Chapter Text
Fangorn Forest wasn't an easy place for an elf. But it was beautiful and at times enchanting, provided one knew how to handle a weapon.
Isobel's father, Halir, taught her a long time ago. He was the second son of the dark elf Eöl. Eöl’s first son, Maeglin, was infamous for betraying the elves to Morgoth back in the fist age. Although Isobel's adar was innocent of these deeds, he chose a life of nomadic exile rather than to live amongst the scorn of the elves.
When Isobel's parents were killed by orcs in the third age, she did not plead entrance into any of the elven realms. Instead, she took to the woods alone, eventually making a home in the depths of Fangorn Forest.
In Fangorn she could avoid elves and men altogether and, barring the occasional intrusion of a lost orc or spider that she quickly removed, she was alone and content, free to travel as she wished and do as she pleased.
In those times when she craved elven interaction, she would quietly hike north towards the Celebrant River to watch the march wardens of Lothlorien from a distance.
Of course she knew they were aware of her, but she never ventured close enough to pose a threat and require their apprehending her. She had no desire to meet the great Noldo lady who ruled this elven enclave, yet the knowledge that the wardens silently watched her as she skirted around their borders was enough to remind her that she existed outside of her own head.
She did not know that Galadriel and her Sindarin husband,, Celeborn were aware of the lone elf with the ebony hair and strange silver eyes. She did not know that they took pity on her, both for her lack of immediate family and for the black mark of her kin, and that they had long instructed their captain, Haldir, to allow her entry to Lothlorien, should she ever request or require it.
But Isobel, believing she preferred the simplicity of a solitary existence, and ignoring her loneliness, stayed away.
One night, and in a restless state, she left the protection of Fangorn.
The trees were talking, and she sensed a measure of anxiety in their green leaves. Unable to sit still, she decided to head north and find what news she could about the outside world that was affecting her beloved Fangorn.
She packed a few items to trade, should she come across a peddler of clothes and supplies. Tathorn bark to help with healing and silver thread that she'd been given by a seamstress years ago. Other than those items and her weapons, she traveled light.
At night she kept to the shadows where her black hair offered her protection and she slept high above in the trees. In the day, she covered her hair with the hood of her travel cloak to better blend into the green of the forest. Even her sword was black, smithed by her grandfather - one of two swords cast from a meteorite.
This sword was Anglachel, the twin of the Anguirel, once wielded by Maeglin on behalf of Morgoth. Legend had it that both had been destroyed, but she knew better than anyone, as she held her sword up to the light to watch it glitter, that sometimes legends are just stories, and have little bearing on real life.
They said that the swords had been cursed - were cursed - but Isobel hoped that one day both her sword and her name would be redeemed.
She had travelled on foot for three days, when she encountered a group of orcs moving north near the edges of Lothlorien. Stealthily she stalked them, quietly killing those that strayed from the protection of the group even for a moment, hoping to instill enough fear in them to dissuade any murderous intent they may have had around the marches of the enclave.
She silently trailed them for more than a week, keeping to the shadows, her reflexes quick and light. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse, but she took grim satisfaction in their diminishing number. They started out at 16, now they were down to ten.
She decided to track them as far as Dol Guldur, no doubt their intended destination, but she was surprised when they passed the old fortress and continued north into Mirkwood.
This gave Isobel pause. Mirkwood was home to many evil beasts, above and beyond these orcs.
While she herself had sometimes been confronted with spiders and other dark creatures in Fangorn, she knew Mirkwood had a deeper sickness on it and could not understand why the orcs would travel so far into the forest, and into yet another elven realm - that of the formidable King Thranduil.
They must be spies, she reasoned. And, having killed six already, perhaps she could take care of the others before they disturbed the King's borders. It was a grim sport, but one from which she would not turn away. The more orcs she killed, the more elf attacks she prevented. It was not the life she had expected, but at least it was a life of honour.
