Creation Song of Ilúvatar

“When I was young I walked all over this country, east and west, and saw no other people than the Apaches.  After many summers I walked again and found another race of people had come to take it.  How is it?  Why is it that the Apaches wait to die--that they carry their lives on their fingernails?  They roam over the hills and plains and want the heavens to fall on them.  The Apaches were once a great nation; they are now but few, and because of this they want to die and so carry their lives on their fingernails.”

                                    ---Cochise of the Chiricahua Apaches

Chapter 27:  Sorrow’s story

Thranduil thought of Nyére as he looked out into the darkened forest that surrounded his home, the increasing silence creeping its way towards the hill that held in its womb all that was precious.  He looked down at the gold and silver rings that hung from a simple leather necklace, strung around his neck.  He did not need to wear any reminders on his fingers of the bond he had with his wife, but nonetheless he kept the rings close to his heart. 

Nyére had been an enigma, but Thranduil knew more of her and her heart than he dared to admit to himself.  He grasped his chest as he felt a tightness grip him.  His breathing seemed to become an act of will, no longer a natural and unnoticed functioning of the body.  Thranduil became aware of every breath he took in and let out, as if he stopped concentrating on the act of breathing, his lungs would not respond. 

How he wanted to take his heart and flee in Westerly directions, take his sorrows over seas that would open up and guide him on the Straight Path.  Thranduil choked back the sobs that threatened to spill forth from him. 

He glanced up and saw that the Elves that stood guard all seemed to be lost in melancholy reveries of their own.  Thranduil searched for his son and found Laurenor, staring out towards the West, his eyes lost in an unseen voyage.

Thranduil shook the sorrow that threatened to consume him, and gasped in chilled air around him.  The smell of the green woods filled his being with renewed strength.  Shadow was paralyzing them with the most powerful of weapons, reaching into the depths of their fëar, finding their most guarded sorrows, and unleashing them.

“Rise now, rise out of the sadness that threatens to paralyze you,” Thranduil commanded, his voice full of a desperate but penetrating force.

Laurenor’s eyes focused in and he gasped, feeling as if he had been holding his breath for too long.  The chilled wind traced its path along his cheeks, as if wanting to lull him into a trance once more.

Thranduil’s voice was again heard, “Breathe in the air of the woods.  Let the smell of life course through your veins!”

Instinctually obeying their King Elves all around inhaled sharply catching the scent of their home that the chilled winds could not blight out.

Laurenor’s eyes were wide with disbelief, “For how long have we been under this spell?”

Thranduil looked towards the sky, the few stars that struggled to shine through the encroaching Shadow, reaching their favorite friend.  “T’ would seem that half of a mortal hour has passed.  This Shadow is treacherous, but this treachery heartens my soul.”

Laurenor looked at his father, wondering if the Shadow had caused some sort of temporary insanity.

Thranduil rewarded his son’s concerned look with a feral grin, “It seems the Shadow fears facing us with all our vigor intact.  Shadow acts with purpose, and from this purpose we find insight.”

Laurenor, smiled, his father’s adept reasoning rang true.  The Shadow, whatever came towards them was not yet powerful enough to face Thranduil’s might intact, and so it had hoped to waylay the wood Elves with witchery, but it was not to be this night.

***

Legolas stopped, the song that drifted towards him took hold of his heart, and for a moment he was not sure he could answer with an open heart.

He closed his eyes and allowed the sorrowful colors to seep into his heart, and with eyes closed he felt his way towards the dimming light of one of the Firstborn.  Here in Southern directions Legolas walked with the hope of his people holding him forth.

“By the grace of Ilúvatar,” Legolas whispered as he walked out into the clearing where a bloody and one-sided battle had been waged.  He opened his eyes and let out a soft cry as his eyes took in the despair and extinguished melodies.

Glorfindel cast his eyes downward, memories of past pains colliding with the images he saw in front of him.

Elladan and Elrohirs’ faces were set in grim lines; the memory of their Naneth’s pain at the hands of the accursed soulless ones was ever present.  Too many had suffered innumerable pains and here the foul evil and hate was on display.

Legolas gathered his will and walked forward amongst the dead, and found the dimmed life that had been calling to him.  He dropped to his knees and picked up the Elf’s head, gently in his arms.

The fallen Elf felt the light touch of his kith and kin and opened his eyes.  To his amazement, none other than his fair prince looked down on him, with eyes full of love, but not pity. 

“Legolas,” he whispered hoarsely. 

