Part 11

“Melannen!” cried Eowyn. “Melannen, come back! Oh, Lassui,”—she turned to the elf—“Lassui! Fetch him back! Please. Go after him!”

“No, melmenya,” said Legolas, taking her by the hand, “we will both go after him.”

They left the track, following the elfling through the trees, until the faint trail disappeared completely, and it became harder and harder to be sure which way he had gone.

“Oh, where is he, Lassui?” asked Eowyn, anxiously. “MELANNEN!”

Snow fell down from the branches above.

Legolas pulled her into his arms. “Hush, Eowyn nín.” He closed his eyes, listening intently. Then, “This way.”

On they hurried, across deep-drifted snow, Legolas walking easily, Eowyn labouring, her feet sinking deep.

“Go on, Lassui,” she panted. “I am holding you back.”

But Legolas put his hand to her waist and, supporting her, led her on. “It is not far now, melmenya—I can hear him, just up ahead. Yes, look!”

…

They found the elfling, standing in a tiny clearing, staring up into the trees.

Eowyn struggled to his side. “Melannen,” she cried, grasping his shoulders, “you must never, ever, run away like that!” The child threw himself against her, sobbing. “Sweetheart? What is wrong?”

Legolas, catching her eye, nodded upwards.

Eowyn scanned the trees until, perching in the largest, she spotted the remains of an elven house, its broken walls and exposed beams barely visible amongst the branches—and then she realised that the snow-covered bushes all around her were the remnants of a garden.

“We must go up there, Lassui,” she said, softly, “just to make sure…”

…

The stairs were still in place, spiralling up the tree trunk. Legolas went first, carefully searching each room until he was certain that the elfling’s parents were not lying in the ruins, then he beckoned to Eowyn, who brought up Melannen, clinging tightly to her hand.

“Are you sure that this is your house, nadithen?” asked the elf, crouching down beside the boy.

Melannen nodded.

Still uncertain, Legolas looked up at Eowyn.

“Show me your room,” she said, gently squeezing the child’s shoulder.

Melannen led her through the broken doorway—splintered, it seemed, by several blows from an axe—across the roofless sitting room—its floor and walls blackened by fire—up a short flight of steps, and into a tiny bedchamber, where the carved window frames were still draped with fragments of frozen curtain.

“This must have been a lovely room,” murmured Eowyn; and, stooping down beside a little couch, she picked up a battered picture book, opened it, and spelled out the name written inside its cover. “Mel—ann—en.”

The boy sniffed. “I can help you practise your reading if you like, Gwanur Eowyn,” he said.

Eowyn hugged him tight.

“Come melmenya—Melannen,” said Legolas, gently. “We will go back to the town.”