Praise Redheredh with great praise…and blame perelleth for the rest.

A brief reminder….

Laerîniel is Legolas’ wife; he calls her Sûlaer

Bôrgalas is Legolas’ elder brother

Luinil is Bôrgalas’ wife

Chapter 3: Underneath the same bright stars

Thranduil’s stronghold, Midsummer’s Eve, 3019

The first stars opened in the deep blue summer sky, hailing a reluctant Anor as she headed for the Doors of the Night, willing, she seemed, to join in the celebration.

All the elves who lived around the stronghold – and many who had found refuge there when their settlements had been razed in the Battle beneath the Trees – were gathered in the great sward before Thranduil’s halls for Midsummer’s Eve celebration. Families along with friends met around fires and shared whatever they had. The queen had arranged the distribution of lembas and she had made sure that everyone was well-provided with mead and food for the feast.

An expectant silence covered the fragrant lawn surrounded by trees when the King of Eryn Lasgalen joined his people in celebration.

“Long has been the war, my friends, and hard-fought; and we have yet again paid a bitter price for peace, as we did when we thought that we had overcome the shadow an age ago.”

Flanked by his family and clad in plain, verdant clothes, a crown of new leaves upon his brow, Thranduil searched the eager faces turned to him.

“We have long known bitter victories, terrible losses, dreadful battles. Heart-rending bereavement and destruction.”

Not even a leaf could be heard in the stilled night. The heartbeat of the forest drummed now in its king’s voice, as if all living creatures were clinging to his words, waiting for him to sing them back into hope and life.

“Yet we know not despair; we, who never gave up fighting nor conceded defeat against the dark enemy – no matter the cost.”

Laerîniel felt a sudden ache, as the king’s voice brought to mind painful images of the almost endless misery they had gone through and the resulting desolation while they relentlessly fought the Shadow for millennia. A deep longing almost overwhelmed her as she stood before embracing families, missing her husband and her daughter more keenly than ever.

“Dwindle and fade shall we before the Secondborn, if that’s the fate Eru appointed to us. Yet, we will not submit to any other will than His, to any other power than that of Time, to any other call than that which lies dormant within each of us. And we will not desert this forest, these trees that had offered shelter and life to us, no matter how troubled the times may seem!”

As Bôrgalas leaned back briefly to pass a comforting arm around his wife’s waist, pulling her lovingly against him, Laerîniel caught sight of the King and Queen’s entwined hands and the reassuring, tender glances they exchanged as the King made a pause in his speech.  

She turned her attention to the assembled elves before them, trying to blink away the sudden pain and jealousy that assailed her –and also the sting of unwanted tears- as the memories of all her missing loved ones became even more unbearable.

“We will not bow in bitter victory, we who remained tall and straight in overshadowing darkness and fear. We will strive together in peace, as we did in war, my friends, and together we shall see our forest grow great again!”

The power in the king’s voice was irresistible and Laerîniel could see that the faces of those standing on the sward brightened with hope, as Thranduil conjured the rebirth of their wood before their weary eyes.

“There shall be new beeches and oaks, and chestnuts and birches, and new broods of birds and squirrels –new voices that shall sing back to life those now silent! For they shall live forever in the rustle of the new leaves in the summer breeze, in the songs of the morilindi greeting Anor, in the calls of the forest creatures and in the voices of the Quendi singing under the stars.”

Laerîniel swayed upon her feet, her yearning suddenly becoming agonizing, and she gratefully leaned into Bôrgalas’ chest as her brother-in-law finally took notice of her anguish and offered what comfort his strong embrace could provide in place of what should have been Legolas’.

“Let us sing, my friends! Let us sing our forest back to life! Let us sing for those who can sing no more and let our voices reach them in the Halls of Waiting. Let them know that we, the elves of Eryn Lasgalen, shall never forget them…”

As the king’s voice resounded in the night, as powerful and charming as that of Yavanna when she first sang her creatures into being, a soft, tuneful murmur arose in the windless night. The trees moved their weakened branches following the king’s bewitching command, and first one then another trembling, wavering elven voice rose up in an ancient song of hope that matched and strengthened that of the forest.

