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The sky was bright; so bright there seemed to be no celestial ceiling, it was a day in which things seemed and felt truly free without boundaries set by the darkness constantly encroaching on the forest—this day was perhaps a remnant of a better age.
It was a day on which Legolas fancied he might be returning to a resurrected memory; he was journeying to Imladris for the first time in fifteen years. Things had changed since then; yet they had not, all was flux; there was constancy.
The woodwinds rustled leaves tender and inquisitive in spring's early light—the sun was more balmy than mighty and the downpour of light transmuted the grasses and moss underfoot from their usual chary green to a golden splendour.
He was only partially aware of the other riders traveling with him; most of his senses were given to whispers of the earth. It was a quiet ride if one counted conversation as necessary, but to the elves, wood-elves to be specific, the trees swelled around them with immortal secrets—mortals did not understand.
He wondered at the day, that the sun was still bright—Mirkwood favoured night more than day, this bias was obvious in the dark's lengthy reigns—and then again he did not, Imladris had a placid tranquility of the untouched.
A bluejay dipped past them in a parabola, towards their destination, some subtle direction as pointed out the white tower beyond, nestled in the valley it remained as it had always been.
It was a marvel the shimmering walls still stood; he was familiar enough with Elladan and Elrohir's rather questionable activities to reckon so. He was certain they would in good time become dignified as their father was, however, that time had not arrived yet and probably would not for a while, well, they do have forever for growing up. The thought was accompanied by a wry smile, hypocrisy; he knew himself far too well—he was like them, of course I am less audacious.
Beauty shone ahead of them; the greatest beauty was far away, seeking respite in Lothlorien's intrinsic charm; but it was still beautiful, still embodied many of the things elves meant. Imladris.
Estel was exuded quiet and disquiet at turns; he was in the midst of a tricky mire of years: adolescents, and therefore was often excused for little misdemeanors. Such was the nature of adolescence, transition in which flaws were often magnified, missteps taken as malicious advances and the blessings overlooked entirely.
Fifteen was a delicate age as Lord Elrond found, the temperament it induced fluctuated vastly, violently even; a difficult age, all in all.
He was certain it was only temporary and would wait as patiently as he could. After all, he was an elf. He had forever. Until then, it was bearable, more that bearable, Estel had been raised amongst elves, their grace had not been for naught. Estel was an affable, caring child—for the most part.
Presently, he stood at the landing of the sweeping staircase that opened into the main hall; he was often discomfited by the apparently sudden lengthening of his limbs, as he was now, contemplating the wisdom of attempting a certain mischief, this act was one surrounded by rosy memories, of days with Elladan and Elrohir, that had been years ago, when he was actually more than acquainted with his extremities, which was the reason behind this persistent questioning of the sheer wisdom ( or lack of) in sliding down the curving banister.
Neither of his foster brothers were present, they were busy, as they had claimed the last time he had seen them, with preparations, apparently some old friend from Mirkwood was visiting. And therefore were unavailable at the moment to assist him in a young boy's noble ambitions, namely a crude imitation of flight.
He had only ever tried it with the help of fellow conspirators, he had needed the help as he sailed overhead, uninhibited by fears, the twins were always waiting, the guarantee of their arms, the laughter which was reckoned to casual observers as identical, replicated in perfect synchrony, the arpeggios of falling water
He was uncertain, he might fall, hard and subsequently fall into a month-long pit—bed rest as he recovered from broken bones and other afflictions the body encounters after reality's hardness intercepts its force.
Estel reconsidered his odds: will and verve or gravity?
He made his choice, swinging a lanky leg over the polished mahogany he cast a prayer skyward, and before caution caught up with him, he pushed with the other foot which was still barely touching the ground, he slipped a little, a reckless kick and he wasoff.
Rivendell stood still—painted scenery that rearranged itself in its startlingly static nature.
Lucidity struck as he realized with a certain detached quality, the kind oft paired with some imminent misfortune one dreads, that he his foolhardiness had sold him into committing terrible mistake.
He braced himself. It would come anyway; there was just no running from it.
It would hit him hard.
---
Their welcome at Rivendell was quiet, only the woodwinds reverberating in the trees played accompaniment to the footsteps of their horses.
Moss murmured in their corners shadowed by leaves tangled branches, it was a orderly kind of wilderness, a kind of pastoral discipline that was so deeply woven into the naturalness of rambling undergrowth—Legolas knew its name: stability and hence was born the only kind of guarantee one can have of peace in turbulent times.
In childhood he had fantasized about a fourth elven ring, this one would bear a green stone, not an emerald—far more perceptive than emeralds. It would be as the forest stream and as dark and light as Mirkwood was capable of being, it would have the spirit of the sea in it—compelling and terrible and miraculous as all trees were, the perpetuity of ents, purer than the heart of a rose because it would be as a wildflower—truly alive and intense. The child wanted things to be simpler, wanted his father's path to be less of the mire of shade and malice it was. He had grown up, but the hope would always be there.
Rivendell revived old thoughts and long dormant wishes—he wished again but this time the wish was tempered by age-given wisdom: perhaps he was glad the ring did not exist—it would never fail to rise to expectations.
He leaned forward to brush Merin's nose, sliding off her he loosened the straps to his packs; the other riders busied themselves doing the same as a number of stablehands approached the group.
Merin was content to be led away by a random stable hand as were the other horses. The place was familiar to them as well. Most had made the journey at least once or twice.
The Mirkwood contingent were led to the hall by a resident elf: propriety rather than a need to be shown around. Let it never be said that the Last Homely house was anything less than homely and warm in its comforts, as Elrohir had once mentioned. He was right.
---
Estel vaulted through the air, eyes shut yet wide in terrified anticipation of some morbid end.
