Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840
Fae, sui rhoss vin i vorn, egor i charthad o ngilith am dhû ú ithil.
Sensing movement beneath the great branch on which she crouched, hidden in the folds of shadow between trunk and overhanging limb, Nieniriathlim froze, hardly daring to allow the breath from her body, without due consideration to silence.
Such also was the manner in which she slowly, like the march of an Age, drew the dark grey cloak tighter around her slender frame, careful to ensure that the hood fully covered her fall of silver-blonde hair.
How many days had she crouch in such a place, ever watchful, ever quiet – merging as one with the darkened branches of the overhanging trees – and never yet afforded such a clear view of the comings and goings from out of the Elvenking's Halls as this. As if by some awakening, the Elves of Woodland Realm, her estranged kin, were suddenly conjured to life in urgent execution of some unknown purpose.
Many there were, back and forth beneath the shelter of her hiding place. Some armed and armoured – Elite Guard who were among those brave warriors that guarded against the grown and ever growing Dark beneath the twisted bowers of the woodland. Mirkwood, they called it now, and had since ever she had been born, but once it claimed another name, one that set a lighter burden upon the hearts and minds of Elves such as her. She knew this... she felt this.
Golden-green light dappled the silver-white neck and mane of the horse she rode as the canopy above thinned to allow the sculpted and carved domes of the woodland settlement to reach to the air above. The wood's warmth breathed its welcome at her coming, as his mind touched hers.
'Welcome home, my soul.'
Nieniriathlim gasped softly as the sight flashed atop the truth of that which she now looked down upon; as the words whispered into her mind as though true spoken to her, and at her gasp pressed herself closer to the trunk of the tree, holding tightly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly almost as if waiting for the voice that would call her down; demand explanation.
She had outstayed her welcome.
** ** **
He dismounted as soon as he reached the thinning of the trees, sending the horse in with the forward patrol, and remaining with the rear-guard as they came in on foot.
Take care of your soldiers, always.
His father had instilled the discipline in him, and it was a lesson that he had learned quickly and was always true to follow, even as the king himself had done in sending him ahead with half of the patrol... the other lesson served by what the Elvenking had done.
Look to your people.
As he passed beneath one of the many overhanging branches, Legolas paused mid step. He cocked his head. Had there been a sound? A breath from the trees? He raised a hand, tempted to draw back his hood that he might better hear if some intruder – perhaps some agent of the Enemy – by some foul deed, misdirected their search and had beaten them back, spilling danger within the midst of his people when defence would be slower to answer. He stayed his hand, for doing so would mark him as a target, as Sindar amid the Sylvan Elves of the Woodland Realm. Instead he listened harder also reaching out with other senses, and neither hearing, nor feeling anything further, he turned to the herald who came out to meet the incoming guard.
"My prince?"
Legolas shook his head.
"Recall all outlying patrols," he ordered instead, "and strengthen the Border Guard. Prepare to close the gates."
The herald gave a nodded bow of obedience and understanding, and even as the Elf turned away, readying his horn, Legolas spared one last, curious glance up into the dim canopy of the trees, before turning away and heading for the bridge that led into the Halls.
** ** **
All but ready to flee, Nieniriathlim felt the doubting gaze of the Elf below that pierced the shadow, almost to the very fibres of her cloak and silently prayed by all the stars above that his eyes should slide from her form and perceive her not.
If ever you held love for me, home-of-my-heart, she sent her appeal out into the heart of the very trees of the woodland themselves, then shield me now. Give me not occasion to be discovered when I have yet seen so little.
Below her, the Elf turned away, and suddenly the wood was filled with sound and movement, as the herald's horn blew out a clear note into the deepening afternoon, and from here and there, Elves began returning along the pathways and trails.
She did not question her good fortune, simply pushed away from the niche in which she crouched, found her feet with the balanced poise of her Elven heritage, and all but flew, birdlike along the thick, gnarled limb, high above the woodland floor, only descending when she felt she was clear of any danger of discovery.
Once on the ground, she took a moment to catch her breath, and to still the conflict between relief and disappointment that flowed through her blood. Days and days had passed and still no sign or sight of the one haunting her visions... her dreams. All the Elves she had seen were clearly Elves of the woodland, sylvan elves with red or russet hair, dark of eye – Like her parents, and not for the first time, nor, she was sure, the last, she wondered how she, so unlike to them, could have come from their union. True, her mother was lighter of form than most others of her woodland kin, so perhaps there was some trace of other heritage, maybe from her mother's mother, but lately – as the dreams had grown stronger, and the emotions that came with them more fierce, she had become more and more disturbed by her mother's teasing nickname for her: Pinahyaol, little changeling.