Soon, the whole clearing was alive with the voices that had echoed in that forest for ennin and Laerîniel could feel their song spreading beyond hearing, faster than a canopy fire, carrying the new hope –and the king’s healing power– to the farthest reaches of the forest, to every dying tree and every grieving elf.

As the feeling of renewal ensnared her, Laerîniel urged her song to reach and comfort her missing loved ones; her father, alone in the northern marches; her daughter, who had stubbornly remained in her settlement to celebrate with her neighbours instead of joining her family; her daughter’s husband, out in the forest with his fellow hunters; her nephew, deeply wounded by his younger brother’s death and intent on forgetting the pain by drowning in duty…

But she hoped, above all, that Thranduil’s spell would reach her husband underneath Elbereth’s stars, and would call him back home soon. With that fervent wish she raised her face to the night sky and joined her voice with those around her. Tears streamed freely down many proud faces as that valiant people shared their grief and hopes with their beloved forest.

***

Minas Tirith, Midsummer’s Eve, 3019

The full moon travelled his way placidly across the summer night sky, peering down from his vantage point, shimmering brightly on the calm surface of Anduin, pausing in his erratic course to enjoy the fireworks, the merry dances and happy songs coming from the city built by the men of Númenor, alight in fires as it had been only months ago, when not even the silvery rays of the last fruit of Telperion had managed to pierce the dreadful darkness that had then shrouded the besieged fortress of stone.

But tonight’s fires were of different nature –as were the voices that echoed within the white walls– and Tilion could not hold back his fascination at the joyous display in the usually stern and dour city.

He could trace Olórin’s hand in the playful colours of the fireworks and he felt glad for his fellow Maiar, who had survived many dreadful ordeals and had managed to fulfil Manwë's plans without faltering in his duty. He sighed sadly, though, at the memory of the other four who had failed and the renegade who had been overcome by his own malice.

A soft tune that charmed the night breeze caught his attention then, distracting him from his gloomy thoughts. He looked down in wonder, for that clear voice, he knew, could only belong to one of the Firstborn.

A dishevelled carpet of green, few tamed trees and an overturned bed of fragile, pale roses was all that was left of Lady Finduilas’ garden in the citadel, yet it had become Legolas’ favoured hiding place since Faramir had been kind enough to disclose that secret spot to the one who would become his neighbour in Ithilien.

Despite its dismaying appearance, Legolas was sure that the garden would blossom back to life under the blessed hand of the Queen of Gondor as soon as she arrived. Thus, he had taken to quietly singing to the frail trees, instructing them in the ways of the Firstborn, while finding comfort for himself when the stones became too stifling.

He loved to sit at the angle of the battlement, in a position that allowed him to look south, following the silvery strip of Anduin as it hastened toward the treacherous Sea. And north, as well, where the other half of his faer awaited his return under the beloved trees that had sheltered them for all of their lives.

Tonight though, his eyes were unwaveringly fixed north, as a deep longing and an aching dull pain settled upon him. He had come there to sit alone, hiding from the celebrations as soon as protocol allowed, singing softly to himself and grieving for the losses in his forest home.

“Gimli swore that you were barricaded in the King’s cellars. Meriadoc and Peregrin claimed that you might be found in the stables instructing your horse to drop Gimli next time he rode with you. And Frodo suggested that I looked here….”

“The judgement of the Ring-bearer is not to be taken lightly.”

Lord Celeborn’s soft voice had broken through his revery, yet Legolas was suddenly grateful for the interruption and the lord’s company, so he rose and bowed courteously, greeting his visitor in the same light tone.

“He has grown wise indeed, if he can guess that a garden among stones is the most likely place to find a wood-elf, and a son of Thranduil at that.” Celeborn smiled, arching his brow slightly.

