TORMENTED FOOL 7: CLOUD OVER LEAF

When Legolas awakened, the sun was already shining brightly upon his face as harsh as a smith beats down on metal. He yawned and rubbed his sore eyes, quickly adjusting the collar of his night-mantle that had slid down untidily over his bare shoulder; rising to sit upon the white sheets, he ran his fingers quickly through his hair and gave a slight moan of exhaustion. He had not slept well in several days. It was not as though an Elf needed much sleep; no, they could go without for many nights, but he would have much rather slept than heed the images in his mind, the images that caused him to feel love and guilt and sorrow.

Suddenly, a figure standing above him came into view; Legolas had not seen the frame before that moment, dark as the night and yet at the same time pale as the mountains. With an undignified shriek the Prince's heart crashed into the roof of his mouth and he toppled over the side of the bed; the sheets, caught around the slender foot, followed him in a whirling cascade onto the ground. The figure stood over the Prince, laughing; it was now that Legolas perceived, after he had brushed the golden tangle from before his eyes, that the stranger was that remarkably handsome dark-haired Elf, that Faunel who had been walking with Faramir several days before – as tall as trees that reach the roof of clouds and, he was surprised he did not notice before, equally beautiful as a cloud itself.

'Fair morn, Prince of Mirkwood,' he grinned. Legolas regained his composure and stood, carrying the bundle of sheets in slightly bent arms.

'Star-Cloud. What business have you in my bedchamber, watching me like prey as I sleep? Who permitted you to enter?'

Faunel smirked mischievously and, taking the sheets from Legolas, tossed them casually back onto the bed. 'You have no guard before your door. So I assumed that you did not mind visitors coming to stop by.'

He noticed the golden-haired Elf stiffen with anger, but he himself only placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head aslant.

'There may be no guards before my door, but this is the residence of the Fellowship of the Ring – in which abides my close comrades since the War – and I have certainly made sure that a guard was posted at the door of this house, if not my bedchamber. How did he permit you to enter when it is strictly forbidden to allow anyone admittance without the leave of Mithrandir?'

The dark-haired Elf laughed, and softly touched the Prince's cheek with an expression of adoration written upon his face. 'Ah, so was that the Man who lay sprawled along the doorway as I stepped in, fast asleep? Your guard has betrayed you. My hands are clean of such a punishable deed.'

Legolas could little understand the mesmerizing eyes, glistening stones in the head that he felt he needed to whack in irritation for such a disturbance, but the Prince could not lift his gaze, even though he knew he was only looking into the face of one lower than himself. In the darkest hollows of his heart, he could not bring himself to deny it: Faunel was so beautiful. Everything about the strange dark-haired Elf was immeasurably attractive, especially his smile; a soft mouth curved upwards, in a very suave fashion, riddled with mischievous amusement. Legolas reached up to remove Faunel's smooth and spellbinding hand from his cheek, but found that he could not release it from his own until a few moments after he had done so; he knew well that Faunel had acted upon something that he could certainly be penalized for and had even dared to argue of it, but for a reason unknown, he hardly cared to heed such a matter.

'Very well,' Legolas said slowly, his gaze still locked upon the gleaming eyes. 'But you know now not to enter my chambers unless I have given you direct permission. It is not too difficult to knock, Star-Cloud. Now tell me, what incited you to invade my privacy – and worse yet, to do so whilst I was sleeping?'

Faunel laughed, a laugh which almost tore the Prince's heart in two.

'Your father is up in the tower,' he grinned.

Legolas' eyes widened in shock. 'By Ilúvatar, that soon? I thought there was at least another two days or so until his presumed arrival.'

He smiled very gently, but at the same time it was a smile that pricked at Legolas' heart. Faunel crossed his arms to his heart in a very pointed manner.

'Then mayhap you should dress yourself presentably, my fair Prince, and see him before his temper is at its peak. Because it is quite clear to me that your father, at present, ails from a perilous mood.'

Legolas could do no more than narrow his eyes.

'By the way, Lord,' Faunel's face twisted into a murky smile with a coldness that resembled that of a hooded wraith, 'that trinket which you carry upon your throat is indeed beautiful. Who had given it to you?'

The golden-haired Elf walked over to a fresh heap of folded clothes on his nearby chair, looked back darkly upon the smirking Star-Cloud, and promptly fled from the chamber clenching the soft bundle of garments in his arms.

...

