Ever more Chapter 5, a lord of the rings fanfic

The first time

--You can't keep a place from changing unless you leave it

--Will you go

--I don't know

--I just don't know

The day was full and lovely, it had approached as a faint brilliance along the rims of the world, and it had come closer, closer, shining violet from ink, it had been crimson, swelling to eclipse the sky, then faded to a blueness that made clarity clearer.

A horse was burnished in the golden mist—dawn's reminder of her glorious morning. She loomed closer, and was not imposing but familiar: Merin.

The other horses had been milling around the front courtyard where the Mirkwood contingent readied them for the ride home, Legolas stood with the sons of Elrond; it was quiet, the horses snorted, Merin approached to stand by his side, and as he loaded his pack he turned to his friends.

"Well, I suppose it will be quite some time 'til I see you again."

"Perhaps it will be long enough for Rivendell to regain her composure." Elladan hid his smiles well, but no one is quite inscrutable when with friends forged over centuries.

"With you two around; never."

"All and sundry assume it is our fault, but things were very different before he came along," gestured Elrohir to Estel.

"I doubt that," a wayward smile as he turned away to rearrange the various straps.

Estel was oddly silent, in his head he chased a reckless orchestra of thoughts and hours, somehow that philosophical night spent in the garden, away from songs and everyone else had found its way back to him. He leaned forward to stroke the gentle arch of Merin's neck, she was very forthcoming to strangers he noticed.

The day spun lazy circles like the gulls Estel had never known; according to archaic texts run from years unfounded that had slept in the library, gulls were the infinitely minute rift in the elven existence, everything began and ended in the instant it trumpeted its call. Time was like that on certain occasions like this, like the gull, white wings outspread and motionless as it sailed in the sky, circles of quietude. Morning was as such, a white expanse that was numbered by hours and transcient as a result, but no, it crawled now. Only no mud, no dirt would cling. Morning.

"Well, we shall be off now," Legolas swung himself onto his horse in a swift movement Estel could not quite follow, then he was mounted and ready like the other elves. They were so silent.

"Farewell then, and mind you don't fall off your horse," Elrohir was typically sardonic as he bid their friend goodbye; there was laughter like moonlight over misty mountains that mingled with the trees.

Legolas turned, waving and with the rest of the contingent, set off down the road out

They had both grown up.

And through growing up they knew loss.

Not even a king has everything he wants within an arm's reach; but as his Queen had said, that was the way of things, and the way things should be, if not, what of the Undying lands and ever after?

As usual, she was right.

His queen. His Queen.

He was reminiscing. Mornings were meant for such gentle contemplation. They were so quiet, and mysterious in their unspeaking nature even after countless meetings with middle-earth.

The room smelled of peace and parchment at rest; he enjoyed that, when it was not written on and streaming with words and ink foretelling or recording ill news. Sunlight, mild and glorious in their placid nature dipped in and submerged the floors in diaphanous gold. This was enchantment at its purest. It was an element in itself.

Perhaps it was time to begin the day and regain morning in memories as he retired that night—such was the wonder of being immortal, the knowing that one has forever.

He slid into his chair and reached for his quill, parchment fluttered and awoke sheet by sheet, the room was a flurry of thoughts and he was lost in the milling crowd of trade agreements, reports and the many othtwined with other woodland blooms as his son's fingers lengthened with the seasons he breathed.

But he would never forget the sincerity of dandelions in any form. The pair still favoured them, simple bright burst of spring, uncontainable.

He kept mornings quiet and unhurried when he could, solitary now but still as beautiful in its loneliness. There was once when he woke up to a shape whose presence never left him, not even as he slipped past the circles of this world, and a small bundle he could not, would not forget.

Even when the former had gone, with no hope of return, the latter still came to him, again and again.

His son was too old to come creeping back to his father in the early hours, but no one could ever grow out of memories.

He sighed. Morning solitude. It had not always been so, first they had not been lonely at all, ever; then they became the solitude of mourning, he loathed to recall and yet would not allow himself to forget; soon he had found recourse in another and that other had left him to become a stranger that he still loved, a stranger who loved him in return. In the manner of paternal fondness and in this case maternal as well, he would wonder, sometimes with fondness, other times slight regret at where his son had gone.

They had both grown up.

And through growing up they knew loss.

Not even a king has everything he wants within an arm's reach; but as his Queen had said, that was the way of things, and the way things should be, if not, what of the Undying lands and ever after?

As usual, she was right.

His queen. His Queen.

He was reminiscing. Mornings were meant for such gentle contemplation. They were so quiet, and mysterious in their unspeaking nature even after countless meetings with middle-earth.

Perhaps it was time to begin the day and regain morning in memories as he retired that night—such was the wonder of being immortal, the knowing that one has forever.

The moon was so bright in her fury; he wondered upon it, she was as brilliant as the sun, perhaps more in the dark sky; logic fled him as it habitually did when meeting beauty.