“Meaning that, had he known my father, he would have suggested the cellars too, my lord?”

“It wasn’t you certain captain that got mixed in a dubious episode involving Thranduil’s Dorwinion and a troop of dwarves, was it?” Celeborn retorted, sitting against the parapet and motioning for the prince to do the same.

Legolas shook his head, a pained smirk showing in his face as he recalled another incident involving the King’s preferred wine and his younger nephew as an innocent victim. He sighed, remembering the serious, dutiful Borgil trying to explain to the enraged Steward where the Dorwinion for the king’s table had ended, after his elder brother and some of his friends replaced a barrel of the king’s wine with one of lesser quality, with some excuse or another, while the younger prince escorted a wagon to the stronghold. Legolas blinked back unwanted tears. He was still struggling to believe the news that Celeborn had briefly whispered to him that night before joining the ecstatic King of Gondor and his overjoyed bride in the Merethrond.

“I am sorry that I was the bearer of such sorrowful news, Thranduilion.” Celeborn apparently read his pained countenance and Legolas relaxed the firm grip that he had set upon his feelings in that night of celebration and widespread joy.

“Do not apologize, my lord,” he answered bitterly. “This war has been heavy upon all of us, and I’m sure that there are many who have lost more…”

“And some who shall bear more loss still,” Celeborn reminded him in a soft voice.

Legolas cast a sharp glance towards the Sindarin lord, but decided not to pursue the subject.

“I fear that I did not take the time to properly express to you my gratitude, Lord Celeborn. Sending Haldir to deliver my messages and to bring news to Glóin was extremely kind of you,” he offered instead.

“Well… when Gwaihir arrived with Mithrandir’s news and your messages it seemed the right thing to do, as I supposed that Gimli’s family would be wondering about his fate, too. Had I known that ambassadors had been sent from Dale and the Mountain to the crowning of Elessar, though, I would have never made Haldir go to Erebor.”

“Oh, but I am sure that Glóin appreciated it!”

“Yet, I doubt that Haldir does.”

Legolas smiled briefly at the thought of the formal, solemn marchwarden making his way through the busy, noisy dwarven city. His mind turned then to his own father and a particular piece of news that had caught his attention.

“My father must have been glad to know that Amon Lanc was freed of shadow after so long,” he said softly.

“So glad that he consented to release it into our care,” Celeborn observed with a pleased nod, telling Legolas in all detail how he and Thranduil had reached an agreement to divide the forest between them.

“Let’s hope that this time you’ll succeed in keeping it free from evil,” Legolas said sternly, and he immediately bit back his tongue, mentally berating himself for that discourteous remark.

“And here I had feared that Oropher’s spirit had slipped a generation!” Celeborn’s gentle laughter made it clear that the sarcasm had been noted. Legolas let escape a nervous chuckle.

“You’ve met Mallereg, it seems,” he smiled, shaking his head at the thought of what his temperamental, blunt, sharp-tongued eldest nephew, the one everybody said was Oropher’s living image, might have said to the Lord of Lórien.

“He was with your father when we met in the New Year after we destroyed the foundations of Dol Guldur,” Celeborn answered evenly. “Had I not known better, I would have taken him for your grandfather. The name would have suited Oropher, too.”

Legolas laughed more easily then. To him, his grandfather was but a collection of family gossip and tales of bravery. “What I meant is, well, the power that protects Lórien… “

“We are fortunate that it won’t be needed any longer, since you managed to defeat Sauron so thoroughly. It shall not be available anymore, I fear,” the lord said dryly, waving his hand at the implied apology.

“Are you sailing, then?” Legolas curiosity was now aroused.

“Long must grow the ennin before a land wholly forgets the elves who once dwelled there, and my lady wife’s presence was not one that passed unnoticed,” Celeborn joked, without directly answering the question. “We’ll be safe, even without *that* power,” he added softly.

