A Web of Stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 4

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"...at the head of a long line of feasters sat a woodland king with a crown of leaves on his golden hair."

Ch VIII, Flies and Spiders, The Hobbit.

 

Thranduil had prepared them the most splendid reception room of all. Great beeches spread their boughs like the arches of a vast hall, roofed in silver-green and carpeted with tiny white stars of thimbleweed. Sunlight filtered between the branches, painting the clearing gold and silver: a leaf-dappled lace of shade and leaping light. 

Arwen had arrived with her head held high and shoulders squared: the proud daughter of Imladris would show this arrogant Wood-elf no admiration. Before these beeches she nonetheless craned her neck and fell into silent awe. Greenwood was a place of ancient souls: not even the mellyrn of Lórien matched these trees’ untold age. She felt small, transient as a mayfly beneath their boughs.

Thranduil’s chair was set beneath the living canopy of a green branch. The king wore green for the feast, silver embroideries shimmering as he rose to greet his guests. By his side, at last, stood the missing Queen of the Greenwood. Arwen would have slowed to stare, and only Celeborn’s hand on the small of her back kept her moving. 

Queen Síloril’s beauty was that of her native forest: all shadows twined about glimpses of light, a suggestion of radiance never grasped. Her face was slender and sharp, with a leaf-shaped tattoo marking her for a loremistress. Her fall of chestnut hair had been braided with a myriad of small white orchids like strewn stars. She, too, wore a feather cloak, but unlike the sober ones Arwen had seen at court this was a feast of colour to dazzle the eye, a cloud of kingfisher-blue and robin-red veiling the queen in radiance. A thousand peacock-eyes flashed green as she moved.

“Welcome, daughter of Celebrían,” Síloril’s eyes were deep brown, but they pierced like Galadriel’s. Arwen wondered what the queen saw of her, and how old she was to be this skilled in ósanwe. 

Only then Arwen realised that none of her tutors taught her how one should bow to a Silvan Queen. 

“I am honoured, Your Highness,” she improvised, and turned to a simple curtsy. Síloril’s smile was enigmatic as ever. 

A wild boldness grasped her, and Arwen could not keep her curiosity in check. “Do you never sit beside your husband in his hall?”

It was a complete and utter breach of protocol. Celeborn’s look could have withered fresh flowers, but Síloril chuckled. “My people do not care for thrones and halls of stone. Those are for the benefit of our Sindarin visitors. Today you shall be received the Silvan way.” 

“Greetings, lady,” said a voice beside Arwen. She had been so absorbed in Síloril’s gaze that she was startled. 

Legolas, too, had donned a Silvan cloak for the feast, his hair braided with a crown of summer leaves. He looked tender beside his proud father in his kingly regalia. Only now did Arwen mark his mother’s Silvan blood in him — that softer line of the cheek, a trace of the Wood-elves’ quick, bird-like movements as he stepped swiftly to her side. Not exactly delicate, Arwen thought, strangely pleased, but elegant as a well-made sword. 

Síloril smiled. “Perhaps my son can properly introduce you to our people of the Greenwood.” 

A meaningful look passed between Thranduil and his queen. Clearly the Silvans had opinions about their king’s fondness of Sindarin court protocol. 

Celeborn chose that moment to step to the fore and greet their hosts. Arwen watched him advance, an image of Doriath’s ancient splendour. His tunic glimmered snow-white beneath a mantle of grey silk, a mithril torc at his neck. On his forehead shone an ancient gem carried from Menegroth. For a moment, his hand strayed to the winged-moon brooch at his throat, as if seeking support from the insignia of his long-dead king.

Away from his throne and seen from a level height Thranduil seemed more human, and where she had expected strangeness she found instead a shocking resemblance. Thranduil and Celeborn shared that sharp, fine-boned delicacy of their Doriathrin blood. 

