AUTHOR NOTES: I'm letting things slow down a bit in this chapter, but
they'll speed up in the following ones. Thanks for sticking with me so far.
I've written passages from every single planned chapter in this whole
story. So far, the estimated chapter count is THRITY-TWO! Crikey! Stick
around. Hopefully, I won't disappoint you.
Chapter VIII - The Mark of the Shadow
Haldir descended the riverbank. He was a very tall and stern-looking Elf, with a sharp profile, dark-golden hair and blue-gray eyes: a Lorien child through and through. He was carrying nine bundles in his slender arms, one of which he gave to each member of the Fellowship. Legolas unbound the small parcel and a Lorien cloak unfolded, light as silk. It seemed to be the color of mist uncurling off the sea after a storm, though as he turned the cloth in his hands it took in the color of moss-covered trees, then dark navy as a night sky. Smoothing the shimmering folds between his fingers, Legolas watched the colors ooze and shift like mercury and oil combined.
"Prince Legolas."
Legolas lifted his head, feeling his consciousness shake off the lulling trance of what was never again to be Lothlorien. Only here had he found some peace of mind, even beginning to forgive himself for the darkness of the past, yet now they had to leave. In such intangible ways worked the evil of Sauron.
Galadriel smiled at him as he approached, and in her arms she held a long thin bundle. As he came forward, she began to speak.
"To you I give a bow of our people. It is longer and stouter than the bows of Mirkwood, yet I believe it shall serve you well. And with it, a quiver of arrows." Eyes wide with awe, Legolas unwrapped the presents. The weapons hummed with subtle power in his hands. Galadriel continued, "The arrows of Lorien never stray from their targets, and are always swift as they are lethal." He accepted her gifts, speechless in truth. Since they had arrived he had secretly coveted the bows of Haldir and his guard. Had she read that in his mind as well?
He started when her cool hand was placed upon his cheek.
"You will see her again," Galadriel said, but with a voice only he could hear.
Legolas felt a strange wonder, seeing once more that the Lady of Lorien had perceived of the events played out in her Mirror, yet judged them not. What wisdom she held, she who was older than ages and wiser than nearly all upon Middle-earth: he was glad to feel in his heart the doubtless truth of the love she held for him, like the mother he had lost so long ago.
As his companions received their gifts in turn, Legolas closed his eyes and listen to song of the bow. Without thought, his finger strayed to the bowstring, and he plucked it once. There was a note not unlike the Gurthlindë of his kindred, yet it was somehow vastly different. It was less ruthless, less to the sole purpose of killing. The note of the Lorien bow spoke of the lives of trees long turned to mulch, of flowers that had bloomed and died off in the same instant, of fallen warriors' blood mingling with mountain streams, of the old kingdoms of Beleriand that had been destroyed. It stirred Legolas' heart not to the thought of home, strangely enough. He thought of 'her.' The nameless one. The maiden of the moon.
"Ithilwen." He named her, once silently to himself, then as a whisper so low that the rustling leaves above muted his tongue. The members of the Fellowship were climbing into the boats, but Galadriel listened. She turned to him, after having handed Frodo a gleaming vial, and smiled knowingly.
Legolas felt Pippin's eyes upon him. He turned to see the youngest of the Hobbits looking at him in a new way-one of genuine wonder that seemed also like confusion. Legolas walked by him without uttering a word. *Amazing,* he thought, *That Pippin of all people is the only one to truly perceive the change that has come over me. The Halflings are indeed remarkable folk.*
Yet there was one other race for which Legolas had found an unusual respect.
The dwarf, Gimli, had amazed them all, but the Prince of Mirkwood was especially impressed. For in Gimli, Legolas glimpsed something familiar: something he had heard in Aragorn's laugh, and seen in the twinkle of Arwen's eyes-even in himself. It had happened one night in Lorien. Gimli had disappeared for some time, yet he wandered into the pavilion of the Fellowship to find only Legolas awake. From a sheen glistening upon the dwarf's eyes, Legolas was able to tell that he too had been summoned to gaze in the Mirror. He too had heard Galadriel's words.
