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The Protege IV: Lord of the Forests	By : alpham31 Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 2097 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings is the sole creation of JRR Tolkien. The characters in this story are, therefore, not mine, with the exception of OCs. I make no money with my writing, it is purely for pleasure.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Author’s note: This chapter, specifically descriptions of music and singing were partially inspired by Dead Can Dance, with the wonderful Lisa Gerard, she specifically is the voice of Mentathiel. Just a little tribute to some beautifully imaginative and mystical music, and of course, a wonderful voice.

And of course, a big thankyou to my beta reader Mindirith.

The music petered out as Amanthor and Lindir turned to the doors leading to the gardens. Now was the time to start the herald they had composed together. Turning to his musicians once more, and feeling Lindir stand by his side, he began to conduct the piece that would be the highlight of their lives – Herald to the Forest Lord…

He looked out at each and every one of the musicians before him, all watching their leader, this master musician, for they had trained so very hard for this moment; he smiled and nodded at them, willing them to play as they had never done before. Their faces were open, expectant, nervous yet determined. Amanthor turned to Lindir then, smiling openly now as it was returned, the shine of love lighting his eyes.

Amanthor’s entire body tensed as he suddenly jerked forwards and upwards, one arm pointing to the base drums, the other to the woodwinds. As the music began, he pointed to percussion, and base strings, setting a powerful underflow for the choir who now stood to the sides and back of the now swaying musicians, faces alight with passion as their fingers flew over frets and boards, slid over strings or keys.

Lindir prepared himself, for it would be his task to direct the choir, for this piece was complex to sing, and demanding on the voices. Coordination between music and voice was essential if it was to work.

Raising his arms, they watched as his eyes strayed to the sopranos. And then he came alive, his entire body marking the rhythm and intensity he required of them. He inspired them, the music inspired them, the setting, the meaning of the ceremony – everything came together to create what would become the greatest of pieces ever composed and performed, those present would tell of it to their descendents, would claim they had been there that day.

They were singing a series of high staccato notes, with intermittent interjections rather like whoops or soft screams, gasps of joy and praise, they sung as their voices became instruments of percussion.

Aradan rose from his seat then, followed first by Llyn and Henian, and then, the entire Greenwood were standing, joining the choir in their herald, for they had seen Galdithion appear in the doorway. He shone gloriously, a prodigal son of the Greenwood, risking life and limb for their prince, soon to be king.

Elrond’s senses were reeling, he felt humbled in the face of such utter dedication, for this prince had been a king long before he had been crowned, he had always been a king to his people.

As the choir and music began to climb in intensity and volume, Aradan held out his arm towards the door, as Galdithion became visible to all, his sword shining as he held it out towards the front in a gesture that was unmistakable. ‘Do not approach’. Flanking him was Elladan wearing his ceremonial armour of black and mithril, the paradigm of a lethal warrior, the perfect representative of his exalted house.

They stepped out then, and as more elves noted the arrival, they too, held out their arms as they sang louder and louder, channeling their shock and surprise into their voices.

And then, there he was, walking slowly behind his faithful guard, unarmed, bare-chested, glorious.

There were simultaneous gasps and exclamations that could not be held back. Many elves held their hands to their faces, over their mouths, eyes bulged at the sight before them – for the elf shone and the crown he wore was not of this world, they knew, and his eyes, his eyes…

The music reached its pinnacle, the chanting, the shouting, the exclaiming had sent the onlookers into a state of semi hysteria, for they were breathing hard, a strange sense of over-excitement taking them, the need to move and fidget became uncomfortable.

Behind him, Haldir and Glorfindel brought up the rear of the honour guard. Their golden armour glowing brightly, their drawn swords glinting dangerously in the candle-lit night, they were the picture of the legendary warriors of the first age, indeed one of them was just that.

Now, every single elf in attendance was standing, watching as the legends passed them by, past the lords, who nodded reverently to the new lord. He, however, stared straight ahead, his face a mask that could not be read. They watched on as Legolas paused, casting a glance to the side. His four guards stopped then, sheathed their swords as they knelt, yet Legolas walked a little further forward until he stopped, in front of the dead garden.

Elrond frowned; puzzled that he should position himself there, for he simply could not understand why he would want to include such an eyesore on this magical evening.

The music stopped then, and through the resulting silence, only heavy breathing could be heard, nobody moved, nothing stirred, no wind, no sounds of nature, nothing, and Galadriel’s hair stood on end, she would later describe it as being in a vacuum, a place devoid of all stimulus, yet packed to the brim with life.

The two maias stood off to one side, between Legolas and the crowd of standing elves, even the musicians were afoot, turned towards the strange being who continued to stand stock still, gazing into the shriveled garden.

