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Twilight Tales - Sacred Bond	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 12116 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 1-Advent
- 2-Bridging
- 3-Pledges
- 4-Serendipity
- 5-Deepening
- 6-Request
- 7-Bedfellows
- 8-Liaison
- 9-Catalyst
- 10-Tidings
- 11-Profession
- 12-Rift
- 13-Seeking
- 14-Confluence
- 15-Oneness
- 16-Assignation
- 17-Covenant
- 18-Gambit
- 19-Recovery
- 20-Bond
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter IV: Serendipity

Iavas, TA 2101

The Mirkwood Elves were fierce and valorous. But in the face of the superior numbers of their foes, it was only a matter of time before the small contingent was bested. Yet the Wood-elves were tenacious and refused to surrender despite the hopelessness of their cause. Their youthful leader rallied them repeatedly, the young Elf steadfastly ignoring the relentless aching of his arms, the throbbing in his legs.

“Stand!” he cried out whenever one or another of his Elves would waver. “Stand fast!”

It should have been easy to take down the youth, so slender and fragile did he seem. But his appearance belied his strength and skill and the indomitable spirit that kept him going as the orcs who sought to vanquish him discovered to their rue. Still and all, even he had his limits and he was fast approaching it.

Legolas felt despair encroach on him at last. His arms seemed naught but a mass of pained nerves, his knees yearned to give out. He knew this was the end. It was just a matter of seconds before they all succumbed. Well, better to die now than live and endure torment a while longer, he thought dazedly as he managed to fend off yet another hewing blow to his abdomen and stab his opponent in the gut. He caught sight of one of his warriors thrown down by a hard knock to his head. He raced toward the hapless Elf and just barely blocked the descending blow of the goblin that had felled him. But another sliced open his arm just above his elbow and he could not help a harsh cry.

Salvation came when it was least expected. He had fallen to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm, awaiting the killing blow of the orc who towered over him when the creature suddenly screeched and dropped his black sword. Legolas stared in dumbfounded silence at the arrow that stuck right through the chest of the orc. The goblin toppled over a moment later.

The woodland prince could only scrabble out of the way as a whole troop of mounted warriors arrived, swords hacking at the suddenly dismayed orcs, spears skewering those that attempted to flee. Legolas woozily watched as the newcomers mowed down the goblins with frightening efficiency. These were seasoned warriors, he realized. But he could not tell who they were.

Unlike the Wood-elves in their green and brown raiment, these soldiers were clad in black and grey. Even their hooded cloaks were stone hued. And not a single steed sported a coat brighter than darkest brown. The better to blend in with the dull autumnal landscape of the vast plains between the foothills of Hithaeglir and Mirkwood.

In what seemed like mere minutes, the orcs had been defeated and the strangers were dismounting to finish off any that still moved. They also began to look over the Wood-elves, seeking the wounded amongst them. Legolas stared in shock when some let down their hoods.

Elves! But from which realm? He started when one approached him, a grim expression on his face.

“Are you their captain?” the Elf asked brusquely. Indeed, he sounded rather hostile despite his people’s rescue of the Wood-elves.

Legolas nodded. “We thank you for your aid,” he began, struggling to rise.

He gasped in pain when the Elf none too gently grabbed him by his injured arm and hoisted him to his feet. “Move faster, Wood-elf,” he snapped. “Our captain wishes to speak to you.”

He began to drag Legolas forward, coldly oblivious of the young Elf’s obvious pain and fatigue.

“Wait!” Legolas implored. “I will go with you but—”

“Silence, Edhel!”—Elf!—the warrior retorted. “If you had any sense, you would not have left your accursed forest! You are fortunate we troubled to help you at all.”

He forged forward even more quickly. Legolas could only helplessly stumble behind him.

“Daro!” Stop!

Legolas stared at the tall Elf who rapidly neared them. The troop captain by the looks of his demeanor. Nothing else marked him as such for his raiment was as dark and plain as those of the others.

“Release him!” he barked as soon as he came up to them. Legolas’ captor obeyed at once.

Shorn of the hold on his arm, Legolas found he could not stay up any longer and he sank to his knees, wincing as his arm throbbed mercilessly. He looked up warily as the commanding Elf confronted the other who looked to be his lieutenant.

“He is not the enemy,” he said sternly. “And if you look closely at him, you would realize he was not even born at the time of your father’s lamentable encounter with the Wood-elves. Would you vent your spleen on this youngling for something that happened nigh five centuries ago?”

Legolas’ heart started to race as he listened to the captain. That voice! Nearly a score of years had passed since he’d last heard it but, by Elbereth, he knew it!

