A Little Nudge Out of the Door
Author: Jocelyn 
jdog985@hotmail.com
 
PG - Action/Adventure/Drama
Disclaimer: I do not own anything created by Tolkien, not even Legolas 
or Aragorn (a pity on both counts.)

Explanations: Takes place roughly around the time that Bilbo Baggins 
first found the Ring of Power (about 80 years before the War of the 
Ring begins.) Heavy on the Legolas, but Gandalf will have a growing 
role and Aragorn will make his grand entrance in later chapters. I 
hope to introduce other members of the Fellowship as it goes on. 
Legolas’s siblings, archery companions, and warrior pals are all 
original characters of mine.

**Fear Not** No romance, slash, or Mary-Sueness. I’m just trying to 
write my idea of what Legolas’s youth might have been like. Arranged 
marriages done purely for laughs.

Author’s Notes: Okay, ladies and gents, this is the deal. This is a 
first on two fronts. Never have I tried to post a fic before finishing 
the entire story. This is also my first Lord of the Rings story. I 
know, I know, it’s another “Legolas, The Early Years” story, but I 
hope this will be interesting. I have a good idea of where I want the 
story to go, but I’m counting on your reviews to give me inspiration. 
I can handle constructive criticism too, as long as you’re nice. Let 
me know what sort of adventures you would like him and his cohorts to 
have (this includes Gandalf, Aragorn, and the other members of the 
Fellowship.)

Special thanks to Thundera Tiger for posting those Elvish websites in 
her stories. That’s where I found the Elvish words to make my names 
and Elvish dialogue.



A Little Nudge Out of the Door

Chapter One: The Quiet One


The grand palace of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, was so crowded that 
it resembled a city of Gondor, rather than an elven home. Through its 
wood and marble halls, corridors, and chambers, elves moved to and 
fro, milling, speaking in eager anticipation. It was the Gathering of 
the Realms, a great gathering of the elves of Middle Earth that took 
place once every hundred years, hosted this time by Mirkwood. For two 
weeks, many meetings and councils had been held by elf lords, 
warriors, and craftsmen, discussing all the business of the elves, and 
of Middle Earth. For those fourteen days, the elf population of the 
palace and surrounding forest had swollen to ten times its usual size.

Two days still remained of the Gathering, but many considered today’s 
event to be the climax. This morning would be the Great Gathering 
Trials--an archery competition of delegates from every elven realm. 
The delegates were novices, untested in battle, but with centuries of 
training. Participation in the Trials signaled the Warrior’s Coming of 
Age, also called the Second Coming of Age, when an elf who had chosen 
weapons-bearing as their craft could take up the full responsibilities 
and privileges of adulthood, and they could join war parties as equals 
rather than novices. Elves who chose war as their art were believed to 
need many more years of training and discipline than other crafts, for 
the warrior’s life had far more demands upon it. Centuries of training 
were required for elven warriors, and the end of those schooling years 
signaled this final ascension into adulthood. Thus, the climax of the 
Great Gathering, the Trial, recognized this momentous occasion. Only 
those novices who had reached or would reach the qualifying age this 
century were eligible--and an elf could only compete once.

The Trials would begin in two hours, and heavy arguments--as well as 
wagers--were being made on who the winner would be. Lothlorien had 
held the title for seven Gatherings, and every year the other 
delegations hoped to dethrone them. Emotions of the elves of Mirkwood 
were especially high; for the host realm to triumph was a particular 
honor. 

The participants were readying themselves in the training rooms, near 
the warriors’ chambers in the outermost part of the palace. Like their 
kinsmen, the four delegates of Mirkwood were feeling the pressure of 
being the host realm. As they stretched muscles and practiced 
breathing, they talked excitedly among themselves--that is to say, 
three of them did.

“The wagering favors Eregolf of Lorien, Gwilwileth tells me,” Lady 
Merilin, daughter of Lord Heledir, told no one in particular. 

“Lorien is always favored, but Faron of Imladris is more than 
Eregolf’s equal,” Tathar, son of Alagos replied.

“I rode with Faron back to Rivendell last year, and saw him on the 
practice fields,” Candrochon, son of Anunborn, added. “He is a 
formidable shot.”

“What of Princess Lalven?” Tathar asked.

Candrochon snorted. “Accomplished she is, but Merilin could outshoot 
her with one eye closed. I’m more concerned about Berelyn of--”

“Enough of this,” a stern voice broke through the chatter. The novices 
looked guiltily at Langcyll, warrior captain of Mirkwood and head 
novice master. “You have sufficient concerns of your own this morning 
without the skill of your opponents occupying your minds.”

“Yes, sir,” the novices replied sheepishly. 

“He is right, you know,” Merilin remarked. “We should look to our own 
game.”

“Archery is hardly a game, Merilin,” Candrochon protested. 

“No, but the Gathering Trial is, as Langcyll and the others 
unceasingly remind us,” Tathar told him. “All novice training is a 
game.” He paused for a moment, a twinkle in his bright eyes, then said 
loudly, “Kindly cease dominating the conversation, Legolas.”

The fourth delegate of Mirkwood had scarcely said a word since they 
arrived. Legolas, youngest son of King Thranduil, had been standing to 
one side of the training room, massaging the muscles of his shoulders. 
At Tathar’s sarcastic remark, he focused his eyes abruptly on his 
companions and blushed. “Forgive me. I was thinking.”

“Of what?” 

With a twinkle of merriment in his own dark eyes, he answered, “Of my 
own game.”

“That’s no excuse for neglecting your comrades,” Merilin scolded. 
“Seeing especially as you are Mirkwood’s finest archer.”

Legolas looked away. “We are all equals until the Trials are over. 
Only when our scores are tallied can we say who is finer than who. I 
am not perfect.”

“That has never prevented you from trying to be, which is why you 
continuously outperform the rest of us,” Tathar replied, but there was 
no malice in his voice, only amusement. It was no secret among the 
Mirkwood elves that Prince Legolas was the finest archer of this 
generation, and he was heavily favored as their champion. Many 
Gatherings abefore, his older sister Limloeth had placed second to an 
elf of Lorien in one of the closest matches in history, causing 
considerable good-natured anguish among the Mirkwood elves. When 
Legolas had bested Limloeth in a Mirkwood competition several decades 
ago, the hopes of the realm began to sing that this would be their 
year. *And poor Legolas has born the burden of their desires ever 
since,* Tathar thought sympathetically.

Tathar was one of the prince’s closest companions outside his 
family--in fact, Legolas had few companions outside his family not 
associated with either his studies or training. Although he would 
never mention it to Legolas‘s face, Tathar was appalled at how 
sheltered a life King Thranduil‘s youngest son led. In the centuries 
that he had been alive, he had never left Mirkwood, or even ventured 
far beyond the palace walls. Tathar was uncertain what the reasons 
were behind this; Legolas had many brothers and sisters, all of whom 
had grown up mixing with other elves and seeing other lands and races. 
Legolas spoke fluently the languages of many races, yet he had 
scarcely ever seen a man, let alone a dwarf or an orc.

Tathar realized he was daydreaming, and looked back at his companions. 
Merilin and Candrochon were wondering what sort of obstacles the Trial 
overseers were thinking up for the last leg of the course, and Legolas 
was thinking again--*brooding is probably a better word for it.* 
Aloud, Tathar said, “I think, my friends, we shall never be more 
prepared than we are now. For all our training, if we dwell too much, 
we may handicap ourselves.”

Merilin nodded. “You are right. No one has ever tallied a perfect 
score in the Gathering Trial--we shall all sustain faults. If we allow 
them to drive us to despair, we shall have no chance at winning the 
title for the wood elves.”

“Therefore, let us be merry!” Candrochon laughed, gripping Merilin’s 
arm and clapping Legolas on the back. For his part, Legolas still 
looked tense. 

***

Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, stood upon a platform showing the best 
view of the course for the Trials. About him, seated in chairs or 
standing and talking in groups were the lords and ladies of all the 
elven realms. Lady Narmeril and Lord Heledir of Mirkwood stood in 
conversation with Lord Elrond of Imladris, his daughter the Lady Arwen 
was seated beside Lady Eirien, the wife of Thranduil’s eldest son, 
Berensul. Berensul was standing very close to Arwen’s brother Elladan, 
and they were joined in earnest conversation by Haldir of Lorien--and 
Thranduil soon suspected they were making a wager on the Trials. He 
chuckled to himself.

He turned back to the field. It was nearly time. The running of the 
Trial was overseen by delegates from all the elven realms. Langcyll 
and Edrogos were overseeing for Mirkwood, Elrohir and Glorfindel for 
Imladris, Rumil and Orophin for Lorien, and others from the smaller 
elven Realms, and wandering elves. Throughout the course, the 
officiating elves were preparing for the start of the Trials, while 
other elves had gathered by the hundreds along the perimeters to 
watch. 

In the midst of a crowd standing nearly beneath the tree that held the 
noble elves, a cry suddenly went up. “Mithrandir! Mithrandir has 
come!”

Thranduil went to the very front of the platform, the other elf lords 
and ladies surrounding him, and looked down. Sure enough, the one 
known to men as Gandalf the Grey, wizard and elf-friend, had come to 
watch the Trials. “Langcyll!” Thranduil called down. “Let him come 
up!” Moments later, the tall, grey-clad wizard had climbed up to the 
high platform to the cries of delight from the elves there. “Welcome, 
and well met, Mithrandir. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting,” 
Thranduil said warmly.

Gandalf bowed, “My thanks, Lord Thranduil. I had planned to arrive for 
the final Council of Elven Lords, but I should not wish to miss this 
Great Trial. I perceive it shall begin soon, then?”

“Very soon, my friend,” Thranduil said.

“It will be a great day for Mirkwood if your Prince Legolas should 
win,” Gandalf remarked.

“We have four fine archers entered in the Trial,” Thranduil told him. 
“And novices no more, after this morning. It will be a great honor for 
Mirkwood if any of them should win or place.” 

Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows at the King’s neutral tone, then he 
nodded cheerfully to Lord Elrond, who had moved to join them. “Well 
met, my lord.”

“Mithrandir, my friend, I am pleased you arrived in time,” Elrond 
replied. “How are things with you?”

“Well, my lord, thank you. And I do believe the sun is reaching 
Mirkwood’s floor on this day. Even the darkest shadow cannot withstand 
the eagerness of so many elves.” Gandalf was right, the lords 
observed. Though a shadow had hung so long over Mirkwood, rare rays of 
light had pierced it on this day, filtering through the leaves. Then 
the wizard’s gaze fell upon Thranduil’s sons Belhador and Berensul, 
arguing rather vigorously with Elrond’s son Elladan, and Haldir of 
Lorien. With a sly smile, Gandalf lowered his voice, “The wagering is 
very exciting this year, I see.”

Thranduil chuckled. “For all their traded whispers and rumors, none 
can seem to determine the likely winner. It shall be an interesting 
trial.” He gave a sly smile of his own, “I suspect Lord Elrond was 
contemplating placing a wager on Rivendell’s Gaerongil.”

Elrond affected an affronted expression that fooled neither of his 
friends. “Indeed, you are mistaken, Lord Thranduil.” He paused, 
glancing down at the field, then murmured to them, “I placed my stake 
on Faron.”

The three laughed heartily. In spite of the troubles that seemed to 
grow like a persistent weed throughout Middle Earth, nothing could put 
a damper upon the high spirits of this morning. Then the King moved 
back as a hush fell over the assembled elves.

Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, the highest of all elves, entered 
the platform as a path opened for them in the crowd. Thranduil bowed 
and gave way for them to take the two front most seats. The other 
elves moved to their own places, Thranduil to the right of Galadriel 
and Celeborn, as was customary for the host of the Great Gathering. 
They smiled often, and spoke little, but as the overseers were making 
the final inspection of the trial fields, Galadriel suddenly turned. 
“If it please you, Mithrandir, come and sit on my left. I know how you 
enjoy our Great Trial, and you shall have the finest view.”

Gandalf stepped forward from where he had stood among the other elves, 
and bowed low to her. “You do me a great honor, Lady.” He took the 
offered seat as the overseers took their positions, and Langcyll 
stepped to the center of the field, facing the platform.

He addressed Galadriel, “All is ready, my lady.”

Galadriel rose, and there was a collective intake of breath from the 
throng, for her beauty and majesty struck awe into all who beheld her, 
even her kindred. She spoke solemnly, “Though the shadows may threaten 
our lands and our borders, let them have no power over our hearts. At 
this, the Gathering of the Realms, all the elves of Middle Earth are 
come in the spirit of friendship and strength. Now is a time for joy!” 
In a clear, ringing voice, she raised her arms and declared, “Let the 
Great Trial of the Gathering of the Realms begin!”

It did seem as though the oppressive shadow that had hung over 
Mirkwood for centuries lifted, and sunlight turned the leaves to 
dazzling emerald. There was a great roar of applause, lively and 
exciting music began to play, and an elf herald announced the 
candidates as they entered the field to begin the first stage of the 
trials. The name of each delegate received a great cry from their 
homeland. “Faron of Imladris! Eregolf of Lorien! Merilin of Mirkwood.”

No rank or lineage was given, only the name and realm of origin for 
each contestant. For it is tradition that elf warriors fight to defend 
their homelands, not merely to gain glory for self or family name. And 
when an elf archer reaches the end of novice hood and attains entry 
into the Great Gathering Trials, it is acknowledged that he has earned 
this honor for himself, with his own labor and practice. “Tathar of 
Mirkwood! Gaerongil of Imladris!”

Though the noble elves applauded all the candidates out of courtesy, 
slight changes in the force of their clapping could be heard among the 
kin of the competitors. Seated behind King Thranduil, three of his 
children, Crown Prince Berensul, Princess Limloeth and Prince 
Belhador, whispered among themselves. “Elladan has placed a heavy 
wager on their Faron. They say Lorien will fall to Imladris this 
year,” Belhador said discreetly.

“Faron is a fine archer and warrior, yes,” Limloeth whispered back. 
“And Lorien may well fall to Imladris. But in any case, both shall 
fall to Mirkwood this year.”

“To our brother,” Berensul agreed, smiling broadly. The children of 
Thranduil had their share of sibling rivalries, but on this day, the 
brothers and sisters of Legolas wanted nothing but glory and joy for 
him. For all he had done, and born, in their eyes, he deserved nothing 
less. 

“Look, there he comes!” Limloeth gasped, the pitch of her voice 
raising with excitement.

Legolas would soon be announced; his family could see him waiting with 
the others to enter the field. “Is he nervous, do you think?” Berensul 
murmured. None bothered to answer him--the answer was so certain as to 
make the question ridiculous.

If Tathar of Mirkwood believed himself to be the only one who noticed 
Legolas’s timidity, he was mistaken. The elder sons and daughters of 
King Thranduil had long wondered at his over-protectiveness of 
Legolas, and at their youngest brother’s strangely inhibited nature. 
As they watched him moving toward the front of the line of archers 
being announced, it was painfully clear to all his siblings that 
Legolas was desperately nervous. Balhador murmured, “May any god, 
spirit, or fate that hears us grant him victory.”



*****

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince 
Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil Queen Minuial--Legolas’s 
mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her 
name)

***Note: Apart from Legolas, in this story-universe Thranduil and 
Minuial had three other children. Where are they, you ask? You’ll have 
to wait and see.

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and 
training companion Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training 
companion Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of 
the Mirkwood archers Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of 
Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers Eregolf of Lorien--archer 
champion of Lorien 



* Denotes unspoken thought.

Chapter Two: Friends, Foes, and Snapping Branches

“Legolas of Mirkwood!” Had Legolas been paying attention to the crowd, 
he would have noticed that the roar that came in response to his name 
was far louder than for any of the others. But he scarcely heard them, 
so focused was his mind upon the task at hand. Yet at the same time, 
his awareness of everything around him seemed to have sharpened. In 
what seemed like a separate level of consciousness, he could discern 
every face in the crowd--as well as put a name to most--and identify 
the owner of every bow and quiver waiting on stands upon the field. He 
could see the bull’s eyes of the stationary targets, the fired clay 
discs that would fly through the air as moving targets, and the horses 
waiting for the competitors to ride. He could make out the voice of 
almost everyone he knew.

“I wagered gold on Prince Legolas. Eluthuil of Lorien thought I was 
mad.”

“That is only because the Lorien and Imladris have not seen the prince 
shoot. When they do, they shall regret their laughter, my friend.”

“This shall be the Year of Mirkwood, mark my words!”

“Your Prince Legolas shall have to be very fine to surpass our 
Eregolf, Mirkwood.”

“Watch and learn, Lorien. Pride cometh before the fall. There is no 
finer archer in Middle Earth than our Legolas! Today the title of 
Lorien shall fall!”

“We shall see! May the best elf win!”

“He shall, friend, he shall. And it will be the Champion of Mirkwood.” 

He took his place several paces behind his own quiver and bow, 
instinctively looking them over. His bow was the one he always used, 
carved in the Mirkwood leaf-and-vine pattern with his name and lineage 
etched in elvish runes near the base. The arrows had been crafted 
especially for this occasion--Mirkwood brown with green fletching and 
his initials near the end of the shaft. He had tested, handled, and 
re-tested every arrow, bent, strung, and re-strung the bow, and though 
every practical sense in him said that they were ready, his mind was 
assailed by an endless barrage of “what-ifs” and nightmare scenarios. 
As the last of the novices took their places on the field, the 
candidates turned in unison to face the platform. The host of the elf 
lords rose at Lady Galadriel’s command, her beauty and splendor so 
great that for a split-second, Legolas could not recall where he was. 
Then she rose as well, and he remembered. She said nothing; the 
command was a simple nod to Langcyll.

Langcyll bowed to the Lady, and turned to the candidates. “To your 
places and make ready to begin!”

Legolas could not help glancing at his father before turning to face 
the field. Thranduil wore an expression too neutral for Legolas to 
read. He slung on his quiver and lifted his bow, testing the string. 
This first stage of the Trial was the most rudimentary exercise of 
archery--striking a stationary target. Legolas dared an imperceptible 
glance right and left. On his left was Eregolf, son of Bregsul, the 
champion archer of Lothlorien. That made him formidable by the 
reputation of Lorien archers alone. On his right was Gaerongil, son of 
Feredir of Imladris. He knew many of the other novices considered this 
stage of the trials so simple that they would hardly concentrate. 
Legolas had no intention of allowing his focus to slip for even a 
second. Each shot was a stage of the Trial in itself, and must be 
given his full attention. 

He drew his first arrow, awaiting the signal from Langcyll. The crowd 
had fallen silent as the novice master of Mirkwood raised his sword. 
Legolas took careful aim, drew back the bow, and waited. In a flash 
too quick to follow, the sword fell, bows twanged, and thirty-six 
arrows were embedded in the bull’s eyes of thirty-six targets before 
the throng had a chance to gasp. 

And so the contest began: the novices loosed their arrows, the arrows 
were removed from the targets by the overseers, and the novices shot 
again. Some left multiple marks in the center of the target, yet in 
other cases, it seemed that only a single arrow had struck, for there 
was but one hole being filled again and again by arrowheads. Watching 
from the platform as the contest went on, Elladan of Imladris leaned 
forward to speak to Berensul, “I congratulate you on the skills of 
your brother, my friend.”

Smiling without taking his eyes off the field or Legolas, Berensul 
replied casually, “Are you not premature on your congratulations? They 
have only just begun the most simple stage of the trial.”

Elladan grinned back, both of them knowing him to be a good judge, “In 
such a stage, there runs the risk of error through carelessness.” 
Limloeth and Eirien glanced back at him, and Arwen and Haldir leaned 
forward to listen. “See how hurriedly some of them shoot--they do not 
pause to aim or draw back properly. This stage is not a test of speed, 
but accuracy, and yet they grudge even an extra second to study their 
aim. And their hopes of the championship may pay dearly for it.”

“Young Prince Legolas is not among those of whom you speak,” Lady 
Narmeril of Mirkwood had also been listening to Elladan.

“Nor is your daughter, Lady,” Berensul observed, nodding to where 
Merilin of Mirkwood had paused to correct her grip on the arrow before 
letting it fly. “Nor Faron of Imladris. But my learned friend is 
right, those candidates who do not take proper care in this stage may 
find it the stage that destroys their chances.” 

As if confirming their observations, a shot from one of the novices 
missed the bull’s eye by a fraction, causing a gasp from the 
spectators and a wince from Haldir--the unfortunate elf was from 
Lorien. “Do not despair, Haldir,” laughed Arwen. “The contest is still 
young, and they have many events in which to demonstrate their 
skills.”

“AND incur faults!” added Elladan, gaining laughter all around.

***

The tension decreased little as the Trial wore on. Then, just as both 
spectators and archers were relaxing into the pattern of aiming and 
shooting at a single, bull’s eye target, the overseers switched to a 
new one: a white target with a line of red spots no larger than a 
coin, right down the center. This, unlike the first stage, WAS a speed 
trial, but both speed and accuracy were required to avoid faults. The 
candidates stood ready, bows at rest, until Langcyll gave the signal. 
Then they whipped out arrow after arrow, shooting each red spot in 
turn until each target had a line of arrows down the center, some 
neater than others. Gasps and cries rang out as the elves in the crowd 
attempted to discern who had scored the highest.

Prince Belhador leaned forward in his seat, narrowing his eyes. “It 
was too close. I cannot tell who ranked best in that stage.”

“Eregolf of Lorien was very accurate,” observed Arwen. “And our Faron 
and Gaerongil. And Mirkwood‘s Legolas and Candrochon. I could not see 
who finished the most swiftly.”

Mithrandir turned to her with a smile. “It was young Prince Legolas. 
Your Gaerongil was just behind him, followed by Eregolf of Lorien and 
Princess Lalven of Eryn Vorn. I think the tally shall reveal that 
Legolas, Faron of Imladris, Candrochon of Mirkwood, and Eregolf of 
Lorien completed the stage with the most accuracy--in that order.” 

***

The next stage involved moving targets. The novices stood groups of 
six in clearings scattered throughout the greenwood--each one 
surrounded by spectators shouting encouragement to their favorites. 
Smooth, thin discs of fired clay, barely visible in the greens and 
browns of the forest, dropped from trees and were lofted into the air 
from unseen sources. Their brows furrowed with concentration, keen 
elven senses watching the space about them, listening for the whistle 
in the wind, even feeling the movement of the air as the targets flew 
in every direction. The novices increased their score by striking the 
most targets, but also incurred faults for every target that they 
missed. When the stage was over, the overseers would count the number 
of arrows on the ground that had missed their mark. 

From a smaller platform in one of the tall, sturdy trees behind the 
young archers, Thranduil watched his youngest son with a sense of 
pride that he carefully avoided displaying. But the skill of the fifth 
elf in the line was not unnoticed by the other elves. “Prince Legolas 
is the finest Mirkwood archer of this generation, my lord,” Lady 
Narmeril remarked quietly from behind him.

“Indeed,” agreed another of the elf lords. “He has not yet missed a 
single target. He is a credit to Mirkwood.”

Thranduil said nothing, merely made a small neutral noise. While he 
certainly agreed with the other elf lords’ assessment of Legolas, the 
prince was still very young and had much to learn. On the ground and 
from surrounding trees, the overseers began tossing targets of another 
color into the air--pale tan instead of dark brown. These were 
“friend” targets as opposed to “foe” targets and the archers were not 
meant to hit them. 

The object of the elven lords’ admiration was concentrating so hard on 
not missing his targets, that when the first tan disc appeared in the 
air, he did not grasp the significance of the change in color, but 
fired at once and saw the target explode into small, harmless 
fragments. Then he winced inwardly as mind caught up with instinct and 
he heard the cry of “Fault!” from one of the overseers. *I had a 
perfect score until now,* Legolas berated himself, but there was no 
time to dwell on the fault, for the pace was picking up. He focused 
his mind on noticing the color as well as the position, speed, and 
angle of the targets, and began hitting them accurately again.

From his seat in the trees, Thranduil made no reaction to the fault 
other than to pull his mouth slightly to one side, an action that went 
unobserved by the other elves standing or seated behind him. Lord 
Elrond chuckled, “Still a credit, if not as utterly perfect as one 
might hope.”

To the watching elves, it seemed an eternity between each stage of the 
trial. To the competitors, there was scarcely time to catch their 
breath. Legolas made no additional faults that round; though he was 
disgusted with himself for having made such a careless error, he knew 
better than to let it interfere with his concentration. The next stage 
was just as grueling; the candidates’ skill and care of their weapons 
was tested with speed trials of restringing bows and refilling 
quivers. The contest was now running on the time of each of the 
contestants; there would be no pause between stages. Scores would be 
affected by who finished first.

Sweating, his hands shaking, Legolas knew he was ahead as he finished 
the string of his bow and fired a test shot at one of the targets. 
Bull’s eye. The trial turned into a stream of consciousness where he 
felt he was inside a tunnel. Standing up and swinging his two quivers 
onto his back, he whistled sharply. His gray mount galloped over; 
Legolas wasted no time but leapt to the horse’s back, “Noro lim, 
Lanthir! Noro lim!” Lanthir sensed his rider’s fervor and galloped off 
at full speed into the next stage; the first of two obstacle courses. 
*I mustn’t ride too hard or I risk missing targets,* Legolas thought 
as he readied his bow. Shooting from horseback was tricky. Lanthir 
raced on through the woods and Legolas strained his eyes watching for 
targets.

He was peripherally aware of other horses galloping to try and catch 
him, and identified them by their sounds. Merilin, Eregolf of Lorien 
and Faron of Imladris were just behind him, but Candrochon was gaining 
on them fast. He could hear Tathar entering the riding course, and 
there were so many other riders behind him that it would sap his 
concentration to try and identify them. 

The riders passed under a banner of white flags, and the obstacle 
course had begun. A small black target on a stick was suddenly thrust 
into Legolas’s view from high in the trees. He drew an arrow, took 
aim, and heard rather than saw it hit its mark as he passed below. 
Wasting no time, he targeted the next that popped out from behind the 
trees and struck it cleanly. Behind him, he was aware of more twanging 
bowstrings, whistling arrows, and targets being struck. And some 
arrows whistling through the air without hitting anything. 

Without warning, a branch snapped out and whipped across his neck, 
nearly unseating him. Obstacles! And another fault. *Curse the Valar!* 
He managed not to miss the next target, but heard another horse 
gaining on him. Eregolf of Lorien. *If I speed up, I may bounce too 
much and miss a target. But Eregolf has doubtlessly played a clean 
game; if I lose ground to him, we may lose the championship.* “Noro 
lim, Lanthir!” he whispered, and thought he heard the horse snort 
doubtfully. But Lanthir obeyed, and Legolas fought to keep his arms 
steady as he aimed for the next target.

But in spite of all that, the aim was true. *I must not forget to 
watch for--ai!* Legolas ducked frantically as another branch 
(doubtlessly pulled back by one of the overseers) swung out at him. It 
whipped over his head, and he heard a shout, a startled whinny, then a 
crash. *So much for Eregolf.* But Candrochon was not far behind, and 
his name did not mean “bold rider” for naught. Legolas dreaded the 
thought of facing his very nimble comrade in the footrace that would 
be in the final stage. 

Looking ahead, he sucked in his breath. There was a massive log fallen 
across the path, and logs were never left across Mirkwood paths by 
accident. Lanthir would have quite a jump over it--and just beyond it, 
Legolas could see another red target against a tree. *They would not 
make the target so obvious without reason. This shall be a complicated 
shot.* He knew as he bore down on it that he had two choices: shoot 
before the jump, which would be an easy hit with no fault, or shoot 
just as Lanthir jumped, risking a fault--but a much higher score if he 
should strike the target. He could not slow down to think; Candrochon 
was too close, and if Legolas did not keep the lead going over the 
jump, he would be pinned in second place on the narrow horse trial 
until the start of the footrace--where Candrochon would have a still 
greater advantage.

*I must choose now. There is little time. If I fault, I will still 
have only three. But if I should strike during a jump, I will gain 
many points. Perhaps even if Candrochon should outrun me, I would 
still have the higher score.* His time was up. “Noro path, Lanthir, 
noro bell!” Legolas leaned forward, bow and arrow ready, as Lanthir 
bore down on the log. He would have but one chance. 

***

The shouts from other elves at their vantage points along the riding 
course reached the noble elves still awaiting the outcome. “Prince 
Legolas is attempting the jump shot!” Gandalf called to Berensul.

Limloeth gave a hissing intake of breath, “That was the shot I missed 
in my trial.” She did not say, but the others recalled--the fault from 
that failed attempt had been the reason Mirkwood lost on points.

Belhador was all but hopping up and down at the end of the platform, 
straining to see through the thick trees. “The view of the course is 
obscured. Would that we could see what was happening!”

All the prince’s siblings could do was gauge the reaction of the crowd 
of elves who were able to see the course. The few seconds it would 
take for Legolas to clear the jump on horseback felt as an eternity.

***

Lanthir was yards from the log, then feet, and Legolas readied 
himself. He felt the horse’s front legs rise *draw back now,* his back 
legs launch themselves, *aim*--and as the gray stallion was in full 
leap over the log, Legolas loosed his arrow. Time seemed to stop. 
Lanthir’s head went down as he lowered himself back to the ground, his 
back legs pulling themselves cleanly over the huge fallen tree. The 
arrow aced forward, forward, on, on…

***

A massive cry of triumph and disbelief erupted from the watching 
elves, and Limloeth clapped her hands to her mouth as the elves of 
Mirkwood exploded into cheers and embraces. “He has done it! He has 
done it!” 

Shouts for silence and attention heralded the attempts by the next 
competitors. Some opted for the safer shot and scored the usual amount 
of points for striking a stationary target. Others attempted the jump 
shot. None completed it. As the last horse cleared the jump and the 
contestant’s shot fell to the left of the target, the Mirkwood elves 
went wild again. Legolas was now far into the lead, both on points and 
speed. Many had burst into songs of victory, but Elladan of Imladris 
remarked, “Their songs are premature yet. They still have the 
footrace, and it is the hardest stage of all.”

***

His mind reeling, it was all Legolas could do to aim and shoot as he 
rode through the remainder of the horse trail, trusting in Lanthir to 
keep them on the path. A part of his mind felt as though it was still 
at the jump shot, suspended over the tree and seeing his arrow fly 
toward the target. And another part was in front of him, watching for 
obstacles and somehow managing to keep his arrows pointed where they 
needed to be. The rest seemed caught in some kind of haze, and try as 
he might, he could not bring himself back into full awareness, though 
he knew he risked a serious mistake if he did not focus.

It was Candrochon who finally brought him out of it. A bow twanged not 
far behind, but a muffled curse followed the telltale silence of a 
missed target. *I must pay attention. I must be as far ahead of 
Candrochon as possible at the start of the footrace.* “Noro lim, 
Lanthir!” The elven horse was growing weary, but Legolas had not only 
exercised himself for this great event. He knew Lanthir could last the 
rest of the race.

*I must make ready; we are almost there!* Legolas leaned forward 
tensely. Then he and Lanthir burst over some low branches into a 
clearing surrounded by banners, signaling the next stage--the 
footrace. They had barely cleared the trees when Legolas was off 
Lanthir’s back, urging the horse to the side of the clearing. He 
whipped out an arrow and shot a target on a tree above the spectators, 
signaling his entrance into the next stage. An overseer waved a white 
flag of clearance, and slinging his quiver back on his shoulder, bow 
in hand, Legolas broke into a hard run just short of a full sprint and 
dashed into the trees.

*****

Noro lim, Lanthir!--ride on, Lanthir Noro path, Lanthir, noro 
bell--ride smooth, Lanthir, ride strong.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince 
Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil Queen Minuial--Legolas’s 
mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her 
name)

***Note: Apart from Legolas, in this story-universe Thranduil and 
Minuial had three other children. Where are they, you ask? You’ll have 
to wait and see.

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and 
training companion Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training 
companion Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of 
the Mirkwood archers Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of 
Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers Eregolf of Lorien--archer 
champion of Lorien 



Three chapters and counting! THANKS to everyone who has reviewed it so 
far, it means so much. 

Just so you all know; I’ve read the LOTR trilogy, The Hobbit and seen 
the movie, but I haven’t read the other books yet. I plan to, but I’m 
in college and wasting too much time writing fics instead of term 
papers as it is. So lots of the elf culture in the story, and all of 
Legolas’s family history except King Thranduil’s name is completely 
made up. Apologies to the die-hard Tolkienites. If you notice any 
glaring errors, feel free to let me know, just remember to phrase it 
nicely.





Chapter Three: A Novice No More





“The footrace is begun!” an excited spectator cried to the elf lords 
and ladies on their platform. “Prince Legolas leads!”

The Mirkwood elves were in a near frenzy. From his seat on the 
platform, King Thranduil could hear his other children murmuring 
prayers of encouragement to their youngest brother. On his left, Lady 
Galadriel wore a detached smile that suggested to him that she could 
sense the exact position of every one of the competitors. For himself, 
Thranduil wore a carefully objective expression as was required of the 
elven lords at this event. Perhaps only Gandalf the Grey noticed that 
the king was gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly that his 
knuckles had turned white. 

***

Legolas tore down the narrow woodland trail, his elven senses 
stretched to the point of physical pain. Targets seemed to be popping 
out from everywhere, and it was all he could do not to stop in his 
tracks as he loosed arrow after arrow. The knowledge that Candrochon 
could not be far behind drove him on, his long legs pumping. 

So intent was he on watching for targets over his head and at his 
sides that he nearly forgot to look down. A glint of silver close to 
the ground caught his eye just barely in time for him to hop over the 
thin wire stretched across the path. There were obstacles upon this 
course as well, he reminded himself, and pushed his eyes and ears to 
sense even more minute movements. It was this extra effort that saved 
him when another long branch was flung out, nearly level with his 
waist. There was no chance of ducking it, so Legolas launched himself 
into the air and practically somersaulted over the thing. He rolled 
back to his feet and, to his intense relief, heard no cry of “fault” 
from any of the overseers.

Sounds behind Legolas warned him that Candrochon was gaining on him. 
*I must fly if I wish to keep my lead. Candrochon is far swifter than 
I on his feet.* Although there was still a great deal of ground to 
cover, Legolas drove his weary legs harder, pausing only to aim and 
shoot at the targets that appeared. But it soon became clear that this 
final stage was not intended to be a mere test of speed. The track was 
growing narrower still, and the undergrowth thicker. Both targets and 
obstacles were coming at a much faster rate, forcing Legolas to slow. 
Fortunately, Candrochon and the other competitors would also be facing 
these impediments when they tried to race through the course. 

Legolas was certain that his drawing arm was about to give out--if his 
lungs did not explode first. He could hear more competitors crashing 
through the course behind him, yet the targets still popped into view 
before him, and branches and vines still appeared to trip him up or 
knock him down. *I must not slow down. I must not loose focus…* But 
something inside his mind was beginning to moan that he could not keep 
this up much longer. This event was called a “trial” for a reason. 
*How much further, how much further…*

He took aim at another target and was forced to pause when sweat 
trickled into his eyes. With a muttered curse, he blotted them on his 
shoulder; fortunately the target was still there. Sometimes they were 
pulled back if not hit within a few seconds. He pivoted away from a 
shrub that suddenly snapped in his direction and ducked under a tossed 
rock. One target swept out of the trees right over his head, forcing 
him to lean back in order to strike it. Straightening, he staggered 
slightly but managed to keep his feet. Barely. *I am lost if my 
balance fails. How much longer…*

He forced himself onward, heart racing, and all at once, new noises 
reached his ears--from ahead rather than behind. Familiar cheers and 
cries. The race course had run in a full circle. He was nearly back to 
the archery field. Nearly to the finish. He used his free arm to knock 
aside a branch and continued to run, continued to shoot, the growing 
cries of the spectators urging him on. A heavier branch--almost a 
log--swung into his path and he dove to the ground to avoid being 
slammed right off the trail. The noise was very close now. He was 
almost there…

All at once, as he forced his way through the dense underbrush, he 
suddenly burst out into a clearing, to be greeted by frenzied cries of 
excitement from elves by the thousands, everywhere he looked. He was 
there. At last. With a massive surge of adrenaline, Legolas sprinted 
with all his might into the center of the clearing, shot cleanly the 
black target that ended the footrace, then took aim at a huge white 
target in the tree below the platform where the elf lords watched. All 
its rings were white, but there was a different-colored spot no larger 
than a seed within each circle. Legolas saw the white flag from the 
overseer just as another elf burst from the foot trail, followed by 
several more. His pursuers were too late. Drawing a final arrow and 
taking dead aim, Legolas struck the golden spot at the center of the 
target, showing himself to be the first finisher. From behind him, 
another arrow whistled by and struck the second ring, then the third 
was hit, and within thirty seconds, all six rings showed the arrows of 
the placing novices. A bell rang, signaling the end of the Great 
Gathering Trial.

Breathing heavily, but under control, his bow in one hand, Legolas 
straightened and bowed with the other archers to the elf lords and 
ladies on the canopied platform above the Final Novice Target. The 
crowd fell silent as all the noble elves remained seated. Lady 
Galadriel then rose, and for a brief yet eternal moment, her gaze 
rested directly upon Legolas. *I should have known. After all this, my 
heart shall stop, and I will die right here upon the field.*

The honor of closing the Trial always belonged to the Lord of the 
winning realm. Sometimes it took several minutes for scores to be 
tallied to determine the winner, but not today. Galadriel turned to 
Thranduil, King of the triumphant Mirkwood and father of the 
indisputable winner, and beckoned him to rise. Thranduil stood, gazing 
at all the archers, and slowly raised his hands and began to applaud. 
The other lords followed suit and the trees rang with clapping hands 
of elves, who watched from all sides. Legolas could not restrain 
himself from looking at his father, but though the elven king nodded 
approvingly at all the contestants, he did not meet the prince’s eyes. 

***

The Great Trial of the Gathering of the Realms was over. Prince 
Legolas of Mirkwood had won, finishing first in all the speed trials 
and scoring highest on all target competitions, with only two faults. 
Most of the ranking elf lords departed with Lady Galadriel, Lord 
Celeborn, and King Thranduil, but Gandalf remained behind, watching 
the archers and overseers working on the field and listening with 
amusement to the talk of the younger nobles still congregating on the 
platform.

“How did you fare, Belhador?” he heard Lady Arwen ask.

“Your brother Elladan owes me two bottles of wine, my lady.” There was 
soft laughter from Arwen, then Belhador said, “I hope Imladris is not 
dreadfully disappointed.”

“I do not believe so. Our Faron placed highly, either third or fourth. 
We will not know until all the faults and hits are tallied. And our 
Gaerongil was seventh. Imladris did well today, coming in ahead of 
Lorien.”

“Poor Haldir looks fit to kill,” whispered Princess Limloeth, and the 
others laughed. Gandalf chuckled to himself, for she was quite right; 
Lorien had not fared as well as any of its delegates had expected, and 
they would doubtless have that fact pointed out repeatedly for the 
rest of the Gathering.

The wizard glanced discreetly at the young nobles. Mirkwood’s Crown 
Prince Berensul had joined the group and was showing off a 
handsomely-carved, silver and jeweled knife that he had just collected 
from one of the unfortunate Lorien nobles. “Dwarf crafted, it was. 
Firith has three of them.”

“Had, Brother, had,” the group chortled at Belhador’s correction. “You 
fool, why did you not ask for the one with the pearls?”

“I considered it, but that one is his favorite, so I took pity on him. 
It is enough that he will never live down this day!” Berensul replied 
smugly. “Besides which, I am fond of sapphires.”

“I’ve coveted those dwarven knives of his for years. If we have a 
likely candidate next Gathering,” Elladan remarked, “I shall see if I 
can find a suitable treasure to wager against the emerald one.”

“You would do well to make certain you have no chance of losing. For 
anything that you can offer against Firith’s knives would have to be a 
treasure of equal value in itself. And speaking of treasures, do not 
forget--”

“I know, I know. Peace, Belhador, you shall have your wine.”

“You are fortunate I did not take you up on your offer to wager your 
horse, or I should be riding him about the forest now!” 

“He would throw you.”

Forcing his attention away from them before his laughter betrayed him, 
Gandalf turned his gaze to the field. The champion of the Trial, the 
hero of the hour, Prince Legolas, was still tarrying upon the field, 
watching the overseers counting spent arrows. What the prince was 
waiting for, Gandalf could not imagine, for not one of his arrows had 
missed their mark. The young archer appeared to be merely collecting 
his thoughts before returning to the embrace of his adoring people and 
comrades. 

Indulging in high spirits even by elf standards, a crowd of Mirkwood 
elves burst into a song of victory several yards away, and startled 
Legolas out of his thoughts. Shaking his head slightly, the prince 
handed his bow and quiver to the Langcyll, the archer captain of 
Mirkwood and left the field, a novice no longer. Gandalf noted with 
interest the intense pride in the gaze of the prince’s former 
instructor. *Legolas shall soon be one of Langcyll’s archers,* Gandalf 
thought. *A worthy addition to the forces of Mirkwood, and his skills 
will be needed in these troubled times.*

Legolas’s faint grimace of pain brought Gandalf’s attention back to 
him. *He ought not to have stood so still after completing the Trial. 
His muscles have stiffened.* In spite of his soreness, the young 
prince carried himself well and accepted the shouts of admiration and 
congratulations graciously. Perhaps only Gandalf had the perception to 
detect the slight discomfort Legolas seemed to feel. At first the 
wizard could not be certain what was bothering the prince, then it 
came to him as Legolas passed another group of Mirkwood elves.

“Well done, my lord!” “Well played, my Prince!” “My congratulations, 
my lord!”

Gandalf frowned thoughtfully, then remembered. *Now he that is a full 
warrior, he is recognized as an elf lord, fully of age. He has never 
been so addressed before now.* It was still strange. Most young elven 
princes spent centuries longing for the moment when they would come 
into their full rank and title, and were elated when they finally 
heard it recognized. King Thranduil’s youngest son, on the other hand, 
seemed just the opposite. *He is intriguing even by elf standards, 
this Legolas. His coming of age may mean a great deal for Middle 
Earth.*

***

The rooms where the warriors prepared for and returned from their 
exercises were in the lower level at the outermost part of Mirkwood’s 
largest fortress, which also housed Thranduil’s halls. The massive 
edifice rose through the forest in a glistening construction of marble 
and polished wood. No trees had been felled to make way for its 
growth; the stairs wound around them, their branches emerged from 
balconies and windows, and they grew through the courtyards at all 
parts of the palace. It was an edifice far more solid than most elven 
buildings, showing the influence of the dwarf craftsmen in its stone, 
gems, and metalwork. And it hosted an even greater rarity among elven 
lands--dungeons. 

Across a bridge over the Forest River from the outer palace were the 
old caverns within the mountain that had long housed wood elves’ 
halls, where the dungeons were found deep within. Most of Thranduil’s 
folk now dwelt in the outer palace; the inner cave halls were used 
mostly for storage, and hosted the elven king’s famous treasure 
rooms--and the dungeons. Few of the elves of Mirkwood had ever seen 
them; even elves found guilty of crimes were placed in the towers at 
the treetops. Legolas had never lived anywhere but the royal chambers 
in the outer palace, and he could not remember a time when the 
dungeons had been occupied.

Legolas wished he could simply slip inside without being noticed or 
remarked on, but on a day like today there was no chance; not only the 
entire elven population of Mirkwood but elves from all over Middle 
Earth were present. So Legolas was forced to carry himself in the 
fashion expected of a prince of Mirkwood, standing straight, head up, 
nodding and smiling in response to the nods, smiles, and praises of 
“Well done, my lord,” from the other elves milling about--when all he 
truly wanted was to stagger inside, shed his sweaty clothes and 
collapse for a few weeks. Or at least a few days until the Gathering 
of the Realms was over. 

All the same, he knew what was expected of him, and had survived with 
expectations of rank all his life. He knew had done well, 
out-shooting, out-riding, and outrunning the delegates from all the 
other elf lands, even Lothlorien. That was no easy task, though he had 
hoped to do better. He always hoped to do better. He gave an 
especially cordial nod to a group of Mirkwood elves talking near the 
entrance to the tree-stairs that led to the training rooms, and they 
all smiled broadly. 

“Well done, my lord.” “A magnificent performance, my lord!”

*Yes, I suppose I do rate that title now,* Legolas thought. He knew he 
should be pleased; it was no small thing for a prince of Mirkwood--the 
last son of the King and Queen of Mirkwood--to come of age as a 
warrior of his realm, but at the moment he was too weary to care. 
Legolas had been the last to leave the field, and by the time he 
reached the training rooms, most of the other competitors had already 
bathed, changed clothes and left. He was relieved by the sound of his 
soft footfalls on the stairs, the sound and sight outside of talking, 
milling elves outside cut off by the walls. Crowds made Legolas 
uneasy; other elves always stared at him because of his rank, and 
because he looked somewhat different. Most Mirkwood elves were of 
darker hair and skin, and all of Legolas’s siblings had these traits. 
Legolas had been the only one to inherit the fair hair of his parents, 
and the delicate features of his Lorien-bred mother, Queen Minuial. 
But in another strange twist, Legolas had his father’s eyes: a gray so 
dark they were nearly black, as unlike his mother’s pale, blue-gray 
eyes as could be. Consequently, he looked neither fully Silvan or 
fully Sindarin, and so even among his own people, Legolas seemed to 
draw gazes. 

Beyond that, there was an oppressiveness about large numbers of people 
to an elf who loved the space and freedom of forest and field. And the 
Gathering of the Realms was the largest meeting of the elves, taking 
place every hundred years. While he enjoyed the chance to see and talk 
with lords, ladies, and friends from the other realms that he did not 
see often, the sheer numbers drove him to distraction. Other than this 
Gathering, elves only met in such masses in times of war.

At last, Legolas passed into the chamber outside the bathing rooms and 
fought the urge to simply drop into a chair and go to sleep. Instead, 
he stood stubbornly in the center of the room and began stretching the 
tightened muscles of his arms, shoulders, neck, and back. There would 
be a banquet tonight, and it would not do to move stiffly. He had been 
looking forward to it, but the amount of energy, mental and physical, 
that he had spent on preparing for the trial had left him with little 
concentration and less interest to devote to anything else. 

Massaging a knot from his neck, Legolas sighed. He was called 
“zealous,” by his weapons masters and rightly so; how could he have 
managed to hit a “friend” target one hour into the competition? His 
hopes had been high, even thinking of perhaps tallying a perfect 
score, though it had never been done. Yes, he had still tallied the 
highest score in the history of the event, but…

“Well done, my lord.” Legolas jumped and turned around. It was 
Merilin, one of the archers who had trained at his side for as long as 
he could remember and like him, was now recognized as a full warrior. 
She grinned at his reaction and raised her hands, “Forgive me for 
startling you, I merely wished to offer my congratulations, my lord.” 

“You needn’t call me that, Merilin,” Legolas replied wearily, but he 
smiled. They both knew she was teasing him. Then it occurred to him 
that he knew of no final scores other than his own. “Did you place?”

“Third in the running, my lord,” she replied from behind the curtain 
of one of the bathing rooms. “Though I fear I may have dropped one 
place in faults. I slipped a bow string. Faron of Imladris would move 
up in rank, but I do not begrudge him the third place. Candrochon was 
second and Tathar was fifth, and Lorien’s Eregolf was sixth. Your 
performance will be the talk of the banquet this evening,” she added, 
coming back out with a tunic that she had evidently left behind. She 
paused, looking puzzled, “Surely you feel no cause for 
dissatisfaction. All of Mirkwood is rejoicing. Your brother Prince 
Berensul is trying to think up the appropriate toast.”

Legolas pulled his mouth to one side. “I am satisfied…” His friend 
looked both amused and disgusted by his perfectionism. He smiled wryly 
as her expression changed to patient tolerance, “I know I performed 
well, I was merely disappointed in myself for striking a ‘friend’ 
target. It was a careless mistake.”

“Fortunately, you surpassed it in other ways, my friend,” Merilin 
replied firmly. “You have given Mirkwood every cause for pride today 
and we will not have you melancholy for our celebrations. Be of good 
cheer, my lord, or I shall be forced to call on Master Langcyll to 
strike a smile onto your face.”

Legolas laughed, “You strike terror into my heart, Lady, so I shall be 
merry under duress. Until then, be off with you.” She bowed 
extravagantly at him and departed. Legolas went into the bathing 
chambers with a lighter heart. Merilin was right, of course. There 
would be time for criticism of his performance during exercises with 
the warrior captains after the Gathering.

He felt refreshed after washing the sweat from his skin, but now 
Legolas was feeling the weight of the morning’s efforts more than 
ever. Every muscle in his body sang with exhaustion, and the effort of 
keeping his senses so highly focused had left him lightheaded. Still 
passing other elves in the corridors and walkways, he dared not trudge 
on the walk back to his chambers, and when he came through the door of 
his room, his bed immediately called to him. *No,* he told himself 
firmly and went to dress for the evening‘s feasting. Once he had 
eaten, he would wake up. But to take his shoes off, he sat down on the 
bed, and the pillow beckoned to him once again. *I mustn’t. If I sleep 
now, I will forget to wake up. I cannot…I must not…perhaps just for a 
minute.*



ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince 
Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil Queen Minuial--Legolas’s 
mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her 
name)

***Note: Apart from Legolas, in this story-universe Thranduil and 
Minuial had three other children. Where are they, you ask? You’ll have 
to wait and see.

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and 
training companion Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training 
companion Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of 
the Mirkwood archers Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of 
Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers Eregolf of Lorien--archer 
champion of Lorien 



***Note***All the family background mentioned in this and other 
chapters is entirely from my imagination. I have no idea about King 
Thranduil’s family and haven’t had time to do research. (I know, shame 
on me, some Tolkien fan I am, but I’m in school.) I draw my ideas from 
both the LOTR books and the movie, and the story has some of my 
theories about Legolas’s past and some of his quirks, but I try to 
stay true to the cannon.

Here we are: Chapter Four. This chapter was a bit of an 
experiment--though the story revolves around Legolas, this one is 
entirely from the POV’s of the other characters. I thought it was fun 
to write how Legolas’s friends and family view him. Let me know what 
you think of it. 

Enjoy! Remember, arranged marriage attempts are purely for comic 
relief.



Chapter Four: Of Elven Princes and Arranged Marriages

King Thranduil of Mirkwood moved through a throng of celebrating elves 
towards his family’s chambers, hoping to catch his son before he 
rejoined the Gathering. Just as he was about to reach the private 
corridor, Lady Narmeril moved to intercept him. “A word, my lord?” she 
asked in a formal tone. Thranduil had hoped to see Legolas and offer 
some praise of his own in private, but it appeared Lady Narmeril’s 
business could not wait. With a growing sense of dread, Thranduil 
suspected he knew what it was about.

They moved to one side and spoke softly, their hands clasped formally 
before them in a way that told all other elves in the vicinity that 
this was a private conversation. “I think you must be aware of what I 
wish to speak,” Narmeril said to him. “Our children’s participation in 
the Gathering Trials signifies their warrior’s coming of age, and as 
such…new responsibilities to the future must be made.”

Thranduil fought the urge to sigh. He had known this conversation 
would be taking place this year, and indeed he would be astonished if 
Narmeril were the only one. “Of course, you are right, my lady. What 
would you propose?”

Narmeril smiled in a conspiratorial fashion and nodded discreetly in 
the direction of several of the morning’s competitors. “As you know, 
my lord, your son the prince and my daughter Lady Merilin have been 
close friends for many years. She is an unquestioned daughter of 
Mirkwood and has rank to make her, er, acceptable to our people. She 
proved herself well today, and she is a most upright and sensible 
young…”

With a forced chuckle, Thranduil raised his hand to cut off the list 
of Merilin’s attributes, “You needn’t convince me of your daughter’s 
fine qualities, my lady, she is a credit to you and our people. But I 
am sure you will understand when I say I would not see either of our 
children forced hastily into a match. They have only just completed 
their novice training this century, and one or both of them may have 
doubts. They may be uncertain of their regard for each other, and I 
would not wish to pressure Merilin or Legolas on the subject.”

“No, indeed,” Narmeril said hastily, though she appeared to be hopping 
with eagerness to match Legolas to her daughter. “But, my lord, if 
you’ve no other objection…you would speak with Prince Legolas?”

Thranduil nodded formally, “I will discuss your suggestion with him.” 
He knew Narmeril had made more than a suggestion, but he firmly 
qualified it as such to keep her from getting ahead of herself. “Have 
you approached your daughter on the subject?”

“No, my lord,” Narmeril sounded slightly affronted; it would be 
improper to suggest marriage to a prince before the prince himself had 
been informed of the idea. But Thranduil would not have put it past 
her to try and plant the notion in Merilin’s head. “By your leave, 
however, I shall.”

Surreptitiously, Thranduil regarded Narmeril’s daughter, standing 
among a group of Mirkwood elves singing songs of “The bow of Mirkwood 
and the hand and eye of Legolas.” She was a handsome creature to be 
sure, tall with a tint of unusual red in her dark hair, bright green 
eyes, and fair skin. And it was true that she and Legolas had been 
friends for many years, yet…Thranduil simply could not bring his mind 
to picture his youngest son wedded, to this bride or any. Legolas 
still seemed so young…well, he was young, for that matter. The true 
date of his second coming of age was not for another thirty-four 
years, but it fell within the timeframe for this Gathering, so it was 
officially recognized today. Legolas was actually the youngest of the 
participants in the Gathering Trial, a fact that had made his victory 
all the more sweet to his people. 

But, Thranduil decided firmly, that fact also made him far too young 
for marriage. He should probably have simply quashed the subject 
straight away rather than let Lady Narmeril draw any false 
impressions. Perhaps he needn’t trouble Legolas by raising the issue 
at all. With that in mind, Thranduil turned away from the royal 
chambers and walked back into the crowd, intending to speak to 
Narmeril again. Before he could reach her, Mithrandir moved to join 
him. “From the look of you, I fear a distasteful subject has arisen on 
this joyous occasion, my lord.”

Thranduil hesitated, then decided there was no reason to distrust the 
Maia. “Not distasteful, my friend, merely startling from a father‘s 
point of view. Lady Narmeril has made an offer of her daughter Lady 
Merilin as a match for Prince Legolas.”

The wizard appeared puzzled, “I would not have thought Lady Merilin 
lacking in worthiness after today’s competition--”

Thranduil raised his hand quickly, “You mistake me, Mithrandir, I’ve 
nothing against Lady Merilin. Indeed, she is a fine, upstanding Lady, 
more than worthy of any of my sons. My objections come on behalf of 
Legolas.”

“He would find her unacceptable?” Mithrandir asked in surprise. “I had 
the impression they were old and dear friends.”

“Oh, but they are; again I give the wrong impression,” Thranduil shook 
his head wryly. “My concern comes from my son’s age, or perhaps I 
should say, his lack of years. I believe he is yet too young to 
consider such a thing as marriage so soon after attaining his full 
mastery of the warrior‘s craft. That is why I intend to decline the 
Lady’s offer.”

Mithrandir did not speak for a moment, his bushy grey eyebrows 
slightly furrowed as he digested this. Thoughtfully, he asked, “Have 
you spoken to Prince Legolas about this?”

“I feared the unexpectedness of the offer might alarm him,” Thranduil 
explained matter-of-factly. “I would not wish to sully this moment for 
him with this…rather embarrassing business.”

“Indeed.” Mithrandir frowned again, then said slowly, and rather 
carefully, “Perhaps, my lord, with respect, you should reconsider 
broaching the matter to the prince. Seeing as how it concerns him so 
personally, and as you say, he will probably find himself unready to 
consider marriage as well, there would be no harm in it. He might even 
be amused.” At Thranduil’s frown, he smiled and continued, “After all, 
my lord, Prince Legolas has come of age, officially if not literally, 
and I suspect he would be quite pleased to be allowed to consider the 
matter himself, even though his opinion of the match will likely be 
the same as yours. It is his right, after all, to at least know that 
the offer has been made.”

Thranduil considered Gandalf’s words, but was doubtful. “Perhaps you 
do not realize that the young occasionally make impulsive or even 
foolish decisions, my friend. On a subject as important as marriage, 
it is vital that Legolas be guided.”

Mithrandir replied, “Prince Legolas seems to me a most capable and 
sensible young elf, my lord. Although I myself may no longer be young, 
I have been amongst the young for many years, and I think that in the 
end, though they are sometimes foolish, they can be surprisingly 
rational in serious matters. I have known you and your children for 
some time, and I have seen nothing to suggest that Prince Legolas 
could not be trusted with this choice. And there is no reason why you 
could not let him know of your own doubts.” Putting a hand on 
Thranduil’s shoulder, he said earnestly, “Consider letting him make 
the final decision regarding the match to Lady Merilin, my lord. 
Though he is young yet, Prince Legolas is grown, and he must begin to 
know his own mind, and think for himself. I suspect you will be 
pleased with how he has turned out.” With a knowing smile, the wizard 
released the king and moved away into the crowd. King Thranduil stood 
digesting this for several minutes before turning back to the royal 
chambers.

Walking out of habit into the prince’s chamber without knocking, 
Thranduil came upon his son fast asleep on his bed, his formal clothes 
laid out but not donned. A smile formed unbidden on Thranduil’s face; 
he had wondered what was keeping Legolas from his many admirers. 
Perhaps the talk could wait. Legolas appeared to have been sitting on 
the bed preparing to change and had simply put his head down and 
fallen right into dreams. He did not seem to have moved at all since 
then, and even for sleep, his eyes looked heavier-lidded than usual. 

*He must be quite worn out,* Thranduil thought with another smile. It 
was just as well; the banquet would end late and it wouldn’t do for 
the prince to fall asleep when his presence was most definitely 
required. His appearance was not needed just yet, so a short rest 
would not hurt. He looked so childlike--Thranduil put out a hand and 
stopped himself from touching his son’s head. Rising quickly before 
his emotions got the better of him, he left the room and closed the 
door. He would come back and wake Legolas later when it was time for 
the banquet, and tell him about Narmeril’s offer.

Back among the guests, Thranduil sighed, hearing the Mirkwood elves’ 
song referring to Legolas as a “form in manhood,” and other similar 
praises. Yes, it was as Mithrandir had said. Though he was young yet, 
Legolas was grown. Thranduil’s youngest and last before the death of 
his queen. Legolas could scarcely remember her; he had only been 
twenty-two, still very much a child, when Minuial had gone to the 
Mines of Moria, attempting to salvage relations between the wood elves 
and the dwarves. Thranduil had waited for nearly a hundred years 
before telling Legolas how his mother died; she had perished along 
with two hundred dwarves in an attack by an unspeakable demon, 
awakened by the dwarves’ careless mining. The dwarves still hoped to 
dwell in Moria, but no elf would go there willingly. Thranduil often 
regretted having told Legolas the truth at all, but his eldest son and 
heir, Crown Prince Berensul, had insisted at the time that it was his 
brother’s right to know. All the same, Thranduil had once heard the 
servants remarking that Prince Legolas had terrible nightmares 
sometimes. 

He broke his mind away from these difficult thoughts and surveyed the 
crowd again, milling in the rooms with their walls opened wide to 
reveal the forest, which gleamed red and gold as the sun set. A number 
of the competitors and their young friends had chosen this room as 
their meeting place, and there was scarcely anyone there within three 
thousand years of Thranuil’s age. He hoped he had not been too 
distracted while speaking with Mithrandir, lest some of these 
mischievous young ones overhear their conversation. Legolas did not 
need his victory of the day being overshadowed by gossip over who his 
bride might be. Especially when his father still could not bring 
himself to admit that Legolas was ready to take one.

***

Faron of Imladris, to his credit, had not been attempting to eavesdrop 
while he waited for Prince Belhador outside the royal chambers. But as 
they went to join their friends, they happened to pass King Thranduil 
and the wizard Mithrandir just as they were speaking of Legolas and 
Lady Narmeril, and specifically, of a “match.” There could be only one 
reason why Merilin’s mother and Legolas’s father would have been 
talking of matches on a day like today. Belhador stiffened in 
astonishment, and it was all Faron could do not to freeze in his 
tracks. 

It was not as if the talk of marriage was absent from this Gathering, 
in fact, it was a matter of some importance every time. Participation 
in the archery competition was limited the elven warriors-in-training 
who reached a particular age during that century, and a novice could 
only compete once. It signaled the second coming of age, when an elven 
warrior was ready to completely take on the responsibilities of 
adulthood--meaning they could begin joining war and hunting parties as 
equals rather than novices…and marry. Any elves who made it through 
the rigorous physical and disciplinary demands of warrior training 
became highly eligible and much sought-after matches. And the 
Gathering of Realms provided the greatest opportunity in any hundred 
year period for the parents of noble elves in this group to meet and 
discuss matches along with the business of Middle Earth. There were 
always wagers cast (Faron had wagered a pearl on Princess Lalven and 
Eregolf of Lothlorien), and it was a given that before the end of the 
Gathering, some betrothals would be announced, hopefully to the joy of 
all concerned.

But Legolas and Merilin?

When one thought in a practical way, the idea made sense; Merilin was 
a ranking Lady of Mirkwood and well-regarded and proven among their 
people, more than acceptable to the king‘s family. Legolas was a 
prince and judging by his performance today, any elf lady would be 
glad of a marriage to him. But as a friend of them both…the idea 
seemed utterly bizarre. They were friends, yes, but their relationship 
had never gone beyond easy camaraderie in the training fields and 
halls of Mirkwood.

When they were a safe distance away on one of the balconies, Faron and 
Belhador turned to each other and exclaimed simultaneously, “Did you 
hear that?!”

Then they both paused and laughed helplessly. Belhador gripped the 
sides of his head in amused dismay, “I had entirely forgotten that 
Legolas would also be of marrying age now. I should have suspected 
there would be offers to him, but…Merilin?”

Faron had been thinking on it, and finally said, “I suspect this match 
was to the mind of Lady Narmeril, rather than Merilin. I cannot 
imagine either her or Legolas instigating such a thing. They do not 
seem, er…”

“Soulmates?” offered Belhador, and they began laughing again. “Poor 
Legolas, he will be so mortified.”

“To say nothing of Merilin,” Faron agreed. “We should place a wager on 
which of them says no the most swiftly.”

“It would be a tie,” Belhador laughed. “By Iluvatar, I am not ready 
for this. I had not even considered who might seek a match to my 
brother. My youngest brother, being offered marriages. These next two 
days are going to be frightfully amusing.”

“For shame, Brother,” Princess Limloeth had come up quietly while they 
spoke. “You may amused, but Legolas will not be. Poor boy. Think what 
an ordeal your coming of age was--how many offers had you before the 
end of the Gathering?”

“Four,” Belhador admitted, grimacing at the recollection. “None of 
them even remotely tempting. For that matter, it has been centuries 
since, and I still have not been tempted. Of course, I might have 
received more if Berensul had been married by then, but he was not. 
Most of the lords and ladies were attempting to foist their daughters 
upon him rather than me.”

“For which you are eternally grateful, I’ve no doubt,” remarked Prince 
Berensul, walking up to them. “Why the sudden talk of matches? Has 
someone received an offer?”

“Can you not guess?” demanded Limloeth, looking disgusted.

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood frowned thoughtfully, as though running 
all the eligible young elves through his mind. Then his eyes popped 
open. “No!”

His siblings and Faron burst into laughter. “It has happened, I fear, 
my brother,” Belhador gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.

Lowering his voice to a delightedly scandalized whisper, Berensul 
asked, “Legolas?” At their nods, he demanded, “Who?”

Struggling to control himself, Faron grinned, “The Lady Merilin.”

“What?! Impossible!” Berensul exclaimed. 

Affecting a pose, Limloeth replied, “Why not, Brother, she has rank to 
recommend her, and she placed fourth in the Trial today. What 
objection could one have to such a marriage?”

“I object to incest, sister, and that is how it would seem,” Berensul 
retorted. 

“You are right, my lord,” Faron agreed. “Indeed, I think that is why I 
found the idea so disturbing in the first place. Legolas and Merilin 
have been comrades in arms all throughout their training as novices. 
We are taught that we are brothers in training. I do not know what 
possessed Lady Narmeril to suggest such a thing.” He moved away to 
peer back into the crowded hall and see if Merilin showed any sign 
that her mother had broached the subject yet.

Limloeth pulled a face, “Lady Narmeril’s skill at arranging 
advantageous marriages for her daughters is will known. I suspect she 
looked too closely at the advantages such a marriage would bring and 
not at the drawbacks.”

“Such as the very strong likelihood that both her daughter and Legolas 
will be violently opposed to the idea,” Belhador observed wryly. “What 
a relief that our father has at least been sensible on the subject of 
our marriages. He would not push Legolas into a union without making 
sure it was to his liking.”

“I wonder how Father will feel when Legolas finally does choose a 
bride,” Limloeth murmured thoughtfully. “He is his…he is the last, 
after all. Father will be lonely without him.”

Berensul’s expression darkened somewhat, “I fear for everyone’s sake 
the day our father becomes lonely.”

Just then, Faron came back. “Poor Merilin looks rather dismayed. I 
suspect Lady Narmeril has told her of the offer.”

“And very much like her reputation, Lady Narmeril doubtlessly made the 
offer without bothering to determine her daughter’s feelings on the 
subject,” Limloeth remarked, narrowing her eyes. “At least Legolas 
will be done that much courtesy.”

“Speaking of which, should he not be here by now?” Berensul observed. 
The group looked around and could see no sign of Legolas in the crowd. 
“He returned from the training rooms some time ago.”

“Perhaps we should see what is delaying him,” Belhador suggested. 

“Go then, but Belhador,” Berensul waited until his younger brother 
looked at him, “say nothing of the match. It is the king’s prerogative 
to speak with him.” Belhador paused, but evidently agreed and nodded, 
hurrying through the crowd to the hallway leading to the royal 
chambers.

He entered his youngest brother’s chamber and nearly groaned; Legolas 
must have fallen asleep after returning from the Trial field. If the 
newly-recognized warrior did not make an appearance soon, Thranduil 
would come searching for him, and all the glory of Legolas’s victory 
would be soured by his embarrassment. Like all elves, Legolas had a 
desire for self-improvement, but the youngest of Belhador’s brothers 
was perfectionist to the point of being obsessive. 

Belhador had taken Legolas on training exercises and hunts many times, 
and could count the number of times in the past two hundred years that 
Legolas had ever missed a shot. They stood out in his memory because 
they were so few, and because Legolas would rebuke himself for weeks: 
practicing endlessly and questioning his own skill. Belhador sometimes 
worried about Legolas and knew he was not the only one who did; 
Berensul had once confided his fear that if Legolas should ever make a 
serious mistake, he might fling himself from a treetop. The sons and 
daughters of Thranduil had all been taught that while failures should 
be avoided, they should be accepted and learned from when they 
occurred, and then it was necessary to move on. Legolas did not seem 
to grasp the part about moving on.

Speaking of which, if their father should arrive… “Legolas?” Belhador 
made his voice nonchalant as if all were perfectly normal. “You had 
best wake up and dress now. The banquet begins in two hours, and we 
must show ourselves soon.”

Legolas’s eyes focused immediately from the vacant stare of elven 
sleep, and he sat up in dismay, “How long have I been asleep?”

Belhador shrugged, “I’m not certain when you returned, but the sun is 
down.” At his brother’s expression of horror, he laughed and said, 
“Oh, be easy, my dear brother, everyone is so busy telling and 
retelling every detail of your triumph that no one noticed you had not 
yet arrived in person. You’re not yet late. Come, dress yourself and 
let’s be going.”

Legolas hustled into his formal clothes, (Mirkwood green and brown, 
threaded with gold in a leaf pattern), and stood in front of the 
mirror while Belhador helped him make himself presentable, asking 
nervously, “Did our father ask where I was?”

Belhador opened his mouth, but from behind them a voice said, “There 
was no need.” It was Thranduil. 

Belhador paused from straightening his brother’s tunic and felt 
Legolas’s shoulder go rigid under his hand. Again, he felt the urge to 
groan. There was another odd thing about his youngest brother. King 
Thranduil had treated all his children with affection when they were 
very young, Legolas most of all. None could deny he had raised them 
with strong principles, and had been a good parent, in spite of his 
other shortcomings. Queen Minuial’s untimely death had not harshened 
Thranduil as his elder children had feared, but the opposite--he had 
become more protective of his youngest son. Belhador had never even 
heard the king raise his voice to Legolas. So he could not fathom why, 
out of all of them, Legolas seemed intimidated by their father. 
Sometimes even afraid of him.

Thranduil remained in the threshold and said, “If you please, 
Belhador, I would like a word with Legolas. You may rejoin our 
guests.”

“Yes, Father,” Belhador said obediently, with a glance at his 
brother’s reflection in the mirror. Legolas looked as though he 
expected Thranduil to come down on him like a raging orc, though the 
king never overreacted in such a fashion--at least not toward Legolas. 
He knew it would do no good to speak to his brother with Thranduil 
waiting, so he gave his father a smooth bow and departed the room, 
praying this ridiculously minor incident would not put a damper upon 
the entire evening.

***

Thranduil spoke briskly and casually, as he had planned to bring up 
the distasteful subject, “I was glad you had the chance to rest before 
the evening. The banquet will doubtlessly run long , and I had feared 
you would be tired from this morning. I was just coming to wake you.” 

He sensed his son’s intense relief at not being chided for sleeping, 
and knew he was about to alarm him again, but this conversation could 
not wait much longer. Narmeril would doubtless want to know what reply 
Legolas had made before the evening was over. Remembering what 
Mithrandir had advised, he kept his voice neutral, “My son, before we 
go out, I must speak with you concerning a matter of some importance.” 

Legolas stopped fiddling with his tunic and turned to face his father, 
giving him his complete attention. Thranduil closed the door behind 
him and took a deep breath, “You are aware, of course, Legolas, that 
at this Gathering, you have shown yourself not only ready for full 
adulthood and battle, but also for marriage.” Legolas blinked--the 
idea had obviously been an afterthought to this event. Thranduil said 
blandly, “I have already been approached by the Lady Narmeril about 
the possibility of a match between you and her daughter, the Lady 
Merilin.”

If there was one thing that would serve Legolas well in his royal 
duties as a Prince of Mirkwood, it was his composure. But at this 
revelation, all composure (or perhaps merely the use of his legs) 
deserted him. He made no vocal sound, but simply sat down on the edge 
of his bed with a thud, looking utterly thunderstruck. He did not 
speak for a moment, simply staring into space, then looked up at his 
father with wide eyes and blurted, “What?!”

“Lady Narmeril has asked me to speak with you about a marriage to her 
daughter Merilin,” Thranduil repeated. The king of Mirkwood was amused 
and rather pleased by the emotions he saw running across his son’s 
face. They ranged from disbelief to confusion to speculation to dismay 
and then finally settled upon something akin to utter horror. 
Thranduil could no longer restrain himself and allowed some mild 
chuckling to escape, “May I assume from your expression that you are 
not interested?”

“I…I…”Legolas shook his head and stammered, “I have nothing against 
the Lady Merilin, Father, and I should not wish to affront her. We are 
friends, yes, but…”

“You are not ready for marriage?” Thranduil prompted instinctively. 

Legolas immediately replied, “I think perhaps I am not, Father, 
although I am honored by Lady Narmeril’s request.” 

Thranduil smiled; Legolas had said exactly what the king had hoped he 
would say. It was as Thranduil had thought. Legolas was too young to 
marry. “Well then, that is settled. I shall inform Lady Narmeril of 
your decline.”

“Ah--” Legolas looked anxious. “Father, when you speak to her, please 
tell her that I hold Lady Merilin in the highest esteem, and I do not 
wish her to believe that I consider her daughter unworthy.”

“Of course, my son, I shall tell her this. I am pleased that you did 
not rush into such a decision. But,” Thranduil had debated mentioning 
this next fact, but decided Legolas would probably learn the hard way 
if he did not, “this is unlikely to be the last offer you receive this 
Gathering.” He crushed a laugh at his son’s expression of renewed 
horror. “However, I shall discreetly make it known that the idea of 
marriage in general is not to your liking at this time, rather than 
suggest you have any particular objection to the ladies who will 
doubtlessly be asking for your hand.”

Legolas nodded, “Thank you, Father.”

“Well, then. Shall we?” As Legolas followed his father out the door, 
Thranduil smiled to himself. It was a relief that the matter had been 
resolved so quickly, and indeed, it was as the king had hoped; Legolas 
was glad to have had the decision made for him.

***** There you have it! Please remember to review! Don’t worry, I’m 
not going to stop writing if you don’t, (I’m as into this story as you 
are) but a fic writer’s life has so few rewards (pouty face.) 
Criticisms, critiques, etc, appreciated.



Brace yourself, Legolas, it only gets worse from there!



ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince 
Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil Queen Minuial--Legolas’s 
mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her 
name)

***Note: Apart from Legolas, in this story-universe Thranduil and 
Minuial had three other children. Where are they, you ask? You’ll have 
to wait and see.

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and 
training companion Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training 
companion Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of 
the Mirkwood archers Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of 
Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers Eregolf of Lorien--archer 
champion of Lorien 
---------------------------------------------------------------------- 
----------

Allow me to take this opportunity again to THANK YOU ALL for the 
reviews! I really appreciate it, especially when you give me details 
of what you like or don’t like; it helps me do better in the next 
chapters. Please keep them coming!







Chapter Five: Girls, Girls, Girls!



When Legolas entered the rooms outside the banquet hall where the 
guests were gathered, he was immediately set upon from all sides by 
well-wishers and admirers. Managing to remember his manners and 
graciously thank the congratulators, Legolas looked around the room 
and inadvertently met Merilin’s gaze. 

From another part of the room, Berensul had to stifle a laugh and 
nudged Belhador when he saw Legolas look at Merilin. “My dear brother, 
I suspect our father has broached the subject of marriage. Look how 
they blush.”

Indeed, Legolas and Merilin appeared to have assessed each other and 
themselves in a different light, and it was difficult to say which of 
the two looked the most alarmed. Legolas appeared quite disturbed, and 
Merilin had turned positively green. Now they were facing anywhere but 
each other, and each was moving to add distance between them. A 
chuckle from nearby let the princes know that two of the other 
competitors, Faron of Imladris and Tathar of Mirkwood, had seen the 
nonverbal exchange. “They seem a love meant to be, do they not?” 
snickered Tathar.

“Contain your jests in front of them, my friend,” Belhador cautioned. 
“I fear they both have been frightened out of their wits by this 
strange new foe.”

“The most deathly dangerous foe of all,” agreed Berensul, smiling as 
his wife, the Crown Princess Eirien, moved to join them. 

Belhador and the archers bowed to the crown prince’s lady, and she 
smiled at them before commenting, “So the offer is made then. I assume 
the king goes now to tell the Lady Narmeril that Legolas has refused?”

“That would seem likely,” Belhador agreed. “It may not be necessary to 
tell him of Lady Merilin’s feelings at all. I suspect Legolas was less 
than enthusiastic. See, he goes now to speak to Lady Narmeril. They 
have refused.”

The friends of Legolas and Merilin watched, struggling to stifle their 
giggles, at the pantomime that played out between the king and Lady 
Narmeril. Lady Merilin’s mother had been greatly successful at 
arranging marriages for three of Merilin’s elder sisters, and this was 
the first time she had been refused. With a socially correct smile and 
bow following the exchange with the king, Narmeril turned on her heel 
and walked from the hall, leaving an aroma of affronted ego in her 
wake. King Thranduil looked as though he were trying to contain his 
amusement. He turned to speak to Mithrandir again, apparently 
recounting the discussion of the aborted match. Mithrandir did not 
appear quite so amused.

“Even so, I fear this will not be the last such horror our dear 
brother will face this Gathering,” Princess Limloeth joined the group. 
“Already there is talk that Lady Inroel and Lord Tavom wish to speak 
to our father about their daughters and Legolas. Poor boy. I hope he 
finds time to enjoy himself.” 

Eirien had not been listening just then. She could hear Queen Elenath 
of Eryn Vorn speaking to her daughter, Princess Lalven, just behind 
them. “Prince Legolas has refused Lady Merilin, my daughter. Our 
opportunity remains.”

“But Mother, he did not object to Merilin specifically, but to 
marriage itself. How am I to sway him?” Lalven asked, sounding 
dismayed.

“If he should develop a liking for a particular lady, my dear, perhaps 
the thought of marriage itself will be more to his liking. Therefore, 
I suggest you endeavor to make yourself as likeable to him as 
possible.”

Eirien forced herself to stop eavesdropping and turned back to her 
companions with a barely-suppressed smile. *Poor Legolas. Merilin was 
only the beginning.*

***

As his siblings and friends looked on, Legolas continued to field 
congratulations and admirations from elves by the dozens. Many of them 
were maidens. Belhador discreetly nudged Tathar, Legolas’s friend and 
fellow archer. “Should we rescue him, do you think? He begins to look 
uncomfortable.”

“Let him be,” Berensul replied firmly. “Legolas is uncomfortable any 
time that he becomes the center of attention. He is a prince of 
Mirkwood. He shall have to learn to face his people sometime. He will 
be fine.”

Tathar pulled his mouth to one side, “As you wish, my lord.”

On the other side of the room, it was all Legolas could do to make 
socially correct and somewhat graceful responses to his many admirers. 
He had never faced such a large group of people all trying to speak to 
him before. It was overwhelming.

“It was such an impressive performance, my lord.” “You are the finest 
archer Mirkwood has ever had, my lord.” “The finest in Middle Earth!” 
“You do us all such an honor, my lord!” “We are so proud, my lord, so 
proud!” “Very well done, my lord!”

As Legolas feared he was beginning to blush, King Thranduil at last 
came to his rescue. “Forgive me, Ladies, Prince Legolas has other 
well-wishers to meet.” Feeling intensely relieved, Legolas followed 
his father to join Mithrandir and Lord Elrond.

Legolas was startled when both the wizard and the Lord of Rivendell 
bowed to him. “My congratulations, Prince Legolas,” Lord Elrond 
declared. “I have never seen a finer performance.”

“Nor I, my lord,” Mithrandir agreed, smiling at him. “Mirkwood has 
every cause for pride today.”

“My thanks,” Legolas said to them both. “On behalf of my comrades as 
well. I believe the other candidates of Mirkwood deserve these praises 
as much as I. Never has our delegation placed so highly.”

“Quite true, my lord,” the wizard agreed. “All four of Mirkwood’s 
delegates in the top placings. Quite an honor indeed. We should not 
forget to extend our praises to Langcyll, your master.”

Legolas felt himself relaxing. Mithrandir, for some strange reason, 
was very easy to speak to. He felt he did not have to consciously be 
on his guard or watch his words. “I should not wish to overlook 
Langcyll. This victory is as much his as it is ours and Mirkwood’s.”

“Well said, young Legolas,” Elrond remarked. Lord Elrond, on the other 
hand, was so awe-inspiring that Legolas felt like an awkward child 
whenever he spoke to him.

At that moment, Queen Elenath of Eryn Vorn joined the group. “Well 
done, Prince Legolas. I am pleased to see you basking in the glory of 
today’s triumph.”

Mithrandir chuckled, “Indeed, you are mistaken, my lady. Prince 
Legolas has been the soul of modesty in spite of his grand feats.”

“I am very pleased to hear it. Ah, Lalven, there you are,” the elven 
queen gestured imperiously for Princess Lalven to join the group. “You 
have not yet congratulated the prince.” For an elf, Elenath was not 
very subtle. Few missed the unspoken message from the queen to her 
daughter. Legolas felt heat rushing to his face again and though he 
smiled amiably, he deeply desired to groan.

Princess Lalven of Eryn Vorn had her attributes, it could not be 
denied. She was an attractive elf, with thick, heavy black hair that 
flowed all about her, and deep blue eyes set in her pale, 
delicately-boned face. She was sometimes compared in looks to the Lady 
Arwen. She came from one of the highest families of western elves, and 
had also competed in the morning’s Trial, though she had not placed 
very high. 

On the other hand, especially compared to Arwen, Lalven’s features 
seemed rather vacant, lacking any sort of depth or understanding 
behind her eyes, and when one actually had a conversation with her…how 
to put it politely…she was rather insipid. “My congratulations, my 
lord,” Lalven said, batting her eyes.

Perhaps it was merely hunger, but Legolas felt a small twinge of 
nausea. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile warmly and reply 
graciously, “My thanks, my lady.” He did not see Mithrandir discreetly 
cover his mouth with one hand.

***

Across the room, Faron of Imladris had joined Tathar, Candrochon, and 
the royal children of Mirkwood in conversation when he saw what 
transpired between Legolas, Queen Elenath, and Princess Lalven. “Ai!” 
he groaned in a half-whisper, flicking his head in their direction.

Tathar turned to look, then quickly had to turn back to hide his 
laughter. “There’s a pearl you owe me, Faron.”

Faron shook his head in amused dismay, “I was certain that it would be 
Eregolf!”

“I would not wish Lalven on anyone,” Princess Limloeth remarked, 
trying in vain not to giggle. “I suspect you would have been right, 
Faron, were it not for outcome of the Trial. I fear my brother’s 
rather spectacular victory has altered a great many plans. Belhador 
remains unmarried, but today’s events have made Legolas the prime 
choice. Poor thing. First Merilin, now Lalven.”

Berensul sighed heavily, “On second thought, perhaps we should rescue 
him. Another minute and Queen Elenath will broach the idea of making 
Lalven his dinner partner, and I would not see my brother saddled with 
that tedious creature all evening. He deserves to enjoy himself.”

“Than you had best hurry,” Belhador urged him. 

Berensul swiftly made his way through the crowd and as his friends 
looked on, drew Legolas away from from the hovering queen and 
princess. Queen Elenath was visibly searching for a means of detaining 
him, but fortunately for Legolas, the queen was as unimaginative as 
her daughter. At his eldest brother’s side, the prince made his escape 
with clear relief.

“Thank the Valar,” Belhador began, but Limloeth caught his arm and 
snickered.

“Do not be so hasty, brother. It is not yet over. See? They have 
escaped one only to be set upon by another,” Limloeth was correct. 
Another noble elf, this one of Lorien, was bearing down on Legolas and 
Berensul with his daughter in tow, as the friends struggled to stifle 
their laughter.

Eirien asked hastily, “Did Legolas mention any preference of whom he 
would like to sit the banquet with?”

Candrochon frowned, “I do not believe so, Lady. Merilin would likely 
have been his partner, but under these new circumstances, they have 
doubtlessly changed their minds.” 

“Then perhaps, Limloeth, if you’re not otherwise engaged…”

“My dear sister, you are brilliant. I at least can carry on an 
intelligent conversation,” Limloeth remarked, with some disdain for 
the noble maiden now offering her congratulations (among other things) 
to Legolas.

“Go swiftly then, Lady, before he is ensnared,” hissed Candrochon 
frantically. “The banquet will begin soon, and I see no less than 
three other ladies lurking about waiting for their turn.”

Limloeth hurried to join her brothers, and Belhador shook his head 
helplessly. “Is anyone keeping a tally?”

Snickering, Tathar discreetly counted on his fingers, “Lady Merilin, 
Princess Lalven, now Lady Emlin. And I see Lady Hatholiel, Lady 
Lendael, and Lady Himiel searching for the proper opening.”

Eirien looked astonished. “Whatever possesses these ladies or their 
parents to set their caps upon a prince they’ve yet to be introduced 
to?”

“Indeed, I know not, my lady, but we have all born it,” Belhador 
replied, grimacing. “I knew none of the ladies who asked for my hand 
at my second coming of age.” As they watched, Berensul and Legolas 
managed to detach themselves from Lord Eretoss and his daughter Lady 
Emlin, only to have Lady Lendael move in for her turn.

“Ai, this shall be unpleasant,” murmured Candrochon. 

Fortunately, just as Legolas appeared to be contemplating leaping from 
the balcony, Limloeth reached them at last, smoothly linking her arm 
with her younger brother’s. Another singularly amusing pantomime 
followed of Lady Lendael’s attempts to persuade Legolas to sit with 
her at the banquet (without asking him directly.) Alas, the attempt 
failed, and Limloeth briskly escorted Legolas and Berensul back to the 
rest of the group. 

“Well met, my lord!” Tathar said brightly. Legolas shot him a look 
that would freeze water in the Cracks of Doom.

From the doorway to the banquet hall, a muted chime sounded. Limloeth, 
her hand still on her brother‘s arm, “Ah, time to go in.”

***

Gandalf the Grey was torn between laughter and outrage on Legolas’s 
behalf as he saw the young prince being shamelessly chased by noble 
elves and their daughters. Even as he escorted his elder sister 
Limloeth into the banquet hall, King Thranduil’s youngest son was 
forced to fend off overtures by noble elven maidens. 

“Poor lad,” a voice remarked beside him. 

Gandalf turned to see Lord Elrond also watching the prince’s struggle 
to escape the ladies. The wizard smiled. “I fear this was an 
inevitable consequence of such a great victory. As the most celebrated 
archer in Middle Earth, Legolas has also become the most sought-after 
husband.”

Elrond nodded, wincing slightly as a particularly bubbly maiden 
bounced up to Legolas and complained melodramatically that she had no 
partner for dinner. “Fortunately, he must only endure this for two 
more days. By the end of the Gathering, most of these ladies will be 
forced to return to their own realms. The prince and his family seem 
to have the situation in hand. The matter of Lady Merilin was brought 
to a swift close.”

*But not by Legolas, perhaps,* the thought came unbidden into 
Gandalf’s mind and he glanced at the front of the main table as they 
entered the hall. King Thranduil was at the head of the table, 
speaking to Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. The king beckoned for 
Legolas and Limloeth to take the second seats on his left, across from 
Celeborn and Galadriel, and they escaped Legolas’s pursuers. 

The banquet of the Gathering of the Realms was a masterpiece: the food 
superb, the music lovely, and many interesting and important 
conversations took place. Legolas appeared both delighted and 
mortified by the songs sung about him. Fortunately, the talk of 
matches was absent--discussing marriages in this setting like some 
sort of diplomatic contract would be in poor taste, for which Gandalf 
was very thankful. 

Much praise was given to Prince Legolas that evening: songs were sung, 
toasts made, and every elf who had witnessed the competition seemed to 
have a tale of some remarkable feat they had seen Legolas perform 
during the event. Langcyll, the pragmatic warrior captain and head 
novice master of Mirkwood, surprised the assembly by rising to declare 
that Legolas had been the finest novice he had ever trained, and 
calling upon all novice warriors to emulate his dedication and, more 
important, his caution. None in the room were more stunned than 
Legolas (except perhaps Langcyll himself, for singling out a warrior 
for such praise was very unlike him.) 

To any other, Thranduil’s expression throughout all this was very much 
controlled, that of a king pleased by a warrior’s performance--with 
only a hint of fatherly pride. But Gandalf saw through it. From the 
Maia’s gaze, there was no hiding the possessiveness of Thranduil’s 
behavior toward his youngest son. The wizard could see a complicated 
and painful array of emotions, including pride, apprehension, concern, 
and--in what could prove a blessing and curse to all concerned--a 
desperate, all-encompassing love. 

*This elven king possesses many vices, but few weaknesses,* Gandalf 
thought. *Yet there sits the deepest of them all. A child is always a 
weakness to the parent, but seldom to such a degree as this. He has 
come of age, yet still his father guards him.*

In the climax of the banquet, the Lady Galadriel placed a gold medal 
around Legolas’s neck, etched with the emblems of all the Elven 
realms, of the archers, and the year, to commemorate his victory. The 
Mirkwood elves were overjoyed, giving their prince a thunderous 
ovation. 

Applauding with the rest, Gandalf considered the way that the king had 
handled the matter of his son’s marriage, and the fashion that he 
seemed to handle all of Legolas’s affairs. *For now at least, young 
Legolas is content, but that will soon change as his comrades take up 
their newfound rights and responsibilities. He shall desire to make 
his own decisions and find his own way in life. What will Thranduil do 
then?* 

It was a heavy question. For an elven king as powerful as Thranduil to 
possess such a vulnerability had many ramifications. Especially when 
it was only a matter of time before this weakness was driven into the 
open by his son’s desire for freedom. It seemed more and more certain 
that the destiny of Legolas of Mirkwood would have a great impact on 
the course of the future: of his kindred, his realm, and perhaps all 
Middle Earth.

***

As his victory in the Gathering Trial had demonstrated, the senses of 
Legolas were particularly keen, even by elven standards. In the two 
days following the Trial, he had many occasions to be thankful for 
them. 

For when a noble maiden was in the vicinity, the few short seconds 
between the time that his senses detected her and hers would detect 
him were all he needed to take cover. Although Legolas had always been 
particularly good at jumping straight into trees without making a 
sound, Langcyll would be pleased by how much practice the champion of 
Mirkwood was getting.

Midmorning, the day after the banquet, found Legolas perched in a 
tree, motionless and tense as if a pack of orcs were passing below. He 
had hoped to escape the attentions of the ladies by wandering off into 
the woods (on one of the rare occasions during the Gathering when his 
presence was not absolutely required) but alas, they followed him 
everywhere. Even now, he watched from his hiding place as Princess 
Lalven attempted to determine where he had gone. Lalven was a fair to 
decent tracker, but Legolas doubted she would be able to find him. A 
fact for which he was very well pleased.

Lalven wandered away and Legolas climbed down, feeling exasperated. It 
was as he had feared; trying to find any time to himself during the 
next two days would be an exercise in futility. He suspected that in 
the ten minutes since he had left the palace, half the unmarried elven 
maidens at the Gathering had elected to take a stroll. Yet on the 
other hand, perhaps he could retreat back into the palace and leave 
them to explore the woods in search of him. With that in mind, he 
jumped back up and stealthily made his way over the heads of the 
searching ladies without once being seen.

He climbed up a tree close to the palace and gained the balcony of his 
chambers via another sturdy limb. Walking through the open balcony 
doors, he came upon someone in his room and all but jumped out of his 
skin. It was Tathar. He blinked at his friend’s reaction and Legolas 
said absently, “Oh, it’s you.” 

Tathar grinned, and Legolas felt still more aggrieved. As if the 
constant attentions of every eligible elf maid from here to the Grey 
Havens were not enough, the amusement of his friends at his expense 
only served as salt in the wound. “What do you want?” he demanded 
brusquely, and regretted it at once. Tathar looked hurt, and Legolas 
sighed. “Forgive me. I was startled.”

Tathar at least seemed repentant, and said, “Since every unmarried 
maiden in Mirkwood is currently scouring the forest, I suspected I 
would find you within the palace.” He smiled more sympathetically, 
“The Council of the Realms is to take place at sunset tonight. Your 
presence will be expected, my lord.”

Legolas sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, too frustrated to 
bother with royal appearances in the company of his closest friend. 
“For pity’s sake, do not call me that. I prefer to think that at least 
my comrades in arms know my own name. The ladies ‘lord’ me enough as 
it is.”

Tathar asked thoughtfully, “Have you spoken to Merilin since…last 
night?”

“No,” Legolas sighed and rubbed his brows. “She seems the only one 
with the good sense not to desire a marriage to me. Would that she had 
been spared the embarrassment. At least until the Gathering has ended, 
I will not give rise to gossip by speaking to her.”

“You did not consider her unworthy--” Tathar began, looking shocked.

Legolas swiftly shook his head, “On the contrary, my friend. Were I 
inclined to marry, I might have given Merilin’s--or rather, Lady 
Narmeril’s suggestion serious thought. But I am not, and she does not 
desire me.” He laughed wryly, “When the Gathering is over, I will make 
certain that she knows I hold her in the highest esteem. But at the 
moment, she flees in the opposite direction when she sees me--on those 
occasions when I do not have the opportunity to escape first.” 

Tathar laughed again, “How terribly traumatic.” At Legolas’s glare, he 
raised his hands defensively, “Peace, my friend, you said yourself you 
did not wish me to change my behavior towards you. Therefore I must 
remember to tease you regularly.” 

Legolas was at last able to grin. “Tell me, my friend, had you any 
offers of betrothal?” At Tathar’s blush, he sprang to his feet. “What 
is this? You would permit me to go through this trial alone? Out with 
it; who asked for you?”

Tathar wrinkled his nose, and Legolas grinned harder, folding his arms 
expectantly. “Gaeloth, Mathorion’s daughter.”

In a most undignified fashion, Legolas was forced to clap both hands 
over his mouth to prevent a howl of laughter. Tathar looked sheepish 
as Legolas bent over, shaking with silent hysterics. When at last he 
regained some degree of control, he wiped tears from his eyes and 
hissed, “That…that…troll of an elf maid?” Tathar began to laugh as 
well and nodded. “Pray tell, who masterminded that brilliant plan? 
Gaeloth despises everyone, including her own kindred. I cannot imagine 
her asking for the hand of anyone save an orc!”

“I suspect it was Mathorion’s idea. He would do better to marry her to 
a dwarf, if any would have her. But do not crow over me quite so loud, 
my lord; he asked Candrochon first.” At that revelation, Legolas 
laughed harder still, but his mirth was swiftly ended by a knock upon 
the door.

“My lord? Are you at home?” 

Legolas froze, and Tathar turned in alarm toward the door. In horror, 
Legolas clapped his hands over the sides of his head and mouthed 
frantically: (Lalven!)

Tathar nodded, then mouthed back. (What now?)

(I’m not at home!) Legolas mouthed urgently, vigorously shaking his 
head, but their earlier merriment had given them away.

“I hear nothing, Mother,” they heard Lalven say.

“There were sounds from within; he must be here,” Queen Elenath’s 
voice replied. Legolas leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes 
shut as though facing an imminent doom. As the queen of Eryn Vorn 
began rapping on the door, he began mouthing a prayer. “Prince 
Legolas? I am certain I heard voices!”

Tathar leaned over and shook Legolas by the shoulder, gesturing at the 
balcony window. Hastily, they slipped out and closed it noiselessly 
behind them. They were breathing a sigh of relief when a feminine wail 
from a nearby tree made them both jump, “Oh, Prince Legolas, I am 
stuck and the branch is breaking!”

Having no choice but to go to Lady Emlin’s aid, Legolas briefly 
considered jumping from the treetop himself. Or perhaps helping the 
branch to break. 

***

Belhador was about to depart his chamber for the Council of the Realms 
when he heard someone sprinting down the hallway. Alarmed, he reached 
for the knife hanging from his belt when he realized it was Legolas; 
the frantic strides were so unlike his placid youngest brother that 
Belhador had not recognized him. Coming around the corner, Legolas all 
but plowed into Belhador. Rocking back on his heels, Belhador’s 
brother stammered, “Forgive me, I--” he looked frantically over his 
shoulder.

Belhador chuckled, “Who is it this time?”

“Lady Lendael!” Legolas whispered, looking anguished. Belhador heard 
the sound of two elf ladies coming into the hall that housed the royal 
chambers and sighed--Lendael must have her mother with her. Hastily, 
he motioned Legolas into his own room and closed the door behind them. 
“Thank you,” Legolas sighed softly, sinking into a chair with his face 
in his hands.

From outside, they heard Lady Faelwest musing, “Now wherever could he 
have gone?”

Quashing an urge to laugh, Belhador gestured silently for Legolas to 
remain where he was, and walked casually into the corridor. “Ladies, 
what may I do for you?”

“Ah, Prince Belhador, I…we were seeking your brother Prince Legolas. 
Would you happen to know where he might have gone?” Lady Faelwest 
asked coyly, her hand on her daughter Lendael’s shoulder.

Smoothly, Belhador shook his head. “I know not, Lady. The Council of 
the Realms begins in an hour; my brother may have gone already. If so, 
I fear you shall be forced to wait until it is over to speak with 
him.”

With a thin smile that did little to hide her displeasure, the 
disappointed noble departed. Belhador returned to his room and could 
no longer contain himself--Legolas looked so forlorn. When he began to 
laugh, Legolas moaned, “I suppose I must be pleased to see at least 
someone amused.”

Struggling to bring his laughter under control, Belhador replied, “Oh, 
calm yourself, Brother. It will not last much longer. Berensul is 
Crown Prince, and survived his second coming of age and four 
Gatherings after before taking a bride. He had easily as many offers 
as you.” *Almost as many,* he mentally corrected himself, but there 
was no need to inform Legolas of the exact tally. His brother was 
traumatized enough. “But now, we must go to the Council. And fear not; 
none will dare broach the subject of marriage in such a setting. Once 
there, you shall be safe.”

“At least until the Council is over,” Legolas sighed, but rose. 

But reaching the hall where the Council would meet soon proved easier 
said than done. No sooner had they left the royal chambers than 
Belhador and Legolas were surrounded by giggling, fluttering young 
maidens, all of whom practically ignored Belhador with their eyes upon 
the greater prize.

“We missed you at the riverside, this morning, my lord!” one said with 
a pout.

“The first novices raced their horses, but none have as fine a seat as 
you upon your noble mount!” another cooed.

“Do you go now to the Council of the Realms? How exciting!” one 
squealed.

“I do hope we shall see you at dinner this evening, my lord!” another 
maiden gushed.

Still another especially forward maiden yanked the collar of her gown 
to one side, exposing her bare shoulder, and wailed, “Look, my lord, 
I’ve been stung!”

“Come, Legolas, we shall be late,” Belhador declared loudly, and 
although they permitted them to pass, the ladies did not desist. They 
trailed behind the princes in a giggling entourage. 

“Prince Belhador, why is your brother so cold?”

“What do you suppose the Lords will discuss tonight?”

“The first departures are tomorrow morning! What SHALL they do without 
us?” 

The princes walked as swiftly as they could, and Belhador suspected 
Legolas would have broken into a run were it not for Belhador’s hand 
upon his arm. At last, they entered the hall where the Council was to 
begin, and closed the doors upon the chattering she-elves with audible 
sighs of relief. Turning to the room, they found most of the 
participants had already assembled; the girls had so impeded their 
progress. Lord Elrond was visibly struggling to suppress his 
amusement. “Well met, Prince Belhador, Prince Legolas. I trust 
your…journey was uneventful?”

Belhador was also forced to stifle a laugh, “Not at all, my lord.” 
Legolas looked as though he desired to thud his head against the wall.

*****

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince 
Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil Queen Minuial--Legolas’s 
mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her 
name)

***Note: Apart from Legolas, in this story-universe Thranduil and 
Minuial had three other children. Where are they, you ask? You’ll have 
to wait and see.

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas, placed fourth in the trial Tathar--Legolas’s best 
friend, fellow archer and training companion, placed fifth in the 
trial Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training companion, 
placed second in the trial Faron of Imladris--archer champion of 
Imladris, placed third in the trial, friend of the Mirkwood archers 
Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of Imladris, placed seventh in 
the trial, friend of the Mirkwood archers Eregolf of Lorien--archer 
champion of Lorien, placed sixth in the trial Princess Lalven of Eryn 
Vorn--archer delegate and highest ranking Lady seeking the hand of 
Legolas





***In response to a question: Anyone who wants to link me to their web 
page is more than welcome. Just let me know you’ve done it so I can go 
look at it and get an ego trip! (Do I have no life, or what?)***



Chapter Six: Rights and Privileges

It was the first time Legolas had attended the Great Council of the 
Realms--*and the final event of the Gathering, thank the Valar!*--and 
although he had little to say, he listened with great interest. Yet 
some of the things he heard troubled him.

“The shadow over this realm grows evermore threatening,” King 
Thranduil was saying. “We know not from whence it comes, nor how to 
drive it away. But the evil creatures of Mordor show a sudden 
attraction to Mirkwood, it cannot be denied.”

Mithrandir, permitted always to attend the Council as a Maia, furrowed 
his bushy eyebrows, “That this shadow is more powerful than the elves 
and the creatures of Sauron are attracted to it cannot be a 
coincidence.”

“You fear the worst, my friend?” Lord Elrond asked.

“I do, my lord. Though the causes are yet uncertain, I fear the Enemy 
may be returning to strength somehow. Somewhere.” Legolas had never 
seen the wizard look so troubled. Nor his father, nor any of the other 
elven lords, for that matter.

But as always, Lady Galadriel bade them not to despair, “Though it is 
true that the Enemy’s spirit endured, he remains weak at best. For the 
time of this Gathering, the power of our joy alone forced the shadow 
back, as it has before when we have gathered here. And we possess 
other powers the Enemy has not and cannot touch.”

Legolas was uncertain of what she meant by that, but Mithrandir said 
delicately, “But if the Enemy should find…a source of power of his 
own, my lady? The elves must be especially on their guard. All care 
must be taken to prevent the shadow from growing, or all of Middle 
Earth could be in grave danger.”

“Wise words, as always, elf-friend,” Lord Celeborn said with a smile. 
“Be sure the elves shall heed them. In somewhat less earth-shattering 
business, what news of the dwarves, King Thranduil?”

Thranduil gave a wry smile, “The dwarves continue in their search for 
treasures in the same fashion as ever, my lord. There is little 
contact between the elves of my realm and them. Many regret the loss 
of the trade and their craftsmanship, but I for one am pleased not to 
have dealings with them.”

Looking somewhat uncomfortable, Lord Elrond said slowly, “Being closer 
to the mountains, Rivendell sees a little more of the dwarves. 
I…rumors had reached me some time ago concerning…excesses by the lords 
of Mirkwood in their dealings with the dwarves.”

Legolas stiffened in shock in his seat at hearing his father so 
affronted. He knew better than to protest (it was Thranduil’s 
prerogative) but he glanced quickly at his brothers and sister. To his 
still-greater astonishment, rather than looking at Elrond to explain 
such an accusation, his elder siblings were also gazing at Thranduil 
as though waiting for him to defend himself. Nor did Thranduil appear 
affronted or even surprised by Elrond’s words. The King lifted his 
chin and said calmly, “It has been some time since I or any of my 
people dealt with the dwarves. But as to the manner of end of those 
dealings…attempting to wrangle with a lord of Mirkwood carries just 
consequences. I am not to blame for the dwarves’ lack of wisdom.”

***

The Great Council of the Realms had thrown many unexpected and 
alarming matters into the open…as it always did. Gandalf the Grey 
could not recall a time when he had left a Council without feeling 
deeply troubled by some development or another--and today was no 
exception. Many troubles seemed to have come to rest within Mirkwood’s 
borders; the mysterious shadow increasingly seemed explainable by only 
one terrifying cause. And although the elves seemed the race best 
prepared and qualified to take on such a threat…of all the elven 
lords, King Thranduil would not be the one Gandalf would choose to 
have such sensitive matters rest upon his realm.

Another, less catastrophic concern had arisen during the Council that 
seemed for the moment a matter of curiosity rather than anxiety. 
Gandalf had been surprised by young Prince Legolas’s reaction to the 
discussion of King Thranduil’s dealings with the dwarves. What puzzled 
Gandalf was that Thranduil’s reputation for…how to put it…excess was 
no secret in any of the elven realms. It was a great pity. Thranduil 
been a wise leader for a very long time, but the death of Queen 
Minuial had had both close and far-reaching consequences. 

Though it was his first time attending the Council, it did seem odd 
that Legolas had apparently not expected Elrond’s habitual inquiry 
into the relations between Thranduil and the dwarves. The young prince 
had not seemed to know anything of the situation at all. Gandalf was 
perishing to find an explanation for this ignorance, but Thranduil was 
most certainly not the one to ask. Perhaps…

It took Gandalf nearly an hour of patient hovering before he managed 
to catch the Crown Prince Berensul alone. “A word, my lord?” he asked 
casually.

Berensul smiled, “Certainly, Mithrandir.” They walked some distance 
into the woods where they could speak in private. “What can I do for 
you?”

Carefully, Gandalf said, “I noticed Prince Legolas seemed 
rather…dismayed during the discussion of the failing relations between 
the elves and the dwarves. Has he a dwarf friend who has suffered?”

While fair Legolas could easily be mistaken for an elf of Lorien, 
Prince Berensul was every inch his father’s son in appearances, the 
only difference being his dark hair. And the emotions that flashed 
across the elf’s face made him resemble Thranduil all the more. 
Gandalf saw frustration, worry, sorrow, anger, and most alarmingly, a 
harsh scorn that was directed at neither Legolas nor the dwarves. In a 
biting tone, the crown prince replied, “Legolas has never seen a 
dwarf, let alone had the opportunity to develop a friendship with 
one.” 

Gandalf had been prepared to hear that Legolas had been somewhat 
insulated from the true extent of his father’s shortcomings, but this 
news brought him up short. “He has never met a dwarf? But dwarves 
continue to travel around the borders of Mirkwood regularly, and they 
are often in Imladris and on the roads about Lorien--”

“Mithrandir. Legolas has never left Mirkwood.” Berensul’s tone was 
utterly flat, telling Gandalf all too clearly what the Crown Prince of 
Mirkwood thought of this fact. “It is not exactly a 
restriction…Legolas has never pressed a request to go beyond our 
borders, or even into the deep woods.”

All the veils were falling away, so Gandalf came straight out with it, 
“This is the king’s instigation?”

The scorn returned to Berensul’s voice, “Legolas does nothing that is 
not our father’s instigation.” Then he sighed, sounding repentant, 
“The king means well. I believe he wishes only to protect my brother, 
but…” Berensul shook his head, making his disagreement with such 
upbringing plain.

Gandalf frowned. “Forgive me for asking, my lord. What will happen now 
that Legolas is of age? He is a trained and highly accomplished 
warrior. It is generally expected that he will begin to join war 
parties, patrols, and hunts of his own choosing.”

Berensul looked deeply worried. “I do not know. Legolas has not 
broached the subject. He rarely asks my father for anything. But you 
are right; the time is coming, and soon, when my brother will assert 
himself. When he does…I do not know how the king will react.”

***

Legolas was cornered. Queen Elenath was coming out onto the balcony 
where he was standing alone, and his only escape would be to climb 
over the rail--unfortunately there was a large party of elves milling 
on the ground who would witness his undignified escape. Desperate as 
he was, he would not disgrace his father. The queen’s footsteps 
approached from behind, and taking a deep breath, Legolas turned and 
bowed to her. “My lady. What may I do for you?”

Queen Elenath’s expression was like that of a predator having trapped 
her prey and now moved in for the kill. “My lord, you have made 
yourself scarce today.”

Relieved that the setting sun hid his blush, Legolas lied, “I had much 
to think about before the Council, my lady. This was the first time I 
had the honor of attending.”

The queen chuckled. “Ah, to be young and eager again. I scarcely 
remember my second coming of age. But it is a comfort to see it 
experienced by my daughter the Princess Lalven.” 

Legolas braced himself, *Here it comes…*

***

King Thranduil was on his way to the banquet hall to see that the 
preparations for yet another feast were in hand when he noticed 
Mithrandir, Berensul, Belhador, and Limloeth congregated near the door 
of one of the large open verandas. They seemed to be watching 
something transpire out on the balcony. “Whatever are you doing?” he 
asked in amusement, moving to join them.

Coming to meet him halfway, Mithrandir’s amused reply prevented 
Thranduil from noticing his children’s alarm and dismay at his 
arrival. “I fear Queen Elenath has trapped Prince Legolas, my lord. He 
can no longer evade her offer of Princess Lalven.” Stunned, Thranduil 
started swiftly past him, but the wizard laughed and caught his arm, 
“Do not fear, my lord, Legolas will handle it.”

Protesting, Thranduil tried to pull away, “She should not be permitted 
to pressure him in this manner. He will not know how to refuse her.”

Mithrandir smiled, guiding the king toward the door, “I think, my 
lord, young as he is, Legolas will surprise you.” He gestured to the 
silhouettes against the light of the sunset.

***

“And so, my lord, for those reasons, I think that you and my daughter 
would be a very fine match. Indeed, your prospects of happiness 
together seem very great, you must agree,” Queen Elenath concluded, 
looking very pleased with herself.

Legolas had remained politely attentive--in appearance at least. 
Inwardly, his mind cried, *How shall I get out of this?!* He knew he 
must; marrying Lalven was entirely out of the question, but for 
reasons Legolas would never dream of telling her mother. *Your 
daughter bores me to tears? No, that will never do. I could lie and 
say I love another, but that would give rise to more speculation. By 
Iluvatar--I do not WANT to marry!*

He must give an answer, he knew. And now. Collecting his scattered 
thoughts, he lifted his chin and met Queen Elenath’s expectant eyes. 
“You do me a great honor with your offer, my lady, and I thank you. 
And although I--have a high regard for Princess Lalven, I fear I must 
decline.” Without giving Elenath a chance to react, he hurried on, “I 
have decided that I am not prepared to consider marriage just yet, no 
matter how…respectable the lady. Please do not take my refusal as a 
slight to your most honorable daughter, my lady. I am simply not 
inclined to marry at this time.” 

Elenath had faltered while digesting this. *Quickly! Escape now!* 
Legolas bowed a bit stiffly, then walked back into the palace, feeling 
a slight hysterical urge to giggle. *I cannot believe I managed such a 
thing. At least there is one down, only a few dozen remaining who must 
be discouraged.*

***

Legolas’s family managed to step out of sight as he passed back 
through the doors and went back to his room. When he had gone, and 
Queen Elenath had followed--scratching her head as though she could 
not fathom why Prince Legolas had not found her daughter 
irresistible--they all began to speak at once.

“There, Father!” Princess Limloeth cried, clapping her hands. “Was he 
not the soul of dignity? Let none claim our brother has not come 
gracefully of age!”

Berensul and Belhador were grinning like fools, “I could not have 
handled her better myself. Quiet our brother may be, but he has a 
quick mind.”

“And none can claim that mind is not his own,” Gandalf agreed, smiling 
at the king.

Thranduil looked thoughtful, somber, but rather apprehensive. “Legolas 
did manage the situation far better than I had expected.” Gandalf 
noted with apprehension of his own that the king did not seem entirely 
pleased by this. With his jaw set tightly, the king of Mirkwood nodded 
to Gandalf and his other children, and departed, walking rather 
stiffly.

Gandalf turned to see anxiety vivid on the faces of Legolas’s 
siblings. “How could he not be pleased at how fine Legolas is turning 
out?” Limloeth asked in dismay.

Berensul all but threw up his hands, “Because, Sister, he does not 
WANT Legolas to turn out in any fashion. Every time Legolas acts for 
himself, he comes closer to the day that Father knows will come--when 
he will demand his freedom. And then--” the crown prince suddenly 
remembered Gandalf and broke off.

Gandalf said gravely, “The king seems loathe to part with the last of 
his children.”

With a sigh, Belhador nodded. “Our father will do all that he can to 
delay our brother’s departure. But it will come. Sooner perhaps than 
even we had thought. Legolas will desire to explore the world of which 
he has only heard stories until now. Even as a warrior, I believe he 
will not remain in Mirkwood. And I dread the day our father is forced 
to face it.” 

***

Legolas was standing on the balcony of his chambers as the last rays 
of light faded into darkness. If he looked directly above his head, he 
could just see the stars appearing through the thick leaves and 
branches of the forest. A soft, warm breeze blew over his face and he 
closed his eyes, smiling to himself. He had no idea why he still felt 
this ridiculous desire to laugh.

“I loathe interrupting one who seems so contented.”

Legolas jumped. Turning, he saw his brother Belhador standing on his 
own balcony, smiling at him. Unable to contain himself, Legolas 
grinned foolishly and jumped to his brother’s balcony. “I did it, 
Belhador. I refused Queen Elenath’s offer of Lalven. I said no to her 
face!” Seeing his brother’s knowing expression, he laughed, “I suppose 
the entire Gathering has already heard.”

“One could sense the princess’s broken heart a league away,” Belhador 
declared dramatically. “Kindly do not snort, Legolas, it is an 
unbecoming sound.”

“Lalven never cared for me. Like Emlin, Lendael, Hatholiel, and 
Himiel, she was desperately in love with my newfound rank and glory. 
Did I forget to name any?”

“Lady Merilin,” Belhador remarked.

“That offer was Lady Narmeril’s, not Merilin’s. I do not count her 
among those treasure-seeking dwarf-ladies,” Legolas said dismissively.

“This triumph has emboldened you,” observed Belhador, but there was 
pleasure rather than censure in his voice.

Legolas laughed. “I suspect it has. I was terrified,” he and Belhador 
laughed harder still, “but I had no choice but to face the queen. Had 
I not been firm in my refusal, the matter would not have been closed. 
At least I shall not be forced to deal with Lalven again, though I may 
still have to refuse Emlin’s father. Perhaps then the others will see 
that I mean not to marry anyone in the near future.”

Belhador said thoughtfully, “I thought Father intended to speak to the 
rest on the matter of your marriage--”

Legolas shook his head. “I managed it myself once, I can do it again. 
I should learn to stand up for my feelings rather than spend my time 
hiding from flirtatious maidens.” Still grinning, he gazed into the 
darkness of the forest.

He noticed Belhador staring at him rather strangely, and a part of him 
thought objectively that he should be worried. Legolas disliked being 
a cause of trouble to any of his family, yet…he could not seem to rid 
himself of this odd glee at having faced down Queen Elenath. It was a 
strange sensation. Though elves by nature do not tend toward excesses 
of emotion--and excesses of behavior still less--Legolas was unusually 
reserved and serious even by elven standards. He was not easily 
excitable--his friends often accused him of being blasé.

So what could it mean, this strange elation that he felt? It was 
almost alarming. With a parting grin at his equally-baffled brother, 
Legolas sprang to a nearby tree limb and darted off into the woods. 
When he was a safe distance from the palace, he dropped unseen to the 
ground. It was as he had hoped; there was no one about. Grinning like 
a fool, he began running, with no destination in mind, simply running 
for pure exhilaration. Over roots, ducking branches, his arms sweeping 
wildly about (terrible form, but Legolas was not in the mood to think 
as a warrior) he ran with his eyes closed, relying on his ears and the 
feel of the air to warn him of obstacles. The entire forest seemed to 
be singing as joyously as his heart, and he felt he could have run all 
the way to the mountains and back. 

At last he stopped and cast himself to the ground upon his back, his 
arms stretched out, still puzzled by this joy and yet not wanting it 
to leave him. *Langcyll and the other warriors said the second coming 
of age brings freedom. Perhaps that is what I feel. I need no longer 
rely on anyone’s protection or permission.* Smiling up at the stars 
that peered down at him through the leaves, he sighed and closed his 
eyes, listening to the whisper of the wind. *I think perhaps I will 
enjoy adulthood after all.*

***

The following day was the last for the Gathering of the Realms. From 
dawn until dusk, parties of elves made their farewells to friends and 
kin from the other realms and departed Mirkwood. As host, King 
Thranduil was occupied nearly every moment of the day, but looked 
endlessly for an opportunity to speak to Legolas that morning. 
Sentiment had warred with common sense nearly all night long as the 
king had grappled with what he had witnessed between his son and Queen 
Elenath. *I have every cause for pride. Legolas dealt with the 
situation, awkward as it was, with great dignity. And it was his 
prerogative to refuse the match. I should not seek to deprive him.* 

From where he stood, the King could see Legolas standing among a group 
of young nobles preparing to depart with the party of Lord Elrond. 
Elladan had begun to pantomime some scene from the Trial, causing 
Legolas and Elrohir to burst into laughter. The Lady Arwen and 
Limloeth watched with expressions of aloof amusement at the antics of 
the boys. Tathar and Candrochon of Mirkwood, along with Faron and 
Gaerongil, the two delegates from Imladris, ran to join the rest of 
the group, hustling and shoving each other like first-century novices. 
In spite of his brooding thoughts, Thranduil smiled.

The idyllic scene was shattered when young Gaerongil of Imladris 
exclaimed, “We needn’t grieve; we shall soon see each other with the 
war parties.”

“Or perhaps you shall ride together,” Glorfindel of Imladris spoke up 
from where he had been watching them. “During these perilous times, 
war parties from many of the elven realms shall join to fight the foul 
creatures of Mordor and drive them from our lands. Already there is 
talk of Mirkwood and Imladris joining forces to scour the Misty 
Mountains south to Lorien.”

The young warriors exchanged interested and eager glances. Thranduil 
immediately glanced at Legolas, and while he did not appear itching 
like the others to test his bow against living enemies, the 
speculation in his eyes alarmed his father. *But he is too young! He 
is not ready!* the thoughts struck the king like physical blows, and 
he had no desire to restrain them. *It cannot be permitted. Legolas 
has never left Mirkwood, let alone traveled on a long hunting 
expedition. He must begin his journey into adulthood slowly and 
carefully.*

It was all Thranduil could do to bid the proper farewells to his 
departing guests, for he could scarcely keep his eyes from Legolas, so 
intent was he on sensing any signs that Legolas had been tempted by 
Glorfindel’s careless remarks. *Glorfindel should have known better 
than to tantalize these young ones with talk of adventure. The first 
decades after the second coming of age are a warrior’s most perilous 
years. In their eagerness, they can put themselves in great danger. I 
will not allow my last child to risk himself carelessly.*

It was difficult to tell exactly how Legolas had reacted to the 
suggestion. At the moment, he was laughing quite helplessly as 
Gaerongil sang a mocking (and somewhat profane) rendition of one of 
the ballads invented to praise Legolas at the banquet. The Imladris 
archer was forced to desist when Candrochon decided he had had enough 
and promptly elbowed the wind from Gaerongil’s stomach. Lord Elrond 
caught Thranduil’s eye, and the elf lords exchanged tolerant smiles 
for the horseplay. After all, it might be years before these young 
friends were all together again.

Candrochon and Gaerongil were now arguing about which of them had the 
finer singing voice, punctuated by remarks from Legolas and Tathar 
that they both sang equally ill. This prompted all of them to burst 
into song, though Legolas simply laughed and declined to join in the 
contest. Thranduil had always been pleased by his youngest son’s sense 
of dignity, though he would not have been terribly bothered had 
Legolas chosen to participate (for he would have won.) 

“You shall be the judge, then, Legolas,” Candrochon ordered, and the 
singing began anew, with each young elf singing (and over-dramatizing) 
a different song while gesticulating with great gusto.

When they had finished, Princess Limloeth murmured something to the 
Ladies Merilin and Arwen about choruses of orcs and all the she-elves 
nearby laughed. “Peace, Sister,” Legolas laughed. “I think I must 
declare Candrochon the winner.”

Candrochon bowed dramatically, but Gaerongil exclaimed, “I must 
protest, for surely an elf of Mirkwood is biased when he judges his 
own kindred. I demand that Faron of Imladris settle this!”

Faron rejoined them and said, “I agreed with Legolas and Tathar’s 
initial judgment that you both sing equally ill. However, after 
hearing the three of you, I believe Tathar’s voice is still fouler.”

All the elves of Mirkwood and Imladris shared a hearty laugh over 
Tathar’s cry of “Unfair!” 

“Ah, the singers of Imladris may be poor, but those of Mirkwood are 
poorer still,” Gaerongil declared.

“We surpass you in other ways, my friend, such as archery,” Legolas 
said in a light, innocent voice.

Several watching elves exclaimed eagerly at this playful taunt (very 
unlike Legolas) and Faron folded his arms challengingly, “There is yet 
time, my lord, if you would care to test your prowess shooting apples 
from trees.”

Realizing that this boyish bragging contest threatened to delay the 
Imladris party’s departure, Thranduil decided to forestall what might 
become a second Trial. “No arrows, Legolas.”

“Yes, Father,” Legolas replied and shrugged at his friends’ 
disappointed glances.

Lord Elrond had joined Thranduil to watch the carousal and remarked 
softly, “I should have liked to see such a contest. I suspect in this 
instance Imladris would have come out ahead.”

“Do not work against me, Elrond,” Thranduil murmured, chuckling. Then 
he paused before adding slyly, “But you are wrong. Mirkwood would have 
won.”

“I disagree.”

“My archers bested all but one of yours. The results of the Trial 
speak for themselves.”

“Shall we bid them try again?”

“Do not tempt me.”

Just as the party from Imladris was preparing to depart, happy shouts 
from elves still within the palace made them pause. “What is it?” 
Elladan exclaimed, as the others turned to see what had given rise to 
all the excitement. 

Berensul, grinning slyly, emerged from the palace and declared, “My 
lords and ladies, I am pleased to inform you that Eregolf of Lorien 
has announced his betrothal to the Princess Lalven of Eryn Vorn. The 
date of their wedding has not yet been determined, but invitations 
will be sent to all.”

With pleased nods and comments of approval, the elves outside began to 
applaud, and there were a great many winks in the direction of 
Legolas. Faron turned to Tathar and whispered, “I want my pearl back.”

“She asked for Legolas first,” Tathar hissed in protest, placing a 
hand over his belt pouch defensively.

Legolas apparently saw an opportunity to avenge himself for the 
endless teasing he had received at the hands of his friend. “The wager 
was on whom she would be matched to, Tathar, not whom she would offer 
for first. You declared victory too soon.”

Faron laughed, “There now, even one of your own comrades of Mirkwood 
agrees that the prize falls to me. Come, Tathar, hand over my pearl. 
And you owe me yet another one.”

“Traitor,” Tathar accused Legolas. 

Legolas innocently suggested to Faron, “Hold out for the black pearl, 
my friend. To the victor go the spoils.” Then he winked and went to 
bid farewell to Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen.

Faron looked quizzically after the champion of Mirkwood. “Adulthood 
seems to agree with him. I do not claim to know Legolas as well as 
you, but I have never seen him so lively.”

“Nor I, my friend, and I may claim to know him well. Though it may 
have a great deal to do with the fact that the party from the Grey 
Havens left this morning,” Tathar replied.

“And with it Lady Emlin!” laughed Faron. “Ah, now here’s a pretty 
thing,” he held up Tathar’s black pearl in the light for all to 
behold. 

“So rare, pearls of such color,” Gaerongil declared loudly. The 
nearest elves laughed, and Tathar made an uncomplimentary remark about 
Imladris elves and their gambling, which merely succeeded in making 
them laugh harder still. It was a merry party that left Mirkwood for 
Rivendell.

***

By sundown, the population of Mirkwood had been reduced to its usual 
size. As much as Legolas had enjoyed seeing his friends from the other 
realms, he was very much relieved to no longer be bumping into people 
every time he turned a corner. 

Legolas was seated--or rather, sprawling--upon a chair in an empty 
pavilion in the trees beyond the palace reading as the first stars 
came out. He had had little time to himself during the two weeks of 
the Gathering, and certainly no time to sit and study. As a result, so 
engrossed was he in his book that he did not hear King Thranduil’s 
ascent up the tree stairs.

“Legolas?” The prince started, then grinned unashamedly at his father. 
Thranduil asked wryly, “You seem in a jovial mood. Was the Gathering 
so painful that you are delighted to have seen its end?”

It seemed that whatever word one used to describe Legolas’s mood, it 
would not be soured. Legolas laughed and shook his head, “No indeed, 
Father, I assure you. I did enjoy the Gathering…” he paused, then with 
a knowing smile, admitted, “most of it.” 

