THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

Title: The Prisoner of Dol Guldur

Author: Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. However, the main hero and the individual Mirkwood Elves belong to me.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Horror/Drama

Summary: a terrible discovery after the fall of Dol Guldur

Series: loose sequel to “All Alone In the Night”. Part of “The Trials of a Woodland King” story arc.

Archiving: Edhellond, Gildor’s Library and my own website. Everyone else: please, ask first.

Author’s note: beta read by Makamu , whom I owe my sincerest thanks.

PART 1

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“Beyond the river the land appeared flat and empty, formless and vague, until far away it rose again like a wall, dark and drear. The sun that lay on Lothlórien had no power to enlighten the shadow of that distant height.

‘There lies the fastness of Southern Mirkwood,’ said Haldir. ‘It is clad in a forest of dark fir, where the trees strive one against another and their branches rot and wither. In the midst upon a stony height stands Dol Guldur, where long the hidden Enemy had his dwelling. We fear that now it is inhabited again, and with power sevenfold.’”

The Fellowship of the Ring – Lothlórien (p. 456)

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He knew not how long he had been here. There was no sunlight nor starlight here, no day or night – just darkness and pain. He knew, however, that it had been a very long time he had spent in this wet, fetid underground hole. Long enough to forget almost everything that had been before.

He vaguely remembered a great forest, stretching from horizon to horizon like the green waves of the Great Sea, starlight glittering on the leaves and sunlight shining on the gentle, grassy patches between tall, dark, ancient trees. He remembered having lived in such a tree: in a house built among the strong, smooth, even branches, a rope ladder being the only way down. He remembered squirrels and birds coming to visit and play with him in his chambers, back in another life, when he had been small and happy. But it was more like a fading dream; someone else’s dream, whom he did not even know any longer.

For indeed, he knew no more who he was, what he was, how he got here. He did not even know his own name anymore, though for some strange reason he knew he must have had one once. In his heart, like a fading echo, he could still hear a deep, rich voice, full of warmth and love, calling him by it. He just could not make out the name itself.

Aye, he had known love once. What it had felt like to love and be loved. Yet it had been long ago, in another time, in another life, and when he meant to hear voices from the past, he knew no longer to whom they had belonged.

Sometimes he could even remember that this dreary place, which was his prison – and would be most likely his tomb, eventually – had once belonged to his own people. Ere he was even born, ere it was taken over by dark forces, his ancestors had dwelt here. If he tried very hard, fragmented words of a forgotten song would swim up to the surface of his slowly fading, darkening memory, and he sang softly in the eternal darkness of his dungeon, finding great comfort in them.

O fading town upon a little hill,

Old memory is waning in thine ancient gates,

The robe gone grey, thine old heart almost still;

The castle only, frowning, ever waits,

And ponders how among the towering elms

The Gliding Water leaves these inland realms

And slips between long meadows to the western Sea –

Still bearing downward over murmurous falls…

Yet more and more of the sweet words got lost in the endless, echoless solitude of his imprisonment, and he dreaded the day when, eventually, they all would be lost, forever. His other memories were fading more and more. He could not recall the face belonging to that deep, rich voice that he could still hear in his heart, calling him, although he knew it had been a noble and beautiful one. He knew it, and he still knew what beauty was like – but he could not see that face any longer, not even in his mind.

Nor could he remember the face of the woman whose soft, gentle voice sometimes sang to him in his troubled dreams. He thought it had to be his mother – he still knew what a mother was supposed to be – but when he tried to see her, all he could imagine were vague outlines of a slender shape in green and brown. At least he believed the colours were green and brown… he was not sure any longer what they looked like.

Sometimes he wondered whether he would be blinded completely, should he, by some miracle, be able to leave this dungeon again. Not that that was likely to happen – though his guards must have kept him alive for a reason. A reason he could not fathom. They could not have wanted to use him in a bargain with his own people; had that been the reason, it would have already happened, long ago.

Nor did they ask him any questions. Not any more, that is, although he did have the vague memory of being questioned in a cold, lightless place by some creature colder and darker than the place itself. Not that he would be able to tell them any secrets now, but after that one time, they never even asked. They did not even torture him any longer, unless one considered it a torture to be fed with the sticky sweet rahdak cake all the time and never given enough water to wash it down afterwards. He learned to eat it (and the small craps of dried, raw meat) without protest, trying not to think about the origins of that meat. On rare occasions, the guards gave him a small flask of some very strong draught that burned its way down his belly like liquid fire, and he drank it, for it knocked him to blessed oblivion.

But these unexpected gestures ware rare and far between. The guards never even spoke to him, although sometimes he could hear them talking and quarrelling in their rough and ugly tongue, sitting on the trap door of his dungeon.

It seemed as if everyone but the guards had forgotten about him. And unless the darkness, the filth and the loneliness killed him, he would rot here, forgotten, ‘til the end of Arda. He seemed to remember that his people could force themselves to die by sheer willpower, if there was no other way to escape, but he was too weak, too broken to try even that.

Sometimes memories came up unexpectedly: scenes of a long, vicious battle in some dark, foreign country, his people falling dead all around him like autumn leaves, the pain of being wounded, a strange coldness paralyzing his limbs, starting from the wound and creeping all over his body. That was the last, most vivid memory – he could not remember much after that. The questioning in the icy, stone room. The eerie feeling of having someone who had belonged to his former life close to him, a year ago. Or a hundred years. Or a thousand. He could never figure out when it was. Time was always the same here – one blind, dull now.

He knew he must have been captured shortly after receiving that wound, there was no other explanation – but he had no memories about it actually happening. And he never got to see his chief jailor, not after that first interrogation. All he heard, aside from his own voice, was the quarrelling of the guards, and even that rarely enough, as if they had been ordered to keep out of his earshot.

Nonetheless, he could feel through who knew how many levels of earth and stone when the one in command returned. It was as if an icy coldness permeated the entire place, freezing everything to a numbness of not the limbs only but also that of the mind and the heart. And in such times his old wound caused him great pain again.

At first, he welcomed the pain as something different from the maddening conformity of his imprisonment. Unpleasant as it was, at least it kept his weary mind from slipping away even more. And the uncomfortable sensations, if he focussed on them long enough, could still bring back at least the memories of the battle. Those were not memories he was fond of, but at least he could find some comfort in the fact that his mind had not yet emptied itself completely.

Lately, though, that cold malice seemed to dwell above his dungeon all the time. The pain had become as constant and all-consuming as the darkness and the silence. It ceased to be helpful – it just was. He wondered if he would finally become some mindless beast, losing everything he had been holding to for so long: the awareness of his own existence, the shards of his memories, even his body’s reaction to suffering.

When the stone walls began crumbling down above him, he was nearly gone already. He more knew than felt the sliding soil and broken stones burying him alive, compressing his chest and breaking his brittle ribs, filling his sightless eyes, his ears, his mouth. He welcomed them with the last conscious thought of his slipping mind.

His sufferings had come to an end, at last. Soon, he would be free, leaving this broken shell behind. He would go to the Halls and rest.

TBC

Note:

Poem quoted from the very first version of Kortirion Under the Trees by Tolkien himself, as it can be found on Page 25 in The Book of Lost Tales, Part 1. The rahdak cake – albeit with different spelling – was borrowed from Enros’ story, One Dark Night.

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note: I changed a bit the actual canon events, adding Thranduil’s helping host to the mix. As you will see, it was necessary.

Beta read by Makamu again, thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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PART 2

Three times Lórien had been assailed from Dol Guldur, but besides the valour of the elven people of the land, the power that dwelt there was too great for any to overcome, unless Sauron had come there himself. Through grievous harm was done to the fair woods on the borders, the assaults were driven back; and when the Shadow passed, Celeborn came forth and led the host of Lórien over Anduin in many boats. They took Dol Guldur and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits, and the forest was cleansed.

The Return of the King, Appendix B: The Tale of Years (p. 472)

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The siege of Dol Guldur was almost over when a host of Mirkwood archers arrived to the battle, lead by their own King, no less. They had come from a long and vicious battle fought in the North, following the trail of their fleeing enemy that led them straight into another battle. With great wrath did they throw themselves into the fight once more, and soon the battle was won, the Elves emerging victoriously.

This was the first time since the early Second Age that Thranduil and Celeborn, the estranged kindred, met again. And though Thranduil was still wary about Galadriel and her Ring, he had to admit that Nenya’s power was a great advantage. They came no closer, the Lady of the Golden Wood and the King of Mirkwood, but at least they made peace for Celeborn’s sake, whom they both loved greatly – he as one would love a brother and she as one loved the other half of one’s fëa⁽¹⁾.

And when the dark tower of Dol Guldur was gone, its blackened walls torn down to their foundations, its defenders slain to the last Orc, Thranduil’s chief tracker came forth, one of the Faithful whom the Noldor sometimes called the Avari – and Elf older than the Sun and the Moon, who wore the name of Alagos, which meant Storm of Wind. He and his fellow Faithful had shovels and began to dig up the collapsed dungeons.

“You truly hope to find anyone still alive down there?” asked Haldir with a frown.

The Dark Elf shrugged. “We cannot know for certain. We knew not when we dug up the pits of Utumno either. And yet I found my brother back then… even though he was more an Orc than an Elf already. Many of our people have vanished without a trace during this Age – even if we do not find any of them, we can at least say that we tried.”

That was an unusually long speech from Alagos. He was an Elf of few words and many deeds. This alone showed how much he was touched by the possible fate of his people. Haldir shrugged. For his part, he doubted very much that they would find anyone down there – anyone that still lived, that is – but the Lord Celeborn had ordered them to support the troops of Mirkwood in anything they might need. Thus he took a shovel himself and helped them.

On the first few levels, they found naught but rotting bones and the rusty remnants of the chains with which the unfortunate prisoners had once been fastened to the iron rings on the walls. Some all too well known signs revealed that they had been eventually eaten by the ever-hungry Orcs. When they were no longer of any use for the questioners, most likely. Imagining a fate like that made the Elves of Lothlórien, most of whom had enjoyed the protection of Nenya for an Age or even longer, sick with horror and many of them gave up their task, ashamed but utterly relieved.

Alagos did not blame them. Not everyone could stomach the horrors of such places, even less so without previous experience. He and his fellow Avari kept digging, though, and thus they finally came to the deepest level of the dungeons.

The sight of those pits made everyone but the hardened Avari sick. The prisoners kept there had obviously been still alive during the siege of Dol Guldur – and many of them had been maimed and tortured for years upon years. Empty eyeholes, missing limbs, deliberately inflicted horrible wounds had destroyed their once-possessed beauty beyond recognition.

“It seems that the Abhorrent One was trying to find out Melkor’s secret,” said Alagos to his King in a low voice.

The mere thought of that made Thranduil turn deathly pale.

“You mean he tried to turn them into Orcs?” he asked. Alagos nodded, his hard face blank and closed like the shutters of a tower chamber.

“These wounds… they look frighteningly familiar,” he said. “I saw Elves maimed and disfigured like this… in the pits of Utumno, when they got laid open. ‘Tis a blessing none of these here survived.”

Thranduil swallowed hard and forced himself to take a look at every single one of the victims. He owed them that much. They had once been Elves – his Elves, his brave and faithful warriors.

“Some of them do seem familiar…” he said, a great sadness spreading all over his heart.

“I recognized them all,” replied Alagos grimly, and walking from one broken body to another, he called them by their names and bode them the traditional farewell of the Faithful.

“Why is it that I cannot see who they were?” murmured Thranduil with regret. “They were my people. I should recognize them, too.”

“They were your people, ‘tis true,” said Alagos, “yet you have never seen Elves twisted this way before, my King. I have. Too many of them. My eyes are trained to see beyond what they are now. Remember, I am much older than you are. I have seen more.”

“And yet I think I do know this one,” said Thranduil suddenly, halting by the broken corpse of someone who must have been an exceptionally tall Elf once. The body was maimed horribly, the face crushed almost beyond recognition, due to repeatedly broken facial bones and a missing eye, the long hair wild and matted, all four limbs broken – and healed badly – in several places, and yet…

“He was not one of us,” decided Alagos after a long, hard look.

“Nay,” agreed Thranduil sadly, “but I know who he used to be.”

“Who then?” asked Alagos, surprised that his King would recognize this one while unable to do so with his own people.

“I cannot be entirely certain,” said Thranduil slowly, “but I think this was once Malgalad, Haldir’s father.”

“Sweet Kémi⁽²⁾!” murmured the Dark Elf. “He must have been kept here since the Last Alliance, then. For more than three thousand years.”

“And yet Sauron has not succeeded to turn him into a monster,” said Thranduil. Alagos shrugged.

“The Abhorrent One never had that kind of power. Not even while he still had that cursed Ring of his. But at least Haldir and his family can be comforted now. Horrible as Malgalad’s fate has been, he is finally at peace.”

Thranduil nodded. The tale of Haldir’s father was a well known one among the Silvan folk, one people told each other with their hands covering their mouths, for it caused them great fear and great sorrow. Malgalad – a Nandor Elf of noble descent – had been King Amdír’s chief warlord and led the remainder of Lothlórien’s army into battle after Amdír had been slain upon the battle plain of Dagorlad, being cut off from the main host and driven into what was called later the Dead Marshes.

After that, Haldir’s father vanished without a trail. His body had never been found; but many thought that he had been captured and dragged to an unknown fortress deep in Mordor where the servants of the Dark Lord lay hidden, preparing for a new Master to arise. There had been whispered rumours that Malgalad might not have been killed but turned into some hideous monster and had been serving the evil purposes of the Enemy, even after He had been overthrown and perished.

These were, of course, malevolent rumours only – but hurtful enough for Haldir to become haughty and slightly hostile towards everyone who was not already an old friend. It made Rúmil’s once so merry nature a little bitter and his jokes biting. And it caused Orophin – the youngest brother, who had hardly even known their father – to withdraw even more into himself, 'til his voice was hardly heard any more, unless necessary.

Gwenethlin, their mother and one of the last Wise Women of the Silvan folk, carried her unspoken shame with stubborn pride, saying that she would have gone to Mandos’ Halls voluntarily, should the rumours have proven true; yet no-one could silence them completely, and for a very long time, the whole family had to wear the mark of evil, with or without true reason.

Thranduil was glad that the truth had finally been found out. He respected Mistress Gwenethlin greatly, and knew that no matter the grief, she would be relieved to learn the fate of her husband.

Someone ran to call Haldir and the other Lórien Elves, and they gathered around their former captain with great sorrow but also with relief. Even Celeborn and Galadriel came to pay their respects. Although Malgalad had supported Amdír against them, he had been a great leader and a faithful friend and deserved to be respected.

As the people of Lothlórien began their lament for Malgalad, the Avari of Mirkwood continued their digging, while others prepared the place of final rest for the murdered prisoners. There were no nargaladh⁽³⁾ trees in the branches of which they could have laid the dead, as if was the custom of the Faithful, thus they decided to bury them farther away from the naked hill of Dol Guldur and raise a mound above them.

Suddenly one of the Avari ceased his work and called out to Thranduil. “My Lord, we found the last one… and he seems to be breathing still!”

Thranduil hurried to the last dungeon, where two young archers had just unearthed a limp, motionless figure that had been buried under broken stone and clam soil. It was a male Elf, his practically bare body only covered with mud and filth – and, although frighteningly thin and wraith-like – more or less unharmed.

Alagos felt down that skeleton-like chest and found that practically all ribs were broken or at least knacked, but it seemed to have happened only a short time ago, perchance due to the destruction of the dark tower.

“I think he will live,” the Dark Elf judged, “but we shall need a stretcher. And we must wash him first to see if he has other injuries.”

They carefully moved the barely breathing prisoner closer to one of the hurriedly made fires and laid him on the bare soil, as not even grass could grow on this hill that had been soaked with evil for so long. Someone brought a bowl with warm water, a cloth and a piece of soap-root, and Alagos gently began to wash away the layers upon layers of filth, mud and dried excrements that crusted the prisoner’s body.

‘Twas like peeling an onion; it took him several fresh bowls of water and several fresh clothes and many pieces of soap-root to soften up and clean away every new layer of dirt, each of which seemed to be a bit less dark than the previous one. An eerie feeling that mayhap there would be nothing left when he finished overcame him, but he went on with his work nonetheless.

Unlike the others, he recognized the prisoner at once, but his heart refused to believe it. Yet when finally all layers of filth had been removed, the painfully thin, deathly pale face was unmistakable. It had more in common with a skull – the cheeks nonexistent, the eyes deeply sunken and unnaturally large in that wasted face, the teeth rotten to blackened chunks, the mouth lipless, the neglected hair brittle like dry straw and caked with mud. And still, behind that grotesque mask of pain – and possibly even madness – he could see what it once used to be like.

And Alagos, the Dark Elf, who had seen more than anyone else still dwelling in Middle-earth, he who had been born before the Sun and the Moon, he who could take anything with a shrug and who faced the Úilari without a flinch, now sank to his knees and wept.

Thranduil, alarmed by the strange behaviour of his unflappable chief tracker, pushed through his people to take a closer look. After one short glance, though, he came to a halt, as if suddenly rooted in the stony floor. He could not utter a single word, just stood there, thunderstruck, staring at the freed prisoner with wide, shocked eyes.

Celeborn walked over to him, leaving Haldir to his own grief, and laid a comforting hand upon his cousin’s forearm.

“Do you know him?” he asked quietly.

Slowly, barely visible, the King of Mirkwood nodded.

“I… I know not what he is now,” he whispered. “But once, an Age and a lifetime ago, he used to be my second-born son.”

He, too, fell to his knees, gathering that wasted body in his arms, holding it with the utmost care as if he held something very fragile and infinitely precious.

“My poor son,” he murmured, “my poor, brave son. Whatever happened to you? Enadar, can you hear me? Are you still in there at all?”

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There was that achingly familiar voice again: rich, deep, gentle, calling his name, anchoring his slipping mind to a body that was barely able to hold him any longer. He struggled weakly against the sweet temptation, did not want to stay, being here hurt, he wanted to be at peace. But the pull of that loving voice was too strong, being called by his name held too much power, his weakened will could not resist. With a weary sigh, more thought than actually given, he gave in and returned to his fragile shell.

It hurt more than he had expected. The fresh smell of wind and water tormented him, after so many hundred years spent in the stale stench of the dungeon. The soft voices of his rescuers sounded loud and harsh after the bleak silence that had been his existence for so long. And when he opened his eyes, just a little, the dim light of a warm sunset stabbed them as if someone had rammed hot-red iron spikes through his eye sockets. A weak, raw scream burst out of his throat – he was too dried out for tears, and the pain was excruciating.

“Ssh,” that familiar voice soothed him in a whisper softer than the evening breeze,” all will be well now, my little one. You are with me again. You will rest and heal, my heart.”

Every inch of his skin hurt, having been robbed of the protective layers of filth, but he relaxed into the arms holding him nevertheless. There was a soft touch on his sunken cheek, softer even than the fingers caressing him, and he knew it was a gentle kiss, although he had long forgotten what that felt like. He still could not remember whom the voice belonged to, but he was sure beyond reason that he could trust it. His blindly seeking finger found a long, silky braid of soft hair; he grabbed it with the instinct of a newborn, and, having finally found something safe to hold on to, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

TBC

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End notes:

(1) fëa = the essence of an incarnate being, the rough equivalent of a soul

(2) Kémi = an early name for Yavanna; I assumed that Alagos, an ancient Avari Elf would prefer it to later versions

(3) nargaladh = fire-tree; invented by Dwimordene in her story Roots and used with her permission

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note: The timeline might be a little tweaked here, but not very much. Actually, the opening quote is the only thing that might be timely a little misplaced.

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PART 3

“In the North also there had been war and evil. The realm of Thranduil was invaded, and there was long battle under the trees and great ruin of fire; but in the end Thranduil had the victory. And on the day of the New Year of the Elves, Celeborn and Thranduil met in the midst of the forest; and they renamed Mirkwood Eryn Lasgalen, the Wood of Greenleaves. Thranduil took all the northern region as far as the mountains that rise in the forest for his realm; and Celeborn took the southern wood below the Narrow, and named it East Lórien.”

The Return of the King, Appendix B – The Tale of the Years, p- 472.

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Someone brought another bowl of water, and one of the healers began to wash the prisoner’s hair – no-one could bring it upon their hearts to actually call him Enadar or their prince yet, the damage was too great for them to cope with right now. Several turns of washing and rinsing later, the hair was finally clean and less brittle – yet also snow white. It was a shocking sight, as Elves actually did not turn grey, not even at a very high age, unless they went through something truly terrible. The only known Elf in Middle-earth with white hair was Old Galion, who had witnessed the destruction of the First City of the Quendi by Melkor’s fire demons, after all.

“He will need clothes,” said Thranduil, “but the rough garb we wear in battle would hurt him even more. Can you lend us something, cousin?”

Celeborn nodded, his heart breaking for his nephew whom he had never seen before, and turned to his aide, a young Silvan Elf of Lórien.

“Bring us the blankets from my bag, Faelon,” he said. “They should be soft enough.”

The young aide returned in no time with the silky soft grey blankets made only in Lothlórien in these times. They wrapped Enadar in several layers to warm him up, and two of the Mirkwood Elves were busily preparing a stretcher already.

