A/N - First of all - Thank you so very much to everyone who has reviewed
this story. It is so nice to receive feedback, and it has truly inspired
me to write more.
Secondly, I apologize wholeheartedly for taking so long to write this next chapter. I would like to say that FF.net's big problems earlier in the summer contributed to my lack of enthusiasm, but in truth I simply lost my muse. I will not lie, I am a very Aquarian individual, and this means I write a lot for a period of time and then nothing at all for a period of time. I believe my muse is returning, so hopefully the chapters will begin coming at a more regular interval.
Lastly, there have been some questions in the reviews which I would like to address here. Tarcil is the great great grandson of Isildur. He ruled Arnor from 435 - 515 in the third age. This is about 1500 years prior to the Battle of Fornost and 500 years after the Battle of Gladden Fields when Isildur was killed. For those of you who are not Tolkien freaks this means that he was born and lived in a time after Sauron was defeated and Isildur took the ring, but before the Ringwraiths and other followers of Sauron began to reappear and wreak havoc upon the world prior to the events described in Lord of the Rings. In general it was a relatively peaceful time.
This brings up the question of how old everyone is. Annalome is about 41 years old in this chapter you are about to read, and my assumption is that Legolas is 20 years older than her. As near as I can tell Tolkien did not give an exact birthdate for Legolas, but I think most people assume he was born early in the third age since there is no mention of him at the Battle of Dagorlad or the Battle on the slopes of Mount Doom, which ended the second age and was where Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand. Tolkien wrote that Arwen was the youngest of the elves in Middle Earth and she was born in 241 of the Third age, and I just assumed that Legolas was born just before her. So I am working under the assumption that the year is about 250 of the third age as I write this chapter. I know that it says above that Tarcil ruled from 435 to 515, but he was of the blood of Numenor and so he and all of Isildur's line lived longer lives - I estimated at this point in time the average king lived about 300 years so Tarcil would have been born in about 215. Anyway, it's imperfect, but I tried to stay within Tolkien's backstory.
As for Legolas and Annalome - their relationship will be expanded on soon. I know I promised in Chapter Three to bring her and the elf together by Chapter Five, but I beg your indulgence. I need one more chapter to discuss Annalome and Tarcil. This chapter was turning into a monster, so I decided to cut it in half. The second half should be coming soon. Some have asked why Legolas is so cold to Annalome, and to that I can say only this. I am trying desperately to remain true to the characterizations Tolkien gave to the elves as I write this story. I do not think Legolas would have been overly fond of a human girl when he was the youngest of the elves. I think he would have desperately been trying to become a more mature elf, and humans did not fit into that equation. It is my personal vision of how I think they would have interacted as they were younger, but if you read in this next chapter Legolas has some insight into his relationship with Annalome which shows he is maturing. I give full warning now - if you are reading this story in the hopes that it will become a classic romance between Annalome and Legolas then you will be disappointed. They will come to love each other very much, and they have much to contribute, but their ultimate paths lie in very different directions. In Tolkien's work he described only three elf-human relationships, and I do not think I could dare write a fourth. But there is a great deal of, shall we say . . . tension between the two in the coming chapters.
OK, I have written way too much for an Author's Notes section, but I did want to address some of the questions. Thank you again for your kind words, and for your patience.
Chapter Four
From the Balcony
Tarcil sighed with great relief as he quickly unfastened all the buttons down the front of his coat. He had dressed early this morning in his most formal attire in anticipation of his arrival at Miregroth. The coat was the blue of late twilight with golden buttons down the front and slate grey cuffs and collar embroidered with the flowering Larielosse tree of Numenor. The coat was fitted across his torso but flared at the waist ending at the knees and covering the majority of the grey breeches he wore underneath. His attire marked him of the royal line of Arnor, but it had been meant to be worn only in the most formal of occasions and thus far had made for one of the most uncomfortable rides of the young prince's life. Shrugging out of the confining coat, Tarcil set it over a nearby chair. He grimaced at the thought of donning the coat later that evening for the welcoming feast.
In short order the prince had washed away the dirt and dust, which always accompanied such long journeys and had splashed a bit of scented water about his neck. The scent was unknown to him - earthy and pungent - and Tarcil thought it must have been concocted from several different flowers and barks to produce such an unusual fragrance. Smiling he stared into the mirror which had been hung above the washbasin. He had shaved this morning, but the afternoon was waning and stubble was again evident on his face. Removing a long, wide knife blade from his pack he carefully shaved the offending hairs. When he had completed this he stared into the mirror once more. Wavy, black hair hung to his shoulders. If it could not be called tidy, exactly, it was passable. The soft curls hid imperfections, which those with straighter hair could not have concealed.
