Author's Note:

There is a character here that you may remember from Part 6- very vaguely, that is. Just noting that if you would prefer to wait for Part 13 and not spoil that surprise, that would actually be better. But if you wish to go back to Part 6 (Exalted Flower) and see who this character is, I'm not stopping you :)

By the way, there are a few places here where I describe myself as "innocently pretty". In Middle-Earth I am not as beautiful as an Elf but, hey, I don't see myself as gorgeous or pretty in real life, so I hope you'll be alright with me being pretty at least in Tolkien's world :)

Fëaruin Urulókë

The Tale of Fëagurth

Part 10: Discovery

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many years later, when Fëaruin turned twenty-eight, a young Elf ran through the trees of Mirkwood, trying to follow the shimmering brown-red head. Thirteen years had Mirkwood been the home of the young Human, and- being a representative of Gondor- she was becoming quite well-known around the kingdom, learning much from the Elves; including how to communicate in their tongue more fluently than when she only had her non-Elven mother to teach her, and also some different tactics in the fighting skill of the Elves. And it was all thanks to her Elvish teacher and close friend Avardelothien.

Much about Fëaruin had changed; determined to achieve her goal as a great warrior she had trained hard almost everyday for hours until she was not far at all from challenging even Ninrusco's hard-earned skills. She was indeed reasonably masculinely in strength and was powerful of wit, a 'shrew' that needed taming, but everyone understood. For many tales had been told of her father Eärnur, who found more lust and passion in fighting than anything else, and almost took no wife in the desire to be one of the best in Middle-Earth.

Calm and maintaining her composure (and not wearing leggings as much), Fëaruin walked through the vast greatness of the kingdom, hoping to come across Avardelothien or Menellómë. Though she was not as beautiful as an Elf she was no doubt growing with an innocent youthful beauty, and for that many Elves loved to see her and her auburn mane- and the way the sun made it blaze like a red flame… like a ruin, which was her name. It was different to the many brown and golden heads of the Elves, which made her something of intriguing scarcity to them.

Easily noticeable was this famous brown-red hair, which the young messenger followed as he ran through the trees.

"Lady Fëaruin!" he called. Fëaruin turned.

"Yes?" she questioned, before she had a chance to look at the Elf she was speaking to. Her breath was caught as she beheld him, so beautiful and fair; his dark hair was long and slender, falling upon his back in the most sensuous way she could imagine. He was clad in a messenger's uniform, black and brown and silver; it perfectly outlined the athletic shape of his slim body, and Fëaruin could hardly move as she ran her eyes over his form, a living being of magnificence, believing she had never seen such a beautiful creature in her life.

The young Elf puffed, weary from trying to follow the Fire-Dragon of Gondor. "King Thranduil wishes to see you, Lady Urulókë."

"Now?" Fëaruin asked, puzzled. But she enjoyed the soft voice, and at that moment she- the shrew of shrews- thought something inside her stirred to hear it. However, she wrinkled her nose and stubbornly dismissed it, believing it to be nothing.

"Yes. It is very important."

"I will go, then. Lead the way," she replied softly, and did not hesitate at all to follow the attractive messenger to Thranduil's chambers. Suddenly the young Elf was brought back to a strange memory of something that had occurred thirteen years before, when he had first seen Fëaruin fast asleep, and she was just a little child… so small and innocent. She had definitely changed, he perceived; more lovely was her young face and more womanly was her youthful shape, graceful with a supple outline and yet slender with a firm strength.

Of course, he smirked, narrowing his eyes.

And this surprised Fëaruin: as soon as he had brought her outside Thranduil's chambers he turned and smiled at her, his eyes filled with the glimmer of unknown purpose and intent.

"I will return soon," he uttered slowly, "for we are not yet finished."

Fëaruin did not know what he implied, but his words were warm and promising as well as suspicious, so she merely beamed innocently at the young one before turning to face the large doors. The Elf turned and left without haste, only leaving behind a fleeting, and yet immeasurably deep, gaze. Somehow… it made Fëaruin feel only worse about what Thranduil was going to tell her.

