Beginnings

Linevendë could not stop smiling.  She did not think she could remember a time when she had ever felt quite this happy.  Not, at least, since the long distant day when she and Taryatur had felt the fëa of their unborn daughter announce its presence.

Her son looked at her slightly uncomfortably and her delight exploded almost as if stars were dancing before her eyes.  Did he prefer to think her ignorant of the activities in which he and Nisimalotë had been indulging?  How did he think that he had himself been begotten?  There was something charmingly naïve about ellyn – a touch of the elfling they never seemed to outgrow.

‘Oh, Nisimalotë!’ she said.  ‘I am so pleased.  You have such joy ahead of you.’

A flush softened her daughter-in-law’s pale face and her hand strayed involuntarily to her belly as if to caress the child within.  ‘He will not join us for some while,’ she said, ‘but we wanted to let you know straight away.’

‘A son!’ Linevendë marvelled.  She smiled mischievously at her own son.  ‘The stories I could tell you about dealing with a small ellon!  You will certainly not be able to complain of boredom over the next years.’  Camentur looked rather sheepish and she took pity on him.  ‘Your atar will be so happy.’

‘Where is he?’ Camentur looked round, almost as if he expected his atar to pop out from some corner.

Linevendë sighed, the brightness of her face dimming somewhat.  ‘He had a meeting arranged,’ she said vaguely.  ‘He will be very sorry not to have been here.’

Something about the way she spoke drew her son’s attention.  His dark eyebrows lifted enquiringly, but his amil ignored his question.  Taryatur was – most of the time – a transparent and painfully honest elf and if he was attempting concealment there could only be one reason. 

Camentur sighed.  ‘I do not know why he refuses to resign himself to the inevitable,’ he said.  ‘He is not going to get any of them to change their minds – and it is not as if Elerrina is not old enough to make her own decisions.’

His amil smiled wryly and her eyes turned to her daughter-in-law’s midriff.  ‘I think you will find out soon enough why he continues to fight, my son,’ she informed him.  ‘Parenthood is not easy.  You do the best you can, but you make mistakes – and you cannot protect your children from the world around them, no matter how hard you try.  Your atar knows perfectly well that you are both full grown – but he still wants to shield you both from harm.’

Nisimalotë laughed at her husband’s grimace.  ‘You should see your face!’  Her hand rested protectively over the tiny elfling within her.  ‘I think I understand,’ she said.  ‘Since I first felt him within me, I have been overcome with such feelings of love that it is almost incapacitating.  I have seen my sisters carry their babies to term, but I had no idea that the emotional side of pregnancy was so overwhelming.’ 

‘Ellyn do not realise it fully,’ Linevendë said.  ‘Not until his child rests in his arms does an ellon really begin to understand the intensity of that bond.  Despite his closeness – despite the essential part he plays in strengthening his wife – his focus does not shift to his child until he sees the little one.’  Her smile brightened until it shone and she turned it affectionately on her son.  ‘You will see,’ she promised.  ‘And you will never be the same again.’

Perhaps, Linevendë thought, this was just what Taryatur needed.  Perhaps the news of this new arrival, the first of a new generation, would help resign him to surrendering their daughter to a husband.  Perhaps this baby would offer him a way of stepping back from his determined opposition to what had become an unavoidable marriage.  She held in a sigh.  It was unlikely that he would give way easily – if she had learned one thing about her husband over their millennia together, it was that he never knew when to abandon a forlorn hope – but, if they had to dance at their daughter’s wedding – and they would – they needed to accept the inevitable with an appearance of grace and welcome the Wood Elf into their family.  She, at least, was determined not be cut off from her daughter by the shadows of a bitter family dispute.

She cut off the thoughts.  This was not the moment for introspection.  ‘Oh, my children,’ she beamed.  ‘This is such good news.’

***

‘I believe,’ Elladan said, lifting heavy lids as if peeling apart his eyelashes was almost too much for him, ‘that among the collection of goods Daeradar sent ahead to the ship was a hefty package of books and letters for you.  From Eldarion, amongst others.’

‘Your naneth gave them to me.’  Legolas sat cross-legged, slender and strong, gleaming in the rays of light that penetrated the canopy.

The twins, on the other hand, disappeared into the shade, absorbing the brightness, almost invisible in the patches of dappled light.  Even his adar, Legolas thought fleetingly, was not this faded.  He could not help but wonder if even Elrond’s power would be enough to pull the twins back from the edge.

