Chapter 5 – Calm Before the Storm

Upon arrival at the Houses, Legolas and Hirilian were admitted into Belecthor’s room where they were greeted by the sound of happy laughter and lively conversation. There, leaning his forearms on the back of the chair he straddled, pushed as close to Belecthor’s bed as possible, was Ceorl.

Both young men looked up at the entrance of the pair. Ceorl hurriedly sprang from his chair and bowed his head slightly in deference to both the Prince and the Lady.

"Legolas! Mae govannen, hir nîn!" Belecthor cried, his smile widening with surprise.

"Good afternoon, Belecthor," Legolas answered, drawing nearer the bed and releasing Hirilian’s hand. "At ease, Ceorl, my friend. There need be no formalities at the moment." After favoring the young soldier with a smile and a friendly slap on the shoulder, he turned his attention back to Belecthor. "Are you feeling well, my reckless young lord?"

"Very well," Belecthor answered with a sardonic grin. "And yourself? If I have heard correctly you are here to offer your life to Éomer King yet again. Really Legolas, among the degyr of Lasgalen, Gondor and Rohan, it is a wonder you are still alive. Some might call you a warmonger."

"My father has often wished to, I am sure, but he knows that would border on hypocrisy. He spends sleepless nights worrying for me, I have been told. But yes, I am here to offer my services to the king, and he has accepted. I came to look in on you before my return journey in the morn. Tell me, will you be well enough for your mother to allow you to join us in the coming fight? Or do you know?"

"Knowing my mother and the way she feels about me in a battle, she will no doubt try to keep me at home, but we shall see whether she succeeds," Belecthor answered grimly, his eyes glinting with the old war light Legolas had seen in those of the young man’s grandmother, Lady Éowyn of Rohan. The kindred spirit lived on, though the years passed.

He turned to Ceorl. "And what of you, son of Aldor? Will you be in the front lines with us?"

"Orders permitting, I would be proud to serve in the front with you, my Lord. I would give my life in the service of king and country, as I have sworn. All I ask is that my mother be taken care of should my father or myself fall in the front lines."

"Such a small request is easily fulfilled. I myself would see to it, should the unfortunate opportunity arise," the noble Prince replied.

"You would?" Ceorl asked, amazed that a Prince of the Elves would show such concern for the bereaved kin of an obscure Rohirric warrior.

"Gweston," Legolas affirmed.

"You, men," Hirilian said derisively, teasingly including the Elf under the heading, "all you can think about is war and death. Come, let us talk of brighter prospects; the day is waning."

With the conversation now turned down more genial lanes, they remained there visiting happily for some time before Narion and the remainder of his family arrived.

"Legolas, mellon nîn!" Morwen cried in delight as she entered, closely followed by similar exclamations from her parents. "(What are you doing in Rohan? I believed you to be in Ithilien!)" 

Narion, remembering proper royal etiquette despite his surprise, bowed slightly, reminding Lady Annariel to give a quick curtsey. "How are you, Legolas?" Narion inquired, smiling as his youngest daughter enveloped the Elf in a chaste embrace.

"I am well, Narion," Legolas answered, releasing Morwen and offering his hand to his friend. "To answer your daughter’s inquiry, I have come to offer my allegiance to Rohan’s king. I shall be leaving in the morning. I trust you are here to take young Belecthor home?"

"True enough," Narion affirmed, taking Legolas’ hand in his own. "The Warden tells us that he is well enough to walk for himself."

"I should say so!" piped up Belecthor from his place in bed as he kicked off the covers. "I have been here lying useless in this bed for two days and I am well ready to escape."

"Do not exaggerate, Belec," Hirilian laughed, helping her older brother to stand. "You have only been here for one day. Ceorl, could you assist me, please?" she requested as she struggled to keep Belecthor from reopening any of his freshly healed wounds in his hurry.

Between the two of them they managed to stand him up on his own feet. "You see?" he asked rather cockily, "I can stand on my own; let go of me you two," but when they released him he swayed uncertainly and was obliged to lean on Ceorl, a hand on his throbbing head.

