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“ Long has the silv’ry moon so loved the sun,
Cursed fore’er to follow in his wake.
And he in kind doth run a race rare won,
Speeding west to ease his heart’s fond ache.
But fate, though not her nature, can prove kind,
Allowing star-cursed lovers chance to meet
And when with arms around each other wind,
Crowned with one crest, as one two hearts doth beat.
The culmination of such ancient love
Turns day to night, lifts all things to the sky.
Shadows seem false, and in their falseness prove
That love, if true, alters reality.
For earthly lovers then do seem the same
As sun and moon, wed with a ring of flame. ”
For any and all things, there will be a before and there will be an after.
A ship the moment before a wave plunges it under, then the still waters after the vessel is gone; dry, cracked earth just before the rain, then mud from which new life will soon spring; bright sky before the moon eclipses the sun, and then the dark.
Then, every time, the light again.
Some live in that moment before; and some push, inexorably, into the after.
We can never truly anticipate death. No matter if we see the end itself coming, we are never prepared for the aftermath, nor the grueling task of pushing forward.
As Legolas clutched a goblet and stared into the roiling crowd, he felt as if he would never move again. Voices and harp song floated in one ear and out through the other. He was vaguely aware of the wind’s attempt to move him as it ruffled his shorn hair, but like a boulder in a coursing river, he would remain in place as the world moved ever on and on around him.
Time was a cruel mother and neither snow, nor rain, nor the desires of men or elves would halt her marching.
A tomb had seemed a poor resting place for his own mother, cairns and monuments pitiful companions. Legolas knew in his heart that the body under the shroud was no longer her. Her fëa was in the Halls of Mandos where it belonged, and Legolas should have been happy that his mother was finally home. Still, his hands shook as he thought of her: cold, still, shrouded, and alone under dark walls of stone. It wasn’t right, she deserved to be in the sun and open air. Legolas deserved to have his mother standing in Imladris with him, waiting for the moon to plunge the Last Homely House into darkness.
For the first time in centuries, Imladris was in the direct path of a solar eclipse. Lord Elrond’s invitation had stood out among the stacks of ivory-enveloped condolence letters arriving at the gates of the Woodland Realm. It had been a formality, really, a gesture to show what remained of the royal family that they had not been forgotten in their grief. Legolas still recalled the way his father had paused before handing the letter to the prince. He would go, the point was not up for debate.
Legolas did not miss the surprise on the other guests when he had ridden up to Imladris. How could he? He was well aware that his presence was highly unusual, even improper to some. The customs of most elven cultures dictated that immediate family members spend one full year in isolated mourning before even beginning to rejoin the outside world. Just over a month had passed since Legolas’ mother had been cut down by orcs and left to die in the hills of Gundabad, but he still felt the sting of grief as fresh as if it happened minutes before. Legolas knew why the king had sent him to Imladris in his stead. He was no longer the prince, no longer his father’s son, forever just a reminder of what Thranduil had lost.
Legolas had held up just fine at the feast; well, even. Every time it arose, he ignored the urge to push back his chair and walk the three week journey home alone. He spoke when spoken to, and even laughed when expected. He did not cry.
But as the assembled company danced and song filled the air, Legolas felt himself shaking like a leaf about to fall. From somewhere outside his body, he watched his fingers tense and knuckles whiten around the still-full goblet he clutched in his hand. He did not cry.
As if in a dream, Legolas felt himself set the goblet down, still present in mind enough to cushion the base with his smallest finger before he let it go. Whatever was piloting his body turned him on his heel, and led him out of the great hall. He caught Lord Elrond’s eye as he passed, the ellon furrowing his brows in concern. Legolas did not turn back. He did not cry.
The knot in his chest loosened as soon as Legolas was back in the open air and away from the press of bodies. He hadn’t the faintest idea where he was headed, knowing only that he needed to be away from it all. He would not go to his rooms and risk being found so easily. He certainly couldn’t go to the observatory where the party would soon migrate. No, for now it had to be enough to walk, walk until he couldn’t hear laughter and dancing and the world moving on around him.