“Are you certain that dragging him all the way back to your fortress would be wise?” asked Celeborn quietly. “We have come by boat; it would be easier for him to travel on the River.”

“He needs to be at home,” replied Thranduil, clutching the hand of his newly found son as if he feared that someone would take him away again. “With his people and his family.”

Celeborn gave his cousin a long look, full of sorrow. “Am I not family? Are we not your people – and his?”

Thranduil could not answer at once. True enough; they had been raised as brothers, long ago, back in the enchanted woods of Doriath. Before its destruction by the obsessed sons of Fëanor. Before Celeborn married the Warrior Princess of the Noldor and they became estranged as a result.

“Think of this,” continued Celeborn. “Where you dwell now, where you have dwelt all this Age, has never been your son’s home. He used to live in Oropher’s tree city in the Emyn Duir. I think not that after an Age in a dungeon living in underground caverns would suit him.”

Thranduil hesitated for a moment, but when he caught a glimpse of Galadriel watching them intently, he shook his head.

“Nay, I shall not take my son to Caras Galadhon. He can have a tree house back home, just like the one in which he was born.”

Celeborn smiled but the hurt was clearly visible in his darkening eyes. It seemed two entire Ages had been too short a time for his cousin to change his view about Galadriel. Alas, that could not be helped. But the Lord of the Trees was determined not to let Thranduil endanger his son any more, out of sheer stubbornness.

“You need not to come to our city if it displeases you so much,” he said, “although Legolas seemed to like it well enough during his visit. But you can dwell on Cerin Amroth, until your son regains some of his strength. Amroth’s house is long gone, but there still is a wide talan on the royal mallorn, and I can have a temporary dwelling place made by the time we reach Lothlórien.”

Thranduil was still not willing to give in so easily, but Alagos, who had been listening to them all the time, now found it necessary to intervene.

“The Lord Galdaran is right, my King,” he said, calling Celeborn by the name by which the woodland folk knew him. “Cerin Amroth would be better for your son to heal. And Legolas could reach the two of you much faster and easier there.”

That was an argument that crushed the King’s resistance more than anything else. He longed to see his youngest son – his only son for the last three thousand years – again. And Legolas deserved to meet his long lost brother, too, regardless in which shape Enadar was or if he would ever recover.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Send our people back to the fortress, with instructions for Maelduin⁽³⁾ to rule in my name ‘til I return. I want you and your archers with me – and no-one else.”

Alagos nodded. “As you wish, my King. I shall endeavour to contact my own kin that still live on this side of the Nimrodel. There are very few of the Faithful left, but they will come and assist us.”

“Good,” said Thranduil, only half his mind on the matter, while rocking his sleeping son in his arms. “I shall leave everything in your capable hands. I need to be with my son now.”

“We well leave at daybreak,” Celeborn told the Dark Elf, and Alagos hurried off to get everything taken care of in time.

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

There was still darkness around him when he opened his eyes, but this darkness was soft and warm. And there was a slight, far-away glimmer above him that did not hurt his eyes – the silver starlight, barely shining through the clouds of the night skies. He was wrapped in something soft that felt pleasant to the touch, and the surface he was laying upon was rocking slightly, very slightly. It caused him no pain at all. He could hear the soft murmurs of running water, the slight splashing of tiny waves against wood and slowly realized that he was travelling on water. Most likely in a boat.

Smudged memories of another river, swift and loud in a deep bed between tall trees came to him. Of small, auburn-haired, pointy-eared creatures padding and laughing and shrieking in pleasure – had he possibly been one of those? And of a tall figure sitting in the rear end of the boat, steering it with a steady hand and a leaf shaped oar, his hair gleaming in the sunlight like pure honey.

He risked opening his eyes again, just a crack – it still did not hurt. That was strange, he had half-assumed that seeing the starlight had been naught but another vague dream. Just like the boat and that voice calling his name.

But nay. He was still warm and safe and without pain – well, without too much pain anywise – a strong hand holding his head and the smooth rim of a wooden cup touching his parched lips.

The scent of fresh water, missed so long, maddened him. He wanted to drink in big, greedy gulps until he gorged in it. The hand took away the cup too soon, though, and he whimpered in despair, his throat raw, his entire body yearning for water, more water to quench the horrible thirst that seemed to tear his dried-out husk apart.

“Not so hastily,” the voice murmured, and a few more sips were offered to him. “You must be careful, my son. Just a few sips at a time. There will be more later.”

He did not truly believe it – there was never enough water, and right now, the entire river would have been too little – yet the promise comforted him nonetheless. Somewhere in his still muddy mind he seemed to know that that voice had never lied to him. That it always kept its promises.

From the corner of his painfully dry eye he saw a golden gleam above him. He squinted a little, trying to clear up his foggy vision, and saw whit pounding heart a noble face, beautiful beyond imagination, beyond any fragmented memories, framed by long, honey-coloured hair. A pair of starlit grey eyes turned to him, full of joy and sorrow at the same time.

He knew that face. He knew those eyes. They belonged to the voice in his dreams. There was a word, a sweet word meaning them all: the face, the eyes, the voice, the golden hair, the strong and gentle hands… If he could only remember…

“A-ada?” he stammered, his own voice too loud and harsh in his ears, trembling with fear that he might have said the wrong thing. He could not remember the meaning of the word, too many words had got lost, but he hoped it was the right one.

The grey eyes filled with joyful tears, and the steady voice now trembled, for the first time.

“That is right, my son,” it whispered. “Ada is here.”

He sighed in relief. He had been right, had said the right thing. Mayhap this Ada could tell him what he wanted to know most.

“M-my… n-name,” he forced it out, his throat hurt badly, but he needed to know, needed it more than he needed water. “T-tell me…”

“Your name is Enadar,” the voice said as more water was offered to him,” and you are my son.”

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

“He cannot understand you, my King,” said Alagos quietly, “and he shall not, not for quite some time yet. He has been retreating into himself for a very long time, the only place that seemed safe to him. It will take time for him to come out of hiding again.”

“How long?” asked Thranduil. Alagos shrugged; there was no way to know.

“That I cannot tell. It took years for my brother, but he was halfway twisted into an Orc already. It can happen faster or slower... we cannot know. It may also happen, too, that the prince will never become again what he once used to be.”

“That matters not,” said the King. “He is my son. Whether he will have his own mind, that of a small child or that of a wild beast, I am his father and I shall take care of him. The Valar were gracious to give him back – whatever is left of him, I will accept it gladly.”

“You should appoint a guardian to him,” advised the Dark Elf. “The Council cannot rule your realm forever. You shall be needed in the coming years, to rebuild all that has been lost in this long war. The prince, though, will need someone with him all the time. I would volunteer, but my skills in woodcraft will be needed elsewhere, until the entire forest is cleaned of the yrch and other fell creatures.”

“Old Galion would do it gladly, I deem,” said Thranduil. “He helped to raise each generation of our House. If anyone can bring my son back, he can.”

“A good choice,” Alagos agreed. “He will be gentle and patient but also stern if he has to… there is hope that the prince will remember him, given enough time.”

“Will he ever remember me?” asked Thranduil, his voice full of suppressed pain.

“There is no way to tell, my King,” Alagos was not an Elf to tell lies, not even to spare someone else’s feelings,” but I hope he will. He has already recognized you… in a manner. He knows you are someone he can trust – ‘tis not a small thing from someone who has been through so much. Even if he never gets any further, at least you will always have that.”

Thranduil sighed. “I know I should be grateful. And truly, I am. But… is it wrong to hope for even more? To wish I could get him back as he used to be?”

“Nay,” replied the Dark Elf, his voice uncommonly gentle. “We all hope for more, all the time, or else we would have given up the fight long ago and gone to the Havens. Who knows, mayhap living in a tree again, being taken care of by his old tutor might awake the buried memories. He is still an Elf, no matter what happened to him. He can heal, if he only wants it badly enough.”

“I hear Elrond is coming through Lothlórien, soon,” murmured Thranduil. “He is the best healer of our kind – he might be able to help.”

Knowing his King’s stubborn pride and his long-held grudge against the Lord of Imladris, Alagos shot him a surprised look. “You are willing to ask him?”

“If it means help for my son, I am willing to beg him on my knees,” answered Thranduil dryly. “Though I think not that it would come to that. He is a healer, and he is a father himself. He will help if he can.”

TBC

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

(1) Faelon is actually a movie character from Elrond’s council, played by Justin McKenzie. I adopted him because he had brown hair.

(2) Galdaran was an early name for Celeborn in HoME 7 – “The Treason of Isengard”. It sounds a little more Wood-Elvish to me, so I assumed that it was used in the family and among the Silvan folk and the Avari.

(3) In my settings, Maelduin is the husband of Thranduil’s sister, Nelladel. He had a sister who married Celeborn’s brother Galathil. Maelduin followed Oropher to the Greenwood after the fall of Doriath and has been Thranduil’s chief counsellor and the tutor of his children ever since. Having been a devoted follower of Elu Thingol, he is not very fond of the Noldor, either, and supported Kings Amdír and Amroth against Galadriel… well, at least morally.

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note: Perladiel is another nameless movie character from Uruviel’s Argonath page. According to that site, the name was created by the Barrow-downs name generator, thus it is not a genuine Elven one. She is a russet-haired lady Elf, promoted to healer by Isabeau of Greenlea. I might change the name to a genuine one later, though.

Beta read, as always, by Makamu. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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

PART 4

“To the left stood a great mound, covered with a sward of grass as green as Spring-time in the Elder Days. Upon it, as a double crown, grew two circles of trees: the outer had bark of snowy white, and were leafless but beautiful in their shapely nakedness; the inner were mallorn-trees of great height, still arrayed in pale gold. High amid the branches of a towering tree that stood in the centre of all there gleamed a white flet. At the feet of the trees, and all about the green hillsides the grass was studded with small golden flowers shaped like stars. Among them, nodding on slender stalks, were other flowers, white and palest green: they glimmered as a mist amid the rich hue of the grass. Overall the sky was blue, and the sun of afternoon glowed upon the hill and cast long green shadows beneath the trees.

‘Behold! You are come to Cerin Amroth,’ said Haldir. ‘For this is the heart of the ancient realm as it was long ago, and here is the mound of Amroth, where in happier days his high house was built. Here ever bloom the winter flowers in the unfading grass: the yellow elanor, and the pale niphredil. Here we will stay awhile, and come to the city of the Galadhrim at dusk.’”

The Fellowship of the Ring – Lothlórien, p- 454

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

The journey on the Great River took but a few days. When they reached the spot where the Celebrant joined Anduin, the Elves of Mirkwood parted company with their Lórien kindred. While Celeborn and Galadriel continued their journey on foot to the eastern part of the forest and to Caras Galadhon, eventually, Haldir and his brothers led Thranduil and his small escort to Cerin Amroth. They intended to spend some time in their home of old, mourning their father and letting their hearts heal in solitude.

On the talan, where once King Amroth’s royal home had stood, a simple tree house had been built already – not very different from the dozens and hundreds scattered across the trees of Lothlórien, but a pleasant one nevertheless, with high, arched windows that were open to the air. One of those silken grey blankets of the Galadhrim served as a door, and when one had pushed past it, one entered an airy, comfortable room lit by screened silver lanterns, which were in daily use in the Golden Wood. In the middle, a mattress fastened to a wooden frame lay on the floor, covered with soft white sheets and pillows and more blankets. A wash-stand stood in the background, and a second bed for the one who was to remain with the ailing one had been placed nearby.

Haldir’s grown sons and daughter, left behind with a few troops to protect this most cherished place of the forest, came forth to greet them, and they had the stretcher on which Enadar lay pulled up to the house with the help of ropes, as they did not want to drag him up the ladders. Perladiel, the chief healer of the Golden Wood came to look after the patient. She righted the broken ribs, examined and changed the bandages and poultices that had been applied before leaving the naked hill of Dol Guldur, but seemed not all too worried with what she had found.

“The older wounds have not healed properly,” she told the King, “and there will be a lot of scarring, no matter what we might try. Still, he has been fortunate that none of the infections led to blood poisoning. Nor will he remain crippled if I can help it.”

“He is so horribly thin,” said Thranduil, concerned, “half starved, it seems to me. Will he ever be able to regain some of his strength? He looks more like a wraith, one of the houseless spirits of old the tales, than an Elf.”

“He is nearly gone,” Perladiel agreed, “and the lack of water has damaged him more than the lack of food. Still, I believe that his strength could return, at least partially, if he is treated in the right way.”

“What is your advice?” asked Thranduil. “What shall we do?”

“He needs to be fed a lot, but carefully,” said the healer. “Do not give him anything heavier than lembas and fruits during the first moon. Then you can try porridge and soup. Remember, his stomach must get used to food that is actually cooked again. I wish I could ask Calaglinel about Orc-food; alas, she has been slain during the last attack, and she rarely spoke about earlier times. We shall have to try different things and see what works. Lord Elrond might have a few suggestions of his own, once he arrives.”

“What about water?” Thranduil insisted. “He seems so horribly thirsty every time he comes to… should we let him drink his fill?”

“Nay,” Perladiel shook her head, “that would only upset his stomach. Let him drink every time he wants to, but only a few sips, until he learns that no-one would deny him water ever again – which, I deem, would be his greatest fear right now.”

“Even if his body heals,” said Alagos, “his mind may never recover from the terrors of the dungeons. Can we do aught to help him?”

“I know not,” admitted Perladiel. “Mayhap if you ask the Lady…”

“Never,” interrupted Thranduil, more harshly than intended.

“She has worked wonders with Calaglinel,” said the healer mildly.

But Thranduil shook his head determinedly. “No son of mine shall ever be poked in their minds by Artanis. I will not let his inmost thoughts be violated.”

“She might be your son’s only hope,” warned him Perladiel.

“That I do not believe,” said Thranduil. “My son has a family: a father, siblings, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin and many more who love him and care for him. Our way may be longer, the pace to walk it slow, but at least it will not destroy what little there is left of his dignity.”

“You would trust Elrond but not the Lady Artanis?” asked Alagos with an arched eyebrow.

“I fought on Elrond’s side,” replied Thranduil. “You come to know people in battle. I might not approve of everything he has done, but Legolas trusts him, and my youngest son is a good judge of hearts. Of Artanis, I still know not what to think.”

“They both will be gone to the West, soon,” said Alagos. “In a short time, we will be the only Elves in Middle-earth. We, the Faithful. Even you will set sail one day, my King. Everyone but us will leave.”

“I shall not leave for a long time yet,” Thranduil took a damp cloth and washed his son’s face gently with it; Enadar was running a light fever. “I have just found a very good reason to stay here.”

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

Even in his sleep, he had been aware of the changes. The almost forgotten rhythm of day and night, the boat mooring, the gentle sway of the stretcher, held by steady hands. The smells in the air getting richer with the intoxicating scent of fresh green, of trees, flowers and wild berries. The soft, low voices murmuring around him, then bursting into song. The cup with fresh water touching his dry lips, the silky coolness of water sliding down his burning and aching throat, soothing it. Strong arms holding him in a protective embrace, and the beautiful voice of Ada singing to him softly in the darkness that was now without fear and pain.

He could have stayed like this ‘til the end of Arda.

But Ada kept calling out to him, calling him out of his wonderful hiding place, begging him to return. That confused him. There, he was safe and comfortable, even happy. Why would Ada want him to leave his peaceful safety?

He had the eerie feeling of flying freely through the air, leaving the earth far below, and for a moment, he panicked. But the strange sensation was over soon enough, and he felt something solid, albeit soft, beneath him. There were voices around him again, the familiar one of Ada that he loved so much, a harsher one that he seemed to know from somewhere, too, and the third one, that of a woman, that he could not remember having heard before. They talked about him… and about a green leaf, which was strange. Why should they talk about leaves?

Someone did something to his wounds, it hurt a little at first, but afterwards he felt much better, and the pain faded away. Ada spoke to him again, it sounded so very sad, he felt sorry for Ada who had been so nice to him…

Mayhap if he opened his eyes, just a little, it would make Ada feel better?

He risked a tiny crack, still expecting the light to hurt his eyes, but just like before, it did not. He was in some kind of chamber, lying on a soft mattress, but he could feel the closeness of an ancient tree, for the first time since he had fallen into darkness. The thoughts of the tree, slowly flowing like the green juices under its bark and so very wise, soothed his mind, and he discovered with relief that the ceiling above him was made of tree branches, woven together with great skill like a screen, and dimmed sunlight leaked through it. He could remember another chamber like this, long ago, when he was little. It was called home.

He turned his head a little and saw Ada sitting on the edge of his mattress, looking at him with love and sorrow. Suddenly the memory of a boat ride with other small elflings and a tall, golden-haired Elf sitting in the rear end surfaced again. Now he could see the face of that Elf, and he knew who it was.

“F-father,” he said, not in Sindarin but in the archaic Silvan dialect of his mother. “You... are… my f-father.”

TBC

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

I’ve asked the members of the main Edhellond group if they thought the story was in any way finished with Part 4. They said ‘no’, so I’ll try to bring it to a more satisfying end while still keeping it as short as possible. I’ve got too many never-ending WIPs going on already.

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

PART 5

“It seemed to him that he had stepped through a high window that looked on a vanished world. A light was upon it for which his language had no name. All that he saw was shapely, but the shapes seemed at once clear cut, as if they had been first conceived and drawn at the uncovering of his eyes, and ancient as if they had endured for ever. He saw no colour but those he knew, gold and white and blue and green, but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them and made for them names new and wonderful. In winter here no heart could mourn for summer or for spring. No blemish or sickness or deformity could be seen in anything that grew upon the earth. On the land of Lórien there was no stain.”

The Fellowship of the Ring – Lothlórien, p. 455

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

His existence on the treetop floated away in the same timeless manner as his imprisonment had done. He seemed to spend his days in a strange state between true wakefulness and waking dreams, although he tried to stay awake all the time, fearing that if he closed his eyes ever again, the darkness would return.

He was unable to voice his fears properly, but Ada seemed to understand him nonetheless. There was always a silver lantern in his room, whenever he happened to wake up during night time – screened, so that the light would not hurt his eyes, still too sensitive after such a long time in the dark – but there.

And he was never alone. That was the greatest gift of all.

Whenever he opened his eyes, there was always someone to offer him food… and water, blessedly cool and fresh like life itself. He had little to no appetite, but he could never have enough water, and they never gave him more than a few little sips. Now that water seemed to be available all the time, the thirst grew even worse.

Someone lifted his head again, holding the cup to his lips, and he drank gratefully. He wanted to cry with relief, but his eyes refused to let the tears go, to waste the precious fluid. A small bit of something sweet, cool and juicy was placed gently in his mouth and he accepted it obediently, forgotten tastes exploding on his tongue with almost painful intensity. The wonderful taste called up the image of something small and red – some tiny fruit that grew on the forest floor, some sort of wild berry that he vaguely remembered having collected with the other little ones. But his mind could not yet make the connection between the fruit and any name it might have had.

He wondered who the others were. He knew he used to be one of those little ones, but he could not remember the others. Why did the memories always show his younger self in their company? And who was the woman with them, the woman with the thick, auburn hair, the lovely, freckled face and the very bright, brown eyes? She had a lovely voice, too, soft and calm, and she always sang to them and told them stories. She had a name… if only he could remember what it was. The others called her…

“Naneth?” he whispered, and the voice of Ada replied him, full of sorrow.

“Your Naneth is not here, my son. She is gone.”

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

Thranduil’s heart nearly broke with grief, hearing Enadar call out to his mother who had died voluntarily in Dol Guldur, about a hundred years earlier. She had been the last of the earth-healers of the Faithful, the only one left who could slow down the poisoning of the forest. Captured by the evil servants of that dark tower, she had given up her life, ere the Úlairi could possibly have found the key to her in-born powers over tree, water and soil.

“I wonder if she knew that her son was beeing held in the same evil place all the time?” he mused. “If Enadar could feel her closeness?”

“There is no way to tell, my King,” Old Galion, the seneschal of his house, who humbly called himself a butler, shook his head in regret. “Mayhap when the young prince recovers some more, he will be able to tell us.”

“If he recovers,” said Thranduil gloomily. Galion gave him a stern look.

“He is Oropher’s grandson. His grandsire escaped the fiery destruction of our First City and survived the sack of Doriath. You survived the sack of Doriath and the last battle, in which two thirds of our people were slain. And Enadar survived an Age in the pits of Dol Dúgol, all on his own. I daresay he will recover.”

Thranduil smiled at his old tutor sadly. “You make me feel like an elfling all over again, Galion.”

“As it should be,” the old Elf laughed quietly. “I have witnessed the birth of your father, after all. Not to mention yours, your sister’s and all your children’s.”

“True enough,” Thranduil admitted. “You have helped to raise every generation of our House – I know not what I would have done without your wisdom and patience, old one.”

“’Tis easy to be patient when we are not the ones to carry the burdens of kingship,” replied Galion with a fond smile. “You have done well enough, my King. You have rebuilt your father’s shattered realm and kept it safe for an entire Age. Without any help from the Noldor or their shiny trinkets. You should be proud of what you have accomplished.”

“Oh, I am,” said Thranduil with a helpless little shrug. “I just wish Lálisin and my other children could see the forest recover.” He glanced down at the still-feverish face of his miraculously refound son. “He has not even known Aiwë…”

“Nor has Celebwen,” reminded him Galion gently. “Too short was the time your little bird spent among us.”

