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Darian followed the elf to the kitchens. He was swiftly given food:
new, warm bread, meat carved off the spits in the hearth, cool water
drawn from the springs below the caverns; a flask of wine. Having lived
off trail rations for the past two days, it seemed a feast. He ate
swiftly, drinking the fresh water gratefully, but leaving the wine. He
was unused to it, and did not wish to appear muddle-headed in front of
the elves.
“How did you come to be in Lasgalen?” asked the elf who had served him.
“Your messenger came through my village two days ago. I could see
he was injured, and feared he’d not make it through the forest. He
wouldn’t stop, but I couldn’t leave him to ride on alone, so decided to
go with him. Your folk helped my village two years ago, when we
suffered from severe flooding. It was something I could do in return.
That’s all.”
The elf looked at him questioningly. “Your village ... Verush? Is that
it?”
Darian nodded, surprised that the elf knew of it.
“Then you may remember our prince. Legolas brought one of his patrols
to you to help.”
Darian vividly remembered the elves who had helped save his village.
They had worked alongside the villagers, drenched from the teeming
rain, digging ditches to divert flood waters, filling sandbags, moving
cattle to higher ground, and wrapping food supplies in skins before
hoisting them into the trees. The one in charge had been the butt of
much humour when he slipped, falling full length in the filthy water.
He had sat there, dripping, hair a muddy brown, swearing like a foot
soldier - in Westron. Legolas ... yes, that had been the name.
“He said after that Elvish didn’t contain the words he needed to say,”
said Darian, relating the tale.
The elf gave a wry smile and a nod. “Yes, that sounds like Legolas.”
“He was your prince? I had no
idea. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
His companion inclined his head, acknowledging Darian’s words. “Please,
come with me. A room has been prepared for you. You will find us poor
company tonight, but tomorrow we will arrange an escort for you. There
are ... messages to take to our kindred.”
~~**~~
Five days after leaving Imladris, Legolas drew near to Lasgalen.
He had made good time, but was beginning to be disturbed by a vague
sense of wrongness. Something
was amiss in the forest. He frowned, trying to identify what it
was. He felt a slight sense of unease, not much as yet, but there was something, and there did not seem
to be any shadows from Dol Guldur. The forest sounds were there,
birdsong and insects, the constant murmur of leaves stirring. So what
was it? He realised it was the trees. They were sad, and
sang a song of sorrow.
He quickened his pace, and emerged from the path, joining with the road
that lead west from Esgaroth, before turning north to his father’s
halls. As he approached, something still seemed wrong, and a deep
sense of unease, growing to dread crept upon him. He realised he
had not seen or heard anyone yet. Normally there would be hunting
parties out, the sound of weapons practice from the armoury, voices,
shouts and laughter. There was nothing. The whole of Lasgalen seemed
deserted. Where was everyone? What
had happened?
There was still no sense of evil, but the stillness was
unnerving. As Legolas came to the two tall trees that marked the
entrance to Lasgalen, he stopped dead, staring upwards in shock.
Usually two banners flew from tall poles, one bearing the sign of a
tree, and the other the oak-leaf symbol and insignia of Lasgalen, so
familiar he barely noticed them normally.
But now it was different. The banners hung limply half-way down the
poles, and both had the white edge of mourning. It signified a death in
the royal household. Legolas could just remember seeing the banners
like this once before, when his mother had died.
He stared at the banners numbly, still disbelieving. It could only mean
one thing. His father was dead. But how? What had happened? He
swallowed against a hard lump in his throat, and realised he was
shaking.
He dismounted from Pavisel, leaving him to graze, and slowly crossed
the bridge to the doors. The sentries stared at him, seeming startled
by his appearance; and one spoke, but Legolas took no notice; did not
even hear him. He headed instinctively for the Great Hall where feasts
were held, and where his father sat in judgement or to hear requests
and petitions. Like the corridors and halls, it was now silent
and deserted. Somehow the stillness, more than anything else, convinced
him that his father was indeed gone.
Thranduil’s crown lay abandoned on a small table at the side of the
throne. It changed with the seasons, and was now crafted of autumn
leaves, berries, nuts and acorns. Legolas touched it with one hand, so
gently the leaves did not stir or even rustle. He closed his eyes in
desperate sorrow, and clenched his hands into fists.
“Oh, my father, what happened to you?” he murmured. “Why was I not
here? If I had not gone to Imladris; if I had returned with Nifael,
maybe I would have been here when you needed me. I should have been here.”
Slowly Legolas sank down to sit on the steps of the throne - his now,
he realised with a sudden jolt. He
was king of Lasgalen. It was a title he had never wanted, or even
expected to inherit. His life as a warrior had made the succession
uncertain at times. Although as a child he had often sat there,
pretending, now that it was real, it was different.
Strangely, it was his mother’s death he now remembered. That had been
so very, very long ago - he had been a child of just ten. There had
been a long, dark night, full of grim faces, hurried whispers and
running feet.
