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
- 22
- 23
- 24
Chapter 23: The Space in Between

In the two weeks of training that followed, Melven ran cross-country with Legolas and Elladan every morning. After, he would spend hours simply twirling the short swords as his tutor put him through the footwork. His shoulder and back muscles had developed so that now, he had gained both volume and definition, much to the delight of Lindo. Later, they had begun the dance with the knives, yet not allowing the blades to touch. On the last leg of his training, the real dance began - behind closed doors, for those that were to judge him should not be subjected to any faults he may have shown. They were to watch as if for the first time, with no prior knowledge of his skill, other than what they had already seen on the battle field.

While Legolas and Melven labored in solitude, Elladan and Dima, sometimes with Galdithion, were working on strength. He would spend the hours pulling himself up and down a low hanging branch, or lifting his legs to his chest. Another of Dima’s favourites was placing a trunk of solid wood over his shoulders and have him squat and stand for long minutes on end, and although it was now winter, he had sweated more than he had in his entire lifetime, at least that is what it felt like to him. During the last week, he had worked with the sword, but like Melven, he swirled and whirled the blade, working on the precision of his movements and his footwork, no contact whatsoever.

Through it all, Dima would sometimes join them with his two charges, Barathon and Dorainen. The prince behaved himself for the most part, save for a few, sour looks that he simply had not been able to hold back. He was, however, far from the grade of master in any weapon, but the extra practice had done some good, and Dorainen – well, he simply battled on, and Dima was duly impressed by his patience, for spending so much time in the presence of the facetious prince was no easy task.

When Melven’s big day finally came, he stood before Dimaethor and Gondien, the entire Company behind them in rigorous silence.

Together with Legolas, he ran through the stances and then battled for long minutes on end, before the standard exercise ended and the free work began. Their blades met in sonorous clangs and scrapes, blue sparks flying around them as they somersaulted and twisted, stood upon their arms and cartwheeled in such a skilled display of gymnastics that Elladan was left wondering how his friend had become so proficient in it. Finally, the aspiring master stood heaving for breath, awaiting the captains’ verdict.

It had been Dima to step forward and place a hand on his shoulder, announcing the words that Melven would never forget.

“Welcome, to the brotherhood of Greenwood masters.”

Melven had heaved a great sigh, not of relief, but of sheer satisfaction. It felt good, for life could get no better, he thought then, only his son was missing for it to be perfect…

Dima had then produced the beautifully-wrought band of bronze and mithril, placing it just below that which marked him as a member of The Company. Melven had then saluted his judges formally, before turning, his face alive, split wide open with a great beam, his eyes twinkling in happiness and self-satisfaction. He first ran to embrace Hwindohtar, his tutor, then Lindo and Elladan, and then finally, the entire Company had descended upon him. It had been a day to remember, one of many both he and Elladan would experience during their memorable first year of service abroad.

Once Koron en’ and Nanern were back on their feet and fit for combat, Barathon’s moment of glory had finally arrived, as he rode out with Legolas and the Company for the first time. His proud father had watched it all, seen how his son had danced with them, his new armband sitting high on his bicep - and for the first time in many years, a surge of fatherly pride shot through him; he tempered it though, and just prayed that Barathon’s arrogance would finally be cast away, and that he would come to be accepted by the others. And yet whatever fantasy his heart had created, his mind remained skeptical, for Legolas had been right that day when he had told him he was trusting to luck. It was not Legolas who would feel responsible, should anything happen, but he himself.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

For the next four months, The Company fell into their normal routine once more; three weeks of patrolling where no other would venture, four days rest, and out again.

They battled spiders, wargs, orcs and uruks, although they had seen no more of the blonde abominations that Hwindo had been unlucky enough to meet personally. The wraiths were felt, and sometimes heard in the southernmost regions of the area now known as Mirkwood, but thankfully, the spirits had not ventured into the woods.

They had also come into frequent contact with humans from Laketown and Dale, who had a flourishing trade route with the Greenwood, and for the most part, political dealings were good. Elladan had been wanting to visit the waterside city for a long time, but so far, he had not had the opportunity. He would find it though, for the area promised to be just as culturally diverse as the Greenwood itself. Humans, dwarves, elves, the mixture was tantalizing, as were the possibilities.

