Title: Avarfanawen
Author: Alisha
E-mail: alishann77@yahoo.com
Rating: PG for battle violence
Spoilers: The climax of this story takes place in the year 2941 of the Third Age, 
therefore coinciding with Bilbo's original adventure. Events from the second half of "The 
Hobbit" are included.

Copyright note: The Tolkien estate should feel free to sue me for this copyright 
infringement, but should be forewarned that you can't squeeze blood from a stone, or 
money from a poor copy editor. If J.R.R. Tolkien wishes to haunt me for what I've done 
to his story, well, I deserve it.

******************************************


A V A R F A N A W E N
by Alisha

Chapter 1: Humans Do Not Live Among Elves

     It was a good night to be indoors. Even above the crackling of the fire, the noises of 
the kitchen, and the din of the inn's common room, the wind outside shrieked. Every now 
and again it would rush down the chimney, bringing with it a few snowflakes that were 
quick enough to escape the unmerciful fire.
     But the door opened, and all fell silent. Including the wind.
     There in the doorway stood an old woman, brushing snow from her clothes. 
Purposefully, slowly, she strode to the bar, ignoring the stares of all around her, and 
asked for a mug of beer.
     The man who sat nearest her finally found his voice. "That is a fine bow you have 
there, Grandmother," he said, his eye inspecting the delicate curve of the weapon that 
was slung on her back. "Whose is it?"
     She smiled. "Mine."
     The man was startled. Old women simply did not own weapons! A thousand questions 
formed in his mind. But all he asked was: "Who are you, good lady?"
     At first, she did not answer. At last she said, "In the land where I was raised, I was 
called Avarfanawen."
     Many in the inn gasped.

******

     I know it must seem very strange to you when you ask a human what her name is, and 
she replies in Elvish. If I ever had a human name, it is long forgotten, for I do not 
remember life before the elves.
     They found me roaming Mirkwood alone when I was about three years old. I could 
not tell them how I came to be there, or where my parents were, or even who I was. The 
guards who keep the boundaries of that land, master trackers all, searched for miles 
around, but could find no trace of other humans.
     "We can tarry no longer," their captain said at last, "for we stray from our duty. One 
of us shall take her to the Halls and seek council of the king's advisers on what we are to 
do with this child."
     Though I was very young, I still remember my first glimpse of the city in the trees as 
I rode in the arms of a guard who looked younger than the others. I remember laughing at 
the way the green-tinged shafts of sunlight trickled through the luscious canopies and 
chased shadows.
     Soon, we reached King Thranduil's Halls. There we met a score or more elves, all of 
them beautiful and bright, neither young nor old. All eyes turned on me and the musical 
babble of conversations hushed. "Councilor!" the guard called, ignoring all others, "we 
have found this child within our borders with no sign of how she came to be here."
     The councilor approached, a stern-looking elf. "What is it?" he frowned. "It's not a 
… a dwarf child, is it?"
     "She is too long in leg to be dwarven. She's human. We searched, but saw no sign of 
her kind. What are we to do with her?"
     "Well," the councilor said, examining me closely, to assure himself that I wasn't a 
dwarf, "perhaps she belongs to the people of Lake-town, or maybe Rohan."
     "Perhaps she is hungry," came a quiet voice behind the councilor.
     All faced the speaker. For all their beauty, none was as captivating as this elf. What I 
noticed most were his eyes, large and somehow sad. As those eyes fell on me he did not 
smile, but his face was far warmer than those of the elves around me. He bent so that I 
did not have to crane my head so far to look up at him. "My name is Legolas. What is 
yours?"
     "We could not persuade her to speak, Your Highness," the guard said.
     "No? Perhaps she is weary, and will talk to us after she has rested." The prince held 
out a hand, and I took it. I followed him through the Halls until at last we came to a small 
bedchamber. "Here you may retire from your journey, and sleep if you like. I shall have 
some food prepared for you soon."
     Though I remember the softness of the bed and the sweet smell of the breeze that 
found its way in through the open window, I do not remember what thoughts I had before 
sleep took me.
     I awoke when Legolas himself brought a dish of fresh fruit and a small silver jug of 
milk. "Thank you," I whispered even more quietly than the elves spoke.
     "Ah, then you do speak!" he said. "Tell me then, child, who your parents are, else we 
shall not know how to find them."
     I could not remember. I shook my head.
     "Pray tell me what is your name, then?"
     Again I could do nothing but shake my head. Somehow I was aware this was 
something I should know, and I began to cry in frustration and fear.
     Legolas patted my hair with his soft fingers. "Do not despair so quickly, little one!" 
He frowned in thought. "Might you have been sent to us for a reason, I wonder? If you 
have no name, I shall give you one. Among the elves, you shall be called Avarfanawen."
     For the first time I could remember, I smiled.
     King Thranduil soon heard that his son had made a pet of a human child. "You do not 
expect to keep it, do you?" he demanded
     "While we seek her parents, I will regard Avarfanawen as my guest in this home," 
Legolas said.
     "Avarfanawen? You have given her an Elvish name?" The king was not pleased. 
     "And if parents cannot be found, what then?"
     "If parents cannot be found, she shall abide with me as long as she wishes."
     "Humans," the king said, in the same manner he would have said vermin, "do not live 
among elves."
      In the seasons that followed, I stayed close by the prince's side. All I ever learned that 
was of worth, I learned from him. He taught me to read and to write. To craft a bow, to 
string it, to fit it with fine arrows, and to fire it with deadly aim. I learned to sing songs of 
elven history.
     But I could never learn to walk silently. Grace eluded me. And senses I was not born 
with could not be developed through practice. In fact, there were some in Mirkwood who 
called me the Clumsy One.
     Elf maids had their own names for me. I was not fair like them – my skin was colored 
like parchment and my hair like bark and my eyes like night – and they called me the 
Dark One. I did not have fine elven bones, and they called me Broad Shoulders. Though 
Legolas assured me there was nothing wrong with my singing, elf maids of the court 
laughed at the loudness of my voice.
     Not a few were there in Mirkwood who refused to call me Avarfanawen, and it was 
only because I held the favor of Legolas that they did not torment me further. The king 
ignored me whenever he could.
     A score of years is merely a moment for the immortal elves, but in that moment I 
grew up. And now I was restless.