They remained in silence for a while, watching the stars that crowded Tilion’s path that night, each lost in his own thoughts.

“How close did you come to the Sea?” Celeborn asked suddenly, after a long stretch of companionable silence, interrupted only by the dim sounds of merrymaking in the lower circles of the city.

Legolas tensed up; the memory of the shrilling cries of the seagulls pierced his mind and blew away the comforting images of the well-known trees and starlit glades under which his mind had been peacefully –if sadly- wandering that night.

“To Pelargir, in fair Lebennin.” He wondered that his voice sounded so harsh.

“Not that close, yet you’re deeply wounded, it seems.” Celeborn shook his head, compassion showing in his bottomless, knowing eyes. “The sea-longing is a steady, dull pain in the Noldor, but they may learn to endure it while necessary,” he said in an almost casual voice. “Yet in our kin, I am told, it becomes unbearable, like a devastating fire, if awakened and not heeded.”

“I’m sure that I, too, shall learn to endure it for as long as it is necessary.” Legolas’ pride was stung by the mere suggestion that he would fail where a Noldo would succeed. “I intend to establish an elven settlement in Ithilien. The breeze from the sea will sustain me,” he added stubbornly, glaring defiantly at the Sindarin lord.

Suddenly, it all made sense to him.

“You mean that you are remaining and your lady wife is sailing?” he gasped, not managing to conceal his dismay at the thought.

“There’s no other power that can drag a Moriquendi from Middle-earth but that of the Sea.” Celeborn’s voice was slightly amused, relieving the words of their bitterness.

“Not even love?” It was Legolas’ turn to feel compassion for the other.

“I still hope that love shall help me, in the end,” was the Sindarin lord’s pained admission. “I lived by the shores of the Belegaer for many a year in this age and in the one before this; in Lindon first, in Belfalas later, watching as it pulled at my lady’s faer with its unrelenting, merciless pulse. Yet I have never felt the slightest stir, except that of loathing,” he confessed in a soft, sad voice. “You were warned and yet you chose to run the risk, Legolas,” he kept on in a stronger voice, “and that choice honours you. But, do not let the sea-longing fester in you. Once it is stirred, there’s no way to deny it. Embrace it as a gift, even if it may seem a bitter one.”

Celeborn patted Legolas’ shoulder and stood up, drawing a deep breath. “It is true that the breeze brings the taste of the waves up the river,” he observed. “You’ll be fine here –for a time,” he warned, bowing slightly to the prince and descending from the battlement.

“You can learn, Lord Celeborn.”

The Sindarin lord turned slowly and tilted his head in silent questioning.

“The sea-song also lies deep within that of the forest,” Legolas explained carefully, wondering if it made sense, meeting those sharp eyes. “If you listen intently, you may hear the waves rustling in the new leaves, a voice that calls all of us home. Even the trees, though they cannot sail, long for Yavanna’s undying meadows.”

“Yet her Two Trees died there, I’ve been told.”

“And their last fruits now bring light and growth to Middle-earth.” Legolas was undaunted by the lord’s hopeless sarcasm. “If it is a gift indeed, Lord Celeborn, then let me wish you that you too find yourself blessed with it soon. If only for your lady wife’s sake,” he added seriously, bowing curtly and leaning back to rest his head against the battlement.

“And let me wish you that you are spared her last wound,” Celeborn answered softly, mostly to himself, as he slowly started on the way back to the Merethrond and the bittersweet celebration that was taking place there.

****

Thranduil’s stronghold, later that same night.

“Have I heard right, Laerîniel, that Legolas will be back soon?”

Weary of circling the bonfires exchanging compassionate words with bereft, grieving families, Laerîniel had found refuge among some of her husband’s friends beside a roaring fire around which ale, wine and even miruvor were being almost continuously passed on.

