I saw him again today: the strange Elf in green and brown, the royal envoy from the Woodland Realm, the king of Mirkwood’s son who brings tidings from his Sire.

I was sitting on the sill of a window in Frodo’s room, listening to the somehow comforting sounds of Sam’s snores, half-asleep myself in the late afternoon sunlight.

My attention was divided between Frodo and the familiar wonders of the only home I’ve ever known.  Lord Elrond saved the young Hobbit from the poison of the Morgul blade, and the Ringbearer is past the worst.  However, Mithrandir gave Frodo into my care, and until the Istari arrives to relieve me of my charge, I will keep watch.

It is not necessary, as my foster-father has told me more than once since our arrival in Rivendell.  I know that he is right, but I stay nonetheless, much I suspect for the same reason that Sam stays.  I love Frodo already for his bravery, his goodness and his steadfast heart.  It saddens me that he is burdened with Isildur’s Bane.

Yes, you are right.  I was telling you about the messenger from Mirkwood.  I am sorry if I was beginning one of my tedious sulks over my forebears’ failures, but it leads aptly into the next part.

While I was standing guard over Frodo’s rest, I was thinking, brooding really, about my ancestors and the mistakes they had made when my eye caught movement on the periphery of my vision.  I looked out of the window and saw him.  Legolas, he is called, and he is as different from all the other Elves I have known, as his name is different from all the other Elvish names I have heard.

Mirkwood’s prince has all the grace, beauty and timeless serenity of the Elves, but in him, those attributes seem sharper, more intense somehow.  I know I am not explaining this well, but I shall continue to try if you wish.

It is not that he is more graceful, but his grace is that of a wild creature that has never known a taming hand.  Nor is he more beautiful, yet his beauty seems fresher, unfaded, as a rose come recently to bloom.  His inner calm is more akin to the watchful patience of the hunter than the resigned acceptance of the philosopher.  I shall leave it there for I cannot adequately describe my impression of him.

Ah well, if you most have the details.  He is very fair.  His hair is pale as starlight and he wears it braided back from his face like a Second Age warrior.  I assure you it is the exact pattern of plaiting that you see in the paintings from that era, of Oropher especially.  Yes, it is very becoming, as you have always said.

His eyes?  I have not been close enough to look into his eyes, but I know that they are blue.  Not blue like yours or mine.  They’re darker.  Not like Elladan and Elrohir’s either, though.  I am doing no better with this description, am I?

You shall see him soon enough anyway.  He takes dinner with your father.  Surely, you are not so tired from your journey from Lothlorien that you would miss the evening meal.  No, I will not be jealous if you speak with Legolas first.  What a strange thing to say.

Do not be fanciful.  I merely find him interesting even as you do.  He is from Mirkwood; that alone would make him fascinating.  No, I am not embarrassed to admit my attraction.  None such exists.  This is a fabrication of your romantic nature.

Yes, I think the Prince will find you attractive because you are the most beautiful thing under the Sun or the Stars.  I hope you do not find him attractive, and not for the reason that you think by your smile, but because I do not wish to lose you to Mirkwood.

After the Council of Elrond, this Legolas will return to his home and I shall likely never see him again.  It would make me and all who love you sad, if the Prince took you with him.

Of course, I love you.  You have known that always.  Now go, take some rest and have your dinner.

No, I shall stay here until Frodo wakes, or Gandalf comes to take charge of him.  Then we shall have a proper welcome for you.

Yes, of course, you are right; I was forgetting.  After the Council is over then.  Gandalf and Elrond will solve this riddle, and then we shall celebrate and be merry.

Goodnight, my Lady Evenstar.

THE END