In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past

In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present

Tanesa Etaleshya

My Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Rating: NC 17
Summary: They are on the very doorsteps of Imladris and a new life for Legolas, but will he find happiness in Rivendell? Or will the dense shadows of his past dim any hope he has for the future?

Author’s Notes: Sorry for the delay in posting, but life got in the way again. By the way- Italics denotes thoughts, *~*~*~*~*~* denotes flashback and the return, and *~*~* represents a shorter time change.

*~*~*~*~Part 2~*~*~*~*

Part 2: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present
Chapter 5
Third Age 2163

*~*~*

Glorfindel carried the unconscious Sindar back to their makeshift camp where Elrond had been treating those who had been wounded and found them nearly ready to move one. They had only been awaiting the return of the blond Lord and those he had taken with him, and those that had been rescued.

Elrond watched with growing horror as Glorfindel strode purposefully down the steep hillside, tiredly slipping in loose soil momentarily before catching himself. But Elrond’s attention was not upon his friend, but upon his precious burden. The elf prince was sleeping with his eyes closed, his face pale, and the light in his soul, usually illuminating his skin with a dim glow, had faded perceptibly. Glorfindel picked his way easily through the sparse trees, and neither he nor the Imladrin Lord failed to notice that the trees were quaking slightly as Glorfindel passed by, their leaves shimmering with reflected moonlight though there was no hint of wind or breeze. Elrond noted it well. He could feel the change in the atmosphere around them; he had enough sensitivity to nature, though no Wood Elf was he, to feel the trees bow before the Sindar prince, saw the reverence this wood and that of Mirkwood had for the disgraced archer.

There was something about the younger elf, but Elrond could not put his finger on it as yet. From the archer he could sense not only grief, but a sense of age as well, and he puzzled over it. He knew the elf to have been born only a little over a century and a half before his own sons had breathed their first; however Legolas felt so much older. He had none of the characteristics of youth, only the sadness age brought to the deathless Elves in a world that grew old around them, in a world filled with mortal things.

He had come to the conclusion that it could have been a direct result of the continual struggle the wood elf faced under the eaves of his homeland, yet that did not satisfy the grey-eyed L H He also felt much held in reserve in Legolas, not only from the archer himself, but in all those who knew him. Silinde, an aged elf among his kind in Mirkwood, held respect for Legolas though if what Elrond had learned from Thranduil and some others was correct, that respect would be much misplaced. And still, Silinde had it, and so had others of the Mirkwood party.

Elrond and Glorfindel had both seen the nodded farewells and the bowed heads amongst part of the Mirkwood Elves that had marked the wood elf’s exit from Mirkwood and his father’s realm. He had seen the archer prince fight and he knew all of what he had been told by Thranduil and his advisors, little as it was, could not have been true; the reality before him from that first day to this day spoke volumes. He had fought this day though it had pained him greatly, and he had put himself between the injured and their attackers, this Elrond could not dismiss. Such valor and bravery did not spring up in the soul overnight. Nor did the sensations he received from meeting the Sindar’s gaze. Shadows there were in those green-flecked blue eyes, but more, of what that was he could not see for Legolas kept his feelings hidden and hidden well. He had seen the way Legolas held himself, the way tree and bush seemed to bow to him in all but physical motion and he had seen Legolas reach out with his hands to brush the ancient trees as if renewing a frieip aip and saying farewell at the same time.

He shook himself out of his musings as Glorfindel approached, and meeting the ancient eyes of his friend, he saw the fear and sadness therein and his heart sank. Glorfindel had seen what had befallen the archer in the dark, smoke-filled cave. He had seen him strung up with his hands bound above his head, the ropes haphazardly strung over an outcropping of rock. He had seen the orc behind the archer, too close for anything but one thing. He had seen Legolas’ state of undress, the dark-clawed hands upon his hips. And he knew. Their hearts sank with the prince as Glorfindel gently laid him on the blanket waiting for him.

They both knew the constitution of Elves did not allow for such a violation. Unfinished murder was what it was for their kind especially. Their souls, aged and immortal though they were, could not withstand the eternal memories of such treatment, so they withered, their eternal light fading until their souls fled their bodies to the cool sanctuary upon the westernmost shores of Valinor under the watchful eye of Namó and his consort Varda. And the two Elven lords knew, or thought they knew, Legolas was not long for this world.

