CHAPTER I

Lassiel hung the last water pail in the last stall, and sighed. Every horse and pony was watered, fed, and bedded down with clean straw. She paused for a moment, listening to the soft snorts and sighs of the contented animals. Then she turned about and made for the open stable doors. She stepped out into the cool, breezy summer night and walked silently up the gently sloping cobblestone path that wound its way to the modest house in which she lived with her aunt, uncle, and young cousin.

When at last she reached the house, she found her aunt and uncle sitting at the small wooden table that was the center of the largest room in the house. They both greeted her with warm smiles, her uncle asking, "Are all the horses settled for the night?"

"Yes," she replied, "except for Elwing, of course; she will not settle." Elwing was Lassiel's horse, a feisty gray mare she had bought for next to nothing from a neighboring farmer who lacked the time and patience needed to master the mare's spirit. Elwing was named after Lassiel's favorite character from Elvish lore. Her mother had always spoken of Elves on the highest terms, and Lassiel regarded them with certain amount fear and awe.

"I know you wish to leave her loose in the pasture overnight, but the wolves have been roaming as of late, and she would not be safe," her aunt said. Then she gestured for Lassiel to join them. "Come, sit and have something to drink."

"No, thank you," she declined, and moved towards the stairs that ascended to the small loft room she shared with her cousin. "I am very tired." As she opened the door at the top of the stairs, she called, "Good night," over her shoulder.

After changing from her soiled work clothes into a clean nightdress, she crawled beneath the sheets of her bed and closed her eyes. Naught but a moment had gone by when she heard a gentle tap at the front door. Soft voices followed: that of her aunt, her uncle, and one she did not recognize. It had an odd quality, though not at all unpleasant. She lay back and listened for a time. The voices grew urgent, and she struggled to make out their words.

Tired though she was, curiosity triumphed over fatigue. She rose from her bed and stepped across the room to the door, careful not to wake her cousin, who lay sprawled over her bed at the other side of the loft, head tilted to the side and mouth open. She eased the door open and peered into the room below. They were not sitting at the table as she had expected, but still standing at the front entrance. The bedroom door was obscuring her view; she would have to step out of the room to see them. Trying gain a better perspective, and yet remain in the shadows as well, she stepped forward as quietly as possible, which she had come to find was very quite indeed, and carefully shut the door behind her.

Her new vantage point revealed to her the identity of the stranger, though at first she questioned her own eyes. For in the soft firelight a tall, slender figure stood, with hair that fell past his shoulders and shone gold, even the dimly lit room.

Suddenly, his head turned and shockingly bright eyes locked with hers. He had heard, seen, or sensed her somehow. Her aunt and uncle followed his gaze, and Lassiel looked back at them, her cheeks reddening.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her aunt spoke first. "Lassiel," she said slowly, looking at her oddly. "We were just debating over whether or not to wake you. Come down here, dear."

Her aunt's voice held a touch of pity, and Lassiel was instantly suspicious. She descended the stair slowly, looking wary.

She took a moment to steal a glance at the fair stranger who seemed so out of place in their humble living room before remembering proper formalities. Bowing her head, she gave a small curtsey and said, "Suilaid, Master Elf." Her mother had insisted she learn common courtesies in the speech of the Elves. Lassiel had doubted the usefulness of this as a child, but it proved worthwhile now.

"Suilaid, lady," he replied quietly, inclining his head slightly, and then proceeded to introduce himself as Legolas of the Great Wood. Lassiel noted that though Men had long since begun to call it Mirkwood, he referred to the forest by its old name, as if calling it green could make it so once more.

She waited for some explanation of his being here, from either him or her guardians, but received nothing. She was evidently on the outside of something; her aunt and uncle were sharing anxious glances with the Elf. Finally, her uncle broke the heavy silence.

"Let us sit, and things can be explained to Lassiel," he suggested.

Lassiel found that explanations were no sooner given while seated rather than standing. They began to exchange looks again, and this time, her patience failed her.

"Perhaps I should return to bed, as we seem to making little progress," she snapped.

It was the Elf who finally spoke. He shifted in his chair, and then drew a deep breath and began. His voice was pleasant to listen to; it was more like music than speech. What he spoke of, however, was not so pleasant. It was tragic. Years ago, he had fallen in love with a mortal woman who lived on the borders of the Great Wood. They had enjoyed some years together, meeting in secrecy at the edge of the forest. One day, the woman made heart- rending decision: she could not bear for him to witness her aging, and so she was leaving for her sister's home that was many miles from the wood. She asked him, begged him, even, not to follow her. We have allowed ourselves to dream for far too long. It must end here, she had said. And so, though it broke his heart, he watched her go and did not follow.

