Author's Notes: Although my conception of Aragost's character hasn't changed, this chapter has been completely rewritten since it was first posted a year ago. General observations of the lives of the Dúnedain and their Chieftains are based on LOTR, Appendix A (iii). The precise dates of Arahad and Aragost's birth and death are found in The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'The Heirs of Elendil' p 196, pub. Houghton Mifflin.
Be forewarned that there is some slash in this chapter, of the innocent, teen crush variety - Legolas is not yet an adult.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of original characters needed to fill out Legolas' family tree or move the story along. Translations of Elvish words (Sindarin, unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
Aragost
2505 Third Age
Elves enchanted Aragost. They could match no man in brute strength, yet so quick and sure were their movements, they usually had the best of a mortal foe in hand-to-hand combat. So slender, they looked fragile, yet proved tireless in feats of endurance. No sickness could touch them, yet mere grief could herald their death. They ate like birds, yet served up feasts of unrivalled richness. Most of all, the man admired their beauty: their hair of gossamer silk had strength enough to string a bow and seemed never to tangle in the trees; their fair and smooth skin implied youth, yet their eyes - their eyes revealed endless depths of living.
At this moment, however, he felt more apt to malign than admire a certain elf. That elf's preferred epithet was King Thranduil, and the underground maze the Elvenking called his home had roused the Dúnadan's ire. The man had become quite lost in the bewildering passages, and he wondered aloud at the casual hospitality that had left a guest of the King to his own devices.
"Curse that imperious Sinda and every dwarf who laid hammer and chisel to this wretched hole!" he muttered, stopping at a fork in the passage.
A peal of laughter answered him. "Three times I have watched you return to this place. I learned that Rangers had great sense of direction, but perhaps my teacher was mistaken."
"Show yourself, Elf. And I cannot help it if my senses are undone. I am used to elves who live in sensible places, not in caves like orcs," he growled.
A figure stepped from the shadows of the passage, and Aragost bit his tongue; Thranduil's progeny could hardly pretend to be anything but the product of their sire. Blond locks were rare among elves, and the singular beauty of the House of Lasgalen had admirers even among the aristocratic Noldor at Imladris.
"My apologies, hîr. My journey was wearying and I am not at ease in these caverns. The closeness reminds me of a youthful encounter with a cave of orcs," he said quickly. This was not strictly a lie, though the only orcs he had found in the cave had arisen from a child's overactive imagination, encouraged by two rather mischievous Peredhil. [1]
The elf smiled in sympathy. He was slender as a reed and somewhat small, easily a head shorter than the man. He had a look of innocence and curiosity not yet lost to time and the weight of memory - the King's youngest child, Aragost guessed. The elves of Imladris no longer bore children, and the Dúnadan had never before met an elf younger than him. "I am not terribly fond of my father's dwellings," the elf admitted.
"If not too great a burden, will you would help me out of these infernal passages?" Aragost entreated, relieved that the son of Thranduil had not taken offense.
"It shall be no burden at all, for I am on my way to the festivities myself. I was required," the elf said, with a rueful pull of his mouth, "to attire myself somewhat more suitably, for this night commences our most sacred rite."
Aragost wondered what the young elf meant by 'most sacred rite'. All elves celebrated the Mereth Iau-Grithol, but Imladris assigned it no more importance than it did any other feast. [2]
In its honor, the young elf had exchanged his daily garb for robes in the emerald green of his House, embroidered with the device of the King. In a few years, Aragost knew, when the elf came of age, he would choose his own emblem. The elf's hair captured the very glow of Ithil, and he had arranged these pale tresses in a heavy braid that sat atop his head like a crown. The braid separated into numerous slender braids, each woven with leafy vines. Enchanted by the lovely creature, Aragost sighed happily as he followed the elf's swift, silent feet.
The elf looked over his shoulder. "Do you have a name, Dúnadan?"
"Aragost, son of Arahad."
"And I am Legolas. Well met, Aragost."
They came at last to the entrance hall, and the man was now a bit sorry he had not been more lost, for they immediately parted ways on the green outside the caverns - Aragost met his companions and Legolas hurried to join his family. Torchlight flickered and the Ivonwin danced through its shadow and light, symbolizing the end of the harvest and the beginning of firith. Aragost had seen similar ceremonies at Imladris many a time, but this dance had something more primeval to it. The passion of the dancing elf-maids evoked an image of Cuiviénen itself and the joy of the first elves as they awoke, wondering at the world the Valar had made. [3, 4]
Legolas watched Aragost discreetly. A single braid gathered the man's glossy hair, its sleek beauty a testament to distant elven ancestors. Yet the tanned face, lined somewhat with age, betrayed his race. Legolas had smelt mortality in the faint odor of sweat on the man, had heard mortality in the strange little lie Aragost had told in the caverns.
The common cycle of mortals and living things of the forest appealed to his Silvan heart. The green things he loved would wither and die, and his sadness at this fate echoed the sadness of mortals, for they, too, would die. Yet like men, plants scattered their seed far and wide, renewing themselves, changing as needed, and in this the young elf saw hope. Even the Wood folk must fade into tawri, sprites of the forest, and in time, neither plant nor man would recall the elves as they had once been. The world would belong to men. [5, 6]
The next morning found Aragost in the library of Thranduil's second son. Innolas greeted the man as a visiting dignitary; he spoke respectfully behind a mask of elven inscrutability. This man was heir to the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and whatever rumors the elf-lord had heard about the son, Innolas held the father in high esteem.
Aragost examined the cozy room, its many lamps defying the perpetual night of the caverns, its book-lined walls softening the stone surroundings. "Perhaps a loremaster can tell me something of this feast your folk are celebrating. Your brother called it your most sacred feast, and it is celebrated differently than I have seen at Imladris."
"Legolas told you this?"
"Yes - I was lost in the passages, and he guided me to the entrance."
Innolas laughed. "Then he has spoken more words to you than he normally speaks in a week, at least to other elves. I believe he saves most of his words for the trees.
