Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

And yet with today's ceremony, he realised he would, paradoxically, become freer than he had been these past few weeks. He would be Warlord, and, after a brief visit into the deep forest, he would return to his duties under the guidance of Captain Duronel. Five years - it would lend him five years of relative calm in which to learn and prepare and after that… well, time would tell, he mused, for to see past that moment was nigh on impossible for him.

  His mind sharpened, back in the present once more and he watched as giggling young ladies waved at him and then laughed and ran, their innocence bringing a smile to his face for the first time that morning. Children and young lads climbed the trees, hanging all manner of decorations upon their branches, and not one seemed to have been left without a coloured glass lantern which would later give them soft light in which to dance and to kiss.

  They too, poked their heads around the thick tree limbs and smiled at him as he passed. They did it for him, for their families and their people, for their warriors - they felt important once more, proud of who they were and Legolas quickened his step for who was he to deny them this moment?

  His self-indulgent thoughts disappeared as quickly as they had invaded him. This was his duty, to bring the forest together - he would not let them down - he would not let himself down. He would do as Lainion and Handir has asked of him. He would shine - for them.

  The fortress was akin to a beehive, buzzing with tempered excitement and frenetic activity. Elves scurried here and there, carrying boxes and bags, chests and scrolls, and even now, the Great Hall was still being decked for the occasion. Standards hung from the vaulted ceilings, the noble houses of the Sindar represented proudly upon thick velvet and golden inlay, relics of the elder days when heroes still existed, when the people still believed in them.

  Only sturdy, wooden shutters separated the Great Hall from the Great Plateau that jutted out majestically, high above the Evergreen Wood, hidden treasure of Thranduil's realm. Those shutters stood wide open now, for the first time in many centuries for the king had ordered that their secret be shielded no more, for such beauty, he had said, should never been hidden away.

  Upon the rocky outcrop, Lanterns had been placed around the perimeter, and the trees that grew there had been adorned in the Silvan fashion, with ribbons and flowers, stones and feathers, and below them, nestled between the roots, there were plush cushions where guests could sit more informally and still here the music from within, indeed it was here that the party would, predictably come to its end - just as predictable as the fact that once the celebration had finished at the fortress, it would continue back at the Silvan camp - of that, there could be no doubt in anyone's mind, least of all in Thranduil's. He still remembered the parties he had once been at liberty to enjoy, with Lassiel's arm in his - when spite and power had not yet stepped between them and ruined it all.

  "Good morning, my King," called Aradan, coming to stand at Thranduil's shoulder, his eyes following his friend's as they gazed upon the flags.

  "It looks magnificent," mused the Chief Councillor, proud memories dancing in his eyes. "Long has it been since we allowed ourselves to remember the past…." he said softly and Thranduil turned to look at his friend.

  "Not the past, Aradan. Tonight, everything will change - past will become present, and the present will become our future - there is something in the air - something light and good…"

  Aradan frowned. "You wax philosophical this morning…"

  "Perhaps," agreed Thranduil. "Perhaps it is just me, my own hopes for what is to come of all this."

  "Perhaps," murmured Aradan, but the king saw his hesitation and there was no need for further comment and so he smiled and continued his slow walk through the caverns, Aradan at his side.

  "And what of Llyniel?" smiled the king, "is she fretting over her attire?"

  "Llyniel? No! It is my wife who has become nigh on impossible, Thranduil - you have no idea!" he said, his voice now louder, his irritation making the king laugh harder.

  "Oh precious," he said, but then he sobered. "Have we been so remiss, Aradan? Have we truly pushed them so far? They seem so very - needy - as if they scream at us to listen, to behold what we have carelessly ignored for too long."

  "Perhaps," said the Councillor. "I just hope they do not take unkindly to all our Sindarin pomp, that they do not feel we are competing with their moment, their celebration."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "It is what some say, Thranduil. That we should just allow them to simply be Silvan - to respect their moment of glory, enjoy it if we can."

  "And what do the others say?" he asked.