‘I find it hard to imagine Eldarion in old age,’ he said.

‘I find it harder now to see him as a child.’  Elrohir sounded as weary as a stirring of air on a hot day.  ‘I find it hard to remember a time when my sister’s heirs remembered their heritage.’

‘Over two centuries have passed – nearer three, perhaps – since Eldarion passed beyond the world’s circles,’ Elladan said.  ‘I imagine it is his grandson’s grandson who now sits on Estel’s throne.’  He pushed himself to sit up, supporting himself on his elbow.  ‘We would not know – the world of men no longer wishes to believe in the existence of elves and we have not seen the Tower of Ecthelion in many decades.’

‘You are here now,’ Legolas told him gently.  ‘Among your kin.’

‘What need has anyone of us here?’ Elrohir sighed.  ‘What is the point of existing for ever in this cosseted realm?’

Legolas looked at him sympathetically.  Well he remembered the lethargy that had left him almost incapacitated on arrival, a helplessness that had worried Gimli almost as much as his fool elf’s enduring rejection of the sea’s call until his own terms were met.  The dwarf had strained every sinew to provoke his friend into responding – somehow.  Anyhow.  To anything.  He had been assured that the weakness would pass, and it had – but Legolas knew better than to pass on that piece of wisdom.  It had, after all, almost made him determine not to comply.  Possibly the only thing that had stopped him surrendering had been that he simply could not be bothered to put in the effort.  That and the fact that Gimli would never have forgiven him – and would probably have pursued him right into the Halls of Waiting to give his friend a piece of his mind.

‘Well,’ he said consideringly.  ‘Admittedly there are no orcs to slay.’

‘Nobody needs us.  The land itself knows us not.’

‘The land is vast.’  Legolas glanced west.  ‘Snow-capped mountains, measureless plains roamed by wild horses, deep forests that have never even heard the sound of elven voices, inland seas, networks of caverns that gleam brighter than Aglarond, rivers too broad even for elves to see the far side – there are places to explore here each one of which could occupy a curious elf for a century or more.  And the people!  There are legends living here, my friends!  Elves of whom you learned in the schoolroom.  Elves who knew your grandparents as elflings.  Elves who woke in the starlit dark of Cuiviénen – and elves who would never have been born at all, but for the shield we raised between them and Sauron.’

A pale echo of Elladan’s boisterous grin reflected Anor’s light.  ‘You are trying to make it sound like an adventure,’ he accused Legolas.

‘A beginning, rather than an end,’ Elrohir added.

Legolas shrugged.  ‘It is both,’ he told them.  ‘But already you have your naneth – and Lord Elrond and a raft of family you never knew.  And the mountains will still be there when you are ready to climb them.’

‘How long did it take you?’ Elrohir asked.  ‘To feel at home?’

‘I would not go so far as to say it feels like home,’ Legolas admitted, meeting his friend’s intent eyes.  He had not, himself, wanted to be told that this land could replace in his heart the forest of his birth.  ‘Not yet. There will always be part of me that is bound to the Greenwood.  But I have work to do, work that needs to be done – and I am content.’  He looked at the Elrondionnath.  ‘And once you have slept this off,’ he said, as if their exhaustion was no more than a hangover, ‘you will throw yourselves headlong into whatever comes – until you have the poor unfortunate locals wondering what they did to deserve you.’

Elladan’s smile brightened noticeably.  ‘They probably deserve us not,’ he commented, ‘but we will reward them with the – er – sunshine of our presence anyway.’

‘Once we have chased the clouds away,’ Elrohir said lazily.

‘Your naneth shines,’ Legolas observed.  ‘I have never seen her so happy.’

The twins looked more focused, he thought.  As if the thought of Celebrían grounded them somewhat.  They had, after all, missed her desperately – and done their best to slay every orc east of the sea in revenge for her wounding.

‘It is good to see her restored,’ Elladan said.  ‘And Adar – I have not seen him so frivolous since before …’ He stopped, and then smiled carefully.  ‘I had not realised just how much I had missed them.’

‘Your naneth, I believe,’ Legolas said solemnly, ‘has been casting her eyes critically over the vast number of maidens who clutter up her Daeradar’s court in search of suitable prospects for you.’

Elrohir groaned.  ‘That is one of Naneth’s hobbies I could do without,’ he complained.  ‘Those vast plains and towering mountains sound more attractive by the moment.’

