OF RIDDLES OF DOOM AND PATHS OF LOVE
by Soledad Cartwright
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Rating: PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.
Author's Notes:
This is Part 3 of my Boromir storyline called ''Fall Before Temptation''. This one happens in real time again, on the 25th of October, in the year 3018, in the Third Age of Middle-earth, in Rivendell.
To Legolas' age: Tolkien offers us no information whatsoever, but there are two vastly different opinions among fanfic writers about his age, from a mere 500 to over 3000 years. Since it serves the purpose of my story better, I opted for the second solution, choosing a more mature Legolas (in Elven terms), who was born around the end of the Second Age, while his grandfather, Oropher, still ruled the Wood, but was much too young to partake in the Great Battle upon Dagorlad. This makes him considerably younger than Elrond (his lover) but still older than Elrond's children – and Aragorn's whole House!
To Legolas' betrothed: I made her up out of thin air, for I felt necessary for the Crown Prince of Mirkwood to get married some day and have an heir. But the Nandorin princess won't play any role in this story arc, she is merely mentioned here.
Legolas' song is the second part of Tolkien's poem ''Kortirion Under the Trees'', taken from ''The Book of Lost Tales, Part I''. As in my first story, I've chosen the second version instead the final one. There are also certain paragraphs quoted almost literally from the books, for continuity's sake.
By the description of Elrond's House I leanded on the movie appearance.
CHAPTER ONE: THE RANGER
In the next morrow after his arrival in the legendary Elven valley, Boromir son of Denethor awoke early, despite the weariness cauised by his long, tiresome journey. Though he had slept from dusk till dawn, he still felt bone-weary and wished he could stay in this soft bed forever. Valar, he had not slept in a bed since he left the Golden Hall of Meduseld, almost a hundred days ago!
He opened his eyes and looked around in the large, airy room that obviously served as his bedchamber. Long and wide it was, and the soft curves of its ceiling arched towards each other gracefully and met high above his head like the fingers of two hands, touching gently at the fingertips. Like the soft touch of lovers in the morning after. Beautifully carved, slender pillars framed the windows on the right longer side of the room; windows, high and narrow, that reached from the stone-pawed floor up to the ceiling, turning the whole room into an airy archway and letting the first rays of the early morning sun and the light breeze in.
Slowly, carefully, Boromir pulled himself into a half-sitting position among smooth sheets and soft pillows, admiring the Elvish craftsmanship of the ethereal sculptures adorning the pillars, the slender candlestick on his right, with long, thin, scented candles burning low on it, and that of his large bed, with its headboard wrought into the shape of a peacock, set with sapphires and emeralds; it made him think of the sad and beautiful song that Legolas had sung the previous night upon having his first glimpse of Imladris, and that made him and his fellow Wood-Elves cry… with joy or sorrow, Boromir could not tell.
Faintly he remembered the ancient, gold-haired Elf, Glorfindel, escorting him into this guest house, saying that he would not risk crossing the bridge with him in this weary state, and that someone – maybe Legolas? – shall come for him in the morrow to bring him to the Lord Elrond, where he can speak of his errand. But everything else was just a blur in his foggy mind, for still he felt so very tired that not even hunger or thirst could reach him. Blissfully tired even for feeling sorrow or guilt, his ever-present company.
He was about to fall back onto the pillows when he felt the presence of someone else in the room. In a heartbeat, his keen instincts kicked in, and he jerked awake in no time. His eyes swept around the room, and soon he found the source of the strange feeling of being watched.
For the first glimpse he could see that the other one was not an Elf either. A strange-looking, weather-beaten man it was, clad in the rough, dark green greab and soft, grey leather shirt of the Rangers of the North. His long legs were streched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but were as worn as the rest of his clothes. His shoulder-long, slightly wavy hair was raven-dark, but interwoven with grey strings, his pale face stern and his keen eyes grey. Full of sorrow and wisdom those grey eyes were, reminding Boromir of his brother and, surprisingly, his father as well.
The pain returned with full force to his heart at that thought.
''Do I know you, huntsman?'', he asked, for the strange familiarity of the other confused him. But his visitor simply shook his shaggy head.
''Nay, I do not think so, Heir of Gondor. Though I visited Minas Tirith in my youth long gone; but that was a long time ago. The Lord Denethor was not even married to your mother back then.''
