Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  "Come," she said calmly and Legolas had no intention of gainsaying her.

  Leaving the Halls of healing, the two Silvan ladies escorted their soon to be Warlord, smiling and nodding as the warriors saluted and Legolas answered, his face carefully schooled, his limp almost imperceptible and thus they entered the Silvan camp and finally, Amareth's tent.

  Gesturing authoritatively to the pallet in one corner, Legolas gingerly lowered himself with a groan, and then stretched his legs out before him, for it hurt to sit up, he realised.

  Marhen turned to Amareth, murmuring something to her before she turned back to Legolas and knelt upon the rug beside the bed.

  "Here, let me help you," she said, reaching for the buckles of his armour.

  "I can do it, Marhen," he answered, reaching up with filthy hands to the leather straps. Just then, Elladan ducked into the tent, walking straight to the pallet and crouching beside Marhen.

  "I knew it - that hip of yours - take your breeches off," he said as he rose and took off his own over tunic. "Better still, take everything off, I don't trust you," he murmured and Legolas smiled wryly.

  Soon, his clothes and stained armour were taken away by Amareth, and Legolas sat awkwardly with nothing but a thin sheet pooled around his waist.

  "Lay back, Legolas, I know it must pain you to sit up."

  "How do you know?" he asked, perplexed.

  "Because I can read your face, my friend. I am an experienced healer, I know the signs of pain when I see them. Now come, lay back," he said, his hand pressing down on Legolas' chest until he lay flat.

  Lifting the sheet on one side, he pursed his lips and frowned. "Stubborn fool," he murmured and then turned to his pack and rummaged through it - he still had not had time to order it after his work on the field earlier. However, he found what he needed and unscrewed the top.

  "Can you turn onto your side?"

  "Umm," said Legolas as he turned towards Elladan, the sheet covering his front but exposing the entire side of his body from head to foot. Dipping his fingers into the cream, Elladan applied it to the rapidly bruising hip, rubbing it in vigorously until most of it had been absorbed. Reaching for a cloth he wiped his hands and then looked at Legolas' face.

  "You are always getting punched in the face," he tutted and Legolas snorted.

  "I think it's jealously," he said seriously and Elladan laughed heartily. "You may be right, pretty boy," he scoffed and then turned back to Legolas.

  "Rest, my friend. No flights into the forest, no midnight trysting or deep, philosophical conversations, just sleep and wake when you will. No exercise for two days and stay - off - the - acrobatics - Hwindohtar," he smirked.

  "Yes my Lord Rafnohtar," said Legolas, lying flat on his back again and sighing. Elladan smiled and then stood to leave, meeting Amareth on the way out.

  "Is he alright, my Lord?" she asked.

  "He is fine, Amareth, just a badly bruised hip. Make sure he uses the cream I have left there, and that he sleeps. I have ordered no strenuous exercise for two days."

  "Thank you, my Lord," she smiled.

  "Elladan, or Rafnohtar, whichever you prefer," he smiled back at her.

  "Rafnohtar? she scowled and smiled at the same time."

  "Yes - it is a long story," said Elladan before nodding and walking away to the tent he shared with the Company, for he had a report to give them if Legolas was going to get a decent night's sleep.

  Amareth sank down beside the pallet and gave Legolas a pair of loose sleeping pants which he took gratefully, pulling them on and then rising into a sitting position with a groan.

  "Legolas," she began, just as Marhen joined them with a bowl of fresh water and clean cloths.

  "Son. Lay back child, let us care for you."

  "I am alright, mother…" he whispered.

  "Indulge us? she asked sweetly as she smiled adoringly at him. He melted, into her honey eyes, her sweetness, her love for him and he smiled back. Unable to maintain his body in a sitting position any longer, he lay back down and immediately felt his great aunt's fingers in his hair, undoing his braids gently, working out the knots with her fingers. The feel of her hands in his hair was lulling him into a state of sleepy bliss and Marhen chuckled softly, her eyes catching Amareth's as she cleaned her son's face lovingly.

