Chapter Twenty-Nine
The dream was not a dream. Mel knew enough of dreams now to recognize the difference. This was less than a dream and yet somehow more, a gray and misty void with no substance, slipping away from her consciousness as if hesitant to resolve itself in her mind.
She was also not alone. Boromir was by her side, but he was not a dream either, or even a product of the void. He met her gaze with eyes that were confused, cautious, and unquestionably real. He was there, with her, in this dream that was not a dream.
"Melody...?" he asked.
"I don't know," she answered.
"Son of Gondor," a man's voice proclaimed, a vaguely familiar voice, though Mel was having trouble placing it, "Daughter of Yavanna. You have performed a great service for the Valar. It has been noted, and we are grateful."
Mel exchanged a glance with Boromir. He looked as skeptical as she felt.
"We are honored," Mel said, tentatively, "To be of use to the minstrels of the Great Song. What further task would you ask of us, for surely we have never been brought into such accord with the Valar except at need?"
There was a pause. Then a flash of green light gathered together before them, taking the aching familiar form Mel had seen so often in her dreams.
"Oh, sweet child…" Yavanna whispered, her lovely mask of perfection arranged into what might have been an expression of tender remorse, "Oh my beloved girl. We do not come to ask any more of you."
"We come to ask what you might wish of us."
This voice, dark and smooth, spoke from the shadows at Yavanna's side, shadows that slowly swirled into a vaguely corporeal shape until, finally, Mel and Boromir beheld Mandos for the very first time. He was tall, clothed in black from boots to hood, the shadow swirling about his head and broad shoulders like a thick cloak, his face only the barest hint of an outline within his hood. Except his eyes, eyes that glowed with an otherworldly light in colors that were without name.
Mel felt Boromir tense at her side and she put a hand on his arm to steady him, pressing him to wait.
"Brother and Sister have agreed, and pressed your case most ardently," the first voice spoke again, and now Mel was able to place it: Manwe, Lord of the Air, "For your service we would honor their agreement. To each of you one gift shall be given, the gift of memory, a chosen companion to share your lives, to lessen the burden of your sacrifice."
The words hit Mel like a blow to the chest, and she thought she might be dying all over again. If this hadn't been happening in a different plane of existence, there was no way she would still be standing on her shaky knees. Was… Was he really saying what she thought he was saying? It wasn't… He couldn't mean…
"You are in earnest?" Boromir said, still sounding suspicious, "They will remember us? As we once were?"
Mandos turned his glowing eyes on Boromir and regarded him stoically.
"You speak true and clearly, Son of Gondor," he said, "You have only to speak the name, and the memory of both lives shall be given. Choose wisely."
Mel turned to stare at Boromir. She knew who he would choose. In a heartbeat, she knew. It was simple, obvious...
"Faramir."
The name left her lips easily, so easily that it took a moment for Mel to realize that she had inadvertently given Boromir her choice. But that was alright. Boromir deserved everything she could give. He had followed her, saved her, loved her, died for her. He had given up everything, all for her. She could give him this, happily, with no regrets. Well, perhaps one, small regret, but she had already let go of that dream in Rivendell, and a little bit more every day since.
Yavanna was smiling fondly at her, her mask-like face the closest to human it had ever looked.
"So it shall be, little one."
Boromir was smiling too. He shook his head, as if at some small foolishness, and reached for her, pulling her to him, wrapping his arms around her.
"You are my gift," he whispered in her ear.
And in a voice that resonated in every corner of Mel's mind, he spoke the name.
In the silent dark of his bedroom, the Steward of Gondor came awake with a gasp and sat straight up in bed, his eyes wide and staring at the wall. Beside him, his new wife stirred sleepily.
"What is it, my love?" Eowyn murmured.
Faramir did not answer her for a long while, long enough that Eowyn had time to wake more fully and sit up beside him. His mind was awash with conflicting images, a roiling mass of what had and had not been. Was this what going mad felt like? Was he going mad as his father had done? But… no. Things were already beginning to resolve themselves, to fall into place, a large mural of events, two streams of time flowing side-by-side. And gradually he was filled with the powerful conviction that whatever this was, it was not madness.
A gift… a voice murmured in the dark.
"Faramir?" Eowyn's voice was worried now, concern furrowing her pale brow, "What troubles you?"
