A Woodland Prince

Mirkwood

***

Laerwen

Such a fair child – and so long awaited.  At last the words of his counsellors had succeeded where her desires had not – and the King had begotten an heir.  But this ellon was so much more.  She touched the soft cheek in wonder and ran a gentle finger along his little pointed ear.  While he was still so close to being part of her, she could hear it in his song, feel it in his touch, see it in the bright purity of him.  He would be great, this son of the Greenwood – yet he would not even realise it.

***

Galion

The poor child drifted along the corridors like a breath of wind seeking something to blow.  Gone from confident elfling to uncertain shadow in a flash of steel and a pool of crimson.  If it had not been for his adar’s fierce love and desperate need, he could not have seen the ellon surviving.  But he came to life in Thranduil’s arms as they fuelled each other’s fëar.  Lost he was, but he held the ball of string that would lead him from the maze.  He would return to them, their child of the forest, made finer for his suffering. 

***

Enmity

Dangerous, this one.  Fairer than most, they knew to target him before his arrows sought them out, but still he did not fall.  The tree-leapers guarded him, watching for him even when he forgot to watch for himself.  His anger burned white, dedicated to death, their death.  He came with bow and blade when least expected and ravaged the patrols of Dol Guldur.  Their lands would be better off once he took a poisoned arrow or blade.  And if he fell before them, so much the better – they could take out on his flesh the price he made them pay.

***

Object of Admiration

It was as if he completely failed to notice her.  At least – he treated her as a friend.  As if she wanted to be …   And it was not because he was Thranduil’s son, not because he was beautiful – with a pale golden fairness that shimmered like a harvest moon – not because he was among the most deadly of the warriors who defended their home.  He was quite simply desirable.  Except that he did not wish to be desired – and he looked at her with a simplicity that did not even see her hopes and reject them.  He was infuriating.    

***

Dúnadan

Was the elf looking down his nose as if he found the man distasteful?  Out of place, alien and unwelcome?  It made his hackles rise – not until Mithrandir’s unwanted gift to the Wood had been taken from them, bound and under guard, did the man observe frank interest in the clear eyes that seemed to penetrate filthy clothes and the stink of interminable travel to see him through to the bone.  His Westron was good – unaccented, like his Sindarin.  It was too easy to make assumptions about these wild elves of the shadowed forest.  He was more than he seemed. 

***

Thranduil

So like his naneth.  Leaner, harder – as befitted a warrior, but her eyes looked out of his son’s face, her cheekbones, her affinity with the forest.  Yet he could see Oropher in the turn of his head and his blazing smile and his own naneth in the fall of wheat-fair hair.  A son of his house – the heir of his ancestors, the pride of his kin.  His son.  How could he bear to part with him?  And yet, was that not what you must do?  Love them and teach them and trust them to fly?  He must let him go.

***

Imladris

***

Elrond

Dangerous were the Wood Elves, they said.  Wilder and less wise.  They forgot to mention less conceited, more tied to this world, more devoted in service, with a simple honesty that would, Eru willing, help this one to endure a temptation beyond the strength of those who would claim greatness.  Young, true.  Skilled – that went without saying.  Open to new experience in a way that older elves were not.  Could he ask this of him?  Would the young one agree?  He would – Elrond could see it in his eager eyes and the curiosity he showed.  It felt like a betrayal. 

***

Glorfindel

He would never know for sure what it was that made an elf devote himself to another’s cause.  He, at least, was loyal to his king’s heirs – but was Estel’s descent from Elu enough to make the Silvan son of a Sindar king stand staunchly at his shoulder through he knew not what?  Or perhaps it was something else that would keep him from his forest.  Guilt over the loss of the prisoner?  The call of adventure?  A wish to protect those unable to protect themselves?   Whatever it was, this one would stand beside the man who would be king.

***

Bilbo

Most overlooked the old hobbit now as he sat and watched – but, then, all had overlooked him.  He remembered the elf – not from his days haunting the Elvenking’s Halls, but from the battlefield.  Soft-voiced he had been, yet all had done his bidding.  A wily warrior, garbed in greens and browns, bearing his weapons like a master.  If Frodo had to do this mad thing, he could do no better than to have Thranduil’s son watching his back.  With the elf to guard him and Estel by his side – and Gandalf to guide them – perhaps they stood a chance.  Perhaps.

