AUTHOR NOTES: This chapter will include the members of the Fellowship, and
will explain how Legolas came to join them. I decided to skip the Council
of Elrond. I hope that's cool with everyone. After all, it is a matter of
politics more than of the psyche, which is the main focus of my story.
There's not much space for elaboration besides. Realize, of course, that
this story contains many spoilers for anyone who has not read the complete
Lord of the Rings trilogy. Now, here is Chapter 4:
Chapter IV - In the House of Elrond
"How is he, my lord?"
"As good as he may be given the trauma of the assault. The Black Breath has affected him, though not severely. He was weary from his journey and they caught him at unawares. I fear, though, that the affliction will stay with him as long as he dwells upon this shore."
"They guessed who he was, then?"
"I do not doubt it, Erestor. I have heard from Mithrandir that the Nazgûl have been trained to seek out our nobility, or at least what is left of them. They must have sensed him from their Master's bidding. It is well he encountered them here, close to our aid. Otherwise I do not think he would have survived."
"Few can ride openly against the Nine. Lord Glorfindel drove them away, though I fear what may next assail us. He rides now to seek out Frodo as Mithrandir suggested."
"Then there is a little hope yet."
* * *
He cried out in his nightmares only once.
"Adar!"
* * *
There was something cool and firm upon Legolas' forehead. He furrowed his brow and slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the daylight. He felt a breeze and in the air he smelled something clean and leafy. He was warm but the light wind was refreshing. As his eyes came into focus, Legolas saw an Elven woman with raven hair seated by him. His mind raced back to the memories of his earliest childhood-the first hundred years that had been marked by such happiness, when Mirkwood was fresh and flourishing. The part of him that still dwelt in the nightmares the Black Breath had settled upon him whispered, "Mother?" But fatigue silenced him. The cool thing was lifted away-it had been her hand.
"Legolas, can you see me?"
That voice! "Ar-Arwen?"
"Yes, my friend. I am here."
She shimmered into view, looking just as she had the hundreds of years ago that last he had seen her: the flawless oval face, the crystal- gray eyes glinting, her hair glossy as a river at night-a startlingly beautiful maiden. She was smiling a little, and relief at his recovery was evident in her face.
"You had us worried for three days, Legolas," she chided gently.
He sat up with a start. "The Council!" It was a mistake. Dizziness made him lean back again with a weary sigh.
"Relax!" she laughed. "It is October the 14th, and naught shall happen for eleven more days. You have missed nothing."
He smiled and reached out for her hand. "I have missed you, Arwen. What I have heard of your well-being has only been the things of rumor, yet some things I know to be true-for they were told to me by Aragorn." He briefly searched her face. "*That* at least is true then?"
She sighed, looking away at something he could not see, a new light kindled in her storm-colored eyes. "Yes, it is true, Legolas. I knew it long ago. In Lorien."
"Lorien. *Many* years ago, then. Sometimes I forget that he is of Númenorean blood."
"It shall let him live a little longer." Her tone was soft, but icy and bitter.
Legolas began to say something else but suddenly a wave of complete nausea came over him like a cloud that blocks out the sun. He gasped for air, and Arwen grasped his hand between both of her own and called to him in their sacred tongue.
"Lasto beth nin. Tolo dan na ngalad."
The pain vanished. "What happened?" he asked in a broken whisper, willing his pulse to slow.
"The Nine caught you at our borders, or nearly did. There were only four of them there, but they came so close to taking you from us that you were marked by the Black Breath. Had you been mortal, I think you would have immediately become a wraith like them-so deep and ferocious was their malice."
"Glorfindel-"
"He sensed your approach, and is an Elf-Lord of great power, second only to my father here in Rivendell. He alone drove them away." She paused and looked at him without pity or admiration, but genuine respect as though he were a great king like his father. "One day, they shall fly from you."
"That I doubt," he said with a little laugh.
She rose and drew her shawl over her shoulders: mist-blue gauze hemmed with clear gems like drops of rain. "I will leave you to rest now," she said, pausing at the door. "Come down to us only when you are ready. Your friends often ask of you."
"Thank you, Undómiel," the prince said.
"The pleasure is mine, Greenleaf," she replied with a little mischievous grin.
* * *
Prince Legolas of Mirkwood was blessed with the ability to heal swiftly and without lingering pain, as was the gift delivered unto all of his kind. Yet for many years following the War of the Ring, he swore that that encounter with the Nazgûl had permanently had an effect upon his soul.
By that evening, Legolas was up and about, as easy upon his feet as any of the other Elves. He saw many friends: his companions from Mirkwood, Lord Elrond whom he had known since before he could remember, Elrond's councilor Erestor, and many others of the household of Imladris. He was grieved to learn that the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, had gone abroad with the Rangers.
"Wait," Arwen said. "My heart tells me you will meet with my brothers before this ordeal is through."
And now "this ordeal" was in all of their minds, hanging like a low storm cloud over the lush valley. Many travelers came each day, and they met with no trouble from the Nine. The Dwarves reported a run in with Mountain Goblins but little else had gone amiss for them. All hearts were filled with fear when the Ringbearer was late.
