Deluge (A Legolas Romance）

Under Leaves of Green

Chapter 1 – Under Leaves of Green

A thousand winters ago, in the elven settlement of the Woodland Realm

Evening had settled; sunlight was dwindling, and the light of freshly lit lanterns pooled upon the vast walls the Palace. Nestled upon his atar's velvet robes, and leaning against the base of the throne on which those fabrics draped, was a mere elfling. He could not be more than forty summers old – uncommonly young in elven terms – and yet his clothing and posture spoke of stature and importance, a somewhat unlikely responsibility to fall upon such a young mind. This was the Prince of the Woodland Realm, as marked by his pale hair and azure eyes, though in his meagre years still juvenile, impish and arrogant.

Twice already Thranduil had tried recall his son's attention to the elven poem he was supposed to be studying at his knee, but the elfling's attention drifted constantly to the great doors of the Hall. The King could understand his anticipation. A company from Lothlorien was due to arrive before nightfall, and among that company was two elflings – brother and sister – of around Legolas' own age.

They were the children of Balthoron, one of Thranduil's most important advisors. The older one – Pelior Dree – had departed from Greenwood when Legolas was still an infant. Thranduil thought he remembered the elfling, with his gentle hands and head of dull red curls. His sister – by the name of Eroth – never knew the trees of his realm. She was born in the golden shade of the mallorn of Lorien, and from that same tender shadow her mother had passed. Perhaps she shared her brother's blazing hair.

Meanwhile, the soft notes of the Elven poem had faded. Legolas' fingers stilled over the delicate page, and he turned over the leaf only to pause, and lift troubled blue eyes up towards his father.

"It's nearly nightfall, atar. Will they truly come?"

"None can seek the mercy of the road," Thranduil slid the book gently from his hands. "But have faith, my elfling."

******

The long-expected company, Legolas observed, was an eclectic group.

The elfling uncurled his limbs from his atar's robes. He could see that beneath heavy grey travelling cloaks the silver hems of Lorien attire encircled necks and wrists, and the wearers were light-haired, pale-eyed, glimmering under the keen lantern flames. As they passed the darker hair of his Greenwood kin he distinguished among that of the Lorien escorts, and in their eyes came the glint of familiarity. Legolas could read them better: the way they walked, brusquer in pace and curt of gesture, the deep roll of their speech.

Two smaller figures were steered from amidst their grey-clad frames. The King descended from his throne. Velvet robes slithered and were dripping down the spiralling steps when Legolas ventured to follow. He cast an absent eye over the company.

The slighter of the two elflings was lifting her hood, a pale hand drawing back the grey cloth to reveal large, dark eyes, which flickered towards the formidable form of the King before lighting upon Legolas.

"Le suilon," the Princeling greeted.

Her glance flickered over him, glinting grey, curious. "Mae g'ovannen."

"Nethel nin, meet the young prince of the Woodland Realm."

The voice came from the youth by her shoulder, about a head taller, who also wore a head of reddish curls. He looked amiable, and altogether more comfortable and condescending than his sibling. Legolas thought he heard a note of irony in his tone, but at least he smiled, and her sister did not.