Glorfindel could not physically turn to his fellow warriors, for he was on official guard duty, but he knew they felt the same, for he had suddenly realized what Legolas pretended to do, and a wave of apprehension struck him. He hoped the contingent he had organized would control the crowds, should things get out of hand.

A warm breeze came from the front as Legolas opened his arms, his hair flying back – and then it began.

The onlookers noticed the gentle breeze, playing with their locks, rustling the leaves in the trees. Erestor had turned to Galadriel to gauge her reaction, but promptly whipped his head back to the front, for a pinpoint of blue light had appeared, apparently behind the open-armed Forest Lord.

The light grew brighter as it extended horizontally, until the elves were shading their eyes from the intensity of it. A low rumbling vibration seeped into their conscious minds then, deep and vibrant, shaking their chests and fraying their already straining nerves.

The light suddenly extended as Legolas became but a silhouette before it, bathing all in a silver light, the noise shaking the very ground.

There were screams and shouts, the sound of shattering glass and overturned jars as the guards began to secure the exits, yet they themselves more than a little unnerved. However they were well trained, and so they linked their arms together, disallowing the panic-striken evles from running away. Legolas’ four guards were acutely aware of what was happening behind them, yet they knew they would be called for help, should Cormion require it.

And then the noise stopped and the light faded until it concentrated once more behind the Forest Lord. He moved then, for the first time, off to the side as a vision appeared before all that wished to see – becoming bigger as the light concentrated, a silver blue light that slowly began to take shape, and finally, amidst shouts of jubilation, joy, terror and hysteria, the White Tree appeared - their beloved Telperion.

Elrond’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape, Erestor mirrored him almost perfectly, one shaking hand straying to his mouth. Galadriel was much the same, they all were, yet they were no longer frightened, they were now suffused with love, love emanating from the heart of Telperion – it was beauty to behold.

Galadriel held out an arm as if she would caress the bark, she knew she could not approach any more than they already had, it was a symbolic gesture. However the rest of the guests had slowly but surely moved beyond the banquet tables, closer to the Forest Lord.

Gildor for his part, had sunk to his knees, watching the tree reverently as tiny sparks of brighter light radiated from it; he was mesmerized, paralyzed, utterly ashamed that he could ever have doubted.

The tree began to dim then, the silvery tendrils of light dissipating into the moonlit night, until the vision had gone, and after the initial cry of despair, silence reigned once more.

Elrond wondered if this was the time to make the proclamation, but he decided to wait, for Legolas had not moved, he still stared out into the gardens as if he had not yet finished his demonstration, yet by all the Valar he had already made his point, Gildor was on his knees, no less.

Yet he had been right to wait, for Legolas moved forward a little, head cocked to the side as if hearing something only he perceived.

It was Galadriel’s eerie voice that exclaimed loudly then, sending a chill through them all, her words echoing through the night.

“Life!! There is life!” she cried, her eyes wide, her face one of utter disbelief…

Her grandchildren watched her, perplexed, ‘there is life where?’ They thought.

Mithrandir smiled as he watched Legolas’ every move, He knew he had been right then, he knew what it was that was about to happen, and he suddenly felt very small and insignificant, humbled yet proud to be a servant of the Valar.

A low base string sounded then, surprising them all, for how had the musicians had the presence of mind to introduce music at such a crucial moment, yet as the sound became louder, they realized it was not a string instrument that had emitted the sound, but an elven voice, male or female they knew not, for it was deep and vibrant, strong and rich, it was the strangest, eeriest voice they had ever heard.

The melody was simple, a succession of minor notes shifting up and down, as if its creator sang to a lost love.

Amanthor snapped out of his trance-like state then, as he picked up the music, bringing in higher strings, wind and percussion – slowly, following the peaceful mourning of the Spirit Singer, watching her every move, every gesture.

To the solemn wail of the music, Legolas felt the moment his mind detached from the rest of his body. A strange crackling noise followed by a snapping to the back of his neck, a sudden enhancement of his senses - sight, sound, touch, smell, as his arms flung out to the sides, his mind unconsciously propelling itself forward, away from his guards and friends, moving into the dazzling light that had no relation to the Moon’s reflection of the Sun’s light, and then, he was inside, within the vibrant, beating life force of nature. His body however, remained anchored to the ground before the crowd, his face reflecting the force of the power radiating through him, from him.

The music exploded then, into a whirlwind of sound as a shroud of dense fog descended upon the gardens. Light emanated from the humidity, blinding to those who watched, yet Legolas seemed impervious to it as he simply stood there, head flung back, mouth open, back arched.

Yet there was no more panic; they now knew there was no danger, however unnerved they were by the magical events playing out before their very eyes.

Mentathiel returned to a single note, the quality was raw, tribal, less refined than her previous singing, yet more passionate, it flowed from the soul, from the heart, no rational thought guided her as she poured out the power that was infusing her as she watched the scene before her, the musicians in turn, listening to her as they reflected the feelings she wound into the sounds.

