Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: Dreamflower-Book One Lalaith (#2598)
Author: Lessien
Chapters: 11
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: Little was actually ever written about the enigmatic Prince of Mirkwood. This tale is a look into the past, a window into the soul of Legolas Thranduilion and the one who helped forge him into the noble member of the Fellowship we have come to know.
Published: 08 Mar 2006
Updated: 08 Mar 2006
Warnings:
Type: General
Characters: Legolas;Thranduil;Elrond;Celebrian;Arwen;Elladan;E
Chapter 1 - Prologue
Dreamflower
Book One: Lalaith (Laughter)
“A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.
From the Song of Amroth-J.R.R Tolkien
Prologue:
January 17, 3019 Third Age, Lothlórien.
“Sit now beside my chair, Frodo of the Shire!” said Celeborn. “When all have come we will speak together.”
Frodo bowed low and took a seat beside the Lord of Lórien. Glancing about he took in his surroundings as the rest of the Fellowship greeted their hosts and took their seats.
The chamber was filled with a soft light and many Elves were seated there. One stood out in particular as she gazed upon Frodo with wide sorrowful eyes. She sat in a place of honour beside the Lady Galadriel herself. Her beauty was keen as a knife—easily the equal of Galadriel or Arwen Undómiel. If the Lady of Lórien was the sun and The Evenstar the night then this Lady was the moon.
The song Legolas sang before the stream of Nimrodel came to mind. Her hair was long and honey gold shot with silver, her eyes as green as sunlight shining through young leaves and a star was bound upon her brow.
As if in a dream, Frodo attended the conversation around him.
“Your quest is known to us,” said Galadriel, looking at Frodo; and he was plunged back into the present.
One by one, Galadriel held them with her eyes, boring silently it seemed into their very souls. Only Legolas and Aragorn could long bear her glance. Frodo studied his hands as they rested in his lap. Feeling eyes upon him he glanced up to find the green-eyed lady gazing at him.
‘Tell me Frodo of the Shire, if this burden were not yours to bear what would you now be doing? What would be your life?’
Frodo glanced around but know one else seemed to have heard the Lady speak. All were attending the Lady of Lórien. Frodo turned back, regarding the woman.
‘Well Ringbearer? What sort of life would you otherwise lead but for the Quest?’
She spoke to him directly as did Galadriel, her lips never moving. Frodo considered the question. ‘I know not my Lady. I suppose I would go on as always, content to live quietly in my home in Bag End amidst my books and my garden.’
‘And a good life that would be. Alas, fate has conspired against you and its winds have blown you far from home. Fear not for now, Frodo Baggins. While beneath the boughs of the Golden Wood, you may set aside your burden. Enjoy the peace of the Wood and may it heal you of your sorrows.’
“Go now!” said Celeborn, breaking Frodo out of his trance. “Now you will rest, and we will not speak of your further road for a while.”
The Company rose to their feet and bowed to the Lord and Lady as they prepared to take their leave.
“Who is she Strider?” Frodo asked the Ranger.
“Who?”
“The golden Lady with the star upon her brow.”
“Ah,” Aragorn sighed, “that is Lady Anaríel Alfirinól —the “Dreamflower of Lórien” she is Lady Galadriel’s Favourite, chief among her maidens.”
Frodo digested this information noticing the Lady’s gaze now fell upon Legolas. Surprised, he saw the Elf’s eyes grow bright with unshed tears as he held the Lady’s gaze until it seemed he could bear it no longer. Ducking his head, he followed Gimli from the chamber, Aragorn and Frodo following behind Boromir.
“How is it that Legolas knows her—they seem familiar to one another?”
Aragorn shook his head sadly, “That my good Hobbit is indeed a tale worth telling.”
Chapter 2 - Part One-Chapter One
Part One: Leading Strings
Chapter One:
2002 Third Age, Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great.
“Tulo dad! Tulo dad Le’las!”
“Nay!” came a voice bubbling with laughter. “You climb up.”
“Oooh! You are a most wicked, wicked ellon!” cried the young child thrusting her long braids over her shoulder while scanning the canopy for a branch within reach.
Again, laughter trilled from above, “Hurry up if you want to see the tuilinn hatch.”
“I cannot find a branch low enough.”
“Then shimmy up the trunk as I did.”
“I cannot do that! If I ruin my gown again the Queen will look at me with that—that look of hers. You know the one—almost as stern as your ada’s. I’ve ruined four gowns this month no thanks to you.”
“What of it? You never cared before; bothersome things anyway—always getting in the way; catching on branches, dragging through the mud. You had better think of something fast. One of the eggs just cracked.”
The young elleth bit her lip in consternation while fingering the folds of her hated skirts. A gleam crept into her eyes, “Do not move—I shall be right back!” Lifting her skirts to her knees she sped for the palace as fast as her short legs would carry her.
In less than a quarter-hour the young prince heard the faintest of rustlings in the branches below and out popped the head of his playmate.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Not yet.” replied the Prince scooting over to make room on the branch. “Hey! That is one of my tunics you’ve got on!”
“What of it?” The elleth tossed back, peering into the nest. “You’ve mostly grown out of this one and hardly wear it any more anyway.”
“Arí —,” Legolas frowned with doubt, “I do not think—.”
“Have you got a better idea then? No? Thought not—ooh look; the egg is hatching!”
***************
“Lía!” roared Lasgalen’s king. “Did I just see Anaríel running through the halls in one of our son’s tunics?”
“Come away from the door Thranduil and drink your tea before it cools.”
The Elvenking of Greenwood the Great turned and shot his wife a look that would have given any sane Elf pause. Queen Líawen merely smiled serenely, stirring honey into her husband’s tea.
“Well?” Thranduil barked, taking his seat and the proffered tea.
“What if it was herven nín?”
“What if—” Thranduil sputtered. “How can you sit there and turn a blind eye? I tell you, that—that girl is running far too wild. She will become a hoyden if you do not start taking her in hand.”
“And what makes you think I have not?” countered the Queen. “I have had more than one discussion of late with Anaríel regarding what constitutes behavior becoming a young elleth. I advise you to look to your son as the prime instigator of the child’s antics.”
Thranduil grumbled, gazing out into the gardens. “Why is Legolas always “my” son when suspected of disobedience?”
Líawen arched one fine silver brow in unconscious parody of her husband.
“Very well, I will have a word with him.” Thranduil sighed, rubbing his temples. “As inseparable as those two have ever been, they are nonetheless getting older. Legolas needs to understand he cannot keep dragging his foster sister into every hair-brained scheme and misadventure that pops into his head; and in all fairness, Anaríel is getting too old to keep chasing after him up every tree and across every stream. Those two need to start heeding the rules of decorum. This is a palace not a stable after all.”
“I agree.” Líawen nodded. “I have been gradually introducing Anaríel into the company of my Ladies and their daughters. It is time she developed friendships among the other ellyth her age. It is difficult though. There is so much of her father in her. She is as headstrong as Amroth ever was. Nor does it help that Legolas prefers her company above any other. It borders on the uncanny. Ellyn his age usually loathe the company of ellyths.”
Thranduil smiled wistfully, “I am ever amazed by the lad’s fondness of our little Lalaith—and ever grateful. She’s had a hard time of it—losing her parents at such a young age.”
A shadow passed over Líawen’s fair Sindarin features. “It is no small blessing that Anaríel remembers nothing. To this day, I cannot imagine what Amroth and Nimrodel were thinking—fleeing over the Ered Nimrais with an infant! I do not know who to blame more—Nimrodel’s obstinacy or Amroth’s impetuosity. And look where it has got them—both of them dead, their daughter orphaned—.”
“Easy Lía,” Thranduil soothed, taking his wife’s hands into his own.
“Did we do the right thing beloved?” The Queen whispered. “Galadriel cautioned me to leave the child in Lórien—that the babe had been through enough and needed most the healing of the Golden Wood. She insisted it was wrong to take Anaríel from her home.”
“That she-witch had no right—nay, no call to speak to you thus!” Thranduil spat. “I have said it before and I will say it again, Galadriel wasted no time stepping in and taking over governance of Lórien-and she a Noldo! I’ve always felt the Galadhrim would have done better to choose one of their own to rule the Wood.”
“They did, in a manner of speaking.” Líawen sighed. “By that point Celeborn and Galadriel had been dwelling amongst them for what seemed time out of mind. Ever close were they in Amroth’s council. While they came to Amroth seeking knowledge of the growing shadow over southern Lasgalen and for a first hand look at Dol Guldur—Amroth too desired their knowledge of the goings on in Eregion and of the growing evil in the Hithaeglir. Do not forget that Amroth himself left your kinsman custodian of Lórien when he and Nimrodel made their decision to set sail from Belfalas.”
“I forget nothing—nor will I ever pretend to understand your cousin,” growled Thranduil. “Newly crowned, newly a father—why set sail for Valinor? Why when all one’s heart’s desire dwelt on these shores?”
“Nimrodel.” breathed Líawen pulling her hands from her husband’s grasp and crossing to the window. Sightlessly she gazed out over her gardens remembering another time, another place. “Nimrodel feared above all things, the growing rumor of Shadow; remember how long she spurned Amroth? For years, she begged him to leave these shores with her; but in the end, she relented and in secret, they wed.
Few are there still alive who know of this. Only I, Celeborn and Galadriel remain who bore witness to the nuptials of Lórien’s king beside Nimrodel’s beloved falls. At first we thought all would be well; that Nimrodel would at last be content to dwell with Amroth beside the stream she loved; that she would at last give up her obsession to leave these shores—and indeed for a long while she was. It was not until she discovered she was with child that the dreams came, but I was journeying back home to you by that time, and unable to lend council.”
“What dreams? You have never spoken of this.”
A grim smile pulled at the corners for Líawen’s mouth. “Nimrodel was ever known for her gift of song, yet I have always said she should have better been known for her gift of foresight. She foretold the arrival of Celeborn and Galadriel to the Wood you know.”
“And that should have been a clarion call to all that trouble was nigh.”
“Thranduil!”
“Forgive me meleth nín.” Thranduil sighed, wrapping his wife in his arms as he came to stand behind her. “But it has ever been hard for me to forgive my cousin’s choice of wife. Celeborn was of Doriath—as was I, how could he take a Noldorin to wife—especially that particular Noldo?”
“Galadriel is not nearly half the balrog you would have her be.” Líawen chided. “She and I have come to an understanding and mutual respect over the years.”
“Bah! That woman was ever wise to know where to curry favor. Who better than Amroth’s own cousin?”
“Third cousin—and therefore distant; but, that is beside the point. I was speaking of Nimrodel—and while I would never have considered us friends—I always did respect her gift of Sight.
Nimrodel saw the Shadow coming long before any of us recognized what it was. I blame her for pushing Amroth into making such a perilous journey so soon after giving birth; but Nimrodel was adamant. Throughout the pregnancy, she was plagued by such nightmares and visions; far beyond anything her Sight had yet revealed. In the end, I fear they drove her mad. I have never spoken of this but after Anaríel was born, Nimrodel refused to have anything to do with her. She refused to hold or suckle her own babe. A wet nurse had to be found.”
“Lleäbhána?” questioned Thranduil.
Líawen nodded. “Yes. Amroth’s decision to travel to the White Havens was one borne of despair. Despair of Nimrodel’s growing despondency. Despair for his only child. Who knows what really happened to them during their trek over the mountains. One score set forth with Amroth and Nimrodel—only two returned.”
“Lleäbhána and the babe—and Lleäbhána mute ever since.”
“Can you blame her? She had lost her own babe in childbirth due to the shock of the death of her husband the year before. She chose to accompany Nimrodel—yes for the sake of Anaríel but also for sake of her own broken heart; she felt she had nothing left to live for on these shores. At least so Galadriel told me.”
“And you believe her?”
Líawen sighed, “Yes, in this I do. I knew Lleäbhána’s mind almost as well as I knew my own. Do you forget why I journeyed home without you that time? It was to comfort Lleäbhána and help her through her pregnancy. After Dagnír was slain, she fell into despair.
When Lleä and the babe returned to Lórien unlooked for and beyond all hope, I refused Galadriel’s council and insisted on bringing them to live here. Lleä was my friend—we grew up together in Lórien. And though I knew her heart, I have been too selfish these years to let her go—to let her take ship and sail into the West.”
Thranduil’s arms tightened about his wife as he brushed a kiss against the smooth skin beneath her ear. “She is still your friend. She knows this deep in her heart though she seems little aware of anything other than Anaríel. I shudder to think what befell her in the mountain passes. Yet somehow she kept the child safe and made it back to Lórien alive—though it took her five years.”
“Five years wandering lost and alone.” Líawen sighed, turning in her husband’s arms and resting her head in the curve of his shoulder. “I doubt I would have returned sane myself.”
***************
tulo dad: come down
ellon, ellyn (pl): male elf
tuilinn: sparrow
ada: daddy
elleth, ellyth (pl): female elf
herven nín: my husband
lalaith: laughter
Ered Nimrais: White Mountains
Hithaeglir: Misty Mountains
Belfalas: Bay of Belfalas from which the elves Lórien sailed West.
meleth nín: my love
A/N: I know I am taking liberties here regarding canon but since no one knows exactly how quickly elves age and mature, I am going on the assumption it is very slowly. At the beginning of part one, Legolas and Anaríel are both roughly nine and only mature about three to four years throughout this section of the story. By the end of Book 1, they are the equivalent of about 20 human years of age.
I have always been a fan of the tales J.R.R Tolkien only mentioned in passing, as is the story of Amroth and Nimrodel. Since little is know of their true tale, I am yet again taking a few liberties. For those interested in their story, it can be found in Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales within the History of Galadriel and Celeborn.
Chapter 3 - Chapter Two
Chapter Two:
2017 Third Age. Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great.
“If you are not gone by the time I draw my next breath, I swear you will wish to be a hundred leagues from here.” Anaríel said sweetly, never missing a stitch. For the third time in as many minutes, something soft brushed past her ear and tickled her nose.
“That-is-it!” With a cry, the elleth threw down her lace trim and leapt up wheeling to face the window through which her assailant tormented her. “Legolas! I swear one of these days—oh!”
“Morning Arí—look what I’ve brought you. There are four more like this one in the stables.” Legolas stood leaning in the window, a grey furry bundle extended in one hand. It was not a young cattail after all, but a cat’s tail—kitten’s tail to be more accurate—with which he had been tickling her nose.
“What are you doing with that?” She said, straightening her skirts while trying to keep the smile from her lips. The Prince of Lasgalen just grinned, sinuously entering the room through the open window.
“Do not dare! I mean it, do not bring that creature in here—it belongs in the stable with its brethren.”
“Oh come now Arí, she can be our little secret. Just yours and mine—no one need ever find out.”
“Hmmph, just like no one would ever find out about your “pet” squirrel. No, Le’las. I’ll not be lured into another one of your pranks. I am still paying penance for the last one.”
Legolas laughed, stretching his legs out on the window seat and nodding towards the discarded lace on Anaríel’s chair. “Ah, so that is what has you cooped up in here on this fine morning. If you are worried about Naneth’s displeasure just tell her the truth—that I barged in here simply to foist this sweet, adorable, defenseless—.”
“Alright, alright—stop.” Anaríel laughed and finally took the pint sized ball of fluff with which Legolas had been chucking her under the chin. “You are incorrigible, you do know that?”
“But of course. Rarely has a day gone by over the last thirty-one years, have failed to remind me of that fact.”
“Well you are.” The elleth sighed, scratching the kitten behind its ears as it fell asleep in her lap purring all the while. “So, Annábon’s kittens are old enough to be removed from the stable?” When no answer was forthcoming, Anaríel raised her head glancing sharply at her companion. “Le’las?”
“Just for a short while. Master Rochtûr said I could “borrow” her briefly while Annábon slept. As long as I get her back before noon no harm will be done.”
Anaríel glanced out the window and rose. “We best hurry then, we haven’t much time.” With that, she tucked the kitten under one arm, caught her skirts up with the other and deftly swung her legs through the window with the same swift grace as the ellon. “Coming, Le’las?”
“Of course, your wish is ever my command O’ Lady Bright.” The Prince laughed emerging from the window and sketching a slight bow.
Anaríel eyed her companion narrowly. “Hmmm, in one of those moods I see. Going to be one of those days is it?”
Legolas pulled an innocent face, earning a punch in the arm as the two crossed the stable yard. “Ow! What was that for?”
“For disturbing me at my penance—um, work.”
“Oh come now Arí—I brought you a kitten.”
“Indeed you did, and may I remind “Ye-Of-So-Brief-Memory”, last week it was a squirrel.”
“You said you liked the squirrel!”
“I said, the squirrel got into my wardrobe and wrecked all within.”
“But I bet you still liked it.” The Prince shot back with a laugh. “Ow! Now what was that for?”
“If you have to ask…”
***************
“Little Lalaith has your son by the ear again I see.” Thranduil chuckled, turning from the edge of the patio.
“Why is Legolas always “my” son when Anaríel is asserting her superior grasp of good sense and propriety?” The Queen shot back, buttering a slice of fine white bread.
