Special Christmas gift for Nelyafinwe and Samui.

earthdragon: thank you:) I never get to reply to your kind reviews so thank you.

Thank you to teresha, thrndlwood, my very dear freddie, firerosedreamer, blackieconnors, lotrfn, ninde, Nelyafinwe, alanic and everyone else who reviewed. Thank you for coming along for the ride. Now I have to get back to Where the Shadows Lie, but I have not abandoned these characters I have grown to love and will try to write a Christmas story over the holiday.

Chapter 30: Dragonsong.

The Wood paused.

The River slowed as if listening, waiting.

The deer and small mammals lifted their heads and watched silently as a small group of Elves passed through the Wood and brought Thalos to the Laint-Liriel, this place of Silence and Song, of Ancient Art, Yaré-carmë. They left him here with The Listener, with Lathron, in the green glade, beside the pool that had been fed by the waters of Cuivienen.

Or left his body here for he was not here…

Lathron knew that this son of the Wood was flying, high, higher than the moon, beyond the bounds of the earth on great golden wings to the far flung places, the distant stars and galaxies. He was looking at the sun rising over the rim of distant worlds. He was watching the starlight on golden wings, in the molten eyes of the dragon. He was watching dragonfire spread across the empty spaces in the night. He listened to the fierce Song of Fire, the molten stone deep beneath the rock at the heart of the earth. Thalos's own Song was submerged, a lost note in the Dragonsong.

Lathron paused, for he remembered the drakes of the North. He remembered the first ones, the Old Ones who had emerged from the Fire-Stone, liquid gold, fire burst from their jaws, scorching, burning, incinerating the green earth. He knew what those dragons sang; he knew they beguiled and seduced the First Born. There was a story of old, from the drowned lands to the West that a dragon had ensorcelled a Second-born, a Man so he did not know his own sister. A sad tale and as true as any Lathron knew.

But this was Thalos of the Wood. And Lathron had done this for every one of the Danedh-Amlung. So he leaned in now, but more carefully. Lathron dipped the quiss in the rich and vivid inks, his hand wavered. He paused, stilled himself and closed his eyes to listen, waiting for the Song to guide him, for the dragon that was lodged in Thalos' heart, to reach out to Lathron and whisper the colours and patterns to be etched onto the pale skin before him.

He stroked the smooth skin of Thalos of the Wood, Thalos of the forest river, and whispered his earth name; Limb-in-i-glad-duin.

But something had changed. The name no longer fit. It was not his.

Slolwy Lathron drew back and sat back on his heels and slowly thought.

The feä had not fled, was still there but deep within, his eyes fixed upon a lost dream, his thoughts circling the lost dragon.

Slowly Lathron reached down and pressed his hand upon Thalos' heart. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, let in the green magic of this Place of Song, the secret heart of the ancient wood, remnant of the oldest wood, in this pool that had been fed from the waters of Cuivienen long long aeons ago when Lathron first awoke and wandered with starlight in his eyes…

Leaning forwards slowly, Lathron let the notes of the dragonsong, one by one, creep quietly into his own heart so he could record Smaug's last glory upon this Elf's skin. He lost himself in the strangeness of the Song, the endless stream of notes that soar and sweep and sketch across the sky, past the Moon and Sun and out beyond the Stars that have no name.

Out here, he thought only half-conscious and joining Thalos in his dreams of dragonfire and song, we are far from home. Far from the earth, from our roots and bones. Out here, we are Immaculate. Anshargal, he wrote in blood-red ink, Great Prince of Heaven.

And the secret name, Apâraigas. This was Thalos' new name, he thought. But he did not know what it meant.

Nor did he know when he stroked the quiss so it opened a path in the skin's dermis and he inked beneath the skin. He did not know what colour found itself on the quiss, or what wild shapes and pattern of symbol spread themselves over the warm skin before him. But gold reflected in his eyes, the molten gold of the Dragon's eyes, the jewelled emerald and sapphire of his rich scales that shone iridescent and pearlesque. Lathron's hands flew and dipped and sketched and cut across the inks already there, opaqued the stories that Lathron's own hands had already told on this child of the Wood's body, obscured the sigils of the father's house, his own name, the battles won and fought, the story of his long life before he was claimed by Smaug.

Now the dragon spread its wings and enveloped Thalos of the Wood, his head rested upon Thalos' shoulder like a favourite hound in an old tale that throws itself before the charging boar to save its master. But the dragon was more, greater and the expression one of such loneliness and longing that Lathron felt his heart quake with the immensity of a Dragon's sinful, murderous loneliness. Surely Eru had not intended such glory to be barren? Such hugeness of spirit to be alone? HIs own eyes shot through with gold and indigo, crimson and emerald, reflected in the inks he swirled and coiled over the muscles and leanness of the warrior of the Wood, but of the Wood no longer.

