Forgotten Song

Author's note: This story is titled so because of the song Legolas sings by seeing the valley of Imladris again. The lyrics are taken from the Book of Unfinished Tales and is actually the second version of a beautiful poem called ''Kortirion Under the Trees'' by Tolkien himself. I've chosen an earlier version instead of the final one because I wanted to portray the Mirkwood-Elves (who never departed over Sea) as somewhat old-fashioned, more meticulous with traditions - or, as Glorfindel might point out, simply stubborn. Besides, I liked the second version more... The poem (or song, actually), is going to play an important role in this series, having a very deep meening for the Silvan folk.

It was the year 3018 of the Third Age of Middle-earth, the 22nd of October. Amost four months passed by since Boromir, son of Denethor, heir of the Steward of Gondor, left the White City of his ancestors to follow a weird dream and find a place only the lore-masters had ever heard about. A valley in the far North where - as it was told in old legends - Elrond Half-Elven, the greatest of all lore-masters once dwelt... and maybe still did.

Long and torturous his strayings had been, from Minas Tirith through the Gap of Rohan and alongside the Misty Mountains, for the ways had grown dark in recent years and the woods were scrawling with orcs and ther foul beasts, and though many people might have heard about the house of Elrond, no one he asked was able - or ready - to tell him where it lay. Also, his heart was troubled and his mind in turmoil about the way of his departure from Minas Tirith, loaded with bitter memories of his father and bittersweet ones of his brother.

After crossing the land of the Rohirrim, he run into a small company of hunting orcs and lost his horse during the skirmish, which made his way even more troublesome, for he was not used to travel afoot. But most of all he feared to lose his way, knowing only that the mysterious valley he was sent to seek out lay somewhere in the Misty Mountains. Rangers of the North he had met after crossing the River Ninglor advised him to look out for the High Pass, it being the only safe way to cross the mountains, and with the help of the Men of Dale who guarded that pass, he succeeded, indeed, though it cost him high tolls to ensure their help. But after that, he found himself in the unknown woods again, forlorn and helpless, without a guess where he should direct his awkward steps.

Very tired had he grown during his lonely journey, the loss of hope laying heavily on his weary heart. Nothing he had heard or seen on his straying way could give him comfort... he felt cold and starving for company, any company, for talking and laughing and jesting... even for a fight. Anything that could distract him from his gloomy thoughts.

He slept little and shallow, yet the dreams would not stop to torment him. The cold, implacable face of the Lord Denethor, his father, who had sent him outon this errand demanding that he redeemed himself for a love that had come to his heart, unbid- den but impossible to fend off, so forbidden and disastrous that he was reluctant to admit it even to himself most of the time. The shock and sorrow on the fair face and in the clear grey eyes of his brother when he understood why Boromir was chosen to go on this errand in his stead, though it was him, not Boromir, to whom the dreams had come, most of the time at least. The infinite sadness on the pale brow of Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, as she bid him her farewell after that long talk they had in bitter understanding... All those memories came back to him in his troubled dreams, haunting him, robbing him what little peace his restless sleep could have given.

It grew dark once again, and he admitted that he would not be able to continue his fruitless journey for the rest of the night. So, he slumped down under a huge, ancient tree, seeking what little comfort he could find among the roots, thicker than the arm of a troll might have been, leaning against the enormous trunk that sevceral grown men could not have embraced with their joined grips, and hoped that, for once, the dreams would let him have some peace.

The forest was surprisingly quiet, as if it would have been listening to something only trees were able to hear. No birds' tal- king, no animals' moving could be heard, only the almost inaudible dance of leaves high above his head. He listened carefully, trying to decide if it was safe to fall in sleep or if he should try and stay awake. Not that he would have much of a choice, though. Exhaustion was spreading rapidly through his sore limbs like a hidden fever and he needed all his condsiderable willpower already, just to keep his burning eyes open. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to submit to the needs of his strained body...

