So it's here! The sequel, all (mostly) written and ready to start. This will be much longer than The Child and the Darkness and will be posting pretty regularly, although chapters will not generally be as long as this one! This picks up about a week or two after the end of Child, and I guess you don't really need to have read that but it will certainly make a lot more sense if you have. I won't ramble too much, but thanks as always to Lindir's Ghost who has kept me going, even when I was ready to just give up and vanish.
Usual disclaimers apply - none of this is mine. I really hope you enjoy.
MyselfOnly
Elves, I have decided, are too easily excited.
If they are not spending hours staring at the sky then they are crouched beside a stream, the same enthralled expression upon their faces as they watch nothing happen. They will play in the rain no matter their age, and they will race one another as though it is the only sensible way to get from one place to another. Each moment is a joy of its own, each occurrence a reason to sing, and right now it is tiresome.
I do not know where I am being led only that I was enjoying a perfectly deserved meal not ten minutes ago. Now I am being dragged down the heavily tree lined road that leads from the palace by an elf breathless with excitement.
"Hortho Gimli! We will miss it!" Idhren urges. He is frustrated by my dragging heels, and I give in; it is the look in his eye and the tone in his voice that spur me. He is excited, yes, but his eyes are both thrilled and worried. Something happens, and I push the irritation aside to run along a road I have come to know well.
I am brought to the practise fields, another place I have come to know well. It is windy today, and the trees are loud with it but beneath the soughing branches there is another sound that alarms me: the sound of metal clashing against metal. Someone fights, and as we come from the trees I see there is an audience. A number of elven warriors stand curiously, leaning on hands braced upon bows and sitting in branches. I see the King stood with a group I know to be healers and a hawk faced elf with ice chip eyes, who is Thranduil's chief advisor: Lord Ionwë. They stand and watch two elves fighting, and one of them is Legolas.
The laegrim prince is dressed all in his warrior's garb as I have seen so infrequently these weeks gone. His hair is tied back in his neat warrior braids, he is wearing boots again and I am unsure at first as to what is happening. He is not fighting in play, he is not holding back, and his eyes are feral and predatory as he and another elf I recognise as Orthorien circle one another. Legolas twirls his blades, and it looks like a casual gesture but I watch closely for any stiffness or signs that his hands are hurting him. If they ache it does not show in the graceful movements, and as golden and mahogany hair pennants in the wind they are wild things doing battle beneath a heavy sky.
I have seen Legolas and Aragorn spar with one another many times, and even I have practised with the elf. His advantage is in speed, and I have always known that he holds back when he spars with us. For physical strength he will never match us in the wielding of a sword or axe but he is stronger in sinew and leg – I have felt the crushing grip of his hands, seen how he can leap about the trees and change direction in a sprint like a bird turns on the wing. I see him fight now with his peers, and it is brutal: they do not spare any care for one another as they spar. They move with all the savage grace gifted upon their kind, twisting and dancing as their singing silver blades come close – so close – to causing very real damage.
Legolas kicks and strikes Orthorien to the chest, and elicits a winded grunt. Orthorien twists Legolas by the arm savagely, and has him almost to his knees before he melts from the hold and dances from reach. It is raw and savage, and they bend like the willow around each blow. They anticipate one another's movements like a bird in flight and blood is drawn once, twice… I cannot watch! They are to kill one another!
I look to the king and he watches his sole child and heir with cold, assessing eyes. It is not his son that he watches but one of his captains. If Legolas is to be considered fit for duty again he must pass this test before the eyes of his lord and his betters, and I hope for the lad, I truly do, but mostly I hope that he survives this fight in any condition to be pleased by his performance.
I watch again and push down a frantic urge to run out to the field to stop this nonsense. I try to see it as the warriors see it…they do not fear. I hear them murmur in appreciation of a move well made, I see Idhren turn to me and smile in approval as Orthorien pivots about a sweep of Legolas' blade and jabs an elbow hard between his shoulders but I can only grimace. The warriors have seen this display time beyond count and are not worried so I take a breath, and I look again.