They treated him gently, tenderly until it cane down to the arrow in his side. Elrond probed the wound and determined the arrow’s path, at this Elrond broke their tense silence, “He will survive this wound,” he pronounced, trying to reassure his golden friend that hope lived.

“But what of the other wound?” Glorfindel pressed, taking Legolas’ limp hand in his own and holding it, “can he survive that as well?” Hiice ice was bitter, filled with the memories of loss, of memories of friends lost in the thousands of years he had lived, and it was clear that he did not want to lose another before he had even had the chance to know this elf. The question had been rhetorical, and Elrond knew this well.

“Legolas,” Elrond gently shook him, now wanting him to wake with the pain he would cause him in order to treat his wounds, “Legolas?” Elrond turned to his ancient friend, “Wake him whilst I get more water and make the tea that will ease his pain.” He stood regally, tiredly; even his fortitude taxed with the strain of this day, “We will have to see if he can survive, my friend. Stay with him; he finds comfort in your presence; I have seen it. Perhaps you may help him through this.”

And so it was that Legolas woke from his tortured dreams to the radiant blue eyes that had come to his mind’s eye in the caves, the gleaming silver-gold hair, and the palely luminescent skin bathed in moonlight. It was to the warmth of Glorfindel’s azure eyes, the soft touch of his battle-callused hand that Legolas awoke, to the sound of his voice speaking in a tone meant to wake the Sindar, but not to startle him, “Legolas, relax, you are safe, among friends.”

Unable to hold withstand the weight of those azure eyes with all the light of the dawn, the Grey elf lowered his own to the image of the rayed sun embossed in gold upon the breast plate of the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, the moonlight glinting effortlessly on the shining metal, the glittering gold, the single ruby inset into its center sparkling. Legolas listened groggily as Glorfindel continued to speak, thought returning to him but slowly, the gleam of the armor distracting him, the intricate details of the designs embossed upon its surface in gold. Legolas admired the workmanship, the delicacy of the lines, the exquisite design and deemed it fit for the Elf-lord who wore it; though in comparison to his beauty the armor fell far short and looked almost plain. And Legolas realized that it was the same, or a dutiful replacement of the armor the Golden Lord had worn the day Gondolin fell, the day the Golden Eldar had fallen.

Legolas was suddenly very awake, struggling to sit up, his heart thudding heavily in his chest at the thought; the cascading weight of the accompanying guilt settling in upon his soul, a guilt that had returned to haunt him since he had first met the Imladrin Elves. He had failed them at that time just as he had failed their kin in the past. He remembered it all as if it were new as he stared in awe at the ancient symbols of the Eldar’s long-perished House.

Glorfindel renewed his efforts to calm the fallen prince who stiffened and sought to pull away and to sit, but the Eldar held him down gently, “Relax, Legolas, or you will do yourself further injury. Elrond returns,” he looked over his shoulder to the dark-haired Noldor, “He needs to remove the arrow, my prince.”

*~*~*

It was with a cry of pain fresh upon his lips that Legolas gripped the hands holding him down upon his shoulders as Elrond used a thin bladed knife to remove the arrow from his side, Lindir at his feet, his cool hands holding his legs. He could see Lindir’s finely chiseled face, his eyes brimming with concern. Legolas closed his eyes as the small knife moved within him again, “Almost done, Legolas. It has not done much damage, and I see no sign of poison. You will heal, my prince,” Elrond kept his voice steady, even as he worked, letting the Wood Elf concentrate on his words as well as Glorfindel’s touch, his fingers massaging the elf’s shoulders where he held him.

Elrond bandaged the wound and left the Wood Elf to the care of the Golden Lord once he had seen to the archer’s thigh. The rest was left to Glorfindel with the aid of Lindir, both of whom had asked for the honor. Elrond smiled grimly at the sight, and the growing respect he could see in the eyes of the others when he, at last, turned to face those watching. “It is not grave. He will survive,” Elrond pronounced much to the relief of the many Imladrins avidly waiting to hear of the Sindar. Much respect had the archer earned amongst them from the first day they had met unto now when Legolas had managed to protect many to his own loss. It was respect hard-earned but well-earned and the Guards of Imladris would not soon forget.

