Chapter twenty: This is My Land
Legolas sat lazily against an oak tree, his eyes half closed and his mouth slightly raised at the corners. He was content, and quite frankly exhausted, for the afternoon had brought with it the unexpected joy of being able to express his love and desire – and he had done so with utmost vigor.
As for himself, he had presented himself to his lover like a brazen slut, and when he had moaned and screamed his pleasure, Glorfindel had covered his mouth and taken him hard. This had been no tender afternoon of loving – it had been a turbulent whirlwind of desperate need and pleasure; blessed release after the trials of a, by now, long and arduous journey.
Glorfindel smiled indulgently as he watched, knowing full-well the direction of his lover's thoughts and so, as he laid out his attire for the evening's festivities, he allowed the king these fleeting moments of joy and reverie.
Strange though it was, Glorfindel had been witness to few Woodland celebrations, for the only time he had spent in the Greenwood had been but scant years previously, when circumstances had not allowed for jubilation.
He knew enough of it though. He knew the foundations of their culture, knew the reverence their society showed to both warriors and healers alike – he knew of their losses – knew some of the rites that helped them to bear such a hard life.
It was Elladan who knew so much more than he himself did though, albeit Glorfindel was the king's betrothed. Elrond's oldest son had submerged himself in that arcane culture, only to emerge a better warrior, a better politician, healer, a better elf. He felt proud of his former student's achievements, and prouder still of Legolas, who had seen his potential no sooner he had looked into the sparkling grey eyes of Eärendil's grandson.
The result of that year in the Greenwood was a friendship stronger than most would ever know, forged in molten steel, battle and extreme hardship, yet there was something more. They were kindred spirits – the king and Elladan - strangely tuned to each other's thoughts and feelings – protective, loyal to a fault, even. They grew in each other's presence, complemented each other almost to perfection. It was a weapon in itself, one the Dark Lord would never understand, one that would serve them well.
"You are far away," murmured Legolas.
Glorfindel started somewhat. He had, indeed, been far away and his mind was sluggish to return to Eriador and their camp.
"I was thinking…" he said distractedly.
"Of the lake?" asked Legolas seductively.
Glorfindel smirked but shook his head. "Nay, I will think on that later on, lest I make a fool of myself. I was thinking of Elladan, and you. Of your friendship…"
"Ah," said Legolas, his eyes opening a little more as he straightened his slouched form. "What has got you thinking on such a complicated subject?"
Glorfindel smiled at him, for it was indeed, a complicated subject; one he was still unsure he understood.
"I was thinking of the festivities as I prepared my attire for the evening, and thought of your celebrations, your dances and your rites. Your clothing would be so different to the manly attire you wear now."
"True, but how did that trigger your pondering my friendship with Elladan?"
"Simply that I realized he knows so much more about your homeland, your culture. It does not seem right that I have not been able to experience it as intensely as he has."
Legolas knelt before Glorfindel now, his face kind and his eyes knowing. "You will… you will see it all, feel it all. Remember, you are soon to be a prince of that realm – 'tis your duty to embrace it as I know you will – and I will show it all to you, the good and the not so good."
"Soon then," said Glorfindel, his eyes shining with love. "You know, it is surprising what a little braiding and pruning can do. I wager these human clothes can be adapted to the style of a woodland warrior… what say you?" asked Glorfindel.
"I say you are right!" exclaimed Legolas as he stood and brushed down his clothes. Picking up his pack, he smiled and nodded challengingly at his lover, before walking away, a definite swagger to his gait, and Glorfindel watched appreciatively until he disappeared into the crowds of excited Dunedain.
…..
Galdithion, Elladan and Legolas sat together on the outskirts of the camp. Arathorn had set a double guard around the perimeter, and Legolas had asked the trees to watch for him. They would be safe for the evening.
Elladan had braided his dark locks in the style of the noble houses of the Noldor. His front braids had been knotted and his silken blue-black hair had been pulled back into an intricate pattern at the crown of his head. The rest had been left to hang down past his shoulders. It contrasted starkly with the light grey tunic he wore, the only elven attire he had included for the journey. He would never have worn something so simple for a celebration in an elven realm, but it was all he had, and quite frankly, after weeks of wearing the same, baggy and shapeless clothing, he felt princely and handsome - and elvish - once more.
Galdithion was similarly attired, only his tunic was a moss green, and his chestnut locks bore the braids of a Silvan warrior. Elladan had taken the liberty of weaving tiny white flowers into his back braid, and even now, Legolas smiled at the charming sight.
