Aearlinn

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sunrise, the Last Homely House ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They were in the tub; Legolas soaking in a healing soup of herbs and oils and his mate's gentle attention; Elrond perched on the rim soothingly tending the slight abuses their rather wild carnal congress had propagated upon the sylvan archer's flesh. They hadn't spoken much, just Elrond's concerned queries about the bruised nipples and Legolas' assurance that it was nothing and would be healed before noon. They were content to simply be together, the Lord of Imladris continuously sponging the medicinal liquid over Legolas' chest; the Wood Elf happy, sedate, and very pleased with himself. So much so that he failed to detect the undercurrents of doubt and confusion wafting from his mate's aura.

Legolas reclined with his head propped upon a rolled towel, eyelids lowered so that his golden lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, smiling smugly, enjoying the warm flush of delight that momentarily shot through him as Elrond treated the sore flesh. Had he not been so exhausted he would become aroused again. In fact, it crossed his mind to wonder if that's what Nín'ódhel was hoping to achieve and shifted his eyes, peeking from the corners of the drooping lids to judge if this might be true. His attitude immediately lost its contented abstraction. Elrond's posture, the tilt of his head, the way his eyes stared inward instead of hungrily devouring his mate's naked form, all this signalled trouble as surely as the darkening sky forewarned of storm.

"Elrond? Is something wrong?" he asked, sitting up and opening his eyes fully so to judge the quality of the answer.

The Elven Lord startled, not expecting to be drawn so abruptly from his internal musing. He manufactured a smile that left his eyes clouded with something Legolas couldn't define, having not seen it there before. "Nay, beloved. All is well now that you've returned to me." He caressed the damp cheek lovingly but there was something unbearably sad about the touch.

It frightened Legolas. With a swift move that sent a sluice of water rolling to the edge of the bath he caught the hand before it could retreat too far. "No, you must tell me. What is it? Was I…was our coupling…I mean, when I…" Legolas found himself stumbling all over the idea and blushed. Why should it be so hard to discuss this?

"Nay, it isn't that; it was wonderful," smiled Elrond, understanding what Legolas needed to ask. "You were magnificent, Aearen."

"And you enjoyed it?"

"Very much so." Too much. Elrond could not bar the thought from his mind and could only hope it remained hidden from Legolas.

He hadn't foreseen that Legolas' first time in control would be so masterfully, so skilfully carried out. The previous instance, not so very long ago at all, when he'd offered his mate the opportunity to be on top, Legolas hadn't been able to follow through. Now he not only initiated the act but performed with a level of confidence that was inexplicable, even impossible. Impossible without practise, that is. The rattled Noldorin Lord couldn't prevent that idea either, for there was only one answer that made sense. Legolas would never be unfaithful; this Elrond accepted as an absolute truth more certain than the daily appearance of Anor. Thus, he could only have learned from his other mates. Somehow, someway, the twins had gotten to Legolas in the short interval of days he'd been parted from Elrond. That's where he'd gone, though where in the valley the trio had managed to hide, evading even the notice of Glorfindel, remained a mystery.

"Then what?" Legolas persisted, beyond worried and now moving swiftly toward anxious dread. Perhaps Elrond truly resented him for the deceit about his heritage. Or perhaps he's by the separation. He took a deep breath, deciding to follow the advise he'd received from his beloved's sons and face up to his mistakes and the consequences wrought by them. "Are you angry with me?"

The question took Elrond by surprise, not that Legolas would ask it but that he would have so difficult a time replying without uttering a falsehood. Yet he couldn't confront his sylvan mate, not about his sons. He couldn't bear to hear his conclusion confirmed. It was with great sorrow that he came to realise that this was exactly how Legolas must have felt on countless occasions, waiting for over ten years to learn if he was loved, fearing to discover he was merely a pleasant diversion. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, overwhelmingly weary all at once.

"Nay, not angry so much as hurt, I think. I was in despair, thinking I'd lost you and Tinu Mín forever, and you return just as suddenly as you left. None the worse for wear. You didn't call, Aearen." Elrond didn't ask why; he knew and it was that certainty that really stung. Saying all this, he couldn't meet Legolas' eyes, fearing they'd discern all that he hoped to keep secret. Long, dripping arms wrapped about his neck and a soft cry met his ears as Legolas pulled him close.

"I know; I'm sorry. Please say you can forgive me. I should have come back sooner; I just needed time to figure out what is happening and what I'm doing," Legolas murmured these entreaties into the Elven Lord's pointed ear, holding fast, fearing to be shoved off any second.

Elrond could no more do that than he could cut off his own arm. He sighed and reciprocated the embrace, securing the lithe frame against him, hugging back hard, rubbing gentle comfort into the wet skin. At least he did come back; I remain first in his heart still. "Have you figured it out, then? Are you going to tell me about your family now?" The pause that followed this told him what the answer would be before the words were uttered and Elrond's agitation twisted a bit toward vexation.

"Nay, I want you to meet my family without any preconceived expectations. I want all of the valley to see that Wood Elves are not really so very different after all, and that goes for what is just and what is folly, both. Let my people reveal themselves as is our tradition: when they wish to be seen, only then shall it be so," Legolas continued, his voice gathering a quality of resolute finality by the time he concluded. His arms relaxed and he leaned back to see Elrond's face. "Can you accept that, Elrond?" It wasn't exactly a challenge, but it certainly bore a passing resemblance to an ultimatum.

