TITLE: Tindomerel's Bane 
AUTHOR: Elfwine 
RATING: R 
FEEDBACK: Love it. Send to ElCeeJay16@aol.com 
* * * 
Chapter 6 
* * * 
Legolas remembered few of the lines, but he hummed the song 
anyway. His pitch was off-key, faltering over notes he was 
unsure of, but the wistful poetry of the ancient lay was 
bound tightly to the long-passed time of his youth, and for 
that he held it close to his heart. He tried not to think 
of its original singer. 
Behind him, keeping pace with their soft footsteps, he 
heard his brother's voice, weaving words into the melody, 
his own lilting accent stirring memories with every verse, 
conjuring images of a lost time with every inflexion of the 
lament. 
"Say on, my love, in darkness I will understand the night, 
Yonder where our fates shall unbind.  
"Say not thou to me, as ye once did, For thou art a maiden, 
bold and good, whom mine love will follow far, Long from 
this forsaken land. 
"Sweet adaneth, dear lady brave, Wilt thou linger here in 
bitterness, in Ennor, our sundering doom, No bridge will 
make whole the gulf between us.  
"Say on, beloved..." 
He may have sung more, but Legolas tried not to listen. 
Restlessly, he spun the bowstring tight around a finger and 
concentrated on the path ahead of him. Thalion's voice 
melted into the crisp dawn air, filling his ears with 
memory, becoming as the fabric of the wind and the scent of 
the trees. He could not escape from it. 
"Where did you learn that song?" he asked at length. 
"From the same source as you," Thalion replied, a little 
stiffly. "It was said the lovers were star-crossed, Andreth 
the Wise, a mortal maid, who loved Aegnor, an Elf. Such is 
the doom of the Atani that songs and lays are made in 
rememberance." 
"And then forgotten." Legolas checked his pace until 
Thalion walked at his side. "I do not recall...how does it 
end?" 
"She died. As do all tales of such things end." 
"Then their love was in vain, if it brought naught but 
despair?" 
"You may say all love in vain, for it is little conceived 
in perfection." 
Legolas was glad that they carried no torches, for the 
flickering light would surely have betrayed his frown. As 
it was, he felt hidden from his brother's gaze, cloaked 
safely by the waning darkness. Thalion took his silence as 
a signal that their conversation was at an end, and he 
strode on ahead, shoulders tense. 
How closely love was bound to hate, even between siblings. 
Legolas had never been in love, for time nor circumstance 
had nay yet allowed it. It was not by unhappy chance that 
this fate befell him. One's heartfelt desire may be 
another's burden; he loved the earth. Freedom, whispered 
the earth, and thus he loved it; he loved the sweeping 
mantle of the trees, upon which hands would press and feel 
the silent life within, hear the murmuring of the ages 
spoken by voices long lost, long sunk into myth. He loved 
the smell of the grass sweetened by the river, running 
under the stars of glade and arbour amid the beech-woods, 
weaving through land and tree to the peace of the Lake 
Esgaroth, where schools of tiny, white fish swept in clouds 
of silver like a reflection of a clear night's sky. There 
was more to Arda than a lifetime's glimpse would allow, and 
the heart of Legolas begot no other desire than that which 
moved all souls of youth -- to venture and explore. This 
came not from journeys out alone; he was forbidden to do 
so. He had seen little in his time, though he was counted 
young amongst his people.  
This choice was his, for love bloomed not from the tangled 
web of passion. 
Amrahil and Lanthir were unwed, though Thalion had a wife 
of a millenia. It was not a practised custom amongst the 
Eldar to enforce such a union, but a thousand mortal years 
ago the eldest living son of the House of Thranduil would 
not have chosen the hand in marriage of the lady that was 
given to him. Linaewen was a princess of the Noldor, born 
of the same kin as their own mother, and although fair as 
the cold, clear depths of adamant, many said her likeness 
was carven in stone. None could fault her grace; she was 
said to be impossible to refuse, never so lovely a maiden 
that walked this side of the Hithaeglir. But the voices of 
rumour spoke of unrest within the confines of this heavenly 
match, and Legolas could see the torment in his brother's 
eyes.  
Now, he found himself humming again as he walked, and this 
time the lay continued, beyond his knowledge of the words, 
running hauntingly to a new and distantly familiar theme. 