The King smiled and seated himself in another chair, gazing at his 
youngest son with a thoughtful expression. Legolas was feeling too 
contented to notice the manner in which his father groped for words. 
“I received a great deal of praise for you and the grace with which 
you have come of age, my son. I am told I have every reason for 
pride.”

Legolas blushed. “I hope I shall live up to it. I intend living up to 
it,” he added with more resolve. The king looked somewhat disconcerted 
by the unusual vehemence in his voice, but Legolas went on eagerly, 
“The warrior exercises resume their normal routine tomorrow. I mean to 
train now more than ever so that I may join the next war parties when 
they depart.”

It had been a given that Thranduil would have words of caution for his 
son; he always did. But Legolas had been entirely unprepared for the 
king’s response to his intentions. “Now hold, Legolas,” he said 
sharply, raising a hand to forestall further plans. Legolas fell 
silent instinctively. “I’ve no doubt you are eager to partake of the 
privileges of adulthood, but you get ahead of yourself. You do not 
truly reach your majority for more than a third of a century. It is 
too soon for you to be thinking of war parties.”

Legolas was startled, and the bliss he had been enjoying vanished like 
the sun behind a cloud. “But…I…we have all been taught that it is our 
right after coming of age to join the warriors as equals. What shall 
I…”

“I do not deny you the privilege of taking part in the protection of 
Mirkwood, my son,” Thranduil said mildly. “I merely feel that you are 
yet too young to be gallivanting about Middle Earth when you scarcely 
know Mirkwood.”

Puzzled, Legolas answered, “But, Father, it was you who advised me to 
remain close to home throughout my training as a novice. You told me 
that I would be better prepared for journeys when I had come of age.”

“And indeed you have,” his father told him. “But my son, having your 
coming of age recognized does not mean that you are entitled to have 
your own way in everything.” Legolas desired to protest that he had 
never believed such a thing, but did not dare interrupt the king. 
“With adulthood comes maturity, one hopes, and the wisdom to think 
beyond your immediate desires and choose a prudent path,” Thranduil 
went on. “Langcyll praised you greatly at the banquet for your 
caution, Legolas, and called upon all other novices and warriors to 
emulate you. High acknowledgement indeed, and that you must also live 
up to.”

Feeling confused and more than a little disappointed, Legolas asked, 
“What would you have me do, then?”

Thoughtfully, Thranduil replied, “Langcyll said you were a fine 
example to the other novices. I think your skills and good habits 
would be best displayed to them if you joined the novice masters on 
their training journeys. I am aware that it was on my advice that you 
did not travel far from the palace during your early training, and now 
would be an opportunity to do so. Acquaint yourself with your home, my 
son, before attempting to explore the world beyond. There are perils 
enough in Mirkwood to endanger a careless youth. Time, Legolas, there 
is plenty of time in your life to see and do all that you desire. I 
only counsel you to have patience.”

Legolas slowly nodded, “Yes, Father.” With that, Thranduil evidently 
decided the discussion was concluded, and rose, making his way back to 
the forest floor.

Legolas sat in his chair for a great while, mulling over what his 
father had said. Of course, it was true; Legolas was younger than all 
the other new warriors in Mirkwood. Such words of caution were 
wise--then again, his father’s counsel was always wise. It made sense 
for him to move slowly into the life of a warrior, rather than attempt 
to take on all the responsibilities--and dangers--at once. 

He had always been reminded by his father that the first centuries 
after the second coming of age were an elven warrior’s most perilous 
years. Indeed, his father knew that painful fact more than most; two 
of Legolas’s elder siblings had perished within decades of coming of 
age. Legolas sighed; his father’s advice--in truth he had left little 
room for argument--was sensible. As unexciting as joining some of the 
smaller parties would be, that was clearly what Thranduil desired. But 
just the same, the exultation Legolas had felt since yesterday had 
been replaced by gloom. *Must my life be utterly without excitement?*

***

Because Gandalf had no pressing business elsewhere immediately 
following the Gathering, he accepted the Crown Prince Berensul’s 
invitation to stay in Mirkwood awhile longer. The Maia was uncertain 
of what Berensul wanted of him, but the answer became clear on the 
very first morning. 

Prince Legolas had appeared positively frisky when the last of the 
guests had departed the night before. Gandalf had seen the young 
archer vanishing into the trees as soon as etiquette would permit it. 
He had also seen King Thranduil leave the palace not long afterward, 
and it had not taken the wisdom of ages to see the king‘s intentions. 
Whatever had transpired between them, this morning Legolas had not 
only returned to his normal reticent self, he seemed decidedly worse. 
Only Gandalf’s trained eye could detect the lack of spring in the 
prince’s step and the ever-so-slight droop of his shoulders, as though 
coming of age had become a burden. *I should very much like to know 
what the king said to lower his spirits so.*

Later that morning, Gandalf watched Mirkwood’s newest warriors 
training with the masters, captains, and novices on one of the 
practice fields. “Come, Legolas, you shall practice with the sword 
today,” Langcyll was saying. “For we all have seen your skill with the 
bow.”

As the others laughed, Legolas smiled somewhat weakly but took up the 
proffered sword and began to spar with one of the other young 
warriors. *His skill with the blade is nearly as fine as the bow,* 
Gandalf thought. *I suspect there are few weapons in existence that 
this elf could not master.*

“Move your feet, Thorod!” one of the master’s urged the prince’s 
opponent.

Legolas knocked the sword from Thorod’s hand in spite of the other 
elf’s valiant defense, and returned the weapons to Langcyll. They were 
close enough to Gandalf that the wizard could hear what passed between 
them next. “In a few weeks time, you shall make a worthy addition to 
our war parties, Legolas.”

The young warrior cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “I think, 
perhaps, I should join one of the training expeditions before 
traveling with the war parties.” Langcyll appeared baffled, and 
Legolas explained, “I think I am yet too young to be 
entirely…valuable, to the warriors of Mirkwood. I may be more useful 
training the younger novices.”

“Training?! Legolas, did you not hear a word I said at the banquet? 
You are more prepared to fight as a warrior than any novice I have 
ever trained,” there was a hint of frustration in the older elf’s 
voice. “You are not only valuable to my warriors, your skills are 
needed. Soon they will be badly needed. A shadow grows here, young 
prince, and all our warriors are needed.”

Legolas did not meet his captain’s eyes. Gandalf frowned to himself as 
the exercises were ended for the afternoon and the prince hastily took 
his leave. 

*** 

Legolas had been certain that the opinion of Langcyll would hold 
weight when he approached King Thranduil in the throne room. That in 
itself took him nearly an hour to work up the courage. He could not 
recall the last time he had made a real request of his father, and 
thought all those factors might incline the king to grant it. How 
wrong he was.

“I thought we had finished this discussion last night, my son,” 
Thranduil said with a hint of carefully controlled impatience in his 
voice.

“Yes, Father,” Legolas said, managing not to stutter. “However, I 
spoke to Langcyll this morning during the exercises. And…he feels that 
my skills are needed--”

The king silenced him with an irritable wave of his hand, “Shooting 
toys tossed by trainers hardly qualifies as skill, Legolas, as you 
will soon learn. You’ve yet to fight a battle, but already you talk of 
going to war. Such rashness will be the death of you.”

In his frustration, Legolas blurted without thinking, “I’m not being 
rash, Father!” He faltered at the sight of the anger growing on 
Thranduil’s face, but forced himself to go on saying what he had 
rehearsed in his mind. “I do not ask to ride out and face perils 
alone. I ask to be allowed to travel among my fellow warriors as I 
have trained to do for hundreds of years. To protect them and be 
protected by them, so that we may all defend our home. Langcyll and 
the others would not allow me to come to harm any more than I would 
allow them.”

Taking a deep breath, King Thranduil rose from his throne and moved 
forward to where his son was standing. It took every ounce of 
willpower Legolas had not to step backward. He had never angered his 
father so before. His black eyes boring into his son’s, Thranduil 
spoke in a low, harsh voice, “That is just what your brother Tavron 
and your sisters Meren and Lalaith thought when they left on their 
first expedition. Must I remind you of that?”

Legolas flinched involuntarily, and Thranduil pressed his advantage. 
“Your brother and sisters were among a large war party, Legolas, under 
the command of one of Mirkwood’s finest captains. It had been less 
than ten years since Meren and Lalaith had come of age, but your 
brother Tavron had been a warrior for more than a century. Must I 
remind you of how they perished, more than half of their party slain 
in an ambush after being trapped in an orc-loosed avalanche in the 
mountains?” 

Legolas closed his eyes and turned his head away. The king was not 
shouting, but to face the force in his voice was like leaning into a 
gale. “Must I remind you how your mother nearly died of grief? To say 
nothing of how I myself felt; it was only for her sake that I managed 
to carry on. When you were born, at last I did not fear for Minuial’s 
future, only to lose her to that accursed demon in Moria. I had been 
against her going to that forsaken place in the beginning. Do you not 
see, Legolas? Two sisters and a brother whom you never knew, and your 
mother slain when you were a child, forcing me to raise you alone in 
spite of my grief, all because foolish and unnecessary risks were 
taken.

Thranduil gripped his son’s shoulders and said in a low, tight voice, 
“I will not lose you as well, Legolas. Do you understand me?”

Legolas could not have answered the king if he had wished to; the 
tightness of his throat made it impossible. He dared not open his 
stinging eyes. Instead, he nodded, not looking up, and felt Thranduil 
release his shoulders. “I hope this has clarified the matter for you, 
my son.”

He still could not speak. Opening his eyes at last, but staring 
fixedly at the floor, Legolas fled the throne room. 



*****

Think Bilbo, Frodo, and Aragorn were the only members of the 
Fellowship who got a little help from Gandalf onto the road to 
destiny? Not in this universe! 

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince Tavron--third 
child of King Thranduil, died in battle before Legolas was born (in my 
universe) Princesses Meren and Lalaith--twins, fourth and fifth 
children of King Thranduil, died in battle before Legolas was born (in 
my universe) Prince Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil

Queen Minuial--Legolas’s mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my 
universe. I made up her name)

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and 
training companion Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training 
companion Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of 
the Mirkwood archers Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of 
Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers Eregolf of Lorien--archer 
champion of Lorien 

--------------------------------------------------------- Thanks once 
again to all my faithful reviewers. I’m so stressed about school right 
now and I look forward every day to hearing your input. You are 
wonderful (sniffle) okay, I’m over it. ***Three cheers to Shen 
Panda--you caught my nod to the movie in Chapter Five. Way to go! I 
loved both the movie and the books, and I’m drawing from both. In case 
you didn’t notice, my title is also a movie line, spoken by Gandalf. 
***I don’t know where the movie got Legolas’s age from (2,391 years) 
and I’m not specifying an exact age, but in my universe, he’s at least 
younger than Arwen. Don’t know why, it just came out that way. 
***TRIVIA QUESTION: I know some people loved the part in Chapter Five 
when a rather skanky maiden pulls the collar of her shirt to one side 
and shrieks, “Look my lord, I’ve been stung!” I stole that line from a 
VERY old movie. The original line is… “Look, citizen, I’ve been 
stung!” Does anyone know movie it is? (just a little non-LOTR fun and 
games). -----------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Seven: The Nudge

Berensul and Belhador were speaking to one of the king’s attendants 
when they heard their brother coming. Glancing up to greet him, 
Berensul was startled as Legolas flew by, brushing past Limloeth on 
his way to the royal chambers without a word to any of his siblings. 
Belhador dismissed the servant and demanded, “What ails him?”

Limloeth walked swiftly over to them, anxiety upon her face, “Did you 
not see his eyes?” Her brothers shook their heads; they had not been 
facing Legolas as he passed. “He is crying, or is about to be.”

“Now what has he done?” hissed Berensul furiously.

“Legolas never--”’

“I did not mean Legolas,” the crown prince said coldly, glaring in the 
direction of the throne room.

Legolas’s siblings gazed at each other silently, then Limloeth said 
softly, “I will go to him.”

“Lim, the king will not--”

“I did not mean the king,” before either of her brothers could 
protest, Limloeth walked in the direction Legolas had gone.

Limloeth had been astonished ninety years before when her reticent 
youngest brother had bested her in an archery competition, but since 
then she had come to terms with the fact that Legolas’s senses were 
superior even to her own. But hers were by no means lacking. She knew 
that Legolas heard her approach, and smiled wryly to herself as she in 
turn heard a frantic shuffling from his room. Receiving no answer to 
her knock, the princess walked in to find the curtains drawn, and 
Legolas lying upon his bed, facing away from her. “I know you are 
awake,” she said matter-of-factly.

There was silence, then a small, estranged voice whispered, “Leave 
me.”

Limloeth paused briefly, “No.”

“I wish to be alone.”

“Then you shall have to rise and put me out,” she taunted him 
lightly--as the practice of many years of sisterhood had taught her.

“Sister, I am not in the mood.”

With a sigh, Limloeth walked over and sat upon the side of the bed, 
putting her hand on her brother’s shoulder. She felt him shudder in 
response and leaning forward slightly, saw tears coursing down his 
face. “What has our ever-so-wise father done now?” she asked softly.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“Then you should have locked your door,” she told him, brushing a 
light hand over his pale hair. After the death of Queen Minuial, 
Limloeth had made a conscious effort to fill the roll of her mother 
for her younger brothers. Like Berensul, she was protective of them. 
Especially Legolas. “You look so like her.”

She had not intended to say so aloud, but Legolas made a sound much 
like a sob. Limloeth stared at him, “What has our father said to you, 
Legolas?”

He gave in. Dashing tears from his eyes, Legolas sat up and faced her. 
“He did not believe I was ready to travel with the war parties, and 
when I disagreed…he reminded me…” He looked away, unable to continue.

*Curse him! That was needlessly cruel!* Limloeth thought with a surge 
of rare anger. Forcing herself not to speak so aloud--Legolas disliked 
hearing ill words about their father--she said mildly, “He should not 
have done such a thing, my brother. Traveling with the warriors is 
your right and duty now that you are of age. None can call you 
reckless.”

“No, he is right. Neither my mother, nor my brother and sisters were 
reckless, yet they perished. I have many centuries ahead of me to 
travel about Middle Earth; I should first know my own realm. There 
will be plenty of time for war parties,” with a defeated sigh, Legolas 
rose and opened the windows again, not facing his sister.

*Had Berensul been here, he would have charged into the throne room by 
now,* Limloeth thought ruefully. Though she was less hotheaded than 
her elder brother, she was no less incensed and frustrated by 
Thranduil’s treatment of Legolas. *Somehow we must find a way to 
persuade Father to cease holding Legolas back. This cannot go on 
forever. Father must let him go.*

Or perhaps the persuasion could be accomplished from the other end. 
“Father was very much grieved by the loss of our mother, and Tavron, 
Lalaith, and Meren’s deaths. As were Berensul, Belhador, and I. But I 
think perhaps he is letting his own fear get the better of him, 
Legolas.” 

Legolas turned and stared at her, clearly astonished that anyone would 
accuse their father of fearing anything. Limloeth sighed inwardly, 
*Oh, my brother, how naïve you are, though I blame him rather than 
you. One day you shall discover his failings, and they shall devastate 
you. In his desperation to protect you, our father has ensured that 
the discovery of life’s cruel realities will be still harder for you 
to bear.*

Aloud, the princess spoke more gently. “Legolas, you must imagine how 
shattering the death of one’s children and wife must be to any father. 
Fear of losing one’s family is a reality to any parent, and after 
losing three--the thought of anything happening to the rest of us is a 
terror to our father. He wishes to protect you, but you must assert 
yourself.”

Legolas, she was dismayed to realize, had recovered himself, but was 
now fully in agreement with Thranduil. “I shall assert myself, Sister. 
It is just that I think Father’s advice is wise. I shall take on more 
hazardous duties when the time is right. There is no need for me to 
hurry.”

*Perhaps I should attempt a little bullying of my own.* Limloeth 
folded her arms and drew herself up--while Legolas was tall, she was 
nearly his height. “Perhaps you see no need for yourself, Brother, but 
for Mirkwood there is a very real need. Have you not heard the rumors 
of the evil forces rising right here within our borders? Threatening 
all the elven realms, and men, and all the free peoples of Middle 
Earth? Whatever our father has tried to convince you of, your prowess 
with the bow is unequaled, and you are highly-skilled with all other 
forms of combat. You have spent your life preparing to defend our 
people, and for every second that you hold back, the shadow grows 
darker. Mirkwood needs you, Legolas, and your bow, in the places where 
they are worth most. And those places are not training fields!”

***

“And he did not listen to you?” Prince Belhador was asking his elder 
sister as Gandalf passed the flet where they had gone to talk.

The Maia had not intended to eavesdrop, or join the conversation, but 
the outrage in the normally-serene Limloeth’s voice stopped him in his 
tracks. “I do not think he grasped a word of what I was saying, so 
convinced was he of our father’s rightness! It will never end, 
Belhador, the king has complete control of him! And if there is an 
end, it shall be very bad.”

Gandalf’s eminence among the elves allowed him to take liberties that 
would never have been dared by one who was neither royal, nor an elf, 
nor included in the conversation. “My lady?”

Belhador and Limloeth glanced down at him, startled, then chagrinned 
that they had not heard him come. “Mithrandir,” she said, but rather 
than embarrassment or anger at his intrusion, Gandalf heard a note of 
plea in her voice.

He took that as permission to come up. “Forgive my interference, 
Princess. But I fear I could not help but overhear what you said just 
now.”

With a sigh, the elf princess replied, “I should have taken care to 
prevent any from hearing me. But now it is done, and I confess I would 
be glad of your counsel.”

“What troubles you so, my lady?” Gandalf asked gently.

It was Belhador who answered, “I think, Mithrandir, you know more than 
your dissembling would suggests. I know my brother Berensul has spoken 
with you about our youngest brother’s…situation.”

Gandalf nodded. There were few secrets between elf siblings, royals or 
otherwise. “I understand that Prince Legolas has been 
rather…insulated…from the troubles of the world, and of his family, it 
would appear. Has some new problem arisen?”

Limloeth was highly agitated, wringing her hands. “My friend, you are 
aware that Legolas’s coming of age entitles him to take up the full 
responsibilities as a warrior. It is his right to begin joining the 
war parties--and at such times as these, it is his duty to his realm.” 
With a helpless expression, she told him, “My father has prevented 
Legolas from doing so, instead confining him to the training of other 
novices when he can teach them none of the lessons that he himself 
learned from warriors seasoned in battle. He has not forbidden Legolas 
directly, but as good as, for all the pressure he has exerted.”

Gandalf listened gravely. He had feared just such a development. “And 
Legolas yielded?”

Belhador spoke in a low, grim voice, “Legolas has NEVER challenged the 
king, Mithrandir. Never. Alas, though our father is overbearing in 
other ways, he has retained his subtlety where my brother is 
concerned. He usually needs little effort to convince Legolas of his 
wisdom. Indeed, the fact that he resorted to such browbeating suggests 
that Legolas protested far more than he normally does.”

“Browbeating?” Gandalf raised his eyebrows.

Belhador and Limloeth exchanged an uncomfortable glance, before 
Limloeth admitted, “I happened upon my brother just after he spoke to 
the king this afternoon. He was very upset. But,” her irritation 
returned, “he was also completely under our father’s sway in the 
matter. I could not dissuade him. His skills shall be wasted here!” 
She turned away sharply, her normally soft brown eyes snapping with 
anger.

“What would you have me do, Lady?” Gandalf laid a light hand upon the 
distressed princess’s shoulder.

Limloeth turned back to him, the appeal once again visible in her 
eyes. “Perhaps you might speak to him, elf-friend. I do not doubt 
Langcyll has tried to persuade him to use his skills where they are 
worth most, to set aside his tentativeness. I suspect it was this that 
drove him to petition our father today. And he values your advice as 
well, I am certain of it. With you also speaking in favor of it, 
perhaps he will reconsider his plans. If he cannot be prevailed upon, 
I fear the results could be injurious to all--Legolas more than any.”

Gandalf had not expected to be quite so directly involved, but it was 
difficult to refuse the direct request from an elf--and all but 
impossible to refuse so fair a princess with such desperation in her 
fair voice. “I will do what I can.”

***

Though Gandalf prided himself in his ability to persuade even the 
elves to act upon his advice, even he had not counted upon the power 
of King Thranduil’s sway over his youngest son. Gandalf met young 
Legolas as he was returning from training exercises with a group of 
novices. The prince looked rather bored. *This task will be less 
difficult if he is already chafing at this routine.*

“Good morning, my lord,” he said cheerfully.

Legolas smiled politely, “Good day, Mithrandir.”

“The training of your charges goes well, I hope.”

“They are not my charges,” Legolas answered quickly, then looked as 
though he had not intended to say so aloud.

It provided Gandalf with an opening. “The training is a temporary 
arrangement, then? I had hoped it was.” Seeing Legolas’s startled 
expression, he pressed, “For I had thought your skills would be more 
valuable to Mirkwood if you were aiding in its defense from the shadow 
of Mordor and its evil creatures.”

Legolas shook his head quickly, “I do not consider myself ready for 
such responsibilities just yet. My f--I have decided I shall remain 
within the borders of Mirkwood and aid in its defense by training its 
defenders. For they shall be needed as well.”

“But surely it would be wise to learn to exercise your skills in 
action before attempting to teach them to others,” Gandalf said. “Will 
you not regret being the only one left behind when the next war 
parties depart in a few weeks?”

“I shall miss my companions, yes,” Legolas replied, looking quite 
uncomfortable. “But what I want and what is wise are not always the 
same thing.”

“Indeed? What do you want, then, my lord?” Gandalf asked, feigning 
puzzlement.

Legolas looked away. “There is no need to concern yourself, 
Mithrandir. I am doing what I consider to be prudent, and I believe it 
to be for the best. All is well with me.”

Gandalf protested, “But surely you have the right to consider your own 
desires as well as the advice of…others. Your elders are not 
infallible, young prince. Not even myself.” He chuckled and saw that 
Legolas had to force a smile. Returning to seriousness, he went on, 
“You have shown yourself to be a very sensible elf, Prince Legolas, 
and a promising warrior for all your youth. Perhaps you should give a 
little more weight to what you want now that you are of age. It is 
your right.”

Legolas did not meet his eyes, but said simply, “Just because I have 
come of age does not mean that I am entitled to have my own way in 
everything. It is sensible of me to see that, Mithrandir. What I want 
is unimportant.” With that, he nodded to the Maia and walked swiftly 
away.

Gandalf looked grimly after him. *What he wants is 
unimportant…convinced him of that quite thoroughly, haven’t you, 
Thranduil? And it seems your son inherited your stubbornness. Already 
this confinement begins to stifle him. I only hope one of you comes to 
your senses before it is too late.*

***

Nearly a month later, Legolas still insisted that both he and Mirkwood 
were better served by him assisting in the training of the novices, to 
the intense frustration of all save his father. This morning found 
Candrochon, Tathar, and Merilin among the other young warriors in the 
training rooms preparing for the days exercises when Legolas joined 
them.

“Good morning, my lord,” came the chorused, half-teasing greeting from 
the group.

Legolas responded with a half-smile, half-glare to the general 
assembly, and pulled on his cote. The other elves looked at each 
other, then Merilin said casually, “The call for the next war parties 
is at dawn tomorrow morning. I assume we shall all be present?” There 
was no mistaking the plea in her voice.

Seeing the aggravation growing in Legolas’s eyes, Tathar said quickly, 
“Of course, we shall. Every party, for novices, hunts, and long 
expeditions shall be organized on the morrow. It is expected that all 
the warriors shall be present.” *Legolas owes me one,* he thought 
wearily. Unlike the others, Tathar did not believe anything would be 
accomplished by nagging at his best friend to change his mind. Passive 
resistance was the only kind of resistance Legolas 
practiced--consequently he had perfected the art of stubbornness. 
Pressuring him would be pointless.

Unfortunately, even Merilin and Candrochon did not seem to grasp this. 
Nor did the other young warriors. Almost all at once, a torrent of 
words erupted from the elves, pleading with Legolas to reconsider. 

“Legolas, this is madness!” “You are the finest warrior of us all, 
your skills are needed!” “Langcyll truly believes you belong in the 
war parties, my lord, why do you refuse even him?” “Whoever put you up 
to such stalling clearly knows nothing of you or your skills!” “You 
will rue the day you remained behind!” “We are taught that we travel 
as well as train together--”

The entire company was stunned into silence when Legolas threw up his 
hands in a VERY uncharacteristic display of anger. “MUST I have this 
conversation with every single one of you? You know my reasons, for if 
you’ve not heard them from me, you’ve had them from one of your 
friends when I am not about. I tire of repeating myself and hearing 
the same protests daily. Enough. The decision is made. At least accept 
it with some respect.”

The other warriors were shocked, and many looked hurt. Legolas had 
turned away from them again. But as he went towards the door, Merilin 
said in a low, curt voice, “Yes…my lord.” Legolas faltered at the 
doorway, but stiffened his shoulders and went on. 

Tathar sighed, looking bleakly at his and Legolas’s friends. The 
situation seemed utterly hopeless.

***

The day’s exercises were nearly complete when a messenger rode to the 
training fields bearing the flag of the king. Langcyll called a halt 
to the practicing and accepted the scroll bearing the king’s seal. The 
warriors, novices, and masters had gathered into a loose assembly to 
hear if the message concerned them. When Langcyll read the words, it 
was all he could do not to wince. This was the message he most dreaded 
imparting to his warriors.

So with his usual bland expression, but a terrible knot in his 
insides, he turned to the group and motioned them forward. “A message 
has arrived from Imladris, bringing bad tidings.” 

He forced himself not to see the way the elves tensed. The seasoned 
warriors immediately closed their eyes, having heard such news before 
and far too many times. The novices and younger warriors looked 
puzzled, hoping the report would not be too grievous. He took a deep 
breath, “A war party from Rivendell was attacked near the Bruinen ford 
four days ago.” Again, he fought to ignore the intakes of breath. 
“Four warriors of Imladris were slain. Laegnan, son of Daron, Narwain, 
son of Lalorn, Glamren, daughter of Falas, and…Gaerongil, son of 
Feredir.”

With a strangled gasp, Merilin clapped her hands over her mouth, 
staggered by shock and grief. Sounds of weeping soon filled the 
clearing and surrounding trees as the warriors of Mirkwood mourned the 
loss of their comrades-in-arms. The delegates to the Gathering Trial 
took the news of Gaerongil’s death worst of all, as Langcyll had known 
they would. Tathar sat on the soft grass, tears streaming shamelessly 
down his face, with his arm around Candrochon, who all but prostrate 
with sobs. Legolas held Merilin, her face buried in his shoulder as 
she wept. The prince himself did not cry--he did not yet appear to 
have moved past the shock. There was no color in his face, his eyes 
were focused upon nothing, and he trembled violently. 

The news of an elf warrior’s death was always greeted by terrible 
grief from warriors of all the realms, for they were all comrades as 
well as kindred. Narwain had been captain of a war party with which 
Langcyll had once traveled for more than thirty years. Though his 
outward response might be controlled, the archer captain’s grief was 
no less. Yet in his eyes, the greatest tragedies were always the 
deaths of the young elves. It was true that many elves died young, for 
in the ranks of warriors, a youthful misstep could be fatal. But to 
Langcyll, the tragedy was seeing the grief on the faces of their 
equally-young friends when they first faced that wrenching emotion of 
loss.

Langcyll went to join the former Trial delegates of Mirkwood, to offer 
words he knew would bring little comfort. “Why?” cried Merilin as he 
placed his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away from Legolas to face 
Langcyll, and Legolas sat limply against a tree, still numb. “How 
could such a thing happen to Gaerongil and the others so close to 
Rivendell?!”

“It is a hard lesson to learn, my young warrioress, but it is true. 
There is no place in Middle Earth, nor anywhere else that is entirely 
free of danger. All that can be done is to protect yourself and your 
companions as best you can, without forgetting there are more 
important considerations than your own well-being. As close to the 
ford as they were, there were other elves about. The orc marauders 
might have taken many innocent lives had the Rivendell party not 
engaged them when they did, in spite of the fact that they were left 
with their backs to the river.” 

Langcyll reached out and squeezed the shoulder of each of the four in 
turn. “They fought bravely and slew all the orc raiders before they 
could harm any others. Your friend Gaerongil died very young, but he 
shall never be forgotten by those he defended. It is the way of 
warriors, as each of you knew full well when you chose to become one.”

***

In spite of the fact that the morning’s exercises had not been 
strenuous and had been cut short, Legolas felt an incredible 
leadenness in his limbs. After being dismissed by Langcyll, all the 
warriors had departed in different directions, each one alone, to face 
his or her individual grief. 

He had hoped to reach his chambers--and lock the door this 
time--without encountering anyone, but no sooner had he entered the 
palace than one of the stewards called, “The king wishes to see you 
upon your return, my lord.”

Legolas was tired in body and heart, and the effort of holding back 
the tears was becoming very great. Not bothering to contain a heavy 
sigh, he nodded and turned towards the throne room. When the elf 
herald announced him, Legolas entered, and King Thranduil immediately 
rose, motioning for the attendants to leave them. When the doors 
closed, Thranduil looked Legolas over. There was genuine concern and 
sorrow in the king’s eyes, but the intensity of Legolas’s own emotions 
was so great that he felt no desire to share them.

“Imladris lost four very fine warriors,” Thranduil said quietly, 
coming to stand close to Legolas. “Young Gaerongil one of their 
finest. I am so very sorry, my son.”

The part of Legolas which always thought objectively could not fathom 
why he did not welcome his father’s attentions as he usually did, or 
why he felt almost resentful of Thranduil’s words of sympathy. “I wish 
I could ease this pain for you,” the king was saying. “I do understand 
how deeply you are grieving.”

*I sincerely doubt that, Father! Spare me your pity!* the bitter 
thoughts would not be repressed. Nor would his tears for much longer. 
He wished he could escape, but Thranduil was not done.

“What befell Gaerongil was exactly what I had feared for you, my son, 
and I hope you see now why I spoke against your taking on dangerous 
duties immediately after your coming of age. If Gaerongil had not been 
so eager to race across Middle Earth, perhaps--”

Legolas burst out, “Could you not be troubled to read the message, 
Father?! Gaerongil and his party were within ten miles of Rivendell 
when they engaged the orcs! There were other elves in danger and they 
were left with no choice but to challenge them when and where they 
did. Do not call him foolish!”

The king had stepped back in complete shock. Legolas had never 
interrupted his father in his life. “Legolas! How--how dare--”

His son said fiercely, “My friend is dead, Father, I am in not in the 
mood to be lectured. And if I were, I should go to Langcyll. He at 
least would say something of substance.” The words were shocking 
Legolas even as he spoke them, but he could not stop, so great was his 
grief and anger. “I will not have you call Gaerongil rash or foolish. 
If he could be slain right before the ford of the Bruinen, then I 
could just as easily be slain five feet outside the palace walls. I 
cannot believe it is foolishness that is always to blame for one’s 
death. And at the moment, I care not what the reasons were for his 
death.” His voice was cracking ominously, and he knew he must get out 
of there at once. “You can do nothing and say nothing to ease my pain, 
Father. At least do me the courtesy of leaving me in peace.”

Legolas turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, tears all but 
blinding him. Thranduil had been nearly as stunned as he by the 
outburst. As he shoved open the door, from behind him, he heard his 
father call, “Legolas?” but it seemed more tentative than a command. 
Legolas ignored it.

*For once I have got the better of him,* Legolas thought bitterly. 
Ignoring all he passed, he fled to his chambers, bolted the door and 
the windows, then flung himself upon his bed and wept desperately into 
his pillow until he had no strength left. 

***

King Thranduil did not follow Legolas from the throne room, so shocked 
was he by his normally mild son’s explosion. He did not know how long 
he had been standing in the center of the room when the herald timidly 
peered in. “My lord, are you receiving visitors?”

“Who is it?” Thranduil asked absently.

“The Crown Princess Eirien, my lord.”

Shaking the fog from his brain, Thranduil nodded, “Let her come in.” A 
moment later, the Princess Eirien, wife of the king’s eldest son, 
Berensul, entered the throne room. Eirien, beautiful in her pale, 
off-white gown, her golden-brown hair long and flowing, bowed to the 
king with a mildness that did not fool him for a second. Gentle and 
soft-spoken as Eirien was, Thranduil knew his eldest son had chosen a 
wife with strength and will to match his. “Pray, sit down, my child,” 
he said calmly and indicated the handsomely carved chair nearest his 
throne. Eirien walked over and sat, facing him placidly. “What can I 
do for you?”

“My lord, a party departs for Rivendell next week to study the healing 
arts with Lord Elrond. I beg leave to accompany them,” Eirien said 
with a calm face. 

Eirien had long been traveled about Middle Earth learning the healing 
arts, and knew that she did not need Thranduil’s formal permission any 
more than she needed Berensul’s. The king knew traveling rights had 
been the last thing on Eirien’s mind when she came to see him. “Of 
course, Eirien. Will my son Berensul be accompanying you?”

“He is not yet certain, my lord. Business here in Mirkwood may require 
his attention, but I do not expect to be gone more than two months.” 

“Even for such a short stay, my son would regret the separation,” 
Thranduil replied.

There was a definite hardness in Eirien’s large, blue-gray eyes. “And 
you, my lord? Will you regret the separation?”

Thranduil allowed a note of sternness to enter his voice, “Of course, 
my lady. Was there anything else?” 

The crown princess looked away from him for a moment, then remarked 
softly, “Legolas passed me in the hall a few moments ago. The death of 
his friend Gaerongil seems to have grieved him deeply.”

*And you along with every other elf in the palace doubtlessly heard 
him shouting,* Thranduil thought ruefully. Considering how utterly 
unlike Legolas that had been, it would not be surprising if all palace 
activity had come to a screeching halt. “I fear he was, my lady. 
Gaerongil is the first warrior of his generation to perish. Such 
tragedies cannot be avoided in times like these, but all the elven 
realms are grieving today.”

Eirien nodded sadly, then got to the point the king knew she was 
heading towards. “Gaerongil was neither foolish, nor reckless, my 
lord. And nor is Legolas. He is a most cautious and sensible elf far 
beyond his years.”

“Indeed, my lady, do you think so?” Thranduil asked formally.

“I do, my lord. He will not be fully of age for nearly four more 
decades. Until now, he has lived a sheltered life, where even the 
dangers of the greenwood are carefully controlled in his presence. He 
has never shed the blood of any living thing, even an orc or a spider, 
and he has never fought a battle where his life was the only stake.” 
Looking away from Thranduil as though she were simply making small 
talk, Eirien remarked delicately, “But he cannot be expected to live 
under such restrictions forever.”

“I have never denied Legolas permission to travel, my lady.”

“No?” 

Eirien’s knowing eyes pierced Thranduil, and in her gaze he saw 
himself. *Perhaps I have been holding him back. He is young yet, 
but…he is a fine and skilled warrior. And Langcyll is right; such 
skills are needed by all elves right now. Perhaps Gaerongil’s death 
will demonstrate the need for caution far better than anything I might 
say. *

Aloud, Thranduil said, “Eirien, I do not…doubt Legolas’s skill or his 
courage. But you yourself have seen his inexperience. I am…concerned 
that he will be overwhelmed by the dangers and horrors of life in the 
war parties during these times. These will be his most perilous years, 
and I do not wish him to take on tasks beyond his abilities.”

Her eyes troubled, Eirien faced him directly again, “Forgive me. I 
think perhaps you are wrong.” 

She hesitated. One did not contradict the king of Mirkwood lightly, 
but Thranduil merely raised his eyebrows, so she went on, “Legolas 
does not fear the unknown, it is true. And once he faces living foes, 
he shall know fear and doubt. But that is a journey all elves must 
travel, and to attempt to shelter him from the realities of fear and 
death will be pointless. I believe Legolas will do what is sensible to 
protect himself, and when he does discover fear, he will overcome it. 
As you did, my lord, and your elder sons and daughters.” Gazing at him 
sadly, she said, “Legolas cannot make up for the lives of his brother 
and sisters by simply being protected, my lord. He must be allowed to 
protect himself, and his people. I think perhaps he will do better 
than you think.”

*Berensul always admires perceptiveness. I can see why he married you, 
dear girl. Of all of them, you have seen through me. Perhaps in my 
grief for my own loss, I have tried to hard to protect him and not 
allowed him to determine his own destiny. Perhaps it is time to let 
him go. Loathe though I am to part with him.* The thought throbbed in 
Thranduil’s heart, then he remembered Eirien was still there. He said 
nothing, merely smiled at her. With an answering smile, she rose. 
“Good night, my lord.”

Thranduil rose and bowed deeply to her, “Good night, my daughter.” 
Eirien bowed in response and departed. 

Thranduil summoned an attendant. His first thought was to send for 
Legolas, then he decided against it. *I should allow him this night to 
himself, to grieve alone. I was wrong to attempt to force him to share 
his grief with anyone so soon. It is too late for him to join these 
war parties, but I will give my permission tomorrow for him to depart 
with the ones that follow next month. He will be glad of the news, and 
still take the time to prepare himself.*

To the attendant, he ordered, “I wish to see Prince Legolas after the 
warrior exercises tomorrow afternoon. Send for him when he returns 
from training the novices.” Sleep and tomorrow’s exercises would give 
Legolas time to recover himself. Then Thranduil would talk with 
him…and ask his forgiveness.

***

Elves require little sleep in the fashion that men know, but even 
elven rest eluded Legolas that night. Past midnight, he gave up and 
left his chambers, counting on the late hour to keep all abed but the 
palace guards. He wandered aimlessly through the dimly-lit palace 
corridors, his mind too troubled for sleep. He thought of the Trial, 
of Langcyll’s praises, of Mithrandir’s advice, of his friends and 
their plans for today, of his siblings and their own comings of age, 
and of his father’s words against all of the former. Throughout these 
thoughts, he tried unsuccessfully to keep his mind from Gaerongil. 

*What cruel fate would allow him to die when he’d barely had the 
chance to know life?* Legolas thought, feeling a surge of bitter anger 
towards the world. He sighed to himself. *I should not have vented my 
anger to my father so yesterday. He was only speaking as he always 
does; it is only that I was more upset than I have ever been.*

“Trouble sleeping, my lord?” 

Legolas actually yelped and jumped backwards. It was Mithrandir. He 
steadied himself, “Forgive me, Mithrandir, you startled me.”

The wizard smiled, and Legolas felt a flash of irritation at the 
sympathy he saw in the Maia’s eyes. “May I offer my condolences, my 
lord, for the loss of your friend, and the other warriors of 
Imladris.”

Legolas told himself firmly, *I shall NOT lose my temper again. He is 
only saying what he can.* Aloud, he replied, “My thanks, elf-friend. 
All the…warriors of Mirkwood are deeply grieved by the news.”

Mithrandir nodded, and to Legolas’s intense relief, did not continue 
discussion of the painful subject. But the one he chose instead was 
not much of an improvement, “I understand the warriors of Mirkwood 
convene at dawn to form new parties.”

“Yes.” Legolas hoped the short answer would close the matter.

The Maia said calmly, “You still intend using your skills as a trainer 
then, my lord?”

Legolas could not answer. The thought of remaining here in Mirkwood, 
leading first-century novices on exercise romps in the trees outside 
the palace was enough to nauseate him, yet…he would be practically 
defying his father to join one of the war parties. Seeing Mithrandir’s 
all-too-knowing expression, he admitted, “I do not know. I have 
had…second thoughts.”

Mithrandir smiled, “I suspect you know the opinions of half the elves 
in Mirkwood on the subject of where your skills would be put to the 
best use, young prince. And you also know mine, so I will not burden 
you with a repetition of them. The decision now belongs to you. Choose 
well.” With that, the Maia bowed to him. “In any case, my lord, I 
depart tonight for the Shire. It is possible I will not see you before 
then, so I take my leave now.”

Legolas impulsively reached out and gripped the wizard’s hand, “You 
have been a wise advisor to us as always, Mithrandir. I hope we shall 
meet again.”

“As do I, young Prince Legolas. Farewell,” Mithrandir turned and went 
back the way he had come.

When he returned to his chambers, Legolas found that his mind was 
clear. As was his resolve. It was also time to meet the other 
warriors. He dressed and went to the training fields. Along the way, 
he met many other warriors preparing to depart, including his sister 
Limloeth. She said nothing about Gaerongil, merely squeezed his hand 
and dropped it. He smiled gratefully.

They joined a large assembly of elf warriors in the meadow just beyond 
the fortress. Langcyll oversaw the organization of the warriors. “In 
spite of our grief for the deaths of our kindred, we must not relax 
our vigilance. Orc activity along the western border has increased 
dramatically. Their bands have even been sighted at the edges of 
Lorien. They must be driven south again. We wish to send several 
parties on long expeditions along the Anduin to scour the land clean 
of the orc pestilence. Lorien and Rivendell also prepare their parties 
of warriors. We shall increase our hunts and patrols within our 
borders as well, to drive the evil creatures of Mordor from whence 
they came. When our forces meet the other realms, we shall drive south 
as one and wipe out as many as we can. The service of all of our 
warriors is needed. More missions will be called over the next two 
days.”

With that, the warriors organized themselves according to their rank 
and skill. Legolas caught the eyes of Candrochon, Tathar, and Merilin, 
and all worries for the moment were forgotten in his joy at taking his 
place among the fully-trained warriors of Mirkwood. To their left were 
the most advanced novices, and at the far left were those young elves 
just beginning their training at arms. Only the captains and novice 
masters stood at Legolas’s right, and he felt immensely proud.

One by one, Langcyll began declaring the various expeditions and 
asking for volunteers. There was no shortage of elves to carry out the 
missions. The first were the smallest and simplest--patrols in the 
central parts of Mirkwood to drive the orcs and spiders forth towards 
the outskirts. These tasks were taken up by the trainees and young 
novices under the guidance of a few masters. As Langcyll’s recruitment 
went on, the missions went further from the safest parts of the green 
wood, and grew in danger. But Legolas did not yet step forward to 
volunteer, though he noticed Langcyll and several of the captains 
glancing at him more and more frequently. Limloeth in particular 
stared at him, and when he did not volunteer for the last novice 
mission, a murmur rippled through the warriors. Limloeth shot him an 
unabashed grin. His mind was made up.

Merilin joined a five month long expedition to follow the Anduin north 
almost to its source. Candrochon also joined a northern party that 
would scour the Lonely Mountain. Legolas knew the last remaining 
missions would be the ones taking him furthest and longest from 
Mirkwood--which was the reason for his delay. Eregdos, one of the 
other captains, shot him a genuinely anxious glance as he finally 
understood the young prince’s intentions. It was true that all the 
warriors had hoped Legolas would join one of the war parties, but they 
had not anticipated this. 

“The last of today’s missions will take many months, perhaps years,” 
Langcyll announced with a worried glance at Legolas. “We will require 
fifteen warriors to travel north to Withered Heath and follow the Grey 
Mountains west to Langwell. They will then turn south and travel 
through the Misty Mountains to engage the enemy in their hiding 
places. They shall meet a force from Rivendell of similar size, and 
drive south all the way to Moria. There they shall meet the forces of 
Lorien, and push back east to cut off the enemy fleeing south. That is 
the mission,” he declared. “I shall lead it, and require fourteen 
fully-trained warriors.”

“I will join the party.” Later, the novices swore that the stern 
archery captain and novice master flinched when Prince Legolas, the 
champion archer of Mirkwood, was the first to step forward. 

“My lord?” It was expected that the most skilled and seasoned warriors 
would make up this mission, and although Legolas was very skilled, he 
lacked battle experience. Yet the captain did not intend to question 
Legolas‘s readiness after spending so many weeks trying to convince 
him of it. When Legolas did not recant his offer, Langcyll slowly 
nodded. 

Tathar was equally surprised at his reserved friend’s sudden 
about-face, but once it was done, he had no intention of letting 
Legolas make the trip without him. “I, too, shall join.”

Twelve other warriors soon stepped forward, and the party was 
complete. “We will depart in one hour time,” Langcyll told them, “from 
the North gate of the fortress.” In his heart, Langcyll hoped that one 
of Legolas’s friends or siblings might persuade him to join a less 
dangerous mission. Though he had no doubts about the prince’s skill or 
courage--or that of Tathar--this expedition would be dangerous. The 
only thing that grieved Langcyll more than informing his youngest 
warriors of the loss of their friends, was losing one of the young 
ones in his own ranks.

*** 

Langcyll would have been dismayed to discover that Legolas had no 
intention of giving his father or siblings the chance to dissuade him 
from this journey. *I love my home and my family,* he told himself as 
he swiftly packed his saddlebags, weapons, and travel gear. *But I 
cannot allow either to become my shackles. I see now what Limloeth was 
trying to tell me. I must be free of my father’s influence for some 
time until I learn to make my own way. I am a prince and a warrior of 
Mirkwood, and their champion archer. I must use the skills I’ve 
learned to protect my people.*

As he prepared to leave his tidied chamber to join the war party, his 
gaze fell upon the handsomely crafted silver circlet worn by the noble 
elves. Technically speaking, he should take it and wear it; it was an 
important symbol to the elves of Mirkwood that their princes rode with 
the warriors, but Legolas’s involvement with this mission was neither 
blessed nor even known to his father the king. *I fear they shall have 
to accept me as merely their equal. For myself, I will not regret the 
arrangement.*

It was a blessing that this day was a rest day for most elves, so that 
King Thranduil was most likely taking the opportunity to sleep later 
than usual. More than likely, Langcyll’s party would be well onto the 
trail by the time anyone missed Legolas. He sat at his desk for some 
time with a blank scroll in front of him, trying to think of a message 
to leave for his father, but no words would grow under his pen, and it 
was time to depart. With a final look around his rooms, the elf 
warrior departed.

He met Limloeth in the stables. His sister’s eyes were very full as 
she watched him packing Lanthir. Desperate to break the silence, he 
remarked, “You did not volunteer?”

Limloeth shook her head, “I am waiting. A mission leaves to form a 
joint party with Lorien tomorrow. I wish to see the Golden Wood 
again.”

“And Orthelian of Lorien?” Legolas asked slyly. (Orthelian was a 
renowned archer captain of Lorien who had been a friend of Limloeth’s 
for many years, and who Legolas suspected would soon become something 
more.)

Limloeth blushed, smiling. Then she abruptly stepped forward and flung 
her arms around her youngest brother. “I know I urged you to take this 
course. But I cannot deny my heart aches at this parting. How I shall 
miss you, little brother.” Despite the stinging of tears in his eyes, 
Legolas managed to laugh, “You have not called me that since my first 
coming of age.”

Limloeth pulled back and held him at arm’s length as though committing 
him to memory, “I suppose I have not. How you have grown. Let none 
declare you unready to face the world. How proud our mother would be 
to see you now.”

Looking down, Legolas murmured, “Limloeth, I shall be gone before the 
rest of our family have risen. Will you…will you tell them…”

His sister nodded, dashing tears from her own eyes, “I know what it is 
you wish to say, Legolas. Of course I shall tell them. I know Berensul 
and Belhador at least will be very proud.” Neither of them spoke again 
of the king.

Legolas could hear other warriors packing their horses and leading 
them to the North Gate. He embraced his sister tightly. Gaerongil’s 
death had burned the painful truth into both their minds of the 
possibility that they might never see each other again. “Farewell, my 
sister.”

“My heart goes with you, Legolas. But I know beyond any doubt that you 
shall fare well. And you shall be a great warrior and credit to all 
elves.” Limloeth squeezed his hands, “I do believe we shall meet 
again.” Gesturing to Lanthir to follow him, Legolas left his sister 
standing in the stables.

He met Tathar coming out of the fortress. “This is all your fault, you 
know. I was intending to join the mission to Fangorn tomorrow.”

Blandly, Legolas replied, “I did not stop you.”

“Of course, you did. I could scarcely let our archery champion and 
prince dart off on such a dangerous mission through the mountains 
without one of his comrades to watch his back,” Tathar retorted.

“We have thirteen other comrades, my friend,” Legolas pointed out, 
relieved that Tathar did not refer to him as “my lord.” The title made 
him think of his father. *He will be so angry…*

“But you and I were comrades in training,” the irrepressible Tathar 
answered smoothly. “We know each other’s skills and weaknesses well.”

“Seeing as how neither of us has ever been tested in battle, I should 
say we knew neither skill nor weakness,” Legolas said, then fell 
silent as they came out of the gates to where the horses were being 
organized.

Langcyll looked dismayed to see Legolas still among the company, but 
he could say nothing against it; it was the prince’s right now. *It is 
my right…*

Legolas was more amused than resentful to note that his and Tathar’s 
horses had been placed in the center of the formation, with other 
warriors flanking them on all sides. *Langcyll shall soon have to shed 
any thought of protecting me if he wishes to use the skills of the 
party efficiently.* Tathar, on the other hand, was quite disgusted. 

There was little fanfare as the party of fifteen prepared to ride the 
gates of the fortress; scarcely any of Mirkwood’s people knew that 
their Prince Legolas, last child of King Thranduil and Queen Minuial, 
champion archer of the Elven Realms, was departing the world of 
training games and competitions to test his skills against living 
foes. The relatives of most of the warriors stood a discreet distance 
away, having made their personal farewells in private, like Legolas 
and Limloeth. Legolas glanced up absently and saw his sister watching 
him from an empty balcony. She raised a silent hand in a farewell 
salute. 

At the front of the party, Langcyll mounted his horse, looked to make 
sure the group was ready to ride, and gave the signal to move out. The 
few elves present looked on as the party moved forward, out of the 
North Gate of King Thranduil’s fortress, and rode swiftly out of 
sight.

*****

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REMEMBER…it takes you just a few moments to write a review that’ll 
make my day a little brighter. Or to write a critique and/or 
suggestion that might interest my muse (who is being very pushy right 
now.) I worked very hard on getting this chapter right, it was a tough 
one with all the angst. PLEASE let me know how you like it! (Picture 
me on my knees, begging and pleading for all I’m worth.) A fic 
writer’s life has so few rewards, especially when she’s doing this 
while supposed to be studying. (I’m a bad, bad girl.) 
-----------------------------------------------------------



ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE: LEGOLAS’S FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

Crown Prince Berensul--Legolas’s eldest brother, heir to the throne, 
Crown Princess Eirien--Berensul’s wife, (formerly from Imladris) 
Princess Limloeth--second child of King Thranduil Prince 
Belhador--sixth child of King Thranduil Queen Minuial--Legolas’s 
mother, died when he was twenty-two (in my universe. I made up her 
name) Prince Tavron--third child of King Thranduil, died before 
Legolas was born (again, I made that up) Princesses Meren and 
Lalaith--twins, fourth and fifth children of King Thranduil, died 
before Legolas was born (made that up too) 

Langcyll--warrior captain and head novice master of Mirkwood, trained 
Legolas and other novices Lady Merilin--archer of Mirkwood, trained 
beside Legolas Tathar--Legolas’s best friend, fellow archer and 
training companion Candrochon--fellow archer of Mirkwood and training 
companion Faron of Imladris--archer champion of Imladris, friend of 
the Mirkwood archers Gaerongil of Imladris--archer delegate of 
Imladris, friend of the Mirkwood archers, died a month after the 
Gathering Eregolf of Lorien--archer champion of Lorien 



FIFTEEN WARRIORS IN LEGOLAS’S MISSION:

Langcyll--captain of the company, ranking warrior of Mirkwood, 
Legolas’s novice master Elunen--Langcyll’s second-in-command 
Gwilwileth, Glanaur --warrior captains of Limloeth’s generation, 
Langcyll and Elunen’s lieutenants Fandoll, Fanfirith, Nathron --other 
senior warriors, experienced enough to start leading missions Tuilinn, 
Edlothia, Galithil, Fandoll, Thalatirn, Caranaur--experienced but 
young warriors, a few centuries older than Legolas, not seasoned 
enough to command yet Legolas, Tathar--first-year warriors, just came 
of age, have a long way to go yet before they’re considered seasoned

Lanthir--Legolas’s horse Sadron--Tathar’s horse

Other War Parties: The Lonely Mountain mission--led by Eregdos, a 
warrior captain, and Legolas’s friend Candrochon is a member The 
Anduin mission--led by Narbeleth, a warrior captain, and Legolas’s 
friend Merilin is a member





Chapter Eight: Out of the Door



Having enjoyed the rare luxury of sleeping late, King Thranduil felt 
more than prepared for the difficult conversation he would soon be 
having with Legolas. But the king had not yet finished breakfast when 
he decided he did not wish to wait. Thranduil did not want Legolas to 
continue believing that his father cared nothing for his feelings. He 
called to one of the servants, “Has the novice practice begun yet?”

“No, my lord. It begins in just under an hour.”

*I shall walk down and see him before the training is started,* 
Thranduil decided. *There will be time for long conversations…and 
apologies…later, now I shall simply let him know that he has my 
permission and blessing to join the next war parties. That shall raise 
his spirits.* Thranduil had come to deeply regret his handling of 
Legolas in the matter of Gaerongil‘s death. *I should never have 
spoken to him so in his distraught state. It is no wonder he lost his 
temper. The fault was mine, and tonight I shall let him know it.*

The king walked to the training fields where the novices were 
preparing for their exercises, and was surprised by the discovery that 
their numbers seemed to have dropped. “Where is everyone?” he asked no 
one in particular.

One of the elder novices turned and bowed to him, “Missions were 
called at dawn, my lord. Most of them have left for today, and more 
will depart tomorrow.”

*Confound it. I had forgotten.* Aloud, Thranduil asked, “Did Prince 
Legolas volunteer for one of the missions?”

There was no way the young novice could have known what had passed 
between Legolas and Thranduil the day before. “Yes, my lord.” 

But the truth did not dawn upon the king. He sighed to himself and 
left the field, incorrectly assuming that Legolas had gone on one of 
the training missions (as Thranduil had suggested.) *Some of those 
missions take as long as a month, and after last night he may have 
wished to escape me. It may be weeks before I have the opportunity to 
speak to him.* The thought sorrowed Thranduil, but he supposed it was 
his just recompense. 

Walking back towards the palace, the king saw his daughter Limloeth 
coming from the stables. The way she stiffened at the sight of him 
should have warned him, but he was so preoccupied that he did not 
notice. “Good morning, Limloeth.”

“Good morning, Father,” the princess said. Again, Thranduil missed the 
tension in her voice.

“I see Legolas has fled the palace?” he asked in an effort to make 
light of the situation, and let her know he was not angry at her 
brother. Limloeth nodded, and he asked absently, “Who commanded his 
party?”

“Langcyll,” she replied quietly.

Thranduil frowned in confusion, “Was there a change in plans? Langcyll 
does not usually command training missions.”

Limloeth took a deep breath, “Nor did he.”

Thranduil stared at her for a moment, then the truth struck him in a 
devastating blaze of light. For a second, he could neither speak nor 
move, then he started swiftly past her toward the palace. “Father,” 
Limloeth called from behind him. He turned, staring at her dumbly. In 
a flat voice, his one living daughter told him, “He is gone.”

“No--”

“The first companies departed an hour past dawn this morning. The sun 
is now high in the sky. Legolas is gone,” there was neither sympathy 
nor comfort in Limloeth’s voice. 

*No, it cannot be true. She is mistaken. It cannot--Langcyll always 
commands the longest and most perilous missions himself. Legolas would 
not be so foolish--* Thranduil all but ran toward the North Gate of 
the fortress from where the warriors usually departed.

The novices were there, preparing to leave with their training 
missions. Thranduil stared frantically about for Legolas until one of 
the novice masters, Seregon, noticed him. “My lord?”

Managing to keep his voice steady, the king asked hoarsely, “Where is 
my son?”

The novices had not known of the prince’s dilemma, but the masters 
had. Seregon replied nervously, “Prince Legolas departed this morning 
with Langcyll’s war party, my lord. They…are half a day down the 
trail.”

Thranduil’s mind raced, and he could not remember all the missions. 
“Where was that party to go?” 

“The mission was to scour the mountains, my lord,” Seregon replied. 
“They plan to go north to the Grey Mountains, then west to Imladris, 
then south to Moria and Lorien, to keep the creatures of Mordor from 
taking refuge there when they have been driven from Mirkwood.”

“And how long was the mission to last?” Thranduil asked, dreading the 
reply.

“At least two years, my lord,” the novice master said, disliking being 
the one to break this news to the king. “Langcyll thought it…might be 
longer still if the enemy has gained much of a hold in the mountains, 
or if the company joins the other realms on a mission further south. 
Perhaps…many years.”

***

Feeling distinctly numb, King Thranduil returned to the palace and 
went to Legolas’s chamber. It was completely neat. At first glance, 
there was nothing to suggest Legolas was not returning--for his room 
was always immaculate. But on closer examination, his rough gear and 
boots gone, along with his weapons. Then Legolas’s father discovered 
the unarguable proof: the silver circlet demonstrating his royalty sat 
upon his bed like a farewell token. He had left no message. Thranduil 
sat heavily down upon his youngest son’s bed, holding the circlet in 
shock. “Legolas…”

***

Berensul and Belhador had also taken the opportunity to sleep late, 
and they had only just arisen when Limloeth returned to tell them that 
Legolas had gone. And that their father had just been told. The 
prince’s brothers and sister shed tears of pride and sorrow--they 
would miss him greatly, and he them--but their minds were most 
occupied by how the elven king would react. 

They were departing Berensul’s chamber where they had been talking, 
when the door to their brother’s chamber opened, and King Thranduil 
emerged. He stared at them, and they stared back; no words would come 
to either party. The king had his failings, but he still possessed 
elven senses and perceptions, and his children knew that he could see 
their minds. And that he knew their feelings--that he had driven 
Legolas to this flight. The elven king did not speak, but walked 
stiffly past them, into his own chamber, and closed the door.

As they heard the sound of the king’s chamber door being bolted, 
Berensul murmured, “And so it begins.” 

That afternoon and well into the night, the King of Mirkwood remained 
within his rooms, and quietly drank until he was ill. 

***

The wind whipped Legolas’s hair as the company galloped through the 
trees, moving toward the northernmost reaches of Mirkwood. They did 
not slow to search for enemies within the wood; other patrols and 
hunting parties had been dispatched for that purpose. Langcyll’s task 
was to begin scouring the mountains surrounding Mirkwood soon, to 
prevent the orcs, spiders, and other foul creatures from taking refuge 
after being driven from the greenwood, only to descend upon it once 
again when the danger had passed.

They were traveling for the moment with two other war parties: the 
company of Narbeleth, which included Merilin, and Eregdos and his 
party, which included Candrochon. “We will ride together with their 
companies until we reach one of the streams coming off the Forest 
River; there Eregdos shall lead his party to the Lonely Mountain, and 
Narbeleth‘s party shall depart west for the Anduin,” Langcyll had told 
them. 

So for a time, Legolas, Tathar, Merilin, and Candrochon found 
themselves together in the center of the contingent, half-amused, 
half-irritated at the protective positions of the older warriors. “I 
wonder if we would have been thus coddled if you were not here,” 
Candrochon grumbled at Legolas.

Legolas opened his mouth to retort, but from behind them, another elf 
spoke. “We do not coddle you, young one. It is custom that the least 
seasoned warriors ride at the center until they have gained more 
experience. And beyond custom, it is prudent. Shedding blood is very 
different from striking a target or scoring a hit. You must learn to 
face a living foe who seeks only your death. If we place you where you 
are set upon from all sides, you would be swiftly overwhelmed.”

“How many battles must be fought before we are considered ready to 
defend ourselves?” Legolas asked without resentment.

The she-elf, who was of Legolas‘s company and called Elunen, smiled, 
“You are no longer on training schedules, my lord. As snowflakes or 
leaves in a forest, every battle and foe is different. You will be 
considered ready when you are ready.”

The four could find no argument with that, although Candrochon still 
appeared miffed. Elunen narrowed her grey eyes slightly and pulled her 
mount up to ride closer to them, “Be wary, young warriors. You have 
only just come of age and these shall be your most perilous years. 
Impatience and carelessness are a warrior’s greatest enemies, and if 
you become overly eager to test your prowess in battle, you may suffer 
for it. We are an immortal race; you shall have many thousands of 
years to prove yourselves--if you have the wisdom to learn what you 
must to survive.”

Seeing the newcomers’ thoughtful expressions, Elunen smiled and rode 
off ahead. As soon as she had gone, Tathar jabbed Candrochon with his 
bow. Legolas and Merilin exchanged grins. From the front, they heard 
one of the scouts calling, “We have reached the stream!”

The companies stopped to eat and water the horses. Seated together 
beside one of the meat pots, the four friends talked. “My company is 
not to be gone a terribly long time,” Merilin said. “Though we may 
follow the Grey Mountains east from the source of the Anduin if there 
is considerable orc activity. But we are expected to return within six 
months.”

“My expedition is expected to return home in nine months, perhaps a 
year if we encounter many foul creatures,” Candrochon told them. “And 
we do have the dwarves to reckon with.” 

“We shall be gone even longer,” Tathar noted sadly. “Two years, 
perhaps longer still if winter in the mountains is very bad, or the 
creatures of Mordor more numerous than expected.”

It had begun to dawn upon the young warriors that they would not see 
each other again, nor were they likely to receive tidings of each 
other, for a very long time. As novices, they had trained by each 
other’s sides for centuries; rarely spending more than a few weeks 
separated. They had been taught to be close with their fellows in 
arms, but now the time for lessons was over. 

As a rather melancholy quiet descended on them, Legolas had to smile, 
“It is a wonder; having spent all those hundreds of years yearning for 
the day we would come of age and ride away with the warriors, now we 
feel grief.”

Tathar laughed, “Still another catch to the warrior’s coming of age 
that our esteemed masters neglected to mention.” 

They had made no effort to lower their voices (the other elves would 
hear anything said in such proximity) and Tathar’s remark was met by 
laughter from nearby. The four looked and saw that although they had 
not joined in, the rest of the warriors had been listening to the 
conversation of their newest comrades. Langcyll motioned some of the 
others aside and beckoned at the newcomers to join them. Blushing 
somewhat, Merilin, Tathar, Legolas, and Candrochon picked up their 
rations and joined the elder warriors.

“There is always sorrow in first farewells,” Elunen told them as they 
gathered into a loose assembly to talk to the youngest of their bands. 
“And no shame in it. A warrior shall never be closer to any than those 
who trained alongside him. Yet even in this, you grow. You shall meet 
many new comrades, see new places, as well as battle first foes. Thus 
is the way of warriors. The first coming of age begins the time of 
learning. The second begins the time of discovery.”

“And I fear we shall do much discovering yet before we are as seasoned 
as any in this number,” Merilin replied graciously.

The captain of Merilin‘s company, Narbeleth, chuckled wryly, “Do not 
despair, my dear companion, you may see action sooner than you think. 
And more action than even the most seasoned of our number should 
like,” she added, her tone darkening slightly.

“Another wise point, my friend,” Langcyll said. “Always remember that 
you do not merely seek to improve your skills and win glory for 
yourselves. An elf warrior fights to defend his home and his people. A 
shadow grows here, my young and eager companions. From whence it 
comes, we do not know, but it grows still and brings with it the foul 
creatures that plague our woods. We know not how to fight the shadow, 
but fight orcs we can, and fight them we shall, unceasing until they 
have been driven forth again.”

The four nodded solemnly, feeling awed, and somewhat unsettled by the 
captain’s words. Briskly, Langcyll rose. “Alas, I fear the time for 
farewells is upon us. We must be moving on, and here my party and the 
parties of Narbeleth and of Eregdos shall part ways.”

Quickly, and with an unashamed touch of sadness, the elves collected 
their gear and remounted their horses. Candrochon and Merilin moved 
their mounts alongside Legolas and Tathar and gripped each other’s 
arms at the elbow in parting. “Farewell, my friends and 
brothers-in-arms. I know not when we shall meet again, but I pray that 
fate keep you safe,” Merilin said.

“Until we meet again, my dear friend, farewell,” Legolas said.

“I’ve no doubt we shall know many worthy warriors in the future,” 
Candrochon told them. “But you three shall always be best and dearest 
in my heart.”

“My thoughts and prayers go with you, Merilin, Candrochon,” Tathar 
added.

Eregdos returned from bidding farewell to Langcyll, and gave the 
signal to ride east. “Goodbye Tathar, Merilin!” Candrochon called as 
he rode away. “Goodbye Legolas!”

They waved to Merilin as Narbeleth’s party rode west along the 
riverbank and vanished swiftly around a bend. Then Langcyll also gave 
the order to move out, and the company rode north. Legolas and Tathar 
looked back over their shoulders as the last of Candrochon’s company 
vanished eastward into the trees along the river. They then turned 
their faces forward and rode on, shedding this last vestige of 
novice-hood. Their companions exchanged approving glances.

***

Legolas had been picked when the party drew lots for watches that 
night, though with such a large company, three stood watch at any 
given time. He stood silently against a tree at the west end of the 
camp, glancing back now and then at Galithil and Fandoll, the other 
two on watch with him. The three watchers formed a triangle, with the 
remaining elves sleeping between, and the horses close by. They did 
not expect any problems, for they were still well within Mirkwood. It 
would be a brave orc or spider who would challenge a camp of fifteen 
elven warriors.

Legolas knew it was simply his “boyish eagerness,” as Langcyll had 
irritatingly taken to calling it, but he half-hoped something would 
happen. He knew life as a warrior would not be always filled with 
excitement and glory, but standing watch on this cloudy night, with no 
stars to see by, was a bore. He shifted his weight to his other leg, 
staring into the dark, and glanced around him. He caught Galithil 
yawning, and the young warrioress grinned at him, her pale gray eyes 
twinkling with merriment in the firelight. He was relieved not to be 
the only one of the company susceptible to boredom.

As the watch wore on, Legolas could not prevent his mind from 
wandering back to the palace--and wondering how his father had reacted 
when he learned what Legolas had done. Legolas wondered if Thranduil 
would forgive him. *Soon I will not have time for such reflections; my 
mind will be occupied by more important things. I must set aside the 
thought of my father now, and the past. The time has come to look to 
the future.*

Fandoll looked over at him then. Though the warrior had a merry 
nature, the dim light upon his dark features made him appear brooding. 
As if roused by some signal, Glanaur, Thalatirn, and Tuilinn awoke to 
relieve Legolas, Fandoll, and Galithil. Glanaur took Legolas’s place, 
“Nothing to report?”

“Nay,” Legolas answered. “All is quiet.”

The seasoned Glanaur was not fooled by the young elf’s casual tone. 
With a sly smile, (and irritatingly parental tone) he said, “How 
frightfully rude of the creatures of Mordor not to have made an 
appearance in honor of your first watch. What a disappointment.” 

Legolas smiled sheepishly and wove his way through the sleeping elves 
to his own blanket next to Tathar‘s--dead in the center. He reasoned 
to himself that there was no doubt he would see considerable action 
over the next months. Soon he would probably be wishing for a peaceful 
night of uninterrupted sleep. With that in mind, he cast himself down 
and fell immediately into dreams.

***

The following day, one of the scouts bringing up the rear of the 
company called ahead that a messenger was approaching, bearing the 
king’s flag. The other warriors instinctively looked to Legolas, who 
made no obvious reaction--perhaps only Langcyll and Tathar noticed 
that he broke a sweat. The messenger and his guards had ridden hard 
all night to catch up with the company, and the war party was very 
curious as to what urgent business could have sent him.

The messenger rode up to Langcyll and spoke to the captain for a 
moment. Then Langcyll turned to Legolas, who could not prevent himself 
from stiffening. “My lord, the message is for you.”

Legolas rode forward, painfully conscious of the eyes of the other 
warriors and took the small, carefully wrapped parcel bearing the 
king’s seal. When he opened it, he found the silver circlet of 
Mirkwood. A small scroll had been sent with it, bearing a note, 
unsigned, but written in the king’s hand: “It is your duty, and your 
right.”

Legolas placed the message silently in his saddlebag, then stared at 
the crown, wondering what to do. Langcyll sensed his youngest 
warrior’s dilemma, and rode up to him. “You should put it on, my lord. 
It is just one of your many duties.”

With a mental sigh, Legolas placed the crown on his head, wondering to 
himself whether this had been a signal of forgiveness or spite from 
his father. Thranduil knew being singled out as a prince troubled 
Legolas, but on the other hand…perhaps it was an acknowledgement. 
Perhaps both. Without imparting the message to his comrades (and they 
did not ask) Legolas resumed his place next to Tathar, feeling once 
again as though he stood out ridiculously. *For a time at least, I was 
just another warrior. I suppose to enjoy the rights of coming of age, 
I must also bear the less pleasant duties. How I wish I could simply 
be one of them.*

Tathar looked playfully at him as they rode on, “The crown of Mirkwood 
becomes you, my lord--do not scowl at me, Legolas, it is true! You can 
no more deny yourself as a prince of Mirkwood than the king could deny 
you were a warrior.” Never before had Tathar spoken so boldly to 
Legolas of his lineage, and he stared defiantly at his friend’s glare.

With a sigh, followed by a dry chuckle, Legolas shook his head, “As 
you say, Tathar. You’ve the better of me.”

“As always, Legolas. Be of good cheer. You need not face pomp and 
ceremony in the palace for a long time. You shall soon forget you even 
wear the crown, and the others shall soon cease to notice it.”

***

The pace was swift, but not hard; the company was aiming for 
thoroughness rather than speed in this mission. Within four days, the 
party had ridden out of Mirkwood, a vast plain spreading before them 
that crumpled into the purplish outlines of mountains in the distance. 
To the southeast stood the solitary grey hulk of Lonely Mountain. 
“Thither goes Candrochon,” Tathar remarked as they looked at it.

“And thither go we,” Elunen called to them, gesturing to the far end 
of the mountain range. 

Legolas looked at the mountains, lining the horizon as far west as he 
could see. *We certainly shall be gone from home long. Already we are 
the farthest away from home I have ever been.* The thought was both 
exciting and disconcerting, but Legolas rode on with a light heart.

They made good time that day, and by the time the sun was low upon the 
horizon, the trees of Mirkwood were no more than a dark streak along 
the southwestern horizon. “We shall halt here,” Langcyll called as 
they reached a swift-running creek, “and give the horses extra rest. I 
wish to make a long day of it tomorrow.”

Legolas and Tathar, along with Langcyll and several of the others, 
took the horses to drink while the rest set up camp. “Take your fill, 
Sadron, you’ve had a long day,” Tathar told his brown stallion 
affectionately. “How do you like the flatlands, Legolas?”

Legolas stared about him, fascinated by the landscape that bore 
scarcely a sign of trees while the mountains had grown ever larger 
before them. “It is most certainly different,” he observed, and the 
others grinned.

“You will see many things that are different from Mirkwood before we 
are done, my lord,” Elunen called to him from across the creek, where 
several horses and elves were wading up to their knees. “The mountains 
are still stranger to an elf of the greenwood.”

“How can an orc or a spider conceal themselves upon these open 
plains?” Legolas asked.

“They find ways, my lord,” Glanaur told him as he filled a water skin. 
The tall warrior rose and gazed around the seemingly-empty landscape, 
“They find ways. I suspect we shall see some before we reach the 
mountains.”

“Perhaps not,” Langcyll remarked as he passed them. “They may await us 
in the mountains in the hopes of staging an ambush.” Legolas had to 
fiercely suppress a shudder, remembering his brother and two 
sisters--or what he had been told of them, since they had died before 
his birth.

None of the others noticed, to his relief. “Legolas, Tathar, Glanaur,” 
Elunen called. “If your horses are sated, take them back to camp and 
bring the others. They must all have their turn and we must finish 
making camp by sundown.”

Springing upon Lanthir’s back, Legolas rode with Tathar and Glanaur 
back toward the camp. Langcyll and Gwilwileth, a warrioress from 
Legolas’s sister Limloeth’s generation, soon passed by them upon their 
mounts, leading two more. Suddenly, Langcyll raised a hand and all the 
horses stopped. Gwilwileth and Glanaur rode up next to him, blocking 
Legolas’s view. “What is it?” he asked Tathar, leaning in the saddle.

“Someone comes,” Tathar hissed, just able to see past Langcyll. “Not 
the enemy’s servants, I think. They come openly, toward the river. A 
group of--dwarves, Legolas! They are dwarves!”

“I’ve never seen a dwarf!” Legolas whispered back.

“I know. Langcyll and the others wait to meet them.”

“What will they say, do you think?”

“I do not know.”

The party of dwarves soon spied the elves making their camp above the 
riverbank and more elves on horseback watching them. Legolas watched 
with great curiosity, and urged Lanthir a few steps forward for a 
better look as the leader of the group, walked up to speak to 
Langcyll. The top of the iron helm the heavy-bearded creature wore 
barely reached the hip of Langcyll’s mount. “Wood elves. What business 
have you in these lands?” Legolas was startled by the unfriendliness 
in the dwarf’s tone.

“We have no quarrel with you, Master Dwarf,” Langcyll replied with 
dignity. “We are a patrol of Mirkwood, seeking to drive the orcs and 
foul creatures of Mordor far from our borders.”

“Hmph, and straight into our borders is where they’ll wind up, to 
trouble our people,” the dwarf growled.

“Nay, we intend to pursue them further, as far south as we can. Then 
neither our lands nor yours shall be troubled by their scourge.” The 
dwarf harrumphed, apparently seeing no cause to believe a word 
Langcyll said. “In any case, we needn’t trouble each other now. My 
company shall be continue riding on the morrow. We desire no 
argument.”

The dwarf grunted and jerked his head at his companions, who followed 
him and paid the rest of Langcyll’s party no heed as they headed 
towards the shallowest part of the creek. As Legolas and Tathar gazed 
curiously at them, the lead dwarf again glanced up and--like all 
others--his gaze was drawn to the silver vine circlet Legolas wore. 
His beady black eyes darkened still more, “Hmph. The crown of 
Mirkwood. He must be another of that greedy tyrant Thranduil’s spawn. 
I’ve lost track of how many there are.”

Legolas did not respond, so shocked was he by the scorn-ridden words. 
He stared after the dwarves, who had dismissed him as swiftly as they 
had noticed him, and were now plodding their way across the creek. The 
prince’s first thought was to wonder what vicious fabrications could 
possibly lead the dwarves to believe such things about Thranduil. 

Then, memories began to wiggle unbidden into his mind: snatches of 
unintentionally overheard conversations, rumors, and gossip. He also 
recalled having come upon his father in one of his storerooms, 
examining gemstones and silver and other riches with a rather peculiar 
expression that Legolas had been too young to identify at the time. 
Could it be that…he turned back to his companions and was alarmed yet 
again by their collective expression--chagrin. Tathar shrugged at him, 
“There, Legolas, now you have met dwarves.”

At Langcyll’s urging, they rode back to camp for the rest of the 
horses. Legolas was silent for much of the evening. 

***

As the other warriors gathered around the fires, eating, talking, and 
singing, Langcyll kept a discreet eye on the youngest. Tathar was 
seated close to one of the fires and talking earnestly with Tuilinn, 
one of the younger she-elves in the group. Legolas, on the other hand, 
was sitting a little apart from the rest, his eyes troubled. Only 
Langcyll had noticed that Legolas had eaten little and spoken even 
less since their encounter with the dwarves.

*He had to learn of his father’s shortcomings sooner or later,* 
Langcyll thought. *Once he left Mirkwood it was inevitable. But of all 
those who could have told him, why did he have to hear it from the 
dwarves? Perhaps I should have told him long ago.* He looked again at 
the young prince, who was gazing absently into the flames of one of 
the campfires, the light flickering off his crown. Langcyll, too, 
wondered whether the king had sent that as a token of honor or as a 
lash to hurt Legolas, for it was still another thing that forced 
Legolas to feel different. *Already he feels alienated; that is why he 
sits apart,* Langcyll thought with a sigh. It was not his place to 
interfere with the king’s relationship with his son, but then 
again--*Legolas is one of my warriors now, under my charge and care. 
It is my duty to see to his well-being, in all respects.*

With that in mind, Langcyll rose and walked to seat himself next to 
Legolas. And, in the fashion of a veteran elf warrior, he came 
straight to the point, “There are many things you do not know of King 
Thranduil, Legolas.”

Without taking his eyes from the fire, Legolas replied, “I am 
beginning to see that.”

“But neither the king’s deeds nor his reputation need hold power over 
you. You know your own mind and heart, young prince. Your destiny lies 
along a different path. A greater path, I think, than even an elven 
king,” the archer captain said.

Legolas blinked, apparently doubtful that any could call him “great,” 
in the present or future. Just then, Tathar and several of the others 
began laughing at something Gwilwileth had said, and one of them 
cried, “Come, my lord, Langcyll, you cannot sit alone by the fire all 
night.”

“Listen to Tuilinn. There will be little time for merriment in days 
ahead, my lord, best make the most of it now,” Glanaur called to 
Legolas.

The prince sighed and said in a low voice to Langcyll, “Must they call 
me that?”

“You are of noble birth, Legolas.”

“I desired neither this title nor this crown. I should like to make 
myself worthy of nobility before it is given me.” But Legolas rose, 
and he and Langcyll joined their comrades.

***

The following day did not begin well. It was still full dark, but 
anxiety invaded Legolas’s dreams. He woke with a bit of a start to 
find himself still surrounded by sleeping elves, but he sensed 
something was amiss. He looked around to see three new warriors on 
watch, but Langcyll had also risen and was talking to one of them, 
Nathron. Nathron noticed Legolas first and motioned to Langcyll, who 
seemed surprised to see the prince awake. Langcyll indicated for 
Legolas to join Gwilwileth at the south side of the camp.

“You could not sleep?” she asked as he reached her.

“A shadow disturbed my sleep,” he answered softly, staring into the 
darkness. “Something draws near.”

Gwilwileth asked, “What?”

Legolas paused, his elven senses scanning out over the plain, and his 
ears picked up sounds far too faint and distant for any mortal to 
hear. He had been drilled in the sounds and signs that identified foul 
creatures, but this was the first time he had actually heard them. 
Still, they were unmistakable. “Orcs.”

His sister’s friend looked impressed. “Caranaur has only just awakened 
Langcyll, yet they roused you from sleep. Your ears are keen.”

Legolas was still listening. “They are between us and Mirkwood. They 
are a large band, and bold, or they’d not have dared coming so deep 
into our borders. Will they be bold enough to challenge the camp, do 
you think?”

Langcyll had come up then, and exchanged a wordless glance with 
Gwilwileth before Legolas turned back to them. “What do you think?” 
Langcyll asked him.

The younger warrior looked back out into the darkness, and this time 
could make out shapes moving stealthily (or with as much stealth as an 
orc could muster) among the ground and amid the low scrubby bushes 
that dotted the lowland. Moving towards the camp. “They come,” he 
said, feeling a strange new tightness in his insides. “Perhaps our 
patrols within Mirkwood have driven them out and they have no choice 
but to move our way. Their only means of escape is through us.”

Langcyll nodded, “I fear our king’s son speaks the truth. The fell 
creatures of Mordor grow bolder still. We must rouse the camp,” he 
raised his voice then, and the elves raised their heads in response. 
All immediately sensed the peril approaching and rose silently. In a 
quiet voice still enough for all the elves to hear, Langcyll said, “We 
shall prepare an ambush. Half of the company shall remain here with 
the horses and feign sleep to draw the orcs. The other half shall 
spread out.”

There was little time to speak or question as the shadow on the plains 
grew nearer by the second. Legolas and the others in his group removed 
their bedrolls and left them among the horses. Legolas felt slightly 
anxious at leaving his noble mount, Lanthir, to serve as bait for the 
orcs, but it could not be helped. Tathar remained among the elves in 
the camp, essentially using themselves as bait. Crouching behind a 
clump of thorny bushes, Legolas readied his bow, and waited for 
Langcyll’s signal.

They came in a group of twenty or so, dark, creeping, slimy, loathsome 
creatures, even more hideous than Legolas had imagined them. And 
dull-witted, for they shuffled loudly enough for a company of dwarves 
to be roused by the noise, but they did not seem suspicious of the six 
elves who lay apparently sound asleep in their camp--with no watchers 
and fifteen horses. From his vantage point, Legolas could see Tathar 
in the center, lying in a most unnatural position--undoubtedly with 
both of his knives in his hands and his bow well within reach.

Langcyll was also “asleep” in the back of the camp, where the orcs 
were approaching first, their own swords and knives gleaming dully in 
the dark. The orc in the lead crept on until he and five others were 
within feet of their prey. Legolas was all but holding his breath, and 
certain that the pounding of his heart would give them all away.

The first orc bent toward Langcyll, knife aimed for his throat--then 
quicker than lightning, a white hand shot from beneath the blanket and 
with a deafening shriek, the orc was down with his own knife buried to 
the hilt beneath his chin. At the cry, Legolas loosed his waiting 
arrow, and the orc threatening Tathar fell dead. Then the battle cry 
went up from both sides, and orcs and elves flung themselves into 
combat. 

It could hardly be considered a battle even by boyish bravado. A hail 
of arrows took down more than half of the orcs before they could get 
to the bedrolls--which were already empty because the occupants had 
sprung to their feet. Legolas leapt over his bush for better aim and 
shot the orcs, one after another, as instinct took over for 
consciousness. Langcyll’s arms moved so swiftly that they blurred, his 
knives flashing in each hand, catching any orc that came too close. It 
took little time for the remaining orcs to break and flee, and Legolas 
was forced to lower his bow as the warriors pursuing them got into his 
path. 

He was about to rejoin the others in the camp when the bushes rustled 
near him and with a screech, a lone orc lunged out, wounded in the 
side by an arrow. Legolas drew his knife, ducking under a wildly-swung 
orc sword, then swept his arm around to stab the vile creature in the 
shoulder. The sword dropped and with his other knife, Legolas slashed 
through the orc’s neck. He glanced about, listening for more 
attackers, but a few final shrieks beyond the camp told him the last 
of the band had been dispatched. With distaste, Legolas retrieved both 
his knives and his bow, and went to join the other warriors.

Langcyll was returning from the other side of the camp just as Legolas 
arrived, joining the rest of the company, “Are all accounted for?”

“Both orcs and elves, Langcyll,” Gwilwileth said. “The enemy’s 
creatures are all slain. None of our number are wounded.” 

Langcyll nodded, “That is well.” 

Legolas wondered why the captain looked so troubled. In a low voice, 
he asked Langcyll, “Is something else amiss?”

Langcyll gazed at his youngest warrior, “Only that such a great band 
of orcs would have ventured so deep into Mirkwood that they were 
driven out only after the departure of our war parties. The foul 
creatures of Mordor grow disturbingly bold as the shadow over our 
realm darkens. They cannot be unrelated.” He gestured briskly to 
Legolas and the other warriors, “Make certain to collect your arrows. 
We shall break camp and get an early start.”

As the company prepared for departure, Tuilinn (the warrioress with 
whom Tathar had been flirting the evening before) asked, “I wonder if 
that party of dwarves encountered these orcs. There were not many of 
them.”

“It’s no concern of ours,” Fanfirith told her. “Dwarves always take 
care of themselves.”

Legolas glanced about him as he gathered the remainder of his pack. He 
had not seen Tathar since the attack started. Suddenly, an arrowhead, 
one of his own and coated thoroughly with slime, was shoved into his 
view, followed by a broken shaft. “You’ll have to mend that.”

“My thanks,” Legolas replied wryly, taking both from Tathar’s hand. “I 
doubt if I shall have time just now. I could not see you after the 
fighting broke out. Where have you been?”

“Hiding beneath my bedroll, of course.”

“Ah.”

“How many orcs did you take?” his friend asked, they finished packing 
their horses.

Legolas blinked, “I’ve no idea.”

Tathar snorted, “You did not bother to keep count? I took three.”

“Tathar, I hardly think it is a matter to crow about.”

“Mount up,” came Langcyll’s order from the front of the group. 

As they rode out, the eastern sky growing red as dawn approached, 
Tathar whispered, “Admit it, you dissembler, you got a thrill from 
your first battle.” 

Legolas rolled his eyes, “Even a first-century novice would be hard 
pressed to qualify that as a battle, my friend. But if you ask whether 
I feel pleasure in taking the life of any living thing, I would 
truthfully say no.”

“Pfft.”

“However, between your riotous behavior and your snorts, one might yet 
mistake you for a novice.”

“And your jests are as weak as ever!”

“Hah!”

***

Two weeks later, the noon sun found the company riding over rolling 
hills that would slowly steepen into the Grey Mountains. Legolas and 
Tathar found themselves once again in the center of the group. While 
Tathar still desired be free from all restraint, Legolas only wished 
he did not have to constantly rein Lanthir in, for the horse preferred 
to ride faster than the pace Langcyll was setting. But there was no 
point in pushing the horses hard so early in the journey; the 
mountains would soon be upon them and force them to slow.

“The foothills themselves seem steep enough,” Legolas remarked to 
Thalatirn, who rode beside him. “Is it difficult for the horses in the 
mountains?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Thalatirn replied. The sturdy, 
dark-haired warrior was only a century older than Legolas, but had 
been on twelve mountain missions. “Once into the high hills, we shall 
dismount and lead them over.”

“It will be a long trip,” Tathar mused, staring apprehensively at the 
high, grey peaks. “Can many orcs survive such inhospitable 
conditions?”

“Nay, not directly upon the face of the slopes, but there are caves to 
provide shelter enough for many bands, should they be forced to take 
refuge there,” Gwilwileth told him. 

“You do not think they would have already hidden themselves in the 
mountains?” Legolas asked, feeling an inner shiver at the thought of 
untold armies of orcs waiting in caves to spring with swords and 
arrows--and avalanches.

“It is unlikely,” Langcyll had been listening. Now he called back to 
them, “Until now, we have sought only to keep them from entering the 
Mirkwood itself, and they have never been pursued far beyond our 
borders. But they continue to plague us and other travelers on the 
roads between Mirkwood, Imladris, and Lorien, and the dwarves complain 
that we have driven them toward Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills 
without bothering to send warning.”

“As if the dwarves would do such a thing for us,” scoffed Galithil.

Legolas nearly asked the others about the nature of the conflict 
between the dwarves and elves--it had existed as long as he had been 
living, but none had ever bothered to explain it to him. Now he 
realized how incredibly ignorant he was of life outside Mirkwood, and 
the thought disgusted him. He could not now bring himself to admit it 
to the group.

“Never mind the dwarves, we shall not be seeing much of them until we 
are south of Imladris,” Langcyll was saying. “And from the looks of 
the mountains, it may be a few years yet.”

“How will we cover all that ground even in that time?” Tathar asked, 
looking daunted by the massive slopes and high peaks.

“We are not the only party scouring the mountains, Tathar. Others will 
search the areas we do not cover. The fell creatures of Mordor shall 
find little hope of escape.”

***

That night…

“He lies!” 

The warriors burst into laughter as Legolas pointed in outrage at 
Tathar, “It was you who stole Narbeleth’s knife, you fraudster!”

“That was not I, that was Candrochon!” Tathar protested, raising his 
hands defensively. “I was on a hunt with Eregdos--Tuilinn was there, 
she will bear me out.”

From the opposite side of the fire, Tuilinn laughed, “He speaks the 
truth; I remember Tathar was there. I also remember him planting sour 
grapes among Fimsigil’s rations during that trip.” Tathar winced and 
Legolas laughed in turn.

“May the Valar spare us from novice pranks,” Langcyll remarked to 
Elunen, who was standing watch.

“Come, come, my friend, I recall you having delivered your share of 
torment to your masters during your training,” the warrioress replied 
with a smile, not taking her gaze from the base of the hill where the 
warriors had made camp for the night. 

“I was at least skilled enough never to be caught,” Langcyll said with 
dignity. The other warriors turned and stared in mock-astonishment 
that their venerable captain might at one time have behaved with such 
immaturity.

Gwilwileth placed another sausage over the fire, “Prince Legolas’s 
sister, the Princess Limloeth, was quite a prankster in her time, as I 
recall. During her second century of training, she once rigged the 
overhead targets with sacks of mud so that they would fall upon any 
unfortunate archer who shot them.”

“Ai!” Tathar made a face.

Legolas grinned, “Limloeth remains a mischievous spirit; I can well 
imagine her doing such a thing.”

Langcyll, munching on an apple, smiled at the prince, “It seems to run 
in the family, my lord; do not think I did not know it was you who put 
my bow in the topmost branches of that tree many years ago.”

“Aha! Now the truth is revealed!” Tathar exclaimed, pointing 
accusingly at Legolas, who grinned and blushed sheepishly.

“Why did you not accuse me then?” he asked Langcyll.

“I’d no proof, but you were the only one of the novices light enough 
to climb so high,” the captain replied blithely. 

“However did you finally get it down?” Tathar demanded.

“With a great deal of ingenuity.” 

As the other elves laughed harder and Langcyll turned to speak to 
Elunen, Legolas said defensively, “You were still the premiere 
trickster of us all, Tathar, so do not gloat too loudly.”

“Indeed,” Fandoll chuckled. “It was Tathar who took all the quivers 
and dumped the arrows into a pile before your practice once.” 

“Untrue, that was Merilin!”

“No indeed, my boy, Lady Merilin may have instigated that lark, but it 
was you who carried it out.” (Fandoll had been the novice master who 
taught Legolas and his friends the art of making and mending their 
bows and arrows.)

Whatever retort Tathar made, Legolas did not pay attention. Elunen and 
Langcyll were now speaking urgently with one of the other warriors on 
watch, for something had drawn Elunen’s attention. Legolas shut out 
the cheerful conversations around him and discreetly scanned the rocky 
hillside. 

For a brief second, upon a neighboring hill, he saw reflected 
light--not bright like water or metal, but faint, and it was instantly 
gone. Like flame reflected in the eye of an animal. He could not hear 
well for the rather loud discourse among the elves, but he thought 
there was more movement on the hills closer to the mountains. Were it 
a normal animal, the creatures would not take such pains to conceal 
their presence.

*So, the fell creatures of Mordor have beaten us to the mountains. If 
their numbers are large, they shall be able to prepare traps for us in 
many places.*

Langcyll returned to the fire and rejoined the chatter, while whetting 
his long knife. Legolas stared at the captain, who replied calmly, “We 
know the enemy awaits us, but there is naught else we can do tonight. 
To break camp and seek them out in the dark would give them too great 
a warning of our intentions. Soon we shall begin to hunt by night as 
we move further into the mountains.”

“Do they not mean to attack us here, then?”

“I suspect they will try before dawn to catch us unawares. It never 
ceases to amaze me how orcs can fight elves for so long and yet learn 
nothing of our ways.” Legolas thought it would never cease to amaze 
him how Langcyll could speak so casually of such things.

They posted five guards that night. Though the others knew of the orcs 
lurking in the hills around them, they seemed content to sleep. But 
Legolas and Tathar were far too uneasy to sleep, so both volunteered 
for watch. *I suppose in time I shall get used to this,* Legolas 
thought as he stood on the edge of the camp, listening to the sounds 
of orcs moving about in the distance. *Perhaps when I am weary enough 
it will not be so hard to sleep in the shadow of danger.* 

For the moment, all he could do was stand there and fidget. From a 
leaf on a nearby bush, he watched the stately progress of a moth 
emerging from its chrysalis. In spite of his anxiety, he smiled, *And 
even in the face of shadow and fear, new life comes.* It was a 
comforting sense, as the insect began fluttering its wings to dry 
them. *His wings shall be dry in twenty minutes, and he will be able 
to fly. Would that I had been able to enter the world so fast.* 

Then the ominous noise of many orcs drew his attentions back to the 
danger the camp faced. The creatures appeared to have gathered into a 
group, and were now moving fast--straight towards the camp. The sounds 
grew louder, and closer. Legolas looked across the camp just as 
Langcyll woke the others with a sharp clap. There would be no 
opportunity for a neatly executed ambush tonight. “Make ready! They 
come!”

Nathron, one of the other watchers, readied his bow and called out, 
“Will we hold our position or go to meet them?”

“We hold here. There are not enough of them to form a siege. They will 
try, and retreat when they fail. It will be over then until they can 
draw reinforcements. Legolas, Tathar, help guard the horses,” the 
captain snapped.

Legolas darted across the camp to where Tuilinn, Elunen, Fandoll, and 
Glanaur already stood waiting for the assault. This would most 
definitely qualify as a battle. Elunen motioned him to her side, 
“Listen, Legolas. How many do you hear?”

“Forty, perhaps more,” Legolas said, feeling his heartbeat quicken. 
But at the same time, he knew there was no time to dwell upon fear, 
only concentration at what must be done for the warriors, the horses, 
and himself to survive. “They will come in a fast, hard assault and 
try to overwhelm us with numbers.”

“They will fail, my friend,” the warrioress said resolutely. In spite 
of his tension, Legolas felt gratified. *She did not call me ‘my 
lord.’*

The sounds were clear now, the swiftly moving feet and guttural 
growls. *They do not charge yet. They save their speed to try and 
escape our arrows as they come down the hill.* Legolas thought, his 
breath coming faster with every second. *They will make for the main 
camp first. I must pick off as many as I can before they reach us. 
Then it will be knife work.*

He could feel Elunen on his left, Tathar on his right, their bows 
ready to guard the horses and aid their companions. The orcs were on 
the northern slope of the hill, having come down from the mountains, 
and charging for the top. They were coming hard now, and Legolas could 
feel the charge in the ground beneath his feet, though he could not 
yet see them. *Being below them, we are at a disadvantage.* He heard 
the battle cries starting. *They are coming…now!*

Like an explosion of ants from a disturbed nest, the dark shapes of 
loathsome orcs poured over the top of the hill and charged down the 
southern side towards the fifteen elven warriors. Legolas bent his bow 
along with the rest and fired, dropping the front most. Still they 
came. Another volley of arrows were released, and another line went 
down. Then the orcs released their own arrows, and Legolas flinched as 
he felt one sweep just past his ear. Several yards away, he saw 
Langcyll use an arrow in his hand to stab an orc in the throat, then 
notched the arrow onto his bow and let it fly into the heart of 
another. In spite of his own predicament, Legolas thought, *I must 
remember that!*

Still they came, a great boiling mass of vile creatures, swords and 
spears waving, charging at an uncontrollable speed down the hillside. 
They would plow right into the waiting elves. Legolas fired off 
several more arrows, dropping four, but the front most had raised 
their shields and charged even harder. *They seek to knock us to the 
ground and hold us until they can finish us off. I must not go down in 
this chaos.*

The orcs now divided, having picked out their individual foes, and a 
goodly number of them were heading straight for Legolas and his 
comrades. Legolas actually met the eyes of one of the fiends and knew 
he had been marked out. Then Elunen shouted, “Forward!” and he drew 
both of his knives and ran to meet his foe.

The orcs had built up great speed, and Legolas ran straight towards 
them. But even as one drove straight at him, shield ready to knock him 
from his feet, the young warrior pivoted to one side, deflecting 
rather than taking the full blow. Even so, the shock of the impact 
swept painfully up his arms. He dodged the sword of another and swept 
his knife into a random orc arm, forcing it to drop its blade. The 
first came back, sword in one hand, shield in another. Legolas dodged 
sweeping blows and lunged with his knife. A blow from the shield threw 
him aside and nearly off his feet. He spun to plunge his knife into 
the chest of another beast that tried to catch him from behind, then 
whirled away to escape the sword of the first. 

All around him were fighting bodies, elves and orcs, the sounds of 
clanging metal, sweeping weapons, and cries of pain--from both sides. 
The company would not escape unscathed this time. Langcyll and Tathar 
were back-to-back, taking a furious assault but holding it off with 
their knifes. Legolas moved back rapidly as the first orc came at him 
again, waiting this time for the creature to charge him first. It 
came, sword lunging straight to wound him, then suddenly swiped at 
him, and Legolas only just managed to dive out of the way. The orc 
tried to strike his head with its shield, but Legolas rolled aside and 
delivered a fierce kick to knock the shield aside. Then he was up, and 
slashed the creature’s shoulder, forcing it to drop its weapon. With a 
second, slashing blow to the neck, his enemy was dispatched.

“Legolas!” Glanaur shouted, and the young warrior saw two orcs making 
for the horses, hoping to kill them and prevent the elves from making 
a quick escape.

Legolas charged, shoving his knives into his belt and seizing his bow 
from the ground in a sweeping motion, then drew and fired twice, 
dropping one. The other caught the arrow in his shield and turned from 
the horses, heading for Gwilwileth’s unprotected back. “Beware!” 
Legolas shouted to her, frantically going for another arrow.

Even as he ran, a flicker of movement to his right was the only 
warning of his peril, and he barely managed to jerk aside as fire 
streaked along the top of his shoulder from a knife intended for his 
neck. With a hiss of surprised pain, Legolas lashed out with his fist, 
catching the orc who had nearly caught him and knocking it nearly five 
feet. That gave him the time to use his bow, and send an arrow 
straight between its eyes. 

Two of the best archers, Fanfirith and Nathron , stood atop rocks and 
had begun picking off the orcs from above. Legolas saw a likely spot 
to do the same and headed for it, but three orcs apparently guessed 
his intentions and charged him. He took one down with his bow, then 
tossed it aside and drew his knives, hustling back towards a small 
tree and nearly tripping over a root. He knocked aside the spear of 
the first, driving it into the second, and grabbed a branch and swung 
himself up, kicking out with both legs to knock down one of them. The 
second menaced him with a wickedly curved dagger, and he dodged 
several swings. The second was rising, *I must dispatch this one 
before the other is up,* and Legolas suffered a slice on the right arm 
to grab the orc’s wrist--how revolting it was to touch the thing--and 
yank it to where he could cut its throat. He dropped the carcass, 
yanked his knife free, and a neat throw buried it in the skull of the 
one with the spear. He seized his bow, crossed the remaining strides 
to the small height in a few bounds, leapt upon it, and began 
shooting.

From above, it was clear that the elves were winning this battle. Orc 
corpses littered the main part of their camp, and the fighting 
warriors were no longer set upon from all sides. Legolas shot one 
menacing Fandoll with a sword and received a grateful wave, then took 
down a pair trying to pin Langcyll. He aimed for one trying to spear 
Elunen from behind, but Tathar appeared and caught it first with his 
knives. All at once, an unearthly screech filled the air, painful on 
his ears, and the scant dozen orcs still living broke and ran back up 
the hill. Legolas, Fanfirith, and Nathron shot half of them before the 
rest were over the top and out of range of their arrows.

Breathing heavily, Legolas stood where he was, trying to bring his 
spinning mind down to a sensible speed. Jumping down from his 
position, he knew all too clearly what distinguished this as a battle. 
Many of the warriors were bleeding, and some looked to be in 
considerable pain. Legolas faltered, uncertain of whom to run to 
first, then saw Gwilwileth on the ground near the horses. She had not 
heard his earlier shout of warning and the orc had caught her from 
behind. He rushed to her side. “I am not badly hurt,” the warrioress 
said through clenched teeth, clutching her side tightly. 

“Legolas!” Langcyll shouted. “Bring her to the center of camp. 
Fandoll, start some water boiling on the fire and begin readying 
bandages. We must have light, Tathar, relight the torches around the 
camp. Fanfirith, Nathron, bring the athelas and the other herbs. Make 
haste!”

As Legolas swung Gwilwileth’s other arm over his shoulders and 
supported her to where the wounded were being treated. Pulling aside 
the bloodstained tunic, he wrapped affixed an athelas-soaked pad of 
bandage against the ugly stab wound in his companion’s side, then 
wrapped bandages around her waist. “My thanks, Legolas. Naught else 
ails me,” she said, patting his arm gratefully. “See to Glanaur; he 
bleeds too much.”

Again, the pace of time seemed to speed, as Legolas helped bandage 
Glanaur’s deeply-gouged leg. Then he removed an arrow from Tuilinn’s 
shoulder, splinted Thalatirn’s sprained wrist, and examined the deep 
bruise on Edlothia’s forehead, concerned that she might have been 
concussed. 

“Thank the Valar there were no serious injuries,” Langcyll muttered as 
he walked up to see how the wounded were faring. “Do not neglect 
yourself, Legolas.”

“Sir?” Legolas blinked in confusion, and the captain gestured to his 
arm and shoulder, both of which began to throb on cue. “Oh.” *Strange, 
I had stopped noticing it.* 

Tathar returned to the campfire and clicked his tongue at Legolas, 
“You never could duck fast enough. Here, let me.” He seized a roll of 
bandages and some of the athelas salve, and gestured authoritatively 
for Legolas to hold out his arm.

“You did not escape unscathed yourself, my friend,” Legolas replied, 
noting the bloody scrape on Tathar’s forehead and the torn tunic and 
black bruise near his collarbone. 

Elunen walked briskly over to check on them, “So now you’ve both shed 
and spilt your first blood. At this rate, you shall be as seasoned as 
any of us by the time this mission ends. Make sure to clean off that 
orc slime before you dress the cuts, Tathar,” she added.

“Some water, please, Fandoll,” Tathar said. Allowing himself to be 
attended to gave Legolas time to slow his still-frantic heartbeat. 
Tathar had always been good at dressing injuries--the Mirkwood healers 
had considered it a waste when his friend chose to become a warrior 
instead. Legolas had always envied him his skill at healing.

Langcyll was pacing about restlessly, looking very troubled. “Will 
this attack delay as very much?” Legolas asked him.

“Not at all. None of us will be prevented from traveling by our 
injuries; we will ride at dawn as planned.”

“Dawn?” Legolas was surprised. Surely it was almost dawn by now--he 
looked up. The moon and stars had not moved at all in the eternity 
that the battle had lasted. Even the clouds had scarcely traveled in 
the sky. Feeling confused, Legolas glanced around him, and his gaze 
fell upon the bush where he had been standing watch before--as a moth 
fluttered its wings one last time and took off into the air. Legolas 
was astonished. *All that in only twenty minutes?* 

***

As Langcyll had predicted, the wounded members of the party were more 
than recovered enough to travel by dawn. “Break camp!” Elunen ordered 
as Tathar checked Edlothia’s head wound once more.

As they assembled the horses, Langcyll assigned positions. “We shall 
ride two by two. Fanfirith and Nathron, take the front scout 
positions. Fandoll and Caranaur, in the back. Edlothia and Gwilwileth 
behind me, Tathar and Legolas behind them, Glanaur and Tuilinn shall 
follow, then Thalatirn and Galithil, Elunen shall bring up the rear.”

Legolas and Tathar mounted and entered the formation, only then did 
they realize that they were no longer in the most protected position 
in the group. They exchanged astonished glances as Langcyll looked 
back at them. Seeing their pleased expressions, the archer captain 
smiled briefly before raising his hand, “Forward!”

***** ----------------------------------------------------------- 
Many, many thanks to everyone who has been giving their reviews. I’m 
glad you liked the battles, and you’re in store for more battles this 
chapter. For Shen Panda--The movie trivia answer is “New Moon,” a 
Nelson Eddy-Jeanette McDonald musical from 1940. Great old-fashioned 
romance. ***Kudos to all those sharp-eyed readers who caught my latest 
tribute to the movie. I’m a huge fan of Peter Jackson’s masterpiece as 
well as Tolkien’s, so keep your eyes open, and you’ll see other little 
movie references throughout my story, since I drew from them both.***



Legolas and his war party left Mirkwood during midsummer, and this 
chapter begins about eighteen months later. (Hey, if I covered the 
whole sixty years, this thing would be a whole new trilogy! So with 
this chapter, I start skipping ahead.) 

* Denotes Unspoken Thought (in case anyone hasn’t already figured that 
out.)

Chapter Nine: The Apple Tree





A year and a half later…

“Twelve!” Tathar announced by way of greeting as he rejoined Legolas.

Legolas did not reply but narrowed his eyes at the surrounding 
boulders, certain that the company had not taken the entire band. 
Tathar was about to speak when the first rays of the sun broke over 
the mountainside. Two orcs, unable to remain hiding from their 
pursuers, burst from among the rocks and dashed up the hillside, 
grunting and screeching in the light. Tathar went for his bow, but 
Legolas drew two arrows and shot them both cleanly. 

With a sly smile, Legolas turned back to his friend. “Eighteen.”

Tathar looked disgusted, “I thought you did not like to crow over 
killing orcs.”

“It was you who goaded me into it, my friend. You’ve none to blame but 
yourself.”

“Come, both of you, we must ride,” Langcyll called to them. “Winter 
comes and we have many peaks yet to scale if we wish to reach 
Rivendell by summer.”

***

“Beware making loud noises, lest we bring an avalanche upon us,” 
Langcyll cautioned the warriors as they led their horses through a 
snow-covered mountain pass.

Legolas looked apprehensively up at the huge deposits of snow on the 
cliffs above them. This blizzard seemed to be lasting forever, and the 
wind added still more snow to the drifts, which seemed mountains in 
themselves. The thought of rock avalanches in these mountains had 
always weighed upon his mind, but the idea of being buried under a 
snowdrift was not exactly pleasing either. He tugged his winter cloak 
tighter around him and picked up the pace, wishing he and Tathar had 
not offered to bring up the rear during this leg of the journey.

After that first real battle in the foothills, Langcyll had said it 
was a bad sign that they should engage the orcs so soon into the 
mission. He had been proven right; the Grey Mountains had been 
infested with the foul creatures, and the Misty Mountains were proving 
little better. Elunen said that Legolas and Tathar had fought more 
orcs in the past eighteen months than she had in her first century of 
adulthood.

Legolas did not find himself thinking much of home. Their remote 
positions in the mountains and the speed of their travel made it next 
to impossible for messages to be sent, and they had received no news 
of Mirkwood since they had met one of the other parties in the 
foothills during the second month of their journey--more than a year 
before. All was as well as could be expected in such times, they had 
been told. Legolas had been unable to suppress a wince when he had 
heard one of those warriors saying that King Thranduil had become 
dispirited and ill-tempered in recent weeks. He sometimes wondered now 
how time had affected his father’s feelings about his departure. But 
for the most part, he was glad to have no way of knowing.

“Daydreaming again, my lord?”

Legolas looked at Tathar and shook his head in disgust. All of the 
other warriors had ceased addressing him by his title save Tathar--who 
did so only to irritate Legolas. “Anything to take my mind off you as 
my partner,” he replied glibly.

Tathar chuckled, afraid to laugh loudly while they were in the pass, 
though the scream of the wind stole almost all sound away. “This 
winter shall be a bore. Any sensible orc will have holed himself up in 
a cave until warmer weather.”

“Sensible orc is a contradiction in terms, Tathar,” Tuilinn called 
from in front of them. The other warriors laughed and nodded 
agreement.

“Perhaps, but orcs will survive even less in the snow than hobbits,” 
Elunen remarked. “We will see little of them until spring comes, but I 
doubt we shall be bored. Not all fell creatures are hampered so by 
snow.”

“Wargs, perhaps?” Legolas asked. 

“I think so. They would not try to hunt a party as large as ours under 
normal circumstances, but this season has forced much of their game 
from their trails. Hunger may drive them to come for us.”

“They shall have to form a very great pack to threaten us,” Tuilinn 
said dubiously.

“Given the choice between a fast death on a hunt and slow starvation, 
they will cast their lot while they’ve still the strength to attack. 
Guard your horses well; a desperate warg will choose the easiest prey 
it can,” Langcyll advised the group.

Legolas felt Lanthir tug on his lead, and he chuckled, patting the 
horse’s nose. “Fear not, my friend, I shall never let any harm come to 
you,” he murmured.

The wind had picked up, blowing snow into the faces of the elves as 
they continued their long walk through the pass over rapidly rising 
snowdrifts. The elves themselves could walk upon the drifts with 
little difficulty, but for their mounts, it was another matter. “This 
pass will soon be completely blocked,” Gwilwileth said. “We should 
hurry or the horses will be trapped.”

So loud was the wail of the wind through the pass that it was nearly 
impossible to distinguish the wind from another howl that rose through 
the blowing snow. But Legolas heard it, as did Langcyll. “You were 
more right than you know, Elunen. Already they watch us.”

“From where?” the others looked up along the cliffs.

“All about!” Legolas exclaimed, squinting through the blowing snow to 
see dark shapes upon the white cliffs. It was very odd; the wargs 
stood motionless, in plain view of the elves. “Why are they just 
standing there?”

“It is not like wargs. They await something…” Langcyll leapt upon a 
larger drift and put his hand to the canyon wall. He jumped down, 
“Quickly! The snowdrift has weakened! An avalanche comes!”

The warriors put their heads forward and charged through the snow, 
yanking their frightened horses behind them. Legolas now heard the 
creaking of ice and rock over the storm and the howling wargs, as the 
weight of the snow deposits grew too great for the cliffs to bear. 
*The wargs hope the avalanche will bury us and then they shall take us 
as we come up. Or if we should perish beneath it, they hope to dig us 
out.* He urged Lanthir harder as the cracks of the ice and rock grew 
louder. 

“It is not much further! Hurry!” Langcyll shouted, seeing the end of 
the pass before them. 

Large lumps of snow had begun to fall, as a precursor to the massive 
collapse that approached. If the elven warriors left the horses and 
run across the snow, they would surely make it. But none would leave 
his mount, and their survival in this unusually-harsh winter depended 
upon the supplies the horses carried. Legolas heard a collective howl 
rise from the watching wargs, and looked up in alarm as the triumphant 
cry was drowned out by a still-greater noise. With a great roar, a 
massive wave of snow spilled down the steep mountain slopes into the 
pass--directly onto the company.

Legolas continued to charge for the exit, but knew there was no 
chance. He hoped some of the others might get through. Next to him, 
the horses screamed, Tathar yelped, and Legolas gasped, raising a hand 
in futile defense as a thundering wall of snow slammed into him, 
flinging him to the ground beneath its massive weight. For several 
moments, he blacked out.

***

Returning to consciousness was a strange experience. Legolas found 
himself lying flat, facedown, and for a moment he felt suspended in 
cold air. Forcing his eyes open, he realized he was encased completely 
in tightly-packed snow, so deep that all around him was darkness. He 
was also bitterly cold. *I must get out soon. New air will not reach 
me beneath this drift.* The elf swiftly began to claw at the snow 
around him, trying to give himself space to turn over. Then it 
occurred to him--*Which way is up?*

Fighting the urge to panic, he flailed against the snow and ice, 
praying that he was moving in the right direction. He was not yet in 
danger of freezing to death, and the snow was not packed tightly 
enough to smother him, but if the oxygen in the trapped air around him 
ran out, he would die of deprivation. His mind was beginning to race, 
*What of Tathar? He was beside me. If he too is trapped, I’ve no way 
to aid him. And Lanthir and the others--*

The young warrior forced himself to focus on digging, though the 
cold--or perhaps it was decreasing air--made him feel sluggish. *I do 
not want to die this way…I must get out.* He managed to twist himself 
around so he faced the direction he thought was up, and continued to 
push the snow from over his head, trying to swim his way out. A rock 
above him barred his way, and as he wriggled it to dislodge it, the 
snow suddenly shifted--falling and encasing him as tightly as before.

*No! I must get out! I will not last much longer!* though the air was 
not completely cut off, Legolas knew he was running out of oxygen. His 
head was beginning to swim, and he felt detached. *I…must 
concentrate…must keep digging…I cannot…* But his arms and legs would 
no longer obey him. The snow no longer felt cold around him, and his 
mind wandered. Limloeth said had said they would meet again. How upset 
she would be when she learned Legolas had perished. He wondered if she 
had married Orthelian yet. *I did not mean for another of us to die 
after an avalanche. For that I am sorry.* 

An even deeper blackness was now sweeping over his vision, *How 
strange. Even now I am not sorry I joined this mission. I hope the 
others escape the snow and the wargs…at least the company would go 
on…* He was so disoriented that he did not realize his eyes had 
closed. *At least I had the chance…I was a warrior…for Mirkwood…* Had 
he been able to see, he would have realized the snow was growing 
lighter above him as the upper layers of the drift were dug away. But 
the last vestiges of consciousness were leaving him. 

*Father…*

***

More than half of the company had escaped the pass before the 
avalanche struck. Langcyll turned back and cried, “No!” as the white 
wave swept over six members of his party and their horses, burying 
them deep.

No sooner had the snow settled than the nine remaining warriors flew 
back out into the pass, digging frantically into the snow. “Quickly!” 
Langcyll cried, struggling to suppress panic and despair. “They will 
not live long under such weight! We must get them out!”

“Langcyll, the wargs!” Tuilinn shouted, pointing as the dark shapes 
above them began to make their way down. 

“We don’t have time for this,” the captain growled as he dug. “Take 
over!” he ordered Nathron to continue where he had been digging and 
went for his bow. “Gwilwileth, help hold off the wargs. The rest of 
you, dig! Dig with all your might!”

He took aim at the warg already descending onto the snowdrift from the 
rocks and fired, planting an arrow right in its skull. The thing 
dropped and he aimed at another, not yet a threat to the diggers, but 
within range. An arrow from Gwilwileth struck another, and it fell 
onto the snow with a shriek. Langcyll and Gwilwileth kept up their 
defense as the warriors continued their desperate digging. *It is my 
duty to protect my warriors. I cannot let them die beneath a 
snowdrift. We must be in time!*

“Langcyll!” Nathron shouted. The captain turned his gaze briefly from 
the wargs--who were now hesitating to approach the snowdrifts--to see 
Nathron had a firm grip upon a hand sticking out from the snow. “Hold 
on, I have you,” Nathron said to the trapped elf, pulling with all his 
might.

All at once, the snow disgorged its prisoner. It was Elunen, coughing 
and gasping, but unharmed. Beneath her, they found Fandoll and 
Glanaur, and their horses feet away. “Caranaur, Tathar, and Legolas 
remain missing,” Fanfirith said anxiously. “We are running out of 
time!”

“Keep digging!” Langcyll snapped, readying an arrow as a hungry warg 
took a few cautious steps forward on the higher rocks, obviously 
debating whether to attempt a descent. Langcyll doubted the creatures 
would attempt it, but just to discourage any others, he shot it. 
*These foul beasts will not fall upon my warriors when we are rescuing 
our comrades.*

“Here!” Edlothia and Fandoll shouted simultaneously. 

They pulled Caranaur from the snow, and found him disoriented and 
suffering from oxygen deprivation. The fresh air brought him around, 
but Langcyll thought anxiously, *We must find Legolas and Tathar 
before they run out of air entirely.* The wargs seemed to have given 
up, so Langcyll ordered Gwilwileth to continue watching and joined the 
effort, his arms churning through the snow. It seemed with every 
second that passed that he could see his two youngest warriors trapped 
within the snow’s grip, gasping for breath. 

A cry went up again, and Galithil and Thalatirn pulled Tathar from the 
snow, gasping and semi-conscious. “Legolas, Legolas…”

“Peace, Tathar. Catch your breath,” Tuilinn said as the others resumed 
their frantic search. “We shall find him.”

“Legolas cannot be far, he and Tathar were together when it hit,” 
Thalatirn said, and the warriors focused their search close to where 
Tathar had been found. They discovered the last two horses, but not 
Legolas, and the elves were beginning to despair. Had the avalanche 
claimed their prince?

Langcyll reached as deep into the snow as he could, his arms sweeping 
through for some sign of the last missing warrior. *No…no…* All at 
once, his hand struck something that was neither a root nor a rock. 
With a shout, the captain all but dove beneath the snow, burrowing 
toward the object before him. The other elves converged on the spot, 
and moments later, Langcyll dragged Legolas free. The young elf was 
completely limp, and his eyes were closed.

“Does he breathe?” gasped Galithil, as the warriors came rushing 
forward.

“Stand back, give him air!” Langcyll said sharply, easing Legolas onto 
the snow. He felt frantically under the prince’s chin and gasped with 
relief--the heartbeat was there. And he was breathing, albeit 
shallowly. “He is alive. He will be all right,” the captain sighed, 
trying to slow his pounding heart. At the sight of his youngest 
warrior’s closed eyes, he had feared the worst. *Thank the Valar I did 
not lose him.*

Looking around, Langcyll frowned, “They will all need time to recover, 
but we cannot remain here. Can the horses travel?”

Edlothia nodded, “All of them. Even the ones trapped are none the 
worse for wear.”

“Come. Carry any who cannot walk. We are too exposed here, and we must 
find shelter from the storm and the wargs. Be on your guard; they know 
we have some wounded, and they may grow bolder given the opportunity. 
Gwilwileth, Thalatirn, flank us with your bows. Edlothia in front and 
Galithil behind. The rest of you, lead the horses. Quickly.” With 
that, Langcyll picked up Legolas and carried him swiftly over the snow 
to where the others were waiting. Elunen, Fandoll, and Glanaur were 
able to walk, but Caranaur, Tathar, and Legolas were still too weak. 
The warriors hurried out of the pass, and those who looked back saw 
the wargs descending, keeping out of range of the arrows but following 
nonetheless.

The company soon found what they were looking for; a wide-mouthed cave 
suitable for shelter. Scouting such a thing was not a job for 
volunteers--no elf would go far underground by choice. Still, a 
reluctant exploration revealed the cave to be little more than a hole 
in the mountainside that did not go deep, but provided sufficient 
cover for the warriors and their horses. 

By the time they reached moved inside, Tathar and Caranaur were able 
to stand on their own, but Legolas remained unconscious. Tathar 
refused to budge from his friend’s side while the others made camp. 
“His eyes remain closed. Why does he not wake?” the young warrior 
demanded.

“He is badly bruised. He was not far from the opposite wall of the 
canyon,” Elunen reasoned, “or he may have been struck by debris. But 
his breathing and heartbeat are normal. Have patience. He will 
recover.” Forcing Tathar to briefly face her instead of Legolas, she 
dabbed at the raw scratches on the young elf‘s face.

Langcyll stood at the entrance of the cave, where Fanfirith and 
Thalatirn kept watch. He could hear the howl of wargs over the wind. 
*If those monstrous wolves think they can take advantage of this 
misfortune, they are sadly mistaken,* he thought fiercely, scowling 
out into the blizzard.

“Langcyll!” Elunen called. “Legolas is coming round.”

The captain rushed back to the fireside where Legolas lay wrapped in a 
blanket, and found that sure enough, the youngest warrior was moaning 
and tossing his head. “Easy, Legolas, you are safe,” Langcyll said, 
putting a hand on his shoulder.

The prince’s eyes opened suddenly, though he did not flail or cry out. 
He looked about him in confusion and asked, “Where are we?”

“Under shelter a ways beyond the pass,” Langcyll told him. “Do you 
remember?”

Legolas closed his eyes, and his companions saw him fail to suppress a 
shiver. “An avalanche.” Then his eyes flew open, “Tathar, and the 
oth--”

“I am here, Legolas,” Tathar laughed a bit shakily. “And everyone is 
safe. You were the last found.” Legolas seized his friend’s hand in 
relief.

Rising, Langcyll said, “We shall camp here for the night, and mount a 
double watch at the entrance. Those who are not on watch, rest. 
Especially you, Legolas. And I will not insist now, but you must eat 
ere we depart tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Legolas moved his blanket further from the fire, then lay 
back down and fell asleep almost at once.

***

Legolas felt well enough, and the others agreed that the company was 
able to depart soon after dawn. With the orcs in hiding, there was 
little point in hunting by night, for spiders would not be found in 
these mountains during the winter and wargs were easier to spot by 
day. 

“I do not know why we refer to sunrise during the winter as dawn at 
all,” Tathar remarked as he and Legolas walked side by side, as 
always. “This impenetrable blanket of cloud merely becomes light 
enough to see by. The sun never shows her face.”

“I never actively disliked winter until now,” Legolas agreed, 
squinting through the blowing snow. The wargs were howling almost 
continuously with the wind, and he would have given anything for the 
sheer noise in these mountains to cease.

On one hand, Legolas was relieved none of the other warriors had been 
hurt, but on the other, he wished he had not been the only one in 
serious trouble. His comrades now hovered about him the way they had 
during the first few days of the journey, and they seemed to have 
remembered that he was also a prince. *At least I should have been 
able to lose this accursed crown in the avalanche,* he thought 
crossly. By some unhappy chance, it had remained on his head through 
it all, an ill reminder of the nobility he had spent nearly two years 
trying to live down.

“So, how do you like the mountains now, young Legolas?” Glanaur teased 
from beside him.

Legolas smiled wryly, “I think I prefer them green.” The others 
laughed. It was not the first time during the trip that Legolas had 
been seriously injured--eight months before, he had taken an arrow 
clean through the shoulder--but he knew from the others’ behavior that 
he must have been close to death from lack of oxygen when they found 
him. It was an unsettling thought, and he would be glad when the 
colors and smells of spring put it from all their minds.

Ahead, Elunen raised her hand and stopped the party. They were coming 
to a path between high rocks, relatively shielded from snow but 
narrow, high-walled, adorned with icicles, with little space to move 
once inside. Legolas frowned. He could see nothing, but she was right, 
something was amiss. Then he realized; the warg howling had ceased. 
And this tight trail would be the perfect place for an ambush. 

Langcyll rode to the front to confer with Elunen. “There is no other 
way short of turning back and rounding this peak in the opposite 
direction,” he said.

“That would take us through the pass again,” Elunen muttered, 
grimacing back at Legolas, who was not exactly enthusiastic about the 
idea himself.

“It is not an option; with all this snow, the pass will be completely 
blocked by now.” Langcyll scowled, clearly worried. “We must move 
forward, though they await us.”

“Then let us send some of the part on foot over the rocks on the sides 
of the path to watch for wargs, and the rest shall lead the horses 
through,” Elunen suggested.

Langcyll clearly disliked the idea, but apparently could not think of 
anything better. *And the longer we stand here, the more time the 
wargs will have to make ready for us,* Legolas thought grimly. *This 
will not be a pleasant walk.*

“Elunen, you shall take the scouts over the rocks. Half of the party 
shall go with you. The rest, take two horses each, and have your bows 
ready. We shall fly as soon as they are in position,” Langcyll 
ordered.

Legolas and Tathar handed their leads to two of the other warriors, 
and joined the group following Elunen over the steep rocks, bows 
ready. There was no doubt in their minds that the wargs waited here, 
and their only choice was to strike first and secure the trail for 
their horses. No sooner had Elunen gained the first sharp boulders 
that a savage growl sounded, and a massive wolf launched itself from 
between the rocks, aiming to tear out her throat.

The warrioress slid swiftly back down, taking a deep slash in the 
shoulder from the creature’s claws, but its momentum carried it over 
her, where it was felled at once by elven arrows. “Come!” she shouted 
at her companions, and the scouts charged up the rock formations on 
either side of the trail. 

Legolas was not far behind her, and saw great wargs emerging from 
everywhere, dozens of them. Their hunger had driven them into a 
massive pack, which dared challenge an elf party in the hopes of 
staving off starvation. Legolas took his stand to Elunen’s right and 
drew arrow after arrow, dropping the wolves even as more came charging 
at them. The other four scouts were encountering the same troubles on 
the north side of the trail. Behind him, Legolas heard Langcyll shout, 
“Fly now!” and the warriors led the horses into the path at a run.