Satisfied with his appearance Tarcil looked around the rooms he had been provided with. The furniture was made of a white stone with veins of blue running through it, but all was covered in lush cushions the fabric of which was dyed to match the browns and greens of the forest outside. In the far corner was a bed, which looked somewhat inviting after his long journey, but the Crown Prince of Arnor was much too nervous to even consider sleep.
Soft white curtains, which were almost transparent, billowed from an open balcony near to the bed. Tarcil marveled at the material of the curtains, and moved to examine them closer. The material felt light and silky between his fingers. Looking more intently he could discern no threads or needlework that might have created such material, and he shook his head in amazement at the extraordinary gifts and abilities of the elven race.
Gently he pushed the curtains aside and stepped out onto a small balcony. The balcony had been carved, along with the room, directly out of the hill under which Miregroth lay. As with all parts of Thranduil's home the earthen floor had been covered with great slabs of the same white stone the furniture was made of. The railing was also made of the blue-veined stone, but had been carved to look like the leaves of the Birch trees that could be seen in every direction. The live Birch trees swayed slightly in a gentle breeze, casting dappled spots of sunlight onto the balcony, which danced before his eyes.
The young prince breathed deep of the wholesome air, and instantly felt muscles, which were tense and strained from the hard rides of previous days, loosen and relax. He drank in the beauty, marveling at the serenity that surrounded him. It was the same sensation he felt during his stays in Rivendell, and Tarcil wondered idly if the elves had picked these places because of an inherent serenity within the very earth or if it was the elves themselves who brought such peace and tranquility to the lands they chose to inhabit.
How long he remained thus, merely immersing himself in the curative powers of Greenwood the Great, the prince was uncertain, but he came to with a start at the snap of a bowstring, followed by the whistle of an arrow in flight, and ending with a resounding thump as it hit its target. Glancing down he noticed a small glade where the trees opened up to allow full sunshine to fall on its green grass just off to his left, and standing at one end of the glade was something the prince did not expect - a young girl.
Tarcil, son of Arantar, King of Arnor, was no stranger to women. Many ladies of the royal court had given him their attentions, some even more so than their mothers or fathers would have thought proper. He was the crown prince, after all, and there was much to be gained for the family of his chosen bride. He encouraged all of them, but only for the pleasures of their company at that moment. No woman had yet been able to win his heart, and as he was quickly approaching his thirtieth year there was a great deal of pressure from his father and mother to wed. But the prince found the ladies of Arnor to be dull and wholly without spirit. The King advised him that marriages in the royal family were generally done for political gain, and rarely for love, but Arantar doted on his son and could deny him very little. Therefore, Tarcil had remained unwed for five years longer than any crown prince before him.
So it was that Tarcil came to be enchanted and enthralled with the girl below him. Her gown was of the palest green silk, and flowed to the ground unhindered in elvish fashion. Her red hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck, fell in ringlets down her back. Her hands were gloved in the same silky material of the dress, and he watched with rapt attention as she set arrow to string, drew the bow, and without a moment's hesitation loosed it. The arrow pierced the target precisely at its center, but before the first arrow had even found its mark she had turned neatly to her right and drew and released another arrow. This time she spun on her heel, dress twirling around her lithe body to face directly behind her, and no sooner had she done this then another arrow was on its way. Lastly, she turned to her left and let fly a final shot. Tarcil's eyes widened in disbelief. With the exception of the third arrow, whose target faced away from his vantage point and so the prince could not verify that shot's accuracy, the woman had pierced each target at its core without so much as a moment to align the shot. Even the best archers in his father's army could not have achieved such perfection.
As the girl was retrieving her arrows from their various targets an elf approached and began to speak with her. Tarcil recognized the elf as Legolas, the one who had greeted him at the gate to Miregroth. The conversation between the two was short, and the elf-prince departed in the same direction he had come from. The girl retrieved her arrows from the targets, returned them to her quiver, and throwing her bow over one shoulder returned to the halls of Miregroth.
Tarcil was disheartened to see her leave, but slowly a smile crept across his face. Unlike the royal ladies at the courts of Annuminas whose likes, dislikes, and opinions were carefully crafted to mirror his own, this woman was a glorious mystery. His heart raced at the thought of unraveling that mystery. Turning around the Crown Prince of Arnor left the balcony and picked up the blue jacket off the chair. For some reason the coat did not seem as uncomfortable as he quickly fastened the golden buttons. He pulled at the flared waist and adjusted the coat over his broad chest. With a final glance in the mirror to reassure himself that all was in order Prince Tarcil hurried out of his apartments to search for Prince Legolas.