For three more days, Isobel tracked the orc host west into the heart of Mirkwood and near the banks of the enchanted river. Two more orcs fell to her silent blade.
She knew her situation was growing precarious when the orcs began actively hunting her, so she kept her distance, but still she followed, more convinced each day that they were set to spy on the elves of Mirkwood, and hoping to find out why. Of what she would do with this information, she was unsure, but it could be useful in trade to any of the elven lords.
She crouched under a tree root, holding her breath as two orcs hiked towards her, making their way back to the group. She kept her head low, and focused on the sound of their approaching steps and heavy breathing. Quietly unsheathing both her black long sword and a shorter dagger, she waited for the right moment to pounce on the unsuspecting vile creatures. She stilled when she heard a frightened voice pleading amid the course and rasping voices of the orcs.
She canted her head as she heard the rest of the company approach from the other direction, obviously alerted by the sound of the desperate elleth in their midst.
Isobel peeked out. The elf stumbled behind the two orcs, filthy in a torn gown. Her wrists were bound and bleeding and her eyes were wide with terror.
"Where did you find it?" growled the company's leader, licking his swollen black lips. The orc leading the elleth laughed and ran his hand roughly over the elf's breasts and torso. The elleth took a step back, as the leader moved towards her, bumping into another orc.
"I think she likes you," said the leader to his colleage with a black toothed grin. "Where are her kin?"
"There were only three – we killed one and lost the elfling. But this one we kept, she's ripe. First we play, then we'll have fresh meat tonight!"
The orcs raised their weapons in a cheer as the leader stared lecherously at the prisoner.
Isobel watched the scene, frozen in place. Instead of the face of this unknown elf, she saw the face of her mother whose attack she had witnessed so many years ago.
The sound of the elleth's soft weeping pierced her memory and she crashed back into the moment with a start.
Emerging from the shadows, she lunged forward and thrust her sword deep into an orc's side and threw her dagger at a second, hitting him squarely between the eyes.
She parried a blow by another orc soldier, and rebounded with a clean thrust into his throat. The three remaining orcs rushed her, weapons drawn. She raised her sword against the first attacker, but the second quickly grabbed her waist and pulled her back into a violent embrace of submission that forced the air out of her lungs. Overwhelmed by the stench of the foul creature, she dropped her sword, and, kicking and clawing at her captor, desperately tried to free herself, but to no avail.
The fight was over and Isobel had lost.
The orc forced her on her knees and pushed her head down to the ground with his foot. She heard the metal sound of the orcs in front of her sheathing their weapons, and turned her head. In front of her, the dead elleth's eyes were level with her own, her blood pooling around her. Isabel closed her own eyes and exhaled, she was next, she would not be spared, and she was ready to accept her fate.
The moment she stopped struggling,the orc who held her roughly pulled her back up.
"Well done boys! We'll cook the dead one and keep this one for fun," said the orc leader, leering at her. Suddenly his smile froze and his eyes widened. His partner looked at him in confusion and even the orc holding Isobel loosened his grip a fraction. The leader fell heavily forward on to the forest floor, an silver-fletched arrow lodged in the back of his neck.
Hope surged through Isobel and she struggled anew. Her captor let go, and Isobel dropped to the ground, amid a flurry of arrows, swords and orc war cries.
Keeping her head down, she leopard-crawled towards the cover of the trees, but a pair of strong arms grabbed her. "Not so fast, you're going nowhere," said a deep voice.
She looked up into a pair of steely blue eyes and almost cried with relief as he pulled her to her shaking feet. But this was no savior. To her surprise, the elf held her arms tightly behind her, in the same manner the orc had only a moment before.
This time she did not struggle. She looked at the scene in front of her, trying to make sense of it. Two more orcs lay dead. Six guards surrounded the one remaining orc, the one who had held her prisoner, and bound his hands and arms, while two more were gently lifting the body of the dead elleth. Beside her corpse, lay Isobel's black sword.