"The Silvan folk have always had the favor of Yavanna, for they remained behind to care for Ennor while the Eldar sought Aman. The harvest of corn is very special to the Wood Elves, a time to honor Yavanna and her gift of lembas, and a time for sorrow, as the feast will end with Yavanna's winter sleep. The lack of green things weighs heavy on the Silvan folk. It is a death to them."
Innolas turned to an overflowing shelf of books and selected one, handing it to the man. "You might find this interesting, if you wish to know more about our Woodland folk."
" 'Nern a Glîr e-Dawarwaith '," he read. He opened the book and read the title page silently. 'Collection and translation by Innolas and Legolas Thranduilion.' He would find this interesting, indeed. "Many thanks." [7]
Innolas took up a sheaf of papers, indicating the man's dismissal. "You may take that copy back to Imladris. I have meant to give one to Elrond, but the shadow grows ever more dark and we will cross Hithaeglir only in dire need."
The weather remained tolerably warm, despite the scent of the coming winter in the air, and Aragost found his way out of the caverns, intending to find a quiet spot to read until the noon meal. As he crossed the bridge, however, he saw Legolas leaving a hut on the river. Now clad in tunic and leggings, Legolas carried a bow and quiver and hailed the Dúnadan as he walked.
"Good morn, Aragost. I trust you did not find the night too long in the caverns?"
"Nay, I slept so soundly I might have been in my own bed. Too soundly, for I missed you at breakfast," he said regretfully.
"You did not miss me, for I did not breakfast in the caverns. I do not stay in my father's halls at night." The elf started down the beach-lined path toward Forod'lad. "That is my home," he added, nodding his head at the hut behind them. [8]
Aragost thought this a strange dwelling-place for the son of a King, but Northern Mirkwood, he had already determined, had many such curiosities. This unusual elf proved most curious of all.
"I am to take over the watch at the gates of Forod'lad. You may come, if you wish - it is a pretty view from the talan," he added, looking at the man shyly. The elf said no more as they traversed the little burg along the southern side of the river. At the town gates, Legolas halted next to a tall tree and whistled. An answering call came from the branches above them and the youngster scurried up the tree with the certainty and speed of a squirrel. A moment later, another elf dropped gracefully to the ground and a rope fell from the talan.
"I can climb a tree, though perhaps not so swiftly as you have done," Aragost protested.
"I do not doubt it, but the tree will not like your heavy boots," Legolas called from his hidden perch.
"I hope I will not distract you," the man said, when he had at last pulled himself up to the talan. He looked around, finding the view of the picturesque little town well worth his climb.
Legolas laughed. "It is a quiet watch. Mostly, I am listening for signals from other elves - those by the river, where there might be trouble, or a runner coming from the border to the south." Of late, he had stood watches on the river and along the eastern marches of his father's realm, always in the company of a more experienced warrior. This watch, his cousin trusted him to sit alone; it was a favor to the usual guards, not a training exercise. Innolas, too, would sit a few watches during the feast days, so that no one would miss the festival. Above all, however, the realm must remain secure. Mitharas made certain that his warriors did not let their guard down - high feast days had seen the fall of great elven kingdoms.
Legolas identified a few landmarks from their high perch, gradually lapsing into silence. As the afternoon wore on, Aragost found himself fighting sleep, but the elf remained subtly alert: so at ease he seemed to blend into the very tree, singing softly from time to time, yet his eyes and ears vigilant, constantly filtering the sounds of the forest for anything out of the ordinary. Aragost had never had much patience for long watches; he needed to stretch his legs and walk about. A slight movement to his left caught him nearly drowsing. Legolas held an arrow loosely but did not draw his bow, his keen eyes focused on the forest. A moment later, the rustling that had alerted the elf reached the ears of the man, and he saw a single wolf winding through the underbrush. The wolf came into the clear several times, but Legolas made no further movement.
"Will you not shoot it?" Aragost asked, growing impatient.
"He will not trouble the village. The deer are fat and lazy now, and the wolf has come out to hunt them. In winter, his hunger will make him bold and dangerous, and then perhaps we must shoot him - or frighten him away, if we can - to protect our livestock. He is a predator, not an unnatural thing of evil. We do not interfere with the balance of creatures as Oromë and Yavanna made them."
"I hope you do not have such a generous attitude toward spiders and wargs."
Legolas shook his head. "We should not meet a warg so deep within the protection of our realm. The spiders do elude the border guards at times, however - they can move through the trees, and one spider carrying an egg sac can hide for some time. They are clever creatures - when the spider at last shows itself, its eggs have spawned an entire nest of the foul things. They give us a great deal of trouble." He relaxed again as the wolf meandered away from Forod'lad, following deer tracks along the riverbank.
Through a veil of lashes, he looked sideways at Aragost. Anor had begun to sink in the west, and her last rays threw golden streams of light across the trees, turning the tanned face to rich gold. The man's eyes closed, sleep winning his consciousness, and Legolas held up a tentative hand, drawn to touch the illuminated cheeks.
A whistle broke his reverie. Below the talan, another elf had arrived to take the watch. Legolas answered the whistle and Aragost awoke, startled. He looked up at the elf, who carefully avoided his eyes. The youngster's cheeks were flush with embarrassment, and Aragost could not but wonder if he accounted for the high color in the elf's pale skin. 'A pity he is yet shy of his majority,' he mused.
A somber mood fell upon the forest as twilight welcomed the final night of the festival. The Silvan folk, until now merry and playful, grew serious and regretful. The elves had changed their colors, eschewing emerald green and gold of summer for garments of taupe and greyish-green. Thranduil's robes bore similar hues, and he had exchanged his crown of red leaves and berries for one of willow and chrysanthemums.
In the forest across the river, elves wished the trees a good sleep, singing softly in the Silvan tongue. Aragost followed them into the wood, enthralled by their song. Spying the glow of white-blond hair in a grove of beeches, Aragost chased the ethereal light, coming to a halt as beauty itself cut short his breath. The elenath illuminated silver tears; a voice of unearthly charm rose in song. The last leaves on the trees whispered in response, speaking their own farewell.
