After the Fall of Moria

Author’s Notes:
Aerilas’ line about the field of battle comes by way of a dear friend, who claims he got it from the TV show Cadfael.

The notion of elves soul-bonding to seal a marriage (or cause one), prompted a memory of another set of elves, and their method of soul-bonding. Wendy and Richard Pini’s Elfquest series has long been one of my very favorite fantasy settings, and I loved their notion that frequently momma nature needed to whack an elf upside the head to get them to notice a potential mate. “Soul meets soul, when eyes meet eyes.” comes straight from them. Of course, said elves are not always instantly smitten with one another, and even sometimes end up hating their partners. Tolkien’s Eol and Aredhel struck me as such a pair, bonded, but with little to no love.

*****

A bitter taste on Lalaith’s tounge roused her from her collapse. Her eyes struggled open, thick and gummy with exhaustion to see a glowing firelight, silhouetting several figures. A gentle hand was cupping the back of her head, and there was a bowl against her lips. “Drink it all, lady, for you should not be sleeping now. The blow to your head must be treated cautiously, and too much sleep can be dangerous.” The bowl pressed against her mouth, and she swallowed the draught quickly, trying not to wince at the stabbing pain in her head.

“Water,” she whispered, and her caretaker picked up a second bowl. Cool, fresh water washed the taste out of her mouth, and her parched body demanded more. “Please, more water.”

“Not yet,” the strange elf said. “Too much right now could be harming, no? Wait to see if your skull eases before trying to keep too much down. We do not want it coming back up.” He forestalled her attempting to rise, with a gentle hand. “Do not move yet, either, lady.”

“Who are you… where are we?” she asked, sinking back to the blanket she had been lying on. The urge to run was still strong in her mind, could it be that Maegil was right? They were finally safe?

The elf made a small bow, “ I am Taurin, a scout and archer in service to King Thranduil, and in this company, the best at herbs and teas.” There was a derisive laugh at the elf’s final statement, and he gave a small, mocking grin. “Though there are some who would claim I only know how to make things taste bad, I am not allowed to cook the meals. As to where you are, you are in the shelter of Emyn-nu-Fuin, at the edge of our king’s realm.”

“The mountains,” Lalaith said. “We made it to the mountains.” Her eyes burned, and she felt her throat close with grief at all they had suffered to get here. Sounds began to filter through her mind, the low voices of several elves speaking Silvan, the restless shifting of horses, and the crackle of fire. Turning her head, the soft blanket caressed her cheek, and the smell of pine needles wafted upwards. She was in a secure camp, if they had taken enough time to gather pine needles for bedding. She could see now that they were in a cave, a slight bend masking the opening, and the fire was shielded so no light escaped to betray their position.

There was one other figure lying across from her, and even with his head turned away, she recognized the broad shoulders and heavier frame that was Brethil. His sword lay next to him, cleaned and carefully wrapped. She did not see the others. “What about Maegil, and Thalion? I know that Thalion was hurt…” she stopped at the sudden expression of grief that crosses Taurin’s face.

“Lady, the two of you were the only surviv…” he never finished.

“NO!” Lalaith pushed Taurin aside and sprang to her feet. Her head exploded with agony at the fast movement, and for a moment the world spun crazily. She felt Taurin attempt to restrain her, and a second pair of hands coming down on her shoulders. She twisted away, tears streaming down her face. “NO! YOU LIE! NOT like this! NOT this close!” She lunged for the mouth of the cave, pushing past the startled bodies of several horses. She managed to pass the mouth, before another elf caught her up.

“Lady, please do not do this,” the voice fell on unhearing ears. The moon was only showing half its face, but the light was enough for her to see two fresh mounds of stone, four elven warriors placing the last rocks.

“No…Maegil…” her voice died completely, she could not continue. Brother…. Her body chose then to violently protest her recent actions, and she began to heave, her head shrieking in torment.

“No… Maegil… brother…” Her brother, Legolas thought grimly, hearing her last words. He had been finishing up the cairns, all which could be done in the mountainous country, when the entire camp heard the woman’s scream. One swift leap had placed him to catch her as she emerged from their camp. For a moment she struggled with him, until she saw the graves. All the fight drained away, and a moment later, she began retching, her hands futilely clutching her head. Having a maiden vomit on his boots was a new experience, and he quickly moved to support her shaking body, and salvage his footwear.

After she finally subsided, she hung limp and unresponsive in his arms, her ragged breathing the only noise she made. He bore her back inside, and replaced her on the bedding. Taurin silently handed him a bowl of heated water and a cloth. “I’ll have to make some more tea,” he murmured, and quickly moved away. Legolas wetted the cloth, and began to clean her ravaged face.

“I am sorry my lady, but there was nothing we could do for them, but honor their passing, and avenge their deaths. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil. What is your name?” Several long moments passed, and he repeated his question.

