The Black Room. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

  

 

The Black Room. 

Mithrandir paused as he stirred the pot in the bright kitchen of the woodcutter, the sweet fumes of the athelas rose around his face, he tucked his long beard more securely into his belt and smiled at the anxious wife of the woodcutter.
 'The draught is prepared, goodwife, where is the child ?'
There was a scuffling under the table and two small children, dark haired like their mother, pushed each other forwards. Mithrandir smiled down at them, but the cold breath of fear moved lightly across his neck once more. Something was amiss, something more dangerous than an ailing child. The smaller of the children coughed then, with dry throat, gasping for breath. Mithrandir nodded and poured a ladle of the draught into a white earthenware cup. 
From the great crock on the table he took a measure of golden honey, smiled again at the fascinated eyes of the children and stirred it into the cup. He touched the side of the cup thoughtfully, then added a little cold water, before handing it to the small child. 
  'Drink this now, and your cough will be eased.'
The large round eyes watched him over the rim of the cup as the child drank the healing potion. The older child, seeing the swift eagerness with which it's sibling drank, frowned with dismay
 'I want some !' it cried, but the woodcutter's wife put her hands on it's shoulders and urged it to silence. 'No, I want some too ! It is unfair !' But Mithrandir laughed, and poured another draught, and spoke to the woman.
 'It can do no harm. When the pot has cooled, the potion may be stored, and given hot or cold, when the coughing troubles you.'
 But he did not hear her thanks, for fear had laid its cold hand on his neck, and through the sounds, across the leagues, the clear voice of Galadriel filled his mind
 "Mithrandir ! 'Ware Thranduil !' 

 Mithrandir washed his hands and looked thoughtfully at the woodcutter's wife, and around at the sunlit room. She felt his mood, and sent the children out into the yard to chase chickens. 
 'Something is amiss, Mithrandir ? Are you unwell ?' 
Mithrandir smiled reassuringly and patted her arm.
 'All is well, my friend, but there are others who need my care...' He pursed his lips, then turned to face the doorway and gave a long loud whistle. Both the children, and a black dog, ran into the kitchen, with loud cries and barking. The woman, with an astonished look at Mithrandir, sent them back outside, while Mithrandir smiled and lit his pipe. 
 The woman gestured him to be seated, while she poured mead for him, then sat opposite him. 
They spoke awhile of the Forest, Mithrandir subtly framing his questions to seek hints of the schemes of the Enemy, in the movements of spies and scouts. But all was quiet, the woman thanking him again for his part in the overthrow of Dol Guldur. As he waved away her gratitude, the call of an owl turned their eyes to the door. The warm sunlight filled the kitchen, all was still save the dust dancing in the air. From the yard came the earnest voices of the children at play. But Mithrandir smiled and stepped outside
 'Come and taste the mead, friend !'
 
The children paused and looked up at Mithrandir in astonishment, but from the edge of the trees nearby, an Elf, clad in dark green, stepped forwards with raised hand
 'Where is the trouble, Mithrandir ? My people are here.'
The woman, who had followed Mithrandir, looked around, but saw no sign of others. She stared at the Elf, the first she had yet seen; for though the Fair Folk were known to dwell in the Forest, both West and East, their homes were far distant from the River, and few had ventured in or out of the Forest in living memory, save Mithrandir. 
 The Elf looked inquiringly at Mithrandir, who gestured her forwards 
'I do not bring tidings, my friend, only questions. How goes the life of the Forest ?'
The Elf inhaled deeply, then let out her breath, and raised a hand to her mouth. With her head tilted back to the trees she moved her throat and uttered a sound so like to the call of a blackbird that a bird nearby answered her. But from among the trees came an echo of her call, as the signal to stand down was given. She smiled then, and stepped into the yard. The children ran to their mother, hiding behind her to peer cautiously at the stranger. 
 But Mithrandir strode forwards and bowed to the Elf
 'Will you enter here ? The mead truly is excellent !'
 The Elf looked curiously at the woman, who smiled nervously 
 'Indeed, my lady, the honey of our neighbour Beorn makes the finest mead, you are most welcome here.'
 The Elf nodded slowly, bowed to them, and stepped inside. 

As they drank the sweet mead, Mithrandir questioned the Elf, who had nothing to report.
 'Since the downfall of Dol Guldur, all has been quiet. There are still many foul beasts in the Forest, but neither orc nor any other creature of evil has assailed us. We are vigilant, but have slain no foe but black spiders since last you came among us.'
 'Has there been nothing strange ? Visitors ? Guests of the King ?'
But the Elf shook her head with a shrug, and sipped the mead. Mithrandir frowned. He distrusted the very peace; the warning of Galadriel merely served to focus his concern. 
 'What of the roads, those who trade with Thranduil, what of the Lake ?'
The Elf smiled 'Mithrandir, there is no news, all is as it has been, the Forest grows and we tend it. All is well. There was a raid on a small ship on the Lake, in the springtime, but it was a matter of ruffians, outlaw Men who tried to plunder a cargo. Sadly they had slain the crew before they themselves were slain. None survived, and the ship was found, adrift and aflame, but no sign was discovered of the owner of the vessel, which the folk of the Lake are holding until such time as word should come from the South. There are many such ruffians in the Wild, but they do not trouble us, nor enter the Forest.'
 'A mysterious ship ? What was the cargo ?'
The Elf shrugged 'Wine, as I recall. The lord of the Lake folk sent some to the King.' 
Mithrandir smoked silently for a while, then rose to his feet
 'I must see Thranduil at once,' he turned to the woman 'You have my gratitude for your mead and your hospitality.'
 'Oh, sir, no, it is you whom I must thank, for healing the child, that cough has had us awake at all hours. Believe me, sir, a glass of mead is the least I can do !'

 The endless murmur of the trees and the joy of singing once more with the Elves soothed the spirit of the Maia, but the reassurance of all whom he questioned that the Forest was at peace could do nothing to quell his rising fear. Thoughts of poisoned wine had him return ever to Thranduil and his wellbeing. Though the scouts saw little of the King, one of their number was enamoured of a Guard, and told Mithrandir of the faint concern of his friend.
 'Thranduil is restless, they say, and paces the Halls with a distracted air. He has, it seems, at times failed in courtesy to those close to him, though when roused from his thoughts he is as he ever was. '
The Elf gestured, Mithrandir found himself smiling; what indeed could a mere scout say of the ever-remote Thranduil. He sighed; there were many subtle potions, blended with wine, used to render slow tumult upon the unwary mind. He looked around at the moonlight, which cast wavering shadows of the myriad leaves on the attentive Elves. His heart was weary within him; he was deeply reluctant to leave the Song in which he found such joy and peace; he had been too long among Mortals. 
 'I must make for the North at once, my friends ! I would speak with Thranduil.' he sighed again, and smiled at them, 'Alas that our time together should be so fleeting ! It is my joy to have sung with you tonight.' 