Taking a deep breath and opening the door, her unease was heightened as she perceived that everyone was seated there, watching intently as she entered. Thranduil sat in a high chair on a raised platform, with his offspring; Legolas on the left and Avardelothien to his right. Menellómë, much taller now (due to three-quarters Elven blood which none save Legolas knew of) sat next to her unbeknownst father, even more beautiful than before- in fact moreso than he. Ninrusco, who had changed very little, sat next to his wife Avardelothien to whom he had now been married for eight years.

Fëaruin also wondered why five Men also sat in the room, Men who looked very important, and their seats formed a circle when joined on with Ninrusco's and Menellómë's. Whatever business they had, she knew that it could not be good. The Men's faces were so grave…

"Come, Fëaruin," Thranduil called, beckoning for her to stand before him. She obeyed the King instantly, though her heart was pounding, and she was reluctant to hear whatever it was he had to tell.

"Aye, King Thranduil…?"

"These are some of your father's ambassadors from Gondor," Thranduil held out a hand and pointed to the Men behind her, "and they come bearing some news which may be very important to you."

"What… what is it?" Fëaruin asked. The faces of the Men looked so grim to her, and it looked as though it was difficult for them to speak; and so, much to Fëaruin's discomfort Thranduil spoke for them.

"Urulókë, your grandfather has passed away," he spoke slowly.

"Oh Elbereth…" she covered her mouth with her hand, unable to believe the tidings. She knew she should have returned home earlier to see him in his elder days, but Mirkwood was so intriguing, she could not abandon it. She remembered days spent with him, the cheerful old Man… but for some reason, no tear betrayed her. She was sorrowful, and her head was bowed; but somehow she could not weep…

Thranduil gave her one short moment to mourn, before he continued. "That is not all, Fëaruin. Your father Prince Eärnur has now been crowned King. You must remember that though Queen Ellasil your mother is the blood mother of Ninrusco, your father is not his blood father. You must return home to Gondor and fulfil your duties as Crown Princess, new Heir to the throne."

Fëaruin stared in disbelief, for though she knew that Thranduil had not meant to say such bold words, she felt as though he were shooing her away. "Your highness, what are you saying?"

Thranduil was for a short moment silent. "…These messengers from Gondor have come to take you home."

These words horrified Fëaruin. "Home? But I hardly remember my home… and I know not how to be Crown Princess!"

"Have you no sense of duty?" Legolas finally spoke, annoyed. "Is your people not more important than what you want? Many look up to you, Fëaruin, even some of the Elves of Mirkwood. They see you as one who values the needs of your kingdom, especially when you abandoned your home for thirteen years to come and help Ninrusco, Avardelothien, Mirkwood and Gondor all in one. If you wish to have them keep your views, then let me advise you; go home!"

"We will miss you, Fëaruin…" Avardelothien uttered sorrowfully, "but Legolas is right. We can visit you in Gondor sometimes, since Menellómë, Ninrusco and I have not duties that are as significant as those of Father's, or Legolas'…"

"You could stay here another week," Thranduil suggested. "That shall give you time to gather your belongings and say farewell to Mirkwood and your Elven friends, as well as to give time for our guests from Gondor rest awhile before you are ready. But after a week, you must return home. King Eärnur and Queen Ellasil have asked for you."

This brought Fëaruin to silence. They had not even let her speak as they themselves continued speaking; and now that she had a chance to speak, she no longer had anything to say. Defeated, she bowed before the King and nodded, leaving the room to ready her possessions as the door shut fast behind her.

* * * * *

Later in the day, Legolas was searching for his father when Fëaruin walked past, bumping into his shoulder. However, she did not say sorry to him at all, and for that he barely kept from rolling his eyes.

"In the name of Eru, Urulókë. I'm sorry, all right?" Legolas yelled impatiently. "I did not mean to speak to you the way I did, so give up this foolish nature of trying to avoid me!"

