Post by Admin on Jan 8, 2021 3:01:00 GMT
Author: Earille
Summary: jewels are precious indeed, but there are those who are far more precious than the best jewels in the world, at least to some. Aragorn found one such it in the end of his dreary trip to Mirkwood after he had captured Gollum, but his quest to find it had begun long before that.
Rating: G
Warning: not proveread
Author’s Notes: This story is dedicated to KyMahalei, by whose works I have been inspired to write for this month’s challenge of Teitho Contest. I apologize in advance for any bumps readers may find along the story, as writing this piece was a race against time and my daily routine. I shall edit it and perhaps try to find a beta-reader for it once the month is over; but until then, you have my profuse apologies.
Imladris was a haven, a sanctuary. Everybody knew that. Even little Estel, three-year-old and constantly getting into trouble in his short life already, knew that. The weather was always mild and fresh, the people were always friendly and contented, and the environment was untouched by evil.
But something nagged at Estel’s mind every time an Elf looked down at him and smiled. It was not that the Elf was insincere – no, far from it. Rather, he was disturbed by the undercurrent of deep sorrow in the beautiful eyes of one that should always be happy. He had no word for such an emotion, not yet, but it saddened him nonetheless. And since he had no word for it yet, he could not ask his elders about it. He could only react to it, as he always did to all situations: He would give the Elf an extra-tight hug and an extra-big kiss on the cheeks whenever he encountered something like this. He just could not understand why such a gesture, which usually cheered up his mother, would bring tears into the Elf’s eyes. Grown-ups were probably weird like that.
A five-year-old Estel sat moodily behind the writing desk, facing sheets of thin paper meant for writing exercises. His mother, his foster father, his idol – Glorfindel – and his teacher – Erestor – had ordered him to learn his letters, insisting most earnestly. He did not know why. It did not make sense! It took much precious time from his outdoor activities too, which he loved.
The doors to the library opened gently, just enough to let a slender body to pass. Not long after, with Estel hearing no footsteps whatsoever, Erestor was standing before the desk, slightly outside the range of the lantern perched on the left far corner of the desk, quirking his eyebrows. Estel cringed. He had not scratched any letter on his exercise sheet as instructed from the example sheet Erestor had laid out earlier in the morning. “Why are you so defiant, child?” the Elf-man asked, his voice mild but tinged with a slight underlcurrent of exasperation.
“Am not ‘fian. What’s ‘fian anyway?” Estel squawked, forgetting his guilt and apprehension. He glared sulkily up at the Elf-man.
A faint smile twitched the edges of Erestor’s lips. “You can know many things if you can read, little one, and you can do many things if you can write also. You cannot survive only on swordmanship and woodmanship, Estel, although they are also necessary. Please do not fight your elders in this matter – and that is what I meant about you being de-fi-ant, by the way. We mean you well, but you need to help yourself as well if you wish to have the good future that we are trying to provide you with,” he explained.
“But I no understand these squiggles, Eros,” Estel complained half-plaintively, half-stubbornly and folded his arms on his chest like he had often seen his mother do when she was displeased with him.
For the first time ever, Erestor gazed sharply at him. Estel shrunk back, surprised and afraid.
“You are much more difficult than all the Elven and Mannish children I have ever taught,” the Elf-man griped, sounding a little like Estel then that the little lad was even more astonished and feel speechless for a moment.
Estel was quickly recovered however, enticed by curiosity. With honest innocence, he asked, his eyes wide with sudden interest, “Is there any Elf-children around? I thinked there’s only grown-up Elves!”
The same deep sorrow filled ERestor’s eyes, like Estel had often seen in the eyes of the Elves who rarely interacted with him. His heart twinged with empathic sadness and regret for his brashness. With nimbleness and agility born of climbing in places he was not supposed to climb, he leapt onto the desk, scattering the papers, quills, and still-stoppered ink bottles, and then leapt over into Erestor’s arms. He hugged the Elf-man and kissed his cheeks, like he had always done in such instances.
It worked, a little. Erestor smiled down sadly at him, then the Elf-man skirted the writing desk and seated himself, with Estel still clinging to his front, in the chair behind the desk that had been occupied by the little lad. “Peace, child, I am all right,” he said softly. “To answer your question: Yes, there were Elven children once. Otherwise how do you think Elves came into being, eh, little one?” His smile turned more humorous, although not by much.
Estel stared back at him with solemn eyes. “From rocks,” he said with all seriousness. “Nana told me.”
