lessofthelego

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part Three: The words of Gandalf and Legolas]

Much had happened in the days since Erebor: The funeral of Thorin had taken place on the day following the conflict; where there had been the great procession with the carrying away of the body from the battleground in the sight of all kindreds; and some even say that the potency of the dirges in that hour transfixed several orcs as they fled to the north-western mountains. The new king gave his first command that an inquiry take place to ascertain the meaning of recent events leading to this deadly engagement. Gandalf requested that Thranduil and Bard should represent their own peoples if all parties were to agree; Dain casually acquiesced to this since he did not expect it to happen, but they proved him wrong.

Subsequently, during the testimony of Balin the matter came around to the finding of the High-elven swords: “The Prince of Mirkwood claimed it for his own,” said the elder dwarf, “Although it was given to Thorin by Gandalf!” and the wizard confirmed his part in that statement. There followed much debate as to how this same sword then ended up in Thorin’s hand ere he died, and in an instant of kingly wisdom Dain declared at length: “If the Elves claim it then give it to them, and let that be an end!”

However, the decisive moment came as Thranduil, the haughty and disdainful Woodland King, took the sword Orcrist and laid it upon the stony tomb of Thorin and did him homage. This one act paved the way for the signing of the accord; and indeed the witnessing of the same proved Legolas’ account before the Mete. Moreover, at the contrivance of Gandalf, there was plenty written within that document regarding the uninterrupted freedom of movement by any Free-body-at-large in Wilderland that caused the panel of eight to dismiss any charges against ‘Prince Murky!’ and he was promptly released.

In his own deliberations at the Iron Hills, Wãelyn took some time privily to speak with Bilbo about the events surrounding Thorin and his own fond memories of Bungo, the hobbit’s father: “I’ve still got a bottle or two of ‘Old Winyards’ from happier days if you’d care to toast him…” proposed the dwarf.

Bilbo thanked him graciously and said: “There’s not much of it left outside the Shire these days, therefore save it to toast the new king whenever you meet again; for myself I cannot tarry overlong here I must away with Gandalf, no doubt I will be expected to partake in some farewell toasts of my own ere I return to my homeland.”

“Then I shall toast the King, the Broker and his Son,” said Wãelyn: “Haha, Third time pays for all!” and they parted as friends.

Gandalf had formally thanked Wãelyn for promptly attending to the legalities of this episode, and privately for limiting the overspill of scorn at the outcome; the wizard guessed rightly that the ‘Branch of Juris’ took much pleasure in the latter aspect. Legolas remained understandably reticent throughout, although he did Gandalf the honour of waiting to leave with him so as to thank he and Bilbo for the service they had done him; which proved to be a boon for his mare had returned with them, having fled back to Erebor early that morning; she awaited him alongside Gandalf’s mount in a paddock nigh to the market end of the ‘Famous Goat and Pony Road’ which ultimately led them out into the chilly night air.

“Do not judge them too harshly, Mellon!” says Gandalf, having just fully heard the account from Legolas’ standpoint.

“A hot bath is not enough to soothe all hurts, Gandalf!”

“Oh, I could use a hot bath just about now!” adds Bilbo, sat in front of the wizard: “After all, did not the dwarves offer us accommodation for the night...”

“I thought you were already asleep!” complains Gandalf.

“On this thing, I should say not!”

“You rode hence today with me at pace: rest now! I shall see to it that you do not fall off.”

“I am unaccustomed to sleeping so high up as this...” replies Bilbo, “I’d rather walk!”

“That would be unsafe, wild dogs roam this region after dark” says Legolas.

“Perhaps then we should set up camp,” suggests Gandalf, “We are unlikely to progress far tonight, the hour is already late!”

They quickly unpack at a suitable location and get a fire going; after supper Legolas offers to keep watch and the hobbit, being full and tired, gladly accepts. Gandalf however, remains alert and sits up with the elf for a time: “He sleeps soundly; a remarkable fellow!”

“The resourceful Mr. Baggins!” says Legolas dryly, as had Wãelyn before him.

“You distrust him?”

“I do not know him enough to make that judgment, Mellon: I know the consequences of his deeds. He affirmed my misgiving with shamefaced blushes ere we rode out into the night!”

“The consequences of his deeds?” questions Gandalf, hushed but very perturbed: “You mean deeds that led to the slaying of the worm, or those that brought us to this accord? An accord I might add, Legolas Greenleaf, that led to your being released!”

“You are right, Gandalf, I regret my rash insagacity; I defer to your assessment in this!”

“And well you should!”

They sit in considered silence as the wizard permits the elf’s soft response to soothe his ire, at length he speaks again: “You too, are a remarkable fellow, Lord Prince; greatly skilled and purposeful! There are those that love you, Legolas, very much; your father being chief among them. Thranduil would not confer with me as to any guess of mine why we should find you in this place, rightly so; notwithstanding he is duly concerned over you!”

“I know it!”

“Will you not come back with us, at least to Erebor? Your father awaits a response…”

“I shall answer you at first light!” replies the elf at length.

“Very well...”

“Tell me, Gandalf: How did you know to come for me; How did you know where I was?”

“Your horse came back to us cut and dismayed, and this caused much alarm amid your father’s retinue...” says Gandalf.

“I can imagine…” picks up Legolas: “No doubt he wanted to march in full array to claim his own; and doubtless this attitude put the accord at risk before King Dain, that is of course until you interceded and volunteered your services as an independent emissary…”

“Something like that!” grins the wizard. “But to fully answer you, and as I indicated earlier to Wãelyn, ‘Some birds fly higher than ravens and see more clearly…’ meaning, that at Thranduil’s petition, I requested that the Great Eagle’s charges keep a watch over you!”

“In other words, you spied on me for my father!”

“In a manner of speaking, Yes!”

“Well, thank you again!” says the elf sincerely: “And perhaps you might be able to assist me further still!”

“Oh really: then do say on…”

“My father alluded to the Dúnedain ere we parted, he made particular mention of one Arathorn, their former chieftain: Is there aught you know about him?”

“Only that which I have seen and heard at Imladris: Lord Elrond would be far better qualified to answer you, but since he is not here I shall do my best!” says Gandalf: “For nearly a thousand years the heirlooms of Arnor have rested at Rivendell, and there during that time have the Chieftains of the Dúnedain been fostered as youths. Indeed, the son of Arathorn resides now thereat…”

“Is his name Strider?” interrupts the elf.

“It might be in time, for that is a widespread term used by the Bree-men for all rangers of the Dúnedain, given their height. I must say, Prince Legolas, this is curious assistance you seek…” ponders the wizard. “Are Thranduil and Elrond acquainted? I had no idea…”

“My father is very guarded, this much you know!” says Legolas: “There is much he has not told me since the death of my mother…” he pauses at the remembrance of her, “It is my understanding that my mother accompanied the Lady Celebrían on the fateful crossing of the Redhorn Pass. I was told the travelling party were taken north to Angmar but only Celebrían was left alive when her sons rescued her. I heard also that my mother was kin to Lord Celeborn but of this I am uncertain. One other claimed that I am part Noldo but my father exiled her as a meddlesome soothsayer and put a ban on all scrying.”

“I cannot gainsay his reasoning since I do not know enough about it; save that most parents are of a mind to over guard their children from hurt.”

“In this he does me no service!”

“I agree!” says Gandalf: “I am still somewhat puzzled as to why Thranduil should mention Arathorn and Strider; can you recall his exact words on this?”