And suddenly, without as much as a faint noise of wanring, they were there: strange beings, tall and slender, clad in green and brown, with great bows and full quivers across their backs, moving eerily quiet as if they were ghosts of trees long gone... or young trees, themselves, bowing slightly in a wind only trees could feel or hear. Long auburn tresses framed fair, ageless faces, woven into ceremonal braids above delicately pointed ears and held together on the nape of long, graceful necks by silver clasps wrought into the shape of leaves, flowers or butterflies. Bright eyes shone under fine, dark brows and long, dark lashes. Surreally beautiful they were, but full of strength nevertheless: half-forgotten memories of a different world that was now beond the reach of mortal Men.

In the four decades of his life, Boromir seldom met any Elves at all. They hardly ever visited Gondor, and even if they did, they usually went straight to Dol Amroth and beyond that to the Havens, to leave Middle-earth forever. The last time Boromir had seen one of them he was a young boy, but he remembered them well enough to recognise an Elf when he saw one. Still, these here were very different from the ones the legends told about, clad in the rough garb of wood-dwelling people, not unlike that of the Rangers of the North.

'Wood-Elves', he realized. They had to be, otherwise they would not have been able to meld with the trees so completely that not even his keen eyes could detect them, until they moved closer.

Boromir got to his feet, warily, with deliberate slowness, not wanting to agitate them. Wood-Elves were said to be an unpredictable bunch - a lot more dangerous than others of their fair Kin, and many of them had presumably gone wicked during the Dark Days, allying themselves to the Nameless Evil and even serving him, for great was their bitterness about what they called 'the treason of the Noldor'. Also, they were said to handle magic and spells and wizardry a lot more recklessly than any other people who were not actually evil, for their dwellings lay in the most dangerous parts of Middle-earth and they needed all the protection they could master. So it seemed advisable for Boromir to handle them with the utmost care.

He took a small step towards them, spread his arms sidewise, showing that he was not carrying any weapons (not openly, at least), and bowed in a courtly manner.

Their leader came forward. Young he looked, even younger than the rest of them, but an aura of authority surrounded his slender frame, clad in soft brown leather and rough green linen. Thin silver ribbons were woven into the delicate network of his auburn hair that was artfully braided away from his ears and woven together in a tight ornamental braid on the back of his head and held together by a delicately-shaped silver ring that mimicked the form of leaves. This one, Boromir saw at once, was used to give orders and be obeyed.

''We do not require your assistance, Man of Gondor'', he answered in a soft, lyrical voice that contained considerable hiddn powers nonetheless, ''But I do thank you for offering it.''

''The way you are clad and the way you speak gave you away'', the Elf smiled. It was a faint, thoughtful smile, full of memories. ''Besides, you carry the crest of Minas Tirith on your shield. Which Elf on Middle-earth would not recognize the White Tree of Gondor? But do tell me, good sir, what is a Southern warrior doing in the woods of the Misty Mountains? These here are not your usual hunting fields, be it for deer or be it for orcs.''

''Very true'', Boromir agreed, ''but what my issues might be, they are my own. It would not serve my errand to discuss them openly with people I know not. Not even if they are of the Elder Kin.''

The Elf tilted his head slightly as if he were listening to something far, far away. He looked like a young tree in a light breeze. Boromir could only guess what he might have been listening to, for his own ears did not tell him anything.

''My apologies'', the Elf finally said. ''It seems that in my surprise I did forget my manners indeed. I am called Legolas Green- leaf, son of Thranduil, and these here are my fellow archers. We were sent out on an errand of our own from Mirkwood by the King himself.''

Boromir's foggy head jerked up in surprise. Not much was known in Gondor about Mirkwood, for the connections were broken and the news spare - nothing but the fact that Threanduil son of Oropher was its King... and had been ever since the Second Age, in fact. So if this Elf was his son, then he had to be considerably older than Boromir originally thought.

''So you are the Prince of Mirkwood?'' he asked in astonishment. 'Since when does the son of an Elf-King travel with such a small escort only in these dark times?''

''How come that you know the name of my father, Man of Gondor? You cannot be a common soldier then, for few are the contacts between our kingdoms, and I have not seen any of your Kin in Mirkwood in my whole life. I did not think that the Men of the South still remembered us.''

