Under the Morning Moon

Chapter Five

Memories of Mirkwood

***

A/N: Oh bollocks. Sorry. I haven't updated in about a month and a half, hey? I feel very terrible. I'm having some serious issues writing this story (i.e Writers Block to an extreme degree). So, if this chapter is too pretensions, or not enough, or too long, or too short, you can blame this solely on the BLOCK! THE BLOCK PEOPLE! *cough* Yes…Any way, I was boring my with all of this Legolas-thinking-about-himself-without-even-having-any-Aragorn-fantasies (ahem).

I have another short note, mostly of extreme surprise. Sam's kid marries Pippin's kid? How did I not catch this when I read the books? My brain is having some serious spasms trying to latch on to this concept. And HOW many kids did Sam have!? Bloody hell! Just so he could name them after all of his LoTR Mates? "Oh dear, Rosie, I'd forgotten Frodo, better have another one." …How come nobody named their spawn after Boromir? I mean, sure, Faramir's much sexier, but Boromir was really nice to Merry and Pippin, and come on, he died! Get your act together, Pippin! HAVE A KID NAMED BOROMIR!

Aside from that spaz there I've got nothing much to say about this chapter. As always, flashbacks are in italics. Enjoy!

***

Sleep came much easier in 'Lorien than it ever had during their trek. Aragorn found himself completely at home amidst the tangles of gnarled branches, comfortably nestled in the crook of two spindly roots. Though, of course, his heart wept for Gandalf, he couldn't contain his enthusiasm at finally being able to sleep the night through, not having to be stirred to take watch.

Eyes drooping from the humbling scents of interlaced Jasmine and smoke, common to 'Lorien, Aragorn vaguely listened to Legolas' trembling words as they rose along with the distant mourning elves. Legolas' voice was fair, of course, like most of his kin, but there was a raw note to it. A certain hoarseness that drew from deep within the soul of the elf, escaping with each rising note-sadness too unworldly for Aragorn to describe.

"A Olorin I yaresse," Legolas began. He sat cross-legged, resting comfortably on one of the stretched boughs of a colossal tree. Had he wished, he would be able to sweep his gaze around the entire radius of the Fellowship's campsite, and would have been able to see the four hobbits crumpled together immersed in hoarse whispers. He could have seen Gimli and Boromir, grave, squared, and proud as they spoke in hoarse voices. And he could have seen Aragorn, at home at the base of the tree as much as Legolas was within it. But instead, Legolas had dropped his eyelids shut, filling his mind instead with memories.

Somewhere in his mind, the kaleidoscope of pictures, shifting, falling, mostly of Mithrandir when Legolas had been much younger, new pictures began to form. Of course, they were not knew, but ones he had not bothered to draw to the surface for an age. Lips still forming each word to the bitter lament, the trembling elf remembered home.

~*~

Mirkwood was beautiful, a massive expanse of trees even more tightly knit than those in the woods of Lothlorien. As a young adult, no more than five decades in the reckonings of Man, Legolas' would constantly find himself drawn away from his cavernous home to luxuriously sprawl on the banks of The Great River, eyes set on the tooth-like summits of the Misty Mountains.

When given the chance to escape from the strict grasp of his Father's kingdom, Legolas would aimlessly lead his way through the trees, marveling at the sheer-yet still climbable-height of each one. Each tree had a story, he discovered, and patiently went from each tree to the next, learning all about each one. He knew Mirkwood and all, within it, that dwelled as well as he (thought) he knew himself.

When he was no more than a century of age, an adult by Elf Standards yet still sporting the visage of an adolescent, his lessons began. He was restricted to the halls of his home in the Mountains of Mirkwood, barred from leaving the stone-hewn library where Chyra-his eldest brother-taught him the ways of the world outside. By the time he was a century and a half old, Legolas hadn't been outside in more than twenty-five years, and was nearly mad because of it.

Every day he was awakened by the harsh rap of his father's knuckles on the mahogany of his chamber door. Swifter than the day before-it appeared his strict training was taking effect-he would stand, dress, and follow his father down the systematically plotted steps. Breakfast, archery in the cellar, lunch, lessons from Chyra, and from Marm D'lasie…

"Father," Legolas had said gently, at breakfast one day. He had managed to suppress the insanity that he thought threatened to grab his years of training from his grasp. Annoyed, Thranduil looked up from the script he was poring over, and stared accusingly at his son. "I was wondering, as my lessons seem to go so well…Could I perhaps leave this Palace, at least once and a while? I crave the outside air, more than you know."

Thranduil had denied him. "You are not deserving of a home anywhere but this mountain, Legolas. It is folly for you to believe you are anything but a Prince-and my Servant. And I am not Father, you insolent child-I am Lord. Remember that," Thranduil didn't even bother sounding angry with his son's ignorance any more, just stoic, devoid of anything that resembled emotion.

Taken aback, Legolas nodded. Since his mother had died, Legolas and his father had constantly drifted apart, until now they were separated-though of course only by a few paces at most hours of the day-what seemed like an endless expanse of infinitely deep ocean.

Legolas curtly excused himself, and barely managed to force himself from the spacious dining hall before crumpling against one of the cloven doors, nestling against the wood and feverishly grabbing at his robes, weeping tearlessly into his knees.

***

With a start, Aragorn glanced about, worried. He had almost forgotten about Legolas' presence, countless meters above in a tree, until the Elf stopped singing. Aragorn tilted his head back, immediately catching the pale-clad Elf caught in the limbs of the tree, eyes shut.

