A Web of Stars by Idrils Scribe

Chapter 2

Forest Mountains, the year 1000 of the Third Age.

Even in high summer, morning mists swirled between the dark boles of fir and spruce on the slopes of the Forest Mountains. Dawn was not long past, and beams of slanted sunlight cut the hazy forest into long slices of gold and palest pink. 

Arwen’s mare shook her head in annoyance as dew pearled in the strands of her mane. The steep climb had the horse sweating under her cloth-of-silver caparison, and her discomfort only served to deepen her rider’s unease. 

Arwen turned in her saddle to look back the way they had come. Their company had now climbed high enough that she could discern the white-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains in hazy blue distance beyond the Great River. Nestled at their feet sparkled a hint of gold that could only be Lórien’s mallorn trees in bloom. 

Ahead, the Greenwood’s dense canopy pressed upon the land, a blanket of tightly woven branches broken only by the height of Amon Lanc to the south. The forest appeared as stern and unwelcoming as its people. Even more so up here in the Forest Mountains, where gnarled pines and spruce clung to craggy rocks instead of the merry stands of oak and beech of the lower elevations.

Arwen turned to face forward, and up. A great riding filled the steep road that heaved its winding way to Thranduil’s mountain halls. Before her eyes, the column unrolled in an orderly arrangement, coloured blocks of riders moving uphill in rows straight as spears. The vanguard was Celeborn’s personal guard, garbed in grey and riding under the ancient winged moon banner of Doriath. In their tracks followed Arwen’s own people, in the silver and midnight of the House of Eärendil. They flew Elrond’s banner, but also that of Lúthien, bright yellow elanor upon a field of cornflower blue. 

The company blazed in the morning sunlight: Celeborn had not been aiming for subtlety when he outfitted his honour guard for this embassy to the Greenwood. The Lord of Lórien had set the bar high, and the craftspeople of Imladris had ensured that Elrond’s daughter raised it just enough to remind the Silvans who had the better jewellers and armour-smiths. 

Celeborn and Arwen had set out from Lórien seven days before in the company of King Amroth, but the King and his retainers had remained behind at the crossing of Anduin. This last one in a string of ill-fated attempts to reestablish diplomatic relations between Thranduil and the High Elves — so utterly destroyed by Oropher’s tragic death in the Last Alliance — was entirely Celeborn’s endeavour. 

Thus far, the signs were ill. No delegation had awaited them at the forest’s edge, nor was there any trace of the Greenwood’s inhabitants. Their path had crossed the ancestral lands of several Silvan tribes, but eerie silence blanketed every glade and dell. It was abundantly clear that none of Thranduil’s subjects desired to greet their king's visitors. 

Arwen’s mithril coat of mail sat heavily on her shoulders when she turned towards her grandfather. “Perhaps the Wood-elves take offence at us sparkling like a magpie’s hoard?” 

Celeborn shook his head before she had even finished speaking. “The king of Greenwood is no Wood-elf,” he lectured, for what had to be the tenth time. 

Arwen’s knuckles clenched white about her pommel as she pressed down her irritation — when would he stop seeing her as a child to be instructed?  

“Thranduil was raised at Elu Thingol’s court,” Celeborn continued, blissfully unaware of his granddaughter’s annoyance. “He has an eye for finery, and he is easily offended. If you arrived looking drab, Thranduil would complain that Elrond thinks so little of his court that he did not bother to turn his daughter out in state.” 

Celeborn reached over to straighten a wrinkle in the blue silk of Arwen’s surcoat so the drape fell in shimmering perfection around her shoulders. His face grew soft, and for a moment he seemed lost in memories of some other dark-haired princess. This, too, happened annoyingly often. Arwen was not Lúthien, whatever her grandfather might believe. 

Celeborn failed to sense the thought. “I agree that it is a fine line,” he rambled. “Too many geometric designs would bring your Noldorin side to mind. The king would throw you out on sight — remember his wedding invitation!” 

Arwen managed not to sigh. Here was a tale that had been told, retold and embellished to near-mythical proportions in Lórien and Imladris. Ancient histories, ever repeated. She smiled at her grandfather’s searching look, but it was a thin veneer. 

“Take ease, child,” Celeborn said in a soothing tone. “We struck the balance just right with your armour. You look like a princess of the Elder Days — but from Doriath, not Tirion.”

“Speaking of princes …” Appeasing Thranduil was but half Arwen’s appointed task, and she was rather looking forward to the second part. 

“Few outsiders have laid eyes on Prince Legolas,” mused Celeborn, “and even fewer have exchanged words of any substance with him. Thranduil seems determined to cloister his son among their Silvan folk.”

“Perhaps I will not meet him at all,” Arwen replied, suddenly doubtful.

Celeborn shook his head. “A recluse makes a poor king, as will a man whose Sindarin is so rarely used it bears a Silvan accent. Thranduil needs his heir to gain experience in diplomacy with the High-elves. You will present the perfect opportunity.”  

“And meanwhile I am to befriend this hermit prince.” Much remained unsaid, and yet the thought hung heavy in the air. The choice was hers, of course, but a marriage would be … opportune.

“You may find Legolas quite enthusiastic,” said Celeborn. “Thranduil keeps a formal court. Amon Lanc resembles Doriath of old more than Imladris, or even Lórien.”

Arwen raised her eyebrows. “Our princeling is sorely mistaken, if he expects a curtsy from me.” 

Celeborn chuckled. “You are your father’s image when you do that!” 

At her look of exasperation he grew serious once more. “Fear not. The exact order of protocollary precedence is debatable, given that Oropher chose to style himself a king while your father forsook that title. Nonetheless you are of Elu Thingol’s line, where their House is not. One can be said to cancel out the other.” Celeborn gave her a canny look. “You are likely the first equal Legolas has ever met.”

Nerves leapt in Arwen’s stomach, and suddenly she was glad of her grandfather's familiar presence. This place was nothing like home, and her old certainties meant little here.  

Now Celeborn did notice. “Thranduil is a grieving son,” he comforted, “not a fire-breathing dragon. In Lórien and Imladris we say Oropher’s wilfulness was to blame for his death, but perhaps that is but the comfortable half of the truth.” 

He once more laid his hand on Arwen’s shoulder. “Young hands are needed, to mend the rifts torn by the old.”