Glorfindel said he found Frodo with Aragorn and three others of the Halfling kind after nine days abroad. Frodo had taken a stab from a Morgul blade-an unheard of wound that would have rendered even an Elf-Lord come of age in a state of near-death. Legolas imagined what the Hobbit suffered in comparison with his own affliction. It seemed to be nothing at all against such a hurt. The Nine had been vanquished in the river, drowned by a powerful spell concocted by Elrond, but it was only a matter of time before they returned stronger than ever.
Legolas was relieved when Aragorn arrived, though the Ranger was heavy of heart from fear for Frodo. He seemed to take some comfort when Arwen came to him at the front gates, her white arms opened before him. Legolas stood aloof from the others and watched their embrace with interest. Once, long before Aragorn had been born, Elrond and Thranduil had hoped a love would form between Legolas and Arwen, but they took to each other like brother and sister and no romance followed. Now he wondered how their story would end. He wondered if it could end happily, even in better times. *How can an Elf love a mortal?* he thought to himself. *It is naught but a set-up for a suffering that does not end. Aragorn is not Beren. Ah, but Arwen-she must be Luthien Tinúviel.*
The days went by quickly. Legolas was healed with no trace of the Shadow upon him save in memory and a fear that would brew in his heart whenever the servants of the Enemy drew nigh. Frodo, they feared, would carry his wound for the rest of his life in a graver manner for he was mortal. The Elf-prince wished to meet this Hobbit-he had only seen him once, when they carried him inside after the flood had washed away the Nazgûl. Yet Legolas and Frodo did not meet until the morning of the Council of Elrond.
He spent time with Aragorn, asking many questions (as usual) about all that had happened since Gollum's delivery. In turn, Aragorn wished to hear what had occurred in Mirkwood. Once he asked after Gollum himself. Legolas' face went ashen and he said, "I beg of you, wait till the Council. There I will reveal all." Aragorn answered this with a troubled look, but did not press for more.
An envoy of Dwarves arrived from the Lonely Mountain, mainly keeping to their own kind. Legolas had been wary of Dwarves ever since their run-in long ago. The peace pledged at the following battle had been an uneasy one. Besides, he had no fondness for Dwarves-they had none for him or his kind, why should he?
Legolas eventually met Gandalf the Gray, whom he had not seen since the Battle of Five Armies sixty years ago. His father had always admired the Gray Wizard. He remembered after the ordeal with the Dragon, before the Hobbit Bilbo had been sent home, Thranduil had entreated to Gandalf to return to their kingdom in a time of peace. No such time had come, and the gray pilgrim's labors had not ended. And yet, to Legolas' surprise, Gandalf remembered exactly who he was and approached him.
"Thranduil's boy," he laughed. "You fought bravely that day, and nearly made your father die of fright. You should have seen him harp on you when you were very small. He's a grand leader, your father, but never put him under that strain again!" Legolas had taken an arrow in the shoulder, narrowly missing his heart or lungs. "It is good to see you again, my prince."
"And you, Mithrandir. You have changed greatly since last I saw you. There is anxiety in your face, and lines that were not there before. You see little hope, don't you?"
"I have seen days of such bliss, as have you. Those memories are what I hold on to, though my heart tells me this coming task will be my last, for good or ill."
Legolas nodded and fell silent. The wizard bent his gray head up and gazed at the stars. It was night, and the two were outside in one of the great gardens. He raised his hand up to cup the light of the crescent moon.
"Memories," Gandalf sighed. "That is all any of us shall be left with."
* * *
The morning of October the 25th came. Legolas rested for an hour during the night, for he did not feel at all tired. He went out into the forest many hours before dawn and walked alone for a while before returning with the first rays of sunlight spilling into the green valley. Many of the other Elves were up and about, never tiring, yet the Council could not begin until the mortal guests had awakened.
When everyone was up and had been fed, the time for the Council drew nigh. Elrond went about to each group of guests, seeking out one or two representatives amongst their company. He was a benevolent ruler, and those not selected amazingly showed little unhappiness. From the Dwarves, one named Gloin and his son, Gimli, were selected. Glorfindel obviously attended; he was an indispensable source of knowledge that spread far back into the days of Gondolin. Also Erestor was chosen to partake. He was Elrond's chief councilor-an Elf who had ventured into Mirkwood more than once during Legolas' lifetime. Indeed, Erestor had been one of those attending upon the Mirkwood prince during his recent affliction.
An Elf named Galdor, dressed in the colors of the misty shore, came as a messenger of Círdan of the Gray Havens. Legolas found being near Galdor to be unsettling. There was something about that Elf that seemed unnaturally desolate. He imagined the difficulty one of the Eldar must face when living so near to the Sea and its siren call. Legolas, in his long life, had never seen the Sea. His Grandfather had, long ago, while at war in Eregion. It was said that it did something to King Oropher, affecting his judgment and leading to his fall during the ensuing battles. He had forbidden Thranduil to go near the Sea-so dangerous was its call to the Elves of Mirkwood. But to Legolas it was akin to a myth that some swore by and others passed off for legend.
