Nessa's hooves thundered on the cold, hardened ground. The chill wind blew at her ebony mane and whistled briskly against her steel structure. Fast and relentless, she was untouched by the roaring, swerving gust of fall's chill, and was toughened by the weathering of nature much to the likeness of her rider. The duo was a fleck of shadow darting at light-speed through the forest; come and gone with a blink of an eye. Nessa entered a clearing and before her laid the Forest River, a heavy layer of steam lingering above the waters. She trotted— though still eager for a fast ride— to the wide oak bridge that stood the expanse of the river.
"Mae carnen, Nessa," Niélawen whispered to her with an affectionate stroke along her neck. She drew back her shadowy hood, and in the dim autumn light her hair reflected the color and light of the veiled sun above. But the roots of her locks had begun to fade to a much darker tone, no longer flaxen like the rest of her head. She had noted this many weeks ago, and she would tend to it upon her return.
She gazed ahead at the elevated land and the two grand, beautifully crafted doors of oak that stood at the foot of the bridge on the opposite side. She smiled, biting her lower lip ecstatically and gazing at the Elven King's Gate with longing. Looking above it, she took in the appreciable sight of the high forest that covered the gradually sloping hill and ran on forever into the dim, grey horizon. It was one of the first times she had ever seen her home from afar, and only now, because of being parted with it for a month, did it strike her as a natural fortress of unimaginable intrigue and enticing depth.
She beckoned Nessa forward, seeing only one face in her mind and knowing who would be the first to welcome her home.
Legolas heaved at Turgon's reins and the grand white stallion veered to the left, halting upon instant command. The fair-featured Elf was deathly silent in Turgon's saddle. The horse's perceptive tendency and closeness towards his Elven master willed him to keep his mobility at bay, and the intensity grew so hot in him as it did the Elf that he even stopped breathing. Legolas strained to hear over the deafening tranquility of the forest, his deliberately slowed breath billowing out in a translucent fog before him. He drowned out the light rustling of dry, frosty leaves and branches in the cool breeze; the gentle flapping of tiny birds' wings; the cautious movements of wild animals several miles out. Closer, though— two miles or less— came the frantic stirring amongst bushes and dead foliage. Footsteps. Breathing. He stood tall in the stirrups, craning his neck in the four directions around him. He smelled the air in one direction, and his face turned up at the foul stench.
He squeezed inward against the stirrups, and Turgon trotted forward soundlessly. All the while he listened, hearing everything beyond his and Turgon's movements. His horse's steps grew longer and glided more softly over the ground. The subject's breathing was easily heard— raspy, exhausted, and rank to the likeness of a swamp.
Their distance closed in to less than a mile, and clear in his view scampered a hunched Orc behind tall ferns, looking uneasy and cautious but mindlessly failing to consider any scouting eyes further off.
Turgon stopped, and Legolas cupped his hands over his mouth. He mimicked the cry of a finch, and watched the response of his target. "Now," he whispered slowly and ever so softly, leaning in close to Turgon, "Guilty, or not?" The horse kicked at the ground with its front hoof in a growing desire to begin the chase.
The Orc stopped in alarm. He scanned the woodland around him, and Legolas watched the beads of grimy sweat trickle down his face. And finally, for little reason at all save for panic, he bounded off, rattled and dumbfounded, staggering mindlessly and losing all sense of direction to fear.
At Legolas' call Turgon sprang forward with the speed and force of a godly wind. The lesser of the mile closed in quickly as the horse defied the power of the detouring wind. In the eyes of the Orc, it was too quick for him to see in focus. A white and gold speck flickered behind the trees, and in time too soon to flee he ran only a very short distance, terror-stricken, until a grand horse shot in front of him at lighting-speed, and he was staring at the point of an arrow-head.
"Aren't we hurried." Legolas sat high in Turgon's saddle, ready to leap down in a flash if the foolish creature decided to run again. "You have nowhere to flee. Put down any weapons you hold."
The Orc, petrified to death, trembled under the piercing Elvish eyes that burned with intensity, for in rest of his fair face was complete composure, and it mirrored the calm of a storm. He shook, squeaked, and darted away frantically.
But Legolas was on the ground and at his heals the instant he stirred. He ran swiftly and strongly behind him, until the time came where he was at just the right closeness. He kicked into the air and slammed his boot into the creature's back. The Orc tumbled with a pained cry, and Legolas landed gracefully at his side. He kneeled his left leg upon his spine and balanced himself with the right, taking the rope he snatched earlier from Turgon's saddle and tying the Orc's hands behind him. "It would appear you have never ventured through these parts before." The creature snarled in the dirt. "A little bit of Silvan hospitality—" Legolas pulled at the unbreakable rope around the Orc's wrists and tied a very tight and capable knot. The Orc cried out under his severe pain—"Welcome to Mirkwood."