Orthorien is more experienced, that I know. He is older than Legolas by a good deal but the prince has talent on his side. The older elf moves with practised ease: he has greater power but for Legolas it is instinct and nature. His knives are an extension of him, and he is the wind. It is not Legolas' parentage that makes him captain of the archers.
The fight continues for hours. The elves are comfortable and do not grow tired of the spectacle. A small contingent leaves for duty and is replaced by another freshly returned but the majority remain as they are, watching. I am a ball of nervous energy by the time the call finally comes to cease, and the two combatants fall still. Their only movement is the fall of their hair in the wind and the heaving of their shoulders as they regain their breath. They sheath their weapons and bow to one another, turn and bow to their king, and as the audience begins to filter away to other pursuits I rush over to where Legolas stands.
The king is there ahead of me and so I stand behind him, awkward and fidgeting. Legolas is out of breath but nowhere near as he should be for such a prolonged fight. He is dusty and bleeding, and I can see his hands at his sides flexing and clenching as he does so often now but he is afire with energy, his eyes wild and penetrating. Orthorien claps him on the back, and they grin and speak lowly to one another as Orthorien leaves the field and then it is just he, the king and his advisor, and one very out of place dwarf.
"Herunya," Legolas bows as his father approaches.
"You are out of practise Legolas," Thranduil's advisor tells him, and there is disapproval in his tone. It is only that I am in the company of the king that I stay my tongue. Legolas inclines his head in acceptance; it is with a rueful half smile that he says:
"I feel it in every part of me Lord Ionwë, but it is good to feel my blood flowing again."
"How do your hands fare?" Thranduil asks. Legolas brings his hands before him, and bends and clenches his fists.
"They ache, Aran nin. They ache fiercely but they are much improved."
Thranduil assesses his prince, unconcerned as his own golden hair streams about him. There is silence and something is being considered, some decision being made that I am entirely left out of. The light is leaving and my eyes begin to strain, the clearing takes a more threatening feel as the sound of the wind in the trees turns angry and wild. It will storm tonight. The king and his advisor look to one another before Thranduil speaks again.
"Clean yourself up and come to my chambers Legolas, we will speak there. You too Master Gimli, I have something for you."
And he is gone. We are both dismissed with no further look or word, and the two elven lords are lost to the encroaching night. Legolas watches his father leave with a strange look upon his face before I am on him; all of the nerves of a mother hen flooding from me in anger. I strike him solidly in the arm and his attention is upon me with a betrayed wince, massaging where I have struck.
"Do not look so innocently!" I ignore the wide eyes. "Do you seek to send me to an early grave? What was this?" I gesture about the churned grass where he has spent most of the day trying to force my heart out through my chest.
"A short test," he dismisses, starting the walk back to his chambers to make himself presentable. I follow. "I am not to be considered fit until my king believes me capable; one of the disadvantages of my birth. I once twisted my knee clean from its moorings and had to spar a day and a night before my father allowed me back to my duties – I have received light treatment today."
I cannot share his light mood. He is filled with the fight and grinning like a fool, where I am still strung as tightly as a bow.
"Could you not have warned me?"
"I have sparred many times before," he looks at me as though I am slow. He is completely baffled by my mood. "I have not died."
"That was not sparring," I rumble through my beard. "I have seen sparring. I have sparred many times myself. That was battle!"
He laughs. It is musical and light, and I repeat my words in my head to unravel what has sparked his mirth but I cannot for the life of me work it out. I am disarmed by his delight and feel the annoyance leave me like an exhale. Am I to be forever at the mercy of his laughter? I have never known a creature with a temper so vile yet who laughs so freely. If I am so exhausted by his changeable nature then it must truly be a hardship to be endured to be Legolas himself.
"Lord Ionwë," I comment as we walk against the wind. "He is bracing."
"Aye," Legolas muses flatly. "He does not spare his words, certainly. He believes that the laegrim have no business bearing arms and disapproves of any part of me that is not Sindarin. He has little time for foolishness or weakness but he is a good commander past his unpleasantness. He and my father are very close – he once would read me tales, and taught me to ride my first horse."
