Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Arcane Land	By : alpham31 Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2529 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is not mine, and neither are its characters. I make no money with my writing. This story was written for the simple pleasure of it.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
Chapter nineteen: A Greenwood Lament

It was late, and a growing number of dark figures sat in the shadows outside the doors that led to the morgue - family and friends of Beria who had begun to arrive from their village after receiving the shocking news of his death from the lips of his childhood friend, now named Rhrawthir.

Their spirit singer was one of those who knelt upon the grassy lawn beneath the yews, for she was Beria’s aunt. She hummed a sad tune as her mind wandered to the time when the boy had learned archery and then swordsmanship with a wooden blade, rose through the ranks of cadets until he had taken his vows and become a field warrior. And then that day, not so long ago that he had announced he had been chosen to ride with The Company – how proud he was, they all were – and yet here she knelt, beside a broken mother and a shocked father, for he had died on his first mission into the South.

The tune began to flow through her as her eyes filled with tears – projecting the powerful emotions through her voice, a voice that now lifted that same song into the air, its sorrowful notes seeping into the hearts of all that could hear it – a voice that would not be silenced until the first rays of sun peaked over the horizon, marking the day her young nephew would be given to the cleansing fire.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Nascent light filtered through the partially open window, and Thranduil stirred, unfolding his legs out before him as he stretched his arms up and over his head, his muscles protesting the move. He would never do that in public, of course, now however, he was alone, save for his son who had not stirred.

Aradan entered then, and Thranduil suspected he had waited outside all night. His friend moved behind him, and placed his large, manicured hands upon his shoulders and began to knead, smiling as his friend groaned in delighted relief.

Lainion popped his head around the open doorway then, having stood guard the entire night, in spite of Thranduil’s protests that he was safe. Lainion had argued that the halls of healing were open to any and all, unlike inside the fortress, where each door was watched and guarded. There had been no persuading him, and the king had been unable to refute his arguments, and so he had yielded.

“My Lord, would you like breakfast here?”

“Yes, Lainion, thank you.”

“Of course, my Lord,” he smiled, as he signaled to a passing helper.

As Thranduil turned back to his son, he realized that his eyes had slipped opened, his green irises staring up at the ceiling.

“Legolas!” he exclaimed as he made for the bedside, Aradan close behind him.

“Um.. yes, I think so,” he whispered, and the king smiled, for his son was lucid, and that was good, very good.

Antien glided into the room then, as he had done every two hours since they had brought the commander in. Placing one hand over his brow, he peered into the open eyes and smiled.

“The fever is almost gone, how is the pain?”

“Bearable,” he whispered again, and Antien frowned, until understanding dawned on him. His throat, he had suffered such pain yesterday that it had left him hoarse.

“I will be back in a moment,” he said, nodding at the king before leaving in search of the ingredients he would need.

“Son,” he murmured as he sat on a chair beside him, “you are better,” he said, smiling down at him.

“Yes, much better,” he whispered, his eyes moving to Antien and an apprentice who carried a tray with various cups and jars which he placed on a table on one side of the room.

“Can you raise his head a bit, my Lord,” asked Antien as he approached with a steaming cup.

Thranduil stood and lifted his son’s head enough to drink from the cup. The smell of lemon and honey wafted upwards, puzzling the king as he looked at Antien.

“Honey and lemon?” he asked, puzzled at Antien’s treatment.

“For his throat, it is a little … sore,” he said, without elucidating the cause of it, for it would upset his Lord.

However, Thranduil was nothing if not intuitive, and the implications brought tears to his eyes, and so he turned and walked to the window. Aradan took over from his king, but not before sharing a meaningful glance with the healer.

The sovereign’s foggy eyes focused on the scene behind the glass. The morning was fresh and crisp - autumn was coming and the leaves would soon be turning brown, they would soon fall to the ground, only to be trodden underfoot, ‘just like my heart’, he thought, ‘just like my heart’.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

He had spent a wonderful evening with his lover. He had been pampered and fed, and then loved throughout the night until blissful sleep had taken him. However, his dreams had not been comforting at all, his underlying anxiety showing in the form of restlessness and unpleasant dreams.

