Chapter 3

Note: This has some Elvish from the book..I do not own any of it, nor the characters or places.

Chapter 3

A Bereth thar Ennui Aeair!
A Galad ven I reniar
hί’aladhremmin ennorath.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
i chin a thûl lîn i gelair…

An Elven voice lifted in song carried out into the darkness of the night, along with the steady pound of hooves on grassy turf. The heavens were bright with stars, and their pure light bathed the earth below, giving the endless sea of waving grass an otherworldly glow.

It had been several weeks since Legolas had left the wooded refuge of Ithilien and begun his journey to Aglarond. The storms had come and gone intermittently as the days had progressed, and eventually had ceased altogether. But on the morning after the last bought of foul weather, Legolas had awoken to find that the previously sodden ground had transformed into a thick carpet of ice. Winter was coming soon, and time was running short.

In his invitation, Gimli had warned Legolas that as soon as the first snow fell, both the Hornburg entrance and the back entrance leading into Aglarond would be closed to block out the fierce snow storms that sometimes swept over the face of Ered Nimrais. He also stressed the fact that once closed, the barricades would not open again until the thaw in the coming spring. Legolas did not want to have come all the way from the far side of Gondor only to be met by a large stone door when he finally reached the Dwarven settlement. So for the past several days he had travelled nearly non-stop, only pausing for a quick meal at midday, and for a few hours’ rest at dusk.

But tonight, Legolas rode on. Dusk had come and gone several hours ago, and the Elf had not halted. To his left, a long mountain range snaked along, looking like the back of a huge slumbering dragon lying in the middle of Rohan. To his right, endless rising and falling grassland. Behind him lay the West Fold, and before him, a large hill. The scenery was becoming increasingly familiar, even in the dark, so Legolas nudged Arod into a canter. The horse eagerly responded, and shortly both steed and rider neared the top without difficulty.

Cresting the hill, Legolas reined Arod in and took the surrounding area. His skilled eyes swept the land before him, following the line where stone met earth. The mountain before him seemed to curve just slightly to the right, forming a sort of elbow of land. And within the crook of that elbow, a large stone fortification was built.

Helm’s Deep. They had finally made it.

Legolas recalled the words of Gimli’s letter: ‘Best to keep your hood up, lad. That is, until I make you known. Trust me when I say it would be for your safety. Oh, and I believe you know what a warm reception you’d get if you gave your name. Your father’s not too loved here in Aglarond….'

Tossing up his hood, Legolas nudged Arod forward, and the two were off, flying towards their final destination.

******************

A lone Dwarf sentry stood at the Hornburg entrance and sighed to himself. Every night it was the same: grass, grass, and more grass. Nothing ever changed, and the creature was beginning to get bored with his duty. Of course, there was the occasional bird that flew by or horde of pesky gnats that seemed to be drawn to the light of the torch hanging on the wall behind him. But this could hardly be considered excitement.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the sentry deeply inhaled the night air and let it out slowly, watching the cloud of mist his breath created. He turned his dark eyes skyward, trying to decipher when the next watch would start and he would be relieved. By the position of the stars, he still had a whole hour ahead of him. Muttering noisily, he turned his face towards the stone wall and to the light and warmth of the torch. It wasn’t much in the way of heat, but it would have to do. He was just rubbing his hands above the small flame when his ears caught an unfamiliar sound.

The sentry slowly turned and faced the dark once more, leaning out with a scowl that spoke of deep concentration. There it was again. A soft clopping sound. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the gate, and it was growing steadily louder. Grabbing up his axe, the stocky creature moved slowly towards the steps that lead away from the main keep. Someone or something was coming closer, and was now rounding the corner of stonework below where the Dwarf stood. The torch on the far wall was not bright enough to cast light on the figure approaching.

“HALT!” bellowed the gruff voice of the sentry.

The clopping stopped abruptly. The figure was unmistakable to the Dwarf, even in the dark. A horse and mounted rider stood at the foot of the stairway, and it was obvious that the stranger was heavily armed. The being atop his steed made no move or sound, but sat motionless. The Dwarf waited, expecting some kind of response, but he got none. The figure remained still and silent. A cloak covered the form and face, and all the stories of the former servants of the Dark Lord, the Nazgul, crowded into the sentry’s mind. Tendrils of fear began creeping up his spine, but he fought to shake them off. After all, he thought to himself, the fell creatures were all destroyed with their master. No need to fear them any longer. Still, apprehension was gaining the upper hand, and if he did not do something quickly, he knew he would act foolishly.

“Give me your name!” the sentry called out. The stern tone that managed to slip into his voice pleasantly surprised the Dwarf.