A peal of laughter broke free from Erestor’s lips. He shook his head, but did not try to correct the little lad. Instead he said, “You need to master the spoken language as well, little one, not only the written one. It is ‘do not understand’, not ‘no understand’, and ‘thought’, not ‘thinked’. You should say ‘there were’ also if you wish to mention more than one thing or person in the past, instead of ‘there was’.”
Their conversation shifted into an argument about learning language skills afterwards. But Estel never forgot about the mystery of Elven children. He continued to try to cheer up any Elf that he saw looking at him sorrowfully. Fortunately, the older he got, the scarcer he got those puzzling, saddening looks.
At eighty years of age, Aragorn, formerly called Estel, was a grim and weary man, especially since he had been tracking a foul, strange creature by the name of Gollum in the past eight years. He felt ... Well, he could describe his feelings and emotions with many negative adjectives right now. He had managed to capture the little fiend after that torturous search, and he had also delivered the creature into the keeping of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood; but still, eight years! He was fortunate that Thranduil was kind enough to let him lodge a while in the Elf-king’s cavernous palace. The meals were good, he had a chance to bathe himself, his bed was soft and dry and comfortable, and he felt safe for the first time after eight years. It was ... good.
And better, Legolas, the King’s youngest son, the most laid-back and Secondborn-friendly Silvan Elf he had met so far among Thranduil’s people, had invited him to a summer’s celebration of the Silvan Elves this evening. A bit of merriment would heal him somewhat; at least he hoped so. That was why at present he was striding most eagerly towards the entrance to the palace, garbed in a set of brown-and-green clothes the Silvan Elves favoured, that had in fact been given by the King’s buttler for his indefinite use. Legolas joined him before long, giving him a knowing smile even as he teased the Man, “Eager much, Aragorn? I thought there were many celebrations held in Imladris? Or are you expecting to witness the nude, painted dancers purported to attend our celebrations by the Golodhrim?”
Aragorn blushed faintly and threw the Elf a sidelong look. “That would scar me for life, I think,” he retorted, his lips twitching up slightly. “But as of now, I am just looking forward to some merry-making and cheerful company after so long stuck with that wretched creature.”
Legolas’ playful demeanour turned more somber. “True,” he agreed. A secretive glint entered his stare then. “In that case, I shall propose a most pleasant treat for you with my kin out there. It is not too late for that.” Then, saying nothing more and waving a graceful hand as farewell, he took off past the befuddled Man, who at the same time halted his steps, struck by bewilderment and astonishment.
Aragorn hurried alone to the entrance of the cave system afterwards, pushed forward by an even greater interest. What had Legolas spoken about? Was it true? Or had the Elf only meant to tease him? After all, they had met for the first time ever only the day before yesterday, and they were not friends yet, for – from what he had experienced in his childhood – the Firstborn were a ponderous lot when it came to many things including friendship. Well, he would not reject the treat if Legolas had indeed spoken the truth about it, of course, but right now he only wished to sample the feast the cooks had promised for the celebration. A stray breeze had just carried in the rich, homy scent of Silvan-Elven cuisine and passed his inhaling nostrils on its way into the stone passage, that was why. His stomach, fed just three hours ago, rumbled in a vehement protest as if he had not eaten for three days instead – which had happened once during his dreary journey dragging Gollum to Thranduil’s halls.
He sped past the gates, waving gaily at the pair of guards stationed there, then made a beeline to the clearing meant for the festivity, which Legolas had shown him yesterday. Many Elves, men and women alike who were garbed similarly to him, had already gathered there among several merrily-blazing fires. Most of them were eating and drinking as they talked and laughed with each other, which explained to Aragorn the tantalising aroma that had teased him just now.
But Legolas was not anywhere by the many fires strewn in the clearing, as the Elf had promised when he had invited Aragorn to join the summer celebration. Worse, and it was why he had insisted that Legolas be there with him, Aragorn knew nobody else who participated in the festivity. Lorgalad, Legolas’ eldest brother, was away in a “spider-sweeping” mission with his company, while the Man was not acquainted with Thranduil’s other children, one of whom he had just spied sitting by one of the farthest fire.
He turned away, disappointed and slightly hurt. Where was Legolas? Was this what the Elf had meant by “most pleasant treat”?
