Nightstar

Nightstar - Part IV
Type: FPS
Author: Vairë (vaire@donnesys.com)
Rating: NC17
Pairing:
Haldir/OMC/Legolas
Disclaimer: I worship at the JRR altar. I make no claim to
any of the characters except Syshae. I make no money from this, so don’t bother
to sue – you’ll only get hairballs the cat hacked up.
Posting: Please ask first.
Feedback:
Much appreciated. I enjoy discussing the finer points of my stories with
others. All flames will be gleefully passed along to the dragons for their
fiery consumption.

 

 

Nightstar - Part IV

Third Age 3019 – Midsummer’s day, after the fall of Sauron

“At least you are
not the only one present who is irked with their attire. Although he is not
squirming like an elfling in his.”

Legolas turned his head and glared over his shoulder at
the grinning marchwarden, but could think of no appropriately snappy rejoinder.
He looked back at the company of elves passing into Minas Tirith. Elrond rode
in their number, along with his twin sons Elladan and Elrohir, and his daughter
Arwen. Also in the company were a number of elves from Lorien: Lord Celeborn
and Lady Galadriel, Haldir’s brothers Orophin and Rumil, Syshae. It was the
latter that drew their attention. It was the first time they had laid eyes on
him since the fellowship departed Lorien.

Syshae rode beside Rumil and Orophin, but while they were
dressed in the traditional gray garb of the Galadhrim guardians, he was clad in
rich robes of darkest garnet that picked out the deep red highlights in his
hair. They were obvious, for his glorious wealth of hair had been left free
save for four thin braids that held the tresses back from his face. A line of
mithril loops and ruby studs traced up the outer edges of the revealed delicate
ears. He wore no cloak and Legolas could see the wink of silver as the rays of
the setting sun caught wide mithril cuffs set about forearms and biceps. A
diadem of mithril circled his brow, its flowing interwoven lines calling
further attention to the beautiful features. Seeing the latter, Legolas stifled
a laugh. Syshae appeared utterly serene, totally composed, but Legolas knew how
much his fellow prince loathed court dress and knew that Syshae was undoubtedly
plotting the quickest way to slip away from the proceedings.

The gasps of the humans around them and their voices faded
into the background for Haldir. He heard neither the admiring compliments on
the beauty and regal bearing of the company of elves in general, nor the
stunned silence Syshae’s exotic looks and allure produced. Syshae. His
bondmate. His soul. He wanted nothing more than to go to him and spirit his
lover away and renew their union. Desire flared in him and he shifted his
weight, trying to find a less constricting position for the lower parts of his
body which were suddenly painfully hard. As the group passed under an archway,
Syshae’s black eyes slid to him. For a moment, the Sindon let his mask slip and
they filled with desire and a promise of carnal delights, then the
expressionless court face was again in place as he disappeared.

A sharp elbow in Haldir’s right side jarred him from his
trance. He turned to see Legolas smirking at him. Before the prince could say a
word, Haldir seized his elbow in an iron grip and steered him toward the narrow
lane that would take them back to roy royal residence. “If I remember
correctly, Estel commanded your presence too, my fair prince.” He reached out
and straightened the silver circlet that graced Legolas’s brow.

Legolas scowled at the reminder of his princely station
and need to act regal, but allowed Haldir to guide him back to where the
ceremony wedding Aragorn and Arwen was to take place. He sincerely hoped they
kept it short.

 

The ceremony was winding toward its end. Unable to endure
another minute of torture, Syshae slipped away from the crowd, vanishing into
the dim interior of the stone castle. The hallways were deserted, everyone
still at the ceremony, and he hurried toward the room assigned to him, cursing
as he twice lost his way among the labyrinthine halls. His sole thought was to
escape the torture of his formal clothing and search out Haldir and Legolas,
and find some secluded place to which they could disappear and not be found for
several days.

Even though he knew they both survived the war—messengers
had carried that news to Lorien weeks before—the first sight of Haldir’s face
had nearly snapped his control. It had taken every bit of discipline he
possessed not to leap from his horse and push through the crowd of humans until
he could take his lover in his arms. A stern mental warning from Galadriel had
helped.

 

Seeing Syshae slip away from his place by the Lord
Celeborn’s side, Legolas shoved Haldir toward a doorway to the castle. “Go!” he
hissed. “ No one will miss you.” The crowd below them, which had been nearly
silent during the lengthy ceremony, erupted into cheers as Elrond spoke the
final words that united man and elf.

Haldir took two steps backward, then hesitated, looking
uncertain. “Lirimaer…”

“Go!” Legolas insisted. “I will join you later—after you
have reaffirmed your bond. We shall have all the time we wish, but for the
Valar’s sake, go to him now!”

Without another word, Haldir turned and moved swiftly to
the doorway. Once inside, he dropped all pretense of calm and raced through the
corridors toward the room he knew Syshae had been given. Reaching it, he paused
and centered himself, seeking his bondmate. His melethron was not there yet.
Smiling, he slipped inside.

 

Finally! Syshae laid a hand on the handle of the door to
his room and jerked it down. Hurriedly, his thoughts filled with images of
Haldir, he bounded into the room, stripping the diadem from his brow and
carelessly throwing it in the direction of the bed. That it fell to the floor,
short of the mattress, went unnoticed as his frantic fingers began to undo the
closures on his outer robes.

“Allow me.” Strong arms slid around him from behind and
Haldir’s warm breath whispered against his ear.

Syshae froze for an instant, then tried to turn in the
guardian’s arms, to see his lover. Haldir held him in place. “Nay, melethron.
At last, you have come and I hold you in my arms once more and my fea is whole
again.” Haldir’s body pressed against Syshae’s back; the prince could feel the
hardness of battle honed muscle and aroused flesh. “I would have you
melethron.” Strong fingers unfastened the closures of Syshae’s outer robe and
drew it from his shoulders. “I would have you lie beneath me and submit to me.”
Haldir’s tongue traced up the edge of an ear, causing Syshae to shiver as it
ran across the studs and rings adorning his body. “I would hear your pleas for
me, your cry of satisfaction when I thrust into you, your sounds of pleasure.”
Haldir’s tongue traced up the other ear while his fingers quickly opened the
light under robe and slipped inside to caress smooth skin. “All of this I would
hear, lirimaer. Shall you give this to me?”

Unable to speak, Syshae dropped his head back on Haldir’s
shoulder and rolled it to one side, offering his neck as a sign of submission,
and whimpering. He started to untie the lacings of his leggings and free his
arousal from its tight confines, but Haldir stopped him.

“Nay. I wish to do this. To undress you slowly and explore
every inch of your exquisite body as if discovering it for the first time.”
Hands stroked over Syshae’s arousal, the fingers grasping and kneading
teasingly before releasing him. Syshae whimpered in protest. “I shall make you
need like never before. You shall beg for me.” Desperately, Syshae wriggled his
hips and pressed back harder. He tried to slide his own hands between them, but
again Haldir stopped him. “Nay, lirimaer. You shall do nothing but receive
pleasure. Behave or I shall tie you up.” Syshae shivered at the words and let
his body relax, giving over control to Haldir.