They had all been left behind on at least one mission due to injuries. Dima had taken a nasty slash to the side, Pengon had taken another arrow through his leg and Ram en’ had broken his ankle. Rafno had been bitten by a warg on the shoulder, Dorainen had smashed his head on a rock in a nasty fall, knocking him senseless for a whole week - the list was endless, and their bodies were witness to the fierce fighting it took to defend the Greenwood. Koron en’ had told Rafno that only now were their bodies back to their normal states – strong, on top form, and covered in scars of varying ages and states of healing.

They had also been witness to many funerals for those that had fallen in the course of their duty, field warriors from almost all of the Greenwood detachments, recruits and veterans alike, and it had affected them almost just as much as it had that first time, when they had laid True Heart Beria to rest.

Yet not all was pain and suffering, and Elladan and Melven had been avidly and enthusiastically taught the Sylvan and Avarin warrior dances. Frantic reels in which warriors would select a female and jig around the dance floor, before launching her into the air; it was downright dangerous, and spectacular as no other dances they had ever seen, not even the human ones. Other dances included the most incredible acrobatics, and even sword and knife fights. Elladan had excelled in them all, loving every moment of the impromptu classes he received, either from a company member, or the many, fawning females that pursued him when at home and on leave, much to Galdithion’s exasperated delight.

Yet during those months, Barathon was still Barathon – for he had no warrior name to mention. He was tolerated for the most part, and indeed behaved himself, save for the odd sarcastic remark that he simply could not control. Yet he had not been fully accepted into The Company. When at the fortress however, they would include him in their off-duty pursuits, simply ignoring him if his presence became annoying, but there was no brotherly banter with him.

The prince learned to accept this, strange situation. It was true they did include him, yet he was baffled at why they would not relax in his presence, why they sometimes disregarded his comments, and indeed why he still had not been baptized himself. It wore him down, for he was trying hard, and was coming to like his fellow warriors, even Legolas had a smile for him on occasion – yet he was at a loss as to how he could redeem the situation.

Elladan and Galdithion had flourished together as a couple, yet the healer still hesitated about telling his father the full extent of it, something that worried Legolas to no end, for his choice, however obvious it had once seemed to him, was no longer so, and he had been forced to consider the possibility that the half-elf did at least toy with the idea of mortality.

Legolas continued his barrage of letters to Imladris and Lothlorien. His relationship with Arwen continued to baffle him, for they shared such confidences that only the closest of friends would. There was plenty of sexual innuendo too, although Arwen knew she would not be reciprocated, yet Legolas would rise to the bait, for he knew she knew it was in jest.

His yearning for Glorfindel had grown stronger, and so now he would simply remind himself that there were only a few more months to go, before they would see each other again, whether he would travel to Imladris, or Glorfindel to the Greenwood he knew not, only that it would be, and perhaps he would take his lover’s lost armband with him…

And thus, amidst fierce battles, friendship and love, early winter turned to deep winter, and both the Evergreen Wood and the Greenwood were covered in snow, the warriors now clad in their winter uniforms of leather and fur…

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

The Golden Wood did not suffer such harsh weather, and neither did Imladris, for the rings of power provided not only shelter from the enemy, but shelter from the elements, and so, Galadriel, Lady of Light, sat in a flimsy white dress upon the shores of Nimrodel, on this, the morning of Arwen’s birthday celebration. Twirling a delicate white blossom in her white hand, her blue eyes saw far, far away, contemplating events that were yet to come, or that perhaps would never be.

Close by, was Celeborn, sharing a light-hearted conversation with Haldir and Arwen, oblivious to their Lady’s incipient vision, one she was sure to remember for many years to come.

As she stared off into the future, her world suddenly tilted violently, wrenching the breath from her body in one, forceful gasp as her mouth opened to compensate for the lack of oxygen and her hands gripped the earth below them, desperately keeping her body from sinking to the ground.

Celeborn, Arwen and Haldir were beside her in moments, yet the lord held out his palm as he shook his head, showing Haldir that he should not touch her, should not talk – Arwen would already know.

“Nooooo!” she pleaded. “Fools!” she spat, now on hands and knees, her golden waves falling to the forest floor.

Another, long, drawn out gasp escaped her as her eyes bulged and tears sprang into them, only to fall in a steady flow, wetting the grass below her.

