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The Protege	By : alpham31 Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 3382 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of its characters. I make no money by writing this story

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As they cantered through the countryside, Elladan turned to Glorfindel, trying to gauge the extent of his worry. Glorfindel wore a mercurial look that gave nothing away, and so Elladan was forced to pose the question.

“How long before we intercept the group?”

Elrohir was now leaning forward to better hear the general’s answer.

“According to Cormion’s report, I would venture around eight hours, although this depends on whether the Mirkwood is their prime objective, and indeed how fast both parties are moving, their direction, you know the story”.

Meanwhile, within the ranks of the Imladris warriors, there was no little concern for the lives of their brethren. It was one thing to lose warriors to worthy battle, but bards, dancers, musicians, diplomats, they were innocent civilians – the loss of any life was a tragedy to the elves, but artists on their way to entertain others, there was something disturbing about the notion. And then of course, there was the enigmatic forest lord – the whole of Imladris was in an uproar at his impending arrival, all wanted to see him, dance with him, converse with him, and in some cases, win a few bets…motivation was high as they streaked through the forest with grim determination.

After six hours of arduous riding, Glorfindel put up his arm in a signal to stop his warriors. Swirling his mount around to face them, he called out to two of their numbers to scout ahead and discern the whereabouts of their dark quarry. Darithion and Eldithin were sent on the mission, with strict orders not to intercept.

As they galloped away, Glorfindel called to dismount for a brief rest and arms check. Battle was near.

The warriors dismounted and gathered close around their trusted Lord to take final council before the hostilities began.

“Remember, only twenty-five in their group are warriors, and although the other members may be able to defend themselves, the most likely strategy for their leader to employ would be to usher them towards the back and surround them with able warriors, whilst the front line attacks. If we meet them in this formation, the best tactic is for the archers to take to the trees behind the orcs but not directly, but slightly off to the sides, avoiding friendly fire – remember they will have a number of archers in the trees already. This will also allow our front line to charge in V formation and cut them down from the back. Once arrows have been used, or are no longer beneficial, archers will drop from the trees and help to defend the civilians to the back, is that understood?”

A thundering “aye” was shouted into the light breeze.

Two blonde scouts galloped through the wooded area, hell bent on reaching their lord with the news they carried. They had to be swift, 50 lives depended on them and they would not fail their Lord. Of course, being from Mirkwood they were no strangers to battling the dark forces, but they had certainly not expected to find trouble this close to the supposedly protected borders of Imladris. There, the Lore Master had an Elven ring, as Galadriel did, and used it to safeguard their frontier, unlike their lord King, who defended their forest through sheer force of will, their passion for their woodland forest and its restoration to its former glory as their driving force. Henian turned to his life-long friend and told him as much.

“I had not expected this, my friend”, he said, as his hair whipped behind him in his mad dash.

“Neither had I”, replied Galthidion, “it is just as well that our Lord had the sense to send out the scouts, he was obviously not as trusting as we have been on our approach to the valley. Everybody else was too busy dilly-dallying about beautiful Noldorin bodies and…”

“Alright, alright, stop right there, no need for the details, I have heard them all a thousand times on this woe-begotten journey.”

“Aye, our friend has an unfair advantage Henian, I am sure the trees have just blatantly informed him of where, how many and when we will encounter them.”

“If not where they are from, what they have supped and the clothes they wear”, postulated Galthidion.

Despite their dire mission and need for haste, they both shared a fond exchange at the mention of their Lord, their childhood friend Legolas.

Finally, their entourage was in sight. The musicians, dancers, bards and diplomats had been huddled into the centre of the group, their 25 warriors surrounding them and by the looks of them, on full alert. As Henian and Galthidion approached their Lord at the head, they came to an abrupt halt and gave their urgent report.

“My Lord, 103 orcs approach from the east, well armed and apparently searching for quarry. On our current course, we will intercept within the hour.”

Legolas turned to his captain, Lostion.

“Captain, do we have any alternative routes into the valley?”

“Nay my Lord, this close, all alternatives will lead us to the ridges of the valley without possibility of escape. We are on the only route possible and are but a half-day ride from Imladris itself. I see no other alternative than to intercept.”

“So be it,” said Legolas, turning back to the group. “Lostion, see to it that all are equipped with a weapon, warriors around the perimeter. Archers, dismount and into the trees to the north and south, stay close by, and on my command. We may need to use the Forest Chant, so be alert.”

At the mention of the Forest Chant, all stood tall, straight and proud. They knew what this meant, and were proud to stand beside their Lord. Some had experienced the chant before, but it was rarely used and only in circumstances of dire need. They knew themselves outnumbered and in need of protecting civilians, but the Prince would use his magic if need be, albeit this could make him vulnerable, not to mention the fact that the Forest Chant would have a disturbing effect on those who had not witnessed it before, it always did, and likely always would.

