In your Eyes: The Lord of the Vale
He was sitting in his private study, a large, bright room, decorated with taste but without any signs of ostentation. The walls were of a pure white and there were no paintings hanging on them. But two of them were covered by bookcases, which were threatening to crumble under the weight of the numerous books and manuscripts piled on the bookshelves. There were few pieces of furniture in the room. In a corner, a vast and comfortable armchair was covered by a deep red velvet fabric and in the center of the study stood a desk, which was a magnificent work of craftmanship. It was made from dark oak-wood, the sombre shade making a pleasant contrast with the brightness of the room. This was a unique piece with a history, which gave it, in Elrond's heart, much more value than the simple price of a beautiful and well-build piece of furniture.
Many centuries ago, a storm had raged upon the vale. For three long days and three long nights, southern winds had blown, bringing with them heavy and menacing dark clouds, which had hidden Anar and deprived Imladris of the light, vital to the elves. For three long days and three long nights, the inhabitants of the vale had shut themselves in, none of them daring to go and face the anger of the elements. Even among the oldest, none could recall when last it had rained so much and so long. The rain had seemed an opaque and impassable curtain upon the usual beauty of Imladris. No sounds could be heard, except the violent knock of the rain upon the windows, the agitated rustlings of the leaves in trees, the violent voice of winds screaming in their insanity, the muffled growl of the thunder and the tremendous explosions of the lightning dying in burst of light.
Many were those who said that it had been as if the fury of the Valar had been crashing down upon the valley. Those three days and three nights had been the longest any of them had lived through. Anguish and despair had come over many souls. Tears had been shed and words of comfort exchanged. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm had stopped, leaving behind it a desolated landscape. The ground had been inundated and strewn with branches and leaves; many rivulets were running on the soil, forming as many little streams or muddy ponds. Shutters and tiles had been torn off from the houses. In some places, walls had collapsed. Gardens had been destroyed, not a single flower remained. The whole vale had been devastated, looking more like a picture of death and battlefields. But luckily, no one had been injured and even if it had taken years to restore its former beauty to Imladris, the Lore Master had never complained. However, Elrond's heart had ached when he had found out that one of the ancient trees in his garden had been uprooted by the strength of the gusts of wind.
When he had seen the once proud and tall oak lying on the ground, its leaves soiled with mud, its branches broken, the Lore Master's heart had cried in denial. This had been worse than all he had seen when he had inspected the destruction. This tree had been in the valley before the elves came. It had seemed to Elrond that this oak had been eternal and that he could always rest under the shelter offered by its foliage. But he had been wrong and seeing the strong being having been cast down, had reminded him that even what seemed eternal was not always so. He had asked one of the better carpenters to use the fallen tree to make some pieces of furniture or to replace the broken flaps. Without telling him, his wife had inquired of the craftsman to make her husband a large and beautiful desk to replace his old one, which could no longer withstand the weight of all his papers anymore.
The carpenter had done very good work. Contrary to other desks, this one had not been made of heavy and thick wood board carefully pieced together, but had been directly carved in the trunk. The result was magnificent. The piece of furniture was noble and Elrond had loved it from the very moment he saw it. It was all in curves and straight lines, sculpted and nosed feet supporting the straight tabletop. Three drawers were inset in the front, all of them covered with an intricate design that the Lord of Imladris had recognized as being from his wife's imagination.
As was usual in the morning, he was sitting in front of this marvellous gift that reminded him of his wife and her laughter at his surprise upon discovering that his old desk had been replaced. He cherished the piece of furniture as deeply as he did her image. Their time together had been too short and there was, to his liking, too few memories to recall. This place was full of these past precious moments and he found himself craving the solace provided by this sweet cocoon. He had for a long time forsaken the other places where too many counsellors, scholars and undesirable intruders were eager to lavish their advice. He needed the silence, preferring to work in peace.
He was studying the annual report about the protection of the frontiers. Every year, he sent Glorfindel or Erestor, two of his most trusted friends and counsellors, to study the situation at the borders very carefully. Every year, some patrols were added to one of the frontiers, others were changed; new recruits were hired. He had also to choose those among the volunteers who would be sent in the annual hunting trip destined to clean out the destruction from the presence of Sauron's minions.
