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b2mem2014-03-01 05:23 pm
tanis2014.livejournal.com) wrote in b2mem2014-03-01 05:23 pm
B2MEM - March 5 - Teacher's Pet by Tanis, Rated Teen & Up
Title: Teacher’s Pet
Author Name: Tanis
Prompt: In many parts of the world, autumn brings the start of the school year. Write about a character's education.
Summary: A disastrous autumn night sets in motion a series of teachable moments for both Thranduil and a young Legolas, though from a rather unexpected source.
Rating: PG/Teen
Warnings: Adult conversation and innuendo
Beta: annejackdanny
Author's Notes: If you are interested, though Teacher’s Pet was written as a stand alone story, it is the third in a series of young Legolas stories that began with A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes, and continued with The Guardian. This one follows in sequential order. You can find them at AO3, under the pen name Tanis.
Teacher’s Pet
No one felt the chill breath of the autumn night as the patrol rode wearily into the stable yard, dismounting to hand over steaming steeds to silent grooms. They knew better than to cluster around the king, who trailed the funereal procession at the rear, leading a riderless horse.
Thranduil leaned to caress Mabon’s shoulder, murmuring quiet thanks before swinging a leg over to affect a sliding dismount. The stallion nosed his shoulder and snuffled into his hair, then jostled the riderless gelding to a standstill as Thranduil reached to shift the body draped over the horse’s back into his arms.
For a long moment he stood silent and still, the spilling gold of his own hair tangling with the waterfall of gold cascading over his arm, for he cradled the slender body like a child against his breast. He had to suppress a keening moan, the reverberating sound inside his head whistling like a slicing blade.
So young … so very young.
Ithil peeked from between massing clouds, momentarily limning the colorless tableau with the glow of mithril.
It will snow before morning, Thranduil thought inconsequentially. And again, as though a refrain his mind could not help repeating, so young … so very young. He turned resolutely – and stopped. The mire of his grief clung like detritus from the Dead Marshes, clogging his senses and clouding his mind. He had neither heard nor sensed the silent footsteps.
Maethion had come up behind him; the patrol leader held out his arms in wordless appeal. Thranduil merely shook his head, stepping around the young elf. This was not Maethion’s burden to shoulder, though the pair had been mates from the womb, their mothers’ being best friends.
Thranduil shifted Iarchon’s head to his shoulder, thought better of it and reallocated the body again, with the lifeless head crooked in his elbow. He did not wish to convey even the semblance of hope for the family to whom he must deliver the body.
An honor guard formed around Thranduil and Maethion, who strode beside the king, head up, nostrils flared, Thranduil knew from experience, in an effort to dam the tears rising like the Forest River after a hard spring rain.
They did not hurry, nor did they tarry, on their mournful errand. A son was given into the keeping of his mother, arrangements made with his father, the grief of a sister somewhat assuaged with words of comfort and compassion.
And then Thranduil was striding through the corridors of the palace, the smell of the night and the hard fought battle clinging to him like memories he could not shake.
His route took him past Legolas’ chamber and though it was late into the night, he paused to push open the door on its silent hinges. In the swan rocker, rocking slowly to and fro by the fire, Rhenneth sat with Legolas wrapped in a blanket snugged against her bosom, her chin resting on the bright blond head. Only her eyes moved upward to meet his as Thranduil’s urgent step took him into the room.
He would have moved to her side, to take this small cherished body into his arms in an attempt to alleviate some of his own grief, but Rhenneth’s eyes said ‘no’. And at the same time asked – ‘who?’
“Iarchion,” Thranduil replied, the merest breath of sound floating the name across the fire-lit chamber.
The somber eyes filled instantly with tears that slid down to dampen his son’s hair. Legolas, as if smothered by the heavy despair blanketing the room, stirred inside his little cocoon, but Rhenneth soothed a hand over the small back, and through her tears, whispered a broken lullaby as she continued to rock.
Nights like this, when the devouring Cold came creeping back again, happened far less often these days. Legolas’ Mettarë visit with his mother, seven moon cycles past, had restored much of the child’s equanimity, but he was attuned already with the forest and had likely sensed this night’s new affliction, though Thranduil doubted the child fully understood the implication of the mourning woods.
So young … As was his son, who faced yet another loss, for Iarchion had been a favored playmate, still young enough to remember his own youth, and a deft hand with the few elflings that dwelt in the vicinity of the mountain palace.
Cursed woods, the king railed silently, as he tucked his gloves into his belt and moved noiselessly across the room to drop a feather light kiss upon his son’s golden head, then did the same for Rhenneth. In the fireplace, a burnt-through log huffed out a sigh as it broke, showering sparks across the hearth like summer fireflies. Legolas sighed but did not stir again, and Thranduil took himself off to his own chamber to crawl into a bottle.
He knew immediately he was not alone, and that it was not Galion puttering somewhere out of sight. Thranduil closed the door and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “This was not part of the bargain,” he growled, memories of the errand he had undertaken at the autumnal equinox momentarily banishing this night’s sorrowful end.
The mound of furs heaped upon the sleeping couch stretched sinuously.
“And I am not in the habit of repeating myself. At the moment, the pleasurable contemplation of adding a wolf pelt to that pile is the only thing holding back my legendary temper.” He had encamped at the gates of the stronghold of the Changers on the one night when acknowledgement was required and blood could not be spilled. And bargained one of the stones from his dwindling hoard of magickal gems for the Changer’s services as guardian to his small son.
“You might attempt it, Elf,” a shapely feminine leg slid into view, “but it would be your last act this side of Námo’s dwellings.” Followed by a distinctly feminine torso, and finally, a sleek head. “Yours are the most comfortable sleeping quarters in the palace, my lord.” She yawned – for it was mostly certainly a she at this point, not the wolf pup form the Changer had taken as guardian - and propped an elbow beneath her head, stroking the furs that still covered most of the lithe body.
Certain parts of Thranduil’s anatomy responded as if the intimate feminine purr accompanying the caresses was right next to his sensitive ear, rather than the long length of the chamber distant.
“Clothe yourself,” he said quietly.
“It is time, you know,” she said, not quite shrouding herself in a misty wrapper as she rose. “But perhaps you would prefer me thus?”
A young male clad in close-fitting garments strewn with multi-hued gem stones, long dark hair flowing down his back in come-hither disarray, lounged in one of the deep armchairs before the fire, long legs stretched out before him. He turned a sated, sleepy-lidded gaze upon the elf lord, a world of fulsome gratitude in the long, slightly slanted, grey eyes.
“You do not even tempt me, Witch.” With a gesture, ceiling globes brightened, dispelling the seductive shadowy warmth. “You only try my patience.”
“A half-truth at best, my lord, for your body betrays you.” It was the female again. “Surely you do not adhere to that ancient manuscript the Noldor purport to follow?” She extended a graceful arm, offering a gift she knew he would not turn away from. “Your chambers do not reflect a man who denies himself.”
Sighing, Thranduil abandoned his incongruous pose of righteous indignation and crossed the room to accept the goblet she held out. One long swallow and the glass was empty. He crossed to an ornately carved side table to refill it before returning to sink into the second of a pair of deep, comfortable armchairs placed before the hearth.
“She has hardly been gone a cycle of Seasons. I would not tarnish her memory to pursue pleasure alone.” He spoke as if there had been prior conversation between them about his wife, though there had not. In the short time the witch had been in the fortress, she had managed to pry her way into his most vulnerable organ. He had grown to like her, and that did not sit well with the bit of conscience he still laid claim to. She was a Changer; someone to be trusted no more than he would admonish anyone to trust himself on a good day. And yet, he had entrusted this thing with his son’s safety. It was a conundrum he did not like to study too closely, for it gave him quivers of anxiety when he did.
“Another half-truth,” Aiollda murmured. She let the reality of the words hang between them until Thranduil squirmed uncomfortably - if only in his mind - the shell of his physical body remained still and pliant. He half snorted, a rather undignified sound for a king, she thought, but she had peeled back the layers until she had discovered the man inside the king, and more than that, the father. This latter incarnation she had fallen headlong in love with, for though Mirkwood’s king rarely showed that side of himself in public, she had observed them, at length, in private and knew the depths of his love for his child could not be plumbed.
Hers was an ancient heart; it had found little to cause it to flutter in the last millennia or two. Aiollda, though that was not her true name, nor was the feminine shape her true form, had known herself from the moment she had been sung into being and reckoned well that she was already sliding down a slippery slope. Perhaps it was abstinence that had created the circumstances where only a little carelessness on her part could so easily tip the scales, but the desire to halt the slide was inextricably bound up with an equally fierce desire to know this elf lord in carnal intimacy.
So she would remain in this form and tease oh-so-gently until he could resist no longer, for he was man of formidable will; only the oblivion of the grape had escaped his control thus far.
And it was certainly true that he did not pursue oblivion for pleasure; that she would allow him. She rolled the mauve-hued Dorwinion around in a goblet that had likely been fashioned in the First Age, recognizing it was yet another thing she appreciated about the man - he treasured fine things as much as she did, and not with an avaricious kind of greed.
“I am more than capable of providing oblivion as well, my lord, and I can promise you, your head will fit much better inside its skull than it does after imbibing.”
“Have done, Ai,” Thranduil said wearily, borrowing his son’s diminutive for the wolf pup form she normally kept to, as he drained his own glass. “You are welcome to use my couch, but do not attempt seduction again. I have no desire to blur the lines between protector of my child and protector of your virtue.” The words were carefully chosen, though he knew them to be a lie as well.
There was amusement in her soft gurgle of laughter, but she did not call him on it this time. “Well then, perhaps you should provide me with a chamber of my own, where I may retreat when Rhenneth demands proprietary time with our joint charge. You should tell her, you know. She suspects something as it is, and believes you are withholding vital information from her. Which you are.”
“I have withheld that vital information only long enough to be certain you are going to stay.” There might have been tartness in the tone had the king not been so fatigued.
“I told you I would.”
The blond head turned, an eyebrow rose and the beautiful mouth quirked in sardonic amusement. “I have had few dealings with the Changers face to face, but I am not unaware of your nature, nor your willful inconstancy. If your word is truly your bond, you are unique among your kind.”
“Of a certainty I am unique.” She had not been here long, but knew Thranduil often made impromptu forays with his scouts and patrols. Something must have happened. She wanted to reach out and soothe away the faint creases she saw, but she would not cross that boundary, nor would she broach the subject of his troubled composure unless he gave her an opening. He was a very private individual; but she could distract him from his troubles for a time at least. “We are each of us unique – as is your kind. I do not wish to bed your seneschal, nor that beautiful courtier who hangs upon you as though you were a tree and he a clinging vine.”
“You do not wish to bed me either, I promise you. I am sour sport at the moment.”