The King of Mirkwood paced angrily around the guest-chamber that one of the guards of Gondor had given him, as restless as a starved tiger seeking prey, a misty emotion in his eyes that swirled so potently that not even his anxious son could discern what it was that plagued his father's mind. Legolas could do no more than sit helplessly like a beaten prisoner awaiting death in the chair on which his father had demanded silence whilst he gathered together his thoughts; Faunel definitely had not been jesting in saying that the King was suffering from the most terrible of dispositions, for the golden-haired Prince had never seen his father so full of wrath.

Legolas, however, was not senseless; he knew that if Thranduil was angry and sent for him to come to his chambers, whatever caused his murderous temper must have concerned him. But it seemed, as he watched the day moving slowly outside, that he had been in that chair for an eternity waiting for his father to speak. The Prince sighed in boredom all of a sudden, but as soon as the breath escaped his teeth, at once he regretted not restraining it; for Thranduil turned around from the window that he had been so impatiently staring out of, and lay a thundering gaze upon the face of his son that could have flung him through the wall into the next chamber.

'Do you know why I have called you here, my son?' he said at last.

Legolas still could not comprehend what thoughts stirred in the darkening eyes, but he was not too keen on arousing it with an insulting remark, so he answered his father tenderly. 'No, my Lord; but you have summoned me here to speak to me and I have come as was your will.'

Thranduil reached plainly into an inner pocket inside his shimmering green-silver mantle, and pulled out a folded piece of yellowing parchment that was almost crumpled alike a dry leaf in his hand as he grasped it.

'A messenger was sent to me from Minas Tirith some time ago whilst I was on business in Lothlórien, bearing a message from the Queen Undómiel of Gondor. This letter,' the King casually shook the parchment in his hand, 'was what Lady Arwen had sent to me, informing me that you had not only dallied with her husband, but also incited him to drink until he was too drunken to refuse you.'

Legolas tensed, understanding at once his father's anger, but said nothing.

'But no, that was not all. She had graciously not failed to mention that Estel's affections for her had waned, and that after you had so kindly taken the Man away from her on their wedding night, he had openly dared to look past her and chase after your intimacies, seeming more filled with childish ideals of purely friendly affection rather than with remorse for having committed adultery on the night that he had been wedded to her. Do you think this comforts me?'

The Prince bowed his head in shame, but did not break the locked gaze that he held with his father, whom he had never known to be perilous. A dark rage stirred in Legolas' heart like a billowing storm all of a sudden, to know that one of the closest of his friends had reached so far in the line of betrayal to have sent such a message to his father; even though he knew well it was not her fault, fury still warred in him, a desire to cast Elvish curses that beat down upon the heart like a maddening storm.

Unexpectedly to him, Faunel's beautiful and taunting face appeared in his mind, jeering mercilessly at his torment; at once Legolas crossed his arms defensively, loathing himself for the thought – and at the same time, wishing – that Aragorn was together with him, protecting him with gentle Elvish words of comfort from the building rage of the King of Mirkwood.

'Nay,' he nodded helplessly, unable to do aught else. 'But this was not Aragorn's doing; I have already caused him much grief in these past few weeks, to such a point that he cannot even share the same bedchamber as his most beloved wife. It does not comfort me either, Father, to know that the King of Gondor has begun sleeping on a firm chair in his office only to wake to the sight of more paperwork piled upon the desk whilst he had been sleeping. He does not deserve your words of anger; he has already suffered too much of mine, which had been far more cruel.'

'I had never uttered a single word that signified my belief that his adultery was of his doing,' Thranduil retorted plainly. 'He is a noble Man, and it is difficult to believe that he has been driven to the lowest of circumstances, but never did I say that the fault was his own.'

Legolas almost strangled on his own sorrow. 'You are calling me a whore, then, for being unable to express what had been growing in my heart before someone else had done so first.'

The King's eyes widened at this answer.

'Nay, Legolas. You are my son, and I love you,' his tumultuous voice calmed as he slowly walked over to the chair where the young Prince sat, stroking the golden head with utmost tenderness. 'I cannot find it in my heart to banish you for such a deed, if what you say is truly what you mean. But if I were to lift any kind of punishment from you, you must promise me something; that you will help Estel, who I know well had been one of your closest friends since his youth, to mend the broken bond he had shared with his lover, and to tolerate that it was she that he had loved first. You know deep in your heart that it is not too late for him to heal from his hurts and to regain the nobility which he had been so well-known for, and to find bliss once more with Undómiel.'

