A/N: Hello again! Sorry for the wait, and the relative shortness of this chapter. Life just caught up to me, and well, I had trouble writing this scene. Hope you all like it regardless!
Bonnygirl
Miserable though he is, the abrupt shudder of wood under the firm touch of a fist pulls Legolas abruptly from his thoughts. He waits, and- there! A fourth knock.
Heart in his mouth, Legolas carefully crosses the chamber and opens the door. Whatever sorrow that twists in his fae eases as soon as his eyes land on the ordinary brown satchel. With trembling fingers he grasps the bag and shuts the door with a firm shove. It is almost impossible to believe that something so ordinary could contain his freedom- yet sure enough within the soft material there lies a rolled up map, a Messenger's uniform, several pieces of lambas bread and some dried fruit. Most importantly a scroll of paper in thick, creamy parchment and with the sigil of the King stamped on top lies at the top of the bundle, prominent and expectant.
Legolas lifts each item from the bag with care, placing each on the floor beside him. He examines the Messenger's uniform, admires the fine stitch-work of the autumn-red tunic, brown leggings and a long red cloak. Discarding his own sleeping tunic, he slips on the Messenger's tunic and finds it made of good, hardy material, one that will last in any weather. The cloak is of rich, luxurious fabric and falls to brush the floor in a tumble of red waves. Yet against his shoulders it is not too heavy, and he cannot help but prance before his mirror with excitement buzzing in his chest.
A stranger stares back at him from the mirror; even with his childish braids and messy hair, Legolas looks as the Messengers of the King do. Under his own curious gaze he finds that the cloak and tunic pad his body until he seems to be taller. Though it could be a trick of the light, his shoulders appear to have widened and there is an energy coursing through his body that was previously unknown.
Perhaps his own body is aware of the long road he will now walk, and prepares him for it. Though it is a silly thought, perhaps the act of putting on such powerful clothing brings him to lay claim to the fey strength within his veins, possessing finally the elven-blood which gives his people their endless years.
Only his eyes set him apart from the stiff-backed Messengers. The pale irises do not carry the same weight as those who have seen countless seasons. Even when he tries to be serious and stiff, the grey shade glitters with excitement.
With such endless energy tangling with the nerves that are beginning to grip at his chest, he carefully examines the map provided for him. Just as promised, Belathon has marked out the journey to Laketown, where to meet the bargemen who will take him to their leader, which way to go through the greener parts of the forest.
The thought strikes him, suddenly, that maybe he should have told Belathon that while he is adapt at reading maps, he has never really had to use one.
At the very thought, his stomach twists. I will be fine. I am an Elf. If I get lost- which I won't- but if I do- I can always stop and ask the trees for directions towards the Forest River.
The hours creep by as slow as moss growing on trees. Even from the quiet of the royal wing, Legolas can hear the roar of the feast, the bubble of happy laughter and many voices warmed by food and wine. He listens for a while, contentment and restlessness warring in his bones. Where one part of him wants to sit and listen forever to the satisfied sounds of his people, revel in their joy and celebrate the stars, another part, the newly awakened part, is all-too aware of the fact that such sounds are few and far between.
Belathon's plan, he admits, is one of sense. I will make you happy forever, he promises to them. I will bring you all pride.
He sits by the bed with his satchel around his shoulder, too nervous to do much else. Every sound makes his heart kick like a startled rabbit; the brush of tree branches against his window, the far-away hoot of a barn owl. But the anxiety he feels creeping through him is soon replaced by a drowsy wave of slumber, a call to his fae to rest, to lie down and seek refuge in the warm embrace of dreams-
"How bright these lights are! What light they bring!" A guard calls, once again shaking him from the unexpected pull to sleep. Their voice is pitched just loud enough to reach his ears. "How the forest calls me on such a night!"
The signal!
Hurriedly, Legolas scrambles to put all the contents of the satchel back into the bag, and leaps to his feet. Body trembling, he checks the satchel's contents one last time, reassuring himself that all is in there, even the map.
Without a look back, Legolas darts to his door, pulls it open. A guard stands by the door, their posture rigid as though bearing the brunt of the emotions that spark and twist within him. He is not so accomplished in the mental arts as his siblings, and shielding his emotions is one thing he has always struggled with. No doubt the guard is indeed feeling the roar of his blood, the leap of excitement, and the fear which tugs at his feet and urges him to stay behind.
"Go," the guard turns and their gaze is fierce, mouth twisted in the shadows of their mask. "Go now! To the Gates."
Trembling, Legolas doesn't hesitate to obey. His cloak sweeps behind him like the wings of a butterfly, eager to take him to freedom. The first step from his chambers pulls, but the second, the third, the fourth- they are easier to bear. The stairs blur beneath his feet- he leaves the royal wing, turns down another corridor and then another.
