Idylls of a King Forlorn

Title: Idylls of a King Forlorn, Part 2: Namar
Author: Gloromeien
Email: swishbucklers@hotmail.com
Summary: Memories evoked for two members of this makeshift fellowship, as they arrive at Mirkwood.
Rating: R for m/m slash, adult themes.
Disclaimers: Characters belong to that wily old wizard himself, Tolkien the Wise, the granddad of all 20th century fantasy lit. I serve at the pleasure of his estate and aim not for profit.
Author’s Note: For all the ideas/depictions of elven grief and the ‘fading’, I am endlessly indebted to the excellent slashwriter Ilye, who’s work can be found in the Library of Moria. I also would like to thank Tyellas, at www.ansereg.com, for her excellent summary of all things Elrohir and Elladan, as well as her own amazing fic. I was so moved by both these writers that I had to give it a whirl myself, I hope they can forgive me any minor concept-borrowing. Menethren, however, is a character of my own devising. Quote from ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. All Elvish quotes, at the end.
Dedication: Once again, to the Pirate King and the Lady Cariad.


***************

/“Let the world’s sharpness, like a clasping knife,
Shut in upon itself and do no harm
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,
And let us hear no sound of human strife
After the click of the shutting.”/

The path was worn, the dirt scattered at the edges, entire lengths densely covered with spills of autumn leaves, but Aragorn had tread it too often to mistake his way. Even twenty years on, the day he’d first set eyes on the Argonath, the day Boromir fell, razed through his mind like a flaming arrow at the Helm.

As the curled tip of the wide-bellied canoe bit into his collarbone, the King gazed up at the relics of ages past, his kin, and silently wondered, not for the first time, if they would have chosen as fatefully as he, had they born his burdens. Though at times his destiny seemed not of his own choosing, but that of some bittersweet hand, he could not fault the Valar’s hallowed guidance; if they could have been said to guide him, a man. /Perhaps I fell under the great light of the Evenstar./

Collapsing the canoe on the hilltop, they halted their portage for the night. Preferring the sanctuary of the trees, the King left his companions to raise the camp. Memories of this place clasped him tightly. He wandered up onto a forgotten king’s mighty sandal, a part of him ever mindful of the elves’ progression below, and his son’s protection.

Hours – yet mere moments – later, a cry pricked sharply through his solemn reverie. His agile glare plunged down to the campground, where Legolas fired ripe, oozing frogberries at a livid Eldarion, fresh from a swim in the river. The prince, chest dripping with splotches of purple gore, devised swift revenge, pummeling the archer with several fistfuls of limestone pebbles. The battle escalated, the the King turned his eyes away, glad that Legolas still found some merriment despite the gray purpose of their journey.

“Your ministrations have kept him well,” Aragorn remarked, in lieu of a welcome, to the Eldar lurking in the woods nearby, not doubt seeking his counsel. Elrohir cursed to himself, then sprang up the foot, to join him.

“He is not one for grief,” the elf-warrior dismissed, swooping down beside the King with all the elegance of his kind. “He holds much regard for his father, for his choice, but in the manner of a soldier for his general’s bravery in the day’s battle.”

Aragorn nodded, judging this wisdom profound.

“Legolas is the soul of mischief, of valor, and loyal to a fault,” the King observed. “I would not cross him lightly. Yet his heart is… cold. I have seen him pursued all his life by elf-maids, by my kinswomen, and by elvellyn of all stations. He hath lain with them for sport, at times, he hath befriended most who pined for him… but he hath never loved.”

“What?” Elrohir started, unsettled by this revelation. “Never loved another?”

“His spark is too bright to kindle a single flame,” Aragorn argued. He turned his slate-blue eyes away from the shore, up to the blushing horizon. “On this very shore, I knew him… while my kinsman betrayed us… while he lay dying…”

At this, the elf-warrior vehemently shook his head. In the looming twilight, shadows creased his angular features.

“Boromir died bravely,” Elrohir insisted. “And *rightly*, Aragorn. He was tempted by the Ring. He would not have let the hobbits be. He would have burdened you further.”

“His death is my burden,” Aragorn mused.

