Post by Admin on Jan 9, 2021 2:19:55 GMT
Author: Tanis
Translations: Adar – Father
Le hannon – Thank you
Mae govannen - Welcome
“I hope you are returning with dry clothing and not just an apology, Eärishel, else you may turn right around and go home again. Adar will be furious if I appear before this newest horse-breaker he has schemed to tame me with, in wet clothing.”
The elf sitting cross-legged on the grassy knoll overlooking the river bank wore nothing but a skein of long, dripping hair, his fingers flashing as he expertly wove the side braids elven archers habitually wore. The blond head dipped as the hands moved fluidly to join the two braids into one, incorporating more of the wet hair into a thick, golden tail that would hang to the middle of his back.
Legolas pushed off the grass as he finished the task, turning as he rose. If he was surprised to find a human watching him, it did not show, nor did modesty assert itself with any alacrity.
“You do not appear to be my graceless cousin with dry clothing,” the elf prince stated, crossing his arms over a powerful, if slender, chest. He eyed the human with an air of disdain. “And I suppose that appearing in wet clothing before you is likely better than no clothing in your estimation.” With a sigh, he bent to collect his leggings.
“No need to get dressed because of me, Your Highness.” The human began pushing at the elk horn buttons of his own tunic as he purposefully put his feet in motion. “I am here for the same purpose apparently. I do not wish to present myself before you adar in my travel filth. However, let us be straight on this one thing: I am come to Mirkwood out of curiosity; I was not summoned by your father to be yet another torturer. Why does he believe you need taming?” As he spoke, the man shed his own clothing, trailing tunic, shirt and finally breeches behind him as he made for the bluff in the buff. “It is deep enough to dive?”
“Aye,” Legolas responded belatedly. The man was already over the ledge; momentarily, a splash sounded below.
Bemused, the prince wandered to the edge and glanced down just as the dark head resurfaced. The human looked up at the same time, flashing a bright grin. “If it will not ruin all the work you just put into your hair, come back in and we will scheme together how to thwart whatever it is your adar has planned for you. I know the ways of fathers all too well,” he called up, playfully splashing at the water.
“Le hannon, but I think not, though you are a more pleasant deceiver than the last.”
The dark visage gave a mock grimace. “Why do you name me deceiver when you do not even know me?”
“I know your kind; my father has introduced me to several of your sort. But it will not work, no matter what he has told you.” Curious, especially as he sensed no guile in this individual and he was particularly sensitive to deceit given his father’s recent treachery - saddling him with a new tutor who had kept him pouring over ancient books and scrolls all hours of the day and night, or so it had seemed - Legolas tossed aside his leggings and sat down with his feet dangling over the shelf of land.
“He has told me nothing,” the human argued good-naturedly. “I have not even met him, though I have heard much of the fabled halls of Thranduil’s rock-carved palace. I hear it rivals Doriath in magnificence. Is it true?”
“I am no braggart, but I have not seen the like in any other place. Though,” the elf prince admitted candidly, “I am not much traveled.”
“No? Why not?”
Legolas sighed. It was a closely held wish, for he knew well any request would be summarily dismissed with a negative response. He had far too many duties here at home to be gallivanting around the world. Or at least that had been the reply the one time he had ventured to broach the subject.
He recognized, though, that his father had at least heard his plea, for he had since been included in a number of trips to Rhûn, from whence his father filled his wine cellars, and once to Harad where the Mirkwood elves traded for exotic spices.
“Duties here,” he said now, recalling himself from the small cerebral side trip. “Who are you if you are not one of my father’s torturers?”
“I am called Thorongil, lately come from Rohan where I served His Majesty, King Thengel. I am traveling awhile before taking up a new post in Gondor. You should come with me; that would certainly frustrate your father’s plans, if it is frustration you are after.”
Legolas laughed, though there was a tinge of both regret and confusion in the merry peal, for he did not know what to make of this strange, half-taunting, half cajoling stranger.
“Alas, I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm, in service presently to His Majesty, King Thranduil,” he returned, matching the human’s rather mocking tone.
“Yes, so I assumed. But surely, as a prince, you are entitled to a measure of freedom.”
Legolas was not sure which part of his response had prompted the bit about assuming. The stranger had addressed him with proper formality without the slightest hesitation, had he only assumed Legolas was a prince? Or had he assumed from Legolas’ statements, that he was in service to the house whose name he bore? Whatever the man had assumed, there was no such thing as freedom in his life – at least not as he defined it – and Legolas sighed again.
“Nay. I have tasted freedom, but it is not likely to have any part in my future.”
The position of heir apparent to an immortal king was something lacking in terms of exciting possibilities. Not that he wished his father ill by any means. Just, sometimes he wished he had been born something other than an immortal prince – odd feelings for an elf, he had been told.
“Legolas? Who are you talking too? Whose clothes are these?” Eärishel, soft-footed for once, spoke from behind Legolas’ shoulder as he gathered up the discarded clothing, both wet and dry.
Legolas, who neither needed nor desired a servant, snatched up his own wet clothes. “Leave be,” he ordered irritably. “Did you bring me dry things?”
“Aye.” Eärishel handed over a neatly folded tunic and leggings. “But who were you talking to?”
“Thorongil he says his name is, lately come from Rohan, traveling a bit before going to his next post in Gondor. Are you a sell sword then?” Legolas called over the side, as he rose and stepped back from the edge in order to dress.
“One can make a decent living at it,” Thorongil called back, neither confirming nor denying the appellation, Legolas noticed. “Where do you get out of here?”
Eärishel rolled his eyes as he handed over the quiver and bow he had retrieved from the edge of the woods beyond the grassy meadow.
“Downstream, look for the cutout in the bank.” Legolas slung the quiver over his shoulder and palmed the bow. “You may go, Eärishel, I am relatively certain I can find my own way back to the palace from here.”
“As you wish, Your Highness, and my apologies again for the accident that caused you to fall into the river.”
Legolas narrowed his eyes. “We will discuss that accident at some later point, be assured. For now, you may report to my father that you have accomplished your mission.”
Fisting a hand to his heart, Eärishel bowed, the small self-satisfied smile he allowed himself, not quite hidden. “You know how your suspicions wound me, my Prince. I am only your humble servant; I would never intrigue with your father against you.”
“Be gone!” Legolas waved off the elder elf’s wholly unconvincing subservience.
Eärishel backed away, still bowing over his knees. “As you wish,” he repeated, finally turning to rise and trot away.
“Who was that?” the human asked, having clambered up the step path from the river in record time. He collected his shirt from the tidied pile of clothing left on the ground and dried himself with it, dressing quickly.
“My father’s sneaking spy.”
“No – truly? I have heard stories, but surely your father is not so despotic as to set spies on his own son?”
“I assure you, he is. You are truly not in his employ?”
“My sword is for sale for a short time, but beyond that, I do not believe I should like to work for your father. I could have no confidence in a man who does not trust his own son.”
“Ahh,” Legolas put up a finger, “I did not say he does not trust me, though I admit we do have something of a different perspective on trustworthiness. Do you come to the palace then?”
“If I would be welcome.”
“I must be honest; if you are not summoned by my father, he may not be receptive to your presence. Much of his reputation is well-earned and he does not suffer the presence of mortals often.”
The stranger shrugged amiably. “Well, then we shall see. But you avoided my question, why does he think you require breaking?”
Legolas settled his bow over his shoulder as well and led the way across the knoll and through a stretch of high meadow grass. “I did not say breaking precisely; there is a difference between taming and breaking. At least, I do not believe he wishes to break my spirit, merely turn into me a more compliant son. It worries him that perhaps I am a changeling.”
“Changeling? How so? Did your mother cuckold him?”
“What?”
The human raised his eyebrows with a suggestive grin. “Perhaps you are not the king’s son.”
Legolas just laughed again. “Nay, I am not that kind of cuckoo. It is just that I am not content to remain at home as little more than a tailor’s dummy. And I do not know why I am telling you all this; I do not even know you.”
Thorongil, late of Rohan, turned a perceptive gaze upon the elf. “Do you not? Yet I feel as if I know you well.”
“Perhaps,” the elf mused, bright eyes twinkling, “the familiarity is fostered by the lack of formality in our first meeting. I do not often grant audiences dressed only in my skin.” He whistled and a large, white wolf bounded out of the woods to gambol about their knees like a puppy.
Thorongil tensed, ever so slightly, and Legolas called the creature to heel. It sat, pink tongue lolling as it yawned hugely, then licked its chops.
“He is not intimidated by you, Aiollda, he is merely appreciating that fine set of fangs you are showing off. Stop preening.”
The ruff settled at once and the wolf became a large white lap dog, rising to shake his huge head before leaning against the elf’s thigh.
“Where did that come from? That is no domestic animal.”
“It is not our practice to domesticate animals, they are free to come and go as they please.”
Thorongil looked skeptical.
“You do not believe me?”
“In Rohan, the horses are part of the families, they serve by their own choice, but there is a difference between a horse and a wild wolf, mellon nîn.”
“You will see,” Legolas promised, unperturbed, and changed the subject. “Few who are merely curious are willing to venture the forests to reach my father’s abode. Fewer still make it this far. You are something of a curiosity yourself, Thorongil.”
“The horse-sized spiders were a bit off putting, I admit, but I am rarely put off enough to deny my curiosity.”
“Horse-sized? They have grown somewhat since last I encountered a nest then.”
They exchanged grins as Thorongil shrugged. “Pony-sized? I would not like to meet any of them in the dark.”
“No one does, they are the bane of our existence. Have a care for the wargs as well if you are out alone again.”
“With or without their Orc riders?”
“Our patrols do their best to destroy any remaining riderless wargs after a skirmish, but they cannot always give chase when some run during a fight. Nor have we ever been able to track down their breeding grounds. They move with the forage and are very cagey.”
“I cannot compare with the best elven trackers, but I have some skill,” Thorongil offered, “perhaps I may proffer your king my services in that regard?”
“Do not offer lightly, those beasts are something fierce, they can snap a man in two with one clamp of their jaws. It is not a wholesome death.”
“Aye, I have witnessed their savagery first hand. I know their strength.”
The path through the woods broke into the open, coming out upon the side of a cliff that dropped down a steep path fit only for mountain goats - or elves - ending at the mouth of a footbridge over a narrow but deep declivity. Thorongil discovered it was one of many back doors into the palace, most of them designated as escape routes. Fortunately, he was as sure-footed as either goat or elf and followed Legolas down the hillside at a fast clip.
This particular back door led through the kitchens and he followed the prince through a series of fragrant chambers that set his mouth watering and reminded him he had not eaten in several hours.
They progressed through a warren of interconnecting, sumptuously appointed corridors and up and down so many staircases, he eventually lost count. He had often wished he had been born in an earlier age and seen with his own eyes, the halls and palaces of the great lords of old pictured in the many of the scenes framed in his father’s library and portrayed in the oldest scrolls.