He stared at her with new eyes, eyes now colored by images of a past that had never been, as the last piece of the mural painted itself in brilliant color on the canvas of his mind.
"Boromir…" he whispered.
Far to the north, a small fire burned slowly down to embers. Two wandering travelers shared the warmth, one wrapped in a blanket, snoring with the verve and enthusiasm typical of his race. The other kept watch, but his eyes were glazed and distant, in the manner of the Eldar at rest. Until he came to with a violent start that jerked him to his feet. Without thought or delay, he dropped to his companion's side and shook him.
"Gimli!" Legolas hissed, "Gimli, wake up!"
The dwarf started awake with a snort and shot upright, scrambling for his axe.
"What is it? Are we attacked?"
"No," Legolas said, his mind returning to him once again, "No, nothing like that. Only I… I remember, Gimli. I remember all of it..."
Gimli put down his axe and rubbed his eyes.
"Remember what, lad?" he grumbled.
Legolas stared at the dwarf, bewildered. How…? How could he not know? How could he not remember?
A gift… a voice whispered, drifting on the night breeze.
Legolas sat back slowly, comprehension blooming on his face.
"Mel…" he whispered.
Two Years Later
Two years. It had taken two long years, but finally, finally, he was here. Legolas fought to control the emotion roiling within him as he rode by the side of his host under the green canopy of untamed forest. Faramir was not so different from the last time he had seen him, though he now carried himself with a bearing more befitting his status, worthy of a prince rather than a Steward's second son.
"We are still hunting the orc bands that roam the better part of these woods, but we haven't seen any signs of dark creatures in this area for almost a year," the Man said, tugging his horse absently from a clump of grass at the path-side, "It is ideally suited to your purpose, my lord, mostly open terrain with a few pockets of dense trees, within easy distance of Emyn Arnen. The city is serving only as a barracks for now, a base for the Rangers and home only to those who have volunteered for rebuilding, but once we more firmly establish the road and begin regular trade with Osgiliath others will come. There are many with family ties to Ithilien that lack only assurance of safety. Your people would do much to ease those worries and speed the resettlement of the wider territory."
Legolas nodded, casting his eyes about absently. He could feel the forest moving around him, almost otherworldly in its ambiguous intentions. It felt… It felt like home, like Mirkwood, which many were beginning to call Greenwood again. That was good. It would make the transition easier for those he would bring back with him. He knew what bringing the elves to Ithilien would mean for Faramir and his dreams of establishing his newly won kingdom as a power in its own right, leading it into the light.
It was why King Thranduil, his father, had agreed so readily to the proposal. The prospect of being the catalyst for change and prosperity, as well as gaining a foothold in one of the largest untapped resources of Middle Earth, was not one to be lightly cast aside, and certainly not over a petty family squabble, one that was long due an olive branch. Legolas had his own reasons for presenting the idea, of course, but he had allowed his father, and subsequently those around him, to believe what they liked as to his motives. It mattered very little in the larger scheme of things. He was here now. All else would follow as fate willed it.
They were approaching a small valley, the main trail curving gently away from the decline and the horses set themselves to follow it. But there was a side path, nearly hidden in the underbrush, and Legolas reined up.
"What's down there?"
Faramir pulled around and inspected the trail, shaking his head.
"I know not," he said, "There are many such clusters of trees, undisturbed except for the passing of wildlife."
Legolas turned his mount's head toward the valley.
"Let's find out," he said, tossing a grin over his shoulder to his companion, "I would see all the hidden parts of this place before I bring my people here."
Faramir shrugged and followed after him easily enough. The brush grew thick once they left the well-trod course, but it certainly wasn't impassable and the smaller track, once spotted, was not easily lost again. And in any case, the thickest part of the underbrush only lasted a span of minutes and then the trail opened onto a wide expanse which brought the two riders up short, staring.
They were on the edge of an orchard. There was no other way to describe what they were seeing. The trees were set in orderly rows, well-tended, the beginnings of green apples set high in the branches. There was no fence about the trees, but Legolas supposed that no fence would be needed, so far into the wilderness and so unlikely to be disturbed. So well away from the eyes of the world…
Before his thoughts could coalesce into suspicions, a childish giggle bounced to his ears, bringing him sharply back to himself. A small girl stumbled out from behind one of the larger apple trees and tottered to a wobbly stop at the sight of them, blinking and then breaking into the sunniest of smiles, not a hint of fear in her sharp, gray eyes. She couldn't be much older than a year or two, little more than a babe even in the lifespan of Men. Legolas descended from his horse and held out his hand to her.
