The Sylvanus

by Oliver McBride

  "She told us she would never make it, that she could not endanger her child, risk his life upon the road. She would have the child upon Arda, and then travel if she could."

  "Here," said Aradan softly as he pushed the glass of wine towards her. His eyes then caught those of Thranduil. There was turmoil behind them, turmoil and shock.

  "After all the scandal, and then her impending motherhood, she removed herself from the village and found a place for herself, a place no one would ever find, for her connection to nature was unusually strong - this we already knew. She hid herself away, and I, together with Erthoron and Golloron, saw to her needs. We provided for her in her self-imposed exile. She did not wish for company, only for silence and the company of the trees."

  "Why did you not come to me for help?" murmured the king.

  "She forbade it. She would not tell you of her decision to defy your will, she would not prolong your suffering with her presence upon Arda. She thought perhaps that you had found a measure of closure with our plan to sail, that you would be comforted that she was alive and that you shared a son, that you could hold to the promise of seeing them again."

  "You should have told me…" he whispered.

  "I could not. It was not my decision to take, Thranduil."

  Silence met her statement, and so she pushed on, the mellow wine lending her a modicum of comfort.

  "And so the child was born, and as he opened his eyes and looked out upon the world for the first time, it was not his mother he sought out but the tree that housed us. He held out his small hands, as if he could grab at the bark and he smiled, his stunning green eyes sparkling with joy. Lassiel cried for love, and Erthoron and myself looked on in amazement. We knew then, that he was special…"

  "What do you mean?" asked Aradan in puzzlement, for neither he nor the king had seen Legolas.

  "Aradan - when you see him, you will understand." She smiled then as thoughts of Legolas filled her mind. "A more beautiful child has never existed," she began as her eyes lost their focus. "When he grew and became a young adult he was simply stunning to look upon. His hair is silver-blond and so thick it cannot be tamed. His body is tall and strong and his eyes - his eyes are those of the forest, Lassiel's eyes."

  "There is something else…" deduced Thranduil as he, too, sat forward, his eyes riveted on Amareth uncomfortably.

  "Yes. Thranduil - when you see him, if you wish it," she ammended, "you will see your father looking back at you. He is Oropher in all but his eyes…"

  Thranduil looked away, obviously torn in his emotions and Amareth rather thought he would be glad in that he had revered his father, had been a loyal prince to him even unto his own undoing. Yet there would be resentment too, for that which Oropher had denied him - it was a cruel twist of nature.

  "Wait," began Aradan. "Before we continue with that side of the story, tell us of Lassiel's fate. Did she fade then, after the child was born?"

  Amareth looked back at him in sadness, but the sadness promptly turned to anger and her jaw clenched.

  "No," she said, her voice a little too loud, anger seeping past her defences.

  Thranduil stood in a flurry of robes and looked down at her in askance. Bolstering her strength, she too, stood slowly until she stood before him, her eyes defiant.

  "She was murdered…"

  The day had finally come and Hwindohtar and The Company would begin their training with Lord Glorfindel, revered Commander of the Noldorin army of Lord Elrond.

  Unbeknownst to the Silvans, Glorfindel had resolved to incorporate them in his command training program, one of the few educational duties that Glorfindel was still directly involved in. He was too busy to train the troops as he once had, for most of his time was taken up with gathering intelligence and plotting the defences of the land. But that did not mean he did not enjoy the process of teaching an elf to defend his land to the best of his abilities, indeed it was a subject that fascinated the lord beyond all reasonable limits.

  Anyone who knew Glorfiindel would say he was obsessive, a perfectionist; demanding and ruthless. Lord Elrohir had trained under Glorfindel, sufficiently at least, to be able to defend himself but there he had stopped, choosing instead to pursue a diplomatic career. Fighting, he had said, was a necessary evil, one he had come to believe he was not particularly suited to. Glorfindel had argued the point at the time, but Elrohir had been adamant. We would tutor with his father in the arts of healing and statesmanship.

