The Sylvanus Read online

  "By who?" asked one Lieutenant, irritated.

  But before Lainion could answer, the sharp, loud voice of his friend told them exactly who it was, who laid claim to the archer.

  "By me," said the newcomer, taking a step forward, his face stern and commanding.

  "Turion!" exclaimed Lainion, to which Turion smiled widely now, opening his arms and received the hug his friend offered him.

  "We shall see about that," said the irritated warrior, although there was a mischievous smile upon his lips and Lainion returned it, nodding that he understood exactly what it was that was about to happen.

  The battle for the Silvan had begun.

  The heavy oak doors thumped together, the click of the lock telling Lainion they were alone.

  "Turion!" he exclaimed, turning to face his long-time friend with a genuine smile. "It is so strange to see you away from your recruits, here in the city no less."

  "Yes, well, the circumstances are extraordinary, Lainion," said Turion with an uncharacteristic grin. It was then that Lainion realized what was different about his friend; he was alive – for the first time in centuries the Avari could see purpose shining in his shrewd Sindarin eyes.

  "Do not tell me you have come to claim your find," said Lainion rhetorically, for he well knew he had. There was little else that could have tempted this extraordinary warrior to return to civilization."

  "Does that surprise you?" asked the instructor, sitting heavily upon the couch and loosening his collar.

  "Yes," said Lainion, and then turned to his friend once more, holding his gaze for a moment before speaking. "And no – we have much to speak of. I cannot tell you how – opportune your presence is, my friend."

  Turion scowled for a moment and Lainion knew he had picked up on the import of his words; his friend was simply one of the most able judges of character Lainion knew.

  "I was right, wasn't I?" asked the Sinda, sitting forward expectantly with his elbows on his knees.

  "Yes, yes you were right Turion but – " he paused for a moment, seeking how best to infuse his words with the feelings he wished to express. "But you see, I believe you found much more than a silvan candidate for leadership."

  "What do you mean?" asked Turion, his scowl deepening. "Perhaps you should fill me a goblet of wine before you speak, you seem – unnerved," he said in wonder, "if that is at all possible in you Avari," he said.

  "When I tell you what I suspect…" he dropped off as he poured them both a glass of wine.

  "How long has it been that you have not visited our lord King's halls?"

  "Not long enough," scoffed Turion, taking a long drink from his goblet. I loathe the petty politics and gossip – all those ridiculous things that have nothing to do with the important things in life."

  Lainion smiled, for Turion was quite the brute, albeit he was Sindarin. He spoke plainly, with not a thought for propriety, unless he stood before his commanding officer, of course.

  "When you sent him to me, even before I read your letter, it was not the face of some green Silvan boy I saw, Turion."

  "What do you mean – I know he looks like a Sinda but he's not – not really, it's …."

  "You don't understand," interrupted Lainion, holding up his palm. "What I mean is, …."

  A harsh wrap on the door interrupted the moment, and Turion visibly jumped, so immersed had he been in what his friend was about to reveal.

  "Come!" called Lainion, irritation clear in his voice.

  A guard entered with a note which he promptly handed to Lainion, before saluting and leaving.

  "Valar, Lainion, out with it, what - …"

  "A moment," he mumbled as he read.

  "The list has been issued – the twenty candidates that are to promote tomorrow. We must claim our stake and quickly, before someone else beats us to it."

  "Lainion what are you talking about!"

  "Turion – that boy is from Land Galadh, a half Sinda-Silvan bastard who was raised by his aunt, Amareth. He is the best warrior I have ever seen, even before training, he has bright green eyes – just like his mother's…" the last word leaving him in a rush of air.

  Turion's eyes widened and sparkled and Lainion knew he still did not fully understand what he was trying to tell him.

  "It was not the face of some Silvan recruit – it was the face of Oropher, father of Thranduil King."

  …

  General Hûron sat behind his desk, reading through the list of new recruits, and the petitions from a whole host of lieutenants and captains, expounding their reasons for requesting their choice of warrior. That it itself was not an issue, it was the fact that they all wanted the same recruit, the one they were calling The Silvan.

  Who is this boy? He asked himself as he rubbed his chin. He had not been present at yesterday's trials, indeed he hardly ever bothered, but this time, it seemed he had missed something of import.

  What now? he wondered. He had not the time to read through so many missives, so many arguments. He was needed at headquarters in a scant few hours and details of tomorrow's promotion ceremony must be completed.

  He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, his hand moving to his throbbing forehead and kneading it irritably.

  A knock on the door, revealed Lieutenants Lainion and Turion, and Hûron was glad for the interruption, albeit they would set him back.

  Standing, he returned the salute he was given, before smiling and holding his forearms out.

  "I am glad to see you Lainion, and you, Turion! What has dragged you out of your beloved country barracks!" he said with a smile.

  "Ah! That is the reason we have come to see you, General."

  "No, no, do not tell me you too, have come to claim the Silvan! By Elbereth and Kementari who is this boy? My desk is full of messages and demands and, 'oh, you owe me…' or, 'is it not my turn?'" he mocked theatrically, before turning back to a now smirking Turion.

