THE BROKEN FELLOWSHIP V: Return of Annatar

Prologue: The Foresight of Elves

From the Red Book of Westmarch:

The elves of the Greenwood tell their own story about Annatar. In the early years of the Second Age, the elves roamed widely in the forest, as they had for time unmeasureable. They lived without kings, for they needed none in their small tribal bands, free and wild.

A group of elves from beyond the Misty Mountains came then, led by an grey elf-lord, upon whom the gift of foresight was strong. He warned the wood-elves that a great darkness would come to their forest, and if they did not join together, they would perish.

They believed him -- for how could they not? He came upon them like the last blaze of light from a sunset in the fallen west, wisdom and strength in his eyes. They chose him as their first king, and he took a name in their tongue: Oropher. Not long after, the new king was put to the test.

A stranger clad in silver with shining sapphire eyes arrived in the forest. He was fair and beautiful, and his words came to the ears like silk. The stranger called himself Annatar, meaning 'lord of gifts', and he promised to teach the wood-elves many deep craft of making beautiful things. He offered the king a gift of a halberd, its blade wrought in hard steel, with an ornate mithril and gold hilt.

Oropher knew Annatar was one of the Maiar, the lords of Aman who served the great Valar, and that his gift was beautiful and cunningly wrought. Yet he saw more deeply than Annatar intended.

The king was not dazzled by the beauty of the gift nor the fair words of his visitor. Oropher had once fought beside Fingolfin againt the forces of Morgoth and he carried the blessings of Melian, so he saw past the fair-seeming mask to the dark snare beneath.

"I know you, Annatar," he declared. His sharp words broke the honeyed spell that had been laid on those watching and they blinked as if woken from a dream.

Oropher rose from his simple wooden throne, and stood revealed as an elf-lord of ancient power. "I know you, Gorthaur the Deceiver, servant of Morgoth. Your sweet words shall bear no fruit in this place. We are elves of the trees and the stars, and we wish no craft of yours to bind us to chains of darkness."

Oropher hurled the halberd like a spear and it plunged into the earth at Annatar's feet. Annatar reeled as if struck, and the mask of his beauty fell away. His eyes were still brilliant, yet now shone forth truly with malice and spite. He hissed, his words hard and pitiless, "Hear me, Elven-king. You shall regret these words. My vengeance shall fall upon your people and your house, until all will lie in ashes."

Annatar wrenched the halberd from the earth and held it up. A sudden cold wind blew within the forest. The elves shivered with fear, wondering if this was to be the end of their king and realm.

But Oropher was uncowed by the threat. He raised a hand, and the wind died and the forest grew warm again. "And you hear me, Sauron. This I foresee: Though your shadow may grow to cover the land, it shall avail you nothing. My blood shall bring about your end. When I and mine rejoice in the completed song of Ilúvatar, you will be imprisoned in the void, able to hear only your master's screams." He pointed at Annatar, and in his gaze burned implacable will. "You shall find no welcome here. Go."

And Sauron went. But the Dark Lord never forgot his humiliation at Oropher's hands. He nursed his hatred for the king and his people in the deep, cold places of the earth, and vowed to bring about the destruction of the elves of the great Greenwood and the house of Oropher forever.

Oropher was slain at the Morannon, trusting his own people's strength too much and that of Sauron too little. But his line lived on in his son, Thranduil, who became the next king of the great forest. The vengeance of Sauron came as a shadow on the wood, blighting its beauty and changing the woodland elves from a people of simple joy into an army ever wary, with weapons always at hand.

In the same year that a darkness settled into the wood, Thranduil's son was born in the spring, with all of spring's hope glimmering in his eyes. So the prince was named Legolas, and he became a warrior of skill, trained to combat the shadow in his home.

But by the end of the Third Age, Sauron exulted that, finally, the House of Oropher had met its doom, giving Sauron the victory.

Yet the foresight of Oropher proved true as well, though no one -- Sauron least of all -- believed so at the time...

*~*~*~*~*~*

Thranduil, king of the elves of Mirkwood, smiled as he ducked beneath the wooden staff which threatened his head. Twirling his own practice staff, he struck back, swift as a viper. The wood rattled furiously against each other as his opponent blocked. Again and again, the two struck against each other, with speed and agility unmatched by any other race in Middle-Earth. So gracefully did they fight, it seemed that they were dancing, leaping on or over fallen branches without missing a stroke.