“Besides, this one was injured defending his men,” the captain continued. “He does not deserve rough treatment from anyone, least of all fellow Edhil.”—Elves. He paused to let his words sink into his chastened second’s head. “We will encamp here tonight,” he said after a while and in a kinder tone. “Secure the area as best as you can. I will tend to this young one’s wound.”

Legolas watched the lieutenant stride off. And then he looked searchingly at the captain who stood over him, his countenance hidden by his hood.

“Elrohir?” he whispered.

The Elf started then drew back his hood to reveal wondering argent eyes. Legolas would have wept with joy at seeing so dear a face once more were it not for the presence of the Imladrin soldiers.

“Do I know you, pen neth?”—young one?—the Elf-knight asked frowningly.

“I should think so,” Legolas smiled wanly. “The question is whether you still remember me, rochir vell.”—dear knight.

Elrohir all but gaped at him in his shock. Despite the passage of years, the picture he had carried in his mind of his woodland friend had been that of the child he had been. Not the Elf he had become. And certainly not this so very comely Elf!

“Legolas!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees.

With a relieved sigh, Legolas sank into the Elf-knight’s embrace, resting his weary head on one broad shoulder.

“By all that’s holy, what are you doing out here?” Elrohir murmured, cradling him gently in his arms.

“‘Tis a long story,” Legolas confessed. “And not a pleasant one.”

Elrohir backed him up gently to a scarred tree that he might sit and lean against it. “Then you will tell me after I have seen to your wound,” he said as he took out his pouch of medicaments and bandages. “Valar, of all the places I had thought to see you again, ‘twas certainly not here.”

Legolas looked at him searchingly. “Your last letter two years ago mentioned you would be coming home soon,” he commented. “But you did not say when.”

Elrohir heard the unspoken question. Why did you not come to me as soon as you returned? He shook his head as he unwound a length of binding.

“Elladan and I only arrived this summer,” he told the prince. “I wanted to visit you soonest but orkish incursions into our lands kept us busy.” He paused to cup Legolas’ chin. “I would have forced a visit to Mirkwood after finishing this patrol if not for this chance encounter. Think you I would break my pledge to you, lass dithen?”—little leaf?

At the use of the old appellation, Legolas beamed happily. “You cannot call me that any longer, Elrohir,” he said. “I am grown now.”

Elrohir laughed softly as he proceeded to cut away Legolas’ sleeve and set to cleaning the gash on his arm. “Grown some mayhap,” he remarked whilst swiftly washing the wound. “But not completely. You are still a dozen years from your majority, pen neth.”

“Aye, I have not yet come of age. Yet I have been leading such sorties for many a year now,” Legolas told him proudly, wincing somewhat as the twin applied a thin paste of healing herbs to his wound.

“You look it,” Elrohir acknowledged.

Indeed, the evidence of the prince’s years in the field showed in the sleek muscles that belied his slender limbs and form and the slightly calloused fingers of his archer’s hands. And his blue eyes were no longer as innocent as Elrohir had known them. A twinge of regret passed through the twin that he should have missed such a vital part of the prince’s growing years. He finished binding the wound then looked the archer over for other injuries.

“‘Tis the only wound,” Legolas assured him.

Elrohir nodded then glanced up to check how things were going. He saw that the cooking fires had been lit. He looked back at the archer.

“Rest now, meldiren”—my friend—he said. “When we have eaten our fill, you shall tell me why you dared to leave the confines of Mirkwood.” He noted the shadow of shame in the prince’s eyes. “Do not hide anything from me, Legolas,” he softly intoned. “You once trusted me in all things. I pray that has not changed after all these years.”

Legolas gazed at him. The shame receded to be replaced by the trust of old. “I will tell you all,” he promised.

The Imladrin Elves had fresh meat with them and dried fruit and ale besides. They shared these with the Wood-elves, taking their cue from Elrohir who glowered at them if they displayed the slightest bit of disdain toward their Silvan kindred. Whatever grudges they might have held against the Wood-elves they set aside for the moment. One only went against the Lord Elrohir’s wishes at one’s peril. The younger twin would not hesitate to deal a painful and public buffet if any disobeyed his orders.

Legolas tiredly but gratefully consumed all that Elrohir offered him. He could not remember the last hearty meal he’d had. His obvious hunger did not go unnoticed.

Elrohir watched him anxiously then observed the other Wood-elves as well. Something was not right, he mused. They seemed thinner than was normal for any Silvan Elf. More drawn. It did not seem possible but he almost suspected that Legolas and his men had not been eating properly for a while now. The very idea made his stomach clench.

He smiled when Legolas sighed with contentment upon downing the last piece of dried fruit. He urged the prince to drink his fill of ale before attempting to discover what was amiss amongst the Mirkwood Elves.

