The Sylvanus Page 2

  A little further down the path, Legolas was jolted from his musings by the call of a nuthatch, his lovely face tilting upwards towards the midday sun as he smiled radiantly.

  "A nuthatch!" he exclaimed, but contrary to what he had expected, Idhrenohtar simply snorted in mirth.

  "Bumpkin! – 'tis not a bird you hear but an elven warrior!"

  Ram 'en guffawed, slapping his thighs and throwing his head back, but then he almost choked on his own saliva, for in front of him, as if from nowhere, appeared a glaring warrior, a short bow slung over his shoulder and a sword at his side.

  "You boy," said the warrior. "What is your name?" he asked abruptly, his sharp eyes resting on Legolas.

  Legolas hesitated for a moment, before answering, horrified that his voice sounded so weak and resisting the sudden urge to swallow, albeit his mouth had turned dry.

  "Legolas Amarion."

  The warrior scowled, before continuing his interrogation. "I know of no Amaron of Sindarin heritage," he said, watching the youth carefully.

  "Not Amaron, Sir, but Amareth, and she is Silvan, as am I."

  "And what of your father?" was the clipped retort.

  Ram en Ondo and Idhrenohtar clenched their jaws and looked to the floor for it would do no good to rile this warrior. He may be one of their instructors. If only they could find an excuse to help their friend out of the bind he found himself in – again…

  "My father died before I was born, Sir."

  "I meant his name you fool," said the warrior, still staring at the pale blond hair and moss green eyes.

  "I…"

  "Well, speak up, boy. You do have a father…?"

  Silence was all the answer the warrior received, and understanding lit his sharp grey eyes. "A bastard, then? Well that is a pity, Legolas. Whoever he was, he was obviously a Sindar."

  "I am Silvan," hissed Legolas too quickly, his emotions getting the better of him at being mistaken for a Sinda.

  "Ohhh, jeered the warrior now. Have something against the Sindar then?" he mocked.

  "Nay, forgive me," corrected Legolas hastily. I am simply proud of my home, of my people, 'tis all."

  "Well, well, Silvan. You are proud and you are rash. But worry not, you will learn soon enough…" he said with a slightly twisted smile. Legolas simply looked away, annoyed at himself and this stupid warrior who had subjected him to impertinent questions and called him a Sinda, no less!

  Twin looks of caution from his friends tempered his simmering irritation and he schooled himself once more. He had been rash, and he suddenly realized he had much to learn of himself. It had not been his intention to react that way, and if Idhrenohtar was right, this instructor, if that was what he was, would not be the last elf to subject him to the same questioning.

  The Silvan, the warrior had called him mockingly, and try as he might, his temper sparked once more. But then, when he really thought about it – should he not be pleased with the name he had been given? Yes, he realized, it was not so bad after all. He would forget the scorn that had come with it, and think only of his home, his aunt and his people.

  From now on he would not lie, for that had led his volatile emotions astray. He would call himself Legolas Amarethion, his aunt, his mother, for the rest was true, his real mother was dead and his father was some, anonymous Sinda who must have done some vile deed, for he was never mentioned, and Legolas had stopped asking many years ago lest he be told something he did not like. He did not care, he told himself. He did not care at all.

  "You three! Clean up and briefing is in one hour. Do not be late," said the Sindarin warrior who had guided them to the barracks that lay on the outskirts of the city.

  It was a dour place. Grey stone and dark wood with not one piece of decoration to mention, not even plants dwelled here, mused Legolas in abject horror.

  Their beds were basic, but the blankets were thick and dry, and the water they had been provided with was clean and abundant. They would spend the next month here, or so they had been told – they would have to make it a more palatable place then, decided Legolas as he brushed a finger over a green leaf that had invaded the small window beside his bed, feeling the customary tingle travel up his finger and smiling.

  Idhrenohtar watched him, smiling as would an older brother, but then the smile slipped and who could say what thoughts had sobered the wise elf.