The two Hobbits who attended fascinated Legolas. Bilbo was old, and yet not so. Despite his grayed hair and lined face, there was a ceaseless fire kindled in his eyes. He seemed very wise as well-as learned in Elven lore as any among that household.
When Bilbo was introduced to Legolas, his face lit up. "A child of Mirkwood! To think I would see one of you again! Oh, how is your homeland? Not too dreary I should hope? It was dark then, save where your people were. How is your father?"
"He is well," said Legolas with a smile. "He will be glad to hear of you again, 'Burglar.' Your getting by our sentinels that night is still a bone of contention among the Royal Guard." He paused, seeing an unreadable expression flit across the Hobbit's face. "Well, now we've begun to understand what allowed you to do so." He would not mention the Ring. It did not seem right to speak of such here, away from the blackening world.
Bilbo seemed to shake off the shadow, and laughed heartily. "Oh, Mirkwood, Mirkwood, what a place! What a wondrous-Frodo! Come here, lad! I want to introduce you to someone."
In spite of himself, Legolas felt his heart flutter a bit, for finally he was to meet the Ringbearer. Frodo was a young hobbit, about a head taller than Bilbo, with a head of curly brown hair and deep, soulful eyes. There was an unnatural strain in those eyes, which Legolas recognized immediately. For a long moment, Elf and Hobbit were joined together in the memory of the Shadow that had fallen upon them in different ways. Neither would forget the moment when they first met.
"Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo," said Frodo with a charming, rustic accent, formality making his shoulders stiff. Legolas smiled. "I am Frodo, son of Drogo, of the Shire."
"Mae govannen, perrian," the prince said. "It is an honor to meet you, Frodo," Legolas said, placing his hand upon his heart and bowing slightly. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Elves of Mirkwood."
"I am honored to finally meet you, Your Highness." He had not stated his title. Frodo knew who he was indeed. "Bilbo always told us stories of your people. It is a wonder to able to meet you here, so far west of the Misty Mountains."
Legolas was about to reply, but Elrond's voice rose above all the others. "Come, friends, to the Council Room. Even as we speak now, the strength of the Enemy grows."
Politely, Elf and Hobbit smiled, and then joined the small crowd that gathered, following behind the tall figure of Elrond. Legolas fell back into thought: home, the forest, his father-the usual. Then something hard jostled him from the right.
"My apologies, Sir."
A Man, fair of face, with sharp gray eyes and raven hair had accidentally walked into the Elf without watching where he was going. He had been staring in wonder at the leafy mural painted upon the domed roof with skill Men did not have-an art that made it seem that the leaves could actually move in the breeze. Legolas politely smiled and said, "It is nothing," and returned to his own thoughts. That was Boromir, Man of Gondor, brother to one who would end up being an important pawn in the Elf's life. Thus was the first though not the last time the children of Denethor had come into his world and upset the balance.
* * *
Legolas was in the Hall of Fire reading a book of Quenya poetry from the First Age when Lord Elrond approached him. Quenya was the language the young prince loved the best, though his strongest tongue was Sindarin. He loved the fluidity present in the oldest of elvish languages, and the rippling vowels that rolled off the tongue. He had discovered a love poem written by an elf named Gelmir who had lived in fallen Gondolin. Now, a footnote said, the poet dwelt over the sea in Valinor. Legolas loved the stanzas: they were a description of a maiden's eyes that reflected the stars more clearly than the Mirrormere itself.
Elrond laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder when the prince began to rise in search of a fountain pen and paper to copy the poem down. Startled, Legolas' eyes met Elrond's full on and immediately he was filled with the old shame of the news he had reported to the Council. The Elf-Lord's gaze held no contempt or judgment, but there was a purpose visible therein. "My lord?" Legolas entreated, down casting his eyes, hoping to hide the fire he felt rising in his face.
"I need to speak with you, Thranduil's son," Elrond replied. "It is a matter of great importance." He looked down at the open page of the poetry book and smiled slightly. "Gelmir of Gondolin.....my father knew him."
Legolas meekly returned the smile. "What is it you wish to discuss with me, my lord?"
Elrond sighed and sat beside Legolas on the chaise. "If only we had the grace to make more poets and less warriors now as we did then. These are such dismally dark times."
Legolas did not reply, but searched Elrond's face. The older Elf was deep in the councils of his own mind as though he were grappling with a decision that was difficult to bear.
"You like poetry?" Elrond asked suddenly, a tired smile on his face.
"More than almost anything," Legolas admitted, running his fingers over the embossed runes of the book's cover, the same wonder present in his eyes as he had held in his earliest days of youth. "Quenya especially. The sound of it portrays the writer's emotions in a way that most language cannot."
"Indeed," Elrond mused. Legolas saw that the Elf lord seemed to be gazing at something far off that only he could see. "I hear you have a gift with words."
Legolas inclined his head and smiled. "Perhaps. My Father has ensured that my greatest skill is with the bow. There is little time allotted for the study of much else. The libraries here are like coming upon a lost treasure horde. If we had such a collection in Mirkwood, I would spend my days immersed in poetry, not at target practice."
