thearrowandthesong:
Not one of the Woodmen, then, was the wounded Marchwarden’s first coherent thought, upon witnessing the young woman’s reaction to having spotted his pointed, elvish ears. She had acted as though she had never seen an Elf before in her life, and the Woodmen were quite used to them, at the very least spying the guards of the realm from afar on an almost daily basis as they went about their duties within the Greenwood forest. And, he thought, she seems to know nothing of King Thranduil. That was both interesting and alarming, and he wondered where this girl had come from that she knew, clearly, none of the stories of the Wood Elves – or therefore the varied perils of the ancient, corrupted forest! He resolved to answer her questions as best as he was able to. There was no reason for him not to be open and honest with her, for she did not seem to be tainted by the darkness that dwelled in the heart of the wood, and nor did she seem to be otherwise unfriendly. She was offering him aid, certainly, when she could have just walked right on by, and he was grateful for her kindness. “I serve King Thranduil,” he murmured, through another rush of pain as he adjusted his position to be better under her clever little shelter, “he rules over the Wood Elves of the Great Greenwood, which is your current location. I am Elven myself, a Captain of the Guard among them, and my name is Haldir.” He studied her face for a long moment, curious all of a sudden. She was young, yes – barely out of her teens if he was to guess, though he was not very good at pinning down human ages. Young, but serious in a way such a young person shouldn’t be, by any rights, and wouldn’t be, had they lived in a place which was without war and other troubles. She was being exceedingly gentle with his ankle as she went about her examinations, and she evidently knew her craft. A practiced healer, then, perhaps, or one who was learning that trade. He wondered if she was so very far from home, and where she had lived, if she did not know of the existence of Elves. The rain that was pouring down around them was only getting heavier, and it was that which initially drowned out the sudden silence around them, masking it perfectly and causing Haldir to not instantly realize that the forest had fallen completely quiet. Not a cricket, not a bird-call, no sound at all but the wind and the rain. In many places, it would have been peaceful – but to Haldir, in the Greenwood, it was eerie, and foreboding. “I do not like to be the bearer of foul news, but I feel as though we may need to move. If you are able to help me back up that bank, we can find somewhere less exposed to rest.” Although worried, his face softened, the slight, tense smile he showed her then being both warm and kind. “What is your name?”
She watches him so carefully, as though by sight alone she might discern truth from lie… But he does not appear to be lying. And he has been nothing but pleasant with her.
Could it be true? That he is an Elf and there is an Elvenking? It seems impossible and yet… And yet if he is not lying, and she can see no sign that he is, then it must follow that it is true……
But there is time neither to ponder this great revelation nor to allow it to settle, for she can also feel the change in her accidental charge, a tenseness that manifests ere he speaks his troubling thoughts.
She curses herself. Should not she have noticed the eerie and unnatural quiet sooner? And yet, she must be told as though she is still a child. How many winters has she weathered? Enough to hope that she had more sense than a wee child.
Yet, before she can become too carried away in her internal admonishments, the man––Elf––speaks again, asking her name.
There is no more than the briefest hesitation as she wonders at whether it is wise to give one’s name to a stranger but… Well, he had given his own name, and already she has stayed beside him this long and no harm has come to her. Indeed, she cannot but feel quite safe in his presence, as though there is something in his very existence that brings peace, even to the most weary of travellers.
“Elysia… I am called Elysia,” she answers before shaking her head. “And I cannot say that you will travel easily or well on this ankle, but there is a hollow in the rocks bordering the path not far behind where shelter might be found.”
A pause and then she continues. “… I am young and perhaps not as strong as some, yet if you will but put your arm around my shoulders, I will help you to it if I am able and if you would allow.”
