In your Eyes: Home
“So, Lindir, gwador-nin, what has happened in Imladris since our departure?”
The blond-haired elf, to whom this question was addressed to, was riding his sorrel mare between two other riders, whose identical fair faces were both turned toward him. If he had not been accustomed to such a situation, he would have found it very amusing to see the same profile whether he turned his head right or left. But the leader of the Imladris’ guards was used to that impression of perfect mirror images, as he had known the twins since their early childhood, being approximately of the same age. For a reason still unknown of him, they had chosen him and had dragged him into their world. As elflings, they had shared their pranks and mischief and, even if, in time passing, their bond had weakened, a strong friendship had remained between the twins and him. That was why the blond elf had been for once very happy for the relief guards’ delay, without which he would have missed his friends’ arrival.
“Nothing more, mellon-nin.” answered the blond rider to Elladan’s question, turning his head to catch the left twin’s gaze. He was among the few who could tell the twins apart. It was true that they were really identical, but each had his own expressions and character, which enabled those who knew them to distinguish them. “Imladris is the true picture of serenity these days. One month ago, some orcs had wandered near the northern border but we ironed out that problem. Since then, we have not seen any of the screaming and frenzied creatures.” He paused for but a mere second, as if contemplating a thought. “Except for Erestor, of course”.
“Tell me, Gwador…” intervened Elrohir in the tone of confidence, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed laughter. “How fares my father’s advisor? Is he still sane or has he gone totally mad this year?”
The dark-haired advisor was the favourite subject of amazement at this time of the year for the three elves. Tonight was indeed the summer ceremony, one of the most praised and most famous celebrations in the vale. Tonight all the elves, save the sentries of course, would dance, drink and celebrate the beginning of the fair and warm season. Elrond’s seneschals were in charge of organizing of the feast. But, year after year, they had seen Erestor give more and more attention to his task, while Glorfindel had forsaken his own more and more. Now the whole organization of the event was lying entirely on the dark-haired advisor’s shoulders and, with the approach of the fateful date, the usually calm and serene counsellor metamorphosed himself into a very edgy and authoritative elf that thought that, if the feast was not perfect, his reputation would be forever marred.
Lindir glanced toward the younger twin, trying hard not to surrender to the laughter coming to his lips at the memory of the raven-haired advisor.
“The last time I saw him, he looked perfectly well, but one never knows”
He chuckled, his bearing still straight in his saddle. There was a pregnant silence, then he added:
“Nonetheless, someone told me Erestor had been seen in the cellar in the middle of the night, wearing only his night robe and checking the reserve of wine. In the middle of the night, can you imagine?”
The three elves broke out in laughter at the vision of the dignified advisor in such a position.
“Elladan?” asked Elrohir, wiping the tears gathered in his eyes with the back of his hand in a graceful gesture.
“Aie”, came the laconic answer from his mirror image, trying to regain his breath.
“Who do you think has told Lindir of Erestor’s nocturnal activity?”
The blond elf shifted awkwardly on his saddle. He did not like at all the turn taken by the discussion. He felt himself trapped between two identically piercing and inquisitive gazes, that refused to let him go. He had seen such gleams in the twins’ eyes when they looked at him and it had resulted in one whole week of harassment to know the name of his lover. Before he could indicate silence to both his raven-haired friends, he heard Elladan exclaiming, confident:
“I am sure it is his pretty friend from the kitchen staff. What was her name?”
Lindir turned himself to catch the elder twin’s malicious stare and articulated very slowly, as though speaking to a feeble child:
“I have no pretty friend from the kitchen staff and you know it!”
At the very moment he finished his sentence, Elrohir’s voice behind his back innocently acknowledged very loudly:
“He speaks the truth… She works in the library…”
From the new waves of laughter coming from the twins echoed the more discreet chuckles from the guards accompanying them and riding respectfully a few paces behind them. Raising his gaze to the blue and clear morning sky, and praying the Valar to bestow him with patience, Lindir sighed. In one or two days, he would get bored by the unceasing teasing from those two and would begin to tease them as mercilessly. But, for the moment, he did not feel the need to do so. It was so good to have them here, alive and joking, that he felt very happy. Deciding to ignore the last remark from the twins and his warriors’ reaction, he came back to the initial subject of conversation, a ghost of smile upon his sweet features:
“It does not matter who told me that. Erestor becomes worse from year to year. For example, Lord Glorfindel has definitely given up and does not even try to pretend to do anything. He has joined the morning patrol for one month and is not often seen in the house.”
Again, the air was filled with light laughter, which graced the sky with their musical notes entwining in a soft melody.
It was good to be home.
His sons were home.
Legolas was sitting near a little stream that ran through the forest, his senses sharpened. He had no wish to be surprised just as before the dawn. Such an event once a day was more than enough for him. His eyes fixed on his surroundings, he was rebraiding his hair, his nimble fingers making quick work of his hair thanks to the years of habit. He did not need any mirror nor to look at his reflection in the still water. His fingers were combing and separating the thin strands of golden silk, working by themselves.
He had taken a quick bath in the natural pool in front of him, wishing to rid himself of the dried blood on his pale skin. He had also washed his clothes, knowing that even with all the best will of the world, he would never make them an acceptable appearance. His tunic was torn in many places and the bandage he had placed upon his wound was clearly visible. He had washed the cut with pure water and had been relieved to see that the blade that had struck him had not been poisonous. It would not be an ideal time to faint upon the forest ground while he was so near to reaching his destination. He had applied to his upper arm a large amount of healing herbs, which were supposed to quicken the natural healing process.
But he would by no means look as was befitting a prince. He could almost hear the mocking comments that his ever so perfect brothers would have made without any reserve. Such an incident would not likely happen to them. They who were always so perfectly regal. Legolas contained grimace of irony. Damn them! They were not there and he had still to reach Imladris. Anar had just arisen from his long slumber. If Naralod was in good enough shape, he would be able to give the message to the Peredhel Lord in three or four hours.
And take his leave for Mirkwood one hour later.
He could have departed a long time ago, but he had lost a lot of time in finding a proper place to bury the corpses of the human family. He had had no time to build a pyre, so he had had to find another solution. He could have left them behind, but he could not permit himself to abandon their bodies to the preying carrion that haunted the forest. Finally, he had found a natural little crevice in the ground where he had put the corpses into. He had covered them with strong branches and he had added some dirt to discourage the beasts from digging. He had stayed there for a few moments, praying for the rest of their souls and singing ancient songs to accompany their last journey. As he had sung for the dead ones, no emotion had flickered upon the fair face or in the deep eyes. Grief was an emotion that he could not have allowed himself to feel. Regret and sorrow would be for other days. For other times. When Mirkwood would finally be safe.
Whistling, he called Naralod. Imladris was not so far anymore.
Next: Imladris
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