Gimli came in quickly, not noticing Legolas' keen eyes upon him. He did not mumble to himself as he used to, not falling into his strange, brass-sounding tongue but remained silent. The moonlight revealed the unshed tears in his eyes, and they looked strange upon the face of the gruff creature. Yet it was in that instance that Legolas first felt a kinship with Gimli: something beyond their forced loyalty to each other in support of Frodo. Galadriel had healed them, and now she united them. It was exhilarating.
The next day, Legolas did not accept the invitation of Haldir and his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin. They had entreated him to come hunting, but someone else had sparked his curiosity. So instead of disappearing amongst his own kind as he usually did while in Lorien, Legolas approached Gimli by a stream and said, "Tell me, Gimli son of Gloin, of the Lonely Mountain. I have not been there since the Funeral of Thorin Oakenshield."
Gimli had been startled by the Elf, but quickly hid his fear. There was unease and genuine suspicion in his eyes as he asked, "What does an Elf care for word of Erebor?"
But Legolas was always quick with words, "And what yet does a Dwarf care for the words of one Elven woman?"
Gimli's face went red with rage. He drew himself up to his full height, still barely reaching halfway up Legolas' chest and bellowed in a voice that jarred the peaceful clearing: "Galadriel is not 'one Elven woman.' Galadriel is wisdom and beauty. She is-she is-" and he stopped. He realized what had just occurred, and now his face went red with embarrassment, not fury. Legolas smiled, and they sat and talked until the sun was low. At the feast that night they sat together and spoke of their homes, of their fathers, of their mothers and of their friends. From that time forth, Legolas and Gimli were almost comically inseparable. The other Elves were amazed and even a bit presumptuous, but Legolas didn't care. He now had one more ally in the oncoming dark.
He had wanted to be able to speak alone with Frodo, but the Hobbit had kept to himself or to Sam. He was changed since the night of the Mirror, the same night Legolas had seen his Ithilwen. Even Boromir, the headstrong one, seemed softened by Lorien, and doubtlessly by Galadriel. He had talked for many hours with Lord Celeborn, and the Sylvan Elves had given him tours of their flets. He had gained a trust for the lovely and the ancient. He cast no suspicious eye on anything anymore. Legolas did not sense the Shadow upon Boromir while they were in Lorien.
Yet Lorien had ended. Climbing into the boat with Gimli, Legolas looked to Boromir absentmindedly. The Man now seemed more perceptive to subtleties, and he felt the Elf's gaze and returned it. That was when the same unease returned. As their boats floated away from the pebbly shore, as the voices of the Elves faded into the wind, never to be heard again in songs of their land, Legolas found he did not like the way Boromir looked at him. Moreover, he did not like the eyes that the Man cast upon Frodo. Lorien disappeared and suddenly they were thrust back into the realm of shadows and filmy deceit that was as real as the wind, but, like the wind, impossible to grasp. It domed the whole river, entwined around each of them. Legolas only caught fleeting moments: he reached out his hand and caught a mallorn leaf, glinting and spiraling in the oncoming storm, and then night fell and the darkness grew.
* * *
The days upon the river went by quickly at first, but as the dangers increased their trek seemed toilsome and endless. Orcs darted between the trees on the far bank, sometimes sending a rain of arrows that narrowly missed the travelers. Jagged rocks raked the undersides of their boats, and rapids churned the water to foam: currents strong enough to pull a grown Man apart. Fear was a constant mist hanging over the Fellowship. As they went further and further away from Lorien, Legolas had grown more and more mistrustful of Boromir, but he said naught to anyone. He thought more evil would be spread. He spoke little to anyone, even to Gimli. Sometimes he trailed his fingers into the water of the river Anduin, but it was stronger and more powerful than the Forest River of his homeland, and he did not know its song.