Glorfindel softly cared for the deepest of bruises, rubbing healing oil over the swelling blue rosettes and old scars trying to avoid thinking about the connection he felt growing within himself even now for the fallen elf, a connection he did not want to hinder. He felt an enormous surge of the desire to protect this elf at all costs, saying over and over in his mind that this would not happen again to this elf. This elf should not have known this pain, any of it, whether instigated in Mirkwood or in the darkness this night.

The Lord of the Golden Flower glanced up each time he finished a thought to the pale perfection of those high, crafted cheekbones, the regal set of the jaw, the flush now swollen lips parted to allow him to breathe. Legolas’ nose, even swollen seemed without fault. Glorfindel then looked away thinking, this evil should not have touched, should not have been able to touch, one so lovely and flawless. He dared not look into the elf’s eyes for fear that the desire and possessiveness would be open for the elf to see, and he wanted not to scare the elf from him. He wanted to care for this fallen elf no matter the cost to him. He would see to it that the elf knew love and tenderness. It became his personal mission, and when Glorfindel set his mind upon something, he could not be deterred, not even by Elrond.

The blonde Eldar turned his mind back to the task at hand when the fallen elf winced at his touch, a movement accompanied by a slight sound with an intake of breath. Glorfindel and Lindir remained silent through most of it unless to tell Legolas what they were doing, or going to do. By the time they had finished wrapping the wounds, the Wood Elf was exhausted. Tea was brought to all three of them; Elrond had added a few herbs to one cup while Glorfindel helped Lindir to put a couple of packs beneath the Sindar’s shoulders and head so that he could drink before handing him the cup. Legolas slipped off into a deep, healing sleep almost as soon as the tea was gone.

Elrond, from where he sat on the other side of the fire, saw the play of thought across his old friend’s face, an ability bred through long acquaintance. He smiled to himself, pleased that Legolas had brought fire and warmth to a heart he had despaired would never find comonshonship and that Glorfindel had the chance to return it in kind. Yet he was saddened at the same time for he sensed that all would not be easy or well with the fallen elf, for the elf in question, or for Glorfindel. He would support them however he could and to whatever end.

He thought back to the last few days, the harsh reserve of the Wood Elf, his perpetual silence and his enforced estrangement from all others and his troubled thoughts swirled.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* (flashback)

That first night Legolas had been in the company of the Imladrins exclusively had been tense as the archer had not spoken once since they had left the river. They reached the camp their companions had set up in utter silence. Once there, Elrond had settled down with his healing supplies from a pack on his horse, gave orders for hot water while Glorfindel lay a blanket down for the fallen elf-prince and tried to help him sit. Legolas, however, deftly avoided his touch and sat down slowly, tentatively, trying not to aggravate his wounds.

Elrond saw the nervousness of the Sindar, and had asked for a tent he used rarely set up around the three of them to grant the elf privacy, all the while wondering what kind of life had this elf led to cause such austerity, such strict reticence in an elf supposedly so young. He received a monumental nod of thanks from the fallen prince for the tent and Elrond could not help but smile in return, if only to counteract the solemnity in those green-blue eyes.

He set to work quickly once the water was hot, and he was left unable to move in the shock of the sight of the Wood Elf. Legolas’ wounds were many, the most numerous being deep bruises painting his pale, alabaster skin a mottled turquoise-blue and purples much akin to the twilight settling in around them this evening. Glorfindel assisted him in setting his broken shoulder and the elf’s right leg. The worst wounds to tend were those on his back, a ghastly lacework of cuts across his back and a few wrapping around to his chest, each red and raw.

Elrond, when the young elf first slid out of his tunic and shirt, had gasped at the hideous sight, while Glorfindel had been prepared, having seen them before- the night he had found Legolas on the river bank- yet still was he troubled. The dark-haired elf found words quickly with his rising ire, as he reached for the cloths and herb-infused water, “When, Legolas? When was this done?” His voice was clipped with tightly controlled anger building to a tempest at the Woodland Elves.

“The morning we left Mirkwood’s fortress, my Lord.” Legolas seemed the only one largely unaffected by the wounds; barely seeming to be affected by the pain he must have been feeling even with a touch as gentle as that of Elrond.

The following morning came too soon. Elrond woke to find Legolas had already managed to wriggle into his shirt, and was struggling with his tunic. Elrond was pleased that the shirt and tunic had dried overnight, most of the blood stains had come out from Lindir’s careful ministrations. “Hold, Legolas. I would like to check on you before you cover up again.”

“As you wish, my Lord.” He whispered, letting the tunic fall as he sat carefully.