“Celebwen had no choice,” Thranduil sighed. “She alone of our entire House has inherited the Curse of the Sindar. She could never hold out in Middle-earth, had she not moved to the Havens. No matter in what way, she is lost for us. The Abhorrent One could not reach her – but the Sea took her from us.”

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

It confused him more than a little that Ada and the old one (who, too, had a nagging familiarity about him) would speak of the Sea like of an enemy. This was how the guards had spoken of it, on the rare occasion when they began their quarrel before getting out of earshot. With dismay and yet with involuntary respect. The Sea was where cowardly Elves fled who had no stones to stand up against Orcs, they would say. Treacherous water that swallowed friend and foe alike.

Yet he could also remember someone speaking of the Sea with utter longing – a pointy-eared little creature, as small as he had been himself, but with long hair like silver moonlight. He could still see her, squatting on the green grass under a big tree and describing the rolling and murmuring of huge, grey-green waves and the call that came from the Sea or beyond, and which no Elf could resist.

His thoughts halted on their restless meandering. He knew now what those little ones had been. Elves, they were called Elves. They had pointy ears and bright eyes, and lovely voices, and could live in a tree or travel on the trees like squirrels. And he had been one of them once. Thus he was an Elf. And Ada was an Elf, too, surely – the father of an Elf had to be an Elf, after all – and so was the old one who had sometimes watched over him lately.

He needed to find out who the old one was. Ada obviously liked him, and that old voice sounded friendly enough. He knew he had heard the old one’s voice when he had been very little. This was the voice that had told him – had told all of them – great and frightening tales about spiders and wolves and fire monsters… but also wonderful ones, about the great forests in eternal starlight, and a white city upon a steep hill, spiralling up to the hilltop with a white tower on the peak.

Kortirion the old one had called that city, or simply Kôr sometimes. It had been a place of true wonder, he told them, with trees lining its streets and with a silver lamp in the highest chamber of its white tower radiating light through the tall, arched windows in all directions. Until the fire monsters came and destroyed it, burned it down to its foundation and beyond that. Until there was naught else left but the naked hill, stripped from everything, even the soil that had covered the bare rock.

The Naked Hill… there was a name for that, for the terrible place where he had fallen into darkness, been kept like some wild beast, blinded by the utter lack of light, his mind violated by the Questioner, plucked apart with malevolent curiosity. To take away every memory he could have held on to. To reveal all secrets he might have had…

But he had no secrets that would have been of any use. They were a simple folk, living on the treetops, guarded by naught but their bows and the bravery of their hearts… He could not tell aught of use, he truly could not. And yet the icy will of the Questioner had sliced his mind to pieces like an iron knife, baring everything and desecrating everything by its mere presence.

“Ada!” he shrieked in despair, reaching out to the only safety he knew in his present state of mind. Mayhap if Ada held him tightly enough, the cold one could not get him.

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

“I know not how long he will be able to go on like this,” sighed Thranduil, rocking the frighteningly thin frame of his son gently in his arms.

Galion shook his head in helpless sorrow.

“That was to be expected, my King. Nightmares are the least we had to count on, after an Age in that dreadful place. I only wish we knew what frightens him so much – then we might be able to fight it. Are you certain you would not like the Lady Artanis to take a look?”

“I am certain,” replied Thranduil adamantly. “We shall do this in our way. Mistress Cordophel should be here in a day or two – if anyone, she will know what to do.”

“But she cannot read minds,” reminded him Galion. “It might be faster if…”

“Nay,” Thranduil interrupted him. “It seems to me that my son’s mind, too, has been deeply wounded in those dungeons. Forcing it open would only do more harm. Mistress Cordophel can bespeak him… if he is ready to let in anyone, he will answer her. She used to be his nursemaid, after all… almost as close as a mother.”

Galion nodded in agreement. “Have you sent word to Legolas already?” he then asked.

“Not yet,” answered the King. “I wish not for him to learn about this by a messenger… less so if there is a chance that Enadar might not recover. Legolas was very young when his brothers fell in the Last Battle, barely of age – he took their loss very hard. Making him hope only to lose it all over again… it would be cruel.”

“He would wish to see his brother, I deem, no matter in what shape,” said Galion. Thranduil nodded.

“And he will. But I shall wait until Elrond and his people arrive. They are going to Minas Tirith anywise and can tell Legolas the tidings personally. He can then return with them after the Lady Arwen’s wedding.”

“That would be a good thing indeed,” said Galion. “The roads are still full of perils, and there is safety in numbers. Speaking of weddings… is it not time for one to be held in the Greenwood as well?”

“There shall be one,” answered the King, “and in a short time at that. Right now, though, we have more urgent matters at hand.”

“Sayeth the King who has been pressing his only son to fulfil his betrothal promise for half a millennium,” said Galion with a tolerant smile. Thranduil shrugged.

“Things have changed greatly in recent times, old friend. With the Enemy gone, and with him the most hideous of all perils, we can afford to wait just a little longer. And Legolas is not my only son anymore.”

“I fear you cannot expect heirs from this one,” said Galion, glancing with heartfelt pity at the fragile, shivering figure in his King’s arms. “Or that he would take over the burden of kingship from you. Even though he is your eldest now.”

“That matters little to me,” replied Thranduil, “as I am not tired of my burden yet. And having him with me again is a gift I have never hoped for. We shall have a lot of rebuilding to do in the upcoming years; and as the forest heals and regrows, so my son will heal and regrow as well.”

“Let us hope so,” said Galion gravely. “For right now he seems to me as one with the mind of a very small elfling.”

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

He felt blessedly safe in Ada’s arms, knowing with a deep-rooted certainty he could not explain that the cold one could not reach him there. But all that talking about apple daughters and silver maidens and green leaves confused him. His tormented mind could not make the connection between all those names and the people that might have been meant.

Ada and the old one called him an elfling. He vaguely remembered that elflings were little Elves – but when he was an elfling, should Naneth not be here with him? He missed Naneth, although he had no memory why. But it seemed that Ada missed her, too. Ada’s voice was so sad when he said that Naneth was gone. Why has Naneth left when it made Ada so sad?

He felt sorry for Ada. Mayhap he could cheer him up a little?

He opened his eyes with great effort, turning to that beautiful face almost blindly – like a sunflower to the warming rays of the sun.

“Ada,” he whispered. “Water…?”

He could not speak much yet, speaking hurt his throat, but Ada always seemed so happy when he at least tried. Those bright eyes brightened even more with unshed tears, and he felt the water cup touching his lips again, felt the bliss of that cool smoothness soothing his raw throat.

But drinking and speaking tired him too much. He felt his eyes close on their own and he went limp in the warm, safe circle of Ada’s arms, hoping that his dreams would be less frightening this time.

TBC

Names and persons:

Lálisin (= wise elm), Legolas’ deceased mother, an Avari Elf of Nurwë’s family (name courtesy of erunyauve).

Celebwen (= silver maiden), the only living daughter of Thranduil and Lálisin, married to one of Círdan’s people, lives in Mithlond. This fact has been established in my story “Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love”.

Aiwë (= little bird), the late-born daughter of Thranduil and Lálisin, killed by a Giant Spider in her early childhood, in the early Third Age. See my other story, “Little Bird”.

Cordophel (= apple-daughter), an ancient Avari Elf, the sister of Galion’s wife Írith. She came to the court with Queen Lálisin and used to be the nursemaid of all her children (name courtesy of erunyauve).

All these characters are mine and appear in various other stories, as I work with a quite large set of firmly established background characters for Edhellond, Imladris, Lothlórien and Mirkwood. If you want to use any of them, please, ask first.

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

The opening quote below has caused a great deal of misunderstanding in this fandom. Some people seem to think that it means Wood-Elves would be somehow inferior to their Noldorin cousins. I happen to have a contrary opinion, as it probably can be seen in my stories.

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

PART 6

“The feasting people were Wood-elves, of course. These are not wicked folk. If they have a fault it is distrust of strangers. Though their magic was strong, even in those days, they were wary. They differed from the High Elves of the West, and were more dangerous and less wise. For most of them (together with their scattered relations in the hills and mountains) were descended from the ancient tribes that never went to Faerie in the West.”

The Hobbit, Chapter 8: Flies and Spiders, p. 162.

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

Someone was speaking to him, not with worlds but from mind to mind, waiting outside the shell into which he had withdrawn so long ago, summoning him wordlessly to come out. It was not Ada, nor the old Elf – they never spoke to him this way. Naneth used to call out to him – to all of them – while they still were little. And sometimes, just sometimes, she had taught them things from mind to mind. Secrets that no-one else should know. Spells that better remained unspoken, unless in terrible need.

The Questioner had tried to tear those spells from his mind. But all he could have offered were the small ones. The ones that protected the orchard from being taken over by the forest again, without the need to build walls or tear out saplings. The ones that summoned the birds and the squirrels so that the elflings could play with them. The ones that charmed the bees into revealing one where the honey was hidden. Only Naneth and a few older women knew the great and powerful spells that could hold evil forces at bay.

And yet the one summoning him now seemed to have that power. It was not Naneth, he could feel that, but the presence was familiar. Comforting, even, like the sweet scent of apple gardens and honey. Like the sound of a lullaby.

Who are you, he asked without words, it was so easy to speak this way; unlike speaking up loudly, this cost no effort and did not hurt.

You know me, she answered the same way; yea, it was definitely a she, although not Naneth. Someone he should know. Someone he used to know.

I cannot see you, he complained.

Nay, she agreed, and he could feel her smiling. You are hiding from me… from us all. You are in a place hidden too deeply.

‘Tis safe here, he said, child-like and trusting. Somehow he knew he could tell her that much.

I know, she replied, but you do not need to hide so deeply any longer. You can peek out a little bit. Then you can see me… and all the others.

I can see Ada, he offered, uncertainly. Indeed, Ada was the only one whom he could truly see. The only one he knew.

I know you can, she said, and it makes him very happy. But you need to come out a little more, my squirrel. You have been hiding too long. ‘Tis not good for you to remain in that deep, dark place. You might lose your way entirely, and what would happen to your Ada then?

That worried him. He did not want Ada lonely or lost. He needed Ada, and apparently, Ada needed him, too. That thought had not occurred to him before, but if Ada needed him, he would try…

Yet the thought of leaving his hidden place frightened him.

I cannot… cannot come out, he stammered, near to panic.

Nay, not yet, I know that, she replied, soothingly. But you can look out of the window a little…can you not? Just long enough to see me, to know who I am?

This surprised him. Did she not know that there were no windows in his dungeon, no light, no warmth, just chilly darkness, fear and dirt?

There is no window, he said bitterly.

Are you sure? She asked smiling, and indeed, it seemed to him as if he would see some soft, far-away light falling through a shaft in the dark walls, golden-shimmering like the reflection of a long-gone summer evening. He was drawn to it, irresistibly, longing to see.

What he saw was a clearing in some great forest he knew he used to know but the name of which he could not remember. Tall, ancient trees were standing around the clearing, with tree houses high among their strong branches, and between them small elflings were playing in the grass, under the watchful eye of their mothers and older siblings.

One of the women seemed so familiar to him. She was sitting under a tree, working on her spinning wheel and singing in the Old Tongue to make the thread strong and yet soft to the touch. He could see his younger self, sitting at her feet, his knees drawn up to his chest, his chin resting on his knees as he was listening to the song.

Can you see me now? Her voice in his mind asked. He nodded, knowing she would see it and understand. Do you know who I am? She asked again.

His eyes – not the ones of his mind but the real ones – opened slowly, and he saw her wise, ancient eyes watching him with love and concern. And he knew her for who – and what – she was.

“Amme,” he whispered hoarsely.

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

Sitting just a few steps away, so that they would not disturb Cordophel’s efforts, Celeborn and Thranduil were watching anxiously the Avari woman trying to cajole Enadar back into the outside world. Celeborn particularly was baffled by her ability to reach the mind of the much-suffered young Elf with such relative ease. Certainly, mind-speak was not uncommon among Elves – he was capable of it himself, and so was Thranduil, to a lesser extent – but it usually required the willing participation of both sides. Somehow he doubted that Enadar would welcome any intruders in his mind.

“She is not intruding,” said Thranduil quietly. “She never truly entered his mind. She was… knocking on the door, so to say. And Enadar came out to her, if only for a moment.”

“Tis still amazing,” said Celeborn thoughtfully. “He would not let you in… or anyone else… but he opened up to her.”

“Not so strange as you might think,” replied Thranduil. “Lálisin used to bespeak our children all the time; and so did Cordophel herself often enough. ‘Tis a custom among the Faithful. They think it is safer for the little ones to call out to them from mind to mind in need.” He gave his silver-haired cousin an amused look. “Why are you so surprised? Did you think one has to be born in Valinor to be capable of such things?”

“I do not know much about the Avari,” Celeborn admitted.

“The Faithful,” corrected Thranduil. “They do not like the names the Golodhrim gave them, and neither do I. You seem to forget that my wife was one of them… and my children, though they bear my likeness, have always been more like the folk of their mother in their hearts.”

“Save Celebwen,” said the Lord of Lórien. Thranduil nodded.

“That is true. And yet, though my sons had a much harsher life, and some of them died young, they were happier Elves than their sister. They had a home under the trees, and their roots in the soil of the forest were deep.”

“Do you believe it was those roots that kept Enadar alive?” asked Celeborn.

“I hope so,” answered Thranduil, “for his bond with the woods is the only thing that may heal him again. Given enough time.”

“Did you never regret your choice then?” asked Celeborn. “Did you never wish your father had chosen differently? To lead a life more fitting a prince of Doriath, instead of becoming the King of the rustic Silvan people?”

Thranduil shook his head. “My father thought that it was wrong for our people to abandon their roots and become involved with the affairs of the Golodhrim. I agreed with him then, and I agree with him still. Lálisin and her people taught me to live with the trees in a manner that I did not even know in Doriath. We may be a rustic people in your eyes, cousin, but we are one with our woods. You, Galdaran, are called the Lord of Trees – and mayhap you are. I am part of the forest, and that is more than enough for me.”

“And yet you dwell under the hills like a Dwarf,” said Celeborn teasingly.

Thranduil laughed. “You never saw my home, how can you tell if it is like a Dwarf-den or not? There is a difference between a house and a fortress. As the King of a beleaguered realm, I needed a fortress, and the Dwarves of the Ered Mithrin helped me to build it. We had no magic trinkets to protect us, you know. We had to use the help we could get.”

He rose, stepped to the edge of the talan and looked down at the beauty that was the Golden Wood. It was a wondrous forest, ancient and hale, unlike the tainted and tormented one that he called his home. And yet he would not change with Celeborn for a moment.

“Your forest is beautiful, Galdaran,” he said softly, “but it is an illusion. Once the magic protecting it is gone, would it be able to prevail? I do not think so. It has lived outside the time for too long. But you… you are still one of us. You are a son of the forest yourself. If you still can hear the trees call out to you, the Greenwood is large enough for the two of us. There is so much to do. So much to heal.”

Celeborn did not answer right away. He knew Thranduil was right. His lady would be leaving for the West, soon, leaving Lothlórien behind like an empty shell. And with her, the magic that had protected the Golden Wood so long will be gone, too. He did not want to stay here alone and watch the once magic forest wither and die around him. Maybe Thranduil was right. Maybe it was time for him to become Galdaran the forester again.

“We shall see,” he said. “It seems strange that just as it was Amon Lanc where our paths parted, almost two Ages ago, ‘tis the same place where they have met again. Perhaps it is meant to be.”

“Perhaps so,” Thranduil agreed. “When you are on your own again.”

“Just like in old times,” said Celeborn, and it was hard to tell whether his voice was wistful or laden with sorrow. “We have come to full circle, it seems.”

On another talan, high above their heads, the lady Galadriel was listening to their conversation, her noble face unreadable.

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

Recognizing Amme had been a mild shock for him. It had also brought back an entire flood of memories his poor, tormented mind had a hard time to cope with. It was almost too much – he had not been prepared for that. It almost sent him back to hiding.

Easy now, her voice in his mind said soothingly. Go back to sleep, my little squirrel, and just watch for now. You do trust me, do you not?

He nodded in agreement, without truly moving his head, but she knew it nevertheless. She gave him some more water; it tasted still as wonderful as ever, and said something about cutting his hair. He had no objections, the hair was so heavy and he still felt so terribly weak and tired. It was a nice feeling to rest in Amme’s arms again, not as nice as it would be with Naneth, but nice nonetheless. It was safe, almost as safe as with Ada… and he could feel Ada nearby, too.

He remembered her calling him little squirrel, back when he was very small and lived in the trees with Ada and Naneth and his siblings. There were four of them, three boys and that silver-haired girl who was always speaking of the Sea. He still could not remember their names, names were hard to keep, but he knew now that they were his siblings. He could remember sitting on the grass, all of them, and listening to Ada playing his silver flute, enticing melodies that were wild and sweet at the same time. He wished Ada would make music again, but he knew he was no small elfling any longer and Ada had other concerns now.

He accepted some more water from Amme – he could never have enough water, and it did not seem that that would change any time, soon – then he curled up in her arms, warm and comfortable and safe, and fell asleep again, knowing that no bad dreams would disturb him this time. She could always keep the monsters away.

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

“Is he all right?” asked Thranduil in concern. He knew, of course, that Enadar needed much undisturbed sleep in his weakened state, but he could not help worrying.

Cordophel smiled. “He is fine, my King. As fine as he can be, after his terrible ordeal. He remembered your music, just a moment ago. Mayhap we should have brought your flute.”

Thranduil shook his head. “I have not played much since… since Aiwë’s death.”

“I know,” she replied, “but Enadar does not. He cannot know how you sought refuge in your music after your little bird had been so cruelly taken from you – and how you abandoned it after the grieving. In his mind, the music is still part of which makes you his father. Remember, he is closer now to the small elfling he used to be in Oropher’s city than to the warrior you lost in the Battle upon Dagorlad. You might need to go back and become who you were then, if you want to help him.”

Thranduil sighed. “I shall try. I only wish, Legolas were here with us.”

“I believe not that would be helpful,” said Cordophel. “Enadar was a grown Elf already when Legolas was born. Right now, though, he has retreated to the safety of his childhood memories. He would not be able to bond with Legolas at the moment; to recognize him as his baby brother. ‘Tis better that he has some time before Legolas’ arrival. He is barely able to deal with the flood of memories as it is.”

“But he will be able to sort them out, will he not?” asked Thranduil.

“Eventually,” she nodded. “But it will take time, a lot of help and much patience. To rush anything would do more harm than help.”

Thranduil shrugged. “We are Elves. We have time.”

“We do,” she agreed. “And it would do good if you used the time to get yourself a flute, my King, ‘til you can send for your own.”

The King grinned at her. “You never give up, do you?”

She grinned back. “After three Ages, it would be a little late for me to pick up new habits, would it not?”

“Lálisin always said that you had been famous of your stubbornness back in Nurwë’s times already,” said Thranduil, still grinning.

“She should know,” replied Cordophel. “After all, I was the one to help her to this world.”

“You were?” said Thranduil, only mildly surprised. She laughed.

“Why, do you think, have I been chosen to follow her to Oropher’s court? I have been with her family as long as Galion has been with yours.” She stood, arranging Enadar comfortably on his bed. “I shall see now that our little squirrel can be taken to the hot spring when he wakes up. And that he gets that haircut he so sorely needs.”

“I shall take over for you,” offered Thranduil, sitting down at his son’s bed already. “Can you see that I get that flute, too?”

She looked at him with eyes sparkling with mischief. “I knew you would give in.”

TBC

Notes:

Amme is not a genuine Elven word. In fact, it is German and means wet nurse. I promoted it to an Avari pet name for one’s nursemaid because it sounds nice.

Nurwë was one of the two main Avari leaders (canonically, in fact). I made him to Queen Lálisin’s grandsire.

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

The idea of Elrond having in-born healing abilities is in no way based on canon. It is simply my idea – since he had a Maia as his foremother, it is not entirely out of question, I think. Also, this is book!Elrond we meet here – you know, the one who is strong like a great warrior, wise like the best scholars, the venerable like a king of Dwarves and as kind as summer. He has no likeness whatsoever with his movie counterpart – neither in his looks, nor in his moods and manners. Just that it is clear.

The opening quote might seem a little odd in the context – I chose it to show whom Aragorn had learned his healer’s ethics from. The last segment mentions events described in more detail in the first chapter of All Alone in the Night.

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

PART 7

“Aragorn went first to Faramir, and then to the Lady Éowyn, and at last to Merry. When he had looked on the faces of the sick and seen their hurts, he sighed. ‘Here I must put forth all such power and skills as is given to me,’ he said. ‘Would that Elrond were here, for he is the eldest of all our race, and has the greater power.’

And Éomer seeing that he was both sorrowful and weary said: ‘First you must rest, surely, and at least eat a little?’

But Aragorn answered: ‘Nay, for these three, and most soon for Faramir, time is running out. All speed is needed.’” 

The Return of the King, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing, p. 165

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

He did not know how much time he had spent already in this dream-like existence. The concept of time was still elusive for him, after having survived for so long in the timeless darkness. There were moments he still feared to lose himself.