To take himself away from the gray days of dodging arrows and lying low in the boats, Legolas fell into dreams. He could bring himself back to the field he had traveled in the Mirror, but he could never find her. He searched the place in his mind: he sprinted for many miles, but the land did not end. No mountains or trees dotted the horizon-it simply went on forever. He called to her in his mind: "Ithilwen! Vanimelda, tiro nin. Tiro nin, khelekwen. Manke naa lle?" He called, but was met with only silence. He made promises to the wind and the stars and the empty field. "Tenna'ento lye omenta." He sang songs aloud for his companions to hear, but the sorrow they heard in his voice was for the lost one alone. He had forgotten all else. He was simply following the river.
* * *
They were upon the river, paddling at night to stay out of the sight of the orcs that Aragorn and Legolas had sensed, when a worse threat arrived. The icy grip upon Legolas' heart came swiftly, and the Elf instantly recognized it as the fear he had perceived when he saw the nameless shadow in the Mirror of Galadriel, as the mind-killing pain he had felt upon the Bridge of Mitheithel. That evil was approaching at an inhuman speed. The glade was pulsing with it. He felt the silent trembling of the trees that were also afraid. Birds silenced and crickets ceased. He glared up at the stars, seeking an answer. They burned brightly-ominously cold and blue high above him, yet no shadow marred the sky. What was happening?
Aragorn seemed to have sensed the foreboding danger as well. He signaled first to Legolas then to Boromir for them to land their boats upon the riverbank. They did so as swiftly and silently as possible. The Hobbits' eyes were wide with genuine fear. Frodo was bent over, breathing hard, grasping the shoulder that had been penetrated by the Morgul blade: Lorien could not heal him. Even Gimli was nervously murmuring his course Dwarvish tongue under his breath. Legolas focused upon keeping his mind clear.
Gimli noticed him constantly staring up at the stars. "What is it, Elf?"
"Be silent, Gimli, I pray you," Legolas whispered back. Gimli noticed that whatever Legolas felt, it was more nearby now-he had not diverted his eyes from the sky for a good five minutes.
"The sky-?" Gimli began, but Legolas threw up a hand to silence him.
Frodo climbed up the bank and sat at Legolas' feet. Something instinctive made him want to be near to the archer-perhaps it was their kinship as the two survivors of a Nazgûl assault in the past. Perhaps it was because if anyone could protect them at a distance, it was the Elf. Seated, the Hobbit barely went past the tall Elf's knee. He followed Legolas' line of sight, scanning the sky for whatever this evil presence was.
The night split with the keening of a fell voice that could be one thing alone. More terrible than the voices he heard in his head upon the borders of Rivendell, this cry, though wordless, seemed to be calling to *him*. He felt an agonizing twisting in his chest as though something had reached inside him and held his heart in its fist. Legolas drew an arrow with lethal speed though this numbing sickness had suddenly seized him, and aimed it at the heavens. The Mirror's vision flickered in his memory. The cries grew louder, more terrible, and closer by. Frodo was trembling near Legolas' calf, close to tears. He felt the Hobbit cower to the ground, shielding his head and ears with his arms.
Then the Shadow came upon them.
Legolas' heart froze as the fell beast glared at him, meeting his eyes exactly. Like poison-dipped daggers they bore into him and distributed their malice through every part of his being, and he felt himself overwhelmed with fear. A force so sinister and dark descended upon him that it forced him to shut his eyes and shudder. Chills ran through his nerves and nausea clouded his mind. But the bow of Galadriel hummed in his hands, and he felt as though he heard the Lady's voice in his head once more: strong and calming. He remembered Ithilwen in the Mirror. He remembered her masterful gaze. He could fight for her.
So the last son born to the Elves upon Middle-earth stretched his arm back and whispered with icy conviction: "Elbereth Gilthoniel."
The arrow shot through the air like a comet and crossed the river in a flash. There was a horrible cry as it hit the flying thing where its ribs must have lain. It fell from its place in the sky, crashing somewhere far away on the distant bank, and the stars it had blocked blinked back into view. Peace, unsteady and filmy, fell over the glade.
She had saved him.
-Fin-
Where are you going? To review? Très bien.