It seemed for one moment that the two were equally matched, but the king was older and more skilled. He soon knocked his opponent's weapon away and hooked the end of his staff behind the other's knees, dumping him into the leaves.

Thranduil's smile broadened and he extended a hand. "Well done, Nenmir. Your skill grows."

The scout captain accepted the help to his feet and shook his head ruefully. "I thought I had you there, my lord. But now I see it was only a feint."

"You and my son will always be better archers than I. Should I not have greater skill at something?" Thranduil patted the younger elf's shoulder. "It is good to have you back from Imladris."

Surprised, Nenmir glanced at the king. "Thank you, my lord."

"Even if you couldn't manage to bring him back with you," Thranduil added, teasing.

Both glanced to the south, hearing foorsteps approaching along the path in haste.

"My lord," the house guard reported as soon as he saw Thranduil and bowed his head. "A mounted elf approaches along the western path. A stranger. The perimeter scout reported that he bears the device of the golden flower."

"Lothlórien?" Thranduil said in surprise. "Perhaps he has news of Legolas." The king handed his staff to Nenmir and hurried away eagerly. Bemused, Nenmir gave the practice staves to the guard, and followed.

Thranduil changed out of his worn practice wear into a more formal, deep green long tunic over white pants. He wore no crown, not even one of leaves that he normally wore during court for his own people, so his hair fell loose in a stream of shimmering white-gold. He sat on a wooden chair on the terrace before the great doors of his delving, four of the house guard standing beside him.

He wore only two pieces of jewelry. One was a long chain of mithril set with emeralds, a gift from Dain Ironfoot of Erebor after the Battle of the Five Armies. The second was his house's most precious heirloom -- a golden ring set with a moonstone given to his father by the hand of King Elu Thingol himself.

Thranduil heard the approaching hoof-clops and soon a chestnut mare came into view in the wide clearing below. Her rider was a Silvan elf, with the blond hair of their people, wearing travel leathers not much different from those Mirkwood scouts wore, except for the small golden flower device on the shoulder of his tunic.

The messenger dismounted, giving his horse into the care of the waiting groom, then crossed the bridge over the river and climbed the steps to the terrace. Thranduil's guards tensed, ever wary of anyone carrying weapons into their king's presence, but Thranduil raised a hand to stay them.

"Welcome to Mirkwood," he greeted.

The messenger bowed his head, and extended his hand in formal respect. "King Thranduil, I bring you greetings from the Golden Wood. I am Rúmil, brother of captain Haldir, who I believe is known to you."

"Yes," Thranduil nodded. "Haldir has visited us in the past. What brings you this time to our forest, so distant from your own?"

"I carry two messages for you, one from my Lord Celeborn and another from the Dúnadan Estel."

Thranduil's fingers clasped the arms of his chair as a sudden chill struck him. He knew that Estel and Legolas had set off from Imladris together. "None from my son?"

"No messages, my lord, but he did come to the wood," Rúmil answered, and Thranduil knew that there was much more to be said. The Lórien elf swallowed and shifted in discomfort. "Lord Celeborn's letter will explain."

Though Thranduil wanted to question Rúmil for what had happened to Legolas -- it was plainly not good, or Rúmil would say more -- he knew that it was not time for that. "I will receive them." His hand trembling only slightly, Thranduil accepted the folded messages, but he did not open them there. He glanced at Galion, his chamberlain. "Give our guest every welcome. I will be in my study."

He retreated to his private room within the delving, knowing he would need to be alone to read the letters. He closed the door, lit the lamps and settled in his cushioned reading chair. He opened the one from Celeborn first.

"Kinsman," Thranduil read the word and tensed. Celeborn was only informal when he sought to cushion the blow of bad news.

"Your messengers will have already brought you word that your son chose to join the company of the ring and protect the ringbearer, Frodo Baggins, young nephew of your former guest. The company, including Mithrandir and Estel, departed Imladris on Midwinter's Day. Through a combination of ill-luck and the treachery of Curunir, who has cast his lot with Mordor, the company was forced to find passage through Moria.