  Elladan too, had trained with Glorfindel and had gone beyond the achievements of his younger brother, only to become a recently promoted lieutenant. He was a passing swordsman but he had not moved past the mediocre and the commander had told him as much. Elladan had defended himself on the grounds of his own indecisiveness on his chosen road and Glorfindel had understood, however much he had been left with the frustrating sensation of not having brought out the best in Elrond's oldest - that there was still much the young Lord could achieve, if only his heart was in it. It had, therefore, been a shock when Elladan had sought him out the night before to tell him of the decision he had taken. This was Glorfindel's opportunity to fulfil Elladan's full potential and the thought filled him with excitement - that, and the challenge that was Legolas. Yes, he had resolved, he would teach his lord's son and his heart brother's grandchild and he rather thought he would enjoy every moment of it…

  Legolas and The Company stood together, waiting for Lord Glorfindel as they had been instructed. All the commander had said was that they should present themselves here, at this were to wear leggings and boots only, braid their hair and leave their own weapons at the barracks.

  Galdithion, or Rhrawthir, he reminded himself with a mental smirk, shivered for although it was sunny, it was cold and he found himself willing the Imladris commander to appear so that they may start the day's training, for standing still with a naked torso in midwinter was not comfortable at all.

  As the newest member of The Company, he took the time to cast his eyes over the rest of his companions, pondering how different they were. Ram en Ondo was indeed, a wall of stone. Tall and bulky, strong beyond belief, he was an imposing opponent. His weapon of choice would surely be the sword, or the axe he sniggered to himself, if that were an elven weapon, or even a hammer.

  Next to him, stood the lither Idhrenohtar. He was tall but lean, his muscles clearly defined, more graceful than his powerful brother. He would be an archer and perhaps knives would be more suited to his physique for he would be quick, and lethal. He rather thought the same of Lindohtar, the Bard Warrior - an archer, perhaps, yet his muscles were not so clearly defined and Rhrawthir remembered then, that he himself had only recently joined The Company.

  Lainion, or Dimaethor, was a strange one indeed. His body was similar to that of Idhrenohtar but his skin was darker and his hair jet black, framing an angular face that hosted the deepest blue eyes Rhrawthir had ever seen. They were strangely slanted, lending the elf a daunting mien indeed - perhaps he should have been named Fierce Face instead of himself. But then he had already come to realise that their warrior names were almost never straight forward. No, this Avarin elf was the Silent Warrior, for reasons he was, as yet, unaware.

  Rhrawthir spotted the silver band upon his arm that denoted mastery in hand to hand combat. He admired it for a moment, before his eyes travelled to the only other elf that sported a similar bracelet.

  Legolas, or Hwindohtar, was only a little shorter than Ram en Ondo, and although not as bulky, neither was he as lithe as Idhreno and Lainion. To look at him, it was not easy to guess his weapons of choice, indeed Rhrawthir knew only that he was a master archer. His He muscle tone was admirable - but this was not the body of a marksman - was it? How one so young could have achieved mastery in anything was beyond his ken.

  As for himself, he was akin to Idhrenohtar, indeed he was skilled in archery, and a budding swordsman, truth be told.

  "I am glad Lord Celegon agreed to let you stay, Rhrawthir," said Legolas quietly as they wait
ed, pulling Galdithion from his musings.

  "So am I," said Rhrawthir with an angelic smile that did not match his warrior name at all.

  "And what of you, Dimaethor?" asked Hwindohtar. "You are joining us but you are already a lieutenant, you are way ahead of us novices," he stated.

  "Well," said the Silent Warrior, "so is Lord Elladan as far as I know, and there he stands with the Noldorin warriors," he said as he watched the group with interest.

  "True," said Hwindohtar as he cast his own eyes over the dark-haired Noldor. He was tall and broad-chested and Rhrawthir had no problems guessing his favoured weapon; Elladan was a swordsman, beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt.

  "Here we go," said Idhrenohtar quietly as they all now saw the commander stride towards them. They watched him appreciatively, for although he was clad similarly to themselves, he wore an ornate leather jerkin over his bare skin, and the bracelet he wore was much larger than theirs - none of them had ever seen the likes for it was beautiful and strange - a remnant from Gondolin, perhaps.

