"You will do it?" Echoed the young elf lord as if confirming that fish could fly.
"Yes, Legolas, please do not make me change my mind."
The king seemed to disagree with himself, a higher purpose being his only motivation.
Aragorn's reaction, delayed by pure surprise, cut the short silence that ensued the morose elf's statement. He smiled sincerely, eyes meeting Thranduil's with gratitude and hope.
"That is endlessly appreciated, my king Thranduil. Gondor stands in your debts." Aragorn resisted the urge to hold out his hand, knowing his manner would be openly rejected by the Eldar facing him.
"What is it that changed your mind?" Legolas asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
"That," Thranduil turned to him with annoyance, "does not concern you. Now if you will please excuse me, I need a drink." He stepped between the two companions, his pace progressing through the corridor, leaving behind the sharp sound of his solid heels.
"I cannot believe it," Legolas stated, his gaze still where his father had last been, "An hour ago, he was so convinced I thought he would murder Thorin. Aragorn, I have seen one person alone ever able to change my father's mind." A familiar heartache grew within the elf at the memory of his mother, perhaps the only being that managed to be more peak-headed than the king of Eryn Lasgalen. Legolas could recall many a conflict, those moments of pure contrast between his parents, when they shamelessly spoke their contrary opinions and yet filled their words with true appreciation for one another. Often, the queen's mind would reason the king's, which only she had managed during her husband's rule. No other could deceive the hard set convictions of the monarch, not even his own son.
"Well," Aragorn voiced, regaining motivation, "One lord to go."
"No. That is not how you do it, Erwath. You're supposed to be gentle. Just peel away the skin slowly. Why are you so nervous?"
The elf, facing the dead deer, knife at the ready, simply stared at the dead animal, his mouth dry and his hands unsteady.
"It is dead, Lostariel. Dead. And I am about to skin it."
"Oh, come on! We do this all of the time," Erwath stared at her with horror after her declaration. The young woman grabbed the blade, moving her companion aside, "See," she began to explain, her actions matching her words, "If you have the right angle, you just slide that way slowly..."
"May we do something else?" Erwath asked, absolutely traumatized.
"Please. After all the corpses that passed before your eyes, after all the corpses you put to the ground. It's not some deer that will make you give up, is it?"
At her statement, Erwarth's expression changed into a deep thoughtful visage, his eyes seeming to reflect the millenia he had lived in a world of war and death. Seldom it was that Erwarth's sense of long life could be perceivable, for such are elves, light hearted and of pure, sudden wisdom. Yet, in this moment, a history of suffering and despair seemed to invade the elf's being as he answered, staring into the void.
"It is not the same, Lostariel."
Suddenly, under the princess' stare, a warrior emerged from the enlightening being she had only seen as a new friend. The acknowledgement of his past planted within her a growing feeling of compassion.
"I'm sorry," she murmured looking in his eyes.
Erwarth pushed away the feeling, enlightening his features consciously in an attempt to dissipate his companion's guilt.
"It is alright, Lostariel. You have no need to apologise." He stared back at the animal, containing his disgust, "You are probably right, although we never involve animals or any gifts of Yavanna in our battles. The gift that the Valar intended for us is to remain unharmed if it can."
"That sounds nice," Lostariel smiled, "Although, I'm sure you need to eat from time to time. So, this is what we eat here: meat. If you want to live here, you might as well get used to it now."
Erwath wondered about what the woman facing him meant by "live here". Albeit, being of a silently deducing kind, he did not voice his interrogation. He simply stared and desperately attempted to restrain his revulsion as the king's daughter resumed her skinning, explaining her actions as she did them.
At a certain point, Erwarth's stare left the carcass to land on the one treating it. His gaze shifted from rosy cheeks, to grey orbs as if filled with a cloudy sky, to lips of a reddish pink moving to express the thoughts of a young, bold mind that Erwath suddenly desired to explore. For a time he did not count, he simply stared, endeavouring to decrypt the signals of his elderly heart.
"Come on, you can't leave the rope there, they'll see it, Nildë!"
