*Disclaimer: I don't own any of Tolkien's characters, places or events. I
do own a few others, notably Elu Heneb – Egla Ash. I am not getting any
money from any of this.
Author's Note – It helps to have read my other fics. They will help you understand the long, not always happy friendship of Legolas and Egla Ash.
*Note – Ennor is Sindarin for Middle Earth
King Thranduil of Mirkwood watched as his five representatives to Imladris mounted their horses. Four sat gracefully on their mounts, faces filled with excitement, pale hair shining in the sun. But the fifth looked uneasy in the saddle crafted for him, his hands clenched on the leather reins, his face tense as he stared down at his horse in uncertainty. The poor beast danced about, sensing its rider's discomfort, tossing its head and snorting. Thranduil shook his head, an amused smile on his lips. Elu Heneb had been taking riding lessons for weeks now in preparation for this trip to Imladris and he still wasn't at ease in the saddle. The Elves used no saddles, bridles, or reins to control their horses, but the Orc seemed in need of them, so they had crafted them specifically for him. Well, perhaps he would grow more confident on the road. Thranduil moved down the steps to stand beside one of the riders. He gently laid his hand on his youngest son's knee, then turned to address them all.
"Our hearts go with you on this journey as do our prayers for your safety." His hand tightened on Legolas' knee as he said this, though his green eyes touched them all. "Return to us swiftly. May Elbereth guide you." He felt his voice breaking and moved away from the horses and raised a hand in farewell.
Legolas smiled at him, his eyes bright and eager for adventure.
"Fear not, Father. We will be home before you realize that we have gone." He reassured.
Ah, little Greenleaf, Thranduil thought as he watched them ride away. What can you know of this? I miss you already.
Elu Heneb – or Egla Ash as he still thought of himself – bounced steadily in the saddle behind the others. He knew that he was still doing this wrong and that his horse was not happy with his ineptitude, but he was as excited as his four companions. They were going to Imladris, home of the greatest Lore Master in Ennor. Since he had first heard of Imladris – or Rivendell – he had searched through Thranduil's library reading everything he could about the wondrous place and its Master, Elrond Peredhil.
He read all of the old tales, getting Legolas to help him with the archaic spellings and words. He would have lost himself completely in the histories of Middle Earth – of glorious battles fought, the founding of the exotic sounding kingdoms, of all the races that peopled the land - had Legolas not pulled him away to be tortured by being made to ride a horse.
The horse did not seem to like him though Legolas assured him that Elithil was very gentle and easy to ride. The white horse with a flowing silvery mane and tail rolled her large dark eyes at the Orc and snorted, butting his head against Legolas in protest, as if to say, "You have got to be joking!"
The Elf calmed the animal with gentle caresses and soft word whispered into her flicking ears.
"I do not think that Elithil wants me to ride her, Legolas Elvellon. I can run to Imladris on my own feet. But I cannot do this."
Legolas laughed merrily and shook his head, blue eyes sparkling.
"It is too far, nin mellon. I know you are very strong, but even your strength would give out before we reached Imladris. Come, you can do this."
Elu Heneb –Egla Ash – grasped the saddle and awkwardly lifted one foot to the stirrup. Elithil shied away, dancing sideways. She was not very happy with the contraption on her back and she eyed the two balefully.
"I can't do this." Elu repeated, staring morosely at the ground.
"Of course you can." Legolas leaped lightly into the saddle and rode Elithil around the enclosure where they practiced riding. "You see? It is easy. Come, Elu. Climb up over here and you can ride behind me for a time."
Elu sighed knowing that the horse would never get used to him, or he to the horse. But he climbed onto the tree trunk Legolas had indicated and clambered onto Elithil's back, his hands clasped awkwardly about Legolas' slim waist.
"Relax, Elu." Legolas laughed. "If you squeeze me any harder I will not be able to breath and then we will both fall off."
Elu tired to relax as bidden, but he felt himself slipping and sliding on the horse's smooth rump.
"Hold on. We'll go a little faster. Elithil wants to run."
