Chapter VIII – Elvish Wisdom
"What a sweet scent blows off of the blooming flowers!" cries Laurelindë, sweeping her dark hair back with a light laugh. "Ah, how I love the spring! The birds sing and the grass grows long!" She reins her horse in to a halt beside a cluster of elderberry brambles and extends a slender, white hand to the songbirds nesting in the branches above. A sparrow hops gingerly to her finger and chirps in delight. Laurelindë casts her gaze towards me, her eyes sparkling. "Do you not love the season, Elboron?"
"It is beautiful," I agree, waiting patiently upon my own horse. We had already passed through the Elven city of Ithilduin, and it was only another hour's ride west from there to Eltarma, the Elven capital of Ithilien. There is no need to rush to journey. My meeting with Legolas Greenleaf has been postponed for long, but as I do not believe he has a desperate need for my counsel, I am not concerned.
Laurelindë flicks her finger towards the sky, and the sparrow takes flight, rising with ease above the treetops. "How I wish I could fly," she says to me with a smile. "It must be wonderful."
"I do not know," I say. Personally, my thoughts wander towards times when I have been hurled from stone battlements to fly through the air and come crashing down painfully among hard rocks. Flying, as I have known it, is not a pleasurable experience.
My wife seems to notice my distracted thoughts, for she gazes at me a moment longer and then kicks her horse into a brisk trot along the forest path. Quickly I turn my horse and hasten after her.
"Why is it that Elves are always so capricious?" I tease her. "They are said to be the wisest and shrewdest of all beings, and yet you, my wife, are ever whimsical as a dancing spring rain."
"Oh?" Laurelindë raises one eyebrow. "Who told you that we are the wisest and the shrewdest?"
"Everyone says so," I point out, though I am thinking intently of my father's entry. His eagerness in the presence of Elves is amusing to read. I cannot think of a time when the Elves were unknown to me. The Queen, of course, is the daughter of Elrond Peredhel, and the folk of Mirkwood have dwelt with Legolas Greenleaf in Ithilien since beyond the stretch of my memory. They have never fascinated me in the way that they fascinated my father, until now.
"Well, perhaps 'everyone' fails to realize that a sense of capriciousness lies at the very heart of wisdom," Laurelindë answers. "If you do not allow your mind the freedom to explore things that have not yet come to be, how will you be able to foresee the possibilities of the future? You are descended from Númenorean ancestors, are you not? Yours was a bloodline once knowledgeable in the wisdom I speak of. Has it been lost?"
Her sly smile is rather unsettling, if only because it forces me to question myself. It seems that I have assumed much concerning Elves. Their physical form may be likened to that of a human, but their minds are much more intricate and delicate than I realized. They do not think as mortal Men do, for their knowledge reaches back to times when Men were but infants in the world. Even Laurelindë, who is perhaps a little less than half Elvish, has the mark of the Elves within her.
"Not lost," I say, "but perhaps forgotten."
"It was not forgotten to Faramir." Her voice is low now, and her eyes soften as she looks upon me. I look away. "You are thinking of him, Elboron. I can see it in your eyes. His love of Elvish lore led him to live a life that, in many ways, reflected Elvish lifestyle. He was wiser than many old men of Gondor."
"I know. He held your people in such great esteem." I still cannot muster the courage to look at Laurelindë. "I cannot understand why his fascination was so great. What of the Elves held him enraptured so?"
"Our language, our song, and our love of all things beautiful in this world," Laurelindë whispers. "Faramir loved beautiful things because he saw so few. Gondor was in decline, and the Black Shadow was rising again in the East." Her voice grows solemn, and a slight frown tugs at her mouth. "I can imagine anyone would wish to think of happier things, of beautiful things, of Elves."
I have no way to answer her, because I know that she is right. I often forget that my father dwelt under the shadow of war for many years before the return of the King to Gondor. It is strange to think of a time when Elessar was not the King, yet that was the time my father lived. Few had hope for Gondor, and the Dark Lord grew ever stronger in the land of Mordor.
I have seen Mordor and the place where the Barad-dûr once stood. It is still a bleak and ashen place, but the dark threat that once abided within the realm has faded with time. The servants of Mordor were given the lands of Nurn as a peace offering at the end of the War of the Ring. Perhaps they would have stayed there in peace if their distant cousins, the Variags of Khand, did not wage war against our tentative allies, the Haradrim. Our intervention provoked the inhabitants of Nurn to war against us. Khand was taken many years ago. I myself was present at its capture. Nurn, however, remains the last battlefield to be won, fought against sparse bands of murderous, heathen tribesmen. That is where my son is fighting this very moment…
"Ah, Legolas!" cries Laurelindë. I turn to see the green-clad Elf striding swiftly along the path towards us. He smiles kindly and greets my wife in a rapid exchange of Sindarin that escapes me. Unlike Laurelindë, his hair is blonde, held back by a simple diadem of carven wood embedded with green jewels. Though his attire is simple, I try to imagine him dressed in the raiment of a prince or a king, high and majestic as an elf-lord of old. Such a sight would fit my father's description of the princely Elf from the Golden Wood.
"Prince Elboron," he says, bowing low to me. His eyes are sad and weary. "I can offer only my deepest sympathy for your loss. Faramir was a good man and a dear friend."
I nod stiffly. Why must everyone I see remind me of him, as if I do not already know that he is dead? Legolas takes the bridle of Laurelindë's horse and begins to lead her down the path towards Eltarma. I dismount myself so that I can walk beside Legolas and speak with him as we approach the city.
"I must apologize for the tardiness of my visit to you," I say quietly. "I have been much preoccupied of late by other matters. I never knew there was so much to be done when one's father passes away."
