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Sweet Woodbine  by Bodkin

Communion

 

‘I have not been hiding anything!’ Finrod said emphatically.  ‘Had you asked me, I would have told you precisely what I knew – which is very little.’

His sister’s eyes bored into him, sharp as steel.  ‘You knew that there were lands to the west of the Pelori – and that Wood Elves were seeking to find a way across the mountains.’

He threw up his hands.  ‘You knew that much yourself!’ he snapped.  ‘And did you see any reason to inform me of what your Galadhel had found?’

‘Please…’  Celeborn kept his voice low and pleasant, but both combatants turned toward him.  ‘There is no point in squabbling.’

He looked better, Finrod thought.  More the kind of elf who could hold his imperious little sister’s attention than the shadow who had first stepped ashore.

Celeborn smiled.  ‘I take it you know little more than we do,’ he said.

‘Of what is happening now?’  Finrod tapped his fingers on the table’s cool surface.  ‘I know what I have been permitted to learn – and I suspect we are about the same.  Of what was…’ He frowned.  ‘While I suspect that the forests were always there, I know that the passes were not.’  He flicked a glance at Galadriel.  ‘You know how much time we spent spreading our wings across the lands of Aman.  Angrod climbed anything climbable, Celegorm rode with Oromë wherever there was anything to hunt, I wandered in search of adventure, Aegnor attempted to find the source of any river deep enough to support his canoe, Maglor was drawn to any new song … do you not think it odd that we never found this place beyond the mountains?’

‘Are you saying it was not there?’ Galadriel asked.

‘Not to be found,’ he amended.

‘Then you agree with Bórdain,’ Celeborn smiled.  ‘This place is intended for us.  A home for those of Ennor, here beyond the sea.’

‘What does Atar think?’ enquired Galadriel practically.  ‘If he thinks that these lands are his, then there could be a problem.’

Finrod grinned.  ‘Atar has enough to do with the Noldor who acknowledge him as king.  Although I am sure he would agree with my feeling that lands are not in themselves a problem, since they rarely demand anything of him.’

‘Very funny.’ His sister looked at him speculatively.  ‘Have you already sounded him out on the subject?’

‘What makes you think that I might have done that?’  Finrod raised an innocent eyebrow.  ‘It is none of my concern.’

‘Of course not,’ Galadriel agreed, honey-sweet.  She paused, ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

Finrod tilted his head at her and looked repressive.  She remained unmoved.  

Celeborn laughed.  ‘I had forgotten,’ he said, ‘what you were like.  You have been apart for far too long.’

‘And now I get the impression that my little sister wants to put a mountain range between us,’ Finrod complained.

‘It would give you an excuse to travel,’ she told him.

‘Who needs an excuse?’

‘Someone whose atar could keep his nose pinned to a desk for the next age!’

Finrod laughed and surrendered.  ‘He raised his eyebrows – just so…’ He demonstrated a look that made Galadriel nod, ‘and said it would need thought – and extensive discussion.  He refused to take the responsibility for making a judgment that would affect other sovereign kings, he said, without the direction of the Powers.’  He paused.  ‘I think that meant ‘yes’,’ he said.  ‘Although, perhaps, not yet.’  He grinned.  ‘He also added that I was to tell you enough to keep you off his back,’ he informed his sister.  ‘He said he did not need that on top of everything else.’

Galadriel smiled and came over to give her brother a kiss.  ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I will give him a few weeks to work out the details before I say anything.’

‘A few weeks?’ Celeborn shook his head.  ‘Generous of you, my lady.’

‘And then,’ she added calmly, ‘I will tell him what else we want.’

***

The banks of the river were crowded with families enjoying the spring sunshine, blankets spread like flags across the fresh sprouts of green grass, pinned down with baskets of food and full wine skins as their owners chased and played with joyful elflings, happy to escape the tedium of the rainy days indoors.