He was vaguely aware of the room around him. He could feel the thoughts of the tree that held the room in the gentle embrace of its branches… ancient and deep thoughts, for the tree was old, very old. He could not always understand them, as he was bound to Middle-earth through the blood of Naneth, and this tree – just like its siblings – was stranger to the home soil. They hailed from the West. But they had the same love towards Elves as the oaks and beeches and pine-trees of the Greenwood had. And this particular tree could give him strength. Not as much strength as the trees at home, but strength nonetheless. Strength for which he was grateful, for he desperately needed it.

He could feel Ada close all the time, even though he felt too tired to open his eyes. Or Amme, or the old Elf, whose name was apparently Galion – not that he could remember it, but that was how Ada called the old one – when Ada had to go away for a short time. He was never left alone. And there was always soft, filtered light in the room: the warm golden beams of Anor during daytime, and the silver rays of the small lamp during the night. Even though he was too weak to open his eyes, he could see the faint glimmer through his eyelids.

And there was music. He could not remember the words of the songs Ada played on the simple wooden flute, but he recognized the songs themselves. They were very different from the singing he could sometimes hear from far away. They were sweet and wild, full of fierce joy sometimes or full of melancholy, just like in his youth, when he was dancing with the maidens of the woodland folk on the great, moonlit clearing framed by the tall, dark trees, with the tree-houses hidden in their crowns.

He still did not have but fractured memories of that tree city, but he was now certain that it had once been his home. He used to live in one of those tree-houses, with Ada and Naneth, and the other elflings, the silver-haired girl, the one who always talked about the Sea, among them. The youngest of all was barely more than a toddler and had an unruly mop of auburn hair and very bright green eyes. Ada and Naneth called the toddler their little green leaf…

To his great regret, he could still not remember Naneth’s face well enough, but he saw the tiny, laughing face of the toddler with almost painful clarity. He knew it was a boy, much younger than all the others, for he could see himself as a grown though still very young Elf, holding the squirming child on his knees. Little green leaf…

Ada had spoken of a green leaf not so long ago. Could he hope to see that child again, one day? Ada said that Naneth was not here, that she was gone, but perchance, the child was still there somewhere. And the silver-haired girl as well. He wondered what they would look like. If they had changed much.

Ada had not changed, aside from the deep sadness that had not been there in his starlit eyes before. But Ada was ancient, even in Elven measures, although clearly not as old as Galion. Ada still looked like in his memories: strong, proud and almost frighteningly beautiful, with sculpted features, silver-grey eyes and hair like molten gold. This was one of his first, most powerful memories.

He could remember that people sometimes feared Ada’s wrath, although he could not see why. For him, Ada meant bedtime tales and music and hunting rides. And delicious food that Ada would cook himself in the large kitchen of the tree city, and that made everyone’s mouth water.

He wondered if Ada still cooked with his own hands. If the tree city still existed.

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

“He begins to remember more,” said Cordophel quietly. She did not actively invade Enadar’s mind but kept hers wide open, so that she could pick up any stray thoughts and images from the tormented prince. “Most of his memories are about Oropher’s city.”

“That is understandable,” replied Thranduil. “It was his home for the entire Second Age, He was born there. I fear it will hit him hard when he learns that Lasgalen is no more. Has not been for a very long time.”

“The place is still there,” Cordophel shrugged, “and so are many of the trees. The forest changes and yet remains the same all the time. Mayhap ‘tis time for you, my King, to leave the caves and return to the treetops again.”

“If that is what can help my son, I shall do so,” said Thranduil.

“That is still a long way to come,” said a pleasantly deep voice from behind them; they were so focused on Enadar that they had not heard another person climbing the tree and entering the tree-house.

Cordophel turned around and saw a tall, dark-haired Elf – one of the Golodhrim, by the look of him – standing on the doorstep. The Elf had a smooth, ageless face, as noble and fair as Thranduil’s, but there was a certain hardness in his exotic features, otherwise only found by mortal Men. There was wisdom and sorrow in those long eyes, grey like a clear winter morning, but it seemed to her that they lacked the passionate will to live and fight that always glittered in the eyes of her King. This Elf was done with fighting. Perhaps done with living as well.

As the Avari in general, Cordophel never felt the call of the Sea. They were called the Faithful for a reason. She was content in Middle-earth, rooted deeply in the soil of her home, her fëa bound to the trees, the water and the winds, and lest she got killed by some foul creature that still lurked in the woods, or by an evil turn of fate, she was determined to stay here ‘til the end of Arda. But she had seen enough of the Sindar hit by the Longing and fade slowly away, unless they got the chance to sail to the West. Celebwen, the King’s daughter among them. So, yea, she was very well able to read the signs.

The tall Golodh with a healer’s bundle in his hands was badly ravaged by the Longing. In fact, he was already gone, at least in his mind. Only his body tarried still on this side of the Sea. Cordophel wondered how long might he have resisted the Call already. She had never seen someone in such an advanced stage.

Thranduil rose from Enadar’s bedside and inclined his head politely.

“Elrond,” he said simply. “Thank you for coming to see my son.”

“’Tis my sworn duty as a healer,” replied the Master of Imladris gravely. “I only wish I could have come earlier. Tell me what have you achieved so far, ere we can decide about the next step.”

Thranduil gave him a short summary about Enadar’s recovery, such as it had been. Elrond listened with great interest, then nodded.

“You have chosen the right path,” he said, “but you have also been fortunate that Enadar has such a strong and resilient spirit. Few could have resisted the darkness in utter solitude as he did. I do believe that there is hope for a complete recovery, though he will never forget the horrors he had suffered in Dol Guldur.”

“But it is going so slow,” whispered Thranduil. Elrond nodded again.

“It takes time. But you have time, both of you. I think not that Enadar’s recovery is slow, though. On the contrary, he has already made great progress, as I see it. You must be patient, Thranduil. He has a lot of healing to do – it cannot be forced.”

“There is naught you can do for him then?” asked Thranduil bitterly. I was a fool to hope help from a Golodh, even if it is Elrond, he thought.

“I can do a great deal,” answered Elrond patiently, “and I shall do all that I can. But you must understand that I can only heal his body. That is the easy part. The hard work – the healing of his mind and that of his fëa – lies beyond even my abilities. That is a battle he has to fight for himself – with your help, and the help of all his loved ones.”

“’Tis enough if you heal his body,” said Thranduil. “Give him the strength to fight his own battles. We shall do the rest.”

Once again, Elrond nodded in agreement. “I hope you will succeed. There is no worse pain than losing one’s own flesh and blood. You have suffered enough losses already. Let me take a look at Enadar. I shall awake his self-healing powers and see where he needs help with the heeling.”

“You can do that?” Cordophel tilted her head bird-like to one side, doubtfully.

Elrond gave her a faint smile. It was like a pale sunbeam upon the surface of a frozen lake.

“Mistress…” he trailed off, looking at her in askance.

“I am called Cordophel,” she supplied.

“Mistress Cordophel, I was not only taught to be a healer, I was born a healer. Some say ‘tis a reminder of Melian, the Maia in my blood, and it might be true, as my children share this gift, albeit to a much lesser extent. It was even kept by the royal family of the Dúnedain. I am the strongest of my kind in the art of healing, and I had a long time to refine it. But yea, I can do many things even the best healers of the Firstborn cannot. And,” he added with a self-mocking smile, “I do not even need any magic trinkets to aid me.”

Cordophel blinked in confusion. The Three Rings never being an topic discussed openly in Thranduil’s court – or in Oropher’s, for that matter – she had no idea what the Master of Imladris was speaking about. A quick glance at his King told her, though, that Thranduil could – and did – take the hint. She shrugged. It was not her concern. The two lords understood each other, and that was enough for her.

“In that case, I shall leave the young prince in your capable hands, Master Elrond,” she said. That earned her the first true smile from the healer.

“A wise decision. Yet you should stay and watch, Mistress Cordophel, for this is something you can do as well. I feel a strong healing power in you – ‘tis different from mine, but that does not mean that it could not be used in a similar manner.”

Cordophel nodded. “I shall watch then.”

Elrond now laid his healing hands upon the fragile body of Thranduil’s son, seeking out the hidden places where the fabulous self-healing abilities of Elves were focused. This was a fairly common procedure among Elven healers. If an Elf was very weak, from a grave injury (or, what was even more common, from childbirth), the self-healing sometimes needed to be nudged awake. Most Elven healers could do this. Elrond was just better at it than most.

This time, however, he ran into a problem – a not entirely unexpected one. Enadar’s self-healing powers were all but used up. To survive three thousand years in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, he had to reach deep into his own hidden strength, ‘til there was almost nothing more to be found. ‘Twas not an entirely unknown condition for Elrond, but never had he met anyone whose condition would be this grave. With a jolt of fear, he realized that Enadar could still die… from the sheer exhaustion of his millennia-long fight for survival.

There was only one thing Elrond could do to save the much-suffered prince – and it was a risky thing to do indeed. He had done it earlier, had given from his own strength someone who was too weakened to fight for his life any longer. But not someone who was this weakened, with one foot on the doorstep of Mandos’ Halls already. And he was weakened now, too, having fought the Longing for too long, having stood on Middle-earth beyond the time of safety, just to fulfil his obligations.

Yet he could not allow Enadar to lose his long and bitter fight after all those millennia. He could not allow Thranduil to lose his miraculously re-found son again. He had been in Thranduil’s debt for too long. For the deaths of Oropher and two-thirds of the Silvan archers that never returned from Dagorlad, even though he had not been part of the quarrel between Gil-galad and Oropher. But he did fail to make the High King listen, and Oropher stormed off in rage and led his people into a disastrous battle. And for Legolas, whom he had sent out with the Fellowship, without Thranduil’s knowledge and agreement.

Thranduil had lost his father and three sons during the Last Alliance. One of those sons had been returned to him. Elrond could not take him the chance to keep his son. Summoning all his strength, the Master of Imladris laid one hand over Enadar’s heart, the other one upon his forehead… and concentrated.

“What is he doing?” asked Thranduil in concern, seeing that Elrond was getting paler and paler by the moment, while there was a faint glowing to be seen under his palms, bathing Enadar’s brow and breast.

“’Tis an exchange of strength,” replied Cordophel. As most healers, she was familiar with the procedure, had even executed it herself a few times, but had never seen it at this level of power. “And a very powerful one, I would say.”

“What do you mean?” Thranduil’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is Elrond giving my son his own strength?”

Cordophel nodded. “It does seem so, my King.”

“But is it not too dangerous – for both the patient and the healer?”

“Not for the patient. He can only gain strength by it and lose nothing. For the healer, yea… more so in Elrond’s present state.”

“What state?” demanded Thranduil. Cordophel sighed.

“He is obviously suffering from the Longing… and has for a long time, as it seems. He might save Enadar… and die himself, from exhausting his own strength too much. Nay,” she caught Thranduil’s arms with an iron grip, “try not to break the connection. That could kill them both.”

Thranduil looked at her in anxiety. “Is there nothing we can do to help them?”

“There is,” said Cordophel calmly. “We can let Elrond do his work undisturbed – and hope for the best.”

‘Twas a time of true torture for Thranduil to sit there and watch helplessly how Elrond fought for his son’s life. He was an Elf who preferred doing things to watching them. But, as Cordophel had said, there was nothing he could do but keep out of the healer’s way – and hope.

Finally, Elrond gave a barely visible sigh, smiled weakly and called the prince in a soft whisper: “Rest now, Enadar Thranduilion. Rest and gather your strength. There is a long war for you to fight yet.”

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

The deep, pleasant voice was not Ada’s, nor that of Old Galion, but from somewhere, he knew it. It made him remember the Last Battle, when many of their own people had already fallen – among them a great, silver-haired Lord, for whom Ada grieved so terribly. He could not remember the Lord’s name, but he must have been someone very important.

He did remember, though, sitting in a tent – a once-beautiful one, with silver-embroidered flaps and the Golodh king’s emblem above the entrance: silver stars upon a deep blue lozenge. It was covered with dust and ash and the gore of all the recent fights, the silver adornments of the poles blackened long ago. At least a dozen Elf-lords in shining armour were sitting around a long council table, on light field chairs.

Ada was there, too, leaning wearily with his elbows on the chair closest to the entrance, as if he tried to keep free a path of escape. He only wore a torso armour of strong leather, his golden hair, now nearly black from Orc blood and battle gore, in one tight braid at the back of his head, to keep it out of his face. And Enadar could see his younger self with the guards, sitting on the bench run along both long sides of the tent, barely able to keep upright from sheer exhaustion.

There was a quarrel between Ada and the Golodh king, and behind the king a tall, dark-haired Elf stood, trying to bring all the Lords to an agreement, ere the Last Battle started. Yea, he could remember that voice – it spoke with respect and wisdom, but also with force, and finally succeeding in persuading Elves and Men to do what had to be done.

Later, he saw that Elf one more time, leading the warriors of the Golodhrim into the final battle, his dark hair flowing in the wind like a banner of dark silk. Enadar knew that he saw a great warrior – he remembered the power in that deep voice, a voice used to give orders. That was the last thing he saw before he was wounded by an Orc-sword and… and captured. Before darkness swallowed him for a long, long time.

And now he could feel the strength returning in his weakened body. A strength he had thought long gone. And that voice, the voice of the great warrior, called him back to the battlefield. He knew he had to return. Ada needed him – and now he had the strength to fight again.

TBC

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

Once again, the opening quote is timely somewhat misplaced. But Arwen did travel through Lothlórien on her way to Minas Tirith (and her wedding).

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

“Arwen Evenstar remained also, and she said farewell to her brethren. None saw her last meeting with Elrond, her father, for they went up into the hills and there spoke long together, and bitter was their parting that should endure beyond the ends of the world.”

The Return of the King, Chapter 6: Many Partings, p. 130

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

PART 8

Gradually, he became more and more aware of his surroundings and he spent less time in that dream-like state. It seemed to him that the dark-haired Elf-lord had reawakened some hidden strength in him – some strength he did not even know he possessed. Yet he found the change a welcome one, hoping that he would, at last, regain some of what he had lost in the darkness of that evil place.

He blinked with some effort and tried to move his head, for he felt a presence on his side and he wanted to know who it was. He still felt terribly weak but managed to turn his head to the left nevertheless… at the second try.

For a few endless moments, he just lay there, eyes falling shut again from sheer exhaustion. It took him several attempts to reopen them, but he wanted to see. Not just in his mind, when Amme bespoke him, but with his real eyes, even if the light still hurt them.

He had expected to see the noble face of Ada, or the gentle features of the old one whom they called Galion, or mayhap Amme’s elusive smile. What he saw instead was – fog. Soft grey fog and a string of silver leaves, and above them silky darkness.

He blinked again, and his vision cleared a little, revealing the slender frame of a dark-haired, grey-clad woman, whose face was pale and beautiful like the newborn stars in the tales of the old one named Galion. The tales about a Lady who had made the stars, set them upon the skies and kindled their fire, so that they would shine in the darkness below, clear and bright. She had a name… a strange name, what was it again?

“Elentári?” he whispered in awe.

Her laugher was soft and gentle like rainfall upon the surface of a still lake, and her touch upon his brow like the kiss of a soft breeze.

“Undómiel,” she corrected, and he was grateful that she had not used any big words he would not be able to understand. The meaning of many, many words still remained muddy, and he often asked himself whether he would understand them ever again. Mayhap the damage done to his mind in that lightless, soundless place was too great to be healed.

The thought saddened him, for he knew Ada would be sad and angry, and he did not want Ada sad. Mayhap if he tried just a little harder, things would come back to him more quickly. If only he would not feel so weak and weary all the time! As if the weakness of his limbs had mudded his mind even more.

He remembered what Undómiel meant, though: Evenstar. A name almost as beautiful as she herself was, flowing over his tongue smoothly like fresh water. Mayhap it was just his fragmented memory, but he could not remember having seen such beauty before. Ever. Had he given up his broken body and fled to the Halls, not even the Lady of the Stars would he have found more radiant.

The blasphemy of his thought never registered with him.

His throat was painfully dry again, and coughing hurt more than it should have. He felt her soft hand lift his head, and the water cup touched his parched lips.

“Slowly,” she warned, her gentle voice full of strength, and he obeyed, although it was a torture to give up precious water, now that there would have been enough of it. The others did not understand the horrible thirst, not even Ada. If he did not obey, they might take away the water again… nay, Ada would never do that, but Ada was not here right now, and he could not feel the presence of Amme, either. ‘Twas better to do as he had been told. He could not risk losing access to water.

He drank in small, careful sips, trying to get as much water as possible, as long as it lasted. To his astonishment, she allowed him to drain the cup entirely, ere taking it away.

“More,” he whispered, the thirst clenching his insides into a painful knot. “Thirsty.”

“I know,” she replied, laying her cool hand upon his feverish brow soothingly. “I shall give you more water in a moment. I promise. But you must rest a little before. Let me help you.”

He did not realize when she touched his mind briefly. He only felt her soothing presence envelop him like cool water, and he fell in a deep, undisturbed sleep.

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

On a different talan, higher up in the royal mallorn, the King of the Greenwood and the Master of Imladris were sitting side by side. Triggering Enadar’s healing process had taken its toll on Elrond. He was still pale and week and utterly exhausted.

“You have taken a great risk,” said Thranduil. “I have not realized how much the Longing has weakened you already. ‘Tis a terrible curse of all of Sindarin blood.”

“I always hoped my mixed heritage would spare me this fate,” replied Elrond wryly, “and for a while it seemed as if I was right. But after Celebrían’s departure…”

“You have fought this for five hundred years?” Thranduil stared at him in disbelief. “I cannot imagine how that could be done.”

“I had no other choice,” Elrond shrugged. “I could not leave Middle-earth as long as my brother’s progeny needed me. Now that Sauron is gone, the time of Elves coming to an end and the Kings of Men are returned to power, I can finally have some peace.”

“You are paying a high price for that,” said Thranduil quietly. He had just recently learned about the ramifications of it and of the Lady Arwen’s choice, and – for the first time in his long life – was full of sympathy towards Elrond.

“A higher one than you might imagine,” replied Elrond tiredly. “For my sons do not wish to leave with me yet, and I fear that should Elladan truly choose to become mortal, then Elrohir might follow him, leaving me bereft of all my children.”

“That would be harsh indeed,” said Thranduil. “Having to bury your own children is a horrible thing – I have done so thrice, so I should know. But at the very least, I still have the hope to meet them again in the Blessed Realm... even though I would prefer to remain here.”

“You do not wish to sail to the West?” asked Elrond in surprise. The mere thought that someone would remain in Middle-earth willingly was a strange one for him.

Thranduil shook his head. “Nay, I never felt the Longing. But my daughter, Celebwen, has suffered from it since her early childhood, so I know what it can do. She would not survive in Middle-earth, not even in Mithlond, to where she has moved long ago, to be near the Sea. And I want to see Dorothil and Orchal again, and sweet little Aiwë, whom I have lost to the cursed Spiders… and my parents.”

“What about your wife?” asked Elrond, for it seemed strange to him that Thranduil would mention everyone else but her.

“The fate of my Queen is a strange and uncertain one,” said the King of the Greenwood, his face darkening. “I know not whether she truly followed Mandos’ call or remained behind as an unhoused spirit to watch over the forest and her family. Legolas says he had seen her under the Great Ash, shortly before the Dragon was slain⁽¹⁾. But the Great Ash is a strange tree, full of magic and hidden powers – it can make you see things that are not there.”

“She might have refused the Call?” Elrond’s eyes widened in shock. “She will never allowed to enter the Blessed Realm if she did that.”

“I know not,” replied Thranduil with a shrug. “The ways of the Faithful are different form ours, and she was a being of power so great we can barely fathom. It is my hope that she has made an agreement with Mandos for the time her family still dwells on these shores. After all, she gave up her life voluntarily, ere Sauron could have gained access to her powers. Powers which could have made the Dark One capable of bending all trees of the Greenwood to his will. Lálisin’s powers helped to keep our forest from falling into darkness, and she sacrificed herself to keep those powers untouched by evil. Certainly, that must have earned her some reward.”

“Sometimes I wonder how deeds and intentions are truly judged by the Lords of the West,” murmured Elrond bitterly. “My mother chose to save the Silmaril, leaving her own children to the mercy of the Kinslayers, and she has earned praise and admiration in song and tale for that. Your wife sacrificed everything to protect her people and her family, and she might get exiled from the Blessed Realm for it, fated to never see any of you again, should you choose to go to the West. Where is the justice in that?”

“I cannot answer you,” replied Thranduil, “for I have asked this and other bitter questions myself, many times. However, finding Enadar so unexpectedly allows me to delay the decision for a while, at the very least. He will need me here for a long time yet. I shall not drag him to the West ere he becomes himself again – enough to decide what he truly wants.”

“And what if he never becomes himself again?” asked Elrond gravely. “What if his mind remains that of a very young child?”

“Then I shall try to decide in his best interest,” answered Thranduil simply. “He is the one who needs me most. Whatever the decision shall be, I am certain the others will understand.”

“Your choices are hard,” said Elrond, “and yet I envy you. If naught else, you can be certain that you will be able to keep at least one of your children. And when all comes to an end and Arda is re-made, you will be reunited again – all of you. Yet no-one can tell where mortal Men go when they die, and it is likely that Arwen – and mayhap her brothers, too – will be lost to me, forever, just as my own brother is.”

