To Whatever End
by Mel Baggins
Chapter One: Hope Fades
All of Mirkwood was in turmoil. Word had spread like wildfire of the
ill-fated scouting party and rumors abounded. Inside the palace healing
rooms, frantic preparations were made to accept the many wounded and
slain that had been reported by the messengers. Their hands shook as
the herbs and instruments were prepared, for they did not know exactly
what to expect. One of the rumors bore mention of a Nazgul.
The milling about rose to a crescendo as the wounded were at last
within sight of the city. The first of the wounded were finally brought
in and the healers began their work. Many elves clad in armor and
hunting outfits were brought in, bearing various degrees of injury. One
she-elf with a thin silver circlet woven into her dirty blonde hair
rushed in carrying another elf in her arms. She made for one of the
beds the furthest away from the others and gently laid her burden on
the soft fabric. Several healers swarmed around her and the elf,
concern and worry marking their faces.
"Hurry," she said, a frown marring her face, already streaked with blood and dirt. One of the healers caught her eyes.
"How did this happen?" he asked urgently.
"A Nazgul struck him with his blade," came the answer, voice filled with loathing. "They have returned to Dol Guldur."
"Hiril nîn," the elf said in disbelief, "this is distressing
news! Alas that the prince was not here to help." The woman frowned at
the words, but nodded her head in agreement.
"My brother would have been of great help to us, but that does not
matter now." She looked down at the pale face of the elf on the bed.
"What can you do for him?" The healer sighed.
"The wound itself is not serious, that I can heal easily. It’s the
contact with the Nazgul that is poisonous. There’s no telling how it
will affect him." He looked up at her gravely. "He may not survive."
She held his eyes firmly, looking for some hint of hope in them, and
finding none.
"He must live," she stated as if it weren’t already an obvious fact.
"There must be something you can do!" Tears were brimming in her eyes,
for a moment turning the slight blue tint a soft violet.
"I am sorry, Laileth," he said, "There isn’t." She held his eyes firmly
for a long time, even as other healers began their frantic efforts to
help the elf on the bed. Then, as if her legs had ceased to function,
she fell to the ground, clutching a wound that she hadn’t known she’d
taken. The healer ran to her side to tend to her but she pushed him
away.
"Daro," she cried, "see to my father!" He caught her wrists and restrained her easily, weakened by the wound. He shook his head.
"No. Others will care for him, you need help also." Again she tried to
fight him off, trying desperately to get to the elf on the bed beside
her but the healer overpowered her and pinned her to the floor.
"Saes!" she cried, "you must save him! He must live!" She continued
thrashing about in his grip, but suddenly stilled as the figure on the
bed began convulsing. Other healers ran to the bed and began frantic
attempts to calm the patient down, but it was no use. The figure
stilled and a lifeless hand slid from the bed to hang limp in the air.
At first there was silence in the room. It seemed that everyone had
stopped what they were doing and just stared. Then, at first low and
quiet, but quickly rising to a shrill keening wail, Laileth began to
scream.
The healer holding her again restrained her, but nothing could stop her
from crying out in her grief. After several minutes her voice faltered
and became hoarse, and several minutes after that it stopped
altogether, but not for lack of emotion. Her wound at last pinned her
down, and the pain of it had sent her into unconsciousness. When her
screams had stopped, the room remained silent for several long moments
while the healers just stared at what had happened. Slowly, sounds of
the others in the room mourning the loss could be heard, but far less
dramatic than those of the daughter of the deceased. Then at last the
elf holding Laileth down looked up to the others.
"Where is the prince?" he asked no one in particular.
"He is in Rivendell," came the answer. "Shall I send for him?"
"Yes," the healer replied. "Send for him at once." The elf left the
room in haste and the healer again looked down at the still form
beneath him. "Mirkwood will not survive long without a King," he
whispered.
Chapter Two: Painful Coronation
Laileth had been restricted to the healing rooms for the next week. Her
wounds were indeed serious, but even after she had healed they had
forbade her from leaving. There were other, less visible wounds that
needed mending. At first she had protested the confinement, but soon
gave into her own despair and simply lay silent in grief, only rousing
enough to eat when someone came to remind her.
Two weeks after her father’s death her brother at last returned. He was
immediately told of the scouting party and how it had gone sour, and
the fate of his family. He rushed into the room where Laileth had been
kept and knelt by her bedside, raw emotion searing his face like a
brand. She opened her eyes and saw him, staring wide eyed and almost
disbelieving his presence.
"Legolas," she confirmed, her voice cracking. He leaned forward to
envelop his sister in a tight hug, nearly crushing her with its
intensity. "Legolas, I’m so sorry," she whimpered against his shoulder,
"I vowed to keep him safe, but they were just too powerful." He hushed
her, stroking her golden hair and shaking his head, rocking her back
and forth in his arms.