''In that case'', Boromir said, ''I might ask wo you are and what you are doing in my room, I believe.''
''I am called Strider'', the other answered, ''at least among the folks of the North. And I have been sent to escort you to Elrond's halls.''
Boromir frowned. There was something in this man, something that he could almost grab with his very hands, but in the last moment it eluded his grasp.
''I thought the Prince of Mirkwood was supposed to come for me'', he said. Tha faint smile that swept over Strider's grim face was beyond his understanding, though.
''Legolas got… distracted'', the Ranger replied. ''Many years has he been kept away from Imladris, and many people here want to share songs and wine and tidings with him. I am one of those people, myself.''
''Have you known him for a long time?'' Boromir asked, getting up regretfully and looking around for a washing basin. ''Are you some sort of Elf-friend the old tales tell us about?''
''Bath is behind that silver curtain'', Strider guided him with the familiarity of a recurring guest. ''Take your time. Elrond does not expect you before the third hour of the day1.''
Boromir followed his lead and found not only hot and cold water aplenty for his disposal, but also towels and scented oil and his own clothes, cleaned and laid out, ready to be put on. He took a quick bath (after a hundred days of perilous wandering it was too good an offer to let it pass), rubbed himself dry with a large linen towel, got dressed and combed his still wet hair. Then he returned to the bedchamber.''
''You did not answer my question'', he said, sitting down at the small table across Strider and eyed the waiting breakfast eagerly. He had not had a decent meal (or a decent bath or even a decent bed) since he left Edoras.
''No, I did not'', Strider smiled, wide and open this time, and that smile, strangely, made his chiseled features look so much younger, that Boromir started guessing just how old the Ranger might be. ''Not that it would be a secret, though. I have known him a long, long time indeed – as mortal Men would count time, at least. For him and his Kin, however, it is but a wink of an eye. But do eat first… you must be famished. We can talk later all you want.''
Suddenly Boromir realized the ravenous hunger that had been eating him up from the inside all those recent days (having lived on cram and feywine alone), and had to admit that Strider was right. So he slid closer to the table and carefully tasted what the Elves had prepared for him.
Used to the food in the mess-rooms of Minas Tirith, where he would eat in the company of his men every time his presence was not required at the Steward's table, this meal seemed to him like a walking dream. There was bread, surpassing the savour of a fair white loaf to one who is starving; and fruits sweet as wild berries and richer than the tended fruits of garden; and he drained a cup that was filled with a fragrant draught, cool as clear fountain and golden as a summer afternoon.
Strider watched him quietly, with a half smile on his face, and that remainded Boromir of long-gone days of his youth, when his brother had sat across him in their childhood chambers, watching him with those clear, grey eyes, older and wiser than such a young boy should have had. For though the younger of them, Faramir had always been the wiser, more somber and grave – mayhap the way their father had treated him all his life had made him age untimely.
And the old pain and guilt grabbed Boromir's heart in that tight grip again, too tight to let him even breathe; and the smile faded away from his face and his storm-grey eyes grew sad again.
So deep had he sunken in his misery that it took him a few moments to even realize that the Ranger had been talking to him. He felt ashamed and shook his head in regret.
''Forgive me, huntsman. My mind was elswhere.''
''And not a happy place that was, it seems'', Strider answered in a not unkind voice. ''Never mind me, though. I was just wondering why my presence might bother you so much. You seem… uncomfortable in my company. Mayhap I should send for Legolas, after all. He is known to have the skill of soothing other people's troubled minds.''
''Nay, naught of that'', Boromir protested, still ashamed of his own behaviour, ''You do not bother me at all. You just… remind me of someone.''
Strider looked at him with that strange understanding again – with the sorrow-worn glance of a Man who had seen too much, good things and bad things alike, but, at the end, mostly bad ones. Their glances met, grey eyes staring into grey eyes, the heavy burden and bitter wisdom of long-gone Westernesse mirroring in each other, secrets and legacies known only by those who had the blood of Númenor in their veins. Finally, the Ranger smiled faintly again and asked:
''Is that good or bad?''
''Bitter'', Boromir answered and turned his eyes away.''
''Sometimes it is'', the older man agreed quietly; then he stood. ''Have you had your fill yet? Then let us walk through the valley. I wish to show you its beauty. Mayhap it would ease the pain of your heart.''