''Much is forgotten'', Boromir admitted with some regret, wishing that his brother, who always had much more interest in Elven lore than he did, were here with him at this moment, ''but the Stewards of Gondor still guard some of the old lore and wisdom. And I am Boromir, first-born son and heir of the Lord Denethor, the six and twentieth Steward ruling in Minas Tirith.''

''And what does the heir of Gondor's Steward seek in the lands that surely have to be strange for him?'' Legolas asked. ''This wilderness does not suit mortal Men. Not even our Kin would hunt here alone.''

Boromir hesitated, but the desire to share his deep troubles overwhelmed him. He had been on his own for so long in this strange lands and the Elf looked at him with such a solemn interest that he finally gave in.

''I am looking for a place called Imladris'', he admitted wearily. ''It is said to be a far northern dale where Elrond Half-Elven dwelt once... or perhaps still does.''

''I am following a dream'', Boromir replied, tiredness spreading in his limbs again. ''My brother'', his voice trembled slightly, ''my brother is cursed with the bitter gift of foresight. Half a year ago, a strange dream came to him in his troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came of to him again; and once to me. In that dream, we heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken,
in Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father who is wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of Elrond's home.''

''And you left your City to find it, without as much as a clue of its whereabouts?'' Legolas asked in awe.

''Desperate is the need of Gondor, and we who are her guardiands are bound to take any means to keep her safe. Therefore my brother was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard but few knew where it lay.''

He drifted off, saddened, remembering the true circumstances of his departure from Minas Tirith, from his father and brother. Legolas looked at him intently, as if he had glanced directly into the very depths of his heart with those deep emerald eyes; then he laid a comforting hand on the Man's heavy shoulder.

''There is much more to tell about your departure and much bitterness in your heart'', he said softly, ''this I can tell. But the secrets of your heart are your own and I do not intend to pry into them. Be comforted, though, for the days of your fruitless search are now over. Then we, too, are on our way to Imladris - or Rivendell, as mortal Men call Elrond's hidden fortress - and the Last Homely House.''

Boromir blinked in surprise and relief, trying to blink away the fog of exhaustion that threatened to overcome his tortured mind.

''So you know the way?'' he asked. The Elf, a faint, reflective smile on his beautiful face, nodded.

''I do. Oh, how well I know it, indeed! Many happy summers have I spent among the immortal trees of that fair dale, and my heart is lightening with every step that brings us closer to its shores.'' He leaned closer, his eyes searching the Man's tired face. ''But I can see how heavy your limbs are with tiredness, son of Gondor. Do you believe you can continue your journey a little longer? For Imladris still lays several leagues before us.''

''I am accustomed to hardness, Prince of Mirkwood, having travelled afoot ever since I had lost my horse, not far from Rohan. Lead on... my feet might be heavier than yours, but they can bear the road no less.''

''As you wish.'' He took the waterskin fom his shoulder and offered it the Man. ''Have at least some feywine first. It will warm you for the tiresome journey.''

Boromir never tasted the feywine of the Elves before but he had heard strange tales of it. His first taste of this legendary drink made all those tales to pale comparism, though. The wine tasted sweet, but fresh and spicy at the same time, like sunshine and wild fruit, and was surprisingly strong for human tastes. As Legolas had said, it warmed his insides rather nicely. The Elf watched his careful gulp with his customary wry half-smile.

''I see you do not take risks, son of Gondor, which is a good thing, for the feywine of Mirkwood can knock off the strongest Man cold if not devoured with care. Come now, follow us. Your strength will last 'til we reach the fair shores of Imladris...''

He took the lead and Boromir, flanked by the quiet archers of Mirkwood, followed him even deeper into the woods. They walked all day, in a considerably but steady pace, with few and short breaks, long enough only to eat a few wafers of cram, the food of the Dale-men for journeys in the wild, and to take another sip of feywine.