“Lalaith.” Her voice was flat, and barely audible. Her lips hardly moved, and she did not look at him.

While the first thought that crossed his mind was an inane bit of fluffery about how lovely a name it was, he knew that complementing her on a name that meant laughter would be badly taken just now. Instead he asked the name of the other survivor, and received the answer that he was Brethil, the swordsman. He accepted the bowl of tea from Taurin, and after a bit of cajoling, got her to drink the vile concoction. Taurin though it was a bit odd, but sweet, at his prince’s one-sided conversation with the silent woman.

*****

Beleglin arrived home to a fury of activity. Elves were streaming into the caves, bearing supplies and personal possessions. His parents stood in the great hall, the calm center of the swarm, each directing and ordering their subjects. His mother was in deep discussion with the healers, occasionally breaking off to give orders to the seneschal on a new crisis. Thranduil was speaking with the commanders of his spearmen and archers, laying out a defense around the caves. He looked up at Beleglin’s arrival, and gestured him over. Legolas was nowhere in sight.

As Beleglin approached the table, he could see the map was updated with counters marking the approaching orcs. Besides the ones he had discovered, there was a second set coming from the south. He noted the numbers represented, and drew in a startled breath. The fair threat from the north had become a serious incursion with the flanking army in the south. Thranduil had a thousand spearmen, and perhaps five hundred archers to meet this force with, as they had never fully recovered from the devastating losses during the Last Alliance.

“Your brother is delayed,” Thranduil said. “He apparently ran into a scouting party, and has injured which are slowing him down. His last bird arrived a few hours ago, and he was just leaving the mountains then.” Thranduil indicated a white counter on the map. “Barring further incident, he should arrive two days before the orcs do.”

“How many were hurt?” Beleglin asked, hoping his brother was not one of them.

Thranduil gave an aggrieved sigh, “He did not say, but then that is always like him. Ever has he been terse with messages. I vow, if Legolas had been at the breaking of Thangorodrim, he would have simply sent us a note saying that he was well, but his feet were wet.” Muted laughter greeted the king’s comment, for Legolas’ brevity in writing was well known. “Now, I shall need the details of what you saw.”

Beleglin and his father spent the next several hours going over his observations. Coordinating with the commander of archers, Beleglin would take fifty of the best scouts to harass the force coming through the woods, each orc falling would be one less to strike the caverns. The noon meal was brought to them, and eaten without either one noticing its contents. It was not until the seneschal arrived to deliver a shining pile of armor to Aerilas, that they stopped talking. Thranduil froze as she shook out the glimmering mail of purest mithril. “I do not want you in this battle,” he said softly.

His queen turned to regard him with a steady gaze. “You will need me there, and it is not the first time I have seen such. I do not want any of us in this conflict, but it comes to us whether we wish it or no.” Her eyes shifted over to Beleglin, who dropped his eyes at her steady regard. She turned back to Thranduil. “Our people are not soft, sheltered chicks, my husband, but many have never seen true war. They have not stood upon the field of battle, the blood of the fallen smoking off their armor, the ground turned to mud from the saturation of death. I too was at Dagorlad; I was at the siege of Barad-dur. As I recall, that was where we met.”

Thranduil’s eyes darkened, but he could not refute the truth of her words. Oropher had bitterly objected to his bond to the Sindarin sword-maid, demanding his son forsake her, but his father had not returned from that war. For good or ill, his chosen was not one to remain behind, and she would be a great asset.

**Am I not your Silver Lady? Your shield in battle?** she said softly, for his mind alone.

**Aye, my Mithwen, you are. Forever and always.**

*****

Of his three new acquisitions, the only one Legolas felt easy around was the colt. The young animal, now freed of its burdens, was one of the finest horses he had ever seen. It had developed a taste for lembas, having been fed upon the elvish way-bread for days during its flight. Clearly delighted to be part of a herd again, it eagerly tagged alongside his stallion, Clorhilol, who regarded the creature with supercilious tolerance. Brethil, the swordsman, was carefully drugged to permit him the best rest they could while moving. He was shifted from one steed to the next, for his injuries required the elf-steeds to use an odd, but smooth, running walk, a stride that did not jostle the rider, but was tiring on the beast. During his lucid hours, the elf had an awed look on his face, as if everything was new to him.

When questioned, Brethil had replied, “I had lost hope of it all, only to be snatched back at the very cusp of death. It is a gift, my life, and you have given it back to me.”

“Why did you head north?” Legolas asked, “Would you not have been safer in Lothlorien?”