The Lord of Imladris bridled, unused to having to bend to anyone's demands. Compromise and discourse he welcomed as long as everyone accepted that he would have the final say. That would not be the case here, plainly, and it didn't sit well upon his dignity. "It seems I have no choice," he complained and disengaged from Legolas, standing and donning his bathing gown, back turned to the tub and its occupant. He wanted to look and see what the sylvan's reaction was, but refrained, heading from the chamber in silence. From the bath came the musical slosh and splash of Legolas exiting the water but no naked, wet Elf bounded after him to plead for pardon. Elrond sat heavily at his dressing table and began a listless attempt at grooming his hair, eyes locked on the reflection of the bathroom door behind him. It was a minute or two before Legolas emerged, radiating wounded discontent and disappointment from every pore.

He strode to his wardrobe and quietly withdrew his clothes, dressing without a word and quickly. His hair he snatched into a snarled tail bound at the nape of his neck. Quiver and bow were drawn forth; the low, leather boots were stepped into, and then out came his pack. In it he shoved an extra set of clothes and a toiletries kit, all in grim silence. He knew Elrond had risen from the mirror and watched him, pale and stricken, but made no move to face him until the quiver was fastened tight. Then he turned, his stance implacable, his posture defensive, and raised his sorrowful eyes to his mate's frightened grey ones.

"I will tell you this much: they are already here. Fennas made sure of their alarm and they rode the horses practically to collapse to get to me with all haste. I have already been to them and tried to explain to my Adar how things are between us, but he says only that he will make his own judgement. That is his way. It is customary for the suitor, meaning you, to present a gift to the father and mother. Though we are already bound, you must honour this tradition, and many more, if you hope to gain their favour. Ask for Lindir's help that it may be suitable; I will go now to them. Tomorrow at annûn we will arrive at your gates." He gave a brief nod, a gesture more formal and impersonal and dismissive than anything he'd ever shown to Elrond before, and turned on his heel for the door.

It stole Elrond's breath away and left his thoughts spinning wildly. Legolas was leaving again. He'd just gone through the door. He was leaving to be with his family. He had been with his family, not the twins. NOT the twins! Lindir's warning about judging Legolas harshly on account of the multiple bond rang through his mind. He would drive Aearen away, straight to Elladan and Elrohir, if he nursed this grudge. An unfounded grudge.

With a strangled gasp of terror Elrond bounded after him."Wait! Aearen!" he shouted, unnecessarily as Legolas was just beyond the door. He caught up with him on the balcony, for of course he'd waited, of course he was standing there, bow gripped so tight his nails would surely leave dark maroon moons in the flesh of his fist , fear and hope advancing and retreating in waves through his eyes, as he watched Elrond dash forward. There the noble Lord halted, less than an arm's span between them yet the distance seemed a great gulf, an abyss into which their fragile happiness seemed ready to topple.

"Aye?" asked Legolas, the word soft, entreating.

"Please, I just want to say…I'm not angry, not really, not at all." I'm terrified that I'm losing you. "Legolas, I don't want you to go!" Elrond burst out, ready to burst into hysterical tears. "I can't bear your absence. Whatever you wish, so let it be, only don't go away now, not now, beloved, after you've only just returned to me. You said you wouldn't; you promised." His vision blurred as the first drops rolled over his brimming lids and he blinked to clear it. In the second they were closed, he missed the sylvan's fleet advance and called out in joy and gratitude as he was enveloped in a possessive, appeasing hold.

"I won't; I'm not," insisted Legolas with gentle compassion. "I will abide a time if it will ease your heart, for in truth I am weary and want nothing more than to rest in your arms. Yet, they will have me with them when they come to meet you; that is proper and indeed a concession, for by rights Adar could demand I remain under his eye until the wedding. If not for the babe so it would be, but he saw how it is for me and that I need you."

This was a far more palatable way of explaining the situation and Elrond relaxed, clinging to his Wood Elf for all he was worth as sobs jolted them both. He'd been grieving in truth and this was the body's means of expelling the sickness, so that the poisonous despair might be driven from his blood.

"You need me?" Elrond asked between hiccups. "You love me still?"

"Always and forever," Legolas breathed, his body moulding itself around the taller Elf, offering support should Elrond need it. He settled innumerable kisses into the dark hair against his face.

In time Elrond quieted and they stood locked together, swaying in harmonious accord, both Elves infused with relief and awe, conscious of the fragility of their hearts' bond and thus moved anew to cherish and protect it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Dusk, the following Day ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was a common enough legend among mortal kind that the stately home of Elrond Half-elven, and in fact his entire realm, was swathed in obscurity, rendered inconspicuous by some incomprehensible power, a place described at times as a variety of twilit limbo open only to the few granted such grace by the magnanimity of the First-born dwelling there. It was a place shrouded in mystery, an area many might seek and never find, if their purpose was but the glory of discovery, while those in dire need would happen upon it all at once without ever having consciously sought for the gates. Much that was known for truth in Imladris faded into myth by the haphazard re-telling of Men and Dwarves, yet no Elf, not even those from distant Mithlond, would have any trouble finding their way to the protected vale. That being said, it was still customary, even if the visitor had received formal invitation, to openly present oneself and make official petition begging leave to cross the border. The Wood Elves had not done so. They were simply present, an ominous, critical presence.