“You have restored his city to glory,” his foster-brother assured him. “Boromir did not die in vain.” The King seemed to accept this, the ache in his eyes rescinding. He thrust a steady, leaden gaze upon the Eldar.

“I have known him,” he cautioned. “Known his sweetness. Known the fever of his song. It envelops you, ensnares you, and you cannot resist. You are well to comfort him, for comfort is dearly needed, but do not mistake restoration for reverence. So few of your gentle kind remain in these lands. I would not see another fade. Certainly not one so beloved, mellon-nîn.”

At that, Elrohir snorted proudly, but betrayed a creeping sorrow.

“I would not fade for love of him,” the elf-warrior declared, with false-timbered bluster.

The King nodded once, chastely, his solemn stare again finding the shore; the yellowed patch, at the forest’s edge, where Boromir had lain.

He shut his eyes, resolutely, attempting to forget the past, to dismiss the ghost of the future…

***************************88

Their hunger sated by a fine roast quintail hen with the requisite crushed frogberry glaze, the King and the two princes tucked up by the fire with the bitter Ithilien mead and tales of journeys long ended. To the Mirkwood elf’s astonishment, Aragorn had never fully unteunted to his son of their months in the Fellowship of the Ring, nor his pursuit and capture of the creature Gollum.

Polishing both their weapons and the last of the mead, the two warriors began the sprawling tale. Their voices lifted to embellish certain passages, fell hush to further enthrall the young prince. Fondly, they mimicked old friends, which often had them laughing, complicit, at some private remembrance. Eldarion devoured every last detail, rapt, occasionally glazing with awe at his father, as if he’d transformed into another being entirely. He knew of Estel, beloved to his mother, Elessar, King of Gondor, and Evinyatar, the renewer. Aragorn the man had often eluded him, however, and as for the valiant Strider, the Ranger… he struggled to perceive the remnants of this rogue’s cunning in his father’s just, noble ways.

Elrohir had early made his excuses, preferring to steal a private moment in the tent he shared with his elf-brother. Like Eldarion, the trek to Mirkwood hadoverovered many mystifying secrets for the darkling elf. These troubled him. Unlike his twin, Elladan, loremaster of Imladris, who took to brooding more often than not, Elrohir typically favored action over deep reflection. To his mind, few were the trials that could not be overcome with a sword, with a decree, or with a ceremony of some mystical nature. Elladan ofthidehided him for ignoring the nuance of elven existence; for this reason, perhaps, he preferred the cruder ways of man-kind. Yet, on the foot of his forbears, Aragorn had proven himself as deeply shaded as an elf-lord…

With a patient hand, Elrohir struck the wind-chime, then lit the frayed wick of his stick of ederwood essence. The musk-rich, gauzy smoke soon wafted around him, as he assumed the position of worship before his makeshift altar. He exhaled longly, voiding his lungs of his life’s breath, courting favor with the Valar. He prayed to those ethereal ones, for the light of knowledge to guide his path, for the strength of a steady hand, for wisdom in a vital choice.

The thick, gossamer fumes eased him into a fugue. Time passed in vaporous drips, balming, replenishing the confounded recesses of his consciousness. He gave himself to the languorous rhythm, all thoughts of archefadifading kings, and bereaved warriors dissipating into the void around him.

A chill wind washed over his back, the ederwood smoke sucked out into the bitter, riverside night. With cautious movements, Elrohir snuffed out the essence stick, struck the chime. His prayer-heavy frame stretched out along the top of his bedroll, his head drunkenly sluggish. It was often this way, if he surrendered himself entirely to worship; in truth, the light, mesmerized feeling pleased him.

It was several moments before he realized Legolas had entered with the wind.

“Are you well, mellon-nîn?” the archer inquired, frowning slightly. “You move as though chained to the ground. You consumed little at supper, though the quintail was fine…”

“I have sung to the Valar,” Elrohir murmured. He struggled to fully open his eyes, to show Legolas the fading glow of the higher state shimmering therein.

The Prince of Mirkwood knelt beside him, placing a tense palm against his cheek and indeed seeing the lilac blooms of his eyes. Satisfied that his companion was of good health, he rose to shed his boots, tunic, leggings… then shivered violently at the sting of the bitter air.