Losing his appetite both for food and merry-making, he trudged back the way he had come, intending to spend the time curled up in bed with a book from the library. This was not the first time an Elf had played a cruel joke on him, since not all Elves – especially visiting Elves – in Imladris had been Secondborn-friendly, but any new instance still managed to hurt him every time. The only balm for it was —
“Aragorn? Where are you going? The clearing is the other way, you know that.”
Legolas.
Aragorn turned around, surprised. The Elf was striding towards him from the direction of the telain opposite the clearing where the summer celebration was held, looking concerned. He stood still, waiting.
“I thought you would not have been here so soon,” Legolas confessed apologetically once they were only several feet apart. “I apologise for my erring calculation, Aragorn. You must have felt uncomfortable being alone in the feast. And here I had thought I was going to give you a treat ... ” He trailed off, as his keen gaze studied Aragorn’s countenance closely.
That, and Legolas’ spot-on remark, made the Man uneasy. But he also felt relieved and glad, finding that Thranduil’s youngest son was truly Secondborn-friendly. “Well, are you still about to give me a treat anyway?” he quipped, while trying to compose himself and hide his conflicting emotions.
A grin caught between roguish and sad lit up Legolas’ countenance. It was an odd expression to Aragorn. But odder still, the Elf told him nothing of the “treat,” and led him to a stone bench in a moonlit clearing bordered by beech trees near the cluster of tree-houses still without any explanation. Legolas only said, “Wait here. I shall not be long gone,” before taking off once more, and Aragorn was left sitting on the bench in a dumbfounded silence, his mind contrarily cherning with questions.
However, true to his promise this time, the Elf returned before Aragorn’s inner questions turned dark and sour as before. In his arms he cradled something bundled in a blanket, something that was suspiciously shaped like a small child. But was it a child? What reason did Legolas have to keep a Secondborn child with him? For Aragorn remembered from his conversation with one of his tutors Erestor a long time ago that Elven children were by this era nonexistent, all already grown up or dead.
He looked up and threw the Elf a questioning stare.
Legolas stared back deep into his eyes, the bright outer layer of his gaze veiling a wealth of sorrow and pain.
Aragorn’s hair stood on end. It had been more than seventy years since he had last received such a look from an Elf, but he had never forgotten it, and also what Erestor had told him in that long-gone morning in Imladris’ library.
“It ... cannot be,” he whispered, awed and strangely frightened. If his suspicion was true ...
Sorrow mingled with bittersweet joy in Legolas’ eyes. “The Lindar are native here, so do the Edain who never crossed the mountains to Beleriand,” he said in a hoarse tone that to Aragorn was not meant for an Elf’s lyrical language and voice. “Their ties to the land allowed them to reproduce steadily, even longer than the other clans, who had crossed there and fled here in the end of the First Age. But around a millennium ago forces from Dul Guldur wiped off many villages lying in the southern part of this forest, and nearly everyone there died, including the children.”
Aragorn’s face tightened. Orcs never chose their marks when they went in a rampage; he had seen evidence of it more times than he wished in all the years he had been away from the shelter of Imladris. But to kill all the children of a race that bred slowly—!
A grim smile darkened Legolas’ fair complexion, but the mixture of grief and joy in his eyes remained steady. “Only one child managed to be saved then, and the long years of defeat made us abandon the thought of trying to bring more children into the world,” he continued in the same tone. “But a few bold couples tried it anyway, for all that time and until now.” The dreary smile transformed into a scarily triumphant smirk then, and he whispered fiercely, “Gorthaur cannot quail us entirely.”
With a small, swift flick, he shifted away the top of the bundle, which caused the folds of the blanket to unruffle and pool around his arms like water flowing down a hand and into the washing basin.
The full moon illuminated the sight that Aragorn had never thought to see in all his life.
The being curled up contentedly in Legolas’ arms was small and delicately built. He – or rather, Aragorn supposed it was a he – did not seem to notice anything but the wooden toy hound whose left foreleg was clutched in his miniscule hand, whose snout he was nuzzling with his own tiny nose. His unbound hair, silver it seemed and shimmering lustrously under the moonlight, hung past his shoulders and framed a tiny face that bore a slight resemblance to Legolas. He looked to be the equal of a two-year-old or three-year-old Secondborn to Aragorn, but he had never seen any Mannish child whose skin shone, and this child gleamed with an inner light stronger than that of Legolas. Everything in him seemed to shine with a bright light, stronger but at the same time warmer and gentler than the Moon that illuminated them all.
An Elven child!
