===========================================

Searching For the Sun
Chapter One

as roleplayed by
Kabanas and Morgana

===========================================

Disclaimer: Legolas belongs to Tolkien, and we thank him endlessly for creating such a fascinating character. Laurëlómë belongs to me, and to Legolas. In our usual style, this was written in an RP format, with Kris writing Legolas while I wrote Laurelome. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't like RPing from books unless the RP takes place within a period of time not written about in the book. Hence, this story and it's subsequent chapters take place within "gaps" in the trilogy. We're taking liberties with Legolas here, but nowhere in the story does it say that he never had a relationship with anyone. Artistic liscence, anyone? :> This is a continuing epic...

Mountain pass overlooking Rivendell, morning in early autumn.

Legolas The mountain city of Rivendell. One of the most beautiful pockets of forestry in Middle Earth. On a sharp incline of natural, ochre-colored rock sits a still figure dressed in the traditional green and brown colors of his Sidran upbringing. His light, blank eyes stare out into the opposite canyon where citadels of the finest Elven architecture lay dormant in the morning mist. Above his silk white tresses fall the autumnal leaves of this eternally deciduous city. He is, by trade, an archer--one of the finest from the forests of Mirkwood. By birth, he is Prince Legolas, a Sidran elf of the high royal blood of elves who have ruled the woods south of Rivendell since before the War of the Ring. Beside him lies the most efficient weapon in all of Middle Earth, the bow and arrow. The deadliest element belonged to the most beautiful race in existence.

Legolas With fleeting movement, the sharply featured prince hops to his feet, scooping the bow and quiver of arrows with subtle grace. Though spritely by nature, he is as common an elf as they come--tall, lithe, supremely beautiful. With one foot braced forward against the natural slope of the rock, he takes in one more cool inhale of the sharp morning air. He had arrived in Rivendell only the afternoon prior, and this was his last moment of solitude before leaving Elrond's hospitality to carry out camp with the Fellowship of Nine. There is a beauty so wondrous it nearly brings a frown to his gentle face. Disciplining himself against such hopeless sorrow, however, he schools his face so his rosy lips do not betray the turmoil in his heart.

Legolas The race of elves feel the influx of balance between heartache and sorrow the most. They are the ultimate paradoxical race--feather light but strong as an Uruk-Hai, nimble but devoid of clumsiness. And this beautiful, perfect specimen of an elf found he was having a harder time than usual saying goodbye again. Setting out for the breakfast halls became a leisurely walk for Legolas. He wanted to relish every single footstep in Rivendell until his very last. Along the way, he finds company in a few familiar faces, many of them cousins or relatives long removed. Doubtless, Prince Legolas was the talk amongst many elven families, both for his skill in archery and his superior handsomeness.

Legolas Respectful at all times of his own kind, he is peaceful by nature and sinks into any situation or company with utmost ease. Entering the massive archway to the tables elevated by carved ivy, Legolas stops short and scruffs the light dust from his leather boots on the bristle-thorn rug. When one of Elrond's own personal staff greets him, he politely declines with a low bow of his head to signal that his weapons were not to be touched. Already the hall was filled with the sweet smell of the finest foods available in the forests. The predominant scent of ripe fruit and scorchingly strong wine was what attracted him most. Unlike his Sindarin diet of starchier food, Legolas always had a fine appreciation for Rivendell's orchards and winery. At once, he is shown to the table seating the other Eight.

Legolas He quietly seats himself next to his elven brothers, his chair an ornately-carved contraption made from the hardiest material in Mirkwood. It was worthy of being called a throne. Heading the table on this Last Breakfast was Master Elrond, lord to these realms. The atmosphere was generally a temperate one. The nine companions were none too eager to share whatever looming worry presided over their minds. Nine? Legolas thought to himself, resting his shaft arrows silently on the stone floor. Here, there were only seven... And it was here that the fair archer became altogether relieved and emboldened by the last guest to enter the breakfast hall. For at that moment, Master Gimli entered the majestic grounds with unclean clothes, a gaudy battle ax, and a dwarf's infamous sour temper.

