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Sweet Woodbine  by Bodkin

Slow but Sure

Taryatur scowled.

His wife sighed internally, but maintained her calmly stubborn look.  ‘It is only courteous,’ she said.  ‘Camentur works with him, my husband.  It is part of his responsibility as one of Lord Finrod’s aides.  It is only right that he should invite the Silvan prince to dine with us.’

‘Could you have not arranged this while Elerrina was visiting your grandparents?’ he asked crossly.  ‘She only returned to us a month ago – we can hardly send her away again so quickly.’

‘Why should there be any need to send her anywhere?’ Linevendë snapped.  ‘I am talking an evening’s entertainment – not an invitation to bond with my daughter!’  She pressed her lips together, making an effort to calm herself so that she could coax her husband into being more co-operative.  ‘Nisimalotë can look after Elerrina and ensure that she and Lord Legolas do not spend any time alone – and Camentur can take him off to the library after they have eaten.’

He could not deny – to himself, at least – that this blond elf of Endórë was decidedly less irritating that the aggravating lordling who lived in his memory.  And he had to admit that the High King and his advisors seemed to take him as an equal and accept his presence – but then, he was not making eyes at their daughters.  He rolled his glass between his fingers, admiring the barley sugar twist within the stem.  He was sure that this princeling was kin to the one he had known.  He had refused to ask – better, he was aware, not to know – but he could see it in his face.  Grandson, perhaps, or great-grandson.

Part of him felt ashamed of his conduct on the muddy shores of the reshaped land.  He had not really behaved as was fitting for a member of the Valar’s Host under the command of his king – but he still only had to think of that sanctimonious, short-tempered, self-opinionated Sinda for his temper to rise … he drew a deep breath and released it slowly.  It was a long time ago.  He should be over this by now.  Yet were the effects of war ever really over?  Even now it only took the growling of thunder and sheets of lightning ripping apart the sky and he was back in the nightmare before Angband.  His family thought he walked in the rain because he enjoyed the drama of the storm – if they only knew!

He had fallen into Linevendë’s arms when the ships had come to shore: held her as if she was the only certainty in a life that had changed beyond recognition.  They had married and – he had tried to appear as if he was the same elf who had embarked on their heroic journey.  He had always felt guilty for inflicting on her someone who was not the husband she had chosen to love – but what could he do?  And, gradually, the wounds had healed over and life had become routine.  They had not had children, though: not for a long time.

And then, when a new age had begun, they had decided the time was right – and first Camentur had brought them joy and then, later, they had brought Elerrina into the world. In bringing them to adulthood, he had been able to release much of the pain of those now-distant memories – and discover, in caring for his children, the delight of being an atar.  And he did not now intend to surrender his precious and protected daughter to the dubious care of an elf of that marred world.

He looked at his wife, patiently waiting for his reply.  She would not give in, he knew, admiring the copper of her hair and her determined manner.  She was, for all he would not say so out loud, his strength – their bond was something he would never regret for a moment – and once she had made up her mind, he had not a chance of moving her.  Knowing when to give in had proved one of the most useful of the skills he had learned over their yeni together – and this was clearly one of those moments.

‘Very well – invite him,’ he surrendered.  ‘Just be sure that Elerrina is not left alone with him.’

Linevendë rose and put her hands on his shoulders, leaning down to rest her cheek on his gleaming dark hair.  ‘You worry too much,’ she told him.  ‘There are some things you cannot control – and your grown children are among them.’  She dropped a kiss on his temple.  ‘Do not put ideas in their heads,’ she recommended.  ‘They doubtless have enough of their own.’

***

Legolas slowed his horse and leaned his head back to admire the tracery of fresh leaves against the blue of the sky.

His companion glanced at him with amusement. 

‘I know.’  Legolas smiled wryly.  ‘It is only an evening – and being diplomatic is the reason I am here.  It is simply…’

‘If you did not look at his daughter, the elf might find you less irritating.’

‘He loathed me before he ever saw me.’  Legolas shrugged.  ‘I have clearly spent far too much time in congenial company performing congenial tasks.  I have grown unaccustomed to being looked at as if I am being considered as an addition to the menu.’  His smile widened.  ‘Not since an orc last thought he had me trapped.’

‘My wife’s adar used to look at me in the same way,’ Litheredh observed.  ‘He still does, on occasion.’