She was joined by other Sylvan elves, who slowly but surely fell into the atavistic rhythm, losing themselves little by little as their voices became more passionate, less measured. Some of the Noldor elves joined the singing then, timidly at first for the concept of spirit singing was new to them, however they soon realized how it worked and threw themselves into the moment. The Sylvans, however, were past control, beyond vanity as they threw their arms up, swirled around, hair swaying dramatically together with the rhythmic movements of their bodies – they were entranced, taken by the emotions the music and the power were wreaking on their sensitive perceptions, they were the visual equivalent of the Spirit Singer’s spontaneous creation. For they sensed it, they knew that life was being breathed back into this withered shell, their king resuscitating it from the dead.

The forests glittered and glowed beneath the veil of humidity, sparks of light would ignite and then taper out, rather like a distant electrical storm thought Elrohir as he watched the spectacle in awe.

The crowd of onlookers were deeply moved by the atmosphere that was being weaved before their very eyes, for their vision had been overloaded by the strange beauty of the moment; some wailed low in their throats, while others simply stood dumbfounded, eyes brimming with tears, skin tingling painfully under the onslaught of uncontrollable emotion.

The music stopped then, as did the breath of those witnessing the event.

Yet the fog persisted, and no elven eye could penetrate that which shielded the events taking place within. As Legolas concentrated the power he could feel within himself, he heard, or felt the leaves unfurl, the roots rehydrate and burrow deep into the now fertile soil. He perceived the plants and flowers unfold their petals and blooms, becoming green once more, as green as the mist that hung about their master’s eyes. The scratching of nails and talons, pads and paws reached his senses; scurrying here and there, up into the trees, burrowing into the ground, the creeking of wood as sap began to flow freely once more. The ripples of water in the streams and ponds, which now harboured life, the low humming of insects as they began to repopulate the garden, once more vibrant and beautiful, yet still shielded to those that loved it the most.

And the music continued, although it was now combined with a series of bird warbles, hoots and screams that the woodelves mimicked to perfection, for although they could not see, they sensed the life returning to this once shriveled mockery of nature, they could feel it. Yet it was the Spirit Singer who was channeling that power, projecting her feelings to the four corners of Arda, reaping tears from every elf that continued to look on. Gildor was not exempt from the tide of emotions, for tears streamed down his rugged face, some for himself and his stupid pride, pride that had impeded him from seeing the truth, for he had known the first time he had seen the prince, he had known he had been wrong, but had managed to convince himself that that was not the case at all.

Legolas was propelled forward then, at a speed he knew his body could never have reached, for it was the magical part of him, the part that had detached from his body and that was now returning to it.

The sensation was so abrupt that he was flung backwards, staggering in order to keep his feet. He was back, and it was done, and the experience had changed him forever, for he had flown. Yet now was not the time to reflect on the events, but to show them, and so he raised his arms once more, as if willing the fog to dissipate upwards. Slowly but surely, it rose into the moonlit night, leaving the creation visible to those brave enough to look.

Someone screamed, someone wailed out of control, many gasped, others threw themselves to the ground, Arwen squeezed the hand of her father as his tears finally fell, unable to harness the force of his love for Celebrian, the power of his devotion to her, his adoration for he who had restored hope in his heart, for there – in front of his very eyes, life had been breathed back into the garden of his beloved queen, his soul mate, she to whom he would return when it was all over.

As Arwen turned her head back to the Forest Lord, she understood then, why she had said what she had. ‘My king’, she had said. Now she understood, for Legolas was, indeed, her king.

Glorfindel slowly rose from his kneeling position as the creation was finally unveiled. The garden still shone, but its contents were clearly visible. It was green and rich brown, silver and blue, the colours of nature, healthy and vibrant – alive! He knew that come tomorrow and the rising of the sun, the garden would be teaming with flowers, animals and birds. But more than this his lord had been brought back from the limbo he had been inhabiting since she left, he had been infused with hope and love once more, it was almost as if the new and beautiful garden were a reflection of what Celebrian herself was now, in Valinor.

It had been his lover, that enigmatic, stunning warrior he had met such a short time ago. He would never have guessed the outcome of their meeting then. It was hard for him to believe, that the one who had done this – miracle, he who had weaved such magic to create life – was his to touch, to kiss, to love and pleasure.

Turning his head back to the house for the first time, he spotted Erestor, kneeling some distance away from him, lost in himself, his face fixed on the garden, his face wet from tears of joy. Glorfindel smiled as he turned once more to the front.

Just then, Legolas turned and gestured with his hand towards Elrond and his family, yet he did not wait for them to respond, he simply walked into the heart of the reborn garden, knowing they would follow, as Mentathiel already was.

