Taking Steps

Galadriel stood on the top of the dunes while the brisk breeze tugged at her skirts and blew her hair back from her face.  Small grains of sand marched steadily away from the white beach, disregarding anything in their way, while the stiff marram grass rustled like a gathering of disapproving matrons. 

Briefly, Elerrina glanced at her, then turned her eyes back to the restless waves that rolled into shore and broke to froth before dragging fragments of shell and the shards of ancient mountains back to fuel its play.  It was indecent to see that much pain in someone’s face – and shocking to realise the hidden depths of loss concealed beneath the Lady’s serene surface. 

Seabirds called, their voices harsh and haunting, and Galadriel drew a breath, like a child roused from uneasy dreams beyond her comprehension.  ‘I should not come here,’ she admitted.  She glanced at Elerrina.  ‘I no longer come here alone.’  She kilted up her skirt and drew the tail through her belt, so that her long legs were bare to the knee.  ‘Celebrían worries,’ she said.  ‘When first I landed, the song of the sea haunted me – and I think she was afraid…  But she need not be.  It is no more than a barrier.  One I cannot pass.’

She moved down the dune towards the water, the surface soft enough to make her grace a little more forced than usual and her toes burying themselves in the warm grains until she reached the wave-marked area of rippling sand. 

Elerrina followed her.  ‘I have never spent time by the sea,’ she remarked.  ‘My parents have always avoided it.  It is – impressive.’

‘That is one way of putting it.’  Galadriel pressed her foot into the wet sand and watched the print fill with water.  She looked up at the elleth.  ‘I do not believe you are naturally attuned to the life of the Teleri,’ she smiled.  ‘I am glad your parents agreed to let you come with me – there is much pleasure to be had in introducing someone to something that is new to her.’

The sand shifted under her feet, Elerrina realised, becoming liquid enough for her to sink slightly into it.  She prodded it with a toe and it shivered.

Galadriel laughed.  ‘It looks solid,’ she agreed, ‘but it is not – in some places it is soft enough that even elves sink in it.  Sometimes it is wet enough that it is no more than grains suspended in water – while in other places it is firm enough to ride in safety.  Yet it all appears the same at first glance.’ 

Occupied as she was with holding her skirt up with one hand and trying to keep her hair out of her face with the other, Elerrina still heard a deeper meaning in the Lady’s words.  She turned her head to look at Galadriel’s face, but saw nothing beyond a wistful study of the blue waters.  It could be difficult to keep up with the Lady at times, she admitted privately.  You would find yourself shifting from an easy conversation on sewing, or the weather, or someone’s budding romance, to hearing echoes of foresight and the shadows of ancient experience – and allegories relating your problems to entirely irrelevant aspects of life.  It was infuriating.  If she wished to interfere, could she not at least do it openly?

The water lapped towards them, stopping tantalisingly short of their feet and withdrew, leaving only a trace seeping into the sand.  Galadriel moved forward, drawn towards the water and it returned to meet her, pushing at her ankles.  She smiled.  ‘We should dispense with the gowns and bathe,’ she said.

Elerrina looked over her shoulder to the windows of the houses that faced the beach.  This was not the busiest part of Alqualondë.  Well away from the fishing port and beyond the area overlooked by Olwë’s house, there were still far too many people nearby for her to consider entering the water.

Galadriel laughed.  ‘Very well,’ she said.  ‘There is a quiet cove up the coast a little way which is used for bathing – we will go there.  You will enjoy bathing in the sea – it is very different from fresh water.  More buoyant, more active – more alive.’

A vision of a still green pool amidst tall trees flashed before Elerrina’s eyes.  Honeysuckle scrambled up sapling birches and its sweet-smelling flowers dangled over the water.  Cool mosses dripped as the water from a hidden spring trickled to replace that overflowing the flat stone slab at the far end.  ‘Maybe,’ she said doubtfully.  ‘I think I prefer the woods.’

A hint of satisfied smile displaced the regret from Galadriel’s face.  ‘It is probably as well,’ she remarked.

