Behind the shadows of the soul

Part I: In your eyes

Author: Casualis ( [email protected] )

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas, Glorfindel/Legolas

Rating: R (for the end of the fic)

Warning: SLASH. Means two men together. Don't like, don't read. We have a deal?

Summary: Mirkwood is under threat and seeks an alliance with Imladris in spite of years of contempt. The younger Prince of Mirkwood is sent as a messenger, but what he will find there is not exactly what he expected.

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. Generally, I wake up immediately after dreaming that.

A/N: First part of the arc 'Behind the shadows of the soul'. You do not need to read the prologue to understand the story.

The story takes place in the year 2610 of the Third Age, the twins are 2480 years old, Legolas is 800 years old. Please remember that we have no information from Tolkien's works about Legolas' true date of birth, while it is said that the twins were born in the year 130 of the Third Age.

In that fic, I will consider that Glorfindel of Rivendell and Glorfindel of Gondolin were the same person, reembodied after some time spent in the Halls of Waiting.

The story will concentrate on the Elven community (Who asked why?), that's why the Elven characterisations of the places will be used. For instance, Imladris for Rivendell.

Many pieces of information had been taken from the Encyclopedia of Arda, as I am not a specialist of Tolkien's world. I try to be exact, but if you see any mistakes, just let me know.  

*

"Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up."

James Baldwin

*

Between Imladris and the Misty Mountains, Third age, year 2610

The clearing was bordered by many high trees: beeches, oaks, silver birches… The vegetation was dense and dark, but lit by the sunlight. Anar was high in the sky, proof that the day was well under way. No clouds blocked the warm light and all of nature was awakening under its hot caress. The place might appear as a cozy nest, with the contrast between the light green of the grass and the darker green of the trees. To complete the impression, there were flowers were scattered on the ground, adding to the lit clearing a vast range of colours which endowed it with the air of a feast. A fickle breeze made the leaves of the trees sometimes sing. Their rustlings were as many whispers spoken to the world, increasing the notion that the place was alive. And alive it was.

But the trees were not the only ones to speak and to sing, every being in the forest added its voice to the magical melody of the forest. The birds which nested in the high trees sang in a melodic voice, fluctuating as the waves of the sea, sometimes high-pitched, sometimes low, their whistles twinning in a natural and beautiful chorus. The insects, buzzed, flying from one flower to another, gathering the nectar offered by nature.

The clearing was lively and delightful. All the beings of the forest sang their joys in chorus because one of the fair folk was sitting among them, answering their songs by his own, his beautiful and sweet voice echoing those of animals and trees.

Any wanderer would have stopped in front of this idyllic vision of beauty. The elf and the nature looked united. The Firstborn seemed to be a part of the forest, nature accepting him as one of its own.

Often, at the fall of night, in human villages, when every family was reunited next to their fire, the elders related to impatient children old tales and legends about the magic link between elves and nature, this kind of relationship alien to any others species. It was said that elves pull their strength out of this bond and that if it came to be broken, they died. But children laughed when they heard those strange tales. One knew that elves did not exist and that there was no more magic in the forest than in the fields where the wheat grew. But if one of those impudent children were to pass by this clearing, it would have changed its mind.

Because, without a doubt, there was magic in this moment. Elf, trees and animals seemed out of time, their songs and beauties were immortal, such as they. They were a picture of unchanging and eternal beauty.

The elf was immobile. One could swear that, except for the songs escaping his lips, he was indeed a statue. The first thing that graced the beholder's view was his long and shining hair that was like a glittering waterfall of gold which Anar itself enjoyed playing with. The golden mane was held back by many little braids that drew an intricate design on the proud head of the elf. This flamboyant stream framed a delicate and alabaster-made face with angular features. His cheeks were high and well-drawn; his nose, noble and slender; in a perfect harmony between pink and red, slightly parted to make breathing easier, his lips made a sharp contrast with the pale complexion of his skin. But the most fascinating part of his face were his eyes, which were two huge cerulean seas, bordered by long, curved dark eyelashes and surmounted by two delicately arched eyebrows. This elf's face was so fair that one could have mistaken him for a female if it were not for the angular and energetic features. If one still had some doubts about the sex of the beautiful creature in front of them, they could not possibly be mistaken by the high frame, the broad shoulders and the bow-developed arms of the elf. He was doubtless a warrior, whose body had been modelled by many hours of practice on the training fields.