He had known there was something wrong, but no-one would tell him
anything. No-one had come to send him to bed. No-one even noticed him,
crouched in a corner of the corridor.
Later, much later, his father had come to him. He was crying. He had
explained, haltingly, that Telparian had gone to join grandfather
Oropher in the Halls of Mandos - and the new baby sister had gone with
her.
It was scant consolation, now, to know that Thranduil had at last been
reunited with her. With all of them.
He remembered, as well, the close bond he had had with his father, the
lively discussions they had had - furious arguments, sometimes - mostly
about Thranduil’s isolationist policies, his mistrust of other races,
what Legolas saw as his father’s over-protectiveness. While Legolas had
finally won this final argument, there had been little movement in
other areas. Thranduil could never forget his experiences before Mordor
in the Last Alliance, and what he saw as Isildur’s weakness and
treachery.
But over recent years things had improved. The trade agreements between
Lasgalen and Esgaroth were now far more amicable, and there were even
trade negotiations - albeit limited - with the dwarves of the Lonely
Mountain. The Battle of Five Armies had changed many things.
When the goblins and wargs had attacked so suddenly, everything had
changed. Ancient enmities became ancient history. Legolas and his
father had been fighting desperately, side by side, all differences
with the dwarves forgotten. At the end, Thorin had fallen, but
Thranduil had made his peace with the dwarf, and returned Orcrist to
him before he died.
There were other memories, too, of rides together beneath the beeches
of Lasgalen, of laughter, shared moments, the time when Alfiel, Tirnan
and Tionel had managed to get both Legolas and Thranduil drunk on the
Dorwinion wine - much to the mirth of all present.
But that was all finished now, no more. Now all that was left were the
memories. He still wore one memory on a slender chain of mithril
around his neck – a memento of a very special day he and his father had
shared. Reaching inside his tunic, Legolas pulled out a small,
flattish stone, a naturally-formed hole through the centre. It
was worn smooth, highly polished after years of being worn next to his
skin. Fingering the stone absently, he sat alone in the Great
Hall and remembered.
~~**~~
Thranduil’s steward Tionel came in at the far end of the hall by the
windows. He carried a large glass bowl, painted with scenes of the
Battle of Five Armies, a gift from the people of Lake Town. Thranduil
was depicted on it, and Legolas, together with the dwarves, Bard, and
the great eagles. Tionel did not immediately notice the
still figure, sitting with head bowed on the steps. When the image
registered itself on his mind, he stared, his face ashen. The glass
bowl slipped from nerveless fingers and fell to the floor, smashing
into a thousand rainbow coloured shards, glinting in the sunlight.
Legolas turned sharply at the crash. He had been so lost in thought he
had not heard Tionel enter. He stood abruptly, brushing a hand across
his eyes. “Tionel. Where is everyone? What - what happened?”
Tionel stood staring at him for so long Legolas wondered if he had
spoken aloud. Then, very hesitantly, the steward answered.
“Legolas? Is it really you?” He sounded puzzled.
“Yes, of course it is!” Legolas exclaimed impatiently. “Who
were you expecting? Tionel … how did he die? What happened?”
“What happened?” Tionel repeated blankly. “Legolas, we have
been asking ourselves the same question.”
Legolas swore. “I knew I should have been here! I should
never have gone to Imladris – there was no need to go chasing
trolls! My place is here, I should have been at his side –
perhaps then it would never have happened!”
“Legolas, what do you mean?
“I just rode in,” Legolas explained. “You should have received my
message by now. I ... saw the banners outside.” He paused before
he could continue. “I know my father is dead, but will you please tell me what happened!” His
grief was beginning to be replaced by exasperation and anger.
Tionel was still staring at him, dumbfounded. Then he shook himself, as
if coming out of a daze. His usual commonsense began to re-assert
itself. “You sent a message?”
“Yes, with Nifael,” Legolas replied impatiently. “Did he deliver it? I
should have his ears for this! Tionel, please tell me one thing – how
did he die?” His voice broke slightly on the last plea.
Tionel concentrated on the most important thing. “There is nothing
wrong with your father that the sight of you will not cure. The
message we received yesterday said you were dead - Legolas, Lasgalen is
in mourning for you, not your
father!”
Legolas gazed at Tionel, trying to understand the chain of
events. He wondered how his straightforward message could
have been so misunderstood, with such devastating consequences, and
vowed he would kill Nifael personally.
But one simple fact shone clear and bright, like a beacon. His father
was alive. That was all that mattered. The relief hit him like a blow,
and he sank back down onto the steps.
“Thank the Valar,” he whispered softly. Then the secondary fact
hit him, almost as hard, and he jumped to his feet again. “Wait a
moment, he thinks me dead? Tionel, I must go to him. Where is he?”