The hooded figure’s horse appeared impatient, for he pawed the cobblestones forcefully and shook his mane, snorting great clouds of steam as he did so. The cloaked being leaned forward, whispering something in a tongue the Dwarf had never heard before, then turned his hidden face back to the stocky creature above. The sentry found himself shivering.

“I was summoned by the master of this place,” came the reply. Thankfully to the Dwarf, it was definitely not the voice of one of the cursed Nine. The sound of it was soft on the ears, but maintained a powerful edge that demanded the attention of the listener.

“I didn’t ask why you were here,” replied the sentry, his response loosing some of the confidence that had been previously displayed. “I asked your name.”

The rider hesitated.

“Greenleaf.”

The Dwarf’s brows furrowed, and he adjusted his hands so as to have a firmer grip on the handle of his axe.

“Greenleaf? What kind of a name is that?”

“My own,” the figure replied.

The sentry took a step forward. “I was not informed that any ‘Greenleaf’ was to be expected here. And especially not at this hour!”

Again there was silence. Then,

“I have with me an invitation from your lord, and will readily produce it if this will-”

“I must ask you to leave, Master ‘Greenleaf’,” growled the Dwarf, “or whoever you are. No strangers are to be allowed inside after nightfall!”

“I tell you, I have a valid invitation on my person, signed by the Lord of the Glittering Caves himself.”

“I don’t care if Aulё himself signed it! NO strangers after nightfall!”

The figure reached into his cloak, pulled forth a sealed document and held it aloft.

“This is his seal, is it not?”

“GOODNIGHT!” bellowed the Dwarf. The sentry whirled around and began making his way back to the torch. He hadn’t taken three steps when he stopped and listened for the sound of clopping hooves fading into the night. He heard nothing.

Growling, he stalked back to the top of the stairs and looked down. The horse and rider stood exactly where he had left them, and looked to be making no effort to leave. The Dwarf was not a patient creature and what little he had was running low. Brandishing his axe, he shouted:

“BE OFF, OR YOU’LL FIND MY BLADE BETWEEN YOUR EYES!”

There was a moment of silence. A night bird called out.

“My good Dwarf,” began the hooded being after a time, “I tell you. I am expected here. I will not ‘be off’ until I see the Master of Aglarond, and if you insist upon it, I shall not move from this spot. But I will not leave.”

The sentry cursed passionately in Dwarvish and came storming down the stairs, axe whirling. The sudden rush seemed to frighten the horse, for it reared up on its hind legs, shook its head, and called out in alarm. The sound was deafening and caused the Dwarf to hesitate for a moment. Just long enough to discover the identity of the mysterious figure.

The abrupt movement from his steed had caused the hood of the rider to fall back. The moonlight made the being’s long, light hair appear to be almost glowing, and even with the strong movements of his frightened mount, he kept his seat with ease. Both of these facts, along with the words uttered hastily in a foreign tongue, could have told the Dwarf what the being before him was. But these things were not even noticed by the stocky creature. What the sentry noticed were two very slender, very pointed ears.

“An ELF!” he bellowed. The Dwarf stalked towards the intruders, his weapon raised menacingly. The horse dropped back to the ground and snorted angrily, its ears flattened against its skull. The animal took several quick steps backwards, swinging its head threateningly from side to side. The Elf cursed beneath his breath.

“Dismount,” hissed the Dwarf, his formerly authoritative voice returning. This was nothing near a wraith. The Children of Aulё had long felt a strong disgust for the race of the creature that stood before him. He held his axe forward in a ready stance. The Elf’s features hardened and he slid silently off his mount. The sentry attempted to gauge the stranger’s thoughts, but aside from firmly knitted brows, his expression told him nothing.

“Remove your weapons,” commanded the Dwarf. The intruder began to reach towards a clasp which held a leather strap in place across his chest, but suddenly hesitated. He looked to the Dwarf, then behind him towards whatever was slung across his back, then to the Dwarf again, obviously pondering something. But whatever thought had crossed his mind was suddenly displaced, for he undid the clasp and slung a quiver full of arrows, along with twin sheathes carrying twin blades, at the feet of the Dwarf.

“Your bow, Elf,” growled the Dwarf. “It’s obvious you’ve got one, so hand it here.” Thunderclouds raced across the Elf’s visage for a moment, but after taking in a deep breath, he removed the bow from his shoulder and placed it down with the rest of his weapons. Although his demands had been met, the sentry couldn’t help but notice how clenched his captive’s jaw had become. The Dwarf chuckled to himself.

The sentry kicked the pile of weapons to the side and ordered the Elf forward, being sure to keep the blade of his axe at the back of the stranger as firmly as possible without breaking skin.

“Well, Elf,” taunted the Dwarf, “it seems you’ll get your wish after all. But I can assure you that Master Gimli can get rather fierce when awakened in the dead of night.”

