HALSION DAYS
by Mirwalker
"Alas for us all! And for all that walk the world in these after-days.
For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream."
--Legolas to Gimli, in Farewell to Lorien, Chapter VIII, The Lord of the Rings
NOTE: This story is a sequel to my previous LOTR story, Travel as the Sun. I would suggest reading that first for plot and character backstory.
Chapter One
His literally sharp ears detected no sound, while his pointed nose found only the faintest, if ever present, scent of pine. From those same trees, he sensed nothing amiss; yet, he could not shake the inexplicable tension that had surrounded him as he climbed this rise along the cliffside. Peering cautiously around him, he crept forward as the underbrush thickened among the less sparse trunks.
The trampled brush had clearly led in this direction. Though the destruction was not so great as in the softer growth further back toward camp, whatever had been uprooting trees and destroying their newly planted saplings certainly seemed to have passed this way as well. Having tracked it this far, he knew the princes would be pleased to know who or what had been sabotaging their restoration in the past weeks.
Ahead, he heard a heavy rustling. Looking about, he decided the dense limbs and foliage of the trees here would make taking to them useless. Notching an arrow in his bow, he inched forward toward the thicket ahead, mindful of the narrowing shelf that dropped off well to his right.
Above the ledge, the cliff reached out into the air, creating an overhang—a perfect location for a nest or den. But for what? Picking his way slowly, he paused between each step to reassess and reacquire the prey. Moving cautiously toward the grotto, he strained all his senses to sense the strain with which the woods around him coursed.
Expecting to find only some subtle traces of his prey, he was surprised when, there among the rocks, a great shape heaved mightily in the shadows. Shadows! An anxiety he'd not felt since Mirkwood was still Mirkwood swept through him. And yet, this was not quite the same; where the haunts of Mirkwood had felt clearly wrong and evil, this was simply… not right.
He squinted and sniffed, trying to make out the nature and notion of this unsettling and unfamiliar presence. Both of them. All!
A motion beside him.
A roar as near as loud.
A large, dark shape above him.
A step aside to avoid it, finding nothing below his foot.
Falling…
Miles to the northwest, along the same tall ridge, grew a small settlement, remarkable in that it blended with the forest around it in ways so simple and ingenuous that one could not help but marvel at its organic unity. If one noticed it at all.
It was built, in fact, with the eye-pleasing invisibility that only elves could craft. Among the few men who had ever seen any elven community, and among the fewer still who had returned to tell, this collection of clustered groundhomes and scattered tree flets would have suggested a particularly plain elegance. Not even a single hand's count of humans would know by appearance that this place had been built by the humblest of elves, the simple woodfolk of Silvan kindred. For, though many mortals had heard that the tree spirits had come down from the Great Mirkwood, not one elf had been glimpsed among the trees since they took leave of the King and Prince and entered the forest to make it well and make it home more than two generations ago.
For even among the Elves, both those earlier realms and those few scattered enclaves still remaining, this group was reclusive. Though the Dark Lord had passed and his minions scattered, these elves in their former forest home had learned well the security of secrecy, and had continued that caution beyond the clear dangers of the last age. Their shy and secluded nature had served them well in the last centuries among dragons, goblins and Shadow. And now they had little interest in seeing or being seen by men, as their work on the forests was great and their stay in the woods of Ithilien was to be brief.
Indeed, even of Elessar, King of the West, and Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, who both had given permission for the elves to settle and renew these forests—neither had actually visited in the more than five dozen years since the elven sanctuary of Dundaur(1) had been established. When counsel was needed, a beacon fire was lit on Cair Andros, a messenger was sent to a simple marker along the forest's river edge, and always an elf would come to meet him there. Within days of that message, the settlement's leader would appear as requested in the court at Edoras, Emin Arnen or Minas Tirith.
All that was known among the realms of men was that the settlement had been built, or perhaps more descriptively, had grown just above a gentle spring in the firred crags that dotted the forest between Osgiliath and Henneth Annûn. Nestled on some subtle point of wooded rock across the Southward Road from the Ephel Dúath mountains, its perch provided a strategic advantage over those who might approach from the valley road or along the River Anduin. From the taller trees, the elves had impressive views out over that river's plains to the West, and of the mountains curving away behind to the south and north.