“Propriety? Good sense?” Thranduil rounded on his wife, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I will have you know I overheard that hoyden plotting with Beleth and Orofíriel just the other eve.”
Líawen bit down on the laughter threatening to bubble to the surface and continued buttering a second slice of bread. “Plotting to do just what might I ask?”
“They got it into their fair, yet devious little heads, that Legolas, Tinwë, and Aldaer’s training bows were a tad worse for wear and could do with a bit of polishing.”
“They didn’t—?” Líawen laughed placing the bread on her husband’s plate and popping her thumb into her mouth.
“Oh yes, she and her two cohorts most certainly did. Those three hellions greased those bows so thoroughly you could see them gleam from the other side of the mountains.”
Líawen licked the last of the butter from her fingers and grinned impishly. “Strange, the ellyn never noticed?”
“Of course not, they were too busy boasting over who was going to be the fastest draw at practice.”
“Oh dear,” the Queen giggled, taking a delicate bite.
Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. “Lía—you would not happen to know anything about this?”
“No, not particularly, although I believe I did hear something about Legolas getting his “just deserts” after letting a squirrel loose in Anaríel’s wardrobe.”
Thranduil’s mouth hung open for the space of a second. “LEGOLAS! ANARÍEL! TO ME—THIS INSTANT!”
“Now, now dear—I have always found it best to let the young ones work these things out amongst themselves.”
***************
elleth: female elf
Naneth: mother
Lalaith: laughter
ellyn (pl.): male elves
Chapter 4 - Chapter Three
Chapter Three:
2019 Third Age, Ethuil (Spring). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great.
“You are too quiet tithen anna. What is troubling you?”
“Nothing Híril nín.” Anaríel replied automatically, refusing to meet the Queen’s shrewd gaze.
“Hmmm, I see. Your foster brother has not been playing pranks on you has he?”
“No Híril Naneth nín.”
“And you are quite sure you wish to use that blossom in your arrangement?”
“Yes, why ever not?”
“Well my dear, it has no petals left—you have plucked them all off.”
Anaríel started, glancing at the abused flower in her hands.
“What is it pen neth?” Líawen reached out, laying a hand on the distracted elleth’s wrist. “You are a million miles away. Surely, you can tell me what is troubling you; and while you talk, I will help you finish this centerpiece for tonight’s festivities. It is not every day we have such honoured guests from Imladris.”
Anaríel stiffened, sliding her hand from beneath the Queen’s. “How long before Lord Elrond and his family arrive Híril nín?”
“So that is it. You are not pleased to meet the Lord and Lady of Imladris and their family; why not? Their children are roughly of an age to you and Legolas. I should think you would be excited to meet hín from another realm.”
Anaríel hissed as she pricked her thumb on a thorn. “They are Noldo and not even full Elven.” She growled around the thumb in her mouth.”
The Queen drew herself up and gazed sternly at her ward. “For shame Híril neth, who has described Lord Elrond and his family such?”
Anaríel shrugged still sucking her abused digit.
“It was not Legolas was it?”
“Oh no Híril nín—he has been counting the days until the arrival of the sons of Elrond. It has been nothing but the twins this, the twins that.”
“Then who,” Líawen persisted. Anaríel set her mouth in a mutinous line.
“Very well, I shall press no further. I just have this to say on the matter. The world is wide and stretches far beyond the trees of this forest. Beyond Lasgalen’s borders lie many other realms peopled by folk other than the Sindarin and Silvan you have grown up among; Noldor of Imladris, Galadhrim of Lórien; not to mention Men and even Naugrim. All have their place in the song of Illúvatar. No one race or kindred, is superior to another—especially among the Elves. Do we Sindar believe we are better than the native Silvan of this forest?”
Anaríel shook her head no.
“Nor are the Noldor superior to the Sindar.”
“But Hír Adar nín says--.” Anaríel clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.
“What does Aran Thranduil say?” The Queen replied, eyes narrowing. “Never mind child. Despite what your Hír Ada may say, Lord Elrond and his family possess neither horns nor barbed tails; nor do they resemble orcs. Lord Elrond and his children bear within them the blood of not only Elves, but of Maia and Men. Of all beings upon Arda, I cannot think of any so blessed and you will honour them with all due respect. Not too mention the fact that Lady Celebrían is of Lórien—my homeland—and yours as well Híril neth.”
“My home is Lasgalen.” replied Anaríel.
“Yes child, but you were born in Lórien.”
“Lasgalen is my home.” The elleth repeated stubbornly. “May I retire now Híril nín? The centerpiece is finished and I need to change my gown before the guests arrive.”
Líawen frowned but nodded. “Very well, go and get cleaned up. Should you see Legolas along the way tell him to do so as well; I expect our guests to arrive any time now.”
Anaríel bobbed a curtsey and ducked through the door as if the hounds of Angmar were on her heels. Líawen sighed and busied herself putting finishing touches on the centerpiece.
“What in Eru’s name has gotten into Lalaith? She’s flying down the halls as if a dragon were after her?”
“YOU!” Líawen exploded, whirling around. Thranduil leaned negligently against the door to the Queen’s workroom, bewilderment stamped upon his strong-boned face.
“Yes me—er, me what?”
“You—you!” The Queen sputtered, sparks flying. If ever the King of Lasgalen’s temper was legendary, then the Queen’s was a very well kept secret. “What—manure, have you been filling Anaríel’s head with concerning our imminent guests from Imladris?”
“Manure? What are you talking abou--?”
Líawen threw a handful of truncated stems, narrowly missing Thranduil’s leonine head.
“Lía, calm yourself!” The King cried ducking out of firing range.
“Do not tell me to calm myself! I do not know what you have been filling the children’s heads with regarding Elrond and his lineage but it will stop now. If Anaríel believes—and it would be no wonder then if Legolas believes as well that we are about to play host to a family of orcs and their entourage. If this is so then you better prepare yourself for a pitched battle.”
Thranduil advanced upon his fuming wife as if approaching a cornered boar. “I am not entirely sure what you are talking about meleth nín, but I assure you I have said nothing untoward—especially to the children—regarding Elrond and his brethren.”
“Oh really?” Líawen quickly repeated her conversation with Anaríel. Thranduil ducked his head sheepishly.
“Ah, I see. Well, I may have gone off on a bit of a tangent regarding the Noldor and certain—history—between Elrond and I when telling them of the Battle of Dagorlad.”
Líawen threw her hands up in exasperation. “How could you bring up the Dagorlad—oh never mind? Listen to me meleth nín and harken well. Whatever your opinions are of the Noldor you will henceforth keep them to yourself. The children are at a very impressionable age—as you can see—and I will not have them taking the bigotries of Thranduil Oropherion to heart not too mention for their own, especially our son—your heir. All this time I have striven to teach Legolas and Anaríel of the qualities amongst our separate kindred that make us unique all the while you’ve been undermining me and painting the Noldor as little better than minions of the Shadow.”
“Well—they…”
“No, they are not—not every Noldo is a Kin-Slayer! Listen Thranduil, I know what you went through when Menegroth fell. I know how it scarred your heart to have to defend kith and kin from your own fellow kind—I too was born in Elu’s halls though I was too young to remember the devastation, nonetheless, there is a difference between passing on the history of our people versus instilling bias and bigotry. Am I clear?”
Thranduil crossed the small room and took his wife’s hands—after carefully relieving them of the gardening shears and placing them at a safe distance on the workbench.
“Clear as a bell, Bereth nín.”
Líawen cocked her head back the better to meet her husband’s gaze. “So, we stand united on this front?”
“Aye, united. Now come away meleth nín. I believe—if we are swift—we should have just enough time to bathe and change before our honoured guests arrive.”
Líawen half-heartedly fought the encircling arm pulling her gently, yet determinedly against her husband’s chest. “Your plan is fraught with disaster you know.” She replied, toying with the long braid hanging behind Thranduil’s ear.”
“Did I not say the key is—if we are swift?”
***************
tithin anna: little gift
Híril nín: my Lady
Híril Naneth nín: my Lady Mother
elleth: female elf
pen neth: young one
hín: children
Híril neth: young Lady
Hír Adar nín: My Lord Father
Aran: king
meleth nín: my love
Bereth nín: my Queen
Chapter 5 - Part Two-Chapter Four
Part Two: Awakenings
Chapter Four
2019 Third Age, Nedhlaer (Midsummer). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great
“However do you do that?”
“Do what?” the pale elleth with raven tresses replied.
“That—make such perfect, even stitches.” Anaríel complained. “Mine are always so uneven.”
Arwen smiled at her new friend, never lifting her eyes from her work. “That is because you lack what I have in abundance—both patience and concentration. You are far too easily distracted mellon nín. Your eyes are always everywhere else but on your work.”
Anaríel stuck her tongue out in reply.
“I saw that.”
“You did not!” The honey haired elleth exclaimed. “You couldn’t have.”
“If you say so,” Arwen agreed sweetly.
“Oh I hate embroidery.” Anaríel sighed, tossing down her square of linen and leaning back on her chair. She looked about the small garden the two elleth sat in. The sun was high in the sky and the day was growing hot. Bees drifted sluggishly amid the blooms going about their business while a pair of squirrels scolded and chased one another up and down the broad trunk of the old beech by the garden wall.
“What would you rather be doing then?” Arwen replied, deftly tying off her thread with a smart snap. Anaríel scratched her freckled nose in thought.
“Hmmm, maybe go for a ride or a swim, or—.”
“Oh no,” Arwen laughed. “I am beginning to know that look of yours and it usually goes hand and hand with trouble. Forgive me for saying so my friend, but I really do not wish to hear your foster Adar’s roar today. He truly does have quite a fierce temper. Besides, it is too hot to do anything but sit still.”
“I wonder what the ellyn are up to.” Anaríel queried, poking at the moss growing between the stones of the wall.
“What ellyn are always up to—nothing particularly interesting. I am sure they are practicing with blades or shooting at targets. That is what they have been doing ever since we arrived at any rate. All they care about is who is best amongst the three.”
“Elladan is best with a blade, but Elrohir is best at hand to hand combat. Legolas is the best and fastest with the bow though.”
“Indeed, no contest there.” Arwen agreed.
Anaríel made a face. “Tis not fair. I wish I could learn to shoot a bow or wield a knife.”
“You do not!” Arwen laughed incredulously.
“I most certainly do—why not?”
“Well,” Arwen thought a moment, studying the perfect braid draped over her shoulder—not a hair out of place unlike Anaríel’s ever disheveled plaits. “Surely such things are not allowed. Ellyth do not participate in weapons training back home in Imladris. Surely they do not here—do they?”
“No, but I do not know why not. I would think learning to defend oneself would be far more useful than stitching scraps of linen. I mean, you do not see our ada’s ever embroidering do you?”
Arwen looked at Anaríel as if the elleth had sprouted a second head. Suddenly the two burst out laughing hysterically as images of the fearsome Thranduil and the ever self-contained Elrond sitting side by side on a window seat, stabbing delicately at tiny scraps of fabric came simultaneously to mind.
“Oh dear,” Arwen gasped, fanning herself with one hand. “Let us go for a swim after all. I think the heat is getting to us.”
***************
“Come on, let us have another go. Best two out of three.” called Legolas, already pulling his arrows out of the target.
Elladan exchanged swift looks with his brother. “Nay, I think not. Our pride simply will not allow it--how about blades again?”
“No; no more blades. No more archery.” Elrohir grouched casting about the yard for a patch of shade to sit in. “It is all we’ve been doing all morning. It is too hot. I concede defeat. You two can keep battling it out if you will.”
Legolas and Elladan dropped to the ground beside Elrohir.
“I wonder what the ellyth are up to,” Legolas queried, studying the fletching on one arrow.
Elladan pulled a face. “What do you think? What ellyth are always up to--embroidery and weaving--.”
“And gardening and gossiping.” Elrohir finished in simpering mockery of all femaledom.
Legolas laughed, “Doubtful. If I know Arí, she’s dragged Arwen up some tree or out for a gallop, or--.”
“What?” The twins chorused as a wicked glint lit Legolas’ eye.
“Or swimming in the river—it is hot enough.”
Elladan sprang to his feet.
“Where do you think you are going?” his twin cried.
“If the ellyth are swimming then I am all for joining them.”
“I do not think that would be a wise idea.” Legolas countered.
“Why not?” Elrohir rose, joining his twin. “Two ellyth swimming alone—they need guarding from dangerous wild animals.”
Legolas peered up at the identical sons of Elrond. “If Arí and Arwen went swimming then I doubt very much they went alone. I am sure at least Beleth and Orofíriel are with them.”
“All the better.” The twins chorused in that disconcerting way of theirs.
“Although,” Elladan continued, “I wouldn’t mind catching Anaríel alone in the river. Can you not imagine what that hair of hers would look like floating behind her in the water—like molten gold?”
“So?” Legolas shrugged. “What of it? I’ve gone swimming with Arí countless times.”
The twins exchanged dumbfounded looks.
“And you need ask “what of it”?” Elladan laughed chucking Legolas in the ribs. “Come on, admit it. Anaríel is one fine looking elleth.”
Legolas scratched his nose considering this piece of information. “I suppose, I just never looked at her that way I guess. We’ve been raised together—she is like a sister to me.”
Elladan draped an arm across the young prince’s shoulder. “Like a sister, is very much a different matter than is a sister my friend. Come—open your eyes; torrents of hair like molten honey, eyes as green as young mallorn leaves.”
“Freckles and boney elbows and pointy chin.” Legolas laughed.
“Blind!” the twins exclaimed.
***************
“This was a wonderful idea.” Arwen sighed, tilting her head back to wet her hair.
“Did I not tell you?” Anaríel laughed, floating on her back, her shift streaming out in the current.
“Yes, for once I’ll concede you were--.” Arwen froze with a gasp, submerging herself until only her head bobbed above the water’s surface.
“Relax.” Anaríel whispered. “It is just our brothers. They have been spying on us for some time now thinking how clever they are.”
Arwen casually swam over to Anaríel. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
“Why call their bluff of course.” With a swift movement, Anaríel rose up, sweeping a wave of water over the bank and into a clump of bushes at its edge. Immediately the bushes erupted into cries of dismay and out emerged three dripping ellyn.
“Well,” Anaríel laughed, “you might as well join us. I daresay you couldn’t get any wetter.”
Arwen tried to cover her look of alarm as Legolas quickly kicked off his boots and stripped off his drenched tunic and shirt, Elladan and Elrohir swiftly following suit. Within moments, the glade filled with shrieks and laughter.
Slowly the sun made its trek across the afternoon sky until all that remained were long shafts of light shining between the tree trunks.
“Ugh, that is enough for me.” Anaríel laughed holding one hand up out of the water and studying the tip of one finger. “I am puckered as a raisin.”
“But never was a raisin ever so sweet.” Elladan rose up behind her purring into her ear. His breath was unexpectedly warm against her wet skin and Anaríel spun abruptly, dowsing the ellon.
“Have a care not to drown my brother.” Arwen called from the bank where she stood wringing out the skirts of her shift. “Naneth and Ada would be most displeased.”
Anaríel laughed, pulling herself out of the river. Legolas held out a large towel for her that had been warming in the sun. She gratefully stepped into it, letting Legolas enfold her in its warmth.
“You always stay in far longer than is wise.” He chided rubbing her arms briskly before leading her to where the others already sat in the sun. They spoke and teased one another in the comfortable manner that had developed amongst them over the passing months, but Anaríel shivered inexplicably as time and again Elladan’s gaze fell upon her.
Slowly she grew unsettled as a fluttery sensation invaded her stomach as if she had swallowed a butterfly. She stared in fascination all around her, seeing things in the new way she had started perceiving her world for the last few months now, as if seeing through new eyes. How lovely and clear Arwen’s skin was. How dark Elladan’s eyes. How broad shouldered were the twins. How a droplet of water made its slow path down Legolas’ tan chest—a chest that seemed broader and stronger than the summer past. How the sun glinted off the pale gold of his hair newly plaited in the warrior’s braids he was so proud to have earned the previous spring. How--.
Suddenly her breath hitched as she realized Arwen had asked her a question.
“Aní, what do you think?”
“Think? Think about what?”
“About true love.” stated Arwen again patiently.
Legolas laughed casting the elleth a concerned look. “Have you not been listening tithen Lalaith?”
Anaríel swatted an imaginary gnat from in front of her face. “Forgive me, I wandered into a dream—I must be tired from all the swimming. True love you say. I have not given it much thought I suppose.”
Arwen laughed, “Well, since you were not paying attention we will have to give you another go. Elladan here thinks true love might feel like a bolt of lightening from out of the blue, whilst Elrohir thinks it will feel more like one has swallowed a fistful of worms—we shan’t comment on that further. I myself think it may come over one as a great stillness—an awakening. Perhaps like an awareness of one’s own doom.”
Elladan rolled his eyes. “Not too unlike Tinuviel?”
“Perhaps,” Arwen replied softly.
