After far too long away, especially from this fandom, I've finally sat down and finished the long-planned next work in my LOTR series. If you have been with me from the beginning, when I started this little universe with "To Save a Prince," then I thank you so much for returning for the next installment. As I have always done, I try to keep each work divided from the greater series enough that they can be read without prior knowledge of these characters. But the more I write these wonderful beings, the harder it is to keep them independent of each other. So, I must preface this by saying that it is simply a continuation of my previous stories, which I am calling "The Guiding Light" series over on AO3. I hope you enjoy reading this work, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Footprints in the Snow
Suddenly, like a crack of thunder on a cloudless day, an earth-shattering sound broke the air, ringing through the halls louder than anything Legolas had ever heard. It rang through his entire body, reverberating through his chest and making his limbs tingle. A shiver ran down his spine, for he knew what that sound was, despite having never heard it before. He had only ever imagined its terror, though even his imaginings were dull in comparison.
"Lighter at the hem, my lord," Lumornel instructed, not once taking her eyes away from the thin garment in her worn hands. It had once been torn cleanly in two, as though it had been gripped and tugged apart on opposite sides. "Too heavy, and it will not drape properly."
If one looked closer, they would see the barely-there stain of elven blood, washed thoroughly by loving hands until the red was nearly gone. The frayed edges were gently trimmed into a shape more conducive to repair and then cleaned once more. The elleth's needle passed in and out of the fabric as though it were a rabbit in a hole, filled with life and energy, drawing the clipped edges together until they resembled one neat piece once more.
Legolas nodded, loosening his grip on the tunic and making his next even stitch with far less tension than the prior. He held the needle with care while his tongue poked out from between his lips, and his eyes narrowed in concentration. He focused more intently on the repair, determined not to complete his task with anything less than perfection. His fingers still stung lightly from the handful of needle pokes he'd sustained at the beginning of his impromptu sewing lesson. Still, he'd watched Lumornel even more closely until he'd figured out the right movements, matching the fluid motion of her hands.
Legolas had taken a jagged chunk out of his favorite tunic after making an admittedly too-hasty retreat from a tree earlier that morning, and now the much-loved garment needed repair. He'd brought it to the quartermasters and, to his delight, Lumornel was there toiling away on a warrior's tunic. She was now one of the senior seamstresses, honing her craft more and more as each decade flew by. Using her hands to impart her particular brand of magic into every piece of fabric she touched.
This hadn't been the first time he'd gone to visit the elleth, as he'd taken an interest in her craft four years earlier when she'd spoken in what proved to be the most crucial council meeting Legolas had ever attended. And, he figured, the most important he would ever attend.
It was the first the youngest prince had been allowed to sit in, and it had sparked a plan that nearly cost Legolas his life. He'd been begging his Ada, as well as his older brothers, Calaeron and Thallion, to allow him a more active role in the royal family. He'd been nearly halfway to his majority for Valar's sake! After losing their queen and Prince Faervere, the Elvenking and his two eldest sons had been reluctant at the thought of allowing Legolas to take part in the affairs of their ailing kingdom. But through much cajoling, he had finally been granted permission to observe.
What he'd witnessed only proved to him that his family, and his kingdom, desperately needed relief. Darkness had poisoned their lands, and it was only a matter of time before they lost everyone and everything they held dear. And so, he'd set out on a dangerous journey to Imladris, by himself and on foot. It was a journey that had claimed his mother, his big brother, and ten other elves just months prior—but he was determined not to follow their fateful path. He'd encountered many obstacles along the way, a pack of ravenous wolves the most memorable, and somehow made it to the Hidden Valley in one piece… mostly.
Legolas had begged Lord Elrond's esteemed council for aid, and to the young prince's great joy, they agreed—unanimously, no less—to lend whatever help the wood elves required.
Elrond decreed that his sons, Elladan and Elrohir, would lead a party of elves back to Mirkwood. In that party were a significant number of warriors and healers, cooks, quartermasters, and scholars, all tasked with offering the Woodland Realm whatever aid they could.
The number of warriors was enough to relieve several guards of Mirkwood's own exhausted ranks, such that they were able to take short leaves and recover their strength in ways they hadn't been able in years. Their parties were stretched thin, and Imladris filled in the gaps until Mirkwood could stand tall once more.