“That is, sadly, true,” agreed Thranduil grimly. “And it makes me wonder why your kind has been offered this most cruel of choices. For whether you choose to be counted among Elves or among mortal Men, your choice will make someone suffer. I cannot say any reward in it.”

“Neither can I,” said Elrond in sorrow. “What joy could the Blessed Realm offer to someone who has already lost everything, without the slightest hope to regain any of it?”

“Unless it is allowed to have children in the West,” Thranduil jested half-heartedly.

“I have not heard that it would be forbidden,” replied Elrond with a weak smile. “I do believe, though, that those who sail there after millennia in Middle-earth are well beyond the desire to create a new life again.”

“This is your Golodh blood speaking,” riposted Thranduil half-seriously. “The Golodhrim have always been trying to preserve that which is, instead of looking into the future that could be. We of the woodland folk cannot afford this luxury. We have been losing too many of our people, all the time.”

“Thranduil, please,” said Elrond tiredly. “Let us not begin the Ages-old quarrel about whose way is the right one again.”

“That was not my intention,” answered the King of the Greenwood. “I was just trying to point out possibilities to you. We are Elves. We shall last as long as Arda exists. For us, ‘tis never too late to begin everything anew.”

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

He did not know how much time went by ‘til her departure. The days and nights flashed away in a quick change of light and darkness, like in those shadow-plays showed to them by Amme or old Galion when they had been very little: moving shapes, cut from large leaves behind the screen of a blanket pulled taut before an open fire. She visited him several times, singing to him in the tongue of the woodland folk, although a bit differently than what he remembered from his youth.

She also told him tales of an Age long gone, tales he vaguely remembered having been told earlier. Tales of a great, enchanted forest, ruled by a King who wore a grey cloak and by a Queen whose girdle protected the woods and everyone who lived within their borders. Of a maiden who lived in a tree in that great forest, and whose hair was like spun gold and long enough to reach her ankle in a single braid. Of a great, silver-haired Lord who had fled from a great city in the North, destroyed by fiery monsters; how he caught a glimpse of the maiden in the tree and lost his heart to her, forever ⁽²⁾.

Sometimes Amme joined them, too, or old Galion, and they added small details to the tale, and he understood that at least Galion must have seen those people and those events with his own eyes. For coming from him, it all sounded less than a tale and more like memories. Still, he liked it better when beautiful Evenstar came alone, for her voice was the safest and loveliest, and he had grown to crave her presence almost as much as Ada’s. He could listen to her voice forever, and admire the light in her eyes, whenever he found the strength to stay awake for longer than a few moments.

One day, however, he knew not how long after her first visit, she came alone again, and now he could feel her sorrow.

“We must part now, son of the Greenwood,” she said, “for I am needed elsewhere, and my fate is about to change, forever. Still, though I shall never be the same again as I am now, I hope that you will remember Arwen Undómiel.”

Now she was using big words, and he did not understand half of what she was saying. One thing he could feel, though – that she did not want him to forget her. As if he would be able to do so, ever!

“I… remember,” he brought forth with some effort; putting the words into the right order was something that still eluded his grasp. But she seemed to understand him nonetheless, for she smiled down at him, and her smile was soft and radiant like starlight filtered though the golden mallorn leaves.

“That is good,” she said, “for my heart tells me that we shall meet again, you and I, before the end of all things. Mayhap right here, where everything began, for both you and I.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the brow, and for a moment his heart trembled with happiness, for this was more than he had hoped for, and even if he never received anything else from her, he knew it would be enough.

“Farewell, Enadar Thranduilion,” she said. “May you grow strong again, to the joy of your father and your people. May our paths cross each other again.”

And torn between joy and sorrow, he whispered in answer. “Farewell, Lady Undómiel.”

TBC

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

End notes:

(1) The event of which Thranduil reflects here are described in great detail in my other story “Astonishment in Mirkwood”.

(2) The enchanted forest is, of course, Doriath, as Oropher and Thranduil are said (in “The Unfinished Tales”) to originate from there. The maiden in the tree – admittedly, influenced a bit by the German fairy tale “Rapunzel” – is Nellas, whom I have promoted to Oropher’s wife (and consequently to Thranduil’s mother) in my own little corner of the Ardaverse. The silver-haired Lord is Oropher himself, who – in my stories – was rescued from Elmö’s city by Galion, together with his brother (Celeborn’s father). Arwen is basically telling Enadar the story of his own ancestors, in order to trigger buried memories.

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

This chapter is practically a gap-filler, until I can pick up the string of events with the long-awaited appearance of Legolas. *g*

The Elven dental problems have been discussed with the Edhellond group in loving detail. There is no canonical proof for any of the results, of course.

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

“From their beginning, the chief difference between Elves and Men lay in the fate and nature of their spirits. The fëar of the Elves were destined to dwell in Arda for all the life of Arda, and the death of the flesh did not abrogate that destiny. Their fëar were tenacious therefore of life’ in the raiment of Arda’, even from the first days protecting their bodies from many ills and assaults (such as disease), and healing them swiftly of injuries, so that they recovered from wounds that would have proved fatal to Men.”

HoMe 10 – Morgoth’s Ring: Of Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, pp. 218-219

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

PART 09

In the first time he missed the presence of the beautiful Evenstar very much. Unlike with Ada, Amme and the others, who were always there, her visits had been something he was looking forward to. Even though he could feel that half her mind had always been elsewhere. At their parting, she spoke about a great change that had been coming upon her for a long time, and he could see that she was looking forward to that change with an equal measure of fear and joyous excitement. He knew not what kind of change it could be, and he had no great desire to learn more about it, either. He only wished for her that if would end in very great happiness.

But after a while he got used to her absence as well. Ada was there all the time, and in the end, Ada was the only one he truly needed.

Amme stayed with him most of the time, too. She bespoke him often, awakening more memories from his childhood. Slowly, he began to remember names and faces but found it difficult to connect them with each other. Still, it helped him very much, even if it confused him sometimes.

He still slept a lot, and the shadow-play of day and night still seemed more like a dream. The true measure of time was the change between long periods of horrible thirst and short moments of fleeting relief when he was given water, gloriously clean, cool and fresh water.

They tried to get him drink other fluids, but he was unable to swallow them. Everything else seemed dirty, poisoned water to him – more so when it was warm – and made him gag. That usually led to panic, for he feared to lose the water he had already had, and he fell in exhausted, unruly sleep afterwards.

So they ceased to offer him soup or even herbal tea, as it would have done more damage than it could help. Fortunately, he could eat berries and other soft fruits; and lembas caused no problems, either. But meat turned out to be another hindrance, and so were cooked vegetables. That he could not eat properly, slowed down his healing considerably. He could feel Ada’s sorrow about it, but he could not change the reactions of his body.

“So… sorry,” he whispered, falling back onto his mattress in boneless exhaustion. Once again, he was unable to force down some steamed roots and had very nearly thrown up what little he had eaten before.

“’Tis not your fault, my son,” the strong hand of Ada rested for a moment upon his sunken cheek. “We shall try something else the next time. Try to sleep now.”

He was too tired to even nod. He was too tired to even ask for more water. His eyes fell shut, and he succumbed to the now fearless darkness of sleep.

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

“This is not going well,” stated Thranduil the obvious, still clutching his son’s limp hand desperately. “He cannot live on lembas and water alone. Why can he not eat aught else?”

“He has lived on Orc-bread and dried raw meat and only Mandos knows what sort of rubbish for a whole Age,” pointed out Cordophel patiently. “He needs to get used to cooked food again. It will be a long way to go, more so that we cannot give him herbal extracts, either. He would not drink aught but water, it seems.”

“What about wine?” asked Galion. “Orcs do have a strong draught they favour all the time. Mayhap they gave him some and thus he would be used to have something else than water.”

“Would it not be too strong for him?” Thranduil worried. “He is still so very weak.”

“We could mix two coups of water with one cup of wine,” said Galion, “and put the herbs he needs into it.”

“We can try,” agreed Cordophel. “And I would like to give him a haircut. His hair is matted together entirely. If I tried to comb it out, I would not achieve aught but cause him a lot of pain. We should cut it right above his shoulders – it would be a great relief for him.”

The others were a bit shocked by the idea of a short-haired Elf, but after a moment they had to agree. Enadar’s long, wild mane was beyond the help of any comb or hairbrush, and it was heavy and too hot for him in his weakened state. ‘Twas better to cut it short. It would grow out again, eventually.

“Do you believe he is strong enough to have a real bath?” Perladiel, the Lórien healer, asked. “There is a hot spring not too far from here, rich in minerals that his body needs but cannot get through food right now. A good soak can do wonders sometimes.”

“We can get him off the mallorn the same way we got him up there,” said Alagos with a shrug, “and I can carry him as far as necessary.”

“Nay,” said Thranduil. “I shall carry him – but is he truly strong enough for that?”

“If the water is not too hot, it will do him good,” replied Cordophel. “I shall go with Perladiel and see it for myself first.”

“What about his teeth?” asked Thranduil. “They are in a terrible shape, too. Why have they not fallen out, so that new ones could grow in their stead?”

“His body needed all its strength to survive,” said Cordophel. “When he had grown stronger, we may be able to do something about that, too. Even pull the bad teeth, if they would not fall out on their own. But not now, not for a while yet. Lord Elrond says that his self-healing powers are almost completely exhausted. We must not do aught that would drain them any more. He will have to live with those ugly teeth for the next hundred years or so.”

“Which means that we must keep him on a diet of water, lembas and fruit for quite some time yet,” added Galion. “For even if he would be willing to eat raw vegetables, he would be unable to chew them.”

“Mayhap we can fool his stomach if we give him the roots cooked but cold,” suggested Perladiel.

Thranduil hesitated. “I fear to risk another reaction like the one we have just got from him.”

“I understand that,” the healer said, “but we must keep trying, or else he will never get used to eat proper food again. And he needs that, in order to regain at least some of his strength.”

“I know,” Thranduil sighed, “but let us try the bath and the wine today and allow him some rest ere we force cooked roots upon him.”

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

He awoke to the sensation of flying – nay, not flying, it was more like a slow sinking, and for the first moment he nearly panicked. But then he realized that there was no water around him, and he was moving too slowly to have fallen from the tree, as it had happened to him when he was very small. Still, he dared not to open his eyes, fearing that he would become sick – and of that he had already had enough for one day.

To his relief, his downward movement was blessedly short, and he landed in strong arms. He recognized the familiar scent of Ada – it always reminded him of pinecones burning in an open fire – and that of Amme, which was like the scent of wild roses. That calmed him down, knowing that he was in good hands.

He risked to open his eyes, just a crack, and saw that he was out in the open, under the tall, towering trees. They had brought him down, for some reason. Being out in the open was frightening, everything was too wide and too far away, but Ada was holding him safely, and Amme was there, too, and the place around them so beautiful it almost hurt. The grass was fresh and green, as he remembered it from times long gone, and small golden stars were blinking at him from within all that green, and among them pale green bells were trembling on slender stalks, moving to a music only they could hear.

He reached out weakly with a trembling hand, and Ada seemed to understand his wish, lowering him so that he could touch the grass and the flowers. The green-smell exploded in his nose with a long-forgotten intensity that made him drunk and he felt himself shaking with the savage joy of it. For the very first time since his rescuing, there were tears in his dry eyes, and he released them readily, for once not caring that his body was losing precious fluids.

Ada lowered him even more, laying him onto the grass, and with supreme effort, he somehow rolled over, rubbing his face into the grass, filling his nose with its intoxicating scent and weeping hot tears of joy.

He could hear the worried voices of Ada and Amme, and that of old Galion, and even the red-headed healer’s, but he did not understand what they were saying. Or why they were so worried. How could they not feel his joy? Touching grass again, inhaling its green freshness, seeing the beauty of flowers after he had almost forgotten what beauty was – how could he not weep with happiness? He was a Wood-Elf – where else could he have found joy but under the ancient trees, resting on the green grass, among flowers?

In a sudden flash of memory, he saw his younger self again, young but not an elfling any longer, walking in a forest with two other auburn-haired young Elves whom he now recognized as his brothers. They were carrying great hunting bows, full quivers strapped onto their backs, and the eldest of them – still very young for an Elf – had the toddler whom Ada used to call his little green leaf sitting on his shoulders.

He knew his eldest brother had had a tree-name. Something about an oak tree. And the other one had had an outlandish name, short and strange, mayhap one that originated from the great forest in the West that was no more, or was that his name? And the little leaf…

“Dorothil,” he whispered, the image of his eldest brother and that of the oak tree becoming one before his mind’s eye. “Orchal,” he whispered, remembering the quiet laughter and the soft voice of his second-youngest brother. And then, thinking of the toddler with those wondrous, leaf-green eyes that no-one else in their family possessed, he whispered, “Laegalas.”

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

Exchanging baffled looks with Galion, Thranduil asked. “Has he just called his brothers?”

The old Elf shook his head. “That is doubtful, my King. I would rather think he had a flash of memory again.”

“I could catch a glimpse of the three of them walking just outside the city of Lasgalen, with Dorothil carrying little Legolas on his shoulders,” said Cordophel. “’Tis is a great step forward that he can remember their names. Also, he sees himself as an adult now, at least in these memory flashes.”

“Is that good?” asked Thranduil. Cordophel nodded.

“Yea, my King, it is. He is slowly letting go of the safety that the status of a small child would give. He is getting ready to return to us fully. It will be a long way yet, and there will no doubt be severe throwbacks. But at least he seems to be on the right way.”

“This outburst of feeling has weakened him, though,” warned Perladiel. “We should give him that bad and that haircut, and then he should rest again.”

“If he allows us to tear him away from the grass,” said Galion doubtfully.

“Leave that to me,” replied Cordophel, and touched Enadar’s head gently.

You must let go now, my little squirrel.

The answer came swiftly – and it was terrified. No! Do not shut me away again!

We shall do no such thing, she soothed. We just want to give you a bath.

Enadar did not seem to recognize the word; he had apparently forgotten what a bath was. So she tried a different approach.

We want to take you to the hot spring. Still no reaction. To a place where there is a lot of water. The mentioning of water launched another thirst attack, and she turned Enadar over and gave him some water, to replace the fluids he had wasted with weeping.

You can rest in the warm water and heal, she added in thought, and we can cut your hair; it is too long and too heavy for you.

For some reason, the mere thought of a haircut led to another panic attack. The blurred images shooting through Enadar’s mind in rapid success were hard to interpret, but it seemed that he thought that losing his hair was the first step to become an Orc. Or something similar to an Orc.

We shall not cut it all, she soothed. We shall just make it shorter. You will be able to braid it again as Elves do. But right now it is a dirty mess.

It took her quite some time and several approaches ‘til Enadar was ready to believe that they would not shear him bald – that must have been something his jailors had threatened him with – and allowed his father to lift him again.

“Have no fear, ion nîn,” murmured Thranduil. “I shall be with you all the time.”

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

He was floating in the warm water, supported by Ada’s strong arms. It felt like dreaming, being so weightless and limp, even tough the water was almost too hot for his over-sensitive skin. Ever since they had removed the hardened layers of filth that had covered his body for so long, he had been very sensitive to any touch. He hurt everywhere when touched, save from his head where the thick hair provided at least some protection.

His hair was rather short now, it barely touched his shoulders, and if felt good, as Amme had promised it would, to be freed from its previous weight. They had showed him the cut hair – it was coarse and brittle like old hay… and white. Not shining white like old Galion’s, but greyish-white like dirty snow at the end of winter. Amme promised that it would become clean and shiny again, now that they would be able to wash it and comb it out properly and brush it daily.

That was good to know, but in all honesty, he did not care. He was more concerned about the return of his strength and about being able to speak again properly than about the colour of his hair. He wanted to walk around under the trees again, to dance under the starlit sky, to wield the knife and bend the bow again – those were his main goals right now.

He knew, however, that he was still far from those things. He could not even sit up without help, his stomach refused most of the food he was offered, his back was full of small, open wounds from laying motionlessly all the time, and he still slept through most of the day. Sometimes he doubted that he that he would ever be able to leave his bed, despite the great efforts of the noble healer.

But he was not willing to give up, not now that he had smelled the green grass and seen the flowers again. Now that he had been found by Ada and could hope that he might find his siblings, too. He wondered what might have become of his grown brothers… of the silver-haired girl… of the green-eyed toddler. Mayhap if he endured long enough to grow strong again, he would find out.

He sighed, leaned back in Ada’s strong arms and drifted off to sleep.

The Prisoner of Dol Guldur

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part 1.

For the duration of this chapter, the story switches to another member of the royal family of Mirkwood… who is neither blond, nor played by Orlando Bloom, as far as I am concerned.

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

“Upon the very Eve of Midsummer, when the sky was blue as a sapphire and white stars opened in the East, but the West was still golden, and the air was cool and fragrant, the riders came down the North-way to the gates of Minas Tirith. First rode Elrohir and Elladan with a banner of silvers, and then came Glorfindel and Erestor and all the household of Rivendell, and after them came the Lady Galadriel and Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien, riding upon white steeds and with them many fair folk of their land, grey-cloaked with white gems in their hair; and last came Master Elrond, mighty among Elves and Men, bearing the sceptre of Annúminas, and beside him upon a grey palfrey rode Arwen, his daughter, Evenstar of her people.”

The Return of the King, Chapter 5 – The Steward and the King, pp. 303-304

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

Part 10

When the royal wedding – the wedding of the Age – was over, at last the remaining members of the Fellowship of the Ring thought of returning to their own homes. They had dwelt together previously in a fair house with Gandalf, and they would go tho and fro as they wanted. Legolas was glad to be reunited with Lindir, his friend of old, who had only sailed back from Mithlond to sing on the wedding out of love to the Lady Arwen. The minstrel intended to return to the Havens by ship and sail to the West with his uncle, Gildor Inglorion. And indeed, he left for Edhellond with Erestor, without waiting for Elrond’s entourage, and Legolas was sad to see them off, for he could see that Lindir was fading swiftly, and seeing the young minstrel so damaged made his heart ache.

After Erestor and Lindir’s departure, a messenger came from the citadel and asked Legolas to meet the King and the Queen on the Place of the Fountain, for, as he said, they had important tidings for him.

“Strange,” he said to Gimli, who happened to be in his company, as so often. “If they had tidings for me, important ones as it seems, why have they not told me right upon their arrival?”

“Strange indeed,” grumbled the Dwarf, his deep eyes darkening with worry. “Mayhap they have heard news from our people; bad news they did not want to spoil their wedding with.”

But Legolas shook his head. “Nay, Gimli, they would never do such a thing. Aragorn has become almost as a brother to us both during this quest; and the Lady Arwen is a dear friend whom I have known for many hundred years. Nay, I hope they have good news for us. Joyous ones they did not want to go unnoticed among the merriment of their wedding.”

“Well,” said Gimli reasonably, “there is only one way to find out. You must do as you have been asked and go to the Place of the Fountain.”

“We must go to the Place of the Fountain,” corrected Legolas.

Gimli shifted from one foot to another uncomfortably. “I was not invited, Legolas!”

“Nonsense,” the Elf waved impatiently. “Have you not said once that wherever I go you will follow?”

“I was speaking of battle, Elf!” Gimli stared at him from under bristling eyebrows.

Legolas laughed merrily. “And I said that you would comfort me with your strong presence. Come now and support me! Who knows, I might need it!”

Gimli shook his head tolerantly but followed his Elven friend nonetheless. If Legolas wanted his presence, he would do the Elf the favour. Even if it might displease the King of Gondor. Dwarves were steadfast in their friendship.

They found Aragorn as he was sitting with the Lady Arwen by the fountain indeed, under the White Tree that had grown more than a foot since its planting already. Slender and shapely it was, its young leaves dark green above and silver beneath, and its seemingly fragile crown was covered with small clusters of white flowers that were shining like the sunlit snow.

For a moment, Legolas stood in awe, admiring the sapling, the late progeny of Telperion, the Eldest of Trees. For him, this wondrous little tree was the promise of something his heart longed for: the never-ending summer of the Blessed Realm. Then he turned his eyes to the Lady Arwen, whose beauty outshone even that of the White Tree, although she was wearing the simple, unadorned grey raiment of Lórien instead of robes worthy of a Queen, and he bowed.

The King and the Queen rose to greet the Elf and the Dwarf, whose unusual friendship they considered as stronger sign of upcoming peace than many other things that people might have found more important. And it was the Lady Arwen who spoke first, for she was the bearer of news.

“Legolas, my dear old friend, I ask your forgiveness in advance for not having told you this right upon my arrival,” she said. “Selfish it may seem, and mayhap it is selfish indeed that I wanted your undivided attention at my wedding. For had I told you what I am about to tell you now, even if you had stayed out of politeness, your heart would have been distant. And I wanted all my friends with me on that happiest of days. Do forgive, me, I beg you!”

“There is naught to forgive,” replied Legolas, smiling. “I have always valued your friendship, Lady Undómiel, and gladly did I attend the day of your great happiness. But pray tell what kind of tidings do you bear for me; for they seem strange indeed, if good or bad.”

“Mostly good, I daresay,” said Arwen. “For but a short time ago, the Lord Celeborn has come forth from Lórien and led a host of the Galadhrim over the Great River in many boats. At the feet of Dol Guldur, his host was united with the warriors of your father, coming from the North. Together, they took the Necromancer’s Tower, and with the help of Galadriel, they threw down its walls and laid bare its pits. In time, the forest around Amon Lanc will be cleansed.”