Her reflection lay in pieces, fragments of a mirror so supine upon the lake. His reflections lay with her, thoughts fleeting and edged with haze though oddly sharp, he was in a fey mood tonight: the beauty of such a thing: mood: he preferred to leave unsaid.

Elves said little, after living so long one inadvertently learns many lessons, one of them being the futility of idle prattle; it was not that the elves were grim folk, just silent, and ethereal as reams of moonlight settling upon a glade or a forest pool fringed with belladonna.

His horse snorted, the sound velvet and muted in the silence, he stoked the fire and called to her; she pawed her hoof in response.

He rummaged around in his pack and found the object of his searching: an apple.

One of the treasures acquired on midnight sojourn to the kitchens of Rivendell; not for the lack of food given to them but rather the abundance of it. There was a thrill in stealing a number of items from the pantry then spiriting themselves and their hoard back to one of their rooms; one of the habits he Elladan and Elrohir had preserved from childhood days and one that Estel was discovering.

Of course the thieves took more care in ensuring stealth and invisibility: it simply would not do, dignitaries raiding the kitchens. Absolutely unheard of, Legolas smiled to himself at this private remark.

He had stashed a few of these away for Merin; padding over to her he held it out in his hand.

"You spoil her, you do," an amused chuckle that came rustling from the darkness behind him.

"There does not seem to be any harm in it, and she does enjoy her treats," came the admittedly indulgent reply.

"Don't we all," said Menellir as he arched his back slightly, his blankets murmured into their whispered conversation.

"Better get your rest, your watch will be soon." Legolas turned to face his friend, he noticed how queerly the incessant flames threw shadows upon the other's face.

"There is no need to be enthusiastic about that at all; nothing terribly exciting is happening, or is about to," he added as an afterthought.

"Ah, but it might," Menellir showed no intentions of returning to his private sonatas of dream and flight. He joined Legolas where the horses stood, silken angles and exhalation that played a fitting accompaniment to the treesong that was a constant to elves.

The fronds danced beyond the night and in the glow of phantasmagoria: the faint illumination of elves.

Menellir bent over, picking up a branch, he straightened and tossed it carelessly into the fire. It was devoured, and it invariably crumbled to dust and ash.

"Time is of a similar nature."

"So that is your purpose, I had expected fireworks from you."

"No, no. that would be Mithrandir." Menellir continued, "Time is like that; it holds us in thrall, then devours us."

"Rewards us with naught but dust and ash," Legolas hesitated, "and bone."

Menellir was silent, he inclined his head.

"I suppose this will be that age, even immortality fades."

Nightly philosophy came easily to creatures who were given leave to ponder.

Gloom did not suit Menellir well. "There are other ways in which things can get dusty, if they remain static for too long. Say you, as you are now."

"I think not! What cause had you to make such a grievous remark?"

"It is unusual to see you quieted at length. It was beginning to unnerve me."

"Still, it is the truth. You know it as well as I do. This visit has been a short reprieve, and Rivendell, in all honesty is an illusion maintained by her Lord."

"But so long as we can, nothing should stopper joy."

The night passed and the hours for another's watch melded into theirs, but they stayed by the edges of firelight and spoke of matters that did not breach light and dark's fight.

He passed his seventeenth birthday with the usual splendour his brothers assumed was suitable for a Mannish countdown of the years: Elladan and Elrohir had previously explained the festivities Rivendell enjoyed on his birth date were to make up for the valley's general placidity; most of the elves had reached their maturity years before and thus annual celebrations were tedious—to the elves years ran like water. He realized the truth the yarn they spun hid: his years were limited—precious and running to a great sea of the past from a river that would soon run dry in but a wink of the ages.

However, not much bothers one when he is seventeen, the years in which each dawn found renewal; he crossed that border, moving further away from childhood on the balcony that leaned out of the confines of a room as beautiful and familiar as he would ever find, under nothing at all, for the sky has not the limits of brick and stone. And as he was carried over the threshold, this he knew because of the affinity he had for time and hours, he recounted the stars and with each he recounted a memory.

The Bruinen was bright with morning, he waded through the reeds and clarity that clung to his knees—how old had he been, he remembered being a child, too young to know the gift of innocence he had, the knowing comes afterward, when you have lost it—he squealed as he slipped and floundered for a minute, the stones at the bottom were pale and scattered smooth, limpid with the shining of water and he could see or couldn't he? The world was distorted; and before he could properly begin to choke or sputter he felt hands, this was someone strong who, he knew these hands and who—

Gold, illuminated with mild sunshine,

"Estel," a voice spoke, this was Glorfindel and Glorfindel who decided that he had had enough excitement as he coughed up a little water. They returned to the house.