She noted, but refrained from commenting, that he did not entirely close that door. “I am not in the habit of repeating myself either,” Aiollda replied, “though since there are apparently extenuating circumstances, I will bend accordingly and reiterate that I have made a commitment here and I will not leave until Legolas no longer has need of my fearsome self. We could seal the bargain in bed,” she suggested impishly, sliding one bare foot suggestively down a long length of suddenly exposed feminine leg.
His eyes devotedly followed the entire journey.
“Speaking of Legolas,” she insinuated slyly, before he could pitch her out of his chambers on her ear. “He is bored. When will you begin his education?”
Legolas’ education had begun in the womb, Thranduil thought bleakly, though he was appreciative of the change in subject. Education had been a daily constant in his son’s life for the first four years. His wife had fed that hungry mind with every word, every deed, every touch Legolas had experienced. Nethil had initiated him into the wonders of the natural world they lived in, taught him to become one with it, had integrated him into the very core of Arda’s wellspring of life.
And then - suddenly - that had been cut off and his child had been left in a cold darkness that, in Thranduil’s own grief, had taken him too long to recognize. By the time he had, Legolas had been inured in his isolation. Fear, something the child had never before experienced, trapped like a live thing inside him.
“I suppose I should speak to Lamaenor,” Thranduil mused, sprawling more comfortably in the chair.
“Your librarian? To what purpose?”
“Legolas will not like it, but I suppose you are correct. I should begin his formal education as well.”
“Formal education?” Aiollda parroted in ghastly tones. “Whyever would you do such a thing to him? He is a child of the outdoors! You will break his spirit far more completely than the loss of his mother if you chain him to a desk.” She sat up straight in order to glower at her companion. If the movement caused the misty drape to gape open above the perfectly formed female parts she bore, that was not her fault. And didn’t his eyes drift right down to that spot? She twitched back a smile as she adjusted the gossamer fabric and sank back with a disdainful sniff, certain he would know it for what it was. “Mark my words, Thranduil, that child will grow up to be the fiercest warrior ever to grace this infested wood in which you choose to make your home. And why you remain entrenched here is beyond my comprehension! A brighter mind might consider joining forces with Lothlórien and moving your people out of this blighted place.”
He ignored the insult to his home, and his intellect, but addressed her prediction thoughtfully. “You are not the first to say so. But I do not want violence to be his first and foremost thought for the rest of eternity. Nor will I countenance an ignorant son whose only negotiating skills involve weapons. Whatever his inclination, he will learn other disciplines as well.” He was silent for a moment before adding almost too quietly to be heard, “Legolas is meant to be a part of great things. I would preserve the innocence of who he is for that time of testing.”
“None who have witnessed the violence he saw can ever be wholly innocent again,” Aiollda responded tartly.
“It is a tempering factor, I agree, though with care, it does not have to turn into a hardening. Even in his fear, he did not close himself off completely. He is a thing of such light, Ai, such …” he groped for words, “such beauty. His fëa is so confidently trusting still. That came from his mother and I would nurture it to adulthood if at all possible. I did not pass along my darkness, for which I am grateful.”
“You will not wish to leave him naïve, my lord.”
“Nay,” Thranduil negated, without bestirring himself. “I would not wish naiveté upon him. But there is a vast array of hues between dark and light. I pray that Legolas will remain a creature of the light.”
The Changer forbore to prophesy the grief she saw in their path, for the son was as strong-willed as the father and had set his small feet already upon the trail of retribution.
And it was time to confess the true reason for her trespass in his chambers. “I have fashioned a small bow for him, with enough draw that he will have to grow into it, but it will not be long, Thranduil, before he is competing with your best archers. He is better already, than any child I have ever encountered.”
Now the king did bestir himself, and rapidly. One moment he was lounging in the chair, the next he was looming over her. “You gave him a bow?!” he roared, the glass in his hand shattering with the force of his grip. “You gave him a bow?” The repetition was dangerously quiet.
“He told me he has asked several times and been told no one had time to make a bow his size. I had the time,” she stated simply, unfazed by his wrath. The remaining shards of glass tinkled like wind chimes as the pieces met the back wall of the fireplace and dropped, hissing from their coating of alcohol, into the flames. His large hands came down on either side of her, caging her in the chair.
“And it never occurred to you,” he inquired grimly, his words and tone, he knew, unfairly colored by the night’s events, “that I was using that as an excuse to put off what I did not want him to have?”
There was no hesitation in her reply. “The Eldar do not have the luxury of the Edain; his path is set. He is an elven prince; he will live as his Song has been sung. If you attempt to twist it to your will, you will warp him beyond recognition.” This last was added in the spectral voice of her ancestors, a true seeing over which she had no control.
“My lord.” Aiollda rose with only the lightest of touches upon the king’s chest, for he had heard the ring of truth as well.
He stepped back, anger draining away like pissed wine in a gutter, though he attempted to cut off the flow. “To the pits of Thangorodrim with the Rodyn and their Song! Did they sing the rise of Dol Goldur?” His voice rose again, resentment dripping from each clipped syllable, “Did they sing the darkening of my wood? The infestation of Ungollant’s children?” And then fell as the despair of the night washed over him anon. “Did they sing the violent deaths of thousands of us while they created our world, safe in their unassailable fortress in the Deeps of Time?”
The deep rending of his fëa engulfed her as well, as she momentarily melted into his form, the better to understand the torrent of emotions pouring from an old, still infected wound, ripped open by the jagged blade of the night’s activities. An Age of bitterness and pain spewed forth, corrupted all the more for the centuries of repression. He had watched his father die violently in a useless battle before the black gates of Mordor, an Age past; had lain beneath a stone cairn, the savaged body of his queen just months ago. And tonight, waged yet another battle against the unending horde of orcs and wargs that ventured ever closer to his stronghold. And lost yet another of the steadily decreasing number of youth in his realm.
She felt all as he felt it, knew his despair as if it were her own, and embraced his pain.
Thranduil sank back down in the chair he had so recently vacated. “Did they derive great pleasure in singing Nethil’s murder? The Cold that possessed my son at her loss?” The low keening changed to a growl, “Does Iluvatar look down upon his chosen creatures now and regret any of his choices?”
Blood dripped from the hand flung over the side of the chair, the stains absorbed among the rust-colored florets adorning the edges of the expanse of royal-purple Haradrim carpet budged up against the wide stone hearth.
And like a cyclone, touched down for an instant then gone, the storm was over. He did not crumple, but he did deflate, and a bit of the overlarge personality that defined the king, dissipated, leaving in its place a much-tried, too-long-alone human being.
Aiollda slipped from her own chair to kneel beside the elf. Taking the bloody hand in both her own, she cradled it to her heart, lay her cheek along his forearm and was inordinately glad when he did not immediately yank back that small part of his battered and scarred heart she silently stole.
“Must the dog always come with you?” Lamaenor inquired dryly, as the gamboling pup waved her bushy tail enthusiastically.
Much to the surprise of all the adults, and the consternation of his father, Legolas had taken to “school” like a duck to water.
The small prince eyed his companion sternly, but matched his teacher’s arid tone. “She’s a wolf, not a dog. And yes, Ada says she is to be with me whenever I am not with him, or with Rhenneth. Ai,” he commanded, for it was he who had given her the nickname, “find a place to lie down. We will be here until at least sun high.”
Most mornings were spent, now, in the library with Master Lamaenor, who was teaching Legolas how to form letters that could be made into words. This, the young prince had discovered, was much to his liking, for it meant he could leave notes for his particular favorites. He had observed that this engendered great mirth among their company for they invariably shared their missives, after which he was the recipient of much jovial affection. As this was very much to his liking these days, he had decided that learning to write was almost as much fun as learning how to properly draw his new bow, and string an arrow so it stayed on the notch.
Though not quite as fun as shooting that bow.
The bow had been a secret for longer than he could remember ever keeping a secret before, and it had been such a BIG secret, he was glad to have that over with, for it had kept wanting to burst out of him. To Rhenneth during their evening bath routine, or to Duinenel over his morning porridge, and most especially to his father, whenever they were together.
His wolf pup, he knew, was something more than just a puppy. Though that was a secret, too, but since his ada was in on that one, he had less trouble keeping it. That is, until she got them into trouble with her mischief, like now, when he knew she was waving her tail around to purposely knock down the books Lamaenor had been shelving as Legolas worked on copying letters.
Shame on you, he told her, tongue just peeking out between his lips as he worked to get the angle right on a petulant Sindarin Q. When he had complained he did not like Q’s and he did not ever use them, Master Lam had made him copy a poem he did not understand about the quality of ancient antiquities. After that, he had kept his mouth shut when he had come across a letter he saw no use for, done the required exercises and promptly forgotten them.
He had not favored spelling lessons either, when they had been foist upon him wil-you-nil-you, and so, at Aiollda’s prompting, he had made his first attempt at negotiating with his father.
Thranduil, though he had suspected the source of the wise little lecture to which he had been treated, had been so impressed with the delivery – and the shy, winning smile beamed upon him at its completion – he had caved like an amateur, allowing Legolas to set the terms of his daily detention, otherwise known as the resumption of his interrupted education.
He had not his wife’s gift for imparting lessons in and around the day to day routine of their lives, nor did he have the necessary time to devote to fostering book learning, and so, grateful that his emerging child was willing to learn, he had capitulated with silent smugness. The program Legolas had laid before him, of book learning lessons in the morning and a blending of play and outdoor lessons from sun high to sunset was far more than he would have asked the child to undertake.
He had held back one proviso as his part of the negotiations – that Legolas would willingly take time from the pleasure of his lessons whenever the business of protecting the realm allowed Thranduil to spend time with his son.
Aiollda had told the king, the night after the morning parley had been completed, that he had done well.
Legolas, oblivious to the kindly manipulations of his caretakers, had been thrilled with his successful negotiations and willingly buckled down to the program he had set for himself. But he still had trouble with that pesky Q.
Beside him on the floor, Aiollda ignored the small earned scold for knocking down the books and batted at dust motes half-heartedly. Curling in a ball, she buried her nose in her tail and set to thinking about working out a game for one of their tracking lessons.
“I am done,” Legolas sang out, not much later, sliding off the bench to take his slate to the master for the obligatory perusal.
Lamaenor emerged, dusty and disheveled, from behind a tall stack of baskets containing multiple scrolls. “Let me see then.” He took the slate, careful not smudge the painstakingly formed letters, and pointed. “And what is this letter?”
“That is O.” Legolas wriggled, pleased that he had had O’s today. They had far less lines to memorize than Q’s. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes, they are all done correctly. An excellent morning’s work. Now, to whom would you like to write a note today, Master Legolas?”
“I wrote one for Duinenel yesterday. Today I must write one for Dilly.”