Legolas The seated companions, on their part, tried to bid the last Fellow no heed as he took to his seat and immediately began preying upon his light breakfast. That commenced the feast, and Legolas gathered some grapes for his plate. Legolas quietly seats himself next to his elven brothers, his chair an ornately-carved contraption made from the hardiest material in Mirkwood. It was worthy of being called a throne. Heading the table on this Last Breakfast was Master Elrond, lord to these realms. The atmosphere was generally a temperate one. The nine companions were none too eager to share whatever looming worry presided over their minds.

Legolas The prince had brought the golden goblet lined with rhinestone to his lips when a comment from a nearby elven emissary perturbed him. "A most vile interruption," conceded the Sidran elf, swathed in a gray uniform. Only Legolas was wearing the distinct warrior outfit of his people this morning. The other elves wore traditional garb for this supposedly tranquil occasion. A slender finger rose from his goblet and is subtly pointed it at his neighbor, bidding the elf to be silent. Legolas wanted no quarreling this morning. Unfortunate for them both, Gimli proved his hearing was better than anyone thought, for though his ears were covered with a bushel of hair and a thick helmet in the Nordic tradition, he caught the disparaging comment perfectly.

Legolas "Would you carrrre to call me 'vile' in a louderrr tone, Elf?" came the upset reply. The entire table immediately fell to silence. Frowning was Legolas' only reaction to the compromising situation he and his brother had suddenly been found in. Elrond became the bravest of them to shatter the tension. "Master Gimli, would you care for more mulberry wine?" The High Elf's wide, regal brows challenged his angry guest to show more politeness. "What I would like," Gimli's beady eyes tore every which way about the table, centered on every face, his broad, stout hands gripping the edge, "is to be trrreated like a DWARF and not some misbegotten hobbit!"

Legolas Pippin and Merry were immediately on their feet. "Woot d'you mean about THAT, sir!" cried Merry. "I'll show YOU th'meanin' of misbegotten!" said Pippin, though not soon after he whispered: "Merry? Woot's 'misbegotten' mean?" In no time, the entire breakfast hall was in an uproar, and what became of the beautifully-centered candelabra on the table was a target for Legolas' unexpected, nervous temper. Out of nowhere, an arrow had sliced through the candle dead center, the steel head jutting out to the other side. There, standing atop his throne-chair was the Archer Prince, his bow empty, but his hand still quivering over the string. All eyes returned to their proper sockets and were bolted on Legolas. "Please! I'd like...more than anyone to have my breakfast...in peace..."

Legolas To the relief of some, the nervousness of others, the breakfast hall was ultimately pacified. "My masters..." Legolas lowered his bow, along with his figure from the chair, "Let us not quarrel this last breaking of fast before Mordor..." Turning to the insulted dwarf, he added with an earnest frown: "Master Dwarf, my Sidran cousin and I are humbled by your presence. Accept my chain in apology." In tandem, the Mirkwood elves lower their heads after being humbled by Legolas' display. He had carried that cross with him for fifteen generations--it was a gift from the high officers of his father--yet now he was unearthing it from within the tight enclosure of his brown jacket and presenting it freely to his stout adversary. Gimli would have none of it and left the hall with a profound grunt and the heavy drag of his steel-rimmed feet.

Legolas The other dwarves followed. With a heavy heart, Legolas turned to his officers and elven companions, watching as breakfast quietly disbanded then. Only the Hobbits stole with them a piece of bread or a stalk of grapes to eat in the privacy of their chambers. And though the broad-shouldered humans were unimpressed with the dwarves' display, they maintained their circle around Elrond, the greater. Embarrassed and discouraged, Legolas gave his Sidran friend one ambiguous look of disappointment before bristling off from the room, stalking down the winding bricks steps into the lower garden.