“By Narbeleth” she answered distractedly, watching across the sward to where Luinil finally succumbed to fatigue and was asking for the king’s leave. She observed as her friend then looked around wildly, searching for her husband. She felt a surge of anger when she saw Bôrgalas kiss his wife goodnight briefly and wave to Saelleth to lead her to their chambers while he returned to his friends’ fire.

“…what do you think?” She turned her attention back to the conversation around the fire, noticing expectant glances fixed on her.

“Think of what?” she asked.

“I was wondering how Legolas shall take, well -the news.” Belmagor, one of the few surviving officers of Legolas’ command asked vaguely, waving his heavily charred and disfigured hand dangerously close to Laerîniel’s face. “A pity our captain wasn’t at home while we were being trounced,” he said gloomily.

“He was away on duty,” another offered, casting a warning glance to his companion.

“Yes, on duty,” Belmagor was in no condition to catch the hint, it seemed. “So, tell me again, why was he seeing that ranger to his throne in the south while the Shadow hit us?”

The news of Legolas’ mission had only slowly filtered down, as not even his own family had had a clear notion of his whereabouts for long months. First, Elrond’s messengers had arrived past autumn with a short letter to the King, in which the prince informed that he was engaged in some mission. Then, Thranduil had returned from his meeting with Celeborn after the New Year saying that Legolas had been in Lórien, alive and unscathed, by the end of last year. The latest news, in the prince’s own handwriting, had been brought by Haldir, but still Laerîniel was unable to explain the full extent of what her husband had been involved in, for she was far from understanding all its implications even after the marchwarden’s detailed account at midday’s meal.

Yet she would not remain silent any longer.

“He went to Mordor, as his grandfather did before him, to fight Sauron together with the armies of Middle-earth! And they succeeded!” she retorted angrily, refusing another draught someone was offering.

“Of course they succeeded, seeing that the true Shadow was here, as it has always been since it took residence in Amon Lanc!”

“We don’t know, Belmagor,” another elf tried to calm down the incensed guard. “It is said that it was but one of his servants.”

“Don’t tell me that we don’t know, Maentalf! My son was killed there; I know what I’m talking about! We have been fighting the Shadow for longer than anyone and then that Golodhrim sorceress sent our captain away when we needed him most! She left us to bear the brunt of the attack, only to come out of hiding when there was no danger!”

“And then she robs us half of our forest!” another chimed in, resentment clear in his voice.

“I won’t tolerate another offence against the Lady of the Galadhrim.”

Laerîniel recognized the firm voice of Haldir as the tall marchwarden stood threateningly before the clearly intoxicated Belmagor. The few songs dimly heard around them died out abruptly and a deep, tense silence took over.

“You speak of what you know not,” Haldir kept on, his voice icy and his face menacing in the flickering light of the flames. He grabbed the flask from the inebriated elf’s hand and cast it to the fire. “Were it not for her, your whole forest would have been turned to ashes and your stronghold flattened, just as was Dol Guldur!”

“We fought to our very doorstep!” Belmagor stood up with some difficulty, a menacing look on his face, rage and raw despair clear in his voice. “And I did not see your sorceress helping us!” he added roughly. Laerîniel observed that some of his fellow guards nodded in assent and stood up too, as if to support their friend.

“You fought but the smallest part of the dark lord’s army, you fool!” Haldir spat out, losing some of his composure. “Yet, as it is your wont, you thought you were the only ones in Middle-earth who were engaged in war!”

“What’s going on here?” Bôrgalas suddenly stepped into the crowded circle that now surrounded the arguing elves, a tinge of warning in his soft voice that anyone who knew him could recognize. Laerîniel looked at him with deep relief as the situation was threatening to get out of control.

“He insults us, Commander; he says we didn’t fight Sauron’s armies…”

“It is not kind of a guest, Master Haldir, to mock the merits of his host’s army.”

“Yet the guest shall rather be cast out than bear hearing his people and his rulers maligned by an intoxicated, ignorant elf, my lord Prince,” the marchwarden answered tightly.

