A Web of Stars by Idrils Scribe

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Chapter 5

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"The Elvish folk of this realm had migrated from the south, being the kin and neighbours of the Elves of Lórien; but they had dwelt in Greenwood the Great east of Anduin. In the Second Age their king, Oropher [the father of Thranduil, father of Legolas], had withdrawn northward beyond the Gladden Fields. This he did to be free from the power and encroachments of the Dwarves of Moria...and also he resented the intrusions of Celeborn and Galadriel into Lórien."

Unfinished Tales, History of Galadriel and Celeborn

 

“Hush, lady, or someone will notice us. Come with me!” Legolas’ hand closed on Arwen's arm. Darkness and light in turn passed over him as he moved beneath the boughs, ever-shifting patterns of shadow.

She would not be led like a child, and took his hand instead. His pupils widened, but he did not speak as they ran, both equally swift and silent, through the darkened wood, away from the clearing and the leaping orange glow of bonfires. The Silvans dancing about them threw long shadows that danced a rhythm of their own. Arwen breathed deeply, woodsmoke and the scent of leaves. The wind whispered in the beeches like a caress. 

Getting away was easy, in the end. Celeborn and Thranduil had withdrawn to a private pavilion, curtained off from the main feast. Judging by the voices raised in rapid Doriathrin, they were reunited with their ancient arguments where they had left them at their previous meeting. 

Galion should have been keeping an eye on the young prince, but he had arranged his own happy reunion with his old friend Haldir — who was supposed to be minding Arwen — and some of Thranduil’s finest Dorwinion. Both were already unsteady on their feet, and guileless. It was easy to send a Song of dreams their way. 

“Can you Sing people to sleep?” Legolas was awed. 

“I am a child of Lúthien,” she replied, desperate to keep her face straight the way Galadriel would on such occasions. She had never had the chance before. 

Legolas raised an eyebrow. “I was expecting that to be more of a poetic exaggeration, if you will.”

Arwen snorted. “Glad to hear they have taught you such long words in these parts.”

Legolas made a face.

They slipped in and out of Thranduil’s halls easily. Instead of her rooms, Legolas led them to an armoury, and there they equipped themselves with the stout and simple gear of Greenwood’s hunters. 

Arwen left her court dress hanging from a peg in the change room, where someone was sure to find it. It would be criminal to ruin the precious gown on a journey through the woods. 

Legolas, too, changed out of his feast-day finery, and set to plundering a storeroom. 

“Do we need all that?” Arwen asked as he emerged laden with waybread and pemmican. 

“It is a four day ride to Amon Lanc.”

“Are the nearest spiders at Amon Lanc ?”

 “The keep is infested, but Father’s council is divided on whether we should exterminate the vermin.” Legolas' eyes glistened in the room’s half light. “I would like to present him with the finished task.”

Arwen had no need to pry for an explanation. Legolas was so full of the tale that it spilled from his mind like an overflowing cup: Thranduil’s selection of spider hunters had not included Legolas, and father and son had had words . 

Arwen had no desire to get involved in their family quarrels. Someone had to be the voice of reason. “It is too far! We shall be gone for more than a sennight. My grandfather will be livid!”

Legolas shrugged. “If you are frightened, I could take you to the Dwarf Road. We may find some eggs in the undergrowth, a small spiderling at most. We shall be back in time to go hawking with the court.”

Hawking partridges from horseback was traditional, completely safe, and mind-numbingly boring. Unacceptable. “I am not frightened!” 

She thought of Celeborn. He would be upset at being left behind, but maybe… “Do you have a pen and paper?”

Legolas was astonished. “Whatever for?”

“I will leave a note for Grandfather, so he will not worry.”

He shrugged. “The quartermaster’s room.”

The office was small and musty, but it did hold a pen, inkstone and some scraps of paper.

 

Dear Grandfather,

Prince Legolas and I have gone spider-hunting together. Are you not pleased that we get along so well? He brought more supplies than we could possibly need and has kindly loaned me a sword and bow, so there is no need for concern.

We shall be back in eight ten days or thereabout.

All my love,

Arwen

 

She pinned the note to her dress where it hung from the peg. Surely whoever found it would see both items delivered to Celeborn. 

The stables lay dark and silent, with all the grooms at the feast. Legolas’ horse was a gorgeous roan stallion of some eastern breed she did not recognize. 

