"Whatever is the matter, Lady Meluien?"
Meluien's frown grew deeper, but she attempted to hide it with a wave of her hand. Looking up, she watched a gangly woman approach her. Edora was a maidservant in the House of Eowyn and Faramir, and liked to spend her free time amidst the Elves; getting in the way more often than not.
"Nothing is the matter, Edora. I am just deciding on whether or not to give up on this stretch of land."
Edora glanced at the far perimeters of the field and let out a laugh. "Methinks that not even an elf could bring this barren ground to life."
Meluien turned away, hiding her annoyance. She bent down towards the ground, so low that her tresses touched the dusty earth. Closing her eyes, she hoped that none of her maidens were watching, for what she was about to do all knew she held strong beliefs against. Though Greenwood's Elves all had special skills in cultivating the earth-- a whispered word here, a murmur there could send a bower of roses to the skies-- Meluien believed that it was not wise to use the power so freely. Since the Great War their power had slowly begun to diminish, and Meluien thought it wasteful to use their resources on growing fruit trees and wildflowers.
Yet Edora could be so exasperating at times…
Edora would never know just what Meluien had whispered, but later she would retell the tale with awe and wonder:
"You should have been there! She bent low to the ground, picked up some dust, whispered something-- and up came a grove of flowers. Flowers so bright and cheerful-- unlike anything you've ever seen. Come see for yourself! It's the truth I tell you!"
And of course, Edora would leave out the smile that had graced the Elven lady's face, and the laugh that had trickled from her red lips. For it was common knowledge, both among the Elves of Ithilien and the men and women, that Lord Legolas' Lady was a somber being who rarely smiled.
---
"What a lovely gown that is, Lady."
The voice was soft; pleasing to the ear, and full of good intentions. Yet Meluien's heart remained hardened to it. She nodded her head, running her hands across the soft curves of the gown. It shone in the light, and could have only been described as mother-of-pearl.
"Thank you, my Lord," she said, acknowledging his attention with a nod of her head. She turned back to her tome, hoping that he would not linger on in the room.
It was a small room, and as like the dwellings of Greenwood as possible. Flimsy green draperies hung from the beams, encasing the stone walls. The windows were large and low, and kept un-shuttered to let the light in. Ivy had found its way into the room, along with little white and yellow flowers.
Legolas sat down on a cushion. "Would you mind if I kept you company for a little while?"
Meluien shrugged. "'Tis no matter of mine where you choose to spend your evenings, as you have always known." She winced when she caught sight of his face, and inwardly chided herself. Why ever did she have to be so cruel? Had they not been wed for a year and some months already? Did he not know the far reaches of her heart and of her desires? What then was the problem; why did she have to be so cruel to the only being who had ever made an effort to please and love her?
"--I mean, my Lord, that---"
"'Tis no matter Meluien, I understand." He stood up, looking down at her, his eyes too dark to make out his mood.
She bit her lip and tried to smile. "You are welcome here, Legolas. You are my husband."
He merely nodded his head and turned to go. She did not catch sight of his forlorn expression, for she had already turned back to the book in her hands.
"Meluien, may I ask you a queation?" He asked, one hand on the door.
"Yes, of course."
"Is it true that in a certain unnamed field a certain unnamed Lady created a stir by calling forth certain unnamed powers?"
Meluien's face turned a bright shade of pink and a small smile played out across the features of her face. Legolas laughed, quietly shutting the door behind himself. It was good to see her smile once again; it had been too long since he had heard her laughter.
---
In a dark corner of a forgotten room, sat two men. Or what appeared to be two men. In truth, one was Lord and Master of Middle-earth's forgotten garden, Ithilien. The other an Elf, a race that had already begun to fade from the memories of men. Outside the walls of the room the moon shone thinly through a web of fog and scattered clouds; little of the light pierced through the room's darkness, and the two figures remained cloaked in a gathering darkness.
"How strange it is to see these barren fields and forests bloom again. You know how thankful I am to you, Legolas, and to Meluien, and to your people."
"It is I who am thankful... my people have long listened to the cry of Ithilien-- the cry of its rocks, streams, and fallen trees. It has long been our desire to ease the land back into its former glory."
"'Tis hard to believe that it has been but a year since your coming; my eyes each day light upon another miracle. How will we ever repay you?"
Legolas closed his eyes. This was not a chance meeting, for he had summoned Faramir with some intent in mind. "Faramir, as your friend, and your brother, I do not expect any repayment. We do this work out of the goodness and desire of our hearts. But there is something I must tell you."
He bent his head forward, and began to rub his hands slowly together.
"Is something the matter?"
"Yes... and no. You know that our people have been slowly leaving Middle-earth since the Final Battle. What you do not know is that not only does our power wane the longer we stay here, but so do our lives." Legolas sighed. "Let me continue. There are those of us who believe that Evil has not been laid to rest; that it has only been stilled for a time; put to sleep, if you will. It will one day creep back into the hearts of those who linger on in Middle-earth, and will resurface more powerful and harsher then ever before. My people are weakening; they know this. They ask to be released. And I cannot hold them back, however much I feel we need them here.
"I must send them away... back to their forebearers. Back to their own people."
---