Chapter Two
Garhirel and Idril briskly walked through the Mirkwood forest, in the direction of their treehouse. Silently they moved, missing every twig and leaf, not making any sound whatsoever.
"Hurry, child. You walk too slowly," scolded Garhirel, and snatched Idril's arm.
"Ai!" cried Idril, from the extremely strong grip on her arm. Garhirel just gripped harder and starting striding more quickly.
"Be quiet. We are almost home."
Garhirel's long and elegant fingernails dug into Idril's flesh, and she inhaled sharply from the pain. Tears stung the corners of Idril's eyes, and she mentally slapped herself for giving in to the pain her mother was deliberately causing her.
At last they saw, high up in the trees, a small but clear shining golden beacon. By this time Idril's lower right arm was numb and felt completely paralysed, almost dead. She let out a quiet sigh of relief when Garhirel's pace slowed and her grip loosened at the sound of a childish shout. Feeling washed back into Idril's lower right arm.
"Father! I can see them coming, they are coming!" called Eldanén, the littlest of the Súlorn family. He jumped excitedly up and down in front of his beloved father, who just rested silently in his chair, reading.
"May I go meet them?" he asked, widening his eyes, and performing that cute expression that only very young Elves can manage.
Mablung looked up from his parchment, nodded slowly and smiled.
"Thank you father!" cried Eldanén, and swung his arms around Mablung. Mablung frailly returned the hug and laughed.
"Away with you then," he smiled. Eldanén rushed off to the door, and started climbing down the ladder with incredible ease.
"Idril!" screamed Eldanén, and Idril grinned. The little Elf leaped into Idril's waiting arms and giggled when he was spun around.
"Well hello there my little Tasarhin!" cried Idril, using the nickname she had given him when he was born only 10 short years ago. Garhirel angrily turned to her daughter who was unmercifully tickling Eldanén, and whom still had his arms wrapped lovingly around his big sister.
"Why do you not call him by his real name? Tasarhin - only a fool could dream up that name," scoffed Garhirel. Idril sighed sadly, stopped tickling her little brother and pushed back a strand of hair that fell carelessly over his face. Eldanén just stared straight into her eyes.
"I love my name," he said, truth shining in his eyes. Idril grinned briefly.
"Thank you Tasarhin," she replied, deliberately using his nickname. Eldanén grinned and snuggled up into her warm neck. Garhirel rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. She climbed up the strong but beautiful ladder to their home, impatiently pushing away any weak tree branches in her way, and occasionally snapping one off with a brutal sweep of her arm.
"What sorts of things did you do tonight?" asked Eldanén. Idril carried him away from the treehouse, and brought him about sixty yards, through a patch of thick forest that straddled the treehouse. She walked until they reached the willow tree by the water, and she placed Eldanén gently down on the ground, and then sat down against the tree. Eldanén plopped himself in her lap and looked at her in awe.
"Did you dance with anyone special?" he asked, a childish twinkle in his eye.
"Well… I met the Prince," she said. Excitement spread across Eldanén's face like wild fire and his light blue eyes, much like Garhirel's, lit up.
"Did you dance with him? What did he say? Did you talk to him? Are you going to get married?" he asked hurriedly. The last question took Idril by surprise.
"Married? And leave you? I think not!" exclaimed Idril kindly and stroked Eldanén's thick, longish, light brown hair. Eldanén giggled childishly, and picked up a branch from the willow tree that was lying on the ground.
"I wish I was like you, Idril." Eldanén said, staring at the branch. Idril's brow furrowed.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to be Eldanén, I want to be Tasarhin," replied Eldanén, and stared at his adored sister. Idril cocked her head.
Garhirel gracefully stepped through the front door of her home, proudly showing her family the new baby.
"Since you were allowed to raise Idril in the manner of Tree Elves, this one shall be raised in the manner in which I wish," stated Garhirel plainly. Idril stared in shock at her mother - Garhirel was taking terrible advantage of her sick husband.
"Eldanén…" cooed Garhirel, and Idril's mouth dropped. She could not believe it – her mother was naming Mablung's son 'Water Elf'. Both women knew that Mablung was a true Forest Elf, and he would have raised his son to become like one of his and Idril's kind, had he been well.