Fascinating though this tale was, Lassiel was unsure as of how this related to her. She was about to ask, but the Elf's fair face became clouded with distress, and he prepared to speak once more.

"That woman," he said slowly, "was your mother." All looked at her expectantly, but she did not yet comprehend the implications. Her mother had had an Elf lover. That explained much about her love of all things Elvish. These thoughts and nothing more, because she refused to think that his tale could mean anything more, swirled about her head.

The Elf saw that he had not made himself clear. Truthfully he had no wish to, but his conscience would not allow that.

"Lassiel," he said gently, and she was surprised to hear him speak her name. "When your mother left, I –I did not know—I could not have known—that she was with child."

For a moment she sat without moving, and only stared at him. Then the full meaning of his words hit her with force, and without a word she stood straight up, her chair grinding against the floor with an unpleasant screech, strode swiftly across the room and out the door.

Instinctively she made for the stables, and found her way into the feed room. The stable was completely dark, but so long had she worked there that she did not need sight to navigate. She sat down heavily on a bale of hay, resting her back against another high pile and pulling her knees towards her chest. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she examined her hands resting upon her lap. They were long and slender. She had believed that horses calmed under her touch because she was kind, and gentle, and had a way with animals. But now she knew that this was not so. Her ability was testament to her blood, and nothing more. Now that she thought about it, so were many things she had prided herself in. This was hardest thing for her to digest. She was not who or what she had thought herself to be. On the other hand, half of her argued, it did not matter. She was mortal; she would die and pass away.

As a child she had thought of many identities for her father. A warrior, a Ranger, or even perhaps a noble of some sort, all of them equally romantic and heroic; perfect for her to pin her dreams on. An Elf had never, not ever, been one of them. She drew knees tightly into her chest, and slid into the blissful numbness sleep provided.

Legolas still sat at the inside the house at the table, his face an unreadable mask to those around him. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy and his pain was evident. "She is angry with me."

"I do not believe she is angry," mused Lassiel's uncle. "Even the most minor change takes time to adjust to; and I would hardly consider this minor."

Legolas nodded, but he was not satisfied. Eventually, he headed to stables to put his horse, who had been waiting patiently outside the door, away for the night. He had been offered hospitality, and had gladly accepted.

Alagos nickered softly to Legolas, glad to see his master, as well as being tired and hungry. "Tolo sí, mellon nín." Alagos followed Legolas down to the stables, occasionally giving his master a playful nudge from behind. Legolas sighed unhappily.

Lassiel knew not how much time had passed when she heard hoof beats approaching the barn door. The Elf, putting his horse away. He was staying, then. She heard the stall door latching and the rustling of fresh hay and soft straw as the horse settled itself for the night. Suddenly, Legolas was standing in the door way of the feed room, looking in on her. She had failed to hear him coming.

"I would rest easier knowing you were safe inside," he said gently.

A sudden hatred for him filled her at that moment. Where it came from she did not know, but it dominated her for the instant.

"Your people sleep in trees, like wild things," she spat. "Who are you to tell me where I should bed?"

He said nothing, only stood staring in the door way. A moment stretched between them, seeming to last forever and yet not all, and then finally he turned and began to walk away. Lassiel had expected him to become angry with her. She had been trying to get a rise out of him, wanting to know that she had hurt him. When he remained passive it had flattened her anger, and now she only felt sick and empty. Oh well, she thought, he will be leaving tomorrow anyway, and life will go on. It will not be easy, but it will go on.

A shaft of pale light lanced through the door of the feed room. It roused Lassiel, who rose slowly and, as if possessed by some outside force, began to make to the rounds in the stables without any further thought. Automatically she threw each horse a fresh flake of hay, followed by a scoop of cracked corn and oats. She paused suddenly upon reaching the far end of the barn. A steel gray stallion with a black mane and tail pricked his ears eagerly and nickered softly at the grain in her hand. After a moment's hesitation, she tossed the grain into his bin. He was only a horse, and an innocent bystander in her current state of turmoil, no matter how strongly she resented his master.

Soon after she was joined by her uncle, and they proceeded to muck stalls without speaking. They worked until the sun had risen fully and the summer heat had begun to set in. Half way through her final stall, Lassiel looked up suddenly.

"Did you know?" she demanded of her uncle.

He shifted uneasily. "Yes, we knew. Your mother told us before you were born."