Aragorn gaped stupidly, staring wide-eyed at the most beautiful being he had ever beheld, more beautiful than even Arwen in a way, and just as precious. Tears blurred his vision for a moment, but he blinked them away hurriedly, starving for the sight of who had always been elusive to him since his early childhood.
“Thank you,” he croaked softly to Legolas, but his eyes remained fixed on the child now shifting slightly in the Elf’s secure embrace, hugging his toy hound. “I ... It has always been a dream of mine to behold an Elf-child, just once. I ... Erestor told me that there was no more child born to the Elven-kind in this time in Middle-earth, but I never let go of the hope. I am glad that it is not true after all.”
Legolas was silent. But perhaps attracted by Aragorn’s Secondborn timbre, the little one looked up from his toy and stared right at him.
The Man gasped. Stars danced in the child’s eyes, as they always did in the eyes of the Elven-kind, but the liveliness of childhood – and Aragorn guessed, the lack of burden both that of age and sorrow – brightened the orbs into a nearly unbearable intensity. The pair of eyes that were now staring interestedly at him were slate grey, darker even than Aragorn’s own eyes, almost as if his eyes were a dim, foggy reflection of the child’s.
Was this why many Elves in Imladris had gazed at him so sorrowfully during his early childhood? His mother had often remarked privately to him that sometimes, especially when he was overcome with strong emotions, his eyes shone like an Elf’s. Had he looked like the faint apparition of an Elf-child to those Elves during his childhood?
Comprehension and understanding overwhelmed him, and he fell mute as well, staring into the Elf-child’s eyes with numb awe for a long moment.
Then the little one stirred, wriggling slightly and uttering a soft, short cry of discomfort, and Legolas stirred as well. At last he broke the heavy silence, murmuring as he cradled the child closer to him and rocked him in his arms, “This was my treat to you. I am glad I accomplished your dream by incidence. Our children have always been kept close and safe, especially in dark times, and I would not have managed to show you any Elf-child were it not for circumstances – or perhaps fate. This child, whom his parents named Elros for the reflection of the Moon and stars on his hair, is my sister-son. He was born just three springs ago and our whole realm finally had a reason to throw a great feast; but nobody outside this forest knows and I implore you to keep silent about it for his safety. I stole him from the nursery just now, so to say; His nanny knew, but my sister did not, and I shall no doubt be in trouble for this later. But the entire realm shall be in trouble and an innocent life shall be lost if word of his existence leaks out. Trust is a fickle thing nowadays and we cannot afford entrusting such a precious information to the wrong person.” His gaze bore into Aragorn’s, stern and imploring, hopeful and apprehensive.
The Man’s throat tightened. “No,” he whispered. “No, I shall not tell anyone about this. I understand. And I ... I am honoured that you trust me so much, even though we have met just a while ago. But why? Why did you let me see him?” His eyes flickered to the child in Legolas’ arms, who had gone back to studying him, then met Legolas’ gaze again with an imploring look of his own.
The Elf smiled wrily. “I do not know,” he murmured frankly. “I did not know why, save that I might remind you that hope still lives even in the darkest time; and I thought, what better sign than a child that we had never hoped to bear again into the world?”
Aragorn rose and bowed low to him, speechless. The Elf had been right, yet again. The sight of the delicate, brightly-glowing, innocent little Elf-child had reawakened his hope, slowly but surely, like ambers stoked back patiently into brilliance and heat. This was a kingly gift!
Their eyes met again as Aragorn rose from his bow, slate-grey against blue-green. Then, as little Elros squirmed and held out a waving hand towards Aragorn, babbling what sounded like a slightly-garbled plea to his holder, Legolas said softly, “Would you like to hold him? He seems to be quite interested with you. I think he likes you.” A tender smile lightened back his countenance and seemed to lift all burden from him for a moment, and with a long finger he tweaked the little one’s nose playfully, eliciting a protesting squeal from the tiny rosebud lips.
Aragorn gawked, speechless again. Legolas, perhaps guessing that he would not choose by himself, which would have been right in that case, padded up to him and draped Elros, minus the little one’s toy hound, against his front. Reflexively, Aragorn’s arms sprung up to support the tiny, wriggling body, and he cradled little Elros close to his chest as the child uttered a soft giggle and babbled to him in a mangled version of the Silvan tongue.
He could not return the child’s chatter, not even to smile in response to Elros’ attempt of introduction. He was even more speechless now, overcome by awe and joy deeper than words can say.
