This chapter features some of "The Song of Amroth and Nimrodel" taken from
LOTR.
DISCLAIMER: if you're reading this and you think I have completely made up Legolas, Thranduil and the world of Middle-earth, then you are one sad, laughable wanker. I mean, seriously, what the bloody fock are you doing looking up Lord of the Rings fanfiction if you bloody think some sodding highschool chick like me thought it up? *hurls Gimli's axe at dense folk*
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to everyone who so diligently reviewed my previous smut. Having read and thought over your criticism, I've adjusted this chapter a bit. Mostly I agree with you all. Oh yes…and it seems that gold doesn't rot. Blargh. Well, I'm keeping that line because I like it. When I wrote it, I was thinking about the last part of Beowulf when the dragon's treasure turns out to be rotten and worthless. You may notice that I right about the Rangers in a way that makes them sound like gypsies. I've always sort of thought of them as being the gypsies of Middle-earth: nomadic, mysterious, mystical and powerful. Right, well here it is, and I'm writing more right now so if you like it, you should like what's coming next.
Chapter 2- Nimwen of Esgaroth
Legolas had been to Laketown many times before in his long life and, of course, nearly each instance was against the wishes of his father. He had lost track of how many times he had snuck out, or claimed to have been on a deer hunt with his friends or the royal guard. His companions always kept his secret diligently, a sign of their friendship to which he was greatly indebted. They would go to the market place and trade with the people there, for Laketown was the greatest trade center of northern Middle-earth. The best days were those when the Rangers passed through. They brought with them relics of dwarvish silver, rare so far north of Moria, or books of lore and Quenya poetry from the south. In turn, all the men were eager to see what the Elves had to offer: glasses blown like opening flowers, keen- bladed hunting knives, gems like stars set in rings or draped on mithril pendants. Everyone was friendly, or at least interesting. The Rangers would stop their caravans here and at night, a great bonfire was lit in the town center. Here the Dunedain women would dance around the fire, their dark hair whipping in the warm night air. The pounding drums, the raspy harps and the low flutes of their music rose up with the licking flames, and Legolas would stare astounded at the new and different sort of magic he found in Men.
Coming to Laketown against his will and at the time of war was very different. Legolas had to constantly mask his features so his father would not guess the familiarity at all he saw. One man, Brago from the tavern, waved to him amiably, but Legolas had to look over his head and pretend he had not seen his old friend. Old indeed: since last he saw the man, Brago seemed to have gone silver at the temples. How long had it been since last he had had the opportunity to be back among these people? Guilt washed over him as from the corner of his eye he saw Brago's smile falter.
Much had changed, and drastically so after the attack of the dragon. The day it happened, Legolas had caught the smell of the burning village upon the wind long before the border scouts came back bearing the news. For many days after, the sky was gray dismal over the land that was Esgaroth. He had glimpsed a few ashes flit by in the breeze deep within his father's realm, so far had the wind blown them. Now the town still smelled of burnt wood. Nearly half of the little houses were blackened, or even so burnt that roofs opened up like lidless boxes. A few homes had completely burned to the ground.
"It is good we came."
His father's voice had startled him. Riding beside Legolas' black horse upon his own gray steed, Thranduil's face was grimmer than usual, his mouth set in a hard line. They were at the front gate of Laketown at the end of the long bridge. The Elves waited for their king's signal to dismount. Thranduil's eyes scanned the remnants of a once-thriving town like a soldier looking over the field of a battle ended but recently. He had seen wreckage and death many times before. His son had not.
Legolas lifted his hood off of his head and let the wind touch his face and glide through his hair. It still smelled of smoke. He said nothing.
"Take Arion and Gelmir with you and seek out their leader, the man named Bard. When you find him, invite him to meet with me. Tell him we offer all the service that we can."
Legolas smiled and said, "Yes, Father." He always admired the King's sense of duty and honor. They disagreed often and were as different as day and night, even in appearance (Thranduil's hair was pale gold, but Legolas had taken more after his mother Fimbrethil's dark locks, combined with those of his father into a foresty brown). Yet the love between the King of Mirkwood and his only son was strong as iron. Besides that, Legolas genuinely admired his father as a role model. Here, in the thick of the aftermath, Thranduil showed no sign of disheartenment or doubt. Legolas wished he could do the same.
Arion, captain of the royal guard, and Gelmir, a famed scout, rode up to thei prince, having heard Thranduil say their names. Both had been his friends for most of his life, though each was much older than he. Gelmir had outlived Arion, though, and could recall his days as part of Orophin's cavalry during the Last Alliance. The three rode into the gate, and the rest of the elvish host followed.