Chapter 2: To Wither in Autumn
	
     I had a little garden then, an indulgence King Thranduil granted me. For though he 
never warmed to me, he was not unkind.
     Though I did not posses many of the skills elves treasured, I was an adept gardener. I 
coaxed the tender blossoms to bloom brightly and hardily – often out of season, and this 
one skill of mine many elf maids envied.
     I tended this garden of mine with Nefrūniel, yet another golden elf maid, but one who 
had always been fond of me. If you had seen the two of us together and not known one 
was human and one was elven, you would have supposed you were seeing two girls of 
about the same age. Yet she had appeared thus as long as I had known her, and I knew 
she had lived a hundred times as long as I.
     "Nefrūniel," I began as we trimmed away old leaves and branches from my greenery, 
"I have grown up so quickly, and you elves change not at all. How long shall I live?"
      She frowned. "As long as you are meant to live."
     "And how long is a human meant to live? Five hundred years? One thousand?"
     Nefrūniel would not meet my eyes. "Like the flowers, some of the beings of Middle 
Earth are perennials, and some are annuals. Elves endure through many a Winter, while it 
is the fate of humans to wither in Autumn. Naught can change this, for it is the Design of 
the Garden."
     "How long?"
     "One hundred years for a human would be a remarkable age," she admitted very 
quietly.
     For a moment, I stood silent in shock, shaking my head. "Alas! What a dreadful short 
life! I shall not live a hundredth as long as you, or my lord Legolas!"
     "Our lord Legolas could be called to battle tomorrow and felled under an enemy's 
sword, though let a such wicked thing never happen. As he himself oft repeats, few can 
foresee whither their road will lead them, 'til they come to its end."
      "Avarfanawen!" the prince himself called, "I have been looking for you!"
     "I must leave you now," Nefrūniel whispered as she slipped away, quickly, but still 
with the appearance that she was floating but a little way above the ground. She curtsied 
briefly to Legolas as she left the garden.
     The prince bowed to Nefrūniel, then turned to me.
     I spoke before he could. "I've been thinking, my lord," I said slowly. "What are we, 
you and I?"
     "I do not understand."
     "Only twenty years have I lived in Mirkwood, and yet look at me, all grown. When I 
was small, did you think of me as your daughter? Am I now your sister? In another 
twenty years, shall I then be your mother?"
     Legolas was unfazed by my questions. "You are none of those, child, for we are of 
different kindred. You are my own little Avarfanawen."
     I drew myself up to my full height. I was barely shorter than he, who was tall among 
elves. "I am neither little nor child. And Nefrūniel has just told me something most 
upsetting. She has revealed to me that I shall likely not live even to see one hundred 
years!"
     He looked surprised, as though he had not intended me to know this. "A honeybee 
lives for but one season, and yet see all that she accomplishes," he said at last, 
maintaining an even voice.
     "Why have you never told me I shall die so soon? Already one-fifth or more of my 
life is spent!"
     Before Legolas could answer, the guard captain hurried into the garden. "My lord," 
he panted, "we have found those who would have attacked us! We have captured thirteen 
dwarves."
     "Dwarves? In Mirkwood?" Legolas hastened to follow the captain back to the Halls. 
As he left, though, he glanced over his shoulder at me, a strange look in his eyes. Regret 
at having kept the truth from me, perhaps, or pity. 



