This is set really between scenes in Chapter 3 of More Dangerous but in writing The Halls of the Elvenking, it just needed saying – because I think it was Anglach’s death that made Legolas change from the light hearted and rather shallow elf he had been to the more complex and thoughtful elf of More Dangerous.
On Faerie, Spiced Wine, Cheekybeak, Naledi and Arasa.
Firsts and Forevers
The three had started out together, leaving the feast that he could not enjoy, with Miriel leading them on. It was Legolas that captured her, by her design it seemed. Not until Legolas wakened after did he think of Lossar. He could not have slept long. The flaming torch thrust into the loam was yet alive. Miriel’s eyes remained closed while they lay together. Legolas watched the rise and fall as she breathed for a time then turned away to the stars winking at him through the branches. He was no longer under the spell of lust nor was he so exhausted that he could not think. What they shared accentuated the void in his heart rather than filled it.
He slid away from Miriel and began to dress, his absence waking her.
The moment they returned to the glen Miriel was greeted by a dozen young relatives. Smaller hands took hers and pulled her towards one of the bonfires that was now low enough for the older elflings to jump.
As she was whisked away on children’s laughter Legolas slipped away also, back to the old oaks, to his own unadorned flet. He kicked away the blanket, the only furnishing. During the feast he made merry for his family, his father’s sake, but took no comfort in it, at least not while sober.
Now without the numbness of wine, he slumped to the floor and relived Nauriel’s terrible riling against Laersul when he was not to blame. The blame was only his, Legolas thought again. He bent his head, raked his fingers through his hair, and for the thousandth time, relived the moment of finding Anglach. The bloody mess where his eyes should be, the tattered rags of his ears.
His sobs were silent and racking and his tears bitter.
Alone for minutes or hours, he did not know but allowed himself to grieve once more until a cold, comfortless sleep with troubled dreams shrouded him. The stars retreated. Celdir and Anglach’s distant voices called from the edge of Mandos’ ramparts. He followed, quickening his pace as the voices faded until he ran but the sound disappeared into empty darkness like Naurion’s ragged screams as he disappeared along with his orc captors.
Legolas became conscious of an embrace, a familiar scent, a whisper. He opened his eyes among the living, but in the depth of night, his cheek against a shoulder, in the softness of long dark hair. At first he thought his brother, Thalos, had come. He rubbed his sore eyes, opening them instead to Lossar who banished the darkness close around, and regarded him with a depth of compassion that completely undid him.
“If only there were no last times, only firsts and forever.” Lossar sighed and drew his friend close again, stroking his long hair, a glow of silver, down the length of his back until Legolas wept against his shoulder.