Legolas nods. "Of course. Do not feel as though you have kept me waiting. I understand the difficulty of your situation." I wish to tell him that he does not really understand, but such a comment would be appallingly rude. "I wish to introduce you to the council and reacquaint you with Eltarma. I know that it has been a very long time since you were last in Ithilien."
I grunted softly in acknowledgment. "The battles in Nurn have kept me away."
"Yes, I know. Faramir told me of your departure the day you left."
"Oh…did he?" I recall suddenly the healers telling me that my father had died of stress and anxiety, pining from the knowledge that I was so far from home, leading the combat in Nurn, and hating the thought of him every moment. "Did he often mention me, after I left?"
"There was never a time I saw him that he did not ask me if I had any word of you." Legolas pauses, then adds gently, "Faramir was never fond of war."
"I know." My heart aches; I realize now, too late, that Barahir is not fond of war, either, yet I forced him to march to Mordor with Eldarion. Despite the vow that Eldarion witnessed before he left, I have no doubt that my father's spirit frowns upon me. Have I ever done anything to earn his respect? Was there ever a time when I did not fight him just for the sake of rebelliousness? How like a child I was, even in my grown years!
"Elboron and I were just speaking of spring," says Laurelindë, "and how beautiful Ithilien looks beneath the damp new leaves."
"Yes. I would not leave Ithilien for any other land in the early spring, save perhaps Lothlórien," says Legolas contently. "It is like unto the Forest of my father, yet here the shadows are only shadows and not the hints of evil things half-hidden beneath the branches. Here one can almost smell the sea. Ah, the glorious sea!"
Laurelindë laughs. "Your obsession with the sea is insufferable, Legolas! Yet you will not sail?"
"Nay." Legolas sighs. "Not till my world here is come to an end, which I judge shall not be for many a long year yet."
"We still must find you a bride before you sail away forever!" Laurelindë teases him. I look away, occupying myself by stroking my horse's neck. They are having a moment together that I can never take part in, for it is only a longing of Elves to sail away beyond the Sundering Seas and unto the Undying Lands where they shall last eternal upon the glistening shores.
"Nay!" cries Legolas. "I would rather sail than become a bondsman to a lover! At least to sail would mean to be free! Ah, me! It seems not a terrible fate!"
My face grows pale, and I remember my father's final words. "'And that isn't a terrible fate,' he would tell me… 'That isn't a terrible fate…'"
"It is not a terrible fate to you, perhaps, but to those you leave behind it is a nightmare." I did not intend to speak, but the words flew from my lips before I could stop them. Legolas and Laurelindë fall into silence, and I close my eyes. "I am sorry."
Legolas puts a hand on my shoulder. "Elboron—"
"I know, I speak of things I do not understand." I pull away and swing up onto my horse. "I am sorry that I do not have the wisdom of the Elves, but I am not an Elf and I am not my father. I am not wise or shrewd or scholarly. I have no love of lore or music or Elves. Beautiful things do not hold me in fascination, and I have no care for spring other than for its warmth after winter. Faramir is dead. I know you are expecting me to take his place and live up to his legacy, but I cannot. I am sorry."
"Elboron, you know that is not what I meant." Legolas reaches towards me imploringly, but I shake my head and spur my horse into a canter along the track. I have no memory of the path to Eltarma, but I will lose myself in the woods before lingering with my wife and the Elvenprince while their knowing gazes pierce my mind.
I hear the sound of racing hooves on the path behind me, and Legolas charges past me on Laurelindë's horse. The mare gives a loud whinny as he steers his horse directly in front of my path, forcing me to stop. My horse stamps impatiently, chomping on the bit.
"Legolas, move aside." I am not in the mood for games, and Legolas is only making me more angry with his tricks and Elvish nonsense. "I have no desire to prance beneath the forest sunlight! If you have business with me in Eltarma, then take me there! No more of this playing!"
"Ever have you had a short temper, child." Legolas' voice was stern, but his eyes were soft. "Calm yourself. I would have words with you here. It is not business, but you must hear me out."
My horse snorts, tossing his black mane. "Must I? I am so tired of hearing my father praised while I am merely his successor, a half-step lower than him, empty of the nobility and wisdom that he possessed! Why must I be constantly compared with him, measured up to his great worth, reminded of my failings? When will I be my own man instead of his son and heir?"
"You are your own man, Elboron," says Legolas. "That is what I am trying to tell you! No one is comparing you to Faramir! No one expects you to govern your office in the exact manner Faramir did! If anyone is doing to measuring here, it is you and none other. The only one who reminds you of your failings is yourself. Faramir was a great leader and beloved by all of Gondor, but you are not Faramir! You are Elboron, and it is time that you begin to see that no one is trying to tell you otherwise." Legolas grabs the reins and turns his horse back down the path where Laurelindë is waiting. I am left alone on the trail towards Eltarma.
Legolas is right. Haunted by the shadow of regret, I can find no outlet for my guilt except to compare myself to my father in every way, evaluating my flaws, mocking my weaknesses. How can I sit upon the King's council as the successor of my father's legacy when I cannot bear to form a legacy of my own?
Blast Elves and their wisdom! Why must they always know the truth? Why must they always be right? They showed Faramir in his youth that he was like a puppet commanded by his father's voice. Am I any different, or has Legolas just shown me that I am merely a puppet commanded by the guilt of my father's memory? I have finally found an enemy that I cannot defeat, and this time it is within myself. I have become my own worst enemy.
My father was right: Though Men may be wise and shrewd, there are none wiser or shrewder than the Elves.