“What of you Legolas?” spoke Elrohir, breaking the silence that had fallen.
Legolas thought for a long moment, idly reaching up to pluck a piece of grass from the braid Anaríel was plaiting. “I think true love, when it comes, will come quietly, softly, perchance even imperceptibly until one moment you feel as if a puzzle piece of your soul that had been missing has just been fit back into place.”
“I think I rather like Legolas’ love the best out of all yours.” Anaríel replied rising to her feet. “Come, it is getting late and I am hungry. Race you back!” With a light punch to Legolas’ shoulder she sped off, the others in swift pursuit.
***************
The stables were cool after the heat and commotion of the Great Hall and redolent with the comforting scent of horse and hay. Anaríel quickly put out the sole torch, wishing only to wrap herself in darkness. She did not know what had come over her. Maybe she had swallowed something she ought not to have in the river during one of her many dunkings.
The butterfly was back and it was fluttering about her stomach as never before. She barely touched her dinner, and the more Legolas plied her with morsels from his own plate, the worse she felt until she fled the table pleading a headache. Lord Elrond was swift to offer a tisane but she waved him off as she made a less than graceful exit amidst the alarmed looks of her family and curious glances of their guests.
She rested her back against the cool wall and closed her eyes, letting the air fan her flushed cheeks. A shadow passed before the moonlight shining through the window across from her.
“My Lady, are you well?”
Anaríel blinked in the darkness trying to discern the intruder’s features. She dropped her hands from her face, easing away from the wall. “Yes, I am fine thank you.”
“You were quite flushed in the Hall.” Anaríel started as a cool touch brushed her cheek. “Be easy bein nín, it is but I—Elladan.”
Before she knew what was happening, warm lips captured her own. Surprised, she took a stumbling step backward, fetching up sharply against the wall. As of its own accord her right fist swung and whalloped the tall ellon in the eye. Elladan went down tumbling backward over a bale of hay.
“By the Valar I’ve killed him!” Anaríel cried. “Oh look what I’ve done now!” Quickly she knelt beside the fallen Elf who much to her infinite relief was already pulling himself into a sitting position with a moan; one hand cupped over his eye.
“By the Flame of Illuvatar Anaríel, why in blazes did you do that? It was just one kiss—I would never have hurt you.”
Now that Anaríel realized Elladan would be fine, the shock began to wear off, anger and indignation swift on its heels.
“Why did I do that? Why did you—you?”
“Why did I kiss you?” Elladan chuckled. “Oh many reasons I suppose. Because I wondered if anyone had ever dared before, if I could actually get away with it—I now see it was no on both accounts. Mainly I guess because I simply wanted to. Has no one ever told you how beautiful you are?”
“No.” Anaríel said flatly. “Hoydenish—yes, spindly—yes, freckle-faced—yes, yes, YES!”
“Well they are all wrong.” Elladan said seriously. “You are very, very beautiful; right down to the last freckle.”
Anaríel shook her head. “The Queen is beautiful, Arwen is beautiful, Lego--.” She sputtered to a stop not knowing what possessed her to say that last bit.
Elladan chuckled kindly. “Legolas is indeed beautiful too, in his own way; as all the maidens of Lasgalen seem to concur. I wonder what Arwen thinks of the Prince? She has made no comment, but that does not mean she has not noticed. There is little the Evenstar misses.” Elladen gingerly prodded his eye. “By the way, you have a wicked right hook. Where did you learn--?”
Anaríel cast him a withering look and they both said “Legolas” in unison. After a moment, the two laughed wryly. Anaríel held out her hand and hauled Elrond’s son to his feet.
Elladan glanced at her sheepishly. “Look, Anaríel, please forgive me—I truly meant no harm.”
The elleth cast a considering glance as they left the stables.
“On one condition,”
“Name it.”
“Only if you swear you will never do that again.”
“What; kiss you? No, sorry—I cannot promise you that; anything else but that.”
“Elladan” Anaríel growled.
“Oh very well—but why not?”
A smile lit the elleth’s face, “Why; because I love another of course.”
“What is that you say?” Elladan wheeled on her. “Who is the churl; why I shall cut him down on the spot? I will tolerate no rivals. Who; who I say?”
Anaríel broke again into peals of the laughter for which the King had long ago nicknamed her. As they crossed the practice yard, she felt strangely giddy and reckless of a sudden.
“My beloved is Lord Glorfindel.”
“Glorfindel? But, but Glorfindel is—old!”
“Nonetheless, The Balrog Slayer holds my heart, I will have him and no other.”
Elladan shook his head ruefully. “Then our love is truly doomed and I must concede defeat.”
***************
“What happened to your eye?” Legolas asked Elladan the next morning as they saddled their mounts.
“Tis nothing, I came out here last night to get some fresh air and walked head on into some foolishness.”
Legolas laughed, shaking his head. “And does this pretty little slip of foolishness have a name?”
“Aye, None-Of-Your-Business.”
“Funny name that.” Legolas quipped stooping over a hay bale to retrieve something lying on the floor, shining in a beam of sunlight--an enameled brooch in the shape of a mallorn leaf. Legolas stared at it puzzled, turning it over slowly in his hands. Elladan cursed under his breath.
“This belongs to Anaríel.” The Prince’s eyes flew to Elladan’s blackened orb. The next thing he knew he threw Elladan over a bale of hay launching himself after him with neither care nor heed for his own hide.
Elladan threw up his hands to hold the enraged Prince off. “Peace--Legolas—peace. Nothing happened. I swear to you!”
“How can you say nothing happened? I thought you were my friend!”
“I am your friend you fool—and I told you nothing happened. I made a mistake—all right. I stole a kiss and paid the price. Anaríel has a right hook to be reckoned with, by the way. She said you taught her that—is that true?”
Legolas prepared for another go at the older ellon. “Anaríel is my sister you—!”
“No Legolas! No, she is not—there is no blood shared between you. Be furious with me for being brave or fool hardy enough to try what you would not dare if you will. But do not hold me to blame for it.”
Legolas stared at Elladan speechlessly.
“I made a mistake my friend, one I whole heartedly regret now. One I swear on my adar’s name I will never repeat. Let us just leave it at that shall we.”
Legolas rose in one swift motion and nodded curtly. Turning he stormed from the stables feeling shaken to the core and not having the slightest clue why.
***************
elleth/ellyth (pl.): female elf
ellon/ellyn (pl.): male elf
mellon nín: my friend
adar: father
bein nín: my beauty
Chapter 6 - Chapter Five
Chapter Five:
2019 Third Age, Ivanneth (September). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great.
“I still think your decision is unwise at best, highly dangerous at worst.” Lord Elrond shot back at Thranduil as he reached for his wine glass. The Queen and Lady Celebrían shared a querulous glance but otherwise kept their peace; the ongoing debate far too amusing to interrupt.
“My decisions are nothing other than wise at all times Eärendilion; and whilst a guest in my halls I trust you to remember that.”
“That is a load of tripe and you know it Oropherion!” Elrond replied, refusing to be daunted. “You know full well the risks. Your decision is fraught with disaster and as per usual you are too damn stubborn to admit it.”
“Is that so?” Thranduil purred. The servant hovering at Lady Celebrían’s shoulder refilled her glass with remarkable haste and fled the patio. If Lord Elrond was fool enough to bait the bear in his own den then perhaps the House Guard best be alerted lest blood be spilled.
Elrond edged forward in his chair, warming to the argument. “Of course; what could you have been thinking—allowing Anaríel to begin weapons training? What possible good could come from teaching a sheltered elleth like Anaríel to use bow and blade? Think of the risks. Has the elleth ever even been near a bow?”
The Queen cleared her throat covering the giggle that had inadvertently slipped. Celebrían eyed her curiously as Thranduil shot his wife a glare—there was a story here it would seem.
“I would think the benefits would be obvious but since you are blind with either folly or complacency I shall spell them out.”
“Thranduil,” the Queen purred laying a hand on the King’s arm. “Forgive my husband’s rash words Elrond. I assure you we discussed the matter most thoroughly from all angles. To be quite honest, the idea is more mine than anyone’s. Once Anaríel expressed an interest in training—and she is only receiving lessons in bowmanship I might add—I began to see the wisdom of it.
“Change is coming. None of us can deny it. Dark rumors are in the air; the trees whisper of a growing shadow in the south; orcs multiply more than ever in the Hithaeglir. While it wrenches my heart to say it, I fear it may not be long ere we find ourselves besieged. Anaríel’s mother was not mistaken in her fears. We all recognized Nimrodel’s uncanny gift of foresight. Many dark things she predicted have sadly come true.
“My husband and I have held council with our Weapons Master and he confers. It would be wise for Anaríel, and any other elleth who is willing, to learn at least to defend themselves with a bow. We are by no means intending on sending them out as scouts with the ellon. Nor will we ever expect them to heed the call to arms should ever it come. But I tell you this, I will rest easier knowing Anaríel can handle a bow with some degree of skill.”
“I hear you.” Lady Celebrían agreed. “The Hithaeglir has become increasingly dangerous and our visits to my naneth and adar become fewer and farther between. I fear one day the mountain passes will become too perilous and we will find ourselves cut off. Ever often of late has my mind turned to Arwen. She has been after me the last month to let Elladan and Elrohir give her some rudimentary training.”
Elrond sat up glancing sharply at his wife. “When were you planning on telling me this?”
Celebrían shrugged. “In good time after the twins had given me their opinion. Elrohir objects to the idea of letting Arwen train in hand to hand combat; nor do I feel it is necessary as an elleth’s strength clearly would never stand up to an orc in a close fight. However, Elladan told me this morning he would be willing to work with Arwen on the basics.”
“No daughter of mine shall ever raise a sword!” Elrond cried.
“I pray it never come to that meleth nin, but I too would rest easier knowing our daughter was at least familiar handling the business end of one.”
“This is your fault Oropherion!” Elrond growled.
Thranduil burst out laughing, his war, baritone rolling richly with mirth. Three shocked pairs of eyes turned to him while he thumped the arms of his chair wiping tears from his eyes.
“What? Does no one else see the humor in this? Come now Elrond; concede defeat for it is clear your Lady wife feels what may be good for this goose is good for her gander!”
***************
“AIM-DRAW-RELEASE. Again. AIM-DRAW-RE--.”
“Oh it is no use.” Anaríel sighed with disgust as yet another arrow thudded into the dirt yards from the target.
“How can you say that?” Legolas replied gathering up the spent arrows littering the yard. “You have just begun training, I think we have only been at it what—a month?”
“It simply is not fair.” Anaríel pouted, flexing her stiff fingers. “You make this look so easy. I have never seen anyone as fast and accurate as you.”
“Practice Arí that is all it is. How many years have I been training?”
“I do not care. All I have to say is nothing that looks so effortless has any right to be so painful. I do not think there is a single muscle in my arms and back that is not on fire. Not too mention my poor fingers.”
“Here, give me.” Legolas grinned, coming over and taking Anaríel’s hands in his own, massaging the cramped digits. “I promise you it will get easier as you get stronger.”
“Hmph,” Anaríel’s eyes drifted shut. “That feels nice. Do not stop—your penance for working me so hard.”
Legolas continued working the cramps from the elleth’s hands. Soon he found himself staring distractedly at the freckles dusting Anaríel’s nose. He never realized quite how fetching freckles could be. His eyes dropped a bit lower and rested on the elleth’s lips, odd how he had never really noticed them before. It was not until Elladan’s attempted folly had he really looked at his foster sister. Now it seemed all he could do, and with every moment came a new discovery. For instance, at that very moment Anaríel’s lips looked amazingly smooth and soft, the lower protruding ever so slightly in evidence of her discomfort. The tip of her tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth. Abruptly Legolas dropped her hands, stumbling back a step as if pushed.
“What?” Anaríel asked her eyes flying open in alarm.
“Nothing—ready for another go?”
Anaríel flexed her hands. “Very well, they feel much better, you have my thanks.”
“Think nothing of it. Now concentrate. Focus on the target.” Legolas recited the now all too familiar litany as he circled to stand behind her, sighting over her shoulder; his breath ever so lightly tickling her ear. “Envision the arrow hitting the center of the target. Ready? AIM-DRAW-RELEASE!”
The arrow twanged with an oddly discordant note. Anaríel gave a sharp cry and stumbled backward as the bowstring snapped, catching her in the temple.
Legolas cried out in dismay as he watched her go down as if in slow motion, her head hitting a protruding tree root. The Prince was at her side in an instant.
“Arí—Arí speak to me! By the Valar, this is my fault!” Legolas gently cradled the elleth’s head in his lap as he pulled the hair from her temple. The bowstring had cut the tender skin when it snapped but it was a small wound and not bleeding too heavily. The blow from the tree root was another matter entirely and had him greatly concerned. Carefully he probed the back of Anaríel’s skull and felt a knot forming.
“My fault—all my fault,” the Prince whispered repeatedly as he gently rocked the small frame in his arms. “I should have seen it coming. I should have known something like this would happen. I should not be practicing with her unsupervised in the first place.” He moaned, laying his cheek against the top of her head, wondering what to do.
Slowly Anaríel stirred. “How is it possible that the ground came up to hit me?” she moaned opening her eyes; Legolas’ fear-filled face all she could see.
“It wasn’t the ground but a tree root. Are you all right?”
“I—I think so. What happened?” Anaríel pushed against Legolas as she tried to sit up. Gently he raised her.
“Your bowstring snapped—I am so sorry!”
“Why are you sorry?” she hissed touching her temple. “I am the idiot who failed check to see if her bow was strung properly.”
“You are no idiot! You are the bravest elleth I know.”
Anaríel shot the ellon an odd look as she unsteadily levered herself to her feet.
Legolas quickly reached out steadying her. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“I think so. My pride is more wounded than anything else.”
“Arí,” the elleth glanced up; Legolas’ hands rested on her shoulders and she had to tip her aching head back to meet his eyes. Amazing how tall he was getting. He was almost his adar’s height yet still had a ways to go before reaching full maturity.
“Arí, I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this, it is all my fault. I should have noticed the string. I should have—anyway, I cannot practice with you anymore.”
Anaríel’s eyes grew wide, “why ever not?”
“Because I am still in training myself and you need a Master supervising you.”
“Nonsense! You are better than anyone—everyone says so. Even Herdir Peng agrees.
“No Arí, this should never have happened. I made a promise to Adar—to make sure you came to no harm. I have failed him. More importantly, I have failed you.”
“Do not be ridiculous! How many times has the very same thing happened to you? You were ever cuts and bruises all over when you started training. I cannot remember how many times you had to be patched up. Le’las hear me; you are the best teacher anyone could hope for. You did not fail anyone. I will be the first to tell Adar. You are not to blame for my own carelessness.”
Legolas looked at her skeptically as the elleth’s expression grew mutinous. “Very well,” he finally conceded. “Let us find Lord Elrond. That cut needs looking at and I am sure you could do with a tisane for the headache you must be feeling.”
***************
elleth/ellyth (pl.): female elf
ellon/ellyn (pl.): male elf
Hithaeglir: Misty Mountains
adar: father
naneth: mother
meleth nín: my love
Herdir Peng: Bow Master
Chapter 7 - Chapter Six
Chapter Six:
2019 Third Age, Narbeleth (October). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great
“Promise you will write. I promise to write back.”
“Of course I will write.”
Arwen glanced up from her packing. Anaríel sounded a thousand leagues away. “Are you well, mellon nín?”
Anaríel sat by the fire gazing into the flames, her eyes wide, unseeing. Arwen dropped the brush into her trunk and hurried over kneeling at her friend’s side.
“Anaríel, Aní; what is it?” Arwen bit her lip wandering what to do. This was not the first time the elleth had drifted asleep staring into the fire. In fact, it was becoming and all too frequent occurrence. Ever since a month ago, when the elleth had her accident on the target range. Arwen’s father had declared the injury minor, nothing cold compresses and a tisane had not cured but now she was not so sure.
“Arwen, are you almost ready? We ride in less than one hour.” Celebrían stood in the doorway, the Queen beside her.
“What goes on here?” Líawen asked stepping into the room eying Anaríel.
“Nothing Híril--.” The Queen raised a hand cutting Arwen off. Anaríel’s lips were moving although no words were audible. Her pupils so dilated all the green was lost in black. Celebrían came into the room and took Arwen’s hand, “How long has she been like this?” she whispered.
“I am not sure, perhaps a quarter hour.”
The Queen knelt by her ward and took her hands into her own. They were cold to the touch.
“Beware, beware Caradhras. Head north; use the hidden stair, it will not be watched.”
Arwen and Celebrían exchanged stunned glances. Líawen looked over her shoulder, her face draining of all colour.
“Should I call for Elrond, mellon nín?” Celebrían asked gently. Líawen shook her head, instead beckoning the two closer. Anaríel was speaking again, her words barely audible above the whispering flames.
“Orcs, orcs holding Redhorn Gate; you must not attempt the pass. You must—do not go south! All is shadow to the south. Follow the Forest Road east. Take the northern pass, the hidden path; snow is better than orcs.”