You will be called Danedh-Amlung forever, whispered Lathron as he painted the dragon's golden eyes with streaks of silver and mithril so they stayed open and watchful forever. For you are the last, and you are the Danedh-Amlung forever. Indeed. And then he lowered his voice further and said to the Dragon itself, Guardian of the Wood now that you are gone. No longer separate and yearning, but you are part of him forever, inked forever onto his skin, always watching, carefully guarding. Lathron let the Song of the Dragon deep in Thalos' memory, in his heart, guide his hands so that this became the most beautiful, loveliest, most resonant of all his work…Lathron lost himself in the Song, in the Ancient Art, the Painting…

The dragon's wings folded around Thalos guarding, keeping him, his head laid on Thalos' shoulder and he curled about the warrior's waist like he wrapped himself warmly about him. In his eyes were the far flung galaxies and stars that were numberless and nameless and there, there, far and deep in the painted dragon's eyes was the secret fire from which all things sprang, which Smaug had yearned and yearned for and never reached.

Lathron held Thalos close. He breathed the same breath that came from this child of the forest. Sulphur and brimstone. Gold. Emeralds. The reflection of fire on gold, fire on water. Steam and mist. Cold bones in the ice-cold. Water quenched fire. Cold froze fire. The Eternal Flame.

He knew at some point he had finished and the blood beaded on the skin of the warrior, the rider beneath him and he leaned down and kissed Thalos on the mouth, tasted the smoke and fire that clung to him still. Here, he sought long for the thread of Song that was Thalos, that danced lightly across the leaves, sparkled on the river and leaped through the heavy boughs of the apple trees in the Autumn. Thalos was the slow brown river that rushed through the Wood endlessly, gliding sinuously over the granite boulders, pooling in the ferny dells. All Woodelves had common melodies in their Song, but it was the unique weaving, the way the notes were threaded, the nuance and emphasis - the river or the trees or the granite rocks, the ferns waving in the breeze or the birds chattering in the leaves, the trees themselves, the slow oaks reaching, thrusting into the earth. And at last, Lathron found him again; Thalos was still there, deep within; long bow slung over his shoulder and green eyes sparkling; he seemed blown in on the wind, smelt of the last warmth of the Summer and the open plains beyond the Woods. There were leaves in his long dark hair as if the trees had let their leaves fall upon him as a greeting and he laughed, such a glad sound and so full of merriment….but the Dragon emerged from his thoughts and was there, huge wings curled tenderly around his warrior, and Thalos was submerged by the image of the Dragon.

You must bathe in the forest river, child of the Wood. Wash the smoke from your eyes, the fire from your skin. Wash the Song of the Dragon from your thoughts and blood.

He lifted Thalos and cradled him easily in his strong arms, the bands of copper about his own bare arms gleamed softly for he had let the fire die down now. Now he waded into the clear water, letting his feet sink into the soft silt and mud, like velvet, and submerged Thalos into the water, letting him sink into the emerald embrace of the Forest river. Lathron leaned in close and began to sing the slow song of the Wood, of the pale green light filtering through the beech trees, of the brown river winding sinuously beneath the hill that rose from the Wood and where dwelt the last Elf king. Lathron hummed the River and its pools, its ferny dells and mossy granite stones.

Awaken, child of the river, of the ferny banks, of the deep green pools. Awaken, hart of the Wood, flying fleet with us now…

0o0o

Thalos stared into the forest river, lost in the green pools and depths. But it was the Dragon's golden molten eyes he saw, the dragon's song he heard. He stood in the river, clear water lapping above his thighs, the green weeds waving round his feet, little fish weaving in and out between the weeds. The little fish caught the sunlight that filtered through the beech leaves and all he saw was the jewelled light of the Dragon's iridescent scales.

0o0o0

In the dusk, a girlish voice rang through the trees, laughing and singing snatches of song to herself. Her footsteps pattered along the little path that ran alongside the forest river leading away from the little cottages that clustered about the King's stronghold and away into the deep Woods. Silaneth danced through the Wood, a basket in her hands that was filled with berries and roots for Muinieth. The basket she had wound about with ribbons and flowers and a silver-green cloak was flung about about her shoulders.

She swung her basket in her hand, thinking about the new baby that would soon arrive to her brother, Galadhon and his wife, Muinieth. They were preparing the little cottage for the baby, and Silaneth had been helping Muinieth weave the soft blankets and Galadhon had made a cradle from oak and carved little animals into the green oak so the baby had something to touch and look at. But while Muinieth was always kindness itself, she was turning inwards in silent contemplation and she and Galadhon exchanged small smiles and secret glances from which Silaneth was excluded. They could not help it, she knew, but suddenly Silaneth understood that however much they loved and cared for her, she was not quite the same as their own child, not quite as beloved, not quite as welcome perhaps. And Silaneth did not quite know how she fitted in anymore.

