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Sons of Fellowship  by Conquistadora

After what seemed an eternity, an hour passed.  Legolas lay upon his back on his pallet, feigning sleep but fixing his gaze instead upon the small patch of stars visible to him through the window, rolled and tied open to admit the fresh night air.


At last he sat up again in the dark.  He could never sleep with such roiling thoughts upon his heart.  And more than that, Gimli had begun to snore.


Turning to kneel beside the Dwarf, Legolas slowly reached over and righted his heavy head which had fallen aside, then thrust his own pillow beneath Gimli’s to quiet his breathing.  Just because he could find no rest did not mean the others among them must suffer the same fate.  Peace reigned again in Elrond’s pavilion, and though it did Legolas no good, he heard at least one other waking Elf's terse sigh of relief.


As Gimli now slept contentedly, Legolas turned to the places opposite them, where he could discern the small figures of the Halfling Ringbearers.  Catlike, he crawled over to them.  Legolas regarded the diminutive heroes affectionately.  In his mind he would always stand in their debt.  It had been the least he could do to lend them his aid among the Fellowship.  The greatest victory was and ever would be theirs.


Sam slept soundly, his breathing deep and regular, but Frodo trembled and grimaced, as though troubled still by some hideous dream.  Concerned, Legolas lay a cool hand over the hobbit’s restless eyes, willing him what quiet he could, a white hand that seemed to glow with more than just moonlight.


He had not his father’s power, but perhaps some vestige yet remained to him even here, far from home.  It must have, for Frodo quieted beneath his touch, his trembling stilled, and he sighed as though whatever had afflicted him had passed.


It was said the hands of the King are the hands of a healer, and not only in Gondor.  Long had the Nandor of Greenwood looked for protection in the shadow of their Sindarin lords, the last lingering few born of the Mighty of Arda before all had diminished.  Hands that wielded strength enough to kill could also bring comfort and solace.


Glad to have been able to do at least that much for him, Legolas gently pushed back the dark curls from the small careworn face.  They all owed these two small ones more than any could hope to redeem, even though honors be lavished upon them from every realm on the face of Middle-earth and even of Valinor beyond.  The riches of the outside world would mean little to them.  It would be the small things that mattered, if such lay within their power to grant them, things as simple as a good night’s sleep and dreams without shadows.


Not content with merely quieting the nightmares, Legolas gently stroked Frodo’s brow and dormant features until he had encouraged a smile there, no doubt in response to some lovely Elvish dream, likely of Rivendell, or perhaps of a fair green wood in the springtime if Legolas’ choice thoughts were given him, with the lilac and honeysuckle in bloom and the air alive with birdsong.


Sam was not deprived his attentions in the end, for Legolas made a point to sweeten his deep dreams as well before he sat back between them.  For all they had been told, if Frodo had been the Ringbearer, Sam had been the Ring-guardian, and all would have fallen long before but for him.  And for that he had Legolas’ undying gratitude. 


The hobbits slept, Gimli slept, it seemed everyone slept but him.  Legolas stood and padded silently to the door.  It was unguarded, but still Legolas peered back over his shoulder before leaving, feeling somehow that he was watched.  He could pinpoint no one in particular, and so he ducked out with hardly a sound, only the wisp of his garments past the rich red canvas and golden tassels at the door.


The open air was a welcome relief, the soft sounds of a summer night all around: the chirping of crickets, the wind over the hills, the subdued stamp and snort of many horses.  The thick grass of northern Gondor was soft and cool on his feet with the slightest hint of morning dew.


He walked back around to the rear of the pavilion itself, back to where he could gaze unhindered upon the view to be had from his bedside on the other side of the canvas.  Absently he ran his fingertips along the ropes staked there as he passed, standing regular as sentinels, somehow not as comforting as the living randomness of trees would have been.


Standing at last upon the westernmost side, Legolas breathed deeply the fresh green scent upon the air.  Before, he had been torn between the woodlands and the sea, but now those two loves melded together in a strange momentary harmony.  Surely there were woodlands in the West.  Had they not heard of the forests of Eressëa, haven of the Sindar?  And what of Tauron the Balan, Lord of Forests, beloved of his kin?  Perhaps there was naught to fear at all.