Then she saw it. Thranduil, too, wore a winged moon on his breast. This was why Celeborn so desperately wished to have this man for a friend. Whatever their differences, these two were bound by their terrible loss. Thranduil met her eyes and for the first time since entering the wood she felt welcome. 

I did not know that he resembled you so, she thought at her grandfather.

In appearance only, Celeborn replied. Can you not tell how Silvan he has become? Look at his son!

Ah , the mysterious prince. Arwen smiled again and felt the knot of nerves in her stomach ease a little.

Celeborn stepped forward towards Thranduil and Síloril to begin his gracious speech of kinship and alliance. Arwen had listened to him rehearsing and refining it with his advisors for far too many evenings. Celeborn had called it a rhetoric lesson. As if she needed any more of those, growing up in the same house as Erestor. 

She kept her eyes on Legolas while she waited until Celeborn was in the middle of a sentence, and then thought, He looks gorgeous in tight breeches.

Celeborn’s stumble after his words was the greatest delight of the trip thus far.

Legolas must have noticed, because his eyes flashed with amusement, the ghost of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He decided to save Celeborn from further embarrassment, and held out his arm. “Would you like to join me for the festival, lady?”

Thranduil turned from his formal welcome to Celeborn to look his son in the eyes, and Arwen could tell what passed between them.  

Behave , that look said. 

Arwen’s gaze crossed Legolas’ with a new sympathy. She knew all about being kept on a short leash.

Legolas must be keen to be away from his parents’ eyes, and she could not blame him. As she took his offered arm, Celeborn eyed her with an expression remarkably like Thranduil’s: 

Behave . 

She smiled back. Always .

Beyond the wood a tree lined greensward lay verdant beneath the sun. The afternoon was warm and bright, and the grass underfoot was dotted with wildflowers — white and violet and gold. Gently stirred by the summer wind, they swayed around the Elves’ feet. Arwen inhaled their scent in the air, laced with the smoke of many bonfires. It seemed that the whole population of Greenwood, Sindar and Silvan both had gathered here. She wandered among them with mingled delight and unease. 

As she watched, gourds filled with a clear liquid were passed from hand to hand. The thrum of drums and flutes was so loud that the rhythm reverberated inside her chest. Every elf in Thranduil’s realm looked eager to dance and drink themselves into oblivion.

At home in Imladris a visiting prince would receive a solemn reception, with all the household bidding them welcome in the forecourt, followed by a formal dinner and several speeches. Arwen had expected Thranduil’s own version of the ceremony — a dignified state protocol — but if this wild revel was Greenwood's equivalent, then these Silvan Elves and their customs were far more alien than she ever expected.

Feeling lost, she let Legolas steer her to one of the fires, where a group of youngsters — and how did this place have so many young Elves? — were drinking and egging each other on to leap over the flames. She recognized Tauriel among them. 

Legolas was greeted with shouts and hugs — such a far cry from the court ceremony — clearly one of them. To her they crossed their arms in salute, the Sindar way. These Wood-elves  faced her inquisitive looks without fear, but with a certain bluster. 

Captain Tauriel — wearing buckskin breeches, some blue woad paint and little more — caught Arwen’s gaze and held it, unblinking. 

“The Greenwood welcomes you, Lady of Imladris.” 

Sindarin Elves might rule this land, but there was nothing submissive about this strange Silvan woman, from the proud line of her chin to the way she held her slender shoulders straight, without a trace of shyness about her barely covered chest. 

Her warrior’s tattoo was a prowling lynx, sinuously winding itself around her torso, every hair of its tawny summer coat sharply outlined against her pale skin. Warrior’s guild tattoos were an ancient tradition among both Doriath’s army and the Lindar war bands. Tauriel’s was wholly Silvan in both subject and style. It made her look even more alien.

Her smile was cat-like indeed. “Will you drink with her people?” she asked almost sweetly, and proffered the drinking gourd. 

Arwen hesitated, forcing herself to look at the liquor sloshing in the gourd in Tauriel's hands instead of her painted skin. A pungent, not entirely unpleasant scent wafted up, pine and juniper and some other herb she could not quite name. 