The hands on the Elf's waist tightened again.
Elu squeezed his eyes shut as the horse broke into a trot and then a canter. They rode out the open gate and down the path.
"Open your eyes, nin mellon." Legolas called. "You need to see where we are going."
The Orc opened them. Ahead of them the four other riders were staring back at him, their fair faces lit with amusement and happiness. He grinned. He had indeed learned to sit in the saddle and even stay in it - somewhat. But it was the companionship that filled him with wonder and joy. To be accepted, to be himself, was a gift he thought that he would never possess. It was truly precious.
He was traveling with his friend to Imladris and he was truly happy. He grinned at the others, his eyes lingering longest on Legolas. Their friendship had undergone a trial of fire and survived to become even stronger, one that would last forever. The Orc's smile widened, he laughed out loud in sheer delight. The others joined him, pleased to see him so light hearted and filled with mirth. Just like an Elf.
The crashing of a great waterfall drown out all sound. Water spilled over the rocks, down the incline in a foaming churning rush. A prism of color misted the air at its foot.
"Seek for the Sword that was broken…"
A calloused hand grasped the hilt of an ancient sword, its blade broken, but still sharp.
"In Imladris it dwells…"
A steep hidden valley was nestled in the rocky heights. Trees decked in fall colors studded the sides of the cliffs. A stone bridge spanned the tumbling, splashing water. Tall graceful buildings, pale and lacy, soared above it. So beautiful…so Elvish.
"There shall be counsels taken…"
A pair of dark blue-grey eyes gazed outward from a stern beautiful face.
"The Ring must be destroyed…" He declared his eyes taking in all seated about him.
"Stronger than Morgul spells…"
A horrible blood-chilling shriek filled the air as a tall bent figure swathed in black turned its hooded face, raising a notched sword.
"There shall be shown a token…"
A small hand placed a plain gold ring on a stand of cold grey stone.
"That Doom is near at hand…"
In the distance a dark mountain reared, exploding into flame, bathing the broken land about it in crimson and ashes.
"For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halflings forth shall stand."
The cool green of a forest replaced the ruined landscape, ferns growing everywhere. Two small childlike figures were wading through them looking tired and burdened.
And then again the crash of a waterfall. Only now a small boat was being borne over it, carried away down the Anduin River to the Sea.
"Boromir!"
The young man started up from his troubled sleep, gasping slightly for breath. He passed a hand over his face and shook his head to rid it of the dream that had plagued him for so long. Only it was different now. There had not been those images before. Images of Imladris and of …other things. He sighed his shoulders slumping. He had hoped that since his older brother had started out on his quest for Imladris the dreams would leave him in peace. But it was not to be. They seemed now to be saying that he was the one who should have made the journey to the fabled place of the greatest Lore Master of Middle Earth. The dream had come to him first and most often. But Boromir had gone, insisting on having his way as he always had. And their father, Lord Denethor II, Steward of Gondor had allowed it as he always had. Not that he had wanted his eldest son and heir to go, but because he would deny Boromir nothing that he wanted. Not so Faramir. The young man sighed again, knowing that sleep had truly fled for the night. He threw the covers back and stood, reaching for the thick robe that lay across the foot of his bed. He padded across the room, pacing the length of the thick warm carpet. The images would not leave him alone.
He and Boromir had tried to decipher the dream for some time now and neither of them could tell what it spoke of. And when they had consulted their father, he spoke only of Imladris as an elusive place in the north.
Had Boromir found it yet? Was he even still alive?
Young Faramir moved to his window and gazed out into the night. All about him the city of Minas Tirith was quiet, lost to its own troubled dreams. He could see the guards on the walls below, walking their silent sentry. He looked up to the stars, so beautiful and bright this night. But then his eyes were drawn eastward, toward Mordor, which lay beyond the Mountains of Shadow. A red glow filled the sky in that direction, an evil glow bathing the landscape in crimson and ashes. He shuddered as the image from his dream filled his mind.
What could it all mean?
