Naeore Laerien (Summerland of the Heart)

Authors Notes

Welcome to Summerland: You have clicked open a tale that was crafted with immense love. Primarily, Summerland is an exploration of grief and elves, giving those of us who miss them an opportunity to imagine that they didn't have to leave Middle Earth after all. The tale is also rather abashedly a Mary Sue (times two) with romances for both Legolas and Haldir, though I dare to believe it has some value beyond wish fulfillment.

Even if you aren't normally interested in AU, Crossover, OC, Mary Sue, angsty, elf-fancying stories, perhaps you'll do me the honor of taking a peek at this one. It comes from my heart and I hope it touches yours.

On the Matter of Elves: I have respectfully simplified elven relationships because it was more compelling for me to get into their heads rather than into their complex history for the purposes of this story.

A Note on Language: I spent a highly enjoyable time doing Elvish translations because I feel strongly that the language is an important element to include. Although I intend to improve that aspect at a later date, I am satisfied that it can stand as it is and provide the ambiance I am aiming for despite inaccuracies.

On Crossovers: Summerland is alternate universe and incorporates crossover elements predominately as backstory. Long ago I decided that if space was infinite, then why not imagine that all the stories I love are taking place simultaneously on various worlds in the same universe? All that was required was some sort of unifying thread - so I created my gypsy refugees from which my original characters are derived. I am sure fantasy fans will recognize a number of sources, but rest assured - Summerland is a Middle Earth tale.

A Note on Bail Organa: I created my original characters many years before George Lucas explained how the King of Alderaan came to raise Leia. I made up my own version and that is what you will find here.

Regarding Thranduil: My intent is always to respect and preserve the voices of well-beloved characters. We know little enough about Thranduil that speculation about him varies. I subscribe to (and prefer to read about) a Thranduil that is a loving father, if a bit mercurial. At first blush it may appear that I am enormously hard on the character of Thranduil, but I hope I am ultimately successful in expressing my affection for him.

Thank you for coming this far with me!

Namárië & Namaste,

Elfriend

XXX

Prologue:

Summons

The summons had come abruptly, delivered by an elf who had traveled south intent upon adding his skill to the restoration of the great city of men, Minas Tirith.

Many elves had come. There were some sixty in the city and more scattered throughout the countryside of Gondor and Ithilien, doing their part to mend the damage caused by the War of the Ring. The defeat of the Enemy and the return of the king had wrought change throughout Middle Earth. Renewed security on the king's roads was one such change, so that trade between the races was brisk. Even elves, reclusive for over 3,000 years, were on the move.

Some of them were; those that had not taken the ships for Valinor; those for whom the Great Longing for the sea had not become intolerable.

Alfirin of the wood elves came with saplings of flowering trees, tended with care over the weeks and miles of travel, in order to grace the Gardens – fast becoming one of the marvels of a reawakening city. As is the way with elves, ever courteous to one another and in their dealings with other races, Alfirin presented his respects to the King and Queen upon his entry into the city. But after his eloquent courtesies to Elessar and Arwen of Gondor, he turned so precipitously to Legolas (who stood to the right of his friends' thrones), that the woodland prince was visibly startled (which is to say, that there was a nearly imperceptible widening of his eyes). Then, without preamble, Alfirin spoke the words of the summons as if he'd memorized them exactly as they had been spoken to him.

"Legolas, elf of the woods, you are summoned to your King and instructed to delay not in your coming, but to travel thence with all speed."

To which Legolas could only reply, "Of course! I shall go at once." Which is how he found himself, after a hasty farewell to his friends, astride silver-white Arod riding out of the gates of Minas Tirith in the afternoon with the sun's slanting rays broken by the towers of men at his back.

XXX

Hovering above the streets of Rhemuth the Fair, the King's capitol in Gwynedd, Serafé Organa Naberrie reveled in the bright auras of immortality so recently acquired by its people. Though it was night and most of the inhabitants of the city were abed, the glow of peace filtered through the densest wall and roof to create a spectacle of coruscating colors to be enjoyed by any with the skill and experience to appreciate it. The vision swelled her heart with pride and love for these good folk.

In the direction of the palace, where her body lay in light slumber, Feia perceived the potent glow of Kelson's power pulsing with a life that spread and somehow touched every light in the city and beyond. He must be dreaming for his people again. Feia wondered when he allowed himself true rest, for even a King must sometimes dream for himself. Perhaps she should speak with him about it.

And that should be reminder enough that it is past time to return to my own rest. She could hardly call the King to account for his nightly wanderings if she was unwilling to limit her own. But it was such a lovely night! Somehow it had called to her – summoned her, almost; luring her from that first light slumber of the night so that she could soar and drift, visiting this land and the people who had gifted her with the closest thing to a home that she had enjoyed in many long years.

But the act of traveling takes its toll in fatigue if one does not have a care. It is a talent not to be used lightly, and Feia's traveling tonight was little more than fancy. With a mental sigh, Feia gave in to her more cautious nature and began to gather the skeins of dream light upon which she traveled back into herself.

The sensation that followed was both strange and familiar, as though she were a cork floating trapped inside a bottle filled half with air and half with water held in the depths of the ocean. Once released, the bottle seeks the surface gaining in momentum; rising up and up. But the cork is driven down and down, hard against the bottom of the bottle until the surface is found. Then as the water inside the bottle adapts itself to the rhythm of the waves, the cork bobs peacefully to join it. And so Feia found her consciousness when returning from traveling.

She had very nearly matched the rhythm of her essence with that of her body when there was a disruption at the edge of her awareness; a signature of distress she recognized at once as Meg's. And so, instead of returning to consciousness she traveled instead to a set of rooms adjacent to her own, there to discover what could be disturbing her near-sister's sleep.

Meghailin slept fitfully indeed, but she was safe. Tangled in her blankets with her profusion of white-gold curls making a wide, wild aura of its own, Meg lay softly muttering, one hand clenched tightly around something which hung from a fine chain about her neck. A delicate sheen of perspiration glistened on her brow in the moonlight. Feia touched Meg's shoulder with her etheric hand and her friend stirred and breathed a deep sigh, seeming to settle into normal slumber.

But then all at once Meg gave a cry, "Man agortha estabar!?" Every line of her body spoke of urgency as she tossed, straining to apprehend a response.

On their home world, the elvish language had been the cultural prerogative of elves; only the most scholarly humans studied it. Feia did not consider herself to be a scholar and she had picked up very little of the language. Perhaps Meg was experiencing a night terror, or perhaps a true dream. In either case, Feia knew not how to comfort her without intruding upon the sanctity of her sister's mind.

With some hesitancy, Feia withdrew to her own bedchamber determined to respect Meg's privacy. But as she paused by her sleeping body, prepared to seek natural sleep, Feia sensed that something was different – missing. Searching the room for a cause, she perceived no reason for alarm. Still, something teased at her awareness. Extending her senses, Feia encountered only the tranquility of the palace in slumber and the continuous stream of good will flowing from the King's dream.

The King's dream! That was it! Kelson's dream did not touch her, nor had his energy been evident in Meg's sleeping aura.

And with no further warning, Feia was uprooted - adrift... alone. These were feelings well known to her – old friends since the long exile began. But they had not felt so immediate, so sharp and hot, for all of the years that she had dwelt in Gwynedd. Turning again to her slumbering form, she saw tears streaming down her own cheeks. It was time for them to leave. Again.

Settling into her body, Feia allowed herself to wake slowly to the sound of her own soft sobs. Sitting up she found she was trembling and gathered the blankets tight about her, but there was little comfort in it.

"Did you finish saying goodbye, then?"

"Father," she whispered, as the familiar form coalesced in light – warm red-orange and white, standing beside her bed. The figure smiled warmly, but regretfully, and moved closer.