***

Drifts of sweet-smelling pinks whitened the flower beds beneath the window.  Camentur shifted uncomfortably.  He would always associate the fragrance of pinks with bearing unwelcome news to his employer.  It was a shame – they were among Nisimalotë’s favourite flowers.

Finrod sighed.   ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said.  ‘I cannot comprehend where people come up with these ideas.’

‘I doubt the rumour was started in the spirit of friendship.’  Camentur glanced at Finrod’s tapping fingers.  ‘There are always those who will envy one who has bypassed the tedium of seeking patronage – but I believe that none of the most obvious detractors are involved, except that they are more than happy to join in spreading scurrilous rumours to discredit the prince.’

‘I will not have it.’  Finrod turned his gaze to the outside world.  ‘Make it known, Camentur.’

‘My lord.’  Camentur cleared his throat.  ‘Do you think it is a good idea to suppress the feeling without finding out who is responsible for fanning it?’

‘Would you let a barn burn down while you sought the source of the fire?’  Finrod continued to tap his fingers against the window frame.  ‘No.  I want the rumours quietened – and I want people in place to see where the flames re-ignite.’  He smiled at Camentur.  ‘It is not your problem,’ he added.  ‘I am pleased at the level of amity you seem to have developed with the young prince.’  He returned to the cluttered desk, smiling wryly.  ‘Although it seems that your atar is less impressed.’

‘I like Legolas.’  Camentur flushed slightly.  ‘Atar sees something in him that I do not – something, I think, that still lingers from his days in the Host that sailed east over the sea.’

‘A long time has passed since then.’  Finrod looked up.  ‘Long enough for wounds to have healed.’  He linked his fingers to stop their restlessness.  ‘I am slightly concerned…’  He let the words trail away.  It was not his business how Taryatur dealt with family matters.  And, moreover, any interference would undoubtedly make matters worse – between the elf and his son as well as between his daughter and her unwelcome suitor.  ‘I am glad that Elerrina is spending more time in my sister’s company.  Artanis needs something to take her mind of the non-arrival of her dilatory husband.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’  Camentur reminded himself that it would be unwise to suggest that the Lady Artanis’s involvement might be part of his atar’s problem.  ‘My sister is due to visit our grandparents shortly, but I am sure she would remain if the Lady requested it of her.  My wife suggested that we accompany her to Andatar’s, but I am rather concerned about what seems to be going on…’

Finrod drew a deep breath.  ‘It would be such a suitable match,’ he mused.  ‘It would take the wind out of a lot of sails – and announce bonds between our kindreds.’

‘It is not our way to choose whom we love for convenience,’ Camentur snapped without thinking.

‘But there are times when convenience and choice go hand in hand.’  He raised one hand in acknowledgment.  ‘No interference,’ he promised.  ‘I will not say a word – but you have to admit that, however much Taryatur tries to keep your sister away from young Legolas, he has not had any success in reducing their interest in each other.  Amarië tells me you can almost cut the tension between them.’

Camentur’s shoulders drooped slightly.  ‘But the bond would be no more acceptable to Legolas’s kin than it would be to my atar.’

‘If we have acquired any wisdom over the millennia of our existence,’ Finrod reflected, ‘it should inform us – loud and clear – of the sense of keeping our fingers well clear of anything to do with romantic matters.  I am afraid that, in this case, I will leave any meddling to my sister – and my wife.  I give you my word, Camentur.  I will keep my observations to myself.’  He grinned.  ‘But do not expect to achieve miracles, my friend.  They have not yet spent yeni circling each other, it is true – but their interest over the past century has only grown stronger.  They will have each other yet – whatever their families might think!’

‘I have to hope not, Lord Finrod.’ Camentur shook his head slightly.  ‘I am not sure the peace of the Blessed Realm could withstand the strain.’