 

Mithaelin watched as the dark haired elf in the garnet
robes slipped away from the ceremony. Her eyes sought and found Iarmen’s. They
nodded to each other and moved backward, farther into a shadowy lane, until
they were well away from the crush of people.

“He is the one.”

Iarmen nodded. “There can be no doubt he is the one in my
vision, but how can we be sure of the gift?”

“Think you a vision from the Valar, would lie of a
fea-healer?”

“Nay, but not since the first age—”

She snorted. “Believe, mellon. Hope we were sent to find;
hope we have found. Now, it is to us to find a way to bring him to our land.”

“He will surely come willingly when he knows of our need.”

“I know not that is true, but I know we must keep our
existence hidden. The Dark Lord is overthrown, but we, who have dwelt long in
his shadow, are not quick to believe. We must be cunning.”

“You have a plan?”

“Ai, we must wait until he departs the city. There are too
many here who would strike before they understood our need and our insistence
that he go with us.”

“Why should we not reveal our need, Mithaelin? Surely, the
enemies of our foe are our allies and they would not deny us aid.”

The female looked at her companion, her expression darkened
by a life lived in fear and wariness. “When have any given us succor? When have
any cared for us? Did the elf lords of Imladris or Lothlorien aid us in our
need? Nay. Alone and forgotten we have survived, clinging to life in the
shadows. Stealth and cunning have ever been our allies, and we shall use them
to bring hope to our people. Will he or no, he shall serve as our savior.”

 

Arching his body against the silk that tied his hands to
the bed frame, Syshae moaned, his hips thrusting upward. Needy. Seeking. He
felt Haldir’s smile against the sensitive skin of his groin.

“Did I not tell you, lirimaer, that I should tie you up
could you not control yourself?”

Syshae’s response was incoherent—pleading, broken words.
His black eyes fixed on Haldir: unfocused, mindless, burning with desire,
pleading with need.

A strong, calloused hand slid up Syshae’s sides. “Ai,
melethron. Your passion is a wonder to behold. As is your submission to me.”
The same hand slid over abdomen and ribs and chest and throat, caressing the
marks Haldir’s mouth had placed on the fair body. Marks of possession. Marks
Syshae had consented to willingly, had begged for.

Lean, muscled legs spread wider as Syshae offered his body
to his bondmate. Hips thrust upward in mute supplication.

“You are truly magnificent, my prince. Once again, I am
left without words that you desire t min mine.” Haldir smiled possessively as
he removed his oil-slicked fingers from inside his lover and stroked his hard
cock with them. He guided his arousal between Syshae’s cheeks, the tip already
leaking. With one steady thrust, he penetrated the willing body beneath him.
“Mine.”

“Ai!” Syshae’s eyes clouded and nearly closed.

“Nay! Melethron, look at me. I desire to see your
pleasure.”

Dark eyes met gray, and both groaned at the raw emotion.
Both sank into the bond between them, reveling in the feelings and sensations
of the other as well as their own.

Hot. Tight. Velvet. Syshae’s body clenched around Haldir’s
cock and the guardian gasped. “You shall be the undoing of me, lirimaer.” He
began to thrust, angling his hips to stroke Syshae’s hidden pleasure spot. He
was rewarded by moans, upthrust hips begging for more, and more incoherent
pleas.

Haldir captuSyshSyshae’s chin in strong fingers. “Tell me,
sweet one. Tell me of your desire.” He continued his slow thrusts into the
prince’s body, making sure he brushed the hidden pleasure spot each time.
Beneath him, Syshae shivered and moaned. “Tell me,” Haldir insisted.

Dark hair rippled as Syshae writhed and shook his head.

“Nay? You do not desire me, or you shall not tell me of
your desire?”

Panting, Syshae twisted his hands, straining to free
himself and touch his lover. “Nay…words…have not…want…need…” Syshae thrust
upward against Haldir and tilted his hips. The guardian gasped, his cock
sliding in to the hilt, sheathed in the warmth and wonder that was his
bondmate.

“Valar! Syshae, my need for you is undimmed.”

“Mine…you…yours…”

Haldir smiled triumphantly. Syshae managed to work one
hand free, reaching under his own thigh and closing his fingers around Haldir’s
testicles. Haldir gasped. Uncontrollable fire built in his groin and he felt
himself draw up. Syshae tightened his hold, milking the swollen globes, and
Haldir erupted, spilling himself deep inside his lover with an animalistic cry
of possession. Syshae’s answering cry was no less wild, and no less ardent as
his own orgasm rode him and he clenched around his lover, drawing the last
precious drops of semen forth.

#

“I like not that
you go without me.”

Syshae smiled lightly at Haldir’s pouting tone. It was
rare to see the guardian grumpy, like an elfling. Haldir certainly hadn’t been
pouting in the days since the elves arrived in the citadel. No, he’d been
emotional, but those emotions tended more toward passion. “’Tis only for a
short time. The Lord and Lady may have much to discuss still with Elrond and
the humans, but they shall not stay past the turn of season.”

“I would go with you now.”

“And deprive the rulers of Lothlorien of their
marchwarden? Who then would head their escort? for none are as skilled as you.”
Syshae teased gently, seeking to lighten Haldir’s mood. He failed, as Haldir
scowled.

“Tease not, lirimaer. I fear this parting as I did not
when I left Lorien with the fellowship, and that was a dark road indeed.”

Sighing, Syshae dropped all pretense of serenity. He
picked up the diadem he wore as a prince from atop a table. After turning it
over in his hands several times, he threw it angrily across the room. It
bounced off a chair and fell to the floor with a clang. His voice was tight and
angry. “I like it not either, but the Lord has commanded my return that there
be some leadership in the Wood. He will have his way, for my pleas and
arguments have moved him not. Would that I were not a prince! If not for this
damnable heritage—”

“Shh, lirimaer.” Placing his fingers against Syshae’s
lips, Haldir stilled his words. “This gains us nothing. We must both do our
duty. I am sorry that myfishfish words caused you upset.” He drew the prince
close and wrapped him in his arms, feeling Syshae mold to his body. They
remained thus until Orophin came to tell them the small party returning to
Lorien was ready to depart.

Watching the six elves ride out of the citadel, Haldir
shivered. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had come over him when
Celeborn announced his intention of sending Syshae back to Lorien. At least
Legolas and Orophin were traveling with him. Although Haldir knew Syshae was a
skilled warrior, he still felt better knowing he wasn’t alone and that those
with him were also skilled. None of the
six looked back. In spite of his foreboding, a tiny smile ghosted across his
stern features: Unlike when he entered the citadel, Syshae was dressed like the
other five, as a guardian. That would please his love.

#

Rohan lay behind the six Galadhrim. They passed through
the green land unseen by any humans. Only the horses, running free on the
plains, marked their passage. Syshae sighed. He looked forward to seeing the
Golden Wood again, but each stride that bore him further from Haldir was harder
to bear than the last. He glanced at the golden elf riding beside him, grateful
once again that Legolas was with him.

“Riders.”