Niélawen emerged from the trees and sat tall upon Nessa with eagerness and anticipation as she entered the clearing where the Elven dwellings lay, those grounded and those high up the beech trees.
Villagers walked calmly and gracefully in and around their homes, keeping to themselves, unknowing of her presence. The Silvan settlement was resilient but beautiful at the same time, and its dwellers moved like spirits. It was an image that she had missed, for the atmosphere of the Last Homely House contrasted so differently. Some noticed her and regarded her with a smile, and so she waited further with the small evidence of acknowledgement, hoping Legolas or Celahir would emerge from the grand Hall at any time and take her in their arms happily. Her hopes faded into mild disappointment as no one appeared, and she further beckoned Nessa toward the stables.
Beige-clad Elven archers in a small but sure number stormed around the corner of the raised mound that was the Elven King's Hall, marching towards the line of trees that surrounded the settlement in a half circle. They ran passed swiftly and calmly without regarding her, and disappeared stealthily into the forest.
"Niélawen!"
Running toward her came an Elf of silvery-gold hair and a gentle, familiar face, brightened by a broad smile. He opened his arms and stood upon his toes to reach her in her saddle.
She embraced him gladly, and leaned forward over her saddle to exchange words at eye level— or close enough to it.
Celahir chuckled. "You have been gone too long!"
"I feel the same."
He cupped her long face in his hands and smiled with pride. "You've even changed!"
She laughed bashfully. "It has been a month, Celahir. Only a month." She looked toward the trees where the archers had scrambled through shortly ago. "What is the commotion all about?"
"An invading Orc from the Western mountains was located within our boundaries. They have gone to retrieve it from our capturer. It's ludicrous! Twice there have been wandering Orcs since you left for Imladris."
"Twice?" She gazed at the trees anxiously. "Who found this one?"
"Who else?"
Niélawen grinned knowingly. The question was as obvious as asking who had also retrieved the first; that is, if she noted correctly the most proficient hunter in Mirkwood. "He has been busy, then?"
Celahir snorted. "Bored more like it. And far too damned irritating for such an age."
"But you are the younger one," Niélawen retorted with an arched brow.
He straightened indignantly with a frown and pretended to be distracted by something else, apparently unable to find a suitable word in his defense.
Niélawen suddenly sat erect in the saddle. "Here they come!"
Celahir turned to her abruptly, his bright long hair swaying like a streak of gold as he did so. His grey eyes were wide, but his brows furrowed to make for an interesting expression. "My you're a sharp one." She had likely not seen anything, but instead must have heard their presence for nothing stirred within the trees for a long while to come.
She flashed him a genuine smile and fixated her gaze to the wall of trees. At last a front line of archers emerged first, followed by a grand white horse she knew immediately was Turgon. Legolas walked at his steed's side, and the remaining units emerged with a bound creature stumbling at their heals. They all walked briskly her way, passing by without notice of her— save for Legolas. He and Turgon halted and allowed the men and the grimy prisoner to pass.
Niélawen regarded the bloodied and bruised Orc with interest. He looked up at her in response with his dreadful amber eyes regarding her strangely. At first there was fear— it seemed that there was something unknown he sensed from her— but suddenly came recollection. Even through unimaginable exhaustion, he smirked at her, and cackled under his breath. One of the archers pushed him forward gruffly, and they proceeded. She did not see from him again.
Nessa stirred, and Niélawen looked back immediately. Legolas, soiled by smears of earth on his face and hands, stroked the bridge of the dark horse's nose, and though he always enjoyed giving Nessa affection, other things tugged heavily on his mind, and he seemed distracted. "You're back early. No one was expecting you for six more days."
Niélawen blinked her green eyes, taken aback. "That's a horrible greeting."
Legolas gave her a sharp, interesting look, neither offending nor light-hearted, but his bright eyes changed so drastically from it that she couldn't help but take it into consideration. He stared after the host of archers and the bound Orc with an urge to follow. He patted Nessa and strode off suddenly with Turgon's reins in hand. She reached out her hand to him, but her fingers failed to grasp his pale green shirt.
"Legolas!"
He turned back sharply, noting his mistake. He kissed the back of her soft hand before continuing. "We will talk later." Still distracted, he had never even met her eyes when he referred to her.
