"...And this, Niélawen, is a plant not to be reckoned with."
Celahir raised a round leaf into the sunlight for her to see. The glossy blue-green of its skin shone beneath the sun's warm rays, but it was its edges that caught the light the most. Small but numerous needles lined the roundness of the plant, and their sharp tips glinted blood red. He gave her a meaningful look, but smiled triumphantly as he tucked it away in a large bag slung over his shoulders. He beckoned to the small body crouched at his feet.
"The Caradereg plant. When you are older I will teach you how to use it. Come, let us continue."
Niélawen obediently got to her feet and walked at his side. The day was exceptional for summer, and even the gloomy forest, with all its trees and bushes, rippled in a refreshing breeze as they ventured close to the Forest River, a guide that was much like a road to the Elves of Mirkwood when traveling North, East, and West. In their case, they had gone Westward, and were presently making a loop back East to the way they came.
Niélawen's dark flaxen hair blew into her face, and she stopped to spit out a great wad of long, loose waves from her mouth. She took a thread and observed it in the light. "My hair is very dark."
Celahir stopped and looked back. He smiled. "Your hair is very beautiful, Niélawen, and especially lovely because it's unique."
"That is my point!" the eight-year-old began as she jogged to catch up, her elongated legs allowing for an easier stride that had her beside him within three steps. "None of my friends have hair like mine. And they do not have green eyes, either."
"You are not an Elf, Niélawen," he chuckled, and he led her through the trees. "Do you realize how special you are to not be one?"
He heard her sigh, and from her dialogue he knew she was frowning also. "I wish I were an Elf." She grabbed her hair and tucked it over her shoulders and behind her rounded ears, and then paused suddenly. She hated her ears, and she found herself always doing what she could to conceal them. With a slight scowl, she collected her attention back to her mentor as she placed heavy waft of hair over top her ears.
"I need Athelas," he murmured to himself, digging through his bag.
Niélawen snickered behind him, trying to discreetly criticize him for being unable to find the most common plant in the forest. He veered around sharply, and she crouched to the ground to escape his scolding eye by using her convincing acting abilities to appear innocent in observing a flat bush low atop the soil. Her attempt proved successful like always, and he searched on through his bag.
She dug around through the fern bush and grabbed at a heap of long, oval-shaped leaves. "What are these?"
Celahir bent low. "Ah, the Bleothyl plant! It has bleaching properties, and more commonly found in the more Western parts near this river. Good find!"
"It can bleach anything?"
Celahir trudged along. "Only materials of sensitive fibers. Come now!"
Curiosity was taking a great influence over her mind as she considered snatching a sample or two, but somehow she thought the better of it. She broke into a run and skipped ahead of Celahir.
"Can we go home now?"
"I need Athelas." He scanned the ground on both sides of him.
"Here." She dropped the flowery plant into his bag.
He looked at her admirably. "You found that quickly."
"Quick eyes." Niélawen darted off. "I'm going on ahead!"
She weaved through the trees at full speed, energized by the rush of wind blowing at her face. Her spirit and her endurance were boundless, and it was a significant reason as to why she was able to withstand the long hours of play with the Elvish children. She was delighted to be returning home to spend the rest of the afternoon with her friends.
Without warning, a cloud of ravens rocketed out from the low branches of trees, startled by her presence. Several of them drew enough wit to proceed in the sky at Niélawen's coming, but many did not follow, and soared low and very swiftly beneath the trees as if blind of the obstruction ahead.
Nine black masses drew towards her at frantic speeds, but she could not stop soon enough with her own gained speed. She caught a glimpse of them moving in, driving towards her head, and she threw her arms in the air, crying out for a second as she stumbled on her own feet when unable to veer away. Fear and adrenaline sent a fiery wave through her body, and she felt herself break into an overwhelming sweat from the frightening, scorching sensation in her flesh. She fell to the ground, and waited for pain. All she felt was the peculiar brushing of feathers and several small bodies against her arms and the backside of her hands.
And then silence.
There was no flapping of wings. No raven cries.
She glanced up as she brought her hands away from her face.
No cries— and no ravens at all.
A dreadful unease tugged at her heart. She sat up, tears filling to the brim of her eyes as she stared at the nine dead birds laying flat in the soil at her feet, some piled over one another, some scattered individually. There had originally been so many she knew that more were most likely in bushes further away, as well. She moved in hesitantly for a closer look. No blood, no gashes. They were still and death had petrified them to a frozen state. Their open eyes still gleamed at her from the forest bed.
She breathed loudly, caught between a sob and a terrified heave of air. She ran away, not daring to even glimpse behind her. She just wanted to leave. Her cold body shivered as she hurried back home, and all she wanted was a way to escape even faster.
Legolas tugged at the arrows in the target board with a tiresome sigh. He retrieved all eleven of them from the center point and walked back to his place of shooting.
Niélawen burst through the trees quicker and with more stealth than he could sense until the last moment. At first, out of alarm, he went to raise his bow, but the young girl threw her arms around his waist. Judging by her trembling body and strangled sob he knew something was terribly wrong, and he tossed his bow and all eleven arrows to the ground carelessly. He took her in his arms.