Linlir’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts. Syshae
turned his gaze to the horizon. He could see a group heading toward them
unerringly. They wore cloaks, hiding their bodies, but the hoods were thrown
back, allowing a clear view of their features. Elves. They were not Galadhrim;
that was clear from their garments. Might they be from Imladris? Surely, elves
from Mirkwood could not have gotten through Lorien to ride on the plains of
Rohan. But no, Syshae knew the common garb of those lands and the strange elves
were clad differently.

Hands hovered over bows, but refrained from drawing
weapons until the others’ intent was known. The approaching riders held their
horses to a walk. When they were within hearing distance, all but one halted.
That one rode closer, hand raised in greeting. The elf was ancient, the long
ages of life apparent not on his face, but in the aura of power that surrounded
him.

“Well met, kinsman.” Orophin urged his horse forward,
meaning to draw the stranger’s attention to himself and away from the two
princes. “’Tis clear you wander far. Where is your home and how are you
called?”

Near black eyes surveyed the guardians one-by-one. When
they reached Syshae, his breath caught. There was something…wrong. He wanted to
move, to cry out a warning, but his body no longer responded to his commands.
Too late, he realized the other possessed the power to capture their wills with
a mere gaze. Who was he? Who were the elves with him and what did they intend?
Syshae could sense the surprise, anger, and awe of his fellow guardians and
knew they were sirly rly entranced.

Nodding in satisfaction, the strange elf beckoned his
fellows forward. They led Syshae and Legolas’s mounts into the midst of their
group. Anger and fear warred in Syshae. Why had they been singled out? Did
their captors have some reason for it or had they simply taken two at random?

Syshae could see anger blazing in the eyes of his four
companions as the old elf approached them, and sense their struggle to break
free of the enchantment. One-by-one that anger faded, replaced by blankness as
the old one touched each of them and murmured soft words in an unknown
language. It was vaguely similar to some dialects of Sindarin, but there were
distinct differences too. Lastly, the elf laid his hand on each of the horse’s
heads and spoke more words. When he was done, the four horses turned and began
to walk slowly toward Lorien, bearing their immobile riders.

Unable to scream or protest, Syshae could only watch
helplessly. Then the elf laid his hand on Syshae’s forehead and oblivion closed
in.

#

Awareness returned slowly. Legolas swallowed hard and
forced his eyes to open. That alone scared him anew. Whatever enchantment the
elf cast on him had sent him deep into an unnatural deathlike sleep. Not
wanting to draw attention to the fact he was awake, Legolas took stock of what
he could see and sense and hear without moving. His hands were tied in front of
him and his ankles were likewise secured together. He was uninjured except for
a few bruises that were rapidly healing.

They were no longer in Rohan; the very air was different.
No longer was it wholesome, filled with the rich scent of green grass and
fertile soil. Rather it was chill and lifeless, bearing only the scent of long
dead vegetation. Where? He concentrated. He could sense a large river not too
far away. It was a strong sense, strong enough that it had to be the great
Anduin, but that too was strange, for it came from what he instinctively knew
was west. Impossible. They had been in the north of Rohan. Across Anduin to the
east lay only the Brown Lands. Stretching from the dark border of Mirkwood
south to Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes, they were a barren waste, a reminder
of long ago battles and fallen heroes. No living thing trod there.

Fear returned. Surely their captors were mad if they intended
to dare the impassable Brown Lands! None had ever found a way through the
trackless desolation. Not that many tried, for on the far side lay only more
wilderness that had long been under the shadow of Mordor. Were these mad elves
in the service of Mordor? Was the evil of Sauron still guiding them? No.
Legolas sensed none of the evil of Sauron in them.

Avidly, he studied his captors from his uncomfortable
position on the cold ground. He could see eight of them. All were still cloaked
and Legolas shivered, envying them the warmth. They started no fire, but passed
cold rations and skins between themselves. Their conversation was too low for
even his hearing to make out the words, but he noted the timbre of several of
the voices were female. While it was not unheard of for female elves of Lorien
or Imladris, or even Mirkwood, to ride as warriors, few chose that path.

Where was Syshae? Legolas couldn’t see him and he lacked a
bond with the Sindon that would allow him to sense his presence. Carefully, trying
not to attract the attention of his captors, Legolas rolled his head, searching
the surrounding darkness. Light footsteps behind him, then a hand clamped on
the back of his neck. Another hand fastened around his left bicep and pulled
him to a sitting position. One of the figures detached itself from the group,
came over, and knelt by his feet. Nimble fingers untied the bindings around his
ankles and strong hands pulled him to his feet. The two held him steady until
feeling returned to his stiff muscles, then guided him into the darkness. Fear
of their intentions momentarily lanced through him, then he realized they led
him from the primitive camp to allow him to relieve himself. He flushed when he
realized the two were not going to let go of his arms or afford him any
privacy, but need overrode embarrassment. Fumbling with his bound hands at the
laces of his breeches, he managed to get them undone.

Returning to the camp, Legolas spotted Syshae across the
way, his hands similarly bound. Two elves were pulling him to his feet. He
appeared unharmed. Legolas struggled, trying to break free and go to his lover.
The hands on him tightened painfully. Another elf, a female, stepped quickly to
Syshae, drawing a knife and placing it against his throat. A thin line of blood
appeared on the flawless skin. The female elf’s dark eyes met Legolas’s
angrily. Legolas froze. No words were needed. Syshauld uld suffer for any
resistance on his part, and undoubtedly he would suffer for any on Syshae’s
part. Each guaranteed the other’s cooperation. Doubtless it was one of the
reasons for taking two of them. Separated as they were, unarmed—their weapons
had been taken at some point—and in unfamiliar territory, they were totally at
the mercy of their captors.

#

Five times Anor had risen in the sky and still the strange
elves marched eastward. A chill dreariness settled in Legolas. The Brown Lands
were truly a desolate waste, even the smallest insects seemed to have abandoned
it. Dead grass still stood in clumps that reached knee-high in places, forcing
them to wind their way around as if through a maze. It also hid depressions in
the ground, making walking treacherous. Perhaps there was a trail they
followed, but Legolas couldn’t discern it. He decided once again that his
captors were mad.

The elf in front
of him halted. Legolas looked up. The female elf who threatened Syshae the
first night and who he had determined was the leader, lifted a water skin that
hung from her hip and drank deeply. Others followed suit; two squatted, taking
what rest they could. A break. The elf behind him, who Legolas had named Narrow
Nose, offered him a water skin. Gratefully, he took it, but drank sparingly.
Where did they refill the skins? Each night, several of the elves would collect
the empty skins and disappear into the darkness, returning with them full.
Where they found water, Legolas had no clue. He settled for simply being
grateful that they did.