He was holding a living light.
Summary: jewels are precious indeed, but there are those who are far more precious than the best jewels in the world, at least to some. Aragorn found one such it in the end of his dreary trip to Mirkwood after he had captured Gollum, but his quest to find it had begun long before that.
Rating: G
Warning: not proveread
Author’s Notes: This story is dedicated to KyMahalei, by whose works I have been inspired to write for this month’s challenge of Teitho Contest. I apologize in advance for any bumps readers may find along the story, as writing this piece was a race against time and my daily routine. I shall edit it and perhaps try to find a beta-reader for it once the month is over; but until then, you have my profuse apologies.
Imladris was a haven, a sanctuary. Everybody knew that. Even little Estel, three-year-old and constantly getting into trouble in his short life already, knew that. The weather was always mild and fresh, the people were always friendly and contented, and the environment was untouched by evil.
But something nagged at Estel’s mind every time an Elf looked down at him and smiled. It was not that the Elf was insincere – no, far from it. Rather, he was disturbed by the undercurrent of deep sorrow in the beautiful eyes of one that should always be happy. He had no word for such an emotion, not yet, but it saddened him nonetheless. And since he had no word for it yet, he could not ask his elders about it. He could only react to it, as he always did to all situations: He would give the Elf an extra-tight hug and an extra-big kiss on the cheeks whenever he encountered something like this. He just could not understand why such a gesture, which usually cheered up his mother, would bring tears into the Elf’s eyes. Grown-ups were probably weird like that.
O*O
A five-year-old Estel sat moodily behind the writing desk, facing sheets of thin paper meant for writing exercises. His mother, his foster father, his idol – Glorfindel – and his teacher – Erestor – had ordered him to learn his letters, insisting most earnestly. He did not know why. It did not make sense! It took much precious time from his outdoor activities too, which he loved.
The doors to the library opened gently, just enough to let a slender body to pass. Not long after, with Estel hearing no footsteps whatsoever, Erestor was standing before the desk, slightly outside the range of the lantern perched on the left far corner of the desk, quirking his eyebrows. Estel cringed. He had not scratched any letter on his exercise sheet as instructed from the example sheet Erestor had laid out earlier in the morning. “Why are you so defiant, child?” the Elf-man asked, his voice mild but tinged with a slight underlcurrent of exasperation.
“Am not ‘fian. What’s ‘fian anyway?” Estel squawked, forgetting his guilt and apprehension. He glared sulkily up at the Elf-man.
A faint smile twitched the edges of Erestor’s lips. “You can know many things if you can read, little one, and you can do many things if you can write also. You cannot survive only on swordmanship and woodmanship, Estel, although they are also necessary. Please do not fight your elders in this matter – and that is what I meant about you being de-fi-ant, by the way. We mean you well, but you need to help yourself as well if you wish to have the good future that we are trying to provide you with,” he explained.
“But I no understand these squiggles, Eros,” Estel complained half-plaintively, half-stubbornly and folded his arms on his chest like he had often seen his mother do when she was displeased with him.
For the first time ever, Erestor gazed sharply at him. Estel shrunk back, surprised and afraid.
“You are much more difficult than all the Elven and Mannish children I have ever taught,” the Elf-man griped, sounding a little like Estel then that the little lad was even more astonished and feel speechless for a moment.
Estel was quickly recovered however, enticed by curiosity. With honest innocence, he asked, his eyes wide with sudden interest, “Is there any Elf-children around? I thinked there’s only grown-up Elves!”
The same deep sorrow filled ERestor’s eyes, like Estel had often seen in the eyes of the Elves who rarely interacted with him. His heart twinged with empathic sadness and regret for his brashness. With nimbleness and agility born of climbing in places he was not supposed to climb, he leapt onto the desk, scattering the papers, quills, and still-stoppered ink bottles, and then leapt over into Erestor’s arms. He hugged the Elf-man and kissed his cheeks, like he had always done in such instances.
It worked, a little. Erestor smiled down sadly at him, then the Elf-man skirted the writing desk and seated himself, with Estel still clinging to his front, in the chair behind the desk that had been occupied by the little lad. “Peace, child, I am all right,” he said softly. “To answer your question: Yes, there were Elven children once. Otherwise how do you think Elves came into being, eh, little one?” His smile turned more humorous, although not by much.
Estel stared back at him with solemn eyes. “From rocks,” he said with all seriousness. “Nana told me.”
