Who Grieve and Yearn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author: AC
Series: Folly of Starlight
Synopsis: At the fiery destruction of Dale, Legolas
discovers yet another family secret
Pairing(s): Elrond/Legolas assumed
Rating: PG 13
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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“Or when the lawn
Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return
Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,
The sad intangible who grieve and yearn....”
--T.S. Eliot, “To Walter de la Mare”
“I do not think Walter de la Mare walked in my country,
whether you mean: read my work before he died, or inhabited a similar
world, or
both. I met him only once, many years ago, and we had little to say;
but as far
as my feelings for and understanding of his work goes, I should guess
that he
inhabited a much darker and more hopeless world….”
-- JRRT, “Letter to Amy Ronald (27
July 1956)”
Part 1:
[2770 Third Age, late spring, on the western border of
Mirkwood near Laketown]
The brilliant hours of midday’s
warmth continued to lazily wind their way from future to past, no hint
of trouble
on the gentle westward breeze. Legolas Thranduilion and a small band of
sentinels patrolled the edge of their forest kingdom, north of where
the river
wound its way toward unseen Lake-town. The prince paused for a moment,
gazing
over the lonely plain toward the world of men, wishing he could pierce
the fog
of memories and remember better the days when relations were better
between his
kind and theirs. He was but a child when his father chilled his
relationship
with both Dale and Lake-town, in the days after the death of his mother
and
sister. A shadow crossed his heart, his instinctive pain keenly
reflected in
his expressive countenance. He recalled his own brush with death’s
cruel hand
some years before, and his father’s reluctant admission that Minuial’s
death
had been a suicide, in response to the accidental death of her
forbidden human
lover at a sentry’s well-intentioned and well-aimed hand.
The sound of bells in the distance caught his attention, and
the prince cocked his head toward the northeast. A loud gasp erupted
from one
of his company, while another cried out, “Elbereth, protect us!”
Legolas stood wordlessly, his mouth hanging open at the incredible
sight which loomed before him. An ominous spark of flame passed before
the Lonely Mountain,
seeming to erupt from it,
growing larger and nearer as it settled over Dale like a fiery fog. His
mind
replayed Glorfindel’s vivid tales of the Balrog, and felt his heart
pound in
his chest. “Amlug,” he whispered under fear-stolen breath. A serpentine
beast
of the North had finally made good on the threat to attack the world of
men. He
watched in horror as the dragon swooped menacingly toward the town
again and
again, tongues of flame igniting all in its path. He felt his feet
pinned to
the ground, uncertain what he could do besides watch in horror as
innocents and
warriors alike undoubtedly fell victim to the fire-drake’s fury.
As if in answer to his doubts, a plump thrush landed on his
shoulder and tweeted urgently in his ear. “Hurry, hurry,” the bird
said, in a
language the elf found he could easily understand. “You may yet have a
chance
to repay your family’s blood debt.”
Legolas craned his neck to stare back at the brown bird, his
brow knitted in confusion.
“Hurry, hurry!” the bird urged, then flew away as
unexpectedly as he had arrived, in the direction of the doomed town.
The prince swallowed his doubts and ran like the wind toward
the chaos, his fleet-footed comrades close on his heels. Alas, as
speedy as the
feet of the Elven might be, the fire of the dreaded drake wreaked its
havoc and
despair more swiftly still.
Smoke curled around the corpse of the town, bathing it in a pallid
death shroud. The Lonely Mountain
in whose flanks the town nestled now provided no protection in its
cold, stone bosom.
As he grew closer, the acrid stench of
scorched pines and burnt flesh assaulted the prince’s nose, which
curled up in
disgusted response, yet he slowed not his pace. The bells suddenly grew
silent,
an ominous turn of events which did not bode well for the citizens of
Dale. The
piercing cry of the fire beast chilled Legolas’ blood as it now and
again
punctuated the strange, deathly silence of the day, then unexpectedly
retreated
back to the mountain from whence it had apparently come.
