(no subject)
Rumor among the elves was kept quiet, for though they enjoyed talking and sharing information, they did try to make sure that when they spoke, they spoke the truth. Which was why few knew of the lost son of Fingolfin. The youngest son that even Fingolfin himself barely spoke of, that disappeared across the sea when Feanor sailed - the event tangled tragically with the Kinslayings. Most had the tale correct - those that knew of the event - that Aearlin did not leave of his own volition, but by a devastating accident.
A fight had broken out between father and youngest son, though it was only a petty squabble. Both knew that given a few hours alone with his thoughts, Aearlin would once again return to his father, sweet as he ever was, and apologize for his rash behavior. After all, every Noldorian elf knew well that Aearlin and Fingolfin were inseparable since Aearlin’s birth, only thirty-nine years before his disappearance. Still not even an adult in the eyes of elves. They loved each other dearly, which was evidenced by the effort each made in giving the other reason to be proud and happy.
Aearlin was skilled with both blade and bow, taught by his siblings whenever possible. He was learned in the languages of all elves, in herbal lore and the history of the world itself. He was sweet-tempered and somewhat innocent, which was why - when Feanor commanded the kinslayings, Fingolfin ordered his youngest not to lift his blade, swearing an oath that not -all- of the Noldor would be stained with cursed blood on their hands. He would keep some purity within a tainted race. But to keep one’s hands clean and pure did not, sadly, keep him from seeing the horrors of war.
The kinslayings had worn heavily on Aearlin’s mind, and as such, drew many an argument to the forefront with his father, simply for the sake of blowing off stress and frustration. But, as it was, Aearlin was lost to his father upon the return of the Noldor to Arda, Feanor in a fervor to retrieve the stolen Silmarils. He was put into the service of one of Feanor’s captains once he was discovered, and for months upon months upon years, he was kept in servitude. When he finally did escape, he fled to, then to Lothlorien, looking for some form of comfort. Some protection. Some understanding. He found it within the golden light of Lothlorien, and dwelt there till the middle of the first age, when he left yet again to survive on his own. And after that, none ever heard word of any elf by the name of Aearlin, save for the whispers of a “ghostly elf” within the Misty Mountains.
When the other elven cities cropped up - Imladris, the Great Green Wood, and still others, rumors of a mysterious elf of golden hair and eyes the tint of the sea itself on a warm day filtered through the people within. Murmurs that some feral elf dwelt in the shadows of the forests and mountains, watching. Waiting.
And so the rumors died down, lingering only in myth - that there was a golden elf of the Noldor that lived on his own, solitary and searching for something. But none knew truly what it was.
Aearlin Fingolfinion. Golden child of the Sea.
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He couldn't remain hidden forever. Still, knowing this information did not stop Aearlin from trying. Centuries would pass between moments when he entered the cities of either Imladris, Lothlorien or Greenwood, only to barter new clothes - sometimes having lost his own completely, or new weapons from the craft-elves from each city. He knew only that Elrond was aware of his existence, for the dark-haired half-elf had sought him out once or twice during his brief stays in Imladris. He rarely spoke to any, however - even Elrond - choosing to fade swiftly back into the mountains and forests that were his home.
Once in a while he might appear in Imladris with injuries too great to remain in the mountains with, and on those such occasions, Elrond would welcome him into the First (and last!) Homely House, patch him up, give him new clothes and send him on his way. Always, he wanted to ask the feral elf who he was, where he had come from… but every time he was led astray in his questions by sly comments or careful distractions. Still, he knew the fair elf’s name was Aearlin, and that he was not a threat to his realm - and that was all Elrond ever truly needed to know.
And he knew he’d have to go to Imladris after this particular moment. He’d been caught by orcs before, though usually he was far more capable of fighting his way out of the situation than this particular instance. Right now he was laying on the muddy floor of a cave just off the main path through the Misty Mountains, his clothing torn to shreds and more gashes along his skin than he’d care to count. The one upon the back of his head had him concerned - head wounds often bled more than others. Another on his leg and one more across his stomach had him shifting stiffly, glaring at the foul beasts that surrounded him. Even now, he refused to consider what had been done to him thus far - he had lived for millennia, and he would continue to do so! No orc, and nothing that an orc could do, would ever take him from this world - if he had anything to say about it at least.
He winced, staring at the dark bodies around him. They were sleeping, and would for a little while longer, at least. If he could get his hands on a weapon…
There! A knife! He inch-wormed his way over toward the dull, black blade, rolling slightly till he could get his fingers wrapped around the hilt, then with some pressure and a few quick jerks of the knife and his wrists, the cording snapped from around his wrists. Fingers stung a moment or two as blood returned to them, but he couldn’t think too much on that. He leaned forward, slicing through the bindings that held his ankles together, then with a wince and a hobble, he edged toward the cave opening.