I cannot imagine it. I have seen much of Lord Ionwë in my stay here: criticising his warriors' form or footwork or the condition of their weapons, and although he has always been quite certain to ignore me entirely the experience has always left me nervous, and anxious to do better.
I follow Legolas to his chambers where I take my usual seat at his fireside. He changes from his dusty warriors garb into apparel more fitting and squirms into a vest of silver and an almost colourless green. He washes quickly, and as his braids are un-picked his eyes are assessing.
"Are you not to make an effort for my king?" he asks critically. "I could maybe get them to fetch you a rake for your beard?"
"The volume of my beard is an honour to your king," I inform him, stroking it proudly. "Do you need some assistance weaving flowers into your hair or are you able?"
He turns away with a roll of his eyes. He mutters something, and I do not need to understand his words to know that I am being called an idiot.
He is quick – my feet are barely upon the rest and I have just become comfortable before he is dragging a comb half heartedly through wind tangled gold and leaving. He is anxious to hear what his father has decided. I am up and behind him, and he sets a merry pace through the palace until we reach Thranduil's chambers.
~{O}~
The receiving chambers of the king are as understated as the rest of the palace. The elves of Lasgalen do not prize ostentation: instead their decoration is organic and has moulded this mountain to resemble the outside forest as closely as possible. The craft and skill that has gone into these halls is something I appreciate very much, and as we enter the king's rooms my eyes are not for the wine on the table – although it piques my interest – nor the tapestries nor the books. I do not see the ornate swords or the beautifully detailed map of the land that takes up one entire wall. Thranduil's fireplace is a frozen waterfall that starts from the ceiling and flows to the floor. Fish leap and twist from the hearth, the firelight sets shadows dancing so that the water looks as though it rills and flows freely with all of the joy of the river. It is an astonishing piece and I am envious, running my fingers across the stone as though expecting my hand to return wet.
Thranduil is relaxed tonight; he has changed from his more formal robes into soft fabric of light green, and he and his son look much alike right now. Legolas stands before his father and is all a-fidget.
"Be still, Legolas!" Thranduil chides softly. "You are twitchy as a leaf, you are not being reprimanded."
Thranduil turns his attention to me and the elf takes his cue to make himself at ease. He is to the balcony, watching the stars in little time. Then he is to the map. Then he is to the books. He picks things up and puts them down again, and I stop watching him as he is making me nervous.
"Master Gimli," Thranduil greets me. He is not warm to me but he is never unkind. I know that a child of Mahal is not the friend he would ever have chosen for his son but I believe I have proven myself to him; he is respectful at least, which is more than I could ever have expected. My father led me to believe that Thranduil was without any breath of kindness or mercy but I have found him stern and strict, aye, but no less than expected of a king who has fought a great darkness for such long years. I bow to him, it is no less than he deserves. He nods and picks up a letter from a great pile.
"These came from Lothlorien today," he indicates the missives. He is speaking more to Legolas but I am not excluded. "They are from the Silvan elves there, petitioning me for shelter in the years to come. They wish to start a colony here when the Sindar and Noldor sail."
"The fading of the elves will be much drawn out if the Silvan folk have a thing to do with it," Legolas comments wryly, scanning through one or two of the letters and then brushing his fingers across the solid oak of the desk. "Will you grant them quarter in Greenwood?"
"They are kin, in their way," the king confirms. "But this has also come."
He hands me a single scroll; it is light – a short letter – and written on paper finer than any I have seen before. A ribbon of palest yellow is wrapped about it. I know in an instant who it is from, and my heart is gripped so that I can barely breathe; my lady! It is from her!
"You are honoured beyond measure," King Thranduil tells me, his eyes assessing and mildly curious. "You are elvellon indeed to be receiving letters from the Lady of the Golden Wood."
"I thank you," I stammer out, but have no further words. This is a treasure indeed! I put the letter away; I will read it later when I can give the words of the lady all of the attention they deserve. I can barely hold myself together for the urge to flee the room right now but I am no child, I am master of my heart. I remain still, and I conduct myself as Gloin would have me.