Though devastated by the tear-stained faces he kept glimpsing, Legolas' heart was soothed by the thought of helping the people. When the company of Wood-Elves entered Esgaroth bearing food and supplies, cries of joy and relief were heard. The forest folk handed out all they had born. Bread and several deer carcasses were brought, as well as blankets and other necessities. The greatest gift the Elves had to offer, though, was their own hands. They set to work, the Men of Laketown by their side, mending the roofless homes and rebuilding what they could save.
Elvish healing was needed as well, perhaps even more so. Many had been killed in Smaug's assault, yet countless more were injured. Those who suffered from smoke inhalation needed little more than a swallow of miruvor. The more serious injuries were left entirely to the Elves.
Legolas and his two companions went up to several of the Men and asked where they could find the man named Bard. None knew, but they did offer physical descriptions. It helped little. With the smoke still hanging low, intermingling with the mist off the lake, everyone looked the same. Unable to find Bard, the three Elves went to the makeshift hospital.
Children and adults alike had taken serious blows. Many of those who had not reached the refugee boats in time had horrendous burns. Others had been battered by falling timber. A little girl screamed when Legolas knelt before her cot and gently touched her crushed arm. Then the child burst into tears. He lifted her small body and cradled her against his chest, whispering an Elven song into her ear. It was the only thing he could think to do. He remembered how his father had held him when he was very young after he had broken his leg after falling from a tree.
Soon the child's sobs turned into shuddering hiccups. At last she turned her face up to him and nodded in a dutiful way. Moving with more caution and care than he had ever in his life, Legolas took her hurt arm into his hand and slowly set the bone back in place. She yelped once and bit her lip. He stopped, concern gleaming in his eyes, but continued only when she nodded again. Feeling up her bruised and bloody forearm, he could tell the bone was back in the right place. A human woman came to his side and said she could take it from there, but Legolas insisted upon setting the little girl's arm in a splint himself.
As he did so, she felt her eyes upon him. He looked up at her and asked in Westron: "What's your name, little one?"
"Nimwen," the child whispered. She stared at him hard again. "Who are you?"
"I am Legolas."
"Are you from Mirkwood, too?"
"Yes."
"Is it scary there?" She sat back, expectantly.
He paused, and raised an eyebrow. "Scary? No, I wouldn't say that. It is very old and dark, and there are things inside of which to be wary, but there's nothing frightening."
Nimwen lifted her chin and smiled proudly. "Elves are never afraid. Neither am I."
Legolas laughed. "You are indeed brave, Nimwen. But Elves are indeed afraid of things. Just…not the dark."
"What are you afraid of?" Nimwen asked, and took his hand in her two small ones, turning it over and over to see all sides of it. She flattened her palm against his. Her little tan fingers barely reached halfway up his long pale ones. She laughed, dropped his hand, and looked up into Legolas' eyes expectantly.
He gazed at her for a moment, and then said, "War. All Elves fear war."
"Like Men sometimes do?"
"Yes, like Men. Like dwarves. No good people like war."
"But Legolath," Nimwen said with a lisp from a missing tooth, cocking her head to the side, "I thought Elves hated dwarves?"
"I do not think any Elf truly hates anything besides the evil left over from the days of the Last Alliance. Have you heard about those stories?"
"Of course! I'm a Dunadan, Legolas. My daddy tells them to me all the time." He should have guessed from her raven hair back in messy braids, and her gray eyes. "Were you there? I know Elves are very old. Did you go to battle?"
"That was a few years before my time. My father fought in those wars though. My grandfather, Orophin, was killed there." Nimwen's eyes went wide. Legolas grinned. "The still sing about it, the way, even after taking an arrow through the throat, my grandfather still stood and fought until at last the orcs cut him down."
"Was your Daddy very sad?"
Legolas looked away in thought. "To tell the truth, I do not know. He never speaks of his father. Perhaps the memories are too painful for him." Nimwen whimpered slightly. She had moved her arm in a disagreeable way. "Do not move yet, Nimwen. Come now, you should get some sleep."
"Will you thing to me, Legolas?" She smiled, beguilingly adorable. He laughed.
"Yes, I will. I'll tell you the tale of Nimrodel, for it is like to the name Nimwen."
"Oh, is it sad?"
He smiled. "Most of our stories are."
Nimwen didn't mind. She knew never to detain elvish singing. "Go on."
