Still softly singing a charm of making, Legelion cast a keen eye over his handiwork: a wooden flute deftly carven from a hollow reed cut from the banks of the Forest River. For the better part of an hour he had laboured upon its crafting, and now he brushed the shavings from his breeches and prepared to try its voice.
He heard the sweet song of a woodland wren high above in the branches of the beech in which he sat, and these same notes he trilled upon his reed pipe. The small bird fluttered down to perch upon the broad bough that made the elf-child's seat, and bent its head to listen to its own melody that issued forth from the flute; then with a swelling of its feathered breast it sang a gay reply. The boy laughed aloud in delight, and the startled bird flew off into the greenwood.
Dropping light-footed to the earth below, he began to play a merry tune that the Wood-elves oft performed at their forest feasts, and he danced along the woodland path that led towards his home. The notes of his flute were sweet and true, and his heart was filled with joy at his cunning-handed craftwork. Thus were his thoughts bent upon his glad music and he was heedless of the soft footfall upon the path behind, though his own bare feet were noiseless as he skipped lightly over the mulch of leaves that covered it; nor did he see what followed after him, for his eyes were shut in his joy as he gaily pranced and spun.
But the dark eyes behind were open wide and they watched as the elven boy capered unaware before them, following his every leap and twirl. Faster flew the notes of music from his flute, and faster he danced till his heels were but a blur against the greenery, and then with a final leap he landed gracefully upon his toes and bowed low to an ancient oak that stood beside the path. Then at a sharp sound behind him, he swiftly turned in alarm. He was unarmed save for his small whittling knife, yet he drew the tiny blade and a gave a searching look about him, but naught did he espy upon the path nor amongst the silent trees.
He was but a league from the Halls of the Elvenking and enchantments guarded the greenwood here from peril, nor did he sense any evil thereabouts. The whispering trees were all at peace and held no warning in their hearts, and birds were singing unalarmed among their leaves; nearby a brook babbled merrily through a bed of fern. He cast back his mind to recall the sound that had startled him; the snapping of a twig, perhaps? 'But beneath whose foot?' he wondered, and walking back he cast about for any sign or spoor but naught did he see.
'Hello?' he called, his young high voice sounded shrill to his ears in the quiet beneath the green-shadowed forest canopy. There was no reply. Nor could he sense the presence of any creature, large or small, save for the birds overhead.
And then to his mind came the words that Teithoron Tegilbor, his friend and teacher, had but lately said: 'But many refused the summons, preferring the starlight and the wide spaces of Middle-earth to the rumour of the Trees; and these are the Evair, the Unwilling.' [1] Indeed, he had also told of Elves of the Tawarwaith who had not removed northwards with their kin in the days of the reign of Oropher, father of King Thranduil, but who wandered now through the benighted forest. Could such a one, or more even, dwell undetected within the confines of the Woodland Realm? It was not impossible, for the woodcraft of the Evair must be at least as skillful as that of the Laegrim! But were they friend or foe? If foe, then why had they not assailed him while he was defenceless? But if friend, why then flee? To escape the risk of discovery, mayhap, but why would they fear their woodland kin?
Pondering thus, he returned to his journey homewards; but he followed the path no longer and took a way instead through the wildwood. Silently he moved, his flute tucked into his belt and the small knife still grasped tightly in his hand. But his thoughts turned to how it must be to wander alone and friendless amidst the perils of Taur-nu-Fuin, and thereupon great pity swelled within his young heart for such folk, doughty though they must be to endure such a life. Could it be that the sound of his music had drawn one forth -- for deep in his heart he deemed it was indeed an Avar who had shadowed him -- and he imagined the longing for elven mirth that such a lonely life might bring. But wherefore would they choose such a life, when they would be welcomed by the Silvan Elves as kin long lost that return?
Alas, he had no answers to his questions, but he resolved to make no mention of his adventure to Teithoron or his kinfolk. If the Avari wished to live in secrecy, he would keep their secret; for who was he to pass judgement when his own Laegren kindred had chosen such a life in Ages past when they yet dwelt in Lindon? Still, it brought him much sadness that it would likely never come to pass that he would meet with them, though they wandered within the greenwood nigh his home.
But for now, perhaps he could bring some small joy to his unseen visitor; so putting away his blade and drew forth his new flute with a smile, and set it to his lips.
* * *
[1] The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion: "Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor"
It should be noted that this tale is set in the 2981st year of the Third Age, when Legelion was but sixteen years of age; also that these anecdotes are not in strict chronological order.
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