Most of the wargs continued to concentrate on the nearest elves, but 
some soon smelled the horses and went for the trail to spring. Legolas 
leapt up to the edge of the high rocks and took two of them down. 
“Legolas!”

The prince turned on hearing the cry of his name just in time to fling 
himself to one side as a warg lunged straight for him. His foot 
slipped on a patch of ice upon the rocks and he went down, frantically 
trying to catch himself as the warg recovered and went for Tathar, who 
was aiming at another down the slope. Drawing his knife, Legolas 
slashed at the warg’s face as it passed, putting out an eye. The 
creature writhed and screamed, blasting Legolas with its hot, foul 
breath, it was so close. Its jaws open in fury and pain, the warg went 
for him again, but it could no longer see properly, and Legolas 
plunged his knife under its chin as it came. 

The weight of the wolf knocked him off balance, and over the edge of 
the high rocks. Everything seemed to slow down. Legolas saw the stone 
he grabbed to catch himself break loose in his hand, and he hurtled 
over the edge--the path appeared beneath him, and he could see the 
expressions of horror on the elves leading the horses through. Rather 
dispassionately, he thought, *This fall shall likely break my neck.*

All at once, a hand seized his flailing wrist, saving him from a 
plunge that would seriously injure, if not kill him. Legolas found 
himself hanging over the side of the rocks, with Tathar gripping his 
wrist with both hands. “I have you!”

“Tathar!” Legolas cried, seeing a wounded warg dragging itself along 
the rocks toward them. “Look out!”

“I see it! Pull yourself up!”

Legolas struggled, but the rocks along the edge were coated with 
slippery ice, and he could not gain a foothold. The warg was coming 
closer. “You cannot! You must defend yourself!”

“Come ON!” With a fierce yank, Tathar heaved his friend back up onto 
the rocks, but the momentum flung them both backward and they tumbled 
together down the rocks again. Legolas righted himself first and 
gasped as another warg charged straight for his face, but an arrow 
from Elunen felled it feet away. He and Tathar clambered to their feet 
as they heard Langcyll’s shouting that the horses were through.

The elves scrambled over the rocks, all too willing to escape the 
death trap they had found themselves in, and make a stand on safer 
ground. The wargs were not about to let them escape this place, and 
swiftly followed. But no sooner had the foul wolves exposed themselves 
coming down the rocks after the fleeing elves, than they met a barrage 
of arrows from Langcyll and his group, who waited with the horses. 
Legolas reached the group, bruised, aching, and breathing hard, and 
turned back toward the path to see the fallen bodies of the wolves. 
“We’ll not be dealing with this pack again,” Langcyll said briskly. 
“Let us go.”

As they led the horses away, Legolas turned to Tathar, “I am in your 
debt.”

With his characteristic snort, Tathar shook his head, “I am better at 
keeping tally of dead orcs and wargs than the number of times one of 
us has saved the other’s life, Legolas. You owe me nothing, for I too 
should be dead many times over but for you.”

“Besides which,” Elunen said from behind them, “he is your comrade in 
arms, Legolas. Each member of the party owes a life debt to any and 
all their comrades from the moment they join. You owe him nothing more 
than Tathar owes to you or any of the others. It is the way of all 
warriors.”

“And besides that,” Tathar added, with a sly note in his voice that 
immediately raised Legolas’s guard, “I believe I passed your score 
this time. Did you keep count, by any chance?”

Legolas glared at him, but paused with a frown, “Six--no, seven.”

With a sickening grin, Tathar drawled, “Eleven.”

“Curse you!” Tathar, along with the warriors nearest them, burst into 
laughter, and they continued their snowy walk with lighter hearts. 

***

A few days later…

“I think I have seen more blizzards in the past two winters than in 
all my life before in Mirkwood,” Legolas remarked, shoving snow away 
from the top of his bedroll. 

The company had camped for the night and those elves not on watch had 
spread their bedrolls under rocks and bushes, trying to find some 
shelter from the blowing snow and piling drifts. Legolas, Tathar, and 
Tuilinn were huddled together beneath several leaning rock formations 
that provided a buffer against the blizzard. But the snow continuously 
piled up, and Legolas and Tathar had already had one rude awakening 
when a drift had collapsed into their rock shadow--right onto their 
heads.

“Now you see why we have so few bad blizzards in Mirkwood,” grumbled 
Tuilinn from the other side of Tathar, turning over and pulling her 
blanket more tightly over her. “The storm clouds vent their fury in 
the mountains most of the time. How I hate winters in the mountains!”

“You knew we would face at least two,” Legolas said to her. “Why did 
you come?”

Tuilinn had burrowed so deep into her blankets that only her light 
blue eyes were uncovered, but Legolas sensed she was grinning at him. 
“Why did you?”

“I wished to…travel far and see much,” Legolas lied slightly. “I had 
never been to the mountains outside Mirkwood.”

“Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Close that great cavern in your face, Tathar. You are not exactly 
far-traveled yourself.” Legolas yanked Tathar’s blanket over his 
friend’s head, muffling a retort. He went on over Tuilinn’s giggles, 
“But you have done so before, Tuilinn, and you knew what was in store 
for us. Why did you not go south, or on one of the plains missions, or 
to Lorien?”

Tuilinn shrugged, “I have been to the mountains before--many times, 
actually--but never have I crossed them end-to-end. I chose this 
mission because of its challenges and discomforts, not in spite of 
them. It is something I have not done, and I will go many places I 
have not gone. And with Langcyll.”

“He is a great captain,” Tathar said, finally freeing his blanket from 
Legolas’s hand and pulling it down to his chin. “I am glad he leads 
us.”

“Did you know that Gwilwileth and Glanaur were asked to lead different 
war parties and they chose this one? Even the most seasoned warriors 
will go to great lengths to travel with Langcyll. Fanfirith, Fandoll, 
and Nathron were all offered command of the Lonely Mountain mission, 
but they chose instead to travel with Langcyll. Many of us choose to 
stay with him. He is a worthy leader. And especially during these dark 
times, it is best to cast one’s lot with the finest of the warriors.” 
Tuilinn greatly admired the ranking members of their party.

“Strange, is it not, that none of his children became warriors?” mused 
Tathar. 

“Not especially,” Tuilinn replied. “My father was a healer, my mother 
an artisan, but I chose to be a warrior. They disliked the decision, 
for they prefer creating to destroying, so they said. I think all 
children desire to choose their own path, and more often than not, 
that means picking something different from their parents, to 
distinguish their own desires from those of their kindred.”

“True,” Tathar agreed. He snickered, “But my parents were both 
warriors, at least for a time, and I chose to become one to please 
myself. Do you suppose that reflects badly upon my character?”

“Everything reflects badly upon your character, Tathar,” Legolas said 
blandly, and then neatly rolled to one side to escape a clout.

Tuilinn giggled, and said, “But your choice was also to your own mind. 
I think it is a matter of chance whether children will follow in the 
footsteps of parents. In the end, we all wish to do what we please.”

Legolas had fallen silent during the exchange. Turning over to face 
away from his friends, he thought, *Father never disapproved of my 
desire to train as a warrior. He encouraged me to learn the skills. 
But…when I truly wanted to travel anywhere, that he discouraged. And I 
have never been easy with this nobility. Was it merely rebelliousness, 
or am I justified?* He looked at the crown’s silver edge peeking out 
from his pack. *I do not think it is an active desire to rebel against 
our parents that makes us choose our path. It is just that often our 
desires are different, and parents cannot always accept it. I think if 
Langcyll had been my father, I would still have chosen to be a 
warrior.*

With a soft “whump,” a pile of snow gave way and fell right onto 
Tathar and Tuilinn’s heads--their faces had been very close together 
at the time. Legolas sat up in surprise at their yelps, and began to 
laugh. “Ai!” Tathar sat up, brushing at the snow and knocking most of 
it onto Tuilinn. She squealed in protest, and Legolas laughed harder. 
“Oh, cease, Legolas, and help us get this out before we get wet!”

Struggling to stifle his laughter, Legolas attempted to heave the snow 
back out, but only succeeded in dislodging more on top of himself. He 
yelped in turn, and glared at his friends who were now giggling at 
him. Seizing a handful of snow, he walloped Tathar in the face, 
earning a cry of protest. 

Tuilinn giggled and swiftly fashioned a snowball of her own, wasting 
no time to pelt Legolas in turn. Tathar leapt upon Legolas then and 
began attempting to shovel snow into his bedroll. “This is not fair! 
You cannot--mmph!--both gang up on me!” Legolas exclaimed, wriggling 
to get free of Tuilinn’s grasp as Tathar dumped snow upon his head.

“You should have thought of that before!” declared Tuilinn, and went 
for more snow. 

Legolas squirmed free and dropped a wet handful of slush down the back 
of her tunic, laughing as she shrieked. “Aiii! You’ll pay for that, 
you fiend!”

“Come, then! Take--ai! Let go!”

“Hold him, Tath! I’ve got another one!”

“Get him, Tuilinn, quick!”

“Get off me, you great troll, you could never take me yourself--ow! 
Tuilinn, there was a rock in that thing!” 

“Oh, Legolas, I’m sor--agh! You’re soaking my blanket! Oh, no you 
don’t, give me that! Ai! Look out, Tath, he‘s got--”

“OW!” 

From his own small shelter beneath a stone arch not far away, Langcyll 
had been watching and listening to the talk of the three young 
warriors--and grinning to himself as the snow piled higher and higher 
without their notice. He had predicted that one or all of them would 
very soon get a cold shower if they did not remember to watch the 
drifts. But Tathar and Tuilinn had been too interested in each other 
to see it coming, and Legolas had discreetly been looking the other 
way. Now Langcyll muffled his chuckles in his arms as a small 
snow-wrestling match broke out between the three--started by Legolas, 
to boot.

Langcyll had not been surprised that Legolas had dropped out of the 
conversation when the subject turned to parents and rebellious 
children. It was true, Langcyll’s three sons had all chosen the art of 
something other than war. They all got on well with their father, 
their interests had simply been different. Langcyll thought, *In the 
heart of every parent lies the hope that our children will have 
desires and futures similar to our own, so that we might be better 
prepared to guide them. But it is unwise to try and force them. We 
must look for other ways to help them in life.*

With a smile, he watched as Legolas, scrambling to escape the tangled 
bedrolls, was tackled directly into a snowdrift by Tathar. And the 
thought came unbidden to his mind, as it had many times during the 
past eighteen months, and undoubtedly would come again. *Would that he 
had been my son.*

***

Six months later…

“At last,” Tathar pointed at the small blossoms beginning to open 
among the grasses that had finally reappeared on the mountainside, 
gleaming in the moonlight. “I thought that winter would never end.”

The other warriors nodded in agreement. When the first tender shoots 
of green grass had begun to appear through the blanket of snow, 
Legolas had found himself mincing as he walked--loathe to step on 
them. The reappearance of the sun on the slopes had been greeted with 
great joy.

“We shall be in Imladris within a month,” Langcyll remarked, gazing at 
the landscape from the high cliff they were passing over.

“I shall die of shock, seeing more than fifteen elves at any given 
time,” Legolas remarked, and the others chuckled.

Tuilinn, walking close to Tathar, smiled past him at Legolas, “I was 
the same when I returned from my first long mission. But it is 
pleasant as well, seeing old friends.”

“I shall be glad to see Imladris again after all this time,” Tathar 
remarked, ruffling Tuilinn’s unbound hair. During the winter, it had 
appeared the typical brown of Mirkwood, but with the return of the sun 
from behind winter’s clouds, Tuilinn’s curly tresses had been 
brightened to their usual color--an astonishingly rare shade of red. 
How like Tathar it had been to wind up keeping company with the 
prettiest of the she-elves in the party.

“When we arrive,” Langcyll was saying in the front of the formation, 
“we shall stay in Imladris at least a week or two to tell of our 
mission and hear reports of other journeys from their warriors. Then 
we shall depart south towards Moria.”

“Wonderful, more dwarves,” groused Galithil.

How many Imladris warriors will join our party?” Legolas asked Elunen, 
who led her horse just in front of them.

“We’ll not know the exact number until we arrive and hear the stories 
of the other war parties. There will be much news for us, having been 
out of contact in the mountains for so long,” the warrioress replied.

Legolas was uncertain of whether hearing all the news of Middle Earth 
would be a good thing, but Tathar sighed and said eagerly, “These last 
few weeks shall be unbearable. I cannot wait to see our kindred 
again.”

“It will be a merry reunion, to be sure,” agreed Elunen. “But we shall 
likely encounter some of their parties as we draw closer to Rivendell. 
So we shall hear news of home sooner still.”

Tathar grinned eagerly, “And to think, in spite of all the foul 
creatures plaguing these mountains, we have arrived without losing a 
one of our company.”

Elunen had been a warrior captain for many centuries, and the younger 
elves saw a shadow of memory cross her fair face. With a slight 
grimace, she murmured, “May the Valar grant that this blessing holds.”

***

With the return of spring had come the old routine of hunting by night 
and resting by day. “This seems a likely spot,” Langcyll remarked as 
the company came upon a wide, grassy glade on the mountainside, 
exposed to the sun’s warmth. The warriors needed no urging to make 
camp. 

Legolas and Tathar spread their bedrolls side by side, as always, then 
went to look around. “Forget not to get some sleep along with your 
sightseeing,” Tuilinn called, spreading her bedroll on the other side 
of Tathar.

“Ah, how glad I am to find sights to see,” Tathar sighed, pointing at 
an apple tree on the far side of the camp, its branches a mass of pale 
blossoms. 

Legolas followed him closer, peering up and no less pleased by the 
gleaming sight, although, “What a pity we did not arrive a few months 
later, for then there would be many apples.”

Tathar shook his head, “Even an apple tree I prefer to see with 
blossoms, though we cannot yet eat its fruit. It seems a work of art.”

“And for your tastes, Legolas,” Tuilinn joined them, three small dried 
apples in her hands from the food supplies. Sitting upon a root 
beneath the tree next to Tathar, she smiled, “But for myself I agree 
with Tathar, there is no merrier sight than a tree in blossom.”

Tathar smiled at her, and Legolas beat a hasty retreat. Though Legolas 
considered every one of the company his dearest friends, he had not 
developed such a fondness for any of the she-elves in the party. 
Though at times like these, he envied Tathar somewhat, he was content 
most of the time to be glad for him. The same youthful restlessness 
that had driven him in horror from the thought of marriage two years 
ago still gave him no desire to establish lasting relations with 
anyone. 

*I am young and restless yet for such things. There will be time 
enough for thoughts of love and romance later, when I have seen all I 
wish to see. I would not wish myself on any maiden in my present 
adventurous state.*

Three of the other warriors were beginning their watch, and Legolas 
had no other business to keep him occupied, so he took the opportunity 
to sleep under the sun. *How pleasant to enjoy a few hours peace here 
on this hillside. The shadow does not seem so near today.* 

***

He awoke with a start some time later, even as the other sleeping 
elves were rising to Langcyll’s order to begin breaking camp. The sun 
was nearly down, and Legolas needed no pause for thought to realize 
what sense had awakened him. “Langcyll!” he called.

“I know. We should have seen the cave on the rock face above us. They 
will come as soon as the last rays of light have gone. We shall await 
them.”

“How many?” Tathar asked, rolling up his blankets and carrying them to 
his horse.

“Not a terribly large band, but if that cave is their stronghold, as 
Elunen seems to think, they will be especially hot to destroy us. We 
must be on our guard,” Glanaur told him.

“When are we ever not?” Tathar whispered to Legolas and Tuilinn, who 
giggled in spite of themselves.

Langcyll had been right; even as the last red beams faded from the 
sky, a great, awful shrieking arose from the mountain slope above 
them, and the sound of running feet heralded the approach of an orc 
band. An arrow embedded itself in the ground near Tathar’s foot, then 
all the warriors aimed at up the mountainside and loosed their own 
arrows.

The full moon, rising in a great orange globe on the horizon, provided 
more than enough light for the archers of both sides. The elves spread 
out as the orc band--nearly fifty strong--poured toward them. Many 
fell to elvish arrows, but they kept coming. 

“Ai!” an arrow caught Tuilinn in the side where she stood near the 
apple tree, glowing white in the moonlight. Tathar raced from 
Legolas’s side and stood protectively before her, bidding her stay 
against the tree.

The foul beasts tore into the camp site. Legolas drew his knives and 
awaited their charge as Langcyll continued to shoot. Then the orcs 
were upon them, and there was little time to think, only to act. 
Legolas slashed the face of the first creature that came for him, and 
the arrows of elves and orcs zipped through the air. 

He ducked under the swung knife of an orc and stabbed the creature in 
the gut. A swipe from another caught the flesh of his wrist, but he 
paid it no need--such nicks were commonplace these days. Four 
sword-wielding orcs then set upon him at once, and he grabbed a torch 
and waved them back, his knife in his other hand.

Though they retreated from the torch’s reach, the group of orcs did 
not desist altogether. One drew an arrow and Legolas danced out of the 
way. *I must strike or drive some of them off,* he thought swiftly. As 
he glanced past them at the other fighting forms, movement beneath the 
glowing tree caught his eye.



Time seemed to crawl…



Tuilinn, kneeling against the trunk with an arrow in her side, but 
armed with her bow, was shooting orcs as they came at her and Tathar. 
But the foul creatures knew one of the pair was wounded, and had begun 
to concentrate their efforts. Tathar had picked up an orc sword in one 
hand, his knife in the other, and was fighting fiercely, driving the 
orcs back. 

But still they came, over a dozen. “Tathar!” Legolas cried and charged 
forward, the torch before him to force the orcs back. But three more 
hand come up behind him, and he was forced to turn and deal with them. 
*I must get to him before he or Tuilinn are injured more. There are 
too many for them!* Legolas frantically swept the torch out and set 
two orcs ablaze, causing the ugly beasts to flee, screaming in agony. 
He turned back and ran frantically towards the apple tree, but more 
orcs soon stood in his way. 

He could see Tathar sweep the sword and knock aside an arrow aimed for 
his face. Another pair of orcs wielding knives were shot down by 
Tuilinn’s arrows. Legolas lost the torch but not before he set another 
orc on fire. Grabbing a sword of his own, he slashed indiscriminately 
at every foul beast who blocked his path to his friends’ aid.

Tathar cleaved one orc’s arm right from its body as it came at him 
with a dagger. Two more came with spears, and Tuilinn shot one between 
the eyes. 

Legolas ducked under a slashing blade and cut the attacking orc’s 
throat. *Hold on, hold on…*

Tathar lost his sword and instead shoved his knife into the chest of 
another orc that tried to get past him and attack Tuilinn. But the 
move put him in front of her bow, preventing her from shooting the orc 
that came at him with a spear. “Look out!” she screamed.

Tathar turned and raised his knife. Too late.

“NO!!!” 

Legolas did not even realize that the cry he heard was his own.

The long orc spear point pierced Tathar’s shoulder, driving him back, 
his knife flying from his hand, pinning him against the tree trunk. 
Tuilinn cried out and shot the orc, but the spear left Tathar trapped 
and helpless. Legolas ran with all his might, sweeping his sword and 
dismembering anything that got in his way.

Another orc dodged one of Tuilinn’s arrows and came forth with his 
sword--driving it straight into Tathar’s abdomen, lodging itself in 
the tree trunk. Then the creature found itself caught from behind, its 
head driven clean off its body by the sword of Legolas. His eyes 
stinging, Legolas cried, “Tathar--”

“Beware, Legolas,” Tathar gasped, his eyes behind his friend.

Legolas turned, and swinging with wild rage, tore into the orcs that 
had dared harm his companions. There were few orcs left to threaten 
the elves now, and those who remained were attempting to flee the 
camp. The shrieks of the ones disemboweled by Legolas proved the final 
warning, and the scant dozen or so remaining orcs broke and ran. A few 
of the warriors followed to dispatch the ones they could.

Legolas turned frantically back to Tathar. “By the Valar,” he 
breathed, uncertain of what to do. He knew pulling the sword and spear 
out would cause Tathar to bleed more, but his friend would not remain 
upright against the tree much longer, and his weight would widen the 
wounds. His heart was pounding harder than it had in the worst of the 
battles. Never before had he known such fear. Choked by panic and 
despair, he whispered, “Hold on. This will hurt.”

Tathar squeezed his eyes shut and Legolas pulled out spear and sword, 
then caught his friend as he fell, easing him to the ground with 
shaking hands.. He was peripherally aware of Tuilinn’s sobs as she 
watched, but she was not mortally wounded, and he could see nothing 
but Tathar. Kneeling beside him, Legolas looked in horror at the deep 
wounds, trying to figure out how to bind them.

Blood ran from his friend’s mouth as Legolas struggled to staunch the 
flow from his wounds. “You will be all right, you will be all right,” 
he chanted softly in a trembling voice as he fumbled with the strips 
he had torn from a stray blanket into makeshift bandages.

Tathar’s hand caught him, “Leave off, Legolas. It is no good.”

“No!” Legolas whispered, appalled, and struggled again to bind the 
injuries. 

Tathar, his face twisted with pain, laughed weakly, “How stubborn you 
are, as always.”

“I will not let you go,” Legolas growled, as his throat tightened 
until he could barely breathe, and tears made it difficult to see what 
he was doing.

Tathar murmured hazily, “You never did know…when to give up…my lord.”

“Do not call me that!” Legolas cried, choking on his sobs.

“It’s…my duty…remember? To tease you…” Tathar’s dark gray eyes drifted 
closed, and his face had begun to look more relaxed and less pained. 
Blood was soaking the grass beneath him, and the cloth Legolas was 
pressing against his wounds. “You-are-noble, Legolas. I’ve…known you 
all our lives. I should know. Noble in…rank and heart.” Tathar’s 
breathing was faltering.

“No! You can-not-leave-me! Tathar--” the blood would not stop. Legolas 
gripped his friend’s shoulders desperately, “No, no…”

“We’ve…been through much…together…my dearest friend. But remember…who 
we are…warriors. We knew…such-a-thing…might hap-pen. You-will-go-on. 
You-must.” Forcing his eyes open, and breath into his lungs for the 
energy for one last act, Tathar reached up and gripped Legolas’s arm 
in the parting gesture of warriors, “Farewell, Legolas. My friend.”

His arm dropped. The struggling breaths ceased.

Gasping, Legolas fumbled for Tathar’s neck. There was no pulse. 
Tathar’s eyes had closed. “Tathar?” he whispered, staring in complete 
disbelief. Weakly, he shook Tathar‘s shoulders as though trying to 
rouse him. “N-no…” *This cannot be happening this cannot be happening 
no it is not true it is not real it cannot be--*

“Legolas.” 

He heard nothing, sensed nothing, saw nothing save Tathar, still lying 
there with his eyes closed in that strange fashion. The youngest 
warrior simply knelt there, oblivious to Langcyll’s quiet call of his 
name from just behind him, or the other warriors just behind Langcyll, 
many who wept in despair at seeing one of their comrades slain.

“Legolas.”

*How can he perish? We will be in Imladris in a few weeks. We will see 
Elladan and Elrohir and Faron and Arwen. I cannot go home without him. 
What will I tell Merilin and Candrochon and our friends and our 
families and--*

Hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him anxiously, “Legolas!”

“No!” With a wild cry, like the breaking of a dam, Legolas flung 
himself across Tathar, pulling the lifeless form into his arms, 
burying his face in his friend’s black hair as sobs overtook him, 
shaking his whole body. “No, no, no…”



***** Poor Tathar, I had such a great time writing his character, it 
broke my heart to kill him. (Sniffle) We all know the next chapter is 
going to be very angsty. Don’t forget to review!





Character Guide to the Mirkwood War Party:

Langcyll--captain of the company, ranking warrior of Mirkwood, 
Legolas’s novice master Elunen--Langcyll’s second-in-command 
Gwilwileth, Glanaur --warrior captains of Limloeth’s generation, 
Langcyll and Elunen’s lieutenants Fandoll, Fanfirith, Nathron --other 
senior warriors, experienced enough to start leading missions Tuilinn, 
Edlothia, Galithil, Fandoll, Thalatirn, Caranaur--experienced but 
young warriors, a few centuries older than Legolas, not seasoned 
enough to command yet Legolas, Tathar--first-year warriors, just came 
of age, have a long way to go yet before they’re considered seasoned

Lanthir--Legolas’s horse Sadron--Tathar’s horse

Other War Parties: The Lonely Mountain mission--led by Eregdos, a 
warrior captain, and Legolas’s friend Candrochon is a member The 
Anduin mission--led by Narbeleth, a warrior captain, and Legolas’s 
friend Merilin is a member 

----------------------------------------------------------- (Heavy 
sigh) Thanks so much for all the reviews, and the great compliments 
about Tathar’s character and his untimely demise--WAAAAAAAA!!! (Okay, 
okay, I’m over it! But Legolas sure isn’t!) 

***This chapter contains several flashbacks, all dialogue, most of 
which can be identified pretty easily as scenes or “missing scenes” 
from previous chapters. The final flashback is a scene that took place 
before this story began. 

* Denotes unspoken thought* **Denotes flashbacks**

There’s no action in this chapter, I’m afraid. And this one is another 
LOOONNG one, as I’m sure you can imagine, heavy on the angst and 
soul-searching. So those of you who love the angst and deep-thinking 
kind of thing, hope you like it. And those of you who can’t wait to 
get back to the orc-bashing--give Legolas a moment, for pity’s sake!

***For those of you who expressed concerns, let me reiterate…there is 
NO romance in this fic of any kind! Be not alarmed if Legolas makes 
friends with a member of the opposite sex--that’s as far as it’ll go. 
Also, as far as the apples go…oops, you can tell I’m not a farmer! Oh 
well, I tried to adjust it a little in this chapter, but otherwise, 
let’s just say apples grow a lot faster in Middle Earth! ;-) (That 
would explain why the hobbits ALWAYS seem to have apples, no matter 
what time of year it is!)

To Charysa: Just so you know, I don’t have a specific age for Legolas, 
but he’s at least a thousand years old in this fic. In my universe, 
elf warriors have to train for centuries as novices. So he is much 
older than the others, though I think I’ll be making Aragorn closer to 
the age the movie has him. 
-----------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Ten: Of Places Left Behind



They buried him under the apple tree.

***

It was all that Langcyll could do not to sob with despair himself at 
the sight of his warriors’ grief. *Curse the Valar! How could these 
foul beasts of Sauron have claimed one of the youngest of our number?! 
How vicious is fate!*

After the battle, Langcyll had returned from chasing down and shooting 
the last remaining orcs to find all the other warriors crowded around 
the apple tree, and the sound of their desperate weeping that could 
mean only one thing. Frantic with horror, the company’s captain had 
rushed through them, to find Legolas kneeling beside Tathar’s body, 
and Tuilinn clutching the base of the tree and sobbing helplessly, 
oblivious to the arrow in her side.

For several moments, Langcyll had been unable to move or think, so 
shocked and grieved was he. He had also forgotten to breathe, and it 
was only when his body forced him to take a gulp of air that he 
remembered who he was. And what he must do. He had set some of the 
warriors on watch, ordered others to care for the wounded, and they 
had done so, but still they wept. Langcyll himself had gone to 
Legolas.

The warrior captain of Mirkwood had known, even as he shook Legolas 
out of his stupor and then dragged him out of the distraught anguish 
that inevitably followed, that there was nothing he could do to ease 
this moment for the youngest of his warriors. *His best and oldest 
friend.* Langcyll cursed fate again. The young elf had learned of the 
reality of death among warriors when Gaerongil had been slain, but to 
lose one of his own companions, and his dearest friend, so soon--now, 
as then, Langcyll feared for the prince. For an elf, physical wounds 
were not the only mortal blow.

The last of the earth had been placed back over the grave, and a stone 
bearing Tathar’s name (Gwilwileth and Glanaur had spent six hours 
carving it.) Tuilinn, trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to contain 
her sobs, had laid a branch of apple blossoms before the stone. The 
warriors had prayed and sung laments for the brave young warrior who 
had proven himself with such promise, and perished so early. But now 
the courage and merriment of his youth would live forever.

Legolas did not sing. Langcyll was not surprised; the friendship 
between the two had been so great that it would be a very long time 
before Legolas could sing, speak, or even think of it without being 
overcome by grief. As it was, Legolas stood completely motionless 
beside the tree where Tathar was buried. Throughout their funeral, he 
had looked nowhere except down. He did weep aloud like many of the 
others, but tears streamed continuously down his face. Since the 
previous night, between preparing for the funeral and watching for 
orcs, Langcyll had kept an eye on Legolas as often as he could, and 
from what he had seen and the others had said--in the past sixteen 
hours, Legolas had not stopped crying.

But now the burial was done, and the company had to press on. “Ready 
the horses,” Langcyll told his warriors quietly. “We must ride for 
Imladris.”

Wiping tears from their eyes and forcing their grief back down, the 
war party did as he had bidden. Not surprisingly, Legolas tarried 
beside Tathar’s grave, and Langcyll left him alone for a few moments. 
But when the horses were nearly ready, he turned back in time to see 
Legolas kneel and push something into the soft earth beneath the apple 
blossoms. Langcyll caught a glint of silver. With a deep, shuddering 
breath, the prince of Mirkwood rose, and seeing Langcyll watching him, 
came to join the others. Langcyll put a hand on the young elf’s arm as 
he passed and Legolas looked at him. The prince’s dark grey eyes were 
so clouded by bewilderment and pain that it all but broke the 
captain’s heart. In a quiet voice, Legolas said, “He was nobler than I 
shall ever be.”

Langcyll watched him closely as Legolas finished packing Lanthir, then 
abruptly turned to Sadron. Tathar’s mount hung his head, knowing in 
the mysterious way of elven horses that his rider would never return. 
Stroking Sadron’s neck, Legolas slipped the lead from him. “Farewell, 
Faithful One. Return to us when you are ready, and roam free until 
then. See the world as he was not able to.” He let go, and Sadron 
galloped away down the mountainside.

“It is time, Legolas,” Langcyll said.

With an absent nod, Legolas mounted Lanthir and joined the company. 
None of the other warriors had noticed the missing crown of Mirkwood. 
Langcyll doubted he himself would have noticed, had he not seen what 
Legolas had done with it. But he had no intention of mentioning it 
now. Or ever. *By the sixth week of our journey, only Tathar still 
called him “my lord.” Even when we return to Mirkwood, though I may 
dare the king‘s displeasure, I shall never address him so again. Only 
Tathar had that right.*

Riding to the front of the formation, Langcyll raised his hand and 
gave the order to move out. Thirty-six hours after riding into this 
sunlit glade that had brought them such joy on its discovery, the war 
party of Mirkwood rode forth from it, having found there only death 
and grief.

*** Legolas allowed Lanthir to follow the other horses and twisted 
around on his mount’s back, staring at the flowering apple tree, and 
the grave beneath it, until they were lost from view when the party 
rounded a bend. Turning forward again, he felt fresh new tears sliding 
down his face. Since the previous night, he did not think he had 
managed to stop weeping for more than five minutes at any given time. 

*How could he leave me? Would that I had died myself rather than be 
forced to journey on without him! I cannot go on without him!* 
Outwardly, Legolas was expressionless other than the telltale tear 
streaks, but inside raged a frenzied tempest of grief, anger, 
hopelessness. Never in his existence, long to men but short by elven 
standards, had Legolas felt so utterly lost. 

Langcyll had told him the night before, even as he clung hysterically 
to Tathar, that he still owed his allegiance to the company. “We must 
move on and reach Rivendell,” the captain had said as Legolas wept. 
“Then there will be time. Now, your companions need you. When we are 
safely in Imladris, you must give yourself time.”

*Time for what, without Tathar?* Legolas thought numbly. Somehow, that 
black night, he had risen and gone to help his wounded--but still 
living--comrades. Somehow, he had managed to carry on, for their sake, 
because he did not wish for them to lose hope. *For myself, if there 
is any hope, then I cannot see it.*

*** The party rode very hard on that last leg of the journey to 
Rivendell, and encountered wargs thrice and orcs six times during 
those three weeks. There were more wounds, but no deaths, and one 
might almost pity any orc that happened into the company’s path, so 
fiercely did they fight under the new banner of vengeance. During the 
first skirmish with a small party of orcs, nine days after the battle 
by the apple tree, Prince Legolas fought the creatures of Mordor with 
a savagery that was frightening to watch, and killed seven of the ten 
himself. He might well have raced off looking for more had one of his 
comrades not seized him.

On the night following the ninth battle after Tathar of Mirkwood’s 
death, the war party of Langcyll were met by a patrol of elves 
scouting the lands of Imladris. They were escorted by the Imladris 
warriors back to Rivendell, and many of the company wept at the sight 
of its handsome dwellings. Two years was not a terribly long time by 
elven standards, but the last three weeks had seemed far too long to 
bear, with every second a stab of grief. Elves, being immortal, place 
a very great value upon all life, but like all races, the lives of the 
young of their own are the most precious, for they have not yet had 
the chance to see and explore the world. A death like Tathar’s was an 
unimaginable tragedy.

*** Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris, happened 
to be on the outskirts of Imladris on the day that the war party of 
Langcyll arrived. From where they stood speaking to the sentries about 
some other matter altogether, Elladan glanced out down the road. “A 
party of horses comes,” he remarked, seeing no reason for alarm, as 
they came openly.

“One of our patrols?” Elrohir asked, and he and the sentry leaned out 
of the pavilion to look.

“Nay, it is too large. Perhaps a war party,” the sentry said. “There! 
The flag of Thranduil of Mirkwood. And many wood elves. It is the war 
party of Langcyll.”

“They are very late,” Elladan said grimly. “I fear they shall have 
much news for us, and most of it ill. Nor will we have good tidings 
for them of the past two years.”

Elrohir did not speak. He was counting the riders. “They come with our 
patrol of six riders. Do you remember, how many were there to be in 
Langcyll’s company, brother?” 

“Fifteen,” Elladan frowned. “How many warriors of Mirkwood do you 
see?”

With a terrible expression, Elrohir leaned back into the pavilion and 
turned to face his brother. “Only fourteen. And the faces of all are 
shadowed with sorrow. One of the warriors of Mirkwood is lost.”

It was not a great surprise; one had to be prepared for large mountain 
parties to lose warriors. But the news was always grievous 
nonetheless. Tense in anticipation of the grief they would feel on 
hearing the name of the elf lost, the sons of Elrond rode to meet the 
party of Langcyll.

Langcyll rode up in front of the company, beside the lead patrolman of 
Imladris. “Welcome, Langcyll of Mirkwood,” Elladan said, forcing some 
semblance of cheer into his voice. 

“Well met, Elladan of Imladris,” the warrior captain replied. 

“I have sent my brother to inform our father Lord Elrond that you are 
come,” Elladan said, delaying the inevitable bad news. “I assume you 
will wish to see him right away?”

“I fear I must, my lord,” Langcyll said sadly. “We bear ill news from 
the mountains. And we must also beg that a messenger be sent to bring 
sad tidings to Mirkwood.” Elladan held his breath, as Langcyll went 
on, “Three weeks ago, Tathar, son of Alagos, was slain in battle. His 
people must be told.”

Tathar…the name struck Elladan’s memory, and he wanted to weep. 
*Barely two years since the Great Gathering, and already two of the 
Trial delegates have perished. What cruel times we live in!* Aloud, he 
said quietly, “I am grieved indeed, my friend. Tathar was one of the 
champions of Mirkwood, was he not?” 

Langcyll nodded. *And there is another of Faron’s friends, slain. 
Gaerongil’s death nearly destroyed him, and still he grieves. I dread 
his reaction to these ill tidings,* thought Elladan. He sent one of 
the patrol riders to bear the message back to Rivendell ahead of the 
party, so the house of Elrond and all Rivendell might be set into 
mourning as was proper for the death of any elven warrior. And Elladan 
himself rode at Langcyll’s side into Imladris.

*** Lord Elrond was deeply sorrowed when his son Elrohir arrived to 
tell him that the war party of Mirkwood had arrived, many months later 
than expected--and that one of its youngest warriors had been slain. 
The Lord of Imladris swiftly ordered that the news be sent at once to 
all Rivendell, and long before the party arrived, tears and grief upon 
many faces showed that all had heard of the disaster.

*It seems there is no good news to be had anywhere,* Elrond thought, 
wearily leaving the room where he had discovered Arwen weeping upon a 
couch. *The shadow over Mirkwood grows darker by the day, and 
Thranduil cannot be reasoned with on any subject anymore. Two warriors 
of this generation slain within two years of each other, and foul 
creatures plague every road and hill. Even the power of the elves 
seems helpless against this onslaught of darkness.*

Elrond waited by the window until he saw the flags of Mirkwood and 
Imladris rounding the last bend into Rivendell. Tapping gently on the 
doorway of the room he had just left, he said softly, “The party of 
Langcyll is arriving, Arwen. Your presence is needed.”

Raising her face from the cushion, Arwen nodded, drying her tears, and 
rose. Elrohir, his eyes also red, came to join them and took his 
younger sister’s arm. “Prince Legolas is among the company,” Elrohir 
told her softly.

Arwen nodded, blotting at her face with a handkerchief, “I recall 
having heard that the prince had joined the party. It did not surprise 
me; Legolas and Tathar were seldom far apar--” she was forced to cease 
and pressed the handkerchief to her face, closing her eyes. At last, 
she took a deep breath, regaining control. “How grieved he must be.” 
She sighed deeply again and straightened her shoulders, “So we must 
not burden him with our own sorrow as well. He bears enough.”

Elrohir and Arwen followed Lord Elrond out onto the steps of the 
house, to greet the riders as they dismounted. Langcyll came up beside 
Elladan. “Welcome, Langcyll of Mirkwood,” Elrond said. As he exchanged 
pleasantries with the group, his eyes were drawn unavoidably to the 
fair-haired prince in the midst of the warriors, and he felt a renewed 
sorrow. Legolas looked very pale, and his face was deeply shadowed 
with grief and exhaustion. The tragedy of Tathar’s death had taken a 
deep toll.

Returning his attention to the warrior captain, Elrond went on, “You 
have had a long and wearying journey. Your party shall rest here for 
some weeks, then our warriors of Imladris will join you for the drive 
south to Lorien. But first, we must all take the time to assuage our 
grief for the fallen Tathar of Mirkwood. Come,” he led the way back 
into the house. “Your chambers are being made ready.”

Later that afternoon, Elrond had the opportunity to speak to Langcyll 
alone. “How badly has your party been affected?”

The stoic archer always seemed in firm control, but Elrond could see 
past the stern exterior to the deep grief within. “Most of my warriors 
have faced the death of one of their own before. We have all lost 
friends.” Langcyll broke off and gazed out the window. “All, save 
Prince Legolas. Gaerongil was a fellow archer and friend, but Tathar…” 
shaking his head, the captain turned to Elrond with a bleak 
expression. “I am worried. He has been listless for the past three 
weeks, unless we are battling orcs, in which case he turns into a 
possessed madman the minute he sees one of those foul beasts. He does 
not eat or sleep unless I order him to do so. Now here, I fear he will 
neglect himself further where I cannot keep watch on him. Never have I 
lost one of my warriors to grief, and I do not wish Legolas to be the 
first.”

Elrond looked away from the other’s anxious face, troubled still more. 
Glorfindel had feared the same thing, rightly so, after Gaerongil’s 
death; Faron, too, had nearly perished from grief. “These are black 
times, my friend, that our youngest warriors should lose their dearest 
friends so early. But we in Imladris were able to pull Faron through 
his sorrow. We must do the same for Legolas. For now, give him some 
time to overcome his grief on his own. Then, if he does not improve, 
we shall endeavor to aid him.”

*** Two weeks later…

The object of Elrond and Langcyll’s concern stood alone on the balcony 
of his chamber, overlooking a waterfall. He no longer cried 
uncontrollably, but whenever he managed to escape the company of other 
elves, tears still fell just as easily and helplessly as they had the 
day Tathar had been buried. 

The journey to Rivendell had been worse than Legolas had ever 
imagined, and the time since their arrival had shown no improvement. 
Every breath was an effort in itself, every moment of the ride, he 
imagined he could hear Sadron galloping just beside him, and see 
Tathar’s dark head in the corner of his eye. Every night, he lay down 
beneath his blankets and wept silently, unable to sleep for the lack 
of the one who had spread his own blankets next to Legolas for the 
past two years, and trained by his side for centuries before. There no 
longer remained even the tiniest detail of life that held any joy for 
Legolas.

Two weeks had passed since the company’s arrival in Rivendell, and 
Legolas only showed himself when his presence was ordered by Langcyll. 
But the archer captain of Mirkwood had much to deal with now that they 
had arrived in Mirkwood, and Legolas knew Langcyll could not spend his 
time watching over an overwrought warrior. For which Legolas was very 
thankful, otherwise Langcyll would surely hound him endlessly. So 
Legolas was able to hide himself from the others, unable to face his 
own feelings, let alone them. He had little interest in sleep, and 
still less in food. He remained inside most of the time, but this 
afternoon, he had walked out onto the balcony to escape the laughter 
of some elven children passing the chamber, but now his gaze was drawn 
across the river to a large apple tree, its branches laden with tiny 
new fruit. Legolas retreated and drew the curtains, so painful was the 
sight. 

A knock upon the door made him jump. It was Elrohir and Elladan, 
bearing a bottle of wine. “Well, Legolas, two years have told on you. 
We have not yet had the chance to talk. Shall we now?”

Unable to think of an excuse, Legolas nodded, and let them in, 
reopening the curtains. Very little moved him to words these days. He 
supposed he must learn how to speak again sooner or later. The trio 
sat upon the chairs of the balcony and Legolas accepted a goblet from 
Elrohir, avoiding their faces. Sipping the wine gave him the excuse 
not to speak. “Much has happened since we last met,” Elladan remarked 
quietly.

Legolas found that his voice failed him on the first try, but he 
managed to respond at last, “Yes, it has.” Not the wittiest thing he 
had ever said, but he cared not.

“Our warriors too encountered the creatures of Mordor in far greater 
numbers than anticipated. They have infested all the mountains, and 
the southern regions of Mirkwood, we are told.” Elrohir paused, 
apparently expecting a response, but Legolas simply nodded. The older 
elf said slowly, “We are very sorry for the death of Tathar, Legolas. 
I know the wound is fresh yet, but it must be said.”

Legolas looked frantically away, unwilling to share such thoughts with 
anyone. He could not even bare to think of it himself, and blood began 
roaring in his ears. “Forgive me,” he said weakly. “I cannot…” His 
throat closed, cutting off his voice again.

Hastily, Elladan reached past Elrohir and took Legolas’s glass and 
refilled it, handing it back to him. Legolas took a rather large gulp 
and after a moment, he could hear the waterfall again. With an effort, 
he was able to look back at them. Elrohir mercifully did not pursue 
the subject, “Ah…Arwen is only just returned from Lorien. Fortunately, 
the beasts of Mordor have yet to penetrate Lady Galadriel’s land.”

The weight of many sleepless days and nights was beginning to grow 
greater upon Legolas, and he found it difficult to concentrate. He 
answered wearily, “I am glad of that.”

“After all,” Elladan said hastily, “we cannot believe that the shadow 
of Sauron has overpowered the strength of the elves while Lothlorien 
remains free of it. Our Lady’s power still holds sway, so we need not 
despair.”

Legolas’s head felt heavy, and the drowsiness was really becoming too 
much. A soft blackness was creeping onto the edges of his vision. 
Faintly, he replied, “I suppose…it must be true. As long as the Golden 
Wood still lives free…we must not…abandon hope…” The dark cloud rose 
up and wrapped itself around him, and he knew nothing more.

*** Legolas was not the only elf with mischievous elder siblings. 
Arwen happened to be in the hall when she saw her brothers coming from 
the direction of the chamber where the prince was staying. Both 
hesitated upon seeing her, and she paused herself. Staring at them, 
Arwen said, “I fear for all concerned when I see the two of you 
looking so pleased with yourselves. What are you up to?”

The twins exchanged a glance, not smiling, but it was still enough for 
Arwen to place her hands upon her hips and glare at them. “Where is 
Prince Legolas?” she asked, noting the room they had just come from.

With the faintest of smiles, Elladan replied innocently, “He is 
asleep.”

Seeing the nearly empty bottle of wine in Elrohir’s hand, Arwen took 
two outraged steps forward and hissed, “You did NOT get him drunk!”

With a wounded expression, Elrohir said softly, “Sister, have you no 
faith in our subtlety? Langcyll told Father that Legolas has scarcely 
slept or eaten since…” he cocked his head slightly, then pushed 
ruthlessly past the painful subject. “His heart will not be well if 
his body is not,” he went on, speaking quickly. “Father thought it 
would be…for the best if Legolas did not weary himself further.” From 
his pocket, he displayed a small handful of dried herb that crumbled 
easily in his fingers. 

“Olgalas,” Arwen said. Then she folded her arms and asked skeptically, 
“Father told you to drug the prince of Mirkwood?”

The twins exchanged glances again, and this time, they smiled. With a 
shrug, Elladan said, “Perhaps not in so many words.”

With a disgusted shake of her head, Arwen walked past them. Passing 
Legolas’s room, she opened his door a crack and peered in to see that 
he was indeed sound asleep in his bed, so deeply that his eyes were 
nearly closed. She shut the door and continued on her way, thinking 
perhaps a pinch of olgalas in his wine was an easier way to get 
Legolas to rest. Though, she assured herself, she would never 
encourage her brothers by saying such a thing.

*** The following morning, Legolas could not recall the remainder of 
his conversation with Elladan and Elrohir--nor could he recall having 
gone to bed--but he was too distracted to care. Still, having slept so 
deeply, he felt more alert than he had in the past few weeks, and for 
the first time, hunger was making itself hard for him to ignore. 

Shortly after he rose, he heard a knock upon his door. It was Elunen. 
“Legolas, we are to join the warriors of Imladris to discuss the 
journey, and our encounters with the orcs.”

Legolas nodded. He followed Elunen to the porch where Lord Elrond was 
holding council with the other warriors of Mirkwood and Imladris. 
There he met the rest of his company--it had been the first time in 
two years that he had gone more than an hour or two without seeing 
them--and many warriors of Imladris, most of whom Legolas knew, at 
least by reputation. But one drew his attention immediately, for they 
both entered the porch where the council was to be held at the same 
time, from opposite sides.

It was Faron, the champion archer of Imladris, who had placed third in 
the Great Gathering Trial. When they first came upon each other, their 
initial reaction was pleasure, and they hurried forward to meet. Then, 
Legolas absently glanced about for the other warrior who had always 
appeared at Faron’s side. Gaerongil. And then he remembered. At the 
same time, he caught Faron glancing about, seeking the friend he was 
used to seeing beside Legolas. When their gazes met again, both knew 
that their worlds had changed forever.

But the Council was to convene, and there was no time for grief now. 
Legolas and Faron settled for gripping each other’s arms tightly in 
their mutual loss, and they went to sit with their comrades.

“Within a week of departing Mirkwood, we encountered a party of orcs,” 
Langcyll told the Council. “Not moving towards Mirkwood but rather 
coming from it.” A murmur went through the Imladris side of the 
Council at this news, and Langcyll went on, “I believed then that our 
patrols and hunts within Mirkwood would be successful, and that we 
might purge our lands of their filth entirely. But none had 
anticipated how strong a foothold the foul creatures of Mordor had 
gained in the mountains. Not since the Second Age have I encountered 
so many in such a short span of time.”

The warriors of Imladris had only more of the same to report. And 
none, not even Elrond, could offer an explanation this rising 
darkness. But his time and conversations with the longer-lived of the 
company had taught Legolas much in the past two years. And perhaps it 
was these discussions that lessened his usual timidity in such 
company, or perhaps the pain of the past weeks drove him to frankness.

“Sauron returns.”

Every elf in the Council fell quiet and stared at Legolas, but he 
disregarded their trepidation. He spoke quietly, but what he suspected 
had to be said, and he no longer cared to mince words. He had seen too 
much in the mountains for such a simple thing as speech to hold any 
fear for him. 

He went on, “We have known for many centuries that it was the spirit 
of Sauron that prevented men and elves from destroying the orcs once 
and for all. Had he been completely destroyed, the orcs would have 
died out entirely. But they did not, and the survival of the Ring of 
Power proved that the spirit of the Dark Lord endured. Nearly three 
thousand years have passed, and a shadow grows over my father’s realm 
greater than the power of the elves--or we should have dispelled it 
long ago. And with it, the orcs and spiders also multiply.” Gazing 
somewhat impatiently at the others, he said forcefully, “There can be 
only one explanation. It does no good to evade it.”

Slowly, Lord Elrond nodded. “I fear you are right, son of Thranduil. 
Mithrandir said as much during the Council of Realms two years ago.”

The prince of Mirkwood’s bluntness seemed to have loosened the nervous 
tongues of the other elves. Glorfindel of Imladris said, “But from 
whence, then, does the spirit of the enemy draw its power?”

“I know not,” Elrond said grimly. “For all we can learn, the enemy 
must have the power of the ring to recover his full strength. But his 
strength grows.”

“But the One Ring is lost to all, including Sauron,” Langcyll said.

“Is it?” At Elrond’s quiet question, none in the Council seemed to 
draw breath. The lord of Imladris went on, “If the whereabouts of the 
One Ring remain unknown to the elves, how can we be sure that it is 
unknown to all?”

Legolas began to think that frank words were not so useful after all. 
For what Lord Elrond said frightened him as well as all the others in 
the Council.

*** After the Council, the warriors were invited to the noon meal with 
Lord Elrond and the other elves of Imladris. Legolas had begged off 
nearly every meal during the past two weeks, but now he seemed in a 
hurry to see Faron. Langcyll and Lord Elrond watched discreetly as the 
two young warriors met and entered the hall together. 

Elladan and Elrohir were sitting at the far end of the room at a 
smaller table with Arwen, and no sooner had Legolas and Faron entered 
than Elrond’s sons called on them to join that table. Legolas turned 
questioningly to Langcyll, who gestured briskly for him to join his 
friends. “Perhaps things shall begin to improve now,” he murmured to 
Elrond.

For the sake of all concerned, Elrond shared Langcyll’s hope. Faron 
and Legolas sat side by side at the table and were soon in 
conversation with Elrond’s children. The two young warriors smiled and 
spoke with friendliness to the others, but the shadow of grief still 
darkened their faces. For a moment, Elrond was struck with a painful 
memory of the shenanigans of five friends…

** “You sing like a lovesick dwarf, Gaerongil!”

“This coming from one who has the voice of a cave troll? My singing is 
far superior to yours, Candrochon!”

“Untrue, my voice has been complimented by many a maiden!”

“Of what species?”

“Why you great--”

“Oh, cease this, you both sing equally ill!” 

“You could not hold a note in a bucket, Tathar, and I do not recall 
asking for you opinion!” 

“I agree with Tathar, both of your voices would frighten a spider 
away!”

“Hah! And will His Royal Fastidiousness deign to grace us with a 
demonstration of his own talents?”

“I shall not lower myself to such immature behavior, Gaerongil of the 
Goblins, but you are welcome to try!”

“‘The road goes ever on and on--’”

“‘An Elven-maid there was of old--’”

“‘Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear--’”

“Ai, how that orc chorus grates upon my ears.”

“Peace, Limloeth, I think I must declare Candrochon the winner.”

“Unfair!” **

*Five inseparable friends there were, that day we left the Great 
Gathering in Mirkwood,* Elrond thought, his heart twisting with grief. 
*Now two are gone. So young. And the ones who remain shall never be 
young again.*

*** Legolas knew all was not well when he asked his friends for news 
of Mirkwood. The way that they stiffened and avoided his eyes told him 
that what tidings they had were ill. Absently, he accepted the slice 
of bread Elladan handed him and ate to ease his anxiety while Faron 
spoke, not noticing that one of his tablemates pressed more food into 
his hand every time he swallowed.

“I am sorry you must hear this from us, Legolas,” Faron said.

“I cannot avoid hearing tidings of my father forever, even if they are 
bad. Speak, Faron,” Legolas said.

With a sigh, Faron told him, “After the departure of the first war 
parties, a party of healers arrived here from Mirkwood to study with 
Lord Elrond. The Crown Princess Eirien was among them. I heard from 
them that you had gone without permission…and King Thranduil had taken 
your departure very badly.”

Faron wavered, and Legolas suddenly found it difficult to swallow. 
Taking a hasty sip of wine to loosen the knot in his throat, he said 
softly, “Go on.”

Faron went on, “They said that the King had moved from his regular 
tree chambers into the deep ones within the caves in the hillside, and 
that he moved his throne to the great stone hall under the hill. Other 
than to lead hunting parties, I have heard since that he rarely goes 
out into the trees at all.”

Nothing could dispel the dismay Legolas felt at this news, and he 
could not speak for several moments. Legolas and all his siblings had 
disliked the old cave portion of the palace, preferring to live and 
work in the outer rooms built in the trees. Some of the elder warriors 
in Mirkwood could remember the days long-past when King Thranduil had 
lived in the cave, but after his marriage, Lorien-bred Queen Minuial 
had so disliked being underground that all additions to the palace 
were built outward. After the birth of their second child, Limloeth, 
the King and Queen of Mirkwood had lived exclusively in the outer 
rooms, using the cave only for store rooms. Only Berensul could 
remember the time when the caves had still been in use.

Legolas had inherited his mother’s opinion of caves. He suppressed a 
shudder and looked at his friends’ eyes. “There is more,” he observed.

This time, it was Arwen who spoke. “Early last autumn, there was 
an…incident…in Mirkwood that caused the other elven lords great worry. 
A party of thirteen dwarves had passed through Imladris some months 
before the Great Gathering and stayed at my father’s house. Mithrandir 
was with them, along with a very singular hobbit.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise; he had never seen a hobbit, 
and they were not known for making journeys away from their western 
homes. “What could be the purpose of such an odd party?”

“We did not yet know,” Arwen said. “They departed the very next day, 
to go over the mountains, and we later learned they had been waylaid 
by many misadventures.”

“Mithrandir, hobbits, and dwarves together; I am not surprised,” 
Legolas mused, his fascination with such a tale momentarily overcoming 
the gloom of the past weeks.

“Early last autumn, the company was discovered deep in Mirkwood during 
the feast time,” Arwen went on.

Legolas blinked. “In Mirkwood?” His insides grew cold when he began to 
guess what sort of incident might have occurred. *If Father was still 
in such an embittered state of mind, given the feelings he has always 
had for the dwarves…such a meeting would not have gone well.* He took 
a hasty sip of wine.

Arwen read his face like an open book, and nodded in answer to his 
thoughts. “Mithrandir was no longer with them--and it is a pity, for 
perhaps his presence could have prevented the…misunderstanding that 
followed.” Legolas winced involuntarily, but she continued, “The 
dwarves had had an encounter with spiders to the south of the palace, 
and…King Thranduil ordered them taken and imprisoned. They…they were 
put in the dungeons within the caves.”

It was very fortunate that Legolas had swallowed already, or he would 
have choked. As it was, he was so shocked he could not speak. When he 
had still been a child, in only his second decade, he and several of 
his friends had snuck down into the caves in search of the store rooms 
of treasure that rumors spoke of. Instead, they had gotten lost in the 
deep passages for many hours, and finally found themselves in the 
dungeons. They had been well past hysterical terror by the time the 
king’s searchers found them, and Legolas had had nightmares for weeks. 

*How could my father have actually locked someone IN that dreadful 
place?!*

Finding his voice at last, Legolas asked, “Were they soon released?”

Elladan and Elrohir shook their heads. “They escaped after some time. 
The hobbit had not been captured along with them and he somehow 
orchestrated their escape.”

Desperately seeking some rational explanation, Legolas asked, “Even 
elves who commit great crimes are not imprisoned in the dungeons. 
There are tree cells for that purpose. What had the dwarves done to 
enrage my father so?”

Not meeting Legolas’s eyes, Faron said quietly, “King Thranduil…he 
asked them where they were going. They refused to tell him.”

Legolas stared at him. Rather weakly, he said, “What?”

Nodding to confirm Faron’s words, Elrohir said, “The king wished to 
know what the purpose of their journey was, that they would dare the 
perils of Mirkwood. When they would not say, he…confined them to 
separate cells in the dungeons until one of them chose to tell him.”

“My fa--the king did this?” Legolas felt as though his brain itself 
had been wrapped up in spider silk. He could not fathom any elf, let 
alone his father, descending to such cruelty. For several moments, his 
shock enveloped him like fog, then at last he blinked and saw his 
companions again. They exchanged glances, and with a sense of utter 
despair, he realized, “You have still more to impart.”

With a sigh, Faron told him, “It turned out that the dwarves and the 
hobbit were going to the Lonely Mountain, to slay the dragon Smaug and 
take his treasure.” 

Had Legolas not been so distressed by the earlier news, he would have 
laughed out loud. As it was, he all but gaped at Faron when he 
realized the tale of that strange company had not been ended by such 
folly. “And they are not dead?” he exclaimed.

Faron shook his head, “They succeeded. And the treasure was even 
greater than the legends told it to be.” Legolas winced on hearing the 
word “treasure,” for again, he could guess his father’s involvement. 
“King Thranduil led a large march of elves to the Lonely Mountain, and 
demanded a share of the treasure with another who claimed to have 
slain the dragon himself. I know not all the particulars, but the army 
laid siege to the mountain and the dwarves within.”

It was all Legolas could do not to groan, remembering suddenly his own 
first encounter with the dwarves…

** “Hmph! The crown of Mirkwood. He must be that greedy tyrant 
Thranduil’s spawn…” **

*“Greedy tyrant,” they called him. Rightly so, it would seem. To think 
that I once feared my father might be disappointed in me.* 

Legolas asked reluctantly, “What happened then?” and took a sip of 
wine, dreading the reply.

“Having immured yourself inside since your arrival, I would not wonder 
that you had not yet heard of the Battle of the Five Armies, though it 
is swiftly becoming legend,” Elrohir said.

This time, Legolas did choke. Stifling his coughs, he managed to say, 
“I have--” but his mind reeled. *I cannot avoid hearing of it, for the 
elves in Imladris have talked of nothing else since we first met them 
in the mountains. My father instigated THAT?!* Aloud, he asked in a 
reasonably level tone, “The king was involved?”

For once, his friends did not seem embarrassed to tell him. Arwen 
admitted, “Never have I been so relieved to hear that the goblins and 
wolves had attacked our kindred, for I fear things would have gone ill 
had they not at last been reminded who their true enemies are. They 
were at a stalemate that threatened to become a true battle when the 
creatures of Mordor also came to strike the mountain, and elves, 
dwarves, and men, for a time at least, fought together. When it was 
ended, the treasure was shared by many, and men and elves left the 
mountain to the dwarves again.”

Legolas sighed, “And the king took a share of the wealth as well, I 
suppose?” The others nodded. *And how many elves of Mirkwood perished 
in the battle so you could have your trinkets, Father?* he thought, 
feeling a rush of intense anger. *I am glad to have given Tathar the 
crown of Mirkwood. He was one who truly deserved to be called noble, 
while I am truly ashamed to call myself Thranduil’s son.* His rage was 
so great that for the moment at least, it drowned out all other 
emotion, and for once he was able to think of Tathar without sorrow.

*** The dismal lethargy that had followed Tathar’s death had been 
replaced by a restlessness born of anger. Legolas wandered through 
Rivendell all afternoon and late into the evening, and still could not 
slow the rush of ire in his veins. *I am glad we are yet barely 
halfway through this expedition. I have no desire to return home to 
face these changes in my father.* He paced fiercely down the path and 
over a bridge crossing the river, *I must not think that I am somehow 
to blame for the missteps of the king. Though I may have been 
sheltered at times--and turned a blind eye at other times--I knew of 
his love of baubles long before I came of age. The flaws in his 
character are of his own make, not mine.*

So absorbed was he in these harsh thoughts, that Legolas did not see 
Langcyll coming and all but blundered into him. But Langcyll did not 
seem irritated--in fact, he appeared almost relieved by the sight of 
the fury flashing in the prince’s dark eyes. Perhaps any emotion other 
than the bitter hopelessness of recent days was to be welcomed. The 
captain told him, “Be sure to get some rest tonight, Legolas. The new 
war parties of Imladris and Mirkwood shall convene tomorrow morning.”

Legolas frowned, “‘Parties?’ I thought we merely intended to form a 
joint party to ride south.”

Langcyll shook his head. “The events in the mountains, and those in 
Mirkwood of which you’ve doubtlessly been told,” Legolas nodded, 
“require that some of our number return to our realm.” He paused, 
apparently expecting Legolas to say something. When Legolas did not, 
Langcyll went on, “We gather at dawn. You have tonight, then, to 
decide whether you wish to continue with the new party or return 
home.”

As the captain turned to walk away, Legolas considered his two options 
for a moment. A very short moment. “Langcyll.”

Langcyll turned, and the prince said evenly, “I will not return to 
Mirkwood before the mission is done.”

The captain nodded, and walked on, but as he turned back, Legolas saw 
him smile. *At least I cannot claim that I’ve not known the guidance 
of elves with integrity. Tuilinn was right. We are fortunate in 
Langcyll. None more than I.*

*** With the dawn, many elves of Rivendell were about as the warriors 
of Imladris and Mirkwood gathered to ride. Lord Elrond, his daughter 
Arwen beside him, bade an anxious farewell to his sons Elladan and 
Elrohir, who had chosen to travel with the warriors of Mirkwood. Also 
among the warriors of Imladris was Faron.

The new war party had been formed, smaller than the one that had left 
Mirkwood. From Imladris, Faron, Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel were 
joining the mission south through the mountains towards Moria. From 
the original Mirkwood party, Langcyll, Legolas, Elunen, Glanaur, 
Galithil, Nathron, and Fanfirith would continue the journey. The seven 
remaining warriors of Mirkwood would ride back across the mountains to 
Mirkwood. 

Elrond stood upon the porch of the Last Homely House and listened to 
the talk of the warriors. Prince Legolas seemed over the worst of the 
grief for his friend Tathar--or at least, the grief was no longer 
life-threatening. But he was upset for another reason now, and arguing 
vigorously with Tuilinn, one of the young warriors of Mirkwood, who 
had elected to return home.

“We should not be separated now after all this!” the young prince was 
pleading with his friend to change her mind.

The redheaded maiden looked down, “The rest of this journey would be a 
torment, Legolas. I shall ride again, but not this mission. We each of 
us face our sorrow in different ways; you with great courage, but I 
shall find my comfort at home.” 

Legolas turned away, looking distressed. “Of them all, you…you 
understand…”

Tuilinn put her hand on his shoulder, “I did. And I shall miss you as 
much as I shall miss…in any case, Mirkwood also calls its defenders 
home. I shall return, defend our realm against the shadow, and seek 
the solace of the trees.” The warrioress smiled at him, “Do not 
despair, Legolas, you live and you are young. As am I. We shall ride 
together again. Come, my dear friend, let us not have a bitter 
parting.”

The warriors were being ordered to mount up, and Legolas and Tuilinn 
swiftly embraced. Sad farewells also followed between the other 
warriors of Mirkwood who would be returning to their realm. All too 
soon, it seemed to Elrond, the command to ride was given, and the two 
parties set off down the road, his sons among them. 

*Suddenly I understand all too well Thranduil’s behavior, though I may 
have thought it irrational at the time. For I too am without a wife, 
with only my children to give me hope for the future. Fifteen rode 
from Mirkwood, and already one of their youngest shall never return 
home. Would that I had been able to find a reason to prevent Elladan 
and Elrohir from departing. May the Valar protect all our children 
during these perilous times*

*** The parties divided in the Misty Mountains; seven warriors 
continuing east for Mirkwood, and ten turning south, toward the 
ancient dwarf realm of Moria. Legolas found himself looking back in 
the directions his companions had gone. How strange this party felt 
now, without Gwilwileth’s advice, Fandoll’s observations on their 
surroundings, and Tuilinn’s laughter, not that she had laughed at all 
since Tath--he forced his mind from the knowledge that life would 
forever be strange without the presence by his side of the one who 
would never return. 

He sighed; it had been inevitable that the company should eventually 
be separated, but it sorrowed him nonetheless. On the other hand, he 
had been reunited with many old friends. Glorfindel rode beside 
Langcyll at the front of the company, Elladan and Elrohir were riding 
side-by-side (as always) just behind, and Faron’s horse had fallen in 
next to Legolas.

Neither of them spoke. During the last few days of the stay in 
Imladris, Legolas had found sufficient news to distract him from the 
thoughts of Tath--from unpleasant thoughts. But now as the company 
began the first of many days and nights of long, quiet riding, the 
pain that he had forced into the deepest corners of his mind 
threatened to surge forth again and overwhelm him. *I must not think 
of it I must not think of it I must not think of it I must not--*

“So we are off,” Faron said quietly. Feeling an explosive surge of 
relief, Legolas nodded. The silence grew heavy with the weight of the 
subject that both of them found too painful to speak of. “How did you 
like Rivendell?” his friend blurted.

“Very well,” Legolas said quickly, eager to veer into any other topic 
of discussion. “I’ve heard much about it, but never seen it before 
now. I see now why men call it the paradise village. There is no 
shadow there, nor do I think there ever could be.”

Faron nodded, then there was more silence. The Imladris warrior said 
desperately, “Have you met any dwarves yet? I know there were not as 
many to the east of Mirkwood when you passed from its borders, but 
there are many now.”

“Just a few days out of Mirkwood, we met a small dwarf party. I found 
them…disagreeable.”

Faron laughed weakly. “So did I when I first encountered them. But the 
party that came through Rivendell before the Gathering rather changed 
my opinion, or perhaps they were simply a rarity.”

“I should think so, if Mithrandir and an adventurous hobbit were 
traveling with them,” Legolas knew they were both babbling, but he 
cared not. Any distraction was welcome. “After all, ‘adventurous 
hobbit’ is practically like a contradiction in terms--”

** “Any sensible orc will hole himself up in a cave until warmer 
weather.”

“‘Sensible orc’ is a contradiction in terms, Tathar!” **

“--Legolas?”

Legolas jumped and saw Faron looking apprehensively at him. He had no 
idea what he had been saying. “I…”

“You were saying that the dwarves in that party most likely were 
unusual, traveling with Mithrandir and a hobbit, and now that you 
mention it, I believe you are right, for normal dwarves do not welcome 
the presence of any who might desire a share in their treasure.” Faron 
said all of this very fast.

*** As darkness descended (the party was still too close to Imladris 
for an effective orc hunt) the company made camp. Legolas tossed down 
his bedroll while trying not to look at it, or Faron’s, and paced 
quickly away. Langcyll and Glorfindel were conferring near the horses 
and Glorfindel turned to call for watchers. Even before Legolas had 
the chance to open his mouth, Langcyll turned to him and said simply, 
“No.”

Legolas blinked. “That goes for you as well, Faron,” Glorfindel said. 
Faron blinked.

Fanfirith and Nathron took first watch, and Legolas desperately 
searched for a means of escape. Waiting until Langcyll’s back was 
turned, the prince scrambled down an embankment at the edge of the 
camp to a mountain creek not far away. It was not so far from the camp 
as to be dangerous, but Legolas could not bear the sight of others for 
one moment longer.

He sat down next to the rippling water and drew his knees up under his 
chin. *I cannot do this. I have only just managed to bring it under 
control. If I allow it to escape again, it will take me, and I will be 
as lost as before!* But even these thoughts threatened to lead into 
the memories where Legolas dared not go, lest he lose all control. 
*NO! I must not think of it I must not think of it I must not think of 
it--*

“Legolas.” Legolas gasped and leapt to his feet, so startled was he. 
Then he flushed and looked down in embarrassment. It was Langcyll. 
Leaving the camp without permission or bothering to tell anyone where 
he had gone was irresponsible, and Langcyll would probably have harsh 
words for him. But Legolas was secretly relieved--he would rather face 
Langcyll’s censure than the thoughts that had been threatening to 
spill into his mind a moment before.

So he stood as though bracing himself for a thorough tongue-lashing, 
like novices always did after being caught playing pranks, and hoped 
that would trigger a scolding. But there was silence. Legolas dared a 
glance at the captain’s face, and saw no disapproval at all. Desperate 
to drive Langcyll into a more domineering response, Legolas tried 
folding his arms sullenly, as Candrochon always had whenever he got 
into trouble. That earned him a rather exasperated sigh, and Legolas 
nearly sighed himself with relief. *Thank the Valar, it worked.*

At least it seemed so at first. “Legolas, I have been your novice 
master from the time you were sixty years old, and your captain since 
your coming of age, so I think I may claim to know you fairly well,” 
Langcyll said mildly. Legolas attempted to look insolent by pursing 
his lips, and Langcyll went on, “So attempting to pull off that famous 
Candrochon sulk does not fool me.”

Legolas forgot himself and looked up, and saw the fullness in 
Langcyll’s eyes. It came upon him then, sweeping over him like a great 
wave, and he was as helpless to stop it as he had been to stop the 
avalanche in the mountains. As Langcyll’s face blurred, Legolas 
frantically tried to whirl away, but the captain grabbed his shoulder. 
He did not pull Legolas back, but he did not let him go. 

“You cannot run, Legolas. There is no escape in distraction. You must 
face your grief. It will never lessen until you do.”

The dam broke again with a single choked sob, and Legolas covered his 
face with his hands as great tearing sobs forced themselves free. He 
felt helpless to control his own body.

Over the sound of his own weeping, he heard Langcyll say quietly, “I 
have lost many close friends in my lifetime, young Legolas. It is a 
journey in itself, harder than any mission you shall ever travel. But 
you cannot escape by not thinking of it. I know how you grieve, 
Legolas. I share it. I, too, miss Tathar, his merriment, and his 
jests, even that irritating, childish snort--”

“Stop it!” Legolas cried, jerking away. “Do you seek to torment me?!”

He would have run, but Langcyll seized his arm and demanded, “Do you 
seek to dishonor his memory by forgetting him?”

“No!”

“Then why will you not speak of him?” the captain snapped.

“Because I cannot,” Legolas cried. He could not see, for stinging 
tears had blinded him. Struggling with limited success to push back 
the sobs once more, he said, “I have a duty to the rest of the 
company; you said so yourself. I cannot fall back into such 
hopelessness again, and when I think of--when the thought of--” he 
could scarcely speak for sobbing, “--I find nothing but despair. I had 
begun to get over it in Rivendell, and I must not fall back into it 
again--”

“No, Legolas.” Langcyll’s voice was quiet, understanding. “You were 
only distracted by tidings more pressing. You were only entering the 
stage of grief that follows shock and despair. You cannot deny all 
thought of him. You have far to come yet.”

Legolas felt his legs giving way and fell to his knees, despair 
surging through him. “I cannot do it. It will destroy me--”

“It will not. We will not let that happen. Tathar would not wish that 
to happen. You must allow yourself to think of Tathar, Legolas, and 
remember him. He would never permit you to give up.”

Angry now, Legolas turned on Langcyll. “You know nothing of which you 
speak. Were it not for me, Tathar would not have been on this accursed 
mission. Were it not for my foolish, reckless choice, he would never 
have joined such a dangerous expedition. He only came because he 
wished to be beside me.” Sobs overtook him again, “He wanted to join 
the mission to explore Fangorn. He had always wanted to see Fangorn, 
and we always used to plan to visit it together. So many places he 
wanted to see--” 

Legolas was crying so hard that he had lost the ability to form words. 
He could see and hear nothing, and his sobs gave him little space to 
draw breath. Desperately, he focused on the hard grip of Langcyll’s 
hand upon his shoulder as a rudder for his sanity, and managed to pull 
himself from the maelstrom of hysterical grief. At last, he was back 
on the bank again, gasping for breath, feeling the hard stones beneath 
his knees, and Langcyll still gripped his shoulder.

“Denying yourself a future will not bestow one upon him, Legolas,” the 
captain said. “Had you been the one slain, your last desire would have 
been for Tathar to carry one, and follow his dreams, as you were 
unable to. I knew him from a child as well, and his last thoughts were 
of you, for your future. You have not lost him; he lives on in the 
power of your friendship. Do not deny that by denying his memory.”

At last, the sobs had all forced themselves from within him, leaving 
him feeling empty, weak, and slightly sick--the physical result of 
such emotional excess. He actually felt chilled in the soft evening 
breeze. With a deep, shuddering sigh, Legolas accepted Langcyll’s help 
getting to his feet, and they returned to the camp. Langcyll did allow 
him to sleep on the outside of the group so that he might be alone 
with his thoughts for this night at least. It also probably had 
something to do with the fact that one of the campfires was on the 
outskirts of the camp, so Legolas laid his blankets there while 
Langcyll built the blaze up again. 

No sooner had he laid down than deep weariness overtook him, and 
dreams swept up to claim his drained and exhausted mind. He was dimly 
aware of Langcyll saying something to him, but he made no sense of the 
words, or they surely would have startled him. “Sleep now, my s--good 
night, Legolas.”

*** Glorfindel of Imladris had been forced to have a similar 
conversation with Faron that evening, though he had not been half as 
worried about his own warrior as Langcyll had been about Legolas. But 
Faron, too, had begun to flee from anything that reminded him of 
either of his lost friends, and Glorfindel had had to convince him 
that such flight would help neither him nor Legolas.

*It is Legolas that Langcyll worries about. Faron worries for him as 
well, that is why he shut out his own pain. Their worries are still 
justified.* But with the morning had come another day, and as the 
company prepared to ride, Glorfindel stood next to Langcyll, watching 
their youngest warriors. 

Legolas and Faron had risen, both with red eyes, but less withdrawn 
than yesterday. When Glanaur walked by and clapped each of them on the 
back in passing, both smiled at him. Now, they were packing the horses 
for a day of hard riding that would take them out of the borders of 
Imladris, where the hunting would begin. Galithil, a younger 
warrioress from Mirkwood, had come up and was chatting with the two as 
they helped to break camp. A rather tense moment came when Elladan 
threw an apple to each of them. Faron began munching on his at once, 
but Legolas stiffened and stared at his as though it were a dragon‘s 
egg. 

Glorfindel noticed Langcyll stiffen as well, from the corner of his 
eye. The two warriors watched tensely as Faron shot Legolas a 
questioning glance. Legolas met his friend’s eye, smiled sadly, and 
bit into the apple. Langcyll breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Today is a better day, I think,” Glorfindel remarked, watching as 
Faron and Legolas joined a group of the other warriors.

“I hope you are right,” Langcyll said. “He has been trapped in the 
shadows for many weeks. It will still be a long time until he can 
leave that place behind.”

“Elves can survive many things, my friend,” Glorfindel replied firmly. 
“Faron made it through such a loss two years ago. So will Legolas.”

What the warrior captains saw next seemed to confirm Glorfindel’s 
confidence. As they continued breaking camp, Faron suddenly put out a 
hand and stopped Legolas from returning to the group. He reached 
inside his tunic and pulled out a small pouch, the sort of thing a 
traveler might carry valuables in. From the pouch, Faron brought out a 
pearl--a black pearl--and handed it to Legolas. Then he walked on, and 
Legolas stood motionless as though he had grown roots. 

*** Holding Faron’s gift in his hand, Legolas managed to walk a few 
paces away and sat down upon a rock, gazing at the pearl in the early 
morning sun. It sat in the palm of his hand, perfectly round and 
darkly lustrous, the size of a large blueberry. And he could not help 
it; his mind was drawn back…

** “The wager was over whom Lalven would be matched to, Tathar, not 
who she would ask for. You declared victory too soon!”

“There, now, even your own comrade, the prince of Mirkwood agrees that 
the prize falls to me! Come, hand over my pearl, and you owe me yet 
another one!”

“Traitor!”

“Hold out for the black pearl, Faron, to the victor go the spoils!”

“Ah, now here’s a pretty thing! See, Gaerongil?”

“Indeed! So rare, pearls of such color!”

“Curse you Imladris gamblers, and you, Legolas, for taking their 
side!”

“Do not blame me, Tathar, it is not my fault they play odds better 
than you!” **

Rolling the smooth, dark pearl in the palm of his hand, few tears 
spilled from Legolas’s eyes, but he felt no need to fall apart like 
before. Tathar had been one of the friends who got lost with Legolas 
while searching for treasures in the caves when they were children, 
but for a time, Tathar had been separated from the rest. He had not 
seemed nearly so hysterical when the searchers found him, and insisted 
he had simply been lost like the rest of them in another part of the 
dungeons. But pearls did not grow in the forests of Mirkwood.

For some reason, Legolas smiled. *At least I did not tell Faron and 
Gaerongil your secret, Tathar. The black pearl was never your 
favorite, though it was the most valuable. Yours was the pink one 
shaped like a teardrop. Faron would never think to ask for it when 
tantalized with this. You and I had the last laugh.*

Footsteps jolted him back to the present. It was Langcyll again. 
Seeing the captain’s curious expression, Legolas held the pearl up and 
explained, “Faron won it from Tathar in a wager during the Gathering.”

Langcyll smiled slightly, “Generous of him to give it up.”

Legolas looked down, “He knows I will treasure it.”

The novice master of Mirkwood said, “It is time to be moving on now.”

Legolas nodded quickly and put the pearl in his own pouch. “I am 
ready.” He knew Langcyll caught his meaning.

With the warriors assembled, the company mounted their horses and 
formed up behind Langcyll and Glorfindel. Legolas smiled gratefully at 
Faron as they prepared to ride together. 

At the front of the group, Langcyll glanced back over all his warriors 
out of habit, his gaze lingering only for a second on Legolas. Then he 
raised his hand and ordered, “Forward!” 

The company rode out and down along the creek that rolled through the 
mountains, swiftly here and lazily there. At one bend, they passed 
beneath a willow tree, its branches drooping into the water, and 
Legolas closed his eyes and held on, letting the leaves brush over 
him…

** “I shall not try out for the Gathering Trial unless you do also. It 
is your destiny, Legolas.”

“My destiny? To compete in an archery game?”

“To be great. And of course, you shall win, but the Trial will be only 
the beginning. You were not blessed with so many gifts without a 
reason. I think in the fullness of time, your name shall be legend.*

“I think you are mad, Tathar. In any case, I do not want to compete 
against you. You and I have never been on opposite sides. If you were 
not at my side, I would be nervous.” 

“Pfft, when are you ever not nervous? The time will come when you must 
move beyond me, otherwise you would hold yourself back. But why do you 
sorrow at that? You know that whenever circumstances separate us, I 
shall be with you, at your side and at your back. As always.”

** *****

PLEEEEEEEEZZZZEEEE don’t forget to review!



CHARACTER GUIDE: The Warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood

Langcyll and Glorfindel: joint leaders of the party Elunen and 
Glanaur: their lieutenants Fanfirith and Nathron: senior warriors 
Elladan, Elrohir, Galithil: younger but experienced warriors Legolas, 
Faron: the youngest of the group, both from the same generation that 
just came of age

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse

Tuilinn: warrioress that Tathar had paired off with, went back to 
Mirkwood with the other half of Langcyll’s war party 

----------------------------------------------------------- * Denotes 
Unspoken Thought* ** Denotes flashbacks**

***Note to Sam: actually, Tathar means “willow tree” in Sindarin. 
Check out www.elvish.org/gwaith/language.htm if you want to take a 
shot at some of my other names. Some are combinations of words, but 
they all have meanings just like “Greenleaf” (Don’t ask me whose name 
that is!) If there are a lot of requests, I’ll post a chapter with the 
translations for all my O/C names.



Chapter Eleven: Ears and Beards







Several weeks later…

“If you loathe dwarves so much, Galithil, you could always have gone 
on the Anduin mission,” Legolas said irritably. The company was making 
good time on the journey south through the Misty Mountains and 
consequently, coming ever closer to the great dwarf stronghold of 
Moria. 

But the incessant carping of one of the company about how the infinite 
failings of that short race were beginning to exasperate the prince of 
Mirkwood. “I merely point out that we would do well to guard our 
belongings when we draw near to Moria,” Galithil said curtly, irked by 
Legolas’s retort. “Those dwarves will make off with anything made of 
metal.”

“Peace, Legolas, Galithil,” Glorfindel said as he joined the company 
by the campfire. “Like all races, dwarves have their good and ill 
qualities, as well as good and bad individuals. One cannot generalize 
in either direction.”

Galithil snorted. *At least you always saved your snorts for a good 
reason, Tathar,* Legolas thought, feeling very cross. He snapped back 
to attention when Langcyll called for watches. “I will stand a watch.”

Langcyll looked suspiciously at the prince (he no longer thought 
Legolas in danger of killing himself with his grief, but still hounded 
him like a doctor over a recently-recovered patient.) But apparently, 
he found no cause for preventing Legolas, and nodded, “Very well.” 
Elladan offered to stand the first watch with Legolas, and then 
Glanaur and Fanfirith would relieve them. “The rest of you, take some 
rest. There will be orcs about tonight.” 

*** Even in the highest mountain peaks, the summer sun warmed the air, 
and Elladan spent a very pleasant first watch, standing in the shade 
of a large tree and feeling the warmed mountain breeze. On the other 
side of the sleeping warriors, he could see Legolas gazing attentively 
up the mountain slope.

*How he has changed in two years. His friends and family will scarcely 
know him when he finally returns home,* Elladan thought. *If he 
returns.*

The son of Lord Elrond did not believe Legolas was foolish enough to 
get himself killed, but the news of King Thranduil’s…how to put 
it…lack of reason back home were likely to drive him even further from 
Mirkwood. So many things had changed for the prince during his 
travels, and it would be a torture to see how his home had also been 
altered in his absence. Which was why Elladan had begun to suspect 
Legolas would consider returning to Imladris and traveling with their 
warriors, or journeying to one of the other elven realms when this 
mission was over. 

*We elves flee from the things we cannot change,* Elladan thought. 
*That is why so many of us have traveled over the sea, unhappy with 
this world and what it has become. I wonder if or when Legolas might 
grow weary of Middle Earth. The shadow that menaces his realm is 
enough to drive any elf mad.*

Speaking of being driven mad, Elladan too was tiring of Galithil’s 
endless grousing about the dwarves. While Elladan did not consider 
them the wisest (or handsomest) of creatures, Glorfindel had been 
correct in his estimation of them. In many ways, Elladan rather liked 
them. Certainly their handiwork was magnificent--he wore a gold and 
emerald-studded knife crafted by dwarves (he had won it the previous 
winter from Firith of Lorien in a wager over whether that hobbit would 
survive his trip back to the Shire.)

*The dwarves still hope to take back their old realm of Moria. Since 
the defeat of Smaug, they’ve come to believe they can take down any 
foe. Brave they are, that much is certain. We shall certainly 
encounter their parties as we draw closer to its gates. I hope 
Langcyll and Glorfindel entertain no fancies of trying to improve our 
relations by helping them force their way in. I would not willingly 
find myself groping about in an orc-infested cave even if it meant 
peace and prosperity for all Middle Earth!*

Movement across the camp caught Elladan’s eye, and he turned to see 
that Legolas had stiffened, and was now standing stock-still and 
looking beyond the camp. He could hear something. A moment later, 
Elladan’s elven senses picked up the sounds of movement and voices 
over the next mountains. Whoever it was made little effort to conceal 
their presence, and seemed to be traveling openly. Legolas turned and 
looked at Elladan, “Dwarves.”

*So, our encounters begin sooner than I had anticipated. If they also 
travel to Moria, we will see much of them on the trail until we bear 
east again for Lorien. I hope Galithil does not spend the entire trip 
picking quarrels with them.*

The clamor of the dwarves--they truly were such noisy creatures--soon 
roused the camp. Langcyll and Glorfindel turned to Elladan, who 
assured them, “All is well. The dwarves have not even noticed our 
presence yet, though they are but one hill away.”

Elrohir looked around, listening to the sounds of the dwarves crashing 
through the brush and chuckled, “Making that much noise, I doubt if 
they would notice an orc camp.” 

Faron sat up then, and grinned slyly at Elladan, “Perhaps we should 
send a scout to inform them of our presence so that they are not 
frightened out of their dwarven wits when they come upon us.”

“Dwarven wits?” Legolas demanded, laughing. “I have never heard of 
such a thing!” The others snickered and then the prince added slyly, 
“Perhaps Galithil would care to volunteer to give our greetings to the 
dwarves.” He received a rather black look from the warrioress of whom 
he spoke, and simply laughed harder.

“Why not you, then, Legolas?” Galithil asked snidely. “We all know how 
wealth impresses the dwarves, perhaps they would be more pleased by 
the sight of a prince of Mirkwood in our midst, even if he has lost 
his crown.”

None of the others save Langcyll knew what had happened to the crown, 
but many of them exclaimed in disapproval and censured Galithil for 
speaking so crudely. As for Langcyll, he all but leaped from his 
bedroll and looked anxiously at Legolas, who in turn raised a hand to 
dismiss the rather callous remark. But Langcyll exchanged a brief 
glance with Glorfindel, then smiled himself. “For myself, I think 
Legolas’s idea has merit. Glorfindel, would you care to accompany 
Galithil to inform the dwarves of our presence on this hillside?”

Glorfindel spoke with an unmistakable touch of glee. “Most certainly, 
my friend, for I fear that as a simple a people as the dwarves are, it 
might be beyond Galithil’s scope to engage in any sort of dialogue 
with them. Perhaps I shall do the speaking and she shall watch.”

Galithil sat up in outrage, but before she could speak, Langcyll 
raised a hand. “Very well. Proceed, Glorfindel.” His tone brooked no 
argument.

Neither did Glorfindel’s. “Come, Galithil. The dwarves await.” The 
warrioress had no choice but to mount her horse and follow the 
Imladris captain from the camp.

No sooner had she gone than Legolas had both hands over his mouth, 
struggling to stifle his laughter. “She shall learn to curb that 
caustic tongue of hers before this leg of the trip has passed.”

Langcyll folded his arms and smiled blithely at his youngest warrior. 
“Be sure, young prince, all of this company shall find many attitudes 
changed before this leg of the trip has passed. Such is the truth with 
all prejudices. They cannot stand up to the power of true knowledge or 
experience.” With that, he picked up his water skin and went to fill 
it in the nearby stream. The others looked on, and exchanged glances, 
rather sobered by the faint censure in his tone that was directed at 
them all.

***

The sounds of the dwarves’ romping had ceased not long after Galithil 
and Glorfindel rode from the camp, and Legolas would have given much 
to know what passed between the elves and dwarves when they met. It 
was not long before his two comrades returned, both wearing 
expressions of combined amusement and aversion. “Well?” Elunen asked.

“They are taking the long way around,” said Glorfindel with the 
faintest of smiles. 

Legolas looked away to hide his own smile. It would not do to get a 
scolding by Langcyll for his prejudices--*Of course, one can hardly 
call it a prejudice if the opinion is justified. But Langcyll defends 
the principle of the thing.* 

The captain of Mirkwood was gazing at the reddening sky over the 
mountaintops. “Make ready to break camp. We move in one hour.”

As the company began repacking the horses, an all-too-familiar portent 
of danger pricked Legolas’s elven senses. Pausing from retying his 
bedroll, Legolas looked about and met Glorfindel’s eyes. The older elf 
smiled faintly. “It will be a long night. Make sure your knife is 
whetted.”

The others had sensed the presence of orcs as well, and the party 
continued their work with extra alertness. Legolas reached into his 
tunic pouch and touched the black pearl. He found himself reaching for 
it whenever he felt uneasy. In some obscure way, its smooth roundness 
was a comfort. But packing Lanthir required both of his hands, so he 
was soon forced to replace it. All the same, some of the anxiety had 
left him.

The orcs did not attack with the final fading of the sun, but nor did 
their presence diminish. “Biding their time?” Faron observed, voicing 
what all the other warriors had taken note of.

“I do not think there are many of them,” Elunen said, pausing to gaze 
into the darkness. “They may be hoping we will simply pass them by.”

Legolas nearly snorted, but caught himself. Several of the others did 
snort. “Sauron did not breed orcs for their intelligence,” remarked 
Fanfirith, and then he did not bother restraining a chuckle.

“Is all ready?” Langcyll asked them pointedly. Seeing the collective 
nod, he took his horse’s lead. “Then let us move out.” Bows in hand, 
knives at rest but ready to grab, the company followed on foot leading 
their mounts. Tonight’s orc hunt promised many kills.

They did not have long to wait. The presence of the orcs watching the 
company abruptly shifted before they had walked far down the 
mountainside, and every elf in the company knew that the fell band was 
also on the move. “They come!” Faron exclaimed, reaching for an arrow.

“Nay,” Langcyll looked troubled, for the screeches of orcs readying 
for battle filled the air, but the creatures did not seem to be 
menacing the company. “They are attacking, but not--” His keen elven 
senses following the sounds and awareness of the orcs, he looked back 
in the direction from whence the party had come. “The dwarf camp! The 
orcs menace the dwarves!”

“Will we follow?” Elunen asked, looking anxious.

“Glorfindel, how many dwarves were in the party you spoke to?” 
Langcyll asked quickly.

“Perhaps a dozen. We must go to their aid, Langcyll, even if we are 
unwelcome, the orcs must not escape,” Glorfindel said resolutely.

“Then mount at once!” With that, Langcyll sprang upon his horse’s back 
and rode back past the company at a gallop. Mounting their own horses, 
the other warriors followed, readying their bows and knives.

They had reached the top of the hill where they had camped when the 
screeches of orcs were met by dwarf battle cries and the clang of 
metal that heralded the start of battle. The horses did not take long 
covering the distance to the next hill where the dwarves had made 
their camp. They galloped into the torchlight without slowing, sprang 
from their horses, and with a great shout, launched themselves into 
the melee already taking place.

Falling with a shout of his own, Legolas leaped upon the nearest orc 
and plunged his knife into its back with a force that took them both 
into the ground. He sprang up again and nearly faltered when he found 
himself face to axe with an equally-startled dwarf, who had apparently 
just been chasing that same orc. The dwarf turned then, seeking some 
other foe, and Legolas did likewise.

Small or large were relative terms when describing an orc band. Though 
there were perhaps thirty in this group, they were better-skilled at 
fighting than some of the parties Legolas had fought over the past two 
years. He dodged a swipe from an orc’s knife and slashed its throat 
with his own, then shoved the knife into his belt and launched several 
arrows at a group of orcs attempting to overwhelm Faron and one of the 
dwarves. A screech from behind gave warning, and he jerked to the 
left, whirling and sending an arrow straight between the eyes of 
another orc. 

“Beware!” Legolas heard the shout of warning from an unfamiliar 
source, but before he could react, a heavy weight slammed him from his 
feet. Legolas rolled onto his back, raising his knife only to have it 
kicked from his hand. The next few seconds were a blur even by elven 
standards. A large orc planted a foot upon the young elf’s chest, 
knocking the wind from him, and raised its sword over his head to 
deliver a killing thrust straight into his throat. Even as Legolas 
flailed frantically for anything to serve as a weapon, another form 
took shape from the corner of his eye, and in a blur of incredibly 
swift movement, the orc’s foot was gone from his chest, and the 
creature was down. Another dwarf pulled its axe from the orc’s back 
and looked at the elf he had saved. 

Legolas leapt to his feet and grabbed his knife from the ground, 
seeking another orc to slay. But the last few were now fleeing the 
dwarf camp, and several elves and dwarves were already pursuing them 
into the darkness. Seconds later, their screeches announced their 
demise. Catching his breath, Legolas looked around, but the dwarf who 
had come to his aid was gone.

“Legolas, are you hurt?” Legolas jumped, and turned to face the 
speaker. It was Faron, and there was concern upon his face. “I saw you 
struck.”

“Nay, I am all right,” Legolas replied, though his chest and back 
ached with every breath. But other than bruises, he did not think 
anything was damaged. He looked around, “There was a dwarf…”

Faron nodded. “I should have liked to see more of how they fight. One 
fought beside me against the orcs, but now I do not see him. They are 
a strange race.”

“Very,” Legolas agreed, and they returned to their comrades.

There had been few injuries to either party. Elladan insisted on 
looking at Legolas’s chest and back to make certain his ribs or lungs 
had taken no hurt, but they were both satisfied that he would merely 
be a little sore for a few days. Elunen had taken an arrow in the leg, 
but she would be walking in a day or two. Two of the dwarves appeared 
to have taken wounds, but the hurts had been cared for by the other 
dwarves and none of their party seemed particularly worried. 

That immediate concern past, the two parties now found themselves on 
opposite sides of the dwarf camp, staring doubtfully at each other and 
wondering who would be the first to speak. At last, almost at the same 
instant, Langcyll and Glorfindel started toward the dwarves just as 
two of the dwarves began approaching the elves. They met in the 
center. “Well met, Master Elf,” said the dwarf who appeared to be head 
of the company. “I am Naldin, son of Óin, and this is Sothi, son of 
Dwalin. You have our thanks for your timely arrival.” 

Legolas was not surprised by the somewhat grudging tone in which the 
Naldin expressed his gratitude--he was, however, surprised that the 
dwarf thanked the elves at all. Though Langcyll and Glorfindel 
doubtlessly noticed the tenor of the dwarf’s speech, they made no 
outward sign. “Well met, Naldin, son of Óin. I am Langcyll, captain of 
the warriors of Mirkwood.”

“I am Glorfindel of Imladris. We too owe you our gratitude for your 
stand beside our warriors. The foul creatures of Sauron are the enemy 
of all the free peoples of Middle Earth.” 

Glorfindel and Langcyll exchanged bows with the dwarves, but now both 
sides appeared to be waiting once again. Suspicion had bristled on 
Naldin’s brow, and he asked, “What business have you in these lands?”

*The dwarves always seem to ask that, even in lands that belong to 
neither them nor us,* Legolas thought sardonically. 

“We are hunting orcs,” Langcyll answered. “We have come south from 
Imladris.”

“This course will take you close to Moria,” Sothi observed. “That is 
where we go.”

“Moria?” Glorfindel looked doubtful. It was well-known that the 
children of Durin had abandoned the ancient stronghold long ago when 
it had been taken by orcs and other fell demons. Legolas suppressed a 
shudder at the thought of one of those demons in particular.

“Balin of the Lonely Mountain has sent us to scout the mines of 
Moria,” Naldin said, lifting his chin (invisible beneath a long beard) 
in response to the dubious tone of the elf. “The dwarves intend to 
take back their old realm. The foul creatures of the Enemy shall not 
claim it for much longer.”

Langcyll nodded, but to Legolas’s eye, it seemed more like a shrug, 
“Then we wish you every success. We must ride on if you’ve no further 
need of assistance.”

“Farewell then,” the dwarves bowed again, and Langcyll and Glorfindel 
bowed in turn.

As the captains rejoined their respective warriors, Legolas heard 
several of the dwarves muttering among themselves, “We never needed 
their assistance in the first place.” He caught Galithil and Faron 
rolling their eyes at him, and grinned. He was beginning to agree with 
Galithil’s estimate of the dwarves.

***

To the irritation of all concerned, the elf and dwarf parties seemed 
to be traveling at the exact same pace, causing them to encounter each 
other every few days. “Make ready to break camp--dwarves again, 
Elrohir?” Glorfindel asked with a slight smile.

Elrohir, who had been standing watch, nodded down the hillside. 
“They’ve taken to traveling at night also.” He pulled his mouth to one 
side, “I think we shall be on the same path.”

Glorfindel detected several discreet groans from the younger warriors 
of the party. “Well then, we shall have to tolerate them.”

“And vice versa,” he heard Faron whisper to Legolas, earning a muffled 
snicker in return.

Langcyll walked up beside Glorfindel. “These next few miles of trail 
look to be smooth. We may ride tonight; it will not be difficult for 
the horses.”

With a nod, Glorfindel ordered the warriors to mount, then paused as 
he considered the formation. “Elladan and Elrohir, you shall bring up 
the rear. Oh Elladan? Which side do the dwarves come from?”

“They are coming up from the west, Glorfindel.”

“Very well.” With a sly glance at Langcyll, Glorfindel ordered, 
“Galithil, you shall flank us on the west.” He was forced to quash a 
smile at the look of dismay on the face of the warrioress, then took 
note of the smirk that Legolas and Faron exchanged. “And you, 
Legolas.” Legolas looked decidedly less than enthusiastic.

“Mount up!” Langcyll ordered. “We ride south.” Catching Glorfindel’s 
eye, he added, “Faron, you will ride the western flank over the next 
mountain.” (Faron had been grinning just a bit too broadly at Legolas 
and Galithil.)

Within ten minutes, the slowly-riding company spotted the party of 
dwarves walking up the trail towards them. The dwarves looked no more 
enthusiastic than Legolas had about these circumstances. In a jovial 
voice, Langcyll said, “Good evening, dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.” 
He received a chorus of grunts in return.

***

Legolas enjoyed the rare opportunities to actually ride Lanthir in the 
mountains, for he would never dream of straining his horse. However, 
this was NOT the way he desired to spend the next stretch of trail. He 
was not close enough to the rest of the company to talk without being 
overheard by the dwarves (thus eliminating what might have been some 
amusing conversation) and talking to the dwarves was…not exactly 
Legolas‘s idea of stimulating conversation. So other than to respond 
to the questions of the other elves, Legolas rode in stony silence and 
wished the trip would end.

He glanced at the objects of his thoughts. They were muttering amongst 
themselves (either unaware or unconcerned that elven senses could 
easily hear every word they said) and much of their conversation 
involved disparaging talk about the elves riding parallel to them.

*At least I no longer wear the crown of Mirkwood. Being from Lonely 
Mountain, this band would have plenty to say about my father. And it 
gall me further to admit that much of it was true.*

“I’ve heard of three of the Imladris elves from my father,” Naldin was 
saying. “The sons of Elrond may at least be trusted. Thorin and his 
company received fair treatment from Imladris at least.”

“For myself,” said another dwarf whose name Legolas did not know, “I 
do not trust any elf any further than I could throw him.”

*Than you must trust us not at all,* Legolas thought, a smile coming 
unbidden to his lips. *Were I to apply that standard, I would have to 
trust you a very long way.* He caught Galithil glancing back at him 
and grinned in response to her raised eyebrows. She grinned back and 
winked at him, *She knows I am swiftly coming round to her way of 
thinking.*

“I certainly would not trust any elf of Mirkwood,” one of the other 
dwarves was saying. “And they say that we dwarves are greedy. They are 
not only greedy for the same gems and metals that we love, and are too 
lazy to even work such things themselves. The emeralds of 
Girion--hmph! Had I been Thorin, I would have told that elvenking 
where to stick his twelfth share, Battle of Five Armies or no!”

“Greedy as an orc, that Thranduil. Probably would’ve let Naldin’s 
father rot in his dungeons along with Thorin and the rest of them were 
it not for that little hobbit.”

“Aye, Lorben, can’t say I blame the hobbit for all his part. Hobbits 
aren’t cut out for such ventures as that journey turned into. From 
what Balin told me, I myself would’ve been itching for a warm fire and 
peace and quiet by the time it was all over. Don’t know how the hobbit 
bore it all.”

“Didn’t take a very large share of the wealth, either. Generous, I’ll 
say that for him. Nothing like those elves.”

“Nay, you can never trust an elf. Especially a wood elf. I wouldn’t 
mind running into this party if they were all from Imladris, but more 
than half of them are Thranduil’s lackies. That Langcyll is Mirkwood’s 
first captain.”

“That one is Langcyll? Dain ran into him two years ago coming out of 
Mirkwood with a bunch of his warriors. Said one of Thranduil’s sons 
was with him.”

Legolas felt his stomach twist painfully and turned to keep the 
dwarves from seeing his face. But that remark had aroused the 
curiosity of the other dwarves. “Think this is the same party? Which 
one do you suppose he is?”

“All the Mirkwood elves look the same. Except that one--he looks like 
he hails from Lorien. Don’t know what inter-realm marriage alliance 
spawned him. Did all of Thranduil’s get resemble his looks? I’ve seem 
the elvenking a few times before they went back to Mirkwood.” 

“Can’t tell. Dain said his son wore the crown of Mirkwood then, but 
that was well before Thorin arrived.” There was a snide chuckle, 
“Probably lost it, if the orcs in these mountains have been as bad as 
they say. A lot of elves died at Lonely Mountain, and I’ve heard 
they’re losing a lot more than they planned on in their war parties as 
well.”

Legolas had been listening previously out of bored curiosity, but now 
he wished he could shut their voices out. Reaching inside his tunic, 
he fumbled for Tathar’s pearl and pulled it from his pouch, rolling it 
over and over in his fingers. 

** “There, Legolas, now you have met dwarves!” **

Langcyll was riding toward the center of the company, but his hearing 
was more than keen enough to detect the conversation taking place 
among the dwarves. He was content to ignore it until the subject 
turned to King Thranduil--and Legolas. *Thank the Valar they did not 
recognize him.*

He could see Legolas flanking the company closer to the dwarf party. 
Sticking Legolas there had seemed like a good idea at the time, but 
now Langcyll was having doubts. There was no cause to torment the 
prince by forcing him to listen to this sort of talk, and it was 
highly unlikely that overhearing it would remedy the young elf’s 
prejudices. Just the opposite was likely. 

“Le--” he nearly called the prince’s name aloud, then caught himself. 
*They’ll know the names of Thranduil’s sons. Call his name and you 
guarantee that he’ll have their undivided attention.* As it was, 
Legolas had already managed to get the attention of at least one of 
the dwarves, who had noticed the pearl the elf warrior was holding. 
*So how to get Legolas’s attention?* Aloud, Langcyll said, “Change the 
formation. Elladan and Elunen, take the western flank. Nathron and 
Fanfirith, bring up the rear. Elrohir and Galithil, on the eastern 
flank.”

There was no mistaking the gratitude in the quick glance Legolas gave 
him as he traded places with Elladan. Then Legolas glanced back at the 
dwarves and noticed the one staring at Tathar’s pearl. With a 
distinctively defensive expression, the prince slipped the pearl back 
into his pouch and rode to the opposite side of the 
formation--effectively putting as much distance between himself and 
the dwarves as possible.

Langcyll sighed inwardly. *They are not all that way, but there would 
be no point in saying so to Legolas at this juncture. Better to wait 
and see if events change his opinion of the dwarves.*

***

With the rising of the sun, the two companies made camp on opposite 
sides of the hill they were on. “If I had been forced to hear one more 
dwarven grunt, I would not have been responsible for my actions,” 
Galithil remarked, coming to claim her share of rations.

Faron chuckled along with Fanfirith and Nathron, but Legolas did not 
laugh. He seemed in another world altogether. Faron glanced over his 
shoulder and saw that Langcyll and Glorfindel were in conversation 
with Elladan and Elrohir, and several glances were being directed at 
Legolas. Faron had heard the talk among the dwarves--consequently, he 
had cringed repeatedly throughout the ride. 

And now Legolas had retreated into that distracted silence that always 
betrayed an inner disquiet. Langcyll, Glorfindel, and the rest of the 
warriors joined them, but Legolas stared at the fire and did not look 
up. The conversations flowed among the other elves while the prince of 
Mirkwood gave no indication that he heard a word that was said. 

Rather quickly, Elladan addressed the group in general in a cheerful 
voice, “So! Are we enjoying our extended relations with the dwarves?”

Laughter and snorts were the collective response to this question, and 
Legolas did crack a slight smile. “Surely, Elladan, I learned a great 
deal from my stint along our flank,” Faron said in a voice dripping 
with honey. “I learned that dwarves cannot live without malt beer--”

“Malt beer or beards?” Fanfirith quipped, earning laughter all around.

“Well, those beards must be good for carrying tools or weapons,” 
suggested Elrohir.

“They are short, smelly, and they dress…peculiarly,” Galithil put in. 
“The last dwarf I met had breath that could slay a dragon at twenty 
paces.”

“I suppose that would explain how they slew Smaug,” Faron remarked.

“They were valiant enough against the orcs, but against a large foe, 
surely they could not put up much of a fight. One would need only to 
step on them,” Nathron added. 

“They have a very peculiar walk, for that matter. Rather like a 
waddle,” said Elladan. “Eh, Legolas?”

“What? Ah, yes.”

“What do you think of the dwarves, Legolas?” Langcyll asked casually. 
It did not escape Faron that Langcyll had taken the other warriors to 
task for speaking so disparagingly of any other race of Middle Earth.

Twirling an arrow in his fingers, Legolas replied, “I think they care 
a great deal for their own troubles, and nothing for the troubles of 
others, but they are quick to condemn others for the same behavior.”

“Legolas, if you were any more gloomy, I think bats would use you for 
a perch,” Elrohir said.

At last, he got a reaction. Legolas looked up incredulously, “Bats do 
not perch!” 

Elladan muffled a snort behind his hand, and his twin glared at him. 
“Well, they…they…”

“They hang, you great half-wit!” Elladan laughed, and the others soon 
joined in--including Legolas, to Faron’s relief.

“Perhaps that is what those great, heavy helms are for,” Legolas 
suggested. “Otherwise, they might be at constant risk of being stepped 
upon by larger foes.” It was a rather weak jest, but the others 
laughed heartily. At least Legolas seemed in a better humor.

Later that afternoon, Faron returned from standing first watch to find 
Legolas lying in his bedroll. At first glance, the elven prince seemed 
asleep, for he lay motionless, with his hands upon his chest, staring 
at nothing in particular. But there was a slight tenseness in his jaw, 
and his eyes were a shade too alert for sleep. 

Faron casually crawled into his own bedroll, not that he needed to be 
wrapped in blankets in midsummer. “You should be sleeping, Legolas. 
Elunen told me we shall see more action tonight.”

Legolas did not move or even react--other than to pull his mouth to 
one side in a sort of half-grimace. “Unless the clamor from those 
dwarves makes them believe there is an entire army coming over these 
hills.”

Shaking his head, Faron propped himself up on his elbow, “Are you 
still ruffled at their idle chatter? Surely you cannot expect dwarves 
to be paragons of sensitivity.”

Legolas sighed, but turned his head to face Faron, “You speak the 
truth. I do not know why I let their words upset me.”

“Because we did not lose as many elves as they would think,” said 
Langcyll, who had quietly come up behind Legolas. The prince sat up 
quickly, and the two youngest warriors faced the captain of Mirkwood. 
“I have also heard dwarf rumor that our parties have lost more than 
half of their number.” He smiled wryly at the astonished expressions 
of Faron and Legolas. “Yes, I was equally surprised by such 
exaggerations. But, then I suppose their misconception can be 
understood. For all the mourning with which we elves greet one lost 
life, it would seem to them that many lives might have been lost. It 
is not a dwarven fault, rather a misconception among all mortals, that 
elves take life for granted due to our immortality. No, we did not 
lose so much in number over recent years, but still we lost too much.”

Faron had felt a lump rising in his own throat as Langcyll’s words 
struck home, then in a rush of anxiety, he stole a quick glance at 
Legolas. The past few weeks had been so eventful that it had been easy 
to forget that less than three months had passed since Tathar of 
Mirkwood had perished. And it had been even less time since Legolas’s 
grief had been so deep that Langcyll and Glorfindel had been frantic 
to reverse his condition. 

To Faron’s relief, though Legolas had gone very pale, he showed no 
sign of that black hopelessness that had threatened his life in the 
first weeks after Tathar’s death. The prince’s hand stole into his 
tunic pouch and sunlight reflected on the dark luster of the black 
pearl as Legolas caressed it absently. 

The action had caught Langcyll’s eye as well, “Have a care there, 
Legolas. I saw at least one of the dwarves noticing your keepsake. Its 
value may be sentimental to you, but forget not that its worth is 
considerable in other respects. The dwarves do not actively wish us 
ill, but if they begin to covet something that belongs to us…” he let 
the thought dangle, and Legolas hastily slipped the pearl back into 
his pouch and looked about as though expecting someone to try and grab 
it.

Faron thought to himself, *Langcyll gives the dwarves more credit than 
they deserve. While they are not the Enemy by any means, I think they 
do surpass many beings in the measure of malice. They would covet 
Legolas’s pearl for its price, certainly, but I believe they would 
desire it all the more if they knew why he treasures it.*

***

The following night found elves and dwarves traveling the same trail 
once again, albeit with a little more space in between their parties 
this time. “We are not far from Moria,” Glorfindel observed as he 
walked beside Langcyll at the front of the company. “These hills are 
pockmarked with caves.”

The company was well spread-out, elven senses on full alert for fell 
creatures that might be using one of the many caves as a den. Langcyll 
and Glorfindel were front and center, leading the string of horses, 
with Elladan and Elrohir flanking to their right and Fanfirith and 
Glanaur on the left, Elunen and Nathron behind, and Galithil, Legolas, 
and Faron scouting around them. “Take care,” Elunen warned the 
company. “The ground is of rock, but these hills are riddled with 
hollows and tunnels. There is a danger of breaking through.”

“Oh, so that is how the dwarves do their tunneling,” Langcyll heard 
Galithil saying to someone, and the muffled laughter in response 
identified it to be Legolas. 

Langcyll opened his mouth to chide them both, but an oddly distorted 
screech caught him. All the elves froze, uncertain. “Where--” Elladan 
began.

Legolas appeared from the clump of bushes he had been examining, and 
exclaimed, “Beneath us. They have a cave entrance somewhere near.” The 
prince looked about, appearing baffled as to how they should proceed.

Taking a swift opportunity, Langcyll said sternly, “It is a shame the 
dwarves are not closer; we would benefit from their GREATER expertise 
in this instance.” The blushes on both faces confirmed that his rebuke 
had not been missed. That dealt with, he went on, “Spread out in pairs 
and be wary. Do not stray too far from the main group.”

Faron quickly joined Legolas and Galithil, and the trio moved out 
ahead of the main party. Elladan and Elrohir moved down through the 
trees to the east, and Fanfirith and Elunen to the west. Then the 
screeches came again, this time undistorted by ground or distance--and 
behind them. 

“Beware!” Langcyll spun around, drawing his bow, and saw orcs charging 
them from openings in the ground that he still could not see. That 
fact troubled him even as he took aim at the orcs in the very dim 
light.

They came far too fast and recklessly; the archers were able to pick 
off a good number of the orcs before they were even close enough to 
endanger the warriors in the back of the group. But soon Langcyll 
beheld the reason for their rushed attack: the dwarf party had seen 
what the elves had missed, and axe-wielding dwarves were pursuing the 
fell beasts straight into the elves. 

“Stand here!” Glorfindel shouted to the company, seeing an opportunity 
to trap the orcs between a hammer of dwarves and an anvil of elves.

Those orcs that came to fast at the elves were cut down by arrows, and 
those who tarried were struck down by dwarven axes. In panic, the 
beasts of Sauron scattered in all directions, and dwarves and elves 
gave chase. 

The orc band had been large, nearly a hundred strong, but their hand 
had been forced by the dwarf attack, and they could not rally 
themselves into an effective fighting brigade. Langcyll made his stand 
protecting the horses with half of his warriors, while Glorfindel and 
the other half of the elf company assisted the dwarves chasing down 
the fleeing orcs. When it was clear that all of the orcs were in 
retreat , Langcyll sprang upon his mount so that his far-seeing eyes 
might have a better view. 

He could see Glorfindel and Elunen with Naldin the dwarf, pursuing a 
dozen or so orcs down the hillside. Many of the orcs in their 
desperation to escape had chosen the path of least 
resistance--literally running along the beaten trail with Elladan, 
Elrohir, Fanfirith, and Sothi along with several of his dwarves in hot 
pursuit. Legolas, Faron, and Galithil, along with four other dwarves 
that Langcyll did not recognize, were pursuing orcs to the west of the 
trail. The rough, rocky ground shook with the rushing and stomping of 
many feet, but suddenly a new shudder in the earth warned Langcyll of 
a new danger. 

Feeling the tiny tremor ripple under his feet, Langcyll identified it 
as not an earthquake but rather the shock of the ground--as something 
beneath their feet gave way. He felt it as it came, and the way that 
the horses started betold its direction. Langcyll looked along the 
hillside towards the source--and saw several elven heads racing up the 
hillside through the brush in pursuit of fleeing orcs, unaware in 
their hurry of the bedrock that had cracked directly below them.

Although Langcyll cared greatly for all his warriors, in his deepest 
heart he could not deny that the sight of the fair hair among the dark 
elven heads caused his heart to leap to his throat. “Legolas!” he 
cried, all but standing upon his horse’s back. Legolas stopped in his 
tracks and stared back at Langcyll, and that pause was enough for the 
young warrior to also feel the breaking rock beneath his feet. “Run, 
all of you!” Langcyll shouted frantically, kicking his horse into a 
run towards them. “Fly!”

***

Had Legolas fled that place at once, he might have escaped the cave-in 
that was approaching. But he would never seek his own safety without 
attempting at least to forewarn his comrades, and the dwarves who 
fought with them. “Galithil, Faron, dwarves, beware!” Legolas shouted. 
“The ground gives way!”

In spite of the furor of battle, all heard his cry of warning, and 
both of his companions as well as the dwarves broke off their hunt in 
search of stable ground. But there was little time left, even as they 
now felt tiny shocks beneath their feet from cracks that were tracing 
through the rock layer beneath them. “Back to the trail!” Legolas 
cried. “Fly, fly!” Seizing Galithil by the hand, seeing Faron just 
behind them, and waving the dwarves beside them in the proper 
direction, he sprinted with all his might even as the dirt and sand 
began to slide beneath their feet.

“Oh no!” Galithil cried out as her feet suddenly found no purchase, 
and Legolas heard several of the dwarves’ shouts and curses as they 
too were caught on the collapsing ground. 

Putting all his strength and weight into his arm, Legolas flung 
Galithil forward with all his might, sending her crashing through the 
bushes and tumbling head-over-heels onto the sturdier ground of the 
trail where the rest of the company had taken refuge. But the act of 
doing so slowed his own momentum forward, and Faron was too far behind 
him to reach in time for them to assist each other to safety. One of 
the dwarves managed to seize some scrubby bushes that did not seem to 
be falling into the hole with the rest of the ground, and Legolas and 
Faron desperately sought to do the same. 

“No!” disregarding safety in a fashion that would have earned a 
younger warrior serious censure, Langcyll charged forward, rushing 
onto the unstable ground that was crumbling like stale way bread under 
his warriors’ feet. Two of the dwarves had already vanished into the 
rapidly-widening chasm, and another clung helplessly to the edge. 
Though his heart thought first of his own warriors, Langcyll 
nonetheless made a grab for the nearer dwarf, but the rock to which he 
clung gave way and he vanished into the hole before Langcyll could 
reach him.

Legolas flung himself forward and managed to grasp the very base of 
another deep-rooted bush, but from behind him he heard Faron’s cry of 
panic as his friend found no such deliverance. Frantically, he twisted 
back and tried to grab Faron’s hand, no longer seeing Langcyll on his 
knees upon the unstable ground, his own hand extended toward Legolas. 
Legolas’s hand found Faron’s, and for a few seconds it seemed that 
they were both saved as they hung over a black pit who-knew-how-deep. 
But their combined, swinging weight proved to be more than the small 
bush could bear, and Legolas looked up in horror as a low riiiiippp 
heralded the roots coming loose. 

“Legolas!” 

Glorfindel raced forward as he saw more ground giving way, and yanked 
Langcyll back from the edge of the hole even as two of their warriors 
were swallowed up by the earth. The last thing the rest of the company 
saw of Legolas was his hand, still clinging to the unfaithful bush, as 
it vanished in the cave-in. More rock and sand poured into the break 
in the earth, and Langcyll and Glorfindel stumbled to their feet, 
staring in horror as great boulders and slabs of rock filled in the 
hole just as quickly as it had formed. 

The dwarf company had gathered alongside the elves, and they too 
stared in dismay at the seemingly impenetrable barrier between 
themselves and three of their own party. After what seemed like an 
eternity, the sand and stone ceased sliding, and the vibrations of 
cracking stone ended beneath the warriors’ feet. 

If one looked upon both companies at that particular moment, it would 
be difficult indeed to determine which looked the most distressed. 
Immortal the elves may be, but mortal injuries can be just as deadly 
to them, and it was doubtful that even the swiftest and sturdiest elf 
could escape a landslide of sand and stone unscathed. Though the 
dwarves are skilled in navigating caves, three of their companions had 
been caught in that same catastrophic rockslide. 

Now two elves and three dwarves were trapped beneath a massive pile of 
collapsed stone in a cavern of untold depth, along with untold numbers 
of orcs. It seemed impossible that either company, being so unfamiliar 
with this particular network of caves, would be able to reach their 
companions before the agents of the enemy found them first. Assuming, 
of course, that any of them had survived.

*****



CHARACTER GUIDE: The Warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood

Langcyll and Glorfindel: joint leaders of the party Elunen and 
Glanaur: their lieutenants Fanfirith and Nathron: senior warriors 
Elladan, Elrohir, Galithil: younger but experienced warriors Legolas, 
Faron: the youngest of the group, both from the same generation that 
just came of age

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse 



***NOTE***The flashback in this chapter comes from a scene I mentioned 
from Legolas’s childhood. The story goes, Legolas, Tathar, Candrochon, 
and Merilin went looking for the king’s treasure in his caves and got 
lost in the dungeons. Maybe one of these days I’ll write a ficlet 
about it if anybody’s interested.

AS REQUESTED: A translation of all my elven names at the end of this 
chapter.

** Denotes flashbacks **





Chapter Twelve: Of Price and Worth







“Legolas!”

The last thing the young warrior saw of the ground above was 
Glorfindel dragging Langcyll back as more earth gave way and crumpled 
into the chasm. Then Legolas was caught in what seemed like a great 
waterfall of sand and stone that tumbled down, down, over more rock, 
battering his body, and he groped blindly for some purchase that would 
stop his fall. Faron’s hand was pulled from his grasp suddenly, and he 
cried out in terror even as he plummeted on, until all at once, he 
came to a somersaulting halt against a hard bed of rock. More rock and 
sand poured around him, and he instinctively put his arms over his 
head and curled into a ball in a feeble effort to protect himself. 
After what seemed like an eternity, the brutal cascade ceased.

Trembling, motionless, Legolas attempted to catch his breath and only 
succeeded in inhaling a mouthful of sand and dust that still hovered 
in the air. Gasping and coughing, he covered his mouth and nose with 
his sleeve, desperate to filter out the choking debris. His eyes stung 
and watered so that he could scarcely see. He felt the clouds of dust 
settling around him, and attempted another shaky breath. It was still 
thoroughly unpleasant, but he no longer felt that he was drowning in 
dirt.

That minor detail attended to, Legolas focused his attention on the 
rest of his body. Tentatively, he uncurled himself and though his body 
throbbed deeply in many places, he did not think anything was broken. 
It seemed a miracle. He could taste blood in his mouth and his body 
was covered with scrapes and bruises, his clothing torn in many 
places, but all things considered, he was relatively unharmed. He 
raised a hand to brush the sand and grit from his still-smarting eyes 
and found that he was still clutching the roots of the plant he’d been 
trying to cling to, so tightly in fact that his fingers spasmed 
painfully when he forced them to let it go. There were deep scratches 
in his other hand, and though none of the wrist bones were broken, he 
felt that the joint had at least popped. 

*When I lost Faron…he must have been trying to hold on as hard as I 
was.*

Faron. Legolas sat up slowly and looked around him, but the floating 
dust in the air was still too thick for him to see more than a few 
feet in any direction. It was also darker than any place he had ever 
been. He could feel hard stone behind him, and the dust obscured any 
view over his head, so there was no telling how high or wide this cave 
was that he and the others had tumbled into. He nearly called out, but 
caught himself--he had no idea how many orcs had landed in this chasm 
with them, and it would not be wise to call their attention to him 
while still trapped alone in this place. 

Legolas decided it would be best to remain where he was for the time 
being, and tried to concentrate on listening. Unfortunately, his head 
felt as though there was a gong ringing inside it, and the sounds of 
settling dust and rock still obscured any sounds of other living 
things around him. 

The dust continued to settle, but it was so dark…Legolas had not the 
faintest idea where he was, or how far below the surface of the earth 
the floor of this cavern was, where Faron was, what had happened to 
the dwarves--*I will go mad if I cannot see anything!!* In the fashion 
of all elves, his skin glowed faintly, but it did not provide enough 
light to see more than a few feet in any direction, and the blackness 
about him only seemed thicker. Shuddering convulsively, Legolas drew 
his knees up under his chin like a frightened child. Until he was able 
determine more of where he was and what had happened, he could do 
nothing but wait.

***

Galithil had staggered to her feet after being thrown to safety by 
Legolas, and now stood next to Elunen, her hands over her mouth in 
mute horror. Faintly, she whispered, “We must get them out of there.”

“How?” demanded Elladan, as his brother moved a few feet closer to 
inspect the cave-in and cursed softly. “Tons of rock were shifted by 
that fall. How can we remove such a pile?”

Seeing movement from the corner of her eye, Galithil noticed the 
dwarves again, talking heatedly amongst themselves, doubtlessly 
worried about their own comrades. She turned and met Langcyll’s 
anguished eyes. Without a word to the other elves, the captain of 
Mirkwood turned and spoke, “Master Dwarf.” Naldin of the Lonely 
Mountain paused and looked at Langcyll, “It seems we have both a 
pressing need to free our companions. I believe the dwarves may be 
more knowledgeable than the elves at moving stone. Have you any idea 
how we might reach them?”

Naldin and Sothi exchanged glances with the other dwarves, and for 
once there was an expression other than scorn for the elves upon their 
faces. For both sides, anxiety dominated every other thought. After a 
moment’s wordless exchange, Naldin folded his arms and said briskly, 
“The work will go faster if we combine our efforts.”

Anxiously, Glorfindel moved up beside Langcyll, “Say only where you 
would have us help, and it shall be done.”

The dwarf nodded, “We have tools to break up the rocks. It’ll have to 
be done by hand; we don’t dare collapse any more stone or we risk 
hurting our friends. It may also be possible to find another entrance 
to these caves. We’ll need scouts, and strong arms to move stone.”

Without hesitation, Langcyll ordered, “Glorfindel, take Elunen, 
Fanfirith, and Glanaur and assist the dwarves with the scouting. 
Galithil, Elladan, Elrohir, Nathron, and I will remain to help with 
reopening the hole.”

“Good!” Sothi motioned to several of the dwarves, who gathered up 
ropes and packs, and carried their axes, and then jerked his head at 
the elf scouts to follow him as he jogged off down the hillside. 
“Watch for any openings in the earth. Even the smallest holes can be 
widened if you have the proper tools.”

