The Ideal
"A storm is coming."
Two Elves were seated around a pit of fire beneath a growing darkness. Both had been temporarily distracted until then; though one returned to prodding at the flames, the other looked up inquiringly from a peaceful daze, and acknowledged the low declaration of a third company, standing as but a dark outline against the forest. He peered into the sky, a clearing of trees amidst the endless woodlands of Mirkwood. Mid-day was passed, dusk was upon them, and though the skies were normally filled with some pale blue light, there were now clouds gathering in the eastern realm. There was a grey darkness lying upon the edge of Mirkwood— the calm of a storm was upon them. Oronar spoke to his alerted companion near the trees, whose immense sensory awareness had his ever-roaming eyes facing the darkness of the woods, suspecting every noise and stir.
"It will pass, Legolas. It's a mere thundershower, nothing more."
But the fair Elf gazed on. His body was apprehensively still, but eager in waiting.
The Elf around the flickering fire dropped the twig that he had been shifting the burning timbers with, and looked over his shoulder to the tiny encampment situated in the confined clearing. A number of their skilled units stood in the dark as pairs, glancing at the Prince, sharing precarious murmurs amongst themselves and pacing with unease. The intuitive disposition of their young Lord never failed to bring them to unrest, no matter the skill and valor they themselves possessed.
"You are worrying them," Celahir frowned to Legolas, a suggestively flat tone in his voice.
"There's something out there," Legolas said simply. "Something dim and menacing, but I cannot see it."
Oronar and Celahir shared grim, knowing looks. Thunder rolled ahead, and for a second the sky was alight with a flash of lightning. The storm was distant, though the air was still and hot, a suffocating humidity that loomed too close to the earth for comfort. Nobody spoke, and the uncomfortable silence was filling them all with great anxiety. Lightning struck again, and its distance had lessened by many miles. A wind began to bellow in from the sky, whispering through trees and foliage, and the swaying of trees made the rustling of leaves the clearest sound around them.
Oronar leapt to his feet, being as he was the most impulsive. "A little more word from you could at least save us from the damned anxiety!" he muttered loudly while yet holding back his irritation.
The others flinched and began to stir. Legolas turned around slowly. His bright eyes flickered, challenging Oronar's returning gaze. Oronar grit his teeth and bowed his head in defeat against the authoritative stare almost immediately; Legolas turned back to the woods without a word.
Oronar, calming his short fuse, spoke up with a question shared only in thought amongst the others. "What then— do we wait for an unknown danger to come?"
Legolas sighed heavily, half-turning his body towards them while his eyes were left momentarily peeled on the shadows before him. "Nay, we must not wait." He suddenly reached for his bow from where he had left it leaning against a worn beech tree and turned to his friends and agents of his father's men. Though his face appeared stern, there was a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. "We go find it."
Celahir rolled his eyes and sighed expectantly, hurling a small twig into the fire, but Oronar's sulking frown soon became a grin of approval as he took running after Legolas through the darkening woods with his own bow in hand. Celahir followed closely, though was not nearly as enthusiastic as his two aggressive and skilled friends. "This shall be the highlight of someone's evening, though certainly not mine."
Oronar stopped abruptly and gestured to Legolas, who was gliding swiftly through the forest bed now far ahead of them. "He knows where to find a thrill." The Elf picked up speed quickly and took after the likeness of his Prince in his swift stride, though with his heavier build he could not quite match Legolas' velocity.
The excitement had overcome the eager commander of the band of seven archers and his succeeding companion, and so Celahir gave them orders himself. All seven of the units divided in a wide line before scattering in different areas though neither disappeared from each other's sight. As they moved deeper into the forest, the darkness grew. In moments they passed below the shadow of the clouds in the sky, and everything became still.
The entire forest seemed deader than usual, but for the eagerness of Legolas and Oronar, whose passion for intensity made a great liveliness in the grim surroundings.
