A/N: If you missed the chapter "Pondering Difficulties…" that is where
we learn about Elrond's family abode in Lorien, in case you were
wondering. Due to error on my part, that chapter was missing from
the initial list on some sites! It is an important chapter, as it sets
the stage for Elrond and Erestor's plotting and gives us the background
on Erestor's personal situation.
Also, it is important for me to stress that the jump in time at this
middle of this chapter is intentional. As soon as you read Galadriel's
reply, "I will look, if that will grant you ease.", know that reality
becomes suspended and we see what the Mirror reveals to the Lady of
Light. As to whether her vision is a true prediction of future events
or not, even she does not know. I do, but am not about to reveal that!
Tiriathach? [Will You Look?]
Namië and Nirmë cantered under the boughs of the first
scattered clusters of Mellyrn trees, crossing the unmarked borders of
the Golden Wood just as Anor passed her zenith on the day of the
convening of the Council of Erebor. Splashing noisily through the
shallow ford of the Nimrodel and into the shelter of the elysian weald,
the stallions carried themselves with intrepid daring, necks arched
imperiously, manes adorned in tri-toned streamers undulating with the
rhythm of their waltzing gait. Bright in the subdued gilded glimmer of
the woods shone the white stars upon their brows, for their forelocks
were trimmed short between pertly pointed ears trained first ahead,
then behind, then side to side, and back again.
The lyrical jingle of the rings of mithril mail upon their legs sang an
understated and soothing melody fair to discern by all save Orcs, for
whom the sound was a precursor to death, and upon the faintest tinkling
of the silvery links the demons fled in terror. If today the
ringling song had the air of a jaunty jig hidden in its bell-toned
resonance that was to be expected. Any hint of fatigue the long
journey may have given the horses was forgotten; they were at home on
familiar paths and their spirits rose in anticipation of green hay and
a thorough rubdown.
Into the Naith of Lorien, single-file, rode Elladan and Elrohir,
youngest leading, oldest guarding the rear, unchallenged and unchecked
as only Lords of the land would do, black hair lifting and tumbling
behind them in the play of the gentle breeze, long cloaks flowing down
their backs to drape upon the chargers' flanks. The song of a
lark preceded them, clear notes flying ahead up high in the branches,
proclaiming their approach. The twins smiled for no bird's calls
were these, they knew, but rather the clever signals of the Galadhrim
heralding the return of their Lady's kin.
The brothers steadied their eager mounts as the war-steeds headed with
graceful purpose straight to the opulent talan of Elrond of
Imladris. There Elladan drew abreast of Elrohir as the stallions
slowed to a trot and then halted next the winding white stair at the
mighty tree's base. In synchrony the pair dismounted, slipping to
the ground on opposite sides of the horses, and each gave a playful
tousle to the up-pricked ears of their respective chargers, murmuring
thanks and dismissing the equines to partake of much earned oats and
grooming. A single glance conveyed between the twins how much they
envied their four-footed friends, longing for the chance to be
refreshed as well. They moved in accord to the stairway and
raised their heads to gaze in loving welcome upon the elf awaiting
there.
Descending down to meet them, long, delicate fingers of one hand
trailing along the vine covered banister as the other held up the
skirts of her gossamer gown, came Arwen their sister. Fair she
was and legendary was the rumour of her beauty throughout the lands and
while for many she was Úndomiel the Evenstar, remarkable for her
resemblance to Tinuviel, her brothers knew better.
Dark were her long locks but not as black as the endless ebony the
twins bore, for the golden light of Valinor danced among the gleaming
strands worn loose and trailing far below her waist, for never had she
cut it. Milky was the complexion of her skin and her cheeks were
kissed with a perpetual bloom of rose. Full and coloured like a
fine vintage wine, her lips were ever prepared to bless the world with
smiles and sweet song, kind counsel and lively conversation. Eyes
of hazelled brown might glitter in cautious appraisal or softly caress
a careworn soul, yet sorrow veiled them always and a look of burdened
weariness often flickered there beneath the perfection of her arched
brows.
The same expression filled the twins' moonless midnight orbs now, for
while those who knew only legends gazed at their sister and beheld
Luthien reborn, to Elrohir and Elladan the likeness brought to mind was
much dearer and closer to their hearts. For them, to look upon
Arwen was to see the remembrance of Celebrian as she had been before
the tragedy amid the snowy peaks of the High Pass, and it hurt.
In silence the trio stood still, attuned only to each other, to
acknowledge it all. So perpetual was this anguish they endured,
the sting of recognition and recollection within the brothers' hearts
and betrayed within their eyes, the guilty apology for feeling that
upon seeing her, the sorrow she harboured for instigating their less
frequent visits to Lothlorien, their equal dismay for compelling her to
remove to the Golden Wood thus to spare them the false image of their
mother. Such a convoluted morass of emotions to confront upon
what should have been a joyous reunion after a separation of over a
hundred years.
Arwen's gaze, wet with dewy brilliance, darted to and fro between her
brothers' and then in the same instant all three reached out and
clasped one another, arms encircling, foreheads softly touching, lips
bestowing kisses to six assorted cheeks blushed with high
emotion. They broke apart with slender smiles and Arwen moved to
ascend to the veranda but Elladan's finger touch upon her arm halted
her and she knew there would be fresh woe to weather.
"Telim farol Adar," Elrohir said. [We come seeking Adar.]
"Úsí ho," answered Arwen. [He is not here.]
"Istam," Elladan spoke. [We know.]
"Man od Erestor?" asked the younger twin. [What of Erestor?]
"Gwann gochain," added Elladan, "aladtoll hain." [They left together
but neither returned.]
"Údhartha ho vi Lorien," their sister calmly replied. "An
altîw tollen o ti." [Nor is he in Lorien. And no letters from
them have come.]
A minute meeting of eyes between the brothers was sufficient and they
embraced her again, for she might be capable of hiding her fears from
others but to them her terror was as a screaming gale whipping through
their souls.
"Aderthatham na chain!" [We will be reunited with them] Elrohir
whispered with dark and gritty vehemence and strode off to seek Orophin
and Dambethnîn, hoping for some knowledge from the pair,
confident he would meet his siblings later at their grandparents'
talan, and thus they parted.
Arwen and Elladan briskly paced across the leaf lined pathway in
agitated haste to reach the Lord and Lady's abode. They had no
need to voice the grim truth of their history. Celebrian had been
found and returned to the bosom of her family, but they had lost her
nonetheless.
"We saw a messenger from Mirkwood; what word from the Sinda Lord?"
"I know not, the letters were not addressed to me. No doubt
Miny'adar [First-father, grandfather (Quenya)] will tell us later if
there is anything important. Miny'ammë [First-mom, grandma]
just sent for me to bring you!"
"Perhaps she has news of our father?"
"The summons did not mention him."