Legolas laughed. “Be kind to our guest, Tauriel! She has never tasted your brew before!”

Tauriel was unmoved. “Surely the Golodhrim teach their daughters to hold their liquor?”

Arwen hesitated. She was well used to wine, in proper amounts and always well-watered, but Elrond had never presented her with the golden liquid he poured her brothers on cold winter nights, in small crystal glasses. Nonetheless she returned the Wood-elf’s gaze and accepted the challenge.

She took a mouthful of the strong spirit. Alcohol vapour burst into the back of her nose, filling her sinuses with the burning essence of summer. Her eyes watered and she battled not to cough. Warmth spread through her throat and chest.

The Wood-elves laughed, but not in a bad way, and the atmosphere defused. Arwen had passed some sort of test. Now Tauriel’s smile reached her eyes, and on the gourd’s next pass she handed it to Arwen with a grand flourish. The world turned warm and golden after that one, and she was happy to stand by the fire, be introduced to Legolas’ friends, and listen to their drumming until her heartbeat seemed to mesh with their rhythm. 

Then a horn sounded, a series of short blasts, and order appeared in the scattered crowd.  A pattern sorted itself into orderly lines. These were military companies, and now they set themselves in clusters before a row of archery targets. Feasting and fighting lay close together, it seemed.

Garlands of flowers decorated the field and everywhere musicians and dancers roamed between the warriors. The scent of pies and sweets filled the air, and yet... This was no festival but a show of military strength, all but saying “Greenwood needs you Noldor no longer.”

“Do you shoot, Lady?” Legolas asked, almost casually. 

Arwen raised her chin and straightened herself. “I do.”

“Surely you will enjoy a friendly game of archery before we feast?” 

Arwen sensed another challenge. She had perhaps been less than wise to drink on every pass of the gourd, but that outrageous Wood-elf had dimples when he smiled. 

She rose to her feet with only the barest of wobbles, and surveyed their little group, noticing their wide, sweeping gestures and too-loud voices. She was hardly the drunkest person around. The Elves of the Greenwood certainly knew how to have some fun. 

“Agreed,” she replied, and noticed how Legolas’ nose crinkled when his smile grew wider. “Let me send for my bow.”

Haldir had been hovering nearby, but Legolas was quicker. “May I offer you mine, Lady?” 

He had a mischievous look as he held out a Silvan recurve bow, sculpted from layers of different woods and what looked to be horn, so different from the Noldorin longbows of Imladris. The wood was smooth and still warm from his grip. She caught his eye as she stroked her hand up the sinuous shape of the body. He swallowed audibly.  

With slow, deliberate movements she loosened the topmost button of her dress, just to give herself some freedom. Then she raised the bow, and drew.

“Lady, your dress …” Legolas deftly interrupted her before she could reach for an arrow. 

He was right: her billowing sleeves were like to be caught in the string, the precious cloth ruined. She suddenly felt foolish and pompous in her gown of satin and silk, a bodice stiff with embroidery in the silver and night-blue of her House. Heat rose in her cheeks and she cursed her own lack of foresight. She had picked this sumptuous dress to show herself to best advantage, but now that the day had turned out very different she could hardly go back to her rooms and change. 

“Allow me …” From some pocket, Legolas produced a ribbon. The afternoon sun was hot on her face as he tied back her sleeve, looping the silk around her arm. For a breathless instant his fingertips stroked the soft, pale inside of her forearm, and she shivered with the warmth of that touch. His fingers lingered a moment too long. His cheeks glowed — but perhaps that was the wine — and his gaze darted away when she sought his eyes.  

“Now, lady, I would see your skill.”

The first targets were stationary, and she easily struck the gold. There was a smattering of polite applause. 

Next they shot at billowing flags flown from high branches. She acquitted herself well. Celebrían had taught her this game, and taught her well, but the crowd was swelling, and Arwen felt a thrill of nerves. The Mirkwood bow was strange to her hand, and she wished she had her own. 