Garhirel's blonde hair fell onto her son's body and he opened his eyes – they were blue, just like his mothers. She took the blanket off his head to reveal blonde hair, slightly browner than Garhirel's but blonde all the same. This was when Idril realised that Eldanén was going to grow up a lot like his mother, and he would become a Water Elf – at that moment, not one trace of Mablung could be seen in the infant.
"Could I please hold him, mother?" she asked quietly. Garhirel hesitantly handed Idril the baby and then walked off into her luxurious bedroom. Mablung slowly leaned over in his chair, and the minute his eyes met his son's, his face fell. Idril looked at her dismayed father, and then stroked the cheek of her new little brother.
"Tasarhin…" she cooed. Mablung looked at her and smiled thankfully. Idril studied Eldanén's eyes, and saw the tiniest spark of green appear in amongst the light blue. Tasarhin, the Willow Child.
"You should be proud that you are Eldanén. To be an Elf of Water is a great honour," said Idril.
"But I want to be like you and father. I want to talk to the trees," replied Eldanén sadly, and inspected the willow branch. Idril watched him for a while, as he caressed the leaves and picked off any clumps of dirt attached to the wood.
"Look at me Tasarhin," commanded Idril softly, and Eldanén brought his eyes up to meet hers. The sparkle of green was still evident, and his light brown hair had definitely grown darker in the last 10 years – maybe it was possible that he had some of Mablung Súlorn hidden somewhere deep inside him.
"You really want to learn how to communicate with the trees?" she asked.
"Could you teach me?" asked Eldanén, hope glimmering in his eyes.
"I can try," she replied, a little uncertainly. "But it is late and past your bedtime, Tasarhin. Come on." Idril stood up, brushed the dirt off her dress and picked up Eldanén. He tiredly wrapped his arms around Idril's neck and yawned loudly.
"Thank you 'Dril, I love you," he said wearily, and rested his head against Idril's shoulder. Idril stroked his hair and sang him an old elvish lullaby as they walked a long distance, until soon the treehouse was standing before them. She elegantly climbed up the ladder with one hand, the other gently playing with her beloved little brother's hair, as he hung over her shoulder.
"Ai!"
Idril stared at her finger. A drop of blood was seeping from a tiny prick on her thumb. She crossed to the nearby stream and quickly dipped her hand into it, then continued to crop the thornbush. Whenever she moved, the thorns would unyieldingly attach themselves to her skin and dress, and cause her sharp stabs of pain.
"Idril!"
She spun around and found her father making his way down the dirt track, distress written all across his face.
"Idril, what do you think you are doing?"
She ignored him, turned back to the bush, and continued to prune the branches.
"Ah!" she screamed, as a stray branch slashed across her cheek. Mablung ran over to her, cupped her chin and inspected the gash.
"What were you doing? How are… why are you here?" he asked furiously. Idril stared at her father for some time, the numbness of her wound disappearing and the sting of the thorn slowly swelling. She could feel her tears forming in the corners of her eyes so she looked down at the ground, willing them to go away. However, when she started shaking, her father softened, pulled her close to him and held her tightly. She wrapped her injured arms around his body desperately and let her guard down, crying hysterically.
Mablung stormed into the treehouse, Idril hot on his tail, her hand desperately clutching her father's.
"Garhirel!" he yelled. Garhirel trotted into the front room, her eyebrows raised in question.
"Would you care to tell me why our daughter looks like this?" he asked, and pulled Idril around next to him. Garhirel smirked at Idril's battered body.
"Silly child. Look at what you have done to yourself."
"This is not of her doing, and you know that," replied Mablung through clenched teeth. Garhirel froze.
"Why did you send her out to trim the thornbush? Why? What has she done this time?"
Garhirel slowly walked towards Mablung.
"I'll tell you why. She was there again - she was out there, in the woods, running off again to communicate with some non-living trees who can't talk," explained Garhirel bitterly.
"I wasn't running off…"
"Quiet! Mablung, I try to be a good mother to her – I feed her and clothe her, and she rewards me by running away from home," continued Garhirel, and started sobbing. Idril looked up at her father, who was visibly yielding to Garhirel's tears.