Bôrgalas let his wary gaze wander from the offended marchwarden, to the seething guard, now being restrained by two of his fellows, then to his brother’s wife, and sighed wearily.

“We are all tired and grieving, Master Haldir, would it be too much asking of you that you blamed it all on the wine and put any offence aside?” he suggested.

“It may be the custom in –here,” the former name of Lasgalen lingered in the stern marchwarden’s lips as he seemed to savour the pause, “to let pass a slight to a prince’s honour. Still, my lord, I demand an apology to my Lady’s.”

“Belmagor!” Bôrgalas’ voice held a feral threat and he did not even look at his warrior. He kept his gaze on the stubborn marchwarden as he fought not to feel insulted himself by Haldir’s words.

“I apologize... for what I’ve said about the Lady of the Galadhrim.” The now more sober guard knew better than to disobey their Chief Commander when he was in such a foul disposition.

“Are you satisfied, Marchwarden?”

“I am, my lord Prince, my thanks.” Haldir bowed courteously.

“Then know that no one is questioning Lord Legolas’ honour here and that my lord King would not take it kindly were he to learn that you suggested otherwise,” Bôrgalas added coldly.

“I hear you, my lord.”

“I shall not demand an apology from you, though, Haldir.”

“My thanks again, my lord. Lady Laerîniel,” he said, turning to the princess, “know that your husband’s name and deeds are held in the deepest respect by the world outside your forest.” He bowed low before her and retired towards the stronghold without looking back. 

“I’ll see you at dawn in my office,” Bôrgalas said sternly to the gathered elves as soon as the marchwarden was out of earshot. “All of you!”

“My lord, they didn’t... it was my…”

“Did I give you the impression that I was interested in your explanations, Belmagor?”

The Home Guard officer blanched at the prince’s uncanny impersonation of the king’s worst temper.

“If you care to join me, Laerîniel?” the prince suggested in a softer voice, offering his arm to his sister-in-law.

“They blame Legolas, don’t they?” she asked quietly, trying to keep up with his long strides, still upset by what she had witnessed.

Bôrgalas did not slow down as he led her away from the bonfire. “They’re venting their frustration, Laerîniel, and anyone is a suitable target for that. It shall all be forgotten by the time he’s back, and he’ll once again be their beloved Captain,” he stated, a tinge of bitterness in his voice. He stopped abruptly then, as if finally taking notice of her worry. “Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking,” he sighed, passing a hand over his brow. “They are wounded and they miss him, as we all do. Come, join me and let us find some respite from our woes tonight!” he gently urged her.

She looked around and caught a glimpse of the king, sitting by a tall elm with his wife resting comfortably in his strong embrace, waiting for the celebration to wind down while continuing to offer what strength and comfort he still had left to his people and his forest. She shook her head, trying to dispel the fresh surge of pain and longing that struck her at that sight.

“I’m glad that you’re not departing to Erebor with Haldir,” she whispered to her brother-in-law, standing on her tip-toes to plant a soft kiss on his tired face. The row between the king and his heir after midday’s meal had been quite loud. “Although I could hear that you really wanted to. So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, my brother,” she decided, bowing briefly and crossing the bridge towards the gates at a brisk pace.

She shut the door of her chambers and rested her head against the soft wood, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, fighting back the wail that threatened to escape her throat, the anguish rising within her in an unstoppable tide.

She walked to her desk and toyed distractedly with the parchment resting upon the wooden surface since the day before. “Dear Legolas:” She had hoped to pour all her love and deep longing in that message in the hopes that he would hurry back to her side, and she had been disappointed to learn that there was no way that a special messenger would be sent to that city where his husband was.

Her daughter not coming home with Lord Celeborn’s envoy to join in that Midsummer’s Eve celebration and share Legolas’ messages had hurt her, too.

