Chapter 1
Mist coiled over the green, a great silver serpent that darted out at times to swallow the rising sun. Where it lingered everything was indistinct, the hazy remnants of a forgotten dream. Even the birdsong was tentative, as if loathe to shatter this otherworldly frieze. But sunlight deepened, shadows lengthened, and at last the mist disappeared with a playful flicker of its tail, leaving nothing behind but frosty scales to cloak bark and blossom.
The courtyard was exquisite in the winter sun; no craftsman's filigree could hope to match the silver limned trees. A squirrel scurried down the bough of his tree in search of his stockpile of nuts. He rested one paw on the soft, powdery snow, chattered in indignation at the cold that greeted him, and disappeared into the gardens with one delicate leap.
A pair of bright eyes watched him go. They were deep grey, like the squalls that added their mournful wail to the cry of the Belegaer every Hrívë. Estel lay on his stomach, contemplating the work of squirrels with as much thought as he gave Erestor's tales of Second Age heroes, trying to stay out of the sight of his eagle-eyed minder.
He sometimes wondered if Erestor's considerable talents were not better applied to sentry duty.
The wind carried the soft whisper of elven song to his ears. In spite of the chill seeping into his clothes, Estel pressed himself even more firmly against the ground, relying on blooming niphredil for cover. Through a narrow, woody gap, Estel watched as soft-booted feet padded across the courtyard. He studied the boots intently - they were made from simple leather, free of the intricate embroidery that his own boots bore, old and worn and comfortable.
Practical boots, then, guard boots. Estel could breath again. He had been memorising Ar-Pharazôn's extensive and rather bloody family history for what was certainly far too long. After a morning of committing the last King of Númenor's numerous failure to heart, Estel had taken it upon himself to wear at Erestor's patience with a vengeance.
After Erestor came dangerously close to tearing at his own hair - remarkable to see in a people who raised their voices once every other century - the episode culminated in an abandoned tome, a bruised ego, and Estel going into hiding.
Estel thought of Erestor with no small measure of guilt and satisfaction, and peered back through the foliage. The boots had gone.
Thank Valar for that too, for he had been a fugitive for a little over an hour, and there was only so much cold a little boy could bear. The wind nipped sharply at Estel, and slowly he got to his feet, glancing left and right as he emerged from his refuge.
When he was not immediately herded off by an army of well-meaning elves, Estel sighed in relief and hurried off after the squirrel.
No tracks marred the white expanse, the snow as pristine as it had been the hour it fell. Here and there niphredil - with all the frost, lofty beauty of ancient glaciers - graced the courtyards with its pale blossoms. Quiet peace always permeated Imladris, but today even the song of waterfalls was muffled by the snowfall. The familiar landscape became foreign. The only footprints were his own.
A glint of mischief flashed in Estel's eyes, and he began taking bigger and bigger steps, imagining a sword swinging by his side, a circlet of stars upon his brow. He was a King of old, he was Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first to set foot on a forgotten land.
Goosebumps raced up his arms, and not entirely because of the biting wind.
Estel looked back upon his little trail of footprints and felt a faint twinge of irritation. Real elves - or half-elves - did not sludge their way through the snow. He took another almighty step, being careful not to let his toes brush against the fluffy snow. Wholly absorbed by the minute details of foot placement, Estel failed to notice that he had overbalanced until he was falling.
He had a brief moment to mourn his nose as the white ground reared up to meet him. But a heartbeat before he ate a mouthful of snow, so close he could feel ice crystals brush against his lips, a pair of arms slipped around his middle and arrested his fall.
The world spun upside down, sky and land interlocking in a swirl of grey and white. When his vision steadied, gentle hands lowered him to his feet, and he only had time to recognise a familiar pair of plain, worn boots before he was face to knee with the elven guard.
The Ñoldor of Imladris had dark hair and grey eyes, the many fine lords and ladies standing tall and stately in rich, ornate robes, so upon first sight Estel knew immediately that he was a stranger to these lands.