“I am certain Esteledil will be thrilled to get a note from you.” As he spoke, Lamaenor gave Legolas back the slate to clean and took down the roll of pulpy parchment from the shelf above the small desk. For everyday use, the elves of Mirkwood made their own paper from young tree pulp, pulverized, then hammered flat and put into forms to dry. The thin papyrus paper used for the business of the Woodland realm was dear and had to be imported from Hadrad; not even the king’s son got to play with the good paper.
“What would you like to write to Dilly?”
Legolas thought a moment, then crawled back up onto the bench, standing next to Master Lamaenor’s shoulder so he could see to dictate. “Dear Dilly, I like the rolls you make. When may we have them again?”
“Do you wish to sign it, Master Legolas?”
“You do not need to write that, I know how to write my name all by myself now.”
“Very good then, here you go.” Lamaenor handed the neatly printed note to his charge and saw him settled again at the desk. “Does your quill need sharpening?”
“No, it is not dragging at all yet. Or making extra marks anymore.” Legolas giggled, a sound so freely offered that Lamaenor, a long time palace retainer and one who had grieved along with the other adults over this precious child, felt a giggle rising up in his own chest.
He managed to suppress it, but dog-eared the memory so he would remember to share it with the king in his weekly progress report on Legolas’ studies. Thranduil, he knew, coveted every small sign of the prince’s recovery.
The giggles this time were because Legolas had often blamed the bonus squiggles in his early copying attempts upon the faulty quill. It had not taken long, though, for the small hand to acquire a competent deftness with the unwieldy writing implement.
The amusing notes, Lamaenor knew too, resulted from Legolas’s merry dismissal of those letters he did not like, a thing the scholar was certain time would take care of without any unnecessary prompting from him. Thranduil had imparted that he wished this new experience to be undertaken with as much care to make it enjoyable and gratifying, as to foster learning.
Legolas was very young yet, to be tied to a desk in a musty old library for long hours at a time. In a few years he would join the village children in lessons, though he would continue to be tutored, in the fashion of king’s son, in the day to day processes of running a vast realm. For now, Lamaenor took great joy in watching the agile mind open to the new processes Legolas was being exposed to.
So far they had tackled only reading, writing and spelling, since the trio went so well together. Sums would come later, along with history and lore.
Reading did not fall so low on the scale as spelling and was coming along well, perhaps that much faster because many of the stories the librarian had searched out for the prince, were stories the youngster knew word for word, by heart already, having learned them at his mother’s knee. And putting the spoken words with their visual representations had been a simple task. Still, Legolas preferred to hear his stories, rather than read them; it required altogether too much time sitting quietly to finish something and, when it was a story he had not heard before, he was always impatient to know the ending.
Setting the quill back in the ink pot, Legolas lifted the note and Aiollda lifted her heard.
Are we done here now? she inquired, thinking of a pleasant yawn and stretch.
Almost, Legolas replied absently, his attention focused on waving the paper long enough to dry the ink. Illegible notes, he had quickly learned, while they caused much laughter and garnered as many hugs as did legible ones, did not get him any rolls.
“Here is your list of spelling words to study.” Lamaenor handed over another piece of parchment. It contained ten words, starting with Quest and ending with Quiet.
Legolas frowned at it and rolled his eyes. He recognized that pestilent Q again, though he did not know the words. Those he would learn tonight with Rhenneth, while he played in his bath. He already knew how to spell and write splash and soak and soap. Tomorrow, he supposed, he should write a note to Rhenneth apologizing for splashing the soap so hard it had soaked her gown.
“Good day, Master Lamaenor, we will see you tomorrow!” Legolas called over his shoulder as he and the wolf headed for the corridor at a fast walk. They were not allowed to run in the library and Legolas had a lot of run in him after sitting still for so long.
The pair broke into a trot as soon as they were through the door and into the hallway.
Running was frowned upon in the main passages as well, as one small recovering princling accompanied by his fearsome, roly poly guardian wolf pup, had caused one too many accidents in their headlong rush through those halls. Elves, by nature and nurture, were quick on their feet, but only if the corridor was wide enough to accommodate the random populace. Though it meant it took a little longer to reach their chamber deep in the fortress, it also meant a little bit more of that run would be expended, and while Legolas did not process this, Aiollda did, and was glad of the extra stretch herself, so she herded them toward the back passageway and took off as fast as her currently short, stubby legs could carry her.
Legolas was not far behind.
Rhenneth looked up from folding clean clothes at their skidding entrance, as both dog and elfling tumbled head over heels into the room, laughing like a pair of Haradrim hyenas.
“One of you is going to break your neck one of these days,” she sighed. “But at least you will have fun doing it. What is on the agenda for this afternoon, Legolas? If you are going to come back covered in filth again, you must change out of that attire.”
“Rhen,” Legolas whined, only half in jest, “you are becoming a fret. What does it matter if I get my clothes dirty? I do not want to take time to change! We are to meet Ada for an archery lesson this afternoon and we are both hungry.” Seeing the frown, fleeting as it was, cross the lovely face of his best friend, Legolas disentangled himself from the wolf pup and rose to race across the room. “I don’t get so very dirty unless we are tracking,” he said earnestly, flinging his arms around her knees, “and we are not tracking today. I promise I will try to stay clean.”
This produced a smile that even in extreme youth, Legolas recognized as saved specially for him.
“A fret? Never say I am turning into such a one, for I couldn’t bear it if I made you think of me that way,” Rhenneth declaimed theatrically, pressing the back of one hand to her brow, the other to her chest. “Please forgive me, my prince.”
“What is the matter?” Legolas asked, patting her gown-covered knees.
Rhenneth peeked at him from behind the hand covering a half-closed eye. “What do you mean, little one?”
“I am not a ‘little one’ anymore,” Legolas said, climbing up onto the bed. It was not the stretch it had used to be at the last turn of the light, nor even since Mettarë. “I know you are distressed about something.” And putting on the air of sobriety his father used with him when they were discussing something of a serious nature, he took one of the hands she lowered – in quiet astonishment – to her lap. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”
On the floor, Aiollda rolled over and stretched out on her tummy to lie silently watching. She well knew what was bothering the nursemaid and supposed, out of thoughtfulness if nothing else, she should take herself off. But she was rarely thoughtful unless it suited her purpose and besides, she was keen to see how Rhenneth had taken the news.
“It is nothing, Legolas, nothing that time won’t resolve.” The nursemaid’s gaze turned pensively to the wolf.
Prince Legolas, being a very quick young man, and one highly attuned to the emotions of those around him, caught the gist of the worry immediately. “Oh, Ada must have told you about Aiollda. But why do you worry? Aiollda is my friend, too, and because she is here now, you will be able to spend more time with Celegon,” he cajoled, “you will like that, will you not?”
Aiollda lowered her muzzle to her paws. She could read no further than a high level of discomfort, but then most humans had that reaction to a Changer. On behalf of their mutual charge, she supposed she should at least attempt an overture of friendship. Rising, she stretched and ambled over to the bed. With a wriggle of her miniscule hips, she gathered herself and sprang. Only to tumble backwards when her small form rebounded off the side of the bed instead of springing onto it.
In her head, she scowled, and readied herself for another try. She was not used to this form, but that should not impede her movement like this.
Legolas laughed and slid off the bed to scoop her up before she could make a second attempt, handing her off to Rhenneth so he could clamber back up on the bed.
“Oh alright,” Rhenneth said, laughing too as she received a tentative puppy kiss on her cheek. “The king says we must learn to abide each other if we are to share the responsibility of caring for Legolas, but you had best know, he was mine first and I am likely to be very jealous of his time, now that I know what you are.”
“She is here to guard me, Rhen, she cannot sing me a lullaby or rub my back with her furry paws.” But she could sleep in his bed, curled beside him, better even than a bed warmer. “Or help me bathe. She can’t braid my hair like a warrior, or even a scholar or a bard.”
Aiollda allowed Rhenneth to scratch behind her ears, and dropped her head into the girl’s lap. There was a power here to match her own, though it yet lay dormant. The girl was young. In the way elves measured age, still a youth; but there were hidden depths. This one would someday be a healer to rival Elrond of Rivendell. Though she sensed it would take a catalyst of some magnitude to unearth those talents, and did not like the foreshadowing doom that fell over the room.
Accordingly, she bounced up as only a puppy can, and threw herself off the edge of the bed, barking madly as she playfully bit at the toes of the small boots dangling over the side.
It is time for the noon meal, she reminded Legolas. You can talk about this tonight when you are alone with Rhenneth. She will be more comfortable without me in the room. And all this talking is making me hungry! Let’s go get something to eat! She raced for the open door, skidded on the slate floor as she rounded the corner, paws going every which way, and then even her tail disappeared from view.
Legolas rose to his knees to hug Rhenneth. “I will always remember you were my first friend again, after Nanneth. Not even Ada could hear me locked in that place where The Cold took me. Only you and Duinenel heard me. Aiollda will never take your place.”
Rhenneth sighed as she cuddled her charge for a moment longer, thankful he let her. “I am sorry, Legolas, I will try to make friends with her, but …” she let her thoughts slide away, for she did not want him to know the terror Thranduil’s recitation had woken. What she knew of the Changers, whom she had thought a myth used to frighten unruly children into better behavior, could fit inside her thimble, but the telling had frozen her gentle heart. Why would the prince require such a fearsome guardian?
Setting aside her fears, she put Legolas on his feet and gave him a gentle shove toward the door. “You are growing up so quickly, I forget sometimes that you will be having adventures far beyond the confines of the palace soon. I am glad Aiollda is here to guard you against harm. Run along now, you will need sustenance so your body can keep pace with all the new things you are learning. Have a good afternoon, my love, and I will see you this evening.”
“Someday soon you must come and watch me practice with my bow!” Legolas said, as he took off at a run for the door. His soft-shod feet skidded, too, as he rounded the door frame, but he grabbed the jamb and swung around, going with the slide until his feet were under him again.
“I will see you later!” he called, and the prince was gone as well.
The archery butts was a wide, deep meadow that lay beyond the stables, shadowed on one side by the mountain into which Thranduil had carved out his fortress, and sloping down a long embankment on the other.
Today, Legolas could see, as he and the puppy frolicked through the knee-deep snow, dozens of elflings were playing on the hill, using long, thin slats of wood to slide down almost as fast as a horse could gallop. There was much gleeful shrieking and calling of taunts and threats as the more intrepid of the bunch, who had tied ropes to their conveyances and were using their body weight to maneuver the slats more effectively, lined up at the top of the hill for another race.
“Would you rather join them playing, Legolas?” his father asked, crouching in the ankle-deep snow beside his son.
For a moment, the elfing was sorely tempted. The snow would be gone soon, this was only an early cold snap. Autumn yet held sway in the woods, the deciduous trees flaunting their bright fall colors as though showing off a new wardrobe. Set in amongst tall evergreens laced with snow, the reds flamed like gleaming copper caught in firelight and the yellows appeared as bright as Anor at sun high on a midsummer day.
