I always intended to turn this into a several sections long piece. The thought came from the line, "I'll write a story about how an INNOCENT Dunedain girl came close to being exiled from Imladris, Lorien, and Mirkwood all because of a vast misunderstanding involving a comb, a brush, Legolas, and Haldir." And there was going to be some madness involving a prank played by Legolas and Thellas, and a meeting with the Lady of Imladris that becomes important in a completely different fic...
But, beyond the issue of no one reading this in the first place (It's not slash...) I had other continuity errors. Like, what the hell was Galadriel doing in Imladris? And why was Legolas with her? And who in their right mind would mistake a girl with pointy ears and silver hair for a man-child? And geez, girl, know you nothing about the Dunedain? And it's supposed to be a comedy. *sigh*
So, yeah. Sadly, I don't think I'll finish it. Or if I do, it'll sit on my drive for years. The point being, I really like this, and I think it's well contained. Just a fun little piece depicting my initial image of what life for a Dunedain maid might be like if she were a bit eccentric....
Lantë was perched in a tree when it all began.
Though of the race of Man, her mother's line was notoriously lithe, slender, and lighter than most. Naturally, this made her a fine candidate among the Dunedain for scouting and tree-watching. For Lantë's part, she was more than happy to comply. The young girl adored trees.
Of course, she reasoned with a frown through the leaves beneath her, she was too young. At not quite twenty-one years, she was but a babe in the eyes of her betters among the Dunedain, and the few elves she met. From time to time, the other rangers would actually trust her judgment. This time, like most others, she was trailing an older, more experienced Dunadan who called her, 'lass,' and, 'child,' a lot. Today's pick was her foster-brother, Thellas.
In other words, she was bored and chewing on a leaf just outside the farthest gates to Rivendell when the delegation from the Golden Wood arrived. She dutifully counted the Elves (Center: two Galahdrim, one Lady of Light, one Mirkwood prince. Scouting: two Galahdrim, two Wood-elves,) and their various weapons (oh, so many arrows, bows, knives, two full swords, and one half-blade.) Being the creatures of light and goodness they were, Elves were no threat. Yet should Thellas question her later, it would do no good to have missed the practice of counting those that passed them. She had calmly begun trying to see if she recognized any of the golden haired Elves when his eyes turned upward and her fate was sealed.
Deep, sparkling blue eyes filled her vision, seeming to cross the threshold of her own eyes into her very soul. They reflected the hues of the forest and danced with great mirth at some silent joke. The marchwarden glanced at Lantë and Thellas for but a moment. It was when he looked away that the Dunadan's heart was stolen.
The fleeting beams of the forest shone off of his hair in a rainbow of silver light. Each strand was carefully kept, each braid in perfect proportion.
"Perfect." Lantë was so lost in adoration that she didn't notice she had spoken aloud until the brilliant eyes of the Mirkwood prince swung to catch her in the trees. Thellas landed a light slap on the back of her head, causing the prince to smile and Lantë to blush. She restrained her response to a muffled whimper as she fell into another spell over the prince's own bewitching lockes.
Perhaps the true reason the Dunedain didn't trust her to her own devices had little to do with her youth, Lantë mused as she watched the blondes vanish into the forest gates. Not so secretly, the Dunedain girl passionately adored the silken beauty of Elven hair. The slightest glint of it in the darkness had her lost like an owl caught in the gaze of the blazing moon. She had often voiced the whim to become a stylist of Elven tresses to her foster-brothers and parents. It was the origin of her common name, after all. Lantë was an Elvish word meaning a sort of fall from grace, given in jest by Thellas himself, and stuck to her by the mirth of the Dunedain.
She blamed it on her father's brief tryst with an Elven Lady. Her earliest memory was of a shining Elf with bright green eyes and a gentle smile. And long, luxuriant, silver-gold hair. She was leaning down to a two-year old Lantë to stroke her cheek and touch her nose when the hair had fallen across her shoulder, into the child's reaching hands. Since that moment, the wonder of Elven hair had captivated Lantë.