“You are cold? Come, I will warm you,” Elrohir beckoned, still somewhat dazed. His oft-translucent skin was flushed a deep rose, the meditative state of the Eldar almost womb-like, for some.

Legolas could not resist. Without hesitation, he slipped into the prince’s embrace, resting his golden head against Elrohir’s warm chest. With a long, relaxed sigh, the darkling elf extended his arm over the length of the prince’s back.

Despite the comfort of this stolen moment, Elrohir’s senses sharpened anew.

“You are weary, meldir?”

“I am well,” the archer assured him, though his tone lacked conviction. “The young prince never seems to tire. You are well-matched.”

“Aye, he is spirited,” Elrohir smiled fondly. “Much like his mother, in our yout
L
Legolas thought on this. He added: “It is a grave pity he does not more resemble the King. When his soul passes… this world will have indeed… lost.”

“Think not on such darkness, mellon-nîn,” the elf-warrior cooed. “There will be legions to mourn him. We will find solace together.” At the archer’s continued silence, Elrohir ventured further. “Though I am ever thankful an elf cannot fade for love of man-kind. Our people would be decimated.”

Legolas allowed himself a smirk, at this, but his eyes held fast to solemnity.

“It is Aragorn you love, then,” Elrohir cut to the quick. “I knew one so fair would not leave his heart to decay.”

At this, the archer laughed outright.

“Love Aragorn?! Surely you gest!!” The Mirkwood prince raised his head to meet the son of Elrond’s cool, indigo eyes with mirth-brimming blues. Still, he soon tempered. “The aran Gondor is as true to me as the brother of my heart, for certes, and as such I love him dearly… these are not romantic pledges. They are those of a warrior to his king, of one brother to another, not… but I protest too much. You will think me besotted with him.”

“Nay, I do not,” the Imladrian prince reassured him. “I know well the devotion of which you speak. I merely wondered… what illustrious soul could have, in the past, won such a valiant heart as yours.”

Legolas again fell silent, though his glare spiked out to lock with Elrohir’s own. “Why do you ask this?”

“The King claims you have never loved. I could not believe it so.”

The archer shrugged, softened. His cheek returned to the small of the elf-warrior’s now tepid chest, his answer trickled across the paled skin.

“I never saw the need of it,” he hushedly began. “It brings only pain, or uncertainty, or grief. I am not made for such things. I longed for the world… but never for another with such passion that I would forsake my freedom, my adventuring… it strikes to the heart of me, the calling from Valinor. I would not leave Middle-Earth. I am content with these lands to travel, with my friends among her peoples… “ Legolas grew restless, eager to dismiss the topic. “And you, elmellyn?”

“Seldom through my years have I loved,” Elrohir admitted. “But well. Yes, dearly well. An elf-maid, in my youth… but she proved intemperate, marrying another during my absence. I was all-too easily consoled by a fearsome Galadrim. A horseman of the Rohan, in the last age, and before, a noble son of Osgilliath. They are well-sung, in my orisons.” The elf-warrior grew somber, his own thoughts clouded by doubt. “I pray Elbereth it will favor me again, before Elladan and I must chose our fate.”

“Your Fate?” Legolas queried intently. “Which is this?”

“We are not true Eldar, as you know,” the peredhil explained, his features severe. “We have little time, after Estel’s passing, to chose between passing to Valinor and remaining in Middle-Earth to die a mortal. If my Adar remains to mourn our sister,hapshaps we shall see the autumn of Eldarion’s rule… but his thoughts are turning to the sea. Valinor beckons him.”

“Cursed place,” Legolas almost spit, curling further into the elf-warrior’s solid frame. “We are of one mind, mellon-nîn. I would that we could ride the wilds together, without end.” Then, with less venom. “You would make a fine companion.”

“Better than the dwarf?” Elrohir teased, but could not shake the frost seeping through his veins, the thought of forsaking centuries at the archer’s side for the placid meadows of Valinor sickening his soul.