His eyes sought Syshae. His fellow prince was some way
behind him; three elves separated them. Legolas knew from experience the three
wouldn’t allow them closer. He sighed heavily. Five days of chill winds and
marching through wasteland. Five days of silence. Their captors still hadn’t
spoken a word and they made it clear that he and Syshae were to remain mute
also. Five days for the hopelessness of their situation to sink in. Syshae
caught his eye and smiled faintly. Legolas smiled in return. No, he wouldn’t
give up hope, although he might go mad if things didn’t change. Oddly, in light
of their silence and the fact they were forcing he and Syshae to go with them,
the elves didn’t treated them badly. Yes, their hands were bound, but not too
tightly, and each evening when they halted, Narrow Nose would check to see if
the rope was abrading his skin. And yes, there was no doubt the elves would
punish them if they attempted to escape, but in spite of that, Legolas sensed
no hostility directed toward him. To the contrary, the elves—except the leader,
whose reserve surpassed even Haldir’s—were considerate, sharing their rations
and water, steadying him over the uneven ground.

A light touch on his arm broke his reverie. Narrow Nose
gestured forward. Legolas turned and followed the line of elves, moving ever
further east.

 

“Why will you not tell them, Mithaelin? Why forbid all to
speak with them?”

The female elf’s countenance darkened. “I lead here,
Iarmen. For all your years and power, you have not the strength of will to do
what must be done to save our people.”

“What you do is not wisdom. You are a warrior; they also
are warriors. Were you taken prisoner by unknown elves, bound and stripped of
your weapons and dignity, treated with silence, and denied even the comfort of
your fellow prisoner, would you then help those who treated you thusly?”

“Our people must—”

“Try only this. Keep them not separated. ’Tis easy to see
there is strong friendship between them, mayhap more. Allow them the comfort of
the other’s presence.”

“Allow them the chance to escape.”

“No, Mithaelin. Where should they go? None but our people
know the paths of the Brown Lands. There is no way back for them.”

Mithaelin sighed, rubbing her temple with one hand.

Iarmen grasped her hand, holding it tightly. “You bear too
much child. The burden of our people is heavy. Would that it not have come to
you.”

A short, bitter laugh. “To whom should it fall, eldest?
Our murdered lord or vanished lady?” She looked across to their two prisoners.
“Very well. Allow them to be together, but there shall be two guards on them at
all times. Make sure they understand our vigilance is not lessened and that
they can be separated again do they cause trouble, then speak no more to them.”

“As you see best.” Iarmen turned away with a small smile.
It was a start. Well did he understand the fear and haunted memories that drove
Mithaelin, and well did he know that only time and patience would change her
mind. He also knew that the gift of the fea-healer their people so desperately
needed should not be forced. Somehow, he would convince her to relent in her
treatment of the two Lorien elves and make of them friends.

 

Legolas watched the Old One, as he thought of the elf who
enchanted him, approach. The elf spoke a few words to the one guarding Legolas,
then held out his hand to help Legolas stand. There was kindness and regret in
the dark eyes, which puzzled Legolas. He had seen the apparent argument between
the Old One and the female who led the group. What did it bode for him and
Syshae? To his surprise, the Old One led him to where Syshae sat curled against
a large rock and uredured him to sit. Suspicious of the Old One’s motive, he
complied, dropping to the ground close enough to touch Syshae. In turn, the
Sindon shifted closer so that they leaned against each other, drawing strength
and comfort and warmth. Their eyes never left their captor.

“Mithaelin wishes you to know she allows you to be
together so long as you try not to escape or cause trouble.”

Both nodded warily. They were tired and weakened by the
constant chill wind. Hopelessly lost in the maze of the Brown Lands, they had
no choice but to depend on their seemingly mad captors to lead them out again.
Then, maybe, there would be a chance for escape.

“Our companions?” It was the first time anyone spoke to
them. Legolas was determined to find out the fate of Orophin and the three
other diandians.

The Old One shook his head and started to stand.

“Saes! They are my companions, my responsibility. I would
know of their fate.”

Reading the indecision in the Old One, Legolas pressed on.
“Saes, tell us. They are more than mere companions, yet were they not, still we
would fear for them and wish to know their fat
T
The Old One looked over his shoulder. Legolas followed his
gaze, but the female leader was gone.

“Saes.”

The elder’s eyes swung back to Legolas and Syshae. Hands twisted
together as he wrestled with his conscience and his orders. Finally, he sighed.
“They should be well. They were able to move within a day. The other
enchantment I laid on them will block all memory of your journey and of us
until another with such power removes it, but it will not harm them. I charged
their mounts to see them home safe. Doubtless they have returned to Lorien
several days since.” He stood and moved away hurriedly.

Legolas looked at Syshae and saw the same dismay he felt
reflected in the Sindon’s expression. No memory of the journey from the citadel
or the encounter with the strange elves? Then likely no one would even know
they had been with the four until the other Galadhrim returned home and they
were found missing. Even if someone realized something was amiss, it would take
days to reach Celeborn or Galadriel and undo the enchantment to find the truth.
Surely, no one of less power could undo it. Surely, he prayed to the Valar, the
Lord and Lady possessed the power.

#

A warm breeze whispered through the boughs of the great
mallorn trees of Lorien, carrying enticing scents and telling of far away
places. Anor spilled warmth onto the Wood, the blazing golden orb riding high
in the azure sky. The leaves of the trees gleamed, spreading below and around
the talan like a golden cloud. Orophin saw none of it, smelled none of it,
heard none of it, felt nothing of the glory of the day. Instead he paced
restlessly to and fro, one hand absently stroking the hilt of the knife he
held.

“Cease, Orophin! You shall drive me insane.”

Orophin turned and snarled at Linlir.

The younger elf flinched back.

“Forgive me, Linlir, but I cannot rest. We must find out
what happened to us on our return! What if this mystery hides great evil?”

Orophin went back to his pacing. Linlir stood and stepped
in front of his fellow guardian, forcing Orophin to stop again.

“Gellin rides hard for Minas Tirith, bearing our tale to
the Lord and Lady. Surehey hey shall unravel this mystery. We can do naught
until then. Come, you neglect yourself with this constant worry. We shall eat
and—”

“Orophin!” Rumil burst into the talan, startling the two
occupants. “Brot how how comes this? Where are Syshae and Legolas?”

“They are in Gondor, with the others who—’

“Nay!” Rumil cut him off. “They departed for Lorien with
you. There were six in the party, yet I met Gellin on the way here and he tells
me only four returned. What of Syshae and Legolas?”

Syshae and Legolas missing. Haldir would kill him for
losing his bondmate and his other lover. Orophin fainted.

“Wake up! Orophin, wake up!”

Hazily, Orophin focused his eyes and Rumil’s face swam
into view. Rumil. His younger brother had stayed in Gondor with Haldir. What
was he doing back in Lorien? Haldir. Syshae. Rumil’s words came back to him.
Syshae and Legolas were missing—and he had apparently lost them. Haldir would
not kill him. No that was much too quick and painless. Visions of roasting
slowly over an orc fire swam through Orophin’s mind.

“Orophin!” Rumil shook him violently. “Pay attention!”

Swallowing hard and trying not to get violently ill as his
head snapped back and forth, Orophin held up a trembling hand. Rumil loosed his
hold.

“What…happened?” Orophin croaked.

