Chapter Four
Laire

I am not listening as Nárello carries on excitedly about how many orcs he killed and whatnot. The look on Legolas's face as Nárello picked me is one burned into my mind forever. I want to disentangle myself from the eager arms of Nárello and run to Legolas and tell him that it will be all right, for I will wait for him here. When he returns, we will leave Mirkwood together. Than I think of something else: If he returns. What if he never does? Will I be doomed to wander forever without him, bound to Nárello? The though is more than I can bear. I tilt my head to the sky and blink back burning tears.

"What is wrong, Laire?" Nárello's voice makes me jump. I turn my head to him and hastily wipe away the tears.

"Nothing," I reply hurriedly. I smile weakly at him. His brown eyes are filled with concern, but, strangely, I do not care if he dies of worry. I do not wish him to, but if he wants to, fine.

"Come now, tell me. Is it about the orcs? They're wretched monsters, Laire. Forget about them. They deserve to die."

"No, it's not about the orcs, Nárello! It's about nothing. Nothing's wrong. I am perfectly fine," I insist. He shrugs and continues to babble on and on.

I let my attention wander freely. My eyes roam to the skies, which are as gray as the haze on the ground. Dark clouds drift lazily around. The air is musty and damp. I find myself missing the butterfly. My longing for color in this world is matched only by my longing to be with Legolas. How my father has managed to live here for five thousand years I cannot fathom. The lack of color is suffocating.

We have ambled into the village again. I am vaguely aware of cheering and singing. The elves celebrate our first victory. They have all won. All of them but me.

My battle is lost. Legolas leaves within the week. He leaves me here, with Nárello and my father and the other elves that I have come to despise on this day. I am a poor warrior in every sense. I wish to die.

I hear someone call my name. The voice is hoarse, yet I would recognize it anywhere: Father's. I turn around and see him, thankful for an excuse to leave Nárello. I run to my father and embrace him.

"My daughter," he whispers into my hair. "My little Laire. I was sure you were gone."

I cry like a child and cling onto him, desperate. Then he tilts my chin and makes me look him full in the face. I stare back, defiant, into his blue eyes. I get my eye color from my mother, and my hair color as well. My hair is black; black as a raven's wing, so black it looks blue in the moonlight. Yet my skin is fairer than most elves'. I get that trait from my father. I miss my mother. I wish desperately to be with her in Rivendell, where she fled after my brother's death. She told me she couldn't stand to live in the forest where her son died any longer. My father is afraid that if I leave for Rivendell, I will stay with her and not come back. I am his only daughter left. And yet he wants to marry me off! I cannot comprehend his motives. I do not begin to try.

Then a smile forms on his face. I raise my eyebrows, apprehensive.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I have good news, Laire," he says slyly.

My heart leaps. The wedding is off! I could dance. I could sing.

"The wedding--" he begins.

Oh, it is true! I laugh and embrace him.

"Oh, it's off, you called it off, didn't you, Father?" I ask gleefully. My Father stiffens and steps back.

"No," he says. "I did not. I...actually, I moved the date. It shall take place on the morrow, before sunset." He stops at the look of pure and utter horror on my face. "I thought you would be pleased. Now all of Mirkwood can attend."

I fight down the bitter cry of anguish rising in my throat. I try to speak but all that comes out is a short, quiet wail. I try again. "How...how could you, Father? I do not want all of Mirkwood there! I do not want anyone there, least of all Legolas! He will--"

"He's not coming," he says angrily. "I made him promise not to."

I turn away, one hand clamped over my mouth. I turn to run but my Father grabs my wrist and holds me. I turn around, tears streaming silently down my face yet again.

"Let me go!" I scream, suddenly aware of all the bright elvish eyes upon my face. I jerk my arm out of my father's grasp and stand still for a moment, shaking in my anger.

"How can you do this to me, Father? You won't let me leave Mirkwood, even though I'm dying here, just dying! You insist on betrothing me to someone I don't even love, and ignore the one that I do love! You won't let me fight like I wish to. You won't let me live, Father. And yet you insist it's all for the best! How can it be? How...can...it...be?" I spit out the last four words. I barely hear the murmurs of the crowd. My father stands shocked, unable to say anything. I shake my head wordlessly at him, still silently sobbing, then turn and push through the crowd. I run straight back towards my tree, perfectly aware of the danger and perfectly unconcerned. Nárello catches me and holds me for a moment, trying to console me. I shove him away, disgusted.