He saddled a bay stallion for her. The horse pawed at the ground, head held high and nostrils flaring. “He is quite spirited. If you prefer a calmer horse, the chestnut in the paddock outside might—”

“I am from Imladris.” Arwen could not help her tone of insult. “I ride better than any Elf of the wood.”

Legolas only raised his eyebrows. He helped her mount, and his hand on her knee was warm, and lingered but a heartbeat too long. Their eyes met in the dark stable, and she knew what he wanted. A hot wave washed over her. 

This, too, was an unprecedented chance. She had known some secret touches, a few stolen nights, all in Lórien. Who in Imladris would dare touch the lord’s own daughter, guarded as she was by her formidable brothers? It was unfair. When Elladan and Elrohir wished for company, they did not sleep alone. Only Arwen’s bed stood cold. 

The night wind cooled her glowing face as they flew down a tree-lined path. Yes, she would take every chance that presented itself.

 

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On the festival grounds they needed to stay in the shadows to avoid stumbling revellers, but soon enough the forest lay dark and silent around them. Trees leaned over them as they cantered down a southbound passage. 

“This is the great south path,” Legolas said, and he seemed very much sober now. “Few use it these days, for we no longer go to Amon Lanc.”

Arwen recalled seeing Oropher’s distant hall from her flet in Caras Galadhon. The keep commanded the surrounding forest from its high hill. “Why did your father abandon such a fair house and a strong fortress? Is he that frightened of my grandmother and a few mountain Dwarves?” 

“Amon Lanc was darkened by memories of the dead,” Legolas replied, his face grave as he stroked his roan’s neck. “The spiders have it now.”

“So… How does one approach these spiders?” Arwen managed to make the question sound casual, as if at home in Imladris she led expeditions every day, discussing tactics with the hunters with Celebrían’s poise. 

Legolas’ face was closed, and she could not read behind his eyes. “Our warriors pierce their eyes, then burn the eggs in the webs. The venom is their prize. It paralyses instantly — very fine for hunting deer!”

Arwen failed to keep the morbid fascination from her voice. “How do they remove the venom from the spider? Is it like milking a viper?” 

Legolas shook his head. “We cut out the venom-glands, near the mouth.” he declared with eagerness in his voice. “Those and the mandibles. As long as your forearm, and razor-sharp — quite the trophy!”

From his belt he drew a long knife he had picked up from the armoury. The weapon was undeniably Silvan, with its hilt carved in the likeness of a leaping lynx and a sheath of woven conifer bark dyed a bright spring green, artfully knotted into leaflike patterns.

But the blade … When he handed her the knife, she first thought the bone-white material was ivory, but then a strange sheen played across it, an iridescence like a fly's wing. She drew a finger across the smooth surface, and shivered. A fell Song thrummed within: of rending, tearing, drinking blood. 

She swung it about, trying the heft, and found it pleasant enough in the hand, then tested the edge. Gauging a blade was among the first things a young huntress was taught, and Celebrían’s daughter did it properly:  with a scrape of the thumb across, not along to slice herself. Even done the right way, the knife nicked off a paper-thin slice of her thumb pad. 

She cursed, and sucked the small wound. “A vicious blade. Should Elves be wielding the work of the Enemy?”

“Easily said, from the safety of Galadriel’s wards. Here in the Greenwood we must defend our land however we may. Even with the Enemy’s own weapons.” Even in the dark, Legolas’ eyes shone, fell and fierce as his knives. “Why should we care if the Noldor fear our ways?”    

Arwen was not about to be outdone. “We shall kill two spiders each — at the least! I shall take my mandibles home to Imladris, as gifts for my brothers!”

Surely a spider-mandible knife each would suffice to remind Elladan and Elrohir once and for all that their sister was a grown woman. 

“Mine shall be for my father” said Legolas, with a strange look in his eyes.

"Legolas had a bow and a quiver, and at his belt a long white knife."

-Book II, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

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Chapter End Notes

Welcome back everyone,

Yes, they're doing this! As Arwen says, there is absolutely no need to worry: they've got  A Plan. 
A short chapter this week, simply because a nasty stomach bug got the better of me and I couldn't edit the rest in time. I'll make it up next week, promise!
I'd love to hear your thoughts about the chapter. A comment would definitely cheer me up as I languish on my sickbed ;-)

See you soon,
Idrils Scribe