Legolas ar Yende Beriorgano

Chapter 1 ~ Edoras

He was intrigued by this human, this mortal, who seemed to know so much about his kind.

He had lain there, mesmerised, as she had quietly sung a song to herself in Quenya, one he had never heard before, marvelling at hearing that ancient tongue spoken with a mortal’s accent. It had sounded beautiful, if strange, to his ears. He wondered if she had understood that which she sang. He guessed not, or not word for word at least.

The song itself had brought tears to his eyes. It told of an elf maid and a man who had fallen in love, and yet she had sailed west when he lay dead and buried in the earth. A lament on the impossibilities of such a union. Yet he thought of Aragorn and Arwen and their betrothal, and then shook his head. He could not understand how any elf could choose a mortal above their own kind. Not that he thought Arwen foolish by any means, merely that it was incomprehensible to him.

Her song had finished. She was staring at the fire, her back to him, not moving. No doubt she thought him to be asleep. He ached for her, though he knew it was not himself that thought thus. The tenderness and sorrow he had seen her eyes had overwhelmed him, and though it shamed him to have had anyone see him in that state, at the same time he could not help but feel grateful to her, not only for her intervention, but also for the understanding and kindness she had shown him.

It was clear she understood the significance of what had been forced into him. She had kept her distance and deliberately avoided eye contact, clearly not wishing to impose on or embarrass him, nor elicit from him a response he could not control.

As he had closed the door on the figure of Eowyn slumped in ignominy upon the cold stone floor of the corridor outside, he had turned to this woman, this stranger in his room, not able to look at her in his shame and rage. Averting her eyes, she had quietly handed him the blanket she had come wrapped in so he could cover his nakedness. Then she had stripped the bed, while he sat, slumped in a corner, feeling his guts turn and his head spin till he vomited violently and at length.

When he had finished, she had turned towards him, carefully keeping her distance. Neither of them had spoken. Then, “My lord...” she began, hesitantly, with a gentle tone in her voice. He had looked up at her then, and could see her eyes filling with tears.

“I have no wish to impose, or cause you discomfort. I.. I understand your...” She was clearly searching for the word to use. “..Predicament.”

He felt his jaw tighten and a scowl pass over his face. She clearly saw it too and dropped her head worried she may have spoken out of turn.

“If you wish me to leave, I will do so, but ... if you feel you are able, I would like to fetch some warm water and some cloths for your.. wounds.”

She spoke so quietly that he felt that anyone without elven hearing may not have heard her. She looked up towards him again, pleading, distressed. He nodded slowly not sure if this was a wise idea.

“I will return as best I can, my lord. Three knocks and you will know that it is me.”

She moved towards the table near him where she had thrown the keys she had used to let herself in to his room, then hesitated, realising she was drawing close.

“My lord... forgive me... I must return the keys...”

Her tone was apologetic, but she did not move any closer to him. He realised what she was asking, and stood up, wrapping the blanket tightly around himself and moved away from her. She stepped forward, taking the keys and as she neared the door she picked up the long knife she had brought with her from where it had fallen.

She turned to him once more, “Try to make yourself bring up anymore of it that you can. Bolt the door after me as well as locking it. Three knocks, do not forget. If you decide you do not wish to open, I shall leave the water outside the door for you.” Then she was gone.

The prince could barely believe what had occurred. His mind was reeling. His shame and anger nearly consumed his entire being. He was not sure he should let this woman return, yet there was something about her, about her demeanour, that made him feel that he might be able to control himself in her presence. Then he felt the nausea once more, and he felt himself falling towards the chamber pot, retching miserably.

Fuineth ran as quickly as she could to the guards’ room. She placed the keys back on the hook and the knife beside it. She hurried to the servants’ quarters, leaving the sheets in the pile with the rest of tomorrow’s laundry and grabbing some clean ones. Then she got a bowl from the shelves in the kitchens, poured water into a pot and warmed it on the glowing embers in the fire. Pouring the water into a jug, and taking the bowl with her, she quickly returned to her chambers and fetched a leather bag and a small, stoppered pot. Then she returned to his room.

She knocked. She waited, her breath held, hoping she would hear the sound of him unbolting the door, though half expecting to not hear it at all, nor would she have blamed him if she did not. Her heart burned at the thought of what had happened, and her anger and distress at seeing him, one of the Eldar, in such a state made her boil.

She was about to set down the water and leave when she heard the bolts drawn back, and the door pulled open. She stepped inside, moving away from him as quickly as possible to keep him at his ease. Placing the bowl and jug on the table in one corner she worked as fast as she could, pouring the water into the bowl and then taking out some dried leaves from the bag she had got from her room. She broke and crumbled them into the warm water, stirring them in with her finger.

She could feel his eyes on her, watching her, possibly not trusting her, and most certainly resenting her presence and her knowledge of what had taken place – of this she felt sure. She moved, with the sheets, toward the stripped bare bed. He stepped back, allowing her to place the sheets and a blanket on it for him. When she was done she moved back to the table and the bowl.

As the aroma of the herbs filled the room, he spoke, the amazement clear in his voice, “Athelas!”

“Yes, my lord. My father’s people use it, though here they think it but a common weed.” Out of the corner of her eye she could see him smile, though whether it was at the smell of the herb, or at the ignorance of the Rohirrim she did not know.

She took some cloth she had taken from the kitchens and began to tear it into strips. She then picked up the bowl and turned towards him. Her tone was shy, though sincere, as she said, “I would willing bathe your wounds for you, my lord, but I do not know if... You might prefer that you yourself... I have no desire to make you uncomfortable, my lord,” she ended, clearly not quite knowing how to put it.