Elrond laughed. "Perhaps you will think otherwise upon the usefulness of your skill when I tell you what is in my mind."
Legolas looked up swiftly. "Speak, my lord."
Elrond sighed, and cleared his throat. "After the Council, Gandalf and I discussed the fate of the Ringbearer privately. We knew that it was obvious that he must not depart from Rivendell alone, with only little Sam by his side. Yet even with Gandalf accompanying him as well, it would do little to protect Frodo should all of the evils pointed at him converge as well they may."
Legolas understood. "I will go."
Elrond looked at him hard. "I have said it before, and I shall say it again, Legolas. 'He should not vow to walk in darkness, who has not seen nightfall.' I did not choose you because you have years of experience behind you." He stopped, seeing the prince look away, sad and embarrassed. Continuing, he said, "There are others among my household whom I would have selected if that was what I sought. But, Legolas, I deem you fit for this mission. You haven proven yourself as a reputable warrior-even your father can back that, though I feel it will be a grievous blow to him if you accept."
"I will accept, my Lord," Legolas said steadily.
Elrond smiled. "I knew you would."
* * *
The evening before the departure of the Company arrived. All day Legolas had worked to completely prepare for the journey. He took his white knife to the forge of Imladris where the Elven-smiths were happy to sharpen its blade till it made a ringing sound when swiped through the air. Legolas dealt with his bow himself. The old string he removed and discarded, restringing it with a new cord. He held it up plucked it once: it made a perfect, echoing note, the sound the Mirkwood archers called Gurthlindë, the singer of death. It was the sound of a precise, lethal bow ready for a hunt or the battlefield. Legolas had brought with him a small vial of the poison Mirkwood Elves were famous for: he lowered the tip of each of his arrows into the clear liquid and let the sticky substance harden there. The venom would kill a large orc in less than three minutes if the arrow had not hit a vital part.
Thus Legolas filled his quiver with the toxic arrows (being sure to put them away with the points facing downward-he would never forgive himself if one of the curious Hobbits should puncture himself by accident). He also laid out the clothes he had selected for the quest: the ones he wore while hunting, which made him blend into his surroundings as easily as an Ent in Fangorn-a dark green tunic, gray leggings and his tanned shoes which had never failed him on all forms of terrain. Lastly, he set out his moss-colored cloak, which kept him warm and dry in all varieties of weather.
Having completed his work, Legolas caught his own eye in the long mirror across the room. He stood up and stared at himself. *I still look so young,* he mused sadly, his gray eyes boring into the ones of the reflection. *Men, they get gruffer with age, but we gain wisdom and grace. Yet I feel as clumsy as a Dwarf in a boat among my kindred here. How different an Elf of shadowy Mirkwood is to the last of the Vanyar and the kindred of Elrond.* He undid the plaits in his dark hair and combed it out once. It shimmered as if wet in the silver lamplight. Legolas put it back up and ran a hand over his head. He hoped he didn't appear weary to anyone beside himself.
A farewell feast was beginning in the Hall of Fire. As Legolas left to partake in it, he saw himself in the mirror departing with movements like a ghost.
* * *
"Legolas! Come sit by us!"
Arwen rose from her seat and waved to him from across the room. There was an empty chair to her right-to her left was Aragorn, looking rather relaxed and like his old self: the untroubled Dunadan who called all of Middle-earth his home. The Hall was alive with voices of the Free Peoples. He heard the old Hobbit, Bilbo, singing one of his songs. Frodo ate and drank with his three friends. The Dwarves were talking in low voices that carried far in their strange, rough language. Legolas was careful not to meet their eyes. The old gray one named Gloin had taken an immediate disliking to him already. Men were exchanging tales of their homelands. Elves were singing, reciting, praising, advising, condoling and laughing.
The table was heaped with food. Miruvor shone in the crystal decanters like liquid sunlight, wine like jewels of blood. There was roasted venison, full of spices, steaming loaves of bread, sliced fruit and vegetables cooked to perfection. The aroma had carried all the way up to his room. A lyre was being passed around the table, and the guests were taking turns reciting poems or playing songs from their homelands. When it landed in Legolas' hands, he fell silent.
"I have not the heart," he said, smiling sadly. "Arwen, you sing."
She took the lyre from his uneasy hands, trying to look into his eyes to read his thoughts. But he kept them cast down upon the table, seeming to see naught at all. There was an air of melancholy all around him, as though a memory of the Shadow had somehow been stirred within him despite the beauty and happiness around him. She hoped it wasn't a repercussion of the Black Breath taking hold of his heart.
Arwen began to sing part of the Lay of Leithian, the tale of Beren and Luthien. It was a bit of a scandalous selection on Arwen's part, what with Aragorn seated right next to her. Elrond stopped speaking with Gandalf and looked across the table at Arwen and Aragorn. His expression was unreadable, but held no delight. Glorfindel turned to raise an eyebrow at Arwen, yet his eyes fell upon Legolas. The young prince had touched no food, only a sip of the wine in his glass, and was silent as a stone.