Legolas ran swiftly up the stairs, two at a time, as he made his way to
his father’s rooms. At the door, he paused, uncharacteristically
hesitant. What, in the name of all the Valar, could he say? He
opened the door and slipped into the room. There was a table just
inside the door, bearing two trays. One held vegetables and meat -
venison, cooked in a rich sauce. It was cold and congealed. An unopened
flask of wine stood on the tray. A second tray held bread and fruit,
also untouched.
Legolas crossed the room to where his father stood, staring out of the
windows at the tops of the tallest trees in the forest. Thranduil
turned slowly at the soft sound of footsteps behind him.
“Tionel, please …” He broke off, staring in unbelieving hope.
“Father,” said Legolas in the same instant. Father and son gazed at one
another, and swiftly closed the short gap between them, embracing
tightly, as if their grip could repel the bitter memories. “I
thought you were dead,” both said at once.
Thranduil cradled the blond head against his shoulder, burying his face
in the soft hair. This was a moment he had never imagined he
would ever experience again. “I never thought to see you
again,” he murmured. “The message – they told me you were
dead. I thought you were dead, elfling.”
Legolas nodded, without once lifting his head from his father’s
shoulder. “I know,” he whispered. “Tionel said. But why?”
Thranduil hesitated. He could recall little of Alfiel’s words the
day before, or what Tionel had subsequently said to him. “I think
Nifael had been injured. He said something about trolls.
And I had had a dream. About you, fighting some trolls – one of
them hit you.” He drew back a little, touching Legolas’s brow,
still faintly discoloured, very gently. “Just here. My
mother at times had the gift of foresight – I knew it was a true dream.”
“It was true – but I was injured, not killed.” Legolas hugged his
father tightly again. “I believed you dead, too. The forest
felt wrong – the trees were mourning; telling me ‘he is dead’.
Then I saw the banners, and all my fears were confirmed.” He
shuddered, and tightened his embrace.
They stood together, silent now, neither willing to release the other,
rejoicing in the great gift they had been given.
~~**~~
Later, Legolas went to the infirmary to see Nifael. A message had come
from Tirana that he had finally regained consciousness, and was utterly
mortified at the consequences of his misheard message.
Nifael was propped against several pillows, but tried to sit upright as
he saw Legolas approaching. “My Lord! Forgive me, my Lord, it was
all my fault. I took the wrong turning, and was attacked by
goblins. I lost your letter, and when I got to Lasgalen ....”
“When he got to Lasgalen, your fool of a second did not hear what he
was saying.” Alfiel finished from behind him. “Legolas, I am so sorry.
I did not hear all of Nifael’s message. The part I did hear ..... I
should have made certain. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Legolas reassured them both.
“You did nothing wrong. It was just – unfortunate.”
Nifael described how he had got lost, and the orc attack: “I should
have been more careful. I lost the letter, and could not even deliver
your message properly. Forgive me, my Lord.”
“Nifael, stop it! I told you, you did nothing wrong. You acted in the
highest traditions of the messenger service, you are a credit to them.
Despite your injuries, you delivered your message safely. You did well.”
Nifael glowed at the praise. “Thank you, my Lord!”
“However, there is one more thing I have to say to you. I want you to
listen carefully.” Legolas sounded deadly serious now, and Nifael’s
smile faded. He looked apprehensive. “Stop saying ‘my Lord’ all
the time. I have a name. Please use it.”
Nifael’s smile had returned, and Alfiel was trying not to laugh.
“Yes, my - Legolas. I will try.”
Legolas turned to the healer. “Tirana! There will be a feast tonight.
Will he be well enough to come?”
Tirana looked at Nifael gravely. “No, absolutely not! But no
doubt a flask or two of wine will find its way here. Just be
careful. No dancing!”
“Your father has ordered a celebration, then?” asked Alfiel.
“A celebration? Feasts and festivities.
Jollifications and jubilations. Dancing and Dorwinion.
Music and – and,” Legolas stopped, unable to continue his alliterations.
“Merriment?” Alfiel supplied. “I get the picture! And from
what I saw as I came past the kitchens, it was organising itself!”
~~**~~
News of Legolas’ return had spread even faster than Nifael’s original
message, fuelled by Tionel, and the guards at the entrance who had seen
Legolas. Its progress could be followed by the sound of shouts, joyous
laughter, and cries of elation. As night fell, lamps were lit, hanging
in the trees, floating on the water, lining the paths and illuminating
every window. The whole of Lasgalen seemed ablaze with
light. The feast was memorable. There was meat, huge haunches of
venison spit-roasted over open fires, freshly baked breads, cheeses,
fruit grown in the palace gardens, and wine - even Thranduil’s
favourite Dorwinion, as Legolas had promised.
The laughter, music and song echoed around Lasgalen, penetrating deep
into the forest, as the celebrations lasted far into the night. Dancers
moved in intricate patterns, silhouetted against the flames and
flickering lanterns.
Flushed with wine and the rigours of a particularly strenuous dance,
Legolas sank to the grass by his father’s feet. All was right
with the world. He was home once more, and wondered if he would
ever want to leave again.
The
End
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