Laying a hand over hers that Serafé felt only as a slight tingle of energy up her arm, he who was once Bail Riatt Organa said, "Daughter, you have felt that it is time to go; now I come to tell you where and how.

"The free folk of Middle Earth, of whom you know, have at last cast out the Great Evil, but they also have resigned themselves to a fate that need not be theirs. The men of Middle Earth believe that they must live in a world without what they perceive to be magic. The elves believe that they must leave Middle Earth in order to find renewed life, and to allow men to thrive. Dwarves and hobbits might perceive that they will gradually diminish as men multiply.

"The people do not know that the ascension of men in the universe has begun and grows now so swiftly that your presence only will be enough to trigger it on Middle Earth. Wherever men ascend, so will all of the people ascend; dwarves and hobbits shall continue to have a place on Middle Earth. And wherever men ascend, elves will be called upon to join with them, as has been the plan since creation. The elves of Middle Earth must not pass into the west, but instead find Valinor, their Summerland, within their hearts.

"You are asked to undertake the task of catalyst for this ascension upon Middle Earth. But, my daughter, Middle Earth exists in a perilous area of space endangered by the existence of a terrible threat. Technology of any kind will attract this menace that Middle Earth's people have not the knowledge to resist. If once the collective eye falls upon Middle Earth, it shall be free no longer. This must not be.

"Seek the assistance of the Guild of Messengers. If they are willing, a way will be found for you to travel to Middle Earth without attracting the notice of the collective.

"This also I say to you, Serafé; only this last time will you be asked to assist the great work of the Powers That Be. After this, no trigger at all will be needed for other worlds to ascend. A place of rest has been found for you, and you may have a home at last, if you continue to trust and follow your heart.

"Now sleep; and wake refreshed remembering these words. You have work yet to do, and choices yet to make. Only trust and all will be as you have long desired – as I have long desired for you."

And Feia slept peacefully until past dawn in happy dreams of childhood, of Alderaan, and of a home yet to be.

XXX

Meghailin Celduinsén McKiernan dreamed.

A strange forest in darkness ensnared her, but she ran – searching. Someone was calling for her. From the depth of great sadness, of long grief, someone reached out in need of her healing touch, but she could not locate him.

"Man agortha estabar!?" From whence do you call? She both spoke and projected. But the cries remained faint.

Branches tore at her clothing, and her bare feet flew over rock and root. She would not stop! Meg was a healer, not only in talent and in training, but also in her soul - and she was needed. But a terrible fear rose up filling her throat, two fears really: that her survival also, was dependant in some unfathomable way upon connecting with this being; and that she was nearly out of time. The fear ran ahead of feet that could not move fast enough!

Meg could no longer hear the distant cry that drew her, but through a haze that had informed her eyes a light beckoned – golden and green, ahead in the trees.

"Túllen!" I come to thee! Meg tried to shout, but it came out a broken whisper. So she projected that, too, with all the strength she possessed.

"Túllen!" the faraway voice responded in her mind just as Meg broke through the tangle of trees into an open clearing. Flinging herself across the last steps to its center, she fell to her knees beside the source of the light and placed her hands to either side; allowing the glow to bathe her face.

A green and golden nimbus surrounded her being in a feeling of serenity and belonging such as she had not known in all the time since her home was destroyed. Tears of grief she had not allowed for many long years slid down her cheeks unhindered and one tear fell between her hands into the light. In response it flared more brilliantly yet.

At that moment, the golden-green light changed to silver-blue, and there, between her hands she saw that its source was a ring of mithril and sarnnenmír. Her father's ring! Reflexively, Meg grasped the chain about her neck from which she always wore that ring depended over her heart. She could feel its weight, warm against her skin. How then could it lie upon the floor of a clearing in this unknown forest?

Sitting back on her heels, Meg removed the ring from inside her nightdress and stared in stunned amazement. In her hand glittered a large golden ring of elven make in a fine filigree of vines and leaves surmounted by an emerald, itself cut into the shape of an odd, triune leaf.

The spot of earth that had held her father's ring was now empty.

"Túllen…" echoed once more in her mind and she faded from the dream into more natural sleep. As Meg's body relaxed in normal slumber filled with peaceful dreams, her hand relaxed its grip on the ring over her heart, and the stream of moonlight through her window was caught and reflected in the depths of deep green emerald.

XXX

Haldir of Lórien appeared serene as any elf in Caras Galadhon, but he was troubled in his heart. At first, he had believed he was suffering the onset of the great longing. When Galadriel, his Lady of the Wood, had taken ship for the west, many of the Galadhrim had followed soon after. Many more would follow in the years ahead; for the magic of timelessness had been lifted here soonest, where it had lain heaviest and longest. The ravages of winter had fallen upon elvenkind on Middle Earth.

At times, the loss of all that was now past was overwhelming; the sorrow for what was, and would never be again. Perchance the grief was sharper for Haldir, because he had seen death come to elves who had lived for thousands of years; had fought beside elves who would not travel to Valinor but waited now in The Halls. Elves like Orophin, his brother.

But because of all he had seen, he was also, perhaps, more tied to Middle Earth than the majority of his brethren – cared more, perhaps, for the fate of the other people of this world. And that is why, as the ache of emptiness in his heart grew, his desire to take ship and leave the land of his birth did not.

Instead, he walked the forest of Lórien and the huge flets, the telain, high in the mallorn trees and found them too small to contain his restless feet or his yearning heart. In his mind, Haldir began to cast forth his thoughts like a net to catch the thing that would bring him ease and healing. Deep in elven trance, each day as he walked the forest, he cast his mind-net ever farther and wider, until one day his diligence yielded a sign more incredible than he could have imagined or hoped.

A small voice in his head, a voice in pain akin to his own, cried, "Man agortha estabar!?" But the more he attempted to stretch forth his mind toward this being, the greater the distance between them seemed to grow until he fairly wept with frustration. He determined to go deeper still into trance to reach this one who could represent his salvation.

Kneeling in a small clearing in the woods, Haldir used the ring on his index finger as a point of focus to draw his mind into the greatest depth of trance he had yet achieved in three and a half thousand years. The golden filigree ring with its Mallorn leaf shaped emerald had been Orophin's, and he wore it in remembrance of all things lost. Now, he prayed, it would aid him in reaching that which he so desperately desired to find. In moments, the ring began to glow and pulse with a light that would have near-blinded his physical eyes, but he perceived it from the depths of his mind and it harmed him not. Then, faintly, he heard the voice call, "Túllen!" But Haldir, in need and impatience uncharacteristic of elves, stretched forth his mind and found a feeling, an essence, he could almost recognize – almost grasp – and he responded, "Túllen!" I come to thee!

At that moment a surge of emotions rushed in upon him, so potent that he was knocked back on his heels. He felt sorrow and compassion, grief and hope, loneliness and belonging. He trembled with recognition and a powerful desire.

A drop of liquid, both cool and warming, skimmed his fingers. And when, all unconsciously, he raised his hand to his lips, there he tasted a salty tear. Shaken, Haldir opened his eyes, half anticipating that he would see one of the Valar weeping to heal the world. But there was naught there but a silver-blue glow. Extending his thoughts once more before the contact was lost to him, he sent, "Túllen!" And he was alone.

A wave of exhaustion overcame him and Haldir knelt, breathing heavily, with hands pressed to the earth before him. Gradually, as he came to himself, Haldir vowed that he would locate this being…Nay! this lady, to whom he now sensed he was unequivocally tied. And that is when he saw the ring upon his finger plainly for the first time.

Mithril it was, cut and shaped in spirals that minded him of water flowing, and set with a tear shaped stone of palest blue.