‘There they are,’ Elerrina said, shielding her eyes and pointing to the higher ground beyond the point where the swollen stream bullied its way down the rocky chute to join the deeper river.

‘How do you know?’  Legolas narrowed his eyes, but, although he could see plenty of elves on the broad banks, he could not pick out any particular family.

‘We always go up there, of course.’  Elerrina smiled at him saucily.  She had enjoyed her protracted visit to Tol Eressëa in the company of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían, certainly she had, but she had missed the delicious torment of Legolas’s company.   Even freedom from the pressure that always seemed to bear down on her in Tirion – or, to be truthful, anywhere when her parents were present – had not been worth the pain of being separated.  Seeing Legolas again warmed her.  ‘I waited so that I could show you the way.’

‘There is no proof that Nisimalotë will have chosen to settle in that exact same spot this time,’ he observed.

‘Wait and see.’

The path was narrow and steep and required a surprising amount of agility.  ‘They will not have brought a baby up here!’ Legolas took Elerrina’s elbow and relieved her of the basket she was carrying.  ‘They might drop him!’

‘He is not such a baby any more.’  Elerrina smiled at him and skipped easily up a jagged rock.  ‘He will have insisted on clambering up here on his own!  He is very adventurous – and as determined as his atar.’

The view from the top, Legolas thought, was more than worth the climb.  The stream tumbled down, pushed from side to side around great slabs and over smaller impediments, while the ordered fields of Tirion’s market gardens and leafing orchards stretched away on the far side.

‘I forget how hilly Tirion is,’ he observed.  ‘Somehow, my memory always flattens it – and dulls the colours.’

‘I never think of Alqualondë,’ she admitted, ‘without feeling the hot summer sun and screwing my eyes up against the blazing scarlet of the flowers against the white walls.’  She reached out to take back her basket.

‘Allow me,’ he said amiably.

‘Ellyn do not carry baskets,’ she warned him, shaking her head at him.

‘I will if I choose.’

She led him across the short grass, pausing only to take off her shoes and wriggle her toes in the springy turf.  She sighed – as if she, just as much as the boisterous elflings, was relishing the freshness of the bright day.

‘Here!’  A tall elleth stood and waved in their direction.

‘It is your amil,’ Legolas hissed.

Elerrina grinned at him.  ‘Of course,’ she said.  ‘It is a family picnic.  Would you not expect her to be here?’

‘And your atar?’

‘I would have thought so.’

Legolas assumed his most reproachful look.  ‘You could have warned me.’

‘You cannot avoid each other at all times,’ she said heartlessly.  ‘And this is as good a place for you to meet as any.  As close as we can manage to neutral ground.’

He had donned his diplomatic face by the time they approached the blue blanket, and smiled warmly at Nisimalotë and her husband’s amil.  ‘No Camentur?’ he asked, as he spread a green blanket beside the first and waited for Elerrina to settle herself.  ‘And is Taryatur not with you, Lady Linevendë?’

‘They will join us later,’ Linevendë said in her low voice.  ‘They were unable to get away as early as they had hoped.’

Taryatur had not wanted to spend any more time that he had to in the presence of the Wood Elf, Legolas translated silently, and Camentur was trying to convince his atar that he needed to put in an appearance.

‘And Súrion has decided to take an afternoon nap,’ Nisimalotë said with a shake of her head, ‘so you will have to be satisfied with our company!’

‘He has grown so big!’ Elerrina declared, inspecting the elfling, who lay sprawled at the edge of the blanket, covered with a soft shawl and clutching a piece of well-chewed cloth.

‘It is hard to keep up with him,’ his mother sighed.  ‘You missed seeing his first steps – and now he runs all over the place.  Only the other day, I was only just in time to keep him out of your workshop – there is no knowing what he will get it into his head to do next.’

Legolas laughed.  ‘I remember Arwen saying the same about Eldarion – only she was able to blame all his worst traits on his adar!  While Elladan and Elrohir nodded and cheered her on.  It is not always an advantage to be surrounded by those who have known you from infancy.’