He ran a hand through his dark blonde hair and turned from the window, not wishing to look upon the foulness Mordor any longer.
Again his thoughts turned to his brother. He hoped he was safe, but at the same time he felt the jealousy and resentment well in him. He loved his brother dearly, though he didn't worship him the way he had when he saw him with the eyes of an adoring child. Denethor clearly favored his eldest son over the younger and it still hurt. It would always hurt. At times Denethor seemed to resent Faramir because he was not like Boromir. Both had sprung from the same loins, but at times seemed as different as day and night. Boromir excelled at arms and warfare, enjoying it wholeheartedly. He was stubborn, strong and arrogant at times, as befitted an heir to the Stewardship of the greatest city on Middle Earth. Faramir didn't like all the fighting and killing that had surrounded him his entire life. He yearned for peace in a way that he knew neither father nor brother would ever understand. He had a gentle and giving soul, and had been branded a coward and too soft to be a warrior of Gondor. It hadn't mattered that he had proved his bravery over and over. Nothing he had accomplished or done had ever been enough to gain any approval from his father. And then of course there was Gandalf. Denethor liked the Istari not at all, and Faramir's friendship with the Wizard was looked on as suspect, a betrayal of loyalties.
Faramir sighed, and dropped into a chair by the fire. He wondered where Gandalf was. The last time he had seen him had been some time ago when Denethor had begrudged him the use of Gondor's great libraries. He had seemed in great haste, his blue eyes troubled. He hadn't been able to speak with Faramir for long before he was flying away with all haste looking even more distressed than when he had arrived. Since that time so many things seemed to be falling into ruin. The dream of Imladris and the broken Sword that seemed so important had come to him soon after this. The eastern half of Osgiliath had fallen to the Enemy. Only he, Boromir and two others survived to return to Minas Tirith, the Shadow haunting their every footstep. And now Boromir was gone, searching for Imladris. Again the roar of a waterfall crashing filled his troubled mind.
He turned to stare into the flames on the hearth. But only horror lay within the leaping fire. He feared that the fires of Mordor would soon over take them all, leaving the landscape bathed in crimson and ashes.
Author's Note – It helps to have read my other fics. They will help you understand the long, not always happy friendship of Legolas and Egla Ash.
*Note – Ennor is Sindarin for Middle Earth
King Thranduil of Mirkwood watched as his five representatives to Imladris mounted their horses. Four sat gracefully on their mounts, faces filled with excitement, pale hair shining in the sun. But the fifth looked uneasy in the saddle crafted for him, his hands clenched on the leather reins, his face tense as he stared down at his horse in uncertainty. The poor beast danced about, sensing its rider's discomfort, tossing its head and snorting. Thranduil shook his head, an amused smile on his lips. Elu Heneb had been taking riding lessons for weeks now in preparation for this trip to Imladris and he still wasn't at ease in the saddle. The Elves used no saddles, bridles, or reins to control their horses, but the Orc seemed in need of them, so they had crafted them specifically for him. Well, perhaps he would grow more confident on the road. Thranduil moved down the steps to stand beside one of the riders. He gently laid his hand on his youngest son's knee, then turned to address them all.
"Our hearts go with you on this journey as do our prayers for your safety." His hand tightened on Legolas' knee as he said this, though his green eyes touched them all. "Return to us swiftly. May Elbereth guide you." He felt his voice breaking and moved away from the horses and raised a hand in farewell.
Legolas smiled at him, his eyes bright and eager for adventure.
"Fear not, Father. We will be home before you realize that we have gone." He reassured.
Ah, little Greenleaf, Thranduil thought as he watched them ride away. What can you know of this? I miss you already.
Elu Heneb – or Egla Ash as he still thought of himself – bounced steadily in the saddle behind the others. He knew that he was still doing this wrong and that his horse was not happy with his ineptitude, but he was as excited as his four companions. They were going to Imladris, home of the greatest Lore Master in Ennor. Since he had first heard of Imladris – or Rivendell – he had searched through Thranduil's library reading everything he could about the wondrous place and its Master, Elrond Peredhil.