Legolas looked at him long and longingly after he had settled wearily against the tree once more.

“I did not think it would be nigh twenty years before you would return, Elrohir,” he softly said. “You led me to believe that—” Legolas did not finish his sentence lest his friend mistake it for an accusation.

The Elf-knight drew a pensive breath as he watched the young Elf bite his lip. “Forgive me, Legolas,” he said. “I did not want to burden you then with the knowledge.” He reached up and caressed the prince’s cheek regretfully. “I hope you will not hold this against me.”

Legolas turned his face into the twin’s hand and nuzzled it. “Nay, I am only so happy you are returned at last,” he murmured.

Elrohir moved closer and sat by his side. “Will you tell me now what lured you out here?” he asked. “Indeed, I would know why you and your folk seem to be ailing, pen neth. You have not been eating well, have you?”

His anxiety grew when a faint blush stained Legolas’ cheeks. A blush of the shame he’d exhibited earlier.

“Mirkwood has been barren for many a month now,” the prince said in a low voice. “There has not been enough game to feed my people adequately. Or grain or fruit or even edible wild growth.”

“A famine?” Elrohir breathed in near horror. He caught up Legolas’ too slender wrist and held the prince’s hand tightly in his.

Legolas nodded. “We have scoured the whole forest. We even braved the spiders’ breeding grounds. But they are starving, too, and have taken to preying rabidly on my people for sustenance.”

“What caused it?” Elrohir queried. “Do you know?”

Legolas shrugged. “Most likely lingering pestilence from Dol Guldur. ‘Tis not the first time the forest has suffered from a dearth of beasts and produce since its master fled. But this has been by far the worst year of all.”

Elrohir frowned. “Did you not seek aid from Esgaroth?” he said. “You have traded with them before.”

Legolas sighed disconsolately. “A plague struck Esgaroth earlier this year that took the lives of many. It started right after our last contact with the Lake-men. They came to believe that we brought the disease with us and so have refused to deal with us since.” He swallowed hard. “Our straits worsened until we were forced to forage outside of Mirkwood and seek trade with the settlements in the west.”

The color in his cheeks darkened to crimson. In humiliation, Elrohir knew. Suddenly, his mind formed a vision of the proud Wood-elves travelling perforce from village to village, trading whatever they could for provenance from the less amiable humans who’d settled in the sparse woods west of the great forest or along the banks of Anduin. The image made him sick to his belly.

The Silvan Elves rarely had dealings with these Men for fearsome superstitions about the Edhil were rife amongst them and they tended to be hostile to the Firstborn. They did not see the Elves’ beauty or nobility but only perceived what they considered the unnatural and unfair bounties bestowed upon them. And so, unlike most other mortals, they looked at the Elves with envy and covetousness. They would not go so far as to waylay and rob them but they would have no compunction about cheating them if they could.

Elrohir glanced at the horses of the Wood-elves. Aside from the little game they had taken down during their trek – a clutch of pheasant and partridge, some hare and squirrel and a young buck - small sacks hung from the rumps of the beasts. He could guess their contents. Dried grain and fruit. Mayhap salt-cured meat such as ham and bacon. He could only imagine what Legolas had had to endure to gain these and what he must have been forced to pay for them. The twin did not doubt that what the Wood-elves had received was most likely not commensurate at all to what they had traded for them in turn. But in their desperation, they would not have had much choice but to swallow their anger and accept what was offered in exchange. And still it would not be enough for an entire realm of Elves however small – they would probably ration it as stringently as possible. He shuddered inwardly at the image in his mind of Legolas humbling himself for such paltry recompense.

He gazed at Legolas in compassion and empathy. The prince’s eyes suddenly gleamed with tears. Elrohir caught his breath. Of a sudden, the child of years gone by was before him once more, seeking his succor and approval.

He swept Legolas into a warm hug, though careful to leave the injured limb untouched. “Ai, pen vell”—dear one—“you should not have had to bear this burden,” he said.

“I did what was demanded of me,” Legolas murmured, nuzzling his face against the warrior’s shoulder.

He smiled even more contentedly when Elrohir’s hold on him tightened and the Elf-knight stroked his hair tenderly. With an ease born of their deep regard for each other, they fell back into the old habits of yore when Legolas had been but a child and Elrohir his favored champion.

But times were different and they were different. Legolas most of all. Whether Elrohir wished it or not, the prince was no longer an Elfling to cuddle and kiss as he’d once done. It would not be seemly to behave as they had twenty years ago. Elrohir noted the questioning frowns his men exchanged at their too open display of affection. Frowns mirrored in the faces of the Wood-elves. With Legolas still in his minority, it was definitely unseemly. And with the young prince blooming into such astonishing incandescent beauty, doubly so.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from the young Elf and gazed at him regretfully. Legolas began to protest but a warning flicker of Elrohir‘s eyes told him the tale. He flushed slightly then pursed his lips in distress.