A knock at the large wooden door interrupted his reverie. He quickly glanced at the position of Anar in the sky, believing that, once more, absorbed in his work, he had missed lunchtime. But Anar was not at his top and two hours had to pass yet before a servant would bring him a tray of food. So, who could it be? The entire household knew that he did not wish to be disturbed when he studied these long and boring reports. And this report was particularly long and boring. He had made it very clear that he did not wish to be disturbed at all and he was very annoyed to hear somebody knocking at the door. He closed his eyes, trying to figure what could motivate such an intrusion. Lost in his thoughts, he forgot to answer to the unwanted visitor. But another knock brought him out of his daydreaming state. This time, the intruder voiced his question:
"Elrond, are you in there?"
The Lord of Imladris mumbled a reply. The voice belonged to his old friend and mentor, Glorfindel, who knew perfectly well that he was in his study. How could he be elsewhere when so much work was waiting for him? Elrond decided that something must have been troubling the seneschal of Imladris because it was not his friend's habit to knock twice when he did not answer the first time. And, generally, he did not knock at all.
"Ai. I am here..."
The door was swiftly opened and a tall blond elf entered the study. Elrond carefully eyed the figure. The Balrog-slayer was wearing his riding clothes, but there was nothing unusual in this: Glorfindel wore formal robes only when necessary. Even after long millennia spent at the court of Gondolin and in Imladris, the blond elf still did not wish to wear the formal clothes. He preferred the traditional hunting clothes, leggings and tunic to them, this reminded the Lore Master that his friend was first a warrior before being his seneschal. The dust and filth on the black leggings indicated to him that the tall elf just came back from riding with one of the morning patrols. His white tunic contrasted with the dark colour of the leggings. The tight clothes suited him well and enhanced the broad shoulders and the muscular thighs, a dark leather belt emphasized his slender waist. His blond hair, worn simply in two modest braids, was shining with the light of Anar. Clothed like that, Glorfindel was truly awesome.
But something was different in his seneschal's appearance. Something was troubling the usually serene features. There was a glint in the blond elf's gaze, that was not normally there and that Elrond had not seen for a long time. What was it? Amusement? Surprise? No, it was not. But he could not guess what troubled his friend. He turned his chair to face his visitor. He noted the nervous tic tensing up the well-drawn jaw. Something must be wrong. Locking his gaze with the blonde elf, he took a deep breath and waited for Glorfindel to tell him what had happened, praying that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with one of his sons.
"A messenger has just arrived"
Elrond breathed again. He had just let go of a chuckle. Was his friend going mad? A messenger. A mere messenger. He was waiting for an announcement of calamitous proportions and Glorfindel announced him the coming of a mere messenger. He was relieved. But it did not last long. Meeting again his friend's gaze, he saw that the nervousness had not left the blue eyes. He frowned and waited for whatever was coming. But he was completely unprepared for what came next. When he heard the rest, he felt his eyes narrow in surprise. He had to admit that he had not been so shocked for centuries, for millennia even. Maybe because he had not heard those words being uttered for a millennia or two. At this moment, he understood Glorfindel's astonishment as he looked at his friend.
"It's a messenger from Mirkwood"
The question left the young prince more speechless than he let it appear. He was standing in front of Lord Elrond, as he had refused to sit down.
"I beg your pardon, my Lord?"
As he was sitting at his desk, the tall half-elf raised his gaze to capture the son of Thranduil's blue stare. Usually, the bearer of a message was dismissed after having delivered the precious letter. But this one was no mere messenger. The beautiful elf that was standing so straight and so tall, somewhat tense in a way, in front of him was no less than the son of one whom he had thought to be his friend many millennia ago. He could not help to notice the striking resemblance between the blond messenger and his sire and the ebony-haired lord felt himself sent back many years ago, to an era when he was younger and more carefree. He raised his left eyebrow when he heard the polite request. Looking into those eyes that held so much, he knew immediately that the question was a rhetorical one, asked to give him time to gather his thoughts. Such a ploy was not common for someone so young. Youths were usually brash and most of the time unthinking. Like his sons. Suppressing a smile at the situation, he repeated, enunciating every word:
"What do you think of your father's request?"
For a brief moment, both elves stared wordlessly at each other and Elrond felt himself fall under the spell of those piercing blue eyes. As many of the elves that had lived for so long, he craved the beauty of Arda. All the beauty. After seeing so many people die, so many friends fall and after forgetting so many memories, the balm that the vision of beauty left upon his wounded heart was soothing and restful. But the blond archer was unaware of the admiration barely hidden in those grey eyes. He was too busy trying to discover in those same eyes the kind of answer that was expected. Trying to look neither too impolite nor too arrogant, he cautiously stated:
"I'm not sure that what I think is important, my Lord..."