A peal of laughter broke free from Erestor’s lips. He shook his head, but did not try to correct the little lad. Instead he said, “You need to master the spoken language as well, little one, not only the written one. It is ‘do not understand’, not ‘no understand’, and ‘thought’, not ‘thinked’. You should say ‘there were’ also if you wish to mention more than one thing or person in the past, instead of ‘there was’.”
Their conversation shifted into an argument about learning language skills afterwards. But Estel never forgot about the mystery of Elven children. He continued to try to cheer up any Elf that he saw looking at him sorrowfully. Fortunately, the older he got, the scarcer he got those puzzling, saddening looks.
O*O
At eighty years of age, Aragorn, formerly called Estel, was a grim and weary man, especially since he had been tracking a foul, strange creature by the name of Gollum in the past eight years. He felt ... Well, he could describe his feelings and emotions with many negative adjectives right now. He had managed to capture the little fiend after that torturous search, and he had also delivered the creature into the keeping of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood; but still, eight years! He was fortunate that Thranduil was kind enough to let him lodge a while in the Elf-king’s cavernous palace. The meals were good, he had a chance to bathe himself, his bed was soft and dry and comfortable, and he felt safe for the first time after eight years. It was ... good.
And better, Legolas, the King’s youngest son, the most laid-back and Secondborn-friendly Silvan Elf he had met so far among Thranduil’s people, had invited him to a summer’s celebration of the Silvan Elves this evening. A bit of merriment would heal him somewhat; at least he hoped so. That was why at present he was striding most eagerly towards the entrance to the palace, garbed in a set of brown-and-green clothes the Silvan Elves favoured, that had in fact been given by the King’s buttler for his indefinite use. Legolas joined him before long, giving him a knowing smile even as he teased the Man, “Eager much, Aragorn? I thought there were many celebrations held in Imladris? Or are you expecting to witness the nude, painted dancers purported to attend our celebrations by the Golodhrim?”
Aragorn blushed faintly and threw the Elf a sidelong look. “That would scar me for life, I think,” he retorted, his lips twitching up slightly. “But as of now, I am just looking forward to some merry-making and cheerful company after so long stuck with that wretched creature.”
Legolas’ playful demeanour turned more somber. “True,” he agreed. A secretive glint entered his stare then. “In that case, I shall propose a most pleasant treat for you with my kin out there. It is not too late for that.” Then, saying nothing more and waving a graceful hand as farewell, he took off past the befuddled Man, who at the same time halted his steps, struck by bewilderment and astonishment.
Aragorn hurried alone to the entrance of the cave system afterwards, pushed forward by an even greater interest. What had Legolas spoken about? Was it true? Or had the Elf only meant to tease him? After all, they had met for the first time ever only the day before yesterday, and they were not friends yet, for – from what he had experienced in his childhood – the Firstborn were a ponderous lot when it came to many things including friendship. Well, he would not reject the treat if Legolas had indeed spoken the truth about it, of course, but right now he only wished to sample the feast the cooks had promised for the celebration. A stray breeze had just carried in the rich, homy scent of Silvan-Elven cuisine and passed his inhaling nostrils on its way into the stone passage, that was why. His stomach, fed just three hours ago, rumbled in a vehement protest as if he had not eaten for three days instead – which had happened once during his dreary journey dragging Gollum to Thranduil’s halls.
He sped past the gates, waving gaily at the pair of guards stationed there, then made a beeline to the clearing meant for the festivity, which Legolas had shown him yesterday. Many Elves, men and women alike who were garbed similarly to him, had already gathered there among several merrily-blazing fires. Most of them were eating and drinking as they talked and laughed with each other, which explained to Aragorn the tantalising aroma that had teased him just now.
But Legolas was not anywhere by the many fires strewn in the clearing, as the Elf had promised when he had invited Aragorn to join the summer celebration. Worse, and it was why he had insisted that Legolas be there with him, Aragorn knew nobody else who participated in the festivity. Lorgalad, Legolas’ eldest brother, was away in a “spider-sweeping” mission with his company, while the Man was not acquainted with Thranduil’s other children, one of whom he had just spied sitting by one of the farthest fire.
He turned away, disappointed and slightly hurt. Where was Legolas? Was this what the Elf had meant by “most pleasant treat”?