But then his moment of daring passed, and he remembered with a pang that no matter how great or fair the Woods of Valinor, they would never equal Lasgalen in his affection, no matter how superior they may seem.  One’s home was where one’s heart would lie, and for now the West held no call over him but one of new curiosity and an anxious irrational longing.  Burnt and broken Lasgalen called him back out of love.  Often had he shed his own blood in its defense, and he had not bled alone.  There for centuries Thranduil's Elves had fought and bled and died; no wood of the Blessed Realm would have been bought at such a price, and thus no wood of the Blessed Realm would ever be so dear to them as the weary and abused corner of Middle-earth where they abode now.  Thence he would return, surely, for he could not abandon it now even had he wanted to.  The call of the West must be answered, but for now it also must wait.


Legolas folded his legs beneath him and sank down to the grass, resigning himself to the sea-stricken struggle all the lingering Eldar had known.  Looking up, he could see Eärendil traversing the darkened sky to the side of him, passing again into the West before sunrise.  And there, by tale and tradition, he recognized the Silmaril of Lúthien, both the glory of the Sindar and the cause of their nigh-unspeakable downfall.  By the valor and blood of the Sindar it was the only of the Three Jewels to survive the upheavals of the ancient world, and never while its light still shone in the heavens would the remnant of that people forget the woeful injustice which had crushed them. 


Born in Lasgalen early in his father's reign, Legolas had never known the ancestral Sindarin lands in Beleriand; but his father had, and he had lovingly painted visions of their past for his son with both voice and brush, for another of Thranduil’s many unspoken talents had over time adorned the walls of Arthrand Lasgalen with memories of Doriath and the fair white cavern palace of Menegroth.  Mighty trees were painted there upon stone, their leaf-laden boughs overarching and trailing along the ceiling, roots often carven out of the very floor.  Hazy and unexplored vistas stretched away behind, visions of an elder time that lived on only in the minds of those who had dwelt in it.  Some were dark with blue twilight and dense verdure, others catching golden sunbeams that filtered down through the living canopy, scenes that were forever beautiful, but forever beyond reach.  Foregone only were any images of ships or the sea, for those who had survived the grievous fall of Sirion and the exodus from Lindon did not wish to encourage their love of sea-faring, nor pass it yet to their offspring.  It had taken some, regardless.


If Thranduil’s renowned warfaring had been the work of his more rampant passions, the murals of Lasgalen and their timely restorations were his labor of love when time could be spared from his duties of war, rule, and fatherhood, a silent tribute to his origins and to all that had been dear to him before its destruction.  His skill surprised many.  Fell-handed enough with bow and blade, in moments of peace he could wield also a delicate touch with brush or pen.  Only occasionally did he incorporate living figures into his scenery, and when he did they were small, such as in his midnight rendering over an entire wall of the depths of the Doriathrin wood, a clear stream in the foreground, beyond a hint of a path between the great dark trees so defined with light and shadow that almost it seemed one could step through it into an Age that was no more.  There among the trees, bathed in a white light from an unseen moon, he had brought out the dancing figure of Lúthien, the enchanting daughter of Elu Thingol. 


Later Legolas had asked why he had portrayed her from behind, showing not her face.  Thranduil had confessed that he feared to slight her beauty if he should try.  Legolas wondered if in the long years to come he would himself be one day sketching the sun-dappled paths of Lasgalen for a son of his own, the great hill and the Forest River.  It would not compare to the grandeur of Valinor, but the Lasgalenath who remembered would appreciate it still.  It would be no easy task to leave it.


His thoughts were disturbed then by the prickling of that sixth sense possessed by every wayfaring woodland scout.  Memories of home were banished, leaving him alone again on the northern plains of Gondor, beneath a sky studded with stars in the dark and small hours of the morning. 


“Is it your custom, my lord, to always approach without introduction?” he asked succinctly, without bothering to turn.


“It seems the only way I may enjoy your company these days,” Glorfindel replied from above and behind, the barest hint of amusement in his voice.  “Do you mind if I join you?”


Legolas gestured toward the empty grass beside him, inviting the other to sit as he pleased.


“Thank you.”