***

Aulë’s Great Court was … impressive.  It seemed as if the world was full of experiences – and that he was constantly encountering those which were somewhat … more than anything he had met before.  He had thought, as an elfling, that there could be no structure more amazing than his adar’s Stronghold – and no trees more inspiring than the beeches and oaks of his home.  And then he had seen Imladris.  Delicate arches and silvered roofs, wide windows open to the sun, both part of the world round it and apart, it had been unbelievably light and airy, yet at the same time hospitable and rooted in the earth.  It had exuded welcome and security and he had felt that the warriors at its borders had been no more than a gesture towards defending the Hidden Valley from dangers such as those that loomed over his home.  Lothlórien, when they crossed its boundaries after the horrifying dark of Moria, had been – almost an offence to his eyes.  Mirkwood has darkened and bent and turned away from the elves as the evil of Dol Guldur had corrupted it, but the trees of the Golden Wood had soared to the sky: immense, and aged, and powerful.  Then he had thought that, after the Black Gate, he would never again face anything so intimidating that it made him feel he might be unable to meet the challenge – but that was before he started keeping company with the Valar.

The heat and smell of the forges managed to make him feel an outsider – as he had among the dwarves of Aglarond.  But – as in Aglarond – he had those who welcomed him in this world of hot metal and singed leather.  And, he thought critically, much of what was made was no more beautiful than the creations of metal and polished stone that came from the hands of Gimli’s craftspeople.  Different in style, perhaps, but no better, whatever the Noldor might think. 

Lord Aulë himself seemed to relish the challenge of taking the inanimate and producing remarkable objects in a forge that was strangely quieter and cooler than those of his students.  The Vala was, of course, impressive – it was only to be expected – but he seemed, too, hungry for news of those lands he had not seen in more than two ages.  Or, not so much news, perhaps – as an understanding of everyday life in an alien world.  His eyes reminded the elf of Gimli’s: they were dark and bright and fierce and burned with curiosity.  He sifted through Legolas’s memories of the dwarves in the hope of finding out more about his people – making the elf feel helplessly ignorant.  How could he have spent so much time among the Naugrim and learned so little about them?  Yet the Vala kept asking Legolas to return to his court, finding in him the closest contact that he had had to the race he had created and surrendered into the hands of Eru.

The peace restored Legolas as he walked beneath the trees.  Here, at least, if nowhere else, the heat of the forges seemed to co-exist in harmony with the forest.  He smiled.  It would, he supposed.  He could not imagine Aulë’s Lady permitting her husband to despoil her woodlands.  He wondered idly whence the charcoal came in sufficient quantity to provide the fuel for the workshops.  Not from these trees, he mused, running an appreciative hand over the ridged bark of an oak large enough to have been standing since before Anor’s rising. 

He leaned back against the broad trunk and closed his eyes.  What was he going to do?   He was tired of always having to be the one left to make the decisions.  Even in his gloom, he found that he had to grin.  Feeling sorry for himself?  What would his adar say?  That privilege brought responsibility, that was for sure – and that, if the Wood Elves of this peaceful realm looked to him for guidance, he should be honoured.  And he was.  But was it really too much to wish that he could have met an elleth of his own people who stirred him as she did?  He sighed.  Clearly it was – for it was too late to change what had happened.  He might never win the hand of the one whose face haunted his dreams – but he had no desire to seek a lesser happiness elsewhere.  He pushed the thought away with determination.

‘You are not alone, son of the Greenwood.’  He was unsure whether he had heard the words or if the knowledge of them had simply formed in his fëa.  He tensed.  Even here, none should be able to approach him without his awareness.  If he failed to hear movement, the trees themselves would warn him.  Unless…

He opened his eyes.

Tall, she gleamed green and gold, like a sunlit glade in a spring dawn.  Her presence was misty, as if she was unused to taking enough of herself from the living world to form a figure – and the wood was reluctant to let her separate herself from it.  She smiled as he dropped to one knee.

‘Lady,’ he said with the deepest respect.

‘Greenleaf,’ she replied.