‘That was the other reason we spent so much time in the field,’ Elladan added.  ‘I find I have a sneaking desire to seek out my own bride when the time comes – and I have no wish to be pushed into any elleth’s arms just yet.’

Legolas laughed.  ‘Then you need to recover enough to keep constantly on the move,’ he suggested.  ‘If you refuse to stand still, they will be unable to catch you.’

‘Maybe,’ Elrohir’s grey eyes took on a brief sparkle.  ‘You have offered the best reason yet to … to throw off this weary acceptance of whatever comes our way.  We will have to see what we can do.’

‘Good,’ Legolas declared.  ‘I, for one, will be very glad to see you more like yourselves.’  He grinned.  ‘Seeing you loafing around, like old warriors on a winter’s night complaining about how nothing is as good as it used to be, just seems wrong.’ 

He caught the quick glance that told him the twins were planning an attack, but he made no attempt to avoid them.  They needed this, he thought, more than he needed his dignity.  He even let them pin him down before squirming away and leaping into the protective branches of the solid oak.  ‘Out of condition!’ he teased them.  ‘It will take more than that to get the better of me.’

Elladan grinned.  ‘Then we must get back in condition,’ he said.  ‘We have predatory ellyth to avoid – and Wood Elves to torment.  We cannot afford to let ourselves go!’

He flicked a brown and shrivelled acorn to hit his friend’s shoulder.  ‘No rush,’ he said.  ‘Take the time you need.’

***

Thranduil was pale, Taryatur thought critically.  Pale and tired-looking, somehow disheartened – and not altogether present.  Not what he expected of the King of the Greenwood.  He did not know why … yes, he did.  Fixed firmly in his mind there was always that image of a pale-haired, grey-eyed, supercilious, aggravating Sinda – one who was determined to think of himself as the voice of the green elves.  The elf who despised the host brought by the Valar to crush Morgoth and relieve Endórë of his dark presence.  The elf who had done his best to make Taryatur’s memories of those last months east of the sea as miserable as the first.

Taryatur had always done his best to ignore reports of the events in those marred lands, but no intelligent elf could have remained entirely ignorant of the rise of Sauron and his part in the downfall of the Númenoreans  and the destruction of the Isle of Gift – and not even the most blinkered inhabitant of the Blessed Realm could have missed the bending of the world.  And no more could he have failed to hear the pained reports of the Last Alliance, when men and elves had again made a stand against evil.  He knew of Oropher’s end, even if he never spoke of it, and he knew of the circumstances under which Thranduil had taken his atar’s throne – and he had felt sorry for his suffering.  But that did not mean he wanted him as family.

‘Wine?’ Thranduil asked, his hand hovering over the decanter.  One of his make, Taryatur noted.  One of his best, too.  The Wood Elf had taste – unless, of course, it had been a gift from Elerrina.

‘I thank you, but no,’ he said politely.

Thranduil’s smile twisted slightly, as if he was resisting an urge to remark that the drink had not been poisoned, but he said nothing, pouring a small quantity into his own glass and taking a sip.  ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ he said politely.  ‘I would have paid you a formal visit – but, as I am sure you know, I have not yet recovered from the stresses of the journey.’

A wave of Taryatur’s hand dismissed the apology.  ‘It is no matter who visits whom,’ he said.  ‘It is more a matter of what is said.’

‘I understand,’ Thranduil frowned slightly at the liquid in his glass, ‘that you have not given your consent to a betrothal.’

Taryatur’s eyes narrowed.  ‘In the absence of any older kin – and considering the tensions between our peoples – it did not seem appropriate,’ he said.  He sat stiffly, holding himself as if any relaxation would be taken as a sign of weakness.

‘Kingship…’ Thranduil smiled almost disarmingly, ‘is a matter of service – but it is not a condition that requires slavish subjection to the prejudices of those ruled.  My son’s choice of bride is just that – his choice.’

Eyebrows shooting up to meet his hair, Taryatur growled, ‘And my opinion?’

‘Should be taken into account – as should mine.  But…’ Thranduil raised an admonitory finger, ‘the decision is still theirs.’

This elf, Taryatur thought fleetingly, was not somebody who would take well to contradiction.  He might claim to accept his son’s choice – but he was unlikely to endure it without debate if he thought it was wrong.  It might be as well, one way or another, that he was not at the height of his strength.  He had accepted the inevitable – and how could he not come to love Elerrina once he knew her?  By the time he was fighting fit, perhaps he would have taken his son’s prospective bride to his heart.