Niélawen frowned as she looked after him sadly.
"Perhaps he is busier than we know." Celahir squeezed her hand.
"Mm," she murmured grimly, not in the least bit accepting of this notion. Taking Nessa's reins she veered her in the direction of the stables. "What a stupid hobby he has."
Legolas crept his way passed the highly structured stable doors, and from mild sunshine he entered into the warm building lit by gentle torchlight where the glow from outside could not spread the expanse of the stable. He stepped over the layered floor of soft straw and grass and looked to one of the corridors. The stable was a wide structure with many passages that were fitted with several accommodations for the horses of Mirkwood, a number of those bred by the people of Rohan. The far left end of the building was his destination, and here were found the most prestigious of horses in their possession.
Dim ribbons of grey, mid-afternoon light shone through the two narrow windows in Nessa's stable quarters and gleamed over her dark, lying form. As he fully rounded the corner he found Niélawen seated against her body, clad in a loose, brown broadcloth tunic with her traveling trousers still on, and her long fair hair, wavy and energetic, dangling over her shoulders. She was bent over a piece of parchment lying against her tilted legs and a bolt-size helping of charcoal handled by her small, dexterous fingers. Her work was intently done, and she did not take notice of his approach. Nessa lifted her head from the ground and her beautiful keen eyes spotted him, and only then did Niélawen stir slightly without peering up. Legolas stopped a few steps from her seated form.
"Fine hunting?" she inquired expressionlessly, her eyes never leaving the paper.
"More or less." He stepped across the floor, heavily cushioned by great masses of straw and grass. He sat himself down beside her, and gazed at her work. Roaring falls tumbled over soft cliff sides; full trees shed leaves from their branches, raining down on a majestic city of Elven craft; and a narrow path weaved around a mountainside at the right of the picture, done with the same detail as the stunning structures in the distance. That was her way of thought and action— all things had equal significance. Always.
He sighed, and whispered in longing, "Imladris."
Finally Niélawen peered up from her artwork. Her smile was very faint, but present nonetheless. Legolas stared into her rich green eyes and beheld her face. "Let me have a look at you." He gently held her chin. He smiled, and there was great pride in his deep cerulean eyes, and something else, much deeper, that went unnoticed. "Vanima. You never cease to become more beautiful with the passing days."
Her reaction was unusual this time. There had never been a day that passed when she was growing up where he missed the opportunity to praise her loveliness, and when a compliment arose she often grew red, even if bashfulness mean accepting it as the truth. But this time she snorted, and her eyes— the place where she held all her true emotions— gave an impression to him that triggered some aggravation.
"You're clever at disguising," he told her sternly. He tilted her chin so she faced him. "But I see right through your façade. I wish you would get over it."
Her eyes went dramatically wide. She was still pretending. "My, my— you're angered by my modesty!"
"What you speak of here is not modesty!" He paused with a frown. "But you don't speak— you snort."
Niélawen gaped suggestively at him, and Legolas was not roused by her attempt to unveil what she thought was his error, so he, too, leered on with his impenetrable ability to focus. Time dragged by very slowly as the mute stillness ensued for too long.
"I won't hear of such things from your mouth again," he finalized with an authoritative tone.
She bit her cheek and craned her neck around reluctantly. She indicated bitterly with her hands to the pale lines of scars among those on her face and arms, all of them white slashes upon her sun-kissed skin that, to her, were as visible as white on black. "You tell me why I have these," she muttered in a low voice, "and then maybe answers will deter my mind from the ugliness I feel."
Legolas covered her hand in his, and spoke with the same sternness, "Then I am sorry you still feel the effects of a false illusion." He squeezed it gently, and murmured, "Because you're perfect in my eyes."
She leaned in to him and laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as she felt them sting. She was growing more sensitive about the topic as the years passed.
"Tell me about Rivendell," he suggested, discreetly changing the topic. She was immensely grateful that he had done so.
She shifted and found a suitable position in the crevice of his arms. "I did many things there. I read, mostly— everything I could grab hold of from the shelves of Lord Elrond. I'm twice as smart now." She managed a faint smile. "And you'll be glad to know that I meditated many hours of the days and nights. No more lashing out."
"I'm glad."
Looking up, she scrutinized Legolas with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes as he gazed at the roof placidly. "But I learned many things during those long evenings alone. Incredible things…" Her voice drifted off. She was grinning under the tilt of her face.
"Tell me," Legolas said softly, absently dosing in the stillness.
"I will show you."