Chapter 1:

The Mallorn Tree

The Mallorn Tree is a prosperous and inviting Inn sprawling over a generous portion of the sixth level of Minas Tirith, as close to the Citadel, (the seventh and highest level) as it is possible to be in a city built for defense. Many changes have been made to the city in the short span of years since the War of the Ring, and many more are planned, but it still takes considerable time for citizens and visitors of the city to make their way through the seven defensive gates to the Citadel where dwell the King and Queen.

The Mallorn Tree itself represents a good many of the changes in the city, for Minas Tirith has had no inns of its caliber for an uncountable span of years. And this inn is, astonishingly, owned in partnership by a sylvan elf named Firith and an adventurous Periannath, (or Hobbit, as she prefers) from far north in Bree, by the name of Peony Burrows. Widows both, they also share in common a good head for business, but little else.

Catering to outlanders and those who have business with such, The Mallorn Tree, commonly known as The Tree, boasts a fair few wonders by the standards of the locals. Patrons can quite rightly expect hearty meals served seven times each day, and a bit of a nibble any time, with rich sweet ale, malt beer or wine, and even miruvor if one has the coin – all followed by a good pipe (Peony herself is seldom seen far from a good pipe full of tabac from the South Farthing of the distant Shire). Music and story telling of all sorts are to be heard there, beginning in the afternoon and lasting until the sun comes up in the morning - as often in Dwarvish, Elvish, or Rohirric as in Westron, the common tongue. If rest and privacy suit better than the nightly gatherings, comfortable accommodations are to be had; some set upon flets in the inner courtyard and open to the night air, some dug into the ground and comfortingly closed with stout round doors, and some that the good citizens hereabouts find less strange.

Many of the most famous heroes from the war are known to patronize The Tree whilst visiting the city. It is commonly held that Legolas the elf and Gimli the dwarf, though provided rooms at the Citadel by the King, are as likely to be found at The Tree as anywhere else. The Periannath prince Peregrin Took politely refuses a room at the Citadel in favor of the more appropriately sized room, (and better food) to be had at The Tree. It is rumored that even the King and Queen are sometimes to be seen there enjoying the entertainments of an evening, though Firith flatly denies this. When pressed on the question, Peony lays a finger by her nose and says with a wink that decidedly odder things have happened and likely will again.

Haldir chose The Tree rather than the rooms in the Citadel offered by King and Queen for the simple expedient that he hoped to fall upon some scrap of information that would aid him in his quest; and far likelier was he to find such here as anywhere else in Minas Tirith. He was likelier to find such here, in fact, than anywhere else in the whole of Middle Earth. That was reason enough for traveling hence; though in truth, he could not have remained any longer idle in Lórien.

This evening, Haldir's first in the city, Gimli had joined him in the common room of The Tree, and now the dwarf was industriously and almost offensively demolishing a largish partridge and a tankard of malt beer. Over time, Haldir had come to appreciate Gimli's company, though their first meeting had been strained to say the least. Haldir assumed that traveling with Legolas had civilized the dwarf somewhat, though currently there was little sign of that.

Putting aside his small cup of wine, Haldir said, "It is most unfortunate timing that brings me to Minas Tirith only days after Legolas was called to the north. I should have liked to visit with him." Haldir had hoped his widely traveled brother elf might have lent him assistance in his search and also, just possibly be someone in whom he could confide his rather remarkable experience. He had yet to share his miracle in the clearing with anyone at all. In fact, he had taken to wearing his bereth corië nin, his lady's ring – as he had come to think of it, on a thong about his neck or hidden in his belt pouch.

Few had noted the absence of his brother's Mallorn leaf ring, but this new ring would surely be noticed and marked; the more for being made from rarest mithril. Perhaps asking about regarding the ring would help him unearth some clue, but Haldir was unaccountably loath to display it.

Gimli belched and, quite politely, ignored Haldir's slight flinch. He had come to respect Haldir; an ally more fierce or brave could not be found anywhere in this world. The dwarf had even been known to seek out the Lórien elf's company from time to time, (having become somewhat accustomed to the odd ways of elves from his association with Legolas). But this elf was most notably fastidious. His reason for meeting with Haldir now had little to do with the passing of a pleasant evening, however.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Gimli's expression went grave as he responded, "A summons as odd and abrupt as ever I have heard coming from a father to his son. It likes me not and I can't put a finger on why." He spoke the exact summons to Haldir watching for a reaction, and not surprisingly, found none. Elves!

Scooting his stool closer to the table, Gimli leaned in, "Legolas made no comment at all about the wording of the message, nor the manners of the messenger; and that seems enough for Aragorn who flat won't discuss it!" Gimli rarely used the King's new name or gave titles whilst in company with friends. "But it troubles my mind! 'Elf of the woods' is no proper greeting; and no acknowledgment whatsoever that Thranduil is kin at all, let alone father to the lad."

Haldir was continually bemused by Gimli's use of the term "lad" when referring to his friend, the elder of that pair by nearly 2,000 years – though Haldir himself often thought of Legolas in much the same fashion, (he had the excuse that he had seen the "lad," once, as a babe). Something in the dwarf's tension translated itself at last, however, and Gimli's concern was perhaps contagious, for the summons did seem odd.

But King Thranduil was known to be odd and changeable, and there could be many explanations for such a slight. Perchance a fit of pique at his son's long absence from his woodland home, one that had likely passed already. Or it could simply have been a poor choice in messenger; one who did not deliver the message entire or as intended. No, there was no cause here for immediate alarm.

Then again, more information might prove useful. "Tell me, Gimli; is this Alfirin still in the city?"

XXX

Allowing Cricket, the mare's glossy black coat muted to gray-brown by travel dust, to pick her way through the cobbled streets of the sixth level of the White City of Gondor, Feia kept a sharp eye out for an inn called The Tree. The fine merchants in the city with whom she had inquired, after a practiced scrutiny of the quality of her apparel, (and not a few considering looks when her style of dress did not immediately identify her country of origin) had informed her that she would be wanting "The Tree", most adding an uncertain, "My Lady."

The directions she had received had consisted mostly of polite, but vague, pointing. But from all sources one direction was perfectly clear; to reach The Tree, one travels up. And up she had been climbing for the better part of the morning and into the afternoon. After days in the saddle with nothing to do but think, she was ready to find this Tree, or any tree, or to dig a hole in the ground for the matter of that.

Feia had appeared somewhere in the Riddermark of Rohan many days previously and, fortunately, not been seen. A woman and a horse arriving from nowhere through a gateway of light would certainly be remarked and probably considered reason for concern or worse. Feia did not think the Rohirrim would burn her at the stake as a witch, but then again, from what little knowledge she had of those folk, a superstitious view of magic would not be out of the ordinary amongst them.

In point of fact, the gateway cubes she had acquired from the Guild of Messengers were not technically magic. In Guild philosophy, magic was not possible. "Everything falls under some law or another," Nillis the Guild's Chief Motivator was fond of saying. "Magic, if it existed, would shred the fabric of the universe." This from a man who could rearrange heavenly bodies at will. Even so, he had been prickly about making the gateway cubes. That one had his own view of how, when, and by whom the work of the Powers That Be should be carried out!

But at last, with remonstrations for greatest care in their use, Nillis had supplied her with, not one, but four gateway cubes, explaining mysteriously that she might need them if she had forgotten something or other – and that she aught to have a way back, aughtn't she?

"Choices, Serafé," the sorcerer had said, "You must have choices, for that is the heart of freedom."

Having four had proved fortuitous, since Meghailin was oddly reluctant to accompany Feia to Middle Earth. It was not her work at the Thuryn Academy, founded by King Kelson for those with the Healing talent, which constrained Meg. She had exchanged all the knowledge with the instructors there that she could. But what it might be that was troubling her friend, Feia could not guess and Meg would not say - not until she was well and truly ready.

