Disclaimer: The plot and characters with unfamiliar names belong to me.
Rating: PG
Author's Note: I forgot to mention that this story alludes to The Strength of One Green Leaf. And because of my usage of certain literary devices, the story might make more sense if all three chapters are read through without break.
My sincerest apologies for the late update – school has started, and I have loaded myself with more classes than ever before. But I do continue to work on my fanfics every night, and will diligently post as often as I am able. Thank you so much for being patient, and hugs and kisses to all of you kind souls who give me feedback!
Thank you to Catmint, for reviewing Beasts of Burden. So few words, and yet so moving. I was overwhelmed. Thank you so much.
And I would like to thank Shadowed Flames for reviewing that story as well! Your words made me so happy. Thank you.
Thank you also to KeshieShimmer, who reviewed I Will Not Let You Fall! It's so good to hear about a work that is long finished!
Kasmi Kassim
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Unfinished Earth
Part 3
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The door to the study opened soundlessly, slow and deliberate. A blond head poked its way inside, a curtain of flaxen hair spilling over the shoulders and hanging down in a gentle wave. After swiftly scanning the study, he found the object of his search, and slipped inside with a satisfied smile. Carefully closing the door behind himself, he leaned back against the wooden surface, twinkling eyes thirstily drinking in the sight before him.
Tassels of blond hair stretching across the red seat stirred; and then, the wild strands dipped and slid off of the seat, flowing down into a golden cataract. Small hands were stuffed close to the curled body, huddled into the corner of the large plush chair. The eyes were invisible, as the child's head was tucked into his chest like a napping kitten, all parts of his small body withdrawn into itself save the hanging strands of hair.
The father watched soundlessly.
At length, the small elf stirred; instinctively sensing a presence in the room, however silent, he murmured sleepily and raised his head. Unfocused eyes turned to the door, and spotted the king; the young elf blinked, rubbing his eyes. When he looked again, his cleared eyes widened, and he leaped off of the chair with a cry. The king chuckled and detached himself from the door.
"Ada!"
The force of the embrace knocked the breath out of the king. He remained silent, however, holding his son tight, until finally Legolas regained his bearings and raised his head from the armor that seemed strangely incongruent with his father's abdomen.
"Are you hurt?" He gingerly fingered the armor.
The king smiled. "It does not hurt."
Legolas instantly stepped back. His reproachful expression made his father droop his eyes sadly. "Ai, do not look at me so, little Greenleaf. I have had enough of that on the way home."
With a scowl, the younger elf scuttled toward a large oaken cabinet by the wall. "You are the worst patient I have ever seen," he declared with an unhappy frown, crouching before the opened cabinet and pulling out bandages and clean patches of cloth. "Ethelea said such patients are difficult and immature." He threw an accusatory glance over his shoulder, while his father made sluggish progress toward the center of the spacious study. Thranduil simply chuckled in response.
The walk toward the large settee before the hearth seemed to last forever. But it was so much more bearable than the ride home, for he was at last with the chiding voice and the accusing eyes again. Even the harshest of reprimands from his little one was an irreplaceable ray of the sun, especially after what he had experienced only a few days ago. The perpetual stench of blood seemed freshened and blown gently away, the screams and groans silenced, and the images of broken bodies erased, by the mere presence of his little Greenleaf. Yes, his little leaf breathed life. He inhaled deeply.
He never went to healers after his returns anymore. As the healers fussed over his wounds, his mind would wander in a faraway realm, replaying the scenes of bloodbath over and over again, eyes hollow and distant with dark terror. He would hear screams that drowned out worried voices, and he would see blood and corpses instead of white bandages and balm. He would feel blades breaking into his flesh and blows breaking his bones, instead of soothing hands that touched his skin. And treading the halls in silent contemplation, the king would be a haunted spirit, a faded echo of a sparkle and a laughter of ages long past. Treading the empty halls in solitude, lost in the foggy realm of dreams in which screams and moans hung heavily in the air, the silent phantom of the exuberant youth who vibrated with life would tread on and on, his bare feet ever silent upon the blood that coated the earth. And under the dulled rays of the sun, the copper red earth would be hard and cracked beneath his feet, swallowing the ashes and powders of bones that grinded into the crevices of dark abyss – ever ready to collapse and swallow him, burn him in bright, avenging fire.