A garden terrace, Rivendell...

Laurelome Among the people of Lorien, she was known as "Carnimirie", the red jewel, for she bore what no other in that gleaming, silver city did. Half-elven was the lady Laurëlómë, and her descent was clearly visible in the wisps of golden-red hair that waft behind her as she takes quiet steps through the gardens of Rivendell. This was no silver-blonde elf of fable. Her hair was perhaps different, but her eyes were Elven blue, her skin fairer than most, and her ears gracefully tipped. A slim hand toys with a small braid trailing over her shoulder as she meanders through Lord Elrond's pristine city. Nearby, the din of an argument barely catches her attention, paying it no mind when there is a book to be read.

Laurelome Choosing a quiet glade occupied only by herself, the whisper of leaves falling from their branches, and the gaze of some statue who has more right to sit in the garden than she, for Laurëlómë is only visiting from Lorien for the season. The rustle of pages add their voice to the quiet vista as she opens to where she last read from. Laurelome, despite her complete preoccupation with the book, catches the sound of footfall, even if it was the quiet steps of an Elf. Her head moves not an inch from it's delicate bascule over the book she holds reverently, but her eyes flicker upwards to the garden's staired entrance, arctic gaze buried beneath coal-black lashes. Laurelome would have spoken a disparaging word for the breaking of her quiet, but the figure that stalks into the outdoor arboretum silences her before he even knows it. Here was a prince, and she ready to admonish. Suspecting that the heir to Greenwood the Great would wish to go about his business, Laurëlómë returns her divided attention to the book.

Legolas His each step seems weighed with lead as his pace becomes ever slower when the bottom step is reached. Although elvish hearing is near-perfect in sharpness, the toil inside his mind blocks out the singsong noises of Rivendell in the morning. The sun had fully set when he approached fern-embraced balcony. In his hands lay the silver cross, which he poured all this attention into. The necklace, though made of metal, was light, no heavier than a fleck of dust. Perfectly symmetrical, it contained buttresses and various twists of silver ivy, but no stones. Why wouldn't Gimli accept it? And if he was to journey so far south with the disgruntled soul, how far would he expect himself to last amidst such hostile company?

Legolas With effort, Legolas straightens from his downcast demeanor and replaces the necklace inside the smooth, near-velvet folds of his doublet. Dark brows lift with renewed pride as the prince leans his full weight against the hardy stone lean-to, eyes closed to the east. But then, those long, feathery lashes once again open in alarm. It was one of the rare times Legolas had forgotten his armaments for someone to claim and own. Swiftly disengaging from the balcony, the long-legged elf makes for the winding stairs again in a jog. If only he kept his eyes to the upper reaches, he might have gotten to his bow sooner. Something stole the prince's attention, something far more profound than a lost arrow. A lost maiden.

Legolas Frozen in place, back turned against the dawn, Legolas studied the golden richness of her hair--such an unusual color!--before his slate-blue eyes fall upon her book. Then a chill wind entered through the facade and Legolas' preoccupations were broken. With a few scruffings of leather on the floor, the brown and green figure of Mirkwood's prince had all but disappeared into the breakfast hall again.

Laurelome She is inwardly amused at the confusion she sees in the expression of the prince, which she caught out the corner of her eye, and even more amused when he left in a hurry. Closing her book, she sets it down on the white stone bench and stands to inspect the garden. She spends a few moments musing over the statue, the water and the birds in the trees.

Legolas He is at once greeted by a morose-looking servant who hands him his bow and quiver of arrows, the former of which stood taller than most of the Fellowship. But he dwells inside the sweet-smelling hall no less than a small showing of gratitude (a pursing of his lips and a nod) and enough civility to not let his excitement carry further than between him and the servant. With an emotionless ear-to-ear grin and a mechanical retreat back out the double-arched doors, Legolas manages to leave one of Elrond's men with an utterly stupefied look as he closes it shut in front of him. On leathery heels, he turns, tightly-woven tresses as silver as his eyes dancing in an elegant swoop away from his face and over his shoulders.