Legolas felt a tug at his shirt— forceful and puzzling, grabbing in a back-forth motion. He looked down in alarm. Thin air, and nothing else, grasped at his tunic, steadily now pulling until he sat up in response, wonder and bewilderment in his eyes. He turned to her sharply, and her eyes focused calmly on his shirt, until she looked at him with a smile playing on her face, and all movement ceased.
She bit her lip and laughed. "I realize that your shirt was an interesting item to demonstrate on, but that's beside the point. There is more. I have developed numerous improvements. But I cannot show you here, at this time."
His lips moved to form words; he failed, unbelieving that there was more besides the rare craft he had witness before him. He gazed into her eyes, unmoving, and she did the same, all expression fading from her face in discomfort. "Then I will not ask," he whispered unsurely, though he certainly was eager to know. "What other news from Imladris?"
She sat up, timidly studying his expression for a moment before she picked at the straw at her feet. "I met Estel. You remember him, don't you?"
He nodded his head, and she was glad to see life return to his eyes. She felt at ease, and smiled thoughtfully. "He asked me about you, inquired if you would come to visit him soon. He remembers you even from a young child. He has grown up."
"Little Estel," Legolas smiled, chuckling to himself in remembrance of the past and the foolish fun he had with the once young boy in the company of his older brothers.
"Well he is not little anymore, Legolas," she laughed. "He is tall, and dark, just like his people. And his eyes— whenever I could sneak a chance I would just stare into them. I could tell so much by looking into them. He seems very wise."
"You and eyes." He smirked and shook his head. "It's an obsession."
"And if only you could appreciate what I do!"
"If it means lusting over men and their eyes several years my senior, I doubt I am missing out on very much."
She punched him in the ribs, a blush subsiding in her face with fierceness still lingering. "May I finish, now?"
He nodded his head and wiped the grin from his face, crossing his arms over his chest. Pestering her was one of the greatest enjoyments he got out of his days with her.
"I saw him far too little to feel to such a stupid extent— he spent many days by himself, or with Elrohir and Elladan. He left long before I did, just randomly like he always does, Lord Elrond told me. But I will have you know that for the few times I was in his presence, I saw a likeness of you— I could tell you two both love life the same way. It was incredible. Once he left, I knew I had to return home. To see you."
He sighed, watching her deeply as she shyly turned away from his gaze. He stroked her cheek. "I love hearing that." Looking abruptly at the window, he leaned in to plant a brief, affectionate kiss on her cheek and rose. "But I must go now."
She touched her cheek where his lips had been, smiling to herself with gladness. "Where are you going?"
"To have a word with my father." He started off, but halted. "You made it home in time for the Winter Solstice— today is Yenearsira. Because I am sure many of those attending tonight will love to hear of your experience in Rivendell, I would hope that you don't miss it, or I can make a promise now that I will hunt you down tirelessly to be sure of it." He gave her a half-smile, and walked off briskly.
Niélawen beamed after him, and shuffled closer to Nessa. The horse perked her ears up, and her owner nestled her down again. "Just me, love." She sighed and looked after the place in which he departed. In moment's time as Nessa's breathing became steady in pleasant sleep, she climbed to her feet, taking her sketch with her. She walked through the lonely corridor in thought, touching her face with a distant gaze, recalling his words to her as she traced the bumps of scars on what would be a perfect face. "Vanima, he says." Her hands dropped to her waist, and her stride quickened. "Soon enough, anyway."
"Come in."
Legolas entered his father's room and closed the door silently behind him. Thranduil was seated at his desk, intently writing with a quill. The room was pleasantly lit by torchlight and by the crackling fire in the hearth at the side of the room, and light danced warmly upon the dark wood panels of the walls.
"Yes, Legolas?"
"Niélawen is back," he began carefully.
"Ah yes, I have heard." He looked up with a slight smile. "You do not need to inform me."
There was silence, save for the scratching of the quill against the parchment. Legolas drew himself up.
"She enjoyed Rivendell very much. She would be glad you asked."
Thranduil put down his quill calmly, his fair face sullen. "This is why you have come, then?"
"It's about time to finalize this quarrel. I wish for this bitterness between you and her to end. She deserves more from you." He exhaled sadly. "She wants a father."
"I am not her father." Thranduil stood to his full height and pushed his chair aside. "She will not have a father. She once had a place to return to, but now it's too late. You should have followed my advice when she was young enough."
Legolas strived hard to find the words he had rehearsed in his mind earlier. "I wish to know what have you to say of Lord Elrond's decision, then, since I know I have his support."