To be entirely fair, their arrival hadn't been solicited with anything like a formal appeal. Legolas had contacted his people and now they were here, all outside the normal functions particular to one state recognising another with notions of alliance and accord to be fostered. The ruler of neither realm had taken part in the prelude to the historic encounter, what must surely become as much a dialogue between nations as a meeting of in-laws to be. That it was only now as the time for the momentous event was upon them, the grounds of the estate festooned in rather more lavish fashion than that which had marked Ened Ethuil and the marriage of Denethor and Finduilas, the decorations rich in glitter and velvet, in regal colours, in mithril and gold, down to the long gilded expanse of silk carpeting the steps right to the very dirt, that the valley's revered leader considered this important point and wondered how the kinsman to the King would take such an oversight. It evoked the hope that the massive turnout, for nearly everyone, noble and common, was there, and the decorations, all arranged according to the advice of Lindir, would attest to the high honour with which the son of Eärendil held the guests.

That was really the question everyone had come to have answered: who was the more honoured party, the House of the Mariner or the fey folk of the Woodland Realm.

Elrond stood at the top of the ornate marble stairway leading from the main courtyard of the Last Homely House to its perpetually opened front doors. They were massive doors, carved of a grey and white limestone that boasted a crazed agglomeration of shells and tubes and branching whorls, remnants of the once living stuff comprising the rock, intermingled with glittering crystals of sparite where time had permitted the mineral to grow to appreciable size. The relief work wrought upon this natural masterpiece, consisting of a stylised, interlocking border in the swan's wing motif of the Elven Lord's House, was meant to enhance and direct notice to the inherent beauty of the stone. First time visitors always remarked on the jumbled mass of ancient, broken life and wondered at it, for such things could be found only beneath the shallow coastal waters of the sea and that was far to the west of Imladris.

Elrond always let Erestor explain it, knowing his cousin enjoyed any sort of academic discussion pertaining to the days before the Awakening when Melkor wreaked havoc upon the fruition of Aulë and Ulmo's design for Arda, uplifting lands that had lain beneath the water while forcing the currents of the oceans to shift in new directions. Legolas, the Lord of Imladris suddenly realised, had never asked about the strange assortment of structures embedded in the doors and wondered if that was because he already knew or simply didn't care to find out. Or perhaps he didn't want to show himself ignorant and uneducated by asking. That was possible, in that it would be Erestor he would have been directed to query, yet Elrond didn't think this was the reason. He was convinced that it was because the Wood Elf had already seen such rock before and understood its origin.

This was a new perspective on the sylvan archer and one that would not have occurred to him as little as three months ago. It had never entered Elrond's mind, before, to wonder what Legolas did and didn't know, preferring to assume it was little, or at least substantially less than the standard comprehension of the workings of the world common to the Noldorin folk. He wondered to himself whether the altered view was due to his efforts to become more open-minded or influenced instead by the fresh information regarding Legolas' unexpected membership among the noble Sindarin clans of Doriath. He frowned; the answer wasn't flattering to him. Much as he might wish to deny it, his attitude toward his young mate had changed since this fact's revelation.

He sighed, framed in the open expanse of the doors, garbed in his richest robes, mithril circlet pressed atop the intricate braids of his beloved Aearen's House, austere in stately elegance and dignity, hands clasped before him in patient repose while his thoughts ran in circles and his heart occasionally leaped and then faltered in turns as the idea of seeing Legolas as he really was broke over him, followed by the miserable realisation that this nervous sort of excitation was exactly what his mate didn't want. Yet no matter how unpalatable the truth was, one couldn't pretend, not with Legolas. The archer knew he'd lost the battle between his personality and his position, for the time being, and had seemed resigned to overlook Elrond's intensified felicity. Elrond couldn't help the shift in demeanour any more than he could resist being curious and Legolas seemed content to accept it without a return of his initial affront.

Is that because he feels remorse for keeping me in the dark or because he is testing my character? Will this all yield some horrific, unsealable breach between us? Elbereth, I can bear no more of those!

He would know soon enough, for the day was fast closing and sunset was surely only minutes away. Even so, no sign of any Elves had been noted either by the border guards or the townsfolk. Indeed, Glorfindel's best scouts hadn't turned up any indications of where, when, or how the Mirkwood contingent had managed to cross the bounds of the realm unseen.

This proved a supreme embarrassment to the revered general, though he was not one to let it show or foist it upon others to bear on his behalf. He hadn't the canny craft of creeping so legendary among the sylvans; he could not instruct others in a skill he did not possess. Glorfindel would not take any of his elite warriors to task for failing to spot the interlopers. He would most likely, however, have many questions for this wily Sindarin fox who'd led his folk, an untold number of warriors, assorted relatives, servants (assumed as it was now known Legolas' people were nobility), and enough horses to bear them all and the supplies such a group would require, into the heart of Imladris without stirring so much as a mote of dust in passing. Whoever Legolas' Adar was, Glorfindel already felt considerable respect for the Elf.