Wispy strands of his hair flies against his face and catch in his mouth from the speed of his run and the walls race on endlessly, urging him on. Mid-run he recalls to draw the hood of his cloak over his head, tugs the cowl firmly down. He gallops past the kitchens, dodges a few figures with empty platters in their hands with a shout of apology. Maeasson stands within the bright centre of the kitchen, shouts and orders, and not one of the apprentices even seem to notice the flicker of red and brown which darts past their windows.
Down, down the winding wooden stairs he goes, past a pair of clearly intoxicated guards who sing and sway together. Up above he travels on the high, winding paths that cross over one another like the branches of a great tree. Luckily for him, few edhil walk the smooth paths so late at night, and those that do pay little attention to the patter of his steps.
On he rushes, down the polished pathways, careful to mind the very empty spaces beside him. The lack of railings and the dimmed floor beneath him remind his feet to find their place with the utmost care. One slip, one too-eager leap and he would surely be hanging by his fingernails, with nothing but the gaping jaws of stone to swallow him up!
However what is more pressing is that beneath the twining branches lies very nearly the entire population of the Woodland Realm, all well into their drinks and heavy with food. Though the feast continues on and the many voices drown out much sound, his heart still picks up its rushed pace, well aware of the dangers of looking down or- Ivon forbid- spotting a member of his family. So he keeps his gaze resolutely on the steps ahead, and does not dare to move his head, not even when he feels the faint tugging of his family's bonds on his fae.
He is rewarded for his pains when at last the crest of the King's Gates rise before his eyes. Their massive structure stands against the entrance of the Halls, solid and impenetrable guardians who open for the King alone. Their stone is deceptively smooth, he recalls, but sings of nothing save the whisper of ancient magic and a King's spell-weighted voice.
Only, he reminds himself, today they open not just for the King. Today, they do so for me, and for my people.
The shadows brush against his shoulders, lend him their magic as they conceal him from view. Now he is sure that even the flicker of light upon his cloak would show only that- a cloak, and not the figure who carries it. With legs that feel abruptly like milk-jelly, he leaps down another set of stairs; the hardened wood shudder against his elven bones, but he can only think on the way his heart leaps and what lies beyond the Gates. Never has he felt more alive, more aware of the slightest movement around him!
At last- he slows to a walk, breath loud against his ears. Three guards stand by the King's Gates, their hands slack on their shields. All watch as he approaches, their eyes flashing like pale flecks of moonlight in the shadows.
"Are you the Messenger for the King?" One asks, and Legolas recognises the faint tremor in their voice, the sweep of auburn hair. They were in the cellars of the King, alongside Belathon. They protested against Belathon's plans to draw him in.
His heart kicks in his chest. Will they stop him from leaving? He has only moments, he is aware, before the King becomes aware of the breach in his realm, the shift in stone. He must leave! Legolas tries to nod past the erratic beating of his heart. "I am he."
Another guard steps forward before the ellon can utter another sound. Their gaze sweeps over him, as light and cool as the press of grass. Whatever they see hardens their face, and stiffens their posture.
Their words, nonetheless, are polite. "Very good; may the blessing of the Valar and the goodwill of our King travel with you."
I am here at last, he thinks, and the thought is breathless. I am at the entrance of the King's Halls. These Halls- my home- which I have never left, I now leave.
There comes a mighty groan as the guards direct for the doors to be open, and then a shudder that seems to ripple through the entire cavern. Slowly, the gates swing open, and Legolas is greeted by a wave of sharp autumn air. It is the sweetest air he has ever felt against his skin, playing lightly with the corners of his cloak and the sleeves of his tunic.
Faintly, he is aware of the step of a guard, their whispered words against his cloak. "N'i lû tôl, Legolas Thranduilion."
But his eyes, and his heart, are caught on the purple-bruised sky, the long path which stretches up into the forest. The forest which waits for him patiently. The Song of the forest reaches for him, and with nothing standing between them its melody is so strong that he is nearly propelled off his feet, drawn down into its heady layers.
Belathon's advice whispers in his ears; "whatever you do, do not tarry, for even the strongest of wines will not hold the King down for long!"
I go, he thinks, and taking another breath of the cold air, he steps from the halls and onto the stone path. There is the shudder of heavy stone beneath his feet, and the doors shut behind him.
A/N: What did you think? As always, reviews are much appreciated!
Sindarin: N'i lû tôl- until next we meet
Thranduilion- son of Thranduil
Fae- spirit
Valar- collection of deities that protect and watch over Middle-Earth in the stead of Iluvatar