"Leave me be," I growl at him. Then I turn and run again.

Tears blur my vision, but my feet are sure. I am positive that my loud, racking sobs echo in the trees. Orcs could hear me. Let them come. I would rather die quickly of an arrow to the heart than slowly of grief here in Mirkwood. But I quiet myself. I force the sobs to stop. I wipe away the tears and force my breaths to come evenly again. Now I am angry with myself. I allow myself to become too emotional. Elves are not supposed to betray their feelings. What would Mother think? No, Mother would not think anything, for if she were here, she would never allow Father to arrange my marriage. She'd let me marry Legolas, because she is just and wise and she'd see the error in forcing two individuals as headstrong as Legolas and I to be apart. I wonder if she knows about the change in the wedding date. Now Mother won't be there. She'll never see me wed. But that is just as well, for I know she'd stand up and put a stop to all this nonsense. How I miss Mother.

I consider walking to my tree, but remember the battle from earlier and reconsider. Instead I turn and walk east, where the leaves of the willow sweep the ground. The largest willow in the group calls to me, her slender branches reaching for me like tender hands. I brush the limbs aside and walk into the dim, warm shelter of the tree. She speaks to me in a low voice, beckoning me to come closer. I follow the call and sit at the base of her trunk, cradled by a large nook. My anger seems to disintegrate. I hum slowly to myself and think that I could never leave this spot. I will die if I go back. Die of grief, like Mother said she word. One more moment here, and she would die. So will I.

The willow's branches caress my face. I sigh and begin to forget my worries, many of them though there are. Nature serves as an excellent comfort for me.

But, suddenly, in the distance, I hear footsteps. Not clunky footsteps, so they are not orcs. They are soft. Elf footsteps. I groan softly and wish to just sink into the earth and just become one with the tree. I don't want them to find me. I close my eyes and silently will them away. They come anyway.

The curtain of branches parts. I open one eye tentatively, afraid of what I will see. If it is Nárello, I'll knock him over the head with a branch and run as far as my legs will carry me. But it is not Nárello. It is Legolas. I open both eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. So does he.

"Hello," he says quietly. I motion for him to sit down, so he comes and sits beside me. I move onto his lap and rest my head of his chest.

"I was worried about you," he says, twirling one of my black curls around his finger. "You caused quite a stir back there."

"I do not care," I announce stubbornly. He laughs, but only with mild amusement.

"You do not care much about anything anymore, do you?"

I look him straight in the eye. "I care about you. I care about your father. I care about my mother. I care about Middle-Earth. I care about many things, just not Mirkwood. No, I suppose I do care for it, and would mourn if it stood no more, but I'd prefer to care about it from a distance."

"You said you were dying here. Did you speak the truth, or were you just being dramatic?"

"I spoke the truth," I say, now looking away.

"Why do you hate this place so?" He asks. His tone is surprised.

"The air here, it just fills my lungs like smoke, until I cannot breathe and I feel dizzy, and slowly I begin to forget things...like my mother, and the times when Mirkwood was fair and lovely. And I cannot do what I want here. I'm always surrounded by others, yet I feel so alone, until I'm with you. When you're not with me, I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one even glances my way...I feel so trapped. I need to be free. I need color," I finish, thinking of the butterfly. The fragile little butterfly, who can go wherever it wants, with no one to stop it. How I envy that butterfly.

Legolas holds me close, running his fingers through my hair. I don't cry. My eyes are empty of tears. I simply cling onto him for dear life. We sit like that for a time, not speaking, just drinking each other in. I do not confess my fears, or my anger at my father. I love the peace.

"Night comes swiftly, Laire," Legolas murmurs vaguely. I look up and blink.

"Let it come. Let it stay. I would sit here like this in infinite darkness if I could. It shields me from that I hate and that I dread. Let it never pass," I say stubbornly.

"Oh, Laire," he says sadly. I look into his eyes, eyes dark and glowing. I run a finger between those eyes, down his nose, and resting at his lips. He kisses my fingertip, then my whole hand, then brushes it away and kisses my forehead, my nose, and, finally, my lips.

I close my eyes and surrender to the kiss.