"Ai, Legolas," Aragorn called gently, knowing Legolas' acute hearing would pick up the call. Legolas shuddered out of what looked deeper than a coma, and looked over his shoulder down at Aragorn. "Legolas, what ails you?"

Legolas shook his head, before gently sliding off the branch where he stood. In movements to rapid and graceful for Aragorn to clock, the elf disappeared from where he stood. Moments later, he landed nimbly before Aragorn, brow furrowed, head quirked.

"Mirkwood," the elf replied tenderly. "I fear that Gandalf's passing will come as horrible news to my father's realm." Sadly, Legolas replaced a strand of hair behind a sensitive ear, and let out a weary breath. "I wish fate had dealt her cards differently. Gandalf seemed more important to this fellowship than I-why couldn't my body be the one falling with the Balrog, instead of his?"

Aragorn stared at the Elf in disbelief. That was practically a proclamation of suicide, to the Ranger's mind. And yet there stood the Elf, upright as he hadn't been in weeks, hair deftly held back in braids, his words spoken with truth and conviction. Without hesitation, Aragorn lifted a hand, and struck the unsuspecting elf across one cheek with his palm.

Legolas barely flinched, lifting a palm to his cheek. He furrowed his brow, no accusations in his eyes, but definite hurt. "Rhiw," Legolas breathed, using his pseudonym for the man. Harshly, Aragorn forced the Elf's slight shoulders into his hand, but kept himself from shaking the elf senseless.

"Don't say that! Ever! Legolas, you are as important to this fellowship as any of us, as all of us! More so-you are our eyes, and our ears, and our light! It is tragic that Gandalf fell, I don't deny this-but never, ever question yourself. He would not have it!" As the words fell in a whisper from his lips, Aragorn knew they made no sense, didn't fit together, but were needed to be spoken. Legolas tilted his chin up, looking with firm resolve into Aragorn's eyes.

"Elbereth," Legolas said lightly to himself, and disengaged himself from the strong hands. He took a step back, and looked at the ground. "You are a good leader, Aragorn, as Gandalf was. I apologize," he said meekly, though not finding the courage to face Aragorn. Swiftly, he turned, and blended expertly with the curled paths and foliage.

~*~

"Legolas?" came a tiny voice. The Elf tensed, turning his head, to find little Pippin Took standing with his hands in his pockets, no longer his rambunctious self. Legolas smiled softly, trying to convey all the hope and happiness he had still in him into this smallest of gestures.

"Pippin," Legolas replied compassionately. "Yes?"

"I was wondering," Pippin said. Quickly, he gestured towards the other hobbits, who looked up with soft nods. "Well, we were wondering. Could you teach us the words to the elves' ballad?"

Legolas hesitated. It was odd, this request, for rarely did any but the elves get the privilege to speak this language. Slowly, Legolas nodded. "Of course. It is not that hard," he added. He allowed himself to be lead over to the hobbits.

Aragorn watched with sullen eyes, fingering the raven tresses of his hair. It seemed to him that Legolas would be much better a leader to the fellowship than ever he could be.

***

A/N: That's it. It's official. I really don't like writing Movie-Verses. There's too much to remember, too much to keep consistent. I'm trying to think of an excuse to bail out on this plot and make it the time after the fellowship… Any suggestions?

In response to your reviews:

Fairlady: *giggle* Thanks! And thanks for your review. I'm glad you liked Meetings, and I hope you liked this chapter…and like whatever I end up writing next. =^^=

Silverkonekotsukari: Yeah…After one of my closest friends died that's basically how I reacted. The Purple Penguins are my friends, and they speak truthfully! I was talking to them the other day, and I was all "The meek will inherit the eath," and the penguins were like, "You aren't meek," so then I shot them. LOL I like that peace phrase there…Give Peace a Fighting Chance! *peace sign* LOL Thanks for your entertaining review! =^^=

Bobo: I want a tree that I can talk to! Well, not that I don't have one, but none of mine talk back. Rather depressing. I've narrowed the songchap to like eight thousand different songs! Go me! =^^=

Evil Spapple Pie: Less introspection in this chapter, more just flashbacks. I agree with your review =^^=. Sorry about school starting, and that my fic just made it worse…Sigh. Thanks for your vote =^^=

Tithen Min: LOL Action's a lot more fun for me to write-even though I'm apparently crap at it. Ho hum…I can't figure out where to lead this story, because there's three different plot lines I can take.

Legolas' Lover: Have you seen Black Hawk Down? Orly is très sexy-sort of distracting though because I spent half the movie screaming at him. The people I was watching it with got rather angry. LOL My foot was apparently twitching cause it wasn't getting enough blood, and I need to stop sitting on it…What an annoying world. LOL =^^= Thanks for your review!

Celestra: I wonder if I could *market* Hamster-Flavoured Nachos. I can't think of any effective slogans, though…I could call them Nelly's (My hamster's name, yes, was Nelly) and be like… "Now you can taste my dear sweet Nelly and then keep her home in your Belly!" LOL Sorry that I probably ran your patience dry…I'm so horrible at updating well.

The Wanderer: Well, Legolas has got what we call "issues"…LOL No, he's just dealing with more flashbacks. My writing style has some serious holes in it, methinks. No matter. Thanks for your review! =^^=

Lissa: LOL Dunno how much of a difference a songfic chapter would make…Some people just don't like them, I guess.

ElvenMaid: *smile* Thanks! Hope you enjoy everything that follows…Yay!

Allora Gale: Hope you liked it. And I WILL REVIEW YOUR STORY! LOL I *PROMISE*.