 He rode North alone, within the skirts of the Forest; the very vagueness of the fear made him uneasy and he deemed it prudent to shield his movements from unfriendly eyes. But whether any such watchers were present he could not discern, for the brooding shadow of Mirkwood had begun to cast its pall on even the Maia. He reached the Path without incident and let the grey horse of Lorien choose its pace. Less troubled by the gloom, the great mare stretched her long limbs and took the rare fallen trees with barely a lurch, covering the leagues with effortless grace, flapping the beard of the laughing Mithrandir and whipping his hair across his face. He patted the bunching muscles of her neck and she shook her long mane, as though to rebuke him for his customary ambling gait. He nodded to himself, it seemed that the long centuries of painstaking labour might soon be coming to an end, and his spirit leant forward to meet the half-seen future, with all the unleashed energy of the galloping horse. 

 But his fear found no respite even in the midst of the surge of hope and joy that filled his heart. For the shadows began to deepen as they approached the Halls of the Elvenking, there was a thin oily smoke, wreathing and coiling along the ground, thickening, blending with the black shades of Mirkwood, and filling the air with a bitter, acrid fume. Along the edges of the Path, and in the cracks between the stones, a dark stain, as a decaying mould, a filthy black slime had begun to creep, the stain of the fume, trailing fouled fingers across the clean lands of the Elves. But the eyes of the Maia were not those of Elf, nor Mortal man; the filth had its source in the ancient Enemy, manifested in Arda by those of his servants and slaves who had remained in the shadows, seeking vengeance. 
  The Halls themselves seemed shrouded in darkness, the Path almost black, and the grey horse walked warily, catching the mood of the anxious Maia. It seemed strange to see the unconcerned Elves, strolling, singing or at play in the settled lands around the river, and to be greeted by a cheerful guard, who assured him that all was well, and who commented on the brightness of the sunlight. Mithrandir, to whom the sky was now barely visible for the black pall, could only smile and nod, and pat the mare reassuringly as she was led to the stables. He took a deep breath and stepped inside the House of Thranduil. 

Members of the household of the Elvenking were there to welcome Mithrandir, who could perceive only the slightest of unease in a few of those closest to Thranduil. He spoke cheerfully to them, but his eyes scrutinised every word and gesture, seeking some hint of the nature of the shadow. 
  'Gildor Inglorion is with us at present, and wishes that you may inform him when it suit you that he should call upon you. He was most insistent.' 
 Mithrandir narrowed his eyes 'I ask, then, that you take me to him at once.' There were some surprised faces, but the Elves were too polite to comment, and merely led him down a passageway into a hall carved from the living rock, with many high windows through which bright fingers of sunlight spread warmth and colour to the busy, laughing crowds. But Gildor rose from a bench by the fountain and hurried towards Mithrandir. They greeted each other eagerly, and when Gildor had led the Maia to the seat, he spoke softly, his voice as grave as his eyes. 
 'You percieve the shadow, Mithrandir ? I am truly relieved to welcome you here, for none of these Sindar and wood-elves, excellent people though they are, have the least notion of that which we see all around us. Oh Mithrandir, at times I almost envy them ! But what can I do ? I do not have the ear of the King, and those who would listen to my words, even among the learned and wise of these people, can percieve nothing of the foul darkness spreading around them. I am a mere traveller, Mithrandir, I have no authority, and though I would wager everything that Master Elrond would accept my judgement in this matter, I cannot take upon myself the title of ambassador! I cannot warn him, I can do nothing here !' his agitation showed in the white of his knuckles and the subtle tremor of his limbs. Gildor, thought Mithrandir, was very afraid.  
 Indeed, the Maia himself felt fear cold within him, the contrast between the Light-honed senses of the anxious Noldor at his side and the tranquil wood-elves around them was eerie. Mithrandir rose to his feet and smiled encouragingly at Gildor. 
 'Will you attend me now, Gildor Inglorion, I must see the King at once, and I would have your word to offer to Thranduil, to reassure him, should such be necessary.' 
 Gildor stood, yet seemed to sag with relief 'I say again Mithrandir, My pleasure in welcoming you is that of one whose burden of care has been lifted. I am certain that he will at least heed your words, and that this filth will soon be banished from these fair halls !' 
 Mithrandir laid a hand on the arm of Gildor, a gesture of encouragement and support, but as his eyes took in the blythe smiles of the strolling Elves, his own spirit quailed; for unseen danger thwarts the mighty. 

 Galion the butler awaited them at the doors of the private quarters of the King, his kindly face alight with a warm smile, but Mithrandir sensed in him the same relief he had seen in Gildor, and knew that his coming was timely and welcome. For here was darkness visible, the polished floor seemed befouled, the dark slime of contagion dripped from the walls, and at his side Gildor stifled the choking in his throat. Galion looked briefly at the visiting Noldor, but the ways of wizards were not to be questioned, and the butler welcomed them and offered comfort and refreshment. But Mithrandir, suffocating in the black fume, looked distastefully at the couch to which Galion gestured, seeing the thick mould of decay seeping across the once-rich cloth, and shook his head. 
 'I must see the King at once, I bring grave tidings. '

Galion held the door open for his King, and Thranduil, who more than any Elf known to Mithrandir, seemed rather to float than to walk, approached with a remote smile. With the least of gestures, he dismissed Galion. Gildor bowed, but Mithrandir took the hand of Thranduil in both of his, and searched the ice-blue eyes. The fine, strong features of the son of Oropher were as they had ever been, proud and handsome, but the eyes seemed more than remote; their light was dimmed, clouded by something more than fear, some distress of the spirit consumed the spirit of the Elf; the starlit radiance of a Sindar, which had always been bright within the family, was now, in Thranduil, shrouded in gloom, though little of the trouble could be read in the lines of the face. 
 Thranduil smiled, an expression of weary amusement flickered across his features. He gestured to a couch and sat at ease, while Gildor flinched in disgust at the sight of the King enthroned in filth. Mithrandir steeled his own face and sat beside Thranduil, but Gildor stood nearby, reluctant even to remain in the dense fume. It seemed that here, among the thickest smoke, the source of the unknown poison would be found.  

 Mithrandir took pity on the discomfort of Gildor, and asked him to tell of his perception. Gildor spoke briefly, gesturing here and there, despite knowing that to the eyes of Thranduil, all was well. Gildor shrugged finally, pointing out that to eyes which had seen the Trees, the very couch was loathesome to the touch. Thranduil listened thoughtfully, casting his eyes here and there, and seeing the confirmation in the eyes of the Maia. He thanked Gildor, and invited him to dine when his business with Mithrandir should be concluded, and the face of Gildor lit with delight as he departed with a smile for Mithrandir. When they were alone, Thranduil sighed and leaned back at ease on the couch, then raised an eyebrow at the tense Mithrandir, sitting forwards on the edge of the seat. 
  'Does my couch truly appear slimed and vile to your eyes ?' his long fingers stroked the smooth silvery cloth 'This was woven by the finest, of the finest, this couch is one of the chief of my treasures, yet you call it filth ? I tell you, Mithrandir, I can see nothing of which you speak, neither cloud nor... nor dirt.'
 Mithrandir nodded 'I understand. The Elves were more changed by their time in Valinor than any among the Valar had anticipated, the Light of the Trees may have... I only say might have, burned through their spirits rather faster than might otherwise have happened. Of course, we shall never know, I suppose, but it is certain that it was not by the design of Eru that the Noldor should have found themselves so displaced. It may be that the power they found in Valinor, and have brought back with them, was necessary for the proper flourishing of all in Arda, I cannot say. But do not dismiss their warnings.' His thick brows lowered sternly over his piercing eyes 'Nor the warning I bring to you now. Galadriel is concerned, and has sent me word.'