“Yavanna, protect him – deliver him from darkness,” she repeated, over and over again as the frantic scenes played out before her, and yet some were repeated in which the beginning or the ending would be different, as if her mind were telling her unequivocally that these things would indeed happen, but that their nature and outcome were not yet defined.

It was overwhelming her, for there were so many scenes, people and places assaulting her mind now, one after the other, as if some urgency were forcing the situation, a chain of seemingly unrelated events and people. She sobbed piteously as another wave of tears spilled from her now red eyes, her whole body heaving under the strain of overloaded emotions and feelings of utter dread and despair.

With a strangled scream, her forearms wavered before letting out and sending her plummeting, landing face down into the wet grass, lungs still heaving, eyes wide as her mind struggled to bring her back to reality.

They were all left breathing hard, speechless, for to watch the lady through it all had been harrowing. She had suffered and Celeborn knew this had been no ordinary vision, as did Arwen – this had been different, and when she was sufficiently recovered from it, he knew she would tell him. For now, he gathered her into his arms and led her away, Haldir and Arwen walking slowly behind them.

That night, after the celebrations had died down, Arwen walked into her grandmother’s rooms, only to find her sitting quietly upon the balcony, bathed in silver moonlight as she gazed over the tops of the magnificent Mellyrn that was her home.

Gliding over to her and kneeling beside her, she too, looked out over the dreamy, soothing landscape, waiting for Galadriel to invite conversation, for Arwen would not interrupt her.

After long moments of silence, the Lady of Light finally broke her quiet introspection.

“Did you feel it?”

“I have been – troubled all day, and yet I do not understand the wherefore of it.”

“Will you look then? For I cannot describe it to you,“ confessed Galadriel.

“What will I see?” asked Arwen tentatively, for she had seldom seen her tutor as affected as she was just now. Something important had happened, of that she had no doubt.

“Perhaps – perhaps you will see what I have seen, and perhaps not. Will you come?”

Arwen watched her grandmother’s eyes as they searched her own. She seemed to need it, as if she were seeking confirmation of what she herself had seen earlier that day, and Arwen, never a coward, would accede.

“I will look.”

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

What a beautiful day had dawned, mused Elrond as he stood on the balcony of his private rooms. The morning was chilly, and yet there was a hint of spring on the air, for the light was changing and the smells of nature had shifted.

Half turning his head, he acknowledged Erestor’s quiet presence beside him as he too, took in the splendorous morning.

“Beautiful, is it not?” murmured Elrond, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Indeed, spring is not far off…” he said as he glanced at his lover briefly. He seemed lost, not unpleasantly so, but – absent, as if seeing something that he himself could not. He attributed it to the importance of the day, for it was his daughter’s birthday, one he would not be able to attend.

“You are pensive, Elrond,” he prompted, wondering if he would get a reply.

“’Tis a strange thing,” he murmured. “Change is coming, Erestor.”

“Aye, the season changes…”

“No…”

Erestor turned to face the lord then, puzzled at his confused state, until he saw his eyes …. grey eyes that shone with the thirst for knowledge, anchored on the horizon in deep concentration. He had been right, for Elrond was indeed, far away, a vision, perhaps, he thought.

“Change on a scale I have never seen. Something has shifted, slanted - events are spiraling away from the path, not – quite – right…”

It was not a vision, but more a succession of emotions, and an increasing sense of foreboding settled in his gut until he finally tore his eyes away from the horizon and trained them on a suddenly startled Erestor.

“Something is not right. Something is going to happen, Erestor, I can feel it.”

“Something – bad?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes; something that should not be. Something that is endangering our very existence…

A frigid shiver ran down the chief advisor’s spine, for he did not doubt Elrond’s words, he never had.

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

Glorfindel sat before the fire they had lit, for it was safe to do so here, and the night was unusually cold, or so it seemed to the general.

Henian sat beside him, and across the fire, was Cormion.

Their patrol had been uneventful for the most part, the odd skirmish here and there that had had no consequences, save for a few cuts and bruises. And yet Glorfindel was oddly quiet, irritable almost, and Henian could hold back the question no longer, for he and the general had become close friends during the exchange program for which he had volunteered.

“Glorfindel,” he called quietly.

There was no answer, and Henian was forced to be more explicit.

“What is it, my friend? You are quiet, troubled, something lays heavily on your mind.”