Thorongil saw now that nothing had been exaggerated in those ancient scrolls Erestor had so rarely allowed him to handle. Birds flew alongside, and over head squirrels scurried through tree branches, deer poised for flight looked over their shoulders, just before a carved relief of a mother and two bear cubs came into view. The trio dripped honey from the pieces of comb they held between frozen paws, bees buzzing around their heads.
They passed through a corridor carved in the appearance of a tunnel through the sea, where flat, winged water beasts hovered over beds of waving plants, among which were scattered huge shells, some clamped tightly shut, while others lay open as if abandoned and schools of glistening fish glittered in the perpetual twilight of the lamp-lit hallways.
He was just beginning to regret not having left a trail of some sort when the corridor they were traversing opened unexpectedly into a vast, soaring chamber.
The ceiling, far above their heads, was a filigree of intertwining tree branches that dipped and swayed to an unseen breeze – at least to the untutored eye. Thorongil realized later it was merely a skillfully crafted illusion rendered so as to make it appear the carven trees were alive. The leaves, he was told when he asked, seated the illusion in reality; they were paper thin shavings of jade and malachite, emerald and peridot, wrought by the Dwarves of Erebor whose craftsmanship had soared to new heights at the delving of Thranduil’s palace.
Around the outer walls of the cavernous room, reliefs of great mallorn tree trunks rose up to the ceiling as if they supported the entire structure. Craning his neck, Thorongil observed long balconies running down both sides of the room, created to appear as though they were flets constructed among the tree tops.
At one end of the chamber, a dais rose out of the living rock, the shallow steps leading up to it covered in raised figures no bigger than the stretch of his hand from thumb to little finger. He would have liked to investigate further, for he suspected they told a story, but Legolas was already halfway across the chamber and now was not the time to indulge this particular inquisitiveness. He noticed that the throne appeared to be all of a piece, the sloping sides deliberately crudely carved to convey a sense of solidity and solidarity with the natural world from which it arose. The whole room proclaimed loudly, even in silence, the power of the king who ruled here.
It should have been dark, for there was only one lamp to light the vastness, and Thorongil was certain they were far underground, and then he realized the rock was veined throughout with mithril. Perhaps Thranduil had bartered with the dwarves, allowing them the delving of the mithril they could have mined from this room alone as payment for their services.
A door set into one of the mallorn trunks opened silently at their approach and shut behind them without Legolas ever touching it.
“That was impressive,” Thorongil murmured, searching over his shoulder for some mechanism and finding none.
“It is an invention of my father’s, a system he is quite proud of. There are many such places in the palace. That was the formal throne room, though it is used thus only when foreign dignitaries appear, which is rare. Or my father deems it appropriate to put on a show for some important elven contingent – which is even rarer. As I said, few folk come to Mirkwood of their own accord.
Mostly the hall is used for celebrations and at such times it is handy for the servers to have doors that do not require bodily parts to open them.”
“Interesting,” Thorongil replied. “I would love to see how it works.”
“That kind of curiosity will undoubtedly gratify my sire. He has a high appreciation for all things mechanical.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my father, of course. He will already know you are here, the forest will have informed him of your presence, but he will require a formal introduction and will want to know your purpose in coming, since you arrive uninvited.” Legolas glanced sidelong at his interesting companion. “He knew you were here already this morning, that is why I thought you must be here at his bidding. I suggest you manufacture some other excuse than curiosity, his own interests extend only to things mechanical – and Dorwinion – and thus he cannot fathom the desire to broaden one’s horizons.”
The tartness of that final castigation bore the taint of blunted anger. Thorongil noted that the elf rolled his shoulders as if he shook off an invisible foe, and tucked away the knowledge to examine later, if necessary.
This latest hallway was obviously much used. Quick glances into recessed doors revealed many multi-purposed rooms, some with airily carved furniture decorating the walls and a central open area thickly carpeted; others with groupings of deep, upholstered arm chairs and couches set around central fireplaces, obviously conducive to several conversations being carried on at once.
These reminded him of the Hall of Fire at home, educing a sharp pang of desire. Perhaps he would still have time to make that trip if he accomplished his purpose here in a timely manner.
Legolas stopped abruptly and rapped on a closed door, once, before lifting the latch and entering.
“Adar, I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I have found the visitor you mentioned this morning.”
Thorongil, who had followed Legolas into the office at his beckoning command, stopped short at the edge of the sea of carpet on which floated a massive desk.
“My lord.” He bowed deeply in obeisance and waited, with well-schooled patience, for permission to rise. Beside him, Legolas had done the same. Without turning his head, he winked at the elf, who grinned back ruefully.
Thranduil, with studied intent, did not immediately raise his head, and when he did finally, a pang of misgiving that smote his heart. Here was trouble; more trouble even than his son managed to contrive. Who knew what they might unleash together?
“So you are Mithrandir’s protégé.” Thranduil rose, waving a commanding hand that neither could see. “Oh, get up, there’s not a subservient bone in your body from what I hear. Nor yours, either,” he addressed his son as the pair straightened like a tandem team, “as I well know from first hand experience.”
“Well?” the elven king demanded.
“Well what, sir?” Legolas spoke first, his calculatedly respectful tone belaying just a hint of impertinence.
“I have met the wizard, it is true, but I would not go so far as to style myself his apprentice, my lord,” Thorongil deflected quickly, judging the tension to a nicety.
A smile played briefly across the finely sculpted features so alike to his son’s. No denying kinship there; father and son were alike as two spiders spinning webs, though the sire’s green eyes were ancient pools of knowledge, where the son’s were as yet untainted with the weariness that Thorongil had come to recognize as the mark of Ages come and gone.
“What brings you to Mirkwood?” Thranduil left the two standing on the edge of the carpet and strolled around to lean against the front of the desk.
He was an impressive figure, taller than his son, whose heredity might have only been comprised of half from his mother, but that half dominated, for Legolas was of slighter build than his father, being lean and sinewy where Thranduil was broad of shoulder and solid in girth.
The king crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
Thorongil, who in the moment, could think of nothing more than his stated purpose to Legolas, offered it again, though with some slight embellishment. “I am presently between positions, Your Majesty, with time on my hands and a penchant for wandering. I was, however, unaware I had wandered into your domain until I met the first of many spiders. Having battled those with some success, I was emboldened to continue on, as I have heard many stories of your fabled halls. Since I had come this far already, it seemed an opportunity to be seized.”
During this charming speech, for Thorongil had delivered it with consummate skill, Thranduil had cupped an elbow in his left hand and raised his right to his chin.
His son was attempting to look bored with the proceedings, but an air of suppressed anticipation glittered around the bright, untarnished aurora. Here was trouble indeed. He should have known Mithrandir would find a way to blunt his weapons, sooner than later. Thranduil sighed inwardly, though not a muscle moved on his face.
Apparently the wizard had grown tired of waiting for permission to make this introduction. He had suggested it on numerous occasions, attempting to sweeten the deal by offering up the mortal’s supposed sobriety and equanimity as steadying influences to counter his own rather feral child’s wilder impulses.
It was, he supposed, time to loosen the reins. As much as he would have liked too, he could not keep that aurora untarnished forever. Inevitably, Mithrandir had provided the catalyst to push him into making the decisions he had avoided for the last century.
“I will withhold judgment for the moment, on whether or not it is a pleasure to meet you, but any friend of the old conjurer may find temporary refuge here.”
The wizard, Thranduil knew, was an astute judge of character and while he would not take this silent rebuke of Mithrandir’s lying down, he would allow the tool enough rope to either succeed, or hang himself.
“Show our guest to suitable quarters,” he instructed his son.
Their guest understood quite well the inflected, though unspoken, ‘which would be in the stables if I had my druthers’.
Thorongil raised a fisted hand to his heart in elven fashion and bowed again, the posture precisely calculated to respond in kind, ‘perhaps I would rather sleep in the stables than share a roof with you, you stubborn old miser’.
~*~
Aragorn sat cross-legged on the top of the bluff overlooking the river, his fingers absentmindedly breaking pieces off a small twig and throwing them into the water far below. He watched the tiny bits swirl away, seeing them only with his eyes, for his mind was busily assessing his chances of success.
His observations over the last three days boded well for achievement.
Despite that, he sighed and tossed the last bit of stick over the edge, then leaned back on his hands. The legerdemain he practiced with his identity and purpose for being here did not sit well with him. He was by nature, a solitary man, more given to soberness than ebullience, though he had, surprisingly, found a measure of enjoyment in the playful banter he’d engaged in with the prince.
He had not lied outright, for he sensed that to do so would cause instant withdrawal on the part of the Mirkwood elf. The wizard had remarked, rather acerbically, that Legolas reminded him of Aragorn in his late teens; primed and ready for a future, but with no foreseeable future available to him, and no opportunity to expend all the pent up energy of youth. It amused Aragorn no end that the wizard regarded him as the elder of the two of them.
Neither was he happy about keeping the fact that – in a round about way – he was here at Thranduil’s bidding, as Gandalf had sent him for the express purpose of contriving a diplomatic way to bring about a détente between Mirkwood’s King and the heir to a throne the prince would never occupy, yet was unquestionably being groomed for.
Normally Aragorn enjoyed conundrums, but he was finding this maze a bit difficult to thread considering how invested he was in the outcome, and that after only three short days. He did like the prince immensely, as Gandalf had predicted, and he knew he walked a fine line, for if Legolas discovered his purpose here before he had had a chance to bring about any resolution, there would be no accomplishing anything, least of all a fostering of the budding friendship.
Aragorn sighed again. In his usual insightful way, Gandalf had cannily sketched the broad strokes of the relationship between father and son, leaving Aragorn to deduce the finer points on his own. He had on his hands a pair of stubborn elves whose surface tension often concealed the deep current of affection and mutual respect. On Legolas’ side, there was a need to spread his wings and fly, while on Thranduil’s part, there was an equally urgent need to safeguard this last precious gift from the wife already lost to him.
Somewhere in this labyrinth there had to be a suitable compromise. Aragorn was hoping he’d caught a glimpse of it out of the tail of his eye this morning, when Legolas had ridden out on patrol. He had been invited along, but declined with a jest about wishing to avoid any further encounters with spiders.
Legolas’ prompt and sincerely motivated offer to stay behind and keep him company had been declined as well and not just because Aragorn needed time to think. The prince had only recently been added to the patrol roster. He should have been in command of a patrol of his own already, but seemed to have accepted his current inclusion with good grace.
Aragorn had watched him make careful preparations yestereve; fletching a dozen more arrows in addition to the full quiver standing sentinel by the door, scouting out extra bow strings to add to his pack and double checking that every article in that pack was necessary, before settling to waxing the bow itself.
Not even being relegated to the center of the phalanx as they rode out in triplets across the main bridge this morning had dimmed the elf’s glowing aurora.