They fell silent and soon the sound of racing feet could be heard
approaching from behind. They stopped to allow their brother and
Erestor's bond-mates to reach them. The two Galadhrim were
plainly distraught, Orophin looking as though he had just returned from
battle while Dambethnîn seemed prepared to start one. The
cause of the disappearances they could not supply.
The five elves did not pause to discuss what none of them could answer
and instead hastened to the Lord and Lady, hoping for some comforting
reassurance that all was well, trying to strengthen their souls for the
opposite report.
Galadriel was waiting for them on the stairway, anxiety and distress
working her features into a pensive arrangement of tight lines, and
Celeborn was no where to be seen. Without speaking, the noble
Lady of Light turned and led the way up the long winding stair to the
interior of her lofty rooms.
The dwelling was palatial and opulently but sparsely furnished.
Unlike Imladris, Lorien had seen war and the ravaging tumult of Durin's
Bane. Much had been lost, and in the face of grief over those
First-born destroyed in that unholy massacre, Galadriel found personal
possessions rather a poor compensation. She held, instead, to
what memory provided, for this was a far richer background upon which
to conduct her life than the accoutrements of pomp and power could ever
be.
She welcomed them to her private suite, a wide and broad platform
ringing the great tree, divided into discrete chambers by the placement
of silk screens painted in her own hand with the scenes and landscapes
of Aman and her life there. One of these smaller sections she had
furnished as a comfortable study and within this the six collected.
The room was centred around a large wrought iron brazier that stood
upon squat and sturdy legs, undoubtedly made by dwarven craftsmen,
designed in the shape of an opening flower bud. Within the grate
no fire burned, for it was yet too warm at summer's end to need one
while the sun was high. Above the firetrap amid the overhanging
branches an exquisitely worked circular mesh of mithril allowed smoke
to pass from the enclosed space while preventing any stray cinder or
spark from venturing up into the boughs.
The metallic gauze was as fine as spider silk, meticulously crafted
beyond the skill of any dwarven smith, filled with a romantic splendour
surpassing anything elven hands could create. It was said that
the artefact was indeed taken from the loom of Vairë, a gift unto
Galadriel when she departed with the host of the Noldor. Within
the pattern of the woven metal the Vala had worked an intriguing spiral
of integrated symbols, emblems, likenesses and words. Yet gazing upon
it but once and returning later, one would not see the same design, for
the elements within the utilitarian object realigned as some things
faded while others moved to greater prominence. The few
privileged to view this object were awed to comprehend that this work
of art was in truth Galadriel's own life foretold within the subtly
shifting, shimmery strands.
Beneath the iron fire berth the smooth sanded wooden floor was
carefully protected from the drying heat and scorching embers. A
wide round hearth of kiln-cooked tiles, a metre's diameter, graced the
planks. Just beneath and out to the perimeter of the grate the
tiles were unfinished and unadorned, serving their function without
additional ornamentation, revealing the beauty of the deep blue clay
from which they were created. Beyond this distance each of the
ceramic squares was glazed pure white and in letters of gold the
genealogy of the Noldo queen was recorded, worked out from her earliest
kin near the centre and reaching almost to the edges of the
circle. At this outermost rim were blank white tiles, waiting to
be taken up and inscribed when the next generation of the bloodline
would be born.
Grouped around the brazier was a ring of low, footed divans,
luxuriously upholstered in damasked satin dyed a shade of blue seen
only in the unending ice of Helcaraxë. These seats were
sumptuously ample and two could easily sit with comfort while one could
lounge in relaxed delight. Between these benches and the grate
were three arcuate tables constructed of the salvaged wood of fallen
Mellyrn. Of a height to accommodate the graceful couches, the
legs of these stands were carved into openwork filigree such that the
supports seemed more like an interlocking puzzle of river reeds than
solid lumber.
With a graceful gesture of her long fingers Galadriel bade them be
seated as she walked to a cabinet near the tree's trunk and began
preparing refreshment. She returned to them bearing a silver
tray, and upon it was a sapphire coloured long-necked decanter filled
with dark lilac liquid, cups, and two rolled parchment scrolls.
She set this down and surveyed her guests carefully, hands clasped
lightly at waist level before her.
Elladan and Elrohir were seated side by side, palm against palm with
fingers entwined to form a single tight fist that rested on Elladan's
left knee. Orophin and Dambethnîn occupied another seat,
arms wrapped all around each other as Dambethnîn rested her
forehead upon her beloved's shoulder. Arwen sat alone,
straight-backed and deadly pale, while restless fingers fidgeted in her
lap worrying the fabric of her skirt. Galadriel went to sit
beside her and encircled her granddaughter with a comforting arm as she
smoothed her hair back behind her ears.
"There is little need to tell you the news is not of joy for our
family, our people," she began and Dambethnîn sobbed.
"Peace, they are both alive and relatively unharmed!" she added hastily
and everyone's shoulders lifted and fell in relieved exhalations.
"That is well, yet much sorrow covers your reassurance,
Miny'ammë!" coaxed Elrohir. "Please, it is best not to drag
it out."
"I hear you, Inyo," [grandson] Galadriel smiled sadly and bowed her
head in assent. Yet she reached out and poured everyone a portion
of the violet wine before she would continue. When all held a
cup, she lifted hers and met each set of eyes firmly. "Valar
Valuvar!" [The will of the Valar be done!] she said and drank.
The others murmured the prayer automatically and likewise sipped,
except for Elladan who quietly set his cup back on the table, stubborn
defiance written upon his tense features.
Galadriel sighed and reached for the papers.
"Here are two messages carried to us from Mirkwood. The first
does not affect us overly much yet it is still worthy of notice.
Eru has blessed the Woodland King with a new heir to replace the
disgraced prince."
Instantly Elrohir snatched at the paper she was holding up and opened
it out, a look of dismay on his fine features.
"Though that defeats any hope of re-instating the first-born child,
perhaps it is not so unkind a fate. From the portents I have
seen, the archer was never destined to rule the Greenwood as its
King. He was meant for something else, and I cannot tell if his
fall has taken that future from him or no. It is the other
document which must concern us here."
So saying she read aloud the contents of the letter, a duplicate of
that sent to Imladris. In silence her words hung over them as
each tried to make themselves believe the sentences she had just spoken.
"That is…that is simply not possible! Adar would not be so
foolish," blustered Elladan finally, his face growing dark in his
rising wrath. "That Sinda has ever sought to find blame for the
failings of his House by pointing to ours."
"Nay, brother, it is true," countered Elrohir calmly. "Ada had to
go, do you not see? Ningloriel left. She abandoned Legolas
to that dread Judgement! Ada went to ensure his well-being and to
bring him out of there if he might."
"Enough of that, Elrohir! The archer is no kin of ours nor of any
importance to Adar," Arwen's words were scathingly sharp and brittle.