The Prince's mind was immediately filled with vengeful arguments, and his lower lip quivered as he tried to choose which of the sharp phrases in his mind he would cry out, but found that to everything he wanted to say his father will always have an argument: Aragorn loved Arwen first, and it was your fault for not having claimed the Man earlier; Arwen had wedded the King, so there had been no acceptable reason for you to dally with another's husband and cause an honorable man to commit a deed as low as adultery; you are a Prince, and had no right in dishonoring your father's kingdom by sleeping with someone else's lover; there were many beautiful Elf-Princesses in lands abroad that you could have chosen, and if you preferred not maidens, then many young Princes in many realms that would gladly take your hand. Gondor is shamed from the carnality of the King, so you must stay away and remain tormented; Arwen is filled with blind vengeance at your love – or, as she sees it, lust – for the Man, so you must stay away and remain tormented. And, the worst, most painful, most grief-striking of all, your love for Aragorn is understandable, but at the same time unacceptable, so you must surrender him if you love him.

I know. I must stay away and remain tormented.

'I had been refusing his affections anyway,' the Elf-Prince uttered almost inaudibly at last. 'I have known this without you having to tell me, Father.'

'I'm glad you understand,' Thranduil crossed his arms pointedly and smiled in a way which darkened even more the anger festering in his son's heart.

Suddenly, the door opened with a loud creak that echoed throughout the vast grey chambers, and Aragorn entered the room solemnly, bowing respectfully to the Mirkwood King; but he saw at once the beautiful Elf sitting in the chair and the doubt-riddled eyes that looked desperately at him, and flinched as he knew immediately what he was about to hear.

'You wished to see me, Lord Thranduil.'

Legolas sighed and, rising hesitantly from his chair like the slow sun, walked past the Man, seeking the comforting coldness of the biting air outside.

...

Faunel stood atop the stair outside of the Tower, his gaze skimming across the white hues of the morning. So fairly, he mused, did the sunlight kiss the stones of misty grey; in the gentle rays, the foundations of Minas Tirith seemed to emanate a light of silver-white, like the first wisps of snow and mist in the winter that paled and parted upon ashen fingertips. At last, as his eyes fell upon the scion of the White Tree in flower, with blooming buds that shone like snowdrops in its bent branches, he understood why Faramir was so fond of this pale stair; it was where the surroundings swallowed him sweetly, where he could release for a moment all the concerns and purposes of his mind, and enjoy the beauty of the new Middle-Earth which is now freed of the terrors of Sauron the Abhorred. So long had he lived in desolate lands, that he could not remember such embraces from the earth and the air which Minas Tirith, the City of the Edain, was offering to him; deserving indeed shall be the passing of the world into the hands of the Younger Children of Ilúvatar, though the Dominion Of Men had never been a thought which Faunel did not doubt.

When a dark shimmer emerged in the corner of his eye, he thought at first that a raincloud was passing; but then, turning his gaze into its direction, he spied a very fair Elf with long dusky hair who he knew at once was of high stature by the inner light that seemed to gleam about her heart. But even though she was exceedingly beautiful, there was a weariness in her that issued from the cloudiness in her eyes, the paleness of her face… the quivering of her slender fingers. Clad all in black was she, seeming to challenge the light and joy of the Tower; her very presence failed not to create a icy spur which clawed into Faunel's heart, especially as her shadowy watch befell him now, weary eyes of smoke beneath a shade of tumbling hair.

'You are an Elf,' she said.

The needlessness of jest at such a moment was painfully transparent, but the words escaped his tongue nonetheless: 'And so are you, Lady.'

'From whither came you, master Elf? I have not seen you in my tower before. What business have you in Minas Tirith? Are you a friend of my husband's?'

Faunel almost laughed. 'I know not who you are, fair Lady, so neither would I know your lover. Unless he is the Crown Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, whom I have met twice only. Perhaps his nobility, if he is your husband, may render clear to me why it is you seem so watchful of all the comings and goings of Gondor.'

'Legolas of Mirkwood?' The very name turned the already ashen face white with anger, and at once Faunel regretted such an unneeded jest. 'Now that is a remark worthy of remembrance. You are the first in all Middle-Earth to mistake that Elf for my husband; and furthermore, to mistake him for even having a lover is enough to cause my head to spin. Now tell me your name, or I will make sure this day does not pass without my vengeance upon you.'

Faunel cringed, and hated and feared the dark-haired Lady at once.

'Tell me your name first,' he answered firmly, 'so that I would know to whom I am identifying myself.'