Legolas gently laid his fingers on the speaker’s lips, silently asking the Elf to speak no more.  “Save your strength, mellon nîn,” Legolas whispered.  The fallen captain smiled,  a strange peace settled upon him.

Elladan and Elrohir were besides them, tending the many wounds, trying their best to save the song of Ilúvatar from ending for this warrior of the Firstborn.

Legolas eyes began to tear as he stroked the Elf’s face, “Mellon nîn, stay with me, I know you have the strength…”  Legolas’ voice died off as his friend’s eyes glazed over.  He looked at the Elf that lay in his arms, and urged his dying friend once more, desperation clinging to his voice, “Faelon, please- I could not bear to tell her that you have passed from the paths of this world.” But the eyes Legolas looked upon no longer looked on the paths that bore the living.

“Elladan, Elrohir,” Legolas cried out.

The two Elves did not stop from their fevered orchestrations, but it seemed the wounds were too many, and the blood that had been lost was too much.

Elrohir spoke, his voice choking on un-fallen tears, “It seems there is naught we can do.  He, he has lost too much- there are so many…”

Elladan took his brother’s hands in his own and held them tightly.  The two twin souls looked into each others eyes and saw the same grief raging, the same memories, and the same despair. 

Legolas buried his face in the fallen Elf’s chest, his sobbing now unchecked, “Faelon, please forgive me, forgive me, forgive me…”

“Life on this middle-earth is cruel, but death, it is wholly unfair,” Glorfindel whispered under his breath and cast his wet gaze up into the skies where the light of Anor was beginning to creep its way out. 

***

In the depths of the Thranduil’s stronghold, Elves clung to each other, beckoned back from sorrowful dreams by the voice of their King which echoed within the cave walls. 

Istawen held her daughter closely.  Too brave was her daughter, too strong she was for one so young, but life in Mirkwood took such a toll on the few young who had been born of late.

In a dark corner was a fore lone figure, forgotten it seemed in the madness of the moment, huddled.  She did not hear the words of Thranduil, too lost was she in her own sorrows, but she did not need Shadow to bid her to these dark places.  No, she carried her life on her fingernails. 

Lotórie crawled out of her mothers arms and wandered towards the forgotten mortal.  “Lenmana, you should sleep.  Maybe you will be gifted with pleasant dreams.”

The woman looked towards the brave leaf child, nodding her head in agreement.  Lotórie led her over to a makeshift bed where Lenmana lay down.  Lotórie lay besides her and wrapped her little arms around the mortal maiden.  Istawen smiled solemnly.  In spite of the fear that filled her little flower, she had the courage of heart to comfort others.