  "That this is a celebration for us all, for the realm, not just for the races that constitute it."

  The king smiled. "Then there are still some of us wise enough to see it for what it is."

  "Yes. Let us trust that peace will prevail, that no one overstep their boundaries, and that this rift between us does not inadvertently widen."

  The king nodded, and then spotted Elladan who was walking towards them.

  "My king," bowed Elladan formally.

  "Elrondion. What brings you to the fortress" he asked.

  "I am searching for Lord Glorfindel, but I also bring this, from Lord Legolas, for your daughter, Lord Aradan," he said with a smile.

  "Ah - she was right…" muttered Aradan, taking a hand to his head.

  "What was that?" asked Thranduil with an innocent smile on his face.

  "Miren, my wife," he began. "She swore that Lord Legolas would gift her daughter with a Silvan Crown. She says all good, Silvan lads would do no less."

  Elladan held back his bubbling laughter, trying to imagine his friend as a 'good Silvan boy,'

  "Lord Elladan?" asked the King ironically, but before he could answer, Maeneth and Rinion appeared and the Noldo froze where he stood, his eyes latching onto the princess' light blue eyes. He wanted to look away for he would surely be called to account, but he could not and panic clambered at the edges of his mind.

  "Rinion, Maeneth," greeted the king, while Aradan bowed but Elladan simply stood, and he stared, and Rinion's nostril's flared in irritation. The prince seemed to be on the verge of berating him, but his mouth snapped shut for he had surely realised by now, that it was not only Elladan who stared; Maeneth held that wise grey gaze with her own, frosty blue eyes.

  Rinion tried once more to get his mouth working, managing an 'o' shape but again, he closed it and frowned, his eyes slipping pleadingly to those of his father, who's left eyebrow was acutely arched.

  "Lord Elladan, please meet Princess Maeneth," said Aradan, fighting a knowing smile and only just managing it.

  "Eh, ah, my Lady," stuttered Elladan, bowing low and then rising slowly, watching as she curtseyed elegantly and then smiled. A warm, fuzzy feeling encased his chest and he was lost again, only faintly registering her deep, soft voice.

  "I am a very good friend of your sister, Lady Arwen," she said.

  "Arwen - ah yes-," said Elladan with a frown. He was making an ass of himself he knew, but he could not get his body to cooperate with his mind - he was babbling and he needed to get away lest she take him for an utter fool.

  "Forgive me, my Lords, but I have an appointment with Lord Glorfindel. Princess Maeneth, I will see you at the celebrations this evening?" he asked.

  "Of course, my Lord. Perhaps we will speak later then," she said, and whether it was his imagination he could not say, but was there, perhaps, an invitation in that tone? he wondered…

  With a bow, he ripped himself away, his mind churning and the cogs of his mind whirling into action. Oh he would speak with her - and more if it was to be had - if only he could get his clumsy feet around that dance the Silvans had been trying to teach him. Well, at least the Sindarin dances were similar to the Noldorin ones- he could, perhaps, gain some points for himself there…

  With a wicked smile, he left in search of Glorfindel.

  The seamstress stood back, and then walked around him, tugging here and t
here at the blue-green silk of the stunning skirt until the fall was perfect, long at the back, shorter at the front. She reached for the leather overlay, opening the buckle and passing one half to Marhen and then bringing the pieces together at the front and fastening the ornate clasp around his corded abdomen. Flaps of highly decorated brown leather fell over his powerful thighs to the front and back, the silver craftsmanship swirling around the edges, flaring as orange light hit it, bringing the forest pattern alive, as if it moved of its on accord.

  The same silk that had been used for his skirt was now wrapped around his chest, almost as if it were a bandage, binding one shoulder and his chest, down to the waist, where it was wrapped twice, and then tied at the side, the silk falling almost to the ground.

  It was Marhen who stepped back now, fiddling with the fabric, pulling at the puckers while the seamstress arranged the tie, and Narosén remained completely engrossed in his braiding.

