MANY MEETINGS

Summary:  The royal family has an outing in the Greenwood.

Disclaimer:  The major characters and settings of these stories belong to JRR Tolkien.  I do not own them, nor do I make any profit from using them in the stories.

A/N:  This ficlet was written in response to Prompt #39 (Cradle), issued by the aragorn-legolas yahoo group.   

CHAPTER 1:  In the Arms of Love

The King walked among this special gathering of beloved subjects, greeting each personally with a gentle touch or soft word.  As he moved among them, a whispering, rustling murmur followed in his wake as each stately courtier clamored for his attention.

How he loved each and every one of them!  Loyal and loving, steadfast and true – small wonder Thranduil Oropherion and his followers, both Silvan and Sindarin, gladly pledged their lives to the care of the trees of the Greenwood.

He found a small clearing carpeted with new grass and delicate yellow flowers and turned to address his adoring audience.

“I have a surprise for you, my friends,” he announced, his steel-gray eyes softening as he examined the magnificent beeches surrounding him.  “Someone I want you to meet.”

Thranduil paused, savoring the anticipation building around him.  “I will return before Anor sets this eve.”  He bowed slightly in honor of these eldest of trees and returned to his stronghold to prepare for the evening.

The day wound to its close finally as word swept through the wood that Oropherion returned – and he was not alone.  Another they loved, and had not seen of late, accompanied him and the forest joyfully welcomed their King and Queen.

Thranduil paused beneath one of the giants ringing the clearing and leaped gracefully onto the lower branches, turning to smile down at his wife waiting below.  He held out a hand and helped her join him, steadying her ascent carefully as he knew she still tired easily.  The two made their way to a higher perch, Thranduil seating his wife at last on a wide, sturdy branch.  She lifted the blanket covering the sling resting across her shoulders and both leaned forward to gaze at the wide-eyed, curious infant within.  Exchanging a smile with his wife, the King took the babe up in his arms, stepping forward on the branch to present the heir of the Greenwood for the first time.

“Here now is my son,” he stated proudly.  “His name shall be Legolas, which means Greenleaf.”

Thranduil paused as the child kicked and gurgled, as if in greeting.  Drawing the infant close, he kissed the soft, downy cheek and continued in a voice tight with emotion, “This scion of my house shall join me as a guardian to all who would call Eryn Galen iDhaer home.”

Then, sitting with his back against the bole of the huge tree, Thranduil settled his wife comfortably in his lap with their newborn son safely wrapped in their arms.  The old beech’s sturdy branches formed a loving cradle for the little family as they watched the stars and listened to the song of the trees throughout the long night.

A/N:  Fiondil doesn't know it, but thanks to his knowledge of the elves, I have corrected Eryn Lasgalen to Eryn Galen iDhaer - I usually write in the Fourth Age, so sometimes the different titles of Greenwood escape me!  :-)  Thanks, Fiondil.  I continue to glean all manner of information from your wonderful stories.

Summary:  A doubtful, suspicious man learns how difficult times shared often lead to unexpected friendships. 

A/N:  This ficlet was written in response to Prompt #34 (Enemy) issued by the aragorn-legolas yahoo group.  (Post LotR.  This story takes place in Ithilien about ten years after the end of the War of the Ring.  It is written under the supposition that there were scattered human settlements and farms which sprang up throughout Ithilien, even though the northern part of that land had been given over to the elves.)

Disclaimer:  Legolas and the setting of Middle Earth belong to JRR Tolkien.  I own only the OC’s mentioned and make no profit from the writing of this story.

Chapter 2:  The Enemy of My Enemy

“Ye cannot wait any longer.”  The soft, implacable voice spoke from behind him.

A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder.  “If ye persist in this foolishness much longer, Conn, we will lose everything.”

The tall, dark-haired man standing in the doorway turned and glared at his diminutive wife before resuming his watch over the rapidly rising river.  Ten long, back-breaking years…a productive farm and Holy Valar!...their home – sacrificed to a three-day deluge of rain and a river gone wild.

“Let Thomas saddle up,” his wife, Lara, pleaded.  “If he leaves now, he should reach help by late this evening.”  She shifted the babe on her shoulder to a more comfortable position.