Aragorn slid his elbows out from under him and dropped back on the grass. As he’d whiled away the hours of Legolas’ absence, one thing had become clear. Time was of the essence; a strange contradiction of terms in this elven stronghold. Thranduil must be brought to see the rebellion striving to fight its way free of the prince’s purposeful restraint without weighting the delicate balance father and son had achieved.
The question remained – how best to approach this battle so victory was not tainted by the defeat of one or the other. He lay gazing up at the clouds for quite a while longer, contemplating his next move, before rising with a determined set to his jaw. He brushed off his clothing and headed for the path through the woods.
~*~
In his study, Thranduil paced the length of the spacious room, pausing every now and then to stare into the low fire. No matter the season, fires burned as a matter of routine, year round, down here in the innards of the palace. As much for light and cheer as warmth.
He kicked at the crumbling logs, venting a bit of his annoyance. He had examined the problem from every conceivable angle and did not like any of the avenues open to him.
A knock on the door heralded a visitor. Since his staff knew to knock and enter with their disturbances, and there was only one visitor in his realm at the moment, he bade a curt, “Come,” and moved to sprawl in the substantial chair behind the purposely intimidating desk. To appear agitated would be to cede advantage to his adversary.
“I was told that I am at liberty to importune you at will, my lord.” Aragorn waited on the threshold for acknowledgment. He schooled his features to impassivity and waited out the invasive, assessing elven stare as well, calling on all the reserves he had learned under the inscrutable gaze of his own father.
Apparently he passed muster, for the king stood abruptly and motioned to the seating area before the fireplace.
“Sit.”
Steeling himself, Aragorn acknowledged the directive as though it were a gilded invitation rather than a command more suited to a pet, moving to sit where the king indicated.
“What do you want?” As the senior negotiator, and lord of the realm, it was Thranduil’s prerogative to open the game.
“I believe I want the same thing you do, my lord,” Aragorn stated, making his opening move with smooth diplomacy.
“Are you old enough to drink?” Thranduil countered without a blink. He would not give ground easily before the determined onslaught he read in the young mortal’s eyes.
“I am; however, I must decline, despite what I’ve heard about Dorwinion wine. I wish to keep a clear head, for I have also heard you drive a hard bargain, my lord.”
Thranduil took a steadying sip of the well-aged Dorwinion before seating himself opposite Mithrandir’s steadying influence. “Are you here to bargain, then? State your stakes.”
He was committed now and Aragorn did not hesitate. “Legolas’ freedom.”
A golden eyebrow rose fractionally. “You mistake if you think we are after the same thing then. And be done with the my lording, I detest it.”
“As you will, sir.” Aragorn wished he had accepted the wine, if only to have something to do with his hands. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping the useless digits and then unclasping them when he realized he was leaving white marks between his knuckles. “I beg to differ, sir. I believe you have your son’s best interest at heart as much as … ” Here he did hesitate, unsure whose appellation should be appended in that spot. Recalling that he was no longer just Gandalf’s tool, but a friend intervening on behalf of a friend, he stated with conviction, “As I.”
“You have just met him, what arrogance makes you think you know better than I where his best interests lie?” Thranduil countered as if reading Aragorn’s thoughts. Which would not be unusual; his foster father possessed the talent as well.
“I suspect you are aware that I am here at Mithrandir’s behest.”
The young man made it a statement rather than a question and Thranduil responded accordingly – with no hint of what he was aware of. He maintained his silence, waiting for the mortal who styled himself Thorongil of Rohan to continue.
It worked.
Aragorn squirmed, if only inwardly. He was well used to these leading silences, but had never managed to out wait an elf. “Perhaps due to my upbringing, I am not accustomed to befriending individuals quickly, nor do I give my trust on short acquaintance, but there was an immediate kinship between your son and I. He has many qualities I admire and many more that are ready to blossom if you would but loosen the reins a little.” Mortals, he knew from both Gandalf and Legolas, did not rate highly in the king’s estimation. If Thranduil knew who he was, gambling the weight of his heritage would certainly tip the scales one or the other.
Mithrandir had been closed as an oyster guarding a forming pearl when it came to this protégé. Again, Thranduil made no move to confirm or deny, just gestured for Thorongil to continue. In the back of his mind, though, he began piecing together what he did know about this youthful mortal, collating the bits and pieces with the occasional odd rumor that had worked its way to his ear as well.
“I do not often speak in superlatives, either, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the company of your son these past few days. And it is of my own observation that I say to you, you do him a disservice in keeping him a naïve youth.” Aragorn abandoned his carefully worked out plan. Diplomacy was overrated; sometimes you had to go with your gut. “You are a king and may command as you wish, but you are also a citizen of this world and a father.” Since his own naiveté had been vanquished, he had also become a leader of men and learned a thing or two on his own. “You have both a duty and a responsibility to nurture that which is given into your care, not stifle it. And you will stifle it eventually if you keep on this path.”
Aragorn sat back stiffly. “I beg your pardon if I have overstepped my boundaries, sir.”
“Do not offer me pap thinking to turn my wrath at this stage of the game.” Thranduil lifted his wine goblet in salute. “What you say has merit, I will grant you that. I am aware that Legolas is chafing at the bit, but you see this only from the perspective of a foreshortened life. You will live what? Seventy, perhaps eighty years? A hundred if your ancestry boasts some connection to those who buried much of Arda beneath the waters of a cataclysmic flood. Half your span of years is gone already is it not?”
Aragorn acknowledged the hit with a canting of his head, but countered immediately. “And Legolas has whatever Ages are left to this world. Do you derive some pleasure from torturing him with duties and responsibilities you well know he will never have the opportunity to perform in the same capacity as you?”
“Mirkwood is no enchanted valley,” Thranduil snapped back, “danger lurks betwixt and between every bit of vegetation in this wood – as you well know. My son could be king tomorrow should I fall in any of the daily battles we encounter.” He rose to refill his glass, adding far more causally, “And your own impassioned arguments were far superior to spouting Mithrandir’s useless drivel.”
Aragorn blinked. He had been away from his own family for too long; he had forgotten how Erestor could change sides in an argument in the blink of an eye, so they were suddenly on the same side of a heated debate.
“Then you agree that you have a responsibility to allow Legolas the latitude to learn from whatever mistakes he might make if you allow him more control?”
“Whatever you may think of me, I am not an imbecile. However, just because I agree does not mean I am ready to implement this metamorphosis.” Thranduil sighed heavily and downed the second glass of wine in one swallow. “Because I see that you do have my son’s best interests at heart, and you are still far closer to his age than I, say your piece.”
Perhaps he was losing his edge, but there was no amusement in toying with the mortal. Especially as he merely put into words what had weighed heavily on the king’s heart for more than century. He knew what he must do, but the potential cost had made acting upon it too devastating to contemplate.
Aragorn made a concerted effort to maintain a deliberately calm demeanor. “Assign him to a regular patrol, or have him rotate through all your patrols. Have you seen how capable he is with a bow? You will see significant decreases in the spider and warg populations within the first cycle of the moon. And I believe you will find he will step up and be a capable patrol leader on his own in very short order.”
He rose, because even at a distance, the king towered over him. “Give him leave to negotiate whatever business of the realm comes up next; if your Dorwinion costs a bit more, so be it. He has learned from the best, give him the experience to set that knowledge.”
Aragorn abandoned composure, allowing all the passion of his own youth to influence his plea. “Above all, my lord, let him out of Mirkwood. Send him as envoy to Lothlórien and Rivendell, allow him the latitude to know and be known amongst his kindred. There is a whole wide world he knows only from books and maps. He has lived his entire life beneath a dense canopy of trees; has he ever seen Anor or Ithil? Elbereth’s constellation? Eärendil’s?” Sometimes hyperbole made a statement on its own.
“That is absurd. Of course he has seen the sun and moon.” Though not often, Thranduil acknowledged, if only to himself. He recalled Legolas’ fascination with the deserts of Harad and the foreignness of the wide open night vistas. It had not occurred to him that such ordinary, everyday occurrences as sunrise and moonset were mostly missing from his son’s life. He had the memory of those things from his own childhood and had never noticed their lack in his life now. They had learned to adapt over the centuries here in Mirkwood.
It was difficult to see the youngster before him as anything more than a pup, but he had a decent head on his shoulders and a surprisingly authoritative delivery. Mithrandir had chosen his tool well, though Thranduil would never admit it.
“You speak eloquently. I will consider —”
The door opened without a preemptory knock. “Sire, the patrol is returned. The prince has been grievously injured, he is covered in blood.”
It was Eärishel the spy.
The energy in the room soured between one heartbeat and the next. Thranduil growled an oath under his breath and shot across the room as an arrow from full draw, Aragorn on his heels.
~*~
They met the prince striding toward them, covered in gore it was true, but moving freely, apparently unhampered by injury.
“Are you harmed?” Thranduil demanded, grabbing his son by the shoulders to give him a thorough visual once over.
“Nay, but I am filthy.”
Aragorn swallowed a snort of laughter. To an elf, filth was nearly equivalent to loss of life.
“Adar?”
Thranduil had clasped Legolas in a strong embrace, but stepped back to look him over again. “You are certain you are unharmed?”
“Aye!” Legolas, embarrassed both by the attention and the excessive emotion, pulled away. “I am sorry you did not join us, Thorongil, it was a most excellent battle!”
“Mmmm,” Aragorn murmured a noncommittal assent. He was long past the age where he found battle an exciting prospect.
“I will join you shortly, Father. In your study?”
Thranduil agreed, reluctantly releasing the youngster. “Bring your friend, we have much to discuss.”
“Adar, do not let this--” Legolas waved a hand down the front of him, “prejudice your decisions. I was not injured and Faihdor said I acquitted myself well.”
That was high praise from Faihdor, Thranduil knew, though Legolas had no standard against which to measure himself. With a forced smile, the king clapped his son on the shoulder in as congratulatory manner as he could muster. “Then I am sure he will tell me so himself. You are likely famished, I will have cook send up a repast.” He watched as Legolas flashed a smile of gratitude, twisted away and invited the human along with a slight cock of his head. The pair moved off at a rapid pace, Legolas most likely sharing a blow by blow account of the battle just past.
Ahhhhh the exhilaration of the very young finding the wind and flying high. That perfect elven recall conjured, with clarity, the memory of his own first experience with the emotion. Thranduil rarely felt the weight of the Ages that had unfolded in his lifetime, but he did so now as he turned away from the retreating duo and went to find Faihdor.
“It appears you parted company with your horse, Legolas. If you wish to impress your father with your prowess with a bow, it will not do to come back from patrol looking as though you were involved in hand-to-hand combat.”
“I am sure you are correct; however, we were.”
Aragorn snagged the elf’s arm, swinging him around to a stand still. “What happened?” he demanded.