Turning, he watched Galdithion awake slowly, the orange beams of light bathing his placid face. He watched as the lovely eyes slowly opened, revealing the blue irises within, eyes he would only ever see closed in bliss, never in sorrow, never in death.

He smiled then as he watched Galdithion’s face register his presence, and then light up as joy reflected back at him, and so he kissed him tenderly as he placed his healing hands on the side of Galdithion’s head, turning him towards him as he stroked his cheek with his thumb.

“Good morning, sweet Sylvan.”

“Good morning, indeed,” he murmured, before suddenly sobering and sitting up.

“Legolas…, I must leave, Elladan.”

“Then we will leave together, for I too would go there.”

“Then come, let us break our fast and be gone, for I am anxious to see his progress, and then there is the funeral this evening, he will need me.”

“I do not think he will be up to it, Gal.”

“Oh, he will, Elladan, he will.”

…………………………………………………………………………………….

“One, two, three!” said Antien, as he hoisted Legolas up into a sitting position with the help of Lainion.”

“There, much better,” said Antien, stepping back and watching his patient as he struggled to hide the pain and dizziness that hit him.

He relaxed his body back into the pillows that had been fluffed up behind him, and slowly but surely, the room righted itself and the pain subsided.

“Alright?” asked the healer.

“Alright,” he croaked.

Antien had strapped Legolas’ arm into a leather holster which held it close to his chest, the brown contrasting starkly with the crisp white of the bandages that bound his chest. Other than that, only the bruises remained, one over his eyebrow, another at the juncture of his lips. His hair, however, was a mess, some of the twisted upper locks had even come apart, and Lainion rather thought it gave him the appearance of a wild bush elf.

“Brother mine, your hair does you little credit – for Yavanna’s creation is undone,” he said, fussing with a spoilt lock.

However, before he could continue, Galdithion and Elladan arrived, smiling at their now sitting-up friend. However, he did look dreadful, thought Galdithion, for all that that was possible with this one, for even in his disheveled state, he was still beautiful.

“Ah, Captain, Lieutenant. I was just leaving. The funeral is at dusk; will you stay with him?”

“Of course, Lainion; go, and rest,” encouraged Galdithion, for he knew the guard had not slept all night.

Smiling only slightly, as was his wont, Lainion dipped his head and left, bound for the fortress and a few hours rest, just as his king and friend had done moments before.

“Can we do something with this? asked Legolas in a rough voice as he pointed to his head in irritation.

“And a good morning to you, Legolas,” smiled Galdithion as he moved to sit in one of the chairs beside the bed, crossing his legs. “You look terrible.”

“Oh thank you so much, loyal guard,” he retorted, garnering a snicker from Elladan, who had accommodated himself on the window sill.

Legolas sighed as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto the soft pillows, calming himself, for the pain had made him short-tempered.

“Legolas, the cup of tea on your right is for the purpose of avoiding the pain, my friend, it will not put you to sleep, I promise,” said Elladan.

“How do you know?” he said suspiciously, his eyes but slits.

“I can smell the contents, it will help, go on,” he urged, watching as his friend reached for the cup and drank it down and then cringed, accepting the glass of water that Elladan already held out before him.

As Legolas drank, Minu floated into the room, her face awash in worry and concern as her eyes penetrated his.

“My Lord, my sweet Lord,” she whispered as she bent down and kissed his brow. Elladan and Galdithion shared a saucy smile with each other, knowing full well her appetite for their friend’s attributes.

“Would you like us to leave, Legolas?” drawled Elladan playfully.

“Don’t be an ass, Elrondion. Stay and entertain me!”

And so they did, for the effort to lighten the mood had partially done its job - they would mourn later, but for now, Galdithion and Elladan would be witness to the undoing of Yavanna’s golden locks…

It was soon lunchtime, and four elves filed into Legolas’ room, one tray for each elf that occupied it. Yet one of them contained only broth and bread, the one that was now placed before a scowling elf lord, for he could smell the other trays – baked turnip with butter, and rainbow trout, grilled with aromatic herbs, his mouth watered, but alas, that was not for him, not today, he knew. It was always the same with the first meal in the healing halls. If you didn’t vomit the broth, your next meal would be heartier.