  "It does not surprise me," smiled Turion. "You did not see him on the field then?" he asked tentatively.

  "No, no I did not, so you tell me, then. What is so special about him?" asked the general resignedly, gesturing to the two lieutenant to sit.

  "I met him at my barracks not a month past. I knew from the moment we first spoke that he would be a fine candidate for leadership."

  "He is Silvan, I assume, given his nick name."

  "He looks Sindarin, Hûron, but calls himself Silvan. The point is that he shows great potential – and I would be the one to show him the limits of his possibilities – if you will allow it," finished Turion, his eyes fixed on the general, desperately trying to read the general's first impressions.

  "You have been training boys for the last few centuries, have rejected promotion so that you could continue to do so. I do not doubt your educational qualities Turion but you are all out on recent military affairs."

  "I am good, Hûron, this you know. You yourself offered me a promotion to captain because you knew I was fit for the position."

  "But you refused."

  "Yes – because I believe in what I do. Becoming a captain would mean leaving the job I love so much, that is why I refused."

  "And now? Should I agree to let you train this – Silvan – will you accept the promotion? Think carefully now, for should you agree – you will not be able to return to your former post. We need all the commanders the Greenwood can yield. There will be no going back, Turion."

  Turion looked up sadly, pausing for a moment before nodding. "I understand, and I agree."

  "He must be special indeed," said Hûron with slanted eyes, his shrewd mind at work.

  "Yes – yes he is."

  "Well, I lose a lieutenant, but if he is as good as you seem to think, take him for two years and train him – do your best and if you can – bring back a warrior fit for leadership."

  "Two years…"

  "Two years. After that we shall see. Now, however much I appreciate your company Lainion, will you tell me why you are here?"

 
"Because I am going with them…" said Lainion simply, to which Hûron tipped an eyebrow and muttered something under his breath, before standing, his eyes never leaving the strange slanted blue irises of one of his best lieutenants.

  "Yes," he said tiredly, "yes I believe you are."

  ….

  The barracks were alive, and Legolas, Ram en Ondo and Idhrenohtar were currently singing a gay melody to the sound of Carodel's woodland flute, much to the delight of the other young recruits.

  Apart from The Company, seventeen others now celebrated their impending ceremony when they would, finally become novice warriors. It was all they had dreamed of, but none more than Legolas. He was uncontainable, exuberant in his joy, for tomorrow was the day he had always dreamed of, and his happiness was such that he wanted to cry.

  Carodel, the flute player had also been chosen, as had Barathon, something that had surprised them not at all. He was the king's nephew, it would have been inconceivable for the boy to be left behind. Strangely though, the imperious Sinda was joining in the festivities, smiling and clapping to the music. Legolas had wondered at that for he seemed genuinely glad, proud to have been chosen, not that he deserved it, he added in disdain.

  All that was left to know was who they would be assigned to, and where. His chest felt heavy of a sudden, because there was a chance he would be separated from Ram en and Idhrenohtar, and try as he might, he could not imagine his life without them, without their support. He looked to the side, aware that he was still young, still vulnerable, still in need of others and he would not berate himself for that. Yet insecurity was a facet of his past life for had he not come so far this past month?

  He chuckled to himself then, for what was a month? It was nothing at all. Aye he had learned, of himself even but he was still a child and he would do well to remember that. He only hoped that his commanding officer would make allowances for that.

  "You are quiet of a sudden," came Idhrenohtar's even voice at his side.

  Legolas glanced in his direction, a rueful smile on his face. "I fret about where we will be sent," he said truthfully.

  "As do we all," replied the Wise Warrior, watching the crowd as he spoke. "But heed me now, my friend. I and Ram en will always be with you. The Valar forbid we be separated in this first step in our adventure but should it happen, Legolas, should that happen remember this; we are The Company! We will always come back to each other…"

  Legolas turned to meet his friend's confident face and he smiled in genuine joy, his face lighting up so beautifully that Idhrenohtar chuckled.

  "Tomorrow is for us, to take our vows and become servants to the king. What comes after that we do not know, cannot know. Enjoy the now, Legolas, claim it for your own…"

  ….

  Later that night, Turion and Lainion sat together, a flask of wine between them and the remains of their shared dinner.

  The hearth crackled and hissed, and Lainion drank deeply from his glass, his strange eyes shining a deep blue that was enough to unnerve any who did not know him.

  "What now?" asked Turion, almost to himself. "We cannot tell the king lest he finish with Legolas' military career even before it has begun. There is no telling how he will react, and I do not need to remind you of his son's – singular - disposition…"

  "Nay, you do not."

  "If we cannot tell the king, neither can we allow Legolas to come into contact with the royal family – they will surely see what you did, Lainion."

  "Yes, Thranduil would see it at least. We would have to tell him before he ever came into contact with our boy and as you say, there is no telling – he would, perhaps, send him far away so that he does not come into contact with his children. His relationship with them is already strained, he will not risk it."

  "Does he even know? The king, I mean. Does he know he has a child?" asked Turion.

  Lainion remained silent for a moment, before answering tiredly. "Yes, yes he knows. I can say no more, my friend for I am sworn to secrecy in this."