"Yes, you did," Fëaruin said as she abruptly ceased walking. "I know you did mean well, but speaking kind words in a tone as though you are shooing me… no, I had naught to say to that then. And neither do I have aught to say to you now."

"Honestly, you are true to have a fiery nature," Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Remind me to take you with me the next time I face a Balrog, for I believe you will frighten it to death quite easily."

Fëaruin turned around calmly. "Oh, what was this you were saying about not speaking to me the way you did?"

"Who wouldn't speak to you in such a manner when you are speaking that way to me also?" he retorted. "You know, I am quite sure I at least had a faint liking or respect for you thirteen years ago when we met, which was perhaps one of those years I cannot remember when you were actually nice."

Suddenly, the wind began to change.

The air seemed to become thick and hot at that moment, a raging fire burning the surroundings as Fëaruin narrowed her eyes. Trying to suppress the rage that threatened to erupt, she clenched her fists into two tight balls and howled, "You dare to insult me?!"

* * * * *

"I must be honest… I'm going to miss her," Avardelothien said as she walked overcome by confusion and sorrow.

"Yes, so will I. Even if she is an irritating nuisance of a sister," Ninrusco sighed, his hand clasping his wife's.

Seeing this, Menellómë smiled. "Well, you did say that we could always visit her since we don't have duties as…"

"Ssh!" Ninrusco hissed suddenly. "What is that sound?"

Hearing the shrill sound of distant voices, Avardelothien, Ninrusco and Menellómë instantly looked to each other, knowing it could only be one thing; the cries of an argument. Knowing trouble may be afoot, they hurried in the direction of the sound, hoping that there was nothing wrong.

But their hopes were shattered as they reached the origin of the voices and came to the sight of Legolas with his hands on his hips, trying to get through to the mind of Fëaruin who was ignorantly holding out a hand with its palm upright. All of a sudden to their shock Legolas drew out a sword from his belt, and as a shocked reaction to this Fëaruin snatched up two white knives from inside her cloak with a speed that was so quick that it seemed as though the blades had just suddenly appeared from thin air. The only thing that prevented the three spectators from believing that they were merely about to practice their skills was the fact that they were scowling at each other, and that they were cursing at each other in Elvish and Westron speech whilst pointing their blades at each other.

"You coward," Legolas laughed. "The only way you can make yourself feel better is to attack me with knives. What kind of coward would do that, eh, Nadorhuan?"

Fëaruin narrowed her eyes. "You should know it for defense, unless your skull is so thick that it is too heavy even to be used as a paperweight. You were the one who drew out that blade first! But tell me, agaryulnaer, are you too faint-hearted for a duel? For it seemed likely that a duel would occur when you drew out that sword, to strive until one loses their weapon, though perhaps from the beginning you were too thickheaded to realize that yourself. Amin feuya ten' lle… Dolle ná lost!"

"Of course. Why would you want to wound me when you do not have the ability to do so?" Legolas sneered. "What was this I heard many years ago about surpassing males in fighting?"

"Stop! Stoooooooop!" Ninrusco and Avardelothien yelled incredulously, as they ran over and parted them by running in between. "What happened here??"

"She started it," Legolas said calmly.

"I did not, blasphemer!" Fëaruin glared, as they pointed at each other. Ninrusco lost his temper.

"What do you two think you are? Children?" he yelled. "You are the Crown Prince of Mirkwood! And you, although not officially until you return to Minas Tirith, are the Crown Princess of Gondor! Now apologize and make up, and be glad that I am merely a Prince for otherwise I would smack you both like children!"

Avardelothien released Fëaruin, who shook her off her back in a very harsh way- even for Fëaruin- whilst Ninrusco released Legolas. Legolas looked at his sister and her husband with discomfort; and sighing in defeat he held out a hand as an indication of apology.

