Behind the Shadows of the Soul I : In your Eyes

Chapter 6: The Lord of the Vale

Legolas did not know where he wanted to look first. There were too many places he would have liked to admire. But he knew that they would not halt to enable him to have a better view. Yet, even the brief images and sounds that caught his attention delighted him. He was stunned by the beauty of the place they travelled through. It might have been the mere fact that he had travelled for one week through hostile landscapes, but he found this place very beautiful. The way the light played through the foliage of the trees, sketching moving patterns on the ground, the way the animals were running into the trees, their little feet shaking disturbing the leaves, all participated in the delightful feelings he was experiencing while riding with the seneschal and two other guards. No animal was running amidst the trees of his forest anymore, save perhaps the spiders that nested in the higher branches.

The trees were still speaking to him, telling him the story of this place, how the first elves came here to build a shelter dedicated to all the races of Arda and how they tried to manage together. They spoke of legends and tales that few would have known and fewer still would remember, their voices and whispers soft to his delicate ear.

The younger son of Thranduil had to admit that the vale was truly bewitching, enchanting his senses and delighting his heart. But even the beauty of the vale could not relieve the tension in his body and the beating of his heart. He had to act as an ambassador and to convince Lord Elrond of the validity of his father’s request. It was a difficult task and he was not sure he would be able to achieve it. Perhaps his father should have come by himself… But Mirkwood needed his presence. Mirkwood… So different from this vale. So dear to his heart.

To him, Imladris was beautiful and pure. So pure. The whispering of trees was full of that innocence that those of Mirkwood no longer possessed. All was so peaceful that it almost didn't seem real. And the elves… They were so… different. So… But he couldn’t find the word. Impassive perhaps. But that was not exactly what he meant.

He glanced at the blond rider next to him. Lord Glorfindel of Imladris. Also known as Glorfindel of Gondolin, the one who died defeating a Balrog. Such warriors were what Mirkwood missed the most. And that elf was truly handsome. After discreetly watching the way the blond hair was catching the morning light, he shifted awkwardly on the back of Naralod. He was truly weary, but he had no time to think about it. His will was focused upon a single thing: his meeting with the Peredhel Lord of Imladris.

*

Glorfindel had to admit that he had been more than surprised and perhaps also angered to learn that Thranduil had dared to send them a messenger. The only reason why he had not sent him back was because the lithe blond elf was the son of the King. If Thranduil had sent his son, it meant that this message should not be treated lightly. But this was none of his business, but Elrond’s.

He slightly glanced at the fair being riding the white stallion. He was stunned to see how much this one looked like his father. He had immediately known who this elf was, even if he had never met him before. Something in his bearing reminded him helplessly of the King of Mirkwood. Something in his eyes no doubt. The likeness was not only physical. Those two huge cerulean eyes were full of… But full of what? Pride? Wildness? Determination? Perhaps all three at the same time. But it was an _expression that Glorfindel had often noticed in Thranduil’s gaze.

Looking at the fair features, Glorfindel decided he could not tell exactly how old the younger prince of Mirkwood was. His face was young. But his expression belied such an assumption. Glorfindel had rarely seen a youth, whose eyes held such an expression. The expression of someone that had seen too much, lived through too much and that had closed off his heart. Something that one did not usually find in young elves, eager to live and discover. But sometimes, life took it upon itself to strip them of their innocence and faith in the future. Which seemed to be the case of the young Prince. Never had the seneschal seen such glint in the twins’ eyes, even after their mother’s departure and Glorfindel found himself very grateful to the Lady of the stars to have spared them the feelings that could give rise to such an expression. Gathering his memories, he tried to find out if this one was born when the last council between Imladris and Mirkwood occurred a millennium and half ago. He had seen a beautiful and very sweet she-elf speaking with Celebrian. She had called to her two grown sons who had assisted in silence with the troubled negotiations between their sire and Elrond. Two sons, not three. Which meant that this one was less than 1500 years old.

The same idea as before crossed his mind, insistent and disturbing. If Thranduil had sent his son to Imladris, forsaking his pride in spite of his bitter feelings for Elrond, the matter must be very serious indeed. For years, they had had no news from Mirkwood, relying on information from the human villages of the forest. They knew that darkness was growing in the former Greenwood, that with the death of the Queen, a part of the Sindar had left their realm, some sailing to Valinor, others seeking shelter in Lorien. But they had no idea of the true strength of the Shadow in that part of Arda. Looking at the young Prince, at his clenched jaw and tense shoulders, he felt a shudder running down the length of his spine. Perhaps the situation was worse than they had thought it to be. Straightening himself in his saddle, he looked in front of him. He would learn it from Elrond soon enough.

The rest of their journey passed quickly as the house was not so far away. Soon, they reached the stables and dismounted quickly. Giving his reins to a stable boy that had come to greet them and turning himself toward the blond prince that had jumped down and was waiting, still, he told him:

“Wait here for me, please. I will come back soon.”