Nisimalotë giggled.  ‘I have no difficulty in blaming Súrion’s mischief on his atar – not with his amil around to remind him of all the things he did when he was his son’s age!’

‘I have always understood that to be one of the chief pleasures of being an Andamil,’ Linevendë said solemnly as she offered Legolas a glass of wine. ‘That, and not having to clear up behind your grandchildren.’

Legolas grinned.  He had a feeling that he could get on with Elerrina’s naneth – in the absence of Taryatur, that was.  She had a sense of humour that appealed to him – and her devotion to her family was not a bad thing.  He was glad that Elerrina had grown up with a naneth like her to balance her adar’s prejudices.

‘Have something to eat,’ Nisimalotë suggested.  ‘We have brought far more than we need – and I really do not want to have to carry everything back down that path.  It is bad enough getting up here!’

Legolas was regretfully turning down Linevendë’s offer of a third slice of honey-cake when Nisimalotë turned to her bundled-up elfling to rouse him before he had over-indulged in sleep to the point where he would refuse to go to bed until the night was half-spent.  She lifted the basket she had spread with a cloth to keep the sun out of his face and let out a small tight screech of incredulous terror.

‘Where is he?’ Elerrina said sharply.  ‘He cannot have gone far!’

‘Breathe, Nisimalotë,’ Linevendë commanded.  ‘Elerrina is right – he cannot have gone far.  Someone would have noticed an elfling his age on his own.’ 

She dropped the wineskin she was holding, and Legolas stared, transfixed, at the puddle of red spreading across the bright blue cloth and his nostrils flared at the sharp vinegary smell. Time stretched and flexed, the actions of seconds seeming to take hours.

‘The stream,’ Nisimalotë whimpered.

‘I will take the stream,’ Legolas said decisively.  ‘Spread out – he should not be hard to find.’

‘I will come with you.’  Elerrina’s spread hand silenced his protest.  ‘It is the most dangerous place he could go – two pairs of eyes will be better than one.  Amil – you go back down the path.  He might have decided to go and look for his atar.  Nisimalotë – veer towards the trees – and tell everybody you pass.  The more people looking for him the better.’

Legolas had already moved.  This was not the best place for an elfling to be wandering unsupervised.  There were far too many dangers for a child barely old enough to be walking – none of which he would know to avoid. 

Elerrina bunched up her skirts and ran after the Wood Elf, ignoring the odd looks she received as she raked the area for the sight of a small child.  Even before she had time to reach the bank of the stream, she saw Legolas speed up and head towards a grassy overhang where a clump of trembling blue flowers clung to the very edge of the bank.  Squatting over them, a small ellon, a grimy cloth in his hand, reached out curious fingers.

Legolas stopped far enough back not to frighten the child into retreating.  ‘Come here, Súrion,’ he said coaxingly.  ‘Your amil has some honey-cakes for you.’

‘Flowers!’ the ellon declared, refusing to move until his prize was duly admired.

‘Very pretty flowers,’ Legolas agreed.  ‘Shall we go and tell Ammë about them?’

Súrion stood, but the trailing end of his cloth caught under his foot and the pull it exerted was just enough to tip him off-balance.  He staggered sideways, and, before Elerrina even had time to scream, he had disappeared over the edge into the swollen stream – and Legolas had followed him.

***

The water was cold.  Not as cold as snow-melt in the Forest River, but cold enough – and the child was limp in his arms.  Legolas tried to keep himself turned so that the rocks he could not avoid caught his shoulder rather than his head – and so that his arms could provide enough protection for the elfling’s delicate bones.  He tried to use his feet to direct their passage, but, however attractive the water looked, clearly the picnickers on the bank had never given much thought to the effect of the rocky stream bed on an elven body. 