“Go north, find the Dúnedain!” begins the prince, “My father said that there is a young ranger amongst them whom I should meet: he disclosed that his father, Arathorn, was a ‘Good Man’ and that his son might grow to be great. I asked his name but my father said: ‘He is known in the wild as Strider!” He told me that his true name I must discover for myself!”

“Curious… most curious!” says the wizard, “From that which you have told me I believe that your mother somehow links Lord Elrond to your father; and indeed, Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. Prince Legolas, would you give me leave to enquire more from them perchance we two should meet again?”

“Since you ask and do not presume, then yes!”  

“At least the mystery of how I came to find you in the Iron Hills (of all places) is solved, yet it leaves us with another riddle: ‘Go north, find the Dúnedain!’  curious indeed!”

They sit quietly for a spell as reflections of the failing firelight dance across the wizard’s sharp eyes. At length the elf adds the remaining logs to the flames; there are no wild dogs to be heard baying that night whilst the Grey Pilgrim contemplates: Bilbo stirs but does not wake. The fire roars merrily ere Gandalf speaks again: “Your father prohibits scrying yet he himself has the gift of foresight!”

“He does sometimes know things ere they happen…” confirms Legolas, “and yet... he has been wrong from time to time.”

“Perhaps… but not this time!”

“Oh, how so?”

“Of exactitude in happenings I am unsure, but I perceive that your father speaks true. ‘Go north, find the Dúnedain!’ is a prophecy, although he should have said ‘Dúnedan’ in the singular form. You and he shall be journeying north when you meet!” predicts the wizard.

“You refer to the son of Arathorn: he is yet a youth…” says Legolas, “Do you then have any inkling as to when and where this going north shall be?”

Gandalf remains silent and seems to fall into a seated sleep, before long he speaks: “I see the southern eaves of Mirkwood at night, in the Brown Lands beyond Dol Guldur, nigh to the shallows of the Great River… Precious… Precious!” suddenly his eyes pop awake.

“What is it?”

“I am unsure but I perceive urgency in this meeting, like gathering storm clouds about to thunder with great fury: he will not be alone when you meet!”

“What is this Precious you refer to?”

“Something great, something lost!”

“My father said that the son of Arathorn might become great, and that I must learn his name: Is he this Precious, is that his name?”

“No, no that thing is great and terrible… and lost!” Another vision of Dol Guldur blights Gandalf’s thought momentarily, but he says naught of it: “Nay, the son of Arathorn carries greatness and hope upon him, but not beside him when you two shall meet!”

“What then of this other (or others) with him?” enquires the elf.

“One… one other, his form is hidden from me as though behind a shroud. A person or beast I cannot tell but he wriggles and squawks something fierce…”

“He..?”

“Yes, he!” confirms Gandalf. “There are many riddles to vex us all ere this day fully comes, and I perceive that many of them will go unsolved; but this day is not yet, for as you say Lord Prince, the son of Arathorn has not yet reached full stature as I see him here. There is yet time!”

“Time for what?”

“I must plant hope in peoples’ hearts lest their hearts fail them in the evil days to come.” says Gandalf, “We shall indeed encounter each other again in the years ahead, Mellon, so I thank you for giving me leave to search into your past that I might share with you what the Great Ones know. I perceive much greatness in you too, Legolas, which is birthed from a heart of willingness to do what is right!”

“In light of these events to come, Gandalf, please join me in setting aside formal stations: let us no longer simply address each other as Mellon, but as Friend!”  

They both stand to seal the friendship by taking each other by the left shoulder and bowing their heads. Looking down the wizard notices Bilbo starting to wake up: “Ah, he stirs!”

“Where am I, what time is it?” says the hobbit groggily.

Gandalf winks cheekily to Legolas: “You are under the protection of two skilled masters: one wields a mighty bow and the other a staff of power! The sun is about to rise, so rise up with it therefore, and prepare a breakfast ere the embers on this fire die once again!”

“Good Morning!” shrugs Bilbo: Legolas smiles and nods courteously.

“Come on, quick sticks: we are hungry! Don’t look so sheepish, Bilbo Baggins, I know you helped yourself to provisions from Dwalin’s kitchen; in payment no doubt for the scouring of your larder at Bag-end!” says the wizard.

“And a beautiful crisp morning it is too,” says Bilbo, “Right, breakfast!” With that he rushes around merrily seeking out kindling and firewood: “Don’t mind me!”

“Oh, you would know if we did” quips Gandalf with a titter: “So then, My Friend, it is first light; do you have an answer, will you return with us?”

“My heart forbids it!”

“Is that what I should tell your father?”  

“No, tell him what we have discussed; for indeed, from what you told me I shall return home in the time ahead either way!”

“The time ahead, is that all you will commit to?” asks Gandalf.

“It is, for now!”

Bilbo returns and adroitly slaps up a hearty breakfast, not quite to elvish tastes but Legolas partakes politely; thereafter as everything is cleared away the new friends make ready to begin that morning’s ride. The hobbit perceives something is amiss and utters under his breath, “Is he not returning with us Gandalf?”

“Do not whisper in the presence of elves, Bilbo; it will avail you nothing,” says Gandalf: “No, Prince Legolas shall be continuing on his way… although I am unsure as to which way that should be!”

“Well, thanks to the dealings of my friends and family, these lands are made free to travellers once more,” says the elf: “Therefore I shall journey east for a time...”

“Only these lands are called free, My Friend! Beyond the horizon, particularly in the east, you will find dangers far worse than you have encountered recently!” warns Gandalf.

“Perhaps, but since a fated day awaits me I shall take my chances.”

“Do not tempt fate, Legolas!”

“Fear not, I shall walk circumspectly at need but I shall not do so in dread” says the elf.

The wizard coming close puts a hand on Legolas’ chest: “Receive courage and wisdom such as I have to spare! By your leave Lord Prince, I shall request that the eagles maintain their watch over you, but not as a means to report to your father.”

“I gladly receive your impartation and overseeing; and I freely give you my leave to say aught to my father that you deem fit, My Friend!” says Legolas with a courtly bow.

“Until our next meeting!” says Gandalf in satisfied agreement.

“Tell me Gandalf,” says Legolas, “Do you expect to speak with King Dain ere you depart?”

“If I can, I will arrange it: What would you have me do?”

“He has two workers that would benefit from a wizard’s intervention.”

“I thought you cared not for the subjects of Dain,” teases Gandalf.

“Will you speak to him or not?” retorts the elf.

“Yes, of course,” laughs the wizard, “What are their names?”

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part Two: Elven Steel]

“Let’s have these off you, Murky-me-lad!!” says a doughty guard removing the irons: he was back in the Walnut Cellar, his details finally processed. The dwarf gestures rightward to a blind-ended hallway, short and dark stained: “Second door down, get yourself washed; there’s nowhere to run, I’ve got the key… I’ll knock on when we‘re ready for you!”  

So-named ‘Murky’ finds himself in a curiously hot and dim booth with a curtain in front, the waxy tanned fabric feels strangely moist to his fingertips as he pulls it back. Immediately a wall of hot air encompasses him about and bright light blasts through. Beyond this lies a steam-filled bathing area; the sudden illumination shows no sign of any other present therein and at his right-hand side there is revealed a wooden chest nestled in the cubicle. He guesses rightly that the curtain and box are employed to save any clothing from excessive damp; therefore he disrobes and enters in, drawing the screen behind. Having passed through a swirling cloud of hot steam he fully discerns a sunken bath; a chunky square column stands to the left, atop which and set flush rests a wide silver font, almost filled with a brown substance like clotted mud. The mixture looks disgusting but the scent of it intrigues him; almost like the grasslands nigh to the Elven-gate of Greenwood in the days of his infancy. He dips in the tip of his left hand for a closer whiff as memories of his mother sat peaceably in a meadow light his mind’s eye. He undertakes to rub off the sticky matter on the back of his right hand but finds that it thins with friction and the more he wipes the further it spreads up his arm. Reaching toward the bath water to wash it away the immense heat almost scorches him ere he plunges in his arm, he swiftly withdraws. Something happens then that he does not expect… a thing remarkable: the mud balm reacts to the heat and hardens, moreover wherever it makes contact with his skin it feels cool. He forms a fist with his right hand and the brown surface cracks into dusty fissures as his arm muscles and tendons contract. The residue is easily brushed aside and the soft flesh underneath gleams new; but most noteworthy, the reddening and soreness about the top part of his wrist is gone. He hurriedly revisits the clothes chest to retrieve thongs to tie up his long hair and proceeds to coat himself from top to toe in the earthy salve.

