Title & Chapter Number: Elencálë (The Light of the Elves) 2/?
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Middle Earth/Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon
Rating: NC-17 Romance/Adventure
Disclaimer:
Warnings:
Betas:
Cast: Legolas/Shu Lien
Timeline: AU - Post RotK
Spoilers: None
Summary: This story takes place about 100 years after the quest of the One Ring. Even after the fall of Sauron, the foul breath of evil can still be felt on the winds of Middle Earth. Some say it is just the nature of the world, the shadow of the light. Some say it is rising and has once again become sentient. King Elessar rules with a just and even hand, but Men throughout the land are falling into darkness, succumbing to greed, hatred and violence among themselves and against the world. The Light of the Elves departs as the Eldar continue to withdraw to the West, leaving darkness in their wake.
Notes: Elves do not close their eyes during Reverie. While I have updated the sexual culture of the Eldar to reflect more modern values (and indeed the fact that I feel that such sensual and advanced beings would revel in such a pass time and consider it natural and pure), the concept that Elves can tell if other Elves have had sex actually is Tolkien's.
Chapter 2
The tree swayed slightly with Legolas' weight, he was up so high. Finally he could see a figure running in the far distance. He caught glimpses of the black form periodically through spaces in the foliage and gauged the path that he was taking. Dropping lightly to the ground Legolas called to his horse and leapt onto his back urging him in a direction to intercept the path of the man.
Legolas had needed to escape the confines of the White City where he, Gimli and Elrohir had been visiting Elessar and Arwen. Gimli had come to check on the work of the dwarves he had sent to help rebuild Minas Tirith, and Elrohir had taken the trip to see his sister. Legolas had stayed overnight in the wood, soaking up the silence, reveling in the smell of earth and plants, watching the stars through the trees; the perfect antithesis to the bustling crowds and the acrid smells and stone of the human city.
It was late morning when a gray haze began to settle over his senses, making his nerves feel raw. He had not felt that sensation since the days of the Fellowship. He followed it, going further and further in the woods towards the east, the feeling growing stronger. He did not think this running man was the source of this evil, but perhaps it was from this that he fled.
Coming to a clearing with a gentle gurgling stream, Legolas leapt off his horse and let him water. Listening carefully he heard footsteps in the distance. He lithely climbed a near tree and waited. The steps were very light for a human, but not Elvish. They were measured, even and precise, the gait of a trained warrior. As he began to be able to hear the breath he realized that the man was exhausted. The breath was controlled, but ragged, struggling to keep up with the steps. As Legolas peered through the trees he saw the man running toward the clearing. This could not be a man full grown, he was too slight, but what was a youth doing out here running for his life?
Nimbly avoiding roots and plants, his footsteps light on the fallen leaves, this was someone used to the wood. He was dressed all in black, in garb similar to Elvish archers, but a style that he had not seen before: the sleeves and pants were of a wider cut, but had been bound at the forearms and calf with strips of cloth. His clothes' condition spoke of a long and difficult journey, and he wore no pack, just a weapon on his back. All that was visible of his face were the boy's eyes which were set with icy determination; his head and face were wrapped in a black scarf. All of these things seemed incongruous, something was not right, Legolas felt. Perplexed, he watched as the figure burst into the clearing looking around briefly before leaning his hands on his thighs and gulping air, coughing slightly.
Straightening again he made his way towards the water, taking note of Legolas' horse, and continuing to scan the area. He moved in a manner similar to the Elves with a cat-like grace. Holding his hand out to the horse he whispered to it a gentle greeting in perfect Quenya. Much to Legolas' shock the horse neighed softly returning the greeting, watching the boy casually as he dropped to the water
and drank. Legolas' horse was infamously edgy and loyal and never allowed a stranger, neither Elvish nor human, near him without protest. At a rustling sound in the distance the figure shot up like a spring, turning back to face Legolas where he hid in the tree, eyes wild and searching. Moving silently to the horse, he spoke softly to him coming closer. The horse bowed his head permissively and the figure stroked the neck, continuing to whisper soothing, welcoming words. Legolas shook his head, confused, and dropped soundlessly from the tree.