Warmed and comforted by the embrace of the child, Lenmana drifted on the path of dreams that held hidden meanings, potent medicine.

~~~

And in her dreams,  she made her way out into the garden, breathing in the intoxicating scents of the diverse foliage.  As the moon crept into the sky, Lenmana noticed that as some flowers were readying for sleep, others were stretching out their limbs, and unfolding their petals to welcome the night.  She could not help but think about the flowers that bloomed by the light of the moon in her desert… her desert.  The thought slowly unwrapped itself until it possessed her.  As hard as she tried she could not forget the lands that birthed her, the flowers that witnessed her unfolding, the sands that had comforted her journeys.

She let out a heavy sigh, if only she had refused to go to the banquet, and eaten in her chambers as she had accustomed.  If only she had allowed that corner of her mind that held fear to have guided her, but she had been lulled into believing her conscience was safe, removed from the pain of her stories.  It was not so, and she had ventured too far. 

*I do not have trickster’s strength, his ability to laugh in the face of death.  I heeded the place where laughter is born.  That is not mine to possess.*

She watched as the delicate flowers revealed their beauty to drink in the light of Isil.  She sat on the earth, and took some comfort from the life that breathed beneath her.  Her eyes set to the patient task of taking in the beauty unfolding before her.  These ways of looking upon the world were being diminished by the onslaught of defeat in her lands and her thoughts wandered to these lands and peoples she had left behind on that fateful winter day. 

Her heart ached, did they not commune with the natural world?  Did they only intend to possess and dominate the life about them, twist it until it met their needs?  Her people’s ways were at odds with these new settlers.  She wondered if ever there was to be a time of peace.  Yes there would be peace, but the costs would be high for the Hopi, for the Dine.  Would they ever be able to look upon the world, the world that had delivered them unto earth, and tell their stories, sing their songs?

A pale light caught her attention, and she saw him, shimmering under the light of the moon.  He was walking silently through the gardens, and he paused and looked up towards Isil, as if drinking in the soft light.

Legolas knew he was being watched but he paid no mind to the mortal eyes that trailed him.  Instead he gathered himself and sat on the grass, content to commune with the life that gathered around him.

She studied him, forgetting the flowers that bloomed around her, and found that he was as intoxicating as the scents that wafted through the air.  He looked intensely at some gossamer blossoms that willed themselves to greet their prince with as much gloriousness as they could muster.  She smiled, feeling some semblance of shared knowledge with him, but as she stared at him, it occurred to her that as she had patiently watched the flowers display themselves, he looked but with sight that lacked patience.  He was not forced into the act of patience by the passage of time. 

His vision drank in all that was around him, and he did so as if it were an instinct and not a learned trait.  In this moment, he reminded her of the aged trees she would fall asleep under in her desert mountains, slow, deliberate, precise.  There was no rush in his movements, no need to hurry the moment because life would claim him. 

A shudder ran through her as she began to *see* this man, no this Elf, as the strange being he and his leaf people were.  They were born of stars and trees.  Realization swept through her, the qochata, like the Hopi, like the Dine, they were all born of earth, children of the same creator, and to the earth they returned when their spirit tired.

He turned his eyes towards hers, catching the curious woman’s gaze.

“I sense you have a question of me,” he asked through a demure smile.

She brought her eyes away from him, and breathed in deeply, as if struggling to formulate a question that had been plaguing her.

“Where are all of your old?  Mithrandir is the only elder I have seen since my awakening here” Lenmana asked, raising her hand towards her eyes and then extending it out towards her surroundings.

It was part of her way of speaking, Legolas noted.  Her words were accompanied by hand gestures.  He quickly deduced she was signing sight.

“And what of your children, I have seen too few, and hear not the cry of babes,” the woman continued, finishing her thought by bringing her hand towards her mouth, signing the silence she felt around her.

Legolas eyes studied the hand she raised to silence her lips, *She knows not of the immortality of my kind?  This must have been lost in her dreams.*  He stood and approached her, causing her to stand up in anticipation of him.  He placed himself next to her, allowing her eyes to fully explore him.

Lenmana studied the strange being in front of her.  When she had first awakened, she believed that she had stumbled into a qochata settlement, but her time with the leaf people had shown her differently.  There were the ears that were so distinct and shared by all she had come across in this settlement, and there were the other qualities that were more ethereal, non-human.  The light that emanated from their bodies, as if they were small moons, and then there were the eyes.  If anything she had stumbled into a dream.

As she looked into this Elf’s eyes, she felt a chill rise through her.  They were so blue.  Never had she looked so closely into eyes that were so different from hers, and yet it was more than the startling blue of the eyes that caused her to tremble.  There was deepness, a gathering of force akin to the thunderstorms that rolled across desert lands.  In his eyes rolled those thunderstorms, waiting to let loose the waters and thunder held in the bellies of clouds.  His eyes were as untamed and unpredictable as those thunderstorms, at one moment glazed over with indifference, and suddenly fraught in fire, only to be dampened by an intense sorrow. 

She raised her hand to touch him, believing that this being would disappear, like the precious dew that clung to a delicate desert flower.  As the sun unfolds its mighty arms across the earth, the drops of water disappear, leaving the flower thirsting, needing more, so too was her need.

“Our people do not age, nor do we die,” Legolas finally whispered as he gently took hold of her approaching hand.

