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Henvaethor (Warrior Child)	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 2478 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Henvaethor [Warrior Child]
By: erobey
Beta'd by: Sarah AK
Disclaimer: See initial chapter

A/N: thank you so much to Anon (3 reviews in two sites!), Shanna, crystal, and Melanie for reviewing this littel story! Here are the remaining two chapters. I have another Little Legolas story in the works, and you guys encourage me to continue it! Thanks again!

Part Three: Erin Othrad Ab [On the Road Again]

It was a merrier company of travellers that graced the hard-packed earthen road than had treaded its humble surface for many a long century. Arathorn strode at the head of the procession, with the two brothers behind, then Esmond and Iomhar with the burrows, Berkeley and Hanna were next, followed by Gilraen and her family, and Alberic with the golden child on his shoulders brought up the rear guard.

It took mere minutes for the little girl-child to demand her father accord her the same perspective the young Elf enjoyed, and soon the two of them were chatting away to one another. Of course, mostly Gilraen did the talking, but now and then the clear ringing tones of the Elf's Sindarin words broke through, and lifted all their hearts even higher. And so the morning passed into afternoon amid cheery comfort and companionship.

For all that is but Dacre. The grieving man sent fury laced glares and scathing stares toward the Elf child every time the immortal uttered a sound. The man muttered to his brother under his breath, and the rattled sibling could be heard attempting to placate and soothe Dacre on these occasions. He tried to keep the distraught man from coming into contact with the Elf, but eventually Dacre pulled his arm free from his brother's hold and fell back to be near Alberic and his immortal cargo.

Gilraen's father made a hasty excursion to the front of the line, pulling his wife in tow, much to his daughter's dismay. He did not want the girl to witness any of the angry man's words or the Ranger's reactions to them. What the Elf might do, he had no clue and was more than a bit superstitious. He feared Dacre was endangering them all by tempting the creature to use magic and spells.

Alberic, watching him move closer, frowned at Dacre accusingly as he felt the Elf on his shoulders tighten his grip in his hair.

"What do you want, Dacre?" the Ranger asked warily, and reached up to reassuringly squeeze Legolas' calf, now so tense.

"I want to know what we have to expect from that creature! How do you plan to handle the older ones when they come upon us? None of them can speak our language, how will you explain that we are helping that whelp rather than absconding with it?" he demanded, pointing at Legolas and flashing him a searingly hateful look.

"The Wood Elves will do nothing to us! It is clear the child is not our prisoner; what makes you say such ridiculous things?" Alberic replied.

"Ridiculous? They are not like us, you fool! What is obvious to you will be seen differently by them. They think of us as animals, looking down on us and flaunting their undying youth. They hide away in their protected little world while the evils they have unleashed roam the country and destroy what is good and right!" the man fumed, his voice rising. Everyone halted and stared at him.

"Dacre!" the strident shout came from Berkeley, but the younger man ignored him. His brother made his way back to the end of the caravan and grabbed Dacre's arm again, pulling ungently in hopes of shaking some sense into him. Dacre yanked himself free and shoved his sibling away.

"No! I will not be silent! Why are you all trying to protect it? Can you not see how we will attract evil by keeping it with us?" he shrilled, pointing again at the Elf.

"Stop!" Arathorn commanded as he strode purposefully toward the irate traveller. He did not want this man to make trouble. He had never encountered Wood Elves before, and did not want the first time to result in making enemies of the immortal folk of the forest. He would need to use this trail again, while Dacre would be safe and snug in Dale. He placed himself between Alberic and Dacre and faced the belligerent man.

"You will listen to me, Dacre," he said and dropped his voice to a low murmur so the girl in the front would not hear. "Legolas is not to be harassed by you! He is a child, and he has endured a horrible catastrophe. He has probably watched his loved ones die, much the same as your goodwife did. It was Orcs that wounded him, and from the looks of things he was in the process of being eaten alive when he escaped. Cease your ranting and let the child alone!"