Continued in the next chapter: The Weakness of Men (*cough* BOROMIR *cough*)
Elvish:
Ithilwen: composite of 'moon' and 'maiden' Tiro nin: 'look at me,' as in 'here I am, come find me' Khelekwen: composite of 'ice' and 'maiden' Manke naa lle: 'where are you?' Tenna'ento lye omenta: 'until we meet again'
Chapter VIII - The Mark of the Shadow
Haldir descended the riverbank. He was a very tall and stern-looking Elf, with a sharp profile, dark-golden hair and blue-gray eyes: a Lorien child through and through. He was carrying nine bundles in his slender arms, one of which he gave to each member of the Fellowship. Legolas unbound the small parcel and a Lorien cloak unfolded, light as silk. It seemed to be the color of mist uncurling off the sea after a storm, though as he turned the cloth in his hands it took in the color of moss-covered trees, then dark navy as a night sky. Smoothing the shimmering folds between his fingers, Legolas watched the colors ooze and shift like mercury and oil combined.
"Prince Legolas."
Legolas lifted his head, feeling his consciousness shake off the lulling trance of what was never again to be Lothlorien. Only here had he found some peace of mind, even beginning to forgive himself for the darkness of the past, yet now they had to leave. In such intangible ways worked the evil of Sauron.
Galadriel smiled at him as he approached, and in her arms she held a long thin bundle. As he came forward, she began to speak.
"To you I give a bow of our people. It is longer and stouter than the bows of Mirkwood, yet I believe it shall serve you well. And with it, a quiver of arrows." Eyes wide with awe, Legolas unwrapped the presents. The weapons hummed with subtle power in his hands. Galadriel continued, "The arrows of Lorien never stray from their targets, and are always swift as they are lethal." He accepted her gifts, speechless in truth. Since they had arrived he had secretly coveted the bows of Haldir and his guard. Had she read that in his mind as well?
He started when her cool hand was placed upon his cheek.
"You will see her again," Galadriel said, but with a voice only he could hear.
Legolas felt a strange wonder, seeing once more that the Lady of Lorien had perceived of the events played out in her Mirror, yet judged them not. What wisdom she held, she who was older than ages and wiser than nearly all upon Middle-earth: he was glad to feel in his heart the doubtless truth of the love she held for him, like the mother he had lost so long ago.
As his companions received their gifts in turn, Legolas closed his eyes and listen to song of the bow. Without thought, his finger strayed to the bowstring, and he plucked it once. There was a note not unlike the Gurthlindë of his kindred, yet it was somehow vastly different. It was less ruthless, less to the sole purpose of killing. The note of the Lorien bow spoke of the lives of trees long turned to mulch, of flowers that had bloomed and died off in the same instant, of fallen warriors' blood mingling with mountain streams, of the old kingdoms of Beleriand that had been destroyed. It stirred Legolas' heart not to the thought of home, strangely enough. He thought of 'her.' The nameless one. The maiden of the moon.
"Ithilwen." He named her, once silently to himself, then as a whisper so low that the rustling leaves above muted his tongue. The members of the Fellowship were climbing into the boats, but Galadriel listened. She turned to him, after having handed Frodo a gleaming vial, and smiled knowingly.
Legolas felt Pippin's eyes upon him. He turned to see the youngest of the Hobbits looking at him in a new way-one of genuine wonder that seemed also like confusion. Legolas walked by him without uttering a word. *Amazing,* he thought, *That Pippin of all people is the only one to truly perceive the change that has come over me. The Halflings are indeed remarkable folk.*
Yet there was one other race for which Legolas had found an unusual respect.
The dwarf, Gimli, had amazed them all, but the Prince of Mirkwood was especially impressed. For in Gimli, Legolas glimpsed something familiar: something he had heard in Aragorn's laugh, and seen in the twinkle of Arwen's eyes-even in himself. It had happened one night in Lorien. Gimli had disappeared for some time, yet he wandered into the pavilion of the Fellowship to find only Legolas awake. From a sheen glistening upon the dwarf's eyes, Legolas was able to tell that he too had been summoned to gaze in the Mirror. He too had heard Galadriel's words.