With a vague gesture of his right hand, Elrond dismissed the too diplomatic answer. He wanted answers that were answers, not ones that hinted at subterfuge.
"Well...Tell me then what you know of the situation of your realm. Surely you know about your father's request, don't you?"
The younger elf bit his bottom lips. His nervousness increased, making him afraid to commit a mistake that would influence the dark-haired Lord's decision and making him even more hesitant to reply. However, it was not in his character to be so nervous. He was even known in his realm for his unshakable composure and this new feeling made him very angry with himself. Made him feel as if he was failing Mirkwood when it needed him the most. Trying to disguise his discomfort, he walked to the windows and breathed deeply before answering:
"I don't know what more there is to say, my Lord. My father will have explained this to you in his letter."
The Lore Master shook his head slightly, his smooth brow marred with a deep wrinkle as he frowned. A new dodge. His voice hardened a little when he spoke:
"Yes, son of Thranduil. But I have known your father for far longer than you have and I am very much aware that he does not say everything in his letter. I also know that he wants help, but Mirkwood had managed on its own for millennia. Why does your realm need help now? Why make contact now while no words have been exchanged for so long?"
He paused for a second, his stare fixed on the prince's broad shoulders, noticing the well-built frame of the archer.
Legolas tensed, wanting to speak of the desperate situation his realm was in, but not knowing how to do so. How could he speak of it, when he had learned to behave as if everything was normal, ignoring the growing danger to keep up a pretense of normal life? How could he speak of the anguish of his people when each of them tried to forget that every day might be their last? How could he speak of the death and of the fear, of the fights or battles and of the pain? How could he speak of things everyone refused to voice lest it might seem to them too harsh a reality? How could he speak of feelings everyone refused to acknowledge?
Elrond saw the tension creeping in the blond elf's posture. He smiled bitterly in his mind. It was no easy task that Thranduil had bestowed upon his youngest and, in a way, he couldn't help enjoying the situation. It was a little revenge for so many years of fights and insults. It was also a little victory upon his former friend. It was not very glorious, but it felt good to have the blond king requesting or begging him to help his realm. Then he spoke again, more gently this time, almost encouraging:
"I know that darkness is rising in Mirkwood, young prince. If you refuse to speak, I may believe that this is yet another trick of your father's..."
He watched, still, as the young prince turned very slowly to meet his gaze. And then, Elrond did not find the situation enjoyable anymore. As straight as one could, his eyes icy and nonetheless burning, his voice holding no emotion, as disconnected, his nostrils imperceptibly flared and his jaw clenched slightly, the young prince did as he had been bid, taking his time to speak:
"We need help. We cannot hold out much longer if no one comes to our aid. Darkness is rising; immortal elves are dying, some from battle wounds, others from grief. Soon, goblins will be bred with Elven blood. We could flee, but we won't. Mirkwood is our realm. It is our land. We cannot leave it behind us. Many have already sailed for the Undying Lands, but those who remain will give their lives to protect the realm. The last of us will fight before dying..." The blond Prince laughed bitterly, before adding: "You wanted to know what I thought of the situation. I think it would be better if such sacrifices were not necessary..."
When he finished his sentence, nothing moved at all in the little study. The half-elf was sitting there, his gaze fixed upon the fair and proud creature that was looking at him with an air of challenge in his eyes. He was frozen in his chair, his thoughts of revenge forgotten. He had never heard one speaking of his own sacrifice with so much detachment, with so few emotions. But, most of all, he was stunned by the wild beauty of the speaker. This one was so much like his father and, yet, so different. Thranduil was a passionate elf but he had never seen so much detachment from events in his former friend.
The voice of the prince was still ringing in his ears: the detached and emotionless tone, the emphasis, the sacrifice. He was more than serious when he spoke of his own death with so little worry or concern. This was by no means the inflamed declaration of a youth dreaming of glory and battle. This was a statement. An acceptance uttered without any regret nor shame.
And in his heart, Elrond knew he would not be able to let this one drown, as he would not be able to forsake the Woodland realm to the cruel hands of Sauron's minions. He would have to discuss it, of course. With Thranduil. With Galadriel and Celeborn. This was not a decision one could make lightly. Nor he could send his warriors immediately to Mirkwood. Most of them were just returning after a month or longer of hunting and others had just departed. He could not leave Imladris without any protection, even for the sake of Mirkwood.