"Your heart is sad - it brings sorrow to mine," Aragost offered.
"Winter is long in Mirkwood. Snow comes and remains until spring. The trees sleep; they do not sigh in the breeze but groan as they are bent by bitter wind."
The man felt touched to the core by the young elf's lament, and laid a hand on his arm in a simple gesture of comfort.
This man had a singular effect on Legolas. In spite of his melancholic mood, he felt a thrill course through his body, a longing he recognized from the dreams that had recently disturbed his nights and left him more tired than refreshed.
Legolas had a sense that he knew this man, this stranger. He had come to appreciate that he had prescience other elves did not possess. He foresaw dangers in the forest - an approaching spider, a lightning storm - but had until recently dismissed such foresight as nothing extraordinary. It was a part of his Silvan heritage, the legacy of his mother.
Yet at times he made choices for no other reason than the guidance of his heart, choices that turned out, in retrospect, to be fortuitous. Early in the summer, Innolas had planned to visit Imladris, having gathered enough intelligence of the stirrings at Dol Guldur that he thought it necessary to speak with the ithron, Mithrandir. Just before his departure, however, Legolas had felt a dread come over him. "You should not go, Innolas. It is not safe. The passes are teeming with orcs - they are watching for elves," he advised, overcoming his fear that his elders would only smile patronizingly at the warning of a young, unworldly elf. [9]
"I know it is worrisome, muindor dithen, but it cannot be helped. We must sometimes undertake risk to avoid even greater peril."
Thranduil had listened to this exchange with an odd expression on his face. "He may see not risk, but certainty," the King mused. "I think it would be wise to put off this journey, Innolas. However important these matters may be, they will not reach the ithron if you are attacked."
Legolas could not now say if his fears held reason. Hindsight after a disaster is clear; a disaster averted may wear the disguise of over-cautiousness. Innolas had said no more of the matter to him, but Legolas knew he had spoken at length with their father, and had accepted Thranduil's decision.
His heart now told him that he had not finished with this man. Yet, he sensed in Aragost a weakness of character, a failing of courage. 'Why, then, am I drawn to him?' he wondered. Why was this man so important?
Under the piercing gaze of pewter eyes, Aragost shifted uncomfortably, though he had stood many a time under the keen observation of the Firstborn. At last, Legolas dropped his eyes and laid his own hand over the hand still holding his forearm.
"My heart tells me that though this is a night of death, it is a beginning, too."
The nearness of the elf made Aragost acutely aware of the scent of bayberry soap and the play of Ithil upon shining hair. His free hand pushed stray hairs from the elf's face, brushing the pointed ear as he did so.
This gesture did not have the effect he expected. Legolas abruptly dropped his arm and turned around. Confused for a moment, Aragost looked beyond the elf and met sea-grey eyes, narrow with suspicion.
"Legolas, you are wanted by Adar," Innolas announced, one eye still on the Dúnadan as he spoke.
The younger elf murmured an apology and hurried away to see his father, leaving the man to wonder what Innolas had seen and heard.
"You seem to have taken an interest in my brother."
Aragost looked at the elf-lord warily. "Do you think mortal men cannot be touched by the sadness of an elf?" he asked, allowing a touch of defensiveness into his voice.
"It is a time of grief for the Silvan folk. His mother was a Wood Elf and her blood is strong in Legolas. He feels the coming of winter more keenly than do the others of my father's house. He is vulnerable at such a time, and I fear he might be led astray," Innolas explained, his tone chilly.
"I do not mean to lead him astray." Aragost stepped back, surprised by the loremaster's sudden change of temper. The elf who stood before him, drawn to his full and not inconsiderable height - made all the more imposing by the somewhat more substantial build of the Sindar and the ancient force of his bloodline - looked absolutely forbidding, every inch an echo of his father the King.
"Legolas does not yet know that one may be ill-used even when no malice is meant," Innolas continued, as if the man had not spoken.
"I have no intentions by your brother," Aragost protested.
"That I believe. But does he know that?"
Aragost shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of the elf-lord's unremitting stare. "In any event, he is too young."
"He is indeed," Innolas said sharply.
Aragost raised his eyes to meet those of the elf, knowing that here, at least, he was blameless. "You need not worry - I do not seduce children."
Innolas only nodded. The man's sincerity mattered little before the determination of an artless elven heart. The romantic story of Beren and Lúthien had thrilled many a young elf, including his brother. Older and wiser, Innolas thought not of Doriath's star-crossed lovers, but of another, more tragic pair out of elven history. 'Ai, Legolas. I adan hen ú-Veren,' he lamented, quoting from that unhappy tale. [10, 11]
The sooner the man departed, the better. Legolas' fascination with mortals could be useful to their people, but he must not be encouraged to stray beyond the bounds of friendship and goodwill. Love, whether that of gwedeir or melethryn, must come to grief for an elf. [12]
"I would guess that you are wanted by your people." Innolas spoke briskly, his tone allowing no quarter for protest. "It is my understanding that the Dúnedain of the North are no longer so numerous that any can be spared for journeys of pleasure. I am surprised that your father finds his only son so dispensable that he may wander the Wilderland."
Aragost grimaced. Indeed, his father did not find his son so dispensable. "It is true that we are likely needed at home. We have tarried too long here - we will begin preparations for the return journey soon."
"That would be wise. Hithaeglir shall soon be impassible."
~~~~~
'What am I to do with thee, o profligate son of mine?' Silently, Arahad regarded his heir. At turns exasperated and deeply concerned, the Chieftain, now grey and infirm, had all but lost hope for his son. It was folly, in these times, to venture into the eastern lands without good reason - and Aragost rarely had good reason.
