The Rising of the Lark
by Cúthalion

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For Rabidsamfan. (Of course.)
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Chapter One
Down at the riverbank

Ithilien, 1447

The young man reined his horse and took a deep breath.

The air was sweet and warm, the sky clear and as blue as delphinium. The landscape seemed to embrace him, every hill and slope, every woody vale singing home, a beloved tune he knew note by note. New Year was close, and this time he would finally spend it in Ithilien again.

He hadn't returned to the palace yet... entering through the gates would mean the usual official welcome, a formal dinner and several even more formal speeches, before he'd finally be able to retire with his parents. There had been enough of this during the last two months in Minas Tirith; the King was the most gracious host possible, and listening to him of all people, praising Elboron's deeds during his service with the army of Gondor, had been immensely flattering. But now all he wanted was to stay unhindered by the boundaries of ceremony, ancestry and duty just a little while longer, and he allowed his tired steed to amble down the winding path that led them both to the Anduin.

Sunlight trickled through the branches, sketching patterns of gold and silver on the deep green patches of moss between the roots of oaks and yew trees. The hooves of his horse stepped soundlessly on the dead leaves of last autumn, making his slow ride as imaginary as a dream. Now he could hear the river, a soft, constant rush at first, but it grew louder and more distinct as Elboron approached the long row of weeping willows that seamed the bank. The horse flexed its ears, neighing softly... it could smell the water, and suddenly Elboron realized that he felt hot and comfortable in his doublet and traveling cloak.

He swung out of the saddle and led the horse to where the river had washed out a small deepening, the bottom white with smooth pebbles. Here his father had taught him how to swim when he was six, and also his mother (at least this was what she had told him, blushing ever so slightly under her golden crown of hair). The water was clear and deep, the branches of the willows nodding in and out of the steady current. He sat down while the horse drank its fill; without thinking, he slipped out of his boots and socks and dug his toes into the damp earth at the rim of the stream. Cool freshness shot through his calves and thighs like a shock; he shuddered and the lay back into the short grass, his eyes fixed on the verdant branches and swelling buds overhead. Ample rainfall during the last weeks had deepened the green of meadows and woods, and Spring had only just begun, but in these lands and on this very day it felt deliciously like summer.

Five years in the harsh climate of Anórien, on the wide, windy plains of Rohan and even six months in the bitter borderland of what had once been the Dark Lord's realm... Emyn Arnen had been nothing but a short, regular respite between long terms of service. Those terms had shaped his body and spirit, chiseling the last remnants of puerility away and sculpting him to the man he was now; but in this moment he couldn't have cared less. Surrounded by the land of his childhood, he turned back to the boy who once had stolen out of the palace to avoid the King's visit.

These woods he knew by heart; he had literally crawled through the underbrush for years, following the scent of woodruff and searching for the spots where clusters of fly agaric glowed bright red under the fern. The Healer of Ithilien had used them to help a servant at the court of Emyn Arnen; Elboron had been fifteen at that time and remembered the case surprisingly well; said servant lost his ability to walk properly within weeks, swaying from side to side like some incorrigible drunkard. Only that the old man never drank anything stronger than apple juice; and after the legs his hands refused obedience. They shook so violently that he was completely unable to eat without assistance. Elboron had always wondered why the Healer insisted to use a toadstool as dangerous as that, but to his amazement the state of the servant – his name was Adeher, Elboron suddenly remembered – improved greatly, though he was never fully able to take up his duties again. The young prince had always admired the Healer, but after this miraculous cure he decided that her abilities were nothing less than legendary.

He spent many hours in her working shed, fascinated by her herb powders and brews, and almost every time he committed some sort of serious mischief, he was sentenced to follow her through the woods in search for plants, as meek as a lamb (and secretly rejoicing)... until his parents decided that his punishment was much more efficient when they made him sit through endless extra lessons in Quenya and Sindarin. Elboron was forced to admit that those hours worked wonders for his language skills, but he never forgot the house with the cedar shingles on the clearing near the Anduin, and the patience and kindness of the woman with the long, copper red braid and the humorous green eyes.

He was home again, and it would take him less than a ten minute walk through the sun-dappled shades to where the Healer lived. After no one had any idea that he'd returned from Minas Tirith one day earlier than expected, he felt like a free man. The woods dreamed in the midday haze, and nothing could be heard than the stray cry of a blackbird, the sharp pounding of a woodpecker against a trunk in the distance and the slumberous humming of countless bees. He was completely alone.

Following a sudden impulse, he threw off cloak and doublet; a moment later shirt, trousers and the last pieces of underwear sailed down onto the growing heap. Finally he was naked; the mild breeze was like a gentle caress on his skin. He made the first, cautious step into the water and briefly clenched his teeth at the bite of coldness against his ankles. He waded deeper, ready to throw himself headfirst into the river.

"One more step and I'll scream! For Eru's sake, has nobody ever taught you any manners?"