He walked up behind the figure - who was preparing to mount Legolas' horse - in the silent way of the Elves and reached his hand out to touch his shoulder. His fingers had barely made contact with the tattered fabric when the figure whirled around with a lightening open-handed strike. Taken off guard, Legolas did not even have time to block it and it contacted heavily with his side. Elvish reflexes saved him two more blows as the figure seamlessly launched another hit to Legolas' chest and jumped into the air spinning around to bring a foot to strike the arm shielding his head. The force of the blow made Legolas stumble backwards. The next strike was interrupted in mid-swing, as the boy's eyes grew wide. Putting his palms together he bowed low and then straightened. Legolas' horse had merely sidestepped slightly with a soft nicker.
"Forgive me Master Elf. I certainly did not mean..." he began in a Sindarin that was as natural as a native tongue, though with a strange accent. Legolas put up a hand as he shook his head to clear it from the blow, confused by both the boy and the horse's behavior. The boy continued apologetically, "I am being pursued... I have been on the run for days... my senses are not what they should be." Suddenly the boy's eyes left Legolas' face as he stared into the wood. The sound of heavy footsteps were barely audible to the boy, but Legolas was surprised by how close they were - he had sloppily been distracted by this enigma, he chided himself.
"Take my horse. Go! Send him back for me when you are out of harm's way." Legolas urged. The boy nodded and with a few words to the horse, leapt lightly onto his back and settled easily into the Elvish riding position, and the horse galloped off. Legolas barely had time to consider a battle plan and notch his arrows before the first of the Uruk-hai appeared through the trees. He was felled immediately by Legolas' bow.
The boy had turned around and saw that Legolas was standing to fight instead of fleeing and, without a thought, turned the horse around. Leaping off the steed and sending him away with a whisper, the boy ran into the fray drawing his weapon in a heart beat and cutting down an Uruk-hai that had escaped Legolas' arrows. Settling into an easy and intuitive battle configuration, the boy stood in front and cut down the enemy, while Legolas' bow covered him and kept his attackers to a minimum.
As Legolas notched his arrows with lightening speed, he watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. He was a formidable warrior. How could one so young possess such skill? What was perhaps odder was that he seemed torn from a ballad of old. His weapon was a butterfly sword, a pair of short swords with a slight curve to the blades whose handles fit together to form one heavy blade or two
lethal ones. But it was his fighting style that fascinated Legolas. His counter attacks were executed with very fluid, well-practiced precision and economy. He used the momentum of the larger, stronger Uruk-hai against themselves and moved in never-ending circles, always keeping a solid and centered balance and drawing them in until they were vulnerable and then cutting them down with a smooth stroke that killed instantly. His focus was intense and complete and his ability to anticipate the next move of his attacker was uncanny. This boy fought in the ancient way.
As a warrior, Legolas wished that he had not been occupied so that he could just watch, he had never seen this style executed and it was unusual that Elves ever encountered anything new. A bell chimed in his mind and he remembered a ballad of his early days of a mythic people, the Mandärin, monks who dedicated their lives completely to the ancient ways of Elf and man, ho developed their focus and life energy as a practice, who trained in the art of defense as a spiritual discipline. These stories were no longer sung. It was thought that these people were mere legend, though the Elves had no way of really knowing as they had continued to distance themselves from the mortal world
When his arrows ran out, Legolas drew his knives and fought along side the youth. They were natural shield mates and fell into an easy battle rhythm, intuiting when the other needed assistance.
After the last Uruk-hai had fallen, the boy remained in a defensive posture for a time, breath heaving. He then looked around uncertainly and dropped his weapons heavily. Turning to Legolas who was starting to sheath his own weapons, he asked "Are you injured?" When Legolas shook his head, the boy collapsed.
Surprised, Legolas leapt to the boy's side, kneeling to examine him. He realized that he had several recent injuries which were still oozing blood through the cuts in the fabric, but they were not serious. This youth was beyond exhausted. The battle adrenaline had fled leaving a hollow, gaunt and heaving mass in its wake. Legolas reached out a gentle hand to pick him up, but the boy sat up instantly at the touch, brushing his hand away roughly with a grunt. Almost as if he did not see Legolas he looked around until his eyes found the stream and he began to pull himself towards it, eyes focused with determination on the running waters.