The Balrog-slayer stood to Elrond's left and just a step behind him, impressively dressed in his most formal uniform of maroon tunic over dove grey leggings; sword and scabbard at his side and high, black boots polished to a crisp, military sheen that would have pleased Gil-galad himself. His golden hair was simply confined as befitted a warrior, yet upon his brow was an abbreviated diadem bearing the emblem of the noonday sun, the crest of his ancient House. None would take him for anything less than what he was and his assurance of this was not vanity but forthright honesty. Glorfindel did not hold with false modesty anymore than he espoused vainglorious conceit; he would not misrepresent himself to either side of the scale and considered it a matter of honour. He was justly proud of his lineage and unwavering in his estimation of his value to Imladris; no one worth considering would hold him at fault for either view.

Thus, he was rather displeased with Legolas for holding out on his true place in the world. In Glorfindel's mind, he'd been played for a fool and it didn't set well in his craw to imagine That Wood Elf secretly laughing at him. It was a childish kind of vindication for the lack of respect the sylvan had been given, for surely that respect would have been easier to gain had Legolas revealed his antecedents long ago. Still, Glorfindel could never forget how horrible that entire first year had been and this protracted illness and agony did much to mitigate his anger. He had come to realise, from talks with Lindir, that the anguish wasn't all physical by any means nor had it ceased after the bodily wounds had finally healed. He sighed; there was much more to be regretted and pardoned for on his part than on Legolas', this he was honour-bound to acknowledge, and so in the end he came to grudging acceptance that he'd probably earned, many times over, the role of the fool.

Yet not more than Erestor. The thought gave him a little peace, glad that he had never engaged in the kind of randy gossiping and secretive craving the seneschal had indulged. Glorfindel glanced sideways at his friend, noting that the Chief Advisor appeared cool and collected; no hint of discomfort or worry clouded his inscrutable visage, no hesitant, flustered nervousness limned his aristocratic aura. It suddenly struck Glorfindel as a great incongruity that the esteemed Lord's cousin was, as Lindir had remarked, such a terrible card player. He tried to stifle a laugh and it escaped through his nose, just a little, but enough to draw Elrond's predictably rebuking glower and Erestor's equally expected arched brow and appraising stare.

Dressed with as much elegance and refinement as his kinsman, the seneschal stood shoulder to shoulder beside Elrond, the only blood kin present for the twins had not turned up and it was yet too soon for Arwen to have made it from Lorien, even given the speed with which she must have flown upon reading the dire pronouncement in her Adar's letter begging her to come. Erestor was the consummate statesman and would never betray even a brief flutter of indecision or doubt, not in public, not before visiting dignitaries, not among the nobles of Imladris, and especially not to the rank and file of the valley's general population. It was unthinkable that he would do so in the presence, or as it was just now, the absence of the Mirkwood Elves. That he felt these emotions, uncertainty and apprehension, and others more potent besides, was something he hoped to keep buried deeper than the bottom of the abyssal sea.

Erestor suppressed a sigh and took mental inventory of his status, willing himself to present only the compelling, mysterious, and intimidating persona he had long ago developed, one based on the manner and attitude of his noble patron and guardian, Maedhros. The eldest son of Feänor had seen horrors and known grief enough to destroy lesser Elves, yet his outer face never hinted of such privations of the soul. He had continued to lead his people and attempted to mitigate his sins by compassionate warding of the twin sons of Eärendil and their orphaned cousin. It had struck Erestor early on that this demeanour of acute reserve was an important and worthy survival tactic and he'd adopted it, or at least the desire of achieving it, at once. When he'd finally mastered the attitude of being aloof yet powerful, cool yet dangerous, subtle yet misunderstood at one's peril, he couldn't really say. He had done so; that's all that mattered, and Erestor was never more glad of it than today.

It wouldn't do for anyone to find out how deep his fears ran, for he had done the most to undermine Legolas' position in Imladris. What form of penance The Sylvan's Adar would exact he could not fathom, except that it would not be pleasant, and every time he thought on it, which was constantly now that he was standing here awaiting the Elf's arrival, chills rippled through his entire being. Memories of the siege of Baradur during the Last Alliance assailed him, images of the wild ferocity of the Wood Elves, driven, some of them, to madness at the sight of loved ones cut down by Sauron's minions. They entered a state of disassociation, almost a form of Ôlpathu, but a deadly one in which every instinct against killing was removed. He had seen individual warriors charge entire platoons of Orcs, ignore the injuries as they were hacked to pieces, continuing to fight until their blood was literally spent, sacrificing themselves to avenge the death of a loved one. To have such fury directed upon him, even a lesser version of it, was not a comfortable proposition.

From the furthest edges of his peripheral vision, a sudden glint as of light reflecting off polished metal caught Erestor's eye and made him briefly flinch in spite of himself. He refused to turn his head to look, however, for he felt the blinding flash was deliberately directed upon him, for it came from the lengthening rays of the retreating sun playing over the surface of Lindir's favourite gold and mithril plated lyre. Erestor would NOT look, for that was exactly what the minstrel wanted and had worn that scandalously scanty outfit he'd sported on the night of Ened Ethuil. Obviously, the singer still carried a grudge, a preposterous notion and completely unjustified as the seneschal had not tendered him anything but the pleasure of his company and the indication that he might wish their new accord to continue and deepen.

Hah! What a fool I truly was to imagine him a fit companion for me. I am the one who should feel insulted and ill-used. Erestor did feel that way, yet a small segment of his conscience remained active, chiding that his old prejudices had come into play and Lindir's reaction was in line with the insult he'd been dealt. Erestor suppressed a sigh as Elrond exhaled one, finding his cousin's baleful eye upon him for an instant. This subdued yet continuous altercation between him and the minstrel was something Elrond would rather not have to contend with at the moment. Steeling himself, Erestor turned his head slightly and directed his gaze upon the harpist.

