Behind the Shadows of the Soul I : In your Eyes

Behind the Shadows of the Soul

Author: Casualis (Casualis2000@yahoo.fr)

URL: www.angelfire.com/moon/hazandcas

Pairings: Legolas/Elrohir mainly

Disclaimer: They are not mine, no hope.

Summary: Between duty and need, friendship and love, two souls’ struggles to live and love.

Author’s notes: Thanks to Bev for beta-reading that part.
Dedicated to Haz who is such a wonderful friend.

**

Seven leagues from the eastern border of Imls, Ts, Third age, year 2610


Legolas stopped his mount with a sigh. He let his gaze roam over the darkened landscape. Anar had disappeared from the horizon some time ago and the sky turned now to a deep shade of dark-blue. He was well aware that, soon, even his keen sight would not enable him to see anymore where he was going. The wisest choice was to set up a camp where Naralod and he would take some rest before resuming their journey at sunrise. Cautiously observing his surroundings, he decided that this place seemed safe enough for the night. Neither his horse nor he needed a lot of comfort. The essential things for both their survivals were a large and tall tree for him and some tender grass for Naralod to grand tnd this place provided both.

He let himself slide from the back of his horse, his feet lightly landing on the ground. Releasing his grasp on the silky mane of the horse, he allowed the white stallion to take his rest. He didn’t need to take more care of him. Elven horses were not broken in as humans’ horses were. They didn’t accept any constraint. They were free souls that submitted themselves to elves of their own free will. There was a kind of unwritten agreement between them. No one could force those proud animals to do things they did not wish to. Elven riders never compelled their mounts, but always asked it of them. Many men envied the elves their horses, proud and beautiful, still wild yet theltheless obedient, but they never understood that the bond between Firstborn and horses was, above all, an issue of mutual respect.

Legolas watched the white figure vanishing from his sight, shadows overwhelming it in the course of his progression through the darkening forest. Only the light chewing noise that his keen ears picked up moments later told him that the magnificent stallion had found a place at his liking. Once he was sure that Naralod was well enough, he decided then to take care of his own needs. He raised his gaze to observe the trees around him, observing their trunks and their foliages, listening to them. All were tall and ancient beings, whose singing voices happily welcomed the young Prince, each of them offering him shelter for the night. But Legolas had already made his choice and he headed for the oldest one, the one which was the wisest and whose songs were the strongest and the most bewitching. Like all of his kin, he was naturally attached to the trees and to their wisdom. Trees were holders of the knowledge of time, watching the mistakes of the walking beings and, contrary to them, learning from their mistakes. They were an immense fount of knowledge, always eager to share their experiences with the Firstborn, who knew how to listen to them. Because, like them, elves were immortal and wise. From immortality arose wisdom.

The oldest tree was a gnarled oak, whose trunk was large and sturdy. Its foliage was high above the ground and its denseness prevented the elf from seeing the stars shining in the sky. Legolas put his hands on the old trunk, feeling the roughness of the bark under the tender skin of his palm, feeling also the energy emanating from the tree. With a single glance, he assessed the distance between the top of the oak and him and, without any hesitation, he began to climb with all the agility and grace that could only be found among the elves. When he reached the top of the tree, he sat on the strongest limb and gazed lovingly at the sky. Eärendil was shining brighas uas usual, showering on Arda its bright light of hope.

Coming back to more a down-to-earth matter, the golden-haired elf pulled some pieces of dried fruit out of the bag that was slung across his shoulder. Absently, he began to nibble at his food while looking around him. Wherever he directed his keen sight, he encountered the same dark mass that was the foliage of the forest trees. He looked to the east, trying to catch a glance of the forest of Mirkwood, but soon gave up. realrealm was too far from him to be seen, even at the top the tallest tree, as the dark heights of the Misty Mountains were erected in the horizon, their sharp edges standing out on the starry sky. He leant against the trunk, feeling the rough bark against his back, letting the spirit of the tree soothe away his melancholy. Silent comfort words were exchanged, quelling the turmoil of his emotions, but even all the wisdom of the ancient soul could not chase away his fears for his realm.

Darkness threatened to overwhelm Mirkwood.

Legolas was one of the youngest elves of his realm, he was barely eight hundred years old. Even if he had lived many human lifetimes, he was still young by Elven standards and his siblings never let him forget it. He had never known his realm at the time it was called Greenwood the Great. When he was born, many people had already taken to the habit of calling the woods, Mirkwood. He had grown up at the same time as the shadow in his beloved forest. When he had been but an elfling, the only danger had consisted of the presence of some spiders and wargs, which preferred to avoid any contact with the elves’ wrath. But centuries had passed and with them had vanished the fear that the dark creatures might have. The power of darkness had increased and so had the number of the threatening beasts. Slowly they had spread on the ground, chasing the elves to the heart of the kingdom, within the stonewalls protecting the palace. Yet, he could still remember a time when Mirkwood was a joyful forest, full of songs of nature and laughter from elves. He had been very young then. No more than an elfling, wondering at the beauty of nature. But, now, it was not safe anymore. No one could wander outside the walls and through the trees without feeling the gaze of deep red eyes full of hatred fixed on them or without encountering spiders. The non-fighters, the elflings and the young sold not not fully trained were not allowed to go out. Only well-experienced warriors were permitted to leave the protective walls to go out and hunt. Many elves had left Mirkwood for the Undying Lands and there were not enough elves left to counter the increasing flood of attacks against the realm.

Darkness was everywhere. No month passed without an announcement of a death of one of the hunters. Immortal life was not granted anymore and Legolas feared for the people he had left behind him. An irrational fear that he had never felt before. It was true that things had become worse of late. Three days before his departure, four of his most experienced warriors had been slain in an encounter with orcs and wargs.