The elf’s footsteps only slowed when he reached the
once-green town square, currently littered with twisted bodies and
broken
weapons. “Search for survivors,” he hurriedly ordered his guards, as he
knelt
beside one battered body. Finding no breath within it, he uttered a
brief
prayer of respect in his native tongue, then repeated the reverent and
hopeful
action a dozen more times. “Are there none left alive?” he forlornly
muttered
under his breath, cursing the fell beast.
In apparent answer, a familiar voice rang out from the far
corner of the square. “My Lord! Come quickly!”
Legolas whipped around, rising from his knees to his feet.
With hope-filled breath he winged his way to his sentinel, and knelt
beside a
moaning, blood-soaked human form. Despite the fiery ruin of his
garments and
the scorching of his armor, this was clearly a man of royal line.
The human weakly blinked open his eyes, their pupils barely
focusing through the matted golden hair screening his face in the blur
of his
pain and the loss of blood. “The King of the Forest
has
not forsaken us,” he hoarsely whispered, raising the burnt stub of his
right hand
toward the elf’s face. A loud cough wracked his body.
“Do not try to speak,” Legolas urged, carefully brushing the
hair from the human’s face. “I will tend to your wounds as best I can.”
It was
a promise he knew he could not fulfill, as the lord’s many wounds were
most
grave and utterly beyond his hope to heal.
“The time of Girion is passed,” the king knowingly offered.
“My wounds are beyond even the care of Elvenkind. I do not fear death,
yet it
pains me to leave my sons to this darker and more hopeless world.” A
throaty,
gurgled cough choked his voice for a moment. “I pray my wife and my
younger son
found refuge in Lake-town with the rest of the women and children,” he
managed in
the midst of a coughing jag. He turned his head to the left and glanced
at the
stilled-form that lay beside him, tears rimming his bleary eyes. “I go
to join
my elder son in whatever awaits us beyond the Doors of Night.”
Legolas turned his attention to the prince, his keen elvish
eyes detecting the slightest rising of the youth’s chest, and with it
the
barest glimmer of hope. “Your son has not left this world,” he
explained
earnestly, his fingers placed aside the bruised neck and gingerly
taking stock
of the youth’s heartbeat.
Girion tried to raise up on his elbow, but fell back against
the ground in excruciating pain and frustrating weakness. “You must
save him,
in the name of the Great Father above and all that is sacred,” he
wheezed most
urgently, his very life force flowing from him in this last act of
defiance.
“I will do my best, I swear,” Legolas affirmed.
Nodding in relief, Girion raised his
unmaimed hand, a black arrow
tightly clutched within his dirty, curled fingers. “This is all that
remains of
our family’s heirlooms. See that it remains in the hands of my sons,
and their
sons after them.” His strength utterly spent, a loud gasp choked in his
throat,
and he went limply into the arms of death, his eyes staring blankly
upward at
the sky toward his final destination beyond Arda.
Legolas bowed his head, his hand raised to his heart. “In
the name of Iluvatar, I swear, friend of the forest. In the name of my
sister
and her love for one of your kind.” Carefully closing the dead king’s
eyes, he
gently pried the arrow from the death grip and set to the resolute work
of
saving Girion’s heir.
Part 2:
The deceased king of Dale’s final, desperate words echoing
in his head, Legolas grimly focused his attention on keeping his oath.
While
his companions stood at nervous attention, in case the dragon deigned
to return
to pick at the bloody carcass of the city, Legolas used what healing
skills he
had learned from watching Elrond and Glorfindel, including herbs from
the small
purse attached to his belt with which he now always traveled. Feeling
the
pressure of time’s ever-onward march, he did all that he could to try
and
guarantee the heir of Dale would survive the trip to Lake-town, then
hastily
assembled a litter to bear the unconscious boy. Aspiring to the
swiftness of
Manwe’s eagles, Legolas and another elf sped southward along the river
bearing
the litter with the rest of Mirkwood’s corps flanking them
protectively, while
a fleet-footed sentry was sent ahead with word of their imminent
arrival.