And so he ate slowly, his now loose, clean hair cascading down his shoulders and back, thick yet silky, but the locks that Yavanna had weaved into it were now gone, for Minu had removed them, washed it, and then brushed it until it shone. It looked beautiful, mused Elladan, yet he would have to do something with it, tame it, for it was not practical at all, not only for battle, but simply for everyday living – and yet – how Glorfindel would delight in it!

“How is the trout?” he asked sarcastically, as he slurped his broth purposefully.

“Huum,” began Galdithion, “I know not you, my Lord,” he began, gesturing to Elladan, “but mine is white and flakey, just a little crispy on the top where the butter has melted over the herbs, it melts upon my tongue and slides down my throat in a cascade of salty, rocky and oh so tender meat – why it is wonderful – you should try it, my King,” he said, smiling as he scooped a particularly large portion into his mouth, pinning his gaze upon his unbelieving friend as he chewed slowly, purposefully, with effect.

And so Legolas did the only thing left to him and his dignity – he returned the playful stare as he sucked noisily on his broth, wiggling his eyebrows up and down as he closed his eyes in false bliss.

By the time the two, life-long friends had finished their strange, culinary battle, Elladan was chuckling wildly – it was the first time he had observed them both outside the fulfillment of their respective duties, and it had been an absolute pleasure – for they obviously loved one another deeply, and for all that Galdithion joked with his friend, the underlying worry was plain for one so empathic as the son of Elrond…

………………………………………………………………………

Antien had returned shortly after with Legolas’ dose of herbs that would take him through to the evening. However, healer knew his Lord well, and had doused his cup with a particularly strong potion – it would not make him sleep, but it would dull the senses a little, for what was to come.

It was then, that The Company in its entirety arrived. One by one they filed into the room, finding a place to sit themselves around the bed, all of them attired in their ceremonial uniforms, somewhat different from that of the field warriors, for today they wore no breeches, only their famous skirts and boots, half of their muscled chests bare, their arms adorned from wrist to shoulder, yet their weapons were still in their hands. The deposited them in one corner as they entered – they would arm themselves later, when the time came to say farewell to their comrade.

It was Dima who approached the bed, smiling as he nodded his head. “Will you be joining us, my Lord?” he asked rhetorically, for he knew very little could stop his commander from attending a funeral, for any warrior, let alone one of The Company.

“Of course Dima, if you would retrieve my things?”

“I have brought them with me, Hwindo, we thought to escort you, when the time comes.”

“I would be honored, Dimaethor. Rhrawthir, come. Sit and tell us of Beria?” he said softly.

“I know not if I can, my Lord, for his passing is so near,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, for the lump in the back of his throat was severely impeding his speech.

“Precisely for that reason, Rhrawthir, for you have not had time to react, have not found the moment to mourn, for no sooner he died, then we were riding back in haste, only to be sent off to retrieve his family. Here, amongst your brothers, you are free, no expectations bind you to decorum, courage and composure – for here, we have all lost ourselves together, and yet we all know our worth and courage.

Elladan was still perched on the window sill, move by Legolas’ words to Beria and the kindness that lay behind them, by how much he cared for those he commanded.

“And so, Rhrawthir, tell us? Tell us who True Heart Beria was?”

And so it was that the young warrior began the telling of his life together with Beriadan, the son of an Avari Evergreen Wood conservationist and a farmer’s daughter. He told of their times in the schoolhouse, of the childhood dreams they had shared of becoming great warriors, like Gil-Galad, Glorfindel, and then later in life, like Legolas Thranduilion. He had paused here, for the lump in his throat had grown, impeding him from continuing for the moment.

Galdithion had spared a glance at Legolas, whose eyes were bright as he listened.

He told of their first tentative steps in love, their warrior training, their first maneuvers, their first battle, until finally, they had both been chosen to ride with The Company, the culmination of their joint childhood dreams.