"A clearing!" Legolas shouted. The others watched as he picked up great speed to the very edge of the tree line. Then he stopped abruptly for reasons unknown, and Oronar was unfortunate to not be as quick in response.
Oronar grunted as he collided with his leader. The accident could have been greater but Oronar used much of his strength to slow down at the last moment. Legolas had expected it, as well, and planted his heals into the soft grass. Another thing that he did, and the others behind found peculiar, was that he spread his arms out at his sides, looking to be creating a barrier for none to pass through. It worked well, and Oronar remained leaning against him. He patted Legolas' shoulders apologetically as he regained his balance.
"My apologies," he said with discomfiture. He took one look at the rigid Elf and then at his face, and the look made his blood flow cold. "What is the matter?"
Thunder bellowed and lightning struck spasmodically in the heart of the clouds. Rain poured down hard, and Legolas and Oronar in the thinnest area of the oak and beech forest became soaked upon their fronts. Oronar followed Legolas' eyes to the very center of the clearing as his friend's arms dropped to his side. And Oronar did nothing but blink in astonishment.
Celahir halted at Legolas' right side. He looked back and with some gladness found the units still scattered accordingly. He observed his friends, and did not speak a word until he looked ahead himself.
The bundle was small, curled up defensively and unmoving—to an unkeen eye. Legolas sprang forward. "It's a body," he called over his shoulder, and his voice shook as he spoke. Oronar followed briskly.
Celahir gazed on with worry beginning to line his face. He raised his arm and made a signal to the archers. "Check the area!" He looked to confirm his orders were being followed by the few visible units behind him before rushing into the clearing.
Legolas was the only one kneeled in the wet grass beside the small form lying in the rain. The back of the tiny person was turned to him, and with trembling hands he reached out to roll the body the opposite way. His two friends could sense his fear.
They were unclear of what they saw, but for identifying the body as that of a human. The small child of a very young age bore a mop of soiled blonde hair, wavy in the rain, and to the length of their shoulders. Their face was smeared in blood, scratched and torn viciously. Legolas looked away painfully. Oronar placed a hand on his shoulder as Celahir kneeled beside the body's head, hardly able to classify her properly by her appearance beneath the horrid ruin upon her face.
"She is a female." He placed his hand over her forehead. Her skin was icy and coated with blood, both of her own and that of another creature's whose blood ran dark, but he did not recoil. He looked on with great despair in his eyes. With his other hand he pressed two fingers to her tiny wrist. He nodded with relief. "And she is alive."
Legolas looked back, and there was less hurt in his eyes. "Can you tell what did this?" he asked, and though the question was, at the moment, quite impossible to reply to, Celahir answered him as gently as he could.
"That is, right now, not something we can tell."
Legolas slipped his hands beneath the body of the little girl and the soiled black garments she wore. "We have to take her out of the rain." He lifted her into his arms and pressed her to his body, hoping he could radiate some warmth to her. He studied her face sadly. "There is so much blood." He stretched the sleeve of his tunic and pressed it tenderly to random areas of her face. Some of the blood, among red and black, was wiped away with the aid of the rain, but the wounds on her face drew more.
Oronar whistled to the trees. The units responded to his call and emerged from their hiding. "We return to the camp! Keep a watchful eye and do not let anything come near this path." He walked with Legolas and Celahir back into the forest. All the while, Legolas gazed at the little girl's face, waiting for her to wake. Sometimes the image became too hard for him to bear, and he looked away only for a short second before turning back, waiting hopefully for the opening of her eyes time and time again. Longer became his guard as the journey waned by, and soon, he did not once take his eyes off her.
Upon reaching their camp, they prepared their horses and immediately set off again through the woods northward. The going was slow, under Legolas' request. The young child stayed in his possession on the ride, and he did not want to stir her. A journey that was normally less than a full hour's length was bound to take twice the time. With that, Legolas sent ahead two units both as scouts and as messengers in which they were to cross the Forest River swiftly, and reach the Gate to bring tidings to his father of their delay.