  After that he knew no more, until the sky brightened and he cracked his eyes open, only to startle as he caught sight of Narosén sitting cross-legged before the hearth at the centre of his tent.

  "Good morning, Legolas," said the Spirit Herder as he poked at what looked and smelled like a hearty breakfast.

  "Narosén," he whispered sleepily, pushing the thin sheet down and slowly sitting up.

  A groan escaped him, for his muscles were stiff and his hip had turned an even darker shade of purple, the bruise escaping the waist band of his breeches and reaching almost to the base of his chest.

  Rising slowly, he sunk down beside Narosén and then lay upon the carpet, propping himself up on one elbow. "That smells good," he said, his eyes looking at the food longingly.

  Narosén smiled and dipped into the pan, pulling out a fillet of steaming white fish, dripping in herb butter.

  "Here, our people went fishing this morning…."

  Legolas accepted the plate with one hand and set it before him, blowing on it before using his hands to break of a piece of the flaky fish and suck it into his mouth. He groaned again, but this time in delight.

  "It is delicious," he said as he ate, missing the proud smirk on Narosén's face as he, too, helped himself to the fish.

  "Legolas," he began as he ate. "You have been ordered to rest, and so we thought it might be a good time to speak of the duties of the Warlord, and of the protocol for the celebration the day after tomorrow. Will you indulge us?"

  "Of course," he answered. "I would not make a fool of myself, Narosén. I do, however, foresee being called to the fortress for a short time, but other than that, I am yours."

  "Good," he said enthusiastically. "When you have finished, we will start with the seamstress, for your ceremonial attire…"

  "Narosén, clothes were made for me in Imladris, special clothes that reflect my origins. I would like to wear those…"

  "Then I suggest you bring them for they will need altering…"

  "Why would they need altering?" asked Legolas, puzzled.

  "Once your measurements have been taken, we should start with a history lesson; after that, I think perhaps you will understand," said the Spirit Herder kindly. "We will then speak of your duties, of how they can be coordinated with your service in the king's militia for there are requests you may need to make to your superiors…"

  "Alright. I will ask Idhreno or Ram en' to retrieve the chest that lies in my rooms at the fortress."

  Silence stretched between them then as they finished their breakfast, before Narosén spoke once more.

  "You did well yesterday, Legolas. At the Halls of Healing our people speak of your concern for our warriors, how you took no rest until you had seen them all, until Amareth and Marhen dragged you away. These things, the small things, will make you great, Legolas."

  Legolas looked back at the strange elf. "I did not do it because I am to be Warlord, Narosén; I did it because I have always done it," he said quietly.

  "And that is why it had to be you, child…"

  Legolas sat in Amareth's tent, alone for the first time that day and his mind wandered, thinking on the events of that morning.

  Amareth and Marhen had fussed over him and he had let them, and he smiled as he remembered their soft scolding.

  Later, Ram en' Ondo had arrived with his chest of belongings from the fortress, amongst them, the attire that had been designed for him in Imladris. The Silvan seamstress had beamed in satisfied delight, and claimed she would make only cursory additions for the work was near perfect, she had said in admiration - even the colour. She had then taken his measurements and all in all, it had been a surprisingly innocuous experie
nce.

  He could hear the woodland fiddles and flutes in the distance, rehearsing for tomorrow's event and for the first time perhaps, he got a sense of the magnitude of it all. There were hundreds of artists, most of them fiddlers, percussionists, singers and dancers and even the civilians were practising their most prized dances, the ones that had not been seen at the fortress for centuries.

  The camp itself was filling out, with elves come from all of the forest dwellings of the Silvans, even the most remote, and other dignitaries were arriving at the fortress, making their way necessarily through the Silvan camp.

  The buzz of excitement was thick, tangible almost, and a pang of anxiety slammed into him and he closed his eyes to steady himself.

  "Legolas?" came the deep voice of Erthoron who was ducking into the tent, along with Narosén, Golloron and Lorthil, books in hand and scrolls dancing around in their arms.