The only link to reality that pulled him back from the realm of dreams was his little Greenleaf. The child who ran into his arms, heedless of the red and black blood that marred his skin. The child whose innocent voice called him back from his haunted wanderings through the blood-red mist, whose soft arms wrapped themselves lovingly around his broken body, whose hands caressed his dirtied wounds, whose laughing lips kissed dried, weary cheeks. The ringing laughter drowned out the moans, and those sparkling eyes sucked him into a world that was beautiful beyond comprehension, a breathtaking world of the vast twilight sky, where he was taken up to soar among the stars of heaven and treaded not on this weary earth. The child's gaze, his voice, his touches – all of them, his child, his beautiful green leaf; he cleansed away the blood and tears that stained his soul, the silent fury and grief that burned within his haunted eyes.
Which was why he no longer went to the healers after returning from expeditions.
Ignoring the pleas and the pursuits, he would jump off of his horse and give quick instructions, listen to reports while striding down the hall. And he would dismiss his worried followers, and disappear into the corridor leading to his chambers, still in full armor barely rinsed of the blood stains. And he would slip quietly into his study, no matter how loudly his broken body protested; it was his irreplaceable moment of priceless bliss to stand leaning against the door, watching the child curled upon his chair, soft hair streaming down his face and small hands tucked beneath his body. He would relish the silent moment, allowing his weary body to rest, his frenzied heart to calm. The child would always be curled upon the chair – or occasionally the furs on the floor by the hearth – lost in a restless sleep of anxiety and fatigue. And watching him, the father's mind would slowly return from its wanderings through the haunted dream, the scattered pieces of reality that hung in the air in a thick fog slowly condensing, solidifying into the form of his child – and his vision would clear, the world would be focused again, regaining its center in the form of the child.
Slow fingers removed his armor piece by piece, dropping the parcels unceremoniously upon the floor as he moved toward the settee. When he finally reached his destination, now clad in only a light tunic, he heaved a great breath and collapsed onto the cushions. Half-reclining, he did not bother to adjust his position upon the cushions. Though he took care to control his movements, however, his body was disobedient; Legolas' head snapped back upon the sound of a creak.
"What -" he stopped short when he saw his father waving a hand dismissively. Legolas scowled deeper, and snatched up the remaining items that he had been digging out. "Why are you not in a healing chamber?"
The king chuckled. "Why the trouble, when I have a healer here?" He threw a jaunty smile at the child, who was now moving toward him with arms full with bandages and balm and herbs. Dropping the items into a heap by his father's feet, Legolas hurried toward the washroom.
"I am still in training," called out a frustrated voice above the violent roar of water. The king chuckled again. Legolas reappeared with a basin of steaming water.
As the king watched with amusement twinkling in his eyes, his son crouched onto the floor by the settee, busily gathering the scattered items, and sprang to his feet to fetch a piece of equipment he had forgotten, rummaging through unused drawers, cursing his lack of sleep during the last weeks for the disorientated state of mind, running around in a fuss, and creating havoc in general.
When at last he was sure that he had everything he needed, Legolas crouched by his father's feet again. He picked up a healing herb, and groaned; he leaped to his feet once more, darting to the cabinet. The king's study was laden with such healing items – though they remained hidden in a corner of the cabinet – for he never went straight to a healer after his trips. And thus Legolas took it upon himself to make his father's study a makeshift healing chamber, however clumsily made.
Thranduil lazily lifted his head, watching his son with amusement in his drooping eyes.
"Leave those frivolities and come here," he murmured, beckoning with a hand. Legolas raised a resentful gaze, but after a brief mental debate tumbling in his transparent eyes, withdrew his hands from the cabinet. Slow steps crossed the space between himself and his father. It was obvious that his father was exhausted; the wounds would be able to wait until he fell asleep.
Kneeling before his father, who leaned languidly upon the settee and reached out to stroke his hair, Legolas held his breath. A dark scar ran down his father's abdomen, partly concealed by the tunic that flapped loosely around his waist. The scar was fresh, snatches of dark blood seeping out and spreading against the hard flesh every time he moved. The skin was ashen.
"Something wrong, Greenleaf?" asked his father softly. Strong fingers stroked his hair, over and over again. "Tell me what happened while I was away."
Raising anxious eyes, Legolas smiled tremulously. "Ah, nothing is wrong, Ada. I...I just missed you." Clearing his throat, he seated himself comfortably upon the floor, gently placing his hands upon his father's knees – and yet his hands hovered uncertainly over the skin, shaking slightly in his ghostly caresses. "Nothing is wrong." He smiled again, eyes shimmering with a bright silver sheen.
Thranduil smiled. He continued to stroke the soft golden head, urging him silently to go on. Legolas swallowed hard.