"I probably need say no more, for I am certain you remember the Dark Days as well as I. But the company found numerous goblins and a cave troll. The troll killed young Frodo, before it was in turn slain by your son. The company then fell into despair, unable to choose another ringbearer. Estel suggested, with Mithrandir's agreement, that your son take the task. He bravely, if recklessly, accepted the burden."

Thranduil had to read the last words several times. Legolas was now the Ringbearer? The One Ring of Sauron was now warded by his son?

Yet, Thranduil could see that the letter was barely half-finished. There was more to come.

"The company then faced Durin's Bane, which we now know to have been a Balrog. Desperate to preserve the lives of his companions against a foe that only he and Mithrandir understood, your son put on the ring and called forth its power. He held the demon at bay for some time, but the dark power overwhelmed him. Mithrandir battled the demon and fell with it into an abyss, so that Estel could escape with your son.

"Estel carried him to us, and his spirit was lost in the darkness. He hovered in a death-like stillness for several days. But my lady was able to call him back to the light and he is much recovered. He has chosen to continue his quest to destroy the ring.

"Yet I fear I must warn you, son of my sister, that your son's trials are only beginning. My lady says that he was so grievously hurt by the battle with the Balrog that only the ring's power now ties him to life. We can offer little hope that he will return to you. If he succeeds and survives, we believe that he will be unable to remain in Middle-Earth and will seek healing in Eldamar. And should he fail, he will no longer be your son..."

Thranduil stared at the graceful letters on the page, unable to read more. With a gesture, he extinguished the lamps so that he sat in perfect darkness. Yet that darkness was not as deep as the grief now filling his heart.

"Oh, my son," he whispered. In his mind were the multitude of images from nearly two thousand years of his life -- Legolas at birth, a young elfling learning his archery, proudly receiving his grandfather's sword for his courage in fighting the army of Angmar, his son's grief when his chosen maiden fell to the deadly sting of a spider, defending his father with arrows and sword from the horde of goblins on Erebor, and last -- the most painful -- his last view of Legolas setting off with his three escorts for Imladris to report that Gollum had escaped.

Some infinite time later the door opened, and light from the corridor spilled into the room. "Thranduil?" he heard the soft tones of his wife, sweet and concerned. "What is it?" she glimpsed his face and hurried in. "What happened?"

He looked up at her and she gasped at the shadows in his eyes. Bleakly, he answered, "Our son is lost to us, vanimelda."

"Legolas?" she whispered and came forward on halting feet. "No," she shook her head. "I would know if he were dead."

"Not dead," Thranduil whispered. "But he walks to his doom, my love, and it is too late to stop him."

Her face blanched, and her eyes -- the same dark blue as Legolas -- were stricken. She came into his arms, and they held each other tightly.

"Oh, Losril," he whispered, "what shall we do?" He inhaled the flowered scent of her hair, seeking some comfort.

But there was little to find. He could hope for Legolas to destroy the ring in Orodruin, but he remembered facing its power all too well. He feared it more likely that the ring would come back to Sauron's hand, and darkness would pour forth from Dol Guldur through the forest. If so, then there was only one path he could take now.

He kissed Losril and then set her gently to one side, rising to his feet. "Mirkwood must prepare for war. Dol Guldur shall surely strike against us in force, upon this news. I must talk to the scout Rúmil."

He strode from the chamber without looking back, his grief now constrained by his duty to protect his realm. There would be little time to prepare. Spring was upon them already, and attack could come at any time.

Left behind in the shadowed room, Losril read both letters, and wept.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The pale figure slipped barefoot past the sentries, unseen and unheard in the starry night. As silent as a white-gowned wraith, she climbed the numerous circling stairs to her flet, perched high in a golden mallorn. At the top, she brushed aside the billowing curtain to enter her bower.

Celeborn was waiting for her. He needed only look at her face before he gestured for her to come sit before him on the sleeping couch.

Without words, he gently withdrew the pins and then ran his fingers through the golden softness to loosen the strands. He knew his lady well, and knew she would tell him what she had seen when she was ready.

Still Galadriel did not speak until he picked up the silver comb and began drawing it rhythmically through her hair.

"First I saw the past," she said softly, in a distant voice. "When you and I parted before the war with Gorthaur. When I came here and you remained in Eregion."