The shy elf, standing before the door leading to the lords of Rivendell's room considered Arthon's comment as seriously as he could, despite his total lack of interest. In desire of revenge for the previous prank the twins had made, Arthon had dragged Nildë into his "mighty" project, in which the helping elf had no desire of being involved.
"We should hide it under the bench or something..." Voiced the vengeful elf thoughtfully.
"Arthon, " Nildë attempted to reason, "You do realize that, if we do prank them, they will keep pranking us back."
The addressed elf scorned, eyeing his interlocutor.
"Well, of course! It's a prank war!"
"I don't think it's a good idea..." Nildë spoke in worry.
"You always say that, and it actually always turns out great. Trust me on this."
The doubtful elf wondered silently at his companion's request, recalling the times he had made the mistake of putting his confidence into the sassiest elf in Middle-Earth.
Arthon bent down and grabbed the rope, hiding it under the seat by the door.
"There we go! Now we just have to get them here..." The elf declared maliciously, rubbing his hands together, "Get in position, Nildë."
Seriousness clearly was something Arthon lacked.
Obeying, the disagreeing partner entered the room and exited by the window, readying a box and holding a thread, ready to pull and reveal its contents.
"Perfect," Arthon commented, following his words by an evil laugh, "Wait for me here."
He then ran through the corridor, seeking the sons of Elrond. They were in a casual conversation in front of the castle and, as planned, he found Cadworon a few yards away, contemplating the landscape. Arthon walked to him, complimenting himself for the perfect functioning of his plan.
"Hey Cadworon," he called, loud enough for Elladan and Elrohir to ear, "You won't believe what I did to the twins' room! It's awful, seriously. When they'll get in there..."
He smirked when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the concerned elves exchange a suspicious glance before striding back into the castle with terrible speed. Amazingly satisfied, Arthon followed subtly, laughing as silently as possible.
"What did he do?" He heard from afar, which widened his lips to a even more important extent. As they opened the door to their room, Arthon ran for the rope and knotted it to the bench, locking the brothers inside. Nildë, upon seeing the twins entering, pulled the thread, removing the lid.
An endless flow of bees escaped the darkness of the container and swarmed into the room, swallowing the forms of the two pranked elves as Nildë closed the window and ran to join Arthon.
Arthon's mischievous laughter echoed in the corridors as the loud voices of the trapped elves emerged from the chaotic buzz of the bees.
"It worked!" Arthon exclaimed as his partner in crime arrived.
Suddenly, Nildë's gaze shifted to the door as his eyebrow knitted in confusion.
"Arthon... They are not screaming." He stated as the elf facing him turned to look at him in confusion, "They are laughing."
Frozen for a few second, Arthon stared in disbelief, the idea of defeat building his growing frustration. He then unmade the knot holding the door and burst inside the bedroom, only to find two elves on the ground, clutching their sides as tears of laughter rose from the corner of their eyes.
Elladan turned to him and managed only two words through his cackling.
"Bees? Seriously?"
Both twins laughed even harder as the bees simply flew by, unbothered by the immortal beings.
"I'm not finished with you two." Arthon declared, stepping out of the room in unconvincing anger, followed by Nildë.
"What now?" The timid companion asked, attempting to cover the cachinnate still emerging from where screams were expected.
"We make a new plan." Arthon declared, already gathering what evil design came to his mind.
"He did what?" Gimli asked, his gruff voice tainted by surprise.
"Thranduil accepted, Gimli." Aragorn repeated, matching the excitement slowly building in the dwarf's eyes.
"I thought he had said no." The lord of the glittering caves wondered, fingering his beard.
"Indeed he had," Legolas confirmed before continuing, "Although, apparently, something made him change his mind."
Satisfaction coloured the Nauglir's features.
"Well, that is good news indeed. Yet we still have one lord to take care of."
A silence filled the room as the three hunters attempted to find a solution to king Thorin's stubbornness, without success. It was well known that a dwarf's heart is arduously persuaded.