Lassiel turned her back to him. "It seems I was the only one who did not know," she muttered bitterly, and strode angrily towards the house.

Once inside, she walked through the house and directly to the loft, without acknowledging her aunt or the Elf. She found her cousin still awake but still abed.

"Get up, you lump," she laughed, trying to pretend everything was as usual.

"I am up," came the muffled replied. "Am I not awake?" Lassiel shook her head and laughed again. "Who is downstairs?"

She forced a smile. "An Elf, actually."

"An Elf?"

"Yes, a Wood-elf, to be precise." She willed her voice to stay level. "My father, if you must know." The words left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

"Your father?" came the incredulous reply.

"Yes," she answered, and she was unable to keep the edge out of her voice. "He seems to think it prudent to show up on our doorstep six years after my mother's death asking for her."

"Oh." Not wanting to anger Lassiel, she hesitantly asked, "May I see him?"

"Yes, you may, and breakfast is waiting downstairs in any case. Come." She whipped the covers from the bed, making her cousin squeal.

They both took a moment to dress, and Lassiel pulled her hair into a firm braid at the nape of her neck. Her hair was a pale gold, and now she knew why. She took great pride her hair; as a child it had brought her attention from adults, even those who looked down upon her mother's "questionable values" (which was the most polite way in which they accused her mother of being a whore), and as she grew it had gained her attention from the younger male population of the small village. It was not an object of vanity, she decided, merely something she could feel good about. And as a child she had needed just that. It had not been easy growing up without a father. At times, the teasing and torment had been almost unbearable. The few times the aggressors had become physical, she had fled into the nearest tree, and none had had the courage to follow her. However, that seldom was the case. It had been the verbal abuse that had been the worst, especially from the other girls. Not that she had been completely innocent either. There had been times when she could not resist provoking them, though she usually wished later she had not. And as they approach their teens, they became less openly hostile and more subtly cruel. Then she discovered her talent with horses, and seeing as her aunt and uncle bred and trained horses for a living, it had proved very useful thus far. Life had become easier from that point; she found her place in the community. Then her mother had taken ill and died, and everything seemed to slide downhill once more. For a time she had been depressed, severely depressed. Each day had been a tortuous routine, and she had been groping for a reason to carry on, without much luck. Now, everything had just begun to brighten, and to fall into place, and who should decide that now he was needed but the father she had never had for nineteen years.

"Are you coming?" Lassiel jumped. She had been absorbed in her own thoughts, and her cousin's voice yanked her back into the present. They descended the stair together and Lassiel carefully avoided making eye contact with anyone. It would take time for her to realize that perhaps this was not an easy thing for any of them, but as of now she was too absorbed with feeling mislead and betrayed.

They all sat down to breakfast silently, and the tension was palpable. Lassiel's little cousin, too young to truly understand, was staring at Legolas, obviously fascinated. He looked up and gave her cousin a kindly smile, and Lassiel scowled at him, furious that he was making overtures of friendship towards her little cousin. He was not, and would never be, part of this family.

Staring into her tea, Lassiel realized that the cream was set directly before Legolas. She would have to ask him to pass it across the table. She dreaded speaking to him, and she struggled to decide which was worse: speaking to him, or drinking tea straight. On one hand, she could avoid speaking to him, but she would not enjoy her drink. On the other, to obtain cream she would be forced to address him personally. She took a tiny sip of her tea, and nearly gagged. She glanced towards the cream once more. Now she was faced with another problem: what to address him as. She would never, of course, call him "father"; she would rather die. To call him by name seemed too familiar, and yet she would feel foolish calling him "Master Elf".

She was reluctant to break the silence, feeling as though the others would take it as signal to begin talking. Finally, she cleared her throat slightly, and said, "Legolas," he looked up, "may I have the cream?" Her voice was intentionally cool and distant (she hoped).

"Of course," he replied, handing it to her.

She took the little dish from his hand without ever looking at him. "Thank you."

She poured a splash into her cup, along with two cubes of sugar. Out of habit, she pocketed two extra sugar cubes, for Elwing. Her aunt smiled; Lassiel had been "sneaking" sugar to the horses since childhood.

"I fed your horse," Lassiel said suddenly. "I know not what you feed him regularly, but he was hungry, and so I gave him hay and grain." She was surprised to hear these words come out of her mouth, and unsure why she said them. It was almost as if she expected him to feel in debt to her, though this was stupid as she would not deny a hungry horse grain.

"Thank you," he said. "I appreciate it, and surely Alagos does as well."

She nodded, and finishing her breakfast she stood and moved as if to leave the table.