That was all the human eye would have discerned in the charming and bewitching creature. But if an elf might have ventured into the clearing, he would have immediately noticed that this one was fair beyond Elven standards, that his languid posture was a mere illusion and that, at the slightest sign of danger, he would be up, his bow in hands, ready to aim an arrow at his foe's heart. He would have seen that his handsome features were indisputably Sindarin and that his youth was only apparent because elves didn't age as mortals. He would have also seen that the intricate design made by his braids and the discreet gold broach on his hood marked him as a member of Mirkwood royalty.

But no one was there to witness the charming communion of the elf and nature.

Suddenly, the elf broke the harmony of the picture. In one swift movement, with all the elegance and the grace characteristic of his race, he was up, scanning the area with a thoughtful expression, but did not seem to find what his eyes sought. Taking a few steps through the clearing and standing in its middle, the Sindarin elf gave a brief whistle that resounded clearly through the woods. Then, he resumed his still pose, apparently waiting for something or someone. But he did not have to wait for long as, some seconds later, the unhurried pace of a horse reverberated through the trees and a white stallion emerged from the wooded surroundings, halting near the elf, who fondly patted the neck of the animal

"Are you well rested, my friend?" asked the golden-haired being of his magnificent companion in the Elven language that all animals understood so well.

For an answer the powerful stallion contented himself with blowing through his dark nostrils and with pawing the soil with the edge of his right hoof. The elf let out a musical laugh and caressed the sleek neck. Then, twining his fingers in the white mane, he jumped effortlessly on the strong back of the horse. Once his balance steadied, he told the proud animal:

"Noro lim, Naralod. This message must be quickly brought to Imladris and if we do not hurry, we will never reach the border before the sunset. "

Tilting his long and fine ears to show his elf that he had understood, Naralod immediately obeyed his rider, breaking into a trot. Slowly the silence returned to the clearing. There was no trace left from the passage of the elf. One could have believed it to be a dream.

*

Legolas, third son of Thranduil, himself son of Oropher, the one who had heroically died in the last war against the dark Lord, was bothered. If anyone could have good reasons to be upset, it was he. He still didn't understand why his royal father had been so insistent about the fact his urgent message had to be delivered by one of his sons and not by one of the usual messengers. But well… When his father had an idea, no one could possibly make him change his mind. The rider's mind slowly drifted to the scene that took place two weeks ago in the audience hall in front of the whole court.

King Thranduil had summoned his three sons to decide who would assume the important duty of taking a missive to the Lord of Imladris. Even if no word had been uttered, it had surprised everyone that, after centuries, if not millennia, of contemptuous ignorance and not very well hidden disdain for the Peredhel Lord and his realm, the King turned to him to seek an alliance and find a new strength to fight against the increasing darkness threatening Mirkwood.

"One of you has to take my request for a council. I want him to leave tomorrow at dawn. Who will go?"

The tone of the King's voice had been icy, his gaze and his stance betraying both his weariness and his feeling of failure to have to ask for help. It had been more than clear that his demand had brooked no discussion. One of them had to go… The problem was to determine whom. The three brothers had exchanged swift glances, trying to discern the others' intentions.

None of them had the desire to go to this Peredhel realm, which they had never heard anything good about. But one of them had to go and none of the three Mirkwood Princes had been eager to sacrifice himself in favour of the two remaining ones. There had always been little affection between them since their early childhood, they were doubtless too different from one another, in age and in character.

Vercatauro, the crown Prince, was the one who had the strong temper and the unwavering will of their father, a nice way to say that he was a very stubborn elf. Raised as the future King, he was a little bit manipulative and used to see every one attending to his wishes. Legolas had immediately seen that he would have done or said anything to avoid going to Imladris. He had seen that same sparkle in his Sailacel's, his other brother's, gaze. While the Crown Prince and Legolas had inherited their father's features, Sailacel had their departed mother's dark mane and grey eyes, which he knew very well how to use to his advantage.