"The business of Elrond Peredhil is his own."
"I think his business should be motivation for your bitter heart!" Legolas raised his voice, his eyes ablaze. "I have never heard from you an ill word of Elrond, or Estel. You respect them. What are you afraid of? Why can you not see what he does?"
Thranduil pursed his lips, shaking his head doubtfully and holding back on words he dared not utter. For a moment there laid a glimmer of compassion in his eyes, though there was still resilience out of pure stubbornness, and Legolas' spirits were still raised, thinking he had reached a spot within his father. Thranduil stared long. "Because you will get hurt."
"You are afraid for me?"
His father was unyielding to his beliefs. "You know the price of losing what you hold so lightly in your heart. You know the price of the effects surrounding those who love you. "
"I am risking everything. But to this day I am very pleased by the outcome."
"Use your head, Legolas! This day will be among the last of those that you place all your hope in. These glorious days will come to an end, because she is a mortal, and eventually she will die." His body relaxed and he looked despaired. "That is the truth, as bitter as it is. Either this will be her fate, or else a destiny that was placed before her since the beginning will lead her away from you. Either way, in the end you are going to be alone. And it is not the only reason for worry." He sighed and his forehead wrinkled with trouble. "She holds great knowledge of our secrets and the arts that have helped this land flourish from dark times. She knows everything; all that cannot come into the hands of an enemy. Her presence here is suspect to worry— it always has been."
Legolas breathed through his nose and looked away. Wisdom and caution made his father a victor of the truth. All he had in defense was hope. "I do not want to fight any longer."
Thranduil rested his hands upon his son's shoulders, and they shook as he searched for the strength in his fingers to grasp. Never had Legolas seen his father so vulnerable. "Nor do I. But I have only ever acted on love."
"You cannot easily correct the mistakes you have already made. She is twenty-one years of age by her kin's standards now, and she has never felt ease from you. You will not even look at her." He gave his father a meaningful look filled with grief, and turned to leave. "End it if you love me as you say, because I love her the same. There is still time to try." The door clicked softly behind him, and his leave was calmer than the deep unease and resentment he carried with him.
He treaded down the hall and made his greatest effort to feel at ease for the remainder of the day and in advance for the following evening. As he rounded the corner he followed the trail of a tall woman near his height, and from the way her lean body moved and her walk proceeded as a natural strut, his heart leapt and he advanced into a run. On his way to her side, he noticed a bunched pile of thin green pieces clenched in her right hand, but was uninterested.
"Néla!"
She acknowledged him with surprise, though was happy by his presence nonetheless. "Legolas, I'm glad I found you."
He smiled, but looked her over and frowned. "You have not begun preparing for tonight. We cannot be—"
"I require only twenty minutes to bathe and dress. Plus, an additional five to…" She squeezed the objects in her right hand. "…just for something else." She blinked her green eyes, and though she tried to look it, there was not even a hint of innocence in them.
"Whatever it is you are doing," he growled impatiently and took her by the arm, "you must do it faster. I should not have to remind you. You're—"
"A big girl. Thank you for the reminder, but you're not better off yourself." She eyed him and a smile grew on her lips.
He released her immediately and prepared to turn onto his corridor. "You are not dressing me this time, either. Eliminate that damned idea from your head forever, because it will never happen!"
Her smile widened to a broad grin, and she waited silently with a gaze far too knowing for his liking.
"No." He curved his lips to distinctly outline the word. She looked on with little expression, but for the smirk on her face. "Will—never—happen."
"I have always liked you best in green."
The folded shirt of a pale jade dropped onto his bed. She beamed at him triumphantly.
"It is such an easy decision. Lucky for us you hardly have anything."
Legolas glowered. "No, lucky for neither of us that we're in this situation. And I don't care about clothing. It's the last thing on my mind. Now go."
"Why?"
"You have had your fun now go!" he said loudly.
"But I am not finished." She grabbed at the bottom of his shirt and began pulling it over his body. "The faster you take your hunting grubs off the faster I will leave."
Reluctantly he removed his shirt, and to enrage her he threw it at her face. She made a distorted mess of her features in disgust, and tossed them to the floor. He looked at her with furrowed brows and reached for the shirt lying on his bed. "Nice face."
"Nice stink."
"Do you need to bathe me too, then?" he snapped, his voice writhed with sarcasm.
Niélawen grinned, looking over his built upper body and enjoying what she saw. "No, this is fine enough for me."