He was deep in thought about his home that was many miles northeast, his heart reaching across the miles to try and touch that of his father. But the king, far away and distracted by the ever-present evils of the darkening forest, was silent.
-Fin-
Continued in Chapter V - An Account of the Quest The Fellowship is on the move!
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Chapter IV - In the House of Elrond
"How is he, my lord?"
"As good as he may be given the trauma of the assault. The Black Breath has affected him, though not severely. He was weary from his journey and they caught him at unawares. I fear, though, that the affliction will stay with him as long as he dwells upon this shore."
"They guessed who he was, then?"
"I do not doubt it, Erestor. I have heard from Mithrandir that the Nazgûl have been trained to seek out our nobility, or at least what is left of them. They must have sensed him from their Master's bidding. It is well he encountered them here, close to our aid. Otherwise I do not think he would have survived."
"Few can ride openly against the Nine. Lord Glorfindel drove them away, though I fear what may next assail us. He rides now to seek out Frodo as Mithrandir suggested."
"Then there is a little hope yet."
* * *
He cried out in his nightmares only once.
"Adar!"
* * *
There was something cool and firm upon Legolas' forehead. He furrowed his brow and slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the daylight. He felt a breeze and in the air he smelled something clean and leafy. He was warm but the light wind was refreshing. As his eyes came into focus, Legolas saw an Elven woman with raven hair seated by him. His mind raced back to the memories of his earliest childhood-the first hundred years that had been marked by such happiness, when Mirkwood was fresh and flourishing. The part of him that still dwelt in the nightmares the Black Breath had settled upon him whispered, "Mother?" But fatigue silenced him. The cool thing was lifted away-it had been her hand.
"Legolas, can you see me?"
That voice! "Ar-Arwen?"
"Yes, my friend. I am here."
She shimmered into view, looking just as she had the hundreds of years ago that last he had seen her: the flawless oval face, the crystal- gray eyes glinting, her hair glossy as a river at night-a startlingly beautiful maiden. She was smiling a little, and relief at his recovery was evident in her face.
"You had us worried for three days, Legolas," she chided gently.
He sat up with a start. "The Council!" It was a mistake. Dizziness made him lean back again with a weary sigh.
"Relax!" she laughed. "It is October the 14th, and naught shall happen for eleven more days. You have missed nothing."
He smiled and reached out for her hand. "I have missed you, Arwen. What I have heard of your well-being has only been the things of rumor, yet some things I know to be true-for they were told to me by Aragorn." He briefly searched her face. "*That* at least is true then?"
She sighed, looking away at something he could not see, a new light kindled in her storm-colored eyes. "Yes, it is true, Legolas. I knew it long ago. In Lorien."
"Lorien. *Many* years ago, then. Sometimes I forget that he is of Númenorean blood."
"It shall let him live a little longer." Her tone was soft, but icy and bitter.
Legolas began to say something else but suddenly a wave of complete nausea came over him like a cloud that blocks out the sun. He gasped for air, and Arwen grasped his hand between both of her own and called to him in their sacred tongue.
"Lasto beth nin. Tolo dan na ngalad."
The pain vanished. "What happened?" he asked in a broken whisper, willing his pulse to slow.
"The Nine caught you at our borders, or nearly did. There were only four of them there, but they came so close to taking you from us that you were marked by the Black Breath. Had you been mortal, I think you would have immediately become a wraith like them-so deep and ferocious was their malice."
"Glorfindel-"
"He sensed your approach, and is an Elf-Lord of great power, second only to my father here in Rivendell. He alone drove them away." She paused and looked at him without pity or admiration, but genuine respect as though he were a great king like his father. "One day, they shall fly from you."
"That I doubt," he said with a little laugh.
She rose and drew her shawl over her shoulders: mist-blue gauze hemmed with clear gems like drops of rain. "I will leave you to rest now," she said, pausing at the door. "Come down to us only when you are ready. Your friends often ask of you."
"Thank you, Undómiel," the prince said.
"The pleasure is mine, Greenleaf," she replied with a little mischievous grin.
* * *
Prince Legolas of Mirkwood was blessed with the ability to heal swiftly and without lingering pain, as was the gift delivered unto all of his kind. Yet for many years following the War of the Ring, he swore that that encounter with the Nazgûl had permanently had an effect upon his soul.
By that evening, Legolas was up and about, as easy upon his feet as any of the other Elves. He saw many friends: his companions from Mirkwood, Lord Elrond whom he had known since before he could remember, Elrond's councilor Erestor, and many others of the household of Imladris. He was grieved to learn that the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, had gone abroad with the Rangers.
"Wait," Arwen said. "My heart tells me you will meet with my brothers before this ordeal is through."
And now "this ordeal" was in all of their minds, hanging like a low storm cloud over the lush valley. Many travelers came each day, and they met with no trouble from the Nine. The Dwarves reported a run in with Mountain Goblins but little else had gone amiss for them. All hearts were filled with fear when the Ringbearer was late.