It was in a small courtyard where he finally stopped, leaning against a stone wall. The music was not so oppressive here, still vaguely present but drowned out by the chirp of cicadas in the early evening air. Legolas let his head fall back to crack painfully on the stone behind him before, finally, sinking to the ground and pulling his knees up to his chest. The dull rhythm of his pounding skull grounded the prince, pulling him back down into his body.
The night was clear, as it always was in Imladris. Legolas pressed his head between his knees, wishing he was drunk, asleep, or home. He breathed in the scent of blooming flowers and herbal smoke, panic in his chest lessening with every exhale.
“You have lost someone.”
Legolas’ head snapped up. His clouded eyes narrowed, focusing on the stranger across the courtyard from him who had remained unnoticed until that moment. He took a drag on his pipe. So this was the source of the smoke in the air.
The stranger spoke again: “I did not think it was customary for an ellon to leave his home while in mourning.”
Legolas knew he must look a fright, but he was suddenly aware of it in an entirely different way now that it had been noticed and commented on. A celestial event such as an eclipse should have been a joyous and colourful occasion, and instead the elven prince was curled up against a wall in a secluded courtyard, red-eyed and still clad in his mourning attire. Even his hair had been robbed of its usual radiance; strangely dull and shorn roughly about his chin.
Different elven cultures held different beliefs and practices, but one thing remained consistent across them all: hair was sacred. In times of war or peace, at home or on the road, it was always carefully maintained, rarely left unbraided, and only cut in times of great loss.
One night after the messenger had come, Legolas found himself kneeling in front of a statue of his mother as he clutched a knife. She smiled down at her son, his hands trembling around the knife’s handle as he brought it to his hair. Legolas realized shortly into the act that the blade, a ceremonial thing, was far too dull to cut cleanly through so much. Still he pressed on, gritting his teeth and letting the tears flow freely down his cheeks as he sawed even more forcefully through his cornsilk hair. It fell to the stone floor like the slow arc of autumn leaves, and still Legolas felt no different. He had earned catharsis and still it eluded him.
The shearing of his hair had been an act born from grief for his mother, anger toward himself, and a desperate, gnawing desire to evoke an emotional response in his father. He wanted something, anything from the man who was supposed to bring him comfort. When the king laid eyes on his son’s ruined hair, all Legolas got was an almost imperceptible twitch in the muscles around his father’s eyes.
Thranduil never cut his hair.
“And what would a man know of the grief of elves?” Legolas spat in reply to the man’s comment. The words came out more sharply than he meant for them to, but his question was a reasonable one. Sure, the man was possessed of an ethereal beauty. His eyes reminded Legolas of the lichen-covered trees of his homeland, and the spark within told the prince that this stranger was not what he seemed. However, short hair dusted his square jawline, and the man’s ears were rounded where they emerged from soft, dark waves. He seemed not altogether human but was still undeniably mortal.
“It is difficult to remain ignorant of elvish customs when one has been raised among them.” Legolas’ eyebrows shot up, and the man continued. “My father died when I was young. Lord Elrond’s house would not allow an elf-friend to pass on un-mourned.”
Legolas’ face grew hot. He didn’t know what to say; whether he should apologize, offer condolences, or keep his silence. After a pause, he simply said, “I am sorry. Forgive me.”
The man’s lips curled into an “O” as he blew a ring of smoke into the air, watching it fade before he spoke. “It is alright, you meant nothing by it.”
“Still, I am sorry.”
He shrugged. “I was but two when he was killed, I do not remember much of him. What memories I do have are not my own, merely an effigy cobbled together from the recollections of others.”
The man stood from the bench he had been sitting on and crossed the small courtyard. Legolas stiffened as he slid down the wall next to him.
“You have not told me your name,” he said.
Legolas looked over at him, brows furrowing. “And you have not told me yours.”
The man was not looking at him, but the elf still noted a small smile on his lips.
“ Estel .”
“Hope,” Legolas said softly.
“Indeed.”
“Is that your true name? It is a Sindarin word.”
Estel laughed. “What’s in a name? It is as true as any.”
“How did you come by it?”