"I should very much like to see how well you enjoy being stared at shirtless," he said, and his voice muffled as he slipped on the green shirt, made with fine silk that sat on his body gracefully. "Eventually I will get even for all the years you got accustomed to all this skin."
"You look wonderful." She meddled at his collar and long-sleeved arms and Legolas rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he watched her smile grow wide.
"Shouldn't you be doing your hair or something of the sort?" When she did not answer— and instead hummed a melody— he gazed around the room impatiently, anxiously watching the torch on his wall beside the door, imagining it was the sun outside, growing dimmer as evening drew nearer. His eyes roamed to the chair alongside the doorway, and he stopped. A crumpled cluster of long, oval-shaped leaves were scattered there, next to another, smaller pile of a potent bleaching plant he knew only a little of. "What is the Bleothyl for?"
"That is my business."
"This is my room."
She groaned. "Grow up." She backed away and headed toward the door, taking a last look behind her. "Like I said, you look irresistible. But you need a change of trousers." With a wink and a smile, she brushed the leaves upon the chair into the palm of her hand and departed.
The main hall and the dining room were never quite as luminous in years before as they were that evening. In fact, there lied an intriguing combination that occurred on the walls and the ceiling from the warm light of fire crackling slowly in the fireplace or flickering upon the wicks of candles. Shadow and light danced against the pale walls and intricate ceiling that were meant to symbolically represent the end of the lengthy hours of sunlight that dominated morning, daytime, and evening; and the darkness depicted the coming of a shadier season with less warmth offered from the sun. Winter was never as dreary as it seemed, and it was truly the only time of the year the Elves were immensely appreciative of the warmth and prominence of the little light they received in a day. With that, gatherings were commonly indoors, where a cozy fire could be easily manipulated, but once congregation had its turn within the Hall, many wandered outside where the greatest display of Silvan music and cheer could be seen and heard beneath the stars. Winter was a season of festivity and gathering, and all were convinced that nothing was being lost in the following months of frigid, blowing wind and empty darkness beneath the stars.
No one missed the evening of formal festivity unless the excuse was of great urgency; and as time waned by without sign of Niélawen, Legolas grew uneasy. Conversation took his mind off of her delay, but he was reputable for being remarkably focused on duty and other significant thoughts.
"Legolas."
Legolas cringed at the voice, and turned around from his facing direction of the two-door entrance to the main hall. Oronar smiled before him, forceful in its own sick art, and Legolas remained expressionless and uncaring.
"You seem distracted, my friend. I don't suppose you actually expect her to come, do you?"
Legolas crossed his arms tighter where they sat over his chest, and he felt manipulative enough to return the fake excuse of a smile. "A reward of such beauty is worth any delay."
Oronar's fair face glowed with irritation, but he chuckled— phony, yet again. "Would you care for wine? You might like to not set yourself apart so much by lingering close to the doors."
"Perhaps later." Legolas looked away uncaring, ignoring his other remark. He heard nothing after that, and assumed Oronar had retreated soundlessly, and he was gladdened by it.
Celahir and Celaeglin walked in front of him, blocking his view of the door. Celahir leaned into Legolas, and whispered, "You look troubled. Everyone can sense it."
Legolas raised a brow to the taller, sterner version of Celahir—Celaeglin— who casually sipped at a goblet of red wine. "I suppose you, as well, are here to lecture me about being foolishly dependent and selfish?"
Celaeglin shrugged his broad shoulders and blinked his bright grey eyes. "Me, Legolas? Goodness, no, I am at your side to join you in anticipating a stunning entrance. Though, also to make sure the young one doesn't put his foot in his mouth again." He gave his brother a hard, meaningful stare, and spoke with muffled words as he drank. "Always does."
Celahir smiled bitterly. "You should enjoy yourself, Legolas. You are wasting away the evening!"
"I told her I would be her escort, so I am waiting. She knows I will wait for her." He sighed, ready to endure another half hour if necessary. "She will be here right away."
"The wait will be worth it." Celaeglin stood resolutely at Legolas' side. He wanted to be among the first to see her enter.
And after approximately eight minutes, neither he nor the others were the least bit disappointed.
One of the two doors slowly and hesitantly creaked opened, and a flowing dress of an off-white tone swayed over a pair of dressed feet that entered first into the darkness with skilled discreetness. Niélawen's hair was an elaborate bundle atop her head, half of her golden curls draped against her back, and her dress was as equally sophisticated. Contrasting stunningly with her bronze skin, it exceeded the simplicity of a plain dress but on her it was no more than a formal piece of art. Her long sleeves, her high collar that brushed straight across her collarbone, and the bottom rim of her gown were embroidered with a flowing vine of a glimmering silver thread that added so much to her simple dress, and against her shapely waist the soft fabric fit perfectly against her form. As she stepped into the light and further approached them, Celahir chuckled with delight, and they saw her glistening lips curve into a bashful smile.
