2
Prologue: once ever
Once ever, in a time that the woods will perhaps rustle with witness of to the future, Imladris was less quiet, temporary haven to Isildur's heir, one whom I personally prefer to refer to as Elendil's, for he bears most resemblance to the legend, rather than the bane.
On a short retreat from the darkness clinging to the murky depths of what is more heartache than true evil, I was acquainted with the child; I hesitate to call him that, I doubt he was ever as foolish as to be called child—just the ephemeral innocence that left him too soon.
But none of that: I always say—to myself, no one else can know of this—that he did not change ultimately, nor did I. Mayhap just the realization that fate can throw at you with such heart-stopping accuracy, had finally hit home.
The room was airy, the wind was carefree, music untied by accompaniment, lacking the suffocated knots of notes that oft collided with summer's muggy panes as felt by the men of Laketown.
He leaned over the cradle
"Stop acting like that's so unusual? Come on, Legolas, do try to pick him up—"
"He doesn't bite, he certainly gets enough to eat from the looks of it."
The twins chortled, he marveled at how alike they looked, from birth they had been identical, and had never veered from that path since. They laughed easily, he felt… slight envy, only it would be wrong to want their lots rather than his own, and behind the merry façade, there was ever-lingering grief.
Forget not, Lady Celebrian's passing. Reproachful.
He arched a brow, " I highly doubt your testament. And when I do, I'm often proved correct."
"Trust us, we've had experience."
"Exactly why I do not, you two; always so deceptive."
They looked wounded and claimed to be as well, merry peals of laughter, again. How uncontainable it was, floating out the windows to settle on the gently quivering foliage, permeate the woodsy scent, with light echoes skittering across the earth.
And the babe blinked with uncertainty and sleep still reluctantly clinging.
⥸ting like that's so unusual!" the fair- haired elf assumed an exprA
Elladan appeared to shrink to the doorframe, "it might be an appropriate moment to call Lady Gilraen, to soothe the child.
"And leave us here?" The tone was accusatory, apparently the little bundle was more havoc than the twins had claimed.
Legolas resumed his position, hands tentatively rocking the cradle, "You cannot possibly both abandon me here. I lack experience in this field."
The object of all this indecision yawned, blinked once, twice, and stared unfailingly into Legolas's eternal blue.
--I think that is when I first saw the sky for what it was.
--Perchance it was the sea.
--Do not think of that. Do not grieve ahead of time.
"He likes you!" Elrohir returned to the cradle's side, placing a slender finger on Estel's cheek and trailed it gently following its childish curve, still new-furled to this earth.
"Stop acting like that's so unusual!" the fair- haired elf assumed an expression of great asperity.
"Oh, but on the contrary…" Elladan trailed off slyly.
"Now would you two juveniles please excuse me while I wash all this grime off me." Legolas swept out of the room, "Absolutely disgraceful. Preventing a guest from attending to his personal hygiene."
"Juveniles! I like that. We are senior to you by far!"
The fair-haired elf smirked slightly; was that Elladan or Elrohir? They sounded far too alike, perhaps they should wear cowbells, one high, and the other of a lower pitch… Interesting, he mused, walking down the corridor to his customary guest quarters.
Such a small thing, he marveled, children, young innocents were rare amongst the Eldar in this day and age, rarer still in mirkwood, where any striplings soon gained the toughened bark of knowing; so that less sap might be lost, tried and tempered heartwood that was feeling but still weathered by the incessant storm raging.
Once a while the storm seemed to diminish into a sullen drizzle, barely enough to allow the sunlight to pervade the dense mesh of upgrowth: ivy, weed, stifling the trees, even the greatest boughs were dimmed by vines choking their roots. Then the ravage of an endless vertical torrent would continue.
Legolas began to see his musings in puddles of memory as colour joined the bitter threnody resounding in him. He shelved them; no bitterness for greenwood, 'tis not right.
Right; every wood-elf knew innately what 'Right' was, they were part of it, part its breathing and shafts of tremulous sunshine—tenacious reminder of all they fought for.
Greenwood. She is worth it.
But before the blood and sweat feeding their forest overtook him he shelved those thoughts, and rocked the cradle, swaying slightly it seemed to bring the babe, Estel, he corrected himself, an immeasurable comfort. It was an oddly sympathetic, empathetic motion, as though his own weariness had been pacified and hushed, or rather, healed, with Estel's slumber.
He is lucky, was the fair-hair being's final verdict, and worthy, like everything else we fight for…the future, the Innocent.
On a lighter note he surveyed the calm bundle, lightly traced under the blanket, with a hint of amusement, "Surely I never slept this much at your age." He extended a creamy hand to the child, and stroked his head softly, he was a little apprehensive, only having encountered a few creatures whom he habitually stroked, namely his cat, a childhood 'friend' and all the other horses he'd had the honour of riding. Oh, and perhaps the trees too.
There were hardly any young ones left, and those he seldom saw, if at all. It was a brave, or foolhardy, person who would deliver children to this world under this darkling sky.
He did not hear footsteps padding along the corridor, nor the sweep of robes, a regal kind of sound as he classified it, as another entered the nursery.
Elrond leaned against the doorframe, unimposing as a lord, to serve—his ambition, always and forever. He had played the silent observer on more than one occasion, another was inviting him to stand by and ponder, cast a little insight on the image of a child and the latest being whose affections he had so easily secured with his constant sleeping and yawning, and, he considered the role of narrator, to himself and his memory.