“Valar!” Rumil stood, strode angrily across the talan, and
viciously kicked an unoffending basket of Orophin’s laundry. It sailed out into
open air. Dirty tunics and breeches floated down over a wide area. He turned
and glared at his older brother. “That…is…what…you…need…to…tell…me.” Each words cas carefully enunciated from between clenched teeth.

Orophin gaped at his enraged brother like a landed fish,
events clearly beyond his mental grasp at the moment.

“We do not know.” Linlir offered quietly. Rumil turned to
glare at him, but Linlir held up a placating hand. “None of us remember the
journey hence. All our memories between Estel and Arwen’s joining, and finding
ourselves once again in the Wood are gone. It seemed I awoke from a dream to
find myself once again standing within Lorien, Orophin, Gellin, and Sëanor
beside me. A border patrol stopped us. We had our horses and weapons, but
remembered naught.”

Orophin nodded in agreement, grateful that Linlir appeared
more coherent than he was at the moment.

“Valar! Then Gellin spoke true.”

With effort, Orophin gathered his scattered wits. “Ai.
Knowing something was amiss, we gave Gellin a fresh horse and sent him and
Dyanil to Minas Tirith, seeking the Lord and Lady’s counsel. We knew not until
this moment that Syshae and Legolas set out with us.”

Rumil sat down with a thud. “Sorcery.”

“Ai. So it appears, and so we already suspected, but now
we cannot await word from the Lord and Lady. We must ride to find our missing
brothers.”

#

Horrified, Gellin stared at the images the Lady’s mirror revealed,
then collapsed to his knees. No! It couldn’t be! Syshae, the Lord and Lady’s
grandson. Legolas, the self-exiled prince of Mirkwood. Gone. Sweet Valar, saes
no. A growl from Haldir snapped him from his frantic thoughts. Haldir. Syshae’s
bondmate. Valar, he was as good as in the Halls of Mandos.

“Hold, Haldir, my marchwarden.” Galadriel’s voice cut
through the rising tension in the audience chamber like the sharpest mithril
blade. “Little good shall you do my grandson and Legolas if your emotions rule
your actions. Your experience and instincts are needed now, not your fear and
anger.”

“Forgive me, my Lady,” Haldir’s voice was tight with
emotion, something Gellin had never before heard from his commander. “But I do
not see clearly when my bondmate is threatened. ‘Tis why I sent Rumil to Lorien
with a message inquiring after him. The bond between us is clouded as Ie
ce
confessed to you. I fear for him.”

“And for Legolas?” Celeborn’s voice held a note Gellin
couldn’t quite discern.

“I would have them both back, my Lord, but Syshae is my
bonded. I must perforce look to his safety first.”

“Ai, as you should, but how far behind does your concern
for Legolas trail?”

Haldir’s voice faltered. “My…Lady…I…I understand not. I
would see them both…safe.”

“And in your arms?”

Haldir flushed—another first in Gellin’s experience. “Ai,
my Lady.”

“Then see it done, marchwarden. Return our princes to us.
Ride as soon as you are ready.”

Haldir bowed to Celeborn and Galadriel. “Your command; my
desire. It shall be done.” Gesturing for the other guardians in the chamber to
follow, he strode into the corridor.

Still stunned by what the removal of his enchantment had
revealed, Gellin forced himself to his feet and followed. Syshae and Legolas
taken by unknown elves. Haldir’s fury would know no bounds. Cautiously, he eyed
the ramrod straight back striding before him. Never, he decided, never
had he seen such wrath from the normally calm and controlled marchwarden. For a
moment he almost pitied the elves when Haldir caught up to them. Whether Haldir
would catch up wasn’t a question in Gellin’s mind.

 

“You recognized him, my love?” Galadriel inquired of
Celeborn.

“Ai, my jewel. How could I not? It has been centuries, yet
I knew him in an instant.”

“Where, I wonder, has Iarmen kept himself? Greatly do I
desire that knowledge.”

“Should we not inform Haldir?”

“Nay, my husband. There is more to this abduction than the
mirror revealed. I sense the hand of the Valar. Even were the answers to
Iarwen’s plans revealed to me, I know not where they have taken our princes and
could not guide our guardians. This must play to its end as the Valar will.”

#

The Brown Lands lay behind them to the west as did a river
that could be none other than the confluence of Celduin, rising from far Erebor
and Carnen running from the Iron Hills. To the south, both Legolas and Syshae
sensed a great body of water—the Sea of Rhûn. What lay before them was a
mystery. What lay behind them was Middle Earth as they knew it. Not for
centuries uncounted had elves ventured so far east.

Four days passed. They marched now through dark woods.
Wearily, the two princes followed their captors—the damp chill and uncertainty
over their future sapping their strength. Since the night their captors allowed
them to keep each other company and the Old One had spoken to them, not a word
had been directed to them. Thankfully, their captors permitted them to speak to
each other, provided they did so in low voices. Neither attempted to escape. It
was pointless. With every step eastward, they were more dependent on the
strange elves. Never could they find their way back through the Brown Lands.
Though, like all elves, they knew which way was west, the possibility of
finding a path through that wasteland was nonexistent. And though Sauron was overthrown,
neither was there passage to be found through the reek of the Dead Marshes. The
only other way west—through Mirkwood, realm of Thranduil—was even more
unthinkable than the coiling mists and stench of the Marshes.

The elves in front halted so abruptly they almost ran into
them. They smelled a faint scent of wood smoke and sensed the presence of more
elves. Their captors stepped aside and they could see a smallish glade. Several
rude huts stood around the edges, and talans hung in the trees above. At a
curious whistling sound from the Old One, elves emerged into the clearing from
the darkness of the forest. Shockingly, most were female and there were a
number of elflings.

The female leader of their captors, whose name they now
knew to be Mithaelin, stepped before them, her dark eyes burning. “Behold the
elves of Tynion and Aytalie. Behold the remnants of the Sindon.”

Syshae bit off a strangled cry of grief. Legolas supported
him when he swayed on his feet as if he would collapse.

Astoundingly, the cold arrogant Mithaelin knelt before
Syshae. She bowed her head not, but raised her eyes to him. “Forgive us. We
seek your aid, fea-healer. Our people’s fea wither from the darkness of Mordor.
Many have passed to Mandos, leaving us weak and nigh helpless. Too long have we
dwelt among its evil shadows. Ever, since we fled the final battle with
Greenwood the Great, have the dark lord’s minions taken our people. Forgive us.
We feared you would account us of little worth and refuse to come to our aid,
as Lorien and Imladris did in time past. Heal not those of use who forced you
here, for we have earned you enmity, but heal the elflings and the maids for
they are innocent. ’Tis said a fea-healer is the gift of the Valar. I pray this
be true and that you have their mercy.”

Legolas felt Syshae stiffen as Mithaelin pleaded for her
people—Syshae’s people.

Drawing himself to his full height, Syshae pulled the
regal aura learned in Lorien about him like a cloak. Raising his black eyes
from Mithaelin kneeling before him, he turned his gaze to the haunted remnants
of his people. He thrust his bound wrists forward. “Release me.” The words were
a command, but Mithaelin complied without hesitation, drawing her belt knife
and slicing the rope.

