Cadenza

Set in the same universe as ‘Adagio’ and ‘Mayflies’. One hundred years into the fourth age.

Drama/Adventure/Angst   A/L/G OC Friendship fic. No slash. R for violence.

Beta by the wonderful Theresa Green – Read all her stories, they are very funny and very good.

Chapter Nine

A little way up the formidable cliff forming one side of the Deeping-coomb, a tangle of gnarled fir trees found rootholds on the site of an old rock fall. On a level with the tall tower of Helm, opposite, they were a good resting place for a stone-weary wood-elf in the autumn twilight, and provided a convenient lookout as she attempted to track her elusive quarry.

Minuial relaxed onto the fissured bark and let the tree gossip to her of the other elf who had graced its boughs this growing time. The tree sang of strength and endurance, sun and wind, of birds and the healing touch of the quick one the grove had begun to love.

“Believe me, I understand.” Minuial murmured, breathing in the sharp fragrance of the needles held gently in her hands.

The incurving sweep of the curtain wall filled her view, and she shuddered as she recalled tales of its defence in the Ring War. So many immortal lives lost to middle-earth; the pain and suffering resonated still. Her eyes filled, remembering Haldir, the golden, invincible warrior who had often fought against her at tourneys, the rivalry and pride of their different elven kingdoms upheld in a balance of wins and losses that would happen nevermore.

The tree whispered to her of endurance, and patience, of the stars and of one of the few who had survived, physically unscathed at least.

Minuial filled her lungs to sing, and was startled into silence when another elven voice lifted into song, coming from the wall in front of her.

She knew that voice, and sprang to her feet on the branch, leaning to see.

Legolas was standing, bright like a flame, on one of the crenulations near the tower end of the wall, singing the introduction to the lament for the fallen, his clear voice alone and lovely and, to her ears, aching with isolation. Without conscious thought she breathed in and sang, her voice adding depth to the sound. From the gloom in front of the wall other elven voices joined in, Thranduil’s guard, waiting by the horses for their Lord to return to the woods nearby. The sound filled the evening until it seemed the very granite of the citadel would harmonise.

**

“Your elves are disturbing the peace again, my Lord.” Gliver’s wife paused by the broken window of Aglarond’s hall and listened to the singing for longer than she was comfortable with. “Bah, Elves,” she continued grumpily, “They are worse than mice in the pantry. If you see one you’ve got twenty and the only way you know is by their noise in the quick of the night.”

She bustled out of the hall leaving Gliver and Gimli to their lamp lit paperwork. The two dwarves shared a smile and Gimli rose and went to the window to hear better. He heard the sorrow in the song and picked out enough words to follow its drift. He thought of his own battle plans, drawn up on the table behind, and for a space considered the random, violent, chances of war, and his determination to repay past sorrows in kind. For a moment he wished for a better way, but knew not how else he could secure safety for his people. The campaign plans were becoming final.

**

Elven superiority was a given in King Thranduil’s universe, but Celeborn appeared correct in his oft-voiced assertion that this particular crop of men was a very fine vintage.

The King of Rohan, Elfwine; now there was a man who understood his ancient duties to elf-kind whilst providing a civilised table, the wine tonight had been especially fine. Arwen’s husband had managed an appearance and conducted himself, as ever, as if he were Thranduil’s equal, but there was no novelty in that, at least the Evenstar had lost the fading look she had carried at first when he had met her in Rivendell, and the dwarves, curse their busy little minds, had only been represented by their magnificent goblets and artful stonework. All in all, the King of Eryn Lasgalen had spent a pleasant evening.

The Elf King stepped out onto the grass of the Coomb, and the singing that had been filling the air trailed off respectfully.

Thranduil tilted his head to catch the last notes of his son’s voice. It was too long since the kin had heard Legolas’ part of the song.

Thranduil looked up and called, “Legolas, attend us.”

Not waiting for acknowledgment, or reply, the King walked over to his guards, mounted and rode off to the forest, secure in his power.

Minuial winced at the peremptory summons and looked anxiously to Legolas, who remained standing on the wall. His chin dropped and she saw him clench his fists. She closed the half dozen steps she had left between them, and, when he turned and jumped lightly down to the walkway, placed a hand on his slumped shoulder.

“He never changes, Legolas.”

He turned his head to look at her, the rising moon washing his pale complexion into translucency, deepening the furrow between his brows. He gazed at her for a moment out of eyes that saw other visions on this wall, then shook himself slightly, like Ascallon after a hard ride, and let his expression relax into a rueful smile.

“It is his greatest strength and largest failure.” Legolas reached up and covered her hand with his, briefly, before turning to the stairs that led to the stables. He paused on the top step and looked back at her.

“Come with me, Minuial. We can talk later.”

“Coward,” she teased, “You just don’t want to be alone with either of us.”

Legolas looked away, towards the windows of Aglarond shining like candles up the Coomb. Gimli would understand his duty to his father, and excuse him this one evening.

“Probably, Minuial. But I have other duties that call, so best I start with my royal father.”

Minuial pushed him lightly on the back and then chased him down the stairs as he pretended to stumble as a result of her shove.

Arwen watched them as they ran laughing to the stables for their mounts, then raced neck to neck out into the night. She leaned on the stone balcony rail and looked to the north, but could see no sign of the elvish encampment. She squashed the pang of homesickness that wanted heart space.

“Arwen?”

Aragorn’s call from inside summoned her back to her life and love. He wanted to discuss the coming campaign with her, and still she would chose nowhere else to be but by his side.