Legolas knew that this planned course of action would draw attention to him and this he did not want. The festival was too important for him to be the cause of a diversion from the real and beneficial issues that could result from the event. He would attempt to brush it off as a natural ability alone, rather than for what it really was, he knew that in this, his people would say nothing, that is, unless it became public domain, which he knew that with time it would, but not yet... it was not yet time.

Henian turned to Legolas, and placed a warm hand on this forearm. “Your friends are with you my Lord, and here we will stay, come what may, as it has always been between us.”

“And I with you Henian, Galthidion, let us get these festivities off to a good start!!

And with that, they moved forward at a slow pace to allow the archers who had taken position in the trees to follow those on horseback without losing their formation. All were on full alert, but none were so tuned to nature than their Lord, who sat straight upon his white steed, eyes darting two and fro. ‘You will not have us, you will not have the pride of Mirkwood, and you shall suffer for your presumption.’ A light breeze was the only answer to his internal dialogue, the trees rustled their leaves, and Legolas had his answer, and his allies. He smiled.

Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir and their warriors had mounted once more, but proceeded at a cautious trot, no use running head long into the enemy. Time seemed to stretch as they awaited the impending arrival of the scouts once more to inform them of how long it would be before they were yet again bathing in the blood of their sworn enemies.

Glorfindel turned to Elladan and gave him a meaningful look. Elladan knew well what was on his mind, but chose not to make approaching the subject any easier for him, for both he and his brother had heard it too many times.

“Elladan, you know what I would say and I shall repeat it once again to you, and your brother. What you do in your own company I cannot dictate, but whilst under my orders, you will obey to the letter, you understand me well, do you not?”

“We do, my Lord”, answered Elladan, knowing he spoke for his sibling. “But fear not, we will curb our passion to your command my Lord.”

Turning to his brother Elrohir, they exchanged a knowing smile and continued the cautious pace towards battle, flanking Glorfindel and heading the group of warriors behind them.

Off into the distance, they heard a cry to the heavens, something was happening deep in the woods… Mirkwood had found their hunters, and yet they hunted...

After a light meal, tea was served in the Library, where Elrond sat together with Mithrandir and Erestor. About now, Glorfindel, together with the young princes, would be about to engage the orcs, and disturbingly near to the protected borders of Imladris. They would need long and detailed debates to establish the reasons as to why this should be and at this particular moment in time, for nothing had pointed at a spike in orc activity in that area.

The mood was one of deep ponderings and a rather tense calm, for none in the room counted less than four thousand Solar years.

Erestor, dark earthen eyes reflecting the flames at the hearth, turned slowly towards his companions, smiling serenely as his gaze caught that of Elrond. He knew the turmoil beneath the stoic exterior, and indeed shared it, his friendship with the Lore Master, Glorfindel, and the furiously rehearsing Lindir, together with the tutorship of the young lords, was his life, his meaningful and heartfelt task in his time in Middle Earth; he loved them all, each in their own way and he knew that all in the room, and the music room, reciprocated his emotions – they would be cared for, he would make sure of it. Surfacing from his reflections, he caught Mithrandir returning the same serene gaze he had turned on Elrond, ‘had he read his thoughts?’ ‘Well, what of it, he was most welcome’.

It was Elrond who finally broke the silence, with an invitation to the Hall of Fire. A glass of wine and Lindir’s Lyre would relax the atmosphere and help to bide the time until news was to be had. Fretting would serve no purpose.

The civilians were huddled well behind the defending line of ferocious woodland warriors, and in front of them, their forest lord, looking each one in the eye with a fey green glint to his eyes. Archers placed strategically in the trees surrounding them held their bow strings half-drawn, biceps beginning to strain under the pressure.

Now warfare is almost innate to the wood elves, and although they themselves were no warriors, they could not stand by and let their soldiers sacrifice themselves without helping in any way they could. They knew the traditions of their warriors, knew the Forest Chant, and so, as the artists and musicians they were, they reached for the mighty drums of the Greenwood, strapped to the sides of their wagon, and began to beat out their primal rhythm, as the forest chant began.

Lifting his head to the waning sun, Legolas let his eyes slip closed for a moment, taking in the harsh breathing of his warriors, waiting for his address, and the slow beat of the base drums beginning to sound from the back of the group. Slipping into a meditative state, falling into the rhythm of the ancient beat his subjects had struck up, he slowly lifted his arms from his sides, opened his brilliant emerald green eyes, and began his Forest Chant.