Their differences seemed petty here in the starlight.  Glorfindel Reborn of Gondolin and Rivendell, Balrog-Slayer and Nazgûl’s Bane, together with Legolas Thranduilion of Lasgalen Besieged and of the Nine Walkers, now merely two Elves together on the long road home, homes they both knew would never be the same again.  And in that they again understood one another, paying no mind to even the marked differences of speech which set them apart; Legolas’ Sindarin was the full and elegant dialect of his father and other kinsmen of Doriath, while Glorfindel’s use of the Grey-tongue was still tinged with that distinct Noldorin accent which characterized all the Exiles.


“I missed you this evening when you were summoned by the Lady,” Glorfindel explained.


And the Lord, Legolas thought ruefully, though he supposed he should not wonder that a Sindarin lord was eclipsed by his Noldorin lady in a Noldo’s mind.  Such was the fate of all his waning kind, the Aredhil of the East, in the long shadows cast by the Calaquendi of the West.


“I hoped perhaps you would speak with her there, or perhaps even with Celeborn your kinsman, though I wonder what counsel he could give in this regard.  But when you returned I saw you were restless still.” 


Legolas let his gaze fall and tugged absently at a handful of grass.  “I do not know why these last days have been so difficult.”


“Yes, you do,” Glorfindel insisted, a firmer note entering his voice.  “And I believe I may safely guess.  Would you like to try confiding in one who can perhaps understand?  Or would you rather let it fester unnamed unto Greenwood and beyond?”


Legolas sighed, finding himself backed into a corner, ready at last to face it.  “Very well,” he consented.  “What would you have me do?”


“You have heard the call of the West, have you not?” Glorfindel asked, though he knew the answer.


“I believe I have,” Legolas said.  “It was fair and welcome at first, but now it has become nothing but conflict.”


“It was welcome because it was new,” the other explained, “and then you had no thought but for where it could lead you, for all lay ahead.  Now you have begun to look behind, and you dwell upon what it will cost.  Optimism and pessimism will come and go like the tides, for not all is rational in grip of the sea-longing.  In the end it is for you to determine which road holds the best for you; to linger here, clinging to what vestige of dominion we possess as our race fades and time grows short, or rather to take the road left open to us and pass unto a land undying, where an immortal future is brightest.”


Legolas was silent, wanting to take Glorfindel’s counsel to heart, but still wary lest he be too easily taken by a Noldorin perspective that, no matter how Elven, was still fundamentally unlike his own.


“I see you do not yet wholly trust me in this regard,” the other observed, “and in your position I suppose I cannot blame you.  But this also will I say: if once the call has enamored you, and you accept it, often there is no choice to be made, and in the end it will either bear you away or make life here a misery.  Your father has felt it, and I know that he fears it, even as his kinsman Celeborn fears what he has not felt.  Thranduil fears what it would do to you if once it called your name despite him.  Perhaps he knows already that it has taken you, for so great a change in the fëa of his son would not go unnoticed by such as he.  The light in your eyes has changed.”


Legolas looked up sharply then, wondering just how obvious this change was.


“Was it not so with your mother?” Glorfindel asked softly, but pointedly.  “And also with she whom you loved?”


Legolas did not answer.  He did remember the heart-wrenching change that had come over the court and halls of Lasgalen after suffering the first invasion of the war of Mirkwood.  Many were wounded, many were slain, and some had been torn away by the siren song of a deathless land.  Thus had many lives been fractured, and thus all the greater had been their grievance against the foul Necromancer who had wrought all their woes.  But now he was gone, and Legolas felt some measure of grim satisfaction that he had stood at the very Gates of Mordor to watch all of Sauron’s dominion fall in crashing ruin, as it were, at his feet.  Justice had been done.  But justice still did not bring healing.


“You rebuked me earlier, my young lord,” Glorfindel began again. “I would know why.”

Legolas would not meet his gaze.  “Yes, I know.  And I ask that you excuse me on grounds of needless ill-temper.”


“Needless?” Glorfindel asked.  “Never have I known your ill-temper to be without cause.  Come, tell me.  Or do you mistrust me still?”


“No, my lord,” Legolas sighed, feeling younger and more insignificant in his presence than he had in a long time.  “If you ask it of me I will tell you.”


