Passersby ➵ ONC 2021

➵ treespeak

The trees of the morning are taken by the swift silence of passing elves, three of them there to do the morning hunting. The dew leaves itself in clear bunches on Legolas' green boots as it scratches across Nînthel and Farriel's red ones. For a few moments, they stop at the edge of a rocky drop-off and watch the ocean, the clouds above it turning everything a soft bluish gray.

"The wind is wild over the sea," Legolas observes. "It is warm. It brings a promise of storms."

"You stop to appreciate too much, otheren," Nînthel replies. "There are more important things on which we must focus."

"Adaneth," Legolas disputes, although it is gentle and means no harm, "you appreciate too little."

In both of their comments, there sits no bad blood or coarse fire to scathe the other. Between Legolas and Nînthel there sits a world of respect, although the opinions differ. They would follow the other in war if they would not follow their wishes here.

The wind whistles at them from the sea. Legolas turns his head and listens.

"The trees are speaking," he says.

And they are. Dipping in the wind, feeling the storm he has predicted as well, they sing to the ground and the sky, and they speak to whoever may be listening other than themselves.

"The full moon is coming!
Tonight! Tonight!
The water will rise!
Tonight! Tonight!
The spirits will dance
Within it they'll prance
And creeks will be cunning
Tonight!"

Talk of spirits reminds Legolas of what Ulvinowyn told him about Aragorn. Listening to their stanzas as they repeat them, he wonders if it is true that there are ghosts in the rivers and oceans around them. He wonders, if the trees are to see souls on this night, he might see one belonging to his friend. Turning to Nînthel, who has gone back to looking for food, he makes a statement far better phrased as a request.

"I must go tonight and watch the shore."

Nînthel shakes her head. "You mustn't leave the borders of our living area past nightfall unless you are on patrol," she replies. "And the cat will not let you. Should not."

And with that, she throws a spear through the trees and grasses, piercing its end right through the heart of a running boar. Legolas watches in silence as she runs to retrieve it, looking off in the direction of the kudu's river and knowing that he must defy Nînthel on this eve if he is to defy her ever again. Even if not to see his own friend, he has purposes beyond his own interest. He knows that the kudu wait for the moon as well, and he knows he must figure out why. If they are ever to understand such creatures, this is the least they can do.

He does not shoot a single animal. He does not eat them at home in Mirkwood. Instead he helps to carry the pig, its hind legs in one hand as Farriel holds the front ones. Although Farriel herself says nothing, he can see the longing held in her eyes as well for going out under the moon and seeing the mystical life react around it. While Nînthel leads the way, looking around for animals, Legolas sets his eyes on a pair of squirrels. They circle warmly around one another, and he cannot let himself make them part. When Nînthel turns at their sounds in the leaves, he pretends it is he himself making the noise.

The other elves feast happily on the pig when they return with it. Legolas watches it bleed as it is torched and sliced, and he cannot bear to sink his teeth into its delicate, salty flesh. He cannot manage the thought of celebrating a life ending as a fraction of the length of his own while he can bask in the complete absence of a death for the rest of time. It is like a king of wealth taking money from those who have none. And who is he to deserve so much status? So much wealth? So much bounty? So many years and such an unending life?

He must not mock the death of another. He must not enjoy its misfortunes when he will never have it himself. He only takes grapes from the table. He wishes to grasp what it is to die. But now, all he can grasp is fruit.

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