The chill that had enveloped Lenmana’s body exploded when his hand took hold of hers, causing her body to shudder.  She withdrew her hand from his grasp, afraid that if she let it linger, she would be singed by the fire of his energy. 

She mumbled, “He holds the fire that sleeps in clouds,” as she stepped away from Legolas.  Her eyes were wide with apprehension, and she crossed her arms against her body, attempting to soothe the shivers that coursed through her.

Legolas stood still, allowing only his body to rise with the rhythm of his breath.  He felt that if he moved, she would run away like a startled deer, and from deep within him he allowed the soothing of his feä to reach out and embrace her.

Lenmana felt a slow warmness reach its way across her body and encircle her in a soothing embrace.  She allowed for her breath to even, and tried to steady the shaking of her body.  As the enormity of his reply melted its way into her consciousness, the dreams she had wandered in and came to know in the grayness of sleep, snaked out and slithered their way into every corner of her consciousness. 

“Pamuya ,,” she exclaimed softly, realization dawning on her.  “I have come to know of your stories in here.” She placed her hand over her heart, “Mithrandir said that you were as eternal as the stars but I did not understand him, but now I think, I am coming closer to that.”

“Yes, Lenmana, we do not die, and are sent to the slumber of death only through great injury to our body.” Legolas, in turn, placed his hand on his chest, over his heart, “or the breaking of our heart.  Although immortal, many of my kind, many of those I have loved have been sent to the Halls of Mandos by the weapon of an enemy, for we have known too many wars.”

And in his eyes was unleashed a sorrow, so deep, so intense that the flute maiden had to look away.  She was not meant to look upon his eyes, she was not meant to look so closely upon the moon.

“Lenmana, I am not so far removed from you.  We are both children of Ilúvatar,” Legolas spoke gently, sensing the young maiden’s awe of him.  He placed his hand gently underneath her chin and guided her eyes to face his once more.

She replied weakly, “But different nonetheless.  Your kind who still walk these lands count the elenath as kin, do you not?  And my people, we were born from below the earth, in caves we first opened our eyes, to darkness.”

“Yes both these things are true,” he added, his voice sounding like a sad melody.  “But let us not linger on such things.  I am more interested in sharing stories, and listening to tales that I know not, but will gladly learn.”

He looked at the mortal woman, a huge sorrow burdening his eyes, “I want to forget this evening, forget the sorrows that have visited me this fateful night.”

He extended his hand out to her, and gently tapped her nose.  This elicited a smile from Lenmana, and Legolas quickly took hold of the change in her demeanor, inviting her to sit next to him in the night garden.  A single blue bird flew into the garden and whistled its soft tune, serenading them with its own stories.

The two spent a quiet evening, remembering the stories shared in dreams, spinning new tales, beneath the light of Isil, sharing in dreams a brief reprieve from the pains of the world.

***

“We need to take care of the dead,” Glorfindel gently reminded the three younger Elves.

Legolas looked up toward the elder Elf, still clutching his friend in his arms.  His eyes were red from the tears that flowed forth.  “There are too few of us to provide a proper burial,” Legolas answered, his voice hoarse from sorrow.

Glorfindel knelt down besides Legolas, placing a gentle hand on Legolas’ cheek, “No we cannot burry them, but we will also not let their bodies be further fouled by dark creatures.”

“We shall burn their remains then,” Legolas answered, his voice sounding like a ghost’s whisper.

“Yes,” Glorfindel replied, his hands gently extracting the fallen warrior’s body from Legolas’ hold.

Elladan and Elrohir stood and held out their hands towards Legolas, who took them and stood upon shaky legs.

The four then gathered the bodies in the center of the clearing.  Legolas had taken any belongings he found meaningful, betrothal bands, clasps, and other such items that he could return to families that would want something to hold on to and give closure to their grieving.  As the bodies were arranged with much care and reverence, Legolas put flame to the bodies of his friends.

The four watched as the flames rose into the blackened day, a bright light of challenge, of hope despite loss that reached the very tops of Dol Guldur.

Legolas looked at each fallen warrior and offered words that would find their way to the Halls in which they were now embraced with peace.

As the fire died down, Legolas broke the silence, “We need to leave.  Our presence here has long been announced.”

The four friends, whispered words of farewell and silently turned in Northern directions, taking with them the stories of those who had fallen.

*~*~*~*~

daw the minstrel : Our wood elves are magical aren’t they.  I think that’s what I love about the Elves in The Hobbit, their whimsical and magical ways, but yet they remain more earthy, more knowable to the reader than say the Elves of the Silmarillion.  In this I know I share sentiments with fanfic authors out there who adore Thranduil and his wood elves.

Nilmandra:  The captain dies not alone, but I am somewhat unsure if I did the right thing, killing off an OC I have created.  As I wrote this story I felt that I had drifted away from the wood elves as wood elves.  I guess that’s the problem with introducing OCs, so I tried to weave in more of their perceptions and relations with the woods around them.  I’m glad it worked!

mellon1: I am glad that you found it a pleasure to read.  The pace and feel of this chapter feels, but hopefully it remained an interesting read that continues to illicit smiles. : )

Hanya the Bloody Angel: Well bloody angels may not make most people laugh but for some reason I found it a bit odd and quirky!  Yes romance needs to be stirred up a little more doesn’t it, to allow the characters more room to make their choices in.   Mints for Legolas?  I think he really wants some ;-)

Coriandra: I think Lenmana is going to be more of an observer of sorts, but she might be more active in this dreamscape my Elves love to frequent.  I find that is a better way to get her involved.  Otherwise she would be too Mary-Sueish charging in on her horse and saving the day, and me thinks Thranduil would object!  Thanks for your words, they feed my muse.