His head dipped beneath the surface and the force of the rain-swollen water slammed his back against a hidden rock.   He choked on a mouthful of water as he could not contain a gasp.  If he was not much mistaken, that blow had broken his shoulder blade – and he could count himself lucky if he sustained no worse injury.

He hauled himself up, pulling Súrion’s head above the water, trying to gain some footing, but the rocks rolled and slipped beneath him, shoving him into a narrow gully where the water ran too fast for him to have any hope of escaping the current.

He kicked out, pushing himself and his precious burden away from a looming rock.  He could do nothing to get them out of here – it was as much as he could do to try to direct their path. The water was far too powerful to let him escape its clutches – not without the use of both his arms – possibly not even then.  He would have to try to ride it out and hope the current drove him towards the bank while he was still able to do something about it.

The water pushed him playfully, spinning him around and thrusting him against a rough protrusion that tore at his clothing before trapping his foot like a nutcracker and ripping off his boot. 

His arms numb with cold and bruised beyond feeling, he clutched more tightly at the child.  He was not losing this little one for the rocks to rip and torment.  His shin struck an edge that felt like a dwarven axe, and just briefly he saw a bloom of red before the water drove him on.

It was almost a relief when the stream dragged him below the surface and expelled them both to drop like thrown pebbles to the deep pool beneath the waterfall.  They sank, unable to fight the force of the water, until suddenly it spat them out, tired of the game.

He kicked feebly, determined to reach the bank, before letting strong arms pull him and the child from the indifferent pool to leave them dripping and choking on the shore.  He bent his head over the elfling, unable to stop coughing up water despite a pain he knew told of broken ribs, unable to release his hold.

He did not even notice the trembling hands that prised Súrion from his fierce grip.  He did not notice the starburst of pain from an injured wrist, or the blood that turned his fair hair crimson.  All he heard was a single voice, booming with unexpected clarity into the fog that surrounded him.

‘You will be all right,’ Taryatur’s voice assured him shakily.  ‘You will be all right. He lives.  You will both live.’

***

The healer was taking his time.  He was clearly determined not to miss even the most insignificant scratch, Legolas thought wearily, yet he seemed reluctant to address some of the rather more pressing issues.

‘You might,’ he said, ‘have just have achieved the distinction of having been the first healer from whom I have demanded pain relief.  Have you no willow-bark?  No poppy?  In general, healers thrust their evil potions down your throat long before you would consider asking for them.’

‘I cannot dose you until I am certain you have done your head no serious injury,’ the healer informed him somewhat pompously.  ‘Although I see you have some experience of the healing arts.’

‘From the point of view of the victim,’ Legolas said dryly.

Taryatur stood at the end of the bed, his hands clutching the polished wooden rail, staring intently as if that would improve the quality of the healer’s care.  Legolas would have shifted under his gaze – except so much movement was simply too painful.

‘How is Súrion?’ Anything, Legolas thought, to divert his Andatar’s attention.

‘He is surprisingly well,’ the healer pronounced.  ‘Once he brought back the water from his stomach and lungs, he was hard to keep still – bruised, of course, and crying for his amil, but nothing broken.  He is not out of danger – he might yet develop the lung-sickness – but the signs are good.  And with proper care…’

‘Thanks to you,’ Taryatur interrupted.

‘What else could I do?’ Legolas said.  ‘I could not let a child come to harm if I could prevent it.’

Taryatur’s eyes were dark as he studied the blood-stained figure on the bed.  ‘There are many who would have hesitated,’ he said, ‘until it was too late to save him.’

‘If there is one good thing to be said for battle,’ Legolas commented wearily, ‘it is that it teaches you that there are occasions when you do not have time to weigh up the odds.  Sometimes you just have to make a snap judgment and go with it.’

‘I think you had better wait outside!’  The healer sounded outraged.  ‘My patient is in no condition for conversation.’

A faint smile touched Legolas’s pale lips.  ‘I am in no condition for healing, either.’