In the days since Feia had shared with her near sister the message she had received from The Powers That Be, Meg had been distracted and tense. Her rare, but legendary temper was much in evidence and everyone at court and at the Academy was walking small around her. But on several occasions, when taken unawares, Feia had observed upon the elf maid's face an expression of abject longing and terrible loneliness. And Meg had acquired a new habit, forever clutching at her father's ring beneath her clothing. At other times she simply stomped about, (albeit gracefully, for even half-elves can hardly be considered to stomp) mumbling rhetorically to herself.

"I tôl ai?" Who is coming to whom? "Hannae con úetië!" It is a ring, not a map!

Ultimately it was decided that one gateway cube would remain in Meg's keeping in the event that there was a "sign," which Feia could not possibly know about whilst on the other side of the universe (Feia wondered whether she could possibly know about it whilst in the same room!). And Meg decided that in the event that Feia found herself in a predicament desperately requiring Meghailin's aid, she was to use one of the remaining cubes to come and fetch her, and Meg would consider that a sign.

After traveling nearly to the Citadel gate, Feia found a sign, but she did not think that it counted, however much she wished her friend were with her. This sign was painted with a stylized tree and the words "The Mallorn Tree" in gilded letters above. This must surely be "The Tree" that was meant; and it appeared most inviting! The Stableman who met her inside the gate was polite and competent. He named himself Burrus and gratefully accepted a small, unmarked silver piece, promising oats for Cricket.

Inside the large common room, custom seemed good, though it was well before dinner and too late for lunch. When she inquired after the inn keeper a bustling server pointed out two, a stately elf who was at the bar writing in a ledger, and a vivacious hobbit involved in a heated, but good natured debate on the merits of pipe weed with two dwarves and a man. Before she had taken a step, the elf was already gliding over with a gracious welcome.

When Firith had shown her to a lovely room with windows that opened onto an airy courtyard under a canopy of trees, Feia ordered a bath, to be sent up with dinner to follow, and resolved to leave off thinking until sometime tomorrow at the earliest.

XXX

Haldir was frustrated and more than frustrated. Picking disinterestedly at a late lunch, which Peony Burrows called "tea," of all things (though he was not drinking tea, and had not been offered any) Haldir pondered the last few days that he had spent in largely fruitless occupation. Researching the design of the miraculous ring in the great archives of the Citadel had produced no result, and sending forth his mind in meditation had been met only with silence. The while, in a corner of his mind, what had been a seed of concern for Legolas sprouted and grew. He knew not whether it was his elven sense, or whether his sense had utterly deserted him.

It had taken Haldir some time to discover the whereabouts of Alfirin, the messenger that Thranduil had sent with his summons for Legolas. Although the elf had hired a flet at The Tree, he never seemed to be about the place, even at night. Inquiries eventually led Haldir to the Gardens, where he found Alfirin in commune with the trees and ventured to question him regarding the nature of his dealings with King Thranduil.

"I seldom spend more than one day in ten years at Eryn Lasgalen, preferring the company of my friends, you understand," Alfirin had said, gesturing vaguely toward a grove of trees, "but I told King Thranduil once that young Legolas would make a Tree Speaker when he eventually grows tired of shooting at things with arrows. A fine elf, he is, Prince Legolas, and he has the gift strongly. Thranduil must have remembered me and my friends, because after the War of the Ring, he himself sought me out and asked that I should prepare a gift of trees to present to the new King and Queen in Gondor. I advised him that it could take some little while to find volunteers willing to send their seedlings so far, and he agreed that I knew best, and should inform him when I had a suitable gift to send. That was, perhaps, six years ago."

Alfirin had paused to consider before continuing. "I saw nary an elf during that time except once last year during the greening, when a company was led by the King into the heart of Mirkwood and they chanced to pass my way. Galion, Thranduil's aid, whom I know well from the time of the Last Alliance, apprised me that they intended to accomplish the reclamation of Dol Guldur, gone to evil when the Necromancer made his lair in our forest. I asked after the prince, but Galion told me that Legolas had been off since before the war, and had not returned, though word came at intervals with the Dúnedan that he was well.

I mention this meeting, for I sensed no anxiety in Galion over Legolas's absence, and I would have had the King been wrought up over it. When the King and his companions returned from the Hill of Black Magic I observed them, though they neither stopped, nor spake with me.

When next I saw the King, I brought with me the trees that were prepared to accompany me to Gondor, but hardly did he glance at them. Instead he enjoined me to summon Legolas thence, were I to find him here, and bade me speak his message back until he was convinced I had learnt it by rote.

It did not occur to me to consider the King's behavior odd, as I am hardly in his company enough to know or judge, but when I left his court in order to undertake my journey, I was approached by Queen Nenuiel. The Queen quite graciously admired the trees, giving them and me her blessing. She also requested that I impart to her all that the King had spoken to me. I saw no reason why I should not do so, but the telling disturbed her greatly. Though presently she took heart, for she said, 'Surely all shall be well again when my son has returned.' She wished me safe travel and bade me stay with the trees until they were properly settled in their new home.

And I do con that the trees are determined: if their roots are here, so aught mine to be. I expect I shall be here some long while to come, and here is where Legolas will find me if ever he wishes instruction in my art. You may tell him that, when you find him; if you find him well."

'If you find him well,' indeed! Would he? Haldir wondered. Perhaps, Haldir thought, he should put aside his own concern and visit Mirkwood himself. He was considering whether a meeting with Gimli on the subject might be in order, and also whether, now, King Elessar might entertain his friends' concerns, when a curious woman entered the inn, arresting his attention.

Dressed well but strangely in a bronze colored silk gown divided for riding, the woman appeared to have ridden far. A long knife or short sword in a well-worn scabbard, and also a dagger hung from her belt. She had draped a long, travel-stained dust cloak and hood over her arm, but she was still removing her riding gloves; supple leather in a rich and practical brown, they buttoned to her elbows. The right glove was fingerless and a quick glance out of the window at the sparse baggage the hostler was removing from her horse confirmed the presence of a short but serviceable bow and a hardened leather quiver of arrows. The black mare was well cared for and beautiful enough for a lady, yet sturdy too – and Haldir suspected, well trained.

The woman herself was possessing of large eyes like amber and hair that seemed to hold all the colors of autumn. It was piled on top of her head in such a way that it appeared she had thrown it there and commanded it to stay, yet he defied any ladies' maid to devise a more pleasing arrangement. Most unusually, two long, slender braids fell over her left eye and down nearly to her waist. They were decorated with beads of moonstone, carnelian and, surprisingly, mithril.

Now what would a lady such as this be doing traveling unescorted without even a servant, displaying mithril on her person as if it were the most natural thing? And why should a few mithril beads cause his mind to connect this woman with his corië bereth nin? This lady was not his lady, this he knew, but almost he dared to approach her, a stranger, and ask if ever she had apprehended a mithril ring like flowing water with a great blue tear set upon it.

As he hesitated, the lady was taken in hand and bundled toward the stairs by Firith. But as she strode in the innkeeper's wake, her gaze slid his way – eyes locking upon his in the briefest contact, and Haldir caught his breath in surprise. The woman was an elf friend!

Chapter 2:

Night Terrors

Arwen, Queen of Gondor, lounged in the window embrasure of the sleeping chamber she shared with her husband. Though the moon hung bright silver in the sky, and the view from her window out over the White City was enchanting, it was the view of King Elessar that captivated her. In repose he was so beautiful he filled her heart so she might weep, and often as tonight, the sight of him at rest supplied her with all the rest that she required.