"Forgive me, Lindir, for intruding upon your efforts to maintain a pleasant atmosphere, but your harp is directing the sun to shine in my eyes with painful intensity. Would you mind changing your location just a bit?" asked Erestor with forced courtesy and an even less genuine smile.

Lindir laughed merrily and bowed, shifting to the other side of the veranda in a swirl of gauzy emerald cloth and golden hair. He leaned against one of the columns and tuned his lyre carefully, fingers verily itching to pluck the notes of the song he'd written for Legolas, one of many the fair archer had inspired as it turned out. The minstrel was still the only resident of Imladris, barring the trees, who knew the Wood Elf's real identity and the singer was prepared to enjoy the afternoon's revelation with considerable relish. Finally, these haughty high Elves would see something really regal, truly majestic. He gazed out upon the gathering, a considerable one for the entire household had turned out in their very best garments and a good portion of the valley's nobles had been invited to appear in the courtyard to meet the visitors.

The aristocrats had all taken pains to wear the many signs and insignia particular to their Houses and of course to display whatever decorations they might have received for valour in a time of conflict. They were glorious, but there was a distinct tinge of self-consciousness about them that proved just how intrigued and worried they were. Lindir could verily feel it in the breeze, a palpable apprehension arising form the very breath they exhaled: would the Wood Elf turn out to be their equal in rank? If so, they were guilty of unspeakably dishonourable behaviour.

Word had mysteriously gotten around, as it always did in Imladris, and now pretty much everyone knew that Legolas was not just a simple archer from Mirkwood. Lindir had to admit he'd had a hand in that and smiled; even with the idea now flourishing that their Lord's mate was anything but common, the folk of the valley had no inkling of how far from this description Legolas was in truth. Or rather, by birth, for he is by nature modest and unassuming in manner and that is a credit both to his character and his parents. It was this quality that so often captured the singer's admiration and respect, even more than the decidedly romantic twists and turns of his relationship with Elrond. There was no doubt that the latter had at last captured the imagination of the populace and even Elrond's peers could not pretend to be indifferent regarding their leader's quick descent into grief upon Legolas' recent disappearance.

Everyone takes it seriously now. Which thought made the minstrel both glad and disappointed in the folk of the Protected Vale, for it bespoke a meanness of spirit, an inability to be open to the love between the Lord and the archer until disaster threatened to remove Elrond from them. Removing Legolas, that was never a catastrophe before, in their collective view, and yet it would be one even if Elrond was unmoved by the loss at all. It bothered Lindir that so many still failed to equate Legolas' intrinsic value, separate from Elrond, independent of his rank and station in life. Lindir strummed a lovely introductory chord to announce a song upon the horizon and let the notes and lyrics carry him down the stairs to stroll among the gathered people.

He sang in Nandorin, having practised his native tongue diligently over the last few weeks, spending time with Legolas during which neither spoke anything else. Lindir was pleased to consider himself fluent once more, though he could not deny that his pronunciation was coloured by the lengthy years of conversing only Sindarin. The words themselves were grand and told of the beauty and might of Tawar, the Great Wood that had sheltered the sylvan Elves since the time of the Journey. The melody carried within it the solemn dignity with which the woodland folk cloaked their revered trees and was filled with the abiding love and trust the people felt for the forest, and which the forest in turn felt for its elven inhabitants. It was a hauntingly beautiful, ethereal hymn and an ancient one, something Lindir remembered hearing as a very small child hardly old enough to climb amid the lower limbs of Region.

Everyone smiled as he passed through the crowd and Lindir delighted in the adoration of his adopted people. They still loved him, sylvan though he'd turned out to be; perhaps even loved him more for now he was something unknown and mysterious dwelling right in their midst, willing to reveal and explain the conundrum for their pleasure and entertainment. He strolled along the gentle curve where the courtyard gave way to the broad, slate-paved surface of the estate's main avenue, nodding now and then to a particular patron or two. He ambled in leisurely pace down to the gates, once again thrown open as they should always be, and gazed as he sang upon the multitude arranged in quiet expectation along either side of the hard-packed clay road beyond. Then Lindir's fingers stilled upon the strings and his voice died away to a whisper, for he thought he had heard something in the distance, something like the light, chanting carol that arose from a small, swift freshet.

His sudden cessation garnered even more notice than his talent and skill together could command, and every eye found him, then moved to find what it was he'd noticed. A tense, expectant hush filled the place for a moment and then they all heard it: the very song he'd been rendering but offered in the full, rich splendour of the people for whom it was so much more than music. It was as if they sang of their own souls; indeed, the fair voices gave freely the vivace theme of their essence, the Song of the sylvan people just as Eru must surely have meant it to be sung. Upon the next verse, piping flutes and brisk drums and brightly chiming bells joined the voices and the Song became merry and playful. It was a greeting now instead of a prayer, announcing the arrival of Greenwood's citizens upon this happy occasion, this joyous union of their youngest and most beloved prince to the Lord of the Imladris.

Just then Anor slipped below the rim of the looming cliffs, plunging the landscape into that vague, grey light that seemed almost material, startling shades masquerading as mere shadows into revealing themselves and permitting real substance to go unmarked. So it was that out of this eerie gloaming emerged the participants in a grand procession moving along the road: the Wood Elves had arrived.