"Lassiel," Legolas said, stopping her. Slowly she turned back to face him, and though she obediently returned to place at the table, her face bore and expression that made it clear he was in no position to control her.

"Yes?" she prompted, gritting her teeth.

"There are many things we, you and I, need to discuss."

I have nothing to say to you. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but ventured no further. She merely stared at him coldly.

"I know this is not easy for you," he began. "But please, understand, I did not know. Had I known..." he trailed off, looking at Lassiel and clearly asking for forgiveness of some sort. She did not respond.

"A stranger you are to me, and I to you, and yet you are none the less my daughter. More than anything, I should like to know you." Here he paused, mastering conflicting emotions. His words had not been entirely truthful. When he looked at Lassiel, he did not truly yearn to know the daughter who had been unknown to him for nineteen years, but felt that he because she was his daughter, he should want to know her. His own child sat before him; surely that meant something. But she glowered at him, and he could feel only feel uncomfortable and guilty.

"You are important to the business of these stables; that is easy enough to see. However, your uncle agrees that the earnings of the yearlings sold last year will be enough to hire a farm hand for a year's time."

Lassiel did not like where this was going, not at all. She felt panic rising in her chest, her heart fluttering like a terror-stricken bird.

"I ask that you come with me, to Mirkwood, for a year, so that-

"No. No, no, no, no, no," Lassiel shook her head desperately.

"We may attempt to mend the gap left by nineteen years," he continued over her protesting. "Please, Lassiel. Will you not even consider it?"

"Absolutely not. I have no wish to leave." Her voice shook, and she looked frantically about the table. She felt as thought she were drowning, struggling to keep her head above water, while her family watched on and offered no help.

"But there is so much you do not know about your own people," he countered.

"My own people?" she echoed, her voice shrill. "I consider my people to be those who raised me. My people are Men, and to their mortal fate am I bound. And besides," she added viciously, "if I do not the ways of 'my people', then you are to blame."

Legolas rose sharply from his seat and planting both fisted hands on the table leaned over towards her. He appeared calm, but she could read the anger and emotion in his eyes.

"Do not ever suggest that I did anything less for your mother than I could have. I loved her more than life itself, and I only followed her wishes by letting her leave as she did. Do you honestly believe that my heart did not break as I watched her walk away?" His voice was low and intense, his eyes bored into her, and Lassiel became aware of how just angry she had really made him. "And have you any concept of the great deal of guilt I already carry, over not being at your mother's side when she drew her last breath, and leaving you fatherless for your childhood?"

Lassiel could not meet his eyes, and said nothing. Shame welled up inside her, but she smashed it down; she refused to have any sympathy for him. "I still do not wish to leave," she muttered lamely. He did not reply, only sat down slowly and drew a long breath.

"Will you let him take me?" she asked louder, the question directed towards her aunt and uncle.

"I will not take you anywhere," Legolas stated.

"Lassiel," said her aunt. "This is not what you would have me say, but I do believe that you should go. Your mother would have wanted you know this part of your," she fumbled for a word, "heritage."

Tears stung Lassiel's eyes. She had never felt so betrayed. She was developing a habit of victimizing herself. Had she thought about it, she might have realized that she had not

considered the feelings of those around her since moment she stepped down the stairs the previous night.

"Fine," she hissed. Then she turned to Legolas. "I want to leave as soon as possible. The sooner we leave, the sooner I return," she said bluntly.

"I suppose we could depart today, when you are packed," he replied, looking slightly taken-aback.

Lassiel nodded curtly and left the table without a backward glance.

She had been in the loft for fifteen minutes and was nearly packed when her cousin entered, eyes watery and chin trembling.

"I do not want you leave," she burst, and Lassiel was flooded with emotion. She had until now forced herself to remain numb, but could no longer maintain this.

"It is only a year," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "And then I shall return."

Her cousin nodded, tears streaming down her face, while Lassiel fought back tears of her own. Suddenly, they were hugging tightly.

Giving her cousin a last pat on the back, Lassiel pulled away. As she stepped down the stairs she called a last painful goodbye over her shoulder.

Legolas was waiting for her in the stables. Without acknowledging his presence, she quickly groomed and saddled Elwing, the gray mare dancing nervously all the while. She tied her bag onto the saddle and then led Elwing out the door. Once outside she mounted and waited for Legolas. Then together they rode towards the house, where Lassiel bided her aunt and uncle a last uneasy farewell.

They took to the road, and Lassiel kept her eyes forward as all that she had ever known faded slowly away behind her.