  Turion nodded, wondering what it was his friend had lived through, for he had been Handir's personal guard at the time. It was logical to assume Lainion had been deep in the king's confidence.

  "And what of Legolas?" continued Turion. "It is a miracle he has not yet been told of his resemblance. It is surely a question of time, for now he will come into contact with the older, more experienced warriors, those that fought with Oropher. Rumour will spread until it reaches the kind and we will have the same problem…" finished Turion, staring now, into the orange flames, his own silver eyes shining with intelligence.

  "That is the sum of it, yes," said Lainion contemplatively. "I would not tell Thranduil just yet, not until we have an inkling into how he may react but to get that sort of information from him would be near impossible… unless…"

  "Unless what?" asked Turion with a scowl.

  "Unless I find myself an accomplice."

  "Who?"

  "The only member of that family who is likely to understand – Handir."

  "Prince Handir?"

  "He is wise for his years, of even temper and good judgement. It is a risk but ignoring this, Turion, would be a mistake, the consequences of which may prove disastrous for the Greenwood, and for Legolas."

  "If Thranduil ever found out you had confided this knowledge to his son, without his consent, he would banish you…" said Turion meaningfully.

  "Perhaps, but what is the alternative my friend? That we ignore this thing, and let it all spiral out of control until someone tells the king there is some Silvan warrior out there with the face of Oropher. Had the boy decided to become a forester, none of this would be of any import, but the child wants to be a warrior – a captain no less," said Lainion with a fond smile, "he is too good to pass by inadvertently, Turion. The king will find out, be it from us, or from those that appreciate him less."

  Silence prevailed for a while as they sat together, each contemplating their options.

  "Perhaps," began Turion, "perhaps you are right. Handir can procure us with the information we need to make the best choice, Lainion. Speak to him, wrench from him an honor-bound oath not to speak of this. We will be patrolling for the next two years, that should be time enough to better judge our options, with Handir as our source of information. If rumour does abound he will tell us of it, and should that happen, I am adamant that it should be us to tell the king of Legolas."

  "And what of the boy?" asked Lainion. "What of the comments he is surely to hear?"

  "Then we tell him."

  "It will unbalance him."

  "Yes, but not telling him and leaving him with his questions – I wager that is the short of his entire life thus far – are we to prolong that suffering?"

  Lainion knew his friend was right. In matters such as this he was always right. The fact remained that now, Lainion needed to find a way to tell Handir he had a brother, a Silvan brother…

  The day dawned painfully slowly, or at least it seemed that way to one who had not slept at all, waiting only for this moment when the sun would peak over the horizon and cast its rays upon the most significant day of his life; the day he would become a warrior.

  Emotion took him and a tear escaped his half-closed eyes, rolling down his temple and onto the pillow below.

  A finger brushed over the furry leaves of a fern that had grown tall and strong beside his window and warmth dissipated the leaden weight in his chest, enough at least to clear his mind so that it could continue its morning wanderings.

  He thought of Amareth then. His message would not have reached her in time – she would not be present; there would be no one from his family to see him take his vows. No one? he asked himself bitterly. Amareth was the only member of family he had.

  That cold, biting, all too familiar feeling gnawed at his mind then, the one that assailed him every time his family came to mind but for the first time it was not so much anger he felt, but sadness, a strange sense of loss that he could not explain, for what had h
e ever had to lose? he scoffed.

  No mother to cry with love, no father to smile with pride – alone, he was alone…

  He was a child.

  Anger clenched his jaw, anger at himself for his weakness. Had he not put these feelings behind him? Had he not vowed to accept the truth for what it was? The only family Legolas had, apart from Amareth, were his friends, the Company – Ram en and Idhreno.

  He breathed deeply and rolled onto one side, turning his back on the room and facing the green-lined window.

  A warrior, a servant of the king. That was his purpose, to serve some purpose – to mean something – to someone.

  A frown flickered over his features for he had never thought of it that way before, that his obsession with being a warrior had something to do with feeling worthy. Amareth had loved him as a mother, and if he added to that the amount of adoptive uncles he had in the village – nay, it was not for lack of love and it was not for shame for having no father.

  There was something else, something he had never understood, as if a part of him were missing; as if his purpose was still veiled from him, however much it drove him relentlessly upon his path.

  All he could conclude was that becoming a warrior was an innate necessity, but he now started to suspect that it was not the end of the road, simply a necessary step towards a bigger thing, something that escaped him, like river rain through open fingers. What more could he aspire to than being captain?

  Turning onto his back now, the first stirrings of his comrades brought his mind further into focus, and the lingering self-pity and confusion began to fade, not away but behind his mask that was rapidly falling into place. There would be no proud parents to smile and nod at him as he took his vows and that was a fact, one he must now accept with quiet dignity. Instead he would bask in his friendship with Ram en and Idhreno, in the camaraderie with his newfound friends, and in the hope that family could be replaced with these his brothers, his fellow warriors.

  Yes, that is what he would do, he resolved with a smile. It did not matter that he had no father to squeeze his shoulder in pride, it did not matter at all.