There was not the smell of winter yet either. The forest carried a particular scent in autumn, deep notes of spicy fir and pine, and the aroma of burning leaves and smoked meats as the kitchen staff prepared winter stores. It was an aroma Legolas had always loved.
He sniffed now, appreciatively, and turned his gaze back to his father. “No, Ada, I would rather practice archery with you.”
“You are sure?”
“There will be more snow this winter, and you will probably be tied up arguing with your nobles about the best way to dispense the food stores to our people,” the prince said philosophically, patting his father consolingly on the shoulder. “Then I will play in the snow with the others.”
“Who told you we argue about dispensing supplies?” Thranduil inquired, hitching his own bow so he could swing Legolas up on his shoulders for the last few minutes of their walk.
“I have heard you in your study roaring at them, and Nanneth always used to laugh about it. She used to say – every winter, the same old thing again and again. Everybody wants to do it their way.” Legolas leaned around his father’s head to look him in the eye. “Why do they argue, Ada, when you are the king and can do as you like?”
“A good question, Legolas,” Thranduil laughed. “I will put it to the nobles, when it comes up again this winter.”
Aiollda frisked about their feet, throwing up snow with her paws and biting at it. This was how education was supposed to happen, outdoors where one could feel the pulse of the earth beneath one’s feet and touch the horizon if you reached just right.
“Are you going to practice too, Ada? You brought your bow. May I see how it feels? Can I get your arrows for you?”
“Aye, I thought I would put in a little practice time as well. I wonder if you are as good as Aiollda thinks you are. She is only a pup after all, and probably doesn’t know much about archery.”
Legolas, who had raced to the mounded earth targets as soon as he’d been swung down from his father’s shoulders, was in the process of counting off paces as Aiollda, the girl, had taught him. “Oh no,” he called, stopping because he could not count and talk too, and his nanneth had always told him it was polite to answer immediately when spoken too. Further, these aspersions upon his new guardian, and now teacher, required correction. “Aiollda is older than you are, Ada, she told me so. She is from the very beginning of the world. She was not born like you and me, she grew out of the mind of Ilúvatar.”
This proved to be such exciting news Legolas forgot counting and rushed back to grab his father about the knees, leaning back so he could look up at his tall-as-an-oak-tree ada. “Is that not the most wonderful thing? That makes her a part of Ilúvatar, doesn’t it, Ada? Do you suppose he sent her here to us?”
The Changers were indeed of Maiar descent, those lesser beings who had served Ilúvatar and the Rodyn from the inception of the world. Many had, at one time or another, been close companions of the Ainu who had once been Melkor; the one who, alone among the Rodyn, had received of Ilúvatar, some part of the gifts that had been given to all the others.
Aiollda sat and wrapped her tail around her paws, wondering if Thranduil would appreciate it if she knocked the elfling into the snow.
No, the king responded drily, and I am sure you are well aware I do not appreciate your filling his ears with this nonsense. He made sure to buffer his young son’s mind, for Legolas was growing more adept with this peculiar gift of being able to speak mind to mind.
She let her tongue loll from her mouth in a wide doggy grin as she glanced at the king coyly. It is not nonsense, I am most assuredly older than you, and I did not tell him I had been sent by Iluvatar, he divined that on his own.
“Are you talking to her with your mind, Ada?” Legolas scowled. “Are you talking about me?”
Thranduil considered truth over circumspection - and chose distraction. “Ware your bow, Legolas, dragging it in the snow will ruin the string. Come, show me where you stand.”
But Legolas was not to be distracted. He let his father take him by the hand and moved out again, but continued on with his original theme. “Or perhaps the Rodyn sent her to us in exchange for Nanneth, since they probably think we need warriors more than nanneths.” This was said on a sigh, for the elfing still dearly missed his mother. “I like you, Aiollda,” he addressed the puppy who was frisking at his side, “but I would rather have had my nanneth back.”
Aiollda made no reply. She had none to give. Nor did Thranduil, who redirected his son, once more, to the purpose of their afternoon.
“Is this where you stand? Very good, this a fair distance for your size. Now show me your stance.”
Legolas planted his booted feet either side of an imaginary line parallel to the evenly spaced mounds of dirt that served as targets and turned his head over his shoulder. He lifted the small bow, rolled his miniature hips so they were tucked under and his back flattened, and rotated his shoulders down, presenting a straight-as-an-arrow stance for his father’s inspection.
“Very good,” Thranduil praised again, “I see you have been practicing a lot. Are you able to draw your arrows from this position?”
In demonstration, Legolas, without moving the bow, reached back over his shoulder and drew out a diminutive arrow from the equally diminutive quiver, nocking it in his bow string.
“I am very impressed with how much you’ve learned in such a short a time. You do not even need to adjust your bow again before you draw. Go ahead then. Let’s see your aim.”
The bow, small as it was, was supple and bent in accordance with the slight strength slowly drawing back the cocked elbow. In one smooth move, as the tip of the elbow met the tip of the ear, the draw ended and release sent the arrow spiraling toward the blank targets. It did not wibble wobble as most new archers arrows did, it flew straight and true, thudding into the dirt mound with a respectable thunk. Had there been a bull’s-eye, Thranduil thought, his practiced eye measuring rings, it would have pierced the third inner circle.
Apparently he was raising a fine archer.
And then his son put four more arrows in a tight cluster around the first one.
A very fine archer indeed.
“We will see that you get a real target soon as may be, my son.”
Afternoon was fading into a twilit evening when at last Legolas was convinced to the quit the field. The merrymakers had long since left the hill, though it was all but barren of snow by the time the trio passed it heading home. Even the puppy’s tail was dragging in the snow and Thranduil scooped up both his juveniles, happy to oblige the tired pair as one snuggled a cold nose into his neck and the other laid a contented head upon his shoulder.
Aiollda briefly considered changing shapes so she might walk beside father and son, and - just perhaps - hold the king’s hand again. She had some educating of her own to do, though she would do no more than nudge nature’s course along a little. In the interim, she was content to press her cold nose against the strong column of neck and memorize the scent of him. He smelled of the forest on an elemental level, as though he had been fashioned from the minerals that resided in the earth beneath their feet, and then layered all about with the scents of all living things that put roots into the earth or trod upon it, the rock that he had caused to be delved for his fortress, even the water that ran beneath the bridge to his home. In this incarnation, she could discern each of those scents individually; a bouquet of aromas sure to please a canine nose.
She laughed silently at herself, ancient spirit that she was, and encouraged the glow of her imperishable flame to warm them all.
Thranduil, his arms full, rubbed his chin first over his son’s head, then the wolf pup’s, contemplating the juxtaposition of youth and ancientness embodied in his son’s guardian. Ingrained as he was in the quintessence of magick, the sorcery of the Changers eluded the unconscious personal perception present in all his dealings within his realm. Intellect informed him it went a step beyond the elemental engagement he felt with his forest.
There was about the Changer, an aura of power much like he sensed in the old grey pilgrim who occasioned his halls. Mithrandir, too, was connected, even beyond an elemental level, to an authority only briefly glimpsed beneath the old man façade the wizard robed himself in.
Does it intimidate you, my lord, imagining being intimate with a spirit clothed in flesh?
I will not have this conversation with a puppy, nor will I have it in the vicinity of my son. Thranduil shut the doors of his mind with a peeved slam, though he could not shut out the deep, melodic feminine trill of laughter. It played along his nerve endings like a magician’s fire, bright allure promising fulfillment without fee. That, he knew, was a patently false pledge. One did not play with fire without consequence.
And he had not yet decided if he was ready to pay the price of furthering his own education. Yet he knew, in some indefinable fashion, that one day his partnership with grief would fade. The wound would likely be reopened again and again, he had little control over that, but it was inevitable that the intensity of the pain would fade with the passage of immortal time.
It would be so for Legolas, too, and in time his son’s song would fully reflect its melodic joy once again, though the deeper notes would always carry the hint of sorrow. For the Rodyn’s Mettarë gift, be it dream or reality, of Legolas’ visit with his mother - the gift that had broken the hold of the creeping Cold grafting itself onto his son’s fëa - Thranduil would make every effort to hear and nurture the intention of the Song for his son’s life. So long as it continued into immortality, for he would fight tooth and nail if it began to hint of yet more sacrifice. He and his kingdom had sacrificed oceans of blood already. He would not readily sacrifice his son.
He cut off those thoughts purposefully as he strode into the deepening twilight. Too much of his life revolved around sacrifice. In this moment, he resolved to contemplate the joy of an afternoon in company with two of his favorite companions. One with a cold wet nose; the other, with a warm, contented heart.
~*~
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The recognizable characters and settings in this story are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. The story itself, and the original characters, are the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.
Author Name: Tanis
Prompt: In many parts of the world, autumn brings the start of the school year. Write about a character's education.
Summary: A disastrous autumn night sets in motion a series of teachable moments for both Thranduil and a young Legolas, though from a rather unexpected source.
Rating: PG/Teen
Warnings: Adult conversation and innuendo
Beta: annejackdanny
Author's Notes: If you are interested, though Teacher’s Pet was written as a stand alone story, it is the third in a series of young Legolas stories that began with A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes, and continued with The Guardian. This one follows in sequential order. You can find them at AO3, under the pen name Tanis.
Teacher’s Pet
No one felt the chill breath of the autumn night as the patrol rode wearily into the stable yard, dismounting to hand over steaming steeds to silent grooms. They knew better than to cluster around the king, who trailed the funereal procession at the rear, leading a riderless horse.
Thranduil leaned to caress Mabon’s shoulder, murmuring quiet thanks before swinging a leg over to affect a sliding dismount. The stallion nosed his shoulder and snuffled into his hair, then jostled the riderless gelding to a standstill as Thranduil reached to shift the body draped over the horse’s back into his arms.
For a long moment he stood silent and still, the spilling gold of his own hair tangling with the waterfall of gold cascading over his arm, for he cradled the slender body like a child against his breast. He had to suppress a keening moan, the reverberating sound inside his head whistling like a slicing blade.
So young … so very young.
Ithil peeked from between massing clouds, momentarily limning the colorless tableau with the glow of mithril.
It will snow before morning, Thranduil thought inconsequentially. And again, as though a refrain his mind could not help repeating, so young … so very young. He turned resolutely – and stopped. The mire of his grief clung like detritus from the Dead Marshes, clogging his senses and clouding his mind. He had neither heard nor sensed the silent footsteps.
Maethion had come up behind him; the patrol leader held out his arms in wordless appeal. Thranduil merely shook his head, stepping around the young elf. This was not Maethion’s burden to shoulder, though the pair had been mates from the womb, their mothers’ being best friends.
Thranduil shifted Iarchon’s head to his shoulder, thought better of it and reallocated the body again, with the lifeless head crooked in his elbow. He did not wish to convey even the semblance of hope for the family to whom he must deliver the body.
