Legelion sprinted as swiftly as his short legs could carry him along the dimly-lit underground passage deep within the Halls of the Elvenking, for it was well past the hour appointed for his tryst and he was very late; he grinned at he thought of the perfunctory rebuke his host would give him upon his arrival, and the cup of wine that would then follow as was his custom.
His bare feet made no sound upon the flagstones as he ran, for he was an heir of Green-elf woodcraft and his folk had in bygone years learned to move more noiselessly than even the woodland deer. And thus there was no warning as he rounded a darkened corner and rushed headlong into a tall hooded Elf coming the other way.
Surprised, Legelion cried out in his high, clear voice and rebounded onto to the stone floor; the tall Elf bent double as he clutched his wounded pride, for Legelion's small hard head was at exactly the same height as his luckless groin (and Elves are not impervious to pain of the flesh!) Aghast, the boy scrambled to his feet, too flustered to say a word; and yet he had to quell the mirth that threatened to burst forth as he saw the consequence of his mishap.
A dull torch lit one face of the corner, and in its flickering glow stood Legelion; but beyond the wall's edge the Elf was no more than a dark shape in the shadows. The dim light showed naught but the hem of a cloak of rich fabric the colour of red wine. Legelion licked his dry lips; he was fond of wine and he realised he was very thirsty. His host was waiting.
Breathing hard, the figure rose to its full height, and Legelion could see its cool eyes glinting within the darkness of the hood as the Elf studied him. His gaze took in the boy's nervous grin, his inquisitive grey-green eyes, the dark curtain of shaggy hair that hung down to his slim shoulders, and his sun-browned skin beneath its layer of dirt. Then his eyes travelled slowly down from Legelion's grubby face, taking in his soiled rustic green raiment, and finally, his filthy bare feet.
'Whither are you running in such haste, Celebrindal?' he asked in Sindarin.
Legelion's lips worked soundlessly as in his thoughts he turned over the Sindar tongue he had been learning, and after a moment his eyes narrowed; but it was not the sarcasm that irked him.
'That is an elf-maiden's name! I am an elf-boy!'
'And know you the tale of this "elf-maiden", elf-boy? Idril Celebrindal of Gondolin, mother of Eärendil the Mariner, who is father of Elrond Half-elven?' asked the Elf, changing to the Silvan dialect of his tongue.
'Nay, I do not,' Legelion cautiously replied, but his curiosity got the better of him. 'What is a 'mariner'? And who is Elrond? How is he only half Elven?'
Silence for a moment, then a wry chuckle. 'So many questions for one so young. How old are you?'
The boy stood with his small feet planted wide, his wiry arms akimbo.
'Twelve years under the stars, Moon, and Sun,' he boasted.
'And whence come you?'
'The glade of the Laegrim, West along the Forest River.'
'O!... I might have known. I have heard tell of you... Cethron, seeker of Sindar wisdom.'
Legelion's eyes flashed with startled indignation. 'That is my Mother-name,' he pouted, 'Only my kin may use it. How is it that you know it?'
The Elf ignored his question. 'Then what, pray, am I to call you, then?' he asked.
'My name is Methlegel son of Gellin son of Echeleb Túbeng,' he answered proudly, 'but I am called Legelion.'
'Ah yes, "the last Green-elf",' the voice of the Elf smirked, 'Last of a lost and wild kindred.'
'We are neither lost nor wild!' the boy declared with a smile, 'My folk have dwelled among the Tawarwaith' longer than you, Sinda!'
In the shadows the Elf laughed quietly, 'Yes, long enough to learn the art of fire-making but not the art of bathing! You are as filthy as a hound after a day's hunting; what have you been doing, pup?'
The boy said nothing, but raised one thin eyebrow.
'Speak, insolent child!' the Elf commanded in a voice that brooked no disobedience; a voice that was used to giving orders that were instantly obeyed. Legelion felt an intense dislike for this authoritarian voice, but such was its power that he could not stop himself from answering truthfully.
'Chasing rabbits on the banks of the Forest River.'
'With your friends? Or perhaps not. I am told there are no other children amongst the Laegil.'
Legelion glowered. 'The rabbits are my friends,' he replied hotly.