"She makes me feel like a… a bad mother," she concluded, and burst into tears. Mablung hushed her, took her into a hug, and rocked the two of them from side to side.
"You are not a bad mother, my lovely. Now hush," soothed Mablung. Rage surged through Idril's body, instantly numbing the pain from her wounds.
"You struck me! You beat me because I take after father, because I am not like you - because I like to talk to trees and you do not! And since I will not surrender to your abuse, you send me to torture my body by pruning thorns! You are a bad mother, Garhirel, and I hate you," she spat, and rushed off into her room and bolted the door with a chair, before her parents could make their way in. She tiredly strode over to her bed, flopped down on it, and cried herself to sleep, hopelessly clutching a soft pillow.
As tears came to Idril's eyes, she touched an area behind her ear and felt the one scar she had – the scar that she received from her mother's beating, over two thousand years ago. She had not even reached five hundred years of age when she was struck. The other scars from the thorns had healed, with thanks to her grandmother's herbal remedies, but the one hidden by her left ear was never treated, as no one knew it existed except for Idril. She wished it to stay that way.
She took one last look out her window. A fair way south from the treehouse was the stream, and beyond that and surrounding the house, the dark, dank forest which Idril absolutely adored. Moonlight could be seen, skimming around the leaves of trees, trying desperately to allow all of its light to pass through the twisted branches, although not quite making it. A warm, gentle wind was floating through the cool Mirkwood night air, bringing with it all the memories from earlier that night. Satisfied, Idril lay her head on her pillow, closed her eyes drowsily and as she fell asleep, hoped with all of her heart that tomorrow would be as momentous as today.
The movement of the horse between Legolas' legs was sudden and occasionally harsh, but still rhythmically steady. His piercing blue eyes shot over to his father, who looked deep in thought. Thranduil's eyes had glazed over, and were vacantly staring at the rein that he held, which slid through his fingers slightly when his steed moved. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he saw Thranduil's brow furrow in grave concentration, he decided against it and focused on the leafy forest road ahead. Marching in front of him were two refined Elves; readily armed with two slender swords at each side, a quiver full of arrows and a long, expertly-crafted bow. The forests of Mirkwood were, after all, not the best place to be after nightfall.
As Legolas glanced back at the reins in his hands, his eyes fell upon his bow, softly swaying with the horse's tempo. It truly was a magnificent bow – tall, firm, and as light as a feather but still as effective as five swords. Engraved all along the perfect Mirkwood timber was a light tracing of leaves on a vine, weaving its way along and around the sturdy bow. In the indentation of the vine were minute green crystals, which had been ever so carefully lain along the groove of the plant carving. When they were encased in darkness, they were a dim green: so dark the jewels almost appeared black and sombre. While shafts of blue moonlight exposed them, they turned a glimmering white, frequently changing to a pale green - much like Thranduil's eye colour.
"Legolas."
He lazily turned his head towards his father, who was still inspecting his horse's reins. Thranduil opened and closed his mouth a few times, waggling a pointed finger occasionally.
"That Idril girl, do you remember her?" he asked, motioning back towards the clearing casually with his thumb.
"Of course."
"Do you remember her father?"
Legolas furrowed his brow and focused his vision on the road ahead. He thought long and hard, trying to recollect his life from over two thousand years ago…
All of a sudden, a little Elf child burst onto the road in front of him. He had blonde hair, and was carrying a bow twice his size. Legolas watched him curiously; none of the other Elves seemed to notice that the child was there.
"Legolas! Wait for me!" cried a young, feminine voice from the same spot where the little Elf-boy had come from. Legolas studied the child thoroughly, but it just dropped the bow onto a rock nearby and sat on the ground next to it. He examined his surroundings, tilting his head back at a 90-degree angle just to see the tops of the trees. When he brought his head back down, he caught Legolas' eye and gave him a small smile. Legolas glanced at the bow that settled uncomfortably on the smooth, round rock, and then back at the youngster, who was still locking his blue eyes with Legolas'.
That's when it hit him – the young lad was him.
Before he could speak, a young girl came rushing out of the bush on the side of the road.
"Legolas!" she whinged, breathing heavily. "You run too quickly! Next time… Legolas, are you listening to me?"