Dacre's face purpled in indignation and outrage. Had he not hired these men to guide them? How was it this scruffy underling now presumed to give such orders to him?

A quick shifting among the order of the company, however, left no doubt as to the loyalty of the Rangers to their colleague, and agreement with his reasoning. They flanked Arathorn and Alberic and Esmond reached up to console the worried Elf, patting his knee for comfort. Dacre knew he could not overcome such resistance and skulked back to the front of the line, scowling deeply at each of his companions as he passed them.

Legolas exhaled a shaky breath; relieved the man was gone away from him. He looked at Esmond and smiled, and the man took the hand the child placed over his in a firm grasp.

"Worry not, little one, I will not let him harm you," he said.

"Aye, as long as you are perched up there, no one will accost you!" added Alberic and looked up at him with an encouraging grin.

Legolas understood their intent and sighed, relaxing as he nodded to them. The Rangers resumed their former ranks and the travellers set forth again, and all were silent for some time, for Dacre had set everyone on edge with his bitterness.

"Alberic, man adel hen rûth Dacre gâr?" asked Legolas softly, so that only his bearer would hear the words. The Ranger craned his neck to look up into the anxious blue depths, uncertain of the words but not of the fears behind them.

"It is nothing, little one, do not fret over it! He has demons of his own and cannot find peace, so he must seek a place to focus his pain. He does not realise his error." Alberic answered in reassuring tones and smiled to convey his meaning even more. He tried hard to hide his anger toward the man for upsetting the immortal child.

Legolas listened to this speech, and elven hearing being more acute than humans', he discerned the covered wrath sequestered in the jovial sounds and his worries grew greater. He did not know how he had caused Dacre's ire, but was certain he was the centre of it. He looked ahead to Arathorn, but the man was far in front moving determinedly forward and did not glance in his direction.

The child sighed and let his gaze shift to the angry man, who chose that moment to turn and glare furiously back at him. Legolas cringed and averted his eyes. That made the man sneer, but Alberic patted the child's leg and spoke something calmly to him.

Still, Legolas' heart was heavy and the Ranger's efforts to reassure him failed. The Elf had to find a way to rid himself of the gloom engulfing him, threatening to make him remember things he could not bear to think of and sights he would never be able to forget. He took a deep breath and began to sing, and all the noises of the woods hushed so that nature could hear the music of his fair voice filling the space between the earth and the heavens, briefly uniting Arda and Aman through his clear youthful soprano.

The dulcet vocalisation mesmerised the humans and they stood motionless on the path, staring in rapt attention at this seraphic creature uttering such serene sounds. None of the words could they decipher yet they could not help but be swept into the emotive force of the young one's experience as he sang to release the fear and grief, the pain and sorrow, the loneliness and despair bottled up in his small body. It was as though the song itself was a tangible part of him, reaching out to encompass every aspect of nature within the range of the rippling energy pouring forth. The trees joined him, birds added counterpoint, and Manwë sighed his approval in the breeze.

The travellers found themselves moved beyond the ability to respond coherently, simply feeling in every nerve and atom of their bodies and souls, their individual identities dissolving into the consciousness of the young Elf. They knew his sorrow and wept unashamedly, world weary Rangers, tired out elders, harried spouses, and embittered brothers; all found an overawing well of catharsis generated by the singing.

When the anthem ended, the mortals found they were simultaneously exhausted and relieved, weary beyond any former experience in comparison yet peaceful in their minds. Even little Gilraen's energetic exuberance was subdued and quieted in the completion of the Elf's lament. All the humans' faces held softly shaped glimpses of smiles, not quite able to express the slowly expanding joy that began to fill them in the space left behind by the expulsion of their woeful worries.

With singular accord the group strolled off the road into a small wayside glen, one of many lining either side of the pathway in the fringe of the forest, created to provide safe rest during the reign of Ithil. All found places to ease their frames down onto the ground amid sober sighs and creaking joints, each quietly resting in the aftermath of the emotional draining.