“The orcs grow ever bolder. We met a scouting party at sun high and were engaged before Faihdor could order me to retreat. It happened so fast there was only time to react, no time to worry or think about what to do.” Legolas tugged at his captured arm. “Come, the smell of orc blood is repulsive.”
Aragorn let go and fell in step again. “Is this the first battle in which you’ve engaged?”
“No, I have hunted spiders occasionally, though they are more cunning than brainless orcs, but this is the first real test of my skills. My father will have to allow regular participation in patrols now, Faihdor will insist.”
“Then you must have acquitted yourself very well indeed.”
Legolas only smiled.
The inner bathing chamber in his quarters was already prepared when they reached the suite of rooms. Legolas excused himself quickly, leaving Aragorn to wander the chamber.
And with every step, Aragorn found himself growing more uncomfortable with his deception.
He glanced over his shoulder as the door was nosed open and the wolf peered around. It sniffed, apparently discerned that Legolas was in residence, and trotted over to curl up on the rug in front of the fireplace. It yawned once, hugely, eyed Aragorn lazily, then wrapped its long muzzle in its tail and, from all appearances, went to sleep.
Aragorn decided he could see everything in the room from the spot he was standing. Their previous peregrinations had not brought them here, and he was pleasantly surprised to find the suite of chambers within his purview conveyed an air of comfortable informality, unlike the grandeur of the rest of the palace.
This had been a child’s room once and still held remnants of the boy Legolas had been. In an inglenook beside the fireplace, a well-loved rocking horse guarded childhood memories, alongside a rocking chair that reminded Aragorn of the swan boats he had seen in Lothlórien. A child-sized bow and quiver, complete with miniature arrows, hung above the fireplace.
But the boy had grown and the adult was also revealed in the chamber’s décor.
Legolas had brought his beloved forest indoors with him; live plants and miniature trees were grouped in corners and flanked the fireplace beneath Fëanorian lamps.
Beneath his feet, thick jewel-toned carpets in rich autumn hues covered the stone floor. A tapestry hung behind the sleeping couch, depicting a pair of youngish looking elves entwined in one another’s arms, the male of which Aragorn thought might bear some resemblance to Thranduil. To the left, an entire wall was decorated with bird’s nests; in clefts carved into the wall, perched on outstretched tree limbs that grew from the wall, or cradled in niches carved to appear as shallow holes in the earth, each with its own clutch of eggs.
Entranced, Aragorn forgot the wolf and paid no mind when it lifted its head and growled softly. He lifted out one of the eggs with care, to find they were perfectly carved and painted replicas of the real thing. He wondered if they were Legolas’ work. The artistry required to produce such detailed accuracy, from size and weight to the fragility of their appearance, showed a creative expertise in sharp contrast to the athletic, rough and tumble exterior Legolas had revealed over the last three days.
A collection of feathers glittered with touches of iridescence beneath another set of Fëanorian lamps, while on a shelf below, a pair of ivory-handled knives held pride of place.
Aragorn picked one up, carefully running a finger along the whetted edge of the blade. This was no decorative piece; it was a beautifully balanced throwing knife, that, judging by the wear on the hilt, had seen a lot of action.
“Those belonged to my uncle - my mother’s brother.” Legolas reappeared half dressed and vigorously toweling his hair. “He was among my mother’s attendants.”
“Do you use them?”
“I have begun to learn their secrets. But I am in no way proficient with them yet,” Legolas replied, tossing the towel on top of an unusually beautiful desk, carved in the aspect of a bird in flight. “Given time, I will be,” he said matter-of-factly, as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. “Weapon’s training is the one thing under my father’s regime I have been allowed to pursue without restraint.” He drew a comb quickly through his hair and began to braid nimbly.
“How are you with a sword?” Aragorn wondered aloud, sifting his fingers through a pile of feathers lying atop several unfletched arrow shafts.
The training was apparent; here was a definitive warrior, untested as yet, but clearly well prepared and on the cusp of making his mark.
“Passably efficient, no more. There is no finesse in a sword; it is a hacking weapon I have no appreciation for.”
“I will grant you that, though my sword has come in handy a time or two. Do you know Mithrandir?” He did not ask idly, though Aragorn knew the answer already.
“Of course.” The change of subject brought the prince’s head around inquisitively. “He has been a good friend.” And confidante, though Legolas refrained from saying so. “My father named you protégée to the wizard, are you?”
“I answered truly. I am nothing in the nature of an apprentice, but he has occasionally requested my aid in some of his …” Aragorn cleared his throat, “schemes.”
Legolas signed for the wolf to follow and headed for the door, fighting to keep a straight face. He would certainly agree that the old man was a schemer.
Aragon beat him to it and put a hand on the latch. “I have a confession to make.” It was suddenly imperative that he clear up the misconceptions he had purposely allowed to stand.
A twinkle appeared in the elf’s green eyes. “There is not the need, mellon nîn. No one wanders into Mirkwood without purpose and if you were not bidden here by my father, then only one other would dare to send such an emissary.”
Aragorn tilted his head. “You are not angry?”
“Should I be?”
“I will be honest, friend. I would be.” An intellectual understanding of why his identity had been withheld from him for eighteen years of his life had never quite overcome the deep resentment.
Even knowing he had been impeccably trained for the heritage that awaited only his willingness to take it up, did not make up for the fact that for ten years he had single-mindedly pursued one dream. And heard it go up in smoke with the words, ‘You are the son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain; heir of Isildur and Elendil. It is your destiny to mount the empty throne of Gondor and take up the sword reforged in the fight against the Enemy.’
In his – admittedly limited at that point – experience, men with a destiny laid upon them rarely lived long enough to reap the rewards of all their hard work. An early death had not featured in any of his youthful dreams
Thranduil’s reasons for keeping his son on such a tight rein were his own, but Aragorn suspected Gandalf had ulterior motives in sending him to champion the young elf’s cause. They were both to be tools in the arsenal the wizard was patiently and stealthily assembling, with an eye toward that day when the One Ring surfaced again, and called forth its master to begin his own search, rendering him the most vulnerable he was ever likely to be.
Aragorn could not say he had embraced his destiny, but he had learned to accept it. From what he had witnessed here, the Mirkwood Prince would likely be much more willing to be used than he had ever been.
“My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the remnant left of those who sailed before Númenor drowned.”
Legolas eyed him interestedly. Aragorn saw that quick mind running through the genealogies of his house.
“Which is to say, I may refer to you as Your Highness as well.”
He recoiled slightly. “No!”
“How do you style yourself then?”
“I do not. It is a closely guarded secret that I bear the title Chieftain of the Dúnedain. For the moment I am Thorongil, late of His Majesty, King Thengel’s, guard.”
“Does my father know this?”
“I do not know. I had assumed Mithrandir would have told him, but perhaps he has not. And if that is the case, I probably told him this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
Aragorn removed his hand from the door latch and lifted it to scratch at his head. “There is more I need to tell you.”
“Perhaps we should sit down?”
“I will keep it short. Mithrandir sent me to see if I could … end the torture.”
Legolas threw back his head and laughed heartily. “We have spoken of this often, he and I,” he said, offering his own confession of sorts. “He has long been aware of my father’s resistance and the rebellion I have kept buried in my heart. It became something of a game between my father and me, but I tired of it long ago. I have stayed the course this long without throwing over the traces only because Mithrandir has appeared many times at just the right hour or moment to calm the storms between us. Nay, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, I am not angry. In this I am extremely grateful for Mithrandir’s scheming. Come! Let us harvest the seeds you have sown.”
Aragorn put his hand out once more. “Legolas—”
“There is more?” the elf inquired in inimitable style.
“No. I just … I regret that our first meeting has been tainted with this deceit. I hope you will not hold it against me.”
“Let us make a bargain. If you accomplish what you came to do, we will disregard all that has gone before. If you do not, I will never let you live it down.”
Aragorn considered for a moment and smiled his acceptance. “It is a fair bargain. Let us hope we both succeed.”
Legolas opened the door, motioning his new friend through ahead of him and they made their winding way through the palace corridors to the king’s study, the wolf padding alongside.
~*~
“Adar! I have brought a guest!” The proclamation rang with gladness as the pair dismounted in the courtyard amid a flurry of activity. Elves were boiling out of every exit from the great house, surrounding them in a noisy, colorful throng, with shouted greetings on every side accompanied by much back pounding.
Legolas backed against his horse, bewildered by the uninhibited display of affection. It reminded him of the mêlée’s back home and did not at all match up with his impression of the much vaunted Noldor dignity.
Aragorn ducked under his horse’s neck to grab Legolas and draw him forward. “The first ambassador from Mirkwood in an Age!”
Every eye turned toward the blond elf and a momentary hush fell over the crowd.
Legolas sidled back again, and stumbled over his own feet when he bumped into someone who had come up behind him. Face scarlet, he whirled to find himself impaled by a sharp gaze from a pair of deep-set, mithril colored eyes. And then the eyes resolved into a face featuring a prominent brow, mobile mouth and lines bracketing a smile stretching lips wide in genuine welcome.
“Sweet Elbereth! Can it be? Legolas! This is … entirely unexpected!” The Mirkwood prince found himself engulfed in a rib-cracking embrace. “Does your father know you are here?” A frown briefly marred the ageless features as Lord Elrond drew back, setting both hands on the prince’s shoulders.
Being a close acquaintance of the wizard’s, he knew something of the situation in Mirkwood.
Legolas, his heart immeasurably gladdened by the irrefutable warmth of his welcome, grinned. “Aye, my lord, though likely the reality will have sunk in by the time I return home and I will be relegated once more to the safety of the tedious chores of sovereignty.”
“Then we must make your time here memorable. Mae govannen, Legolas of Mirkwood, welcome to Imladris!”
“Le hannon,” Legolas bowed and touched his fisted hand to his heart. “It is good to be here, my lord.”
“Aragorn!” Elrond turned to his son and drew him into an equally warm embrace while a confusing number of similar looking, dark-haired elves moved to greet Legolas. “You must have acquired a mithril tongue since last you were home. How did you accomplish this?”
“It was Gandalf and Legolas’ doing, Adar, not mine. Perhaps my appearance advanced the schedule, but Thranduil had already made up his mind that the time had come to allow Legolas to broaden his horizons. It became a matter of settling the details.”
“Regardless, you have accomplished something none other among us has been able to in an Age! A visitor from Mirkwood, and the prince no less! You have done well, my son.”
“I thank you, but I am not being modest, Father. In truth, I believe it was Legolas’ maturity in restraining the burning desire to rebel that most effected the change in his father. I am sure you will comprehend how difficult it has been for him to loosen these reins.”
Elrond affectionately ruffled the dark head and gave his son another one-armed hug as he gathered up Legolas as well and swept the pair onto the porch of the Last Homely House.
“Aye, I will be most diplomatic when I write to tell him of our joy in welcoming you, Legolas.”
He turned with his arms around the duet and faced the still milling throng in the court yard. “Prepare the Hall of Fire; this night we celebrate!”