In his mind he heard another voice, merging with his into a 
duel rhythm, leading on where he forgot, adding new words 
where lines ran out. Onwards the song wove, and for a 
moment he was a child again, and above him stood a figure 
wreathed in sunlight. Motes of colour smouldered in her 
hair. 
"And if at Mandos door do stand, wilt thou sing to me 
again, And if in troubled life do weep, wilt thou stay with 
me..." 
* * * 
At the bridge, two pear trees grew. One rose bravely, 
standing straight and proud, shapely as the blade of a 
young warrior, and in the summer its fruits were cast down 
in abundance. The other stood, bittersweet, its leaves the 
muted silver of rainwashed grass, and it gave forth neither 
blossom nor bounty. The tree was stricken, plagued by that 
unfathomable pestilence that Men called disease; still fair 
to behold, but soon to fall and die, though none could 
guess its malady. Both grew in memory, heralding the loss 
of two princes of the Sindar; the first, Oropher, the king 
in whose image many of his heirs walked, shot down upon the 
battlefield of Dagorlad at the turn of an Age; the latter, 
Silpion, of whom people still spoke in whispers but none 
dared to mention by name -- Silpion, the Firstborn, the 
fallen prince.
The trees were planted as seedlings, sweet as the youth of 
the hand that laid them. Many a life had bloomed and passed 
during their growth, but now they stood in full maturity, 
one thriving, one withering. Of old, the trees had 
corresponded to a few precious instances of mercy, and in 
that they were akin to enchantment, sacred as the legendary 
Girdle of Melian that had once guarded the land. As Legolas 
walked beneath them he turned his face upwards, squinting 
at the narrow rays of sunlight that filtered through the 
leaves.  
Up ahead, a voice became audible, crying further off, 
growing nearer as the words became distinct. 
"Your Highness!" A pause, and then again with urgency. 
"Your Highness!" 
"It seems our arrival has been greatly anticipated," 
Thalion commented dryly. 
Legolas turned his head, not quite looking at him. "What do 
you expect is the matter?" 
Thalion lifted a shoulder disinterestedly. "News, perhaps?" 
he said. "Although the tracks of Smeagol have long since 
gone stale." Lifting his voice, he called on ahead. "How 
now, Sirion. What news from the vale?" 
The Elf greeted the party on the terrace, a young messenger 
with an anxious face and clear, searching eyes. Before the 
princes he bowed low, offering his hand in a token of 
parley and stepping back to look up into their faces.  
"I have been given orders," he began, "by the Lord Elrond 
of Rivendell. I would have reached you sooner, but the road 
does not lie easily." 
Legolas let his pack slide off his shoulder, and it fell 
heavily to the ground. "Methinks you do not come with idle 
gossip," he said. "What brings you so far abroad, friend?" 
"This is ne'er the place, Highness." The words seemed to 
dwindle as the Elf spoke them, falling clumsily off the 
tongue and melting in the air. He smoothed the front of his 
tunic with strange fastidiousness, as though gathering 
himself for an unwanted duty. "The Necromancer has spies in 
the most unlikely of places." 
"You will scarce find servants of the Dark Lord on the very 
doorstep of our father's kingdom." Thalion's own voice was 
tinged with impatience. "Speak quickly." 
"These are most uncertain times, Your Grace, and you will 
forgive me if I seem hesitant." Sirion paused, then he 
blinked and drew a breath, and it seemed that he had made 
some decision; his face was troubled. "You must bide with 
me in what I have to say." He searched the faces of the 
rest of the hunting party, though no answer came. "Even now 
the dark powers are amassing; they have learnt to identify 
our royal families. You are already in grave danger." 
"You have received news of Gollum?" 
"No, but he is of little importance now. I can only hope 
that your Elven-lord will hearken to my warning. Sauron's 
arm has grown long indeed, and his shadow will fall far 
across your land ere his dominion ends." 
With these words came a change, and with that -- memory. 
Whether it was a memory of evil, Legolas did not know; but 
it was indeed a memory and he would carry it with him for 
many years to come, waking him in the night, where stifling 
fingers of oblivion crept like ghosts of the past into his 
dream. But for now the memory would fade, like the closing 
over of a wound after battle, leaving the pale shape of a 
scar and the remnant of endured pain. It could be reopened 
in times of strife or fear, but until then the injury would 
disappear from knowledge and interest, and nothing more 
would be thought of it. He was destined to remember before 
the end.
Still Legolas Thranduilion stood, unknowing that a small 
fragment of his world had changed in the passing seconds of 
the day.