Legolas noticed, and at once turned to her. “It seems I am enjoying an unjust advantage. These recurve bows can feel flighty to one used to a Noldorin longbow.” 

He stood for an instant, hesitating with hands half-raised by his sides, then seemed to decide. 

“The trick is to pull it so .” His right hand came to rest above hers on the string, barely touching, but Arwen was exquisitely aware of the small point of contact. Legolas’ skin was warmer than hers, and pleasantly rough with archers’ callous. He smelled of juniper and the skin-warmed leather of his armguard, which highlighted the elegant flex of his muscled forearm. The solid warmth of him at her back was intoxicating. 

The wind picked up, a gentle caress whispering over her heated face, as together they drew back the string until his hand was maddeningly close to her lips, so near that she might have pressed a small kiss to it. The very idea was madness, and she felt her cheeks colour deeper yet. 

“There, lady.” 

Arwen nearly startled as his other hand touched her back. She had nearly forgotten he had two, so focused had she been with the one by her face. He had to be almost embracing her now, as an archery teacher will a student. 

Ai Elbereth! It was unbearable, to be touched and yet not, held under tension like her own bowstring. 

His breathing held — when had she grown so aware of it? — and without a word or sign they, together, released the string. 

Twang! That sweet thrum of tension released as the string returned to its rightful place. 

Arwen had to force herself to look at the target instead of him. The Wood-elves were watching. Legolas failed at it, however, and she could feel that blue-eyed gaze burning her still. She could not, did not look, and turned her eye towards the target. 

Perfect aim.

Legolas stepped back, but she still felt it, this drawn tension under the skin, like a bow that will not truly relax until it is unstrung... Then she saw his face, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, and knew that it was the same for him. 

His smile was a thing of beauty. “Lady, you have skill at this! But can you hunt clay?”

Shooting clay pigeons was a Sindarin feast-day game, and Arwen had played it for long-years. Her brothers would get fearsomely competitive about it, and only last year she had revelled in Elrohir’s cry of frustration as she snagged the victory from his hands. 

This time, she hit all but one. 

Beside her, Legolas was a vision of speed and skill as he drew, nocked and set free one arrow after another in a smooth motion. Every single one of his clay pigeons exploded in a rain of shards.

 “Best of three?” His smile was radiant.

She needed a deep breath before she could retrieve her lessons in diplomacy from the heated recesses of her mind, and scrambled for the right answer. “You may win, your highness.”

He bowed before her, deep and formal. The applause was more than just polite. She had made an impression on these Wood-elves. Good .

“A look at our coming feast, perhaps?” Legolas asked, all gallantry.

“Gladly!” Some food might help her overcome her sudden loss of eloquence. It must be the drink. 

The sun was setting, and blue shadows deepened in the forest. Around the cooking fires the light was red and leaping gold, the air warm as an embrace. Arwen loosened another button on the neckline of her dress. It showed far more skin than was considered seemly among Noldor, but it was likely no one here would care. 

At the largest fire of all — a wide-spread bed of glowing coals — a pair of bare-chested cooks laboured at turning an iron spit, their slender bodies shiny with sweat. A drummer beat the rhythm for them as they sang a merry cooking song, and judging by the gourd they kept passing back and forth they were rather enjoying themselves. Then she realised what they were roasting. 

Arwen had seen large boars. One tended to meet many of them in Elrohir’s company. This, however, was an absurd, bear-sized monstrosity of a wild pig. With great sense for drama, the cooks had left the head with its massive canines attached when dressing it for the spit. They were the size of her forearm.

“By Araw!” she exclaimed in open-mouthed astonishment. “Whoever downed that is a worthy hunter! Do you spear these on foot, or from horseback?” 

“Do you hunt, lady?” Legolas seemed surprised.