Arahad's rule bespoke a wise and courageous leader. His task had not been easy, for almost as he assumed his father's place did Sauron return to Dol Guldur. Though they had lost their kingdom, the Dúnedain retained guardianship of their erstwhile subjects and tributaries in Eriador. By Arahad's careful management of his dwindling people, the men of Bree and hobbits of the Shire lived in blissful ignorance of the darkening world around them.
His son proved a disappointment. A clever student, he had learned quickly under Elrond's tutorship, but the more important lessons of character and honor had not stuck so well. He had the skills to be a useful Ranger, but preferred to pass his time in Bree, gambling and drinking. This excursion to Dorwinion, in the company of two equally rakish miscreants, infuriated Arahad; his anger grew exponentially as he extracted full details of the journey from the more loose-lipped of his son's companions. One aspect particularly troubled him - he did not want enmity between his people and the King of Northern Mirkwood. The king's warriors and scouts were an invaluable source of information, and safe passage through that haunted forest depended on the goodwill of the elves. Moreover, Thranduil had sent help to Isildur when Elendil's son fell by the Gladden Fields; the Dúnedain would not forget this debt. [13]
"I hardly think the safe delivery of wine numbers among the duties of a Ranger. Moreover, your attentions to the Elvenking's son are indefensible. I should not need to remind you that he is yet a child among his people." He shook off his son's offer of assistance as he stumped toward his chair, waving his cane for emphasis rather than putting it to the use for which it was intended.
"You know that to which you allude is unconscionable." Arahad raised his chin righteously.
"I question whether 'unconscionable' has any meaning to you. Your activities permit broad interpretation of the word.
"You have too long kept Elvelleth waiting," Arahad continued, "and your indiscretions do not lessen but compound one another as you grow older. I urge you to marry her with haste and produce sons. I can only hope that her influence will bring you to heel, for I concede that your father has utterly failed to direct your conduct.
"I am old, Aragost. My days grow short, and I cannot say that my heir brings comfort, or assurance that my people will have wise leadership after I am gone."
Arahad knew that his words were but drops in a stream. Though he regarded his son with more pity than sympathy, he understood Aragost better than the younger man could know. At one time, he too had trod the path of his Chieftain father but reluctantly. The leadership of their people seemed such a paltry thing, a hopeless clinging to a past long buried.
Once in his life, he had gone to Fornost. It had seemed appropriate for the ruined heir of Elendil to walk once amongst the ruins of Arnor. Even in that haunted place, one could still see the trappings of royalty - Noldorin craftsmanship in the remains of a stone archway, dwarven excellence in the wide stone paving of the road to the castle, so perfectly fit together that neither weed nor blade of grass had dared to disrupt the surface. Anything of value, orcs had stolen; anything of beauty, they had desecrated. Yet, nobility stirred here in a way it did not in the transient dwellings of the Dúnedain of Arahad's day. Tents replaced stone; they lived a secretive, wandering life, dependent upon the protection of Elrond for the continuance of their line.
What had he to leave his son? He had no castle, no armory, no treasures. What home he had was here, at Imladris. In his younger days, it had been but a resting place, a brief stop to reacquaint himself with his wife and son before he went again into the wild with his men. A Chieftain lived the life of a warrior, not of a functionary. Now, in the waning years of his life, he had retired to these elven halls, leaving his people scattered in the Angle. He could no longer provide the active leadership they needed. He feared that his reign would see the loss of what little he had - the Dúnedain themselves, proud guardians of the free peoples, fierce enemies of Sauron. Sons crept off to Gondor; daughters followed and those who remained had few children. They had no more confidence in a future under his son's rule than did he.
Aragost's toe scuffed at the carpet. His father's presence inevitably unmanned him; he bethought himself a wayward schoolboy rather than an adult of nearly four score years. With what words could he defend himself? Arahad expected nothing of Aragost that he did not expect of himself. He towered over his son, his deeds an acme Aragost could never hope to reach, and his infrequent appearances during Aragost's childhood had done little to demythologize the Chieftain. If the younger man had been made of better stuff, he might have seen a challenge in Arahad's expectations. Wounded pride might have festered to bring out the best in Aragost. It had not been so. Aragost did not dwell upon hurts. Mediocrity lay at the heart of his failings - too easily did he accept them.
Dismissed from his father's presence, he retired to his own rooms, relieved to have the unpleasant interview ended. The little book he had brought from Mirkwood caught his eye, and he soon immersed himself in the lyrical stories - a book, after all, is the one place in which we can hide even from ourselves. A clear, young voice sang the lays and spun the tales of his Silvan kin, bringing again to life a mystical forest that pushed Imladris into the shadows of Aragost's mind. By twilight, he hardly thought of his father's harsh words, hearing instead the star-opening song of the Wood Elves, and he fell asleep to a mournful lullaby for the trees.
Even his dreams were pleasant, for he dreamt himself in the arms of Tilion, hands entwined in hair of pale moonlight, eyes held fast by orbs of pewter, dark and shining at once.
Be forewarned that there is some slash in this chapter, of the innocent, teen crush variety - Legolas is not yet an adult.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Tolkien with the exception of original characters needed to fill out Legolas' family tree or move the story along. Translations of Elvish words (Sindarin, unless otherwise stated) and additional notes are found at the end of the chapter.
Elves enchanted Aragost. They could match no man in brute strength, yet so quick and sure were their movements, they usually had the best of a mortal foe in hand-to-hand combat. So slender, they looked fragile, yet proved tireless in feats of endurance. No sickness could touch them, yet mere grief could herald their death. They ate like birds, yet served up feasts of unrivalled richness. Most of all, the man admired their beauty: their hair of gossamer silk had strength enough to string a bow and seemed never to tangle in the trees; their fair and smooth skin implied youth, yet their eyes - their eyes revealed endless depths of living.
At this moment, however, he felt more apt to malign than admire a certain elf. That elf's preferred epithet was King Thranduil, and the underground maze the Elvenking called his home had roused the Dúnadan's ire. The man had become quite lost in the bewildering passages, and he wondered aloud at the casual hospitality that had left a guest of the King to his own devices.
