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?

By the way- Italics denotes thoughts, *~*~*~*~*~* denotes flashback and the return, and *~*~* represents a shorter time change.
Author’s Notes: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry it has been so long since I have posted! I have been away most of the autumn so I have not have much of a chance to write let alone post anything, plus one might say that I have had some serious writer’s block. It is not that I don’t have ideas for the story, but it comes down to actually sitting at the computer and writing it, but I am still thinking on the transitions. For anyone who has reviewed recently, I will try to reply with my next posting. I have the next chapter written for the most part, but it needs a little polishing. (‘Just a little’- what an understatement!) If anyone is at all interested, I am still looking for a beta reader. Can I resort to begging now? Oh well, if I cannot find one of you who is willing, then I will just have to do. (I’m pouting now). Okay, enough whining and on with the story! I hope you enjoy it after such a long wait for another chapter in this saga!

Part 2: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present
Chapter 7
Third Age 2163

*~*~*
It was with only minor difficulties that Legolas slipped into life in Imladris, finding peacefulness to reign supreme in this guarded realm, protected as it was by Lord Elrond, as well as the valiant and legendary skills of warriors such as Glorfindel and those who followed Elrond after the Last Alliance from the ruins of the former Elven lands to this carefully crafted sanctuary.

His admittance into the vale had been neither historic nor particularly momentous to others, but to him who had always been and always would be a prisoner of his own life (and to some extent he knew this was of his own making), it held both qualities in great abundance. His eyes were widened with awe and reverent respect at this vale, yet ever tempered he was, apprehensive of his reception, a Sinda amongst the primarily Noldor Elves. He was a supposedly backward Grey Elf of the dark amongst the light- filled Noldor at the very least descended from those who had beheld the Light of the Two Trees. Some here had seen them, had lived in their placid glory before evil and its results had crept into their hearts bidding them come east to their long exile. Legolas wondered what kept them here still since the days of their exile had passed; he wondered, despite the beautiful serenity of this valley, why they chose still to live here in august glory when they could be amongst the highest of their kin delighting in the joys of the Undying Lands. Legolas was certain, or fairly so, that he would have made the same choice, to endure the ravages of grief or to leave grief behind if the choice had been his to make.

Of his initial reception, he remembered little, but what little he did was of the many who had come to see his arrival. Faces darted through his mind as he had lain abed those many days, and he had not been able to remember the few names that Glorfindel had told him. Erestor only could he remember, unable to forget his sharp tongue was Legolas.

The entirety of his memories of those first few nights consisted solely of waking to pain and under the lingering shadows of the nightmares that had plagued his fever-wracked sleep, and even before, tainting the healing nature of his rest. He always woke to the seemingly kindly presence of either Glorfindel, or more rarely, Elrond and each time he was ushered gently, but compellingly, back into the restful embrace of sleep with a warm tea tinged with the slightly bitter taste he remembered more and more keenly with every dose of the calming herbal milieu, its taste at once repulsive but oddly calming even with the first sip and without knowledge of its properties. He could remember their comforting touch upon his hand, their hinghing voices speaking softly to him. He could remember hearing it, but he could remember nothing of the substance of what they had said. It mattered not whether it had been day or night, warm or cool when he woke, for he woke to pain, though its weight lessened with each successive time sense returned to him only so long as to eat a few bites of whatever was brought to him and drink the tea. Then, he would sink back into the sleep of those healing, and oft into the troubled dreams that had plagued him much over his life. He could remember the soft voice and tender touch continuing on until he could remember nothing more.

It was to one of these bouts that Glorfindel first bore witness on the day after Legolas’ premature sojourn around the room that had earned the Wood-Elf not only more of Elrond’s stern gaze, but an addition to his pain and lengthening to his days of bed rest enforced. Glorfindel had kept his watch in the cushioned settee beside the balcony, his eyes to the stars and his mind lost to memories long past when he had stirred from his thoughtful reverie to the sounds of moving cloth, tortured whispered pleadings in a voice so plaintive as to elicit even greater protective attachment from the Elda Lord. He had sat beside the bed as if he did, trying to soothe the sleep of the younger Elf with words of comfort, but it had been to no avail, and Glorfindel’s interest had been piqued. It was to his shame that he allowed the Wood-Elf’s troubled dreams to continue for no greater reason than his curiosity to know the depth of the Sinda’s grieving. He strained his hearing to discern even a few words from the hissing, half-spoken strings of words, but found most of what Legolas said was uttered in a tongue Glorfindel was not overly familiar with. He made mental notes of some of the words as he heard them, bent on perusing the library’s vast tomes and parchments for the clues of their meanings amongst the corpus of language parchments Elrond and the Noldor had secreted over the years. He was well aware that there were a few in Imladris upon whom he could have called in order to have them translate, but he was loathe to do so for he wished to cause the fallen Sinda no further mortification. He would keep this to himself.

Still it was painful nearly, to watch the fallen archer writhe about in the light sheets, his visage wrought with distress as his tired, distant mind relived moments perhaps best left forgotten. Watching as he was, Glorfindel felt as if he was intruding upon a desperately and secretly private experience, yet drawn to remain still and watchful only, for he wished to know as much about this mysterious Elf as he could, even if that learning was surreptitious. He wanted to help him; he was drawn inexplicably to this too-comely Sinda with the weighty gaze of one far older than he.

