Malthenpeg

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Author's Notes: I'm going to be taking some general liberties (and a few major ones) on LotR as this goes along. The characters, at least their appearances, are based more upon the movie than the books.

Hope you like it!

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Three

Looking back upon it, he suspected that Tiriel had known all along what he had done. Legolas disliked deception, but had yet to learn discipline enough to resist the temptations of his soul. To be a bird, to see the forest spread out beneath his wings...
He raced back to the library, to where he had left the scroll before Tiriel had dragged him off by one wrist, and looked over it again. Picking up a quill, he copied the basics of the spell, the components and incantation necessary. It was a strange magic to be sure by what it demanded of the caster, but though he had more potential as a ranger than the magick-user his whim of the moment aspired him to be, he thought he had the skill to pull it off. He would ride the wind some day sure!
Returning to his chambers, he hid the folded parchment within one of his books. It was oddly exciting to know such a secret was hidden within his room. He felt giddy, light as a feather despite the apprehension of being caught and who knows what happening to him. He climbed into the round window of his room and looked out, feeling the wind pull at his hair, listening to the song of the birds that flitted through the leaves outside. A few, ones he knew well, fluttered into the room with chirps of greeting, before lighting upon concave shelves and tables spread with seed. He watched them, sharp eyes taking in each little shining feather, the darting beaks and sharp motions. Rising gracefully from his seat, he moved silently over to the nearest feeding station. A fast swipe, a trill of surprise, and one of the birds was in his hand, not struggling but looking annoyed. The birds had become used to being scooped and handled by the prince, knowing he was harmless to them. Legolas held the bluebird in his hand, uncurling his fingers so she could flutter.
"I will fly with you someday, little friend," he half-sang to her. She chirped back, questioningly and he smiled, "You'll see."
Letting his feathered friend go back to feeding, he stepped back to watch, deciding against his impulsive heart to wait a little bit. His father and Tiriel would be watching him, well, like a hawk for however long they thought it would take him to forget about the spell. That could take a good fifty, sixty years knowing them. Not so bad, he supposed, not so long a time to wait by elven standards....

Fifty years, a hundred, two passed as new interests and addictions delayed Legolas in his plans. Learning to fight with twin knives, learning to play various instruments, spying on humans and orcs... a million things to do and learn. Nearly two hundred and fifty years after he discovered the Rite, his mind turned back to it fully.
Holding the parchment with some reverence, he could not help but smile at what looked like a bird had tracked through ink and run across the paper. When in a rush, his normally graceful script always turned into birdtracks.
His desire to take wing was combined with a paladin desire to help his people. He remembered the hawk that had died in his arms as a child, the victim of an orcish arrow, then pushed the thought from his mind. Perhaps if he proved himself an able spy on the dark forces invading their forest he would be forgiven for breaking the so-called taboo. He simply could not understand why it was forbidden, why it was so wrong...

Aragorn watched the elf whom was lost in memory. The wildness had melted into a deep sadness, a loneliness that made him ache. He reached out a hand and brushed Legolas' shoulder in comfort. He was half-surprised when his friend craned his neck a bit, rubbing his cheek against the offered hand.
"I just wanted to fly. That is all. I just wanted-"

"Hunting? By yourself?" Tiriel looked alarmed at the idea, "And you've proposed this to Silinde and your father?"
"No, and neither shall you."
"Because they will say no."
"As sure as birds sing." He placed one hand on his friend's arm, "I am capable of taking care of myself, friend."
"This from the one who got caught in a tree by his hair just a few moons ago?"
"An accident."
"And a regrettable one." Tiriel stroked the prince's shoulder-length locks; "You had hair to rival a maiden before you had to cut it."
"A maiden indeed!" Legolas snorted, "I should have braided it back, though..."
"I did tell you a thousand times over that knee length hair is for the ladies of the court, not for those who hunt deer and orc through the branches."
"And the lesson has been learned."
"You were impressively tangled," Tiriel continued, teasingly, "perhaps if you hadn't struggled so we could have saved more of your hair."
"It will grow back out," the prince said with a smile, and then his face fell, "You will tell no one of this? I will know if I am followed, and if I find they were sent by your hand..."
"You have my word, although I warn now that if you have not returned in a fortnight I shall come hunting for you out of love less than duty."
"I shall keep to the wood deep within our territory where the pests have naught penetrated."

