Chapter Fifteen – The Storm

Hello all! Profuse apologies for the lateness of this chapter – it’s been a bugger to write, and that writers’ block was of no help what so ever. Still, over it now, though my head hurts from thinking about this too much…

Right. This is the chapter where everything kind of explodes in your face. Could prove to be interesting for our dear friends *rubs hands together gleefully* oh yes, very interesting indeedÂ…

Dear ol’ Thranduil never expected this one, trust me – he he he. No, he didn’t expect this one at all, preciousss *sorry, couldn’t resist that one.^^*

OK, the next chapters are going to come in pretty quick succession now after this one, so the end of Equilibrium is nigh. There is another one on the way, though: itÂ’s basically a gap filler for when Aragorn falls over the cliff, following Legolas and Gimli, their thoughts and feelings on the matter, all of that. And then after that one, I have ideas for another one, just with Legolas and Gimli basically going home, post Aragorn coronation. And then after that I have another idea that I plan to follow. The other two will be short, but this one is set to be like Equilibrium long, pre-WotR and very interesting, packed with OCs and, naturally, Legolas in a verrry sticky situation, involving a highly talented assassin, whose attention he manages to catch, an extremely important baby, and a massive man huntÂ…

He had heard those horns. And he knew perfectly well what they heralded. Elves. He was getting tired of them, really. Elves were strong, and ready to endure just about anything – but whether they would be able to endure this would prove to be interesting. Oh yes, very interesting indeed…

***

Odd. It was so – strange – how they managed to get themselves in the most remarkable situations and predicaments ever known to their kind. Of course, there was what Frodo and Sam were going through, but he classed that as being completely unparalleled to what happened to them: they got themselves captured by Orcs, made friends with walking trees, and guarded dangerous persons at their own gateways with naught to fight with but clay pipes. Quite bizarre, actually.

But now he was sat with a muster of some of the most powerful men he had ever seen, if not the most powerful men he had ever seen, waiting in silence as Thranduil held council with his captains, conversing in very fast Sindarin of such a great speed that he could not even decipher a word of it, let alone a sentence.

Pippin heaved a sigh, and cast his eyes up at the walls of Isengard between the boughs of the trees. He could not see a single one of them. That was the strange wonder of the Elves – they could just disappear into their surroundings, melting into them like clear ice into water. It had startled him at first, seeing them do this: Legolas had done it on many an occasion, blending back into the background, a shadow of the shadows, submerging into invisibleness during his watches. Many a time had the Elf materialised before him and nearly killed him with surprise. But now he was able to see how useful it was to be capable of doing such a thing, as he scanned with no real dedication for the Elven archers that he knew lined the stonework. Fifty in total, apparently, though he had never actually seen them go up to their positions, despite the fact that he had looked out for them, keen to know what the other Elves of Mirkwood were like.

Waiting. There was nothing Merry loathed more in this kind of situation, sitting on the edge of something that could turn either way. They did not know what the reaction Saruman was due to give would be like, nor did they know whether force was going to be an absolute necessity – it would not prove a problem if it was; they had a small yet incredible strength behind them in King Thranduil’s companies, that was for sureÂ…

The Elven King’s captains disbanded, riding back and shouting orders to the soldiers, with one of the captains galloping his horse to the wall to command the archers. Thranduil himself went to stand his horse by Gandalf, Lord Daerahil by his King. Aragorn – acting under what Merry supposed to be some unspoken command – rode to the other side of the wizard, Éomer and Gimli taking up position at the side of Brego. As they now sat, all of Isengard was open to their view … especially the Tower.

‘Is it time?’ Merry asked, absent-mindedly fumbling with the hilt of his elven dagger.

‘Yes, my friend,’ came the heavy response. ‘I do not know how this will turn, mind, so be careful and do NOT leave this horse lest I bid it of you.’

Merry gave a small nod of acknowledgement to the words of the other, receiving a slight shock as Brego jolted forward with the other horses of the line, the sound of marching feet behind them.

Saruman stood out on the balcony, observing the row of riders, closely followed by marching Elven soldiers in tightly-formed ranks, their captain riding before them. There were not that many of them – a hundred or so – not enough to oppose his own forces … oh yes, they were set for a nasty surprise when he sent his own men out…

His roving black eyes fixed on someone that caused his brow to arc: Thranduil the Great of Mirkwood. He had not expected to see him alive after the letter he had written to him informing him of the death of his son. The King did not appear even marginally grieved: he looked incensed, actually.