She followed his gaze and met Legolas' eyes. As she started cautiously walking towards him, he noticed her clothes. A pretty flower tiara was upon her thick brown hair – it had clearly been made by a child as it was messy, and the flowers had been picked recently. She was wearing a simple, but charming, green dress, which had a willow tree stitched onto the fabric at the front. She had no shoes, but had a small, almost invisible, silver chain wrapped twice around her ankle. She stood next to Legolas' horse, and extended her hand to touch his smart silver tunic. However, a cough behind her forced her to withdraw her arm abruptly, and she spun around.
"Uh oh…" she said quietly, and lowered her head.
"'Uh oh' indeed," smiled a tall man. "Legolas, bring the bow. Your father is looking for it."
The small Elf stood from his position on the ground, and picked up the bow, but not without some difficulty. He dragged it along the ground, walking slowly towards the tall, lithe, brunette man.
"Hurry, child. The more time taken, the worse the punishment."
"It is heavy, Mablung," groaned Legolas, lifting up the bow for Mablung to take, his small muscles straining.
"Father, I am sorry," the little elleth said quietly.
"Hush, Idril. We must hurry back if you want to escape punishment from the King."
Idril! Legolas wanted to kick himself for not recognising her before, but now that Mablung had unknowingly - or was it purposefully? - told him who she was, there was no mistaking that it was most definitely the young Idril that he had once adored as a child.
"However, do not think that you are free of punishment. You will still have me to deal with," explained Mablung, taking the bow from Legolas, who then proceeded to drop down to the ground in a dramatic display of exhaustion.
"And remember, you will acquire this bow on your twentieth birthday. Do not attempt to get it before then ever again," he continued, shaking the bow at the panting Legolas with ease.
"Sorry," apologised Legolas. Mablung looked at the adult Legolas, still speechless on his horse, gave him a polite bow, and went about making his way through the bushland, back in the direction from which he came.
The two children watched him go, and then simultaneously glanced back at the Legolas. Idril began walking towards him again, but stopped when the 10-year-old Legolas grabbed her hand. She looked back at him in confusion, and he shook his head lightly.
"Prince Legolas! Idril!" Mablung called loudly. The children looked quickly in the direction of their tutor's voice, gave one last look at the dumbfounded Legolas, and then ran off into the bush, Legolas leading the way holding Idril's hand.
"Legolas?"
Elves and horses came back clearly to his vision again, moving their lithe frames just as they had been doing before.
"Yes father?" asked Legolas, snapping his head around to face his father. As he did so, his eyes fell on the path into the bush, and he could have sworn he heard children giggling.
He looked down at his swaying bow, attached to his horse. He remembered the day he received it – his twentieth birthday. He narrowed his eyes to observe the bow more closely, and could just make out the thin scratches from when it was dragged across the ground as a child. Legolas remembered portions of that day. He and Idril had decided to have some fun and steal the most prized bow in Mirkwood, but to do so they had to climb down the vines on the side of the castle to get outside without being noticed. Idril was sure that Legolas could not hit Arda's largest Valarauko, he wanted to prove her wrong, and they ran away to the forest so that Legolas could show off. They were discovered by Mablung, who had then taken them back to the castle so that he could 'find' the bow and give it back to Thranduil.
"Oh, Mablung. I remember him slightly. Yet not a lot, I'm afraid," replied Legolas. Thranduil nodded his head.
"Quickly!" he cried to the Elves ahead. "It is getting late indeed, and I wish to get home as swiftly as is possible."
The Elves strode a little faster, and those on horses lightly kicked them with their heels. The horses jerked forwards and very slowly trotted alongside the marching Elves. For the remainder of the journey, the only sound was the horses' hooves grinding against the crinkled foliage; the only sights being the low moonlight falling over the trees, and the honeyed light of beacons gently laying open the road ahead.
A/N: Valarauko is the Quenyan form of 'Balrog'.
The scene with Legolas and the younger versions of himself and Idril is based quite a bit upon the The Return of the King scene that involved Arwen seeing her son. This has confused some readers before; at least now, I've finally written an Author's Note about it.
While I'm at it: thank you to reviewers! You make my day. To those of you with stories of your own: I want you to know that I do check out your works. So many of you are so talented!
-Laura.