Glorfindel said he found Frodo with Aragorn and three others of the Halfling kind after nine days abroad. Frodo had taken a stab from a Morgul blade-an unheard of wound that would have rendered even an Elf-Lord come of age in a state of near-death. Legolas imagined what the Hobbit suffered in comparison with his own affliction. It seemed to be nothing at all against such a hurt. The Nine had been vanquished in the river, drowned by a powerful spell concocted by Elrond, but it was only a matter of time before they returned stronger than ever.
Legolas was relieved when Aragorn arrived, though the Ranger was heavy of heart from fear for Frodo. He seemed to take some comfort when Arwen came to him at the front gates, her white arms opened before him. Legolas stood aloof from the others and watched their embrace with interest. Once, long before Aragorn had been born, Elrond and Thranduil had hoped a love would form between Legolas and Arwen, but they took to each other like brother and sister and no romance followed. Now he wondered how their story would end. He wondered if it could end happily, even in better times. *How can an Elf love a mortal?* he thought to himself. *It is naught but a set-up for a suffering that does not end. Aragorn is not Beren. Ah, but Arwen-she must be Luthien Tinúviel.*
The days went by quickly. Legolas was healed with no trace of the Shadow upon him save in memory and a fear that would brew in his heart whenever the servants of the Enemy drew nigh. Frodo, they feared, would carry his wound for the rest of his life in a graver manner for he was mortal. The Elf-prince wished to meet this Hobbit-he had only seen him once, when they carried him inside after the flood had washed away the Nazgûl. Yet Legolas and Frodo did not meet until the morning of the Council of Elrond.
He spent time with Aragorn, asking many questions (as usual) about all that had happened since Gollum's delivery. In turn, Aragorn wished to hear what had occurred in Mirkwood. Once he asked after Gollum himself. Legolas' face went ashen and he said, "I beg of you, wait till the Council. There I will reveal all." Aragorn answered this with a troubled look, but did not press for more.
An envoy of Dwarves arrived from the Lonely Mountain, mainly keeping to their own kind. Legolas had been wary of Dwarves ever since their run-in long ago. The peace pledged at the following battle had been an uneasy one. Besides, he had no fondness for Dwarves-they had none for him or his kind, why should he?
Legolas eventually met Gandalf the Gray, whom he had not seen since the Battle of Five Armies sixty years ago. His father had always admired the Gray Wizard. He remembered after the ordeal with the Dragon, before the Hobbit Bilbo had been sent home, Thranduil had entreated to Gandalf to return to their kingdom in a time of peace. No such time had come, and the gray pilgrim's labors had not ended. And yet, to Legolas' surprise, Gandalf remembered exactly who he was and approached him.
"Thranduil's boy," he laughed. "You fought bravely that day, and nearly made your father die of fright. You should have seen him harp on you when you were very small. He's a grand leader, your father, but never put him under that strain again!" Legolas had taken an arrow in the shoulder, narrowly missing his heart or lungs. "It is good to see you again, my prince."
"And you, Mithrandir. You have changed greatly since last I saw you. There is anxiety in your face, and lines that were not there before. You see little hope, don't you?"
"I have seen days of such bliss, as have you. Those memories are what I hold on to, though my heart tells me this coming task will be my last, for good or ill."
Legolas nodded and fell silent. The wizard bent his gray head up and gazed at the stars. It was night, and the two were outside in one of the great gardens. He raised his hand up to cup the light of the crescent moon.
"Memories," Gandalf sighed. "That is all any of us shall be left with."
* * *
The morning of October the 25th came. Legolas rested for an hour during the night, for he did not feel at all tired. He went out into the forest many hours before dawn and walked alone for a while before returning with the first rays of sunlight spilling into the green valley. Many of the other Elves were up and about, never tiring, yet the Council could not begin until the mortal guests had awakened.
When everyone was up and had been fed, the time for the Council drew nigh. Elrond went about to each group of guests, seeking out one or two representatives amongst their company. He was a benevolent ruler, and those not selected amazingly showed little unhappiness. From the Dwarves, one named Gloin and his son, Gimli, were selected. Glorfindel obviously attended; he was an indispensable source of knowledge that spread far back into the days of Gondolin. Also Erestor was chosen to partake. He was Elrond's chief councilor-an Elf who had ventured into Mirkwood more than once during Legolas' lifetime. Indeed, Erestor had been one of those attending upon the Mirkwood prince during his recent affliction.
An Elf named Galdor, dressed in the colors of the misty shore, came as a messenger of Círdan of the Gray Havens. Legolas found being near Galdor to be unsettling. There was something about that Elf that seemed unnaturally desolate. He imagined the difficulty one of the Eldar must face when living so near to the Sea and its siren call. Legolas, in his long life, had never seen the Sea. His Grandfather had, long ago, while at war in Eregion. It was said that it did something to King Oropher, affecting his judgment and leading to his fall during the ensuing battles. He had forbidden Thranduil to go near the Sea-so dangerous was its call to the Elves of Mirkwood. But to Legolas it was akin to a myth that some swore by and others passed off for legend.
The two Hobbits who attended fascinated Legolas. Bilbo was old, and yet not so. Despite his grayed hair and lined face, there was a ceaseless fire kindled in his eyes. He seemed very wise as well-as learned in Elven lore as any among that household.