Without another word, Syshae strode into the glade,
divesting himself of his garments and unbraiding his hair as he went. He
reached the nearest of the elves therein—a young female supporting a frail
older male, while two scared elflings clung to her skirt. Syshae dropped to his
knees and held his arms open wide. The male elf shuddered and dropped to his
knees in front of Syshae, who enfolded the thin frame and curtained them with
his hair. He beto sto sing. Louder than he had to Rumil or Legolas so that the
sound of his voice reached all. The words were indistinct, but the comfort in
the healing song reached out to them all.

Looking down, Legolas saw tears silvering Mithaelin’s
cheeks. He thrust his hands forward, demanding her attention. “Release me. I must
go to him. So many will tax his strength greatly.”

Mithaelin looked up at him, disbelief warring with hope.

“He shall not leave them, but shall do all in his power to
heal your people, though it cost his own fea,” Legolas reassured her. “Later,
we shall talk—and hurl recriminations if you like—but let me go to him now and
be his strength.” Secretly, Legolas prayed to the Valar that he could lend
Syshae strength. There were so many of them, and they were so obviously
grieved, and he was not Syshae’s bondmate as was Haldir. Syshae’s gift had not
chosen him to sustain the fea-healer. He could only hope that his love and
strength would prove some help.

#

Twelve eyes surveyed the desolation that stretched before
them. Six guardians of Lorien. Despair filled three. Uncertainty filled two.
Determination filled the last.

“The trail lies east. I shall follow.”

“Haldir, ’tis impossible! None can traverse the Brown
Lands—only madness and death await there.”

“If that is true then my princes should have already tasted
of them, but I still feel Syshae and I feel not madness. He s ans and, as I
have sworn, I shall be his strength. If I must dare this desolation to reach
him, then dare it I shall.”

Five sets of uncertain eyes met, silently communicating.

“Then we shall go with you.” Orophin’s voice was steady.

“Nay, brother. I shall not ask this of another. This I
must do, but I would not risk another.”

“’Twas not an offer, brother mine, but a statement. We shall
go with you.” Rumil’s voice was stern as dwarven-forged iron.

“I have not the time to argue. I command—”

“And we shall disobey. We are going with you.”

“Rumil—”

“Haldir.” There was the slightest mocking trace of
laughter in Rumil’s tone. “Do you not see when you have lost? You shall not go
alone. Duty would compel it of us regardless, but love is what prompts us. Love
of you, and our two princes.”

Haldir surveyed each of the others in turn, holding their
eyes with his burning silver gaze. “I cannot dissuade my brothers, but none
other need go forward to despair and death. Rather I command you to return to
Lorien and bear word of our fate to the Lord and Lady. Mayhap, in time, we
shall meet again.”

The three guardians thus dismissed, Gellin among them,
argued long and heatedly, but in the end had no choice but to accept their
commander’s order. Giving all their rations, water, and nearly all their
weapons to the three brothers, they stood in silent witness as Haldir led
Orophin and Rumil into the Brown Lands. Long they watched, until the three
figures faded from sight, until Anor set and Ithil rose. Still they watched—and
listened.

As Anor rose again into the sky, Gellin spoke at last.
“They are beyond our aid. Now, the Valar hold their fate. We must pray for
mercy.”

#

Legolas caught Syshae as he swayed. “Melethron, you must
cease. You must rest if you are to heal the others.”

“Ai,” Syshae agreed weakly. “I like it not but I have
little strength left. Would that Haldir were here…”

A deep sigh of regret escaped Legolas. “Would that I could
be your strength as he is. It would mean much to me.”

Syshae smiled. “You give to me more than you know,
lirimaer. Long hours ago should my strength have failed, if not for your love
and touch.”

“But there is no bond between us. I cannot restore your
strength.” Regret was plain in Legolas’s voice.

“Ai, there is a bond between us—one of love and
friendship. Do not undervalue its worth.”

Iarmen knelt before them and looked at Syshae in concern.
“You require rest.”

“Ai, Iarmen. I regret my frailty, but your people are
grievously hurt with the evil of Sauron.” Syshae’s dark eyes followed the
elfling he had just healed as her mother led her away. “So many elflings…”

“’Tis a cruel gift the Valar bestow on us. We, who are
abandoned and have lived in peril for centuries, are blessed with elflings, but
cursed to watch our hope fall to the shadow. It has been our greatest pain. I
would thank you again, fea-healer, for we treated you harshly and yet you aid
us.”

Leaning back into Legolas’s grasp, Syshae surveyed the glade
and the elves that near filled it. So many females and so many elflings—so few
warriors to protect them. Briefly, his desire to heal them all struggled with
his weariness. The latter won. He would do them no favor by depleting himself
to the point he went to the Halls of Mandos. He looked back at Iarmen, at the
dark eyes filled with centuries of wisdom. “I shall heal them, but I mustst.”st.”

“Then come,”
Iarmen announced. “We shall take you to a talan and see to your needs.”

 

Warmth and silk. Those were the first two things Legolas
was aware of when he woke. The warmth of Syshae’s body entwined with his. The
silk of Syshae’s hair covering them like a cloak. Seeing that Syshae still
slept, he smiled, enjoying his lover’s total relaxation. His efforts the day
before had drained him. A frown replaced the smile. Much as he wanted to see
the Sindon elves healed, he wouldn’t accept Syshae’s life as the price.
Unconsciously, he tightened his arms. Syshae stirred restlessly, murmuring.
Legolas kissed his cheek. “Sleep, lirimaer,” he instructed softly. “You must
rest.”

“Mmmm.” Syshae shifted. Black eyes focused sleepily to
regard Legolas. A small, happy smile curved lips that were usually
overwhelmingly sensual. “Hold me?”

Legolas smiled back. Syshae looked like a sleepy
elfling—all warmth and trust and love. “Always. Now sleep.” With a contented
sigh, Syshae drifted back to his dreams. Legolas stroked the dark head. “Rest,
my prince, and know that I love you.”

#

Moodily, Rumil eyed the lembas Orophin offered him. Lembas
was all fine and well, but not as one’s total diet. After four days of nothing
but the waybread, he would have given a quiver of arrows for a rabbit cooked
over a fire. He would have given two quivers for the fire to cook it over—and
to warm himself by. Neither were likely. “Brown Lands indeed. Desolate ’tis
more like. Even the Dead Marshes show more life.” He kicked disgustedly at a
clump of dead grass. They had tried to twist the blades together, but they
wouldn’t burn. Dead, but not like any dried grass he had ever seen. More like
to the rotted vegetation of the Dead Marshes, but yet they were dry.

“Ai, but brooding shall not make the grass burn, nor warm
us. Do you eat or no?”

“He eats. We all need our strength.” Haldir’s tone was
that of a commander lecturing a raw recruit.