“You push yourself too hard. You will tear open the wounds again, or re-injure yourself. You must allow us to help you for a few days at the least.” He fell into the same routine, the same tone of voice, he had used an infinite (it seemed) number of times in addressing his own sons for their impetuous, indefatigable natures and their ral tal to be slowed down by injuries great or small. The only difference was that while Elladan and Elrohir received his slightly annoyed, fatherly tone in the spirit with which it was voiced, that is to their benefit and with the love they knew their father bore them, Legolas received it as a rebuke. Elrond admonished himself inwardly for his mistake, and tried to smooth over the unintentional misunderstanding with a soft smile, but Legolas did not raise his eyes so Elrond sighed as he sat down cross-legged upon the thin blankets beneath them even as he abruptly stiffened in response to what Legolas then said.

“I will do as you say, my Lord Elrond.” His voice was soft, the same harsh resignation echoed in his tone, a tone that seemed to sap the life out of the air the elf lords were breathing. Glorfindel, awake beside them shivered in the effect of that voice then looked to Elrond as the fallen elf refused to raise his gaze from the ground between the two elder elves. Elrond shook his head slightly, then began his task.

It was an effort to get the elf to ride a horse that day, but when Elrond raised his voice and ordered the young elf to do as he was told, he bowed stiffly and half-pulled himsontoonto the kneeling horse before anyone could aid him. Elrond shook his head and muttered something about the stubbornness he had obviously inherited from his father and walked to hwn hwn horse.

Glorfindel had seen only part of the event, but heard most of it, as he had not been far enough in order to miss it. He saw something the dark-haired elf did not, however: he saw Legolas visibly flinch and glance at Elrond when his father’s name was spoken, then promptly whipped his head around to stare at the mane of the horse as if unable to raise his head.

The following night, they used a camp the twin sons of Elrond frequented while out on their hunts this side of the mountain. Legolas’ wounds had been cared for and he was sitting as far away from the two lords as he could in the tent sipping the tea he had been given, sitting in what seemed to Elrond an uncomfortable silence, but Legolas seemed unaffected; in fact, he seemed quite accustomed to life without speech. He spoke only when asked a question or spoken to. He did not meet their eyes, and bowed his head to them more often than Elrond could tolerate, and he found himself grinding his teeth, an old habit he had tht lot lost when Elladan and Elrohir had ceased most of their troublemaking with their growing age.

At first, Elrond had made a jest to Glorfindel about how it would be nice for Elladan and Elrohir at least to show him half the deference this elf did, but by the end of the second day he found himself almost desperate and he drew in a calming breahinkhinking of the years to come. He had tried everything to draw the Wood Elf into conversation, to put the Sindar at ease, but nothing worked. He kept running into the same great barrier, a wall erected around Legolas to shut himself out of the world around him though he could watch and see everything. The fallen prince was not uninvolved, but lent a hand easily and readily when he saw need and took no thanks in return; instead, he looked at the Imladrin thanking him with a flash of confused expression before he bowed his head and said something to the effect that it was his duty to serve and he should ne the thanked for what is to be expected of him.

In addition, Legolas seemed to put the other elves on edge when he was around; they did not know how to act around him, especially when it was much like talking to a stone that could look at you with blue eyes so deep as to bring the sea longing to the forefront of their minds, to those who had seen the sea or heard it spoken of, and a whisper of the future of those who had not yet seen the sea. Yet the veil Legolas wore as protection over his eyes revealed a little, enough to know the Wood elf carried within his immortal heart a great weight in sadness. By the night in the twins’ old camp, most of them acknowledged his existence, but acted almost as if he were not really there, as, in truth, he really was not. They could not find a way through the elf’s rigid armor to learn even the slightest thing about him any more than could Elrond.

Glorfindel, too, had tried, and failed. But he, unlike most, refused to give up and retreat. He chose to walk beside the fallen prince and keep alive a companionable silence, a skill at which Glorfindel had always excelled, his actions revealing more than words ever could. And in this he found some success, for the Sindar, too, spoke with his actions, and Glorfindel was quickly trying to learn the language only Legolas seemed to speak, from a simple nod to a short bow, a flick of an eyebrow or the dropping of his gaze. A gesture as simple as the way he held his hand seemed to speak when words did not. Thus, Glorfindel let the fallen prince watch him, study him while he did the same, both surreptitiously, yet both knowing the other was doing the same. He rode beside the Sindar when the trail’s width allowed it, and when it did not, Legolas wordlessly fell behind, his eyes upon the golden Elf-lord, his gaze heavy enough that Glorfindel could sense it.