Before long Legolas gingerly submerges into the searing pool: the ‘Mad Matted Mudman!’ of fable; and so, he enjoys the most invigorating bath he has taken in a long time, if indeed ever. Alas, it was over all too soon: knock—knock—knock! The bather reluctantly removes from the water to find a rubbery second skin has formed about him. He manages to peel away the coating almost in one piece without any pinching or resistance against his blonde mane, nor even fine body hair; moreover, the gashes on his shin and head have inexplicably healed. He is instantly dry and feeling good as new. knock—knock—knock: “I needs be clad” he shouts in reply.

At the sound of laughter beyond the door, Legolas finds that his garments have been confiscated and replaced by a scratchy dun sack with hastily cut-out holes to fit his arms and head. His annoyance is heightened as he wonders how he did not hear the dwarves engaging in the swap; but there is much about dwarf keys that the elves do not know. Thus, he has no choice but to tie the sack around his waist with the tatty rope provided and meet the captors bedecked as a beggar; whence he is led barefoot to reconvene upstairs at the Hall of Hearing. Upon mounting the first tread he hears tumult above, and by which time they reach the top Legolas witnesses the leading out of hapless Dimroc and Gimroc. The dense hall-door slams behind them, causing the elf to detect a feature he had not before noticed: sunken in the wall on either side of the door frame there are mounted two enormous horns with gilded flutes ever poised to announce themselves.

In-going: the disparity versus wood and stone registers immediately beneath his exposed sole, whereat Legolas motions to revisit his former place of standing. The cubic chamber is disproportionately large, being designed no doubt to daunt any unfortunate respondent summoned there. This room offers scant lighting (unlike other regions in the vast subterranean development) save at the fore where the Heads wait; all seated in a preformed and hastily assembled semicircular bench, behind which is an usher’s pulpit with a granite hoarding beyond concealing the high seat of the absent Lord Dain. At the centre of the wooden crescent sits a round dais of bare brick, hooped at its kerb, serving as a dock. The heavy door stands directly opposite the bench, and dim-lit public galleries fill the side walls. Hence the walk from the stairs to the bench seems rather excessive; especially so when countless sets of accusing eyes monitor every footfall from the shadows. At length he ascends the stony disc as his four escorts surround him at ordinal points marked on the floor. Each dwarf faces the front and dares not crane his neck upward; Legolas however stands at a height where his eyes meets those of his prosecutors. And then… nothing: no pronouncement, no whispers nor grunts, nothing but silence! Legolas wonders greatly at this since his former appointment had been met with much derisive clamour and expectant chatter. Moreover, a draft of cold air concentrates all at once about him; and not knowing prior that of old the Dwarven engineers had contrived adjustable ducts leading to the outside world, he finally guesses at the reason for his abrasive burlap garb.

Another minute passes by in chilly silence. Presently, four bell peels mark the time of day and Legolas realises that one hour exactly has passed since he last stood here.  A deep low chant blends seamlessly with the dying reverb of the final bell; the Heads rise from their seats being closely followed by the sounds of shifting and shuffling as the meeting stands to its feet. The intensity and volume of the chant grows into discernable words uttered in ancient Dwarvish. The unseen cantor stops abruptly and those assembled answer him reverentially; this process continues for two more call-reply cycles, concluding with one last solo intonation. Throughout all this the scholarly prince discerns the words ‘Mahal’ and ‘Durin’; this in itself is remarkable since no outsiders are learned in Dwarric-wisdom. Therefore, having no way of knowing what this means he supposes that the ’fourth of noon’ must be a sacred hour among them, or that this date and time holds some significance on their calendar.

The Head on the far left begins, “Are you ready to furnish this hearing with your true name, Elf?”

“I have given it!”

“Very well,” he sighs, “If we are to continue in this pretence, have the Arraigned registered as ‘Prince Murky’ and be done with it!” The gallery erupts with laughter but the speaker remains unimpressed, “Since you come to us with such an implausible account, ‘Your Highness,’ we must view this question most seriously, the Dispensation charges you with spying and trespass: what say you?”

Legolas answers disbelieving: “Spying, on what grounds?”

“Face the front!” demands the dwarf: The so-called ‘Arraigned’ slowly complies, having already noted the radial iron petals set around his feet. The questioner continues, “I note you do not contest the charge of trespass!”

“On what grounds?” repeats the elf.

“I’d worry more about the penalty than the grounds if I were you, Murky!”

“Please enlighten me!”

“For spying, death by hanging!” he gloats “...and for trespass...” but soon falters as one caught out “Der-death by hard labour!”  

The room gasps: “Since you mean to kill me either way; I am as well to take the harder charge and the swiftest course.” reasons the elf.

“We mean to hear you!” another interjects sternly, “Now, lest we gravely lose our patience, reveal yourself and your purpose!”

“Murky of Mirkwood, trespasser and spy, or Legolas Greenleaf, traveller of what used to be called the ‘Free-lands’: what difference does it make here?”

“We could wring the answers from you!” puts in a third.

“I am sure the dutiful Dimroc and Gimroc would oblige you.”

“How do you know their names?” demands the first.

“I asked them: does that equate to spying in these lands?”

The same dwarf sniffs in retort: “You’re awful sure of yourself… for such a one in your shoes…”

Impassive, Legolas glances down at his bare feet with a slight tilt of the head. The flushed inquisitor barks out unformulated words whilst the others splutter and cough; all of them save one, himself of the two panellists who directly faces Legolas, being sat to the right from the elf‘s viewpoint. He is an immutable and permanent looking fellow, not unlike the plain granite behind him: inscrutable yes, but lucid.

As the muttering subsides, Legolas addresses this one directly: “May I speak?”

“You may!”  

“Sirs, I hold it decorous to compliment your inspired dwelling; especially the bathing facilities, of which I can truly say I have never before benefited from the like. However, it is plain to all that I do not find myself stood before you now clothed as I was one hour prior. Is it reasonable to assume that the joint-board has possession of my garments and belongings; and that they have been duly inspected?”

“It is!”  

“There is much at hand in those effects to substantiate my words and to confirm to you all that you have indeed (to be blunt) bagged a prince.  Would it be adequate then to say that in terms of my answering thus far, in relation to who I am, I have not attempted any deceit?”

“It would:” the dwarf then addresses the reporter, “Revise the name on the register to that formerly specified by the Bidden!”

“Not the Arraigned?” considers Legolas to himself.

“How very clever of you,” sneers the first Head, “You have talked yourself into becoming a hostage of war: Haha, and apt for hard labour after all!”

Legolas answers steadily, “I am not aware that our peoples are at war!”

“Oh really,” he snarls, “Our Warrior Lord and his finest soldiery departed these lands not much more than thrice-a-day’s hence: now, Wood Prince, why was that?”