All need for a cautious pace had disappeared when the cry had gone out, and Imladris thundered through the forest, desperately spurred on by the sound of drums and chanting voices, although they could not make out the words. There was a deafening swish and swirl of leaf and acorn, branch and bough, a creaking of trunks and whistling of an unnatural wind swirling around, up and over the leafy tops of the trees. As they drew nearer, the disturbance grew more violent, branches blasted back from the onslaught, the eerie sound of nature stretched and stressed to its limit, as if the very trees screamed their ire, their defiance in the face of those that would blight them. And then, totally unexpectedly, orcs began to fly from the trees, straight into the Imladris warriors. There shock was apparent, but so was their panic – they were fleeing, looking over their shoulders as they continued to run, even if that took them into the arms of Glorfindel themselves, they did not seem to care.

The lords themselves had no need to intercept, there could be no more than ten of fifteen of them, and they were summarily cut down by the Noldorin warriors, not that it had taken any effort, for the orcs had almost run into the blades themselves.

What they would find beyond the barrier of trees ahead of them was worrying, but so was crossing the wooded line itself, for their commotion had died down, but had not ended.

Glorfindel held up his harm, shouting to his warriors to hold. He would wait a moment before ordering his troop to advance.

As the trees ceased their waning, Glorfindel lowered his arm and signalled the way forward. They warily navigated through the copse at a stealthy walk, all senses on alert, until finally, they emerged on the other side, into a glade...

Black hair flapped around the heads of the Noldorin warriors as they finally arrived at the site of the wood elves’ stand, drawing up their horses harshly and dismounting in but a few seconds. Some stared in open shock at what they saw, as Glorfindel stared at the golden-haired elf with his back to him, facing the woodland warriors, hair undulating eerily in the unnatural breeze, for magic was at work here, of that he had no doubt. The elf held two short swords, one in each outstretched hand, blood dripping from their lethally sharp edges – they had arrived too late – the battle had been fought.

Black bodies littered the floor, many skewered with long, elegant arrows, others lay with limbs at odd angles, or heads turned at unnatural angles. Rusted blades, scimitars and other crude devices lay unheeded in the verdant grass.

He turned then, the Golden one, and looked straight into the surprised eyes of Glorfindel, who beheld the most beauteously exquisite face he had ever seen.

“Do not approach the forest, my Lords”. And with that, he pulled his hood over his hair and face and turned away, towards his troops.

Glorfindel raised his arm and his voice, warning his warriors to give the trees a wide berth. They had allowed them to pass through, but there was no use in tempting fate. Turning back to the Mirkwood caravan, he saw no astonishment on their faces, only reverence – and exhaustion.

As he turned to his own, Glorfindel took in the shock upon his warriors’ faces, but could not afford them to lose themselves in the recounting of what they had witnessed, however extraordinary it had been. There could well be more foul creatures lurking around, and time was of the essence, they had to get back to the safety of Imladris, and quickly.

Leaving the command to his two young lords, he approached the Mirkwood line with the intent of establishing contact with their commander and to issue orders to make haste to Imladris.

As he drew near, he began to understand that the hooded elf must be their commander, who was kneeling down beside a fallen warrior who was being tended to by another elf. Slowly reaching out his hand, he smoothed it down the face of the fallen warrior, whose eyes had begun to droop.

“Galthidion, peace my friend. Hold unto me and soon you will find comfort. How fare you my friend?”

“Legolas, you are well? I saw you set upon, you will not lie to me.”

“Thidion, do not change the subject, answer the question.”

“I hurt, I will admit, but I will be well, you will not be rid of me thus, for your lord father would kill me.”

Having witnessed the exchange, Glorfindel approached and called out to the commander, who he now knew was Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, the object of such rumour even now taking place within and without the halls of Elrond. ‘My word they would not be disappointed.’ He drank in the features of this singular elf, and by the gods he had never seen such beauty in a male elf, not even Legaelair, and yet he was still hooded, half obscured by the failing light. Drawn to the eyes, he noted they were now a bright, dazzling blue, so bright that a thin haze seemed to hang about them, as if light were being refracted, he thought. It was the most spellbinding sight he had ever seen. He knew what he had seen before, green eyes. Moving down the body, he realized this elf was tall, and particularly well-muscled. Most elves were willowy, although lithe, but this elf was astoundingly well-proportioned. Powerful thigh muscles could be seen beneath the tight hugging leggings the elf wore. Aye, this one was an extraordinary warrior, no doubt of that, for Glorfindel had more experience than most on the subject. Moving his eyes back up, he noticed the lax stance of the elf’s right arm, and a cut across his left cheek that oozed blood in a slow trickle down the front of his tunic, bruising already showing itself.

“Commander?”

Slowly turning, Legolas met the eyes of he who had called to him. Legolas stood for a moment, allowing himself a few brief moments to take in the vision before him. This elf was special, he knew. He looked into the depths of his blue eyes and saw age, wisdom, curiosity, experience, death … and so many other things he did not now have time to ponder.

“Commander. We thank you for your assistance, I am Legolas Thranduilion.”