***

The Fellowship

***

Sam

He moved like poetry singing in the ear and his passing barely stirred the dried leaves.  How could anyone so tall move so softly?  And be so hard to spot?  It would seem unnatural – if it hadn’t been that he was an elf.  And he was as aware of Sam’s eyes on him as he was aware of everything around him, but his slight smile showed him too courteous to comment on the gardener’s interest.   The help he offered was self-effacing, but make no doubt; there wasn’t much as would get past him.  A comfort, he was, in dark days.

***

Merry

He took a lot of getting to know – the elf wasn’t like Boromir, who appeared to have decided to treat them like something between younger brothers and novices for training.  He seemed shy and slightly wary of them – interesting.  He wouldn’t have thought an elf would gaze, wide-eyed, at the rough and tumble of cousins.  But then, Strider said he was an only child – and one of the youngest of the elves.  Perhaps he didn’t know what it was to be one of a rampageous group of youngsters.  Too serious.  They must make more of an effort to educate him.

***

Pippin

There was no question – like called to like.  The elf was mischievous.  Gimli scowled at him, thinking him too flighty to know what he was doing – but the hobbit knew an expert when he saw one.   Never too much, never enough to arouse suspicion – but goading the dwarf to fury nonetheless.  And yet – a friend.  On those dark nights, when the cold seeped into their bones and night seemed full of terrors, he was always there; his light gleaming like their personal star – offering silent reassurance to those who knew not what they faced.  He was glad of his presence.

***

Boromir

He found himself watching the elf from the corner of his eye.  He had never seen anyone quite like him.  At Rivendell – they had been lords, tall and proud and ancient, with the wisdom of whole ages in their eyes.  But this one…  He was modest, but even a fool – which Denethor’s son was not – could see that he handled his weapons like a master.  And he was strong – strong enough to endure a tedious march in the bitter cold with no sign of weakness.  Compassionate, too, and full of laughter.  It made him wonder who else he had underestimated.

***

Gimli

Fool of an elf!  His father had told him of the arrogance of Mirkwood’s king – and his son was doing nothing to indicate that he had fallen far from the tree!  Always that slight smile on his face – supercilious, smug, self-satisfied, lanky, light-minded, petty princeling!  How anyone could endure his presence was beyond him.  The elf was enough to drive any sensible dwarf to distraction!  And yet – Gimli could not deny his skill with that bow and he made no fuss about getting his hands dirty.  For all his maddening ways, he was a useful companion.  A contradiction, he was.     

***

Gandalf

The elf ached for familiar trees – how much he hid even from Aragorn.  Given his choice, he would return to his marred forest like a bird flying north.  But…  The wizard sighed.  It was for this that he had been born.  A witness for the Wood of deeds now beyond the doing of elves.  And he had given his word.  Elrond had not laid the duty on him, but that made no odds.  His heart was true.  Could he be trusted?  Who could tell? But he had a better chance than most of surviving the siren song of this temptation.

***

Aragorn

As he moved away from the tree, he became visible, as if a part of the forest had come to life.  An elven warrior, like his brothers, experienced in the endless contest with the foul creatures of the Dark.  The Ranger sighed.  Yet more – he was the land, absorbed into its song as the Secondborn could never be.  His delight blazed like Anor breaking through storm clouds, his sorrow wept like a lowering sky, his loyalty – his loyalty was as steadfast as the rock on which Arda was formed.  And offered to him.  What had he done to deserve this?  

***

Galadriel

He had a light in him that did not come from the Trees – a strength and innocence that reminded her of a far distant time....  He knew shadow and grief, but it had not touched the core of him, a core twined with the trees of his homeland.  She closed her eyes.  But not for much longer.  This quest would tear that from him – and he would accept it as the price he must pay for the greening of the forest.  She would offer consolation, if she could.  But only time would show him his part in a greater plan.

***

Frodo

Trustworthy.  Even in this corrupted world he would count on him.  But how could he lead him to certain death in a land where elves would wither beneath sunless skies?  Where the Nazgûl would seek him out for torment in the dark pits beneath the Enemy’s tower?  How could he take a creature of forests and crystal waters and use him as the guardian of a foul thing?  He could not let the elf follow to his death.  And yet – the touch of his hand imparted courage and the sound of his song lightened the burden of the encroaching shadow. 