Legolas Pushing the potted flowers aside from the stairway edge, Legolas takes one courageous breath before peeking over the rim. Left and right, his gaze scans the bottom benches for any sign of movement--a catch of sunlight on a hardbound book, the glow of her curious red hair, the makings of a lady's gown--something! But dart his eyes may along the bottom grounds, he could find no sign of her. He dared to go no further than the top flight. No sense looking both desperate and foolish, and if a passerby were to say anything about Legolas' cheeks at this moment, why that individual would describe it as beet red. Blame it not on his desperation but the blood flowing down from his heart to the very shiny surface of his drawn brows. He had spent the next few moments doubled over this way, secretly hoping to catch sight of her.

Laurelome The elven woman flicks her gaze upward to the balcony from where she stands just below it under guise of inspecting a specimen of flower not found in Lorien. The rustlings of plants above her head is nearly too much for her solemn lips to bear, and so they turn upwards as she peers out from under the lip of the balcony with a politely curious visage. "Were you looking for something?" Laurëlómë asks, schooling the amusement out of her tone, and brushing a lock of her curious red hair out of her eyes. It wouldn't do to seem as if she were mocking the Prince of Mirkwood.

Legolas He immediately finds himself ducking for dear life, as though a hail of arrows had just been launched from the direction of the sun. From his bent-over position only moments before, the archer prince suddenly finds himself in a far more uncomfortable and compromising position--he'd been found! Stand or hide? Hide or stand? For a moment, Legolas seems unsure of whether response to take, as he awkwardly goes from bending, to straightening, to bending and back again. He hides the unsightly, bloody burns he had received from the spiteful leaves and the stone edges both behind his hands, paying them no heed as the pounding inside his chest. A most surprised expression crosses his dear face.

Legolas A chorus of snickering behind him has Legolas wheeling around to find the ragtag duo of Merry and Pippin wedged between the tiny crack in the now open doorway. Color returning to his face, he sets at once to shutting the doors again. "Ow," comes the reply from inside. A slender palm sliding down the beautiful cherry wood, Legolas presses his eyes shut for courage once more and silently exhales. "The sun," he replies, turning slowly to greet her. It was the best reply he could come up with--and perhaps the first. Brows drooping at their outer rims to present a more gentle and personable face, Legolas timidly descends down the stairs one step at a time.

Laurelome Laurëlómë watches the prince descend the steps with barely covered amusement. The sound of a door being pushed shut perplexes her momentarily, but none the less puts it out of mind as she takes to dropping her head gracefully in respect to he and his station. "I'm afraid you won't find it under the balcony," she answers, stepping fully out from her shadow. "Unless Master Elrond is far more clever than we think, that is, and lends Rivendell as the morning home of the sun?" Pausing by the beautifully crafted fountain, her slender hand emerges from the finely draped clothe of her gown, a soft fabric that bore a dusky golden color and accents of a brighter amber.

Legolas Nimble as a cat, the fair elf descends upon the last step but keeps to the wall. He rests both feet flatly on the ground, both arms drawn back and tensely holding onto the strap of his sling. "I would that were so," comes his breathy reply at last, for it seems the very air has turned against the prince and made him quieter than usual. "I would that night never came to Rivendell...even the brightest lamp in your city cannot push back the darkness that creeps upon us like the tides." How he longed to one day walk amongst the shore... but even more so now, how he longed to know this maiden's name! Bolder now, he presents himself with a lengthy stride forward, his bow low, polite, and deliberately slow. "Good morrow and pardon, miss. I am not of these parts."