The next moment he had an opportunity, Glorfindel excused himself from his vigil, pleading the need to stretch his legs and walk around for a bit and not in a confined space. Silver-haired, fair Lindir was more than willing to sit with his fellow sylvan Elf. Lindir had voluntarily brought the Sinda’s meal and the somnabulence-causing tea beside it.

It was with some haste that Glorfindel proceeded to the vast library, his fingers quickly dusty from sifting through annals and records from years so long past that the brittle parchment and papers threatened to crumble at his touch, no matter how gentle. He knew little about how Erestor organized the collection, and it was more a turn of luck than any conscious thought on the Elda’s part that led him to the correct shelf near the very back of the dusty, dreary stacks stretching near to the ceiling in the vast room.

It was there that the dark-haired counselor found him some time later, on his knees beside the stack at the bottom shelf on which he had found the works he had been searching for. Erestor watched with unsuppressed amusement at the warrior Elda on his knees, dust settling on his breeches where the ancient parchments lay over his folded joints, a calloused finger running down the lines of spidery script, the Elda whispering to himself as he read.

Erestor crossed his arms in contemplation of how to best take advantage of the situation. It was unthinkable that any, let alone himself, could so approach the legendary warrior without having been detected. The opportunity was not one he could let pass him by without seizing it with both hands; he relished the words he would have for the blonde Elda for years to come, the biting teases he could dole out at this unseen providence. He moved back stealthily, his gray-blue robes making only the slightest sound as he moved backwards to where he could easily reach a heavy, thick tome of ancient poetry. He hefted the book in his hands, knowing the tome was recently repaired and unlikely to take any damage with what he had planned. It was simple, most likely immature, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He stepped silently forward once more, held the tome at waist level before he drew in his breath and dropped the tome. The precipitous thundering of the book against the stone-flagged floor so sufficiently jarred the Elda from his quiet contemplation of the sheaf of parchments before him that he veritably jumped to his feet with cat-like grace and speed, spreading the ancient records about the floor in his unprecedented haste.

Erestor could not stifle the raucous laughter bubbling ferociously up out of his chest, nor did he seek to control it. Instead, he reveled in it, so tumultuous was it that he wrapped one hand around his belly and leaned forward in order to breathe a few moments later, the image of Glorfindel’s face still engraved upon his sight and in his mind. The Elda had jumped up quite literally, his feet leaving the ground, then descended into a ready posture. His face had been set as if carved out of stone, yet still filled with some unbelievable amount of surprise the dark-haired counselor could never have aspired to elicit from the warrior of ancient days. Erestor had watched as the Elda had anxiously glanced with the second nature of his ilk as if searching for an elusive threat even though the dawning realization had already appeared in the Elda’s eyes that it had been Erestor all along. Still, Glorfindel’s body’s trained reactions could not be stymied before the damage to his pride had already been done and Erestor was nearly choking with his mirth.

Glorfindel straightened up, smoothed his tunic down with too-apparent pride, preening as one whose dignity has been grievously wounded would, his head held high, his shoulders squared, face impassive as the stone wall behind him. The sight of Glorfindel so disturbed did naught but further invigorate the hilarity of the situation.

More than a little angered, Glorfindel bent gracefully down to pick up the scattered evidence of his humiliating experience, saying nothing as the grey-eyed Noldo tiredly leaned against the cool stone wall to steady himself, still bubbling with laughter, his eyes alight with the delight of his accomplishment.

“What ensorcelled you so, old friend, that even I could take you so unawares?” Erestor chided him, taking full advantage of his success while it would last, “Never have I seen you so absorbed… nor so… flustered.” He broke of with a chuckle, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling cockily, fully pleased with himself. “You are getting old, I think,… or perhaps just far too… distracted, shall we say?”

Glorfindel stubbornly refused to answer him until he had finished straightening the various parchments and vellums he had had out to peruse. He stood up slowly, drawing out his movements with painfully stiff precision. He shuffled the parchments in his hands until they were in some reasonable order, then laid them on a bare piece of shelving, brushed the lingering dust from his hands languidly before turning to face Erestor at last. The Elda could not force his lips to remain lax as he saw the tinge of dark worry flaring in the grey eyes of the librarian and Loremaster, a worry inspired by the lingering silence of the golden Elda, and one that had been planned only in the last few moments, not before. Still, the effect was the same, and Erestor’s laughter had abated suddenly with the realization that Glorfindel was not pleased in the least.

It was a momentary worry, however, for he saw the joy in the Elda’s eyes and the smile just dancing tightly beneath the surface of his long-time friend’s face. “I concede, it is to be a draw this day,” he chuckled, reaching out to lay his hand on the blonde Elda’s broad shoulder even as the Elda mirrored the gesture, “You must admit I did well.”

“Aye, I will admit it,” Glorfindel playfully ground out, an angry growl belied by the glint in his eyes, “but I would that it was not repeated.”

