Wargs by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

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Wargs. -

'Exchanging endearments in sound without word
the something the strains of music unheard'

  Radagast tutted 'Oh balrogs !' he said, 'I simply cannot recall the words; I used to love that song. Gah. Perhaps Saruman... He's such an old hoarder, he will have the words written down somewhere.'

 Thranduil smiled at the old wizard 'Is it from Valinor ?' he asked, as they scrambled up the steep hillside towards the caves in the cliff. Wolves had been heard in the forest, but Radagast was uneasy, and had asked young Thranduil to join him in searching the caves. 

   'Valinor ? No, Ossiriand; the green elves used to sing it, long ago... really, I'm sad and disappointed that you do not know it.'

 Thranduil looked uncomfortable 'Radagast, you know I am not musical, It may be that I have heard the song, but perhaps they sing it to a different melody nowadays ?'

 Radagast grunted, the hill was steeper than it looked, and he did not want to be proved right in his suspicion that there were wargs hereabouts. He looked up at Thranduil, not so young at that, he thought; the frosty blue eyes looked steadily back at him, what, four hundred years already, he thought, yes, Thranduil will manage. 'Please, these are not innocent animals, they are wargs, fast, vicious and deadly, with malice, intelligence and cruel intent. They kill for sport and they torture for amusement. Kill all that you see. Do not hesitate !'

 Thranduil smiled a tiny smile and his eyes narrowed.

 Radagast nodded 'Be ready then.' 
He darted across the entrance to the cave and peered cautiously around the corner, a crack in the rock above let in a shaft of light that slanted across the air like a fallen pillar. Motes of dust danced and sparkled in the beam, behind it all was darkness. Radagast stood still, hardly breathing, trying to see behind the light. He felt rather than saw movement, but nothing resolved itself.

 After a long silence he turned to Thranduil, who had vanished. He looked anxiously down the hillside; Oropher would never forgive him... He put his hand to his forehead - what could he do ? Where in all arda was that wretched...

 There was a gristly noise and a strangled yelp, then an awful snarling roar. Radagast raised his staff and dashed into the cave, while the snarling mingled with scuffling and then the thunk and hiss of a blade hitting and then slicing flesh.

 His eyes adjusted, there was Thranduil, the front of his grey-green tunic covered in dust from the floor of the cave; he must have sneaked past me, thought Radagast, impressive...

 At Thranduil's feet, in spreading pools of blood, lay two dead wargs. Thranduil, cleaning his sword on an old rag, looked around 'Do you think there are any more ?' he asked.

 Radagast looked down at the bloody corpses; much larger than wolves, wargs were believed to contain spirits who would have been elves had Morgoth not corrupted them, spirits who had derided the useless bipedal form, unarmed, unarmoured, with feeble senses, no speed, very little sense of direction...

 Indeed he himself had sometimes secretly admired the choice of Ungoliant. Eight eyes ! Eight legs ! Rope you can spit out and climb down... He looked down at his scruffy beard, remembered the number of times he had fallen over in this absurd bag of flesh and wondered if four legs was good. Of course, he thought, that depends entirely on what you do with the legs.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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