Mirkwood could not be allowed to fall.

Whatever happened, whatever sacrifice was needed, Mirkwood should not fall. Such an event would endanger the whole of Arda. And no one could accept that. Least of all, his father, King Thranduil. No amount of pride could justify the fall of his Kingdom. Since the end of the Last Alliance and the supposed destruction of Sauron’s power, Mirkwood had lived on its own, blocked from the other elven realms, establishing trade agreements with dwarves and men for supplies they could not provide by themselves. But this situation could no longer remain. A new orcish activity had been discovered around the fortress of Dol-Guldur and many feared that, soon, elves would be take bre breed more of the hated orcs in the hideous tower. Wood elves were helpless when confronted with this situation. As much as it grieved him to admit it, they were too few to solve the problem by themselves. Mirkwood needed help, the wood elves needed help and that help could be only provided by his father’s enemy: Lord Elrond Half-Elven, Lore Master of Imladris.

It was no secret among their kin that there was little love left between the two rulers, even if only they, and maybe Galadriel and Celeborn, could explain why. The two realms were not hostile, but the lack of understanding between the two leaders had repercussions upon relationships between the two people. Legolas couldn’t help smiling when he thought about the efforts that the message he brought must have cost to his stubborn father. He himself had little inclination for the Noldor folk, even though he had more than rarely crossed their paths. But Mirkwood needed help and whatever his thoughts might be and how much his father’s pride might be wounded, he would be eternally grateful to Lord Elrond if he surmounted his own loathing to help them.

On this final thought, the youngest prince of Mirkwood let his mind drift to the realm of Elven dreams, his keen senses still focused on the silence around him, ready to react to whatever might befall him.

*

Imladris, Third age, year 2610

Lord Elrond seemed to be looking at the vale from the large balcony of his room, both hands on the fine iron-forged rail in front of him. He was standing tall and straight, his gaze glazed and slightly dilated, unseeing of his surroundings, as though lost in a personal and pleasant dream. The one who would have seen him at this very moment would have felt a chill travelling the length of his spine. Even clothed in a simple white silk robe, with his long black hair left unbraided and free down his back, he emanated a glow of power, wisdom and an inflexible will, which never ceased to impress those who met him for the first time. Many stories were told about him, some true, others false. His name was in many books and he would rather have forgotten some of the tales that were told about him. But, unfortunately, elves had a very good memory, especially those he had known for a long time. Glorfindel, for instance, had taken to the awkward habit to speaking of his tempestuous youth. When this happened, it took him all the discipline he might have gathered during his millennia of existence to prevent himself from blushing. No one was fond of being reminded of the follies he might have done, especially when that one was a proud and dignified elf-lord known for his wisdom. Even though these regretful events took place a long time ago, there was naught to be proud of.

But, tonight, his thoughts were neither upon his life, nor upon the battles he had fought, won or lost, nor upon the magic beauty of his realm. They were focused on his torn family and especially on his sons.

His sons… No more little elflings rushing to him when a problem was occurring or trying to hide the results of their last mischief. No. Two proud warriors whose behaviour sent him back to his own distant youth, when he was exploring Arda with his brother with the eagerness of their age. He had also lived the complexity and love that could bond two twins, but never had he felt deepdeep rage or the unceasing anger running in his sons’ blood.

Since their mother’s departure for the Havens, their life had been a continual fight against the creatures that had mercilessly tortured her. Restless, they organized large hunting trips, which kept them away from Imladris for many months, if not many years. They fought bravely, rivalling in ardour and courage. Both were highly skilled and their fame had spread to the other Elven realms. They were all a father could wish his sons to be. He was proud of them.

But he missed them.

Here was the matter. The house seemed empty without them, without their perpetual fights and their reverberating laughter.

But he couldn’t blame them. They had their own way of coping with the suffering. Every one in his family was coping in his own way. His only daughter, Arwen, was spending more and more time in her mother’s land, in the golden Lorien. His sons were pouring out their thirst for revenge by a vain attempt to exterminate the orcish race from Arda. And he, he tried to forget the horror by drowning himself in the ruling of his realm. None of them spoke of what had happened. The pain of the loss was too fresh, too vivid. Elves were not accustomed to face such grief. Elrond was worried by the silence of his children, by their apparent refusal to acknowledge the reality. A century had passed since the fateful day of his wife’s departure but, to it it seemed as if it had been yesterday that he had seen for the last time her bottomless blue eyes tainted with sadness, the faint smile that illuminated her sweet features, her pale blond hair catching the light of Anar. He knew that his children were feeling the same guilt as he for not knowing how to make her stay.

But, most of all, he was worried for the twins. Arwen used to speak to him of her stay in Lorien, maybe because both were so alike. He knew, even if the beloved name of his wife was never uttered, that she sought solace in the simple pleasures of Galadriel’s realm, which reminded her of her absent mother. He was aware that she had found there a peace that was denied to her elsewhere. And, even if his heart ached for not being able to see her more often, he was happy for her. But he also knew that such solace didn’t exist on Arda for his sons.

Because revenge would bring no peace to them.

Because even when no orc would be left alive, they would still feel resentment for not being able to help their mother.

Because killing orcs was a way for them to avoid facing the guilt they were feeling, a way to carry their wrath forward someone other than themselves.

Elrond Half-Elven let go an inaudible whisper. But the night caught well the name murmured to its ear. It was a beloved name, full of longing and despair. A simple name, but holding so much else. A name like a prayer.

“Celebrian…”


TBC...