***

To the White City

***

Éomer

He stepped out of the grass like a creature from legend.  Man, dwarf and elf – who would have believed it, unless they saw it themselves?  Better to let them run.   A wise man – not that he would claim the name – took care not to interfere with the workings of fate.  Some would call the elf foolish to challenge him so boldly, but he had his pride – it was not for such as the Rohirrim to say him nay.  A king’s son, they said.  He had Théodred’s look – responsibility and duty, one used to eyes upon him, ready for bold decisions.

***

Elladan

The Paths of the Dead had daunted him not.  He had made his choice and would see it through to the end.   Elrond’s son had begrudged him his place in the party that left Imladris, but had to concede – his adar had been right to send him.  This elf of Mirkwood knew endurance – he was accustomed to taking on an innumerable enemy, armed with no more than his skill.  Yet he was dauntless.  He needed to be.  Three of them stood with this small army before Mordor – so little left of the alliance that had once bound men and elves.

***

Faramir

He hoped that his face did not show his wonder, but suspected that it did.  He could feel the elf’s amusement.  The Steward’s son had never felt quite so … awe-struck.  Not in Mithrandir’s presence, not in the presence of his King – they did not feel as if they had walked off the pages of an ancient lay, but the elf…   Tall, elegant, willowy – yet more muscled than he had expected.  Eyes deep as the hidden pools of Ithilien.  Lonely – far from home, among strangers.  Yet of all his race, most welcome in this city.  For he had known Boromir.

***

Lord of Ithilien

***

Éowyn

At first sight he had seemed – edged as a blade, swift as an arrow, hard, relentless.  Then she had heard him sing.  Lyrical, soaring like a lark; notes of gentle melancholy, like a soft spring rain.  But now – where was the warrior in this healer of the soil?  He crouched, war-calloused fingers teasing forth spears of green.  Restful as a summer day, as generous, as warm.  This was what he always should have been, had the shadow not driven him along different paths.  He gave her hope that she, too, could dwell in harmony with the land of the moon.

***

Arwen

He was a hithlain rope – silken, strong – binding them to their past, holding them in a present where change was so swift.  Too swift.  She had been too many years changeless beneath the gentle skies of Imladris and now the harsh sun burnt away those who walked this path beside her.  Only he remained unchanged: a rock in the river rushing past him, holding still against the wearing of the water.  He eased her heart – he, at least, would remain.  But it tore at him.  His eyes were no longer deep wells, but swirling eddies.  He needed to go home.

***

Elrohir

They needed each other, the three of them, in this world turning indifferent and cold.  Brothers, they were, closer than many bound by blood.  His hand on the thin shoulder offered consolation, an understanding beyond words.  Elves among men, rubbed raw by the rasping sandpaper of hectic lives, so little time to savour what they had left.  The time of the elves had passed – and they lingered at their peril.  The elf’s shoulders squared.  He needed no words to know what remained unsaid.  They were warriors all, for all their blades now were rarely drawn.  He would continue to fight.

***

Eldarion

Loved uncle, hero, friend.  One who granted him the freedom to run, to learn.  Who knew what it was to be a king’s son, knew how to balance duty and pleasure.  Whose standards for himself were higher than those he set for others.  Steadfast.  Loyal.  One who endured.  But he had endured too much.  He was an elf, not made to notice the passing of the years.  But these days …  There was only one ending for all of them.  Time was an enemy that even elven warriors could not defeat. He must trust the dwarf to care for him.

***

Gimli

The elf worried him.  He was thin as fine glass and as brittle.  He occupied his trees like an icicle dripping to nothingness as winter turned to spring.  If that wooden cockleshell took much longer to come off its cradle, there would be nothing left of him to sail.  Too obstinate, he was.  He had spent too much of himself over the last century as that wretched sea-song came between him and his forest.  He needed to get to Elvenhome – where he could remember his true nature.  How could Gimli face the Elvenking if he let his son fall now?

***

In the West

***

Laerwen

Such a fair prince – and so long awaited.  She had feared for him, given her life to protect him, yearned for him – but known little of him.  He had a look of his adar, but with more laughter in his eyes, more lightness.  Less driven to prove himself, perhaps; more content to be the elf he was.  He had come to terms with his own nature – it had been a hard road and he showed signs still of the battle, but he had found peace.  More than a warrior, he had become great – and he had no idea of it.