Burdens Born, Burdens Borne
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Synopsis: Legolas learns the
consequences of oaths long ago sworn
Pairing(s): Elrond/Legolas
Rating: PG 13
Archive: On official list
archives only please!
Not mine, no harm intended,
the sheep are lying through their teeth! Thanks to Emma for the beta
job.
Comments are always cherished
(elrond@ithilas.com)
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“All that is gold does not
glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”
-- JRRT
[Tuile 32, the year 2757 of
the Third Age, Imladris]
Anor’s golden rays gently kissed
the distant, snow-crowned tops of the mountains, welcoming the
beginning of a
new day, but the solitary rider paid no heed to the beauty of the
scene.
Instead he strained his eyes ahead, up the narrow path, eager for his
very
first sight of the hidden valley which owned his heart. The trees were
pregnant
with the greenery of their leaves, Tuile clearly in full bloom. He was
a full
cycle of Ithil’s phases late in arriving – nay, slightly more -- after
his
annual passage of Hrive’s chill and Coire’s silent promise of renewal
in his
father’s realm. Since he had left Imladris a full cycle of phases
earlier than
he had wished, it all added up to far too long a time away from his
beloved.
<<Yrch, may they be wiped from the face of Arda,>> he
silently
growled to himself. They grew bolder with each passage of seasons, and
threatened both Imladris and Mirkwood with increasingly fierce
incursions. The
prince found himself torn between his all-encompassing love for the
Lord of the
Valley and his deeply-felt duty to his father and his forest. He knew
Elrond
would not wish for him to return to their bed until all his familial
tasks were
completed. <<He has the patience of the onodrim, should any still
exist
in this foul age.>>
Thranduil would not normally
suffer any member of his household to ride alone in these increasingly
treacherous
times, but Legolas had couched it cleverly enough – one last sortie he
could
lead, as his temporary escort and he could clear the Old Forest Road and the plains between Lord Elrond’s land
and their
own. Once reaching the crest of the mountains, he had sent his
companions home
and took the speediest path known down to the haven of the Bruinen’s
cascades,
knowing his steed had the fleetest feet of all the forest’s stables. He
was
impatient as always to see that which he held most dear, most fair,
most
desirable. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that his bow would be
sorely
missed in the sorties to come, yet could not deny the calling of his
heart.
<<Perhaps I will ask the twins to ride with me when I return
home. Surely
between us we can shed enough yrch blood to make the foul creatures
steer clear
of our borders for the passing of many days.>>
Sharing a wave of recognition
with the patrolling sentries, he galloped through the stone arch, his
horse
apparently sharing his enthusiasm for their return to the valley.
Springing
from his saddle, he patted the faithful steed and handed the beast over
to the
able care of Imladris’ stable master. With urgent footsteps, he
sprinted up to
Elrond’s private chambers but found them strangely empty. More
troubling still,
despite the early hour, Elrond’s bed showed no signs of having been
occupied
the night before, or perhaps longer still.
<<Something is surely amiss
in Imladris.>> The clarion of concern rang through him. He could
feel it
in the air, as if the valley were holding its collective breath. Yet
the sentry
had given no clue of trouble, nor had the stable master. The few of
Imladris’
citizens that he encountered greeted him with a sincere smile and a
slight bow
of welcome, but nothing else.
His apprehension now greatly
heightened, with heart pounding in his chest, he bounded down the stone
steps
two at a time, down to the lower chambers. He found the great library
empty, as
had been the smaller private one above. He ran into the Hall of
Remembrance and
stopped at the entrance. It was an eerie place where he somehow felt
out of
place with its artifacts and airs of the Second Age, including the
shattered shards
of Narsil. This place was deserted as well, but something unexpected
stopped
the elf in his tracks just as he was about to depart. Something was
most
definitely changed – new – and it took a moment for him to discern what
exactly
it was.