"I delivered a foal, Ada," he said, his trembling voice light and bright. "The mare is healthy, and so is the foal. It's a colt. Very strong. And...um...the twins sent a message, and they said..."
And so the child continued to chat away, his voice as bright and shimmering as the glaze in his eyes, as his father slumped in his chair, listening with a contented smile, a weary hand slowing to a rest atop his child's warm head. And as the chatter faded away into silence, the prince lowered his head onto his father's lap, and his shoulders trembled soundlessly before the glazed eyes of his unconscious father. And thus he remained, shaking silently, a small forlorn child in the quiet hush of the study.
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"He has been holding out against the siege for over a month."
Haldir watched the king clasp on the leather strap of his scabbard. Long blond hair swirled in the air as the king threw on his cloak. He began to stride down the hall, followed by his warriors; Haldir matched the king's brisk strides.
"You are still unwell, my lord. Allow me to accompany your warriors in your stead."
Thranduil turned his head toward the impassive face of the Lorien warrior. His eyes softened as Haldir met his gaze in silence. The earnest eyes were unmistakable, but Thranduil was not one to back down. He reached out and clasped the Marchwarden's shoulder affectionately.
"No, my lord Haldir. My son has been left alone in the wild long enough. It is time."
Haldir's eyes were ever watchful, his movements subtle and swift, as he followed the king to the front of the castle. The king's stallion was waiting before the gates, and he mounted swiftly. Though his body swayed from exhaustion once atop the saddle, his expression was determined. He turned back to smile at his gray-clad companion, who was now mounted on his own horse, eying him with concern.
"You will be surprised to see how he has grown, Haldir."
Haldir nodded silently.
With another fleeting smile, the king nudged his horse forward. The stallion broke into a gallop, and the green mass of elves broke forward in a thundering roar of hooves. The deadly storm swept through the forest with a wild determined fury, headed by the injured king, surrounded by elves on both sides and the rear.
Thranduil's eyes blazed into the forest path. Injured though he was, no elf rode before him; he would always be at the forefront, as his little Greenleaf would. The rest of Mirkwood always saw his back, tall and broad against the coming of death, unfaltering and strong. And his child, the young, slender youth, his precious, innocent child – he was standing before his people as well, his lithe shoulders spread out between his people and the coming darkness. And he would not turn, he would not step back. Thranduil knew better than anyone.
His little Greenleaf.
Thranduil's jaw tightened. He urged his horse to go faster, when a flash of platinum gold invaded his vision.
It was Haldir, his stallion galloping up to his side. The elves realigned, now spread about the two who rode at the forefront. Thranduil glanced quickly toward the elf who rode with him, smiling to himself. The cobalt blue eyes of the Lorien elf were set on the path before him, expressionless. The Marchwarden of Lorien was in every way a warrior, possessing a spirit to match a lord or king. A strange coincidence it was indeed, that he chose this moment of the year to stop by Mirkwood during one of his travels. And of course, he could not be convinced to stay behind to rest his travel-worn body. His appearance was dusty and weary, but his movements and eyes were as sharp as they always were; no sign of fatigue or weakened resolve lingered in those penetrating orbs. Thranduil lowered his body, feeling his hair whip at his shoulders. He suspected that Haldir of Lorien did not come to Mirkwood in this time of danger just out of coincidence.
"He has been surviving on boiled soil and dried tree roots, I speculate." A roguish smile was thrown in Haldir's way before the king turned back to urge his horse on faster. A faint smile surfaced upon the Lorien elf's lips as well.
"He has grown much indeed," he mused. He could almost see Thranduil's lips smirk in pride. There was so much felt between them, a poignant vibration of memories shared, and yet so little to say – and so he remained silent, close to the king.
The trees began to thin out rapidly; the foliage grew sparse and dark. The horses slowed as they came upon a clearing of dry, cracked land. An eerie silence hung among the trees that stood in a distance; mountains loomed just beyond the surrounding trees, shrouded in copper-red dust. Thranduil's sharp eyes focused upon the small stronghold in the center of the clearing. Haldir pulled the reins, slowing down his stallion to stand by the king.
A torn green flag flapped quietly in the heavy air, speared by a broken lance that stood wedged between a block of what looked like a circular black wall. His heart clenched. A symbol of life, of victory and goodness that still, stubbornly, prevailed upon the land – as always, standing proud upon the stakes of royal lives.