The rain never ceased. The heavy rumbling in the sky carried on through the current twilight and then evening, and included the frequent light storm higher in the darkness. The land grew colder with the full going of light, and concern was awoken within Legolas. The girl began to shiver, though she was not yet awake. Half conscious, she began to weep silent, painful tears, sometimes whimpering softly over the thunder and twitching in his arms. He stretched his cloak accordingly, and wrapped it around her as best as he could, but she suffered on.
"How is she faring?" Celahir inquired upon riding up beside him.
"She is cold. It seems that she is slowly waking," he said sternly and fretfully. His jaw went sharp, and he looked up scornfully at the intensifying storm. "These conditions do not make matters easier."
Celahir stared at him for a long time. "She will be fine, mellonamin." [My friend]
Legolas returned the gaze. "Can you be sure?"
Celahir looked down at the girl. Blood, washed in rain and tears, trickled down her face, as did the hoards of pure rainwater upon her skin. It was hard to read her features— it had been difficult enough to determine her gender by her face. The poor soul. He knew she was better off to leave for dead— could they reach the Halls in enough time and manage to treat her, she would be lucky to ever look or be the same again. Legolas knew this also, but his heart was greater than theirs, Celahir realized. His love for the living and determination to find peace in a dangerous and unjust world was not just a part of his youthful ambition, but something they all had to find inspiration in. Celahir never did answer the question. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain of his friend.
An hour passed. The mortal child wept on, as did the relentless clouds with their showers of heavy rain. Everyone was tired and grim with the grueling pace that had endured for so long. Oronar came forward, and pleaded to Legolas on behalf of the others. "The going is too slow, Milord. The rain is falling harder, and the child grows weaker. We're all spent. Haven't we endeavored in these conditions long enough?"
Legolas wiped at his drenched eyes, blinking away what sight-obscuring drops he could with growing bitterness of the merciless storm. He nodded solidly. "Continue at my pace." He issued forth his steed to a gallop, and the hooves of all their grand horses thundered louder than the storm in the muddy ground.
The Forest River gleamed ahead, and spirits were lifted high amongst the company, though Legolas was the happiest to return home from the heartland. They sped across the great bridge that spanned over the river, chanting merrily and awaking the stillness of night. The rain had swelled down at last to barely visible droplets that couldn't even be felt, and the only evidence of it still enduring from the gloom above was seen in the river's water, ripples of the plenty dripping along the surface.
They came to the grand hill surrounded by a wall of large trees in which stood the Elven King's Gate, and where the great palace hall was delved deep within the mound. Two guards stood erect and alert at its great stone doors, known by many for its enchanted qualities. They bowed their heads in greeting, hands upon their breasts, as Legolas, Oronar, Celahir, and their five cavalry archers proceeded along the outside trail around the hillside to the stables in back. As the company disappeared, the two guards passed through the doors having completed their duty of waiting for the their safe arrival.
The area in which they rode through was a place where the tall oak and wide beech grew thick in numbers and made a natural wall of worthy protection. The path they rode was very narrow with room enough for only a single rider at a time. Because of the hill's great size, the path was nearly equal in circumference, so the going took a fair bit of time, but everyone became more cheerful and talkative as their horses trudged along in single file.
Legolas, being at the head of the line, was distant and cut off from conversation, but he was not at all alone.
The fair child in his arms was at peace, looking to be sleeping in his cloak. He felt a sensation of triumph build within him, and with a glad smile, he began to hum softly a tune well known in his land.
The melody was graceful and soothing, and the influence of music over her was first seen at this time. Her breathing became steadier than it had ever been. She shifted slowly, and in response to his fair voice was the hint of a smile.
Oronar looked towards the far East. "Ah, more rain is yet to come, it looks. Take her indoors, Legolas. We will stable your horse and unload."
"I will come with." They stopped in the middle of the path and dismounted. Celahir helped Legolas and the child down from his white steed. "I know of a suitable place to settle her in, unless your father has a better idea."