He read all of the old tales, getting Legolas to help him with the archaic spellings and words. He would have lost himself completely in the histories of Middle Earth – of glorious battles fought, the founding of the exotic sounding kingdoms, of all the races that peopled the land - had Legolas not pulled him away to be tortured by being made to ride a horse.
The horse did not seem to like him though Legolas assured him that Elithil was very gentle and easy to ride. The white horse with a flowing silvery mane and tail rolled her large dark eyes at the Orc and snorted, butting his head against Legolas in protest, as if to say, "You have got to be joking!"
The Elf calmed the animal with gentle caresses and soft word whispered into her flicking ears.
"I do not think that Elithil wants me to ride her, Legolas Elvellon. I can run to Imladris on my own feet. But I cannot do this."
Legolas laughed merrily and shook his head, blue eyes sparkling.
"It is too far, nin mellon. I know you are very strong, but even your strength would give out before we reached Imladris. Come, you can do this."
Elu Heneb –Egla Ash – grasped the saddle and awkwardly lifted one foot to the stirrup. Elithil shied away, dancing sideways. She was not very happy with the contraption on her back and she eyed the two balefully.
"I can't do this." Elu repeated, staring morosely at the ground.
"Of course you can." Legolas leaped lightly into the saddle and rode Elithil around the enclosure where they practiced riding. "You see? It is easy. Come, Elu. Climb up over here and you can ride behind me for a time."
Elu sighed knowing that the horse would never get used to him, or he to the horse. But he climbed onto the tree trunk Legolas had indicated and clambered onto Elithil's back, his hands clasped awkwardly about Legolas' slim waist.
"Relax, Elu." Legolas laughed. "If you squeeze me any harder I will not be able to breath and then we will both fall off."
Elu tired to relax as bidden, but he felt himself slipping and sliding on the horse's smooth rump.
"Hold on. We'll go a little faster. Elithil wants to run."
The hands on the Elf's waist tightened again.
Elu squeezed his eyes shut as the horse broke into a trot and then a canter. They rode out the open gate and down the path.
"Open your eyes, nin mellon." Legolas called. "You need to see where we are going."
The Orc opened them. Ahead of them the four other riders were staring back at him, their fair faces lit with amusement and happiness. He grinned. He had indeed learned to sit in the saddle and even stay in it - somewhat. But it was the companionship that filled him with wonder and joy. To be accepted, to be himself, was a gift he thought that he would never possess. It was truly precious.
He was traveling with his friend to Imladris and he was truly happy. He grinned at the others, his eyes lingering longest on Legolas. Their friendship had undergone a trial of fire and survived to become even stronger, one that would last forever. The Orc's smile widened, he laughed out loud in sheer delight. The others joined him, pleased to see him so light hearted and filled with mirth. Just like an Elf.
The crashing of a great waterfall drown out all sound. Water spilled over the rocks, down the incline in a foaming churning rush. A prism of color misted the air at its foot.
"Seek for the Sword that was broken…"
A calloused hand grasped the hilt of an ancient sword, its blade broken, but still sharp.
"In Imladris it dwells…"
A steep hidden valley was nestled in the rocky heights. Trees decked in fall colors studded the sides of the cliffs. A stone bridge spanned the tumbling, splashing water. Tall graceful buildings, pale and lacy, soared above it. So beautiful…so Elvish.
"There shall be counsels taken…"
A pair of dark blue-grey eyes gazed outward from a stern beautiful face.
"The Ring must be destroyed…" He declared his eyes taking in all seated about him.
"Stronger than Morgul spells…"
A horrible blood-chilling shriek filled the air as a tall bent figure swathed in black turned its hooded face, raising a notched sword.
"There shall be shown a token…"
A small hand placed a plain gold ring on a stand of cold grey stone.
"That Doom is near at hand…"
In the distance a dark mountain reared, exploding into flame, bathing the broken land about it in crimson and ashes.
"For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halflings forth shall stand."