Alberic carefully helped Legolas descend, noting how the child sucked in an unsteady breath and held it against the pain still plaguing him. He watched the Elf sit by the trunk of an oak and lean his back against it, stretching his legs before him and tucking his arms protectively round his bandaged side.

Arathorn approached, waterskin in one hand and tossing a bright yellow ball-shaped fruit up into the air with the other until he was right in front of Legolas and had his attention, and then he let the ripe succulent citrus sail towards the child, who grinned as he snatched it from the air. Arathorn and Alberic laughed and both knelt next to their young friend as he sniffed the fruit curiously and tentatively touched the tip of his tongue to its bumpy, leathery rind. Such did not grow in the cooler temperatures of the northern forest. Arathorn held out the water skin and then gestured for the fruit, which the elfling reluctantly relinquished, his face an example of politely restrained if poorly concealed disappointment.

"Let me show you how to get at it, young one," the Ranger said and stabbed the nail of his thumb into the stem-scarred end, releasing a fine spray of misty juice as he peeled away a bit of the skin. Legolas' eyes widened with amazement and he deeply inhaled to savour the sweetly acidic aroma, smiling with hopeful features at his benefactors. "Aye, it is for you, but let me have a look at those wounds first," Arathorn said, passing the orange to his comrade and gently reaching for the fabric of the oversized shirt, tugging carefully.

"Ai! Nestai hery nîn; avo prestad nin!" the Elf complained to no avail as the man undid the buttons and began cautiously unwrapping the bandages to check on the nasty gouges.

When all the linen was peeled away the man sat back and gave a small exclamation of wonder, for the horrendous rips were nearly resealed with new pink skin. Arathorn and Alberic exchanged astonished looks and then transferred this bewilderment to the child, who gave each a quizzical glance before returning his scrutiny to the juicy globe in Alberic's palm.

"Now how can this be possible?" wondered Arathorn aloud.

"It still pains him, for he felt discomfort when I helped him down," commented Alberic as he shook his head.

Carefully Arathorn prodded the wounds and Legolas caught his breath and flinched under the touch, but did not cry out. He looked up pleadingly but said nothing, and Arathorn could not face those imploring eyes without a strong sense of remorse for having caused the little one even a small amount of suffering. He was perplexed, though, and felt it would be wrong to just ignore the injuries without understanding what was going on.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but I must see that all is as it should be. It would not do to have those great tears reopen, or for them to be growing poisonous underneath that new-healed skin!" he said apologetically and laid a hand on the Elf's shoulder, pulling gently to let him know he needed to lie back flat upon the ground.

Legolas scowled foully at this unpleasant manipulation and squirmed a little before relenting with a colossal sigh and a glowering look at his friend as he assumed a prone position and waited for the poking and pestering to end. He winced as the man rubbed a bit too hard against a rib and then the human understood.

"There now! Apologies, Legolas; that rib is snapped and I missed it last night, so bad did the gashes look! No wonder it hurts; the bone must take longer to knit than sinew does!" Arathorn was pleased to have the mystery partially clarified; though the rapidity of the mending was beyond his comprehension. He smiled and elicited a feebly reciprocative expression from the Elf child.

The Ranger was more careful in binding up the injuries again, stabilising the fracture, and then closed up the buttons and helped Legolas sit up. A rapid inspection of the leg wounds revealed them similarly improved and Arathorn did not re-bandage them, thinking the fresh air was a good influence on healing.

"Hannad nîn ab, Arathorn. Boe amin mabed," the pleasing voice cajoled as the Elf's eyes switched from the Ranger's face to the yellow fruit in Alberic's hands and back.

"Aye, you shall have it soon! Let me see that arm now," the Ranger said and reached for the splinted limb. Cautiously he unwrapped the injury and stared in wonder. The dark purple swelling was gone, the bite marks all but vanished, and he flexed the elbow experimentally.