As expected, the elves were met at the entrance to Lake-town
by the Master, his ministers, and Dale’s widowed queen, her younger son
shyly clutching
her skirts with bloodlessly tight hands and tears streaming down his
round
cheeks. Legolas allowed the understandably concerned mother a moment
with her
still-unconscious elder son, then gently inquired as to the location of
the
healing hall. With escort, he helped bear the litter to a more private
space,
where he once more attended to his patient’s needs.
The widow knelt on the floor beside her son’s bed, close enough
to be a constant reminder of all that was at stake, yet mindful enough
not to
impede the elf’s free access to all the hall’s herbs and ointments. The
Master’s own healing expert stood helplessly by, his face awash in
wonder at
the elf’s masterful technique. For despite his own insecurities,
Legolas had
indeed learned much at the side of his elders, and in his moments of
hesitation
found his hands seemingly moved by an unconscious force he could only
explain
as the Lady’s grace.
The impassioned sobs of Dale’s queen tore at his heart, but
he kept his focus as best he could, still keenly wishing that he had
Elrond’s
skills in both healing the flesh and the grieving heart. He briefly
dared a
glance toward the door, where the young boy silently stood, clutching
the door
frame, his eyes wide in fear and hopelessness. Legolas found his heart
wrenched
in two, understanding well the loss of a parent and a sibling in such
an
unexpected and violent manner. He locked eyes with the boy for a
moment, but
the child unexpectedly ran out of sight, the rapid pounding of his
receding
footsteps matching the urgent rhythm of the elf’s heart. Turning back
to his
patient, he sucked in a steeling breath and bound yet another wound
with a
bandage soaked in a powerful handmade poultice of herbs and powders.
<<With the Lady’s grace, I swear that child will not suffer any
further
loss this day, if it be within my power.>>
After an hour, the prince was reluctantly roused from his
stupor, moaning softly in the pain of his broken ribs as he struggled
to
breathe. Satisfied that he had done all he could, Legolas stood aside
and
allowed the prince’s mother to take over fussing and soothing as only a
mother
could, and excused himself to search for a patient of a different sort.
Legolas found the frightened young boy sitting on the
southern docks between two large barrels, staring out over Long
Lake in the direction
opposite to
his hurriedly abandoned home. “Your brother stirs,” the elf hopefully
announced. The boy, obviously startled, drew his legs up under his
chest and
jerked his head upward toward the voice. “I am sorry – I did not wish
to
frighten you,” the elf gently offered, kneeling so as to appear less
threatening.
“No, ‘tis I who am sorry,” the boy offered, in his best
imitation of adult maturity, as befitted the son of a king. “I should
not
stare, but….” He glanced away, his cheeks reddened with palpable
embarrassment.
The elf smiled as he carefully sat beside the boy. “You have
not seen many of my kind.”
“None, Sir Elf,” the boy sheepishly admitted. “None visit my
father’s city, not since long before I was born, ‘tho they come here to
Lake-town still.”
“Do you know why?”
The boy shrugged, his eyes once more staring blankly at the
water. “Some say it was a fight over jewels or gold. Others say we
offended the
King of the Forest and he has thus forsaken us.” The boy sniffled back a tear.
“My father promised to take me here on midsummer’s day, because he
thought I
might see the elves come to trade with the Master and his craftsmen.”
He held
his composure as best he could, but the tenderness of his six summers
finally
claimed victory and he began to succumb to the terror and tragedy of
the day.
Legolas wrapped an arm around the raven-haired child and comforted
him as best he could, keenly feeling the kinship they shared, that of
childhood
innocence rudely ripped away, replaced by the harsh cruelty of life’s
adult
lessons learned far too early.
“I -- do not -- mean
to cry -- my -- father would want -- me to be strong,” the boy managed
in
jagged, sobbed snatches of speech.
The elf tenderly stroked the boy’s hair. “You are strong,
little one, stronger than you know.” He smiled broadly, as much to
comfort
himself as the child. “What is your name?”
The boy stared up at him with tear-reddened eyes. “Bard, Sir
Elf.”
Legolas tempered his amusement as best he could, treating
the youngster with the utmost respect and kindness. “My name is
Legolas, not
Sir Elf. And I know exactly how you feel.”