Elrond let him pursue this approach without interference. The raven-haired lord had not missed the quick glances the young elf had given the eldest elf, and he dared to hope Glorfindel would not be rejected. If anyone could bring this elf out from behind the vast barriers he had erected to protect himself, he hoped Glorfindel could in his own way. He knew the elder golden-haired elf was as fair as the younger, and just as strong and stubborn. A good pair they would make, so alike and so different at the same time. Glorfindel would respect the elf’s boundaries to an extent and wear down the walls slowly, gaining the trust the young elf probably did not give out freely. Elrond saw it now as the elder elf sat near the Sindar without speaking much at all other than to hand him the tea Elrond had prepared or to make some innocent comment about the stars.

Later that night, as they sat together, after Elrond had moved away to find his own rest, he could hear Glorfindel telling him where they were, what this place was and an amusing story about it concerning the twins and one of their many hilarious escapades. Elrond heard something about Elrohir having set Elladan’s cloak on fire, and another story about how the two had gotten themselves trapped in a sink hole and had to wait for a week or more for someone to find them and by that time the two were at each other’s throats, each blaming the other, and when Glorfindel had found them, he had been so amused at the situation, he had sat at the edge of the vast hole eating while the twins argued, not even noticing him there until he dropped the core of the apple into the hole. He finished with a description of their faces, chuckling. Elrond had hoped a smile had been able to touch the prince’s lips as the weary Lord slid into reverie.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Elrond thought upon the archer as he watched the Wood Elf lying beside the fire, the way his gaze lingered often on the visage of Elrond’s Eldar friend when said elf had turned away. Elrond then looked at Lindir, and when their eyes met, the dark-haired Lord knew Lindir had not missed their stolen glances either.

Legolas, however, dimly heard the words floating around him as if in a sea of garbled, softly whispered conversations and he darted in and around them like some small fish, but never participated. He felt the ministrations of the Elven Lord smoothing a cold paste over the claw marks, the cuts and bruises before binding them, but he found he could not concentrate on any one thing around him, and so he allowed himself to float, the sweet, comforting song of the silver-haired elf, Lindir, filling his consciousness. It was a song he had heard before, long ago when he had traveled the Elven lands far and near meeting many; it had comforted him then as it did now. In his dazed comfort, he did not place as much restraint upon the direction of his gaze and so it fell often upon the Lord of the Golden Flower, drinking in his beauty, his memories of past glimpses resurfacing along with the same dry pull within his chest.

When Glorfindel had finished, a warm cup was lifted to his lips and he remembered nothing after that until the next morning when he found himself roused by the motion of those around him stirring in the early dawn hours, preparing to move on, for it was not safe to linger.

When he struggled to reach a sitting position, he instantly found a silver-haired elf he remembered as Lindir beside him, helping him to sit up against a nearby tree, “Careful, my prince, careful.” He fussed with a blanket around the wounded Sindar before he sat back on his heels gracefully, balanced there without any seeming effort while he prepared a tea, the water steaming in the cold morning air. Legolas watched him, watched his movements, like a dancer they were, smooth and deliberate, elegant, and Legolas was reminded of the Eldar Glorfindel, always his eyes were drawn in that direction. He tried to focus on the sounds around him, the occasional ruffle of cloth, the huffing of horses, the shuffling of feet of horse and the whisper-steps of elves. He then turned his mind to the song of the trees, dim though it was here, for the trees were few and had grown wary. He closed his eyes to the camp around him, closed his ears to all but the soft song drifting about him like a soft summer breeze. He listened, and the trees heard his silent touch amongst them as he laid his bare palm against the exposed, gnarled root beside him. They turned their song to him, and spoke then of the others with him, the fearlessness they had shown, and he, too, had shown. And then the song turned to the radiant Eldar amongst their number and Legolas quickly broke the connection, moving his hand from the thick root as if burned, but the song’s beginning hung still clear in his mind.