Chapter 3: The Shadow

     Our land had once been called Greenwood the Great, I knew from old songs. But 
nearly two thousand years before my time, the shadow fell over it, and it was then that 
folk began to call it Mirkwood. Still, the elves were determined to dwell there, for it had 
been their home long ages, and it was my fate to dwell wherever my lord Legolas did.
     In the South of Mirkwood was a place called Dol Guldur. It was a foul place, the one 
place the elves never set foot. My prince long ago had thwarted my curiosity, forbidding 
me from riding near enough to see it. From time to time, shadows would stir at Dol 
Guldur, and wiser folk than I would whisper a foul name: "Sauron!" I did not know who 
Sauron might be, but the thought of him was the only thing I knew that stirred fear in the 
eyes of the deathless elves. 
     There had been such a stirring that year, and the inexplicable arrival of the thirteen 
dwarves caused even more alarm. Were they, perhaps, a bad omen? I had not seen them 
myself, for never did I venture into those parts of the Halls where prisoners were kept, 
but I was told they had drawn King Thranduil's wrath by refusing to tell him the purpose 
of their trespass.
     Though the king was terrible to anger, it was never his purpose to be cruel; and had 
not the shadows of Dol Guldur fretted him so, I do not think he would have been so harsh 
on those dwarves.
     But now even I, with my inferior human senses, could feel that something was 
happening. In fact, I knew there was something stirring within the Halls themselves. The 
king laughed when I told him I'd felt something unseen pass by me more than once. 
Laughed because it was impossible that a human might notice something that escaped the 
elves. I told Legolas about this presence, and he warned me to stay close by.
     This gladdened me some. It seemed he had forgiven my outburst in the garden, 
though it was plain he did not wish to speak of it again, of how my mortality would creep 
up on me very soon, of how I had questioned what we were, he and I. I did not wish to 
speak of it again, either, for I knew far greater worries were at hand.
     They escaped. No one knew how, and it drove the elves to greater distress. For if 
thirteen loud, clumsy dwarves could slip out of Thranduil's Halls undetected, who knew 
what might slip in?
     "Come now, child," the king said, "tell us what it was you saw?" He had at last 
decided my words might bear heeding.
     "I saw nothing, my king, that was what alarmed me. I felt only a motion, a 
disturbance in the air as if someone were walking by me. Someone ... rather small."
     The king frowned.
     "Your majesty!" came a messenger, breathless. "The dwarves have been discovered. 
They are in Lake-town, and at last their errand is known: They seek to slay the dragon of 
Lonely Mountain, the old home of their ancestors."
     King Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" he said slowly, his questions to me 
forgotten. "They no doubt will perish in this endeavor, but we shall keep watch, at any 
rate."
     I heard through the whispers of the court that the thirteen dwarves stayed a week or 
more at Lake-town, then continued toward Lonely Mountain. I was sure that would be the 
end of it, but Legolas was not so certain.
     "There is more to this tale than we know, my dear," he said. "The beginning we have 
not heard, which makes guessing its end all the more impossible." His sad eyes turned to 
gaze into the endless sky. "If Mithrandir were here, he might tell us what these omens 
foreshadow."
     "Mithrandir?" I asked. I had never heard this name.
     "He is the Grey Wanderer, and he knows much that is otherwise hidden." He shook 
his head. "I suppose those dwarves will stir up more than they ever expected, and I would 
not be surprised if it all led back to Dol Guldur."
     I shivered.