~**~
Translations: Adar – Father
Le hannon – Thank you
Mae govannen - Welcome
“I hope you are returning with dry clothing and not just an apology, Eärishel, else you may turn right around and go home again. Adar will be furious if I appear before this newest horse-breaker he has schemed to tame me with, in wet clothing.”
The elf sitting cross-legged on the grassy knoll overlooking the river bank wore nothing but a skein of long, dripping hair, his fingers flashing as he expertly wove the side braids elven archers habitually wore. The blond head dipped as the hands moved fluidly to join the two braids into one, incorporating more of the wet hair into a thick, golden tail that would hang to the middle of his back.
Legolas pushed off the grass as he finished the task, turning as he rose. If he was surprised to find a human watching him, it did not show, nor did modesty assert itself with any alacrity.
“You do not appear to be my graceless cousin with dry clothing,” the elf prince stated, crossing his arms over a powerful, if slender, chest. He eyed the human with an air of disdain. “And I suppose that appearing in wet clothing before you is likely better than no clothing in your estimation.” With a sigh, he bent to collect his leggings.
“No need to get dressed because of me, Your Highness.” The human began pushing at the elk horn buttons of his own tunic as he purposefully put his feet in motion. “I am here for the same purpose apparently. I do not wish to present myself before you adar in my travel filth. However, let us be straight on this one thing: I am come to Mirkwood out of curiosity; I was not summoned by your father to be yet another torturer. Why does he believe you need taming?” As he spoke, the man shed his own clothing, trailing tunic, shirt and finally breeches behind him as he made for the bluff in the buff. “It is deep enough to dive?”
“Aye,” Legolas responded belatedly. The man was already over the ledge; momentarily, a splash sounded below.
Bemused, the prince wandered to the edge and glanced down just as the dark head resurfaced. The human looked up at the same time, flashing a bright grin. “If it will not ruin all the work you just put into your hair, come back in and we will scheme together how to thwart whatever it is your adar has planned for you. I know the ways of fathers all too well,” he called up, playfully splashing at the water.
“Le hannon, but I think not, though you are a more pleasant deceiver than the last.”
The dark visage gave a mock grimace. “Why do you name me deceiver when you do not even know me?”
“I know your kind; my father has introduced me to several of your sort. But it will not work, no matter what he has told you.” Curious, especially as he sensed no guile in this individual and he was particularly sensitive to deceit given his father’s recent treachery - saddling him with a new tutor who had kept him pouring over ancient books and scrolls all hours of the day and night, or so it had seemed - Legolas tossed aside his leggings and sat down with his feet dangling over the shelf of land.
“He has told me nothing,” the human argued good-naturedly. “I have not even met him, though I have heard much of the fabled halls of Thranduil’s rock-carved palace. I hear it rivals Doriath in magnificence. Is it true?”
“I am no braggart, but I have not seen the like in any other place. Though,” the elf prince admitted candidly, “I am not much traveled.”
“No? Why not?”
Legolas sighed. It was a closely held wish, for he knew well any request would be summarily dismissed with a negative response. He had far too many duties here at home to be gallivanting around the world. Or at least that had been the reply the one time he had ventured to broach the subject.
He recognized, though, that his father had at least heard his plea, for he had since been included in a number of trips to Rhûn, from whence his father filled his wine cellars, and once to Harad where the Mirkwood elves traded for exotic spices.
“Duties here,” he said now, recalling himself from the small cerebral side trip. “Who are you if you are not one of my father’s torturers?”
“I am called Thorongil, lately come from Rohan where I served His Majesty, King Thengel. I am traveling awhile before taking up a new post in Gondor. You should come with me; that would certainly frustrate your father’s plans, if it is frustration you are after.”
Legolas laughed, though there was a tinge of both regret and confusion in the merry peal, for he did not know what to make of this strange, half-taunting, half cajoling stranger.
“Alas, I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm, in service presently to His Majesty, King Thranduil,” he returned, matching the human’s rather mocking tone.
“Yes, so I assumed. But surely, as a prince, you are entitled to a measure of freedom.”
Legolas was not sure which part of his response had prompted the bit about assuming. The stranger had addressed him with proper formality without the slightest hesitation, had he only assumed Legolas was a prince? Or had he assumed from Legolas’ statements, that he was in service to the house whose name he bore? Whatever the man had assumed, there was no such thing as freedom in his life – at least not as he defined it – and Legolas sighed again.
“Nay. I have tasted freedom, but it is not likely to have any part in my future.”
The position of heir apparent to an immortal king was something lacking in terms of exciting possibilities. Not that he wished his father ill by any means. Just, sometimes he wished he had been born something other than an immortal prince – odd feelings for an elf, he had been told.
“Legolas? Who are you talking too? Whose clothes are these?” Eärishel, soft-footed for once, spoke from behind Legolas’ shoulder as he gathered up the discarded clothing, both wet and dry.
Legolas, who neither needed nor desired a servant, snatched up his own wet clothes. “Leave be,” he ordered irritably. “Did you bring me dry things?”
“Aye.” Eärishel handed over a neatly folded tunic and leggings. “But who were you talking to?”
“Thorongil he says his name is, lately come from Rohan, traveling a bit before going to his next post in Gondor. Are you a sell sword then?” Legolas called over the side, as he rose and stepped back from the edge in order to dress.
“One can make a decent living at it,” Thorongil called back, neither confirming nor denying the appellation, Legolas noticed. “Where do you get out of here?”
Eärishel rolled his eyes as he handed over the quiver and bow he had retrieved from the edge of the woods beyond the grassy meadow.
“Downstream, look for the cutout in the bank.” Legolas slung the quiver over his shoulder and palmed the bow. “You may go, Eärishel, I am relatively certain I can find my own way back to the palace from here.”
“As you wish, Your Highness, and my apologies again for the accident that caused you to fall into the river.”
Legolas narrowed his eyes. “We will discuss that accident at some later point, be assured. For now, you may report to my father that you have accomplished your mission.”
Fisting a hand to his heart, Eärishel bowed, the small self-satisfied smile he allowed himself, not quite hidden. “You know how your suspicions wound me, my Prince. I am only your humble servant; I would never intrigue with your father against you.”
“Be gone!” Legolas waved off the elder elf’s wholly unconvincing subservience.
Eärishel backed away, still bowing over his knees. “As you wish,” he repeated, finally turning to rise and trot away.
“Who was that?” the human asked, having clambered up the step path from the river in record time. He collected his shirt from the tidied pile of clothing left on the ground and dried himself with it, dressing quickly.
“My father’s sneaking spy.”
“No – truly? I have heard stories, but surely your father is not so despotic as to set spies on his own son?”
“I assure you, he is. You are truly not in his employ?”
“My sword is for sale for a short time, but beyond that, I do not believe I should like to work for your father. I could have no confidence in a man who does not trust his own son.”
“Ahh,” Legolas put up a finger, “I did not say he does not trust me, though I admit we do have something of a different perspective on trustworthiness. Do you come to the palace then?”
“If I would be welcome.”
“I must be honest; if you are not summoned by my father, he may not be receptive to your presence. Much of his reputation is well-earned and he does not suffer the presence of mortals often.”
The stranger shrugged amiably. “Well, then we shall see. But you avoided my question, why does he think you require breaking?”
Legolas settled his bow over his shoulder as well and led the way across the knoll and through a stretch of high meadow grass. “I did not say breaking precisely; there is a difference between taming and breaking. At least, I do not believe he wishes to break my spirit, merely turn into me a more compliant son. It worries him that perhaps I am a changeling.”
“Changeling? How so? Did your mother cuckold him?”
“What?”
The human raised his eyebrows with a suggestive grin. “Perhaps you are not the king’s son.”
Legolas just laughed again. “Nay, I am not that kind of cuckoo. It is just that I am not content to remain at home as little more than a tailor’s dummy. And I do not know why I am telling you all this; I do not even know you.”
Thorongil, late of Rohan, turned a perceptive gaze upon the elf. “Do you not? Yet I feel as if I know you well.”
“Perhaps,” the elf mused, bright eyes twinkling, “the familiarity is fostered by the lack of formality in our first meeting. I do not often grant audiences dressed only in my skin.” He whistled and a large, white wolf bounded out of the woods to gambol about their knees like a puppy.
Thorongil tensed, ever so slightly, and Legolas called the creature to heel. It sat, pink tongue lolling as it yawned hugely, then licked its chops.
“He is not intimidated by you, Aiollda, he is merely appreciating that fine set of fangs you are showing off. Stop preening.”
The ruff settled at once and the wolf became a large white lap dog, rising to shake his huge head before leaning against the elf’s thigh.
“Where did that come from? That is no domestic animal.”
“It is not our practice to domesticate animals, they are free to come and go as they please.”
Thorongil looked skeptical.
“You do not believe me?”
“In Rohan, the horses are part of the families, they serve by their own choice, but there is a difference between a horse and a wild wolf, mellon nîn.”
“You will see,” Legolas promised, unperturbed, and changed the subject. “Few who are merely curious are willing to venture the forests to reach my father’s abode. Fewer still make it this far. You are something of a curiosity yourself, Thorongil.”
“The horse-sized spiders were a bit off putting, I admit, but I am rarely put off enough to deny my curiosity.”
“Horse-sized? They have grown somewhat since last I encountered a nest then.”
They exchanged grins as Thorongil shrugged. “Pony-sized? I would not like to meet any of them in the dark.”
“No one does, they are the bane of our existence. Have a care for the wargs as well if you are out alone again.”
“With or without their Orc riders?”
“Our patrols do their best to destroy any remaining riderless wargs after a skirmish, but they cannot always give chase when some run during a fight. Nor have we ever been able to track down their breeding grounds. They move with the forage and are very cagey.”
“I cannot compare with the best elven trackers, but I have some skill,” Thorongil offered, “perhaps I may proffer your king my services in that regard?”
“Do not offer lightly, those beasts are something fierce, they can snap a man in two with one clamp of their jaws. It is not a wholesome death.”
“Aye, I have witnessed their savagery first hand. I know their strength.”
The path through the woods broke into the open, coming out upon the side of a cliff that dropped down a steep path fit only for mountain goats - or elves - ending at the mouth of a footbridge over a narrow but deep declivity. Thorongil discovered it was one of many back doors into the palace, most of them designated as escape routes. Fortunately, he was as sure-footed as either goat or elf and followed Legolas down the hillside at a fast clip.
This particular back door led through the kitchens and he followed the prince through a series of fragrant chambers that set his mouth watering and reminded him he had not eaten in several hours.
They progressed through a warren of interconnecting, sumptuously appointed corridors and up and down so many staircases, he eventually lost count. He had often wished he had been born in an earlier age and seen with his own eyes, the halls and palaces of the great lords of old pictured in the many of the scenes framed in his father’s library and portrayed in the oldest scrolls.