‘It is not the same.’  Legolas raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course not, my lord.’

‘I am constantly surprised that Camentur is Taryatur’s son.’  Legolas ran a hand over his braids.  ‘He is so interested in learning things that are outside his experience – and his atar so clearly is – not.’

Litheredh looked sideways at his lord.  In the years since he had been attacked by the young Noldor, he had grown into the role of a leader of his small group of green elves and seemed to spend ever longer away from his trees in consultation with Orodreth’s representatives – but he could not say he enjoyed it.  He accompanied Legolas to the councils of the great, listened to their words, spoke little – and learned.  It was surprising, he thought, what the powerful would say in the hearing of those they considered insignificant.  It was almost as if they were so used to being surrounded by those with no voice that they no longer noticed them at all.  Better, though, to keep quiet – his king’s son would doubtless learn soon enough what he did not already know, and he had no desire to be the one to carry tales of the distant past.

The house beyond the trees was long and low – and surprisingly harmonious with the land around it.  Legolas had expected pretension, he realised.  Taryatur seemed abrasive and arrogant and the sort of elf to be seeking a position among the powerful, but this building seemed to suggest someone far more at ease with himself.  His wife, perhaps, Legolas decided, reluctant to abandon his view of the older elf.  The gardens were filled with flowers – tall delphiniums and lupins, fragrant pinks and bright marigolds among others he could not name at this distance, while vines of honeysuckle and jasmine twisted over the walls to nod their flowers against the open windows.  It appeared deeply peaceful and about as remote as it was possible to be within a day’s journey of Tirion.

An elleth in a gown of soft blue was gathering flowers.  Legolas ruthlessly suppressed the disappointment at seeing her crown of dark hair.  He was not interested in a maiden of the Noldor.  His adar would be apoplectic if he arrived in the Blessed Realm to find his son bonded to a daughter of that kindred!  Not even a defence of diplomacy would work – he might accept a Vanya into the family, he would – reluctantly – acknowledge kinship with the Teleri, but a Noldo would be taking things too far.

The stable yard was neatly cobbled and clean – but clearly not regularly frequented by too many horses.   Camentur waited for them to dismount and opened the doors to two loose boxes.  Buckets of fresh water and nets of sweet-smelling hay had been prepared, but there were no other heads gazing out over the half-doors.  Beyond the row of stables a series of workshops showed more sign of being in regular use, but even there the scent of fire was dying down and the song of the birds clear enough to indicate that the buildings were empty.

‘My atar enjoys working glass,’ Camentur said, noting Legolas’s interest in the workshops.

‘I though the Noldor preferred working in metal – or jewels,’ the fair-haired elf commented.

‘A common misconception.’

Legolas shot a glance at him.  Again there was an undertone he did not understand.

‘Although my mother prefers to weave – and, as you know, I have chosen to engage in oiling the wheels of bureaucracy.   Elerrina is the one to have inherited Atar’s talent for making things of beauty.’

Legolas felt his eyebrows arch.  ‘Your sister makes glass?’

‘You will have seen her work.’  Camentur smiled.  ‘Many of those at court wear it – although I do not know if they are aware whose hands create their adornments.’  There was a finality to his tone that suggested he had no indication of expanding on his words.  He turned to Litheredh.  ‘You are most welcome to our home,’ he said formally.

The Wood Elf bowed.  ‘You do me honour,’ he replied.

‘Shall we join my parents?’ Camentur suggested.  ‘My wife has produced some of my favourites to delight our palates – and it would be wiser not to be late.’

***

Legolas fixed his eyes on the gleaming glass in his hands.  Was it, he wondered, the work of his reluctant host?  Or perhaps of his daughter?  He risked a quick glance at the gleaming russet hair, but Elerrina was – as usual – looking anywhere but at him.

‘You know Tol Eressëa, of course,’ Taryatur said politely, in response to his wife’s toe against his ankle.  ‘Have you travelled extensively on the mainland?’

‘Tirion, of course,’ Legolas managed a diplomatic look of admiration.  ‘Alqualondë – and Valmar.  And I am attempting to journey further afield to reach those regions where many of my adar’s people have settled, but, by their very nature, they are scattered.  I am hoping to have the chance to travel more for pleasure in coming years.’  He smiled and inclined his head.  ‘The Blessed Realm is indeed blessed in its beauty.’

