Chapter nine: Culmination

It was warm, and the homely smell of burning wood came to him. He felt the touch of soft, pristine cloth beneath him, smooth under his hand as it slowly moved upwards to his head, and the rougher fabric that bound it. His skull throbbed in time to his heart and his body warned him not to move, for it would surely hurt.

Turning his head to the side the soft, waning light closed his pupils only slightly, for dusk was upon them. He breathed deeply, realizing sluggishly that he must have slept through the day.

He moved his bare legs tentatively below the sheets, feeling the pull of overstrained muscles; nothing a massage would not take care of, he mused somewhat demurely, smiling at the possibilities. And then Arwen appeared before his mind's eye and he called her name.

Moments later, glorious, golden hair filled his vision and Glorfindel's scent enveloped him in a shroud of loving care.

"Legolas…"

"Umm..," he replied. Arwen?

"Is well, with Elrond and Galadriel. You slept long…"

"Yes," he said quietly, sitting himself up slowly and reaching for a long, silken robe that lay draped across the bed.

Slipping into it somewhat gingerly, he rose from the bed and moved to the hearth, sitting just as carefully in a large armchair that stood a little to one side. It was comfortable, and warm, and Arwen was well. The only thing missing was food, he realized. And then his stomach lurched violently as he suddenly remembered the conversation from the previous day.

Elrond had retold the story of the council chambers; how Galadriel had explained their meeting with Gildor, deep in the forests. He had spared no gesture, no flourish of intonation – he was pure enthusiasm, radiating an almost puerile delight at the long-awaited outcome of his hard-laboured plans. This was a side to Elrond that he rarely showed and, as far as Legolas was aware, only ever manifested before his two lovers.

Legolas however, had felt somewhat overcome, albeit it had not shown - proud that he was. Glorfindel however, was well aware of his feelings, and it had not been long after, that he found himself fed, sated, and falling into a deep sleep – his eyes slowly closing on Glorfindel and Llyniel as they chatted quietly to each other, as friends, he mused; 'good', he thought, 'very good indeed'.

A goblet appeared before his unfocused eyes, eyes that quickly sharpened onto those of Glorfindel, who stared back at him, smiling softly and sitting down on a chair opposite Legolas.

"There were, indeed, two groups. One led the eastern patrol on a merry chase – on purpose, it seems – a distraction…"

"I knew we were being hunted, Glorfindel, and your words confirm that. They had orders, and a purpose – I saw a mutant, Glorfindel – their leader, without a doubt," he said, wincing as his split lip pulled uncomfortably.

Glorfindel's face darkened at the mention of mutants. He had heard the story of the Company's capture and torment, both from Legolas and Elladan, was reminded of it every day by the white scar upon his lover's shoulder. Since then, only two further sightings had been made. They were still a mystery, except that they were stronger, and more intelligent than their Uruk Hai brothers, and they always seemed to appear when a plan was in motion.

"Legolas…"

"Um?"

"Who would even know of your improvised ride with Arwen?

"Indeed, this is the question, is it not? However improbable it may seem, I would suggest -sorcery, Glorfindel…" he said carefully.

Glorfindel frowned at this, for those able to carry out such a scheme could be counted on the fingers of one hand – one of the Ainur, or some, unknown element yet to reveal itself.

"But that means…"

"Yes, I know, disconcerting is it not? They can either see from afar, or 'tis someone who shares my ability…"

The room grew quiet, and Legolas knew Glorfindel was thinking the same as he was. A seeing stone, or a wizard – a rogue wizard.

A knock against the screen hailed the timely arrival of Mithrandir, who walked straight to where Legolas sat, catching his eyes and holding them, watching as they shone with life and intelligence, trepidation and just a touch of insecurity.

Mithrandir smiled kindly then, as he was not often wont to do, an open, fatherly smile that Legolas rather thought spoke of love, and… pity? Well, who could blame him, he mused. Being king would cage him, would distance him from those around him, from his family in the Greenwood – it was not Legolas' way, and Mithrandir knew this.