“He was so very proud, Hwindo,” he whispered then, for his voice was finally failing him, “yet so thankful, we had both vowed ourselves to the service of our people, to do the best job we could, to make a place for ourselves here, with you…” the first tear had fallen, and the rest would not be stopped and his bottom lip quivered, his face finally twisting into a grimace of pain, and yet he struggled to finish the words that continued to flow.

“And yet, our very first mission and he is lost, in one moment, one short moment – and all those experiences,” he wavered again, but pushed on, “all those moments of joy and sadness, love and pride, hope - are gone – as if they had never existed at all,” and with that, Rhrawthir’s heart broke as he fell to his knees and bowed his head, his tears falling to the wooden floor as silent sobs wracked his frame.

They were around him now, kneeling themselves as they placed their hands on his bowed head, and the tears flowed freely. Elladan had also approached, and now formed a part of the circle of grieving warriors.

Hwindo appeared then, and Dima moved sideways to leave him space, lending his arm to his brother to steady him as he, too, sunk clumsily to the floor before Rhrawthir. The young warrior raised his head to look into the face of this, his Lord, his king, the one he revered above all others, and was shocked to see tears running down his stunningly beautiful face.

“All those moments, all those experiences are not lost, Rhrawthir – they happened, form a part of our history. You will remember,” he said, placing his good hand over Rhrawthir’s heart before placing it on his own. “I will remember, as will our people, those he died for – you will see, and if you can,” he said carefully, pointing to his temple with a finger, “take him with you when next you ride out,” he finished, offering a watery smile to a now nodding warrior, a nascent smile upon his lips.

Antien and Balentar chose that moment to enter the room, only to stop short at the sight before them. Antien glanced at his colleague, signaling towards the open door that they should leave, there would be time enough later on for healing the body – for now, they would leave them to heal their hearts in the comforting embrace of brotherhood.

……………………………………………………………………

Dusk would soon be upon them, and The Company sat silently outside the healing halls, waiting for Hwindo and Galdithion to join them. Those that passed them did not bow, as they normally would have, they simply lowered their head in a sign of shared sympathy, for this night was for mourning and remembering the fallen.

Inside, Galdithion fastened the skirt around his friend’s waist. The top would be a challenge, however. His bound shoulder would need to be on the uncovered side, and so where normally half his chest and one arm would be bare, while the other was clothed, today, it would be partially covered by bandages and the leather holster that held his shoulder in place.

Galdithion worked silently and carefully, for the slightest jostle of his friend’s body brought a grimace to his face, and although he did not complain, Galdithion knew him well enough to know it hurt him.

The second challenge was his hair, so thick and long now that Yavanna’s locks had come out. Legolas wanted to use Glorfindel’s pin, and so his friend gathered as much hair as he dared and pulled it back to his crown, securing first the golden flower, and then the two sturdy sticks that would hold the hair in place, in the form of a cross. The effect was surprising, for although it kept some of his mane off his face, the hair still gave the impression of being loose, although the final addition of a golden headpiece that covered his forehead would keeps the sides from falling into his face.

“There, I am done, Legolas. Are you sure you are fit enough for this?”

“I have to be, Galdithion. If I falter, steady me?” he asked softly.

“Always,” replied his guard, and he meant it.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………….

As The Company arrived, a single flute struck a sad tune that marked the commencement of the evening’s rites, an event that Elladan, Melven and Balentar would witness for the first time, yet not the last, and never, ever forget.

As one, Greenwood’s most hailed detachment walked slowly towards the area where the funeral rites would take place, and both Elladan and Melven were forced to keep their legs moving, so stunned they were when the imposing Greenwood army loomed before them, standing to attention in their full battle gear. There were rows upon rows of rigid warriors in golden-green armour, their helmets lending them the fiercest of miens that set the heart to trembling. They stood with their feet firmly anchored to the ground, slightly apart, their arms to their sides, heads high, eyes fixed on nothing at all as the last rays of sun began to sink below the horizon, catching on their armour and sending blue and orange glints in all directions.