 Thranduil smiled 'Galadriel has sent you ? What were her words ? Did she greet me ?'
But Mithrandir shook his head 'Thranduil ! Heed my words ! Galadriel sent me a message, with grave urgency, and the message was " 'Ware Thranduil !".  
 At this, Thranduil sat up, concern folding the smooth skin of his pale face. Mithrandir felt an easing of his own tension as Thranduil clenched his teeth and looked sharply at the Maia. 
  'Lady Galadriel warned you that I have become dangerous ?'
Mithrandir smiled 'Dangerous ? Yes, you have always been dangerous, but now you may be in danger. This contamination, so clear to eyes such as mine, or even Gildor Inglorion, servant of Finrod Felagund, is spreading; and it is here, closest to you, my friend, that the darkness is thickest. Tell me how things are with you, that we may discern the cause of this decay, and prevent it. ' 
 
Thranduil rose, paced across the room and turned, his fine, pale-gold hair swirling behind him, a troubled frown on his wide brow. 
 'In truth, Mithrandir, things go hard with me, and there is none to whom I can confide my doubts. My wife is long gone, my son has been away patrolling the southern borders for a year or more, and I find that I am unable to speak of my...' he paused, and became silent and still, looking at the Maia with an unreadable expression. But Mithrandir leaped to his feet. 
 'Speak, Thranduil Oropherion ! Tell me what ails you ! ' he cried sternly. 
Thranduil gritted his teeth, then sighed slowly, while his face lost all colour, save for the burning flush of mortified dignity. 

 'My dreams...' he whispered 'My dreams have become... become strange...' 

Mithrandir frowned and looked about him, the large, once airy chamber seemed foul as a troll-den, his spirit longed for clean air and sunlight. He wondered if it would be of any aid in altering the mood of the king, whom he had never seen in such distress. 
 'My friend, let us walk among the trees while you tell me your tale, for though you do not perceive it, the poison in the very air of this room is a torment to all who must endure it. '
 Thranduil nodded, glanced to the door through which Galion had departed, then shrugged
 'I shall fetch my cloak.' he said, and moved to the inner door. But when he had opened it, Mithrandir hurried towards it, slammed it shut and stood with his back to it, looking worriedly into the eyes of the startled Thranduil. After a moment Thranduil nodded at the door 
 'You fear that the source of the... of the problem is within my bedchamber ?'
Mithrandir half turned his head, as though to see through the door. The sight of the almost solid blackness, billowing forth through the open doorway, had shocked his very bones. He could feel the malice, like heat on his back, not the heat of the sun, but the burn of terrible pitiless cold seeped through the wood of the door, through his clothes and his skin, urging him to flee. 
He sighed, then stood aside, and opened the door. 
 'Yes, I think it is here, though I what it may be, I cannot yet say.'

  Thranduil pursed his lips, then strode into the warm familiar room, with the statue of his wife, departed centuries hence to Valinor in search of rest and peace. The long window opening onto the high terrace stood wide in the sunshine, the polished wood of the furniture glowed, and the rich cloth of curtain and tapestry rippled in the light wind. The words of Mithrandir seemed to belong to another world than the comfortable charming rooms in which he had so long dwelt. But the troubling dreams that now haunted even his waking hours were also of that other world, where he himself was as helpless as a child, and he lifted his cloak in silence and swung it over his shoulders. 
 But Mithrandir was frozen with horror, his mouth open, his arm rising slowly, as though to avoid detection, to point at an ornamental casket set on the table by the window. From its open maw the fumes billowed blackly, pouring forth and dripping over the edges of the dark-flooded table, rising slowly, borne up by their own weight, filling the air with shadow and dry, choking filth, settling on floor, wall and furnishings, filling his heart with dread. Thranduil looked in surprise at the Maia, then took up the casket. 

 'This ?' he said in astonishment 'This is the source of your, of the... of your concern ? It was a gift from the Master of Laketown, in the spring.' He looked down at the casket; it was a lovely piece, a delicate frame, somewhat like a bed, or a couch, made of finely-worked mithril, enclosed a shell-like oval bowl, also of mithril, but overlaid with smoothly fitted nacre, and lined with irridescent velvet in which a heap of pearls shone. The lid matched the basin, and closed as a clam, the whole drew the eye and the hand, speaking to the spirit of the far-distant sea. Thranduil moved to hand the casket to Mithrandir, who shrank back in revulsion. 
  'Lay it aside here for a time, let us walk in cleaner air, while you tell me of these dreams which trouble you.'
 Thranduil carefully replaced the casket, and stood looking at it in silence. 
Mithrandir put his fingers to his forehead and rubbed his brow, as though to reach inside his own mind and ease the torment. He took a gasp of the foul air, then hurried from the room. Galion, waiting outside, smiled attentively; the calm ignorance of the Sindar seemed somehow to intensify the horror. He gripped the wrist of Galion and looked intently into his eyes, speaking in swift, urgent tones. 
 'Two glasses of miruvor, and then, when the King has left his rooms, I would have you remove the casket of pearls. Take it to the meadery and have it encased thickly in wax, and sealed into a leaden casket. Send word to Saruman, to Lothlorien and Imladris, summon the White Council at the House of Beorn, with all due haste. And have the Captain report here when the King should return. '
 Galion gazed at him with round eyes and mouth, his courtier's training forgotten
 'Summon the White Council ? But Mithrandir ! How is it with the King ? '
Mithrandir smiled gently and patted the arm of the frightened butler. 
 'The King is well, have no fear Galion, for though the devices of the Enemy are subtle, yet still there are those who yet have skill to perceive them. Some miruvor now, Galion, please, for Varda's sake !'