"Aer Arda," [Holy Arda] Celaeglin murmured in awe. He leaned into Legolas, who still wasn't sure whether or not he had lost his breath upon setting eyes on her radiant presence— he had never known such a feeling till that moment. "She has never looked like this before, has she?"
Niélawen blushed madly, and fidgeted nervously as she stopped before them. "I am not hard of hearing." She took one of the unruly strands of hair dangling from her mop and twirled it around her finger, and this feat seamed to curl the hair even more. She looked to the distant groups of Elvish men speaking amongst themselves, and suddenly grasped Legolas' arm. "I'm the only woman here," she whispered severely.
"Many other are outdoors. There are women present, just not here. Once we eat, everyone will be called indoors right away." Legolas took her arm, and he led her into the center of the room. Celaeglin and Celahir followed close behind, Celaeglin silently pointing with adoration at Niélawen behind her back.
A fairly loud rumbling emanating from her abdomen caused Legolas to look abruptly at her. She grasped her stomach with a faint scowl. "No word out of you. I'm starving and tense like you wouldn't believe."
Legolas smiled and escorted her to the dining table, and finally seeing the tardy guest, Thranduil called for the feast to begin.
"…And that is why I am a far better warrior than Legolas." Niélawen swallowed down her fourth glass of wine as the table half-filled by loyal listeners and bystanders roared with laughter. "I have now to stand the test of good looks, but he definitely is a pretty one."
Legolas rolled his eyes from the opposite end of the room and snatched his own goblet from off a small round table against the wall. Celahir chuckled under his breath.
"Are you going to take that from her?"
"She is drunk." He indicated to Celahir accusingly with his glass. "You let her."
"Of course she isn't! She is not slurring her words or speaking… overly foolish." He grinned. "At least she is an honest drinker."
Legolas finished his wine with a fierce gulp. "Yes, but it's my fault that I have been feeding it to her since she was four. Now she is so good at concealing it you can never tell the difference." With a grim face, he strode towards the table.
Niélawen looked up from her seat and smiled sheepishly. "Hello, Greenleaf!"
Legolas addressed the others politely. "Excuse the interruption, but the young one has had enough fun—" He pried the wine glass out of her hands—"and enough to drink for one night. Come on, Néla."
Niélawen laughed merrily as Legolas escorted her from the table, arm linked with hers. "Ohh… that was fun." He brought her to where Celaeglin had recently joined Celahir.
"Are you having fun, Niélawen?" Celaeglin inquired with a smirk.
She brushed out wrinkles from her off-white dress. "Yes I am indeed." She looked to the musicians in the corner of the room aside the fireplace. "I want to dance." She randomly grabbed Celahir by the hand and pulled him into an open space.
Celaeglin chuckled, but Legolas just shook his head. "What a mess," he muttered.
"What a beauty!"
He frowned. "That, too. It's unfortunate that she's so untamable."
"She's a woman." Celaeglin watched as she laid her head upon his brother's shoulder as they slowly danced to a tune that was far too lively for her mood. "Celahir tells me she has not received any nightmares for… five years now?"
"Indeed— five of the most peaceful years in my life. I hope that stage is over with. She started having out of control fevers just before the dreams ended, and though she would never admit it I knew she was hallucinating, as well."
"What a pity." Celaeglin set his hand on Legolas' shoulder. "She is wonderful. Make sure you do not neglect the time she has. Mortality is a gift, but it's brutal when it comes to love."
Legolas pretended he did not understand his words, but the chances of his despair and fear showing through were impossibly high. He simply nodded, and Celaeglin left.
The musicians in the room's corner ended their song, and began to play another tune, one of a slow melody that was sweet and harmonic in the tranquility of the hall. Legolas stepped through a small group of Elves debating about "grimy Dwarves" and came to Niélawen and Celahir.
"Legolas!" Niélawen's face lit up. He was glad to see in her eyes a growing soberness.
He turned to Celahir, and nudged him out of his way. "My turn."
"Such a fair fellow," Celahir retorted sarcastically.
"I am the one who taught her how to dance." He smirked, but eyed him with a challenging glare.
Celahir patted his shoulder and kissed Niélawen's hand, departing from their side.
Legolas wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her close, taking in her gentle scent of evening stocks. He led her in a series of slow movements. She never looked away from the warmth of his eyes.
