Crossover fic: sorry I'm late ^.^;
Hey there :)
It took a little longer this time, sorry... but it's here! Many thanks to you, my friends - luv your msgs \^o^/
My apologies for any mistakes. This chappy has some flashbacks I just hope it won't be too confusing...
Rating, time period, characters, warnings - see previous entry.
Here we go!
CHAPTER FOUR
In which we know a little about Mirkwood and Luke has visions…
Whenever he needed to talk to his son about serious matters, Thraduil would call him to the Treasure Chamber - it was the King’s favorite place. There he could relish in the beauty of thousands of precious stones, in extremely rare artifacts made of gold and silver, in all riches of his family. But more than all of those, Thranduil valued the huge portrait of his father, Oropher. Painted by a fantastically gifted Man - an artist of Gondor - and framed in solid oak, it was too big to be placed in any other room of the palace. The painting was so realistic that the King often caught himself expecting it to breath and talk. He liked that: it made him feel his father was still there, watching him and Legolas.
“Father.” The soft voice was followed by the sound of light footsteps.
“Come, my son. How do you fare?”
“Much better now.”
Thranduil sat on a large cushioned stool and montioned his son to take the place beside him. While the younger Elf did so, he observed him carefully.
There were some faint red marks in Legolas’ face and hands but they would fade in one or two days. His eyes were bright and alert, his skin had a healthy glow. Yes, his son was a fast healer, even for Elven standards.
Less than a week ago, Legolas had arrived at the Palace with two strangers, a man and a beast. The Elf was badly wounded, exhausted, but still walked; the man was unconscious, barely breathing - the beast was carrying him.
“Legolas!” Thranduil embraced his son tightly. “Valar, I was so worried… I sent Brethil and Galadhir to look for you.”
“They found me indeed… and gave their lives to save me!” Legolas had cried. “There were spiders, Ada, so many I couldn’t count, and much larger than the ones we usually see in our land!”
The King was alarmed. A great number of giant spiders could only mean that an evil force had entered the forest. He had always known that the Shadow of the Enemy was growing and that one day, Mirkwood would have to confront it openly; never had he thought that this day would come so soon, though. After ordering the healers to treat his son and his strange companions, Thranduil sent a messenger to Elrond of Rivendell.
Even though the poison of the giant spider was not strong for an Elf, it could kill a common Man, especially one stung as many times as that stranger had been. Fortunately the healers who served Thranduil were very skilled, trained by Lord Elrond himself; they managed to save the man’s life despite his weakened state.
The messenger hadn’t returned from Rivendell yet. Thranduil was feeling more and more apprehensive as days passed by, though his face remained serene and his voice, calm and comforting; he didn’t want to worry his son, not yet. He wanted Legolas to rest as much as possible; for he feared that soon, his young Greenleaf would have to face many dangers.
“And our guests? How do they fare?” he asked, trying to distract himself from such worries.
Legolas shrugged - a very non-Elvish gesture he had taken to do pretty freqüently.
“One was practically unharmed. The other… well, he is a man. He will take weeks to recover only from the superficial wounds. The broken leg will take at least a month.”
Thranduil smiled. The Elves of Mirkwood never had much interest in other races. Thranduil himself used to think very little of Men in general, except for the Dúnedain. He changed his mind after the Battle of the Five Armies, though. After meeting Bard of Esgaroth, and Thorin Oakenshield, the King learned if not to like, at least respect both Men and Dwarves.
“One who can speak Elvish well enough to curse in it, and on top of that, win an argument with my Greenleaf cannot be an ordinary man.” trying - unsuccessfully - to hide his amusement, Thranduil patted his son’s back. “What is his name?”
“Han Solo. And his companion is called Ch… Chev… Chevi… hum…” Legolas sighed in frustration. Elves loved poetry and story-telling and even a warrior like him was far more literated than many Men scholars: Legolas could write and speak Quenya, the Common Language, and even a little of Dwarvish; he could also speak the language of plants and animals.
But he never managed to pronounce the beast’s name correctly despite all his efforts.
And that rude, stubborn, stupid MAN not only could say the beast’s name but also speak its language fluently! For some reason this annoyed Legolas terribly, to the point of making him think even a Dwarf would be a better guest than Han Solo. At least, Dwarves showed some respect even if begrudgingly…
“ONE MONTH??? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND??? ONE ENTIRE MONTH IN BED BECAUSE OF A BROKEN LEG???” Han Solo was apopletic. “DON’T YOU HAVE A BONE-SEALER? BACTA? HELLS, HOW DO YOU TREAT YOUR WOUNDS, YOU SPIT ON THEM AND PRAY TO YOUR GODS OR SOMETHING?”