Gimli came in quickly, not noticing Legolas' keen eyes upon him. He did not mumble to himself as he used to, not falling into his strange, brass-sounding tongue but remained silent. The moonlight revealed the unshed tears in his eyes, and they looked strange upon the face of the gruff creature. Yet it was in that instance that Legolas first felt a kinship with Gimli: something beyond their forced loyalty to each other in support of Frodo. Galadriel had healed them, and now she united them. It was exhilarating.
The next day, Legolas did not accept the invitation of Haldir and his brothers, Rúmil and Orophin. They had entreated him to come hunting, but someone else had sparked his curiosity. So instead of disappearing amongst his own kind as he usually did while in Lorien, Legolas approached Gimli by a stream and said, "Tell me, Gimli son of Gloin, of the Lonely Mountain. I have not been there since the Funeral of Thorin Oakenshield."
Gimli had been startled by the Elf, but quickly hid his fear. There was unease and genuine suspicion in his eyes as he asked, "What does an Elf care for word of Erebor?"
But Legolas was always quick with words, "And what yet does a Dwarf care for the words of one Elven woman?"
Gimli's face went red with rage. He drew himself up to his full height, still barely reaching halfway up Legolas' chest and bellowed in a voice that jarred the peaceful clearing: "Galadriel is not 'one Elven woman.' Galadriel is wisdom and beauty. She is-she is-" and he stopped. He realized what had just occurred, and now his face went red with embarrassment, not fury. Legolas smiled, and they sat and talked until the sun was low. At the feast that night they sat together and spoke of their homes, of their fathers, of their mothers and of their friends. From that time forth, Legolas and Gimli were almost comically inseparable. The other Elves were amazed and even a bit presumptuous, but Legolas didn't care. He now had one more ally in the oncoming dark.
He had wanted to be able to speak alone with Frodo, but the Hobbit had kept to himself or to Sam. He was changed since the night of the Mirror, the same night Legolas had seen his Ithilwen. Even Boromir, the headstrong one, seemed softened by Lorien, and doubtlessly by Galadriel. He had talked for many hours with Lord Celeborn, and the Sylvan Elves had given him tours of their flets. He had gained a trust for the lovely and the ancient. He cast no suspicious eye on anything anymore. Legolas did not sense the Shadow upon Boromir while they were in Lorien.
Yet Lorien had ended. Climbing into the boat with Gimli, Legolas looked to Boromir absentmindedly. The Man now seemed more perceptive to subtleties, and he felt the Elf's gaze and returned it. That was when the same unease returned. As their boats floated away from the pebbly shore, as the voices of the Elves faded into the wind, never to be heard again in songs of their land, Legolas found he did not like the way Boromir looked at him. Moreover, he did not like the eyes that the Man cast upon Frodo. Lorien disappeared and suddenly they were thrust back into the realm of shadows and filmy deceit that was as real as the wind, but, like the wind, impossible to grasp. It domed the whole river, entwined around each of them. Legolas only caught fleeting moments: he reached out his hand and caught a mallorn leaf, glinting and spiraling in the oncoming storm, and then night fell and the darkness grew.
* * *
The days upon the river went by quickly at first, but as the dangers increased their trek seemed toilsome and endless. Orcs darted between the trees on the far bank, sometimes sending a rain of arrows that narrowly missed the travelers. Jagged rocks raked the undersides of their boats, and rapids churned the water to foam: currents strong enough to pull a grown Man apart. Fear was a constant mist hanging over the Fellowship. As they went further and further away from Lorien, Legolas had grown more and more mistrustful of Boromir, but he said naught to anyone. He thought more evil would be spread. He spoke little to anyone, even to Gimli. Sometimes he trailed his fingers into the water of the river Anduin, but it was stronger and more powerful than the Forest River of his homeland, and he did not know its song.
To take himself away from the gray days of dodging arrows and lying low in the boats, Legolas fell into dreams. He could bring himself back to the field he had traveled in the Mirror, but he could never find her. He searched the place in his mind: he sprinted for many miles, but the land did not end. No mountains or trees dotted the horizon-it simply went on forever. He called to her in his mind: "Ithilwen! Vanimelda, tiro nin. Tiro nin, khelekwen. Manke naa lle?" He called, but was met with only silence. He made promises to the wind and the stars and the empty field. "Tenna'ento lye omenta." He sang songs aloud for his companions to hear, but the sorrow they heard in his voice was for the lost one alone. He had forgotten all else. He was simply following the river.