The elf was very strange. He was clad in muted colours, mottled greens and browns like the dappled forest floor. But Estel's attention was immediately drawn to his pale hair. It spilled down his back, liquid white-gold in the winter sun, bound back in the intricate braids favoured by archers.
It was so bright, like a shiny new coin - belatedly, an all too familiar memory of Elrond's eyebrows arching with disapproval interrupted Estel's appreciation of the elf's hair.
"Who are you?" Estel said, his voice filling with curiosity and retrospective suspicion. Tilting his head up to meet the elf's eyes, he was secretly pleased to find that this elf appeared to be slightly shorter than his brothers.
Well, for what he might have lacked in height he more than made up for in beauty, Estel admitted to himself.
Erestor was right. Fair and magnanimous was Illuvatar.
"A wanderer from far away." The elf's eyes danced, and Estel thought of the flicker of woodland shadows. "I have many names. Have you heard of Haldir?"
Estel tipped his head to the side. "No?"
"No, indeed. You would not know of a simple marchwarden of the Golden Wood." The elf shook his head sadly, hiding a wicked smile.
Across the Misty Mountains, Haldir was lounging idly in the embrace of a mallorn, carefully polishing his bow, when a sudden bout of sneezing nearly knocked him into the forest below. Recovering with a graceful surge, he glared balefully east.
"Lothlórien?" The boy's voice was wondering.
"Strange are the trees that grow there," the elf sighed. "In the autumn their leaves glimmer as if spun from the finest gold, and in the winter shapes form in their golden depths - fish that walk on land and men the size of bears."
His eyes glittered. "And bears the size of dragons."
Estel stared at his strange visitor, half disbelievingly.
But he lifted his golden head in a way that reminded Estel of his own brothers, and he had saved Estel from a wet snowbank, and so slowly Estel relaxed.
"Mae govannen," he said, in an effort to appear more grown-up.
Haldir twisted his hand over his heart solemnly. "A light shines over the hour of our meeting."
"I am Elros Peredhil," Estel continued, and Haldir's mischievous eyes widened slightly. "Would you like to be my bannerman?"
"Of course." Haldir nodded seriously, and dipped his head in a bow. "My liege."
Haldir kept in step with Estel as he continued to explore his realm, his footsteps so light that the snowflakes beneath his feet were undisturbed by his passage. Estel studied him out of the corner of his eye, and tried to mimic the unconscious grace with which he moved. Estel had grown up amongst elves, but the ease with which Haldir drifted over the snow left Estel wondering whether he really was a creature of flesh and blood.
Estel raised each foot high and set it down as carefully as he knew how. After ten minutes of failure he was on the brink of kneeling down to have a serious conversation with the snow when Haldir said softly, "May I?"
Estel regarded his outstretched hand dubiously, but he had nothing to lose. He nodded, and his feet left the ground for the second time in half an hour.
Haldir gently lifted him so that his feet barely skimmed the surface of the snow. Almost immediately, Estel forgot his indignation in light of the endless possibilities that stretched out before him. He stepped forward gingerly and lo and behold - the snow remained unbroken.
Estel took a few more steps, almost tripping in midair in his eagerness, but the elf's firm grip about his waist kept him stable and upright. He was half-elven - he was Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first King of Númenor.
Estel laughed - the sound was bright and pure, and as if summoned by his unbridled joy, Elladan and Elrohir chose that precise moment to materialise.
"Doing away with our younger brother already, are we?" Elrohir said in lieu of a greeting. He squinted at the golden-haired elf. "Good, we have you to blame for Estel's disappearance."
"Elladan! Elrohir, I can walk like an elf!" Estel's voice bubbled over in excitement, and Haldir obligingly followed him around another circuit of the meadow.
Elladan clapped, and awaited the little king's return with a warm mantle. "Are you ready for supper?" he murmured, wrapping the cloak snugly about Estel's small frame.
"You had better be," Elrohir piped up. "After you vanished, Ada's eyebrows threatened doom and destruction. For quite a while. It was a long afternoon."