‘It seems to me,’ Thranduil went on, ‘that your daughter is a good match for my son.  I have given my consent.  I am happy to welcome Elerrina to my house.’

Her atar scowled.  As if his decision was the only thing that mattered!  ‘They do not know each other well enough,’ he declared.  ‘I have agreed to their courtship – I am not yet prepared to go further.’  He set his jaw.

‘Then we must provide them with opportunities to further their understanding of each other.’  Thranduil’s tone left no doubt that he was issuing a royal edict.

The Noldo felt his hackles rising.  He was not – and had no intention of being – in any way subject to this king’s will.  ‘I will give my consent when I am fully convinced that my daughter knows the entirety of that to which she is committing herself,’ he said. ‘Good and bad.  And not until then!’

Thranduil lifted a cool eyebrow.  ‘Surely not,’ he said.  ‘You would not wish them to know each other that well before the ceremonies.’

A wave of colour flushed Taryatur’s face, but he ignored the innuendo.  ‘And you cannot move me on this!’  He prodded an accusing finger in Thranduil’s direction.  ‘The last thing I want is to have my daughter regretting her choice from now until the world ends.  I have seen sorrow that profound and the suffering that comes with it – and I will not let Elerrina walk that path.’

Suddenly the fair-haired king’s face relaxed into an unexpected sympathy.  ‘I am sure we both agree on that,’ he said.  ‘We will give them time and opportunity to learn each other’s weaknesses as well as their strengths – so that they can be happy together.  And then,’ he said with an iron determination that was no less obvious for being concealed beneath a mask of concern, ‘we will celebrate in style.’

***

Nisimalotë ran a disapproving finger over the blob of coloured glass that sat in front of her sister-in-law’s mirror. 

‘I do not know why you keep that thing,’ she said.  ‘It is truly hideous.’

She looked up to catch sight in the mirror of Elerrina’s soft smile.

‘Oh,’ she said, and laughed.  ‘Some people treasure the oddest things!’  She turned round, her hand resting on the chair back as her swollen belly put her slightly off-balance.  ‘Does he know you have that?’

‘Of course not.’  Elerrina caressed the rough surface.  ‘He would be embarrassed.’

‘Other lovers might write poetry, or weave songs about your beauty,’ Nisimalotë commented.  ‘Some spend years creating a master-work just to gift their lady – yet you treasure a lump of distorted glass.’

Elerrina sniffed.  ‘It is one thing to show off your talents to try to impress – and quite another to attempt something in which you have no training whatsoever.  He was willing to try to find pleasure in something I enjoy and accept the value of my skills.’

‘He is not perfect, you know,’ Nisimalotë said conversationally.  ‘Do not expect it – you will only be disappointed.’  She lowered herself to sit on the rocking chair Elerrina kept in front of her window and heaved a sigh of relief as she smoothed her hands over her bulge.

‘What has Camentur been doing now to upset you?’  Elerrina sounded amused.  Her brother had been flapping round his wife like a pigeon at a seed store, until Nisimalotë had grown weary of the constant attention.

‘Nothing!’ Her sister-in-law waved her hand dismissively.  ‘We are twining our lives ever closer in sharing these precious days with our son.’  She lapsed into a dreamy silence as she communed briefly with the sleeping child within her.  ‘But,’ she said, ‘if you think it will be perfect, you will be proved wrong.  The rest of the world does not go away and leave you in bliss together.’

‘If I ever thought love was like that,’ Elerrina said dryly, ‘I have had long enough to learn my error.’  

‘True enough,’ Nisimalotë agreed.  ‘But all the pressures on you come from outside – while you stand together.  What you will learn – once you are finally wed – is that your beloved remains himself and all those little quirks that seemed so charming in a lover can be very irritating in a husband.’

Elerrina smiled.  ‘It will be – pleasant – to get the opportunity to learn that for myself,’ she said.  ‘And I am sure he will find me just as challenging.’

‘You are certainly obstinate enough,’ her sister-in-law nodded.  ‘You would have to be to have endured so long with so little encouragement!’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh – it is a compliment … in a way.  It might make it easier for you to settle in your husband’s household – with your husband’s atar.’

‘Is that what this conversation is about?’ Elerrina asked.  ‘You seemed happy enough to encourage me to keep hoping for a happy outcome to this most uncomfortable situation – I cannot believe that you have changed your mind now, just when it seems that Atar’s objections have been confounded and it might be possible to coax him into agreeing to a betrothal.’  She met Nisimalotë’s eyes.  ‘Lord Thranduil seems very welcoming,’ she said.  ‘Very accepting – he has not once questioned his son’s choice.  He has treated me since that first moment as if he is already my atar by marriage.’