The elf Isobel assumed must be their captain thoughtfully picked it up. He looked carefully at the hilt, flipping it over in his hand, then turned to his face towards Isobel, his eyes narrowed and his lip curled.
Had an orc used her blade to kill the elf? she wondered. Her stomach sank as the captain's hateful look registered in her mind. Surely he doesn't think…
"Bind her and blindfold her, NOW," said the captain.
"No!" she pleaded. "I didn't kill her, I was trying to save her!" She struggled against the elf who held her, but his grip was sure. Suddenly the orc, now blindfolded, started to laugh.
"The dark elf killed 'er alright. In league with the Dark Lord she is…"
Isobel's heart raced and she felt her limbs tremble as the elves turned to her, their faces stamped with disgust and hatred. Her knees almost buckled as she realized that, from the elves' perspective, the orc's accusation looked incredibly convincing.
"It is not true," she said to the captain, her voice rising. "Surely you would not believe an orc over one of your own kind!"
"A dark elf, whose family has a history of helping the Enemy? I know who you are, and no kin of Maeglin is 'one of our own kind'." The captain locked eyes with the guard who held her. "Bind her and gag her if she won't stop talking."
Isobel opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and remained silent as they bound and blindfolded her. 'Do not panic' she repeated in her in mind, over and over again, as she began to walk, blindly making her way over tree roots and divots, listening to the grunts of the orc being led a few paces behind her. Do not panic, it will resolve in time, do not panic.
Isobel walked onwards in blackness, although her keen hearing and sense of touch helped her to remain upright. Her captors were not cruelly harsh, but they were no more kind to her than to the unlucky orc who blindly followed behind her.
She knew they were leading them to King Thranduil's Halls and, after seven hours of walking, she found herself flagging. The adrenaline rush of her own battle with the orcs had long departed and left in its wake a wave of sheer exhaustion.
She stumbled frequently, although the elves kept her on her feet. Despite her dread at facing more of the King's guard, she found herself wishing for the journey to be over and almost welcomed the idea of a prison bed.
Behind her the orc was equally silent – or as silent as was possible for an orc. She tried to ignore the sound of his heavy breathing, and the feces-liked scent of his sweat kept her moving, lest she slow down and he walk into her.
The elves around her walked silently, saying nothing the prisoners could hear. Isobel knew they must be speaking telepathically.
She felt the air lighten and, above the foul smell of the other prisoner, she picked up the fresh scent of blue water. The path evened out and she heard the roar of a fast-moving river below her and the mist of it cooled her face.
Suddenly the sound of the river and the damp cool of the forest faded away and the air was warm and still.
She heard voices around her and had to assume that she had entered King Thranduil's Halls. Behind her the orc grew restless and the elves shouted as they struggled to contain him.
"Take the orc to the deeper cavern, Feren," instructed a strong masculine voice. "And the elleth…take her to the river hold for now."
The elves led Isobel down a flight of stairs. She knew she was being led down into a cavern and she could hear the sound of a small river rushing down rocks beside the staircase, and evening out along the stone pathway. Finally, she heard a door swing open and the elves removed the blindfold.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted the dim light of her hold. It was a small grotto with a bed in one corner and a desk with a basin and ewer in the other. A privy off to the side offered privacy. The door was a silver grate and an amber lantern filled the room with a reassuring glow. Compared to sleeping in the woods, it was comfortable enough, although she had no idea what to expect. She only knew that she had to clear up this mess as soon as possible. "Please, I must speak with the Captain!" She turned look at the guards, but they ignored her question.
"We will bring you food and blankets. Here you will bide your time until the King wishes to question you," said the female elf curtly. Her long red hair and freckles gave her a girlish look, but her arms were muscular and her look fierce.
"And the orc?" Isobel asked, and could have kicked herself for the stupidity of asking over him.
"Concerned for your company are you? I doubt he is concerned for you. You should worry for yourself."
"No, I only wish to know…if..the King….if he…"
"Executes his prisoners?" Feren finished for her. Isobel nodded.