"Curse that imperious Sinda and every dwarf who laid hammer and chisel to this wretched hole!" he muttered, stopping at a fork in the passage.
A peal of laughter answered him. "Three times I have watched you return to this place. I learned that Rangers had great sense of direction, but perhaps my teacher was mistaken."
"Show yourself, Elf. And I cannot help it if my senses are undone. I am used to elves who live in sensible places, not in caves like orcs," he growled.
A figure stepped from the shadows of the passage, and Aragost bit his tongue; Thranduil's progeny could hardly pretend to be anything but the product of their sire. Blond locks were rare among elves, and the singular beauty of the House of Lasgalen had admirers even among the aristocratic Noldor at Imladris.
"My apologies, hîr. My journey was wearying and I am not at ease in these caverns. The closeness reminds me of a youthful encounter with a cave of orcs," he said quickly. This was not strictly a lie, though the only orcs he had found in the cave had arisen from a child's overactive imagination, encouraged by two rather mischievous Peredhil. [1]
The elf smiled in sympathy. He was slender as a reed and somewhat small, easily a head shorter than the man. He had a look of innocence and curiosity not yet lost to time and the weight of memory - the King's youngest child, Aragost guessed. The elves of Imladris no longer bore children, and the Dúnadan had never before met an elf younger than him. "I am not terribly fond of my father's dwellings," the elf admitted.
"If not too great a burden, will you would help me out of these infernal passages?" Aragost entreated, relieved that the son of Thranduil had not taken offense.
"It shall be no burden at all, for I am on my way to the festivities myself. I was required," the elf said, with a rueful pull of his mouth, "to attire myself somewhat more suitably, for this night commences our most sacred rite."
Aragost wondered what the young elf meant by 'most sacred rite'. All elves celebrated the Mereth Iau-Grithol, but Imladris assigned it no more importance than it did any other feast. [2]
In its honor, the young elf had exchanged his daily garb for robes in the emerald green of his House, embroidered with the device of the King. In a few years, Aragost knew, when the elf came of age, he would choose his own emblem. The elf's hair captured the very glow of Ithil, and he had arranged these pale tresses in a heavy braid that sat atop his head like a crown. The braid separated into numerous slender braids, each woven with leafy vines. Enchanted by the lovely creature, Aragost sighed happily as he followed the elf's swift, silent feet.
The elf looked over his shoulder. "Do you have a name, Dúnadan?"
"Aragost, son of Arahad."
"And I am Legolas. Well met, Aragost."
They came at last to the entrance hall, and the man was now a bit sorry he had not been more lost, for they immediately parted ways on the green outside the caverns - Aragost met his companions and Legolas hurried to join his family. Torchlight flickered and the Ivonwin danced through its shadow and light, symbolizing the end of the harvest and the beginning of firith. Aragost had seen similar ceremonies at Imladris many a time, but this dance had something more primeval to it. The passion of the dancing elf-maids evoked an image of Cuiviénen itself and the joy of the first elves as they awoke, wondering at the world the Valar had made. [3, 4]
Legolas watched Aragost discreetly. A single braid gathered the man's glossy hair, its sleek beauty a testament to distant elven ancestors. Yet the tanned face, lined somewhat with age, betrayed his race. Legolas had smelt mortality in the faint odor of sweat on the man, had heard mortality in the strange little lie Aragost had told in the caverns.
The common cycle of mortals and living things of the forest appealed to his Silvan heart. The green things he loved would wither and die, and his sadness at this fate echoed the sadness of mortals, for they, too, would die. Yet like men, plants scattered their seed far and wide, renewing themselves, changing as needed, and in this the young elf saw hope. Even the Wood folk must fade into tawri, sprites of the forest, and in time, neither plant nor man would recall the elves as they had once been. The world would belong to men. [5, 6]
The next morning found Aragost in the library of Thranduil's second son. Innolas greeted the man as a visiting dignitary; he spoke respectfully behind a mask of elven inscrutability. This man was heir to the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and whatever rumors the elf-lord had heard about the son, Innolas held the father in high esteem.
Aragost examined the cozy room, its many lamps defying the perpetual night of the caverns, its book-lined walls softening the stone surroundings. "Perhaps a loremaster can tell me something of this feast your folk are celebrating. Your brother called it your most sacred feast, and it is celebrated differently than I have seen at Imladris."
"Legolas told you this?"
"Yes - I was lost in the passages, and he guided me to the entrance."
Innolas laughed. "Then he has spoken more words to you than he normally speaks in a week, at least to other elves. I believe he saves most of his words for the trees.
"The Silvan folk have always had the favor of Yavanna, for they remained behind to care for Ennor while the Eldar sought Aman. The harvest of corn is very special to the Wood Elves, a time to honor Yavanna and her gift of lembas, and a time for sorrow, as the feast will end with Yavanna's winter sleep. The lack of green things weighs heavy on the Silvan folk. It is a death to them."
Innolas turned to an overflowing shelf of books and selected one, handing it to the man. "You might find this interesting, if you wish to know more about our Woodland folk."
" 'Nern a Glîr e-Dawarwaith '," he read. He opened the book and read the title page silently. 'Collection and translation by Innolas and Legolas Thranduilion.' He would find this interesting, indeed. "Many thanks." [7]
Innolas took up a sheaf of papers, indicating the man's dismissal. "You may take that copy back to Imladris. I have meant to give one to Elrond, but the shadow grows ever more dark and we will cross Hithaeglir only in dire need."
The weather remained tolerably warm, despite the scent of the coming winter in the air, and Aragost found his way out of the caverns, intending to find a quiet spot to read until the noon meal. As he crossed the bridge, however, he saw Legolas leaving a hut on the river. Now clad in tunic and leggings, Legolas carried a bow and quiver and hailed the Dúnadan as he walked.
"Good morn, Aragost. I trust you did not find the night too long in the caverns?"
"Nay, I slept so soundly I might have been in my own bed. Too soundly, for I missed you at breakfast," he said regretfully.