It did not take him long to locate Thranduil's youngest son. The first elf he encountered after he left his rooms graciously offered to take him to the prince personally. He followed his escort through a maze of corridors and the prince soon became lost. The only direction he was certain of was up. They ascended three staircases which must mean they were rising into the very heights of the hill under which Miregroth lay. Tarcil rightly guessed that the topmost level must house the royal apartments.
In short order Tarcil's guide led him into a large, round sitting room. The furniture in this room was a match for that in his own apartments. A small fire burned in the center of the room, the smoke tracing its way up to the ceiling and out a small hole in its center. The same stone furniture was spaced throughout the room, and if anything the pillows and cushions were even more luxurious as they were all covered in the finest silk. Small braziers spaced evenly around the room cast some light, but the walls themselves seemed to glow a golden yellow adding warmth to the windowless room. At regular intervals there were vast doors of white carved on the front like two greet Beech trunks. It was at one set of these doors that Tarcil's elven guide stopped and knocked gently.
Tarcil was surprised that Legolas himself answered the door. Were he at home in Annuminas there were servants and a secretary, who guarded and protected his apartments from unwanted visitors. The elf-prince's eyes widened only slightly at the sight of his visitor.
"My Lord," the other elf bowed low before the son of his king, "Prince Tarcil has requested to speak with you."
Legolas nodded, "Thank you, Edhuil." The elf bowed again and made his exit. "Please come in, your grace."
As he entered the prince's chambers Tarcil drank in the décor. He had seen few of the private chambers of the Firstborn, and he was uncertain what to expect from a prince of the elves. What he found was not what he expected. The room was beautiful but simple in design. The same gauzy white material that provided curtains in Tarcil's rooms was hanging on many of the walls, and through them he could discern that the walls here also glowed with a faint yellow. The furniture was much the same as that which he had seen, but the colors of the cushions included a pale blue color to contrast the earthy green and brown. The most extravagant part of the room was the ceiling, which had been painstakingly painted to look like the summer sky as seen through the upper eaves of the massive Beech trees that grew around Miregroth. The painting almost seemed to shimmer as if the leaves were quaking in a gentle breeze.
"It was painted by my mother in anticipation of my birth. She spent much of her life in the woodlands of Ossiriand, and found this underground hall confining. She has painted such murals in my brothers' rooms as well." Legolas motioned for Tarcil to sit down on one of the enormous chairs in the room. "In my bedchamber the scene is much the same only under a moonless night sky." The elf-prince moved to a small table in the corner of the room, "May I offer you some wine, Prince Tarcil?"
"A glass of wine would be most welcome, your highness. And please, call me Tarcil. I am not much of a man for formalities."
Legolas smiled almost to himself, "Very well, Tarcil, then you must call me Legolas." The elf returned to the chairs with two glasses of a dark red wine and handing one to Tarcil seated himself in a nearby.
Tarcil took a sip relishing in the fruity taste of elven wine. "There is no finer wine than that made by elves. It is almost as if the grapes themselves fall under your spell and produce a juice all the sweeter for it."
Legolas laughed, "Perhaps you are right, for the elves do have an effect on all living things, but perhaps it is just that we have had more time to perfect the art of winemaking."
Tarcil took another mouthful of the delicious wine and sighed contentedly, "In truth I care not how or why the wine is beyond compare. It is enough that I am able to partake." Tarcil allowed himself a few more moments to relish in the taste. After another full mouthful he gave his full attention to the elf-prince, "Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your day, Legolas. I do not make it a habit to barge into other people's rooms without warning, but I was inspired to talk with you immediately."
Legolas's eyes rose slightly in curiosity, and again Tarcil was struck by how young this particular elf was. It was usually very difficult to read elf expressions and faces even for one trained in the art as Tarcil was, but Legolas was almost an open book to him. "I was not aware that there were other guests here in Miregroth."
Legolas's look of curiosity changed quickly to one of confusion, "You and your men are currently the only guests here at Miregroth. Why do you think otherwise?"
"Outside my balcony today was a human maid practicing archery with a skill I have seen only in those of your race, Legolas. Surely she must be here as a guest of your father's."
Legolas smiled, "I stand corrected, Tarcil, she is a guest of the Woodland elves. Only she has been granted leave to remain here for all of her days."