From morning until evening, day upon day, Elessar worked at governing the land, a task which required him to cajole, herd, coax and command a multitude of men, women and outlanders. Having so long wandered Middle Earth alone, she understood that he hardly knew what to make of the constant throng at court, and why he so often retreated into his own thoughts where he might go about the business of rule but still remain quite apart from everyone, including his wife. There he studied the landscape of his mind hunting for the answers he sensed were present there. For many days now, he had been absent thus, stalking a feeling, an instinct, as once he had listened for rumors on the wind.

And Arwen bided with patience, for it was this internal hunt that put the meat on her table. When at last her husband emerged from one of these extended forays into the inner wild, it was with rich delicacies of thoughts and ideas to share with his beloved; a feast indeed for her elven soul to sustain her far better than mere food.

When his serene face creased with distress and his breathing rasped harsh to her ears, Arwen rose and glided to Elessar's side. She felt little anxiety; the King regularly hunted the darkest places by night in his dreams. But as she attempted to sooth his rest with the back of a cool hand against his cheek, Elessar's body began to quake as with terror or pain. His head thrashed back and forth and he moaned "I burn…I burn." Then he sat up straight into her arms and cried out, "Father, Nay!"

Elessar was shaking so violently that Arwen feared he was taken ill, but at last his body quieted, his mind cleared, and he set her away from him so that he might look into her eyes.

It was in Arwen's eyes that Elessar found his solace. That deep gaze filled with purely elven knowing alone calmed his thundering heart. He found that he still held her upper arms and he stroked them gently with his thumbs finding comfort in her soft presence. Arwen laid her fingertips lightly upon his chest, asking nothing; only waiting.

"I dreamt of my father," he said at last. "He named me traitor, and intent upon taking my life he secured me to a tree and set it aflame. The pain of my body was terrible and I wanted to die of it – not for an end to physical suffering, but because the hatred in my father's eyes grieved me past enduring.

I do not know what this dream augers, but I fear it may contain some warning, for I cannot rid myself of this grief. It fills my throat and chills my heart."

"If this dream holds a message for you, you will find it." Arwen said with confidence, but added, "Do you not think it odd that whilst dreaming of your father, a man, you should entreat him in the tongue of elves?"

To which he responded thoughtfully, "I did not know it."

XXX

Late into the night, standing on a flet in the courtyard of The Mallorn Tree, Haldir meditated. Tomorrow, he had decided, he would speak again with Gimli and together they would share their concern for Legolas with the King. If Elessar agreed that there was the slightest reason in their thinking, Haldir had resolved to set aside his own quest for a time and follow instead, after his friend. Surely, if the heavens allowed him a miracle it would also grant him time. Soon he would meet his lady. Soon he would.

At the edge of his consciousness, Haldir perceived sounds rising from the common room. Earlier, there had been dancing and laughter, but now a plaintive song that beckoned and yearned had lain a spell of silence upon the patrons. Two voices; one rich and mellow, the other fresh and light as a breeze from the sea, accompanied by a harp, diverged then met and twined together only to diverge again. He could not discern the words or even the language, but as the two voices courted one another they married perfectly with his mood.

Haldir did not know how long the song continued and barely did he notice when it ended for the feeling remained with him in the silence that followed. After a time the mood of the entertainments changed again as more dancing ensued, but it did not disturb his reverie. Thus, he was startled when a woman's voice keened in terror a few yards only from where he stood, but surprise did not stay him from acting upon his instincts.

Snatching up his weapons as he went, he ran and leapt out over the courtyard and through the open window of one of the inn's guest rooms to land soundlessly, prepared for anything. There he beheld the mysterious lady from the afternoon with her autumnal hair all in disarray sitting up in her bed frozen as a rabbit before a wolf, her startling eyes opened wide but unseeing. As he ascertained that no outside force threatened here, Haldir relaxed his guard, but the woman's distress was dreadful to behold.

Her head jerked in negation and closing her eyes tightly she cried out again, "Ai! Naiú elyë Ada!" Then with a choking gasp her eyes popped open and she was there in them, undone but awake.

He did not recall having moved, but Haldir knelt beside the woman's bed holding her hand in his and chafing her wrist. "Ilye namae, iënin edainriel" all is well, my lady, he soothed. "Hanna elor." It is a dream.

The lady was crying now, heart rending sounds that discomfited Haldir, and she was rocking, holding her blankets against her body as if she feared she might break apart. But slowly, slowly her muscles eased, her sobs lessened, and she became aware of herself again.

When he sensed she was fully with him, he released her hand at the same moment she began to draw it away and he said, "Iënin edainriel? Evalor daedelos pant. Ecalen Erendil tirouvasí." The dream of fear is over. The light of Erendil guards this place.

"Loneliness, pain, grief," she said to herself, and Haldir thought, yes. "How am I to believe and hope for an end to it, when signs portend more of the same ahead for me and for the people I most love?

"I am sorry," she said turning towards him with a shake of her head that sent her beaded braids clicking "I know little Elvish, but I can see that you came prepared to do violence on my behalf and I am most grateful. My name is Serafé Organa Naberrie, though I prefer to be called Feia." She was still trembling visibly, but she had mastered herself enough to give him a brave smile.

She had spoken the common tongue, though with an odd, somehow softened accent that Haldir did not recognize, so he answered in Westron also, "I apologize my Lady Feia, I assumed you understood my tongue since I did think I heard you use it in your extremity. I am Haldir of Lórien" he said, placing a hand to his heart in elven fashion, and adding the Númenorean courtesy, "At your service," which seemed appropriate.

Haldir was a name that Feia knew. "I fear my night terror has disturbed both of our rest, Lord Haldir. May I offer you wine? The server brought up a flask with my dinner."

"No, I thank you, my lady. But allow me to pour for you; it will be calming."

Whilst Haldir was occupied with the wine, Feia rose hastily and drew on a long, heavy robe. When he returned with the brimming cup, she was tying her hair back with a scarf of silk. Haldir was startled to discover that the lady was quite tiny. The top of her head might barely reach his chin, though she carried herself as a woman much taller. By silent accord they moved to a small table flanked by two chairs and sat opposite one another.

Feia recognized Haldir from the common room this afternoon, or yesterday she supposed, now. She had found herself wondering at that time what he might be thinking, for there had been an air of intensity in his gaze that had intrigued her. But she knew Haldir of Lórien to be a hero and a friend of heroes who came from, what to her, was a magical land of legend.

It had been a long while since Feia had been in the company of any other elf save Meghailin and she found herself soothed by the lovely, well…elvishness of him. Elves all had at least a touch of the healing gift that her friend held so strongly. How much she wished now that she had pressed Meg to come with her, for Feia was not used to being without the sister of her heart and felt more lonesome than she could express.

Feia was sure that together, she and Meg could decipher the meaning of the troubling Dream with its prescience of woe.

And with that thought, the content of the dream was recalled to her and also a thing that had passed her notice which Haldir had said. "Your pardon, my Lord Haldir, but did I rightly hear you say that you understood me to speak Elvish?"

"Yes, my lady, at first I only perceived your distress, but then I overheard you speak the words, 'Ai! Naiú elyë, Ada!' It means, 'Alas! It is not you, Father!' "

"In my Dream I beheld an elf I do not know, his face contorted with rage and hate, the which was directed at me. It wounded me deeply, this hatred, for I somehow knew that ever in the past I would have found there only the deepest love. Then I apprehended an elf of great beauty, the sight of whom was a balm to my suffering, and she bade me fly to Imladris there to seek aid. But the raging elf returned and from his own chest he pulled a knife set with three gems, and stabbed her with it in her heart." Feia pressed her palms against her own breast, overcome by the power of the emotions her vision inspired in her. "Imladris is the Elven name for the land known in Westron as Rivendell, is it not, my lord?"

"It is"

"Then I must travel thence. Though I came to Minas Tirith for a purpose, my woman's sense urges that my original quest must wait, or my heart will die as surely as if it too were stabbed with a knife. I will leave early on the morrow." She nodded to herself once briskly – decision made.