“Welcome to Imladris, my Prince. I am Glorfindel of Imladris.”

Now it was Legolas’ turn to be taken aback, for much had he heard of Glorfindel of the house of the Golden Flower, for his father’s mother had been of Gondolin, and he had grown up on his grandmother’s stories of her home, and of Glorfindel the Balrog slayer, saviour and champion of their people. And although Legolas’s station was now technically higher than that of Glorfindel’s, he had once been a lord of his own house, and now a legendary warrior. But more than this, he deeply respected Glorfindel, if the tales he had heard were true. And so he could think of nothing else to do but bestow upon him the greetings of prince to prince, equal to equal.

Legolas bowed deeply, sweeping his left arm out to the side. “I am deeply honoured to meet you my lord.”

Glorfindel, somewhat taken aback by the reverence shown to him, replied in turn.

“Come, my prince. Let us make haste to Imladris and see to the comfort of our people. Come.”

And with that, Glorfindel turned back to his warriors, urging them upon their steeds and forming a protective shield around the Mirkwood elves, the image of Legolas’ half-hidden face firmly imprinted on his mind.

Just as Glorfindel was about to hold up his arm in a signal to set forth, Legolas cantered ahead of them and approached the tree line.

Gently placing the palm of his left hand against the bark of a particularly large oak, he closed his eyes and laid the side of his face over the hand touching the bark. Thus he stayed for a few moments before stepping back and nodding. Turning back around he approached his steed and mounted, accepting Galthidion up in front of him. He was aware of the stares he was receiving, and he was used to it, however it always made him uncomfortable. Humble as he was, he wished for nothing more than to be treated as the warrior he was.

Back in Imladris, Elrond sat together with Erestor and Mithrandir, Galadriel and Celeborn who had arrived at the lunch hour. They had bathed, rested and eaten and were now sharing a conversation on the objectives and desired outcomes of the festival. Not half an hour passed, when Galadriel suddenly detatched herself from the conversation, sitting bolt upright in her chair as she gazed out into the gardens and the land beyond. Elrond knew she was sensing something, and indeed so was he, although he could not place exactly what he was feeling. Finally, Galadriel turned her piercing blue eyes on Elrond and Mithrandir.

“Did you feel it?”

“I felt something, but I would be loathe to say exactly what”, added Elrond, while Mithrandir merely nodded.

“The forest lord comes,” she stated flatly. “ I was right thus far - about what I sensed in the Greenwood - it is here, it is somehow tied to him.”

“How do you know this?” enquired Erestor, leaning forward at the intriguing news, wondering whether there was, after all, some truth in what he had termed as ‘complete piffle’, or indeed, other less courteous discriptives.

“I felt the anger of the trees. Their anger called out to me, they have aided their warriors, they have dealt death at the behest of him.”

“He can command the trees?”

“So it would seem - there is a Valar at work here, I would wager, what say you, Maia?”

“Well, I would not wager on it, but you may be right, and if you are, then my question is, who would it be and for what purpose? For I have no intelligence on the matter at all, and it may well be a natural, rather than bestowed ability.”

“Well, then. Glorfindel can tell us more when he arrives,” said Elrond, bringing them all out of the mystically contemplative mood they had all fallen into. All superficial banter about the forest lord had turned into something much more transcendental.

With little over an hour left of riding, Elladan and Elrohir decided enough was enough, and began their interrogation of their tutor, for the forest prince had drawn his cloak about him and had pulled up the ample hood, and as if this was not enough he was surrounded by his faithful warriors, flanking him on both sides. They had not seen Legolas face to face as Glorfindel had, they wanted some advance intelligence before arriving in Imladris.

“Glorfindel, tell us. Are the rumours true? Is he as beautiful as they say? We did not get a good look at him, and now with his hood up, we have not sated our curiosity.”

“Oh, I would say the rumours are not true at all. None have come anywhere close to describing what I have just beheld.”

“What do you mean? Is he in fact revolting, abhorrent and deformed? Ha! What a sledgehammer, that will teach them to heed petty gossip, I knew it!” said Elrohir triumphantly.

“Well, you shall soon see. For the moment, suffice it to say that he is a good leader and is concerned for his people. A good friend has taken serious hurt, and they also seem to be tired beyond what I would expect after just one battle. Nay, I would say they have had a difficult journey, all in all. Let us see to their comfort first, and then we may speculate over a well-earned glass of red, I for one would like to know what happened in that glade before we arrived.”

Meanwhile, Glorfindel turned his head to the cloaked and hooded figure of the leader of the Mirkwood elves. His posture had sagged a little in the saddle, and his right arm still stood at an awkward posture, although his left still gently cradled his insensate friend before him. Yes he was wounded and was trying to hide it. He would let him, for the time being.
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The Protege