Narion laughed at him, paternal love and pride lighting his eyes.. "You must learn to take things slowly, my son. It would seem that you will have to accompany us, Ceorl," he smiled.

"It would be my pleasure," Ceorl answered with a grin, trying not to laugh at his newfound friend.

The return journey was a cheerful affair as they made their way through the streets of the town, laughing and telling tales of years past and friends gone before. As they reached the palace Legolas excused himself from the laughing coterie and retired to his room to wash and change before dinner. Once there, a look in the mirror told him that he had also better redo his hair. Belain, it was a mess.

As he washed, he reflected on his friends from Ithilien. They were a very happy, close-knit family, true enough, but what would become of them if Narion were one day to lead his men into battle and fall, never to rise again? What would become of them should one of their children fall victim to an enemy arrow more fatal than those already encountered?

He remembered his dear friend Nilmar’s older brother Daeron who had fallen in battle while defending the palace, indeed in Legolas’ own room. He remembered the stories he had been told of his cousin, Celebrin, whom he had never met, who went into battle at an early age and fell in the Last Alliance. He remembered many of his companions among the hosts of the Lasgalenath who had been slain in the field.

He remembered his own mother, a wonderful woman, full of love and compassion but one who could hold her own with a blade. The ladies of his country had once defended their homes against hordes of the enemy that had bypassed the Elven front lines and continued on to assault the palace and homes defended by little more than maidens and their mothers.

The attack had been repulsed, but only with the loss of many lives, far too many. He well remembered seeing his mother, foul orcish blood staining her clothing and the dagger in her hand, her golden hair hanging in wisps about her lovely yet frightened face. It had terrified her, sending both her husband and her son into the fray, and when the enemy attacked the palace, seemingly with no resistance from the front, she had feared the worst.

Only when she had seen both Thranduil and their son alive, albeit wounded and covered in gore, had she begun to relax; but she had never recovered from the fright of nearly loosing both of them and seeing Thranduil with splintered arrow shafts buried in his shoulder and leg. She had soon afterwards left them for the Blessed Realm, taking with her many others from their land, among them – reluctantly – Legolas’ own betrothed.

He vividly remembered how awfully alone he had felt after they had gone, a loneliness only solaced by the compassion of his father. They had grown ever closer, father and son, during the long years in memory of loved ones lost.

He also remembered how desolate and empty he had felt at times while traveling with the Fellowship. He had known that back home his father was also feeling bereft while they were parted, neither knowing the fate of the other. Thranduil had been loath to allow him to go on the journey to Mordor, and Legolas well understood his reasons.

He would not wish the loss of a loved one on anyone, not his mortal friends whose time was short enough as it was, but especially not on his father who had suffered the loss of so many during his life, including his own father to the sword, his mother and his wife to Valinor, several childhood friends to war, his grandparents to the blades of Kinslayers, and the list went on.

Throwing his towel across the room in his frustration, Legolas watched as it hit the wall and slid down to the bed. He turned back to the mirror, leaning heavily on the basin. When would the wars cease? When would the pain of death forbear? It had been decades since he had first heard the call of the West, but he had stifled it, placing the needs of his friends and father before his own, and it was beginning to wear on him. He knew that one day, the dike would burst and he would be content in Middle-Earth no longer.

Looking down he found that he was gripping the edge of the basin with white knuckles. He took a deep breath, slowly released his grip, went to pick out a clean shirt for dinner.

Until that time he would remain, and it did his peace of mind no good to linger on the subject more than was absolutely necessary. His stomach growled in a very un-elfly manner, reminding him tersely that he had not had a decent meal for several days, and if he did not hurry he would be late for dinner.

He re-braided his hair, fastened his vambraces in place, tightened his belt and, taking one of his knives with him, headed down the corridor towards the banquet hall, his hunger increasing with every step as the smell of roast meat wafted down the hall towards him.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Mae govannen, hir nîn! ~ Well met, my lord

degyr ~ battles

Gweston ~ I swear

mellon nîn ~ my friend