At this, the mind of the archer turned back to the first time he had seen Glorfindel of the Golden Hair, and the bright shining sun upon his locks, the gold thread woven into his clothes, the emblem of his House, a rayed sun, emblazoned upon his breast. It had been when the Elf-lord had been at his height ‘ere his fall that Legolas had first set eyes upon the Lord of the Golden Flower, and it had been then that he had felt the first stirrings within his breast, but had forced them down, stifled their warmth and replaced it forcibly with the coldness of loneliness enforced. For Legolas had known then of both his inclinations and his ability, and had made a vow to himself to forsake love for the sake of the honor of his sire’s House, his sire’s name and the name of his grandsire. Nor had he thought himself worthy of the regard of such an elf, a Lord and a well-beloved one at that. He had heard much spoken of the Golden Lord, and all was good. Lowly he had become, though not entirely dismissed from his House. An outcaste, yes, but not disowned, yet still no thought did he have of even friendship with Glorfindel then, and his father and grandfather would not have approved even that. He had been living in exile at the time, but still he held his duty to his own House paramount, and had quashed the early attraction then and there, and had not moved forward to meet the Lord, and had made no mpt mpt to see him again though in the same city they had been for some time.

It was only passing glimpses that Legolas had had, but the memory of his beauty had been ingrained into his mind and no effort of Legolas would remove it. The image of the Golden Lord was later amended as his tale had supposedly met its end at Cristhorn; his image and memory enshrined as the paragon of honor and duand and thenceforth Legolas had had a timeless purpose in life: to live up to the high-held virtues of Glorfindel of Gondolin and of Ecthelion and their then-king, Turgon as but three names among many who could have been labeled as heroes that day.

It had been with bitterness that Legolas’ childhood dreams to be remembered in vaunted song had been abandoned, for who would sing of the disgrace he was, and how could he live up to their great deeds? He could not, nor would he ever, no matter the sacrifice he made. Exiled was he, dispossessed, a wanderer. None would hold him high, nor regale others with tales of him, for he was nameless, a shadow to the great history of those of greater stuff than he. Yet within him remained the flame within his spirit inspired by the sacrifices made by those great heroes, and the flame never truly found its end, only its dimming in reality’s bright sunlight. He knew he would never attain their greatness, but he found peace within himself that he would do as great of works as he could while he had the chance. He would stand in his own life as they had, even if none ever knew. Yet his name had found itself in the tales of the older days, and there it remained if but muttered twice in each telling. And this the fallen archer took to heart and held it dear, for he was remembered, even if none thought that the elf they saw before them now was the same Legolas Greenleaf mentioned in the songs and in the tomes. This did not matter to the archer, that others did not know- that he knew was enough to sooth the tired ache in his soul, and that his father also knew though he may never admit the either the knowing or the acknowledgment that his wayward son had been named amongst those whose names were ingraiin hin history.

But one other had known, and had held him in high regard, and had, indeed, spread word of his deeds, his valor to all who would listen when Legolas had, at last, been allowed to return to the Greenwood in the heavy shadow of the grief that had then lain upon the Wood. The Wood Elf shuddered in the remembrance of that Elf, with the love he had born him, his brother, his ally, and his friend, who had now passed on into the Halls of Mandos and had done so because of his, Legolas’, tragic failure.

It was then that Lindir spoke, breaking Legolas’ descent into the troublesome sea of memory before he drowned upon the grief of that death, before he could relive that unbearable memory. And when Lindir spoke, it was not he words to which Legolas listened, but he mused over his voice, lyrical it was, like the song of bird blended with the song of water upon rock, natural beauty ingrained with tone and harmony. It reminded him of his lost brother, who would have been, if he had been given the choice, a minstrel and musician and had many nights sung to Legolas the ancient tales and more. In that light, Legolas was amazed that such an Elf would take up sword and bow and travel with his Lord when he should be a minstrel or a musician, if for no other reason than not to lose such a voice to the coldness of death, to bring joy to those who needed to face this peril. Legolas had thought that Imladris was a realm of peace and safety, a refuge hidden by magic and the power of its residents, blessed as it was with the presence of many of the august beings he endeavored to emulate in holding to honor even to the point of death. He had not thought that minstrels need take up the sword, for Imladris was not beset as was Mirkwood. The darkness had not diseased the vale as it had his woodland home. And he lost himself in the sound of Lindir’s voice, not much caring what was said, for, in truth, he had not listened at all.

