In your Eyes: Home
"Ada!"
The exclamation was joyous and somehow a little bit childish. Elrond briefly closed his eyes and sent a silent thank you to the Lady for having kept his sons safe.
When he opened them, he gazed into two pairs of identical grey eyes, so much like his. His two sons were standing in front of him. With a studied grace, their hands laid upon theirs chests at the exact location of their hearts, the seriousness of their expressions belied by the sparks in their pupils, they bowed deeply in perfectly synchronized movements. Then, they waited for their father to welcome them in his house and to allow them some rest and, above all, the access to the baths before seeking further discussions.
The Lore master went forward and put a warm hand on the shoulder of each of his sons. The ritual was immutable and cherished. As soon as he had noted their arrival, he had gone down to wait for them on the doorstep facing the main gardens, his father's heart singing with joy, in harmony the birds nestling in the trees. But that had been only when he had seen them standing in front of him, alive and apparently healthy, when the last remaining trace of fear had left him.
A single sentence escaped his lips, but in those simple words could be felt all the love he had for them:
"Mae Govannen, my sons..."
And he hugged them both tightly to his heart.
But concern appeared in his eyes when he felt more than saw his younger son wince at his touch upon his shoulder.
"What is there?" he asked, his voice filled with worry now that he knew that Elrohir had been wounded.
"He had..." began the older twin, but Elladan never had the opportunity to finish his sentence as his sibling cut off his explanation.
"Nothing!" stated Elrohir precipitously before tempering his voice and saying in a reassuring tone: "It is naught, Ada."
"Elrohir..."
Elladan let a bit of the anger he was feeling darken his voice, reminding his twin of his promise to show their father his injury as soon as they were back home. He had taken care of the wound, but he was not as skilled as his sire in the matter of healing art. He had detected no trace of poison, but he would be only relieved when his father had confirmed his assessment.
"I am well, brother. It is almost healed" protested Elrohir in a casual tone, but glaring darkly at Elladan.
Something like a flash briefly lit the grey eyes of the elder twin who, very calmly and in a tone that would accept no argumant, said:
"That is no scratch and you know it. You will keep the promise you made, brother, or I swear I will bring you on my own to the healers..." He paused briefly to enhance his following words. "Whether you like it or not..."
But a stern voice prevented the younger twin from telling his brother to speak only for himself.
"Would you stop that for a minute, please!"
The two twins, who were facing each other, turned in unison to look at their very displeased father. As usual, in this kind of argument, they had forgotten about the whole word around them and were called back to reality by their father's dark stare.
Elrond was relieved to see that his younger son was well enough to quarrel with his brother. His injury could not be so bad if he found the strength to argue with Elladan. But what angered him most was the refusal to take care of it. A wound was a common accident in battle and there was no shame in asking for help. If his children thought themselves to be adult enough to act as warriors, then they should behave accordingly. Seeing that he had again their full attention, he inquired:
"Are you wounded?"
This was not truly a question because he already knew the answer but he had to ask, wanting Elrohir to admit his injury.
"Aye" agreed Elrohir staring at his feet like an elfling surprised while getting into mischief. He was no elfling anymore, but he could not help feeling like one when his father looked at him in this way.
"Where?"
It was not his father asking questions from this moment on, but the healer. The most skilled healer of Arda. He felt his grey eyes roaming over his whole frame, trying to determine the severity of his injury. But he did not have time to answer, Elladan took the words out of his mouth. Sighing, Elrohir thought that he should teach his twin to hold his tongue and not speak for him.
"His shoulder"
Elrond suppressed a sigh and asked, knowing well what would follow:
"And how?"
"Orcs..."
He recoiled at the image that came in front of his eyes. Just a brief vision, but very vivid. His sons mortally wounded by the hands of those foul beasts, their blood soaking the ground where they were lying. Another image overlaid upon this one, the image of his wife when she had been brought back to him: her flesh torn, her eyes dull, the blood, so much blood ... Briefly closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and was proud of himself when his voice didn't quaver as he asked:
"Was the blade poisoned?"
"I don't think so, but..."
He did not let his elder son finish the sentence. He had heard all he needed to hear and he knew what Elladan would say.