Legolas wore a light blue tunic – slightly longer than Galdithion's, and was open way past his chest, almost to his belly button. Elladan smirked, for the style – distinctly Sindarin – would be deemed provocative to the Dunedain. It had been Galdithion who had braided the king's hair, for he had been the only one of those present, to have participated in preparing him for the demonstration, when first he had worn the crown of Aulë. The result was as stunning as it always was, for the side braids wound and weaved their way around his head, up to his crown where the mass of twisted locks sat high upon it. The rest of it hung heavily down his back where it now pooled upon the ground behind him.
They were elves once more, no longer forced to hide their nature, and strange though it seemed to him at the time, Elladan found himself missing his own princely finery at home. He smiled ironically, imagining how Elrohir would ruthlessly rib him for that.
Glorfindel and Gildor approached them then, stopping to smile down at the two Silvans and one Noldo that sat cross-legged and oh-so-handsome upon the ground.
"I see you have become elves once more," said the High Constable, a hint of pride upon his voice.
Legolas rose slowly, his eyes fixed upon his Gondolin lover.
"Aye, and you, are a Lord of Gondolin once more," he whispered almost, love and reverence oozing from every pore of the king as he moved to stand before Glorfindel. They could not touch each other, not here, but the air had become heavy with their desire, their unmistakable need to touch one another, and Elladan cleared his throat as he too, stood together with Galdithion.
It had broken the strange spell, and Legolas looked to Gildor, who looked fine in his dark blue tunic, his strange silver hair which the Lorien constable had tightly braided and pulled back, tugging at the corners of his eyes and lending him a most exotic air..
"And Lord Gildor," said Legolas with a curt bow. "May I say you look splendid this evening."
"Thank you, my Lord. I have not the words to express my admiration of your own form, for you look lordly indeed," he said, only half in jest.
"Shall we then?" asked Legolas as he opened his arms. "Shall we make merry this eve with our human allies, and welcome young Eldonar into the ranks of able warriors? Shall we show them the other side of elvendom? The one they have not seen? The one they will not be expecting?" he finished with a challenging grin.
"Aye!" they all shouted, wide smiles lingering upon their washed and shining faces as they walked back to the camp, towards the smell of roasting meat, music and the promise of a most entertaining evening.
…..
The juicy meat came apart in his hands as he sucked it into his mouth, and was suddenly reminded of a time deep in the south of the Greenwood, in the Mirkwood, when Captain Henian had stuffed a warm, succulent leg of rabbit down the front of his leather jerkin. A smile split his face unbidden and Halbarad caught it as he chewed on his own food.
"What has you smiling, in spite of yourself, Elladan?" asked Arathorn's second in command.
The Herald glanced up momentarily, realizing he had, indeed, been caught.
"Well, a memory came to me, of a time not long past when Legolas and I patrolled with The Company in the southern reaches of Mirkwood – an anecdote about a captain and a leg of rabbit meat," he said lightly before taking another succulent bite.
Legolas snorted, remembering the moment well.
"Minulbên, you mentioned having read of The Company, yet I confess to know nothing of what is obviously a legend in your lands, Legolas," said Halbarad. His tone was light but his interest in the story was evident.
Legolas wiped his mouth and then dipped his hands in a nearby bowl of herb-infused water. Turning his head to Galdithion, he spoke.
"Perhaps you should tell them, for I am its Captain. My tale would be biased and exaggerated, no doubt."
Galdithion nodded as he collected his thoughts. Silence had descended upon the fire, only the crackling and sizzling of the heath broke it, as the Silvan looked around, taking in the expressions of those that sat around the fire they shared; Arathorn, his gaze dark and pensive as his eyes stared unblinkingly into the flames. Halbarad, who stared at Elladan, an intensity to his own silver eyes that took Galdithion momentarily by surprise. Minulbên, with Aragorn, who sat beside him, his own extraordinarily bright eyes fixed not on Elladan now, but Legolas; and then the King's men, their faces proud and expectant of the tale their constable would now regale the Dunedain with, one of which they had often heard but would never tire of.
His eyes finally came to rest upon Elladan, who grinned back at him and nodded. There was help here, should Galdithion need it, for to tell the tale of the Company was no easy task, for one who had never belonged to that group of unparalleled warriors, he would do no more than introduce them, show his listeners, if he could, the duress under which the Greenwood lived, and their foremost weapon against it. And so he closed his eyes and conjured the image of Nanern of The Company – the great Teller of Tales – and one of the best knife wielders Galdithion had ever seen…
"Greenwood was not always a dangerous place, or so they say, for I never lived through those days of peace," he began, his voice wistful, yet oddly resonant – powerful and yet naive, distinctly Silvan. His audience was immediately, helplessly captured in the magical moment, indeed Galdithion was no stranger to story-telling. He had been close friends with Lindohtar, the Bard Warrior, and as an uncle to many a niece and nephew, his experience was not limited at all.