The youngest Prince stifled a groan at the memory of his brothers' arguments. They had been pitiful, but the King had accepted them, apparently too preoccupied to see that they were blatantly lying. By the Valar, how could his father have believed what they had told him? No one had ever seen Vercatauro preparing a journey by himself, least of all, a political visit with the human farmers who were allowed to cultivate fields at the east of the Kingdom. As their father, he despised humans and never gave them an unnecessary thought. But they were useful to the Kingdom, keeping inhabited some distant parts of Mirkwood where no elf would ever wish to walk, even less to live. They kept the darkness away and, for this reason only, were tolerated. Every two years, the King or one of his councillors journeyed toward the eastern border to see if the human villagers had succeeded in defending themselves against the attacks of orcs or wargs. But, this year, Vercatauro had been charged to take his father's place. "It is time for my heir to learn how to perform a King's duty" their father had announced. The two younger princes had had a lot of trouble suppressing the laughter that had threatened to escape their lips when they had looked at their brother's features. Vercatauro had not been delighted at all and, even though he had managed to keep it well hidden in front of the court, his two brothers knew him too well not to see through the mask he had been wearing. He was an open book to his siblings, not like Sailacel who was the best of them at the game of hiding his true intentions. Only some indiscretions and gossip among his warriors had enabled Legolas to discover that, if his brother had decided to negotiate himself the annual purchase of commodities, it was rather for the sake of the trader's daughter rather than for that of trading interest. And, facing this avalanche of dutiful activities, Legolas had only been able to advance his leadership of the southern patrols, which had been no match compared with his brothers' reasons not to take the message to the Peredhel Lord.

That was why he found himself now on the road of Imladris, somewhat bored by his brothers' attitudes and with no idea how he would be welcomed in the vale.

*

Five leagues from the southern border of Imladris  , Third age, year 2610

"I told you to be prudent!"

"I was…"

"You were not…"

"I tell you I was!"

"If you were cautious, why are you injured?"

The forest, usually quiet and not troubled, was agitated by the cries that could be heard from far away. The noise from the quarrel was so loud that even the birds remained silent, disturbed from their usual activities. It was as if the whole world had stopped what it had been doing and focused on the exchange of reproaches.

"It is merely a scratch!!! Why are you so angry?" The first voice rose strongly to die on an unbelieving note.

"Why are you so stubborn?" came the inflexible answer. The anger in the voice seemed to subside a little bit when the speaker added: "You could have died. Your attention was diverted and if I did not warn you, you would be dead. Do you hear me? You would be dead!"

The four last words were screamed rather than spoken. All life in the forest froze in place at the pain and the distress that could be heard in those simple words. The one to whom these words were addressed seemed to be very aware of the feelings of the speaker. He only got up and gathered the trembling and distressed form of his brother in his arms. With an unsteady voice, as he faced his own turbulent emotions, he tried to soothe him with comfort and love words.

"Hush, Elladan. I am here and I am well. Muindor… I am here. I am here"

He was speaking in a lulling undertone and the meaning of his words had little importance. All that mattered was the fact that his brother was suffering because of his own negligence. However, his close presence seemed to calm down the eldest of the Peredhel twins, as he heard the heavy concern and anguish in his brother's voice. His grasp on Elrohir's tunic relaxed slightly and silence fell over their desperate embrace.

Then, bit by bit, the forest livened up, the birds resuming singing and tweeting and the leaves resuming rustling and whispering. The usual serenity of nature came back to the place it should have never left, soothing the twin figures enfolded in each other's arms, cradling each other, as though each was afraid to lose the other.

They had no idea of the picture they were offering to the gazes of the wild animals. If one could have seen them, they would have been mixed between an overwhelming feeling of fondness in front of the mirrored images' embrace and a feeling of horror. Horror because that expression of brotherly love took place on a bloody battlefield. All around them, the corpses of slaughtered orcs watered the thirsty soil with their dark blood. Many weapons were discarded on the ground: swords, scimitars, bows and many others. Branches were broken and discarded all over the ground, adding testimony to the apparent violence of the battle. Dark orcish arrows were embedded in the trunks of the surrounding trees. Bushes, flowers and grass had been stamped on by the heavy steps of the foul beasts. All around was the true picture of desolation and devastation. But in the center of this image stood hope. Even covered with their foes' blood, dishevelled, their dark curls soaked by blood, sweat and mud, the two brothers gave off an air of serenity and peace.

The eldest twin raised his head to meet his brother's gaze. Gray eyes crossed gray eyes in a silent prayer. His words were so soft that his twin might have not heard them if he didn't have the sharp hearing of elves.

"Swear me you will be careful. I was so frightened when he raised his sword to you. I do not want to lose you, muindor-nin. What would I do without you?"

Elrohir contented himself with smiling and softly pressing a tender kiss on his brother's forehead, the expression in his gaze unreadable. Then, pressing his cheek to his brother's and tightening his grasp on his waist, he murmured:

"I swear, Elladan. For your sake, I swear that I will be more careful".

TBC…