"Legolas," Thranduil turns his attention abruptly to his son. His voice is sudden, and the elf is staring at me so intently that his father's voice makes him start. "You are restless, and you are making me itch. When are you to leave?"
"Ada I – " the prince is taken aback. Thranduil waves one hand gracefully, giving the slightest shake of his head.
"These last weeks that you have been home have been a blessing, but I feel that you draw out your healing out of some sense of duty to me. Your whole life you have been scratching at the walls to return to duty within days of being allowed from the healers but you have never been out of the Greenwood for any time before that… Noldor persuaded you to walk to Mordor. Although I am pleased indeed that you have allowed yourself time to heal for once, I do not wish you to have any doubt in your heart about leaving Lasgalen."
He pauses and for a moment I see a hint of pain about him, as though he is at odds with his words. The king glances to the map upon his wall as though he reminds himself what he stays for, what he is about, and then his eyes are upon his son again. When he speaks again his voice is softer; he is a father now and not a king.
"I realise I cannot keep you here any longer Legolas. Your duties as captain and prince are not as they were, and so I release you from them; I will not greet my wife again without letting her son live a few years upon Arda as we intended you to from the start. You are too much of the laegrim to keep trapped here with me; we will have all of our days in Eldamar together."
I feel as though I intrude now. The mood of the room has changed; Legolas and his father share a gaze that holds a weight that I can feel from where I stand. The Eldar lavish their children with affection – when you are a parent for millennia the love only grows with time – and there are countless centuries there, of a father and son who have carried their people through the darkest of times. They have survived their own personal losses, they have fought and railed against one another and are still here now at the twilight of their days on these shores. Thranduil reaches out to his son and rests his hand at the back of his neck, forehead resting against forehead. Firelight glinting against gold. If I could vanish into the wall right now I would.
"Ada," I hear Legolas murmur. "I will not wander forever."
"Visit. Do not become lost to the Greenwood," the king urges, and then thinks. "But perhaps take a better known pass?"
Legolas huffs a laugh, and they separate.
"Wait a week or two before you go, Legolas," Thranduil tells him. The tone of his voice is that of a king again. "Ionwë is correct; you are much out of practise. You fought well today but you are not up to your standard – nothing a few days on the fields will not improve. And Legolas?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"It is good to see you well again. You should heed the dwarf more often; he does not seem as inclined to fall into trouble as you are. I would ask that you leave us now, I wish to speak to Master Gimli alone."
Legolas complies but not without shooting me a suspicious glance. The one I return is perhaps a little concerned for my own welfare. He grips my shoulder as he passes as though I require the strength of it, but the coward leaves me alone here in the room with the Woodland King regardless. If Thranduil knows my discomfort he does nothing to quell or acknowledge it, and the silence is perhaps the most awkward that I have ever experienced. It stretches for an eternity and he stands, his eyes upon the map of his realm with an expression that I recognise – I have seen it many times upon a face much similar – but I still do not know what that expression means. It is like a wall of iron.
I consider clearing my throat in case he has forgotten that I am there but then he speaks.
"I will give you honesty, Master Gimli, for I feel that you have earned that much," he says, his voice very different to the one he uses with Legolas. He is stern. "I have never quite fathomed the reason nor the purpose of dwarfs, nor met a single one that I did not find disagreeable."
I snort a laugh, too sudden to choke down. Thranduil shoots me an ice chip look that even a year ago would have me cowed into insensibility but I am much practised now. I raise one hand to placate him. "Apologies my lord, I do not laugh at you. I did not think elves could speak so directly, and in thanks I will grant you the same: my people have little love for you in return, it is true. Even so I find myself friends with your son… although I am still unsure as to why."
Thranduil watches me closely for a while longer. His face is unreadable; he is both noble and fair as only the great elven lords can be and the weight of the years in his eyes makes the air in the room thick and electric, but he quirks his lip briefly in the most passing of smiles. He is amused. I am oddly relieved.
He leads me to some chairs and a table with a fine decanter of Dorwinion set aside. I am poured a glass, and I sit as he sits; I am being taken into his confidence and it seems I am to be doubly honoured today.