"We know how he deals with strangers," Legolas replied with the hint of a grin. Oronar, before walking off with the two horses and followed by the five archers, chuckled heartily, as did Celahir, for they all knew of the great suspicion of King Thranduil, for it had always been that he was never trusting of unfamiliar folk. The people of Mirkwood were much like that, as well, but the three of them were among the very few who were welcoming. The answer to that was reasonable enough for Mirkwood's people— they were young, spoiled, and sheltered from reality. Though Legolas was truly the only one of royalty amongst them, Celahir and Oronar, who tended to take after his own father in sternness, had duties of their own that earned them high place in the courts.
At that moment came one of the two messengers Legolas had sent forth with news. Around the bend he came, quick-footed and frantic.
"Something's the matter," Celahir said leaning into Legolas, frowning knowingly.
The archer bowed his head briefly. "I have received word from our people. The King has gone, having left for Rivendell early this afternoon."
Celahir gave Legolas an inquiring look. "I never knew," Legolas muttered grimly. He glanced down at the girl cradled comfortably in his arms and pressed to his damp front. "When is my father to return then?"
"I was not informed." The archer regarded Legolas timidly. "If his presence is urgently needed, I can—"
"No!"
Legolas and the archer looked sharply at Celahir, who cleared his throat, and made a quick recovery from his abruptness.
"What I mean… No, we do not need him. Not at the moment." He gave Legolas a pointive and desperate look. "Inside…?"
Legolas grinned. "Let's."
The great cave of Mirkwood— palace to the King and stronghold to the people— was a lively underground place, particularly at night, where it was more dazzled with light than at any other time. It was incredibly large and wholesome. There were countless halls that branched off from the main cave, with several rooms situated in each of those smaller halls. It was quite a grand and baffling maze to those unfamiliar with its identical corridors. Legolas and Celahir brought the young child to a guest chamber, more pleasing to the eye than what a stranger was usually supposed to be assigned to. There they laid her to rest upon a large bed quilted with pale cream satin and embroidered with green vines and beech trees, his people's favorite. The quilt even resembled the dark, glossy leaves of that particular tree with the use of a fabric shinier and more delicate than that of satin itself.
"I will try to treat her in whatever ways I can," Celahir explained and began to examine her arms and legs.
He was a healer, and incredibly skilled at what he did. Though he was young— and he was younger than both Oronar, the eldest of all three, and Legolas— he was a great asset to Thranduil and matched the skills of the old healers. Celahir was gentle and his sympathy for the hurt was as great as it was within Legolas. Being that they shared such a likeness, Celahir was his teacher of developing the skill, and Legolas was an excellent student, even though his sincere attention went to his expertise in combat.
Celahir bent over the child's body. He murmured to himself in thought as he observed, taking notes in his mind. He took her tiny arm in his hands and gingerly turned it to inspect her tender inner forearm. Two great gashes were slashed over her soft skin; the bleeding had stopped though the blood was still present, dried and scabbed. He quickly turned it over, wishing to forget he had seen it. He looked up and saw Legolas' eyes filled with heavy consternation.
"I will watch her through the night. Get some rest, and you may see her in the morning." He smiled, though it was forced. "First thing."
Legolas took a long look at the child. Celahir read his mind.
"Let us hope she did not suffer as much as her wounds show."
Legolas sighed, lips pursed grievingly and chiseled jaw pressed tensely. "I should see what my father has left in my care." He turned sharply and was gone.
A/N: That disclaimer business sort of gets on my nerves, and I happen to have a new little twist to it— if you have nothing better to do than think that a 15 year old is claiming ownership over the greatest story ever created, you really need to get your sh*t straightened out. ^_^ I truly am a happy girl. Review and make me happier!
Note that I have gone back and edited the original copy of this story. Changes have been made, yet I will be happier than ever to accept constructive criticism and any grammatical/spelling errors still to be found! ^_~