Her brother stiffened at her hostility and Elladan squeezed his
shoulder in soothing consolation as they shared their silent sorrow for
the stubbornness of her spirit.
"What of Erestor? How was he involved in this? Where is he,
my Lady?" pleaded Orophin.
"I know not the details of this undertaking, but can deduce that he was
acting as Elrond's accomplice and second. However, I believe they
are now parted. Elrond has contacted me and is back in Imladris
but made no mention of his seneschal. Erestor is not with him."
Orophin groaned. He and Dambethnîn folded in upon each
other in their distress.
"Have you spoken to Adar again since receiving these?" asked
Arwen. "What does he say of Erestor? Does he know of the
accusation yet?"
"I have informed him of Elladan and Elrohir's safe arrival, for he
requested such some days ago without mentioning why they would be
searching for him. Other than acknowledge my communication, he
has ignored all my questions and locked me from his thoughts."
Elladan got up with a small exclamation of frustrated disgust and
walked out to the edge of the balcony beyond the silk enclosure.
Elrohir joined him and the two communed exclusively for a time.
"I do not like this," said Dambethnîn between her quiet
sniffles. "If Erestor is not at Imladris, where is he? That
document does not indicate he is in custody, does it? Is he in
Thranduil's dungeons?"
"Valar! They would not put one of the First-born in those cells,
surely." Orophin stated, but his tone revealed his lack of
certainty for the claim. He knew not what to expect of a King who
would condemn his own son based on battlefield errors made upon the
chances of war.
"Nay, he will be fine," Galadriel assured him warmly. "I believe
the real target of this charge is Elrond, and if Erestor is in Mirkwood
he will be accorded proper respect. Thranduil does not use the
dungeons these days, though for a time he tried tormenting captured
Orcs there, hoping to learn of the plans of the Necromancer."
"What if he is not in the stronghold? What if he is lost in that
dreadful Mirkwood amid the spiders and the wargs? He could end up
in Dol Guldur!" wailed Dambethnîn and fresh tears flowed from her
reddened eyes.
"Nay, by Eru, that will not be!" swore Orophin. "My Lady, we must
go and find Erestor." Both he and his bond-mate stood, arms
linked about each other's waists and eyes urgent in their pleading for
Galadriel's blessing.
"We will accompany you," said Elrohir as he and Elladan returned to the
group.
"Peace, this rash decision I will not allow," Galadriel cautioned and
rose from her place next to Arwen. "Already Celeborn is arranging
for emissaries to journey to the Woodland Realm and investigate the
situation. We have conferred and decided the least volatile
region in which to effect a solution to the dilemma is here in
Lorien. Convincing Thranduil and his Council to come here is a
delicate matter best left to diplomacy."
The less than pleased expressions on everyone's features attested to
the lack of confidence felt for the success of such an endeavour.
At this lull in the conversation Celeborn entered the room and moved to
his wife's side, reaching around her to lay a comforting hand upon his
granddaughter's head, a soft smile in his wise hazel gaze for
Úndomiel. It pained him not to behold this replication of
his beloved Celebrian and he encouraged Arwen to remain amid the
Mellyn. Her presence eased the empty ache in the ancient Lord's
heart left behind by his daughter's departure. He turned next to
his vigilant wardens.
"We would ask that you and your brothers lead a small contingent of
warriors to escort Elrond here," he addressed the Galadhrim couple
kindly. "Dambethnîn, I understand your need to be beside
your bond-mate at this time and bid you accompany this guard.
Nothing more can be done until I return from Mirkwood with news."
Upon this pronouncement Arwen jumped to her feet in surprise.
"Miny'adar, you cannot be serious," she scolded. "You must not
lower yourself to go to that place and treat with those barbaric
elves. We should not even be considering these claims, for there
can be no truth in them. My father would not be found skulking
about the borders of that accursed realm with his seneschal. For
what purpose would he plot such a course? There is no valid
explanation anyone has advanced to me thus far that would account for
such actions."
"Then where was he, Arwen, and why did he lie to us about his true
destination?" demanded Elladan. "As much as I dislike the
thought, I feel that Elrohir is right. Ada went to Mirkwood
because of Ningloriel's desertion of her son."
"I have told you before that elf is not a subject I will even consider
discussing!"
The brothers simultaneously flinched in response to her strident
expression of bitter resentment.
Galadriel went to them, noting the digits interlocked once more,
Elladan's left hand to Elrohir's right. She took up their melded
clasp between her slender white fingers. The sight twinged her heart,
for there was suddenly an overlay of fragility upon the battle hardened
hands in hers. She merged her thoughts with theirs to share her
love and concern.
"You will have to admit the possibility exists for this explanation to
be true," cautioned Celeborn, laying his hand on Arwen's shoulder to
calm her unreasoning anger. "Understanding that your Adar has
flaws need not mean you love him less, child."
"Do you believe he begot that elf?" demanded Arwen crudely; eyes
brightly lit in staunch defence of her sire's character as she gazed
upon her grandfather. "If so, you are wrong and do not understand
Elrond at all!"
"Thêl dithen [Little sister]," breathed Elrohir sadly, "it is you
who refuses to confront the reality of our father's life!
Ningloriel was long an important part of it, many years more than was
Naneth!"
The look she turned upon him was stronger than any words she could have
uttered, colder than the bitterest blast of Caradhras, packed with the
centuries of injured betrayal her heart had so long denied.
"You would denigrate our mother thus? How dare you speak of her
and the Wood Elf Queen in the same breath, giving over to that
troublemaking inu greater stature than Celebrian of the Golden Wood?"
"Nay, that is not what I meant," Elrohir whispered and dropped his
eyes, turning to his brother in anguish. Elladan reached for him
immediately.
"It is not Elrohir's fault, Arwen," he spat, angry for his brother's
pain.
"Indeed, that is unacceptable, Arwen!" warned Galadriel.
"You need not wound your brother in order to shield your parents or
yourself," corrected Celeborn. "Do you doubt that I love my
daughter? Yet, I understand well enough what her union to Elrond
was, as did she. Her refusal to recognise Ningloriel does not
mean she did not know of Elrond's mistress. It was something she
was able to endure, and so must you.
"Ningloriel bore but one child: Legolas. I did ask Elrond, if you
must know, and he denied paternity. Still, he was strongly
attached to the Woodland Queen, and I suspect she may have wrung some
promise from him to watch over her son after her departure. That
would be reason enough for your father to go to Mirkwood."
Arwen's visage bloomed with two dark streaks of crimson across her
pallid cheeks as she received these rebukes. Then her features
just crumpled up and her body followed suit, leaving her slumped face
down upon the divan as shuddering sobs broke from her and the long
restrained emotions tore free in a squall of noisy tears.
Galadriel was at her side in seconds, crouched on the floor gently
rubbing her back, softly shushing compassionate endearments against her
granddaughter's ear.