The way to the heart of the mountains was longer than Bromir had expected, especially for him who had been cloaked and booted for a journey on horseback, not for a long walk among trees where his long, fur-lined cloak and his great horn got hooked on the tree-branches every time and again, and his long sword and large shield proved to be a rather heavy burden as well. He envied the Elves in their light clothes, made for such journeys, and their easy walk and light strides among their beloved trees.

Still, his pride let him not ask for longer rests, but fortunately, the young-looking Elven prince found his way through the wilderness with the unwavering instinct of light-winged birds returning home from the South after the cold winter had gone. He took his clues from familiar trees whom he greeted like old friends, whispering to them and singing softly while he petted their rough skin with the gentle fondness of a lover - and from irregularly-shaped white stones, most of which were covered with moss or heather so thickly that only the keen eyes of an Elf could have detected the stone under all that guise.

And so the end of the second day came after they had joined for their journey, and when the day began to fall, they finally reached the end of their search as well. There were mots flattering about now, and the light became very dim, for the moon had yet not risen. Boromir, near to the end of his strength already, began to stumble over roots and stones, and when they suddenly came to the end of a steep fall in the ground, he nearly slipped down the slope.

Cool, slender hands grabbed him with surprising strength as two of the Elven archers helped him back onto his feet, supporting him from both sides.

''Here it is at last!'' Legolas took a deep breath, his fair face shone in the twilight with joy and anticipation. ''How has my heart longed to see you again in the silver glow of starlight, oh Imladris, fairest of all places where our Kin dwells in the North!''

Boromir followed his glance, looking over the edge, and saw a valley far below, gleaming softly in the starlight in pale whites and golds. In spite of his tiredness he could hear the coice of the hurrying water in a rocky bed at the bottom - he would learn later that the river was called Bruinen and was under Elrond's command. The scent of the trees grew stronger in the air, and ther was a light on the valley-side across the water, soft and pale and beconing.

Later, he could not remember the way they slithered and slipped in the dusk down the steep zig-zag path into the secret valley of Imladris. At least he did the slithering and slipping, for the light-footed Elves did not seem to suffer from the way. The air grew warmer as they got lower, Legolas gripping his arm firmly to bid support, for the smell of the pine-trees made him drowsy, so that he nearly fell. But Legolas' cool hand kept him from stumbling, and as they went down and down, a feeling of awe filled his heart. The trees changed to beeck and oak, and there was a comfortable feeling in the twilight, almost comfortable enough for him to drop all his defenses.

The last green had almost faded out of the greass when tey came at length to an open glade not far above the banks of the stream. On the other side of the river Boromir could see the large, arched windows and slender pillars of beautifully carved pearly white and pale gold buildings that stood largely open to the sunshine, the winds and the starlight, yes, even to the rain, on every side, their shape mimicking the slender, upward-stretching form of young trees. Then such is the love of Elves to the trees and birds and every fair creaure that they want to be among them, even if they rest under their own roof.

And Legolas stopped for a moment, his eyes wide with longing and bright with nearly unbearable joy, and he sang in a soft voice - a song, so ancient that even Boromir, better versed in the Elven tongue than most Men, had a hard time to undersand it.

O fading town upon an inland hill
Old shadows linger in thine ancient gate,
Thy robe is grey, thy old heart is now still;
Thy towers silent in the mist await
Their crumbling end white through the storeyed elms
The Gliding Water leaves there inland realm,
And slips between long meadows to the Sea,
Still bearing downward over murmurous falls
One day than another to the Sea,
And slowly thither many years have gone,
Since first the Elves have built Kortirion.

O climbing town upon thy windy hill
With winding streets, and alleys shady-walled
Where now untamed the peacocks pace in drill,
Majestic, sapphire and emerald;
Amid the girdle of this sleeping land,
Where silver falls the rain and gleaming stand
The whispering hos of old deep-rooted trees
That cast long shadows in many a bygone noon,
And murmured many centuries in the breeze.
Thou art the city of the Land of Elms,
Alalminórë in the Feary Realms.