Linden trees, the grove was free and redolent, gold dust—hazes and small butterflies; this was Rivendell in full bloom, this is Rivendell in full bloom, this is beauty—he had wandered alone, Rivendell was nestled in a valley that rose high around her and was a sanctuary, he was as restful as the trees, they sang in this season according to Elladan, Lindir had described their voices as soaring and had not presumed to say more. As one of the race of men, he had never heard treesong; he tried to listen, their branches rustled and the vespers ran through their fingers, but nothing more, the wood remained mysterious and closed to him.

He hushed his footsteps and slowed his breathing, his fingers reached out to stroke the bark, trills under his fingers, notes of a delicate pulse—was this what the trees sounded like?

He quieted his thoughts, it was strange, this lull in recollection an endless stream that ran encroaching on the past yet rushing up to the present.

Their whispers touched him, and murmur murmur they were like that he knew then, they murmured and rustled.

Perhaps he couldn't quite hear them but he knew them, a little, he knew them as they were, and as they swelled

It marked an epoch; he knew it as he left the grove he knew it was not invention but the learning of a language that always was, voices that had been lost and mired in the ears of one not born to the right but had gained it. He knew secrets; this was one that really mattered: the very gentle secret of time, spirit of secrets, he wasn't sure how to frame it in prose; it was unimportant, to keep secrets all one has to do is understand. He felt like he understood the trees.

Muslin like surf white muslin and their ruffles rustled hitting the windowsill sweep sweep the wooden windowsill and the window panes flung outward and the whole room seemed to leaned outward into the open and he felt like he was going to be swept away as the muslin kept fluttering over sunshine that cam in odd parallelograms of light like yellow more like gold. And someone else's gold by him spotless sunshine and it shone alternately it was shadowed and it flickered placidly like the pebbled beds of the Bruinen soft rises and falls of light he had seen as he played there. So this Other was standing by him and he spoke he said—what did he say he said immortality—yes that's what he said and he said is not truly a blessing—yes; and he continued: unless coupled with youth of the mind heart and senses is nothing nothing much. And he continued the Other spoke again mortality is not such a poor counterpart the capacity for surrender is the gift of men elves could never never—what was it he said, what.

Yes, perhaps…yes… he said this as gold lapped over his shoulder: I see your confusion; but yes the elves are a blessed race, he laughed he had laughter like like the vespers of wind rustling the willows on a sunlight-tremulous day or maybe a night or maybe an evening with the light in pieces and falling falling fast over dipped down a horizon and gone.

He had fingers long and slender reached out to pick up a wayward bloom blown onto the windowsill by the wind and he breathed or was it a sigh he must be very tired or old elves are old too old to recount and you cant know by looking at them and the Other leaned out precariously so very precarious but it did not look dangerous just him and this innate balance maybe and the Other lifted and blew and the pinkblushedspringfedsunshinebred fluttered. And it flew and it did not seem to land.

Where did it go?

Estel broke from reverie and the images unfiltered and vivid were ascatter; he saw the first traces of dawn, her rosy fingers drew interception between night and day

Pinkblushedspringfedsunshinebred

It reminded him of that flower; a little flower that had a name so small and hidden it eluded him; he wondered if he had just imagined it all: the fantasy that was otherworldly and nameless.

Time goes by like river; winking merry and fey as it winds winds down the dips and hollows and into the forest, approaching the heart of mystery.

She had been a poet, thoughts ran from her incessantly, snowy white sentences found composition and recomposition; he missed that, they filled the room with purpose.

He missed it despite its everconstant presence; it still breathed it still was it still persisted, but it was unlike her daemon. No two poets are the same, just like no two elves are the same though they might find descent from the same forest, though one birthed the other.

Legolas was reminiscent of his mother in certain aspects, Thranduil's musings flowered, unwinding from tightlyfolded buds and falling off as another followed, they were a constant stream, trickling off into the element of history. Or rather, he carried a hint of his mother with him; Thranduil could never quite decipher what it was exactly that drew her to him—she was faintly unreal and as she drew closer, she muffled the distraction of the day and yet heightened his senses, day found its way back to him—but he knew her, he knew her, that was knowledge, and it ran in an endless stream from the depths of a spirit that belonged to him and yet ran untethered, free and unbounded by the known and unknown.

Night paved arbours of shadow along the paths that snaked out into the forest.

Out into the heart of mystery: tanglewood and flesh eternal, it whispered to him.

He spoke, returnal, always the same reply.

Waking had been a quiet process that morn, it crept upon him, slow and hushed footsteps, and before he was aware, he had awoken, rocked gently from dream.

Hours were passed as parchment and quill toiled seamlessly sliding in curls and loops: elvish.

He tossed a glance out of the window, and he saw horses approaching, riders, and a golden head he had known well; once he had to incline his head to see the nodding dandelion that clung to him, waist high, now he saw the face bloomedover in youth unending—he felt pride then and now, it had never changed.

He knew that head well—Legolas. He had restrain himself from bounding out to greet him: it was most unbecoming of a monarch.

So, how was that?

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