Legolas frowned a little but wiggled his fingers smoothly and then turned a beaming smile of gratitude to his friend. "Aragorn, rancen nestant!" he said and moved the joint again to demonstrate his words. Truly, this was most important, for if it came to battle he would need the use of both his arms. He had already offered numerous prayers of thanks to Yavanna for the broken arm being the right rather than the left, which was his bow arm. "Hannad, hannad!" he effusively and impatiently exclaimed, pointing now at the fruit with uplifted brows and begging eyes.

The men laughed appreciatively and Alberic gladly handed over the child's reward for enduring the examination so bravely. They watched as the Elf again gobbled his food, devouring every last bit of the tangy citrus and licking all the sticky essence from his fingers and the peel greedily. That done he stood carefully and stretched his arms up speculatively with an upward glance into the oak. He rejected the idea as his side protested. With a frown he shifted his feet a bit and glanced over at the Rangers then out into the trees.

"Yrch aphadatha men! Boe ammen baded am ned 'elaith!" he said and anxiously looked from one to the other to see if they understood. It was clear they did not, though the mention of orcs made their faces sombre. Legolas pointed up into the branches and repeated the words, to no better result. Their confused expressions disheartened him and he lowered his head in defeat. Legolas dejectedly settled back down against the tree fully determined to stay alert in order to warn of the monsters' approach. With legs crossed under him, he yawned hugely, rested his head on the gnarled bark, and stared off across the clearing into the trees on the other side.

The humans followed his glance, saw nothing of note, but were distracted from inquiring about it when Dacre got up and began walking toward them. The Rangers rose in concert and moved quickly to intercept him, barring his way, coldly staring down upon the unpleasant widower.

"Peace!" the man said and held his hands up in supplication. "I want to make amends to the child! I was wrong, for that is no harbinger of evil; he is an angel singing of my sweet wife's beauty and love, which I had forgotten in my grief."

The Rangers exchanged glances.

"I heard him singing, yet it seemed to my ears to be the sounds of my childhood home; my village was burned in an goblin raid. I wondered how he could know of these things," said Alberic.

"And I had memories of my father and brother. I have yearned for the joy we shared, for both these were lost to me to the same foe!" exclaimed Arathorn.

The three men turned to look at the child, who had not moved and was staring in rapt contemplation into the distance with a gaze of inward searching. He seemed to be completely oblivious to them.

"I think we should just let the child be," said Alberic. "Gods! I am weary to the core!"

"As are we all. It is his doing," said Dacre, but his tone was only mildly fearful rather than caustically furious. "What say you, Arathorn? Shall we camp here the night, though it is but mid afternoon? We could all use a good long sleep before pressing on, and the women folk are already abed."

Arathorn nodded slowly, noting that not only the females but everyone else was listlessly stretched out on blankets scattered through the clearing. Only the three of them and Iomhar were still alert, and Dacre suddenly yawned behind his fist. He smiled and shrugged, turning to join his brother on the soft leafy forest floor.

"Right then, I guess it is up to us to see to the comforts of the camp before dark!" grumbled Iomhar. He stalked off to gather up some dead wood for a fire; determined to have no more of the sappy, smoking excuse for warmth they had suffered the previous evening.

Alberic saw to the pack animals, which were also pleased with the extra break, and Arathorn patrolled around the perimeter of their spot to make sure there were no signs of any of the more unpleasant inhabitants of the forest near by. By default, the three wakeful but weary Rangers stood guard in turns, with Arathorn forced by the other two to have his rest first, for no sleep had he taken the previous night.

The Ranger set up his bedroll near the Elf, concerned that he had neither stirred nor watched their activities for some minutes. He felt the child was in some kind of trance and did not wish to disturb him. Legolas' unseeing stare was eerie and unsettling, and despite the child's beauty Arathorn found him hard to look upon in that state. He rolled to his side facing away from the blank, empty eyes and shivered under his blankets.

continued
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Henvaethor (Warrior Child)