An honor guard formed around Thranduil and Maethion, who strode beside the king, head up, nostrils flared, Thranduil knew from experience, in an effort to dam the tears rising like the Forest River after a hard spring rain.
They did not hurry, nor did they tarry, on their mournful errand. A son was given into the keeping of his mother, arrangements made with his father, the grief of a sister somewhat assuaged with words of comfort and compassion.
And then Thranduil was striding through the corridors of the palace, the smell of the night and the hard fought battle clinging to him like memories he could not shake.
His route took him past Legolas’ chamber and though it was late into the night, he paused to push open the door on its silent hinges. In the swan rocker, rocking slowly to and fro by the fire, Rhenneth sat with Legolas wrapped in a blanket snugged against her bosom, her chin resting on the bright blond head. Only her eyes moved upward to meet his as Thranduil’s urgent step took him into the room.
He would have moved to her side, to take this small cherished body into his arms in an attempt to alleviate some of his own grief, but Rhenneth’s eyes said ‘no’. And at the same time asked – ‘who?’
“Iarchion,” Thranduil replied, the merest breath of sound floating the name across the fire-lit chamber.
The somber eyes filled instantly with tears that slid down to dampen his son’s hair. Legolas, as if smothered by the heavy despair blanketing the room, stirred inside his little cocoon, but Rhenneth soothed a hand over the small back, and through her tears, whispered a broken lullaby as she continued to rock.
Nights like this, when the devouring Cold came creeping back again, happened far less often these days. Legolas’ Mettarë visit with his mother, seven moon cycles past, had restored much of the child’s equanimity, but he was attuned already with the forest and had likely sensed this night’s new affliction, though Thranduil doubted the child fully understood the implication of the mourning woods.
So young … As was his son, who faced yet another loss, for Iarchion had been a favored playmate, still young enough to remember his own youth, and a deft hand with the few elflings that dwelt in the vicinity of the mountain palace.
Cursed woods, the king railed silently, as he tucked his gloves into his belt and moved noiselessly across the room to drop a feather light kiss upon his son’s golden head, then did the same for Rhenneth. In the fireplace, a burnt-through log huffed out a sigh as it broke, showering sparks across the hearth like summer fireflies. Legolas sighed but did not stir again, and Thranduil took himself off to his own chamber to crawl into a bottle.
He knew immediately he was not alone, and that it was not Galion puttering somewhere out of sight. Thranduil closed the door and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “This was not part of the bargain,” he growled, memories of the errand he had undertaken at the autumnal equinox momentarily banishing this night’s sorrowful end.
The mound of furs heaped upon the sleeping couch stretched sinuously.
“And I am not in the habit of repeating myself. At the moment, the pleasurable contemplation of adding a wolf pelt to that pile is the only thing holding back my legendary temper.” He had encamped at the gates of the stronghold of the Changers on the one night when acknowledgement was required and blood could not be spilled. And bargained one of the stones from his dwindling hoard of magickal gems for the Changer’s services as guardian to his small son.
“You might attempt it, Elf,” a shapely feminine leg slid into view, “but it would be your last act this side of Námo’s dwellings.” Followed by a distinctly feminine torso, and finally, a sleek head. “Yours are the most comfortable sleeping quarters in the palace, my lord.” She yawned – for it was mostly certainly a she at this point, not the wolf pup form the Changer had taken as guardian - and propped an elbow beneath her head, stroking the furs that still covered most of the lithe body.
Certain parts of Thranduil’s anatomy responded as if the intimate feminine purr accompanying the caresses was right next to his sensitive ear, rather than the long length of the chamber distant.
“Clothe yourself,” he said quietly.
“It is time, you know,” she said, not quite shrouding herself in a misty wrapper as she rose. “But perhaps you would prefer me thus?”
A young male clad in close-fitting garments strewn with multi-hued gem stones, long dark hair flowing down his back in come-hither disarray, lounged in one of the deep armchairs before the fire, long legs stretched out before him. He turned a sated, sleepy-lidded gaze upon the elf lord, a world of fulsome gratitude in the long, slightly slanted, grey eyes.
“You do not even tempt me, Witch.” With a gesture, ceiling globes brightened, dispelling the seductive shadowy warmth. “You only try my patience.”
“A half-truth at best, my lord, for your body betrays you.” It was the female again. “Surely you do not adhere to that ancient manuscript the Noldor purport to follow?” She extended a graceful arm, offering a gift she knew he would not turn away from. “Your chambers do not reflect a man who denies himself.”
Sighing, Thranduil abandoned his incongruous pose of righteous indignation and crossed the room to accept the goblet she held out. One long swallow and the glass was empty. He crossed to an ornately carved side table to refill it before returning to sink into the second of a pair of deep, comfortable armchairs placed before the hearth.
“She has hardly been gone a cycle of Seasons. I would not tarnish her memory to pursue pleasure alone.” He spoke as if there had been prior conversation between them about his wife, though there had not. In the short time the witch had been in the fortress, she had managed to pry her way into his most vulnerable organ. He had grown to like her, and that did not sit well with the bit of conscience he still laid claim to. She was a Changer; someone to be trusted no more than he would admonish anyone to trust himself on a good day. And yet, he had entrusted this thing with his son’s safety. It was a conundrum he did not like to study too closely, for it gave him quivers of anxiety when he did.
“Another half-truth,” Aiollda murmured. She let the reality of the words hang between them until Thranduil squirmed uncomfortably - if only in his mind - the shell of his physical body remained still and pliant. He half snorted, a rather undignified sound for a king, she thought, but she had peeled back the layers until she had discovered the man inside the king, and more than that, the father. This latter incarnation she had fallen headlong in love with, for though Mirkwood’s king rarely showed that side of himself in public, she had observed them, at length, in private and knew the depths of his love for his child could not be plumbed.
Hers was an ancient heart; it had found little to cause it to flutter in the last millennia or two. Aiollda, though that was not her true name, nor was the feminine shape her true form, had known herself from the moment she had been sung into being and reckoned well that she was already sliding down a slippery slope. Perhaps it was abstinence that had created the circumstances where only a little carelessness on her part could so easily tip the scales, but the desire to halt the slide was inextricably bound up with an equally fierce desire to know this elf lord in carnal intimacy.
So she would remain in this form and tease oh-so-gently until he could resist no longer, for he was man of formidable will; only the oblivion of the grape had escaped his control thus far.
And it was certainly true that he did not pursue oblivion for pleasure; that she would allow him. She rolled the mauve-hued Dorwinion around in a goblet that had likely been fashioned in the First Age, recognizing it was yet another thing she appreciated about the man - he treasured fine things as much as she did, and not with an avaricious kind of greed.
“I am more than capable of providing oblivion as well, my lord, and I can promise you, your head will fit much better inside its skull than it does after imbibing.”
“Have done, Ai,” Thranduil said wearily, borrowing his son’s diminutive for the wolf pup form she normally kept to, as he drained his own glass. “You are welcome to use my couch, but do not attempt seduction again. I have no desire to blur the lines between protector of my child and protector of your virtue.” The words were carefully chosen, though he knew them to be a lie as well.
There was amusement in her soft gurgle of laughter, but she did not call him on it this time. “Well then, perhaps you should provide me with a chamber of my own, where I may retreat when Rhenneth demands proprietary time with our joint charge. You should tell her, you know. She suspects something as it is, and believes you are withholding vital information from her. Which you are.”
“I have withheld that vital information only long enough to be certain you are going to stay.” There might have been tartness in the tone had the king not been so fatigued.
“I told you I would.”
The blond head turned, an eyebrow rose and the beautiful mouth quirked in sardonic amusement. “I have had few dealings with the Changers face to face, but I am not unaware of your nature, nor your willful inconstancy. If your word is truly your bond, you are unique among your kind.”
“Of a certainty I am unique.” She had not been here long, but knew Thranduil often made impromptu forays with his scouts and patrols. Something must have happened. She wanted to reach out and soothe away the faint creases she saw, but she would not cross that boundary, nor would she broach the subject of his troubled composure unless he gave her an opening. He was a very private individual; but she could distract him from his troubles for a time at least. “We are each of us unique – as is your kind. I do not wish to bed your seneschal, nor that beautiful courtier who hangs upon you as though you were a tree and he a clinging vine.”
“You do not wish to bed me either, I promise you. I am sour sport at the moment.”
She noted, but refrained from commenting, that he did not entirely close that door. “I am not in the habit of repeating myself either,” Aiollda replied, “though since there are apparently extenuating circumstances, I will bend accordingly and reiterate that I have made a commitment here and I will not leave until Legolas no longer has need of my fearsome self. We could seal the bargain in bed,” she suggested impishly, sliding one bare foot suggestively down a long length of suddenly exposed feminine leg.
His eyes devotedly followed the entire journey.
“Speaking of Legolas,” she insinuated slyly, before he could pitch her out of his chambers on her ear. “He is bored. When will you begin his education?”
Legolas’ education had begun in the womb, Thranduil thought bleakly, though he was appreciative of the change in subject. Education had been a daily constant in his son’s life for the first four years. His wife had fed that hungry mind with every word, every deed, every touch Legolas had experienced. Nethil had initiated him into the wonders of the natural world they lived in, taught him to become one with it, had integrated him into the very core of Arda’s wellspring of life.
And then - suddenly - that had been cut off and his child had been left in a cold darkness that, in Thranduil’s own grief, had taken him too long to recognize. By the time he had, Legolas had been inured in his isolation. Fear, something the child had never before experienced, trapped like a live thing inside him.
“I suppose I should speak to Lamaenor,” Thranduil mused, sprawling more comfortably in the chair.
“Your librarian? To what purpose?”
“Legolas will not like it, but I suppose you are correct. I should begin his formal education as well.”
“Formal education?” Aiollda parroted in ghastly tones. “Whyever would you do such a thing to him? He is a child of the outdoors! You will break his spirit far more completely than the loss of his mother if you chain him to a desk.” She sat up straight in order to glower at her companion. If the movement caused the misty drape to gape open above the perfectly formed female parts she bore, that was not her fault. And didn’t his eyes drift right down to that spot? She twitched back a smile as she adjusted the gossamer fabric and sank back with a disdainful sniff, certain he would know it for what it was. “Mark my words, Thranduil, that child will grow up to be the fiercest warrior ever to grace this infested wood in which you choose to make your home. And why you remain entrenched here is beyond my comprehension! A brighter mind might consider joining forces with Lothlórien and moving your people out of this blighted place.”
He ignored the insult to his home, and his intellect, but addressed her prediction thoughtfully. “You are not the first to say so. But I do not want violence to be his first and foremost thought for the rest of eternity. Nor will I countenance an ignorant son whose only negotiating skills involve weapons. Whatever his inclination, he will learn other disciplines as well.” He was silent for a moment before adding almost too quietly to be heard, “Legolas is meant to be a part of great things. I would preserve the innocence of who he is for that time of testing.”