Her sorrow triggered an uncomfortable silence in which the twins
consoled one another, minds and souls fused. Orophin and
Dambethnîn sank back onto their divan in fresh tears of their
own. Celeborn sighed and retrieved one of the cups of wine and
drained it, feeling the need for something restorative to bolster his
spirit. Gradually Arwen's crying abated and she sat up again,
letting her grandmother tenderly wipe away the salty smear from cheeks
and nose as if she were an elfling needing care for a bump or a bruise.
"Goheno nin, saes, Elrohir," [Please forgive me, Elrohir], she spoke
and inhaled a deep breath to steady herself.
"Gerin úrîn o ten," [It is forgotten], her brother smiled
and opened his arms to her. Arwen quickly joined him and the
three siblings clutched tightly to one another a few moments to heal
the rift completely.
"That is as it should be," intoned Galadriel. "To weather this
calamity we must remain united, whatever has occurred."
"Please, I do not mean to be selfish," Dambethnîn said quietly to
her Lord. "Yet I would beg a favour. If I must turn my feet
away from my beloved's path, then at least grant me some reassurance of
his well being. Will you not look into the Mirror, my
Lady?" She turned her solemn golden gaze upon her queen and
waited in hope for this boon.
"Worry not, we will go with Miny'adar to find Erestor for you," stated
Elladan.
"Nay, you will not attend me on this journey."
"You surely cannot expect us to sit idly by while this is happening,"
added Elrohir.
"If you need actions to sustain your impatience, return to Imladris
with the Galadhrim to be part of your father's escort. It will do
him good to have you by his side at this time."
The twins turned identical frowns of annoyed resistance upon their
grandfather at this pronouncement, but knew better than to argue with
the venerable Lord. Their eyes joined in wordless communication
and then Elrohir spoke again.
"As you wish, Miny'adar. But in that case I have also a
request. Miny'ammë, will you look and learn the fate of the
exiled prince?" he beseeched earnestly. "Our family is strong and
whatever comes we know we have one another to depend upon.
Legolas is alone and his need must be great for Ada to go to such
lengths to aid him. We must assume he is not safe in Imladris,
for surely Adar would have revealed this to you already were it so."
The Lady of Light removed herself from her family's circle to consider
these petitions. She stood apart on the balcony, overlooking the
fair city she protected and the people she guided. Long were the
centuries behind her and far away was the land of her birth, yet it
seemed to her soul that here had her heart always dwelt, only waiting
for her body to join it to abide between the Anduin and the
Celebrant. This was her place, her centre.
Galadriel's gaze dropped to her hands, clasped together in her
customary manner, and the gleaming spark of Nenya bound about the
forefinger of her right hand. The dubious responsibility had
fallen to her to guard this treasure as one of the last of Finwë's
line in Middle-earth. The ring more than any other trait of
appearance or personality marked her as Noldorin, set apart from the
Galadhrim though she was their Lady.
She had told herself it was for them she had taken it up, to keep them
safe and preserve upon Arda some small piece of what the eldar were
meant to represent. Yet Nenya had not saved them from the ravages
of the Balrog nor did it prevent the servants of the Dark One from
trying their borders or assailing travellers ere they reached Lorien's
protection.
She knew it was a purely selfish thing, this ring. Like the
Sylvans of the Greenwood, the Galadhrim would have found a means to
survive without it, without her.
Perhaps they would have been
better served had I returned with my people to the Undying
Lands! No loss of culture would have been suffered, for she
did
not hold illusions of the place among the First-born her faithful elves
of the trees would own in Aman. Lothlorien's citizens were not
renowned for advanced learning or artistry as were the Eldar in Valimar
[City of the Valar in the Undying Lands].
The Mellyrn Taur would not perish either, though surely it would darken
even as the forest east of the Anduin had slowly altered into the
forbidding danger that was Mirkwood. This she would not allow,
and here she was honest enough to admit her pride drove her desire to
keep Lorien just as it had always been. As long as nothing
changed, this small piece of the Music was hers to watch over and
keep. Without her, without Nenya, none of this beauty would last
out the Age.
And Celeborn will never leave nor am I ready to go without him.
Of course she would look. The Mirror was irresistible. Not
for her grandson's peace of mind or the reassurance of her stalwart
wardens would she concede. The Mirror was for her alone.
Through it she gleaned a sense of the shifting patterns of power
playing through the song of Arda, and thus she managed to direct the
energy of Nenya to ward away such changes from reaching her
world. In a strange symbiosis of cause and effect, she understood
that the effort to divert these phrases of the song she wished not to
hear altered the Music as a whole. The sense of control this lent
to her psyche was shocking to her; she feared it and the undeniable
excitement produced in response. Thus far she had managed not to
be consumed by the sensation, and truly she felt herself impervious to
any outside influence that might coerce her use of this gift.
But for how long? Galadriel sighed and shook her head
slightly. Such morbidity did not become her and she strove
against it. She would do whatever was required to prevent
corruption from overtaking her and by association Lorien.
For
as
long as need be! she answered herself confidently and returned to
the
room with a smile.
"I will look, if that will grant you ease."
The late afternoon sunlight dappled the faces of the two running elves
as they sped with pumping legs and gasping lungs under the first
wide-reaching boughs of the trees. One behind the other they
raced, determination and dread spurring them forward into the welcome
cover of the unknown forest. Unknown from personal experience
yet renowned throughout all the elven realms: Lothlorien, the Golden
Wood, Dwimordeen, Laurelindorien, Mellyrn Taur, known by all these
names and more, the haven of the Galadhrim received them.
A strange pair they were and indeed, so small a company rarely braved
the unguarded lands between the scattered safety of elven enclaves in
the darkening days since the demise of the Watchful Peace. The
leader of the two slowed, raising his hand to signal his companion
likewise, and they halted just inside the tree line. The second
bent over, hands upon knees, and huffed noisily to recapture enough
breath to replace the expended energy of the forced flight across the
open plains.
He was young, more than adolescent yet mature only according to the
counting of years, with lithe and slender limbs and a crown of
bark-brown curling hair and eyes to match. His features and
height proclaimed him Nandorin in ancestry and his garments, rich and
well tailored, declared a high rank in the Woodland Realm of
Thranduil. He turned his eyes, questioning and trusting, to his
guide and protector.
That elf was strange to behold and his appearance verily defied
definition or assignment as kin to any of the known clans of elven
races. He looked a throwback to some primitive time before the
reckoning of days, before the Vala Oromë came first upon the
Quendi in the twilight of Cuiviénen.
Golden was his thick mane of twisted locks hanging down below his
waist, ornamented with a single bold feather shed from the wings of a
great eagle. The tendrils framed a face with features fair, wise
eyes of clear and shining heaven's blue, and mouth set firm and
resolute. He stood a mite shorter than the younger elf while of
similarly slight and wiry-muscled build.