"You did not miss me, for I did not breakfast in the caverns. I do not stay in my father's halls at night." The elf started down the beach-lined path toward Forod'lad. "That is my home," he added, nodding his head at the hut behind them. [8]
Aragost thought this a strange dwelling-place for the son of a King, but Northern Mirkwood, he had already determined, had many such curiosities. This unusual elf proved most curious of all.
"I am to take over the watch at the gates of Forod'lad. You may come, if you wish - it is a pretty view from the talan," he added, looking at the man shyly. The elf said no more as they traversed the little burg along the southern side of the river. At the town gates, Legolas halted next to a tall tree and whistled. An answering call came from the branches above them and the youngster scurried up the tree with the certainty and speed of a squirrel. A moment later, another elf dropped gracefully to the ground and a rope fell from the talan.
"I can climb a tree, though perhaps not so swiftly as you have done," Aragost protested.
"I do not doubt it, but the tree will not like your heavy boots," Legolas called from his hidden perch.
"I hope I will not distract you," the man said, when he had at last pulled himself up to the talan. He looked around, finding the view of the picturesque little town well worth his climb.
Legolas laughed. "It is a quiet watch. Mostly, I am listening for signals from other elves - those by the river, where there might be trouble, or a runner coming from the border to the south." Of late, he had stood watches on the river and along the eastern marches of his father's realm, always in the company of a more experienced warrior. This watch, his cousin trusted him to sit alone; it was a favor to the usual guards, not a training exercise. Innolas, too, would sit a few watches during the feast days, so that no one would miss the festival. Above all, however, the realm must remain secure. Mitharas made certain that his warriors did not let their guard down - high feast days had seen the fall of great elven kingdoms.
Legolas identified a few landmarks from their high perch, gradually lapsing into silence. As the afternoon wore on, Aragost found himself fighting sleep, but the elf remained subtly alert: so at ease he seemed to blend into the very tree, singing softly from time to time, yet his eyes and ears vigilant, constantly filtering the sounds of the forest for anything out of the ordinary. Aragost had never had much patience for long watches; he needed to stretch his legs and walk about. A slight movement to his left caught him nearly drowsing. Legolas held an arrow loosely but did not draw his bow, his keen eyes focused on the forest. A moment later, the rustling that had alerted the elf reached the ears of the man, and he saw a single wolf winding through the underbrush. The wolf came into the clear several times, but Legolas made no further movement.
"Will you not shoot it?" Aragost asked, growing impatient.
"He will not trouble the village. The deer are fat and lazy now, and the wolf has come out to hunt them. In winter, his hunger will make him bold and dangerous, and then perhaps we must shoot him - or frighten him away, if we can - to protect our livestock. He is a predator, not an unnatural thing of evil. We do not interfere with the balance of creatures as Oromë and Yavanna made them."
"I hope you do not have such a generous attitude toward spiders and wargs."
Legolas shook his head. "We should not meet a warg so deep within the protection of our realm. The spiders do elude the border guards at times, however - they can move through the trees, and one spider carrying an egg sac can hide for some time. They are clever creatures - when the spider at last shows itself, its eggs have spawned an entire nest of the foul things. They give us a great deal of trouble." He relaxed again as the wolf meandered away from Forod'lad, following deer tracks along the riverbank.
Through a veil of lashes, he looked sideways at Aragost. Anor had begun to sink in the west, and her last rays threw golden streams of light across the trees, turning the tanned face to rich gold. The man's eyes closed, sleep winning his consciousness, and Legolas held up a tentative hand, drawn to touch the illuminated cheeks.
A whistle broke his reverie. Below the talan, another elf had arrived to take the watch. Legolas answered the whistle and Aragost awoke, startled. He looked up at the elf, who carefully avoided his eyes. The youngster's cheeks were flush with embarrassment, and Aragost could not but wonder if he accounted for the high color in the elf's pale skin. 'A pity he is yet shy of his majority,' he mused.
A somber mood fell upon the forest as twilight welcomed the final night of the festival. The Silvan folk, until now merry and playful, grew serious and regretful. The elves had changed their colors, eschewing emerald green and gold of summer for garments of taupe and greyish-green. Thranduil's robes bore similar hues, and he had exchanged his crown of red leaves and berries for one of willow and chrysanthemums.
In the forest across the river, elves wished the trees a good sleep, singing softly in the Silvan tongue. Aragost followed them into the wood, enthralled by their song. Spying the glow of white-blond hair in a grove of beeches, Aragost chased the ethereal light, coming to a halt as beauty itself cut short his breath. The elenath illuminated silver tears; a voice of unearthly charm rose in song. The last leaves on the trees whispered in response, speaking their own farewell.
"Your heart is sad - it brings sorrow to mine," Aragost offered.
"Winter is long in Mirkwood. Snow comes and remains until spring. The trees sleep; they do not sigh in the breeze but groan as they are bent by bitter wind."
The man felt touched to the core by the young elf's lament, and laid a hand on his arm in a simple gesture of comfort.
This man had a singular effect on Legolas. In spite of his melancholic mood, he felt a thrill course through his body, a longing he recognized from the dreams that had recently disturbed his nights and left him more tired than refreshed.
Legolas had a sense that he knew this man, this stranger. He had come to appreciate that he had prescience other elves did not possess. He foresaw dangers in the forest - an approaching spider, a lightning storm - but had until recently dismissed such foresight as nothing extraordinary. It was a part of his Silvan heritage, the legacy of his mother.
Yet at times he made choices for no other reason than the guidance of his heart, choices that turned out, in retrospect, to be fortuitous. Early in the summer, Innolas had planned to visit Imladris, having gathered enough intelligence of the stirrings at Dol Guldur that he thought it necessary to speak with the ithron, Mithrandir. Just before his departure, however, Legolas had felt a dread come over him. "You should not go, Innolas. It is not safe. The passes are teeming with orcs - they are watching for elves," he advised, overcoming his fear that his elders would only smile patronizingly at the warning of a young, unworldly elf. [9]
"I know it is worrisome, muindor dithen, but it cannot be helped. We must sometimes undertake risk to avoid even greater peril."
