"I am Estel."
It takes the breath from my lungs, this casual aside of his.
Legolas has a son.
He has a son and his son is named Estel.
He has a son and that son stands here in front of me.
"Legolas' son?"
He laughs at my shock and amazement. It is not the light and merry laugh of Legolas. It has a bitter edge.
"He has named you after my father?" It is a foolish question, stating the obvious and I feel a fool, but he has blindsided me.
"He named me because I am his hope." He flicks his head dismissively as if the idea of being my father's namesake is abhorrent to him.
I have a wealth of questions for him but something tells me he will answer none of them pleasantly.
"Legolas is here?" Please let him say he is, for my father's sake.
"Of course. Do you think I would return here without him?" His answer drips with contempt for my stupidity. Then he pauses, his gaze wanders towards the path my men disappeared down before returning to me. "Where is your father?" He asks. "Were we not worth a visit from the King of Men?"
He aggravates me.
"It is not that at all," I protest. "We have seen no Elves in all the time we have been here. When my father heard reports from these villagers of ghosts in the trees—"
Estel cuts across my words.
"Ghosts?" He chuckles. The idea of being thought a ghost obviously amuses him.
"Their descriptions sounded like Woodelves." I try to ignore his amusement, "and while we hoped it might be the Silvan from Ithilien Father decided it more likely to be Laiquendi, those whose fëa returned to the land, born anew alongside it.
"Laiquendi . . ." His eyes flash with excitement at that. "Reborn with the land? I wonder if Laerion has thought of that!" I know who Laerion is of course, Legolas' brother long dead, and now, I assume, he is no longer dead at all. But Estel's animation lasts seconds only before a cloud descends.
"So the Laiquendi were not deserving of a visit then? He sent you instead for the lowly Nandor?"
"No. It was because he knew they would not show themselves to a Man."
"You are a Man." Estel spits at me before turning on his heels and walking away.
"And you are not listening!" I call after him, but what is the point? Legolas has obviously not told him of my Elvenness and I certainly do not want to now.
For most of my life I have been something I am not. I have taken the very heart of me and tucked it away from sight, buried it deep. There was no room in Gondor for an Elven King . . . Or even a mortal Half Elven one. My mother was acceptable, caught up in the euphoria of victory as they were when my father married her, but they did not follow that through to its conclusion. They did not stop to think what it would mean for their future leaders. My sisters and I were mortal and therefore we were Men—as far as any in Gondor considered it at all.
Except that was not how it was. Not for Tinu and I at least.
And when my uncles finally left we were alone. There were none who understood the sound of the song, none who could reach out to touch our fëa, save ourselves. It was soul destroying.
I spent my life pretending. I turned from opportunities, I did not follow my heart, I lived how others wished me to. The burden of duty crushed me into something unrecognisable from the spirit I carried within. I have made a vow. That will not happen again.
Now my father leads us again there is no need for me to follow their rules. I feel Elven and so this time I will be Elven. I have a second chance.
And I will not begin by explaining that to this truculent boy who doubtless does not care anyway.
As hard as it is I bite my tongue and let the insult to my father lie.
I cannot imagine how I ever thought Estel like Legolas. He may look similar but in character they are not alike at all. Legolas is lightness and joy but this Estel is haughty and arrogant I decide. How Legolas ended up with a son such as this I do not know.
I nearly walk into the back of him in the midst of my pondering, when he stops abruptly at a fork in the path, and earn a scathing look for my clumsiness.
A Silvan chooses that very moment to drop from the trees.
"Which way?" He asks, his Sindarin tinged with the same strange accent as Estel, and Estel hesitates. "Your Father is at the shore, they tell us." the elf adds and I wonder why they allow me to understand this conversation; perhaps they have finally remembered their manners?
Estel chews on his lip as he considers, something I have seen Legolas do so many times. Although I now know this is not him it is so dislocating to see.
"We go to my Mother," He announces finally.
Maewen, surely. It must be her.
"But—" the Silvan begins to protest but Estel cuts him off with a wave.
"We go to my Mother. That is best." He snaps. "Do not second guess me on this."
It seems he will keep me from Legolas as long as he can.
I remember Maewen. Shy, and gentle, she appeared from nowhere when none of us had had any clue of her existence at all. Legolas had told me of her, the most beautiful woman in the world, he called her, more so than even my mother. I was only small then and did not believe him for who could surpass my mother in beauty? No-one. I thought he told me fairy tales.
And then she was there. And she was beautiful. Not my mother's exquisite Noldor beauty that is above all others, but in an exotic, wild, untamed, woodelven way. And although reserved and shy at first meeting we soon discovered the determined strength that lay beneath. Woe betide you if she ever thought you treated Legolas badly. I could see why he loved her.