Warfare in the Greenwood did not merit the armour they wore, and the son of Elrond knew this was their ceremonial attire, only to be worn on occasions such as this, or in the event of a large battle on an open field, and duly impressed he was as his mind pondered on the absolute discipline this realm required of its warriors, who in return, gave their all, including their very lives. ‘So much effort’, thought Elladan, ‘so much preparation for one, lost warrior…’

The central area was dominated by a bed of wood and hay, upon which lay the body of Beria. He had been prepared lovingly by his family, dressed in his own ceremonial uniform of The Company; his sword lay between his cold hands and his face was tilted towards the stars, serene and passive, as if he slept peacefully, the same soft smile that had graced his face since the moment of his death, and just before.

Beria’s family stood a distance away, and behind them, those that had been his friends. Off to the other side stood the King, guarded by Lainion, Aradan, and the entire ruling council. All had dressed formally, and, much to the curiosity of Elladan and Melven, each elf clutched a simple sprig of spruce from the Evergreen Wood.

Thranduil watched as The Company walked solemnly to their place, surrounding his son and Galdithion, who stood closer than he normally would to his charge. A surge of pride hit him violently and he sucked in a heaving breath to steady himself, bringing Lainion’s eyes on him, which lingered for a while before turning back to the events taking place before him.

The group of friends moved forward then, organizing themselves into a line, as the first stepped up to the platform where Beria lay, touching his cheek and pronouncing words no one could hear, before placing the spruce beside the body.

Next, the spirit singer stepped forward, bidding her nephew farewell before stepping aside and beginning to hum the tune that came to the fore, flowing with the sensations she was feeling – watching and singing, as was the Avarin way.

Sometime later, the friends had said their goodbyes, yet the spirit singer remained, waiting for the warriors to step forward.

Idhrenohtar lay his hand on Beria’s shoulder, offering him one sad smile before placing his spruce and making room for the next – Koron en’ Naur, who covered a cold hand with his own, ‘sleep well’, he murmured, before joining Idhrenohtar. Pengon stood quietly for a moment, before kneeling and kissing the hand that grasped the sword. Ram en’ Ondo bent to stroke the chestnut hair, placing his spruce beside it, followed by Lindohtar, who knelt to whisper something into an unhearing ear, withdrawing with a watery smile. Glammohtar stood, hand over his heart before sweeping it out to the side, the formal Noldorin salute, as his Lord, Rafnohtar, sighed heavily before bending and stroking his cheek. Nanern stood over him then, for once rendered speechless, for the words would not come to him, and so he nodded and smiled sadly, before moving away.

Hwindohtar was next, followed closely by Galdithion. He knelt with difficulty, helped by his guard, and then bent forward to kiss the cool forehead. “Your heart was not made for warfare, but for love and joy, and so I bid you – find it, wherever you are, sweet warrior, True Heart Beria.”

Standing once more, wincing as his ribs protested vehemently, he moved to stand with the rest, leaving room for the last of them to say his goodbyes. Yet Rhrawthir approached tentatively, as if confused almost.

The spirit singer picked up her song then, as she watched the young warrior, her tune turning to a lament of deep tones that swirled and undulated on the cloud of grief that hung over all of them. Strangely, it gave him the strength to move forward until he was finally before his friend, his life-long companion, his brother almost. Yet what to say? How do you release yourself from someone who has always been at your side? How to accept that you will never feel their presence again, that you have lost them? You cannot, you can only begin to, and then, only time will make it bearable – only time.

Kneeling now, he buried his head in his friend’s hair and cried once more, the wailing song of the spirit singer wringing the last of his tears from him. Standing once more, he stared down at the body before turning abruptly, and walking away to join The Company, drawn as a magnet to their understanding, to the quiet strength of brotherhood.

It was then, that Elladan’s skin tingled painfully, for the Spirit Singer had been joined by other elves, and together they began a keening, wailing chorus of laments, shouts and screams that were simply frightening, yet just when he had managed to control the emotions the disturbing symphony had provoked, albeit precariously, Hwindohtar’s voice of command projected around the entire glade as he yelled the order to form and salute, yet this time, the salute would be with swords, albeit Legolas would not participate physically. Each of them had fixed their eyes on their fallen brother’s face, as Legolas shouted out the leading words and his warriors’ thundering voices screamed out the rest with everything they were, releasing the pent up sorrow they all felt. They swirled their weapons, stabbing and lunging to the back, to the front in perfect synchrony, until they finally brought up their swords to their noses, thundering out their final battle cry, which echoed powerfully around the glade, just above the sounds of the unbearably sorrowful wailing of the Avari.