"Well," Aragorn began, "I will do what I can meanwhile. Hopefully, he will change his mind before-" Aragorn cut himself, a shadow lingering in his eyes, "Before anything comes to pass."
The companions parted to treat other matters of their own. Aragorn headed for the nearest way outside he could recall, pacing slowly out of the room, his gaze still caught in the mist of dark emotions.
Seventy years, a man's lifetime he had dedicated to oppose the foe of Middle-Earth. The weight of loss, death, pain and despair still clung to his mind and heart as, he knew, it still had a solid grasp upon his companions'. Together, they had paid a solid price to see the dark days come to an end.
But they were wrong.
Dark times they were about to live yet again, and Aragorn feared. In earlier years, his decisions were a source of consequences for he and his pairs only, him being a simple ranger of the north, a sole traveller of Arnor. But the crown that was deposed upon his head decades ago now spoke otherwise. A single word, a tiny wave of his hand could define the destiny of men, in victory or defeat. The threat that grew outside of their sight was an elder strength, a power well beyond their own, albeit all the alliances that had been made.
One mistake, one unreasoned thought, that was all it took to have the free peoples of Middle-Earth fall into darkness, one silly error was necessary to undo the works of centuries, millennia of war and death, of ceaseless battle and sacrifice.
Aragorn finally stepped under the sun, drawing in a deep breath from the refreshing wind that flowed through the peaks of the southern mountains of Middle-Earth, wondering where the current of the air could carry him.
Once again, he thought of a free life in a free world, of his feet stepping through safe, pure wilderness, untouched by foes with dark desires, unharmed by battles that had come to pass. His heart suddenly felt lighter, younger. No bigger threat there would be than the cold and hunger, as all would live as one in the world they loved.
"Ada?" The king heard from close behind him.
He turned from the view of the city and its lengthening shadows to meet Valwen's gaze. As she observed the gaze of her father betray his smile, her heart filled with understanding, her gaze smoothening before she stepped forward, grabbing the man's hand.
The young woman's sense to perceive the wills and hurts of one's heart seemed to constantly amaze the Dúnadan, even though it had been years since she had first proved her enhanced sight.
They both turned to the lands beyond, side by side, Valwen leaning her head on Aragorn's shoulder. The king then turned an laid a kiss on her forehead.
"Hérincë nin." Aragorn whispered affectionately.
Valwen smiled at the use of her childhood nickname. Hopefully, she would bring what happiness her father needed. The princess of Gondor worried about the king, she worried about the longing in his heart. Yet, she knew the king of men's strength, and had faith in it.
And in him.
The lord of Ithilien sat at his desk as the light of Anar descended to the west, filling what papers required his attention. His keen eyes passed over letter and document with remarkable speed, his swift hands occasionally caressing the paper with ink where his approbation was needed.
For once in what seemed like a very long time, Legolas' mind was untroubled by the melody echoing from the blue waters. His heart, lighter than before sought for the cause of his sudden comfort. The longing of the sea seldom, if not never, lessened its grasp on the Eldar's heart.
And yet it had.
Legolas was free of his inevitable destiny. Once again, he was satisfied by the world in which he came to be, the world he had for so long cherished for its splendour, its simplicity coexisting with an incomprehendable complexity. Long it had been since he was last filled with such wonder for the branches of trees, the warm caress of Arien's astre, the flowing of streams where elk and deer satisfied their thirst.
His heart was somewhat reborn, and he felt as if he had awakened from troubled sleep, to have the sun shining on a new day of hope and possibility. He had faith in his people, in the people with whom he shared this world. The Darkness felt like an old memory, a hostile recollection of a shadowy past.
Although it was now a future.
Legolas knew little of what may come, only the echo of the horrified people in earlier ages, stories of a dark force: the greatest of all.
And yet, even before the very idea of Morgoth's return, Legolas saw his will renewed, his determination growing at the idea of the tasks ahead, his mind cleared and active, at the ready for action.
He felt like a warrior once more.