“None who have witnessed the violence he saw can ever be wholly innocent again,” Aiollda responded tartly.
“It is a tempering factor, I agree, though with care, it does not have to turn into a hardening. Even in his fear, he did not close himself off completely. He is a thing of such light, Ai, such …” he groped for words, “such beauty. His fëa is so confidently trusting still. That came from his mother and I would nurture it to adulthood if at all possible. I did not pass along my darkness, for which I am grateful.”
“You will not wish to leave him naïve, my lord.”
“Nay,” Thranduil negated, without bestirring himself. “I would not wish naiveté upon him. But there is a vast array of hues between dark and light. I pray that Legolas will remain a creature of the light.”
The Changer forbore to prophesy the grief she saw in their path, for the son was as strong-willed as the father and had set his small feet already upon the trail of retribution.
And it was time to confess the true reason for her trespass in his chambers. “I have fashioned a small bow for him, with enough draw that he will have to grow into it, but it will not be long, Thranduil, before he is competing with your best archers. He is better already, than any child I have ever encountered.”
Now the king did bestir himself, and rapidly. One moment he was lounging in the chair, the next he was looming over her. “You gave him a bow?!” he roared, the glass in his hand shattering with the force of his grip. “You gave him a bow?” The repetition was dangerously quiet.
“He told me he has asked several times and been told no one had time to make a bow his size. I had the time,” she stated simply, unfazed by his wrath. The remaining shards of glass tinkled like wind chimes as the pieces met the back wall of the fireplace and dropped, hissing from their coating of alcohol, into the flames. His large hands came down on either side of her, caging her in the chair.
“And it never occurred to you,” he inquired grimly, his words and tone, he knew, unfairly colored by the night’s events, “that I was using that as an excuse to put off what I did not want him to have?”
There was no hesitation in her reply. “The Eldar do not have the luxury of the Edain; his path is set. He is an elven prince; he will live as his Song has been sung. If you attempt to twist it to your will, you will warp him beyond recognition.” This last was added in the spectral voice of her ancestors, a true seeing over which she had no control.
“My lord.” Aiollda rose with only the lightest of touches upon the king’s chest, for he had heard the ring of truth as well.
He stepped back, anger draining away like pissed wine in a gutter, though he attempted to cut off the flow. “To the pits of Thangorodrim with the Rodyn and their Song! Did they sing the rise of Dol Goldur?” His voice rose again, resentment dripping from each clipped syllable, “Did they sing the darkening of my wood? The infestation of Ungollant’s children?” And then fell as the despair of the night washed over him anon. “Did they sing the violent deaths of thousands of us while they created our world, safe in their unassailable fortress in the Deeps of Time?”
The deep rending of his fëa engulfed her as well, as she momentarily melted into his form, the better to understand the torrent of emotions pouring from an old, still infected wound, ripped open by the jagged blade of the night’s activities. An Age of bitterness and pain spewed forth, corrupted all the more for the centuries of repression. He had watched his father die violently in a useless battle before the black gates of Mordor, an Age past; had lain beneath a stone cairn, the savaged body of his queen just months ago. And tonight, waged yet another battle against the unending horde of orcs and wargs that ventured ever closer to his stronghold. And lost yet another of the steadily decreasing number of youth in his realm.
She felt all as he felt it, knew his despair as if it were her own, and embraced his pain.
Thranduil sank back down in the chair he had so recently vacated. “Did they derive great pleasure in singing Nethil’s murder? The Cold that possessed my son at her loss?” The low keening changed to a growl, “Does Iluvatar look down upon his chosen creatures now and regret any of his choices?”
Blood dripped from the hand flung over the side of the chair, the stains absorbed among the rust-colored florets adorning the edges of the expanse of royal-purple Haradrim carpet budged up against the wide stone hearth.
And like a cyclone, touched down for an instant then gone, the storm was over. He did not crumple, but he did deflate, and a bit of the overlarge personality that defined the king, dissipated, leaving in its place a much-tried, too-long-alone human being.
Aiollda slipped from her own chair to kneel beside the elf. Taking the bloody hand in both her own, she cradled it to her heart, lay her cheek along his forearm and was inordinately glad when he did not immediately yank back that small part of his battered and scarred heart she silently stole.
oo0oo
“Must the dog always come with you?” Lamaenor inquired dryly, as the gamboling pup waved her bushy tail enthusiastically.
Much to the surprise of all the adults, and the consternation of his father, Legolas had taken to “school” like a duck to water.
The small prince eyed his companion sternly, but matched his teacher’s arid tone. “She’s a wolf, not a dog. And yes, Ada says she is to be with me whenever I am not with him, or with Rhenneth. Ai,” he commanded, for it was he who had given her the nickname, “find a place to lie down. We will be here until at least sun high.”
Most mornings were spent, now, in the library with Master Lamaenor, who was teaching Legolas how to form letters that could be made into words. This, the young prince had discovered, was much to his liking, for it meant he could leave notes for his particular favorites. He had observed that this engendered great mirth among their company for they invariably shared their missives, after which he was the recipient of much jovial affection. As this was very much to his liking these days, he had decided that learning to write was almost as much fun as learning how to properly draw his new bow, and string an arrow so it stayed on the notch.
Though not quite as fun as shooting that bow.
The bow had been a secret for longer than he could remember ever keeping a secret before, and it had been such a BIG secret, he was glad to have that over with, for it had kept wanting to burst out of him. To Rhenneth during their evening bath routine, or to Duinenel over his morning porridge, and most especially to his father, whenever they were together.
His wolf pup, he knew, was something more than just a puppy. Though that was a secret, too, but since his ada was in on that one, he had less trouble keeping it. That is, until she got them into trouble with her mischief, like now, when he knew she was waving her tail around to purposely knock down the books Lamaenor had been shelving as Legolas worked on copying letters.
Shame on you, he told her, tongue just peeking out between his lips as he worked to get the angle right on a petulant Sindarin Q. When he had complained he did not like Q’s and he did not ever use them, Master Lam had made him copy a poem he did not understand about the quality of ancient antiquities. After that, he had kept his mouth shut when he had come across a letter he saw no use for, done the required exercises and promptly forgotten them.
He had not favored spelling lessons either, when they had been foist upon him wil-you-nil-you, and so, at Aiollda’s prompting, he had made his first attempt at negotiating with his father.
Thranduil, though he had suspected the source of the wise little lecture to which he had been treated, had been so impressed with the delivery – and the shy, winning smile beamed upon him at its completion – he had caved like an amateur, allowing Legolas to set the terms of his daily detention, otherwise known as the resumption of his interrupted education.
He had not his wife’s gift for imparting lessons in and around the day to day routine of their lives, nor did he have the necessary time to devote to fostering book learning, and so, grateful that his emerging child was willing to learn, he had capitulated with silent smugness. The program Legolas had laid before him, of book learning lessons in the morning and a blending of play and outdoor lessons from sun high to sunset was far more than he would have asked the child to undertake.
He had held back one proviso as his part of the negotiations – that Legolas would willingly take time from the pleasure of his lessons whenever the business of protecting the realm allowed Thranduil to spend time with his son.
Aiollda had told the king, the night after the morning parley had been completed, that he had done well.
Legolas, oblivious to the kindly manipulations of his caretakers, had been thrilled with his successful negotiations and willingly buckled down to the program he had set for himself. But he still had trouble with that pesky Q.
Beside him on the floor, Aiollda ignored the small earned scold for knocking down the books and batted at dust motes half-heartedly. Curling in a ball, she buried her nose in her tail and set to thinking about working out a game for one of their tracking lessons.
“I am done,” Legolas sang out, not much later, sliding off the bench to take his slate to the master for the obligatory perusal.
Lamaenor emerged, dusty and disheveled, from behind a tall stack of baskets containing multiple scrolls. “Let me see then.” He took the slate, careful not smudge the painstakingly formed letters, and pointed. “And what is this letter?”
“That is O.” Legolas wriggled, pleased that he had had O’s today. They had far less lines to memorize than Q’s. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes, they are all done correctly. An excellent morning’s work. Now, to whom would you like to write a note today, Master Legolas?”
“I wrote one for Duinenel yesterday. Today I must write one for Dilly.”
“I am certain Esteledil will be thrilled to get a note from you.” As he spoke, Lamaenor gave Legolas back the slate to clean and took down the roll of pulpy parchment from the shelf above the small desk. For everyday use, the elves of Mirkwood made their own paper from young tree pulp, pulverized, then hammered flat and put into forms to dry. The thin papyrus paper used for the business of the Woodland realm was dear and had to be imported from Hadrad; not even the king’s son got to play with the good paper.
“What would you like to write to Dilly?”
Legolas thought a moment, then crawled back up onto the bench, standing next to Master Lamaenor’s shoulder so he could see to dictate. “Dear Dilly, I like the rolls you make. When may we have them again?”
“Do you wish to sign it, Master Legolas?”
“You do not need to write that, I know how to write my name all by myself now.”
“Very good then, here you go.” Lamaenor handed the neatly printed note to his charge and saw him settled again at the desk. “Does your quill need sharpening?”
“No, it is not dragging at all yet. Or making extra marks anymore.” Legolas giggled, a sound so freely offered that Lamaenor, a long time palace retainer and one who had grieved along with the other adults over this precious child, felt a giggle rising up in his own chest.
He managed to suppress it, but dog-eared the memory so he would remember to share it with the king in his weekly progress report on Legolas’ studies. Thranduil, he knew, coveted every small sign of the prince’s recovery.
The giggles this time were because Legolas had often blamed the bonus squiggles in his early copying attempts upon the faulty quill. It had not taken long, though, for the small hand to acquire a competent deftness with the unwieldy writing implement.
The amusing notes, Lamaenor knew too, resulted from Legolas’s merry dismissal of those letters he did not like, a thing the scholar was certain time would take care of without any unnecessary prompting from him. Thranduil had imparted that he wished this new experience to be undertaken with as much care to make it enjoyable and gratifying, as to foster learning.
Legolas was very young yet, to be tied to a desk in a musty old library for long hours at a time. In a few years he would join the village children in lessons, though he would continue to be tutored, in the fashion of king’s son, in the day to day processes of running a vast realm. For now, Lamaenor took great joy in watching the agile mind open to the new processes Legolas was being exposed to.
So far they had tackled only reading, writing and spelling, since the trio went so well together. Sums would come later, along with history and lore.
Reading did not fall so low on the scale as spelling and was coming along well, perhaps that much faster because many of the stories the librarian had searched out for the prince, were stories the youngster knew word for word, by heart already, having learned them at his mother’s knee. And putting the spoken words with their visual representations had been a simple task. Still, Legolas preferred to hear his stories, rather than read them; it required altogether too much time sitting quietly to finish something and, when it was a story he had not heard before, he was always impatient to know the ending.