He spun to glare accusingly at their guest, who was watching in bemusement. "Speaking of which, weren't you supposed to have an audience with our father upon arrival? Do you think the endless stream of eagles, bearing worried messages disguised as royal missives, has been good for our health?"
Estel's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Elrohir." Elladan said patiently. "Please save your madness for the dinner table."
But Elrohir was beyond listening. "We are running out of field mice to feed them! If I have to see the royal stag of the House of Oropher plastered to my window one more time I will eat my horse - "
'Haldir' appeared behind Elrohir like a ghost, and wrapped a comforting hand around the Ñoldo's shoulder in a vice-like grip.
"Elrohir," he purred. "The lady of the Golden Wood has been known to eat troublesome Ñoldor such as yourself."
Elrohir's mouth fell open.
In a clearing in the depths of Calas Galadhon, the Lady Galadriel sneezed, sending ripples spreading across her mirror. "Impudent little prince," she said, but she was smiling.
They dripped their way across the Hall of Fire. As Legolas turned his damp cloak over in the warmth of the roaring fireplace, Elrohir turned towards one of Imladris' many winding passageways. Behind him trailed his anxious twin, clucking gently at the little human boy blinking sleepily against Elrohir's shoulder.
Legolas watched them go, and the bright humour that often flickered in his eyes darkened into something unreadable. Only when a shadow fell over him, emanating disapproval and fatherly exasperation in equal parts, did he return to himself.
"My lord," Legolas murmured, hand flying to his heart as he dipped into a graceful bow. Despite his father's claims otherwise, he did not lack an instinct for self-preservation.
Elrond's voice held the suppressed fury of a breaking wave. It was also very tired. "You were expected two weeks ago, Legolas."
"Orcs came from the south, my lord. I could not leave."
Elrond's left eyebrow twitched. "Nonetheless, you barely escaped the mountain snows. If the Red Pass had closed and you had been forced to turn back - the Greenwood would lose far more than her prince."
Legolas stayed respectfully silent. But one look at his humble, attentive expression and Elrond felt as if he might as well been reprimanding the wind.
"Legolas," Elrond warned. "If you do not keep to our agreement, I shall tell your father."
Legolas' head jerked up, and Elrond was suddenly struck by his inability to read the clear depths of the young prince's eyes.
"You gave me your word, my lord," Legolas said, quietly. "And I will keep to mine."
"My lord!" Elrond turned to see his advisor, looking distinctly strained, hurrying across the Hall. "I suspect Estel has caught a Mannish ailment - which is not in itself unusual, how frail Men are! - he has been sneezing for the past hour. Lady Gilraen asks if you might please take a look at him."
"Legolas - " Elrond turned back to the prince, and found himself staring at thin air.
A headache nudged at his temples, and blossomed with truly remarkable speed when he thought of a similarly recalcitrant old elf who ruled the other side of the mountains, whose missives were still awaiting a reply.
Sindar, he thought.
Elrohir was dangling a quill over Estel's sleeping face. Every time the feathered tip grazed Estel's nose, Elladan would look up from his scrolls to glare at him. His gaze was both scorching and ineffectual, because Elrohir had discovered roughly two millennia ago that taunting his twin was a most noble pastime.
Estel's rooms, awash in gentle firelight and the warmth of good company, had been commandeered by Imladris' young lords this night. Elladan had discretely expanded his papers over the gleaming mahogany bureau, while Elrohir sank into the armchairs by the fireplace like an oversized house cat.
Together, they had successfully nudged Gilraen out of the door. She had spent the evening fussing over her feverish little boy, and had left only after plying the twins with reminders and instructions. But when she turned to close the door behind her, a comforted smile spread over her worn features.
The world had not been kind to her. Perhaps as compensation, she had been blessed with more elven generosity than any Man rightfully deserved.
"I will add Legolas to the patrol roster, then?" Elrohir said, his voice hushed. It was barely louder than crackling of the flames, and his twin was seated a considerable distance away, but Elladan heard.
"Afternoon patrol," he said.