"Suil, pinig," he said cheerfully, approaching with slow, careful steps as Faramir descended his own mount, "What brings you so far into the forest without a hand to guide you?"
The girl's smile widened and she giggled again, that special sound only a child can make. Legolas felt his smile grow with hers. And then a voice through the trees froze the smile to his face and the blood in his veins.
"Famiriel? Famiriel! Where are you, you little rugrat?"
The breath caught painfully in Legolas' throat as the child turned toward the voice and cried out in a shrill, delighted voice.
"Mama! Mama!"
She squealed and toddled back toward the orchard, but before she could disappear from sight, Mel stepped out of the shade of the orderly trees and caught the girl in her arms, swinging her into the air and settling her on her hip with a fond familiarity.
"I swear, vinimë, you will be the death of me," Mel said, touching the child's nose fondly and grinning.
The girl laughed and tugged on Mel's sleeve, pointing with insistence in the direction of Legolas, who still felt as if his body had betrayed him to stillness.
"Mama, mama!"
Mel's eyes turned and she caught Legolas in her green gaze. Something in her expression broke. The smile slid away, her eyes widened, and she gripped the child, her child, it was obvious now they were together, just a touch more tightly. There was a moment of infinite silence in which they did not speak or move. The moment was broken by another voice, a voice Legolas had chastised himself over countless times in the past two years, both ashamed and appalled that he hadn't recognized it the moment he had heard it upon the plains of Rohan.
"Melody? Have you found her at last?"
Mel blinked and then cleared her throat, though the action did nothing to sooth the rough sound of tears in her voice.
"Yes, my love," she said, her eyes flicking over Legolas' shoulder, where he suddenly remembered Faramir stood, though he was also still and silent, "It seems she has found playmates for herself."
"Playmates?" Boromir asked, with a sort of fond exasperation, "She hasn't managed to capture another rabbit, has she? When we let the last one go she cried for a…"
His voice trailed off as he stepped from the trees, his eyes fixed on the point beyond Legolas. Faramir still had not spoken and Legolas thought he should turn and speak to his host, to explain... what? How could he explain this, that the man before them did not just look like Faramir's brother, he was his brother, the same brother Faramir had seen carried away by the Anduin over two years ago, his dead brother. How did you explain something like that, how did you even begin...?
"Boromir…"
The Steward's voice broke, but there was no doubt in it, no question of what his eyes were seeing. He knew. Of course he did, what a fool Legolas felt now, thinking he would be the only one, the only person to whom this great gift had been given. He closed his eyes, clenching the hand that still remained suspended in the air before him, reaching out, first for the child, now for… he knew not what. Since that night on the road, when all had been made clear to him, he had thought of nothing but this moment, of finding the one for whom his soul cried out. But now that it was before him, that she was before him…
He could remember every cruel word he had spoken to her, every chill gesture, every suspicious glance… He could smell pine needles beneath his feet, hear the call of a faraway night bird, feel her shoulders beneath his fingers as he shook her…
…stars, how could he even look at her now? His fist was trembling. It was still slightly raised and shaking in the air and he could not look at her, could not open his eyes and see…
A hand touched his. Only a brush of fingertips against his knuckles at first, but then clasping over his fist, encompassed in two hands smaller than his own, warm and steady.
"It's okay," Mel whispered and Legolas' soul burst with light, "Legolas, it's… it's okay."
He was shaking all over now and his feet moved at the insistence of her hands on his, pulling him forward, wrapping him in her arms and laying his head on upon her shoulder, stroking his hair. He was sinking, sinking to the earth, but she followed, she was there, she was steady, she was real, and he had only two words clawing at his throat.
"I'm sorry," he choked, "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
Mel shushed him with soft whispers and gentle touches.
"Peace, orenyanil," she whispered in his ear, "You're home now. You're home."
And finally, Legolas' soul was whole again.
Translations:
Suil, pinig- Greetings, little one
vinimë- little one (q)
orenyanil- my heart (inner mind) friend (q)