"Mani naa ta?" [What is it?] he asked frantically, cupping her face in his large hands.
She shook her head and breathed with a shudder on his shoulder.
"Did you get lost?" he asked. "Did you lose Celahir?"
Her cheek brushed against his bare shoulder as she gave a negative response.
"Did something frighten you in the woods? An animal?"
She hesitated, and then an unexpected, "I did not see them!"
He pulled her away, examining her briefly. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
He relaxed, crouching on one knee and picking up his bow. He regarded her with some slight aggravation concerning the start she had given him. "Why are you crying?"
She wiped her eyes and picked up her composure quickly.
Legolas frowned, but he was certain he knew the problem. She had gotten separated, and out of panic she had been overwhelmed with alarm by roaming animals in the woods. "Go on, then, little one. Your friends are looking for you." He squeezed her shoulder and saw her off. Once she had passed through the trees, he bent low and began to pick up the scattered arrows from the ground, shaking his head with a slight smirk.
"Legolas?"
He looked up as Celahir approached him from the trees. "Yes?" He caught a glimpse of a dark object held with care in Celahir's two hands. His smirk was washed away immediately. "Mani naa tanya?" [What is that?] he asked sharply.
"You know what it is," Celahir spoke somberly. He laid the black bird on the ground before his feet. "One of nine that I found on my way here."
"Nine?" he asked, dismayed. He observed it carefully.
"It is not wounded. Just dead." Celahir looked around him curiously. "I hope Niélawen did not pass this mess on her way back…"
Legolas entered the clearing of forest where some of the land dwellings of his people stood at the peak of the Elven King's Hall, all other homes perched high in the full grown beech trees that grew in a semi circle around the village. His people often savored warm days, and so the village was especially full of life. With his bow in hand and wrapped arrows clung under his arm, his eyes searched through the busy scene. It was not difficult to spot restless children in a crowd of towering adults standing at rest— primarily because there were so few young ones— and he located Niélawen's whereabouts almost instantly. She stood with two of her young male friends, and looking content enough by their sides, he sighed with assurance and continued to the Hall.
Two Elves advanced abruptly from behind, both of them members of those in support of keeping the mortal girl within care of their people, and Legolas halted with noting the urgency and discomfort on their faces.
"There is ill-word going around, Legolas," one spoke softly, and he was careful to look around him as he spoke. "There is someone among us distorting truth."
Legolas' eyes flashed unsteadily as his brow creased. "Of whom?"
"Niélawen," the second replied. "We have overheard enough to know this much— too many want her gone. The word is traveling quickly."
Legolas felt his heart ache. "…Why? Why do they do this?"
"Ask your friend." A nod to the right sent Legolas' eyes wandering through the village, and it happened that his father came in sight, followed by Oronar and a second man of same stature, build, and appearance. Legolas' blood ran hot and his eyes narrowed. The two Elves next to him squeezed his shoulder and left him discreetly.
But he managed to set aside his wrath for the moment as the thought of Niélawen came to mind. He walked through gatherings of people and weaved between dwellings of stone bricks, but he could not find her as easily as he had earlier. A frantic disposition washed over him, one that felt unusual. It was as though he was running against time, and there was none of it to spare. He felt a deep urgency to locate her, and save her from pain he feared would draw nearer with time, if it had not struck already.
"Legolas." Someone tugged at his arm.
He veered around quickly and was happy to see her, but all thought changed the instant he caught sight of her watery eyes. But she had not yet cried until then, where she was finally able to let go and show the utmost of her hurt. He wrapped his arms around her arms and braced her in remorse, and looking around him he saw no sign of her friends.
"They said they have lost faith in my reliance," she spoke with an undertone. "They said I dream of shadow and hatred, but it's not true." She seized hold of his shirt with trembling hands, and never yet had he seen her so weakened by confusion. "How do they know? I haven't dreamed of those things in years!"
There was nothing Legolas could say. He wished there were words that could comfort her, but as he looked up and traced the footsteps of his father and Oronar— no longer aided by a third company— he was certain that only actions could do justice.
Legolas crushed his teeth beneath the heavy pressing of his jaw. With his boiling blood pounding through his veins, he took Niélawen's small hand fiercely and led her at a quick pace toward the double green doors into the Hall that were among the two open passageways for the community to use at will. He strode through the entrance knowing the gate would bring them along the same route as Thranduil and Oronar.
They met face to face, and there was some shock in seeing Legolas in the infuriated state he was in.
Legolas looked over them one after another, unsure of who to address first. Oronar would not look at him, and his eyes had nowhere else to go but upon his father. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his contained anger causing him to breathe sharply through his nose.
"I have done nothing," Thranduil said softly, looking bewildered yet handling his composure well. "I have no function in dealing with your actions… or others'."
"What, your sheep, you mean? Perhaps you should better look after them before you start losing them by mishap."
Thranduil stood over his son, and Legolas recoiled only a little. "You should watch how you handle yourself around the little one," he advised in a whisper, glancing down only briefly at Niélawen, still clasping to Legolas' firm hand. He walked easily passed them and continued on his way without a word, and behind him Oronar proceeded, as well, though unwisely he had chosen to delay his passing.