Camentur looked from one to the other.  ‘You should visit Lord Aulë’s Halls,’ he said.  ‘He would welcome a Dwarf-friend to his Great Court, I am sure.’

There was a sudden unexpected tension in the air, Litheredh noticed, as if Camentur had said something that made all those in the know uncomfortable.  He turned over the words, contemplating how they might fit in with what he had learned.  How could suggesting a visit to one of the Powers be something that would turn a stiff atmosphere so frosty? 

‘I am sure Lord Legolas would be more at home visiting Lord Oromë’s woods,’ Linevendë said calmly.  ‘I am told they are a wondrous sight – forest as it was when the Trees lit the lands, ancient and pure.’  She smiled.  ‘There are those who say his woods are dangerous, for many who visit them do not return – but I suspect that is because they wish to stay.’

Legolas laughed lightly.  ‘I cannot afford to become ensnared by the beauty of a Vala’s home, my lady.  My adar would be most displeased if he were to arrive to find me idle.’

Her eyes twinkled.  ‘Whatever makes you think that those who dwell in the home of a Vala are idle, my lord?’  She glanced involuntarily at her daughter, before flicking her eyes back to hold his.  ‘The courts of the Powers are where one goes to learn – and that learning is demanding!’

‘Your son tells me that you create objects of glass.’ Legolas turned to Taryatur, his smile determinedly pleasant.  ‘Is it you who are responsible for these beautiful pieces?’ He indicated the frosted glasses and bowls of bright ruby and gleaming blue that adorned the table.

Taryatur relaxed a little as Legolas kept his attention averted from Elerrina.  ‘I am,’ he conceded.  ‘I have only a small workshop here – for the times when I cannot refrain from experimenting at my craft – but most of my work is carried out at our home near my wife’s kin.’  He met Legolas’s eyes squarely, his face impassive.  ‘It is easier to move ourselves than it is to shift the materials needed to make good glass.’

There it was again.  Legolas smiled, but could not help wondering what was behind those occasional moments of withdrawal.  He was clearly missing something – something that he was supposed to know.   He flicked a glance at Litheredh, who was talking politely with Camentur’s wife about her garden, apparently oblivious to the undertones.  ‘So I would imagine,’ he agreed.  ‘We had forges near my adar’s Stronghold for a limited amount of metal-working – but it was always easier to establish workshops near a ready supply of raw materials.  Of course, we had the river nearby, which helped.  Water transport is much easier and more cost effective than trying to carry heavy goods overland.’

By the time they had managed to exhaust the merits of water as a method of transport, they were nibbling the dried fruit and nuts that customarily ended a meal.  Taryatur rose to fetch a decanter of amber cut-glass.  He poured a small amount of clear liquid in the glasses in front of Legolas, Litheredh and Camentur, while Elerrina and Nisimalotë cleared the table and disappeared in Linevendë’s wake.

Taryatur sat back, clearly more at ease without them in the room.  ‘My son tells me that your business at court seems to be flourishing.  The favour of the High King’s daughter cannot fail to be a recommendation – and I understand you have some connection with the Telerin King.’

‘Remote.’ Legolas waved his hand airily as he brought the glass up to scent the contents.  Miruvor-like, he thought.  Heady with the fragrance of flowers and honey-sweet, it clearly packed considerable power.  A cautious sip reinforced his suspicions – and Litheredh’s easy confidence with the liqueur revealed something he had not known about his aide. 

‘But acknowledged.’  Taryatur looked at his glass for a moment; then brought his eyes up to focus on the Wood Elf’s fair face.  ‘It would be dishonest not to acknowledge kinship,’ he said, ‘for whatever reasons.’

Camentur twitched and produced an uncomfortable laugh.  ‘We all have relatives we would prefer to keep at a distance,’ he said.  ‘They are something we can do nothing about – they are gifted us by birth, not choice.’  He raised his chin and made a show of settling himself comfortably.  ‘Take Nisimalotë’s brother-in-law,’ he smiled cautiously.  ‘Please – take him!  He tries my patience terribly.’

Legolas laughed.  He had no idea what was going on here – but he was going to find out.  It would appear that there was something beneath the surface that everybody imagined he knew – and he had better discover what it was before he made a fool of himself.

***

Lady Galadriel looked at him meditatively until he was almost ready to squirm like an elfling – but he remembered he was Thranduil’s son, a prince of his realm, one of the Nine Walkers and formerly Lord of Ithilien.  Although, he thought ruefully, if he was reduced to repeating his claims to fame and authority, the Lady’s inspection was clearly having its intended effect.