“Please, love.”  Her breath hitched as she fought a losing battle with her tears.  “Ye cannot do this alone.  Ye are only one – and the boys too young to be of any real help.”  He turned at the sound of the crushing fear in her voice, one large hand lifting to brush her cheek, then cup the sleeping child’s head tenderly.

“And what if they refuse, Lara?” he whispered.  “They are not like us…”

“Stop it, Conn!” she interrupted fiercely.  “This fear…yes, it is fear!  Do not deny it!  This fear ye have is unfounded…and not true!  They fought alongside ye and yer men and the King during the war!  How can ye doubt their very nature, ye stubborn man?  They are NOT the enemy!”

She gestured towards the river.  “THAT is yer enemy now!”

He grimaced.  Seeing it, Lara pressed her point home.  “Send our son now, Conn.  Before it is…”

“Papa!”  The shrill voice of their youngest boy rose above the river’s roar as he dashed across the yard towards the house.  “Riders comin’, Papa!”

Eight-year-old Aidan came to a splashing, gasping halt at the foot of the steps.  He pointed to the dense woods north of the house as nine or ten horses emerged from the trees and began making their way slowly across the field.

“Find yer sister and get inside with yer mother,” Conn ordered tersely.  “And send Thomas to me.”

He watched Aidan rush off, then brushed past Lara, retrieving his sword in its sheath from the top storage shelf by the door.  Strapping it quickly to his lean waist, he turned to leave.

“Conn!” his wife cried out.

“Get the children down into the root cellar, Lara,” he snapped.  “NOW!”

She watched helplessly as he strode down the steps.  Aidan and his little sister, Indis, came pelting across the yard into the house.  “Oh, Conn…go carefully,” she breathed, one final prayer offered up before leading her children to the safe place below the house.

“Who are they, Da?” Thomas gasped, running up to join his father, a pitchfork grasped tightly in his hand.

Conn placed a steadying hand on Thomas’ shoulder.  “Can’t tell yet,” he answered abruptly, squinting at the approaching riders.

Suddenly, he could see one detail rather clearly.  “No tack,” he murmured.  “Elves…”

Thomas glanced up at his father’s grim face.  “From the Prince’s settlement?”

“Most likely,” his father replied, drawing his sword and standing braced and ready.

The group of riders came to a prancing, blowing halt well away from the pair in front of the house.  A tall, golden-haired warrior dismounted and walked towards them, his hand raised in greeting.

“You must be Conn,” he called.  “My lord Faramir speaks highly of you and of your service to Gondor during the war.”

He bowed slightly.  “I am Legolas Thranduilion of northern Ithilien.”

Conn nodded curtly to the elf.  “What can I do for ye, my lord?”

The Prince studied the cold, closed face of the man before him, noting the ready sword.  “My foresters have located a deadfall blocking the river further downstream.  I have sent them to deal with it, hopefully restoring the river to its boundaries.  We feared you and your family might be threatened by the rising water.”

Cool, gray eyes scanned the flooded fields below the house, noticed the inadequate barrier of dirt-filled sacks.

“I see you mean to block the water before it reaches the house.”  The elf studied the man’s face again, appeared to make a decision.  “We fight a common enemy here, Conn.  Let us help you.”

Conn stared into the eyes of a being he knew had been alive longer than he could fathom and met only kind concern.  He lowered the sword slowly, sudden shame flushing his pale face.

Prince Legolas smiled, those cool eyes warm with understanding.  “We are not so different, you and me.  Come, let us fight the waters together.”

Overwhelmed with relief and a growing remorse, Conn turned to his son, sheathing his sword and unbuckling the belt.

“Take this in, Thomas.  Get yer mother and the little ‘uns.  Tell her…”  He paused, looking back at the dismounting elves and their fair-haired leader.  “Tell her help unlooked for has arrived…and it has pointed ears.”

Soft sounds of amusement from the elves mingled with his son’s delighted laughter as they turned to face the river together.

Summary:  Post LotR.  Some years following the War of the Ring, Merry and Pippin host a reunion for friends and the Fellowship, which turns out somewhat differently than expected.

Disclaimer:  Don’t own any of the characters or the setting of Middle Earth – only wish I did.  No profit was made from the writing of this story.

A/N:  This ficlet was written in response to Prompt #36 (Birthday) issued by the aragorn-legolas yahoo group.