When Bilbo was introduced to Legolas, his face lit up. "A child of Mirkwood! To think I would see one of you again! Oh, how is your homeland? Not too dreary I should hope? It was dark then, save where your people were. How is your father?"
"He is well," said Legolas with a smile. "He will be glad to hear of you again, 'Burglar.' Your getting by our sentinels that night is still a bone of contention among the Royal Guard." He paused, seeing an unreadable expression flit across the Hobbit's face. "Well, now we've begun to understand what allowed you to do so." He would not mention the Ring. It did not seem right to speak of such here, away from the blackening world.
Bilbo seemed to shake off the shadow, and laughed heartily. "Oh, Mirkwood, Mirkwood, what a place! What a wondrous-Frodo! Come here, lad! I want to introduce you to someone."
In spite of himself, Legolas felt his heart flutter a bit, for finally he was to meet the Ringbearer. Frodo was a young hobbit, about a head taller than Bilbo, with a head of curly brown hair and deep, soulful eyes. There was an unnatural strain in those eyes, which Legolas recognized immediately. For a long moment, Elf and Hobbit were joined together in the memory of the Shadow that had fallen upon them in different ways. Neither would forget the moment when they first met.
"Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo," said Frodo with a charming, rustic accent, formality making his shoulders stiff. Legolas smiled. "I am Frodo, son of Drogo, of the Shire."
"Mae govannen, perrian," the prince said. "It is an honor to meet you, Frodo," Legolas said, placing his hand upon his heart and bowing slightly. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of the Elves of Mirkwood."
"I am honored to finally meet you, Your Highness." He had not stated his title. Frodo knew who he was indeed. "Bilbo always told us stories of your people. It is a wonder to able to meet you here, so far west of the Misty Mountains."
Legolas was about to reply, but Elrond's voice rose above all the others. "Come, friends, to the Council Room. Even as we speak now, the strength of the Enemy grows."
Politely, Elf and Hobbit smiled, and then joined the small crowd that gathered, following behind the tall figure of Elrond. Legolas fell back into thought: home, the forest, his father-the usual. Then something hard jostled him from the right.
"My apologies, Sir."
A Man, fair of face, with sharp gray eyes and raven hair had accidentally walked into the Elf without watching where he was going. He had been staring in wonder at the leafy mural painted upon the domed roof with skill Men did not have-an art that made it seem that the leaves could actually move in the breeze. Legolas politely smiled and said, "It is nothing," and returned to his own thoughts. That was Boromir, Man of Gondor, brother to one who would end up being an important pawn in the Elf's life. Thus was the first though not the last time the children of Denethor had come into his world and upset the balance.
* * *
Legolas was in the Hall of Fire reading a book of Quenya poetry from the First Age when Lord Elrond approached him. Quenya was the language the young prince loved the best, though his strongest tongue was Sindarin. He loved the fluidity present in the oldest of elvish languages, and the rippling vowels that rolled off the tongue. He had discovered a love poem written by an elf named Gelmir who had lived in fallen Gondolin. Now, a footnote said, the poet dwelt over the sea in Valinor. Legolas loved the stanzas: they were a description of a maiden's eyes that reflected the stars more clearly than the Mirrormere itself.
Elrond laid a hand on Legolas' shoulder when the prince began to rise in search of a fountain pen and paper to copy the poem down. Startled, Legolas' eyes met Elrond's full on and immediately he was filled with the old shame of the news he had reported to the Council. The Elf-Lord's gaze held no contempt or judgment, but there was a purpose visible therein. "My lord?" Legolas entreated, down casting his eyes, hoping to hide the fire he felt rising in his face.
"I need to speak with you, Thranduil's son," Elrond replied. "It is a matter of great importance." He looked down at the open page of the poetry book and smiled slightly. "Gelmir of Gondolin.....my father knew him."
Legolas meekly returned the smile. "What is it you wish to discuss with me, my lord?"
Elrond sighed and sat beside Legolas on the chaise. "If only we had the grace to make more poets and less warriors now as we did then. These are such dismally dark times."
Legolas did not reply, but searched Elrond's face. The older Elf was deep in the councils of his own mind as though he were grappling with a decision that was difficult to bear.
"You like poetry?" Elrond asked suddenly, a tired smile on his face.
"More than almost anything," Legolas admitted, running his fingers over the embossed runes of the book's cover, the same wonder present in his eyes as he had held in his earliest days of youth. "Quenya especially. The sound of it portrays the writer's emotions in a way that most language cannot."
"Indeed," Elrond mused. Legolas saw that the Elf lord seemed to be gazing at something far off that only he could see. "I hear you have a gift with words."
Legolas inclined his head and smiled. "Perhaps. My Father has ensured that my greatest skill is with the bow. There is little time allotted for the study of much else. The libraries here are like coming upon a lost treasure horde. If we had such a collection in Mirkwood, I would spend my days immersed in poetry, not at target practice."
Elrond laughed. "Perhaps you will think otherwise upon the usefulness of your skill when I tell you what is in my mind."
Legolas looked up swiftly. "Speak, my lord."