“That is joyous news indeed,” cried Legolas happily, for often enough had he scouted into Southern Mirkwood and saw with sorrow how the heart of the trees was turning darker and darker. ‘Twas good to know that there was hope for them to heal – even if he might not remain in Middle-earth long enough to see it.

Then he saw the grave face of the Lady Arwen and his heart grew cold amidst of its joy. Fear gripped him all of a sudden.

“But that is not all of it, is it?” he asked.

“Nay, it is not,” replied Arwen. “For while laying open the pits, they found maimed and horribly tortured prisoners, some of them only recently murdered, after hundreds of years of suffering. Haldir’s father was among them; and many of your people’s brave warriors.”

“That must have been a relief for the Lady Gwenethlin,” said Legolas, his fears somewhat calmed. “To finally learn about the fate of her husband. And I am certain that our people have received the proper last rites.”

“They have indeed,” Arwen nodded. “Yet by digging up the deepest pit under the Tower, they finally found one prisoner that was still alive – barely – after more than three thousand years.”

The enormity of the mere thought nearly put the Dwarf off-balance.

“That poor wretch,” he grumbled, hiding his shock behind his gruff manner; a tactic Legolas had noticed by him before. “He must look like Death itself.”

Arwen nodded, but her eyes lay upon Legolas’ face. “The sight nearly broke your father’s heart,” she said in compassion.

Legolas raised his head, his heart all but stopped.

“Was he one of us?” he asked, almost tonelessly. Arwen nodded.

“He is one of your people,” she answered. “Your second-born brother, Enadar,”

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

“So are you telling me the whole tale or not?” demanded Gimli.

They were sitting upon the wall of Minas Tirith, right above the Houses of Healing, for Legolas loved the gardens of the Houses. The sight of living, growing things among all the stone was comfort for his heart.

“There is little to tell,” Legolas shrugged. “During the Last Alliance, my grandsire, King Oropher of the Greenwood, led a host against Mordor. My father and my three older brothers went with him. Only my father returned.”

“What about you? Or were you not even born at that time?” asked Gimli.

“Oh, I was a grown Elf already, and one of the best archers in the Greenwood,” Legolas laughed quietly. “Only my eldest brother, Dorothil, was better. I wanted to go with them, too, naturally. But father said I was too young. Besides, he wanted at least one of his sons at home.”

“I heard that your people suffered grievous losses in that war,” said Gimli tentatively.

Legolas nodded. “Two-third of the archers who followed King Oropher to war were slain on the slopes of Orodruin. Dorothil and my third-born brother, Orchal, fell on Grandsire’s side. Father and Enadar survived and fought in the Last Battle upon the plain of Dagorlad. When that battle was over and the war was won – or so it seemed – Enadar could no-where be found among the dead. But the destruction caused by Sauron’s fana falling apart buried many of the fallen. We all believed Enadar dead… until now.”

‘It would have been a blessing, I deem,” said Gimli, “more so as you Elves can come back from death, they say. Or is that just a legend?”

“Nay, we can be rehoused into new flesh, after a while in Mandos’ Halls,” replied the Elf. “But no-one returns unchanged, at least according to Glorfindel. And he of all people ought to know.”

They remained silent for a while, Gimli contemplating the loss of so many loved ones, and that by a people that had been meant to live ‘til the end of Arda. He had only lost his uncle Óin, which had been bad enough, but Dwarves were mortal. They all knew that they would die sooner or later. Elves, though… Elves were not meant to know death. How did they cope with people – family, friends and allies – dying around them, all the time?

If that was the price of immortality, Gimli was very glad to be mortal.

“What was he like? He finally asked. “Your brother, I mean. Enadar.”

“Strangely enough, he was the brother I knew the least,” replied Legolas thoughtfully. “Dorothil was the one I was closest to. He used to carry me on his shoulders when I was little – all my older siblings were grown adults when I was born – and he was the one who taught me how to handle a bow. He was,” he added with a sad little smile, “my hero. Orchal was funny, and he always had great patience with us, little ones. But Enadar… he was a lonely one. He often roamed the forest all by himself, understood the trees better than the rest of us… and he played the harp. He was very good at it. Our grandsire tutored him personally.”

“The harp, hmmm?” That seemed to give Gimli ideas. “Are you good at it, too?”

“I am… acceptable, at best,” admitted Legolas. “Although I prefer the flute, myself, just like my father. Not that I could even come close to his talent, mind you. Father is truly gifted, and so was Enadar. I have just learned how to play.”

“Oh,” Gimli’s face fell, “what a pity. I can play the fiddle a bit. I hoped we might make music together one day.”

“We can,” said Legolas, “as long as you do not expect too much from me. My hands are more skilled with the string of the bow than that of the harp.”

They smiled at each other in sad understanding. Indeed, the recent times had more encouraged both Dwarves and Elves to perfect their fighting skills instead of their artistic gifts.

“Enadar is a strange-sounding name,” Gimli then said. “Where does it come from?”

“’Tis Nandorin and comes from the tongue of Green-Elves in Ossiriand that now lies beneath the Sea,” answered Legolas. “They say it was one of the names of Denethor son of Lenwë, lord of the Nandor Elves. Our grandmother came from his family, and Enadar was named after him in her honour.”

“Did you know her? Any of you?”

“Nay; she was slain during the sack of Doriath, when father and aunt Nelladel were still barely more than young elflings.”

“Doriath, hm?” said Gimli. Legolas nodded.

“Father is related to Elu Thingol, the King of Doriath. He and the Lord Celeborn are first grade cousins.”

That surprised Gimli greatly, and he pondered over this new piece of knowledge for a while.

“Well,” he finally said, “that explains a lot about your father and Dwarves.”

Legolas laughed. “It does, does it not? And yet I would like to ask you to accompany me on this most bittersweet of all journeys, friend Dwarf. For I know not what I shall find or what I should expect, and having you on my side would mean great comfort to me.”

“Then I shall come with you,” said the Dwarf promptly. “Even though I have hoped that our first journey together would lead us to the wonders of the Glittering Caves.”

“That still can be accomplished,” said Legolas, “for in three days now Éomer of Rohan will return home to bear Théoden-King back to rest in home soil, and we are supposed to ride with him, we and the entire court, to honour the fallen. We can visit both the Caves and Fangorn, and then continue on to Lothlórien with Lord Celeborn’s people. For even though the war is over, there are still dark places in these lands, therefore we should use the safety of a big travelling company as long as we can.”

“But it would slow us down greatly, while riding light, just the two of us, would take you to your brother days earlier,” pointed out Gimli.

“True,” said Legolas solemnly. “But we must honour Théoden-King as well as the promises given to each other. And what is more, I need this delay. I need a little time to get used to the thought of having my brother back. ‘Tis not easy. For I have grieved for him, and made my peace with the loss, and all was shut away safely among my memories of times past. Now I have to bring all that forth again, dust those memories and relive them – it will be hard and painful in the beginning. We Elves do not take changes well.”

“That,” said Gimli with emphasis, “is an understatement. Fortunate are you to have a Dwarf with you who can shake you out of these strange moods.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” Legolas agreed with a soft smile, “to have such a stout-hearted friend who is even willing to face the Elvenking of Mirkwood for the sake of his friend.”

They laughed again, and Legolas felt as if a terrible burden had been lifted off his heart. He still feared what he would find. He had seen prisoners – few and far between though they had been – who had managed to escape the Necromancer’s Tower, and knew some of the things that had been done to them. But knowing that his own brother had to endure such pains, and that for more than three thousand years, was almost more than he could bear. He knew he would need Gimli’s comforting presence to root him, should his feelings overwhelm him. Even if his father would not like it.

“Come, friend Dwarf,” he said, hopping off the wall, “let us walk in the gardens one more time. For I want to study the healing herbs ere we leave. To see if they have here aught that we lack in the North. And I wish to say farewell to the trees that dwell here.”

Gimli shook his head and grumbled something about tree-huggers who would never grow up, despite having lived for thousands of years, but he climbed down readily enough, following the slightly agitated Elf into the garden. He knew that Legolas was upset about the news he had received – which was more than understandable – and was willing to give the Elf all the support he could.

Was that not what friends were for?

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

Seven days later, as King Elessar had said, the entire royal court made ready to ride forth from Minas Tirith. Aside from Queen Arwen and the King himself, with them rode Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, with their folk, and Elrond and his sons; and Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Prince Faramir of Ithilien, and many great captains and knights of Gondor. The remaining members of the Fellowship joined them to pay Théoden-King the last honours properly.

Legolas and Gimli rode together upon Arod as before, but unlike in earlier times, Legolas was strangely quiet during the long, slow ride across Anórien. Neither did he sing all the time, his entire mannerism unusually distant. Finally, just as they reached the outskirts of Edoras, Gimli had enough.

“Legolas, talk to me!” he demanded. “What ails you?”

It was the fifteenth day of their journey, and the wain of Théoden-King had just passed the green fields of Rohan, so that the King would finally return to his ancestors; and the Men of the Mark were already preparing his final resting place. Legolas watched their work with veiled eyes for a while, ere turning to his friend.

“I was thinking about my promise to visit the Glittering Caves with you,” he replied softly, that unsettling, distant look still in his otherwise so bright eyes.

The Dwarf frowned. “Are you going to go back on your word?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay, my friend. A promise is a promise, and it must be honoured. ‘Tis just… after what I have learned of my brother’s fate, the thought of going under the earth fills my mind with unease.”

“You are afraid?” asked Gimli in surprise. “You who entered the Path of the Dead without hesitation?”

“At that time, I did not think of the possibility of being trapped there,” admitted the Elf. “I thought they would either kill me or let me pass, for Aragorn’s sake. Yet now… I keep thinking of my brother and an entire Age spent in a deep dungeon, without feeling the wind or the warmth of sunlight upon his face, without hearing the whispered thoughts of trees… and I fear for him. How is he supposed to heal from that?”

“Well, the Lady Arwen said that his mind was not wholly damaged,” said the Dwarf uncertainly. Legolas nodded.

“I know. But she also said that the damage was very great. It might take hundreds of years to heal… if ever.”

“So what?” the Dwarf shrugged. “You are Elves. You do have hundreds of years.”

“Not all of us do,” replied Legolas softly, “not on this side of the Sea anyway.”

“Oh,” Gimli suddenly understood. “’Tis about the Longing, is it not? You fear that you would not be able to stay in Middle-earth ‘til he recovers, right?”

Legolas sighed. “Elrond has fought the Longing for five hundred years. I am half his age and do not have half the powers he can call his own. Also the power of Vilya helped him fight the effects, ‘til the One was destroyed. I have no such aid.”

“You have your friends, your father and now your brother to keep you rooted,” said Gimli quietly. “Surely, those are bonds strong enough to keep you on these shores for a while yet?”

“I have already promised Aragorn to stay as long as the Fellowship lasts,” replied Legolas. “Yet for us, that is but a wink of an eye. Even Aragorn is but a mortal Man, however long a life the undiluted blood of Númenor might allow him. One generation of Men – one lifetime of those who will be born shortly – and he, too, will grow old and die. And then, friend Dwarf, there shall only be you and me. And even you will leave me after a while, young as you might be for a Dwarf still.”

“You will still have your father and brother,” said Gimli.

“True,” answered Legolas sadly, “yet that may not be enough. For the adventures we have faced together as the companions of the Ring have forged a strange kind of kinship among us, one that may prove stronger than the ties of blood. I already feel the loss of Boromir keenly, for he was a valiant and honourable man, and even if tragically mislead, he was one of us. Part of me died at Parth Galen with him, and with each of you leaving this world, that empty place within me shall grow, ‘til it swallows me entirely – or ‘til I flee to the West. I feel as if I have become estranged from my own kind during my travels with you mortals.”

Gimli remained silent for a long while, pondering over what he had just heard. Then he looked up from beneath his bushy eyebrows, directly into the Elf’s eyes.

“I believe what you are experiencing right now are the pains of growing,” he said. “You might be older than Gondor itself, yet you have been the only child of your father for an Age. Now that he has another son again, and one that needs him more than you have needed him since a very young age, you are afraid to let go.”

“Mayhap,” admitted Legolas, “although it was more my father who relied on me for support than the other way round.”

“Of course,” Gimli nodded. “You were his Heir. You still are, I deem, for your brother will not be able to take on any responsibilities for a long time yet… if ever. Still, your leash will be loosened a bit in the future, and that frightens you – does it not?”

“It does,” said Legolas. “I have rebelled against my short leash time and again; against a life filled with duty and obligations, of which the Quest was a welcome distraction. Yet it also gave my life structure and safety. I fear that once my mortal comrades are gone, the Longing will sweep me away, now that I am but the younger son again.”

“Then you should seek out new obligations,” said the Dwarf simply. “Have you not planned to bring some of your people south, to found a new settlement of Elves in Ithilien and heal those lands from the damage the Orcs and other beasts of Mordor have caused?”

“I have, and I still do,” said Legolas, “and now that he has another son to worry about, my father might even allow me to do so. Ithilien is much closer to the Sea… the Longing would be easier to bear there. And Prince Imrahil gave me a standing invitation to visit Dol Amroth any time I want. From there, Edhellond, the South Haven of the Elves, is but a short travel across the Bay.”

“But we still are going to visit the Glittering Caves, are we not?” asked the Dwarf.

Legolas laughed. “We are, friend Gimli; and the Fangorn Forest, and many beautiful places Middle-earth still has to offer.”

“Good,” grumbled the Dwarf. “Now, stop brooding; ‘tis unbecoming of an Elf. Ere we can begin our journey together, there will be a burial feast of royal magnitude, and I intend to enjoy the fare of the Rohirrim – and their excellent ale – fully.”

With that, he stomped away and began to climb the path that led up to the golden hall of Meduseld. Legolas laughed quietly, his heart strangely consoled by the words of his friends, and followed Gimli with light steps, singing under his breath for the first time since they had left Minas Tirith.

TBC

The Prisoner of Dol Guldur

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part 1.

The long-awaited reunion between the two brothers turns out differently than Thranduil has hoped.

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

“And now Legolas fell silent, while the others talked, and he looked out against the sun, and as he gazed he saw white sea-birds beating up the River.

‘Look!’ he cried. ‘Gulls! They are flying for inland. A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart. Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships. Then I stood still, forgetting war in Middle-earth; for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea. The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! For the gulls. No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm.”

The Return of the King, Chapter 9 – The Last Debate, p. 178

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

Part 11

After the burial feast – or ierfe húsel, as the Rohirrim called it; it included an almost frightening amount of ale, beer and mead as well as lots of food, numerous boasts spoken to honour Théoden, the King that had been, and Éomer, the King that was now, as well as a great deal of singing and jesting – the guests were ready to leave. They drank the stirrup-cup and continued their journey first to Helm’s Deep, where they rested two days.

Legolas there mastered his fears and repaid his promise to Gimli; and the wonders of the Glittering Caves made him speechless, even though he was suffering under the earth from unexpected attacks of dread. When they returned to his friends and these asked him about what he had seen, Legolas gave evasive answers and pressed to continue their way to Fangorn. For he felt uprooted and restless, and hoped that a forest as old as Fangorn would help him to find some halt in Middle-earth again.

From the Deeping-coomb they rode to Isengard and saw with delight how the tireless work of the Ents had turned that once bleak and hostile place into a tree garden again. And while the wise and important people discussed the fate of Saruman with Treebeard, eldest of the tree-shepherds, a thought occurred to Legolas; a thought carrying a hope so faint that he had barely dared to give it form, not even in his mind.

Thus he wandered off from his companions, to think over that half-shaped idea, and he came to where once the old gates of Isengard had stood. There was no gate anymore, and even the stone circle was gone, removed without a trace; and instead of the gates now two tall trees were standing like sentinels, watching the green-bordered path that saw towards Orthanc that now rose from the middle of a clear lake.

Trees? Nay, these were no trees – their thoughts, albeit tree-like in some way, were slower and full of memories. Not even the eldest trees Legolas had ever met, not even the Great Ash of Northern Mirkwood had memories like these – and power like these.

Ents. These were Ents. There could be no doubt about that.

He heard a deep, resonant chuckle and looked up, directly into the large, greenish brown eyes of a tall Ent that recalled a rowan tree, with smooth, shining skin on his arms and legs, ruddy lips and grey-green hair.

“Greetings,” said the Ent, bowing like a slender tree in the wind. “I am called Bregalad; or Quickbeam,” he added, glancing at the Dwarf who was staring at him rather suspiciously. “You are not from the people of the Golden Wood, are you?” he then asked the Elf.

“Nay,” said Legolas. “I am from the North of the Greenwood, where the Great Ash has her roots, deep in unspoiled soil.”

“Oh, the Great Ash!” Bregalad smiled – at least Gimli thought that he was smiling; it was not easy to decide by a being that looked so much like a tree. “One of the few trees still here that took roots when I was but a little Enting, many, many years ago, in the quiet of the world. She was there already when the Elves left the Waters of Awakening and wandered south, to avoid being captured by the Hunter. Are you one of those who used to have their home on the hill-that-has-no-life-upon-it-now, ere the Sun and the Moon were born?”

“My great-grandfather was once the King of the First City of the Quendi that stood upon that hill,” answered Legolas, “and my grandsire returned there after Doriath fell and all within the Girdle of Melian was lost. But I was born in the tree city of Lasgalen, myself, in the Emyn Duir, and do not know the Naked Hill but as the second stronghold of the Enemy.”

“I heard that after the shadow fell upon Mirkwood, the heart of the trees in the South turned black,” said the Ent. “If ‘tis true, then it is a sad thing indeed. Fur curing the trees out of evils long and slow work, and very hard.”

“Yet not impossible, certainly not for the shepherds of the trees, I deem,” said Legolas, seizing the opening given to him. “The Greenwood is in need of much healing, and who else but you could do such work?”

“True enough,” admitted the Ent, “but we are needed here, too.”

“You could be needed in many places that have been spoiled by evil, “said Legolas urgently, “but no-where more than in the South of the Greenwood, where the poisoning has been the longest and the worst. The Faithful Elves have no strong earth-healers any longer. My mother was the last, captured and fled from her body some hundred years ago. We cannot do this without your help.”

“I would like to help,” said Bregalad, “but the decision is not mine alone. You need to carry your plea before the Entmoot – and that might take time.”

“Time is naught I would have aplenty right now,” replied Legolas in concern. “For this friend of mine and I are set to visit Fangorn, and then we must hurry for Lórien, where my father is waiting for me.”

“If you are about to visit our forest, you can speak to some of the others,” said the Ent. “I shall send word by friendly birds, and we can see that you meet a few of the younger ones – they are more bent to move somewhere else than the elders. But now come and tell me the whole tale. I like tales if they are well-told, and even more when they are sung.”

He reached down with his shapely arms that looked like slender branches of a young tree, and offered each the Elf and the fairly agitated Dwarf a long-fingered hand to lift them to his shoulders.

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

He spent less time in the tree house now and more on the forest floor, in places shadowed from direct sunlight, which he still found painfully bright. He was slowly growing used to the voices and noises around him and while he still could only eat a few selected fruits and greens and still felt horribly weak in body, his mind seemed to clear up a bit more with every passing day.

Sometimes, when he was bedded in the protective shadow of a tall bush, small creatures of the forest came to visit him, and one by one, he recognized them. He knew the little grey animal with the long snout to be a mouse and the reddish one with the lush tail and tufted ears to be a squirrel. That was what Amme used to call him when he was but a small elfling – little squirrel.

Amme still called him little squirrel when she bespoke him, and sometimes he wondered why. He was no elfling anymore; he had been a grown Elf long before darkness fell upon him. He had gone to war with Ada and the silver-haired Lord, and his brothers, save the green-eyed toddler. That little leaf had still been too young…

But nay, not a toddler anymore. He knew now that his youngest brother had been left behind to protect Naneth and their sister, but whenever he tried to remember him, all he saw was the small elfling with those leaf-green eyes.

Just as he could never remember their sister as aught but a silver-haired little girl. But most of all, he remembered her eyes, grey and somber and much too sad for her age, and the painful longing in her voice as she spoke about the Sea neither of them had ever seen.

Memories were a strange thing indeed.

A slight rousing of voices woke him from his half-slumber – he was spending more time awake lately – and for a while he just lay on his soft bed under his favourite bush, still too weak to open his eyes. But his ears were perked up and his mind sharp. Someone was coming – someone who had been waited for anxiously, if the joy and relief in the voices around him was of any indication.

There was laughing and singing and joyous cries and joking grumbles, and he heard a long-forgotten sound, too – that of hooves over a forest floor. He could feel the presence of Ada and Amme, and he heard the voice of old Galion and that of the copper-haired healer, and a few others he had come to know in this place but had no memories of from the times before.

And he could feel a few new presences, one painfully familiar, although he could not tell who it was at the moment; and another one previously unknown; and a third one, which was utterly strange. Despite the nagging familiarity, it was that strange presence that caught his attention. It felt vaguely like a tree, and yet completely different. Older than the mellyrn around him, older than the Great Ash even, and yet youthful somehow; quick as lightning, and yet slow as the growing of trees at the same time.

He had never felt anything like that before, of that he was certain, in spite of his faulty memory. But it was tree-like, and trees had always been his friends.

So he risked to open his eyes, just a crack.