“I know,” said the Elf, his voice low. The sentry growled and started up the stairs with his detainee when he heard a loud snort from behind. Keeping his axe to the back of the Elf, the Dwarf turned just in time to get a blast of hot breath in his face. Apparently the brute’s a might protective of his master, thought the Dwarf with a scowl as he met the horse’s gaze.

“GET ON! GET!” hollered the Dwarf. The horse shook his head angrily from side to side once more. The sentry raised a fist and cuffed the beast in the jaw with surprising force. Staggering backward, the horse’s eyes seemed to get foggy for a moment.

“Arod! Ego!” the Elf ordered his steed. The Dwarf harrumphed loudly at the interruption, but after a moment of hesitation, the horse turned and slowly cantered out of the causeway. The pounding of hooves on pavement slowly died away and the creature abandoned the two figures.

The Dwarf turned back to the Elf and nudged him forcefully into action.

“Get moving, Elf,” he snapped. “I almost feel sorry for you, having to wake Master Gimli at this hour for such a disruption.” And to his annoyance, he heard the Elf suppress quiet laughter.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“YOU’VE INVITED A WHAT?!” roared a short, stocky figure. He leapt from his seat, orange light from the nearby hearth causing his face, which was a bright shade of red, to look positively demonic.

“YOU HEARD ME CORRECTLY KORI!” a second Dwarf shot back. He managed to stay in his chair, but he leaned forward dangerously, hardened hands gripping the arm rests with no small amount of force. His long red beard shook with every word, and his dark eyes blazed. Checking his tone to a low growl, he continued. “He has my eternal friendship, and will be treated with every courtesy a Dwarf can give.”

The two irate Dwarves were none other than Gimli, now Lord of the Glittering caves, and his overseer Kori. Both were, or at least had been, seated in Gimli’s chambers discussing the progress of the work for the present day. The Glittering Caves, or Aglarond as it was now called by the Dwarven folk, had in only a few years been turned into a thriving settlement for the children of Aulё. Their hammers and chisels could be heard ringing throughout the caves night and day. Kori was the head overseer and a good friend of Gimli’s, and as such the former member of the Fellowship had thought it best to let Kori in on an invitation he had sent several weeks prior; one that would have been seen as incomprehensible to other Dwarves. Now, this decision slapped him in the face.

“The fiend is no friend of mine!” bellowed Kori. “An Elf. Of all the diverse kinds you met and travelled with on that Quest it had to be an Elf! Of Mirkwood, no less, and the whelp of that accursed Thranduil!”

“WATCH YOUR WORDS!” shouted Gimli. All regard for restraint suddenly vanished.

“Do you not know how ridiculous, how obscene, how…how…”

“There is nothing evil about befriending an Elf!”

“GIMLI, HE’S A BLASTED POINTY-EARED, FLIGHTY, BACKSTABBING, HYPOCRITICAL SPAWN OF THE DEMON RACE OF ELDAR!!!”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” Gimli flew from his seat and pointed a finger in front of Kori’s nose. “YOU know nothing of him! I will not have you speak of him in any such way AGAIN.”

“He-is-an-Elf,” Kori’s voice grew low and dangerous, each word drawn out.

“Kori…”
“And have you ever heard anything about the she-Elf that mothered him?”

Gimli was about to growl something less than complimentary but stopped short. This was a sudden and puzzling change of topic. Losing his immediate train of thought, he simply shrugged. “What of her?”

A sort of wicked sneer spread across Kori’s face, and he tilted his head back, stroking his black plaits and very obviously feigning thoughtfulness.

“Well?” Gimli pressed in a suspicious tone.

“None ever speak of the Queen of Mirkwood. None of us have ever seen her, for of course, no true Dwarf—oh—no offense my lord,”—here Gimli harrumphed loudly—“would wish to be so close to a realm of the Elves.”

“Get to the point,” Gimli grumbled.

“Well, where is she?” Kori said, slowly leaning forward. “Perhaps your dear prince’s mother was not the Lady of Mirkwood at all, and there has never even been a queen.”

“And how would that be?”

“As I have said many times before, Elves are a flighty people, their moods and loyalties changing on the slightest whim. Perhaps this Elf lady was not the king’s wife after all, and your companion is a mere…how should I say it…byproduct of a bought of reckless passion?”

“Stop right there!” Gimli bellowed, taking a step forward. There was a strange look in his eyes, and Kori wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Anger, of course, but there was more…almost a guilty shadow in his coal black orbs. “You know nothing of what you say! Legolas IS the legitimate son of Thranduil and the Prince of Mirkwood. But I find it very interesting,” Gimli’s voice slowly grew louder and louder and he began to advance, “nay, laughable, that you of all people would try to criticize anyone’s mother: KORI, SON OF A BEARDLESS SHE-DWARF!”