“Then why did you so object to my condemning the use of the Elven Rings?”


“Reliance upon the power of the Three crippled the ultimate defense of Imladris and Lórien, surely,” Legolas explained, echoing what he had so often heard his father say.  “Yet while the Rings endured, there was unmarred peace to be had there.  We stood alone, you said, and thus our realm will endure whilst the others fade.  But in the end, what is that to us?  Our time is ended, and we will fade regardless.  Perhaps we shall linger longer than you would be able, but it will not be many years hence before we too must relinquish all we have won.  But perhaps it seems so to me because I am now called, and I can no longer see clearly my own way.  Before, I was wholly of my father’s mind, that power not one’s own was an unnecessary risk and hazard, but now at the end of it all it seems our abstinence has gained us little.”


New compassion showed itself in Glorfindel’s eyes.  “Does your calling worry you?” he asked.


“It frightens me,” Legolas confessed.  “Mostly because I do not understand it.”


“You will,” Glorfindel assured him, “when at last you answer.  Your father understands it, but he is loath to listen.  He has shut his doors against it, and filled his ears with the sounds of trees lest he hear again the waves.”


“That is what frightens me,” Legolas said.  “I want to hear the trees again.”


“Perhaps you may.  Never will you forget the Sea if once its call is roused.  But do not fear it, for it is natural to us.  There across the foam-crested depths you will find your true home, one that will not fade away around you.”


Legolas nodded and would say no more.


“Very well,” Glorfindel said at last, standing, his robes rippling in the spectral light.  “I shall leave you with that.  Remember what I have said, and I hope that someday it will be a comfort to you.”  Quietly he started back toward the pavilion, leaving Legolas alone where he sat, but then he stopped and turned back one last time.  “Think of it not as losing those you have found,” he said, “but rather as finding those you have lost.”


After a moment Legolas looked back over his shoulder, only to find that he had gone.

There had indeed been much loss in their lives.  Legolas had never had a kinsman returned to him, but Glorfindel was living proof of the rebirth of their kind.  Who would they find waiting for them on the shores of Valinor?  His mother, his grandfather Oropher, or perhaps his cousin Celebrin?  Thingol himself?  Had the Kinslayings of Doriath and Sirion been righted?  


Despite these hopes, his fundamental reluctance still troubled him.  Glorfindel would assure him the Undying Lands were his true home, but that was easily said by an Exile who had been born there, and who would be expected to pine for that which was familiar.  Not so for a born Wood-elf.  Valinor was utterly unknown to him, save the traditional tales and legends.  


With a weary sigh, Legolas let himself fall back into the deep grass, somehow far more comforting than the pallet inside.  The stars wheeled above him in constant movement, the silver face of Ithil shining down upon him with what almost seemed like compassion.  His kind had always been called the Elves of Twilight.  It seemed that he stood in the twilight of his own life now, but whether he would emerge into darkness or a bright new day, only the Valar knew. 


He did not know how long he lay there, putting all his worries out of mind for a time to enjoy the simple pleasures of Middle-earth while he still could.  For now, time meant nothing to him, far from home and all his kin in a strange land, returning from a nigh-ludicrous misadventure which had somehow triumphed against all odds, and had now quite literally changed the world as they had known it.  The Shadow was gone.  Mirkwood was no more.  They would have peace again.


The very idea was difficult to realize.  The War was truly over!  Preoccupied with Gondor, Legolas reflected that he had known but not yet fully absorbed the implications for his own people.  Now that he was alone and had time to appreciate it, it was such a great and unbelievable relief that he could not help laughing to himself, mirth borne of pure joy and perhaps a touch of emotionally exhausted hysteria.  They had lived to see the end!  What on earth was he doing with this troupe in Gondor?  He could scarcely wait to see again the trees of his home, trees that would be clean again!  No more rabid wolves, nor monstrous spiders with their wretched webs!


“By Mahal, Legolas!” interrupted a harsh and indignant whisper from the window of the pavilion just behind.  “What are you giggling about?  I hope nothing more than putting that damnable crick in my neck and then disappearing to roll in the grass like a moonstruck dog.  Why don’t you come inside, for pity’s sake?”







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