Things had been different in the kingdom in the four years since the Imladris elves offered their aid. Trade between lands had been improved, more closely resembling the structured system that the queen had accomplished in her long reign. Merchants had to make fewer, longer trips but were finally able to sell and trade their wares to improve the kingdom's economy. Crops were even returning to the fields, but with a longer, slower yield.
While they had been granted a much-needed respite, danger still lurked in every dark corner of surrounding land. Large hordes of orcs were roaming the forest, gaining strength in numbers more as time passed. It was like the smaller clans were banding together against the elves—like they knew the elves were stronger and better-rested and so were preparing for it. Farmers had to wait for the roaming orc packs to pass before entering their fields. The filthy creatures had moved closer to the palace. While patrols had been increased yet again, the orcs' numbers were increasingly concerning.
"Looking better, Legolas," Lumornel encouraged. She had barely glanced at his work, keeping her experienced eyes fixed on her nearly finished repair. "You're already a natural, my lord. You must promise to visit me here more often."
Legolas smiled brilliantly, remembering the timid elleth from that fateful council session what felt like so long ago, hardly reconciling her with the confident elf in front of him.
She was almost ethereal when in her element, deft fingers flying like they were made for nothing but this task alone. When Legolas brought his garment to her, she hadn't hesitated to sit him down with a needle and thread, intent on teaching the prince a valuable skill. She believed that every elven warrior should know how to make basic repairs to their own clothing, for it was never guaranteed that an experienced hand would be close by.
At first, Legolas kept poking himself with the needle but soon picked up the task with her gentle guidance and was put to work on a few other garments once his own was repaired. She patiently explained a few of the damages to various items, detailing how to properly mend them and what style of stitching to use. All those years ago, just before the council meeting, Prince Thallion had suggested an idea. One which had been strange but proved invaluable. He'd suggested using the webbing from Mirkwood's deadly spider population to reinforce their fabric. Legolas had also drawn inspiration and used webbing to fashion a splint after being attacked by wolves along his journey, so he understood the value of the material well. It was resilient and adjustable to almost any need.
Since then, Lumornel had taken the idea and adapted it to fit their requirements. It was discovered that nothing could replicate the webbing as well as the real thing, so it had been gathered and brought to the quartermasters in large, wet bundles to be stored along with other basic staples. It was carefully cleaned and then wrapped around carved wooden spools to make it easier for daily use. The elleth showed Legolas how they had worked it into structural areas of fabric and explained how it had been incorporated into everything in stages after a year of trials.
Now, most of their clothing was infused with webbing, making it more durable and less vulnerable to damage. Legolas was just relieved that his flesh had fared better than his tunic.
"If you get any better, my lord, I'll have to put you to work more often," the seamstress teased, reaching over and gently taking the latest repair from Legolas' hands. She inspected it with a critical eye, picking at the seams to check for any weaknesses and smiling with pride when she found none. The youngest prince was a natural at anything he applied himself to, she mused. "In the meantime, you better get some food before your stomach crawls its way through to the outside!"
As if in agreement, Legolas' stomach twisted and growled in displeasure, earning an embarrassed laugh from the prince and a soft chuckle from the elleth. She resumed her work, gathering a bundle of macabre-looking fabric and assessing the damaged material, formulating a plan of repair based on what she observed. Legolas stood, stretching his growing frame after sitting for so long, and bid her farewell, smiling to himself as she barely responded to his exit.
Following the hunger that coursed through him, the youngest prince made his way toward the dining halls, listening to his footsteps echo softly on the light stone of the palace floors. He was still somewhat distracted, reminiscing about times past, but was surprised to find that the memories didn't hurt quite as much as they used to. They no longer left a gnawing hole in the center of his chest, pulling and biting at all of his strength. Sapping his energy and enthusiasm, as it once did.
Thinking about his Naneth, the bright soul that she was, used to bring him more pain. Especially when faced with the brutality with which she had been killed, cut down by orcs in her beloved forest while being defended by her third son, Faervere. He'd often wondered who had perished first? The courageous son or the loving mother?
Death was a strange force, Legolas thought. It made one question anything and everything they knew about life, all while leaving them to dwell on the gruesome details that they would rather never consider. How did they die? What was their last thought, their last word?
What did they see at the very end?
Legolas had wondered many times, feeling somewhat ashamed at even thinking about it. But it had to be normal, especially for an immortal being, to question mortality.
