Invisible String ⋆ Legolas Greenleaf and Aragorn Elessar

𝖛𝖎. Estelassë

She swallowed hard, and for a moment her anger faltered. "But do you love me, Father? Or do you only love what I must do for you?"

His face softened greatly. He reached, and laid a hand upon her cheek. "I love you more than I can say. Were the world different, I would spare you all this grief. But I am Lord of Rivendell as well as your father, and that is a hard thing. I hope—no, I trust—that some joy may still come to you through this, though you do not see it now."

Her eyes stung, but she turned away, unwilling to weep. To hide it, she quickened her step, darting down from the path into the meadows that lay wet with dew where the mist had lately lifted.

"Elspeth—!" her father called, but she laughed, half-bitter, half-defiant, and strode on through the grasses. The ground was soft, the streams swollen from the night's rain. Her slippers sank, her gown brushed the heather, until before long the hem of her skirts was sodden, heavy with mud and tangled seed. The veil of silver gauze she wore caught upon a briar and tore. She did not care. For a moment she felt free, reckless as a child again, running ahead while her father followed more slowly, shaking his head yet with some smile at her spirit.

By the time she returned to the path, her cheeks were flushed, her hair fallen in loose strands about her face, her gown clinging and muddied. Elrond sighed but did not scold her. There was too much of her mother in that wild stride, that disregard for appearances. He let it be.

So it was that when at last they came to the eastern garden, where Legolas awaited, she was far from the image of a princess.

The Prince of Mirkwood stood beneath a colonnade, clad in pale green with silver embroidery, his hair shining like a fall of starlight. His hands were clasped before him, and his bearing was serene as the trees that raised him. At their approach he stepped forward, inclining his head first to Elrond, then to Elspeth.

But his eyes flickered as they came to her—just a quick furrow of the brow, a faint tightening of the mouth. He said nothing, but she saw it: the mark of disapproval, the frown at her muddied hem, the stray curl of hair, the loosened ribbon at her sleeve. Her cheeks burned.

"Elspeth, my daughter," said Elrond with grave formality, "this is Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil, whom you are to know more nearly."

"My lord," Elspeth murmured, curtseying despite the state of her gown.

"My lady," Legolas replied, bowing low. His voice was courteous, clear, but cool.

Elrond's gaze lingered a moment on them both. Then he said, "I will leave you. Walk together, speak, learn what you may of one another. The hours are yours."

He turned and withdrew, leaving them in the hush of the garden.

For a long moment they stood in silence. At last Legolas gestured toward the shaded path, lined with elanor and niphredil. "Shall we walk, my lady?"

She inclined her head, and they began together, side by side.

At first their words were stiff, constrained by courtesy. He asked after her health, her recent days; she inquired of his father's realm, the darkening of Mirkwood, the spiders that crept ever deeper. They spoke of allies and the long watchfulness of their peoples.

It was not unkind, yet neither was it warm. Each seemed aware that they conversed more as envoys than as two hearts meeting.

At length, in speaking of the Dúnedain who often came through the valley, Elspeth named Aragorn. "He spends a long time in the wilds," she said, "and when he returns, he and Bilbo will sit and write half the night away, trading verses. I have missed that sound—the scratch of quill and the sudden laugh when some line pleases him."