‘And he has asked nothing of you?’

‘Nothing more than that I love his son.’  Elerrina spoke firmly.  ‘He seemed to think that was all that was required.’

Nisimalotë turned enough to inspect her sister-in-law.  ‘I suppose he is right,’ she said finally.

***

The silver light would have been so peaceful – had it not been for the broad lawn full of elegantly-clothed Noldor, seizing the opportunity to converse in their clear and very audible voices to those they had not seen for … well, it could have been as much as hours.  Attendants circulated, proffering plates of prettily-arranged snacks or tall glasses of cool wine.  Ellyn conversed in low voices, making it seem as if the business they conducted was of shattering importance, while slender maidens paraded in an attempt to attract the attention of whichever ellon had caught their eye.  The jewel-encrusted robes of the great showed them slightly apart from the hoi-polloi, protected by their aides from the importunities of those outside the centre of power.

Litheredh looked speculatively at the Galadhel.  He and Haldir had come to know each other fairly well over the last years – both out of place in a city of the Noldor, their similarities had been more obvious to them than their differences.

‘So,’ he said, ‘your lord has finally chosen to settle here.’

‘Temporarily, I am sure,’ Haldir said, raising his chin just enough to look down his nose.

‘Temporarily, of course,’ Litheredh agreed mildly.  ‘I am sure that no true lord of trees could be content here for any length of time.’  He suppressed a smile at Haldir’s suspicious look. 

‘It is not a bad place for him at the moment,’ Haldir conceded.  ‘Lord Elrond is both wise and skilled – and it seems to me that my lord, as well as yours, has need of his care.’

Litheredh focused his attention on the elegantly minimal leaf litter beneath the long-fingered leaves of the maple.  ‘I find it hard to believe that Lasgalen has … has lost its heart,’ he said.  ‘When I left it to seek a life beyond the pains of Ennor, the saplings were pushing through the ashes and the emptiness left by the voices of the missing trees was being filled with music of new growth – it was simply a song in which I felt I no longer had a part.’

‘You should have seen the Golden Wood.’  Haldir sounded non-committal, as if allowing his feelings to surface would reveal too much.  ‘It withered as though a bitter wind had passed over it and the sudden advent of too many years had worn it down.’

Many stories had been told about the abandonment of Lothlórien – many of them, Litheredh was sure, highly unlikely to have much basis in truth.  He glanced quickly at the Galadhel.  ‘But that was because the Lady’s power failed – or so I heard.’

A look of exhaustion passed fleetingly over Haldir’s face.  ‘My lord did not wish the Wood to be guarded so fiercely,’ he said, ‘but the Lady is not one to be denied.  She wished to hold it safe – a place of refuge for Elvenkind.  And in the end, it burned all the faster – not with flame, as did the Greenwood, not at its heart, but it burned anyway.’

‘You would have stayed!’  Litheredh could not conceal his surprise at the insight.

‘But there was nothing for which to remain.’  Haldir looked east, not seeing the wooded slopes, not even visualising the intervening leagues of impassable ocean, but picturing instead tall grey trunks beneath golden crowns and hearing the voices of trees that had been silenced.  ‘That is why they chose to sail,’ he murmured.  ‘The woods of Ennor sing no more for the elves who walk among them.’

‘It is no wonder, then, that they look worn beyond endurance.’  Litheredh spoke almost for himself alone.

‘We will find it again.’  Haldir spoke abruptly.  ‘We will find ourselves again in forests that call to us.’  He turned to look straight at the green elf.  ‘That is what waits beyond the mountains, I am sure of it.’

Litheredh frowned.

‘I have heard them.’  Haldir said softly, as if he was afraid of being overheard.  ‘Distantly, like bells in the early morning sounding from afar.  That is why so many slip west – quietly and unwatched.  They have heard the call … and they do not intend to have their quest forbidden by any.’  His voice grew even quieter.  ‘That is where we must go, too.’  He glanced sideways, quickly and defensively.  ‘There are watchers on the passes,’ he warned.  ‘Watchers who report to Finarfin’s son.  They stop no-one – not those heading west, nor me and those I send to keep an eye on what is happening.  But, if these Noldor claim ignorance of what is beyond the mountains, their words are not true.’    

‘Their knowledge might be as limited as yours.’  Litheredh spoke slowly.