His dress was crude and brief, with leggings of leather and scarcely
more save a vest-like covering of some animal hide tied shut with a
leather lace. He was well armed. A small but sturdy bow he
held within his fist and upon his back a quiver was secured, now only
half filled with arrows brightly fletched in startling red feathers and
marked with elven runes of power. A long hunting knife fell from
a belt woven of thin plaits of leather to lie flat against his right
thigh, proclaiming his preferred hand.
His feet were unadorned with shoes or boots and upon the left a pale
discoloration showed where a fine band of some sort once had been,
winding like a loop around his middle toe, criss-crossing over his
arch, and doubling around the ankle. Feral and dangerous, he
stood waiting for his charge to regain his strength before continuing
into the perilous wood.
"What now?" the younger asked when at last he could draw air for more
than laboured breathing. "Are we safe? Will they follow us
even into Lorien?"
The other smiled reassuringly at the worried countenance before him.
"Nay, we lost them as soon as we crossed the river, but I wanted to be
sure not to give them any chance to catch us even if they had picked up
our trail again. I think they decided we were not worth the
trouble of further chase.
"There will be a guard upon the borders here; we shall not need to go
much further before we are met. I spotted a scout as we came
under the trees; within the hour they will find us," he paused and
considered the young elf carefully.
The youth had held up admirably considering they had been chased from
the fringes of Dol Guldur all the way to the Anduin by a persistent
band of Orcs. "How long has it been since last you had news of
your father's brother, Lindalcon?" he asked, attempting to divert the
younger elf's mind from the harrowing pursuit.
"At the commemoration, he was there," he frowned and thought back, "so,
only twenty years ago. I am sure he will welcome me!" came the
reply. "And you as well, of course!" was belatedly added, causing the
other to smile wryly.
"I think not!" was all the wild one said and began to move forward
again, looking up into the magnificent trees as he did.
Never had he been in the Golden Wood, although tales and songs
proclaiming its glory and majesty were known to him. The sight of
the holy trees gave him a sense of awe, and he wondered if he dared
leap up into the branches that stretched down so invitingly. He
listened, gauging the response of the woods, and deemed it familiar,
friendly and welcoming.
"Come!" he beckoned with no attempt to conceal his excitement as he
slipped his bow over his shoulder and pulled himself up into the
nearest Mallorn. Lindalcon followed less easily and he had to
wait for the young one to reach his level. "I will race you to
the canopy!" the wild elf sang out gleefully and took off, leaping with
joyous abandon from branch to branch as his companion struggled to keep
up.
"That is truly unfair, Legolas; you are hardly ever out of the trees
and I am never hardly in them!" he fussed, trying in vain to meet the
challenge.
Legolas was peering down at him with amusement from a very slender
top-reaching stem, smiling as only trees could make him smile.
Then he straightened up and stood looking out over the surrounding
wood, leaning forward with a rapt expression of wonder upon his
features, sunlight bathing him in the warm orange tinted streaks of the
setting rays.
Lindalcon stopped and stared, catching his breath at the sight as his
skin rippled in a shivering tingle of admiration and trepidation
both. Seen like this, Legolas was beautiful but fey, a Tawarwaith
true.
"You must see how the light dances across the treetops!" he exclaimed
to Lindalcon, without looking back, thus missing the expression of
proud appreciation the younger elf's eyes revealed. Lindalcon at
last made it up to the canopy and peered in the direction of the fading
light, to the West, and thought of his father.
He wanted so much for his father to be with him. Would that the
horrible Battle had never begun, that the King had not learned of the
demise of Smaug. He even wished for his father to never have joined the
guard at all. Had Valtamar only chosen to become a metalworker or
a scribe, or even a life of politics, then he would not have met
Andamaitë. He would not have perished at the hands of a despicable
goblin attempting to spare her life. And Lindalcon would not be
alone, fleeing his home to beg a place in his uncle's household in
Lorien, guided by the very elf judged the cause of his father's
death. He looked over to find Legolas studying him.
"The elves here will welcome you, Lindalcon; do not worry," he said
quietly and Lindalcon nodded, trying to smile. "However, they
will not welcome me. When they arrive, I will face the guard and
explain your presence. You must stay silent until it is clear you
have rights of kinship to be here."
"Why? Surely this is a place of refuge and no harm will come from
within the woods. The elves here would not accost you, Legolas,
would they?" the younger elf stared with worried eyes at his brother,
for every word Legolas spoke was veneered in wary caution rather than
optimism.
"Nay, the Galadhrim are reputed to be fair-minded and noble. Yet
I am not allowed to enter Lothlorien while the Judgement stands," the
wild elf reassured, though he was not quite so convinced of this in his
own mind. He had the idea that the Galadhrim would promptly eject
him from Lorien with no uncertainty regarding their desire that he not
return.
"What I say you should be prepared to support, but do not attempt to
defend me," he continued. "You may wish to refuse the title and
position your loss has gifted you, but this will not be the time to do
so. As a prince of the Greenwood you will be treated with
courtesy and respect, regardless of the nature of your escort here," he
paused until Lindalcon acknowledged this advice with a short nod.
"They will guide you to an outpost while word is passed to your people
to vouchsafe your entrance into Caras Galadon. Once that is done,
you will most likely be met by your kinfolk. If you are granted
to meet with the Lord and Lady of the Wood, they may hear your
petitions. However, they have no true authority over the
Greenwood or Thranduil." He hesitated again.
"Are you truly prepared to stay here and be parted from your mother,
your brother and sister? For Meril's position is much elevated
and she would never remove Taurant in any case. They will not
follow you here," he finally finished.
Lindalcon thought on these words carefully relieved that Legolas wanted
only to ensure the strength of his convictions rather than cast
aspersions on his abandonment of their younger siblings. It was
not an easy or lightly made decision, and he did have much
regret. He did not know when or if he would ever see his younger
brother and sister again.
Or Legolas!
His mother had been overcome with rage at his choice and he felt the
same regarding hers. It still made him burn to think of her
blatant betrayal of his father and their marriage bond. Equally
virulent was his disgust over the reason she chose to name for her
perfidy and the low manner in which she had attempted to turn him
against Legolas. Their parting had been bitter and hasty on
Lindalcon's part.
"I am not certain that my place is to be found in the Greenwood,"
Lindalcon finally replied. "My Adar's kin will be good enough
folk for me. I am not interested in the kind of advancement my
mother sought to give me, as it came to be upon the loss of my own
father.
"I have no wish to be a prince any longer. It was a false title
and though I am glad not to be 'Lindalcon the Usurper', I pity my
little brother to have to grow up under the tutelage of Thranduil!" he
stated with vehemence and then, catching sight of Legolas' disconcerted
expression, coloured slightly.