Haldir was moved by the faith of this strange lady, and acting on an impulse the origin of which he could not guess, he said, "My lady, tomorrow I will speak with the King on a matter of personal importance. It may be that after I do, I shall also leave this city and travel north. If you will but wait into the day, I offer you my company and whatever aid that may come with it for at least a portion of your journey."

"I do not believe in chance meetings, Haldir of Lórien, so I shall wait. It may be that we will aid one another in our separate quests."

XXX

Legolas journeyed quickly, at his father's command, by the shortest route toward Eryn Lasgalen, the home of his people. After traveling east, then north from Minas Tirith, he rounded Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains, north and west into the Westemnet of Rohan, there to ford the Entwash.

He had seen no one as he traveled, or rather, been seen by no one. Having been instructed to make haste, Legolas avoided anyone with whom he must attend to social niceties and made instead a cold camp late each evening and an early start of a morning.

He had been tempted to amend this pattern once, whilst still in the heart of the Mark when at dusk, he spied a woman astride a rare night black mare, (black horses had been the target of theft by minions of the Enemy for so long that the trait had become uncommon). She did not observe him, for she would have had to look directly into the sun and possess elf-eyes as well, but Legolas could see her quite clearly and he watched as she lifted aside her hood, shading her eyes with a slender gloved hand the better to scan her surroundings. The sun lit her hair so that he might have believed it was aflame and she appeared to his eyes a luminous manifestation; a fanar. Before he was quite aware of it, Legolas had kneed Arod several strides in her direction, but she pulled up her hood and disappeared over the hill, breaking the spell.

Some days later, Legolas came at last to the Anduin just south of the Field of Celebrant. It was after crossing the Great River that he began to ascertain why he might have been summoned to his home.

Yrch! Orc!

Orc in parties larger than he had seen together since the War of the Ring were roaming the land between the river and the southern Mirkwood. Legolas observed signs of three separate large bands on his first morning east of the river, and was forced to alter his route so as not to intercept their course. Bands of such size, not engaged in killing one another, suggested organization – and a threat to the peace and safety of the elves and their neighbors. It was only natural that his father should send for him in order that he might aid his brethren in eliminating such a threat.

Legolas had not known how greatly he had desired such an explanation, nor had he realized how disturbed he had been by the manner of his summons until he felt the tight knot of tension in his shoulders ease.

But some days after fording great Anduin, Legolas began to suspect he was being herded. Early on a morning he had seen a fist of orc, by chance of fate at a time when no cover could have hidden Arod, and he knew he was observed. But the creatures kept to a parallel path, coming no nearer him, yet venturing no further off. By early afternoon he had killed no less than ten orc scouts, retrieving his arrows as he could, for he feared there would be need – yet no attack came.

As twilight approached, Legolas found he was encircled by four bands; each containing twenty or thirty orc, and he could no longer deny that they worked in concert. The southern boundary of Mirkwood was plain on the horizon to the north and east, the direction in which the orc were pressing him, and the haunted mound of Dol Guldur rose threateningly above it. It had been Legolas's intention to keep to the river until well north of this spectre of The Enemy, and to enter Mirkwood above the Old Forest Road where the elves presence was stronger and the hold of evil lessened by their work.

Now he had to choose: either make for the trees and enter the forest in this most perilous place, (trusting his skill both to elude the orc and to evade the dangers there) or attempt to slip past the creatures' snare by night, whilst their strength was greatest.

At last it was sheer stubbornness that chose his course; for Legolas could not abide being goaded, and he resolved to slip past the net about him and break for the north and west at all speed. Through the night he pushed Arod as much as he dared, stopping only to walk and water the horse at intervals. When the night was nearly spent, though only the eyes of an elf could yet discern a lightening in the sky, Legolas broke free of the ring of encircling orc to discover, as he rounded a rocky escarpment, another, larger band directly in his path.

Without hesitation Legolas charged Arod forward, loosing arrows from his bow until all were spent, then he carved a path with his sword until the weapon was lost, caught in the armor of a berserker. Dismounting, he and Arod fought side by side with hoofs and knives until it happened that Legolas was surprised by an orc's lucky thrust with a long dagger in his side.

For a time Legolas battled, but his wound bled freely and presently his reflexes turned sluggish. With that came the realization that he would not survive this night.

There was little doubt what Arod's fate would be if Legolas allowed the horse to be captured, for the orc would eat anything. Snatching a thumb-thick enemy arrow from the quiver of a corpse at his feet he tucked it, together with one of his long knives, under Arod's blanket and commanded, "Noro!" Go! – adding a slap on the animal's hindquarters with a hand red from his own blood.

And Legolas continued to fight – in order to keep the orc from impeding Arod, and also because he could not stop. Arod would naturally seek the nearest safe haven. With the grace of the Valar, the elf fervently prayed, his horse would find safety with one of the Dúnedan or with his own forest kin and the fate of Legolas of Mirkwood would be reported thus.

Legolas's side burned like a stoked forge and every movement sent arrows of pain through his limbs – limbs grown ominously heavy. His vision was a tunnel of gray and to his ears the course orc howls were a memory. "To the keep! Brace the gates!" cried Théoden King. But Théoden was dead and Éomer was King of the Mark, was he not?

Then there was a bright flash; an explosion behind his eyes, and nothing.

Chapter 3:

Taken

First there was pain, then heat and thirst, a jarring motion, and more pain. Legolas floated in a sea of sensation for an unknown time, but gradually his mind returned to a level of awareness from which he began to discern his surroundings.

He was seated on a floor of rough wood planks with his knees drawn up and his brow resting upon them. Behind his back, his arms were tied cruelly with rope, pulling his shoulders at a tormenting angle and leaving his hands nerveless. His ankles also were tied, for his boots were pressed tight together and he could not shift them. The air was dense and hot and his breath came in shallow gasps, restricted by his awkward posture and by thick bandages wrapped tight about the wound that was a smoldering fire in his side.

His wound had been treated! Why?

Also, Legolas thought, he must have been hit on the head for it throbbed and ached so that he battled nausea. At either shoulder and at his back he felt more rough wood and when the floor heaved beneath him in rocking jolts, occasionally his head connected with more wood above him. A box! He was being transported inside some sort of crate like so much cargo!

He did not know how long he was conveyed thus, but he thought it was all of the day and perhaps the night, also. When his small prison was unceremoniously dropped to the ground and the top portion was removed, indeed the sun was just rising. Legolas nearly wept at the sweet air. Then ungentle hands lifted him, and his limbs unfolded. Legolas struggled not to cry out, writhing helplessly as blood rushed to his tortured muscles.

A brutish face came and filled his vision, fetid breath watering his eyes as he was examined closely. Then the orc pulled his head back by his hair and forced a thick, foul smelling brew past his lips so that Legolas coughed and spat weakly. But he could not expel it all! Much of it seared a trail down his throat.

At last they left him, tethered by his bonds to stakes in the ground, to shiver and burn by turns through the day in a fevered haze. But as night descended, orc awoke and stirred around him. One of the creatures out of his sight ordered another to check his wounds, but the underling was having none of it.

"It ain't my fault Harn stuck his knife in it!" the orc complained.

"The Master won't be pleased if the elf whelp dies before time. Keep it alive, Onkuk, or it won't be me what ends screaming!"

"I ain't goin' near it," the orc answered. "I seen it do for Yjench with a twist of its dirty hands."

"You creeping coward! You'll do your duty or I'll tickle your liver with steel!"

Onkuk apparently decided that the elf was the lesser threat, for immediately an orc came and Legolas was forced to take another choking dose of foul medicine. After the application of a reeking poultice to the wound in his side, Legolas was lifted and half dragged toward what appeared to be a chest set upon long poles for carrying.