The soldiers stopped their march a quarter of a mile away, the line of horses continuing to proceed until they were little more than twenty feet from the foot of the Tower.

‘Mae govennen, Thranduil,’ Saruman called, giving a distinct bow of ridicule.

‘Do not DARE to mock me, Saruman the Weak-’ the eyes of the wizard flashed at this ‘-I come for one thing and one thing only: my son.’

‘You mean the body of your son,’ Saruman sent back evilly. ‘You believe that I will surrender him to you?’

‘I am here, thus he is of no more use to you,’ the King growled, threat rolling in his voice like thunder in a sky of shadows, his eyes dark slate-grey and brimming with the promise of death if his demand was not met to his satisfaction.

‘He is of no use to anyone as a corpse – save, perhaps, the Orcs…’

Thranduil tried to surge his horse to the Tower, emitting a bellow of rage, fuelled by the wizard’s high laugh – but he stopped when Daerahil grabbed his arm, pulling him back and offering words of quiet comfort to his friend. As his reaction was stemmed by the other Elf, Thranduil drew his slender mithril sabre, wielding it high above his head, horse rearing and plunging, a perfect reflection of the mood of his master.

‘SURRENDER MY SON TO ME OR TO MY ARMY, SARUMAN, THE CHOICE IS YOURS!’

‘Army? HA! That is not an army: ‘tis a rabble of fools that stumbled across an armoury – just like their King of Fools!’

‘Do not be a fool yourself,’ Gandalf advised, speaking for the first time. ‘Give him back, that is all we ask. Thranduil is right: you have no need of him, and you wield not the power to contain him any longer.’

‘O, believe me,’ Saruman sneered. ‘There is nothing left to contain.’

ThranduilÂ’s cry to commence the attack was echoed by a crack, as though of thunder, as Saruman smote his staff on the stone of Orthanc, to be shortly followed by the shrieks of Orcs, piercing the air like the deadliest of arrows.

“Oozing out of nowhere,” it seemed to Aragorn, as all of them turned their mounts to see where the noise was coming from. Orcs and Wild Men, spilling out of tunnels, apparently, with no real formation or regularity. “A mass of ants with no real purpose,” he thought as he observed them – but then he rebuke himself for using such a poor simile: they clearly did have a purpose, and that was to attack the Elves, to quash them with their sheer strength of numbers if nothing else.

The companies of soldiers formed new, seamless ranks to maintain a front on both angles from which the swarms came: either side of the gate … and right under the noses of the archers. A hail of shafts arched over the distance between the wall and the enemy, every arrowhead finding a mark – they were clearly all myrmidons of Legolas’; in fact, he knew that his best friend had been responsible for the training of many of the King’s archers. Legolas, a doyen in the field of archery – and in the realm of friendship…

Even Legolas, however, would have found it to be the impossible to stem the flow of this torrent of foes, there were so many, and they clashed with the soldiers, caroming off of the face of the defences and then rebounding, the metallic song of swords sending their mournful voices into the air, so heavy that it boded rain.

Their horses plunged forward as their masters spurred them, swords drawn and ready for the fight – the King would not suffer his men to be left without mounted aid, and, as he rode his fine grey stallion into the midst of the battle, he blasted his horn to command the charge…

Several other horns echoed in the trees in response, causing a flock of carrion crows to take flight in fright, a black cloud of impending doom – but for whom?

The riders and their steeds impressed Éomer considerably: the horses, of such a hue they shamed snow, were proud and strong – yet they were completely without tack. That was one of the things that took him back the most: he had heard of Elves riding bareback – but in a cavalry charge? He could not see how the riders were able to control their animals with such an incredibly militate manner. They moved as one, no spoken command telling them where to strike or at which points to divide; it was just all so fluid, so precise and preternatural in the way it happened.

The cavalry division had sectioned itself off: half to cut off the tunnels for the archers to finish any who were foolish enough to even contemplate coming out, and the rest to join the fray, cutting through the hundreds of their enemies like hot knives through butter.

