. Behind them, the warriors were facing each other in silence, their gazes decided and betraying their strong wills. The Wood-Elves refused to be impressed by the superior numbers of the Imladris Elves while the visitors seemed to ignore the Mirkwood warriors' dominant positions.
Keeping his blue eyes fixed with the green ice of Turelio's gaze, the leader of the Mirkwood Elves asked, "Who are you and what is your purpose for being in these woods?" His voice was still cold enough to freeze mountains, his tone indicating that he would accept nothing but the truth.'
Without hesitation, the red-haired Elf calmly replied, "We were sent by Lord Elrond as reinforcements, as it was agreed upon between my Lord and the King of this realm." Seeing that his interrogator was giving no sign of recollection, he added, "A message was sent a week and a half ago, announcing our arrival." His voice was equal and fluid, his stance easy as one of his hands rested on his narrow hip, while the other hung at his side.
For a few moments, the golden-haired Elf did not utter a word nor give any impression he knew of what they were speaking of and the reserved Turelio felt, in one of the rare times of his life, the bite of impatience. A two-week-long-journey was not an easy travel and he knew that his warriors were beginning to feel the weariness in their bodies. Whether this Elf was playing with his him or whether the King of Mirkwood had changed his mind about the alliance, but both cases would not please him. However, he mastered his feelings and waited.
Something that looked like a smile ghosted across the blond Elf's lips as he noticed the impatience brought on by his silence to the other's face. Then, without breaking eye contact, he raised his right hand high enough for the other Mirkwood warriors to notice. Immediately, the perched Elves lowered their bows and jumped to the ground. An earnest smile graced the golden-haired being's features and he introduced himself, though his voice still sounded impersonal, "I am Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of this realm. My father has entrusted me with the task of coordinating our efforts." He took in the Elf in front of him, and then added as though concerned, "But I think we will speak of this later. We will lead you to my father's castle first. I think I am not mistaken when I say you need some rest?"
They had been walking for what had seemed like hours, trustingly following the Wood-Elves, who were leading them through the woods. Weariness had clearly taken its toll on the Imladrin warriors. Two weeks of travel were not easily made. Add to that, they had crossed the paths of many goblins in the steep heights of the mountains, which had not made the journey easier. But the guards did not seem willing to take a short halt and kept on walking at a steady pace. Slowly, with every step that moved them away from the south of the forest, the strong warning that they had first felt noticeably softened until it was no more than a flickering impression. It was a very subtle change, one whose impact was the strongest on the surrounding nature. The trees had lost their distorted and threatening appearance, looking friendlier and more familiar. Sometimes, in the distance, sounding very, very far from them, the soft trill of a bird sounded. It was as if the forest was normal again... As if...
They walked in silence, as the inhabitants of the woods did not seemed prone to begin a conversation. They were leading the ImladrinElves through the forest toward the citadel of Mirkwood, encircling them as if they did not want to lose any of them. But they did not even spare a glance toward their guests. Their whole attention was fixed on their surroundings, on the trees bordering their path and maybe on those which were further. They seemed completely unaware of the attention they were subject to. Maybe they were but they did not show it.
Indeed, the Imladrin Elves had watched them closely since the very moment they had jumped downfrom the trees, landing on the ground as gracefully as their captain had. They wondered at the apparent coldness, not really understanding it. They were no foe, they were coming to help them, and yet, their hosts gave the lingering impression that they represented a threat to their guides. They tried to seek answers in the obstinate silence of the guards. They noticed their instinctive efforts as they walked, never stumbling on hidden roots, never swaying, never hesitating on the path to take. They sometimes looked as if a noise or a movement had caught their attention but whenever the Imladrin Elves tried to determine what had caused the sudden flickering of emotions on their faces, they heard and saw nothing more than the pounding of the hooves from their own horses or the rustling of the leaves.
More than once, they wondered if the strange Elves were the same as they were or if by living in the shadow infested woods, they had become different. If they were able to see things they could not. Within them shone a kind of animalistic and feral grace that no one could ignore. But in fact, Wood-Elves were separated from the other Elven realms. They had other customs, other ways to behave, which marked them undeniably as different from others. They were said to bond deeper with trees and with animals. But many other rumours had been told about that folk. Around them floated an aura of strong mystery. But who could understand such a race which looked at others with an air of haughtier and a seemingly imperturbable solitude that delighted itself with silence and mistery?
All wished to know the answers to their curious observations save for one Elf, who has had little attention for anything else but the flaxen-haired Elf walking next to Turelio. His grey eyes were fixed on the slender frame with its quick balancing of hips under the broad shoulders, all of which was framed by the golden cascade of his silken hair.
No matter how hard Elrohir tried, he found it impossible to avert his gaze from the graceful figure in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the woods, on the unlikely foes that might be mad enough to dare attack them in the daylight. The atmosphere felt safer and the forest seemed not to be a danger anymore. Add to this that Orcs were cowardly creatures who would not dare attack such a large number of Elves. Hehad quickly figured the number of Elves accompanying them to be fourteen. Add this to his sixty warriors, which included himself, it made for seventy five heavily armed Elven warriors, which was enough to impose caution on anyone who dared approach. Yet, it was true to say that daylight did not really pierce the dense foliage of the trees and that he was not very well informed of the habits of the dark minions in that realm. He had noticed the subtle way the other Elves had placed themselves on the sides of the group to always keep an eye on their surroundings, as if they feared something from the forest.
But what? Spiders?In the present situation it was unlikely.. Those evil animals were known to attack lone prey, tracking it and paralyzing it with the venom of their bite before bringing it to their nest either to feast or to keep it in reserve for the offspring of the Queen.
His eyes fell back onto the lissom body of the leader of the Mirkwood guards. He admired the assured steps that did not make a noise, so much like a beautiful, yet feral cat that carried the fair body that held so much sensual promise. He felt within him the reawakening of a lust that he had thought buried deep within him and was helpless to stop it.
Of course, he had told Elladan the truth when he had admitted that he still thought of the Prince of Mirkwood. He had not forgotten the agile figure, which had marked him so strongly. But he thought on what he had seen hidden in those magnificent bottomless eyes when they had shared that brief, but intense gaze. He had not forgotten the waltz of emotions that had seized him. He still remembered the pain and loneliness he had read then. With the absence of the prince, the desire he had experienced for the beautiful Elf and the uncontrollable jealousy he had felt toward Glorfindel had died off. But the will to know the intricate soul within had unexpectedly remained, mingling with the wish to understand the meaning of those emotions and to break the wall of loneliness and pain that had seemed to shadow the Prince's eyes.
He wanted to know if what he had seen was real or if it was the mere product of his imagination. But he was not sure of himself or of his intentions anymore, as a mighty wave of lust for the beautiful Elf had overwhelmed him once more, making the blood rush in his veins and a stream of fire run through his body.
Was it his frailty...his strength...his eyes, and the hopes and despair visible in those pupils? He sighed softly. His wish was hopeless. The Prince did not even seem to acknowledge him.
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