Thorongil saw now that nothing had been exaggerated in those ancient scrolls Erestor had so rarely allowed him to handle. Birds flew alongside, and over head squirrels scurried through tree branches, deer poised for flight looked over their shoulders, just before a carved relief of a mother and two bear cubs came into view. The trio dripped honey from the pieces of comb they held between frozen paws, bees buzzing around their heads.
They passed through a corridor carved in the appearance of a tunnel through the sea, where flat, winged water beasts hovered over beds of waving plants, among which were scattered huge shells, some clamped tightly shut, while others lay open as if abandoned and schools of glistening fish glittered in the perpetual twilight of the lamp-lit hallways.
He was just beginning to regret not having left a trail of some sort when the corridor they were traversing opened unexpectedly into a vast, soaring chamber.
The ceiling, far above their heads, was a filigree of intertwining tree branches that dipped and swayed to an unseen breeze – at least to the untutored eye. Thorongil realized later it was merely a skillfully crafted illusion rendered so as to make it appear the carven trees were alive. The leaves, he was told when he asked, seated the illusion in reality; they were paper thin shavings of jade and malachite, emerald and peridot, wrought by the Dwarves of Erebor whose craftsmanship had soared to new heights at the delving of Thranduil’s palace.
Around the outer walls of the cavernous room, reliefs of great mallorn tree trunks rose up to the ceiling as if they supported the entire structure. Craning his neck, Thorongil observed long balconies running down both sides of the room, created to appear as though they were flets constructed among the tree tops.
At one end of the chamber, a dais rose out of the living rock, the shallow steps leading up to it covered in raised figures no bigger than the stretch of his hand from thumb to little finger. He would have liked to investigate further, for he suspected they told a story, but Legolas was already halfway across the chamber and now was not the time to indulge this particular inquisitiveness. He noticed that the throne appeared to be all of a piece, the sloping sides deliberately crudely carved to convey a sense of solidity and solidarity with the natural world from which it arose. The whole room proclaimed loudly, even in silence, the power of the king who ruled here.
It should have been dark, for there was only one lamp to light the vastness, and Thorongil was certain they were far underground, and then he realized the rock was veined throughout with mithril. Perhaps Thranduil had bartered with the dwarves, allowing them the delving of the mithril they could have mined from this room alone as payment for their services.
A door set into one of the mallorn trunks opened silently at their approach and shut behind them without Legolas ever touching it.
“That was impressive,” Thorongil murmured, searching over his shoulder for some mechanism and finding none.
“It is an invention of my father’s, a system he is quite proud of. There are many such places in the palace. That was the formal throne room, though it is used thus only when foreign dignitaries appear, which is rare. Or my father deems it appropriate to put on a show for some important elven contingent – which is even rarer. As I said, few folk come to Mirkwood of their own accord.
Mostly the hall is used for celebrations and at such times it is handy for the servers to have doors that do not require bodily parts to open them.”
“Interesting,” Thorongil replied. “I would love to see how it works.”
“That kind of curiosity will undoubtedly gratify my sire. He has a high appreciation for all things mechanical.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my father, of course. He will already know you are here, the forest will have informed him of your presence, but he will require a formal introduction and will want to know your purpose in coming, since you arrive uninvited.” Legolas glanced sidelong at his interesting companion. “He knew you were here already this morning, that is why I thought you must be here at his bidding. I suggest you manufacture some other excuse than curiosity, his own interests extend only to things mechanical – and Dorwinion – and thus he cannot fathom the desire to broaden one’s horizons.”
The tartness of that final castigation bore the taint of blunted anger. Thorongil noted that the elf rolled his shoulders as if he shook off an invisible foe, and tucked away the knowledge to examine later, if necessary.
This latest hallway was obviously much used. Quick glances into recessed doors revealed many multi-purposed rooms, some with airily carved furniture decorating the walls and a central open area thickly carpeted; others with groupings of deep, upholstered arm chairs and couches set around central fireplaces, obviously conducive to several conversations being carried on at once.
These reminded him of the Hall of Fire at home, educing a sharp pang of desire. Perhaps he would still have time to make that trip if he accomplished his purpose here in a timely manner.
Legolas stopped abruptly and rapped on a closed door, once, before lifting the latch and entering.
“Adar, I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I have found the visitor you mentioned this morning.”
Thorongil, who had followed Legolas into the office at his beckoning command, stopped short at the edge of the sea of carpet on which floated a massive desk.
“My lord.” He bowed deeply in obeisance and waited, with well-schooled patience, for permission to rise. Beside him, Legolas had done the same. Without turning his head, he winked at the elf, who grinned back ruefully.
Thranduil, with studied intent, did not immediately raise his head, and when he did finally, a pang of misgiving that smote his heart. Here was trouble; more trouble even than his son managed to contrive. Who knew what they might unleash together?
“So you are Mithrandir’s protégé.” Thranduil rose, waving a commanding hand that neither could see. “Oh, get up, there’s not a subservient bone in your body from what I hear. Nor yours, either,” he addressed his son as the pair straightened like a tandem team, “as I well know from first hand experience.”
“Well?” the elven king demanded.
“Well what, sir?” Legolas spoke first, his calculatedly respectful tone belaying just a hint of impertinence.
“I have met the wizard, it is true, but I would not go so far as to style myself his apprentice, my lord,” Thorongil deflected quickly, judging the tension to a nicety.
A smile played briefly across the finely sculpted features so alike to his son’s. No denying kinship there; father and son were alike as two spiders spinning webs, though the sire’s green eyes were ancient pools of knowledge, where the son’s were as yet untainted with the weariness that Thorongil had come to recognize as the mark of Ages come and gone.
“What brings you to Mirkwood?” Thranduil left the two standing on the edge of the carpet and strolled around to lean against the front of the desk.
He was an impressive figure, taller than his son, whose heredity might have only been comprised of half from his mother, but that half dominated, for Legolas was of slighter build than his father, being lean and sinewy where Thranduil was broad of shoulder and solid in girth.
The king crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
Thorongil, who in the moment, could think of nothing more than his stated purpose to Legolas, offered it again, though with some slight embellishment. “I am presently between positions, Your Majesty, with time on my hands and a penchant for wandering. I was, however, unaware I had wandered into your domain until I met the first of many spiders. Having battled those with some success, I was emboldened to continue on, as I have heard many stories of your fabled halls. Since I had come this far already, it seemed an opportunity to be seized.”
During this charming speech, for Thorongil had delivered it with consummate skill, Thranduil had cupped an elbow in his left hand and raised his right to his chin.
His son was attempting to look bored with the proceedings, but an air of suppressed anticipation glittered around the bright, untarnished aurora. Here was trouble indeed. He should have known Mithrandir would find a way to blunt his weapons, sooner than later. Thranduil sighed inwardly, though not a muscle moved on his face.
Apparently the wizard had grown tired of waiting for permission to make this introduction. He had suggested it on numerous occasions, attempting to sweeten the deal by offering up the mortal’s supposed sobriety and equanimity as steadying influences to counter his own rather feral child’s wilder impulses.
It was, he supposed, time to loosen the reins. As much as he would have liked too, he could not keep that aurora untarnished forever. Inevitably, Mithrandir had provided the catalyst to push him into making the decisions he had avoided for the last century.
“I will withhold judgment for the moment, on whether or not it is a pleasure to meet you, but any friend of the old conjurer may find temporary refuge here.”
The wizard, Thranduil knew, was an astute judge of character and while he would not take this silent rebuke of Mithrandir’s lying down, he would allow the tool enough rope to either succeed, or hang himself.
“Show our guest to suitable quarters,” he instructed his son.
Their guest understood quite well the inflected, though unspoken, ‘which would be in the stables if I had my druthers’.
Thorongil raised a fisted hand to his heart in elven fashion and bowed again, the posture precisely calculated to respond in kind, ‘perhaps I would rather sleep in the stables than share a roof with you, you stubborn old miser’.
~*~
Aragorn sat cross-legged on the top of the bluff overlooking the river, his fingers absentmindedly breaking pieces off a small twig and throwing them into the water far below. He watched the tiny bits swirl away, seeing them only with his eyes, for his mind was busily assessing his chances of success.
His observations over the last three days boded well for achievement.
Despite that, he sighed and tossed the last bit of stick over the edge, then leaned back on his hands. The legerdemain he practiced with his identity and purpose for being here did not sit well with him. He was by nature, a solitary man, more given to soberness than ebullience, though he had, surprisingly, found a measure of enjoyment in the playful banter he’d engaged in with the prince.
He had not lied outright, for he sensed that to do so would cause instant withdrawal on the part of the Mirkwood elf. The wizard had remarked, rather acerbically, that Legolas reminded him of Aragorn in his late teens; primed and ready for a future, but with no foreseeable future available to him, and no opportunity to expend all the pent up energy of youth. It amused Aragorn no end that the wizard regarded him as the elder of the two of them.
Neither was he happy about keeping the fact that – in a round about way – he was here at Thranduil’s bidding, as Gandalf had sent him for the express purpose of contriving a diplomatic way to bring about a détente between Mirkwood’s King and the heir to a throne the prince would never occupy, yet was unquestionably being groomed for.
Normally Aragorn enjoyed conundrums, but he was finding this maze a bit difficult to thread considering how invested he was in the outcome, and that after only three short days. He did like the prince immensely, as Gandalf had predicted, and he knew he walked a fine line, for if Legolas discovered his purpose here before he had had a chance to bring about any resolution, there would be no accomplishing anything, least of all a fostering of the budding friendship.
Aragorn sighed again. In his usual insightful way, Gandalf had cannily sketched the broad strokes of the relationship between father and son, leaving Aragorn to deduce the finer points on his own. He had on his hands a pair of stubborn elves whose surface tension often concealed the deep current of affection and mutual respect. On Legolas’ side, there was a need to spread his wings and fly, while on Thranduil’s part, there was an equally urgent need to safeguard this last precious gift from the wife already lost to him.
Somewhere in this labyrinth there had to be a suitable compromise. Aragorn was hoping he’d caught a glimpse of it out of the tail of his eye this morning, when Legolas had ridden out on patrol. He had been invited along, but declined with a jest about wishing to avoid any further encounters with spiders.
Legolas’ prompt and sincerely motivated offer to stay behind and keep him company had been declined as well and not just because Aragorn needed time to think. The prince had only recently been added to the patrol roster. He should have been in command of a patrol of his own already, but seemed to have accepted his current inclusion with good grace.
Aragorn had watched him make careful preparations yestereve; fletching a dozen more arrows in addition to the full quiver standing sentinel by the door, scouting out extra bow strings to add to his pack and double checking that every article in that pack was necessary, before settling to waxing the bow itself.
Not even being relegated to the center of the phalanx as they rode out in triplets across the main bridge this morning had dimmed the elf’s glowing aurora.
