" By the fires of Mordor, Elrond. What was I supposed to do!?."
Thranduil turned blazing eyes towards the Peredhel Lord, who was standing up behind said desk, with fists clenched at his sides.
Seated in various chairs about the opulent study Galadriel, Celeborn, Cirdan and Mithrandir silently watched the heated exchange between these two mighty elves, both of whom had already known bitter discord in the past. Elrond's eyes burned with an impotent fury of their own, as he looked back at the Woodland King.
" Is this then how you, at last, take your revenge for the perceived wrongs of the past?. By hurting my sons?... My sons!?."
The grey gaze seemed to shatter at that point, fully revealing Elrond's anguish and Thranduil, who was about to return a scathing retort, stilled his tongue. He too, had a son, and the father in him could not help but to keenly feel the other's pain. Thus, when next he spoke, his words were sad and ragged, as he tried to explain his own untenable position.
" There are no elven rings of power to protect my realm, Elrond. Nor do I have a bay full of ships at my disposal waiting to carry my people to safety, should the worst come to pass. All that holds my kingdom toguether is the common adherence and deep belief in the tenets given unto us by the Valar, and the faith of my subjects in their ruler."
Thranduil swiped a hand back across the crown of his flaxen hair, sighing his frustration before continuing.
" When Calenorn made the contents of his nephew's letter known, the cry of outrage was unanimous and all looked to me...to me!...to set matters aright." His voice hardened. " Evil is once again encroaching on our lands. Everyday, the spiders seem to grow more numerous and isolated bands of orcs have begun to engage the warriors at our borders. Mirkwood cannot afford this preocupation with the issue surrounding your sons. But more importantly, my people cannot afford to lose trust in their King!."
His eyes swept across those seated in the room, before returning to the Lord of Imladris.
" This has nothing to do with revenge. If I had ignored their cry for judgement, how long then before my people would have began to question my own?. Before they wondered, in some small corner of their hearts, whether the darkness shadowing our lands was also shadowing their King?. Can you not see, Elrond?. I had no choice!."
Starlit green eyes bore into grey. Then Elrond sank back down into his chair, one hand reaching up to rub across his furrowed brow as his shoulders slumped tiredly.
Aye. He did see...
A tense and sad silence settled over the occupants of the study then, as all but one silently cursed the contents of that damming scroll...
The author of that fateful letter sat on the edge of the bed in his guest quarters watching as his uncle, Calenorn, chief advisor to king Thranduil, paced back and forth across the length of the room. The elder Lord had greeted him with a tight embrace, then promptly began to circle about, as he alternated between a vociferous tirade against the pervertion of ' those Peredhil' and words of utmost praise for his nephew's unwavering ' courage' in the face of such abomination. He even went so far as to say that the elves of Mirkwood were exalting his actions as heroic.
Hallaorn did not feel like a hero.
He felt weary beyond belief. The weight of his guilt was like a heavy stone around his neck that threatened, with every passing day, to force him completely under the quagmire of despair. And Hallaorn knew that if he remained much longer in Imladris, he would suffocate from it. Thus, with his hands clasped so tightly over his lap that the knuckles shone white, he let his uncle's voice drone on and desperately concentrated on just trying to make it through this last day.
A day that, so far, was dragging by with excrutiating slowness...
Elladan and Elrohir had watched from their window, until they saw the members of the delegation disappear through the main doors of the Last Homely House. Then, without any words, they had clasped each other's hands and retreated back into their secret sanctuary, where they had remained ever since.
Their joining was tender and poignant, as they mapped every inch of the other's body. For they both knew that this would be the last time they would ever come toguether thus, as two of the firstborn. And it was strange to them how, in all the centuries of their existence, they had never truly realized just how swiftly the hours of a single day could pass...
Melpomaen had been given the unenviable task of seeing that the outdoor forum was made ready for the council, which would take place that night, under the full light of Ithil. And he could not help but notice -as he directed the crew of elves in the placing of the chairs, lanterns, and all else that was needed- that their faces reflected the same grim expression he knew covered his own countenace with a veil of terrible sadness...
A loud curse, followed by the sound of a crash, reverberated through out the barracks. Yet none of the warriors within rose to investigate. They did not need to. For all knew from whence the sound came. They simply continued on with their everyday tasks, though none of them were more than halfheartedly engaged in their labors.
Behind the closed door of his office, Glorfindel stood amidst the broken remains of his chair and stared at the splattered mess on one of the walls, the aftermath of the inkwell he had just shattered against it. And as he saw the black liquid trail in rivulets down to the floor, he could not help but to compare the sight to the dark sadness that was staining his own heart in the same manner...
Two figures stood inside the gazebo that was set in one corner of the Balrog Slayer's favorite spot within the vast gardens of the Last Homely House. One, was weeping disconsolately within the tight embrace of the other, who was running one calloused hand gently over the long sable locks.
Aragorn rested his cheek atop his beloved Evenstar's head and continued to murmur soothing words to her, even though the depth of his own pain told him that, on this day, consolation was futile...
Erestor paced inside his study like a caged beast. An ironic, yet accurate comparison. The wide sash of his dark red robes felt much too tight around his waist, and the folds of the garment itself had become a stiffling mantle that made his tail swish irritably.
Nothing. Once again he had poured over every book on elven law within the library and had found...nothing. A deep growl rumbled in his chest. There was no way to avert the judgement, no way to prevent what was to come. He was certain that upon the pronouncement of their banishment, the twins would then choose the doom of man. The thought filled his fierce heart with pain, not only for the sons, but also for their sire.
Erestor owed much to Elrond, who was not only his Lord, but his oldest friend. And so, the advisor made his decision. If Elladan and Elrohir were forced from all elven lands, then he and his mate would go with them...
Ja-zel sat crosslegged on the floor of the chambers she shared with her beloved, her body clad in the loose, flowing pants and chemise favored in her homeland. Her tail was draped over her lap and her hands rested, palms up, upon her knees as she softly chanted in meditation.
In her mind's eye, she once again beheld the images shown to her in Galadriel's mirror. And so did the words uttered by the powerful elleth, also echo over this inne-sight.
{ It is what will come to pass... If you should fail... }
Ja-zel growled softly, reiterating her resolve. No. She would not fail...
Thus did the afternoon hours pass until, inevitably, night laid its mantle over Arda. Ithil began to journey across the starlit vastness, shining upon all that lay below with the full glory of its eery light.
But none within the Last Homely House could find in their hearts any of the usual enchanment that this wondrous sight engendered. For all seemed to be collectively holding their breath, as the pale globe climbed to the very center of the sky.
Then, the bell that signaled the begining of the Council of Judgement, began to toll...
TBC...