Sighing, he adverted his gaze. Misinterpreting the ebony-haired lord's silence, Legolas stated, his voice holding a slight bitterness that he had not been able to disguise:
"I need an answer, my Lord. Aye or Nai. An answer is all I ask for. It's not so difficult."
At the sudden harshness in the formerly smooth tone, Elrond looked at the blond messenger and became aware of the younger elf's disappointment. He probed the depths of the cerulean orbs staring at him, but saw nothing resembling an emotion. If he had not heard the change in the prince's voice, he might have believed that he had not been affected at all. But as suddenly as the impassionate mask had slipped, it was put back on the fair but indifferent features.
"And yet, young prince, it's not so simple" answered the Lore Master of Imladris.
If his long life had taught him anything, it was that nothing was ever simple. A choice led often toward two opposite directions and choosing to go right or left could upset so many lives, bring so much joy but also so much hardship. Taking such decisions lightly was not something one could afford.
But the son of Thranduil did not seem to be aware of the responsibilities involved in such choices. Bolder, he said with an undeniable hint of challenge:
"You may have unlimited amounts of time, but I do not... My people do not."
Elrond could not suppress his smile this time. Finally, all Thranduil's children had inherited his temper and his impatience. This one was no exception and, even if he was extremely skilled at hiding it, the fire was burning under or beneath the ice.
"Time is a rhetorical matter, young prince." His amusement was noticeable and he quickly amended his tone so as not to offend his fair visitor. "Mirkwood has withstood the blows of the Shadow for a long time and a few more days won't change anything..."
The blond prince lowered his gaze, looking somewhat defeated and Elrond felt the loss of this troubled gaze upon him. Thranduil's son slightly raised his head when he spoke again, but did not meet his gaze:
"Meanwhile, I shall bring an answer to my King. What should I tell him? That you need time to think about his request?"
Again, his voice was neutral, musical but emotionless. The ice had covered the fire, smothering his attempts to escape its glacial cage. Elrond did not waste any time pondering the answer he was to give. His mind was already made up.
"You will tell the King, your father, that I agree with his request of a meeting"
While speaking, he carefully watched the fair features. But to his own disappointment, no emotion flickered upon his face. And when the blond elf met his gaze, as if to seek assurance that the lord of Imladris was serious indeed. A flickering light passed in the huge pupils, but it was so quick and short-lived that Elrond was not sure he had really seen it.
"So, if you would agree, my Lord, I will take my leave to go back to Mirkwood."
But Elrond shook his head in denial. He had other plans for the Prince of Mirkwood tonight. He got up, his long and heavy robes rustling with his movements, and he approached the blond elf, remaining but a few feet from him, feeling that any kind of contact would not be welcomed:
"You are no doubt aware that tonight, the most important celebration of the vale takes place. I would be very pleased and most honoured to have the Prince of Mirkwood under my roof for such an event."
Legolas opened his mouth to protest, but immediately closed it. He could by no means refuse such an invitation without being discourteous. Oblivious of the fair elf's reaction, Elrond kept on:
"It would give me time to compose an appropriate reply to your king. As well as give you time to rest and recover..."
The blond Prince stared at the raven-haired Lord, looking somewhat puzzled, his bottomless jewel-like orbs seeking in the noble features the meaning of his words:
"Yes, recover" repeated Elrond, pointing with his chin at the bandage covering the Prince's upper-arm, whose white fabric was slightly stained with blood.
Following the Lord of Imladris' stare, Legolas looked at the stained bandage and, unconsciously, pulled at his sleeve to cover it:
"This is naught, my Lord. It is merely a gash. In all honesty, I had completely forgotten about it"
It was the truth. He had been really surprised when he had seen the little red shade staining the bandage.
A smile graced Elrond's lips as this scene reminded him of the one that had been occurred in front of the door of the house a little bit earlier. In spite of himself, his mind drifted to his younger son, who would be sulking in the empty healing wing, but he soon returned his attention to the fair Prince in front of him and said to the younger elf with a fatherly tone that told that he would brook no argument:
"I would rather see you tended properly by a healer. Then you will be led to your rooms to have a bath and rest before the feast. But, of course, if you wish to leave now, I would understand ..."
Legolas recognized an order when he heard one, even when that order was softly and cautiously given. He was well aware that he could by no means refuse without offending the lord of the valley.
"Your wishes would be my pleasure, my Lord"
A ghost of a smile for one mere second, lit up Elrond's features, as an image of Thranduil came helplessly to his mind. So much like his father. So respectful of the protocol. So very much like his father
Next: The Balrog Slayer
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