He reached the dining halls still entirely wrapped in his thoughts, almost ignoring the elf silently standing guard at the entrance.
Limbon had been a palace guard for longer than Legolas had lived, taking up his watch outside the dining halls shortly before the elfling's surprise birth. The ellon witnessed many things and put up with so much mischief and mirth over the years that he had become as familiar a figure in the palace as the walls themselves. He was not an overly large elf, nor was he very intimidating. Limbon was kind, filled with youthful energy and an almost-naïve outlook on the world, for he had only ever been a palace guard.
The watchman had a vivid imagination, which was almost a requirement to pass the time when standing in vacant halls for hours. He composed grand tales in his head, picturing himself at the forefront of a significant battle just once in his life. When Legolas had been little, the elfling loved sitting on a windowsill—begging Limbon to place him there—and listening to the older elf's tales of action and adventure. Now that Legolas was older and had his own experience with true adventure, he had recently made it a point to stop and regale the guard with accounts of his progress as a novice in the king's army. The older elf's face lit up with joy every time, and the prince found that it was great for relieving stress, unloading tale after tale to someone who was—more or less—unbiased.
Many nights were spent with Legolas, dirty and exhausted, standing outside the dining halls beside Limbon. Legolas had recently been given command of his own squad, which filled the young prince with pride and utter terror. Squads comprised four warriors, and Legolas was fortunate that his two best friends, Alarcien and Mitsion, were two such members. They were a few decades older than him but had been his closest friends and confidantes for as long as he could remember.
Alarcien had grown into herself through novice training, becoming a fierce warrior in her own right. Deadly with a bow and light on her feet, she could sneak up on a shadow. Her stealth and small stature would make her a brilliant scout.
Mitsion had, mostly, gotten over his aversion to the bow and arrow. He wasn't the quickest, but he had courage and strong instincts, making him a valuable squad member. His natural talent was with a long sword, which he wielded with pride and a sense of protectiveness over his fellow warriors.
It was the third member of the squad that gave Legolas pause. Fandir was his name, and he seemed to dislike Legolas for reasons unknown to the prince. He was constantly pushing back against Legolas' commands, challenging the younger elf at every turn. The ellon was bigger and stronger than the prince, and he seemed to hold that against the young blond every chance he got.
"And I'm not sure what else to do, Limbon," Legolas explained with an exasperated breath, finishing his latest tale to the guard. The watchman scratched his chin thoughtfully, his dark eyes roaming around the hall as though of their own volition. Searching for threats, perhaps.
"I wouldn't think much of it, Legolas," he assured, smiling at the young elf warmly. "In time, maybe Fandir will confide in you and explain why he holds such animosity towards you. It is our responsibility to understand that we may not always be liked by everyone; but, if we provide others with enough respect, we may receive some in return."
Legolas nodded, mulling over his words. There was something inherently stressful about leadership, suddenly being responsible for another life. Every day, Legolas worried that he may make the wrong decision and put his own people in danger. He supposed it was the same way his brothers felt every day, and perhaps even how his father felt. It couldn't be easy, holding the entire realm in one's hands, hoping and praying to the Valar that no harm came to it.
Suddenly, like a crack of thunder on a cloudless day, an earth-shattering sound broke the air, ringing through the halls louder than anything Legolas had ever heard. It rang through his entire body, reverberating through his chest and making his limbs tingle. A shiver ran down his spine, for he knew what that sound was, despite having never heard it before. He had only ever imagined its terror, though even his imaginings were dull in comparison.
"The Great Horn," Limbon gasped, grabbing Legolas by the arm and leading him away from the entrance to the dining chambers with great haste. The watchman seemed to forget that he was dragging a prince along, he moved with such determination toward the great hall. His longer legs forced Legolas to stumble beside him while his heart thundered into his ears, and his dark blue eyes widened as adrenaline flooded his body.
Legolas knew the procedure. He had been trained from a very young age what the Great Horn was for. It had never been blown in his lifetime, though there had been one other occasion where it had nearly been used. Legolas hardly remembered it. He had barely been able to walk, though he could still recall the fear in his mother's eyes when his eldest brother informed her of the situation and assigned guards to their chambers to wait it out.
The Great Horn is only ever blown when the palace is under attack.
All able-bodied warriors must leave any non-essential post and report to the great hall for further instruction. He knew this, but it didn't quite register in his stunned mind. He was lucky Limbon knew what to do, for Legolas would indeed be lost without guidance.