Erestor laughed, “Now, what would be the benefit for me in my silence?” He lilted, deftly slipping out of reach of the Elda who ran after him, “It is not every day that a mere counselor may, dare I say, take the Balrog-slayer unawares and cause such a… an expression of dire concentration.” Erestor tried desperately to speak around his brewing laughter again, and to avoid the Elda in question as they danced between the stacks. Erestor continued to taunt him, living it up as much as he could for he knew it was only a limited time before he lost this cat-and- mouse game.

*~*~*

It was peaceful in the room to which Legolas had been moved once Lord Elrond had allowed it, and he enjoyed the quiet, if not the forced rest. He tossed and turned fitfully, but he kept his tongue and not a complaint was allowed past his lips all those many days, for many it seemed to him. He reminded himself that he should be grateful for the reprieve as well as the care and concern with which he had been treated thus far. It was not hard to remember this, since nearly everyday one of the Elves with whom they had traveled from Mirkwood came to see him, often two or three. They would sit in the sparsely furnished room sipping the tea they had brought for all of them and they would talk, mostly amongst themselves, for Legolas was reserved and quiet, but the company was most welcome, as was the reception he found he had in this vale. Their laughter and voices filled the small room with joy Legolas had only felt among his own soldiers back in the Greenwood; to some extent their efforts worked, making him feel more at home.

Yet, in his mindset, he felt belittled to be in such noble company, the Master of Imladris, Elrond; the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and hero of Gondolin, Glorfindel; the inquisitive and wise Erestor of Lindon, the silver Lady of Imladris and daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, Celebrían; and so many other Elves of legend. The songs of their making and of them as subjects had penetrated into the Greenwood before Thranduil had sundered all ties with the outside world, and he knew them well even before that, but none here knew this for sure. He could not possibly have known that once Galdor had seen him that evening, he had suspected, but said nothing. Even those humble Elves that had the noble distinction of being defenders of this realm who had come to sit with him caused him to feel somehow misplaced; despite the comfort they brought his weary soul.

Even with his feelings of unfitting ease, he felt some measure of relief freed from the dark entanglements of his birth and his life under the eaves of the Greenwood. These Elves here knew naught of him and it was somewhat refreshing to make a seeming new start, even in servitude. The curious glances he remembered from that first evening had been largely replaced by warm glances from the few Elves he had met and he was assured of a small promise of comfort and friendship and he was reassured to an extent he could not describe.

He took up his duties as soon as he was able to force himself to his feet, much faster than Elrond had wanted to allow him to do anything more strenuous than simply walking around on his slowly healing leg, but it had simply become untenable to force the young Elf to remain in bed or in Glorfindel’s room. He had, once he had the strength to rise again without agony, relegated himself to the floor of the great room, refusing to even touch the bed, quiet but adamant, his eyes afire. It was the first time the Sinda had exhibited such as this since his departure from Mirkwood. It was the first time he had shown some sign of life and neither Elrond nor Glorfindel had the heart to rebuke him for it.

Erestor had immediately found another room, and to that room he had shown the young Elf, only for the Sinda to refuse it as well. “This is a room fit for guests, my Lord Erestor, and I am no honored guest. I will settle to live in any small spare room, but give me not a room so grand as this.” He had finished the request with a near pleading tone that had immediately sent Erestor to arrange for something more suitable to the fallen prince’s expectations and found a small room at the end of the wing, a room in which they had a small bed, a single small wardrobe, a table for one, and a single chair. Legolas had insisted on bringing his own things into the room. Moments later, when Erestor had thought the Sinda would take a few moments to arrange his things, he found himself confronted by the Sinda again bowing before him and asking to begin his duties, and stating that Lord Elrond had told him he would be at Erestor’s disposal.

Erestor was forced to constantly search his mind and the house for something to occupy and satisfy the demands of the elf’s service so diligent and fast was he in the manner in which he attacked any task set to him. He went about his tasks silently, demurring to those Elves whose path he happened upon. He did not speak unless spoken to, nor did he attempt any friendship. He took to his small room once his duties had been finished for the day and there he remained unless he was summoned. He took his meals outside the kitchen in the garden alone. He moved about the Elven settlement and the house like a ghost, solitary, alone and mysterious much as he had when in the Woodland Realm.

Glorfindel, Elrond and others did not miss this, but the two Eldas who probably knew him best advised that he be largely left to his own devices presuming wisely that this was how the dispossessed Sinda had survived the years of his life, shunned and outcaste. Yet they did not leave him alone all the time, for they hoped to forge a change in the younger Elf and a turn in his prospects while he was in Imladris. For they knew Legolas would return to the Woodland Realm eventually. Glorfindel sought him out most often, making it seem as if their meetings were largely by coincidence. He would happen upon him in the gardens while he ate sometimes, knowing the Sinda could be found there at approximate times in the day. And while he was saddened that Legolas would at once set aside his meal to speak with him, he did not misuse the time. He would simply ask to join him for a few minutes while he rested in the sun, feigning either tiredness or frustration. Legolas would speak little, Glorfindel had learned this early on, so the Elda would speak in his stead, of his day sometimes or of others in the realm, or even regaled the Sinda with tales of his youth or that of others, each told with the distinct desire to earn a hard-wrought smile from the archer.