“Aye, perhaps,” Legolas laughed, though there was little mirth in its timbre. “Certainly less quarrelsome…”

****************************

The forest howled. The cracked, gutted trunks spiked up, around them, cindered black as granite shards. Those that had not yet fallen hung limp, compliant over their gnarled roots, their branches abruptly severed, the bark stripped to the bone, clumps of blood-red sap clotted around the wounds. The jaundiced patches of grass, amid the ash-field of the forest ground, stood, stagnant, in the fetid air, oblivious to the stench of petroleum and of decay.

Legolas lurched through the last of his cherished Mirkwood, his vision blurred, sodden. He could not hear his footsteps for the din of nature’s tortured wails; his tears gratefully blinding him to the bird skeletons, flower shreds, and occasional horse carcasses rotting in the firebeast’s foul mulch. Aragorn walked mere steps behind him, ever-mindful of the elvellyn’s hold on his composure, while Eldarion and Elrohir clutched one to the other, both equally determined, equally forlorn.

Despite his intense distress, a virile, voracious anger kept Legolas at the helm of this black fellowship,ugh ugh he mourned his dear-held forest, he would not allow the fire-breather’s destruction to torch his resolve. Blotting a coarse sleeve over his eyes, he strode on, relentless, through the smoke-hung hollows of the forest’s remains, ever-vigilant.

Suddenly, warning stabbed through his spine. Before he could give his fears voice, Elrohir had drawn his witch-sword, Anduil’s feral glint flashed behind him, and the kingling’s new bow was strung tight.

The Warg-pack was on them before they could breathe in.

After witnessing the ravaging of his homeland, Legolas found relief in the slice of his arrows, as they put out eyes, pierced tender hide, and punctured fur-thick throats into a bloody spew. He blazed through the mire of hack and slash like a bolt of lightening, chasing down one particularly rabid creature as he vaulted off a tree trunk, claws spread, to maul Eldarion. The archer shot true, twice, thrice, in the neck, then sprung his silver knives in one fleet motion and mercilessly gutted the beast. The youth gaped at his playmate’s ferocity, but there was little time to spare.

The Wargs seemed to come from every direction, their broken bodies soon piling up with the other remains, the parched grass-blades adrift in the dark crimson rivers. The King and his son dammed the flow from the East, a golden head amid the carnage to the North, while a darkling menace slaughtered fervently to the West. To the South, the cerulean crags of the Mirkwood Mountains loomed large, as foreboding as they were impassive.

At last, the charge of Wargs weakened, the North-come horde lessening (or the deadly archer’s reputation spreading). Aragorn and Eldarion caught up with two of the more cunning devils to his right, Legolas instead turned his attention to Elrohir, at his left. Though his sword was mighty, the elf-warrior’s blows missed as often as they struck, the Eldar visibly struggling to mark his target. While the edain brethren were still going strong, the steadfast edhel could not catch his breath. This angered him enough to force a feral burst of precision, soon ebbing into self-defense.

A chill passed over Legolas’ heart, but he did not let it linger. Instead, he shot off a flurry of rapacious blades, the Wargs surrounding Elrohir soon a clump of blood-slick fur at his feet. His fury spent, Legolas trudged over to his kinsman and slung a weary arm over his shoulders.

“The trees… their weeping…” Elrohir remarked, quick to justify his fatigue. “They haunted me… I could not block them out.” He stopped to catch his breath, ever-conscious of his poor showing. “I thank you, calenlass, for your-“

“There is no need,” Legolas assured him, a frisson jutting down his e ate at the Eldar’s defensiveness. “I would have fallen many times over, had your sharp eyes not found me in distress at the gates of Mordor, gwanur-nin.”

The darkling elf’s warm, violet eyes met his in gratitude, but Legolas’ gaze could not let his half-truth shine through to comfort him. Instead, they grew wanting.

“We will take Rites, at my father’s house,” Legolas whispered salaciously, hoping to distract the Eldar from his growing distress. “You shall favor me then.”

“With all the skill in my power,” Elrohir replied with a flick of his tongue, though his body cringed at the thought of further exertion.

“Come, elvellyn!!” Aragorn called over to them. “ We go East. The dark does not wait!!”