Thranduil had listened to this exchange with an odd expression on his face. "He may see not risk, but certainty," the King mused. "I think it would be wise to put off this journey, Innolas. However important these matters may be, they will not reach the ithron if you are attacked."
Legolas could not now say if his fears held reason. Hindsight after a disaster is clear; a disaster averted may wear the disguise of over-cautiousness. Innolas had said no more of the matter to him, but Legolas knew he had spoken at length with their father, and had accepted Thranduil's decision.
His heart now told him that he had not finished with this man. Yet, he sensed in Aragost a weakness of character, a failing of courage. 'Why, then, am I drawn to him?' he wondered. Why was this man so important?
Under the piercing gaze of pewter eyes, Aragost shifted uncomfortably, though he had stood many a time under the keen observation of the Firstborn. At last, Legolas dropped his eyes and laid his own hand over the hand still holding his forearm.
"My heart tells me that though this is a night of death, it is a beginning, too."
The nearness of the elf made Aragost acutely aware of the scent of bayberry soap and the play of Ithil upon shining hair. His free hand pushed stray hairs from the elf's face, brushing the pointed ear as he did so.
This gesture did not have the effect he expected. Legolas abruptly dropped his arm and turned around. Confused for a moment, Aragost looked beyond the elf and met sea-grey eyes, narrow with suspicion.
"Legolas, you are wanted by Adar," Innolas announced, one eye still on the Dúnadan as he spoke.
The younger elf murmured an apology and hurried away to see his father, leaving the man to wonder what Innolas had seen and heard.
"You seem to have taken an interest in my brother."
Aragost looked at the elf-lord warily. "Do you think mortal men cannot be touched by the sadness of an elf?" he asked, allowing a touch of defensiveness into his voice.
"It is a time of grief for the Silvan folk. His mother was a Wood Elf and her blood is strong in Legolas. He feels the coming of winter more keenly than do the others of my father's house. He is vulnerable at such a time, and I fear he might be led astray," Innolas explained, his tone chilly.
"I do not mean to lead him astray." Aragost stepped back, surprised by the loremaster's sudden change of temper. The elf who stood before him, drawn to his full and not inconsiderable height - made all the more imposing by the somewhat more substantial build of the Sindar and the ancient force of his bloodline - looked absolutely forbidding, every inch an echo of his father the King.
"Legolas does not yet know that one may be ill-used even when no malice is meant," Innolas continued, as if the man had not spoken.
"I have no intentions by your brother," Aragost protested.
"That I believe. But does he know that?"
Aragost shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of the elf-lord's unremitting stare. "In any event, he is too young."
"He is indeed," Innolas said sharply.
Aragost raised his eyes to meet those of the elf, knowing that here, at least, he was blameless. "You need not worry - I do not seduce children."
Innolas only nodded. The man's sincerity mattered little before the determination of an artless elven heart. The romantic story of Beren and Lúthien had thrilled many a young elf, including his brother. Older and wiser, Innolas thought not of Doriath's star-crossed lovers, but of another, more tragic pair out of elven history. 'Ai, Legolas. I adan hen ú-Veren,' he lamented, quoting from that unhappy tale. [10, 11]
The sooner the man departed, the better. Legolas' fascination with mortals could be useful to their people, but he must not be encouraged to stray beyond the bounds of friendship and goodwill. Love, whether that of gwedeir or melethryn, must come to grief for an elf. [12]
"I would guess that you are wanted by your people." Innolas spoke briskly, his tone allowing no quarter for protest. "It is my understanding that the Dúnedain of the North are no longer so numerous that any can be spared for journeys of pleasure. I am surprised that your father finds his only son so dispensable that he may wander the Wilderland."
Aragost grimaced. Indeed, his father did not find his son so dispensable. "It is true that we are likely needed at home. We have tarried too long here - we will begin preparations for the return journey soon."
"That would be wise. Hithaeglir shall soon be impassible."
Arahad's rule bespoke a wise and courageous leader. His task had not been easy, for almost as he assumed his father's place did Sauron return to Dol Guldur. Though they had lost their kingdom, the Dúnedain retained guardianship of their erstwhile subjects and tributaries in Eriador. By Arahad's careful management of his dwindling people, the men of Bree and hobbits of the Shire lived in blissful ignorance of the darkening world around them.
His son proved a disappointment. A clever student, he had learned quickly under Elrond's tutorship, but the more important lessons of character and honor had not stuck so well. He had the skills to be a useful Ranger, but preferred to pass his time in Bree, gambling and drinking. This excursion to Dorwinion, in the company of two equally rakish miscreants, infuriated Arahad; his anger grew exponentially as he extracted full details of the journey from the more loose-lipped of his son's companions. One aspect particularly troubled him - he did not want enmity between his people and the King of Northern Mirkwood. The king's warriors and scouts were an invaluable source of information, and safe passage through that haunted forest depended on the goodwill of the elves. Moreover, Thranduil had sent help to Isildur when Elendil's son fell by the Gladden Fields; the Dúnedain would not forget this debt. [13]
"I hardly think the safe delivery of wine numbers among the duties of a Ranger. Moreover, your attentions to the Elvenking's son are indefensible. I should not need to remind you that he is yet a child among his people." He shook off his son's offer of assistance as he stumped toward his chair, waving his cane for emphasis rather than putting it to the use for which it was intended.
"You know that to which you allude is unconscionable." Arahad raised his chin righteously.
"I question whether 'unconscionable' has any meaning to you. Your activities permit broad interpretation of the word.
"You have too long kept Elvelleth waiting," Arahad continued, "and your indiscretions do not lessen but compound one another as you grow older. I urge you to marry her with haste and produce sons. I can only hope that her influence will bring you to heel, for I concede that your father has utterly failed to direct your conduct.