Haldir's head turned swiftly in time with Thranduil's. Both warriors watched with glittering eyes as a black mass swarmed among the trees from the other side of the stronghold, moving stealthily through the thick foliage of the forest, shrouded in the fog of blood. Haldir quietly readjusted the grip on his bow.
So, the platoon of elves had stationed themselves in the center of the enemy's mouth, where teeth could not reach. The orcs would not be able to attack them continuously as long as they remained poised in the clearing devoid of trees and shade. Leave it to Legolas and his people to charge into the heart of the enemy's turf and build a fortress there. As far as Haldir could remember, the prince had never shown interest in defensive elements of battle – always moving into critical range first, swirling knives at the enemy before a sword could be raised in his direction. The reminiscence, coming back like a gentle fog to merge with the present situation with gut-twisting similarity, brought a mirthless smile to Haldir's lips. The stranded elves had been refusing to send a messenger through the teeth of orcs that swarmed in the forest paths, battling by day and resting by night. Favoring uncertain annihilation against a certain death of a messenger, for they knew well what choosing the latter meant – this battalion was doubtlessly led by a royal captain of Greenwood.
Haldir pulled out an arrow.
The orcs were closing in. Watching the lonely fortress amidst the swarming black mass, Haldir was reminded of a small pond in Lorien that lay quietly amid the vast stretches of rustling weeds that encircled it. The only difference between the two, Haldir realized with a cold twist in his stomach as he moved closer, was that this little pond was surrounded by piled-up bodies of mutilated orcs, which constructed the barricade that held the tattered flag.
He shuddered. What a warning.
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"Well met, my lords."
Haldir bowed as the young prince threw the last orc body off of himself and turned to greet them with a courteous bow. His face was pale, and his hair was devoid of its golden luster. His voice was quiet and calm, though his breaths were labored, weary of the fog of blood that suffocated the air.
As the young elf guided them around the encampment, explaining quietly what had transpired during the month-long stalemate, Haldir observed the subtle aura of weariness in the eyes of the captain. Though his voice and gestures retained a youthful vitality, and his fair face held a striking brightness of youth, the liveliness of his vigor was tarnished by the air of exhaustion that surrounded the young commander.
All throughout the report, the king remained voiceless, simply nodding in response. No questions were asked, for none were needed; though the prince was young, his detailed and efficient report radiated ages of experience. When he was finished, and turned to face the king and the warrior who had come as a brother in arms, he drew in a quiet breath, expectant. His pallid face was set in an edge of steel, forced bravado and resignation mingling in an air of acceptance and preparation for – reprimand? Judgment? Haldir could not ascertain.
But he was no fool; shooting a glance in the king's direction, he left his side, and joined the king's warriors as they gathered the wounded and waded through the orc bodies that littered the forest floor. When he glanced back, he saw the prince now standing alone, his eyes lost and vulnerable as he faced his father.
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Legolas did not break the silence. After Haldir left them, the elves standing behind the king also began to move away, presumably prompted by Haldir's subtle gestures. Legolas did not know whether to be grateful for the guardian's silent understanding, or to be restless and irritated to be thrown into this situation. To be left alone with his father was a dreaded, though inevitable, stepping stone. No, not a stepping stone; it was an end. This would decide the ending, complete the episode of the tale.
But somehow, Legolas had the feeling that the end was already drawn, the tale already told. The moment with his father would only punctuate it, shoot the arrow of cold reality into his dully aching heart.
The wounded were everywhere. He himself was among the few who remained standing, and even he was plagued with injuries and fatigue. Here, stranded alone and cut off from world outside, shrouded in the copper dust of blood and grime, time had slowed into a lethargic torture of a dream, a fantasy of a stretched continuum; his sense had been dulled, his body intoxicated, only coming to life while unleashing the furious battle dance along with the pulsating rhythm of drumbeats, his soul watching impassively from afar as his body danced in sync with the terrible music of war that flooded the dry, red earth. Now the dust was thickened, and ashes haunted his steps, bones scrunching under his feet – and yet time had returned, and reality had pierced through the sluggish veil of the dreamlike existence that had enveloped them for so long. The invisible walls of corpses and blood and dried earth that had been built in the past month, the hardened walls that had braced him and supported him and dulled him, had begun to sway with the arrival of his father's army. And now, standing amid the remnants of battle, as fellow warriors gathered up the wounded and treaded among motionless black corpses, he could see the green flag in the morose air, flapping in the heavy silence. The song of battle had died down, the pounding of his heart now a distant echo. The maddening beats of drums had faded, and with the screaming melody went his dance of death, the beautiful and terrible ritual he performed as his soul watched from afar and his heart slumbered in oblivion. And now, all was over, all settled down to ashes and dust; and standing at the horizon of victory, he was enveloped in nothing but a weary sadness, as he raised his forlorn eyes toward the dulled rays of the sun.