He felt her curiosity like a soft summer breeze rippling through the canopy.  It brushed against him gently, yet as irresistible as the waters of a tumbling stream.  He held still, his gaze focused on the green gown that seemed to grow from the grass beneath her.  Her fingers touched him on the chin and lifted his face so that he gazed into eyes as deep and changeless as forest pools.  He swallowed.  And he had thought Galadriel powerful!  This… this being was the power of the living world incarnate.

She smiled.  ‘My Lord Aulë has spoken of you,’ she said.  ‘He said that you had the song of the forest in you – tempered with a little steel and stone to give you resilience.’  She considered his pale face.  ‘He was right,’ she decided.  ‘I shall watch your progress with interest, son of Ennor.’  Her touch was a gentle caress, and, before he could gather his scattered thoughts enough to respond, she had gone.

Val…  He cut himself short before finishing the plea.  It would probably be less than wise to invoke the power of the Valar at the moment.  How did everything conspire to make him feel like an elfling escaped from the nursery?  It was almost enough to make him wish he was back in the White City with a bunch of awestruck youths and besotted maidens looking at him as if he was something from legend.  He had not felt so gauche since he had been forced to attend his first formal dance.

And yet – he could not help smiling as he leaned into the song of the exultant tree.  Had the experience not been … beyond amazing?   Lord Aulë rang with power and authority – he had the strength of rock and the keenness of forged metal.  But the Lady Yavanna…  His smile became dreamily reflective.  She was filled with life, with the beauty of the growing things.  Although the thought of her watching him was worrying – he really was not at all sure he wanted to be the object of a Valië’s interest. 

He sighed.  And it took him no further forward in his need to promote the issues that had been overlooked for so long – and made it no less necessary to step with caution  enough to irritate both those displaced to dwell among these trees and the ones who had dwelt here since the Great Journey.  Thranduil would laugh if – when – he arrived, to find his headstrong son driven to behaving with the care he had always deplored – if, that is, his adar did not arrive to find him driven demented by the demands of trying to tease co-ordination from so many divergent interests. 

He looked up at the glints of blue between the green leaves.  Using his fingers to seek out crevices in the bark, and supporting himself on tiny irregularities, he climbed easily to reach the wide branches high above the forest floor, moving more quickly as the tree spread out.  A Wood Elf in Aulë’s court, maybe – but the hand of Yavanna was over him.  It was strangely comforting.

***

‘You are fortunate.’  The innkeeper proffered the glass of light wine.  ‘Your prince seems to show a great deal more interest in his folk than some I could name.’

A mocking laugh sounded behind Litheredh.  ‘A great deal more interest,’ a dark young Noldo jeered.  ‘I have heard a thing or two about the prince that makes me glad he is not hanging round my sister.’

Litheredh stiffened slightly, but took a sip from his glass.  ‘My king’s son is a good leader,’ he remarked mildly.  ‘He has led his warriors in battle long enough to know the value of caring for their interests.’

‘But not as much as he cares for dwarves.’ His challenger curled his lip. ‘I know not how you can have any respect for an elf who would abandon his own kind in his affection for one of the stunted folk.’

‘Lord Gimli was an elf-friend.’  Litheredh stated.  ‘One who walked into peril beside my lord – and lived to talk of end of Sauron.  He was devoted to the Lady of the Golden Wood.  Perhaps you should take your criticism of him to the one who gifted him with strands of her hair.’

‘Would you care to eat now, my lord?’ the innkeeper interrupted.  ‘My wife has trout today – and asparagus.  Your usual table is ready for you and your friends.’  He inserted himself between the Wood Elf and the Noldo with the ease of long practice, diverting the attention of the brightly-clad elf.  ‘And I have some of the new vintage just arrived – it is a fresh little wine.  Well worth the tasting.’

The Wood Elf looked down, concentrating on his glass.  There was no point getting into a fight.  The Noldo doubtless had his contingent of lackeys only too ready to leap to his defence – and then cry ‘attack’ on their lone opponent.  Last ditch stands were all very well in legend, but in real life it was far better to know when the prospect of defeat was too great.  From the corner of his eye he noted the figure of a quiet elf move slightly to get a better view of the one who had sneered at Legolas.  Litheredh raised an eyebrow slightly, but resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.  Better not to attract their attention.  Not when someone else was doing the job of identifying the participants unobserved.