The Lady laughed drearily, removing the strands of hair from before her eyes with thin white fingers. 'Very well, then, only so that you will know to whom it is truly that you have dared to speak so boldly. My name is Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris. My husband, Elessar, is King in this City; and now that I have made myself known to you, you shall identify yourself to me, or suffer my dire wrath before the black of nightfall can hide you.'

A gloomy laugh sounded from behind them, and Arwen turned around angrily; Faunel fell onto his knees before the Queen but lifted his eyes slowly, surprised to see the Mirkwood Prince walking into view with his arms crossed in careless ignorance. And, even as the eyes of Arwen and Legolas slowly met, it seemed to Faunel that utter discomfort blazed between them, as though there was an invisible line of thunderbolts that passed between their eyes.

'His name is Faunel, Arwen; he is still one of our people, a Star-Cloud of the Elf-kindred,' Legolas blankly uttered. 'Do not act so rashly so quickly; we all have our most bitter days and we have dealt with it seemingly better than you. This is a weary traveler seeking peace, Undómiel.'

'And this business is not yours, Lord Legolas. You are not Queen of Gondor who has the right to ask the boarders of her City their names, but I.'

Faunel felt as though a great filthy worm had writhed its way into his insides, as he respectfully hid his eyes from the beautiful and terrible Lady. Legolas' hand slid slowly onto his shoulder and pulled him up from his knees; he was so thankful suddenly for the presence of the golden-haired Prince, for a shadowy hate had crept within him, and he feared the fell rage of the Queen – were she to have one. But now, only a flutter of excitement was issuing from the soft beats of Faunel's heart, at the touch of the slender hand on his shoulder that did not let go; but he refused to reveal it in Arwen's presence, remembering her murky response to the very name of the Elven Prince.

Legolas smiled, but there was a gloomy quality in his expression. 'And I have told you his name, have I not?'

Arwen said nothing, but defeatedly turned upon her heel and retreated into the Tower, her black mantle flailing mercilessly at the air like a dark cloud of ghosts.

...

Far above, Aragorn had just finished speaking to Thranduil and retreated to his office sullenly, having been told by the wise King that for both his own sake and for the sake of the young Mirkwood Prince, they must remain friends only if they desired to hold that friendship at all. Aragorn sighed as he walked through the heavy door of the familiar room, where he had been surviving alone for some time; the smell of dust and lifelessness lingered in the small chamber like a heavy cloud, a feeling close to that of hot storms. His body ached from the hard chair that he had been sleeping in for many nights, and his heart ached from need of contact with anyone; he knew that nothing now would comfort him, not even the warm smile of the golden-haired Prince between fair blushing cheeks, or the touch of the Elf's smooth hand against his own. That is, if Legolas would ever wish to come nigh him again.

Pressing his lips together sourly, he bent down over the disarray of assorted items scattered across the hard surface of his table, and lifted his untidy mass of books and clothing from the far corner. Though this disorderly chamber was where he had lived, he knew now that there was no choice for him but to return to his wife; he understood what it may mean to Arwen if he appeared at the Royal Bedchamber, looking spent and slovenly, carrying miserably his possessions in his arms. He understood her words clearly when she had cried out that she would no longer love him again in the way she did before; guiltily, as the Man prepared to return to the Elven Queen, he knew that his love for her was also uncertain, and that their marriage would until one of their deaths be a bond of feeble numbness and grievous tears of regret.

But just as he turned from the table and walked towards the door once again, a faint voice bubbled from the vast air outside the broad window. Aragorn breathed suddenly and was halted mid-stride, as though strong arms had gripped at him from behind and was holding the slender waist with firm and vengeful fingers; the voice was that of the Prince who had become a flame that burned so warmly in his heart – and, feeling something suddenly fall through his soul, he dropped the items that had rested in his arms and ran at once to the window behind his table. He did not know what his mind was trying to tell him, but a bitter jealousy had suddenly surged through him like a cold flood beneath howling gales and slanting rain, a feeling that he had never known before; though somehow he understood, as he ran to the side of the wooden counter and leaned out to gaze from the window, that whatever gave him this emotion could not be pleasant.

And then the sight met him, the sight that almost strangled him, that robbed the soft breath from him before he even realized that there was no air left within his being. Below the Tower, Legolas and Faunel stood together, and the Prince laughed brightly as the dark-haired Elf touched his arm and openly kissed the fair brow; then, when their bodies had parted from its unmistakable closeness, Legolas ran his hand softly across Faunel's tender cheek with a lingering intimacy as he backed away, and swiftly fled. The King's hands trembled as he watched from above, as he watched that Elven stranger who had come to stay at his City standing alone at the top of the white stair, a delicate hand raised in farewell.