Chapter 4: A Small Light

     All was quiet for a time. The shadows still made everyone uneasy, but nothing more 
of interest was learned about the dwarves.
     I had spent the afternoon working in my garden, wondering where Nefrūniel was. 
Never before had she failed to keep a meeting with me.
     I was on my way back to the Halls, walking over the cobbled paths that ran through 
high hedges, when I heard hushed voices arguing. I stood silent, and through the hedge 
could tell it was my two dearest friends who were disagreeing.
     "What good was there in telling her the shortness of her life?"
     "With respect, Highness," came Nefrūniel's whisper, "Avarfanawen is not your pet. 
She is a person, and she has a right to know what time will do to her. Humans may not be 
like us, my prince, but neither are they dumb animals."
     "No, of course she is not my pet." I had never heard his soft voice turn so sharp.
     "She is disturbed, for she does not know how to relate to you."
     Through the leaves, I saw him shake his head and sigh.
     "There are reasons why we have always lived apart from them, my lord, and this 
shows why. It is not only for her I worry. You are still quite young. I do not think you 
understand how it will be in three thousand years when she has long since died and you 
still cannot forget her."
     "You're beginning to sound like my father. Do you also think I should not have kept 
her? What else could I have done? Should I have given her to the folk of Lake-town, as 
my father wished, though they never could have understood her?"
     "Assuming we are right in our suspicions – minding that we are very likely wrong – 
Elrond perhaps could have better prepared her for what she is," Nefrūniel said slowly. 
     "Your pardon, my lord, I do not mean to imply that you have not raised her well. I know 
you love her; I love her, too, and would not now happily give up her bold company. But 
… we cannot pretend to understand her."
     My "bold" company. That was Nefrūniel's kind way of noting that I was both brash 
and loud.
     Though I was upset at hearing my friends quarrel, I was more troubled by their 
cryptic words. What was I, then, that neither human nor elf should understand me?
     Elrond, I knew, was the lord of the Rivendell elves. I had met him once. He was very 
old, even among elves, and though the weight of years showed in his dark eyes, he was 
nearly as well-favored as Legolas. His long hair was like night, though no elf maids 
would dare ever laugh at him as they did at me. I remembered mostly, however, that he 
was the only visitor to Mirkwood I had ever met who did not seem unsettled at the 
presence of a human. His stern countenance disguised a kind demeanor. Furthermore, I 
had heard that Elrond was not fully elven.
     "Do you remember exactly what Mithrandir said?" Nefrūniel asked.
     Legolas looked off into the sky and nodded. "'When darkness next falls over 
Mirkwood, you will find a small light that the darkness has dropped,'" he recited. "'It 
will be up to you, Legolas, to keep that light safe.' He said that to me in the morning. By 
afternoon, he had left. The shadow returned within a week, and the next day was when 
we found Avarfanawen."
     Nefrūniel sighed. "Why must the Grey Wanderer speak in such riddles that even we 
cannot decipher? We assume Avarfanawen is the small light of which he spoke. But how 
is she a light? What is her purpose for being here? And why did he charge you with her 
safety?"
      He shook his head. "It grows late. They will be wanting us at dinner."
      I crouched, still as I could, and waited until they were far down the path until I dared 
breathe. Then I followed, or I, too, would be missed at dinner. But their words troubled 
me much.



Chapter 5: My Prince, My Love, What Have I Done?

     I was again in my garden, with Nefrūniel, who as far as I knew did not suspect I had 
overheard her conversation with Legolas. As I tended the autumn whispers, trumpet-
shaped flowers with opalescent petals of the palest blue, there came suddenly a fluttering 
overhead. Every bird in Mirkwood, it seemed, was stirring, whistling frantically.
     "What do they say?" I asked, for I could never understand them.
     "The dragon of the mountain – Smaug – is dead."
     "Dead?"
     "He attacked the folk of Long Lake – and it seems one of the men found a lucky shot 
indeed with his bow."
     Guessing we might learn more in the Halls, we hurried inside.
     "Ah, I was just about to come looking for you," Legolas told me once we'd reached 
the excited crowd in the great chamber. "Have you heard the news?"
     We nodded.
     "My father wishes me to accompany him to see what has happened."
     "I will come with you!"
     Before the prince could argue, I hastened to my bedchamber, where I hurriedly tossed 
aside my gown – made after the fashion the elf-maids admired, and utterly unflattering on 
me – and quickly dressed in my riding gear, leggings, stronger boots and a sturdy green 
tunic over a more comfortable shirt.
     By the time I went outside, Legolas had already brought my horse around, along with 
his own.
     The king led a number of spear-men and bow-men along with Legolas and I as we 
hurried our steeds toward the Lonely Mountain, and were met partway there by the 
humans. They told us of their victory, achieved by their hero Bard, heir of Girion of Dale. 
They told us also of the price they paid for the wrath of Smaug. We turned our course 
toward Lake-town, where we found the devastation of Lake-town, and the many injured, 
and homeless, and hungry. Some days we spent there, aiding our neighbors, for winter 
was coming.
     I walked alone down to the river, and there I saw the massive body of the dragon. 
Even dead, Smaug was fearsome, and none dared touch the water near the beast, nor the 
water that flowed downstream from him, not even to claim the glittering diamonds that 
formed a shield over his belly. I saw the one vulnerable spot that had been left unguarded, 
the spot where the arrow of the man called Bard had found the tough dragon-flesh 
yielding. I was impressed – this man must be at least as good an archer as I.
     "This lizard will never trouble anyone again," came a strange voice behind me.
I turned. Standing there was a tall old man dressed in a long grey robe and a curious, 
tired old blue hat. He had a long beard and tremendous eyebrows and eyes that twinkled 
quite merrily as he smiled at me.
     "Mithrandir?" I asked, though I knew it could be no other.
     "So you've heard of me, then?" he asked. "Usually among your kind I am called 
Gandalf."
     "I was raised by Legolas, prince of Mirkwood. Humans … do not feel like my kind."
     He nodded. "Avarfanawen. I know all about it."
     I wanted to ask him about his "small light" riddle, but I could think of no way to form 
my question that would not betray the fact I had eavesdropped on Legolas and Nefrūniel.
     "I've come to tell you …" he began. I stood attentive. Was he going to reveal the 
secret? Perhaps tell me who I really was? "… that the elves are about to move on to 
Lonely Mountain. Come quickly, now, if you do not wish to be left behind."
     My heart sank. But I followed.
     As we rode, I pulled out my little flute that Nefrūniel had given me and began to play 
a tune I had invented, a sad but determined song.
     "Might you someday write words for that tune?" Legolas asked. "It would be lovely 
to hear sung."
     I had written words to it, but I would never sing them before anyone but Nefrūniel, 
who knew all my secrets.