The world was not seen as it fled by: he saw crimson, blood-red and was certain he would be seeing more any time soon, all over Elrond's white marble floor—perhaps the maid will hear my screams and come along to clean it up before it stains, I'd hate to be a burden. And then maybe the twins will cry a little, no wait, they're a bit old for that…at my funeral then and they'll think of me—
The sentence lacked completion as he rammed into something soft and pliable—perhaps fortune was smiling upon him at last—he had rammed into something breathing, he realized a moment later as the muffled gasp registered. It exhaled; he breathed in; he had not seen anyone wandering around before he'd made that fateful decision; it had an oddly wild scent of rain in the trees—he thought of things he had never before seen in his admittedly short and blessedly saved life—trees; thickly growing, diamonds cloistered in their intertwined twigs; the forest, where shadows were powerful but tremulous, sunlight and shadow wound into continuity beneath the boughs, glades overflowing with mellow light, pools of clearwater—
It gripped his shoulder gently; he raised his head in response, he could have guessed from the unfamiliar redolence, sight confirmed it—it was an elf. Not of Rivendell.
There was the recollection of wildflowers, undefined and untrammeled, that this particular elf evoked; he spoke like the sea, and noticing a more concrete feature Estel thought he detected a Sindarin accent.
Where had he heard that voice before?
"Thank you… oh no! I'm terribly sorry." He blurted out when he realized that apologies were more appropriate at the moment than thanks at the provision of a convenient cushion that had walked right into his path.
The other seemed winded, as most would be after being assailed by flying children of a considerable size.
He took a deep breath and began, "You are welcome, I suppose," he managed to gasp.
---
This was how Elladan and Elrohir found them minutes later as they raced down the corridors: their rather impulsive brother and an old friend were sprawled across the floor, the Mirkwood contingent that had accompanied their prince on the journey were in a state of shock—after all, children of any race, man or elf, were usually found with both feet firmly on the ground as higher powers had intended, flying was solely reserved for birds.
They hurried down the staircase as sobriety demanded just as Legolas steadied Estel as they got up with the help of the other Mirkwood elves.
"So, what happened here?" Elladan directed a question at Estel.
The boy seemed to have shrunk, "I was trying to slide down the banister. I didn't mean to crash into… him like that."
"What an interesting way to welcome guests! We must do it the next time you visit us, Legolas." Elrohir seemed to derive a great deal of pleasure in discomfiting their younger brother.
"Well, interesting indeed; I don't think anything's broken." Legolas replied as he straightened his tunic.
"And who might this be?" the subject of his query was rather obvious. There was only one person Legolas did not recognize, "He is human?" he asked, noticing the rounded ears.
"This is Estel—the last time you came he couldn't even talk. Now he talks far too much."
"Elladan!" the voice was almost distressed.
"Edain certainly do grow fast," Legolas directed this comment at no one in particular, the kind of broad sweeping statement that left conversation without closure and yet finished.
"I suppose your cycles are less meandering."
They went out into the gardens. It was blooming out there.
It bloomed just once a year, then it matured, then it began to mellow, obedient to the familiar cycle of history, reds, goldenrod and boughs heavy with honey and blessings achieved through seed and solitude, then snowflakes would find their way down, flung from the skies to decorate the earth as it became cold and hard.
For now it bloomed.
The garden was blooming. They went out into the gardens.
---
On a certain lazy afternoon; one on which circumstances dictated that Elladan and Elrohir be elsewhere other than with their friend and brother; Estel found himself exploring the various and wings and paths that wound Rivendell into a witty conundrum, many-paths of discovery, with some one, this oddly intimate stranger.
He was like all other elves, he did not seem to deviate from the usual elvish virtues and characteristics, however intuition insisted there was yet much to uncover.
Estel had never met one like him. Had he? He did not remember then.
He hailed from Mirkwood.
This apparition, out of a land far off and forbidden to him by the shadow cast by ignorance.
"What is Mirkwood like?"
The question had been asked in a large room, empty of furnishings, merely the polished wood floors and muslin curtains as they rustled in the wind with mysterious whiteness—Estel could not hear their words. Afternoon light was vague and mild as was its wont in midday spring; delicate as milkweed. No more the poppyhearts of dawn.
Hesitation; how to properly phrase a boughs of shadow and beauty that thrust words, elvish or no, into ineptitude, Legolas thought.
"Mirkwood is as much an illusion as it is tangible, leaves and branch… and, yes, shadows and light."
"How is that possible—illusion and tangibility?"
His tone was contemplative, rare for those still wandering in the restless throes of adolescence.
"Shadow: it is neither."
The curtain billowed—reminiscent of a ship on the high seas, such was the image it would have called to any who had seen the sea, sailed ships. Neither occupants say this.
They saw white muslin blowing and rustling. Blowing and rustling.
Carnations blooming and blowing, Estel thought of the gardens.
"I see, I think so. Maybe."
"I do not think you understand. Not really." The voice bore no rebuke; a little shy of the revelation it had presented the other with, it was soft.
"Could you describe it? I have never been there."
"Can you see this: light and dark on a forest floor; nightingales casting their secrets; boughs twisted—harsh and tender, age and potency?" the voice lulled the still air, leaned in to the wind. "Can you?"
"I—yes. Yes I can."
"This is a fraction of what Mirkwood is. Words are not fit." A smile; a tendril of gold played across his face—pale and cool in the light. "I think you will journey to my land someday."
"I hope so."
"For now we enjoy Rivendell. That is how life should be lived." They leaned from the open windows, "may the minutes never run dry."
Legolas was a strange elf but Estel felt a certain confirmation in his heart—he was a friend.