Laurelome "My peace has assuredly not been disturbed, and likewise I am not of this fair city." Laurëlómë says in earnest, not wishing to send him back off the way he came. A little breeze rustles through the garden and fills the silence with it's voice. And yet other whispers could be heard in the relative silence. Giggling voices, at that. She suddenly understands what Legolas had closed the door upon as she perks an ear towards the balcony with a smile. A tiny pebble is lifted off the ground and tossed gently over the upper railing. A chorus of surprised voice grow clearer as two Hobbit-heads peak down at them, to the lady's amusement.

Legolas Blankly following after the pebble, Legolas' long neck cranes over his shoulder where he spies two halflings piled from within the kitchen door, spying on them in turn. The prince's jaws immediately clamp shut. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder it seems," he declares aloud, eyes locked on the dark, curly heads. "I am none your betters, sir hobbits. There is nothing to see here but the dawn and if you be men of honorable esteem, you would prove the more civil if this villanous spying is ceased." It was his longest speech since the Council meeting. "Are hobbits not a race of honorable esteem, Mr. Merry? Mr. Peregrin?" The halflings, tricked into defending their dignity, rise and respond in the affirmative.

Legolas Shoving the more mischevous Pippin inside, Merry makes a display of biting down on his apple before rushing back inside the hall, saving himself a box on the ears from the cunning elf. Legolas returns his attention to the woman in front of him, embarrassed for them both. "If we are strangers this meeting, then your name perhaps I can convince you to share..." he continues, his voice regaining its silvery chime and beautiful wind. "For I will not be long in Rivendell and it was not the sun I was seeking within the ivy...but you..."

Laurelome She ducks her head sideways to avoid the faint blush in her ivory cheeks being seen at the Hobbit's spying. With an embarassed smile, she watches the Elven prince smartly call upon their pride to set them to other matters than monitoring the garden. "If that is the case, then surely I can spare my name to you. I am called Laurëlómë. I need not ask you the same question, for I already know your name."

Legolas Laurëlómë. Legolas' mind whispered it over and over as if to size its fairness. "Are you from Mirkwood, lady? What fair city do you call home? I am at a disadvantage."

Laurelome "Lorien is my home, sir, and I visit this place for a season each year to learn of the events that take place throughout the lands. Lorien does not concern itself with outside affairs often, which is unfortunate for those who are keen to keep abreast of recent events." All through her speech, her eyes darted about the garden, as if this would be trivial to royalty.

Legolas So she would think, but the humbled face of "royalty" here and now never once dared to take his light, silvery eyes away from observing her movements. She bore herself confidently, though much too threatened by his high bearing. Perhaps it was a lack of experience with women on his part, but the submissive Sindarin nobleman was sure he was doing a prickly job of presenting himself. She couldn't be more interested in him than she was in the roses growing like tapestry along the wall... Pushing that thought aside, Legolas turns to another, one on a more surprising note. His eyes and ears veritably perk up to greet her cool gaze, both of their complexion porcelain against the sun.

Legolas "If I may be so brazen to respond in discord, it none too foolish a thing to not concern oneself with the darker news. There is a quickening in the trees, lady, the growing smell of rot in the air. I fear the worse is yet to come and chance has it that I will be throwing myself headlong into the pitch black of my own misgivings..." At this point, a fine line had creased the high, youthful brow of the archer. It is evident he is affected by the root of evil more strongly than most elves are sensitive to. Swallowing, Legolas lifts his wandering eyes to look at Laurëlómë with more cordiality. "I hope to one day visit Lorien... Perhaps when the grass is greener for walking again. When I have satisfied my oath to serve Lord Elrond's mission." Here he stops briskly, not wanting to say further of the Fellowship's quest, in the name of secrecy. "What of the Lady of the Wood? Is it true she can foresee into the heart and mind of any living creature?"

Laurelome She feels a pang of sadness as trouble shadows his features. Even the news of the darkness in the lands did not concern her so much as the passing of serenity from his expression. But then it lightened again, and she felt able to breathe freely. Nodding solemnly, she answers, "It is true, and a frightful thing when one first experiences it!"