"Lindalcon, I understand your feelings about this, yet Thranduil dotes
on Taurant and Gwilith. Our brother will not grow up in the
discordant household known to me," he corrected softly. "Even so,
I do feel sorrow for those little ones; they will miss you terribly, as
will I!"
Lindalcon sighed and had to remove his gaze from Legolas, for he could
see that this was true. He could discern clearly the unspoken
plea in the archer's eyes and his heart became burdened with
guilt. He knew his decision was selfish, yet he could not bear to
be near the royal family, not now.
"Perhaps I will not remain always here in the Golden Wood," he murmured
low as his head drooped to match the words' pitch. The pressure
of a firm hand gripping his forearm drew his eyes back to the glinting
shine in the Tawarwaith's.
"I will hold you to that, 'perhaps' notwithstanding! Send word
and I will come guard you home again, gwador dithen [little brother]!"
"Man canel 'tithen', Limlas? Im dond nef le! [Whom are you
calling 'little', Fish-Leaf? I am tall next to you!]"
But the smiles these words raised to both their countenances were slow
and hesitant, forced over the real expressions of sad and reluctant
parting.
The sun had set leaving behind only a soft velvety pink going to dusky
grey and Legolas started back down the tree. Lindalcon followed
more slowly and was surprised to find his guide already on the ground
before he was half way there. He saw a number of elves emerge
from the trees to the right and left. Soon, silent and sombre
grey-clad archers, their bows drawn and trained upon Legolas,
surrounded them.
"Sîdh! Men mellyn!" [Peace! We are friends!] Legolas
called, spreading out his hands palms upward before him.
The elves gave no indication that these words were acceptable as they
gazed in cautious curiosity at the two strangers. At last one of
the elves came forward and reached out to Legolas, quickly pulling the
bow from his back and the knife from his belt. Legolas made no
move to prevent this and Lindalcon watched with concern. They
were at these archers' mercy.
With the interlopers disarmed, the guards relaxed their stance and
lowered their bows, but the arrows remained knocked. The elf that
had confiscated Legolas' weapons spoke, facing him and ignoring
Lindalcon.
"What is your business here in Lorien? Where have you come from
and why has no message of your approach preceded you? Indeed, are
you not hecilo, banned from this realm?" he demanded formally.
Legolas remained in his non-threatening posture but stood firm.
"My business here is completed, for I am merely the guide and
protection for Lindalcon, Prince of the Greenwood, Thranduil's realm to
the North. He has come to seek asylum and citizenship in Lorien,
to abide with his father's people in Caras Galadon. There was not
time for messages to be sent to warn of his arrival, for events
prevented it. I am, as you have said, forbidden to shelter here
and seek no entry," he answered calmly.
At these words the elves turned their eyes upon Lindalcon and
scrutinised him carefully, seeing the fine make of his garments and the
distinctive style common to the Greenwood folk. He stood proudly
and returned their stares but remained silent, until he caught Legolas'
eye and remembered their earlier conversation.
"Yes, I have come to see my father's brother who resides here with his
family. I wish to stay with my kin in Lorien," he
confirmed. "I did not know I needed permission to come before
setting out on my journey, and Legolas agreed to safeguard me here
seeing that I lacked another escort. We were attacked by orcs and
scarcely did I survive!"
Lindalcon was deliberately misleading the Lorien elves. While he
and Legolas had indeed encountered orcs, and he himself had previously
been wounded in a skirmish with orcs, he hoped his story implied
more. If they assumed he had been travelling with his personal
guard, had been waylaid and forced to enlist the aid of the outcast elf
to continue his journey, then his hopes would be met. The Lorien
elf seemed to accept his explanation without question.
"Forgive us our inhospitable welcome, Prince Lindalcon," he said as he
bowed. "I am Haldir, March-warden of Lorien. Mae
govannen! Your unusual companion worried me: I thought perhaps
you were in some peril for your wellbeing in that one's presence," he
continued, placing a hand on the youth's shoulder and guiding him away
from Legolas and outside the circle of archers. These immediately
raised their bows and trained them on the outcast again.
Lindalcon looked over his shoulder to see what was happening, but
Legolas gave a slight shake of his head and Lindalcon returned his
attention to Haldir.
"Will you be able to take a message to my uncle so that he may come for
me?" he asked. Haldir nodded.
"My brother Orophin and I will escort you to the nearest outpost.
Others will carry word of your arrival to your people." He
motioned to some of the elves and four approached. After
inquiring the name of the youth's kin, Haldir sent them forth with
brief instructions and they melted into the forest.
"The accommodations among the outposts may not be luxurious according
to your usual comforts, but it is safe and there you may await your
kinsman's response. Have you no belongings with you, young
Prince?" he was saying.
"Oh! In my haste to escape I was forced to leave everything
behind. I was fortunate to get away at all," Lindalcon said.
"And how did you run into that unfortunate soul?" The Lorien elf
made a motion with his head towards the captive.
"He is the one who aided me during the orc attack. If not for his
assistance, I would have died. He further agreed to guide me here
when I refused to return to Thranduil's stronghold. What will you
do with him?" Lindalcon could not help but ask though Legolas had told
him to stay out of it.
It was a strange situation between them. Legolas owed Lindalcon
for his father's life, and now Lindalcon was indebted to Legolas for
his own. For his part, Lindalcon felt the deeds balanced one
another and did not want the fallen archer to suffer for helping him
reach Lorien safely.
"No need to be concerned; I have left orders for him to be taken back
to the river and his weapons returned to him there," Haldir answered as
his brother Orophin joined him. Together they ushered the youth
down the path and away from the circle of archers.
Lindalcon looked back once more, but the broad shoulders of the
Galadhrim blocked Legolas from his view.
An elf tall, imposing, solid of frame and muscle, easily out weighing
the Wood Elf before him by at least two stones, stepped closer to
inspect Legolas. He knew the impact of his presence and sought to
intimidate his captive a bit as punishment for daring to pollute the
beauty of the Golden Wood with his tainted person. He walked
around Legolas, gazing up and down at his rugged appearance with
disdain and distaste in his posture and his eyes.
"You are overly bold, Edledhron [exiled one], to attempt trespass
here! This is a place of peace and harmony and such as you have
no right even to contemplate its existence much less try crossing its
borders!" he said.
"I am not yet within the Naith of Lorien and so have made no trespass."
Legolas returned his stare coldly. "Return my weapons and allow
me to go, since my presence is so offensive to you."
"Your presence is offensive to all elves, Hecilo!"
This retort came from within the ranks of archers and Legolas
involuntarily startled, for this was a voice he knew from other
circumstances, equally dangerous. His eyes searched the
faces and pinpointed the source when a deriding laugh shot back towards
him, for his instinctive reaction had not gone unnoticed.