The cool green of a forest replaced the ruined landscape, ferns growing everywhere. Two small childlike figures were wading through them looking tired and burdened.
And then again the crash of a waterfall. Only now a small boat was being borne over it, carried away down the Anduin River to the Sea.
"Boromir!"
The young man started up from his troubled sleep, gasping slightly for breath. He passed a hand over his face and shook his head to rid it of the dream that had plagued him for so long. Only it was different now. There had not been those images before. Images of Imladris and of …other things. He sighed his shoulders slumping. He had hoped that since his older brother had started out on his quest for Imladris the dreams would leave him in peace. But it was not to be. They seemed now to be saying that he was the one who should have made the journey to the fabled place of the greatest Lore Master of Middle Earth. The dream had come to him first and most often. But Boromir had gone, insisting on having his way as he always had. And their father, Lord Denethor II, Steward of Gondor had allowed it as he always had. Not that he had wanted his eldest son and heir to go, but because he would deny Boromir nothing that he wanted. Not so Faramir. The young man sighed again, knowing that sleep had truly fled for the night. He threw the covers back and stood, reaching for the thick robe that lay across the foot of his bed. He padded across the room, pacing the length of the thick warm carpet. The images would not leave him alone.
He and Boromir had tried to decipher the dream for some time now and neither of them could tell what it spoke of. And when they had consulted their father, he spoke only of Imladris as an elusive place in the north.
Had Boromir found it yet? Was he even still alive?
Young Faramir moved to his window and gazed out into the night. All about him the city of Minas Tirith was quiet, lost to its own troubled dreams. He could see the guards on the walls below, walking their silent sentry. He looked up to the stars, so beautiful and bright this night. But then his eyes were drawn eastward, toward Mordor, which lay beyond the Mountains of Shadow. A red glow filled the sky in that direction, an evil glow bathing the landscape in crimson and ashes. He shuddered as the image from his dream filled his mind.
What could it all mean?
He ran a hand through his dark blonde hair and turned from the window, not wishing to look upon the foulness Mordor any longer.
Again his thoughts turned to his brother. He hoped he was safe, but at the same time he felt the jealousy and resentment well in him. He loved his brother dearly, though he didn't worship him the way he had when he saw him with the eyes of an adoring child. Denethor clearly favored his eldest son over the younger and it still hurt. It would always hurt. At times Denethor seemed to resent Faramir because he was not like Boromir. Both had sprung from the same loins, but at times seemed as different as day and night. Boromir excelled at arms and warfare, enjoying it wholeheartedly. He was stubborn, strong and arrogant at times, as befitted an heir to the Stewardship of the greatest city on Middle Earth. Faramir didn't like all the fighting and killing that had surrounded him his entire life. He yearned for peace in a way that he knew neither father nor brother would ever understand. He had a gentle and giving soul, and had been branded a coward and too soft to be a warrior of Gondor. It hadn't mattered that he had proved his bravery over and over. Nothing he had accomplished or done had ever been enough to gain any approval from his father. And then of course there was Gandalf. Denethor liked the Istari not at all, and Faramir's friendship with the Wizard was looked on as suspect, a betrayal of loyalties.
Faramir sighed, and dropped into a chair by the fire. He wondered where Gandalf was. The last time he had seen him had been some time ago when Denethor had begrudged him the use of Gondor's great libraries. He had seemed in great haste, his blue eyes troubled. He hadn't been able to speak with Faramir for long before he was flying away with all haste looking even more distressed than when he had arrived. Since that time so many things seemed to be falling into ruin. The dream of Imladris and the broken Sword that seemed so important had come to him soon after this. The eastern half of Osgiliath had fallen to the Enemy. Only he, Boromir and two others survived to return to Minas Tirith, the Shadow haunting their every footstep. And now Boromir was gone, searching for Imladris. Again the roar of a waterfall crashing filled his troubled mind.
He turned to stare into the flames on the hearth. But only horror lay within the leaping fire. He feared that the fires of Mordor would soon over take them all, leaving the landscape bathed in crimson and ashes.