  Calenar knew how overwhelmed these Silvan village boys could be when traveling to the city for the first time. Life was so different from what they were accustomed to, and these three, by the looks of them, were no different save for one, surprising thing; one of them was a Sinda …

  Calenar himself was a Sinda, and if there was one thing he could always be sure about, it was recognizing another of his race, and this Legolas, was Sinda, however much it seemed to rile the youth.

  Youth, he repeated to himself as he walked towards his commanding officer's quarters. He was barely out of swaddling cloths and yet – and yet he had been the leader of the three, or so it had seemed to Calenar when he had met them on the road. The others protected him, gravitated towards him and the warrior realized he was intrigued with the boy.

  A bastard with no father to call his own, the boy's face was simply extraordinary. He would be popular with the lasses – and with the lads he added with a sardonic smile. It would not be easy for this – Legolas – for Turion would soon beat him into shape, and a few of the novice warriors too, he wagered. But then he supposed the boy would be used to that for his own upbringing would have been conflictive.

  Poor boy, he chuckled as he shook his head to clear his thoughts, for he was now before Lieutenant Turion's door, and there was a report to give.

  He chuckled once more before turning the handle and entering, for Calenar had never before been mistaken for a nuthatch!

  There were other recruits in the building now, and even as he dried himself off, they continued to arrive until the noise in the common room had built considerably, even unto the point of being troublesome – too many Silvans in a confined space, realized Legolas.

  "Well, how do I look?" asked Ram en Ondo as he held his arms out to the side, showing his friends his new uniform.

  Legolas snorted and Idhrenohtar smirked merrily. "These fabrics were not designed for Walls of Stone, my friend. The sleeves are too short and the breeches too tight!" exclaimed the Wise Warrior, before Hwindohtar continued. "Aye, and look at this," he laughed – the buttons on this tunic are straining so hard they will surely pop open no sooner you sneeze!" he giggled.

  "Oh, oh, and what's this!" said Idhrenohtar as he lifted the back of his friend's tunic, revealing his taut backside. "One fart and you will be the laughing stock of the barracks!" he exclaimed, setting Legolas off into a wheeze of laughter, worsened as he watched Ram en Ondo dance out of the way, batting Idhrenohtar's hands from the hem of his tunic. Unfortunately, the time for briefing was upon them, and their superior officer appeared in the open doorway.

  "You! Shut your mouths and get to the briefing – you're late!"

  Duly chastised, the three friends now stood in their new uniforms, together with the other recruits, most of them Silvan, noticed Legolas, as Idhrenohtar had predicted they would be.

  They had been briefed as to their activities and duties for the next month, and Legolas suddenly found himself in awe of the drastic turn his life had taken, of all the wonderful things he would now learn. This was the just the start of the path he knew was his to walk – he would be a captain!

  The Sinda that had caught them fooling around was introduced as their drill officer Dirhal, and Calenar, the warrior that had met them in the woods, would show them the basics of hand-to-hand combat. Finally, Faunon, the only Silvan on the training team, would introduce them to the art of tracking.

  However, there had been no mention of the bow or blades. When they had asked, Lieutenant Turion had explained that that would take place in the city. First, they would learn survival technique, elementary first aid, milita
ry hierarchy, weapons care and tracking, and once they had become physically stronger, only then, would they begin to learn the martial arts.

  Resigned, they began what would be their routine for the next four weeks. Get up, breakfast, drill technique and protocol, a run in the forest. After lunch they would study military structure and hierarchy, and then logistics. In the evenings, they would track and learn field care. It was exhausting and by the end of the first week their muscles ached ferociously, and Ram 'en was provided with a new set of clothing to accommodate his ever growing bulk, which had triggered a round of light-hearted mockery which the Wall of Stone took with a rueful smile, earning for himself the respect of their fellow recruits.

