Summary: The souls and hearts of the Elves endure much pain and sorrow, but for Elrond son of Eärendil, the departure of his wife brought grief well-nigh unbearable. Who would have thought that the Sun would ever shine again?

Pairing: Elrond/Legolas

Rating: M, eventually.

Warnings: Some angst, much less het (all of it implied and in the past) and plenty of slash.

Disclaimer: Middle-earth belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien (who knows all the details of his legendarium that I surely have messed up).

A/N: This is, as they say, a tale that grew in the telling. Originally it was meant to cover also the events during the War of the Ring but that would have made it entirely too long and completely unmanageable. Therefore, I ended it much sooner than that and hope that it works well like this. All in all, there are 41 chapters and you will get weekly-ish updates.

If you are the impatient type, you will be unhappy to know that it will take Legolas a few chapters to make his way into the story. Consider yourself warned. Also, needless to say, I have taken some liberties with canon, perhaps most notably with the concept of Elven marriage. The idea of Legolas' mother's fate, I have stolen from the films.

I have labelled this story as romance/angst. There is some of the latter but, truth be told, overall it is not very angsty. It is, on the contrary, the most romantic story I have ever written.

Welcome.

The Song of the Sun

.:O:.

Prologue

The year 2546 of the Third Age

.:O:.

Imladris, Eriador

An eager wind was blowing. It was surely northbound but it cast itself so frivolously between the sleeping trees that it was hard to tell from whence it came or where it truly wished to be journeying. It set the brown, crumpled leaves on the ground spinning in circles and lifted them high into the air to dance closer to the sky which was clear but for a few broad streaks of thin clouds. The sunlight was pale. Wan it looked, as if already weary though winter was just beginning to loosen its grip. Despite the wind, deep in the withered grass of yesteryear, lay memories of an exhausted and greying mist.

I rose to stand by the window and my eyes fell on a notch in the wooden frame. It was but a small mark and not something that I should be considering in this moment for there were other, more pressing, matters at hand, and yet it stole my attention all the same. If ever I should endeavour to search for them, I knew I would find many more such markings that all of them traced my people's history between these walls. For Imladris was over four thousand years old and had seen much joy and much sorrow. It was, all in all, a lived-in place.

As I ran the pad of my thumb over the mark and tried to sense the ghost of whatever had caused the imprint in the wood against my skin, it seemed to me at least an age since anything moved in me. As a matter of fact, I did not feel lived-in at all.

"This wind has no scent," I said, at last, because somebody should say something.

"Hm."

There was a rustle of fabric – heavy travel-stained wool – behind me.

"And what does that tell you?"

I looked back to him. Mithrandir had shifted in his seat but was making no visible attempt to join me by the window.

"Nothing," I told him honestly, "and it troubles me." For it should, though I did not truly feel it.

The Istar had out of respect for me refrained from lighting his pipe but it lay waiting in his lap.

"Not everything has a meaning," he said. "We would do well to remember that, in times such as these."

I tried a smile at him. It was a thin one and it stretched my face oddly. "A wind is simply a wind, sometimes?"

"Sometimes," Mithrandir agreed. He smiled, too, and he looked like he was at ease, and though it was shameful, I envied him. "And sometimes not. And sometimes a scent comes wafting through our windows to speak of great things to come," he went on. "Foul things and bad, and splendour and glory and victory, too. And sometimes it carries no scent and sometimes it portends the simpler things. Such as supper."

"You spend too much time among the halflings, my friend."

But he only laughed at this. "Not half as much as I would like. They are a delightful folk, to be sure. Very… unburdened by all that is troubling to taller people."

"Indeed."

Silence fell around us after that, such as it often did these days. The thin curtains shifted beside me and the call of a bird wove through the midday air. A shaft of whitish sunlight slowly walked across the floor. It should have lightened my heart to see the seasons turn and spring come again but it did not. Not much had eased the agony in my soul during the past thirty-six years. Or thirty-seven, depending on how you counted.

"When do you leave?" Mithrandir asked eventually.

I drew a breath and willed forth more words.

"Tomorrow, at sunrise. Glorfindel is of a mind to set some record but I have told him that not even he can make it to Mirkwood in one day."

Mithrandir chuckled and for a moment it was as if the room was brightened by it. His eyes were warm.

"I think it will do you good, Elrond, this journey."

"So my children say."

"Good. We form a united front."

I turned back to the window. Down below, a small stream was discovering that it could chatter again, now that its blanket of ice had broken apart and melted away and the frost no longer came to visit at dawn. And over the pale and curved rooftops, and the pine trees that stood sentinel on the slopes of the Hithaeglir, the dull shades of grey and brown clinging to the rock yonder would soon enough transform into a dazzling patchwork of greens so light and delicate it would appear almost yellow.

I had no desire to travel but could see no way out of this. In the south, wars and battles had plagued the lands of Calenardhon and Gondor for many long years and not a full year had passed since Eorl the Young had been sent from this world to join his forefathers, if that indeed was the doom of Men. The alliance between Rohan and Gondor was fragile and none could say for certain what would happen if it failed.

And worse, and more acute, at least to us here, was the darkness infesting the Mountains and the way its poisoned tendrils ever explored my borders. For now, I could hold it at bay, but I was drained.

I traced a darker vein in the wood with a forefinger. Eorl had been King of the Mark for thirty-five years when his life was ended. Almost for as long as I myself had lived in shadow.

I forced the memories aside but could not swallow my sigh. It was wrong, I was sure, to dwell on personal matters when there were so many other problems at hand. Perhaps my children and friends were right in their convictions when they said that I had seen far too much of the insides of these walls lately and that I still had much to accomplish.

Much indeed. For the world was darkening and the wind, this early spring, thirty-six years after my wife's departure into the West, carried no scent with it to Imladris.

TBC