Elrond sighed, and cleared his throat. "After the Council, Gandalf and I discussed the fate of the Ringbearer privately. We knew that it was obvious that he must not depart from Rivendell alone, with only little Sam by his side. Yet even with Gandalf accompanying him as well, it would do little to protect Frodo should all of the evils pointed at him converge as well they may."
Legolas understood. "I will go."
Elrond looked at him hard. "I have said it before, and I shall say it again, Legolas. 'He should not vow to walk in darkness, who has not seen nightfall.' I did not choose you because you have years of experience behind you." He stopped, seeing the prince look away, sad and embarrassed. Continuing, he said, "There are others among my household whom I would have selected if that was what I sought. But, Legolas, I deem you fit for this mission. You haven proven yourself as a reputable warrior-even your father can back that, though I feel it will be a grievous blow to him if you accept."
"I will accept, my Lord," Legolas said steadily.
Elrond smiled. "I knew you would."
* * *
The evening before the departure of the Company arrived. All day Legolas had worked to completely prepare for the journey. He took his white knife to the forge of Imladris where the Elven-smiths were happy to sharpen its blade till it made a ringing sound when swiped through the air. Legolas dealt with his bow himself. The old string he removed and discarded, restringing it with a new cord. He held it up plucked it once: it made a perfect, echoing note, the sound the Mirkwood archers called Gurthlindë, the singer of death. It was the sound of a precise, lethal bow ready for a hunt or the battlefield. Legolas had brought with him a small vial of the poison Mirkwood Elves were famous for: he lowered the tip of each of his arrows into the clear liquid and let the sticky substance harden there. The venom would kill a large orc in less than three minutes if the arrow had not hit a vital part.
Thus Legolas filled his quiver with the toxic arrows (being sure to put them away with the points facing downward-he would never forgive himself if one of the curious Hobbits should puncture himself by accident). He also laid out the clothes he had selected for the quest: the ones he wore while hunting, which made him blend into his surroundings as easily as an Ent in Fangorn-a dark green tunic, gray leggings and his tanned shoes which had never failed him on all forms of terrain. Lastly, he set out his moss-colored cloak, which kept him warm and dry in all varieties of weather.
Having completed his work, Legolas caught his own eye in the long mirror across the room. He stood up and stared at himself. *I still look so young,* he mused sadly, his gray eyes boring into the ones of the reflection. *Men, they get gruffer with age, but we gain wisdom and grace. Yet I feel as clumsy as a Dwarf in a boat among my kindred here. How different an Elf of shadowy Mirkwood is to the last of the Vanyar and the kindred of Elrond.* He undid the plaits in his dark hair and combed it out once. It shimmered as if wet in the silver lamplight. Legolas put it back up and ran a hand over his head. He hoped he didn't appear weary to anyone beside himself.
A farewell feast was beginning in the Hall of Fire. As Legolas left to partake in it, he saw himself in the mirror departing with movements like a ghost.
* * *
"Legolas! Come sit by us!"
Arwen rose from her seat and waved to him from across the room. There was an empty chair to her right-to her left was Aragorn, looking rather relaxed and like his old self: the untroubled Dunadan who called all of Middle-earth his home. The Hall was alive with voices of the Free Peoples. He heard the old Hobbit, Bilbo, singing one of his songs. Frodo ate and drank with his three friends. The Dwarves were talking in low voices that carried far in their strange, rough language. Legolas was careful not to meet their eyes. The old gray one named Gloin had taken an immediate disliking to him already. Men were exchanging tales of their homelands. Elves were singing, reciting, praising, advising, condoling and laughing.
The table was heaped with food. Miruvor shone in the crystal decanters like liquid sunlight, wine like jewels of blood. There was roasted venison, full of spices, steaming loaves of bread, sliced fruit and vegetables cooked to perfection. The aroma had carried all the way up to his room. A lyre was being passed around the table, and the guests were taking turns reciting poems or playing songs from their homelands. When it landed in Legolas' hands, he fell silent.
"I have not the heart," he said, smiling sadly. "Arwen, you sing."
She took the lyre from his uneasy hands, trying to look into his eyes to read his thoughts. But he kept them cast down upon the table, seeming to see naught at all. There was an air of melancholy all around him, as though a memory of the Shadow had somehow been stirred within him despite the beauty and happiness around him. She hoped it wasn't a repercussion of the Black Breath taking hold of his heart.
Arwen began to sing part of the Lay of Leithian, the tale of Beren and Luthien. It was a bit of a scandalous selection on Arwen's part, what with Aragorn seated right next to her. Elrond stopped speaking with Gandalf and looked across the table at Arwen and Aragorn. His expression was unreadable, but held no delight. Glorfindel turned to raise an eyebrow at Arwen, yet his eyes fell upon Legolas. The young prince had touched no food, only a sip of the wine in his glass, and was silent as a stone.
He was deep in thought about his home that was many miles northeast, his heart reaching across the miles to try and touch that of his father. But the king, far away and distracted by the ever-present evils of the darkening forest, was silent.
-Fin-
Continued in Chapter V - An Account of the Quest The Fellowship is on the move!
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