''That I very much doubt'', Boromir sighed, ''But I am willing to follow you nonetheless. So very rare the times are when I can enjoy unspoiled beauty in peace.''
They walked through the room, crushing the fallen, windswept leaves that were rolling back and forth on the stone floor, beneath their feet, passed one of the tall, narrow windows that led outside and came to a long, open terrace that looked, over the deep, rocky bed of the stream, straight to Elrond's house.
Built on great pillars hewn from the living rock itself, like an exotic southern flower, the many-towered house of Elrond shimmered pearly white and pale gold in the early morning sun, in the nest of beautiful trees and thick bushes that had already turned red and gold in their autumn glory. Some of the towers were angular, others looked like ripe spring blossoms, and high roofs and gracefully spiralling archways bound them together to a single, ethereal construction, open for sunshine and wind and even for the rain in some places, but still strong enough to withstand the strongest army, for its strength came not from the weapons and walls that defended it, but from the powers and strong-will of its Master.
Strider lead Boromir through a hidden path to the very brink of the river. It was flowing fast and noisily, as mountain-streams do. There was only a narrow bridge of stone without a paraplet, that connected the two parts of the valley, and Boromir looked at it doubtfully, for the bridge was very narrow, indeed, and arched up rather high, and he was still a little unsure on his feet.
''Be careful'', Strider warned, guiding Boromir over their dangerous path, ''it is not an easy way for us who are not as light-footed as Elves are.''
''Yet you do not seem to falter'', Boromir noticed, admiring the smooth, graceful moves of the other. Strider smiled slightly.
''The paths of this dale are well-known to me'', he said, ''for I was brought up here. When my father was slain, my mother gave me in Elrond's care, and I grew up almost Elven.''
''Never have I heard that Elves would take the sons of mortal Men in foster care'', Boromir wondered, ''not since the Elder Days.''
''It is rare, indeed'', the Ranger nodded, ''but my father was an Elf-friend, one of the few that in these days still remained; and an ally of Elrond, who always held the Dúnedain of the North in his good graces.''
Passing the bridge, they crossed several arched corridors, each open in both sides, each different yet each beautiful in its own way, and came to Elrond's inner gardens, bathed in early sunlight and deep autumn gold. There was a round, stone table in the middle of it, and low benches were standing in a loose circle aroudn the table, and the whole garden was encircled by tall, narrow windows that led, instead of doors, to various parts of the Last Homely House on every side.
''We came early'', Strider stated, looking across the garden and up to a certain window, somewhere on the second level. ''The Lord Elrond is still occupied, it seems.''
Boromir followed his glance and – to his great surprise – he discovered the Prince of Mirkwood, sitting on the windowsill, turned halfways towards the garden. He wore a shimmering, silver embroided shirt rather than his usual green and brown garb of soft leather and rough linen, and his long, auburn hair was not ornamentally braided either; it fell freely upon his back and shoulders.
His eyes were shut, his head tilted back as he sang softly, almost inaudably to the trees and the morning sun. In this relaxed state, strangely, he did not seem as youthful and innocent as usual, though no less beautiful; a fair, ageless creature of great power and wisdom… and of great sadness, too. Boromir listened intently, for he recognized the song, through this time the words were different.
Thou art the inmost province of the fading isle,
Where linger yet the Lonely Companies;
Still, undespairing, here they softly file
Along thy paths, with solemn harmonies,
The holy people of an elder day,
Immortal Elves, that singing fair and fey
Of vanished things that were, and could be yet,
Pass like a wind among the rustling trees,
A wave of bowing grass, and we forget
Their tender voices like wind-shaken bells
Of flowers, their gleaming hair like golden asphodels.
Once Spring was here with joy, and all was fair
Among the trees; but Summer drowsing by the stream
Heard trembling in her heart the secret player
Pipe, out beyond the tangle of her forest dream,
The long-drawn tune that Elvish voices made
Foreseeing Winter through the leafy glade;
The late flowers nodding on the ruined walls
Then stooping heard afar that haunting flute
Beyond the sunny aisles and tree-propped halld;
For thin and clear and cold the note,
As strand of silver glass remote.