‘I suppose,’ she said finally, ‘that you could find many people here who would tell you what you want to know – so my refusal would do little to keep the matter quiet.  Not that there is any reason to keep it from you.  It is no more Taryatur or Linevendë’s fault than it is mine and there is even less reason why anyone should look at them askance.  It is not something that can be described as anybody’s fault.’  She hesitated, then shrugged.  ‘Linevendë is descended from Mahtan the Smith,’ she told him.  ‘Her grandmother is Mahtan’s younger daughter.’

Legolas maintained his expression of polite interest.

Despite her concern, Galadriel could not conceal a flash of amusement.  ‘You undoubtedly learned the name at some stage during your education,’ she remarked.

‘Possibly.’  The cautious reply suggested to her that he may well not have done – or that, if it had been spoken, he had not been paying attention at the time.

‘Mahtan learned his craft at Lord Aulë’s forges,’ she lectured him.  ‘He is a master among masters – so highly skilled that none has ever matched him.  Save only one – the elf who wed his first-born daughter.’

A frown marred Legolas’s face, but he chose to remain silent.

Galadriel sighed.  ‘His daughter Nerdanel,’ she said, ‘married Fëanor, son of Finwë and half-brother of my own atar.  And,’ she added, just in case the quality of education in the shadows of Mirkwood was not up to standard and had chosen to avoid the details of the Kinslayers’ genealogy, ‘mother of his seven sons.’

‘Which makes Linevendë,’ Legolas said slowly, ‘first cousin to the Fëanorionnath.’  He paused.  ‘Like you.’

Just for a moment, Galadriel considered pointing out again that Finarfin and Fëanor had only been half-brothers, but then decided against it.  ‘Yes,’ she said.  ‘She is first cousin once removed.’

‘You seem to live with the connection quite happily – why do Taryatur and Linevendë seem to find it such an embarrassment?’

The Lady met his eyes.  ‘They have lived here over three ages – with the echoes of Alqualondë echoing in their ears.  Has it never occurred to you to wonder how it must have been here in that darkness that followed the death of the Trees, when the host of the Noldor had followed Fëanor to their doom?  How they endured, those who were left behind?’  She took Legolas’s arm.  ‘Walk with me,’ she requested, guiding him along a path over which tall trees reached to offer a dappled shade to those below.  ‘The pace of life here is slow.  The passage of yeni does not erode the bitterness of memory.  East of the sea…’ she paused, ‘there was a greater chance of earning your own reputation.’

She strolled in silence along the walk, keeping his pace to hers while she let him think over her words.

‘And then,’ she observed.  ‘Taryatur is not High King.  Those who would overlook my atar’s closer connection with the Kinslayers would not afford the same grace to Nerdanel’s kin.’  She glanced quickly at him.  ‘But Taryatur did not care,’ she informed him.  ‘He loved Linevendë – and would not allow his family’s doubts to matter to him.  When he returned with the Valar’s Host, he embraced her as his wife.’

‘Yet there are still those who would hold her … her distant cousins’ acts against Elerrina?’ Legolas was indignant.  ‘And Camentur?’ he added swiftly. 

‘What would be Thranduil’s reaction if he arrived to find you had wed the cousin of those who slew Dior and brought Doriath to ruin?’  Galadriel stopped and waited until Legolas had turned to her. ‘I think I can tell you from experience that it would be less than positive.  It is not only the elves of Middle-earth who would say that Elerrina bore no guilt at all – but who would still prefer not to have her marry into their family.  She is a beautiful and talented elleth – but do not pursue your interest in her, Thranduilion, unless you are very sure.  I will not have you hurt her.’

Legolas smiled.  ‘Her adar, on the other hand, would be only too happy to hurt me.’

‘Ah well.’  Galadriel resumed her stroll.  ‘That is different.  You cannot expect him to welcome your attentions.’  She laughed softly.  ‘Ask Celebrían how my lord reacted to Elrond’s first show of interest in her.  For all he respected Elrond as a wise elf and a warrior and cared for him as Elu’s descendant, he was not at all sure he wanted to have him as a son.’  She shook her head.  ‘It took all Celebrían’s wiles to overcome their caution and coax Elrond into courting her anyway.’ She shot an amused glance at Legolas.  ‘You might want to remember that, Prince of the Greenwood.  In this matter, the decisions are not all in your hands.’