Reaching the great hall, they were met with almost organized chaos. Various voices seemed to be layered over one another, creating a beautiful symphony of confusion that rose into a deafening, elegant crescendo. Limbon searched the room for faces he knew the young prince would be familiar with, leading Legolas through tightly packed bodies with an air of authority the prince had never seen on the jolly watchman. Warriors naturally gravitated towards members of their own warrior guards, so the younger elf reasoned that Limbon must have been searching for members of Legolas' larger guard.
Legolas's squad belonged to Captain Aerondir's forward defense guard, part of Commander Glandor's company. Novice squads were rotated among various companies throughout their training, often focusing on one particular aspect. For the last six months, they had been part of the forward guard, made primarily of archers, under the command of Captain Aerondir. He was firm but fair and often left them to their own devices, giving only broad orders and expecting them to develop their own strategy. Aerondir reported to Commander Glandor, who was once the crown prince's lieutenant and a close friend. While they were currently attached to Glandor's company, they would likely be transferred soon to another. It was a good way of providing a broad range of training under various manners of leadership, though it currently did nothing to decrease the young elf's confusion.
"Legolas!"
Through the throng, a dark blond elleth tried to shove her way to the prince's position, using her small frame to duck between one set of warriors and hop around the next. Alarcien pulled Mitsion along with her, not even pausing to make sure he hadn't stumbled in their haste. Her impatience was written across her fair features, highlighting the color of her eyes as they rolled in exasperation.
"Legolas, we heard the horn and came straight away." She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, adjusting the light brown leathers she must have thrown on in her rush to the great hall while critically appraising her best friend's state of readiness. "Do you know what's happening? Are we being attacked?"
Shaking his head in equal confusion, he stood on the very tips of his toes and searched the room for the fourth member of their squad. Much as he didn't understand Fandir, he knew that it would be better for them to be together. It was his duty as squad leader to have his squad present and accounted for.
Warriors were pouring into the room, gathering in small groups wherever possible. Standing only a few convenient feet away was Fandir, who appeared to be looking for them as well. Without a word, the other elf joined them, tightening the straps to his scabbard.
"We need to report to someone for duty," Legolas explained. "Look for one of the captains or a commander."
"There!" Mitsion pointed, on the very tips of his toes just to see the elf he had spotted. "Commander Hrávo is just past that bundle of elves there."
Leading his squad away from Limbon now that he had a general idea of what to do, Legolas followed Mitsion's direction until he spotted one of the realm's finest commanders. Hrávo had been a friend and close confidante to Legolas' three older brothers, even coming up in novice training alongside Prince Faervere. After Faervere's death, Hrávo took over his company and led them with a steady, experienced hand. The older elf gave orders to a group of other novice warriors, quickly spotting the youngest royal standing just a few feet away.
The commander waved him over, and his squad obediently waited for their leader just off to the side.
"What's going on, Hrávo?"
The older elf laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, leaning down slightly to speak at eye level. His warm blue eyes were filled with a concerned fire, burning with determination.
"Orcs have gathered at the walls with siege gear, ready to destroy everything in their path. Their numbers are greater than we've seen in decades, and they're strategizing in ways we thought were unheard of," he explained in a low voice. "The crown prince is preparing defense parties and dispatching them to the most vulnerable points. Right now, those are the front courtyard and the section of wall by the armory."
Legolas nodded in understanding, gulping as he realized that he would be sent to one of those vital areas.
"I understand you're typically under Captain Aerondir's command?" Legolas nodded in affirmation. "He has already been dispatched to the armory. You'll report to Calaeron directly. Is your squad ready for this, Legolas? I will understand if you are not prepared, but we need all available warriors at the ready. We haven't yet seen a force this single-minded, nor one this organized."
"We're ready, Hrávo," he reassured, his voice stronger than he expected.
Patting his shoulder once more, the commander pointed to the southeast corner of the hall with a proud smile.
"Report to your prince, then."
"Hannon le, Hrávo."
Turning to face his squad, he gave them all a short nod and led the three elves to the eldest prince of the realm.
The tall blond seemed to dominate the room, his presence nearly as striking as his father's. Calaeron, when in his element, so closely resembled the Elvenking that one often had to look closer just to be sure they weren't looking at the king himself. He exuded grace and power that Legolas often envied, though it would have been foreign to Legolas just a few years ago. Until he started his novice training, Calaeron was just his big brother, not the imposing Royal Commander Calaeron Thranduilion, Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm.