She was my sister Tinu's hero.
Will she still be the same after so long?
Estel leads us to a clearing amongst the trees. He stands still and silent at the edge, watching the Silvan's gathered there working, building a flet it seems to me. So they have arrived with as little as we have then.
At their centre, obviously in charge, stands Maewen. It is as if time stands still as I watch her. It has been years—centuries—since I last saw her and she is exactly the same, not so much as one single hair is different. It is as if I am back in Gondor all those years ago. We watch her as she works, Estel and I, and my heart thuds; memory accosts me.
We stood on the shore as she, Legolas, Gimli, and the smattering of Ithilien elves left to go with them prepared to depart. It was heartbreakingingly, soul-crushingly sad. All of us were mourning for we had lost my parents not so long previous. This was yet another loss.
There was no joy in any of us . . . Except Legolas.
He had been morose, silent, a wall of stone, a well of unspoken despair since my Father's death, but now, after years of fighting against it, he was answering the call of the sea and it made him giddy. His laughter floated over our silence as he rushed here and there making my uncle wince as he heard it. For Elrohir was to remain, meaning they would be separated—for a time at least—yet the reality of fulfilling the sea-longing had left Legolas unable to do anything but celebrate. It was hurtful, even I could see that.
It was Maewen who stood beside Elrohir and acknowledged his pain.
"He will grieve for you when we get there." She told him. "Gimli and I will keep him safe. I promise."
"I know," he sighed. "At the moment he can see nothing but the sea. It obliterates even you and I."
And Maewen placed a hand upon his arm, causing him to tear his eyes from the gleeful Legolas to look at her.
"When you next meet there will be no more sea. He will be free of it. It will be glorious, Elrohir, and not so long away."
I tore my eyes from them then for I knew the only reason Elrohir remained was for my sake. I wanted to be able to tell him to go—to sail with them as he wished and be happy, but I could not. As much as I wished it I could not face losing them all at once. I was ashamed of my failure to do that for him. I still am.
Maewen looks across to us now, her face lighting up when she sees Estel, and she smiles. The exact same beatific smile my mother bestows upon me when she sees me, even now. Then her eyes slide across towards me and all stands still.
I see the shock upon her face. Her eyes widen, the smile is frozen, her hands fly to her mouth. And Estel steps forward.
"I have found the Prince of Men wandering in the forest." He says diffidently, as if I am not a very desirable discovery at all.
"Eldarion! Is it true?" She gasps and walks towards us. One, two, three steps before she embraces me and I am buried in it . . . The glory of an elven fëa. For Maewen knows of the elven soul inside me and she greets it. She greets it joyfully, she wraps it with the evergreen, fresh, sunlit filled, scent of her own.
And it has been so long . . . So very long since I have experienced anything except my fellow Men whose spirits lay behind glass, or the all too familiar feel of my mother and sister, that I weep.
When Maewen pulls back from me tears glisten on her cheeks as well.
"I hope these are as joyful as mine are." She says as she wipes mine away. "You look just the same, Eldarion."
And Estel stares, with a look of frank curiously. Perhaps he thinks me weak? I do not care.
"You cannot imagine how joyful," I tell her, "and you . . . You have not changed at all. I do not know why I imagined you would."
"Tell me . . ." She stumbles nervously over her words before she asks her next question, "Tell me . . . Is he here? Tell me it is not just you."
Of course I know who she means.
"It is not just me. He is here, not with me today but he is here."
And she sighs . . . A long soft sigh of relief.
"He has waited so long and it is nearly here," she whispers. "Estel," she says then lifting her voice, "Legolas is fishing by the sea, can you fetch him?" The thought of Legolas by the sea alarms me, why did she let him go there? But then I remember, he must be without the sea-longing now. How strange that seems for I have never known him without it.
But as soon as she has spoken she changes her mind, bouncing on her feet in eagerness.
"No wait, Estel. We will go and meet him there!" She grasps my hand, "come with me Eldarion. I cannot wait for this." And she cups Estel's head with her hand as we pass him, pulling him close. "You have bought us such a precious gift, my son." She murmurs, "Thank you, brave one."
"I did nothing." He shrugs moodily, but he follows us all the same.
I can hardly breathe as she pulls me in a rush down the path. Is this real? A sea-longing free Legolas awaits me at the end of this track and all the waiting, all the grieving and pain he and my father shared is within a hairs breadth of being done with . . . Forever.
"If you hurt him, you answer to me."
The low voice behind me is bitter, and when I glance over my shoulder it is obvious to even a fool:
Estel's eyes flash dangerously.
He means what he says.