Perhaps it was what he needed. The necessity of his well-being in dark times had been his motivation for millennia, and perhaps a return to old habits would help him return to his ressources, to himself. Maybe it was that what he longed for simply was-
"Sorry, it's me." Valwen's melodic voice filled the room, her head peeking through the doorway.
"Oh, no problem. Please, come in." Legolas welcomed, gesturing towards an armchair that sat in the corner of the room, beside his desk.
The lady slowly walked to the seat and delicately let her weight rest on the pillowed surfrace, a solemn smile decorating her soft features.
"King Thranduil accepted to help us." Legolas announced, which merited a strange shift in Valwen's eyes.
"So I heard." She answered, a light smirk curving her lips.
A long silence followed, in which neither felt uncomfortable. Silence never was a source of awkwardness for elves, and it certainly was not for Valwen.
Legolas simply stared for a few moments, before shifting his gaze to avoid questioning from the lady before him. When his focus left her, Valwen's eyes landed on the lord of Ithilien as she observed a change in his heart.
"You don't feel it anymore." She simply stated as a realization.
Legolas' piercing look turned to meet his interlocutor's, a questioning expression invading them as his brows furrowed.
"What do you mean?" He asked, unable to decrypt the meaning behind her words.
"The sea," She explained, "Its call doesn't affect you anymore."
Surprised, Legolas shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
Perhaps Valwen was one of the only people able to make Legolas Greenleaf uncomfortable.
"How do you know that?" He questioned, feeling awfully exposed.
The royal maiden of Gondor smiled sincerely.
"That does not happen very often, does it? The sea longing simply disappearing like that."
Legolas nodded, his eyes lowering to the papers on his desk. He recalled his first meeting with Valwen and felt somewhat naked about the situation, as if she had seen a part of him he preferred to keep personal. Yet, he thought, she probably saw more of him, and of anybody for the matter, than he thought she had.
The impression of discomfort faded away and, for some unknown reason, when he stared into her eyes, he felt safe. Suddenly, it was as if all worry or history of mistrust in Legolas' past had no meaning, as if her eyes were the one thing to be, everything that there ever was. His heart, before this greatest sight of all, felt liberated, light, unburdened by thousands of years upon this earth.
Time was not in Valwen's eyes. He could see his tiny fingers reaching for his toy in his mother's arms, as he could see himself in a world that he would never know. He could feel his shoulders shake in uncontrollable laughter, and his eyes swell up in deep hurt. He could see trees grow and shrink back to simple seeds. He could smell the fresh smell of a northern wind blowing through his hair as he stood upon the mountain's side, as he could have the warm odour of a fireplace on a winter's night. He could reach out and grab the sun, or kneel and reach to the bottom of the earth. He could remember and forget, listen and ignore, hope and despair at the same time. The secret of it all was in her eyes.
Perhaps she was the reason to his being free of the sea. Maybe it was that the lady was so strong it drew his heart away from Belegaer and towards her own.
For this once he let his eyes linger on the lady as he wished, ignoring his mind that begged to turn away. Expecting the daughter of his best friend to ignore the behavior, the lord of Ithilien was surprised to see her simply staring back, matching the intensity of his gaze.
He was fascinated. Seldom did he share such a long eye contact with any, either because of the intimidating nature of his eyes or the urgency of the moment. One person before had done as Valwen did, and it was her mother.
Legolas saw lady Undómiel in the person facing him. He saw her serenity, her care for growing things, her delicate manners full of compassion. He also saw the strength and might of the king of Gondor. His constantly reasoning gaze, his precise gestures, his endless hope. Although, something else resulted from Legolas' contemplation. Something completely new, not only to him, but to all. Being in Valwen's presence installed a different sensation than anything he had ever experienced in his immortal life. She felt divine and simple, the controversy constantly amazing him upon every sight, the elaborate, yet obvious nature of the being facing him quickly becoming impossible to ignore.
"You know, I never quite got to show you the garden", she casually stated, "Last time I tried, it didn't end too well. Would you like to try again?"