“Ultimately to succeed Thorin Oakenshield as King under the Mountain, it would seem.”

“Ah yes, our beloved Thorin and the elves…”

The centrally sat dwarf stays him, “Ffodor: enough for now, my friend!” who then fixes his gaze on Legolas: “Why are you so eager to prove who you are; when (war or no) my co-auditor rightly points out your value as a hostage?”

“I am not a liar!” replies Legolas.

“And that is your only reason?”

“Is that not enough?”

“Do not misapprehend the licence of this Dispensation, Prince, nor its willingness to act!” calls out the other Head facing Legolas; who then acknowledges his neighbour already addressing the newly renamed Bidden: “Wãelyn, you know elves are dishonest, never tolerate them the slipper‘s twist!”

“Thank you, Karnaech, I need not remind you that the ‘Branch of Juris’ falls to my family this season; however, I will reassure the Mete again that every measure stands upon the sounding and hearing of all occupants at this form!”

Silence falls momentarily until Wãelyn speaks again to Legolas: “So, you are not a liar, I am sure your mother would be most plea…”

“My mother is dead!”  

“Do not over-speak me!” blasts Wãelyn, “If it pleases the Branch, whom I am, we could set a holder’s-bit about you and proceed in your hearing only…”

Legolas stalls…

“As amusing as we find your florid obsequiousness, the Dispensation is not satisfied with your scrubby responses to direct questions, hence I reiterate: Why the fervour to prove your credentials against the merit of your being our hostage?”

“And speak plainly!!!” demands a heckler from the gallery.

Wãelyn makes to stand up, whereupon no other onlooker dares to coo or jeer in agreement with the last comment. At considered length he resettles: “Indeed, be plain!”  

“I am not accustomed to Dwarric Law and do not understand the intricacies of standing before you as the Bidden or the Arraigned: I could cite myself as the Ambushed, the Assaulted, the Abducted or the Tortured…”

Seven faces snarl at him: but Wãelyn, although calloused to these opening words, remains attentive.  He considers the state of mind of the one stood before him, pondering how given the situation he could remain so at ease.  He thinks to himself, “Does he not realise that I could have him hanged right now without issue or repercussion?” The elf continues…

“However, I stand before you as Legolas, called Greenleaf by his mother after her people, Son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm in Greenwood! And in the absence of King Dáin, I concede to the authority of his Dispensation.”

“How very kind of you, Highness!” gloats Karnaech; some others harrumph at this but neither Legolas nor Wãelyn react to the interruption.

“You found me recently departed from Erebor where, after the slaying of Smaug by one of the Lake-towners, a battle had ensued…”

“Aye, no doubt prompted by your king!” adds Ffodor.

“Enough!” demands Wãelyn: Legolas resumes…

“For my part I embarked upon a scouting mission to Gundabad and there witnessed the marshalling of the second host set against Erebor; it being led by one Bolg, son of Azog, whom I later slew in single combat. It was here that the fatal contest took place between Thorin and the Defiler, Azog himself; the king fought val…”

“Wait now,” interjects Wãelyn, “you witnessed this but did not intervene?”  

“I was engaged with Bolg at lower quarters and did not witness their fight; however I aided him with a sword!”

“Can you produce witness to this effect?”

“I am not sure: my comrade and a Halfling traveller were close by but I do not know what they saw.”  

Ffodor laughs, “Haha, you provide a little truth to bear out a big lie! You don’t know what your comrade saw: What then: did you and he have a falling out, are you not talking anymore?”

“She... was immobile at Bolg’s hand and about to be slain ere I befell him.”

“Oh it just gets better,” he sneers, “elf-maids trading their silks for armour.”

“Believe what you will,” answers Legolas.

Wãelyn asks, “What of this Halfling?”

“I know that he was a companion of Gandalf and known to Thorin’s company; I heard him referred to as Mr. Baggins but did not catch his first name!”

“Our people trade with the Shire-folk,” says another, “they’re not fighters nor wizard‘s apprentices,” he sniffs: “Huh, shopkeepers more like!”

“Wait now… Baggins, Baggins… I have heard that name before: Haha, Old ‘Third time pays for all’ Bungo the Broker!” Wãelyn smiles for the first time: “He worked for the Took family as I recall, many years ago, he must be ancient by now; a decent fellow, but I’m inclined to agree: not warrior class!”  

“Even so, Mr. Baggins was there; but not so old I would guess,” says Legolas.

“And yet, there is something more,” adds Wãelyn.

“I cannot add much more about him, save that he attended to Thorin as he died of his wounds: this I saw at Ravenhill some way off!”  

“I notice that throughout you are skirting the issue of your father, the King!”

“What would you know?”

Wãelyn summons the usher to bring him a thin stack of documents: “Perhaps it is time that you should hear what we know!”  He straightens the bottom edges of the papers against the board and clears his throat: “I have here a number of drafts of the ‘Ravens’ sent to our Lord Dáin by the hand of Thorin himself…”  He hands the notes back to the usher, “Wylenhin, read these aloud for the benefit of the Mete!”

Wylenhin takes up his position on a high rostrum directly behind Wãelyn and Karnaech, proceeding to read in a loud and clear deep-brown voice:

Lord Dáin,

Allow me to be the first to inform the Seven Families through you, Esteemed Cousin, that despite your shared reticence I am finally to come into my own. The key to the hidden door of Erebor has come down to me from my father; and now on this our day, Durin’s Day, the King’s Stone shall return to its rightful owner.

 Thorin Oakenshield.

Lord Dáin,

At long last our people are avenged: the worm is evicted and Erebor is ours. Come and see it, Dáin; see the blanket of gold in which we smothered Smaug the Terrible ere he met his end. Bring with you your bards and minstrels and let us compose a new song: ‘The Ballad of the Toy-makers and the Merchants!’

Thorin ii, son of Thráin.

Lord Dáin,

So it begins, the birds descend: the Lake-town lackwits insist on remuneration, I might have aided them had they not so soon enlisted an army of wood-elves to press their claim. The starlight grubbers are upon my doorstep but these I will not entertain; lest of course it is in like manner to which King Prig and his heir forcibly and unjustly entertained my company and I not long since prior: behind bars!

The King under the Mountain.

“Hang him! Axe him! Make him suffer!” demand several onlookers.

“What say you to this!” says Wãelyn to Legolas.

“To which: the hanging, the axing or the suffering?” he answers amid much uproar and general incredulity.

“The Frequentery will hold its peace…” insists Wãelyn; “The Bidden will curb all glibness and I will have his answer!”

“You refer to the letters just read aloud?” clarifies the elf.

“I do!”

“I have naught in those sheets save for a thinly veiled insult…”

“Read between the lines: tell us of your encounters with Thorin!”

“Very well…” begins Legolas. “Thorin and his company had become ensnared in a giant-spider nest and were fighting their way out, when my division first came upon them. They must have strayed from all known pathways to become thus straightened. However, our greater forces purged that colony of monstrous pests which had been…”

Wãelyn interjects, “You say ‘my division’ meaning that you were in command?”

“Correct!”

“Hmm… so this was not a rescue of dwarves but rather a vermin-control exercise where by some strange chance your company and Thorin’s momentarily fought a common foe?”

“Correct!” repeats the elf.

“So the bugs were squashed: Continue!”

Legolas takes pause to consider his response…

Ffodor speaks gravely, “We come to the truth at last, the Bidden is lost for words; no quick witted retort in light of facts that now lead to the inevitable end. We know Thorin and his company were detained with prejudice by the Woodlanders, we have the evidence of the letters; there is also the testimony of he whom it was that gave the very command to…”

“I believe it was upon me to continue…” puts in the elf.