I would follow you ever
If only my own feet did not grow so weary.
But I'll abandon you never;
I won't stray from your path until I am buried.
My eyes may turn weak,
My fingers may slow,
But one thing will blossom,
Continue to grow.
My heart will never be old.

My prince, my love
What have you done?
A human's life is not enough,
Not enough time.
My prince, my love
What have I done?
An elven life is not enough,
Not enough time to spend with you.

     It was true; I had fallen in love with my prince. It was no mere affection for the elf 
who had raised me, for I was no longer a child, and he was not like a father, or even a 
brother, in any sense. It would do no good for either of us, however, if I were to speak of 
it to any but Nefrūniel, who was like my sister.
     At any rate, there was no time to dwell on such troublesome thoughts now. We had 
reached Lonely Mountain, and found it had been fortified by the dwarves. Indeed, the 
only remaining opening had been nearly sealed with stones.
     Bard, hero of the humans, attempted to speak with the dwarves. He informed them 
that it was he who had slain Smaug, and that mingled within the dwarves treasure was the 
wealth of Dale. His words were not well-received. The leader of the dwarves, Thorin, 
particularly demanded that we of Mirkwood retreat.
     Though I did, silently, question King Thranduil's claim to a share of the treasure of 
the dwarves, I thought they might be a bit more kindly to Bard, for his words were true; 
moreover, his people had sheltered them, and been repaid for their kindness with the 
wrath of the dragon. Yet days passed, and still Thorin refused to parley.
     Then something very strange happened. I was sitting with my prince at the campfire 
after darkness fell, not far from where the king and Bard sat. Up to the camp came some 
of our lookouts, and with them was an odd little man with bare but hairy feet. He was not 
a dwarf, but he had been traveling with them. This, I soon learned, was a hobbit, and he 
introduced himself as Bilbo Baggins. I heard him declare many secrets, the truth of which 
we had no way of knowing.
     Then he presented a glittering globe, a stone with scores of facets. It was called the 
Arkenstone, Mr. Baggins said, and was much desired by Thorin Oakenshield. With it, he 
suggested, we might convince the stubborn dwarf to talk.
     Thorin was only angered further when he learned that we possessed the Arkenstone. 
He grew furious and terrible when he learned that Gandalf, as he called the wizard, 
seemed to be siding with the elves and humans. He expelled Mr. Baggins from his 
company, and said that later he would release the hobbit's share of the treasure, and from 
that anyone else who felt entitled to a portion might partake.
     Reinforcements for the dwarves arrived – five hundred, at least. Bard wished to speak 
with them, but they were not much interested in talk. It nearly came to war; in fact, the 
first arrows had been fired when Mithrandir returned from wherever he had wandered, 
calling out that there was trouble that surpassed this quarrel.
     Darkness gathered on the horizon. I heard it – first the squeal of bats, then the howls 
of wolves and growls of wargs, and finally the shrill shrieks of goblins. Adversaries 
quickly became allies as we prepared to face this new foe.
     We of Mirkwood were first to charge. Riding alongside Legolas, I fired arrow after 
arrow ahead of our spear-men. When at last I had no more to shoot, I drew my sword – 
elven made, but larger than most of their weapons, as I was sturdy enough to wield it – 
and rushed into the fray.
     It was an ugly business. Black goblin blood spattered with red on the yellow autumn 
grass. I hacked away at nightmarish creatures that attacked both me and my horse. 
Goblins descended on all sides, their crude but functional weapons slashing everywhere I 