Legolas "The Lady, too, is yet another of the world's wonders I long to see before my old age." A smile, beautiful in its plainness, innocent in its intention, lifts at the corners of Legolas' lips. He lifts sunkissed hands up to his quiver to adjust their weight along his back, accustomed to their cumbersome and awkward load. For a moment, he does nothing but contain the perfect silence between them, letting the wind carry his thoughts more eloquently than any word he uttered ever could. It is as this point, after carefully flipping the pages of his mind for a reply, that Legolas finds he has none. There were no more words to say; he had extended this greeting far enough. Retreating a step reluctantly, he steadies his armaments with a black-leather wrist, bowing low. Part of him wished she would entreat him to halt in his progress there and now.

Legolas "In light of all this talk of fear, however, Lady Laurëlómë, I now fear I am wasting away your precious reading time. Although... I cannot lie in the face of such beauty, my heart is stricken so. Not with thorns or claws, evil or malice--I have fallen under your spell, dear lady... I should very much like to see you again..."

Laurelome Her cheeks flush lightly for the second time in a very short span of minutes, and again lowerrs her head to hide both the color, and her pleased expression. Entreat him, she would, and speaks up, rather more boldly than she feels, "It is not a book I have not read many times before, and I should like to think my time would be better spent in your company..."

Legolas His shoulders rise slowly, as though suspended on water, one breath after another. And another. And another... Soon enough, it is quite evident that Legolas' breathing is nothing more but a visual representation of the drumming inside his heart. More than ever, he dared not take his eyes off her. Nothing, not in any lifetime has he felt such supreme elation as this moment; nothing to equal the happiness embracing his soul. Elven-born he may be, and light as a feather, Legolas suddenly felt as if he could walk on air. He had watched others fall under love's spell for ages, though he never felt drawn to anyone so quickly as this woman was clouding his heart now. Because of this, he knows no measure of love other than this own primitive feelings at this moment.

Legolas If looking for the sun had confused him earlier, he was doubly confused merely turning to Laurëlómë for answers. And so, instead of scooping her up into a kiss as the moment certainly called for, he maintained the saintly distance from her, tensing his grip once again along the sturdy leather grip of his bow. It was all he knew how to do. Be polite. For although Legolas could cease the advance of an enemy at 200 yards, kill a parade of orcs with robotic efficiency, and seemingly had nine lives, he was no showman. He was efficient, practical and sensible, with little taste for folly or brashness. He was an impeccable perfectionist concerning all things in skill, conversation, and politics.

Legolas For him, these unfamiliar sensations ebbing and flowing throughout his entire figure had no name. He could not yet arrive at an explanation. He only knew he had to be with her. Shaken, he steps aside to make room for her steps. "If that is how you truly feel, lady, then I will be made your most honored servant if you were to join me now in breaking fast."

Laurelome A smile, while slow to come across her features, comes none the less, and is quietly brilliant when it does. She cannot seem to pull her gaze away from this enchanting man, and takes a silent step forward to the bottom of the steps. "I would very much enjoy that, if a mere harper should be allowed to eat in Lord Elrond's hall."

Legolas Legolas's head reared back. How...intriguing. Fixing his stance so his gait is at its fullest, the prince folded his hands leisurely at his front, an ambiguous twist to his normally tranquil features. "A harper," he comments innocently. Some would think he's being arrogant at this point, but Legolas knew not of such attitude. It was common enough for people to mistake him as a lowborn elf without royal distinction. He blended so well into any situation or company, it was easy for others to mistake his kindness with a form of servitude. And now this image of Laurëlómë seated beside a harp, the idea of her making what ought to be beautiful music--it was almost too good to be true. In fact, it was an uncanny coincidence. For those closest to the Sindarin nobleman knew of his appreciation for fine elven music.