Gimli had fallen off. Again. Why he always fell off of horses during battles he knew not – but it did not bother him in the slightest. He was, in fact, glad that he had: it was considerably more difficult to hack at Orcs with a battle axe from the height of an animal of the size of Firefoot – Arod had been bad enough, but this one stood considerably taller at the shoulder, making his swings a lot less effective. Down here, though, he had now reached the grand total of twenty-eight … that definitely meant that he had beaten the Elf at their game when he totalled all of his kills. Arrows against axes indeed!

Merry was finding this to be a most interesting experience – he had little choice than to sit and watch as Aragorn created new holes for Orcs and Wild Men to take into serious consideration about how it affected their health before they died. The opportunity to swing his own sword did not openly present itself to him, as there was simply no room for him to do so without cutting off a major part of Aragorn.

So he watched as Aragorn plunged Andúril into their gathered foes. It was Aragorn’s art, Merry concluded as he observed an Orc lose his head. The way he used the weapon as though it was an extension of his body, never wavering or displaying any fatigue as he hewed his way through the chaotic, leaderless enemy.

~

Saruman snarled as he viewed the battle, damning Elves and their superior military skills compared to his own forces. He had no archers, cavalry, or captains at all: just a mass of imbeciles that were little more than troglodytes of various assortments, a pack of rats with terriers set loose in their midst. They were dropping like wet leaves in a late autumn storm, and he turned on his heal in disgust and abandoned notions when the remainder of his ‘men’ fled for the gate. He hated Elves.

~

The original riders re-grouped, the short-lived battle won with few losses to their side. Six was viewed as a few to the others, that was, save for Thranduil and his subjects, all of whom would morn their loss Â… after they got Legolas back.

‘He has descended into madness,’ Éomer said as he eyed the Tower. ‘Only a fool or a maniac would send out a leaderless army into battle like that.’ He cast his green eyes over the corpses behind them, lip curling in disgust. ‘I shall order my men to gather the Orcs and make a pyre-’

‘They shall not be alone with that task.’ Thranduil barked out an order in Sindarin, to which twenty of his soldiers responded, falling out of their ranks to aid the men in their duty.

‘They all speak Westron, so there will be no communication hindrances.

‘And now,’ he averted to the most important matter of all: ‘let us go and see a wizard about my son.’

‘At last!’ Gimli grumbled, as Éomer helped him to slide from Firefoot’s back. ‘I have something to tell that Elf.’

Twelve soldiers came at the bidding of their King, all armed with bows and swords. Whether they would be needed or not was another matter.

Aragorn stayed silent. He had heard the words of Saruman, and he could feel doubt heavy and unmoving in the pit of his stomach. What if they were too late? What if the wizard had meant it when he had said they had come to fetch a corpse? Thranduil seemed to have paid no heed to the Istari, but that did not mean that he had not – the King was renowned for his unwavering hope, but this had to be the greatest test he had ever had to endure, and there had been a … something to his tone just then which said to Aragorn that even his hope was faltering.

Gandalf proceeded ahead of the group up the stairs. Now that they were here, the knot of trepidation that he had previously ignored for so long niggled at his mind with more persistence, and it was with a slight reluctance that he passed his staff over the door, murmuring the password softly under his breath. The heavy black wood swung slowly inward, not a sound being emitted in their movement.

Thranduil was the first to enter, not caring about any possible attack that might come from within, his brisk movement forcing his soldiers and the others to hurry after him. He flung open a pair of high doors – and stopped. They had come to a large, rounded room, with four sets of exits, and a throne perched on a high diesis at the far end … and there sat Saruman.

The wizard leapt to his feet and down off of his diesis, issuing a screech of anger at this intrusion, staff being swung in a momentum that was to promise some doom for those that enraged him so – but Gandalf, pushing to the front, gave his own staff a huge thrust, a cry of straining effort parting from his lips.

Saruman stood, apparently battling to control his staff, exertion clear on his face as he puffed now and again, face reddening as his hands were gradually being twisted.

The staff ripped free of his hands and cruised over to Gandalf, who snatched it from the air and instantly brought it down across his own knee, splintering the wood into shards of broken power and corruption, dull and naked against the pitiless blackness of the stone floor.

‘There,’ said Gandalf, looking directly at a livid yet distinctly beaten Saruman. ‘Not very agreeable, is it, when someone does it to you?’

Saruman snarled at this open patronisation, glaring at all that now surrounded him, and he spat when the Elven soldiers formed an arc behind him, swords keenly trained on him.