"Your family has lived so long in the Enemy's shadow that you have forgotten the honour of elven ways," Feren said, his lip curled in disgust.
Isobel blinked at the insult and glared back at Feren. "Shows what you know," she said quietly as the two guards removed her ropes with detached faces, then quickly closed the grate, locked it, and made their way back up the stairs without looking back
"Has their kin been notified?" King Thranduil asked Feren, captain of his guard, who stood before him now.
Feren stood still, watching his King pace back and forth in front of the hearth of his private office.
Thranduil's face, normally taciturn, was stamped with concern and sadness. Feren knew that his King grieved deeply at such loss and he cast his eyes down respectfully.
"Tauriel has been dispatched, my lord. She will be with the family now."
Thranduil nodded grimly. "What else did the orc tell you?"
"He claims they came upon the family 'wandering' in the forest outside of our borders. We think they were teaching their daughter to hunt near Alvath's Pools. The husband fought to protect his family but was killed at the scene, and they took the wife. Of the elfling, we found nothing. She seems to have disappeared into the forest, my lord. The orc said they searched for her but quickly gave up. We continue searching and messages have been sent even to the outlying posts."
Thranduil's brow furrowed, and Feren knew what his King was thinking: It was unlikely that an unprotected elfling would survive in the forest overnight.
"And what of the other elf you found?"
"She was at the scene. We believe it was her blade that slew the elleth."
"And did you see this happen?"
"We did not, my lord. When we came upon them, she was on the ground in front of an orc. We are not sure if the orc was holding her down or helping her up. I found Anglachel myself. It was beside the body and covered in elf blood."
The King blinked in rare surprise. "Did you indeed? Up until today it was believed that blade was melted down and reforged in Nargothrond, but even if it survived, it carries malice. I remember its look, black as galvorn, it brought much grief to my kin in Doriath. But still..." He frowned. "Is it entirely possible that the orcs captured the dark elleth and used this sword to kill the other."
Feren shook his head. "The orc himself said that the niece of Maeglin was one of them. That she is in the service of the Enemy, as was her uncle before her."
Thranduil looked up at Feren impatiently, and the captain, while holding his ground, wisely said nothing.
"I am aware of her uncle, but I also knew her father. They were very different elves. One was as evil as the other was honourable. You may be correct, but do not trust the word of an orc. Let her eat and sleep tonight. Tomorrow you will bring her to me and I will question her myself. For now, focus on finding that elfing, that one life may be spared."
"Yes, sire." Feren nodded and departed, his step fluid and light.
Thranduil turned towards the hearth. It was lit with a warm fire to dispel the autumn chill and offered welcome comfort.
He hadn't thought of Eöl's son Halir in a millenium, but he recalled the elf well, both had spent summers in Menegroth as elflings. Other than his dark looks, Halir did not carry his elder brother's true darkness.
He knew of this elf maiden too. He and Celeborn had talked of Isobel before and agreed that, should she request sanctuary in either of their realms, they would allow her entry. But with his Halls so far north compared to Lothlorien, he never expected to hear of her again, let alone find her in his dungeons accused of such a crime.
He sat down on the sofa and lifted a glass of wine to his lips, considering everything he knew of this elleth. She had continued to live alone in Fangorn after her own parents had been brutally killed by orcs. He knew the march wardens of Lothlorien kept an eye on her when she travelled north, and even Celeborn had remarked on her strange beauty. He said that Haldir often spoke of seeing her and, should she request admittance to Lothlorien, there would be competition as to whom should take her to wife.
Thranduil shook his head. It made little sense that, having lost so much because of the Enemy, she would toil in his service, yet that elf's blood was on her sword, and evil could run deep through family bloodlines; skipping one generation only to rear its head with the next.
As much as he hated to think it, he knew Feren was correct. This was a heinous crime and, until they knew more, the assumption of innocence was simply too high a risk to take. Isobel would remain in his dungeons.