*~*~*

The first day Legolas was allowed out of bed saw many introductions and reintroductions at the evening meal to which he was brought. As dutiful as any host, Elrond himself led the Sinda down the cool stone hallways and through the delicate archways to the grand dining hall lit by torchlight and the westering sun. No murals adorned the walls in this imposing room, only intricately designed chandeliers studded with flickering candles and braziers wrought of the finest iron. The only decoration in the room apart from these and the wall sconces were the table and its laden surface. Delicate lace was the cloth upon the dark wood, the place settings matching the stonework of the house to the smallest detail, a mesh of interwoven lines in graceful curve upon finely thin ceramic dish and plate.

The greatest color in the room came from its array of occupants, old and young, resident or guest, all were clad in what seemed to the humble Sinda from the Greenwood to be of the finest cloth, silk of all colors and golden thread. It stunned him to see a room so bright with color, so accustomed was he to the sheer uniformity of dress color and style in the troubled Greenwood.

At first he had balked at walking side by side with the Lord of Imladris, but at a quietly spoken imploring, “You would not insult me would you by refusing that which is given freely?” Elrond had said with a soft, chiding smile and a warmth to his voice that shone in his grey eyes as he offered his arm to the still-sore and weakened archer. And Legolas had relented and had accepted the Noldor Lord’s help in walking through the darkening corridors as the sun slid to its nightly rest beneath the distant horizon, lighting the passages open to the elements in a last moment of fiery abandon.

Each step brought him discomfort as he forced his weakened, still healing leg to bear his weight, no matter how slight. His chest was still heavy, his breathing still pained, but he marveled still at the elegant beauty of the hallowed realm, each detail seemed ingrained into his memory as only first impressions could and with such permanence. He thought for a moment on this as they had walked, that he would remember these few minutes for the rest of his life and a small smile touched his lips as if in perfect opposition to the riotous swirl of emotions within his chest. He felt his palms heat and their moisture keenly as they strode through the chilly hallways of the first nights of winter’s long embrace, he felt his face warm with the blush staining his cheeks, but that was all he allowed to be seen or felt. Other than that, none could tell of the tense unease rippling through him to be so immersed into this dignified society.

Legolas had hoped there would be only a few in attendance, but when they at last stepped into the dining hall, he found his breath halted in his chest and adamantly refused to budge from its safe retreat. He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide as he took in the sight before him, the number of finely clad Elves in the hall, all of whom rose when Glorfindel was announced. Elrond still stood at his side, but then he, too, made his entrance when announced, the herald’s voice echoing musically through the hall, its fullness granted for all were silent and remained standing until their Lord had seated himself at the head of the table. Suddenly Legolas stumbled in his ill ease, regained his balance with enough grace to make it seem as if it had been nothing but part of the limping step he still bore, then fought to force his stubborn lungs to admit and expel the all-too-warm air within his lungs. It was then that he heard the unthinkable, at least as it was to him. He heard his own name announced in the same respectful and dignified tones as the herald had uttered that of his Lord and Master of this realm. He had heard his name echo through the room, seemingly languishing upon the air, the very same air that seemed thick and untenable to breathe. Even then, with his anxiety, he made his way to the chair left for him, following the steward with as much grace as he could manage in his present state. Hoping all along he had been that only he could hear the thunderous pounding of his heart, its own hastened staccato wickedly strong in his ears. He felt his face burning in shame and in mortification to be so singled out and so honored to have a seat so close to the head of this table. He sat quietly, his eyes upon the table before him as if in a last attempt to deny the fact that he was there, and in his stuporous ignorance of those around him, he failed to notice immediately that it was Glorfindel at his left. After a long moment of tenuous control, Legolas, at last, fought to still both his breathing and his heart, his hands gripping the dark arms of the chair upon which he sat, grateful that none could see them for the cloth of the robe he had been given to wear.

When he had calmed himself and regained control of his wayward body, the pain in his leg settled as well. He had not realized that in his anxiety, the pain had diminished as his concentration had been on something else entirely. It faded, although his chest ached with the effort of breathing, ribs still mending and bruises healing, muscles already protesting their use even so meagre had it been thus far.

“Are you well?” He heard beside him. He looked up with a start at the shining sky-bright eyes of the Elda whose attentions he had garnered since they had left Mirkwood; where he had expected to see perhaps a cautious regard, he, instead, saw a steady, solemn concern in the deep blue orbs, and in the set of his lips, the touch of his hand as Glorfindel reached out to lay a comforting hand upon his arm. “If you are unwell, I shall help you to return to your rest.”

“I am well…” he began, but at the cautioning expression and a half-raised golden eyebrow, he added, “enough. I wish to remain.” He saw the tweaking of the Elda’s finely honed lips as he amended his reply. Heartened by the smile and the easy nature of the atmosphere between the Elda and himself, he sat straighter in his seat, held his shoulders high, his determination setting in that he should not show weakness to any here. He was an Elf. He was a warrior of Mirkwood, and while he bore no pride in himself at that moment, his pride swelled to see that he was the only Elf of Mirkwood heritage to sit here this night, and he knew well enough that his kin had not oft sat in such company, for the Noldor were not well thought of in Thranduil’s realm. Old disagreements and lingering feuds still held the Elven kin at odds, and while Legolas saw reason for both sides to remain wary, he saw himself as the emissary of his kinsmen here, and he would not, could not, be but strength and pride embodied before these gathered here.