Thus they went through the stone paths of the city of Minas Tirith to its haven of thriving life, the air there tainted with the various perfumes of flowers and trees. There, both lady and lord found ultimate peace and comfort, for they were in great proximity with living things. In these environnements, the song of Yavanna eased and relieved their hearts with the purity of her creation.
As they walked through the various plantations, Legolas caught a familiar scent. It reminded him of a rising sun brightening the fresh air of spring, the awakening after heavy sleep, the breath of the wind after wandering in the dark depths of the world. He instantly identified the smell as that of the athelas plant, before his eyes met the sight of the small, delicate white flowers amidst a mass of tiny green leaves, recalling Aragorn's demand to plant them abundantly for their healing properties. He smiled at the memory of Aragorn asking an old healer for athelas, the arguing man telling each of its names without proving to be of any productivity. Aragorn, losing patience, had told him to call it however he wished, as long as he brought it as he was asked to. Few people knew of the unique properties of the Kingsfoil. It was mostly known as an old plant for stomach aches or other minor ailments, when its very smell, when boiled, could arouse the spirit and lessen the effect of the dark forces upon mind and heart.
Legolas reached down and traced his fingers over the green sea dotted by petaled stars as he replayed the memory in his mind, Valwen simply glancing around with her usual smile spreading her thin lips.
"You know, you could come here more often," She stated, "It would clearly do you no harm."
Legolas turned to look upon her once more, an agreeing grin spreading his lips. He then glanced around, heeding the beauty of his surroundings.
"Perhaps you're right." He conceded.
He gently stood, raising his head to the zenith of the trees, as if searching for something Valwen could not identify. Suddenly, he leapt forward, and in a few strides reached a full grown trunk. He reached for a branch and pulled himself upwards with incredible ease, ascending as he had done for thousands of years with an agility that amazed the lady of Gondor, albeit the stories she had heard concerning the lord of Ithilien. Even after all the amazing prowesses of the elf, he still could surprise those who knew of his various skills in different domains.
As he reached the thinnest branches that could support his weight, Legolas gazed down at the baffled daughter of Aragorn, his grin widening.
"Would you like to join?" He simply asked, the northern wind blowing in his light hair.
Valwen slowly walked to the tree, examining the branches with an unsure expression, although the son of Thranduil knew fully well that she possessed the capacity to reach him. He simply waited as she evaluated what path she could use.
She finally climbed up. At a much slower rate, yet with solidity. She rose to his side as he smiled, turning towards the sun. They both contemplated the landscape in comfortable silence, breathing in the fresh breeze that flowed through the mountains.
Legolas looked upon the world with such a depth in his eyes that even Valwen found it difficult to reveal. It seemed as if a weighful thought was pressing his heart, and old feeling wearily returning in the spirit of the immortal with an accustomed easiness. Unable to unveil the core of his heart, the lady voiced her interrogation.
"What are you thinking about?"
He turned to her for a moment, before his gaze shifted back to the wide lands that laid before them.
"For ages, numerous generations have fought ceaselessly for these lands. They have lost the ones they loved, their lives... Yet, never was this world truly safe. Its beauty, its peace, they are constantly a cause in battle, Valwen. I simply wonder if one day, we will be able to look upon this world without the fear of losing it."
Legolas' grave expression seemed to reach Valwen's understanding and she sat closer, gazing abroad.
"I understand."
And she truly did. A depth in her voice confirmed the truth in her words. The lady of Gondor was far sighted indeed, but her heart also could reach beyond her, and into the ones that surrounded her and needed compassion.
Perhaps, Legolas thought, they had a chance with a being such as Valwen.
The smell of blood reeked in his anticipation, for blood he had long craved in his eternal wait. Time he was stolen when cast beyond the door of night, yet none of it did he waste. In his captivity his wonders of revenge thrived and found shape.
He would not reproduce his previous mistakes, never again.
For now, all possible alternatives were already existing in his old mind, and remedied to.
His brethren would see their one creation crumble into an eternal darkness beyond their reach, and they would plea, beg for forgiveness.
But he would not heed them.