**

 King Thranduil enjoyed beauty, and liked his surroundings to be ordered to his satisfaction, and for people and objects to array themselves harmoniously. He ordered his vast woodland realm thusly, and dealt with all that may disrupt his peace with little mercy, and great dispatch, for centuries. Now, as he ventured from his well ordered realm into the vagaries of the rest of Middle-earth, he admired the disordered calm of the world’s wooded places, the sweeping movement of her grasslands, the vast majesty of the mountains. He did not approve of the men who infested her, but had no recourse for amending that sorrow.

The time of the Elves was past, so saith Celeborn, so sang the song of Arda. Thranduil smiled grimly into his wine. His own stubborn attachment to his woodland realm was un-swayed, and he had an immortal lifetime to thumb his nose at the proper way of doing things. There would be elves in the Greenwood for as long as he could persuade any to stay under his protection and if they chose to go he would stay alone. He was not the fading kind.

That thought prompted him to seek his son in the crowd of merry elves in front of him. The patterns of dancing forms made graceful kaleidoscopes of movement in front of him, the long table full of fruit and wine the island about which they circled. Legolas handed his partner to another at the end of the line, and then turned his bright gaze to meet his father’s, feeling his regard despite their distance.

How could his child be so different from his parent? If he were not the image of his mother Thranduil would think him a changeling.

Thranduil sighed and motioned his son to come to his side. He doubted his arguments would fall on any more fertile soil than his previous attempts at protecting his son from his own nature.

The King had rejoiced at Legolas’ expressed desire to fund a colony in Ithilien, and carefully encouraged his friendship with his good right arm, Minuial, but, as he watched the archer thread his self-contained way through the pattern of dancers in front of him, he realised that he had been fooling himself. Legolas would not last another yen. He was as attenuated as thistledown, clinging to Middle-earth with only his inherited mulishness, like a last autumn leaf on a bare branch or a candle lit from both ends, his light was blinding, but brief.

Thranduil’s sudden pang of grief drew his eyebrows together and presented a grim visage to Legolas, who bowed respectfully in front of him.

Thranduil waved him up and scowled at him, Legolas looked serenely back.

“My son, why do you persist in this foolishness? The mortals you grace with your life are of less value than your smallest finger. Why are you here, and not governing your realm?”

“Have you heard ill tidings from  Ithilien, Father?” Legolas’ gaze sharpened and his voice was tinged with a degree of anxiety that gladdened his father’s heart. At least the lad was conscious of his duty.

Thranduil waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, nay Legolas, all I hear is well, but most of that is from your own hand so may not be entirely unbiased, hmm?”

 The King smiled appraisingly up at his son, who narrowed his eyes at him, then turned and snagged a cup from a passing tray and sat on the wooden step at the King’s feet. Legolas took a swallow, shared an appreciative glance with his father, then looked thoughtfully into the remains as if to scry a future there.

“And are you enjoying your grand tour, Father. Surely your advisors were not entirely happy with your decision to travel? The land is not safe, you know.” Legolas flipped his short hair in emphasis.

Thranduil snorted a laugh and leaned down to speak conspiratorially. “ They were most discomforted, thinking your wildness had infected me.” The King reached for his own goblet, “ Their thoughts have grown inflexible like ancient  branches on gnarled trees, it was time for a storm to clear the dead wood.” The King sat back, drinking in small sips. “Life has become safe again for a small space in my Greenwood, and I find myself unused to peace.”

Legolas slanted a glance up at him, startled.” Would you aid us in this conflict, then? It is hardly your fight.”

Thranduil laughed openly at that suggestion. “Spend Elven lives for a mortal spat? Hardly, my son. But yonder mortal upstart,” Thranduil waved towards Helm’s Deep, “would like me to escort his noble wife back to his stone folly, and since it is on the way to your realm I graciously accepted his charge.”

Legolas decided to let most of the bluster pass, it was a good plan and would clear most of the non-combatants from the Hornburg leaving the army free to deal to Osbaston Keep. Trust Aragorn to use any resource wisely.

“I will join you in Ithilien shortly then, Father.”

Thranduil looked at his son again, at the faint mottling of skin down the left side of his neck, the legacy of mortal perfidy, and felt unaccustomed frustration at his inability to influence his child.

“I can understand you would like vengeance, my son. But they are only dwarves and men, after all. Why not come with me instead, leave them to their petty squabbles.”

Legolas looked at his father over a gulf deeper than the chasm under the bridge of Khazad-Dum. His eyes must have displayed the depths of his distress because his father looked away first, discomforted. He waved a dismissive hand at his son.

“Hie thee to the revels then, Legolas.” Thranduil arranged his features into his customary regal mask and Legolas bowed in profound relief that this interview was over. “I will be waiting in Ithilien when you have finished satisfying your honour with your allies.”

Legolas vanished into the crowd of courtiers and soldiers. Thranduil saw Minuial take a step or two after him, then turn to cast an appraising glance back at her King.

Thranduil tried to make sure his grief did not show on his face but may not have been entirely successful as his March Warden shook her head at the departing back, and moved up beside her liege instead.

The King decided to forestall any words of compassion or pity from his aide.

 “We hunt on the morrow. You will lead the spears.”

Minuial bowed her head but did not comment.

The King found himself consoled, however, by her steadfast presence at  his side during the rest of the evening.

TBC

Reviews are gratefully welcomed, treasured and replied to.

Rose Sared