Aragorn slid his elbows out from under him and dropped back on the grass. As he’d whiled away the hours of Legolas’ absence, one thing had become clear. Time was of the essence; a strange contradiction of terms in this elven stronghold. Thranduil must be brought to see the rebellion striving to fight its way free of the prince’s purposeful restraint without weighting the delicate balance father and son had achieved.
The question remained – how best to approach this battle so victory was not tainted by the defeat of one or the other. He lay gazing up at the clouds for quite a while longer, contemplating his next move, before rising with a determined set to his jaw. He brushed off his clothing and headed for the path through the woods.
~*~
In his study, Thranduil paced the length of the spacious room, pausing every now and then to stare into the low fire. No matter the season, fires burned as a matter of routine, year round, down here in the innards of the palace. As much for light and cheer as warmth.
He kicked at the crumbling logs, venting a bit of his annoyance. He had examined the problem from every conceivable angle and did not like any of the avenues open to him.
A knock on the door heralded a visitor. Since his staff knew to knock and enter with their disturbances, and there was only one visitor in his realm at the moment, he bade a curt, “Come,” and moved to sprawl in the substantial chair behind the purposely intimidating desk. To appear agitated would be to cede advantage to his adversary.
“I was told that I am at liberty to importune you at will, my lord.” Aragorn waited on the threshold for acknowledgment. He schooled his features to impassivity and waited out the invasive, assessing elven stare as well, calling on all the reserves he had learned under the inscrutable gaze of his own father.
Apparently he passed muster, for the king stood abruptly and motioned to the seating area before the fireplace.
“Sit.”
Steeling himself, Aragorn acknowledged the directive as though it were a gilded invitation rather than a command more suited to a pet, moving to sit where the king indicated.
“What do you want?” As the senior negotiator, and lord of the realm, it was Thranduil’s prerogative to open the game.
“I believe I want the same thing you do, my lord,” Aragorn stated, making his opening move with smooth diplomacy.
“Are you old enough to drink?” Thranduil countered without a blink. He would not give ground easily before the determined onslaught he read in the young mortal’s eyes.
“I am; however, I must decline, despite what I’ve heard about Dorwinion wine. I wish to keep a clear head, for I have also heard you drive a hard bargain, my lord.”
Thranduil took a steadying sip of the well-aged Dorwinion before seating himself opposite Mithrandir’s steadying influence. “Are you here to bargain, then? State your stakes.”
He was committed now and Aragorn did not hesitate. “Legolas’ freedom.”
A golden eyebrow rose fractionally. “You mistake if you think we are after the same thing then. And be done with the my lording, I detest it.”
“As you will, sir.” Aragorn wished he had accepted the wine, if only to have something to do with his hands. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping the useless digits and then unclasping them when he realized he was leaving white marks between his knuckles. “I beg to differ, sir. I believe you have your son’s best interest at heart as much as … ” Here he did hesitate, unsure whose appellation should be appended in that spot. Recalling that he was no longer just Gandalf’s tool, but a friend intervening on behalf of a friend, he stated with conviction, “As I.”
“You have just met him, what arrogance makes you think you know better than I where his best interests lie?” Thranduil countered as if reading Aragorn’s thoughts. Which would not be unusual; his foster father possessed the talent as well.
“I suspect you are aware that I am here at Mithrandir’s behest.”
The young man made it a statement rather than a question and Thranduil responded accordingly – with no hint of what he was aware of. He maintained his silence, waiting for the mortal who styled himself Thorongil of Rohan to continue.
It worked.
Aragorn squirmed, if only inwardly. He was well used to these leading silences, but had never managed to out wait an elf. “Perhaps due to my upbringing, I am not accustomed to befriending individuals quickly, nor do I give my trust on short acquaintance, but there was an immediate kinship between your son and I. He has many qualities I admire and many more that are ready to blossom if you would but loosen the reins a little.” Mortals, he knew from both Gandalf and Legolas, did not rate highly in the king’s estimation. If Thranduil knew who he was, gambling the weight of his heritage would certainly tip the scales one or the other.
Mithrandir had been closed as an oyster guarding a forming pearl when it came to this protégé. Again, Thranduil made no move to confirm or deny, just gestured for Thorongil to continue. In the back of his mind, though, he began piecing together what he did know about this youthful mortal, collating the bits and pieces with the occasional odd rumor that had worked its way to his ear as well.
“I do not often speak in superlatives, either, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the company of your son these past few days. And it is of my own observation that I say to you, you do him a disservice in keeping him a naïve youth.” Aragorn abandoned his carefully worked out plan. Diplomacy was overrated; sometimes you had to go with your gut. “You are a king and may command as you wish, but you are also a citizen of this world and a father.” Since his own naiveté had been vanquished, he had also become a leader of men and learned a thing or two on his own. “You have both a duty and a responsibility to nurture that which is given into your care, not stifle it. And you will stifle it eventually if you keep on this path.”
Aragorn sat back stiffly. “I beg your pardon if I have overstepped my boundaries, sir.”
“Do not offer me pap thinking to turn my wrath at this stage of the game.” Thranduil lifted his wine goblet in salute. “What you say has merit, I will grant you that. I am aware that Legolas is chafing at the bit, but you see this only from the perspective of a foreshortened life. You will live what? Seventy, perhaps eighty years? A hundred if your ancestry boasts some connection to those who buried much of Arda beneath the waters of a cataclysmic flood. Half your span of years is gone already is it not?”
Aragorn acknowledged the hit with a canting of his head, but countered immediately. “And Legolas has whatever Ages are left to this world. Do you derive some pleasure from torturing him with duties and responsibilities you well know he will never have the opportunity to perform in the same capacity as you?”
“Mirkwood is no enchanted valley,” Thranduil snapped back, “danger lurks betwixt and between every bit of vegetation in this wood – as you well know. My son could be king tomorrow should I fall in any of the daily battles we encounter.” He rose to refill his glass, adding far more causally, “And your own impassioned arguments were far superior to spouting Mithrandir’s useless drivel.”
Aragorn blinked. He had been away from his own family for too long; he had forgotten how Erestor could change sides in an argument in the blink of an eye, so they were suddenly on the same side of a heated debate.
“Then you agree that you have a responsibility to allow Legolas the latitude to learn from whatever mistakes he might make if you allow him more control?”
“Whatever you may think of me, I am not an imbecile. However, just because I agree does not mean I am ready to implement this metamorphosis.” Thranduil sighed heavily and downed the second glass of wine in one swallow. “Because I see that you do have my son’s best interests at heart, and you are still far closer to his age than I, say your piece.”
Perhaps he was losing his edge, but there was no amusement in toying with the mortal. Especially as he merely put into words what had weighed heavily on the king’s heart for more than century. He knew what he must do, but the potential cost had made acting upon it too devastating to contemplate.
Aragorn made a concerted effort to maintain a deliberately calm demeanor. “Assign him to a regular patrol, or have him rotate through all your patrols. Have you seen how capable he is with a bow? You will see significant decreases in the spider and warg populations within the first cycle of the moon. And I believe you will find he will step up and be a capable patrol leader on his own in very short order.”
He rose, because even at a distance, the king towered over him. “Give him leave to negotiate whatever business of the realm comes up next; if your Dorwinion costs a bit more, so be it. He has learned from the best, give him the experience to set that knowledge.”
Aragorn abandoned composure, allowing all the passion of his own youth to influence his plea. “Above all, my lord, let him out of Mirkwood. Send him as envoy to Lothlórien and Rivendell, allow him the latitude to know and be known amongst his kindred. There is a whole wide world he knows only from books and maps. He has lived his entire life beneath a dense canopy of trees; has he ever seen Anor or Ithil? Elbereth’s constellation? Eärendil’s?” Sometimes hyperbole made a statement on its own.
“That is absurd. Of course he has seen the sun and moon.” Though not often, Thranduil acknowledged, if only to himself. He recalled Legolas’ fascination with the deserts of Harad and the foreignness of the wide open night vistas. It had not occurred to him that such ordinary, everyday occurrences as sunrise and moonset were mostly missing from his son’s life. He had the memory of those things from his own childhood and had never noticed their lack in his life now. They had learned to adapt over the centuries here in Mirkwood.
It was difficult to see the youngster before him as anything more than a pup, but he had a decent head on his shoulders and a surprisingly authoritative delivery. Mithrandir had chosen his tool well, though Thranduil would never admit it.
“You speak eloquently. I will consider —”
The door opened without a preemptory knock. “Sire, the patrol is returned. The prince has been grievously injured, he is covered in blood.”
It was Eärishel the spy.
The energy in the room soured between one heartbeat and the next. Thranduil growled an oath under his breath and shot across the room as an arrow from full draw, Aragorn on his heels.
~*~
They met the prince striding toward them, covered in gore it was true, but moving freely, apparently unhampered by injury.
“Are you harmed?” Thranduil demanded, grabbing his son by the shoulders to give him a thorough visual once over.
“Nay, but I am filthy.”
Aragorn swallowed a snort of laughter. To an elf, filth was nearly equivalent to loss of life.
“Adar?”
Thranduil had clasped Legolas in a strong embrace, but stepped back to look him over again. “You are certain you are unharmed?”
“Aye!” Legolas, embarrassed both by the attention and the excessive emotion, pulled away. “I am sorry you did not join us, Thorongil, it was a most excellent battle!”
“Mmmm,” Aragorn murmured a noncommittal assent. He was long past the age where he found battle an exciting prospect.
“I will join you shortly, Father. In your study?”
Thranduil agreed, reluctantly releasing the youngster. “Bring your friend, we have much to discuss.”
“Adar, do not let this--” Legolas waved a hand down the front of him, “prejudice your decisions. I was not injured and Faihdor said I acquitted myself well.”
That was high praise from Faihdor, Thranduil knew, though Legolas had no standard against which to measure himself. With a forced smile, the king clapped his son on the shoulder in as congratulatory manner as he could muster. “Then I am sure he will tell me so himself. You are likely famished, I will have cook send up a repast.” He watched as Legolas flashed a smile of gratitude, twisted away and invited the human along with a slight cock of his head. The pair moved off at a rapid pace, Legolas most likely sharing a blow by blow account of the battle just past.
Ahhhhh the exhilaration of the very young finding the wind and flying high. That perfect elven recall conjured, with clarity, the memory of his own first experience with the emotion. Thranduil rarely felt the weight of the Ages that had unfolded in his lifetime, but he did so now as he turned away from the retreating duo and went to find Faihdor.
“It appears you parted company with your horse, Legolas. If you wish to impress your father with your prowess with a bow, it will not do to come back from patrol looking as though you were involved in hand-to-hand combat.”
“I am sure you are correct; however, we were.”
Aragorn snagged the elf’s arm, swinging him around to a stand still. “What happened?” he demanded.
“The orcs grow ever bolder. We met a scouting party at sun high and were engaged before Faihdor could order me to retreat. It happened so fast there was only time to react, no time to worry or think about what to do.” Legolas tugged at his captured arm. “Come, the smell of orc blood is repulsive.”