"Nay, Laileth, it is I who should be sorry for leaving you alone," he
said. She heard the deep sorrow in his voice and fresh tears traced
their way down her face. "You should have gone in my place." Laileth
sat up and released her brother from her embrace.
"How did Elrond take the news?" she asked, almost as if she did not
want to hear the answer. Legolas looked into her eyes and frowned.
"Not well," he said. "Laileth, there is more going on than simply an
escaped captive," he said gravely. "The Ring of the Enemy has been
found." Laileth started at the words, looking around her to see that
they were alone. "There’s more," he continued. "The Ring is now in the
hands of a perian, and after great debate and council, it was decided
that he would take the Thing into the fires of Orodruin. Companions
were chosen by Elrond to guard and guide him on his way. I am one."
Laileth slowly shook her head.
"But you cannot go now," she said. "Not after..." she left the sentence unfinished and Legolas nodded. "You are to be king."
"Ú-aníron den," he whispered.
"Neither did adar," she said, "but it was his duty to lead, as it is
yours." Legolas stood, turning away from her and examining a tapestry
on the wall in front of him. He raised a nervous hand to smooth back
his hair as he thought, attempting to keep the full weight of his grief
from his actions.
"You are right, I cannot go," he said finally, turning back to face
her. The grief had left his voice, but was startlingly present in his
eyes. "You will take my place." Laileth did not answer, save for the
slow shaking of her head. "You must," he said in an almost pleading
tone, "it is my place to choose who will go in my stead. I choose you."
"Muindor nin," she said, standing and walking towards him. "Choose
another. If what you say is true and they head to the Black Lands, they
need a warrior. Send Saeros, or..."
"No," he cut her off. "You say I have my duty to the Kingdom, then I
say you have also." She unconsciously straightened at his mention of
duty. All their lives they’d been trained for their role within the
monarchy as well as the army. Where Legolas had been hailed as the best
archer, she also was among the best in Mirkwood, second only to Legolas
himself. "The Prince of Mirkwood was chosen," he continued, "I would
send no lesser replacement than its Princess." Laileth bowed her head
in acceptance of this first command from her new King.
The next morning the new King was crowned. As the slender gold circlet
was placed upon his brow, Legolas felt it’s weight to be intolerably
heavy. It was a burden that should never have come to him, and had he
not himself buried his father, he would be certain he was stealing
power from another.
His eyes flew to his sister’s as the scrolls were read, and scanned the
crowd ruefully as he took his vows. He wanted to cry out, to protest
the weight of care being set upon his shoulders, but could not. It was
his duty to accept it, just as now it was his duty to marry and produce
an heir, to continue the line of his fathers. His heart felt sick with
responsibility, loathing every moment the soft gold touched his skin.
At last the melodious chanting ceased and he watched as all in the room
bowed to their King who would be Prince.
Numbly he turned, walking up to his father’s throne. He came within a
step from the carved wood seat and stopped, unable to go any further.
He stared at it, the symbol of his father’s rule, and could not bring
himself take it. Almost he had a mind to order it removed, and his
chair that stood beside it put in its place, but at the last he forced
his trembling legs to press on. Gingerly he sat, finally taking his
place upon the throne of Mirkwood. He wondered to himself if his father
had had such difficulty assuming the throne upon the death of Oropher.
Soon the crowd dispersed. The crowning of an Elven-King is, necessarily
a solemn occasion. The coronation of a new monarch meant the death of
another, and so it was rarely celebrated. At last the halls were
emptied, save for his aides and advisors, and his sister who had not
moved. Legolas motioned to her to come closer and she walked up to the
throne.
"When will you leave?" he asked. She looked at him curiously.
"When do you think I should leave?" she answered carefully. A humorless smile played upon the young king’s lips in answer.
"The quest is of great importance," he replied. "It cannot be delayed;
you must leave at once. Before I was summoned the Dunedain and the sons
of Elrond were scouting the lands for rumor of the Nazgul. The sooner
you arrive with news of one in the Greenwood the better. I must admit,
had it not been for this incident we would not have thought to search
this far." After a long silence she finally spoke in answer.
"You will be in danger now," she said. "If what you say is true and the
weapon of the enemy has been found, the Nazgul may become bolder and
attack the city openly. You will need help." Legolas nodded.
"I have considered this. I will send word to Lothlorien and seek
council and aid from them, but you must go." Laileth stood and bowed to
her king.
"I will complete the quest," she vowed, "to whatever end." With that
she turned to prepare for her journey. Just before she left the halls,
he called out to her.
"Laileth," she turned when she heard her name. "Tell Estel...tell him I’m sorry." Wordlessly she nodded and left the halls.
Sindarin:
Hiril nîn- My lady
Daro- stop
Saes- please
Ú-aníron den- I do not want it (lit. do not desire this/it)
adar- father
Muindor nin- my brother