*************************

Night had long fallen when the journeymen stole up the torch-lit steps of Thranduil’s tree-top refuge. Menethren’s valor had saved the giant wood-oaks that sheltered the Sindarin tribe, though none remained in the thatch of bow-houses but the fading King, a few servants, and one unexpected guest.

“Mae govannen, gwanur-nin,” Elladan declaras has he swept both his twin and his foster brother into his arms. Eldarion, bedazzled anew, could not rip his eyes from the be-gowned Eldar, an exact replica of Elrohir with the exception of his tranquil, gray eyes, his learned demeanor, and his loremaster’s frame. Though once a strength equal to the elf-warrior’s, long years in the libraries of Imladris had refined his once meat-thick limbs into a more elven sleekness, unlike Elrohir, who remained a potent mixture of elf and of man.

Elladan moved serenely through the newly-met company, over to the Mirkwood prince. Legolas’ eyes remained stricken, as be, th, their earlier ferocity snuffed by the dank halls of his home. The haunts of his childhood were now truly haunted, empty of their devout, welcoming population, harkening for the return of those that had forsaken them. Guilt striking to his core, he gripped the Eldar’s outstretched hands with undisguised despair.

“Mae govannen, calenlass,” Elladan stated, bowing solemnly. “I fear he is not long of this world. He waits, I believe, but for your return.”

Legolas nodded, squeezing his hands as if to draw strength from them, then straightened his posture, chin bravely up. Without another second’s pause, he strode forth, to the front of the company, and marched evenly through the halls, to his father’s rooms. The others quickly followed, at the ready.

Aragorn, never one to dismiss unforeseen events, fell back to Elladan’s side.

“Please, do not mistake my intent,” he began his inquisition. “But how is it that you come to be in Mirkwood?”

Elladan smiled softly, as if wondering what had taken the King so long to ask. “It is a curiosity, this twinship I share. Even at such distance, if Elrohir feels something acutely… I sensed only an urgent need of my presence in the Green Wood. I knew not what had befallen, nor does my father, as yet. I discovered the King’s grave plight upon my arrival.”

Aragorn accepted this, clasping a warm hand to his foster-brother’s shoulder. “I am glad of your company. Your wisdom is well needed. The road has been… a trial.”

“I doubt it not,” Elladan replied, casting cautious eyes towards the rest of their severe companions. Despite the urgency of the situation, he stopped the King, letting the others push on. “Tell me true, Estel. Is my brother well?”

Aragorn swallowed hard. It was not the time for such confidences, but Elladan’s interruption of their sworn charge spoke volumes of the gravity of his concern in this matter.

“I cannot say for certain,” Aragorn insisted. “But he is not… as he ever was.”

“Do you suspect a cause?”

“Have you felt… something… when this twinness overtakes you…?”

Elladan sighed mightily, but did not hasten to reply. “I, too, am not certain of the cause of these... troubles. It is not sickness. I feel he is somehow… diminished? I am unsure. I can say only that his spirit… the spirit of his self, inside me, of our oneness… at times… it grows cold, Estel.”

The King’s features grew increasingly resigned, but he would not comment on the matter further.

“We tarry too long,” he compelled him. “We shall speak on this later.”

By this time, Legolas stood under the arched entrance to his father’s chamber, face steeled, teeth grit, but legs cemented in place. Elladan rushed to catch up, sweeping past the Mirkwood prince, through the mighty doors, and into the room itself, leaving no time for second-glances. Eldarion, trembling, fell back against his father, but Elrohir stepped valiantly forward, taking his kinsman by the arm and leading him, with small, measured steps, through the black threshold.

At first sight of him, Legolas swayed, almost imperceptibly, but the elf-warrior held fast to him.

The ogoldgolden King of the Mirkwood realm lay across the bed, like the flayed skins of a burst spore, mute, gaunt, skeletal. His anemic bones tented the stretched wax of his skin at the joints; what little flesh that remained pooled at the bottom of his limbs, like turned, globulous gelatin. His hair, the grimy white of mud-clumped snow, clung to his skull-cap scalp in natty, knotted patches, his elven crown like tinfoil. The rich-silked, cobalt splendor of his robes only underlined his rotted pallor, though their presence offered the onlookers a piercing reminder of the import of their decorum.