"It was not a slow, painful decline into darkness, but one that lasted but a century. One hundred years of battles led our leaders to change our society; it was either that, or perish under the press of Darkness. We needed to protect ourselves for the Greenwood was, at that time, estranged from the other elven realms – a sad but inevitable result of the last Great Battle…
"And so it was that Legolas, Prince of the Greenwood, came into his own as a warrior and strategist, a leader paralleled only by his Lord Father Thranduil…"
He paused for a moment, as any good story teller is wont to do. Elladan's eyes were cast towards the fire in silent contemplation, much the same as Legolas' were. The Dunedain, however, had lent forward slightly, as if the nearness would speed the story along somehow, but it did not, for Galdithion was a bundle of surprises even Elladan was discovering this night.
"He fought even as he studied, opening the dusty tomes of his father's library once more, in search of what only he knew could make a difference to his people. He found it, and then he adapted it, bent it to the needs of the forest warriors.
"What, what was it?" asked a wide-eyed Eldonar, startling the engrossed listeners even with his softly spoken question.
Galdithion smiled knowingly at the boy, before casting his eyes around the circle once more.
"A method. A method to combat Darkness, one that calls upon the mind and the body, that demands so much and yields just as much. And so he trained his best warriors so that they, too, could implement this new weapon…
And so it was, that these warriors began to patrol the southern reaches of the forest, wreaking havoc and instilling fear into the black hearts of the enemy," said Galdithion triumphantly, his voice now strong and firm.
But then he dropped it as he spoke softly now, wistfully.
"But at what a price, my friends! A veritable sacrifice for the love of their people, the unique bond those warriors have with their people, their reverence and their humility is what makes them special, for no one," he emphasized, angrily almost, "no one has given so much for the Greenwood save the king himself…"
Heads were bowed now as each of Galdithion' s listeners conjured the images he had provoked in their mind's eye. It was a story they could all relate to, after all.
"But not all is sacrifice…. There is a prize, too, for such bravery and selflessness. These warriors came to be known as "The Company," the last bastion of the Silvan elves, the only thing that separates them from the sickness of the South. They are revered and they are loved, for this is how the Silvans show their gratitude…"
"Do they still patrol the woods?" asked a young lad who had been allowed to sit with the adults.
"Oh aye, although its Captiain is wont to come and go," he said cheekily, casting a furtive glance at a grinning Legolas, his face lit only on one side, the other cast in deep shadow. How appropriate, thought Galdithion; light and dark, joy and suffering – Legolas.
"Who are they?" asked another warrior, "are there many of these warriors?"
"There have been many, my friend, some of which now stand upon the ramparts of our Halls, immortalized in stone, if not in life… nay, 'tis a unit of nine. Legolas is its Captain, and Elladan, our Elf Dunedain, is its healer, one of two Noldorin warriors within its ranks."
Arathorn's eyebrows rose in surprise, but his son, Aragorn, gaped openly at the elf he was coming to like, the one who had said would be his friend, the Elf-Dunedan.
"Who are they? You ask. Well now," he said, his eyes seeking the youngsters a little way behind the adults. "I will tell you then, of the warriors of the Company," he said grandly, smiling as mothers released their hold upon their struggling children, who then scampered forwards until they sat at the story-teller's feet, their chubby faces looking up to him expectantly.
"There is Ram en' Ondo," he said theatrically as he stood, his feet set wide and his arms akimbo, and the children laughed at the rebellious expression that had come over the Silvan. "He is the Wall of Stone, for there is no elf bigger and brawnier than he. He is a tower of strength, his arm as strong as an oak trunk and his heart as soft as clay!" he exclaimed.
The children cheered and laughed and the women smiled indulgently at the entertainment. Legolas giggled and snorted, as did Glorfindel, and Gildor – Gildor smiled in his usual, controlled way. It was Elladan who sat staring starry-eyed at the story-teller, his mouth slack, its corners turned up.
"And then, there is Koron en' Naur," he said, changing the triumphant exclamation to a quiet, purposeful voice that sounded almost menacing. "He – is the Ball of Fire," said Galdithion dramatically, and the children gasped. "He is fast, a whirlwind of energy the enemy cannot contain. He burns with hatred for orcs and wargs, a seething flame of righteous destruction!" he exclaimed again, and just on cue, the children cheered once more.