Now Tarcil's interest was truly piqued, "How did this come to be? I was not aware that King Thranduil allowed those of my race to dwell within his halls."
"He does not." The corners of Legolas mouth turned slightly upwards, "My brother, Gaerlin, found her as a babe alone in the middle of Greenwood the Great. There was no evidence of her parents or people at the place where he found her, and so Gaerlin brought her back here to Miregroth."
Somewhere within the recesses of his mind a faint memory of a story told by his father came to mind. "Did your brother try to give the child to my father to raise in his household?"
"Yes. You have heard the story then?"
Tarcil chuckled, "Yes, from my father, many years ago, but in truth I only half believed the story until now." The Prince's eyes narrowed slightly forcing a small crease in the center of his forehead, "But this could not be the same girl. That was some forty years ago, and the girl I saw looked barely old enough to be off her mother's apron strings."
Legolas laughed, "Annalome is indeed the same child who the King, your father, was forced to return to the Woodland Elves forty-one years ago."
Tarcil's eyes widened in incredulity, "I beg your pardon, Legolas, but that is impossible. Even those of us who are of the royal blood of Numenor cannot fend off the ravages of time as the girl I saw."
"And yet, she is as you see her. My brother believed that she must be of your kin, but even now that is no longer a believable explanation." Legolas sighed and shook his head, "She possesses the agelessness of an elf, but she is clearly of your race."
The two sat in silence for a moment as Tarcil struggled to grasp the reality of the situation. In the end his curiosity won out. "Her age would go far in explaining her expertise with the bow."
Legolas raised one eyebrow, "Perhaps. She has devoted much time to learning and perfecting the bow, and has been diligent in her practice. I do not think there has been a single day when she has not given time to its study."
Tarcil nodded, "Practice is the path to perfection, and undoubtedly it has helped to have such skilled archers as the elves of Greenwood the Great for teachers."
"Indeed," spoke Legolas, "but I am afraid she has been disadvantaged in the way of a teacher."
"I cannot imagine how? Was her teacher not one of your father's finest archers?"
"Perhaps, but having great skill does not necessarily mean one can impart such knowledge to another. I am afraid her teacher was impatient as well as inhospitable to his student. I am surprised she still finds happiness in using the bow."
Tarcil shook his head in disbelief, "It is not like one of your race to possess such characteristics as you describe."
Those piercing eyes looked directly into the crown prince of Arnor, "No, such characteristics are unheard of among the elves." Legolas sighed, but did not lower his gaze, "Except, perhaps, among the very young."
Understanding swept over Tarcil and his eyes grew wide, "Legolas, I meant no offense. Indeed, I find . . . " Tarcil frowned, "I am sorry, Legolas, but what is the maid's name?"
"Annalome," Legolas smiled, "and I have suffered no offense, Tarcil. In fact it is I who should beg your forgiveness. My enigmatic words have misled you. Please, forgive me."
Tarcil almost did not respond in his shock, but quickly nodded his head, "Of course, Legolas. There was no harm done."
Legolas rose and went to pour himself more wine, "But you came to ask of Annalome. If you would like, I would be happy to introduce the two of you at the feast this evening." The elf filled his glass with the red liquid, but he did not return to his seat, nor did he drink.
"That would please me greatly, Legolas." Tarcil rose, but still the elf did not turn. Tarcil was more than aware of the inner turmoil within Thranduil's youngest son. He reminded him of his youngest brother, Altir. The boy strove constantly to impress their father and prove himself as a man and warrior. He strove to be more than his years allowed, and this made his failures and missteps all the more bitter. Altir was merely eleven years younger than himself. Tarcil could only imagine the difficulty of being the youngest by hundreds, or even thousands of years. Growing up must have been, and likely still was, a painful experience for the elf-prince. Still, Tarcil knew if he broached the subject he would likely only embarrass and upset the elf more. "Thank you, Legolas. I look forward to this evening then. I will trouble you no longer then. You have been most kind to allow me to intrude on you for so personal a reason."
Legolas set the glass of wine down and turned. Not a hint of pain was found in his eyes. "Think nothing of it. I also look forward to your welcoming feast tonight, and I look forward to your company in the coming days as well." The elf led the prince back to the door leading to the vast sitting room. Opening the door he turned to Tarcil, "Can you find your way back to your rooms?"
Tarcil was fairly certain he could make his way back, but he rather hoped he would have an opportunity to explore the halls of Miregroth along the way. "I believe I can, Legolas. Until tonight then?"