Knowing his brother spoke out of fear for Syshae and
Legolas, Rumil held back an angry protest at being addressed thusly. From
Anduin, they had journeyed through the Brown Lands, guided by nothing more than
Haldir’s faint sense of his bondmate. He still felt Syshae through their bond,
but admitted the link was weak. Rumil knew his brother feared Syshae injured.
Knew also that memory of the disastrous incident with the man from Gondor, when
Syshae had nearly left Middle Earth, haunted Haldir.

Without further word, Rumil took the lembas from Orophin
who dropped down to sit beside him. Haldir turned and strode away far enough to
create the illusion of privacy, then stood still, staring to the east. Rumil
watched his silent figure, wondering if he would ever feel such closeness to
another, until Orophin poked him in the ribs. He took a bite of lembas.

#

“Why?” Legolas asked for the eighth time. He and Syshae
sat cross-legged on the floor of the talan where they had slept, eating the bread,
wild berries, and dried strips of meat they found upon awakening. Legolas was
growing frustrated; Syshae wasn’t making any sense. Three days had passed since
their arrival at the glade, and still he refused to tell the Sindon who he was
and claim leadership of them. Still, he insisted they both hide their true
identities. He continued to heal those in need, but with each day he became
weaker, taking longer to recover his strength.

Syshae’s sigh threatened to blow the leaves from the tree.
“They need me not as a leader. Mithaelin is more than competent and she cares
for them deeply,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “I shall heal them,
but I am not of them. They have suffered centuries. Where was I then? Did I
care for my people or lead them through those dark days? What do I know of
them? I know nothing of their ways or their history, yet you would have me
claim leadership? Nay, ’tis better that they not know.”

“Lirimaer—”

Leaning forward quickly, Syshae bore Legolas to the floor.
“Daro! Enough! Come let us see to my people. I shall be their strength and you
shall be mine.”

 

As they wandered through the glade and nearby woods, where
the Sindon made their home, Legolas took heart in the fact that Syshae had
healed, at least partially, all those who needed it. Initially, seeing the
number of elves who grieved and the depth of their pain, he feared the task
would take too much and Syshae would perish. Instead, his lover had surprised
him. Yes, Syshae was weak—and growing weaker every day—but the worst was over.
The most beleaguered elves were healed; the rest would not tax Syshae nearly so
much and he could rest and in time heal himself. Again, Legolas cursed the fate
that had sent him with Syshae and not Haldir, who could have healed his
bondmate and spared him the draining anguish of the elves’ hurt.

They stopped to watch four Sindon warriors practicing with
their bows. Mithaelin observed with a sharp eye, praising and correcting by
turn. She spotted the two and invited them to a competition.

Legolas smiled wryly and shrugged. “We have no weapons.”

Mithaelin smiled, the first time Legolas had seen a true
smile from her. Her stern features melted, revealing warmth and caring—and a
trace of humor. It surprised him. Mithaelin cold and remote and commanding he
was familiar with, but Mithaelin showing emotion disturbed him in some way.

“Then we shall return yours.” Mithaelin gestured and one
of the younger elves hurried away to return moments later bearing Legolas and
Syshae’s bows and quivers.

Both princes looked inquiringly at Mithaelin, making no
move to take their weapons.

Mithaelin’s customary haughty look flashed across her
face, but an unfamiliar one replaced it. A look of slight embarrassment and
tentative hope. Breathing deeply, as if to give herself courage, she spoke, her
eyes meeting theirs. “Against your will did I bring you here, and for that I
ask understanding. Our need was great and we do not lightly trust outsiders.
But you have shown that we are wrong, that some few others may be trusted. For
many things are we in your debt. We would not restrain you—even if you desire
to depart, though we hope you shall remain and become part of us. For this
time, accept your weapons back and know that we honor you.”

Syshae stepped forward, taking Mithaelin’s hand and
pulling her forward for a gentle kiss on the cheek. She blushed most
becomingly.

“Gladly do I accept your friendship, and I honor it as a
warrior should, but I cannot accept your challenge. I fear I am too weak to
provide adequate competition, however my companion has seldom been bested with
the bow.”

Legolas gritted his teeth and repressed an urge to
strangle Syshae. As usual, the Sindon had maneuvered things to his advantage.
Briefly, he thought of how Syshae proclaimed his distaste for political
maneuvering and recognized it for what it was—a brilliant camouflage.

Mithaelin lifted an eyebrow toward Legolas and he forced a
smile. “With pleasure, my lady.”

She laughed, a sound of genuine pleasure. “Few indeed have
ever called me lady. Let us see if your aim is as true as your words are fair.”

Afterwards, Mithaelin declared Legolas’s aim far truer
than his words were fair. She took defeat gracefully, surprising Legolas again,
and asked him to train with the Sindon again. He agreed cautiously though the the first time since Rohan he felt he wasn’t a prisoner. His spirits lifted
somewhat and for a moment he was almost happy. Almost. Until he looked around
for Syshae. Until he saw the look on Syshae’s face.

Syshae sat on the ground near the edge of the small
clearing where the Sindon warriors practiced. He held another elf cradled
gently in his arms. Legolas recognized the other as Pallas, the first elf
Syshae healed. Hurrying to his lover’s side, Legolas dropped to his knees.
Ps dis didn’t stir and Legolas realized he was deeply asleep in Syshae’s
healing dream. Hesitantly Legolas reached out and touched Syshae’s shoulder,
his eyes asking the question he dared not voice.

“Ai.” Syshae’s voice was soft, filled with grief. “The
darkness is returning. And the others—they too are…” He swallowed hard, his
voice dropping even further until it was almost inaudible. “They too are
succumbing once again. The evil runs too deep in this place. I have not the
strength to save them.”

“Then they must leave this place.”

Surprise replaced the despair in Syshae’s eyes.

“Ai,” Legolas nodded. “If the evil is so deep in this
land, then they must leave it.”

“What say you? This is their home. Would the Galadhrim
leave Lorien or the wood elves leave Mirkwood? Nay, no matter how fearsome it
has become, it is their home and they are tied to it.”

“But it is not their home. Not their true home, for did
not the Sindon come from Mirkwood when it was still Greenwood the Great? And
did they not settle in other lands? What they have done before, they shall do
again. Our people do not leave our lands lightly, and we grieve at the parting,
but many times have we done so.”

“Only in great need.”

“As the Sindon now face. They shall see the need, but they
have no one to lead them.”

“Mithaelin—”

“Is a fine warrior and they follow her counsel to keep
them safe, but to leave their home… For that they must have a leader whom they
follow with their hearts, and while they respect her, they love her not for she
holds herself apart.”

Syshae dropped his gaze to the elf in his arms. He stroked
Pallas’s auburn hair gently. “Love—”

“Is not easily given, but you have given them hope. They
believe in you, they trust you. They would follow you, especially when they
know who you are.”

Fear sprang into Syshae’s eyes. “Nay! Do not, I beg you. I
shall be their healer, but you ask too much. I could not bear their rejection
and scorn. I have already failed them. I have not been here, I—”

Frustration roiled through Legolas. He had tried several
times to convince Syshae it was no fault of his own that he had been separated
from his people, to no avail. The guilt seemed too deeply rooted to be erased
with mere words, still he had to try again. “You do not believe my words, trust
your heart. You fear their rejection. Why? Is it not because you wish so
desperately for their acceptance?” Syshae flinched and looked away. Legolas
pressed his advantage. “Give them a chance. Tell them who you truly are. Tell
them of your mother, of your blood. To love, you must chance hurt. Well do you
know this, lirimaer. Tell them and let them decide.”