And so Galdithion told the tale of Pengon, Idhrenohtar, Nanern, Rhawthir, Dimaethor and Glammohtar, his dramatic skills delighting both children and elders, who cheered and drank and slapped their thighs at Galdithion's eloquent words.
"Rafnohtar is our beloved Noldorin warrior – he is the Winged Warrior. And why? You may ask. Well, for my part I say it is because he fights as if he flies. He is air, the winds of destruction howl about him as he fights!" he exclaimed, and the children made the noises of mighty whirlwinds as they ran around each other.
"And our Captain," he said seriously now, his hands out before him. "He is Hwindohtar, the Whirling Warrior…"
Some of the children snorted. "Whirling Warrior? That sounds like he is a dancer or something," shouted one of them and the others laughed.
Galdithion's brow rose and he caught Legolas' smirk, knowing it was not the first time his warrior name had given the wrong impression.
"Oh he does dance, you are right. But…it is no courtly dance with a beautiful maiden, my friend. His dance is one of death, and destruction – he is a harbinger of terror and annihilation – he is feared above all others in the Company. Do not be fooled by a dance, young friend…"
There was silence now, broken suddenly by Captain Arhad. "'Tis true, children," he began, turning both Halbarad and Arathorn's heads in utter surprise. "I have seen it, and so has Eldonar – he whirls and swirls as he wields his metal – I have never seen the likes…"
Again, silence, and then Rafnohtar stood slowly, drawing all eyes to himself. "Today, one of the Dunedain will be welcomed into the ranks of those that would sacrifice themselves for their people. I, Rafnohtar, and my Captain, Hwindohtar, would welcome him in our own way, in the way of The Company, if you would share our tribute?" he finished softly.
The women collected their children and the men looked to Arathorn.
"We would be honoured to witness this rite, Rafnohtar," said Arathorn, but there was no cheering, only expectation and a little apprehension as they slowly widened the circle, hesitantly, a little fearful, even.
Hwindohtar stood, and to the surprise of all, he divested himself of his Sindarin tunic, standing in his black breeches and boots. Only his hair covered the rest of his body as it cascaded down his back and spilled over his muscled shoulders. It was not enough, however, to cover the hideous scar that marred his side; the aftermath of the Red Fang would take many years to disappear, if ever. And those that looked on were reminded of the story-teller's words of sacrifice – this elf had been close to death.
Galdithion smiled as he realized his friend still wore the bracelet of The Company, together with the Gondolin piece that marked him as House Lord, albeit of a lost word. This would be the perfect end to his tale, he mused.
Looking around, he gestured to the percussion instruments the Dunedain had gathered, silently urging them to put into practice what they had learned just that day. There were men, women and children sitting around him now, taking up their drums and their bells, their bottles and stones, just as the Silvan elves did in the deepest reaches of the forest and he smiled, for they would now give a small piece of their culture to these, dour men of the North – dour no more, however, for the tale and the wine had weaved their magic upon them…
Galdithion struck his drum hard. Once, twice, thrice, until others joined him in the slow yet strong beat, and then all eyes moved to Rafnohtar and Hwindohtar as they moved gracefully, solemnly, into the centre of the circle, their twin short-swords drawn and held loosely in one hand, as the flames danced along the metal blades and brought them to life.
They did not engage though, but turned as one towards Eldonar, tipping their heads curtly to the newly invested warrior, and then adopting a ready stance before him that had nothing at all in common with the Dunedain's fighting style.
The slow drum beat stopped, replaced seconds later by a faster rhythm, and the two warriors burst into action, startling the Dunedain as they stepped further backwards, anticipating the need for more space.
Galdithion smiled as he led the group of would-be percussionists, allowing his eyes to roam those that watched. Young Eldonar was wide-eyed and startled, just like his father Gethron, who stood proudly at his son's side.
The seasoned warriors stood with their goblets close to their mouths. They drank but their eyes were riveted on the two warriors that whirled and swirled and slashed and cut in movements so precise and so fast their eyes were hard-pressed to follow.
Galdithion smiled once more, a wave of pride and a sense of belonging washing over him. These were his people, these were the values that ruled his life; strength, skill, wisdom, humility – he was Silvan.
The crowd gasped as Hwindohtar somersaulted backwards, only to twist forwards and then vault over his opponent, jabbing his knives backwards in a stunning movement Rafnohtar avoided narrowly, before repeating a similar move himself until both warriors were before one another, their twin swords locked in a cross that was slowly untangled.