At that both stocky creatures engaged in a furious session of yelling, shouting, pointing, storming, and bellowing, so much so that the whole of Aglarond shook with it. Such an exchange of Dwarven curses! Before it was over, both chairs were toppled (one of them broken), a mug was thrown and shattered, a table overturned, it’s contents spilling everywhere, and two beards slightly singed from leaning to near the fire. The end result was one room turned completely upside down, reeking of malt beer and burnt hair.

Kori stormed towards the door, muttering and growling profusely under his breath.

“Kori!” Gimli called from across the room. The other Dwarf stopped, but did not turn. “I mean what I say. If you don’t behave in a civil manner, I will personally scrub the whole of Aglarond with your beard!”

“You can try,” muttered Kori. The irate overseer left the chamber and slammed the solid door behind him.

“Oh Aulё,” Gimli sighed. He looked around the room, taking in the scene of absolute wreckage before him. He moved over the ruined chair and examined it. Two legs had been snapped off, the back splintered. Slowly, he began gathering the bits of wood strewn across the floor. “Well, that was quite a reaction,” he said to nothing in particular. “I said, ‘There’s an Elf coming to visit’ and by the way he blew up like that you’d think I’d invited a mangy dog to enjoy his beer for him. They can’t comprehend it…an Elf and a Dwarf as friends. But then again, I didn’t understand myself. Perhaps when the lad actually gets here he’ll make them see he’s not all that bad. Unless they happen to mention uncomplimentary things about his father or mother…oh Valar.”

Gimli knew from firsthand experience topics that quickly got someone on Legolas’s bad side, and for many months he had thoroughly enjoyed exploiting those topics himself. “The Elf will try to be patient with them, surely,” said Gimli. “But they had better not mention anything of him being overly cleanly. What a laugh that would be. Legolas debating with a group of Dwarves on habits of cleanliness! Ha!” He tossed the remains of the chair into the large hearth. Sparks flew upward as this extra fuel was added to the flames. He dusted his hands off, then stretched a kink out of his back. “And I hope they won’t bring up anything about Elvish males resembling females. How quickly they will regret that one! But then again, talking rudely about Thranduil is unwise as well. Hmm…This may be an interesting visit.”

********

Gimli traveled down a little used passageway toward a finely carved wooden door. Even with the poor light of a few small torches, the intricate designs and lettering that scrolled across it could be seen. The patterns were not something of typical Dwarven style. The chamber beyond had become something of a special project for Gimli. The door sported no handle or latch.

Coming up to the great wooden piece of craftsmanship, Gimli smiled broadly. He had taken great pains to see that this room was hidden from the eyes of the other occupants of Aglarond. The Dwarf chuckled delightedly at the thought of his secret creation.

“What’s this? No handle?” Obviously very pleased with himself, Gimli clicked his tongue in mock bewilderment. “No matter,” he said to himself. Gimli cleared his throat loudly and leaned in close to the door. In a low voice he uttered one word, and instantly, the door opened. With a “Ha ha!” he slipped inside, and the door shut fast behind him.

************
“What kind of a word was that?” muttered Kori beneath his breath. He stood at the end of the hallway, watching the whole of what had just transpired. The overseer scowled and began absently rubbing a knot that was forming on his head. He had received many a blow from Orc, Goblin, and even Dwarf over the years, but this small bump seemed to sting far worse than the rest. It had been dealt by the hand of a friend. And it had come in defense of an Elf. Growling, he turned his thoughts once more on the strange word. “Definitely not one I’ve heard before. Dolen. Too light on the tongue…” Then it dawned on him. “Elvish.”

Snorting rather loudly, Kori murmured a few choice words beneath his breath. “No doubt it’s the Elf’s room he’s been working on all this time. Of all the unheard of…” He stopped short. His hard expression suddenly turned sly, one bushy brow perched above the other, and half smile on his lips. “This word could come in handy. What was it? Dolen. I’ll have to remember that.” Kori chortled devilishly to himself as he left the lone hallway and began lumbering down the main passage back to his station.

Of Chilly Dwarves and an Angry Elf

Alright...call me a flake if you will, but I am moving to a different story for the time being. I doubt this is the last of the Twist of Fate, but I would like to post another at the moment. This tale I have been working on more steadily...trying to hone it into exactly what I want. So PLEASE comment if you read. OFDAE, as I affectionately shorten it, is also published on FanFiction.net, if you would like to comment there. Enjoy! (At least, I hope so... :D)

Chapter 1

The chill air whistled through the highest branches of the trees of Ithilien. Leaves were shaken loose and danced freely through the bows and branches, slowly alighting on the forest floor, or nestling in the crook of some great root. The woods were undisturbed by the coming winter, but something moved below them that sent silent whispers between the ancient trees. A lone rider upon a white horse rode swiftly through their midst. His person was hooded and cloaked, a bow and quiver upon his back, along with a single sheath at his hip. A strand of long blonde hair escaped the hood, and now blew in the wind as the rider galloped on. The trees knew full well who was beneath the cloak, and whispered greetings and questions to him.