Sing of thy trees, Kortirion, again:
The beech on hill, the willow in the fen,
The rainy poplars, and the frowning yews
Within thine agéd courts that muse
In sombre splendour all the day;
Until the twinkle of the early stars
Comes glinting through their sable bars,
And the white moon climbing up the sky
Looks down upon the ghosts of trees that die
Slowly and silently from day to day.
O Lonely Isle, here was thy citadel,
Ere bannered summer from his fortress fell.
Then full of music were thine elms.
Green was their armour, green their helms,
The Lords and Kings of all thy trees.
Sing, then, of elms, renowned Kortirion,
That under summer crowds their full sail on,
And shrouded stand like masts of verdurous ships,
A fleet of galleons that proudly slips
Across long sunlit seas...

He trailed off and Boromir saw with mild shock the tears that were streaming down not only his but also his companions' face. He could only guess what a meaning this song must have had for the Wood-Elves.

''What song was that?'' He whispered, more to himself than to the Elves, but Legolas heard him, of course.

''A very old and mostly forgotten one'', he answered, wiping his tears away without the slightest embarrassment. ''Those were only the first verses, though.''

''And you sang the old and clumsy verses, as usual'', a new and (for Boromir) unknown voice said, and a tall Elf, clad in a gold-embroided white robe and a deep red cloak came out from the trees, bowing slightly towards them. His hair, unlike that of the Wood-Elves, was not braided, and it framed his ageless face like molten gold. He had the clear, ringing voice of all Elves, but something in it told about power and experience and very, very high age.

''I sang them as it is customary among the Silvan folk'', Legolas replied, smiling; it had to be an old argument between the two of them, Boromir guessed, for neither looked truly upset about it. ''We prefer to keep our songs as tradition gifted them upon us, instead of twisting them to match every new fashion.''

''Most stubborn they are, the haughty Tree Children of Mirkwood'', the golden Elf countered, making them both laug, ''But their voices are softer than summer breeze among the golden leaves, so we forgive them.'' They laughed again, then clasped each other's forearms in a warrior-like manner before embracing like the old friends they obviously were. ''Welcome in the valley. Legolas. Too long it has been since your feet touched ground under our trees. Your return will be, no doubt, the source of great joy for the whole valley - but most of all for its master.''

''I do hope so'', Legolas replied with a sigh. ''Long have I craved to see him again as well; albeit he might not be overjoyed about the news whose bearer I was chosen to be.''

''We are used to all kinds of black news nowadays'', the golden-haired Elf shrugged with feline grace. ''Though the Prince of Mirkwood arriving in the company of a stranger - and a mortal Man above all - is certainly not something we would see every day.''

''No, indeed, it is not'', Legolas laughed to the slight rebuke, ''and you, dear friend, were right to remaind me of my manners. But Boromir son of Denethor has come all the long way from Minas Tirith to seek out Elrond's wisdom, so I thought it only fair to bring him with me.'' Then he turned to Boromir and gestured towards the other Elf. ''And this is Glorfindel who dwells in the house of Elrond.''

Boromir glared at the Elf whom he had heard of in ancient legends only, told him by the nurses and teachers of his early childhood, realizing that Glorfindel had to be at least three thousand years old - probably much older even - and had fought enemies of such power and evil he couldn't even imagine, himself. And he was overwhelmed with amazement and disbelief, for Glorfindel's face was youthful and fair and fearless and merry as that of a young child, not a sign revealing his true age, if not the troubled depths of his eyes.

''Hail and well met, son of Denethor!'', said the Elf-lord to Boromir. ''You chose the time of your arrival well; for Elrond has summonded a Council for the near future, and he will, no doubt, be relieved that the Steward of Gondor can be told of its decisions.''

Legolas furrowed his smooth brow. This slight sign of concern, strangely, belied his youthful looks for once. Boromir could not help wondering just how old the fair Prince of Mirkwood might be. As young and innocent as he seemed, there was a wisdom in his eyes and a hardness among his features that told of experience, good and bad alike.

''Has Estel returned yet?'' he asked. Glorfindel nodded, relief clearly written in his face.