Setting the quill back in the ink pot, Legolas lifted the note and Aiollda lifted her heard.
Are we done here now? she inquired, thinking of a pleasant yawn and stretch.
Almost, Legolas replied absently, his attention focused on waving the paper long enough to dry the ink. Illegible notes, he had quickly learned, while they caused much laughter and garnered as many hugs as did legible ones, did not get him any rolls.
“Here is your list of spelling words to study.” Lamaenor handed over another piece of parchment. It contained ten words, starting with Quest and ending with Quiet.
Legolas frowned at it and rolled his eyes. He recognized that pestilent Q again, though he did not know the words. Those he would learn tonight with Rhenneth, while he played in his bath. He already knew how to spell and write splash and soak and soap. Tomorrow, he supposed, he should write a note to Rhenneth apologizing for splashing the soap so hard it had soaked her gown.
“Good day, Master Lamaenor, we will see you tomorrow!” Legolas called over his shoulder as he and the wolf headed for the corridor at a fast walk. They were not allowed to run in the library and Legolas had a lot of run in him after sitting still for so long.
The pair broke into a trot as soon as they were through the door and into the hallway.
Running was frowned upon in the main passages as well, as one small recovering princling accompanied by his fearsome, roly poly guardian wolf pup, had caused one too many accidents in their headlong rush through those halls. Elves, by nature and nurture, were quick on their feet, but only if the corridor was wide enough to accommodate the random populace. Though it meant it took a little longer to reach their chamber deep in the fortress, it also meant a little bit more of that run would be expended, and while Legolas did not process this, Aiollda did, and was glad of the extra stretch herself, so she herded them toward the back passageway and took off as fast as her currently short, stubby legs could carry her.
Legolas was not far behind.
Rhenneth looked up from folding clean clothes at their skidding entrance, as both dog and elfling tumbled head over heels into the room, laughing like a pair of Haradrim hyenas.
“One of you is going to break your neck one of these days,” she sighed. “But at least you will have fun doing it. What is on the agenda for this afternoon, Legolas? If you are going to come back covered in filth again, you must change out of that attire.”
“Rhen,” Legolas whined, only half in jest, “you are becoming a fret. What does it matter if I get my clothes dirty? I do not want to take time to change! We are to meet Ada for an archery lesson this afternoon and we are both hungry.” Seeing the frown, fleeting as it was, cross the lovely face of his best friend, Legolas disentangled himself from the wolf pup and rose to race across the room. “I don’t get so very dirty unless we are tracking,” he said earnestly, flinging his arms around her knees, “and we are not tracking today. I promise I will try to stay clean.”
This produced a smile that even in extreme youth, Legolas recognized as saved specially for him.
“A fret? Never say I am turning into such a one, for I couldn’t bear it if I made you think of me that way,” Rhenneth declaimed theatrically, pressing the back of one hand to her brow, the other to her chest. “Please forgive me, my prince.”
“What is the matter?” Legolas asked, patting her gown-covered knees.
Rhenneth peeked at him from behind the hand covering a half-closed eye. “What do you mean, little one?”
“I am not a ‘little one’ anymore,” Legolas said, climbing up onto the bed. It was not the stretch it had used to be at the last turn of the light, nor even since Mettarë. “I know you are distressed about something.” And putting on the air of sobriety his father used with him when they were discussing something of a serious nature, he took one of the hands she lowered – in quiet astonishment – to her lap. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”
On the floor, Aiollda rolled over and stretched out on her tummy to lie silently watching. She well knew what was bothering the nursemaid and supposed, out of thoughtfulness if nothing else, she should take herself off. But she was rarely thoughtful unless it suited her purpose and besides, she was keen to see how Rhenneth had taken the news.
“It is nothing, Legolas, nothing that time won’t resolve.” The nursemaid’s gaze turned pensively to the wolf.
Prince Legolas, being a very quick young man, and one highly attuned to the emotions of those around him, caught the gist of the worry immediately. “Oh, Ada must have told you about Aiollda. But why do you worry? Aiollda is my friend, too, and because she is here now, you will be able to spend more time with Celegon,” he cajoled, “you will like that, will you not?”
Aiollda lowered her muzzle to her paws. She could read no further than a high level of discomfort, but then most humans had that reaction to a Changer. On behalf of their mutual charge, she supposed she should at least attempt an overture of friendship. Rising, she stretched and ambled over to the bed. With a wriggle of her miniscule hips, she gathered herself and sprang. Only to tumble backwards when her small form rebounded off the side of the bed instead of springing onto it.
In her head, she scowled, and readied herself for another try. She was not used to this form, but that should not impede her movement like this.
Legolas laughed and slid off the bed to scoop her up before she could make a second attempt, handing her off to Rhenneth so he could clamber back up on the bed.
“Oh alright,” Rhenneth said, laughing too as she received a tentative puppy kiss on her cheek. “The king says we must learn to abide each other if we are to share the responsibility of caring for Legolas, but you had best know, he was mine first and I am likely to be very jealous of his time, now that I know what you are.”
“She is here to guard me, Rhen, she cannot sing me a lullaby or rub my back with her furry paws.” But she could sleep in his bed, curled beside him, better even than a bed warmer. “Or help me bathe. She can’t braid my hair like a warrior, or even a scholar or a bard.”
Aiollda allowed Rhenneth to scratch behind her ears, and dropped her head into the girl’s lap. There was a power here to match her own, though it yet lay dormant. The girl was young. In the way elves measured age, still a youth; but there were hidden depths. This one would someday be a healer to rival Elrond of Rivendell. Though she sensed it would take a catalyst of some magnitude to unearth those talents, and did not like the foreshadowing doom that fell over the room.
Accordingly, she bounced up as only a puppy can, and threw herself off the edge of the bed, barking madly as she playfully bit at the toes of the small boots dangling over the side.
It is time for the noon meal, she reminded Legolas. You can talk about this tonight when you are alone with Rhenneth. She will be more comfortable without me in the room. And all this talking is making me hungry! Let’s go get something to eat! She raced for the open door, skidded on the slate floor as she rounded the corner, paws going every which way, and then even her tail disappeared from view.
Legolas rose to his knees to hug Rhenneth. “I will always remember you were my first friend again, after Nanneth. Not even Ada could hear me locked in that place where The Cold took me. Only you and Duinenel heard me. Aiollda will never take your place.”
Rhenneth sighed as she cuddled her charge for a moment longer, thankful he let her. “I am sorry, Legolas, I will try to make friends with her, but …” she let her thoughts slide away, for she did not want him to know the terror Thranduil’s recitation had woken. What she knew of the Changers, whom she had thought a myth used to frighten unruly children into better behavior, could fit inside her thimble, but the telling had frozen her gentle heart. Why would the prince require such a fearsome guardian?
Setting aside her fears, she put Legolas on his feet and gave him a gentle shove toward the door. “You are growing up so quickly, I forget sometimes that you will be having adventures far beyond the confines of the palace soon. I am glad Aiollda is here to guard you against harm. Run along now, you will need sustenance so your body can keep pace with all the new things you are learning. Have a good afternoon, my love, and I will see you this evening.”
“Someday soon you must come and watch me practice with my bow!” Legolas said, as he took off at a run for the door. His soft-shod feet skidded, too, as he rounded the door frame, but he grabbed the jamb and swung around, going with the slide until his feet were under him again.
“I will see you later!” he called, and the prince was gone as well.
Oo0oO
The archery butts was a wide, deep meadow that lay beyond the stables, shadowed on one side by the mountain into which Thranduil had carved out his fortress, and sloping down a long embankment on the other.
Today, Legolas could see, as he and the puppy frolicked through the knee-deep snow, dozens of elflings were playing on the hill, using long, thin slats of wood to slide down almost as fast as a horse could gallop. There was much gleeful shrieking and calling of taunts and threats as the more intrepid of the bunch, who had tied ropes to their conveyances and were using their body weight to maneuver the slats more effectively, lined up at the top of the hill for another race.
“Would you rather join them playing, Legolas?” his father asked, crouching in the ankle-deep snow beside his son.
For a moment, the elfing was sorely tempted. The snow would be gone soon, this was only an early cold snap. Autumn yet held sway in the woods, the deciduous trees flaunting their bright fall colors as though showing off a new wardrobe. Set in amongst tall evergreens laced with snow, the reds flamed like gleaming copper caught in firelight and the yellows appeared as bright as Anor at sun high on a midsummer day.
There was not the smell of winter yet either. The forest carried a particular scent in autumn, deep notes of spicy fir and pine, and the aroma of burning leaves and smoked meats as the kitchen staff prepared winter stores. It was an aroma Legolas had always loved.
He sniffed now, appreciatively, and turned his gaze back to his father. “No, Ada, I would rather practice archery with you.”
“You are sure?”
“There will be more snow this winter, and you will probably be tied up arguing with your nobles about the best way to dispense the food stores to our people,” the prince said philosophically, patting his father consolingly on the shoulder. “Then I will play in the snow with the others.”
“Who told you we argue about dispensing supplies?” Thranduil inquired, hitching his own bow so he could swing Legolas up on his shoulders for the last few minutes of their walk.
“I have heard you in your study roaring at them, and Nanneth always used to laugh about it. She used to say – every winter, the same old thing again and again. Everybody wants to do it their way.” Legolas leaned around his father’s head to look him in the eye. “Why do they argue, Ada, when you are the king and can do as you like?”
“A good question, Legolas,” Thranduil laughed. “I will put it to the nobles, when it comes up again this winter.”
Aiollda frisked about their feet, throwing up snow with her paws and biting at it. This was how education was supposed to happen, outdoors where one could feel the pulse of the earth beneath one’s feet and touch the horizon if you reached just right.
“Are you going to practice too, Ada? You brought your bow. May I see how it feels? Can I get your arrows for you?”
“Aye, I thought I would put in a little practice time as well. I wonder if you are as good as Aiollda thinks you are. She is only a pup after all, and probably doesn’t know much about archery.”
Legolas, who had raced to the mounded earth targets as soon as he’d been swung down from his father’s shoulders, was in the process of counting off paces as Aiollda, the girl, had taught him. “Oh no,” he called, stopping because he could not count and talk too, and his nanneth had always told him it was polite to answer immediately when spoken too. Further, these aspersions upon his new guardian, and now teacher, required correction. “Aiollda is older than you are, Ada, she told me so. She is from the very beginning of the world. She was not born like you and me, she grew out of the mind of Ilúvatar.”
This proved to be such exciting news Legolas forgot counting and rushed back to grab his father about the knees, leaning back so he could look up at his tall-as-an-oak-tree ada. “Is that not the most wonderful thing? That makes her a part of Ilúvatar, doesn’t it, Ada? Do you suppose he sent her here to us?”