At first he thought he saw a rowan tree, and a particularly large one at that. But rowan trees did not have huge, greenish brown eyes twinkling in their stems. Or mouths opening beneath those eyes to give low, rumbling chuckles. Nor did they usually bend down to take a closer look at sick and ailing Elves on forest floors.

“Ha-humm,” the rumbling voice said. “He certainly needs good, long draughts to become green again, wilted as he is. But fear not. Show me some clean water, and I shall give him a draught that keeps him growing and green for a long, long time.”

He was too awed to even seek out Ada’s presence. A talking tree? Nay, it must have been one of the tree-shepherds from Amme’s bedtime stories. But they did not truly exist, did they? Mayhap he was still asleep, or in a waking dream…

But then a warm, strong hand took his cool and thin one, and a voice, so familiar and yet without a face in his blurry memory, spoke to him urgently.

“Enadar, do you remember me?”

He turned his glance towards the sound of that voice, and saw a young, auburn-haired Elf clad in greens and browns, bent over him. The face bore a great likeness to Ada’s features, but this Elf had slightly slanted, leaf-green eyes that seemed to glitter almost golden in the sunlight. He knew those eyes, even though he still could not remember the face.

“Laegalas,” he whispered.

But his heart was frozen with sorrow. For in those green eyes he could see the same sober sadness that had dwelt in the grey ones of the silver-haired girl.

Those eyes were seeking out the Sea.

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

Thranduil had been waiting anxiously for his youngest son indeed. When Celeborn and Galadriel arrived with their entourage but without Legolas, he became truly agitated, despite Celeborn’s assurances that Legolas had just been tarrying in Fangorn for a while. He had, of course, heard of the Ents, although he had never seen one in the flesh (if one could speak of flesh where Ents were considered, that is) and the thought of his son roaming the most dangerous woods of Middle-earth with a Dwarf as his only company did naught to calm his worries. He of all people knew all too well what mayhem malevolent trees could cause and did not think that a Dwarf would be much help against them.

Contrary to common belief, Thranduil had no hostile feelings towards Dwarves as a whole. Yea, he still kept the old grudge against those who had murdered his great-uncle and benefactor, Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, but truth be told, so did Celeborn. And they were both very well able to make a difference between those long-dead Dwarven malefactors and the hard-working people of Durin’s folk… most of the time, at least.

‘Twas also true that he had had differences with the Dwarves who now, once again, dwelt under the Lonely Mountain. But those differences had been long in the past, and fact was that there were fairly… civil relations between Wood and Mountain now. A tentative and sometimes grudging alliance that had begun in the Battle of the Five Armies and lasted to the present day.

So nay, Thranduil’s concern about his son’s companion was not the mere fact that said companion was a Dwarf. It was the fact that he was a Dwarf unused to trees – and carrying an axe. Trees were generally suspicious about people, be they Dwarves or Men, who were carrying axes. Tree-shepherds might be even more suspicious. And, unlike most trees, tree-shepherds were all too capable of doing something about such people.

In which case even blameless companions of said people could come to great harm, if no-way else than by accident.

And for a Wood-Elf to be harmed by an enraged Ent, after having fought the greatest war of the entire Age without a scratch, would have been a sad fate indeed.

Small wonder then that Thranduil had been worried, and the greater was his joy when his long-missed son finally arrived, in the company of the Dwarf – and followed by a creature that could only be an Ent. For what else could a walking, talking tree have been?

Even more awed and grateful he was to learn that the Ent – whose name was apparently Bregalad – had decided to move to the South of the Greenwood, to help healing the forest and cure the heart of the trees from and Age of evil. This was more than he could have hoped for.

But all the King’s joy and hopes were torn asunder in the very moment when he looked into Legolas’ eyes.

He knew that eerily distant look all too well. He had seen it in the eyes of too many Elves – friends, fellow warriors, distant relatives. Above all else, in the eyes of his own daughter, Celebwen.

The Longing had caught up with his family again.

“I have never believed the Valar to be this cruel,” he said to Galion bitterly. “For see, I have got one son back from the Darkness, only to lose the other one to the Sea.”

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

Ada was speaking of the Sea in that hurt voice again, and it saddened him greatly, as always when Ada was hurting. He vaguely remembered that his people sometimes got onto ships and went on a great journey across the Sea, never to be seen again. Had the silver-haired girl with the sad eyes gone, too? And was the green-eyed toddler, who was no toddler anymore but a warrior, going too, soon? Were they all to leave Ada behind? Why were they doing this to him?

“Laegalas,” he whispered, barely able to keep his leaden eyes open.

That fair face, so much like Ada’s, and yet so different, bent over him again, and a low, gentle voice asked.

“What do you wish, dear heart?”

“Laegalas,” he struggled, frustrated, the words still refused to come to him when he needed them most. “You… must not… leave…”

“I shall not, not for a while yet,” promised that gentle voice.

“When…?” he asked, weary from all that sadness and hurting, his own, Ada’s, and that of this soft-speaking stranger who once had been his green-eyed little brother.

“I know not,” the soft voice answered. “I shall stay as long as I can.”

It would not be enough, he knew that, for once the Sea began to call to someone, they grew restless and could no longer feel at home under the trees. One day, this beautiful warrior, whom he had once known as a mischievous little elfling, would be unable to resist that powerful call, even if he wanted to. He would have no choice but go on a ship and sail away, leaving Ada behind. And Ada will be hurt, just as it had always hurt him when the silver-haired girl spoke about the Sea.

And then Ada would be alone, save from a broken wreck of a son who could not even sit up on his bed without help.

He let his eyes fall shut, hot tears of sorrow running down his sunken cheeks.

TBC

The Prisoner of Dol Guldur

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part 1.

Sorry for the sometimes erratic changes of POV. This story comes to me in sudden bursts and bouts. I have actually very little control over my headstrong characters.

Bregalad’s song is quoted from “The Two Towers”.

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

“’You have drunk of the waters of the Ents, have you?’ said Legolas. ‘Ah, then I think it is likely that Gimli’s eyes do not deceive him. Strange songs have been sung of the draughts of Fangorn!

[…]

‘But I hope that the Ents may have found time to brew some of their draughts from the mountain-springs, and we shall see Gandalf’s beard curling when he returns.’ [Merry]”

The Two Towers, Chapter 9 – Flotsam and Jetsam, pp. 206 & 223

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

Part 12

Sitting next to his long-lost brother’s makeshift resting place under the tall bush, Legolas contemplated the fragile shape thoughtfully. He could not find Enadar’s features in that wasted face, dominated by the enormous, deep-sunken eyes, and the spidery limbs seemed to belong to a wraith rather than to an Elf. He also felt that Enadar did not recognize him, for some reason.

“He does not know who I am, does he?” he asked Cordophel sadly.

“It is not that simple,” she replied. “He does know who you are, in some strange way, but he only remembers you as a very small elfling. His memories are fragmented and foggy – he is very confused. The only ones he can truly recognize are your lord father and myself.”

“Besides,” added Old Galion with a quick sidelong glance at the young prince, “you are not the same Elf who has left the Greenwood less than a year ago. The changes in you make it harder for him to remember you.”

Legolas sighed. “I know, Master Galion. I have become as a stranger to myself as well. Always have I hoped that should the Sea call to me one day – which day, I fervently wished, would never come – it would be in the far, far future, when my father, too, would be ready to leave these shores. That he would come with me.”

“He is not ready,” answered Galion, “and will not be for a long time yet. Not now that he has found a new purpose here.”

“More than one purpose, I deem,” said Legolas. “Now with the Ents coming to help healing the South of the Greenwood, it might become again what it used to be in Grandsire’s times.”

“Mayhap,” replied Galion thoughtfully. “I do not believe, though, that out King would move South again. Not beyond the Emyn Duir, in any case. That which once used to be Dol Guldur will become the concern of the Lord Galdaran, I imagine.”

“Lord Celeborn?” asked Legolas in surprise. “Why would he want to leave the Golden Wood?”

“Lothlórien has existed outside time for too long,” said Galion, “and once the Lady leaves, it will whiter and fall in a long sleep, or so the Faithful say. Save this one place, mayhap, where some of Nimrodel’s blessings still linger. Cerin Amroth has been outside of the Lady’s influence, by the choice of King Amroth, and she respected his wish, even long after he was gone. Still, when the Lady leaves, and with her many of her people, Lórien will become a very lonely place.”

“I wonder why Celeborn would not go with her,” murmured Legolas.

Galion gave him a long, compassionate look.

“Unlike you, he does not hear the Call,” he answered, “and his heart is eager to partaking in the cleansing and healing of the forest. More so now that we are getting help from the tree-shepherds themselves.”

They looked down the mound, towards a small, silver spring, where Bregalad, the Ent was standing over two large vessels, apparently filled with water from the nearby spring. The Ent held his hands over them, and slowly, dimly, they began to glow, one with a golden, the others with a pale green light. The blending of the two lights could be seen from where Legolas and Galion were sitting, and it was such a lovely blend that they drifted off into content silence.

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

He did not know what had awakened him for he was surrounded by silence, peaceful and warm. After his nap, he felts strong enough to open his eyes again, and he opened them to a wonder never seen before. It was as if the sun of summer was shining through a roof of young leaves. Indeed, his favourite bush, and all the trees themselves around, seemed to glow, until every twig and every leaf was edged with soft light that did not hurt his eyes. Some of them were green, some of them gold, others red and copper, and the tree-stems looked like pillars, carved of luminous stone and filled with softly pulsing light.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It almost made up for not having seen any lights in all those bleak, endless yéni in his dungeon.

He could feel Amme nearby, and the old one named Galion, and the one who used to be his little brother once. But he could not turn his eyes from that wondrous, soft light, and thus he was not startled when he saw the tall, tree-like figure moving towards his resting place, putting down big, root-like toes first, and than shifting weight with a rolling motion, as tall trees move in a strong wind.

“Ha-humm,” rumbled the Ent, “it needs some more ripening, but I believe the draught would do him good anyway. One of you should lift his head… my hands are way too large for such a fragile skull.”

He could feel Amme lift his head, and the rim of what seemed a stone bowl touched his lips. The ravenous thirst reawakened in the very moment he felt the scent of fresh water – and something more. The drink was like water, only a thousand times better than water, although he could have never imagined that something – anything! – could ever taste and smell better than water.

There was a flavour in it, akin to its scent, which he could not describe, faint but unmistakable. It was like the warmth of summer, the sweetness of wild berries, the freshness of a mountain spring and the smell of a distant wood borne from afar by a cold breeze, all rolled into one savour.

“Slowly, slowly,” warned the Ent. “Even if not fully ripened, this is a powerful draught. Allow yourself to get used to it first.”

He could feel the effect already, like a slight prickling, first in his toes, in which he had barely had any feeling so far. Then it rose steadily through every limb, washing out the leaden weariness as it coursed upwards, replacing it with warmth and vigour. Like a warm flush, it washed over his entire body, right to the tips of his now short and white hair. He felt his scalp prickling, and indeed, the very gums of his damaged teeth, and it seemed to him as if his hair would lose that dead, straw-like feeling and become smooth and shining again.

“That is enough for one day,” said the Ent, taking a bowl away, and he grasped after it in despair, for now he was thirsting after that wondrous draught more than he had even thirsted for water.

“Tomorrow, I shall bring you another bowl,” promised the Ent, “but it would do you more harm than good, should I give you more right now. You are still very weak… healing will take time, even while drinking the waters of the Ents.”

He did not feel weak. In fact, for the first time since his rescue, he almost felt like himself again.

“It will pass, all too soon,” said the Ent regretfully, as if reading his mind. “You will have to drink this one bowl a day for a very long time for the effect to hold.”

“It will… hold?” he whispered, and the Ent gave a long, rumbling chuckle.

“In time, it will. You must be as patient as ancient trees and the earth they put their roots in, but it will hold. Now sleep and heal.”

Something leafy touched his forehead gently, and he fell into deep, restful sleep, without dark dreams. Instead, he dreamed about the trees and bushes bathing in that wondrous light.

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

“I am anxious to leave for the Greenwood again,” said Thranduil, sitting with his sons, Galion and Cordophel under the leafy arms of Bregalad, who seemed more than happy to save as the spender of cooling shadow. “Maelduin is wise and reliable, but he is a scholar, not a warrior. We may have won the war, but the forest is still full of dark places, and my people will have need of their King for quite a while yet.”

“I, too, wish to go home again,” said Legolas quietly, “and Gimli should return to the Lonely Mountain shortly. But what about Enadar? He does not have the strength to make such a long journey, not even in a boat. And our home is far from the Great River, where a boat could travel smoothly.”

“I wish not to bring him to our current home,” said Thranduil. “Putting him into a cave again would frighten him out of his mind. Galion has offered to live with him in a tree house, as he did in his youth.”

“Ada, you cannot leave them behind in the Emyn Duir!” Legolas protested. “No-one dwells there anymore – ‘tis too perilous.”

“Of course it is,” Thranduil nodded. “Not even Elves can go backwards in time, even if we sometimes wish we could. But you know as well as I do that some of our people still dwell on the treetops.”

Bregalad stirred above them, his green-grey crown rustling in the light breeze.

“The wilted sapling needs good earth to dig his roots deeply again, and clean, fresh waters to cure his thirst,” he rumbled as quietly as he could, for he did not want to wake Enadar. “This healing is beyond the power of Elves, even ones as old as Galion or the apple-maiden. A broken sapling needs the care of a tree-shepherd to mend.”

“But you wanted to go to the South of the Greenwood,” said Legolas, “to heal the forest from its wounds, did you not?”

“Is the North in no need of healing?” the large eyes of the Ent looked at him unblinkingly. “A few others of my kin are coming upwards, soon. Let them heal the South. I shall go with you to the North, find a decent ent-house and water your sapling, ‘til it becomes green and strong again.”

Legolas laughed. “Now I see why Merry and Pippin said you were a hasty Ent.”

Bregalad chuckled in answer. “I should never have told those two how I came to my name,” he said. “But it is true – I tend to make up my mind a great deal faster than other Ents. And I would like to live near to Elves again. Wood-Elves care for trees, almost as much as we do… and I do like company.”

“I do not wish to give my son away again,” said Thranduil, clearly not liking the idea at all.

“I ask you not to give him away,” replied Bregalad. “I shall find an ent-house near to your dwelling, so that you can come to visit him any time you want and have a good draught with us. Your heart could use it, too.”

That was so painfully true that Thranduil did not even try to protest.

“And besides,” added Bregalad, “I can help you getting your son home.”

“You can?” Thranduil frowned. “How?”

The Ent shrugged, which was a fairly… bizarre sight.

“I shall carry him,” he replied simply. “You can build him a nest in my hair; he would barely feel me moving.”

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

His sleep was long and undisturbed, his dreams peaceful as never before, full of beautiful images previously unknown to him. He saw a great circle of ancient rowan trees, so old and tall that the shadow of each seemed like a green hall. Their branches bent under the burden of their red berries, rich and ripe, a harvest of beauty and wonder, bent so much that they nearly touched the soil. Birds flocked there, smaller and larger ones alike, and the air was full of their singing.

It was a wondrous dream, one that filled his heart with a quiet joy, but also with strange melancholy, for deep within he knew that his dream-like place did not exist anymore. He knew not where this knowledge came; mayhap from the deep, low voice humming some ancient song high above him.

O Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carminúrië!

O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!

O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer’s day.

Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft;

Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bore aloft!

O rowan dead, upon your head your hair is dry and grey;

Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day.

O Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carminúrië!

There he lay in half-sleep, listening to the quiet lament for a long time. The sorrow of the trees, borne for many hundred years, touched him deeply, yet at the same time, it seemed to ease his own burden.

“Sleep, sapling,” the low voice rumbled above him, “sleep and heal. Soon, you will leave this place and return to your root.”

“Home, he whispered, only half-awake. “Go… home?”

“We shall, ion-nin,” the voice of Ada answered. “Soon, very soon.”

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

“Do you not think it would be too early to move him?” asked Celeborn on their last evening in the Golden Wood. He was sitting with Thranduil and Legolas on the bank of the Nimrodel, listening to the music of the waterfall.

Thranduil shook his head. “Bregalad thinks it is time for him to move on. The ent-draught has done wonders: the wounds on his back have healed, his appetite has grown considerably, and he can even sit for a few moments without help. The journey will be slow and long, so he will have the time and the peace to keep recovering.”

“Are you so eager to leave us, cousin?” asked Celeborn, seemingly in jest, but there was sorrow in his silver-grey eyes.

“You will need your peace, too,” replied Thranduil, “to say farewell to your lady, ere she leaves these shores. But stay not behind alone in the empty shell of what used to be your home for too long, Galdaran. The Greenwood is big enough for us both; and now, that Elrond is leaving, too, we are your only kin. You and all that will follow you, will be welcome in the neighbourhood.”

“Just like in old times, eh?” said Celeborn with a sad little smile. “Do you remember the day when your father moved your people northwards, abandoning his fortress upon Amon Lanc?”

“I do remember,” answered Thranduil,” his smile just as guarded. “You came to see me off. We parted in disagreement.”

“But still in friendship,” said Celeborn, “did we not?”

“We did,” Thranduil agreed, “and in friendship shall we meet under the trees of the Greenwood again. You have lived outside of time for too long, cousin – just like Lothlórien itself. ‘Tis time for you to return to your roots. To our roots.”

“For a while, mayhap,” said Celeborn. “For part of me shall leave with my lady, and one day, I shall follow her.”

Thranduil gave him a thorough look, and their fëar touched briefly, as it sometimes happen with Elves who share the same blood.

“You are not ready,” he judged; “no more than I am. ‘Tis bitter, not to feel the same distance in you, whom I have not met for an Age, which I can feel in my own son.”

“’Tis not Legolas’ fault,” said Celeborn mildly, and Thranduil nodded.

“Of course not. ‘Tis the course of the Sindar that he inherited from my line as well as his beauty.”

“If I could, I would choose to be uglier than an Orc, but never be called away by the Sea,” said Legolas softly.

Thranduil patted his hand affectionately. “Such choices are not given to us, ion-nin – we shall deal with this as we have dealt with everything fate has hurled into our faces. At least, we are together for now. The next day will take care for itself – just as it always has been. Let us go home and celebrate the unexpected gift of your brother’s return.”

TBC  

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

This story now comes to an end, as this is as good a place as any to finish it. A short epilogue will follow to give you a glimpse into the future – but only a glimpse. The final decision lies by Enadar, and he still has not made up his mind. :))

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

PART 13

“’The Trees and the Ents,’ said Treebeard. ‘I do not understand all that goes on myself, so I cannot explain it to you. Some of us are still true Ents, and lively enough in our fashion, but many are growing sleepy, going tree-ish, as you might say. Most of the trees are just trees, of course; but many are half awake. Some are quite wide awake, and a few are, well, ah, well, getting Entish. That is going on all the time.’”

The Two Towers – Chapter 4: Treebeard, p.83.

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

Their way back to the Greenwood was a long and slow one indeed. Thranduil wanted to spare his son the sight of that which was still there from Dol Guldur, and thus he chose to travel on the west-bank of Anduin, up to the Old Ford. They crossed the Great River at that point and continued their journey on the Old Forest Road.

Near Rhosgobel, the border patrols of his folk, who had been on the lookout for the royal party for quite some time, met them and escorted them through the Mountains of Mirkwood and alongside the Enchanted River, ‘til they finally reached the Elvenking’s citadel. A high, rocky hill it looked but was busy like a beehive in the inside, housing hundreds of Silvan Elves in peacetime and thousands of refugees if the need arose.

The threes and shrubs covering the hillside also very cleverly covered the balconies of the upper levels, where the living quarters were carved into the living rock, beyond reach for anyone but the visiting birds. Only the one or other stone watchtower and a few stairways with their protective balustrades, nearly invisible among the natural rock formations, even for the Elven eye, revealed that there was indeed life under that hill.

Enadar, not familiar with his father’s fortress, as it had been built after the realm had moved further in the North – at a time when he had already been imprisoned and thought dead by everyone – paid little attention to the busy coming and going of the Elvenking’s household. Right when they reached the alley that led to Thranduil’s magic doors, Quickbeam, who had been carrying him all the way from Lothlórien, turned away from the main road, waiting patiently for the Elves of the royal palace to have a proper reunion with Legolas. Then he cleared his throat, which sounded like a wooden trumpet.

“Ha-hooom,” he grumbled. “You hasty folk had your time to greet the young prince now; which is right and proper. But this sapling here is still ailing and needs to be planted and watered to heal. Can someone show me a less… noisy place, where I can find clear water for him, and some shelter?”

“We have prepared the place,” Alagos, the Dark Elf, stepped forth from the background where he had been watching all the fuss with tolerant amusement. “Follow me, o shepherd, and I shall lead you the way.”

He led the Ent around the hill of Thranduil’s fortress, to the west-side, where the trees did not grow quite so densely. Here the sheer, rocky wall hollowed back at its bottom, forming a chamber that was completely open to one side but could give shelter half a dozen Elves under its arched roof if necessary. Beech trees framed the wide entrance, their branches entwining high above it, woven into a protective screen against the rain and too hot sunlight, just like the roofs of the tree-houses of the Galadhrim. Barely ten steps from the rock-wall, a spring bubbled from under a large, mossy stone, its water clear and cool and sweet. It was the perfect place for an Ent-house, one that only could be found by someone who knew perfectly well what the Onodrim needed and liked.