The guards were half-asleep. Again, fate seemed to smile favorably upon him. The knife met their throats before they could utter a cry that anyone was there, and with a snarl of a smile he stumbled forward into the bitter snow. A faint trail of red and brown followed him - dirt and blood scraped from his tatters and skin - but he couldn’t help that. It’d lead the orcs right to him, but he had no energy to cover his tracks. Not now. He continued to walk, feet a cross between numb and aching, bare in the frozen whiteness. He had to escape.
But his battered form really couldn’t take much else. He wavered and swayed, then with a groan of protest he fell into the snow just a mile from the cave he’d left. His eyes closed, his skin emitting the faintest luminescence, and he finally gave into the blackness. Sleep would be wonderful.
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Portions of Mirkwood were covered in shadow now, and though guards were needed, Silinde was granted with a reprieve of the daily fight against the ever-growing threat. Royal guards seldom were awarded time off, but the Mirkwood warrior was the lucky chosen ellon to escort Thranduil’s beloved son to Imladris.
It was a joyous occasion for the twin sons of Elrond that prompted the journey. A birthday celebration, one that young Prince Legolas would not dare to miss and Silinde was grateful for that. It would not be easy to contain the excitement of the younger elf during the journey, but the blond warrior would welcome the change. The constant battle against the shadow was draining his spirit, and a short time away would be appreciated. Now with their provisions, a handful of trusted warriors, Silinde along with his prince were ready to go.
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The path through the Misty Mountains could either be a simple experience, or one filled with obstacles from the snow, or worse yet orcs. Unfortunately, it seemed this would be the later for the scouts sent ahead of the Mirkwood party reported the foul presence. Orders where given, especially for the safety of Legolas, who was no experienced warrior, though he was showing great promise.
Only a few hundred yards, and the first orc was spotted, running towards what looked like an elf. Keeping Legolas by his side, Silinde allowed his warriors to forge ahead, taking care of any stragglers with his arrows. Once every orc was confirmed dead, Silinde went to the dirty ellon. Dropping to the snow covered in elvish blood, the Mirkwood ellon gently moved the injured elf’s matted locks to see if he was conscious.
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He wasn't sure how long he'd been lost for. Only that the blackness that had claimed him faded slightly as warm hands replaced the frozen snow he'd been laying against. Gentle. How long had it been since he'd been treated so tenderly? This could not be an orc! No orc knew how to be kind or careful, even when they'd wanted to keep him alive, if only to hear him scream. A hoarse groan left his lips, aqua eyes drifting open after a few moments. Oh, he ached!
Golden hair framed the face that peered down at him. Was this Glorfindel, come from Imladris? Or was it some other of Elrond's people? "Go..." he gasped, fingers pushing weakly against the other elf's arm. "Orcs... danger..." Why couldn't he speak properly? What tangled his tongue to the point where he'd been unable to utter a full sentence? Or even a full thought!
His vision swam, blurring the gold of his rescuer's face into the pale cream of his skin, and with a whimper he lost consciousness once more.
He drifted in and out of his mind as time went on, marveling at the fact that this blond - whoever he was - seemed to constantly be at his side. Each time there was that worried smile and the soft touch. Rubbing snow into his hair to get the blood out... cleaning his wounds with water - Aearlin guessed from melted snow - even a warm blanket had been pushed around him at some point. A lighter, more innocent voice would reach his ears from time to time, and from the fact that he'd seen another blond head staring at him from behind the shoulder of the first, he figured that whoever his hero had been, they were not alone.
His vision was a little hazy and his voice raspy each time he woke, but water and miruvor were given to him, and each time he woke, he'd remain awake for a little longer. Seconds turned into minutes, and finally - when Imladris was in view - he stared softly at the one tending to him. It was night, and Ithil hung brilliantly in the star-speckled sky. But there... there was a ray of gold before him, and he chuckled lowly in his throat, the sound much more clear than it had started out at first.
"Thank you." It was all he said, but he was obviously coherent at this point. In pain, yes. But coherent and grateful.
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Days passed by since rescuing the mysterious ellon, and Silinde was putting every bit of knowledge regarding healing into keeping him alive and well. Silinde had taken the elf’s care into his own hands, ordering the others to stay on guard at all times. And since Legolas remained with blonde at all times, he too helped in caring for the injured elf. He would have liked to push his party forward to reach
Lord Elrond but the aqua-eyed elf would never make it at that pace.
From the moment Silinde moved the matted locks and looked into his aqua eyes, he was saddened. So much pain had been inflicted on this elf, and not just those on his body, though they would be the only ones Silinde could even begin to tend. And even on the verge of death, this ellon thought of others than himself. How many of his own kin would do that? The thought went as quickly as it came, for Legolas was once again calling him.
“What is it my prince?” Though Silinde knew very well why he’d been called.
“I believe he is waking up again. Do you think he’ll stay up long enough for me to ask him his name Sil?”