"Yes," the elf-prince nodded, and Tarcil departed happily losing his way several times before finding his way back to his own apartments.
Secondly, I apologize wholeheartedly for taking so long to write this next chapter. I would like to say that FF.net's big problems earlier in the summer contributed to my lack of enthusiasm, but in truth I simply lost my muse. I will not lie, I am a very Aquarian individual, and this means I write a lot for a period of time and then nothing at all for a period of time. I believe my muse is returning, so hopefully the chapters will begin coming at a more regular interval.
Lastly, there have been some questions in the reviews which I would like to address here. Tarcil is the great great grandson of Isildur. He ruled Arnor from 435 - 515 in the third age. This is about 1500 years prior to the Battle of Fornost and 500 years after the Battle of Gladden Fields when Isildur was killed. For those of you who are not Tolkien freaks this means that he was born and lived in a time after Sauron was defeated and Isildur took the ring, but before the Ringwraiths and other followers of Sauron began to reappear and wreak havoc upon the world prior to the events described in Lord of the Rings. In general it was a relatively peaceful time.
This brings up the question of how old everyone is. Annalome is about 41 years old in this chapter you are about to read, and my assumption is that Legolas is 20 years older than her. As near as I can tell Tolkien did not give an exact birthdate for Legolas, but I think most people assume he was born early in the third age since there is no mention of him at the Battle of Dagorlad or the Battle on the slopes of Mount Doom, which ended the second age and was where Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand. Tolkien wrote that Arwen was the youngest of the elves in Middle Earth and she was born in 241 of the Third age, and I just assumed that Legolas was born just before her. So I am working under the assumption that the year is about 250 of the third age as I write this chapter. I know that it says above that Tarcil ruled from 435 to 515, but he was of the blood of Numenor and so he and all of Isildur's line lived longer lives - I estimated at this point in time the average king lived about 300 years so Tarcil would have been born in about 215. Anyway, it's imperfect, but I tried to stay within Tolkien's backstory.
As for Legolas and Annalome - their relationship will be expanded on soon. I know I promised in Chapter Three to bring her and the elf together by Chapter Five, but I beg your indulgence. I need one more chapter to discuss Annalome and Tarcil. This chapter was turning into a monster, so I decided to cut it in half. The second half should be coming soon. Some have asked why Legolas is so cold to Annalome, and to that I can say only this. I am trying desperately to remain true to the characterizations Tolkien gave to the elves as I write this story. I do not think Legolas would have been overly fond of a human girl when he was the youngest of the elves. I think he would have desperately been trying to become a more mature elf, and humans did not fit into that equation. It is my personal vision of how I think they would have interacted as they were younger, but if you read in this next chapter Legolas has some insight into his relationship with Annalome which shows he is maturing. I give full warning now - if you are reading this story in the hopes that it will become a classic romance between Annalome and Legolas then you will be disappointed. They will come to love each other very much, and they have much to contribute, but their ultimate paths lie in very different directions. In Tolkien's work he described only three elf-human relationships, and I do not think I could dare write a fourth. But there is a great deal of, shall we say . . . tension between the two in the coming chapters.
OK, I have written way too much for an Author's Notes section, but I did want to address some of the questions. Thank you again for your kind words, and for your patience.
Chapter Four
From the Balcony
Tarcil sighed with great relief as he quickly unfastened all the buttons down the front of his coat. He had dressed early this morning in his most formal attire in anticipation of his arrival at Miregroth. The coat was the blue of late twilight with golden buttons down the front and slate grey cuffs and collar embroidered with the flowering Larielosse tree of Numenor. The coat was fitted across his torso but flared at the waist ending at the knees and covering the majority of the grey breeches he wore underneath. His attire marked him of the royal line of Arnor, but it had been meant to be worn only in the most formal of occasions and thus far had made for one of the most uncomfortable rides of the young prince's life. Shrugging out of the confining coat, Tarcil set it over a nearby chair. He grimaced at the thought of donning the coat later that evening for the welcoming feast.
In short order the prince had washed away the dirt and dust, which always accompanied such long journeys and had splashed a bit of scented water about his neck. The scent was unknown to him - earthy and pungent - and Tarcil thought it must have been concocted from several different flowers and barks to produce such an unusual fragrance. Smiling he stared into the mirror which had been hung above the washbasin. He had shaved this morning, but the afternoon was waning and stubble was again evident on his face. Removing a long, wide knife blade from his pack he carefully shaved the offending hairs. When he had completed this he stared into the mirror once more. Wavy, black hair hung to his shoulders. If it could not be called tidy, exactly, it was passable. The soft curls hid imperfections, which those with straighter hair could not have concealed.