  "Gather round," said the commander simply, watching through slanted eyes as the Noldorin and Silvan warriors complied.

  His blue eyes moved from one warrior to the next, marking their braided hair and the bands upon their arms. They stuck, momentarily, on Hwindohtar's hair, on the high bunch at the crown of his head - the only way he could keep it away from his face as Lainion, or Dimaethor had taught him. Yet still he did not speak as his eyes continued their quest for information on the warriors before him.

  'swordsman, knives, archery, combat, pikeman…' He seemed to be categorising them all, analysing their physical form and their suitability to the weapons at their disposal.

  "Six months," said Glorfiindel suddenly, "that is what you have to show your worth. Six months in which I will shape your bodies, bolster your minds and make you all that you can be. After that time, I will decide who is suitable for command and who is not. You Silvans are here for the ride- your own commanders must decide your fate although I will, of course, provide them with my recommendations.

  You will all train with every weapon for the first month, after which you will choose two to specialise in. If any of you should reach a proficient level I will nominate you for mastery but be warned. Those shiny bracelets come at a price," he paused here for effect. "I want no mediocrity here, no half-hearted effort. I will have it all or nothing at all. Those of you who do not comply to my expectations will be sent with the rest of the warriors for standard training. Here, with me, you excel, or you leave," he said emphatically, watching them all carefully.

  "Now, I want ten rounds of the field - go!" he shouted, wondering how many of them would misinterpret the purpose of this first exercise. Smiling to himself, he nodded at his weapons master, who began to set out the array of swords, knives, bows and pikes.

  Legolas jogged briskly beside the rest of the company, all of who looked at him in puzzlement.

  "Should we not go a little faster? Those Noldor will beat us to it!" scoffed Ram en Ondo but Legolas was adamant.

  "No! That is not the point, Ram en Ondo. Commander Glorfindel did not set us a time limit - this is, I believe, a simple warm up, not a competition," he stated confidently. Indeed the Noldorin warriors were laps ahead of the Silvan warriors, except for Elladan who, although still in front of them, had slowed down.

  Before long, dark-haired warriors began to arrive at Glorfindel's position, smiling as they gasped for breath, bending forward to regain their lost breath and Glorfiindel watched them with a critical eye. Elladan was the last of the Noldor to arrive, garnering for himself a few smirks that Glorfindel did not miss. It was the Silvans who jogged in the last, only to stand before him, their breathing although heavy, was not laboured.

  "Why are you smiling?" asked Glorfiindel flatly, coming to stand before a Noldorin warrior.

  "I am satisfied with my performance, Sir," he said happily.

  "Why?" asked Glorfiindel again, clasping his hands behind his back.

  "Because we came in first, Sir."

  "And that was the point of the exercise?" he asked with an arched brow.

  The warrior was rendered speechless and so he scowled as he listened to what his commander was saying.

  "These six months are to determine your worth as leaders. I am concerned with your bodies AND your minds," he instructed evenly. "You must learn to interpret command, Melven Hadorion. This is not a competition in which there will be a winner and a loser. I may recommend you all for command, or none at all. Your fellow trainees are not your competitors, they are your comrades, fellow warriors - they are not a threat. Do you understand?" asked Glorfindel, his voice low and dangerous and Melven swallowed hard.

  "Yes, Sir."

  As Glorfindel turned, Melven glanced at his fellow Noldorin warriors and scowled, before turning to the Silvans, the scowl turning into a leer. There was hatred in that look that had not gone unnoticed.

  "Now - we start with the short sword," instructed Glorfindel, gesturing at the warriors to pick it up. "Ten stances I want you to repeat until they are perfect. "Front, back, left, right, curve up, curve down, top cut, bottom cut, front swivel, side swivel. Do you have it?" he asked.

  "Aye Sir," they shouted.

  "Line up and begin, and do not stop until I tell you to!"