  Next, Legolas stepped into the boots that were held out before him, and then pulled on the tops, his foot slipping easily yet snuggly into the exquisitely worked leather. They reached past the top of his skirt, just as Narosén had said they would, and this, together with the fact that the fabric fit tightly over his muscled thighs, he finally relaxed - there would be no mishaps, even with his dancing.

  "Would you sit please, Legolas," asked Narosén. It was time to weave the last braids, the Avarin ones, and then arrange them in the way he had seen them in his dream.

  Taking hold of a thick lock of hair, he began to twist and work, and then waxed the ending, before moving on to the next, and the next, until they were done and hanging loosely around his head.

  "Narosén," asked Legolas softly. "Are my braids to be left down like this?" he asked. I could poke an eye out should I dance a hornpipe, perhaps even strangle myself …"

  "Some, the first two layers will be loose, but the third and fourth layers must be arranged - I still have much work to do, Legolas," said the Spirit Herder. His voice sounded distant and his eyes were somewhat unfocussed as he worked, and Legolas suspected he was in a state of semi-mediation, or whatever the Spirit Herders called it.

  Cold metal on his right arm told him Marhen placed a Master warrior bracelet there, and then another, and then the warm hug of leather encased a forearm and he looked down, onto the most exquisite vambraces he had ever seen.

  And still, Narosén braided…

  And so, Legolas allowed his mind to wander and so it did - to the one thing that still worried him about this celebration. If this was to mark the beginning of unity, he needed to make them see that only by accepting the Sindar, could the Silvan people regain their status in the Greenwood - he needed to make them see that tonight was not about flag-waving and chauvinism, but about love and brotherhood. He would need to find a moment in which to speak to them all, he realised, and although the thought sent a pang of anxiety through him, he could see no other way.

  Afternoon turned to early evening, and Amareth's tent was surrounded by elves decked in their finest attire. Bright colours of shimmering material, open necked tunics and shiny boots, loose hair and crowns of woodland flowers - these were the civilians, the good people of the Greenwood.

  Further away, the musicians stood in their black leggings and tunics, hair tightly braided away from their faces, and in their hands were their beloved instruments; violins and violas, bases and lyres, flutes and whistles, bells and of course, the mighty woodland drums.

  The dancers too, stood in muted conversation as they passed between the elves, handing out metallic studs they would use to perform some of the dances, and even the warriors, their uniforms clean and bright, stuck them into the heels and tips of their military boots.

  Elladan frowned as he watched them, turning to Rhrawthir for an explanation.

  "When they step upon the stone and wood of the fortress, they will make a commanding sound…"

  "And?" asked Elladan, still completely oblivious to his meaning, Glamohtar leaning in to hear what Fierce Face had to say about it.

  "You will see, Rafno - here," he said, offering studs to him and Melven and showing them where to place them.

  Obediently they stuck them in, and then looked back at Rhawthir suspiciously, before sharing an apprehensive glance at his Noldorin brother.

  More and more elves were gathering around the tent now, for the sun was disappearing below the horizon and their own, Silvan ceremony would soon begin.

  A sudden hush fell over them, for Golloron, the Spirit Herder had appeared and the elves stepped back to make a path for him. Rhrawthir, Lindohtar, Ram en' Ondo and Idhrenohtar bowed in awe as he passed, while the Sinda Koron en' Naur and the Noldor Rafnohtar and Glamohtar stared open-mouthed at the transformed mystic.

  He floated past them as a blind man would, his staff thudding upon the loamy ground until he disappeared into the tent and conversation slowly began once more.

  It did not last long though, for the mighty blast of two Woodland horns bellowed into the dusk. Deep, rumbling tones played the same note slowly, over and over - it was not music, it was a signal almost, and a violent shudder ran down Elladan's spine.

  The tent opened and Amareth and Marhen stepped out. They looked beautiful, mused the Noldo, for their dresses were simple yet perfectly elegant and their hair left loose to play about their waists. Atop their heads were crowns of woodland flowers that twisted and twirled and fell lower in some places than in others, hugging their lovely faces with the bounties of the forest. They were works of art and Elladan found himself fascinated by them.