  He simply shook his head with a tense smile, and then moved over to the hearth to prepare tea. By the looks of things, they would be cooped up for the rest of the morning at least, and so, when the water was done, he turned and placed the pot upon the table and sat. He knew Narosén liked to pour tea and beg blessings, and so Legolas left the dark Silvan to his strange ways and set his eyes upon Erthoron, who he knew would be the first to speak.

  But rather than speak, the Silvan leader opened a book and set it before Legolas, before opening another and doing the same. On both pages sat the illustration of the warlord and Legolas tried, and failed, to hide his shock. He had seen another illustration, the one that had been presented during the Permanent Council meeting, but this looked nothing like it.

  "This," pointed Erthoron, "is the ceremonial attire of the Warlord, Legolas.

  "You want me to look like this?" Erthoron I can't, I…"

  "Legolas - what is the problem? It will suit you well, you must not be ashamed," said the elf kindly.

  "It is not a question of being ashamed, Erthoron, I am Silvan," he said, as if that was enough explanation to prove his point, "but the Sindar are not accustomed, and I am the son of the king, I will it or not."

  "Yes - but they are the minority, and we are the majority - why should we change our customs because a small part of society does not approve of them?"

  Legolas held his tongue for a while so that he could get his head around what he was seeing.

  "He," he poked at the page, "is not wearing breeches…"

  "No - the Silvans never did, for many years…"

  "You want me to dance in that? The reels and the jigs…?"

  Golloron chuckled wildly, and then excused himself as he sipped on his hot tea.

  "Our seamstress will make sure there are no surprises, Legolas. The point here," he said, resisting a smile himself, "is that the Warlord shows his strength in battle - his body and his attire are a statement of his purpose. This is reflected by showing the power of your legs, your arms, your chest.

  "You want me to walk half-naked into Thranduil's nest of Sindarin snakes - I am already a half-breed bastard, do we really want them to add to the expletives?" he moaned.

  It was Lorthil's turn to chuckle and he did not bother to hide it.

  "It is not that bad, Legolas. They respect you, and most of them seem to be in favour of this - do not forget that."

  Legolas knew that, for the Permanent Council had been almost unanimous in its vote and he was glad for Erthoron's reminder.

  "And these boots?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the illustration before him, admiring the fine detail etched upon them in silver.

  "You like the boots?" smirked Narosén.

  "Yes," he answered defensively.

  "We have been working on them for some time. A lot of work has gone into them Legolas, see here," he pointed, "they go past the knee and up to mid-thigh, so even though you are not wearing breeches, it will be nigh on impossible to see the flesh of your legs…"

  "Well, Llyniel will be pleased…." he muttered.

  "What?" asked Golloron.

  "Nothing…" answered Legolas before allowing his eyes to move upwards, past the calf-length skirt of blue green that was slit up the centre to the knees. Over the skirt was an intricately worked over skirt of soft leather that protected the thighs, and as his eyes rose past the waist, his face was paling again.

  "So all this is simply - silk?" he asked, his eyes squinting at the page

  "Yes, wrapped silk - the tie here see, down one side," he explained and legolas' eyes followed the excess material down almost to the floor.

  "This is where the Eternal Circle sits," he pointed at the spot between chest and shoulder, "and then here, your warrior bands."

  "My arms are bear, then?"

  "Not completely. See these vambraces, they have been conserved, a relic of our people. As of tomorrow they will be yours."

  "They are beautiful," he mused, admiring the thin leather and metallic overlay that ran the entire length of the forearm and then ended in a point on the right hand but not on the left.

  "Why this difference? he pointed.

  "The vambrace on the right points to the ring of office, the Warlord's heirloom. That will be given to you tomorrow, at the ceremony."

  Legolas breathed deeply as his eyes moved up to the elf's head and his hair.

  "His head is covered in braids…"

  Narosén sat forwards. "If you would allow, I would be honoured to do that for you, but I would explain, if I may?"