A bustle of movement outside the window caught Taryatur’s attention.  ‘Camentur rode for Lord Elrond,’ he said.  ‘He has more experience of battle injuries than any healer trained in the Blessed Realm can boast.’

The healer stiffened.  ‘Are you saying you consider my skills inadequate for the task?’ he demanded. 

‘I am sure you are more than competent,’ Taryatur said impatiently, ‘but you are clearly not very swift – as Lord Legolas is still lying there with his wounds not yet dressed.’

The healer inhaled to refute the insult, but before he could get a word out, the door opened, giving Legolas a glimpse of Elerrina hovering outside.  Elrond swept in, accompanied by a dark-haired elleth, her hair in tidy braids.  His eyes swept the room, registering that his patient was fully conscious and apparently aware, before turning to the healer, fixing him with a stare.

‘What have you done so far?’ he asked.

The healer flushed.  ‘Cleaned the wounds,’ he said briefly.  ‘Assessed for head injury.  He has broken ribs, a broken tibia and I suspect he has fractured his ankle.  His wrist – perhaps.  There are several gashes that require sutures.’

‘The child?’

‘Is recovering.’

Elrond looked at him meditatively.  ‘I expect you are anxious to review his condition,’ he suggested.

The healer took a moment to decide whether to be outraged or to accept the offer of a graceful withdrawal.  ‘I would be glad to surrender Lord Legolas to your care,’ he said, ‘in order to check on the child.  The little one should be watched carefully for the next few days.’

Taryatur forced his fingers to release the rail.  ‘I will take you to my grandson,’ he said.  ‘Thank you for coming, Lord Elrond.  I appreciate it.’

Elrond inclined his head as they left, before turning to Legolas and lifting a quizzical eyebrow.

The young healer opened a green case and uncorked a phial, measuring a few drops into a small measure of water.  She glanced at Elrond in silent consultation. His nod confirmed her decision, and she offered the glass to Legolas.

He accepted it.  ‘I am issuing a token protest, Miriwen,’ he said swallowing the concoction.  ‘For the sake of consistency.  There is no need to drug me.’

‘Of course not,’ the elleth said amiably.  ‘You are a warrior and accustomed to pain.  But humour us.  We would so much rather work on you without having to listen to your screams.’

‘Well…’ Legolas’s voice became slower.  ‘If it is for your convenience, I do not mind co-operating – just this once.’

‘Good for you, Thranduilion,’ Elrond said gently.  ‘Now you rest and let us deal with the damage.’

***

‘You must eat.’ Linevendë placed a plate in Taryatur’s unwilling hands.  ‘Even if it is only a bite of cheese and an apple.’  She looked at him anxiously.  ‘Súrion is better – his fever is down and he is becoming grumpy rather than limp.  You cannot have a better sign of recovery than that.’

‘I am going to have to consent,’ Taryatur muttered, ignoring both the plate and his wife’s words.  ‘I cannot in all fairness continue to resist.’  He averted his eyes, staring at the inconsiderately beautiful day outside the window.  ‘He risked his own life to save our grandson – I cannot continue to say that he is unworthy of our daughter’s hand.’

Linevendë reached her hand back and grasped the arm of a chair, dragging it forward so that she could sit where she stood.  ‘No,’ she said simply.

Her husband looked at her briefly in irritation before turning back to the view of the outside world.  ‘He is unworthy,’ he declared.  ‘And I have the same doubts about the scars that long years of war and shadow have left on him.’

‘He has shown that he will offer himself willingly to protect the defenceless,’ Linevendë observed carefully.  ‘He has shown that he is an elf of selfless courage and high principles.  Perhaps this will not turn out as badly as you fear.’  She watched him struggle with the thought.  ‘And it is better to appear to keep some form of control, my love.  You would not be able to hold them apart much longer anyway.  If you consent now,’ she took a deep breath, ‘you make it look like your decision.’

‘I do not want to approach him,’ her husband grumbled.