Legolas stopped before the rose bushes, feeling the presence of the Peredhel behind him, as Mentathiel began her spirit song, the one Legolas had commissioned as part of his gift.

Legolas knelt then, pushing his hand in the now moist, fertile soil, wrapping his hands around the straining roots. Elrond watched on, as if not quite understanding that Legolas was healing them, Elladan, Elrohir and their grandfather wore matching expressions of fascination and disbelief, yet the ladies were smiling beautifully, for the roses were no longer ruined, they had budded, their humid unfurled petals shining under the moon’s light, their green stalks pulsing with water, and life, the green leaves reaching out to catch the light. Arwen and Elrohir sunk to the ground. Elrond’s knees gave out from under him, face finally crumpling as his frame wracked with heaving sobs he could not control. His children crowded close, hugging their father and each other – this was the closure they had never had, for it had always been too painful, yet years later, after all the suffering, the anxiety, the depression, the killing, it had never been spoken of, and so it had festered. This was why the roses would not grow, realized the prince as he worked his magic on the roots, this was what Mentathiel was singing about.

“… the bud will not bloom until the sadness is purged”

And behind the now healing family, Celebrian’s parents came together in a tender embrace, for Galadriel knew then, that their child had been restored in Valinor, she was hail once more, beautiful once more, and they rejoiced.

Legolas slowly began to make his way out of the gardens, as the entire population of Imladris met him head on as they moved in the opposite direction, eager to see the gardens. They reached out to him, touching him as he passed them. And then there was Gildor, beaming as he bowed low.

“Only a miracle could have changed my mind my lord, and that is what you have given us.”

Legolas smiled forgivingly, placing a hand on his shoulder before continuing to walk away, leaving behind the music and the singing, his heart lightening now that it had been done.

Mithrandir and Aiwendil followed him from a distance, knowing he would seek solitude now, for after what the lord had just done, he would need to meditate, place everything into some semblance of perspective, rest and allow his mind to assimilate his deeds, reason away the confusion, the disbelief they knew he himself would be feeling.

Legolas finally stopped under a welcoming tree, listening to its greeting, its invitation for him to take shelter and rest. And so the Forest Lord sat, crossing his legs under him, wishing he could slip his crown off, yet his hair had been worked into it, he would need help yet he did not wish for company, he wished for silence.

The two maias made their presence known to him then, walking over to the sitting lord and taking up identical seats on either side of him, smiling yet saying nothing. They simply reached up and began to untwine his locks, finally loosening the head dress and slipping it off.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he looked to one, and then the other, yet it was Mithrandir who spoke first.

“Well, young Forest Lord, it is done”, he said softly, smiling fatherly. “You have done well”, he said, glancing over to Aiwendil, who was smiling kindly, watching the young protégé as he dipped his head in thanks, yet his eyes wandered to the side, his expression losing focus.

“I can hardly believe what I have done”, he whispered. “I did not know how I would do it, only that I would – and even then it still seems impossible to me, all that power. It was – frightening yet exhilarating”, he laughed somewhat unsteadily, not with mirth but disbelief.

“You may find, young Forest Lord, that you cannot control your power at first”, began Aiwendil. “You will need to channel it, learn to manipulate it, command it at will, ‘tis no easy task”, he added, his tone was challenging, yet his voice had been soft and melodic.

“But how, for I would not know where to begin”, he said, his eyes regaining focus as he looked at the brown wizard.

“Then – let me help you. I am by no means a powerful wizard, Legolas. But I do have magic and I know the nature of it, this much I can teach you.”

He smiled beautifully then, for he was truly relieved, he needed guidance, he knew, and who better than Aiwendil to give it?

“Then it is settled”, said Mithrandir. “Now, my lord, do you wish to join the revelry? For you are a woodelf and you are missing the party.

“There will be another time for celebrating, Mithrandir. I confess my mind is overloaded, strained to its limits, and my body seems – devoid of strength, I do not feel stable enough.”

“Then rest, lay your head back and rest, we will keep your peace” he said, smiling kindly as he watched the young lord comply, laying back against the trunk, closing his eyes.

Mithrandir moved away a little, reaching into the depths of his grey-white robes. He took out his pipe and lit it, puffing out clouds of heavy blue smoke which then dissipated, focusing first into the form of the white tree, and then into a great Greenwood drum. Aiwendil watched and smiled as a child would, as he dug into his own pocket, taking out a wriggling field mouse, stroking its ears as it wrinkled its nose at the wizard, a jealous squirrel peaking over his brown-clad shoulder before rubbing its snout against the rugged face.

“Sleep long, sweet Legolas,” whispered Mithrandir. “Sleep long.”

And he did, for his dreams were sweet as he lay there in the embrace of the sentinel as it encircled its protector, wrapping him in a blanket of love, peace and hope.
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The Protege IV: Lord of the Forests