“I know not Legolas, but I’m sure you will learn it soon.” And with that statement, a small drink to quench the semi-conscious elf’s thirst, and keep him hydrated.
They traveled slowly, keeping guard for the presence of evil, and tending to the injured until at last they reached the borders of the last homely house. Camp was set up once more under the dark sky, each elf attaining to their appointed task, while Silinde tended to the injured blond. He was looking far better than when they first met. His porcelain skin was healing from minor bruises and cuts, and his hair was not caked in blood. He was far from clean in the standards of elves, but compared to the state he was found, it was considerably better. With Imladris in view, Silinde was relieved, knowing that the ellon would fully recover from his wounds under the care of the great healer. However, once again his thoughts were interrupted, but this time it was not one he expected.
A soft thank you was heard, and Silinde stopped checking bandages to stare into the opened eyes of the mysterious elf.
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The Halls of Mandos had not claimed him. He hadn't thought they would, but there had been some worry when he'd realized he'd passed out only a short distance away from the orc den he'd been taken to. He was grateful, then, that whatever fate had in store for him, it did not include more orcs!
He noticed he was warm when he woke. Clean, too - there was no feeling of stickiness that came from blood and grime clinging to his flesh. And of course, as there had been the last few times his eyes had opened, there was his blond rescuer. He'd uttered his thanks, now that his mind was his own again, and even managed a slight smile. The little cuts and scrapes that had been upon his body had healed thanks to the sleep he'd been in and the careful attending of whoever his savior had been. But he could feel the larger injuries still present upon his body. The head-wound had closed for the most part - it no longer pained him. But his gut and his leg still sent aching pangs through him - still very much present and angry. Elrond would have his work cut out for him when he arrived, it would seem.
He'd surprised his caretaker when he spoke. It was obvious. Though the form did not startle, the hands that had been working upon him froze, and finally... FINALLY he was capable of looking clearly at the one who had rescued him. Concerned, warm eyes. Shining blond hair. And a worried face. A handsome elf, and if the expression that refused to leave his face was any indication, he was a kind-hearted elf, too.
Aqua eyes flicked around after a moment, and he found himself quite pleased to see the hint of white, curving architecture hidden by foliage that was Imladris. Not many would see it, unless they knew what to look for, as the city lay hidden in the valley the river had carved through the landscape. Unless one knew where to look and had a keen eye, they would mistake the treetops for bushes hiding the river, rather than the deep vale that it was. Elrond had been wise to pick the location he had!
"You are from the Greenwood, are you not?" he finally asked, his voice soft and far more clear than it had been in days. The careful attention to his needs had helped a great deal! "Known as the Woodland Realm, ruled by Thranduil," he added, curious now as to who this elf was.
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It seemed Legolas would learn who their charge was after all, since the injured ellon was now coherent enough to speak and make very good observations.
“Yes, we hail from Greenwood, and I am Silinde, though I know not where you are from or your name.”
He needed to discover who the mysterious ellon was and learn why he was alone in the Misty Mountains. His knowledge of Thranduil only made the Mirkwood warrior weary, for he knew not if the elf was friend or foe. Therefore, when Legolas noticed their charge was awake, Silinde held up a slender hand to his prince, urging him to stay. He would not allow Legolas near the injured ellon now that he was awake until Silinde knew of his true intentions.
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Aearlin shifted a little, and with a bit of effort and a wince at the pull to the wound across his middle, he sat up slightly. Only slightly, for without a brace behind him, the strain on his back and stomach would be far too great. "I have no realm in Arda I could claim to hail from, but a name I can give you - Aearlin," he answered, then smirked slightly. "Others have called me Hithaeglifaer (Misty-Mountain Spirit, as a direct translation or Spirit of the Misty Mountains, as a more artistic and accurate definition)." He had a feeling that whoever this Silinde was, he would know that particular name.
Most did.
But then, the elves doubted the creature known as the spirit was either an elf, or a spirit - it had to be one or the other, for elves left behind no ghosts. Their spirits were called from their bodies by Mandos, and that was, as they say, that.
He chuckled slightly to himself when he heard the soft gasp of the young elf behind Silinde as he recognized the name, arching a light brow at the closer warrior that tended to him as though to ask him whether he doubted Aearlin's claim. Obviously the younger one didn't!
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Everyone who traveled the path through the Misty Mountains had heard of Hithaeglifaer, so it was just as easy for this Aearlin to claim that he was one in the same. Legolas obviously believed the golden elf, yet Silinde was less inclined to. Years protecting Mirkwood had hardened the warrior to strangers, especially ones that could not affiliate with one of the Elven realms in Arda. However, one look at this elf stopped any objections he had. Aearlin was telling the truth; it could be seen in his aqua hued eyes.
Silinde smiled then, mumbling to himself about Hithaeglifaer, before calling to his prince.
“Legolas, come meet Aearlin, or Hithaeglifaer.” This Aearlin would truly be sorry for informing them of this fact.