With a sigh, Silaneth set down her basket and kicked off her light shoes. There was a little beach here of pebble and sand and there were flat, smooth boulders in the river that she liked to sit on and dangle her feet in the water, watching the brown trout swimming past. Sometimes if there was one big enough, she would dabble her fingers in the water until it came close, then tickle it until she caught it in her strong fingers and they could have it for supper. She wished she was old enough to live on her own, to trade with the raft-elves, to be old enough to wed…With a little sigh, for she was still far too young for any of that, she wondered where Thalos was. It was weeks ago that he had embarked in the light skiff with his brothers to be the Danedh-Amlung, she thought anxiously. Even though it was supposed to be a secret, all the folk of the Wood knew each others' business and the fact that all three of the King's sons had gone to Laketown in a skiff together was hardly going to escape remark. Anyway, Galion had told her when she visited the stronghold to take messages for Galadhon. He had been quite upset about it.

But Galion had gone with the King when news of the Dragon's fall had reached the Wood. And there had been messengers since who told of the King's sons' courage in going to the rescue of Laketown. Of course Laersul had taken command of the defence of the town, and Legolas had been very responsible she had heard with surprise, and saved the children of the King of Dale, although she was not surprised by that her for he was very dashing and brave as well as irresponsible. All her friends agreed, especially Liniel who had a huge crush on Legolas. But of Thalos, the news had been less good; he had been crushed by the dragon it was told, dragged into the icy water of the Long Lake and only Legolas had saved him just in the nick of time. But whilst Legolas had recovered, Thalos had not, so Liniel told her, and he had been taken to Lathron for healing.

If it was Lathron he needed, Silaneth thought, it was spiritual healing he needed and not physical. And that worried her.

She pushed aside the long willow leaves that trailed in the river and stepped into the ice-cold water. The rough sand rubbed against her feet deliciously and she pulled up her skirt to wade into the water and climb upon the flat rocks. But there on the other side, she caught sight of Thalos standing in the river; he was naked and the water slid over him up to his lean and narrow hips, but the rest of him was cold, she could see but there were strange new paintings on his skin that had not been there before and where blood still beaded along the newly etched lines of the yaré-carmë. She stared for he was beautiful and while she had always loved him, she had not realised that until now, had perhaps not been old enough to appreciate.

The yaré-carmë was densely coloured, like jewels, azure and emerald and crimson and gold. Over his shoulders were curved the dragon's serrated wings like a rich cloak, like protection. The dragon's long body trailed around his waist and hips, and its tail disappeared beneath the water trailing about his lean hips and thigh. The dragon curved around him protectively, like a benediction. A blessing. His head was bowed as if he stared at his reflection and his long hair fell around him, the sheen of his black hair was metallic, almost mercurial in the strange half light.

Newly painted, newly blessed.

Silaneth hung back for a while for those Lathron had healed were all a little stunned after being returned from Laint-Liriel and to awaken them suddenly could be dangerous if they were startled. Indeed she could see that Thalos was still lost and dreaming and so she carefully, gently slid into the water and waded to his side.

'Thalos.. Thalos..' she murmured, gently tugging at his arm. 'What has happened to you? You are bleeding!' She pressed her hands against his arms and pulled away, looking at them in concern. She patted the blood away anxiously but new blood seeped through in its place. 'Is this just done?' she said softly.

He half turned towards her, his eyes still unfocused and his head tilted for he was listening to something else, a Song that was only now in memory.

'It's me, Thalos. Silaneth,' she murmured. Gently she tugged his hand and this time, dazed, he moved slightly. 'Come with me. Let us get you warm and dry.' She used the voice she used for sick animals, and little children who were afraid when the Orc horns sounded through the Wood, or when the fighting was too close and she was sent to the stronghold.

She tugged at his arm and gently cajoled him until he followed her, one slow step at a time, the water sliding from his hips, his thighs and she saw that he was naked. At that she threw her silver-green cloak about his hips, for she was strangely affected by his vulnerability, though she had seen Thalos naked before, cavorting in the water with Galadhon and Legolas plenty of times. But this time, it seemed voyeuristic and unfair for he was hardly aware of her at all much less able to protect himself from prying eyes.

'Thalos,' she whispered now and reached up to wipe his face. 'You have been with Lathron.' She wiped the blood from his skin with anxious little pats and a little mewl of distress broke from her as she did.

He stood obediently, eyes slowly dropped towards her and as if he had never seen her before, he blinked slowly and smiled. 'Melethril,' he murmured and lifted his hand to stroke her hair back from her face. His expression changed slightly, puzzled at the wetness on her face from her tears.

'No, not your Melethril,' she whispered back, knowing that whatever she said, he would never see her with anything more than brotherly kindness. She was too young, too close to him, too much a sister whatever she wished. And she really was too young to think seriously about anything like that… but even so, she wished it might be true,

'Come Thalos. Let me take you home and you can await your father and brothers' return so you may come back to yourself.' Slowly Thalos followed her.

In the shadows of the trees, Lathron smiled. For he had heard another Song amongst the Dragon's and so he had carved a small sigil beneath the dragon and entwined it through the dragonsong. That melody and painting slept awhile longer for it was still too son, but in time, some years from now, it would slowly awaken in the heart of Thalos Thranduillion, and then he would know his one true love. And only then would he truly awaken from the dragon's song.

0o0o

The End I think.