Then all thy trees, Kortirion, were bent,
And shook with sudden, whispering lament:
For passing were the days and doomed the nights
When flitting ghost-moths danced as satellites
Round tapers in the moveless air;
And doomed already were the radiant dawns,
The fingered sunlight drawn across the lawns,
The odour and sthe slumbrous noise of meads,
Where all the sorrel, flowers, and pluméd weeds
Go down before the scyther's share.
When cool October robed her dewy furze
In netted sheen of gold-shot gossamers,
Then the wide-umbraged elms began to fail;
Their mourning multitude of leaves grew pale,
Seeing afar the icy spears
Of Winter marching blue behind the sun
Of bright All-Hallows. Then their hour was done,
And wanly borne on wings of amber pale
They beat the wide airs of the fading vale,
And flew like birds across the misty meres..
The desperate loging and infinite sadness of that song made Boromir's heart ache.
''What is this song?'', he asked. ''And why does it seem to bring the Wood-Elves such sorrow?''
But Strider only shook his head in reply.
''It is a long and sorrowful tale, son of Denethor, but it is not mine to tell. Ask Legolas when you feel close enough to him to risk such a question.''
''How could I ever hope to get close enough to him for such a question?'' Boromir asked. ''I only travelled with him a day or two… and I know naught about Elves. He might be older than those huge trees over there, even if he looks like a youngster for the mortal eye.''
''That he does, indeed'', Strider smiled again. ''I know not the year, but Legolas was born around the end of the Second Age, ere the Dark Lord was overthrown.''
''That long?'' Boromir was hard-pushed to believe it. He knew the Elf had to be centuries older than he but never thought him *that* ancient. At least as Men counted. For an Elf it was not such a high age.
Strider nodded.
''A great source of both, pride and sorrow, those years for the Silvan folk were. For not long after the last-born of their Crown Prince came to the light of this world, Oropher King of the Wood was slain upon the dark plains of Dagorlad and the crown went to Thranduil, his only son. Many hundred years afterwards had Thranduil nursed a grudge against Elrond, last Lord of the Noldor remaining in Middle-earth. For he blamed them – and their failed leadership, as he saw it – for the untimely death of his father and the heavy losses of his people in the Great War.''
''Justly so?'' Boromir asked, intrigued by the intricacies of Elven politics. Never in his life had he thought of Elves as real people, guided by the same urges and passions as mortal Men – and suffering of the same flaws.
The Ragner sighed.
''Nay, I would not say so. Wood-Elves are the greatest archers Middle-earth has ever seen, but they are less great in following orders – and their weapons are light. Yet in his grief and anger Thranduil was not willing to admit that the free-spirited way of his people led to many unnecessary deaths in battle. For he led home only the third of the army that was following Oropher to war… and no one of his three older sons were among them.''
''But surely it has changed since those days'', Boromir said, ''for Legolas seemed overjoyed upon seeing Imladris again; and he and his people were welcomed by the Elves in the dale with open arms.''
''It was Legolas who changed it'', Strider answered. ''It began more than a thousand years after the Bettle upon Dagorlad.. about the same time as Hyarmendacil, King of Gondor, conquested Harad. Surely, you were told about those events in your youth.''
Now it was Boromir's turn to sigh heavily.
''Aye I was. That must have been the most glorious of times for Gondor… and for the whole of our kin…''
''Yet an old evil reappeared as well'', Strider replied sadly, ''and has made a stronghold at Dol Guldur. A shadow fell on Greenwood the Great, home of the Silvan folk, and Men began to call it Mirkwood, for nameless fear haunted its paths and strange deaths happened under its trees. Thranduil became worried and finally gave in to the urgings of his son. He overcame his pride and allowed Legolas to seek out the guidance of the White Council. There Legolas met Elrond, almost two thousand years ago, befriended him and his family, and the long-held grudge between the Forest and the Dale came to an end.''
''As simple as that?'' Boromir wondered. The Ranger nodded.
''As simple as that. Legolas can be very persuasive if he puts his mind to it – and a remarkable mind it is! Do not let yourself be fooled by his easy-going manner. He might be a mere Silvan Elf on his mother's side, but his fathernal ancestors were Sindarin princes and belonged to the family of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, the greatest Sindar King who never left Middle-earth and whose daughter, Lúthien, helped to defeat Morgoth himself.''
Boromir glanced upwards again, watching in awe as Legolas finished his song and got lost in his own thoughts, filled with deep sorrow as it seemed. A mere mortal could only guess how many memories unfolded in his mind in that very moment, reaching across over three thousand years.