"I am old, Aragost. My days grow short, and I cannot say that my heir brings comfort, or assurance that my people will have wise leadership after I am gone."
Arahad knew that his words were but drops in a stream. Though he regarded his son with more pity than sympathy, he understood Aragost better than the younger man could know. At one time, he too had trod the path of his Chieftain father but reluctantly. The leadership of their people seemed such a paltry thing, a hopeless clinging to a past long buried.
Once in his life, he had gone to Fornost. It had seemed appropriate for the ruined heir of Elendil to walk once amongst the ruins of Arnor. Even in that haunted place, one could still see the trappings of royalty - Noldorin craftsmanship in the remains of a stone archway, dwarven excellence in the wide stone paving of the road to the castle, so perfectly fit together that neither weed nor blade of grass had dared to disrupt the surface. Anything of value, orcs had stolen; anything of beauty, they had desecrated. Yet, nobility stirred here in a way it did not in the transient dwellings of the Dúnedain of Arahad's day. Tents replaced stone; they lived a secretive, wandering life, dependent upon the protection of Elrond for the continuance of their line.
What had he to leave his son? He had no castle, no armory, no treasures. What home he had was here, at Imladris. In his younger days, it had been but a resting place, a brief stop to reacquaint himself with his wife and son before he went again into the wild with his men. A Chieftain lived the life of a warrior, not of a functionary. Now, in the waning years of his life, he had retired to these elven halls, leaving his people scattered in the Angle. He could no longer provide the active leadership they needed. He feared that his reign would see the loss of what little he had - the Dúnedain themselves, proud guardians of the free peoples, fierce enemies of Sauron. Sons crept off to Gondor; daughters followed and those who remained had few children. They had no more confidence in a future under his son's rule than did he.
Aragost's toe scuffed at the carpet. His father's presence inevitably unmanned him; he bethought himself a wayward schoolboy rather than an adult of nearly four score years. With what words could he defend himself? Arahad expected nothing of Aragost that he did not expect of himself. He towered over his son, his deeds an acme Aragost could never hope to reach, and his infrequent appearances during Aragost's childhood had done little to demythologize the Chieftain. If the younger man had been made of better stuff, he might have seen a challenge in Arahad's expectations. Wounded pride might have festered to bring out the best in Aragost. It had not been so. Aragost did not dwell upon hurts. Mediocrity lay at the heart of his failings - too easily did he accept them.
Dismissed from his father's presence, he retired to his own rooms, relieved to have the unpleasant interview ended. The little book he had brought from Mirkwood caught his eye, and he soon immersed himself in the lyrical stories - a book, after all, is the one place in which we can hide even from ourselves. A clear, young voice sang the lays and spun the tales of his Silvan kin, bringing again to life a mystical forest that pushed Imladris into the shadows of Aragost's mind. By twilight, he hardly thought of his father's harsh words, hearing instead the star-opening song of the Wood Elves, and he fell asleep to a mournful lullaby for the trees.
Even his dreams were pleasant, for he dreamt himself in the arms of Tilion, hands entwined in hair of pale moonlight, eyes held fast by orbs of pewter, dark and shining at once.
- [1] hîr
- lord
- [2] Mereth Iau-Grithol
- lit. 'festival of corn-reaping'. Grithol is the participle of the verb critho, lenited to g- as an adjective following its noun.
- [3] Ivonwin
- Maidens of Yavanna - they were the only elves allowed to handle the corn until it was made into lembas. (ref. The Peoples of Middle-Earth, 'Of Lembas')
- [4] firith
- season of fading - late autumn/early winter
- [5] tawri
- fays of the wood (Silvan). This is constructed from tawaró /tawaré. w seems to be a valid sound in Silvan Elvish, as attested by Denweg - though it disappeared in the consonant cluster kw and probably gw. The syncope of tawar " tawr is attested by Golodó " Golda. -ó /-é are masculine and feminine endings; both would become -a in Nandorin, but it appears that in plurals a final vowel drops off (attested by Linda /Lindi). (ref. The Lost Road, 'Etymologies' and The War of the Jewels, 'Quendi and Eldar')
In The Peoples of Middle-Earth, Tolkien suggests that the Silvan folk never left ME, but 'fad[ed] in the fastness of the woods and hills, as Men usurped the lands' . (ref 'The Appendix on Languages' p 73 & 79, pub. Houghton Mifflin)
- [6] 'Yet like men, plants scattered their seed far and wide, renewing themselves, changing as needed, and in this the young elf saw hope.'
- This is inspired by Legolas' words in LOTR: 'Yet seldom do they fail of their seed. And that will lie in the dust and rot to spring up again in times and places unlooked-for. The deeds of Men will outlast us, Gimli.' (ref. 'ROTK', Book 5, Chapter IX)
- [7] Nern a Glîr e-Dawarwaith
- Tales and Songs of the Silvan Elves
- [8] Forod'lad
- It seems likely that some sort of a village would be near Thranduil's caverns. The name is mine - it means 'Northwood'.
- [9] ithron
- wizard
- [10] 'The romantic story of Beren and Lúthien had thrilled many a young elf, including his brother.'
- Legolas makes an interesting observation regarding Aragorn in LOTR: '…nobler is his spirit than the understanding of Sauron; for is he not of the children of Lúthien? Never shall that line fail, though the years may lengthen beyond count.' (ref. 'ROTK', Book Five, Chapter IX)
- [11] 'I adan hen ú-Veren '
- 'This man is not Beren' - these are Gwindor's words to Finduilas concerning Túrin. (ref. The Silmarillion p 252 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)
- [12] gwedeir, melethryn
- blood-brothers (sworn brothers); lovers
- [13] 'Moreover, Thranduil had sent help to Isildur when Elendil's son fell by the Gladden Fields; the Dúnedain would not forget this debt.'
- Yes, really - forget the fanon that portrays Thranduil as hostile toward Isildur and his line. (ref. Unfinished Tales, 'Disaster of the Gladden Fields', p 288 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)