Galion started, then bowed and hurried away. He returned from a side room with two Dwarven cups; cunningly-cut plates of ruby, carved into the form of the poppy, set on clustered stems of straw finely-wrought in shining gold. Mithrandir smiled to himself, such finery belied the claim of Thranduil to be contented with the simple life of the wood-elves. Ever the longing for the lost  realms of the Noldor haunted the spirits of those who had fled the destruction and the final flood which had engulfed Beleriand. 
 Thranduil stood before the casket, still as stone. Mithrandir frowned, then spoke sharply
 'Thranduil ! Close the casket and drink with me, we shall drink to the stars and the brief nights of summer. '
 Thranduil moved as an awakening sleeper, blinking unseeingly at the anxious Maia, who carefully placed the exquisite goblet in the long fingers, and lifted the arm to the mouth of the dazed Elf. Thranduil obediently sipped at the miruvor, and as the vigour of the cordial refreshed his spirit, his fingers tightened, he took the goblet from Mithrandir, and looked at him with newly-focused eyes. 
 'Mithrandir ! I... I was... Forgive me, I am...' he put a hand to the middle of his brow as though to smooth his frown, his head bowed, the long golden hair seemed as clear as a shining waterfall in the sunlight, for all the darkness. Mithrandir smiled sadly and spoke gently
 'Come Thanduil, my old friend, drink with me, then we shall walk in your garden while you boast to me of your skill with things that grow.'

Mithrandir found himself sighing again as Thranduil stepped lightly up onto the railing of the terrace and along the high branch, the shortcut to his cherished garden. The oak branch was twenty fathoms above the courtyard, and Mithrandir, who had ever felt unease in high places, moved across as swiftly as his caution permitted. Thranduil stood on the small, mossy lawn, his head bowed between hunched shoulders, poking the grass with his toe. Mithrandir stopped beside him and looked around. 
 The dell was set into the shoulder of the hill, facing the kindly South, gathering warmth in the shelter of the slopes above. Though Thranduil worked tirelessly on the garden, it seemed yet a natural wonder, a treasure of Yavanna, untrodden by any foot, untouched by any hand, since the shaping of Arda. Nothing was there that did not belong on that hill, yet all was perfect, no withered branch nor litter of leaf marred the beauty of the glade, and all was green and fair. 

 Thranduil turned his head swiftly and looked wildly at Mithrandir 
 'Why has he come for me ? Does he treat others in this way ?'
Mithrandir folded his lips inwards, deeply reluctant to speak. Those who had seen Melkor in his chosen Elven form knew that the chance resemblance that Thranduil bore to that once-loved, once-vala, whom Sauron had worshipped, had drawn his eye. But Mithrandir, and the few others who could have told Thranduil, had each chosen, individually, and without comment, to keep the knowledge from Thranduil, since it would trouble him to no purpose. And each, Mithrandir felt certain, took special care to ensure that the Forest was guarded by many watchful eyes. But Thranduil waited, searching the face of the Maia, who nodded slowly
 'Shall we sit, my friend ? For we have much to say to one another, I fear.' 
Thranduil sighed, folded his long limbs and sat cross-legged beside Mithrandir, who leaned back against the trunk of a rowan, and winced as he felt fallen berries crushed beneath him as he sat. 
 'Firstly, do you remember the tales of Finrod Felagund, who aided Beren and died at the hands of Sauron ?'
 Thranduil looked curiously at Mithrandir, then shook his head with a smile
 'Oh Mithrandir ! I forget, sometimes, that you came so late from Valinor, and that you were not with us in Beleriand. Remember the tales ! I myself have met the great Finarfinion ! He came to Doriath, and though I was a child, I noticed him for his golden hair and his great beauty, and the reverence and adoration of those who knew him. All heads turned as he passed.'
 Mithrandir nodded, thinking privately that if Thranduil could but see his own people gaze after him as he himself passed, his question would be answered. 
 'Yes, everyone loves Finrod. Including the Enemy. I myself did not have the privilege to meet Beren, nor Lúthien, but I think that his tale of the werewolf is incomplete. The taste of the Enemy for' Mithrandir grimaced in disgust 'Chains, dungeons, and naked, blond Elves, is known to all. I fear that our dearest Finrod was taken by force, and perished thus. Hence my concern for you.'
 Thranduil sighed 'Poor Finrod. I had never considered that beauty might bring hazard with it. I understand that Celegorm tried to force the wedlock of himself and Lúthien, but I had always considered his actions to be moved rather by ambition than... than desire. ' The fair face of the Elvenking began to flush with the heat of embarrassment. Mithrandir took out a pipe, lit it carefully and watched from the side of his eyes as Thranduil calmed himself, blinking slowly, and turning back to Mithrandir. The troubled Elf opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes fell, and he lowered his head in silence. 

After a time, Mithrandir spoke softly
 'My friend, I would spare you this if I could... But you are more than my friend, you are a king, and your fall would be a great victory for him. Your son is a worthy successor, whose fitness is questioned by none, but the loss of one such as you, destroyed from within, taken by the Enemy...'
 Thranduil leaped to his feet, gesturing with a shout
 'I have not been destroyed! I have not been taken!' he stopped, and seemed to grow smaller as the breath, and the anger, flowed out of him. He sank down beside Mithrandir 'I apologise, Mithrandir, I lost my temper, it was inexcusable of me. '
 'It was understandable. The humblest foot-soldier would be offended at such questions. Yet we must know, Thranduil, for you are in our confidence and our counsels, you are a bulwark here in the North, and if you fall...'
 'He asked me to submit, some days ago, but I refused.'
Mithrandir looked intently at Thranduil 'Do you recall when this was ?'
Thranduil tilted his head back and looked down at Mithrandir 
 'Why do you ask this ?'
 'I ask, because my warning came from Galadriel, and I fear, having discovered to my horror that you have been under his sway since the spring, that some action of the Enemy has taken place,' the voice of Mithrandir rose in anguish 'and I know not what !'
 'You feel that I am under his sway ? You doubt my truth ?'
Mithrandir nodded. 'I doubt myself, Thranduil, for the wise who do not succumb to evil may still be prone to err, or to sheer folly. What would you have us do ? You are a king, but we are your allies, and your friends. We must know. Indeed, I fear that I must do more than hear your tale, dear friend, I must see your heart.'

 There was a long silence. Finally, in a small, chastened voice, Thranduil spoke again
'I know that you, a Maia, have powers which we cannot comprehend, yet he too is a Maia, why does he not read my heart, or sway it ?'
Mithrandir smiled subtly 'Because he wishes for your will, your spirit, your utter corruption. He needs you to follow freely in his footsteps, of your own desire, so that in your limited way you may support his view that he chose wisely.'
 'Wisely ! The path of cruelty, pain and death ! How could that be wise ?'
 'I did not say that it was, I said that in his view, which is but the view of a slave of Morgoth, he had done as his master would have wished. Be grateful that you did not see Dol Guldur as he left it. '
 'I wonder... I... he comes to me in dreams, I... there is a room, the strangest room, neither door nor window nor any hole breaks the smooth surface of wall, floor and roof. There is nothing, only the bed, and the Enemy.' He raised his hand, palm out, over his eyes, as though to block the memory. Mithrandir shook his head slowly, and waited. 