  But all thoughts of woodland crowns fled him when Legolas appeared before the tent.

  Elladan's eyes bulged of their own accord and his mouth hung open and he could only assume he looked as stunned and stupid as those around him, for his eyes sought but could not focus, they saw but did not translate into words and he found himself incapable of reaction.

  The horns continued to blare out their call, for beckon they did and Elladan's eyes roved over Legolas, out of control for his attire was simply - alien, like nothing he had ever seen. There was an ancient feel to it, like the Noldor of the First Age, but the slit up the front of his skirts, and the bare right arm and shoulder spoke of things purely Silvan, he thought, acutely arcane; the boots, the vambraces and bracelets that adorned his entire right arm and the Eternal Circle, painted forever upon his very skin. Yet it was his hair that was beyond his ability to describe…

  It was completely braided, and yet the differences in thickness and design lent a rich, deep texture to it. Lainion's Avarin braids had been reworked and he knew that would have been Legolas' doing - he would never allow them to be removed. Yet instead of sitting high upon his head in a pony tale as they usually did, they had been weaved together until they formed what Elladan could only describe as a crown.

  Stones of blue, green, white and ambar served to seal some of his braids, resting now around his silk-clad waist, where a large, severely curved dagger sat inside his sash. He looked dangerous and feral, yet so soft - and utterly beautiful and Elladan's heart melted in pride and honour. He could never leave this elf, would ever serve at his side, wherever that service took him - he would see to it, for in spite of his own, high birth - nothing seemed as important as the service that now bound Elladan to Legolas' side.

  With Erthoron and Lorthil at the fore, followed by Amareth and Marhen, and then Legolas himself, flanked by Narosén and Golloron, they slowly made their way to the trees and the sentinel where the short ceremony would take place, and as they passed, the Silvan people followed, small lanterns in their hands as they began to softly sing, the delicate lights flickering in the falling dusk, illuminating their hopeful faces. The horns still blared their single note and the night was crisp and still, and Elladan thought he had never seen such a magical sight. He was suddenly glad as the Company joined him and together, they followed in solemn silence.

  Standing now before the tree, the people gathered around and watched as Legolas
moved forward, and then knelt before the sentinel, his arms lax at his sides.

  "Legolas," exclaimed Erthoron in his powerful voice, so that all could hear the oath that would now be taken. "Legolas son of Thranduil the Sinda and Lassiel the Silvan, born in Lland Galadh, Lord, Lieutenant. The Silvan people charge you with their protection by naming you Warlord. Do you accept this great honour, as the trees and our people are witness?"

  "I do," said Legolas, just loud enough to be heard by most.

  "From this day forth, you are our Warlord, until the day of your death or departure from these shores. May Yavanna bless you," he said with a soft smile, before slipping a ring onto his right index finger. It was done, and just as the Silvan leader turned to lead the entourage away from the tree and to the fortress, he hesitated, looking back at Legolas who remained kneeling upon the ground. Nobody had moved and his brow furrowed as he stepped closer, eyes searching for what it was that held him there.

  "Legolas?" he asked quietly.

  Legolas slowly stood, and then turned to face Erthoron, his face completely blank, head tilted slightly upwards as if he listened. The Silvan leader stared, and then stepped back, for the Warlord's body shone so intensely he seemed alight from within, and his eyes, transparent and yet so very green - he was an elf and yet like none he would ever have seen.

  Elladan saw it too, but he did not startle for he had seen Legolas at his most frightening. This was a softer manifestation of his power, easier to understand and yet oh so enticing to look upon. Glancing at Narosén, the Spirit Herder smiled, his own head tilted to the heavens, and those in the crowd that had a modicum of skill also listened. There was a symphony on the air it seemed and Elladan suddenly wished he could here it, understand what it was that brought such joy to these, endearing people.

  "It is time," came the sudden, unexpected words of the Warlord and the people gathered round once more, lanterns flickering softly, a thousand eyes shining in anticipation of what he would say.