“They were already full of refugees, they had no room for more. And… Thranduil led us safely through the siege of Barad-dur. After he took command, very few of us died wastefully. I knew he would be a safe haven.” Legolas was stunned, as were his men, that Brethil had been at Barad-dur. There had been so few Silvans that had survived Oropher’s first, fatal charge at Sauron’s stronghold. Thranduil had returned with less than a third of the original force. Brethil must have been with Magalad of Lorien’s forces, who had died in terrible numbers at Dagorlad.

Lalaith was another matter entirely. In the first morning after her rescue, Legolas discovered that he was reading her surface thoughts with ease. He hastily shielded his mind from her, both embarrassed at the contact and disturbed by it. He was not very powerful, able to influence the emotions of his people in small numbers, but he usually only heard the thoughts of his immediate family. That he could so easily commune with her led to feelings that he was not sure he wanted. The fact that her thoughts and emotions were consumed with grief over her brother’s death did not make things easier.

The pain in her head was easing, which gave Lalaith far too much time to think, something she had not done since the frantic flight from Lorien began. So many lost, her family, cousins, friends, lovers, all of them vanished or slain in the past few weeks. Save for Brethil, whom she only knew in passing, she was surrounded by strangers, with strange ways. None of them used bit or saddle on their steeds, the only trappings the horses bore were light packs of gear. Their tounge was odd, there was very little Sindarin in their dialect, she realized. The close proximity of Caras Galadon had caused most of her people to take up the Sindarin language, very little Silvan was ever spoken, except for intimate gatherings.

She strove not to weep, for it brought far too much attention to herself than she cared. Most especially from Legolas, their leader. Though he moved, spoke and dressed like the others, she could see the Sindarin blood clearly, and she knew the tales of the Mirkwood kings. Every time he looked at her, she felt uneasy, as if she was being measured against some unknown standard. Lost in thought, she did not notice Legolas, until he was alongside, his stallion matching the stride of her current mount.

“Pass her over,” came the quiet command, and she was lifted into his arms. Turning her head, she saw Brethil was also being passed to another mount, shifting the burden of an extra rider to another. It took a few moments to settle into his embrace, he was taller than what she was accustomed. For an hour, they rode in near silence, while she struggled to deal with her losses. An insistent, and discomforting digging at her hip, finally caused her to glance downwards. His sword’s hilt rode against her hip, and for the first time she noticed he was the only one bearing a sword. He followed her glance, “I am sorry, I did not realize it was bothering you.” He adjusted his grip on her, bringing her away from the hilt.

“Why are you the only one carrying a sword, Lord?” she asked.

“It is a gift from my mother’s kin. We do not do much forging here, and Moria is far…” he broke off as she stiffened at the mention of the mines. She could feel the grief rising within her again, when the words leapt into her mind. **Stupid, foolish elf! The last thing she needs is mention of that! Beleglin is right, you have the manners of a troll!** She turned, shocked, as the soundless diatribe grew more… colorful. How was she hearing this?

**How am I hearing this?** The thoughts stopped him in mid-scolding. She looked up, and for the first time, green eyes locked with blue.

“Soul meets soul, when eyes meet eyes, sometimes it’s just that simple.” Her mother had once said to her, and all thoughts fled as she became lost in his astonished regard.

The sudden effect was not lost on the other elves, as the enraptured pair were frozen on the stallion’s back. The change in his rider caused the animal to swing its head around nervously, and Taurin hastened to reassure the horse.

“A bonding?” one of the scouts wondered.

“Aye, and powerful at that. They’ll be fair useless for the rest of the day, I think. Good thing we‘ll be home tomorrow, there‘s not much to threaten us between here and there.”

“So long as we don’t run into those orcs, you mean.”

While all elves who married developed a soul bond, unbreakable even past death, it was usually done voluntarily, growing stronger over time. Lesser bonds also formed in families, between parents and children, and occasionally between siblings, most often twins. On rare occasions, the bond could strike elves with sudden speed, overwhelming the pair. Crisis was a frequent trigger of such acts on previously unbonded elves. It was sung that Thranduil and Aerilas had bonded such on the field of Dagorlad, a favorite ballad of his subjects. Taurin spoke softly to Legolas’ stallion, and Clorhilol smoothed out his gait to the running walk so as not to disturb his inattentive rider.

*****

“LEGOLAS!” Aerilas leapt to her feet, as the sudden wild shift in the bond between her and her son slashed out at her. Thranduil started at her cry, and then, he too felt something pull and twist at his bond with Legolas, but he could not tell what was happening, for the link with his son was not as strong as his wife’s.

“Aerilas, what is happening?” Fear was etched deeply on Thranduil’s face, for try as he might, he could not reach his son’s mind, and he was horrified at what that might mean. For long, terrible moments, his queen did not answer, lost in her drive to find her son. He gripped the edge of the table, blood draining from his face, as his son’s link continued to warp. Silence descended on the Great hall, all turned to the stricken couple, awaiting the queen’s next words.