 Thranduil calmed himself, and looked up at Mithrandir with tired eyes. 
 'Save me, Mithrandir, I beg you !  For whensoever I lie down to rest, I find myself in that room, with him, and it seems to me that if I do not find the peace in which to rest, that it will no longer matter whether he can sway me or not, for I shall be witless with exhaustion.'
 'I have the skill to perceive your dreams, should you open your spirit to me, should you trust me thus far. But I cannot yet say what should then be done. I have summoned the White Council, we must discuss this matter there.'
 'The White Council? To discuss my... my dreams ?'
 'Thranduil ! Hearken ! That casket is a weapon, a dangerous tool of the cunning devising of the Enemy ! You have been under fire for several months, you are so sorely hurt that you are begging me to help you rest ! You are King Thranduil of the woodland realm, your very mood is of serious concern to the Council. To find you thus, not only disturbed, but weakened with fatigue, is a matter of grave urgency.'

To the relief of the Maia, Thranduil breathed deeply and sat up straight, shaking the long fine hair back from his shoulders, and looking directly at Mithrandir.
 'I trust you, my friend. Do as you must.' 
Mithrandir nodded in satisfaction 
 'I must lay a hand on your brow, do you lie here, and close your eyes. You need think of  nothing, or as you please, for the signs I seek are not written on the surface of the mind but hidden, buried by the snowflakes of memory.'
 Thranduil smiled a strange, secretive, seductive smile, looking sidelong at Mithrandir from under the dark lashes of the lovely eyes. Mithrandir could not imagine how such a creature could wonder that it was found desirable, even by a Maia.
 'My memories of him are scarcely buried at all.' said Thranduil. 

 The room was black, the walls and floor of black so polished that Thranduil saw himself mirrored in the smooth surfaces. Wrought lanterns hung from the walls, scattering their own reflections, and leaving few corners for the least of shadows to hide. There was nothing on the bed save the naked Annatar, who reclined at ease, watching the awakening Thranduil through half-shut eyes. Thranduil rose swiftly, flinching away from the bed; but feeling himself to be unharmed, he breathed more easily and sought the door. There was none, nor any window, nor any sign of the slightest hole through which even air could enter. A suffocating fear choked him, his body stiffened sharply but his knees seemed no longer able to support him; he put out a hand and laid it on the cold glassy wall, and tried to think. He smiled after a moment, and pulled his own hair, but to his dismay, he did not awaken. He wondered if he had taken too much wine, or eaten a mushroom that his cooks had not intended. He looked at the golden perfection of the Maia, the long firm limbs gleamed with oil or sweat, the thick golden hair was the deep gold of honey, the eyes were amber, and open, and gazing admiringly at him. Annatar, slowly and deliberately, turned his hip, sliding one smooth leg against the other, letting the light shift over his gleaming flesh. Thranduil was almost amused, it was the most vivid dream he had ever had, even if it did involve the Enemy in his former state, and after all, a dream was a matter only for the dreamer. None need ever know.
 
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, folded his arms and curled his lip in a half-smile, his own eyelids dropping slightly as he raised his chin. Annatar, seeing the change in him, seemed to pour himself from the bed and flow across the room, melting into the floor around the feet of Thranduil. His arms slid around the legs of Thranduil, but his mouth took Thranduil fully into himself, and made the hands of Thranduil dig into the thick honey of his hair. Thranduil threw his head back, his whole being seemed focused in the mouth of the Enemy, while he himself floated free, enraptured with pleasure. A deep moan hissed from him, his fingers gripped the smooth golden head, his eyes closed, his body convulsed, and as the heat flamed through him, the expert tongue of his seducer brought him gasping to ecstasy, and the release came to him with a great sigh.  
 Neither spoke, nor moved, though Annatar laid his cheek on the soft flesh inside the hip of Thranduil and sighed contentedly. But Thranduil, feeling the heat of desire fade from his clearing mind, looked down with distaste, and pulled himself free. Annatar did not resist, and Thranduil strode away, then stopped, facing his own reflection in the blank black wall. There was nowhere to go. 

 He stood for some time, utterly at a loss; no tale nor song had prepared him for such a plight. He could not awaken from the dream, nor shake the delusion. Behind him, Annatar breathed softly and steadily, the only sound but for the faintest hiss from smoothly-burning candles in the lanterns. He wondered dazedly who had lit them and how, before realizing that this must be a dream, that the candles were no more real than the room nor the bed, nor the other. He glanced over his shoulder, to where Annatar, even sprawled on the floor, looked as beautifully crafted as the finest sculpture, and the golden eyes played like a flame across the skin of the naked Thranduil. He put his hands before his eyes and stumbled over to the bed, sitting, almost falling onto it, furious with his own dreadful weakness.  The creature at his feet was not a beautiful golden Elf but a mere shell, a costume worn by Sauron the deceiver, Gorthaur the cruel, who had taken possession of his body, who had invaded his very dream. 

 He lay down, and curled himself into a ball, then considered what he was leaving exposed and wondered whether to shift position, but decided that given his apparent fate, covering himself with his hands would achieve nothing. He lay thus for so long, that in the stillness of Annatar he found enough reassurance to loosen his grip on his own knees, and unclench the knotted sinews of his body. Little by little his eyes began to lose their staring focus, and his spirit drifted into the dreamworld of the Elves. 
 
He awoke with a start, his eyes opening with horror onto the black reflection of his own shock. The dream was more grotesquely vivid than any he had ever known or heard tell of, and his mind writhed and screamed in helpless frustration, while his regal training held his face and body still. He had no need to seek Annatar, for the honey-coloured hair lay across his own chest. One arm of the creature was around the waist of Thranduil, the other across his hip. Thranduil, at once aroused and repulsed, twitched himself free and leaped away from the bed, to stand defensively, his back to the wall. Annatar merely stretched himself out, yawned and smiled comfortably, then lay at ease, his head propped up on one elbow, his long hand laid on the smooth black sheet before him. The golden eyes stared intently at the ice-blue eyes of Thranduil, who remained as still as a waiting hunter. 

But the empty time moved as measurelessly slowly as the flowing of cooled glass, and the legs of the exhausted Thranduil began to tire. As he sagged, Annatar blinked slowly, and the horrified Thranduil realized that it was for the first time. He sank to the floor, his knees curled up to his chin, his arms around his ankles, and glared at Annatar, who slowly blinked again. He was scarcely aware of sliding to the floor, nor of the dreamstate beginning, but in what seemed like moments, he was at home, in his own bed, soft grey dawn at his windows and cold sweat soaking his own, white sheets.