Langcyll watched them go, and turned back to Naldin, who was directing 
the remaining dwarves. They were removing hammers, chisels, and other 
heavy tools from their packs and marching resolutely toward the 
filled-in hole. “Come,” Naldin said to the elves. “Time for you 
wood-elves to learn the art of breaking through rock!” Taking the 
large hammer he’d been offered, Langcyll followed Naldin.

***

** “Are you certain you know where we are, Tathar?”

“Positive! I have a perfect sense of direction! The treasure chambers 
must be the deepest ones so they are the hardest to get to!”

“Wonderful! So we have to stay down here even longer to get to this 
reported treasure!”

“If you’re scared, Candrochon, you can always go back up!”

“I’m not scared, Legolas!”

“Shh! Be quiet, you two!”

“Peace, Merilin, no one will hear us. There is no one down here at 
all…what was that?!”

“What? Where!?”

“I heard something!”

“Pfft, you’re mad, Legolas. I don’t see any--AIIIIII!!!! There’s 
something swooping down! Help! RUN!!!”

(Gasp! Pant!) “For pity’s sake, Candrochon, it was just a bat!”

“They say the bats that live in caves suck blood!”

“Will you stop it, Merilin!?”

“Ah, where’s Tathar?”

“He was here a minute ago…I can’t see him! I can’t see anything! 
What’s happened?! Where‘s the light?”

“Tathar! Where are you?! We’re lost! The torch has gone out!”

(Shiver) “Maybe--maybe we should just wait until someone comes and 
finds us.”

“Legolas?”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

**

A shuffle jerked Legolas back to the present--not that it was much of 
an improvement. The situation had not changed. He felt the blackness 
closing around him, and now he was certain there was someone--or 
something--nearby. The young prince’s heart was pounding so hard that 
he was certain whoever it was would find him easily. To make matters 
worse, he seemed to have lost both his quiver and his knives in the 
fall.

*I must not panic. I must wait and see if they reveal themselves. If 
it is Faron, he may call out to me. If it is an orc, I shall know very 
soon.* But it was all he could do not to breathe loudly as shuffles 
and movement provided indisputable proof that someone else had entered 
this earthen tomb with him.

Suddenly, there was an odd ching! and sparks flew. In a low hissss, 
Legolas saw a flame appear in the darkness several yards away, ignite 
the end of some object that looked like a tangle of roots, then with a 
soft sizzle, a torch head burned brightly and light! Gorgeous, blessed 
light filled the cavern, illuminating the face of a rather battered 
dwarf who gazed around the room and nearly dropped his torch when he 
spied Legolas.

Elf and dwarf stared at each other for a long moment. The dwarf found 
his voice first. “So. An elf survived that little rockslide, did he? 
I’d begun to think I was the only one left down here.”

Determined that his voice would NOT shake when he spoke, Legolas said 
quietly, “You’ve seen no sign of any others? Friend or foe?”

“Nay. Not a dwarf, elf, or orc to be seen in that passage,” the 
dwarf’s heavy features looked still more brooding and unfriendly in 
the dim, flickering torchlight. With a rather mean smile, he observed, 
“You look like you haven’t moved from the spot where you landed. What 
ails you, Elf--are all your kind so afraid of the dark?”

His pride stung awake, Legolas rose on reasonably steady legs so that 
he might look down upon this posturing little creature. “I had not a 
convenient torch to light my way, and I had concern enough for my 
comrades not to wish to step on them in the dark. You might face the 
same danger if I could not see where I was going.”

“Hmph.”

Sensing that he had gained the verbal upper hand, for the moment at 
least, Legolas changed the subject to the one of most concern. “Do you 
have any idea where our companions might have landed in this cave?”

“There’s more than one cave, Elfling. This entire hill is riddled with 
caverns, tunnels, and gaping holes. I’ve found at least one hole in 
the floor that goes so deep my first torch fell until it disappeared. 
You and I were lucky. Our friends may not have been.” 

The dwarf seemed to feel little hope of finding his friends alive, but 
the thought of escaping this place without Faron was enough to shake 
Legolas to the core of his being. *I cannot go through this again I 
cannot go through this again I cannot go through this again I 
cannot--* Aloud, in a reasonably steady voice, he said, “I must find 
my friend, Master Dwarf. Help me if you wish, but I can tarry no 
longer. Have you another torch?”

“Nay, this is the last. Looks like we’re stuck with each other, but 
I’d like to know what happened to my friends as well, Elfling. Come, 
then. Let us take a look around.” Jerking his hand imperiously at 
Legolas, he began to explore the perimeter of the cavern. Legolas was 
irritated at first, then decided that this dwarf was a far more 
experienced navigator of caves than any elf. Biting his tongue, he 
followed closely.

***

“Now loop that rope over that edge of the rock nice and tight, Lady 
Elf,” one of the dwarves ordered Galithil. “Tighter now. If it slips 
off while we’re lifting it, it could trigger another cave-in.”

Pulling with all her strength, Galithil of Mirkwood tightened the 
double-loop she had made with the rope around an especially large slab 
of rock. The dwarves had sent the lighter elves to climb over the pile 
and remove all the small rocks they could easily carry, but now some 
large chunks had to be shifted. 

“I think that is as tight as it will come,” Galithil told the dwarf, 
wiping sweat from her eyes and glancing about. Two of the elves and 
another of the dwarves were standing watch as the rest continued 
working, but the eastern sky was growing red, and soon there would be 
no chance of an orc ambush. Langcyll and Naldin had agreed that they 
would have perhaps this one day only to reach their companions before 
every orc in the Misty Mountains honed in on their position.

“All right! Make ready there! Stand well back, Lady. Don’t want you 
squished if that thing should fall,” the dwarf sounded almost charming 
as he took his position on the rope in front of Elrohir, Elladan, and 
two other dwarves. “Ready, ready, now!”

With great heaving and groaning, elves and dwarves pulled the rope 
with all their strength to haul away a slab of stone that must have 
weighed half a ton. The dwarves had rigged a strange frame on the 
north side of the hole where the ropes were slung so that the stone 
could be lifted into the air, then shifted safely away from the pile 
before being dropped onto solid ground. Langcyll was with another 
dwarf behind the frame, guiding the stone safely out of the way. 
“Lower it gently,” Naldin cautioned. With great care, the group 
holding the ropes lessened their grip and eased the great slab to the 
ground.

Galithil let out the breath she was holding, and the dwarf who had 
been directing them stomped his foot triumphantly. “And the first slab 
is safely away! That’s a good omen among my people, Lady Elf,” he said 
to her. “If the first stone comes away willingly, the mine will 
disgorge great treasure. Let’s just hope it’s the treasure dear to us 
all, eh?” He winked at her, and returned to the pile to pick out the 
next rock to be lifted.

Shaking herself out of the strange inertia that had seized her, she 
went to help him. “What is your name, Master Dwarf?” she asked as she 
helped him clear away loose stones.

“Sháin, Lady Elf, son of Tili, second cousin of Dáin, King under the 
Mountain. Forgot my manners in this rather nasty predicament. 
Should’ve asked your name.” 

“I am Galithil, daughter of Eregdos of Mirkwood,” she told him.

“‘Galithil.’ ‘Galithil.’ Means ‘pale moon,’ doesn’t it?” Sháin paused 
and cocked his head at the warrioress with a smile. “Suits you, Lady. 
Bring those hammers back!” he suddenly shouted. “Got another rock here 
that needs breaking!”

***

A search of the perimeter of the cavern where Legolas had landed 
revealed neither a dwarf nor an elf, but several raggedy-edged 
passages leading out. The dwarf waved his torch at the ceiling. “No 
telling where the landslide has dumped our friends, but they’re not 
here. We’d better start searching the passages.”

Legolas quashed the urge to shudder. “Should we not be worried that 
there may be orcs about in these caves?”

“After that cave-in? Unlikely, Elfling. They’ll have run for their 
lives if they were down here when the roof started giving way. Nay, 
our best shot at finding our comrades is to hurry and search before 
the orcs do come back. Follow me,” the dwarf lowered his torch in 
front of him to illuminate the passage as they entered. Legolas had no 
choice but to follow him.

**

“I canNOT believe you dropped the torch, Candrochon!”

“It was not my fault, Merilin! With all your talk of bloodsucking 
monsters and such, I would say it is yours!”

“Bah! You cannot blame me for everything, you little coward! You would 
have run from your own shadow--”

“SHHH! I am trying to listen! Tathar may be hurt somewhere and all you 
two can do is quarrel!”

“You cannot see any better than the rest of us in this dark, Legolas!”

“Nay, but I could hear if you would keep quiet!”

(Whimper!) “Do you suppose the bat got him?”

“Shh!”

“I still say this is all Merilin’s fault. Ow!”

**

Ahead of Legolas, the dwarf suddenly stopped. Legolas had to catch 
himself to avoid bumping into him. Without speaking, the dwarf knelt 
down, and Legolas saw a form lying prone in the dust too small to be 
Faron. “Take the torch,” the dwarf muttered, handing it to Legolas. He 
shook his companion tentatively. “Therik? Come on, Therik, wake up!”

The other dwarf groaned and stirred, then suddenly jerked upright with 
a grunt of challenge, balling his fists as he moved to fend off any 
attackers. Legolas jumped backward, and the other dwarf neatly fended 
off a wild swing. “Lorben? Is that you?”

“Aye, my friend, and glad to see you in one piece! I was afraid this 
elfling was the only other one to survive,” the first dwarf said.

Therik looked past Lorben and took in the rather ragged elf warrior 
holding the torch. “Hmph. Don’t know how that scrawny one could slip 
off a rock without breaking half the bones in his body.”

Legolas pursed his lips and said nothing. It was uncertain how long he 
would be trapped down here with these dwarves, and he still needed 
their help finding Faron. And the dwarves were still missing another 
one of their fellows. He was about to ask Therik if he had seen any 
sign of the others when noises from further down the passage caused 
them all to freeze. Lorben had somehow managed to keep ahold of his 
axe through everything, and brought it swiftly to bear as the trio 
gazed into the darkness beyond the torchlight.

To Legolas’s keen ears, the faint shuffles soon evolved into the sound 
of carefully-placed feet--too light to be either a dwarf or an orc. 
“Hold!” he said aloud as an intense surge of relief made him giddy. He 
held out a hand to restrain Lorben. “Faron?”

“Legolas?!” came an equally-relieved cry from down the passage, and 
the stealthy steps quickened into a limping run. Moments later, Faron 
of Imladris, looking bedraggled and bruised but none the worse for 
wear, hurried into view. The other young warrior paused on seeing the 
dwarves, then nodded briskly to them and went to grip Legolas’s arms. 

*If these dwarves were not here, I think I should throw my arms around 
him,* Legolas thought, his stomach still churning with relief. “Faron, 
you are unharmed?” he asked aloud.

“A few bumps and scrapes, but nothing serious,” Faron took a step back 
and looked his friend over. “You seem to have fared all right.”

Legolas nodded wearily, then decided it was time to address the less 
pleasant subject. “As far as we can tell, you and I were the only ones 
of our party to be caught in the fall, but the dwarves are still 
searching for one of their companions.”

“Then, of course, we shall aid them,” Faron added blandly, but Legolas 
could detect a note of mirth in his voice. Turning to face the 
dwarves, Faron said graciously, “Well met, Master Dwarves. I am Faron 
of Imladris.”

Exchanging a quick glance, the dwarves evidently decided there could 
be no lasting harm in revealing their names. “Lorben and Therik of the 
Lonely Mountain.”

“Legolas of Mirkwood,” Legolas added, praying they would not be 
knowledgeable of the elves of Mirkwood.

Apparently, he was in luck, for the dwarves merely grunted and looked 
like they wanted to continue on their way. Briskly, Faron said, “Shall 
we continue searching for your comrade?” He received no verbal answer, 
but Lorben lowered his torch before him and continued into the 
passage.

Faron and Legolas followed him, remaining silent but relieved no end 
that neither of them had suffered no grievous hurt. Legolas hoped that 
the third missing dwarf had been as lucky, but it was more due to a 
desire that the dwarves not be in an ill mood as they dug their way 
out than any particular concern for them. Legolas had acknowledged 
these ill thoughts, but felt little guilt for them; he was tired, his 
body still throbbed (particularly his head), and above all else, he 
sincerely doubted that the other two dwarves had felt the slightest 
concern when his friend had been also missing.

***

“This won’t get us anywhere, Master Elf,” Sothi the dwarf told 
Glorfindel. “See how the sound echoes from the passage? It bends 
south, and we need a path under the ground bending north if we want to 
go even in the general direction of our missing comrades.”

Glorfindel could hear the distorted echoes of the dwarf’s words being 
thrown back at them from the blackness of the cave they had entered a 
little ways, but failed to detect anything that might indicate the 
direction of the passage. Seeing the dwarf’s knowing grin in the 
torchlight, Glorfindel smiled ruefully and admitted, “I fear I shall 
have to take you at your word, Sothi, son of Dwalin, for I cannot tell 
the difference.”

“Ah, patience, Lord Glorfindel, you’re a more willing caver than some 
of your friends there. Eh, Mirkwood?” Sothi grinned past Glorfindel at 
the four elves of Langcyll’s party, who had hung very close to the 
entrance and seemed decidedly reluctant to venture deeper into the 
cave to explore. 

With a sheepish smile, Elunen folded her arms and said, “I speak for 
us all, Master Sothi, when I say we should be more than happy to dig 
halfway under this mountain if you had said we stood a chance of 
finding our companions. But when you did not,” she raised her hands to 
indicate the futility of such an unpleasant exercise.

Sothi grinned at her again, and Glorfindel found himself fighting the 
urge to grin as well. Being of Imladris, Glorfindel encountered 
dwarves on a fairly regular basis, but even a Mirkwood elf as 
far-traveled as Elunen had seen considerably less of them. 
Consequently, he could sense her surprise at the discovery that 
dwarves were rather witty (not to mention that they were surprisingly 
accomplished flirts.) “I may not be as uneasy as my Mirkwood kin 
inside caves, but if we’ve nothing to gain from further exploration of 
this one, I would venture to suggest that we move on. For the lives of 
all our friends may depend upon our speed.”

“Come, then,” Sothi said briskly, and Glorfindel followed him from the 
tunnel beside Elunen.

“I’ve seem my share of dwarves in my lifetime,” the Mirkwood 
warrioress murmured to Glorfindel, “but I must confess I did not 
remember how charming they could be.”

“He’s too young for you, Elunen,” Glanaur whispered to her, earning a 
glare in return. Just ahead of them, one of the other dwarves was 
muttering something to Sothi about being “besotted with pretty 
elf-ladies,” and got a jab in the ribs for his wit.

Glorfindel thought to himself, *Now all we need is to find Legolas, 
Faron, and the three missing dwarves alive and unharmed, and much will 
have been accomplished on this leg of the trip.*

***

“Ho, who goes there?” shouted a voice from down the black passage 
ahead of the trapped elves and dwarves.

With a startled curse, Lorben jumped backward, nearly dropping his 
torch, and Faron muttered to Legolas, “So much for a discreet search. 
At least it was worth the noise now that we’ve found our last missing 
dwarf.”

Sure enough, Therik the dwarf bellowed down the passage in response, 
throwing echoes that made the two elf warriors wince, “That you, 
Broni? Here! Hello!”

Moments later, Faron and Legolas heard the sound of heavy-running 
feet, and the third dwarf thumped into the torchlight, hurrying to 
greet his companions without so much as a blink at the two elves 
behind them. “Lorben! Therik! I was afraid you’d both been crushed by 
the rockslide. There were two dead orcs next to me when I came round.”

“But no live ones, that’s the important thing, eh?” Lorben said 
cheerfully, slapping the new arrival on the back. “We were beginning 
to despair of you, Broni. Glad you made it. Would’ve been a disgrace 
if we’d lost one of ours when both the elves survived.”

“Both?” For the first time, Broni and the other two saw fit to 
acknowledge Legolas and Faron’s presence again. “Hmph. I remembered a 
couple of elves being with us when we got caught.” He looked the two 
elves up and down, evidently deciding that their presence should be 
dealt with civilly, if nothing else. “So, Master Elves, I trust you’re 
enjoying your little sojourn in the dwarven realms?”

Faron had sensed long ago that Legolas’s temper was running a bit 
short, which was very unlike him (or perhaps he was concealing a 
painful injury, which would all too like him). So he responded 
quickly, “I think we are finding it most instructive, Master Dwarf. If 
our companions above are faring as well in the caves as we, soon the 
dwarves will be able to call on the elves whenever you are in need of 
our assistance.” At his elbow, he felt Legolas twitch ever-so-slightly 
as the prince suppressed a snicker.

The dwarf grunted (as dwarves are wont to do) and said grudgingly, 
“Well, you’ve survived this far, so I suppose it is a start. I am 
Broni, son of Fildin of the Lonely Mountain.”

“A pleasure, I am sure, Broni son of Fildin,” Faron said with a 
graceful bow, and decided he was rather enjoying this. “I am Faron, 
son of Gwaeron of Imladris.”

The newcomer grunted at him again, and was already looking to his 
companions when Legolas added as an afterthought, “Legolas--of 
Mirkwood.”

Broni paused. Faron was puzzled for only a moment when he felt Legolas 
stiffen beside him, then began to curse himself. *Curse me to wander 
in these caves for a week, why did I have to name my lineage?! I 
should have realized how they would react to hearing the name of 
Legolas’s father! Please do not let him notice, please do not let him 
notice--*

Their luck had run out. Lorben and Therik had ignored the elves’ 
failure to name their lineage when they’d introduced themselves 
before, but Broni had caught it. And, worse yet, he slowly turned and 
fixed Legolas with a stare that seemed to bore right through the 
younger elf. “Legolas, hmm? Of Mirkwood?” Faron felt Legolas stop 
breathing next to him, and looked desperately for a way to change the 
subject, distract Broni, anything. 

But nothing came to mind, and Broni the dwarf was apparently more 
knowledgeable of the elves of Mirkwood than his friends--specifically 
when it came to the Mirkwood nobility. As Lorben and Therik also 
turned to stare at Legolas, Broni drawled, “And who might your father 
be, Legolas of Mirkwood?”

To his credit, Legolas lifted his chin and returned the dwarf’s 
piercing stare with an equally steady gaze. “My father is Thranduil of 
Mirkwood.”

Therik’s jaw dropped, and Lorben spat out a dwarvish curse that Faron 
understood (and knew Legolas did, for he spoke many languages of races 
he’d yet to meet.) Broni grinned nastily and said, “Hah! I knew it! 
Thought I’d seen you somewhere before, but not the same. Now I see 
what threw me off. You have your elven king’s eyes, Prince of 
Mirkwood.” It did not take elven perception to see that he intended to 
suggest that Legolas might have picked up other traits from his 
father.

*This has gone far enough,* Faron thought furiously, determined to 
deflect a barrage of dwarf grievances from descending on his friend’s 
shoulders. He said quickly, “While I’m sure our respective family 
lines will make a fascinating topic of discussion, I suggest we save 
it until we have escaped this cave and returned to our comrades. After 
that landslide, they are doubtlessly wondering what became of us. And 
we will have a difficult time if the torch should burn out.” 

To his intense relief, and that of Legolas, the dwarves decided to 
postpone their tirade against King Thranduil and resumed their search 
for a plausible way out of the cave. In the flickering torchlight, 
Legolas shot Faron a grateful glance, his hand fingering the pouch 
that contained Tathar’s pearl. 

** (Gasp!) “Who’s there?!”

“What?”

“I heard something!”

“Stop it, Legolas, you’re just trying to scare us.” (Sniffle!)

“No, Merilin, I did hear something. Someone’s coming!”

“I don’t hear anything--wait! It’s a footstep!”

“See, Candrochon hears it too--it’s an elf! HELLO!! HELLO, we’re down 
here!!!”

“Shhh! Legolas, what if it isn’t, what if it’s something else--”

“I don’t care, I want to get out of these dungeons before we starve or 
die or something else comes and eats us--HELLOOOOO!! Can you hear 
me!?”

“Who is down here?”

“Berensul?! Berensul, it’s me, it’s Legolas! Help! We’re lost!”

“Calm down, Legolas, we are coming. Ah, there you are--oomph! It’s all 
right, you are safe now. Let go of my legs and we will have you out of 
here.”

(Whimper!) “We-lost-Tathar-and-we-can’t-find-him!” 

“Stop crying, it is all right. Tathar cannot be far from you, and 
there are other searchers looking. Peace, all three of you, we will 
find Tathar.”

“What if the bat got him?!”

“Was it a very big bat, Merilin?”

“Well, no…”

“It would be a very big bat indeed that would be able to carry off 
even an elf as small as Tathar. Now, let us be off and we will have 
you out of these caves in no time--whatever possessed you to come down 
here?”

“Tathar said there was treasure!”

“Do not believe everything your friends say, Candrochon.” (Sigh.) 
“There are enough elves besotted with treasure without adding any more 
from this generation. Spend your time on other pursuits. Come, let us 
return to the land of the living.”

** 

Langcyll was helping to lower yet another boulder away from the 
cave-in site when he spotted Glorfindel and Sothi, along with the rest 
of the scouts, returning from their latest search of the mountainside. 
“Anything?” he asked when the stone was safely set down.

“Nay, Master Elf,” Sothi replied, looking discouraged. “What caves we 
did find show no signs of being connected to this one. We can look 
further if you like, but I don’t see much sign in the rocks that 
there’ll be any other entrances to that cursed cavern except the one 
that our unlucky friends found.”

Langcyll turned away to hide his anxiety and growing despair. The pile 
of great rocks and fallen dirt seemed to have no end, even as they 
pulled away boulder after boulder. What if the air supply into the 
cave below had been cut off? What if Legolas or Faron or one of the 
elves had been seriously wounded and lay in need of aid even as his 
company struggled to shift the pile above?

He spotted Galithil, standing upon yet another boulder that she was 
tying the ropes around, under the direction of Sháin the dwarf. She 
paused from her work when she noticed his gaze, raising questioning 
eyebrows. “How goes our progress, Galithil?” Langcyll called to her.

Instead of answering, Galithil turned to Sháin, who told Langcyll, “I 
know it seems an eternity, Captain Langcyll, but we’re doing well. The 
big blocks always wind up on top in a cave-in such as this, and soon 
we may find an open hole underneath that’ll lead down to our friends. 
Already, we’re running into more sand than stone, didn’t you notice?”

Looking down at the heap, Langcyll realized Sháin was right. The dwarf 
grinned, “Come, Captain of Mirkwood, it’s not time to despair yet. And 
with your help, the work will go faster still. Lend your Lady Galithil 
a hand so we can get that great stone log out of our way.”

Had Langcyll not been so anxious for the fate of the missing ones, he 
would have been amused by the grin that Sháin gave Galithil--and 
rather startled by the fact that she seemed to have fallen into the 
habit of grinning back. But he did take note as he joined them of how 
well the dwarf miner and the elf warrioress were working together.

***

“Keep quiet, Therik! You stomp so we wouldn’t hear an orc until we 
rounded a bend and walked right into him!” Lorben hissed, waving his 
torch at his ungainly companion.

“Psst, have a care with that torch! If it goes out, the only light 
we’ll have is from those elves!”

“Hold your tongue, Broni!”

Legolas and Faron exchanged exasperated glances. Legolas in particular 
was beginning to think he would not be able to stand another moment of 
these wearisome creatures’ company. Having no better method of 
navigating, the two elves followed closely behind the dwarves, 
attempting to listen over the dwarves’ racket for orcs or any other 
danger that might be lurking in the depths of the earth.

What seemed like several leagues ago, Legolas had pulled Tathar’s 
pearl from his pouch and was surreptitiously rolling it in his hand, 
and he began to think that the obscure comfort he felt in its smooth 
surface was the only thing that had prevented him from trouncing all 
three of the dwarves. 

Ahead of them, Broni suddenly stopped and the elves caught themselves 
to avoid running into him. “Wonderful. This is a nice fix you’ve got 
us in, Lorben. Did you have any idea where you were going?”

“What?” Lorben held up the torch, its light bouncing off a solid wall 
of stone in their path.

Legolas could not restrain a sigh, “Another dead end.”

“Pipe down, elfling prince, we can see that for ourselves?” Lorben 
snapped.

“Now what?” Therik grunted.

“What do you think? Back the way we came?” Lorben said with a wave of 
his hand, turning and brushing past the elves. “There were other 
passages down here. We’ll find a way out.”

As the dwarves started back the way they had come, Legolas folded his 
arms and said coldly, “Perhaps we should return to the cavern where we 
first fell. Our comrades may be searching for us.”

The dwarves paused, gazing back at him, and exchanged a glance among 
themselves long enough to tell Legolas that his suggestion had merit. 
However, the dwarves had no intention of admitting it. “What makes you 
think they have not left us all for dead, prince?” demanded Broni.

Faron fired back before Legolas could, “I am sorry if your companions 
value your lives so little, but I can tell you that our company would 
not give us up, Master Dwarf, and certainly would not break off a 
search after less than a day. Perhaps they are working together?” 

Legolas saw the dwarves’ astonished expressions at the idea, and 
indeed, found it hard to stifle an incredulous laugh himself. “In any 
case, their likely course of action would be to try to break through 
the caved-in earth that first opened,” he added, pressing the 
advantage. “So we would be well-advised to return from whence we came 
and see if they have had any success. This way, we shall be near 
enough to hear if they call to us.”

The dwarves paused, staring at each other, and Legolas doubted they 
would concede to the wisdom of his suggestion. So, rather than allow 
them time to invent some asinine alternative, he pushed past them, 
plucked the torch briskly from Lorben’s hand--ignoring the dwarf’s 
startled grunt--and led the way back down the passage. He might not be 
used to navigating caves, but an elf’s memory allowed him to follow 
the path back in the direction they had come.

***

“So, Moon Maiden, these two missing elves. Friends of yours?” Sháin 
the dwarf asked Galithil.

As she continued clearing loose stones from the latest layer of debris 
they had uncovered--with no end in sight--Galithil nodded soberly. “We 
have all come to know each other well in the time we’ve traveled 
together. Faron is Glorfindel’s youngest warrior, and Legolas is the 
youngest of Mirkwood’s company. I have known them both since they were 
children.”

Sháin had stopped working, and stared at her. “What’s that? The name 
of your fellow Mirkwood elf?”

“Le--” Galithil’s memory caught up with her, and she wanted to groan. 
But there it was, and there was little point in trying to evade 
Sháin’s question now. “His name is Legolas.”

Several of the other dwarves paused for a moment, and Galithil saw 
nothing but disgust on the faces of all. Naldin gestured imperiously 
for them to continue, but looked disdainfully at Langcyll. Resuming 
his work, Sháin for the first time wore a displeased expression. 
“Legolas, eh? Thranduil’s son?”

Galithil nodded, lifting her chin proudly in response to the contempt 
she heard in Sháin’s voice. “Legolas is a fine warrior, Master Dwarf. 
He has only just come of age, but he is courageous and steadfast 
beyond his years. If you do not know him, I would advise you not to 
hasten to judgment.”

“Hmph, wise words, as I imagine one should expect such from an elf. 
But whether you claim to know him yourself or not, Lady Elf, I’ve seen 
the darker side of your friend’s father. Many of my kin died in that 
battle over the Lonely Mountain,” Sháin told her grimly. Grunts of 
agreement from about them told Galithil that the other dwarves were 
now paying close attention to the conversation.

“I do not claim to know the king of my realm well, Master Dwarf,” 
Galithil said, straightening from her work and casting a quick gaze 
around her. “But I can tell you that a son is never a perfect copy of 
the father, and should not be judged by the father’s deeds, whatever 
you may think of them. Legolas deserves not your censure when you’ve 
yet to know him. And now perhaps we should speed our work, so you may 
know him sooner.”

With another--but rather thoughtful--grunt, Sháin returned to his 
digging. All at once, the rock he was breaking up with his pickaxe 
slipped and a large chunk of it fell into a suddenly-opened hole. “Ho! 
What have we here! Look there, Moon Maiden, we’ve found the hole 
again! Come look!” Sháin gestured to the gap in the ground, and the 
other elves and dwarves ceased digging and came to investigate.

Turning to Naldin, Langcyll asked, “Now what? We must take care not to 
knock any stones in upon our companions if they’re still down there.”

“Quite right, Master Elf. Let us try the simplest method first,” 
briskly, Naldin bent over the hole, cupped his hands over his mouth 
and bellowed, “HELLLOOOO!!! ANYONE DOWN THERE?!”

There was a long pause. “Let us continue then,” Glorfindel said, 
quashing a grin at the startled Mirkwood elves (they really knew so 
little of how amusing dwarves could be!) “Have a care not to knock too 
much debris down the hole, but the sooner we open it, the sooner we 
shall be able to mount another search.”

“Come then, everyone!” Sháin shouted, brandishing his pickaxe, “To 
work!”

***

“How do we know this idiot elfling hasn’t got us lost!” 

Gritting his teeth, Legolas strode ahead of the dwarves and Faron, 
keeping his eyes on the ground and the tracks of their own feet as 
they headed back towards the cavern where he had landed. He did not 
respond to the dwarves, but Faron hurried to catch up with him and 
caught his arm, forcing him to slow. “Hold, Legolas,” he said very 
quietly. “We must not be separated.”

Legolas shot him a withering look, letting Faron know all too well how 
dearly he would love to be separated from these rude, blustering 
creatures, but waited for them to catch up. Glowering at them, Legolas 
said coldly, “I know the way we came,” and started walked again.

“Well, at least the elf prince can follow tracks,” (snicker) “guess 
that’s something.” Legolas gritted his teeth again. He was counting 
the seconds until he could be rid of them.

Ahead, the elves ducked under a low section of the cave ceiling, and 
crawled out into the cavern where Legolas had first found himself and 
Lorben the dwarf after the cave-in. All but slapping the torch back 
into Lorben’s hand, Legolas walked around the cavern, staring at the 
ceiling. “This must be it. See, there in the far end, the rocks are 
broken. That is where the landslide dropped us.” *Must it always be 
landslides? Why can I never be trapped by something like…a fallen 
tree? Or even a flood? I am very tired of being buried.*

He fingered Tathar’s pearl in its pouch as Faron walked out ahead of 
him to examine the ceiling, attempting to crawl up. “Perhaps we may 
find a way to dislodge some of the rock. If our companies are trying 
to dig our way to us, this might aid them.” Faron prodded some of the 
obstructing stones, lodged in the high hole.

“Be careful, Far--” Legolas raised a warning hand, but suddenly, with 
a grinding noise, the rocks Faron had disturbed came loose and tumbled 
down. 

“Get back!” Broni jerked Lorben and Therik to the opposite end of the 
cavern, but Legolas dropped the pouch and charged forward as he saw 
Faron tumble to the ground. 

“Faron! Move!” Legolas cried, but his friend, stunned by the fall, had 
only time to roll onto his back as the whole section of the ceiling 
seemed to give way. “No--NO!” A great block of stone tumbled down, 
among rocks of all sizes, and crashed down directly on top of Faron. 
“FARON!!!” Legolas stumbled backward to avoid being buried, and a 
great cloud of dust obscured his view. “Faron, answer me!” 

There was silence, filled only by a growing scream in the prince of 
Mirkwood’s mind. *No! I cannot go through this again! No! NO!! I 
cannot lose Faron too! Please! NOT AGAIN!!!*

Then, like a flame to one freezing to death, a voice came from the 
darkness. “I…Legolas?”

“Faron?!” Legolas charged forward, kneeling to see that the rock slab 
had come to rest leaning against the wall, keeping Faron from being 
instantly killed. “Thank the Valar! Hold on!”

“Ai…” Faron’s head and torso were just visible, and one arm was free. 
But then Legolas saw the danger. The part of the wall had begun to 
crumble, and Faron was slowly being crushed. “Legolas--I can barely 
breath.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Legolas chanted, desperately trying to brace the 
rock enough for Faron to get out. Movement behind him reminded him 
that they were not alone. Glancing over his shoulder as he struggled 
to wedge his shoulder beneath the slab, he cried to the dwarves, “Why 
do you just stand there?! Help me free him!”

Broni folded his arms and scowled, “Many of our friends died in the 
battle instigated by your father, elfling. Now maybe you know how it 
feels!”

Groaning with the effort of bracing the rock, Legolas stared in 
astonishment at the dwarves. He had managed to slow its collapse with 
his own body, but if he went down, he and Faron would probably both be 
killed. “He--aii--he is of Imladris--rrgh--you vindictive troll! Faron 
had nothing…to do with the battle! Help him!”

Lorben had a rather odd--and rather nasty--expression on his face, as 
he reached into the small leather pouch he’d picked up off the ground 
and pulled out a large black pearl. Looking at the panicked elven 
prince, and his trapped friend, he drawled, “You’re the son of a 
greedy king, elfling. So tell me, is his life worth the price of your 
little pearl?”

It was utter shock more than anything that made Legolas hesitate, and 
he stared open-mouthed at the dwarf even as the weight of the stone 
continued to crush his shoulder. The malevolence of this creature 
seemed utterly without bounds. But as to the question itself, Legolas 
needed no great thought to answer. “Take it, then. Help me get him 
out.” 

With a sickening smirk, the three dwarves quickly joined Legolas, two 
helping brace the stone and raise it to where Therik could pull Faron 
free. The minute his friend was clear, the two dwarves released the 
stone, and just as Legolas jerked out from beneath it, it collapsed, 
scoring a deep, bruised scrape in the young elf’s shoulder beneath his 
tunic. 

Legolas scrambled to Faron’s side, and found him already attempting to 
sit up. “Leave off, Legolas, I am all right. Just a little bruised.”

The black pearl, Tathar’s black pearl, was sitting in the dirt on the 
floor of the cave where Lorben had left it. Legolas picked it up, 
brushing the dirt away, and stared at it.

**

“Tathar! Tathar! Where have you been?!”

“I might ask the same of you, Legolas!”

“We were lost in the dungeons, and it was dark and damp and awful and 
cold and terrible and there were bloodsucking bats and then we lost 
the torch! And then we got scared!”

“I was lost in the dungeons too, but I was all by myself! I was more 
scared than you!”

“So…that’s all? You were just in the dungeons like we were?”

“Yes, Merilin, and I was afraid too!”

“So…none of us found the treasure rooms.”

(Sigh) “No, it would seem not.”

“Tathar?”

“What?”

“Are you sure you found nothing?”

“Of course! What, Legolas, would I lie to you?”

**

In the flicker of the torchlight, Legolas raised his eyes and met 
Lorben’s mockingly expectant gaze. Faron was looking at him as well. 
His friend sat up and put a hand on the prince’s arm. In a very soft 
voice, he said, “Tathar would not begrudge such a thing for your life, 
Legolas, you know that. It’s only a pearl.”

Lorben swaggered forward and held out his hand, and glaring coldly at 
him, Legolas dropped the pearl into the dwarf’s hand. “Ah, now here’s 
a pretty thing! So rare, pearls of such color!” Beside Legolas, Faron 
winced at the words as the other two dwarves turned to examine 
Lorben’s prize. “Such a pearl must command a very high price, eh, 
Prince?”

In a voice that would chill the seat of Sauron, Legolas said, “You 
know nothing of its worth, Dwarf.”

The dwarves laughed, apparently convinced that they had gotten the 
better of the prince, and just as Legolas’s temper appeared about to 
snap, a rattle from above made them all freeze. The elves and dwarves 
looked up as more rocks tumbled from the hole in the ceiling, which 
was beginning to widen. All at once, another large rock came down, and 
light came in a great beautiful stream into the chamber. “Hellooooo, 
down there! Anyone hear me?!”

“Naldin! Naldin! Ho, dwarves! We are here!” Therik, Lorben, and Broni 
rushed to the other side and stood beneath the hole, waving and 
shouting.

Another voice came down, fairer than the gruff dwarves voice and 
filled with anxiety, “Legolas? Faron? Are you there?”

“Langcyll!” Legolas cried, leaping to his feet, wincing at the pain in 
his shoulder. Faron was but a step behind him as they scrambled to the 
far wall beside the dwarves. “Langcyll, we are here! We are unharmed!”

From above, they heard another dwarves voice cry out, “They are there! 
They are all safe!” and a great cheer went up on the surface, of 
dwarven and elven voices alike.

“Hold just a moment longer, my friends, and we shall have you out,” 
Glorfindel’s voice called down to them, and moments later, several 
ropes were lowered down to the trapped dwarves and elves. “Careful, 
now. The rocks are still unstable.”

***

Langcyll was practically fidgeting as the three dwarves came up first 
from that earthen tomb, to be greeted by shouts and embraces from 
their kindred. A moment later, the rope went taut again, and Faron 
emerged, looking bruised, scraped, and ragged, but none the worse for 
wear. Elladan and Elrohir hustled him swiftly away for a closer 
examination, and Langcyll turned back in time to see a slender hand 
emerge from the blackness as the last occupant pulled himself from the 
cave.

“Legolas?” the captain of Mirkwood caught his youngest warrior’s hand 
and pulled him swiftly out of the hole. The effort overbalanced them 
both, and Langcyll had to catch Legolas in his arms to prevent the 
prince from being thrown to the ground. Perhaps only Glorfindel 
noticed that Langcyll’s grasp lasted longer than was necessary.

Pulling back and straightening distractedly, Legolas made a feeble 
attempt to dust himself off, “I am all right, sir. Neither Faron nor I 
were seriously hurt.”

Nodding briskly, Langcyll said, “I am greatly relieved for that, that 
all of you managed to escape injury.” His thoughts now under control, 
the captain critically looked the young elf over. Frowning, he noted 
the dark circles under the prince’s eyes, and the rather translucent 
pallor of his skin. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the 
cave-in, but both Legolas and Faron appeared haggard and exhausted. 
*Ai, caves. Fearsome places. I had forgotten how being trapped 
underground would affect them. Much more time and it would have 
sickened both of them.*

Standing a few paces back, Langcyll told Legolas, “There is a stream 
not far down the hill. I suggest you clean up while there is still 
light left in the sky.”

“Yes, sir.” Legolas walked past him down the hill, but was nearly 
knocked off balance by a wild embrace from Galithil. 

Langcyll could not hear the words spoken due to the clamor of the 
excited dwarves, but it was simple enough to translate the pantomime 
that passed between the two elves. Galithil was describing to Legolas 
how they had removed the stones with the dwarves’ help, and Legolas, 
though weary and battered, appeared interested until she gestured to 
one dwarf in particular. Then Legolas’s bright eyes darkened and he 
walked swiftly away toward the stream. Startled, Galithil went after 
him, apparently protesting something he had said. But Legolas was in 
no mood to debate whatever the issue was, and spoke rather brusquely 
to her before leaving her behind. She returned to join the others 
looking puzzled and troubled.

*So, it would seem Legolas did not profit from his prolonged encounter 
with the dwarves. Strange. I had thought being forced into such close 
quarters might change his mind,* Langcyll thought. *I wonder…* The 
warrior looked in the direction of the three formerly-trapped dwarves, 
who were still surrounded by their kindred, apparently telling stories 
of their various adventures during this episode. 

One of the trapped dwarves, Lorben, was now speaking, and the others 
were listening with great interest. Then he said something that he 
apparently thought they would find amusing, and pulled a small pouch 
from his pocket. Langcyll did not see what was in it, but the other 
dwarves’ laughter suddenly ceased. The three trapped ones, Lorben, 
Broni, and Therik, were greatly startled to find themselves suddenly 
the target of accusing stares from all their company. Naldin asked a 
demanding question, and a very-baffled Lorben responded, only to find 
himself receiving a furious tirade from Sháin. Great gestures of 
outrage and defensiveness erupted from the company and the three 
trapped ones, respectively, and it seemed at first that Naldin 
intended to confiscate whatever it was Lorben had. But Lorben would 
not hear of it, and with a great gesture of utter disgust, Sháin 
stalked away, followed closely by Naldin, Sothi, and most of the other 
dwarves.

“Hmm, it seems this confinement served neither party well.” Langcyll 
jumped at the sound of Glorfindel’s voice just behind him.

Catching his breath, Langcyll replied, “Indeed. I wonder what 
transpired down there.”

“I do not…know,” Glorfindel frowned thoughtfully, as Legolas returned 
from the stream, wearing fresh clothes and looking calmer than before. 
As the two captains watched with great curiosity, Naldin the dwarf 
picked up Legolas’s bow and quiver, which the dwarves had found while 
digging, and carried them over to the prince, placing them at his feet 
with a deep bow. Looking startled, Legolas said something that was 
most likely a confused thanks, and Naldin returned to his own party 
looking apologetic.

Langcyll frowned in turn. Galithil was now speaking anxiously to 
Faron, who was being examined by Elladan and Elrohir, but they had 
paused on seeing what occurred between Legolas and Naldin the dwarf. 
Faron had appeared equally dismissive of whatever praise Galithil was 
offering the dwarves, but now he at least looked thoughtful, while 
Legolas wore a closed expression once again.

“Perhaps I should ask Legolas what happened,” Langcyll murmured 
thoughtfully.

He started forward, but Glorfindel suddenly spoke. “Langcyll.” He 
waited until the Mirkwood captain turned to face him, then walked 
forward to stand face-to-face with him. “One day you shall all have to 
return to Mirkwood. Forget not who Legolas is.”

The quiet words struck Langcyll like another avalanche. Finding his 
voice, he replied, “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”

Glorfindel’s face was sympathetic; he too had been a captain and 
novice master for many centuries, and had trained up and led many 
young warriors. “Langcyll, Legolas is a prince of Mirkwood. He is 
Thranduil’s son.” Lowering his voice still more, he added, “Not 
yours.”

Langcyll stiffened sharply, then turned and walked swiftly away, his 
face betraying little emotion. Glorfindel watched him go, feeling a 
twinge of pity. He sighed quietly to himself, *Nay, I did not think 
you would listen to me, my friend. Not that I was ever inclined to 
listen to such advice when it concerned my own warriors. I might have 
spared myself great pain if I had listened to Elrond. I pray you will 
be spared that lesson, Langcyll, and never know the sorrow I felt of 
losing the one I thought of as my son. Such grief I had never felt, 
but I had no choice but to overcome it, for Faron’s sake, and my other 
warriors. May you never know such anguish for Legolas…as I felt for 
Gaerongil.*

***

Legolas was seated alone on a rock above the creek, feeling the warm 
rays of the sun on his face, and relishing them as never before after 
the nasty experience of the cave. He heard someone coming up behind 
him and saw Langcyll. “I am well,” he said immediately, half-joking at 
Langcyll’s nearly-constant concern for his well-being.

His captain smiled slightly and sat down beside him. “Well, yes, I am 
relieved no end to see. But you are troubled.”

Legolas looked away. “It is nothing important.”

Debating whether to bring the subject up, Langcyll decided to come 
straight out with it. “Lorben the dwarf and his friends Broni and 
Therik have fallen into great disfavor with their comrades. What 
passed between you down there?”

With a wry laugh, Legolas replied, “Disfavor? I am surprised the 
dwarves are not all gloating.”

“Legolas, without their help we would never have reached you,” 
Langcyll said sternly.

Legolas shook his head bitterly, “They would not have helped you had 
Faron and I been the only ones trapped. I still think them greedy and 
unfeeling. More than ever, not that I would sorrow greatly for the 
loss of any trinket.”

“The loss--” Langcyll blinked, then comprehension filled his eyes, 
along with sympathy. “So that was what Naldin was ranting about Lorben 
placing a price upon a life.”

Feeling his throat tighten, Legolas muttered, “It was only a pearl. 
Faron’s life was worth that and more. And he was right, Tathar…” 
Legolas swallowed hard, “Tathar would not begrudge it, though it does 
rankle me to think of anything belonging to him in a dwarf’s greedy 
hand.”

He felt Langcyll’s hand upon his shoulder but dared not look up. It 
frustrated Legolas to have so little control over himself at the 
thought of Tathar. Fortunately, Langcyll changed the subject. “Faron 
took some great bruising on his chest in the cave-in. Glorfindel had 
feared he might have fractured a rib, but it was not so serious. I am 
glad to see you safe, Legolas.”

The captain rose, “But your comrades are anxious for you to rejoin 
them. We were all concerned for you and Faron. Come, let us return.”

Legolas quickly rose, forcing himself to dismiss the bitter thoughts 
that had been clouding his mind. There was no point in brooding over a 
lost bauble. *That is the sort of thing my father would do. The pearl 
was Tathar’s, but I have lost nothing of him. I should laugh. Those 
dwarves see only its price in terms of gold. I valued it far more than 
that, but that worth they shall never know, and never know what it is 
they have. May greed never have power over me.*

Aloud, the prince asked Langcyll, “How soon will we get under way?”

“At nightfall. And I am sorry if you view this with displeasure, but 
the dwarves will travel on the same path as us until we turn east for 
Lorien.” Langcyll shot him a quick, sharp look, and Legolas managed to 
keep a politely straight face. The captain’s mouth twitched in 
amusement, and they returned to the camp the elves and dwarves had set 
up.

***

“How can you impugn my honor, Naldin? I am grossly insulted!” Lorben 
growled, his hands on his hips.

Equally angry, Naldin, the leader of the dwarf company, glared at his 
comrade. “You have disgraced us, Lorben. Dwarves mine and work the 
gifts of the earth, we do not extort them over the threat of another’s 
life! You have lowered yourself to the very level of that elven king!”

“Have you forgotten that upstart elfling is the elven king’s son? Why 
should he matter to us?” Lorben demanded.

The other dwarves were seated about them, watching tensely. The dwarf 
company had moved a ways back down the trail so they could settle this 
matter out of earshot of the elves. Naldin replied, “I do not care if 
he had been the elven king himself. The honor of a dwarf is universal. 
I’ve half a mind to order you into their camp to apologize and return 
that pearl to its rightful owner.”

“Rightful--bah! Order me what you will, son of Oín, but I’ll see 
myself in Mordor before I apologize to that prince, OR give him 
anything save a good swing from my axe!” Lorben folded his arms 
obstinately.

Turning away with a curse, Naldin was clearly debating what to do as 
the other dwarves watched. It was a dilemma. He could try and force 
Lorben to obey him, but it would cause a dispute that would be 
difficult to explain when they returned to Lonely Mountain, and Naldin 
doubted if the dwarves there would understand the circumstances here. 
After all, Daín and all his folk had had enough dealings with King 
Thranduil that they were unlikely to be sympathetic to a slight 
against his son, even if it had been a grave breach of dwarf honor.

Turning back, he folded his arms himself and said, “Very well. I’ll 
not force you to admit your fault to the elves. But,” he pointed 
furiously at Lorben before the other dwarf could look too relieved, 
“you shall not keep that trinket. You shall turn it over to me. It 
will be turned over to Daín when we reach Lonely Mountain, and put 
into our coffers along with all our other shared treasures, and none 
shall know OR hear that you ever had it. OR how you came by it.” Over 
Lorben’s startled protest, he roared, “You WILL do as I say! Or I 
SHALL force you into that elf camp to bow to King Thranduil’s son! 
Decide now, son of Paun!”

The two dwarves locked eyes for a long moment, and it became apparent 
to all that Naldin was not bluffing in his threat to humiliate Lorben. 
With a disgusted grunt, Lorben reached inside his tunic, pulled out 
the pouch, and flung it to the ground at Naldin’s feet before stalking 
away. Naldin picked the pouch up and pulled out the pearl, examining 
it. Then he held it up and glared at each of the other dwarves in 
turn. “When we return to Lonely Mountain, NO ONE is to ever hear of 
how this thing came into our possession. It is incidents such as these 
that add to the bad blood between the elves and the dwarves. Whatever 
they may have done to us, that is no excuse for wrongs in return. If 
ANY of you disobey this order, you shall have cause to regret it!”

The other dwarves nodded hurriedly, very unsettled. Satisfied, Naldin 
slipped the pearl into his own tunic, to become the possession of the 
dwarves of Lonely Mountain.

***

With the setting of the sun, the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood led 
their horses again down the trail. It was not long before they came 
upon the dwarves also on the trail. “A good evening to you, Captain 
Langcyll, and Lord Glorfindel,” Naldin said cheerfully.

“Good evening, Master Naldin,” replied Glorfindel.

“Are you to hunt on this trail?”

“We are.”

“Shall we take this way together and combine our efforts?”

“We should be most pleased by your help.”

Legolas had suspected by what his friends told him that the elves and 
dwarves above ground had resolved enough of their differences to work 
together, but now he was utterly astonished. More than anything by the 
fact that several dwarves immediately began talking with the elves who 
were not scouting ahead of the group. Legolas was relieved to be 
ordered to scout--Langcyll apparently decided that changing his mind 
was a lost cause--but as he went out ahead, he spotted one thing that 
shocked him still more.

One of the dwarves had fallen into step with Galithil, of all people, 
and the two were now talking with the cheer and ease of friends. Faron 
was staring at them with equal disbelief. Shaking his head to himself, 
Legolas rode out ahead of the party to scout for orcs. *The world is a 
strange place, when such different beings can be friends. Perhaps 
there are such trustworthy dwarves in Middle Earth, but after dealing 
with Lorben and his friends, I would rather not risk finding out.*

**

“Legolas, I want to show you something. Look, in my box.”

“What have you--Tathar! Where did you get all those? Pearls! All 
pearls! Did you--you were NOT in the dungeons when we got lost!”

(Snicker!) “I only found one treasure room, but as you see, it was 
more than enough.”

“How could you not tell me!”

“I’m telling you now! Would I keep such a thing from my best friend?”

“You stole my father’s pearls, Tathar, what will you do when they are 
missed? The guards know we were down there!”

“There’s little chance of that, there were so many I dug my hand into 
the barrel and still left it heaping full. Oh, Legolas, the dragon 
Smaug himself would come for Mirkwood if he knew what’s down there.”

“You may still get into trouble.”

“Come, Legolas, it will be fine. I will give you one if you promise 
not to tell anybody.”

“I…nay, I do not want one. Someone would find it.”

“Oh, go on, Legolas, I do not begrudge you a share of my treasure! You 
must take at least one! You are my best friend.”

“I need no pearls to remind me of that, Tathar.”

**

CHARACTER GUIDE: THE DWARF PARTY

Naldin--leader of the group, son of Oín Sothi--second-in-command, son 
of Dwalin Shaín--one of the other dwarves, (Galithil’s friend) 
Lorben--one of the dwarves trapped with Legolas and Faron (he’s the 
one who gets the pearl) Therik and Broni--the other two dwarves in the 
cave



ELVISH NAME TRANSLATIONS



Mirkwood Elves

Minuial--dawn--Legolas’s deceased mother Berensul--bold 
wind--Legolas’s eldest brother, crown prince Eirien--daisy--Berensul’s 
wife, crown princess Limloeth--clear pool--Legolas’s second sister 
Tavron--forester--Legolas’s deceased third brother 
Meren--joy--Legolas’s deceased fourth sister 
Lalaith--laughter--Legolas’s deceased fifth sister Belhador--strong 
spearman--Legolas’s sixth brother

Legolas’s friends and fellow warriors

Merilin--nightingale Candrochon--bold rider Eregdos--holly tree--a 
Mirkwood warrior Lalven--elm tree--princess of Eryn Vorn who wanted to 
marry Legolas Eregolf--thorn branch--noble elf of Lorien who wound up 
marrying Lalven

Warriors in Legolas’s party

Langcyll-sword bearer--captain of Mirkwood Glanaur--white fire 
Elunen--blue water Galithil--pale moon Edlothia--flowers 
Tuilinn--swallow Fanfirith--autumn cloud Fandoll--dark cloud 
Gwilwileth--butterfly Caranaur--red sun Thalatirn--trusty watcher 
Faron--hunter Tathar--willow tree

Lanthir--waterfall--Legolas’s horse Sadron--faithful one--Tathar’s 
horse

Legolas--aw, come on! 

----------------------------------------------------------- This was a 
really hard chapter, heavy on the introspection, but I tried to put in 
some humor as well as battle scenes to keep the action going. PLEASE, 
PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE review and let me know what you think! Note to 
Amy--Langcyll’s name is pronounced LANG (as in rang) and cyll (rhymes 
with Bill.) I don’t speak any French, but my sister would probably 
catch that alternate pronunciation too. 



Chapter Thirteen: Sins of the Father



Three weeks later…

“Hah! I would wager you gold if I had any!” Legolas grinned 
challengingly at Elrohir. “Your horse could never beat Lanthir.” The 
elven horses, sensing that they were the topic of the conversation, 
had begun prancing and snorting at each other.

Elrohir shook his head as a parent would at an upstart child. 
“Legolas, Legolas, your lack of experience in the world shows all too 
clearly. My Ethuil has outrun every horse in Imladris. Swift your 
mount may be, but no so much as she.”

Their captains had been watching the exchange, and smiled at each 
other (though the smile seemed challenging.) They were nearly to 
Moria, and the elven company’s course would soon turn east toward 
Lorien. As they drew further south, there seemed to be orcs hiding 
behind every rock, and the entire company was weary from almost 
incessant fighting every night from dusk until dawn for the past three 
weeks.

Their path had been rough and steep, and there had been less rain than 
usual this summer, and many of the mountain creeks had gone down or 
dried up completely. Neither Langcyll nor Glorfindel had anticipated 
this--to the chagrin of both--and at one point during this stretch, 
the company had gone for nearly ten days without finding water. The 
late August sun beat down mercilessly during the day, and while it was 
cooler when they traveled by night, the trail was dusty and dry. The 
situation had been growing serious, until six days before, when the 
elves had discovered a large mountain stream with a more protected 
source. The warriors had all but flung themselves in after providing 
the horses with a much-needed drink, and Galithil and Glorfindel had 
gone three miles out of their way to inform the dwarves, who were also 
being hampered by the drought.

Now, their paths had separated again, and it had been four days since 
discovering their last water source, but the captains did not make the 
same mistake twice and rationed the water strictly, so their situation 
was nowhere near as dire as it had threatened to become before. Just 
the same, that unexpected complication had hurt morale, but tonight 
for the first time, the spirits of the company seemed lighter.

“I’m sorry to spoil your fun, Elrohir, Legolas, but there will be no 
racing. We cannot risk dehydrating your beloved horses,” Glorfindel 
said, with a shade of playful regret in his tone that none missed.

Langcyll nodded soberly, “Indeed, I fear Lanthir would run poor Ethuil 
right into the ground, and we could not have that!”

Legolas burst into laughter at Elrohir’s outraged sputtering of 
protest. The Mirkwood elves all grinned and voiced their agreement 
with Langcyll while Faron, Elladan, and Glorfindel immediately began 
disputing Langcyll’s claim. Elrohir mock-glared at Langcyll and his 
youngest warrior, “Be thankful for this drought, son of Thranduil, or 
I should put your mount to the test and have your captain regret his 
uninformed remark.”

Whatever response Langcyll or Legolas would have made was forestalled 
by a piercing whistle from one of the scouts further down the track. 
Glorfindel’s head whipped around, “Orcs.”

***

Legolas slashed one of his knives through the neck of the fleeing orc 
and whirled to chase after another down the trail. He was still a 
little wary of running too hard on these mountains, lest he or the orc 
he pursued break through the dry ground again, but his light feet 
overtook the orc in seconds. The fell creature spun with a screech of 
terror and attempted to fend Legolas off with its shield--its sword 
had been shot from its hand by an elven arrow. It was nothing Legolas 
could not handle, and in a few swift blows and dodges, the orc was 
down.

Wiping sweat from his face, Legolas turned and quickly surveyed the 
trail behind him, taking his habitual (and always anxious) mental 
count of his comrades. There was Faron, tending a slash on Elunen’s 
arm, and there were Fanfirith and Nathron, returning from chasing down 
other orcs. He identified Elladan and Elrohir on their horses, 
beheading some unlucky orcs who made too much noise hiding in the 
bushes, and Glanaur, Galithil, and Glorfindel were collecting used 
arrows. And where was…ah, there was Langcyll, standing on a boulder 
keeping watch. All present and accounted for, Legolas returned to the 
company.

“No injuries, Legolas?” Langcyll asked without taking his eyes off the 
mountainside below them.

“Nay,” Legolas replied, picking up some arrows of his own. “And no 
orcs escaped my pursuit that I could see.”

“That is well. Elunen? How fares your arm?”

“Superficial, Langcyll. It will not hamper my shooting.”

Legolas heard noises down the trail just as Langcyll turned to look. 
“The dwarves come. They must have heard the sounds of battle.”

“Shall we make camp here?” Glorfindel asked him.

Langcyll frowned, gazing at the sky. “Yes. The sun is nearly up.”

“Hello, there, Master Elf!” came the cry from down the trail.

The captain waved at the torches bobbing in the predawn gloom, “Here, 
Master Dwarf!”

“We heard orc screeching, I trust you’re all unharmed?”

“We are all well, thank you. And the orcs are dispatched.”

Moments later, the party of dwarves, Naldin in the lead, “Well, well. 
Two bits of good news in one morning, Langcyll of Mirkwood. Glad none 
of you are hurt.”

Legolas had moved to the outskirts of the camp as he continued to 
collect arrows, but he heard every word that was said. *Please do not 
ask them to camp with us please do not ask them to camp with us 
please--*

“We are making camp for the day, if you and your company would care to 
join us.”

*Confound it! I shall have to either stand a far watch all day or 
scout for water. Or find an excuse to sleep behind a rock somewhere!* 
The elf and dwarf companies frequently crossed paths as they continued 
their respective journeys through the mountains, but Legolas still 
felt no interest in warming up to the dwarves. 

But the offer had been made, and Naldin had accepted, so the dwarves 
were now joining the elves in preparing the camp and setting watches. 
Legolas started forward, but Langcyll turned and shot him a look that 
told Legolas all too clearly not to bother--Langcyll was not going to 
allow it. Turning away in disgust, Legolas tossed down his blankets 
next to Faron, not that he needed them in this heat, but at least one 
could sleep on top of them. Perhaps he could simply sleep the day 
away. The hot sun made sleeping difficult lately, but after these 
weeks of endless orc-hunting by night and searching for water by day, 
he began to think his weariness might overcome the heat.

Several of the elves had gone in search of water, but Legolas knew 
that if Langcyll would not let him stand a watch, he would not permit 
the prince to depart with the scouts either. Sighing to himself, 
Legolas cast himself down onto his blanket, only to have Langcyll call 
to him, “Legolas, have you not eaten?”

Cursing furiously to himself, Legolas sat up, forced a straight face, 
and turned to the captain, “Nay, I am not hungry.” 

Langcyll simply folded his arms, fixing Legolas with a stern gaze, and 
fighting the urge to curse again, Legolas rose and made his way to 
where the elves and dwarves were sharing out rations. None cared to 
sit near a fire in such heat, so cold meat, bread, and apples were the 
fare of the morning. 

Galithil, deep in conversation with Shaín, glanced up and grinned as 
Legolas came to collect his share of rations. “Well now, look who 
decided to eat with us for once. You skip so many meals I am surprised 
you have never keeled over, Legolas.”

Glaring at her, Legolas went to join several of the Mirkwood elves. 
The others of Langcyll’s original company had not become nearly so 
warm with the dwarves as Galithil with Shaín or Elunen with Sothi, 
though most of them were on better terms with the dwarf party than 
Legolas. Still, they at least sat a little apart from Naldin’s 
company. Unfortunately, they still talked to the dwarves at times, 
which was more conversation than Legolas desired to have.

***

“And this,” Shaín pulled out a blood-red ruby the size of a man’s eye. 
“This I found nearly thirty years ago, in the Blue Mountains. Cut and 
polished it myself. Rough, it was the size of a walnut. Like frozen 
wine, isn’t it?”

Galithil took the heavy jewel in her hand and gazed at it, “It is 
beautiful,” she agreed. Though she was as willing as any to look at a 
handsome gem, the elf warrioress could not fathom why men, elves, and 
dwarves would shed blood for such things. She noticed Shaín staring at 
her, and smiled, “It is beautiful. I just do not see why…why they 
would cause such strife among…people.” 

“Well, Moon Maiden, there are risks in gaining all valuable things. 
You and your warriors would fight to prevent men from cutting down 
your trees, would you not?” the dwarf asked her.

By now, several of the other elves were listening. “But trees are 
living things,” protested Nathron. “They breathe and drink and give 
life back to the world.” Looking anxious not to offend the dwarves, he 
raised a hand and added, “Not that your gems are not lovely to behold. 
But they are not alive. Why should they be worth such pains?”

“All treasures are worth more, the more pains we take to obtain them, 
Master Elf,” Sothi replied matter-of-factly. “It takes a great 
struggle to tear gold or silver or gems from the insides of the earth. 
That is why such things are treasured.”

Elunen shuddered playfully, “I cannot see myself desiring anything so 
much that I would crawl inside the earth for it.”

“Nay, all you elves seem content to do is wait for the dwarves to dig 
up treasure for you and then take it from them by force.”

Lorben stifled a bark of laughter. It was Broni who had spoken. The 
elves stiffened. Several shot anxious glances at Legolas, particularly 
Faron and Langcyll, who were the only ones who knew about the pearl. 
But all the rest knew what Broni the dwarf was referring to. Sothi 
gave Elunen a little pat and then stood up to face Broni, drawing 
himself up (which would have looked absurd had not all the elves been 
sitting down.) “Broni, take Lorben with you, and go scout for water. 
At once.”

Folding his arms defiantly at the elves, Broni departed with Lorben. 
When they had gone, Naldin turned and bowed to the elves. He too shot 
a worried glance at King Thranduil’s son. Legolas was looking fixedly 
at the ground. The dwarves exchanged embarrassed looks for the 
rudeness of their companion. Clearing his throat loudly, Sothi asked 
Glorfindel, “Tell me, Lord Glorfindel, did you happen to see Bilbo 
Baggins when he came back through.”

In a rush, Glorfindel replied, “Nay, I fear I was on a patrol at the 
time, but I heard he returned to the Shire.”

Shaín slapped his knee, “Ah, that gladdens my heart. Gandalf the Grey 
was due back at Lonely Mountain shortly after we left, so we never had 
tidings of whether that strange little hobbit ever made it home.”

“The sons of Lord Elrond might know better than I,” Glorfindel said, 
gesturing to Elladan and Elrohir. “I believe they were in Rivendell at 
the time.”

Elladan nodded, “Indeed we were, and met Bilbo when he came through. 
Singular, I believe was the word my sister used to describe Bilbo 
Baggins.”

The dwarves found this greatly amusing, and several roared with 
laughter. “Aye, singular is how I would speak of him,” chuckled Sothi. 
“Poor little hobbit, like a fish out of water among us dwarves at such 
a time. Brave, though. Didn’t abandon us, even when that elven--er, 
even when things took an ill turn.”

“And the Valar know there were many ill turns during that adventure,” 
Naldin remarked, shaking his head. “My father Oín said he himself was 
quite undone by the time it was all over. Just wanted to sleep for a 
few years.”

“Why did…” When Legolas spoke up, both companies looked startled. None 
more so than Legolas himself. Blushing somewhat--*he has not done that 
in years!* Galithil thought--he asked, “Why did the hobbit go with the 
dwarves to Lonely Mountain in the first place?”

The dwarves exchanged glances, either puzzling over what the answer 
was or how to respond to Legolas, it was uncertain. Then Shaín 
shrugged, “I could not say, and neither could Sothi or Naldin’s 
fathers, I imagine. Gandalf had a great deal to do with it.”

Langcyll chuckled, “Mithrandir has a way of instilling courage in 
unlikely persons.”

The rest chuckled as well, including, Galithil was surprised to note, 
Legolas. Almost inaudibly, she heard him murmur to himself, “Yes, he 
does.”

Naldin had been digging around in the provisions of the dwarves, and 
returned with a small jug, seating himself next to Glorfindel. “Here, 
Master Elf, have you ever tasted dwarf ale?” At Glorfindel’s surprised 
face, the dwarves laughed. “Come, come, Lord Glorfindel, you elves 
have fine taste in wine, but one must develop an appreciation for a 
good brew. Go on, try it!” 

With a very doubtful expression, Glorfindel accepted the proferred jug 
and took a small swallow of its contents. There was a pause, then his 
eyes widened, and the dwarves, along with most of the elves, burst 
into laughter as he hurriedly returned the jug to Naldin, wiping his 
mouth. “My thanks--” the way Glorfindel’s voice rasped caused both 
companies to explode into renewed laughter, and he irritably waved 
them to be silent. In a somewhat clearer voice, he said, “My thanks, 
Naldin, but I think I shall always prefer wine.”

Laughing still, Shaín reached for the jug and took a great swig, 
smiling with satisfaction. He offered the jug to Galithil and laughed 
when she hastily raised both hands to decline. “Oh, go on, Elf Lady, 
we must hear the opinion of a wood elf on the subject of ale.”

“Nay, I do not--” Galithil protested, but now the elves of her own 
company were prodding her as well, and she soon found Langcyll pushing 
the jug at her. “Oh very well.”

“Yea, I must insist that you all try it,” Naldin declared, getting a 
guffaw from the dwarves, along with remarks that none of them could 
appreciate the art of brew making. “Go on, Galithil of Mirkwood, have 
a taste.”

Praying she would not disgrace herself, Galithil forced herself to 
take a sip, and immediately gagged, unable to restrain herself from 
spitting it out. The companies roared with laughter as she stammered 
her apologies, and the jug went on to its next victim, Elunen (who 
also could not swallow it.) 

In the end, every elf, even Legolas, tasted the dwarf ale, and the 
dwarves could not convince them that such a beverage was fit for an 
elven table. Legolas proved stronger than any of the other Mirkwood 
elves; his eyes watered and he coughed furiously, but he was the only 
one of his company who did manage to swallow it.

***

At dusk, the companies separated again, and the elves moved on down 
the mountain leading their horses. Elladan smiled with relief as they 
rounded another mountain bend and saw that they would soon be entering 
a break in the mountains. “There now, that shall be a welcome change 
of scenery.”

They reached the gap several weeks later. “Just beyond this valley is 
Caradhas,” Langcyll said, pointing at the high, forbidding peak rising 
in the distance. “Beneath it lies Moria.”

The valley did not have the slightly scorched appearance that the 
mountainsides had of late. All was green, and many mountain creeks had 
emptied into a lake here that was wide and deep enough to withstand 
the lack of rain. The company would be able to drink its fill here. 
And eat too, from the looks of the apple trees, their branches laden 
with deep red fruit.

As they were watering the horses, Elrohir spotted Legolas looking 
speculatively at the green meadow about them, surrounded by majestic 
peaks. Legolas turned then and saw Elrohir watching him. Both grinned. 
“Perhaps Langcyll and Glorfindel will not say no to that race now, my 
friend,” Elrohir said slyly.

Legolas, feeding an apple to Lanthir, did not speak, but turned and 
raised his eyebrows at Faron and Elladan. They both grinned in turn. 
Galithil and Fanfirith were giggling. Elrohir patted Ethuil’s neck and 
murmured, “We have him now, my beauty.”

“Elrohir!” a sharp voice rang out. The group froze and Elrohir turned 
to see Glorfindel, with Langcyll a step behind him, glaring at him. 
Glorfindel strode forward sternly, “Are you instigating this foolish 
exercise yet again?”

Sheepishly, Elladan looked at the others. Faron and Elladan were 
staring at the ground, Galithil and Fanfirith were attempting to busy 
themselves with their saddlebags, and Legolas was blushing furiously. 
“And you, Legolas?” Langcyll said severely. “We’ve been in a drought 
for weeks now. You ought to know better than to talk of racing horses 
under such conditions.”

Elrohir turned back to face the captains, and caught the faintest 
twitch at the corner of Langcyll’s mouth. With intense relief, he 
cracked a grin of his own, and the company’s leaders could no longer 
hide their smiles. Behind him, Elrohir heard Legolas sigh with relief, 
and turned to see him grinning as well. “So then, by your leaves, 
sirs, shall we test the horses of Mirkwood and Imladris?”

Glorfindel smirked and folded his arms, “By all means, young prince, 
but do not be surprised when the racer of Imladris outmatches your 
mount.”

“Hah!” was Langcyll’s only remark on that subject.

***

“Where are they to race?” demanded Galithil, staring eagerly at the 
wide field. The captains had not lost all sense in the eagerness to 
partake of this rare chance for merrymaking, and had insisted that the 
company sleep and eat before beginning the challenge between Legolas 
and Elrohir. 

Langcyll and Glorfindel were debating that matter as the others 
watched. “To the far end and back?” suggested Langcyll.

“Nay, it is too far,” Glorfindel said. “It is true that we must not 
strain the horses for the sake of our morale.” He looked about the 
valley. “We are closer to the opposite end. Let them race to where the 
gap in the mountains leads back down to the plains, and then turn back 
and return to us.”

Langcyll shaded his eyes and examined the track Glorfindel suggested. 
“Yea, that will do. Very well, we have our course!” he declared to the 
others, who applauded.

Legolas and Elrohir were warming up their horses on the grass near the 
lake, cantering about. Elladan, standing next to Faron, grinned at the 
elves of Mirkwood. “Mirkwood may have the finest archer, but Imladris 
shall prove itself to have the finest horses, my friends.”

With a dismissive wave, Fanfirith retorted, “Mirkwood has the TWO 
finest archers in Middle Earth, I would hasten to remind you. And we 
shall soon see about the horses. Shall we wager?”

“I should enjoy it--if I had anything suitable to bet with,” Faron 
remarked, and the company laughed.

“Come, the rest of you, we require your assistance if this race is to 
be finished by sundown,” Langcyll said, beckoning to the party.

The sun was growing low in the sky indeed, and the company lost no 
more time placing themselves in a line down to the edge of the valley 
so that Legolas and Elrohir would see their course better. At last, 
the two racers rode eagerly up to where Glorfindel was waiting for 
them. He did not shout, but the keen ears of all the company heard 
what he said. “Very well, riders of Mirkwood and Imladris, here is 
your track. You shall ride straight down the valley past your 
companions to where Langcyll awaits you. You shall then ride around 
him to his left and return back the exact same way that you came. The 
first rider to pass me shall be declared the winner. Do you 
understand?”

“Perhaps you describe the course more clearly,” Legolas said in 
something of a drawl. “I fear your explanation may have been beyond 
Elrohir’s limits.”

“Well, let us hope your directions are not beyond your horse’s 
limits,” retorted Elrohir, earning shouts and jeers from up and down 
the line.

Glorfindel waved brusquely at them, “Peace, all of you. Come, you 
competitive boys. Elrohir shall be on my left, Legolas on my right.”

“I protest, who gave Elrohir the rights to the inside path?!” demanded 
Elunen from halfway down the line of elves.

Legolas raised his hand charitably, “Fear not, Elunen, I shall not be 
hampered by riding a few extra lengths. It seems only fair that I 
should handicap myself for the sake of giving Elrohir something of an 
even chance.” Now the jeers came from the Mirkwood side.

“Very well, very well. Make ready,” Glorfindel told them, smiling 
broadly. He paused and waved his arm in the air to Langcyll at the far 
end, receiving an answering wave from the Mirkwood captain, and each 
elf of the company along the line. “Are you ready then?”

Legolas and Elrohir nodded eagerly. Legolas leaned forward in the 
saddle, feeling Lanthir tense underneath him. His horse always knew 
when there was glory to be had. “Ride hard, my friend,” he murmured.

“Ready,” Glorfindel raised his arms. “Ride!” 

With the drop of the Imladris captain’s arms, both horses were off, 
their riders leaning forward in the saddle, concentrating on giving 
them the proper guidance. Casting long shadows in the last rays of the 
sun, the elves cheered lustily as their comrades raced down the plain.

Legolas felt Lanthir’s powerful legs surging beneath him as the gray 
horse raced down the plain towards the waiting Langcyll, as his 
companions shrieked their encouragement at him. It is often said that 
horses bred and trained by the elves acquire some elvish 
characteristics, and to see them run suggests there is a grain of 
truth to the legends. For the mounts of Legolas and Elrohir seemed 
barely to touch the ground as they flew on, and indeed their feet left 
little impression in the soft earth for animals who were running so 
hard.

Legolas spared a quick glance to the left; Elrohir was directly beside 
him, perhaps ahead by a nose. But the horses of Mirkwood are trained 
for their endurance to cover the wide forest and surrounding plains, a 
fact which Legolas was counting upon. So he did not urge Lanthir up to 
his full speed, merely kept pace with Elrohir, feeling Lanthir’s 
powerful strides as the wind whipped his hair. 

He waited, waited, and as they drew closer to Langcyll, Legolas 
suddenly whispered, “Ride hard, Lanthir! Fly!” Pouring on a burst of 
speed, Lanthir obeyed his rider and charged forward, surging ahead to 
the excited cries of the Mirkwood elves. 

Legolas braced himself. This bend around Langcyll would be very tight 
at such speed. He must leave Elrohir enough room. Leaning to the left, 
he measured the distance closely as they bore down on Langcyll, then 
guided Lanthir into a swift, sharp U-turn around the Mirkwood captain. 
Elrohir took advantage of being on the inside of the turn, and was 
nearly up to Legolas again as they charged around, leaning far over on 
their mounts’ backs. All at once--

“Ai!” Movement on the plains beyond the mountains caught Legolas’s 
eye, just as Lanthir gave a wild neigh and shied sharply to the left, 
nearly falling over and all but pitching his rider from the saddle. 
Legolas managed to get his arms around his horse’s neck, but the 
movement brought them right into Elrohir and Ethuil. The mare whinnied 
in surprise and also swerved, and Elrohir did lose his grip and fall 
in his effort to jerk her back and avoid striking Langcyll.

The eager shouts of the elves turned to cries of dismay, and all of 
them rushed to the accident. Just as it seemed Legolas was getting 
Lanthir under control, and Elrohir stood to calm Ethuil, both horses 
inexplicably panicked again. Elrohir threw himself from range of his 
bucking horse’s legs, but Legolas clung grimly to Lanthir’s mane, 
trying to discern what could so spook elven horses with their riders. 
But Lanthir seemed in a frenzy, and raced wildly about.

“Legolas! Jump off!” someone shouted.

“No, he’d break his neck!” cried another.

“Hold on!” “What ails those horses?!” 

“Lanthir!” Legolas exclaimed, struggling to bring his panicked horse 
under control. “Lanthir, do not fight me! What is it?”

The horse at last ceased bucking and shying, and slowed to where 
Legolas could catch his breath and right himself. Elrohir had also 
gotten his horse under control. “What could possibly--”

Legolas whirled, distant sounds pricking his ears. Immediately, he 
realized what had frightened the horses. “Orcs! On the flatland below 
the mountains!”

The other elves could now detect the distant orc-shrieks, and hurried 
to the hillside to look. “He is right. What are they doing?!” 
exclaimed Elrohir, still soothing Ethuil.

“They are far out, and there is a fog. I cannot see well,” murmured 
Langcyll, squinting in the moonless dark.

Legolas peered into the hazy darkness, trying to filter out something 
worth seeing. All at once, it was there, the faint spots of 
torchlight, moving as though the carriers were in a great rush. 
“There! Travelers on the plains, Langcyll! The orcs are attacking 
them!”

Langcyll wasted no time, but whistled sharply for his own horse. The 
other elves did the same, and soon all were mounted. Fortunately, the 
captains had not abandoned caution for their fun either, and all the 
elves still wore their weapons. “Ride!” Langcyll shouted, and the 
company charged out of the valley, between the gap in the mountains, 
onto the plains below.

“Look, Langcyll!” Glorfindel cried, seeing another object illuminated 
by the travelers’ torches. “The flag of Mirkwood! They are a Mirkwood 
party.”

“Probably bound for Rivendell--make haste! Fly!”

Looking to the left, Legolas saw more torches and realized the dwarf 
party had heard the orcs as well. The torches bobbed as the dwarves 
signaled to Langcyll, who waved at them to invite their assistance. 
The torches waved in response, and the dwarf company charged out of 
the mountains as well, after the orcs who were attacking innocent 
travelers.

***

“Orcs, my lord!” one of the guards shouted to King Thranduil of 
Mirkwood.

The elven king had already drawn his sword, awaiting the attack as the 
shrieks of the foul creatures grew louder. *Even with a full guard, it 
seems no company remains safe,* he thought. 

Falling with a great screech, the orcs were upon the party of 
Mirkwood. Thranduil braced himself and met the orc charge with his 
sword whirling, slashing them before they could get within their own 
blades’ reach of him. For several millenia, the children of Thranduil 
had come to fame of their own as warriors, and it was easy to forget 
that the elven king himself was a renowned bearer of all weapons. 

Orcs were coming from everywhere, and Thranduil was growing anxious as 
he heard cries of pain in elven voices from about him. *This fight 
goes ill. Our escort is well-armed and well-trained, but the beasts of 
Sauron have the advantage in sheer numbers.*

Half a dozen orcs suddenly pressed toward Thranduil all at once, 
trying to overwhelm him, and he backed up swiftly, swinging his sword 
in one hand and a torch in the other to keep them at bay. Then a 
collective orc shriek went up as new battle cries filled the air, 
along with the whinnies of many horses. He heard the challenge shouts 
of familiar elf voices, and Thranduil needed no long glance to see 
that one of his realm’s war parties had discovered them. It was an 
immense relief.

Even as he fought, Thranduil glanced about him trying to see with one 
part of his mind whose party this was, for many warriors were abroad 
at this time. But the elves and orcs flitted too swiftly in and out of 
the torchlight, and all he could identify were fair and dark heads. 

Ducking under an orc-scimitar, the king of Mirkwood thought he spied 
Glorfindel of Imladris, but more orcs pressed toward him and he could 
not be sure. Parrying a flurry of wild blows from another orc, he 
dispatched the creature and managed a quick look around. About a dozen 
elves had joined them, but the orcs were still coming. Their 
predicament was very serious. Elven arrows sliced through the air, but 
even as orcs dropped, others seemed to burst from the shadows beyond 
the torchlight to take the places of the fallen.

All at once, new battle cries echoed, and for a moment Thranduil was 
disoriented, for the cries were familiar yet strange. The elven king 
rolled under a blow from an orc shield aimed for his head and found 
himself staring at a large company of dwarves, axes brought to bear, 
charging into the fray. Most were so intent on the orcs that they did 
not even notice him, or perhaps did not recognize him, but the one in 
the lead practically froze in his tracks. Thranduil faltered as well, 
and had it not been for the dwarves rushing past him to drive the orcs 
back, he might have been wounded.

But there was no time to demand explanations on either side, and the 
elven king and the unexpected arrivals charged back into the battle. 
Now the fray seemed still more confusing, for Thranduil was certain he 
had seen Glorfindel of Imladris, as well as Elrohir son of Elrond 
(therefore it went without saying that Elladan was here as well) but 
the king thought he had also seen Elunen and Langcyll of Mirkwood. 

Another elf, fair-haired and too slight to be Glorfindel, swept 
through the torchlight for a moment, but a stray orc sword swept the 
torch to the ground before Thranduil could identify the warrior, who 
looked like he hailed from Lorien. The king charged at another groups 
of orcs menacing one of his guards, who had been wounded by an arrow. 
Whirling back from dropping several of them, Thranduil aimed his sword 
at another, only to have it dropped from behind by the Lorien warrior. 
The momentum drove the younger elf forward, and he caught his balance 
less than five feet from Thranduil.

Thranduil blinked. This elf of Lorien wore Mirkwood colors. Their eyes 
met, and the concentration of battle fled the young elf’s face--along 
with most of the color. His dark gray eyes were wide as he froze in 
shock… “Father!”



Time did not seem to crawl. Time seemed to stop.



It did not seem possible. Thranduil scarcely knew this warrior. It had 
only been two years! How could this be? Yet here he was, and the 
strange expression in his dark eyes was all that gave him away. Had 
this elf not reacted to his own recognition of the king, Thranduil 
believed he would never have recognized him at all. 

It was Legolas. 

Father and son, both frozen in disbelief--and no small measure of 
dismay--were for a moment oblivious to the fighting taking place 
around them. An elf’s cry of pain to one side finally snapped 
Thranduil out of it, and he rushed to the wounded warrior’s aid, 
forcing himself to turn from the astonished face of his son.

The elven king’s mind was in such turmoil that he did not even feel 
rankled by the fact that the assistance of the dwarves was at last 
gaining them the upper hand. Thranduil did not join the pursuers 
chasing the rest of the orcs across the plains, but he saw the fair 
head amongst the others and knew that Legolas had.

*Legolas. He is here. My son.*

***

Legolas fought to keep his mind on what he was doing, lest he face an 
injury due to lack of concentration. But the turmoil in his mind 
refused to subside, and one thought whirled frantically round and 
round in his head, trying to blot out the fight he was struggling to 
finish. *He is here. My father is here.*

With a savagery that had little to do with his hatred of orcs, Legolas 
slashed to pieces the orc he had managed to catch up to, seized its 
sword, and went looking for more. Anything to take him further away 
from Thranduil. *I must face him. After everything that I did, I 
practically ran away without a word to him.* He challenged another orc 
and swept forward with his sword, dodging the creature’s slashing 
scimitar. *He went back to live in the caves like a dwarf. He locked 
people in the dungeons--those dungeons! He nearly started a war for a 
share of that dragon’s treasure!*

Legolas ducked and parried another blow from the growling orc, but he 
barely saw it. Instinct alone was guiding him, for his mind was 
somewhere else. *I do not know him anymore! I cannot face him! I am 
afraid--*

The orc sensed its opponent’s loss of concentration, and with an awful 
clang!, it slammed its scimitar into Legolas’s sword, knocking the 
weapon from the prince’s hand. Cursing, Legolas drew both of his 
knives and dove into a roll under a sweeping blow from the orc. He 
suffered a swipe on the forehead as he leapt back to his feet, but 
managed to slash the creature’s arm, forcing it to drop its own 
weapon. Venting his frantic emotions with a furious onslaught of 
knife-blows, Legolas all but dismembered the creature with his knives. 

Breathing hard, the prince of Mirkwood looked around, hoping to find 
another foe, but the orcs were defeated, and those who had fled were 
too far out of reach in this darkness. *I think I would rather face 
the darkness.*

***

Langcyll scanned the battlefield absently, noting the large number of 
wounded elves and dwarves. That orc army must have been lying in wait 
for the travelers, and that was why the company had failed to see or 
hear them sooner. Frowning, he turned to where Legolas was standing 
motionless on the outskirts, staring into the dark. Langcyll was 
confused and troubled, for he too had seen Legolas fighting those last 
few orcs, and the young warrior had seemed completely distracted. 
*He’s lucky that orc wasn’t quicker or he’s have lost his head to that 
scimitar.*

The captain purposefully started forward, intending to demand an 
accounting for such poor fighting form, when from the corner of his 
eye, he noticed another elf also making for Legolas. Without thinking, 
Langcyll turned to tell the other warrior to leave off, and at that 
instant, the other elf also looked at him.

It was King Thranduil. He and Langcyll both stopped dead in their 
tracks, and for a moment, Langcyll could not find his voice. “My 
lord!” he finally blurted. *Of all the elves in Middle Earth who could 
have appeared at this moment…*

Langcyll’s king hesitated, then said, “Well met, Langcyll. Your timing 
was excellent.” Thranduil seemed distracted, and Langcyll had no 
trouble guessing by what. *So that is why Legolas was behaving so 
strangely.*

Before he knew what he was doing, the captain of Mirkwood called out, 
“Legolas!” His youngest warrior turned to face him, and went 
practically rigid when he saw the king standing close to Langcyll. 
Taking a deep breath, Langcyll ordered him, “Some of your comrades are 
wounded. See to them at once.” Legolas all-too-willingly did as he was 
told. Langcyll forced himself to face the king, then saw that he 
needn’t have bothered. Thranduil had eyes only for Legolas. “Forgive 
me, my lord. I must see to my warriors.”

Blinking as though just remembering that Langcyll was there, Thranduil 
nodded, “Of course.” He slowly turned and went to help one of the 
guards from his party.

Langcyll walked back to where the wounded warriors were being tended, 
and noticed Glorfindel heading in his direction. He walked a few steps 
out of his way to avoid speaking to the Imladris captain; Glorfindel 
doubtlessly had plenty of advice to impart, none of which Langcyll 
cared to hear. The captain of Mirkwood surveying the warriors by the 
fire, and his eyes inevitably were drawn to Legolas. The young warrior 
was bandaging an ugly slash on Faron’s shoulder, and worrying over 
whether his friend had lost too much blood. Elladan had taken an arrow 
in the thigh, Glanaur and Fanfirith had also been wounded. Several of 
king Thranduil’s company were being tended, along with four of the 
dwarves.

*It would have been much worse for us if the dwarves had not come,* 
Langcyll thought grimly. And that was another problem. Those dwarves 
who were neither caring for the injured nor injured themselves stood 
in a tight knot well away from the elves, and the eyes of every one 
were fixed on the elven king. *Curse whatever fate brought Thranduil 
here! This might well have been a turning point in our relations with 
the dwarves but for this unhappy chance!*

After a long conference among themselves, the dwarves spoke to their 
wounded companions, and apparently came to a consensus. Naldin, son of 
Oín, walked a few paces closer to Langcyll and said, “Captain 
Langcyll, if you have the situation under control, I think it would 
be…for the best if my company departed now.”

Langcyll nodded grimly, feeling the eyes of the king boring into the 
back of his head. “You have my thanks for your MANY acts of assistance 
to us, Master Naldin.” He dared not name Naldin’s father. 

Naldin replied, “And we also owe you our thanks, Master Elf. I do not 
expect our companies shall meet again.” With a bow, he concluded, “We 
take our leave.”

Langcyll also bowed to the group, “Safe journey, Master Dwarves.”

With that, the dwarves reassembled, and quickly departed the area for 
the mountains once again. Langcyll noticed with a brief flicker of 
amusement that Shaín glanced back and waved at Galithil as he walked 
off with the others. Sothi had also bidden a personal farewell to 
Elunen, and a few of the others were looking back at Langcyll and his 
company with shades of regret in their bearded faces. (On the other 
hand, Lorben, Therik, and Broni seemed all too eager to be setting 
off.) With regrets of his own, Langcyll turned to Glorfindel and 
raised his eyebrows (the elven equivalent of a shrug.) It really had 
been for the best that the dwarves had departed as quickly as 
possible. Perhaps that way, at least some semblence of good feelings 
between the elves and the dwarves had been allowed to linger in the 
end.

*Indeed, considering the king’s state of mind at this moment, it would 
not be a good time for diplomacy.* Langcyll forced himself to return 
to practical matters. “My lord,” he called to Thranduil. “How many of 
your company are wounded?”

The king replied, “Eight of the twenty,” without once meeting 
Langcyll’s eyes. Thranduil was staring past Langcyll at where the 
wounded were being treated, and Langcyll did not need to turn and look 
to know without question what his liege was watching. A thought that 
Langcyll had been struggling to suppress continued to force its way 
into his mind, a bitter memory of Glorfindel’s warning to him that 
rang over and over in his head, leaving him powerless to shut it out.

**

“Langcyll, Legolas is a prince of Mirkwood. He is Thranduil’s son.

Not yours.”

**

Langcyll closed his eyes, but the words would not be repressed. *Not 
yours…*

***

Thranduil felt as though he had been rooted to the ground. Even the 
very odd involvement of the dwarves in this battle had not managed to 
command his attention away from the figure of his son, working beside 
the fire. The king could do nothing but stare, bewildered, awed, and 
grieved by how deeply two years had changed Legolas. 

Physically, on the outside, the king’s youngest son did not look very 
different. Perhaps a little slimmer, but Legolas had always been trim, 
(unlike Thranduil, who was quite sturdy for an elf and had even been 
able to pass himself off as a man in his youth.) Legolas was facing 
Thranduil’s direction, but his attention was focused upon the wounded 
elf he was tending. Thranduil wondered to himself, had his son’s face 
really changed so much? Or was it a worried father’s imagination, at 
seeing the worry that furrowed the young elf’s brow and the bloody 
streak across his forehead. Or perhaps it was the shadows under his 
dark eyes that spoke of long, hard travel, and numerous battles, with 
not enough sleep to make up for them. 

Legolas rose then, looking up at the sound of another elf calling his 
name, then went to assist another wounded warrior. It was clear to any 
observer that Legolas was not viewed by his comrades as a recent 
novice or newcomer, but as a veteran warrior with far more battle 
experience than was normal for two short years. Thranduil sighed in 
spite of himself, still feeling lost and confused. Legolas was as fair 
as ever, and his features remained very like his mother, yet…for some 
strange reason, the resemblance was not so obvious anymore. The bones 
of his face seemed a little more pronounced, not that he was gaunt by 
any means, but still, there was a…hardness. And Thranduil understood 
what it was about his perception of Legolas that had nearly prevented 
him from recognizing his own child.

Legolas had left him as an untried novice. Now, only two years since 
then (an eternity to a parent but a blink by elven standards) Legolas 
was a warrior. Undeniably, unmistakably, and irreversibly, a warrior. 
And the timid, uncertain, inexperienced child that Thranduil had last 
seen was gone forever, and had gone without saying goodbye. 

As that fact dawned upon him, Thranduil, elven king of Mirkwood, one 
of the greatest of the elven realms in all Middle Earth, felt a 
terrible urge to stand where he was…and weep. 

***

“Legolas.” The prince of Mirkwood felt his hands tremble slightly as 
he finished bandaging Glanaur’s knife wound. How strange it felt. The 
voice behind him was so familiar, and yet so alien at the same time. 
Among a thousand other confused emotions, Legolas felt puzzlement, for 
he was frightened. Being afraid in itself was not something to deny; 
Legolas had been taught that there was no shame in any emotion as long 
as it did not prevent one from taking action. But this fear…it had to 
be wrong. It must be wrong to be so deathly afraid to turn and face 
his own father.

“Legolas?” 

He had no other task that could claim his attention. There was no 
choice. *I must rise. I cannot hide from him.* Forcing a reassuring 
smile at Glanaur, whose eyes were concerned for Legolas despite the 
warrior’s own wound, Legolas slowly stood up and turned to face the 
king of Mirkwood. “Father.”

Thranduil looked as tense as Legolas felt. It was no surprise to 
Legolas; the king doubtlessly felt the weight of many unspoken words 
just as his son did. *And I would rather leave those words unspoken. 
At least now.*

“Well, my son,” Thranduil said at last. “You have changed. I hardly 
recognized you.” Legolas could find no reply to that, so he simply 
stood there and waited for his father to say more. “It has been a long 
two years.”

“Y--” his voice failed him on the first try. Legolas wanted to curse. 
He had fought countless battles and seen incredible horror and grief 
over the past two years--why, oh, why should he be so nervous about 
speaking to his own father?! “Yes. It has. The shadow has grown over 
Middle Earth.”

“I imagine you have seen much action in the mountains.”

“Yes we have.” *This is ridiculous, I sound as a child, yessing him 
so! I must either say my piece or depart. I am not required to dance 
attendance while more pressing matters exist! If I‘ve nothing to say, 
I‘ve no reason to stand here.*

The king seemed to also be groping for words, and Legolas frantically 
searched for a graceful way to exit--and occupy himself for a more 
extended period of time (preferably until either the king’s party or 
his own company moved on). Just as the silence was beginning to weigh 
heavily, like the answer to a prayer, a voice called, “Legolas?”

“Yes?” Legolas all but whirled around, so relieved was he. 

It was Langcyll, sitting beside several of the injured warriors while 
they rested. “Please forgive me,” he said more to the king than to 
Legolas, “but Faron is awakening and asking for you.”

Turning hastily back to the king, Legolas said, “Forgive me, Father.” 
Thranduil nodded automatically, and Legolas had to restraining himself 
from all-out running away.

Faron, who had lost a great deal of blood from that wound, was not as 
close to wakening as Langcyll had thought. Legolas frowned, briefly 
distracted from his own problems, and checked his friend’s pulse. It 
was steady, and the healers from his company and the king’s attendants 
had all agreed Faron would recover completely. Legolas did not have 
nearly as trained an eye as the more seasoned warriors, but he 
suspected Faron would sleep on for several more hours. 

Behind Legolas came Langcyll himself. “He did not wake?“ the captain 
asked.

“Nay,” Legolas replied. “Perhaps…he was dreaming and began to move.”

“Hmm.” Legolas glanced up and saw Langcyll gazing with a troubled 
expression over the bloodied field, taking in the wounded warriors, 
the healthy ones standing guard, and the king still watching them. The 
captain passed a weary hand over his eyes and said, “Stay with Faron 
if you wish, Legolas, but you must sleep tonight. We have been 
neglectful of rest these past few months. While there is more 
protection, we must make the most of it. There will be time for 
conversations later.”

“Yes, Langcyll.” If his captain had ordered him to sleep rather than 
talk, Legolas was quite happy to obey. But it troubled Legolas that 
the veteran warrior had thought Faron was waking so soon after such an 
injury. Langcyll must have been very worried over how badly the battle 
had gone to make such an error in judgement.

Legolas saw Thranduil still watching him, but resolutely went to 
Lanthir and retrieved his bedroll, laying it next to Faron and casting 
himself down. Cursing himself for his skittishness, he could not 
restrain himself from looking once more, and the king’s eyes were 
still upon him even as exhaustion from battle and excess emotion 
claimed his weary body. He went to sleep deeply unhappy.

***

Elladan had been keeping watch after the battle, and with dawn came a 
cold, much-needed rain. The shower roused all the elves before long, 
and many of those who had been wounded in the dusk battle were well on 
the mend. 

*At least that is a small mercy,* Elladan thought, watching as Faron 
tested his shooting after the shoulder injury, and found that his aim 
was true. Fanfirith and Elunen could both walk, if limping slightly, 
and Glanaur would be beating everyone at sword practice again in a day 
or two. The eight wounded warriors of King Thranduil’s company were 
also recovering well.

*Thranduil. Of all the elves in Middle Earth, it was Thranduil we 
encountered here, now. I wonder, did the Valar decide life for us was 
not complicated enough by this shadow? With Prince Legolas in our 
company and dwarves fighting with us, we had to cross paths with the 
king of Mirkwood.* Mentally shaking his head at the wickedness of 
fate, the son of Elrond observed the activity in the camp.

Legolas, roused like the others by the cold prickle of raindrops, was 
helping to stir up the fires and tending the injuries of the other 
warriors. To Elladan, the prince seemed desperate for something to do, 
anything that would keep him busy--and, Elladan translated, away from 
the king. *You cannot avoid him forever, my friend. So why do you try? 
Better to face him now, and even have it out if necessary, rather than 
let these old and new resentments boil within both of you.*

But apparently, Legolas was opting for the evasion tactic, and found 
some pressing activity any time King Thranduil took so much as a step 
or a glance in his direction. He also had the hood of his cloak up, 
ostensibly to keep off the rain, but in the process, effectively 
hiding his eyes from anyone he did not directly look at.

Turning his attention to Thranduil, Elladan had to suppress a shudder. 
The king had looked utterly stunned and shaken the night before by the 
unexpected reunion with Legolas, but now the initial shock had passed, 
and Thranduil clearly desired to speak to him. It was uncertain 
whether Thranduil knew what he wished to say, but Elladan could tell 
that the king wanted a moment with his son. And, worse yet, whatever 
Thranduil’s other faults, he was no fool. His gaze, never leaving 
Legolas as the prince worked, had grown darker throughout the morning, 
and Elladan was becoming very uneasy. *Legolas, you little fool, 
forget your own grievances and speak to him before there is trouble! 
You know how dangerous Thranduil is when he is angered!*

It both did and did not amaze Elladan that Legolas, who could face 
raging orcs, slavering wargs, and all the horrors of life as a warrior 
head-on without faltering, could suffer such a loss of courage in the 
matter of his own father. *Nay, I am too harsh in my thoughts toward 
him. Even warriors have their weaknesses, and to most of us, it is our 
family. But therein lies the difference between Legolas and others. 
For most warriors, their weakness is love,* Elladan glanced at his 
brother, one of the wounded, to confirm his thought, and sighed 
repentantly. *For Legolas, it is fear. And shame.*

***

Legolas, keeping himself busy by gathering and mending spent arrows, 
prayed that Langcyll would order the company to move out again at 
dusk. Another night here, and he would likely run out of reasons not 
to speak to King Thranduil. He still felt unready--and unwilling--to 
face the conversation that he and his father would eventually be 
forced to have.

Faron walked over and sat down next to him, taking a handful of arrows 
and starting work. Though Legolas was glad of this company at least, 
he wished Faron had not, for it would speed up the task and force 
Legolas to search for something else to do. He focused his attention 
fixedly on the arrowhead he was sharpening, feeling eyes on him from 
all direction. So tense was the prince of Mirkwood that he all but 
jumped out of his skin when Faron spoke at last. Bluntly. “I do not 
believe I have ever seen you so nervous.”

Raising his eyes from the troublesome arrow, Legolas replied quietly, 
“Have you often seen me nervous?”

His friend chuckled quietly, “Oh indeed, when I journeyed to Mirkwood 
on occasion as a novice, I cannot recall having ever seen you when you 
were not nervous about some matter of import or another. Then again, 
everything was a matter of great import to you back then.” There was a 
hint of sorrow in Faron’s voice at the memory of those past times.

Legolas found himself smiling wryly as well, “I worried about a great 
deal, it is true. Looking back, I wonder how I could have given myself 
such anxiety over such trivialities.”

“We were children. I suppose it is natural.”

“Yes.”

Silence descended again, then Legolas felt Faron looking at him and 
raised his head. Faron began softly, “Legolas--”

“--Faron. I know what you would say,” Legolas cut him off, but not 
rudely. “Please. Do not. It is no use.”

In a voice barely above a whisper, his friend protested, “You cannot 
run from him forever!”

“I am not running,” Legolas hissed back, praying none of the others 
could hear them. “I…I am simply not ready.”

In a fashion that was painfully reminiscent of Tathar, Faron snorted. 
In a more normal voice, he said, “Legolas, you and I both know that 
fate seldom waits for the time when we decree ourselves ready to face 
a challenge.”

Whatever reply Legolas would have come up with was fortunately avoided 
by the arrival of Galithil. The young warrioress joined her comrades 
and began repairing several broken bows while the other two continued 
with the arrows. “How are you this morning, Galithil?” Legolas asked 
her, relieved to change the subject.

Galithil smiled, though she also looked tense. This situation was 
having ill effects upon them all, Legolas noticed grimly. “I am well, 
thank you, Legolas. Faron? Your wound is not troublesome, I see?” At 
his nod, she met Legolas’s eyes and said softly, “Langcyll has told 
the king he wishes to move on at dusk. He says we are far behind our 
time and must reach Lothlorien within two weeks.”

Legolas could not hold back a sigh of relief, and ignored Faron’s 
annoyed expression. Faron was a close friend, but he could not 
possibly understand the situation Legolas faced. Galithil smiled 
slightly at Legolas, more sympathetic. As she reached for another bow, 
a small stone fell from the pocket of her pouch. “What have you got 
there?” Faron asked, and before she could respond, he had picked it 
up.

The discovery of the stone did not seem to trouble Galithil terribly, 
so Legolas also leaned forward and looked at it. “That is lovely,” he 
murmured, attracted to it in spite of himself. Legolas had never seen 
such a gem before. It had the pure white luster of a pearl, but was 
clearly not one. Nor did it have the flickers of colored fire like 
that of an opal. It was heavy, smooth, round, but rather flat, the 
size of a thumbnail. It was an opaque white, with a tint of gray-blue. 

Faron voiced Legolas’s thought, “I have never seen such a stone 
before.” With a sly grin, he said, “Shaín of Lonely Mountain gave it 
to you.” It was not a question.

Galithil grinned sheepishly and nodded. “He said he was sorry that he 
did not have the opportunity to show us the wonders of Moria, that 
this would have to suffice.” She giggled, “I confess I did like that 
dwarf, but I am glad he settled for the stone as opposed to a tour 
underground.”

“I too would agree with that exchange,” Legolas said vehemently, and 
chuckled as Faron nodded in vigorous agreement. Then he drawled, “Very 
generous, that Shaín. I seem to recall someone saying that dwarves 
would make off with anything made of metal.” 

He and Faron laughed aloud as Galithil raised her hands defensively. 
“Ah, I admit it freely, my friends, I was in error. I believe elves 
and dwarves are capable of getting along.”

Now Legolas found himself snorting. “Perhaps in this case, but I doubt 
that such a thing would be possible for any great length of time. Not 
to impugn your friend,” he added hastily at Galithil’s outraged 
expression. Then he grinned, “I‘ve no doubt his friendliness was 
sincere. But he seemed unlike most dwarves, and you are not an 
ordinary elf.” He grinned slyly at her, and shook his head, “All in 
all, I suspect such a friendship was a mere fluke.”

Aware of the futility of changing his mind, Galithil rolled her eyes, 
smiling good-naturedly. Faron gestured to the gem she held, “So, that 
was his parting gift to you? What exactly is it?”

With a distant smile, and very faint blush, Galithil replied, “He said 
it is called moonstone.”

***

Elladan was not the only one deeply worried by the rising tension 
between the king of Mirkwood and his youngest son. Glorfindel, from 
where he stood tending the horses of both companies, kept a discreet 
eye on the other elves and felt his own anxiety growing as well.

The sun was well into the west, and Langcyll was determined that the 
company should move on at dusk, now that it was certain that the 
guards of Mirkwood had taken no lasting hurts. But Glorfindel’s 
concern was not only directed at Thranduil and Legolas. The king and 
the prince were certainly playing a game of hunt-and-hide around the 
camp, and that was cause for worry, but Legolas would never be able to 
evade Thranduil so successfully if he did not have an ally.

Every time that Thranduil attempted to approach Legolas, the young 
warrior would search desperately for some task to occupy his 
attention, and Langcyll was all too willing to find him one every 
time. Consequently, the prince managed to have a legitimate excuse 
always to avoid speaking to the king, and Glorfindel could see the 
king’s confused frustration beginning to smolder into genuine anger.

Like many others this day, Glorfindel was cursing the ill timing of 
fate. *Perhaps if it had not been so soon after Tathar’s death, the 
situation would not be so bad. The heart of Legolas would not be so 
fragile, and Langcyll might have got past this protectiveness. But if 
Legolas does not speak to his father at all, and we depart, things 
will go very ill the next time they meet.*

In desperation, Glorfindel decided to try for the sake of all 
concerned to intervene. He waited until Langcyll was busy discussing 
orc activity with the captain of the king’s guard, and advanced 
purposefully on the prince. As usual, Legolas was busy, packing 
saddlebags with Faron and Galithil. “Legolas.” The young elf looked 
up. “I would speak with you,” Glorfindel said.

Legolas hesitated, startled by the Imladris elf’s stern tone. “At 
once,” Glorfindel added, in a tone that brooked no argument. Having no 
choice, Legolas shot an anxious look at his two equally-startled 
friends, and followed Glorfindel to the edge of the camp. Glorfindel 
turned and faced the prince of Mirkwood directly. There was little 
time. He came straight out with it. “Legolas, we depart in barely an 
hour’s time. You must speak with King Thranduil before then.” 

Legolas blinked, caught off-guard. “I--” he glanced hopefully across 
the camp, but Langcyll’s back was turned still. “I do not…”

“Legolas!” Glorfindel said urgently, towering over the young warrior 
and lowering his voice to almost a hiss. He disliked deliberately 
intimidating anyone, but at this point, the situation had to be 
defused by any means necessary. “You canNOT leave this place without 
once speaking to your father. To depart with such bad blood between 
you will only invite disaster.” Forcing himself to calm, he said 
gently, “I am aware that the conversation will have its unpleasant 
points, but the differences between you must be faced. When it is 
done, you will feel better for it.” 

To Glorfindel’s relief, Legolas looked more thoughtful, and he 
believed he was getting through. Pressing his advantage, he went on, 
“It is for the sake of us all, young prince. I am sorry to place such 
a burden on you, but you are aware how King Thran--”

“Legolas?” both elves jumped and turned. It was all Glorfindel could 
do not to groan. Langcyll had seen them. The game was up. He prayed 
that Legolas would heed his advice.

“Langcyll?” the prince called back. 

“We are breaking camp. Assist Fanfirith and Nathron with loading the 
horses, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Legolas walked away without meeting Glorfindel‘s eyes, and that was 
all the answer the older elf needed. Glorfindel gathered up some empty 
water skins and carried them to a nearby creek to fill. Once there, 
and well out of earshot, the warrior captain of Imladris began to 
curse savagely and creatively, in every language he could think of.

***

When Langcyll told his warriors that it was time to depart, Legolas 
felt an insane desire to laugh with relief. *Thank the Valar. I was 
perilously close to going mad.* Glorfindel’s words still hovered 
somewhere in the back of his mind, but he pushed them away. 
*Glorfindel spoke of conversation, but it would be nothing but a 
quarrel, that would take far more than an hour’s quiet talk to 
resolve. Better to say nothing.*

He was so distracted by his thoughts that he did not notice the elf 
coming to intercept him. Legolas?” 

It was the king. Legolas faltered, glancing at his company, preparing 
to ride. “Yes, Father?” In a rush, he decided to get through this as 
swiftly as possible. “I…am sorry there…was not time for us to talk. 
There is little time for leisure during times like these.” 

In a voice as frigid as the ice in the winter mountains, Thranduil 
replied, “Yes, so I have seen. It seems we will have to wait until we 
meet again to reacquaint. Whenever that may be.”

Legolas nodded hurriedly. *Let this end, please…*

“Farewell, Legolas.” With a wordless bow, Legolas walked swiftly to 
his horse and mounted, meeting only Langcyll’s eyes. *How could my 
father expect me to be glad of meeting him after all he has done? 
Perhaps I should have…nay. My anger is still too great. It is his own 
fault.* The captain of Mirkwood gave the signal to move out, and the 
company rode away. Legolas did not look back.

***

Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, watched the company of Langcyll until 
they returned to the mountains and disappeared around a bend. He could 
not fathom what had passed in this one day. *He would not speak to me. 
My own son treated me as a complete stranger. I did make some mistakes 
in my raising of him, which I have long acknowledged, but I did 
nothing to deserve such ill treatment.*

With a sharp clap of his hands that made every one of his company 
jump, Thranduil snapped, “Ready the horses. We ride on for Rivendell.” 
This visit to the House of Elrond no longer held much interest to 
Thranduil. The beauty and peace of that elven haven, which he had 
viewed before as a much-needed change of scenery, would now serve only 
as a reminder of the shadow that wreaked havoc on his own realm, and 
its serenity and harmony would remind him only of the manner in which 
his youngest son had so carelessly dismissed him.

*This is the second time he has left me without so much as saying 
goodbye.*





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---------- Fanfic » Books » Lord of the Rings » A Little Nudge Out of 
the Door text size: (+) : (-) 

Author: Jocelyn 1. The Quiet One2. Friends, Foes, and Snapping 
Branches3. A Novice No More4. Of Elven Princes and Arranged 
Marriages5. Girls, Girls, Girls!6. Rights and Privileges7. The Nudge8. 
Out of the Door9. The Apple Tree10. Places Left Behind11. Ears and 
Beards12. Of Price and Worth13. Sins of the Father14. The Mirror of 
Galadriel15. Shadows in the Golden Wood16. Farewell to Lorien17. All 
Things Must Change18. Fight or Flight19. The Ranger20. Trust21. Each 
Night I Dream Of Home22. Feasting, Frolicking, and Farewells23. The 
Counsel of Elrond24. An Elf Alone25. Forgiveness26. Those Words We 
Said27. Old Friends, Older Enemies28. Failure29. The Council of 
Elrond30. Epilogue: Famous Last Words 

PG - English - Action/Adventure/Drama - Reviews: 916 - Publish date: 
02-14-02 - Updated: 12-24-02  story id: 603915 



A/N: Here’s another experiment. I’ve spent a lot of time looking at 
Legolas from other people’s point of view, but this chapter’s almost 
entirely his. Let me know how you like it. Some LONG conversations in 
this chapter. So bear with me, and don’t forget to review!

Note to Jan: I wasn’t sure whether Legolas had ever been to Lorien, 
(and haven’t had time to do serious research) but judging by how old 
he seems to be, I imagine he’s at least somewhat well-traveled. If 
not…oh well, this is an AU fic in many respects, so in this story 
verse, let’s just pretend he does visit Lorien. (Shrug! Nudge! Wink!)

A Starlight: Tengo demasiado tarea en todas mis clases, y tengo un 
trabajo tambien! Ay, necesito mas horas en el dia para hacer mi 
trabajo y escribir mi cuento! Tengo una vida loca (pero no como Ricky 
Martin!) 

Special Thanks: to Amy for catching that typo in the last chapter. I’m 
in your debt for bringing it to my attention, so I was able to catch 
it and fix it before too many people got confused.

Nebride…oh my gawd, my ego is totally out of control now! Thank you 
for many wonderful compliments, and let me reply that I am eagerly 
awaiting the sequel to “The Road to Isengard” or any other story you 
might happen to pop onto the board for us. Thanks for sharing your 
great talents and your generous reviews! :-)

BTW: My sister’s remark in her review of chapter five was correct, 
Princess Lalven really is a Mary-Sue of me. I really am an insipid, 
boring bimbo, can’t you tell by my writing? (Giggle!)

NEW (AND OLD) CHARACTERS

Limloeth: Legolas’s older sister, second child of King Thranduil 
Orthelian: a warrior captain from Lorien, Limloeth’s husband Haldir, 
Rumil, and Orophin: Duuuhh! ;-)







Chapter Fourteen: The Mirror of Galadriel



Six weeks later…

The dwarves of Lonely Mountain had reached their destination soon 
after leaving the elves, and prowled cautiously in the mines of Moria. 
“Not as many orcs as we’d feared,” remarked Sothi, as the group passed 
back out of the walls of Moria.

“Nay,” Naldin was greatly encouraged. “Let us go with all speed then, 
back to Lonely Mountain, and make our report to Balin. He’ll be very 
pleased.”

“Aye, he’ll probably want to start out straightaway, before any of us 
even have a chance to take a rest,” snorted Shaín. 

“Why shouldn’t he?” demanded Sothi. “It’s good news we bring.”

“I for one will want to join that mission,” one of their other 
companions said.

“And I,” Naldin added, and Sothi and Shaín nodded in agreement. “Be 
glad, friends. Even if we’ve no time for resting, the day is coming 
soon when dwarves will rule the realm of Moria again. Come, let us 
return and give our glad tidings to Daín and Balin.”

***

At the same time…



Legolas pulled back his bow and let arrow after arrow fly into the 
seemingly endless stream of orcs that poured over the hillside. The 
company was nearly out of the mountains, but the orcs were determined 
not to let them have an easy escape, and the company was forced into 
battles every night at dusk, that did not seem to end until the sun’s 
first rays sent the orcs running for cover. The company had made good 
time when it returned to the mountains at first, but now the orcs so 
impeded their progress that they scarcely covered any ground at night. 
So they were forced at times to travel by day as well, which wearied 
them and the horses still further.

*And Langcyll had hoped to reach Lothlorien within two weeks,* Legolas 
thought dismally.

The prince tossed his bow aside when the orcs drew too near, and 
snatched out both of his knives. The orcs charged on, and whirling to 
one side, Legolas flew into action, his arms sweeping with great 
precision to slash aside any fell beast that menaced him or his 
comrades. On his right, Langcyll was driving a sword against an 
assault of orc shields, and to his left, Faron and Galithil continued 
to shoot.

Still the orcs kept coming, and the elves were growing weary. That in 
itself was a sign of how strong the shadow was becoming, that it could 
send an endless onslaught of goblins great enough to wear down a 
company of seasoned elven warriors. The hills swarmed with them. 
Legolas was scraped, cut, and bruised in many places, and he feared in 
his exhaustion that he might make a fatal mistake. 

It seemed both years and seconds since the sunset had been met with 
orc shrieks of challenge, but Legolas heard the foul beasts screeching 
in warning as the sky to the east began to lighten. At once, the orcs 
broke and ran, and the company was so weary that few of its members 
chased them. Legolas turned to face his companions, fearful of what he 
might see.

Elladan had taken a sword wound to the abdomen, and Elrohir was 
cradling his brother anxiously as Faron bandaged him. “It was not so 
serious as we feared; the bleeding has stopped. He shall be walking 
again in a few days.”

“A few days,” sighed Langcyll, pausing beside Legolas. “We may not 
have a few days, at this rate.” 

Alarmed by such words, Legolas turned to Langcyll. His captain was 
bruised, bloodied, and very haggard-looking. This mission had been 
brutal to Legolas, and the prince had overheard Langcyll and 
Glorfindel remarking that neither of them could remember a more 
difficult journey in their vast years of experience. *And they were 
both alive and fighting during the Second Age!* Legolas thought with a 
surge of despair.

Elunen had been gravely injured by an arrow six days before, and two 
of the company were always stationed to protect her, for she could not 
fight yet. Now Elladan would probably also be out of commission for at 
least two days, and Fanfirith could barely walk. “What do you mean to 
do, Langcyll?” Legolas asked without thinking.

Langcyll passed a hand over his eyes, blinking wearily. After more 
than two years, Legolas was already heartily weary of battles, 
bloodshed, and endless struggle for survival. He could not imagine how 
Langcyll must feel just then. The captain of Mirkwood murmured, “I 
will speak with Glorfindel. Our situation grows dire.”

The captain of Imladris was in little better spirits. Glorfindel was 
wounded by a slash to his right arm, but had continued to fight with 
the left. It was fortunate for him that even handicapped so, he was 
still more than a match for the orcs. *And even those with one arm to 
fight must still join in the defense,* Legolas thought with a sigh. 
*Will we ever see the end of this journey, or will the orcs take us 
all when our weariness grows too great.*

***

Langcyll walked over to Glorfindel and said, “It seems impossible that 
the orcs could keep up such an assault this close to Lorien.”

Nodding, the captain of Imladris replied, “But they have. And we will 
not hold out much longer without reinforcements.” 

It was a bitter truth to swallow, but it could not be avoided any 
longer. The company was being worn down, and if they did not find rest 
and recovery soon, the orcs would have them all in some night battle. 
Langcyll sighed, “How much further is Lorien by the most direct 
route?”

“Even riding, we could not reach it by dusk, but perhaps by midnight 
if the horses could bear us that long, which is uncertain,” Glorfindel 
replied. “And that is assuming we fought no more battles.”

Weariness was winning them both over. Langcyll turned to his friend 
and said, “I fear for the sake of us all, the company must hunt no 
longer. Not that we have been in the usual sense of the word, for we 
have gone from hunters to prey. Let us ride then, as hard as the 
horses are able, and reach Lorien as soon as we can. If we do not get 
out of this great bog of shadow, we shall be dragged down.”

Glorfindel nodded grimly, “I fear you are right. Our situation is too 
desperate.”

The decision made, Langcyll shouted to his exhausted warriors, “Mount 
up, all of you. We are riding for Lorien with all possible speed. The 
company shall hunt no longer.” If he had had any doubts about the 
seriousness of their situation, the relief on the faces of all quashed 
it. There were no illusions. The company had to reach safety.

***

“Hold on, my beauty,” Elrohir whispered to his mare, who he could feel 
straining as she struggled to ride on. His horse was as weary as he 
was, but Ethuil was courageous as any warrior, and knew her duty to 
her rider.

To his right, Elladan was biting his lip against the pain as his 
horse’s every stride jostled him, jarring his stab wound. Elrohir felt 
a pang of immense anxiety for his brother; when he had first seen the 
injury, he had nearly fallen to the ground in despair, thinking 
Elladan was fatally wounded. Fortunately, they had managed to get the 
bleeding under control, but the injury remained a serious one, if no 
longer life-threatening.

The company had been riding for six hours, as fast as the horses could 
manage over these mountains. In the first hour of the day, they had 
covered more ground than they had managed in the past two weeks of 
attempted travel by night. It was bitter to acknowledge this defeat, 
that they could not continue to face the orcs. But Elrohir knew 
Glorfindel and Langcyll were correct; if they did not reach safety 
soon, it was likely that the entire company would be lost. 

Movement to his left caught Elrohir’s eye. Legolas was riding on his 
other side, but there were no laughing taunts or talk of racing today. 
The prince, proving his skill and prowess as a warrior, had escaped 
major injuries during the past six weeks, but at a price. As most of 
his comrades had suffered wounds at one time or another during these 
recent cruel nights, Legolas had endeavored to take up the slack, and 
spent many days tending wounds or standing watch or scouting rather 
than sleeping. 

Although elves could withstand a great deal of toil and injury, far 
more than men, the strain was telling on all of them. Now Legolas was 
swaying on his horse's back, and his eyes were growing dim and glassy. 
“Legolas?” Elrohir hastily leaned over to touch the younger warrior’s 
arm, and felt his own head swim in response; he too, was beginning to 
falter under the stress of such prolonged fighting.

Legolas blinked, and shook his head hard to dispel the weakness. “I am 
well, Elrohir,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “But I am not so certain 
of Lanthir.” All the horses were beginning to slow with weariness. As 
the company approached a stream, Legolas took a deep breath and 
called, “Langcyll.” When the captain turned, the prince said candidly, 
“The horses must have water soon or they will not last.”

Looking at the creek, Langcyll nodded and called out, “We will stop 
here for ten minutes.” 

*Only ten…* it was all Elrohir could do not to groan. Some of the 
others did. 

When the warriors dismounted, many leaned against their horses as they 
drank, trying to find the strength to continue. Elrohir sat down next 
to Elladan, letting his wounded brother lean against him, and 
murmured, “We shall make it, brother. We shall.”

His jaw clenched with pain, Elladan replied, “Unless the orcs continue 
tonight as they have been. We shall not reach Lorien by dusk.”

Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to suppress the despair 
that was beginning to rise within him. *I must keep strength, for his 
sake. For the sake of us all. We must not lose hope, or we will all be 
lost.*

***

The sun was sinking lower, even as the company rode faster through the 
decreasing hills, they could hear orc shrieks from the caves and 
shadows. *As soon as the sun is gone, they will be upon us,* Legolas 
thought, fighting the urge to groan. 

Like a beacon for his hope and his sanity, Legolas found himself 
mentally reciting all the things his sister Limloeth and the rest of 
his family and friends had told him of Lorien. *It is autumn now. The 
wood will be full of golden leaves, if what they say is true. And 
flowers bloom there even in the winter. We shall see the Nimrodel. 
Perhaps we shall see the Lady Galadriel.*

An orc screech from a pile of rocks not far away made Legolas flinch, 
but the sun was not yet down and the creatures could only taunt the 
company as they rode past. It made Legolas cringe with shame to 
realize he and his comrades were in fact fleeing the beasts of Mordor. 
*In the beginning, we had sought to drive them from these places. Now, 
they drive us back into our haven. Assuming we manage to reach it at 
all.*

Exhaustion came in terrible waves, making his body ache and his head 
swim. Worse still, his eyes were incredibly heavy, meaning that the 
strain of the past weeks had gone beyond simple irritating weariness, 
that he was endangering himself. Looking around with slightly bleary 
vision, Legolas could see that many of the other elves who had been so 
lucky--using the term loosely--to escape serious wounds were also 
swaying with exhaustion. 

Darkness enveloped them once again, and Legolas sighed, reaching for 
his bow as a great shriek heralded the orc charge. “Ride through!” 
Langcyll bellowed from the back of the company. “Do not stop! Our only 
hope is to get within sight of Lorien!”

Legolas concentrated his efforts ahead of the company, and rode up to 
the front beside Glorfindel to shoot and clear a path in the masses of 
orcs for them to pass. Fortunately, adrenaline had kicked in again, 
and he managed to see well enough to aim. The horses were also finding 
new strength under duress, and the company raced over another hill. 
With a great gasp of relief, Legolas saw the tall trees of Lorien, 
gleaming faintly in the moonlight, rising like a great palace of gold 
in the distance. “We have it in our sights,” Glorfindel said, urging 
his mount on. “We shall reach it.”

To the astonishment of them all, the orcs still did not break off. 
*They must realize that we are weakened with weariness, and hope to 
take us down before we get there,* Legolas thought. It was true, more 
orcs were swarming out in front of them, trying to pull the elves from 
their frightened and tired horses. 

Whinnying in fright, Lanthir slowed against the assault, for the orcs 
were as thick as bramble bushes, and Legolas felt despair sweep 
through him as he realized he was running out of arrows. *We are so 
close--* pulling out a sword he had taken from an orc several weeks 
before, Legolas began sweeping it furious at their heads, trying to 
drive them back. Lanthir pitched and neighed, kicking furiously at the 
creatures while trying not to unseat his rider. 

Inevitably, Legolas’s diminished strength caused his balance to fail, 
and when Lanthir reared back to kick away two orcs before them, the 
prince fell from the horse‘s back, landing hard upon the ground. 
“Legolas!” he heard someone cry. 

Orcs screeched challenges all around, and Legolas staggered to his 
feet, drawing one of his knives and brandishing the sword in the 
other. Many of the other warriors were on the ground as well, and it 
was obvious that the company was making its last stand here. *By the 
Valar, they are all around us.* 

Just as Legolas was beginning to accept the inevitability of his 
death, an orc screamed in pain from somewhere behind him, and arrows 
began zipping by that were not orcish make. The prince swept his knife 
into the skull of another creature that nearly blundered into him as 
it fled. Looking past the orcs, Legolas cried out with relief--more 
than two dozen horses were approaching, their riders armed with bows 
upon their backs, firing a fierce volley of arrows into the orc army. 
Given new strength by this rescue, Legolas fought on, cleaving the 
heads off two more orcs with one of their own swords. Turning, he 
raised a hand to the approaching warriors of Lorien, and did not see a 
fleeing orc fire one last arrow at him.

“Ah!” the arrow slammed into Legolas’s shoulder, throwing him several 
steps back. Staggering, he forced himself to stay upright and keep his 
sword ready, in case more orcs lingered. But exhaustion, and now this 
wound were getting the better of him, and the world was beginning to 
spin.

The riders galloped around him and the other warriors of Imladris and 
Mirkwood, and Legolas thought with great relief, *We are safe. They 
will get us within their borders now…* Sword and knife slid forgotten 
from his hands. There was a tremendous roaring in his ears, and the 
world was closing in with a blackness darker than night. Legolas felt 
his legs giving way, and sank toward the ground. 

“Legolas!” someone dismounted near him. It was a feminine voice, and 
familiar, as Legolas felt someone catch him in their arms, easing him 
down. Forcing his last strength into focusing his eyes, the face of an 
elf warrioress swam into view over him, with the characteristic 
Mirkwood dark hair and unusual brown eyes wide with dismay. “Oh my 
brother!”

“Limloeth!” Legolas gasped with joy despite the pain, weariness, and 
worry for his comrades. He struggled with all his might to remain 
conscious. “It is you. Many of the others are also wounded, they need 
help--”

“Peace, lie still. I am here, my little brother. I am here. We saw 
your danger. All your company are being seen to.” The rest of 
Legolas‘s senses were failing him, but he felt his sister’s arms 
tightly around him, comforting him as she had when he was a child, 
despite the arrow in his shoulder. “Let go, Legolas. You and your 
party are safe. Rest now. I am with you.”

