Title:  THE GOLDEN BELL OF GREENLEAF

Author:  lwarren

Summary:  Legolas receives disheartening news about Arod’s injury.

Disclaimer:  The world of Middle-earth and its characters belong to JRR Tolkien.  I receive no profit from this story, only the joy I gained in the writing of it.

*All characters’ thoughts will appear in italics.

Chapter 2:  That Which Is Held Dear

     Being the King’s head stablemaster had its advantages and its drawbacks.  Ranalf, eldest son of Aldor, had held the position since his thirty-fifth birth day, and held it with distinction.  Many brought their horses to him, as his skills in treating injuries or solving training difficulties were a well-known fact.

     The tall, blue-eyed man with hair the color of sun-ripened wheat kept his stables well ordered and running smoothly.  Very seldom did he pause to consider the advantages granted to him, but this bright, summer day had served to underscore his blessings heavily. 

     His blessings!  They were many and varied.  When one of the Mearas was in residence, the care of the mighty horse would fall to him.  Well he remembered when Shadowfax had resided in his stables during the war.  Ranalf smiled, recalling the unrelenting beauty and intelligence of the white stallion, and the unforgettable presence of the wizard who rode him.

     When King Eomer required new stock for his stables or personal use, he had charge of the finding and procuring of that stock, as well as the training.  He thought fondly of the fine young black stallion currently being groomed for the King.  Storm had more than exceeded all expectations since his birth four years past.  Living in the stablemaster’s fine quarters near the stables, eating at the King’s table, providing counsel for Eomer, watching the young prince grow and enjoying the fond regard of the Queen – aye, those were all additional  advantages he enjoyed.

     His smile faded, and he sighed, stroking the finely molded head of the steel gray gelding he had been examining.  Here, though, was one of the drawbacks.  Sometimes his duty required him to complete distasteful tasks, or render painful judgments.  Whether it was allowing Wormtongue to take a mount and leave (the traitorous fool should have been made to walk when Theoden King had banished him), telling a soldier his mount could no longer bear him, or putting a horse down because of injury, there were times when he hated his position.

     This was one of those times.

     “Ranalf,” a soft, melodic voice roused him from his reverie, and he looked up into the deep blue-gray eyes of Prince Legolas.

     Ranalf had seen the Prince of Lasgalen many times, and spoken to him a few.  He was a prominent visitor at Edoras, and well loved by the King and his family. 

     Yet even now, after years of contact, the fairness of the golden elf and the light that shone from those extraordinary eyes never failed to render him speechless.  He cleared his throat.

   “My lord, please, come in,” he invited.

     Legolas entered the stall and came to stand beside Arod’s head, greeting the horse with soft strokes and softer elven words.  Arod snuffled and nipped at the elf’s braids, causing the fair being to laugh and pull his forelock. 

     Finally, the two quieted, and Ranalf found the Prince’s gaze fixed on him, a question now in the bright eyes.  He cleared his throat again, and crouched beside the horse’s foreleg, running his huge gentle hand over the still swollen area.

     “The muscle is not torn, my lord,” the stablemaster looked up at the tall elf standing at the gray horse’s head, holding him still.  “It would almost be better if it were.  Torn muscles seem to mend stronger, somehow.”

     The elf’s face became still and remote, the bright eyes focusing on the opposite wall.  One hand slowly stroked the horse’s forehead, straightening the forelock.  The man waited patiently, and finally, the elf looked at him.  Ranalf’s breath caught at the look on the Prince’s expressive face.  The light in his blue eyes seemed dimmed, the mobile face turned wooden.

     Legolas studied the man solemnly for a long moment, and asked quietly, “How long will it take to heal, Ranalf?”

     “Some months, my lord,” Ranalf replied, and suddenly looked uncomfortable.  Legolas continued to gaze at him patiently.

     Ranalf came to the realization that an immortal elf could probably outwait him, so he gave in and added, “Please do not mistake my meaning, Lord Legolas.  You have done an excellent job with him so far, and despite the fact he had to make a difficult walk to reach us here, you went slowly enough that the leg appears to have taken no further hurt.”

     Ranalf eyed the elf, and asked, “May I speak freely?”  Legolas nodded, his eyes steady on the man’s tense face.