Líawen sat back hard on her heels. “I have suspected, all this past month; suspected and feared”
“Feared what?” Arwen whispered. “What ails Anaríel? Why does she keep falling asleep like this? Is there more to that fall she took than a bump on the head?”
The Queen turned back to her foster daughter. The elleth still stared into the flames, repeating the warning over and over. “She does not sleep pen neth. I feared this would come to pass although I cannot say I am surprised. My tithen Lalaith is on the cusp of maturity. As it was with the mother, so it is with the daughter.”
“Nimrodel” Celebrían breathed, “Are you saying--?”
“Aye, it would seem Nimrodel’s daughter is gifted with Sight.”
“Or cursed?”
The three ellyth jumped. Thranduil and Elrond stood in the doorway.
“How long have you been there herven nín?”
“We were a step behind you and were concerned. Lalaith has not been herself of late.” Thranduil sighed, coming into the room. Elrond hurried forward laying a hand on the elleth’s brow.
“Her skin is cool and clammy to the touch. Has she ever—drifted this long
before?”
The three ellyth glanced at one another. “I do not think so.” Arwen replied, “I have been with her the most, I think I would have noticed. Híril nín, what do you mean; ‘so it was with the mother, so it is with the daughter’? Are you saying Anaríel has visions as Nimrodel did. Mean you to say her words are true warning and not a dream?”
Líawen bit her lip. “Nimrodel’s Sight was true. If her daughter sees orcs in mountain passes, then there are orcs. Elrond, you would do well to heed the warning. I beg you; take the Forest Road and travel north after crossing the
Anduin.”
Elrond nodded, checking Anaríel’s pulse again. “Fear not Líawen, we will not risk Caradhras.”
Thranduil peered over his wife’s shoulder. “She is all right is she not? That bump on her head was not more serious than it seemed?”
Elrond shook his head. “She is fine, but it would seem she is unaware of the visions as of yet. I would say nothing of them for now. I see no sense in alarming the elleth.”
“Yes,” Thranduil agreed. “Perhaps that would be best for now. Perhaps she will grow out of them.”
“As Nimrodel grew out of her visions?” Líawen asked bitterly. “No, she must be taught to control them lest they drive her to despair and madness as they did her mother.”
“How will you do that meleth nín?” asked Thranduil.
“I do not know.” Líawen whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. “Perhaps this is what Galadriel meant. Perhaps this is why she advised against taking Anaríel from Lórien.”
“Naneth would know.” Celebrían offered gently. “Mayhap she knows a way to control the visions so Anaríel will not be lost to them.”
“I do not believe there is any immediate danger.” Elrond said. “For now I would council watching and waiting. Keep an eye on her. If the episodes become frequent or overly disturbing, then I would take her to Galadriel; but I feel that day is long off. Now, let us bring her back to us shall we.”
The Lord of Imladris cradled the elleth’s face between his hands, turning her from the fire. Summoning his unique power for healing he focused his gaze upon the leaf green eyes before him. “Tól hi rinno.” he commanded. “Na rinno ammen tithen pen.”
Slowly Anaríel blinked. Elrond released her and rose to feet as the elleth’s pupils contracted back to normal.
“What?” Anaríel murmured, glancing about in confusion.
Elrond smiled. “We came to see if Arwen was ready tithen pen. The twins are in the courtyard with the Prince and I fear if we do not hasten they may find some mischief to get into.”
“Did—did I fall asleep? I was not feeling tired.”
“Think nothing of it mellon nín.” Arwen laughed squeezing her friend’s hand. “I’ll forgive you this one time for finding me such dull company. Come, help me close this trunk.” She glanced at the adults. “Tell the ellyn to stay put, we will join them in a moment.” Deftly Arwen ushered the elders to the door.
“I do believe we have been dismissed.” Thranduil laughed shaking his proud head as they filed into the passage.
“Get used to it mellon nín.” Elrond chuckled laying a hand in comradeship for a fellow father, on the King’s shoulder. “Ellyth their age are surprisingly adept at managing their elders. Arwen has shown particular talent for some time now. I suspect Anaríel is ready to test her skill.”
***************
elleth/ellyn (pl.): female elf
Híril nín: my Lady
mellon nín: my friend
pen neth: young one
tithen: little
herven nín: my husband
meleth nín: my love
“Tól hi rinno. Na rinno ammen tithin pen”: “Come back now. Come back to us little one.”
Chapter 8 - Part Three-Chapter Seven
Part Three: Signs and Portents
Chapter Seven
2463 Third Age, Ethuil (Spring). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great.
Sun filtered through the young leaves chasing the early April chill from the air. The two riders picked their way carefully along the muddy path.
“I cannot believe Adar let you stay away so long. You have no idea how jealous I am. Adar is always sending you somewhere for forever at a time these days, while I always get left behind at home.”
“Now, now Arí, three loa are not so very long. Besides, are you not the one who hates any suggestion of traveling beyond the Greenwood?”
“Do not confuse the issue with facts.” The Elf maiden replied gazing sidelong at her companion. “Three years are still three years. So, tell me what havoc have you and those sons of Elrond wrought—or do I have to wait and discover the truth from Arwen’s letters?”
One fine brow quirked on the chiseled face of Lasgalen’s Prince; in that moment he never resembled his father more. Although a bit slighter of build, he stood several inches taller than Thranduil. However, his sharp grey eyes regarded the maiden riding beside him just as shrewdly.
“Surely you mean to ask of the wonders of Imladris, and the wisdom I gained fostering with one of the wisest among the Wise?”
“It is Arwen’s letters I see.” Anaríel replied, turning her mount.
“Not so fast!” The Prince laughed, easily lifting the elleth from her saddle and depositing her before him on his own horse.
“Unhand me!” Anaríel cried, trying her best to sound outraged. “We are no longer children and I’ll not have you haul me about like so much baggage. Besides, you could have saved yourself the trouble,” she laughed, “and just told me the truth.”
“I think I prefer my own methods, thank you—baggage indeed!” Deftly the Prince tied the other mare’s reins to his saddle. “Besides, I would rather hear news of home right now.”
Anaríel smiled, “Homesick Le’las?”
“After a fashion.”
The elleth turned in the saddle peering up. Legolas was gazing down at her with such a fond smile it caused her stomach to flip flop.
“Um, well, you missed Mithrandir; he was here for a while. He visited during Midsummer so we had splendid fireworks as you can imagine.” She knew she was babbling yet still could not stop the spill or words all the same. Why in heavens was she so discomfited?
Taking a breath to collect herself she continued. “Adar brought Naneth and me with him to Dale when he met with the King to wrangle over the new trade agreements.”
“What, you left the sanctuary of The Wood? That is unprecedented! You even met with Men? What did you make of them? I am more than half afraid to hear what they made of you.”
Anaríel’s eyes narrowed. “Just what is that supposed to mean? Do you imply I would do anything to bring shame to Adar or Naneth?”
Legolas squeezed the elleth’s waist lightly, letting his hands unconsciously linger on the gentle curve of her hips. “Not at all, I meant rather, if any Men’s hearts and minds were left intact or did you steal them all and carry them home with you?”
“Nothing of the sort; it was all rather odd actually. I do not think Men know what to say or do around us. We were left well enough alone for the most part. In fact, most folk except children would not even look us in the eye. Everyone kept bowing and mincing, it was all quite tiresome after a while. I was glad to come home.” Reaching up she twined her fingers around one of Legolas’ side braids, giving it a playful tug. “Your turn now, tell me about Imladris!”
“Not so fast!” laughed Legolas. “You mean to tell me in three loa all that happened was a visit from Mithrandir and a trip to Dale?”
“Oh very well” she sighed, idling twining the braid around her finger. “Beleth and Tinwë were betrothed over the winter and Orofíriel and Aldaer are expecting their first child in six months.”
“What?” Legolas cried.
“Yes, well do not be too surprised. You were at Orofíriel and Aldaer’s wedding and you do know what occurs between husband and wife in the marriage—,”
“That is not what I meant!” Legolas chuckled. “I am just—surprised, is all. That was quite a bit of news you’ve dropped in my lap as if merely commenting on the weather.”
“Well you asked, did you not? Now will you tell me of Imladris?”
Legolas sighed, his familiar grip on the elleth’s waist tightening slightly. “I have missed you Arí. Truly I have missed you.”
Anaríel released Legolas’ braid, suddenly finding the scenery around them of great interest. Biting her lip, she twined her fingers in the horses’ mane. “I am sure the maidens of Imladris proved worthy of your attention. Surely, there was enough to occupy your mind. I warrant you barely spared a thought for home.”
Legolas grinned, lowering his head to rest his chin on her shoulder. “If spending every moment worrying over what hair-brained scheme you were concocting or what mayhem you were engaged in qualifies as ‘barely sparing a thought for home’ then I daresay you are right.”
Warmth suffused Anaríel as she snuggled unconsciously against the Prince. “I missed you too Le’las.” she whispered so softly even Legolas’ sharp ears could not hear.
“So, how do you fare tithen pen?” Legolas asked straightening and drawing his cloak about them for fear Anaríel shivered from cold.
“I fare just fine, what do you mean?”
“I mean, how are your—spells? Have you been troubled by them overmuch?”
“No, not too much,” Anaríel lied, wishing to change the subject. “I just wish Adar and Naneth would not worry so when they come upon me.”
“They worry because they love and care about you, as do I.”
“Do you?” Anaríel said around the lump in her throat.
Legolas hesitated, stiffening ever so slightly, “Of course, you are the sister of my heart.”
Anaríel’s own heart shriveled and she turned her face away lest Legolas detect the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Of course brother—do not think I doubted.”
***************
2463 Third Age, Cerveth (July). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great
Legolas stood with his father leaning against the stone railing of the bridge spanning the stream that flowed before the Elvenking’s gates.
“What is troubling you ion nín?”
“Nothing Adar” Legolas replied distractedly, pitching another stone into the water below.
Thranduil cocked his head, his evergreen eyes sharpening on his son in shrewd assessment. “Well then ‘nothing’ has been consuming your thoughts ever since you returned. Do not tell me you are pining over some Noldorin elleth back in Imladris.”
Legolas ignored the goad, his own sharp eyes following the progress of three ellyths across the glade. Anaríel inclined her head in conversation with a chestnut haired elleth whose belly showed obvious evidence of the child she carried. The three ellyth halted as the pregnant one gasped. Anaríel laughed with wonder as her friend pressed her hand against her stomach to feel her baby’s kick.
“Rest easy Adar, there are no Noldorin ellyth.”
Thranduil followed his son’s gaze. “Perhaps the object of your thoughts resides somewhat closer to home—eh?”
Legolas remained absorbed in his study of Anaríel, missing his father’s suddenly keen regard.
Thranduil’s brow furrowed though his lips quirked with amusement. It was not like his son to belie his emotions so openly. To any who did not know Legolas, they would see nothing but the picture of unruffled self-containment; but Thranduil knew his son better and saw through the facade. Behind the placid expression, roiled emotions as volatile as his own were reputed to be. “Just what did you say to Lalaith your first day back?” He queried, “I daresay I have never seen her so cool towards you. She was driving your naneth and I to distraction counting down the days till your arrival and now it seems she doesn’t have a moment to spare for you.”
“I said nothing untoward Adar.” Legolas flatly replied. “I simply cannot explain it. We went out for a ride and had as pleasant a time as ever.”
Thranduil quirked a smile, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Elleth, ion nín; sometimes even the Wise cannot figure them out.”
“All I did was ask about her spells.” Legolas sighed at last. “She said they had not been troubling her. Is that not the case?”
“Yes and no.” Thranduil frowned. “She would have us believe she has not been overly troubled by them, that they have been of no more import than predictions of her friend’s pregnancy or when the Lake Men might raise the price of goods—or when I might raise the River tolls for that matter; but Naneth and I have our suspicions. Although she seems light of heart, she has been eating little and sleeping less of late. Of course, she will not speak of it—you know Lalaith, tough as an oak, almost as close-mouthed as you in that respect. We had hoped that would change with your homecoming.”
Legolas glanced up at his father to find himself the object of the King’s most assessing gaze.
“Whatever offence you committed ion nín—real or imagined, you best make up with her. These things have a way of festering.”
“Are you offering me a bit of fatherly advice Adar?” Legolas smiled wryly.
“Nay, ion nín; consider this advice ellon to ellon.”
Legolas cocked one brow, glancing querulously at his father, but the King had already turned on his heel, swiftly disappearing through the palace’s great stone doors.
‘What pray was that supposed to mean?’ The Prince sighed pitching the last of his stones into the churning water below.
Sighing with aggravation Legolas’ eyes sought Anaríel out yet again. She still stood across the green with Beleth and Orofíriel. The three ellyth turned as they were hailed. Tinwë and Thalion bounded up, Tinwë greeting his betrothed with a tender kiss. Thalion bowed to Anaríel as was proper, then shyly offered her a garland of summer roses—particular favourites of hers.
Legolas’ eyes narrowed sharply as Anaríel graciously took the garland, smiling sweetly at the ellon. Elves passing by on the bridge gave their Prince a wide berth, recognizing the familiar storm brewing; only they were surprised to see it upon the fair, usually impervious brow of their Prince. Such storms were commonly associated with the Aran’s displeasure.
Legolas’ knuckles whitened as his hands gripped the stone railing. His heart gave a sickening twist as Anaríel placed the garland upon her hair and beamed at Thalion. When had she ever favoured him with such a smile?
For a moment blind rage swept through him, chilling in all its sudden violence. Not since the time some four and a half centuries past when Elladan had foolishly stolen a kiss from Anaríel had he felt such unbridled emotion. Though they had been little older than children at the time, he had felt a subtle betrayal on Elladan’s part, and while his reaction was irrational, the knowing failed to soothe the sting.
The fact of the matter, little though he cared to admit, was that Elladan was right. Anaríel was not his sister. No ties of blood bound them and yet he had come to admit to himself, something indeed linked them nonetheless, something uncomfortable and unfathomable, but there just the same.
The questioned was, after all these years, was he ready to throw all caution to the wind, and do something about it? The very thought made Legolas’ stomach clench.
He had been gone for three years. During those three year’s he had grown and matured dramatically, not just physically, but emotionally as well. He stood at last upon the brink of adulthood, the final vestiges of youth fading seemingly by the day. What was emerging was as sleek and powerful as a new forged blade.
Outwardly, the Prince of Lasgalen was every inch the son of Thranduil. Tall as the Princes of Menegroth from which he was descended, fair and noble of face, proud of bearing, bold and cocksure in his own self-contained way—all the fiery characteristics of the father condensed and tempered by the cool, analytical temperament of the mother. All in all, the perfect foil to the legendary volatility of the “Wolf of the North.”
Yet, the thought of confessing his heart to a mere slip of an elleth threatened to bring him to his knees. It was simply unconscionable.
Across the green Orofíriel bent to whisper in Anaríel’s ear. “The Prince has not taken his eyes from you mellon nín. Did you two argue again? I warrant I have never seen such a dark look upon one usually so fair. One could easily mistake him for Aran Thranduil.”
Anaríel stiffened but refused to let her eyes follow her friend’s gaze. She knew well enough that Legolas had been watching, and she did not need to look to the Prince to perceive it. Rather, she could feel it in her heart.
It was far from the first time she had felt such a connection to her childhood friend, far from it indeed. In fact it seemed to have become the norm rather than the exception over the last century or so, nor did distance have any effect on her perceptions.
As irrational and unsettling as it was, Anaríel knew well and true that she and Legolas shared a common bond. The difference between her and the Prince was that she was more than willing to accept her feelings. It was indeed a sorry fact that she had set her heart on her dearest friend for quite some time now. What frustrated and grieved her sorely was that Legolas did not appear to return her affection. Or did he?
Anaríel cocked her head, surreptitiously gaining a glimpse of the Prince without appearing overt. Sure enough, he stood leaning languidly against the bridge railing, the picture of regal negligence, save for the stony set of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes.
Turning, Anaríel favoured Thalion with another radiant smile and casually slid a rose from the garland, handing it back to the blushing ellon. “The gift honours the giver.” She said smoothly as Thalion took the bloom and left with a bow and a wide smile.
“Well that certainly did it.” Orofíriel commented dryly. “Whatever game you are playing at Aní, you had best know the rules.”
Anaríel turned to see Legolas’ ramrod stiff back retreating with a brusqueness that was most uncharacteristic.
Tinwë shook his head watching his friend’s retreat. “I am with Fí, you best prepare for battle Aní, for the gauntlet has been thrown.”
******************
2463 Third Age, nedh Hithui (mid November). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great
“So the war wages on. I see Lalaith still has yet to forgive our son for whatever offence she thinks him guilty of in this petty game of theirs. I wonder who did what to whom this time.”
“Anaríel has been distracted of late and involved in Orofíriel’s little one. It is not every day one’s close friend gives birth.” Líawen defended. “She has been far too busy to be paying much attention to anything other than her friend and the babe. Besides, Legolas has been on patrol this fortnight past.”