 Mithrandir started back in disgust, but tried to smooth away his expression as Thranduil turned to him 
 'Have you found that which you seek, Mithrandir ? Have you seen him ?'
 'No, and yes. I am truly sorry, my friend, for what you have been through, and that you must now share this horror with me. I have merely seen your first encounter in that hellish room, and though it has a look of Isengard to it, I feel it must be from the Dark Tower itself, since it is now known that he has returned there. '
 Thranduil raised his head hopefully, 
 'It is truly a dream then ? There are times, indeed, when the room seems the real place, and my life the dream. You ease my mind, Mithrandir, he is far to the South, and I merely a dreamer.'
 But Mithrandir brought his clenched fist down to the moss between them with a hard dull thud
 'No, Thranduil ! It is not merely a dream, he is not far to the South, he is here, now, haunting your thoughts ! He has powers that even I cannot guess at, bequeathed to him by his Master, that you yourself cannot perceive. Nor I, perhaps... But we must discover the truth, and should this cause you distress and embarrassment, I can only say that others have endured far greater torment at his hands, and survived. Has he hurt you ? Does he delight in your pain ?'
 Thranduil, pale at the thought of what his dreams might have been, shook his head in silence.
 'Until he asked for my submission, I took him for a lovestruck suitor, but one of infinite power and patience. For he made no further attempt to touch me, save that I awoke in his arms at such times as I drifted in his room. '
 'Be still then, and I shall determine what I can of his mood and purpose.'
Thranduil shivered slightly then lay still, as the warm hand of the old Maia was laid gently on his brow. 

 For months, it was as Thranduil said, long hours spent in watchful silence, his eyes fixed on the golden creature that watched him with the devoted patience of a faithful hound. In the blank empty silence, Thranduil found his mind drifting, recalling a time of weakness as his body had healed from the gravest wound inflicted by the Enemy, lying limp in his bed as the soothing voice of his wife urged him to drink, or eat or rest. But waking from the dream within a dream, he would find Annatar, warm and golden, closely embracing him, as still as a basking lizard. 
 They did not speak, the face of Annatar showed no emotion, but the golden eyes never left him, and at times he rose and screamed, from boredom, anger and from the rising tide of desire and frustration at the constant presence of the beautiful Elf awaiting his touch. But Annatar was no Elf, and had never moved in response to such outbursts; indeed so still was the Enemy that Thranduil found himself noting when the creature blinked, as a dramatic event in the empty stillness. 

 There came a time when Thranduil awoke to find his own arms wrapped around the warm golden body, his face buried in the smooth golden hair. Custom and familiarity, and the complete absence of threat from Annatar, had caused him to lower his guard. Defenceless in every sense, the desire rose within him, and in an instant the wish of the creature became known to him; as he lay pressed close against the strong back, feeling himself hard between the golden thighs, he finally understood that Annatar desired not to take, but to be taken. A partial glimpse of the truth came to his clouded mind, that Annatar sought one who could in some way take the place of his exiled Master, and do for him what none of his slaves could do, even should he permit them. Understanding dispelled his reserve, as when a crouching enemy is revealed to be a mere boulder, or a menacing shadow to be cast only by a breeze-stirred cloak. 

 His first caress made both bodies shiver; desire seemed to be the only thing in him, in the room, thick in the air around them, settling on their skin like warm ash. He ran his hand up the hard chest, across the sinews of the throat, and took the chin of Annatar. Thranduil, raised up onto one elbow, looked down through his long lashes into the softening gold of the lovely eyes, then laid his mouth on the gleaming lips. His hand moved down the flanks, and guided himself into Annatar, hearing his own sigh echoed in the first sound to issue from the golden Elf, a deep whimper, muted by their kiss. 
 The long wait had fortified the wine of their desire, distilling it into a stunning longing, which the first touch had ignited into a firestorm. Thranduil, unleashed, took Annatar with furious passion, stirred deeply by the gasping whimpers of the golden Elf, finally able to scratch the itch which had so long tormented him. He cried aloud as he found release in ecstasy, his fingers tight on the sinewy shoulders, feeling the lithe body move against him, seeming to glow with the intensity of his passion. He held Annatar close to him, letting himself feel at peace, his desire sated, his longing eased, and the golden Elf lay still in his arms, breathing softly, his body shifting in the echoing quivers of desire. 

 After a time, Thranduil shifted onto his back, but Annatar, as though now permitted, began to touch him. His hands and lips moved over the pale golden flesh of the Elvenking, worshipping him with tongue and finger, slowly and gently renewing the spent desire, until Thranduil moaned, and threw Annatar onto the smooth black bed and plunged between the parted thighs, staring intently into the half-closed golden eyes gazing up at him as he moved, until the eyes rolled back in the perfect face, and the dark lips parted in a sigh of rapture that turned the blood of Thranduil to molten fire and brought him shuddering to dissolution. 

 The days passed thus, Thranduil wakening now to the busy hands and mouth of his lover, until desire moved him to enter the soft flesh moulded over the strength of body of the smith. Thought and reason melted away in the slow wide river of passion in which they drifted, their wordless expressions of deeply stirred emotion the only sounds to break the stillness of the black empty room. Thranduil began to drift in the waking world, he found himself at first anticipating the room, then longing for it, and finally, taking excuses to rest by day and find himself back in the hands of his lover, who waited ever, silent and patient, watching with unblinking amber eyes.  

 On a time he awoke in the black room to find Annatar in chains, arms tied together above his head, his feet together, bound to the end of the bed. Thranduil did not hesitate, the core of his being, untouched by the storms of passion, knew this moment for what it was; he, Thranduil, a mere Sindar, though a king among the wood-elves, had the great Enemy at his mercy, in his arms, and in chains. Triumph blinded his wits, no trace of reason suggested violence, and the ease with which he could have slain the Enemy did not enter his disordered thoughts. He took the golden Elf with eager passion, and the helplessness of the firm writhing body under his hands enflamed his pride and sharpened his desire. The exquisite sweetness of the moment made him pause, and slow his movements, lingering over the salty flesh, feeling the heart racing beneath the steel-sinewed cage of the ribs, and feeling himself gripped by the hidden muscle, the ring of delight at the gate of the body of his lover. 
 Annatar was often in chains, his limbs arrayed in enticing postures, in which the appetite of Thranduil slaked longing with the earnest inquisitiveness of the explorer. But most of all Thranduil liked to see Annatar face up, spread wide and taut, and to gaze into the unblinking golden eyes as he tantalised his lover with languid movements of his hips, held in the unseen grip, stooping over the parted lips to lay his own upon them, while his fine, pale gold hair fell about their cheeks. The golden pools would turn to white as the eyes of Annatar rolled back in his head, his back arching as his breath hissed between his teeth, and the pride and power intoxicated the ecstatic Thranduil. 

 Mithrandir drew his hand away with a slight shudder, troubled by the depth of passion in Thranduil, and taken aback by the sheer abandon of the Enemy. He gradually realized, as Thranduil sighed and shook himself, then sat up and turned to Mithrandir, that Sauron had put his trust in Thranduil, even as Mithrandir began to doubt. It was clear to his mind that Sauron had scrutinised Thranduil more keenly than he himself had in turn been watched, and that Sauron knew that no harm would befall him at the hands of his mesmerised lover. 
 But Thranduil was sitting up, staring at Mithrandir, his eyes round, his face pale with horror
 'I am a traitor... I could have slain him, many times...' his hands, bunched into white-knuckled fists, clenched and unclenched, grasping for the illusory throat. Mithrandir watched the hope flash like a bolt of lightning across the face of the Elf 'I could do it now ! Await me here, Mithrandir, I shall not linger there !' 