The Changers were indeed of Maiar descent, those lesser beings who had served Ilúvatar and the Rodyn from the inception of the world. Many had, at one time or another, been close companions of the Ainu who had once been Melkor; the one who, alone among the Rodyn, had received of Ilúvatar, some part of the gifts that had been given to all the others.
Aiollda sat and wrapped her tail around her paws, wondering if Thranduil would appreciate it if she knocked the elfling into the snow.
No, the king responded drily, and I am sure you are well aware I do not appreciate your filling his ears with this nonsense. He made sure to buffer his young son’s mind, for Legolas was growing more adept with this peculiar gift of being able to speak mind to mind.
She let her tongue loll from her mouth in a wide doggy grin as she glanced at the king coyly. It is not nonsense, I am most assuredly older than you, and I did not tell him I had been sent by Iluvatar, he divined that on his own.
“Are you talking to her with your mind, Ada?” Legolas scowled. “Are you talking about me?”
Thranduil considered truth over circumspection - and chose distraction. “Ware your bow, Legolas, dragging it in the snow will ruin the string. Come, show me where you stand.”
But Legolas was not to be distracted. He let his father take him by the hand and moved out again, but continued on with his original theme. “Or perhaps the Rodyn sent her to us in exchange for Nanneth, since they probably think we need warriors more than nanneths.” This was said on a sigh, for the elfing still dearly missed his mother. “I like you, Aiollda,” he addressed the puppy who was frisking at his side, “but I would rather have had my nanneth back.”
Aiollda made no reply. She had none to give. Nor did Thranduil, who redirected his son, once more, to the purpose of their afternoon.
“Is this where you stand? Very good, this a fair distance for your size. Now show me your stance.”
Legolas planted his booted feet either side of an imaginary line parallel to the evenly spaced mounds of dirt that served as targets and turned his head over his shoulder. He lifted the small bow, rolled his miniature hips so they were tucked under and his back flattened, and rotated his shoulders down, presenting a straight-as-an-arrow stance for his father’s inspection.
“Very good,” Thranduil praised again, “I see you have been practicing a lot. Are you able to draw your arrows from this position?”
In demonstration, Legolas, without moving the bow, reached back over his shoulder and drew out a diminutive arrow from the equally diminutive quiver, nocking it in his bow string.
“I am very impressed with how much you’ve learned in such a short a time. You do not even need to adjust your bow again before you draw. Go ahead then. Let’s see your aim.”
The bow, small as it was, was supple and bent in accordance with the slight strength slowly drawing back the cocked elbow. In one smooth move, as the tip of the elbow met the tip of the ear, the draw ended and release sent the arrow spiraling toward the blank targets. It did not wibble wobble as most new archers arrows did, it flew straight and true, thudding into the dirt mound with a respectable thunk. Had there been a bull’s-eye, Thranduil thought, his practiced eye measuring rings, it would have pierced the third inner circle.
Apparently he was raising a fine archer.
And then his son put four more arrows in a tight cluster around the first one.
A very fine archer indeed.
“We will see that you get a real target soon as may be, my son.”
Afternoon was fading into a twilit evening when at last Legolas was convinced to the quit the field. The merrymakers had long since left the hill, though it was all but barren of snow by the time the trio passed it heading home. Even the puppy’s tail was dragging in the snow and Thranduil scooped up both his juveniles, happy to oblige the tired pair as one snuggled a cold nose into his neck and the other laid a contented head upon his shoulder.
Aiollda briefly considered changing shapes so she might walk beside father and son, and - just perhaps - hold the king’s hand again. She had some educating of her own to do, though she would do no more than nudge nature’s course along a little. In the interim, she was content to press her cold nose against the strong column of neck and memorize the scent of him. He smelled of the forest on an elemental level, as though he had been fashioned from the minerals that resided in the earth beneath their feet, and then layered all about with the scents of all living things that put roots into the earth or trod upon it, the rock that he had caused to be delved for his fortress, even the water that ran beneath the bridge to his home. In this incarnation, she could discern each of those scents individually; a bouquet of aromas sure to please a canine nose.
She laughed silently at herself, ancient spirit that she was, and encouraged the glow of her imperishable flame to warm them all.
Thranduil, his arms full, rubbed his chin first over his son’s head, then the wolf pup’s, contemplating the juxtaposition of youth and ancientness embodied in his son’s guardian. Ingrained as he was in the quintessence of magick, the sorcery of the Changers eluded the unconscious personal perception present in all his dealings within his realm. Intellect informed him it went a step beyond the elemental engagement he felt with his forest.
There was about the Changer, an aura of power much like he sensed in the old grey pilgrim who occasioned his halls. Mithrandir, too, was connected, even beyond an elemental level, to an authority only briefly glimpsed beneath the old man façade the wizard robed himself in.
Does it intimidate you, my lord, imagining being intimate with a spirit clothed in flesh?
I will not have this conversation with a puppy, nor will I have it in the vicinity of my son. Thranduil shut the doors of his mind with a peeved slam, though he could not shut out the deep, melodic feminine trill of laughter. It played along his nerve endings like a magician’s fire, bright allure promising fulfillment without fee. That, he knew, was a patently false pledge. One did not play with fire without consequence.
And he had not yet decided if he was ready to pay the price of furthering his own education. Yet he knew, in some indefinable fashion, that one day his partnership with grief would fade. The wound would likely be reopened again and again, he had little control over that, but it was inevitable that the intensity of the pain would fade with the passage of immortal time.
It would be so for Legolas, too, and in time his son’s song would fully reflect its melodic joy once again, though the deeper notes would always carry the hint of sorrow. For the Rodyn’s Mettarë gift, be it dream or reality, of Legolas’ visit with his mother - the gift that had broken the hold of the creeping Cold grafting itself onto his son’s fëa - Thranduil would make every effort to hear and nurture the intention of the Song for his son’s life. So long as it continued into immortality, for he would fight tooth and nail if it began to hint of yet more sacrifice. He and his kingdom had sacrificed oceans of blood already. He would not readily sacrifice his son.
He cut off those thoughts purposefully as he strode into the deepening twilight. Too much of his life revolved around sacrifice. In this moment, he resolved to contemplate the joy of an afternoon in company with two of his favorite companions. One with a cold wet nose; the other, with a warm, contented heart.
~*~
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The recognizable characters and settings in this story are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. The story itself, and the original characters, are the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.
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The Guardian is the backstory of how Thranduil come to acquire the shape shifter's services, though I must warn you, it's the most fluffy of the three stories in this series. I am very glad to know that the story stands alone too, it's hard for me, with what's gone before living in my head, to judge whether of not I've managed that.
Thanks so much for reviewing! And my most profound apologies for the terrible formatting. For some reason, though the italics appeared in the preview while I was working on posting this, they did not come through in the post. I promise, the previous stories at A03 are much easier to read.
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The shape-shifter has been equally fun to bring to life! I think in some future story she must really wear down Thranduil and have her way with him. :-)
Thanks for reviewing! And my apologies for the terrible formatting. This is only the second journal post I've done and the first was two years ago on DW. I've forgotten everything I (very briefly) learned. None of the italics appeared in this story for some reason. And I spent two and a half freaking hours trying to get this exactly right. Oh well - I so appreciate that you enjoyed it anyway!
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I'll make sure to find you at AO3 because I'd love to read more about Thranduil and the Changer. Color me hooked :D
Cheers,
Binka
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I was specifically reading about the Changers/shape-shifters that were under Melkor's sway, which got me to thinking surely there were shape-shifters who hadn't followed him ... it might have been on The Encylopedia of Arda, but I can't find it now. Anyway, it was a sort of extrapolation of canon, if you accept TEoA as a canon source. :-)
Thanks for taking time to read and leave a review!
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Thanks for reading and reviewing here!
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Thanks for the review, Linda, and thanks too, for friending me, especially since I'm a newbie out here and have no clue what I'm doing!
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As perverse as it may sound, I've derived a lot of pleasure from wandering around in the trauma surrounding an immortal losing a parent very early in life. And a thousands-of-years-old human being's loss of faith.
The more I play in the Tolkien universe, the more I comprehend just how right he got it when he describes the immortals of Arda as growing weary. The Numenorean's didn't know how good they had it.
Thanks for reading and reviewing!
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I'm not usually a fan of OC's in fan fiction. I write fan fiction rather than original stuff because I've fallen in love with particular characters, but it is fun to throw in an occasional home grown character. Aiollda is merely a puppy in the previous story and really began to flesh herself (itself?) out in this one.
Writing a character who could be anything or anyone, opens a lot of doors for the muse! :-)
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I'd have to go back and look again, but I think you actually reviewed the first story in this series over on MPTT. The middle story is the set-up for how Aiollda the wolf pup/femme fatale joins Thranduil's retinue and becomes Legolas' guardian. But - I must warn you - it is far more fluffy this either this one or the first one. It was written for a Teitho Magic challenge.
Thank you for leaving such lovely remarks, Winter Witch!
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He stepped back, anger draining away like pissed wine in a gutter, though he attempted to cut off the flow. “To the pits of Thangorodrim with the Rodyn and their Song! Did they sing the rise of Dol Goldur?” His voice rose again, resentment dripping from each clipped syllable, “Did they sing the darkening of my wood? The infestation of Ungollant’s children?” And then fell as the despair of the night washed over him anon. “Did they sing the violent deaths of thousands of us while they created our world, safe in their unassailable fortress in the Deeps of Time?”
That is one powerful paragraph and conveys so much about Thranduil's character throughout this story, that is, his struggles with his own inner turmoil and the tragedy he has experienced. In counterbalance, your Legolas provides the innocence and the honesty of a child.
Then there's Aiollda. She truly fascinates me, and I really like your vision here of her as a guardian of Maiarin origin. It's a very neat concept. Per your reply to ilye above, also have a look at The History of Middle-earth v. I, The Book of Lost Tales I. In that Tolkien wrote:
I thought of that passage immediately when you introduced Aiolida to me, the reader (I don't read "sprite" in the above as a diminutive creature): a powerful and feral fay. She works very well for me.
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And - of course - I always find conflicted characters fun to write.
Aiollda, now, roared to life in this story, without the slightest bit of prodding. She arrived as a full blown character straight from the prompt to write about your character's education. When I sat down to write, this story just poured out - and that's very unusual for me. I troll for plot bunnies forever before something hits my fancy - but this one almost felt like automatic writing it flowed so quickly. I was pretty tickled, especially since I don't have a lot time to play in fandom these days.
I actually have The Book of Lost Tales I, I will have to go look up that passage. Perhaps it will stimulate a few more plots bunnies for this series!
Thanks again, Pande, both for reading and sticking around to leave a review!
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Well done,
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I'm looking forward to seeing what other harbingers of fate Aiollda might stir up in Mirkwood.