He is overridden, “HE whom it was that gave the very command to seize our beloved king…”

Legolas defies him again, “So this is what is meant by the inevitable end!?”

“OUR BELOVED KING:” insists the dwarf, “Whom it was His Father that had turned his back upon our kin in the gravest hour of need!”

“I am standing trial for my father too?”

Rising suddenly, Wãelyn slaps down on the board with a mighty thud: “You are the one stood before us, and the only other apt to represent his house. You may continue if you wish…”  

“It is true, I apprehended this party of dwarves! In my military capacity I did everything necessary to ensure that  my father’s orders were carried out.”

“And his orders were?”

“To imprison them!”

“And release them when?”

“No such command was given: they escaped!”

“How was that?”  

“They secreted themselves in barrels and floated downriver to Lake-town,” explains Legolas; “With hindsight I surmise that Mr. Baggins assisted in this endeavour since we knew not then of his part in this…”

“The resourceful Mr. Baggins!”

“Quite so…”

Wãelyn sinks back into his chair, blank faced with his hands loosely cradling their opposing elbows: “Hmm… The Mete has not heard any reasons for your prolonged encampment on the borders of these lands: indeed upon this rests the validity of the charges against you! How do you respond?”  

Presently, a brassy note reverbs mightily through the hall by way of the horns beside the entrance. The door creaks slowly open revealing two figures, notable in their differences; the taller clad in grey advances with the aid of a staff, allowing his tiny companion to keep pace as they take the long walk of the accusing eyes.

At length Wãelyn speaks, “Not casually do the Horns of Juris sound during session, Gandalf the Grey; the Branch and this form will hear the cause of it!”

“Indeed, no casual matter at all!” says the wizard who mounts the platform to stand beside Legolas, the hobbit refrains and waits behind: “Much has occurred these last days since the battle; I carry a document of importance, a North-east Accord, if you like...”

“What is that to this hearing?” inquires Wãelyn, gesturing to have it: Wylenhin accommodates him as Gandalf waits.   

“It matters much, Sirs!” says the wizard at length, “Erebor and the Woodland Realm have pacted together with the Lake Town Men to rebuild Dale and renovate the waterways of Esgaroth. This means employment of all kinds for all kindreds; surely wine and ale will flow freely once more…”

The gallery combusts with applause; not even Wãelyn’s glower can stop it, but he remains patient holding up a forefinger to stay his colleagues until the clapping abates: “I tire of speeches in place of answers and I say again, what is that to this hearing?”

“I am sure by now you have verified the seal of the King under the Mountain and noted the signatories in front of you…”

“I have!”

“As you can see this declaration is to be sent to all regional authorities of peoples concerned. Perhaps an adjournment is in order whilst you peruse the document...” suggests the wizard.

“Agreed!” says Wãelyn.

“Perhaps too, my friend here might have his effects returned to him as you deliberate!” adds Gandalf.

The Branch of Juris assents to this amid his fellows’ habitual snippy discontent: “We shall have the truth in this!” he tells them; and to the wizard he says, “I should also like to speak with you separately, that goes for your little friend malingering behind your cloak tails too!”

“Of course!” says Gandalf with a courteous nod.

“But tell me, Gandalf,” asks Wãelyn ere they retire to chambers, “How is it that you came thither in person and did not send a herald, or nary a raven?”

“Some birds fly higher than ravens and can see much more clearly!”

[lessofthelego]

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part One: Dwarvish Iron]

The whiff of carbon-etheral coloured the atmosphere, a by-product of the lurid gas fittings along the walnut stairway descending to a similarly clad and lit cellar; the low panelled ceiling and lack of ventilation offered no relief to the unnatural closeness of this room, for so it was for such a one who had sat there seemingly overlong. The four that came with him seemed perfectly adapted to this space and gossiped idly with another behind a clerk’s hatch, they knew it was safe to do so for he was secure; the walking-irons about his wrists and ankles rubbed sorely through overuse, his bruised and cut head throbbed and, to compound the misery, the split below his shin had reopened. “Alright there, Murky?” scoffed the intendant, the newest gang member having learned a fresh quarry’s nickname. Murky remained unruffled and offered no reply; having some twenty minutes ago given his true name to the Panel of Eight upstairs; otherwise known as ‘The Mete,’ also ‘The Dispensation,’ or just ‘Heads!’ Now, it has been long established in the Iron Hills that upon the absence of their lord the heads of leading dwarf families govern in a dispensation commonly known as the Mete; this ensures the smooth running of administration and the continuance of law. Most citizens tend to grumble under these conditions preferring to abide under one authority, albeit that nothing much changes for them. These so-called Heads seldom involve themselves in the tedious fundamentals of running daily business, predominantly leaving such matters to their ambitious nephews and such.  Notwithstanding it is more than apparent among the rank and file that in the absence of Lord Dáin (now King) they are motivated to do more whilst others do less. However, on this day it has not gone unnoticed by anybody that the incarceration of a Woodland-elf’ has certainly, ‘Turned a few Heads!’

Thus they named their captive “Murky of Mirkwood!”, choosing not to believe his account which, as incredulous as it sounded, was true (it is curious that the truth often seems like folly to those who decide not to hear it:) and so the officiators ordered him to be cleaned up and “Arrayed as one befitting his station!” ere he should face them once more. Therefore Murky waited patiently to be processed and looking down upon his fettered limbs he began to review that day’s events: suddenly with remembrance of pain!

Having wakened for the second time this day, he knew straightway that he’d been blindfolded and collared whilst his incapable arms burned and tore behind him. His manacled hands scrambled awkwardly crosswise between compacted shoulder blades; hands winched up against his lissome spine by a chain that looped through the collar and fed into a small square aperture behind. His ankles being set apart and similarly attached within the stony perimeter. A clattering of linked iron proclaimed his sudden stirring and the entirety of this full-grown elf retorted grudgingly in taut sporadic jolts; indeed it had taken some time to discern how he’d come to be so restrained or indeed where he was. Thus, firmly held in place upon an instant he wondered why; verily the fetid air revealed this mystery, the profound stench and onerous tang of smote iron: Dwarvish Iron!  

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”

The jarring recollection of that resolute voice announced a fresh throbbing on the left side of Murky’s forehead, coupled with thumping at the back of his skull. He touched the still tender spot and his eyes rolled halfway back into his head as his memory began to reset itself: “Two nights ago,” he guessed, “This must be the third day… yes two, surely… and yet I cannot be sure…”

His mind sloshed in uncertainty: “Nay, not even Finrod could have withstood such prolonged hold-fast a full day!” but confirmation came by the remembrance of a trickle from the gash above the eyebrow; whence the leather previously obscuring his vision had absorbed fresh blood which being saturated seeped forth unto the corner of his mouth.

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”

Indeed two nights had passed since his setting out, for the going had been slow and wary in an ineffectual effort to skirt the Iron Hills. Nevertheless there had been call for guardedness, excepting for this: any whosoever in Middle-earth with all reasonable sense might suppose that a skilled elf such as he should pass quickly and undetected through hostile lands at need. What then shall be said? He had dwelt overlong on recent events, this captain of the royal household, scratching about in the wasteland of a rival people: was he a captive before he was a prisoner? Yes, all of it and more: for in truth the Iron Hills had kept Murky in thraldom, a part of him (indeed the very heart of him) had to know what it was about these people and his own kind; alas, he was finding out. And even now, he could not reconcile it: “She loved him, how could she have loved HIM?”   