turned, their mounts snapping at my horse. Spinning my steed as a swung my sword, I 
could take two or more at once, lopping off their heads and gouging their bellies.
     Legolas soon joined me. "How fare you?" he asked calmly.
     "Seven, my lord!"
     "Ah! Fourteen!"
     I could not let him best me so easily. I galloped through the mayhem, parrying swords 
and daggers and maces, ducking arrows, stabbing goblins, smiting wolves. I made my 
way back to the prince.
     "Twenty-nine, my lord!"
     "Excellent!"
     "How many?"
     He did not answer right away, as he was drawing his bow. Thwack! "Forty," he 
grinned. He looked down at the bow. "Oh! The string has broken."
     I swung down from my horse and took the bow from my prince. Fishing in my 
pocket, I found an extra sinew. In an instant, the weapon was again ready. No one in 
Mirkwood – not even Legolas – could string a bow faster than I.
     But off my horse, I became more vulnerable, and was quickly targeted by a warg.
     Now a warg is a horrible beast, both to behold and to hear. When you first see them, 
they seem simply to be large wolves. But once you look into their eyes, and see the cruel 
cunning within them, you know how it feels for your heart to turn ice-cold with fear. 
Their growls are language, and soon you come to understand it, and you hear them speak 
of tearing your soft body into shreds.
     It was such a creature that leapt upon me, and would have quickly slaughtered me had 
my prince not leapt from his own horse and sliced deep into its ribs. It fell to the side, 
shuddering. I sat up, feeling my own warm blood seeping from my shoulder, where it had 
begun to bite me, and my arms, where its claws had torn through my tunic.
     Legolas took me and held me close, my cheek pressed against his chest as he planted 
kisses atop my head. "Avarfanawen! You are safe!" he managed to say.
Suddenly, I saw the head of an arrow appear not two inches away from my eyes. I 
stepped away to see my prince had been shot through the back. The arrow had come 
within a whisper of piercing his heart. His eyes were wide with fear, and he seemed 
unable to catch a breath.
     I lifted him – he was quite light – and hurried to safety. My journey was blurred with 
fright and tears. Upon reaching shelter, I found he had removed the arrow himself. I 
placed him gingerly upon the grass and looked in every direction for someone who might 
help as my prince lay gasping. All were occupied with fighting. I placed my hands over 
the wound in his chest to slow the bleeding (in my distress I must have forgotten the 
wound on the other side) and screamed for aid.
Legolas' gasps slowed, then stopped. His bright eyes stared blankly into the sky, and 
he moved but little – I could just detect the slight rise and fall of his chest, still under my 
hands.
     At last other elves came, running. "He has been shot through!" I cried.
     They pulled me off my prince and examined him. "Shot through?" one asked, sternly. 
"The arrow went but a little way into his back." The elf scowled at me. "What do you 
mean by making us think Legolas was dying? Take him away for treatment, but do not 
panic so." They returned to the battle.
     I crawled back over to him. They had not noticed the hole the arrow made in Legolas' 
tunic when they loosed his clothing, but it was indeed still there. The hole in Legolas' 
chest, however, was not.
     I shook my head and looked at my hands. My palms were still red, except for in the 
centers, which had been directly over the wound, where they were perfectly clean.
Legolas breathed steadier now. He reached out and took one of my stained hands. 
     "Do not tell anyone what you have done," he whispered. "It is not a gift of humans, nor 
indeed of elves."
     But someone had seen what I had done.