***

The wood was quiet.  Squirrels sought out their stores busily and the narrow trails suggested that there were deer in plenty concealed in the brush.  Birds flew back and forth in search of insects to feed their young, indifferent to the presence of elves relaxing on the mossy bank beneath them.

‘The wood has recovered well,’ Legolas observed.

‘Once the problem was removed,’ Litheredh agreed.  ‘We have been left alone here since then – no others wished to risk the High King’s fury.’  He looked around him.  ‘Even Lord Orodreth does not hunt here any more.  I think he has decided to cede the forest to us – in effect, if not in name.’

‘It sounds like him.’  Somehow, though Orodreth was doubtless a worthy lord, he lacked Finrod’s charm, Legolas thought.  It would be like him to do something positive in a way that obtained him neither credit nor thanks.  ‘Although I doubt the Noldor would be willing to accept a formal change of title.’

Litheredh sighed.  ‘What we need is somewhere that belongs to us,’ he said.

‘We are too scattered to wield the power our numbers merit.  Too … too inclined to disappear from sight, as well, when we are challenged.  It may be wise,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but it is hardly a way to impress others.’

‘Perhaps we will learn to be thankful that Elrond Eärendilion sent you on his quest,’ Litheredh mused.  ‘It has given you a … a presence among the powerful.’

‘I doubt that was his intention.’

‘Nevertheless…’

Legolas sat forward and ran his fingers through his hair before resting his forearms on his knees.  ‘It is hard to know where to start,’ he admitted.  ‘I cannot credit that three ages of Wood Elves have retired to the trees and waited for one as … as ordinary as me to put their case for self-determination.  It is not as if I am the first lord of our people to reach these lands!’

‘I cannot think of any other who has arrived without a sojourn in Námo’s Halls.’  Litheredh grinned wryly.  ‘Most of the leaders of the Wood Elves, my lord, fight tooth and nail not to be dragged from their native forests – and those few who have returned to life in the Blessed Realm are generally at peace with the world as it is.’

The immensity of the task before him weighed down upon his shoulders.  ‘I cannot do this,’ Legolas stated.

‘You cannot do it alone, my lord.  But you are not alone.  And like all journeys – it starts with a single step.  We have this wood – we have the goodwill of the Noldor High King and his kin.’  Litheredh grinned.  ‘And you can attend all their receptions, dressed in your finest, and make sure that you are seen and acknowledged as your adar’s representative.  Make friends – you are good at that.  Let the daughters of the Noldor make eyes at you – beat their brothers at the butts.  Drive a wedge into a world that sees us not – a wedge that the king can use when he comes.’

‘You make it sound so pleasant.’ Legolas did not conceal his sarcasm.  ‘And I do not wish to flirt – I can think of few more dangerous habits.’

‘There is safety in numbers, my lord.  Dance with them all, let them drag you on picnics, offer your smiles generously – until they give up on you.’    

Legolas snorted.  ‘I will do my duty as I see it, Litheredh – to my adar and our people, since I can no longer serve the Wood of my birth – but that does not include serving myself on a plate to tease the appetites of a gathering of hungry maidens.’

‘Probably just as well.’  Litheredh grinned.  ‘It would do our cause no good to have a host of angry parents chase you out of Tirion.  And you catch more flies with honey, anyway.’

***

Legolas loosed his arrow – and was unsurprised when it struck the gold.  Archery here was more a game than a matter of survival, and it made a difference.

‘You are beyond good,’ Camentur approved.

‘There are many as skilled.’  Legolas averted his eyes as the Noldo prepared to send his own arrow towards the target.  It was remarkably difficult not to intervene and correct Camentur’s stance, he found, but taking on the role of archery master was hardly what he was here to do.

They had gathered an audience.  Legolas registered them swiftly.  A scattering of youths, eager to emulate the skill.  A few older elves, some of whom held their bows with the confidence that came from much practice.  But they were there, too.  Neither mature nor young, finely-clad, they were the sort of ellyn whose only purpose, as far as he could see, was to provide a market for the multiplicity of expensive goods produced for sale here in Finarfin’s centre of power.