But Legolas knew, even in his muzzy state, that it had been a close 
call, and his mind did not wish to let him sleep until he knew the 
fate of his comrades. *There were so many orcs. There will have been 
more injuries, perhaps worse. I must know…* He could not sleep when 
they were not yet under the protection of Lorien.

*Legolas…*

Legolas gasped, hearing another familiar voice. But it was not spoken 
from anyone around him. Was it possible?! That the stories he had 
heard from friends who had traveled to Lorien were true?! Surely not. 
It must be his imagination, or his weary mind playing tricks on him. 
He struggled weakly against Limloeth‘s efforts to make him remain 
still, “Legolas? What is it? It is all right, just rest.”

Legolas tried to ask his sister again about the rest of his company, 
but his voice was failing him. Then in his mind came the other voice 
again, *Legolas. Your company is safe, and you are among friends. You 
shall be with us soon.*

Trembling with exhaustion, pain, and now joy, Legolas knew in his 
heart who was speaking to him. He could not have refused her if he had 
desired too, but the gentle, beautiful voice gave all the reassurance 
he needed. With a sigh of intense relief, Legolas sank back in his 
sister’s warm arms, closed his eyes, and let his body go limp. As 
consciousness and pain flowed out of him, like water from a broken 
vessel, he heard in his mind, *Rest, prince of Mirkwood. You are under 
our protection now.* 

***

Haldir of Lorien was greatly troubled. They had seen the peril of the 
war party riding towards the borders of Lorien, but had not mustered 
to ride to their aid until it dawned on the warriors that the company 
was in serious trouble. Haldir’s warriors had managed to chase the 
orcs off, with more effort than they would have expected, and the 
warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood had practically dropped on the spot 
once they were in the clear. 

*We arrived only in the nick of time,* the Lorien elf thought grimly, 
as the wounded warriors were born away and the rest rode into Lorien 
with Haldir’s people.

He took the company well within Lorien’s borders, not that such a 
thing was very necessary, since orcs had yet to challenge Galadriel’s 
realm, but the strength of Lorien would serve the exhausted elves 
better the further inside they were. Once the outside plains were out 
of sight, Haldir called a halt for the night. Many of the northern 
warriors were too exhausted or wounded to climb into the trees (*even 
the Mirkwood elves. That is unthinkable!*) so the group made camp upon 
the ground. 

Haldir took a mental count of the newcomers. The captains, Langcyll of 
Mirkwood and Glorfindel of Imladris, had managed to keep their feet 
and ride into Lorien, but once there, both had collapsed. Glorfindel 
had suffered a deep knife wound to the arm, and was under the care of 
a healer. Mirkwood’s Elunen, Fanfirith, and Glanaur were also badly 
hurt, along with both of the sons of Elrond of Imladris. Elladan had a 
day-old stab wound to the side, and Elrohir had been badly cut while 
defending him. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood had taken an arrow just 
below the collarbone. Most of the new arrivals now lay asleep--with 
their eyes closed.

One of Haldir’s warriors was the prince’s sister, Limloeth. Haldir 
walked up to where she was watching her brother being treated, “How is 
he?”

Rising, her eyes troubled, the princess of Mirkwood replied, “I hardly 
recognized him. He is terribly exhausted, and there are many recent 
minor wounds upon him, and the healing marks of old ones.” Looking 
grimly at Haldir, she said, “We nearly did not reach them in time.”

There was a slight rebuke in her voice that Haldir accepted; Limloeth 
had wanted to ride out at once to meet the company, but it was Haldir 
who had tarried. Nodding to her, he said quietly, “Stay here with 
Legolas. We will keep the watch.”

Gratefully nodding, Limloeth knelt down beside her sleeping brother 
and gently took his hand. His wounded shoulder had been bandaged, and 
she drew a blanket over him. “So much has happened,” she murmured. “It 
seems far longer than just two years.” She was not speaking to Haldir, 
so the warrior of Lorien left her to sit with Legolas, whose eyes were 
also closed.

Haldir’s brother Rumil joined him after assessing all the injuries. 
“It was very bad, Haldir. Six of the eleven from Imladris and Mirkwood 
sustained serious injuries, and those who did not have dropped from 
exhaustion. Three of our number were also wounded. The party we sent 
to pursue the orcs are returning.”

“No doubt they shall have more news of the orcs,” Haldir replied, as 
more horses rode up to them.

The captain of this group was Orthelian, one of the most renowned 
archers of Lorien. “Haldir,” Orthelian said with a worried frown. “The 
orcs attacked us almost as soon as we came beyond Lorien’s borders. We 
drove them back swiftly, but their boldness was unexpected.”

Haldir felt a great desire to curse. “Why is this happening?” he 
muttered, tense and worried. “How can this shadow be so strong that 
orcs would wear down an elven war party? How long before they try to 
enter the borders of Lorien?”

“Surely that would be impossible,” Orthelian murmured, the horror of 
such a thought coloring his voice.

With a sweeping gesture, Haldir indicated the wounded, exhausted 
warriors on the ground. “Until today, I would have thought this was 
impossible. Now I fear that nothing is.”

***

Haldir ordered his company and the party of Orthelian to remain where 
they were until Langcyll and Glorfindel’s warriors were sufficiently 
recovered. It took until the morning--two days later--for the eyes of 
all the elves to open again. Legolas was the last to open his eyes, 
and probably would have slept longer had he not been roused by 
Limloeth’s cry of excited relief.

“Where am I?”

Limloeth’s relief was so intense, her throat tightened. “You are in 
Lorien, my brother. Do you remember?”

Blinking, Legolas felt the bandages on his shoulder and looked up at 
the golden canopy above him, “Lorien.” He sighed and smiled at her. 
“How long have I slept?”

Dashing tears from her eyes, Limloeth grinned, “Nearly two full days. 
Ah-ah,” she caught him when he would have sat bolt upright, “easy, 
Legolas. Most of the others have only just awakened as well. And your 
eyes were closed until just a few minutes ago.”

She grimaced at her brother’s expression of alarm and doubt. He looked 
about him, seeing that she had spoken the truth; only a few of his 
company were actually on their feet. Legolas was definitely still 
weary, for after establishing that fact, he made no further effort to 
rise. With a sigh, he murmured, “How I have missed you, Lim.”

Limloeth smiled, stroking back his hair as she had when he was little. 
“So much has happened. I was frightened when I saw you.” And he still 
looked ill; shadows still remained beneath his eyes, and his skin was 
so pale that many bruises stood out in bold relief. She cupped her 
hand on his cheek, “I knew you would get into trouble.”

Legolas laughed weakly, “May I remind you, sister, that it was you who 
urged me so to join a war party?”

“I did not mean this one!” she exclaimed, and he chuckled again.

Many of the other warriors were moving now as well, and Legolas looked 
around. “May I get up now?” he asked, a pleading note in his voice.

Limloeth sighed, knowing her brother well despite the changes of two 
years. “I suppose if I said no you would simply try it when my back 
was turned. Very well. Slowly,” she cautioned him. “You are still weak 
from your wound, and even two days’ sleep cannot make up for the 
strain you were under. Take care.”

With a nod, Legolas slowly sat up and got carefully to his feet, 
accepting her hand to rise but able to stand on his own moments later. 
Haldir came over then, bowing. “Well met, Prince Legolas. You seem to 
be improving.”

Bowing in return, Legolas replied, “You have my thanks, Haldir of 
Lorien. I suspect our captains have already told you that we all owe 
you our lives.”

“Indeed they have,” Haldir said with a knowing smile. “And I have 
already reminded them and several others that there are no life debts 
among warriors--as you are well aware.” Legolas smiled back. Haldir 
went on, “In response to the question you are about to ask, there are 
no life-threatening injuries among your company, though you would all 
do well to remain in Lorien until your strength and spirit are 
revived.”

Legolas glanced in the direction of Langcyll, who was also standing 
but moving as though his ribs pained him. Glorfindel’s bandaged arm 
was in a sling. “I know not what my captains intended, but I do not 
doubt they will heed your advice.”

Another company of elves rode up just then, bearing the flag of 
Galadriel. Their leader conferred briefly with Haldir, who then spoke 
to Langcyll and Glorfindel. After several moments of discussion 
between them and several of the other members of Legolas’s company, 
Langcyll announced, “Those of us who can ride shall return to Caras 
Galadhon with the guard of Lady Galadriel. The rest of the company 
shall join them when you are able.”

The honor guard of Lorien elves moved aside to make room for those 
elves of the company who would be riding with them. Legolas felt a 
thrill of excitement at the prospect of seeing the city of Galadriel 
and Celeborn. He noticed Limloeth grinning at him and knew that it 
must be showing on his face. He was grateful to be able to ride.

However, as he found Lanthir, who to his relief had not been wounded, 
Legolas realized with dismay that few of his comrades were well enough 
yet. Faron was fortunately recovered enough from a knife wound to 
ride, as well as Nathron, Galithil, Langcyll, and Glorfindel, but 
Elladan, Elrohir, Elunen, Fanfirith, and Glanaur were still in serious 
condition. He and the others were preparing their horses when 
Glorfindel said to Langcyll, “Perhaps we should remain behind while 
the others recover. It is fitting for us as their captains to stay 
with our wounded.”

Legolas was not the only one dismayed by this; Faron and the others 
also protested. Langcyll and Glorfindel considered their wounded 
warriors and the healthy (or reasonably healthy) ones, then Langcyll 
decided, “Glorfindel is right. We shall remain behind,” he informed 
the honor guard.

Feeling a deep desire to see more of the Golden Wood, Legolas felt 
torn, for he also disliked the idea of riding away without more than 
half of the company. “Perhaps…” he said slowly, reluctantly, “we 
should all wait until we are all well enough to travel.”

Glorfindel grinned at Legolas, “Come, Legolas, surely you want to see 
Caras Galadhon now that the more pressing concerns are passed. We are 
all well.”

“But should we be separated thus?” Legolas asked doubtfully.

The two captains exchanged looks, then Glorfindel said something to 
Langcyll in a low voice, and Langcyll laughed in return. “Nay, go, 
Legolas,” he chuckled, waving his arm at the prince. “You have not 
seen Lorien before, and even the weeks that we shall be here will not 
grant time enough to satisfy any, so take advantage of your fitness. 
The rest of the company shall join the four of you in the city in a 
few days. Go, be off with you.”

*They know me far too well,* Legolas thought with more amusement than 
resentment, and mounted Lanthir. With a parting nod to the captains 
and the remaining warriors, he rode off with the guard.

***

The captains of the company watched their only four fit warriors ride 
away with the guard and warriors of Lorien. Langcyll chuckled, “You 
are right, Glorfindel, we could not deprive the young ones by delaying 
their first view of Caras Galadhon.”

The wood around them was more peaceful, if that were possible, now 
that many of the warriors had gone save those who were remaining with 
the wounded. Glorfindel smiled as he gazed about him, “Still, there is 
no reason why we cannot see a little of our nearer surroundings. If 
memory serves, the Nimrodel passes less than two miles south of where 
we are.”

“Your memory does serve,” Orophin, Haldir’s brother, told them. “Walk 
directly south and slightly inwards to the woods, and you shall find 
her.”

“Ah, my heart would be glad to hear Nimrodel again,” Langcyll sighed, 
feeling better already under Lorien’s canopy.

“Shall we take a short walk?” Glorfindel asked, gesturing in the 
direction Orophin had pointed them.

“I think our company will spare us. You will look after them, 
Orophin?” Langcyll asked.

“Rest assured. Go, let the voice of Nimrodel clear all worries from 
you,” the Lorien warrior said.

Glancing down at his still-wounded warriors, Langcyll sighed, 
frowning, “I fear until we are all recovered, such a thing would be 
beyond even Nimrodel’s power. But I shall try.” He followed Glorfindel 
into the wood.

Before long, they heard the musical flowing of the legendary river. 
Both captains had been about Middle Earth many thousands of years, and 
had seen and heard many wonders. But the sound of Nimrodel would never 
fail to strike awe into all who heard it, no matter how many times any 
elf passed through Lorien.

When Langcyll and Glorfindel reached the banks of Nimrodel, they 
walked along it for a ways, at times stooping to let the clear water 
flow over their hands or to bathe their faces. It seemed to Langcyll 
that if Nimrodel did not have the power to wash all troubles away, she 
at least made them easier to bear, for he felt stronger. He looked 
over at Glorfindel and saw the captain of Imladris staring at him with 
a very grave expression. “I hope that Nimrodel’s power does ease 
worries, for now a difficult conversation must be had, Langcyll.”

With a sigh, Langcyll nodded, turning to face his friend. “I fear you 
are right. We have taken some careless risks over this journey, and 
made assumptions that put the company in danger--”

Glorfindel interrupted him with a shake of his head, “That is not what 
I was referring to. Though truly, we did underestimate the degree to 
which the creatures of Mordor have multiplied, and the drought, but 
such things are inevitable hazards of war expeditions.”

“But we should have prepared better,” Langcyll said, grimacing at the 
memory of all the company had been through. “More caution might have 
avoided many of our number being wounded.”

The musical sound of Nimrodel beside them did little to ease the 
memories of those last brutal weeks of the journey for either captain. 
But Glorfindel went on, “You are one of the finest captains in Middle 
Earth, Langcyll. You would take too much upon yourself to anticipate 
every complication that might arise in a long journey such as this, in 
such uncertain times. Even Gil-Galad was not so perfect.”

Langcyll laughed. “Your faith in me is touching, warrior of Imladris. 
If not the mission, then, what troubles you?”

Glorfindel fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “I speak of Legolas.”

Stiffening, Langcyll felt himself harden inside, “We have had this 
conversation before, Glorfindel. I see no need to have it again.” 
Using all the authority and strength of his experience to harden his 
voice, he turned and began walking back along the riverbank, hoping to 
close the matter.

The reaction of Glorfindel caught him completely off-guard. “Langcyll, 
you are behaving like an idiot!” Langcyll turned in astonishment, and 
Glorfindel advanced, his blue-gray eyes flashing with frustration. 
“There was not time to say this when I first wished to back on the 
plains, so I will say it now. You have been a strong and wise captain 
for longer than I, warrior of Mirkwood, and I have never known you to 
lose your good sense until now.”

Shocked and defensively, Langcyll exclaimed, “Nay, it is you who have 
lost your good sense! You are exaggerating the situation to ridiculous 
proportions--”

“Exaggerating?! Affection for the youngest of your warriors is one 
thing, Langcyll, I have known it myself. But when you instigate a feud 
between a prince and a king, you have crossed the line.”

“What are you talking of?” Langcyll demanded furiously. “I instigated 
nothing; the ill-feelings between Legolas and his father existed long 
before he departed Mirkwood.”

“Indeed?” Glorfindel said with mock-incredulity. “From what I saw, 
Prince Legolas was closer to King Thranduil than any of his elder 
siblings.”

“You saw very little, Glorfindel, and even now, you do not know him.”

“And you do?”

“I was his master from the time he was sixty years old, so I think I 
may claim to know him well.”

“Better than his father, even?” Langcyll was about to snap that it was 
so, but saw Glorfindel’s aim, and instead pursed his lips. The 
Imladris Lord sighed, closing his eyes, “Perhaps you do know Legolas 
better than his father, my friend. But that does not give you the 
right to interfere with their affairs.”

“I was not interfering!” Langcyll snapped, angry now. “Legolas did not 
wish to speak to Thranduil.”

“And looking for an excuse to avoid the king. An excuse you were all 
too willing to supply him.”

“I did no--” Langcyll faltered. Glaring at Glorfindel, he said, “I 
would not permit anyone, even Thranduil, to trouble one of my 
warriors.” 

“Do not take me for a fool, Langcyll,” Glorfindel retorted. “You are 
either lying to me or deceiving yourself. It has been a long time 
since you thought of Legolas only as one of your warriors.” His eyes 
and tone softening, he said urgently, “You have gone from merely 
protective to possessive of him, kinsman, and you risk a feud with the 
king.”

In disbelief, Langcyll protested, “Thranduil would not dispute me for 
giving legitimate orders.”

“Nay, but he could see well enough that Legolas was avoiding him. I 
doubt even that he realized there was an ulterior motive to your 
actions, but that will only lead to his wrath descending upon Legolas 
when at last they meet again. See now what your ill-considered actions 
may lead to?” 

The solemn, quiet words struck the captain of Mirkwood with the force 
of an arrow hit. Glorfindel’s eyes were sad. “At first, I could not 
understand why a warrior so brave as Legolas could still harbor such 
fear of his father.”

Langcyll sighed, dropping his gaze. “In spite of all I know of them 
both, I know not the answer.” Looking up, he added, “But that is all 
the more reason to--”

“--All the more reason to stand aside and force Legolas to confront 
the king, just as a warrior must confront and overcome all his other 
fears! Had you been thinking rationally on the subject, you would have 
seen that. But you were not.” Shaking his head in despair, Glorfindel 
looked his fellow captain in the eye, “Interfering with the relations 
between father and son is foolish and out of place in any case, 
Langcyll. But when the father and son are the King and Prince of 
Mirkwood…it is a dangerous game you play. He is not your son, 
Langcyll. And even if he were, you cannot fight his battles for him. 
Remember how he came to be among your company in the first place?”

Langcyll turned away, feeling despair sweep over him, a black mockery 
of the sweet flow of Nimrodel. He wished he did not place such a value 
in rational thought, for then he might be able to evade the bitter 
truth of Glorfindel’s words. He looked at the clear, bubbling water. 
“Legolas confronted the king once. He shall find the strength to do it 
again.”

“No, Langcyll. You know as well as I that what passed between them was 
no confrontation. Legolas ran away.”

“I have done him more harm than good by allowing him to avoid the 
king. Now it has only worsened what must eventually pass between 
them.”

“Do not try to make up for it,” Glorfindel put a hand on Langcyll’s 
shoulder, “You cannot protect him any longer. You are only his 
captain. It is neither your place nor your right.” He paused, then 
sensed Langcyll’s acceptance. With a wry smile, he remarked, “The past 
nearly repeated itself. I wonder what it is that inspires such 
protectiveness toward Legolas among his elders.”

Without looking away from the water, Langcyll replied, “It was not 
always so. Early on, it was as you said, only an affection for my 
youngest warrior. But then Tathar perished so suddenly. Legolas 
mourned so that I was afraid…”

“As well you should have been; I have seen the power of grief. And you 
served him well then. But now that danger is over, and you must return 
to being only his captain and friend.”

Langcyll sighed, “He was born into a time filled with shadow. When he 
was a child, his mother. Then his dearest friend only a few months 
ago. Fate has been cruel to him.”

“Fate is cruel to all born into such times, my friend, but we both 
know they’ve no choice in the matter. Legolas must face darkness on 
his own just as surely as we did when shadows last threatened our 
world. And we will again. All of us. I believe, and I think you’ll 
agree, that Legolas was born for a great destiny, for fate does not 
grant so many gifts by accident. We shall not serve him well by 
holding him back.”

Langcyll shook his head and laughed ruefully. “You have the advantage 
of me, Glorfindel of Imladris.”

“Then we are agreed?”

“We are. I will not step outside the bounds of my duty as captain 
again. You have my word,” Langcyll grinned. “And the victory of the 
argument.”

Glorfindel laughed in turn, clapping his friend on the shoulder, “Of 
course, my friend, what would you expect the outcome of an argument 
between Imladris and Mirkwood to be?”

“Hah. Words are right and good, Imladris, but must I remind you that 
we are warriors? And that a certain young warrior of whom we were just 
speaking is unequaled by any warrior that your forces have managed to 
put up?”

“That was two years ago.”

“Shall we bid him and Faron have a contest now? Whom do you suppose 
would be the winner?”

“Faron, of course.”

“Now who is deceiving himself?” 

***

“I cannot decide if you have changed completely or not at all,” 
Limloeth remarked, pulling her mount up beside Legolas.

The prince of Mirkwood regarded his sister thoughtfully. “I know not 
for myself, but I think you have changed very little. So,” Legolas 
smiled slyly. “Why now do you wear Lorien colors?”

Limloeth blushed and grinned, looking at the warrior escorts ahead of 
them. As if sensing her gaze, one of them turned his head and guided 
his horse back to them. “I have not yet made a proper greeting to you, 
Legolas of Mirkwood.”

With a broader smile, Legolas replied, “I do not think you need be 
formal with me…brother.”

Orthelian of Lorien grinned first at Legolas, then at his wife, 
Limloeth. “My lady and I were very sorry that you had not yet reached 
Lorien when we were ready to wed. We both desired your presence.”

“Ah, I am sorry I was not there,” Legolas answered sadly. “But all the 
same, you know my heart was with you both. And now you have my 
felicitations in person at last, though we nearly did not live to see 
Lorien.”

As the horses continued beneath the golden trees, Limloeth shuddered. 
“There have been times, brother, when the world seemed so dark and 
dismal that I have been certain you were lost. With every message from 
the war parties, I felt my heart shake with terror.”

Legolas reached out and gripped his sister’s hand, “Be not distressed, 
Lim. I am here now, and alive, more or less,” he grinned. “And now is 
a time for happy news. Tell me, there must be some from Mirkwood.”

The company rode deeper into Lorien as Limloeth regaled Legolas with 
all that she could think of since his departure. “I do not know what 
tidings you have had of Father since you left.”

“Enough.”

“Well, then I shall spare you the ill news of the past three years,” 
Limloeth grimaced, and Legolas had no doubt as to her reason for 
choosing to reside in Lorien with her new husband rather than in 
Mirkwood. But surely there had to be some good news. In her typical 
mischievous fashion, Limloeth drawled, “I’m sure you shall be 
devastated to hear that Eregolf elected to leave Lorien and become 
Crown Prince of Eryn Vorn. You shall not have the joy of his and 
Princess Lalven’s company during your stay here.”

“Ai! My heart bleeds at the deprivation!”

They both laughed, and Limloeth went on. “Belhador has started his 
last century of healer training, and Eirien has attained her mastery. 
Oh, and…the last message from Mirkwood came only yesterday…announcing 
that the Crown Princess is with child.”

The other warriors listening around them gasped and exclaimed at this 
happy news, and Legolas shouted in delight. “Eirien?! And Berensul?! 
When?”

“The baby is expected in the spring.”

“Aah!” Legolas laughed aloud, gazing up at the birds flitting among 
the branches. “I suppose if we started now, we might reach home by 
then.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Berensul and Eirien. It does not 
seem possible.”

“Whyever not?” Galithil laughed from behind him. “They have been 
married for twelve hundred years!”

“I suppose,” Legolas answered, still amazed. “It seems simply shocking 
to think of my brother as a father.”

“Compared to our parents, they waited for quite a long time,” Limloeth 
reminded him. Legolas winced involuntarily at the reference to 
Thranduil. He wondered if Limloeth knew what had happened on the 
plains, and forced himself to look at her face. She did not know, but 
her perceptive eyes saw at once that all was not well with him. 

***

Legolas had always considered his father’s palace (the outer part, 
anyway) to be a grand and beautiful creation, but its beauty paled to 
him now that he beheld Caras Galadhon, the City of Trees. Great 
tree-stairs wound high into golden branches, and as the sun had set 
once again, silver lamps adorned all the trees and flets with clear, 
bluish-white light. The pavilions and stairs were more open than those 
in Mirkwood, and Legolas could clearly see the elves who lived in the 
dwellings in this city, many gazing down at the newcomers with curious 
but friendly eyes. 

The riders and guard dismounted, and Legolas heard the sweet winding 
of a horn announcing their arrival. Before them was the greatest tree 
Legolas had seen yet. It was not the largest tree the prince of 
Mirkwood had ever beheld, but its smooth gray bole was perfect and 
flawless, its graceful higher branches feathered with golden leaves, 
and for this, Legolas pronounced it the most beautiful tree in Middle 
Earth. 

Haldir turned to the warriors of Mirkwood and Imladris, “Here dwell 
Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. You are to follow me, for they wish 
to see you all.”

The remaining warriors of Lorien, including Limloeth and Orthelian, 
took their leave of Legolas, Galithil, Faron, and Nathron, with the 
promise of seeing them later. Many years in his father’s court had 
taught Legolas the courtesies of meeting any elven noble, but on this 
occasion, he found he was as tense as a callow youth at his first 
coming of age. Nonetheless, he was also filled with curiosity and 
eagerness to behold Lady Galadriel again, so he followed Haldir up the 
stairs.

It was not a hard climb for wood elves, though Legolas and the others 
did find they were still weary from the struggle of the past weeks. 
But before long, Haldir led them onto the great talan on which stood 
the dwelling of Celeborn and Galadriel. It seemed a great, open 
pavilion, with pale curtains pulled back that might be drawn down to 
enclose it at will. The four were brought into the pavilion, and found 
Celeborn and Galadriel, standing with all the power and splendor that 
Legolas remembered, awaiting them.

“Welcome, warriors of Mirkwood and Imladris,” said Lord Celeborn. 

Nathron, the ranking warrior in the group, stepped forward and bowed 
to them both, then the other three bowed. Haldir spoke, “Seven of 
their company remained too wounded to travel, my lord. They shall join 
these as soon as they are able.”

The dazzling, penetrating eyes of Galadriel gazed upon each of the 
four in turn, and Legolas felt his heart skip just as it had when she 
looked at him during the Trial three years before. Lowering her eyes, 
she said, “It grieves me to know how the danger to our kindred has 
grown without their borders in such short time. The shadow under 
threat grows and menaces free people still more.”

Celeborn nodded gravely. “Much blood has been spilt, and the lives of 
many of our kindred lost.”

Legolas felt a stab of inner pain, as he always did on hearing the 
mention of death. But then Galadriel’s words troubled him still more. 
“Many more shall be lost, before this shadow is dispelled. A great 
many changes shall soon come upon the world, and the lives of 
countless thousands will soon rest upon the courage of a few. A time 
of great sorrow, fear, and doubt dawns soon, when the future of us all 
shall hang in the balance.” Her gaze briefly touched Legolas again.

His attention was restored to their words when Celeborn said, “But now 
time must be taken for all your company to be restored. When all have 
arrived here, we shall speak again. Then when all are ready, the 
warriors of Lorien shall join the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood, 
and you shall ride against the shadow once again. For hope remains, 
that our realms and the surrounding lands may be protected from the 
plague of shadow.”

Galadriel nodded. “You shall remain here in Caras Galadhon, and rest 
until all your company have recovered their health and strength. Go 
now, and sleep in peace tonight.”

Even as she spoke, Legolas saw her eyes move to rest upon him, and in 
his mind, he heard, *Welcome, Prince of Mirkwood. Much darkness you 
have seen since your coming of age, but your battle has not yet 
begun…*

***

Limloeth and Orthelian were waiting for Legolas when he and the others 
returned to the ground. Orthelian said, “If it please you, brother 
Legolas, come and sleep in our dwelling. We‘ve much to talk about.”

“I…” Legolas paused, glancing at his comrades, but it was Galithil who 
waved at him dismissively.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Legolas, go. You’ve not seen your sister in three 
years; none of us would begrudge you this time,” she told him with a 
snort at his hesitation.

It took little convincing. Legolas grinned at them, “Very well. Will I 
see all of you tomorrow?”

Haldir stepped forward, “We’ve rooms and beds for all your company, 
there above the brook.”

“Beds? I seem to recall sleeping in one of those once, a VERY long 
time ago,” Faron remarked, and the friends laughed.

Smiling slightly, Haldir went on, “Lady Limloeth’s dwelling is only a 
few trees apart. Go with your kin, and the rest, let us away.”

Waving merrily at each other, Legolas and his company separated, and 
he walked with Limloeth and Orthelian up to where they had made their 
home. Midway up the trunk of the silver tree was a handsome dwelling 
fitting for an elf princess or a warrior captain. Legolas followed 
Limloeth inside, and Orthelian drew closed the white curtains and thin 
panels of silver wood to make the open-walled structure more like a 
human house.

“Are you happy here, Lim?” he asked his sister without thinking.

The light in Limloeth’s eyes was all the answer he needed. She smiled 
broadly and grasped both of his hands. “I am, brother. Look around, 
would you not be?”

Legolas pulled back the panel and curtain from one wall and gazed out 
at the shimmering beauty of Lothlorien. He sighed. *Of course, she is 
happy. Who would not be happy to live in this place all their life, 
especially after Mirkwood. How is it that the spiders and foul 
creatures of Mordor have penetrated so deeply into our realm, but the 
realm of Galadriel remains stainless and secure? Is she so much more 
powerful than my father. Ah, that is a ridiculous question, for I know 
the answer.* He felt a pang of some unpleasant emotions as these 
thoughts inevitably brought King Thranduil into his mind again.

Walking up to look out into the woods next to him, Limloeth asked 
softly, “What troubles you, Legolas?”

There was a long silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind in 
the leaves. Legolas both desired and feared telling her of his 
encounter with their father on the plains, but found neither possible 
because his ability to speak seemed to have vanished. But Limloeth did 
not desist, so he forced his voice to say, “I have seen our father.”

The lady of Mirkwood and Lorien turned away from the woods and stared 
at him, her brown eyes wide. “When?” she whispered.

“Six weeks ago,” Legolas murmured. 

He still could not meet her eyes, but heard her intake of breath. 
“What happened?” 

Taking a deep breath, Legolas faced her and said tonelessly, “We saw 
his company attacked on the plains below the mountains and rode 
against the orcs. I…there were injuries to both companies and there 
was little time to speak.” Seeing her expression, he admitted, “I did 
not want to speak to him.”

Limloeth nodded, and there was no accusation in her, for him or for 
their father. “You heard of the events in Mirkwood and Lonely Mountain 
the year after you left?”

“Yes.”

The hesitant way Limloeth eyed him told Legolas that she knew more of 
those events, but was reluctant to tell him. He raised his eyebrows at 
her, and she said quietly, “I think it would have been better for us 
all if he had erupted after you left. But he did not. Angry though I 
am, I pity our father as well, Legolas.” She looked at his face and 
sighed, “You were the last, and he knew you would have to go, but 
still he refused to see it. After Mother died, with the rest of us 
grown, you were all he had left of her, at least in his mind.”

Silence grew heavy between them. At last, Legolas told her, “When I 
came of age…and wanted to join the war parties, he said he would not 
lose me as well.”

He had to look away then, and felt her hand on his shoulder. “None of 
what happened in Mirkwood is your fault, Legolas. Nothing that 
happened to him and nothing that he did. You had a right to determine 
your own destiny, as much as anyone can, in any case.”

“Lim…what did he say? When he learned I had gone?”

It was Limloeth’s turn to look away, and she stared out into the 
forest again. “Nothing. It was not spite, brother. He could not speak 
of you at all for months, and then only in passing. His heart was 
broken as though you had died.”

Legolas flinched involuntarily, and Limloeth looked at him. In a voice 
barely above a whisper, she said, “I had just returned to Lorien with 
Orthelian after we wed when word came of Tathar.” Legolas cringed 
harder, still feeling physical pain at the mention of it. But his 
sister could speak to him of things that others could not. Gripping 
his shoulders tightly, Limloeth said, “How I wept, Legolas, as much 
for you as for him. And I was afraid for you.”

Swallowing hard--several times--Legolas got enough of his voice back 
to say, “I survived. I owed it to him to carry on.”

“And Father will survive. For you are not dead, and whatever passed 
between you--or did not pass--he will realize that in time. And he 
will be grateful. I know that much.”

***

Legolas, as astonished as Faron at the shock of having a bed again, 
fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down, and slept deeply, leaving 
the wall across from him open so he might see the forest when he 
awoke. It was very late, and the moon directly overhead, when 
something woke him prematurely. Legolas raised his head from the 
pillow and looked out into the dark woods in confusion. As he saw a 
light approaching from the nearby trees, his heart all but stopped.

It was Galadriel, walking across the branches with all the ease of a 
human strolling along a path. She needed no reaching or jumping to 
reach the next ones, for they bent and moved to allow her an easy path 
to walk. Legolas stared, amazed. It was not entirely unheard of, all 
living things were friends of the elves, and trees always favored the 
passage of the wood-elves especially. Legolas himself was often aware 
of branches moving slightly beneath him to ease his passage. But for 
them to move thus…Galadriel’s power was astonishing.

At first, the Lady seemed to simply be walking among the trees, gazing 
into the forest. Her flowing golden hair and shimmering white gown 
caught on none of the branches or leaves as she walked effortlessly 
from limb to limb, seemingly deep in thought. 

All at once--just as Legolas felt his heart returning to its normal 
rate--she raised her eyes to meet his. Legolas blinked, and Galadriel 
beckoned to him. He rose swiftly and though the trees did not reach 
out for him as they did for her, he had little trouble meeting her on 
the tree between them, and followed her to the ground. She led him 
down the hill of Caras Galadhon, down a long flight of stone steps to 
an enclosed garden, in a gap in the trees that opened to the stars and 
sky above. Legolas beheld a rippling stream that flowed down into a 
green hollow at the base of a tree, and a low pedestal, which held a 
shallow, wide silver basin with a silver ewer beside it. His breath 
caught. 

Galadriel stopped beside the pedestal, and turned to face him. “You 
know what this is?” she asked him softly.

“I have heard tales of the Mirror of Galadriel,” Legolas murmured, 
awestruck. “But I know not why I would be deserving to see this 
place.”

“And will you look into the Mirror?” she asked. Legolas hesitated, his 
mind racing with all the rumors he had heard: some intriguing, some 
frightening. “Are you afraid?”

Forcing himself to look at her face, Legolas said, “I know not what it 
shows.”

Lifting the ewer and carrying it to the base of the stream, Galadriel 
smiled. “The Mirror shows many things, young prince of Mirkwood. 
Things that were, things that are, and things that yet may be. Many 
things I can command the Mirror to reveal, but tonight I shall leave 
it free to work. What you will see, I cannot tell.” Filling the ewer 
and carrying it back to the Mirror, she poured the water into the 
basin until it was full to the brim. “Do you wish to look?”

Swallowing hard, Legolas nodded, and Galadriel stepped back, beckoning 
him forward. The prince walked up to the pedestal and stared at the 
moon and stars reflected in the water. Suddenly, the Mirror grew gray, 
then clear, and Legolas saw a face reflected in it, that for a moment, 
seemed to be his own. But it was not; it was a fair-haired elf lady, 
wearing the crown of Mirkwood. “Mother!” Legolas whispered.

Queen Minuial looked just as Legolas remembered her. His mother seemed 
to be looking at something beyond Legolas’s sight, and as he watched, 
her face was suddenly illuminated by threatening red light, like the 
light of a blazing fire, and horror filled her beautiful features. 
Legolas gasped aloud as she raised her hands to ward off the heat, 
then the light faded, and he was watching a great landslide of rocks 
sweeping down a mountain onto a group of elven warriors on horseback. 
Galadriel closed her eyes as Legolas choked back a sob of anguish.

The light faded again, and in the Mirror appeared dark woods that 
Legolas immediately recognized as Mirkwood, fraught with darkness and 
lurking with evil beasts. Many swift scenes followed, none so 
horrifying as the first two, but confusing. Legolas saw his father, in 
one of the outer halls of his palace, wearing some unreadable and 
rather foreboding expression, advancing forward in a menacing manner. 
Then nine riders, cloaked in black upon black mounts, sweeping along a 
dark road with an air of menace and dread about them. A green, hilled 
landscape covered with grass that rippled peacefully in the breeze. 
Small figures, dwarves or perhaps hobbits, moving with the frightened 
stealth of ones hunted. A towering white fortress. Men in arms riding 
into battle with orcs. A great mountain spewing fire, and armies of 
foul creatures pouring across free lands, chasing fleeing people. 
Fleeting images of faces, of folk many races, but none that he 
recognized. A horse, riding fast with two riders, one tall and another 
short behind, silhouetted against the sun. Darkness, smoke, fire, 
blood, death. And then a great structure, half-built, that was not yet 
complete but did not resemble any building Legolas had ever seen. It 
appeared to be a ship.

Then at last the Mirror went dark again, and the moon and stars 
returned. With a great gasp, Legolas realized that he had been holding 
his breath. Stepping back from the Mirror, feeling distinctly weak, he 
asked, “Why did you show me this? I understood none of it.”

“Nay, and you shall not, for a time,” the Lady Galadriel told him. 
“Many things must first come to pass, before the things you saw. And 
you yourself must find a way to bring it about.”

In disbelief, Legolas whispered, “But what the Mirror 
showed…destruction. Why must it be brought about?”

“The darkness comes, Legolas of Mirkwood, whether we fight it or no,” 
said Galadriel. “But of all of us, you alone may be able to defeat 
it.”

The idea seemed unthinkable, and Legolas could only stare at the Lady. 
*I am not the best of the elven warriors, and certainly I am no great 
captain or leader. I am but the youngest son of a flawed king. How 
could I…*

In his mind, Galadriel answered him. *The fate of all of Middle Earth 
shall be bound to the strength of a few. And the failure of the few 
will lead to the destruction of all.*

“You speak in riddles, Lady,” Legolas said aloud, feeling more lost 
than ever.

The faint curve of a smile came to Galadriel’s lips. “Before it has 
come to pass, Legolas, the future in itself is a riddle. But you must 
serve your part in it, or all will fail, just as a chain fails when 
but one link is broken. You must find your way, for many quests that 
lie ahead of you…but you must first face your deepest, and closest 
fear.”

Legolas stared at her. The Lady’s eyes pierced his heart, and she 
said, “You know of what I speak, young prince. There must be a peace 
between you, or all will be lost. For you…and everyone.”

“I do not understand.”

Galadriel walked closer to him and gazed into his eyes. “You bear the 
burden of a great destiny, Legolas. Your fate is bound to the fate of 
Middle Earth, and if you do not endure, all will be destroyed.” She 
smiled then, “Courage comes in many forms, elf warrior. As long as 
your hope survives, you shall find the strength. For all of your 
battles.”

***** ----------------------------------------------------------- 
IMPORTANT QUESTION from one author to other 
authors/readers/reviewers/critics/flamers at the end of this chapter. 
It concerns a story idea I’ve come up with. Please respond to it in 
your reviews, and speaking of which… Don’t forget to review! I love 
you guys! And for all you gals who love the character of Legolas but 
equally love those elvish good looks portrayed by Orlando Bloom 
(heehee!) oh, you are gonna LOVE this chapter! Legolas takes a swim 
(as a rule for squeamish authors, I never write anything explicit, but 
there’s room for your imaginations to run wild!) Enjoy! 
-----------------------------------------------------------





Chapter Fifteen: Shadows in the Golden Wood





Rumil of Lorien was standing watch on the borders of the forest just 
before dawn, when his keen elven eyes spotted movement atop a far 
ridge. Many dark figures were stealthily creeping through the hills, 
watching the edge of the woods, but coming no closer. “Orcs,” Rumil 
murmured. 

*How very strange,* he thought. Orcs were not renowned for their 
intelligence or common sense, and they had a tendency to attack in the 
exact same manner over and over again, making it easy for the elves to 
defeat them. When they spotted a foe, they also tended to attack 
straightaway, without waiting for reinforcements or bothering to hatch 
a plan. So it struck Rumil as quite odd that the dark beasts he could 
see in the distance were simply observing the watchers in the forest. 
*I hope for the sake of us all that these foul creatures have not 
developed any sort of battle sense, or we shall all face new 
troubles.*

But the first rays of the sun prevented him from further observing 
this odd behavior, for with a shriek that Rumil heard only faintly in 
the distance, the creatures vanished. Rumil frowned to himself, 
puzzling over this new development, and looked at the sky. In another 
hour, he would be relieved, and he planned to take this strange 
observation to Haldir’s attention at once. 

***

Faron, Galithil, and Nathron were breaking their fast with several 
warriors of Lorien when Legolas arrived with Limloeth and Orthelian. 
“We had begun to wonder if you were going to sleep all day,” Galithil 
remarked.

One of the Lorien warriors gestured for Legolas to be seated, and only 
after settling next to Haldir did he reply, “We have not had such 
leisure for some time, and I for one intend to enjoy it.”

“Pay her no heed, Legolas, she only arrived a minute before you did,” 
said Nathron, shooting a wicked grin at Galithil, who glared at him in 
turn.

Faron grinned at them both, and winked at Legolas, who grinned back. 
Seated beside the Galadhrim, fair-haired Legolas looked still more 
like he belonged in Lorien rather than Mirkwood. Limloeth seated 
herself next to her brother, “Has Lord Celeborn made any indication of 
Lorien’s plan for joining Mirkwood and Imladris in arms?”

Taking a slice of bread, Haldir replied, “Nay, with Langcyll and 
Glorfindel still at the camp, Lord Celeborn has not yet heard their 
report. He will wait at least until then to decide how to act.”

Orthelian paused from eating and looked at the four visiting warriors. 
“Are the mountains as bad as we have heard?”

The talk around the table ceased as the warriors of Lorien waited for 
an answer. Nathron slowly nodded. “The scourge of Sauron seems to have 
infected all Middle Earth. Orcs and wargs around every bend. It began 
as little more than a curiously large number, but for the past six 
weeks, we’d been embattled from dusk to dawn every night.”

Several of the Lorien warriors looked grave, and Limloeth shuddered. 
Just then, the elves heard the sound of a lone horse approaching. 
Haldir rose, and all the other warriors turned to look; it was Rumil. 
“We must speak, Haldir.”

“There has been trouble?” asked Legolas.

“Perhaps. You shall hear of it soon, but now I must speak with my 
brother.” Haldir left the table and walked into the trees with Rumil. 

“Rumil was on border watch this morning,” murmured Orthelian. “He was 
to be relieved an hour past dawn.”

Faron frowned, and turning back to the table, saw Legolas had stopped 
with a piece of fruit halfway to his mouth. The prince of Mirkwood 
looked ill. “Legolas?” Faron asked.

Legolas blinked. “What?”

“You looked troubled.”

With a little shake of his head, Faron’s friend answered, “Nay, it is 
nothing. I am merely tired.”

It was not an outright lie; Faron too felt the lingering ache of 
fatigue in his body and bones, but he had known Legolas too long to 
think that mere weariness was all that ailed him. But there was no 
point in persisting if Legolas chose not to be explicit, so he 
shrugged it off and continued eating. He did not notice Limloeth 
giving a surreptitious sideways glance at her youngest brother from 
the corner of her eyes. If he had, he would have realized that the 
princess of Mirkwood too saw through Legolas’s casual reply. And that 
she perhaps knew better than Faron what was troubling the prince.

***

“And they were merely watching?” Haldir asked incredulously, his brow 
furrowed with concern.

His brother Rumil nodded. “Only for a few moments just before the dawn 
did they reveal themselves to me. But since the beginning of my watch, 
I felt that I was being observed. I believed at first that it was 
merely a warg or some solitary beast who feared coming closer, but now 
I suspect they watched us all night.”

The Lorien archer felt deeply disturbed. “What is happening here?” 
Neither he nor his brother could come up with a satisfactory answer, 
and at last Haldir said, “I will report this to Lord Celeborn.”

“What will he say, do you think?” asked Rumil.

“I do not know. Speak nothing of this for now,” Haldir told his 
brother. “Let us grant our guests some respite from the shadow.”

When Haldir went before Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, he knew that 
his brother’s report troubled them. Though both looked as serene as 
ever, many centuries in their service had taught Haldir to read the 
small, nearly indiscernible signs of vexation. For Celeborn, it was 
the faintest furrowing of the brows, and Galadriel’s dazzling eyes 
seemed to dim slightly, betraying their unease. “Now the shadow 
encroaches our realm,” Galadriel murmured at length, her eyes 
downcast.

“Its power grows strong, but it cannot yet threaten us,” Celeborn said 
to her. It seemed to Haldir that Celeborn was trying to reassure 
Galadriel, which was odd, because it was she who normally spoke of 
hope. Now Galadriel seemed the one disheartened.

Returning her attention to Haldir, Galadriel said, “We must be ever on 
our guard, Haldir. Caution your watchers never to relax their 
vigilance.”

Haldir bowed deeply to her. “It shall be so, my lady.” Receiving their 
nods of dismissal, he departed, wishing he could now and then come 
before his Lord and Lady bearing something other than ill tidings. It 
seemed there had been nothing but ill news to report for the past 
three hundred years, and Haldir tired of it already. It grieved him 
deep in his heart to see Galadriel’s eyes darken with sorrow so often. 

*The only comfort I can seem to offer her is the unflinching 
dedication of my warriors and myself,* he thought as he returned to 
the ground of the forest. *These days it seems not enough. Would that 
I had more power to dispel this shadow.* 

***

The Lady Galadriel walked to the wide window of her dwelling after 
Haldir had gone, staring down to the forest floor. Through the gaps in 
the trees, she could just see the warriors breakfasting in the open 
beneath the golden canopy. None of them noticed her gaze, save one. 
Prince Legolas happened to glance up, and his eyes inadvertently met 
hers. The young elf did not move, but stared at Galadriel with 
combined curiosity and awe until she moved from the window. She 
stepped back at last so that she could no longer see his face. *So 
very young to bear such weight. Were he and all his generation born 
only to see the world come to darkness? It is a cruel destiny, to be 
one of a few upon whom the fate of us all shall rest. Even the Mirror 
gave him no comprehension of what the future holds for him.*

Celeborn, standing just as he had been since Haldir had left, watched 
his wife, sensing her troubled thoughts. “The Enemy’s power grows,” he 
said quietly.

“It does,” said Galadriel, looking again out the window. 

“You have sensed it?”

She nodded grimly. “He is seeking it, my love. I perceive him and his 
mind, more with each passing day. Ever he gropes to see me and my 
thought. For now, at least, our power shall repel him. But if the 
Enemy should find what he seeks…”

“He shall not, my love. All our power shall be bent to prevent it. The 
realms of the elves and Middle Earth shall not fall to him again,” 
Celeborn said, walking to her side and taking her hand. He did not go 
to the window, but knew of whom Galadriel had been reflecting. “You 
spoke to the son of Thranduil last night.” It was not a question.

“I did,” she answered, her own heart troubled by the darkness the 
prince had seen. “Even that which the Mirror showed to him shall not 
be warning enough for the darkness he will face.”

“It cannot be avoided,” Celeborn told her. “Many will face great fear, 
sorrow, and death before the end, but only through sacrifice will 
Middle Earth be rid of evil. His shall be no different.”

“Nay,” Galadriel said softly. “A few will face far more than most, and 
give far more. All the realms and races of Middle Earth are imperiled 
by the shadow, and a very few from each race shall find themselves at 
the center of the quest to destroy it.” She turned to face her 
husband, feeling a sense of dread as though she were pronouncing a 
death sentence. “Fate has chosen Legolas of Mirkwood to stand for all 
the elves of Middle Earth, when the time calls all races together to 
combat the forces of darkness.”

Celeborn bowed his head, understanding now the particular interest 
Galadriel had had in the prince since his arrival. Celeborn had not 
the power of Galadriel, but his perception was greater than other 
elves. “There has always been little point in arguing with destiny. We 
shall all face struggle and woe before our time is done.”

Another premonition pricked Galadriel’s mind, and the Lady of Lorien 
turned her face toward the western border. Her eyes distant and 
seeing, Galadriel whispered, “The struggle shall began sooner than we 
realized.” 

***

Several days later…

Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel rode into Caras Galadhon to be 
greeted by the cheers of their fellow warriors and the elves of 
Lorien. The sons of Elrond, nearly fully-recovered from their 
respective wounds, dismounted their horses and made a great show of 
scraping and bowing graciously to the assembled elves, as Glorfindel 
laughed at them. Faron led the charge of warriors to clasp arms with 
his kinsmen. “We were beginning to think you two would never mend.”

Clapping the youngest Imladris warrior on the back, Elladan replied 
quickly, “It took Elrohir some time to recover.” Then he had to duck 
to avoid being clouted and the others laughed. 

The elves of Mirkwood joined them along with the warriors of Lorien. 
“Langcyll and the others did not come with you?” asked Legolas, 
looking about.

“Nay, Elunen is still recovering from her injuries,” Glorfindel told 
him. “But I do not expect they will be more than a day or two behind 
us.” Reading the prince’s expression, the captain of Imladris thought, 
*The separation will do you good as well, young Legolas. I am glad to 
have extracted that promise from Langcyll when I did. Time for you to 
stand on your own two feet.*

Glorfindel turned his attention to Haldir as the warrior captain of 
Lorien approached. “I am glad to see you, Glorfindel. You think it 
will not be long before Langcyll joins us?”

“Nay,” Glorfindel replied. “All of his company save Elunen are now fit 
to travel, but they chose to wait until she was well. She will most 
likely be able to ride tomorrow.”

Haldir nodded. “Then in the mean time, Lord Celeborn and Lady 
Galadriel wished to see you as soon as you and the sons of Elrond 
arrived.”

“Lead on, then. Come, boys,” Glorfindel ordered Elladan and Elrohir, 
who had been about to begin astonishing several maids of Lorien with 
tales of their adventures.

With apologetic waves and promises to return, the sons of Elrond 
followed Glorfindel and Haldir to the dwelling of Galadriel.

***

Legolas felt somewhat guilty for leaving the others, but there was a 
place he had desired to go ever since his arrival, and he felt he 
could wait no longer. Shortly after Glorfindel and the twins returned 
from giving their report to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, the 
attention of everyone was focused enough upon them that Legolas was 
able to slip away without being noticed. Being among so many 
fair-haired elves, Legolas had noted how much less attention was paid 
to him (and relished every moment of it.) In this instance, none paid 
any heed to another fair head disappearing into the trees as the sun 
went down.

A few days before, Limloeth had told Legolas how to reach the Nimrodel 
from Caras Galadhon. Several of his friends from Lorien had offered to 
show Legolas, but the prince felt a strange desire to go alone. The 
truth was, he had yearned for a chance to be alone with his thoughts 
ever since that first night in Caras Galadhon, when he had looked into 
Galadriel’s Mirror.

Riding through the darkening wood on Lanthir’s back, Legolas pondered 
what he had seen, and the Lady’s words. *I have done nothing but 
ponder it all since then, and can make no more sense of it than I 
could when I first saw it.*

The eyes of Lanthir were as keen as his rider’s in the dark, and the 
elven horse too seemed to have an instinctive awareness of their 
destination. Legolas hardly needed to guide him, and it was not long 
before elf and horse heard the musical flowing of Nimrodel ahead of 
them. Legolas dismounted and turned Lanthir loose, electing to walk 
the last few paces to the riverbank. 

There was no moon, but starlight danced across the water’s rippling, 
foaming surface. Breathing deeply in the misty night air, Legolas 
walked slowly along the edge, enjoying the song of river and forest. 
He did not bother to keep track of either the distance or the time 
that passed, and felt no qualm about it. He could not remember the 
time he had felt so at peace.

Following a bend in the river, Legolas found a place where the stream 
slowed and grew deeper, and the trees hung gracefully over it, letting 
their longest branches brush its bubbling surface. Shedding his tunic 
and shoes, the prince climbed upon a rock and dove in, plunging deep 
before coming again to the surface. The water was cold, but its touch 
was clean, and soon Legolas felt that the stain of battle and fatigue 
of travel was being washed from him. 

Thus he swam for some time, as long as the river remained deep enough 
to permit it, sometimes diving down to its bed, startling the fish, 
and other times paddling and floating along the surface, listening to 
the sweet voice of Nimrodel. At last, he felt the current speeding up 
as he approached the falls and climbed out of the water, shaking his 
head, and feeling as though he had taken a long, luxurious rest, 
rather than a vigorous swim. As he looked back up the bank the way he 
had come, the only question in his mind was whether to walk back to 
where he had left his clothes or to swim back upstream. 

*I have not swum against current in years,* he thought idly, tossing a 
stone into the water. *Still, my wound is healed and I am fit; it has 
been long since I enjoyed a good swim.*

With that thought, he walked into the water again and began paddling 
back upriver. Diving down again and holding his breath, Legolas opened 
his eyes and gazed at the riverbed below him. No clogging scum or 
grime coated the bed of Nimrodel; the riverbed was lined with pebbles, 
shells, and gracefully waving plants, populated by fish, probably 
marveling at their good luck to live in such a place. Few predators 
fished here--other than the elves, that is, and they took no more fish 
than they needed. 

As Legolas bobbed back down after filling his lungs again, a glimmer 
beneath him caught his eye. Diving closer to the bottom, he discovered 
a softly-gleaming object in the shallow part of the riverbed, 
uncovered by sand. It was a pearl. A round, white pearl, nestled 
against the base of a green kelp. Legolas picked it up and popped to 
the surface, standing and letting the river flow around him. Rolling 
the pure white gem with his fingertips, his perplexity soon melted, 
and a smile came to his lips. He plunged back under the water and 
returned the pearl to the base of the plant where he had found it, 
then swam on. *How I wish you were here to see this place, Tathar.*

Legolas swam along the surface then, until he reached the bend close 
to where the river turned fast and shallow again, and where he had 
left his clothes. Rounding that final turn, he swam to the bank and 
climbed from the water with regret, but full of peace. *Ah, Nimrodel, 
the legends do not exaggerate. I rather think they fail to do you 
justice.*

He found his clothes where he had left them in the shadow of a large, 
fallen tree limb, and had finished drying and dressing himself when he 
heard footsteps approaching stealthily. But the sounds were loud 
enough to tell him that these were not elves, but rather intruders, 
trying with little success to conceal the noise of their passage 
through the forest. Legolas slid noiselessly out of sight under the 
thick branches and watched.

Orcs, two or three of them, were creeping through the brush above the 
riverbank opposite him. Legolas felt white-hot fury course through him 
at this foul invasion into Galadriel’s sacred realm. But he was only 
one, and caution stayed his hand from making use of his bow. Instead, 
he watched.

The fell creatures of Mordor seemed almost like scouts, surveying the 
land they planned to invade. But this was odd, because orcs seldom, if 
ever, resorted to that kind of technique. From all Legolas had seen 
and all his elder comrades had told him, the most strategy orc armies 
ever used was charging headlong without bothering with reconnaissance. 
*This is an ill turn, if along with their increasing number, these 
beasts are growing smarter.* 

His powerful eyesight kept the orcs within his view for some distance, 
and they were still well within earshot of him when another sound 
reached his ears. The orcs froze, and Legolas recognized the soft 
footfalls of an unsuspecting elf, wandering the forest--and heading 
straight to where the orcs were now hiding in the undergrowth. The 
prince’s hand was forced. Leaping from the cover of the brush, Legolas 
took aim with his bow to where he knew the fell creatures had hidden, 
and let an arrow fly. The struck creature’s scream of pain was 
deafening, and a startled gasp told Legolas that the other elf had now 
been warned. The orcs instinctively looked back in the direction from 
which the arrow had come, and saw the lone elf standing on the 
riverbank. With screeches of challenge, the two remaining creatures 
charged at Legolas, and found themselves almost instantly felled by 
his bow.

Splashing across the shallow part of the river, Legolas came upon the 
carcasses of the three orcs and eyed them with distaste before 
retrieving his arrows. A faint rustling in the brush startled him, and 
he looked up to see a she-elf of Lorien coming towards him, staring in 
disbelief at the orcs. Raising her eyes to meet his, she demanded, 
“How did this foulness manage to breach our land?”

“I know not,” replied Legolas.

“Were you not on the watch?” she asked him.

Legolas realized she was mistaking him for one of her own relations 
and smiled, “Nay, I am not of this land, Lady.”

The maiden blinked and looked at him more closely. Legolas was wearing 
a silver tunic gifted to him from his new brother-in-law, rather than 
his usual Mirkwood colors, and it took her a moment to recognize him 
as one of her northern kindred. She at last connected his classically 
Lorien features with what she knew of the elves of Mirkwood and 
laughed, “Forgive me, my lord, you look so like one of my brethren 
that I did not recognize you.”

Laughing in his turn, Legolas replied, “No apologies are necessary, 
Lady; this was an unexpected meeting.” Glancing about with a frown, he 
asked her, “Were you walking alone?”

“I was,” the maiden sighed, gazing at the dead orcs. “Until tonight, 
none of us has ever seen the need for such concern within the borders 
of Lorien.”

With a sigh of his own, Legolas looked around him, “It seems there is 
a need now. We should return to Caras Galadhon and inform the captain 
of the watch.”

The maiden agreed, and Legolas whistled for Lanthir. The horse bounded 
up, and Legolas mounted with the maiden in front of him, then they set 
off. “I am Gaeriel, daughter of Maethor of Lorien,” she told him. “I 
presume you are Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

“I am, my lady,” Legolas replied respectfully. He knew Maethor was 
among the highest noble elves in Lorien, not far below Galadriel and 
Celeborn, and his wife Lady Idhren was a ranking elf of Imladris. It 
was all he could do not to cringe at the thought of the remarks he 
would hear when he rode into Caras Galadhon with one of the highest 
ranking ladies in all the elven realms in front of him, but it could 
not be helped.

Before the silence could become uncomfortable, Lady Gaeriel said, “I 
had heard of the troubles your war party faced in the mountains. I 
suppose we should not be surprised the creatures of Mordor are now 
aiming to attack Lothlorien.”

Legolas nodded, “Not surprised, perhaps, but it is galling 
nonetheless.”

“Orcs and spiders penetrated Mirkwood centuries ago.”

Defensively, he answered, “Mirkwood is much larger than Lorien, Lady, 
and the shadow fell directly over great expanses of it. Even all the 
warrior companies of Middle Earth could not cover that ground, at 
least not without abandoning the rest of their realms.”

“I meant no slight against Mirkwood or its people, my lord. It is 
simply fact, although cruel. Mirkwood is all but taken, Imladris is 
plagued more and more with each passing year, and now the borders of 
Lorien have been breached. It seems soon there will be no safe place 
in Middle Earth,” Gaeriel’s voice was sad.

Her voice echoed the prince’s feelings, and he said gravely, “A 
fitting portent of the return of the Enemy.” He felt the Lady of 
Lorien stiffen in front of him, and she turned wide hazel eyes to meet 
his, dismayed by his words. They spoke little more for the rest of the 
ride.

***

The arrival and report from Prince Legolas and Lady Gaeriel set all of 
Lorien into a hue and cry. Lanterns that had been extinguished at that 
late hour were lit again, elves ran to and fro, and all of Caras 
Galadhon was ablaze with light. Warriors were mustered and charged off 
into the wood on patrol for more foul intruders, and Legolas joined 
the fit members of his company returning to the camp where Langcyll 
and the remaining warriors of Mirkwood had stayed. Legolas glanced 
over his shoulder as he and his companions rode away, in time to see 
the Lady Gaeriel vanishing into one of the larger trees, her auburn 
hair changing silver light to gold. He turned back to see Faron 
grinning at him. “What?” the prince demanded.

With a disgusting leer, his friend drawled, “I wondered where you had 
disappeared to after dinner. I did not know you and Lady Gaeriel had 
been introduced!”

“We only met after encountering the orcs,” Legolas growled.

“Indeed?” said Glorfindel with feigned incredulity in his voice. 
Legolas glared at the Imladris captain, then at Elladan and Elrohir as 
they began to nudge each other and wink at the others. The entire 
company was soon enjoying a good laugh at the prince of Mirkwood’s 
expense.

“Was Lady Gaeriel not offered to you during the Gathering?” Galithil 
asked sweetly.

Legolas gritted his teeth and did not answer, but Faron told her 
(loudly), “Nay, it is safe to say that Gaeriel, daughter of Maethor, 
is one of the few ladies in Middle Earth whose prospects might be 
higher than Legolas. Eregolf offered for her and was refused.”

That startled Legolas, and Nathron whistled in astonishment. “Eregolf 
may not be a prince, but nor is he lacking in noble blood. Did Maethor 
refuse, or Gaeriel herself?”

“I know not.” Legolas began breathing a sigh of relief that the 
company’s attention was turned away from him, but found he was too 
soon, for Faron began grinning again, “Perhaps after tonight, her 
inclinations might be toward marrying outside her own realm--”

“Enough!” Legolas practically barked.

“You are blushing, Legolas!” 

When they reached the campsite and were reunited with the rest of the 
company, they learned that a large party of orcs had been seen in the 
low hills just beyond Lorien. “Watching again?” Legolas asked Orophin.

“Yea. And there has been more than one group tonight. At first it 
seemed that they were just advancing and falling back, but now I 
believe there are different bands coming onto the ridge for a peek at 
our borders,” Haldir’s brother told the younger elf.

“They mean to launch a full-scale attack,” Glorfindel said. It was 
more an expectation than a question.

“I fear so,” said Orophin. “They must realize that the power of Lady 
Galadriel will prevent them from getting far within our woods 
undetected, so they try instead a head-on assault.”

Several of the company shuddered. An orc assault upon Lothlorien. It 
seemed inconceivable. “What shall we do?” Fanfirith asked Glorfindel 
and Orophin.

“We are to join the reinforcements fortifying the border,” said 
Glorfindel. “They know we are aware of them, yet still they come. They 
must have a very large force to try and threaten us.”

Orophin nodded as he led them to join the border guards, “We expect 
their attack no later than dusk tonight. We have that much time to 
prepare.”

Reunited at last, the company rode together to the border with 
Orophin. “How is your side, Elunen?” Legolas enquired.

“It is well,” the warrioress answered, stretching her torso to 
demonstrate. “I have been ready to rejoin the rest of you for two 
days, but Langcyll insisted on waiting longer.”

They heard the captain of Mirkwood chuckle. “I know of none who make 
more difficult patients, except perhaps you, Legolas.”

The prince smiled sheepishly (he knew it to be true.) Unfortunately, 
Faron chose that moment to announce to their newly-arrived companions 
that Legolas had ridden into Caras Galadhon with a handsome lady of 
Lorien on his horse. Whistles, snickers, and raised eyebrows were 
instantly directed at Legolas, who in turn directed a fierce scowl at 
Faron. “I could not very well let her walk back when there were orcs 
on the prowl, Faron, and I’ll thank you to cease this ridiculous 
gossiping,” he said curtly.

Unintimidated, his friend just grinned. Looking away, Legolas shook 
his head in disgust. *One of these days, I shall have my share of 
laughter at his expense.*

***

A large company of warriors were already at the border nearest the 
mountains when the company of Langcyll and Glorfindel arrived. The sun 
was well overhead by then, and Haldir was returning with a scouting 
party from the foothills. “We dared not venture too close to Moria or 
into the caves,” he told the assembled defenders. “But we did see 
signs of many orcs in the area. We also heard them when we came close 
to the caverns.”

“How many will there be, do you think?” Langcyll asked in a foreboding 
tone.

Haldir turned and faced the hills again, gleaming green, yellow, and 
brown in the late autumn sun. It would not be cool enough tonight to 
slow the orcs down. Answering Langcyll question, he said grimly, “I 
fear we will be facing as many as an entire legion. An army to be 
sure, and more organized than most marauding bands we have been 
encountering for the past millennia.”

“We shall have to be more organized in our defense, then,” said 
Glorfindel. 

Another group of riders came from Caras Galadhon then, carrying 
weapons and supplies. Haldir sighed. *After the Last Alliance, I had 
hoped never again to be fighting this way. War and patrol parties are 
a necessity in their own right, but this sort of regimented, 
methodical bloodshed is abhorrent to our people.* But his patrol had 
seen the warning signs of the massing orcs, and knew the vile beasts 
would be coming for his land whether his people found wholesale 
slaughter distasteful or not.

Turning to the visiting captains, and his fellow Lorien warriors, 
Haldir said, “I agree. Each of the captains shall command a unit of 
warriors in the defense, and we shall form brigades to protect each 
stretch of the border. They outnumber us at least five to one, perhaps 
more. The beasts of Sauron must not penetrate Lothlorien.” Glancing up 
at the sun, he announced, “We have four, perhaps five hours until full 
dark.”

And so the elves were mustered in the defense of Lothlorien. Langcyll, 
Glorfindel, Haldir, Rumil, and Orthelian divided command of the 
warriors into five divisions. Langcyll took all of his Mirkwood 
warriors and several dozen Lorien warriors, bringing his unit to 
fifty. Each of the other captains commanded a group of the same 
number. 

Haldir noticed that although he had in effect given an equal rank to 
each of the five, the other four commanders still deferred to him, 
acknowledging him as still the ranking warrior of this realm, and 
first in charge of its defense. *Tonight we shall know whether I am 
worthy of this command,* the captain of Lorien thought grimly.

***

As the sun continued its careless arc across the sky, the defenders of 
Lorien worked furiously to prepare for a head-on assault. Limloeth of 
Mirkwood was knocking dead branches from the trees to prevent 
accidental falls in the heat of battle. From her vantage point in the 
division under the command of Rumil, she could just see her husband 
Orthelian commanding the division on her right, and her brother 
Legolas under the command of Langcyll on her left.

The princess shuddered, knocking loose another dangerous dead limb and 
absently patting the bole of the tree she was in. She was the second 
of Thranduil of Mirkwood’s children, and she and her elder brother 
Berensul had fought in the Last Alliance with their father, in the 
battle on the slopes of Mount Doom where their grandfather and many of 
their kin had been slain. The deja-vu of this approaching battle made 
Limloeth, like Haldir, slightly nauseated with tension and horrific 
memory. *As we marched home with Father, bearing the dead and wounded 
bodies of so many of our kindred, I asked only one thing of fate: that 
I should never see such a battle again. How bitter that even that 
simple prayer went unanswered.*

Beneath her on the ground, elves were being given extra quivers of 
arrows, swords, and spears by the continuous stream of supply parties 
that rode out from Caras Galadhon. Like every other elf in Middle 
Earth, Limloeth revered the Golden Wood and the City of Light. The 
thought of the foul creatures of Sauron tramping through the woods of 
Lothlorien was too dreadful to picture. 

More warriors were rigging a line of sharpened posts pointing out of 
the trees. Limloeth smiled grimly to herself. The orcs would find 
Lorien turned into a nest of wooden thorns by the time they attacked. 
*They shall soon learn the folly of their boldness,* she told herself 
resolutely. *No beast of Sauron shall cross into my land while I or 
any of my kindred still draw breath.*

***

The sun was sinking lower, and the elves were speeding their work. 
Legolas looked over his shoulder into the darkening forest. Well back 
into the trees, he could see healers readying their herbs, bandages, 
and tools on hastily-erected flets in the trees. Langcyll brushed past 
him on his way to the front, and Legolas caught his arm, gesturing at 
the healers. “Most of us were too weak to climb when we were seriously 
wounded.”

Langcyll looked back as well, and told Legolas, “See if something can 
be rigged to lift our wounded into the trees. They will not be safe 
upon the ground while the battle is being fought.”

Legolas nodded and darted away. With the help of several 
hastily-recruited warriors and healers, he rigged litters with ropes 
to lift them up to the flets and talans where the injured would be 
safe. Testing one by riding it into the tree, Legolas felt his stomach 
turn at the sight of the piles of herbs and bandages. *Never has there 
been such certainty of serious casualties. They look as though they 
are preparing for a massacre.*

Dropping down from the flet, Legolas was satisfied that the wounded 
would be safely evacuated to the treetops, and returned to the front. 
The sun was now behind the mountains, and the sky was red. The 
warriors at the front were quiet, and the prince could hear distant 
orc shrieks. *Again, they will charge straight for us the minute the 
light has vanished.*

Red flags waved from each division, including Langcyll’s. The captain 
ordered the best archers into the trees, Legolas and Faron included. 
“Do not shoot until you have a good aim,” Langcyll warned the archers. 
“Do not waste arrows, for they have a massive advantage in numbers.”

The sun was all but gone as Legolas took up his perch in the V of a 
sturdy tree limb, only just above the heads of the warriors on the 
ground, but where he had a clear view of the approach to the forest. 
Looking to his right, he saw his sister Limloeth in another tree. 
Their eyes met, and her anxiety was visible as she raised a hand in a 
silent blessing. Legolas responded in kind. *Do not be afraid for me, 
sister. I can take care of myself.* He smiled at her and she grinned 
back, they both knew she had mothered him for far too long for two 
years’ separation to break the habit. Limloeth would always fret over 
Legolas. His attention returned to his own division as Langcyll waved 
a white flag, indicating his division’s readiness.

The last rays of light vanished, turning the sky behind the dark hills 
royal blue. Upon the ridge in the hills, Legolas saw a line of 
darkness appear, as massive numbers of orcs began gathering in 
preparation to charge the realm of Galadriel. Langcyll was just below 
him. Without looking up at the young warrior, the captain said, 
“There, Legolas, now you see before you an orc army. A shade different 
from the bands we have fought before.”

“You fought many such armies and survived,” replied Legolas, not 
taking his eyes from the growing shadow over the hills. “You turned 
them back before, and we shall tonight.”

Orophin was beside Langcyll. “My brother estimated correctly. There 
are at least a thousand, perhaps two or three thousand.”

“Assuming they have no reinforcements waiting still in the caves,” 
Elunen said. 

“Make ready, all of you,” Langcyll ordered. The warriors braced 
themselves. A single shriek filled the air followed by the beat of 
drums. “Here they come!”

From thousands of orc throats came a collective battle cry so loud 
that it all but deafened the waiting elves. Then the sound of the 
drums was practically drowned out by the thundering of feet as the 
legion poured over the hills like a flood of slimy black water. 
Legolas steadied himself on his perch and readied an arrow, waiting 
for the instant when an orc would come into his line of fire. *You 
shall not take us, or this land. Not while I live, or any of us.*

He could have fired randomly into the mass and probably strike true 
every time, but he had no intention of being careless with his arrows. 
But he did not have long to wait, soon he could distinguish the foul 
creatures from one another, and wasted no time sighting one and 
shooting. The orc dropped, tripping up several of its comrades, and by 
the time the first of them rose again, Legolas had felled six more. 

A rain of elven arrows decimated the first line of orc attackers, but 
the creatures pressed on. They still had considerable ground to cover 
before reaching the trees. They had their shields raised, but the moon 
was full and rising fast, so superior elven eyes found every gap in 
their defenses. 

Still they came, charging at the borders of Lorien. And their shields 
were presenting a problem for the archers, for it prevented them from 
increasing their rate of shooting. “Spear-bearers, make ready!” 
Langcyll bellowed over the din of charging orcs and whistling arrows.

Legolas sat back on his branch and waited as the warriors below turned 
their spears to javelins. On Langcyll’s command, a deadly cloud of 
spears sailed through the air onto the orcs charging the warriors. The 
hard, strong metal spearheads pierced right through the orc shields 
and felled many of them. The rest found themselves unprotected and 
were met by a new hail of elven arrows. 

And still they came, closer with every second. It seemed to Legolas 
that the nearly three hundred elven warriors on the border were barely 
making a dent in this multitude. And the orcs were nearly upon them. 
The elves were spreading out into the trees, aware that hand-to-hand 
combat was imminent. Legolas stood upon his branch, continuing to aim 
and shoot as the first orcs rushed headlong into the pointy-edged 
wooden fence the elves had erected. 

The momentum of the army’s charge was so powerful that the hundreds of 
orcs in the front of the legion were unable to slow in time, nor did 
they have the space to clamber over the barricades. Instead, they were 
driven helplessly forward by the force of their own companions’ 
headlong charge, and impaled by the dozens upon the stakes. Had 
Legolas not been painfully aware of the brutal battle about to take 
place within seconds, he would have laughed. The utter lack of 
strategy or battle-sense in orcs was a long-running joke among elves 
and indeed all free races of Middle Earth, a joke that had been told 
as long as the orcs themselves had existed.

But now the weight of dead and still-pressing orcs was breaking the 
barricade down. Legolas knew there was no longer any point in saving 
his arrows; he would be fighting on the ground in seconds and there 
would be no space for shooting. He emptied his last quiver into the 
orcs crawling over the bodies of their fellows, and readied himself to 
jump.

The first orcs gained the top of the pile of broken wood and dead 
bodies, and leapt toward the waiting elf warriors. Three charged 
Langcyll at once, and Legolas chose that moment to jump, taking two of 
them down with the weight of his body. He embedded one knife in the 
neck of each and scrambled to his feet in time to see Langcyll 
dispatch the third. “Spread out!” Langcyll yelled at him. “We must not 
press too close!”

The elves backed away several yards from the barricades as the orcs 
poured over, then ran to meet the new charge. Seeing the other elves 
in front of him dashing into the fray, Legolas wondered, *How many of 
us shall be dead when the sun rises?* Drawing his Lorien-crafted sword 
(a gift from Haldir) in one hand and one of his knives in another, 
Legolas whirled into action. There was no longer time to think, only 
to act.

They came, seemingly from all directions, though Legolas knew that he 
was facing them and two capable elves flanked him, but it seemed that 
orcs were all around. Sweeping his sword, he beheaded one, then ducked 
beneath the blow of another, slashing his knife through its throat, 
only to turn and be forced to dodge the swipe of a third. An 
inconsequential swipe of an orcish dagger licked across his arm as he 
drove his knife into a random orc throat, and swung his sword in the 
other direction parrying a sword blow from another orc. He spun back, 
but this one was a better fighter than the first few, and it took 
Legolas several blows to get past the creature’s defenses and dispatch 
it, running it clean through.

Wrenching his sword free, the elf warrior staggered and looked around, 
feeling slightly disoriented. All about him were fighting bodies 
beneath the trees, as far as his eyes could see. Orc screeches, elf 
challenges, and cries of pain from both deafened him. There were so 
many around Legolas that he could scarcely tell which direction the 
main force was coming from anymore. With a shake of his head, he 
plunged back into battle, surging forward to meet another wave of 
orcs. 

***

Elladan slung his brother Elrohir’s arm over his shoulder and 
half-dragged, half-carried him deeper into the forest to where the 
healers were treating the wounded. Glorfindel and three elves of 
Lorien were covering them until they cleared the battle, and Elladan 
grunted at his twin, “Our wounds only just healed and you go and get 
yourself stabbed again. I cannot take my eyes off you for a second!” 

In a shaky but cheerful voice, Elrohir answered, “After your fine lack 
of self-defense in our last battle, I was distracted by the necessity 
of looking after you. If I could trust you to take care of yourself, I 
could pay more attention to my own foes.”

Elladan would have answered, but his younger twin hissed in pain then, 
one hand moving involuntarily to the deep and nasty stab wound in his 
hip. The injury was bleeding profusely, and cursing with gritted 
teeth, Elladan quickened his pace. Just as they finally reached the 
healers’ post, and several ran to meet them, the pain became too much, 
and Elrohir went limp. Elladan did not falter, but swept his brother 
into his arms and broke into a run. The healers hurried to his side, 
examining the wound. “I do not think he is in mortal danger, but the 
bleeding must be stopped,” he panted.

“Quickly,” the healer helped Elladan stretch out his unconscious twin 
upon the litter on the ground, then someone dropped a roll of bandages 
from the trees. The healer hastily tied off the wound to halt the 
bleeding, and waved up into the tree. Elladan blinked in surprise as 
four elves on the flet above pulled ropes from the branches and 
hoisted the litter up to them. 

Elladan knew he should return to the battle, but he climbed quickly up 
to look as the healers put a better dressing on the wound. “Well?”

“It is not terribly serious, Lord Elladan,” the healer reported. “The 
knife struck the hip bone, and he will not have the use of his legs 
for a few days, but the bleeding is under control. He will recover 
completely.”

A half-gasp, half-sob of relief escaped the son of Elrond. Gripping 
the healer’s shoulder, Elladan managed to say, “My deepest thanks. I 
must return now.”

“Take care, warrior and kinsman,” the healer said. “We shall look 
after Lord Elrohir.”

Nodding quickly and stooping to gently touch his brother’s shoulder, 
the Imladris warrior forced himself to descend from the tree. Turning 
back towards the sounds of battle, he passed many wounded elves 
staggering or being carried toward the healers’ post. Among them, he 
saw Galithil of Mirkwood, Orophin of Lorien, and Maethor of Lorien, 
along with many, many others who passed swiftly by. *We are losing 
many of our people,* he thought frantically as he began to sprint 
faster back to the battle. *If we are not taking at least three times 
as many orcs, we are done for.*

***

Langcyll of Mirkwood was also returning from the healer post after 
carrying a wounded Lorien elf from his division there. Bursting back 
into the melee, he feared what he might find. Whirling his sword and 
spear at any black beast that came too close, he also cast his eyes 
about for his warriors. Orophin had taken an arrow through the 
shoulder (it must have been pure chance that an orc happened to hit 
him in this fracas) and assured Langcyll that he could reach the 
healers himself. Galithil had also fallen, and one of the others had 
carried her toward safety.

There was Elunen, spearing orcs as they jumped over the barricades 
until her spear looked like a meat-stick, and Glanaur and Fanfirith 
back-to-back, sword-fighting with helmeted orcs. There was Nathron 
pinning an orc to a tree with his sword and...where was Legolas? 

Dodging, then parrying an attack from an orcish spear, Langcyll looked 
desperately around. There were orcs and elves fighting in every 
direction, but with so many fair Lorien elves about, it was impossible 
to pick out Legolas in the chaos. Langcyll’s experience warned him not 
to call out for the prince; Legolas would take it as a warning of 
danger and might be distracted–which in this insanity might prove 
fatal. Langcyll dared not, and Glorfindel’s words to him came back 
again.

*I must cease this line of thought. Glorfindel was right. I must pay 
attention to the welfare of all my warriors and myself,* the captain 
of Mirkwood told himself firmly, forcing himself to focus on his own 
fight. *After all,* he reminded himself, *Legolas may be the youngest, 
but he has swiftly become one of the best, and I think will soon be 
the best of all my warriors. He will be fine.*

*He must be.*

***

*By the Valar, they are everywhere!* Legolas could not be sure whether 
it was ten minutes or ten hours that had passed since the sun had set, 
and still the orcs came. He was cut, bruised, and bloody from head to 
toe, his clothes torn, his hair wet and streaked with sweat and dirt. 
His body ached, throbbed, and stung from the numerous small wounds he 
had received. 

He was in the middle of a fierce sword battle with an especially quick 
orc, who also bore a shield while Legolas did not. Dodging and 
parrying hard blows, Legolas retreated backwards just as another orc 
behind him was shot down by a fellow warrior. The creature fell 
directly behind Legolas, and the prince was unable to cease his hasty 
steps backwards in time. He stumbled over the carcass, falling 
helplessly backwards, and the sword flew from his hand. The orc leapt 
forward for the kill, and Legolas hastily scuttled back more on the 
ground, having no time to rise. Even as the orc raised its sword to 
deliver a death blow and Legolas flinched, a shriek went up from all 
around. It was the warning of the orcs–the sun was coming back. The 
attacking orc faltered, and Legolas rolled aside, grabbed a discarded 
knife from the ground and hurled it with deadly accuracy into the 
creature’s head. 

Fighting off growing weariness, the prince sprang to his feet, knowing 
the orcs’ only hope was now to retreat back to the mountains or 
attempt (foolishly) to go deeper into Lorien to escape the sun. Surely 
they would...but they did not retreat. This meant that they knew the 
battle would end with their defeat--or rather, massacre--if they did 
not get past the elves and into the deep woods. Retrieving his sword 
and knife, Legolas readied himself for a still-harder charge, that 
would now be borne of desperation. 

The orcs did not disappoint him. Two of them flung themselves at 
Legolas so hard that all three combatants were nearly thrown to the 
ground. Legolas spitted one with his sword and had a deal of 
difficulty freeing his hand to gut the other with his long knife. All 
around him, the press of panicked but determined orcs was pushing the 
elven warriors back, but though the defense lines bent, they did not 
break. Legolas was still facing west, the direction from whence the 
orcs were coming, so he had no way of seeing how close the sun was to 
rising. An elf’s cry of pain caught his attention and he turned to see 
a dark-haired she-elf wearing Lorien colors fall under a blow from an 
orc sword. His heart leapt to his throat. It was Limloeth.

“No--” Legolas beheaded four orcs in his race to his sister’s side. 

Limloeth was semiconscious, blood gushing from a deep wound in her 
abdomen. Legolas sensed rather than consciously saw several warriors 
come to protective positions around him, but did not bother looking to 
see who they were. “Legolas, get her out of here!” He did recognize 
Orthelian’s voice, and the panic in it. 

As he pressed hard on the wound to stop the bleeding, Legolas held his 
sister against him, and he trembled helplessly. “You will be all 
right, Lim,” he whispered repeatedly, keeping the pressure on her 
injury.

“Legolas?” she raised pain-filled eyes to his face and let her head 
drop to his shoulder again. Squeezing her eyes shut against the pain, 
she said, “I do not think it is so bad. I’ve had worse.”

Choking back a sob, Legolas asked her, “Can you keep your hand over 
it? I must get you to the healers.”

Limloeth nodded and took the blood-soaked piece of cloth Legolas had 
been using, and held it against her own wound. The youngest prince of 
Mirkwood swept his one living sister into his arms and carried her 
swiftly through the forest. A great howl went up behind him, and he 
heard voices cry, “Look out!”

His arms were full; there was no way Legolas could aid the warriors at 
this time. But facing east, he saw light through the treetops as the 
orcs managed to break through the warriors in their efforts to escape 
the sun. Looking back, Legolas saw at least a dozen orcs bearing 
straight toward him, prepared to kill both him and Limloeth to make 
their escape. He ran, wincing as Limloeth’s breath caught with pain, 
but he had to stay ahead of the orcs. Other warriors were rushing the 
creatures, trying to stop them, but the orcs knew they were out of 
time.

“Put me down, Legolas,” his sister pleaded. “They’re almost upon you!”

“No!” Legolas snapped. He could not be certain that he could protect 
her against so many, and he would never leave her. 

All at once, a great light appeared in front of him in a blinding 
flash, and a strange force knocked him backwards, off balance. 
Dropping to his knees, Legolas laid Limloeth swiftly down, drew his 
knives, and whirled to attack the approaching orcs, but to his 
astonishment, they had fallen as well, and lay dead where they had 
dropped. Turning back in confusion, Legolas froze. 

The Lady Galadriel was standing not far away, an otherworldly look in 
her eyes, and glowing with a brilliance even greater than normal. 
Legolas knelt again beside Limloeth, partly to see to her wound but 
also because he did not think his legs would support him if he 
continued to look upon Galadriel. Limloeth remained conscious and 
coherent, but she also was struck dumb.

Galadriel’s eyes surveyed the scene of the battle, where orc corpses 
lay in great heaps, and elves stared about in confusion, wondering why 
the creatures had suddenly dropped dead. When she spoke, the eyes of 
every one were upon her, for there was a fierceness in her voice and 
her face, “The creatures of the Enemy will hesitate to attack our 
borders with such impunity again.”

Sitting up with her brother’s anxious help, Limloeth fought past her 
own pain and asked, “Is it over, my lady?”

The hard, fierce eyes became soft and sad, and Galadriel turned her 
gaze to the wounded warrioress. Slowly she nodded, but then, in a 
quiet voice that somehow carried to be heard by all, the Lady 
Galadriel added grimly, “Until the next time.”

***** ----------------------------------------------------------- 
Warning…this chapter does major fast-forwarding. I know, I know, you 
guys didn’t want me to skip ahead again, but for cryin’ out loud, if I 
don’t this thing will be longer than a hundred chapters! Even if I 
write a chapter for each year, there’ll still be sixty, and we need 
more detail at certain points. So this chapter covers major ground and 
many years, and if I get enough demands for more detail at certain 
points of the trip, perhaps in the future I will write some short 
stories about the adventures of the company during their journey 
south. ----------------------------------------------------------- 
ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Orthelian: Legolas’s brother-in-law, a captain of Lorien, husband to 
his sister Limloeth (also an O/C, but you know that by now. I hope.)

Maethor: High-ranking warrior captain of Lorien, father of Gaeriel 
(the she-elf Legolas bumped into during the last chapter.) No, there 
is still NO ROMANCE in this chapter! Fear not.

NOTE to Tolkien scholars: I took a liberty with Legolas’s character by 
making his mother a Lorien elf. There’s a reference to that in this 
chapter (somebody asked about it in a review, but I forget who.) 
Another reviewer mentioned that the book indicates that Legolas had 
never seen the Nimrodel before. You’re probably right, but hey, this 
is mildly AU anyway. (Shrug) 



Chapter Sixteen: Farewell to Lorien



For a few moments, the dreadful meaning of Lady Galadriel’s words all 
but froze every elf on the battlefield. The silence was broken at last 
by a groan from an injured elf, and the entire host sprang into 
action. Legolas looked hastily to his sister’s wound, “How is it?”

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Limloeth replied, “Not so very 
bad.”

Legolas moved to pick Limloeth up again and carry her to the healers, 
when Galadriel raised a hand. He hesitated, and the lady glided 
through the trees and knelt gracefully at the prince and princess’s 
side. She wore a white cloak over her gown, and from she removed a 
thick white cloth, and a phial of some liquid. Liberally dousing the 
cloth with the medicine, she eased the bloodstained tunic aside and 
gently laid the cloth against Limloeth’s wound.

The princess flinched slightly as though anticipating great pain, but 
relaxed as soon as the dosed cloth came into contact with her skin. 
Legolas, holding her hand tightly, looked with awe at the lady, whose 
eyes were on the stab wound. After a moment, she took Limloeth’s hand 
and placed it over the cloth. “Hold it there until the wound is 
dressed by the healers,” she told the warrioress. “It will prevent 
more bleeding.” Raising her eyes to Legolas, she nodded in the 
direction of the healers’ post, and Legolas needed no urging to lift 
his sister and bear her swiftly away.

Having no need to run but walking hastily, Legolas stopped in his 
tracks when he came through the trees to the healers’ post. He beheld 
a scene certain to give him nightmares for years. Nearly twenty 
healers had come from Caras Galadhon and other parts of Lorien, 
anticipating heavy casualties in the battle on the border. But now, 
they were all but overwhelmed, rushing from one wounded warrior to the 
next, enlisting the less-injured warriors to help. 

Everywhere, all over the ground, elven warriors lay bloodied, some 
unconscious, some gasping and groaning in pain. A moan of dismay 
issued from Limloeth, and Legolas felt his throat tighten until he 
could not breathe. A healer glanced up and saw them standing at the 
edge of the awful scene, “You there, what ails her?”

Finding his voice (with great effort) Legolas said, “She was stabbed.” 

The frazzled, anxious healer beckoned imperiously at Legolas to bring 
Limloeth as he shouted for another blanket to be laid on the ground. 
Lifting the cloth from Galadriel to examine the wound, the healer 
handed Legolas some bandages. “The bleeding has stopped. Just make 
sure the wound is clean and put the dressing on. I must see to the 
others. When you’ve done that, we need all the help we can get.”

Legolas nodded hastily and set about dressing his sister’s wound. He 
tried to blot out the sights and sounds of suffering all around him, 
and his hands trembled as he worked. Limloeth’s hand suddenly closed 
upon his as he finished fastening a bandage. “It will be all right, 
brother.”

Swallowing hard, he murmured, “How many of our people are dead, do you 
suppose?”

“We will not know for some time yet. But you must accept that such 
things happen. It is the way of all warriors,” Limloeth was weak from 
loss of blood and laid her head back down.

The prince nodded, “I know.” Finishing the dressing, he squeezed her 
hand and said, “I must help.”

“Go, little brother. I’ll be all right.” Kissing his sister on the 
forehead, Legolas rose and walked away to join the effort of caring 
for the rest of the wounded.

***

To Glorfindel, the next hours were a blur of anxiety and haste, as he 
rushed from warrior to warrior on the ground, trying to halt bleeding, 
bandage cuts, splint bones, and ease pain. The elf lord rose from 
bandaging a nasty stab wound only to race to the side of a staggering 
warrior barely able to walk for a broken leg. Carrying the warrior of 
Lorien to a blanket, Glorfindel made him drink some olgalas draught to 
knock him out, then set and braced the broken bone. No sooner had he 
done that than another healer shouted for assistance with yet another 
wounded warrior.

The moans of the wounded somehow seemed louder than the battle shrieks 
of the orcs. Glorfindel wiped sweat and blood from his face as he 
dosed another warrior unconscious, but the casualties kept coming, and 
the healers were running out of herbs. “I had hoped never to see such 
a sight again,” the Imladris elf murmured to himself as he stood 
wearily, gazing at the injured lying all around him.

“Glorfindel? Can you ride?” one of the healers shouted.

“Yes!” he called back, hurrying to see what was needed.

The tired, beleaguered healer waved a hand helplessly at the mass of 
injured elves, “We must have more olgalas draught, and healing herbs. 
In fact, anything that can be brought from Caras Galadhon would be of 
use. This was far worse than we had expected.”

*Someday I should like to fight a battle that turns out not as a bad 
as expected,* Glorfindel thought bitterly, whistling sharply for his 
horse.

The ride was long and hard, but not hard enough to distract the 
Imladris warrior from worrying about his comrades back at the edge of 
the woods. His arrival at Caras Galadhon brought a multitude of 
anxious elves rushing from their dwellings to hear tidings of the 
battle. It did no good to try and evade the truth. “The orc army is 
defeated, but there are many casualties,” he shouted over the chorus 
of questions. “The assistance is urgently needed of all those with 
healing skills, and all the supplies that can be brought.”

Forcing himself to ignore the cries of dismay and the rush of elves 
darting off in all directions to respond to his call, Glorfindel 
dismounted, intending to go for supplies himself. Suddenly several 
elves crowded near him gave way, and the warrior captain turned to see 
Lord Celeborn coming swiftly, yet calmly, towards him. “My lord?”

“Come, Glorfindel, I require a report,” the lord of Lorien said.

“I…” Glorfindel faltered, feeling anxiety, weariness, and frustration 
well up inside him. *There are dozens, perhaps more than a hundred 
wounded warriors on the border--I cannot simply stand here in the City 
of Trees and make reports!*

But the Imladris warrior could see that Lord Celeborn was not to be 
kept waiting, and so he followed Celeborn into a pavilion on the 
ground to speak. No sooner had Celeborn turned to face Glorfindel than 
the younger elf lord began speaking hastily, his mind only half on his 
words, “The orcs of Sauron had perhaps an entire legion, my lord. Over 
a thousand to be sure. We held them back from the barricades for some 
time, but when they broke through, our forces sustained heavy 
casualties. I estimate at least one hundred are out of action, with 
nearly every one wounded in some form or another, and things would 
likely have gone worse if the Lady Galadriel had not arrived--”

“You are very agitated, Glorfindel,” said Celeborn in an infuriatingly 
level tone.

Without realizing he was wringing his hands, Glorfindel snapped, “How 
can you not be? Do you not see what is happening here? The shadow 
grows even as our people fade, and now the creatures of Sauron seek to 
slaughter us along with all the free peoples of Middle Earth--”

“Peace, elf of Imladris!” Celeborn said sharply, raising a hand to cut 
off the tirade. The lord of Lorien took a single step forward and 
placed a hand upon Glorfindel’s shoulder. “If we allow ourselves to 
despair, all will be lost.”

Glorfindel forced himself to be silent and catch his breath. The 
images of his wounded kindred at last ceased spinning through his 
anguished and weary mind. Raising his eyes to meet Celeborn’s, he 
murmured, “When the Enemy rose to might before, the Last Alliance 
nearly did not succeed in defeating it. Now the race of men is 
scattered, and the Eldar are departing Middle Earth in droves, leaving 
those who remain to fade into forgetfulness. If the shadow rises this 
time, how are we to challenge it?”

“By never giving in, as you know perfectly well, my friend,” said 
Celeborn. Glorfindel looked away and smiled sadly, shaking his head. 
In the clearing at the center of Caras Galadhon, dozens of elves 
carrying bundles of supplies were mounting horses and racing into the 
woods. When he turned back to Celeborn, the elven lord gripped his 
shoulder one last time and released him. “Return to the warriors, and 
offer them what aid you can. Remember, Glorfindel, we must maintain 
their hope along with their bodies if we are to survive.”

***

A few days later…

The sun had risen upon a grim scene at the borders of Lothlorien, the 
day after the attack. The orc attack had been repulsed through the 
efforts of the warriors, and Lady Galadriel, but at a heavy price. 
Eighteen warriors had been slain, and thirty more remained gravely 
wounded. Langcyll of Mirkwood stood upon a bridge over a creek in the 
center of Caras Galadhon, watching the activity of elves in the 
sunlight, but his heart was heavy.

By some blessed turn of fate, none of Langcyll’s company had perished 
in the battle, though he had lost several friends among the Lorien 
dead. These next few weeks would be a time of great mourning for all 
the elves of Middle Earth, and messangers had raced away from Lorien 
to the other realms about the battle and its tragic outcome.

The company of Langcyll and Glorfindel was to set out again in a few 
days, with several warriors of Lorien. But Langcyll now faced a 
dilemma. Lorien had lost two of its captains in the battle, and 
several seasoned warriors. Thus their strength was diminished. After 
the forces of Mirkwood, Imladris, and Lorien returned to the plains, 
the forces of Lorien had intended to sweep south into Ithilien. But 
having lost some of their best warriors--they would need 
reinforcements.

*My company has been on the move for nearly three years,* thought 
Langcyll. *They are travel and battle weary. But some of them, maybe 
many of them, may wish to join the forces of Lorien on the mission 
south. If we go south all the way to the borders of Mordor, we may be 
gone for many years more. Perhaps decades more.* 

It was not as if three years was a terribly long journey by elven 
standards; this one had just seen more action than most. Langcyll and 
most of the other seasoned warriors had joined missions that had 
lasted as long as sixty years, traveling all throughout Middle Earth 
back in the days even before the Second Age. *But I cannot be certain 
my warriors will wish to continue after seeing so much heartache. 
Perhaps it would be better just to return…though some of us may find 
heartache at home as well.*

The captain of Mirkwood watched his company mending arrows and 
whetthing knives with Haldir and several of his warriors. Inevitably, 
his eyes were drawn to the fair-haired elves, though it took him a 
moment to locate Legolas among all the warriors of Lorien. Langcyll 
was convinced that he was regaining his objectivity where the prince 
was concerned--and the approving glances he was receiving from 
Glorfindel confirmed it--but there was no denying the way his heart 
had clenched during the aftermath of the battle until he had at last 
found Legolas, unharmed and caring for the wounded.

*He will face the greatest trial of us all when we return to 
Mirkwood,* the captain thought. *I wonder if he would choose to ride 
south instead.* Hearing footsteps behind him, Langcyll turned and 
nodded to Glorfindel. The captain of Imladris joined Langcyll on the 
bridge and said, “Haldir asked my how my warriors were faring. He 
wishes us to travel south with them.”

With a nod, Langcyll replied, “He has approached me on the subject as 
well. Have you any thoughts?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “I find I cannot make such a decision 
without including my warriors. What think you? Shall we ask the 
company?”

Without removing his eyes from the warriors in the circle, Langcyll 
slowly nodded. “It is a heavy decision for each. I would know all 
their opinions before committing us.”

“Agreed. Perhaps we should speak to them now. All of them are 
present.”

Langcyll did not answer, but simply started off the bridge down to 
where the warriors were working. 

***

Legolas had nearly fainted with relief when he learned that none of 
the warriors of his company had fallen, nor had any of his close 
friends been slain. Though the young prince had grieved deeply for the 
lost warriors--and was still grieving--it was offset by his knowledge 
that all of his company were on the mend and Limloeth would be 
recovered in a few more days. Scant consolation to those who had lost 
friends, he thought sadly.

“--of Middle Earth, have you, Legolas?”

Blinking out of his reverie, Legolas looked up. Galithil, still 
walking stiffly but much improved, had asked him a question. The other 
elves paused from their work and grinned at him. “Daydreaming,” 
Elladan observed, smirking slyly.

Deliberately ignoring the son of Elrond, Legolas raised his eyebrows 
at Galithil, who repeated (in a disgusting drawl), “I said you still 
haven’t seen much of Middle Earth, have you?”

Several of the elves snickered, and with a disgusted shake of his 
head, Legolas replied, “Nay, I suppose I have not. I would like to see 
more.” He caught Haldir looking rather thoughtful, but the captain of 
Lorien said nothing, so he dismissed it. “But even for so little time, 
we’ve seen a great deal in the past three years. You have been 
traveling for a century and you still encountered new things,” he 
pointed out mildly to Galithil.

“Aye, one can travel for four millenia and still not see all there is 
to see in Middle Earth,” Orthelian of Lorien agreed. 

Faron nudged Legolas and said slyly, “Indeed, Galithil made quite a 
little discovery on this trip. She made friends with a dwarf.”

Several of the Lorien elves snorted, and most of the others just 
laughed. Langcyll and Glorfindel, coming up just then, grinned at the 
Lorien warriors’ reaction. “It is true,” said Glorfindel. “We spent 
many weeks in close contact with a dwarven company.”

Pausing from repairing an arrowhead, Haldir looked from one warrior 
captain to the other and--upon realizing that they were not 
jesting--demanded, “Why?” as though the idea were absurd.

“We shared the same road,” Glorfindel said with a shrug, sitting down 
and taking out one of his knives. 

Rumil of Lorien turned questioning eyes back to Faron, “So were you 
merely teasing Galithil or did she truly…make friends…with a dwarf?”

“I can speak for myself,” Galithil said haughtily. Lifting her chin, 
she added, “And yes, I did befriend one of the dwarven company. Shaín, 
son of Tili, was his name. I liked him.”

Haldir and the elves of Lorien stared at Galithil as if she had 
sprouted a beard, but Elrohir clapped her on the shoulder. “I liked 
him as well, Galithil. Do not let them tease you. I liked all of the 
dwarves--well, almost all of them.”

Haldir returned to his arrows with a shake of his head, but Glorfindel 
put in, “Do not dismiss it so readily, Haldir of Lorien, I too liked 
some of the dwarves. They came to our aid on several occasions, and 
showed friendship to many of our company. Although a few of us failed 
to benefit from the experience of knowing them,” he added pointedly. 
(Legolas and Faron had been rolling their eyes at each other.)

Orthelian had noticed and grinned, “So the wholesome company of the 
dwarves did not sit well with you, Legolas?”

Legolas simply jerked his head at his comrades with an expression that 
seemed to say “They are all daft.” Several of the Lorien elves laughed 
and clapped him on the back. Glorfindel noticed and thought, *Legolas 
certainly is at home here. He does seem sometimes very much like an 
elf of Lorien, not that it is surprising when one remembers he is half 
Galadhrim.*

As he continued fastening arrowheads to shafts, Legolas commented, 
“Galithil received a parting token from her dwarf friend.” He himself 
received a fierce glare from Galithil, and merely grinned at her, 
retaliating from all the teasing he had endured from her. 

“Do not tell me,” exclaimed Orophin. “An axe!” A great burst of 
laughter came from the elves as Galithil turned up her nose at them. 

Elunen came to Galithil’s defense. “I too enjoyed meeting the dwarves, 
Orophin, and the gift Shaín gave to Galithil was a gem of considerable 
worth, not to mention beauty. While some of them were…less than 
personable, most were as merry as hobbits. Shaín in particular was 
more generous with his wealth than a man, Legolas, you cannot deny 
it.”

Legolas raised his hands defensively. “I do not. It was a fair gift.”

“So dwarves and elves can become friends,” Elrohir said persuasively. 
“Perhaps if we had been in their company longer, some lasting 
friendships would have formed between members of our races. Come, 
Legolas,” he urged, seeing the prince’s resistance to the idea, “you 
cannot think after all that that Shaín would have turned on Galithil. 
I tend to think he was rather taken with her.” Galithil blushed.

Legolas shook his head dismissively, “Nay, I would not make such a 
prediction of Shaín. Perhaps it was possible in that instance for 
Galithil and he to remain friends, but I still think they were a fluke 
of nature. Dwarves and elves are too inherently different for such a 
thing to happen again.”

In the dwelling atop the highest tree, Lord Celeborn noticed Lady 
Galadriel watching the warriors below from the window. She could, of 
course, hear every word that was spoken. Though Celeborn had not been 
actively listening, he did notice at that same moment the slow smile 
that crept across his wife’s face, and the way her shoulders shook 
gently with a silent, knowing laugh.

***

On the forest floor below, Glorfindel noticed Haldir looking 
questioningly at him, and knew the captain of Lorien wanted to know if 
the warriors of Imladris and Mirkwood would be accompanying his war 
party on a long journey south. He caught Langcyll’s eye, and the other 
captain nodded, turning to the warriors, “My friends, as you know the 
warriors of Imladris, Mirkwood, and Lorien expect to depart soon. Now 
there is a decision to be made.”

The other elves ceased working and looked at him expectantly, with 
expressions ranging from curiosity to apprehension. Langcyll went on, 
“The battle and the…losses of our fellow warriors have reduced the 
ranks of Lorien’s warriors. They must send their patrols out to 
protect their lands, but also their borders here at home must be 
protected. Because of this, Lord Haldir has asked that the warriors of 
Imladris and Mirkwood join the party he is assembling to ride south in 
pursuit of the creatures of Mordor.”

Glorfindel took in the reactions of his company. Many of the warriors 
exchanged glances, trying to gauge each other’s feelings on the 
subject. Several looked speculative, others doubtful, but 
Legolas…*Legolas looks as though he has been praying for just such a 
reprieve.* Glorfindel mentally shook his head. *You cannot evade your 
father forever, young prince, and it is foolish to try. Thank the 
Valar I spoke to Langcyll when I did.*

But to Glorfindel’s surprise, it was Galithil who spoke first, “We 
have only been abroad for a few years, in spite of the number of orcs. 
And their scourge will never vanish if we do not fight.”

Slowly, Faron nodded, “I agree.”

The rest of the warriors began nodding as well. Langcyll and 
Glorfindel exchanged looks, then Glorfindel turned to Haldir, “Then we 
are agreed. The forces of Mirkwood and Imladris will ride south with 
Lorien.”

***

Legolas was dismayed to discover that Limloeth would not yet be 
released by the healers to return to her duties before the company 
departed. She would be remaining behind, but Orthelian would be riding 
with the company. Legolas could see that his sister was deeply grieved 
by what promised to be a long separation from both her husband and her 
youngest brother, though she hid it well enough in public.

Dawn broke on the morning the company was to depart with unexpected 
beauty, the sun’s first rays sparkling off the frost that covered the 
grass and golden leaves, turning the frozen mist drifting in the air 
to a veil of diamonds among the branches. Though Legolas knew it was 
just as cold here as some of the winters he had endured in the 
mountains, for some reason he did not feel so chilled in this place. 
*I will be sorry to leave it.*

The company had assembled their horses in the clearing at the center 
of Caras Galadhon, and many of the Galadhrim watched from the trees 
and on the ground as they prepared to ride. Haldir was now at the 
front with Glorfindel and Langcyll as leader of the Lorien warriors. 
Several elves of Lorien were riding with them, including Haldir, 
Rumil, Maethor, and Orthelian. Legolas stood aside as Orthelian made 
his farewell to Limloeth, but found himself feeling twinges of 
jealousy at suddenly having to share his only sister‘s attention.

“Would that I were fully healed,” he could hear her murmuring, her 
forehead pressed against Orthelian’s.

“We must not dwell upon what cannot be, my dearest,” Orthelian 
replied, brushing his hand over Limloeth’s dark hair.

Limloeth was struggling to hold back tears, “You will be gone so long. 
There has been so little time since we wed and if you should not 
return--”

“Hush. You mustn’t have such thoughts, Limloeth,” Orthelian stepped 
back and gathered his wife’s hands in his, his gray eyes hard with 
conviction. “I shall return to you. Your brother and I shall ride 
together, and we shall both return. Even fifty years is but a twinkle 
to us.”

Raising her eyes to the sunlight beaming down through the gold and 
silver branches, the princess of Mirkwood sighed, “Perhaps it seems so 
to you, my brave-hearted warrior, but to me the time you spend away on 
your missions is twice as long as the longest moment when you are with 
me.”

“You are a warrior as well, my love.”

“And I am your wife. Either way, my place is at your side.”

“Not this trip. Come, my beloved, let us not part with sorrow. And you 
must still say your goodbye to our brother.”

Valiantly recovering herself, Limloeth came to Lanthir’s side where 
Legolas had been discreetly waiting. With a deep sigh, she stared at 
him, “And now I must let you go yet again. Ai, Legolas, whyever did I 
encourage you to become a warrior?”

Legolas had to grin, “I could not let you and my eldest brother have 
all the glory in the family, Lim. But do not despair, I have taken 
care of myself up until now, and I will carry on just the same. It is 
as Orthelian said, nothing shall reach us when we ride together.”

Urgently, his sister gripped his arms, “Protect each other, Legolas. 
You must both return to me; I could not bear to lose you too--” she 
broke off, her voice failing. Legolas did not speak, but merely 
crushed Limloeth to him. Limloeth had been the first of the royal 
family to learn of the deaths of three of their siblings in the 
fateful orc ambush, and Legolas knew how the thought of such a thing 
happening again terrified her. *If ever there was a particular reason 
to guard my hide, that is it. And also Orthelian. I must not allow 
Limloeth to lose another one she loves.*

The order had come to mount up. Legolas kissed his sister’s cheeks 
swiftly, embraced her one last time, then mounted Lanthir. Limloeth 
rushed to clasp Orthelian and kissed the Lorien captain passionately 
before stepping back from the company. Then Orthelian mounted as well, 
just ahead of Legolas, and the last remaining warriors bade farewell 
to their friends and loved ones.

As the company prepared to ride, Legolas saw Lord Celeborn and Lady 
Galadriel standing on one of the footbridges over the creek. Lowering 
the hood of her white winter cloak, Galadriel raised her hand in 
farewell, her eyes touching each of the warriors in turn. Legolas held 
his breath for that brief eternity when her gaze rested upon him. *I 
wonder, will there ever be a day when the mere sight of the Lady 
Galadriel does not render me immobile?*

He was jerked out of his reverie when Haldir gave the command to ride, 
and saw Faron--at his side as always--also blinking himself back to 
reality. The two young warriors grinned knowingly at each other as 
they rode in the formation over the bridge to the gates of Caras 
Galadhon. Just as the company passed through the gates, the prince of 
Mirkwood heard that unforgettable voice in his mind again.

*Farewell, Legolas of Mirkwood. We shall meet again.*

Instinctively, Legolas twisted around in the saddle and was just able 
to see Galadriel, her piercing eyes focused upon him. In his mind, he 
heard her say, *Remember the Mirror, Legolas. Remember that which I 
told you. Remember.*

Then the company followed the trail around a bend into the trees, and 
she was gone.

***

Several weeks later…

The company had made camp along the banks of the great Anduin. Legolas 
and Faron stood with several of the other elves, laughing as the 
horses played in the river. “We still have yet to finish our race, 
Legolas,” Elrohir said to him, smiling slyly.

“By the Valar, do not start that again!” groaned Elunen. “Last time, 
you two brought bad luck upon us with your antics.”

“We certainly did not cause the orc raid on the plains,” Legolas 
protested defensively.

“Well, perhaps YOU did to avoid the fact that Elrohir was winning!” 

“Go hatch a dragon egg, Faron, you could not outride a hobbit!”

“Why you yellow-haired, scruffy-looking--”

“Who’s scruffy-looking?!”

“Peace, young ones!” Glorfindel ordered, as the other captains 
laughed. “There will be no racing again; we have enough troubles 
without worrying about lame horses or reckless riders getting 
themselves injured.”

“We are not reckless!” Elrohir and Legolas exclaimed simultaneously, 
causing a roar of laughter from the entire company.

Shaking his head and wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Langcyll 
said firmly, “Enough of this silly competition. Those of you not on 
watch, either eat or get some rest. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

“A messenger comes!” shouted Rumil from where he was standing watch 
with Orthelian.

The rest of the elves rose to see a small company of riders coming 
down the plain just above the bank of the Anduin. Legolas moved to 
stand beside Haldir and Langcyll at the front of the group, “The 
messenger bears the flag of Imladris.”

Faron, Elladan, and Elrohir hurried to the front, and Legolas and the 
others gave way for them. “I hope they do not bear ill tidings,” 
murmured Glorfindel.

“I think not; I see no pain in their faces,” Haldir observed as the 
messanger and his escorts drew closer. “Urgency, yes, but not sorrow. 
The message is something else.”

It did not take the courier long to reach the company. Despite 
Haldir’s assurances, the elves were tense nonetheless, wondering what 
would have brought a message from Rivendell all the way out here with 
such haste. Legolas did not know any of the couriers. The 
message-bearer dismounted and bowed to the captains, “My greetings, 
warriors. I bear a message from Lord Elrond to his sons, Lords Elladan 
and Elrohir.”

Elladan stepped forward and took the proferred scroll, then he and 
Elrohir stepped aside to read it. To the relief of all, no distress 
showed in their faces, though they did appear puzzled. The envoy of 
Imladris waited. After a moment, looking regretful, the sons of Elrond 
rejoined the others. “I fear this company must journey on without us, 
Glorfindel. Our father has ordered us home.”

Glorfindel frowned. “Did he give a reason?”

“He did, but not one that we are at liberty to share,” Elrohir sighed, 
then smiled ruefully at the group. “We must depart at once with the 
envoy.”

Dismayed by the unexpected separation , the warriors quickly said 
their farewells. Elrohir clasped Legolas’s arm firmly, “I fear we 
shall have to wait to test the prowess of our mounts, Legolas.”

“Safe journey, my friend,” Legolas replied sadly. “I pray that all is 
well with the House of Elrond.”

“Well, yes,” Elladan assured him. “It is merely a matter that requires 
our presence. I shall miss you, Legolas of Mirkwood. Be well, Faron. 
Take care of yourselves, both of you. Until we meet again.”

“Until then,” Faron said solemnly.

With that, Elladan and Elrohir mounted and rode away with the envoy of 
Imladris. Elrohir took the scroll from his twin, digesting their 
father’s message. “‘The heir of Isildur,’ he says. Why would a Lady of 
Gondor bring him to Rivendell?”

“I know not, my brother, but I suspect we shall soon find out.”

“How soon will we home?” Elrohir asked the leader of the guard.

“Less than three months, my lord, if we ride hard.”

“Let us ride hard then. I am eager to meet our father’s newest 
guests.”

Back at the company’s camp, many of the warriors were also speculating 
as to their own road. “We are to ride all the way to the crossings of 
Poros,” Orthelian was telling Legolas and several of the others.

Galithil shuddered, “I have heard many tales of Emyn Muil and the Dead 
Marshes, none of them pleasant.”

“We shall travel on the west side of the Anduin until we are south of 
Nindalf,” Langcyll told her. “Then we will cross over into North 
Ithilien.”

Frowning, Legolas remarked, “Surely we cannot expect to do much harm 
to the forces of Mordor that close to their own land.”

“That much is certain,” Glorfindel agreed, coming to sit beside them 
where they had built a fire on the riverbank to drive out the winter’s 
chill.

“Then what is our purpose?” Faron asked in confusion.

His breath a soft fog against the gray winter sky, Haldir replied, “We 
gauge the strength of the Enemy, young one. And though we cannot 
single-handedly fight the forces of Mordor back over the Mountains of 
Shadow, the very presence of elves is repellant to them. Come, Faron, 
you have seen the power of Galadriel, and Lord Elrond. It is not 
merely by strength of arrows and swords that our lands shall remain 
free. We elves in ourselves have the power of spirit to drive evil 
back.”

The group was encouraged by his words, but just the same, Legolas idly 
sketched a map into the sand of the riverbank with his finger. 
“Through Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes,” he murmured. 

“And that is even before we try to pass through Ithilien,” Galithil 
observed.

Tracing a line down the sand-map, Legolas pulled his mouth to one 
side, “We shall be gone a very long time if we follow this path.”

Looking at the prince’s rough drawing, Haldir nodded grimly, “That is 
our road.”

***

Two years later…

“Naldin, son of Oín, welcome home!” Daín, king under the mountain, 
announced as the company of Naldin and Sothi entered the great hall. 
Turning to one of the attendants, the dwarf king ordered, “Send for 
Oín and Dwalin at once, and inform all my folk that the company of 
Naldin and Sothi have returned at last!”

Naldin and Sothi bowed to the dwarf king and the rest of the company 
made their greetings. “Well, well, come in, be seated! I expect you’ve 
many tidings for us! It won’t take long to fetch the rest of our 
people here, not when they here you’ve finally made it back! We were 
beginning to think you’d all been lost!”

“It was quite a journey, my lord,” Shaín said with feeling, and many 
of the other dwarves laughed.

A great feast was prepared to celebrate the homecoming, and as Daín 
had predicted, it did not take long for nearly all the dwarves of 
Lonely Mountain to assemble in the Great Hall. When Naldin and Sothi 
declared that Moria was vulnerable to be taken again by the dwarves, a 
great cheer went up. “There!” Balin, son of Fundin, shouted over the 
cries, clapping Daín on the back. “Nothing can stop us from taking 
back what is ours! Come, my friend, you must give me your permission 
to lead a force of our people back to reclaim our old realm!”

Glóin, son of Gróin, rose hesitantly. “Is that a wise choice just now, 
Balin? We’ve only just established a stronghold here in Lonely 
Mountain; it will take much of our strength in guards to secure Moria 
again.”

Then Oín also rose, “I do not think we need deplete our strength here, 
Glóin. I will go with Balin, and only those of our people who wish to 
fight for our oldest and greatest realm need come. And we will not 
take so many that Daín and Lonely Mountain are left unprotected.”

“How many, do you think, will be needed?” asked Daín thoughtfully.

Stroking his beard, Naldin mused, “Perhaps if we take a well-seasoned 
force, with the proper leaders, we will not need quite so many. Ours 
was a company of only twelve but we took on many orc marauders without 
losing a single one of our number.”

“Aye!” Shaín rose and thumped the table with his ale mug. “And what 
better leaders could be needed than Balin and Oín together? Two of the 
famed company of Thorin Oakenshield himself! They alone will send half 
the orcs in Middle Earth fleeing in terror!” A great roar of laughter 
and approval supported his words, echoing through the great stone hall 
along with the banging of many metal mugs--and the splashing of ale.

Ori, another of Thorin’s folk, rose then and declared, “I, too, shall 
join this quest!” 

Over the shouts of encouragement, Daín stood, still looking doubtful. 
“The orcs of Moria may not have thought it worth their while to 
challenge your entry too much, Naldin. I worry that once they discover 
your intentions of retaking Moria, they will fight with all their 
strength. And remember, there are older and fouler things than orcs in 
the deep places of the world.”

The long stone tables grew quiet again, and many nervous glances were 
exchanged. Slowly, Balin stood once again and said resolutely, “My 
lord Daín, I intend to try. It is sickening to think of the wonder of 
the Northern world inhabited by the foul beasts of Sauron. Come, Daín, 
we have not trained and prepared all this time for naught. Give us 
leave and we will make plans for a great quest. We will carry with us 
new armaments and as large a force as Lonely Mountain can spare. The 
doors of Khazad-dum will again be opened to us.” Oín and Ori also 
rose, silently backing Balin’s request. 

The great stone hall was silent as Daín sat back in his stone chair at 
the head of the table, musing quietly. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to 
meet each of theirs in turn, and slowly nodded. “If you are so 
determined, then I will not deny permission.”

All the dwarves of Lonely Mountain rose to their feet in thunderous 
cheers of triumph, many shouting their allegiances to Daín and Balin. 
Then Daín raised his hands to quiet them, “But, as you say, we must 
first make plans. I will not permit any of my folk to embark on a 
hasty quest without being fully prepared.” The other dwarves nodded 
quickly, and Daín sat back down, satisfied. “Come, then, let us finish 
our feasting and tomorrow we will begin preparing for this great 
quest.” With a slight sigh, he added, “I hope you know what you’re 
doing.”

***

Six years later… 

Legolas scowled up at the blazing sun and wiped sweat and sand from 
his face. *I am beginning to miss winter in the mountains,* he 
thought.

The trip through Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes had been as bad as his 
elders had predicted. The landscape was terrible enough in itself. As 
the company had moved further south, the plains had become starker, 
drier, with hardly a tree to be found. Emyn Muil had been an endless 
labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks, hard on the elves, agonizing for the 
horses. Alone and walking (and not hunting) the company might have 
made it through in a few months, but leading horses and seeking orcs, 
it had taken them nearly two years just to cross that seemingly-small 
stretch of terrain.

Nearly all of the horses had fallen lame at one point or another 
during the crossing--in fact, only Lanthir had managed to escape both 
falling on the treacherous ground or cutting his hooves on the rocks, 
for which Legolas was very relieved. The company had rejoiced when at 
last they had reached the Falls of Rauros, but their elation had been 
short-lived. No sooner had they passed over the last of those forlorn 
hills than they were set upon by a massive band of orcs and wargs.

Three of the company had been slain. Fanfirith, Nathron, and Glanaur, 
of the original company that had departed Mirkwood eleven years before 
would now never return. The company had faced a great dilemma then, of 
whether to continue on in spite of their decreased numbers--not to 
mention grief--or to turn back for home. After much consideration, 
they had decided to keep going. 

That had been three years before. They had reached the mouths of 
Entwash just in time for the summer rains, and the many small streams 
flowing into the Anduin had overflowed their banks, trapping the 
company for six months with their backs to Emyn Muil until the water 
went back down and the land dried enough to pass over. It had still 
been a bitterly muddy trip, and the weather had turned cold before 
they were over the floodplain, making the situation still more 
unpleasant.

Now, the company stood on the banks of the Anduin looking over at Cair 
Andros, the place where the river split in two, becoming narrow enough 
for the company to cross over. The sandy islet in the center was 
dotted with a few trees, and would be just large enough for the 
company to rest their horses before swimming them the rest of the way 
across. 

Beside Legolas, Faron was splashing water on his face, equally unused 
to such heat. “How soon do Langcyll and Glorfindel want us to finish 
this crossing?” his friend asked.

“Soon,” Legolas replied, seeing the two captains down near the water, 
trying to gauge its depth and speed. Raising his eyes to the opposite 
side of the river, the prince could just make out the shadow on the 
horizon that was the Ephel Duath range, the Mountains of Shadow, 
beyond which lay the land of Mordor. In spite of the sticky heat, he 
felt a shiver run down his spine. 

Glorfindel happened to glance back and see the two youngest warriors 
watching him. He walked back up the sand to join them and gaze out at 
the distant mountains. “A foreboding sight,” he remarked.

The two nodded. Turning to Glorfindel, Legolas asked, “How far are we 
from Minas Tirith?”

Glorfindel walked toward the south, just past the trees, and pointed 
downriver. “The river bends, but we are almost directly north of the 
White City of Gondor. When we cross the river, we will be in North 
Ithilien. We will pass almost directly between Minas Tirith and Minas 
Morgul.” 

Faron wrinkled his nose, “We are well into Gondor, but we have hardly 
seen any men.”

It was true, aside from a few scouts of Gondor and riding patrols of 
Rohan, the company of elves had encountered very few of this land’s 
native inhabitants. Glorfindel, Langcyll, and Haldir, on the other 
hand, had not seemed surprised. “The beasts of Sauron grew stronger 
with the shadow and overran this area long ago. Ithilien was once one 
of the fairest provinces of Gondor, but men will no longer venture 
there. You shall soon see why. We will cross the river here before 
reaching some of the most populous of Gondor’s lands, otherwise we 
might see more men as we drew closer to Minas Tirith. Even so, most 
common men are wary of elves.”

Startled, Legolas looked at him. “Why?”

“We are strange to them, Legolas; men and elves do not interact as we 
once did.” With a slight smirk, Glorfindel added, “They are as wary of 
us as…some of us are of dwarves.” Legolas managed not to roll his eyes 
in disgust. *Will they ever cease goading me on the subject of 
dwarves?!*

Just then, Haldir and Orthelian joined them. “Langcyll thinks the 
horses are ready to continue,” said Haldir. “And I would like to be on 
the opposite bank well before sundown.”

With a brisk nod, Glorfindel called for the company to prepare to swim 
the horses across the last part of the river. It was the first 
merriment the warriors had enjoyed since before they crossed Emyn 
Muil. To effectively get both the horses and their supplies to the 
opposite bank, each rider packed their horse with what could be 
carried, then swam along side it. 

Some had more trouble than others. “You wood elves should rename 
yourselves fish elves!” declared Faron as they crossed. It seemed that 
the two remaining elves of Imladris had the most difficulty with the 
swim.

Legolas and Orthelian, well ahead of him beside their horses, laughed 
as they stroked neatly through the water, their grip on the horses’ 
reins and their own supplies causing them no hindrance. “Poor little 
mountain elf,” Orthelian said loudly to Legolas, his breathing only 
slightly labored. “If he’s not on a horse, he’s lost!”

The curse that Faron was about to bestow upon Legolas’s brother-in-law 
was lost as a small wave broke over his head, and Legolas and 
Orthelian instead heard sputtering and gurgling that caused renewed 
laughter all around. Just ahead of them, Haldir and Langcyll gained 
the riverbank and turned back to assist the rest of the company from 
the water. “Is everyone faring all right?” Langcyll asked Legolas, 
giving him a hand out of the river.

“I fear Faron and Glorfindel are in danger of drowning,” Orthelian 
spoke up, and Langcyll grinned knowingly at Haldir. 

Wringing water from his hair, Legolas grimaced, “I suppose we must 
build fires to dry everything off.” 

“I fear so,” Haldir told him, “and it must be done before sunset so 
the fires do not attract orcs.”

“See to it, Legolas, Orthelian,” Langcyll ordered. Pulling faces at 
each other, the two did as they were bade, though not relishing the 
thought of adding more heat to this summer afternoon.

Once the fires had been lit, and the company was setting about getting 
their supplies dried, Legolas was certain he could feel steam rising 
from the clothes on his back. Noticing the prince’s discomfort, Rumil 
grinned at him, “Just think, Legolas, we’ve still another two or three 
years of travel south at least.” He was rewarded by numerous groans 
from the younger elves.

“Ai, I had forgotten how much I disliked the southern summers,” 
Glorfindel said, fanning his face and swatting at biting insects. 

“And Rumil is right; this is nothing,” Langcyll agreed. “Remember the 
trip to Harad during the First Age?”

Glorfindel winced as though the thought had made him physically 
hotter, “How could I forget? Ai, what a vicious journey that was. He 
speaks the truth, my friends, this is nothing compared to Harad. 
During the summer there, the sun beats down so that movement is 
impossible during the day. The land is a sea of blazing hot sand with 
no trees and only a few hidden lakes, closely guarded. Every drop of 
water is precious, and the only shelter is in tents. Even there, the 
heat is so great that it seems impossible to breathe and--”

By now, every elf in the company was cringing in horror. “May Harad be 
one land I never explore,” Legolas said fervently, closing his eyes in 
a mock-prayer. The others laughed.