"But you prefer I have a look. Well... Go and take a bath, Elladan. You will join us later in the Last Homely house. But you, Elrohir..." He paused for a second, anchoring his gaze at his younger son. "You will come with me"
Legolas allowed himself to relax a bit when he reached the stream bordering what he thought to be one of the natural borders of the vale. Sighing and letting his gaze wander around him, seeking for path or a bridge where they could cross and avoid the water, but he found none. He let a soothing hand massage the muscles of his weary back. They would have to go through the water in order to reach the other side.
He heard the whispering of the trees and could not help smiling. Their voices and their language were so different from those of his beloved forest. Less wild. More civilized. More gentle. Different. He asked himself if the elves he was to meet were similar to those trees: polished and shy, cut from the true essence of nature. He knew he would soon discover the answer to his questions. He could feel that he was cautiously watched. That each of his movements was analysed to determine whether he was friend or foe. But, as he was an elf, he had not been challenged yet. Even though it would not be long before that would happen. Murmuring to his horse, he twined his fingers with the immaculate flax-like mane that flowed like a luxurious cascade over the strong curved neck of the stallion:
"Go, my brave Naralod. We have no other choice but to cross".
Balalion glanced toward the younger elves that were assigned to the protection of the border. Many of them had never seen an elf from that realm and were eyeing curiously him without any attempt to hide it. He knew what they saw in him since he had not acted otherwise the first time he had laid his eyes upon one of those strange creatures that inhabited the hostile woods to the east of the mountains.
The elves from Mirkwood called themselves Wood-elves, even if the sylvan folk had mixed in with the Sindar at the time of the coming of Oropher to the Greenwood. And that one was evidently of pure Sindarin blood. But Sindar or Avari, the elves from Mirkwood had always seemed to them to be a strange people. They were wild and somewhat untamed. From there came their attractive beauty. With their savage manners and proud gazes. From their haughty ways to their looks at others. They seemed to belong to a different world, a world where none but they could access, a world made of magic and enchantment, a world ruled by nature, a world of freedom and liberty.
Mirkwood was indeed a strange place. Full of shadows and forgotten by the light. It was said that the Shadow spread strongly through the roots of the trees, poisoning every living being, corrupting their souls and their wills. But these elves remained there, keeping close to the danger by their own will, refusing to leave those forsaken woods. So, who knew what they were capable of?
If Mirkwood was a strange place, then the Wood-elves were a strange folk.
A movement of the blond rider caught his attention. On his order, the tall white stallion began to cross the stream. The moment had come. The elf had gone far enough through Imladris without giving the reasons for his presence.
The blond prince slowly scanned the small gathering of armed warriors, ignoring the threatening way the weapons were wielded at him. All the eyes were fixed on him, narrowed in expectation, seeking to detect any menacing move. He did not move, his body tense, ready to react if those elves showed themselves aggressive. But he relaxed slightly as he felt that there was no true animosity in their stares. But neither were there amicable feelings. He was well aware that those elves did not wish to fight with him, did not wish to harm him. But he also knew that they would have no remorse doing so if it became necessary.
To assure them of his peaceful intentions, he gracefully dismounted, making sure not to brush his bow or his knives in a manner that might be misinterpreted. Soothingly stroking the velvety skin of Naralod's neck to quiet down his horse, angered to see himself threatened by elves, he stepped toward the guards and waited, never lowering his gaze, his chin held straight and proud, refusing to feel intimidated by their weapons.
He calmly watched as a tall blond elf took a step forward, the tip of his arrow shining in the light as a silent warning. He looked at Legolas with unreadable eyes and slowly lowered his bow. But the others did not follow him and kept their arrows aimed at the intruder. Having noticed that the others often glanced toward him and seemed to wait for an order from him, the fair archer had decided that this one must be their leader. But it was not his duty to give explanations without being asked and he waited for the other to speak, showing no signs of fear or eagerness.
"Where do you come from and what do you seek in Imladris?" asked the blond guard.
The tone was not harsh, rather firm and slightly authoritarian. It was evident that he would accept no refusal. But Legolas had no time to spare for arguing with the guards. He had nothing to hide and did not come with ill intentions. When he spoke, his voice held the same tone as the captain of the guards', seeming to dare him to doubt his words.