Elrohir glanced askance at him. "Why? The little elfling has always been an early riser."
Elladan fell into a thoughtful silence. "Well," he said at last. "The Greenwood has not seen much peace of late. Let him rest."
Elrohir continued to stare at him suspiciously, but Elladan ignored him with an ease born of centuries of practice and returned to his scrolls. With a groan, Elrohir gave Estel's nose a final jab and carefully swiped the boy's forehead with cold cloth before retreating to his armchair.
Deaf to Elrohir's grumbles, Elladan tapped his quill against his cheek. There was just the barest hint of hesitation before he marked down Legolas' name in the patrol roster in careful, curling Tengwar.
"Elfling!"
Elrohir rapped sharply on Legolas' door. He gave it five seconds, and then deciding he had shown enough courtesy for the day, threw the door open.
He headed straight for the balcony, without sparing a single glance for the neat, almost untouched room.
"Father better not catch you running after swans!" His bellow reverberated around the valley below.
He was met with unimpressed silence. Then a slender hand wrapped around the graceful stone vines of the balustrade, and Legolas leapt lightly over the parapet. He was holding a tuft of swan feathers in his other hand, and met Elrohir's accusatory gaze with wide-eyed innocence.
"Odd to find you here, I thought these were my rooms?" Legolas said.
Elrohir smiled at him, sickly-sweet. "And I thought this was my House?"
Legolas looked comforted, as if Elrohir had bestowed upon him some great secret of the universe, and strode easily past an open-mouthed Elrohir.
"Oi," he tried again. "The swans need those for flying."
"And I convinced them quite persuasively to spare some for me," Legolas said reasonably. "My arrows need fletching."
"How do you always manage to find swans in the dead of winter?"
Legolas was already rolling an arrow shaft between his fingers, sighting carefully along it to make sure that there were no flaws in the wood. The swan feathers were spread out before him, a pristine white fan, and he selected one after some thought.
"We missed you at breakfast today," Elrohir said, taking a seat on Legolas' bed and watching him work. "Father wants to see you - something about King Thranduil and a lot of messenger eagles."
Elrohir furrowed his eyebrows. "It sounded quite urgent - are you sure the Greenwood can spare you?"
Legolas' head was bowed, so Elrohir could not see his eyes, but he thought he detected a faint stiffening of Legolas' shoulders.
"Father also said that you should rest." Elrohir studied him quizzically. "I wouldn't put it past you to be secretly hiding a massive war injury. Come, out with it. Do I need to invade Dol Guldur to defend your honour?"
A burst of laughter escaped Legolas, and the sound was as welcome as the purr of a bubbling creek. He heaved an internal sigh of relief. If the elfling could laugh, he probably wasn't dying.
"I am quite fine," Legolas said, smiling faintly. "Did you really think my father would allow me to leave the Greenwood with a massive war injury?"
Elrohir found himself grinning as well.
"In that case, you will have to earn your keep," he said with mock sternness. "The afternoon patrol awaits Your Highness' presence."
He didn't see Legolas' hand move, but a pebble bounced off his forehead, nailing him between the eyes with casual precision. Hastily, Elrohir retreated to the door, berating Legolas with several words not generally found in the lexicon of well-bred young lords.
As soon as the door swung shut behind Elrohir, Legolas dropped the arrow he was holding. He braced himself against the ground with one outstretched hand, while the other twisted itself into the front of his tunic.
A fierce, familiar pain had blossomed behind his breastbone, throbbing like a malevolent heartbeat. The world around him darkened to shades of grey and slid sideways.
Legolas shut his eyes to the blurring room and took short, shallow breaths. As the pain whispered against his chest, he thought of beech trees and patchwork sunlight, great underground halls of living stone.
The pain intensified to a single, terrible point, before retreating as abruptly as it came. Legolas swayed, steadying himself by sheer force of will. He stared down at the five pinpricks of blood that dotted the front of his tunic - he had broken the skin with his fingernails.
Then he blinked and retrieved the abandoned arrow, bending over the fletchings once more.