Thranduil crossed the library and stoked the fire. Outside through the window Elves hurried about the green enjoying the early snow flurries. “You know of what I speak Lía, I am worried about those two. This has gone on long enough. One is far too stubborn for her own good, while the other needs to open his eyes and be honest with himself. They are no longer children after all.”
“His eyes are well open.” The Queen commented closing her book with a snap. “Nonetheless, I do believe your plan did work in some respects, if one can judge by how miserable our ion is.”
Thranduil grimaced. “I never wanted Legolas to be miserable. I just wanted him to see first hand that the fairest blooms are usually to be found within one’s own garden. What is it you think he said to her?”
“Perhaps it is more what he has not said. I agree though, enough is enough.” The Queen put a hand to her brow. Thranduil came over and massaged the kinks from her shoulders. Líawen laid one hand over his. “I worry about her Thran. She is fading away before our very eyes. She hardly eats, she hardly sleeps; she is jumping at shadows. Oh, she thinks she has us fooled with her breezy smiles and the way she has gotten involved with Aldaer and Orofíriel’s babe—as if I do not know she is trying to exhaust herself on purpose.”
“So the dreams will not come?”
“Aye,” Líawen reached for her husband and he knelt at her side. Gently she caressed his beloved face. “I had so hoped Legolas would be the cure, but I fear his presence only makes things worse.” She paused biting her lip.
“What meleth nin?”
“Oh Thran—I think it is time.”
Thranduil froze as tears filled his wife’s eyes. His heart clenched as he watched his beloved gather her resolve.
“We can no longer help her here. We cannot keep what torments her at bay any longer. I must take her to Galadriel.”
“When?” The King choked, his heart sinking.
“As soon as possible—after Yule.”
Thranduil bowed his head resting it on his wife’s shoulder. “I will go with you of course.” There was no point arguing the inevitable. They both knew this day would come for a long while now.
“Nay meleth nin, you know how you and Galadriel get when in sight of one another. This will be difficult enough. I will take her, besides it has been too long since I have visited with my kin.”
Thranduil turned his face into Líawen’s shoulder and she felt the dampness of his tears. “Very well, so be it; but she will not go willingly.”
“No;” The Queen laid her hand upon her husband’s head, smoothing his silken hair. “But she will go nonetheless.”
***************
loa: year
elleth/ellyth (pl.): female elf
ellon/Ellyn (pl.): male elf
adar: father
naneth: mother
tithen pen: little one
ion nín: my son
Chapter 9 - Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight:
2463 Third Age, Girithron (December). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great
A chilling scream ripped through the night, echoing again and again down the Palace halls. The King and Queen sped through the pitch black to their ward’s chambers.
Thanduil flung the door open upon a nightmare. Anaríel knelt on her bed screaming, her hands held out before her in supplication, her eyes wide and staring caught in the madness of her vision.
The King and Queen rushed to her side but could not calm the elleth. Thranduil stood by helplessly while Líawen clambered unto the bed.
“Blood, so much blood,” Anaríel moaned. “Oh Le’las—oh meleth nín—so much blood! So much--,” With another cry Anaríel’s eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed into the Queen’s arms.
***************
“Thalad, Dorthos—help me get him on his feet.” Legolas gritted between clenched teeth. “Rise, Aldaer! By the Valar—rise; we are almost there! Hold on just a little longer, do you hear me?”
The ellon took a few lurching steps before collapsing again to his knees dragging Legolas down with him.
“Leave me mellon nin, I will catch up later. I just need to rest.”
“Aldaer!” Legolas hauled his friend to his feet once more, half dragging him along the path. “I command you not as your friend but as your Prince; to your feet warrior of Lasgalen! You shall keep moving. It is the spider’s poison at work. You must fight—to rest is to die so you will fight—fight you hear me! Your wife and newborn son expect nothing less and your Prince demands the same!”
“Legolas! See you keep up. No one must fall behind,” The captain called, “only a few more miles.”
Thalad dropped back and draped the fallen Elf’s other arm across his shoulder. “Let me help Ernil nin.”
Wordlessly Legolas nodded his thanks, his own leg throbbing from its arrow wound. Silently they trudged behind the remnants of the scouting party.
A fortnight prior seventeen had set out to investigate reports of Wainriders harassing the villages of the Woodmen on the eastern borders of the forest. Now just nine returned. Seven fell aiding the Woodmen’s villages, two the day before to spiders.
Legolas shivered with revulsion. He still could hardly believe the horror of the monstrous creatures. For years there had been rumours of giant arachnids—spawn of Ungoliant; but they had been isolated sightings and far to the south near Amon Lanc. The warriors in their flight had come upon a nest not but eleven leagues from home.
Gasping at a stitch in his side, Legolas plodded on, as desperate as the others to reach the palace; not just for the sake of his wounded comrades or his own injuries, but also out of need to report all he had seen to his father.
Something needed to be done about the Wainriders. Legolas’ stomach clenched at the thought of the destruction his party had come upon. Seven slain; seven young warriors of Lasgalen who would never again dance under the stars; the other two and the wounded Aldaer more horrible in a way than the others. Death was yet a new concept to the Prince, and one he prayed fervently to never grow callous toward; there was no valor in it—merely senseless waste, needless loss and a brutality that sickened him to the core.
Legolas glanced down at his friend whose legs had all but given out. With grim resolve he caught Thalad’s eye and they picked up their pace, stumbling at last from under the boughs and into the wide glade that stood before the palace gates. Runners had been sent ahead and a hew and cry went up. Although the hour was well past mid-night, the stone doors swung open and Elves of the King’s household issued forth.
Ancalimón, the chief Healer rushed forward relieving Legolas of his burden. “I will take Aldaer from here, Ernil nín. Do not worry for him, he shall recover.”
Legolas nodded his thanks and limped over the bridge.
“Have that leg seen to, Ernil nín.” The Healer called after him. Legolas waved him off, disappearing into the palace, he would have his leg looked at only after he gave his report to the King.
As he made for the royal family’s private apartments, a chill scream rent the air. Pain and weariness fell from him as he threw himself down the darkened corridors towards the source of the sound. His blood ran cold when he realized the cries emanated from Anaríel’s rooms.
“So much--!”
Legolas burst through the door in time to see Anaríel collapse into his mother’s arms. The King whirled to find his battered, bloodstained son barely holding himself up against the doorframe.
“Legolas,” Thranduil’s eyes took in the Prince’s condition. “You are wounded! Why are you not with Ancalimón? That is an arrow wound if ever I saw one and in sore need of tending.”
“What goes on here?” Legolas launched himself across the room to the bedside.
Líawen glanced at her son, her eyes widening, “Ion nín, your leg--?”
“It is nothing Naneth.” He paused reaching out to lay a trembling hand on Anaríel’s head.
“But, the blood?” the Queen gasped greatly alarmed by the sight of her son’s blood soaked leg.
“Mostly that of others,” Legolas replied bending the truth to the breaking point. Without asking leave, he took the elleth from his mother and sank onto the bed cradling her gently as he leaned wearily against the headboard. “Will someone please tell me what has happened?”
Líawen quickly told Legolas of Anaríel’s ever more frequent battles against the visions; culminating in that evening’s episode.
“What was it she saw that could frighten her so?”
“Blood,” Thranduil replied, “she kept going on about blood’.”
Legolas stiffened, “Could it be possible? Could she have seen the skirmish against the Wainriders?” Quickly he told Thranduil all that had befallen.
“Nine lost?” Thranduil dropped his head into his hands. “Ill news that is ion nin, ill news.”
“Something must be done Adar. A delegate must meet with the village leaders. Those people were all but defenseless against the Easterlings—it was slaughter, pure and simple. If we had not arrived, the village closest to our borders would have fallen utterly. For hundreds of years we have traded and lived alongside the Woodmen. We cannot ignore their plight.”
“Nor shall we ion nín.” Thranduil sank back into the chair he had set before the bed next to the one he had placed for Líawen. “Since you have witnessed the raids first hand, I am of a mind to assign you to the delegate.”
“It would be an honour to represent the realm.”
“Good, now what is this you say about giant spiders, and but eleven leagues from our front door? I like this news no better. Over the past few centuries fell creatures—orcs, wargs, crebain, and who knows what else-- have been steadily creeping into the forest but my reports stated they were only in the south near Amon Lanc. We have had peace for four and a half centuries since Mithrandir drove the Necromancer from that tower he raised on that once fair hill. I wish I had news of this last year when Mithrandir was here. His wisdom would be welcome now.”
Legolas stilled as Anaríel began to stir against him. “Easy galad nen,” he crooned, “all is well, no harm shall come to you. It was but a bad dream.”
Anaríel’s brow furrowed as her eyes dropped to her hands lying limp in her lap. She moaned holding them up, “Blood! There is so much blood!”
“Arí? Nay, there is no blood elu nín. Your hands are clean.” Peering closely at the elleth’s face, he could see her eyes were still unfocused; she did not hear him. She was still lost in her nightmare world.
“Nay,” she moaned, tears falling upon her cheeks. She began to shake uncontrollably. Legolas shot his parents a frightened look as he tightened his arms and rocked her gently.
“Tell me Arí, tell me what you see.”
“Blood—tis everywhere; soaking everything, the ground, the—ai—lost, all lost!”
“I can stand this no longer!” the Queen choked, tears flowing down her cheeks. “There must be something we can do until we can deliver her to Galadriel.”
“Galadriel!” Legolas gasped. “What has Galadriel to do with this?”
The King and Queen exchanged a look that caused the ellon’s heart to trip.
“Ion nín,” Thranduil began, gesturing towards the stricken elleth. “You see how she suffers, and she grows worse by the day. No one knows why and nothing seems to allay these—these—attacks. We have tried everything; you know that. Whilst you have been gone this fortnight past, she has seemed to reach a crisis point. She barely eats, she barely sleeps; she is Fading ion nín.”
Legolas gasped in horror. “But, that cannot be! She is young—so very young.”
“Galadriel said this day would come.” Líawen said softly, her voice flat, weighted with a sorrow she could not bear. “I have blinded myself. If there is blame to lay, be it upon my head. I witnessed the very same decline in Nimrodel; stood by as mute witness as she fell first into despair, then into madness, then into—nothing until at last Amroth assented and took her off to set sail from Belfalas. I will not let that happen to Lalaith—I swear it!” Thranduil reached out but Líawen shook him off. “No, hear me! When I took Anaríel, Galadriel would have prevented me. She tried to tell me but I would not listen. She told me ill would befall Anaríel if she were taken from Lórien; that her place was in the Golden Wood—her home. Galadriel knows—oh aye that Noldorin sorceress has known all along. Very well, Anaríel shall return to Lórien and by the Valar Galadriel will save her from this nightmare!”
Legolas’ arms tightened involuntarily around the elleth. Bowing his head he laid his cheek against her thick hair, the thought of Anaríel leaving Lasgalen was the final, fatal blow. He wanted to throw his head back and howl unbridled his pain and loss to the winds, as his father’s wolves were wont. How could he bear it? How could he bear losing she who had become more necessary than the air he breathed, more precious to him than life itself?
***************
Anaríel sat in the Queen’s solar, her embroidery lying forgotten in her lap. Moodily she stared out the window. It was snowing again, which normally would be cause for gay spirits as Yule was swiftly coming. She should be out in the woods with her friends gathering pine bows and holly for the Great Hall. The least she could do was pay a visit on Orofíriel to see how Aldaer faired. Yet try as she might she could not summon the energy to rise from her chair by the hearth.
Never in her young Elven life had she felt such weariness, it was a thing more of the soul than of the body, and that was what frightened her so. It was as if her very fëa was being sapped by the effort the visions wrung from her.
She had awoken that morning to find herself in her own bed but in Legolas’ arms. Shaken, she had allowed herself to take comfort in the uncommon occasion, indulging herself in the rare closeness afforded by the strong arms wrapped about her.
She could have lain there forever. She felt as if shipwrecked—Legolas the piece of driftwood to which she clung with all her might. She knew in that instant, she could never let him go, for in him lay her very survival—her salvation.
She did not know how long she lay there, her head resting above the reassuring beat of his heart. A beat so near identical to the rhythm of her own it was strangely comforting. Legolas’ face was relaxed in sleep, his eyes a peaceful twilight grey, lost in Elven dreams.
How precious a face, she thought with a pang. How perfect and beautiful to her, outshining any she had ever known. As a child, she had worshipped him, though she would have admitted it to none. In his presence, she had felt awkward and plain, always struggling to keep up with her shining Prince—just to share the tiniest bit of his brilliance.
He had become her world, her purpose for living—and she had used him poorly these months past, spurning him and turning the shrew because he failed to return her affections—as if she had a right to demand such from him.
Yet here he was, again proving himself her staunchest protector, her dearest friend. That Legolas would fight any evil, any foe for her, she had not the slightest doubt, yet against her visions, her shining Prince was powerless.
A chill wracked her as bits and pieces of the vision came back. Startled, she looked down at her hands. They were clean as they should be, yet in her mind’s eye, they had been red and dripping with gore.
“There you are tithen pen. I have been looking for you.”
Anaríel started, and turned her head. Legolas stood in the doorway. Her breath caught, she felt very small and ashamed, and not at all proud of the way she had treated her dearest friend these past months.
“May I join you? I have brought you some mulled wine. Do not tell Adar—it is the Dorwinion.”
Anaríel smiled, “Oh aye, please sit with me. I would love the company. How is your leg?”
“A bit stiff but mending nicely Ancalimón says.” Legolas set down his mugs as he pulled another chair over. As he settled himself, he surreptitiously studied the elleth as she reached for her wine. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes overly bright with unshed tears. He wondered if his mother had broken the news to her yet.
“Arí, how is it with you? How have you been—truly?”
A dozen trivialities came to mind, but instead Anaríel squared her shoulders rejecting them for the stark truth. “Terrible.”
Glancing up Legolas saw the elleth lose her battle against her tears. As she cried, “Oh Le’las!” he pulled her from her chair, gathering her into his lap in a gesture that came as naturally as breathing.
“Easy, easy; surely it is not as bad as all that.”
“But it is,” she hiccupped, “I am so sorry. I have been so awful to you, I was just—just being—so stupid. Please forgive me.”
Legolas lay his cheek against her hair and breathed in the intoxicating scent that was hers alone. How could he live without her always near? How would he bear her being so far away?
“There is nothing to forgive elu nín.”
Anaríel pulled back and looked up at the ellon, his eyes too were bright with tears. Reaching up she stroked his furrowed brow. “I have hurt you. For that I cannot forgive myself.”
Legolas took her hand, turning it over he placed a kiss in its warm palm. “You have done nothing, think no more of it.”
Cupping her hand as if holding a precious jewel she fell into the depths of Legolas’ storm grey eyes. Time stilled as she willingly gave herself up to those amazing eyes, like the King’s stories of tempest-wracked seas. Breath caught, eyes drifted shut as the two drew slowly, inexorably closer, drawn by a force as inevitable as fate.
“Ahem,” A voice at the door coughed discreetly. “Lady Anaríel, the Queen would speak with you.”
Two dazed pairs of eyes flew open at the softly spoken words.
“Forgive the intrusion Ernil nin, Híril nin; but the Queen awaits.”
Biting her lip Anaríel scrambled to her feet and scurried out the door, not trusting herself to glance back at Legolas.
“Forgive me truly Ernil nin, I would have delayed my errand if only I--.”
Legolas raised a hand wearily. “That will be all Orleg, surely Galion has need of you elsewhere.”
“Very good Hír nín.”
Legolas watched the servant take his leave. What by the Valar was he doing? What had he been thinking? He had come within a hairsbreadth of kissing Anaríel, and she about to leave for Lórien for who knew how long. “What manner of orc am I?” He said to the empty room. “I deserve to be dragged out to the archery range and shot.”
***************
“How long has she been in there?”
“Oh Thran,” Líawen, crossed the hallway when she saw her husband. She had been standing outside her ward’s shut door for a full ten minutes and still could not bring herself to knock. Taking Thranduil’s arm, she led him into an alcove.
“She has been in there for hours. It is growing late. She has missed both lunch and dinner. Nor has she touched the trays brought to her according to Beleth. At least she has finally stopped crying.”
“She has worn herself out like as not. You do not think she feels we want her gone—that we deem her a problem well rid of, do you?”
“No. I do not think so. She understands we only want to help her. In fact, if anything, she feels responsible for making us worry. She blames herself for being a disruption. No, there is something else I think.”
Thranduil cocked one brow in silent question.
Líawen sighed, “If I knew, do you not think I would tell you? I had hoped you would know what I do not.”
Thranduil shook his head ruefully. “Alas, I am as in the dark as you. Come, the elleth is in no condition to go without food. Let us speak with her, perhaps together we can fathom what is going in Lalaith’s mind.”
As Thranduil raised his fist to knock the sound of voices soft but distinct, came through the door. Thranduil laid his ear against the wood the better to hear. “Legolas!” he whispered. “He is in there with her; I thought no one was within.”