     “The uppermost question in my mind is whether the injury will heal completely.  My lord, even if it does, I fear that leg will never return to full strength.”

     The elf nodded again, continuing the slow stroking.  Arod pushed his head into the elf’s chest in response.

     “And…?” the elf’s voice was soft.

     Ranalf took a deep breath, and plunged on.  “The main problem right now will be keeping him still long enough for the leg to properly recover.  I know he had a similar injury last year in Ithilien, and you were able to help him then.  But consider this, my lord.  Arod was bred and born of the Westfold herds.  Those horses are, of necessity, fiery and spirited animals.  They must be to survive, growing up as they do stalked by wargs and wolves and Eru knows what else.  Without your presence, I fear he will fight us and…

     “He will not be without my presence, Ranalf,” Legolas interrupted.  “I would never leave him hurt and alone.  Besides, he will cooperate with me.”  The gray shoved his nose into the elf’s chest again, and Legolas smoothed the dark silvery mane gently.

     Ranalf frowned slightly.  “If, then, it happens as you hope and the leg heals, it is still my belief you should not ride him again.”

     He watched Legolas close his eyes briefly.  “You might consider letting him return to the herds, my lord,” Ranalf suggested, feeling a deep sadness well at the tight look now on the Prince’s face.  

     “He is fairly old, almost twenty-five years…” Ranalf continued, hoping to somehow ease the Prince’s pain by pointing out the inevitability of the situation.

     “Twenty-two,” the elf whispered.  “Not so very old…”

     “But it is,” Ranalf returned gently, “for him.”

     He watched the Prince carefully control his reaction, and caught his breath in surprised understanding, realizing suddenly how very difficult the concept of age and time might be for this young one…and for all his centuries, Legolas was very young in his experiences with the ravages of time and age on those mortal, be they human, dwarf, or horse.

     He continued kindly,  “You need a strong horse to carry you, and if need be, Lord Gimli, should danger arise and you both travel together.  But consider, too, my lord, the possibility of keeping Arod with you.  If you did that, you might still ride him over short distances from time to time; however, I am afraid any long, strenuous riding is over.”

     Legolas nodded again.  “Hannon lle…thank you, Ranalf,” he replied, trying and failing to give the man a grateful smile.  “Leave us for a time, and I will let you know of my decision.”