Legolas planted his hand firmly against the wall, and the rough stone crumbled beneath the heavy hit of his palm. Oronar was trapped behind his arm.
"Your father is right," he muttered, and he chuckled in the back of his throat as he observed Legolas' barrier indicatively. "Don't you know it's risky to expose humans to their true nature? All it takes is a little aggression to rekindle it."
Legolas' hand slipped from Niélawen's, and he grabbed Oronar by the collar and threw him against the wall with his fury-driven force. "She needs to know how to deal with hardnosed obstructions."
"And you would like to hit me, wouldn't you, Legolas?" He gave a half-grin. "You know there is too much power behind me. No matter— all that you live for will be crushed. It's information too promising for reality to challenge. She won't last." He glanced down at Niélawen, and there was wickedness behind his smirk. "A pretty face."
Legolas' nails pierced through Oronar's shirt to the point where felt them digging into his own palm. He pressed him one last time against the wall and stepped away. "I know." He grabbed the girl's hand and strode through the hall in the opposite direction. When they could no longer see the light from the corridor they came from, the pace of Legolas' heart slowed. Niélawen watched him uncertainly as she hurried to match his stride.
"You know that you do not need them, Niélawen— you will not ever need them," he told her at last. "You will always have a friend in Celahir, and in me, also. We will never abandon you for any price."
She continued to stare at him. "Legolas, are you alright?"
He stopped slowly, staring ahead as their speed lessened. "I'm upset."
"But why? I'm not anymore." She looked up at him and beamed proudly. Her eyes were clear again and without evidence of tears ever being shed. "Celahir has taught me lots of things, you know, like the secrets only the Elves grow up to gain knowledge of. And you have taught me about art and music, things that I would not want to live without. I'm happy, and I feel smarter than all of them."
He found himself smiling at her pride. "And that you will be."
She smiled, too, but her eyes lingered elsewhere as he watched an idea being contemplated in her mind. "But there's… one thing. Legolas, can you teach me something else?"
"What is that?"
"To fight."
He went rigid, and gazed ahead blankly. "To fight…?" He peered down at her uncertainly.
"I can learn! I want to learn!" she pleaded with him eagerly. "I believe I can learn!"
"You have nothing to fight for."
She stood defiant. "I may later."
Legolas shut his eyes gravely, and kneeled before her. He looked into her eyes, and what he saw was resolution— out of faith and of sadness. His eyes delved deep into hers, and soon all he peered into was the depth of her heart, fierce by her compassion that he had not fully noted until then. "You want to fight? Do you know the cost of war?"
"I will never fight for the sake of war!" she said boldly. "I will fight for the reasons you do. For what good there is in the world, and for peace."
"How do you know that is why I fight?"
"I don't." Her eyes sparkled with a brilliant, intelligent light. "I just see it in you. And I cannot imagine you any other way." She smiled hopefully.
But he did not. He looked to the floor sorrowfully, having watched her eyes as she spoke. What he saw in them was the pain ahead she would not be able to foresee at so young an age— her own doom that could sprout from her spirit and her passion. It was not her fate for certain, nor was it far from possibility, but he was frightened for her. "No good comes out of fighting." His mind was disordered and burdened heavily. He did not want a life of conflict for her, but there was no other world for her to live in but the one that was already shattering because of war.
He inhaled air bracingly. To survive she would need the skills to stand against the warfare of the world, or else she would die from it. It was his duty to teach her.
The staves clashed with the sound of dry bone against bone, but like the particles of earth that they were they withstood the might of the skilled squire and the child, who wielded the solid staff of oak as strongly as a sword and held it aloft as surely as if it were wrought from steel. Dusk crept over Mirkwood, but they sparred on, and the girl refused to succumb to weariness. Their silhouettes dances upon the grassy earth as the last color of the sunset flooded the sky with magenta— an image that was almost breathtaking.
Legolas stood with his arms crossed as he watched the spar proceed endlessly, and Niélawen slash and block tirelessly. Intrigue swelled within him, as well as anxiety of both exhilarating excitement and of fear. Celahir came up behind him.
He nodded his head, impressed. "She tires the squire."
Niélawen swerved, dodged, and leapt lithely and skillfully with her long, nimble legs and quick body. The staff of her opponent did not touch her once, nor did it cross her. She faced the weapon like it was the battling opponent itself, avoiding it but challenging it all at the same time.
"So young, and yet she is a natural." Celahir was near incredulous laughter.
The squire stumbled back and his wooden staff clattered to the earth. He looked upon the eight-year-old with admiration and shock. Then, he kneeled on one knee and bowed his head to her. Niélawen's smile glittered with radiance as she acknowledged the Elves triumphantly.
"Incredible," Celahir murmured.
Legolas gave her an esteemed nod of his head, and retreated to indoors. Many things stirred within his heart, but at that moment his pride in her was greater than his love of beauty and nature and life as a whole— she had become his ideal, his new delight and glorious honor.
And he swore, like a daughter, he was beginning to love her.