He winced, though he was grateful for her tact. Then he saw that she was looking at him, at the cut in his neck, and then he saw her eyes flick up.. to his right ear.

She gasped and, before she could stop herself, she felt her throat tighten.

He saw the tears in her eyes once more, and then saw one brim over and fall. He covered his ear with his hand, and she flushed, looking down once more, realising she had made him self-conscious.

“I will do it. Thankyou,” his voice was thick and quiet.

She nodded and moved to the bed, setting down the bowl and cloths, as well as the stoppered pot. “This is some balm. It will help to ease the pain and quicken healing.” Then she moved back to the far side of the room and the fire and he could see her wiping away her tears as she went.

He began dipping the cloths in the scented water and cleaning first the deep cut on his shoulder, then the cut at his neck, and tending to his scratched and bruised ears. He could see her turn away and flinch in distress at his sharp intakes of breath at the pain when he touched any one of these places. She had understood the significance of the ears then. And she was using athelas. She was no ordinary Rohirrim, clearly.

Her voice broke the silence, “My lord. Forgive me if I seem over bold, but..” Her voice fell quiet once more, her back still to him. He waited. “I am afraid that she may yet try to come again. I know you are a worthy warrior, I am sure, but..” She paused once more. “..You are not yourself, if you will forgive my saying so.”

Again the silence, as if she was trying to choose her words very carefully, and also waiting for him to interrupt her, perhaps in fear that he may be angered by her presumptuousness. “I know full well you may not want me here, and indeed that it may not be wise..,” she had that right, he thought, “but I wish to stay, if only since my presence here would be enough to shame her,” she spat out the word with unmistakeable venom in her voice, “from trying once more to... If you do not wish me to stay, I will understand, my lord, of course, but know that in that case I will stay, will you or no, outside your door till cock-crow. After then the servants will awaken and she will not venture outside her chambers beyond that hour.” She then added, “I am sure you do not wish anyone else to know about this, which is why I do not dream of suggesting I wake your friends to stay with you.”

At first he did not know what to say or think. Her distress and understanding of his situation was evident. He was bewildered by it given that it was coming from a mortal and a complete stranger. At the same time he had no desire to deal with a repeat of the evening’s earlier events, nor did he wish that this lady put herself to the discomfort of spending the night on the stone flags outside his door. He could feel the worst of the passion was passed, though its effects were still strong within him. If she remained still and quiet he may be able to cope, but there was something about her behaviour so far that led him to trust that if he found himself overcome she would leave, and leave before anything could occur. He could certainly understand her logic: if he was not alone, nothing would or could be tried, though he doubted the white lady of Rohan would return. Added to which, she was right: he certainly did not want anyone else to know.

She was half-turned towards him now, watching as he bathed his neck as he considered. She kept her eyes low, never looking him in the eye. He understood and was moved by her consideration. “Very well,” was all he said at last.

She silently nodded. She turned towards the fire once more, sitting on the stool nearby and keeping her back to him.

When he had finished with the athelas and water, and had bandaged his shoulder as best he could, he lay down in the bed once more, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the wall and away from the quiet figure in front of the fire. It was some time later that she had begun to sing, quietly and to herself, and he had lain there transfixed by the sound.

Her voice trailed off into silence. She heard him stir in the darkness behind her.

“You sing in the ancient tongue?” he had then said quietly.

She had forgotten his presence for a while, and had barely realised she had sung, or sung so loud. She now felt foolish. “Forgive me, my lord. I forgot myself,” she murmured, not turning to him once. “It is a song I learnt from my father, before I was brought to Rohan.”

“Do you understand that which you were sing?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Some, though in truth I do not understand all the words, but I know the story that they tell.”

He smiled in the dark: so his guess had been right then. “It is a sad tale,” he replied and he saw her nod. “And how is it that your father knew a Quenyan song to teach you, one that even I have not heard before?”

There was a silence. Then her voice came low, barely above a whisper, “He was of the people of the North, the Dúnedain, though he died long ago.”

He nodded in the darkness. Now he understood, or at least in part. The connection between the Dúnedain and his kind was clear and well known, as evidenced most clearly in Aragorn himself. He had wondered at her dark colouring too, so unusual here amongst the Rohirrim, but this now explained it and her use and knowledge of athelas.

“Try and get some sleep, my lord, or if you cannot, then rest at least.” She had looked towards him briefly as she said this, and for a moment their eyes met, though she had looked away as soon as he had caught her gaze.

He nodded, and lay back on the bed wondering at the compassion and tenderness he had seen in her face.


As soon as the first cock crowed she stirred. “I will leave you now, my lord. There will be no more disturbance for you this night, of that I am certain.”

He did not move. Then, as he heard her step toward the door and draw the bolt, he turned and sat upright in his bed. “Wait.”

She stopped, though she did not turn towards him.

“I do not even know your name.”

A brief silence; then, “Fuineth.”

She glanced up at him as he said, unable to keep the approval out of his voice, “A Sindarin name,” and smiled.

There was again a brief silence, awkward and yet pregnant, as if they were both waiting for the other to speak. She moved her hand toward the door once more and as she did so he said, quietly, not able to look at her this time, “Thank you. Thank you for your kindness. I shall never forget it.”

She turned her head, keeping her gaze to the floor, smiled gently and murmured, “You have my word that no-one shall know of what occurred here this night. You have my promise. Avo ‘osto. Henion, hîr nín,” before opening the door and leaving him staring in astonishment as she shut it behind her.


avo ‘osto = Do not worry
henion = I understand
hîr nín = my lord