...

The door to the tower slammed behind the two Elves with an echo that filled the air, and blew the long hair from their shoulders with the gust of wind it made in closing. Legolas bowed his head in guilt, knowing that he had once again caused trouble; he imagined suddenly the terrible things Arwen would do to him, the angry and unmerciful revenges that she could be devising in her head even as she stormed through the grey halls at that moment. However, it was clear to him that Faunel saw it not so; for he breathed a sigh of relief at the Evenstar's departure, and took his hand and kissed it reverently as though the Prince had already given him permission for contact.

'Thank you, my Lord,' Faunel smiled sweetly. 'I promise you that I will not forget this. Forgive me for my childish jests this morn; it seems as though I had angered you – and that is something I would never wish for, having met no other jewel such as you in my lifetime.'

Legolas laughed, but shook his hand free from Faunel's gentle hold. 'Ah, so there is a shred of grace in you, Master Star-Cloud?'

'You need not constantly speak my name in Westron,' Faunel replied, 'For that is only done by those who know me not well. But your recognition flatters me, my fair Prince; even though I know that whatever grace you see in me does not even equal half of you.'

The golden-haired Elf smiled, feeling such warmth within him at the words, and took the humble hand once again. All of a sudden, a strange thought struck his mind: he had felt this hand before, he had known this gentleness already. But he did not know where, and had been intimate enough with only one that could have evoked this within him; but he knew Aragorn's touch was slightly different, calmer and closely tighter, whereas Faunel was in some way more eager and yet distantly unbound. No, it was not Aragorn whose hand resembled this, he realized. However, he heeded not the stubborn thoughts, and returned his mind to the Elf before him.

'You have in only one statement awakened more light in my heart than many have been able to over a span of days,' he admitted with a sigh. 'For many days I have not been myself, for there were many things which had replaced my joy with doubt.'

'Such as what, my Lord? Did your father say something that provoked unease in you?'

But Legolas bowed his head and said nothing. Faunel frowned worriedly as he lifted up the dainty chin with his free hand, and the Prince blushed as he looked up at the dark-haired Elf, whose pale face looked so beautiful at that moment, so comely, that his fairness shone into Legolas' eyes and made him feel as though he were anything but fair; no matter how exalted the title of Crown Prince was to him, he felt suddenly as though he was below this magnificent and ethereal creature before him, who could easily be revered. And his soft voice, along with the compassionate words, melted his heart of stone; he in his wonder forgot suddenly that Aragorn had the same kind of voice, and yet slightly different, a voice that had wooed him in the night of the wedding of the King and Queen.

'It seems to me that you need time,' Faunel uttered tenderly. 'Perhaps you can speak to me later, when all the bitterness residing in your mind has been sorted. But I have only stayed a while in this City, and will be long in regaining my strength to continue on my journey. In this time I will be always here to hearken to your troubles – confide in me when you are ready, my Prince, and I promise you that my comfort will meet the most that anyone can give.'

Legolas smiled weakly. 'I will not be ready for some time, but your promise of comfort sounds heartening to me. I am interested in speaking to you nonetheless, though it be not regarding the matter of what is currently grievous in my heart; perhaps you could see me tonight.'

Faunel beamed suddenly; this invitation had been very unexpected, and yet was something that he had wished for through all this conversation.

'Indeed. In the meantime, think not of your hurts, and do only things which will bring gladness to your mind; for at the moment, that is what you need. I hope your smile will be greater when we meet again this evening, my Lord.'

And, as a warm and caring gesture, Faunel touched Legolas' arm and kissed his brow delicately; Legolas responded with a merry laugh, unable to believe that this gracious Elf was the same as the one who in the harshness of the morning had been so irritating. And, breaking away from the warm closeness, the Mirkwood Prince ran his gentle hand across Faunel's cheek in mischievous jest and smirked as he backed away.

'Call me Legolas.'

And unexpectedly, to his own surprise, he turned on his own feet and ran down the white stair; he understood little of what stirred within him, but whatever it could be, it certainly took away half the sorrow that had riddled him for the many days before. And in his utter joy, he did not see Faunel behind him raise a hand, let alone the dark smile that tainted the fair face after the Prince was long gone from the courtyard of grey stone.

(To be continued)