Bard loudly sniffled back his tears, wiping his damp eyes on
the sleeve of his shirt. “You do? How?”
“When I was no older than you are now, my family suffered a
terrible loss – my mother was taken from us by death’s hand.”
Bard’s eyes widened incredulously. “How can that be? Elves
do not die!”
The elf could not help but smile at the obvious naiveté. “We
do not die easily, but we do die. Even I….” Legolas halted his
well-intentioned
admission, thinking it better to couch the truth in different terms.
“Even I
came close to losing my life, due to a terrible wound. But I was saved
by the
hands of a healer, and the power of love which does not fail.”
“Just as you have healed Gelion,” Bard thankfully offered.
Legolas nodded. “With the Lady’s grace, his wounds will
heal, and with time he will be without ill-effect.” Shifting slightly,
his
quiver momentarily caught on the iron band of a barrel, and he
remembered his
second promise to Girion. Releasing the boy, he slid his quiver off his
back
and gingerly removed a single black arrow. “Your father begged me to
keep this
safe, to give to his sons as a token of your house, and your ancestors
before
you.” He reverently offered it to Bard, cradled in two open hands.
“The black arrow of Bard the First!” Bard reached for the
arrow with trembling hands, then tightly clutched it to his chest.
Closing his
eyes, he rocked slightly with the arrow locked in his embrace.
“You are named in honor of your ancestor,” Legolas correctly
surmised.
Bard nodded, his eyes still closed. “My father taught me our
family’s line, sang it to me every night when he tucked me into bed.”
In the
sing-song cadence of a child, Bard softly began.
“Bard am I, the second son
Of golden-haired King Girion.
The son of Beleg, son of Brandir,
Who ruled fair Dale for only one year.
Dorlas the brave was his sire,
And his Aratan, with hair of fire.
Araval was the lord before,
And Gundor, Fundor, and Pelundur.
His sire was Thelion, second son
Of iron-fisted Thalion.
But Bard the First, the rightful heir,
Was lost, they say, to one most fair.
From whence she came they did not say,
But by her spell led him away.”
The boy opened his eyes and smiled at the elf. ‘They say this
arrow was all he left behind. ‘Tis been precious to my family ever
since.”
Legolas hid his raging suspicions as best he could, faking a
smile in return. “Then ‘tis my honor to have reunited it with its
rightful
heir, Lord Bard.” Nervously rising to his feet, he bowed to the boy.
“With your
leave, I would speak to your mother now.”
Bard scrambled up to his feet in return. “Will we speak
again -- before you go back to the forest?” he eagerly inquired.
The elf nodded, a smile instantly twitching his lips despite
the burden of his heart. “We will, Lord Bard. That I swear, on your
very name.”
Part 3:
Legolas found the recently widowed queen sitting alone on a
bench on the northern docks of the town, staring at the horizon where
smoke still
curled upward from the destruction of her home. In her lap she clutched
the
bloodied chain mail vest which had undoubtedly helped save her elder
son’s
life. “My Lady Lindorie, I beg your pardon for the interruption,” he
softly
began.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she motioned for Legolas to
sit beside her. “’Tis no interruption. It is because of you that my
elder son
still draws breath. I and all of my House are indebted to you and yours
for the
rest of this age.”
Feeling the uneasy needles of familial guilt sting him as a
swarm of bees, the elf assumed the offered seat. “You owe me nothing. I
only
regret I was not able to bring your husband home to you, in death if
not in
life.”
The queen smiled sadly. “You returned his most prized
heirloom to his sons’ care. That is more than we could have dared
hope.”
Legolas sat in silence for the passing of several breaths,
trying to figure out a way to correctly phrase his questions so as to
not seem
insensitive or prying. “I beg your indulgence in your time of grief,
but I find
there is much I do not understand about your family and its --- heirlooms.”
“Your questions cannot increase my grief,” Lindorie assured
the prince. “Perhaps they might distract me from it for the barest of
moments.
Please, there are no secrets between the hero of my House and me.”