‘Then why would they not share it?’

‘For the same reason you have not?’  Litheredh shook his head.  ‘They might be reluctant to reveal something for which they have no explanation.’  He looked sharply at the Galadhel.  ‘You have heard the forests – yet you do not share the yearning to reach them?’

Haldir shrugged.  ‘It is not yet time,’ he said.  ‘They are not calling to me.’

‘Perhaps, having waited so long for your lord,’ Litheredh grinned, ‘you are not about to leave until he is ready.’

A slow smile brightened Haldir’s face.  ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed.  ‘And perhaps the same thing applies to you and yours.  What are a few years now, when we can look forward to the long ages to come?  Ages when we will be free of all this … this chatter!’

Litheredh laughed.  ‘Wood Elves chatter, too, I find,’ he protested.  ‘But the chief joy in being surrounded by them is that I will no longer have to watch every word I say.’

‘I shall take pleasure in being rude to every single person I meet,’ Haldir sighed, ‘simply to compensate myself for having had to be perpetually courteous and charming for so long.  As long as the Lady is distracted by caring for my lord I should get away with it.’

‘Lord Haldir!’  An impatient voice made him stiffen.  ‘Despite your earlier promise, you have not yet asked me to dance!’

Litheredh took a moment to savour the look of long-suffering that crossed Haldir’s face until he blanked it out and turned to the slight elleth.

‘Lady Calissë,’ he said, bowing slightly.  ‘Thank you for reminding me!  Would you indeed give me so much pleasure?’ 

His eyes met his friend’s over the dark head, and the Galadhel cast his up expressively.  Litheredh smiled.  Here, he thought, was yet another reason to be deeply grateful that he was married – and married, moreover, to a very patient wife who tolerated his excursion into politics with remarkable serenity.  He inclined his head to the elleth and withdrew circumspectly before he found himself promising to take part in one of these sedate dances.  Time to let Haldir get on with it – he could think of other ways to pass what remained of the night.  The maple, he felt, called.  That, and the stars and a sky turned to black velvet by Ithil’s rays.  He would rest high above the throng, where none but a Wood Elf would look for him, and think about Haldir’s words.

***

‘It is good to see you in Tirion.’ 

Finrod managed to sound perfectly sincere, too, Thranduil thought.  Legolas had said the Finarfin’s firstborn had charm, and he was proving to be right in this as well.  He glanced over at his son.  Legolas had grown, he decided fleetingly.  He slotted comfortably into this hotbed of political manoeuvring that was the city of the Noldor – and dealt easily with those to whom it was home.  Yet he was also at home among the other kindreds – while maintaining a comfortable relationship with some very edgy Wood Elves.  Thranduil would never have expected his warrior son to mature quite so effortlessly into the leader of such a widely-spread group – although he should have known that he would not only manage that, but would then step gracefully back, without any apparent resentment, and resume his position as the king’s heir, offering his adar unconditional love and support.

‘It is good to be here,’ he replied politely.

Finrod grinned, as if he could see an edge of mockery beneath the simple reply.  ‘If only it were that simple,’ he acknowledged.

Of course, the Noldo’s return to his adar’s kingdom had come by way of the dungeons of Angband and a sojourn in the Halls of Waiting, Thranduil mused.  And that was bound to make a difference.  The streets of Tirion probably housed more of those who had bled for Ennor than of those who had shed the blood of kin.  Far more.  He sighed.  Enough problems had been perpetuated by harping on a past that could not be changed.  It was time to look forward.

‘It will be good,’ he amended.  ‘Eventually.’  The deep red of the wine threw a bright glow on his pale fingers and his translucent flesh reflected Anor’s warmth.  ‘It is already better than it was.’

He had been heartened beyond belief by the warmth of the welcome he had received as he stepped onto the white shores.  It would seem that those of his people who had preceded him to the Blessed Realm had desired his presence among them to the point where their enthusiasm had almost silenced his longing to hear the trees of the Greenwood.  Almost.  And almost convinced him that he had been right to put the needs of the living above the needs of the fading forest.

Then, of course, there had been the bright song of his most beloved son, wrapping round him and offering him a closeness he had missed over the last centuries – and, bound up in the music of their son’s fëa, her song, clearer and more alive than he had heard it since that appalling day…

‘I am to have a new daughter,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and begin the process of building a family to whom these lands are home.’