He did not pause in his task. "When Celebrimbor wished us gone from Ost-in-Edhil, I distrusted his motives," he said. "I could not leave him unwatched."

"And you did not wish to enter Moria," she reminded him.

"That also," he agreed, and added more softly. "It was a difficult time, without you or Celebrían." The speaking of her name seemed to revive their memories of their lost daughter. In a moment of shared grief, they drew together -- she to share his strength, and he to share her light.

Then reluctantly, he pulled back to continue his task of combing her hair, while also drawing out the full tale of what she had seen in the Mirror. She could transfer the images to his mind, but he had found it better to have her speak of them, so that their power over her would fade with the telling.

"What more?" he prompted, when she did not speak for a long time.

"I saw the horse-lords in war to come against Saruman. They were under siege in a great fortress, with a host of orcs against them. Estel and Gimli the Dwarf were fighting with them, and they will have the victory. I also saw Ents marching against Angrenost."

Surprised, his hand paused. "Ents? In battle? Truly Saruman is a fool if he roused Fangorn against him. Even Morgoth hesitated before engaging the tree-herders in battle."

"That is not the greatest of Curunir's follies which will soon clamp shut around him," she observed without pity. He nodded and returned to removing each small roughness from her hair, not because it needed the attention, but because they both found pleasure and comfort in the task.

She continued. "Mithrandir was there as well, though perhaps we should no longer call him by that name. And I saw the young halfling Peregrin do something to draw the attention of the Eye, yet I could not see what it was. He has troubled me since his visit -- a taste for youthful mischief can so easily be turned to other ends."

"Gandalf shall watch him," Celeborn reminded her. After a moment, he said, "You have not mentioned Legolas."

She hesitated and drew a deep breath, turning to face him. "I saw him upon a black steed, surrounded by four mounted wraiths, as they galloped across the Plain of Gorgoroth toward the Barad-dûr."

He closed his eyes, for a moment feeling the weight of all his years. Sorrow and regret filled him for his kinsman, chased by a deeper, darker awareness that his pity and love for his sister's grandson had caused him to loose a terrible evil upon the world.

Galadriel's fingers lay upon his cheek, lightly tracing his face and recalling his appearance when they had met, back when the Sun was newly born. The changes were small yet clear to her eyes, a wearing from care and grief which proved that even the elves were not utterly immune to the passage of time. "It has not come to pass," she comforted him. "I would know if the Eye had found Legolas, but it still searches."

His eyes opened and met hers. "That offers only a small glimmer of hope. I fear our mercy will soon turn against Middle-Earth and we shall regret the granting of it."

She shook her head slightly. "The fate of Legolas and Middle-Earth was never in our hands, beloved. We have always known that Gorthaur and the house of Elwë would confront one another again in this age."

He nodded agreement reluctantly. In every age, one of the house of Elu Thingol had faced Sauron, and each time had stopped short of a lasting victory. He had believed the contest in this age would be between Sauron and either the heir of Isildur or his own grandsons, and had not considered that fate might fall on a distant branch of the Sindarin ruling line in Mirkwood. It remained to be seen whether Legolas would have the power to defeat his foe and the strength to withstand temptation of greater power.

"We could have made no other decision," she added kindly. "Do not torment yourself. You would not have agreed to the murder of your sister's only grand-child, even had Elrond and I both believed that it was nexessary. And we did not."

In fact, Celeborn had been the only one to consider the possibility, seeking reasoned arguments to match his emotional attachment to his kinsman. He would not have been able to go through with Legolas' death, and all three of them had known it.

"Yes, you are right. Did the Mirror show anything more?" he asked heavily.

"A battle on our border," she answered.

He nodded. That news was no surprise at all. Though it had not happened yet, he had known that Dol Guldur would test their borders soon.

"When it comes, I will attempt to take as much of the burden from you as I can," he said, clasping her hand in his.

"If Legolas fails, you will need to take it all," she murmured. Her gaze was fixed on the ring on her finger, its stone twinkling like a star in the light of the lamp. "Nenya will be of no help if Sauron recovers the ruling ring."

"Caras Galadhon was defensible long before you and I came to dwell here, and our warriors are strong. We can hold against Dol Guldur, without the ring of Celebrimbor if we must," he declared.