"An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
And her shoes of silver-grey…"
DISCLAIMER: if you're reading this and you think I have completely made up Legolas, Thranduil and the world of Middle-earth, then you are one sad, laughable wanker. I mean, seriously, what the bloody fock are you doing looking up Lord of the Rings fanfiction if you bloody think some sodding highschool chick like me thought it up? *hurls Gimli's axe at dense folk*
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to everyone who so diligently reviewed my previous smut. Having read and thought over your criticism, I've adjusted this chapter a bit. Mostly I agree with you all. Oh yes…and it seems that gold doesn't rot. Blargh. Well, I'm keeping that line because I like it. When I wrote it, I was thinking about the last part of Beowulf when the dragon's treasure turns out to be rotten and worthless. You may notice that I right about the Rangers in a way that makes them sound like gypsies. I've always sort of thought of them as being the gypsies of Middle-earth: nomadic, mysterious, mystical and powerful. Right, well here it is, and I'm writing more right now so if you like it, you should like what's coming next.
Chapter 2- Nimwen of Esgaroth
Legolas had been to Laketown many times before in his long life and, of course, nearly each instance was against the wishes of his father. He had lost track of how many times he had snuck out, or claimed to have been on a deer hunt with his friends or the royal guard. His companions always kept his secret diligently, a sign of their friendship to which he was greatly indebted. They would go to the market place and trade with the people there, for Laketown was the greatest trade center of northern Middle-earth. The best days were those when the Rangers passed through. They brought with them relics of dwarvish silver, rare so far north of Moria, or books of lore and Quenya poetry from the south. In turn, all the men were eager to see what the Elves had to offer: glasses blown like opening flowers, keen- bladed hunting knives, gems like stars set in rings or draped on mithril pendants. Everyone was friendly, or at least interesting. The Rangers would stop their caravans here and at night, a great bonfire was lit in the town center. Here the Dunedain women would dance around the fire, their dark hair whipping in the warm night air. The pounding drums, the raspy harps and the low flutes of their music rose up with the licking flames, and Legolas would stare astounded at the new and different sort of magic he found in Men.
Coming to Laketown against his will and at the time of war was very different. Legolas had to constantly mask his features so his father would not guess the familiarity at all he saw. One man, Brago from the tavern, waved to him amiably, but Legolas had to look over his head and pretend he had not seen his old friend. Old indeed: since last he saw the man, Brago seemed to have gone silver at the temples. How long had it been since last he had had the opportunity to be back among these people? Guilt washed over him as from the corner of his eye he saw Brago's smile falter.
Much had changed, and drastically so after the attack of the dragon. The day it happened, Legolas had caught the smell of the burning village upon the wind long before the border scouts came back bearing the news. For many days after, the sky was gray dismal over the land that was Esgaroth. He had glimpsed a few ashes flit by in the breeze deep within his father's realm, so far had the wind blown them. Now the town still smelled of burnt wood. Nearly half of the little houses were blackened, or even so burnt that roofs opened up like lidless boxes. A few homes had completely burned to the ground.
"It is good we came."
His father's voice had startled him. Riding beside Legolas' black horse upon his own gray steed, Thranduil's face was grimmer than usual, his mouth set in a hard line. They were at the front gate of Laketown at the end of the long bridge. The Elves waited for their king's signal to dismount. Thranduil's eyes scanned the remnants of a once-thriving town like a soldier looking over the field of a battle ended but recently. He had seen wreckage and death many times before. His son had not.
Legolas lifted his hood off of his head and let the wind touch his face and glide through his hair. It still smelled of smoke. He said nothing.
"Take Arion and Gelmir with you and seek out their leader, the man named Bard. When you find him, invite him to meet with me. Tell him we offer all the service that we can."
Legolas smiled and said, "Yes, Father." He always admired the King's sense of duty and honor. They disagreed often and were as different as day and night, even in appearance (Thranduil's hair was pale gold, but Legolas had taken more after his mother Fimbrethil's dark locks, combined with those of his father into a foresty brown). Yet the love between the King of Mirkwood and his only son was strong as iron. Besides that, Legolas genuinely admired his father as a role model. Here, in the thick of the aftermath, Thranduil showed no sign of disheartenment or doubt. Legolas wished he could do the same.
Arion, captain of the royal guard, and Gelmir, a famed scout, rode up to thei prince, having heard Thranduil say their names. Both had been his friends for most of his life, though each was much older than he. Gelmir had outlived Arion, though, and could recall his days as part of Orophin's cavalry during the Last Alliance. The three rode into the gate, and the rest of the elvish host followed.