“Fear not, Legolas, we will still be well north of Harad when we turn 
for home,” Orthelian assured him, grinning. The elder elf gestured up 
the riverbank, “Up there is North Ithilien, that we will pass through 
beginning tomorrow.”

Curiously, Legolas, Faron, and Galithil left the fires and climbed to 
the top of the bank. The Mountains of Shadow seemed much closer now, 
but it was the nearer land that caught the prince of Mirkwood’s 
interest. The gently rolling hills and fields and patches of forest 
struck Legolas with a sensation of great fairness, though it was clear 
that a sickness had taken this land. Everything seemed tinged with 
gray, and the black mountains held a definite aura of doom about them. 
The shadow of Sauron had taken this place, but somehow the land of 
Ithilien seemed to be stubbornly surviving beneath its cloud, refusing 
to die out completely. Though they appeared gaunt and gray, the trees 
lived, and though wilted and sick in appearance, the grasses still 
grew. 

Sensing several of the other elves also joining him atop the 
riverbank, Legolas murmured, “The land of Ithilien has great 
resilience if Sauron’s shadow has not managed to destroy all life here 
after all this time. I think when the shadow of evil has gone, 
Ithilien will be a fair land again.”

***

Far away, unbeknownst to the company, the Lady Galadriel stood alone 
before her Mirror, gazing upon things that are. Specifically, she was 
watching them even as they embarked on the renewed journey south 
through Ithilien. The power of the Lady Galadriel is great, and she 
clearly heard the words of Legolas. With a knowing smile, she 
whispered, “You are wise beyond your years, young prince of Mirkwood. 
You see life and hope where others see only shadow. The Eldar are 
fading, but your time is just beginning.”

***

Seven years later…

“And here our journey ends,” declared Langcyll, pointing to the bridge 
spanning the narrow, fast-moving river before them. But the company 
was not to cross.

“The first half of it anyway,” sighed Rumil, gazing at the dark 
mountains to the east. 

Facing north again, Maethor of Lorien nodded, “Now we must cover all 
that ground yet again before we reach home.”

Turning his gaze from the rather dry, gray, cracked ground around 
them, Legolas asked absently, “Which?”

Looking over at him, Elunen blinked, “Which what?”

“We’ve warriors among us from Imladris, Lorien, and Mirkwood. Which of 
our realms shall we return to first?” Legolas elaborated.

Apparently, the question had not occurred to the other members of the 
company (though it had begun to occupy Legolas’s mind in recent weeks, 
as they drew closer to the place where they would turn back.) 
Thoughtfully, Haldir said, “Your people, Langcyll, have been abroad 
from your homes longer than the warriors of Lorien or Imladris. We 
will gladly accompany you to Mirkwood.”

For a split-second, Langcyll seemed to hesitate, thoughts running 
behind his eyes to swiftly for the rest of the company to read. Then 
his eyes seemed to rest upon Glorfindel when he said, “Very well, if 
our western kindred would be willing to travel home with us, Mirkwood 
would be happy to receive you.”

“Then it’s agreed,” said Glorfindel, rather briskly, as though a 
conflict had been avoided. What he meant by that, none of the others 
knew.

Galithil sighed dramatically as the company remounted their horses and 
turned away from the Crossings of Poros. “I shall be so glad to return 
home.”

“Is this the longest mission you have taken yet?” asked Faron.

“By the time we reach Mirkwood, it will be,” she replied. “Up until 
now I have kept homesickness at bay, but I fear it will attack with a 
new vengeance during these long years of travel still ahead.” Seeing 
the smiles of the elder warriors, she grinned, “I suppose I am still 
unaccustomed to being far from home.”

Maethor rode up beside them, “Be not ashamed, young Galithil, for 
there is not a one among us who does not long for home and family at 
some point of the trip. Sometimes even the shortest journeys seem to 
last forever.”

“Your father Eregdos was on the Lonely Mountain mission,” remarked 
Elunen. “I wonder how that went?”

“I know not, but I will be eager to hear the tales of those who were 
in Mirkwood while we were gone,” Galithil replied.

“I will simply be eager to sleep in a bed again,” sighed Faron, and 
the others laughed. “I miss beds more than anything else when we are 
abroad in the land.”

Laughing, Galithil said, “I miss feasts and games. At times it seems 
so hard to find merriment out here. And you, Legolas, what do you miss 
most?”

Thoughtfully, Legolas considered for a moment. “I miss books,” he said 
at last. “It is impossible to carry a book on a war party, and I 
cannot count the times I’ve longed for something to read.”

“Ai, I am of your mind, Legolas,” said Maethor, and several of the 
others nodded in agreement. “I miss books so much that I would read 
dwarvish.” Everyone laughed.

“And I miss the sound of the wind in tall trees. It has been fifteen 
years since we departed Lorien. We have not passed through anything 
resembling a forest.”

“I miss the light of our dwellings at night.”

“And I miss hearing the songs of our people.”

“Not to mention our families.”

***

Sixteen years later (thirty-four years after the war party of Langcyll 
left Mirkwood)…

“Shh! Don’t drop it, Faron!”

“Watch your step, Galithil!”

“Both of you, hush! You’ll wake him!”

(Giggle!) “This will be good!”

(Snicker!) “Are you ready, Langcyll?”

“Wait! Orthelian?”

“Hold on…hold on…” 

(Giggle!) “Shh!” (Snort!) “Faron!”

“That was not me!” 

“Shhhh!”

“Got it!” 

“How by any holy did you manage it, Orthelian? Legolas sleeps more 
lightly than any of us!”

“Only a member of his own kin could steal both his knives without 
waking him.”

“Pfft, do not expect me to believe that, Lorien. What did you do, slip 
olgalas in his water skin last night?”

“Of course, I had no intention of getting myself stabbed just for this 
little escapade!” (Chuckle! Giggle!)

“Are you ready now?”

“All is ready! One…two…three!”

“LEGOLAS!!!” Splash!!

“Wha--” Legolas flew right out of his bedroll with a shout of alarm as 
a bucket of water was dumped over his head. Blinded by water in his 
eyes, the prince’s hands flew for his knives--which were not there. 
Leaping to his feet, he found himself soaking wet, facing the entire 
company--all of whom were helpless with laughter. Wiping his eyes in 
astonishment, Legolas demanded, “What is the meaning of this?!”

Doubled over and clinging to Galithil for support, Faron gasped, “Did 
you forget what day it is?”

Legolas just blinked in confusion, and several of the elves burst into 
song--commemorating the coming of age. At last, the prince’s memory 
caught up with him, and he groaned. Although his second coming of age 
had been recognized officially at the Gathering thirty-four years ago, 
today was the true date of his birth, and now he was both officially 
and literally an adult elf. “I had forgotten,” he admitted sheepishly, 
shaking his wet head, “but obviously someone here did not.”

Shaking with laughter, Langcyll informed his youngest warrior, “Very 
few of us forgot, and we have been planning this since we turned north 
again at the Crossings of Poros.”

Legolas groaned again, and the elves just laughed harder. Before he 
could make his escape, he was bodily hauled to the roaring campfire 
where an unusually lavish meal was handed out in celebration. “Where 
did you get all this?” Legolas demanded, though he did not turn down a 
slice of fresh bread.

Grinning at the prince, Haldir replied, “Recall you the patrol from 
Lorien we encountered last week? They were more than happy to spare us 
some of their finer rations to in honor the last prince of Mirkwood’s 
Second Coming of Age.” Legolas shook his head and grinned, embarrassed 
at being the center of the company’s attention.

“Here, Legolas,” Faron and Galithil sat on either side of him and 
handed him a small, handsome wooden box. “From the both of us.”

Legolas took the gift but eyed his friends suspiciously, “Knowing the 
both of you, I would not put it past you to rig this thing to 
explode.” They both giggled, but motioned vigorously for him to open 
it. Cautiously, Legolas lifted the top off. His breath caught.

It was a book. “Where…where did you…”

“We bartered a cloak for it when we passed through that village back 
in Gondor, north of Minas Tirith,” said Faron, grinning at his 
friend’s stunned face. “We bound it up in a thick sack to keep it 
safe, and it will survive in its box during what remains of the trip 
back to Mirkwood. We were not certain if it was one you had read 
before, but Galithil did not think it would matter to you if you had.”

“It most certainly would not,” laughed Legolas. “I think I have 
forgotten how to read!” As the others laughed, he opened the book to 
its first pages. It was written in Westron. “It is a legend of 
Numenor,” he translated. “I have not read this one before.”

Langcyll grinned at him, “Now at last you will not be volunteering for 
every watch!”

Orthelian playfully shouldered Galithil aside so he could sit next to 
his brother-in-law and hand him a wrapped parcel. “Limloeth gave me 
this for you in case we were not returned in time for your coming of 
age.”

Curiously, Legolas opened the parcel and found a set of handsome 
leather wrist guards similar to those worn by all the elven archers, 
including himself, though these looked better made than his own. 
Impressed, Legolas tried them on and found that they fit his arms 
perfectly. Raising questioning eyes to Orthelian, his kinsman said, 
“They belonged to your brother Tavron. He left them to any younger 
brother of his who might become a warrior. Limloeth kept them for 
you.”

Legolas felt his throat close up and his eyes began to sting. He could 
only manage a quick smile at Orthelian before Galithil said loudly, 
“And, we also have some wine, courtesy of our friends the Lorien 
patrol!”

The skin was passed around and Legolas took a rather large gulp. 
“Don’t get drunk,” Faron warned. 

Legolas passed the skin on and shot his friend a withering look, then 
reached over and picked up his new book. “Now we will not get a word 
out of him until he has finished that thing,” observed Orthelian.

Nodding, Legolas replied drolly, “At least twice.” The others laughed, 
but a sound beyond the cheerful noises made Legolas freeze. He raised 
his eyes, listening for a second, then sighed and closed the book, 
popping it back into its box. “Orcs.”

“To arms!” shouted Haldir, and the company leaped to their feet. 

“Well done, Legolas,” Langcyll said as they yanked their bows from 
their saddlebags and slung on their quivers. “You heard them even 
before the watchers did.”

“It must be my coming of age,” Legolas answered facetiously. He looked 
up at the stars. “This fight will be short. The sun will be up in an 
hour.”

“All the same, take care. We are too close to home for losing anyone 
to be conscionable.”

“Is losing anyone ever conscionable?” 

“Pipe down, young prince, and make ready to fight,” Langcyll briskly 
gripped Legolas’s shoulder as they ran to join the rest of the group 
near the fire. “Here they come!”

***

As Legolas had predicted, the battle was short-lived. There were only 
about thirty orcs, and the party of ten seasoned elven warriors was 
more than enough to finish them off. As Legolas retrieved his arrows 
from various orc corpses, he thought, *This reminded me of that first 
night after we departed Mirkwood. The fight tonight was almost as 
one-sided.*

He turned his face to the east as the sky began to lighten, and his 
breath caught upon seeing a shadow on the horizon. He stood where he 
was, transfixed, as the sun rose higher, and the shapeless darkness in 
the distance suddenly took form--trees. Many, many, tall, dark trees. 
Faron walked over to Legolas’s side, gazing at the great wood barely 
three days’ ride away. “Mirkwood,” Legolas said softly.

“You will be home soon, Legolas.”

“Yes,” the prince murmured absently. “Home.”

*Oh Tathar…*

*****

Oh boy, oh boy, when I said fast forward, I meant FAST FORWARD!! So 
they’re almost to Mirkwood…we all know that one meeting in the royal 
family ain’t gonna be pretty! To anyone who missed it, it is now 
thirty-four years since Legolas first left Mirkwood. And it’s been 
thirty-one years since Legolas last bumped into King Thranduil. So now 
Legolas and Thranduil meet again, and more excitement coming up in…

Chapter Seventeen: All Things Must Change



Three days later…

The company reached the borders of Mirkwood with little fanfare; there 
were few elves living that far out. The warriors rode with an almost 
reverent silence under the forest’s dark canopy, barely able to see 
the sun peeking through the leaves far above them. But there was no 
mistaking the way the song of the trees changed as the company rode 
through; all the elves heard the sound of rejoicing in the forest’s 
voice.

Faron, riding at his friend’s side as always, grinned knowingly at 
Legolas, “The son of Mirkwood has returned.”

Legolas said nothing, just smiled back at him. In his mind, he 
thought, *Would that the son of Mirkwood could be as unconditionally 
glad of his return as the trees. At least this is a happy reunion.* 
Absently, he brushed a hand along the dark bole of a tree as he passed 
it, then smiled to himself. As often as he had tried to deny it during 
the trip, there had been many times he had felt painfully homesick. 
*You being one of the chief reasons,* he told the trees.

Legolas had had his misgivings as the company drew nearer to Mirkwood, 
but now there was no evading the reunions that would take place, and 
he was simply anxious to see his home again. Lanthir seemed to be of 
the same mind, and the horse’s strides beneath his rider were becoming 
restless. Just ahead of him, Glorfindel and Orthelian took notice and 
grinned. “Let us pick up the pace, Langcyll,” said Glorfindel. “I 
believe some of our company are growing anxious to return home.”

From the front of the company, Langcyll looked back over his shoulder 
at them and smiled faintly. “If we ride hard, we can reach the king’s 
halls in two days.”

In spite of himself, Legolas felt a shudder run down his spine at the 
mention of the king. *Still, there is no avoiding it now, and I’ve 
more than just my father to see at home. I have not seen my brothers 
or Eirien or my friends in a third of a century.* Aloud, he said, “The 
horses seem willing enough.”

Several of the others chuckled at him, and Langcyll turned to face the 
front, raising the flag of Mirkwood, “Let us fly then!”

***

Two days later…

The company’s passage by the first elven dwellings had spread the word 
of their return, and by the time they drew near to the elven king’s 
fortress, a great escort had grown, shouting and cheering in welcome. 
They were but a few miles from the palace when Haldir and Glorfindel 
and the other neighboring captains suddenly gave way, and turned to 
Legolas. “My lord,” Glorfindel startled him by saying. “It is fitting 
for you to ride at Langcyll’s side when you return.”

Legolas blinked, having not even considered that custom, and not 
entirely pleased by it, but Faron and Galithil began eagerly urging 
him forward, and so with a measure of reluctance, the prince of 
Mirkwood rode up next to Langcyll. A great cry went up from the crowd 
of elves riding and running alongside them when they saw their Prince 
take his place at the front of the war party, then the company rode 
on. Legolas wondered if any of his comrades knew how hard his heart 
was pounding.

By the time the war party rounded the last bend and beheld the great 
edifice of King Thranduil’s fortress, the crowd had grown to a throng, 
and hundreds of wood elves were awaiting them. Their banners held high 
(the flag of Mirkwood in front, followed by Lorien and Imladris) the 
company rode through the North Gate to the winding of many horns. As 
was to be expected, the royal party was waiting outside the palace to 
greet them. But nonetheless, Legolas felt his heart lurch at the sight 
of King Thranduil, standing tall and majestic in his spring crown, his 
dark eyes sweeping over the company to settle directly on his son. The 
prince barely heard the shouts of the elves.

“Welcome home, my lord!”

“He is returned, Prince Legolas is returned!”

“The son of our king is truly a warrior!”

The company dismounted and only memory reminded Legolas to hand 
Lanthir’s reins to one of the other elves--his horse looked equally 
startled at suddenly being led by an elf other than his rider. Forcing 
a calm, glad expression, Legolas stood at Langcyll’s side and bowed. 
Then King Thranduil approached.

*He looks older,* Legolas thought. *I have not been gone that long.* 
But it was true, Thranduil did seem to have aged, although this only 
caused his dark eyes and heavy features to appear still more intense. 
The king’s eyes rested upon Legolas for several disconcerting seconds, 
before he turned his gaze to the captain, “Welcome home, Langcyll of 
Mirkwood. Our entire realm rejoices at your company’s return.”

“We are pleased to be home, my lord.”

“Haldir of Lorien, Glorfindel of Imladris, the hospitality and 
gratitude of Mirkwood is yours. We welcome you and your warriors.”

“My duty to you, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and the greetings of the 
Lady Galadriel.”

“And of Lord Elrond of Imladris,” added Glorfindel, with a bow.

The king nodded, then ordered the steward to see to the comfort of 
Mirkwood’s guests, and released the company so that the Mirkwood 
warriors might reunite with their families. “There shall be a feast 
tonight to celebrate your company’s homecoming, Langcyll.”

“We would be honored, my lord.”

Rather briskly, Thranduil said, “I look forward to hearing tales of 
your company’s travels, but now I will not keep you from your 
families.”

“Thank you, my lord. Until tonight,” Langcyll bowed, and the company 
dispersed.

Legolas knew he must go into the palace, but he could not make his 
legs carry him forward. He noticed Langcyll also hesitated, but then 
Glorfindel came up and expressed a desire to meet Langcyll’s family, 
and the archer captain nodded, shooting Legolas a very intense stare 
before departing. *He knows what this homecoming is likely to hold for 
me,* Legolas thought with a mental sigh, and followed the royal party 
into the palace, trying not to look apprehensively at his father. He 
could sense rather than see Thranduil’s eyes upon him, and for a 
moment, the king looked as though he was going to approach Legolas. 
Then he seemed to change his mind, and went to speak to the Steward 
about the evening’s banquet. King and Steward departed through a side 
door and Legolas breathed a heavy mental sigh of combined relief and 
regret.

“Legolas?” 

He was jerked out of his tension when a familiar and very happy voice 
called his name. Startled, Legolas looked up and blinked. “Berensul!”

Laughing in delight, the eldest and youngest sons of Thranduil flung 
themselves into each other’s arms. “Did you think I would not be 
waiting for you?!” demanded Berensul, hugging Legolas until he gasped 
for air. “Ai, how I have missed you!”

“You’re breaking my ribs, brother, leave off! I have thought always of 
you and all our family. Sometimes I missed you so much I thought I 
would go mad!”

“Fah, you were too busy winning glory for Mirkwood, from what I hear,” 
Berensul loosened his grip on Legolas and held him at arm’s length. 
“Look at you, the veteran warrior. I hardly recognize you!”

Raising his eyebrows, Legolas asked, “Is my appearance truly that 
different?”

Thoughtfully, his eldest brother replied, “Nay, not physically. But 
you do seem older. Perhaps more mature. We were wondering how 
different you would seem last week on the day of your birth.” 

Legolas laughed, “So you remembered too.”

“Too?”

Pulling a face, the younger prince explained, “Let us just say my 
company enjoyed great merrymaking at my expense at the crack of dawn 
that morning.”

“Aye, indeed we did!” Orthelian said from behind Legolas.

Berensul let his younger brother go to clasp arms with Limloeth’s 
husband, laughing as he did, “Forgive me, Orthelian, I fear I was 
swept up in the joy of abusing my little brother again.”

“You needn’t apologize, my friend, I know it has been a long time. And 
you will be pleased to learn that we did arrange for some, ah, 
festivities to commemorate our brother’s coming of age,” Orthelian 
said, smiling slyly. “Is that not true, Legolas?”

“More true than you know, and I got very wet.”

Berensul laughed aloud, “Got you, did they? Good, I am glad you were 
celebrated--oh look, even fully of age, you still blush. Haha! In some 
ways, you have not changed, but for that I am glad, little brother.”

“And you have not changed; you still enjoy laughing at me,” Legolas 
said good-naturedly.

The brothers grinned and Berensul went on, “Come, there’s much to 
reaquaint you with. And acquaint you for the first time--Eirien? I 
believe introductions are in order!”

The Crown Princess, just as lovely as Legolas remembered, had been 
watching the exchange between her husband and brother-in-law with an 
amused smile, but at Berensul’s words she beamed and walked out onto 
one of the balconies, calling a name Legolas did not recognize.

At first, Legolas was confused, then his heart all but stopped when he 
saw Berensul’s proud smile and his memory caught up with him. “Oh no…” 
he whispered, a helpless smile coming to his face.

Eirien returned with an elf child in her arms, who looked comparable 
in age to a human around seven years old. “It is high time you were 
introduced to Mirkwood’s newest princess,” Berensul said, his eyes 
shining. “May I present my daughter, and your niece, Silivren.”

For a moment, Legolas could not speak at all, so intense was his 
emotion. *“Glittering”…* It was an appropriate name. The little girl, 
her pale arms around her mother’s neck, twisted to face the stranger 
before her. Her hair was a brilliant, sunny blonde, in natural 
ringlets to her shoulders, and her large eyes were an astonishing 
shade of pale blue, the color of the morning sky. She was only 
twenty-nine, still well-within her toddling years by elven standards, 
but at the same time, she had a definite regal bearing.

At last Legolas found his voice and his delight and pride overcame the 
initial urge to burst into tears. With a broad smile, he bowed deeply 
to the child, and said ceremoniously, “My Lady Silivren, I am honored 
to make your acquaintance.” Orthelian, equally dumbfounded by the 
little girl, followed suit.

Eirien bit her lip to keep from laughing, and Silivren cocked her head 
curiously, as though sizing him up. Keeping her amusement at bay, 
Eirien added, “Silivren, this is your uncle, Prince Legolas, and your 
uncle Prince Orthelian.”

*I am an uncle!* “Would you like to hold her?“ Berensul asked.

“I…yes,” he managed to say. 

Silivren did not squirm or even appear nervous when she was handed to 
Legolas, but looked at his face with large, curious eyes. Eirien 
smiled, “She does speak, but at the moment I suspect she is shy.”

“One of many ways she reminds me of you,” Berensul added. Astonishment 
swept over Legolas again as he held the tiny, perfect little girl in 
his arms. He had always liked children, but had seldom had the chance 
to see or play with them in previous years, for elves did not have as 
many children as humans. (Indeed, by elf standards, Thranduil and 
Minuial had raised a small army.) And this was certainly the first 
time he had been witness to the rearing of a child in his own family. 

Shaking his head and grinning at the child, Legolas said, “Limloeth 
told me Eirien was expecting when I was in Lorien. I am so happy for 
you.”

“She came in time for the birth,” Eirien told them.

Orthelian laughed, “Was she beside herself?”

“I know not,” Berensul chuckled. “I was engaged with my own hysteria 
at the time.” They all laughed.

“You look like me!” Silivren said suddenly. She had been staring at 
her uncle Legolas’s face all this time.

They all laughed. Berensul held out his arms (and Legolas somewhat 
reluctantly handed Silivren over) before saying, “I told Silivren she 
looked like one of her uncles. She could not wait to meet another 
member of the family who was not dark-haired.”

“I can think of no better name than Silivren, except perhaps 
Nimrodel,” Legolas said admiringly. Then he glanced around, “Speaking 
of her other uncles, where is Belhador?”



***



[ My dear brother,

I fear I shall be long since departed by the time you receive this 
letter. I shall regret leaving behind many things in Middle Earth, but 
most of all, that I shall not have the chance to say goodbye to you in 
person. Perhaps chance will let me encounter you on my journey down 
the Anduin. I shall visit Limloeth in Lothlorien on my way to the sea, 
and fate willing, I may yet see you one last time.

I know you will not understand my reasons for leaving. But the 
sea-longing has stirred in my heart, and it will not be silenced by 
any reason or tie to this world. If you are angry at my departure, I 
do not blame you, but please wish me well. I am going to the Undying 
Lands, and in spite of all I have tried, the call of the sea will not 
allow me to tarry. I think one day you will understand my decision, 
but I hope you shall never face it, for it is a painful, and 
ultimately impossible choice.

I pray that this letter finds you safely returned to Mirkwood and our 
family. I have missed you greatly, and my deepest regret is that I 
shall not see you again. I know you have become a great warrior, and I 
believe in the end you shall be the greatest of all our relations. My 
heart shall be with you always.

Be well, Legolas. Forgive me.

Your loving brother,

Belhador.] 



Legolas had to read the letter three times before the meaning of its 
words registered. A feeling of shock and numbness overwhelmed all 
other emotion as he groped for some kind of explanation. Turning to 
Berensul, he managed to say, “And that is all? He just…left?”

Berensul nodded, sitting down in a chair next to Legolas in their 
brother Belhador’s empty chamber. “He departed over the sea, Legolas. 
He had gone West to Eryn Vorn to study the healing arts, and and the 
smell of the sea captured him. I was surprised that he even managed 
the return home long enough to tell us that he wished to leave.”

Legolas was still reeling with disbelief. “He gave up everything, his 
studies, home, our family. All for the sea?”

“The sea longing is not a natural thing, Legolas, you have seen it 
stirred in our kindred before. It would have been cruel to try and 
force him to stay. Be not bitter,” Berensul put a hand on his 
shoulder. “You did not see his discomfort before he departed, but I 
did. The sea-longing is painful, my brother, and its call cannot be 
silenced by any rest or healing draught. He dearly wished to see you 
before he left, but we knew not where Langcyll’s company might be, and 
he could tarry no longer. Believe me, Belhador thought of you, and 
sorrowed at how you would grieve. But he could not stay.”

*He is gone. I shall never see him again.* “I do not understand this 
sea-longing that grips our people. I think it is a curse,” Legolas 
said, trying not to sound resentful. *I have lost my brother. He is 
not dead, but gone. Gone…*

“Perhaps it is, in a way, but it exists. I feared when I heard your 
company was to travel south that you might come too close to the sea, 
and depart without any of us having the chance to say farewell to 
you,” Berensul said.

Legolas looked at his brother in astonishment, “I would never do such 
a thing! How could any elf forsake his family, his friends, his life, 
without a word, simply for the sake of…of this…calling!”

Berensul chuckled sadly, “Belhador did not think you would understand. 
Nay, I am not sure I understand it myself. To understand it is to feel 
it, and I would definitely not chose to test my resolve or yours 
against the sea-longing.”

Legolas looked away, feeling bitter in spite of himself. *I knew I had 
reason to be uncertain about coming home. Now I fear to find out what 
else has changed. I have known for years Mirkwood would never seem the 
same without Tathar, but Belhador…my brother has gone! He has left us 
and I will never see him again!* Rising swiftly to his feet, he 
hurried out of Belhador’s chamber.

Going to his own was not much of an improvement. Nothing had changed. 
Nothing. There was not a speck of dust anywhere, and the windows 
appeared to have been opened every day during fair weather--just as 
Legolas always liked it. Still shaken by the news of Belhador’s 
departure, Legolas now felt simply confused. When so much of the 
outside world had changed, it threw off his mind to find that his own 
rooms had remained exactly as they were when he had left them so long 
ago. The prince sank onto his bed, feeling an almost overwhelming 
desire to cry.

The door opened--he had forgotten to lock it--and Berensul came in. 
Legolas wanted to ask his brother to leave him be, but his voice had 
failed him--for about the fifth time that day. Instead, he looked 
down, both unwilling and unable to meet Berensul’s eyes. His eldest 
brother’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “My first long mission as a 
warrior took me away from home for nearly twenty years,” Berensul said 
quietly. “When I returned and found that the world had turned in my 
absence, I too could not decide whether to laugh or cry.” There was a 
pause, then a faint chuckle, “You look like you are closer to crying.”

Legolas could not restrain a laugh at his brother’s remark, but it 
ended up sounding closer to a sob. Berensul said nothing more, merely 
squeezed his shoulder again. At last regaining some degree of control 
over himself, he murmured, “I knew better than to expect everything to 
remain as it was. Things were changing even before I left.” 

“All things must change, Legolas. It is the way life is.”

***

“Legolas!” Legolas was coming out of the royal chambers when Faron 
came rushing up to him, a wild look in his eyes, with Galithil on his 
heels. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I have only been seeing my brother,” Legolas said in amused 
confusion.

“Well, your kin must spare you for this,” Galithil said, no less 
breathless than Faron. “Guess what news we bring--oh, you never will, 
so we’ll tell you!”

Laughing with near-hysterical excitement, Faron cried, “It seems two 
of our dearest Mirkwood warriors have got themselves wed during out 
absence.”

“What?!” Legolas exclaimed, his melancholy forgotten. “Who?!”

“Merilin, Legolas! She was married only two months ago!” Faron was 
practically jumping up and down.

For a moment, Legolas could only gape. “Merilin? Married? But--to 
whom?!”

***

“Candrochon?!” The empty practice field, well outside the palace in a 
quiet clearing, rang with a sudden shout of astonishment followed by a 
long silence. By elven standards, Merilin and Candrochon were still 
newlyweds. And both they and Faron and Galithil took great delight in 
the utter shock with which Legolas took the news of their union. Once 
he recovered his voice, their friend seized both of them in a 
delighted embrace, “I do not believe it! It is wonderful!”

“Ai, how I wish you had returned in time, Legolas,” said Candrochon. 
“I should have liked you to have stood with me on our wedding day.”

“Believe me, I would have been honored and proud,” Legolas said 
fervently. “But who did, then?”

“Thalatirn, and we were glad of him. Tuilinn stood with Merilin,” 
Candrochon told him, his hand lightly clasping his bride’s. “It was a 
fine day. All we lacked was you, Faron, and--” he broke off quickly.

Legolas nodded, knowing all too well who Candrochon had been about to 
name. He was stubbornly determined that today would be a joyous 
reunion. *You would have been so thrilled at this news--ai, you would 
have been beside yourself. Had we both been here, I think Candrochon 
would have been hard-pressed to decide between us.*

“Come, come,” Merilin broke through his thoughts. “Do not be sad, 
Legolas, not today. There will be time for us all to mourn absent 
friends later. They would have wanted it so.” 

She had read his mind. Legolas grinned, “You’ve not changed, Merilin.”

Candrochon gazed thoughtfully at Legolas, then grinned himself. “You 
have, but not so much as Langcyll seems to think.”

“No?” Legolas asked, surprised. “I feel changed myself…”

“Nay,” Merilin regarded Legolas for a moment, then shook her head. 
“You have gained much experience and many memories, but in essentials 
I think you are very much the same. Your heart and spirit are as good 
and noble as they ever were.”

“Ha! And you still blush!” crowed Candrochon, and the others laughed.

“I know, I have been reminded of that today already.” His friends 
laughed harder.

Galithil was thinking, a small, perplexed frown furrowing her brows, 
“But Langcyll thinks he has changed much?”

Merilin nodded; Langcyll had sought out his fellow warriors at once 
upon returning and had had a long conversation with her and 
Candrochon. Remembering what he had said when she had enquired after 
Legolas, she told the others, “He said Legolas had grown greatly in 
skill and strength--”

“--That at least is true.”

“Peace, Faron. Go on, Merilin.”

Looking speculatively at Legolas, Merilin went on, “He said also that 
you had been forced to harden, for you had seen far more darkness than 
any elf your age ought.”

“Hardened?” That assessment startled Legolas, but then he shrugged 
dismissively. “Very few things turned out as they ought to have done 
on this mission. No warrior anticipates the--things that occur during 
journeys such as that.”

“I think it is Langcyll who has changed the most,” Faron said softly, 
his voice sad.

Merilin and Candrochon raised their eyebrows, and Legolas agreed 
grimly, “He was discouraged from the beginning by how badly the 
mission was going, and by how strong the shadow had grown. But he 
truly has not been the same since…Glanaur fell.”

“One cannot blame him,” said Galithil sadly. “He and his cousin were 
as close as siblings, and Langcyll has been fighting since the First 
Age. He is one who has truly seen his share of darkness.”

Legolas leaned back against the bole of a tree, his eyes downcast, 
taking comfort in the familiar-scented breeze of his home. “Langcyll 
has lost many comrades in his day. Three warriors of his generation 
fell at the border of Lorien thirty-one years ago. All three were his 
friends.”

Merilin winced, “I had forgotten you were in that battle. Orcs have 
attacked the Golden Wood in force twice since then.”

“So we heard,” said Faron. Looking uncomfortably at the others, he 
said softly, “How do you suppose he faces it? Time and time again…he 
has lost so many friends, and many of his own kin. I wonder after so 
much time and so much darkness…how he finds the will to go on?”

A painful silence settled over the training field, and for a long time 
none of them spoke, as though realizing for the first time how little 
sorrow they had truly had to endure. “Ai…” 

***

“I know what you are thinking, Langcyll.”

“Indeed, Glorfindel? I doubt that,” Langcyll, seated alone on a flet 
outside the palace, did not take his eyes off the forest. It did not 
take the wisdom of thousands of years for Glorfindel to see that the 
song of the trees no longer comforted Langcyll as it once had.

*He found no joy in this homecoming. It is as I feared.* “Langcyll, 
you cannot let your heart wither now that you have come home. There 
shall be many other novices--”

Langcyll shook his head suddenly, “Ai, Glorfindel, do you think my 
sorrow is due only to Legolas? Would that it were so, for then I might 
have cause to hope for my recovery. Nay, my friend,” he turned to face 
Glorfindel, and the elf lord winced inwardly. Langcyll’s always-dark 
eyes were shadowed, and the bright, alert sparkle had gone. “What has 
and will transpire with Legolas is but a drop in a great river that 
can no longer be dammed.”

Glorfindel was silent, his heart heavy, as Langcyll turned away again, 
releasing a slow sigh that seemed to come from deep within him. “It is 
too much, Glorfindel. I had only just come of age when the Enemy began 
his first rise to power. I beheld great shadow and sorrow, and saw 
both of my brothers and a nephew slain at Mount Doom, along with 
countless friends. When it was over, my one prayer was that Middle 
Earth would never face such black times again.”

“I remember,” Glorfindel said quietly. “And I recall making just such 
a prayer myself. Alas, fate has its own reasons for what comes to 
pass.”

“My sons departed over the sea just before the last Gathering,” 
Langcyll went on. “Glanaur was the last family I had, here or 
anywhere. And you are right, though I cherished Legolas as utterly as 
my own children…he is not. And now that we are returned, I have no 
call to keep him in my attentions.” His eyes, meeting Glorfindel’s 
again, were utterly without hope. “I have no one, Glorfindel.”

The forest was quiet, even the leaves seemed hushed, as though aware 
of the fading of one of its people. Glorfindel sighed to himself. *The 
sea-longing is not all that drives elves from Middle Earth. I have 
seen many of our generation thus diminished. One can only face so much 
fear, blood, death, and sorrow before hope is worn away.*

Aloud, he asked, “What do you intend to do?” even though he suspected 
he knew.

Taking a deep breath, Langcyll said, “I have no heart to continue as 
captain of Mirkwood’s warriors. I shall seek the king’s leave to 
depart this realm, as soon as another is chosen to take my place. It 
will be Eregdos, I imagine. I hope to leave within a few days.”

“Where will you go?”

“I know not. But in the fullness of time, I suspect I shall arrive at 
the Gray Havens, and go to where my family now resides.”

Glorfindel did not attempt to protest; he knew it would be futile, and 
Langcyll’s voice at last had ceased to sound lifeless. But in his 
mind, he berated himself, *I should have seen it sooner. His 
attachment to Legolas was but a symptom of the greater ill. Middle 
Earth will lose a great and wise warrior with Langcyll’s going. Would 
that I were able to delay him. But I’ve neither the means nor the 
fortitude to try to hold one here whose heart has already gone.*

***

*I cannot avoid this forever,* Legolas told himself despite the 
quailing of his heart. *Perhaps it is best just to get it over with.*

He had managed to convince himself back in his own chambers, but as he 
walked back through the palace, it had suddenly dawned on Legolas: 
seeing his father would mean going into the caves! *Ai, Tathar, you 
would laugh at me now.* Legolas had asked Faron to accompany him at 
least to the king’s throne room, but Faron had firmly told Legolas he 
must do this alone (though Legolas suspected Faron would have been 
more willing had the throne room been in the outer palace. *Still, I 
suppose I cannot blame Faron. He has the same reasons as I for 
despising caves. More than I, really. Indeed, I can hardly believe I 
myself am doing this!*

The wood and marble wall of the outer palace ended in a great open 
green, down the center of which flowed the Forest River. On this 
green, many tables and decorations were being set for the evening’s 
feasting, to be held under the stars in the warm spring air. The green 
ended in a steeply-rising slope that was one of the tree-covered 
mountains in that part of Mirkwood--though these mountains were not 
nearly as tall as the ranges over which Legolas had traveled with the 
company. A sturdy bridge at the end of the green passed over the 
river, leading straight into the great, yawning cave mouth that had 
always terrified Legolas as a child. (His brother Belhador had once 
told him that the cave was actually the mouth of a giant animal that 
sometimes swallowed the elves who went in so that they would never 
come out, that childhood taunt being one of his many reasons for 
fearing caves.) Great beeches covered the mountain slope until the 
nearest seemed to have their feet right in the swift stream of the 
Forest River, and between them two grand, sturdy gates hewn of iron 
(made by dwarves many millenia ago) stood open to admit 
audience-seeking elves.

All in all, it was not as bad as Legolas had feared or vaguely 
remembered. Torches hung closely along the walls lit the corridors 
well, and they did not delve so deep underground. The air was far 
cleaner than Legolas recalled from his childhood escapade in the 
dungeons, or from the cave where he and Faron had been trapped three 
decades before. Perhaps if his visit had a less difficult purpose, he 
would not have minded this cave much. But being below ground only 
succeeded in unsettling him further, and by the time he came in sight 
of the doors that opened on the king’s halls, Legolas was suffering 
from an acute crisis of nerves.

The doors were closed, and the few seconds it would take Legolas to 
declare his presence gave his mind far too much room to imagine the 
conversation that he was about to have. Just as courage began to fail 
altogether, and he was about to bolt, the doors opened on their own. 

“Prince Legolas!” the herald announced even before the doors were 
fully ajar. Legolas found himself gazing into a very grand hall with 
pillars hewn out of the living stone, much greater in size than the 
throne room in the tree-palace outside. There were several attendants 
in the high-vaulted hall, and at the end, on his throne of carven 
wood, sat King Thranduil, his black eyes fixed at once upon Legolas. 
There was no escape now.

The king elven king rose, his expression very guarded, and Legolas 
felt his heart pounding wildly in his chest. It was all he could do to 
bow smoothly. “Well, my son, I had begun to wonder if you would ever 
trouble yourself to greet me.”

This meeting was not beginning well. *Elbereth give me strength…* “My 
apologies, my lord,” Legolas said with careful formality.

Thranduil beckoned the prince closer (he was still standing just 
within the doors) and Legolas approached the throne, with a strange 
calmness of one who walks to his own execution. *In another moment, he 
will dismiss everyone and have me alone. Ai, I should have spoken to 
him that day on the plains, rather than give his anger thirty years to 
grow. What a little fool I was!*

But there was no erasing the past, and Legolas was now about to face 
the outcome of his choices so long ago. King Thranduil turned to the 
servants, opened his mouth--and the doors opened. “Lord Glorfindel of 
Imladris and Captain Langcyll of Mirkwood!” The tension between king 
and prince had not gone unnoticed, and the herald stuttered slightly.

Legolas turned swiftly, knowing there was no chance that he could hide 
his emotions and preferring that Glorfindel and Langcyll saw his 
relieved face rather than his father. Glorfindel looked as though he 
wanted to groan, and Langcyll too looked chagrinned. *They did not 
know I was here or they would never have come.*

“Forgive us, my lord,” Glorfindel said in clear dismay. “We had, ah, 
we had hoped to speak with you before the banquet, but--”

“Not at all, Glorfindel.” Legolas stiffened in surprise at his 
father’s words. “If you have come before me together, it must be a 
matter of some importance. I will see you. That is, if you’ve no 
objections, Legolas?” It was not a question.

“Nay, Father, it can wait,” Legolas said faintly, relief and now 
confusion were making him dizzy. Managing to maintain some control, he 
bowed to the elven king and walked quickly from the halls, nearly 
gasping with relief when he departed from the cave and found himself 
on the bridge over the river once again.

For several minutes, he stood right where he was, breathing in the 
clear spring air. The area about him was quiet, but for the flow of 
the river and the songs of birds in the trees. The trees. *How I have 
missed you. How could my father have forsaken you to dwell underground 
like a dwarf?*

When the worst of the inner tremors had faded, Legolas walked off the 
bridge and leapt into the branches of the nearest tall elm, climbing 
high into its green crown and then made his way back to the outer 
rooms of the palace via the treetops. 

***

“Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!” For so small an elf, Silivren was 
quite nimble, not that Legolas could not have caught her. If he wished 
to. And as Eirien had predicted, it took the little girl barely a few 
hours to warm up to her new uncle.

“Now come back at once, daughter of Berensul! This behavior is quite 
unbecoming a young lady--where did she go! I cannot see her, perhaps I 
must call her mother--AHA!!! Got you!” 

SHRIEK!!! (Giggle! Giggle!) Squeal! “Leggo, leggo!”

“You are my prisoner now, little elf! Hahahahaha!! No, you cannot 
escape--ow!” Legolas rubbed his shin as a giggling Silivren ran to 
hide under the table in a room that had been assembled for her to play 
in (filled with especially sturdy or worn furniture.) “Ai, Berensul, 
she will be a warrior like you.”

Berensul put his hands on his hips, bending down to make eye contact 
with the child beneath the table. “For shame, Silivren, are you 
abusing your uncle already? He’s only just returned from his 
adventures abroad!”

“Very true, Silivren, you should have waited at least a day to begin 
giving me bruises, like your father would have.”

“Adventures?!” the curly-headed child popped out from under the table 
and flung herself into Legolas’s lap, nearly knocking him over. “Tell 
me! Tell me!”

Standing in the doorway, Eirien laughed, “You see, Legolas? She is 
more like her father than you can imagine.”

“Nay, I can imagine all too well. Peace, little one, I have been gone 
since before you were born! How could I tell you all I have done?”

“Tell me anyway, Leg’las!”

“Hmmm, perhaps if you are very good, I will tell you of the time I was 
lost in a cave with three dwarves…”

“Yes? Please? I’m good, very good! Please, Leg’las!” 

Legolas glared past her at Berensul, who was taking too much interest 
in his daughter’s name for his youngest brother. *I will let her call 
me that--him I will trounce if he dares it.* Pointedly ignoring 
Berensul, Legolas stood up and settled himself on a couch, pulling 
Silivren back into his lap. “Very well. I suppose you are good enough. 
We were high, high in the Misty Mountains…hunting…ORCS!!!” 

SHRIEK!! (Giggle!)

Legolas got all the way to the part where he and Faron discovered the 
dwarves (with the tale properly embellished for Silivren’s fancy) when 
Eirien came to get Silivren ready for the banquet. “But Uncle Leg’las 
isn’t done with the story yet!” the child protested vigorously.

Laughing, Legolas handed her over to her mother, and promised, “I will 
finish the story later, Silivren, I promise. Go with your mother now.” 
He grinned helplessly as the little elf waved wildly at him from over 
her mother’s shoulder as Eirien carried her from the room.

“Legolas,” Berensul’s voice sounded strangely hesitant--as unlike him 
as a fit of temper was for Legolas. “You were not in Father’s throne 
room long.”

Legolas walked to the window and gazed out at the forest, lit red by 
the sunset. After a moment, he pulled his mouth to one side in a faint 
grimace, “You mean to say, not long enough for us to have had the 
violent quarrel that has been brewing for thirty-four years.”

“You cannot avoid him--”

“--forever. Peace, Berensul, I know this. And if you must know, I did 
not end the interview myself.”

“What happened?”

With a little shrug, he turned back to his brother, “Glorfindel and 
Langcyll arrived; Father chose to hear them first.” He chuckled dryly, 
“Probably a wise choice.” Berensul stiffened, and Legolas felt a surge 
of alarm, “What?”

“I do not know. Perhaps you know better than I what ails Langcyll,” 
Berensul’s dark, knowing eyes stripped away any illusions Legolas had 
had about the purpose of an official visit by the two captains to the 
king.

The younger prince closed his eyes, feeling sorrow surge through him 
anew at the inevitable truth, “Langcyll is fading. This journey 
wearied him, and the loss of Glanaur…” for a moment, his throat 
tightened so he could hardly speak. At last he forced the words out, 
“Now he goes before the king with Glorfindel of Imladris as a witness. 
Such an interview can mean only one thing. Langcyll is stepping down.” 
He was forced to look away hastily.

He heard Berensul come closer behind him, “All things must change--”

“--It is the way life is,” Legolas finished, laughing bitterly. “But 
that does not diminish the pain. I begin to wish I had not returned.”

“Do not say that!” Berensul exclaimed, seizing his little brother’s 
arm and forcing Legolas to face him. “You cannot endlessly run from 
your troubles, Legolas! It is foolish, and in the end it is useless. 
For they have a way of following you.”

*** 

Then banquet celebrating the company’s arrival was a bittersweet 
affair. By nightfall, rumors that the renowned and much-loved captain 
of Mirkwood was resigning his position had spread to every elf in the 
palace. 

The feast was one of special magnificence even by elven standards. 
Greedy as some might call him, King Thranduil certainly was not stingy 
toward his own people. Great stores of fine food and wine were opened, 
and the long tables set with great elegance. Silver lanterns were 
strung through the surrounding trees, bathing the banquet in a light 
that reminded some of Caras Galadhon. There was festive music and 
song, and many exciting tales to be told.

But in spite of all the splendor, the expected announcement by 
Langcyll had cast a shadow over all. And as if that were not enough, 
no one had missed the tension between the youngest prince and the 
king, casting a still-greater damper on things. Nonetheless, a 
conscious attempt was made by all to be merry. Faron caught Legolas’s 
arm as the prince when to take his rightful place near the head of the 
table beside Thranduil. “Have you seen all the food?”

“I did not need to; the smell alone is enough to drive me mad,” 
Legolas whispered, grinning.

“Ai, it is true,” moaned Galithil. “I can smell spice cakes!”

The other two also groaned in anticipation, and Faron added, “I wonder 
if such richness after subsisting on lembas for so long will make us 
sick?”

“I know not,” Legolas snickered. “But I fully intend eating myself 
ill, so it matters little.”

Galithil giggled, “Such deliciously guilty pleasure after such 
abstinance, indulging in this matter seems almost…”

“Obscene!” Legolas finished, and the three struggled to stifle their 
laughter. A quiet chime sounded. “I must go. Enjoy yourselves.”

“Ai, believe us, we shall,” Faron said gleefully as he and Galithil 
departed for their seats at another table. *That will be the fun 
table,* Legolas thought rather crossly as he went to sit with the 
lords.

Protocol required Legolas to be at his father’s right hand, but his 
tension at that place was lessened when Langcyll sat across from him. 
Legolas seized every opportunity to catch his captain’s eye, but to 
his dismay, Langcyll avoided his eyes just as often. *Delaying the 
inevitable,* he told himself dismally, but was unable to kill that one 
flicker of hope that he might yet somehow convince Langcyll to change 
his mind.

The company of Langcyll, and the warriors of Imladris and Lorien, were 
greatly honored that night at the banquet. Songs were sung in praise, 
and one lament for those who had fallen: Glanaur, Fanfirith, Nathron, 
and Tathar. When that song was ended, the elves fell silent, and 
Legolas saw King Thranduil catch Langcyll’s eye--specifically, giving 
the captain a barely-perceptible nod of permission. Langcyll rose, and 
all sound and movement ceased. Legolas felt frozen. *No…no…*

***

As Langcyll rose to speak to the assembled elves, he told himself 
firmly, *I must not let myself be swayed by Legolas. This no longer 
concerns him.* Aloud, he spoke calmly, “My friends. We have returned 
at last from a long and hard mission. Four of our comrades fell in 
battle, but we fulfilled our journey. Now many of our warriors have 
returned for the spring festivals.” He took a deep breath. “Now is the 
best time. It is the time for change.”

A flicker of movement across from him caught his eye; Legolas had 
winced. No one else save Langcyll noticed. “My lords and ladies, I 
have served the warriors of Mirkwood faithfully since my coming of 
age, a very…long time ago.” He was answered by weak chuckling. “I have 
trained many of our novices in the defense of our realm, and fought in 
many battles.” There was barely a sound. Many of the elves were 
holding their breath. “I regret to announce that this mission shall be 
my last. I have chosen to step down as archer captain of Mirkwood. I 
shall depart from this place for the Grey Havens tonight.”

There was absolute silence. There was the sound of more than one 
breath caught in a stifled sob. Legolas was completely motionless, his 
face pale, his eyes wide, reminding Langcyll of when the prince had 
been a timid, uncertain novice. Despite the tightness of his throat, 
Langcyll continued, “I have no regrets at this parting. I am leaving 
behind a valiant and brave force to defend this realm, under the 
leadership of Eregdos of Mirkwood.”

His eyes downcast, Eregdos rose and bowed to the assembly. Langcyll’s 
friend had fought vigorously against the captain’s decision, but when 
Langcyll had refused to reconsider, Eregdos had at last consented. He 
discreetly scanned the tables, seeing intense grief on many faces but 
no obvious resistance to his choice. “I am honored to have traveled 
and fought with these warriors. I am honored to have served and 
defended our homeland. I bid you all a very fond farewell.”

***

The banquet was over. Many of the warriors of Mirkwood had broken down 
and wept as Langcyll departed in the way of elf warriors--quietly, 
with no fanfare or prolonged farewells. King Thranduil lingered near 
the head of his table long after all the elves had gone and only 
moonlight lit the green. He was paralyzed by indecision.

*Perhaps I should go to Legolas so we can speak now. Yet this news 
cannot fail to have grieved him, and I made the mistake long ago of 
trying to barge in on his sorrow. But we must talk, and the sooner the 
better. Perhaps these circumstances will ease the discomfort.* Feeling 
unpleasantly tense, Thranduil reached for a flagon of wine that had 
not been cleared, then changed his mind. Better to face this with all 
his wits, and he had drunk a great deal at the banquet already. He 
went to the royal chambers in the outer palace and, almost as an 
afterthought, knocked on his son’s door. Hearing Legolas’s 
acknowledgement, Thranduil opened the door and quietly came in. 

Legolas was standing by the window, his room lit only by the moonlight 
and a few candles. He had not changed out of his formal clothes, and 
though his face was turned away, Thranduil could see him in the 
reflection of the glass. The young warrior had not wept, but his face 
was a mask of anguish, and he looked rather tired. It had been a long 
day for them both. Thranduil hesitated, uncertain of how to begin 
this, but Legolas took a deep breath and turned to face him, “Father. 
If you will forgive me…I fear I am not in the best mind to…speak of 
why I came before you this afternoon.” He raised hesitant eyes to meet 
the king’s, “Might I come before you tomorrow?”

Thranduil faltered, his mind racing. *It used to be that I always knew 
exactly what to say to him. Now I cannot begin to understand his mind. 
Will he not let me in again? I cannot bear this silence from my own 
child, this mistrust. Will he not speak to me?* He took a few steps 
forward, forcing his voice to be calm and unchallenging. “I 
understand. I too am grieved by Langcyll’s departure. But perhaps we 
might still talk…” 

Legolas flinched as though the words of Langcyll’s leaving had 
physically stung him, and hastily turned his head away from his 
father’s intense eyes. “Please. I cannot. Not now.”

*Why?! Why do you insist on tormenting me this way? Why do you shut me 
out?* Thranduil fought to keep frustration and anger from getting the 
better of him. *Nay, that is unfair; he is upset. I should not push 
him to share his feelings--yet it has been thirty-four years! So long 
since I have seen him, talked with him! He left me without a word, and 
yet I come to him as though begging his forgiveness! It is he who--I 
must be calm. It will not do to alienate him.*

“Legolas,” fighting to keep desperation from his voice, the elven king 
walked to his son’s side and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Legolas 
did not flinch away, but he went completely rigid. *Why?!* “I know you 
are upset. I know you’ve no wish to speak of…other matters tonight, 
but this…perhaps I might help.”

The shoulder beneath his hand did not relax. Legolas closed his eyes 
and swallowed. “Father, I know you mean well. And perhaps we might 
talk of…other matters, and Langcyll also, at some time soon but now, 
there is no one who can help. Please,” he turned to face his father. 
“Let me be alone tonight. I must face my sorrow myself.”

Frustration welled up in Thranduil like water in a geyser, beginning 
to boil with resentful anger. *This is spite. He does this 
deliberately to hurt me, knowing how I wish to speak to him again. 
Does he think me a fool? He avoided me then and he shuts me out now, 
treating me as a stranger! I have made mistakes, yes, but I have done 
nothing to deserve this mistrust!* He no longer had any desire to 
speak or attempt to comfort Legolas. Nodding stiffly, he replied, “As 
you will,” and departed the room.

***

Legolas winced as the door closed rather hard behind the king. It had 
taken all the will he had not to disgrace himself, but the minute the 
door closed, he buried his face in his hands and choked on a sob, 
stifling his tears frantically lest his father hear him. Thranduil had 
sounded angry when his son had refused. *I did not mean to push him 
away. But I cannot speak with him tonight, not like this, when the 
whole world seems twisted and confused. Surely he would grant me time 
alone, time to think and…understand what has happened. So much. All in 
the one day since we returned. Nothing is the same anymore. Nothing!*

He paced restlessly back and forth in his chamber, feeling a wild 
tempest of emotions inside that refused to stop their spinning and 
give him peace. *I lost Tathar. Now Belhador has gone and Langcyll is 
leaving. Orthelian will go back to Lorien soon and Elbereth only knows 
when I will see Limloeth again. Two of my friends have wed and Faron 
will go soon and Haldir and Rumil and all the others…what shall I do? 
What am I now?*

His mind came again and again to the knowledge that Langcyll was 
probably preparing to depart at this very moment--alone, as was 
customary for a resigning warrior like him. The farewells had come as 
half-hearted good wishes and hand clasps at the banquet, but that 
would not seem enough to any warrior who had ever served under 
Langcyll of Mirkwood. *Him too I will never see again. After all he 
has taught me, all we have been through, am I truly supposed to let 
him depart this way? I cannot make him stay, but surely I might say 
more to him than the two words we spoke after his announcement.*

Now his heart was beginning to leap in his chest. *I owe Langcyll so 
much. I should not let him go in this manner, without thanking him as 
I should. I cannot…I must not!* He threw open the window to the 
balcony and leapt to the nearest tree branch, descending swiftly to 
the ground and racing away through the palace grounds toward the outer 
gates.

***

Langcyll was alone in the stables, readying his horse. The forest was 
dark and very quiet, there was not even a wind tonight. *I will feel 
better for it when I have put Mirkwood behind me,* he told himself. 
*Nothing remains in this realm for me. The last of my novices have 
grown and become true warriors--I can no longer claim any excuse to 
look after Legolas. Especially since he no longer requires looking 
after. And my king…* he sighed, and admitted a bitter truth that he 
had tried to deny to himself. *I should have left sooner but for 
Legolas. But now he is grown and able to survive adversity on his own. 
I can no longer serve a king whom I partly despise.* 

The rather low esteem in which Langcyll held Thranduil was not merely 
due to Legolas, but to the king’s love of wine and wealth--something 
the warrior captain had never understood--and his ill turns toward the 
dwarves when Langcyll had been much younger. When Legolas had elected 
to become a warrior at his first coming of age, Langcyll had taken it 
upon himself to see that the young prince received good principles and 
training that might avoid Legolas turning into a noble of similar 
temperment to his father. *Ai, Glorfindel was right; I interfered. 
Though I had no right, I did. As long as I stay, I will be tempted to 
interfere. I must go.*

He was about to lead his horse from the stable when he heard someone 
come in, and an elf cleared his throat. Langcyll faltered on seeing 
the silhouette in the doorway of the stable against the moonlight. It 
was Thranduil. “My lord,” he bowed. “I was about to depart.”

The elven king stepped aside, and Langcyll led his mount from the 
stable, glancing cautiously at the king. He seemed tense and rather 
agitated, and Langcyll’s sharp senses detected a familiar scent. 
Thranduil had been drinking wine; he was not drunk, but not entirely 
unaffected either. “Well, Langcyll, it appears this is our final 
farewell.”

“Indeed, my lord,” *Be calm, be courteous, and get out of here!* “I 
take my leave of you, my king, with no worries for our realm’s safety. 
Eregdos is a wise warrior and he shall lead your forces well. I would 
never permit Mirkwood to have any but the best leading her 
protectors.”

Thranduil nodded absently. “Did my son bid farewell to you?”

*Ai, I do not like the turn of this conversation!* “Yes, my lord, all 
the royal children present gave me good wishes.”

The king’s eyes were smoldering with a suppressed, frustrated anger 
that raised hackles for Langcyll immediately--this look meant danger 
for whomever it was directed at. And it was not directed at Langcyll. 
He felt a surge of anger of his own and tried to force it down; there 
was enough fuel on this fire as it was. But his mind seethed, *That’s 
right, O King, blame Legolas for your shortcomings! You held him back, 
manipulated him, drove him from Mirkwood, and now you wonder why he 
hesitates to speak to you! You do not deserve him!*

Langcyll searched desperately for a means of graceful exit, for his 
own temper was not without his limits, and he knew himself enough to 
realize that he would never be fully rational where Legolas was 
concerned. But Thranduil spoke again, resentment coloring his voice, 
“Tell me, my former archer captain, did Legolas speak of me to the 
other warriors? Did he tell them what a dreadful father I was? Or did 
he never acknowledge my existence during the decades your company was 
abroad.”

“I know not of what you speak, my lord,” Langcyll said tensely, 
outrage making his hands shake as he continued preparing to ride. *You 
great tyrant! You have the malice to speak ill of your son to others; 
Legolas would never do such a thing to you! By the Valar, would that I 
might say such things to you!* “I am sorry to be hurrying in this 
fashion, but the hour is late, and I must be well down the trail 
before dawn. With your permission--”

Thranduil seemed not to hear him. “I tried to speak to him tonight. He 
showed me no more kinship than he would a dwarf! My son treated me as 
a stranger! Fine thing when a child treats his own father--”

Something angry and bitter within Langcyll would be repressed no more, 
and it broke free in a few terrible words. “You have not been a 
father!” The former captain of Mirkwood lashed out furiously. 
Thranduil broke off, stunned. “You have been a jailer!” 

There was silence between them for a long moment. Langcyll had not 
shouted, but the force of his words and his anger made him tremble. 
*Now I have truly done it. I am no longer fit to lead warriors. Good 
sense has deserted me.* With an icy tone that would not be hidden, 
Langcyll said to the king, “I believe it would be for the best if I 
left now, my lord. Farewell.”

Thranduil seemed frozen, and Langcyll did not hesitate, but leapt upon 
his horse and rode from the stable yard at a gallop. The sooner he was 
out of those gates, the better. *But Legolas is still within them, and 
what I said…ai! By the Valar, what have I done?*

***

Shock rooted Thranduil where he stood long after Langcyll disappeared 
around the palace wall, riding toward the gate. The king’s captain’s 
words repeated over and over in his ears-- “You have not been a 
father! You have been a jailer!” Like the reverberating echo of a 
great gong, they rang on and on until Thranduil physically clapped his 
hands over his ears in a vain effort to shut them out, shock giving 
way to confusion and anguish. *Do all my children despise me? Have I 
failed them? Does Legolas truly see me thus…his captor? By the Valar, 
where did I go wrong?*

He did not remember beginning to walk, but wandered aimlessly along 
the grounds of the fortress until he came again to the banquet 
grounds. With a curse of combined anger and anguish, the king hurled a 
chair over as he passed, and began walking faster. He cursed Langcyll, 
his own captain, for having spoken thus to him, he cursed the Valar 
for the circumstances in which he found himself, and he cursed 
Legolas. The elven king stormed on, choking on angry curses while at 
the same time blinded by tears, following the corridors down into one 
of the lower store rooms--where the wine was stored.

***

It seemed like forever until Langcyll reached the West Gate of the 
elven king’s fortress. He rode through them with a heavy sigh of 
relief, and heaved another when he turned on the path and could no 
longer see the palace behind him. All at once, someone dropped from 
the trees just a few yards ahead of him. 

Langcyll’s horse whinnied in surprise and stopped. The captain tried 
not to cringe. “Legolas. What in the name of Elbereth are you doing?”

Coming no closer but standing where he was, rather forlorn before 
Langcyll’s mount, the prince said quietly, “I wished to see you before 
you left.”

Langcyll’s head told him to simply bid farewell to Legolas and ride 
on. *My failure to exercise good sense has caused trouble once already 
tonight. I may as well do it again.* He dismounted. Legolas came to 
his side. “You must not ask me to remain, Legolas. You know full well 
that I cannot.”

His eyes downcast--*they are the same color as Thranduil’s, yet they 
are not like the king’s eyes,* thought Langcyll--Legolas nodded. “I 
know, though my heart grieves at the knowledge.” He raised his eyes to 
meet Langcyll’s, “I owe you much. I did not wish you to depart without 
saying…how very grateful I am for all you have done.”

*Ah, Elbereth, must this be so hard?* Langcyll swallowed against the 
lump in his throat. “You needn’t have troubled yourself, young prince, 
for just as many thanks are due you from myself.” He gripped Legolas’s 
shoulder tightly, as he had many times in the past when the young elf 
was troubled. Unable to keep his voice from going hoarse with emotion, 
he said, “Wherever I travel, I shall not forget you, Legolas. You have 
been a true son to me.”

Answering his captain’s grip, Legolas replied, “And you have been…as a 
father to me. I was honored to have had the chance to fight with you. 
Mirkwood shall never know such a leader as you.”

*I must tell him. I must warn him.* “Legolas,” Langcyll closed his 
eyes. “I must tell you this. The king and I…exchanged words just 
before I departed.” He forced himself to look at the prince, “I fear 
my temper got the better of me.” Legolas blinked; that was quite an 
admission from the normally-unflappable Langcyll. “King Thranduil’s 
anger at my words, will likely fall heavy upon you.”

Legolas grimaced slightly, but replied, “I must face many causes for 
anger in my father already; one more will hardly make the difference. 
Fear not for me, my captain.”

Langcyll smiled in spite of his grief. *How brave you are grown.* With 
deep reluctance, he stepped away from Legolas and remounted his horse. 
“I do not fear for you, for I know you shall be well.” Reaching down, 
he clasped Legolas’s hand one last time. “I am very proud of you. 
Farewell, Legolas.”

“Farewell, Langcyll. Safe journey.”

With that, the captain of Mirkwood turned and rode from the forest 
that had been his home for thousands of years, leaving the prince of 
Mirkwood standing until his friend was out of sight. Langcyll forced 
himself not to look back.

***

When Langcyll’s mount vanished into the trees, Legolas sighed, raising 
his eyes to the stars. *So Langcyll made Father angrier still. Well, 
it appears I must face his wrath on the morrow for many causes. I 
suppose this is the price I pay for my foolishness years ago.*

All the same, as he meandered back into the palace grounds and 
wandered to release his own thoughts, Legolas felt far more at ease 
than before. He no longer felt that there was aught left to be said 
between himself and Langcyll, and could now let his friend go with 
peace of mind. 

But there still remained the question of what would pass between 
himself and the king, and what would become of Legolas now that he had 
returned from this mission. Should he join another at once, under 
another captain, or wait for a time in Mirkwood? He did not desire to 
leave his family and friends again so soon, without even having the 
chance to reacquaint with them. 

Though these questions had not diminished since his talk with 
Langcyll, Legolas now felt far more ready to deal with them. *I will 
face my father and his anger tomorrow. We have made mistakes in past 
years, and words must pass between us, but I shall come through it. 
Father will see reason when his anger has cooled.* 

He had wandered onto the banquet ground, absently setting back up a 
toppled chair. Closing his eyes, he breathed in a great breath of 
forest air, then turned to reenter the palace. 

Someone was there, a dark figure standing still, awaiting Legolas in 
the shadows of the entryway--giving off a strong smell of wine. 
Legolas stepped hastily back as the larger elf stepped forward, trying 
to control the frantic beating of his heart. 

“Father.”

***** NOTE TO ALL REVIEWERS: If you ever have a particularly critical 
comment you’d like to make and you’re worried about offending anyone, 
feel free to email me. As long as you’re courteous, nothing you say 
will offend me. And you will get an answer. Thanks Snicklepop!





TIMELINE of “A Little Nudge Out of the Door” (Adapted From the 
Timeline in Appendix B of LOTR)

2933 Gilraen takes Aragorn to Imladris. Elrond receives him as 
foster-son and gives him the name Estel; his ancestry is concealed. 
The sons of Elrond are abroad in Middle Earth at the time. 

Spring 2941 The Gathering of the Elven Realms and Prince Legolas of 
Mirkwood wins the Great Gathering Trial, witnessed by Gandalf. 
Legolas’s second coming of age is officially recognized on that day. A 
month later, Legolas departs with fourteen other elves in the war 
party of Langcyll, warrior captain of Mirkwood. Gandalf leaves 
Mirkwood and goes to the Shire with Thorin Oakenshield to visit Bilbo 
Baggins.

Autumn 2941 Bilbo Baggins meets Smeagol-Gollum and finds the Ring of 
Power. Bilbo, Thorin Oakenshield and company are captured and 
imprisoned in Mirkwood by King Thranduil. The Battle of the Five 
Armies in Dale. Dáin of the Iron Hills becomes King Under the 
Mountain.

2942 Bilbo returns to the Shire with the Ring.

Spring 2943 Tathar of Mirkwood falls in battle with the orcs in the 
Misty Mountains. Elladan and Elrohir arrive back in Rivendell, but are 
not told of Aragorn’s true identity. 

Summer 2943 The war party of Langcyll reaches Rivendell, and are 
joined by Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, and Faron of Imladris. The 
company encounters a party of dwarves in the Misty Mountains and 
travels the same road with them for some time. King Thranduil, bound 
for Imladris, meets Legolas and his war company on the plains just 
west of mountains.

Autumn 2943 The company of Langcyll and Glorfindel arrives in 
Lothlorien. Legolas looks into the Mirror of Galadriel. 

Winter 2943 The battle on the borders of Lorien. Haldir, Rumil, 
Maethor, and Orthelian of Lorien join the company from Imladris and 
Mirkwood. The company elects to travel south together to scout the 
strength of Mordor. 

2944 Elrond sends for his sons and informs them of Aragorn’s true 
identity. The rest of the company continues south. Gollum leaves the 
mountains and begins his search for the Ring. Late in the year, Crown 
Princess Eirien of Mirkwood gives birth to Silivren, daughter of 
Berensul.

2946 The dwarf company of Naldin returns to Lonely Mountain with a 
favorable report on the condition of Moria. Balin, Ori, and Oín begin 
pressing Dáin for permission to lead a force to reclaim Moria for the 
dwarves. Dáin gives his permission and the dwarves begin making plans.

2949 Gandalf and Balin visit Bilbo in the Shire. The war party of 
Imladris, Mirkwood, and Lothlorien is ambushed south of Emyn Muil. 
Fanfirith, Nathron, and Glanaur of Mirkwood are slain.

2951 Sauron declares himself openly and gathers power in Mordor. He 
begins the rebuilding of Barad-dur. Elrond reveals to Estel his true 
name and ancestry, and delivers to him the shards of Narsil. Arwen and 
Aragorn meet. Aragorn goes out into the wild.

2952 The war company crosses the Anduin into Ithilien and continues 
south.

2954 Mount Doom bursts into flame again, to the alarm of the elf war 
company. The last inhabitants of Ithilien flee over the Anduin.

2959 The war company reaches the Crossings of Poros and turns North 
again.

2968 The birth of Frodo.

2975 Lady Merilin of Mirkwood weds Candrochon of Mirkwood. Legolas’s 
actual second coming of age. The joint company of Mirkwood, Imladris, 
and Lothlorien arrives in Mirkwood. 

And that’s all she wrote! Note my little made-up explanation for why 
Elladan and Elrohir were just learning about Aragorn when they were 
with the company. Hope that helps to clear up some of the kinks in the 
timeline. 



***Thank you all a million times for the wonderful reviews; they mean 
so much to me. And I really do pay attention to what you have to say 
when I’m writing, so keep ‘em coming!







Chapter Eighteen: Fight or Flight





“So, Legolas, you could not be troubled to speak to me, yet here you 
are wandering about the palace in the middle of the night.”

Legolas stood motionless, his earlier peace vanished. Thranduil had 
obviously been upset by whatever Langcyll had said (or by Legolas’s 
own response to him earlier.) And apparently, he had been drowning his 
sorrows considerably. Legolas’s mind raced--his father was definitely 
not in the best state of mind for speaking of the things he wished to. 
*I must not anger him further. I must speak.* “I could not sleep,” he 
said quietly.

At least it was not a total lie. Stepping into the moonlight, 
Thranduil’s eyes were dark with anger and his face was flushed. In a 
too-casual voice, he replied, “I could not sleep either, Legolas. I 
have been wondering what cause I have given my own son to despise me.”

“I do not despise you!” Legolas exclaimed.

“Of course you do!” Thranduil snapped, his affected pose gone and 
replaced now by unleashed rage. “Do you think me a fool, boy? When our 
parties met on the plains thirty years ago--I had not seen you in two 
years and you fled from me like an agent of the Enemy!”

“I--” Legolas faltered.

Thranduil caught it. For an elf who had consumed far too much wine 
than was wise, his perceptions were remarkably sharp. A cold, 
humorless laugh came from him, grating on his youngest son’s ears. “Do 
not try to deny it. You avoided me then and you avoid me still. For 
what, Legolas?” Now he seemed to be almost pleading. “I may not have 
been perfect, but I have done nothing to warrant such coldness! Even 
when you do DEIGN--” his tone suddenly grew bitterly sarcastic--“to 
speak to me, you treat me as a stranger. I reared you; do you think I 
failed to see your mind when you came today? You would rather have 
been locked in that throne room with a hundred orcs!”

“Father--”

“I will no longer put up with it, Legolas, I am your father and your 
king! Unless you too consider me your jailer, as Langcyll does.”

Legolas froze in surprise, then remembered what Langcyll had told him. 
*That must be what he meant--* Unfortunately, the recognition showed 
in his face. Thranduil stared at him for a moment, and his fury 
palpably increased. His tirade erupted in a near-shout. “So! You could 
not sleep, you could not bring yourself to speak to your own father 
after all this time, so you went to Langcyll! I might have known! You 
have always listened to him before me, sought his counsel before mine, 
you care more for him than me--perhaps you wish he were your father! 
It is no wonder you have grown to hate me, with him poisoning your 
mind against me all these years--”

“That’s not true!” Legolas blurted out, unable to keep silent in the 
face of such accusations. “Langcyll is not to blame for--” 

“For what?”

*I will not lose my temper. I will NOT lose my temper!* Legolas took a 
deep breath, forcing down the frustrated anger that had begun to boil 
up inside him. “Langcyll is not to blame for our troubles, Father. It 
has nothing to do with him.”

Thranduil’s face had gone from enraged to anguished. In a voice 
suddenly filled with pain, he practically whispered, “Then why?”

*I would rather he had remained angry,* Legolas thought, flinching 
inwardly from his father’s desperate gaze. The carefully-built walls 
of duty and honor and protocol had been stripped away by the wine, and 
bared a mass of pent-up emotion that Legolas feared to see. *This is a 
dangerous conversation to have when he has been drinking so much, 
yet…if I continue to put him off, there may never be a peace between 
us. I must answer him.*

Aloud, he said softly, “I knew not what to say.” *At least that is the 
truth. I still know not what to say.*

His father stared at him, half-doubtful, half-suspicious. “Years you 
were gone, without so much as a message, the world has turned, so much 
has happened, and you could think of nothing to say to me?”

“No,” Legolas thought he detected a note of reason returning and 
sought it desperately. “It is as you say, so many things had changed. 
I felt…It was…confusion.”

“Spite,” Thranduil qualified it curtly.

“No! It was not spite!” Legolas protested frantically.

“Then why will you not behave toward me as a son and a prince ought?!” 
Thranduil snapped, his eyes flashing. “Forget not that I am your lord 
and king, and I require certain courtesies at the very least!”

*Breathe. Remember to breathe.* “Yes, Father.” Legolas tried not to 
sound resentful. “As a warrior of Mirkwood, you are my lord and king, 
and I am at your command.”

Thranduil stared harder, clearly trying to determine if Legolas was in 
earnest. As it happened, the prince was, but it was more out of a 
desire to trigger the king’s commanding instinct and put an end to the 
father-son aspects of it, for he did not think he could bear much 
more. All the same, it worked.

The elven king nodded slowly, drawing himself up. “Yes, young prince, 
you are. And no longer a member of a war party. So listen well. 
Tomorrow I shall see you in my court, and you shall attend every day 
at least until the next companies depart in six weeks. It is time you 
involved yourself in the government of your father’s realm.”

“Yes, Father,” Legolas replied, though inwardly he wanted to groan. 
Attending the king’s court had never held much interest for him, and 
many years of travel in the open--*I shall go mad, spending hours on 
end in that cave!* Yet he was back in Mirkwood, and his duties as the 
king’s son once again would take precedence. On top of that, a memory 
suddenly struck him. In his mind, he heard Galadriel’s words of thirty 
years before, *“There must be a peace between you, or all will be 
lost.”* 

Sighing to himself, Legolas met his father’s intense eyes and nodded, 
hoping Thranduil would see it as a friendly gesture. He did mean it 
so, but considering Thranduil’s paranoid (and decidedly befuddled) 
state, Legolas could not predict how he might interpret what his son 
did or said.

Apparently, Thranduil was satisfied, for the turmoil left his face and 
he simply looked weary. “Very well, my son. I shall see you in my 
court tomorrow.”

Legolas straightened and nodded again, “Good night, Father.” He waited 
until Thranduil had passed back into the caves before he himself 
turned back into the outer palace. By some strange reserve of strength 
he maintained his composure right until he closed his chamber 
door--then he leaned back against it and released a great shudder that 
shook his entire body. 

His mind still reeled with frantic thoughts and emotions, but he 
furiously pushed them away. *If I dwell all night on what has passed 
this day, I shall never find peace. I would do better to get some 
sleep. The world will look very different in the morning.”

***

It did. Though Legolas did have a rather sudden, if not unpleasant, 
awakening. He was jolted from sleep by a squealed command of “Wake up, 
Uncle Leg’las!” followed by the impact of a small body landing on top 
of him.

Legolas sat bolt upright with a startled yelp and found himself 
face-to-face with a giggling Silivren, still in her night tunic with 
her hair falling unkempt. But that if anything made her more 
endearing. Legolas shook the last vestiges of sleep from his head and 
remarked drolly, “Well, my dear niece, you seem to have escaped your 
chamber.”

Silivren simply held out her arms in an unspoken demand to be 
cuddled…at once! And that was one order Legolas was all too happy to 
obey as he pulled the little girl into his arms--and began tickling 
her. Her shrieks and laughter soon alerted the servants who were 
hunting the fugitive princess, and before long, Golwen (Silivren’s 
caretaker when Berensul and Eirien were occupied) knocked on the door. 
“My lord? I am searching for Princess Silivren.”

Silivren squealed and dove beneath Legolas’s blanket as her pursuer 
entered. Legolas replied playfully, “I have no idea where she might 
be, Golwen.”

Golwen smiled and put her hands upon her hips, perfectly able to see 
the small lump at the foot of the bed. “Indeed, Prince Legolas? How 
odd; I thought I heard her voice!”

“I fear you must have been mistaken.”

(Giggle!)

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought I heard something.” (Giggle!) “Now, Prince Legolas, I am 
quite certain I heard something!”

“It must be your imagination.”

“Indeed?”

(Giggle!) POUNCE! SQUEAL!!! “Leggo! Lemme out!”

Golwen wrestled with a giggling, shrieking bundle wrapped in Legolas’s 
blanket as she attempted to haul it from the bed. “You are returning 
to your chambers and getting dressed, young lady! It is almost time 
for breakfast, now come!”

“Leg’laaaassss!”

Struggling to contain his laughter, Legolas rose and helped 
disentangle Silivren from the blanket. “Peace, little one, behave 
yourself. Are Berensul and Eirien out of the palace?” he asked Golwen.

“Aye, my lord, they left early. They are expected back this 
afternoon.”

“Then I shall join Princess Silivren for breakfast.”

“Really?!” the child ceased squirming in her nurse’s arms and turned 
eagerly to Legolas.

“IF you are good,” Golwen said firmly. Silivren nodded vigorously and 
allowed herself to be borne away. Legolas watched them depart and 
grinned to himself. *Perhaps today will indeed be a better day.*

***

King Thranduil made it a habit to visit his first grandchild every 
morning before holding court. On this morning, he arrived in the outer 
palace to find Silivren having breakfast on a balcony with Orthelian 
and Legolas--and being very entertained by stories of her uncles’ 
adventures. Legolas’s back was to him, and Silivren exclaimed, 
“Grandfather!” springing from her chair and running to Thranduil’s 
arms to be swept up and kissed.

“Ah, good morrow, my little darling,” Thranduil said, for the child 
charmed him as effortlessly as all others who beheld her since the day 
she was born. “How are you today?”

“Uncle Leg’las and Uncle Orthelian are telling me stories!”

“So I see, and they must be very exciting,” Thranduil said, his gaze 
irresistibly sliding past her to his son. Orthelian, looked quickly 
from father to son and then to Silivren, obviously wondering if he 
should take her away. Legolas had risen when he saw the king, but was 
smiling at them now. *That…seems a good sign.* “Good morrow, 
Orthelian, Legolas.”

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Father.”

There was a warmth in Legolas’s tone, but whether directed toward 
Thranduil or Silivren, his father could not be sure. Still, it was an 
improvement. He had awakened this morning, remembered the night 
before, and promptly began cursing himself for his stupidity. *Of all 
the utterly foolhardy things I have done, drinking to excess and then 
trying to have a meaningful conversation with my son definitely ranks 
among the most idiotic. He is treating me better than I deserve 
today.* With that in mind, he said, “Eirien and Berensul are not 
expected to return until this evening, Legolas. I will not require you 
to come to court today if you wish to keep your niece company.”

Orthelian glanced hastily from Thranduil to Legolas again before 
erasing the flicker of apprehension from his face. Legolas hesitated 
only for a moment before shaking his head and replying smoothly, “Nay, 
Father, I will come. As you s--it is my duty now that I am returned. 
Orthelian?”

“I will take Silivren for a ride this afternoon,” their kinsman 
offered quickly and king and prince nodded simultaneously. 

*Well, this is a beginning…if awkward. But I suppose I should not 
expect too much too soon.* “That is well. Off with you now, Silivren.” 
He shooed his granddaughter back to her breakfast.

“Until later, Orthelian,” Legolas said, and started to follow 
Thranduil from the room.

“Uncle Leg’las, where are you going?” Silivren demanded, outrage in 
her little voice at Legolas’s early departure.

Legolas’s eyes met his father’s briefly as Thranduil turned back, and 
they sparkled with laughter. *That is the Legolas I remember. How I 
have longed to see a smile from him.* He and his youngest son shared a 
quick grin before Legolas turned back to his niece, “I have work to do 
with your grandfather now, Silivren. But Uncle Orthelian has promised 
to give you a ride after breakfast.”

It successfully distracted her, and she turned eagerly to Orthelian, 
“Can I drive?”

“Er…” Laughing, Legolas and Thranduil made a hasty retreat from the 
room.

“She is very much her father’s daughter,” Legolas remarked as they 
walked through the outer palace.

“True, she is much like Berensul,” Thranduil agreed. “But I have also 
seen many reminders of Eirien in her. She will grow to have the best 
of each of them.”

“I rather think she has that now,” Legolas replied and they laughed. 
“The beauty of her mother and the spirit of her father.”

“Aye, and too much of the latter, to hear Golwen talk,” Thranduil 
added, and they laughed harder. Golwen had been nurse and nanny to all 
seven of Thranduil and Minuial’s children, and it had been the wish of 
them all that she should also care for their own children one day. 

Walking easily at the king’s side, Legolas had a distant look in his 
bright eyes. “They said Limloeth was here for Silivren’s birth?”

“Yea, Berensul and Eirien sent for her in plenty of time. And 
unnecessarily, as it turned out, for Silivren was late. Like her 
father,” Thranduil smiled to himself.

Legolas grimaced in response, “That must have made it difficult for 
Eirien.”

“Not at all; she remained strong in body and spirit throughout the 
term, and there was no trouble at the birth itself, for which we were 
very thankful.” Legolas nodded vigorously in agreement with that 
sentiment. Thranduil went on, “All of Mirkwood was celebrating. Lord 
Elrond came, and Lady Arwen.”

“Any from Lothlorien other than Limloeth?”

“Orophin and Lady Gaeriel represented the Galadhrim. Lord Celeborn was 
to attend, but then their warriors feared another attack, so he 
remained in Lorien and sent Orophin in his stead.”

They were crossing the bridge into the king’s halls. Thranduil 
discreetly watched his son’s reaction to them, but today Legolas 
appeared preoccupied by the news he was hearing and seemed not to 
notice the cave. “They say orcs were trying the borders of Lorien so 
frequently that Lady Galadriel pulled off the guards.”

Thranduil nodded grimly, “Too many were being lost in direct 
confrontations. Now fell creatures may manage to enter into Lorien, 
but the ambushes of her warriors ensure that such marauders never come 
out. The same tactic is being used now in Imladris.”

There was a shadow over his son’s eyes. “We were in Ithilien, east of 
the Anduin, when Mount Doom burst into flame again. If there had ever 
been any doubt of what is happening here…”

“You saw it?”

“Yea. Over the tops of the Ephel Duath. There was a great distance 
between it and us, but that day…it seemed very close.” Legolas smiled 
wryly. “Too close.”

“When we heard it had erupted again, knowing you were south, I feared 
for you.”

Legolas glanced at his father then, and Thranduil noticed the prince’s 
expression had closed somewhat. *So, you are still unready to talk of 
that. Perhaps unwilling.* Fortunately, their arrival in the throne 
room forestalled further conversation.

***

Legolas spent the remainder of the morning seated in the king’s hall 
while Thranduil granted audiences. Most of the matters were nothing he 
had not seen before: the expanding of dwellings, requests for more 
weapons or guards for the outlying villages, the approval of new 
crafts. That morning at least, Legolas began to feel a respect for his 
father that he had begun to think was gone. He had always known in his 
heart that Thranduil was generous with his own people, but the elven 
king turned out to also be fair and (he had to admit) wise when it 
came to rule of the realm.

“But if we had a properly-armed force, my lord,” one petitioning elf 
was saying. “I am certain we could hold the colony against further 
attacks.” 

Thranduil, seated regally upon his throne, listened calmly to the 
elf’s petition, then sat thoughtfully in consideration. “I daresay it 
is possible, Thoron. I am aware your village repelled two assaults 
already.” Thoron nodded eagerly, but the king was not done. “However, 
twelve guards have been lost defending it in the past two years, as 
well as three of your villagers. Know you any reason to believe the 
number or boldness of the fell creatures of the south will diminish?”

Thoron hesitated, “I know not, my lord.”

The king knitted his fingers thoughtfully, and regret tinged his 
voice, “I see no reason to think the assaults on our outlying 
settlements will lessen, and many reasons to fear just the opposite. I 
know how painful it shall be to relocate your people, Thoron, but I 
fear it must be done. To stay in a small settlement so far south will 
all but guarantee the loss of more lives, and in no way prevent the 
eventual overrun of the village. It is not a risk that should be 
taken. Homes can be rebuilt; lives cannot.”

Legolas felt sorrow at the inevitable displacement of the elves in the 
outlying villages, but knew his father’s prediction was likely true. 
It was not worth the dangers of trying to hold the borders 
indefinitely in times like these. To his credit, Thoron accepted the 
king’s decision in good grace, if sadly. “I shall prepare my people 
for evacuation, my lord.”

Thranduil nodded, “A well-armed escort shall be sent when you are 
ready to depart to bring you safely north.”

“My thanks, my lord.” Thoron bowed and departed.

The next petition was more interesting, and it was not something 
Legolas recalled having seen before in his attendance at his father’s 
court. Then again, when he was younger, Legolas had not been required 
to attend court regularly, and was frequently dismissed during what 
Thranduil had termed “complicated” matters. But now he was curious. A 
group of human merchants had been seen leading a caravan of wares to 
Lake Town. Elves from several of the easternmost villages were 
requesting permission to trade with them.

“Denied,” Thranduil replied, almost offhandedly.

Legolas blinked. The elves exchanged looks. “My lord,” one of them 
said hesitantly. “They carry a great store of shaped iron, that we 
might use to fortify some of our more vulnerable settlements against 
attack. I am aware of the…difficulties of trading with men, but 
perhaps an exception might be warranted in this case…”

In a tone of exaggerated patience that made Legolas wince inwardly 
with memory, Thranduil replied, “To be forced to deal with mortals, 
Gwirith, we shall have to be in far more dire circumstances than 
these.” He raised a hand to forestall further protests, “Nay, it is 
true that we might benefit from their iron, but I would sooner do 
without it than attempt relations with men. As merchants, they are as 
greedy as dwarves; it would probably be inferior metal anyway. If your 
villages have need of better defenses, we shall deal with that 
ourselves.”

Clearly discouraged, the eastern elves left. Legolas merely felt a 
little puzzled. Surely these matters had come up in the past--why had 
he never heard of such requests before on all the different occasions 
he had been present in his father’s audience hall throughout his 
youth? Now that he thought back, he had never been present when his 
father dealt with matters concerning any race other than elves.

Thranduil apparently noticed, for that afternoon as they were leaving, 
he mentioned it. “Did my decision regarding the Lake Town merchants 
trouble you, Legolas?”

Legolas answered honestly, “Nay, Father, it did not trouble me. But it 
did puzzle me a little. I would consider iron a great asset to the 
eastern villages’ defenses.”

“Quite true, and a shame we shall not partake of it. But its benefit 
does not outweigh the drawbacks of too many dealings with mortals.” 
The king shot a rather hard glance at Legolas, “Do you not agree?”

Legolas hastily adopted a neutral tone and expression. “You know 
better than I, Father.”

“Surely you have encountered men during the journey south.”

“Very few,” said Legolas. Thranduil looked surprised, and the prince 
explained, “We spent a good deal of the journey east of the Anduin. 
Ithilien was all but deserted and even the men west of the great river 
kept to their strongholds for safety. Mortal or not, I pity the 
inhabitants of Gondor, so close to Mordor. We passed many abandoned 
villages that bore the look of having been besieged for decades.”

In a very odd tone, Thranduil said, “Perhaps they are to be pitied, 
for all it is their own doing.”

“What?” Legolas said in confusion. “How can you say that? The men of 
Gondor surely had naught to do with Sauron’s return.”

Thranduil’s tone went from dismissive to rather patronizing, and 
Legolas bristled inwardly. “Nay, not directly, my son, but forget not 
that it was Isildur, the son of Elendil, whose heart was corrupted by 
the Ring of Power and allowed it to survive. It is his actions that 
are visited now upon Gondor, and all of Middle Earth pays the price of 
his weakness.”

Legolas frowned thoughtfully, “But surely the innocents of a kingdom 
have done nothing to deserve it, whatever Isildur did thousands of 
years ago.”

“Forget not that I was there, Legolas,” Thranduil said rather harshly. 
“I warned Elrond the Last Alliance would be a disaster, but the other 
realms overruled me.”

Without thinking, Legolas argued, “But had Sauron defeated the forces 
of men alone, it would have been a still greater disaster. He would 
have taken the elves and Middle Earth anyway. The Alliance at least 
was the right choice, whatever ill-fated decision Isildur made.”

“It was an ill-fated decision, and unforgivable. I saw it all.”

Legolas hesitated, then thought, *What am I afraid of? He wanted me to 
speak to him, after all.* “I know you were there, Father, and that it 
was under bitter circumstances that you became King of Mirkwood.”

“The day your grandfather perished along with more than half of 
Mirkwood’s warriors! I could not find Berensul for nearly two days, 
and Limloeth nearly died of her wounds. Our people paid dearly that 
day.”

“So did Isildur’s,” Legolas countered. “His own people were just as 
wronged as the elves by his choice. They are not all to blame for his 
mistake--”

Thranduil dismissed the argument with an annoyed wave of his hand, 
“You know nothing of which you speak, young prince. Have done.”

Legolas started to protest, then sighed and let it drop. Whatever he 
said, Thranduil would still dismiss it as childish ignorance, or 
worse, be angered by what he perceived as a challenge of his 
authority. *Yes, Father, you want to hear me speak--as long as it is 
merely my agreeing with you.* 

***

Such was the routine of Legolas’s life for several weeks. All in all, 
he had few disputes with his father, because it soon became painfully 
clear to him how futile it was to debate with Thranduil on any 
subject. But other than that irritating detail of spending so much 
time nodding and smiling in his father’s company, Legolas was glad to 
be home.

Much of his free time was spent coming up with ways to amuse his 
little niece--one pursuit Thranduil was always willing to grant leave 
for. He and Orthelian regularly took her on their horses through the 
forest, or in a boat on the river. She was soon begging to be taught 
how to ride herself.

“You are too small,” laughed Orthelian on one such occasion. “Your 
legs are not long enough to sit a horse, Sili.”

Silivren pouted and Legolas added, “He is right, Sili, you would fall 
right off a tall horse. Perhaps we might find her a pony,” he murmured 
in an aside to Orthelian.

Orthelian nodded thoughtfully, “There are no ponies in Mirkwood, but 
maybe Lake Town--men use them as pack animals.”

Legolas grimaced to himself, “A good idea, but Father would never 
approve buying a pony for Silivren when he would not give leave even 
to trade for iron.”

***

The warriors of Imladris and Lorien departed together six weeks after 
the company arrived in Mirkwood--on the same day as the Mirkwood war 
parties also rode out. Legolas, along with Galithil and Elunen, did 
not join any of the spring companies, choosing to remain home as part 
of the king’s guard rather than travel again so soon. But the day 
their friends from the neighboring realms left was a painful one.

“It has been an honor traveling with you, Glorfindel,” Legolas told 
the Imladris lord as he prepared to mount his horse.

Glorfindel smiled, clapping a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “I shall 
miss you, Legolas.” He and the prince clasped arms, “Be well, young 
warrior. We shall meet again.”

“Most definitely,” Legolas promised.

“Now that you’re done paying homage, are you going to say farewell to 
me?” Faron demanded in a miffed tone.

Legolas grinned at Glorfindel before turning and attacking Faron in a 
wild embrace, “Try not to get yourself killed on the journey home, 
Faron of Imladris.”

“You are the one I am worried about, without me to keep an eye on 
you!” 

“Hah!”

“All right, boys, cease your games!” Galithil unceremoniously shoved 
Legolas out of the way so she could embrace Faron. “Others have 
farewells to make, you know.”

“Ah, Galithil, you are so much more interesting than him.”

“I am only being polite.”

“Ha, do not believe her, Faron; she cannot keep her hands off 
you--ow!”

“Better hurry, Legolas, Galithil,” Elunen warned. “You are running out 
of time.”

Berensul and Eirien came out then with Silivren to say farewell to 
Orthelian. Legolas hurried to his brother-in-law. “Until we meet 
again, my friend, take care of my sister.”

“I rather suspect she would consider it the other way around.”

“When are you coming back, Uncle Orthelian?”

“Ah, Silivren, I could not bear to be separated from you for long. 
Fear not, your Aunt Limloeth and I shall come visiting in good time.”

“Soon?”

“We shall see. Farewell, Berensul.”

“Farewell, my brother.”

“Try not to abuse Legolas too much.”

“Forgive me, friend, but I cannot shirk my duties as elder brother.”

“Of course not. So sorry, Legolas.”

“Well, thank you for trying, Orthelian.”

The warriors mounted up, and Legolas found himself forcing a smile 
over a rapidly growing hole in his heart. *Thirty years, I lived, ate, 
slept, and rode with these warriors. How empty life is about to become 
without them. Ah, Elbereth, when will I see them all again? Never, not 
in a time like we had on that journey. In some ways, I wish that it 
had never ended.*

Faron looked over his shoulder at Legolas as Glorfindel and Haldir 
gave the signal to ride, then waved vigorously at the prince and 
Galithil as the warriors galloped away. Legolas and his family waved 
back until the warriors were out of sight. Legolas sighed. *Another 
change. I grow tired of hearing the word.*

The elves of Mirkwood who had come to see the warriors off returned to 
the palace, and Legolas desperately searched for a distraction from 
the emptiness that growing inside him. He already missed them. 
Fortunately, he found one. Silivren scampered up, having escaped again 
from the frazzled-looking Golwen, and demanded to be played with 
immediately. Legolas glanced at the king, who nodded with a faint 
smile, then scooped up Silivren and aided her in fleeing from a 
vigorously-scolding Golwen.

“Prince Legolas, HOW am I to teach her discipline when you keep 
encouraging her--come back here! My lord, this really is too much! 
Silivren! Behave yourself!”

Legolas evaded Golwen all the way back to Silivren’s play room, and 
there the king discovered him lifting Silivren above his head and 
spinning her around and around until he was too dizzy to continue 
(though she shrieked for more.) “Enough, Sili,” he laughed, staggering 
slightly to sit down on a couch. “It is quite shameful for an elf to 
lose his balance.”

“Then tell me a story?” Silivren said eagerly, hopping up next to him.

“What story shall I tell you?”

“Tell me about Mount Doom and the fire,” said the child. So he told 
her, laughing as Silivren declared, “I want to be a warrior and have 
adventures!” Still laughing, Legolas pulled her into his lap, but 
noticed Thranduil watching from the doorway with a very odd 
expression.

***

*I must speak with Legolas, and soon, about these stories to my 
granddaughter,* Thranduil thought as he left the outer palace. *It is 
unwise to tantalize a child with stories of adventure, with the world 
so dangerous as it is now.* He seized the opportunity as soon as 
Golwen finally apprehended Silivren and took her to her bath. As his 
son came out of the play room, Thranduil approached him in the hall, 
“I wish you would not tell her those things.”

Legolas blinked, looking defensive, “What things?”

“Do not be contrary, Legolas, you know of what I speak.”

The young prince lifted his chin in a manner he had adopted since 
returning--and that had a way of greatly irritating Thranduil whenever 
he did it. “Father, there can be no harm in telling Silivren stories 
of the outside world. To isolate her will only make reality harder to 
bear when she is older.”

*And when precisely did you become an expert on fatherhood, young 
upstart? I’ll not have you trying to influence Silivren with your 
impetuous nature!* Thranduil gave his son a warning stare--and growing 
more aggravated at the way Legolas folded his arms. Sternly, as a 
reminder of his own authority, he told his son, “You are not her 
father, Legolas.”

The prince clearly bristled, but seemed to bite back what would likely 
have been a tart rejoinder. Instead, he gave a curt nod that in no way 
signaled his acquiescence in Thranduil’s opinion, and walked away. 
Standing in the hall where he was, Thranduil folded his arms and 
pondered. *He cannot possibly think that having been away for 
thirty-four years permits him to defy me.* Perhaps the situation with 
Silivren was not worth quarreling over and yet…*Whatever their age, I 
do not suffer my sons to show lack of respect for me, as their king or 
their father. Legolas shall listen and obey me in this, and do so with 
good grace.* Pursing his lips, Thranduil started after his wayward 
son.

***

Hearing his father call his name, Legolas cursed under his breath. 
*What does he want from me? Is it not enough that I attend his court 
and spend the better part of every day biting my tongue, that now he 
must dominate my every thought and word?* “Legolas!” his father said 
sharply from behind him. “You will turn and answer me.”

Sighing heavily, Legolas turned and asked with rather bare civility, 
“Yes, Father?”

“Young prince, I find your behavior unacceptable.”

*How is it that I never saw before how pompous he can be? Nay, why am 
I surprised? He hid the world away from me just as he seeks to from 
Silivren!* “Father, I think Silivren has a right to know that a world 
does exist beyond Mirkwood. It is wrong to shelter her--”

“She is twenty-nine years old, far too young to be exposed to all the 
horrors that exist--”

Legolas threw up his hands in exasperation, startling the king into 
stepping back, “I do not seek to expose her to anything! But she shall 
hear of such things some way or another, and better from her family, 
whom she can ask questions of and trust us to tell her the truth!”

“She is not your daughter, Legolas!” Thranduil snapped, and this time 
the prince did not bother to hold back what he had desired to say 
before.

“Nor is she yours! And Berensul would not approve of sheltering her 
either! He tells her stories and encourages her to learn of the 
world--”

Thranduil’s eyes were beginning to flash angrily, and he cut his son 
off with a very sharp wave of his hand. “For the last time, Legolas, 
you will NOT speak to her of such things!”

Legolas started to turn away, intending to get out of the palace and 
wander the trees until he calmed down, then he thought, *Fah, must I 
always be hiding from him? Nay, he wished me home, he wished me to 
speak to him. And now he is angered because I speak with my own mind!* 
Aloud, he said in a cold voice, “I will pay a close mind to what I 
say, Father.” With a deep breath, aware how Thranduil was likely to 
take this qualification, he went on, “But I will not cease the tales 
altogether. Silivren enjoys them.”

His expectations were met. Thranduil advanced slowly, daggers in his 
black eyes as he glared furiously at his youngest son. In a voice that 
was almost a hoarse whisper of rage, he said, “You dare defy me?”

Lowering his own voice, Legolas lifted his chin and leaned into the 
gale of his father’s wrath. “It is not your decision. Berensul is her 
father, Eirien is her mother. Neither of them have expressed any worry 
for her well-being.”

“You do this to spite me!”

“This is not about you!” Legolas fired back, raising his voice in 
spite of himself. “Nor about me!”

“No? You seek to infect your niece with the same impulsive foolishness 
that seems to have taken over you, you arrogant boy!”

“Do not patronize me, Father, I am a child no longer! You cannot 
expect me to mindlessly cater to your every whim. And if you do, you 
shall find a sorry result!”

Thranduil started forward with more rage in his bearing than Legolas 
had ever seen. “You--”

“Leg’las?” 

Both elves froze. Thranduil turned and Legolas looked past him, both 
trembling slightly, to see a small golden head peering out of an empty 
chamber, and two very large blue eyes staring at them. Legolas took an 
involuntary step backward, struck dumb with horror and dismay, and 
Thranduil said in a slightly choked voice, “Yes, Silivren?”

“What’s going on, Grandfather?”

The elven king went to her and picked her up, smiling reassuringly at 
her. “Nothing, little one. Nothing.” Legolas looked hastily away until 
he could regain his composure. Then he forced a smile as he walked 
past into the royal chambers. 

Closing his door, Legolas leaned his forehead against it. By the 
Valar, had they both lost all sense, quarreling when Silivren was 
about? “And Father will not let this go, either,” he murmured to 
himself. “As soon as she is safely out of the way, he will be at me 
again.” 

He did not even realize he was pacing. *I thought things were getting 
better. Why are we still quarreling?* He scowled as a rather chilly 
wind brought the smell of approaching rain into his room, and closed 
the window, cutting off the fresh, relaxing breeze. *He would raise 
Silivren just as he raised me--sheltered, ignorant, naïve. Never 
knowing all there is to be known, never seeing all there is to see, 
forced to hear of it from others her own age, trapped within the same 
few miles of forest all her youth when there is the whole world to 
explore*-- “No!” he hissed to himself. “I will not allow him to 
imprison her that way! Berensul will not allow it. He has another 
thing coming if he believes my brother will permit him to interfere 
with Sili’s upbringing.”

There was a rumble of thunder outside, and the first sheets of rain 
lashed against the glass of the balcony window. Legolas sighed. He 
would have liked a walk in the trees to collect himself, but not in 
this weather. *It will not do to get myself struck by lightning.* All 
the same, he should not stay in his room fuming and allowing his anger 
to smolder until Thranduil arrived. *That is a guarantee for our 
tempers to get out of hand.*

With that in mind, he left his quarters and began wandering the 
palace, hoping for time for his temper to cool. Too much had happened 
today already, with Faron and Orthelian and the others leaving and war 
parties going as well. He was weary, he was sad, and all he needed was 
time to himself, to sort out his jumbled thoughts and feelings. 
Perhaps if it had been so, things would not have gone as ill as they 
did.

***

King Thranduil had the good sense to guard his responses to Silivren, 
and soon reassured the child that nothing was wrong between himself 
and her uncle Legolas. But no sooner had he handed the child off to 
Golwen and bidden her take Silivren to her mother than he went in 
search of his erring son. 

He found Legolas not far from his chamber, walking away from it. 
*Trying to evade me again,* he thought, his half-forgotten anger 
bursting back into heat. “Legolas. We are not done.”

Stopping and heaving a great, reluctant sigh that served only to 
infuriate his father, Legolas turned, “Sir, I think if we continue to 
speak thus, we shall only lose our tempers.”

This continued defiance was insupportable. Thranduil raised his voice, 
“I will NOT put up with this insubordination, Legolas! You WILL hold 
your tongue!”

“And I say to you again that the decision is not yours to make!” 
Legolas shot back without hesitation, his black eyes flashing with 
anger.

Thranduil advanced purposefully, fully intending to put this 
rebellious boy in his place. Legolas backed up, but did not back down. 
“Do not think that all your time with a war party gives you the right 
to disobey me, young prince! I am still your king! You owe me respect 
and still more after all you have done to me--”

Legolas cut him off with a bark of laughter, half-astonished, 
half-contemptuous, “After all I have done to YOU?! Just how did your 
narrow mind manage to twist that from the truth?”

Thranduil was shaking with fury. In a voice lowered again, but no less 
enraged, he hissed, “I have admitted before that I made mistakes, 
Legolas; it is you who spitefully persist in punishing me! Perhaps I 
brought your initial departure on myself, but all that time, all those 
years,” his voice was rising in anger, and something more, “with nary 
a message other than to say where your company was going. Do you STILL 
seek revenge after all that time?!” In a frantic manner bordering on 
hysteria, he grabbed his son by the shoulders, “Thirty-four YEARS?!”

Legolas jerked sharply away, looking shaken but still angry. “Why do 
you persist in believing that my every action is intended to spite 
you? Open your eyes, O King, my contention has nothing to do with you! 
I seek to spare Silivren from the frustrated boredom that drove me 
from Mirkwood in the first place! Yea, our quarrel was partly the 
reason that I left, but not all!” Now his voice in turn seemed 
anguished, “All those centuries, I let you convince me that I was not 
ready to travel, not ready to explore the world, when all my 
companions had been beyond Mirkwood to some elven realm or another! 
Know you the agony of hearing others talking of wonders you yourself 
have yet to see? But I was unable to see them because you would not 
let me go! If our troubles are in any way behind this dispute over 
Silivren, it is only that I seek to spare her the same fate when she 
comes of age!”

Anger and remembered pain swept through Thranduil like great waves, 
and he could not seem to slow down his words enough to control them. 
“I would prefer her bored when she comes of age to dead because she 
recklessly tried to do more than she should! Do not think it cannot 
happen, Legolas, it has before! Must I remind you--”

“--Do not start that again!” Legolas shouted, his own self-control 
having deserted him. “You know me so little, you seek to quell and 
control me with the very same vicious manipulation that you used 
before! It failed then and I will not let you use it now! I grieve for 
my brother and my sisters, Father, and wish with all my being that I 
might have known them! But evil comes whether we hide from it or go to 
meet it, and all the precautions in the world cannot stop it!”

Thranduil also no longer bothered to control his rage, “Ah, Legolas, 
you have grown into such a fool! You would teach Silivren to grow up 
as reckless as you have become--”

“I am not reckless, Father; I am a warrior!”

“Your decision all those years ago was most certainly reckless--”

“I had to join a war party sooner or later; there was no point in 
delaying it forever--”

“But Langcyll’s party, the longest and most perilous of them all, that 
was recklessness and folly at its worst--”

“Whatever you think of it, I’ve no regrets at having chosen them--”

Legolas had never been so openly challenging to Thranduil before, and 
the elven king was reeling amid the frantic verbal sparring. So 
enraged was he, and determined to get the better of his son, that the 
next words flew from his mouth, even as something in his mind and 
heart screamed for him to stop… “Did Tathar, do you suppose?!”





Then there was silence.



Legolas jerked backward as though Thranduil had physically struck him 
in the chest. The king was frozen, unable to move, as the words echoed 
in his mind, irreversibly released, stabbing both him and his son 
again and again. He could only stare. Legolas’s eyes were locked on 
his, wide with shock and pain, his mouth open, trembling with the 
devastating hurt his father’s words had done him. The young prince did 
not seem able to find his voice, but he found some movement, and took 
a rather staggered step backward. The disbelief in his face slowly 
gave way to an anger deeper and more intense than his father had ever 
seen.

Thranduil desperately tried to rouse himself to speak. *By the 
Valar…what have I…did I truly just speak so…Ai! How could I be so 
cruel?! I did not mean it! Legolas! I did not--I must speak--I must 
say SOMETHING--* “L-Legolas--”

His son gave only a ragged gasp as he turned and started swiftly away. 
“No--” Thranduil rushed forward and attempted to catch his arm, but 
Legolas shook him off so hard that the larger elf stumbled. “Legolas, 
please--”

Legolas whirled, his eyes blazing with a fury that made Thranduil 
recoil. In a low, trembling voice, he said icily, “Stay away from me.” 
Then he fled down the corridor only just short of all-out running. 
Standing helplessly in the corridor, the elven king could only watch 
him go. Had he truly spoken thus to his son? How could he have done 
such a thing? He had chosen the most utterly vicious and painful sword 
with which to stab Legolas, and this time he could not even begin to 
blame his actions on too much wine. *What have I done? What have I 
done?*

***

*“Did Tathar? Did Tathar? Did Tathar Did Tathar Did Tathar 
didTathardidTatharTathartathartathar…”* 

Legolas had no idea how he reached his own chamber, but suddenly found 
himself standing in the center of his room, his hands clapped over his 
ears as though trying to drown out an endless echo that was trapped 
within his head. Was King Thranduil truly so bent on dominating him 
that he would resort to the most vicious and painful words that could 
be found in order to ensure Legolas’s submission? 

*I already have heard what he is capable of when he is set on having 
his way. What will be next, will he lock ME in the dungeons?* the 
young elf thought bitterly.

It was not as if the question itself had been what shocked 
Legolas--such thoughts and questions had dogged him every moment since 
that accursed night under the apple tree. He had thought himself to be 
making progress--now, he only thought of Tathar once or twice a minute 
instead of every waking second. Legolas had considered it a vast 
improvement.

Thranduil had been fond of Tathar as well, and when the two had been 
young, the king often referred to Tathar as “his eighth son,” for he 
and Legolas had been so inseparable. It was not only Legolas who had 
been wronged by his words. *How could he say such a thing? How could 
he? Is there nothing he will not stoop to?* 

He had fallen to his knees on the floor. How he had gotten here, he 
did not know, his mind was in such turmoil. He had no idea how long he 
remained there, still shaking and unable to move or rouse himself to 
any coherent thought beyond the last few devastating minutes. 

But he was roused by a click at the door. Before he could deny 
entrance, it opened to reveal the timid face of his niece, gazing at 
him with worried eyes. “Uncle Leg’las?”

It took so much of his strength not to fall apart that Legolas could 
not speak. Silivren shuffled into the room and walked to where Legolas 
still knelt on the floor, dumb and motionless. *I cannot let her see…* 
But elf children are perceptive in their own right, and when Silivren 
held out her arms to him, it was clearly not a request for herself, 
but an offer to him. Squeezing his eyes closed and biting his lip, 
Legolas swept his niece into a fierce embrace, holding onto her small, 
innocent form as a rudder for his sanity. 

At last, he felt he could look at Sili without frightening her by 
bursting into tears, and pulled back to give her a rather forced 
smile. She saw through it, of course. “What’s wrong, Uncle Leg’las?”

“Nothing--” he began, and she pulled back and put her hands on her 
hips in a manner so much like Golwen that he had to laugh. Taking a 
deep breath, he embraced her again and whispered, “You are too young 
to understand, Silivren. But I promise I shall tell you some day.”

“I heard you and Grandfather shouting,” she murmured, her little voice 
troubled. 

Legolas winced and shut his eyes again. *And now our quarrel hurts 
more than just us. When will this end? How can it end? How can I 
prevent Silivren from being wounded by our troubles?* He could think 
of one way, and it nearly caused him to lose control again. But what 
other choice did he have? *I cannot let my father walk all over me, 
and I cannot continue to fight him when Silivren might hear us. By the 
Valar, I do not want to leave again…but how else will this cease? He 
will not give in, nor will I, and the tension shall harm us all if it 
continues.*

The bitter truth of the situation struck him as he brought his niece 
back to Golwen and returned to his quarters. Staring about them with a 
heavy sigh, Legolas snatched out his saddlebags and began shoving his 
travel gear back into them. *Only six weeks, I had at home before 
being driven forth again. Curse the Valar, and curse my father for his 
hard-headedness!*

Footsteps of another elf came down the hall, and his chamber door 
opened. Legolas spun around, intending to explode at his father to 
leave him be, but caught himself--it was Berensul. The Crown Prince 
gazed at the saddlebags, then at Legolas. “So, running away again?”

“I am not running away,” Legolas snapped, but quietly for fear of 
being overheard.

Berensul walked over and attempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but 
Legolas jerked away. “Brother, listen to me, you cannot run from him 
every time you have a quarrel!”

Shoving the bags aside, Legolas stood to face his elder brother. He 
knew he was directing his anger where it was undeserved, but he could 
not stop himself, “You know naught of which you speak, Berensul. If I 
stay, this quarrel will not end, it will only continue, and Silivren 
has already overheard us twice! Do you want your daughter to be a 
witness to this madness?”

Breathing heavily in an obvious effort to control himself, Berensul 
said softly, “No. But there is another way, you and Father can resolve 
your differences--”

Legolas snorted. “Would that it were possible. Believe me, Beren, I’ve 
no desire to leave my home again so soon, and certainly not Silivren. 
But you know Father as well as I--he will not cease pursuing this 
until he has brought me to heel, and I will not, Berensul! I will not! 
He would try to bring up my niece to be under his thumb, just as I was 
for all that time! And still he seeks to put me there again!”

Berensul caught his shoulders. “I do not want you to go again so 
soon.”

Closing his eyes against the sting of tears, Legolas looked down. “Nor 
do I, brother.” He forced himself to look up and meet his brother’s 
gaze. “But I must. I will not spend my days endlessly doing battle--as 
long as Father acts in this fashion, I may as well be in a war party! 
No,” he snatched up his gear. “I am going.”

“But where?” Berensul asked anxiously. “For how long?”

Legolas stopped, taking a deep breath. Turning back, he replied, 
“Lorien, to Limloeth and Orthelian. For how long I do not know, but 
they will have me.”

His eyes sad and reluctant, Berensul slowly nodded. “Silivren will be 
heartbroken.”

The younger prince had to look quickly away. “Almost as much as I,” he 
managed to say. 

“You will say goodbye to her? Come, Legolas, you cannot go without a 
word to her.”

“I know.”

***

Silivren, daughter of Berensul, was more confused than ever when her 
Uncle Legolas suddenly came to tell her that he had to leave. “But 
where are you going? For how long?” she cried in dismay.

“I am going to stay with your aunt and uncle, Limloeth and Orthelian, 
in Lothlorien,” Uncle Legolas told her, with a smile on his face that 
looked rather strange, since his eyes still looked sad.

“Why?” she asked unhappily. “Is this because of the shouting? 
Grandfather wouldn’t tell me either!” she added resentfully.

Uncle Legolas chuckled--another odd thing, because he obviously didn’t 
think it was funny--and he said, “One day you will be old enough to 
understand.” He hugged and kissed her, and left, his face turned away 
so she couldn’t see it. His shoulders shook a little.

Folding her arms, Silivren muttered, “I wish people would stop saying 
that! Nobody tells me ANYTHING!”

***

Thranduil had known better than to try to follow Legolas to his 
chamber, but after a time of trying to collect himself, a desperate 
terror had come over the elven king. After a hurt like that, he had 
realized what his youngest son might be inclined to do. In a panic, he 
had run to the stables, and found Lanthir still there, to his immense 
relief. All the same, he could not shake the dread in his heart, and 
sat there instead of going back inside, despite the rain coming in 
through every opening in the building.

When Thranduil heard light steps coming quickly--and rather 
stealthily--toward the stables, his heart leapt with anguished terror, 
for he knew who it was. Legolas came through the door and stopped in 
his tracks when he saw his father. It made Thranduil want to sob with 
despair at the way his youngest son’s face hardened with bitterness 
and rage at the sight of him. Legolas went to Lanthir without a word. 

Thranduil frantically made his way to his son’s side, “Do not do this, 
Legolas, not again.”

Loading Lanthir, Legolas kept his eyes fixedly on the puzzled stallion 
and did not answer. Thranduil grabbed his shoulders, “By the Valar, 
Legolas, LOOK at me! I said a terrible thing to you, and it grieves me 
more than you know--”

“It grieves YOU?!” Legolas cried incredulously and wrenched away from 
him. His eyes blazing, he demanded, “Even now, you still can only 
think of yourself?! You respond to everything in this fashion, 
concerned only for how you are affected, caring nothing for the hurts 
you do to others. Do not expect me to believe your sorrow is for me as 
much as it is for your selfish need to assuage your own guilt! Be off, 
Father, and let me alone!”

“I will not let you go again!” Thranduil shouted, more out of 
desperation than anger, and imposed his body before the stable door.

Legolas laughed bitterly, “Langcyll called you my jailer, did he? 
Harsh words to your mind, perhaps, but in my opinion he underestimated 
the case!”

The words stung Thranduil just as they had when Langcyll had spoken 
them weeks before. “I am trying to bring an end to this, son.”

Looking utterly disgusted, Legolas mounted Lanthir, “But I shall never 
consent to the kind of ending you desire, Father. My submission is all 
that will do for a greedy tyrant such as you. No,” his face seemed to 
twist with rage. “I will not allow you to stand in my way anymore. 
Test me if you will, but I do not think even an immovable wall such as 
you will stand against my horse.”

Rage at the vicious words burst within Thranduil. “As you will,” he 
hissed, stepping aside. Legolas coldly began urging his horse forward. 
“But know this, Legolas of Mirkwood,” he growled. “If you depart from 
here in this fashion yet again, the doors of the palace shall never 
again open for you! So if you go, do not bother returning, for I will 
not have you back!”

“That would be a heavy misfortune indeed,” mocked Legolas, and sharply 
kicked Lanthir into a gallop from the stables, out into the pouring 
rain. 

“Go then, you impudent child! Go! Be gone and may I never see you here 
again!” Even those words did not cause Legolas to look back. Thranduil 
ran to the door and watched his son ride away, his hands clenched in 
rage that suddenly gave way to anguish. Standing with the rain blowing 
upon his face, the elven king leaned against the doorway of the 
stables as the first of many great sobs overcame him. 

***

As rain pelted down on him with the fury of one who seeks revenge, 
Legolas urged Lanthir out the gates and into the forest, paying little 
heed to where he was going. At first it was anger that drove him on 
and lent him energy, but soon the realization of what had happened 
sank into the prince, and the cold rain mingled with hot tears upon 
his face. He did not know how long he rode in this fashion, blinded by 
grief and anger, until he felt Lanthir tiring of the pace and allowed 
the horse to slow.

Sighing against a horrible inner emptiness, he murmured, “Forgive me, 
my friend, I did not mean to abuse you in this fashion for my mad 
fancy.” He dismounted and the horse looked reproachfully at him, less 
than pleased by the rain soaking his fur. 

Smiling mirthlessly, Legolas led Lanthir through the rain, feeling a 
need to walk his jumbled thoughts away. His mind rang with the many 
bitter words that had passed between his father and himself, and he 
now winced with the memory. But there was no erasing the damage that 
had been done, and his father’s sincerity at their parting had been 
clear. *If I go back now, admitting my own fault, even if he did not 
refuse me entry he would grind my folly at me forever. Nay, the words 
are spoken, now we must both partake of the consequences. There is no 
going back.*

He stopped, rubbing Lanthir’s neck, and felt the horse tense suddenly. 
At last, he bothered to get his bearings. Which presented a new 
problem: “Where in Middle Earth am I?”

For all his hysterical race into the forest, he had not once thought 
to watch where he was going, and now, in a rush of combined chagrin 
and alarm, it dawned upon Legolas: he was lost. Struggling to push 
down the surge of panic within him (more difficult than usual, for his 
emotions were far more volatile than normal) he closed his eyes and 
tried to recall the direction he had taken upon departing the gates. 
His eyes flew open. He had desired to be out of sight as soon as 
possible, so he had borne in the direction of the heaviest 
undergrowth--the least-traveled.

South. He had gone south. And he had ridden hard and for hours in this 
direction, thoughtlessly. *Ai, what a fool I am! I have never been 
this far south before, alone or with others, and there are perils 
within Mirkwood as well--* He leapt to Lanthir’s back, “Fly, my 
friend, we must get to the edge of the forest, and soon.”

It was already growing dark, but he dared not stop to sleep in this 
unfamiliar area. His mind was racing as fast as his horse, for he knew 
many tales of the things that lurked in the deepest, darkest regions 
of the forest. But Lanthir too, was growing frightened, and needed 
little urging to ride on. 

Though he had grown accustomed to watching for many threats during his 
years with Langcyll’s war party, one he had yet to encounter, and thus 
it took him by surprise, unfortunately. He was concentrating on 
watching for things leaping upon him from the trees, and had only time 
to shout in alarm and raise a defensive hand when his horse suddenly 
carried him into what appeared to be strands of great rope stretched 
between the trees, that unseated him as easily as a blow from a club.

Lanthir whinnied in surprise as Legolas fell to the ground, and the 
young prince felt his heart leap in terror as the thick strands stuck 
to him. Spiderweb. “Ride on, Lanthir!” he cried. “Reach the edge of 
the forest; do not wait for me!” The horse whickered plaintively, but 
Legolas again shouted for him to run, and at last, Lanthir heeded his 
rider’s advice and fled. 

Legolas looked about him; the rain had lessened, but its soft 
pattering on the leaves and ground still obscured other sounds. 
Swallowing hard, he made his way into a clearing and stared in the 
dimming light, trying to determine the best course of action. 

All at once, he heard a crack that was not the sound of water striking 
a tree, and whirled to see a huge, hideous dark creature vanishing 
into the trees, as terrible and deadly as he had been told. The spider 
was on the ground, so Legolas wasted no time but sprang to the 
branches of the nearest tree and raced west for the edge of the wood. 
He heard other branches rustling around him and knew at once he was in 
grave danger.

*Their stings paralyze, and I am alone. If they catch me, I am done 
for.* Terror at his predicament made it hard to concentrate on the 
frantic act of climbing and running from branch to branch, tree to 
tree. Branches rustled to his right and he pivoted left, leaping to 
another tree only to find another spider directly before him. He 
dropped lower to the ground and sprang to the next tree, trying to 
climb up again. The moon was beginning to break through the clouds, 
and just as he had climbed high enough to where its light might aid 
him, a great dark body descended upon him and sank sharp fangs into 
the elf’s back.

With a cry of panic, Legolas simply let go of the branch and fell with 
a great crash, all the way to the ground. He landed directly upon his 
right arm with a sickening crack and felt the impact shoot through his 
whole body, nauseating him. It was a miracle he remained conscious at 
all. Gasping in fear and pain, disoriented by the poison coursing into 
his body, he staggered to his feet and began a stumbling run, fighting 
the urge to scream. The world was spinning wildly and he was uncertain 
if he was even going in the proper direction toward the edge of the 
forest. If he could just get out, the spiders might hesitate to expose 
themselves on the plains.

He was so woozy, and his right arm was useless. It was no wonder he 
could do little more to defend himself when two more spiders jumped 
from a tree towards their wounded prey, and one stung him again in the 
right shoulder. But still he fought, swinging at one and taking out 
its eye with his knife. *One good thing,* he thought hazily. *At least 
the poison is numbing.* He could no longer feel his wounded arm.

The sound of cracking, hard spider bodies was all around, and he was 
barely walking, his head swimming as the poison took hold of him. *No, 
I must go on…ah, so here my folly has brought me. Perhaps I deserve 
it.* At last, his body failed altogether and his legs gave way beneath 
him. As the elf tumbled limply to the ground and lay motionless, the 
spiders moved in, eager to partake of their now-helpless prey.

***** 

Assorted Horse Fanciers: Oops! Shows you how much I know about horses, 
I totally overlooked that Lanthir was getting kinda old! But I’m not 
ready to say goodbye to him just yet, so sometime soon I’ll come up 
with a creative reason why he’s still alive and kicking AND carrying 
that elf around! Just be open-minded. Ithilien: Oops again! Shows you 
how much I know about kids! LOL! Actually, I originally wrote Silivren 
as more like a two-year-old, then I realized my years weren’t adding 
up right, so I had to make her older. Oh well, guess she’s just a bit 
spoiled (but considering what a little charmer she is, are we 
surprised?) Thanks for the parenting advice; therein lies a drawback 
of writing family stories at the age of twenty-one. Noah Vail: Don’t 
eat me. Just consider: if I were totally in sympathy with Legolas, I’d 
have made him a saint, and the victim every time. The fact that he’s 
making just as many mistakes as Thranduil should tell you something. 
After all, coming of age doesn’t mean that you stop screwing up (as 
someone of my tender years knows all too well.) Beyond that, as far as 
your thoughts on parenting in Tolkien-verse go, remember these are 
elves in Middle Earth, not humans in the Middle Ages (not that you 
aren’t absolutely right, I’m just saying it allows me a little 
creative liberty. And I also have a twenty-first century target 
audience.)...

MINI-CHARACTER GUIDE (a more complete one at the end of the chapter)

Alagion: Legolas’s alias.

Note: When Aragorn is referred to as Strider, it’s Legolas’s POV. When 
Legolas is referred to as Alagion, it’s Aragorn’s POV. When they’re 
referred to together as Strider and Alagion, it’s somebody else’s POV. 
Uh, did you get all that? Am I getting too complicated? Let me know.

Flashbacks in this chapter, denoted thus: ** Let me know if they give 
you trouble, there are some rather convoluted thought patterns in this 
chapter.



Chapter Nineteen: The Ranger



At last, the rain had stopped. The tall, dark human riding along the 
edges of Mirkwood brushed water from his face gratefully. He had 
intended to stay well beyond the edges of the forbidding forest, but 
the storm had led him closer to the scant shelter its great canopy 
provided from the rain.

Now the moon had broken through the clouds, but a breeze was shaking 
more water from the leaves onto the Ranger. Glaring up at the 
branches, he thought, *Time to return to the open plains.* He had 
never attempted to penetrate the depths of Mirkwood in the twenty-five 
years he had been wandering, and still saw no reason to try. From what 
his foster-father had told him, the people inhabiting these woods, 
elves or not, were unlikely to be much more welcoming to him than the 
monsters that also dwelt there. Nay, this was not a place to dare 
alone if one had a choice. The Ranger hated evil creatures, and it was 
true that Mirkwood had more than her share of them, but the wood elves 
could take care of them. 

Just as the human gained the edge of the woods, he heard a great crash 
from somewhere not far behind him, and a cry. The Ranger whipped his 
head around, halting his mount--that had been no beast’s call. More 
crashes came in his direction, so he rode a few paces outside the wood 
and turned back, peering into the darkness. 