“Your daughter asked me to tell you that she was glad to have news from her Adar and that she sent all her love to all of you, my lady,” the marchwarden had told her. “She also said that she felt it her duty to remain in the settlement with the children and the women and share these times with them…”

So like her father! Laerîniel thought with mounting resentment. She had missed her daughter’s presence sorely this day, but Sûlgalen, as Legolas, cared so deeply for those around her that she’d forget her own well-being – and that of her family– in order to attend to the needs of those she considered under her protection. Much as Laerîniel loved that trait in her husband, there were times when she wished he would not be so generous and would rather devote more time and concern to his own family –instead of wandering the lands of the south protecting Periannath and battling foreign armies.

“I’m being selfish and unfair,” she acknowledged judiciously, but almost immediately a harsh sob escaped her throat at the sight of his short bow, waiting patiently against the stone wall, and the hunting knife with the carved hilt that Farother had presented him when he had asked for Sûlgalen’s hand, and which Legolas had stubbornly refused to use, and the harp he would lazily pretend to pick up some nights, while she insisted on resting against his chest… The room was so full of memories that it was suddenly too much for her to bear, so she lay down on their bed and surrendered to her sorrow, allowing her tears to flow freely.

“After this, I won’t let you slip from my side, my love, not anymore,” she promised betweensobs, “and together we’ll see our forest grow strong and hale again.”  Heavy sighs continued to escape her lips as she finally fell asleep short before Anor announced a glorious Midsummer’s Day. 

****

Minas Tirith. Midsummer’s Day at dawn, 3019

The last stars were twinkling out unwillingly in the western sky, tarrying around the silvery needle that crowned the tower of Ecthelion, trying to mingle with the mithril ones that flapped in the black banner, vainly hoping to catch a first glimpse of the Evenstar on her brightest day. 

Yet only Eärendil the Blessed was allowed to share the morning sky with blazing Anor as she purposefully heralded that long-awaited dawn.

The very stones of the city echoed the anticipation brewing in the citadel, the hopes and sorrows, the love and despair that would find fulfilment on this significant day.

The elf resting against the parapet over Lady Finduilas’ garden stood up and lazily stretched his long limbs while looking south over the battlement to the lands that would soon be his home.  The morning mists were still threading among the bushes of thyme and the thickets of olive trees buttoned upon the other side of the river, making Ithilien appear to his eyes like a blessed island out of the UttermostWest, docked there by the grace of the Valar.

Legolas breathed in deeply, savouring the faintest tang of salt that flew upon the wings of the southern winds and felt renewed by the bright morning.

“We’ll be happy here, my Sûlaer, and these lands shall grow fairer because of your presence,” he smiled softly, wistfully, casting a last glance towards that beautiful country before descending to join his friends in the last event of their long-fought battle.

****

“Upon the very Eve of Midsummer, when the sky was blue as 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…” “…and beside him upon a grey palfrey rode Arwen his daughter, the Evenstar of her people” (ROTK, “The Steward and the King”)

“And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer, and the tale of their long waiting and labours was come to fulfilment.” (ROTK, “The Steward and the King”)

A/N I’ve been told that the chapter title resembles a line from a well-known song, (terribly sappy) back from the 80’s… and that it featured in a cartoon movie about a migrant mouse…:-) Did not know about the mouse, or the movie, but the song hit me when thinking of this chapter, because it brings some mixed memories to me, of a time when that song would bring some comfort, in the AGE BEFORE E-MAIL, even if we were not technically  “Underneath the same bright stars…” :-)

Morilindi: Sindarin for nightingales

Merethrond The great hall in the Citadel, in Minas Tirith.

Amon Lanc:  It was the place where Oropher first settled down in Greenwood. It was already deserted when the shadow came there and it became Dol Guldur, (at least Tolkien suggests so in a note in UT)

Mallereg: means Golden thorn. (Or golden holly, :-)…) Thranduil’s eldest grandson’s moniker.

Sûlgalen: Legolas and Laerîniel’s daughter

Faer. Sindarin, soul.