Chapter Three

Legolas, before the Fellowship

I run out of the palace. Anger bubbles up within me, but I force it back down. Why doesn't my father try to interfere? He could break off the betrothal if he wanted to. But no, he insists that it is "all for the best." How can it be so?

When I am King, I will get rid of whatever law says people cannot marry whomever they want. But I am not King yet. First I must go to Rivendell, and then I must survive whatever quest they send me on, whether it is simply for me to come back with news, for me to carry the ring to Mordor, or for me to accompany the Ringbearer. I do not know, and I will not know until the morrow. So I push the thoughts out of my mind.

Laire is not outside. I expected her to wait, but now I realize I should have known better. When having a mental breakdown, what does Laire do? She sits in a tree. I wander out of the square and the village and into the place where the trees grow thicker and higher. Most of them are willows, sad and beautiful. But there is one tree that is tall and proud—the one Laire always runs to. I hum to myself as I walk toward it.

The branches of the willows reach toward me, and, as they realize who I am, turn away sadly to talk amongst themselves. The branches look like long, slender fingers reaching up out of the fog. I shiver, even though the day is warm. The willows on the edges of Mirkwood have strange ways.

I hear something ahead of me: Laire's voice. She laughs. Her laugh floats on the wind, wrapping around me like the fog. I wonder whom she talks to. I feel a twinge of envy. I sprint towards the tree.

My heart slows down. I could laugh. Laire sits in the tree, cradled by its largest branches talking to…a butterfly. Its brilliant hues are like a splash of heaven against the monochromatic hell that is Mirkwood. Mirkwood is gray and dreary, constantly consumed by fog. I remember when it was the fairest land of all, but now those days are long forgotten. The butterfly reminds me of those days, of the flowers and the birds. I stand, silent as possible, and listen to Laire.

"Could you imagine me, a warrior, swinging a sword and fighting in grand battles? I don't suppose you could, could you? Well, that's fine and just, for I'm afraid you might die of your laughter if you could! Common old Laire, a war hero!"

I cannot resist. I interrupt. "I think you would make a fine hero."

She jerks around and sees me, startled. The butterfly takes flight. My splash of color disappears. The air of happiness around Laire fades. Her hands grope at the air, but the butterfly is gone. She fixes her eyes on me, sea-green eyes that I love.

"Me? A hero? You know perfectly well that it wouldn't suit me," she replies gloomily. "That title is more befitting to you. I'd rather stand beside you and chop off the head of any orc that comes too close while you shoot at them."

I reach for a branch and begin to climb. I am a good climber, but still I marvel at Laire's feat. The branch she sits on is at least five times her height off the ground.

I reach her branch and swing one leg over it. She leans forward and then settles back so that she rests against my chest. She sighs and plays with her elven brooch, the small silver and green leaf that ever elf has—the sign of our immortality. Then she shifts so she's looking me in the eyes.

"What did your father say?"

I shrug absently. "Not much. I told him I was worried about you, and he told me not to be."

"You shouldn't be," she murmurs, turning away and focusing on the brooch again. "Are you afraid, Legolas?" She asks after a time.

"To death," I mutter.

She looks at me again. This time her eyes are angry and flashing. "Don't joke about such matters, Legolas. You don't know death. You don't know how bad it is."

"Neither do you," I reply. Her cheeks flush. She opens her mouth to argue, but I place a finger on it and she gives up. She turns away again and rests her head on my shoulder, then takes my hand in hers and holds it on her heart.

"I love you, Legolas," she whispers, and kisses my hand. I tighten my grip around her waist.

"Well and truly?" I ask, not thinking.

She laughs. Her laugh is like the sweetest music my tired ears have ever heard. I stiffen at the thought that this may be the last time I ever hear that laugh.

"Well and truly," she answers.

"I love you as well," I whisper. She sighs and closes her eyes. I lean my head against the trunk of the tree and look up at the gray sky. Only tiny slivers are visible through the tangled braches of the tree. I could sit like this forever, listening to nothing but the whispers of the trees and the sound of Laire's breathing. I can barely hear it; if my hearing were not so keen I would not think she was breathing at all.

Something startles me out of the pure and simple bliss I'd fallen into. Someone is walking around. Not elves, for the feet of these strangers are heavy. I hold Laire closer and she digs her fingernails into my arm in fear. The air suddenly fouls, and I hear a low growling noise.

"Orcs," Laire hisses. I move away and, as quickly as lightning, fit an arrow in my bow. It sings and whistles as I release it. A faint, anguished growl rises up from the place where the arrow disappeared. Laire's brow furrows and then she gasps. I turn my head and follow her gaze. An army of orcs emerges from the sanctuary of the willows. Their clubs are raised and the carry swords longer than my body. Their rotting teeth are exposed as they scream and growl. Arrow after arrow flies from my bow, each of them hitting their target. More anguished cries follow. Orcs sink to the ground, pieces of wood embedded in their black flesh. Laire's face reddens with hate. Armies of Sauron are invading our home.

I do my best to fend off the orcs, but more and more waves of them keep coming, even as their comrades are slaughtered relentlessly. Finally all my arrows are spent. I do not know what to do. An orc climbs the tree. Laire hurls a thick branch. The orc falls onto the ground with a loud howl, the branch now imbedded in its forehead. I clasp Laire's hand so tightly that my fingers begin to lose feeling. All hope seems lost. The orcs swarm around the trunk like bees to honey.

And then, one by one, they drop. I turn my head to see the elven armies charging. Their arrows sink into the orcs as mine did, but theirs fly in great swarms. Any orc that gets too close is chopped down with a long, graceful elven sword.

We watch in horror and awe as the orcs are defeated without a single death on the elf side. My first battle is one of triumph, of victory. But I will taste defeat soon enough. I can feel it.

The elves, my friends, step over the still-moaning bodies of the orcs, shoving corpses aside and cutting down the monsters that reach up.

Nárello is first to the base of the tree. Laire slides down first. I watch in anger as Nárello embraces her and swings her around.

"You're safe, my love!" He kisses her on the cheek and she laughs, but the laughter is not genuine. I hop down after her and am swiftly embraced by my father, yet my eyes remain on Laire.

"What did you think of your first battle, my son? Surely it won't be your last!" He slaps me on the back. I nod, unsmiling, as he beams and surveys the damage. My last glimpse of Laire before she disappears is of her glancing over her shoulder as she is led away by Nárello, a single tear running down her dirt-smudged cheek. She smiles at me sadly and then she is gone.