unbreakable: unreachable

[lordof]

He follows a scent, a sound, an echoing presence that has lingered in the recesses of his mind. Something that neither seeks nor avoids him, something... that is his. Was, or should be.

Sauron must find it, then. Collecting a lost pet, he calls it, though he does not remember what it was that he lost. The Orcs do not (cannot) argue when they are ushered across the plains into the southern tip of the forest, scouring the area until they find the naked hill amidst the trees. In little time his minions have dug into the barren, craggy hillside and built the stone up about them, tunnelling and making the very rock itself part of the fortress. Like Angband.

And all that time Sauron spreads the tendrils of his mind slowly northward, driving back pests while searching for that which is his, should be his. Something besides his Ring, whatever it is. Perhaps it knows what has become of his trinket. Perhaps it will even help him find it-- he is still little more than a wisp of smoke, a shadow in human form, walking beneath the eaves of the woods.

But first, the pet. While his Ring does not deign to share its location, this pet of his does, like a tug on a leash, however involuntarily. Sauron follows.

Comments

[elvenking]

The first time Thranduil felt it, he was asleep, drifting on something close enough to peace that he hadn't been expecting that shadow in his dreams. Not the Shadow as the word is used to speak of Sauron's influence, but his actual shadow, cast upon the ground in the image of its master. He recognized it and froze, his dreams turning black around him. And yet blacker than the black of the void was the shadow, outlined before him, heralding the reappearance of his old master. The breath was stolen from his body, the air from the world, and he woke gasping.

The second time his dream had been less fair to begin with, its light stolen by the shadow of the last. He wandered as usual, though the trees bore a brownness like death rather than the warm hues of autumn, and foul things rustled beyond. He had woken on his feet well outside his castle in the mountains, and there had first seen the Shadow spreading from the south with his own eyes.

This time, he is awake, halted by a tree stringing his bow to practice shooting when he straightens involuntarily and casts the bow aside. He is fifteen steps into the gloaming when he stops, finding it strange, strange and terrifying and familiar. The wind seems to blow, though nothing around him stirs, and he shudders at the memory of a voice.

Melindur.

[lordof]

If he dreamt he would dream of nothing, of an eerie, peaceful empty space that is not in fact empty. A space filled with thoughts, dreams, hopes and wishes, but nothing that one could physically touch. Water that was not water, air that was not air. Darkness that was not darkness. Love.

The figure is fuller than he remembers, more wholesome, more...

Alive. Bright, and alive.

He can't tell if it's disgusting or beautiful, but-- it is his. It's his. This creature that looks nothing like himself, dark and inky shadows and darkness in the shape of a man. His.

Melindur. Mine. Mine.

You live, he says. Thinks. And hopes that the Elf will hear, can hear, will acknowledge his words. He doesn't reach out. He's been reaching out since he arrived, little slivers of himself, his mind, in hopes that he'll get some response. Have you returned to me?

[elvenking]

No.

Thranduil stumbles back and finds himself sitting suddenly among the foliage, the whole world tilted strangely. For he knows the cry, and the name, and knows the love extended, the terrible love that will rejoice in the beauty of his remains when he is ripped apart.

You are not here. You cannot hold me..

But he isn't rising. He is trembling among the green as the chill wraps its loving arms around him. There are leaves in his hair, the hair so beloved by Sauron, so coveted when he tried to cut it off.

[lordof]

His pet falls and Sauron finds himself-- unconcerned. It is still whole and healthy, its fea says as much. His. He. The pet is an Elf, he tells himself. Reminds himself.

Sauron comes closer, walking on plumes and pillars of black smoke, liquid shadow descending onto the forest floor like roots from a tree. Slowly the formless shape gives way to form, blurred lines refining into something more stable, more recognizable, though not solid. Something in the shape of a Man.

Can you hear me, melindur? It's not desperate, but it is. In a way that could be tremulous, bordering rage and anger and fear. All that comes from his unseen mockery of a mouth is a horrid sound, deep and snarling and raspy, not unlike the shriek of a wraith. Black Speech and Valarin, spilling like crushed rocks. Meaningless jumbles of words.

[elvenking]

No, no!

But an answer at all is an answer yes. Thranduil jerks back and finds his feet under him again. He rises and backs away, holding out a staying hand.

"Back!" he cries aloud. "Back, by Elbereth!" Not that even her name had given Sauron so much as a shudder before. Thranduil knows that he might use every weapon he knows and not drive back this Shadow. If Sauron wants him, he will take him. But by the Lady, he will never keep him again.

His feet connect with the ground firmly, a shudder running through the earth at the contact, as though the forest itself is trying to shake Sauron away from itself. It is weak, but it is still power, a thing he has come into in the years since Sauron was defeated. He is the forest, connected feet to earth, a single life force with it and all within it.

Back.

[lordof]

Had it been Varda herself, it might have been different, but the mere invocation of Varda's does little to stay Sauron's advance.

The tremble that goes through the ground, however, does get his attention. While he does not stop, he does sink down closer, into the soil, as if it were possible to communicate with the Elf that way. Though even without that, it's clear what he wants to say, as the darkness creeps closer, like fingers in the night.

No. You are mine. Come with me, melindur. Come with me.

[elvenking]

This is my woods!

The forest shudders again and the wind begins to shift. This poison was swallowed long ago, and it has been in his body ever since, but while he lives he will not let it claim this forest, nor his people. No, not even without Isildur here to tell him what to do or who to live for.

I will not be yours again!

[lordof]

You have never stopped being mine, Thranduil.

But Sauron stops where he is, hovering. It is different now, he remembers, from how it was then. When the Elf had nothing, no one, when he was alone in Mordor among enemies. Here he is among allies, he is in his own home. Here, Sauron is the one on foreign lands.

(Even though all of Arda was his home. Still is his home.)

I came here for you. Softer, perhaps with a sense of sympathy and understanding. Perhaps. Come back to me, and I will leave your woods.

He does not bother saying what will happen if he is refused.

[elvenking]

No. No, no, no, no, his gut wrenches and his throat closes and all his struggles halt.

He cannot go back to that. He cannot belong to this creature again.

More than that, he cannot let it devour his woods, his people. For that reason he cannot deprive him of their king--and yet, to do so may be the only way to protect them. Above all, he cannot, he is unable to fling his power at the oncoming darkness and keep it at bay indefinitely. He will waste away far too quickly. He is one Elf, untouched by the Light of the Trees and in possession of no Ring of Power. He cannot go back, and he cannot stay back, and he cannot hold him back. Yet how much would he give to make safe his people?

He understands what he must do, though his heart recoils from it.

For one day. Only one day each year will I return to you, and you will withdraw to the South, outside my domain, and leave us here in peace.