"I have been sent by your lackeys to collect you for the evening meal," he said curtly, apparently affronted by the fact that he had been sent as a messenger.

"However, you do look frightful, child – you would not be remiss if you were to not attend," he said more kindly now, as he accepted Glorfindel's offering of wine.

"Nay, I should go – I must face this sooner, rather than later, Mithrandir. Besides, we should talk – there is much to be discussed, about the attack, and about… well,"

"The coronation," said Glorfindel flatly, knowing well how uncomfortable it was making his lover.

"Yes, that," he said irritably, waving his hand in the air, just as his kingly father always did. Realizing mid-flourish, he grinned somewhat ruefully at his involuntary imitation of his father, one that had not gone unnoticed, as Mithrandir guffawed and slapped his knee.

"You cannot escape it, Prince," he began, yet his face became serious once more. "You were born for this, educated for this, 'tis your destiny."

Legolas stared back at him, equally seriously. "And will you come with me? Accompany me on this journey? Advise me, fight with me?"

"I will follow you, king of elves, to whatever end – you have my staff."

Legolas smiled mischievously, before breaking the solemn silence, "have a care with your words, wizard…"

And now, it was Glorfindel to throw his head back and laugh, as the Maia swiped at the forest lord with his rumpled grey hat, enveloping them both in a cloud of dust.

…

Dinner turned out to be a private affair in the Lord and Lady's chambers – private, at least in a sense, for Elladan and Galdithion were there, as well as Arwen and Gildor who sat together in quiet discussion.

Serving elves moved around the room, procuring the lords and ladies with light wines and aperitifs, their faces serene, eyes set downwards, never meeting the ones they served, save for in those rare moments in which they could look without being seen, and marvel at the beauty of them all.

They stood or sat, sipping on wine and talking affably together, yet the air was charged with expectation. Plans would be discussed this night, and all wished to be a part of the debate for, here in this chamber, were the instigators, the architects of what was to come.

Silence fell as Legolas arrived, with Glorfindel and Mithrandir at his side. He looked beautiful, mused Elladan. Dressed in a finely tailored, calf-length tunic of rich burgundy, his black boots disappearing under the exquisitely embroidered hem. His hair was tied away from his face, the beaded tips dancing around his hips invitingly. The bruises upon his face were fading and there was a sparkle to his extraordinary green eyes that brought to mind a cut emerald under the morning sun.

Breaking all protocol, Legolas walked towards Arwen, who stood to greet him. They moved towards each other, Legolas' arms hugging her form fiercely as her own face – turned towards the room – reflected what Elladan thought must be a little of the anguish she had felt during their ordeal, or perhaps it was that which was to come; for of them all, it was his sister who had inherited most of their grandmother's gift.

No words passed between them and, as Legolas held her at arm's length, his unspoken question and her equally silent answer were plain to all in the room.

Elladan marveled at this singular relationship which, if one did not know better, could easily be mistaken for one between lovers. Indeed he was convinced there were undercurrents that transcended the boundaries of brotherly affection.

Galadriel was the first to break the moment, yet instead of returning Legolas' respectful bow, she placed both hands on his shoulders, and reached up to kiss his forehead, before stepping back and holding his eyes; a public gesture of gratitude, mused Elladan.

"You have questions – doubts," she anticipated correctly, to which Legolas nodded as he accepted a goblet from Celeborn, who smiled kindly at his Sindarin kin, as he had always done since the first day they had met.

He stood there, apparently unsure of where to begin – it was one of those rare moments in which Legolas seemed to Elladan to be of an age with himself and Galdithion – adults, young adults with experience far beyond their years, and yet not enough to have acquired the resulting wisdom.

The others settled around him now, eyes anchored on the pensive forest lord as he began to give voice to his misgivings; indeed it would be his last opportunity to do so for, after today, the cogs would begin to whirl and there would be no stopping them.