"Very well," he said very slowly, with evident hesitation. "I am after all Crown Prince and therefore I had no right to arouse anger or raise my voice to a… Lady. I am very sorry Fëaruin for insulting you, for I did not mean to. I ask forgiveness for losing my temper. Friends?"

Fëaruin narrowed her eyes at Legolas, and even though she had the obligation to shake his hand and rightly make amends she could not help but notice the hidden irritation in his face. She was now the same status as he and knew that she also had no right to arouse anger so she held out a hand as well. But before he could take it and shake it as a gesture of friendship, she snatched her hand away, sticking out her tongue before running off as fast as her legs could carry her in the opposite direction. Legolas shrieked and followed behind, not noticing the small book that fell out of his pocket onto the ground.

"Like children," Ninrusco and Avardelothien chorused, before running after them with worry and irritation.

Menellómë was left alone, with nothing to do, and no interest in Legolas' childish outburst. But noticing the book Legolas had dropped she picked it up and read the cover. It was written in Elvish, in the Fëanorian letters of Tengwar, but though she had never learnt to read Tengwar before she was able to understand it: Alatamoth.

'Why does Legolas have a book whose cover has the name with which he calls me?' mused Menellómë. 'And how in the name of the Valar did I learn to read Elvish?'

Opening the book to the first page, she realized it was a journal by the date written on the top of the page. The page she had opened up to was dated thirteen years ago by now, from the year 2035, the year she had arrived in Mirkwood. In tidy script were the words written in the tongue of the Elves:

Alatamoth. That is the name I give the supposed Menellómë from Gondor. The Heavens' Dusk of Gondor who is truly the Radiant Dusk of Mirkwood!

Alatamoth- or Menellómë as people may call her- may have been lost for years. But she has arrived safely in Mirkwood, and I am relieved. My beautiful daughter is alive…

* * * * *

=MUCH LATER=

Menellómë had by now been missing for hours. She had missed supper, and even though the cooks spared her the rightful equal share she was not yet found to consume it. It began with Ninrusco and Fëaruin, looking for her to call her to dinner- yet when she was not found, they asked for the help of Avardelothien and Legolas. They had split up and searched just about every corner of Northern Mirkwood, and now that she still could not be found, they had even called for the help of King Thranduil in the extreme measures.

So the five stood outside in the cold evening, waiting for Menellómë to appear. They had almost lost all hope, as search parties had been sent out with no success- and each was overridden with grief and worry. Beforehand Fëaruin and Legolas had been punished by Avardelothien and Ninrusco, because it was during their argument that Menellómë was last seen- by chaining his elbow to her ankle, and not releasing them until they truly apologized and made up. Or at least they pretended to, whilst in their minds pleasuring in the thought of feeding each other to Cave Trolls.

It was the first day of her final week in Mirkwood, and Fëaruin had more things to think about than Avardelothien's annoying brother who she was very tempted to hit over the head with a stone vessel. But her frightened thoughts of being Crown Princess- the very same status as her mother before she was crowned Queen just recently- was interrupted as Menellómë entered the scene. Her clothes were torn and she was wounded in the forehead and her arms, and blood stained her gown, so that the brilliant silver was now almost completely red. Her hair was matted and stained with blood and earth, and she sported a large bruise that ran from her upper cheek down to her slender neck.

Everyone gave a sigh of relief as they saw her arrive, but Legolas gave a cry of horror as he threw himself at her and embraced her so tightly, unable to look upon the condition in which she was openly presenting herself.

"Menellómë, where were you?" he almost wept. "Where did you go? What happened to you?"

But Menellómë only slowly shook her head. "No need to call me by that name my Lord," she slurred. "I thought that to you I am Alatamoth."

Legolas could not let her out of his arms, as he kissed the wounded forehead. "What happened, Alatamoth?"

A smile came from Menellómë, almost unnoticeable and yet if visible was very eerie. "I deliberately threw myself from a tree down into a ravine of flat stones, but I do not regret the four hours of immeasurable pain and deep sleep, my Lord Legolas. I remember everything now."