At sight of it, Legolas's vision went red and he lost all rational thought. Straining wildly, he managed to 'do for' Onkuk, who perhaps should have held out after all, breaking the twisted creature's neck between his knees. But that did not stop his other guards from mercilessly doubling the captive elf back into that appalling crate.

XXX

A wide eyed Peony Burrows met her at the bottom of the stairs in the common room of The Tree, early in the morning after Feia's less than restful night.

"I was just coming to fetch you milady," she fluttered, "you're to breakfast in the private dining room – at the request of the King!" As Feia digested this startling news, the little hobbit seemed to see her truly for the first time, her gaze sliding from Feia's multitude of complex braids to her sword, to her trousers tucked into the tops of soft knee high boots. "Oh!" She tsked, scandalized, "and no time for you to change into a proper gown."

Charmed, Feia smiled and gestured for the innkeeper to lead the way, "Sadly, no. We mustn't keep the king waiting!" she said. As she was caught up in the hobbit's wake, however, Feia realized she was quite nervous. Perhaps a moment to change into something appropriate for the occasion would not have gone amiss after all. The correct attire could do wonders for a person's confidence, a silk gown for instance – to meet this most famous of personages. But a full suit of armor would not have been enough to slow her heart, which galloped as though Feia raced toward some crossroads of fate.

Ever prior, on missions from the Powers That Be, Feia and her friends had been given to know a fair amount about the worlds they would visit from the inspired literature of the men and women of Earth. Always she would arrive upon these worlds some short time after the conclusion of those supposedly fictitious accounts – though the works were created long ago during the Great Awakening and Ascension on Earth.

A thirst for these stories close on obsession characterized her stay on Earth, many years ago, when she and the other Chosen of Alderaan had studied at the Federation's Academy. The fact that the stories she had so enjoyed reading were quite real, though penned centuries before the events depicted took place, was a boggle she tried not to think about. That they seemed to have been brought into existence for use by herself and her people was, frankly, too much to contemplate. It spoke of a bit more attention to her doings by the Great Powers than was strictly comfortable. Though Feia believed that every being-of-light's life and purpose was given at least equal attention; having the knowing of it implied a high degree of responsibility for which she was not convinced she was equipped.

Middle Earth was a world Feia knew in a depth of detail unheard of on her past missions, for the inspired author was none other than the great John Ronald Ruell Tolkien; literary genius and linguist, and a very clear channel. The man had informed his stories with a wealth of historical information, appropriate mythologies, accurate maps and linguistic studies. Had Feia been more of a scholar, she might have been able to write a sonnet in Quenyan, interpret ancient Dwarvish runes, and extrapolate the etymology of any common named thing on Middle Earth simply by virtue of studying the voluminous work of Professor Tolkien.

Feia was not a scholar, but as it was, she could safely determine from Tolkien's work that King Elessar, brave and wise, was the first and most important person on her short list of those that should be informed of the changes her presence here augured. Only, she had thought it would take a bit of time to gain an audience with the King. Now she was about to meet him and she did not feel prepared. At least, she thought with a secret smile, it was less abrupt than the manner in which she had met King Kelson of Gwynedd, whom she had nearly crashed into with a failing shuttlecraft full of Alderaani refugees hurtling from the sky.

Entering the private dining room at The Tree, Feia was grateful indeed for Professor Tolkien's work, for she could have easily guessed the names of the people gathered there with Haldir. Instead, she allowed him to make the introductions to Elessar and Arwen, King and Queen of Gondor and Gimli son of Gloin, dwarf of the Misty Mountains.

Bowing, her first words to their graces of Gondor was an apology, "Your majesties, my lords, I do hope my garb does not offend, but I intend to journey far and quickly this day and the more traditional attire for a woman in this land is cumbersome" a death trap, more like, she thought privately. "I am, however, at your service."

It was the Queen who responded, "Lady Serafé, men and women may not deem it so, but elves have always held that a person's clothing should serve them, not hinder them. You are attired appropriately for a journey of unknown rigors, and therefore appropriately for a meeting to discuss one. Please, sit with us and break your fast."

"You are gracious, my queen," Bowing again, (curtsying seemed odd without skirts) Feia sat, all the while aware that the gaze of King Elessar was upon her – a weighing and measuring gaze.

"Are you?" he asked at last.

Feia paused with the mug of mead Gimli had offered, half the distance to her lips. "Am I what, your majesty?"

"Are you at our service?" He rubbed his jaw, considering, "for you are an outlander from we know not where who has sworn no oaths to us, though you appear as if from air, range across our lands seeming at will, and dream our dreams without our leave."

Dream our dreams?

"She is an Elf Friend, Sire." Haldir said softly as if reminding the King of something shared earlier. At which Feia finally set the untouched mug down upon the table with a sharp click. How in the light did Haldir know that?

"Close your jaw lass, The Tree is as clean an inn as you're likely to find, but flies being flies, you're sure to swallow one eventually with an invitation like that." Gimli saluted her with his own mug of mead.

Feia did shut her mouth, but her eyes stayed wide as she considered how best to respond. And then she proceeded as she always did, at least ultimately. She followed her heart.

Standing slowly, her eyes hooded and thoughtful now, Feia circled the table to kneel before King Elessar of Gondor – to kneel and swear fealty as she had never done for Kelson or any other ruler since her father. Unsheathing her short sword she set it upright before her as he waited, lounging with long legs stretched out before him, unmoving and expressionless. She did not offer the blade to him, for she feared he might refuse, instead she kissed the hilts and said, "I do not know what oath you would receive, or if you would have any, but accepted or not, I speak from my heart the oath that is mine to give:

King Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor on Middle Earth, I Serafé Organa Naberrie of Alderaan, daughter of Padme Endari Naberrie of Naboo and Bail Riatt Organa of Alderaan, offer you my service, my knowledge, my skill and my loyalty for your use as you will, saving only that which would harm my soul – my blood before yours, unto death in the service of the light."

She held the King's eyes for the length of it, but by the time she had concluded her speech she was quivering with nerves. Never had her instincts planted her so firmly out on a limb. Accepted or not, the oath was made, and she must keep it forever. It would be a most uncomfortable and long life of service if Elessar would not receive her.

What had possessed her to do such a thing? And why that oath in particular, for surely a lesser promise would have done as well. And yet the oath felt supremely right.

Slowly, very slowly, Elessar sat up in his chair, never taking his eyes from hers, "Serafé Organa Naberrie of Alderaan, wherever that may be, Elf Friend, and dreamer of Dreams, we have much to discuss and soon, but I accept your oath as sworn." He gently took her sword and pressed the hilts to his lips. "Let us see what we shall make of that in the days ahead, my liege lady." and he returned her sword with a bemused smile.

Chapter 4:

The Madness of Thranduil

It was still early with many hours left of the night to endure and already his muscles cramped painfully. Legolas disciplined his mind to rest in elven fashion and replenish his strength as he could, but he knew it would do him little good. He was too ill and too injured to escape, but he would try anyway. He would try, he would fail, and he would die cleanly.

It would have to be the morning, for another night like this one could not be endured. Legolas allowed his perception to drift away from his suffering and set the intention to be conscious and aware with the dawn. But almost immediately he was jarred from his semi-conscious state when his small prison was dropped to the ground and the lid was lifted to reveal the flickering of a multitude of fires. When the orc hauled him out where he could better see, the realization of where he was froze the blessed cool air in his lungs.

The slopes of a high hill rising up out of a forest of trees and dotted with the campfires of perhaps two thousand orc crowned at its apex by the haunted remains of the fortress of Dol Guldur; a crouching shadow of evil. Clearly, the Hill of Black Magic had a new master.

Before he had fully recovered himself, Legolas was forced roughly to his knees by two of the larger orc gripping his shoulders.