The Elf's voice dripped with scorn. 'So this is the last of the line of Echeleb of Ossiriand; a playmate of rabbits!'
Legelion peered upwards into the gloom. Who was this Grey-elf, so prideful and aloof, but with the strength of will to deny any lie that came unbidden to his tongue? Still naught could he see but the torchlight glinting in the Elf's eyes. Unable to hold his temper he fiercely exclaimed, 'Echeleb of Lindon is a great Elf... greater by far than you! He says we need no Sindar lords; the Laegrim had but one king and he is long gone. Now we need bow to no one! He says we were free in Lindon and thus should we be in Mirkwood!'
'Indeed?' The Elf's voice was cold now, perilous. Legelion held his tongue. Had he perhaps said too much in his anger? With bated breath he awaited the Elf's wrath, but it did not come.
Instead the Elf said, 'Well do I remember those of your proud people who fled from your forests in Ossiriand in the after-days of the First Battle of Beleriand, while the rest of your craven kin hid therein for the remainder of our war against the forces of Morgoth Bauglir. "Guest Elves" we named them, but they were unwelcome guests; darkhearted folk who did not mingle happily with we of Doriath.'
Legelion frowned. Echeleb had told him of the Nandor who removed unto Arthórien when he frequently recounted the lore of the Laegrim to him in their home-tree, but naught had he said about their unwelcome by the Elves of Doriath. And this Elf dared call his kin craven for wishing no more than to live in peace, untroubled by the wars of the Sindar that had led to the grievous losses felt by the Laegrim in that first dreadful battle! His reverie was broken by the voice from the shadows.
'You have yet to answer my question: whither are you going?'
'Yonder,' the boy answered nonchalantly, feigning innocence and waving a slender hand vaguely in the direction whence the Elf had come; secrecy was ever the hallmark of the Laegil. But the Elf was not easily fooled.
'Yonder where?'
Legelion took a deep breath and rose to his full height, diminutive though it was.
'It is no concern of yours, but my errand is with Teithoron Tegilbor, scribe of the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm.' That would show this arrogant Elf, he thought with a smile. A meeting with a Sinda noble of such high standing in the king's court, no less.
But the Elf was unimpressed. 'And wherefore?' he asked, 'To pluck from him jewels of wisdom and drink his fine wine? Mayhap you should beseech Teithoron to tell you the tale of Celebrindal if you wish to fill your head with the lore of the Amanyar.'
Legelion's face coloured -- this Elf knew too much about his doings, and he didn't know the strange word he had spoken. Looking down at the stone floor, he traced a circle upon it with his toe. 'Nay,' he muttered, 'He is teaching me the art of reading and the runes of writing.'
'You can write? An unkempt waif who dwells in a tree and frolics with rabbits? What can you write?'
At this the boy glared up into the shadows. 'Teithoron has shown me Daeron's Runes. And Prince Legolas himself has aided me, also!' There, he thought to himself, know that this 'waif' is a friend of the prince. Well, perhaps 'friend' was too strong a word, but the prince had been kind to him. Friendly even.
'Legolas?' Finally the tone had cracked, but not as he had expected. Besides being unimpressed the Elf now sounded exasperated. 'By the stars of Elbereth, what folly is this? What has that boy been doing?'
This was too much for Legelion. 'Who are you to speak thus of Legolas son of Thranduil Elvenking?' he cried furiously, his eyes flashing.
'O! So the proud, free Laegel who heeds no Sindar lords is now loyal liege to the Elvenking?'
His fury checked by his confusion, Legelion looked down at his feet once more and twiddled his toes. He suddenly felt very young and very small.
'And have you ever laid eyes upon Thranduil King of the Woodland Realm? Know you his likeness?' the Elf demanded.
'Nay, only that save for Legolas, he alone of the Tawarwaith has golden hair.'
As the Elf stepped forward into the gleaming torchlight, he imperiously threw back his hood; Legelion looked up and his eyes widened.
And his mirth burst forth in howls of laughter.
* * *
It should be noted that this tale is set in the 2977th year of the Third Age, when Legelion had but lately reached twelve years of age; also that these anecdotes are not in strict chronological order.
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