“Ai,” Mithaelin’s voice was calm, but commanding. “Tell us
what you have hidden from us for it seems that it affects us deeply. I would
know what truth your lies hide.”

Legolas turned his head. The female warrior stood just
behind him. Behind her was an unhappy looking Iarmen. How much had they
overheard? Enough, apparently. He looked back at Syshae. Syshae’s unreadable
court face stared back at him. “Tell them,” he urged quietly. He reached out
and stroked Pallas’s hair. “For his sake. For the elflings. For them all. For
yourself. Tell them.”

 

Surveying the Sindon elves gathered around him in the
central glade, Syshae willed himself to stay calm and not panic. So many eyes
on him. So much unwanted attention. Never had he desired to be a prince. Never
had he wished for attention. As Thranduil’s slave he wished only for surcease
of pain, not knowing there was more to dream of. In Lorien, he learned of life,
and what Thranduil had kept from him. Though he was centuries old when Haldir
rescued him, he had been as innocent as the elflings in the glade before him.
He wanted to flee. He didn’t want the responsibility of his blood. He was
afraid. He wanted so badly to deserve the trust in the eyes directed at him,
wanted to save them, but how could he make a difference? He was only a guardian
of Lorien. Yes, the Lady prophesied a great fate for him, but he wasn’t sure he
believed it. He was only one elf. Never had his gift felt such a burden.

Syshae felt Legolas’s hand rest lightly on his lower back,
offering silent strength and understanding. He looked again at the gathered
elves. Where do I begin? What are the words? Reaching deep inside himself, he
touched the bond to Haldir. The bond he had avoided since their capture—avoided
because he feared to darken it with his fear and pain and weakness.
Tentatively, he reached out to his bondmate. Love. Love and acceptance—and
worry. He tried to send reassurance back. He knew Haldir could feel his
reluctance, his fear of failure. The marchwarden sent back the sense of a
command. Do it.

He raised his head, black eyes passing over the assembled
elves, avoiding no gaze. “I ask your forgiveness. I have failed you. Though I
have healed many fea, the darkness returns. It lies too deep in the land. So
deep that it is part of the very earth itself. I shall continue to heal you,
but my strength lessens and I shall fail.” A murmur of denial passed through
the elves. “I wish it were not so, but it is truth. Your only hope is to leave
this land.”

Anxious glances and angry denials passed among the
assembled. Syshae waited, letting the initial shock spend itself. When the
murmurs died down, he continued. “I also ask your forgiveness for I have
mislead you. I am not named Fenlir as I have claimed, nor am I Galadhrim, save
by adoption and choice.”

The reaction to that announcement was stronger, the
murmurs of denial louder and more vehement. He saw anger and disappointment in
the eyes nearest him. Almost, Syshae’s courage failed him. He looked back to
Legolas. The blonde nodded encouragingly.

“The Lady Galadriel has told me of my true heritage, for I
knew it not.” He took a deep breath. “I am named Syshae. My mother was named
Aytalie.”

Gasps, and cries of both disbelief and hope rang out.
Iarmen paled and sagged to the ground. Mithaelin’s face set into a mask of
hostility and she stepped forward.

“You claim kinship with us? You claim lordship over us?
Why should we believe your word?”

“You have no reason to believe me and I can offer no
proof,” Syshae responded. “I have only the reason that kept me silent before.”

A hostile voice from the gathered elves asked, “What
reason? There can be none good enough, even if your claim be true.”

“Ai, what reason?”

“Another lie—”

“…deserted us before…”

“…like the others…”

“Coward…”

“…liar…”

The cacophony of voices continued. Syshae steeled himself
not to run and hide. An elfling he had healed stepped forward. The young female
took his hand and gazed upward. There was no anger or recrimination or fear in
her eyes, only puzzlement.

“Why?”

As he stared down at her, the voices died out. All waited
to hear his response to the elfling’s simple question, but he wasn’t aware of
any of them. Everything had narrowed to the young one before him. It seemed to
him that nothing mattered other than that she understood. He swallowed hard.

“Fear.” He knelt so that he looked her in the eyes. “I
knew not that any of my kin still lived. All believe the Sindon perished and
that I am the last of my kindred left in Middle Earth. The Galadhrim took me
in, for the Lord and Lady are my ancestors, but I am not truly of them. Long
have I been an orphan. And then… I find that my people live. But you live in
darkness and suffering. I was not with you. I know naught of your ways or your
pain. I was not with you to assuage your suffering. How should I ask you to
accept me when I have failed you?”

Syshae was only aware of the slow slide of tears down his
cheeks when the elfling wiped them away gently.

“Did you want to be with us?”

“Had I known of your existence, I would have done anything
to be with you.”

The elfling moved closer and wrapped her arms around
Syshae. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. Such trust. Such
innocence.

“How may such a claim be proved?” Another debate sprang
up. Voices vying with one another.

Iarmen’s words were quiet, but they lanced through those
assembled. “By my blood.” All looked to the eldest of them. “I swore a blood
oath to Aytalie before she sought the havens, fearing for the safety of the
child she carried.” Gasps raced through the crowd. “Ai, she was with child when
she fled—the child of Tynion. A vision came to her and told her to flee for the
child’s safety. Before she left, I bound myself to her with blood, that I might
know her line.”

Syshae felt the weight of centuries as the elder elf
looked to him.

“Would you allow me to join my blood to yours that we may
resolve this question?”

“Ai, saes.” Syshae’s voice was a near whisper, but it was
all he could manage. The elfling in his arms tightened her hold and he felt
Legolas’s strong arms around him from behind. Gathering courage from their
belief, he held out his right arm, baring the inner wrist to Iarmen’s blade.
“If I am truly Aytalie’s son, and you truly swore a blood oath to her, then
your blood shall know the truth of mine.”

A burning pain. Syshae watched as blood welled from the
cut on his wrist. Aytalie’s blood. Tynion’s blood. His parents. Finally, after
centuries, he knew who both his parents were.

Iarmen held out his own arm, blood oozing from a cut on
his wrist. Without hesitation, Syshae pressed his wrist against the older
el min mingling their blood. An odd, though not unpleasant, feeling swept
through him. Something inside him shifted. It felt as if he remembered
something long forgotten—something pleasant that gladdened him. He looked up
from their joined wrists to Iarmen, waiting for the elder elf’s pronouncement.

“My prince.”

 

*coronar - literally 'sun-round', a name given by the Elves
to a single year

*gwador – cousin

*Iarmen – name means ‘old way’, one who follows the old
ways

*lirimaer - lovely one

*mavannvannon – well met

*pen-neth - young one

*nin bain - my beautiful one

*meleth-nin - my love

*Mithaelin – name means ‘grey lake’, reflecting beauty
muted by sadness

*saes - please