Legolas winced at the laudatory title bestowed upon him. If
his suspicions were correct, it was his House that had caused Dale’s
royalty
pain and loss beyond measure, and the bravery of today could only begin
to
repay the blood debt, as the thrush had warned. He therefore began with
the
easiest and most obvious of queries. “That vest is magnificent in its
craftsmanship. Am I wrong to assume it was wrought by dwarvish hands?”
Lindorie clutched the vest to her chest, then pressed a kiss
into its cold metal. “No, you are not wrong at all. ‘Twas well worth
the stiff
price the dwarves under the mountain demanded for its creation.” Her
face took
on additional sorrow, that of compassion and empathy. “I fear the
gifted
craftsmen of the forge have also fallen to the dragon’s wrath.”
“Your fears are almost certain to be true,” Legolas had to
admit. He studied the vest with a careful eye. “What price did they ask
for
this mail? Surely ‘tis worth a king’s treasury!”
“Not his entire treasury, but those priceless jewels that he
held most dear, another of his family’s precious heirlooms. A necklace
made of
five hundred emeralds, as green as the springtime grass, a treasure so
magnificent I could not bear to wear it upon my own neck.”
“It must have been a treasure beyond measure to compare with
your beauty, My Lady,” Legolas offered earnestly.
The queen acknowledged the compliment with a brief hint of a
smile curling her lips. “’Tis said that it was for a beauty beyond the
race of
Men that the necklace was made by the dwarves, by request of Bard the
First, in
whose honor my younger son was named.”
“I do not understand,” the elf feigned, barely able to
control his knowing interest.
“Some say Bard had fallen under the spell of a spirit of the
woods, a vision of Luthien returned, or one of the Valier. He would
visit her
under the silver of Ithil’s fullness, and not return until Anor’s flame
chased
away the stars. They say he had the necklace wrought as a dowry for his
maiden
fair.”
“What happened?” Legolas breathlessly whispered, unable to
control his urgent need to know the truth after the passage of far too
many
years.
“None know for sure. Some say the maiden’s father, a power
terrible and unyielding, some say Manwe himself, refused to bless their
love.
Some even claim that he placed Bard under a spell, enchanting him to
remain
lost in the forest until he forgot his love for the maiden.”
“What do you believe?” Legolas dared ask.
The queen smiled earnestly, for the first time since leaving
her home. “I hold with those who say that Bard and his lady love ran
away,
across the sea, and were welcomed into the deathless lands by her kin.”
“The Elves?”
The queen looked confused. “No, the Powers. The Valar.
Whatever the truth, the emeralds remained behind, and have passed down
through
his House to my husband.” Her smile took on a veil of sadness once
more. “Yes,
those who believe the worst inhabit a much darker and more hopeless
world than
I.” Her expression turned to that of palpable despair as she surveyed
the
northern horizon. “I fear my world has, as last, turned as dark and
hopeless as
theirs.”
“Hope always remains,” Legolas swiftly offered. “I see it in
the faces of your sons.”
Lindorie nodded in understanding, wiping a tear from her
eye. “’Tis true that the Eldar have a wisdom we mere mortals sorely
lack.” Her
eyes grew clouded with confusion, nay with memory. “There was one other
gift
that Bard had made in the name of love, at least if the dwarves be
trusted.”
“What?”
“A mithril shirt of mail, too small to fit either of my
sons, as my husband explained to me. The dwarf king under the mountain
offered
it to my husband, for a price, thinking it would be perfect for my
younger son.”
“Mithril would, indeed, be most fitting for a prince,”
Legolas agreed.
“The dwarves claimed that Bard had ordered its creation, but
had never returned to claim it, or pay its fee.”
“Why would he have wanted such a thing?” Legolas pondered
aloud, already knowing the answer.
“That none can say. Perhaps it was for the son he hoped he
would one day sire.”
“Or perhaps the maiden had a brother whom he wished to sway to
his favor with gifts as well,” the elf correctly surmised.
“You seem to have great interest in the stories of our
House,” the queen warily pressed. Her eyes eagerly searched the elf’s
face for
some glimmer of information. “Have you some knowledge of the truth?”