“No one was with her.” Líawen returned, pressing her own ear to the door. “I have been here for over ten minutes, and I relieved Beleth who has been here since I broke the news. No one came through this door.”
“Since when have doors ever stopped those two?”
Líawen peered imperiously at her husband. “That ellon takes after his father.”
Thranduil was about to retort when Líawen firmly took him by the arm, drawing him from the door. “Come; let us leave them in peace. Legolas was always better at prying Lalaith’s secrets from her than we ever were.”
“Do you think we should leave them alone in there together?” Thranduil asked giving his wife a meaningful look.
“Líawen smiled. “Why yes, I believe it may be just the thing.”
***************
Legolas paced the small walled in garden in front of Anaríel’s bedchamber window. He had taken up his station in the old beech soon after he heard news of the stricken elleth’s flight from his mother’s apartments. That was hours ago. Night drew thick about the garden and a light snow had started to fall again. Hungry, cramped and stiff from cold, his wounded leg sore from lack of activity Legolas gave up his vigil in the beech and paced in front of the window trying to screw up his nerve. All was quiet within, the tears having finally spent themselves an hour or so ago.
‘Perhaps she sleeps. I should leave her be then—she has had so little rest of late.’
“Legolas?”
The ellon halted mid step and turned; Anaríel stood in the window looking pale and wan, and strangely ethereal in the moonlight.
“Come inside Le’las; you must be chilled to the bone. It is freezing, and you have been out there in that tree for hours. Your poor leg, Ancalimón will have your hide for wasting his poultices.”
Legolas grinned sheepishly. “Do not tell Adar I make such a poor guardsman.”
“You make a fine guardsman, the very best, now come in will you.” Taking his hand Anaríel helped pull him through the window. Legolas hardly needed the help despite his injured leg as he lithely vaulted the sill, but he did not want to let go the elleth’s hand now that he held it in his own.
“It is black as pitch in here, you should light a candle.”
“Why bother, light changes nothing, what is—is.”
Nonetheless, Legolas lit a candle by the bedstead then turned to Anaríel, resting his hands on her shoulders. “What would you have it be Arí?
Anaríel pushed ineffectually against his strong chest. Tears caught in her throat, as she at last gave up the battle between them. “Do not do this. You know what I would have—you must! I would have—I would have this—us! Do you not know? Do you not feel it? We are one, we always have been; two sides of the same coin. What would you have Le’las; tell me true—what would you have? What do you feel? For Valar’s sake, tell me for I can bear this no longer!”
Legolas stood transfixed. Though tears streamed down Anaríel’s face, she had never looked stronger, more powerful, more adamant—and more beautiful. He had never met the famed Lady Galadriel but this was how he pictured her. Beauty and adamant so strong no heart—certainly not his—would be proof against it. All would love and worship her, living in joy for just the slightest glance, the slightest touch.
He knew he was lost but he had made up his mind. He had vowed to himself during the long hours of his watch that no matter the cost to his own heart, his own soul—he would do nothing with Anaríel leaving so soon for Lothlórien. He would not be so cruel.
“Tell me Legolas, what do you feel—in here?” Anaríel laid her hand over his heart. It hammered beneath her touch, matching the rhythm of her own beat for beat.
Legolas looked long and deep into her eyes. Despite all, he felt his resolve crumple like paper in fire. Gently he laid his forehead against hers, covering her hand with his own. Brokenly he replied, “You are my heart Arí—my Lady Bright. I would die for you just as I would die without you.”
Anaríel shuddered and he pulled her into his arms, the two clenching each other as if nothing in all Arda could pull them apart. After a long while Legolas pressed a kiss to her brow and pulled away to peer into her eyes.
“Is this why you are so upset at the thought of going to Lórien? But why; do you have so little faith in us? We are young, and you will not be gone from Lasgalen so very long; nor is Lórien so far that you will not ever see me.”
“You will come to Lórien?”
“Of course, as often as Adar can spare me—nothing will keep me from seeing you.”
Anaríel’s eyes sparked with joy for a moment but soon dimmed again.
“What Arí, what is it you fear—Lady Galadriel?”
“No, I fear not the Lady nor her Lord.”
“Then what; the visions? They will stop, according to Naneth Galadriel knows a way to stop them or at least control them.”
“Maybe I do not want them to stop. Maybe I do not want to be—controlled.” Nervously she paced the room, coming to a stop by the hearth. “A part of me craves them Le’las.” She whispered.
“What do you mean?” Legolas asked, turning her gently. “They are tearing you apart.”
“You asked me what I fear Le’las. I am telling you. There is—a power within me. When the visions come with all their horror, a power rises within me. It frightens me.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I like it.”
***************
meleth nín: my love
elleth/ellyth (pl.): female elf
ellon/ellyn (pl.): male elf
mellon nín: my friend
Ernil nín: my Prince
ion nín: my son
galad nen: bright one
elu nín: my heart
tithen pen: little one
Híril nín: my Lady
Chapter 10 - Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine:
2463 Third Age, late Girithron (December). Lasgalen: Greenwood the Great.
Yule came and went with the usual flurry of festive activity, but for four Elves, the celebration passed with barely a notice for the first time in their immortal lives.
The King buried himself in the business of assembling a delegate to work with the Woodman villages on Lasgalen’s eastern borders. The Prince, was being sent as chief ambassador, had also been closeted with the King and his advisors going over every minute detail; all must be ready for the delegation left on the morrow with the Queen’s party journeying to Lórien. The two would travel together the first day then the Queen and her escort would take the old road south. Because of the alarming reports coming in of late, the Queen’s retinue was armed to the teeth and resembled a war party more than an escort.
The Queen and Anaríel spent all Yule packing. Líawen had decided on a prolonged visit with her kin in order to ensure that Anaríel was well settled. No one knew how long Nimrodel’s daughter would be staying in Lórien so she packed all her possessions—an activity, which turned out to take a full two weeks; eclipsing Yule but effectively distracting her from the journey to come.
Now all was at last ready for the morrow’s departure. Anaríel wandered through the wood passing silently beneath the snow-laden trees. It seemed as if she were bidding them farewell. Indeed for the last two weeks it seemed all she had done was say farewell to everyone and everything she had ever known and held dear.
“Arí,”
The elleth froze, hearing her name like a whisper on the chill breeze.
“Have you been following me Le’las?”
“Aye,”
Turning she saw the Prince striding towards her through the trees. The late afternoon sun slanted through the branches setting the pale gold of his hair ablaze. Her breath caught as she strove to memorize every detail of his beloved face—her shining Prince.
“Why are you following me?” she asked, her teeth chattering.
“You are cold.” Legolas replied, pointedly ignoring her question.
“No, I am not.”
Legolas ignored her protests and wrapped his cloak about her drawing her against him for warmth. He felt her shudder.
“You are shaking galad nen.”
“Very well, I am cold, are you happy now? So, why have you been following me?”
“Tomorrow we both leave and I wanted to give you this.”
Anaríel stepped back looking curiously at the Prince as he drew forth a velvet pouch from within his tunic.
“I do not understand.”
“You do not need to understand, all you need to do is open it.”
“But, Yule is past.”
“This has nothing to do with Yule. This is simply for you; something to remember Lasgalen by—something to remember me by.”
Anaríel paused but Legolas urged her again to open the pouch. With trembling fingers that had nothing to do with cold, she tugged on the strings spilling the pouch’s contents into her hand. A large emerald cut in exquisite likeness of a beech leaf chased with mithril attached to a mithril chain lay glittering in her hand.
“Oh Le’las,” she breathed, her eyes blurring with tears, “a legolas—a green leaf.” Her eyes flew to the Prince, tears lay on his cheeks. Reaching up she caught one as it fell glittering in the sunlight. “It is beautiful.”
“Nay, you are beautiful; wear it and think of me.”
“But I have nothing to give you.”
“Ah, but you do; and you have already given it,” Legolas cupped her beloved face in his hands, “something far more precious than all the jewels and mithril in Arda.”
With that, the Prince of Lasgalen lowered his lips to hers in a kiss as searing and bittersweet as loss itself. For an eternity, they stood ankle deep in snow; long after the kiss had ended, so long they gazed into each other’s eyes that the sun westered and twilight descended. Still they stood, holding onto one another as to a lifeline while the stars kindled overhead. To any who may have happened upon them, they would have seemed as two from out of legend. Two doomed lovers standing transfixed in the starlight—as Thingol and Melian, Beren and Lúthien of old. An Eldarin Prince of the Twilight Years; when the World was yet new; crowned by stars and shining with a light all his own. In his arms a Lady beloved of Elbereth, the moon in her hair, and a glittering leaf upon her breast.
***************
The courtyard was a riot of horses and Elves milling about as the Queen’s retinue and the delegate heading for the eastern border made ready to ride. Anaríel felt numb, hardly believing the moment had come at last.
She looked about her in consternation. How dare the sun even consider rising on this day of all days, let alone shine so bright. How dare the horses champ their bits and stamp their hooves as if eager to take her far from all she loved.
The night before had been long and filled with tears as she bid farewell to her friends and family. The King and Queen had held a feast in her honour but all had been dust upon her tongue. Her only consolation had been Legolas, he had stood by her side every moment. Every time she had glanced his way, the memory of what passed between them in the grove lanced through her.
While she grieved her leaving bitterly, she could not but rejoice in Legolas. He loved her! Although he had not said so in words, his actions had spoken more clearly than any sentiment. Drawing up proudly as befitting one beloved of a prince she vowed to shed no tears.
Thranduil finally released Líawen from an embrace that threatened to snap the willowy elleth in two.
“Why Thran—one would think perhaps you will miss me!” laughed the Queen.
“Never doubt it for a moment meleth nín. Hurry back; you know I can never sleep when you are away.”
“I will beloved, as soon as I have seen Anaríel well settled.” With that, she kissed her husband fondly and turned to mount her waiting horse.
Thranduil sighed, already feeling the hated emptiness that always invaded his soul whenever his wife traveled without him. Turning, he sought his ward. It was not long before he found her in the throng. She stood straight and proud, gazing at the departing figures of Beleth and Orofíriel, her face a study of grief and determination. Dressed in a fur trimmed riding habit with her bow and quiver strapped to her back, she reminded him ironically of Galadriel from years long past. Swiftly he crossed the court. Her eyes lit upon him and she offered a brave smile.
“So Ada, it is time for you to give me your last minute instructions.”
“No last instructions, no orders my beloved Lalaith; save one. Master this gift of yours with all speed and hurry home to us where you belong.”
“I shall Ada, I promise.” Anaríel blinked hard against her tears as Thranduil enveloped her in a hug as bone cracking as the one he had given his wife.
“I simply cannot imagine life around here without you Lalaith, so you best keep that promise.”
At last, the King released his foster daughter and held her with his eyes. A glint of green drew his gaze. “What is this?” he gasped, lifting the emerald beech leaf hanging around her neck. “A rare and wonderful necklace is this, but I am fear its bearer outshines it. I am curious though, I do not recall this being amongst your Yule gifts. How came you by this?”
Anaríel smiled proudly, “By your son.”
Thranduil’s eyes widened with pleasure, “Legolas?”
“Yes Adar?” replied a voice behind the King’s shoulder.
“I was not addressing you—yet.” Thranduil said sternly with a wink to Anaríel. Taking her cue, she mounted her restive mare and gave the King a moment with his son.
Thranduil shook his head and rounded on the Prince. He stood waiting patiently to the eye, but Thranduil knew his son better. The ellon was all but twitching to be off.
“That is quite the gift ion nín.”
“But mine to give.” Legolas replied meeting his father’s sardonic gaze head on.
“Oh aye, I do not doubt. But did you have to pawn your crown to the Naugrim for it?”
“I have another.” The Prince shrugged stoically.
“HA!” The Elvenking clapped his son on the back. “Walk with me I have some final instructions for you. As you know first hand, the reports from the south are disturbing. It bothers me greatly that your Naneth and Anaríel must journey that way—so,” Thranduil paused, drawing Legolas to a halt and leveled an assessing eye on the ellon. “I have dispatched runners to scout the way before the Queen’s party. They have instructions to send word to both you and myself should there be anything other than the normal flora and fauna in the Queen’s path. If even one twig or one squirrel is out of place you are to abort your mission, take ten of your fiercest fighters and ride like the very wind after you naneth—am I clear?”
Legolas looked about startled. “Aye, of course, are you expecting trouble?”
“No, but I learned long ago not to wait for trouble to find me. Now go; the sooner you leave, the sooner you return.”
Legolas bowed to his King before receiving his father’s embrace.
“May the Valar protect you ion nín.”
“May they protect Naneth and Anaríel as well.” Legolas replied meeting the King’s eye before turning and heading for his horse.
***************
The day wore slowly by as the combined parties wended their way east. Although cold, the sun shown bright and the forest sang with life. If Anaríel closed her eyes, she could hear the subtle song of sap running through the trees. The path, while starting wide, had narrowed the further east they traveled until by late afternoon they came to a fork. The path the horses trod continued east, but a wider way branched off south, plunging into the thickening forest.
Anaríel’s fingers knotted in her reins as the company drew to a halt. Legolas and his party of fifteen separated from the throng. As the Prince approached Anaríel and the Queen, a lump formed in her throat.
“I fear the time has come for the parting of our ways.” Legolas announced gravely. “Your road lies yonder, straight and true. Be sure to stay on the path. No one must wander into the wood. In about a day’s ride you will come to a slow moving river—do not drink from it! The water is enchanted, any who do so will fall into sleep and forgetfulness. You will need all your wits about you.” Legolas paused, sweeping the Queen’s retinue with a sharp eye.
“It was a short ride beyond the river that we discovered the spiders. Stay out of the trees. Stay out of the dark patches. Travel by day and be on guard at all times. The wood grows continually darker the further south you go. Lastly, when you reach the southern Wood do not go anywhere near Amon Lanc.”
“Why not,” asked the Queen. “The tower has long been abandoned according to Mithrandir--,”
“According to our reports,” Legolas broke in, “we have reason to believe the tower may yet again be occupied.” Legolas caught the nervous glance Anaríel shot his mother. “I say this not to worry you, but to ensure that you take all possible care.”
Legolas turned holding the eyes of each warrior accompanying the Queen in their stead. “We have enjoyed a watchful peace these last four centuries. It is quite possible that peace is now come to an end. Ware Dol Guldur. Make for Anduin with all speed once you leave the concealment of the Forest.”
The Prince turned to his mother and bowed, accepting her parting kiss.
“Your path is dangerous as will ion nín.” She said. “Go with my love.”
Legolas hugged his mother tightly and drew back to look in her eyes. “May the Valar protect you Naneth.”
Líawen smiled and stepped away, giving her son and foster daughter a moment alone.
“Now I am even less inclined to continue on.” Anaríel laughed nervously.”
“Do you think I put the fear of Thranduil into them?” Legolas asked quietly for her ears alone, nodding towards the warriors.
“Oh yes, you were in prime Thranduil form indeed.”
“Good, they are on no picnic. I want them on their toes at all times.”
“Well, I am certainly on my toes; that is for sure.”
“Nay, you have nothing to fear. Your way is easy—truly. You should be in Lórien in no time.
“And you? You will be far away.” Anaríel sighed.
“I will be knee deep in talk of armaments and defense. You should pity me tithen pen. You are embarking upon a grand adventure, while I have a much grimmer task.” Reaching out, Legolas cupped Anaríel’s face in his hands.
“If all goes well I will come to Lórien ere Nórui. Adar says I may stay the summer if the Lord and Lady will have me. Mayhap by then you will have your gift harnessed and we may travel home together.”
Anaríel beamed with joy. “You will come to Lórien so soon?”
“Aye, if it be in my power.”
“Oh Le’las!” the elleth cried throwing her arms about the Prince. Legolas swiftly captured her lips in a sweet lingering kiss.
“Forgive me pen nethyn,” the Queen said gently, “we must tarry no longer. The afternoon grows old and the sun wanes.”
Legolas and Anaríel reluctantly parted. The Queen stood by, her eyes glowing with pleasure to see the love shining between her son and ward.
“Keep safe ion nín, I understand you are to be my escort home; hopefully, Anaríel will be ready to return by then as well. We will look for you ere the leaves grow old.”
With a much lighter, heart Anaríel vaulted into the saddle as the Queen allowed Legolas to help her mount.
“Namarië Naneth. Namarië Arí. Nai elen síla lumenn’ omentielvo.”
“Take care and hurry to Lórien!” Anaríel called over her shoulder as the Queen’s party took to the road.
***************
“Was the Wood always so dreary this far south Naneth?” Anaríel wrinkled her nose as she took in the dark, untidy foliage hemming in the path. The day before they had crossed the river Legolas had warned them about. As they continued south, the Wood darkened and grew denser; the air becoming claustrophobic. The natural sounds of the forest seemed hushed, subdued.
“No child. It has been several centuries since I last came this way. Much has changed and none for the good. This used to be as free and fair as the Wood we know surrounding the palace. I cannot account for this. We are nowhere near as far south as Amon Lanc. Yet, I like not the feel of this place one bit.”