In the last four years as a novice warrior, Legolas had seen sides to his two older brothers that they had never allowed him to witness when he was just an elfling. He'd had the opportunity to observe them as warriors of the realm, rather than just as princes—or more simply, like his brothers. Calaeron and Thallion were still just as protective of their youngest brother, especially after losing Faervere.
Despite that protectiveness, Legolas had slowly proved to them that he was mature and strong enough to be seen more as an adult than ever before. And to his surprise, they recognized his efforts and rewarded him with respect and equality. When they were on duty, they treated him as a fellow warrior first and their little brother second. He'd seen them wounded, their emotions raw and defenses down, as they'd returned from some battle or skirmish or other. And instead of brushing Legolas off with reassurances, they would sit him down and discuss strategy and tactics—like an equal.
And so, as soon as the crown prince noticed Legolas standing tall and ready with his squad at his back, he didn't hesitate to give his brother an acknowledging nod.
"Prince Legolas," he began, his voice full of command as he formally addressed the younger blond. "Arm yourselves and report to Commander Thallion in the courtyard. Do whatever he asks of you."
Nodding back, Legolas took a deep breath and once more led his squad forward.
If they thought the great hall was chaotic, it was nothing to the cacophony of the barracks. Elves shouted questions at each other, throwing bows and quivers, sheaths and scabbards at their comrades. Leathers flew as ellons and elleths prepared themselves for whatever may come.
The four young novices wasted no time gearing up, joining the chaos and tossing each other their things as they readied for their first battle. The prince's hands shook as he attempted to tie the cords to his leathers for the second time, forcing an impatient breath through his lips when his fingers slipped on the tie. Forgoing the task, he grabbed his twin daggers—gifts from Elladan and Elrohir—and threw his bow and quiver over one shoulder.
He was as prepared as he could ever be. They finished their task near the same time, scurrying out of the barracks and toward the courtyard with their hearts in their throats. Already, the sounds of battle washed over them. They were not yet even outside, and they caught a whiff of the stench of orcs on the air.
They were here, at the walls.
"Legolas, what are you doing out here?"
Thallion stood just inside the courtyard entrance, pausing halfway over the threshold when he noticed the youngest prince and his squad. His tall, broad frame was clothed in the same leathers that Legolas had earlier struggled with, making the younger brother feel even smaller in comparison. He was the picture of the perfect warrior that Legolas hoped to one day become.
He had always felt tiny next to his older brother, who was taller than his Silvan and Sindarin kin. Thallion was Avarin, adopted by the royal family long before Faervere or Legolas had even been born, before Calaeron had even reached majority. His own family had been killed by orcs when he was younger than Legolas was now, including his infant brother and his entire Avarin tribe.
"Cal said to report to you here in the courtyard," Legolas explained, watching concern replace the confusion that had earlier graced the older elf's face.
Thallion shook his head, his ebony warrior braids shaking along with him. Thallion had always been fiercely protective of him, which was something that Legolas had grown to expect—and honestly, something he hoped never changed. Thallion had been his greatest mentor, believing in and encouraging him for as long as he could remember. Of course, he wouldn't be pleased with any situation that put his brother in danger.
"Get up high, preferably atop the walls peering down into the courtyard where I can keep an eye out for you. They've already broken through, I've just called for reinforcements—probably why Cal sent you out here in the first place," he said, gently pulling apart the loose ties to Legolas' leathers and swiftly retying them while he gave their orders. "I don't want any of you involved in the fighting on the ground. You are not prepared for it, and now is not the time to gain such experience. But I do want you to cover us from above. Understand?"
His voice was rough but firm, punctuated by one last tug on the ties he had finished. Legolas nodded, accepting his orders and thanking his brother at the same time.
"Be careful, all of you," he eyed each of them intensely, lingering on his brother the longest. "May the Valar be with you."
Thallion then tugged on the small braid in Legolas' hair, the one he had given Legolas after his return from Imladris. It was an Avarin tradition to wear many warriors' braids, each one signifying the completion of a significant obstacle, and Thallion felt Legolas had earned one of his very own. Now, on the precipice of his first battle, Legolas hoped he could put that braid to the test and prove that he was, indeed, ready.