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”

“What a terrible waste it was, the Battle of the Five Armies!” thought Murky of Mirkwood , “Many fine warriors fell in the service of the king, and each one, to the last elf, gladly fulfilled it!” Every elven fighter learns early on what joy lies beyond their last encounter, but how does one respond when faced with such carnage? How does one simply look away and not remember fallen friends? These and other grave questions weighed upon Murky as he sat and waited. A single tear burnt his cheek and dropping it plinked almost inaudibly upon the shackle encircling his right wrist; (now, it should be known that open sentiment demands much of elves, albeit that these people comprehend and cherish the intricacies of life far deeper than most other living creatures;) but the dwarves didn’t even notice him, chattering still amongst themselves.

“What then of family honour, of valour, of friends and newfound allies, and why such profound ferocity in opposition?” he wondered, “And for what cause, heirlooms and riches?” And even more, ever quickening reflections of two others encompassed his thinking; even three, counting the faded drawing of his long departed mother preserved somewhere in his chamber at home. Home, the very place from which he fled; for what was there to keep him, love? Legolas Greenleaf thought not!  

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”  

“Go north, find the Dúnedain…” his father, King Thranduil, had said at their last parting. It happened that these instructions were somewhat vague given that the Dúnedain patrol the reaches of Eriador, west of where he was. In order to have gone that way Legolas must negotiate whenceforth he had not long since returned: the uppermost range of the Misty Mountains, Gundabad and the Mountains of Angmar. He had no desire to go back thither, not least by which time he should have arrived at that accursed place it would surely abound with orcs fled from the battle. In addition recent hearsay abroad stated that an old evil, long thought dead and buried, had arisen once again out of the bowels of that region.

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”

Strident winds blustered into the upper reaches of Wilderland on the day of his departure. Winter was not full set upon Middle-earth but many peoples in the regions of the North, already feeling its premature bite, had hunkered down for a lengthy season of cold weather. Swirled jets of freezing air hissed down from the Northern Waste of the Forodwaith and not even the resilient shoulders of the Grey Mountains could withstand the incursion. These peaks (also called Ered Mithrin) were rather less compacted than their taller mist-covered sisters that reached away south; these too also offered scantier and less protection as the lands to the east became ever barer, particularly in the barren gap known locally as Dragons Teeth. Maybe it was in this land that the dwarves first spotted him; a lone rider, barely a raw cloud of dust, whose going was betrayed by a disturbed trail. For indeed it was he which moved swiftly northward across that gritty fallowness; the austere grey range rising in front of him and the Lonely Mountain standing behind. And southward on that same day smoke and reek blotted out an otherwise cloudless sky, for Erebor was besieged; and directly ahead now only the Withered Heath beckoned.  

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”  

Legolas remembered his horse’s valiant part in these last few days; for in sensing his departure from the Woodland Realm, the mare followed her master into self imposed exile, meeting him unlooked-for approximate to the ‘Long Bridge’ at Lake-town. The prince remembered too with remorse, how she panted heavily under her labour during the latter northward sprint: particularly since he’d all but mentally given up on this course of action. Mostly though he remembered rearing to a halt in full sight of the highest and most jagged section of the Ered Mithrin, which came into clear focus, escarpment, bowl and crag; and he remembered shivering at the very sight of those mountains. In order to negotiate the tricky foothills at this trickier time of year it would have taken a full day riding out from Erebor at first light; and ever the deeper within him it made no sense to go forward: “Which way now?” said he.

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”  

Thus discerning that the hour would soon darken he had set up camp beside some nearby boulders; and ere night full came the elf distinguished movement in the east, for under the evening shadow a large convoy of dwarves moved out from the Iron Hills heading towards the Lonely Mountain. Now it has been told elsewhere, how a great army from that inexorable range had joined in the Battle of the Five Armies: and amongst these was the new King under the Mountain, one Dain Ironfoot. Legolas had heard already of Dain’s coming and ultimate succession to the Seat of Erebor; it therefore seemed safe to assume that the denizens of the Iron Hills would remove in order to see him crowned there. Nevertheless any elf knows that one must proceed with caution when entering into such territory as this; so he had set forth in a slow clockwise arc from whence he had cleared up camp. This course of action somewhat slowed his advancement but that hardly seemed to matter since he knew not where he was headed. at last he’d decided, “Eastward then!”  

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”  

The winds had lessened considerably that night although the prevailing clear sky yielded a ground frost over the lands round about. Much of the evidence of the previous day’s battle had blown away, though the mountain remained forever scarred; as did many bodies and hearts. Legolas averted his eyes from that region and motioned toward the Empty Lands; empty save for the Iron Hills ahead to his right with the Redwater rushing southward from its source. The low morning sun lighting his progress remained unhindered by cloud, forcing him to throw up his hood to shield his sensitive eyes. The frost glistening as myriad white jewels had merged into a vibrant glare; and the usually russet heights stood dark save for a crimson peak-line slicing them against the blue, the river gushed as blood; he took it then as an ill omen but continued on regardless.  

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!”  

So it was that on the third morn since Erebor, Legolas chose to abandon the grey region for good and all. He knew this was a crucial moment for much unclothed land stood betwixt Dwarven-home and the last foothills of the Grey Mountains where he stood, and beyond far more bare territory still. He had risen long before the sun, being mostly prepared the previous night; thus he had taken a quick bite and packed up his bedding, and speaking in Elvish-tongue he had primed his mount for the sprint. However ere he put foot to stirrup, there spoke a voice above him: “Going somewhere, Woodlander?”  

Appalled, kindled and shamed, the elf with much haste systematically examined the hinterland; beholding thickset boxy profiles round about; then, from above and to his rear there came yet more, leaning forth into view from a low ledge above the rock-face whence he sheltered: “Dwarves!”    

Ere he could reach for a weapon needs must that Legolas elude a volley of stones; and keeping his back close to the wall he stooped low speedily tumbling beneath the mare, a flat-sharp missile aimed at his head bounced off the rock-stack and sliced into her rump.  The incensed horse hustled in flight through the approaching group of dwarves, splitting them up as she trampled; wherefore rising fast and reaching forth unto the saddlebag her reins-keeper unsheathed a blade as she went.  Legolas stood alone thus encircled by an unnumbered foe, whereupon a large sweep of stout shields closed in..

“Think not that we shall keep the granite back, Elf!” threatened one in front.  

“Think me not able to leap!” the prince replied.

“Aye, sprites can dance but we…”  

“YOU ARE NOT SUFFERED TO PASS THROUGH THESE LANDS!” an authoritative other interjected; when at once from him a jagged nugget cleanly struck Legolas’ brow, knocking his head hard into the rocky mass behind.  Those above him cast down a heavy net with woven metal strands, however this was not required since the flying stone did its work knocking the target out cold. It is not recorded by the Woodland Elves whether or not their prince heard Dwarven laughter that morning as he slumped into oblivion, but laugh they did, long and heartily; and oftentimes the more at the remembrance of it or in the telling of the tale.  

“Not dancing now, eh sprite?” gloated the threatener.

“GET HIM UP!” demanded the leader.  

“Are we going to have some sport?” said another.

“A Woodlander stake-down perhaps?” suggested the first voice from above as many others applauded his proposal.

“NAY, THIS ONE IS FOR DAIN!” spoke the leader.

“What: we are not taking him all the way to the Lonely Mountain?!”  

“NOT SO FAR, NOT YET: THIS FELLOW NEEDS ACCOMMODATION, SO LET’S FURNISH HIM WITH ONE OF OUR BEST ROOMS!”