 But Mithrandir gripped his arm with a frown, the bushy eyebrows lowered intently, as his voice, stern with urgency, cried 'Hold, Thranduil ! Take no rash step ! ' He sighed as Thranduil, startled, put a hand to his bruised arm, and nodded.
 'Guide my path, then, dear Mithrandir, for I am far out of my reckoning in the black room, and in the company of the... of the Enemy. '
 Mithrandir nodded 'I fear that you must never return to your dream. He will know that I have seen it, that I have seen him. It may be that you bear a message from him, that the wise may decipher, if they risk allowing their thoughts to take his path to the black room. But I fear that for you, there will be no more pleasure in the arms of the golden Elf. I fear that henceforth you would be subject only to his cruelty, and his wrath. '
 Thranduil looked at Mithrandir in horror 'But surely you have not heeded my words, for I thought that I had made the truth plain to you; I cannot prevent myself from awakening there, should I so much as drift in concentration, I am instantly carried to the black room, and the more tired that I become, the more time I am forced by my weak flesh into rest, the more time I then pass there, in the dream, with him. His unrelenting desire and knowing hands drain me like an empty cask, I am becoming a shadow, a hollowed husk; I would sleep for a century and yet feel that only a little of my former strength had been recovered.'

 There was silence, for though Mithrandir knew what words he must next utter, he could load no more onto the bent back of the weary king, whose pale gold hair hung limply onto his lap, as his hands tried to smooth the weariness from his face. But Thranduil was stout-hearted and strong, the hardy son of a valiant king, with the fortitude of the fine athlete. Soon his shoulders straightened, he lifted his chin and looked at Mithrandir with barely a sigh. Mithrandir was moved to pity for the lovely Elf, to whom Eru had been so generous and so hard. Mithrandir, as ever, found himself appalled that so much cruelty had been built into the bones of the creation of Eru, and his comprehension reeled away in horror, craving the House of his patron Nienna, and the Windows he loved, which looked outward from the Walls of the World. He looked up, the sun had set, and far across the green ocean of the Forest roof, the high clouds glowed pearl-like, pink, grey and white against the fading blue sky. The birds of the evening began their symphony with an eager blackbird, and the scent of the thyme drifted through the warm air, overlaying the fresh earthen green of the Forest. His mind cleared, he turned to the anxious Thranduil with a warm smile on his kindly face. 

 'There is little to fear, I shall remove the casket, and without his weapon he will be unable to harm you further. ' Mithrandir paused, seeing the breath hiss into Thranduil as he spoke of removing the casket; but there was no choice, it would at once be plain to the Enemy that a Maia had been in the black room, and seen him. He would then have the Elvenking at his mercy, and know him for an enemy. To the clouded mind of Thranduil, innocent at heart of all evil, the thought that his lover could harbour malice and inflict pain or cruel death upon him seemed impossible. But Mithrandir knew his foe, and laid a hand on the arm of his friend. 
 'The black room is undoubtedly a real place, but not one that could ever be entered by a living person. Should you yourself ever come there, you would already be so altered that you would shrink from yourself as you are now, for the road to the Dark Tower is paved with the bones of your dead kin, and the blood of your father was spilled at its gates. The torment of his enslaved armies would wring your heart, and the desolation of his country crush your spirit. Should you find him there, in whatever form he now manifests, you would not see the golden Elf of your dreaming, you would see what his choices have done to him; for those like Elrond, who have fought him on foot, will tell you that his flesh is as black as his room, burnt and burning, and that his very touch would sear through your flesh as an iron from the fire. '
 The round eyes of the Elf reassured Mithrandir, who nodded, and spoke again. 'Furthermore, you will be reassured to know that should you have slain his... his puppet, he himself might have felt little more than irritation at the loss of a toy, he is beyond the reach of your hand. ' Mithrandir looked intently into the thoughtful eyes of the Elf, and nodded to himself

 'Do you understand that I must see all if I am to advise the White Council, and to reassure myself, and indeed you, that no harm nor damage has been caused by this wretched casket.'
Thranduil swallowed and nodded, but did not answer, merely laying down on the soft moss, his pale hair spreading around his head in a golden pool. Mithrandir closed his eyes, breathed deeply and again laid his hand on the smooth brow of the Elvenking. 

Time passed in the black room, Thranduil, drunk with desire, laid aside all thought and all caution, and threw himself into the arms and body of his golden lover, as pliable as a doll in his hands, as eager as the most besotted lover, and with the devoted insatiability of the most faithful hound.
 But a time came, when he awoke in the mouth of Annatar and lay savouring the bliss of the moment, when his hand did not answer to his will. He moved, but only twisted, for now he was the one in chains, in the fully open posture which had given him so much pleasure in the flesh of Annatar. He raised his head, but Annatar was stooped over him, hands on his waist, the honey-gold hair caressing his sides, as so often before. The pleasure was as intense as before, but the mind of Thranduil was sobered by fear, his helpless hands clenched into useless fists as his lover directed the very pace of his heart in his chest; his body responding to the familiar touch with keen desire, as he watched in dismay until the pleasure overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes in bliss. 
 Annatar spent long hours exploring the familiar flesh, transformed by the chains into a blank canvas for his whim. The long finger traced strange patterns on the smooth skin of the Elvenking, while the long tongue lapped at him like a great cat with its fallen prey. The hands of Annatar seemed to have been unleashed by the chaining of Thranduil, a new energy surged through the fingertips, leaving trails of fire across the skin of Thranduil, as Annatar tormented him with desire, taking him within reach of release, then pausing with a serpent smile, then laying his lips on the burning flesh that quivered beneath him, lightly and hard he touched Thranduil, sweeping away all thought, crushing the dawning thought in the mind of Thranduil that the chains, and the black room, might henceforth be inescapable, and that he was trapped and taken, and alive. 

 But Annatar, already skilled and rich in experience, now knew the body of Thranduil better than did Thranduil himself, and he moulded the helpless Elf in his hands like clay. Thranduil found himself, to his astonishment, begin to wish to be taken, as he had known was inevitable from the first moment of awakening. In a voice strange to his own ears he heard himself speak, asking, and then begging the silent Annatar to take him. But Annatar ignored his words, and moved at his chosen pace, parting the trembling flesh, exploring with fingers and with his tongue, while his hands seemed to tear a wound in the flesh of Thranduil, or in his spirit, for he cried aloud, and then began to scream. Annatar shifted at once, leaning on both elbows he looked down into the distorted face until the screaming stopped, and Thranduil, unnoticed tears on his temples, looked up into the expressionless face of beauty. It seemed that he would swoon for a moment, so violent were the emotions which wracked him, but in his stunned pause of stillness he felt Annatar begin to enter him, and he closed his eyes, but the hand of Annatar rose and gently but firmly pulled his eyelids open. The cold hand of fear seemed to extinguish desire as a cloud before the moon. Yet as his lover slid inside him, his body still throbbed to the complex rhythm of the touch of the great Maia, mighty among the mighty, whose power Thranduil had ridden like a child clinging to the mane of a still wild horse. And now the horse galloped freely, while the helpless Elf was pounded and shaken. The golden eyes were fixed on the pale blue eyes of Thranduil, who felt himself to be rising through his own flesh, to be drawn into the gleaming gold eyes under the curtain of gleaming gold hair. 