When Lindir realized that Legolas was listening to nothing he said, he finished mixing the tea, handing it to the archer and sat back again to get something for the Elf to eat, a smile upon his fair face, “Your mind is elsewhere this morn?” Lindir studied the Sindar, the emotions swirling in his azure eyes unhidden for the briefest of moments before a cloud slipped back into place, but it had not been before the silver-haired elf had glimpsedret,ret, and tumult of memories laden with emotions. It was then that Lindir first recognized the signs of great age in the fallen prince, an age older than he could possibly have been. Lindir kept his thoughts masked, a faint smile upon his thin lips as he turned his face into the stiff breeze and inhaled its crisp coldness with relish. He leaned back against the packs nearest him, crossed his ankles and joined his hands in his lap.

Legolas, bewitched with the natural, statuesque beauty of the Elf before him, the fine marble-white skin, the high cheekbones, the finely sculpted chin and ice-blue eyes. He watched, mesmerized at the swirling locks of silver-white hair, hair almost the color of snow when reflecting the rays of Anar. He watched as Lindir closed his eyes and breathed in and Legolas wondered whether Lindir could sense the snow. Thereby, he hesitated in his response, but when Lindir settled back, Legolas then scrambled to apologize for his inattentiveness, but Lindir smiled warmly and waved at him dismissively in a distinctly inelegant manner, “It is of no matter, but may I ask what has captivated your attention so quickly?”

At this Legolas blushed slightly, feeling just a touch of warmth upon his cheeks as he hesitated in order to think of some valid answer, “Is Imladris in such dire need of warriors that they sacrifice those who should be given over to finer arts than that of sword and death, my Lord?” He avoided mention of his earlier thoughts, subsumed as they had been by the shear beauty of the voice of the silver-haired Elf with the lyrical voice and dancing eyes unmarred by weariness.

“I am no lord, my prince.” Lindir corrected softly, a flattered smile upon his face.

“And I no prince,” Las ras replied with a grim smile which Lindir was partially glad to see, “You should not title me so, please, I am just Legolas.” He then grimaced with pain as he forced himself to sit fully upright, his hand pressed against his side as if to press the pain back inside. He rode the wave of pain until it dissipated to a bearable level, then moved his hand back to hold the cup of tea in both hands, for his hands were cold. Lindir was immune as all full elves are to the cold, but Legolas was different, for his spirit was not as strong, nor his body, as that of the Noldor before him. He could feel the wind as if it blew through him, but he held back the shiver threatening to race up his spine to concentrate upon the Noldor and his words, the melody of his voice floating through the air, carried upon the breeze with loving care.

“And I, for one, do pursue other interests when I am at home, but few enough are there left of us that we all must share in the duty to protect our homes.” Lindir finally answered, meeting the green-flecked eyes of the fallen prince and holding them as long as he could bear the weight of such a gaze. It was Legolas that saved him when he broke the silence between them.

“You sing, and play the lyre, do you not?” Legolas changed the subject, intent on a topic that would keep the minstrel’s voice light and not weighed down as it had become when the defense of house and home had been mentioned.

“You can tell that by what you have seen or were you warned?” Lindir leaned forward slightly, curiosity written in his features, the set of his eyebrows, the slight furrow between them.

“I saw the calluses upon your hands, distinctive they are, and your voice is of the finest quality, befitting a place amongst the Nandor, the greatest of those with gift of song,” and Legolas again turned to memory, but briefly, remembering the hands of his brother marred the same as those of the elf before him, “I hear the melody with which you speak though you do not sing. The song is in you, my Lord.” Legolas smiled and lowered his eyes, leaning back again against the tree, feeling it reach out to him. He sipped his tea in silence, finished the last of its fast-fading warmth and realized he had much in common with that tea. The further he was from Mirkwood, the greater effect the cold had upon him, and still further would he travel. He looked to the west, the darkness slipping beneath the horizon and stared at the green of trees upon the hills and clogging the valleys and he had hope again to find respite and strength amongst their branches and under their sheltered eaves to aid him in the coming years.

Lindir was silent for a few moments, unsure of what to say, and fascinated by this Wood Elf, perceptive and observative as he was, and mercurial as water dancing between stones, “Many songs will we share in the Hall of Fire, or so I should hope, for I have heard of the talent of your kind with the art of song, and of dance.” Lindir smiled warmly, following the Sindar’s gaze into the west, “Lovely is it not?” He did not wait for a response he knew would not come, so he continued, “I assure you Imladris is beautiful, peaceful. I believe it will not be a hardship to live in the vale unless you deem to make it so, but even then the peace of the place, the very mists in the air are as inspiring as they are cooling in the summers, and just as contagious as is the laughter those halls have seen is the sense of contentment we find there.”