‘Perhaps that will not be necessary.’  Linevendë considered briefly.  ‘You could offer him any reward of his choice in honour of his courage.  He is not a fool – he would immediately ask your consent, and you would merely have to nod.  He would be the supplicant – and you would be the one to grant his request.’

‘Sophistry,’ Taryatur snorted.

‘Undoubtedly,’ she agreed.  ‘But your words will have let him know that his suit will receive a positive answer – and it is a matter of form that the petition should come from him.’

Taryatur growled.

‘He is awake,’ Linevendë told him, trying to conceal the sparkle in her eyes.  ‘I should get it over with, if I were you.  Perhaps once you have this off your mind, you will be able to eat again.’  She stood decisively and removed the plate from his lap.  ‘You know what you must do – putting off will only make it worse.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Taryatur rose to his feet and straightened his tunic.  He looked at his wife pleadingly as if requesting her to come up with some better solution, but, as she remained unmoved, he sighed and walked towards the door.  He turned briefly as he pulled it to behind him, but she offered him nothing but a slight encouraging smile.

She sat down again rather heavily, keeping her eyes on the door and willing him on, before allowing a slightly hysterical laugh to escape.  He was like a little ellon, she thought, summoned to an unpleasant interview with his atar as a result of some serious misconduct and looking to his amil to save him.  Only she would not – this interview was long overdue.  She closed her eyes and sighed.  She could not pretend to believe that this would solve all the difficulties, but at least it was a start.

***

From the willing shelter of the oak, Litheredh watched the small group of brightly-clad Noldor swig from their wineskins.  He shook his head slightly.  He had always thought of the Blessed Realm – as much as he had ever thought of it – as a good place for the young to grow.  Safe from the threat of spiders and orcs, free of the danger of an encroaching dark, it had seemed a place of bliss.  But, since he had been inveigled into working at Thranduilion’s side, he had come to look at it in a different way.  Perhaps there was something that was too safe, too self-indulgent.  These youngsters had grown expecting everything they wanted to be available to them on demand – and had proved themselves to be demanding indeed – before they then had decided to provide their own excitements to replace those that came from outside. 

Listen to him!  Litheredh grinned.  He must be growing old if he was harping back to the old days and telling anyone who would listen how much better it had been when neighbours stood shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy and shared what little they had.

But there must be a middle way.  He would not want to have these cosseted children experience the pain of battle and the grief of loss – but neither would he choose to raise elflings of his own in this indulged ignorance.  Too much money, he thought, too much time and too little work.  You did not catch those who had to labour for their daily bread indulging in such pointless games.  These were the pampered offspring of powerful houses, ellyn who had nothing to do but live on their ancestral lands and spend their ancestral hoards. 

‘Tarannon!’ one of the youths protested.  ‘Do you not find it disgusting?  For all he claims to be a prince, he is Moriquendi!  One of us should not be allying herself with them!  They will start a line of half-breeds.’

‘Not as bad as the mongrels that are Lady Artanis’s descendants.’  A broader-shouldered ellon curled his lip in disgust.  ‘They are not even half-breed.  Quarter-breed – or less.  The blood of men – here in Aman.  They should never have been allowed to set foot on the blessed shores.’

Litheredh raised an eyebrow.  That was a face he should make a point of remembering.  Although, if its owner repeated that remark too often, he would not guarantee that the nose would continue to look quite as undamaged as it did at present.

‘We can do something about it – if we devote ourselves to the cause.’ 

The green elf’s eyes lingered on the last speaker.  Deceptive, he was.  Smooth and poisonous.  One who was not straightforward even in scheming – and not what he pretended to be, either.  Faintly familiar, too, even though Litheredh was pretty sure he had never seen the elf before.

‘We will not be able to put a spoke in this match,’ a grumpy voice complained.  ‘Not now her fool atar has consented.’