Another mural had been added
to those already recounting the valor of elves and men. <<Elrohir
has
been busy,>> he mused to himself, studying the new addition in
the pale
light of the dawn. With pained eyes he drank in the vision portrayed in
pigment. It was exquisitely rendered, as were all the works the
talented twin
had reverently rendered upon the walls. The scene was unmistakable to
any who
had heard the tales of Sauron’s fall – Isildur, Heir of Numenor,
holding Narsil
menacingly before the Dark Lord, the broken and battered bodies of his
sire and
the High King strewn like discarded husks upon the cruel stone ground.
A shudder ran through the prince,
his eyes uncomfortably drawn to the black helmet of the Dark Lord
despite his
sincere wish to look away. He knew Sauron was somehow responsible for
the evil
which increasingly infected his homeland, the spiders and yrch and foul
beasts
unnamable -- the spawn and minions of Mordor. Isildur may have reduced
Sauron’s
power, for a time, but the stain of evil had not been removed from
Middle-earth.
Now the yrch boldly pressed upon his father’s lands, from the west and
south,
no doubt associated with the mysterious Necromancer of Dol Guldur. He
had heard
his father whisper of the rumors of the identity of the Dark Spirit
which
infected his kingdom, and his own, more dreadful suspicions. For
although the
name of the Witch King was most often attached to the unseen denizen of
the
haunted tower, Thranduil – and now his son – thought it was a more
sinister
power still. As Legolas studied in anger and fear the iron armor
masterfully
reproduced before him, he was more certain than ever that the very
black
hearted enemy who caused the deaths of his grandsire – and the High
King – now
threatened the realms of his father and his lover – the home of his
birth and
that of his heart.
He lowered his gaze to the
image of Gil-galad, unmistakable by his gleaming armor and the starred
symbol
of his house set upon his chest. His face was unseen, nay shadowed, but
Legolas
knew the horrible truth from tales of his childhood. The High King had
been
seared by the fires of the enemy and nearly reduced to ashes, a
horrific sight
which none who witnessed it could ever hope to forget. Thranduil had
not
mentioned the Last Alliance on more than a handful of occasions, but
some of
Legolas’ tutors had fought at Oropher’s side on the Plain of Dagorlad
and had
stood beside Legolas’ grandsire when he fell before the Black Gates. It
was
from them that the prince had learned of the terror and turmoil of
those
seemingly hopeless days, and of the fall of the king of the Noldor.
Elrohir had been as gentle as
he could in the rendering of this sorrowful event, yet remained true to
the
spirit of this brief moment of defiance and bittersweet triumph.
Legolas
wondered how Elrond could bear to look upon the painting, a constant
reminder
of that which was most precious, now lost. So engrossed was the prince
in his
perusal of the portrait that he paid no heed to approaching elvish
footsteps.
“You return to us in a
bittersweet moment,” a familiar, lyrical voice softly spoke.
Legolas turned toward the
sound, his forehead creased with lines of concern. “Glorfindel, what is
amiss?”
The ancient elf lord smiled
sadly. “Nothing, except the continued pains of the past.” He paused,
his eyes
obviously drawn to his hervenn’s most recent artwork. “And perhaps the
promise
of the future.” He gestured to the wall with one hand. “Elrohir rushed
to
complete this before the day arrived. I would expect the paint is still
damp to
the touch.”
What concern the prince had
felt before now blossomed into near panic. “What day – what has
happened?”
Before an answer could be given, the sharp, shrill cry of a newborn
infant
filled the halls, echoing off the stonework. “A child has been born
this day,”
Legolas correctly surmised in an awed whisper.
Glorfindel nodded slightly.
“Yes, a child has been born, shortly before Anor’s arrival.”
“Lord Elrond has attended to
the birth,” Legolas murmured, now understanding well the emptiness of
his
beloved’s bed.
“Yes.”
The soft whimpering of infant
cries coming closer caught the elves’ ears, the blond elves turning
toward the
sound seldom heard in these halls.