Glorfindel glanced at his friend before turning his eyes back to the flames.

Thinking he might know what the problem was, Henian turned to Cormion, who understood immediately as he stood and nodded, before turning away and leaving the two friends alone.

“Now, will you tell me?” he coaxed softly.

“I do not know, Henian. I simply – ‘tis as if I have lost something, someone…”

“To death?” asked the captain, now a little concerned at what Glorfindel would say, for he had not expected that.

“Perhaps – ‘tis sorrow mixed, with anxiety, a deeply-rooted worry that I cannot shake.”

“Since when?”

“Today, this morning. Henian,” he paused here, wondering if he should continue, “Henian, ‘tis something about your home, Legolas, perhaps.”

“Legolas? You mean something has happened?” he blurted, his eyes now wide with fright and worry.

“I know only that that is the source, what it is, or when it has or will happen I know not.”

“Valar, Glorfindel. What is happening to our world? There seem to be so many changes in so little time, and yet all centre on our friend, well – my friend, your lover,” he added, “events seem to be hurtling us towards some kind of goal, something as yet hidden from us…”

“Yes,” said Glofindel, now facing Henian. “You have synthesized it well, for that is what it seems like to me. I do not think anything has happened to him, my friend, and yet it may…”

“Our kingdom would wither and die should he be lost to us. The king would wane and all would crumble before us, Glorfindel.”

“I believe,” said Glorfindel, thinking as he spoke, “that it is not only the Greenwood that would suffer that fate Henian, for he is meant for a larger plan; something great will happen in our age, Henian, and we will be a part of it, we priviledged few … and yet today’s strange turn of events has me worried beyond reason.

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

Thranduil stood on his balcony. It was cold and he wrapped his fur cloak around his solid frame as his hair rippled back in the soft breeze.

He reached out to the souls of the trees that had thrived in the family gardens below, trees she had once so loved. He felt them humming, a deep, rich vibration that comforted him – for comfort he needed.

What a strange day it had been, he mused. His worry for his son had risen dramatically, yet it was more than that. There was some strange, elusive knowledge just on the brink of his conscious mind. He grasped at it, only to feel it dissipate and then coil around his mind once more.

Was it Barathon? he wondered. Was it simply a foreboding of the concerns his son had expressed, that sooner or later he would be the cause of grief? Perhaps, and yet not so – for the knowledge was coming closer again, and so he closed his eyes and concentrated with all that he was, reached out for the truth just beyond his ken, and yet – once more, it slipped through his fingers like summer sand.

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

“Arwen… Arwen!” cried Galadriel as she staggered over to her grandchild, who now knelt in the soft moss not far from her mirror, the one she had just looked into, the water still rippling innocently, belying the powerful images that it had just projected.

“Arwen, child! Heed me!” she shouted, desperate for even the smallest sign that Arwen was not harmed, irreversibly traumatized by what she had seen, for if it had been anything like what she herself had seen that very morning, she would need help now.

“Arwen, hear me,” she said now, calmer, more commanding, and indeed, Arwen finally settled her stormy grey eyes on the blue irises of Galadriel, and the words bubbled forth from her own, unbelieving mouth.

“What a tragic, marvelous, heart-breaking life to lead…. What days of glory and defeat we will see, what days of grief and joy, comfort and injury, life and death – mortality and immortality – yet which will it be? What will be the way of things? The path towards light and goodness? Or the eternal dark of evil?” she ended with a whisper, her eyes alight with the fire of a thousand stars.

“And what of the space in between, Arwen, what of the space between?” asked Galadriel, her voice low and demanding. “Light and darkness, glory and defeat – mortality and immortality.”

“Yes,” she whispered back, her eyes unfocussed, “the space in between…”

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

Far away, to the North, dark figures sat patiently outside a modest tent. They had sat that way for hours, unmoving almost except for the odd flinch. It was proving to be more difficult than expected, yet they prayed for glad tidings, especially one amongst their number. He sat closer to the entrance, his face, stern and care-worn, a stony mask of determination, framed by long dark hair and noble eyes of stormy grey.

His prayers were finally answered when the wailing cry of an infant ripped through the silence, and a collective gasp of relief resounded through the glade.

He finally allowed the mask to drop, and the light of hope lit his face in the somber night.
‘Welcome, my son, welcome.’
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Arcane Land