''Two days ago; and the Ring-bearer with him. I left Imladris two weeks earlier, sent by Elrond to look for them, for we feared that they were in grave danger upon the road. Elrond received news that troubled him. Some of my kindred, jurneying in the lands beyond the Baranduin, learned that things were amiss and sent messages as swiftly as they could.''

Legolas nodded sharply, lips pressed together in a thin, grim line, emerald eyes glittering cold and hard like frozen water.

''We, too, got a message from Gildor Inglorion, saying that the Nine were abroad and the Ring-bearer astray without guidance, for Mithrandir had not returned.''

''There are few, even in Imladris, who can ride openly against the Nine; but such as there were, Elrond sent out north, west and south'', Glorfindel added. ''It was my lot to take the Road, and I came to the Bridge of Mitheitel and left a token there for Estel to guide him. Three of the servants of Sauron were on the bridge, but they withdraw, and I pursued them westward. I came also upon two others, but they turned away southward. After that, I searched for Estel's trail. Two days it took me to find it, and until great peril we crossed the Ford. But alas! The Nine, reunited, found us and trapped us between themselves and the river, and the Ring-bearer was wounded.''

''Elrond says yes'', Glorfindel answered soothingly. ''He found the splinter of the blade in the wound, deep and moving inwards, and removed it. And now, that Mithrandir has arrived as well, we finally can take counsels.''

Mithrandir! Now that was a name that made even a tired Boromir alert again. It had been only a year ago that the Grey Pilgrim, as Gondor's Men called him in elf-fashion, visited Minas Tirith and got leave of Denethor to look at the secrets of the Steward's treasury again, as he had done many times earlier. Ever he would search and would question the lore-masters of Denethor's house, above all else concerning the Great Battle that was fought upon Dagorlad in the beginning of Gondor when the Dark Lord was overthrown. And he was eager for stories of Isildur, though of him even the Wise of Minas Tirith had less to tell; for nothing certain was ever known among the Men of Gondor of his end.

But Faramir, ever the scholar and of curious mind, had learnt (in the rare times when Mithrandir would teach him), or gues- sed, and he had kept it ever secret in his heart since, sharing it with Boromir only, that Isildur took something from the hand of the Unnamed, ere he went away from Gondor, never to be seen among mortal Men again. Here, Faramir thought, was the answer of Mithrandir's questioning. But it seemed then a matter that concerned only the seekers after ancient learning, and Boromir, not being one of them could have not cared less, so Faramir abandoned the thought as well.

Nor when the riddling words of their dream were debated among them did the brothers think of Isildur's Bane as being the same thing. For Isildur was ambushed and slain by orc-arrows, according the only legend that they knew, and Mithrandir had never told them more.

Now though, as Legolas and Glorfindel of the ancient legends were talking about some old evil he could not even fathom, the elder son of Denethor began to think about all those events once more, wondering if they had the answer before their very eyes, but were cursed with blindness so that they didn't even realize it. He only listened to the discussion of the Elves with half an ear, for the people and places they were talking about said naught to him, his mind pondering about that dream again. Would he ever come to understand its meaning? Would it help him to protect the White City of the Kings against peril? Or had he made this long and torturous journey for nothing and will have to return to his father in shame?

He shook his head in glumness and defense as if he could have shaken off his tiredness and doubts. but even this small gesture proved to be too much for his spent strength, and he swayed on his feet and almost fell. Only the two pairs of strong Elven hands kept him going.

''Do show him to a room where he can rest and summon back his strength, Glorfindel, I beg you'', Legolas said. ''I need to see Elrond at once; but in the morrow, I shall come and bring him to the Lord of Imladris, for their will have much to discuss.''

There was a look of quiet understanding between the two Elves, a meaning much deeper behind their words of courtesy than a mere mortal could have guessed. Then Glorfindel simply nodded and - wrapping a supporting arm around Boromir's slumped shoulders - shepherded the Man of Gondor to a nearby guest house, leaving it to Legolas to come for him and escort him to Elrond's house.

Legolas, however, dismissed his own escort, leaving them to the hospitality of sentries who were now coming out from the trees as well, and took his own shortcut way to Elrond's halls.