In early morning, the Shadow Mountains to the east cast sleepy namesakes down across the vale, until the Sun's steady march pushed the dark back over the craggy peaks. By evening, that same bright star settled far across the plains and distant hills like a beacon, 'til only faltering rays beckoned longing hearts to follow before night reigned again.
It was in the top of one tall tree, gazing into that bedding Sun, that two tall elves stood this evening as they did each dusk: an archer prince with his heart aching to obey the Westward call, and a fletcher prince wishing for the morning light to turn faces away to the east again.
"Come, my love; 'tis time for evenmeal," said Dunthon, as he gently rubbed the arm whose hand held his. "Galion has another new recipe he wishes us to try."
Legolas wrestled his thoughts from the sea beyond his sight, and the river sounds within his hearing. Focusing on his nearby mate and matters, he turned his thoughts to the scents of supper that wafted up into the trees. "As winter begins to whisper in the wind, I am happy now especially that he chose to come and cook for us here."
Dunthon buttoned a leather tunic over his woven shirt, and held up a dark vest into which Legolas slipped. "He served your father for longer than our lifetimes, and he may finally now butle for himself in friendship rather than fealty. While never caring to be served, I am happy to indulge his skills when he chooses to share them."
Legolas smiled, testing the menu upon the breeze, and playfully chased Dunthon off the edge of the tall platform. Having long learned that the denser foliage of these Ithilien trees was quick to snag and scratch them, the pair leapt carefully down the maze of branches from their ladderless flet to the forest floor before renewing the race.
As they approached a small clearing set further back from the cliff's edge, they could hear the quiet chime of elven voices, most chatting in Sindarin—the common speech among the three elvish realms represented. Entering together, Legolas saw, as expected, how the cooking fire burned smokelessly against the hollowed boulder, as the former royal servant stirred its rich aroma into the air instead.
At one plank table sat Elocen and Eluvenel, twin sister and brother, still dressed in the grey-suggesting-silver cloth of Lorien. Though they had come to the Dundaur more than two dozen years before, they had maintained their Galadhrim dress and reserved demeanor, and were still, a quarter century later, considered a bit boorish by the elf-lively Silvans.
At the next table, Suriel, the weaver last-come from Imladris, fitted a winter jacket on Gwedhwest the spearman, as the healer Auramdir looked on. Other members of the community were scattered around the clearing—seated at one of the other tables, or lingering on the thresholds of one of the groundhomes nestled among the dense growth. Most of the elves lived above the ground, but near enough this common space to quickly reach it and the large tree that dominated it. For there at the circle's eastmost edge and opposite the cliff to the west was a large oak that gave the settlement its proper name among those who knew of it at all: Halsion.(2)
As the royal pair passed the tree to approach the dinner gathering, Dunthon, as always, rested his hand against its growing trunk. He had suggested and then himself carried the acorn from Haldhoron,(3) his flet hometree in Eryn Lasgalen, and planted it here with a bit of Lorien soil. As he worked alongside the others to clear Ithilien of dark forms, introduce healthier blooms and nurture native plants, he had paid special care to this sapling as both a link to his northern home and a light for this southern one.
Rounding the living tower, they joined a small group of elves gathered around the end of a table, farthest from the fire. Spread before them on the table were a number of packs and satchels, variously empty of and filled with a variety of leaf- and skins-wrapped packages and dried goods.
"Hail, captain," called Legolas, to the elf standing in the center of the small and rapt assembly. The standing elf bowed, and those sitting around the table nodded to the couple as they continued working on their tasks. Picking up a satchel of dried leaves, Legolas inquired as if he knew not the answer, "Have we become so settled here that we set up market in Ithilien?"
"We prepare for your harvest journey to Gondor's tower, my lord," smiled Duvenech. Only a century older than Legolas, the tall and broad elf was an accomplished tracker and warrior, and had been the first to volunteer to accompany the princes to Dundaur. Well-known from his service in Legolas' guard, he had been named Legolas' captain here in Ithilien. "We soon depart for Minas Tirith, and we wish to be sure we have all the requested herbs for Gondor's kitchens and healing houses."
For nearly half a century, the princes and a small guard had made yearly trips to the court of Elessar, restored king of Gondor and beyond. With harvests in and winter approaching, the elves celebrated the year's plenty and shared their skills with human craftsmen driven indoors by the arrival of autumn's chill.