"My first question is – if I am to be high king – what of Ingwë in Valinor? Indeed what of Finarfin – your father, my Lady? You may laugh but the question is valid," he added somewhat defensively, a hint of his relative youth colouring his words.

"I know not, Legolas, I can only assume that my father will remain as king of the Noldor in Amman, it does not have to be incompatible," said Galadriel, "for you are to be king in Ennor."

"Indeed, if the Valar have seen fit to invest a king to unite the people of Ennor, I would suggest they have taken this into consideration – extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures - 'tis what we need to defeat him," added Elladan, who was perched upon the edge of his seat, just as Erestor was wont to do. He had been uncharacteristically bold, but then he had been emboldened by recent events, and by the weight of the responsibility that would soon be his to carry out – Herald to the High King, just as his father had been, and a fleeting glance in Elrond's direction confirmed Elladan's supposition that his father had heartily approved.

"Alright, I can see your point, and – I assume that the Lady Yavanna speaks for all the Valar…"

"Never doubt that, Legolas. She can take no unilateral decisions in these matters. This issue has been raised and approved by the High Council – you have my word," assured Mithrandir.

Legolas held his gaze with his own intense, searching eyes. This was the reassurance he seemed to have been seeking, for Elladan could almost see his misgivings as they slid from his face, his expression turning from one of controlled anguish to equally controlled relief.

It was Celeborn who astutely read beneath Legolas' façade of cool acceptance.

"You do not believe it, and so your mind strives to find objections – nay, I do not judge you," he added, holding up his hand for silence before anyone could express their objections. "I cannot hope to feel what you feel now, Legolas, and yet the slightest intent leaves my stomach churning – I believe – I believe that I understand you – yet hear me, cousin…

"You are not taking the throne – it has been assigned to you, of that, the Lords of Arda are witness. Remember this, in your moments of doubt."

Legolas would have responded, had he been given the time, but Gildor now stood before him, searching the Forest Lord's green eyes as if reading a book. Then, quite suddenly, he dropped to one knee and bowed his head, before the stupor of all.

"Even had it not been so, even had the powers not ordained this – I would have followed you anyway," said Gildor solemnly. "I had grown skeptical of this world, this age; of my own, unfortunate circumstance that did but embitter my character even more. You – you have delivered me from a life of rejection and self-pity, onto a path towards honour and meaning – I wish to serve in this new army, in any way you see fit – I would accompany you – to whatever end.

The determined words fuelled Elladan's now unbearable desire to publically pledge his own sword. "I too, follow you; you have always been my Commander, my King."

Legolas stood before them – oh so tempted to take them both in his arms and show his feelings – yet he could not, for his father's face popped into his mind and he stood his ground, steeled his face and his body, and smiled serenely, tilting his head only slightly, yet the broiling sensations shone brightly behind his eyes, and the elders smiled in indulgent joy.

…

And so the weeks passed. Letters where drawn up and sent, to the elven, dwarven and human communities, even to The Shire and the elusive hobbits that dwelled and farmed there – however they did not expect any answers from them, nor indeed from any that were not elven. Relations with the second born had been long neglected, yet invite them they must.

It had been Llyniel and Legolas to come up with an idea that had Elrond both proud, and frankly impressed. How to motivate their attendance? How to involve them in this event, so that future alliances could be made a little easier?

The dwarves had been offered the honour of styling the High King's crown, as a commission. They had sent drawings of Yavanna's crown for the Forest Lord, explaining that it had been wrought by Lord Aulë himself, although whether they would believe that was debatable at the very least. To the race of men, they had spoken of the possibility of new trade routes and agreements, of increased collaboration in their common goal against the enemy. Whether it would be enough to whet their appetites was, indeed, unlikely; yet the political initiative had been worthy of applause.