Another glass appeared on the table in front of him.  ‘My apologies,’ the innkeeper muttered.  ‘And my thanks – he is not one to appreciate being crossed.’

Litheredh shrugged.  ‘It is not the first time I have heard such suggestions. It takes no intelligence to bark like a dog.’

‘The one to watch is the one who blows the whistle.’ 

The Wood Elf met the other’s eyes and held them briefly.  ‘I shall do that,’ he said.

A soft rain was falling on the white stones of the square.  Litheredh drew the hood forward over his head.  Much as he liked rain on broad leaves and bright grass spears, here in the city it always seemed much wetter.  It did not, he thought, smell as good either – although it had the merit of refreshing the dusty stone and leaving it glinting in the sun that followed.

The rumours had been following the prince since before he had landed – and he treated them with indifference, regardless of how his followers felt.  It was about time, Litheredh thought, that someone disposed of the slanders about Legolas and his relationships with Arda’s other races for once and all – or they would hang like a weight round his neck from now until the end of time. 

He stepped, cat-like, over a stream pouring from a broken down-pipe.  Yet he was not the best person to scotch this.  Every fierce defence only produced another tale – and elves were only too prone to thinking that rumour must, by definition, have some basis in truth.  Litheredh shook his head, sending out a scatter of droplets.  He was unsure if the elves here were naïve – or just so bored with the predictable nature of their lives that the spreading of unfounded rumours was needed to afford them a moment’s entertainment.

Whatever the cause, he thought that the solution probably rested in more ruthless hands than his.  He would seek an audience with Lord Celeborn’s wife.  She would know whose ears were listening for this information– and what best to do.

***

Linevendë placed a careful stitch and watched Finarfin’s daughter under her eyelashes.  ‘I am concerned,’ she admitted.  ‘My son is spending overmuch time in the Woodland Prince’s company.  He is only too happy to serve Lord Finrod in this matter – but I would not be doing my duty as his amil if I did not worry about the influence the Silvan elf was having on my son.’  She appeared to inspect her work. ‘And my husband is less than happy,’ she added.  ‘He feels that the ellon’s impact on Camentur’s behaviour is not good.’

‘Let us be honest…’ Galadriel lowered her work to her lap.  ‘He is less concerned about Legolas and Camentur than he is about Legolas and Elerrina.’

Linevendë abandoned her pretence at working.  ‘He finds it somewhat easier to keep several leagues between our daughter and the prince,’ she said dryly.  ‘When Legolas is in Tirion, he sees to it that Elerrina is not.   Keeping a similar distance between Camentur and the elf of Endórë is less straightforward.’  She sighed.  ‘And Camentur has begun to defend him to his atar – which, of course, makes things worse.’

‘Why is Taryatur so determinedly resistant to his charm?’ Galadriel asked with irritation.  ‘Most of the elves of Tirion would be delighted to have Legolas take an interest in their daughter!  It is not as if he is unappealing – he has looks and position as well as intelligence and a well developed sense of responsibility.’

‘He is of Endórë,’ Linevendë shrugged.  ‘That is enough in itself to make my husband wish to keep his distance.’

Galadriel gazed over the quiet garden.  Lavender bloomed profusely along each side of the old brick path, the tall flowers bobbing under the weight of drunken bees and the jasmine made a fragrant canopy to the stone bench.  She sighed.  ‘What happened to Taryatur in Endórë?’ she asked.  ‘The Host brought many innocent ellyn over the sea – but few of them seem as scarred as Taryatur.’

‘Many of them merely hide it better,’ Linevendë murmured, lowering her eyes to the fine cloth before her and placing another stitch.  She looked up again and smiled defiantly.  ‘And he is too determined to shield us from that which still hurts within him.  He does not wish us to know what he experienced.’