Aerilas slowly sagged to the bench, her eyes wide with wonder, as she regained contact with her son, and discovered what was occurring. She withdrew her mind quickly, not wishing to interfere with such a private moment, and returned to herself, and the frantic gaze of her husband. “He is alright,” she said, holding a hand to Thranduil, who gripped it tightly. A joyous smile lit her face. “He has bonded.”

“Bonded?” Joy, relief and incredulity warred across Thranduil’s face. “With who? There were no women in his patrol.” He had seen both his sons off, and only Beleglin’s group had any women.

Aerilas shook her head slightly. “I don’t know who she is. All I got was the impression of green eyes, and a great sadness, before I withdrew. I did not want to disturb them.” She sagged into the arms of her husband, tired from the reckless use of energy. “I doubt he even knew I was there, though. The bonding seems to have taken him as fiercely as it did us.”

Thranduil leaned his dark head next to Aerilas’ fair one. Already the Great hall was buzzing with the news, and the air seemed to lighten a bit, as if this was a sign of good things to come. “It will give us something to celebrate, other than our survival.” He softly stroked his wife’s hair. “I’ll braid this tonight, I remember how you like it done.” The king allowed himself one last moment to savor his relief, and resolutely shoved it aside. There was still work to do, and reports were coming in from Beleglin’s strike raids. Time was growing short. He sent one brief prayer up to Eru: please, let there be love between my son and this woman, let him know happiness from this. He had seen loveless bondings before, in the cold marriage of his parents.

*****

Something had happened to Legolas. It took every ounce of Beleglin’s will not to leap from the tree, and rush towards the direction of his brother. The orc scouts were not far away, and they had grown cautious after the first strikes. If they were lucky, they might be able to strip away a tenth of the force coming down the river. Already two of his scouts had fallen to chance shots, though one of them was injured only. Had his brother been ambushed somehow, while bringing in his injured?

A soft whistle focused his attention towards the ground. Ten orcs were attempting to stealth through the trees, one of the flanking scout parties. Beleglin’s eyes gleamed with a dark hatred at their twisted forms. Nothing surpassed them in foulness in his eyes. If you’ve harmed my brother, I’ll make each one of you pay, he vowed. Ten bows hummed, and the orcs fell into graceless heaps, twitching with their death-throes. The elves leapt from branch to branch, moving steadily toward the next target, the thick woods ensuring none had to set foot on the ground.

*****

He plunged into her soul, feeling the howling storm of her grief swirl around him. She was there, in the center of the vortex, struggling to stay upright, battered by her losses. She reached for him, desperate for an anchor, and without a thought, he gathered her to him. He opened instinctively to her sorrow, taking it into himself, lessening the pain by being there, sharing it, soothing her. In return, she filled pieces of him that he did not even know were empty, awakening desires he had never entertained. His soul was laid bare before her, and hers before him. It was terrifying, exhilarating; the total loss of control of himself to her, and she to him. He witnessed the terror filled past weeks, rejoiced in the pleasanter times, seeing the faces of her family, a moment with a lover, all the things that that shaped her life. It was shorter than he expected, for she was a bare two centuries old. At the same time she delved into his memories, the carefree childhood slowly melting away under a growing threat, the tightening isolation of his people, the near constant battle to keep the darkness at bay, the enduring love he had for his family.

A hand passed between their eyes, snapping them out of their trance. Taurin was looking rather abashed at the interruption, and after a belated moment, Legolas realized that the patrol had stopped, and camp preparations were underway. “I am sorry, but Clorhilol was getting impatient, and I think he was ready to toss the pair of you off.” Indeed, the stallion’s ears were set in disapproval, clearly having had enough of Legolas’ unmindful treatment.

Legolas gently slid Lalaith to the ground, and she staggered for a moment, her body stiff from the prolonged inactivity. She braced herself on the stallion’s shoulder, earning her an irritated snap from the horse. Legolas’ dismount was not nearly as graceful as he would have wished, his muscles were taut with the unaccustomed strain he had placed on them. Clorhilol promptly moved off towards the small stream, every line of him broadcasting his indignation at his rider’s behavior. The colt followed, mimicking the older stallion, much to the amusement of the gathered elves.

“We met up with one of our inner patrols, while you were… occupied,” Taurin said. “There are more orcs coming than the ones we found.”

“How many?” Legolas asked, intent on the next words.

“All together, the king says three thousand. The second group is coming from upriver, using it to reach us at the same time as the army we saw. Two days are left before they arrive.”

Lalaith did not have to ask how bad that was, she did not even have to look at her newly-bonded. The elves were outnumbered, and facing a two-pronged assault; the information flowed into her mind with ease. There would be no escaping this conflict, now she would have to stand and meet it.