A swift gust of wind whipped the Sindar’s hair into his face and Legolas turned to face the northwest from whence the gust had come and felt the coming weather. To the Wood Elf, it seemed perfectly natural to be able to sense intrinsically the early winter snows on the wind coming steadily out of the north, its cold bite settling into cloth and skin. It felt refreshing to him, both the scent of snow and the bracing cold, for neither, in truth, bothered him even though he felt it far more keenly than should he. Too long had he labored in the snows of Arda in the winters, for Dol Guldur, its evil and that of others before, did not allow the seasons’ passing to dim or slow their amons ons for the darkening wood. Thus, Legolas had not been spared his relentless defenses even in the deepest of snows. And so he was surprised to hear the elves behind them wondering about the possibility of good weather for the crossing of the mountains, and he could not help but speak, “It will snow before this day has passed, my Lords,” quietly had he spoken, yet most heard him.

It was then that Lindir spoke again, Legolas’ cup refilled, steaming in his hands which he promptly handed to the Wood elf, “You can smell the snow, then?”

“Smell? Nay, I feel it as one feels the wind upon your face. It just is. I feel it in the cold, the moisture in the air, and the trees, they speak of its coming.” He held the cup securely, concentrating on sipping the hot liquid tasting of peppermint and spices he could not name. It was refreshing and filled his body with a warmth he was lacking. He remained staring into the west, avoiding the sight of Lindir, the distracting joy in his eyes, the playful tilt of his lips.

Lindir mused, then rose, only to settle in beside Legolas, leaning against the same tree, “And do the trees speak of how hard the storm will be?”

“Nay, only that it comes. Its depth does not bother them, only gives a promise of the spring that will follow. I, on the other hand, feel the strength of the storm. We must prepare for a difficult journey; we will not be able to stop until we have crossed the summit fully and have descended again.”

*~*~*

The remainder of their journey passed without event, though they had passed through snow and wind the like of which the Imladrins rarely knew in their protected vale. For Legolas, the journey was arduous, so far from his homeland and in pain of heart and body; the chill settled into his bones, and aggravated the ache in his chest. Miserable he was, his tunic and shirt frozen against the wound in his chest, his leggings wet with the snow that melted upon his legs, soaking through the bandage upon his thigh. He tried to concentrate upon the movement of the horse beneath him, the steady rhythm of its gait, the lurching steps it took through the deepening snow, then the gentle swagger once rea reached lower heights. He found himself attentively listening to the sound of wet leather rubbing wet leather, the sound of the horses’ frosted breath and the sight of it pluming before their nostrils, but nothing could detract from the growing loneliness, the distance between him and his home. He was amongst elves he knew, but strangers were they still to him. He found himself leaning back upon the warm chest of the elf behind him in an effort to keep his tunic and shirt warm and unfrozen, for his back had not yet fully healed, but when it was Glorfindel with whom he rode, as it was frequently, he leaned back more tentatively and for another reason.

Yet, soon enough, Legolas found himself staring intently at the beauty of this secluded vale, in awe of its solemn grace and of its warm promise of welcome even in the swirling eddies of snow from the winter storm. He heard the chatter of birds wintering in the protected valley in places around him, starkly out of place with the silencing blanket of low-hanging clouds and the hushing nature of snow. He also heard the whisper of tree and living things all rushing in his ears, their excitement plain enough for him to know they bid him welcome to this realm. The trees here were open, less wary as those in Mirkwood, far less scarred with battle and the fight to remain free of shadow and the encroaching poisoning darkness. These welcomed him as no tree in Mirkwood had welcomed strangers in many centuries. Their eagerness surprised him, even knowing the safety of the valley. Few from Mirkwood there were who had ventured to the refuge of Imladris, and none of those, it seemed, had had the ability to hear as he heard, or speak as he spoke with the ‘unspeaking’ world, for none had within them the blood of the Nandor, the Green Elves, the elves closest in kin to the world of plant, tree, bird and beast, as he had within him- the legacy of his mother. And thus, he found them striving to hear his voice amongst them, to bring new song to their lives.
*~*~*
To be continued…