Legolas He showed more rigorous interest in it than most individuals in his race. Escorting her step by step up the winding stone steps, Legolas has unfortunately fooled himself that he will ever get to hear her play. His fate was due to the southwest, not here in Rivendell. In fact, Lord Elrond was preparing their leave closely set to high noon today. Child-like with excitement now, Legolas pries open the double-doors for Laurëlómë, unaware of just how precious little time he had left to say his goodbyes. "I will have to entreat you honor me another small gift aside from your presence, then, for it has been long since I've heard a -woman- at the harp.

Legolas "The ones in Mirkwood are bards, of strong fingers yes, but none can equal a woman's delicate orchestration on the strings. Perhaps, before I leave you may play--" A dark, towering figure with the most stony expression imaginable fell upon Legolas' shadow out of nowhere. "Legolas," his elder interrupted him. "Lord Elrond, what bidding of yours may I serve--" "No more than this, Prince of Mirkwood. Go now to your chamber and prepare to make leave. You will be joined shortly by my officers and ladies. Please accept my gifts of goodwill that they bring you. I will be waiting in my library proper if you are in need of my presence." A curt nod, and just like that, Lord Elrond dismissed his Sidran cousin to make haste.

Legolas Legolas knew not what to feel in his heart as it divided him in two different directions: one, towards the road; the other, to this woman staring painfully at his face as though the universe, mirrored in his eyes, had shattered there. All this time, he had taken care not to fall trap to folly and nonsense, especially to leisure. And what was he doing now but all that? It seems this prince had dug himself into his own grave. There was little use explaining to Laurëlómë about such sudden departure. Even if she hadn't figured out by now that he was, indeed, part of the whispered Fellowship of Nine ready set to do battle against Sauron himself, he could not tell her himself.

Legolas And so, bracing himself for what his next footstep, Legolas hardens his face into steel and manages the only response he can show according to his duty--he coldly brushes by her, heading for his room. Prince of Mirkwood, newborn lover, now turning a blind eye to love to save the kingdom of Rivendell and Middle Earth beyond...

Laurelome She had barely opened her mouth to make an enthusiastic offer to play her harp for him whenever he wished, when the Lord of Rivendell imposed upon their enamoured conversations. She listened with a dejected silence, not moving even an inch until Elrond had again departed. At that moment, the sadness that had earlier clouded her features at seeing the prince troubled shadowed her visage once more. But this time, it was far deeper, more profound, utterly devistated. She had let him hold her heart for a moment, and this was what became of it. Yet amidst the grief, there was a determination that it would not end this way. She had indeed figured the purpose of his journey. And knowing that journey, knew they would pass through her home on the way. And so, watching his figure down the hallway, admiring the grace with no small sorrow, steps back down into the heartbreakingly beautiful garden to collect her book -her journal- from the bench, where two Hobbits inspected it curiously.

Laurelome Laurëlómë despairs not so deeply that the sight fails to bring a smile to her lips. This story would not end in sadness like so many often did. "Sir Hobbits!" The red-haired Elf speaks through the filtering sunlight. "I would beg you to carry a note to the Prince of Mirkwood for me once your journey is underway." The two Hobbits had been speaking of their part in the whispered Fellowship, and her keen hearing had not failed to discern their meanings. Both nodded with a stunned curiosity as she extracted something from the hand that had remained shrouded in her gown. A ring, one which had no bearing on the fate of the world

Laurelome A ring that carried only a request of rememberance from it's owner to the archer. Fashioned in silver, it bore likeness to a winding vine, and amisdt the bloom of a rose sat a jewel of golden-red. 'Carnimirie,' she wrote quickly on a page from her journal as the Hobbits watched silently. 'Bear this and be safe. Melanenye. ~Laurëlómë.'

Laurelome Enfolded in the note and entrusted to the pair of Hobbits, who were sworn to deliver it only after they had set out, she smiled and collected her journal, setting off through the gardens. Pausing, though, on the balcony, she regards the morning sky and speaks softy to the wind, "I hope you find the sun."

===========================================
Love it? We thought so. So read on to see what happens!
~Morgana