Someone was indeed coming, crashing mindlessly through the thick 
undergrowth. An elf? The man could not imagine what a mortal (other 
than himself) would be doing in Mirkwood. And yet…surely a wood elf 
would not make nearly so much noise--unless in great distress. Though 
he lacked the superior senses of the elves, the man discerned that 
more was coming toward him than just one as-yet-unidentified person. 
And the other noises did not seem to be made by people.

*Spiders! Chasing a victim!* The Ranger dismounted, seizing his bow 
and drawing an arrow back, heading cautiously into the woods. It did 
not take him long to discover the source of all the commotion. Several 
huge, loathsome black spiders were coming down from the trees into a 
small clearing, where a motionless figure lay prone and helpless on 
the ground.

An elf. What he was doing alone in the deep woods so far from the wood 
elves’ usual territory, the man would dearly love to know, but at the 
moment the fair being was in dire need of help. The nearest spider 
began spinning a great net of its awful silk, and reached out to 
ensnare its victim. Then it jerked away with a screech of surprised 
agony as the man buried an arrow in one of its eyes.

It took less effort than the man expected to convince the spiders that 
this prey was not worth the trouble of dodging arrows. The Ranger was 
no elf, but he was more than a fair archer. The spiders scurried away 
into the trees, apparently giving up in spite of their superior 
numbers. All the same, the man had no intention of tarrying while the 
creatures garnered more courage--or worse, reinforcements. He dashed 
into the clearing past several spider carcasses and swept the limp 
wood elf up into his arms. “I know not who you are, friend, nor how 
you came to be in such bad company, but I shall see you to safety,” he 
told the unconscious figure as he bore him away.

The Ranger placed the elf in front of himself upon his mount’s back 
and rode a safe distance from the forest. On the plains, safe from 
spiders at least, he found a copse of small trees that would suit as a 
camp, and carefully eased the elf down. After setting about making a 
fire, the man had time to ponder this rather strange event, and 
examine the wounded elf. As immortals go, he was quite young--perhaps 
it was youthful inexperience that had got him into that predicament in 
the first place. The man had seen few wood elves, but this one did not 
appear like those he had seen or what he had been told. Mirkwood elves 
were said to be dark, and this elf was fair. Under his green and brown 
cote, he wore a tunic of silver--Lorien’s color. Very odd. In more 
serious matters, his right arm was broken, and the man found two 
puncture wounds where the spiders had struck with their foul poison. 
Just the same, the poison’s effect had the benefit of keeping the elf 
unconscious--and probably numb--while the Ranger set the arm.

His ministrations done, there was nothing to do until the stranger 
came around. The man sat against the base of a tree, silently watching 
the elf, when he heard something approaching. Startled, he leapt to 
his feet, a hand on his sword hilt, and turned to see a gray horse 
running riderless across the grass. The Ranger relaxed and smiled as 
the horse stopped well out of reach of him, wariness evident in his 
large black eyes. He knew an elven horse when he saw one, and this one 
bore a pack--but no elf.

Assuming an unthreatening stance, the Ranger stepped back and spoke to 
the beautiful gray in elvish, “Hello, friend. You seem to be missing a 
rider.”

The handsome beast blinked at him, obviously surprised at being so 
addressed by a mortal. The man laughed, and gestured to the elf, 
wrapped in a blanket on the ground, “Might this be who you’re looking 
for?” 

The horse’s whicker of recognition confirmed it. Overcoming a horse’s 
natural fear of fire for the bond to his rider, the gray approached 
the prone elf and nudged him gently with its soft nose, whuffing 
quietly. “Don’t worry,” the man told the animal. “He will awaken in a 
few hours.” He chuckled to himself, “Perhaps in the mean time you 
might tell me what your friend was doing alone this far from the elven 
king’s halls. Ah, well, I expect I shall soon learn the answers.”

***

Darkness. Not surprising, really. As he had fallen, Legolas had 
despaired of ever again seeing the light of day. Still, this was 
rather odd--other than being surrounded by blackness, this was not 
what the young elf would have expected of death. 

Fog seemed to be swirling around him, and it was impossible to make 
his mind function, let alone his body. Then, odder still, sensations 
began reaching him, and it occurred to Legolas that perhaps he was not 
dead after all. The first thing he recognized as a physical feeling 
was a painful throbbing of his right arm. The places where the spiders 
had stung him were still stinging fiercely. He was still damped, but 
not as drenched as before, and he could feel warmth against his 
exposed skin. Moreover--he seemed to be wrapped in something tight.

The prince felt a surge of panic--had he been taken alive by the 
spiders? Desperately, he tried to move, but his body felt leaden, and 
the result was barely a twitch. But the tiny motion did serve to tell 
him that he was not wrapped very tightly. If he could only gain the 
strength to move…his senses continued returning to their normal 
sharpness as he lay, waiting for the chance to scramble for freedom. 
At last, his mind began pulling out of the fog and he could make sense 
of what his senses told him of his surroundings.

Odd. This did not feel like a spider’s lair. He seemed to be lying on 
the ground, with a bunched-up cloak under his head. The quiet 
crackling he heard and the warmth on his face indicated a fire nearby. 
And he was covered in a blanket, not spider silk. If he had had the 
strength, Legolas would have sighed with relief. Someone had found 
him. 

Which turned into yet another question: Who?

He would have liked to look around, but the poison had been powerful 
enough to close his eyes, and he could not seem to force them open. *I 
hate it when that happens!* There was nothing more disconcerting to 
Legolas than waking up to see only the backs of his eyelids. 
Especially when the sound of breathing nearby indicated that someone 
was with him. He tried again to rouse himself and succeeded only in 
shifting a little. *I definitely do not like being paralyzed.* He 
tossed his head.

From not far away came an exultant whinny, and the sound of a large, 
four-legged creature hurrying toward him. A soft nose brushed his 
forehead, and Legolas smiled mentally, *Well met, Lanthir. I am glad 
you reached safety.*

Then he tensed, for now someone else was moving, and they had two 
legs. To the prince’s alarm, these were not the smooth, light steps of 
an elf, but the heavy, long strides of a man. *A MAN rescued me from 
the spiders?!* The idea seemed absurd. Surely a man would not have 
braved the vicious creatures to help an elf--for that matter, what was 
a man doing this far north on the western side of Mirkwood? Legolas 
felt inklings of suspicion creeping into his still-groggy mind. *If in 
fact he did risk himself to rescue me--what does he want with me?*

Legolas held perfectly still as the heavy steps halted, and a very 
large form bent over him. Praying he would have enough strength, the 
elf readied himself, summoning all he could muster. A hand lifted his 
chin, reaching for his neck--and Legolas lashed out with a kick from 
under the blanket, earning a startled grunt and a thud. Swiftly, the 
prince rolled away and tried to scramble to his feet--a feat easier 
said than done since the sudden movement made him dizzy, his limbs 
were sluggish, and he was still tangled in the blanket.

His vision protested as he spun back to face the stranger. The dark 
blur focused into a dark-clad man, much bigger than Legolas, with the 
hardened, weathered look of one who had traveled far. At the moment, 
he knelt in a crouch where the prince’s kick had knocked him, not 
holding a weapon but with one hand close to the hilt of his sword. His 
eyes, a lighter gray than Legolas’s, showed combined surprise and 
wariness as he gazed at the elf silently.

The man made no move, and Legolas also stayed where he was--mainly due 
to the fact that he feared he would keel over at any moment. His 
vision danced and his head was swimming dangerously; it was all he 
could do to face the man steadily. “Who are you?” 

The man seemed utterly unintimidated--very strange to Legolas, for 
every man he had seen (not that he had seen many) tended to react to 
the sight of elves with combined fear and disbelief. But the man 
simply folded his arms--apparently not considering Legolas a threat at 
all--and replied blithely, “You would do well to sit down, Master Elf; 
the spider poison has not yet fully worn off.”

Legolas blinked and felt still more suspicious--the man had spoken in 
perfect Elvish! Determining that the man was coming no closer, at 
least for the moment, he let his eyes scan the campsite. They were on 
the plains, a safe distance from the dangers of the woods, and it was 
still night. There was Lanthir, and another packed horse--who also 
looked to be elf-reared! The sword the man wore also seemed to be of 
elvish make! Growing more alarmed by the second, Legolas managed a 
step backward, trying to look casual as he placed a hand against the 
bole of a tree for support. The intentions of such a character were 
even less predictable than if he had been saved by an ordinary man. 
Locking eyes with the human again, he asked in a low voice, “What do 
you want with me?”

He thought he saw a faint chuckle shake the man’s shoulders, which 
irritated him. With a rather humorless smile, the man replied, “I 
found you in the forest, a few moments away from giving the spiders an 
unexpected feast.” Pausing, with another irritatingly smug look, he 
added, “You’re welcome.” Legolas tried to narrow his eyes warningly, 
but only succeeded in increasing his dizziness. The man raised his 
eyebrows, seeing the elf blinking in attempt to clear his vision. 
“Better get off your feet, or the poison will do it for you.”

Legolas was torn by indecision--he suspected the man was right; the 
world was spinning again in a way that said the poison still had a 
strong hold on him. On the other hand, if he submitted to this 
mortal’s orders…the elf tarried too long. *Ai! No!* As his vision 
formed a tunnel, the last thing he saw was the man rising and moving 
quickly towards him, but the prince had lost the strength to move. 

His hands not on his sword, but rather extended as though to aid the 
elf, the man hurried over. Not a moment too soon, as for the first 
time in his life, Legolas fainted.

***

Aragorn caught the elf as he fell, easing him back to the ground. He 
chuckled to himself; he had not really expected the elf to heed his 
advice. Maybe the humiliation of this collapse might lead him to take 
note next time. He heard a whinny of alarm from behind him, and laid 
the blanket back over the elf before turning to the horse, “Peace, 
friend, I’ve not harmed him. Even elves have their limits.”

And this one had passed them, and faced the consequences. So 
suspicious, these wood elves. Aragorn had been raised by the elves of 
Imladris, but his foster-father had warned him that not all elves were 
as willing to have dealings with mortals. “Indeed,” he remembered 
Elrond saying. “Do not think that your ties to me will protect you if 
you are discovered intruding in Lothlorien or Mirkwood. From Lorien 
you would be expelled, but worse, from Mirkwood you might never 
leave.”

As it happened, Elrond had later taken Aragorn to Lorien, and with the 
lord of Imladris vouching for him, the elves had received him, but 
Aragorn still had yet to meet an elf of Mirkwood. So far, it appeared 
Elrond had not been exaggerating the distrustful nature of these 
people. A faint moan reached his ears; the elf was coming round again. 
The horse whinnied and Aragorn grinned, “Maybe this time you’ll use a 
little more caution.”

He quickly straightened his face, but nearly laughed again when the 
young elf’s eyes opened. He blinked as though remembering what had 
happened, and then chagrin crept into his fair features. Slowly 
sitting up (with more care this time) the elf saw Aragorn watching 
him. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“You show precious little civility to one who probably just saved your 
life,” Aragorn said, mildly taunting him.

The elf narrowed dark gray eyes at the Ranger, “I might feel more 
gratitude if I knew the purpose of such pains by one who has yet to 
identify himself. If indeed your intentions were entirely selfless.” 
He sounded slightly mocking.

*Wood elves.* With a rather mocking nod of his head, Aragorn replied, 
“I am called Strider.”

“‘Strider?’” the elf repeated doubtfully.

“I am of the Dúnedain, the Rangers of the West. My right name would 
mean nothing to you, noble elf of Mirkwood,” the man said, laughing 
inwardly at the fabrication. *Knowing how the wood elves view my 
lineage, if you knew my real name you might try to kill me.* Elrond 
had warned him of that as well. Raising his eyebrows questioningly, 
Aragorn went on, “Perhaps now you might deign to give me the honor of 
your name, Master Elf.”

The elf’s suspicion had not lessened, if anything it had grown. “If 
you are but a mere Ranger, how is it that you ride an elvish horse, 
bear elvish arms, and speak an elvish tongue?”

Aragorn debated how much he should tell this strange elf, until 
deciding that if he wished to ever know the elf’s name, or what had 
happened, he must get past this mistrust. After all, it was still a 
troubling question, what an elf was doing alone so far south. (Besides 
which, the Ranger was perishing with curiosity!) Casually, he told the 
elf, “I have often passed through Rivendell in my travels. I am a 
friend to Elrond, Lord of Imladris.”

That got quite an impressed reaction. The elf blinked, looking 
doubtful, then evidently decided that friendship to Elrond was the 
only possible explanation for this strange mortal to be favored with 
such knowledge of the elves. Slowly, his skepticism lessening a bit, 
he nodded and said coolly, “Forgive me, Strider of the Dúnedain, I 
fear I have not shown you proper courtesy. We seldom see mortals close 
to Mirkwood, but your friendship to Lord Elrond would explain your 
lack of fear.”

Graciously (and laughing inwardly) Aragorn smiled, “Not at all. That 
little matter settled,” the elf’s expression suggested that he knew 
the Ranger was mocking him, “what might be your name, Master Elf?”

“I am Alagion, son of Langcyll of Mirkwood.” 

“I am honored, son of Langcyll.” *A nice try, Master Elf, but that is 
no more your name than Strider is mine. Still, I shall let the façade 
stand for both of us for the time being.* 

The elf seemed to have to mustered his dignity to speak again, “I am 
in your debt, Strider of the Dúnedain. You saved my life.”

Aragorn had thought at first to dismiss all talk of indebtedness, for 
as a warrior, it could be set aside as the proper deed from one to 
another, but now…he was intrigued. Elves were not solitary folk, and 
though sometimes distrustful of strangers, ordinary elves seldom had 
such great secrets that required the hiding of one’s name. *Therefore, 
the only conclusion can be that you are far from ordinary, Master Elf. 
I dislike taking advantage of your debt to me, but perhaps I might 
prolong our acquaintance. I still know not what a wood elf would be 
doing down here alone, and I suspect the answer will prove important. 
I fear you shall not escape so easily.* Smiling slightly, he said, 
“You are most gracious, Alagion of Mirkwood. I wonder, would you favor 
me with your company on my journey?”

The elf looked as though traveling with Aragorn were the last thing he 
wanted, but a life debt was a life debt. “Whither do you ride?”

“Haloel. I received a rather strange message from a friend there a 
fortnight ago. I shall go to see if he and his people have need of 
assistance, and these are treacherous parts to travel in by oneself.”

“Then I shall be glad to bear you company,” said the elf. 

***

The next two weeks saw Legolas riding with Strider (or whatever his 
real name was) south towards Haloel, a small kingdom at the 
southwestern end of the Misty Mountains, not far from Isengard. 
Legolas knew the region by reputation: wealthy due primarily to the 
fame of its wines. It had been ruled by the same line of lords for as 
long as its vines had grown on the slopes of the hills.

Unfortunately, hearing the mere name of the place reminded Legolas of 
his father. Haloel wines were Thranduil’s favorite (the king had 
maintained trade with their merchants long after ending it with all 
other mortals.) Now the remaining stores of Haloel wines in the king’s 
caverns were the most strictly saved. *As if that association were not 
painful enough, we drank it at the banquet when Langcyll made his 
announcement--and then Father drank too much of it later that night.*

Legolas was beginning to think he would rather go to Moria than 
Haloel. 

“Are you widely-traveled in Middle Earth, Alagion?” Strider startled 
him by saying.

It sometimes made Legolas want to laugh, other times wince when he 
heard his pseudonym spoken. He knew not what spur of the moment 
impulse had made him choose that alias (*Liar!*) but now he was stuck 
with it. Over the days, he and the Ranger had engaged in sporadic 
conversation. The brief talks were started by whichever one of them 
grew bored with the uneasy silence, but the dialogue always swiftly 
became stilted again because neither of them would yield any great 
information about himself. Then they would lapse back into silence 
again. 

Occasionally, when stiff small talk tried their patience, they broke 
the monotony by baiting each other. It was in that frame of mind that 
Legolas replied, “Somewhat.” *Let us see what the mortal makes of 
that!*

Not much; Legolas thought he detected a shrug, but Strider dismissed 
the cryptic answer--but apparently was still too bored to leave off. 
He tried again, with a more specific question that Legolas would not 
be able to dodge so easily, “Have you ever been to Haloel before?”

“Nay,” the prince said, abandoning the thought of goading him. 

“How fares your arm?” That had been a habitual inquiry from the 
Ranger, and it irritated Legolas no end to admit that Strider had done 
an impressive job of setting it. Had Legolas been mortal, he might 
have been crippled, for the bone had been broken in two places by his 
fall. As it was, it had been expertly set (with skill comparable to an 
elvish healer!) and Legolas had been able to take it out of the sling 
after a week, though it still ached a little. It would not hamper his 
fighting or shooting. 

“Well, thank you.” Legolas, too, was growing weary of this stony 
silence. After all, he reasoned to himself, it was not as if Strider 
was not within his rights to ask Legolas to accompany him on his 
journey. It was a great risk to travel alone at these times, and 
Haloel was not so very far from Lorien. Even if the Ranger wished the 
elf to accompany him all the way to the province, it was not much out 
of Legolas’s way.

Mentally, Legolas sighed. *I have been taking out my own sorrows on 
one who does not deserve it--indeed, my debt to him is genuine, for I 
should most definitely be dead but for this Strider. My ill feelings 
should not be directed at this mortal.*

The resolution had an unforeseen consequence. For the past days of 
travel, Legolas had successfully distracted himself from his own 
troubles by directing his hostility toward the mortal who had so 
effectively (yet supposedly selflessly) bound Legolas to his service. 
But now, the memory of the events leading to his departure from 
Mirkwood and all he held dear had begun to hammer mercilessly at the 
prince. During the last days of the ride, he found it harder and 
harder to keep his mind off his family, and there were times when such 
utter despair swept through him that he caught Strider staring at 
him--meaning that it must be showing on his face. 

The question occupied his mind more and more as his trip with Strider 
took him further and further from Mirkwood. *Will I ever be able to go 
home again?*

He could not find the answer. But the questions, and the painful 
memories, refused to give him peace.

**

“You’re going away? But where? Why, Uncle Leg’las?”

“Running away again, little brother?”

“Do not do this, Legolas, not again!”

**

That night, Legolas was wrenched from sleep by an urgent shaking. 
“Alagion! Awaken!”

With a gasp of relief, the elf escaped the nightmares that had been 
drowning him. It took a moment to recall where he was, or the idenity 
of the dark-haired human looking down at him with concern. “Strider.”

“Are you well?” The Ranger smiled wryly at the elf‘s shaky nod. “Bad 
dreams?”

Legolas nodded, trying to shrug it off. *Worse: memory.* Aloud, he 
said, “I shall keep watch, if you wish to rest. Now I am awake,” he 
added in a weak attempt at humor.

Strider looked surprised at the elf’s amiable tone--until today, 
Legolas had been barely civil when he spoke to the man. But the Ranger 
accepted Legolas’s offer and went to his blankets. Legolas rose and 
paced a bit around the camp, attempting to walk of the shadows of the 
dreams that still insidiously clung to him. 

**

“Even now, all you can think of is yourself!”

“I am trying to bring an end to this, son!”

**

Legolas looked up at the stars, trying to find solace in them. But the 
truth of those last bitter words would not be repressed. *He was. He 
wished to make amends. It was I who would not allow it, I who refused 
to forgive.*

**

“I have no regrets at having chosen to join Langcyll’s company--”

“Did Tathar, do you suppose?”

**

*He did not mean it. He did not mean to hurt me. We had both spoken 
too hastily in anger. I knew it even then, and still I would not let 
him take it back.*

**

“Langcyll called you my jailer, did he? He underestimated the case!”

**

*I spoke so to wound him, far more than he did to me. I cannot believe 
I parted with him on such terms. Will I ever have the chance to right 
it?*

**

“Go, then! Go! And may I never see you here again!”

**

*Will my father ever accept me again after that?*

Trying to distract himself, Legolas glanced at the slumbering Ranger. 
Even asleep, there was that tension of one accustomed to the perils of 
lone traveling, and the prince had no doubt that Strider would be up 
like a shot, sword in hand, at the slightest noise. Men were so 
strange. Strider did not look to be more than a few decades old, but 
in that short time he had gained many skills it had taken Legolas 
centuries to learn. Yet men did not have the time necessary to gain 
the understanding that was needed of the world (at least for elves.) 
Legolas was not sure if that improved or lowered his opinion of 
humans.

*For all we traveled through Gondor, we saw little of men. At least 
this detour may prove useful in that respect, for I should like to 
know more of their ways.*

The idea of learning more of men reminded Legolas of his father, and 
he sighed involuntarily. Then, everything seemed to remind him of 
someone or something in Mirkwood. The question came again to his mind. 
*Will I ever be able to put this right?* He shook his head to himself, 
dispelling the dismal thoughts. *There is no point in brooding over it 
now, for I can do nothing until I have discharged my debt to Strider. 
When that is done, I shall decide what to do. Perhaps I will seek my 
sister’s counsel in Lorien.* And, he reasoned, twirling an arrow in 
his fingers, they were only a day or so out of Haloel. This Strider 
(now that Legolas was thinking a little more objectively) seemed to so 
far to have no sinister intentions--at least not concerning Legolas. 
With luck, he would release Legolas after they had found the Ranger’s 
friend in Haloel.

Sounds in the distance pricked the elf’s sensitive ears, and he froze, 
trying to identify them. He turned his head towards the mountains; the 
sounds of people were coming across the plains from the hills of 
Haloel. Not orcs. A scouting party from Haloel? It seemed odd; the 
small kingdom hosted a large and well-protected fortress at the center 
of its vineyards. In the face of any threat, its people could retreat 
to the castle and even withstand a siege for years, from what Legolas 
had been told of the place.

So what would men of Haloel be doing so far beyond its borders, 
heavily armed, but not carrying any shipments of wine (as Legolas’s 
superior hearing informed him.) The elf pondered this--for the humans 
were still too far away for their mortal senses to detect the 
travelers--and decided to err on the side of caution.

“Strider.” The human opened his eyes and sat up at once, unable to 
hear the approaching people but alert for trouble. He raised 
questioning eyebrows at Legolas, who told him, “We have visitors 
approaching.”

The human rose and walked to where Legolas was standing, gazing 
curiously into the darkness. “They are beyond my senses as yet. From 
whence do they come?”

Legolas pointed. “They come almost directly from Haloel, bearing many 
weapons, but no caravan of wine.”

That got the Ranger’s immediate attention. “The lord of Haloel is not 
in the habit of sending out war parties beyond his realm.” Legolas 
nodded. “What think you, Alagion?”

The prince regarded the distant men only for a moment before replying, 
“I think we might do well to give them a wide berth until we know more 
of their intentions.”

“I suspect you are right. Let us break camp and ride clear of their 
path. How much time have we until dawn?”

“Perhaps two hours. If we depart now, we can be well beyond their 
sights by sunrise,” said Legolas.

As they re-loaded and mounted their horses, Strider added, “We might 
also take a less direct route to the castle until I am able to contact 
Sarovin. I suddenly grow wary of Haloel.”

The plan was successful, and the sun found Legolas and Strider leading 
their horses carefully toward the foothills as they approached Haloel 
from the north, rather than from the east as most travelers would. 
Coming around a cluster of boulders that conveniently shielded them 
from view, the prince and Ranger beheld at last the land of Haloel. 
Neat arbors of vines covered the green, rolling hills as far as the 
eye could see, and a small river meandered lazily through the central 
valley, with little dwellings and clusters of houses dotting the 
landscape. At the center of the valley sat the castle, a great stone 
construction that would easily hold all the residents of this fair 
land.

Fair it was, but what they saw troubled the man and the elf greatly. 
It was late spring; the fields should have been filled with workers 
tending Haloel’s famous grapes. But instead, among the green vineyards 
stood a multitude of tents, and many armed warriors milling about. 
Beside Legolas, Strider narrowed his eyes. “A siege camp,” he 
observed. “Haloel has been invaded.”

But Legolas could see further, all the way to the men guarding the 
walls of the castle. He could also make out more details of the 
encamped soldiers. “A siege, yes,” said the elf. “But not by foreign 
invaders. Remember the men we passed bore the armor and weapons of 
Haloel’s guard. They were not fleeing this attack, but patrolling 
outside the borders for any who approached the castle. And these men 
in the camp below carry the flags and weapons of the lord of Haloel.”

Strider stared at him, then squinted down into the valley in a vain 
attempt to see for himself. After a moment--and sounding slightly 
chagrined--the Ranger admitted, “My eyes cannot reach so far. What can 
you see at the castle?”

Distracted by the troubles in the valley, it did not occur to Legolas 
to be smug. “The men who hold the fort are not soldiers. They bear 
arms with without skill--and they wear the garb of peasants.” Turning 
to face Strider, he concluded grimly, “The folk of Haloel are 
rebelling against their lord. His symbol is on the tents and attacking 
soldiers. The farmers have taken the castle, which is built to 
withstand an assault, but the soldiers have the advantage in weapons 
and training. Seeing only this, I know not how long their defenses can 
hold.”

If the war being waged below them unsettled Legolas, the elf knew that 
Strider was still more disturbed, for he had no way of knowing the 
whereabouts of his friend. Glancing worriedly at the elf, Strider 
smiled slightly, “Perhaps if we could locate Sarovin, he might tell us 
what led to this revolt.”

“Have you any idea where he might be, or even if he still lingers in 
Haloel?” Legolas asked.

“His message said only that trouble was stirring in Haloel.” The 
Ranger chuckled, “When I see him, I shall pronounce him master of the 
understatement.”

“Indeed,” Legolas grimaced, gazing at the soldiers constructing a 
massive battering ram down by the river. He knew naught of the 
circumstances behind this siege, but his knowledge of sieges already 
lent his sympathy to the besieged. 

This was the first siege the prince of Mirkwood had actually witnessed 
firsthand, and already he thought it worse than his mentors had 
described. War of any kind turned his stomach, but the siege had a 
horrible slowness to it that drained the life out of both sides until 
one was exhausted or starved into defeat. On the field, the soldiers 
of Haloel’s lord trained and planned at their leisure, able to bring 
in supplies, but the castle itself was a fortress not easily 
penetrated, and such an assault would certainly lead to many 
casualties.

But the situation for the peasants within the castle was still more 
dire. They would be able to fight only as long as their food and water 
supplies held out, and if they did not repel the attack before 
then…they would either be starved out or taken. Legolas could not be 
certain how the peasants were faring just by looking, but the men 
stationed on the wall held their bows with an awkward desperation of 
those who knew all too well the stakes of this fight.

It was then, while Legolas was observing the besieged peasants, that 
one of the men on the wall caught his eye. A smile quirked the elf’s 
lips. This man wore not the simply spun raiment of the farmers, but 
the rough gear of a Ranger, and a sword made by the craftsmen of 
Gondor. “I think I have found your friend, Strider of the Dúnedain.”

***

Sarovin, son of Tarodin, was organizing the peasants of Haloel atop 
the castle’s outer wall when one of the watchers called to him. 
“There’s someone up in the hills, north!”

The Ranger ran to the north battlements, staring up the face of the 
northern hills. “Where?”

“Ducking behind the trees and rocks, but they’re definitely making 
their way here.”

Sarovin scowled in the direction the guard had pointed. Lord 
Fompran--the now-deposed lord of Haloel--was constantly sending bands 
of soldiers to harass Sarovin’s men, and the Ranger had no doubt that 
there were also agents sent by Fompran within the castle. But Sarovin 
was too busy keeping the farmers rallied to seek them out.

His attention was grabbed suddenly by the sight of two cloaked figures 
popping out from behind a copse of trees and moving swiftly and 
stealthily toward the castle. “Strange,” he murmured. The pair were 
taking great pains to keep obstacles between themselves and Fompran’s 
camp, but making no effort to hide from the view of Sarovin and his 
men within the fort. 

“Could they be friends?” asked one of the guards, voicing Sarovin’s 
thought.

“I do not know,” the Ranger murmured. “They’re certainly eager to get 
here. I would know more of their intentions before granting them 
entrance…but we’ve no way to signal them without alerting Fompran’s 
camp to their presence.”

“Ho, Sarovin, look!” exclaimed another.

The Ranger cursed. “It appears Fompran’s men are going to find out 
they’re here no matter what. Lend me your bow, Dersten,” he said to 
the farmer nearest him. “Whatever their purpose in coming here, I do 
not want Fompran and his marauders to learn of it before us.”

The two new arrivals were picking their way down a hillside toward the 
castle, but the route would take them perilously close to the siege 
camp. Now the clamor of the soldiers in the camp was obscuring the 
guard leaning indolently against the very boulder that the strangers 
were about to sneak around. 

Sarovin took aim at the soldier, and the rest of his men exchanged 
looks. “Keep your bows ready for anyone who approaches the wall,” he 
ordered. “But do not fire unless I order it.”

The guards obeyed his command, and Sarovin readied himself. The 
strangers came from behind the rock, intending to dart toward the 
cover of another, but found themselves face-to-face with a siege 
guard. Before the man could sound the alarm, an arrow was embedded in 
his neck. The strangers froze, staring up at the wall where the shot 
had come from. “Ready your bows!” Sarovin ordered. To the newcomers, 
he murmured, “You have ten seconds to declare yourselves before I drop 
both of you.”

Almost as if he had heard Sarovin, the taller and larger of the two 
pulled back his hood. “Hold!” Sarovin exclaimed immediately. “Hold 
your fire! Bring a rope ladder at once!” he shouted to several men 
nearby. “Make ready to cover them!” Disregarding caution, he beckoned 
vigorously at the two to approach the castle.

Inevitably, the soldiers in Lord Fompran’s camp noticed and raced to 
cut off the intruders’ access to the castle. Sarovin’s men fired a 
volley of arrows at them--rather badly coordinated, but sufficient to 
create a gap for the newcomers. The Ranger watched anxiously as the 
two ran, swords drawn, towards the wall where the peasants had dropped 
the ladder. “Come on, my friend, come on!”

“That is the man you sent for?” Dersten asked. “Who is that with him?” 
The farmer indicated the fleet, slight figure just behind Strider.

“I do not know, but if he travels with Strider, he is a friend,” 
Sarovin said firmly.

***

Aragorn sprinted for the ladder, but a group of Haloel soldiers were 
close on his and Alagion’s heels. A larger mob of farmers had gathered 
on the wall, whether shouting in encouragement or warning, he did not 
know. He gained the ladder and started up, but knew simply by the 
sounds behind that the soldiers were far too close. 

The Ranger whirled, preparing to do battle, but Alagion was between 
him and the soldiers, shouting, “Go!” Going for his bow and quiver, 
Alagion threw off his cloak, but in so doing, his long golden hair, 
fair features, and pointed ears came into plain view of all.

A great incredulous cry went up from all directions, and when Alagion 
notched an arrow and took aim at the pursuing soldiers, it was all 
Aragorn could do not to laugh. The soldiers--all thirteen of 
them--literally skidded to a halt in their tracks. Not that it 
surprised Aragorn with his experiences among elves, for even without 
seeing his face, Alagion looked formidable. Any ordinary man unlucky 
enough to be on the receiving end of his steely-black gaze would 
doubtlessly suffer a sudden loss of nerve. Alagion glanced back at 
Aragorn and again shouted for him to climb, and this time the Ranger 
did so. By now the soldiers had recovered their courage and charged 
the elf en masse, roaring with all the pumped-up bravado of those 
terrified of their foe.

Alagion proved their fears justified. Six men fell to his arrows in 
the time it took those watching to gasp, then Aragorn gained the top 
of the wall. Sarovin gave him a hand over, and there was no need to 
shout down to Alagion, for the elf had heard. He turned and flew 
nimbly up the ladder while pulling the back end behind him so the 
soldiers could not follow him up. The peasants of Haloel were as wary 
of him as the soldiers, and only Aragorn and Sarovin did not shrink 
back when the elf jumped gracefully over the thick outer wall.

For a moment, the elf, Rangers, and rebelling farmers simply stared at 
each other. Finally, it was Sarovin who broke the silence. “Well, 
Strider, I must say you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Aragorn looked from his fellow Ranger to Alagion to the men, who were 
still openly gawking at the elf, and his sense of the ridiculous got 
the better of him. He began to laugh, and Sarovin quickly joined him, 
while Alagion and the other men stared as though wondering what could 
possibly be so funny. Catching his breath, Aragorn said, “You are one 
to talk, Sarovin. ‘Trouble stirring’ indeed. Never before have I seen 
trouble so stirred!”

“I knew you would make haste if I piqued your curiosity. And I see you 
are in favor with the elves, as always.” Seeming to remember his 
manners, Sarovin bowed to Alagion. “You have my thanks for your 
assistance, Master Elf. I am Sarovin, son of Tarodin of Bree.”

The elf bowed in turn, “I am honored, son of Tarodin. I am Alagion, 
son of Langcyll of Mirkwood.” *And there it is again; he hesitates at 
this name,* thought Aragorn triumphantly. *I wonder when I shall hear 
his true identity.*

“Mirkwood,” the murmured word rippled through the crowd of men. 
Aragorn dared a quick glance around and saw no open hostility, to his 
relief, but a good deal of wariness and doubt, even some suspicion. 
*How long it has been since men and elves could meet without fear,* 
the heir of Isildur thought with a pang of regret. Turning back to 
Sarovin, he gestured at the siege camp--which looked like a disturbed 
hornet’s nest with soldiers running about shrieking over the elf and 
second Ranger’s arrival. “How did this come to pass?”

His expression turning grim, Sarovin gestured to the farmers, “Just as 
all revolutions come to pass, my friend. Perhaps the people of this 
realm would be better suited to tell you of it.”

They were more than willing, as rebelling subjects are always willing 
to tell their part. “The lords of Haloel were wise and just once,” 
said one whom Sarovin identified as Dersten. “But not Fompran. He 
ruled Haloel in a prosperous time, but thoughts the fruits of our 
labor should benefit him alone. The kingdom grew richer, but we grew 
poorer.”

“He’s quadrupled the taxes of the workers since gaining power!” 
another man put in indignantly. “And at the same time, took control of 
the presses and wineries, paying us less than ever for our grapes and 
labor. We’re farmers, not slaves!”

“For years since the last tax raises, we’ve been petitioning Fompran 
to lower them again, or else pay more for our labor,” added another. 
“At first he would hear us and then dismiss us, now he will not even 
see our representatives. Says it’s our duty to do as we’re told by our 
lord!”

Aragorn grimaced and saw Alagion looking equally dismayed (despite a 
noble effort by the elf to display outward neutrality.) *I should have 
sent him on his way before coming to the castle,* the Ranger thought. 
*He did not need to be brought into this.*

Dersten went on, “Three months ago, we decided to stop working the 
vineyards until Fompran heard our petition and negotiated a 
compromise. He and his soldiers came and took over the fields, 
presses, and wineries, saying we would work on his terms or not at 
all, and he’d evict all of us, and our families.” The man smiled 
grimly. “But he’d left the castle practically empty to take over all 
the fields.” Several of the men smirked. “So we decided that if he put 
us out of our homes, we would return the favor until he saw fit to 
parley with us.”

“Not much chance of that happening,” muttered someone. “Greedy 
tyrant.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Alagion make an almost 
imperceptible movement. One who knew naught of elves might have 
dismissed it as merely shifting position, but to Aragorn…it looked 
like a wince. *Interesting.* Aloud, Aragorn said, “I can guess what 
role you had in all of this, Sarovin.”

The other Ranger chuckled, “Quite likely. It was I who encouraged 
Dersten and his folk to refuse to work, and when the situation took a 
turn for the worse--I could scarcely fail to see it through.”

“Why did you send for Strider?” Alagion spoke up at last. Several of 
the men jumped. Aragorn had to stifle a laugh.

Sarovin smiled knowingly, “From the moment I arrived here, I thought 
Strider’s skills would be of use. These men have need of a strong 
leader, one stronger than I.” The last remark was directed again at 
Aragorn.

“What sort of leadership is needed?” Aragorn asked carefully.

There were several stifled groans. Dersten jerked his head at the open 
courtyard below. “Look for yourself,” he said with a note of acute 
embarrassment in his tone.

Aragorn and Alagion peered over the wall down into the courtyard. The 
clamor below, Aragorn had assumed, was the sound of men training and 
rigging more defenses. Now, with Alagion looking discomfited beside 
him, he saw his mistake. If the rebels’ food and water was rationed, 
one commodity was clearly in no short supply: wine. The courtyard 
below looked more like a tavern at closing time than a fort under 
siege. 

Simultaneously (and rather slowly) the elf and Ranger turned their 
heads back to face Sarovin and Dersten. Rather unnecessarily, Alagion 
said simply, “Oh.”

Apparently torn between mortification and laughter, Sarovin raised his 
hands helplessly, “You must understand, my friends, these are not 
soldiers.” *You can say that again,* thought Aragorn. “They are merely 
farmers who have been pushed too far by a tyrannical lord. Even the 
most reasonable people have their limits. But now they’ve acted,” he 
shrugged. “They’ve not the faintest idea what to do next. And when 
they’re not guarding the walls or the gates, as you see, they’ve too 
much time and wine on their hands.”

“Does the lord of Haloel know of…that?” Alagion asked quietly from 
behind Aragorn. He seemed to be taking an interest in the situation 
against his own will.

“Not likely, for I think he has similar troubles in his own camp,” 
chuckled Dersten ironically. “It is a long ride to the nearest 
neighboring realms to trade for food and supplies, but wine is 
something we in Haloel have in near-unlimited abundance. So when our 
men are not on duty, I suppose they wish to distract themselves from 
the stress of waiting this siege out. The same seems to be happening 
in the siege camp, from what we can tell.”

Another man laughed, “And we have one advantage now. We have two 
Rangers and an elf. They have Fompran.”

Neither Aragorn nor Alagion had yet seen the lord of Haloel, but 
judging by the roar of laughter that went up from all (including 
Sarovin) it must be a rather bizarre comparison.

***

Fompran, Lord of Haloel by birth, was at that moment listening to the 
report from his soldiers about the incident at the wall. When the men 
were finished with their account, he cursed loudly and hurled his full 
goblet (it was always kept full) across the tent, leaving a red stain 
on the canvas wall. “Another Ranger is bad enough,” he griped in his 
nasal voice, “but an elf?! That’s all we need, immortals sticking 
their noses in this!”

“The elf and new Ranger are in the castle now, my lord.”

Limply flapping his rather fat hands for emphasis, the embattled lord 
exclaimed, “Well…then…DO something about it, Vrall!”

“What, you lordship?” his captain asked dubiously. “We haven’t even 
come close to succeeding in a direct assault against the castle--it is 
a fortress, after all. And we have no way of knowing where they are 
now.”

“Fah!” Fompran waved his hand dismissively (upsetting another silver 
goblet.) “We’ve got spies in that accursed castle, don’t we? Signal 
them!”

Vrall, hoping to avoid getting another glass of wine in the face 
(which his lord was wont to do) stepped back hastily. “What message do 
you wish sent, my lord?”

Wrinkling his nose and brow in thought, Fompran grumbled to himself 
for a moment before saying, “Without those Rangers leading them, that 
rabble would fall apart. I want them disposed of.”

“And the elf?”

“Kill him too, of course,” Fompran said in exasperation. Vrall started 
to depart, then the wheels of Fompran’s mind slowly began turning, and 
a better scheme popped into his head. “Wait!” Rubbing his fingers 
against his double chin, the lord murmured, “Perhaps I’m too quick. We 
want those traitors hurt in the worst possible way. Perhaps we can do 
worse than simply killing their foreign leaders.”

“Capture, my lord? That will be difficult,” Vrall said doubtfully.

“Well, as far as I know, it is your JOB to come up with the correct 
strategy, Vrall,” Fompran said petulantly. “You ARE after all the 
captain of my guard!”

Clearing his throat, Vrall said hastily, “Of course, my lord. Say only 
what you wish, and I will see it done.”

“Hmph, that’s a better attitude. Yeeesss, let us see. Very well, 
capture the two Rangers and get them back to the camp. Nothing will 
demoralize those worthless rebels like seeing their leaders executed 
in full view.”

“It shall be so, my lord. And what of the elf?”

“I don’t want any trouble with any elf lord, Vrall. Kill the elf in 
the castle--nothing fancy. If anyone comes sniffing around, we can 
blame it on the rebels. Hmmmm. Yes, I’m liking this more and more. 
Better yet, if we can enlist the aid of the elves seeking justice for 
their kinsman, the castle will fall even sooner.”

“Yes, my lord,” Vrall’s voice sounded decidedly skeptical, and Fompran 
glared at the captain over the rim of his goblet. “How many of your 
spies do you wish to set on this?”

“All of them. I don’t want any foul-ups. They can use any method they 
please, but tell them: Capture the Rangers. Kill the elf.”

***

Vrall, captain of Lord Fompran’s guard (by birth) was a little 
irritated to find their messenger was quite hopelessly drunk when 
Vrall came to order the sending of their lord’s message. “Curse it!” 
He saw little harm in letting his men indulge in Haloel’s chief 
export, but one would think Tegas would have the sense not to swill so 
much right before his shift.

“It’s almost twilight, Vrall,” another of his men said worriedly. “If 
we lose the sun, the mirror will be useless.”

“Well, Tegas is in no fit state; he’d jumble the message,” Vrall 
scowled. He did NOT desire returning to report the delay to Fompran; 
he was down to one wine-free tunic. “I’ll do it.”

His lieutenant looked doubtful. “Do you know the light codes, sir?”

With a shrug, the burly soldier replied, “A little, yes…and how hard 
can this message be, Nasemar? Tegas can even tell me the code, all I 
need is a steady hand to move the mirror!”

“Right,” Nasemar shoved the drunk messenger aside so Vrall could take 
the mirror. “All right, Tegas, snap out of it! Tell us how to send a 
message!”

Grinning stupidly and blinking rapidly, Tegas replied, “Well, I canna 
really tell ya that, Vvvvvrall! D’pends on whatcha wanna slend!”

Throwing up his hands with another curse, Vrall said, “We must say, 
‘Capture Rangers, kill elf.’ How do I do that?”

Springing up eagerly, Tegas exclaimed, “Why, thad’s no problem--I 
could slend thad in my sllleeep! Here, lemme do it!”

He tried to take the mirror, but Vrall and Nasemar irritably shoved 
him away. “Get off, you drunken sot, you’d wind up telling them to 
join the rebels! Just tell me the code!”

“Blah! Alright, alright, don’ hit me! Id’s very simple! ‘Capdture’ is 
two short blinks, then a long blink. ‘Rangers’ is long blink, short 
blink, long blink. ‘Kill’ is one short blink, then two long blinks. 
‘Elf’ is one long blink. Nnnow, didja ged all that?” Tegas folded his 
arms at Vrall with dramatic expectancy.

“Of course--if a drunken fool like you can manage it, a babe could. 
Now,” narrowing his eyes in concentration, Vrall angled the mirror to 
catch the sun. “One short blink--bah! Onnneeee shorrrtttt 
blinnn--curse it! This is harder than it looks! One short--there! Now 
another short…argh!”

***

From their hiding place in a storeroom in the castle, several of Lord 
Fompran’s guards saw the light blinking from the signal mirror. Having 
been indulging in a little too much themselves, it took a minute for 
their appointed watchman to realize the signal was there. “Oy, men, 
camp’s sending a message!”

“Huh?” “What?” “Where?” “Why?” “How?” “What’s it say?”

“Shaddap, shaddap, I’m trying to note it! Uh, short blink, long blink, 
long blink, uh--wait. There, there! Here it is…short-long-long, 
short…they say… ‘Kill Rangers, Capture Elf!’”

The men cheered lustily as though they’d already won a great victory. 
“Finally, something to do!”

“Grrr, hand me that wineskin!”

“Oy, Sulitron, we’re on duty now!”

“Bugger duty; we need our strength! Everyone have a snort!”

“Right you are, Sulitron, pass that skin around.”

“Ahhh, now I’m ready. Ready, men?”

“Right then, let’s get to work, gentlemen. We’ve got an elf to catch 
and two Rangers to kill. Time to make some plans!”

***

“An elf!” “Look, Kartzel, he really is an elf!” “I’ve never seen an 
elf before!”

*I could never have guessed,* thought Legolas, suppressing the urge to 
sigh. Sarovin and Strider were busy locking up all the storerooms of 
wine (no small task), and now the rebelling peasants of Haloel were 
assembling in the central courtyard--where they had immediately begun 
gawking at Legolas.

The prince of Mirkwood had tried leaving his hood up, but that only 
led the farmers to lean and crane their necks still more for a peek at 
his elvish features. (It also drew the Rangers’ attention, and Legolas 
had begun to translate the faint quirk of Strider’s mouth as 
suppressed laughter.)

Strider and Sarovin reappeared from another door--chasing several 
rebels out before them--and Sarovin locked it, tossing the massive key 
ring to Strider. “That’s all the store rooms. They’ll need a battering 
ram of their own to get those doors open.”

Several of the nearer men forgot their fascination with Legolas and 
turned to protest loudly. Strider raised his hands over the shouts, 
“Please, friends, there’s no need to mourn your lost pastime. You’ll 
soon be too busy for wine!”

The farmers exchanged puzzled glances, and then Sarovin jumped in. 
“I’ve warned you all that there is much to be done if you are to have 
any hope of winning this fight. And the first of those things is to 
leave off the wine!”

There came a renewed chorus of shouts, and then Strider startled 
everyone (Legolas included) with an impressive bellow. “You have NO 
CHANCE of holding the castle if you spend your days drinking instead 
of fighting. This is not a game, men of Haloel. Look beyond the wall! 
Look well! The soldiers without are making more weapons and building a 
battering ram to break down your gates. You all know Lord Fompran 
better than I! When his men take this castle, and you, AND your 
families, what mercy will he show you?”

Silence now hung over the crowd of farmers, and Legolas saw fear and 
grim determination replacing resistance on many faces. *It is well 
that Strider has reminded them of the stakes. There are only two 
possible outcomes of a siege.*

One of the peasants grimly stepped forward, “I will never submit 
myself and my family to Fompran’s rule again!”

“Nor I!” “Nor I!” “Enough!” “We SHALL win this fight!” “We’ve no 
choice but to win!” 

Another, who Legolas recognized as Dersten from earlier on the 
battlements, addressed the Rangers. “What must we do? If Fompran takes 
the castle, we’ll be lucky if all he does is take our possessions and 
land and exile us. What must we do to prepare and fortify our 
defenses?”

Without thinking, Legolas spoke up. “Fompran’s soldiers have the 
advantage of you in skill at arms. You must learn to bear weapons 
properly against your foes.”

An awestruck murmur rippled through the men. *Confound it, what am I 
thinking? This is not my fight! I am only here because I owe my life 
to Strider. I should not be meddling in the affairs of mortals!*

But Sarovin and Strider were nodding in agreement. “And you must 
organize,” Strider went on, apparently sensing Legolas’s discomfort. 
“Each man has a role to play, and a task to perform if you are to 
mount a proper defense. And it must begin now. How many among you are 
at all skilled with arms?” Without waiting for hands to raise, he 
pointed to one side of the courtyard. “Over there.” They moved without 
hesitation at his command. “Now, how many are builders, carpenters, or 
craftsmen? Over there. And how many are healers? Good, that corner…”

And so it went. After splitting the farmers into groups, Strider 
approached Legolas. The elf suppressed a sigh, for he thought he could 
guess what the Ranger wanted. But what caught him completely by 
surprise was the man’s understanding of his dilemma. “I had not the 
chance before to ask you to forgive me, Alagion of Mirkwood. Though 
these are not your people, I fear I have drawn you into this conflict. 
And I cannot think of any way to see you safely away now that you are 
here.”

Startled into frankness, Legolas replied, “You need not apologize, for 
I am still in your debt. And,” he smiled wryly as he admitted, “Even 
if I could depart, I should find it difficult to leave these people 
behind when I might be of help.” Strider also smiled, and again the 
prince thought, *Even for a friend of Lord Elrond, you understand the 
minds of elves far too well for just an ordinary Ranger. Who are you?* 

But the Ranger was speaking again, “I am afraid your little archery 
demonstration this afternoon left you with quite a reputation. Not 
that the way of elves with weapons is not already legendary. And then 
there’s the little matter of the utterly miserable lack of skill among 
the rebels in that same area.” He and Legolas both chuckled, knowing 
it to be the truth. “Your assistance training the men of Haloel to 
defend their castle walls with the bow would be of great help.”

Legolas nodded (actually, it seemed closer to a bow of respect). “I 
shall see what I can teach them.” Strider could not seem to suppress a 
grin any longer, and Legolas found himself returning it--they both 
knew teaching these green farmers to defend the castle against a siege 
would be quite an arduous task. As they walked to where the 
newly-designated free soldiers of Haloel were waiting to be trained, 
the elf and Ranger shared a wry laugh. “What by the Valar have we got 
ourselves into?”



*****

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Sarovin: a Ranger, older than Aragorn, who is guiding the peasants of 
Haloel in their fight for freedom Dersten: one of the rebelling 
farmers Kartzel: another farmer Fompran: deposed Lord of Haloel Vrall: 
the captain of Lord Fompran’s guard Tegas: Lord Fompran’s messenger 
Nasemar: Vrall’s lieutenant 

----------------------------------------------------------- Thanks to 
all the horse lovers who are forgiving my lack of equine intelligence. 
And for those of you wanting to know where those horses are at during 
the siege, slow down! You’re getting ahead of yourselves! ;-) 
----------------------------------------------------------- ORIGINAL 
CHARACTER GUIDE

Alagion: Legolas’s alias Sarovin: Older Ranger, friend of Aragorn’s 
who’s helping the rebels Strider: DUH!!! Yalc, Dersten, Kartzel, 
Tergian: assorted peasant farmers who are now rebels against the lord 
of Haloel Niradam: Dersten’s wife Fompran: now-deposed Lord of Haloel 
Vrall: Fompran’s guard captain Tegas: Fompran’s messenger Sulitron, 
Essad, Nerum, Telsun: some (but not all) of Lord Fompran’s spies 
inside the castle Modin, Nasemar: some of Fompran’s other soldiers

Sorry, hope all those names don’t confuse you! 

*** Denotes a change in POV ** Denotes flashbacks (none in this 
chapter) * Denotes unspoken thought

Remember: When Legolas is referred to as “Alagion,” it’s Aragorn’s 
POV. When Aragorn is referred to as “Strider,” it’s Legolas’s POV. And 
for those of you wondering when the heck those two are going to 
announce their real names, be patient! And read on:





Chapter Twenty: Trust









Crowded together behind piled sacks of grain in a tower store room, 
the spies of Lord Fompran planned their strike against the foreigners 
who were aiding the rebels. “How by any holy are we going to get that 
elf out of the castle?” demanded Essad. “This place is crawling with 
rebels!”

“Never without being seen, Essad, so get rid of that idea,” said 
Sulitron. 

“Sounds like our best bet is to hit ‘em when they’re all together,” 
mused Nerum. “Take out the Rangers and grab the elf in the confusion, 
then get ourselves and him over the wall before the rabble realize 
what’s happening.”

Sulitron leaned against the cold stone wall, narrowing his eyes in the 
dim light of their lantern. “We won’t have much time before the whole 
rebel army converges on us.”

“Good point,” said another man, grimacing. “We’ll probably have to 
strike when all three are up on the wall. Kill the Rangers and then 
grab the elf and jump. Wall’s high, but not so bad. At most we’d break 
a few bones.”

“Speak for yourself, Telsun,” snorted Essad. “I’d prefer to keep my 
limbs intact.”

“Still, Telsun’s right; it’s our best chance of accomplishing our task 
AND getting out of there alive. I’ll take a broken leg over an arrow 
to the throat.” Sulitron looked briskly at his men. “Then we’re 
agreed. We’ll have to keep a constant watch; as soon as we see all 
three of them together on the wall, we strike. The less time they have 
to train those rebels, the better.”

“Right!” the men chorused enthusiastically. Sulitron nodded firmly and 
went to keep watch on the rebels. His men watched him go.

“Well,” said Essad cheerfully. “In the meantime, no reason why we 
can’t relax. See if there’s a few bottles of good stuff in that crate 
you’re leaning on, Telsun.”

The other spy looked doubtful, “We might have to move at any time.”

“Ahh, relax, you stiff log. Take a look out there; they’re all in the 
courtyard! What’s the harm in having a little nip while we wait?”

Telsun peaked out the window; sure enough, both Rangers and the elf 
were in the courtyard, trying to teach the rebels how to be soldiers. 
So, with a shrug and a sly grin, he turned and pried the lid off the 
nearest crate, pulling out a bottle.

***

In the center of the courtyard, Aragorn was desperately biting his 
lip, and thought he would die any minute from trying to hold back his 
laughter. Sarovin’s forehead was turning red with the effort of 
stifling his own mirth. The two Rangers had been teaching 
swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat to a group of rebels, but the 
instruction had come to a half when Alagion’s group had become 
interesting. 

As for Alagion, the elf appeared torn between howling with laughter 
and beating his head against the wall in frustration. “Loosen your 
fingers, Yalc,” he urged the lanky farmer currently trying to master 
the bow.

The aspiring archer did so--and the arrow promptly slipped from the 
bowstring. With an aggravated curse, Yalc tried again to notch the 
arrow--and this time succeeded in releasing it prematurely, forcing 
Aragorn to duck. The Ranger straightened, grimacing at the elf, and 
got a less than sincere glare in response. “If you consider my 
instruction lacking, Strider of the Dunedain, perhaps you should take 
over and I shall teach the sword.”

Aragorn laughed and waved the mocking proposal off. “Thank you for the 
offer, Master Elf, but I think swordsmanship is best taught by us.” 
None of the other men (not even Sarovin) saw any change in the elf’s 
expression, but to Aragorn’s trained eye, Alagion’s face revealed a 
definite ruffle at that remark. He hastily raised his hands and said 
mildly, “And your prowess with the bow is unequaled--you are better 
suited than I to teach it.”

But the young elf clearly had no intention of letting Aragorn’s 
assumption go unanswered. With his mouth quirking just slightly to the 
side, Alagion spoke in a near-drawl, “I think you will find that an 
elf is better suited to teach the use of ANY weapon!” 

This time, not a man among them missed the inherent challenge. Aragorn 
folded his arms and grinned openly at the elf (while sizing him up.) 
*It’s no wonder you were in so much trouble when I found you, 
Elfling,* he thought with more amusement than censure. *Your greenness 
will get you killed.*

All the same, the Ranger was still young enough himself not to resist 
a challenge to a friendly bout--after all, it might prove instructive 
to the men! Aloud, he drawled in turn, “I hope you are able to support 
such words with action, Alagion of Mirkwood.”

With a distinctly mocking bow, Alagion replied, “I should be most 
honored, Strider of the Dunedain, to give both you AND the men of 
Haloel a demonstration of the elvish way with the sword.”

Aragorn responded with an even more extravagant bow, and the other men 
exchanged eager glances. Sarovin looked patiently amused as though 
watching a bragging contest between youngsters (which to him, it was.) 
As Alagion went for a sword, and Aragorn borrowed a shield, Sarovin 
murmured to his fellow Ranger, “You’re making a terrible mistake, my 
friend.”

“Whose side are you on?” Aragorn hissed laughingly.

“Yours, you young upstart, and that is why I would hate to see you 
flattened before this whole audience,” chuckled Sarovin.

“Elves prefer the bow to the sword, and Alagion is very young by their 
standards; I can take him!” 

(Sigh) “You still have much to learn about elves, young one, and their 
way with all weapons. You’ll regret your overconfidence.”

Only one man other than Aragorn knew of his true lineage--Sarovin. The 
old Ranger also knew Aragorn had been raised by elves, so he was not 
likely to underestimate the younger man’s abilities, given his 
training by elves. That knowledge cautioned Aragorn, but he had no 
intention of backing away from Alagion’s challenge. 

The men of Haloel backed up to the walls of the courtyard, murmuring 
eagerly amongst themselves. Aragorn heard some nearby whispering. 

“A gold piece on the Ranger!” 

“You’re on!”

“The elf will win!”

“You’re mad; he’s half Strider’s size! They’re archers, not 
swordsmen!”

“Shh, they’re starting!”

Shields in one hand, swords in the other, the two combatants faced 
each other in the center of the courtyard. At Sarovin’s signal, 
Aragorn lunged, landing a hard blow on Alagion’s shield. The elf 
pivoted at the last second, deflecting rather than absorbing the 
force. At once, he came back with a flurry of quick, sharp strikes 
that had Aragorn angling his shield every which way to catch them. 

Finally managing to dodge a swing entirely, Aragorn came back with all 
his weight into a blow that knocked Alagion’s shield from his hand. 
The men shouted in excitement as Aragorn pressed his advantage. It was 
not as if years of training and sparring with his foster-brothers had 
not given Aragorn considerable experience with the agility of elves, 
and yet…Alagion was quite skillful even by Aragorn’s standards. No. 
More than skillful. Spectacular. And Elladan and Elrohir (not to 
mention Glorfindel and the other warriors in Imladris) were considered 
far above average in prowess at arms.

So it came as something of a shock to Aragorn when his young (by elven 
standards, anyway) opponent not only avoided Aragorn’s blows with 
sword and shield with little difficulty, but actually continued to 
press his counterattack. All at once, Alagion rolled neatly under 
Aragorn’s sword and delivered a precise fist to his arm, causing the 
Ranger to lose his own shield.

Aragorn scrambled away to regroup, abandoning the shield. To his 
amazement, the young elf facing him with level concentration seemed 
barely the worse, while Aragorn felt rattled and defensive. With 
hardly a pause, Alagion launched in again, and Aragorn found himself 
frantically parrying strokes that seemed to be coming from all 
directions--as though the elf had four arms and four swords. Sweat 
drenched his face and his sword arm rang with the blows.

In a frantic effort to phase the elf, Aragorn swung his fist in a wild 
punch, that was easily dodged, then a tightly-balled hand landed 
another direct hit on his sword-arm near the elbow--and the Ranger’s 
sword dropped neatly from his suddenly-numbed fingers. The elf 
suddenly materialized behind him, kicked him in the backs of the 
knees, and Aragorn rolled onto his back to find Alagion’s sword tip 
resting at his chin.

A great roar went up from the watching soldiers (including a roar of 
laughter from Sarovin) and Alagion removed his sword and stepped back, 
smiling faintly. Aragorn was thankful that his exertions had prevented 
his face from getting any redder. His dark gray eyes sparkling with 
inner laughter, Alagion gave the vanquished human a hand up. “I trust 
I have proven my case?”

“All too well,” chuckled Sarovin, joining them. “Enough now,” he said 
to the assembly in general, “we’re supposed to be fighting Fompran, 
not each other.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and immediately a press of men 
crowded around Alagion asking for instructions. The elf’s eyes, still 
bright with amusement, met Aragorn’s over their heads, and Aragorn 
grinned sheepishly. But inside, the questions had deepened. *The Eldar 
as a race have a legendary prowess with all weapons, but no ordinary 
elf--even from Mirkwood--has skills on the level of Elrohir or 
Glorfindel.*

Even as he took up a bow and began working with the archers (since the 
men were now utterly disinterested in learning the sword from him) 
Aragorn found himself glancing again and again at “Alagion.” And again 
and again, the question came to his mind. 

*Who are you?*

***

Legolas had never imagined that any man would be able to stand against 
him in single combat (with any weapon) for as long as Strider had. 
*But then again, I realized at our first meeting that this Strider was 
no ordinary man.* Glancing at the Ranger (who was doing a surprisingly 
good job teaching the bowmen) he wondered as he had many times in the 
past days:

*Who are you?*

He turned his attention back to his students. “You must be quick,” he 
admonished Yalc and Kartzel as they practiced. “I have seen Lord 
Fompran’s soldiers; they rely on brute force. You must use speed to 
your advantage.”

“Aye, and we all saw the advantages,” inserted someone, and Legolas 
grinned amid the laughter that followed.

“Just so. Yalc, do not swing so wildly--a sword is not a club. Here,” 
Legolas steadied the farmer’s grip. “Control, gentlemen, always keep 
your weapon under control.” *Oh, curse the Valar, I sound like 
Langcyll!* “Move your feet, Yalc!”

A loudly-twanging bowstring and shouts of laughter warned Legolas just 
in time to dive to the ground to escape yet another stray arrow. 
Rising, he glared in mock-accusation at Strider and a very 
embarrassed-looking bowman-in-training. “Nice shot!”

“They seem to be improving!”

Just after dawn, a messanger approached the castle bearing a flag of 
truce. “What could have induced Fompran to parley with us?” Legolas 
asked Sarovin as they stood on the wall.

“This is not a parley offer,” Sarovin replied. “Fompran delivers terms 
for surrender every morning. Still,” he smiled and gestured to 
Legolas, and to Strider in the courtyard below. “Perhaps your arrival 
has led him to rethink his position.”

The rider, who identified as Vrall, captain of Fompran’s guard, did 
have terms of surrender. Of sorts. “I am commanded by Lord Fompran, 
ruler of Haloel, to demand your immediate and unconditional 
surrender!”

“Let the bastard rant all he will!” shouted Dersten, and similar 
comments were made by the other rebels.

“You took an oath at manhood! All of you, swearing allegiance to Lord 
Fompran,” Vrall accused.

“I didn’t,” Sarovin called facetiously. The farmers tittered. “Did 
you, Strider?”

“Nay, I did not, so I can be accused of no breach of honor,” Strider 
said. He looked up at the wall, laughter in his eyes, and called, “Did 
you, Master Elf?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Legolas said blandly. The farmers laughed 
harder. “Even so, it is a moot point, for I reached manhood long 
before your Lord Fompran first drew breath.”

Vrall had to wait several seconds before replying, for the guffaws of 
the men drowned him out. Legolas saw Dersten and Yalc grinning at him, 
and did not bother suppressing his own smile. Then Vrall went on to 
the real purpose of his errand:

“Lord Fompran also wishes it to be known that the men here not of our 
country need not involve themselves in our internal dispute. If the 
three foreign warriors choose to depart from our borders now, my lord 
guarantees them safe passage.”

It did not even occur to Legolas to consider accepting the offer--in 
the extremely remote chance it was made in good faith. He sensed 
Sarovin looking at him, but kept his eyes on the deposed lord’s 
captain. But Strider looked up at him and--out of Vrall’s view--broke 
a small grin at the prince. The Rangers knew Legolas would not forsake 
these people now any more than they would.

Strider raised his eyebrows at them, and Legolas and Sarovin nodded to 
permit him to speak for them all. Turning to face Vrall, the human 
declared, “We three have chosen to take up arms on behalf of the men 
of Haloel. You may count us among their allies and defenders.”

“By the heavens, do you truly think to die in someone else’s war?” 
Vrall demanded. “Leave now while you still can, foreigners!”

Dersten stepped forward from where he had been standing, beside 
Strider. “You have our answer, traitor! Be gone from this place!”

Defeated, and well made fun of, Vrall departed. Legolas and Sarovin 
found themselves surrounded at once by gleeful rebels, clapping them 
on the backs and voicing their gratitude. Bashfully, the elf and elder 
Ranger tried to brush off the praises, seeing Strider fending off 
similar attentions in the courtyard. 

“With such warriors as you guiding us, Fompran and his lackies shall 
be quaking in their chain mail!” said Kartzel.

“Aye, and they’ll not stand a chance,” said another, Tergian.

Firmly, Legolas brought the enthusiastic voices under control, “And 
knowing now that we are with you, they shall attack as hard and fast 
as they can.” That quieted the men, and the prince went on, “For that 
very reason, we cannot yield to either idleness or overconfidence. 
There is much yet to be done. Come, let us continue working with 
weapons.”

Sarovin had been watching with a thoughtful expression until then, but 
finally spoke up, “Master Alagion is right. The rest of you, be about 
your duties.” 

Well-motivated by the dawn’s events, the rebels of Haloel went eagerly 
back to work. Legolas and several of the farmers joined Strider and 
another group shooting targets on the inner wall of the courtyard. 
“Raise your elbow, Yalc!” the Ranger was saying in exasperation as 
Yalc continued his attempts to actually launch an arrow--to no avail. 
One arrow finally did manage to fly…nearly taking out two guards atop 
the northwest tower.

“He did it!” someone shouted. “He missed the wall!”

Yalc threw up his hands. “This is hopeless; I shall never manage to 
bear weapons!”

“Have you tried the sword?” Sarovin asked helpfully.

“Aye, try the sword, Yalc!” yelled Kartzel. “It’s much simpler--the 
pointy end goes into the other man!”

Ignoring the hecklers, Yalc told Sarovin dismally, “I’m even worse at 
that!” 

Stifling a laugh (for it was true) Legolas took Yalc’s bow and told 
the humans, “Continue practicing. I will be back in a moment.”

Legolas entered the main part of the castle where the women and 
children of the farmers were living. He found Dersten’s wife, Niradam, 
with several of the other women awkwardly trying to make chain mail, 
and borrowed some things from her. How strange that so few human women 
bore weapons! The prince’s elder siblings and friends spoke of times 
when legions of shield maidens fought beside men just as she-elves did 
with their war companies. But now that tradition seemed to be fading 
among men. Their loss, in Legolas’s opinion.

He returned to the makeshift shooting range and handed Yalc the 
newly-restrung bow. “Notch the arrow atop the bead on the string, and 
use it to balance the shaft,” he told the farmer. “There…now 
aim…good…shoot!”

It was not exactly a bull’s eye, but Yalc’s arrow did strike the 
target. Not the target he had been aiming for, but the triumphant cry 
from the soldiers in training heralded a vast improvement nonetheless. 
“A novice bead,” said Strider, shaking his head. “I should have 
thought of that.”

“It’s been so long since either of us needed one,” Legolas murmured in 
an aside to the younger Ranger.

“The most fundamental rule for a master to teach his craft,” Sarovin 
declared. “Go back to basics.”

*I am no master,” Legolas thought. *There is a difference between 
skill and mastery; skilled, I am. But mastery requires something more, 
something deeper, as Langcyll used to say. Something that recent 
events have proven I am lacking.*

The prince turned his attention back to the men. Strider was returning 
from inside the castle now, with a handful of small beads, and several 
of the others rejoined him in restringing some of the bows. Within 
minutes, there was a noticeable improvement in everyone’s shooting.

“Once you have struck true a few times, do not look for the bead,” 
Legolas told them. “You know where to rest the shaft now, keep your 
eyes on the target. Much better, Yalc!”

“Aye, much better!” someone shouted from the wall. “Now all Alagion 
has to do is produce a novice sword and you’ll be a real soldier!”

Amid the laughter that followed, and Yalc’s embarrassed expression, 
Strider said sharply, “Pipe down up there! Look to your duties!”

“You are doing fine,” Legolas told Yalc as he demonstrated a better 
grip.

The young man smiled wryly, “No, they’re right. I’m no soldier. Never 
wanted to be one; I’m just a farmer.” With an ironic laugh, he added, 
“And at the moment, wondering what on Middle Earth I’ve got myself 
into.”

“Raise your elbow,” Legolas said automatically as he watched the 
farmer aim. Then he asked, “Did you not choose to resist your lord 
like the others?”

“Oh yes,” Yalc nodded hastily. “We all stayed home that last day. 
That’s where I was when Tergian came and told us Fompran had taken 
over the fields and wineries, and that all the laborers were going to 
occupy the castle. So I grabbed my wife and son and we all ran to the 
castle. There weren’t many guards there. Once we had the gate shut, it 
was ours.” He sighed, “We should have realized we were getting in over 
our heads, but what choice had we? We’re just farmers, however much 
that lot,” he indicated the wall guard with a grin, “think they’re 
more. We’re just willing to do whatever we must to protect our homes 
and our families.”

With that, the farmer let fly another arrow, and struck his target 
dead center. Grinning broadly as Yalc (along with the others) gaped in 
open amazement, Legolas clapped the man’s shoulder, and said, “I 
believe you.”

***

“I knew I had the right idea to send for you,” Sarovin told Aragorn as 
they watched the practice from atop the wall late that afternoon. 
“You’ve accomplished more with them in two days than I did nearly in 
nearly a month.”

“It took a month for either side to realize they’re at war,” Aragorn 
chuckled. “But we owe many thanks to our elvish friend as well. I 
would go as far as to credit Alagion with most of their progress at 
arms.”

Smiling slyly at his friend, Sarovin said, “You never did tell me how 
you two became traveling companions in the first place.”

The long pause told Sarovin that Aragorn was not entirely comfortable 
with the memory. But at last, the younger Ranger spoke, “I was heading 
south along the western edge of Mirkwood after getting your message. I 
was just inside the trees to escape a storm when I came across him, 
being attacked by spiders.”

“You saved his life?”

“Yes. If I had known what awaited us here, I would not have asked him 
to accompany me.”

Raising his eyebrows, Sarovin indicated the elf, now working with 
swordsmen in the courtyard. “His presence has certainly served the men 
of Haloel.”

“Yea, but it has not served him well. This is not his fight, Sarovin. 
These are not his people,” Aragorn was clearly troubled. “I would not 
want him to meet harm in their war.”

The elder Ranger put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We 
both know elves can handle more danger than this. And there are worse 
reasons to join the forces of another race in war.”

Aragorn smiled without looking at Sarovin. “We both know that alone is 
not what worries me. If he were an ordinary elf, I would not be so 
concerned. But what he did this morning…” Sarovin chuckled and Aragorn 
grinned sheepishly, “You know as well as I that he is no ordinary elf. 
I suspect Alagion is not his true name.”

This made Sarovin laugh aloud, “And are you disconcerted by another 
hiding his identity--‘Strider?’” 

Aragorn laughed as well, “True, I suppose I can hardly blame him for a 
deception I myself am guilty of. Yet…” he frowned then, “there are few 
elves in Middle Earth who can claim such secrets that merit the 
disguising of one’s name.” He turned to face Sarovin. “That is why I 
fear putting Alagion in danger. He is of Mirkwood, but also wears the 
garb of Lothlorien. His bearing of weapons, not to mention himself, 
practically shouts nobility. His alias only suggests it further.”

“Mm. An interesting character, to be sure. Then again, when are elves 
ever not interesting?” They both laughed.

“Strider! Sarovin!” Kartzel shouted from the tower. 

The two Rangers looked up. *He called to Aragorn first,* Sarovin 
thought with more amusement than disgruntlement. “What is it?” he 
shouted.

“The siege camp!”

Sarovin and Aragorn looked out beyond the wall, and spotted a light 
winking on and off in the early evening dimness. “A signal to the 
castle,” murmured Aragorn.

“I did tell you I suspected there were spies among us, men still loyal 
to Fompran,” Sarovin told his friend grimly. “There’s no way to 
decipher the message; the code could be anything, and we’ve not the 
time.”

“Nay, our efforts would be better spent hunting them down,” Aragorn 
mused. Then he smiled in a sly manner that Sarovin knew meant trouble. 
“A good job for someone with the perceptions of an elf, don’t you 
think?”

Sarovin laughed. “So much for worrying his safety. Hunting spies is 
not exactly free of hazards.”

“As you say, elves can take care of themselves,” Aragorn said with 
mock-cheer. Going to the other side of the battlement, he shouted, 
“Alagion! A word?” With an answering wave, the elf left the rebels to 
their practice and darted into the stairwell.

***

“Oy! Essad! Wake up, men!”

“Huh?” “I’m trying to sleep!” “Shaddap!”

“Get UP, you lazy sluggards!” Sulitron dumped a bucket of water on his 
soldiers’ heads, forcibly rousing them from their wine-induced stupor.

“Whaddaya want?!”

“The Rangers are on the wall and they just called the elf! He’ll be up 
there with them in a couple of minutes! On your feet; we’ve got a 
mission to carry out!”

“RIGHT!!!” pumped up with wine and bravado, the spies sprang to their 
feet (several taking last-minute swigs from their skins and bottles.) 
“Time to kill us a couple of Rangers!”

“And catch us an elf!”

“Hurry!”

“Let’s go!”

“Remember the plan, men! To your places!”

***

Legolas ran nimbly up the stairs and emerged midway up the tower to 
find Strider and Sarovin awaiting him on the battlements. “There is 
trouble?”

“Not yet,” Strider said. “The guards just saw a light signal being 
sent by the siege camp to the castle.”

Not terribly surprised, Legolas nodded. “It is as you suspected, 
Sarovin. Spies in our midst.”

Sarovin nodded in turn, “Do you think you could discover where they 
hide, Alagion?”

Gazing around the great edifice of the castle-fort, Legolas said 
slowly, “I could seek them, and if I actually drew near them, I would 
know. But we would need to restrict their movement, and that would 
take many guards. But assuming it worked, to search the entire 
castle--”

Zzzzziiiiippp--thunk! An arrow embedded itself in the wall inches from 
Strider’s head. 

“--has just become superfluous,” the elf finished.

“EEEEEYYYAAAAHHH!!!” with an unearthly battle cry, a figure launched 
itself from the nearest tower window.

Legolas whirled at once, raising his hands to deflect the attacker and 
send him flying over the wall into the courtyard. The movement from 
above caught his eye. “Duck!” he shouted at the Rangers, who did so at 
once as more arrows were loosed.

The men of Haloel had frozen in surprise at the attack, but now they 
charged the as-yet-concealed assailments in the tower. Legolas drew 
his knives as more of Fompran’s agents came at him, bearing swords. 
Two were cut down by the rebels before they could reach the prince, 
but another three came armed with bows and began firing off arrows at 
the farmers and Rangers. Yet not at Legolas--but there was no time for 
the elf to puzzle over that.

“Alagion! Look out!” Strider shouted just as a beefy body slammed 
Legolas against the outer side of the battlement, coming dangerously 
close to knocking him clean off the wall.

With a grunt of surprise, Legolas tried to wrench away, but the man 
continued to push him, and he realized that was exactly what the spy 
wanted--to get him over the wall. Jerking one arm free, the prince 
delivered a swift blow to the spy’s stomach, doubling him over. 
Shoving himself from the man’s grip, Legolas lunged at another pair 
menacing Sarovin with swords.

“Get the elf! Kill the Rangers!”

Legolas and Strider both froze in surprise at the spies’ revealing 
shouts, and in that moment Strider left himself vulnerable to a 
sword-wielding attacker. The prince hurled one of his knives and 
embedded in in the attacker’s neck, dropping him where he was. Strider 
turned to make an expression of thanks to Legolas, and his gray eyes 
widened, “Beware!”

Legolas had been trying to get a clear throw at another spy, and in 
the chaos, hadn’t heard the three spies sneaking up on him from 
behind. A pair of arms wrapped around his neck, jerking his head back 
as someone landed on his back. Another pair of arms seized his left 
arm, another his right. The elf shouted in alarm and tried to buck 
them off, but their combined weight dragged him backwards. 

“Alagion!” he heard a voice cry, and an arrow whistled past his face 
and struck one of the arms wrapped around his neck. The bowman--it was 
Dersten--rushed forward to try and help, with Yalc a step behind him. 
“Get off him!”

But the spy had not loosened his grip, and now his agonized jerks, 
along with the efforts of the other two, bore Legolas backwards until 
the prince felt his back slam into the far edge of the wall. Strider 
and Sarovin saw his danger and rushed to aid him but the spies 
harrying them broke off and rushed Legolas instead. Try as he might, 
the elf could not wrench himself free of so many attackes, and four 
more slammed into him. All at once, he felt his feet leave the ground. 
With a collective yell, the lord’s agents forced the struggling prince 
over the wall. The last thing Legolas saw of his comrades was the 
horrified faces of Yalc, Strider, and Sarovin, looking on helplessly 
as they reached the edge too late. Then Legolas was falling backward, 
surrounded by his attackers, until he landed on his back with a force 
that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a moment, he lay on the ground, gasping, hearing the groans of the 
men who had been injured by their leap. Then a battle cry from many 
more unfamiliar voices warned him that the entire siege camp was now 
alerted to his vulnerability. Desperately, he shoved off the body 
lying on top of him--it had another of Dersten’s arrows in its back. 
The prince staggered to his feet, still dizzy and throbbing all over 
from the impact of his fall. He snatched up a sword from one of the 
fallen men, and turned to face the charging soldiers.

“Alagion! Hold on!” he heard Strider cry from above, and he saw a 
single rope drop down the wall--his one chance of escape.

There looked to be over a hundred soldiers of Lord Fompran’s guard 
racing to take him, and even a warrior as skilled as Legolas knew 
better than to try such odds. He siezed the rope and began climbing 
swiftly up, pulling his feet out of reach just as the guards got to 
the wall. But now a hail of arrows struck the wall all around him, as 
Legolas cursed and tried to climb faster.

Above him, the bowmen frantically fired their own arrows into the mob 
of soldiers, trying to buy him time. *Good thing those guards are such 
poor shots!*

In a spiteful turn of fate, all at once, an arrow zipped along the top 
of his arm, not impaling it but scoring a painful groove in the flesh. 
With a gasp of surprised pain, Legolas found himself dangling by one 
hand, then another arrow landed solidly in the wall directly above his 
head--slicing right through the rope.

With a startled cry, Legolas fell again, and no sooner had he struck 
the ground than the guards were upon him. The prince found himself 
fending off blows from every direction. Seizing one of the men, he 
snatched a knife and dealt out a considerable number of slashes until 
the guards decided to take an alternate approach. Forcing his back to 
the castle wall, the soldiers flanked him with swords, and several of 
them surged forward bearing what looked like an unpitched tent. 

When they attempted to fling it over him, Legolas leapt forward, 
successfully evading the makeshift net, but also giving the guards a 
chance to get behind him, surrounding the elf completely. This time 
their throw succeeded. 

It was indeed a tent, made of stiff, thick, and incredibly heavy 
canvas that immediately bore Legolas to the ground under its weight. 
It was also lined with wet oilskin, too slippery for the elf to push 
it away. On top of that, the blows of club and fists were now landing 
on his body with renewed gusto as the soldiers sensed they had their 
quarry trapped. Hands pushed on the canvas, pinning his body to the 
ground, and one landed directly over his face, covering his nose and 
mouth with the slick, smothering material.

*I must breathe!* Legolas thrashed in a panicked search for air, but 
the hands still held him down, and his strength was swiftly ebbing. 
Stars appeared in his vision. A strange leadenness slowed his limbs. 
All recognition of where he was or what was happening faded as the 
need for air eclipsed all else. Legolas jerked his head in a frantic 
attempt to draw breath, to no avail. With a final desperate gasp, 
feeling and consciousness left him, and the young elf went limp in his 
captors’ hold.

***

Cursing helplessly, Aragorn ordered the rebels to cease fire as 
Fompran’s soldiers surrounded Alagion, aiming their swords and clubs 
in blows meant to bring the elf down. The Rangers knew they might be 
able to shoot some of the attackers, but there were too many for their 
arrows to make any difference, and in the press, there was the risk of 
hitting Alagion. 

“There must be something we can do!” Yalc cried beside him as the 
soldiers threw a huge tarp over their friend and began striking the 
trapped elf mercilessly.

Gritting his teeth, Sarovin muttered, “They sought our deaths, but 
went to great trouble to take him alive. They’ll not kill him now.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Aragorn demanded, turning angrily 
to his friend.

Sarovin seized his arm, squeezing it hard. “Peace, Aragorn,” he said 
in a near-hiss, lest the others hear. “It may be exactly that they 
hope to drive us forth from the castle in a rushed and ill-planned 
attempt to retrieve Alagion! Or perhaps they merely desire him as a 
hostage, but either way, it is to their advantage to keep him alive. 
Time is on our side.”

“Ours, yes, but not his,” Aragorn snapped, bile rising in his throat. 
He watched, enraged at his own helplessness, as the guards beat the 
struggling form beneath the canvas and pinned him to the ground. He 
began cursing again as the thrashing motion slowly ceased.

“Get off, you fools! You’ll smother him!” he heard a soldier yell, and 
the rest quickly moved back. The figure beneath the tent remained 
still. A ranking guard--it was Vrall--threw the tent off. The soldiers 
leapt backward, apparently still intimidated by the sight of the elf, 
even unconscious. Vrall gaped. “The elf! We told you to capture the 
Rangers!”

“No, you didn’t!” protested one of the spies. “You said to kill the 
Rangers!”

“We said to kill the elf, you wine-addled moron!” In his outrage, 
Vrall evidently forgot that the rebels on the wall could hear him. 
Aragorn motioned the others silent, hoping Fompran’s men might 
inadvertently reveal more of their intentions. “It was the Rangers we 
wanted!”

Aragorn exchanged a quick glance with Sarovin. *So it was us they 
wanted. But why? And what will they do now with Alagion?*

Vrall seemed to be pondering that same question. “Well, I guess we’re 
stuck with the elf now. Nasemar, Modin, carry him to one of the tents 
and put him under guard. Bind him tight before he wakes!”

One of the appointed soldiers recoiled, “I’m not touching an elf!” The 
other man expressed a similar aversion--*Do they think elves are 
poisonous?* wondered Aragorn--but under threats from Vrall, they at 
last picked up each end of the tarp and used it to bear Alagion away.

Aragorn watched, his insides churning with anxiety and rage. He 
seriously doubted that Alagion would be treated with honor as 
Fompran’s prisoner. He recalled the elf’s knife, striking the spy who 
had aimed a sword for Aragorn’s throat. *Your debt to me is paid, 
Master Elf. I shall not abandon you to their mercies. We shall get you 
out of there.*

Turning to Yalc and Dersten, the Ranger announced, “Get the men back 
to their duties. Especially the weapons practice. We have work to do.”

Dersten went at once, but Yalc hesitated. “What about Alagion?”

In a hard voice, Aragorn said, “Be assured, my friend, he will not 
remain in Fompran’s hands long. We will get him back.”

***

Lord Fompran had flung three goblets of wine at Vrall when his captain 
came to report. “You imbecile! I ordered the elf dead and the Rangers 
taken; now you tell me that we have the elf prisoner and both the 
Rangers still ALIVE?!?!”

Wine dripping from his face, his body stained from his hair to his 
feet, Vrall stood stoically in the face of his lord’s rage. “It seems 
there was a problem with the message, my lord. The spies were under 
the impression it was the elf you wanted.”

“Bah!” Fompran wished he had another goblet to throw, but the servants 
had not returned yet from washing the other three. *Curse this siege, 
confining me to only three goblets at one time. I’m withering from 
this deprivation!*

He leaned back, his velvet lined chair groaning under his weight, and 
scowled at Vrall. “Well, he’s here it seems, now what do we do with 
him?”

Pausing in thought, Vrall said, “Nerum reports that the elf was 
helping train the rebels and fortify the castle. He’ll know what 
they’re plotting.”

Fompran blinked. “Sulitron was in charge of the spies; what happened 
to him?”

“The elf killed him. Or one of them did.”

“Hmm. Maybe my spies’ and your incompetence won’t be a total disaster 
after all. Come! Let’s pay our guest a visit!”

The elf was still unconscious when Fompran came into the guarded tent. 
His men were taking no chances, and had bound the immortal, hand and 
foot. Even trussed up so, something about this creature greatly 
intimidated the lord of Haloel. Fompran had never seen an elf before, 
but knew their reputation: beautiful and deadly. Judging by the number 
of Fompran’s men who had died at the elf’s hand, the latter part was 
no exaggeration. And despite the scrapes, bruises, and dirt marring 
his fair skin, the elf had an otherworldly beauty. Definitely a 
creature to be wary of. Folding his arms pompously, Fompran ordered, 
“Wake him up.”

Vrall briskly stepped forward and slapped the elf sharply across the 
face. Without a sound, the elf opened dark gray eyes that seemed to 
possess their own inner starlight. He also began to glow.

Fompran jerked backward, speechless in fright. Those piercing black 
eyes never left his as the elf--despite his bonds, pulled himself 
gracefully into a sitting position. Fompra had always considered 
himself a noble and commanding lord of men, but this creature’s 
bearing was more regal than anyone he had ever beheld.

The elf did not speak. “I…you…” Fompran flustered, backing toward the 
tent’s opening, “Q-question him, Vrall! D-don’t be gentle!” Then he 
fled, calling loudly for wine.

***

Legolas silently let out the breath he’d been holding. The 
overpowering odor of wine had roused him even before the men entered 
the tent, but he had not moved in the hope of overhearing something. 
All he had gotten for his efforts was a slap--and near asphyxiation 
from the fumes.

As the grotesquely fat man waddled hurriedly from the tent, Vrall took 
his place standing before the prince with his chest thrust out 
pompously. *Does he actually think I will be cowed by such posturing?* 
Legolas thought incredulously.

“Who are you, elf?” growled the man in a distinctly unintimidating 
fashion.

Legolas toyed with what to say and saw two other guards peering 
through the door with undisguised awe. None of these men had ever seen 
an elf, that much was obvious, but their legends appeared to have 
exaggerated elvish abilities to ridiculous proportions. With that in 
mind, a rather absurd idea popped into Legolas’s head, and despite his 
predicament, he felt a prickle of amusement. A ridiculous notion, and 
yet…it just might work to his advantage. Deepening his voice, the 
youngest prince of Mirkwood answered, “I am Celeborn, Lord of 
Lothlorien.” With any luck, the legends of the elves of Lothlorien, 
and Celeborn, would have quite an effect on these ignorant humans.

It worked. Very well. Vrall literally flung himself backward a full 
five feet, nearly out of the tent’s entrance. Then he had to chase 
down the fleeing guards, his shouted curses forcing Legolas to bite 
his lip to hold back his laughter. But he also winced inwardly--in 
that tone, he had sounded just like King Thranduil. *Dear Father, not 
only do I owe a life debt to a mortal Ranger, but I’ve wound up 
helping a band of farmers rebel against their lord, and now I’ve 
gotten myself captured by a mob of drunken soldiers. Aren’t you proud 
of me?* The absurdity of the whole situation soon got the better of 
him, and he quietly began to laugh.

He hastily forced himself to stop as Vrall returned, looking 
petrified, but determined to overcome. The guard was also bearing a 
sword, and pointing it imperiously at Legolas, he said shakily, 
“Just…just…don’t make any sudden movements, Celeborn! We’ve heard of 
you, and your sorcerer’s ways!”

Attempting to look mysterious, Legolas said, “Do you think my thoughts 
shall be betrayed by movement?”

He heard one of the guards whisper, “Those Lorien elves can take over 
a man’s mind just by looking at him!” and again felt a desperate 
desire to snicker. But this façade could only be maintained if he kept 
a straight face.

“Why are you helping those rebels?” Vrall demanded, still waggling his 
sword at Legolas.

*Deep voice, sound powerful…do NOT laugh!* “Your lord has shown 
himself a tyrant and unfit. My skills and my powers…” Vrall flinched, 
“are for their aid.”

“What…what kind of powers?”

*Stare at him…look dangerous…* In his over dramatized voice, Legolas 
intoned, “I possess powers beyond your comprehension, mortal! You only 
live now because I choose to let you live. For the moment, I only 
offer the farmers guidance with weapons, but anger me further…” he 
paused threateningly, “and all the magic of the elves shall be raised 
against you!” *Should I laugh evilly? Nay, that sounds too contrived. 
I‘m supposed to be Celeborn, not Sauron…though I would wager this fool 
would not know the difference.*

Vrall was backing up rapidly. “I…I…shall report this to my lord!” Then 
he bolted. 

Legolas jammed his teeth into his lip again, laughing silently, and 
shifted position. Then he nearly laughed aloud--those guards had done 
a most ineffective job binding his wrists. With a little wriggling and 
work, he could probably free his hands. Then the question arose--what 
to do once he did? *I’ve already got these men terrified of me. But if 
I race out of here as though fleeing them, their instincts will take 
over and they will simply shoot me. Nay, securing my release requires 
a little more finesse.*

The prince sat still and listened; the camp was abuzz with the rumors 
that a powerful elf sorcerer was aiding the rebels of Haloel. Already, 
the rumor had taken root, and was starting to grow leaves and branches 
of its own. “He could kill us all with a thought!” someone was saying 
to a group of guards off duty.

“Crikey! Why the devil are we still alive? What’s ‘e waiting for?”

“Watching us, I’ll reckon! Spying for the rebels!”

“Then why don’t they just kill ‘im?”

“Can’t kill a Lorien king, you dung-brained son of a goblin!”

“Aye, do you WANT a war with the elves?! Imagine him multiplied by ten 
thousand! Argh, give me a snort of that wine, Nasemar!”

*Are there ten thousand elves in Lorien?* Legolas wondered, grinning 
to himself. 

“What’re they planning to do with him then? The longer we keep him 
prisoner, the more trouble we’re in. Pass me that skin!”

“Aye, when he’s done spying and wants out of here, he’ll kill as many 
of us as he has to to get out of here!”

“Oh, oliphaunt turds! If he’s the king, then that sorceress queen of 
theirs is his wife! What’s her name?” (Gulp!) 

(Swig!) “Dunno, and I wouldn’t dare speak it aloud--she’d probably 
hear me!”

*Well, in that at least, you would probably be right,* thought 
Legolas. *There is very little occurring in Middle Earth that 
Galadriel is unaware of.*

***

On the other side of the Misty Mountains, Lord Celeborn was passing 
the garden where Lady Galadriel kept her mirror when he heard a sound 
that made him stop in surprise. Laughter. Startled, the Lord of 
Lothlorien waited at the top of the steps until Galadriel came up, a 
smile of amusement on her fair face. When she saw him, she blinked-- 
and then began laughing again. “What?” he asked in astonishment.

“Nothing, dearest, nothing,” covering her mouth with her hand, she 
passed by him and walked on, her shoulders still shaking with mirth. 

Celeborn shook his head to himself. *I wonder if I shall ever 
understand her…*

***

Back in the Haloel siege camp, Legolas was shaking with silent 
laughter as he listened to the terrified soldiers’ conversations, “If 
half what they say about that elf witch is true, we definitely don’t 
need to be getting on her bad side!” 

“By Sauron’s teeth! What if she comes after him! We’re done for! I 
need a drink!”

Legolas blinked and thought, *Does Sauron HAVE teeth?!*

“We should get the hell out of here while we still can! We can’t win 
this fight with that pointy-eared, posturing, pandering…” Legolas 
waited to see if the man would come up with another suitable 
adjective, “PERSON!”

“‘E’s not a person, ‘e’s an elf, you stupid troll-spawn!”

“Maybe…maybe we should let ‘im go. Maybe then ‘e wouldn’t kill us, or 
‘e wouldn’t send his wife after us.”

*Now we’re getting somewhere!*

“Are you addled?! Fompran would have our ears!”

“Ruddy better than that elf having our arses! I’d rather get flogged 
by Vrall than have my guts sizzled by that creature! Modin’s right; we 
should let him go before it’s too late!”

“Aye, it ain’t worth it! We’re all lost anyway; the rebels still have 
those cursed Rangers in cahoots with ’em! Let’s give ’em back the elf 
and get our arses out of here! Only a fool doesn’t know when to give 
up, and we ain’t heroes!”

*That much is certain. Perhaps now is the time.* Legolas fought back 
another smile and began pulling at the rope binding his wrists. In a 
few moments, his hands were free. *This really is far too easy.* He 
untied his ankles, then rose and walked to the tent door, listening 
again.

“Well…well…Nasemar, you go and tell the elf that we’ll let him go if 
he promises not to hurt us!”

“ME?!?! Are you orc-bit?! You go, Modin!”

“I’m not the one to go; I don’t want that elf knowing my face! Tegas, 
you go!”

“No way!”

“Yes, you, Tegas, you’re the one who bungled up that message in the 
first place!”

“No!”

“Well, one of us has to!”

*Now!* Schooling his features into a suitably menacing expression, 
Legolas stood as tall as he could and dramatically flung open the tent 
flap, loudly enough so the men heard it. 

“Balls of a Balrog!” The entire group leapt to their feet in horror as 
Legolas stood there, glowering at each of them in turn--and knowing 
all the while that a single giggle would give the whole charade away. 
He walked forward slowly, advancing on the petrified soldiers like a 
harbinger of doom, praying he would not start laughing. One of the 
soldiers pointed a sword at him, his hands shaking so that the tip 
waggled hilariously. “Just…just…stay back, Elf-King!”

*I believe if I shouted and jumped at them they would all flee, 
squealing like frightened grouse!* Legolas took a deep breath and said 
in a deep voice (that sounded absurd to him,) “I know you do not wish 
to remain in this place, men of Haloel. You are wise, to know the 
consequences of trying to detain me here.”

“W-what do you want?” one of the men stammered.

Allowing a faint smile of benevolence that relieved some of his need 
to snicker, the young warrior intoned, “Release me, and ye shall not 
come to harm, provided you leave this place and cease troubling these 
people. Try to confine me, and ye shall face the awesome might of the 
elves of Lothlorien!” 

He had not raised his hands, but the soldiers recoiled. The nearest, 
Nasemar, began nodding vigorously. “We’ll…we’ll let you go, Lord Elf! 
Just…don’t hurt us! We’ll make a distraction so you can get back to 
the castle!”

“You have chosen…wisely.”

***

Aragorn wanted to fling his sword at Sarovin in his frustration. “We 
cannot just leave him there! Elbereth only knows what they’re doing to 
him!” 

“THINK, Aragorn!” Sarovin hissed, grabbing his shoulders. “If we 
launch an attack now, the men have their passions inflamed, but they 
won’t take proper care! Even if we do get Alagion back, we’ll have 
wasted men and arrows and time! They’ve taken him alive, and he’s 
still alive! Be patient!”

“I cannot simply stand by while they torment him, Sarovin! If 
necessary, I’ll go alone! But I forced him here under a life debt, and 
this was not a fight he should ever have joined. Now he has saved my 
life! For that and my folly, I owe him enough to go after him!”

In a tone of exaggerated patience that annoyed Aragorn greatly (for it 
reminded him of Elrond), Sarovin said, “Elves can survive and recover 
completely from far worse than anything those wine-sotted mercenaries 
can give. Alagion is more than strong enough to endure the few days it 
will take us to be far more prepared for battle than we are now.” He 
squeezed the younger Ranger’s shoulders again. “You must not act on 
impulse or passion, Aragorn, it will be the death of you! Your elf 
family and your encounter with Alagion this morning ought to have 
showed you that much!”

“Strider! Sarovin! Look!” shouted Tergian in excitement, pointing out 
to the camp.

The two Rangers ran to the other side of the wall and peered out. It 
took no great search to find what the crisis was: one of the tents was 
on fire at the far side of the camp. Soldiers were racing to put out 
the blaze, which was burning quite hot. The tent probably had some of 
their wine supply in it--which would explain the near-panic the 
soldiers were in. But something else bright in the camp, on the other 
side close to the castle, caught Aragorn’s eye. “There!”

A figure, glowing faintly, burst from behind one of the tents and 
raced toward the castle. “It’s Alagion!” Yalc shouted exultantly from 
beside the Rangers. “Get a rope!”

Very few of the soldiers even saw the fleet figure--in spite of his 
glow--running in the moonlight toward the castle. And to Aragorn’s 
astonishment, those who did notice him simply kept on raising a cry 
over the fire and distracting anyone from looking at the elf. Alagion 
gained the rope and climbed swiftly up. Not a single arrow was 
launched to stop him. By the time the triumphant roar from the men 
alerted the camp to their prisoner’s escape, the elf was safely over 
the wall, landing neatly on his feet in front of Aragorn and Sarovin.

For a moment, the two Rangers could only stare. He was scuffed and a 
little dirty, but otherwise none the worse for wear. At last, Sarovin 
spoke, “Well, Master Elf, how did you manage to contrive such a clean 
escape.”

The elf gazed from one man to the other, a rather peculiar expression 
on his face--and then began to laugh. Confused but relieved, Aragorn 
and Sarovin laughed also, until Aragorn managed to say, “Peace, I 
demand to know what happened down there!”

“You had better tell him, Alagion of Mirkwood. Strider here was about 
to blow the entire siege just to come after you!” Sarovin said dryly.

His eyes turning serious, Alagion said, “That would have been foolish. 
I was not treated badly, and even if I had been, an immediate rescue 
attempt would have been dangerous for everyone.”

“As I tried to tell him, Master Alagion, but our Strider is a man of 
strong emotions and too much honor. He seemed to believe himself in 
your debt.”

Aragorn shot Sarovin a warning glare, but said, “You did save my life 
at great risk to yourself on the wall.”

“As you saved mine when we first met,” Alagion said. For the first 
time, Aragorn detected genuine gratitude--and more, respect--from his 
mysterious companion. It was a pleasant feeling to hear it. “You are 
not in my debt, Strider, but if you would count our actions, then at 
most we are even. You owe me nothing.” 

“In that case, I shall soon flay you alive if you do not tell me how 
you managed to get out of there!” Aragorn threatened.

Trying with limited success to contain his mirth, the elf replied, 
“You would not believe me.”

“Nay, I think I would; at least ten of them saw you running and not 
one so much as loosed an arrow! Come, Master Alagion, do not hold us 
in suspense! What did you do?” demanded Sarovin.

Looking almost embarrassed, the elf replied, “I told them I was 
Celeborn.”

Aragorn gaped. Sarovin blinked. Alagion grinned sheepishly. Then all 
three of them exploded again, Aragorn almost completely doubled over. 
The rebels exchanged rather tense glances, and Yalc said hesitantly, 
“Celeborn? The lord of Lothlorien? The really…powerful one?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” gasped Aragorn, wiping tears from his eyes.

“You’re…you’re not REALLY…him…are you?” Kartzel asked nervously.

Those questions and the tense way the men were looking at the elf set 
him and the Rangers off again, and it was several moments before they 
could speak. Shaking his head and trying to find speech, the elf at 
last managed to say, “Nay, my friends, be assured, I am not Lord 
Celeborn. I am far too young.”

“Never heard of a young elf,” someone muttered.

“We have to be born sometime,” Alagion replied dismissively. “But nay, 
I can tell you truthfully I am not Celeborn, nor am I even of Lorien.”

“He does speak the truth, friends,” Aragorn added. “I have seen 
Celeborn of Lorien.”

Sarovin was looking down into the siege camp, “We’d best be about our 
business, friends. Lord Fompran’s men have just realized their 
prisoner is gone.” 

Laughing with the rest, Aragorn and “Alagion” headed into the tower 
stairs. As they walked down, the elf suddenly put a hand on Aragorn’s 
shoulder, making him pause. When the men turned and met his eyes, the 
elf said with a faint smile, “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of 
Mirkwood.”

The Ranger smiled in turn; such lineage explained many things. 
Clasping the elf’s hand as though meeting him for the first time, he 
said, “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“Well met, son of Arathorn.”

“Well met indeed.”

***** ----------------------------------------------------------- 
WARNING: This chapter turned out darker than I’d originally planned, 
and there is a very intense flashback involving the deaths of three of 
Legolas’s elder siblings. No gore, but very emotional, and I thought I 
should mention it.

Assorted Horse Fanciers: Our heroes’ four-legged friends reappear in 
this chapter, you’ll be glad to note. 
----------------------------------------------------------- ORIGINAL 
CHARACTER GUIDE:

Alagion: Legolas’s alias Strider: Oh, come on! Sarovin: An older 
Ranger, a friend of Aragorn’s Dersten, Yalc, Kartzel, Tergian: rebels 
of Haloel Niradam: Dersten’s wife Elinosa: Yalc’s wife Fompran: 
Deposed Lord of Haloel Vrall: Fompran’s captain

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse Pariedor: Aragorn’s horse 

NOTE: To anyone who is here courtesy of Ithilien’s little nod in her 
story, “The Hunting Trip,” I fear I had to postpone the feasting and 
toasting until Chapter 22. But I promise, it’s coming, and we WILL see 
an elf versus human drinking contest! In the meantime, I STRONGLY 
recommend “The Hunting Trip.” It’s a gem and getting better with every 
chapter, blending dark mystery and hilarious carousal for all our 
heroes. Check it out!



Chapter Twenty-One: Each Night I Dream of Home



Several days later…

Among the off-duty rebels taking a rare opportunity to actually rest 
at night, Yalc and Dersten were both suffering from anxiety-induced 
insomnia. Had it not been so, they likely would never have seen what 
transpired among the sleeping men crowded into the castle’s great 
hall. Between the influx of rebel farmers and their families, 
conditions in the castle were actually rather cramped, and the 
constantly-changing shifts of duty and comings and goings of all had 
resulted in the soldiers sleeping apart from the women and children in 
various parts of the castle. Most of the men were weary enough when 
they came off duty to go right to sleep, but Yalc and Dersten found 
that they could not, and so whispered quietly of defense plans and 
weapons-knowledge as their comrades dreamt.

Around midnight, Alagion and Strider came inside after their watches. 
Strider went right to sleep, and at first the farmers thought Alagion 
too was finding it difficult to rest, for he seemed to be staring at 
the ceiling. Then Dersten remembered that elves all slept that way: 
with their eyes open. Or at least that was what people said.

Fascinated, Yalc and Dersten had stared at the slumbering warriors 
across the hall, until they noticed Alagion’s peaceful face growing 
steadily more tense, and then a barely-perceptible moan reached their 
ears. They had exchanged looks, wondering what to do, but Strider had 
roused then. Frowning with concern, the Ranger took note of the elf’s 
increasingly-fitful sleep, and he reached over and gently shook 
Alagion’s shoulder. Getting only another moan in response, Strider 
shook him harder and whispered, “Legolas!”

As Yalc and Dersten looked at each other in confusion, the elf blinked 
and seemed to come back to his senses. Looking at Strider, he smiled 
wryly and sat up, rubbing his brow. “Forgive me, I did not mean to 
disturb your sleep.”

The two farmers remained as still as they could, and in the echoing 
silence of the hall, they heard the quiet words clearly. “You’re the 
first elf I ever knew to have nightmares, son of Thranduil.”

“It is just this castle; I dislike sleeping beneath stone. The stars 
would give me peace.”

A rather exaggerated sigh reached their ears. “I thought you had set 
aside pretense when you favored me with your true name, Master Elf.”

“I did!” came the elf’s rather indignant reply.

“Yet you forget that I saw your dreams troubled at least twice on the 
plains--both times on clear nights, so do not blame the clouds.”

There was a long pause, then a faint chuckle. “You have the advantage 
of me, Aragorn.”

“Of course.” A more taunting chuckle.

“But it is out of no mistrust of you, merely that I…do not wish to 
speak of my dreams. To anyone.”

“Fair enough. But I still admit to being curious at what a prince of 
Mirkwood was doing alone so far south when we met.”

“It is a long story.”

“We’ve plenty of time.”

(Shove) “Go to sleep, son of Arathorn. We do not need you keeling over 
while on duty.”

“May I remind you that it was you who did the keeling over two minutes 
after we met--”

“--Only if I may remind you who is the better swordsman!”

“And who managed to get himself captured last week?”

“I could easily have taken care of myself if I had been able to trust 
you to do the same. But I was forced to guard your flesh as well as my 
own! And I did not need your help getting back OUT of the camp!”

“No indeed, ‘Lord Celeborn.’ Perhaps if I get captured I will just 
pretend to be Sauron.”

“They would believe you.” (Snicker!) “How many have deserted Fompran 
since then?”

(Chuckle!) “Nearly two dozen, and there would have been more if Vrall 
hadn’t increased the perimeter guards around the camp. You played that 
role well, it seems. Have you met Lord Celeborn?”

“I have. My sister is wedded to Orthelian of Lorien.”

“That would be Limloeth of Mirkwood, I presume?”

Yalc and Dersten feigned sleep as the elf’s head turned in their 
direction, but both could see the distant look in his bright eyes. 
Having been separated almost constantly from his wife and son for 
nearly two weeks, Yalc in particular recognized it: longing. *I 
suppose an elf would naturally be lonely here among so many strangers. 
I wonder if he has left a family in Mirkwood.*

“Yes, but she chose to dwell in Lorien with her husband’s people.” 
Even a naïve farmer like Yalc caught the way the elf--was he really a 
PRINCE?!--changed the subject. “You once told me you were a friend of 
Lord Elrond.”

Strider--or rather, Aragorn--had also noticed, but chose not to 
comment on the elf’s evasiveness. But what he said shocked the two 
eavesdroppers yet again. “You may have heard of me before now. But I 
would have been called Estel.”

“Lord Elrond’s foster-son?!” Alagion--that is, Legolas--sounded 
equally startled. Then he chuckled wryly. “I do not know why I am 
surprised--recalling now your skill with weapons. Training by Elrohir 
and Elladan would explain it well. Or were you taught by Glorfindel?”

“A combination of the three, actually. Or rather, the two. Elladan and 
Elrohir come as a pair in all things, as I’m sure you know.”

“Indeed!” Legolas laughed. “They taught me a few of their tricks when 
they rode with one of Mirkwood’s war parties some years ago.”

Now it was Aragorn’s turn to laugh. “That would explain how you evaded 
me during our bout last week. Even for a Mirkwood warrior, such 
prowess was exceptional. I knew then you were no ordinary elf.”

“As I knew you were no ordinary Ranger.”

They both chuckled. “We’ve many tales to exchange, my friend.”

“And I shall enjoy it, but the hour grows late. We’d best get some 
sleep while we can.”

“You think Fompran will strike soon?”

“Very soon; he and his Vrall are as unimaginative as orcs, and twice 
as predictable. They will charge the gate as soon as that battering 
ram is completed.”

“And it will be done within two days. You’re right; we had better take 
some rest.”

“Good night, Aragorn.”

“Good night, Legolas.”

Yalc and Dersten raised their eyebrows at each other from where they 
lay, but there was no point in talking now. Both the elf and the 
Ranger would easily hear them. So despite how interesting--and 
revealing--the conversation had been, discussing it would have to 
wait. On that thought, the two eavesdropping farmers decided to follow 
the advice they had overheard--and get some sleep.

***

The next day…

Vrall wished he could grab the sides of his head. “It’s suicide, my 
lord!” he exclaimed frantically. Then he had to duck to escape a 
thrown goblet. 

“I’ve made up my mind, Captain!” Lord Fompran snapped. “We attack as 
soon as the battering ram is ready!”

Close to howling in frustration, Vrall said urgently, “My lord, that 
is EXACTLY what the rebels except us to do! They’ll be waiting and 
prepared for it, and they’ll take us all!”

“Bah!” Fompran waved his hand irritably. “I’m tired of wasting away in 
this camp. Those rebels are peasants, not soldiers. With the exception 
of those three foreign rabble-rousers there’s not a warrior among 
them. Just get us through the gates, and they’ll surrender.”

“Sir, I cannot guarantee half of the men won’t desert when we give the 
order to charge!”

Jerking his fat hands up an down, Fompran said, “Well…well…flog them 
all the way, if you have to! I’m the rightful Lord of Haloel, and I 
intend to be sleeping in the comfort of my own bedroom tomorrow 
night!”

Vrall sighed helplessly. “Very well, my lord. I’ll prepare the men to 
charge the gates tomorrow at dawn.”

“Thank you; don’t forget who’s the lord around here. Hmmm,” Fompran 
cocked his head thoughtfully. “The men need a little motivation, do 
they? Break open a few crates of wine before the charge. Be generous, 
Vrall. Nothing like a little Haloel grape juice in the blood to raise 
one’s spirits and courage!”

Feeling a sense of utter dread for the morrow, Vrall said dubiously, 
“You wish the men to be drunk when they attack, my lord? Is that 
wise?”

“I’m the lord of Haloel, Vrall, nothing I do is unwise! And even if it 
is, it’s not your place to say so.”

“No, my lord.” *But I will when the Rangers and the elf have us both 
in irons!*

Fompran was thinking again (always a dangerous thing.) “Yes, I think a 
little wine will go a long way toward endowing our fighting men with 
strength. And more,” *Oh curses, what now?* “I shall ride with you!”

For a moment, Vrall could only gape. “What?!” 

“Well, with their lord riding with them into battle, the spirits of 
the men will be greatly raised, don’t you think?”

*As a matter of fact, I don’t,* Vrall thought, wincing at the idea. 
“Er, my lord, I do not think we have a horse…strong enough for a rider 
as…imposing as yourself.” 

“Ah, but we do. Fate has sent him to me, and then I knew I was meant 
to ride with my men tomorrow!” Fompran said fervently. He rose and 
beckoned to Vrall, “Come, I will show you.” The deposed lord led Vrall 
to a tent converted to a stable, and the captain could hear angry 
whinnies and shrieks coming from inside. One of the guards opened the 
tent flap, and Vrall beheld two horses, hobbled tightly to wooden 
stakes, kicking and snapping at the men trying to make them accept 
saddle and bridle. “What do you think?” asked Fompran proudly.

Vrall raised his eyebrows, feeling still more doubtful. The horses 
were impressive, no doubt of that. One, a tall and sturdy black 
stallion, bared his teeth and snapped at any man who ventured near, 
but the other, a smaller but hauntingly beautiful gray, was bucking 
and thrashing against the imprisoning ropes in an endless attempt to 
free himself. “They’re quite magnificent, my lord, but…they seem less 
than broken-in. I wonder if they would be reliable to ride into 
battle.”

Fompran waved a hand dismissively, “Do not worry about it, Vrall, I’m 
an expert horsemen, and the guards have promised they will be ready 
for us tomorrow. I shall take the black--he’ll look marvelous with my 
red tunic, won’t he? And you shall ride beside me on the gray. Think 
what a sight we shall be; our men will be truly inspired!”

The captain thought for certain that he was going to be ill. But he 
replied weakly, “Indeed, my lord; our victory is all but certain!” 
*Only if the sight of you on that horse causes the rebels to die of 
laughter!*

***

That night, in Mirkwood…

For Thranduil of Mirkwood, the dream began as the same one that had 
periodically visited him for over a thousand years. After the deaths 
of his son Tavron, and his twin daughters, Meren and Lalaith, 
Thranduil had managed to submerge his own anguish to care for his 
grief-stricken wife and remaining children. But at night, the dream 
had come, a horrific tidal wave of sorrow that could no longer be 
repressed. When Minuial had still been alive, she had been able to 
sense when the nightmare came upon her husband, and roused him, but 
since her death…alone at night, the dream plagued him. Always the 
same: a merciless, second-by-bitter-second memory of the day the news 
had reached Mirkwood. Always horrific, always the same.

Until tonight.

It was early evening, the setting sun had shone red upon the white 
walls of the outer palace, the summer breeze blowing lazily through 
the open window of Thranduil’s study. He had heard a rider coming 
through the gates, approaching fast.

He rose, sensing that it was an urgent message, and started out to the 
outside steps. Never imagining that it could be anything terribly 
dreadful, he had not run. Perhaps if he had, he would have gotten the 
fateful news before his wife and daughter.

But he had not run. And so it happened that he was coming out into the 
foyer when he heard it, a sound that was permanently seared into his 
conscious and unconscious mind. Limloeth had been in the courtyard 
when the messanger arrived, and she had taken the message scroll and 
opened it. Just as Thranduil had been approaching the palace door, he 
had heard his daughter scream.

Sometimes he was aware that it was a dream, but was still powerless to 
keep himself from reenacting that day. This night was one of those, 
and his mind fought to break free even as his dream-self rushed the 
last few steps out the door.

The elven queen was ahead of him, dashing frantically to where 
Limloeth was on her knees in the grass, her eyes fixed on the scroll’s 
dreadful words, and practically screaming out sobs to the heavens. 
Instinct to shield his wife had taken over then, though in the back of 
Thranduil’s mind, he had realized his daughter’s cries could mean only 
one thing. “Minuial! Wait!” he had shouted as she grabbed the message 
from Limloeth. But she did not wait.

The Queen of Mirkwood had made no sound. Oh, how Thranduil wished he 
could stop this nightmare, but it carried him on in its cruel current, 
like a fast-flowing river he could not swim free of. Minuial had 
raised her pale, blue-gray eyes from the scroll to meet her husband’s 
and the parchment had slid from her nerveless fingers. The wind caught 
it and blew it a few feet away, but Thranduil could only see his 
wife--and how the beautiful sparkle in her bright eyes had utterly 
vanished. He had run with all his mind and caught her as she sagged, 
her body going limp in his grasp. All the while, his mind had wailed 
the inevitable cause: *It is a message of death! One of my children is 
dead!* 

But his immediate terror was for Minuial. She could not breathe; over 
Limloeth’s sobs he could hear her weak gasps. “No!” he propped her up 
desperately as her lips took on a blue tinge. “Breathe, Minuial! Stay, 
my love, you must stay! Breathe! A Elbereth! Do not let go!”

He had shaken her so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break her neck. 
But somehow, the shock abated enough for her to take a gasping breath. 
Then she had collapsed in his arm, not weeping, merely gasping his 
name, over and over, as though he could somehow change what had 
happened. “Thranduil…Thranduil…”

His gaze went past her to the fateful scroll, lying on the grass with 
its message revealed to all Mirkwood. Other elves, drawn to the scene, 
saw it, and soon the cries of grief crescendoed through the forest. 

*I looked over at the scroll,* the dreamer remembered bitterly. *I 
didn’t have to read the condolences from Imladris to know what it was 
about. I only saw the names. I was bracing myself for one. But there 
were three. Tavron. Meren. Lalaith. Dead. My children. Three of them 
slain all at once. Then Berensul and Belhador came running and they 
too fell to the ground with grief. All around me, my family and my 
people wept, and I knew I should be doing something…but I could not 
move. I could not think. All that I could hear was the sobbing, and 
all I could see were those three names…*

“Why?!” Minuial cried, raising her face to look at Thranduil--as 
though blaming him.

*What? Wait!* the dreamer thought. *This is not right. It did not 
happen thus. Minuial did not speak. None of us could speak!*

But something more was different. The dream had changed. She was 
older. It was true; she had aged a great deal visibly after the 
children’s deaths, but that had happened over time. The light had not 
returned to her eyes until the birth of their seventh and last child. 
So how could she look thus only minutes after news of the tragedy had 
reached them? This was not right! And Belhador, he had not yet come of 
age when his elder siblings perished. Yet he looked grown here--as he 
had just before crossing the sea. What was happening?! 

“How could you let this happen again?!” Limloeth sobbed, adding her 
accusing eyes to the faces suddenly focused on Thranduil. 

“What do you mean?” Thranduil cried, recoiling. “It is not my fault; I 
could not have prevented your brother’s and sisters’ deaths! Why do 
you blame me?”

“Nay!” cried his wife, a look in her eyes that Thranduil had never 
seen when she had lived. She had never blamed him. So why did she in 
this dream? She cried out again, “But THIS death you could have 
stopped!”

“What?!” In disbelief, Thranduil looked over at the scroll, still 
lying mockingly upon the grass. But it too was different. In the most 
horrible way imaginable, the dream had changed. It did not seem 
possible. Could this be real?

Instead of three names, there was only one.

*It cannot be. It cannot be! IT CANNOT BE!!!*

“NO!!!” Thranduil leapt to his feet and cried out, in shock and 
horror, the name that his disbelieving eyes saw on the parchment: 
“LEGOLAS!!!”

Then he jerked upright in his bed, heart pounding, drenched in sweat, 
his throat still burning from the cry. For a moment, he could sit, 
trembling, staring around his chamber’s familiar sights in an effort 
to rid himself of the last hideous vestiges of the dream. After 
several minutes, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he rose and went to his 
study. He might as well get some work done. It would be useless trying 
to sleep again after that.

But even as he tried to distract his mind with practical matters, the 
questions bombarded him. Why had the dream changed? What did it mean? 
Could such a thing…truly come to pass? And if it did…would he be to 
blame? Thranduil closed his eyes and leaned his head against his 
balled fists, fear and pain making him tremble inside. “Legolas…”

***

At the same time (a few hours before dawn)…

Legolas stood upon the castle wall, hoping the rather chilly night 
wind blowing down from he mountains might clear his troubled mind. He 
had been dreaming again. The previous night, Aragorn had remarked that 
Legolas was the first elf he had ever seen suffering nightmares. *I am 
not surprised--for I am the first elf that I have ever known to have 
nightmares!*

It was not as if the prince had never had an unpleasant dream--after 
his mother’s death, he had dreamt of her every night for years. Those 
dreams had turned especially ill when Thranduil had finally told 
Legolas the truth of how his mother had died.

But this was the first time his nightmares had been noticed by others. 
He had been acutely embarrassed when Aragorn had roused him that first 
time on the plains, but the man had no way of knowing what it was his 
friend dreamt of, so Legolas did not dwell on it. But still the dreams 
came, unrelenting. His dreams were memories, always involving his 
father, sometimes good times, sometimes bad, and both mocking him in 
their own right. He had done his best to free himself from their hold, 
but tonight they had plagued him to the point where he no longer 
bothered to try and continue sleeping. Better to be awake than to face 
those nightmares over and over.

The young elf smiled bitterly to himself. *Running away again…*

Nearly all the rebels were up and about, readying themselves for the 
attack everyone knew was coming at dawn. The activity in the camp 
confirmed it: Legolas could see the soldiers moving about and honing 
their weapons in torchlight. The former ruler of Haloel and his army 
truly were predictable to the point of being pathetic.

They were shifting around that battering ram now, in plain view of the 
rebel watchers on the wall. Movement from one of the towers caught the 
elf’s eye, and he turned to see Dersten and Tergian pointing and 
laughing at the soldiers’ lack of originality. 

“I wish I knew what they find so amusing.”

Legolas jumped; he had not heard Yalc coming out of the tower stairs. 
Unlike most of the other rebels, Yalc was tense. “I think they find 
Lord Fompran’s ineptitude rather comical. His men are astonishingly 
poor soldiers.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that there’s going to be a battle at 
dawn. No matter how many we take out with arrows, they’ll get through 
the gates with that thing.” The farmer indicated the battering ram, 
his brown eyes grave. “Many of us will suffer wounds. Some of us are 
going to die.”

“The risk of death is inevitable,” the prince told Yalc. “It is the 
way of all warriors.”

The farmer laughed wryly, shaking his head, “Whoever said we were 
warriors?”

Legolas laughed in turn, “Each of you made your choice to stand 
against Lord Fompran. You could always have lived under oppression.”

Yalc sighed, smiling, “True. I suppose fate made it inevitable. But I 
find it hard to imagine any of us as heroes.”

“Fate has a way of leading ordinary people to extraordinary deeds,” 
Legolas said. *Ah, I am quoting Langcyll again.*

The young farmer still looked doubtful. He turned away and gazed 
silently out into the siege camp, the wind ruffling his tousled blond 
curls. Out in the camp, the soldiers were now crowded around a tent, 
being handed skins. At first, the observers assumed it was water 
rations, but the men guzzled in a way that suggested the skins 
contained something else. And it wasn’t long before their bluster and 
shouted taunts to the rebels showed a marked increase.

“I DON’T believe it!” exclaimed Kartzel. “Vrall’s handing out wine!”

“Now they’ve really lost it,” chortled Tergian from the tower. 

Equally amazed, Legolas shook his head and grinned at Yalc. “Well, we 
need no longer worry about their arrows!”

“Aye, none of them will be able to shoot straight by dawn,” Dersten 
laughed.

At that point, the soldiers began arraying themselves in mail, and 
Aragorn and Sarovin joined the others on the wall. “The excitement is 
about to begin, it seems?” asked Aragorn.

“And our friends out there are getting wined up for the final charge,” 
said Tergian, pointing gleefully at a group of soldiers having trouble 
with their armor.

Sarovin grinned, “You’re right; it won’t be long now. Is everyone 
aware of what position they’re to take?”

“Aye, Sarovin! AND we know which way to put on our chain mail!” 
someone added.

“Oy! Look!” Tergian pointed at the camp.

From the main tent came the grotesquely fat Lord of Haloel, dressed in 
absurd red robes (and bearing a goblet of wine.) His soldiers cheered 
him lustily, and with great bravado, Fompran toasted their imminent 
victory--several times. It was all Legolas, Aragorn, and Sarovin could 
do not to howl with laughter. “Ah, now there is one prediction 
untainted by reality,” Sarovin chuckled.

“Sadly true,” agreed Legolas, not bothering to restrain his grin.

What happened next destroyed the composure of every last one of them. 
Standing before his assembled soldiers, Lord Fompran threw off his 
outer robes, revealing equally-red riding clothes that made him look 
like a giant red beet. Holding out his arms, he stood with pumped-up 
importance as several of his soldiers clad him in armor.

“By the Valar!” Legolas breathed. “He’s not!”

Finally, Fompran finished the absurd ceremony by girding on a sword, 
and as his men broke into wild cheers, the rebel army fell apart 
completely. 

Legolas was all but draped over the wall, completely helpless with 
laughter. Aragorn was equally beside himself; he and Sarovin were 
having to hold each other upright against their guffaws. Even Yalc had 
lost it, and he was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down 
his face. The rest of the farmers were faring no better at the 
ridiculous sight of Fompran strutting around below them.

“Better watch out, men!” Dersten shouted gleefully. “If they use him 
as catapult ammunition, we’re all in trouble!”

“Ah, so that’s their master plan! We were wrong!” shouted Tergian. 
“Vrall’s a military genius!”

That remark nearly prostrated Legolas again, along with the others. It 
amused the elf and Rangers still more to see Vrall standing just 
behind Fompran--looking slightly ill. *This is the end and he knows 
it. Such is his misfortune for casting his lot with an unjust lord. He 
could have chosen to aid the rebels, but that would have meant losing 
his high position.”

Vrall stepped forward then, and signaled someone the observers could 
not see. Then Legolas and Aragorn’s laughter abruptly stopped. Several 
soldiers dragged two struggling horses before Vrall and Fompran. They 
were saddled, tightly bridled, and wearing mail of their own (which 
also served to impede their efforts to break free.) But in spite of 
that, Legolas felt a surge of white-hot fury as he recognized Lanthir, 
and the black stallion as Aragorn’s horse, Pariedor.

Sarovin, alerted by his friends’ sudden stiffness, asked, “Those are 
your horses?”

“Yea,” Aragorn said, and the men nearest him jumped back at his tone.

Noting how serious the mood had suddenly become, Dersten told the 
rebels, “We’d better make ready. They’ll be coming soon.”

Seeing Fompran swinging his enormous bulk onto Pariedor, Aragorn 
cursed savagely. Legolas made no sound as Vrall mounted Lanthir, 
striking the gray between the ears as the horse protested. “Lord 
Fompran shall answer for much, my friends,” Tergian assured them.

“What of Vrall, Master Elf?” Yalc asked delicately. Vrall had managed 
to steady himself, but Lanthir was fighting the rider’s attempts to 
steer him. So the captain of Fompran’s army struck the horse’s flank 
with the broadside of his sword, bloodying the gray hide until Lanthir 
stopped pitching and bucking. 

His eyes black and snapping with ire, Legolas spoke in a low, 
dangerous voice that froze the blood of all standing near. “He’s 
mine.”