Child of Thranduil, where are you going? Why do you leave our shelter? The winter will be a cold one, we can feel it.

The rider now let his hood fall, allowing the breeze to play freely with his golden hair. Piercing blue eyes glanced at the trees about him with a look of affection. Ithilien was returning to its former glory once again, and the sight and sound of the cleansed wood was far more beautiful to him than any Elven song. His fair face turned upward to gaze at the boughs of the trees that rushed by as his steed sped onward.

Fear not my friends, for I expect to return long before the first snow. I am leaving you now, but only for a short while. I travel to the land of Rohan, to visit a dear friend. Namarie! Namarie!

Arod’s pace had been somewhat hindered by the amount of foliage, but suddenly he surged forward as the trees gave way to open plain. Horse and rider left the Land of Ithilien behind them and began the short journey to the ruins of Osgiliath. The sun was wandering elsewhere it seemed today, for she did not send forth her golden rays on the land before or behind them. The skies were overcast and threatened rain. But that prospect did not discourage the Elf. In fact, he rather hoped that the clouds would open up and release their tears upon him. He loved the feel and smell of fresh, clean rain as it watered the earth and fed the rivers and streams. His wish was soon granted, as crystal droplets began falling one by one, and then in droves. Soon, the pair was drenched, and Legolas smiled as the refreshing water hit his face and neck.

It wasn’t long before the decrepit city of Osgiliath was in view. It looked like a tombstone, a sad token of remembrance for a fallen kingdom. Its once grand towers were felled in heaps of stone, sections of the strong wall collapsed into the river...and the silence. Such a cold, still silence...
Arod crossed what was left of the bridge that stretched over the Anduin and slowed at the remains of a gate. Two guards stood on either side of the entrance, the design of the White Tree emblazoned on their chests. They did not hinder the Elf’s passage when he was close enough for his race to be recognized. King Elessar had made it clear that any Elves from Ithilien were free to journey through the lands of Gondor unchecked. Without so much as a nod, the guards stood unmoving as Legolas passed by and entered the city.

The same scene was repeated everywhere one looked: broken pillars, piles of stone rubble, fallen buildings. The overcast sky seemed to increase the darkness of the already shadowed ruins. The unnerving silence was only interrupted by the sound of rain pelting the dead stone, and the quiet gurgling of the river. Legolas urged Arod to move as swiftly as possible through the forsaken place, and the steed responded with a cantering pace until they came to the far side. Another two men guarded the way, but once more, they did not hinder the Elf from passing.

Presently Legolas came upon the fields of Pelennor. From his position he could see the white city of Minas Tirith, still in some disrepair, but slowly being restored to its former glory. A few of the walls had gaping holes; wounds from the great battle that had been fought without and within the city.

Looking upon the white mass of stone, Legolas’ thoughts turned to the King who now sat upon the throne high in the citadel. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, one of his dearest friends, had finally embraced his destiny and took up the kingship of Gondor. The former Ranger was now one of, if not the most powerful man in Middle-earth. And at his side stood Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar…the brightest jewel in his crown. A small grin played on Legolas’s lips as his mind ran over the moment where at his coronation Aragorn had seen Arwen for the first time since their parting in Rivendell. Since the beginning of the Quest of the Ringbearer. Many months…even years of separation were nothing new to them, but the uncertainty of Aragorn’s return and Arwen’s fateful choice hung heavily upon them both during the War of the Ring. Now the two were joined as one in the bond only undying love can have.

Legolas longed to see them again, to visit these dear friends. But the trees had warned that time was of the essence if he wished to return to Ithilien before the first snow. Never doubting their perception, the Elf knew if he was going to make it to his destination and back in the time allotted, he must move on. So with a nod of farewell towards the great walls of Minas Tirith he set out across Pelennor Fields.

The field had transformed from the scene of horror and death…nay...sheer hell that it had been in the final throws of the War of the Ring. Such utter despair and pain had been witnessed by all those who had been involved. The blood of the warriors that had fallen still cried out, the noise of it ringing in the ears of Legolas. To a mortal the fields would merely seem eerily silent. But to the Elf, it was as the sound of thousands of whispering voices calling up from the ground, surrounding him, penetrating him. Even Arod could sense the disturbance all around him and his pace quickened. Legolas did not fear the dead spirits of Men, but his soul was grieved at the sorrowful call that seemed to swirl around him. So many had given so much…some even their lives. This doleful sound mingled with the rain was indeed an object of despair. The very earth seemed to lament the loss of life that had taken place.