‘Horse dung!’ Camentur exclaimed cheerfully, as his arrow dipped to stick askew in the edge of the target.  ‘I will have to ask you to give me some pointers, my friend.  I clearly did not spend enough time mastering such skills when I was young.’

‘I doubt your atar put weapons’ training high on the list of skills he wished his son to acquire.’

‘True.’ Camentur grinned.  ‘But it is remarkable what skills prove useful when Lord Finrod decides your duty is to act as liaison with a Wood Elf prince.’

‘Tell me,’ Legolas murmured, removing a second arrow from the collection in front of him and inspecting it.  ‘Who are the popinjays who seem determined to sneer at our activities wherever we go?’

Camentur glanced behind him, his face sobering as he turned back to Legolas.  ‘No-one important,’ he said, ‘whatever they might think.’

Eyeing down his arrow, Legolas released it to fly to the heart of the target.  ‘But Lord Finrod will doubtless find their names on a list shortly?’

Camentur’s eyes opened innocently.  ‘Why would you think that, my lord?’  He frowned at the target.  ‘There seems little point in continuing this competition, I fear.  I will concede defeat – before I am made to look a complete incompetent.’

‘You could rapidly become more accurate.’  Legolas shot him a glance.  ‘If you wanted to, that is.’

‘But I promised Nisimalotë that I would invite you to join us for lunch.’ Camentur shook his head.  ‘She would be displeased if we were to be late.’

Legolas sighed.  To his mind, Camentur worked far too hard to please.  He was frequently torn between Finrod’s instructions, his atar’s prejudices and his wife’s ambitions.  And then, combined with all that, he seemed to be an unconscious part of the conspiracy that kept Legolas from ever getting more than a glimpse of his sister.  ‘That would be delightful,’ he said politely. 

***

‘Oh, Nisimalotë,’ Elerrina sighed.  ‘I hope he does not come.’

‘You do not have to lunch with us,’ her sister-in-law suggested.  ‘You must be tired.’

‘A little.’  Elerrina unbraided her hair and brushed it rapidly.  ‘But I am also hungry – and I do not wish to be driven into hiding because of an ellon.’

‘If you did not like him, it would not matter,’ Nisimalotë said shrewdly. 

Elerrina stopped and then drew the brush through her hair rather more slowly.  ‘I do not like him,’ she said defiantly.  ‘It would not be appropriate.’

‘You like him.’  Nisimalotë sat on her bed.  ‘You are doing your best to keep as far away from him as you can – partly because of your atar, but mostly because you do not expect him to like you.’

‘I am not going to talk about it.’  Elerrina began to redress her hair.  ‘It is quite impossible – for a whole variety of reasons – and I am not going to be so foolish as to pretend otherwise.’

Her sister-in-law pressed her lips together and brushed her hand back and forwards over the wooden box on the bed.  ‘May I look?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ Elerrina took a ribbon and tied it round the end of her braids.  ‘My idea worked out well, I think – I am pleased with the results.’  She smiled.  ‘I did not want to return so quickly, but Andatar was taking Andamil to Lord Aulë’s court.  They asked me to join them – but I would rather spend more time in the workshop.’

Nisimalotë unfastened the catches and lifted the lid.  It was typical of Elerrina, she thought, to house her work more carefully than she packed her clothes.  ‘Oh, you are right,’ she exclaimed, taking a pair of large beads from their soft wrappings.  ‘They are beautiful – and the patterns are intriguing.’

‘I thought you might like them.’ Elerrina sounded pleased.  ‘I have set those already – you may wear them, if you like.’

‘You should not give them to me.’  Even as Nisimalotë protested, she was fastening one of the brooches to the collar of her gown. 

Elerrina offered her the small hand mirror so she could see it against her dress.  ‘Nonsense,’ she smiled.  ‘You are one of my best advertisements.  Everyone will see you wearing this – and half of them will ask where you found it.’

‘And where will I say?’ Nisimalotë asked dryly. ‘Not ‘in my sister-in-law’s chamber’ for certain.  You still insist on supplying the demand for your pieces through that little shop?’

‘Of course.’  Elerrina grinned.  ‘If they knew I made them, half the ladies of court would stop wearing them – and the rest would expect me to provide them for nothing.’

‘Nisimalotë!’  Camentur was clearly surprised on opening the door to see his sister, but he did not have time to focus on her.  ‘Lord Legolas came back to lunch with us, my love – but…’

‘Everything is prepared,’ she soothed him.  ‘Take him into your study and pour him a glass of wine.  We will be with you immediately.’