Elrond leisurely entered the
chamber, a bundle wrapped in a silvery blanket carefully cradled within
his
arms. His face seemed equal parts relief and concern when his eyes
instantly spied
Legolas standing before him. “Malthenel-nin, you return,” he wearily
offered.
“Yes. I would have arrived
sooner, but I had yrch to attend to.” The prince took steps to meet his
lover, a
smile instinctively blossoming at the sight of the squirming bundle
uneasily
held in his lover’s arms. “It appears I arrived just in time.” He
reached out a
hand and carefully extended a finger toward the infant’s face. A tiny
hand
reached out and instantly grasped the offered digit, claiming it with
unexpected strength. The blanket fell back from the child’s head and
Legolas
gasped sharply at what he now knew to be true. “This is a firen child –
born in
Imladris?”
Elrond and Glorfindel
exchanged a knowing expression, and the blond lord took this obvious
cue to silently
slip from the room. “Not any firen child, meleth-nin.” Elrond gazed at
the
newly finished painting, his eyes reflecting a depth of sorrow Legolas
had not
seen in many years, and never wished to see again. “The newest heir of
Isildur
– Argonui, son of Arathorn. Born in my house, as was his father before
him, to
be fostered here in Imladris, under my protection until reaching the
age of
majority.”
“I had no idea the house of
Isildur was still so close to Imladris.”
“Yes,” Elrond resignedly
answered, the weight of this day’s events hanging on his words. “In
fulfillment
of an oath I swore, a long time ago.” His eyes clearly trained on the
High
King’s shattered form, the hint of moisture gathering in the corners of
his
eyes. “An oath I swore to my King,” he whispered.
Legolas gently extracted his
finger from the babe’s grasp and stood beside Elrond, wrapping an arm
protectively around his lover’s waist. “To your hervenn,” he added
reverently.
“Then ‘tis an oath we must keep, at all cost.”
With an eyebrow arched
skyward, Elrond studied his lover’s face with a quizzical expression.
“We?”
Pressing a kiss onto his
beloved’s cheek, Legolas smiled, adding his own rays of light to the
hues of
Anor which now filled the solemn chamber. “Your burdens are now mine,
Ithilas.
Together we will bear them and they shall feel all the lighter in the
sharing.”
“I cannot allow you to do
this,” Elrond strongly protested. “’Tis my burden – one of many.”
“And I freely share the pain
and responsibility of all your burdens.”
Knowing he could no sooner
dissuade the stubborn prince from his task than he could prevent the
arrival of
the dawn, he sighed in reluctant defeat. “If it were only that simple.”
“’Tis.” Legolas bent slightly
and pressed a tender kiss upon the infant’s forehead. “Le gweston, esta
caer-lin, caer-nin.” He tilted up his chin and pressed an equally
gentle kiss
upon Elrond’s worry-creased forehead. “Caer-men.” The infant cooed
slightly and
wiggled in seeming approval of Legolas’ attention, and perhaps
demanding more
of the same. The elves chuckled together, returning their consideration
to the
continuation of Isildur’s line. The prince stroked the infant’s rosy
cheek,
wondering at the petal softness of the newborn’s skin. “I somehow do
not
believe this will be such a terrible burden to bear.” He slid his arms
around
the infant, and despite his own hesitation of inexperience, carefully
scooped
the babe from Elrond’s embrace. The child fussed in return, but was
soon
soothed by a melodic lullaby of Mirkwood never before heard in the
Bruinen’s
vale. As the light of Arien’s golden lantern bathed the room with its
healing
rays, it appeared more than just the presence of the prince had
returned to
these halls – hope had returned as well.
The End
Notes:
1)
The northern
kingdom of Arnor fell to the Witch King of Angmar in Third Age 1974.