  Thus the warriors formed a line and began their routine. Some went quicker than others though, and soon enough, the blades were flashing and turning at different moments as the warriors stepped forward and backwards, or twisted to the side. Glorfiindel walked slowly down the line, stopping here and there, correcting a stance before moving to the next.

  Lainion was good, he noted, his basic stances solid. Galdithion was acceptable but Idhren and Ram en were very good and Glorfindel watched them as they worked, before nodding and moving on.

  Legolas moved the slowest, so slow his muscles bulged and corded as he performed, his movements precise. A simple step forward turned into a measured move of power, before he pivoted to the side and executed an undercut, again, so slow Glorfiindel could see each move for what it was, each muscle as it moved limbs and torso.

  There was, however, something off about his free hand.

  "Check your left hand, Legolas."

  "Aye, Sir," he said, his voice strained for although his movements were slow, the strength needed to carry out the moves was thus increased, for there was no inertia to lend power to the strokes.

  Glorfindel turned, puzzled that such perfect stances should be undermined by a flapping left hand - strange, he mused.

  Thirty minutes later, the warriors were coated in sweat, their chests heaving with the prolonged effort.

  "Stop! Two minutes for water," he called.

  The warriors groaned as they made their way to the large barrel of water, handing out the wooden cups that sat to one side and then guzzling the cool liquid as they sat.

  Glorfindel knelt before them, watching them all, noting how some were in worse shape than others.

  "Melven, Dorhal, Celeb, Brethil, you move too fast and the precision is lost. Sael, Bran, not bad but the swivel needs work. Elladan, Lainion, acceptable work. Ram en, Idhren, good work. Legolas, good work but be careful with that flapping arm," he said thoughtfully. Unfortunately, the Nolorin warriors laughed and the Silvans leered back at them.

  "How have you acquired that strange movement?" asked Glorfindel, ignoring the mockery.

  "It is because I am used to using two short swords, not one. My left hand misses the weight of metal, does not know how to compensate for the loss."

  It was not the answer Glorfindel had expected, for wielding two short swords was an art that had been mostly lost - extinct even in the second age. It was, however, a discipline he himself excelled in, for it was not only about skill but about the mind - it was a martial art that required the heart and mind of the warrior, not only his brawn. If this was nothing but mindless defence of an otherwise sloppy performance, Glorfiindel would not have it and so he s
tood and took up two swords, his face thoughtful. Legolas watched him until he came to stand over him.

  "Get up," said the commander, before handing him the two swords. "Show me your words are not a simple attempt to justify yourself," he said challengingly. The Noldorin warriors smirked but the Silvans, with the exception of Rhrawthir who had never seen Legolas fight, simply smiled as they turned to watch.

  "Do it again, with two swords," said Glorfindel, who stepped back to watch, hands now folded over his chest in silent challenge.

  And so Legolas did. Swivelling both blades forwards he began his slow dance, his head moving with the blades but his shoulders opposite to them, his legs well distanced, his steps smooth and powerful. He glided forwards, backwards, to the side and back again and Glorfindel watched in respect. With the first repetition came a new pattern. His left had began again, whilst his right hand began on the second move and Glorfiindel cocked an eyebrow in fascination. To sustain this pattern required much coordination and the concept sparked a distant yet ever present memory.

  "Enough," he said, before turning to the Noldorin warriors, their smirks now gone. The commander said nothing for it was not necessary, but it was then that he knew; Legolas would be a great warrior, and Melven would, once more, be a problem. There was no respect on his face at all, only disdain.

  '…she was murdered…'

  Thranduil shot up, his silver hair flying around his head, sweat beaded upon his pale brow, light grey eyes wide.

  "Lassiel," he whispered, before raking a hand through his dishevelled hair and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

  It was still dark as he came to stand by the long windows, the view beyond breathtaking beneath the full moon that illuminated the giant trees of the Evergreen wood.

  '… a single blade through the heart…'

  "How you suffered for our love, died for it…" he murmured into the now steamy pane of glass.

  '…Thranduil… Amareth is right, there is a traitor amongst us…'