“Hiro hyn hydh ab wanath,” whispered Legolas. Then he began to sing softly…a lament in his own tongue…

The fallen cry out…
Their life-blood still stains
The earth in its crimson…
Their voices fill the air; weeping, mournful,
Despairing o’re all that is lost.

Thousands upon thousands…
All struck down by the enemy,
The hordes of darkness…
Those that followed the will of the Evil One,
Destroyed the lives of many.

May you rest well…
You fallen sons of Rohan and Gondor;
Know that your sacrifice
Has secured the future of the Race of Men.
Farewell… Farewell…

Suddenly lightening split the sky and an angry clap of thunder sounded. Arod stopped suddenly and jumped, snorting loudly. His ears lay flat against his head and every muscle in his body was tense. Legolas’ song abruptly ended. Another bolt of lightening flashed, reflecting in his intense blue eyes as he studied the sky. What began as a light rain had quickly turned into a storm. Too quickly. Worse still, the clouds showed little to no sign of getting lighter on the horizon. If anything, they looked to be darkening. His gaze wandering towards Minas Tirith, Legolas pondered turning back…but only for a moment.

“Avo ‘osto, mellon-nin,” Legolas called, attempting to sooth the frightened horse. He stroked Arod’s tense neck, whispering words of comfort to the animal. Arod gradually calmed a little, but the uneasy horse continued to snort and stomp. “We still have a long way before us this day,” said Legolas. “Tolo hi, mellon-nin. We must ride, and ride swiftly if we wish to outrun the bulk of this storm.” Arod began to trot forward tentatively. “There you go,” encouraged the Elf. “There you--” Another booming crack of thunder roared overhead, cutting off Legolas’ words. Arod tensed, but trusting his master, continued with an air of hesitation. Slowly he began cantering across the wide field, gaining speed with each stride. It wasn’t long before both horse and rider were practically flying along the sodden ground.

The rain came down harder and faster and quickly lost its place as a comfort to the Elf. Each pelting drop felt like a large needle striking his skin. Quickly, Legolas threw his hood back over his head and urged his horse onward. The wind had begun to pick up and sent the rain swirling, first one direction, and then another. The icy gusts pulled at the Elf’s cloak and the hood abruptly fell back. Knowing that an attempt to keep the flighty piece of cover on would be futile, Legolas shook the soaked strands of hair out of his face and leaned forward, hoping to gain any extra speed he could.

I hope you will thoroughly enjoy my visit, Gimli, thought the Elf as another lightening bolt streaked the sky. Because so far, I am not…

*Hiro hyn hydh ab wanath* ~ *Let them find peace after death*

*Avo ' osto* ~ *Fear not*

*mellon-nin* ~ *my friend*

*tolo hi* ~ *come now*

Twist of Fate

Alright...here goes on the Narnia story. I am interested in what you guys have to say...

The combat had been going roughly for him. His face throbbed and his shoulder felt as if someone had lit a fire inside it. Sweat soaked his hair and face, and his breathing was verging on gasps. A sword in one hand and a shield loosely hanging from another, the young man stepped back into the combat area. The fate of an entire world rested on his now bruised shoulders. The reward of the fight: a total surrender. The punishment for defeat: instant death.

The threat of it began creeping slowly in his heart like an icy wind that springs suddenly from an already cloudy sky. It wasn’t so much the thought of death that made his throat dry and his pulse quicken.

It was the countless lives that hinged on this victory.

“Are you ready, King Peter?” asked the opponent. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he spoke the title. In his mind the young man before him was nothing but a boy, a skilled boy yes, but nonetheless a child just out of his
teens. He himself was not a greatly talented fighter, and this he knew well. A bandaged leg told him that. But experience was on his side, and the young were quick to fatal mistakes. One matter was left to deal with after this was settled: the ousting of certain lords in his cabinet. There was something going on between the Lords Sopespian and Glozelle, always speaking in hushed tones and disappearing down dark hallways when he came their way. It was them who had cornered him into this accursed combat in the first place. To his further his annoyance, the two had not carried out the secret order he had charged them with. Several times the fight had gotten too close for comfort, and yet no shafts had struck his opponent. If it happened again, they were sure to be beheaded after his victory.

“Are you ready, King Peter?” restated Miraz.

"Are you?" whispered a voice from the sidelines. He too was a young man, a bit younger than the combatee, with the same boyish face. There was a sword hanging at his side, and his fingers brushed the hilt every so often, the feeling of steel a reassuring substance. If things went horribly wrong and Peter was struck down, this sword would come out in a moment to defend his fallen brother. Whether the High King liked it or not. Just before the combat, Peter had strictly ordered him not to rush to his aid at anytime during the duel, even if death were imminent.