     Ranalf bowed respectfully, and left the stall.  He looked back once on his way out, and almost choked on his dismay as he beheld the elven warrior, a son of the Immortal Eldar, with both arms wrapped around the horse’s neck, his face buried in Arod’s dark mane. 

~~~~~*~~~~~

     Eomer waited until the supper hour had passed and darkness well and truly come before walking down to the stables.  Ranalf had visited him earlier in the afternoon with the grim news of Arod’s injury and his assessment.

     Before he bowed and left the hall, the stable master had said, “My King, it is my belief that Lord Legolas is extremely troubled and saddened by this.  Truly, Lord, I did not realize he was so attached to the horse.”

     Eomer had nodded thoughtfully, remembering a bright day twelve years before when a golden haired elf had removed saddle and bridle from a restive, silver whirlwind and climbed on, immediately taming the whirlwind and making it his own.  He dismissed Ranalf with thanks, reminding him to come to supper later, and sat back to await Legolas’ appearance.

     Lothiriel joined him briefly before attending to her final supper preparations, his wife’s dark, elegant beauty a welcome distraction as he told her of Ranalf’s words.  She frowned, one graceful finger tapping against her lips as her quick mind considered Legolas’ problem.  Her clear gray-green eyes lifted finally, full of sadness and concern for their friend.

     “He will not come, husband,” she stated.

     Eomer started to speak, but she stopped him with a quick look.  “Trust me, dearest, he will not come.  It has been well over a year since last we saw him, and he has changed somehow.  So much troubles him, Eomer.  Can you not see it in his eyes?” 

     Eomer shrugged, not sure of her meaning.  Knowing her heritage as the daughter of Imrahil made her words even more troubling, as her perception of Legolas was usually much clearer than his own.

     “He suffers for Arod,” she explained, “but I see a greater pain deep in his eyes that he conceals.”  She reached up to brush a gold streaked lock of hair away from her husband’s face.  He caught her hand, and she leaned forward, placing a quick, light kiss on his cheek.

     She smiled, and said quietly, “Just watch him closely, my lord, and SEE.  Then, be there for him if he will allow it.”

     Eomer nodded, and she took her leave, a confused man left behind to consider her words and wonder what on Arda he could possibly do to help.

     Shadows lengthened as the day slipped away, and Lothiriel’s prediction proved correct, as usual…he did not come.  Her words, and Ranalf’s, began to take on added significance as the hours stretched into evening.

     Eomer answered the call to supper, and ate with his family.  Elfwine besieged his parents with typical nine-year-old persistence about Legolas, who was as a favorite uncle to him.   Lothiriel and he attempted to answer their son’s questions about Legolas’ absence, and ease his subsequent concerns.  Eomer kept one eye on the door, hoping to see a tall elf walk through it, but he watched to no avail. 

     At the end of supper, Lothiriel rose to take Elfwine to their apartments, giving her husband a rather pointed look as she left the room.  Eomer rose and, girding himself for what was to come, made the trek to the stables located behind the Great Hall. 

     He entered the building quietly.  The soft glow of burning lanterns lit his way down the long row of stalls, as he walked slowly, pausing from time to time to stroke a familiar nose.  He found Arod stabled in the largest stall at the end of the stables, and heard the fair voice of Legolas singing quietly as he approached.

     Eomer paused at the entrance, leaning on the doorpost, and watched the Prince tending to his horse.  The elf knelt beside Arod, applying some sort of poultice to the swollen leg and wrapping it snugly with long bandages.  The sweet smell of whatever herb he used in the poultice permeated the stall, mixing with the odors of horse and hay.

     The King breathed deeply and appreciatively of the fresh clean scent which reminded him of the plains of Rohan in spring, when the land was first covered with new grass and small yellow flowers called daystars.  Legolas sang softly as he worked, the sad, haunting melody causing even the stalwart Eomer’s eyes to sting. 

     “What brings the King of the Mark to the stables at this hour?” Legolas suddenly asked, without looking up from his chore.

     Eomer, lost in the song, started in surprise at the elf’s question.

     “An errant elf,” he replied lightly, walking into the stall to stand beside Arod’s head, rubbing the horse’s soft muzzle and offering him a carrot he had slipped into his pocket at supper.  He smiled as the horse delicately lipped the offering from his palm and crunched it in apparent pleasure.  Then, he looked down into the shuttered gray eyes of his friend.

     Legolas studied Eomer closely as he fed Arod the carrot.  His responsibilities have aged him over the years, yet he has grown into his crown with strength and grace.  No wonder his people and neighbors respect, as well as love him!  He has changed much from that rashly spoken infant who insulted Gimli and me at our first meeting.

     “Errant, hir nin?” he questioned. “In what way?”

     Eomer chuckled.  “ When an honored guest is conspicuously absent at supper…to the point, my friend, where the host’s son worries loudly and incessantly, and his wife feels compelled to insist that her husband find this guest…that, oh Prince, is errant!”

     “Ah, I see!”  Legolas smiled slightly in return.  “Then I humbly beg your pardon, my lord, and promise to make my peace with your lady wife and son as soon as I see them.”