A wisp of a sigh escaped Galadriel.  ‘Time passes so differently here,’ she said.  ‘Those who endured east of the sea have not had the leisure to allow the scars to fester – they had to face whatever challenges came next out of the dark.’  She smiled slightly.  ‘I imagine there are few still living there who would count the War of Wrath the worst thing they ever had to endure.’

Linevendë stilled.  ‘That is exactly it,’ she exclaimed.  ‘Can you not see that Taryatur does not want our daughter to know the effects of the evil that Fëanor loosed on the world?  He wishes to protect her!’

‘Fëanor cannot be blamed for everything,’ Galadriel remarked sadly.  ‘Evil came into Arda at its very making – and he was as much its victim as anyone else.’ She brooded as a soft breeze stirred the jasmine.  ‘But I understand only too well the longing to protect your child – even if I also know that, in the end, you cannot take their choices from them.’   She glanced at Linevendë.  ‘I will not meddle,’ she said.  ‘I doubt it will make any difference – I think matters have gone too far for any to be able to divide them, even if they can be kept apart.  If it is any consolation, Legolas’s adar will be no more delighted than Taryatur.  I suspect his reaction will shatter windows in Tirion and leave none in any doubt of his displeasure.’  She shook her head as Linevendë raised her chin defiantly.  ‘Not because of any connection to the sons of Fëanor,’ she denied, ‘but simply because she is not a Wood Elf.  Thranduil is at least as proud as a Noldor prince – and far more vocal.’

‘Perhaps Lord Legolas should bear that in mind,’ Linevendë declared.  ‘It is his duty to comply with his atar’s wishes.’

Galadriel smiled wryly.  ‘I am sure he is trying,’ she said.  ‘But I have yet to find anyone who can hold back the tide.’

‘All I want,’ Linevendë said in a low voice, ‘is for my children to be happy – and for Taryatur to be happy for them.’

‘A noble ambition.’  Galadriel sighed.  ‘But one, unfortunately, that it is not in our power to control.’  She glanced at Linevendë.  ‘Although I have little doubt that we will continue to strive towards it.’

***

Happy did not begin to describe the feeling that was surging through Taryatur.  Furious, perhaps, would be a better description.  Frustrated, maybe.  Incredulous.  Bemused.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, although a failure to hear the words – and a lack of understanding of what they suggested were not, in fact, the problem.  He stared down his nose at the younger elf, intimidating in his hauteur.

‘Oh, come,’ the ellon said, suppressing a wriggle of discomfort.  ‘Everyone knows how much you despise the so-called prince.  He is not worthy of serving in the kitchens, let alone sitting at the High King’s table.  And then – to bring his savage ways into the Blessed Realm and behave as if he is our equal!  It is beyond vile.’

‘You are a fool,’ Taryatur declared.

‘You are telling me you think someone like him has a right to look at Lady Elerrina as if he is waiting to pounce on her?’

‘No,’ Taryatur said.  ‘Fool is too kind.  You are a blockhead.’

‘He has managed to cozen his way into Lady Artanis’s affections – and she has made him welcome in places where no mere Wood Elf should walk.  Of course,’ he added, ‘her judgment has always been suspect – she did not even have enough sense to wipe the dust of those corrupt lands from her feet when she had the chance.  And she turned her nose up at dozens of worthy Noldor before being forced to settle for that Sinda – who ran as soon as she turned her back on him.’

‘I know not who has been dripping poison in your ears,’ Taryatur said menacingly, ‘but, if you had the sense with which you were born – which you clearly do not – you would pay some attention to what is going on around you.  I may not like the ellon – and I may not want him as a son – but he is a more worthwhile elf than you will ever be.  Stop admiring yourself in every mirror you pass and make some effort to put something back into this world before your brain atrophies completely!  And if that does not convince you that I want nothing to do with whatever devious and spiteful little schemes you might be evolving, remember that the High King, unlike you, is not a fool, and he will not tolerate the persecution of those whom he has approved.’  He stared at the ellon before him, but before the other could respond, he turned and stalked away, the very image of outraged virtue.

