Disclaimer: Second verse, same as the first.
The year 3429, of the second age, Lórien:
Amroth sat at his father's side, bored out of his mind. He was not made, he had long ago decided, for sitting in council meetings giving out pearls of wisdom and settling disputes. When he was King, if King he ever became, he would not spend his time sitting around like this. Surely someone else could do this job?
He tried not to fidget – it was his worst habit. Even now, one toe was drawing circles in the dirt – he was probably making his shoes very dirty, and his mother would scold him, as if he was still a child.
It wouldn't be so bad if they could hold the council somewhere else. In a talan, perhaps. There wasn't one so big, but some of the great mallorn could surely hold a larger structure. Telain were not to everyone's liking, of course; you had to climb up and down ladders to get to them. What if you didn't, though?
His mother, watching the proceedings from the other side of the room, coughed gently; Amroth went back to pretending to pay attention, his mind still racing.
You could string a rope ladder sideways, across branches, from tree to tree; the border guards did it all the time. You could make slightly sturdier bridges too, of wood and rope; there were some that hung across the bathing pools, and children loved to dive from them.
So if you did that with telain; built them close together, put bridges between them; why, you'd hardly need to touch the ground at all! You could…
"Amroth? The meeting is over."
His father's voice, tinged with amusement.
"I know these things bore you, but you are no longer a child, and it is long past time you learnt the ways of rulers."
"Sorry, father," Amroth said. "But I cannot imagine you ever going – surely you shall be King forever?"
"Forever?" Amdir laughed. "I would not want to be. But to be serious, my son, you must see that war is looming. You are too young to remember, but I am not. It has been twelve yéni now since Sauron was driven back into the east; do not forget your grandsire perished for that cause."
"But the war will not come here. Lórien's borders are well guarded," Amroth said, with some pride.
"No, it will not come here. But mayhap we shall go to it. The mallorn shall be safe, Amroth. That does not mean we will."
There was an awkward silence, as they walked along the paths of Lórien. The trees around, the mallorn and linden, bowed gently in the breeze. A linden-leaf blown awry by the wind landed in Amdir's hair; Amroth picked it up, and remembered.
"Father, am I needed here? I was thinking of travelling to the west, to visit some friends of mine.
"Of course," said Amdir, cheerfully, and rather missing the point. "Have I not always encouraged you to learn the ways of the Silvan Elves, even as they learn our ways too? I would rather you did not go too far up into the mountains though – the dwarves have not been altogether friendly of late."
"I will not go up into the mountains," promised Amroth. "I will only stay a few months." Not that Nimrodel would appreciate him staying much longer.
"Tell your mother you are going, and make sure you have enough supplies. And stay away from the border! I would prefer it if you did not travel alone. Is Haldir or one of his brothers around at the moment?"
"No!" said Amroth, hurriedly. The last thing he wanted was Orophin, or worse, Rumil, along for this trip. "No," he said again. "I will be fine, father, and I will keep away from the borders."
"Good."
-----
The falls of Nimrodel were beautiful, the water shimmering under the star-light, making a graceful arc that fell from smooth rocks into the clear pool beneath.
They were also deserted. Sighing, Amroth dismounted, leaving his steed to munch contentedly at the nearby flora while he tried to work out where Nimrodel had got to. Straining his ears to hear any trace of song, he discarded his shoes and let his feet drift in the cool water.
He sat there for some time, until an isolated strand of melody reached his ears. It was, of course, Nimrodel's voice; he would recognise that anywhere. Picking himself up off the ground, and quickly checking that his horse had not wandered off, as it was wont to do, he headed in the direction of the singing.
"Greetings, dear Nimrodel." he said, emerging from the trees among them. Mithrellas, predictably, jumped, but Nimrodel just regarded him calmly.
"Why must you insist upon following me around?"
"Why do you insist on acting as if you dislike me so?" he replied, affecting a wounded look.
"Dislike you? My dear prince, I barely know you." Her eyes were twinkling, her mouth tipping up at the corners despite herself.
"And to that I would say; I would be your dear prince, would you allow yourself to get to know me."
"And why would I do that? It has been forty years, and still I am not rid of you. Go home, Amroth."
Nimrodel's friends were watching this exchange with smiles; this pattern was long established.
"I am afraid I cannot; your beauty compels me to stay, my fair Nimrodel."
She sniffed at that statement. "Then stay awhile, and sing with us. But I shall no more be your fair Nimrodel than you shall become Ingwë with the next rising of the sun."
"Of course not. For that I would need to turn my hair to gold, and 'twould be awfully heavy."
Laughing at that, they walked along the riverside as had become usual for them in the accompanying years, speaking as old friends, singing songs, racing to climb trees and teasing Mithrellas, who was obviously coveting Amroth's bow.
As the sun rose, they found themselves sitting on the rocks overlooking the falls; Amroth was expounding on the idea he'd had during the council meeting, hands moving swiftly through the air, tracing the shapes of imaginary telain and the bridges joining them.
When he paused for breath, she asked him, "Amroth, will there be war soon?"
The sudden change of subject took him aback. But there was no other answer.
"Yes, my father seems to think so."
"Will you go?"
He hadn't thought about it before, but the words sprang to his lips without thought.
"Of course. It is my duty."
"As prince," she said.
"As prince."
There was another pause; Nimrodel played with her braids while considering the idea.
"Before the Sindar came," she said. "There was peace here. Sometimes I think it would have been better if you stayed in the West."
"The West has fallen into the Sea," Amroth pointed out. "The home of my grandfather is sunk beneath the waves, and the wars and the dark are not our fault. There would not have been peace for long, if you did not have Sindar – and Noldor too – to fight your wars for you."
"There was peace," she repeated, and from that opinion she would not be moved. But a curious thought came to Amroth.
"How old are you?"
"Older than you!" she replied, and at once leapt from the rocks and was running again, singing in bursts, and when he caught up to her at the very foot of the mountains, she was laughing.
They did not speak of war in the weeks that followed. They sang, and told stories, and he wove for her crowns of flowers, for his 'future queen'. She gladly wore them in her dark hair, although she would accept neither his kisses nor his promises.
-----
A new year had begun by the time Amroth rode back to greet his father. There was an air of anticipation; the paths were silent. The few Elves that were around seemed busy, and spared no time to greet him.
"I am glad you are back soon, and yet not glad." His father was solemn; his mother, trailing behind, looked as if she had been crying.
"What has happened, father? Is it…"
"War," Amdir replied. "We ride to aid the High King, in two days' time."
The world blurred. Suddenly the airy surroundings of Lórien seemed to close in around him, the mallorn crowding close, almost menacing.
"It is allowed to be afraid, Amroth."
But beyond that, there was a voice raised in song among the linden-trees, dark hair crowned with flowers, laughter under starlight. Beyond was Nimrodel.
"I am not afraid," he said. And meant it.