It had been decided that the coronation would take place in Lothlorien, for it was midway between Imladris and the Greenwood, albeit Mithlond would have the longest journey. Legolas had accepted with good grace; he had expected this, yet it had ended any and all hope he could ever have had regarding his father's presence, and although he would not let it show, it burned deep in his chest, for himself and for his father.

Galdithion and Llyniel understood more than most, for they knew well the relationship between king and prince. Indeed Legolas was often to be found in their company, or together with Arwen and Elladan, whilst the elusive Doronhal, would perch himself in a nearby tree, or patrol the area in which his future king passed his time. Galdithion was well pleased with this, and had oftentimes caught the eyes of the elf from Doriath, a respectful tilt of the head showing his utter approval.

As for Gildor, he spent much time with Celeborn and his sister, Galadriel. She had presented him with a finely wrought circlet that had belonged to Finrod, claiming that now it was Gildor who should wear it. He did, however timidly, for he was not accustomed to the protocol of lords, and yet he rather thought it would not take great hardships to become so. Somehow, it came almost naturally to him, albeit he had spent the last few centuries scoffing at protocol – indeed he could not rid himself of the inbred nobility of his line, one that had, finally, been recognized.

…

The letters were well-traced, elegant, yet not especially so. The writing was not perfect, even though its sender was – almost – at least to him. He had never told him that, and never would, and yet he knew it to be so.

The lines were strong, bold, balanced in size and proportion, such that it brought to mind the sender once more, for they illustrated his character so well. Here and there, the tail or head of a figure would be extended just a little beyond what tradition would dictate – passion, strong emotions that sneaked through the discipline of Tengwar, branding the parchment with the essence of the one who created them.

He set the crisp parchment upon his study table for a moment, as the strong white hand reached for the ornate decanter to one side. Pouring the ruby liquid slowly, pensively, into his goblet, he reached for the missive once more and moved into the beam of blue, dust-filled light that shone through his window and onto the exquisitely woven carpet under his booted feet.

Standing in the warmth for a moment, his brilliant blue eyes turned downwards once more, onto the symbols that stood to attention before him.

… now that it has happened, now that there is consensus – only now – do I truly understand the weight of it…

The weight, yes, the sheer, unyielding mass of rock that sat upon the chest and set the gut to churning, the onus of responsibility. He remembered it so well, for it had happened to him thousands of years before, in the wake of Oropher's downfall.

His eyes followed the lines of well-formed letters but now, they did not seem so regimental to his discerning eyes. The shapes were no longer so balanced, uniform, but the tips and toes were higher, the dots and accents a little more … uncontrolled. Feelings, deep rooted and heart-felt were beginning to bloom inside the Tengwar as the letter progressed.

… the lives of thousands, in silent submission to one who must decide their fates…

Yes, but their submission was not silent, but consented – there was a difference, he knew, one he would need to remember to point out, for it would help, help him understand.

The velvet against his back was warm and he breathed deeply, relishing the physical comfort for a moment, before turning and sitting in the chair below the window and crossing his legs, feeling the silk of his skirt slip sideways and his bare skin kissed by the morning sun.

He sipped on his wine as the written words fell into perfect harmony with his own experience. So alike in so many things. The thought made him snort and a brief smile flitted over his thin, determined lips – of course they would be, for these were the words of his disciple, his advantaged student.

He closed his eyes for a moment, for he wished to relish what was left of the Tengwar, for history was written here, and he was the first to know it – here in the Greenwood.

… I know you cannot, will not attend … and yet to feel your hand upon the metal that will bind me to my destiny …

A sad yet satisfied smile graced his lips, for perhaps it was true, and yet to do that one thing would truly be the culmination of his life…

Thranduil's eyes turned to the portrait of the first great king of the Greenwood. His eyes strayed momentarily to the blond warrior that stood in the background, for his face had always drawn his attention. He was guarding his ward, his expression hard and determined – and yet there was something more, something in those fierce, expressive eyes that he could not place.