They smiled as they saluted, and the audience cheered, throwing their arms into the air in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. Bowing, Hwindohtar turned to Eldonar once more, Rafnohtar at his shoulder.
"Are you ready then, to give your life for your people?" he began, and the men shushed until the noise had ended and they listened to what the king said.
"Are you ready to make the ultimate sacrifice? To die for that in which you believe? Will you protect he who is destined to reclaim the glory of the Dunedain? Whatever the cost?"
Elondar's eyes shone and his frame trembled with adrenaline, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching, until he spoke, the voice of a man with a purpose, no longer any trace of the arrogant, fledgling lord of but days before.
"I am!" he proclaimed, and the men smiled as Legolas offered his forearms to the newly proclaimed warrior, who clasped them firmly, smiling at last as he dipped his head in gratitude.
"Now," said Legolas, turning to address the Dunedain. "Now we celebrate!" he shouted as he span around, his hair fanning out around his bare shoulders, arms stretched outwards and the Dunedain cheered once more. Tonight was truly a celebration they would remember many years later, for many reasons, some of which had not yet come to pass…
…
The children had been taken to bed, for the darkest hours were for the adults, for drinking and dancing and flirting.
The elves had been dragged into the Dunedain dances which they had been taught by the giggling maidens who had outdone themselves with their explanations and their good-natured ribbing. The elves had smiled and flirted back, quickly latching on to the movements and then choosing their partners, swirling them around and making them scream and laugh.
The men smirked at the women's antics, for the atmosphere was now charged with a tension that could only be alleviated in one way, a way they fully intended to take advantage of. There were only five elves, and many men – and yet there were many more women – plenty for them all, Halbarad reckoned.
Of course not all the women and men were so open with their intentions, but as in any society, there were those that took full advantage of their youth and exuberance. Sharing sex with others was not frowned upon, so long as one was discreet about it. He wondered, though, what elven ethics dictated. Would they participate? Would they be outraged, shocked even, about sex outside the laws of matrimony? Halbarad did not think so, for the elves were just as flirtatious as the Dunedain were, and had drank just as much, if not more. Nay, such long-lived creatures would surely be permissive in the ways of bodily pleasure. He would be cautious though, and so he approached Legolas, who sat drinking wine together with Elladan, watching their comrades dance around the roaring fires.
"That was amazing, the warrior dance – I would much like to learn some of those moves, although I fear I would break my human neck should I try…"
Legolas smirked, glancing at Halbarad momentarily before turning his head back to the dancing.
"What would the citizens of the Greenwood be doing now, if it were they to be celebrating?"
"You may be shocked, Halbarad. Are you sure you wish to know?" asked Legolas challengingly.
"I can take it," smirked Halbarad as he sipped on his wine.
"Well, they would be dancing, drinking, eating, and flirting, of course. No woodland celebration would be complete without that."
"Just flirting?" he asked, and Legolas turned to lock his green eyes with Halbarad's silver ones.
"Nay, not just flirting. We would choose our partners for the evening and find ourselves an adequate place to – express ourselves," he said, one eyebrow arching.
"Express yourselves!" snorted the Dunedain, "you mean have sex!"
Legolas smiled, before answering. "Yes – sex, and plenty of it."
"Then we have one thing in common at least, for we too, like to – express ourselves – after a celebration. We are discreet about it of course," he added.
"We – are not," said the king with a giggle. "We express ourselves freely. It matters not that we are seen, or watched even. 'Tis considered healthy and in no way offensive. I believe in this, we are different."
Halbarad's stare lingered on the king as he processed his words, trying desperately not to give free reign to the images that appeared unbidden before his drink-addled brain…
…
The silence was broken only by the occasional giggle, or the sound of muted conversation. Arathorn stretched his legs out before him, reveling in the feeling of bare skin against clean cotton.
He glanced at a now sleeping Gilraen, though sleep had not smoothed her frown. They had argued and then she had cried – why he could not say, at least not at the time. Now, however, after the festivities and the wine, it came back to him, only this time from a different perspective, one he was not sure he liked.
She had rebuked him for not discussing Aragorn's future privately before making such an important decision publically. It had left her no room for opinion. Yet once they were alone and the discussion had begun, she seemed to realize that her anger was ill-founded. She simply could not refute his reasoning and she had been perplexed – with herself.
Arathorn had not understood her behavior then, but now – now he was sure that he did. She was confused, her emotions did not fit with her words and she knew it. There was something in her mind that she did not understand but that reached into the deepest depths of her heart – her very soul. She felt something she could not reason, and that meant only one thing to Arathorn…