Chivalry now battled with worry inside this young man as he watched this fatal battle. After all, he was King Edmund the Just. And justice had to be delivered to those who hurt his family, right? Every muscle in his body was tense as he prepared for this next round of furious blows.

Peter nodded his consent to Miraz, although in reality he was anything but ready. The bruises on his face were beginning to throb and there was no way he could use his shield properly now that his shoulder felt on fire. But although his chances of victory were looking slim, the young king could not help but notice a sort of weariness that clung to his opponent. Miraz’s eyes shone with contempt and confidence, but his body was tiring. Peter now decided to try and use this to his advantage.

With a resounding yell he rushed forward, steel clashing steel as the usurper’s sword blocked the savage blow the High King delivered. The parry was surprisingly strong and threw Peter off balance.

Just the opening Miraz had been looking for.

Suddenly the Telmarine came to life. The young king had little time to react as he barely blocked blow after blow, first from a sword, then from a shield. Peter found himself giving ground, backing slowly to one side of the combat lines. He had to do something or he would fall! But there was no time, and Miraz bashed his shield with full force into the face of his opponent. A white light flashed within his skull and his ears rang like a thousand bells tolling at once. Somehow, the Narnian king managed to switch to the offensive, raining down several blows and giving himself more room to fight. But Miraz was a clever foe.

Before Peter could do any real damage, the Telmarine sent him slamming into one of the stone ruins that littered the arena. Dizzy and with fear screaming within him, the High King found himself flat on his back on the ground. His shield clattered some distance away, giving him no protection from the onslaught that the Telmarine usurper was sure to unleash.

Desperately he attempted to right himself as Miraz rushed at him, sword raised. Reacting on instinct, Peter swung his legs out, and to his great surprise, found that he managed to trip up his opponent, sending him downward. A slight relief filled the young king as both warriors scrambled to their feet once more. But it was short lived.

Within moments, the fight began again in earnest. Such a furious exchange of blows had never before been seen in Narnia, nor was ever seen again. Miraz found his sword wrenched from his hand and quickly grabbed up his shield with both as Peter slammed his own weapon again and again down upon him. Quickly Miraz's eyes darted to the Lords at his end of the arena. They stood as always: unmoved, watching the combat just like everyone else. They were not obeying him! They were not carrying out his order!!! General Glozelle held the key instrument to Miraz’s victory loosely at his side. Oh, he would pay! But the Telmarine’s attention was soon drawn back to the fight at hand.

An opening presented itself suddenly, and Miraz took it gladly. Slamming a fist into his opponent’s jaw brought back his confidence as Peter reeled backward, dazed. The sword dropped awkwardly from the boy’s hand. Then the usurper brought his shield forward, bashing the young king once more. Miraz smiled as he watched the High King struggle to stay coherent. One more blow, he thought, and he is mine. With all his strength he leaned back and swung his shield for the bruised face of his opponent. But Miraz did not get the reaction he wanted.

At the last second, Peter grabbed the shield, and a short battle of wills raged between the two kings as their glares met. Suddenly, the young man spun and twisted the arms of the Telmarine behind his back at an awkward angle. Miraz screamed, both out of pain and fury. Somehow he manage to get one arm free and with all the strength he could he sent his elbow into the head behind him. The hold on his arms gone, the usurper grabbed the young king and shoved him once more into stones that lined the ruinous arena. Miraz used this opportunity to regain his sword and press the attack. Peter rolled to a sitting position as the Telmarine charged. Using the only thing on him, Peter raised his arms to try and protect his head. The sword came down, first upon one steel
vambrace and then the other.

*****************
Edmund had not been the only one watching the fight unfold. From high on the battlements of Aslan’s How, Susan had seen everything. She winced at every blow, every strike, and cheered with the rest as a turn went in Peter’s favor. Now she held her breath, fear threatening to strangle her. Her older brother had been difficult of late; his stubborn pride getting him into trouble time after time again. Several times the young queen voiced her disdain of his decisions to his face, and the result had been many long, bitter arguments. Now those seemed like silly squabbles as she looked down at the scene that was unfolding before her.

*******************
A third onlooker was having the same thoughts. His brow was furrowed in concern as his dark eyes beheld the contest. When he himself had first arrived at Aslan’s How, he had finally begun feeling accepted by the various creatures of Narnia. They looked to him to make the difficult choices and obeyed his orders without much question.