Although knowing the truth brought him some satisfaction, Legolas
found he was torn – he did not wish to lie, yet he knew the truth would
bring
no comfort to the one who needed it most. <<What would Elrond
do?>>
he mused desperately to himself. He suddenly wished he had the
finely-honed diplomatic
skills of his ancient lover. It was his own cognizance of that wish
which lay
the answer at his very feet. “I do have some pieces of the truth,”
Legolas
carefully offered, gathering the queen’s hands in his. “The maiden you
speak of
is my sister, Minuial, who loved Bard of Dale as keenly as Luthien
loved her
Beren.” He swallowed as he watched the woman’s eyes grow bright with
hope. It
killed him to allow such false hope to blossom in her heart, yet he
knew she
needed it more than the whole truth. “’Tis true, my father, the King of
the Great Forest,
did not approve of their
love, for he has grown suspicious of outsiders over the passing of
centuries.”
“’Tis understandable that he would,” the queen offered in
agreement. “And you were the one for whom the mithril shirt was made?”
The elf smiled sadly. “I can only guess that to be the
truth, as I was a mere child, no older than Bard your son.”
“What happened -- where is your sister now?”
“She refused to be denied of her one true love, and his
feelings ran just as deeply. One night, he crept into the forest, and
by the
dawn, both had departed from Middle-earth.” He felt the words damning
him even
as he spoke, but he could not bear to bring more pain and
disappointment to
those hope-filled eyes. Yes, it was true that both Bard and his sister
had
departed from Middle-earth, but not in the same manner. Minuial had
departed
for the Halls of Mandos, and, with Manwe’s mercy, would one day return
to life,
to the purity and peace of the Blessed Lands. But whence Bard had gone,
none
can say, for the fate of Man is known to Iluvatar alone. They both had
departed, but they were most definitely not together. As he hoped and
expected,
the subtlety of his answer was completely missed by the mortal, as
noted by the
beaming smile now settled upon her face.
“Then you and I are kin, joined by the bonds of love,” the
queen happily sang. “It pleases me greatly, as it will my sons, once
they learn
of the truth.”
“My Lady, I pray that you will teach them to hold this to
their hearts as another of your family’s heirlooms – a secret one,”
Legolas
admonished in a panic. “My father has forbidden any to speak of this,
and I
would not wish to cause any unnecessary -- friction between my House
and
yours.”
The queen nodded knowingly. “I understand well the pride of
kings, fair prince. My sons will keep your confidence and trust, both
precious
jewels beyond any cost.” She leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss
upon the
elf’s cheek. “May the Valar bless and keep you safe from harm, my
new-found
kin.”
Legolas smiled and raised a delicate hand to his lips for a
gallant kiss. “May the Lady smile upon you and your sons, and their
sons after
them. May there once more be a King Bard of Dale.”
The queen nodded resolutely, her courage returned, her hope
renewed. She gazed northward once more, but there was no hint of defeat
in her
face. “I shall not be queen of that fair town again, and my sons not
its king,
but our family will endure, by the bravery and skill of your hand. One
day the
dragon will be vanquished and my family will return.”
“When that joyous day arrives, my family shall proudly stand
beside yours, and celebrate the return of the House of Girion to the
foot of
the mountain.” Legolas trained his keen eyes northward and found some
satisfaction in his words. “Aye, a Bard shall return to Dale one day.”
<<’Tis the very least my family can do to wash the blood from its
hands.>> His heart finally at peace with the choices it had made
this
day, he stood and bowed. “With your permission, I would pay one final
visit to
your elder son, then say my farewells to the younger.”
“You take your leave of us so soon?” Lindorie unhappily
inquired.
Legolas nodded with reluctance. “My father must learn of
what has happened.” <<And he and I must talk about the
past,>> he
silently added to himself.
“Shall we see you again?” she questioned hopefully. “’Tis
said that to the Eldar time passes so swiftly that they forget that the
race of
Man are but visitors to this world.”
The prince chuckled softly. “’Tis rightly said of some of my
kind, but not all. I promise to visit again, before the arrival of the
snows of
winter.” His face took on a serious expression, reflecting resolve and
solemnity. “I shall return with a renewed treaty of friendship from my
father.