Aragorn let go and fell in step again. “Is this the first battle in which you’ve engaged?”
“No, I have hunted spiders occasionally, though they are more cunning than brainless orcs, but this is the first real test of my skills. My father will have to allow regular participation in patrols now, Faihdor will insist.”
“Then you must have acquitted yourself very well indeed.”
Legolas only smiled.
The inner bathing chamber in his quarters was already prepared when they reached the suite of rooms. Legolas excused himself quickly, leaving Aragorn to wander the chamber.
And with every step, Aragorn found himself growing more uncomfortable with his deception.
He glanced over his shoulder as the door was nosed open and the wolf peered around. It sniffed, apparently discerned that Legolas was in residence, and trotted over to curl up on the rug in front of the fireplace. It yawned once, hugely, eyed Aragorn lazily, then wrapped its long muzzle in its tail and, from all appearances, went to sleep.
Aragorn decided he could see everything in the room from the spot he was standing. Their previous peregrinations had not brought them here, and he was pleasantly surprised to find the suite of chambers within his purview conveyed an air of comfortable informality, unlike the grandeur of the rest of the palace.
This had been a child’s room once and still held remnants of the boy Legolas had been. In an inglenook beside the fireplace, a well-loved rocking horse guarded childhood memories, alongside a rocking chair that reminded Aragorn of the swan boats he had seen in Lothlórien. A child-sized bow and quiver, complete with miniature arrows, hung above the fireplace.
But the boy had grown and the adult was also revealed in the chamber’s décor.
Legolas had brought his beloved forest indoors with him; live plants and miniature trees were grouped in corners and flanked the fireplace beneath Fëanorian lamps.
Beneath his feet, thick jewel-toned carpets in rich autumn hues covered the stone floor. A tapestry hung behind the sleeping couch, depicting a pair of youngish looking elves entwined in one another’s arms, the male of which Aragorn thought might bear some resemblance to Thranduil. To the left, an entire wall was decorated with bird’s nests; in clefts carved into the wall, perched on outstretched tree limbs that grew from the wall, or cradled in niches carved to appear as shallow holes in the earth, each with its own clutch of eggs.
Entranced, Aragorn forgot the wolf and paid no mind when it lifted its head and growled softly. He lifted out one of the eggs with care, to find they were perfectly carved and painted replicas of the real thing. He wondered if they were Legolas’ work. The artistry required to produce such detailed accuracy, from size and weight to the fragility of their appearance, showed a creative expertise in sharp contrast to the athletic, rough and tumble exterior Legolas had revealed over the last three days.
A collection of feathers glittered with touches of iridescence beneath another set of Fëanorian lamps, while on a shelf below, a pair of ivory-handled knives held pride of place.
Aragorn picked one up, carefully running a finger along the whetted edge of the blade. This was no decorative piece; it was a beautifully balanced throwing knife, that, judging by the wear on the hilt, had seen a lot of action.
“Those belonged to my uncle - my mother’s brother.” Legolas reappeared half dressed and vigorously toweling his hair. “He was among my mother’s attendants.”
“Do you use them?”
“I have begun to learn their secrets. But I am in no way proficient with them yet,” Legolas replied, tossing the towel on top of an unusually beautiful desk, carved in the aspect of a bird in flight. “Given time, I will be,” he said matter-of-factly, as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. “Weapon’s training is the one thing under my father’s regime I have been allowed to pursue without restraint.” He drew a comb quickly through his hair and began to braid nimbly.
“How are you with a sword?” Aragorn wondered aloud, sifting his fingers through a pile of feathers lying atop several unfletched arrow shafts.
The training was apparent; here was a definitive warrior, untested as yet, but clearly well prepared and on the cusp of making his mark.
“Passably efficient, no more. There is no finesse in a sword; it is a hacking weapon I have no appreciation for.”
“I will grant you that, though my sword has come in handy a time or two. Do you know Mithrandir?” He did not ask idly, though Aragorn knew the answer already.
“Of course.” The change of subject brought the prince’s head around inquisitively. “He has been a good friend.” And confidante, though Legolas refrained from saying so. “My father named you protégée to the wizard, are you?”
“I answered truly. I am nothing in the nature of an apprentice, but he has occasionally requested my aid in some of his …” Aragorn cleared his throat, “schemes.”
Legolas signed for the wolf to follow and headed for the door, fighting to keep a straight face. He would certainly agree that the old man was a schemer.
Aragon beat him to it and put a hand on the latch. “I have a confession to make.” It was suddenly imperative that he clear up the misconceptions he had purposely allowed to stand.
A twinkle appeared in the elf’s green eyes. “There is not the need, mellon nîn. No one wanders into Mirkwood without purpose and if you were not bidden here by my father, then only one other would dare to send such an emissary.”
Aragorn tilted his head. “You are not angry?”
“Should I be?”
“I will be honest, friend. I would be.” An intellectual understanding of why his identity had been withheld from him for eighteen years of his life had never quite overcome the deep resentment.
Even knowing he had been impeccably trained for the heritage that awaited only his willingness to take it up, did not make up for the fact that for ten years he had single-mindedly pursued one dream. And heard it go up in smoke with the words, ‘You are the son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain; heir of Isildur and Elendil. It is your destiny to mount the empty throne of Gondor and take up the sword reforged in the fight against the Enemy.’
In his – admittedly limited at that point – experience, men with a destiny laid upon them rarely lived long enough to reap the rewards of all their hard work. An early death had not featured in any of his youthful dreams
Thranduil’s reasons for keeping his son on such a tight rein were his own, but Aragorn suspected Gandalf had ulterior motives in sending him to champion the young elf’s cause. They were both to be tools in the arsenal the wizard was patiently and stealthily assembling, with an eye toward that day when the One Ring surfaced again, and called forth its master to begin his own search, rendering him the most vulnerable he was ever likely to be.
Aragorn could not say he had embraced his destiny, but he had learned to accept it. From what he had witnessed here, the Mirkwood Prince would likely be much more willing to be used than he had ever been.
“My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the remnant left of those who sailed before Númenor drowned.”
Legolas eyed him interestedly. Aragorn saw that quick mind running through the genealogies of his house.
“Which is to say, I may refer to you as Your Highness as well.”
He recoiled slightly. “No!”
“How do you style yourself then?”
“I do not. It is a closely guarded secret that I bear the title Chieftain of the Dúnedain. For the moment I am Thorongil, late of His Majesty, King Thengel’s, guard.”
“Does my father know this?”
“I do not know. I had assumed Mithrandir would have told him, but perhaps he has not. And if that is the case, I probably told him this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
Aragorn removed his hand from the door latch and lifted it to scratch at his head. “There is more I need to tell you.”
“Perhaps we should sit down?”
“I will keep it short. Mithrandir sent me to see if I could … end the torture.”
Legolas threw back his head and laughed heartily. “We have spoken of this often, he and I,” he said, offering his own confession of sorts. “He has long been aware of my father’s resistance and the rebellion I have kept buried in my heart. It became something of a game between my father and me, but I tired of it long ago. I have stayed the course this long without throwing over the traces only because Mithrandir has appeared many times at just the right hour or moment to calm the storms between us. Nay, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, I am not angry. In this I am extremely grateful for Mithrandir’s scheming. Come! Let us harvest the seeds you have sown.”
Aragorn put his hand out once more. “Legolas—”
“There is more?” the elf inquired in inimitable style.
“No. I just … I regret that our first meeting has been tainted with this deceit. I hope you will not hold it against me.”
“Let us make a bargain. If you accomplish what you came to do, we will disregard all that has gone before. If you do not, I will never let you live it down.”
Aragorn considered for a moment and smiled his acceptance. “It is a fair bargain. Let us hope we both succeed.”
Legolas opened the door, motioning his new friend through ahead of him and they made their winding way through the palace corridors to the king’s study, the wolf padding alongside.
~*~
“Adar! I have brought a guest!” The proclamation rang with gladness as the pair dismounted in the courtyard amid a flurry of activity. Elves were boiling out of every exit from the great house, surrounding them in a noisy, colorful throng, with shouted greetings on every side accompanied by much back pounding.
Legolas backed against his horse, bewildered by the uninhibited display of affection. It reminded him of the mêlée’s back home and did not at all match up with his impression of the much vaunted Noldor dignity.
Aragorn ducked under his horse’s neck to grab Legolas and draw him forward. “The first ambassador from Mirkwood in an Age!”
Every eye turned toward the blond elf and a momentary hush fell over the crowd.
Legolas sidled back again, and stumbled over his own feet when he bumped into someone who had come up behind him. Face scarlet, he whirled to find himself impaled by a sharp gaze from a pair of deep-set, mithril colored eyes. And then the eyes resolved into a face featuring a prominent brow, mobile mouth and lines bracketing a smile stretching lips wide in genuine welcome.
“Sweet Elbereth! Can it be? Legolas! This is … entirely unexpected!” The Mirkwood prince found himself engulfed in a rib-cracking embrace. “Does your father know you are here?” A frown briefly marred the ageless features as Lord Elrond drew back, setting both hands on the prince’s shoulders.
Being a close acquaintance of the wizard’s, he knew something of the situation in Mirkwood.
Legolas, his heart immeasurably gladdened by the irrefutable warmth of his welcome, grinned. “Aye, my lord, though likely the reality will have sunk in by the time I return home and I will be relegated once more to the safety of the tedious chores of sovereignty.”
“Then we must make your time here memorable. Mae govannen, Legolas of Mirkwood, welcome to Imladris!”
“Le hannon,” Legolas bowed and touched his fisted hand to his heart. “It is good to be here, my lord.”
“Aragorn!” Elrond turned to his son and drew him into an equally warm embrace while a confusing number of similar looking, dark-haired elves moved to greet Legolas. “You must have acquired a mithril tongue since last you were home. How did you accomplish this?”
“It was Gandalf and Legolas’ doing, Adar, not mine. Perhaps my appearance advanced the schedule, but Thranduil had already made up his mind that the time had come to allow Legolas to broaden his horizons. It became a matter of settling the details.”
“Regardless, you have accomplished something none other among us has been able to in an Age! A visitor from Mirkwood, and the prince no less! You have done well, my son.”
“I thank you, but I am not being modest, Father. In truth, I believe it was Legolas’ maturity in restraining the burning desire to rebel that most effected the change in his father. I am sure you will comprehend how difficult it has been for him to loosen these reins.”
Elrond affectionately ruffled the dark head and gave his son another one-armed hug as he gathered up Legolas as well and swept the pair onto the porch of the Last Homely House.
“Aye, I will be most diplomatic when I write to tell him of our joy in welcoming you, Legolas.”
He turned with his arms around the duet and faced the still milling throng in the court yard. “Prepare the Hall of Fire; this night we celebrate!”
~**~