Among the guards of Lothlorien were mixed five of the ten Greenwood
warriors from his days in the storeroom under Ailinyéro's
torments. After their discharge from Thranduil's guard, these
perverted soldiers had drifted away from the stronghold, yet none knew
what had become of them. Now here they were, armed and standing
shoulder to shoulder alongside the respectable and honourable wardens
of the Golden Wood!
Legolas did not like the turn this excursion was taking.
"There has been no kinslaying for millennia until your deeds! You
disgrace all elf-kind!" one of them added.
"How is it you are free to inflict your existence on the rest of
us? Why do you not take yourself to Mordor, where such as you
belong?" another taunted.
"Orc!" the fourth spat.
Legolas remained silent. If these elves thought that such insults
could be hurtful, after the torments and humiliations he had already
endured from them, they were short of memory.
Here is where they have been hiding their shameful past! I
wonder what lies they told to the Galadhrim to gain the privilege of
service to the Lady?
He almost expected to see Ailinyéro emerge from the trees, to
hear the metallic chime of heavy chains.
So be it, the Dagger is still in my quiver.
Yet, how to retrieve it? He did not generally use the knife as a
weapon, but carried it as a tool for his arrow-craft, loose and deep at
the bottom of one the compartments. He could not easily reach
over his shoulder to draw it forth, certainly not without rousing the
suspicions of these wary archers.
As slowly as he could, Legolas raised his hand to unbuckle the
harness, making sure they could all see his movements and his empty
hands. Everyone stiffened and riveted their eyes upon his
actions; bows creaking as strings dragged further back in anticipation
of some trick.
With a snake-ish slithering sound the container slipped from his back
and landed in the leaves behind his heels and almost as one the
gathered guards exhaled and eased back. He kept his features
impassive; no need to alert them to the fact that he had just placed
his last weapon where he could more readily get to it, should the
situation deteriorate.
The tall elf noted his stoic demeanour and was disappointed. This
was not the response he desired. He wanted to make the outcast
cower in humiliation before the righteousness of Lorien. He
frowned and bent to snatch up the leather strap of the quiver's
binding, hefting the necessary implement to test its weight, for he
could not fathom why the disgraced elf had chosen to remove it.
As he peered inside and spied the various objects stuffed among the
compartments his ears caught the curse of rage from the wild elf.
"You have no right!" came the Tawarwaith's low growl.
The tall guard felt the nape of his neck tingle as all the hairs back
there crawled forward and he raised his gaze to see the anger his
snooping had provoked. Yet he sneered in satisfied triumph, his
eyes had caught the glint of metal within the quiver and he fished the
dagger out. He held it up for all to see, grinning hugely at the
look of impotent outrage upon their captive's face. It was almost
as good as mortified debasement would have been.
"I think perhaps you are too foul for the Galadhrim to handle.
Your own should see to your disposal from our lands," he said with
loathing and motioned for the five Woodland refugees to step forward as
he cast the quiver aside, enjoying the strained sigh that escaped the
wild elf at this pronouncement.
"Wait! Haldir's instructions were specific. We are to
escort him to the river and leave him there. I will not let my
brother's words be changed!" This directive came from one among
the Lorien elves and everyone halted as the speaker disengaged from the
group.
He was not much taller than the Tawarwaith and as lightly built, with
the bearing of an archer who spent his days in the Mellyrn's
limbs. His locks shown like finely burnished mithril and his eyes
were grey yet clear as the waters of a mountain spring and held no
malice in them. He trained his steady gaze upon Legolas and
regarded him with candid curiosity.
The Lorien warden could not help but be amazed, for he at once felt
kinship with this banished outlaw, seeing in Legolas' eyes the imprint
of Yavanna's blessings. He took in the rugged clothes and
strangely twisted locks. Reaching out, he meant only to take some
of the strands between his fingers.
While Legolas felt no threat from this warrior, he was not about to
allow such a liberty, for he was yet under the pall of the remembered
chastisement. They could say what they might, but they had no
right to lay hands on him; his fate was not for them to judge.
As the hand swept up towards his face, Legolas caught it in an iron
tight grip around the wrist. Surprised, the Lady's guardsman
exclaimed and tried to yank his hand free even as Legolas flung it
away. The combined forces caused the Lorien archer to stumble and
fall back.
That was enough of an excuse for the five renegades from Thranduil's
guard. Two of them immediately dropped their bows and launched
themselves at Legolas, engulfing naught but air and the leafy ground as
he leaped aside. The other three shouted angrily as they pounced
in turn. One Legolas tripped and sent staggering headlong into
the boll of a Mallorn with a dull thunk, but the other two waited until
his attention was thus engaged. Together they dived for him, their
combined weight knocking the wild elf easily to the ground, and
inflicted a rain of punches and knee-jabs.
By that time the other three had recovered and joined the melee,
effectively burying the outcast in a writhing mound of fists and feet,
teeth and elbows. Legolas fought back and landed several solid
hits of his own until one pinned his arms and another secured his
ankles. Shouts in the background to stop were muffled and
disregarded in the sickening noise of knuckles pounding flesh and the
cries and grunts of the outnumbered elf.
The Mirkwood elves soon had Legolas subdued and called for rope to bind
him but the Lorien elves were shocked by their behaviour and roughly
hauled the immigrants off the battered exile and restrained them.
As rapidly as it had begun the beating ended.
Legolas lay in a heap where he had collapsed, struggling to draw breath
against the stabbing pain in his ribs where one boot too many had found
an easy target. The jagged blossom of agony every inhalation
triggered cautioned that some were probably broken.
"What should we do with him?" asked one of the Lorien elves.
"I say just leave him there, perhaps some orcs will sniff him out and
dispose of him for us," replied one of the Mirkwood renegades, and he
spat but was too far away to land this further insult on the fallen
archer.
"Silence! You are not one of us!" this from the tall and haughty
elf.
"Oh, truly? Have we not drawn arms with you and defended these
borders by your sides? There is the cause of this dissent!"
countered another Wood Elf, sporting a darkly purple bruise around his
right eye, as he pointed to Legolas.
"Mayhap that is right; never have we fought among ourselves before this
day," commented one of the Galadhrim.
"Aye, his presence is an abomination!" encouraged another of
Thranduil's former guards. "He is the perfect orc bait! We
can drag him a little further under the trees and take positions
above. It will be easy picking them off while they are distracted
with him."
At this comment the elf that had sought to touch the wild elf's locks
stepped forward with a disgusted sound and addressed them.
"Enough! This is not right! You have set upon an unarmed
elf who has done no harm to any of us, or to the Golden Wood. He
never struck anyone until you launched your attack. The Shadow
reaches far when the elves of Lorien do injury to a traveller that came
hither on an errand of mercy to one of our kin," the elf stood boldly
before them, arms crossed against his chest. "I will carry out
Haldir's orders, let those who would oppose me answer to him!" he
challenged and waited.