He had sat in his seat, at first cowed and shamed to be accorded such honor being named ‘Legolas of the Woodland Realm’ and announced, seated amongst such company as he did then he felt very much out of place and ill at ease for being so mislocated. But this was released soon enough. He looked around those seated, listened for the first time to the gentle murmur of voices weaving through the ether around him and he found not a few to glance in his direction. He had feared that those glances would hold recrimination and distaste, quite the contrary; he found them more limned with curiosity and wonder than the baser reaction he had expected. It had been an expectation long-bred into him over many a year listening to the tales told under the eaves of the Greenwood, and though its age was fair, it was not hard to shed. He had known the Noldor before, had lived amongst them. Then, as now, he had found his welcome. He breathed then a sigh of relief; that things between the Elven kin had not changed so much.

The company had not been decreased as the introductions were made further along the table. Legolas did not recognize the faces, but he surely did know some of the names. Legolas stood carefully so as not to stir the wounds he still bore, and bowed to each named Elf in turn, his hand upon his heart out of respect, his face a mask, his voice soft and warm. Even as he made note of the welcome in their voices, the cordiality in their eyes, the dishonor of being haled to their table rang a sour, bitter note within his breast, yet he bore it all for he would bring no further shame by belittling his host’s graciousness but, inside, he knew that he could not sit so amongst them again until he had earned this right. He hid this well under the mask he wore. He felt torn within that he yearned for this company, yet denied the fullness of its pleasure as he condemned himself to undeserving liminality. He did not realize that, in their minds, he already had through his selfless valour and his willingness to protect them at all costs well evidenced on the journey and before entering the darkening wood that was his home.

The evening passed without further event as Legolas sat quietly at the side of Glorfindel, with Lindir at his right. It occurred to him early on that he had been so placed for his comfort, not out of his position, for he rememberedl thl that he had not been introduced as the son of Thranduil, but by the simple title he had used most often in his life: Legolas of the Woodland Realm. It was a simple title, but not without its implications, fatherless, generic and with little or no status. Yet, he was reassured when he looked at the Elves across the table as they spoke to him genially that no thoughts upon these lines registered in their old eyes and their fair faces, nor did he find an echo of these dim thoughts in their voices. Once so encouraged, he did not refrain from speaking, and his breathing had much eased once the wary heaviness of his heart had lifted.

He could sense the presence of the Elda at his left, could feel his close warmth as if it reached out to him, and he marveled at this, thinking for a dazed moment of the sensation that had washed through him when Glorfindel had placed his hand atop Legolas’ own. He had felt nothing of its like before. A connection had been made then, and he could still sense it even now as he saw Glorfindel glance at him once in a while, his own voice hearty and musical to the trained ears of the Wood Elf, a voice easily separable from all those others ringing through the hall, and not distinguished simply by proximity. It was more than that, and Legolas’ heart sped up just at the thought. Quickly upon the heels of such emotiveness, he drew back from thoughts traveling upon that unseen much desired path, reigning in the longing when the reality of the situation fell back upon his too-resilient heart. He sat straighter once again, focusing his attention on the conversation around him, stringing his thoughts along back to safer regions and thus the evening passed, falling into the early hours of the night.

Very few took notice of the casual-seeming glances the golden Elda lord sent the radiant, if not too pale, Sinda at his side, and few still saw that they seemed a bit over-long in their duration and characterized by a softly glowing warm light from deep within the elder’s battle-weary soul.

*~*~*

Later that night, once he had excused himself from the company of others, he had made his way towards the comfortable and all-too- grand room he had been granted, but had been drawn away from his intended path by the sheer, ethereal beauty of the world of Imladris that night. It was the first time he had been allowed to walk on his own, and his first opportunity to see the grandeur of the vale and he would not let the opportunity pass him by.

It was to that same place that he made his way early the following morning, long before the House stirred. Darkness still hung over the valley; its last hold yet lingering even as the sky brightened to the east. He made his way down one stone-paved path cleared of the light covering of snow, then out into what was a garden during the warm months of the year. It was with relish that he breathed in the crisp, cold air, felt it caress him with icy fingers, its tendrils running through his silken hair as he stood there, immutable as a stone and lovely as the stars hanging above him. He felt their light upon him, no matter how dim it may have seemed as morning crept ever closer. He felt at peace. He felt… He could not describe his true feelings for they seemed foreign to him.