In front marched a full troop of sturdy warriors, one hundred and twenty strong, four abreast, male and female, all dressed in the customary uniform conducive to warfare among the dense branches, armed with bows and long knives, the vanguard bearing four standards that lay still, obscuring the identity of the people they designated, though of course one must be that of Greenwood itself. They were singing, smiles adorning their faces, and it was impossible, unthinkable to picture them engaged in any conflict. These might as well be hunters returning to home and hearth, not merciless and fearsome killers, and there is no doubt that every resident of Imladris was relieved to see it.

Behind them were musicians, though some of the warriors had the strange, double-tubed flutes against their noses, too, and they were as elegantly, if not quite as shockingly, attired as Lindir, the style similar enough to denote it sylvan, unique enough to allow for differences wrought by the separation of time and distance since the Teleri tribes parted at the time of the Journey. These folk were even livelier and more joyful in countenance than the soldiers and instead of marching they danced and whirled in a fantastically intricate reel that somehow yet moved them forward in time to the rhythm of the rising song. There were quite a number of these frolicking minstrels, perhaps a third the number of warriors, and the display was wondrous and drew cheers and laughter and applause from the Imladrian folk lining the road.

Inside the courtyard, the nobles and the Elven Lord's household began to murmur in excitement, straining necks and going up onto tiptoes to try and see what all the fuss was about. They had little time to wonder, however, for the warriors' pace was brisk and they soon entered the courtyard, dividing to form a sort of inner wall that framed either side of the broad, silk-lined steps, effectively placing their bodies as a shield between the assembled folk and the place where their Lord would soon arrive. With smart precision and a word of order, they turned in unison and came to strict attention, all joviality gone in an instant.

It was something that Glorfindel found highly laudable and he smiled, giving a quick nod to the recognised captain of these fine troops. Something about the tall Elf struck the Balrog-slayer as familiar and he wondered if this was one of Legolas' kin. The warrior only dipped his head in equal acknowledgement, sombre and serious as befitted his station and the gravity of the situation, for it was clearly upon his shoulders that the safety of his Lord rested. A sudden thrill ran through the Balrog-slayer, for the slight motion of the soldier's head opened his eyes to the source of the similarity: the braids. It was the same pattern Legolas used, the same pattern now woven into Elrond's midnight tresses. Here then in fact was a member of the sylvan's family, but there was no more about him that marked him as nobility than one could discover in Legolas, and that was absolutely nothing. While Glorfindel pondered that, the procession advanced.

The minstrels did not roll pel mel into the midst of the courtyard but dispersed before the entering the gate, some remaining to mingle with the common folks outside them, others swarming onto the porch and forming up an ensemble of more formal proportions. The gay tune ceased and all was silent for a second or two as they tuned plaintive instruments and murmured together, welcoming Lindir into their orchestra as if he'd always belonged there. When next they played, it was a gloriously stately piece, a score of measured solemnity that carried in it the pride of a nation and the dignity of its people. There could be no doubt of the tone of the music; it called for straight backs and lifted chins and respectful, dutiful adoration; it called for recognition of some great personage. All eyes turned to the gates as mixed within the full and sonorous notes arose the 'ohs' and 'ahs' and other inarticulate exclamations of a stunned, appreciatively and soberly stunned, throng.

Yet when the first riders came into the semicircular arms of the warriors, they were Fennas, Mithrandir, and a different Elf no one in Imladris knew. Just these three. Was this unknown Elf Legolas' Adar? Every single mind wondered. He was certainly noble in appearance, as much as Fennas if not more, wearing garb that was not the familiar robes of the Noldorin Lords nor the abbreviated cloaks and tunics preferred by the Sindarin nobles, yet still was obviously suitable for nothing beyond the most formal of functions. The cloth was fine, the manufacture perfection itself, the adornment of jewels and precious metals opulent. Woodland Elf or not, here was someone important. The trio rode forward and halted before the golden cloth, dismounting there and handing off their mounts to waiting hostlers who darted out from somewhere and as quickly departed with the steeds in tow. The three advanced to the first step where they bowed low to Elrond, who returned the honour. Then the wizard spoke:

"Lord Elrond, Lord Erestor, Lord Glorfindel, permit me to introduce Galion, seneschal and Principal Advisor to Aran Thranduil of Greenwood. Fennas you have already met." This told them straight away that Legolas' Adar was important indeed and that Galion was not him. It also revealed the Istar's discontent with Fennas, who had caused Legolas worries by telling news the young archer had preferred to deliver in his own manner.

Elrond stepped forward, following Lindir's detailed instructions to the letter, and descended to the third step from the bottom. Erestor and Glorfindel came after and halted on the fourth. "Mae Govannen, Galion of Greenwood. Welcome to Imladris. I extend to you and all in your company the hospitality of my House. Allow me to present to you my kinsman and your counterpart, Erestor of Imladris, and Glorfindel of Gondolin, Master at Arms for the Valley's Guard."

"Suilad, Hiren, suilad," and that was all he said. Either there was no salutory response required by sylvan custom or the Mirkwood seneschal was snubbing Elrond horribly.