‘It is simple pleasures like that,’ Finrod acknowledged, ‘that make a home out of a place to live.’  He smiled.  ‘My wife, my children – it is their presence that keeps me content.’

‘Yes,’ Thranduil said doubtfully.

‘And, in time, you will find a home here – one that will not replace the Greenwood, any more than that replaced Doriath in your heart, but that will provide you and your people with what you need.’

***

Nisimalotë relaxed into the cushioned chair and inhaled the fragrance of the honeysuckle twining over its carefully arranged supports.  The breeze stirred the long horns of pale flowers as if blessing her.  She smiled and accepted the bundled little creature in his long robe, with a tuft of silky dark hair setting off his tiny ears.

‘He is beautiful, Nisimalotë.’  Legolas sounded properly admiring. 

He had clearly been trained in the proper response to babies, Nisimalotë thought idly, and he managed to sound as if he meant it – which was more than her sister’s husband had managed.  He did not convince her, however.  She was fairly sure that if she risked putting Súrion in his arms – which she would not – he would stiffen as if he was afraid that any movement would break the infant and the poor little ellon would start crying in self-defence.

Elerrina settled next to her, armed with the huge quantity of things that seemed necessary to keep a small child comfortable and content for any length of time.  She kept Nisimalotë between her and Legolas – and she sat so that he was not in her direct line of vision.

‘Are you any closer to persuading Atar to consent to your marriage?’ she asked in exasperation.  Just at the moment, she had found, she could get away with saying a great many things that tact would usually prohibit.  She might even – if she felt bold enough – try her wiles on Taryatur.  He had stood between these two for more than a century – and still did not appear to have realised that he had already lost the game.

Neither replied to what was really little more than a rhetorical question.  Of course he had not agreed.  There had been no explosions of rage sufficient to blow off the roof, the sky had not turned green and it had not rained frogs. 

They did not even sit next to each other any more, Nisimalotë thought pityingly.  Elerrina’s atar might think that was a good sign – that their passion might be wearing thin – but, if he only asked, Nisimalotë could tell him differently.  Fire consumed them – so much so that they were afraid to touch each other, afraid to look at each other, afraid to speak of anything beyond the mundane.  If Taryatur was not careful, an inadvertent glance would be enough to bring them together – as irresistible as the tide striking the rocks – and they would consummate their passion there and then.  In truth, they might be better doing so – at least their bridges would then have been burned and they would be able to concentrate on living together, instead of existing in the vain hope of pleasing others.

Súrion stirred, pursing his little lips as though dreaming of food.  Nisimalotë was overwhelmed by a wave of love for him.  She would do anything to shield him.  Anything.  Stand between him and a Balrog, if that was what was asked of her.  Did this uncontainable surge of protectiveness never fade?  Was this desire to guard her child from all harm the same reason that Taryatur found it so hard to accept that it was time to let Elerrina go?  If so, she hoped she was never so defensive of Súrion that she would stop him doing what was right for him.   She touched the soft skin of his cheek with her fingertip.   Fortunately, all he truly required of her at the moment was her milk. That and her constant attendance.

‘Is he awake?’ Camentur bustled through the open windows, unable to get home quickly enough to see this wonderful creature who had come to spend his life with them.

‘Not yet.’ 

Over her head, Elerrina’s greenish-grey eyes noted Legolas’s softly reminiscent smile.  Perhaps the lack of elflings in late Third Age Endórë did not mean, as she had thought it might, that Legolas was inexperienced with little ones. 

‘Was your friend Gimli an atar?’ she asked.  She had not thought him to have been married, but the customs of other races were something she did not claim to understand.

Legolas laughed.  ‘No,’ he said.  ‘But Elessar and Arwen Undómiel had children – several of them.  And Faramir and Éowyn – and her brother and Lothíriel – and many of those I knew among men.’

‘Children of men,’ Nisimalotë said, slightly disapprovingly.  ‘Surely they cannot be compared?’

It took Legolas several minutes to reply, so that Nisimalotë had looked up enquiringly before he spoke.  ‘No naneth thinks any other child is comparable to her own,’ he said with painful politeness, ‘but, in truth, I see little difference.  Once the scars of war began to heal, there were elflings again in the woods of Ithilien.  Not many, but some, and I watched them grow.  The children of men mature to adulthood more swiftly, but they are no less worthy of love.’ 

‘Nobody means to upset you,’ Camentur intervened.  ‘We do not know.  How can we? You are talking about races we have never seen – outside books and stories.  If we ask questions that are stupid, I am sorry – but you will have to take them in the spirit they are meant.  We wish to learn.’