He sat heavily upon the light, white cover of snow that crunched beneath him, frozen by the cold temperatures of the night before, a cold that had not released its grip upon the high mountain vale. He was stiff and still over-tired, despite his rest of the night just now passing. Despite the cold and his lingering exhaustion, he had wanted nothing more than to watch the sun rise over the peaks of the Misty Mountains, his mind turned to the east along with his eyes, although he could not but remember the amiable regard with which he had found himself addressed, nor could he forget the azure blue eyes that had haunted his dreams with their opalescent, convivial and oft inscrutable gaze. The scent of leather, of sandalwood lingered in his mind, the scent of Glorfindel as he had sat at table, his free-flowing and elegantly curling hair still slightly moist from the bath he had only recently had before arriving to escort Legolas with Elrond at his side. He shook his head to clear his thought of the tantalizing distraction that the Elda posed for him and turned his mind to darker places, and fond ones as well.

It had been with the heavy heart of having left the only home he had ever known that he entered Rivendell life. Yet still within him burned the spark of hope that had flared when first he had set his eyes upon the legendary vale. Even then, this loneliness, this pining for the darkened eaves of the forest once known as Greenwood the Great was diminished if only slightly by the awe he felt for the Elven realm in which he found himself, and for the legendary Elves in whose august company he found himself. He had little expectation for the warmth with which he was greeted and bid welcome to Rivendell so it seemed all the more important to him and all the more reason to entertain a hope he had not dared to feel in centuries. He had slept in the rooms of Glorfindel of Gondolin and had awakened to the handsome face of the Balrog Slayer or to the Lord of Imladris and his stern expression each day to find himself treated as a guest not as the accursed son of an unloving King. In this he was divided in receptivity. He knew himself to be not a guest, but a servant, a servant come to serve a term brought upon his shoulders through grim failure. He, as any sentient being would, had so wanted to be treated as a friend, yet now, when faced with the prospect, he found himself unable to accept it with an open heart. And this division within himself caused his spirits to sag, knowing this would not, could not, last. His guilt would not allow it. And so it was that when he was, at last, given rooms of his own he had been distraught at their being fit for one of his station by birthright, not his actual station in life. He had politely declined the rooms in the guest quarters and bid Erestor, to whom he had been introduced as a Prince of Mirkwood, to give him a room of less grandeur, room befitting a servant. Erestor, though taken aback, had bid him silently to follow him to the lower levels of the Last Homely House.

He pushed morbid thoughts aside once more and thought again upon a land he would not see for many years to come bar some highly unfortunate occurrence of enough solemnity and despair to draw the fallen prince back under its vast eaves. He felt the warmth begin to suffuse the air, the scent changed as he closed his eyes. The sweet wet scent of Imladris faded to be replaced by scents long ingrained in his long memory, the scent of wet bark of beech and oak, of old growth and the clean, fresh smell of decaying leaves on the forest floor. He could hear the crunch of snow beneath his feet in the patches where it was able to fall through the heavy canopy above. He could feel the spirit of the wood swirl around him in ethereal grace. He could hear the song of the living wood, their mingled voices rising to meet the new dawn. He imagined himself there, surrounded by the familiar warmth and the familiar sense of foreboding, or waiting, of the resilient fight of trees long-standing.

Mirkwood would already be bathed in the early morning light, the rays penetrating the thick cover of the trees in places where the branches had not grown so gnarled and entangled under the influence of the creeping darkness. Even in the depth of winter there oft fell no snow or rain in any thickness or volume since the Greenwood had long ago grown so old and the branches so thick that much could not fall through its impenetrable shield but for trickles of life-granting water. He turned his mind to many mornings standing in the few remaining small clearings where the light of the sun could still slip through unguarded, his face turned upwards to the warmth flowing over him. At this thought he turned his face up, the first rays slipping over the snow-bound peaks and sliding slowly down to set the vale afire from top to bottom. He closed his eyes and waited for the sun to reach him, breathing in deeply letting the cold air cleanse him from within, invigorating him with its strength and wonder.

The very air here was different, sweet with the fragrances of pine and water. Even in winter, the cold was enhanced with the humid wetness that hung in the air, easing his breathing, the cold penetrating his clothing to bathe him in its wakeful essence. He opened his eyes again, knowing it would be some time afore the sun reached him; wrapped his arms about his chest and leaned back against the grand old, leafless tree that towered over this far corner of the gardens, its bright white bark punctuated with black lines where the aged tree had healed from some long ago wound. He felt its life beside his own; he heard its thin voice in his mind, its calming presence telling him of its peaceful life here under the blessing and care of these Elves. He listened and in his mind several quick scenes played out, young Elves playing, elder Elves singing, maidens sitting under its grand boughs. They came in no particular order, just vague remembrances the tree passed to him to ease his troubled, worried heart.

He breathed again, watching the sun’s light fall over the tallest of the buildings of the vale as he heard the first sounds of stirring inside the House and those surrounding. He was filled with a deep sense of peace, of restfulness here, and not all of it came out of the trees. The land itself seemed to radiate the sentiment, a passion for life and for living, and it was reflected in the Elves as they began their day, gentle voices raised in song to greet the morning. At no time in the last few days had he felt anything outside of himself but a serenity which pierced his heart with its simple grace, the feeling echoed through the very halls, in the voices of those few he had met. Now that sensation reached a climax in his awareness, given a reality to him that was palpable, observable and utterly memorable.