She smiled, feeling the weight of doubt lift from her with his confidence. He believed his words, and he was not one to make idle boasts. Yet they both knew that if Lothlórien endured the attack by Dol Guldur, that would be only the first of many battles should Sauron return in the flesh with the One Ring on his hand. Soon they would need to discuss preparations if a wider war beckoned their people.

She relaxed into the shelter of his arm and closed her eyes, soothed by his warmth. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Some days later, two hundred miles to the northwest, Elrond descended the steps to the courtyard at Imladris. The dawn's light shone on the upper reaches of the cliffs, but the sun had not yet risen high enough above the Misty Mountains for its rays to touch the floor of the valley. Yet, despite the early hour, the courtyard was crowded and noisy with horses as a large group of riders prepared to depart.

His sons strode to meet him. "Good morning, Father," Elladan greeted.

Elrond glanced at both of them and asked softly, "You are determined to do this, then?"

The twins exchanged a glance and nodded. "Grandmother said that Estel needed his kin," Elrohir said. "Are we not his brothers, as much as they are his kin?" He gestured to the score of Dúnedain, waiting by their horses behind them.

"Indeed, so you are."

Elladan added with an eager smile, "Aragorn calls us to war. How could we refuse a chance to kill orcs?"

Elrond put a hand on their shoulders, and spoke so that no one else could hear. "Then if you will go, remember the message I gave you for Aragorn. I will give you just one warning. Many things may change by the time you reach the south -- if you encounter Legolas, you must be cautious and not allow your eyes to deceive you. He may not be the elf you know."

Sobering, they both nodded, understanding the caution. He squeezed once and stepped back.

Yet before he could speak, the Dúnedain's sudden interest behind him made him turn, to see his daughter coming barefoot down the steps, carrying a wrapped length of cloth in her hand. Elrond knew what it was, and reluctantly moved back to allow her room to present it. But instead of bringing it to her brothers as he expected, she walked to the foremost of the waiting Dúnedain, Halbarad. He bowed low before her and seemed unable to find his voice.

She said, "You must take this to Aragorn. Long have I spent in its making. You must find a staff for it, but do not unwrap it, for its time is not yet come. When you give it to him say this, "The days are now short. Either our hope comes, or all hopes end. Therefore I send you what I have made for you. Fare well, Elfstone.""

She handed him the black-wrapped package, bound in leather thongs, and he accepted with another bow.

"I will do so, my lady."

She smiled and withdrew to stand beside her father. Holding out her hands to her brothers to take, she embraced them and kissed each on the brow. "Be well, both of you. I must see you again, or I shall be very unhappy."

Then the twins moved away to stand beside their horses.

"Dúnedain, you must ride quickly," Elrond addressed the gathered riders. "There is storm of war and darkness to the south, and yet even that will pale before the shadow growing in the east. There is little time. You all carry the honor of the northern lands and your forebearers with you. Go with Elbereth's grace."

All bowed and mounted swiftly. Elladan and Elrohir were the last to cross the bridge, and they waved farewell as they passed out of sight along the path on the opposite cliffs.

Elrond hugged Arwen to his side and brushed her hair with his cheek.

She glanced up at him, "They shall come out all right, Ada. I feel it."

He smiled. "I hope so, little one. Would you join me for morning tea?"

As they climbed the steps together, he noticed that the soft sounds of the valley had returned in the wake of the departure. But the calls of the birds and the noise of the waterfalls and river that normally brought peace, could not ease the sudden chill in his heart.

Fate seemed determined to strip away all those he loved: first his parents, then his brother, his wife, and all too soon, his daughter. And now he feared to lose his sons as well.

But then the thought came to him that Thranduil was almost certainly going to lose his only child, and possibly in the most horrible way imaginable.

None of the immortal race was untouched by grief in this latter age. Sorrow seemed the last, bitter harvest for all the elves who remained on these shores. Soon, he believed, his people would pass away from Middle-Earth altogether.

But before that time, they had an old enemy to defeat and a victory to earn.

He glanced southward, looking at the waterfall in the cliff-side and yet thinking of his foster son. I pray you have the strength to do all that you must, Estel, and the will to grasp your destiny at last, before it is too late for us all.

To Be Continued...