‘The Wood Elf is welcome to her – she is blood-kin to the Kinslayers, remember, and no right-minded Noldo would want to ally himself with that line, for all Lord Aulë has said to defend them.  It is not that – it is a sign.’  The one named Tarannon drew himself up impressively.  ‘They are many – the land is littered with enclaves of Wood Elves who all look to Thranduil as their king and they are ruthless trained killers.  Once he gets them together, how much more will they take?  We cannot let them have everything their own way!’

Litheredh sighed.  It would seem that this was a hydra that would raise its head every century or so and need suppressing firmly before it got out of hand.  Perhaps the time had come for Finarfin to have another cull of the reckless brats of his ever-present courtiers – the distant outposts of his realm must be in need of more petty bureaucrats just as much as these fools were in need of useful occupation.

He really did not think he could stand listening to any more – and there was little he could do anyway, other than ensure that this particular group was broken up and scattered.  It hardly seemed worth the effort – one head removed only seemed to inspire a hundred more.  He would rather leave them to drink themselves into a stupor – by which time they would have forgotten most of what had been said, and be more concerned with finding a hangover cure than plotting against anything.  He shook his head again.  Blind fools, he thought – but more mouth than action, this lot, and too soft to be dangerous.

***

The silver ring slid over his knuckle easily, clasping his finger as if it was always meant to be there.  He balanced on one foot, using the splinted leg as little as possible.  Thranduil had told him in exasperation that the betrothal would be just as valid whether he were standing, sitting or hanging upside down from the talons of an eagle.  He had laughed, but not yielded.  He was going to exchange rings with Elerrina in the proper and most conventional manner.  Even, he grinned ruefully, if splints, slings and sutures were not exactly standard.  And he had no intention of waiting – Taryatur had given his consent, and Legolas was going to hold him to it.  The ceremony would take place at once, before the Noldo could come up with some excuse for delaying it.

Elerrina slipped her left hand under his elbow, supporting and steadying him, and he grinned joyfully at her.  His betrothed.  One year – a single year – and he would make her his wife. 

He took her right hand in his uninjured one and raised it to his lips, smoothing his thumb over the matching ring on her finger possessively.

‘I will not go away,’ Elerrina said.

His smile widened.   ‘I will hold you that,’ he murmured and her clasp on his fingers tightened.  He could drown in the sea-green of her eyes, he though, sink into them and never emerge.  Gradually his head inclined towards her as they lost themselves in the moment.

‘Not now.’  Thranduil took gentle hold of his son’s arm and guided him firmly back to the padded chair that had been arranged for him.  Amusement warmed his voice, but he kept his tone firm – much as you would when addressing a puppy, he thought in passing.  ‘You need to wait until you are formally bonded to get that close!’  His stomach tensed at the look of dazed contentment on Legolas’s face.  It seemed only a few years ago that the touch of Laerwen’s hand had brought the same mindless look to his face.  It was just as well that betrothals lasted no more than a year – those who had just promised themselves to each other were of no use to anyone until the initial euphoria wore off.

Elerrina swayed slightly and touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, feeling slightly cheated.  Her amil slipped an arm round her waist and embraced her comfortingly, even as the celebration came to life round them.  ‘It is a deeply emotional moment,’ she said softly in her daughter’s ear.  ‘It is best to separate yourselves for a few moments – until you are once more in control.’  She smiled rather sadly.  ‘You will find that you feel slightly – different,’ she said.  ‘Closer to Legolas – more aware of his feelings, even when you are apart.’  She raised a finger when Elerrina showed signs of speaking.  ‘A bond is growing between you – but it is a time of discovery, of learning, of setting foundations.  Do not force it.  A year will pass swiftly enough.’

Standing just within earshot, Camentur leaned closer to Nisimalotë’s ear.  ‘Although that is easier said than done,’ he murmured.

She elbowed him in the ribs, so that he turned to look at her reproachfully.  ‘They have had plenty of practice,’ she said heartlessly.  ‘And Elerrina is more controlled than her brother, that is for sure.’