CHAPTER 3:  A Gift for a Friend

“Is everything ready?”  Peregrine Took bounced lightly on his toes, watching his cousin converse quietly with the innkeeper.  Merry waved him quiet and Pippin hmmphed, rocking impatiently.  After all, how hard was it to order food and drink for a little party?

Finally, negotiations completed, Merry turned to him, grousing good-naturedly, “Honestly, Pip, you are worse than water dripping on stone!”

“What?  What did I…?”  Merry grabbed his cousin’s arm, tugging him unceremoniously out the door.

“Come on! The message from Faramir said Aragorn could be found in the Tombs this morning.”

At Merry’s words, Pippin dug in his heels and stopped.  “The Tombs?” 

He took a deep breath.  “What is Aragorn doing in the Tombs?”

Merry stared.  “We-e-e-l-l, I don’t rightly know, Pip,” he answered slowly.  “Why don’t we just go and find out?”

He headed back up the narrow street that slowly ascended to the next level of the City, Pippin close on his heels chattering nervously.  “I know it’s been years…I can go in there if I have to…”

Merry looked over his shoulder, slowing so his younger kinsman could draw even and threw an arm around Pippin’s tense shoulders.  “I will go in, if you like,” he offered, his eyes bright with sympathy.

Pippin smiled gratefully, but shook his head.  “No, that’s alright, Merry.” 

He drew himself up to his full height and stuck out his chest.  “After all, I am a soldier of Gondor.  Those dark old musty halls will be no problem – no problem at all.”

He grabbed Merry’s hand and pulled.  “Come ON, Merry!  Why are you so SLOW this morning?”  Merry laughed and the two took off for the seventh level at a brisk walk.

But for all his bravado, Pip’s steps became slower and more grudging the closer they drew to their destination.  Merry kept up a spate of bright, inconsequential chatter in an effort to keep his cousin distracted, but could tell he was only partially successful.  He resolved to keep the conversation with Aragorn brief and get Pippin away from his dark memories as soon as possible.

Upon reaching the Tombs, the hobbits were met by one of the Keepers of the Hallows at the entrance.  “How may I help you?” he asked haughtily.

“We are looking for the King,” Merry informed him firmly. 

The man, looking more closely, recognized the King’s Halfling friends and bowed his head graciously before murmuring, “Follow me.”

He led them through the cool, dim halls, finally pausing and gesturing them forward.  Pippin saw Arwen and Faramir standing silently by a large pillar, their attention fixed on a figure further down the hall beside one of the stone markers.  The two approached silently, coming to stand beside Arwen.  As Pippin took her hand, the Queen glanced down in surprise.

“I am so pleased to see you both,” she whispered, bending gracefully to kiss each hobbit’s cheek.  Faramir clapped both on the shoulders in greeting before returning to his own pensive thoughts, his eyes distant and sad.

“Who?” Merry mouthed.

“It is Halbarad,” she replied softly.  “Every year this day brings Estel here.  He misses him so.”

Her voice broke slightly as they watched Aragorn lean his forehead against the tomb, one hand brushing lightly over the inscription.  Merry closed his eyes for a long moment, swallowing against the lump in his throat.  There was just something about seeing the normally stalwart, strong Strider this way – he wished fervently there was something he and Pip could do to help him pass the day more easily.  His eyes lit as a thought suddenly occurred to him.  Perhaps there was a way!  He tugged the Queen down, whispering urgently in her ear.

She listened carefully to his plan, her sorrowful face brightening a little, and nodded.  “That just might work, Merry.  We will come.  I promise, even if I must enlist Legolas and Faramir’s aid in dragging him along.” 

Merry grinned.  He tapped Pippin on the shoulder, a signal to leave.  “Come on, cousin,” he whispered.  “We have work to do.”  They hurried back through the bustling city to the inn, Merry quickly outlining his idea to an approving Pippin.

Later that evening, a number of tall, cloaked and hooded figures entered the first level inn.  They were admitted to a private parlor by the innkeeper, who was kept busy supplying the party with food and drink well into the wee hours of the morning. 

Throughout the night, a tall, somber-eyed man, who looked remarkably like the King, told tales to his appreciative audience, often reducing the entire room to laughter and tears.  More than once, the innkeeper entered the room to replenish the trays of food, only to hear one of the Halflings entreating the man.  “Tell us another story, Strider, about the time you and Halbarad chased those orcs clear to the mountains…”

“Is this Halbarad here?” the curious innkeeper asked the elf (an elf in his inn – would wonders never cease?) standing near the door, nursing a mug of ale as he listened to the stories, a small grin on his lips, laughter lightening the shadows in his gray eyes.