“Of course, and more than boar!” Arwen tried not to sound affronted. Did he think of her as a child? “Imladris lies near the Coldfells and the Ettenmoors. My brothers and I hunt the great fell-wolves in the Northern wilds.”

There. Let this sheltered princeling try and match that .

Legolas did share his sire’s prickliness, it seemed, for his tone grew annoyed. “Wargs mean little to the hunters of the Greenwood. We chase fouler things!”

Arwen raised an eyebrow and cast him a disbelieving glance. “What could be worse than a Warg?” 

“Spiders!” Legolas revelled in her shock. “I can tell that you have not heard of them. Trust me, your Golodhrim hunters would not know what to do with them!”

Arwen raised her eyebrows at the epithet. “How many have you killed?” she asked with a sharp edge to her voice. 

Legolas could not arrange his face in time. 

“You are not allowed near them!” she exclaimed, perhaps a little louder than was diplomatic.

Legolas took the blow without flinching, and proved not without insight of his own. He smiled knowingly. “Have you ever seen a living Warg?”

Arwen recalled last autumn’s aborted expedition, when Elrohir had packed her off home the instant it grew clear that their quarry was Warg rather than wolf. Her brother had never raised his voice to her, but that day as she argued, his face grew hard and closed like never before; and when she kept protesting he had called her a foolish child. 

“No,” she confessed, and Legolas’ face softened into sympathy. “My brothers forbid it. Elrohir in particular is … watchful. I would hunt naught but hares and partridges if he had his way. Mother is more lenient, but only to a degree.”

Legolas sent her a knowing look. It seemed he knew all about being controlled by vigilant elders, kept to the hand like a jessed hawk.

A foolish little sting of a thought struck Arwen. It was silly, absurd, utter madness, but now that she stood here in the forest, awash in the pulsing throb of flutes and drums, with the bonfires sending fountains of red embers floating through the dark and the dancers’  pounding feet beating the ground... Now it seemed different, and no longer foolish. She was trembling, breathing fast, charged all over with excitement, about to burst with it like a flower tears from its bud. There had been something of this feeling at the formal Silvan feast-days in Lórien, but never so wild and strong and untempered. 

“I need some fresh air,” she blurted out, and bolted. The dark woods swallowed her shame, and she breathed fast in the shadows beneath their sheltering branches. 

It was cooler away from the fires. Here, the still air smelled of green things growing, the scent of a sleeping summer wood. The clearing's golden light gave way to the starlit dark, and the music grew less demanding, but perhaps gentler for it. Arwen breathed deeply, leant against a stately silver beech, and closed her eyes in search of her familiar self.

It was not long, merely a couple of heartbeats, before the tree sang in greeting, and a dark shape moved beside her. 

Curse him, he had followed her!

She turned to face Legolas. His eyes glinted pale blue in the starlight; his expression was unreadable. Something lay there for the taking, something strong and wild and hugely important that she could not name, but she would nevertheless grasp with both hands. 

“I would like to hunt these spiders,” she said, but then added, coyly, as she had seen some courtiers address her brothers, “Would you be my companion?”

Elladan and Elrohir usually rolled their eyes behind these women’s backs, but on Legolas it had a different effect. 

Colour rose in his face, and his voice grew rough and low. “Yes. We shall hunt.”

 

Far and wide her lesser broods, bastards of the miserable mates, her own offspring, that she slew, spread from glen to glen, from the Ephel Dúath to the eastern hills, to Dol Guldur and the fastnesses of Mirkwood. But none could rival her, Shelob the Great, last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world.

 

The Two Towers, LoTR Book 4, Ch 9, Shelob's Lair

 

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Chapter End Notes

Welcome back, friends!

This week we saw a meeting, a match, and the hatching of a wild plan. This story is my first attempt at writing romance, and I had a great time getting these  two to fall in love. How did I do? I'd love to hear your thoughts on our lovebirds, their elders, and of course the Greenwood and its people. A comment would make me a very happy scribe.

See you next week,
Idrils Scribe