A red dawn broke over the land as the merry company of Ironhill Dwarves wasted no time in hauling their thump-wilted detainee onto a goatwain. They swiftly dispersed into organised clusters; some fanning out cross-country embarking on patrol, whilst others marched directly homeward. Now, anybody viewing this operation from afar would have to esteem the efficiency of dwarves; particularly upon witnessing the apparent swallowing up by the landscape of those accompanying the prisoner, or indeed upon noting the lack of evidence that aught may have taken place, at the very place whence they departed.  

Had Legolas only known it, the dwarves took him deep into a territory long since kept secret these ages past; a vast subterranean network burrowed throughout much time by several hands, with divers causeways knit closely alongside the roots of the mountain ring above. This ancient marvel of industry originally spread from Mount Gundabad to the Iron Hills, as far up as the Withered Heath, also linking the Iron-lands to Erebor, and even impinging upon the watery grots beneath the northern borders of the elf’s own lands. In latter years the great complex fell into disrepair: the Gundabad-conduit was certainly collapsed by the dwarves themselves and other tunnels were neglected through disuse; yet some legends endure in children’s fables, citing ‘The Invasion of the Earth-eaters!’

These tunnels should not be compared to the Great Halls or Mines fashioned by the Khazâd in Durin’s time, rather they were built as a means of commerce and logistics between the Longbeard and Orocarni Mountain clans. Initially the dungeons were storage chambers along the ‘Famous Goat and Pony Road’ nigh to ‘Ironmasters Marketplace’ in more prosperous days. There are no annals that register the usage of these lockups as instruments of torment, but this practice almost certainly came into effect during and after the bitter Wars of the Dwarves and Orcs; each bank of cells being craftily measured to suit differing sizes of orc, some of which are apt for elves.  

Legolas had collected his thoughts thus far, having pieced together all what had taken place up until this morning’s attack; hereafter his cognition lit clearer.

Being still unusually restricted, he called out behind blinded eyes to see if any others were present with him, but there came no reply save the echo of his own voice; he now deemed correctly that he was being held underground.  He licked the corner of his mouth where the blood had dripped, and taking account of the rough handling by his captors he rightly guessed that the time of day must be between the third and fourth hour since the rising of the sun.  For some reason these estimations soothed him, he was back to himself for a moment. He recalled what his father used to say whenever he hurt himself as a child, “Sound thinking eases bodily pain!” and the impassive visage of Thranduil formed sharp in his mind’s eye.

“Legolas, your mother loved you… more than anyone… more than life…”

Those were his father’s parting words, the memory of which punctured all good sense as if shot through by one of his own arrows. Ultimately pain consumed him: the pain of loss, of estrangement, of love, of folly, of shame and bonds, and he cried out aloud because of it. So singular was that cry that the magnification of it alerted his subjugators to his awakening: after which he fell silent reverting to his accustomed composure once more, howsoever evident his physical discomfort.   

Beyond the walls two dwarves begin out upon a well walked passageway, cleverly hewn, well lit and very long; one tarries momentarily to pat himself down for a token not found as the other speaks, “One hour’s ‘Hard-fit’ is a tough penalty in anyone’s book, but two… that’s severe!”  

“He’s been out cold most of that time.”

“It pulls at the limbs something terrible, Gim, even after ten minutes I’ve heard the hardest of ‘em shriek; and all that regardless of wakefulness.”

“I know… but that’s orcs, Dad: Elves are… well… they’re bendy like!”    

“Elves are muscle and bone the same as us, Lad; not as tough mind!”  

“No two ways on that!”

“Huh, I’ll be surprised if his arms are still in their sockets…”  

At length Legolas perceives two sets of footsteps approaching from his left side which ultimately brake upon his cell door: the muted voices of their owners perish behind the rattle of heavy keys and the substantial clamour of hefty doors grinding apart on runners. The sudden influx of bright light pools about the entrance but doesn’t much reach his already shielded eyes; though right now that was the least of his worries, the newcomers had headed diagonally opposite to the farthest corner, whereupon one spoke: “There they are, drag them over!”

And then, THAT NOISE: an ear scrawping screech of heavy metal across a stone floor that squeals dead at his feet. The elf concludes the worst as two heavy boots stomp up steps approaching him and soon after Legolas can hear, feel and smell the breath of the one before him; he is unable to turn away.  A rough hand pulls the back of his skull forward, banging his throat on the iron choker and snagging a tress of hair already caught in it; “They fitted this one up good and tight,” says the closer dwarf, “Here, bring your steps around to the side of him!”

“Right-o,” a younger voice complies.

‘That sounded like him,’ thought Legolas, ‘That Kili!’  

After the displeasure of more racket within his sensitive ears, Legolas feels a burning on the right side of his face: “Put that bloody torch down you fool,” barks the elder, “Look, just step off: I’ll do it!”

“Why are we bothering anyway?” the offended junior sulks: “Let’s just…”

“Let’s just do nothing but follow our orders, RIGHT!” replies the chief dwarf, climbing the other block of stairs.  

“Whatever it is,” sighs Legolas dryly, “Please… do get on with it!”

“Who yanked your chain? Haha, oh yes it was me: do you want some more?”

The elf dips his head in resignation of the obtuseness of dwarves: “Aye, I thought not: Now don’t move!”

Chunky fingers rifle manfully through elven hair searching out the back of the blindfold, at last a long pin is removed and the strap comes apart; although the tacky blooded section must be peeled away from the skin.  

Legolas blinks in the torchlight as the dwarf takes the buckskin covering and, almost tenderly, wipes off the excess leakage covering his left eye: “That’s a nasty cut there; the back should be alright, just bruised: sore looking but!”

With that the dwarf steps down and beckons his young fellow, and then both stand deacon-like at the open doors, backlit by the corridor:

“Well?” questions the prisoner.

“Orders were that you witness what you have come to, so… give it a minute!”

He wanted to reply sarcastically in his best Dwarf accent, “Aye, it won’t hurt!” but in truth it really, really did, so he just offered back a wry smile and nod; the tactic worked: he felt ridiculous.  

Before long the dwarves re-enter and transfer the box-ladders against the wall behind him, yet more screeching: Legolas’ wits plead, ‘Could they not put wheels on those things?’ Those things slotted and fit beneath dark wooden blocks with tall vertical beams set into their fronts; the captive had not noticed them until now due to his restraints, and even now he needed to crane and strain to see their placement either side him at about a longbow’s length a piece. Presently, the little operatives key-in large looped studs into the uprights releasing a locking mechanism within each wooden block; and pulling the rings toward them the stanchions come out with a clunk, roughly fifteen degrees from their base.  

Nothing happens, “Did you count properly?” demands the supervisor: “Too right, I did!”

The dwarves alight and stand sturdily in front of Legolas. On a sudden there comes a deep rumbling directly above their heads followed by a series of loud clicks… one… two… three; then abrade, a rubbing of sorts, and one more click louder than before. After five seconds of silence the younger dwarf sniggers expectantly.  Now from behind, but still on high, begins an escalating whirr pursued by a cacophony of rapid chains, gears and wheels. Within seconds the ankle restraints loose and the dwarves rush in to prop up the elf as his legs give way; accordingly, the neck chain frees soon thereafter, compelling the reduced Legolas to collapse forward into their waiting arms.  They unshackle and de-collar him and lay him on a low cot; he hurts too much to resist them. There is then the bother and din of resetting the chains; shortly after which the lead dwarf draws near to the elf handling a bulbous flask:

“Here, drink this!”  

“What is that?” demands Legolas.