Her husband’s expression tensed as his eyes slid to Elerrina.

‘Do not be an idiot, my brother,’ she recommended.  ‘He is no more enthusiastic about spending time in my company than I am about meeting him.  Atar need not worry that we are about to elope.  He is as aware of what is due to his family as I am to mine.’

Camentur raised an eyebrow at her.  For all her years, his little sister could be remarkably naïve in some matters.

‘Go!’ Nisimalotë turned him and pushed him gently through the door. ‘You do not have time for this.’

Elerrina sighed as the door swung closed behind them.  She had no interest in this elf from distant Arda – really she did not.  He was, as she reminded herself regularly, one who would have no time for a daughter of the Noldor – and even less for one who was kin to the Kinslayers.  He kept looking for her in order to avoid her rather than to seek her out – just as she did him.  Moreover, her atar said he could not be trusted:  he knew far more about these matters than she did and he was undoubtedly right.  And, if she kept telling herself of her that, she might even come to believe it.   Perhaps.

***

‘You are causing a great deal of stir in the dovecotes,’ Finrod grinned.  ‘I think the High King is torn between wishing to keep an eye on you and sending you back to Tol Eressëa under the supervision of a guard.’

Legolas raised an eyebrow. 

‘Oh come!’ Finrod’s expression showed plainly that he doubted Legolas’s air of apparent innocence.  ‘You come among us like a lamb – and gather ever-increasing numbers of reserved Silvan elves to your side.’  He shook his head.  ‘There are some who think you to be more of a wolf in the sheep pens.’

‘King Olwë,’ Legolas remarked, ‘said that he was pleased to see one settle here who could offer a focus to a people who seemed so lost in the Blessed Realm.’

‘King Olwë,’ Finrod challenged, ‘lives by a sea the Wood Elves prefer to leave.  Those who have remained in his lands are few indeed.’

‘King Ingwë felt that the Silvan were a kindred under-represented in the councils of the great; a kindred who merited a voice.’

‘Few, too, are the Silvan elves who have chosen to seek out the groves of Valmar to make their homes.’

‘Some might say that the Noldor are the kindred who have spread themselves furthest in the lands of Aman – and that challenging their claim to rule anything that has not been guarded jealously from them is merely a matter of fairness.’

‘And would those ‘some’ include the heir of Oropher’s house?’  Finrod stared at the much younger elf.

Legolas shrugged.  ‘No,’ he said simply.  ‘I have no desire to take from the High King anything that is his – only to safeguard the rights of those who have little say in their fate.’

Finrod laughed.  ‘It would not surprise me if the High King wanted to keep you where he could keep an eye on you.’

‘So would your friendship – and that of your aide – be part of that strategy?’ Legolas asked coolly.

‘Me?   No!’  Finrod’s smile took on a reminiscent tone. ‘You remind me of a world I loved and miss still.  A world of wonder and variety that is denied those confined to the Blessed Realm.  And I suspect that Camentur sees a touch of the same magic – and it intrigues him even as it repels his atar.’

They paused, eyes distant, and recalled a land separated from them by more than time and distance.

‘Did you know my daeradar?’ Legolas asked abruptly.

Finrod turned his head to inspect him.  ‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘Not well – he was one of the younger elves – not in Elu’s first circle – but I knew him.’  He smiled.  ‘You remind me of him in some ways – he could draw others to him when he wished – make them see the vision in his mind.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Eager,’ Finrod said finally.  ‘Eager.  Eager for life – for love – for experience.  Passionate in his loves and hates.’

‘I know so few whose memories of him are not shadowed by what came later,’ Legolas said sadly.

‘Well, you are in the right place now to find some who never knew what became of him after the Kinslayers came.’  Finrod’s dry tone made Legolas stare at him, startled.  He waved a hand apologetically.  ‘The past is not forgotten here,’ he said.  ‘Never forgotten – and not often forgiven.’  He sighed.  ‘Sometimes overlooked.’

‘Perhaps it is time to move on,’ Legolas suggested.  ‘Long enough has been spent in reparation for what cannot be changed.’

‘Perhaps,’ Finrod echoed.  He shook his head.  ‘We will if you will.’

Both contemplated the prejudices of those who looked to them for leadership and laughed. 

‘If only it were that easy!’ Legolas sighed.

 





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