His father had come to their aid. All would be well; no lives were lost. He had led his people through the darkness. They had survived.
And yet, he was tired. Sad. And he wanted to cry.
He blinked as the murmur of people blurred around him, eyes blankly watching the movements of the elves as they loaded injured companions onto carts and stretchers.
"284 injured," he said numbly, eyes distant and lost. "61 are wounded gravely, though not mortally. 37 became ill with orc poison, and none remain unscathed."
"You have done well," replied the quiet king.
Legolas did not respond. He remained silent still, as his father slowly stepped closer. He dropped his gaze. Disinterested eyes watched red blood trickle down his own calf.
They had held out this long, and they had survived. But his father had come to him in his wearied state, had been forced to arrive with reinforcements. His father held a sword in his wearied hands, his dulled blond hair tightly bound in warrior plaits. A blood-stained war bow upon his back, an empty quiver of arrows thrown carelessly to the side. It was his father, the familiar form of the broad-shouldered father who had always been so. The familiar back of the king, the tall shadow that always stood before him, told him to stay back.
He had seen his father's back many times. And his father had always been thus, proud and strong, broad and tall. Even when wounded, even when poisoned, he had held the indomitable flame of life in his eyes, steel lacing his words. He had always looked down at him with a smile, the tall figure that stood against the scattering rays of the sun, the unwavering center of the universe that held the fragmented golden rays together.
And thus was his father, as far back as he could remember, all throughout his childhood, his adolescence, all of his life. He had always been so.
So why did it hurt to look at his father like this again? To see him injured and armed, fatigued and smiling, fighting with his back turned toward him? Just like he had always done?
Biting his lip, Legolas hung his head.
No, he had failed. He had succeeded, but he had failed miserably all the same.
His lowered eyes traced the weary skin of his father's hands, the bandages that outlined his body underneath the cloak. He closed his eyes.
"Father." His voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry."
He breathed heavily. The air was thick, suffocating. He could not breathe.
"Legolas."
The quiet call prompted him to raise his gaze. The young prince watched, a thin glaze forming in his eyes, as the king neared him, finally standing only a breath away. Heavy dust danced around them, blurring the outline of the bodies that moved, the time that flowed slowly through the thick red fog. And the blurred worlds whirled around him, clashing and merging – the past which had always been, the blurred future that he had wanted to create. What he had longed to change. The latter was now an illusion, what he had failed to accomplish. And standing between the whirling worlds of dream and reality, enveloped in the fog of dusty blood that rested against his teeth and invaded his tongue, his father stood as he had always done, smiling, a loose cloak tapping against concealed bandages. And he was once again the magnetic center of the universe that pulled the scattered rays of the sun together, and Legolas was pulled toward the endless pools of his eyes, the sparkling depths which threatened to overwhelm his feeble soul.
He wanted to look away.
And yet the worlds continued to dance around him, pulling him into a dizzy vortex that centered around the tall figure of his father. And he could not resist the pull, the magnetizing light in his father's eyes. Moans of pain and shuffling of feet became silent; the heavy wails of the trees were engulfed in the timeless silence of his father's tender smile.
Pale blue eyes glimmered as the father tilted his head.
"I came to see you." He spread his arms, smile glowing ever softly. "Did you not miss me too, little Greenleaf?"
Azure blue eyes glazed. Legolas bit his lip. And try as he might, he could not struggle against the call, the warmth that beckoned to the tired head that leaned heavily into his father's breast. And burying his bowed head into his father's embrace, the weary walls creaked and groaned, the invisible cracks of the unfinished earth reaching higher, higher, until the wall came crashing down. Soundless tremors rippled throughout his body, and pale fingers shakily gripped the fabric of his father's sleeves, retreating into the warm embrace of his father's arms.
Perhaps when the unfinished work had been demolished, thrown back onto the hard earth, shattering into pieces, becoming dust once again – perhaps patient hands would then begin a new work, a stronger one, a smoother one – and even if that one crashed and exploded in the bright dance of flames, back to soft dust upon the earth once again, there would be built another, and another, and it would be stronger, smoother, a never-ending perfection of the unfinished earth.
Haldir turned from the last medical cart, gaze sweeping through the desolate site of death and hope. And standing amid the blood and dust of weary life, the form of the young commander who had marked a new page in Mirkwood history was but a shaking child, clinging to his father's embrace.
