Winter nights are long beneath the trees.
From the last fading of the night and before the first weak greying of the sky there are endless cold hours: an eternity of stillness.
In the summer - deep within the trees - Mirkwood is a place of dappled hollows and dancing leaves full of fragrance and beauty. In the winter it is as stark as the grave, cold as the tomb and filled with secrets. Sleeping trees become grasping, skeletal things absent of any voice or joy. The air tastes of frost, and the ground is bound by iron. The things that live within the wood are fierce and wild, but tonight it is too cold for anything to be abroad. All creatures in their right mind are hidden and sheltered from the cold… but not all things.
A young elf sits watching the stars. They are cut diamonds in a sky that is clear and thin, and no cloud softens the ice cold clarity of the night. The limb he sits upon is winter black and frost rimed, his soft exhalations send white curls into the brittle air but it is the only sign of movement about him. He has the look of youth almost fully grown: coltish but with the first signs of the whipcord lean build of a warrior. Tonight he seems little more than a child; desperately hurt and a moment away from shattering.
He has lost his mother today.
Another elf joins his vigil. Silently this one arrives and takes his seat: close, but not too close. He is hawk faced and fierce, and starlight glimmers in dark eyes that regard the other carefully; focused and assessing.
"Lord Ionwë." The first one greets: his voice cordial but faint, and his eyes do not leave the stars. "I think that my father is in need of you tonight."
"Your father rests Legolas, but only because I swore to seek you out."
"I am well."
The older elf huffs a plume of gentle white cloud, but turns his face to the stars. So clear do they shine tonight, and so cold.
"You should be with your friends, my prince, not watching the past."
The wood is hushed and silent and Legolas does not answer at first, not for a long while. "I do not blame him, Ionwë," he speaks finally. "I cannot blame him, but neither can I face him."
"It is unseemly," Ionwë speaks bluntly. "I would have done everything in my power to keep you from knowing grief for just a season longer, but one day you will have to do as he has. Other archers bear with them the memories that Almárean now carries: you must show that there is no shame in mercy. Will you let your friend suffer this way? Neither your parents nor I raised you so."
"My mother died today, Ionwë." The reply is small, lost. "My mother died… by the hand of my greatest friend. I have not the room in my heart for the grief that I feel: no room for this and forgiveness as well. I cannot bear both Ionwë please, I..."
The elfling chokes into silence and Ionwë has no reply this time, struck by the raw grief held barely in check by this child. This is not a thing to be remedied by sword or by knife. This is not a hurt to be bandaged or knit nor is it a memory to be softened by time. It is not something that he knows or understands, even after his own countless winters beneath these same stars. Now death touches even the youngest of those never born to know it, and he cannot think of the words to say.
"Do the stars give you comfort, Legolas?" he asks instead. "More than the company of those who have care for you?"
The prince shakes his head slowly. "The Song of Iluvatar is louder out here, but all I can hear is the silence where she was. If I can stand to bear this silence just one night then I can bear it for all of my days, but I cannot spend it touched by the grief of my father and my friends. I am selfish, but I cannot bear that as well."
"You must better learn grief, Legolas."
"Have you better learned it?"
Lord Ionwë is silent, for he has not. He remains still just as the forest about him is still, and he listens to the absence in the Song.
There is a companion piece to this, should anyone be interested. It is far, *far* less gloomy, but no less brief. Let me know :)
For those of you who know my OCs and have read 'Paths you may have spotted a line regarding Almarean's hand in the passing of Legolas' mother - a mercy killing. This scene wouldn't let me go, and this short little piece was the consequence. This has been lying around in my fics folder since the summer so I thought it was about time it saw light of day. There is also a small amount of relevance between this small offering, and my next multi fic.
I hope, as always, that you have enjoyed it, and may I take this opportunity to thank those who have been reviewing these little distractions whilst the sequel to 'Paths is being written. Some of you I cannot respond to personally, and so I thank you here.
My thanks as always to Lindir's Ghost, who has already read this and given me the usual glimmers of insight that never fail to bring out the half decent fiction buried beneath the nonsense that I send to her. Hopefully she'll enjoy reading it again since I've tinkered with it.
Have a wonderful day.
MyselfOnly