* * *
They were upon the river, paddling at night to stay out of the sight of the orcs that Aragorn and Legolas had sensed, when a worse threat arrived. The icy grip upon Legolas' heart came swiftly, and the Elf instantly recognized it as the fear he had perceived when he saw the nameless shadow in the Mirror of Galadriel, as the mind-killing pain he had felt upon the Bridge of Mitheithel. That evil was approaching at an inhuman speed. The glade was pulsing with it. He felt the silent trembling of the trees that were also afraid. Birds silenced and crickets ceased. He glared up at the stars, seeking an answer. They burned brightly-ominously cold and blue high above him, yet no shadow marred the sky. What was happening?
Aragorn seemed to have sensed the foreboding danger as well. He signaled first to Legolas then to Boromir for them to land their boats upon the riverbank. They did so as swiftly and silently as possible. The Hobbits' eyes were wide with genuine fear. Frodo was bent over, breathing hard, grasping the shoulder that had been penetrated by the Morgul blade: Lorien could not heal him. Even Gimli was nervously murmuring his course Dwarvish tongue under his breath. Legolas focused upon keeping his mind clear.
Gimli noticed him constantly staring up at the stars. "What is it, Elf?"
"Be silent, Gimli, I pray you," Legolas whispered back. Gimli noticed that whatever Legolas felt, it was more nearby now-he had not diverted his eyes from the sky for a good five minutes.
"The sky-?" Gimli began, but Legolas threw up a hand to silence him.
Frodo climbed up the bank and sat at Legolas' feet. Something instinctive made him want to be near to the archer-perhaps it was their kinship as the two survivors of a Nazgûl assault in the past. Perhaps it was because if anyone could protect them at a distance, it was the Elf. Seated, the Hobbit barely went past the tall Elf's knee. He followed Legolas' line of sight, scanning the sky for whatever this evil presence was.
The night split with the keening of a fell voice that could be one thing alone. More terrible than the voices he heard in his head upon the borders of Rivendell, this cry, though wordless, seemed to be calling to *him*. He felt an agonizing twisting in his chest as though something had reached inside him and held his heart in its fist. Legolas drew an arrow with lethal speed though this numbing sickness had suddenly seized him, and aimed it at the heavens. The Mirror's vision flickered in his memory. The cries grew louder, more terrible, and closer by. Frodo was trembling near Legolas' calf, close to tears. He felt the Hobbit cower to the ground, shielding his head and ears with his arms.
Then the Shadow came upon them.
Legolas' heart froze as the fell beast glared at him, meeting his eyes exactly. Like poison-dipped daggers they bore into him and distributed their malice through every part of his being, and he felt himself overwhelmed with fear. A force so sinister and dark descended upon him that it forced him to shut his eyes and shudder. Chills ran through his nerves and nausea clouded his mind. But the bow of Galadriel hummed in his hands, and he felt as though he heard the Lady's voice in his head once more: strong and calming. He remembered Ithilwen in the Mirror. He remembered her masterful gaze. He could fight for her.
So the last son born to the Elves upon Middle-earth stretched his arm back and whispered with icy conviction: "Elbereth Gilthoniel."
The arrow shot through the air like a comet and crossed the river in a flash. There was a horrible cry as it hit the flying thing where its ribs must have lain. It fell from its place in the sky, crashing somewhere far away on the distant bank, and the stars it had blocked blinked back into view. Peace, unsteady and filmy, fell over the glade.
She had saved him.
-Fin-
Where are you going? To review? Très bien.
Continued in the next chapter: The Weakness of Men (*cough* BOROMIR *cough*)
Elvish:
Ithilwen: composite of 'moon' and 'maiden' Tiro nin: 'look at me,' as in 'here I am, come find me' Khelekwen: composite of 'ice' and 'maiden' Manke naa lle: 'where are you?' Tenna'ento lye omenta: 'until we meet again'