Interlude: The Lay of Beren and Lúthien

Three breaths.

That was what his mother had taught him all those years ago – millennia ago, now – when he had stood beside her in this very oak grove, only a few decades old but already loathe to be parted from his new, expertly whittled shortbow. His mother had given it to him as a Begetting Day gift.

Take the first breath before you even raise the bow. Deep, long, settling. Cast off any worries and distractions. Think of nothing but the feel of the wood under your fingers.

Legolas Greenleaf drew in a breath and slowly let it out.

Ahead of him, nearly a hundred yards into the thick brush, the orange-gold flank of a deer was visible, shifting among the leaves as it nonchalantly picked through the twigs and leaf litter on the ground. Around him, nothing moved save for the forest birds; they flitted from branch to branch, cocking their heads and chirping at each other, fluttering every now and then across his line of vision. He tried to ignore them.

He tried, too, to ignore the unsettling feeling of expectant eyes on his back. Though he was turned away from them, he knew nearly a dozen Elves stood or crouched in the trees behind him, their green and dun hunting garb melding with the forest, making them near-invisible. It was the first patrol they had been out on since the Lórien Elves had left.

Take the second breath once you've raised the bow, but before you begin to aim. Ground yourself. Feel the weight of your feet pressing into the soil. Focus. You do not want to rush the draw.

Focus. He had always found this to be the hardest part. As an elfling, he had been too impatient. It was not his thoughts that derailed him so much as his eagerness to find his mark; his excitement.

Now that he was older, his mind was the distraction. Some days it was memories… memories of his mother and of days long past when he had walked with her through these oak groves. Other days it was the cares and concerns of his people, niggling arguments he had had with his father, or the grim goings-on in the wider world that needled at his consciousness.

Today, however, he found himself thinking of Lord Celeborn's party and wondering how they were faring in the lands west of here. Nearly a week had passed since their departure, and he guessed they would be out of the forest by now, perhaps almost to the Anduin, where they had planned to turn south. He had grown oddly used to having Amrohil, and then Haldir, join them on patrols; to observing the small, subtle ways their people's practices varied. It felt a little strange, knowing their eyes were no longer peering out of the branches alongside his companions'. It was a shame; both had been talented archers.

Take the third breath as you draw. You are powerful. You are part of the bow and the bow is part of you. Then let your eyes find the mark, and aim. Let out only half your breath as you do so – slowly.

His mind was crowded, he knew. It was only a short jump in his thoughts from Amrohil and Haldir to… her. The most perplexing and impenetrable member of Celeborn's party, and the person who had ended up occupying his mind the most these last few weeks as he'd tried – and singularly failed – to figure her out.

He knew, once he thought of her, that this would turn out to be a poor shot. A very poor shot indeed.

Even so, he tried to clear his mind as he drew the bowstring back and stared down the shaft of his arrow at the hindquarters of the deer. He breathed out shallowly, his breath misting slightly in the early morning air. Then he paused.

The deer was moving.

It was only slight. He watched as the creature took a few, tentative steps further on into the forest, bent its head again and began to strip berries off a low-lying bush. He should easily have been able to correct his aim. In truth, he should have been able to predict the deer's trajectory and hit it even while it was still in motion – he had done it before, plenty of times. But he shifted too hastily – there was that old impatience again – and his jittery thoughts made him forget to let out that last, settling half-breath that his mother had taught him; that she had pressed on him was so important.

The shot went wide.

Not by a lot – by a hair's breadth, in fact; whistling past the deer's flank so narrowly that he could have sworn he saw the fur on its back ruffle. The deer's head snapped up, its whole body tensed and it sprang immediately away into the trees, disappearing in a flash of golden yellow-brown, its white tuft of a tail just visible for a second, taunting him.

"Eru," came a voice from behind him, and he heard leaves rustle as the rest of the patrol came out from between the oaks or jumped down from where they had been perching on low branches. "What's got into you?"

It was Feren, one of his thin, brown brows cocked in curiosity.

Frustrated, Legolas gave a dismissive wave and tugged another gold-fletched arrow from his quiver. "Never mind," he murmured, and beckoned the party on. "We can catch it. Come on!"

He normally took a bath straight after patrols, sometimes lolling lazily in the steaming water for an hour or more to work the knots and strains out of his shoulder muscles and arms.

This evening, though, he found himself wandering the halls, his thoughts still disturbed, his mind like the rippling surface of a woodland pool in light rain.

The palace had been noticeably quieter this last week – no dignified, grey-clad strangers convening in the corridors and parlours; fewer servants trotting to and fro to see to their guests' needs.

The visitors had been fond of congregating, he remembered, in the cosiest antechamber off the main hall, the one with the high walls hung with tapestries and the great, crackling fireplace at its heart. He stopped there a moment on his way past, lingering in the doorway, and as his eyes swept over the soft divans and couches arranged in a circle around the hearth and along the walls, his keen vision happened to pick out a small, dark shape, just visible under the futon nearest the fire. The same futon he had several times glimpsed Cadhríen perched on, when he had chanced to glance into or pass through the chamber in the weeks she had been here.

Frowning slightly, he stepped over to the couch and dug a hand around beneath it, eventually bringing up a slightly dusty, dog-eared book. Its cover was black leather, embossed with faded lettering, and when he riffled through the pages, he saw that it was a well-thumbed book of verse; it fell open naturally, in his hands, to the Lay of Beren and Lúthien.

Cadhríen's, he guessed, as he lowered himself slowly onto the futon and bent over the book, elbows resting on his knees. He ran his thumb lightly over the pages. She must have put it down and then forgotten about it; perhaps kicked it under the couch by accident or stored it there, intending to come back to it the next day.

He had never been to the Golden Wood, and it felt strange to be holding something from that part of the world in his hands. He pictured Cadhríen sitting here, where he sat, head bent; dark mahogany hair curtaining her face. And then he pictured her slight smile on the starlit terrace, that evening after the celebration feast and dance. The first time, he recalled with a wry twist of his own lips, that she had not glared frostily at him for reasons that, until that night, had remained a mystery to him.

He would keep the book safe, he decided, turning a few pages and running his eyes down the carefully-inked verses – though he doubted an opportunity to return it to her would present itself any time soon.

Before he made to close the book and store it in his tunic, he glanced at the final lines of the song, and they stood out to him momentarily, giving him pause, though he was not entirely sure why.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless.