A RING OF LIVING FLAME

The royal hall was emptied for a time, as it almost never was in these new days.  The King had concluded his audiences for the morning and retired to the company of his intimates, though he was scheduled to return at midday.  All the foreign embassies had gone elsewhere during Elessar’s absence.  Still, one solitary individual remained, and he savored a moment of solitude after enduring the oppression of the crowd for the King's sake.

Legolas paced slowly along the empty and echoing hall, hands swept idly behind his back as he passed the silent tributes to the kings of years gone by.  He remained within these walls by an act of his own will, for he wished to somehow find it in his heart to love this place as Aragorn loved it.  But it remained foreign to him, strange and cheerless despite the summer sun that streamed in through the windows above.  All was stone, majestic but lifeless, without even a tapestry to soften the severity.  He ran his fingers across a pillar of smooth black marble as he passed.  Given time, those dark and stately pillars could gradually assume the air of bars, this hall a cage.  No, he did not envy Aragorn his lineage.

He looked again to the statues as he passed them, standing regular as sentinels.  His eyes fell upon the names chiseled beneath their feet, searching out those he would recognize.  Isildur he knew, for his own father had known him, though he was remembered with small love.  He had heard of Meneldil, and Cemendur, but in later days these kings of Men seemed to fade from the histories of the world he knew.  The sun and shadow played over their stony features, all alike, noble and unmemorable.  He admitted the workmanship was magnificent, but everything was in stark contrast, black and white, lacking all the vibrant living hues he loved.  It seemed too severe, too dead. 

Whatever his personal preferences, he had suffered himself to be clad in the same stark black and white.  He was dressed as a Gondorian for the simple reason that there was little else to be had, as he was one of the only Elves present within the city.  Also, it had been a practical effort on his part to quietly conform to his surroundings and therefore escape the unsolicited attentions that had plagued him of late.  It seemed there were many in Gondor who had doubted the Eldar of old still existed in Middle-earth, and every curious thrill-seeker was now determined to catch a glimpse of him.  He tried to elude most of them when he was not in formal attendance at Aragorn’s court, but it was no use.  Noble and fair beyond his power to conceal, he remained as conspicuous among these Men as would be a lord of Rohan at a gathering of Dunlendings.  Nor was solitude yet so dear to him that he would go so far as to sacrifice his hair, though Gimli had offered his assistance in that regard with a hearty laugh.

The clothes were heavier than those he was accustomed to, more restricting, but it was nothing he could not endure with good grace.  They were very like those Boromir had worn.  The entire city reminded him of the man.  Everywhere there were the winged emblems, the distinctive manner and speech of the people.  Now and then he would catch it in a guard, the same bold swagger, the same sonorous voice.  It made their incredible victory profoundly bittersweet when he remembered Denethor’s proud son who had not lived to see it.

Legolas put his shoulders back as he paced the floor, straining gently against the confines of his attire, listening to the muted stretch of black leather.  The white sleeves of his tunic brilliantly caught the sun as he passed into the slanting shaft of a skylight.  He could see dust floating lazily in the sun's rays, stirred by the rush of new life that had gathered within these walls.  It was high time, he thought, that Aragorn brought some vigor back into this realm and stopped its sad decline.

Legolas lingered there in the celestial glow of the world outside, bathed in sunbeams, turned toward the small patch of azure sky that was admitted into this grim magisterial chamber.  He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the glowing warmth on his face, the scents of the outside world, of summer in the mountains.  It was a relief after the brooding history of the place.

The moment was disturbed by a subtle stirring of awareness at the fringes of his mind.  He was not alone, though he was meant to believe he was.  More than that, his keen ears caught the distinctive sound of skirts swept over polished stone, a stifled giggle as they ventured a look at “The Elf.”  Ai, they were everywhere.  Returning to himself, he casually wandered away from the light.  He resumed his idle pacing, paying no mind to his covert band of admirers, determined to outlast them.  He imagined the centuries had given him greater patience than theirs, though he felt uncomfortably like a live exhibit at an animal fair.  If he could only be dull enough, perhaps they would lose interest and move on.

It might have been a long battle between elvish resolve and feminine tenacity, but the latter party was worsted into a frenzied scatter at the approach of an infinitely more welcome presence.

“Legolas!” Aragorn greeted him warmly, his great royal robes sweeping over the smooth floor as he approached with open arms.  He was still arrayed as royalty but had left the king behind with his guard at the door.  Legolas accepted his fraternal embrace as Aragorn seemed to revel in returning to the Sindarin tongue of his upbringing.  “One never has any trouble finding you these days,” he said, the bright gleam on his crown still no match for the devious glint in his eye.  “I have but to look for knots of maidens hovering about in doorways.”

“I do not know which of us they wish to see more,” Legolas confided, still trying to be pleasant, though Aragorn probably knew him well enough to notice his subtle irritation.

“Oh, it is you,” Aragorn assured him.  “They have seen me, for I make no secret of myself.  But you insist upon teasing them, sneaking around crowds and slipping through halls.  Walk boldly out among them, Legolas,” he advised with a smile, making his fist an imitation of a battering ram.  “Perhaps the novelty will wear away in time.  You were overt enough before.”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed, “before, when the city was peopled with soldiers and guardsmen.  Then I did not face a procession of skirts at every turn.  These past two days I have scarcely dared to leave the court!”

“You should,” his friend advised, with a sweeping indication of his current attire, “before I make a Man of Gondor of you!  I daresay my Lord Thranduil would receive such a report with small pleasure.”

“Doubtless.”  Legolas smiled, his discontent banished in the light of Aragorn’s good-humor.  He imagined his father would not be offended so much as flattered by his present difficulties, though it was true that King Thranduil was somewhat impatiently awaiting his return.  “My lord’s messengers have already begun to wonder.”

“Bah, let them wonder,” the King said.  “I cannot hold you here forever, Legolas, but while you stay, I am enjoying it immensely.  I hope you may say the same.”

Legolas smiled.  “The companionship makes up for any lack in the accommodations,” he assured him.

Aragorn glanced around the hall, and then pulled at his high collar.  “Ai, Legolas.  It grows hot in here.  Come; I know you pine for the open air.”

King Elessar led the way from the royal hall, Legolas following with easy familiarity.  The resplendent guardsmen brought up the rear, their deportment a credit to the bygone pride and dignity of Númenor. 

“I do not relish the thought of attending a full court with the sun riding so high,” Aragorn admitted as they entered the courtyard, soaring far above the rest of the concentric city below.  There was a greater wind here on the heights, refreshing after the confines of the palace walls.  “With so many so close it can become difficult to breathe.”  He glanced at Legolas as they wandered toward the looming remains of the White Tree.  “I can forgive you if you decline to attend.”

“I shall be there,” Legolas assured him with quiet emphasis. 

“You understand I do not ask it of you?”

“Perfectly.”  Legolas smiled again, amused by Aragorn’s anxious solicitude.  It was strange that as the man’s power waxed he became more and more reluctant to make open demands upon his friends.  If he was endeavoring to be duly attentive to Legolas’ own rank and dignity, he could well have saved himself the worry.  “If we braved Moria and Mordor together, it should be a small task to endure a few hours of stuffy decorum, should it not?”  Still, that was easily said now that he stood in the open with the free wind on his face.  Already he felt revived by the living things of the world, as if the wind itself lent him its strength as it swept past.

“The Elves of Mirkwood long ago learned to make the best of trial,” Aragorn conceded as he folded his legs to sit beside the patch of green lawn.  “Your resilience should be a lesson for us all.”  He looked forlornly at the gnarled remains of the ancient tree, one of the last details that marred his reign.

“You will find it,” Legolas insisted, guessing his thoughts.  “The Power who has guided this miraculous ascent of yours will not be so negligent as to let that slip past Him unattended.”

“I wish I shared your confidence,” his friend sighed.  “I have looked, in vain.”

“You have not yet had the time,” Legolas maintained, sinking backwards to lie on the precious green grass, arms crossed placidly over his chest as though he had no cares at all.  He could feel Aragorn was mildly envious of his effortless tranquility.  “You received your crown only two days ago, and have since been drowned in a flood of new concerns.  Give the waters a moment to calm, and then I imagine much will be made clear to you.”

Waters.  It was an unfortunate figure of speech.  The Sea had been growing on his mind of late, especially as he was surrounded there by the history of the Sea Kings of old, not to mention the Prince of Dol Amroth and his retinue, a noble Man with the echo of Elvendom about him.  His early fascination with the West-call had gradually begun to assume a new face, appealing still, but unsettlingly so.  He felt a twinge of fear in dwelling upon it now, so he made a deliberate effort to ignore it.  The warmth of the sun overhead had by now been absorbed by the darker portions of his clothes; there were celestial kingdoms of white cloud in the sky, and birdsong upon the air.  He filled his mind with the simple beauties of Middle-earth, striving to quiet the restless memory of something he had never seen.

“And since we speak of trees,” Aragorn said at last, subtly leading the conversation elsewhere, “I have heard you speak of renewing the gardens of the city.”

Legolas sniffed scornfully.  “What gardens?” he asked.  “This place has very little to recommend it to those who appreciate growing things.  It is no wonder the people fade.”

“It is a far cry from Imladris and Lasgalen,” Aragorn admitted, “but it has beauties of its own.  Do you suppose the different loves of wood and stone could not here be made to complement one another?”

Now Legolas smiled with the eagerness of an artist soon to be given free rein to prove his craft.  “It could be done,” he said, sitting upright again, “if you will give me leave.”

“The rebuilding of the outer circles is due to begin in earnest,” the King explained.  “There many beds have gone fallow for lack of flowers.  I leave those touches for you when the masons have done their own work.”

“Flowers, perhaps,” Legolas mused, already imagining the white stone shaded by green.  “But you must have trees first.”

“Very well,” Aragorn consented, seeming to know he had left the matter in capable hands.  “What kind would you propose?  Beech?”

“Beech or maple,” Legolas agreed.  “Fair in the spring and summer, they shall hang with living flame in the autumn in memory of the battles gone before, the fires of siege and war.  It was not through peace that Elessar came to the throne of Gondor.”

Aragorn’s gray eyes brightened at the prospect.  “Well thought, my friend!  We shall have a Rath Cormallen, for it may be that the old Rath Celerdain shall need a new name.   You will bring others of your people to assist you?”

“If my lord father allows it,” Legolas promised.  “I will be anxious to return now that you have set challenges for me, although I fear there is afflicted wood enough to last us many years in the North.”

“None escaped the Great War unscathed,” Aragorn nodded.  “But if I know anything of the relentless Elvenking in the north, it is not a bit of fire that will be his undoing.  The wood will grow again, and still his colors will fly beneath them.”

Legolas smiled, appreciating his candor.  “That they will.  I know he bore it admirably, though I was elsewhere.  Give me a year with him when I return, and then I shall come and plant your Rath Cormallen for you.”

The clear tolling of silver bells imposed their voices on the city and the lands about, heralding midday.  A startled flutter of gray birds took flight from the face of the city, soaring skyward, their shadows passing over the courtyard like wisps of cloud in the wind.  Legolas watched them go, appreciating their simple unfettered freedom to fly where they would.  Yes, Middle-earth was enough to content him for several years yet.  He need not cross the last bridge for some time.

Aragorn climbed back to his feet, brushing the pale dust from his dark and stately robes.  He offered Legolas his hand and pulled him up as well, a gesture of friendship more than necessity.  “Come on, then,” he said, lingering in the form of Estel of Imladris and Aragorn the Ranger before assuming again the guise of King Elessar.  “If you so wish to humor me and my court, it would not due to keep them waiting, Legolas Adanedhel.”

---

As Aragorn had predicted, the court had become as close and oppressive as the Huorn forests of Fangorn.  Much had been dealt with, including some of the more exotic tasks of defining the legal standing of the Haradrim and reestablishing the slaves of Mordor on their own lands.  Legolas had dutifully stood in his place and given heed to the proceedings, but he would freely admit his relief to finally be released.

Passing through the echoing corridors, he trailed his fingers along the white and gray stone wall, imbibing the distinctive taste of the place.  It was very much of Men, utterly different from the home he had known, but it was something he would have to grow accustomed to.     

His wandering steps carried him to the library.  Not the dark depths of the archives, but merely the retreat of the Stewards when they looked for a moment of peace.  That is what he sought now, in addition to the satisfaction of an idle curiosity.  Slipping past the velvety black drapery, he came into a dimly lit room, the walls lined with shelves bearing all manner of old and intriguing volumes. 

“Ernil Legolas.”

He turned, already recognizing the soft voice.  “Speak, Daerin,” he said.  It was both Daerin and Bregonsúl, the two silvan heralds of Thranduil.  It was not for nothing that the Elvenking had chosen them.  Faithful as a pair of hounds, they had followed him from court and now seemed bent upon securing an audience of their own.  Evidently Thranduil deemed his errant son in some need of supervision while he moved in foreign spheres. 

“The spring wanes, my lord,” Daerin said at last.  “The King bade us tarry not overlong here in the South, but return to the aid of Lasgalen which so sorely needs us all.”

“Then you may go,” Legolas said simply.  “You need not tarry on my account.”

They seemed taken aback by his answer.  “It will not please our lord the King if we should return without you,” Bregonsúl warned.  “Our second duty was to be your escort.”

“Then I relieve you of it.”  It was only occasionally that Legolas asserted his will, gently but firmly when he would brook no opposition.  “I shall return soon, but not yet.  If you wish to go now, I give you leave.  The responsibility is mine if the King objects.”

They were not pleased with their new assignment, but at last he convinced them.  They would bear with them his reply to his father’s letter, as well as a cordial missive from Elessar.  He recognized that there was something else that chafed them, presumably just how little deference their prince was accorded in this court of Men.  It smacked of brazen inhospitality to their minds, but they who idolized their warrior king and his heir could never understand that Legolas was quite content with his marginal anonymity.  There would be a time and a place for him to stand upon his own lineage, and he deemed this was neither.  For now, he remained Legolas of the Fellowship, one who dwelt in the shadows of others accorded more regard than he.  This was not yet his sphere to command. 

His attendants dismissed, Legolas fell to idly browsing the bookcases, searching out any title that would arrest his interest.  He was exhaustively instructed in the histories of the Elves, including several extended visits of a scholarly nature to the archives of Imladris.  We of Oropher’s blood have many faults, his father had freely admitted, but ignorance has never been numbered among them.  It was not for nothing that he had been raised in an actively trilingual household.

He finally chose a promising volume from among its leather-bound fellows, entitled A History of the Elvish Alliance.  Intrigued, he availed himself of a chair nearby and perused the closely written pages at the crackling protest of the ancient binding.  The work was recorded in the script of Gondor, legible enough, though the scribe had left extremely narrow margins.

Several weary pages later, he realized the description and tribute to Gil-galad would go on for some time.  That was all well and good, but he had seen it before, and it held no kindred interest for him.  Leafing through many of the subsequent pages, he at last hit upon the reference he had sought.  

Other hosts joined to the ranks of the High King included silvan tribes of the North.  These were led by their lords, Oropher and Amdír, Elves of uncertain origin.  Slain early in battle, Oropher was succeeded by his son Throndul, who returned to the North.  Little else is known of these, save tales of an apocryphal nature.

Legolas drew himself up with a dry huff.  “Throndul,” indeed!  Perhaps during the years to come he and Aragorn could do something to right the lore of this realm.  Oropher . . . of uncertain origin . . . joined to the ranks of the High King . . .  Those statements alone suffered from woeful oversimplification.  If nothing else, Legolas swore upon the slighted soul of the formidable grandfather he had never known that he would at least restore his memory before they met beyond the sundering seas.

Following his nose into the dustiest and most unfrequented corners, he discovered a shelf of volumes written in the elvish tongue, but quickly recognized them to be Quenya.  His father could speak the Noldorin dialect after a fashion, having picked it up during his years in Balar and Lindon, but had never bothered learning to read it.  Thranduil had been gifted with a natural aptitude for language, though he did not deliberately cultivate the talent; he loathed study, despite appreciating its virtues, and so had not been disappointed that Legolas had not made much headway with the tongue of the Exiles under Lord Elrond’s brief tutelage.

Leafing through the worn pages with no immediate purpose, Legolas then caught the distinctive sound of a heavy tread, one he knew well by now.  Gimli he recognized, but unfortunately the Dwarf was followed.  Belain, not again.  He shrank back into the shadows where the shelf met the wall, a position which still afforded him a glimpse of the others through a gap in the oppressive ranks of books.  He was still unwilling to face another encounter today.

They were not long in coming. 

“Good day to you, Master Dwarf,” said the first, a lady of a regal and determined mien in a sweeping gown of midnight blue.  Several of a younger and less august sort had come in her following.  “Do you know perchance where we may find the elvish lord honored by King Elessar?  My ladies and I would very much appreciate the honor of his acquaintance.”

She was palatable enough, with a dignity Legolas admired; however, her maids were a silly, starry-eyed bunch, and he felt he had been spectacle enough for one day.  If she was so very determined, he would do himself the honor of her company at another time and another place.  Gimli glanced imperceptibly aside to meet his gaze, but Legolas shook his head, begging a diversion.

“Alas, my ladies,” Gimli apologized in excellent performance, “he has not passed by this place to my knowledge.  Still, I feel he is not far.  If you do not tarry long, you may find him yet.”

Nor did they tarry.  With no small relief, Legolas soon deemed it safe enough to leave his dusty retreat.  “Thank you, my friend,” he said, brushing himself off.  “I can stand no more; not this day.”

“So I gathered.”  Gimli chuckled into his beard, hooking his thumbs in his belt.  “It would seem you have become the envy and despair of half the dandies of Aragorn’s court.  Not that you are one,” he hastened to add, as Legolas looked rather offended. 

“I have been called many things, Master Gimli,” he said, “but never that.”

“Well, perhaps you should acclimate yourself to it,” the Dwarf said as he dropped himself comfortably into a chair, gloating perhaps in his own invulnerability, “because that is how the eyes of mortal kind interpret you.  If you want to get by in their company, you may perhaps consider a few strategic alterations to your appearance.  And, as you have seen, wearing their clothes makes not one whit of difference.”

“I did notice,” Legolas confided, choosing to humor him.  “And just what would you suggest, Master Gimli, wise in the ways of Men as you seem to consider yourself?”

“First of all,” he said, pointing briefly but adamantly, "do something about that hair.  So long as you wear it as you do, the entire cause is lost.  Now, I’ve a grand idea in mind, and have already offered it.”

“And I have refused it,” Legolas reminded him with a wry and mirthless smile, “with thanks.”

Gimli shrugged where he sat.  “Suit yourself.  Now, if only you could somehow manage a beard . . .”

“All the Powers forbid,” Legolas recoiled.  “I cannot understand how you endure that pelt on your face.”

Gimli grinned.  He looked thoughtful a moment, cocking his head like a curious bird.  “You know, a few touches here and there and we could almost make you look a good deal like young lord Éomer.”

“Your solicitude honors me,” Legolas said, with a generous serving of good-humored sarcasm.  “It therefore goes without saying that with few touches we could well make you to resemble a blunt-eared lout of a halfling.”

“Very well.  I shall let you alone,” Gimli assured him, raising his hands in admission of defeat.  “One cannot say I did not try, but all my offers seem in vain.”

“Try you did, and valiantly,” Legolas admitted.  “I shall not forget your willingness to remedy my affliction, good and noble-hearted Dwarf that you are.  But, if affliction it is, I am yet unwilling to be parted from it.”

“So be it,” Gimli acquiesced, but with a devious smile.  “You may run then, my friend, but you can never hide.”

“That remains to be seen.”  Legolas ran an idle finger over a row of uninteresting records, offering Gimli a confident smile.  “Barring any unforeseen circumstances, and with your capable help, I may be able to hide as long as I like.”

“Ah, Legolas!” came a familiar lilting voice just as the liveried figure of Pippin appeared triumphantly in the doorway.  "I wondered where you’d gone!  Milady here was asking after you, as I guess she's rather curious about the Fair Folk, and I knew you would hate to have her wandering all about the city on your account with no right idea where to look for an Elf, if anybody here would know such a thing, they being a bit unfamiliar to them and all.  The Elves, I mean.  But by now I’ve learned where to look, so I brought her right to you with no fuss or bother!”