Her glazed eyes glanced about to find Thellas moving through the trees. Automatically, she followed him. Sometimes they dropped to the ground only to shimmy a trunk farther away into the branches again. Lantë's mind, however, was lost in the past. The memory of the silver fall of hair always brought her to the only other memory she bore of her father. The orc attack on the southern edge of the Ettenmoors beneath the Misty Mountains. The useless attack of three Dunedain and a baby by tired and terrified orcs that had forever stolen her father, Felen, from her. They had surprised the small band of rangers who had been pleasantly resting in the safe arms of midday. It was only later that they learned the orcs had been driven from their day-time hiding place by a party hunting for their blood. They had attacked Felen and his companions because they were in the way, and nothing more.
Of the four, only a four year old Lantë survived. The hunters, a group of five Dunedain and the twin sons of Elrond Peredhil, had trailed them, yet arrived only in time to save the child who was briefly hidden beneath the fallen body of her parent. Covered in her father's blood, her nose thick with the stench of orcs, Lantë still remembered the shining dark waves that flowed from under the helms of the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. The bright beauty of Elven hair was her light in the darkness, that day.
Thellas suddenly stopped, turning to her. "Child, the least you could do is show restraint when they're around." Apparently, trailing the group had only been done to assure himself that no scouts remained to overhear his reprimand. Looking into her slowly clearing eyes, Thellas clucked his tongue. "And still you're dazed by them! Ai, lass, do you even know whom you were gawking over?"
Lantë grinned, slipping to the forest floor beside him. "The two wood-elves, and the white-haired Galahdrim I didn't recognize. They escorted the Lady Galadriel and Prince Thranduilion. The Galahdrim I can name were the marchwardens Rùmil, Orophin, and Haldir." Unintentionally, Lantë drew out the syllables of the final Elf's name. She blushed, realizing the image of his gleaming hair still held her in it's thrall.
"For respect's sake, lass, try to remember that the prince's name is Legolas," Thellas said, clapping a hand against his foster-sister's back to spur her into motion.
They walked quietly along the path away from Rivendell, as Thellas laughed to himself about Lantë's dreamy smile. She eventually realized where they were going, and quirked a questioning brow in the older ranger's direction.
"You'll be no more use to me today," he explained with an apologetic look. "When you have to use all of your concentration to keep your feet, you'll catch no signs of danger in the forest."
"Aw, tôr," Lantë tried to plead with his fondness for her. Of the three children of Garaf, Thellas was closest to her, as they both shared a fascination for the Fair Folk. His delight came from their poetry and lyric. A much more acceptable thing to take joy from.
Her pleas fell on deafened ears. "Don't give me those eyes, lass," he warned with a gentle laugh. "Let's hurry to camp before the light fades entirely."
"I can find my own way, Thellas," Lantë protested softly, not wanting to anger him. Though she felt the emotion herself, she knew her foster-brother did it out of love. Staring at his strong shoulders and bedraggled auburn hair, she realized how closely he resembled his father. They both bore so much concern for her welfare. "You don't need to guard me."
He shook his head and laughed. "And let you get eaten by something nasty because you were daydreaming about Haldir of Lòrien's hair," he taunted, mockingly drawling the marchwarden's name. "No. Father would kill me."
Lantë giggled at him, taking his hand to drag him along as she dashed through the forest. "Then I'll lead," she announced over her shoulder as Thellas tried to catch his breath at the sudden flight.
Still in the thick forest outside of the tiny clearing their band had chosen as a campsite, Thellas had switched the tone of their small-talk to the mocking notes it had begun with. He tried to affront his foster-sister by insinuating that the only way she'd let herself be betrothed was if he made a wig of Elvish hair to fit over a suitor's head.
Lantë held her own, countering, "Aye? Then a fine pair we make. The only physical pleasure you'll find is wrapped in the arms of a book!"