"You are too soft-hearted, Rumil," one of the miscreants interjected,
but the remainder of the archers paid him no attention as they
considered Rumil's words. One by one they sided with him,
revolted to recall the brutality they had witnessed, and none supported
the immigrant's admonishment. At last the tall, hefty one
advanced to address Rumil.
"You speak with reason when mine has all but vanished. I believe
you are right; this kinslayer has brought the taint of the Shadow here
to make us forget ourselves so easily," he said. A few murmured
affirmations rose from among the group.
Rumil sighed.
"Then it is best for me to see him safely out of Lorien, so that none
of you fall back into unreasonable behaviour," he snapped. He
disliked it that his comrade could not simply admit his wrong.
Rumil felt it cowardly to assign blame for one's own failings to the
growing threat from the east. To his mind, this was the most
telling testimony to the long reach of the evil of Mordor.
"So be it!" spoke the tall one. "I will tell your brothers of
your decision. Do you require anything?" Rumil shook his
head.
"Just leave his weapons; I will not turn him out to face the Orcs
unarmed," he said and the others complied, placing the bow, quiver,
dagger, and long knife against the boll of a tree. This done,
they retreated back into the woods to resume their patrols hustling the
Mirkwood elves along with them, glad to leave the responsibility for
the captive's doom to Rumil.
Legolas watched warily as the Lorien elf slowly approached him.
Rumil knelt and removed his flask of water from its place at his side
and offered it to the injured elf, carefully lifting the tangled mane
out of the Tawarwaith's eyes as he did so.
"Thank you, but I do not thirst," Legolas managed to say as he tried to
curl over the aching ribs and wrapped an arm protectively around
himself.
Rumil nodded and sat down next to him. He cautiously reached out
to smooth his fingers over the golden tresses again.
"You are Legolas," he said and a note of regret touched his words, for
he understood that in other circumstances they could become good
friends. "I am called Rumil, brother of Haldir. Forgive me,
I should have asked first and none of this would have transpired."
"Nay, they would have found some other reason. I am grateful your
people stopped them, for they are known to me and I wish not to imagine
what they might have attempted next!"
"Ai! I have never felt at ease among them, and Haldir does not let them
serve together, keeping them separated in different watches."
"Then why does he permit their service at all, if he trusts them not?"
"We are fewer now than in days of old," a listless shrug accompanied
this apology, "yet evil multiplies and the Shadow grows. Their
bows have proved true, even if their characters be false!"
A companionable silence fell between them as Legolas rested and Rumil
continued to run his hand soothingly through the wild elf's hair.
At last the Tawarwaith sighed and moved as though to right himself, but
it was a mistake and he hissed as the pain that had diminished flared
sharply. He returned to the relative comfort of stillness.
"You must let me have a look; you could have a broken or cracked rib,"
gently Rumil took hold of the Wood Elf's arm and drew it away.
The garment was simple and it opened easily, having been torn somewhat
during the scuffle, and he pulled it back to expose the injuries.
With careful fingers he pressed the purpling skin over the ribs and
Legolas sucked in his breath, wincing sharply as the fractured edges
scraped each other.
"Sorry," said Rumil. "That must be bound up, but I have nothing
with me. And this must hurt a bit," he said with concern,
gingerly drifting his touch over a knot swollen atop the scalp as the
archer flinched. Rumil did not dare attempt to inspect the
bleeding wound where teeth had bitten through the very tip of Legolas'
left ear. Without waiting for a reply, Rumil stood and reached
down to help Legolas stand also.
The feral elf could not suppress a strangled cry as he tried to
straighten and fiery jabs of agony needled through his chest. He
found his right ankle reluctant to bear him and gripped tightly onto
Rumil's shoulder, gratified by the support.
Pausing only to gather up the outcast's belongings, Rumil escorted him
slowly through the trees around the outskirts of the woods, heading for
a sentry post he knew would be unmanned.
Legolas did not question where he was being taken for he trusted the
Lorien elf, having heard truth and compassion in his voice when he
spoke. At last they stopped at the foot of a mighty Mallorn and
Legolas gazed at his benefactor questioningly.
"I have no wish to send you away injured and vulnerable," he
explained. "Here you may stay until you heal; you will not be
disturbed. I will tend the injuries and find you something to eat
and drink. Wait," he said and climbed swiftly up to a high flet
where a rope lay coiled neatly on the platform. He cast it down
and then returned to the forest floor as well. With deft fingers
he formed a loop and knotted it securely thus creating a foothold for
Legolas, and helped him step into it.
"Hold on tightly and I will pull you up. Can you use your injured
foot to help manoeuvre against the tree should the rope start to sway?"
he asked and Legolas nodded, grasping the smooth cord in his
hands. Rumil returned to the platform and easily hoisted the
lighter elf up to join him.
Once there he again lent his support to his guest and guided him to the
simple bed at the far end of the small talan. Legolas gratefully
allowed himself to be laid down and sighed, protectively covering his
middle again as he closed his eyes. He could hear the Lorien
archer moving around and the sound of water splashing into a basin.
Rumil came back to the bedside and set down the supplies he had
gathered along with the vessel.
Legolas opened his eyes and watched as Rumil shook the contents of a
small, waxy-leafed packet into the water, at once filling the room with
a rich and wholesome aroma that seemed reminiscent of a cool breeze
after a spring rainstorm. He looked up and Rumil smiled
encouragingly.
"Close your eyes again," he spoke mildly and his touch against the wild
elf's bruised face was cautious yet soothing, and the infused water
eased the throbbing everywhere it touched his body.
Legolas relaxed and found his breathing was falling into synchrony with
the Lorien elf's. Distantly he seemed to hear Rumil speaking but
in a strange way the words and voice were like music and matched the
tempo of his steady heart. Legolas let himself slip into reverie.
In a shimmering imitation of waves shoaling upon the shores of Eldamar,
the water fanned in ripples from edge to edge within the basin and the
image dissolved into nothing more than starlight's reflections
magnified in the gleam of the polished mithril bowl.
Forming an intractable frown upon her finely molded features, Galadriel
turned from the Mirror and sat down heavily upon the stone bench in the
quiet glade beside the banks of the silver stream, resting her elbows
on her knees and cupping her chin within her elegant fingers.
Thus Celeborn found her long past dawn.
No news of comfort had the Mirror granted, and she was unwilling to
carry this information to Elrohir, patiently waiting for her
return. As sometimes occurred, the gift of Seeing was incomplete,
and she had no way of understanding if this event would actually come
to pass, or what it could mean if it did. Her uneasiness she could not
explain nor comprehend the significance of the dread the vision had
imposed upon her soul.
If Rumil had taken the care of the wild elf in hand, then why did every
ounce of experience, instinct, and foresight warn of impending peril
should Legolas come to Lorien too soon?
Tbc
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