Legolas, quaking almost imperceptibly, eyes glistening, slipped out of Elrohir’s grasp and strode boldly over to the bed. He knelt at Thranduil’s side, only then perceiving the tremulously faint signs of life still in the ancient King.

“Ada,” Legolas whispered, barely able to find his breath. “I am returned.”

To everyone’s surprise, Thranduil’s black eyes widened, wandering over to take in his son’s troubled faWithWith inestimable effort, he lay a creaking hand over the prince’s.

“Melethron…”

“Eglerio le, Thranduil, Adar-nin,” Legolas intoned, his voice growing stronger. “Hiro le hîdh ab `wanath.“

“Be at peace, nin ind,” Thranduil comforted him. “Do not let my passing harness the wild spirit I have loved so well. Claim your freedom, nin bellas. Find your path through the green woods of this world. What news of the Glittering Caves? What of their beauty?”

“I have known it well, Ada,” Legolas responded. “Ten years I dwelt there.”

“And the aran Gondor? Is he well?”

“He is here to mourn you,” his son revealed. “He is here to see you home.”

“And your brothers? Are they near?”

“They await you at Mandos,” Legolas reminded him, the hand over his turning to ice. “Rest now, Ada.”

“I will not rest until you have answered me, nin ind,” Thranduil insisted, his in-bred need to rule overtaking him. Legolas almost smiled. “Han bâd lin, melethron.”

“Dolen i vâd o nin, Ada.”

“Si peliannen i vâd na dail lîn. Si boe u-dhannathach, nin bellas,” Thranduil instructed, with learned patience.”You know of which I speak, Legolas.”

Caught suddenly in a wave of sorrow, the prince gripped his father’s hand. The Mirkwood king’s choked, rasping cough shook his entire being, rattling the joints as if shaken by a mighty tremor. Legolas clung to him, through the pain, then stroked a calming touch over his withered head.

“I would not keep you further,” the prince solemnly ventured. “I Aear cân le ‘Namar’. I chair gwannar na Mandos. Si bado, no círar. Gerich veleth nîn, Ada.”

“Gerich veleth nin, Legolas,” Thranduil pledged, even as his black eyes caught their last glimmer of the world. His heavy lids closed shut, their last sight the golden brilliance of his son and heir.

Legolas opened his mouth, to sing for him, but his voice was lost. Not a whisper, not a sound, not a moan could he utter, such was his sorrow. His brave, unwavering eyes gave in to his grief, the tears spilling over his desolate face, his sallow cheeks.

“*Ada*,” he cried, bowing his head to the King’s frigid hand, still clasped tightly in his own.

The company was frozen, bereft. They watched the faithful prince grieve for his father, grappling to keep hold, the sight helplessly overwhelming. Aragorn knelt, to pay tribute to the King’s passing, Eldarion quickly followed suit, as did Elladan.

Elrohir, however, trod noiselessly over to the sobbing prince’s sidayinaying two steady, tender hands on his quaking shoulders. With a whispered prayer to the Valar, he softly began to sing a hallowed hymn of mourning. Elladan soon followed his brother, joining him in song. Aragorn and Eldarion stood at attention, immovable, honoring their Eldar brethren.

After several moments, Legolas found his voice, his strength anew.

He sang more beautifully than ever before.

To be continued…

Elvish phrases:

/Eglerio le, Thranduil, Adar-nin./ Glorify him, Thranduil, my father.

/Hiro le hîdh ab `wanath./ May you find peace after death.

/Han bâd lin, melethron./ This is your path, beloved.

/Dolen i vâd o nin, Ada./ My path is hidden from me, Father.

/Si peliannen i vâd na dail lîn. Si boe ú-dhannathach, nin bellas./ It is already laid before your feet. You cannot falter now, my strength.

/I Aear cân le «Namar». I chair gwannar na Mandos. Si bado, no círar. Gerich veleth nîn, Ada./ The Sea calls you “Farewell”. The ship is leaving for Mandos. Go now, before it is too late. You have my love, Father.

/Gerich veleth nin, Legolas./ You have my love, Legolas.

/Ada/ Father

/Nin ind/ My heart

/Nin bellas/ My strength