That all changed however, when the Kings and Queens of Old had come back to the war-burdened land. The heir to the throne’s first meeting with the High King had begun in a brawl, and this trend seemed to continue long after his arrival. Time and again his opinion had been shot down by Peter, who used the excuse that he lacked experience. Which was true. Even as Prince Caspian of Telmar he had never planned a battle before. Their animosity towards one another grew until one fateful morning after a crushing defeat, it had escalated past the point of verbal abuse and into the act of swords being drawn upon one another. The hours after that were filled with vile hatred, until unexpectedly, Peter had swallowed his pride and allowed Caspian to voice his opinion. And
more than that, he had followed through with his idea! But that very plan seemed to be failing before his eyes as the High King desperately tried to defend himself from the onslaught of Miraz. He had had all confidence that Peter could best the usurper to his throne, but now he was unsure. If something were to happen now that he was responsible... Caspian bit his lip and silently begged Aslan to arrive soon.

Suddenly there was a loud shout and Miraz staggered backwards and fell. Peter had struck a blow at last! The Telmarine had exposed his injured leg and the High King had seized the opportunity. A roaring cheer rose up from the Narnian lines as Peter got to his feet and stood panting above his fallen enemy. Miraz panicked, sensing his end was near.

“Respite!” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Respite!”

Peter hesitated. He wanted above everything to finally be rid of this thorn in his side. But something within him held him back. A familiar voice from behind him yelled:

“Now’s not the time for chivalry, Peter!” and he knew it was Edmund. His brother was right. He had won and there were no doubts among any present about this fact. And yet...

“Respite.” The plea was desperate, Peter knew. He struggled for a moment, glaring down at the usurper at his feet. Then, slowly, he sighed and stiffly he nodded his consent. It grated on him awfully that he had just given up certain victory. But chivalry had prevailed. Easing away from Miraz, the young king turned and began walking back to his side of the arena.

“LOOK OUT!!!” Peter met the eyes of his brother as he yelled out the warning. The High King spun around just in time to dodge a swipe that would have taken his head off. Somehow, Miraz had regained his feet and his sword simultaneously, and before the Peter had a chance to react, the Telmarine thrust his blade straight into the chest of the High King.

Everything seemed to shift into slow motion. Peter’s hands clasped tightly around the sword, attempting stop the white hot pain that shot through him. Someone shouted something behind him, but the words sounded like they came from under water. His blue eyes looked blankly through tears into the face of his enemy just as Miraz drove the blade deeper into his wounded body. It seemed to him that air ceased to exist, for each breath did nothing to inflate his lungs and did everything to cause him more pain. Slowly, the Telmarine ‘king’
withdrew his sword. But he took his time, reveling in his victim’s anguished cry as the blade gradually made its way out. As the crimson tip of the weapon was freed, the High King collapsed, the weight of his armor sending him down hard. He closed his eyes to shut out the fierce hurt as he hit the stone beneath him.

Then someone shouted, and this time he could hear the words.

“To arms Narnia!!!” a heavily accented voice rang out. “Treachery!” Caspian continued to rally the troops. “The High King was struck in a moment of agreed respite! TO ARMS!!!” Peter opened his eyes, and the world around his seemed to have lost all its color. The sky, the trees, the people, everything had turned an ugly hue of dark grey. He tried once more to take in a breath, but the very act seemed almost to strangle him. A grating sound in his chest was his only reward.

Please comment. Too violent? Too cheesy? Improper use of grammar? Tell on!

A Slight Warning

Suilaid!

I just wanted to warn you, that I am about to post the first part of a Narnia fanfiction story I have been working on. It has a lot of movie verse in it, and is set in the 2nd Battle of Beruna...it also features the duel between Miraz and Peter. But be warned now, this story has a hint of gore to it. And all that you know...is about to change!

Just a thought.

Suilaid! Mae Govannen!

Greetings and Well Met to those who come here! My name is Flinn, also known as LadyLegolas, and this is a blog dedicated to my writings.

First off, let me say that writing is a big passion of mine, and although I personally do not find everything I compose a stunning piece of literature, it is meant for enjoyment purposes and I sincerely hope that all who read are entertained!

Secondly, please comment. I would like critisizm on my work, things to change and whatnot, and I cannot do that without first getting some feedback. Please note that I will not use every suggestion given, but your imput would be greatly appreciated!

Thridly (but really firstly), I wish to please my Lord and King...the God of all creation...in my works. If you feel there is something that comes across badly, or is inappropriate, do not hesitate to tell me so. I wish for HIM to be glorified in all that I do and write. So speak up! :D

Many of the stories put here will be fanfiction, some of which have a drastically different endings than what really happened in the original book or film. So be warned now, your favorite characters may be the source of revenge for some crazy lunatic! Just kidding, but you never know...

So, once more I say, Mae Govannen! Well met! I hope you enjoy!