  Idhrenohtar had taken to voicing his thoughts after the evening meal, drawing them all into introspective conversations that had helped them all to understand themselves a little better, to share their hopes and wishes, their worries and anxieties, the absence of their families – he too, had earned their respect as a wise elf and a good companion.

  As for Legolas, his corner of the room had turned a myriad of green. Light green plants, dark green vines and wild flowers sprouted here and there, invaded his bed and had even stuck to the walls. He was a child of nature, they said, a true Silvan in spite of his looks, and some had even speculated he could speak to the trees, something most had laughed at good-naturedly. He was naïve and yet strangely noble, generous with his time and his actions and for this, Legolas too, was well-loved.

  At the end of the second week, Hwindo, Ram'en and Idhreno, as they were now called freely, were as popular as they were good, and had struck up a fine relationship with their fellow recruits. As the friends they were, they would always be found together and soon enough, they had been baptized as 'The Company', for they were inseparable, unconditional in their defense the one for the other, and noble in their words and aspirations.

  Two of the longest weeks of his life had, paradoxically, flown by, and now, Legolas sat upon his bed and brooded over his current source of discontent. His tutors had convinced themselves that Legolas disliked the Sinda. For this they mocked him by calling him 'the silvan'. It was not the name that Legolas disliked, but the sneer that accompanied it and after so many days enduring it stoically, he recognized he was reaching his limit.

  It was not true, he scowled to himself. He had never intended to give that impression and now he was stuck with it. He had to find a way to redeem himself, he thought, but how?

  Amareth had always instilled upon him the wisdom of being forthright. Speak your mind, leave nothing unsaid, she would say. Yes – the answer was as simple as it was wise, he thought. He would speak to Lieutenant Turion and explain what was on his mind.

  Plucking up his courage, he stood, straightened his tunic and walked briskly to his commanding officer's quarters. With a deep breath, he knocked vigorously upon the wooden door, and strode forwards until he stood before Turion's table. Standing to attention, he fixed his eyes to the side as he waited to be addressed.

  "What is it, Silvan?" asked Turion as he looked down at the papers set before him on his desk.

  "I wish to speak with you on a personal matter, Sir."

  "Well," he said, looking up expectantly.

  "I wanted to clear up what seems to be a – misunderstanding."

  Turion scowled and stood, before approaching Legolas, his eyes slanting as they analyzed the young warrior before him.

  "A misunderstanding…" said the Sinda drolly. "And what – misunderstanding – do you speak of – Silvan," he said again. He was mocking, taunting.

  "That I dislike the Sindar, Sir. It is what you think and it is a misunderstanding."

  Silence.

  "Is it…?" said Turion, as if speaking to a child.

  "Yes, Sir. Upon my arrival here, I was unfortunate in my choice of words and I do not blame you for thinking the way you do."

  "You do not blame me…"

  If Legolas had been older, more experienced, he would have realized the danger and stopped. As it was, he was too involved in his words, too eager to relieve himself of the burden to realize the dangerous tone Turion had used.

  "I just wanted to tell you I hold nothing against the Sindar… and I have no reason to…,"

  "To what!?" yelled Turion suddenly, making Legolas flinch and his eyes turn round and wide, shocked at the sudden turn in the commander's mood.

  "No reason to hate the Sindar? Was your father not Sindarin? He who begot you and left you alone in the world as a worthless bastard – fartherless, nameless – you have no reason to hate the Sindar? I would say you have one, very good reason, boy!"

  Legolas tried desperately to control his emotions, and to his credit his face did not feel too hot, and his breath did not seem too fast. He was, however, lost for words. No one had ever spoken to him like that – he was, quite simply – at a loss.

  "Nothing to say now, Silvan?"