The Lorien warrior raised his eyes. The sky was so blue. So blue.
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The End
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Author's Note: This little tale started out as a vignette, which became divided after it lengthened itself out after introspection after introspection that went into the work. Among my stories, this one is among the more heavily laden with literary devices (imagery, symbolisms, themes, metaphors, etc.), along with my three longest multi-chapter stories. I have never poured so much philosophical and literary thought into vignettes before, and am quite surprised at the care put into Beasts of Burden and Unfinished Earth. That being said, I am ready to move on from heavy vignettes for now, and will start another multi-chapter story. But I am still undecided whether I should dare start the sequel-after-sequel arc of the Greenleaf Chronicles, or try to polish my Erestor-Glorfindel work first. Well anyway – I am now babbling – I humbly thank you all for reading, and I bow to my kind reviewers.
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Unsung Heroine: Thank you! Your compliments really really flattered me! Wow! I hope you liked this story!
Rede: Really? I don't know how I manage to surpass it, but I am excited to hear that I do! Thank you so much! I hope I didn't disappoint! ;)
Brazgirl: Hahaha, you and your Thranduil obsession. But I am not the one to talk, because I am obsessed with that elf too. Did you do well on your test? I hope your Thranduil mantra helped calm you! Hahaha. Thank you for your review!
Deana: Oops, this posting was not too soon. I hope you enjoyed this story though! Thank you for reviewing!
Joee1: Thank you! Your concise descriptions about specific points of my story that stood out to you is very gratifying. I love descriptive reviews! I hope you liked this chapter too!
elvingirl3737: Thank you for telling me what you liked about the chapter! I hope I didn't make you wait too long! ;)
Beling: Did you have a safe journey, mellon nin? ;)
Alas, my skills as a writer are now put to the test before thou – for I have arrived at the end of the tale and you must ascertain for yourself where I was headed. If I did not meet the ending clearly, then...I need much improvement. ;) I hope the story held enough misty layers to make it unclear, but I hope it didn't completely go over your head either! Haha. Don't feel stressed though, because if a thoughtful reader like you doesn't understand it, the writer can be blamed. But knowing you, I think you would most definitely extract a deep and unexpected understanding of this story! Anyway, I just adored your inspection and musings on Legolas' childhood and upbringing – thank you for sharing it with me! And my friend, you have read deep into the last chapter, deeper than you think. Thank you so much for staying with me through my little stories with your beautiful reviews! They are so encouraging, so fulfilling. I do hope you enjoyed your trip!
Templa Otmena: You have no idea how surprised and big-headed you're making me with your praises. ;) As always, your thoughtful and detailed review drew a beautiful image for me. And your flow of literary ideas and knowledge and insight! Wow! So amazing how you catch the little bits that I put extra thought into, and see the visions as I saw them! And the in-depth musings into the back story of character relationships, of which I only sketch the outline...beautiful! Wow. And all of this care and generosity despite the havoc in your own life. Is the job search going well? I feel with your dilemma regarding the fussy details of transcripts and applications and entries and such...sigh. My poor dear. As hectic as your life sounds, though, I must admit I am fascinated – living in North America, I was always fascinated with the prospect of living in the British Isle! Hehe. I am yet a sophomore in the University of Washington, and am about a month away from turning 20 years old. And my schedule is hectic, but other than that and the possibility of a military draft (stupid Bush...er, sorry), life is good. ;) Take care, mellon nin!
Anastasia Who: Thank you! Such a joy to hear from you again. ;) I hope you enjoyed this story!
Coolio02: Oh, do not apologize! I am delighted when I get reviews, late or no. ;) And it's so nice of you to review both chapters too! It's good to hear that you are liking this story. Thank you for taking time out of your busy school life to give me feedback!
jibade7: My dear, please do not worry about reviewing late – I am ever grateful for a review no matter how early or late it is! Anyway, I was excited to hear that you liked Thranduil's statement about one's place in life. I had wanted that statement to be heard (as you can see, a lot of my own philosophy has seeped into this vignette) and was ecstatic to hear that somebody heard it loud and clear. And you also caught the little part about little Legolas' practice with the bow! Beautiful! And his reasons for not calling for aid...I almost couldn't believe that someone actually comprehended that line. Because you see, I couldn't completely comprehend it myself. It's one of those sentiments that are wrapped up in fog, and yet so existent and prevalent, and yet difficult to describe...but I am probably not making sense. Anyway, thank you for the thoughtful reading and your beautiful review!