"I have been told tales of you, Master Gimli," he speaks, sipping briefly at the wine before setting it aside. "You are very brave and very loyal. That is rare in any creature no matter their birth. I had my doubts about young King Elessar when first I met him – a truly obnoxious child he was – but I have been proven wrong in him, and I hope to be proven wrong in you."
"My actions are not undertaken to prove a thing," I tell him. "I do not think on what I do in terms of who might approve or not."
"That is untrue," he disagrees, and although I feel a flare of anger at it I wait. He is not finished. "The true measure of a person is the mind they bear those around them, but you speak well. To do this without thinking on it shows strength of character; a weak man must plan his actions to seem strong."
It is not something I had ever thought on before. Elves spend far too much time in their own heads. He speaks again, and his eyes have strayed out to the forest beyond his balcony. He does not leave me feeling alone as Legolas does when his mind wanders; Thranduil is not Silvan and very much more here than his son is, but I can tell that his mind is on the Greenleaf nevertheless.
"You must understand Master Gimli; though my son may seem old in your eyes his years are nothing against those that he will number. He is a great warrior and strong, but he is still young and I fear for him; his fëa is too untested to manage the grief he will feel when his mortal friends pass. Elven hearts run deep, and even Eldamar cannot completely heal one broken."
"He is too much in the stars," I speak slowly, forming my thoughts into words. "I would have him remember us; I would not have him watch our days for all of his."
"But what is done cannot be undone. His path and yours, and even the path of that Dúnadan were twined together from birth. Legolas does not trust easily, but trust you he does and he thinks well of you. Please Master Gimli, remember what he is; he is not a man, or a dwarf. He is a laegrim child, and his heart is a fragile thing once bared."
~{O}~
I sit in my chambers and I know not how long I have sat here.
A fire warms the room, and it is finally comfortable now that I have managed to break one set of balcony doors free enough to shut. The elves may not feel the cold but I certainly do, and I do not intend to freeze all of the night because they leave doors open long enough for plants to grow them into place. The other door I cannot budge.
I sit with the lady Galadriel's letter barely held by the tips of my fingers, and I think. It is a short letter – I was not expecting one of any length – and she enquires after my health, she hopes that I am well received by her Silvan kin and wishes me well in my life. She is to sail one day soon, I knew that, but it is her parting words that haunt me. I feel dread in my gut and I cannot shift it. The shadows of the room dance and sway with the play of the fire, and I am chilled. I am so far within my own mind that a voice behind me has me ready to swing my axe in fright.
"Why sit you in the dark?" speaks the air, and I could throttle him.
"I do not recall letting you in my room," I snap, getting to my feet and putting away my letter. Legolas sees my mood, watches what I do and straight away knows what I am about.
"What says the lady?"
"Nothing for nosey elflings to know," I inform him quite certainly. His eyes narrow, whether from being called an elfling or from me shutting him out I do not know. "How are you here?" I ask. He points to the balcony window that I have not managed to shut and I lean over it, my stomach lurching in horror at the height he has climbed.
"I know that you understand the purpose of doors, Legolas, I have seen you use them."
"I knocked an age. I came to check that you had not died."
He has been knocking? I have not heard him. It is disconcerting that I have been distracted enough not to hear such a thing; Legolas is not shy when he is about getting in someplace.
"All of this dreadful singing must have drowned you out," I grumble. I return to my seat by the fire as Legolas turns his head toward the window. The sound of a thousand elvish voices raised in song weaves softly through the late spring night. It is like the lament I heard in Lorien, but this is not the shattering sound of elvish grief this is a greeting to the stars. It is soft, I can make out no words and it seems to come from the entire Greenwood itself, as much in the air as the wind in the branches and the rain upon leaves. They sit amongst the trees, they walk the paths, they lie in their telain watching the skies and they sing, all of them. It is melancholy and joyous at once, it is beauty and grace in song. It is one of the most haunting things I have ever experienced, and I will recall the sound of it for all of my days to come.
"It has been going on for hours, do they never tire?"
"They are happy," he shrugs one shoulder, and I feel instantly terrible. These elves have not known the safety and protection of a Ring, they have fought and scraped and grieved these centuries through, and here I am complaining that they are happy to finally be free of it!