Chapter 6: A Season to an Elf

     The battle was won, and a treaty drawn up for elves and dwarves and humans. Bilbo 
Baggins was eager to return to his home, a place called The Shire, in the West. 
Mithrandir was going with him. But before they left, the wizard found time to speak with 
Legolas and me privately.
     "I know you were hoping I might cast light on the mystery of your childhood," he 
told me, "but I knew only that you were coming; from whom and from where and how 
are mysteries to me as well." He took a long puff on his pipe. "The truth is, even I do not 
know what is within you. You are indeed human, through and through. This power you 
possess, however you came by it, is desired by the Dark Lord, and we knew," he glanced 
at the prince, "that the best way to hide this power was to make sure you were not aware 
of it yourself. But somehow you have awakened it, and now you will be easy to track."
     Legolas placed an arm around my shoulders, protectively. "What is to become of 
her?" he asked, clearly worried.
     "We of the White Council have driven the Necromancer from Dol Guldur, and so she 
is not in the immediate danger she would have otherwise been in. Still, Dol Guldur 
remains an evil place; probably it will always be so. And the Dark Lord is not defeated. 
He has fled to the South. Now we must be ever vigilant."
We followed Mithrandir as he went to collect Mr. Baggins. As we bid him farewell, 
he told us he would send word to us from Rivendell if he had discovered any more 
answers.
     Through the winter I kept silent about what had happened, speaking of it not even to 
Nefrūniel, and certainly not to Legolas, who became wary and tense all the time. Worst 
of all, more than he feared for my safety, he seemed to fear me.
     In spring came riders from Rivendell. One handed a letter to Legolas, and bowed. The 
prince read the letter over at least thrice, shaking his head. He hurried from the Halls, 
leaving everyone puzzled.
     "What is going on?" I asked the riders.
     "We do not know. We were told only to deliver the letter and await Prince Legolas' 
orders."
     I followed Legolas into the woods. I knew where I would find him.
     He was slumped against Our Tree, the vast hollow trunk of what had once been the 
greatest beech in the wood, not far from the edge of the city. I was quite alarmed to find 
him doing something I had never seen an elf do before – he was weeping. There he sat, 
knees drawn up, tears spilling from his large eyes, his lips quivering.
     I sat close beside him. "What is the news from Rivendell?" I asked, trying to remain 
calm.
     "A letter from Mithrandir," he said, still clutching the paper tight in his hands. "He 
says the Dark Lord can now sense your presence, and will soon send his agents from Dol 
Guldur to fetch you. He says you are not safe in Mirkwood, and Mirkwood is not safe 
with you in it."
     "Then … I must leave? I have never, within my memory, been further from 
Mirkwood than the Lonely Mountain. Where will I go?"
     Legolas had calmed, though fresh tears continued to spill from between his long 
lashes. "In Rivendell, the elven spells are stronger. Elrond has agreed to take you in. But 
Mithrandir forbids me from coming with you."
     "Why?"
     "He does not say. But he always has a reason."
     The next morning, I was dressed again in my riding gear. My books and some other 
belongings, along with my bow, were packed up and already slung over the back of my 
horse – the only friend who would be accompanying me on this journey.
     Few were there to see me off – my two dearest friends, of course, and, somewhat to 
my surprise, the king. Thranduil looked uncomfortable. "Safe journey to you, child. I am 
sure you will find Elrond's home agreeable," was all he said.
     Nefrūniel did not weep, but she seemed unable to lift her eyes from the ground. "I 
shall watch over your garden for you," she promised. Still not lifting her head, she 
embraced me long and tightly.
     When she at last released me, Legolas stepped close enough to whisper. "How can I 
let you go, my Avarfanawen?" he asked, raising his slender fingers to touch the place 
where the arrow had pierced his chest, where my hands had healed him. "You are inside 
me. I feel as though a part of my soul were being ripped away."
     Unlike the elves, I could not control my crying. "You are all that I have ever had. I do 
not know what I shall do without you."
     He held me gently in his comfortable arms, his clothes smelling of the forest. The 
forest … which I was never to look upon again. That thought brought forth more tears, 
and I sobbed into his shoulder until I shook. "Do not let them take me from here, my only 
home!" I begged.
     He kissed my hair, and I felt a tear that had at last escaped his eye fall upon me. "I 
have no choice." His arms loosened, and he leaned back to look me in the face. "Elrond 
will take good care of you. I will never forget you, my sweet Avarfanawen."
     Every grain of willpower I had it took to make me mount that horse and follow the 
messengers of Rivendell. As we neared the place where the trees became thick, I turned 
back. Legolas was watching, and waved. He tried to smile. I nodded to my prince, and 
returned to the ride.
     The world outside Mirkwood was bright and vast. I had never imagined land 
spreading out in all directions, unobstructed so that one could gaze for miles into the 
horizon. It made me feel very small.
     The journey to Rivendell was uneventful. But when we reached that fair elven city, I 
gasped at its delicate beauty. Thranduil's Halls did not begin to match its elegance!
     Elrond was waiting to receive me. "Welcome, Avarfanawen! I trust your ride has 
been safe? I do hope you will be comfortable in my home." He smiled.
     I forced myself to smile back, despite the sickness in my heart. Lord Elrond was, after 
all, immeasurably kind to take me in, danger though I was.
     There the elves did all they could to make my life pleasant, but good to me as Elrond 
and his sons were, none of them were Legolas. My prince had told me he felt his soul was 