We have neglected our neighbors for far too long.”
“Your words do great honor to my husband,” the queen
offered. “’Twas his greatest wish to renew the ancient ties of
friendship
between our realms. Too long have we remained some time partners in
trade
through Lake-town’s middle hand.”
“Our hands will join once more in friendship, as they have
this day,” the elf swore. With grim determination, he briefly turned
his
attention toward the forest and the secrets it had hidden for far too
long.
<<May the blood one day fade from my father’s hands by the
actions of my
own.>>
The End
Notes:
1) In “We are Finding Who We Are” Legolas recounted his
father’s current political policy: “Thranduil actively chose to shun
the
company of his kind beyond his own kingdom, and only deigned to
tolerate
dealings with the Men of Dale because it supplemented his treasury.” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/wafwwa.html]
For
information on his sister’s suicide, see “The Dance of Eternity” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/danceofeternity.html]
and “The Path of Destiny” [http://www.ithilas.com/fos/pathofdestiny.html]
2) According to the maps in Fonstad, it appears that Dale
was approximately 45 miles from the edge of Mirkwood and approximately
25 miles
from Late-town. I did not think anyone would debate whether or not
elves or
even humans could see a fire-breathing dragon from 25 miles away, but
hearing
the bells of Dale might raise a few eyebrows. For comparison, thunder
can
easily be heard by human ears from 10 miles away
[http://www.usatoday.com/weather/wlight1.htm]
and under ideal conditions can be heard up to 15 miles away. Certainly
sensitive elvish ears would be able to accomplish the auditory feats
explained
in this story.
3) I have loosely modeled the legend surrounding Legolas’
sister Minuial on the appearance of the Vala Nessa (the wife of
Tulkas), the
legend of Luthien and Beren, and the relationship of Melian and
Thingol. Each
of these would be known to descendents of the Edain (which the men of
Dale
claimed to be). Tolkien explained in a draft of a letter dated 1958
that the
Ainur (including the Valar and presumably the Maiar, like Olorin and
Melian)
habitually took on forms which were “anthropomorphic, because of their
intense
concern with Elves and Men.” (Carpenter: 286) Therefore it would not be
unreasonable for a legend to spring up that Bard had fallen in love
with one of
the Ainur.
4) According to Foster (102), Dale was a “city-kingdom of
Men, located on the southern slopes of Erebor. The Men of Dale traced
their
descent to the Edain, and Dale may have been quite ancient when it was
destroyed in TA 2770 by Smaug.” The Men of Dale were friendly with the
Dwarves
of Erebor, a relationship which was renewed after the Battle
of the Five Armies.
5) According to Foster (166), Esgaroth, or Lake-town, was
built “on stilts driven into the bottom of Long
Lake.” Its “location was
good for
commerce, and Esgaroth supplied food and drink to Erebor and the
Woodland Realm
from the south and east, while the products of Erebor and Dale were
funneled
through Esgaroth. (Ibid.)
6) Foster (207) states that Girion was the “last King of
Dale of the old line. He was killed by Smaug, but his wife and children
escaped
to continue the royal line.”
7) The Hobbit has
several descriptions of Smaug in action:
“One day he flew up
into the air and came south. The first we heard of it was a noise like
a
hurricane coming from the North., and the pine-trees on the Mountain
creaking
and cracking in the wind.... [F]rom a good way off we saw the dragon
settle on
our mountain in a spout of flame. Then he came down the slope and when
he
reached the woods they all went up in fire. By that time all the bells
were
ringing in Dale and the warriors were arming…. The river rushed up in
steam and
a fog fell on Dale, and in the fog the dragon came on them and
destroyed most
of the warriors…. Later he used to crawl out of the great gate and come
by
night to Dale, and carry away people, especially maidens, to eat, until
Dale
was ruined, and all the people dead or gone.” (35-6)
“There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; a
thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but his
fires
were low in slumber. Beneath him, under all his limbs and his huge
coiled tail,
and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors,
lay
countless piles of precious things…. Smaug lay, with wings folded like
an
immeasurable bat.” (206)
“Then suddenly a great light appeared in the low place in
the hills and the northern end of the lake turned golden…. Before long,
so
great was his speed, they could see him as a spark of fire rushing
towards them
and growing ever huger and more bright… the roar of Smaug’s terrible
approach
grew loud, and the lake rippled red beneath the awful beating of his
wings.