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He froze on the spot. It was the bright, angry voice of a young woman, coming from somewhere ahead. Where...

"Once in a while I dare to take a bath in the river," the voice furiously continued, "I had hoped that the fools of the court are busy filing their stomach right now, and then – this!" A short pause. "For the grace of the Valar, do me the favor and cover yourself!"

He felt heat rising up his throat and into his face; why on earth had he inherited the telltale complexion of his mother? And his clothes were too far away to reach for them and dress as fast as decorum commanded; he only had the choice between showing the invisible stranger his backside while retrieving them, or using his hands to shield the most... offending parts of his anatomy.

He decided for the former, turned around as fast as possible and lunged out of the water. There was a deafening silence behind him while he grabbed for his garments and awkwardly hopped on one leg like a stork while trying to slip into the trousers. Feeling slightly less exposed, he reached for his shirt... and suddenly he heard the most perplexing sound imaginable: a loud burst of laughter.

"My goodness, Elboron – is that you?"

Now his face was burning, and he had to fight the desperate wish to run like a rabbit. His mind clung to five years of warfare and the noble ancestry he had so easily forgotten only minutes before; did he honestly need to flee from the loose tongue of that cheeky damsel? Collecting the shreds of his shattered dignity and his upper body still bare, Elboron turned around. He raised an eyebrow, his voice a perfect imitation of his father's most sublime tone.

"In person, and to your service... whoever you might be," he coolly replied. "Would you care to show yourself? If you still insist to put me to shame, I'd decidedly prefer to see you."

A moment of silence, then there was a movement in the bushes on the other bank of the river. A young woman stepped out of their cover, wrapped into what looked like a huge linen towel.. Rather a girl than a woman, he thought, but her body had already lost the badly proportioned clumsiness of adolescence, showing gently rounded hips and very pleasant curves where the breasts were hidden behind the fabric. Her face...

He knew her.

He knew that face – the clear, green eyes, the narrow nose and the stubborn chin. She was the spitting image of her mother, the Healer of Ithilien... only that her hair was not copper golden but dark as the feathering of a raven. The last time he had seen this girl, her legs had dangled down from the lowest branch of a tree, her tresses were a tousled bird's nest, the soles of her feet calloused from running shoe-less the whole summer, and her knees had been scabby like those of a tomboy.

He gaped at her, his head spinning with surprise.

"Lírulin...?"

"In person." The cheeks of the young woman colored to a very becoming hue of red. "I'm really sorry. I... I didn't recognize you at first. I should have been more polite."

All of a sudden, Elboron felt his face relax in a grin.

"You surprise me greatly," he said, "for the last thing you said to me was that I was a silly, gawkish braggart, and that the straw on my head must have grown right into my brain."

"Oh. You... you..." She blushed even deeper. "That was five years ago!"

"True," he mercilessly continued. "Just before I took up my service on the King's army. I also remember you saying that I'd better try not to stumble over my sword, now that Aragorn the King was seriously venturesome enough to actually make me a warrior."

Lírulin gave a gasp of dismay. "I didn't!"

"Oh yes, you did. And when I refused to answer, you showered me with unripe apples."

Lírulin took a deep breath – which made the beautifully rounded curves under the fabric rise and fall in a way Elboron simply couldn't help noticing. Now he had to fight the heat in his own cheeks again, and somehow that fact seemed to encourage her. She squared her shoulders, still holding the towel. When she spoke, her courteous composure would have outclassed the skills of any Gondorean lady.

"Your Highness... if you allow me to dress as modesty demands, I will guide you to my mother and serve you an early lunch, to make up for my scandalous behavior in the past." She hesitated. "Unless your presence is needed in the palace, of course."

Elboron smiled.

"Oh, I'm sure my parents will be most happy to welcome me at home, but they have no idea that I have returned - yet. I will gladly accept both, meeting your mother again and lunch."

With a rustle of leaves Lírulin vanished behind the bushes once more. Elboron gathered what was left of his clothing and made himself likewise presentable, then called for his horse and led it a short way downstream, to where a narrow, wooden bridge crossed the water. He was certain that he would have to wait quite some time, but once more she surprised him: only a few minutes later he saw her coming along the path. She wore a white blouse and a mossy green skirt, and her dark hair was tamed to a long, thick braid. The ankles under the hem of the skirt were bare... and she had lovely feet.

"No shoes?" It was entirely too much fun to tease her.

"Oh... did you want to invite me to a ball? What a delightful idea, Your Highness... I can fetch my silk slippers any time, if you want, but I don't know if I'm wearing the right dress for such a special occasion."

She actually fluttered her eyelashes at him, but the curling of her lips betrayed that she was everything else but serious.

"Lunch will do this time," he said, feeling inexplicably exhilarated. "And would you do me a great favor?"

"Which one?"

He caught a whiff of her personal scent. Roses? Cornel? No... it smelled like some kind of herb, green and fresh and the sheer essence of spring.

"Stop calling me Highness."