"You are a steady drunk," he teased. "I'm so proud."
"And you are too concerned for your own good." She leaned into him and her cheek brushed against his. "I have been thinking. I want to go further than Rivendell on my next journey."
"The Misty Mountains are already too perilous for you to travel so frequently. I would hate to let you go further than the safety of Imladris."
"Not even Bree? There are people like me in that village—"
"You aren't like them," he interrupted sharply.
She was silent for a moment. "But they aren't Elves."
"Please don't," he whispered, and closed his eyes as her skin radiated comforting warmth to him. "Just stay."
Niélawen brushed her hands against his long, platinum hair as her fingers grazed his upper back, just as he would always do to her when she let her waist-length hair fall loose against her back. "Someday…?"
He braced her close with a securing arm behind her, not wanting to let her go. He didn't have to. He didn't. "Someday."
A firm hand fell upon his shoulder. "The night late. May I steal her for a last dance?"
Legolas looked around. Thranduil's face was warm with a friendly smile, and he felt Niélawen stir in his arms as she gazed apprehensively upon the King.
"If the Lady wishes, of course." Thranduil held out his hand to her.
Legolas gave her a reassuring nod as she looked at him uncertainly. "You are a popular one this evening."
Niélawen accepted the King's hand. Thranduil gave his son a wink, and escorted her closer to the music. Legolas was left to stand by himself.
"…You look wonderful," Thranduil said to her, and he took her in his arms for a customary dance.
Legolas watched, silent and still in the emptiness around him. He was perfectly content with being the ignorant and the ignored, and the pleasure he took from seeing her smile in his father's arms was greater than the powerful sensation of pride he felt the moment she stepped foot into the hall.
Twenty-one years; how many he had left with her he could not ever begin to assume. Every second was valuable.
Thranduil spoke something to her, then gently pinched her chin, and Niélawen laughed aloud. She exchanged a few words, looking at ease, and together they glanced in his direction. They laughed in unison, and Legolas smiled from the opposite end of the room. If there was one thing his father had that could not be compared, it was his charm.
The music died down, and the guests and friendly advisors of the hall gathered for a last word indoors from Thranduil as Niélawen strode back toward him, smiling broadly but with heavy eyes.
"Sleepy?" Legolas asked.
"No," she said weakly. Her smile vanished. "Searing in a scorching fire and sweating like an animal. And I feel nauseous."
His brows furrowed in concern. He wrapped his arm around her and led her to the door. "From the wine, you suppose?"
"Not the wine. Definitely not the wine." She wiped at her damp forehead. "Perhaps I am a bit worn out."
He touched her cheek where the large, white scar on the left side of her face was slightly swollen and blue. "You're bruised."
She shrugged carelessly, seeming far too weak to care. He brought her into the pitch-dark hallway, and offered to bring her to her room. "No need, Legolas, but thank you." She stared into the darkness, and her eyes focused on something beyond the shadow. She smiled faintly. "That woman will help me find my way. Good night, Legolas."
"Will she now?" He thought it was a joke, but he was soon confused as he gazed into the emptiness— and it was just that, in his eyes, anyway. Perhaps he was the one too tired to be focused. "Tread safely. Don't make a wrong turn, I won't come to your rescue." He re-entered the dining hall and approached his father, who was concluding his thanks and appreciation, with a fine helping of his endearing charisma. They all burst into merriment and laughter, and applauded to their King. As they laughed to themselves and even began to fan out toward the outdoors, Legolas went to his father's side. He looked at him for a long time.
"Thank you."
Thranduil smiled. "She means too much to you for my ignorance to endure. What is important to my son is important to me just the same. And I enjoyed her company very much."
A sharp scream echoed through the halls and into the dining room, rising above the hoards of laughter. The room grew silent in alarm. A mournful cry— sad and wounded— filled the air. The voice was Niélawen's— in happiness, despair, and in rare occurrences of pain, it always seemed to be the same to him.
"Niélawen?" Celahir cried softly, his voice seeming to falter. He was almost too terrified to shake himself out of a freezing stance. The others were stunned into silent uncertainty.
"Niélawen!" Legolas yelled. He darted out of the room, Celaeglin, Celahir, Thranduil, and numerous others followed strongly behind him, the same fear flooding through them, as well.
"Find the sentry!" he heard his father order.
Legolas entered the dark hall, following his ears through a state of blindness of panic, grief, and the darkness that swallowed him. The worst thought that entered his mind was that he would not reach her on time.