He sat quietly, musing to himself. He had heard tales aplenty of Cuiviénen, the birthplace of the Elves; and he could think of nothing else once the imaginative picture he had had of that mythical place had aligned itself to his current surroundings, the ambiance surging through him like a vital, dynamic energy tempered by the immortal reserve of the Elves. He thought no other place so akin to that place to which it is said there was no returning. It was said to be far off to the north and east of the Hither Lands in which he had dwelt his long life, yet he had felt it never so near as he had now. The only difference he could perceive between that image in his mind and that mythic birthplace was that Imladris was not set upon a lonely bay with the rhythmic wash of waves upon the shore to lull one to sleep at night and bring calm to the moment of waking when morning came. Still, the Bruinen here flowed day and night, its hushed roar reverberating calmly through the canyons, its rush the life-blood of this vale and its constancy of motion the heartbeat.

To Legolas, the similarity lay in the myriad of cascading waterfalls from the heights of the jagged, majestic peaks surrounding the hidden and protected vale, the white-foaming water falling from the rocky heights sent a misty, shimmering, many-hued rainbow of color as the waxing light passed through the valley bringing with it all the promise of the day and many days to come. The mist hung through the valley like a fog at first, before the day began to warm incrementally, but now what remained was set swirling fire as a stiff breeze fell down off the peaks caressing his rosy, cold-tinged cheeks and stirring his hair. He allowed the roaring cacophony to fill his mind, closing his eyes against the beautiful sight, content to know that he would be allowed the vision on more than just this day. He reveled in the sweet sound of water, the distant collective memories of Elf-kind in him was drawn in as it seemed a homecoming- a reminder of the first sounds the Elves had heard upon their entrance to life- the sound of water flowing, the sound of life, as in Cuiviénen.

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Fourth Age

Thranduil raised his hand in solemn purpose to call a halt. The elves all fell to silence as he turned his steed to face all those who were to follow him across the sea, departing Middle-earth for the Undying Lands. The King turned to face the cloaked figure of his disgraced, disowned son upon the horse that had born him from under the eaves of the Wood to which the fallen Elf had long been bound; the tie between the life of the Wood and that of the elf had been all that had sustained the Elf for many years. Once again, being so far from its protective embrace, the link between the two entities had thinned, weakening the Elf visibly, or it would have been visible if any had been able to see him. The dark cloak wrapped around him cut out all sight of his thin frame, his pallid face. He was nothing, had no name.

The black- cloaked Elf watched the Elven King as he made his way to the fore, looking out into the distance as if he were deeply pondering the journey ahead, the joy of reunion with his long-lost queen, and his beloved son. He had had thoughts for naught else save the hope and promise that they would be waiting for him. The fallen Elf knew this well, for he knew this Elven King well. He could see the longing in his face, written in that ageless visage with lines that should have been not there had this hope not hung heavily about him. He had heard in long-past years as the Elf-King called out in the midst of reverie the name of his queen or the anguished cry to his son and the sounds and sight had been long ingrained into the fallen archer’s memory as a dwarf carves a name into granite.

Thranduil then turned back to his people, his eyes darting to the nameless Elf astride the horse, unable to dismount so weakened he was from his long imprisonment and his faded bond with the wood, and the King began to speak, his voice harsh in the mid-morning light, “We will proceed soon, my friends, the Blessed Realm is not distant to our eyes any longer, and I can feel the light of that land already.” He turned to the fallen Elf, “But there is one among us who has turned against that light and chooses to remain behind, as his connection with this land is not come to an end. He chooses to remain here amongst those he will ever outlive, a servant to those who should have been lesser than he, but he has ever chosen to debase himself before mortals, placing his fate in their hands. I will allow this, nay, I command it that he should live according to the fate he has himself set upon, to be sundered from his kind for all time, to live out the endless years appointed to him as the debased, despised whore he has made himself to be. To men shall he be given over, to men shall he prostrate himself at their feet, and men shall he ever look up to as a servant to its master. Choices made leave his path certain as the tide that ever returns. Choices that led him to dishonor and disgrace too great to overlook. In his choices, he turned away from all he knew, chose to lower himself and bring dishonor to his kin, his kind and his land. To this I say so be it. He is nameless, as no Elf-given name may be lowered to his level. He is sundered from us until the end of days. He will be left here to make his way whence he will. I pray he finds some respite for the long years, for someone who will take him in, feed him, care for him. With men his fate now lies. Let us away to the sea and the Undying Lands that call us home. Let it be so!” Thranduil’s voice rang loud and assured as he finished, his hair awash with golden light, his eyes afire with the light of Valinor that he could, as yet, only imagine from tales long told. Upon his head still sat the crown of the Greenwood, a circlet of intertwined branches of living wood with living leaves that changed with the seasons as the trees themselves. Yet the leaves never fell; much like the mallyrn leaves in Lórien, these remained gold through the winter, and red, until spring came and the green buds sprouted. Now, Thranduil bowed his head and shoulders one last time to the Wood far behind them, and turned to face the road ahead.

The fallen prince heard his movements as he bowed, even as he fought within himself to contain the intensity of the sorrow exploding in his chest to know he was to be left behind and alone, left to fend for himself, to beg, to crawl unseeing until he found some soul who would help him or, worse yet, use him to whatever end.