With a guffaw, Thellas launched himself from where he'd been checking a sway of leaves. Catching Lantë by the shoulders, they tousled furiously with insults, pinches, and laughs.
So they arrived at the encampment rather inelegantly, rolling end over end in a sort of dog-fight to a stop at the foot of a rather tall individual dressed in Elvish clothing.
Looking straight up from where she lay pinned to the ground by Thellas, Lantë felt heat rise and coat her face. It was the marchwarden, Haldir, whose leg they had narrowly missed. It was Haldir of Lothlòrien who gazed down on her with a smirk of utter amusement and one quirked brow. Before any of them had a chance to react, Garaf's booming voice made his children wince.
"Lantë, Thellas! Stand," he barked, and they imagined they could feel his angry footsteps through the leaf strewn floor. Quickly the young rangers retook their feet, dancing several paces away from what they now found the be a group of Elves come to the camp. The rest of the Fair Folk seemed to be the familiar Elves of Rivendell, including Elladan and Elrohir who stood near Haldir, mirth at his near attack evident behind their sly glances.
Garaf came to stand beside them with a glare. As he opened his mouth, no doubt to apologize for their actions, Lantë found her grace again.
"Please do not take offense, sir," Lantë begged, bowing her head to the Lòrien Elf, and twisting her fingers behind her back. "We meant no disrespect, and certainly no harm. It was simple play between children..." she trailed off as Haldir raised his hand to stop her.
"No harm was done, laes," the Elf stated coldly. Lantë stilled her natural upset that he assumed she wouldn't understand the Elvish comment. "Pay more heed in the future," he continued, returning his elegant hand to his side as his eyes raised in a smooth expression. "I might as easily been an orc."
With her memories so fresh in mind, Haldir's jibe struck as though a physical blow. Lantë paled, gripping her fingers together tightly. Later she would doubtless call herself silly for panicking, but in that moment all she could hear were the thoughts that said the Lorien Elf was right. She was certain she murmured some sort of excuse before dipping a bow made shallow by haste, and walking quickly back the way she'd come.
She was sitting beneath a tree twice as wide as herself, on the far side from the camp when Thellas found her. The sun blazed against the horizon, lighting the treetops like soft flames. Lantë realized she had no idea how long she'd stared at the setting star, when Thellas sat beside her. She turned to him, and couldn't make out his face through the after-image of the sunlight.
Lantë ducked her head and closed her eyes. "Papa's probably very angry at having to apologize for me twice, isn't he?"
Her foster-brother gave a quiet laugh, startling her. He took her hand and touched her cheek. "I'm afraid that we were all so stunned that you ran away from Elves that he didn't have time to realize your actions needed an apology."
She chuckled quietly. "I suppose that was very uncharacteristic." She sighed, laying her head back against the tree. "I was thinking of my father earlier. I don't know why I reacted that way."
"Because you were chided by an Elf with your own nightmares," Thellas offered. He threaded his fingers through hers, stroking the back of her hand. "Don't worry over it. You've certainly made an impression on Haldir of Lòrien, and Papa feels badly for having frightened you. It's a good night."
She snapped her head to look at him in dismay. "He didn't frighten me, I -"
Thellas put a hand over her mouth, laughing. "I told you not to worry about it. I've much better news for you."
Lantë raised a brow, as her foster-brother's hand still lay across her lips.
"The Lady of the Galahdrim has asked that the Dunedain within the forests of Rivendell be invited to her welcoming celebration tomorrow eve."
Lantë pulled Thellas' hand from her face. "No, you can't be serious."
He nodded, his dark eyes dancing. He had known how delighted the news would make her, using it intentionally to draw her from her melancholy.
"You tricky dwarf!" She tossed his hand away to wrap her arms around him in a thankful embrace.
"I'll go back to camp now," Lantë assented, letting herself be drawn to her feet by Thellas.
This time, they were very careful to watch their path.
'laes' means child, or more aptly, a baby.
Comments & Criticism, please!