IN THE COMPANY OF ELVES
By Mahtala

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
-- Pablo Neruda, poem XIV, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

Chapter 1: Into The Woods

And so it was that certain of the elves lingered in what would be called Mirkwood, in latter days; and one among them was named Macilme, and she was known to have visions. In autumn the last vision came, and she spoke thus:

"The one who shares my name shall come in future, born from water where there is none and also brought forth, in pain, from a flower. She hails from a place where even the Valar have little power. Heed her coming, for then my people shall pass into Ithilien, and from there to the Grey Havens, and from there to the sea; and we shall be the last of the Firstborn to leave Middle-Earth, and we shall therefore be the most man-like, and fall prey to the lesser of their faults. And while she will be a woman of the race of Men, Macilme my name-child will also be from elsewhere, and she will share some of the blood of the Firstborn. Therefore we must be ever watchful for her presence, for should she be struck down, my people will diminish as Men do, yet never find the peace that race finds in death. And she shall have my place in the great grey ships, and I shall remain here on this Middle-Earth where so many of my prophecies shall come to pass."

But rather than remaining and diminishing, that winter the first Macilme died in the first murder to plague the wood-elves in a thousand, thousand years. And over time the name was never used, and so it was forgotten that once girl-children were often named so. Elves are immortal, but not infallible; so they were wholly unsuspecting when Macilme name-child came at last to herald the journey of their people to Ithilien and beyond. But perhaps they can be forgiven; for she did not know of her own importance, and therefore could not inform them of their error.

All right, I'll admit it: it was a bad idea to go polar bear swimming up in the mountains of northern California, even if it was the middle of summer. It began my whole adventure, but it was only through chance I didn't get pneumonia or worse - and then I wouldn't have been able to enjoy any of it.

As I snuck down to the water's edge, hoping none of the campers on the other side of the lake could see me, I could hear my grandmother's voice calling from the cabin. "Emma! Emmaline! You come back here! It's barely light out yet, it's freezing cold, and you absolutely aren't going swimming!" I didn't turn my head. After all, she wasn't really there. My grandparents had died in a car crash a month before, leaving me an orphan with a good deal of land and no money whatsoever. This visit was the last time I would see the cabin: soon, it would be sold off to finance my last year of college.

By the time I reached my destination, I was so self-absorbed I wouldn't have minded if a whole troop of Boy Scouts appeared and started ogling me. Dropping my clothes on our small dock, I jumped off the platform and into the icy water. The coldness drove my tearful thoughts right out of my head, as I had vaguely hoped when I pulled myself out of bed and decided to go swimming. The trouble came when I tried to propel myself to the surface of the lake. I kicked for what seemed like ages - nothing. My head never broke into the air.

I was close to panicking, close to opening my eyes onto the dirty lake water, when I began to hear the roaring in my ears. I wasn't drowning; it wasn't the rush of oxygen deprivation I was hearing. On the contrary, as soon as I stopped kicking and settled my feet on the bottom of the lake, the water around me began to drain.

When I could only feel water around my ankles, I dared to open my eyes. I was as naked as before, standing in a redwood forest like that which surrounded my grandparents' cabin.

But the cabin was nowhere in sight.

I ran uphill, passing through the trees, ignoring the coldness of the morning on my skin. Where the lake once had been, there was merely a slight valley. As near as I could figure, one of the largest trees in the forest stood directly on the spot where the cabin should have been.

After making several rapid circles of the area, I was warmed up, but my feet were beginning to hurt from the pine needles that littered the ground. Whatever books may tell you about their softness and warmth, pine needles hurt when you're used to wearing hiking boots every time you want to take a walk. To give myself some respite, I returned to the large tree where the cabin should have been, sitting on a boulder and picking splinters from my toes. It was too much. The place was beautiful, yes: morning sun shafted in through the trees' branches, casting a golden light over the forest, and everything seemed completely unspoiled by human touch. But it wasn't where I was supposed to be. I shouted. Hello – anyone? Of course there was no answer; there wouldn't have been, even if I really was at my grandparents' cabin. I was miles from any aid.

A tiny plant grew at the base of my boulder, purple, with flowers no bigger than my thumbnail. I reached down and touched its petals absently, considering what I should do. That's how they found me: bent over, gazing at a flower.

I didn't notice anyone, at first. Elves move quickly and softly as any animal of the forest, though, and these were quite startled by my appearance. They crept up on me as though they were stalking prey. The first hint I got of their presence was when I heard a whispering off to my right: human voices, or so I thought, speaking in a language foreign to me. Later, I was to learn that Legolas's kinsman Tuilo was saying "Your first patrol after your journeys, Legolas, and already danger seeks to find you again!" But at that time I did not understand him. Before I could even look, someone had stepped directly in front of me, holding his bow at the ready.

"Who are you, and what is your business in the forest of Mirkwood?"