And so, the fallen prince of Mirkwood was left behind as he listened to the Elves pass away from his hearing as the sun moved in its relentless progress into the West. He listened as the Elves he had known for many centuries passed him by, the cloth of their garb, the hoof-beats of their horses, and the tingling of the bells upon the reigns filling his senses. He sat in utter silence, his eyes fixed forward as the Elves passed him by on either side. They did not turn to him, for they made no further movement of cloth or tack as they went, so he imagined their eyes forward, but many, he imagined, had those eyes downcast as their only sign of consolation, remorse. Some knew the King’s words to have been based on half-truths and some lies, others believed them wholeheartedly, knowing little of the fallen Elf and his sire. It was they who he imagined cast their eyes straightforward, affecting ignorance of his very presence; it was those Elves who dug the knife deep into his flesh, drawing the very breath from his lungs as the magnitude of the curse leveled upon him by his own choice settled upon his shoulders. He could not breathe.

Even as one Elf, a friend of his from long ago, lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder as he passed, the disgraced archer could not bring himself to any action other than sitting straight upon the horse, his shoulders squared, his eyes forward, his face frozen into a mask of impassive stone. He could not look his last upon the faces he would not see again, nor would he be able to bear the memory of their voices bidding him farewell, but one did. The hand dropped from his shoulder sedately as he passed on, and another replaced it with her own feather-light touch, “Follow, friend, I would not wish upon you this loneliness, to dwell among Men.” She implored him, her touch strained, but he dared not respond, lest he falter and further shame himself, so, he nodded. He could feel her gaze upon him as a weight settling on his skin, surrounding him and pressing inward in defiance of what should have been, “Namarie, friend. Live well.” She whispered as she moved on. She was the last to speak to him, her words, though spoken in solace and in friendship long, were bitter, hollow echoes in his mind as he heard their progress fade into the sound of the breeze sweeping over the land, and he awaited his fate.

He could not cry, though he wanted to. He could smell the salt on the air so near the sea had he been led and he realized that his father had dealt this final blow to the son he had despised, that the Elf would be near enough the sea to be driven to madness by the call all Elves hear when near the sea, the call Home, a Hhe whe would never see.

He had given his word in exchange for another’s life, and he would not break his honor, his dignity, to crawl into a ship and cross the sea to be labeled oath-breaker and bring truth to his father’s accusations. He would not. He would face his life on this Middle-earth amongst those short-lived Men, anke wke what fate would deal him, knowing his father had a hand in forming it at this outset.

Even though the breeze stirring the air about him was warm with the salty taste, he shivered in the bitter cold in which he now dwelt, alone, bereft, without even the comfort of knowing there were others of his ilk near, even if he could do naught but hear their song, their voices echoing through the caves. He would not hear an Elvish voice again, he realized as he shuddered, unless he could find his way somehow to Imladris or, further, Ithilien. He shivered with the cold running through him when he thought upon those two havens in his life. He dared not hope Glorfindel or any other he knew still dwelt in either land. He knew not how long it had been since he had seen the fair woods of Ithilien.

He shuddered again, allowed the pain to race through him as he screamed silently, tightening his hands upon the reigns of his horse. He could feel the coldness of the metal bands about his wrists, mithril cuffs swathed and hidden within the folds of his cloak, another circling his throat. He raised his sightless gaze again, turned the horse to make its way north, towards Imladris. He had made his decision in a split second; he would go north, for to make for Ithilien, he would need to pass through the settlements of many men, and men he feared. Ithilien held too many memories he would not care to remember, but would never be allowed, with the dreadful blessing of the long memories of the Eldar, to forget. He straightened his shoulders again as he sat in the saddle, raised his face high and prepared to face his fate with the last of his remaining dignity. He spared no further thought to the West.

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Imladris
T.A. 2163

That night, he returned to the quiet garden, a blanket pulled around his shoulders for warmth as he leaned against the tree again as he stared up at the thousands of stars arrayed above him through the bared branches of the ancient tree and out over the sky to either sides. He imagined himself to be sitting near that legendary birthplace of Cuiviénen, a place the Elves, his ancestors, had dwelt under only the light of stars long before the Sun and Moon had been placed in the sky, long before the Two Trees had been slain, their light extinguished but for the slight fraction of their light now left in the sky by day and night.

Long had he been thus in silence but for the sound of water, alone and comfortable in being so, for he was long accustomed to solitary life, alone he was even in a crowded hall. Yet when company did appear, he did not overmuch mind the interruption, for it came in the figure of the illustrious blonde Elda. Though nervous to be in such august company, Legolas remained relaxed where he sat as Glorfindel sat down an arm’s length from him upon a carved stone bench once he had swept the majority of the new-fallen snow from its weathered surface. Even the sounds, however slight, of the rustling of cloth, the crunch of freezing snow, seemed dampened by the overhanging mists frozen in the air and falling to the ground with tiny flashes of light. Neither of them spoke, simply sat in rapturous silence enjoying the peaceful moment for as long as possible, for they did not know what to say, nor did they have any desire to break the comfortable silence between them.

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