“Nay,” the watcher replied.  “But it is his birthday today and we would celebrate his life, even in his absence.”

The man nodded, his face thoughtful.  His wife had made some special cakes earlier in the day.  They would be just perfect for a birthday…

Summary:  Young Legolas thinks he has found the perfect gift; however, perfection is often found when seen through the eyes of love.

Disclaimer:  Don’t own any of this – only wish I did.

A/N:  This story was written in response to Prompt #132 (Perfect) issued by the aragorn-legolas yahoo group.  (Oh yeah, a very large FLUFF ALERT should be issued with this.  *g*)

Chapter 4:  A Perfect Gift

There was nothing more important to the little Prince of Eryn Galen iDhaer than the upcoming celebration of his lady mother’s begetting day.

He knew something special was planned – it was in the air and had been for days.  The palace servants fairly vibrated with their excitement.  His father, the Elvenking, walked around with a mysterious smile on his face.  Even Galion, his father’s no-nonsense seneschal, looked like he knew a particularly pleasant secret.  Now, the big day was here – the stronghold had been cleaned top to bottom, the cooks had finished preparing all manner of succulent dishes, guests from the far corners of Greenwood the Great had arrived the previous day.

Legolas was beside himself with excitement…until he learned that while being permitted to attend the banquet that evening, he would NOT be allowed to participate in the evening’s frivolities.

And he was not a happy elfling.  No, not happy at all.

“You are not old enough, my son,” Thranduil explained patiently for the fifth time, holding the disappointed child on his lap, his wife, Lindoriel, sitting beside them both with a troubled expression on her lovely face.

Legolas fought back the angry tears that had threatened for some time now and folded his arms across his chest with a little huff of temper.

“But I am twelve!” he protested…again.

His mother smoothed his fair hair tenderly, saying, “And there will be many other parties, sweetling.”

“But…”

“Legolas…” his father warned.

“Yes, Father,” the child acquiesced, sullenly sliding off his father’s lap to stand before his parents, head down, one foot scuffing the ground in irritation.

Thranduil looked at his wife, one eyebrow raised.  Where had their calm, compliant offspring disappeared to?  She shook her head slightly, her loving glance silently declaring, “He is your son, my love.  What did you expect?”

“Legolas.”  Stormy gray eyes lifted to look at his father, who sighed.  “All the temper in this world will not gain you admittance to the celebration tonight.”

His son frowned mightily, but managed to hold his tongue.

“You will return to your room and work on your lessons for tomorrow," his father instructed.  "Afterwards, you may play until it is time to dress for dinner.  Understood?”

Legolas scowled at the floor, kicking it viciously with his foot and mumbling under his breath. 

His mother gasped, “Legolas!”  Thranduil cleared his throat softly and shook his head when she glanced at him.

Strong fingers slipped under the elfling’s chin and lifted his face until their eyes met.

“It is unseemly for the Prince of Eryn Galen iDhaer to act in such a manner,” Thranduil’s quiet voice stated.  He held his son’s gaze.  “And you upset your mother with this behavior.  Is this, then, your gift to her?”

Legolas’ eyes widened in distress at the thought and he finally lost the battle with his tears.  They spilled down his cheeks as he threw himself into his mother’s lap.

“No!  No, I am so sorry, Nana!” he choked.  Lindoriel smiled and held her little one tightly, while Thranduil moved to hold them both close.  “Shhh, hush now, sweeting,” she whispered.  “It is alright.  I know, shhhh.  Shhhh.”

Eventually the storm of tears passed and the Legolas sniffed, scrubbing at his wet face.  Thranduil produced a handkerchief, which Lindoriel used to wipe the elfling’s eyes and nose.

Legolas drew a deep shuddering breath and looked at his father.  “S…s..sorry, Ada,” he whispered, breath hitching slightly.  Thranduil put his arms about the child and hugged him. 

“Apology accepted, my heart,” he said, drawing Legolas back to look at him steadily.  “You will always face disappointments, my son.  It is how you choose to face them that others will judge you by.”