Satisfied with his appearance Tarcil looked around the rooms he had been provided with. The furniture was made of a white stone with veins of blue running through it, but all was covered in lush cushions the fabric of which was dyed to match the browns and greens of the forest outside. In the far corner was a bed, which looked somewhat inviting after his long journey, but the Crown Prince of Arnor was much too nervous to even consider sleep.
Soft white curtains, which were almost transparent, billowed from an open balcony near to the bed. Tarcil marveled at the material of the curtains, and moved to examine them closer. The material felt light and silky between his fingers. Looking more intently he could discern no threads or needlework that might have created such material, and he shook his head in amazement at the extraordinary gifts and abilities of the elven race.
Gently he pushed the curtains aside and stepped out onto a small balcony. The balcony had been carved, along with the room, directly out of the hill under which Miregroth lay. As with all parts of Thranduil's home the earthen floor had been covered with great slabs of the same white stone the furniture was made of. The railing was also made of the blue-veined stone, but had been carved to look like the leaves of the Birch trees that could be seen in every direction. The live Birch trees swayed slightly in a gentle breeze, casting dappled spots of sunlight onto the balcony, which danced before his eyes.
The young prince breathed deep of the wholesome air, and instantly felt muscles, which were tense and strained from the hard rides of previous days, loosen and relax. He drank in the beauty, marveling at the serenity that surrounded him. It was the same sensation he felt during his stays in Rivendell, and Tarcil wondered idly if the elves had picked these places because of an inherent serenity within the very earth or if it was the elves themselves who brought such peace and tranquility to the lands they chose to inhabit.
How long he remained thus, merely immersing himself in the curative powers of Greenwood the Great, the prince was uncertain, but he came to with a start at the snap of a bowstring, followed by the whistle of an arrow in flight, and ending with a resounding thump as it hit its target. Glancing down he noticed a small glade where the trees opened up to allow full sunshine to fall on its green grass just off to his left, and standing at one end of the glade was something the prince did not expect - a young girl.
Tarcil, son of Arantar, King of Arnor, was no stranger to women. Many ladies of the royal court had given him their attentions, some even more so than their mothers or fathers would have thought proper. He was the crown prince, after all, and there was much to be gained for the family of his chosen bride. He encouraged all of them, but only for the pleasures of their company at that moment. No woman had yet been able to win his heart, and as he was quickly approaching his thirtieth year there was a great deal of pressure from his father and mother to wed. But the prince found the ladies of Arnor to be dull and wholly without spirit. The King advised him that marriages in the royal family were generally done for political gain, and rarely for love, but Arantar doted on his son and could deny him very little. Therefore, Tarcil had remained unwed for five years longer than any crown prince before him.
So it was that Tarcil came to be enchanted and enthralled with the girl below him. Her gown was of the palest green silk, and flowed to the ground unhindered in elvish fashion. Her red hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck, fell in ringlets down her back. Her hands were gloved in the same silky material of the dress, and he watched with rapt attention as she set arrow to string, drew the bow, and without a moment's hesitation loosed it. The arrow pierced the target precisely at its center, but before the first arrow had even found its mark she had turned neatly to her right and drew and released another arrow. This time she spun on her heel, dress twirling around her lithe body to face directly behind her, and no sooner had she done this then another arrow was on its way. Lastly, she turned to her left and let fly a final shot. Tarcil's eyes widened in disbelief. With the exception of the third arrow, whose target faced away from his vantage point and so the prince could not verify that shot's accuracy, the woman had pierced each target at its core without so much as a moment to align the shot. Even the best archers in his father's army could not have achieved such perfection.
As the girl was retrieving her arrows from their various targets an elf approached and began to speak with her. Tarcil recognized the elf as Legolas, the one who had greeted him at the gate to Miregroth. The conversation between the two was short, and the elf-prince departed in the same direction he had come from. The girl retrieved her arrows from the targets, returned them to her quiver, and throwing her bow over one shoulder returned to the halls of Miregroth.
Tarcil was disheartened to see her leave, but slowly a smile crept across his face. Unlike the royal ladies at the courts of Annuminas whose likes, dislikes, and opinions were carefully crafted to mirror his own, this woman was a glorious mystery. His heart raced at the thought of unraveling that mystery. Turning around the Crown Prince of Arnor left the balcony and picked up the blue jacket off the chair. For some reason the coat did not seem as uncomfortable as he quickly fastened the golden buttons. He pulled at the flared waist and adjusted the coat over his broad chest. With a final glance in the mirror to reassure himself that all was in order Prince Tarcil hurried out of his apartments to search for Prince Legolas.