As if it was not bad enough to be confronted with admirers of the Woodland Prince everywhere he went, to be forced to support him was … the outside of enough!  And to have someone – even a complete moron – believe that his dislike of the ellon would be enough to have him dip his fingers into the tacky dishonesty of discrediting him was outrageous!  Beyond outrageous.  It was almost enough to give him another reason to hold a grudge against the ellon.

He stopped so suddenly that his robes batted into the back of his legs as if indignant with him.  He could not do it – not just because it was wrong, but because he could not endure the look of disillusion in his daughter’s eyes if she discovered that he was actively working against that … that public nuisance.  It was one thing to hold himself aloof and tell her that the environment in which he had grown up made the ellon unsuitable in every way, but quite another to lower himself to something that would make him far worse.  And it asked more of him than simply walking away.  Taryatur scowled.  To make it all right with himself, he would have to do more to pull the teeth of this wretched plot – and that would involve him in actually acting in support of the Wood Elf.  He pressed his lips together to hold back the words that wanted to escape.  With luck, he could get away with no more than a few words in Camentur’s ears – but, the way things usually went for him, he would doubtless find himself acting to advance the wretched princeling’s cause. 

Taryatur sighed.  As long as it stopped short of encouraging the ellon to have any expectation that he would consent to a bond between him and Elerrina.  The snow would melt from the summit of Taniquetil before he would agree to something that he believed would be so harmful to his precious daughter.  He started walking more slowly towards the complex of buildings behind the gardens, reluctant for once to find his son and share with him his experiences of the morning. 

***

It was amazing how somewhere that had seemed while he dwelt there to be an alien environment could become relaxingly familiar in contrast to the life he was living now.  Legolas perched on the stone balustrade.  It had been typical of Gimli to require a home of stone here in this island where most people were more than happy to build their houses of weathered wood – and equally typical of the elves of Tol Eressëa to go out of their way to help him find the source of sufficient square cut blocks to complete the structure and roof it in thin slabs of blue-grey slate.  

He looked affectionately at the tower behind him.  Typical, too, of Gimli to construct something that was unexpectedly delicate and disconcertingly elven here on the cliff overlooking the sea.  He sighed.  He missed him still – and always would – but had come to realise that nothing had been lost; not really.  Talking with Lord Aulë of all he had learned of the lives of his friend’s deeply private people had only reinforced his understanding that under their outward differences, most people experienced the same concerns.  Gimli’s friendship was constant – wherever he was now, that would not change.  It was up to him now to prove worthy of the courage the dwarf had shown in taking ship. 

Not until after they had reached the Lonely Isle had Legolas understood that Gimli had never really believed that he would reach the Blessed Realm, never believed that he would be permitted to step onto its white sands, never believed that he would live out his remaining years in the care of the elves.  He had embarked on that last journey for one reason – to ensure that the sea-crazed, bereft elf to whom he had given his friendship would seek the only aid available to him rather than surrendering his fëa to the care of Lord Námo through his sheer obstinate refusal to seek help.  Legolas patted the balustrade.  He only hoped Thranduil had recognised the lengths to which the dwarf was prepared to sacrifice himself – and he looked forward to hearing his adar acknowledge his friend’s devotion.

‘Are you planning on sitting there all day?’ Nathroniel could not keep the amusement from her voice.

‘I am harming nobody.’  Legolas could not help sounding somewhat defensive.  Accusations of idleness customarily had Nathroniel finding him useful tasks – such as tidying his clothes or helping her shell peas.

‘Did I say you were?’  She looked him up and down critically.  ‘You look tired, young one.  I hope you are not doing too much.’

‘I feel as if I am never where I am needed,’ he complained, one hand dragging through his fair locks.  ‘I am chasing my tail – always arriving in the wake of a crisis, in time only to put a final gloss on whatever solution has been found.’  He dropped his head to study the tight joints between the slabs.  ‘Take this last time…’ He looked sharply at the elleth, as if to assure she was paying attention. 