“And if I act like a baby they will think I am one?” Legolas asked.

“Yes,” the King answered, watching his son consider his actions of the past few minutes.  Tiny shoulders straightened and a little jaw firmed.

“Then I will not act that way any more, Ada,” he stated.

Again, Thranduil watched him closely, waiting for the obvious to occur to his little warrior, who suddenly flushed and restated, “I will try, Ada, really I will.”

The King smiled and gathered his son close once more, kissing the top of his fair head.  “I know you will, son – and that is all I ask.”  He looked at his wife and snorted softly, turning the child to face his mother.

“And look how your mother is so proud of both of us.”  Lindoriel grinned, kissing both emphatically as she got up. 

“And rightly so, my lord,” she said.  “Now, both of you behave – I have things to see to.  Legolas, I will come to your room in several hours to help you dress.”  She left then in a flurry of silken robes, her soft laughter at Legolas’ grimace of disgust echoing behind her.

Legolas got up and walked to the door with his father.  “Ada, do you know where Eloriel is right now?” he asked suddenly.

Thranduil considered thoughtfully, trying to remember where he had seen the housekeeper’s assistant earlier.  “I believe she was in the Great Hall preparing the table for the banquet.”

“Thank you, Ada,” Legolas yelled back over his shoulder as he dashed down the family corridor towards the main hallway.

“Walk!” Thranduil called after him, smiling when the youngster slowed his pace to a skipping trot and disappeared around the corner.

Legolas found Eloriel arranging several large vases of early summer blossoms to put at each table.  He waited patiently (sort of) for her to finish, rocking back and forth, heel to toe, and giving great gusty sighs from time to time.  Finally, the dark-haired maiden handed the vases to her helpers and shooed them off to place about the room.

She turned to the waiting child and studied him, smiling widely.  “Such forbearance, my Prince!” she exclaimed as she sat on a nearby bench and motioned him over.  He stepped to her side, leaning against her confidingly and began whispering in her ear.

Eloriel listened closely to the disjointed story, but having known this one since his birth she easily understood his intentions.  At the end, she stood and bent down to look into the child’s serious gray eyes.

“I know exactly what you need, my lord,” she said.  “Go to your room and prepare everything as you wish.  I will bring the rest of it in an hour or so.  Does that meet with your approval?”

Legolas nodded eagerly and raced off.  “I will see you later, Eloriel!” he yelled.

“Walk, Legolas!” she called, shaking her head in fond exasperation at the Prince’s exuberance before hurrying off to gather the promised items.

Three hours later…

Lindoriel opened her son’s door and stopped, one hand covering her mouth in surprise.  Her little one was standing, already clean and dressed in his best court robe, beside a table set fit for a King…or a Queen and her Prince. 

Her amazed eyes took in Legolas’ little table which had been transformed by a lovely lace tablecloth, placed slightly off center.  In the middle was a bowl of her favorite fresh flowers – small pink roses, interspersed with white daisies, delicate baby’s breath, and Queen’s lace, all arranged in a haphazard, strangely graceful manner.  The table was laden with one of the smaller silver tea services and two place settings of fine porcelain, all somewhat crooked.  The herbal scent of freshly brewed tea permeated the air, along with the delicious, yeasty smell of the fresh-baked pastries the Queen favored.  A bowl of ripe berries and a dish of fresh butter completed the table’s fare.

“My lady?” Eloriel whispered in her ear as she made to leave.  “I brought everything that HE asked for and he arranged it – just for you.”  She squeezed the Queen’s arm gently and let herself out of the room.

“Naneth?” Legolas said, holding a chair out just the way he had seen his father do countless times before.  “Will you not sit down and have a scone?  Cook made it fresh just for you and I fixed the flowers and got ready early just so we could eat by ourselves and I made this for you, too, all by myself!”  At the end of his breathless recitation, he held out a clumsily wrapped box with a pink rose affixed to the lid.

Lindoriel wiped a tear away and sat in the proffered chair, taking the box and kissing Legolas’ cheek.  “Thank you, my love,” she said, admiring the rose on the box’s cover.

“Do you like it, Naneth?” he asked, surveying the table with a critical eye.  “I wanted everything to be just right.”

The Queen wrapped her arms around her most precious gift and looked at the table with him.

“It is just right, my darling,” she assured him.  “It is absolutely PERFECT.”