"I am here to deliver a message to Lord Elrond on behalf of King Thranduil of Mirkwood"
His words rang out clearly in the silence of the morning and the guard cautiously listened to them, not missing the natural authority emanating from the elf. But he only acknowledged the reply by a nod and waited for the messenger to give him the message. For several seconds, neither of them moved, each staring at the other in a stern manner. Seeing that the wood-elf kept his silence and was not willing to waste his time on him, Galalion raised an eyebrow, thus enhancing the angular cut of his cheekbone. Breathing deeply, he asked, his harsh tone betraying his displeasure at how uncooperative this elf was being:
"Give us the letter; we will take it to our Lord."
The young prince looked at the guards, thinking that the one who had dared suggest this had gone completely mad. Did he truly think that he would give them such an important letter? But a slight frown was the only clue to his thoughts. Narrowing his eyes and refusing to move, he voiced his displeasure:
"This message is meant to be delivered to Lord Elrond by myself... This is an important matter that can suffer no delay."
It was Galalion's turn to frown, his gaze never leaving the elf in front of him, tall and elegant in spite of his evident weariness. This was an unusual request and, honestly, he did not know how to handle the situation. It was not in his power to either allow this rider to proceed further into Imladris or to send him back. He was on the verge of sending one of the sentries to the manor to obtain further instructions when an idea crossed his mind. Lord Glorfindel was part of the morning patrol that should not be far away from them. He would know what to do with this arrogant messenger.
The voice of the golden-haired rider, who had just arrived with one of the sentries and dismounted, resounding clearly, calm and musical, strongly contrasting with the unhidden harshness of Galalion's voice. As this new elf spoke, his deep blue eyes roamed over his whole frame and Legolas wondered if a flicker of recognition had not sparked in this individual's eyes.
He watched him closely, taking in the noble face and the strong body of the warrior. This one was apparently an important elf of this realm, but he had no idea of who he might be. But, contrary to him, the newcomer seemed to have at least a clue of whom he was speaking with, which suggested that he was acquainted with the Mirkwood nobility.
Nonetheless, the fair archer was uncertain of how he would be received. No Mirkwood messenger had been sent to Imladris for centuries, if not more. And a long time, even for the elves, had passed since the last messenger from the vale sent to Mirkwood had seen himself forbidden to enter the forest. Legolas had not even been born when that event had transpired.
But, suddenly, he realized that, lost in his thoughts, he had not yet answered the question asked of him and that he was silently and rudely staring at the golden being. Fixing his gaze in the blue eyes of his questioner and with a proud, steady voice filled with the assurance born of years spent in court, he said without even stopping to take a breath:
"I am Legolas Thranduilion, son of the King of Mirkwood and, by blood, prince of my realm. I have been commissioned by my king to deliver a message to the lord of Imladris"
The lack of surprise in the blue eyes of his interviewer told him that he had been right, that his words had only confirmed the other's suspicions. But no words followed and silence fell between them; heavy and awkward. Legolas refused to yield to his desire to avert his gaze. As it looked like he was about to have an intense discussion with himself about the decision he was to make, the blond warrior kept on staring at the prince without any shame. Gritting his teeth, the Prince returned the stare, never breaking eye contact, refusing to let the other see the concern that washed over his heart at the thought that this elf might forbid him from entering this realm.
But, fortunately, or this did not happen. The Noldorin warrior was the first to avert his gaze, looking above the young Prince's shoulder, seeking Galalion's eyes, whom he indicated to by a simple nod that they could lower their weapons and that he would take charge of the messenger from here.
Then, redirecting his attention toward the regal messenger, he spoke, his voice filled with the same calm as before, even if now could be heard the light undertone of deference given to royalty:
"Mae Govannen, son of Thranduil. I am Lord Glorfindel, Seneschal of Imladris..." Without waiting for a reaction from the young Prince, he continued, uttering the words that Legolas had desperately waited to hear: "I will escort you to Lord Elrond"
Then, the tall golden-haired Seneschal turned upon his heels and walked toward the horse that was waiting for him.
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