He had been yelling and cursing since he had recovered enough to speak. It was expected that a man who had been through so many predicaments and was still in considerable pain would be in a bad mood but even the most experienced healer was not prepared for a show of Corellian bad mood.
Legolas was tempted to give up helping the healers and let them alone to deal with the man. His sense of responsibility didn’t allow him to do it, though. After all, he was the one who brought the strangers, he should deal with them.
“Your right leg is broken” the Elf spoke patiently, “and so is your left arm. Human bones take a considerable time to mend.”
Han rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. Then he turned to Legolas with the most sarcastic smirk plastered on his face.
“That’s why civilized people have bone-sealers or at least, bacta injections, my friend. Now, if you just take me to a decent medical facility…”
“I am sorry” Legolas replied in a totally non-sorry tone of voice, “but I do not know what a ‘madical facility’ is.”
“It’s ‘medical’, not ‘madical’.” the Corellian waved in an exhasperated gesture. “Ah, never mind. Forget it.”
“What do you say, my son?” the question startled the Elven Prince from his reminiscences.
“I am sorry, Ada, I was distracted…”
“I was saying I wanted to introduce myself properly to our guests. According to the healers they are well enough to have visitors.”
It was said that the Palace of Thranduil was a modest miniature of the legendary Menegroth, home of the great Thingol and his beloved Melian. It was built inside a mountain covered by trees, and only its main gate was visible. It had majestic halls, with beautiful sculptures carved on the stone walls, a complex labyrinth of corridors, and magic doors.
None of these impressed Han Solo, though. First, because he was too worried about Luke - now that he was stranded in that damn primitive place with a broken leg, who would look after the kid? Second, because the lack of electricity and technology of any kind was extremely uncomfortable and annoying for one used to have most of everyday matters solved by pressing a button.
Chewbacca sighed and tried once more to convince his friend to be more patient. He used his most fatherly tone as he spoke, the one he used to actually demand the Corellian to hear him. There was nothing they could do except wait until they were recovered. They should be grateful that those natives were helping them, and by the way, how come Han knew their language?
“I know it… to a certain point. There are some differences in their use of verbs and adjectives, and the pronunciation of some words is completely odd, but… There was a tribe in Khralla IV - it was the last imperial post I served in before jumping ship. They spoke this language. I learned from them. And before you ask, no, they were nothing like these people here. They weren’t humanoids.” Han winced as he tried to move to a more comfortable position in bed. Chewbacca didn’t offer help - he had given up doing it, at least until his friend’s mood improved a little.
Han grunted in obvious irritation. How could he be calm and patient when Luke was missing, maybe wounded and in need of help, in a strange land?
Luke.
So damn trusting and naïve. So damn stubborn. So damn ready to sacrifice himself to help others.
Idiot.
The way the kid looked at him when he told the whole story about the Kessel record - blue eyes wide, shining in awe and something like adoration… Han snorted, amusement twitching at the corners of his mouth as he remembered.
You’re such a fool, kid.
A lovely fool.
A fool with the face of an angel, golden hair and a perfect skin. How come a farmboy had such skin living in a place like Tatooine? How come a farmboy could look so… beautiful?
How come Han Solo, experienced smuggler, so-called notorius cold-hearted bastard, was so desperately worried for a fool like that?
Ah, kid, if you just knew…
In Rivendell the agitation of birds and other animals announced that soon it would rain.
Luke paid no heed to them. He was sitting by a fountain, staring at the water with empty eyes.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
Han was dead. And now he was all alone, in an isolated planet, with no means to go back to space or even call for help.
He took a deep breath, his hands balled into fists.
No.
He was not going to despair. They didn’t know for sure if one of those disfigured corpses they found on the road was Han’s. And Chewie wasn’t there - the wookie would never abandon Han, even after death. He would at least bury or take his friend’s body with him to provide a decent funeral.
He is not dead.
Suddenly, he knew it. Han was alive, yes, and not too far from Rivendell. And, as realization dawned on him, the crystal clear water in the fountain turned dark before his eyes.
Luke shook his head trying to clear it, to no avail. Images slowly came from the dark water.
Han, soaked in blood, eyes glowing with fury, charging against an invisible enemy.
Estel with something - a jewel? - shining on his forehead, and wearing what seemed to be an armor.
A shadow. It didn’t have a shape, but it was terrifying. Cold, incredibly cold, powerful, paralyzing…
Sauron. The Necromancer. The Shadow of Melkor.
He is here.