By Vanessa Parry (alias Elwen)
Word Count: 804
Rating: G
Summary: Legolas experiences the thrill and beauty of the music orchestrated by Iluvatur.
A light breeze sent clouds scudding across the night sky, seeking in vain to hide bright Ithil and the stars of Elbereth, high above them. The place was silent, but for the dark whispering of a stray breath of wind that eddied about the vale, teasing coldly at their cloaks: underscored by the distant howl of wargs and overlaid with Gandalf’s voice, chanting at the doors.
His own heart sang quietly, subdued by the cold menace of the place. Soon he would be asked to enter the dwarven realm of Moria. Did Durin’s folk still live there? Legolas touched the ancient rock wall before him, straining to hear some measured drum of life beyond. Nothing. And yet he could hear Gimli’s bold strong rhythm not far distant. If there were dwarves within, should he not be able to hear them? Perhaps the depth of cold granite beneath his palms choked off their song. His long life contained no memory of such a place: he had no experience on which to call for aide.
All about him he could hear the music of his companions. Aragorn and Boromir wove an ancient harmony of war and oath. Gandalf’s melody was strong and sure. No note faltered but, as always, it was muted for he held his power leashed. The hobbits formed their own quartet of song. It rang merry and bright, although within it wove a counterpoint of fear and, somewhere below, he heard the dissonance of the Ring, now inextricably interwoven within Frodo’s soul. Legolas tore his mind away, as he found himself drawn down in to the cold metallic tones.
Slowly, as he sorted through the different harmonies, he began to find other music here. He turned from the wall and tilted his head to listen again, sending out a questioning phrase of song. From deep within the lake before him came a dark reply, but it was so quiet that he could not identify the opus that had birthed it. It chanted dark want and hunger and Legolas drew back, shuddering at its icy discord.
Suddenly a soft, strong duet insinuated itself in to his heart. It was ancient and carolled of sun and life and growth. The wood elf followed the light theme and found himself standing before the gates once more. His song spiralled up in relief as he stood between two ancient holly trees, their shapes distorted by abuse and age. In his preoccupation with the dark of Moria he had not heard their soft melody: had thought them long dead.
Legolas stepped towards the twisted trunk of the nearest and reached out to stroke the warm wood, sighing with relief as he was accepted, and moved closer, to lean his full weight against the ancient sentinel. Their symphony enfolded him. Feeling his distress, they sought to sooth his anxious thoughts and wrapped him round with soft melody of comfort, as a mother singing lullaby to a fretful child.
He stood, enraptured, as their slow measure told of days long past, when the doors of Durin’s halls stood wide to the world. They sang of sunlight on many fair folk, elf and dwarf, passing to and fro between their welcoming and outstretched boughs. Then the music slipped in to a melancholy minor as they intoned of darkness that had descended slowly, the slamming shut of the doors and the growing foulness of the deep lake that lapped in oily discord about the borders of their deep roots. Now, for many turnings of the seasons, theirs had been but a two-part harmony. No eldar came to share their song and tell of far off lands and great deeds.
Tears slipped from the prince’s eyes and fell in silent homage to their lonely vigil. He reached down within his soul and began to weave his symphony. He sang of the sun on a thousand green leaves in the summer of his forest home and wove in the deep strong harmony he had found in Imladris. Next, he blended in the light trill of bird song at evening; the delicate tones of wind swept gorse and heather from the mountain passes and drew a chord from each of his companions. Carefully he orchestrated, setting counterpoint and harmony, melody and rhythm, until he was satisfied. When all was arranged he offered it up to the ancient holly beneath his fingers.
His heart leapt as they accepted his creation; weaving in their own soft melody and pulling in the moon and stars to swell the music until it filled the wood elf’s soul and would have swept him away, if the cold grate of stone on stone had not pulled him back.
And Durin’s doors swung slowly open to swallow him in silence.
THE END