‘Cruel elleth,’ he accused her.  ‘Heartless.  No matter what I tried, you would not give in.’

She smirked.  ‘It is an elleth’s task – to make you wait!  It is the last thing she owes her family before she joins her husband’s house.’  Her smile changed and became gentler as she looked at Camentur.  ‘Legolas deserves this,’ she said.  ‘I will never be able to thank him enough for our son’s life.’   

Camentur closed his hand round her arm comfortingly.  ‘Never,’ he agreed.

Thranduil kept his hand on his son’s wrist as he propped him up among the forest of cushions.  ‘Do you need some willow-bark?’ he said anxiously.  ‘You should really be in bed.’

‘Maybe later.’  Legolas looked as if he was suffering the effects of a blow to the head.  ‘Just at the moment my whole being is … buzzing.  I am certainly feeling no pain.’

Unlike his betrothed’s adar.  Thranduil looked up to meet the rain-dark eyes of the Noldo with grave understanding before the older elf turned away, his pale face as blank as he could make it.

***

Elerrina riddled the furnace, causing the final embers to flare again to glowing heat, but she had finished for the day and her collection of completed pieces sat waiting for her to examine them for flaws – and to see if they had really turned out as well as she thought they had.

‘May I enter?’  Taryatur hovered in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the floor, but reluctant to step across the threshold.

‘When have you ever had to ask?’ she said affectionately.  ‘You are my atar – no matter what has happened.  No matter what may happen in the future.’

‘Will he let you continue your work with glass?’ Taryatur picked up one of the larger pieces and held it to the light.  ‘Interesting combination of colours.’

‘He?’  Elerrina smiled.  ‘His name is Legolas, Atar.  It is not that hard to say.’

‘Will Legolas be happy for you to spend your time in the workshop?  I do not think Wood Elves are very enthusiastic about such work.’

Elerrina stood up and wound her arms round her atar, kissing his cheek gently.  ‘He is proud of what I do, Atar – just as you are.’ She rested her head on his shoulder and inhaled the scents that always spoke to her of comfort and love.  ‘You are not so different, you know.’

He would debate that, Taryatur frowned, stroking his hand over his daughter’s long braid – or would he?  Should he not be proud to show qualities like those that saved his grandson?  He sighed.  ‘He is under the care of Lord Aulë, that is for sure.  And Lady Yavanna takes an interest in his fortune.  I suppose that, if nothing else, should have warned me that he would get his own way.’

A soft giggle made Elerrina’s shoulders shake and he found the sound comforting.  It had been a long time since she had been happy enough to laugh.  ‘He is very determined,’ she admitted, ‘and I have inherited your stubbornness.  You were never going to find it easy to convince us that you were right.’

‘I was never trying to make you unhappy, child.’  It seemed important to try to make her realise that.  ‘All I have ever wanted is what is best for you.’

‘I will not be far away,’ Elerrina consoled him.  ‘It is less than a day’s ride to the house where Legolas and his adar dwell.  Attending Lady Galadriel has taken me further from home for months at a time.’

‘Ah,’ he touched a finger to her nose, ‘but the difference is that you will be hi… Legolas’s wife first and my daughter second.’  He met her enquiring look steadily and sighed.  ‘Which is as it should be.  Life is a road – and we must tread it to the end.’  He rested his cheek on the top of her head and held her close for a long moment before letting her go.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘You amil tells me that he – Legolas – is coming to dine with us … and I believe that she and Nisimalotë wish to make some very important decisions about this important occasion that is looming over us – and we poor fools of ellyn are left with nothing to do but await our instructions.’

‘Oh, Atar!’  Elerrina protested, taking his hand in hers.  ‘It will not be as bad as all that.’

‘Maybe not,’ he replied, with forced cheerfulness.  ‘Maybe not – it remains to be seen – and only looking back will let us know the outcomes.’ 

 





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