     Arod shifted restlessly, and Eomer soothed him as Legolas completed the bandaging and straightened.  The two stood there, petting and stroking the horse for a time.

     Finally, Eomer asked, “What do you mean to do, Legolas?”

     Legolas shook his head, entwining his fingers in Arod’s thick mane.  Arod turned his head towards the elf, nickering anxiously, and Legolas calmed him with a gentle hand.

     Eomer watched this exchange, his disquiet growing.  “Legolas,” he ventured, “what if Ranalf is wrong?  Have you considered your course if the leg does not heal?”

     “There is no other course!”  Legolas turned on Eomer, a slow kindling heat in the bright eyes, his fair face stiff, affronted.  “You would do well, my friend, to never give voice to that thought around me.”  After one last hard look at Eomer, he turned again to Arod.  Picking up a stiff brush, he began grooming the gleaming coat. 

     Eomer took a deep breath.  “I understand he is your friend, Legolas,” he said, “Forgive me, but…”

     Legolas shook his head and turned back to Eomer.  “Friend?  Yes, he is my friend, but there is so much more, Eomer.”

     Arod rested his head on Legolas’ shoulder, blowing in his hair.  The hard look in the elf’s eyes softened, and he reached back to scratch the horse’s forehead.

     No, Arod.  I am well.  It is all right.

      He looked back at Eomer and continued.  “You must remember when you handed him over to me the day we met.  He came of his own free will…to me.  From that moment on, every time I mounted him, every time he carried me into danger…” The elf’s voice faltered somewhat at the memories.

     “Helm’s Deep, Eomer…remember?  The black night and the rain and the thunder in the air and on the plain…those thousands and thousands of stomping feet…and at the end, that final mad rush down the causeway through all those orcs.”  He paused, his eyes stark.  “Were it not for the arrival of Mithrandir and Erkenbrand and the Huorn, we would have perished.  Yet Arod never hesitated.”

     “The Gate of the Morannon,” he whispered.  “and certain death…”  His eyes flashed to Eomer’s.

     “And every day since then, my lord,” he said, “he has done anything I have asked of him willingly, and sometimes more.”

     Arod bumped Legolas’ shoulder, and the elf stroked his forehead, smiling sadly.  “We understand each other, my Arod and I.  With him, I am not an elf, or a Prince, or a legend, or the perfect son…I am Legolas, and I do not have to pretend to be anything or anyone else.”

     Eomer’s eyes widened with surprise at these words.  “Legolas…” he began helplessly, but his friend stopped him with a shake of his head and a fond smile.

     “It is all right, Eomer.  I do not expect you to understand.  No one can, really,” he said.  “And yet, knowing my dark and strange moods of late, he loves me in spite of all.  Friend?  A rather inadequate word, I think.”

     He leaned his face against Arod’s.  “It is my fault anyway,” he whispered, “so I will stay here with him, Eomer, until he heals, if you do not mind.  Then, I will release him to run free with your herds.  I understand that is an acceptable solution when a horse becomes incapable of carrying his rider.”

     Eomer sighed at the strain evident in the elf’s voice, and sought to reassure him however he could.

     “We will take good care of him, Legolas.  He has earned it, and we will be honored to have him back…and you, of course, must know you are welcome here, always, for as long as you like.  Spring is truly here, the weather pleasant and the land bursting with new life now.  You will appreciate Rohan, as you have seldom been here during this time of year.”  He paused, thinking.  “Will you send word to Aravir and your advisors at the colony?”

     Legolas turned his head to gaze out the nearby window.  The stars shone like brilliant shimmering bits of glass over the broad plains of Rohan, and Ithil was just beginning to rise above the distant mountains.  He nodded in reply, but said nothing more.

     “Will you come with me now?” Eomer asked.

     Legolas shook his head no.

     “Legolas?” Eomer spoke again, a plea in his voice.

     The elf whispered, “I will stay with Arod.  I do not want him to further injure himself should he become restless or upset.”

     “But…” Eomer protested.  Legolas looked at him silently, and Eomer had not the heart to argue with him further.

     “All right, my friend,” Eomer gave in.  “All shall be as you wish it.  Do you have everything you need?”

     Legolas nodded.  “Hannon lle.”  He returned his gaze to the stars outside.

     Eomer studied him for a moment, realizing the futility of further conversation.  He turned away and quietly left.

     In a darkened room of the royal apartments, the King of Rohan sat heavily on the side of his bed, feeling dazed and at a loss.  The bed shifted and his wife sat up behind him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

     “Eomer?”

     He shook his head.  “You were right, Lothiriel.  He will lose Arod, and in the meantime, I am afraid he will sink into despair, as well,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her.  “What can we do?”

     She wrapped both arms around Eomer’s shoulders and laid her cheek against his.  “I do not know,” she whispered.  “What of Aragorn?”

     Eomer shook his head.  “I will speak with Legolas about contacting him.  He may well wish to wait for a time.  I do not wish to anger him, Lothiriel.  If I go behind his back, he might withdraw even more.  I believe your suggestion earlier might be our best course of action right now.”

     At her questioning look, he replied, “We will watch closely and be there if he needs us.  If he seems to worsen, I will send word to Aragorn immediately.”

Translations:

hannon lle - thank you

hir nin - my lord