Legolas was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"My memory was lost when I collapsed in Minas Tirith that day," she explained weakly, "but after eighteen years of not knowing my past- or perhaps in my desire to forget I really did end up losing my memory- I finally remember everything. I remember Lady Finlos in her room, braiding my hair. I remember her in her werewolf form, dragging me along the ground. I remember when you killed her and set me free, and how you told me to run, and I rode and camped for many days until I reached Minas Tirith where I was abandoned by Mornië Maránwë."

"Mornië Maránwë was Finlos' horse," Avardelothien breathed. "How in the name of Varda did you…"

"Shut your mouth, sister," Legolas commanded icily, and turned back to Menellómë. "Listen to me, Alatamoth. Let us talk of this elsewhere. We must not…"

"Why elsewhere? Are you embarrassed my Lord?" Menellómë shook herself free from his undesirable embrace with the last of her strength. "Embarrassed that Middle-Earth will end up knowing I am the blood daughter of you and Lady Finlos?"

At this she drew his small journal out of her bloodstained cloak, and tossed it at him, before slowly turning and walking away. Sighing, he shook his head and ignored the horrified looks that everyone was giving him, running after Menellómë in the hope that he would not lose her once again.

* * * * *

"Lady! Lady Fëaruin!"

Upon turning around, the first thing Fëaruin saw was a familiar fair face belonging to the figure walking towards her. His dark brown hair hung below his shoulders, and when he moved it shimmered a glossy shade of rather a dark red-brown, making him very pleasant to look at. It was Thranduil's Elven messenger that had before called upon her when she was about to find out about the death of her grandfather and her new status as heir, and so she recognized him instantly, with his warm and friendly smile. Suddenly she was reminded of what he had said to her that same day; but she tried to ignore the thought, smiling back at the Elf.

"Oh, 'tis you, I remember you. What is the matter?"

The young one walked forward and bowed, respectfully hiding his eyes from the Crown Princess. "Lady Fëaruin, my name is Anarórë. I am a messenger of King Thranduil and I would like to make an appeal."

"And what may that be?"

Anarórë rose, though his head remained somewhat down. "If it is not trouble for you I would like to join your five kin from Gondor and escort you to Minas Tirith."

Fëaruin was surprised, and did not understand. "Why so?"

"I… I just do not like the idea of you, Crown Princess, to be escorted by strange Men," he explained. He was lying, of course, for he had other reasons to go to the White City; though in it there was some grain of truth.

"I know you just as little as I know those ambassadors from Gondor, master Elf. Does not that also mean that I am still escorted by a stranger should you accompany me on this road?"

Anarórë nodded; he was a little hurt by her words, but he knew she had a perfectly good reason to utter them. "We are both young, Lady Fëaruin; I believe we could easily be friends before the travel even begins- I doubt that same friendship with your father's Men could have an equal compatibility. I will not be a stranger to you the day we leave Mirkwood," he stated, but then he lowered his head a little. "I… I also have some old friends in Minas Tirith that I wish to visit."

"I understand," she nodded. "Have you spoken to King Thranduil of this, Anarórë messenger of Mirkwood?"

"Not yet," he replied honestly, "but I wanted to make sure that you would not mind before I ask the King for a temporary leave from my duties for him here."

"Very well. We shall speak to King Thranduil of it, though I do not know whether he would like an additional figure in the company," she began to walk, and beckoned for him to follow. "Come with me."

* * * * *

Legolas walked up to Menellómë, who sat alone on a flattened tree stump. A look of compassion and love passed his eyes as he perceived the sadness that seemed to glimmer in her eyes, and her festering wounds that were still untreated. He took a seat next to her at once, hoping she would not move away- and luckily for him, she didn't.

"I'm sorry, Alatamoth," he mumbled.

Menellómë shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. It was not your fault. I should not have yelled at you."