  "Of course…"

  "The lower braids will be thin and compact, tightly woven. They resemble the young roots of our future trees. On top of these, we weave thicker braids to symbolise the elder trees, sitting over the young saplings, protecting them. Finally, on top are the thicker braids, the roots of our mighty sentinels for their wisdom must transcend all, protect us all. To keep these braids in place, i will use wax, but the people will gift you with forest treasures tomorrow; river stones, dried flowers and vines - these will be woven into them as a sign of your service to us all. A part of each and every Silvan family will be represented by the Warlord for you are theirs and they are yours…"

  Legolas looked down as the information sunk in. He had never imagined such depth of symbolism and he suddenly felt humbled, but then a doubt assailed him.

  "I will not relinquish my Avarin locks, Narosén," he said, watching the Spirit Herder in apprehension.

  "I have thought about that for you see, you, are different to any other Warlord we have had; you - are a protege. We add a fourth layer of being, over the roots of the Sentinels - your Avarin braids may symbolise the roots of the two trees, a testimony to your higher purpose. I would not leave you bereft of them, I know what they mean to you…"

  He was utterly relieved for he would have refused outright had Narosén forbidden it.

  "Weapons?" he asked

  "Just a dagger - again, that is an heirloom I cannot show you until tomorrow."

  "Alright - I will grin and bear it," he resolved and gulped at his tea. "This drawing is the everyday attire then?" he asked.

  "Yes, but for now you have no need of this. You are a lieutenant in the king's army."

  "Alright, so tell me, the duties I will be expected to carry out."

  "You owe yourself to the military, and this we understand, indeed most of your work, as we see it, will be carried out during your service as a lieutenant, or Captain," began Erthoron. "You are our spokesperson, a figure to which any Silvan warrior may turn to, a figure that will stand up to the authorities in the face of injustice. In times of strife in the forest, the Silvan people would call upon you to represent them, as our military expert, to tell the army what we need and where we need it, and in times of war, you will be free to carry out your duties where best you see fit.

  "That sounds practical, Erthoron, and doable, I think. It is important that there are no incompatibilities between this position and my military duties, yet there is still the question of my service to Yavanna."

  "Have you thought on how to achieve
it all without incurring in incompatibilities?" asked Lorthil.

  "Not yet, but I still have five years. Once my training is complete, that is when I must sit once more and reevaluate my situation although I do have an idea, my friends."

  "Then tell us, for even though it is not yet the time, we would pave the way, if it can be done," said Erthoron.

  "My idea, once I am Captain, is to create my own patrol, The Company. Myself as its commander, Rafnohtar, Idhrenohtar, Ram en', Koron en', Rhrawthir, Lindohtar, Glamohtar… I would gain a kind of - itinerant - patrol, if you will, with a degree of freedom to serve where the forest requires it the most - to the South, I suppose."

  "It would give you the freedom you need, yes…" said Lorthil.

  "The question is that once I am promoted, I must gain the approval of the Inner Circle to do this - a newly trained Captain will be required to move around, get a feel of the forest in all its areas of strife and conflict - to grant me that freedom will be the key, I think."

  Erthoron smiled as he poured more tea. "Soon, the Silvan people will matter once more, my friends, justice will be reclaimed for our people, for our warriors…"

  "There is one matter that concerns me," said Legolas, leaning forward and catching their eyes meaningfully.

  "The Permanent Council have agreed to the reinstatement of the Warlord but I do not believe we should flaunt our Silvanness before them too brazenly…"

  "But this is our.."

  "Let me finish, Lorthil. "Look at it from their perspective. This is a concession for them - we do not want to thank them by doing what they have done to us over the past centuries. I believe," he said emphatically, "that we should flaunt our forest, with all that that implies…"

  "I don't understand," said Erthoron with a frown.

  "Why did we finally rebel against the Sindar? Why did we demand the return of the Warlord? Because we felt our culture, our people were being repressed, belittled. By doing what we have, we return to the Silvan people their pride and their sense of belonging, and for that to endure, we must ensure the Sindar are on our side, that they do not rebel and feel their own culture threatened - that we do not start a cultural war. This land will be a better, safer place if we promote the strength of the forest, of the Silvan, Sindar and Avarin people - different and unique in their cultures but together as brothers, against the common enemy."