Like a deer, her head few up as a trembling expectation in the air announced the coming of a host mere moments before a second horn took up an answering cry to the first. Then she felt the thrumming of swift, rhythmic hooves, and the leafy whisper of the passage of an Elven infantry ran like heartbeat through the forest floor. She tipped her head. Their path took them parallel and opposite to her direction, but she would have to cross their path; cross the path that led to the Forest Gate to reach her home. She had to hurry. If she took a diagonal path through the brush she would reach her crossing all the swifter, providing nothing ill reared up to hinder her passing. If it did, her desire to remain unseen would be moot, for if some foul creature were abroad within the reach and senses of the coming Elves, then they would seek it out – put it down...
"And likely you with it," she reminded herself softly, and with a breath she set her limbs to movement, choosing her path and with swift, soft steps she moved through the thick tangle of bramble, vine and branch, skirting or leaping over less savoury creepers and and weeds, catching a hand here and there upon thicker limbs to aid her turning, and running swift across larger, fallen logs that might otherwise have blocked her path until she came within sight at last of the voice within the canopy that was the patrolled pathway.
They were close, the Elven host, too close, and led by a small cavalry at gallop along the smooth, paved pathway. She would not stop in time to avoid being seen as they passed – and followed by the Elves on foot, she would surely be caught. She had but one choice: to keep going, to speed her steps and hope to cross their path in the dimming light. By chance she might be thought some natural animal at flight from such a coming mass, and so, committed, she ran on, though the risk was great.
Twenty heartbeats, it would be close... mere feet would be between them when she crossed if she did not find a greater speed. Ten short breaths, and the path was within reach of her desperate flight.
The hood of her cloak caught, twisted in a bramble; pulled from her hair, and she stifled the short gasp that stole a precious moment as she reached behind even as she kept her steps forward, grasped the fabric and pulled it free, having no time to cover herself again before she burst onto, and across the pathway, barely a horse length away from the lead rider.
She did not stop. She did not dare.
** ** **
Not half a stride ahead, something dashed across the track, and intent on the track much further on, Thranduil saw it only as a flash of white amid shadow across his path, disappearing into the depth of the forest in his peripheral vision.
It was not what he saw that had him pull back on the reins, but the feeling that went through him, like a cold blade laid against his back, a chill of expectation that unbalanced his strength and had him pull too hard, too fast.
The stallion reared, calling to his rider in protest, but mastering the sudden rush of the disturbance that had fallen over him with the intensity of a of a winter squall, Thranduil gathered the rein to turn the stallion in place upon its hind legs. Letting the horse down, his ice-blue gaze peered beneath the trees, and listening he tried to track the fleeing creature – white amid shadow. The White Hart?
The rest of the patrol flowed around him, like a river around rock, and ever aware, he felt them moving onward, following his orders to return to the Halls, though his second did stop, and return to his side.
"My King?"
Still peering deep beneath the trees, he shook his head, uncertain how to answer, but drawing in the feeling that still lingered in every breath he took, his left hand trembled upon the rein. He clenched his fingers tighter until the leather bit deeply and painfully, to draw him back... draw him away from a hope too painful to entertain – even for a moment.
"King Thranduil?" his second repeated, more urgently, his request for a response, and with every fibre of control he possessed, Thranduil turned his head, and then his horse's head to face his captain.
"A spirit," he said softly, "Like a whisper in the dark, or the promise of starlight on a moonless night."
His captain frowned, and as abruptly as it had come, Thranduil shook off the mood, released his too hard grasp upon the rein, and ordered, clipped and business like, "Come, we must reach the Halls by nightfall."
And with barely another glance into the darkening trees, he put heels to horse, the lightest touch to speed him safety.
Yet... a melancholy settled over him then, and to the trees, falling into shadow at his back, he murmured, "I-varnol dan... ui u-bardh."
I-varnol dan... ui u-bardh – safety, but... never home.
The words at the head of the chapter match those spoken by Thranduil when questioned by his second as to what he thinks he has seen... a spirit, like a whisper in the dark, or the promise of starlight on a moonless night.