"Caran Amrún" (Red Sunrise)
Chapter Three
Glaer a Hith (Song and Mist)
Legolas woke from his slumber, his vision coming out of the mists to see the rock ceiling above him, flickering with the red light of a torch. Ignoring the stiffness of his body as he sat, knowing it would leave him as he moved, Legolas looked around to see his companions scattered about the room. Gandalf lay on his back with hands folded, his cloak over his face so that all one could see was the slight waving of his beard as he breathed. Aragorn slept quietly to one side, Gimli snoring heavily in the silence. Yet Legolas frowned; it seemed one companion was missing.
He found her on the wall, sitting before an archer's window, her knees drawn up and her cloak held tightly closed against the wind. Her head rested against the stone, her face turned to look out the window, her hair blowing out behind her in strands that stuck together. In the bright morning light he could see the lines on her face, heavy between her brows where she had frowned for hours, and at her eyes when she had shut them against the horrors of battle.
He reached her side, and stood behind her with closed arms, staring out at the ever blue sky, and the forest thick and still in the valley before the gate. The wind carried air from the mountain sides, fresh and clean.
"From here it does not look so bad."
Legolas looked down at the top of her head.
"From this small window, if you look right, you can only see the plains, and the mountain peaks. It's beautiful there."
Legolas looked out to follow her gaze, to see the mountain with its damp, cool mist wrapping around it like a warm cloak, drifting soft and quiet, sparkling in the light. He smiled. "Yes it is."
"I've always loved the mountains. Climbing high, surrounded on all sides by rock and wild trees and the wind, as high and far in the middle of nowhere as you can get." Her voice broke on the last word, and her head lowered. "I'm so sorry." She whispered.
Legolas immediately stepped around and knelt before her, his brows drawn together. "For what, mellon nin?" he asked, reaching out and laying a hand on the dark head.
Mary looked up, her deeply brown eyes dull, almost the color of ash. "I didn't know if they'd come or not– if I could have done anything–"
Legolas' mouth opened with realization, and his eyes darkened with pain. "Nay!" he said gently, his hand running down the side of her head to hold it. "Baw, meld er. Le al e tyár-o hí!" No, dear one. You (are) not the cause of this!
Her mouth pressed together as tears welled up. "I'm sorry." She said brokenly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…!"
"Mary!" He leaned forward, catching her face with both hands, and he held it, his face tight with emotion, demanding that she hear his words and understand. "Baw úgerth na-cín! N-tyár-o le limb hí guín-man tanca gar-bel! A le glír nín gwanur na post, naíníe, ír turo-baw min." No wrong doing is your(s)! Because of you many now live who (would) surely have died! And you lay my kinsman to rest, lamenting, when able (be) no one.
His thumbs brushed away her tears.
"Mín– im– tur-ú egleri le far." We– I– cannot praise you enough.
Her eyes were large and dark, staring at him as he spoke. When he finally grew silent, his own eyes begging her to believe him, she swallowed softly. "Well then." She whispered, and seemed to gather herself together once more. "Selma le dab-nín na cerí-min nad tare?" Will you allow me to do one thing more?
Legolas gazed at her, waiting. "Mana?" What?
"Dab-nín na nathr-cín fasse?" Allow me to weave your (tangled) hair?
He smiled, a surprised laugh escaping him. "Aiquim lothron cerí-ve idhren." If I may do like-wise.
A hesitant smile graced her features, then, and she looked down, her face sliding free of his hands. From a pouch at her belt she withdrew a small comb. Indicating that he turn around, Mary settled herself behind him, and carefully removed the ties from his braids. "Didn't you learn as a child not to sleep with your hair done?"
Legolas heard the humor in her voice, and knew she was teasing him. He smiled. "It seems I have forgotten."
There was a clucking sound behind him, his hair pulling ever so gently as she undid each braid, until his hair lay across his shoulders in a loose tangle. Starting at the bottom she began to comb. Legolas closed his eyes, savoring the feel, allowing himself to relax. She was careful, and gentle, working her way slowly up the golden lengths, never pulling. When his hair finally lay across his shoulders in smooth golden falls she laid the comb beside him on the stone, and she pulled some of his hair back and started to braid. Eventually, as she worked, she started to sing. Her voice was soft, and though it was not perfect it was pleasant. Not pure like some, but earthy, and comforting.
"Once there was a young boy
Of whom I shall tell
He was very fair with dark hair
I knew him very well
He kissed me O so softly
He kissed me on the cheek
And when he did then he said
I tasted nice and sweet
Come sail away
Young boy
Come and sail away
We will live in peace together
Until our hair is grey
Come sail away
Young boy
Come and sail away
We will live in peace together
Until our hair is grey
Once there was a young boy
Who then became a man
With his eyes of green and lips of cream
He was strong and sure of hand
He worked hard in the fields
He worked hard in the earth
And he sang me songs and tarried long
Long beside my hearth
Come sail away
Young boy
Come and sail away
We will live in peace together
Until our hair is grey
Come sail away
Young boy
Come and sail away
We will live in peace together
Until our hair is grey
Once there was a young boy
Who now is bent and old
Yet still I wake and every night I lay
Beside this man who's good as gold
Come sail away
Young boy
Come and sail away
We will live in peace together
Until our hair is grey
Come sail away
Young boy
Come and sail away
We will live in peace together
Until our hair is grey."