Gradually his eyes perceived what he took to be a hallucination, for striding toward him was an elf of commanding stature wearing about his neck a torque quite large enough to be a breast plate and studded with three jewels. The fever-dream moved to stand over Legolas where he crouched, leaning over until their faces were so close that Legolas could feel clean breath against his cheek.

Surely not real – surely not!

But Legolas could not stop his own voice, roughened with disuse, with pain and now with hope, from whispering,

"Ada!" Father!

XXX

The breakfast audience at The Tree was quickly over, for the King truly had already made his decision. "Further talk must wait," he had said. "Now we must take action."

And when the King made a decision, action could be taken very quickly, Feia learned, for immediately a messenger was dispatched to fetch Prince Faramir from Ithilien to perform his duty as Steward of Gondor. The King, it seemed, would journey with them.

An hour later, Feia stood at Cricket's side, making a final check of her gear whilst Elessar did likewise for his own mount, Roheryn, a great shaggy beast large enough to make Cricket appear a pony beside him. Gimli was already mounted behind Haldir on gray Hithui, which Haldir had explained was the elven name for mist. Another horse, Hasufel, bore the extra baggage, though he was clearly trained as a battle steed. Burrus held Hasufel's halter, the hostler's eyes respectfully downcast.

The Queen moved to stand at Feia's side, speaking softly for her ears. "I do not know what compelled your oath to my husband, for I do think you were as surprised as he, but I sense that you are prepared to fulfill it honorably."

"I am prepared, my queen," Feia responded, and with a start she realized that the courtesy was reality, for Arwen was her queen, now. "On my life, I shall fulfill it, spirit and letter." And she bowed slightly, hand to heart, to honor the queen's heritage.

Arwen looked deeply into Feia's eyes, her elven gaze solemn. Then suddenly she nodded and her face brightened somewhat; though concern clouded her eyes. The queen took Feia's arm companionably and Feia had to control a start of surprise at the unexpected intimacy. Then the Queen sighed, saying "I wanted to believe that all danger was behind him, behind us! I wanted to believe all evil had been cast from Middle Earth with the end of The Enemy, but the King's premonition of grief is strong. For days it has nagged at him, and then last night..."

The queen turned her away from the waiting king and his companions. "You were not there to hear him relate it, but Elessar dreamed yester eve – a powerful Dream." As Arwen spoke of her husband's dream, Feia felt chilled. The king's dream and her own exhibited every appearance of being linked, but how – and why?

Then Arwen said, "He was up all the hours afterward pondering what it may portend, and when morning came he immediately sought out his friend Gimli. Gimli, it seems, had plans to meet this morning with Lord Haldir, and we made shift to accompany him. You see, some days ago, Prince Legolas was summoned home by his father, King Thranduil. The manner of it did not set well with Gimli, and apparently no better with Haldir.

"Elessar, for his part, has kept his worries close. My husband is loath to interfere in the business of elves and even less in a private matter between father and son. But it has vexed his mind! The dream has caused him to wonder: is there something more in the summons than was avowed?

When the king spoke his dream to our friends, Haldir became agitated. He claimed that by chance he had met a strange woman – you, whose dream in the night seemed much like unto that of my husband. Reluctantly, for though you did not ask it of him, Haldir considered your talk together a matter of confidence, he shared your dream with us as you had described it to him. Now, I must ask you, do you know Prince Legolas?"

Feia shook her head firmly, trying to clear it, "We have hastened to a number of assumptions, my queen. First, we are discounting the possibility that the dreams might not be true. Second, they may have no relationship to one another save a coincidence of similarity. And third, neither dream may have any connection with Prince Legolas at all, despite his friends' concern for him. Certainly it would be odd if my dream did, for I do not know him and I know not why I should dream of him."

But Feia did know, or at least she suspected, and fear lodged itself firmly in her heart – fear and wary anticipation. Such strange synchronicities were common enough to her people, but only between Concinnati. Could the one whose lifesong harmonized with her own be Legolas of Middle Earth? Could the hideous peril of her dream be the peril of her own life's mate? Feia shuddered, and felt Queen Arwen's arm tighten around hers.

"I do not claim to know, Lady Serafé, but I think it unlikely that you would go haring off on a quest if you were not certain that your dream were true. My husband also, understands well his own mind. Elessar connects the dreams with Legolas and that is enough for me to believe that you also are connected with him. That makes you family, of a sort. And you are an Elf Friend," she smiled, amused, "though apparently you did not know that any elf can sense it."

"I knew. I had forgotten it."

Arwen continued more seriously, "We shall be friends one day I think, you and I, and I do not require a Foreseeing to predict it." Feia was startled again when the Queen touched her lips lightly with her fingertips then pressed those fingers to Feia's mouth saying, "Námarië, Feia of Middle Earth."

XXX

"Ada!" Legolas whispered hoarsely.

He did not see it coming, and never could he have predicted the backhanded blow which sent him sprawling with its force, bound hands unable to break his fall. His head reeled and spun as his mind frantically grasped for anything in this nightmare that made sense.

On a ragged gasp, Legolas breathed the question, "Ada, An?" Father, Why?

This time he saw the booted foot aimed at his middle, but was helpless to defend against it. He was swallowed by pain as the wound in his side broke open again and only by a fingernail did he cling to consciousness.

"You will not call me that, Traitor!" The voice was Thranduil's. It was – but so changed - so full of hate! "Did you think you could conspire against your people and all would be forgiven? I have no son!"

"Hanna ilyae caita, Ada!" It is all untrue, Father! The second kick drove out all the air in his lungs and sent Legolas spiraling into gray oblivion.

XXX

Once again, pain was the first sensation Legolas perceived; pain in his shoulders, pain in his side, pain in his head, and a strange almost rhythmic pain like trails of liquid fire across his chest. It took some while for the elf to remember how to command his eyes to open and longer still for him to focus through the haze of blood and sweat that hindered his sight. What he saw made him fervently pray for blindness to return.

Legolas had been suspended by his bound wrists from the limb of a beech tree, and now Thranduil wielded a heavy leather whip which he recklessly flailed against his son. The elven king's face was contorted in fury beyond reason and he shouted what sounded like mindless imprecations.

Most of what Legolas could discern from his father's wild rant was meaningless to him: "Edainriel nae Fennas – Tarcaita aberethië tarcaita!" Lady of the Gates – Liar, and wife of one who lies!

But other parts of Thranduil's tirade were all too clear and lodged a leaden weight of grief in Legolas's heart: "Nalyë ben-adar!" You are fatherless! "Nainú uindole!" I lament that you were ever born!

Already, the whip had raised angry red welts in a pattern of suffering on Legolas's chest. One blow had even rent a slash across his brow from which a curtain of red flowed, making it appear to his eyes that his father moved through a sea of blood.

It took all his last reserve of strength to form words at all, and he knew, now, that speaking would only bring more pain – but Legolas had no choice. He had to ask. He needed to know.

"Anin pedo! Elenyasse ú-chebin nótimële?" Tell me! How have I failed you?

Thranduil froze, his chest heaving, and his maddened eyes focused sharply on Legolas. "How?" slowly the elven king's face purpled with renewed rage, "How?!" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "You ally yourself with mortals against your people; you join yourself to a woman who would deny the elves Valinor. I have Seen it! And you dare to ask…you dare to…" with a hideous snarl, Thranduil raised his hand and lurched toward his helpless son. In that instant, in his father's eyes, Legolas read his end.

"Ai! Naiú elyë, Ada!" Alas! It is not you, Father! Legolas cried.

There was a sickening crack when Thranduil's hand, fisted around the heavy handle of the whip, connected with the side of Legolas's head. The blow spun the elven prince around and slammed his body against the beech's trunk, there to rest in stillness.