Taur-nu-Fuin,” Anaríel breathed.
The Queen nodded, “a veritable murk-wood indeed.” Glancing upward, she spied the telltale wisp of what looked suspiciously like spider web. She clucked to her horse urging it into a trot.
“Let us make haste. This region has grown unwholesome. I would not have us camp here. Let us continue, even if it means traveling on into the night. I remember a glade about three leagues south of here that should do nicely.”
Quietly the Queen’s party journeyed on. Soon the twilight fell bringing with it an unnaturally early nightfall. The gloom deepened and the guards instinctively tightened ranks about their charges, keeping them in the center of the party.
Gradually the air grew warmer and tendrils of fog streamed amongst the dark trunks like spectral fingers. Clouds rolled in overhead hiding the moon and stars from view. All about a suffocating silence fell and while Elves may travel silently at will, horses may not. The creak of tack and clump of hoof on hard packed earth echoed loudly in the still night air.
Anaríel soon found she could barely see the Queen’s horse before her. If it were not for keen Elven hearing, the party would have easily separated and foundered from the path. For hours, it seemed they journeyed through the fog. To Anaríel’s dismay she felt herself slipping into sleep. With a jolt, she drew herself back only to find herself slipping down the irresistible path of memory, characteristic of the Elven dream-state.
Something whizzed through the air passing so close, she threw herself forward over her horse’s neck. Suddenly the air filled with the whizzing sound as if strange insects hurled themselves at them through the fog. In the next instant sharp cries filled the night as Anaríel realized with sickening certainty that it was arrows not insects flying thick through the fog. Within moments, pandemonium broke out as the warriors seized bows and fired back into the murk.
“Bereth nín, Híril nín,” the captain cried surging his horses forward. “You must stay down!”
“What is happening?” Anaríel cried.
“We are attacked!” the Queen spat, hauling the elleth from her mare. “How many yrch?”
“With the fog we cannot say. Stay down! Seek cover in the trees if you can—orcs are ill climbers.” With that, the captain unsheathed his sword while issuing a stream of orders.
“Come child!” Líawen grabbed Anaríel by the arm, dragging her off the path and into the trees. All around them arose the sound of slaughter; even Elven eyes could barely pierce the murk and the warriors were being picked off with frightening ease.
Anaríel froze, staring wildly about her in shock at the horror. Orcs boiled out of the trees falling upon the dwindling company. Never had the elleth seen such barbarity and violence. The warriors rallied but there was blood and gore everywhere. Anaríel stood rooted in place as the nightmare of her vision from a few weeks before unfolded before her very eyes.
“Anaríel!” the Queen cried, grasping the elleth’s arm she propelled her towards the nearest oak, “up with you, now!”
Without knowing what she was doing, Anaríel scrambled up the trunk, branches stinging has they slapped across her face. When she got to a reasonable height, she unslung her bow and let arrow after arrow fly into the orcs below holding them at bay while the Queen climbed.
Líawen was halfway to Anaríel’s limb when an orc arrow found its home between her shoulder blades, another lodged between her ribs. Anaríel screamed as the Queen raised shocked eyes to hers.
Desperately the elleth strained stretching her arm as far as she could but she could not seize the Queen’s hand, she was too far out of reach. In mute horror, she watched helplessly as the Queen fell with a cry to the forest floor.
Without hesitation, Anaríel dropped from the tree, landing beside her foster mother. Standing over her protectively, she fired arrows with deadly accuracy. Soon a pile of fallen orcs ringed her.
In her frenzy, she failed to notice the cries of battle had ceased. A huge orc covered head to toe in gore advanced upon her, his clawed hands reaching, his tongue slathering.
“Come she-Elf. Put yer little stinger away. I’ve got better sport in mind.”
Anaríel’s eyes narrowed as she let her last arrow fly. The orc screamed with rage as it struck home in its thigh. With a blood-curdling cry, she launched herself, clawing desperately at the orc’s eyes. The beast laughed, easily capturing her arms.
“See boys—here’s fine sport indeed! Maybe I’ll even share.” Seizing the cloth at Anaríel’s shoulder, he gave it a wrench.
“’Ere, that’ll be enough o’ that Gulash.” The captain, a huge orc with iron rings piercing ears, forehead and nose called, stamping his way over.
“Who says? Spoils she is. Mine, right an’ true. Nearly shot me bollocks off, she did!”
“I’ll feed ye yer bloody bollocks if ye don’t leave it alone. We have our orders. If any stinking she-Elfs are found during patrol, they are to be brought straight to the Master. Unless you want to make Him angry, I suggest ye listen, an’ listen hard.”
Gulash shot a baleful glare, licking his lips nervously. The captain nodded.
“Right, the Master will be well pleased. Quite a haul I’d say, ay lads?”
Anaríel tried to block the orc as he crossed the blood soaked ground to where the Queen lay. Effortlessly he hurled her out of the way, slamming her into a tree trunk.
Stunned Anaríel could only watch helplessly as the orc kicked Líawen in the stomach, wrenching a groan from her. The orcs laughed, gathering around, hoping for a bit of sport.
“Good, this one’s still alive.” The captain laughed, shooting the others a look. “See that she stays that way. These two are marked fer the Master’s “pleasure”. Fine breeding material once ye dirty ‘em up an’ break their spirit a bit. Oh aye,” he spat in Líawen’s face, “the Master’ll have fine orcs from ye and that chit.”
Crouching he wrenched both arrows from the Queen, not before giving each a vicious twist. Anaríel lunged against her captors, crying out while the orcs laughed.
“Patch ‘em up.” The captain ordered. “Keep ‘em alive until we get home. Then the Master will do wi’ em as he pleases. As fer the rest o’ this scum,” he gestured at the bodies of the Queen’s retinue. “Do what ye will but leave none alive.”
“NO!” Anaríel howled as the orcs hacked the warriors’ bodies apart. She screamed until her voice spent itself and her throat burned with fire. Breaking the grip on the orc that held her, she staggered to the Queen’s side. Sinking to her knees on the blood soaked ground, she gathered up Líawen’s body, her hands desperately trying to staunch the blood seeping from the wounds.
“So much blood,” she keened in a voice low and unearthly, “so much.”
“’Ere, enough o’ that noise!” the captain barked, coming over, blood from the corpses he had been butchering streaming from the sword he held. Anaríel continued clutching the Queen to her as she rocked back and forth keening in a most disconcerting way.
“Enough I say. What’re ye trying to do—wake the dead?” Barking a laugh, he lifted his sword, bringing the pommel down on the back of Anaríel’s head. The elleth crumpled instantly, “Right. Let’s leg it boys—the blasted sun will be upon us fer we know it.”
Binding Anaríel’s wrists and feet, he roughly threw her over his shoulder. Gesturing another orc to pick up Líawen, the raiding party lumbered off into the Wood at a swift pace.
***************
Legolas spurred his horse faster than was wise through the gloom, his small party of warriors following suit. Two days before a scout had caught up to them. Exhausted, he reported spotting orc patrols south of the enchanted river. The Queen’s retinue headed straight into them.
Legolas immediately dispatched a runner to the Palace then saddled up, taking ten warriors with him. He had little hope word would reach his father in time but if he rode swift, he and his small party just might reach the Queen before they ran into the orcs. It was a long shot but there was no other option.
Sometime during the night, they forded the river and continued through the thickening foliage. By mid-day Legolas called a halt, listening intently to the song of the trees. Something did not feel right. The trees whispered sorrowfully and there were none of the normal sounds of deer, squirrel or rabbit. The air itself was unnaturally still as if holding its breath.
“Noro lim!” he called, spurring his mount, his warriors in swift pursuit. Soon they came upon a scene of such carnage it brought bile to the stoutest warrior’s throat.
“Ai!” Legolas cried, slipping from his horse’s back. All about the clearing were strewn Elven bodies hacked and mutilated almost beyond recognition. “Search the glade.” The Prince choked through numb lips. “Leave no blade of grass unchecked. If the Queen and Anaríel are among the bodies--,” Unable to say the words, Legolas sank to his knees, staring mutely about him. Gathering their wits the warriors turned to their grisly task.
After a few minutes, an Elf approached leading two horses still laden with saddlebags and trunks belonging to Anaríel. “Ernil nín,” he called, “these were found grazing not far from here. There are a few others as well, Lolindír is bringing them.
A spark of hope ignited in Legolas’ eyes.
“There is no sign of the Queen or Híril Anaríel, Ernil nín. We believe we have accounted for all the warriors that were in the party.”
“Terrible news as any I have heard, yet still, glad am I to hear it Angrod.” Legolas clasped the Elf by the arm. “By the grace of the Valar, the Queen and Anaríel got away, if so, then, we shall find them.”
“Ernil nín,” called the lookout, “something approaches, I cannot yet say what or how many.”
“Not orcs, surely,” Legolas replied, “not while the sun rides high.” Dropping to the ground the Elf pressed his ear to the earth, “Horses—a great many! Pray it be friend for orcs do not ride!”
They did not have long to wait. Soon a host of fifty Elves rode into the clearing, the Elvenking at their head.
Leaping from the saddle, Thranduil took in the carnage at a glance. In horror, he turned to his son. Legolas shook his head, “No Adar, Naneth and Anaríel are not among the fallen. Their horses were found still fully laden. By the will of Eru may they may yet be alive.”
“Your Naneth is alive! I would know it if she were not.” Thranduil retorted sharply, gripping his son’s shoulder. “Search your heart ion nín! What do you feel? Can you still hear Anaríel’s song?”
Legolas looked at his father in confusion. Thranduil shook his head urgently. “Concentrate! The two of you are linked—fëa to fëa—you always have been. Turn your ears inward. Can you still hear the song of Anaríel’s spirit within you?”
Legolas closed his eyes. For a long moment he stood perfectly still, all senses turned inwards. “Aye,” he breathed, “I can feel her!”
Thranduil bowed his head in relief. “It is how I know your Naneth lives. I still hear Líawen’s song—though it is very faint. Nonetheless, while I still hear it I know she lives.”
“If they live then we shall find them Adar.”
“Aye, find them we shall ion nín. We must make all haste, from the signs I read, it looks as if orcs took them. The tracks lead south.”
“Dol Guldur?” Legolas breathed.
“Aye and it looks as though they are a good two days ahead of us. We must ride! I fear we can only spare a few to remain behind to burn the fallen, would that we had more time to honour the dead as befitting them. They died bravely in defense of their Queen.”
Legolas nodded solemnly and dispatched five Elves to handle the grim task.
“Mount up!” Thranduil ordered, striding towards his horse. “We ride south. While orcs travel swift, they must stop and take shelter while the sun shines. We stand and excellent chance of catching them if we ride hard.”
With that, the war party thundered off through the trees heading south for Dol Guldur.
***************
The night passed in an oblivion of pain. It was some time before Anaríel realized she lay face down on the ground, not slung over the shoulder of a stinking orc. As if from outside of herself, she realized the sun rode the sky. Cracking her eyes open, she took in her surroundings.
She lay in a clearing. The orcs, about twenty in total, lay in snoring hulks as buried in undergrowth as possible to avoid the punishing rays of the sun. Rising cautiously to her knees, she spotted the Queen lying a few feet away. Silently she crawled to Líawen’s side.
The orcs slept on, dead to the world while the sun shone. If it were not for the chain around her ankle, securing her to an oak, Anaríel would have grabbed the nearest scimitar and wreaked as much damage as possible before the orcs brought her down. As it was, it was all she could manage to drag herself to the Queen’s side.
Anaríel studied the elleth. She slept with her eyes closed, something Anaríel had never seen before. With each deep intake of air, Líawen’s breath hitched painfully. Gnawing her lip, Anaríel put her ear to Líawen’s chest and heard fluid rattling, as she feared, one of the arrows had pierced a lung, as was also evident by the blue tinge to the Queen’s lips.
Painfully Líawen stirred, opening her eyes. She gazed long and sadly at Anaríel, parting her lips to speak.
“Nay Naneth,” Anaríel whispered, “you must not tax yourself. We must focus all our strength on escape.”
“Do not gainsay your Queen.” Líawen smiled, then sobered. “Listen to me child, save yourself, I will only hamper you; besides, I am too wounded and cannot move if I tried. Thranduil and Legolas are coming, believe it! Do not worry, they will come for me, flee now and lead them to me.”
Tears streamed from Anaríel’s eyes as she raised the heavy chain binding her to the tree so that Líawen could see.
“Forgive me for not obeying, Bereth nín.”
Líawen nodded sadly, her eyes drifting shut.
“Naneth!”
Líawen’s eyes fluttered open. “I am still here Lalaith.” Anaríel nearly cried aloud at the endearment. Desperate to keep the Queen alert she asked.
“How do you know Adar and Legolas are coming? All were slain, know one can possibly know where we are.”
“He knows. He comes. Like the very wind he rides.” Líawen breathed.
“Who?”
“Meleth nin, Thranduil—elu nín, fëa nín.”
Anaríel wept openly now as the Queen drifted into delirium. “Oh Naneth, how can you know this—how?”
“Search your heart child. Can you not feel your own beloved? Can you not hear his song? Your fëa are bound—ever since you were children—that has always been the wonder of you two—your fëa sing to one another. Listen, can you not hear Legolas?”
Anaríel closed her eyes and tried to slow the pounding of her heart. Turning her senses inward, she listened for what seemed the impossible, but then she heard it, an answering call, stronger than anything she had ever heard before in her heart.
Líawen smiled knowing full well, the meaning of the look of wonder crossing the elleth’s face. “Call to him iel nín. Lead him to us. I—I grow too weak. It is all I can do to let Thranduil know I am still alive. You must do this for us.”
Anaríel clasped the Queen’s cold hand. “We will do this together.”
***************
All through the night and through the following day the King’s company rode hard on the orcs’ trail, only stopping briefly for sake of the horses. Late afternoon found them far to the south within fifteen leagues of Amon Lanc. The trail they followed grew fresher by the hour.
Thranduil called a halt. “Our quarry is nigh. A small party will scout ahead; Amras, Mablung and Linhír, be swift and tell me what you find.”
The three Elves bowed to their King and silently melted into the trees.
Thranduil eyed his son. Legolas stood a few feet off, his head cocked to one side, eyes boring through the trees in the direction the scouts had taken.
“What is it ion nín? What do you hear?”
“Arí, she is near, I can feel her. She is afraid—afraid for Naneth.”
“Aye,” Thranduil sighed, “your Naneth is wounded and would spare me the truth of how severely. Can you discover the extent of her wounds?”
“Shot,” Legolas breathed, “two arrow wounds, one pierced a lung. Arí is afraid—we must hurry; the yrch awake!”
Thranduil laid a steadying hand on the ellon’s shoulder. “Patience, I have dispatched scouts. We will not loose them, nor will we fly heedless into danger.”
After a few endless minutes one of the scouts returned.
“Aran nin, the yrch are a couple miles distant. The Queen and Lady Anaríel are among them. The Queen appears to be wounded but alive. Lady Anaríel is worse for wear but seems otherwise unharmed; both are bound hand and foot and are chained to an oak close to the edge of the clearing. I have set Linhír and Mablung to guard them.”
Thranduil quirked a fell smile, clapping a hand to the scout’s shoulder, “Good work Amras.”
Catching Leglolas’ eye he strode for his horse. “Mount up, yrch await a taste of my blade—be it not for me to disappoint them!”
***************
“Wake up she-Elf, bah!” spat the orc captain, “How can ye tell if they’re asleep or dead the way they lie there with their bleedin’ eyes open like that? If I didn’t have me orders I’d shut them eyes fer good.”
“Not before we all had us some fun, eh boss?” called a hulking brute.
“Oh aye,” the captain nodded, “unfortunately lads, the only one going to have fun with this lot’ll be the Master and his favourites. We won’t even get extra rations fer our trouble.”
“Who’s to see if we don’t break ‘em in a little?” Gulash cackled, “Might appreciate us taken’ a bit ‘o the bite out ‘o them first, eh?”
“Ye’ll keep yer hands ter yerself.” The captain shot back. “I won’t find meself clapped in irons fer the sake of ye takin’ a li’l sport. Get ‘em on their feet an’ if their feet won’t bear ‘em, then carry ‘em. Move out boys, wi’ any luck we’ll be home by dawn.”
As the captain lifted a hand to slap Anaríel, a sharp whine hissed through the air. The orc howled with pain as a green fletched arrow pierced the palm through.
At that, pandemonium broke out. Anaríel rolled into a ball as arrows flew thick and orcs scrambled for their weapons. From out of the wood rode Thranduil and Legolas with a host at their heels. Cries rang out as the Elvenking and the Prince wreaked revenge.
Anaríel tried to get her bearings in the melee; she must protect the Queen. Thranduil stood a few yards away, his sword running black with orc blood. The orc captain knelt, holding the Queen before him like a shield; Líawen’s head lolled limply.
A fell light lit Thranduil’s eyes as he advanced upon the orc. From where Anaríel crouched, she could see a small knife concealed in the massive hand the orc held to Líawen’s side.