Legolas opened his eyes. "I do not know this song."
"No," Mary said quietly behind him. "No, you wouldn't."
Small fingers lifted a section of hair from behind his ear and began to braid. "A song of your world?" Legolas asked.
"I suppose." Mary worked quickly. "I wrote it."
Legolas' brows raised in surprise. "You did? I would have guessed it to be a folk song of your people."
"I wrote it that way." She sounded pleased. Her fingers found the hair behind his other ear, and began weaving. "I'm not a good singer. Never was. But I still like to sing."
"Your voice is good."
"No, it's not. Not like others. It's not pure or clean like theirs."
"Perhaps not," Legolas admitted. "But it is a good voice nonetheless. It reminds me lullabies, and my mother putting me to sleep." His voice grew quiet.
There was silence behind him. "There." Mary finally whispered. Her hands dropped his hair.
Legolas reached back to feel, and was surprised to find the smooth elven braids he always wore, expertly woven. He turned around.
Mary smiled. "Tolkien," she finally said in embarrassment. "Remember?"
He smiled. "Of course." Rising to his knees he beckoned her forward. "Now you."
As Mary sat before him, he picked up the comb from the stone, and gathered her hair and laid it all down her back. As he began to brush through the long tresses and the comb caught where they had stuck together with blood, his brows pulled together. Mildryth, the lady who had led him to the pyre of his kin, had spoken to him later when she had found him wandering the halls, and she had told him of some of what Mary had done. With great care, his touch very gentle, Legolas combed her hair clean and smooth, until it gleamed like dark satin, splayed across her back and shoulders. With nimble fingers he gathered some hair by one ear and started to braid it, doing the same on the other side, before combining the two braids into one on the back of her head. As he worked he noticed that her eyes had closed, and at first he thought she had fallen asleep. Then a small sigh, almost indiscernible, left her. Legolas smiled.
When he was done she stayed with her eyes closed, unwilling to stop savoring the moment. Finally, though, she looked at him, and she smiled. "Thank you."
He nodded, returning the smile.
They sat there for a while longer, speaking of everything and nothing as the sun continued its journey across the sky. As it reached its peak Legolas tipped his head, studying her face and the shadows of exhaustion that hung there, and his eyes were sympathetic. "Have you not slept?"
Mary ducked her head. "No." she admitted.
"You must."
"Every time I close my eyes–" her voice trailed off.
Legolas hesitated, then reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. Mary looked up. "Come." He said.
They were quiet as they walked the halls. As they passed the rooms of the wounded a woman, kneeling beside a bed, rose to her feet and hurried out to them. "My husband still lives," she said, clasping Mary's hand. "And he is able to eat and to drink, though it does pain him. Thank you! Thank you, my lady!"
Mary smiled in relief. "You're welcome."
Continuing on Legolas leaned close. "What did she mean?"
Mary stared straight ahead. "He had been cut open, and his insides were starting to come out. I was able to put everything back and sew him closed, but I wasn't sure if he would make it."
Legolas glanced back, seeing the woman once more beside the bed, and the man within it reaching up to touch her face, smiling.
Reaching the room in which the companions still slept, Legolas led her to her bed. "I can't close my eyes." Mary protested in a whisper as she laid down, curling onto her side with her cloak about her.
Legolas sat beside her at her head, and leaned against the wall. "Then I will sing to you, mellon nin." He said, and rested a hand on her shoulder. Then he sang, his strong voice low and quiet, yet clear as morning. He felt her fighting against sleep, afraid of the dreams that might await her, yet his words were sweet and soft, telling of springtime and flowers and flowing rivers, and nymphs in the forest and spring feasting and dancing. Slowly her eyes grew heavy, and then they closed, her breaths even. Legolas continued to sing for a while yet, his eyes unfocused as they stared ahead.
When the song was finished he broke from his reverie, and looked down at his sleeping companion, her hair spilling behind her in midnight brown waves, her fair skin flushed from the warmth of sleep and the heat of so many bodies in such a small room. Legolas made to stand, and started to pull his hand from her shoulder. Her forehead frowned, and she made a very small sound of complaint, one small hand going to grasp his, her hold tight. A small smile touched his mouth, and he settled back against the wall. Letting himself fall back into the mists of his own dreams he found them centered upon a springtime feast, with a dark haired and dark eyed maiden dancing amidst it all.