Losing his appetite both for food and merry-making, he trudged back the way he had come, intending to spend the time curled up in bed with a book from the library. This was not the first time an Elf had played a cruel joke on him, since not all Elves – especially visiting Elves – in Imladris had been Secondborn-friendly, but any new instance still managed to hurt him every time. The only balm for it was —
“Aragorn? Where are you going? The clearing is the other way, you know that.”
Legolas.
Aragorn turned around, surprised. The Elf was striding towards him from the direction of the telain opposite the clearing where the summer celebration was held, looking concerned. He stood still, waiting.
“I thought you would not have been here so soon,” Legolas confessed apologetically once they were only several feet apart. “I apologise for my erring calculation, Aragorn. You must have felt uncomfortable being alone in the feast. And here I had thought I was going to give you a treat ... ” He trailed off, as his keen gaze studied Aragorn’s countenance closely.
That, and Legolas’ spot-on remark, made the Man uneasy. But he also felt relieved and glad, finding that Thranduil’s youngest son was truly Secondborn-friendly. “Well, are you still about to give me a treat anyway?” he quipped, while trying to compose himself and hide his conflicting emotions.
A grin caught between roguish and sad lit up Legolas’ countenance. It was an odd expression to Aragorn. But odder still, the Elf told him nothing of the “treat,” and led him to a stone bench in a moonlit clearing bordered by beech trees near the cluster of tree-houses still without any explanation. Legolas only said, “Wait here. I shall not be long gone,” before taking off once more, and Aragorn was left sitting on the bench in a dumbfounded silence, his mind contrarily cherning with questions.
However, true to his promise this time, the Elf returned before Aragorn’s inner questions turned dark and sour as before. In his arms he cradled something bundled in a blanket, something that was suspiciously shaped like a small child. But was it a child? What reason did Legolas have to keep a Secondborn child with him? For Aragorn remembered from his conversation with one of his tutors Erestor a long time ago that Elven children were by this era nonexistent, all already grown up or dead.
He looked up and threw the Elf a questioning stare.
Legolas stared back deep into his eyes, the bright outer layer of his gaze veiling a wealth of sorrow and pain.
Aragorn’s hair stood on end. It had been more than seventy years since he had last received such a look from an Elf, but he had never forgotten it, and also what Erestor had told him in that long-gone morning in Imladris’ library.
“It ... cannot be,” he whispered, awed and strangely frightened. If his suspicion was true ...
Sorrow mingled with bittersweet joy in Legolas’ eyes. “The Lindar are native here, so do the Edain who never crossed the mountains to Beleriand,” he said in a hoarse tone that to Aragorn was not meant for an Elf’s lyrical language and voice. “Their ties to the land allowed them to reproduce steadily, even longer than the other clans, who had crossed there and fled here in the end of the First Age. But around a millennium ago forces from Dul Guldur wiped off many villages lying in the southern part of this forest, and nearly everyone there died, including the children.”
Aragorn’s face tightened. Orcs never chose their marks when they went in a rampage; he had seen evidence of it more times than he wished in all the years he had been away from the shelter of Imladris. But to kill all the children of a race that bred slowly—!
A grim smile darkened Legolas’ fair complexion, but the mixture of grief and joy in his eyes remained steady. “Only one child managed to be saved then, and the long years of defeat made us abandon the thought of trying to bring more children into the world,” he continued in the same tone. “But a few bold couples tried it anyway, for all that time and until now.” The dreary smile transformed into a scarily triumphant smirk then, and he whispered fiercely, “Gorthaur cannot quail us entirely.”
With a small, swift flick, he shifted away the top of the bundle, which caused the folds of the blanket to unruffle and pool around his arms like water flowing down a hand and into the washing basin.
The full moon illuminated the sight that Aragorn had never thought to see in all his life.
The being curled up contentedly in Legolas’ arms was small and delicately built. He – or rather, Aragorn supposed it was a he – did not seem to notice anything but the wooden toy hound whose left foreleg was clutched in his miniscule hand, whose snout he was nuzzling with his own tiny nose. His unbound hair, silver it seemed and shimmering lustrously under the moonlight, hung past his shoulders and framed a tiny face that bore a slight resemblance to Legolas. He looked to be the equal of a two-year-old or three-year-old Secondborn to Aragorn, but he had never seen any Mannish child whose skin shone, and this child gleamed with an inner light stronger than that of Legolas. Everything in him seemed to shine with a bright light, stronger but at the same time warmer and gentler than the Moon that illuminated them all.
An Elven child!