It was hard to remember much beyond leaving the Halls. A soft haze covered much of the time; he remembered finding the spot he wanted to cast... and the cool chill of the moonlight on his back as he knelt within the circle speaking the Words. The pleasant smell of the burning herbs was always strong in his mind, as was the sound of nightbirds in the distance. And the dream.
The dream...
A pleasant darkness; the echo of his chant fading. It fell upon him like a cloak, enfolding him in maternal comfort. It was strange... he felt no fear engulfed in this darkness borne of magic, though he had never been enchanted before. He waited, waited to feel his body change, arms lengthening and sprouting shining feathers...
"It has been some time since one of the woodchildren came to me in such a way."
"Who are you?" It was entirely curiosity that drove him to ask. He found he was almost annoyed at the disruption of the perfect, relaxing silence he rested in, "Are you one of the Valar?"
"Perhaps. What name would you put to me, child?"
Legolas thought for a moment, his mind alternating between a sleepy drunkenness and a strange sharpness. It caused strange patterns to dance before his eyes; the elves had no word for fractals. His mind sifted through the tales of the Valar he'd been told as a child, trying to match one to the voice that was both fierce and gentle, reminding him of wind growing through the leaves of the beech of Mirkwood.
"Oromë?"
"You may call me that if you wish, little one," soft, wild laughter, like wood snapping in a fire, "I have many names, in many times and on many worlds. Would you like to know what I will be called in the future of this world? On the futures of the worlds that revere me?"
Without waiting for an answer, the wild voice began to prattle off names, a sound like sharp rocks clattering down a stony hill. Most were in languages so alien to the elf's mind that it made his head throb. The entity stopped suddenly, and silence hung thickly before he spoke again.
"From my shadowed repose you have called me with words and scents enticing."
"I have disobeyed my father's enforced ban upon this magick to ask..."
"You desire the Form of the Beast. For no other reason am I ever called by your kin."
"To fly... It is the only dream... the only dream I have had since I was old enough to do so. I want to ride the clouds..."
"Selfish reasons, as usual."
Legolas fought the clouds creeping over his mind, making his skin prickle, muscles twitch. No, it was not selfish. Perhaps it had once been, but not now. Not completely. He would enjoy his new form, enjoy it to new heights of pleasure, but he would aid his people in that delight. He would help.
"No... No! My home, my people, are besieged by a spreading darkness... It grows and wanes like the moon, but now... I would be a spy for my people."
"You would fly bravely into evil?"
"Yes... From the air, I might see forces advancing from miles... I could stop ambushes like the one that killed..." his voice broke off, pain a sharp knife taken to his words. The acorn that had been planted in his sister's memory had grown to a mighty oak, but still the loss of the Princess of Mirkwood was a heavy grief on all that had loved her. Especially her youngest brother. His grief was long in coming, and there were many that thought he would never recover from the truth of her death. "There would be no suspicion of a hunting hawk or even songbird in the trees. The creatures who slay my people would never think that..."
"Smart child, aren't you? No, I doubt that in the woods they would suspect one of the feathered ilk to be a spy for their enemies."
"Then you will grant me the change?"
"Yes... but not the form you desire."
"What?" Legolas felt a leaf-soft touch brush between his shoulders and tried to pull away, feeling another hand, this one bark-rough encircle his throat.
"Though a bird you wish to be, it is not what you are MEANT to be." The leaf-fingers ran down his spine, across his hips, "you do not bear the spirit of a bird, light as you may be. Your fascination with the windriders is not borne of brotherhood."
"Release me! I do not wish to be anything but a bird! Please, let me go!"
"No. You have offered yourself to me, and I shall grant you the change. You will see, in time, that your new form gives you freedom greater than that of flight. Your soul and body will sing as one and you shall cry out to me in elation. Now..."
The elf felt his body being rended, remade. The fibers of his being were unraveled, then gathered and woven into a new tapestry, ever-changing. It was agonizing, erotic, terrifying and sensual, a maelstrom of emotion.
Then he was running. His body, but not his, stretched and arched with a newfound speed and strength that felt as flying as he raced the wind. His eyes saw everything clearly, details sharp with only starlight to illuminate them. Acute elf eyes were, but not to this degree! His hearing as well... In the silence of the wood, he could hear the speech of the crickets. He slowed, breathing deeply. The smells of the forest filled his head, making him dizzy. His nose, too, was sharpened. So many new smells to take in! He smelled the crystal blue of water and headed in that direction at a fast clip, noticing for the first time that he ran on all fours.
Water trickled down rocks into a small, clear pool. Legolas leaned over to drink, then started, stumbling back from it. What was that? Creeping back to the edge of the pool, he peered in. A pale, whiskered muzzle gazed back at him, wide-eyed.
'Is... Is that me?' he whispered, and heard no words from the furred lips, only a soft sound that sounded like a thrum. He felt his ears move, and saw the water-creature's ears do the same. He reached out his hand... hand! Paw! Where once were long, slender fingers was instead a claw-tipped paw. He extended his claws, retracted them, staring in wonder, "What am I?"
"This world has changed for the worst if those of the forest do not know the whiskered ones." The wild-spirit was nowhere to be seen, but his voice ruffled his fur. "Not since Berúthiel's companions have I found one of your blood who bore the spirit of the whiskered ones. Surprisingly rare."
"I have never seen such a creature as I now am!" Legolas twisted and turned, looking over his new body as best he could. Spots and colorpoints! How unusual and beautiful, "I know no word in my language to put to it. What am I in the Common tongue? Is there a word?"
"A cat. There is no word specific for your breed, for it does not exist on this world, but on others, you might be called a panther of sorts. You are different from others Changed, though... So catlike in nature before this... I think you shall succeed where others of the Changed have failed. Yes..."
"Failed? What do you speak of? Failed in what manner?" But he was alone, the presence abandoned him. Legolas sat staring at his new countenance in wonder before giving over to the wild impulses growing within.