Then another one, a tall and strong man clad in a deep burgundy robe emerged from the shadows of the room, the curtain of his long, raven hair hiding his face from the watching eyes. Quietly he approached the saddened Wood-Elf and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Light and gentle was his touch, a simple gesture between two old friends, yet it told of more intimacy than a fierce embrace between two young lovers. Legolas sighed, leaning his forehead against the other's shoulder for a fleeting moment; then he looked up again and smiled, the sorrow fading away from his fair face like snow in the heat of the midday sun, and he seemed young again, young and fresh as a green spring leaf he had been named after, all those countelss centuries ago.
After that, the hand of the other fell aways from his shoulder, and they retreated into the shadows of the room again.
Boromir felt his chest tightening with pain. That touch, so natural, so unashamed of…
''That was…''
''The Lord Elrond, yes'', the Ranger nodded. He did not seem to have taken offense on the subtle but undoubtably intimate interlude they just watched. ''We can go to his antechamber now, for he has no doubt noticed our presence.''
''But they… you said they were friends…''
''They are. They only became lovers after Elrond's wife departed over Sea, some five hundred years ago'', he smiled again, fondly this time. ''Though I do suspect that Legolas had been in love with Elrond a lot longer.''
Seeing Boromir's shell-shocked face, he solemnly added:
''Elves live very long, and they see things differently than Men do, Son of Gondor. They celebrate love in many forms and ways, and their heart is often wide enough for more than one person, though they seldom share themselves with different lovers at a given time. Great was Elrond's grief after his wife parted, his heart barren and full of pain. His household, and even his children, feared that he would fade away and die of broken heart as many Elves do when they lose someone very dear to them. So Glorfindel sent for Legolas, knowing how close he and Elrond always were, and Legolas healed Elrond's heart.''
''His children approved him bedding another male?'' Boromir could still not believe what he was hearing, remembering all too well the cruelty his father had reacted after detecting the 'indiscretion' of one of his councillors. ''And someone that much younger?''
''You must not look at this through the narrow-mindedness of your own people, Denethor's son'', the Ranger warned. ''Even if Legolas had only offered Elrond the comfort of flesh, his children would have been grateful. For more than anything did they fear the loss of their father, so shortly after they had to say farewell to their mother. But Legolas gave him his heart, his loyalty and his free-spirited soul as well. And every time he comes into this valley, the Elves who dwell here sing with joy, for the burden of endless centuries seems to fall from Elrond's heart.''
''But is Legolas not the Crown Prince of his father's kingdom?'' Boromir asked, confused. ''Would he not have to sire an heir to continue his bloodline?''
Was it not the same thing his father demanded from him?
''He is and he would'', Strider nodded. ''In fact, he has been betrothed to a Nandorin princess for quite some time.''
''And she is willing to share his husband-to-be with a male lover?'' Elven customs proved to be more confusing than Boromir would ever have thought.
Strider shrugged.
''They have an understanding. As long as Elrond remains in Middle-earth, Legolas shall remain with him. But after the Lord of Imladris departs over Sea, Legolas shall return to his father's realm and wed the princess.''
''Do you know this princess?'' Boromir was getting curious. Nandor Elves had become rare in recent centuries – moreso than other Elves –, and hardly ever had he heard about them but in ancient legends. Strider nodded.
''I met her once, last time I visited Mirkwood on Gandalf's errand. She is rather young as Elves go – and very beautiful, a rare gem even among her fair kin. I do not know her well, though. Nandor Elves are very secretive; they live apart even from their own kin and do not trust mortal Men, not even Elf-friends.''
''I did not know that there still were Green-Elves in Middle-earth at all'', Boromir marvelled. ''I was told that their last ships took off from their haven near Dol Amroth more than a thousand years ago.''
''That is very true'', the Ranger said, ''Yet there are still those who remained, hidden among the others of their Kin; and some of them even returned to the woods, eastern from the Misty Mountains. I know very little of them, though. Mayhap Legolas shall be willing to tell you their story one day; he seems to have grown rather fond of you during your journey together. Come now. It would be unseeming to make the Lord Elrond wait.''
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Curious what Elrond will have to say? Go to Chapter 2!
End note:
1. 9 o'clock in the morning, actually.