It did not take him long to locate Thranduil's youngest son. The first elf he encountered after he left his rooms graciously offered to take him to the prince personally. He followed his escort through a maze of corridors and the prince soon became lost. The only direction he was certain of was up. They ascended three staircases which must mean they were rising into the very heights of the hill under which Miregroth lay. Tarcil rightly guessed that the topmost level must house the royal apartments.
In short order Tarcil's guide led him into a large, round sitting room. The furniture in this room was a match for that in his own apartments. A small fire burned in the center of the room, the smoke tracing its way up to the ceiling and out a small hole in its center. The same stone furniture was spaced throughout the room, and if anything the pillows and cushions were even more luxurious as they were all covered in the finest silk. Small braziers spaced evenly around the room cast some light, but the walls themselves seemed to glow a golden yellow adding warmth to the windowless room. At regular intervals there were vast doors of white carved on the front like two greet Beech trunks. It was at one set of these doors that Tarcil's elven guide stopped and knocked gently.
Tarcil was surprised that Legolas himself answered the door. Were he at home in Annuminas there were servants and a secretary, who guarded and protected his apartments from unwanted visitors. The elf-prince's eyes widened only slightly at the sight of his visitor.
"My Lord," the other elf bowed low before the son of his king, "Prince Tarcil has requested to speak with you."
Legolas nodded, "Thank you, Edhuil." The elf bowed again and made his exit. "Please come in, your grace."
As he entered the prince's chambers Tarcil drank in the décor. He had seen few of the private chambers of the Firstborn, and he was uncertain what to expect from a prince of the elves. What he found was not what he expected. The room was beautiful but simple in design. The same gauzy white material that provided curtains in Tarcil's rooms was hanging on many of the walls, and through them he could discern that the walls here also glowed with a faint yellow. The furniture was much the same as that which he had seen, but the colors of the cushions included a pale blue color to contrast the earthy green and brown. The most extravagant part of the room was the ceiling, which had been painstakingly painted to look like the summer sky as seen through the upper eaves of the massive Beech trees that grew around Miregroth. The painting almost seemed to shimmer as if the leaves were quaking in a gentle breeze.
"It was painted by my mother in anticipation of my birth. She spent much of her life in the woodlands of Ossiriand, and found this underground hall confining. She has painted such murals in my brothers' rooms as well." Legolas motioned for Tarcil to sit down on one of the enormous chairs in the room. "In my bedchamber the scene is much the same only under a moonless night sky." The elf-prince moved to a small table in the corner of the room, "May I offer you some wine, Prince Tarcil?"
"A glass of wine would be most welcome, your highness. And please, call me Tarcil. I am not much of a man for formalities."
Legolas smiled almost to himself, "Very well, Tarcil, then you must call me Legolas." The elf returned to the chairs with two glasses of a dark red wine and handing one to Tarcil seated himself in a nearby.
Tarcil took a sip relishing in the fruity taste of elven wine. "There is no finer wine than that made by elves. It is almost as if the grapes themselves fall under your spell and produce a juice all the sweeter for it."
Legolas laughed, "Perhaps you are right, for the elves do have an effect on all living things, but perhaps it is just that we have had more time to perfect the art of winemaking."
Tarcil took another mouthful of the delicious wine and sighed contentedly, "In truth I care not how or why the wine is beyond compare. It is enough that I am able to partake." Tarcil allowed himself a few more moments to relish in the taste. After another full mouthful he gave his full attention to the elf-prince, "Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your day, Legolas. I do not make it a habit to barge into other people's rooms without warning, but I was inspired to talk with you immediately."
Legolas's eyes rose slightly in curiosity, and again Tarcil was struck by how young this particular elf was. It was usually very difficult to read elf expressions and faces even for one trained in the art as Tarcil was, but Legolas was almost an open book to him. "I was not aware that there were other guests here in Miregroth."
Legolas's look of curiosity changed quickly to one of confusion, "You and your men are currently the only guests here at Miregroth. Why do you think otherwise?"
"Outside my balcony today was a human maid practicing archery with a skill I have seen only in those of your race, Legolas. Surely she must be here as a guest of your father's."
Legolas smiled, "I stand corrected, Tarcil, she is a guest of the Woodland elves. Only she has been granted leave to remain here for all of her days."
Now Tarcil's interest was truly piqued, "How did this come to be? I was not aware that King Thranduil allowed those of my race to dwell within his halls."