Nisimalotë watched the Wood Elf’s guarded face before moving her eyes to observe her sister-in-law.  Elerrina, too, looked … shuttered.  As if she would not say what was on her mind – too anxious to walk a careful rope over a drop that might claim her any moment to risk speech. 

‘Truly,’ Nisimalotë agreed.  ‘I have never seen as much as a drawing of a man – my atar would never let me read stories of the War of Wrath.  He did not think the knowledge suitable for a lady!’

‘Lady Celebrían has pictures of her grandchildren,’ Elerrina said softly.  ‘And their children – I am sure she would be pleased to show you images of the children of men.’

Nisimalotë blinked.  ‘I forget,’ she said, ‘that the High King’s granddaughter’s grandchildren were born men.’

‘Eldarion looked very like Súrion,’ Legolas told her.  ‘Small and dark-haired, with eyes as grey as Lord Elrond’s.  His ears were more rounded and his skin a little more flushed with colour – but he was just as perfect – and just as loved.’

She would make the ultimate effort to be conciliatory, Nisimalotë thought.  ‘Would you like to hold him?’ she asked.

***

Legolas brushed her hair back and bent his head to touch a very gentle kiss to her neck.  He sighed and drew back.

Her fingers stopped him, tangling in his hair, tensing in her reluctance to release him and she leaned closer to press her lips to his, to lose herself in the sweetness of this brief contact.  His clasp on her tightened and the banked fire within them began to break free.  Their kiss deepened, became hungry, fed on the offered fuel, began to flame…  They broke apart, breathing heavily, hastily forcing their barriers back in place.

‘I will not be ruled by my body’s claims of need,’ Elerrina said hoarsely.

‘Nor I.’ Legolas stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek briefly in apology.  ‘I am the master of my passions.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘Although it becomes ever more difficult to convince myself of that.’

‘What if my atar never agrees?’ Elerrina sounded despairing.  ‘I do not wish to bond without his blessing.’

‘It might be the only way.’  Legolas could understand her reluctance – he had passed enough nights gazing at the stars and wondering how Thranduil would react to his Noldo love, and had been relieved beyond measure when his adar had accepted her without question – but, on the other hand, they could not be expected to wait for ever.  The tentative intimacies of early love were no longer enough for them – both he and Elerrina wanted more.  They had waited – and courted – for so long that their fëar only awaited a spark to heat them into the white-hot alloy that was elven bonding.  And keeping their contact cool enough to prevent spontaneous combustion was … becoming a problem.

He yearned for her when they were apart – was distracted by the thought of her soft skin, her beech leaf hair, the sound of her voice.  He could feel her in his arms, warm and pliant – but no sooner were they in each other’s company than the reality of their need overcame them, and they spent their few hours together with as much space between them as they could manage, unable to deal with their reactions in any more satisfactory way.

‘I will speak to my amil,’ Elerrina promised.  ‘If anyone can persuade Atar…’

‘I do not feel she is much more enthusiastic than he is.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Elerrina allowed, ‘although I think that is largely because she dislikes seeing Atar upset.  But it is true that he will listen to her more than he will to anyone else.’

Legolas reached out to her again.  To be so close was an irresistible temptation.  ‘We will just hold each other,’ he said.  ‘No kissing.’

Elerrina hesitated for no more than a breath.  ‘It will not make any difference,’ she warned.  The tip of her tongue moistened her lips and Legolas closed his eyes rather than watch. ‘We will still want more than we can have.’  She stepped close enough to feel the warmth that radiated from him, breathing deeply to store the fragrance that was special to him, placing careful hands on his chest and resting her head on his shoulder.

‘We can be strong,’ he murmured, rubbing his cheek against her hair, as he enfolded her in his arms.  ‘We will not give in.  Not this day.’

Her body trembled against his as she laughed.  ‘You make it sound like a battle!’

‘A vow,’ he suggested.  ‘A vow sounds better – I would not battle you, my lady.’ He combed his fingers through her hair.  ‘For you, undoubtedly.  With you by my side, perhaps.’  He took time to breathe steadily.  Holding her felt so right.  He did not want ever to let her go.  ‘And victory approaches – whether your atar bends or breaks, my heart, our wait cannot endure much longer.’

Elerrina leaned back to look at him.  ‘Soon,’ she promised.  ‘If I have to go to the High King to ask him to override my atar’s demands, I will.  We have waited long enough.’