It was a happy time for the leaders of the Ring War in the south to gather as one—even as their number had continued to shrink. Boromir and Denethor of Gondor, and Theoden of Rohan had been lost in the War itself. Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, and the Three Keepers had sailed West only two years after the destruction of the Ring. The remaining halflings, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took had made quite the names and lives for themselves in the distant Shire, and had traveled only occasionally back over the Misty Mountains since the fall of Mordor.
Though the Fellowship had never gathered complete since its disbanding outside Isengard so many autumns before, these annual partial gatherings had become all the reunion these makers of history could make. Eomer King of Rohan and Faramir of Ithilien joined Gimli of Aglarond and Legolas of Dundaur in attending Aragorn become Elessar in the White City as the white frost and snows arrived in their collected realms. There elf, dwarf and man recounted past times, celebrated todays and planned for future ones. It was a ritual almost all looked forward to with great anticipation.
Not among that number, Dunthon looked up from his reflection on this imminent journey as Ristolf jogged into the circle and directly to Legolas and Duvenech, nodding to each.
"Brannon nîn,(4) Captain. Sirs, Haethros has failed to make the watch-change. As Leithian and Ethuil came to relieve us, he did not appear. We three searched about, but could find no sign or sound of him. They have remained to look and watch, but I have come for additional eyes and ears with which to seek him."
Tension enveloped this quiet gathering, as even those beyond elven earshot felt the alarm of those nearer than they. It had been decades since the last unexplained troubles in the woods. In the first years, the forest had hidden a small number of fugitive orcs and men, and the land had not been so familiar to the immigrant elves. But the remnants of Sauron's forces had long been found, slain or returned to their homelands; and the traveled elves had well learned their new home.
Despite this long-built comfort and familiarity, however, none needed mention how in recent weeks their freshly planted trees and plants had been destroyed. Saplings had been uprooted; smaller succulents removed altogether; and ragged paths of broken branches and trampled earth had led in muddied circles or ended in streams or rocky lanes.
But more disturbing than the destruction of the plants—and this was quite disturbing in itself—was the fact that none among them had sensed or scouted any glimpse of the culprit. Some had occasionally felt some brush of older dread, as in the brief moment of doubt when an adult suddenly remembers a childhood fear, and worries for a fleeting moment whether it were wise or foolish to outgrow and ignore the threat under the bed, beyond the campfire's protective light or around the next corner. "Shadows of Shadows," Meren had named the sensation—his description bringing little comfort to anyone.
And in the report of Haethros' unusual absence, these dreads and doubts settled on the small community more quickly than any nightfall.
"What was Haethros' path today?" asked Legolas, long accustomed to his role as leader among them, and anxious beyond his rank for the elf and the evergreens too.
Duvenech answered briskly, feeling an even greater weight of direct responsibility for his warriors. "He was to survey south today, my lord. We have extended our scouting ranges, in response to the damage to the new plantings and in preparation for our departure to Gondor."
"Then south we search," ordered the prince. And turning, "Galion, Halsion is yours until our return."
The collected if uncomfortable calm that arrived with Ristolf gave way to swift, but well-ordered commotion as nearly three dozen elves gathered their ever-handy hunting gear, broke into pairs and fanned south from the settlement into the familiar wilderness. Some pairs took immediately to the trees, while others hurried silently along invisible paths.
With no more than a confident glance, Legolas squeezed Dunthon's hand and led Aduial off to the east, while Duvenech nodded to Lendlir as they took point toward the forest's west edge. Dunthon turned to Ristolf, his personal royal guard, and they leapt lightly into the treetops heading along the center of the forest. The remaining pairs spread out in parallel to these lead groups, so that soon a solid line of scouts and trackers was moving down the narrow forest. Without speaking aloud, the search parties moved quickly and cautiously, stretching all their sharp senses ahead of and around them for some sign of their missing kinsman or the mischief he may have found.
Trouble had returned to Dundaur and, gracious hosts as elves could be, this guest was not welcome.