Ai brother, thou hast not seen true horror yet. In an other time have I insulted and hurt our father's conceptions, but never were they torn apart before thy powerless self. Thou shalt watch life in its ultimate defeat, sibling of the air.
The screeching sounds that grew behind filled him with a reviving twisted pleasure.
How he relished when things were no more.
The calm voices echoed through the spacious throne room of Minas Tirith as the matters of citizens were discussed before the king. To remind his people of the equality amongst all men including himself, the founder of the house Telcontar had proposed to organize a session where the people of the city could personally address the king on matters that required his attention. So there he sat upon his throne, helping them in what way he could, sometimes having the visit of old companions of war.
In the greatest hall of men then stood an old woman, small among the great statues of the kings of old, her unexpectedly steady voice resonating on the high pillars of pale stone.
"Thank you my lord, That filthy Denethor never knew what it was like to live alone in a city when you were an old lady and you had a grandson to take care of." She explained, her voice tainted with disgust for the last Steward, "Not really smart, that man. Let me tell you I would have done things differently."
"Many would say the same." Aragorn agreed, smiling at the woman's pronounced attitude.
"And, by the way, I- we don't want to bother you really. Don't take us wrong, we truly like you and we are glad you took that other moron's place on that bloody throne, but people are beginning to, well... Talk. You know, you have seemed worried in the last days (not that we were stalking or anything, it's just my grandson, he's a member of the guard) and there were elves and dwarves walking around in a way that looked quite official. Not to spread rumors or anything, it's just that we would like to know what's going on, if you understand."
The king's eyes, though his lips remained in a soft smile, seemed to darken.
"Everything is under control, madam. There are simply times that require more strength, but do not worry." The king reassured, concentrating what truth he could muster in a comforting stare.
Which did not result as intended.
"Do you think you can fool me, young man?", the woman erupted insult, "I wasn't born last night! Now you might be older than me, but I know more about a man's lies than you do about yours! I've been married with the same kind of man as you! The kind of man that keeps all his little secrets and makes everything look like sunshine and pretty flowers, and you know what? That got me widowed! Artilir felt strange for weeks and told me nothing: well he was sick, as I found out after his death!"
Legolas then entered the room, slightly alarmed by the tone that was used on his companion. The old lady turned towards the lord of Ihtilien, her expression changing.
"Well you are one pretty piece of meat." She commented, "Now would you mind enlightening us on what is happening, people are getting curious."
Legolas' gaze shifted to Aragorn, who seemed just as confused.
"Fine," she broke the silence, giving in, to both elf and man's relief, "But you will have to talk at one point or another. No secret is secret." She sighed, and turned to leave as another man entered, a cloak covering his face.
"Good evening," Aragorn greeted, unsure of the man's purpose behind concealing his identity.
As if to reassure the king's sudden doubt, the stranger pushed his hood back, revealing his decorated hair and dark skin, a look of terror contorting his southern traits.
"I do not have much time my king," he quickly said as if he was to be taken any second, stepping forward.
The guards barred him the way to the stairs leading to the throne and he ceased his progression towards the monarch, although without lessening his urgency.
"He has conquered Harad. There is no more to be done. Men will follow him or else they will watch their families die. He has convinced our leader-" He then interrupted himself, as if expecting to receive a blow. Aragorn stood at his words, an alarmed expression accompanying the question in his eyes.
"Whom? Whom took control over your people?" He asked in distress.
The man took a deep breath as if he was about to jump into a wrathful fire, and blew out the word as a curse, the curse of man itself:
"Morgoth." He murmured, as if his doom was sealed by his treachery, "I thought you would need to know."
He unsheathed his knife and, as if he had rehearsed and well meditated this last act, he buried the blade into his gut with trembling hands, his breath quick and interrupted by desperate sobs. He fell to his knees as blood spread on the fabric of his tunic. He closed his eyes as the liquid rose through his lips and he fell to the floor, the red water of his veins pooling on the white stone in an ultimate sacrifice for his people.
Elvish
Hérincë nin: my little lady