Then, he walked away, heading for the entry of the manor. But changing his mind, he came back and added, fixing his gaze in the other’s:

“I hope you understand that you will not be allowed to appear in front of the lord of this realm fully armed”

Feeling the weight of that gaze on him, Legolas only nodded his agreement and watched how the lithe figure disappeared into the house. Then, giving a swift glance around him, he noticed that the two guards had remained there on the order of the seneschal. They were trying to look occupied but the young prince knew that they were indeed closely watching him. He shivered slightly. Their presence increased his discomfort, reminding him that he was not in a friendly area and that he might go back to Mirkwood with a refusal of any future collaboration.

How would he announce such a thing to his father, he had no idea… And truth be told, he refused to think of it now…

His thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of the little stable boy that had taken care of the horses of the Noldo and that now approached the wood-elf to take charge of his mount. His voice was shy and his gaze slightly unsteady when he asked if he should take the white stallion inside. Frowning slightly because of the disturbance, Legolas lowered his gaze, studying the features of the little one, noticing the wild raven strands falling on his shoulders, the pretty face whose dark eyes did not dare to look at him, wondering what he had been told as he had not listened, waiting for the stable boy to repeat his words. The little dark-haired elf couldn’t help a lovely pink shade from burning his cheeks and lowered his gaze to look at his feet, feeling uncomfortable under the close scrutiny. Seeing that the little one was too impressed to speak, he asked, his voice gentle and caring:

“Do you have any paddocks here, pen-neth?”

The stable boy looked up abruptly to stare at the blond elf. A slight frown was adorning his pale brow and there was so much curiosity in his dark gaze that Legolas could not hide his smile. Apparently, the horses of Imladris were very different from their mounts. No wood-elf’s horse would ever accept being enclosed, let alone, to wear a saddle. He felt himself required to explain and he clarified his wish with a gentle voice:

“My horse is a bit wild, pen-neth, compared to yours.” He affectionately patted Naralod’s neck, the white stallion having approached them, his nostrils nuzzling the blond elf’s neck, as if sensing that he was being spoken of, and continued: “And I doubt he would agree to being lead into a stable, most of all, by someone he doesn’t know.”

The little raven-haired elf gaped at the blond prince. He had never heard of horses behaving so. Seeing that the young one was so astonished that he had forgotten the question, Legolas kindly repeated:

“Do you have some paddocks?”

Hearing him, the stable boy realized that he had been staring at the wood-elf and his already hot and pink cheeks became crimson, the deep color spreading up to the tips of his pointed ears. Stammering, he invited the young prince to come with him:

“Of course, my Lord. If you would follow me…”

*

Lord Elrond was sitting at his desk, frowning deeply and shaking his head at times. If one could have seen him at that very moment, they would not be able to refrain themselves from smiling. Because he was looking much more like an elfling learning a long and boring history lesson, rather than the powerful Elven lord fulfilling his duty.

He was sitting in his private study, a large, bright room, decorated with taste but without any signs of ostentation. The walls were of a pure white and there were no paintings hanging on them. But two of them were covered by bookcases, which were threatening to crumble under the weight of the numerous books and manuscripts piled on the bookshelves. There were few pieces of furniture in the room. In a corner, a vast and comfortable armchair was covered by a deep red velvet fabric and in the center of the study stood a desk, which was a magnificent work of craftmanship. It was made from dark oak-wood, the sombre shade making a pleasant contrast with the brightness of the room. This was a unique piece with a history, which gave it, in Elrond’s heart, much more value than the simple price of a beautiful and well-build piece of furniture.

Many centuries ago, a storm had raged upon the vale. For three long days and three long nights, southern winds had blown, bringing with them heavy and menacing dark clouds, which had hidden Anar and deprived Imladris of the light, vital to the elves. For three long days and three long nights, the inhabitants of the vale had shut themselves in, none of them daring to go and face the anger of the elements. Even among the oldest, none could recall when last it had rained so much and so long. The rain had seemed an opaque and impassable curtain upon the usual beauty of Imladris. No sounds could be heard, except the violent knock of the rain upon the windows, the agitated rustlings of the leaves in trees, the violent voice of winds screaming in their insanity, the muffled growl of the thunder and the tremendous explosions of the lightning dying in burst of light.

Many were those who said that it had been as if the fury of the Valar had been crashing down upon the valley. Those three days and three nights had been the longest any of them had lived through. Anguish and despair had come over many souls. Tears had been shed and words of comfort exchanged. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm had stopped, leaving behind it a desolated landscape. The ground had been inundated and strewn with branches and leaves; many rivulets were running on the soil, forming as many little streams or muddy ponds. Shutters and tiles had been torn off from the houses. In some places, walls had collapsed. Gardens had been destroyed, not a single flower remained. The whole vale had been devastated, looking more like a picture of death and battlefields. But luckily, no one had been injured and even if it had taken years to restore its former beauty to Imladris, the Lore Master had never complained. However, Elrond’s heart had ached when he had found out that one of the ancient trees in his garden had been uprooted by the strength of the gusts of wind.