"He does not." The corners of Legolas mouth turned slightly upwards, "My brother, Gaerlin, found her as a babe alone in the middle of Greenwood the Great. There was no evidence of her parents or people at the place where he found her, and so Gaerlin brought her back here to Miregroth."
Somewhere within the recesses of his mind a faint memory of a story told by his father came to mind. "Did your brother try to give the child to my father to raise in his household?"
"Yes. You have heard the story then?"
Tarcil chuckled, "Yes, from my father, many years ago, but in truth I only half believed the story until now." The Prince's eyes narrowed slightly forcing a small crease in the center of his forehead, "But this could not be the same girl. That was some forty years ago, and the girl I saw looked barely old enough to be off her mother's apron strings."
Legolas laughed, "Annalome is indeed the same child who the King, your father, was forced to return to the Woodland Elves forty-one years ago."
Tarcil's eyes widened in incredulity, "I beg your pardon, Legolas, but that is impossible. Even those of us who are of the royal blood of Numenor cannot fend off the ravages of time as the girl I saw."
"And yet, she is as you see her. My brother believed that she must be of your kin, but even now that is no longer a believable explanation." Legolas sighed and shook his head, "She possesses the agelessness of an elf, but she is clearly of your race."
The two sat in silence for a moment as Tarcil struggled to grasp the reality of the situation. In the end his curiosity won out. "Her age would go far in explaining her expertise with the bow."
Legolas raised one eyebrow, "Perhaps. She has devoted much time to learning and perfecting the bow, and has been diligent in her practice. I do not think there has been a single day when she has not given time to its study."
Tarcil nodded, "Practice is the path to perfection, and undoubtedly it has helped to have such skilled archers as the elves of Greenwood the Great for teachers."
"Indeed," spoke Legolas, "but I am afraid she has been disadvantaged in the way of a teacher."
"I cannot imagine how? Was her teacher not one of your father's finest archers?"
"Perhaps, but having great skill does not necessarily mean one can impart such knowledge to another. I am afraid her teacher was impatient as well as inhospitable to his student. I am surprised she still finds happiness in using the bow."
Tarcil shook his head in disbelief, "It is not like one of your race to possess such characteristics as you describe."
Those piercing eyes looked directly into the crown prince of Arnor, "No, such characteristics are unheard of among the elves." Legolas sighed, but did not lower his gaze, "Except, perhaps, among the very young."
Understanding swept over Tarcil and his eyes grew wide, "Legolas, I meant no offense. Indeed, I find . . . " Tarcil frowned, "I am sorry, Legolas, but what is the maid's name?"
"Annalome," Legolas smiled, "and I have suffered no offense, Tarcil. In fact it is I who should beg your forgiveness. My enigmatic words have misled you. Please, forgive me."
Tarcil almost did not respond in his shock, but quickly nodded his head, "Of course, Legolas. There was no harm done."
Legolas rose and went to pour himself more wine, "But you came to ask of Annalome. If you would like, I would be happy to introduce the two of you at the feast this evening." The elf filled his glass with the red liquid, but he did not return to his seat, nor did he drink.
"That would please me greatly, Legolas." Tarcil rose, but still the elf did not turn. Tarcil was more than aware of the inner turmoil within Thranduil's youngest son. He reminded him of his youngest brother, Altir. The boy strove constantly to impress their father and prove himself as a man and warrior. He strove to be more than his years allowed, and this made his failures and missteps all the more bitter. Altir was merely eleven years younger than himself. Tarcil could only imagine the difficulty of being the youngest by hundreds, or even thousands of years. Growing up must have been, and likely still was, a painful experience for the elf-prince. Still, Tarcil knew if he broached the subject he would likely only embarrass and upset the elf more. "Thank you, Legolas. I look forward to this evening then. I will trouble you no longer then. You have been most kind to allow me to intrude on you for so personal a reason."
Legolas set the glass of wine down and turned. Not a hint of pain was found in his eyes. "Think nothing of it. I also look forward to your welcoming feast tonight, and I look forward to your company in the coming days as well." The elf led the prince back to the door leading to the vast sitting room. Opening the door he turned to Tarcil, "Can you find your way back to your rooms?"
Tarcil was fairly certain he could make his way back, but he rather hoped he would have an opportunity to explore the halls of Miregroth along the way. "I believe I can, Legolas. Until tonight then?"
"Yes," the elf-prince nodded, and Tarcil departed happily losing his way several times before finding his way back to his own apartments.