“Ale…” says the dwarf as the elf crinkles his nose: “Get it down you: What‘s the matter with you?  You’ll need that… we’ve a long walk ahead!”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see, come on sup-up!” says the dwarf as the prince wretches down the vulgar brew in stages: “Do you good that, build you up!” Legolas returns the flask, flopping back down: “No-no Laddy, no time for that!”  

“Tell me, what is your name sir?” enquires the elf politely.

“ur-well… I’m Dimroc and this is my lad, Gimroc, but we aren’t any Sirs!”

“Hail Dimroc and Gimroc, well met!”

“Likewise… I think!”

“May I ask… have you ever been up in those…?”

“The Orc Creakers: can’t say I have…”  

“I guessed as much, let me explain…”

“Spare us…” sneers Gimroc, who now in full view is nothing at all like Kili.

Dimroc wrestles within himself: “Now look I’ll offer ten minutes respite because your two hours aren’t up yet… and five for the courtesy!”  

Legolas groans with gratitude: “No Dad!” exclaims Gimroc.

“Fifteen minutes, no more… understand?”

“Thank you!” murmurs the elf.

“You, fit walking-irons on him: I need some ale… get the biggest set, Gim; he’s taller than most… and Son, do it civil!” Gimroc complies: disgruntled and somewhat perplexed, but knowing to hold his peace once ‘The Silence’ befalls his father. Even so, despite the dwarf’s honest obedience the longest chains proved too short for Legolas; allowing him the minimal flexibility of movement, for they were designed with orcs in mind, not elves.

Dimroc has worked the dungeons now these past forty-six years, and his son with him for the last eighteen; their main job is maintenance although included in this is the occasional loosing of exhausted orcs, and oftentimes from far worse devices used on the elf. Now, for a surety, Dimroc had heard the tale of how the two kings fell out of fellowship, and how a condescending elf lord demanding his due petulantly refused to assist Erebor in her gravest need. Nevertheless until now he had never before encountered an elf, and despite himself the conduct and durability of this one impressed him. Never before has he suffered compunction about any aspect of his work, but never before has any prisoner ever asked his name: “Orcs have no dignity,” he muttered to himself, “They curse, they bite, they spit and they always piss themselves!”

Thus, he gave Legolas twenty minutes in which to rest; even knowing that the Dispensation would be annoyed and what that could mean to him. Still, it would be unfair to assert that he took this action due to any particular liking for elves, but rather more to do with his own estimation of the day’s events. “This whole matter doesn’t sit right!” Dimroc later explained to his superiors; for to his mind, “Dwarves are better than we had shown; the very meat and mead of Dwarfdom dwells in strength, hardiness and good business: oath-keeping not grudge-bearing!” By his reckoning this prisoner posed no threat to Dwarvish-lands, “The elf was dodging the fringes just beyond the borders and heading toward the empty country!” In short, Dimroc believed that his own people overreacted with bigotry.  

Dimroc had spoken honestly, it was a long walk from the holding cell; and to whither, even now Legolas could not tell. His removal from the cot had been abrupt and hurried, all signs of former consideration had vanished being replaced with flint solemnity; the elf guessed accurately that the dwarves had delayed overlong. None of this however prevented them from fulfilling the remainder of their task, for someone other had instructed that the prisoner beheld the array of torture devices in each open cell as they passed them by. No doubt this parade was intended to intimidate, although one would not have known it with the mundane running commentary given by Dimroc of the names and uses of each instrument. Thereafter turning right, the walking party entered into a rough hewn corridor lit only with braziers at various exit points; the dwarves fully required their flamed torches. Legolas endeavoured to engage with them here but to no avail, receiving only terse directives as they went; the tedium of which being compounded by fettered footfalls linked to heavy irons curbing down his already sore wrists.  

At length the gloomy walkway brightened ahead of them, whereupon egress it opened out to a rotunda; here Dimroc bade them stop. There stood centrally a sturdy wooden table, seeming all the broader for its lone attendant around whom were several other open doorways; all of which seemed to have channels like to the one that the elf had just been through. A bright shaft lit the polished stone circular floor from an unseen source high above: another mystery of Dwarvish ingenuity long guarded throughout the ages. However, the thing most noticeable to anybody seeing this place for the first time was the narrow archway towering directly behind the seated official who now summons Dimroc. Handing the light to his son he motions toward his associate; the two speak together in friendly terms and soon afterward the small company are bidden, “Proceed!”  

Gimroc gestures casually with the flames, pointing ahead, and with a complacent roll-shouldered gait he returns his father’s torch. Legolas comes slowly after, halt in his chains; the third dwarf looks on him darkly as he sidesteps around the bureaucratic board. Dimroc bids his son to lead the way and then follows Legolas single-file beneath the tall pointed arch.  

Legolas plunges into darkness almost bursting his nose on a stone wall; he is saved by the strong fist of Dimroc grabbing the tail of his tunic pulling him back: “Mind your step, there’s a tight corner here…” whereon he shouts angrily to the lead, “Hey Dunderhead, you wait on us and light the way!”  He speaks again to Legolas, “My apologies, he’s not so bad really!” and with that he stretches forth his right hand bearing the torch:

“Now, go left here then right… I’ll show you when, the going will become rough soon so remember to keep your feet!”  

“The going: where are we going?”

“Up…”

“Up to what… to whom…?”

“Just up: now go on, PROCEED!”

They soon come upon Gimroc who with a smirk waits at the entrance of a small stairwell; he does not expect to receive a hard slap from his father’s unfavoured left hand: “When I give an instruction you follow it!  What’s gotten into you today, Lad?” The stone steps formed a compact coil without a handrail and had room only to clear one abreast; indicating to the elf that this spiralled flight must have a sister used exclusively for downward negotiation.  In order for him to access the stairway Legolas needed to stoop low and squeeze himself clumsily through; whereupon the now chastened Gimroc led at reasonable measure with his elder taking up the rear once more. The truth of Dimroc’s warning came into effect as soon as the elf tackled the first step; insomuch that the striding motion required to scale this height tightened his chains and pulled his limbs in defiance of all natural progression. It was not easy for him but Legolas adapted with shimmies here and hops there, and he just about managed to keep pace with the dwarves; indeed the going was rough. For the most part the treads were smoothly dimpled through much use, although others were uneven and cracked; but many of the risers however showed signs of injury caused by the impact of heavy iron-toed boots. This damage obliterated any semblance of nosing and cove work at the front of the steps, thus producing a jagged and indented course with many snags; irrefutably none of this proved conducive to impeded climbing. Therefore the ascent grew tiresome before long, although the dwarves seemed used enough to it; Legolas alas, despite his best efforts caught the base of his shin thrice and his right leg bled sore ere he reached the top.    

They emerged forth unto a vast colonnade with a bustling central square; the whole region stood almost as high as it was wide and was lit in the same concealed uncanny manner from above, only here on a far grander scale. The small delegation did not enter the plaza but rather turned left remaining sheltered beneath the outer pillared walkway. The injury to his leg caused the elf to limp and a great many dwarves witnessed his humiliation as he slowly went along; most of whom sneered in gloomy silence, whilst others muttered among themselves or grunted insults at the hapless captive. Here two things became apparent to Legolas: first of all this place was the heart of commerce in the Iron Hills and judging by the facades of the perimeter buildings it was also the centre of law; and secondly, he had critically misapprehended the number of citizens that would depart from here for the coronation of Dáin.  

At length there came a break in the column-way at the south-west corner whereat a broad road allowed access into and out of the square; and directly opposite from where the elf now stood there loomed a forbidding edifice, plain and windowless but with an excessively large and heavy ironclad door. Legolas instinctively knew that this was their point of arrival and he asked, “What is this place?”

“The Dispensation!”