When he had seen the once proud and tall oak lying on the ground, its leaves soiled with mud, its branches broken, the Lore Master’s heart had cried in denial. This had been worse than all he had seen when he had inspected the destruction. This tree had been in the valley before the elves came. It had seemed to Elrond that this oak had been eternal and that he could always rest under the shelter offered by its foliage. But he had been wrong and seeing the strong being having been cast down, had reminded him that even what seemed eternal was not always so. He had asked one of the better carpenters to use the fallen tree to make some pieces of furniture or to replace the broken flaps. Without telling him, his wife had inquired of the craftsman to make her husband a large and beautiful desk to replace his old one, which could no longer withstand the weight of all his papers anymore.

The carpenter had done very good work. Contrary to other desks, this one had not been made of heavy and thick wood board carefully pieced together, but had been directly carved in the trunk. The result was magnificent. The piece of furniture was noble and Elrond had loved it from the very moment he saw it. It was all in curves and straight lines, sculpted and nosed feet supporting the straight tabletop. Three drawers were inset in the front, all of them covered with an intricate design that the Lord of Imladris had recognized as being from his wife’s imagination.

As was usual in the morning, he was sitting in front of this marvellous gift that reminded him of his wife and her laughter at his surprise upon discovering that his old desk had been replaced. He cherished the piece of furniture as deeply as he did her image. Their time together had been too short and there was, to his liking, too few memories to recall. This place was full of these past precious moments and he found himself craving the solace provided by this sweet cocoon. He had for a long time forsaken the other places where too many counsellors, scholars and undesirable intruders were eager to lavish their advice. He needed the silence, preferring to work in peace.

He was studying the annual report about the protection of the frontiers. Every year, he sent Glorfindel or Erestor, two of his most trusted friends and counsellors, to study the situation at the borders very carefully. Every year, some patrols were added to one of the frontiers, others were changed; new recruits were hired. He had also to choose those among the volunteers who would be sent in the annual hunting trip destined to clean out the destruction from the presence of Sauron’s minions.

A knock at the large wooden door interrupted his reverie. He quickly glanced at the position of Anar in the sky, believing that, once more, absorbed in his work, he had missed lunchtime. But Anar was not at his top and two hours had to pass yet before a servant would bring him a tray of food. So, who could it be? The entire household knew that he did not wish to be disturbed when he studied these long and boring reports. And this report was particularly long and boring. He had made it very clear that he did not wish to be disturbed at all and he was very annoyed to hear somebody knocking at the door. He closed his eyes, trying to figure what could motivate such an intrusion. Lost in his thoughts, he forgot to answer to the unwanted visitor. But another knock brought him out of his daydreaming state. This time, the intruder voiced his question:

“Elrond, are you in there?”

The Lord of Imladris mumbled a reply. The voice belonged to his old friend and mentor, Glorfindel, who knew perfectly well that he was in his study. How could he be elsewhere when so much work was waiting for him? Elrond decided that something must have been troubling the seneschal of Imladris because it was not his friend’s habit to knock twice when he did not answer the first time. And, generally, he did not knock at all.

“Ai. I am here…”

The door was swiftly opened and a tall blond elf entered the study. Elrond carefully eyed the figure. The Balrog-slayer was wearing his riding clothes, but there was nothing unusual in this: Glorfindel wore formal robes only when necessary. Even after long millennia spent at the court of Gondolin and in Imladris, the blond elf still did not wish to wear the formal clothes. He preferred the traditional hunting clothes, leggings and tunic to them, this reminded the Lore Master that his friend was first a warrior before being his seneschal. The dust and filth on the black leggings indicated to him that the tall elf just came back from riding with one of the morning patrols. His white tunic contrasted with the dark colour of the leggings. The tight clothes suited him well and enhanced the broad shoulders and the muscular thighs, a dark leather belt emphasized his slender waist. His blond hair, worn simply in two modest braids, was shining with the light of Anar. Clothed like that, Glorfindel was truly awesome.

But something was different in his seneschal’s appearance. Something was troubling the usually serene features. There was a glint in the blond elf’s gaze, that was not normally there and that Elrond had not seen for a long time. What was it? Amusement? Surprise? No, it was not. But he could not guess what troubled his friend. He turned his chair to face his visitor. He noted the nervous tic tensing up the well-drawn jaw. Something must be wrong. Locking his gaze with the blonde elf, he took a deep breath and waited for Glorfindel to tell him what had happened, praying that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with one of his sons.

“A messenger has just arrived”

Elrond breathed again. He had just let go of a chuckle. Was his friend going mad? A messenger. A mere messenger. He was waiting for an announcement of calamitous proportions and Glorfindel announced him the coming of a mere messenger. He was relieved. But it did not last long. Meeting again his friend’s gaze, he shat hat the nervousness had not left the blue eyes. He frowned and waited for whatever was coming. But he was completely unprepared for what came next. When he heard the rest, he felt his eyes narrow in surprise. He had to admit that he had not been so shocked for centuries, for millennia even. Maybe because he had not heard those words being uttered for a millennia or two. At this moment, he understood Glorfindel’s astonishment as he looked at his friend.

“It’s a messenger from Mirkwood”


TBC