Nathroniel folded her hands in front of her and looked at him so attentively as to force a reluctant smile.  ‘You spend too much time alone, my little bud,’ she declared.  ‘You need someone by your side to share the burden.’

‘Not you, too!’ He looked at her reproachfully, making her laugh and step close enough to rub his shoulder gently.

‘Not a wife,’ she told him.  ‘That will wait – a friend.  You have those who help you across the face of the Blessed Realm – but they all go home to their families and you move on to try to help elsewhere.  It is not good for you – you need someone with whom you can talk freely.’  She paused.  ‘What has happened to make you rue the past?’

‘The usual.’  He sighed.  ‘Confine two packs of wolves into the same territory and they will fight.’

‘You are not comparing your people to a pack of wolves, I hope?’ She attempted to sound stern, but could not stop the corners of her mouth from curling upwards.

‘Even here…’ His hands indicated the island around them.  ‘There are conflicts.  Sindar and Silvan are too closely packed – and they are supposed to be allies!  On the mainland, there is more space, but the suspicion between those born in Aman and those from over the sea is … is endemic.’

‘They have dealt with it for centuries, Legolas.’  He could not help smiling at the comfort her tone brought.  How many times had she told him stories on oppressive nights when he could not sleep?  How many times had she rubbed his back in just this way?  Perhaps he should coax her into travelling as his aide – she certainly managed to soothe him more efficiently than most of the solemn-eyed ellyn who usually detached themselves from other duties to escort him.  Not that she would agree.  It had taken her long enough to find a husband to suit her and she was enjoying his company far too much to want to wander the Blessed Realm – even for the one she still irritatingly called her ‘little bud’.  He made himself listen to her words rather than the soft hum of her voice.  ‘They dealt with their differences before you came to shoulder them – and they will deal with them if you stand back and let them get on with it.  You cannot be everywhere, elfling.  Being in control does not mean attending every council meeting and ratifying every agreement.  Think: what would your adar do in situations like these?’

He laughed.  He could just imagine the look of barely-contained fury on Thranduil’s face at some of the situations that had confronted him recently.   No question but that some of those who had summoned Thranduil’s son to settle their disputes would never have dared inflict the task on his adar.   They would probably not even have bothered him with informing him of the decisions they had reached.  ‘But I am not my adar,’ he pointed out.

‘Neither was Thranduil his.’  Nathroniel grinned.  ‘As he is not here to discover it, I will tell you now that your adar had similar problems when he returned to the wood after Dagorlad.  It took him some time to learn to bear the power that was now his.’  She reflected.  ‘In some ways it was worse for him – the wood was in disarray and Oropher had never been one to allow anyone else to carry authority he thought was due to him.’  She gave Legolas a pat and stepped away.  ‘Elf after elf came to Thranduil demanding that he do this or do that – or that he solved this problem or managed that disaster.  He was running himself ragged trying to cope with all the demands on his time and strength.’  She inspected him surreptitiously.  He definitely seemed more relaxed – if only for now.  ‘I think it was one of the things that made your naneth recognise him as the one for her,’ she said chattily.  ‘He so clearly cared more for the wood and its people than he did for himself.’

‘I hope we are not back to the topic of marriage,’ he said suspiciously.

‘Would I?’ she asked, managing to sound pained.  ‘After all, we are not in Lasgalen now.  How could there be anyone here good enough for you?’  She paused.  ‘Come, my lad,’ she said.  ‘We have talked too long and your dinner will be getting cold.’  She smiled.  ‘No matter what your problems, there is no point in letting good food go to waste.’

‘You put me back in the nursery, Nathroniel.’

She laughed.  ‘It will do you good to forget your troubles for a while, my lord prince.  Come and have something to eat – and I will tell you some stories about your adar that will make you laugh.’

Legolas grinned.  ‘Are you not afraid that he will discover your treachery?’

‘We will deal with that problem when it arises,’ she said cheerfully.  ‘There is no point in borrowing trouble, my prince.  Let us move forward one step at a time – that is quite enough – and we will reach the same place in the end.’