Beneath his dissipating mind, the overwrought desire of his body siezed on the thrusts of the vigorous Maia, and an almost musical sweetness sang through the Elf, who gasped, and tried to match or counter the motion. But Annatar laid one hand on the hip of Thranduil, and held him still, the golden eyes unwavering, unblinking, beginning to penetrate the spirit of the Elf, as the Maia penetrated his body. The torment of desire was intolerable, it filled his body and spilled forth as though he lay burning in a pool of liquid fire, feeling the Maia unfold the shadowy wings of his spirit, and reveal the dark fire that leaped forth to join with the flaming pool, searing the spirit of the Elvenking, stripping his thoughts away as the storm tears the leaves from the tree. As Thranduil, floating helpless in his own desire, realized the folly of his pride, the deep voice of the Maia spoke his first words in all their long intimate time together, watching closely as the Elf hovered at the edge of release. 
   'Submit your will, Elf.'
But Thranduil, thrawn as an autumn tree, looked coldly into the amber eyes and shook his head. 'I will not. ' he replied in a steady voice. 
 Annatar did not reply, but moved relentlessly inside the helpless body. Thranduil marvelled at his own steady nerve, and at the fact that the Maia had spent so long in his seduction, and had seemed to give him so much of himself. The true strength and power of Annatar was beyond the mind of the Elf to grasp, yet he knew that more than many, he had seen, in the featureless black room, parts of the dark spirit that few others had glimpsed, and the sense of his own power seemed perversely enhanced rather than diminished by the very scale of the power brought to bear against him. His pride in his own truth released him, the ecstasy washed through him in a flood of bliss that closed his eyes and doused all the flames. 
 He sighed, his wrought sinews loosened, he lay at ease in his chains while Annatar, who had not varied his expression nor his pace, continued his slow plunge into the body of the Elf, who looked at him now with clear sharp eyes. 
 The beauty was unaltered, but transformed from the person of an Elf to the mask of a Maia, and one who had been open about his hostile intent. The reptilian eyes were no longer seductive but sinister, cold and cruel. Thranduil, his own desire sated, could no longer comprehend why the Maia continued the charade. He could not imagine that he was desirable in himself, especially to one such as a Maia, and yet believed that he had fallen into an elaborate trap, but which he now felt he could endure as an Elf for as long as he could hold to his pride in his refusal to submit. The prospect of future torment did not daunt him, so great had been the assault on his spirit that merely having endured all that the Maia had done to him strengthened his resolve and refreshed his spirit. He took a deep breath, and watched the Maia take him, almost curious, the pale gold head tilted slightly to one side, a remote smile flickering around his composed lips. 
 Annatar seemed roused to fury, he moved like a bucking horse, shaking the complacency of the Elf, lighting again the swift flames of desire. They knew more who each was, and their passion, built slowly over months, could not be doused so soon. Thranduil found his hands straining at his bonds, his arms longed to sieze Annatar, to throw him face down on the bed and take him from behind, and he felt, in the slight creases of amusement around the golden eyes, that Annatar could see this, and enjoyed his own power. They moved swiftly together, as though it were with the urgency of first time lovers, and as strangers they threw themselves into the desire of the moment. But as Thranduil felt the bliss begin to surge, the Maia stopped and spoke for the second time. 
  'I shall not ask your consent again, Elf. Submit your will or face my malice. '
  'No.' said Thranduil, and for a second time his pride released him from the torment of desire. He wondered if this would be the last such moment, and what horrors the Maia had planned for his helpless flesh, but his spirit was at peace, the illusion dispelled; his mind, clear and firm of purpose, watched in detachment as the lovely mask of the Maia shifted slightly and the beautiful golden body quivered with release. The expressionless face was barely altered, even in the ultimate grip of passion, and the sight of the mask strengthened the resolve of the Elf, and awoke within him a cool wellspring of joy, not the fierce hot joy of love, but the airy, gossamer joy of the growth of wisdom; and the laughter of the spirit in its vain attempts to grasp at the substance of knowledge, when all of experience told that knowledge was an ever-changing surface, a fire burning forever at the edge where spirit flowed into time. 
 But Annatar, loosed with release, was kissing him, and caressing his body as if he had not threatened the life of his lover. The Maia took the bewildered Elf twice more before Thranduil, in unspeakable confusion, awoke again in his own bright room. 

 Mithrandir stepped away from Thranduil, both hands pressed to his brow. Thranduil rose to his feet and stretched, the Maia could hear the empty stomach of the Elf echo its demand. He sighed, the rest of the memories of Thranduil had been much the same, though Annatar had not spoken again. The chains had come and gone, binding one, then the other; the only new thing was the understanding of Thranduil, that this was truly his enemy, though one who seemed to crave the flesh of the Elvenking almost more than his spirit. 

 They were silent for a while, around them the song of the birds had fallen still and the wind had gathered pace, rustling and hissing among the leaves. The trees of the forest seemed to flicker in the distance like dark green fire against the deepening blue of the sky, stars shone forth and a glowing half-moon rose. 
The faint smell of woodsmoke rose from the Halls below them, and lights were kindling in windows. Mithrandir felt again the terrible loneliness of the distant traveller, he longed for Valinor, for his friends, for the company of the Valar and for the peace of the Vanyar. But Thranduil, helpless again, awaited his judgment, and in a moment the extent of his own pride, and his pride in the Elf, became clear to him. The Elvenking's calm repudiation of the Enemy, in such a way, at such a time, filled the Maia with hope. The Elves were fading, their numbers dwindling by the slow attrition of time, and by the call of the sea and the ships to the West. But here, in this remote outpost in the wild, Thranduil held fast to the Music that he had never  heard, and walked in the Light that his Sindar eyes had never seen. 
 Tears glittered in the eyes of the Maia, who turned to Thranduil with a smile. 

 'Your pride is justified, your courage and valour in the black room earn you a place among the heroes of old, and are worthy of many a song.'
 Thranduil swallowed and nodded, but his chest rose as his back straightened, and he smiled, his eyes shining with unshed tears, though he hoped never to hear any such songs. It was enough to know that Mithrandir was proud of him; he sighed, happy and relieved, and briefly took the hand of the Maia in a silent gesture of gratitude. 
 But Mithrandir nodded and laughed, and said 'And now, King Thranduil, it is time to entertain your guest to supper, and to several goblets of your finest wine, for this has been thirsty work, my friend, and by the stars, my mouth is as dry as my beard. '