“It was given to me by Lord Elrond when I became his ward. I have another, but it is not time for me to claim it. Not yet.”
Legolas sighed. “You speak in riddles, Estel.”
“And you hardly speak at all,” Estel said. He turned his head to meet the prince’s eyes. “Your name, elfling.”
“Legolas.”
“Ah,” Estel said, nodding and taking another drag on his pipe. Up close, the smoke rising in curls from his lips smelled of rockrose and vetiver, and brought Legolas a strange comfort. “You grieve your mother then. Lord Elrond was saddened to receive the news from the Woodland Realm.”
Legolas wanted to reply, but any words he would have said stuck in his throat. It had been a perfectly innocuous thing for Estel to say. However, all Legolas could think of was how similarly he had learned of his own mother’s death. A messenger from the party in Gundabad had come to the gates of Mirkwood with the news. The helpless scream had torn its way from his throat before he could stop it. It pierced the air like lightning, morphing from shocked grief to confusion and desperation as Legolas watched his father turn and stride calmly out of the hall.
Tears brewed hot behind his eyes, and Legolas shoved the heels of his hands against them until his vision was overtaken by stars and swirling shapes that moved like water. He did not expect his weakness to wring compassion from the man, but even less expected was what Estel said next.
“Would you like to talk about her?”
Legolas sighed and dropped his hands, leaning back against the wall once more. “My father says that will only bring more pain.”
“For him, maybe. I asked after you. Now, would you like to talk about her?”
Legolas met Estel’s grey-green eyes. “I don’t know,” He said, voice wobbling slightly.
Estel didn’t press him further, simply nodding and taking another drag on his pipe. The smoke from his exhale took the shape of two intertwining rings this time. Legolas watched them dissipate, speaking before he had even made the decision to open his mouth.
“I was very young the last time Mirkwood saw a total eclipse. You have heard the old songs?”
Estel nodded. “Many of them, yes.”
“I couldn’t escape them. Everywhere I went someone was singing of the moon swallowing the sky. They said the shadows it created would alter reality, and just before the world was plunged into darkness, everything would float- just for a moment. They scared me so badly and every friend I had just laughed at my fear. I didn’t have many but the ridicule still stung.”
“I can imagine.”
“I ran to my mother and she… she didn’t even ask what was wrong, just knelt down and opened her arms to me. I still smell her sometimes, still feel the tickle of her hair on my cheek when she kissed the top of my head.”
“She sounds kind.”
Legolas’ next words came out choked and tight. “She was. She was so kind, and she deserved so much better than what she got. I failed her, I didn’t see her before she went. But she was supposed to come back.”
Estel placed his hand on Legolas’ shoulder, and the dam inside his chest finally broke.
“She was supposed to come back.” The words were barely more than a whisper.
Legolas began to cry, great heaving sobs that shook his body and sounded more like a wounded animal than an elf. The force of his grief pressed at his eyes from behind, clogging his nose and making his whole face ache as hot tears spilled from his eyes. Estel said nothing, only slipped his arm around Legolas’ shoulder, holding the prince tight to his chest.
Legolas should have been embarrassed. He should have pulled away, should have stifled his tears, should have done anything besides curling up into a ball and letting the strange young man smooth his ruined hair. He knew he was speaking but he was nowhere near coherent, his words a mix of impossible wishes and his mother’s name. He wished she was there, he wished he could see her one more time, he wished it had been him instead.
Estel was warm and solid, his murmured words soothing as he held Legolas together. Slowly but surely, the prince’s sobs began to ebb. All his energy had seeped out of him with the tears, and he could barely muster the will to be embarrassed as Estel helped ease him back against the stone wall like a sleepy child who had worn himself out fussing.
The pair sat quietly for a moment, then Legolas spoke in a thin voice. “They said she died quickly, I should find some comfort in that."
“That is little comfort to a son without a mother.” Hot tears began to well up in Legolas’ eyes once more, but he said nothing in reply. Estel continued. “If I may ask, what was it that scared you so much about the old songs?”
Legolas wiped his nose with the sleeve of his robe. “The part where everything floated. They meant everything, people too.”