Aragorn gaped stupidly, staring wide-eyed at the most beautiful being he had ever beheld, more beautiful than even Arwen in a way, and just as precious. Tears blurred his vision for a moment, but he blinked them away hurriedly, starving for the sight of who had always been elusive to him since his early childhood.
“Thank you,” he croaked softly to Legolas, but his eyes remained fixed on the child now shifting slightly in the Elf’s secure embrace, hugging his toy hound. “I ... It has always been a dream of mine to behold an Elf-child, just once. I ... Erestor told me that there was no more child born to the Elven-kind in this time in Middle-earth, but I never let go of the hope. I am glad that it is not true after all.”
Legolas was silent. But perhaps attracted by Aragorn’s Secondborn timbre, the little one looked up from his toy and stared right at him.
The Man gasped. Stars danced in the child’s eyes, as they always did in the eyes of the Elven-kind, but the liveliness of childhood – and Aragorn guessed, the lack of burden both that of age and sorrow – brightened the orbs into a nearly unbearable intensity. The pair of eyes that were now staring interestedly at him were slate grey, darker even than Aragorn’s own eyes, almost as if his eyes were a dim, foggy reflection of the child’s.
Was this why many Elves in Imladris had gazed at him so sorrowfully during his early childhood? His mother had often remarked privately to him that sometimes, especially when he was overcome with strong emotions, his eyes shone like an Elf’s. Had he looked like the faint apparition of an Elf-child to those Elves during his childhood?
Comprehension and understanding overwhelmed him, and he fell mute as well, staring into the Elf-child’s eyes with numb awe for a long moment.
Then the little one stirred, wriggling slightly and uttering a soft, short cry of discomfort, and Legolas stirred as well. At last he broke the heavy silence, murmuring as he cradled the child closer to him and rocked him in his arms, “This was my treat to you. I am glad I accomplished your dream by incidence. Our children have always been kept close and safe, especially in dark times, and I would not have managed to show you any Elf-child were it not for circumstances – or perhaps fate. This child, whom his parents named Elros for the reflection of the Moon and stars on his hair, is my sister-son. He was born just three springs ago and our whole realm finally had a reason to throw a great feast; but nobody outside this forest knows and I implore you to keep silent about it for his safety. I stole him from the nursery just now, so to say; His nanny knew, but my sister did not, and I shall no doubt be in trouble for this later. But the entire realm shall be in trouble and an innocent life shall be lost if word of his existence leaks out. Trust is a fickle thing nowadays and we cannot afford entrusting such a precious information to the wrong person.” His gaze bore into Aragorn’s, stern and imploring, hopeful and apprehensive.
The Man’s throat tightened. “No,” he whispered. “No, I shall not tell anyone about this. I understand. And I ... I am honoured that you trust me so much, even though we have met just a while ago. But why? Why did you let me see him?” His eyes flickered to the child in Legolas’ arms, who had gone back to studying him, then met Legolas’ gaze again with an imploring look of his own.
The Elf smiled wrily. “I do not know,” he murmured frankly. “I did not know why, save that I might remind you that hope still lives even in the darkest time; and I thought, what better sign than a child that we had never hoped to bear again into the world?”
Aragorn rose and bowed low to him, speechless. The Elf had been right, yet again. The sight of the delicate, brightly-glowing, innocent little Elf-child had reawakened his hope, slowly but surely, like ambers stoked back patiently into brilliance and heat. This was a kingly gift!
Their eyes met again as Aragorn rose from his bow, slate-grey against blue-green. Then, as little Elros squirmed and held out a waving hand towards Aragorn, babbling what sounded like a slightly-garbled plea to his holder, Legolas said softly, “Would you like to hold him? He seems to be quite interested with you. I think he likes you.” A tender smile lightened back his countenance and seemed to lift all burden from him for a moment, and with a long finger he tweaked the little one’s nose playfully, eliciting a protesting squeal from the tiny rosebud lips.
Aragorn gawked, speechless again. Legolas, perhaps guessing that he would not choose by himself, which would have been right in that case, padded up to him and draped Elros, minus the little one’s toy hound, against his front. Reflexively, Aragorn’s arms sprung up to support the tiny, wriggling body, and he cradled little Elros close to his chest as the child uttered a soft giggle and babbled to him in a mangled version of the Silvan tongue.
He could not return the child’s chatter, not even to smile in response to Elros’ attempt of introduction. He was even more speechless now, overcome by awe and joy deeper than words can say.
He was holding a living light.