  "No, Sir," said Legolas quietly, feeling disappointed in himself once more for his poor judgement. He was even more horrified when Turion's tirade did not stop but continue, the elf moving too close to his face so that his hot breath brushed against his cheek, in stark contrast to the cutting words that rolled so easily from Turion's mouth …

  "You think you are in control. You think I cannot tell what lies beneath your veil. You are wrong and I do not think you are accustomed to that. You call yourself Silvan because you hate that other side of yourself – the side your very body proclaims is true. You try to hide the child who grew without a father, the child who was mocked and scorned…"

  Legolas closed his eyes to steady himself, and only then did Turion stop his cruel words.

  There was blessed silence then and Legolas gave thanks for it, he could not trust himself it seemed. He had made a fool of himself once more and he wanted to cry in frustration.

  Hence he was surprised when Turion spoke softly to him then, albeit the elf was still too close to him for comfort.

  "You will learn to know yourself, Legolas. You will understand yourself better if you stop trying to justify yourself. It must not have been easy," he continued, as if to himself now, "it will have made you strong for you see, Silvan," he paused for effect, hardship makes you strong – you, are strong, however much you do not understand that now."

  He moved away then, back to his desk and his sarcastic ways. "You are on kitchen duty for the next week. Once you have finished, you will report here for instructions."

  Wisely, Legolas said no more, for he had much to think on and little self-pride left. "Yes, Sir," he said simply, saluting his commanding officer, and swiveling on his heels. Turion's words stopped him on his way to the door.

  "Legolas. Put away the suffering child, place no more importance on your heritage. Become the warrior you were born to be."

  Legolas' eyes had grown wide, albeit Turion could not see them. He had endured a mighty upbraiding and then, with a subtle turn, had been given hope for his future as a successful warrior in His Majesty's armed militia. He felt chastised, humbled, and yet – strangely hopeful, in spite of his ensuing punishment.

  Later that evening, Turion had mused for hours over the – conversation – he had had with the Silvan. Oh he knew he had been pushing him for days now, testing the boy's limits until he had finally cracked, and yet Turion had not expected him to simply address the subject with such candor – the boy's decision to seek him out had been correct, however much he failed to see that at present. Nay, it had been this – this veiled hatred he sold as simple pride for his people. Turion did not buy it, indeed it was a lie the boy had invented, and then come to believe himself, a defense mechanism not even Legolas had managed to recognize for what it was.

  It would do Legolas good, to think on the cruel words Turion had thrown at him. They would harden him for it would not be the last time the boy would endure such harsh treatment. If Legolas could, indeed, recognize the hatred and the grief that lurked beneath his own beauty, he could transcend that part of himsel
f, the part that held him back and when that happened – there would be no barriers – no limits to what this one could achieve.

  Turion was old, and he was of the Sindar. He chose this job, not for the fame and fortune but because he was a true warrior, his sense of duty and honor almost unparalleled save for a select few. It was not a sought after position but it was the most rewarding for it was here, at the base of the tree, where one could admire the saplings and ponder on what they would become, given the correct amount of water, sunshine, and a favorable wind.

  What would Lainion make of him, he wondered. Would it be too early to claim his find? Perhaps. He would wait and watch and if he was right, well, Turion would have his own candidate, and a chance at the game he had been playing for centuries with his friend. One more sign was all he needed.

  The tree hummed in joy for the one who sat amongst its exposed roots; Legolas, still unaware of its presence in his mind, unable to recognize its comforting song brushing upon his eternal soul.

  Long hair, braided only at the temples, fell back until the tips reached his lower back and his face met the sun' rays full on.

  In his mind's eye, he returned to Land Galadh, his village, his home and his people. He saw Amareth's cottage, smoke billowing from the chimney top, the thatches hanging low.

  She would be in her garden now, still harvesting her peas and beans, and the memory of velvety, creamy soup danced mischievously over his tongue, making his mouth water.

  He saw Erthoron, their leader, Golloron the spirit shepherder, and his friend Thavron, romping amongst the trees, his hands stretched out, fingers brushing over the rough barks.

  A smile came to Legolas' lips as he remembered those he loved, those he wished more than anything to serve, to return to them the love they had dispensed upon him, in spite of his shameful begetting.