“Were you scared you would float away?”
“I was scared I would be the one thing that didn’t.”
“Ah.”
They lapsed into silence once more, Legolas’ gaze following Estel’s hands as he struck a match on the stone and lit his pipe once more. He took another drag, and then offered it to the prince.
Legolas accepted the pipe hesitantly, staring at it for a second with his brows furrowed. “I don’t know how to…” He said, trailing off.
“You saw me do it. Just set the end in your mouth and breathe in, not too deeply. It’s quite intuitive, really.”
“Intuitive, yes.”
Legolas did as Estel said, placing his lips over the smooth, polished wood where the man’s had been. Smoke filled his mouth and made its way down into his lungs; strong, herbal, and warming him from within.
Legolas immediately started coughing.
He thrust the pipe back in Estel’s direction, only stopping his hacking long enough to shoot the man a watery-eyed glare when he started to laugh.
“My apologies, Prince Legolas. Are you alright?”
“Quite,” said Legolas, rubbing his chest. “Why would anyone willingly do such a thing?”
The man’s eyes still sparkled with mirth as he said, “It can be quite relaxing once you get used to it.”
Legolas thought he much preferred to watch the ranger’s lips as he blew fascinatingly-shaped wisps of smoke. It was mesmerizing, and for the first time since arriving at Imladris, Legolas began to feel a sense of relaxation. He closed his eyes and let the tension in his limbs begin to unwind.
When he opened them, he could feel something in the air had changed.
The courtyard had taken on a strange dimness, and the wisps of smoke trailing through the air looked wrong. Legolas breathed in sharply as he looked up at the sky. The sun was already beginning to shrink into a crescent, and an otherworldly fear gripped his chest. He looked over at Estel.
The man held a silver drinking flask out to him, elvish inscriptions surrounding a green gem set into it. Legolas met his eyes, and Estel smiled reassuringly. “To staying grounded.”
“To staying grounded,” replied Legolas, fingers brushing Estel’s as he accepted the flask. He was sure that he could handle whatever it contained better than that infernal smoke.
Legolas took a sip and froze. Dorwinion wine, imported from the cellars of the Woodland Realm.
“Tastes like home, doesn’t it?”
The sky had grown darker still, but neither Legolas nor Estel made any move toward the observatory. Instead they sat there on the stone floor, frozen in place as the moon inched its way across the darkening sky. The whole city had fallen silent. Legolas couldn’t even hear the bugs anymore, and the wind had gone still. It felt, for a moment, as if the entire world was holding its breath.
Legolas dropped his gaze to look at the world around him and gasped.
The ballads had been right. Warped bands of shadow had appeared under everything, even his own hands. Legolas felt like a dancer and her spot, spinning first one way, then snapping back to a single point before the cycle began its inevitable repetition. He had the strange sense that he was on a precipice, staring down at an endless void below him. In the next moment he would either fall or fly, and he wanted no part of either.
Quietly, a warm, rough hand slipped into his own.
And then the moon swallowed the sky.
The sun was gone, the only light over the pair coming from the coronet of silver flame circling the shadow of the moon. All was silent, voices and torches extinguished by the otherworldly darkness cloaking the valley. Legolas’ head spun and he held onto his companion for dear life, feeling that if he let go he would float away into the untimely twilit sky. He felt that he might still do so, but as long as he held onto Estel, at least neither of them would be alone.
Then, as soon as the darkness had fallen, it began to lift. Things settled back into their places and the roiling vertigo inside the prince abated with the lightening of the sky. Legolas tore his eyes away from the vast firmament above his head, glancing over at the man beside him. He wanted to see Estel’s reaction to what they had just witnessed, but found that the man had been watching him instead.
Estel’s eyes were gentle, steady, and full of a kindness that Legolas didn’t think he had ever experienced. Legolas opened his mouth to say something, but Estel beat him to it.
“Look at that, ernilen . Still on the ground.”
Estel squeezed his hand and for the first time in a month, Legolas smiled.
Fëa - Soul
Ellon - Male elf
Estel - Hope
Ernilen - My prince