The entire Greenwood was pulsing in contained defiance yet the mourning was blatant. One of their own had died, killed by the shadow, and now - now they sang out their defiance, they would not be beaten down, trodden underfoot, pushed back until there was nowhere left to turn.

Their eyes stung and their nostrils flared, their hearts raced, their minds repeated the words over and over, they would not be beaten down…

When it was over, only the wailers could be heard as their own song picked up, and Beria’s family moved forward, his mother awash in an ocean of tears that would not be tempered, his father with her, his face that of one lost, shocked still that his boy no longer walked the woods, uncomprehending of the finality of it.

Elladan thought then, that he had never cried so hard, and so openly. It was impossible to feel embarrassed, for every single elf cried, even the mighty Thranduil. Strange, for the tears were for one he hardly knew, yet perhaps that was not the point, perhaps his tears were not only for Beria – and then he understood, he finally captured what they were doing. They were mourning loss, not just one loss, but the loss of their home, the loss of light and the loss of innocence.

After the goodbyes had ended, Beria’s father turned and caught Legolas’ eye. He nodded solemnly, and Hwindo understood; his father wanted him to light the pyre. He closed his eyes before opening them once more in determination, walking slowly forward together with Galdithion. As he passed the father, he placed one hand on his shoulder and spoke softly to him.

“We named him True Heart Beria, that all should know his quality. He was a good warrior, yet a better elf, one we are all so very proud of, one that will grace our walls and our hearts, remembered always…” he trailed off, as he resumed his walk towards Beria, the flaming torch now in his hand as he heard the first desperate sobs of the father that had broken from his stupor, into a world of pain. Grasping his mate and pulling her close, they both watched as the pyre ignited, and the sweet, fragrant smell of spruce suffused the hearts and minds of the brave elves of Greenwood the Great.

………………………………………………………………………………………

The laments continued through the night, and Hwindo now sat with The Company in the royal family’s private gardens. They sprawled on the floor, against trees, or propped themselves up with their arms. Hwindo sat back to back with Ram en’, for thus he was more comfortable, his shoulder resting against his friend’s strong back, his legs bent at the knees before him, a goblet of wine in his usable hand.

They had been there for some time, exhausted yet finally relaxing with the help of Hwindo’s stash of vintage wine.

No one had spoken for some time, each lost to his own sad musings, until finally, Idhreno broke it.

“And what now? Do we take out the other three recruits? For we are sadly reduced in number.”

“Yes,” replied Hwindo softly. “You have but two days of rest before you must ride back, those orcs need to be reduced, and Barabor and Gondien are due for leave. You will take one of the recruits with you, yet you must continue their training in the field, for they failed on duress…Dima, I leave you at the fore, Ram en’ will be your lieutenant.”

They sat quietly again, the only sound was the wine as it was poured into a goblet.

“What is our mission, Hwindo?”

“Exterminiation. Kill as many as you can and come back safely to me.”

“It has been long since we rode without you, Hwindo,” said Koron en’ as he sipped at his wine.

“And let us hope it will be long indeed before it happens again,” said Idhreno as he raised his goblet. “May you rest and heal, Hwindo, and we will kill them for you, and Beria.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

That night, Legolas walked slowly back to his suite of rooms on the penultimate floor of the fortress, Galdithion close behind him, for his Lord was all but dragging his feet as tiredness and pain finally caught up with him. By the time they reached the doors, he was panting hard, resting his good arm against the wooden frame as he caught his breath.

His head pounded in time with his shoulder and his chest felt heavy and sore. He needed to lie down. Galdithion was just about to tell him that, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Startling, he turned and came face to face with the king, his eyes sad yet kind. How he had managed to startle him he knew not, and yet he had.

“Take your rest, Captain, and return with the morning light.”