ripped – I felt as though my soul had died.
     I was not the only human living in Rivendell. There was a woman, not a great deal 
older than me, named Gilraen, and she and I became good friends. She had a son who 
was about 11 years old, whom they called Estel, but I learned by listening that he was in 
fact Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor. They too dwelled in the house of Elrond to 
shelter from the Dark Lord.
     Seasons passed into years, seven or ten or twelve, and though I was surrounded by 
beauty and kind faces, I was never happy. My heart longed for Mirkwood – and for my 
prince. The boy Estel – now a grown man, was at last told of his true ancestry, and his 
true name, Aragorn. He left Rivendell. I had no such luck, either to be told the truth or 
my past or be free to go where I wished.
     I could not sleep. I took to wandering the gardens at night. The plants I cultivated 
there never matched the vigor of those I once grew in Mirkwood.
     One evening, as I took this walk, I heard someone approaching. That someone called 
my name, softly, in a long-familiar voice.
     "My prince!" I cried.
     "Hush," he whispered hastily. "I am not supposed to be here. Come here where I may 
see you better."
     I stepped into the moonlight, where he seized my arms and clasped me to him before 
taking a good look at me. Though he did his best not to show it, I knew he was surprised 
at my appearance. I had changed over the years.
     But what he said was: "You are as beautiful as ever."
     "You are the same as the day I left … the same as the day you took me in. There are 
lines under my eyes and grey strands in my hair, and I know you see them."
     "Beauty is not in youth alone," he said.
     "That is easy to say when you live forever and never change."
     "The only thing that never changes about me is my heart," he countered.
     I smiled. "Where is my mind? I am so happy to see you."
     He kissed my forehead and withdrew. He removed something his belt. It was an 
autumn whisper, like the ones I had grown in my garden in Mirkwood.
     "This is the last flower you ever cut before you left. It has not dried or faded in all this 
time. I keep it with me always, for I know there are things about you that never change."
     "My heart," I said, laughing, so delirious was I with joy.
     "I cannot bear to be away from you. Things have grown … complicated … at home, 
else I would have come to visit you sooner."
     "You are here now. That is all that matters."
     He kissed me upon the lips. I had received ten thousand kisses from him in my life, 
but none like this. An energy passed between us, like lightning. I leaned into him, 
needing his affection like I needed air, and he was generous in sharing it. I grew warm, as 
though from too much wine, and my heart pounded until I was sure it would burst.
     At last he pulled away with a gasp. Looking away off into the star-sprinkled sky, he 
said, "I have overstepped my bounds."
     I frowned. "If you had taken a liberty I did not approve, my lord, I would have let you 
know."
     He shook his head. "You do not understand. Mithrandir had good reason when he 
wrote that I should not see you again. You are in me." He clapped his palm over the old 
wound.
     "You are here. You have already defied his counsel."
     "Yes," he said, looking into my eyes. I had been wrong – something had changed 
about my prince. There was something wild in his eyes. Something brash and loud. 
Something … that was me. But as quickly as I noticed it, it was gone.
     "It destroys me to leave you," Legolas said, his eyes once again his own. "But I 
cannot stay." He kissed me once more, gently, briefly. "We cannot be together, and it is 
nobody's fault. Understand that. And I love you. Always know that."
     "I love you, my prince."
     He was gone.
     It was then I knew that I could no longer live among the elves. In fact, I was not sure I 
could live among any people. Before dawn, I had gathered my belongings and left 
Rivendell. I had written a letter to Lord Elrond, thanking him for his years of hospitality, 
but could not bear goodbyes again.
     In the years that followed, I rode through much of this land, and saw many sights, and 
had many adventures. By my bow and my sword I made my living well enough.
     But look at me now – tired, grey. He, I am sure, remains unchanged from the day he 
took me in. For the lifetime of a human is but a season to an elf. I understand now, King 
Thranduil meant to be kind when he told his son that humans do not live among elves.
     I cannot be angry with my prince for taking pity on a child, and I cannot hate myself 
for being what I am. I am too old to nurse such bitterness, though one regret I bear still: I 
wish I might see him – just once more – that I might thank him. But alas! I do not think I 
shall make it to back Mirkwood again.

*****
     The old woman, Avarfanawen, left the common room of the inn and with heavy steps 
climbed the stairs to her rented room, where she dreamt of old songs, and willowy bows, 
and summer days spent under trees, running through the dappled sunlight with her 
prince. At the dawn, she did not wake.
     Miles away, Legolas sat, knees drawn to his chest, at the edge of a camp, silently 
watching the gray sky turn to pink as the sun rose. He was guarding the sleep of several 
friends, four of whom were small and innocent and vulnerable, like the human child he 
had once welcomed to Mirkwood. It did not seem like that long ago, for though he was 
centuries old, he was not a great deal more than a child himself, among his people. But 
there was a message for him in the chilly wind this morning, unhappy tidings in the dew. 
The old wound began to throb as it never had before. His ever-sad eyes grew more 
forlorn as he became aware in his heart that despite his hopes, he would never see that 
child again. Soundlessly he wept for the mortality of humankind – or perhaps, for the 
immortality of the elves.

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Author: Alisha
E-mail: alishann77@yahoo.com