It took me a good amount of time to answer. I was completely surprised. Although I knew nobody was likely to come, I had been ready for a hiker, perhaps, or a hunter - not a warlike person, dressed in archaic clothing and pointing a very deadly-looking arrow directly at my head. "My name's Emma - shit!" I finally managed (I wasn't terribly proud of that last exclamation, but it slipped out as I realized how uncovered I was). Until that moment I had never thought about the troubles associated with attempting to cover yourself with only your two hands and wet, stringy hair, but now they were very real. I did the best I could, crossing my legs and pulling them defensively to my chest – not that that would be much help against the bow pointed at me. "Where am I? Oh, God, please put that thing down!"

Two more people appeared from behind trees, and the bow that was directly threatening me was duly lowered. That wasn't much comfort, though; it remained notched and prepared to fire. They spoke among themselves in that same language; one began to smile, very faintly. Looking at their faces, I noticed that they all had high cheekbones, long hair and pointed ears poking out from beneath elaborate braids. I quickly jumped to conclusions. They were elves - they had to be! I was ready to believe anything, having been startled out of my wits, but my conviction was cemented when the first one spoke again.

"You seem to be of the race of Men; you have their bearing, and you speak no Sindarin. Very well. You shall be presented as Lótë, for the flower you love so much, and my father shall have the story out of you, if you do not care to give your true name – for Emma' is not a name that belongs to any being I have encountered." He glanced at his smiling kinsman, and I turned my eyes to the flower he named me after. "Is she from Dale, would you say? She has their coloring, but I am doubtful, for her face is like an elf's."

"Many of the race of men may say as much," the other elf, slightly darker than the first, replied, "but few can also say their elven face springs from elven forebears. Your father is skilled in learning secrets. He shall discover the truth."

At this point, I felt compelled to inform them of another, entirely different truth. "You won't call me Lótë - you won't call me anything until you've told me where I am. And where you're taking me, and who you are, and why I should trust you, for that matter!" I was still fearful. I was completely defenseless, and any of the men could have easily overcome me, even without their bows. If you've ever read a fantasy novel, you know that the heroine always comes into the hands of skeptical but good people upon her arrival. Novels, unfortunately, are rarely like real life. I wasn't about to be taken away and locked up without knowing where I was being taken to.

It wouldn't have done me much good anyway - I was, as I said, completely at their mercy. But my defiance made me feel better.

"Perhaps she should be named Macilme instead, Legolas," the dark elf commented. "Her tongue is like a sword, and she leaps to suspicion as quickly as one of our blades leaps to orc-flesh!"

"Nay, cousin," he responded. "She asks questions; but were we men of Gondor or Rohan, they would have been answered, and five times over."

"Men would have answered her questions, if only for the sweetness of her flesh," came the reply, but Legolas was already removing his own cloak and draping it about my shoulders. Once it was fastened at the neck and safely wrapped around me, I stood and thanked him. He ignored me except for a small, distracted nod.

"You stand in Mirkwood forest, lady, and I wonder that you know not where you are, for men avoid the forest overmuch of late. Mirkwood Forest stands near the city of Dale, and the Lonely Mountain where Smaug the Dragon once held his fiery court - and those stand on Middle-Earth, and I trust you need no explanation for that."

I wouldn't have dared tell him that I needed an explanation, even if he expected me to be able to draw him a map of Middle-Earth right then and there. It was enough that the bows were entirely slack now, and I was clearly not going to be bound and gagged or any such thing.

"I take you to my father, Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood, as is our law: all trespassers not named elf-friend must be brought before his throne. I myself am Legolas, and these are my kinsmen Tuilo and Sérener. You should trust us - why, because there is no-one else in these woods to trust. We are the only ones who live here that would welcome you."

Something in his high speech made me want to emulate it. I had only ever spoken in such a manner when I was taken to a Renaissance fair, and then only because people in costume would persist in speaking to me: I found that they would go away more quickly if I copied their way of talking. Now, though, I did it by choice, and by a desire to ingratiate myself to my captors. "Well, then, away we shall go," I told him, "Although I fear my feet may give out before we come to see your father."

He glanced downwards, realizing I had no shoes. "Even the elves do not go barefoot off the paths in Mirkwood forest, lady," he told me. "We shall find the path, then, and follow it. The route is longer, but I fear you would take it wrongly should I try to carry you."

At the time, he was probably right. I nodded in the most stately manner I could, and headed off into the trees with my elven escort.

-----End Chapter 1-----

Author's Notes: As far as I know, according to Tolkien Legolas took Gimli with him to Mirkwood, then brought his kinsmen out of Mirkwood to dwell in Ithilien when Gimli became Lord of the Glittering Caves. Upon Aragorn's death, he finally went to the Grey Havens and took his journey across the sea, bringing Gimli with him out of friendship for the dwarf. By this reckoning, this story fits into LotR canon (as you will see!). On another note, in Emmaline's world, Tolkien never wrote the Lord of the Rings series - or if he did, she hasn't read them and barely knows of them. Macilme means "sword," Lótë means "flower" and Tuilo means springtime.

This story will be updated every Sunday night with a new chapter of 2,000 words or more. Many, many thanks to Oliphauntine for offering to beta read! If you would like to help beta read this story and can read and edit a chapter a week, e-mail me at mahtala@blotts.org - I need one or two more betas.