The next day, Isobel sat on a blanket on the floor beside the wrought silver door, watching the river as it tumbled down into the cavern and flowed through the middle of the massive hall, crisscrossed by wooden bridges. In this odd light, the river looked black except where it frothed white where the current met obstacles in its path. There was a slight breeze throughout the cavern that kept the damp at bay, and she thought it was odd to be so deep underground, yet breathe air that was light and fresh.
She had eaten well and slept uninterrupted, and the guards had provided her with hot water, a brush and even a change of clothes. Overall she felt better, although she missed the sunlight and the trees. She sighed and kept her eyes on the river; watching the moving water was a comfort.
The only elves she saw were guards and, to her relief, they ignored her. She rested her head against the cool stone wall and closed her eyes.
"Mistress Isobel. The King wishes to see you now."
Isobel's eyes flew open and she looked up to see Feren and Tauriel standing in front of her. Feren was unlocking the silver grate.
Isobel rose to her feet, almost tripping on her green gown – she was unused to wearing anything but hunter’s leathers - and nervously smoothed her hair.
As Tauriel bound Isobel's hands, Feren held the door open for them to pass. She was relieved that they did not blindfold her this time, but she resisted the temptation to look around, opting to stare straight ahead with stony countenance.
Feren led them up through hallways lit either by sunbeams that filtered through the skylights of this vast dwelling or by warm amber lanterns that cast a calm and unearthly glow into the long halls and curtained alcoves they passed.
They turned into a massive cavern supported by giant stone pillars carved to look like ancient beech trees. Dark underground rivers tumbled down granite shelves, and like the one that flowed by her dungeon door, they were intersected by walkways and bridges.
Where the sun’s rays could not penetrate, the cavern was lit by immense hanging lanterns. Isobel could smell earth, stone, and a soft citrus fragrance that rose from the shade-loving woodland flowers that grew on the mossy floor of the cavern beneath them. In the centre of the room was a dais where sat an immense oak throne.
Elves hurried along the walkways carrying baskets of food and supplies and leather folders with birch bark scrolls peeking out the sides.
Those she passed were, without exception, beautiful.
Many wore silk robes and gowns, and their shining hair hung freely down their backs or were pulled back into elaborate braids. Others dressed more simply but even their clothes were fine, although lacking the intricate ornamentation of the higher-ranked elves.
She resisted the urge to stare and made a conscious effort to breathe normally. Although Isobel occasionally visited outdoor markets to barter for clothes and food, she avoided cities like this and the energy that pulsed through the cavern unnerved her.
The elves, in turn, watched Isobel as she passed. Word had clearly spread that the strange dark haired elf was in the kingdom, accused of a terrible crime, and they looked at her with suspicion and fear as she walked between Tauriel and Feren. She heard whispers of words around her like 'dark family' and 'evil history.'
For the benefit of those who studied her, she tried her best to appear impassive, almost regal, and she focused her silver eyes steadily ahead of her, raising her chin a fraction. Let them think her proud, haughty and utterly unconcerned. She was determined to act more a Sinda princess than a wild elleth living alone in a remote outpost. She wondered if the older elves who looked at her only remembered her grandfather Eol, of which she had never felt shame; or if they thought about her uncle Maeglin, of which she was thoroughly ashamed. If only they had known my father, she thought. Then they would judge me better.
Cool mist from the streams below settled on her arms, and she broke out in goosebumps. Despite her outward composure, a shiver of fear passed through her.
"Do not fear," said Tauriel, correctly interpreting the reason for her tremor. Her face remained impassive as she talked and her eyes straight ahead. "Our King is just."
They reached the centre of the cavern. Isobel's sharp woodland eyes took in the two guards standing at either side of the staircase that led up to the dais. These guards were for more than show, they were fully armed with both long swords and daggers and their golden armor shone in the orange light. Her gaze shifted to the right of the throne, where stood the Elven King, Thranduil.