“My King,” he bowed, before turning to Legolas, until tomorrow, my Lord. Rest well.”

“I will, and Gal – thank you.”

“You are most welcome, my Lord,” he said formally, bowing, and leaving for his own rooms at the Home Guard barracks below, although perhaps he would make a short detour first...

…………………………………………………………………………………..

“Come,” said the king as he took his son by the arm and steered him inside, leading him over to the side of the bed and watching as he sat gingerly.

Thranduil walked over to the sideboard and poured them both a goblet of wine. Handing one to his son, he studied his face carefully.

“Better?” he asked.

Legolas simply smiled as he nodded, taking a sip from the goblet before placing it on the side table and standing once more, walking slowly to the bathroom.

“Can you manage?” called his father.

“Aye,” was all the answer he received, and so he strolled to the balcony doors and observed the beautiful, moonlit landscape beyond, as he waited patiently.

There was a chill in the air this night, he thought, and in spite of the roaring fire in one corner, the cold ran its way up his spine. Yet perhaps it was not the weather, he mused. They had just committed a warrior to the cleansing flame, something relatively commonplace in the Greenwood, but this had been a member of The Company, and although that did not make the loss greater, the psychological impact was, it was a blow to their morale, one they would need to recuperate from.

Legolas walked over to his father then, moving to stand beside him. He had dressed in loose, low-fitting pants and an open shirt which he would remove before sleep took him.

“Will you help me with this?” he asked his father, gesturing to the clasps in his hair.

“Come,” said the king, as he moved to the bed.

As Legolas sat, Thranduil removed the adornment, and as the thick mass of golden hair cascaded down and around his shoulders, he stopped to study the piece, for he had never seen it before. Turning it around in his fingers, he examined it carefully.

“This is top quality workmanship, the carving exquisite. ‘Tis from your Gondoldrim lover?” he asked rhetorically.

“Yes, he gifted it to me after Yavanna weaved my locks. I had no idea what to do with it and so he engineered this. And now I have the same problem. ‘Tis so long and thick I must devise some way of taming it.”

“Perhaps you should spend tomorrow at Finlond. You need a good massage, you need to relax, my son. You will be off duty for at least a month; use it well, look after yourself, catch up with your correspondence, do all those things you never have time for, for if I know you at all, you will be back in the saddle before you are given leave. Heed me, my son, do this for me.”

Legolas watched his father closely as he spoke. His tone had started light-hearted, as if to distract his son as he released the clasp and then began to brush through the long strands. However, the final words had been heart-felt, desperate almost. He was worried, and Legolas felt he needed to make a concession, for however much he tried now, he would not be able to reassure him as he normally would.

“Alright, father, I will allow myself this luxury for a short time, if it will please you.”

“It will please me, Legolas, it will please me well,” he said, smiling as he continued to pull the brush through his son’s hair.

A knock on the door revealed Antien, a junior healer behind him carrying a tray.

“With your permission, sire?” asked the healer as he bowed to the king.

“Of course,” he conceded, moving to sit by the fire as the healers worked.

Antien was trying to look nonchalant, but he could not take his eyes from his lord’s hair. He had never seen the likes. It was beautiful to behold, loose as it was now, its tips reaching down to the sheets. The other healer was having the same problem, but soon shook out of it as he nearly spilt the herbal mixture they had prepared for pain and to prevent further infection.

Smiling apologetically, the young apprentice handed the cup to the Legolas, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes dreamy as Legolas’ own green jewels focused on him. The smile of thanks the healer received sent a jolt of pleasure to his groin, forcing him to close his eyes for a moment, before hastily stepping back, and out of the way of Antien, who wished to inspect the still open wound on his shoulder.

Legolas smiled as his gaze lingered on the lovely healer. He would remember his face, and perhaps even indulge in a little pleasure with him, for he was most fair, and his reaction to his person had been evident, however much he had tried to hide it. Suddenly, his father’s request for him to rest and relax did not seem so unappetizing, and so he swept his hair to one side and allowed the master healer to inspect his shoulder, a master healer whose eyes were shining with mirth, and just a little mischief…
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Arcane Land