The one he guarded stood in the foreground - tall and arrogant, his jaw clenched in defiant anger, a long pike held loosely in his hand. It spoke, that expression, as clearly as any words could ever do. 'Never be cowed, confront your enemies, never back down, face life boldly…'

Oropher had done just that, and had paid the price that comes with extremes. 'So alike, and yet not so', he mused once more; yet whether he spoke of himself or his father, he could not say.

… 'tis done, almost, and then I will travel home for a while, before everything takes me away from you, and the Evergreen wood of my heart…

It had been over two thousand years since he had stepped foot outside his forest domain, telling himself that he could not be spared, that the people needed him here, for there were others to carry out his political needs abroad – a king owed himself to his people.

He glanced once more at the portrait of his father, guiltily almost. '…face life boldly… '

After but a moment of realization, King Thranduil stood resolutely, and strode to the door, opening it rather abruptly, only to find Aradan, Lainion and Galion standing in the hallway, eyes wide as young elves caught red-handed in some ignoble deed.

"Lord Aradan – tend to me now," he ordered, garnering a brisk nod from his chief advisor, and a resigned glance between Galion and Lainon, who reluctantly went about their business, both wondering if the letter, that had been delivered earlier that day, contained the news they had all been waiting for. And if it did, and its contents were those they had equally been awaiting, then what would their Lord decide? Would this be enough to break over two thousand years of self-imposed isolation?

…

One of the biggest surprises in Elladan's life had come in the form of a letter from the White City. Ecthelion, the young Steward of Gondor in person, would be attending the coronation. They had expected the delegation from Esgaroth, of course, but never in their wildest dreams had they thought to receive Gondor.

The lords and their diplomats were unsure as to how to interpret this gesture; it was, perhaps, curiosity and a need for intelligence on their distant neighbours – and, then again, it could be a move towards friendship and the desire for a closer bond between the races. It was more likely, however, that it was the lure of lucrative trade agreements that Legolas and Llyniel had worked into the undoubtedly attractive invitation. Elladan had been impressed that the initiative had actually proved successful, leaving them with this unique opportunity to begin the unification – the very reason behind everything they now planned.

After the acceptance of Galadriel had been assured, Elrond had stepped back from the vanguard, explaining that, now, it fell to the Herald and the king's Chief Advisor to carry out such duties. Elladan had been overjoyed, if not somewhat apprehensive, for he was first and foremost a warrior. He knew he would never lose his father's counsel, and glad he was of it, for it would surely be needed.

He had been working more closely with Llyniel too, and had found her most suited to the post that Legolas had assigned to her. She was tenacious, shrewd, and much more aware of political maneuverings and plotting than he was. Together, they would make a formidable team and the thought fleetingly wrenched a smile from Elladan's lips, until it fell away when he remembered their goal – Mairon.

…

He had pushed himself – hard, for that was the only way to take his mind away from the impending ceremony. After an entire morning of running, sparring and vaulting, Legolas was ready to bath and change, and then take a short rest before lunch. News was arriving daily now, and so he had fallen into the routine of taking a 'working lunch' with his closest collaborators. Yet his role was mostly passive, leaving the intricacies of protocol to Llyniel, who had learned the art well, at the knee of her father, Chief Advisor to Thranduil himself. Yet she had taken her future role of Chief Advisor to the High King most seriously, and often chose to defer to Elrond, taking note, it seemed, of every word, every nuance, every gesture that the Lord of Imladris made – she was preparing herself, and Legolas was most pleased.

Thus wondering what the day would yield, he walked purposefully back to his suite, nodding and smiling to those he passed along the way. How it had all changed, in but a scant few months, he mused.

Entering hastily, his mind still far away, he closed the door behind him, and stopped short. Glorfindel, bent over a stack of papers upon the worktable, was as naked as the day he was born. Legolas stood still, chest still heaving from his exertions, staring as his eyes observed the fall of long, wavy locks around muscled shoulders, draping decadently over the wooden surface, his muscled back and then pert buttocks, one sitting higher than the other as the warrior rested one leg.

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