Galion passed his critical eye over them each in turn, unabashedly weighing them against his imagined characterisations, assimilating where the reality diverged, smiling in a manner that was more an impression of such a facial arrangement than any actual realignment of muscles. He managed, in spite of this, to project an aura of smug complacency as if they were all much as he'd expected and that was rather less than impressive. A minute sigh exited his nostrils and his brows lifted just a fraction from their normal repose as he surveyed the façade of the elegant abode; this at least met with his approval. He turned and glanced over the collection of lords and dignitaries, struggling to maintain their dignified posture whilst straining to see around the wall of sylvan warriors, and smirked. With a toss of his head he sent his long mane of nutmeg coloured hair sweeping behind him, gave a quick nod to the musicians, and faced the gates.

A bright, bold clarion of horns sounded, though no one had noticed the musicians had them, a sound clear and beautiful and strong. It rose in grandeur and majesty and as it rose it uplifted every spirit with it, each note of the fanfare tumbling upon the next in a manner that was not quite military yet not frivolous or affected in any sense, and withal still expressive of jubilant glory and passion. It was a hunter's call, enhanced and exalted beyond its initial utility, but still bearing in its soul the exultant tension and triumph of the chase. It was noble, majestic, and regal as was the party the flourish announced.

As the diminishing overtones drifted away upon the dusky air, Galion stepped into the center of the courtyard. He took a deep breath and sang out as loudly as his vocal chords could manage: "Lasto! Lasto! Lasto enni, Hir ar Hiril ar pân gwaith vaer od Imladris! Alae! Sî Thranduil Oropherion, Aran od Eryngalen Daer an uir!"

Into the courtyard of the last Homely House rode Thranduil, King of the Wood Elves.

He sat tall upon his charger, stern and proud, straight backed and broad shouldered, a soldier first and foremost with a great broadsword belted to his fine, royal clothes. He was fair in a way only the Elves could ever be and yet there emanated from him a strength and presence that was seldom found in any but First Age survivors. That dynamic quality evoked in others a conflicting need for distance whilst yearning for his recognition, a desire to please him while simultaneously dreading to meet his eyes for fear of being found wanting and insufficient. All this he managed to inspire in a few minor beats of the heart, and this with a crown of wildflowers worn upon his brow.

Somehow, it did not seem incongruous to see it there; somehow, it was more fitting that a circlet of gold of a diadem of mithril set with gems would be. Lurking just beneath the austere surface displayed resided a nature abounding in goodwill, merriment, and fundamental generosity. Here was an Elf who loved to laugh and for whom a good joke was a precious commodity, and one had the impression that he wouldn't mind a bit if the joke was occasionally on him. Perhaps it was the sparkle lighting his vibrant blue eyes that told on him, revealing he was not above finding humour in playing upon the contradictions his manner presented, hence the flowers at such a serious meeting when he might have just as easily worn nothing on his head and still have commanded equal notice.

He was not alone, of course, and three Elves rode beside him. To his right was an elegant elleth, more traditionally dressed in clothing now recognisable to the Imladrian folk as sylvan, as beautiful as a winter night, as if the crisp clarity of the stars, the sharp sting of the frigid air, and the graceful, peaceful silence of pristine snow had somehow coalesced incarnate and taken on this exquisite form; that is the impact one felt from her at once. Thranduil was the summer and Rhûn'waew was the winter, opposites so complimentary one could not imagine the existence of one and not the other. Upon her brow and over her hair reposed an elegant mantel, a woven network of some fine silken stuff dotted with glimmering red gems and coquettish little florets of polished mithril that winked and flashed even in the failing light.

Peeking through this lovely mesh, an ornament none in the fair valley had ever imagined and soon to be copied throughout the vale by every elleth, her tresses drew as much notice as her face, for its hue was so wholly unexpected that it was shocking. Her hair was blacker than a ravens, darker than that midnight sky that somehow lived within her eyes, inkier than Elrond's. The long strands lay cool and motionless, bound beneath the wimple, yet this only gave the impression that such restraint was necessary for the purity of the colour was achieved by reflection of every shade of light possible and this energy must affect all who must look upon it fully. One just knew her hair would shimmer and dance under the rays of Anor, giving off glimpsing hints of vibrant emerald, azure, and gold.

On this Winter Queen's right hand rode another tall, golden haired male, so similar to Thranduil the relationship was guaranteed to be close. Here was no distant cousin and indeed, this was the couples' eldest grandson, taking his rightful place as heir due to the tragedy of his Adar's death: Galbreth's first born, Aras. He was grim and pensive, lacking the underlying mirth that marked his grand-sire, this no doubt a consequence of the grief that so obviously clouded the very air he breathed. It robbed him of something essential, something vital to his spirit, and it made every heart cringe in sympathy. It was clear enough he was fighting against fading and had not as yet come to a point when victory was assured. The simple band of woven gold and mithril circling his forehead might yet pass to his son, and this was the one dark note sounding through the glorious Song of this fine figure.

Now on the King's left hand rode someone we all know well, and hard pressed was he to rein in his pride and exhilaration to at last to be among his family and to present them in all their majesty and glory for everyone to see. Gone were the humble hunter's clothes of green and brown, the untidy tresses, and the low, soft boots. Legolas returned to his beloved a prince, dressed with the same style as his father and nephew, the cloth rich and embellished with jewels and embroidery in threads of gold. His fine flaxen hair was neatly braided in the manner particular to his House and over the precisely woven rows rested a delicate circlet of wild flowers just like his Adar's; certainly a shared jest between them meant to defray some of the nervous tension he surely felt. His bow and quiver, for these he would not ever forego, were new and much more ornate than the ones he'd made for daily use amid Imladris' Guard. He sat his horse with great dignity, his carriage and demeanour more refined and discerning than he had ever presented before, yet beneath could be detected an untenable mixture of insecurity and faith.