Amid shrieks and wailing and the shouts of men he came over
them, swept towards the bridges and was foiled!.... Roaring he came
back over
the town….
Fire leapt from the dragon’s jaws. He circled for a while
high in the air above them lighting all the lake; the trees by the
shores shone
like copper and like blood with leaping shadows of dense back at their feet….
Fire leaped from thatched roofs and wooden beam-ends as he
hurtled down and past and round again, though all had been drenched
with
water…. (234-6)
8) The following description of Dale pre-Smaug can be found
in The Hobbit: “’There lies all that
is left of Dale,” said Balin. ‘The mountain’s sides were green with
woods and
all the sheltered valley rich and pleasant in the days when the bells
rang in
that town.’” (195)
9) The thrushes’ historical connection with Dale is noted in
several passages in The Hobbit:
“The old thrush was sitting on a rock near by with his head
cocked on one side, listening to all that was said. It shows what an
ill temper
Bilbo was in: he picked up a stone and threw it at the thrush….
‘Leave it alone!’ said Thorin. ‘The thrushes are good and
friendly – this is a very old bird indeed, and is maybe the last left
of the
ancient breed that used to live about here, tame to the hands of my
father and
grandfather. They were a long-lived and magical race, and this might
even be one
of those that were alive then, a couple of hundreds of years or more
ago. The
Men of Dale used to have the trick of understanding their language, and
used
them for messengers to fly to the Men of the Lake
and
elsewhere.’” (281-9)
(speaking of Bard) “He was a descendant in the long line of
Girion, Lord of Dale, whose wife and child had escaped down the Running
River
from the ruin long ago… Suddenly out of the dark something fluttered to
his
shoulder. He started – but it was only an old thrush. Unafraid it
perched by
his ear and it brought him news. Marveling he found he could understand
its
tongue, for he was of the race of Dale.” (237)
10) According to The
Hobbit, “the necklace of Girion, Lord of Dale, made of five hundred
emeralds green as grass, which he gave for the arming of his eldest son
in a
coat of dwarf-linked rings the like of which had never been made
before, for it
was wrought of pure silver to the power and strength of triple steel.”
(220) After the Battle
of the Five Armies, it is said of Bard that “To the Elven-king he gave
the
emeralds of Girion, such jewels as he most loved, which Dain had
restored to
him.” (275)
11) The history of Bard’s black arrow is briefly noted in The
Hobbit: “’Arrow!’ said the bowman. ‘Black
arrow! I have saved you to the last. You have never failed me and
always I have
recovered you. I had you from my father and he from of old. If ever you
came
from the forges of the true king under the Mountain, go now and speed
well!’”
(237)
12) The famed mithril armor which Bilbo gave to Frodo has
its origin in The Hobbit: “With that
he put on Bilbo a small coat of mail, wrought for some young elf-prince
long
ago. It was made of silver-steel, which the elves call mithril, and
with it
went a belt of pearls and crystals.” (228)
13) The following is an abbreviated timeline of the events
important to this story. Canonical dates are bolded, while FOS assumed
dates
are in italics.
2511 Legolas was born
@2516 Legolas' sister and mother die. Thranduil cools his alliance with
Dale.
2570 Dragons reappear in the North
2713 Legolas and Elrond become lovers
2717 Legolas wounded in orc attack; Thranduil discovers his
relationship with
Elrond
2770 Smaug destroys Dale and takes over Erebor
14) Amlug = dragon
in Sindarin
References:
H. Carpenter, ed. (1981) The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin)
K. Fonstad (1991) The Atlas of Middle-earth (Boston:
Houghton Mifflin)
R. Foster (1978) The Complete Guide to Middle-earth (NY:
Ballantine)
J.R.R. Tolkien (1966) The Hobbit (NY:Ballantine)
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