"They are going to sing themselves hoarse," I grumble instead, embarrassed.
"And you are going to roast yourself if you sit much longer by the fire." Legolas makes no issue of my rudeness. He is ever tolerant of me. "Come, Idhren wishes your company. I have told of the tales you spin, and the archers wish to hear one."
"Do you and your friends not wish to howl at the stars also?"
"We do not sing tonight," he dismisses, as though any fool understands why. He does not explain this so I do not ask, and he stands expectantly, waiting.
I have no desire to tell stories right now. I have no desire to sit with Legolas' friends and have them realise that their prince is mistaken in his belief that I tell tales well. I do not wish to make a fool of myself nor do I wish to do anything but sit on my own and think, but I take one look at my friend and I relent. He has a way about him that makes him difficult to refuse at times, and so I follow him.
We do not go to the main dining hall. I have noticed that Legolas prefers to eat his meals with his men in the kitchens. It is unbefitting a prince, but well befitting my friend. If he cannot eat outdoors then he will come here before he eats in lofty halls.
The kitchens are warm and welcoming, and much of noise and activity but the heart of it is where the rough wooden tables are laid out to one side. They are old and scored and worn by centuries of elven elbows and weapons thrown carelessly upon its surface. There are always weary warriors here freshly returned from patrol, or those about to set out filling their bellies before they leave. This is where they sit and talk when they are not leaping around in trees, and although it is deep within the mountain and without a hint of the sky, Legolas is not frantic here.
We join a table with three elves I know, and I feel happier that these are not new faces. Idhren is here, of course. He is one of Legolas' closest friends but there is also Almárean who is not ever far away from the russet haired Silvan, and an elleth who is named Faelwen. She is dressed in the same warrior garb as all of the Lasgalen archers and her dark hair is bound neatly, she is very fair with sharp grey eyes and I am told that her skill with a bow is close to that of Legolas'. She is counted as his second. They greet us with smiles and welcome, and they have located a barrel of ale for me – Eru knows where from, the elves cannot stand it. A great tankard sits ready for me, and I feel my doubts slip away.
They are lively company but they are elves nonetheless. They occasionally slip into their own dialect and I know they do not even notice that they do it. They speak quickly in terms I must unravel and change their subject mid conversation. They refer to senses and feelings I do not posses but I hold my own, and after a tankard of the fine ale has gone down I am relaxed enough to tell them the tale they have been asking for. The room has emptied to the five of us and the fire is low, casting great dancing shadows so I tell them of the Howler in the Deep: a tale of a murdered spirit that collapses tunnels upon his killers in revenge, and can be heard wailing and howling in grief through the depths of all mines.
I know that the elves do not fear spirits as most sensible races do, and so I focus my tale on the closeness of rock and the fear of the dark places that I know strikes a particular chord for them. They are struck dumb throughout the tale, and when I am done they overwhelm me with praise: their eyes are haunted and alive with the thrill of a good, chilling tale. As I feel myself reddening beneath their admiration I catch the eye of Legolas. He gifts me with a small pleased smile; he is glad to see my alleged talent enjoyed by others and to see me enjoying the telling. He is a sneaky elf.
When I return to my room we have stayed up entirely too late, and I have sampled more of the ale than I probably should have. I lie awake despite the comfortable buzzing in my ears and the heaviness of my eyes, and slowly the knot in my stomach begins to grow again. It builds until my chest is full of ice and I cannot find rest tonight. Her words burn into my mind and I cannot wipe it clean. Her letter was not for me, I was never foolish enough to think so but as humbled as I am that she thinks well enough of me to task me with this, there is a small part deep within me that wishes she had not.
"Look to the Greenleaf" she has bid. "Look to the Greenleaf and guard him well, Gimli elvellon. A great divide in the path approaches, and I fear that the wrong road be taken – do not let him become lost to us. Keep his ears ever open to the Song, and his eyes upon the stars and you will be guide to each other."
TBC
Hortho - hurry
Reviews as always are very much welcome. Hope you enjoyed.