When at last Elrond's eyes, bulging with disbelieving amazement for all they had been asked to register, rested upon him, looked him over and then did so again, meeting his at last, questioning yet admiring, confused but pleased to find him there among these great people, Legolas could withhold his joy no longer. His face transformed into that beatific smile that fairly stole the Elven Lord's breath every time he saw it, realising it was only for him. He smiled back, beamed back, not caring for that instant what all this meant and how Legolas figured into the tableau before him. There was his beloved Aearen, more beautiful and noble and elegant and happier than he had ever imagined he could be.

Well, Glorfindel was not awestruck in love and he did not fail to comprehend the relationship presented before him. Neither did Erestor and the two shared a long look, faces equally pale, harrowed eyes mirroring each other, mouths gaping wide almost in unison before snapping shut the next instant. Their fears confirmed, each turned their troubled expressions upon their Lord and tried to get his attention, for they had each taken notice that Thranduil, Legolas, and the tall, grieving Elf all sported the identical pattern of plaiting in their hair. Now even with this fact in their possession, our worthy Imladrian nobles were not yet able to make the leap and see that Thranduil was the Elf for whom they were searching, their attention focusing instead upon the tall, woebegone ellon beside the Winter Queen. It made sense; Fennas had mentioned to Erestor how close had been the brush with fading for Legolas' father. Before they could attempt to go any further in their deductions, a unique interruption diverted them.

The warriors called out a stirring accolade in Nandorin and drew their hunting knives. One against the other they struck the flat of their blades, neighbour turning and meeting the Elf to his or her right, switching back and forth, half dance and half a sort of training kata, sounding a strangely ringing tattoo that swept through the double lines from first to last and then back again, the blades lifting higher with each pass. On and on it went, interspersed with occasional calls from the captain whereupon a change in the pattern would ensue, initiating a shift in tempo and an increase in the tone of the clashing swords, a wave of motion reverberating with the clang of metal on metal that ended with another rousing shout as every knife slid back into its sheath in perfect synchrony, every warrior in his or her proper place, still and silent and proud.

In the quietude that followed, the Elven King and the Elven Lord locked eyes, each giving and receiving due recognition, for of course they knew one another, measuring the changes since last they'd met, warily appraising each other as would any worthy opponents. There was certainly something like a spark of anger that glinted within the golden King's azure glare and this in turn prompted Elrond to conjur up his most haughty and coolly dismissive brand of bland observation, as if he were looking at some unpleasant sort of bug. Thranduil's spark ignited into a bright flare, but the Winter Queen poked her toe roughly into her husband's calf, which is the same as saying she kicked him, a threatening sort of non-glare transforming her serene expression into one if intense admonition. Well, that effectively broke the staring match and things began to move forward again.

The King dismounted and turned to aid his Lady to alight. Aras joined them but it was Legolas who stole the scene, for he could not help himself. He leaped from his charger, all decorum and dignity cast aside, and raced for the steps, laughing as he flung himself into Elrond's open arms, sealing their smiling lips together in a passionate kiss that raised approving cheers and hoots from the warriors, an indulgent smile from Rhûn'waew, a persing of the lips from the King, and soft laughter and muted applause from the Imladrians. He disengaged and stood back, grasping tight to Nín'ódhel's hands, smiling with mischievous delight.

"Well," he said, "it turns out I am half-Sindarin after all." Then he lowered his voice for Elrond's hearing only and leaned forward. "What did you get for my Ada? I hope it is not a jewel; he has an abundance of those."

Elrond could only gape at him in dismay, eyes slowly dragging themselves away to watch the monarch and his queen approaching, for that of course clarified things for him. It was good that Aearen held on so tight, for without the connection Elrond was sure he would have collapsed in an insensible heap upon the steps.

TBC

~ ~  Glossary  ~ ~

Aderthad: reunion

Rhûn'waew: East Wind


Aras: deer, stag

Lasto! Lasto! Lasto enni, Hir ar Hiril ar pân gwaith vaer od Imladris! Alae! Sî Thranduil Oropherion, Aran od Eryngalen Daer an uir! Listen! Listen, Listen to me, Lords and Ladies and all good people of Imladris! Behold! Here is Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of Greenwood the Great for eternity!

saes, ha naegra: please, it hurts

Tarlanc: stiff-necked, stubborn

Lechenn: Sindarin word for Noldor elves.

Fennas: Doorway

Tinu Mín: our little star

NOTE: TADAAH! Thranduil and Co are here! Hope this works for everyone as a good stopping point. There are so many surprises in store I can't dare write much here. Just take note of that little mention of the twins and Legolas' thoughts, for they reveal the truth. OK, I'll just tell you, the twins are in the valley and they were indeed with Legolas during his sudden disappearance. That should be a fun scene to write and I hope to read, but I couldn't get to it this time around. I don't plan to start with that episode next time, though, so that interval may have to pop up as an extra or something. Got to move on!


AS always, my deepest thanks to one and all still reading and enjoying the story!

© 04/14/2008 Ellen Robey