"I was… selfish," he confessed, bowing his head. "I did not want anyone to know about you when your mother conceived you. I hid her away in her chambers and refused to let her come out, or others to come in, because I was ashamed. I was ashamed that I, being an Elf that is considered superior to other beings, could have a child with one who is half Hobbit. But now that means nothing to me, that Finlos your mother is only half Elf, or who in the world is a superior or inferior being. I'm sorry that she passed away and I just wish that she was back here with me, to return things to the way they were when my life, bound with hers, was worth something!"

"Is that why you said nothing when I arrived?" Menellómë inquired, for everything was now beginning to make sense. "Is it because you were afraid I would tell people if you told me my past?"

"…Yes," Legolas was filled with shame. "Things are becoming so amiss! Because of this my father will probably cast us out into the wild! We will be exiles, for keeping such a sinful secret and daring to hope that it will die with those who know of it. And you know, it may not be so bad if your mother is here, Alatamoth, for Finlos was the only one who seemed to know how to thread my life together. But I killed her. I have been miserable for eighteen years with a grief that has never left me because there is no life to live without love!"

"And that is exactly why we plan not to cast you out at all."

Legolas and Menellómë snatched their heads up at the sound of familiar voices, and both cringed when they perceived who it was. Thranduil stood before them, with Ninrusco and Avardelothien standing on one side, and Fëaruin on the other. Thranduil came forward and compassionately placed a hand on his son's shoulder, and the shoulder of his now acknowledged granddaughter.

"What is this shame you speak of?" asked Thranduil. "Could you not trust us at all that you had to keep this beautiful maiden secret from us because we would not accept her? Well, you know perfectly well that we accepted Finlos, did we not? You are my son, Legolas. I love you, and only a father not in their right mind would cast out his son for a reason that through great care for his lover the very choice of his heart had conceived a child for him."

Legolas was surprised. "I thought… I thought you may have been disgusted. My daughter's mother is only half-Elven! So Alatamoth, she has Hobbit blood within her. You… you are not revolted at all to hear this?"

"Nay, Legolas, not even if she is a bastard child, which I'm sure she's not."

"No, she is not. Finlos and I were already wed when Alatamoth was conceived," Legolas sighed, relieved.

"There, you see? Welcome, my granddaughter," Thranduil smiled, embracing Menellómë. Legolas grinned, unable to believe his luck. Avardelothien embraced her next, kissing the brown head.

"My niece," she squealed, joyful. Menellómë was happy, and she returned every hug, the longest embrace being with her father; they were all honest with each other now- so both she and Legolas were relieved.

'Now that one thing is done, I will decide upon Anarórë's appeal…' Thranduil turned to Fëaruin, suddenly altering his speech into Elvish. 'What was it he said was the reason that he wanted to go to Gondor?'

Fëaruin was surprised, for the King seldom spoke to her in his own tongue, and so she replied in Elvish as well.

'I am not sure. Something along the lines of desiring to visit friends who are of the Edain, just for a little while. Perhaps you could give him leave awhile from his duties as Messenger in Mirkwood? His plan was to travel with my father's kin and I, then in Minas Tirith go our separate ways.'

Menellómë was amazed; for she had spent many years now without memory believing that she had not known how to speak the language of the Elves. Yet the King of Mirkwood and the Princess of Gondor were now speaking to each other in that language, and she was able to understand every word, derived from the days before her memory was first lost. It was unusual to her, and yet she enjoyed it.

'Very well,' Thranduil nodded. 'He has been a very faithful subject to me, and I shall grant him his request for leave as my gift to him. But the purpose is not lost that he was taken from his Elven family in his childhood. After rest with his Edain friends for one month at most I request that he must return at once to Mirkwood- or better yet- to the abode of your father, to be a helping hand in his duties as new King. A messenger he will be to King Eärnur, if that is not a discomfort to either of you. I will send a messenger myself a month after you leave to make sure that he returns in time to the White Tower.'

'Yes, my Lord,' Fëaruin nodded, and thus she left.

To be continued…