"Let me help you..." Legolas ventured, feeling awkward. The boy didn't respond but kept up his agonizing crawl. Exasperated, Legolas shook his head and called to his horse. As his horse came trotting through the trees in the distance, Legolas retrieved some arrows and then saw the boy's carelessly discarded weapons. He squatted and picked them up reverently, his hands tracing the blades. Standing and walking to his horse, he pulled a rag from his saddle bag as he greeted him and then wiped the blades clean. These weapons were beautiful! And very, very old. The technique
used to form the blade had long since been forgotten. What stood out the most was that each blade was engraved. One in Quenya, in an old style of calligraphy and the other in a language and symbol that was foreign to him. The Quenya said: "Always the battle of the spiritual warrior is with the Self." Fitting the blades together he swung the sword appreciatively with quick movements of his wrist, glancing over to the boy who was still stomach down, head over the bank of the stream, drinking slowly and gasping.
Legolas' eyes snapped back from his examination of the weapon. The figure had removed its head wrap and a thick, waist-length braided coil of black hair was lying like a snake across the leaves. Legolas' eyes widened as a few of the incongruities fell into place. This was a woman! The revelation brought Legolas out of his reverie around the weapon and, hanging the blade on his saddle, he removed some food from his bags and the healing pack.
The woman was now achingly pulling herself up to a kneeling position and leaning over the stream and splashing her face with water, her arms and hands trembling. Legolas walked up beside her and sat cross-legged in the leaves, setting the packages before him and waiting for her to finish. Soon she sat back on her feet and leaned her head back, closing her eyes as she took a few more breaths, then she turned to him, meeting his gaze.
"I am sorry." She said simply. Legolas said nothing but reached into one of the packs and pulled out a dried ration of meat, handing it to her. She looked at it a moment and then put her palms together inclining her head. "Thank you, you honor me. Forgive me, but do you have some bread? My people do not eat the flesh of animals." She said apologetically. Legolas was already rummaging to bring out cheese and bread, having offered the meat first as it was usually more appreciated. Again she bowed taking the food and then began devouring it ravenously and unselfconsciously. Legolas watched her as she ate. She was of a race of humans he had never seen. Her eyes were black and almond shaped with lids that were flush with her delicate brows. Her cheekbones were high and jaw defined, sweeping delicately into a softly rounded nose. Her lips were full and her skin, even through the remaining grime and scratches, was creamy with none of the ruddiness he saw in the Gondorians. She was ageless, well into womanhood, but the years had not yet drawn their heavy lines. He sat and studied her, eyes taking in every detail. She made quick work of finishing the food and once again met his eyes.
"I am Shu Lien of the Mandärin from the Romanórë . I am traveling on Elvish business to Rivendell. I owe you my life, thank you." Once again she put her hands together to bow her appreciation.
Touching his forehead, returning the respect, he said "My lady, I am Legolas of Mirkwood, and our debt is mutual. I have not seen that many Uruk-hai this far west in many years. Why do you travel alone?" He asked, holding silently out the healing pack as he scooted near her, her body language assenting to the battle ritual.
There was a long moment of silence. "We started out as nine." She began very quietly. "Four of them human, four Elves... I have lost a brace of kinsman..." She coughed again, and closed her eyes to try to clear the blurring and anguish.
"Forgive me. You should not speak. You have been through much toil, this is clear." Legolas said softly as he examined and cleaned the larger of the gashes. She did not flinch, but just continued to try to control her heaving chest. She had been on the run from this group of Uruk Hai for close to three days, only able to eat what she could scavenge from the forest as she fled, since she had lost her pack in an ambush weeks ago. The battle had really been too much for her.
When he had finished he said quietly, checking the forest quickly, "We should leave. Are you well enough to ride? Minas Tirith is almost a day's journey from here and night will fall shortly."
She nodded, tight-lipped. He then stood and she tried to, but fell miserably down into the leaves. Legolas dropped the packs and bent to help her up. This time she accepted, she had never felt so weak. He called his horse softly over to him and helped her into the saddle, where she valiantly tried to sit erect. Picking up the packs, he stowed them and then regarded her, she was slowly slumping against the horse's neck. Concerned, he leapt up behind her and put his arms around her slight waist, leaning her back against his chest, as he spoke his horse on.
Shu Lien was very proud and independent. She would have never tolerated this arrangement in any other situation, but she was so very tired, and her heart was broken. She also instinctively trusted Legolas, for some reason other than the fact that he was an Elf. Trying to resist at first, she finally let go and settled her head back against his shoulder, as the horse's gait jarred her limp body. The pain and sorrow of the last months descended on her and she was too weak to quell the deluge. Tears fell down her cheeks and onto Legolas' hands and arm as she cried silently. The last thing she remembered before dropping into welcomed blackness was the soft lilting verse of an ancient Quenya lullaby being sung sweetly into the dusk.
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