But again, Alagos was old enough and had seen enough to know such things.

“When the young prince has grown strong enough to climb, we shall build him a house on the treetops, like the one he used to have in King Oropher’s tree city,” he said to the Ent. “Right now, though, it would be better for him to stay with you. For this will be your home, as long as you dwell among us, and no-one shall enter it without your invitation. Those are the orders of my King.”

“Your King is a wise Elf,” answered Quickbeam, “and gladly do I accept his gift, for this place is very much to my liking. But I shall need help with the more… mundane needs of this young one, as my hands are too strong to handle his fragile body.”

“Master Galion will be joining you shortly,” said Alagos. “Until then, I shall take care of the young prince. I have done so in the past, and though he does not remember me yet, he does know me.”

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

And so Enadar spent the fading season and the winter in Quickbeam’s Ent-house, listening to the half-aware dreams of the trees and to the Ent’s slow, rumbling voice as it was telling him tales older than the wood itself and humming songs that no-one else would remember. Few other people were allowed to visit, so that their peace would not be disturbed. Ada came every day, of course, and Amme, and the old one called Galion, and the Dark Elf whose strong presence always gave him the feeling of safety, just as much as his father’s.

Legolas would come and visit often, and sometimes the Dwarf would come with me. Enadar had grown to like the Dwarf’s presence. It felt like the very Earth under his feet, soothing and reassuring, and he understood why Legolas, whose heart was pulling him in two opposite directions, liked to be in Gimli’s company.

As time went by, he slowly began to grow a little stronger. He could even walk short distances without help, and his memories, while still fragmented and confusing, started to come back, piece by disconnected piece, beyond those of his childhood and the years of his youth. Legolas still felt strangely distant to him, but now he could remember his little brother as a grown Elf, and he knew that the strangeness came from the Longing and would always remain between Legolas and the rest of their family.

In this night, he wept for Ada again, over the terrible losses his father had to suffer – of which he, too, was part of.

Nonetheless, he was coping slowly, learning his home again – more so as he had never lived in this place before and had no memories of it. At least he knew the Elves of his father’s household, and he had time. No-one urged him to do aught he did not feel the strength to do yet.

In the middle of the stirring season, though, Legolas came for him briskly and said that it was time for him to pay his respects to the Great Ash, the one true Queen of the forest, who had been waiting patiently for a visit of him, ever since his arrival.

“She has awakened from her long winter slumber,” said Legolas, looking truly happy for the first time since their return to the Greenwood, “and is sending her thoughts and wordless songs through the heart of the other trees again. Have you not heard her calling out to you?”

Enadar shook his head in regret. ‘Twas a small, careful gesture, as he still had to save his strength that was returning in a very slow pace.

“Much of what I once knew is now lost to me, and it will take long to recover,” he whispered, his voice still weak and raw. “Lead me the way, for I cannot even remember the place yet.”

Legolas nodded and did as he had been asked. ‘Twas but a short walk to the triangular patch of grassy earth where the Enchanted River and the Forest River met. Here the former one lost its dark spell, for reasons unknown to anyone, and here stood the Great Ash, the Holy Tree of the Silvan folk, the one said to have a tiny part of Palúrien’s powers in her core. Here, to the Great Ash would the Silvan Elves come to renew their bonds with the earth and the water, the winds and the trees.

She was tall and slender, the Tree of Life, her roots reaching deep into the flesh of Arda, her powerful arms, already adorned with the first budding leaves of the new spring, stretched out to the stars. Like a strong anchor between starlit sky and wet soil, her bark still smooth, her juices running vigorously again, after the long sleep of winter.

Her thoughts, not broken down to mere words, reached out to the long-lost and re-found son of the wood in a silent greeting, and Enadar trembled under their onslaught. It was as if the lifeblood of the Great Ash had poured into his veins, invigorating him even more than any Ent-draught could have done. As if he had been re-bound into the bond of life, from which he had been separated for a whole Age.

“Of course you are, my poor little squirrel,” the beloved voice of Naneth said gently, and to his bewilderment, he could actually see her coming forth from under the Great Ash.

She looked not all that different from the hazy images of his memory, the ones he had been clinging to so desperately for so long. She was slender like an elm-tree, after which she had been named; her thick auburn hair held together by a dark green cloth, her almond-shaped eyes greenish-brown like polished chestnuts and very bright. He could even see the freckles on her face. Plain for an Elf but he most beautiful being in Arda for her family she was: Lálisin, the Wise Elm, late Queen of the Greenwood.

“Naneth,” whispered Enadar in awe, not fully trusting his eyes, fearing that he had finally lost his mind.

His mother was dead, was she not?

“Do not concern yourself with such hard questions, my squirrel,” she smiled; then she embraced him and kissed his brow. Enadar shook with the shock of the sensations; he had forgotten that the waking dreams of the Elves gave the dreamer more than mere sight and voices… for a short while anyway.

“Nay, my son,” said the Queen, “I am not just a dream as your brother can tell you… I am more than that and less, at the same time. When I fled my body in Dol Guldur, so that the Abhorrent One could not lay his black hand on my powers, I pleaded to remain here with my family – and was granted the delay. To watch over the forest that had no magical tools to protect it. I have been there ever since, but I am bound to the powers of the Great Ash.”

“What are you then?” asked Enadar, almost fearful of the answer.

“A guardian,” replied the Queen. “A disembodied spirit, taking on substance for very short times. I can talk to you; even touch you fleetingly, but little more.”

“Still, your presence has been a source of great strength and comfort for us all,” said Legolas quietly. “Even if only the ones bound to you by blood can see you.”

“Yet once you are gone from here, my presence, too, shall fade,” said the Queen. “But I am greatly comforted to see that you have been rescued from that terrible dungeon, my squirrel. I could feel you when I was imprisoned there, but I could not bespeak you. The evil in there was too strong. I am – I was – only and earth-healer, I had not the strength to fight the Abhorrent One.”

“Do you have it now?” whispered Enadar.

“Nay,” said his mother with a sad little smile. “I am but a memory. Yet for you, that shall be enough. For I can help you to remember – to regain all that was taken from you in those endless years of silence and darkness.”

And Enadar’s heart trembled with joy, for he understood that there would be healing for him, in the end, no matter how long it might take.

~The End~

THE PRISONER OF DOL GULDUR

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Part 1.

Author’s note:

Now this tale has truly reached its end. Actually, the idea how to finish it has come to me a long time ago – right after Part 7. But it has been a long way to reach this point. Thank you all who have followed the path with me.

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

 “But Arwen went forth from the House, and the light in her eyes was quenched, and it seemed to her people that she had become cold and grey as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Then she said farewell to Eldarion, and to her daughters, and to all whom she had loved; and she went out from the city of Minas Tirith and passed away to the land of Lórien, and dwelt there alone under the fading trees until winter came. Galadriel had passed away and Celeborn was gone, and the land was silent.

There at least when the mallorn-leaves were falling, but spring had not yet come, she laid herself to rest upon Cerin Amroth; and there is her green grave, until the world is changed, and all the days of her life are utterly forgotten by men that come after, and elanor and niphredil bloom no more east of the Sea.”

The Return of the King, Appendix A – The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, p. 425-426.

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

PART 14 – EPILOGUE

The message of Legolas came from Ithilien by the way of friendly birds, that King Elessar had finally passed away, and that Legolas himself had decided to build a ship and sail to the West.

“He asks us to go with him,” added Thranduil, looking at his second-born son in askance.

Enadar was still painfully thin – a hundred and twenty years, not even a full yén, were too little time to heal the millennia of damage he had suffered in the darkness of Dol Guldur – but had gained a sort of wiry strength that was comforting to see. His cheeks were still sunken, but less so than they had been, and traces of his erstwhile beauty could be already found on his face. He remained quiet and withdrawn, showed little interest for the big events of the recent Age, but seemed content enough with simply being with his father and their extended family. He had even visited Legolas in Ithilien once, but became homesick very quickly, and thus there had been no further visits.

“Do you wish to sail?” he now asked his father, his voice still rougher than it could be expected from an Elf. He was still re-learning how to use his vocal cords properly. Three thousand years in mute and deaf silence had not gone away without a trace.

“Nay, I do not,” admitted Thranduil softly. “If I could choose, I would remain under these trees ‘til the end of Arda. But Legolas had suffered from the Longing since the end of the war, and Celebwen has left already, and mayhap your siblings, too, have been released from Mandos’ care. As much as I loathe to leave these shores, I wish our family to be together again. And that is something we can only have in the Blessed Realm.”

“Do you believe Naneth will follow us?” asked Enadar carefully.

Thranduil spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I know not how Lálisin has made her agreement with Mandos, but I do know that she has done so that she could watch over us. I hope she can follow us there, but that is something between her and the Lord of the Halls. Something we cannot fathom, I fear.”

“We cannot be certain that she can come with us, though,” said Enadar warily, and Thranduil shook his head in regret.

“Nay, we cannot.”

“’Tis a bitter choice you are asking me to make, Ada,” Enadar’s eyes darkened in sorrow. “To part either with you and my siblings, or with Naneth, Amme and the others.”

“Tis a choice we all have to make one day,” said Thranduil gently, “but if you wish to stay, I shall stay with you. I would never abandon you, ion nîn, not after I have found you again, against all hope.”

“I do not wish to leave the Greenwood,” whispered Enadar. “I had missed my home for so long, and I have re-found it but a short time ago. Yet I wish to see Dorothil and Orchal again, and Grandsire… and all the others who perished in that battle with them. And I wish very much to meet Aiwë, your little bird whom you love so much. My heart is divided, Ada, and I know not what to do.”

“You must think over your choices carefully,” his father said. “Take your time. Take all the time you need. There is no rush. We can sail later, if you are not ready right now.”

“But we cannot tell whether I shall be more ready, ever,” pointed out Enadar, “and the Olórë Mallë may not remain open for our people forever. We may never be able to leave Middle-earth if we tarry too for long.”

“Then we shall stay here, with the rest of the Faithful,” said Thranduil simply. “There are worse fates on Arda.”

“Mayhap,” said Enadar evasively. “Yet ere I make my choice, I need to undertake one last journey in Middle-earth.”

That surprised the King greatly, for Enadar had never voiced the wish to go any further than the Long Lake before – save that one visit in Legolas’ young realm – and even there, he only visited the empty shores. He did not like being crowded.

“Where do you wish to go?” asked Thranduil.

His son gave him one of those sad little smiles. “I want to see the Golden Wood again. I know it has not been the same since the Lady left, but I want to see it one more time nonetheless.”

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

It had been a long way from his father’s realm across the southern woods where Celeborn had ruled for a short time, ere growing tired of it and going to live with his grandsons in Imladris, to the Golden Wood. Had it been up to his father, he would have travelled by boat down the Great River, but Enadar wanted to see the changes in the south of the Greenwood, wanted to see how the forest was recovering from the millennia of evil and darkness forced upon it by Dol Guldur and its dark captain. Thus Thranduil had chosen the second safest way, appointing Alagos as his son’s travelling companion.

They had travelled along the western outskirts of the Greenwood, on foot, as it was the custom of the Faithful, crossing the woods by the Old Forest Road and making their first rest in Rhosgobel, or Brownhay, as the Woodmen called it. Radagast the Brown had returned to his home of old after the war, and Enadar had finally made his acquaintance. It was a strange thing to meet someone who had been a friend of his family for the first time, but Master Aiwendil, as the Elves called him, proved to be a being of Enadar’s own taste: a solitary one, not fond of being crowded, more at ease in the company of trees and birds and other good beasts.

After a few days, they continued their journey in the company of a Beorning who travelled in the shape of a huge bear, which Enadar found equally disturbing and fascinating. Thus they finally reached the naked hill of Amon Lanc, upon which the dark tower of Dol Guldur had once stood. Enadar was not too eager to see the place of his suffering again, but Alagos insisted, saying that he would never be free unless he faced his fears and memories, and he proved right. Seeing the tower gone and its deepest pits filled up with soil, and the mound, under which the tortured and murdered prisoners were resting, covered with fresh grass and symbelminë, was liberating. And when one of the withered old trees stirred and walked away from them, Enadar’s heart fluttered, and he understood that the trees were indeed going to heal, for the Onodrim had returned to the Greenwood.

The Ent showed no intention to talk to them, and they parted ways with the Beorning and crossed the Great River, just over the place where the Celebrant joined it. The small harbour, once the mooring place of Lórien’s famous grey boats and swan-shaped barges, was abandoned, the Boat-Elves gone. When they came to Egladil at length, the heart of the Golden Wood, they saw that while the great earthen wall of Caras Galadhon was still in place, it was already crumbling down here and there, and the Tree City was abandoned, little more than an empty shell. Only a few of its former inhabitants lingered there still, and there was no longer light or song in Caras Galadhon.

“What now?” asked Alagos, looking around with saddened eyes. “Where do you want to go from here?”

“Cerin Amroth,” replied Enadar. “I want to see Cerin Amroth one last time – as long as it is still there.”

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

And so they crossed the Golden Wood on the old path that led from the Tree City to Cerin Amroth, and found, to their joyous surprise, the heart of the ancient realm as it had been long ago. The great mound was still standing there, tall and proud, crowned with the double ring of trees, the outer ones white, the inner ones gold.

As they reached the foot of the hill, something stirred among the trees, and forth came a tall, ash-blond Elf, in the usual shadowy grey garb of the Galadhrim. They were both stunned as they recognized Haldir.

“I thought you have left years ago,” said Alagos, after they had clasped forearms in the warrior fashion.

The former Marchwarden of Lórien shook his head.

“This is our home… not Caras Galadhon, but Amroth’s house, where we once lived. Besides, Fíriel and I have no place in the West – not until the Valar have learned to have mercy with us, lesser beings. I shall not return to a spouse I have barely known, and neither does Fíriel want to lose what we have had for a whole Age for someone whom she has lost six millennia ago. We are content here, and so are our children and my brothers.”

“But Lórien has become a lonely and fading place,” said Alagos. “Why not move to the Greenwood, which is as youthful and strong as it has always been?”

“The ancient realm was not under the power of Galadriel’s Ring, thus it is not fading,” replied Haldir. “And there live some of the Faithful on the other side of the Nimrodel still. We are not alone… and someone must take care of the Lady Arwen.”

Enadar’s head snapped up with an almost painful quickness. “Lady Arwen is here?”

“She came after Elessar’s passing,” said Haldir quietly, “fort his was the place where they have pledged their love to each other. She walks under the trees alone, rarely speaks to anyone, and becomes more distant with every passing day. I believe not that it will take long ere she…” he drifted off sorrowfully, but he others understood his hint all too well.

“Can mortals die from broken heart?” asked Alagos with a frown. Haldir shrugged.

“That I cannot say. Yet I do know that – mortal though she might have become – her heart is still that of an Elf. She is fading already, and fading fast. I think not that she would survive the coming of rhîv.”

“I would like to speak to her again,” said Enadar softly.

“You can try,” replied Haldir with a shrug. “She walked down the path that leads to the bridge of the Nimrodel, some time ago.”

Enadar nodded his thanks and went down the path Haldir had pointed out to him, swiftly and noiselessly as a shadow. He had always been good at woodcraft, but since he had become so quiet and thin, he could move like a ghost. The trees whispered greetings to him, greetings and directions, and thus he could find the Lady Arwen easily enough.

She was sitting on the bank of the Nimrodel, clad in the soft grey raiment of Lórien, her once sable tresses turned pure silver and braided artfully in the custom of Noldorin royalty: countless braids woven together into an intricate coronet, and the end of the thick braid left down her back. Otherwise, she had not changed much. Her face was still smooth and eerily beautiful, her eyes grown large and dry and empty. Like crystals charred in fire, their transparency gone, their light broken.

She was barely there any more, and Enadar felt his heart contort in pain. He understood loneliness more than anyone else.

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

She felt his presence as soon as he stepped out from under the trees onto the riverbank but ignored him. She could not quite put a face to that presence, but that was nothing new. Haldir sometimes sent Elves to look after her, Elves whom she barely knew. She always ignored them, and they eventually left.

“Lady Arwen?”

Not this one, apparently. The voice was unfamiliar and strangely rough. In a hundred and twenty years among Men, she had got used to the harshness of their voices – what other choice would she have? – but this was an Elven voice… how strange.

She turned around slowly, almost hesitantly, and saw an Elf in the rough green and brown garb worn by the Silvan Folk – and by Legolas’ people in Ithilien – while on a journey. He was a fragile-looking person, with snow white hair that barely reached his shoulders – too short for an Elf, or even for a Man, for that matter. The thin face was very pale, and the wide eyes seemed enormous. He did have a wraith-like air about him, but she recognized him nonetheless. The white hair was a dead give-away.

“Enadar Thranduilion,” she said, in a way of greeting. “What has brought you here, so far from your home?”

He shrugged, his face wistful. “Legolas has finally succumbed to the Longing and wants to sail to the West, soon. I am trying to decide whether to go with him or not. A journey to the place of my rebirth seemed… appropriate. I have not hoped to see you ever again, though.”

“You could have come to visit me,” she said, but he shook his head.

“Nay, my Lady. It would have done no good disturbing your happiness by reminding you…” he trailed off, uncertain whether he should name his long-nurtured feelings for her.

“That you loved me?” she finished for him, with a weak smile full of understanding. He nodded thoughtfully.

“It was improper to have feelings for someone who was bonded already, I know,” he said. “But those feelings have warmed my heart in lonely nights, and in a way even made me happy. ‘Twas a strange balance between the inability of my body to know love and the fullness of my heart of the same, I believe.”

She looked at him intently. “Do you still have those feelings for me?”

“I do, my Lady. And should I choose to sail to Elvenhome with my brother or to remain under the trees of the Greenwood ‘til I fade away with the rest of my mother’s people, I shall always keep the memory of you in my heart, and no-one else will ever dwell there.”

At that, she turned her eyes away. “I am sorry.”

“There is no need for that, my Lady,” he replied, “for it will make me as happy in the future as it has made me in the recent past, and I do not believe that anyone else could make my life fuller. And I hope it will give you at least some sort of peace. The Men whose Queen you have been may forget you, but the trees will remember, and with them we, the Tree Children. We are called the Faithful for a reason.”

She nodded slowly. His presence already gave her great comfort, and she was grateful that he had chosen to seek her out.

“Will you stay here with me… ‘til the end?” she asked. “The Valar, in their endless wisdom, seem to have decided that it was not mine to die until I have lost all that I had gained – I accept that. But this is a fate unknown to Elves, and the thought of facing it alone fills my heart with terror. Of all people, I believe, you are the only one who might understand.”

“I do indeed,” he replied gently, “and I shall stay with you ‘til you are ready to leave.”

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

And thus they spent the remaining days of the fading season on Cerin Amroth, walking side by side under the trees in silence, or sitting on the bank of the Nimrodel. They spoke very little, and they never sang; for all song and music was gone from Arwen’s heart, and Enadar could still not use his voice properly, not as one would expect from an Elf. Thus they existed, outside of time once again, and while Arwen withered away in sorrow, the love to her in Enadar’s heart grow steadily, and he saw their time together as blessed, despite the circumstances.

And when rhîv came and the leaves of the mellyrn had all turned pale gold, Arwen Undómiel turned to Enadar Thranduilion and said gravely.

“’Tis time. I am now ready to leave for whatever shores mortal Men go to when they die. Thank you, friend, for staying here with me. Should I keep any memories from this life, or indeed have a live beyond the Rim, I shall always remember you. May the stars of Elbereth always shine over your paths.”

And she kissed him on the brow, and this was their farewell, for she lay down under the royal mallorn and closed her eyes and never opened them again.

Haldir and his family helped to bury her under the great tree that once had been supposed to become her home, but there was no gravestone nor any other sign, for here she was not the Queen of Gondor or the Lady of Imladris, just a lonely woman who had finally found peace.

“And now that your work here is done, what are you going to do?” asked Haldir.

“Once again, my life has come to full circle,” replied Enadar. “This was where I met the Lady Evenstar for the first time, and this is where we had to part, forever. She was never meant to be mine, and yet I feel as if I had been released from an obligation. I am free to go now – to go home to the Greenwood, and then to the West, if that is what my father wants.”

“You do not seem too unhappy,” said Haldir, a little surprised.

“I am not unhappy,” answered Enadar. “She who was like a bright star beyond my reach for me, has now gone where I cannot go, no matter what. We might never meet again, not even after the end of Arda. But in a way, she will always remain with me, and that is enough. As long as I remember her, I shall never be alone. Happiness can be found in unexpected places. We just have to keep our eyes open.”

“Very true,” said Haldir and clasped his forearm. “Have a safe path home, my friend.”

“I will,” Enadar smiled, “I am travelling with Alagos, after all. Farewell, my friend.”

~The End~

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

Addendum: This part was mostly born from the wish to give poor Arwen a somewhat more… human parting from this world, although human probably is not the right word. Of all the fates Tolkien gave his characters, for me the one he gave Arwen is the most cruel one. This is the only thing I will never forgive the Professor – that he discarded Arwen without a second thought after Aragorn’s death. As if she had no right to live on her own, now that Aragorn had no longer need for her. That she had to die alone and forgotten by everyone, especially by the Men whose Queen she had been for a hundred and twenty years. So I decided to change it, just a little bit, just as much as canon would allow it.