“NO!” Anaríel screamed in warning, surging to her feet. At that moment, an orc arrow slammed into her shoulder. As she fell, she saw Thranduil’s sword swing a deadly arc towards the orc’s throat. Unfortunately, he could not see the knife the captain plunged into the Queen’s side the split moment before his head left his shoulders.
“NO!” Anaríel screamed and screamed as she crawled through grass slick with blood, not feeling her own wound in her desperation.
Thranduil knelt holding the crumpled form of his beloved Queen, his sword lying forgotten on the ground. All about him the fight raged on swiftly coming to an inevitable end as superior Elven strength decimated the orcs. It was all over in a matter of minutes.
Anaríel dragged herself inch, by painful inch, towards her King and Queen. The world swam before her and her left arm refused to bear her weight. A burning chill shot through her shoulder, suffusing her side. Putting a hand to her shoulder she stared bemused to see it come away covered in her own blood.
“Arí!” Legolas came upon the elleth lying a few yards from where Thranduil and Ancalimón the Healer knelt, bending urgently over the Queen.
Gently he lifted the elleth, turning her carefully in his arms. “Hang on tithen pen,” he whispered as one of Ancalimón’s aides reached his side.
“Hold her steady Ernil nín. I will pull the arrow from her. Let us pray it is not poisoned.”
Legolas strengthened his hold, “Take a deep breath and hold it meleth nín.”
Anaríel complied though barely comprehending the words. White-hot agony shot through her as the healer pulled the arrow from her shoulder.
“It is over, the worst is over galad nín.” Legolas crooned as the healer swiftly bathed the wound, inspecting it closely.
Anaríel’s eyes rolled up into her head.
“She is going into shock Ernil nín! Speak to her, keep her with us. The wound is not deep but I fear it is poisoned. She must stay with us and tell us what she feels.”
Legolas nodded grimly. “Arí! Hang onto my voice.” Gently he shook her. “Come back to me elu nín, come back!”
From far away Anaríel heard Legolas calling to her as if from under water. Fighting her way to the surface, she followed his voice back to the present.
Air rushed into her lungs as pain slammed through her. Eyes snapped open as she jolted back to consciousness. Legolas’ pale face hovered above her, his eyes wide with fear. His lips moved but she could not hear him. She began to shudder as she felt herself sucked under again.
“Cold, so cold” she muttered, her teeth chattering.
The healer shot Legolas an urgent look. “Ask her if she can feel her fingers or anything in her arm.”
“Arí, can you feel this?” Gently Legolas took Anaríel’s hand in his own, giving it a light squeeze. “Can you feel this?”
“Feel what?” she whispered.
“How is she?”
Legolas glanced up to see Thranduil kneeling at his side. His father’s face was set in lines grimmer than he had ever seen before. “She—she cannot feel anything in her arm Adar.” He stammered.
“The wound is not deep but it is poisoned.” The healer replied, tightly fastening the ends of the bandage. He looked the king levelly in the eye. “The poison spreads swiftly; there is nothing more I can do. We must get her quickly to safety, to someone who has greater skill in these matters than I.”
“Or else?”
The healer hesitated a moment, “Or else she will die Aran nín.”
Legolas stiffened as if run through by a blade.
“Fear not ion nín. We will not let Lalaith die. Come; lift her carefully, we ride with all speed for Lórien.”
Legolas shook his head to clear it. From the corner of his eye he saw Ancalimón and two Elves bear the Queen away.
“Naneth—is she?”
Thranduil’s lips thinned. “Not well, ion nín. Besides two arrow wounds, she took a knife in her side. Ancalimón has done all he can for her here. We must reach Lórien swiftly or she will be lost.”
Swiftly he rose so his son would not see the tears in his eyes. Calling two Elves over to assist Legolas with Anaríel, he strode after Ancalimón.
***************
Chapter 11 - Epilogue
Epilogue
2463 Third Age, Narwain (January). Lothlórien.
Three days later some fifty Elves of Lasgalen, their King and Prince riding at their head passed under the bare mallorn branches of Lothlórien. They had not gone more than a furlong when a party of Galadhrim met them.
“Hail kinsman and well met.” A tall Elf called, placing his hand over his heart in greeting. “I am Rúmil, Marchwarden of Lórien. I bring you greetings Aran Thranduil, Ernil Legolas, from my Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Your errand is known to us.”
“If our errand is known then why do you delay us?” Thranduil barked.
The Galadhrim stiffened. “Forgive the delay Hír nin but I have been sent to guide you to Caras Galadhon and to offer any aid within my power.”
Thranduil’s arrogant posture crumbled as he lowered his head. “Nay, forgive me Rúmil of Lórien, I spoke in haste and did not mean to be discourteous but our errand is now a matter of life and death. My wife and ward were set upon by orcs, whilst journeying to seek your Lady’s council. Their wounds are grievous and we have no time to tarry.”
“Then come, Aran Thranduil. The Lord and Lady await; all will be done to save Bereth Líawen and Anaríel Nimrodeliel.
***************
Thranduil paced the balcony of the talon. His eyes turned inward, seeing nothing of the beauty of the woodland city about him. Within, Ancalimón strove feverishly alongside Lórien’s best healers and the Lady Galadriel herself to pull Líawen back from the brink of death.
Legolas sat with Anaríel, watching and waiting to see if the elleth would rally against the poison racing through her veins.
A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You should get some sleep cousin. All that can be done for the both of them has been done. All that is left for us is to wait—and hope.”
“What, not pray?” Thranduil turned to face his cousin.
Celeborn smiled sadly. “I never took you for religious, just the opposite in fact if memory serves aright.”
“I have more to lose now.”
“Aye, as do we all. Come.” The Lord of Lórien laid his arm across the shoulders of Lasgalen’s King.
***************
For several days, Anaríel drifted in the grey lands between life and death. For some reason she did not wish to open her eyes, but could not recall why. It seemed far safer to lie still, wrapped in warmth and comfort.
Finally, her eyes focused of their own accord. Her left hand clasped in a warm grasp, she let her eyes travel up her arm to find Legolas sitting beside her. He looked pale and weary in a way she had never seen before. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his cheeks were hollow.
Noticing Anaríel was awake, he turned his gaze upon her. Anaríel gasped. His eyes were red and raw as if from weeping long and hard. Her heart slammed in her chest as memory came flooding back.
“Naneth! Where? How, how is Naneth?”
Legolas lowered his head, his hand tightening around hers.
“Le’las! How is Naneth?” she begged, tears forming.
Legolas shuddered but raised his head, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. “She—she is gone.” He choked, sounding as lost and bewildered as a child.
Anaríel closed her eyes as the inexplicable horror of it all settled. “When,” she whispered.
“A few hours ago. They tried—everything possible was done. Her, her wounds were just--.”
“My fault,” Anaríel cried bitterly, “all my fault! If it were not for me, Naneth would still be alive.”
Legolas blinked, shaking his head. “No Arí, you must not say that; it is not true.”
“Yes it is!”
Anaríel’s cry rang throughout the talon. Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged concerned looks. Thranduil raised grief numbed eyes. Stiffly he rose, shuffling towards the Anaríel’s door. The Lord and Lady rose, following.
They found Anaríel weeping hysterically in Legolas’ arms, the Prince too grief stricken to do much more than absently caress her hair as he held her. His eyes stared unseeing; unaware the elders had entered the room.
“If it was not for this—this thrice damned curse of mine, Naneth would never have insisted on bringing me to Lórien. We would still be home in Lasgalen. We would all be safe. We would all still be a family. It should have been me. It should have been me!”
Legolas’ eyes focused at that. “What should have been you?”
The distraught elleth cried weakly pummeling Legolas’ chest with her good arm. “I should have been the one. I should have died in her stead! Why not me? Valar, why not me?”
“Nay! I will hear no more of this!” Thranduil gasped harshly, snapping out of his grief. Swiftly he strode to the bed, taking the elleth’s face in his hands.
“You are alive by the grace of Eru and I take particular consolation in that fact. Líawen’s death is not your fault. It is no ones—fault. She made her own decisions because she loved you and could not bear standing by while you were in torment.
“You almost got yourself killed fighting to save her life—do not think Legolas and I do not know it—not for a moment. You are brave, and fought valiantly for your Queen and you have my unending thanks—my undying love.
“Lalaith,” he paused, choking on his own tears. Anaríel raised her eyes to his. “You are my beloved Lalaith—the daughter we—I—never had. Never say to me or to Legolas that you wish yourself dead. We could not bear it. We could not bear to lose you.”
“But Naneth,” Anariel whispered brokenly.
Legolas bowed his head tightening his arms about her. “Adar speaks true meleth nín. You are not to blame. You must live Arí!” He shuddered. “You are all we have left—.”
For a long while, the Elves of Lasgalen clung to one another, mourning their dead. Quietly the Lord and Lady left them to their grief.
***************
“How goes it Thranduil?” The Elvenking raised weary eyes. The Lady of Lórien stood holding out a glass of wine to him. “May I join you?”
Silently Thranduil nodded, taking the proffered glass. Gracefully Galadriel sat next to him on the bench carved from the living roots of the massive mallorn beneath which they sat.
For a time they sat in silence. Galadriel, respectful of Thranduil’s grief, Thruanduil, not quite sure what to think or feel regarding the infamous elleth seated beside him.
For centuries, the two had clashed; Thranduil never once forgiving her for being Noldorin and of the House of Finarfin no less; Galadriel never once forgiving him for being her husband’s arrogant, overbearing, bigoted cousin.
The last week had revealed layers of each other’s characters neither had ever suspected. As a result, a grudging respect was forming between them.
“She still sleeps.” Thranduil sighed at last, in answer to the Lady’s question.
“Legolas still sits by her side?”
“Aye.”
“You have a son to be proud of in that one. You must find great joy in him.”
“I find great joy in both my children.”
“Anaríel is not your daughter Thranduil.” Galadriel cautioned gently.
“I have raised her from infancy. She is the daughter of my heart. She is the only daughter I will ever have.”
“You have done well in the rearing of her but now I must speak plainly.” Galadriel turned piercing eyes upon Lasgalen’s King.
“You and Líawen could have neither foreseen, nor prevented this day from coming; it was foretold on the hour of her birth. Líawen was right to insist on bringing Anaríel here; never think for a moment that she died for naught.”
Thranduil tensed but kept his silence as Galadriel laid a calming hand over his.
“If you had done nothing, the visions would have soon consumed her. Now, we must wait and see if her grief and guilt devour her as thoroughly.”
“And if it does?” Thranduil asked wretchedly.
Galadriel smiled sadly, “Pray for the sake of all of us that it does not. More is at stake than her life alone if she chooses despair and fades. She is needed here, not in Valinor.”
**************
Anaríel sat alone on the balcony. Legolas had left her only a short while ago. In silence, she turned the news over repeatedly in her mind. Legolas and Thranduil were leaving for Lasgalen on the morrow. The Queen was to return home for burial. The very thought was a knife in her heart.
Legolas and the King wished her to go with them but she knew in her heart she could not. She could never go home again, not after all that had befallen.
“You are pale pen neth. I have brought you wine to put the bloom back in your cheeks.”
Anaríel glanced up. The Lady Galadriel took a seat beside her. Anaríel ignored the wine.
Galadriel pursed her lips. “Take it. It is from your foster Adar’s own cellars. A gift of Dorwinion should never go to waste.”
“I do not thirst.”
“Do you not?”
Anaríel turned to the Lady, confusion breaking through the ice encasing her emotions.
“I would say you thirst indeed,” Galadriel continued, “for peace, for salvation from self-imposed guilt, for love—for knowledge.”
“Knowledge of what?”
“Have you never wondered about the Power within you?” Galadriel quirked a brow, “Oh I know full well Aran Thranduil deems it a curse and feels suppression and eradication are the cure for what ails you; but I believe you know better.”
“I know only that my—gift,” Anaríel spat, “has killed my naneth.”
“Despair killed your naneth child—yrch killed your foster naneth, your gift had nothing to do with either—never make that mistake. Harken to me Nimrodeliel. What is it you want?”
“I want to be left alone.”
“That we all want from time to time. Kindly clear your mind. Do you wish to return home to Lasgalen; do you wish to choose the path your naneth took and sail for Valinor, fleeing the truth about yourself forever; or do you wish to learn to understand and develop the Power within you?
“Three choices lie before you—three paths. If you choose the first, you may return to Lasgalen and live out your days amongst Thranduil’s household. In time, you would marry Legolas and most likely have children of your own—the wheel turns. A good life true, but the guilt you hold over yourself will never leave you, not amidst the constant reminders of Líawen’s death. In time, that guilt will poison your soul and all around you.
“Or, you could give up and sail to Valinor; perhaps to find peace and healing, perhaps to find undying bliss empty and hollow without having the one you love beside you to share it.
“Or, you could choose the third path—the hardest of the three.”
“What may that be my Lady?” Anaríel turned towards Galadriel, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Tell me true, for all roads open to me seem naught but bleak.”
Galadriel took the elleth’s hands in her own, “You can choose to remain here in Lórien and choose to hone the special gift Illuvatar, in all his wisdom, saw fit to bless you with. You can choose to fight the coming darkness.”
Anaríel stared transfixed at Galadriel’s hands. Upon one finger, a brilliant white gem flashed as bright as a star.
“Yes child,” Galadriel said softly. “I too know what it is to have a Power within so great, so terrible it can rend your soul. Long ago, I faced a challenge not unlike your own. I chose to fight—though the decision sundered me from all I knew and loved. Stand with me, and we will battle the Shadow together.”
***************
Legolas rode beside his father, his heart heavy. They were returning to Lasgalen, but never had he dreaded a homecoming as he dreaded this. He was leaving behind two people he loved more than life itself, one to Mandos, the other seemingly to guilt and grief. The enormity of it all threatened to break his spirit.
Eyes blind to the woodlands of his home, he replayed the scene of the night before in his mind. Lost in memory he saw it all as if it were happening over again. He and Anaríel stood alone by a curious stone basin placed beside a running stream. Repeatedly he begged her to come with them on the morrow.
“Nay Le’las,” she sighed heavily. “My place now is here.”
“How can you say that?” Legolas cried. “Your home is Lasgalen. Your place is with me! I beg you Arí, after all we have been through--”
“Le’las, do not do this, I beg you.”
“Then explain to me, for I do not understand. Nay, I cannot understand! Do you no longer love me?”
Anaríel smiled sadly raising her hand to cup his cheek. “Listen to me Prince of Lasgalen, my shining one, I love you more than life itself. You will always be my beloved, my heart. But while Shadow lies over Lasgalen, while yrch and fell creatures foul its fair woodlands, I cannot return home.”
Legolas gasped unable to comprehend, her words a blow to his heart unlike any other.
Anaríel ran her hand through the Elf’s silken hair. “Please beloved, try to understand. I am not rejecting you, nor am I turning my back on Ada, this is not about you—this is about me. I must learn who I am. I must learn about this Power within me; not because to ignore it means to be devoured by it, but because it is a gift—a force to be used for good.
“Lady Galadriel believes she can teach me to hone this Power; that it can be used as a weapon against the Shadow. Naneth will not have died in vain, I owe that to her, and to Adar—and to you—to try; to become who I am destined to be. I cannot do that in Lasgalen—there are too many memories.”
“But will you never come home to me?”
“I did not say that. I said only that while the Shadow lingers over Lasgalen, I will remain here—to fight.”
Legolas bowed his head, “and what of us?”
Anaríel stroked his cheek. “Our love will never fade. You are and always will be my Le’las—the other half of my soul. Dark times come beloved. We both shall be called upon to give more of ourselves than we think we have to give—to be far more than we think we are. Our love for one another shall be our strength—the one thing the Shadow cannot take from us. Believe in us—we will stand together and see a day dawn without Shadow.”
Legolas gazed long upon the maiden he had known all his life, taking in every minute detail and branding them to his heart. Reaching up he buried his hands in her hair, noticing the strands at her temples were turning silver and gleamed in the starlight. At last, he drew a shaky breath.
“Is this what your Power tells you?”
Anaríel smiled radiantly, “No, meleth nín, it is what my heart tells me.” Reaching up she kissed Legolas long and lingering, a kiss as sweet and pure as joy.
End of Book One
To be continued in Book Two.
elleth/ellyth (pl): female elf
ellon/ellyn (pl): male elf
galad nen: bright one
meleth nín: my love
ion nín: my son
Naugrim: Dwarves
tithen pen: little one
Nórui: June
pen nethyn: young ones
Taur-nu-Fuin: Forest under Night—name for Mirkwood
bereth: queen
Híril nín: my Lady
yrch: orcs
noro lim: ride on
Ai: Alas!
Ernil nín: my Prince
fëa: spirit (Elven)
elu nín: my heart
fëa nín: my spirit
iel nín: my daughter
Aran nín: my King
Hír nín: my Lord
pen neth: young one
Nai elen síla lumenn’omentielvo: May a star shine on the hour of our meeting.
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