Though devastated by the tear-stained faces he kept glimpsing, Legolas' heart was soothed by the thought of helping the people. When the company of Wood-Elves entered Esgaroth bearing food and supplies, cries of joy and relief were heard. The forest folk handed out all they had born. Bread and several deer carcasses were brought, as well as blankets and other necessities. The greatest gift the Elves had to offer, though, was their own hands. They set to work, the Men of Laketown by their side, mending the roofless homes and rebuilding what they could save.
Elvish healing was needed as well, perhaps even more so. Many had been killed in Smaug's assault, yet countless more were injured. Those who suffered from smoke inhalation needed little more than a swallow of miruvor. The more serious injuries were left entirely to the Elves.
Legolas and his two companions went up to several of the Men and asked where they could find the man named Bard. None knew, but they did offer physical descriptions. It helped little. With the smoke still hanging low, intermingling with the mist off the lake, everyone looked the same. Unable to find Bard, the three Elves went to the makeshift hospital.
Children and adults alike had taken serious blows. Many of those who had not reached the refugee boats in time had horrendous burns. Others had been battered by falling timber. A little girl screamed when Legolas knelt before her cot and gently touched her crushed arm. Then the child burst into tears. He lifted her small body and cradled her against his chest, whispering an Elven song into her ear. It was the only thing he could think to do. He remembered how his father had held him when he was very young after he had broken his leg after falling from a tree.
Soon the child's sobs turned into shuddering hiccups. At last she turned her face up to him and nodded in a dutiful way. Moving with more caution and care than he had ever in his life, Legolas took her hurt arm into his hand and slowly set the bone back in place. She yelped once and bit her lip. He stopped, concern gleaming in his eyes, but continued only when she nodded again. Feeling up her bruised and bloody forearm, he could tell the bone was back in the right place. A human woman came to his side and said she could take it from there, but Legolas insisted upon setting the little girl's arm in a splint himself.
As he did so, she felt her eyes upon him. He looked up at her and asked in Westron: "What's your name, little one?"
"Nimwen," the child whispered. She stared at him hard again. "Who are you?"
"I am Legolas."
"Are you from Mirkwood, too?"
"Yes."
"Is it scary there?" She sat back, expectantly.
He paused, and raised an eyebrow. "Scary? No, I wouldn't say that. It is very old and dark, and there are things inside of which to be wary, but there's nothing frightening."
Nimwen lifted her chin and smiled proudly. "Elves are never afraid. Neither am I."
Legolas laughed. "You are indeed brave, Nimwen. But Elves are indeed afraid of things. Just…not the dark."
"What are you afraid of?" Nimwen asked, and took his hand in her two small ones, turning it over and over to see all sides of it. She flattened her palm against his. Her little tan fingers barely reached halfway up his long pale ones. She laughed, dropped his hand, and looked up into Legolas' eyes expectantly.
He gazed at her for a moment, and then said, "War. All Elves fear war."
"Like Men sometimes do?"
"Yes, like Men. Like dwarves. No good people like war."
"But Legolath," Nimwen said with a lisp from a missing tooth, cocking her head to the side, "I thought Elves hated dwarves?"
"I do not think any Elf truly hates anything besides the evil left over from the days of the Last Alliance. Have you heard about those stories?"
"Of course! I'm a Dunadan, Legolas. My daddy tells them to me all the time." He should have guessed from her raven hair back in messy braids, and her gray eyes. "Were you there? I know Elves are very old. Did you go to battle?"
"That was a few years before my time. My father fought in those wars though. My grandfather, Orophin, was killed there." Nimwen's eyes went wide. Legolas grinned. "The still sing about it, the way, even after taking an arrow through the throat, my grandfather still stood and fought until at last the orcs cut him down."
"Was your Daddy very sad?"
Legolas looked away in thought. "To tell the truth, I do not know. He never speaks of his father. Perhaps the memories are too painful for him." Nimwen whimpered slightly. She had moved her arm in a disagreeable way. "Do not move yet, Nimwen. Come now, you should get some sleep."
"Will you thing to me, Legolas?" She smiled, beguilingly adorable. He laughed.
"Yes, I will. I'll tell you the tale of Nimrodel, for it is like to the name Nimwen."
"Oh, is it sad?"
He smiled. "Most of our stories are."
Nimwen didn't mind. She knew never to detain elvish singing. "Go on."
"An Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
And her shoes of silver-grey…"