“Does this mean I can no longer be close to you?” he whispered, the merest quiver in his voice.

“Not in public, no,” Elrohir affirmed. “But by ourselves we can be as free as we wish. I begrudge putting distance between us in the name of propriety as well but it would not do for others to form the wrong idea about my intentions regarding you.”

Legolas snorted. “As though one as noble as you would bed a youngling!” he muttered. “Really, folk can have the most ludicrous notions!”

Elrohir smiled, pleased by the spirited response. “Aye, unfortunately,” he agreed. He regarded Legolas curiously. “One thing puzzles me,” he said. “Why did you not send for help from Imladris? My father would have succored you at once.”

Legolas looked away, the stain returning to his cheeks. “My people could not have borne that,” he whispered. “The treaty – there has been a resumption of some hostility between your folk and mine.”

Elrohir scowled. “Aye, so Adar told us when we arrived,” he said. “But for it to prevent you from seeking aid of us—!” He shook his head angrily. “This rancor between our peoples must cease once and for all! I will not have you and yours suffering because of this, Legolas. Sweet Eru, you might have died today had we not happened to come this way.”

Struck anew by the realization that he had nearly lost his dear woodland friend, Elrohir cast discretion aside and pulled Legolas back into his protective arms. Delighted, Legolas snuggled into the embrace and tucked his head into the crook of Elrohir’s neck. Ignoring the surreptitious glances turned their way, they spoke softly of the past two decades, recounting to each other a little of what had passed in their years apart.

It was when he was urging Legolas to lie down and get some sleep that inspiration came to Elrohir.

“I will have supplies sent to you as soon as I return to Imladris,” he decided. “And more ere winter sets in.”

Legolas looked up at him with a frown. “My people would never accept charity,” he said. “Not from you at any rate.”

“But it does not have to be charity,” Elrohir pointed out. “You can trade with us in the same manner that you did with the humans.”

“Trade?” Legolas repeated incredulously. “Whatever do we have that you could possibly want?”

Elrohir reached over for the prince’s bow. He hefted it with a grin. “You craft the best bows in the north; only Lórien can match you. The few warriors of Imladris and Lindon who possess Mirkwood bows keep them with great care and pride for they know their worth.” He fingered Legolas’ cape next. “And then there is your wool and also the tapestries your women create.”

Legolas stared at him. “You must be jesting!” he said.

“Nay, I am not. Your wool is the finest of all. So light but soft and warm and dyed so masterfully their colors never fade. And are you aware that there is a Silvan tapestry in the Hall of Fire in my home?” When Legolas shook his head, Elrohir chuckled. “‘Twas your parents’ wedding gift to mine. Your father was no friend of theirs but he thought it politic to acknowledge my parents’ marriage with a present. That tapestry is admired by all who see it and many ask how they may likewise acquire such a beauteous piece for themselves.”

Legolas’ eyes were wide with astonishment. “Truly, Elrohir?” he said. “Your people covet such things of us?”

“Aye, ernilen,” he assured him. “For such treasures, they would gladly provide you with all the grain and meat you could ask for. What say you? I will have Adar word the letter that will accompany the supplies in such a way that will make it clear ‘tis strictly to trade for your goods in turn. Do you think your father will accept such terms?”

Legolas nodded in elation. “He would indeed and so will our folk. ‘Twould be a fair exchange. They would not lose face over this.” He flung his arms around Elrohir in gratitude. “This will save my people, Elrohir! Ai, how can I ever repay you?”

Elrohir laughed softly as he hugged close his armful of affectionate Wood-elf. “With your friendship, Legolas,” he quietly replied. “Your never-ending regard.”

Legolas drew away and looked near adoringly at him, blue eyes shining brightly. “You will always have it, my Elf-knight,” he said.

“Then I am content,” Elrohir murmured. “Now lie and get some sleep, lass dithen. Your arm needs mending and rest will help it heal more swiftly.”

Legolas readily lay down and, as he had done as a child, curled up insistently against Elrohir. Unwilling to move away and chance making the prince think himself rejected, the warrior chose to glare his men into looking elsewhere instead. They could misconstrue his relationship with the archer all they wished. He would set them straight on the matter tomorrow. But tonight, Legolas needed him and, after so many years away from his young friend, he would not fail him.

***************

Glossary:

iavas – Sindarin for early autumn, roughly August to September

Hithaeglir – the Misty Mountains

Edhil - Elves

Adar – Father

To be continued….
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Twilight Tales - Sacred Bond