Although
Glorfindel and company routed the Nazgul lord, Arvedui, the last king,
was lost
and his elder son Aranath became the first chieftain of the Dunedain. Martinez notes that with this series of events “Arnor
ceased
to function as a kingdom or nation. There was no king to govern the
people or
to act on their behalf in dealing with other nations…. The kingship
became
dormant, passing into a sort of regency under which the rightful heirs
of the
kings acted as their own regents. However, the symbols of Arnor’s
kings, the
Sceptre of Annuminas and the Star of Elendil, were given to Elrond.
Elrond was
therefore appointed the trustee of the royal authority of Arnor,
holding its
emblems in escrow until such time as an Heir of Isildur proved able to
reestablish
the kingdom.”
“The Making of Appendix A”
[The Peoples of Middle-earth: 253] explains that “the line was
continued by the
Lords of the Dunedain, who were fostered by Elrond. Of these the first
was
Aranath son of Arvedui.” This established the tradition of having the
later
heirs of Isildur fostered by Elrond, as noted in LOTR Appendix A
[1018]:
“Arahael his son was fostered in Rivendell, and so were all the sons of
the
chieftains after him….” However, Valandil, the son of Isildur, was born
and
raised at Imladris at the beginning of the Third Age, so the origin of
the
tradition has even earlier roots.
2)
Argonui, son
of Arathorn I, grandson of Arassuil, was born in TA 2757. At the time
of his
birth both his father and grandfather were still alive. Argonui was
Estel’s great-grandfather.
Note that Estel is Aragorn II, the son of Arathorn II. It is said that
during
the time of Arassuil “there was much war with Orcs that infesting the Misty Mountains harried Eriador.” [“The Heirs of Elendil,”
The
Peoples of Middle-earth: 196]
3)Tuile 32 = May 1 on the
Calendar of Imladris. See http://www.astrochick.com/calendar1.html
for more information.
4) Footnotes
to
“Disaster of the Gladden Fields”
[Unfinished
Tales: 293] explain that “Long before the War of the Alliance, Oropher,
King of
the Silvan Elves east of the Anduin, being disturbed by rumours of the
rising
power of Sauron, had left their ancient dwellings about Amon Lanc,
across the
river from their kin in Lorien. Three times he had moved northwards,
and at the
end of the Second Age he dwelt in the western glens of the Emyn Duir,
and his
numerous people lived and roamed in the woods and vales westward as far
as the
Anduin, north of the ancient Dwarf-Road (Men-i-Naugrim).” Dol Guldur
was built
on the former site of Amon Lanc, the “naked hill” (no trees grew on its
summit)
around 1050 TA, when Sauron returned to Greenwood and spread his evil influence throughout the
forest.
The name of the woods was changed to Mirkwood, and the mountains became
known
as Emyn-nu-Fuin (Mountains of Mirkwood). At some point before this
time,
Thranduil moved his rule to the caves at the northeast edge of the
forest near Lake Town. It is insinuated in “The Hobbit” that
dwarves helped
fashion the caverns into a dwelling similar to Nargothrond and Doriath,
most
probably the Dwarves of Erebor.
5) At the time of this story,
the identity of the Necromancer of Dol Guldur was merely a rumor. Many
thought
it was the Witch King. It would be several more years until Galdalf
proved the
Necromancer to be Sauron. As will be discussed in a future story, I
have
assumed that Thranduil was not an active member of the White Council
(by
choice) but was certainly well aware of the rumors.
6) “Le gweston, esta
caer-lin, caer-nin -- caer-men” = To thee I swear, to name your
burdens, my
burdens – our burdens.”
7) firen = human
onodrim = ents
8) For more on the promise
Elrond swore to Gil-galad, see “Where the Shadows Are.” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/shadows.html]
References:
Michael Martinez, “Of thegns
and kings and rangers and things.”
[http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/4786/64660]
J.R.R. Tolkien (1996) The
Peoples of Middle-earth (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin)
J.R.R. Tolkien (1994) The
Lord of the Rings (single vol. ed.) (Boston: Houghton Mifflin)
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