Hours later, near the mountains' boundary, Legolas paused a moment in his search, wishing that the overnight clouds had showered rain and not just broken moonshade upon the forest. For though the water would have washed sweet pine into the air, making scent tracking nearly impossible, he would much prefer to be lost in that perfume than to lack the clear pathways of prey's footprints in freshly wet soil. He smiled, knowing that similar thoughts passed through minds across the forest now as many sharp eyes scanned dry earth for absent clues.
Continuing through the night and a good distance from the settlement, he and his search partner had found no sign of any elf, nor of any other being. Just as the late morning sun began to emerge over the eastern peaks, and as he leapt from one scraggly fir to another, a surge of tension swept over him like a gust of wind. He looked to Aduial who also had halted several trees over, and Aduial stared back, confirming that both had the sensed the same change, along the same connections to others of their community. Still without speaking, they both turned south, toward the other pairs and the ridgeline than ran through the forest, dividing it unevenly into high vista ridge and low river slopes.
From his kindred further ahead, Legolas now sensed sudden sadness and a growing, cold anger. These shared feelings drew him faster to their source. Remaining in the trees, he and Aduial wound down the steep slope to the forest's lower level where the wordless call of others' minds led them along the cliffbase, a number of miles further from the settlement.
As the distress and resolve became almost palpable, Legolas and Aduial left the trees and stepped cautiously into a small opening in the forest cover just below the rockface. At one edge, two elves knelt among the jumbled rocks that littered the area, and Legolas sensed six pair of vigilant eyes alert in the trees around, standing close watch over the scene before him.
Grief washed over the prince as tangibly as did the dappled morning sunlight passing through clouds and trees to calico the scene. Úrsir took note of him first, looking up with tearful eyes, and Clair glanced up briefly from her silent farewell to acknowledge his arrival before dropping her gaze again. His eyes followed to find emerging from under a draped blanket, one frayed braid of dark brown hair and a graceful, green-clad arm unnaturally bent. And all was too still and quiet.
The metalsmith from Imladris left her husband attending the motionless form, and approached Legolas. She spoke softly in respect, sorrow and stealth. "My lord, Dunthon and Ristolf found him first; Úrsir and I came second. It is clear that he fell… or was pushed… from the ledges above."
Legolas looked up the sheer slope, and Aduial stepped protectively closer with arrow notched.
Clair continued, "Dunthon took Ristolf and four others above to search. Others join them as they arrive."
Legolas cast his mind about them for some signs of progress or success. "The forest has grown silent as they hunt."
As if to spite him, a broken bleat echoed from far above, followed by a horrendous roar and hurried cries in various elvish tongues. They all looked up, primed arrowheads following, as trees snapped, bows sang and something large thrashed beyond sight but well within earshot. Scanning the vision-filling cliffs above them, the elves worked to isolate on which of the various outcroppings and levels the obvious struggle was unfolding.
Narrowing their search, Ristolf's clear voice cried above the din, "Saingund!"(5)with an urgency and panic that chilled this prince's heart. At the same time, someone in the trees nearby shouted, "O thaen!,"(6) whirling elven heads and taut-drawn bows to a point directly overhead.
All looked up to see a great, bellowing and five-limbed shape pour over a ledge far above, and grow ever larger in its descent. A shower of rocks and dirt surrounded it, as Aduial grabbed Clair and Legolas and pulled them back toward the cover of the trees.
Legolas saw Úrsir throw himself across his fallen comrade, to protect him from the rock shower. Returning his eyes to the strange-showering skies, he calculated that the dark shape would crash to the ground just beside the prone and the protecting elves. They would be soiled and scratched perhaps, but safe.
It was in these slowed seconds that his eyes were caught by a second, smaller and more familiar form falling beside the first. Their eyes met: Two still; two in motion. Two light; two dark. Four fearful. United in one thought: melda.(7)
Shaking off his guard's grip, Legolas screamed, "Dunthon!" and jumped forward. A sickening trumpet blast blew, the earth shook, a cloud of air and dust erupted between them, and the steady archer was knocked from his feet.
Text Notes
1 Sindarin: dun "west" lenited taur "wood"
2 Sindarin: variation on hall "exalted, high" ion "son of"
3 Sindarin: hall "exalted, high" lenited doron "oak"
4 Sindarin: brannon "lord," nîn "my"
5 Sindarin: sain "new" lenited cund "prince"
6 Sindarin: o "from", stop mutated taen "height"
7 Quenya: "beloved"