***

Vrall swore savagely as he fought to keep the gray horse under 
control. Fompran was having just as much trouble next to him. He could 
see the rebels mustering on the castle wall. *And there’ll be another 
wall of them waiting for us if by some miracle we actually get through 
the gates!”

The rebels were already aiming their bows at the army, and Vrall 
ordered his men to keep their shields over their heads. They did--and 
promptly charged towards the gate with a collective yell of challenge. 
“Wait! Hold!” Vrall shouted.

But the wine had apparently done its courage-instilling job too well, 
and they paid him no heed. No longer in control, the captain had no 
choice but to spur his rebellious horse and follow the charge. 
Somehow, the shields protected most of the men carrying the battering 
ram (or perhaps the rebels were merely saving their arrows.)

Fompran was just ahead of him, his massive bulk of flesh shaking like 
a blob of red jam on the horse’s back, waving his sword wildly and 
shouting encouragement to the men. The soldiers were running so hard 
that the gates buckled the first time the ram hit them. On the other 
hand, the force of the impact sent the ram and its bearers tumbling to 
the ground. That gave Vrall time to ride up to them again, thanking 
fate that they were too close to the castle for the bowmen on the wall 
to pick them off. 

An arrow struck the ground just inches beyond one of the soldiers, 
making Vrall wonder if he’d spoken too soon. He looked up at the wall 
in time to see a slight figure lean back to a safe position. *Probably 
that elf, curse him and all his race!*

“Get that thing up!” he roared at the men. “Bring it up! Ready, heave, 
now!”

With a collective groan, the soldiers swung the ram against the gates, 
hearing them crack in response. “Again!” Crack! “Again!” Crack! 
“Again!”

CRASH!!!

Their bars splintered, the castle doors swung open. The lead soldiers 
immediately dropped the ram and charged in, forcing those who followed 
to climb over it only to meet a hail of arrows the minute they passed 
into the courtyard. In the press of wine-sotted men, Vrall and 
Fompran’s horses were forced aside from the gates.

What happened inside the courtyard, Vrall could not see, but the 
shouts of challenge were answered by a much-louder roar of defiance. 
There was the sound of running feet, the clang of metal, and then the 
men still charging through the gate faltered. Fompran spurred his 
horse back around to come in front of the remaining men. “Forward!” he 
yowled, riding through.

Vrall had no choice but to follow, and so he led the rest of his men 
in a wild charge through the gates into the castle courtyard, spurring 
the protesting horse until its flanks bled again. They found a battle 
taking place: swords flashed and arrows flew in every direction. Ahead 
of him, Fompran was riding through the fray, waving his sword wildly 
over his head while caterwauling, “Surrender, traitors, your lord has 
returned!”

Then all at once, a dark-clad figure sprang at the Lord of Haloel and 
un-horsed him in a flying tackle. It was one of the Rangers, his gray 
eyes enraged. He did not press his attack, but held the mount’s reigns 
possessively as half a dozen rebels lunged at their former ruler, 
shouting out vengeance. Fompran disappeared beneath a press of furious 
men.

Even before Vrall could react, a hand suddenly seized the front of his 
collar and jerked him half-off his own mount. Never had Vrall known 
such terror as that moment, when he found his face merely inches from 
the elf. The immortal’s black eyes, blazing with a terrifying fury, 
flicked from the man to the horse, then back to the man again. His 
voice was like the edge of a sword as he growled, “Get off my horse!”

Then Vrall found himself sailing through the air until he crashed into 
the courtyard wall and slid to the ground with a grunt. Staggering to 
his feet, he turned around, and the last thing he ever saw was an 
arrow heading straight for his face.

***

Aragorn seized Lanthir’s reigns and bade the horse join Pariedor in 
safety outside the castle. He turned around in time to see Vrall drop 
with one of Legolas’s arrows in his neck. *Perhaps he was merely a 
fool, but he bought his own death the moment he struck that elf’s 
horse.* Pariedor had suffered similar abuse at the Haloel loyalists’ 
hands, and for that they would pay dearly.

Turning his attention back to the battle, Aragorn launched himself at 
a pair of soldiers menacing Dersten. The Ranger took out one and 
turned back to find that Dersten was holding his own against the 
other, deflecting the hardest blows and dodging and counterattacking. 
*When this is over, I shall ask the son of Thranduil for additional 
instruction to myself,* Aragorn thought admiringly.

A battle cry from behind made the heir of Isildur whirl around just in 
time to parry a fierce blow from another loyalist guard. He retreated 
under a furious barrage of blows as three more closed in on him. In 
spite of the loyalists’ inferior skill, it was three against one, and 
Aragorn felt a surge of dread as his back came against the courtyard 
wall.

One of the loyalists hefted a spear while the other two boxed Aragorn 
in--then the spearman pitched over with an arrow in his back, the 
spear falling useless at his side. The Ranger looked up, expecting to 
see Legolas, but instead, a curly-headed young farmer stood upon the 
wall, launching arrows into Aragorn’s other two attackers. Waving 
gratefully at Yalc, Aragorn charged back into the melee.

The rest of the loyalists, drunk as they were, had finally begun to 
realize that the battle was not going their way. Aragorn could see 
Dersten and several others running to shut the gates and trap their 
enemies inside. The soldiers suddenly found themselves with no escape, 
and Aragorn was nearly trampled in the stampede for the stairs by 
loyalists hoping to get over the wall.

The Ranger charged a group trying to beat open a corridor door. Two of 
the men leapt at him, swords flashing, while the rest tried another 
door, looking for a way out of the courtyard that had suddenly become 
a death trap. 

“Down!” Sarovin shouted, and the younger Ranger dropped. Both of his 
opponents were instantly felled by arrows--one of them elvish.

A cry of warning alerted Aragorn as he rose; some of the loyalists had 
gotten through a door into the castle. He sprinted after them, hearing 
Dersten shout, “They could get to the women and children through that 
passage!”

With Sarovin a step behind him, he raced into the corridor, looking 
frantically to see which direction the soldiers had gone. Screams down 
the passage told them all too clearly, and they raced for the great 
hall. The rebels and Rangers arrived to find nearly twenty loyalist 
soldiers trying to get past Yalc and Tergian into a hall full of the 
farmers’ terrified families.

The rebels rushed to engage them, but the corridor was too narrow to 
give Yalc and Tergian effective aid. From behind, Aragorn heard 
Legolas say to several others, “We can get in from the other side! 
Come!” Several rebels and the elf bolted.

In front of Aragorn, through the mass of fighting bodies, Yalc and 
Tergian were in serious trouble. One of the loyalists had managed to 
break down the door before being felled, but the two rebels refused to 
retreat from the doorway. Cursing, their friends struggled to get to 
them, but there were too many soldiers in the way, and the two farmers 
were overwhelmed. Three of the loyalists disarmed Tergian, and screams 
rang out as a sword ran him through. Yalc gave a cry of rage and 
lunged, but there were far too many, and they forced him back.

Aragorn rammed his sword into another soldier and thrust the carcass 
aside, struggling to reach Yalc before the remaining soldiers killed 
him and got the farmers’ families as hostages. Another he swept aside 
with a dagger. Dersten dispatched two more and the rebels pressed 
forward. 

They were too late. The last eight or so loyalists converged upon Yalc 
and bore the young farmer to the ground, leaping over his bloody form 
and into the hall. With a roar of rage and challenge, the rebels raced 
after them. The loyalists charged into the hall toward the women and 
children pressed in terror against the far wall. All at once, an arrow 
whizzed from the crowd to embed itself in the group leader’s chest. 
Niradam, Dersten’s wife, hurriedly but effectively notched another 
arrow and let it fly into another soldier. Just then, the opposite 
door of the hall burst open, and another group of furious rebels 
charged in, led by a bow-wielding Legolas. The elf prince dropped 
three more in rapid succession, and by that time the remaining five 
had seen enough. They threw down their weapons at Dersten’s order to 
surrender.

Aragorn ran back out to the courtyard to find that the remaining 
loyalists there had also surrendered. Kartzel came out to join him on 
the wall, staring at the bodies littering the ground, the blood 
staining the walls, the ravaged fields, and the remnants of the siege 
camp. 

“Is it over?” the farmer asked, sounding dazed.

“Let us hope so,” murmured the Ranger. For centuries, Haloel had been 
a peaceful land, and this revolt had given her more than enough 
bloodshed for many lifetimes.

“Strider!” several of the farmers came from within the castle. “Yalc 
still lives! Alagion asks for your help at once!” Aragorn immediately 
ran from the wall.

***

The great hall had been converted now into an infirmary for all the 
wounded. Sarovin was treating an arrow wound when he saw Aragorn 
enter. “Yalc lives,” the elder Ranger said by way of greeting. “But 
he’s badly hurt. You’re the best healer.”

Aragorn made his way to where Yalc lay upon a blanket. The young 
farmer’s fair curly hair was streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood, and 
his fair skin had a clammy, pasty look. He was cut and bruised in many 
places, but the worst of the injuries was a stab wound from which he 
had lost far too much blood. A young, dark-haired woman knelt at his 
side, tragedy covering her fair face. It was Enilosa, Yalc’s wife. Her 
dark eyes met Aragorn’s as her last hope. 

Alagion returned from tending another patient and knelt beside 
Aragorn. “How can I help?” the elf asked grimly.

“Hold him while I bathe the wounds.”

Returning her eyes to her husbands face, Enilosa asked them, “Is there 
aught I might do?”

Looking around the bustling hall, Aragorn told her softly, ’I shall 
need more athelas and water, Lady.” Quickly, drying the tear streaks 
on her face, Enilosa rose and hurried away.

Sarovin, Kartzel, and the others continued with the rest of the 
wounded. The women, though not warriors, knew much of healing and 
moved among the injured men, sending the children to fetch supplies. 
Sarovin thought, *When their dead are laid to rest, their wounds 
healed, and a new lord chosen, the people of Haloel shall build this 
land anew.*

A rather frazzled-looking Dersten came to Sarovin. “Have you the keys 
to the dungeon?”

“There’s no one in the dungeon,” Sarovin said in confusion. 

Scowling, Dersten replied, “There is going to be.”

“One of the prisoners is causing trouble?” asked Kartzel.

“Aye. He’ll be safe in the dungeons, and I’ll not suffer my men to 
listen to his bleating after fighting all morning.”

Sarovin chuckled wryly and handed him the keys. “That is an act of 
mercy.”

Dersten sent three of the men to relocate the bothersome prisoner (one 
needed not guess who it was!), then he turned back to Sarovin. “We’ve 
a tally of the casualties.”

Sarovin braced himself. “And?”

“Twelve of ours dead, twenty-nine badly wounded.”

The elder Ranger winced. “What about Fompran’s force?”

“Vrall’s dead, along with more than half of his men. The rest fled or 
surrendered. Not enough escaped us to make us worry about a second 
attack, I think.”

Sarovin closed his eyes, sighing in relief and weariness. “Then it’s 
over.”

“Well over,” Dersten replied. “And may we never know war again.”

***

In Mirkwood, some weeks later…

Limloeth dismounted her horse and hurried up the steps of the outer 
palace to where her brother awaited her. “Berensul!” she threw her 
arms around the Crown Prince, laughing with joy.

“Ah, sister, I am so glad to see you,” Berensul said, hugging her 
tightly. “As is your niece,” he added, as a blur of gold and white 
came flying down the steps, shouting for her aunt Limloeth.

“Ai!” Limloeth caught up Silivren and spun the child around. Kneeling, 
she embraced her niece. “Ohh, I’ve missed you so, Sili!”

“I’ve missed you too,” Silivren said. “It’s been so dull since you and 
Uncle Orthelian and Uncle Legolas left. Where’s Uncle Orthelian?”

“He was detained in Lorien, I fear,” Limloeth said, casting an 
apologetic glance at Berensul. “He sends his regrets.”

“I am sorry he could not come,” Crown Princess Eirien said sadly. “Is 
the situation in Lorien so bad?”

Lowering her voice so Silivren would not hear, Limloeth murmured, “The 
shadow deepens. The numbers of our people there are lessening.”

Berensul’s eyebrows raised with alarm. “I have read the messages; I 
didn’t think so many had fallen in the Golden Wood.”

Limloeth’s bright eyes darkened with a sorrow not born of simple 
death. “Nay, not fallen. But leaving. In the past thirty years, nearly 
one of every ten Galadhrim in Lothlorien has departed over the sea. 
The song of Caras Galadhon seems to grow weaker with each passing 
year. Soon there will be none left.”

The news clearly grieved her kindred. In Mirkwood, the Silvan elves 
struggled on with Dol Guldor right in their midst--so how was it that 
the Galadhrim fled Middle Earth in ever-growing numbers? After wedding 
Orthelian, Limloeth had hoped to make the Golden Wood her home. But 
how long would it be before Caras Galadhon was utterly deserted? How 
long?

A sad sigh from Berensul brought her back to reality. “Well, we’ve 
enough to concern ourselves with now without dwelling on the bleak 
future. You should not tarry too long before seeing Father.”

And there broached the subject that promised to be the most unpleasant 
of all. “How has he been?”

“You know what happened when the war party returned?”

“Yes. Where is Legolas now?”

“No one knows. I’ve thought many times about trying to get a message 
to him, but I’ve no idea where to search. There has been no word of 
him from Lorien or Rivendell or any of the other elven realms,” 
Berensul shook his head helplessly. “After the way they parted, 
sister, I do not know when…or if…Legolas will ever come back.”

“He MUST come back!” Limloeth gasped, seizing his arm urgently. “He 
must, Beren! So much depends…” she broke off, her brown eyes darkened 
with fear.

“What do you mean?” Berensul asked her softly.

Taking a deep breath, she regained control of herself. “I cannot say 
more, Brother. Only that Legolas and Father must make peace, for far 
more than their feelings are at stake. Oh, curse their pride!” She 
folded her arms in irritation, then started up the stairs with a shake 
of her head.

“You will try to talk to him?” her brother asked.

“Someone must. It will do no good persuading Legolas to return if the 
king will not accept him. And he must, Beren. He must!”

Limloeth came before the elven king in his throne room within the 
mountain. Although not as violently repelled by caves as her younger 
siblings, she still disliked the feeling of being under stone. The 
atmosphere in the room was oppressive enough on its own. It struck her 
like a slap to see that Thranduil had visibly aged since she had last 
seen him after Silivren’s birth thirty years before. He looked weary 
and desolate, but at the same time, there was a hard bitterness that 
made the difficult conversation she wished to have still more 
challenging.

Her father rose as she came into the Hall. “Welcome, my daughter!” 

She bowed to the king and walked quickly to embrace him, “Hello, 
Father.”

Thranduil stepped back and smiled at her, but the expression did not 
reach his eyes. It had been more than thirty years since Limloeth had 
seen him appear truly happy. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”

“Not entirely, but I fear journeys seldom are anymore. Still, we 
arrived unharmed.”

“That is well.”

Limloeth took a deep breath. “Father, there is a matter I would speak 
with you about…”

But Thranduil was looking distractedly at the other elves in the room. 
“Soon, my dear, soon. But for the moment, I am occupied. I shall see 
you at dinner this evening.”

“I--” Limloeth started to press the issue, then decided against it. 
She had expected nothing less, really, than that Thranduil would try 
to avoid the painful subject. He might be aging and embittered, but 
his mind was more than sharp enough to be aware of the first thing his 
daughter would want to speak of. 

*Very well, Dear Father, I shall let it go for the moment. I had hoped 
to speak to you alone, but it is clear you will not allow it. 
Therefore, you shall hear my mind tonight whether you wish it or not. 
You cannot run from me forever.*

As she walked out of the cave and back into the sunlight, the princess 
idly plucked an elm leaf from a low branch, caressing it with her 
fingertips. Berensul had told her in detail of the events leading up 
to the calamitous row between the elven king and his youngest son. For 
some strange reason, now she smiled. *In many ways, Father, this 
quarrel was inevitable. For he has grown up very much like you.*

***

Thranduil ordered a fine dinner for all his children in the palace 
that evening. He had hoped that the presence of his granddaughter 
would prevent Limloeth from bring up the subject of Legolas, and it 
did--if only Silivren had been so inhibited. “How long will you be 
here, Aunt Limloeth?”

Pausing from eating, the king’s daughter beamed at her niece. “Some 
precious time, I hope, Sili. Do not worry, I shall have time to give 
you many rides ere I depart.”

The little girl beamed like the sun coming out, but Thranduil averted 
his eyes. When she did that, she looked just as Legolas had at that 
age. It was yet another painful reminder. Casually, he asked his 
granddaughter, “Shall you ride on the river or Limloeth’s horse 
tomorrow, Silivren?”

Cocking her head in careful consideration, the child finally replied, 
“I want to ride the boat down the river!”

The family nodded in amused confirmation of her decision. Eirien 
remarked, “Beware, Sister, she demands to sail further and further 
downriver every time. Someday she will want to go all the way to Lake 
Town!” The others laughed.

Silivren nodded eagerly, “And I’ll go see Lonely Mountain, where the 
dragon is! Uncle Leg’las told me all about it!”

Thranduil winced inwardly--as he always did at hearing the name--but 
forced himself to say lightly, “The dragon is long dead, Silivren. 
There is little to see there now.”

Across the table, his daughter leveled piercing and too-seeing brown 
eyes at him. Without breaking his gaze, Limloeth said in a too-casual 
tone, “What else did Uncle Legolas tell you, Sili?”

Not noticing how tense the rest of her family had grown, the elf child 
replied, “Lots of stories, about his adventures. I want to be a 
warrior and have adventures!”

Still looking directly at Thranduil, Limloeth replied, “Perhaps you 
will, Sili. Perhaps you will. Uncle Legolas has had many adventures.”

This was NOT a subject he wanted discussed with his granddaughter. 
This was not a subject he wanted to discuss with anyone at all. 
“Limloeth!” Thranduil hissed fiercely.

“When is Uncle Leg’las coming home?” Silivren asked.

The innocent, slightly wistful question slammed into Thranduil like a 
battering ram. It was fortunate that Sili had been directing the 
question at Limloeth, or she would have seen her grandfather openly 
flinch. But all the rest of his children did see it. And their eyes 
were accusing, yet oblivious to the pain that their talk was raking 
up. Still in that falsely cheerful tone, Limloeth said, “I know not, 
Sili. Perhaps your grandfather might know.”

*Curse that girl! She has not the sense to leave the subject alone!* 
But Silivren’s inquiring blue eyes were upon him now, and Thranduil 
had to clear his throat to answer her. “I…your uncle is going very 
far, Silivren. He may be gone a very long time.”

“Oh.” Her dejected tone hurt his heart. Limloeth and Berensul were 
scowling as openly as they dared at their father. Thranduil glared 
back. *They fret so over Legolas, but think not of the pain their 
prying causes their father! Legolas turned them against me as well!* 

Eirien had evidently had enough. Rising, she said briskly, “It is time 
for your bath, Sili. You’ve a busy day tomorrow if you plan to sail 
the river with your aunt. Come.” During all the centuries Eirien had 
dwelt in the elven king’s halls, her mild approach had been a defusing 
influence on Thranduil many times. But now she had her own child to 
care for. Perhaps if she had stayed, the discussion would have gone 
differently.

As it was, no sooner had she and her daughter departed the room than 
the table erupted into angry words. “Limloeth, I think I made it clear 
the subject is closed!”

“Do not bark at me, Father, I am now so easily cowed by you!”

“Watch your tongue, Daughter!”

“You cannot pretend Legolas does not exist! Do you know aught of where 
he is?”

“Nay, nor do I care! I will not speak of it!”

“Fah! Do not deceive yourself! If you cared not, such talk would not 
pain you! But I see your grief, Father!” Limloeth stood up and leaned 
across the table, not shouting, but very forceful. “There must be a 
peace between you!”

Thranduil glared furiously at her. “This feud was not of my making, 
Limloeth. I may have made some mistakes, but I am not to blame for its 
ill end.”

Now Berensul joined in, and to the king’s further rage, he too sided 
with Legolas! “There is plenty of blame to go round, Father. You both 
should leave off your pride.”

“So you challenge me as well!”

“It is NOT a challenge!” Berensul snapped, throwing his hands into the 
air. “I am frustrated by the foolishness of you both! Look at 
yourself, Father! You raged when he refused to speak to you, yet you 
respond to the situation in the same fashion! One day your 
stubbornness will get one or both of you killed!”

“Have done, both of you! I do not desire to discuss the subject 
further!”

“What will you do, throw us in the dungeons?” his eldest son demanded. 
“I wish my brother home again!”

Limloeth was catching her breath, and laid a hand upon her brother’s 
shoulder to silence him. In a soft, more supplicant tone, she said to 
Thranduil, “Father, the situation must be resolved. You cannot 
continue this way. Do you truly wish to never see him again?”

For a moment, Thranduil faltered. The face of Legolas, his son, swam 
through his mind, at many ages, all through his short elven life. For 
a moment, he was consumed by a longing to have his child back. But 
then in his mind he saw Legolas’s hard, unforgiving face, and heard 
his bitter words as the prince left Mirkwood so precipitously that 
last time. And Thranduil felt a surge of bitter anger that he had no 
wish to share with his prying children. “I will not discuss it.”

Limloeth turned away, her eyes closed, and she seemed near to weeping. 
Berensul, on the other hand, looked utterly disgusted, and his black 
eyes flashed with a fury still greater. “You fool!” the Crown Prince 
whispered. “You spiteful, unforgiving fool!”

Catching her breath in a sound very much like a sob, Limloeth turned 
pleading eyes to the king. “Father--”

“Save your breath, Lim!” Berensul said scornfully. “He will not hear 
you. He would not relinquish his vanity were Legolas even to suffer 
Lalaith, Meren, and Tavron’s fates!” 

“ENOUGH!” Thranduil roared, slamming both fists upon the table. His 
son and daughter jerked back, distraught. Later, Thranduil would 
recall those details, but at the moment he could feel only bitterness 
and rage. “This matter shall not be raised in my presence again; that 
is my final word on the subject!” With that, the elven king turned 
sharply and marched from the room, his jarring steps startling the 
other elves in the palace, as anger born of pain boiled within him. 

That night, the dream came again.



***

In Haloel, around the same time…

*If these people learned nothing else, they know now that even the 
most justified war is won at great price,* thought Legolas, as he 
stood atop the eastern tower, facing the plains. The northeasterly 
wind blew over his face and through his hair, cool and smelling of 
trees. A surge of loneliness swept through him, with an intensity 
bordering on physical pain. He knew the scents carried on the wind; it 
was blowing almost directly from Mirkwood. *I wonder what they are 
doing now?*

“You look far away, Master Elf.”

Legolas jumped. Sheepishly, he turned and saw Yalc, one arm in a sling 
and leaning on a makeshift crutch. “Even wounded, you have the stealth 
of an elf, Yalc of Haloel.”

“Would that my wounds were able to heal.” Despair in his brown eyes, 
Yalc looked at Legolas. “I cannot make my living without two good 
arms, nor tend the fields on a crutch.”

“Strider said they may yet heal, my friend. Do not lose hope.”

The young man sighed. “I suppose such sacrifices are the way of all 
warriors.”

“It is true,” Legolas said with regret. “But that does not mean they 
are liked by any warrior. None wish to see comrades wounded or slain.”

Yalc looked quickly away, and Legolas put a hand lightly upon his 
shoulder. A moment later, he voiced what the prince knew had been on 
his mind. “When Tergian came and called my wife and me to the castle 
that day…none of us ever imagined he would die. Him least of all.” He 
looked back at Legolas. “Is it at all different for elves?”

Feeling a surge of deep inner grief at the memories being surfaced by 
this talk, Legolas nonetheless answered. “Nay. Death is never 
expected. We mourn the fallen no less, and I shall never become 
accustomed to it even if I live for thousands of years.” *Please do 
not ask me to be specific…*

Yalc looked speculatively at him, and Legolas feared that the man 
would question his own past experiences. But what the young farmer 
said startled him greatly. Hesitantly, Yalc said, “I heard Lord 
Aragorn refer to you as Legolas, prince of Mirkwood. Are you then the 
son of King Thranduil?”

Legolas turned sharply to face him. “How…”

“We heard you talking a few days before the attack.” Yalc grinned for 
the first time since the battle. “Fear not; we’ve told no one. None 
but Dersten and I know that the heir to the throne of Gondor and an 
elven prince lent us their aid.”

With a sigh of relief, the prince smiled back. “I am most grateful for 
your discretion. But I would ask that you do me the favor of keeping 
our true names to yourselves.”

Yalc shrugged. “If you wish. The rest of the men shall go on believing 
that our saviors were Strider the Ranger, and Alagion, the wayward 
elf.” He and Legolas laughed. “But I do hope Aragorn at least remains 
here. We have need of a just leader. I know you will not be able to 
stay. You must long for your own people.”

Legolas did not answer, merely gave an ambiguous half-shrug, 
half-smile, hoping that would close the matter. It did not. Yalc was 
still watching him. “Kartzel thought it was incredible that immortals 
might feel such a mundane emotion as homesickness. I thought, among 
strange people in a strange race’s war, you must surely have longed to 
be away more than any of us.”

Legolas still did not answer, but Yalc’s sympathetic expression said 
that the silence was all the answer the farmer had needed.

*****

Here it is, the moment we’ve all been waiting for! This is the chapter 
where our favorite elf, Ranger, and winemakers decide to party like 
it’s the end of the Third Age! I know how dark the last…uh…twenty 
chapters have been, so this one is going to be as light-hearted as 
possible. I hope ya like it!

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Alagion: Legolas’s alias Strider: That long-legged, Anduril-wielding 
hunk of Ranger flesh (wait, he doesn’t have Anduril yet!) Sarovin: An 
older Ranger, a close friend of Aragorn’s Dersten, Yalc, Kartzel: 
Halorrim rebel leaders Tergian: Halorrim rebel, killed in the final 
battle of the siege Niradam: Dersten’s wife Enilosa: Yalc’s wife 
Relean: Kartzel’s wife Fompran: ex-lord of Haloel Vrall: Fompran’s 
soldier captain, killed in the final battle of the siege

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse Pariedor: Aragorn’s horse 



Chapter Twenty-Two: Feasting, Frolicking, and Farewells



Two months after the rebel victory in Haloel marked the end of 
mourning for all those who had fallen. The toll had been heavy. 
Tergian and the other eleven farmers had been laid to rest where the 
siege camp had used to be, and the artisans were building a monument 
to their sacrifice. But along with the twelve fatalities had been many 
injuries. The skills of the Rangers, elf, and Haloel healers had saved 
most of the wounded, but the scars remained. Tergian had been one of 
the leaders of the group, and was deeply missed, having left behind a 
wife and two children. Yalc had survived the assault on the Great 
Hall, but the young farmer would always walk with a limp, and it was 
unlikely he would ever regain the full use of his left hand. Yet he 
was alive. 

Now, the men of Haloel faced the still-tougher business of determining 
who would rule their small kingdom--and how. An assembly was called in 
the Great Hall, but when all the men and women were gathered, Aragorn 
and Legolas exchanged glances. The man and elf rose, attracting the 
attention of all.

Seeing the prince’s nod, Aragorn spoke for them both. “Alagion and I 
feel that the decision of rulership for Haloel should be decided 
without our presence. It is a matter for her people.”

If nothing else, the cries of protest were gratifying to the two. “We 
could not have won this without your counsel!” Yalc said, gaining 
control of the others. “This decisions is just as vital as those 
during the siege!”

“Aye,” agreed Kartzel. “And we could use the objectivity of ones not 
from this land.”

“And you shall have it,” Legolas told them. Nodding toward the third 
foreigner in the room, he said, “Sarovin was with you, guiding you, 
from the start. If there is one entitled to serve as moderator in this 
meeting, let it be him.”

The men looked disappointed, but allowed the two to depart. Aragorn 
and Legolas walked out the castle gates and wandered through the 
fields to wait out the deliberations. Many of the vines and gardens 
that were trampled in the fighting had been tied up again, and the 
debris of the siege had been cleared away. The rebellion had destroyed 
much of the season’s crop, but if the Halorrim were able to organize 
effective leadership, they might yet be able to save the rest.

“Leaving them now was a wise decision,” Aragorn remarked as they 
walked.

Legolas looked at him oddly. “Perhaps.”

Returning the elf’s speculative gaze, the Ranger said, “An internal 
decision such as this was no place for a foreign Ranger.”

“And certainly not for an elf!” Legolas said with a laugh. But he 
raised an eyebrow at Aragorn. “Still, Sarovin chose to stay. He is 
foreign, yet he is a man, and a wise one. Perhaps you should have 
stayed as well. The men of Haloel would have benefited from your 
guidance.”

“As soldiers, maybe, but not as a government,” the heir of Isildur 
replied dismissively. “They need not my counsel anymore.”

“Then why did Sarovin stay?”

The younger Ranger’s eyes followed two gray mockingbirds chasing each 
other over the tops of the vines. “Sarovin had been wandering the wild 
for decades before he came to Haloel. Even the last time I met him, he 
had stayed longer here than any other place.”

The prince smiled faintly; he had obviously suspected as much. “You 
think he has chosen to stay?”

“I am nearly certain. But he will have the good sense not to let them 
elevate him. The Halorrim must look to their own for leadership.”

“Haloel was a province of Gondor once,” the elf commented mildly.

Aragorn turned and noticed the intense stare the elven prince was 
giving him. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Legolas stopped walking. “The men of Gondor are scattered, leaderless. 
I have seen some of those living closest to Mordor; Sauron’s beasts 
prey upon them at will because they cannot organize enough to fight. 
Why do you live in exile, son of Arathorn, when your people need you 
more than ever?”

“You are the son of Thranduil; do not pretend you know naught of my 
bloodline,” Aragorn looked away. “You know what role my blood played 
in the return of the shadow.”

The prince was silent. Then, in a very strange tone, he said softly, 
“You are ashamed.” Aragorn did not answer, for it had not been a 
question. “You are ashamed of who you are, because Isildur’s weakness 
allowed the spirit of Sauron and the Ring of power to live.”

The revelation of the prince‘s true identity had not silenced all the 
questions that swam in Aragorn‘s mind about Legolas. One in particular 
he both wished and feared to know. To look at, he would guess that 
Legolas was quite young for an elf, certainly much younger than 
Elrond, probably younger than the twins and Arwen, yet…young was still 
a relative term. He could not be certain. How personally did Legolas 
take the weakness of Isildur? There was one way to know… “You were not 
there at Mount Doom?” the man finally forced himself to ask. 

He watched Legolas’s face with combined curiosity and dread. But 
instead of embittered or doubtful, the elf merely looked startled--and 
somewhat amused. “Nay,” Legolas replied with a little shake of his 
head. “I am not that old…not even close,” he added with a wry twist of 
his mouth. “I know only what I have been told.”

Aragorn smiled himself at the irony. “I can imagine all too well what 
your elders of Mirkwood told you of Isildur and all his kindred. Why 
do you not despise me as the other wood elves do?”

There it was again! That shadow of anger and pain in the prince’s 
eyes…yet it was not directed at Aragorn. After a long and very loud 
silence, Legolas said, “I have found it better to judge the world by 
seeing it myself rather than letting others judge it for me.”

Ordinary mortals regarded the calm, aloof demeanor of elves as the 
true nature of their personality. But Aragorn recognized it as a 
shield, a shell to hide the intense inner emotions that all elves 
possessed. One could see past the exterior if one knew where to look. 
As with mortals, the eyes of elves could be windows to their hearts, 
and Aragorn needed only to look at the stormy dark eyes of the elven 
prince to know that he carried a tempest within.

*Still you keep secrets, Legolas of Mirkwood. I have grown in the 
House of Elrond, beside Elladan and Elrohir, I have loved Arwen--and 
Glorfindel is hardly mundane, if such a word can describe any of the 
Eldar. Yet I can safely say that you, son of Thranduil, are by far the 
most interesting elf I have ever met.*

Before he could think up a means of prying further, Legolas changed 
the subject. “Who do you think the Halorrim will choose as their 
lord?”

They walked down to the riverbank and sat there. Aragorn rubbed his 
chin for a moment before replying, “I wonder if they will decide 
against a single lord altogether, after their experience with 
Fompran.”

“True,” Legolas agreed. “They might elect a council, as the villages 
do. Such a group might serve the Halorrim well.”

Aragorn idly tossed a stone into the water. “If they do choose a 
single lord, my wager would be on Dersten. He was the best of their 
fighters.”

Twirling an arrow in his fingertips, the elf considered that. 
“Perhaps,” he murmured. They were quite accurate, Aragorn’s words, and 
yet… “Perhaps not.”

Rising again, Aragorn gazed around the valley with a worried frown. 
“Where have our horses gone?”

Legolas rose and pointed. “I can see them. They graze on the hill 
there, north.”

“How fares your mount?”

“Well,” Legolas replied, his eyes darkening further with angry memory. 
Lanthir had recovered from the wounds inflicted by Vrall, but the 
cruelty still made his rider’s blood boil. “The Halorrim treated his 
wounds with great skill, yet he remains still more skittish towards 
men.”

“Pariedor suffered the same,” said Aragorn, feeling a surge of ire 
himself. “But he too is healed.” The Ranger squinted in the direction 
Legolas had pointed, but though his eyes ached, he could not see the 
two horses. The elf and man heard someone approaching. It was a boy, 
bearing a message from the castle. “The people have chosen their new 
lord, Masters. He shall be announced at the feast tonight.”

“Hm. Very mysterious.” The two friends walked back up the bank, 
heading east towards the castle. “This should be interesting.”

***

What foodstuffs the Halorrim had lost in the siege, they replaced with 
the supplies captured from the camp. So there was little need for 
stinginess at the feast to celebrate the new rulership of Haloel. Most 
of the people were aleady seated at the tables in the Great Hall, but 
Aragorn and Legolas were asked to wait.

“His Lordship wishes to welcome you properly,” they were told. When 
all the others, including Sarovin, had entered the Hall, the herald 
turned to them. “Now it is time.” As the doors of the Hall opened, he 
announced, “My lords! Strider of the Dúnedain and Alagion of 
Mirkwood!”

Elf and Ranger exchanged a quick grin as they walked into the great 
room. Long tables spanned its length, and it seemed that every man, 
woman, and child of Haloel was present, craning their necks for a view 
of the heroes. Great platters of meats, breads, fruits, cakes, and 
sweetmeats adorned the tables among numerous flagons of wine. Closer 
to the front of the room sat the many men who had fought for Haloel’s 
freedom--now the uniformed soldiers of Haloel’s guard. At the very 
front, beneath a silk canopy, sat another table. The greatness of the 
chairs bespoke the rank of those who sat there. Two were vacant. In 
one place of obvious esteem, but not the highest, sat Sarovin. In 
another sat Dersten, and beside him Niradam, his wife.

The man at the center of the table (occupying the greatest chair) rose 
to greet them, followed by the others. “You are most welcome, honored 
warriors.”

Not bothering to hide their smiles, Aragorn and Legolas bowed in 
unison. “You are most gracious, my lord.”

From behind them, the herald announced, “I present Yalc, son of Raln, 
Lord of Haloel!”

Beside the young lord, the Lady of Haloel, Enilosa, gestured to the 
two vacant chairs. “Pray, be seated, Strider and Alagion.”

The Halorrim responded with great applause and praise as the elf and 
Ranger took their places among the leaders of Haloel. As the feast 
commenced, more introductions were made. Aragorn and Legolas were 
presented to Castellan Dersten, captain of the official guard, and 
Kartzel, official representative of Haloel’s farmers and winemakers. 
And then there was Sarovin, Lord Yalc’s advisor and representative of 
Haloel in foreign matters.

“There, my lord,” Legolas said to Yalc. “You did not need our help to 
choose a wise leadership.”

Dressed in robes of fine green linen and velvet, his blonde curls neat 
upon his head, Yalc nonetheless had not lost the youth of his light 
brown eyes. Although at the moment, he seemed slightly bewildered. “I 
wish I had your confidence, Master L--Alagion.”

Dersten waved a dismissive hand. “Heed the elf’s wise words, my 
friend; you’re the best of us all.”

“I would have preferred Dersten in this too-exalted position,” Yalc 
confessed to the others with a smile.

“Nonsense. I’m a fighter, not a thinker! If there’s anything we 
learned from Fompran, it’s that we need wisdom in our leaders.”

Yalc smiled good-naturedly and signaled for the guests to dine. Then 
when all were occupied with food, he leaned over to the elf and 
murmured, “I suspect it was a choice based more upon my loss of worth 
as a farmer, friend Legolas. For I cannot imagine why one might 
consider me ‘wise.’” 

“Wisdom is in the eyes of the beholders, Lord of Haloel,” Legolas 
replied softly. “And be assured, I have long counted you the wisest of 
all these.”

“And the wisdom of an elven warrior is of a great weight indeed,” Lady 
Enilosa put in quietly, her dark eyes twinkling.

Legolas gazed past Yalc at her, and suspected she too knew who he was. 
Judging by Yalc’s rather startled expression, the man had not told 
her. *The Lady misses little,* thought the prince. *Both rulers of 
Haloel shall be of great service to their people.*

The prince’s musings were interrupted by a question from Kartzel. 
“Have you tasted Haloel wine before, Master Elf?”

Before Legolas could reply, Dersten slapped the new wine minister on 
the back. “Of course he has, you lout! He’s from Mirkwood! All the 
elves drink our wines, and none more than his King Thranduil. Am I 
right, Master Alagion?”

Aragorn shot Legolas an anxious look, but the elf smiled amiably. “It 
is said that Haloel wine is the elven king’s favorite. I have had it 
on occasion. It is always a fine vintage.”

The Halorrim exchanged approving looks. “Mirkwood has not traded with 
us for centuries,” remarked Niradam. “Do you save it for special 
occasions only, then?”

“Just so,” Legolas replied, inclining his head to her.

With a twinkle in his gray eyes that instantly put Legolas on his 
guard, Aragorn said lightly, “Either that or it is too potent for them 
to drink on ordinary occasions.”

The great roar of laughter that swept the Hall drowned out any 
protestations the elf made. Wiping tears from his eyes, Yalc teased, 
“Is that the case, Master Elf?”

Shooting a glare at the sniggering Ranger, Legolas said firmly, “Nay.” 
The men laughed again at his defensive tone.

“Come, come,” Enilosa chided them. “Alagion is an elf, after all. One 
would imagine their tolerance for drink far exceeds that of most 
mortals.”

“ANY mortal, my lady,” Legolas added slyly, grinning at Aragorn at the 
same time.

The Halorrim roared their appreciation of the jibe. Dersten clapped 
his hands. “Aye, I doubt a Ranger has much time for drinking, friend 
Strider. He could easily outlast you.”

“Perhaps, but I would remind him, he is not the first elf whose 
company I have been graced with, and I can assure you that weapons are 
not the only skill I have learnt from his race.”

The wine flagons were already circulating freely, and that combined 
with an abundance of good food made the company quite merry: elf and 
Rangers included. Kartzel shook his head. “I don’t think there are 
many men who could drink with an elf. But if there are, we’d find them 
in a place where wine is a way of life!”

Many of the men pounded their tables in agreement. Aragorn raised his 
eyebrows at them and jerked his head at Legolas. “I fear, gentlemen, 
that our immortal friend is somewhat skeptical of your claim. What say 
you, Alagion, could you hold your own with a wineman of Haloel?”

Mildly, the elf replied, “I know not for sure, good Strider, but I 
worry that the men of Haloel would have cause to regret it tomorrow if 
we attempted to find out tonight.”

That did not settle the issue; a collective indignant shout went up 
from the men, and goblets rose in challenge. By this time, many were 
yawning, and the children sent out. Now, Enilosa, Niradam, and Relean, 
Kartzel’s wife, exchanged glances. The Great Hall was briefly silenced 
as the three women rose in unison. “It appears that you gentlemen 
intend to continue this debate well into the night,” Enilosa said, 
“but I think it is time for the ladies of Haloel to retire. Until 
tomorrow, my lords, we take our leave.”

The other women followed their Lady’s lead, and as they passed through 
the doors, Niradam heard her husband say, “Now, where were we?”

Enilosa chuckled, “I fear the business of ruling Haloel shall fall to 
us tomorrow morning, Ladies, for our husbands shall likely be 
indisposed.”

***

Her prediction was already coming true. No sooner had the ladies of 
Haloel departed the room than Yalc called for more food--and even more 
wine. “It seems you must prove your prowess yet again, Master Elf.”

Legolas did not refuse the offered refill of red wine, but cautioned, 
“Take care to remember the last time we held a contest between elves 
and men, my lord.”

Laughter and shouts of challenge were the response, and with a shrug, 
Legolas rose, beckoning for silence. “Then let us begin this revelry 
in the proper manner, friends!” He raised his goblet. “I give you Lord 
Yalc!”

The other men sprang to their feet and joined the toast, “Lord Yalc!” 
and drank with great gusto. 

“Long life and happiness!” toasted Legolas.

“Long life and happiness!” chorused the men.

“Health!” Sarovin added.

“Health!” everyone cried.

“Health and wealth!” corrected Kartzel.

“Health and wealth!”

Aragorn raised his goblet. “Health, wealth, and a steady hand!”

“Hear hear!”

As goblets were refilled, Legolas took a discreet look around. He 
grinned to himself; many of the men were already flushed and blinking 
quite a bit. Tonight promised to be frightfully amusing.

***

Many toasts later…

Aragorn could not recall an occasion when he had imbibed so much, but 
to his relief, he seemed to be keeping pace with Legolas and the 
Halorrim. Meaning to say, he was no more befuddled than they seemed to 
be. 

But as it was, Aragorn was beginning to feel very warm, and a little 
light-headed. Normally, it would take something far more potent to 
phase him, but the sheer volume tonight was threatening to put him in 
his cups. But it seemed that Legolas was not entirely unaffected 
either. “Well, Master Elf, either the reputation of the Eldar as great 
drinkers is faulty or you are falling short of it.”

Legolas drew himself up with rather theatric indignation, “You are not 
exactly a model of sobriety yourself, Man of the West!”

“Aye, Master Strider,” Dersten gleefully waggled a finger at the tipsy 
Ranger. “Your face is a little red!”

Aragorn laughed out loud, “Look who is speaking, friend! You are the 
color of Lord Fompran’s riding gear!”

“Bwahahahaha!” Sarovin flung himself backward in his chair, howling 
with laughter and nodding, gesturing at Dersten’s very flushed face. 

Legolas (still as fair-faced as ever to the irritation of all) raised 
his eyebrows and said blithely, “Judging by the sound of that laugh, 
Master Sarovin is not doing so well himself!”

“Just wait, Alagion, we’ll have you dancing on the tables before the 
night is out!” 

“Not before the rest of you are under the tables!”

“HAH!!!” Yalc attacked one of the platters and brandished a whole 
carrot at Legolas. “The night is yet young; I challenge you to prove 
that intimation before dawn!”

“HAH!!!” Legolas now dove for the platter, and in turn attempted to 
wield a banana in response. “I accept--” unfortunately he squeezed too 
hard, and with a sound like the squelch of a boot in a mud puddle, the 
banana disintegrated and emptied its filling all over the prince’s 
hand. “Oh, ah…”

“SO!! A model of sobriety, are you?!” demanded Aragorn, pointing and 
directing the laughter of all at the chagrinned elf.

“All right, all right, enough of that nonsense!” Dersten scolded them. 
“We’ve many yet to be honored with toasts tonight!”

Sarovin slammed the table so hard the dishes shook. “Very true!” He 
sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. “My lords! I give you 
Castellan Dersten!”

Goblets were thrust wildly into the air. “Castellan Dersten!”

“Captain of the guard!”

“First oaf of the army!”

Dersten choked on his wine and stared accusingly about the room. “Who 
said that?!” 

None confessed, and then Yalc sprang to his feet. “I give you Kartzel, 
the Wine Minister!”

“To the Wine Minister!”

“To the Wine Monster!”

“The Wine Mister!”

“The Wine Minstrel!”

“The Wine Spinster!”

“WHAT?! Now wait just a sodding minute!”

“Sotting is right!”

“I said ‘sodding,’ you moron!”

If Aragorn had been as observant as usual, he would have noticed that 
Legolas was now growing flushed and laughing quite helplessly at the 
exchange. “Wait a moment,” the elf protested, nearly knocking his 
goblet over. “Aren’t we supposed to be toasting Lord Yalc?”

Yalc jumped up (knocking his chair over) “Why should you get to have 
all the fun!? To Dersten!”

“To Dersten!”

“To Kartzel!”

“To Dersten and Kartzel!”

“To Kartzel and Dersten!”

“To both of ‘em together!”

“Huh?”

“To Sarovin, the Lord’s Visor!”

“That’s AD visor, schtupid!” 

“Him too!”

“To Yalc’s wife!”

“Yeah, to Niradam!”

This time Dersten spit his wine right out. “Now WAIT just a minute!” 
He brandished a large drumstick and began waggling it vigorously at 
Yalc, splattering gravy everywhere. “Just beclause yer the lord of 
Hawowell now doesin mean you can have my wife!”

“What makes ya think he hasn’t already?” someone said.

“Now JUST a minute!” Yalc jumped up (knocking his chair over yet 
again). “I am a man of under! There is nothing between me and your 
wife, Kartzel--Dersten--whoever is married to Niradam!”

Kartzel sleepily raised his head from the table, raising a hand, “Uh, 
that would be me!”

Dersten jumped up again, “Now WAIT a mimint! Everbody stop trying to 
claim my wife! You cand have her! She is MY wife! We are lawflully 
married and I am her hubband and she is my wife! Karzell is married to 
Releeeennn, Yalc is married to…to…whatsername….did I mention that 
Niradam is MY wife?!” 

“Yes yes yes, don’t get your bifurcated leg coverings in a twist!” 
Legolas said in disgust.

All activity at the table ceased. Aragorn spoke for them all when he 
turned incredulously to the elf and said, simply, “What?!”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, we’re not making any pwogwess here!” Sarovin said, gesturing 
vigorously for more wine. “If he can come up with a statement like 
bliffergated leg--somethings, he’s way too sober! So, Master Elf, I’m 
sure you can sip with the best of them, but can you toss?”

“Ahhhhhh!” all the company scrambled to refill their goblets. Legolas 
was not about to be branded a coward, and he and Aragorn filled theirs 
right to the brim (neither managing to avoid spilling.)

Yalc splashed his too much and was obliged to drain the rest of it and 
refill it again. When he rose, the new Lord of Haloel found himself 
quite unsteady on his feet. He lofted his goblet and declared, “To 
good food!”

“To good company!”

“To women!”

“To women in haylofts!”

“Kartzel, behave yourself!”

“One can be married and still enjoy oneself!”

“Does he?”

“Have you seen his wife? I’d enjoy myself!”

“Now WAIT a minute--”

“Do NOT start that again!” Aragorn exclaimed, hurling a chunk of bread 
that bounced of Kartzel’s brow.

Kartzel looked up. “I think the ceiling’s falling in!”

“Pay attention!” Yalc ordered, banging the table. “Bottoms up!”

“Bottoms what?”

“That means drink the whole glass, you stupid wood elf!”

“Oh.” Legolas eyed the full goblet.

Aragorn grinned wickedly at him. “What’s wrong, friend, you can sip 
but not slug?”

“Go on, Alagion, down in one gulp!”

“In this I think Strider will match him!”

“We shall see!”

“On the count of three, friends!” Sarovin ordered, and all eyes were 
focused on elf and Ranger. “Onnnnne…twoooooo…” there was a long pause, 
“…was I saying something?”

“NOW!!!” several of the others yelled at once, and Legolas and Aragorn 
began gulping their wine in earnest. Eyes watering, faces flushed, 
they swilled while the men shouted encouragement.

As it happened, both elf and man lowered their goblets from their 
mouths at the exact same time (they also had equally-stained upper 
lips, giving each the appearance of a red moustache.) The Halorrim 
looked eagerly from one to the other. Aragorn’s eyes were still 
watering and he was trying in vain to control his coughs, but he 
nodded firmly when one of the others inquired after his health. “And 
what of you, Master Alagion?” asked Yalc.

Legolas, to Aragorn’s utter disgust, appeared barely phased. His eyes 
had stopped watering and he was not coughing. In fact, Aragorn was 
convinced that the elf hadn’t been affected at all until Legolas 
opened his mouth. “Well…” it came out as a squeak worthy of an 
irritated mouse.

The entire place erupted into guffaws as Legolas cursed 
furiously--then the elf decided the only cure was more wine, and the 
flagons went around again. Whatever satisfaction Aragorn had derived 
from Legolas’s embarrassing little reaction was lost by the fact that 
he was growing too dizzy to sit up straight (or what his loopy senses 
perceived as straight at the time.) To the eyes of the others, the 
younger Ranger was already slumped well down in his chair, and he had 
not noticed that his elbows had dropped below the tabletop.

“Slo, Mashter Owf,” Kartzel was saying, blinking rapidly. “Whaddaya 
s’pose would happen if we had a shooting contest in here ride now?”

Legolas regarded the drunk man solemnly for a moment, then threw his 
head back and burst into a peal of laughter. “Ai! I wouldn--I 
wouldna--I don’t recommend it, Master Karzel; we’d kill someone!” He 
raised one eyebrow and grinned at Aragorn. “On the other hand, I think 
Strider’s already dead!”

Forcing himself upright with an effort, Aragorn pointed a finger right 
into the elf’s face. “Nod quide yet! And I’ve outlashted plenty of 
peoples so far!” He gestured limply around the Hall, and it was true; 
more than half of the men were passed out on table and floor.

“Very true; you’re doing admirrarably well, Striper!” Yalc said, 
clapping the Ranger on the back. Then his face changed, and he 
observed, “Wish I could say the same for myself,” right before 
toppling back into his seat, dead to the world. 

Legolas was practically shrieking with laughter. “Striper! He called 
you Striper! I’m gonna call you Striper!”

Aragorn folded his arms and scowled fiercely at the elf. “If you even 
thing aboud id I’m gonna box your ears!”

“Fah! You’re so drung you couldin find my ears!” Legolas said with a 
loud snort. He raised a hand with a flourish, “How many fingers am I 
holdin up?”

Without looking, Aragorn replied, “Seventeen!”

“Fourteen!” guessed Kartzel.

“One?” offered Dersten.

“Mrmph,” said Sarovin without lifting his head from where it rested on 
the crook of his elbow.

“Close enough,” Legolas said. 

Just then there was a knock on the door. One of the heralds entered 
timidly. “Ah, my lords…” his eyes were incredulous as he took in the 
unconscious or nearly-there bodies scattered about the Great Hall. 
“Lady Enilosa is enquiring after her husband.”

The remaining survivors at the head table exchanged looks. “Well, 
THERE he is!” Aragorn said dramatically. Leaping upon the table, he 
declared with a great sweeping gesture, “My lords and ladies, I give 
you the Lord of Haloel!”

His feet on the table, his arms draped past the rests, his head 
lolling back with his mouth wide open, Yalc responded as though on 
cue. 

He began to snore.

The servant nodded hastily and left even faster. For some reason, 
Aragorn decided that was worthy of another toast and jumped down, 
refilling goblets. “Long life and appleness!”

“Ear ear!” The goblets were downed with gusto, the remaining drinkers 
congratulating themselves at still being in the game.

“Hic!

Everyone looked around. “Who was that?”

Hic!

“That you, Leg--ah, I mean Alagion?”

“Of course not! Elves don’t hiccup!” Hic!

Aragorn thumped the table and turned a level (or not) stare at 
Legolas. “I think that was you.”

Resting an elbow on the table and plunking his chin onto his hand, the 
elf replied, “Don’ be ridickilous, Striper--HIC!”

“Bwaahhaaaa!!” Dersten and Kartzel gleefully pointed. “It’s the owf! 
It’s the owf!”

“It is--hic!--not!” 

“Here, lemme help!” Kartzel offered, and dealt Legolas a fierce slap 
on the back that nearly smashed the elf into the table. “Did thad 
work?”

“Ooooh, yes, thank you, Kartzel. Who needs unbroken ribs anyway?”

“Hah!” Aragorn jumped onto his chair. “Not so invinslible as you think 
you are, eh, Elf? Can’t even keep from gedding the higgups--whaaaa!!!” 
As top-heavy as he felt by then, the Ranger’s balance failed and he 
and his chair toppled over with a great crash. 

With a yelp of alarm, Legolas, Kartzel, and Dersten scrambled over 
toppled chairs and drunken bodies to the pile of arms, legs, and chair 
that was Aragorn. “A Elbweth,” Legolas remarked. “That’s the end of 
him! Does that mean I win?”

“Not so fast, not so fast!” Kartzel exclaimed. “We’re still here!” He 
grabbed a half-full goblet and downed the whole thing in a few gulps. 
That proved one gulp too many for the wineman, and he simply keeled 
over on the spot.

Legolas and Dersten watched him gravely. With a heavy sigh, Dersten 
remarked, “That’s one against the owf. Dunno if I like those odds. So. 
Now what?”

The elf regarded the room full of drunk carcasses. “I sup--sup--guess 
it wouldn’ be very fidding for the ladies to find us this way in the 
morning.” 

Dersten wrinkled his nose. “That means we’ve got to get everyone to 
bed! Ourselves!”

With a shrug, Legolas replied, “You got the glory, you gotta take the 
little heartaches that go with it.”

“Right!”

Most of the men--with sufficient prodding and cold water--roused 
enough to walk to their quarters on their own. Yalc had to be carried. 
A few buckets awoke Aragorn and Sarovin, and Legolas said, “Come on, 
you lazy mortals, up!”

“Is it morning already?” Sarovin grumbled.

Legolas laughed and turned to shake Aragorn awake. “On your feet, 
Dúnadan! You can’t lie here all night!”

“Leave off!” the younger Ranger exclaimed, waving his arms drunkenly 
to shoo the elf away.

Grinning at Dersten, the prince began slapping Aragorn’s cheeks and 
did not desist until the man staggered to his feet. “Awake, you sotted 
mortal! Do not tell me you’re too feeble to make it to your chamber!”

Aragorn shoved him back. “Feeble, eh? I’ll show you--ooooh!” He 
staggered dangerously and both Legolas and Dersten were forced to grab 
him.

“Better get him out of here,” the Castellan advised, and slung 
Sarovin’s arm over his shoulder. Legolas did likewise with Aragorn, 
and so the four staggered, laughing hysterically, from the Great Hall. 
Halfway there, Aragorn began singing, and soon they formed a drunken 
quartet as they lurched into walls and tripped over their own (and 
each other’s) feet. 

“Ah, here we are!” Dersten stumbled into a closed door and held 
Sarovin up with one arm while fumbling at the door handle with the 
other. At last the door opened, and the two men lurched inside with a 
crash. 

“Put him down gently!” Legolas giggled.

There was a loud thud and a grunt in response, then Dersten stumbled 
back out, laughing. “I’ll w-w-wager he won’t stir until afternoon! 
Come!” The man grabbed Aragorn’s other arm. “Let’s get this one to 
bed!” They both laughed as Aragorn mumbled something unintelligible in 
response. “I must congratulate you, Master Owf! You outlasted both 
Rangers and most of our people!”

Legolas laughed out loud and nearly knocked them all into the wall. 
“Of COURSE I did! Wait, we’re here!”

It took the elf several tries to get the latch open, but at last the 
two hauled the Ranger into his quarters. They unceremoniously 
deposited Aragorn on his bed, then tiptoed (loudly) from the room. 
“Well,” Legolas observed, leaning heavily against the wall and 
grinning broadly, “Seems you and I were the only ones to survive the 
night!”

“You’ve proven your prowress, sir, make no mistake!” Dersten agreed, 
clapping the elf on the back so hard that he nearly knocked him over. 
“A good night to you!”

Legolas stumbled, giggling to himself, to his own chamber. “I win!” he 
crowed, and collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed.

***

The next day…

Aragorn did not stir until well after noon, and only then because the 
angle of the sun cast an agonizing beam right through the window onto 
his face. Heaving a groan, he rolled over to escape it--and landed on 
the floor. With a savage curse, he forced his eyes open. He felt as 
though the front of his skull had been beaten with a meat mallet, 
along with the brains within. His eyes felt gritty, his mouth felt 
like cotton, and no amount of water on his face could relieve the 
sensation that his entire head was made of sludge.

Forcing himself to wash and put on fresh clothes, the Ranger supposed 
he could not immure himself in his chamber all day (no matter how 
badly he desired to.) *Be a man, Estel, it is your own fault. Your 
bravado got the better of your good sense, trying to drink with an elf 
and winemen of Haloel.*

There was no escaping the amusement the others were probably going to 
have at his expense. So with a half-sigh, half-groan, the heir of 
Isildur shoved the door open and trudged into the corridor. He ducked 
to escape the light coming from an outer window, thinking, *I will 
show me face outside my room, but cave trolls could not drag me 
outside this building before the sun goes down!*

A door thudded open nearby and Aragorn winced at the noise. Out 
staggered Haloel’s newly-appointed Castellan, his garments rumpled, 
his hair unkempt, and his eyes almost as bloodshot as Aragorn’s. 
Seeing the Ranger, Dersten grumbled hoarsely, “This is a fine start to 
the government, wouldn’t you say?”

Aragorn started to nod, and had to grab the wall, for even that small 
motion set his head spinning and his stomach protesting violently. 
“Not just the government,” he croaked.

If Dersten looked sympathetic, Aragorn could not tell, for he was too 
busy trying to keep himself upright and his stomach from sloshing. But 
the other man did offer a steadying hand, and then said, “Ah, well, 
we’d best get the day started. At least all the others will be facing 
the music as well.*

“Thank the Valar for that,” Aragorn groaned.

As Dersten predicted, the Great Hall was full of late-rising Halorrim, 
all of whom were decidedly the worse for a night’s drinking. There was 
very little food being eaten--most of the men just stared at it as 
though it were the essence of evil. Aragorn and Dersten took their 
places at the head table with the equally-afflicted Sarovin, Kartzel, 
and Yalc. When a servant offered them a platter of sausage, the entire 
company turned green and Yalc waved it hastily away. Burying his face 
in his arms, the young lord groaned, “I think that was my wife’s idea 
of a joke.”

Kartzel grunted in agreement, “Of all the foods I wouldn’t want after 
a night of drunken revelry, sausage is definitely the most 
nauseating.” He got a round of groans and curses from the others for 
even mentioning it by name.^

Sarovin roused himself enough to ask, “Where’s Alagion?”

Aragorn looked around before putting his head down again. “No idea. 
Perhaps even his elvish tolerance for wine could not handle last 
night. Ooohh…”

In spite of their misery, most of the men smiled. “Nice thought, that 
Haloel wine could exceed an elf’s capacity. Now THAT would make today 
far easier to endure!” proclaimed Dersten.

Just then the sound of singing floated through a window. Many of the 
men moaned and covered their ears, but Aragorn cursed savagely. Among 
the voices of many of the ladies of Haloel, he clearly discerned the 
voice of Legolas, raised in merry song. “Curse him and his elvish 
stamina! He’s been up for hours!”

The door of the Great Hall opened. Mockingly. And there stood Legolas, 
as bright and alert as ever, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement as 
he took in the sorry sight. “Ah, you’re all up at last!”

Then he had to close the door quickly to avoid being pelted by a rain 
of rolls, sausages, and fruit thrown by spiteful and hung-over men. 
Through the nearly-closed door, a disgustingly smug elvish voice 
declared, “Being a winner, I give you all a good morrow, gentlemen!” 
The men all cursed as the sound of laughter faded down the hall.

“A plague on that pointy-eared tree squirrel!” someone muttered. All 
the others just voiced their agreement by groaning.

***

By evening, the men of Haloel had recovered sufficiently to get down 
to business, though most of them were still a little foggy-headed. All 
the ladies had been greatly amused when Legolas had risen that 
morning, appearing none the worse for wear while the rest of the men 
had yet to budge. Actually, in all fairness, Legolas could not claim 
to have been completely unaffected. He’d slept far later than usual; 
on a normal day, the elf would have been up at dawn. And for the first 
half of the day at least, he had to admit that he’d felt a little…off. 

Still, he had been nowhere near as incapacitated as the mortals, and 
had enjoyed more than his share of laughs at their expense when they 
had finally dragged their carcasses from bed. *I warned them they 
would regret it today if they tried to out-drink me!*

At the moment, they were seated in the Great Hall where Lord Yalc was 
preparing to pronounce his judgement on the loyalist soldiers who had 
been taken prisoner in the battle. Yalc too looked much-improved since 
Legolas had seen him last, and sat straight and dignified in the seat 
of Haloel. 

Beside Legolas, the heir of Isildur also seemed somewhat more in the 
land of the living, though he kept glaring at the prince--who 
delighted in smiling right back at him. “You’re lucky the rest of us 
were in no condition to fight, or you’d be dead by now,” Aragorn 
growled.

Casting wide, innoent eyes at the Ranger, Legolas protested, “I did 
warn you all, did I not? I warned you that none of you could meet my 
capacity!”

“One day I’ll see you in this state, and laugh at your suffering!”^

“Hah! Do not excite anticipation, Dunadan. There is not a mortal on 
the face of the earth who could drink me under the table!”^

A bell rang, signaling Lord Yalc’s readiness to begin. Only about 
thirty of Fompran’s soldier’s had been taken alive; the rest were dead 
or fled. Under the watchful gaze of Castellan Dersten, the guards led 
the prisoners before Lord Yalc. The young lord regarded them, his 
brown eyes thoughtful. “The families of the men lost to your forces 
think I should execute you all. For those deaths, the lost homes and 
livelihoods Haloel suffered, I would be well within my rights to do 
it.”

The soldiers exchanged anxious glances. Legolas, Aragorn, and the 
Halorrim observed Yalc as he deliberated their fate. Yalc’s eyes 
briefly met Legolas’s, and the prince smiled ever so slightly. He 
suspected he knew what the Lord of Haloel’s decision would be. 

The young man spoke again. “All the same, I know you were acting under 
the orders of your superiors. They may have been highly unjust orders, 
but the decisions were theirs, not yours.” Gazing upon each of the men 
in turn, he continued, “So I will not order your deaths. I will not 
begin my rule here as the previous lord ended it: with bloodshed. 
Therefore the sentence of death is commuted. But,” his eyes narrowed, 
“nor will I permit the troubles you brought upon our people to go 
unpunished.”

The soldiers looked at each other. Yalc rose and proclaimed, “Haloel 
and her people are beginning a new life. But you shall not be a part 
of it. You shall all be escorted separately, with rations and gear, 
beyond our borders, and released. Any who attempt to return to Haloel 
or trouble our people shall receive the death sentence. If you are 
wise, you shall seek refuge elsewhere.” Nodding to Dersten, the lord 
of Haloel ordered, “Take them away. See that they are out of Haloel 
before sundown.”

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged a grin. The Halorrim had chosen well. 
After the soldiers had been removed, Dersten ordered, “Bring out the 
last prisoner!”

From outside the door, nasal cries of “Get your hands off me, 
peasants!” could be heard. Legolas covered his mouth to hide his 
laughter. The doors opened, and three guards hauled the 
loudly-protesting ex-lord Fompran into the Great Hall. When they 
halted him before Lord Yalc, the fat man cried, “Release me at once! I 
am the rightful Lord of Haloel, and I demand--”

“Be silent, Fompran, or I shall order you gagged!” Yalc snapped. One 
of the guards cuffed Fompran for good measure. Rising, Yalc gazed at 
the former lord with undisguised contempt. “You may have been ruler of 
Haloel by birthright, but your abuse of your power showed you unfit 
for the position.”

His face almost purple, Fompran screeched, “Who are you to question my 
methods, farmer?!”

One of the guards moved to strike him, but Yalc motioned the man back. 
Legolas noted with interest how automatically the guard obeyed the new 
lord. Yalc leaned across the table and said in a steely voice, “I was 
a citizen of Haloel then, entitled to have my voice heard. But you 
would not hear us. Now I am Lord of Haloel, and I shall decide what 
punishment those ‘methods’ of yours merit.”

“You’ve no right to judge--mmph!” this time the threat of gagging 
Fompran was carried out.

Calmly, Yalc said, “The wishes and needs of your people went unheard, 
Fompran. But I shall not make that mistake. Now your fate is in their 
hands.” Turning his gaze to the assembled Halorrim, the Lord 
announced, “This man’s decisions led to much suffering for all of you. 
In this case, I shall carry out whatever sentence you desire. If you 
seek his death, you shall have it. If you call for mercy, he shall 
have it. Take him back to his cell while his people decide his fate.” 
Squirming and grunting, Fompran was hauled out.

Yalc sat down and beckoned for the Halorrim to speak. One woman rose 
to speak first. “My husband is dead because of that man. An eye for an 
eye, I say, execute him!”

“Death’s too good for him!”

“What other punishment is there?”

“Lock him up forever!”

“I don’t want him in Haloel! And I sure don’t want us to have to feed 
him!”

“We could banish him, too.”

“Ha! I’d like to see him try to walk to another kingdom!” 

A young man rose and said, “Lord Yalc is right; we should not begin 
our new life by shedding blood. Exile would be good enough for him.”

“Think he’d go?”

“Fompran’s a coward; he’d take any sentence if death was the only 
alternative.”

“Shall we vote on it then, Lord Yalc?”

The Lord inclined his head. “If that is how you wish to settle the 
matter, we shall have a show of hands. What shall the choices be?”

“Exile or death!” Judging by the cries of agreement, those seemed to 
be the only two options any wished to consider. 

Yalc nodded. “Very well. Sarovin, if you would tally the score? The 
vote shall be for exile, or for death, or neither, if you choose not 
to participate at all.” The people nodded in turn. “All those who 
desire a sentence of death for Fompran, raise your hands.”

A few dozen hands went up and were duly counted by Sarovin. “All those 
who wish a sentence of exile, raise your hands.” This time there was a 
clear majority. Legolas and Aragorn noticed with interest that there 
seemed little rancor from those who had voted for the harsher 
punishment. Yalc maintained a neutral expression, but Legolas 
suspected he was much more at ease with this decision. “Bring in the 
prisoner, Dersten.”

Fompran was glaring daggers around him when the guards dragged him 
back in. Yalc stood up. “Your people have pronounced sentence, 
Fompran. You are to be exiled. Perhaps it is more merciful than you 
deserve, but such is their will. You shall be escorted beyond our 
lands, and released, to make your way wherever you choose, but never 
return here again.”

Folding his arms pompously, Fompran snarled, “And who’s going to stop 
me.”

“I am!” snapped Dersten, drawing his sword and resting the tip below 
the man’s chin. 

Fompran gulped. Yalc smiled slightly. “The choice is entirely yours, 
Fompran. Exile, or death.”

Fompran’s eyes darted from Yalc to Dersten to Sarovin to the rest of 
the Halorrim. Even the most dense person could see that the threat was 
not made idly. The fat man gulped again, which everyone correctly took 
to mean he had chosen exile. Lord Yalc smiled again. “Dersten, escort 
our former lord out of our lands.”

“With pleasure, my lord!” Fompran was hustled out amid the gleeful 
jeers of his former subjects.

***

A week or two later…

Now came a parting much less looked forward to by the Halorrim. Yalc, 
Dersten, and Sarovin saw to it that Legolas and Aragorn had all the 
provisions and gear they would need, but on the day they were to 
depart, the leaders of Haloel made one last appeal to the travelers to 
change their minds. 

In the privacy of Yalc’s study, the friends talked. “I had accepted 
that Master Legolas would have to leave us in time,” Yalc said. “But 
surely you might tarry a little longer,” he addressed Aragorn. “Haloel 
would greatly benefit from your leadership, my lord.”

Aragorn was obviously discomfited by Yalc and Dersten’s knowledge of 
his true identity. “I’m but an heir in exile, friend, I hardly rate 
that title.” 

Yalc sighed inwardly, wishing he could think of a way to persuade the 
son of Arathorn to stay. The young lord of Haloel felt equally 
unprepared for the government of his people, but when called by them, 
he had not refused. Surely the rightful king of Gondor would feel some 
sense of duty during these uncertain times. Why then did he wander the 
wild when his people--all of them--needed him?

Sarovin was less adamant than the other two, but he said carefully, 
“There is much you could teach these people, Aragorn.”

His tone regretful, but firm, the Ranger replied, “Perhaps, or perhaps 
not so much as they would like to think. To build a strong province 
under its own rule, you are more than capable, Yalc. You know your 
people’s craft and trade, and you have their trust and faith. You do 
not need my help.”

Legolas remained quiet through much of the conversation, but listened 
with thoughtful gray eyes. Yalc wondered (as always) what was going on 
in that elf’s head. So many times, the young man had come across the 
prince standing alone upon the wall, his face turned eastward. Yet 
among company, Legolas’s bright eyes betrayed little of his mind. When 
Sarovin had learned of “Alagion’s” true identity, the ex-Ranger had 
laughed out loud, saying, “Now that explains a great many things!”

To Yalc, it only added to the mystery. Were all elves so inscrutable? 
Or was this Prince Legolas somehow different from others of his race? 
*I suppose until I have met another elf, it shall remain a mystery.*

But as for the other problem, no amount of persuading could convince 
Aragorn to remain in Haloel. After noon, the Ranger brought the 
discussion to a close. “I know you wish to argue further, my friends, 
but the road is long, and I should like to make a start before 
sunset.”

Exchanging resigned glances, Yalc, Dersten, and Sarovin rose. “Then we 
wish you a safe journey, Aragorn and Legolas,” said Yalc. “You have 
been true friends to us all. Come, we shall see you to the gates.”

It seemed that all of Haloel turned out to see their foreign heroes 
off. At the gates, the elf and Ranger clasped arms with Yalc, Dersten, 
Kartzel, and Sarovin in turn, then mounted their horses. “Farewell, 
Strider and Alagion!” Yalc declared (with a barely-perceptible wink.) 
“You shall always be welcome in Haloel!”

Waving to the Lord of Haloel, his council, and his cheering people, 
Aragorn and Legolas rode out of the castle gates and into the hills. 
The Halorrim watched until the two travelers were out of sight. “I 
hope they come back some day,” Kartzel said.

Yalc smiled. “Whether they come here again or no, somehow I don’t 
think that’s the last time we’ll be hearing of that particular elf and 
Ranger.”

***

The elf and Ranger in question rode until they were close to Haloel’s 
northern border, where the rolling hills began changing to the steeper 
foothills of the Misty Mountains. There they made camp upon an open 
hilltop as the sun set. Bringing some food to their campfire, Aragorn 
seated himself beside Legolas. “So, Master Elf, what do you intend to 
do now?”

“Do?” Legolas looked at the Ranger in confusion.

Aragorn grinned, “Well, you are hardly in my debt anymore. You are 
free to return home if you wish.”

The elf blinked, then chuckled. He had obviously become so used to 
being in Aragorn’s company that he had given the matter of his 
destination beyond Haloel little thought. A flicker of indecision--and 
doubt--showed in the prince’s bright eyes. Turning his gaze to the 
dark plains that stretched eastward beyond the hills, Legolas asked, 
“What do you intend to do?”

*Still being evasive--or perhaps you truly don’t know.* “I am 
returning home, to Rivendell. It has been some time since I have seen 
my father and brothers. I’ve no doubt you are welcome in the House of 
Elrond,” he added on impulse. *Since the longer we travel together, 
the better my chance of learning what drove you from Mirkwood, my 
friend.*

It pleased--but did not surprise--the Ranger when Legolas looked back 
at him and said, “I had no particular destination in mind, and I 
should be glad to see Imladris again.” With a mischievous twinkle in 
his eyes, the elf added, “So if you can bear to travel with me a 
little longer, I will accompany you.”

Aragorn laughed. “I will endure it somehow.” They both chuckled. 
Handing Legolas his share of meat, bread, and fruit for their dinner, 
Aragorn asked, “Are you well acquainted with my fa--that is, Lord 
Elrond?”

Legolas nodded. “I have often seen him on his visits to Mirkwood, and 
when I was last in Imladris.” Something in the elf’s tone told Aragorn 
that the prince was speaking to himself as well as his companion when 
Legolas murmured, “I should be glad to meet Lord Elrond again.”



*****

(No, I did not spell ‘Counsel’ wrong!)

^These little comments were nods of my own--not to mention 
foreshadows--for another little “mortals vs. elf” drinking bout 
Legolas will have in the future. To find out how our favorite elf 
fared in THAT round, check out “The Hunting Trip” by Ithilien. It 
ranks highly on my recommended list, along with all her works. 

A/N: To those of you who may have missed it, I promised you a ficlet 
some time ago about Legolas and his friends’ childhood escapade in the 
dungeons. The first chapter is now posted. It’s called “Oh The Places 
We’ll Go.” Thanks who all who read and reviewed it, and those who 
didn’t, I should mention that the events in it are closely related to 
some of the things in this chapter. It’s not required reading, but it 
would help.

I know there are some continuity errors concerning Silivren’s age and 
also how old Legolas was when his mother died. I originally said he 
was five, then realized elves age slower than people (duh!) so I made 
it fifty-five, then realized I had him aging too slow. So it’s still 
wrong. Just bear with me and one of these days between school and work 
I’ll go back and fix it. Thanks!





Chapter Twenty-Three: The Counsel of Elrond







Legolas soon learned that Aragorn’s invitation to continue traveling 
together had an ulterior motive. “The finest warriors in Imladris have 
taught me to fight, and you bested me with ease. I should like to 
learn the techniques of the warriors of Mirkwood.”

They were in no great hurry, so often they made camp before sundown 
and spent an hour or two at weapons practice. “Glorfindel taught you 
the sword, did he not?” Legolas asked after an especially rough bout 
(in which Aragorn spent most of his time being knocked down and 
disarmed.)

Rubbing a bruised shoulder, the Ranger nodded. “He did. Elladan and 
Elrohir as well, but they prefer the bow.”

“That explains it. Glorfindel likes to make a stand, whether you are 
an army or a lone fighter.”

“I would not have considered that a flaw, or at least not until now,” 
Aragorn remarked wryly. 

Legolas smiled. “Most often it is not, especially against men. You 
would do well against most mortal foes, for the average swordsman 
advances head-on. In Mirkwood, we are taught differently. We are 
taught to move.”

“I move!” Aragorn protested.

“Not enough. Swift feet can be as great an advantage as strong arms. 
Come,” the elf tossed down his sword and beckoned to the man. “Use you 
hands only, and move!” Aragorn then found himself frantically trying 
to parry and dodge fist blows from Legolas. The elf almost seemed to 
flit around him, landing slightly pulled punches to show how easily he 
could penetrate the Ranger’s defenses. Legolas laughed as Aragorn 
grunted in his effort to hold his elven opponent off. “Move, human! 
Treat it as a dance!”

Slowing down a bit, Legolas gave the man more room to adjust to the 
new method. Sensing Aragorn growing more accustomed to moving his 
feet, he picked up the pace, only to knock the man flat again. 
Stifling another laugh, the prince stopped. “Let us try something 
else. Do not fight. Simply try to face me at all times. You must be 
able to turn in enough time to block an attack.”

Aragorn grimaced, “I wonder if trying this technique while lacking the 
speed of an elf is hopeless.”

“I think not,” replied Legolas. “I suspect there are few fighting 
methods you could not master, Aragorn. Come, let us begin at the 
beginning.”

Bolstered by the encouragement, Aragorn returned to the game of simply 
trying to move as quickly as Legolas. The wood elf was so quick that 
he seemed almost to disappear and reappear at first, but gradually, 
the Ranger found himself anticipating the maneuvers. “That is better. 
Shall we spar again?” Legolas offered.

“Bare hands,” said Aragorn, wiping his brow. “So I may concentrate 
still on the movements.”

“As you wish. Guard!” Legolas moved in, ducking and dodging around the 
Ranger in an effort to pass his defenses. But Aragorn was definitely 
improving, and after several minutes, they both noted that the elf was 
landing far fewer hits. “Now attack! Try to move as I do!”

Aragorn came at him rapidly, dodging from side to side and ducking the 
elf’s counter-attacks as he tried to outmaneuver Legolas. The prince 
spun, moving always to keep his eyes on his opponent or parrying on 
instinct. The human was certainly picking up elvish skill faster than 
one would expect though he was still no match for L--

POW!!! A fist slipped past the elf’s defending arm and connected with 
Legolas’s jaw. The next thing he knew, Legolas found himself sitting 
rather stupefied on the ground, with stars dancing in his vision. For 
a moment, he could not hear for the ringing in his ears, then he heard 
a strangled sound. Shaking his head hard, he looked up to see the 
Ranger standing over him, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “I 
think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Mustering a rather painful (and sheepish) grin, Legolas answered, “I 
am hardly in a position to disagree.”

***

After another week of traveling, Legolas no longer had to handicap 
himself to give Aragorn an even chance. The Ranger was elated the 
first time he bested the prince at swords--still more when subsequent 
victories prevented Legolas from shrugging it off as luck. But all in 
all, Legolas accepted defeats with surprisingly good grace, far more 
than even some Imladris elves. This was odd, considering what Aragorn 
knew of the wood elves’ reputation for intense pride. On one such 
occasion, he took the opportunity to comment on it, “You accept defeat 
unusually well, Master Elf.”

Pausing from rubbing a bruised collarbone, Legolas blinked at him. “I 
hope so. Did you expect me to take it with ill grace?” 

Aragorn laughed, raising his hands. “Nay, but I do confess most of 
your kindred tend to be affronted at being beaten by a mere mortal.”

Legolas laughed in turn, nodding his agreement. “Very likely, I admit. 
But you had skill to spare when we first met, and you have learned my 
ways well; I can have no cause to reproach you for using them.”

“No belief that the student shall not defeat the master?” Aragorn 
jested.

A shadow crossed the prince’s bright eyes, so swiftly that Aragorn 
almost wondered if he had imagined it. But Legolas’s words said 
otherwise, and they puzzled the Ranger. “I am no master.” Then the 
twinkle was back, and Legolas grinned at him, “Nor are you any ‘mere’ 
mortal Ranger, heir of Isildur.”

“I am but a mere Ranger,” Aragorn told him. “Do not try to make me 
more than I am.”

The elf’s eyes turned serious. “All Middle Earth is imperiled by the 
Enemy’s return to power, and the people of Gondor are scattered, 
leaderless. If Sauron should begin moving, they will be helpless to 
defend themselves. How long do you mean to hide away in exile? Do you 
truly fear facing who you are?”

It came to Aragorn then, the chance to unravel some of the mystery of 
Legolas. He said nothing, merely leveled a silent, searching stare at 
the elf. Legolas had been whetting one of his knives, but his gray 
eyes slowly lifted to meet the man’s. They watched each other’s faces 
for a moment, one aided by elvish perceptions, the other aided by long 
association with elves. Then Legolas lowered his gaze again, as though 
he had just lost a battle between them. When he spoke, his tone was 
soft and resigned. “You are thinking…that before I advise others of 
their troubles, I should first look to my own.”

The elf was exactly right. Aragorn smiled slightly, and said quietly, 
“I knew from our first meeting that you carried many secrets, my 
friend. I cannot help my curiosity. You are a prince of Mirkwood, yet 
you travel by yourself. All your looks say that you long for home, but 
you do not return. It is a rare and sad thing, an elf alone.” Not 
taking his gaze from Legolas’s face, he said earnestly, “We have 
fought together and become friends, in spite of all that our heritage 
might place in the way. Do you still distrust me so?” 

The young elf’s eyes were dark with inner conflict as he stared at the 
campfire. *And I thought Lorien elves were closemouthed!* thought 
Aragorn, but he remained silent, waiting. At last, Legolas sighed 
softly and murmured, “I am not sure that I would be welcomed home if I 
returned.” His eyes flicked to Aragorn’s briefly, as though unsure of 
how much to reveal to his companion, friend or no. But then he 
evidently figured that Aragorn was likely to deduce anything he did 
not say. “You once asked me if I was widely traveled in Middle Earth. 
I am not.”

“No?” The revelation did not surprise Aragorn, but he did not allow 
his tone to show it, nor did he act too surprised. Elves, particularly 
wood elves, did not reveal the secrets of their hearts very easily. 
One wrong word would spook Legolas into closing up again.

The elf shook his head, his eyes still downcast and distant. “I am the 
youngest son of Thranduil, as you probably have guessed,” he added 
with a hint of dry humor. “I am only just come of age.”

Aragorn had known this; the elves of Imladris still talked of 
Legolas’s performance at the Great Gathering Trial thirty-five years 
ago. Legolas went on, “As a novice, I seldom journeyed far from my 
father’s halls. He…” the prince hesitated, his eyes smoldering. Then 
he sighed and continued, “Three of my elder siblings fell in battle 
before my birth. It is that fate that my father…sought to spare me 
when he attempted to delay my departure with the war parties.”

The Ranger listened, his heart full. His own coming of age had been 
the time when Elrond had bestowed upon him the knowledge and rights of 
his heritage. He had also met Arwen that same day. Though life had 
hardly been easy since he had left Rivendell, the memories of his 
coming of age were joyous ones. That for his friend adulthood had 
brought only grief saddened Aragorn. “What did you do?”

“I left without the king’s permission. Our party was gone for more 
than thirty years, and--many things transpired abroad and at home. 
When I returned, we were both changed.” With a faint grimace, Legolas 
added, “Neither for the better. I had barely been back six weeks 
before we quarreled again, and I left.” Raising his eyes to meet 
Aragorn’s, the elf confessed, “We parted on…very ill words. I know not 
if he wishes me back, and fear to find out.” Then he smiled wryly, “It 
was the night I departed that you found me.”

*That explains how you managed to run straight into a spider nest.* 
Aloud, Aragorn asked him, “What do you hope to find in Imladris?”

The humor returned to Legolas’s eyes, “You ask a question to which you 
already know the answer, son of Arathorn. I know Lord Glorfindel well, 
and Lord Elrond is one of the wisest elves I have ever encountered.”

“He will find some way to help you solve these troubles,” Aragorn told 
him sincerely. His faith in his foster-father was great. What Legolas 
faced could not be fought with sword or even magic, but if anyone 
could help him, Elrond could. 

Aragorn had seen many elves suffering and lost under shadow of sorrow, 
but never one so young as this. Even if Legolas had not been willing 
to tell his story, Aragorn could probably have guessed. The elf bore 
weapons with the skill of much practice, but his reaction to the 
people and events of the past months bespoke his naïveté. At times, he 
betrayed an air of utter bewilderment, as one for whom the world was 
changing too swiftly to make sense. It grieved the Ranger. An ordinary 
man might view look at Legolas and see an unearthly, dangerous elf 
warrior, but in Aragorn’s eyes, for all his centuries of life and 
handling of weapons, the youngest prince of Mirkwood had retained a 
strange innocence. Perhaps that was from where his troubles truly 
arose. One such as Legolas would naturally view the world and its 
people very differently from an elf like Thranduil of Mirkwood.

***

Six days later, Lord Elrond and Glorfindel happened to be visiting 
Elladan and Elrohir on watch near the ford of the Bruinen when they 
saw two riders approaching through the trees. “Who is it?” Glorfindel 
asked.

Elladan narrowed his eyes, “I cannot tell for the trees, but they come 
openly. Friends, I would say.” The four waited at the guard post until 
the two appeared on the banks of the river.

“It’s Estel!” Elrohir cried with delight, and leapt from the post, 
running at full speed toward the river. Elladan was only a step behind 
him. “Estel is home!”

Elrond and Glorfindel, though no less glad to see the Lord of 
Rivendell’s foster-son, remained where they were and identified 
Aragorn’s companion. “It’s Legolas,” Glorfindel said quietly.

Lord Elrond sighed, “Thank the Valar. After nearly six months with no 
news, I had begun to worry. I wonder when he fell in with Estel.”

“I know not, but it would explain why we could find no trace of him. 
Young Aragorn has a knack for disappearing into thin air.”

As the elven lords watched, Elladan and Elrohir sprinted across the 
riverbank, not even slowing when they plunged in and splashed towards 
their brother. Aragorn sprang from his horse’s back and sloshed to 
meet them, leaping into their arms. Legolas also jumped down but stood 
where he was, watching the sibling reunion with an amused grin. 
Elrohir tackled Aragorn away from Elladan and dunked him bodily into 
the water, apparently berating him for being so long away from home. 
Elladan joined in, and the human was soon shouting to Legolas for aid, 
while the young prince laughed and replied that he knew better than to 
interfere with brotherly brawls. That prompted both twins to release 
Aragorn and launch themselves at Legolas, who fled for his life and 
nearly made it to the bank before Elladan caught him and hauled him 
into the water.

“That is enough, boys, you are frightening the horses!” Glorfindel 
called with a laugh.

Arm-in-arm, laughing, and thoroughly soaked, the four retrieved 
Aragorn and Legolas’s mounts and returned to dry ground. Elrond 
happily embraced his foster-son. “Welcome home, my son,” the Lord of 
Imladris said. “We have missed you.”

As they walked back toward Rivendell, Glorfindel surreptitiously 
regarded Legolas, walking with Aragorn and the twins. No sooner had 
Glorfindel and Faron returned to Imladris from Mirkwood than word had 
come that Legolas had left after a violent quarrel with King 
Thranduil. Faron had been stricken, and wished to ride at once in 
search of his friend, but Glorfindel had not permitted it. “If Legolas 
wishes your counsel, Faron, he will come here,” the Imladris captain 
had said. “But if he does not, there is no point in searching, for 
Legolas knows all too well how to avoid what he does not wish to 
face.”

Months had passed, with no word or sign of Legolas in any of the elven 
realms. Glorfindel and Elrond had become concerned, fearing that the 
young prince, reckless with anger, might have gotten into trouble. But 
where to look for him? And what to do if they found him? If there was 
one art Legolas had perfected, it was evasion. It would be difficult 
to convince him to talk of anything he did not wish to. Still, the 
fact that he was here…it seemed a good sign. *He knows I am here, and 
that I will have words for him,* thought Glorfindel. *If he truly did 
not wish advice, he would have stayed away from Rivendell. Perhaps 
this is a turning point.*

***

After returning to the House of Elrond and putting on some dry 
clothes, Elrohir met Legolas coming outside, also having dried off. 
“How have you been, Elrohir? It has been too long,” said the prince.

“Indeed it has,” agreed Elrohir, slapping the younger elf 
affectionately on the back. “We are all well in Imladris. My sister is 
in Lothlorien now, and our scouts have had less trouble with orcs in 
recent months.”

“Really?” Legolas’s eyes widened appreciatively. “What caused that 
good fortune?”

Elrohir shrugged, “The Battle of the Five Armies killed many of the 
Misty Mountain orcs. Those who remained foolishly committed themselves 
to attacking Lorien, and you know how many of those survived. If 
nowhere else, the Misty Mountains seem to have fewer foul creatures 
plaguing them.”

“That is a comfort, one I would gladly see in other places as well,” 
said the prince. “Where is Faron?” he looked about as though expecting 
his friend to appear. “Did he not hear I had come?”

The younger son of Elrond shook his head regretfully, “Faron is abroad 
on a hunt. We expect the party back in ten days.”

“Oh,” replied Legolas, looking somewhat disappointed. Still, ten days 
was not so long.

Watching his friend, Elrohir asked, “How are things with you?”

With a little chuckle, Legolas answered, “You needn’t dissemble, my 
friend; you know perfectly well how things have been with me.”

The older elf smiled wryly, “I confess it; we have had many tidings of 
recent events in Mirkwood. But knowing only what happened does not 
tell me how you yourself are.”

Legolas looked out at one of Rivendell’s many waterfalls. In a soft 
voice, he admitted, “I have been better.” Then he looked back at 
Elrohir and smiled, “All the same, I would have been far worse but for 
Aragorn.”

Elrohir grinned, “I am perishing with curiosity on that score. However 
did you two stumble across each other? We expected him back months 
ago. What have you been up to?”

Laughing, Legolas raised his hands defensively, “It was not I who 
waylaid him. Did he not tell you?”

“Something about a labor dispute in Haloel and drunken soldiers. It’s 
true, then? Ha! As if Estel was not good enough at getting into 
trouble on his own. How did you two get mixed up in that?”

“It is a VERY long story!”

***

Mirkwood, that night…

Limloeth leaned against the side of the bridge over the Forest River, 
tossing sticks into the water and watching to see which one came out 
on the other side of the bridge first. Legolas and Tathar had invented 
the game when they were little, calling it--for some never-determined 
reason-- “Poo Sticks.” But every child in Mirkwood had learnt to play 
it, and Limloeth occasionally saw adult elves giving in to the 
temptation.

She was waiting for her father. King Thranduil had gone out with 
several foresters to investigate a blight spreading in the southern 
edges of the realm. To get back to his chamber, he would have to cross 
the bridge. To cross the bridge, he would have to pass her. After the 
disastrous dinnertime attempt at persuading the king to talk about 
Legolas, Limloeth and Berensul had been thoroughly discouraged. They 
had talked on the balcony for a long time. “If you want to just give 
up and go back to Lothlorien, Lim, I do not blame you,” her brother 
had said. 

The thought had certainly been an appealing one. Orthelian had not 
been home a few months before word reached them of Legolas’s 
disappearance. Limloeth had left almost at once to try and wring some 
sense into her father and little brother’s heads. But Thranduil was 
proving to be the only elf in Middle Earth more stubborn than Legolas. 
And his temperament had only worsened over recent years. It was 
unlikely that anything Limloeth said would make him see reason, thus 
little point in staying, yet…

For some strange reason, she had begun to laugh. “Nay, brother, I will 
not leave just because Father is being his usual difficult self. One 
member of this family does enough running away for all of us.”

So now she found herself lying in wait for the king. And if he put her 
off tonight, she would corner him again. And again. And again. Until 
he heard her.

*You and Legolas have enough pride and stubbornness between you to 
stare down Sauron, Father dear,* Limloeth thought. *But now I shall 
practice a little stubbornness of my own, and I shall wear you down 
until this conflict is resolved. There is too much at stake for you 
two to continue quarreling.*

Through the rippling water danced the reflected stars. Limloeth closed 
her eyes. The reflection of the stars reminded her of the Mirror of 
Galadriel just before it had shown her what the future held for Middle 
Earth. And what it held for Legolas. *Until I heard what had passed 
between Legolas and Father, I wondered why the Lady Galadriel showed 
those horrors to me. Curse their foolish pride! They cannot imagine 
what would be lost if Legolas does not play his part in the future!*

She knew not specifically how the rift between king and prince would 
prevent Legolas from aiding in the coming battle against evil, but it 
was enough for her that the Lady Galadriel had said that it would. 
Ever since she had seen the Mirror, a sense of utter dread had filled 
Limloeth whenever she saw or thought of her youngest brother. It was a 
hideous paradox, where Legolas would lose either way. If there was not 
a peace between him and the king, he would not be able to fight in the 
coming war, and all would come to darkness. But if the feud was 
resolved, and Legolas did take on the role Galadriel said he must…

*If my little brother had not an essential part, I should be tempted 
to lock him in a closet until it is over. Ai, Legolas! What horror you 
shall face! Would that there was another way! So long I shall live in 
fear for you!* Trying to distract her troubled mind, she tossed two 
more sticks into the river, gazing absently into the rippling 
starlight without bothering to chase them.

“The elm stick won.”

Limloeth started, and then looked over at King Thranduil, who was 
standing at the foot of the ridge and watching the sticks float by. 
His face was calm, but unreadable. What to say, what to say… “Usually 
the beech wood floats faster.”

“Interesting.” They leaned side-by-side over the stone railing. 
Thranduil picked up a twig from Limloeth’s collection and held it over 
the water, raising his eyebrows at her expectantly. Limloeth took one 
of her own, and simultaneously they dropped the sticks into the 
stream. Looking over the other side of the bridge, Limloeth’s floated 
through first. “Yours wins.”

“Candrochon used to accuse Legolas of cheating,” Limloeth said 
blandly, without taking her eyes of the twigs as they vanished down 
the dark river.

There was a long, silent pause. Limloeth held her breath, waiting for 
Thranduil’s answer. Finally, “How does one cheat at Poo Sticks?”

It was all she could do not to gasp with relief. “I haven’t the 
faintest idea. But Legolas was uncommonly good at it.”

“He and Tathar invented it. I suppose it is not surprising.”

“I should teach it to Silivren.”

“That is a fine idea.” There was another pause. “It used to keep 
Legolas and his friends amused for hours.”

“I remember well. If they were not on the bridge, we knew they were 
getting into trouble.” She smiled at the reflections in the water.

A very quiet and wrenchingly sad chuckle came from the king. Then he 
murmured, “I used to worry about them falling in.”

“I am surprised none of them did.”

“At least none that we know of.”

“We would have heard. Those four imps never could keep secrets.”

“True.” He gave a slow intake of breath. “Legolas least of all.”

Thranduil was silent again. Limloeth still kept her eyes on the stars 
in the water. A moment later, his hand found hers. She turned her face 
and met his eyes. The elven king squeezed his daughter’s hand. “I’ve a 
busy day tomorrow. I must retire.”

Limloeth kissed his cheek. “Good night, Father.”

Then she let him go.

***

King Thranduil could not sleep. At last, he went to his study and 
pulled out a scroll. Feeling a great tension inside, he composed a 
message.

“‘To my son Legolas. I…hope that this letter finds you safe and well. 
It is the third of November. The last war parties have returned, and 
if you had not heard, you will be pleased to know that no warriors 
fell in battle this autumn from any of the elven realms.

“‘Your niece grows more inquisitive and endearing with each passing 
day. She begs to be taught to ride, even though she is not yet tall 
enough to sit a horse. But your brother has promised to teach her as 
soon as she grows enough for it. Limloeth arrived from Lothlorien a 
few weeks ago, and spends much of her time keeping Silivren amused.

“‘I…‘I hope that you are well’--nay, I said that already. ‘You have 
been long away from Mirkwood’…too accusatory.” Thranduil sighed, 
resting his forehead in his hands. After a moment, he took up his pen 
again. He knew what he wished to say, why beat about it so much? “‘I 
wish’…nay, ‘I ask…that you come home. Wherever you are when this 
letter reaches you, I pray that your travels are safe. Until we meet 
again. 

Your Father.’”

With a still-deeper sigh, he rewrote the letter on several other 
scrolls. Then he wrote a message to each of the lords of the other 
elven realms, requesting that they deliver the letter to his son if he 
should pass through. Fixing his seal upon them, he set them with his 
other messages, to be sent from Mirkwood at first light. Then he 
returned to his chamber.

That night, for the first time in months, no foul dreams disturbed his 
sleep.

***

Imladris, the next day…

Legolas leaned against a rail, watching Aragorn and Elladan sparring 
with swords in a courtyard just below him. It was easy to tell that 
Aragorn had been raised with and trained by the sons of Elrond. They 
anticipated each other’s moves, reacting to strokes that had not yet 
been delivered. On the other hand, Aragorn had learnt a few new 
tricks, and Elladan was finding out the hard way. As they attacked and 
parried, swung and dodged, Aragorn suddenly ducked under Elladan’s 
sword, came up behind him, and delivered a disarming blow to his 
foster-brother’s sword arm. Before the elf could react, the man’s 
sword blade was resting lightly against his neck.

“Never thought I’d see the day when I could best you that well,” the 
Ranger said gleefully.

His lips pursed in mock-anger, Elladan said, “You seem to have picked 
up a few wood elf tricks--all right, Legolas, where are you?!”

Bursting into laughter, Legolas waved jauntily at the elven warrior 
from where he stood, then ducked to escape a thrown rock. “Poor 
Elladan seems to be losing his touch if he can be beaten so well by a 
mere mortal--ow!” (That time, Elladan had not missed.)

Aragorn was now doing a mocking imitation behind his foster-brother’s 
back as Elladan was busy shaking his fist at Legolas. Then the older 
elf caught on, whirled around, and tackled Aragorn to the ground, 
while Legolas shouted taunts at them. Both sprang to their feet and 
charged the wood elf, who took off over the nearest bridge. 

After successfully evading his pursuers (both Elladan and Aragorn 
against him were NOT fair odds!) Legolas wandered aimlessly through 
Rivendell. The village itself seemed to give him more peace of mind 
than he had found in a long while. The autumn breeze coming from the 
mountains carried a brisk but pleasant chill, though the sun was noon 
high. Still, *I wish Faron had been here.* Plucking a fat apple from a 
laden tree, he got it halfway to his mouth before he remembered. *I 
wish Tathar were here.* But he ate the apple.

“One can avoid people, but not memories.”

Startled, Legolas turned to see Lord Elrond standing under an archway 
entering the House. The prince bowed, and Elrond smiled. For some 
reason, knowing that Aragorn was Elrond’s foster-son made the elven 
lord less intimidating. Legolas stood where he was as Elrond came to 
join him on the stone terrace overlooking the canyon. “Even after 
thirty-five years, the hardest memories have faded little, have they, 
Legolas?”

Finding it hard to meet the elven lord’s eyes, Legolas murmured, “No, 
my lord. They’ve not faded at all.”

Lord Elrond nodded sadly, “They cannot be avoided, though that does 
not stop us from trying. Nor can we avoid our troubles forever.”

The words might have seemed vague to an outside observer, but to 
Legolas, they struck with deadly accuracy, and raked up a mass of 
painful thoughts he had tried for months to repress. Of course, Lord 
Elrond knew what had happened in Mirkwood; it went without saying. Now 
the Lord of Imladris stood watching the younger elf with eyes that 
seemed to pierce all Legolas’s pretenses. It went against the prince’s 
nature to confide in strangers, which Elrond essentially was. It had 
been hard enough to let his guard down with Aragorn (indeed, it had 
astonished Legolas even as he had done it!)

But whatever Aragorn had done to disarm Legolas, he had probably 
learnt from his foster-father, for Legolas now found himself baring 
his thoughts yet again. “I worry that returning to Mirkwood might only 
make matters worse. My father is unlikely to forgive the manner of our 
parting easily.”

“Would you?” the elven lord asked.

Legolas looked away. “My own words to him were unkind and out of 
place. I do not know if I can return after leaving in such a manner. 
If I should return…”

“Then it is yourself you doubt, not his willingness to see you.”

“No,” Legolas said hastily. “I hesitate to return because I…” he 
trailed off, confused. Why was he so unwilling to go back? The quarrel 
with Thranduil was unlikely to be solved out here, the only way to get 
anywhere at all was to go home and face the king. So why…Lord Elrond’s 
hand rested lightly upon his shoulder. In a near-whisper, Legolas 
confessed, “I am afraid.” Then he winced inwardly and bowed his head 
in shame, unable to believe he had just admitted such a thing to the 
Lord of Imladris. He could never admit such a thing to his father.

Elrond’s quiet laughter startled him into looking up again. Smiling at 
the prince, the older elf asked, “Do you truly think fear is a 
shameful thing, young warrior? It is an emotion like any other, and 
cannot be denied, or we shall never be able to overcome it. Trust me, 
Legolas, I fear many things.”

That comment made Legolas smile in spite of himself. Then he went on, 
“My father told me when I left that he would not have me back. He has 
never been inclined to changing his mind easily.”

“Very true,” Lord Elrond replied with a hint of humor. Being one who 
had dealt with Thranduil as one elven lord to another, Legolas could 
imagine that Elrond had seen his father at his most intractable. But 
his next words surprised the prince. “You said things that night that 
you did not mean. Are you so certain King Thranduil meant all that he 
said in the heat of anger?”

“I…” Legolas faltered, thinking. *He did not mean what he said about 
Tathar. I did not mean what I said about Langcyll. Perhaps he did 
not…*

Lord Elrond was watching his face. “Glorfindel once told me he 
wondered why you avoided speaking of your troubles.”

Legolas smiled wryly, “It is because I do not know what to do.”

“Really?” Legolas looked up at the elven lord’s penetrating gaze. 
“Then why would you fear the advice of others?” He smiled. “Nay, 
Legolas, you are not so incapable of finding answers. If you had none, 
you would seek out the counsel of your friends.”

“I do not understand.”

Elrond held the younger elf’s eyes, and Legolas could not look away. 
“You know what you must do, Legolas. You have known it all along. You 
avoid speaking of it because others would only confirm what you 
already know, thus preventing you from denying it. Truth is the most 
inevitable thing of all.”

Legolas briefly closed his eyes, acknowledging that Lord Elrond was 
right. “I know I must return to Mirkwood. I will find no end to this 
anywhere else, nor any other way. I must face my father.” But inside, 
a part of his mind cried, *But what if he will not have me? What 
then?*

The doubts must have showed in his face. “You cannot win a war without 
fighting the first battle. You cannot solve a problem without first 
facing it, warrior of Mirkwood. Return home first. Then resolve you 
troubles with your father.”

With a little laugh, Legolas shook his head. “You make it sound so 
easy, my lord.”

The Lord of Imladris smiled knowingly. As if he were letting the 
younger elf in on a secret, he said, “Forget not that I am a father, 
Legolas. I think perhaps it will end better than you expect.”

“You are a wise counsel, Lord Elrond. Thank you,” said Legolas 
earnestly.

Elrond shook his head. “You must have more faith in yourself. I told 
you nothing you did not already know.” Then he smiled and walked back 
to the House, leaving Legolas alone with his thoughts.

***

Glorfindel had intended to talk to Legolas earlier, but Lord Elrond 
had seen him following the young warrior outside and had told 
Glorfindel to leave off for now. Glorfindel had been surprised, but 
let Legolas escape. Later, he had seen Elrond walking in the direction 
Legolas had gone. That had been a relief, though Glorfindel had 
wondered for a time why the Lord of Imladris would want to speak to 
the prince. Then he supposed that Elrond correctly considered the 
matter serious enough to warrant his own attention.

Several hours later, the captain of Imladris happened upon the prince 
of Mirkwood on a path beyond the House. Legolas was leaning against 
the trunk of an apple tree, apparently deep in thought, gazing at the 
mist from the waterfalls that drifted into the air and created 
rainbows in the late afternoon sun. Glorfindel was startled, because 
Legolas usually could not even bring himself to look at apple trees.

“Hello, Glorfindel.” Legolas did not take his eyes off the misty 
canyon.

Glorfindel smiled. “Hello, Legolas. It is good to see you.”

The younger elf turned and smiled, amusement twinkling in his gray 
eyes. He looked surprisingly light of heart for one who faced a 
precarious future abroad or at home. Not to mention his 
uncharacteristically bold words to Glorfindel. “What took you so 
long?”

“Pardon?”

In a sly tone, the prince said, “I would have expected you to chase me 
down and lecture me long before now.”

“And I would have expected you to avoid me far longer than this.” *Two 
can play at this game, young one!*

Odder still, Legolas did not persist in a contest of wits (odd because 
he was quite good at that!) Instead, his face turned honest and 
serious, acknowledging the reasons Glorfindel wanted to talk to him. 
“If I sought to avoid you, I would not have come to Rivendell.”

“Now you are truly confusing me, Legolas.”

“This is a first; the ever-wise Lord Glorfindel, confused? The world 
is coming to an end!”

“It has been coming to an end for some time, and you’re a brash one 
this afternoon. What did Lord Elrond say to raise your spirits so?”

Legolas gave a little chuckle. After a moment, in a thoughtful voice, 
he replied, “Naught that I did not already know.”

*Something about your bearing has changed. You seem older. I wonder.* 
“There is a feast being laid out in Lord Elrond’s House to honor 
Estel’s return. Will you accompany me back?”

Blinking himself out of whatever reverie was occupying his mind, 
Legolas nodded amiably, “Of course.” Glorfindel clapped a friendly 
hand on his fellow warrior’s shoulder as they walked back. They talked 
of the prince’s travels with Aragorn, and the weapons instruction each 
had received from the other. They talked of Faron in Imladris and 
Galithil in Mirkwood--and all the trouble that each had gotten into 
since they last met. However, they did not talk of Legolas and his 
father. As Glorfindel looked at Legolas, he noticed a clarity in the 
young elf’s eyes, as though he had at last answered a hard question. 
And the warrior captain of Imladris suspected that Legolas no longer 
needed anyone’s help solving his problems.

***

Mirkwood, that same time…

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood was incredibly frustrated. “You say he 
was in a better mood, but you did not talk to him about sending for 
Legolas?!” he asked his sister in dismay. “Then what by the Valar did 
you talk about?”

“Many things,” Limloeth said in a patient voice that never failed to 
irritate him. “Peace, Beren, I think it helped a great deal.”

“How can we help anything without making him address the problem, Lim? 
We must force him to bring Legolas back--”

Limloeth grabbed his arm, “Listen to yourself! Do not be foolish! No 
one ever ‘forced’ Father to do anything in his life! You will 
accomplish nothing by getting into a battle of wills! You are strong, 
Brother, but he is still stronger when it comes to Legolas.”

“But you said yourself, there must be a peace between them--”

“Yes.” Firmly, Limloeth pressed her brother into a chair on the flet 
where they had gone to talk. She could be so inscrutable at times! 
Berensul glared at her, but she spoke again. “Father will not be won 
over by fighting. You must trust me in this. I saw his mind last 
night; he is more reasonable than he has been in years. If you 
challenge him again, you will only harden his heart again against us 
all, including Legolas.”

“I did not challenge him!”

“That is how he sees it, Berensul, so it matters not. You know him. 
Have faith again. I think Legolas will be home.”

His anxiety still great, Berensul gazed up at the stars through the 
treetops. “I wish I could still believe in him as you do, Lim. But it 
is a gamble, and I fear gambling on our brother’s future.”

His sister narrowed her brown eyes at him. “Think what you wish. But I 
say to you, Beren, if you try to confront him, you will only make 
matters worse.”

The eldest son of Thranduil was known for having a will and temper to 
match the king’s, and it was true; few could contend with Berensul and 
win. Except his nearest sibling. Now Limloeth held his scowl with an 
equally-unyielding stare of her own, and at last he dropped his eyes. 
“Very well, Sister. I’ll not bring up the subject with Father.”

“That is wise, Brother.”

When he returned to the palace, Berensul found he could not so easily 
place all his faith in Limloeth’s words, no matter how much he trusted 
her. Too much was at stake. But nor could he violate his promise by 
confronting the king. The Crown Prince was very much like his father 
in that he did NOT like the insidious twist of fear within him. One 
brother and two sisters were already dead. Another brother had passed 
over the sea, never to be seen again. He could not simply leave the 
future of his last remaining brother up to fate and the machinations 
of others. He had to do something. Perhaps there was another 
way…grabbing a scroll, he hastily wrote a message to one person 
trusted enough by all, who might be able to help. 

“My sister has advised me to cease broaching the subject of Legolas. 
She believes that when the time comes, the king will accept Legolas 
again without our persuasion. But I fear I cannot be so sure that 
wisdom will prevail. You know of the events that led to my brother’s 
departure from Mirkwood six months ago. I worry that my father’s heart 
is frozen beyond all hope, and that even if Legolas should return 
himself, the king would not have him back. You are a wise and trusted 
counsel to us all, and your help in this matter would greatly ease my 
mind. Please come to Mirkwood as soon as you are able.”

Despite the late hour, the Crown Prince sent for a messanger. “I have 
a potentially lengthy trip for you, Thorod. You are to leave at once; 
it is a matter of great urgency. Search all Middle Earth if you must, 
but get this letter to Mithrandir.”

*** 

The feast that same evening in the Last Homely House was especially 
merry. The sons of Elrond delighted in the chance to talk and laugh 
with their human foster-brother, and their fellow warrior and friend, 
Legolas. Especially since the two had enough stories between them to 
keep everyone entertained. “Do not gloat over that sparring victory 
too much, son of Thranduil, or I shall be forced to remind you of how 
you managed to get yourself captured!”

“Captured by a mob of drunken Haloel guards?” exclaimed Elrohir. “I 
must hear this!”

“It was not my fault; Aragorn distracted me!”

“I what?!”

“I was too busy keeping that spy’s sword from your throat to fight off 
a mob determined to push me over the wall!”

“Untrue, you were just sloppy!”

“Ha!”

Watching the verbal swordplay with great amusement, Glorfindel 
remarked, “I suspect you both have an inborn ability to attract 
trouble straight to your doors.”

“I agree with Glorfindel,” said Elladan. “You are both such hooligans 
I could not pronounce either one more likely to get into peril.” The 
rest of the table laughed in acquiescence, and Aragorn and Legolas 
mock-glared at each other. It interested Elladan no end to see how the 
Silvan prince and the heir of Isildur seemed to have bonded. It was 
true that in many ways they were alike, but still…Legolas, son of 
Thranduil, was definitely not one to give his trust or friendship 
easily, and certainly not to a mortal. Aragorn was a naturally 
cautious man, and with his lineage, it was doubtful he would be very 
forthcoming with a strange elf. It was strange circumstances indeed 
that would bring such an unlikely pair together. 

And judging by what they were saying, the revolt in Haloel had been 
rather strange circumstances. “So,” Aragorn was laughing. “First he 
handed out wine skins right before the charge--”

“What?!” Elrohir exclaimed, bursting into laughter. “Oh be off, you’re 
spinning tales!”

Raising a hand, Legolas laughed, “He speaks the truth, friend, I was 
there. But you’ve not heard the best part.”

Aragorn nodded, grinning helplessly, “Once his men were all wined 
up--and some of them were so drunk that they could barely put on their 
mail--he stood out there in front of them while his attendants put 
armor all over him!”

Elladan forgot his musings in his astonished delight. “What? You mean 
he…”

The two nodded gleefully. “I wish you’d seen it; he looked like some 
kind of misshapen child’s toy.”

“I still say he looked like a beet. His riding robes were bright red,” 
Legolas explained. That prompted a renewed explosion of laughter. 
“Then he toasted their victory.” Elrohir nearly fell across the table, 
helpless with laughter. “That was our reaction as well.”

“I would not have been able to fight for laughing! How did you 
manage--ah, why are you scowling, Aragorn?”

“I did tell you about the horses, did I not, Elrohir?”

“Ai. So that was when you marked that guard captain out for death, eh, 
Legolas?”

Pausing before taking a bite of bread, Legolas said in a level voice, 
“No one touches my horse.” The others grinned and nudged each other. 

Elrohir leaned forward and remarked, “Speaking of horses…”

“Ahhh, Elrohir, it has been thirty years! Are you still agitating for 
a race?” exclaimed Glorfindel, laughing.

“I still say Ethuil could outrun Lanthir.”

“Isn’t Ethuil getting rather old?” Legolas asked.

“She’s only a year older than Lanthir. Was not he a gift from Lady 
Galadriel and Lord Celeborn? Ethuil was.”

“Yea, he was. For the coming of age.”

“Now I remember,” Elrohir grinned in challenge. “What about it, 
Legolas. Shall we test our mounts at last?”

Legolas smiled and said, “I would not hesitate, but I fear there will 
not be time. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Aragorn stopped with a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Where are you going?” asked Glorfindel.

Holding the Imladris captain’s eyes, Legolas said calmly, “Mirkwood.” 

The table quieted considerably, and the prince returned the startled 
expressions of all with a level gaze of his own. Elladan was 
impressed. *Legolas has always despised being the center of attention. 
He usually drops his eyes. Now he does not.* Judging by the respect in 
the eyes of Glorfindel, Elrond, and Elrohir, Elladan knew he was not 
the only one who noticed. 

***

Early the next morning…

The mist from their well-named mountains filled all Imladris with a 
crisp, silvery cloud that gradually turned shades of red and gold as 
the light of the rising sun crept into the canyon. Other than the 
elves on watch, few creatures stirred in the early November chill. 
Indeed, Lanthir was quite put out when Legolas called him from the 
warmth of the stables. “Forgive me, my friend, but I wish to make an 
early start of it,” said the prince as the horse focused reproachful 
black eyes upon him.

Legolas turned at the sound of hoof beats approaching from the 
stables. It was Elrohir, riding Ethuil. “What about that race, 
Legolas?”

“Oh, have done, Elrohir, I must be going!” Legolas laughed.

“Just back to the House then so you may say goodbye. Then we’ll have 
you on your way even faster,” Elrohir urged, a wicked smile on his 
face.

With a disgusted shake of his head, Legolas mounted. “It seems he’ll 
not be placated, my friend. May I persuade you?” The horse whinnied 
and tossed his head at Elrohir’s mare. “Very well. First one under the 
last arch wins.”

“Done! Ready?” Elrohir leaned forward challengingly. “Ride!”

Lanthir and Ethuil needed no urging to break into a run, down the path 
back toward Lord Elrond’s House. The horses were close, neither with 
an obvious edge as they sprinted, but all at once, the riders heard 
another horse approaching. Pulling up beside them, they saw that it 
was Aragorn, on Pariedor. “Is this a private contest, or may anyone 
join?” He laughed as the two elves urged their horses faster, and 
leaned forward, whispering to Pariedor.

Lanthir and Ethuil were neck-and-neck as they raced down the path 
under the first arch, with Pariedor just behind them. From the House, 
the riders could hear shouts of playful encouragement as the other 
elves spotted the race in progress. Under the second arch, Lanthir 
began sprinting with all his might, and pulled slightly ahead of 
Ethuil, to the excited shouts of the witnesses. Then, as the veranda 
of the Last Homely House came into view, a dark figure came into view 
on the other side of Legolas, and before he or Lanthir could react, 
Aragorn and Pariedor surged up, first level with them, then ahead of 
them. Lanthir charged with all his might, but Pariedor passed under 
the last arch ahead of them, to the triumphant cries of the watchers.

The three riders pulled up to the laughter of the others. Aragorn 
grinned wickedly back at the two elves, who mock-glared at him. “Now 
that score is settled.”

“Fah!”

Lord Elrond was watching the three with what might appear to be mild 
tolerance for the antics, but Legolas had seen enough of the elven 
lord to know that he was highly amused. (Probably still more to see 
that the bragging contest that Legolas and his second son had been 
carrying on for more than thirty years had finally been brought to an 
end with both of them losing to Aragorn.) *Curse that Ranger anyway!* 
he thought, but without malice. Instead, he settled for nodding 
appreciatively as Elrohir fetched Aragorn a thorough clout on the back 
of the head. Turning to face Elrond, the prince bowed, “I thank you 
for your hospitality, my lord.” 

Lord Elrond nodded, smiling faintly. “I hope we shall see you in 
Rivendell again, Legolas.”

“I daresay you shall, my lord.”

The Lord of Imladris clasped the prince of Mirkwood’s arm firmly. 
“Until then. Safe journey.”

“Thank you.”

Then Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn came up to say their farewells. 
“Take care of yourself, Legolas,” said Elladan. Legolas grinned as he 
embraced his friends. It was rather amusing to see the three of them 
together; they acted so alike that Legolas was amazed he had not 
guessed who Aragorn was at their first meeting. “Farewell, my friend.”

“Until we meet again,” Legolas said, clasping arms with each of them. 
“Give my apologies to Faron.”

“Certainly,” said Elrohir. “Glorfindel asked us to give you his 
greetings as well; he left on a patrol before dawn.”

Legolas was sorry not to see Glorfindel again before leaving, but he 
needed to be on his way. He hoped to be home within a week. Whatever 
that homecoming held in store for him, it was high time for him to 
face it. *I will not be frightened away anymore.* To his fellow 
warriors, and the Lord of Imladris, he said, “Farewell, my friends.” 
Then he mounted Lanthir and rode toward the eastern border of 
Imladris.

Just as he reached the border, Legolas spotted an Imladris patrol 
coming in. At the head of the group was Glorfindel. Legolas waved at 
them, and as the group pulled up to him, Glorfindel waved the rest on. 
“Are you off, then, Legolas?”

“I am,” the younger warrior answered. “But I am glad of this chance 
meeting, for I know not how long it will be until I return. I may 
remain in Mirkwood for some time.” 

Glorfindel fixed Legolas with a gaze that seemed to measure him, and 
though Legolas was puzzled, he did not avoid the elven lord’s eyes. A 
slow smile crossed Glorfindel’s face. “One last word of advice, young 
prince.” At Legolas’s raised eyebrows, he said, “I’ve noticed recently 
that you appear much older when you hold your head up.” He reached out 
and clasped the prince’s arm. “I think others of our kindred shall be 
equally impressed.” Giving the younger elf’s arm a last squeeze, he 
let go, “Farewell, Legolas.”

Legolas smiled. “Goodbye, Glorfindel. And thank you.” Then Glorfindel 
turned and urged his horse on. Legolas watched him, smiling to 
himself. Then he patted his horse’s neck. “Come, Lanthir. Let’s go 
home.”

***

The next day…

Under normal circumstances, Thorod, the messanger from Mirkwood, would 
have had to ride all around Middle Earth to actually find Gandalf the 
Grey, for one could never predict where the wizard might be at any 
given time. Many places and many people were visited by Gandalf. But 
by some happy chance, the elf encountered the wizard only a two days’ 
ride from Mirkwood, though Mithrandir was on foot. “Good day, young 
Thorod of Mirkwood,” said the Maia cheerfully.

“Good day, Mithrandir,” said Thorod, dismounting. “I bear an urgent 
message from Berensul, Crown Prince of Mirkwood.”

“Hmm,” his bushy eyebrows furrowed curiously, Mithrandir accepted the 
proffered scroll. A slow frown darkened his features as he read the 
message. After a moment, he looked up at Thorod, “Say to the Crown 
Prince that I shall start at once, and expect to be in Mirkwood by the 
end of the week.”

“My thanks, Mithrandir. Good morning,” the messenger rode away. 

Gandalf started walking again, this time towards Mirkwood. “The king’s 
heart has frozen, has it? I feared such an event after Legolas went 
away. I hope I am not too late to help salvage matters.”

***

Three days later…

Lord Elrond felt a pit of dread form inside him as the messenger rode 
up to the House, bearing the flag of King Thranduil. “A message from 
the king of Mirkwood, my lord!”

“Thank you.” Elrond counted back in his head. It had only been four 
days since Legolas had gone. In the winter, it was highly unlikely 
that he had made it all the way to the elven king’s halls yet, even on 
a steed as fast as Lanthir. He had probably not even crossed the 
mountains yet. So what could this message entail? He returned to his 
study and opened it there. 

[ My greetings, Lord Elrond.

I write to ask that you and your people keep watch for my son, Prince 
Legolas, who is currently abroad in Middle Earth. If he should happen 
to pass through your realm, I beg that you give to him the message I 
have enclosed. Please make certain that it is placed in no hands save 
his.

My thanks and regards,

Thranduil of Mirkwood.]

Elrond leaned back in his chair, staring out the window, where two elf 
children were picking the last apples from a tree outside. Legolas was 
four days out of Rivendell, on his way home. Surely it was more 
important that he actually see his father face to face, and 
yet…something told the elven lord that this message would go a long 
way toward easing the prince’s doubts about the upcoming meeting. 
*Whatever Thranduil’s other failings, he is a father. I think I can 
guess what his letter says. It would do Legolas good to see it.*

He made up his mind. Rising swiftly from his chair, the Lord of 
Imladris hurried to Glorfindel. “An urgent message has arrived for 
Legolas. Order an escort of guards; I shall ride after him and deliver 
it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was not surprising that Glorfindel sounded a little puzzled; this 
was a rather rash action on Elrond’s part. But, between his Ring and 
his elvish intuition, the half-elven lord had learnt to trust his 
inner voice. And for whatever reason, it was telling him very 
emphatically that he must follow Legolas, all the way to Mirkwood if 
necessary. A premonition this strong was next to impossible for Lord 
Elrond to ignore.

***

That same day, in the Misty Mountains…

The orc captain glowered down from his hidden cave entrance in the 
mountainside, watching the lone elf on horseback riding swiftly down 
the trail. “An elf alone. Don’t see that every day.”

Several of the others shook their heads, grinning in malicious 
agreement. “Fair game, I say. Let’s take him!”

The captain narrowed his eyes at the rider, then looked ahead of him, 
trying to figure his destination. “Must be heading for the plains.”

“Yes, look, he’s wearing Mirkwood colors. On his way home.”

“Won’t ever get there!” Laughing, the orcs nudged each other.

“What say you, boss? Can we have him?”

The captain pointed ahead of the golden-haired elf, “He’s heading for 
that pass. If we beat him there, we can take him down without having 
to dodge arrows every step. C’mon!”

The orc company hastened to a place on the trail that passed between 
two high cliffs. There they set up an ambush guaranteed to bring the 
elf down without risking serious hurt to their numbers. It was still 
light, but they could keep to the caves; this type of ambush did not 
need them in the open. Waiting from the caves that pockmarked the 
mountains, the orcs grinned at each other as their quarry approached, 
riding as though in haste and unaware of his peril.

***

Legolas could feel Lanthir tiring beneath him, but the horse could 
sense his rider’s urgency. Whatever awaited him at home, Legolas was 
so tense that he simply wanted the trip over with, so it could be 
faced and dealt with. Lord Elrond had been confident the meeting would 
not go ill, but Legolas could not be so sure. Many “what ifs” played 
about in his mind, distracting him from the trail as he approached one 
of the last passes. “Just get us to the plains, Lanthir, and then 
we’ll rest for the night,” he told the horse.

Lanthir whinnied in response and picked up the pace. Up ahead of them, 
the trail narrowed, and the ground grew rocky. Cursing to himself in 
irritation at the delay, Legolas dismounted, leading Lanthir over the 
rough, pebbly part of the path. It wouldn’t do to injure the horse in 
his haste. His mind still whirled with anxiety, and he knew he should 
pay attention, but his heart and eyes strained for sight of the trees 
beyond the plains.

Suddenly, a familiar, deadly sound jerked Legolas out of his thoughts. 
An orc shriek. From the cliffs above, but it was not yet dark, so why 
a challenge? Legolas snatched out his bow and an arrow, and kept 
walking, feeling a sudden desire to get out of this pass. There were 
caves all through the steep upgrade, but surely orcs would not come 
out in the sun for one elf. “Hurry, Lanthir,” he whispered, breaking 
into a jog ahead of the horse.

All at once, there came a grinding sound that was not made by any 
animal’s throat. It started low, distant over the tops of the 
mountains, then grew. Legolas had not heard such a sound before. 
Looking up, he saw dust on the hillside, and a sight that nearly made 
him collapse with terror. 

Rocks, boulders, stone, and dirt were rolling down the steep hills, 
gathering more debris and momentum with every second. The orcs had 
triggered a rockslide. Panic nearly rooted Legolas to the ground, then 
Lanthir screamed. *Ai Elbereth! No! Help me!* Leaping instinctively to 
Lanthir’s back, Legolas cried, “Fly!” The horse did not have to be 
told twice.

The end of the pass seemed so far away, and the avalanche came raining 
down, faster and faster in its cloud of terrible dust. The elf’s heart 
was in his throat, as memory of stories and the past of his own family 
whirled inside him. Never before had he known such terror. If he did 
not make it out of here, he would be crushed, or buried alive and 
taken by the orcs. Thoughts and questions whirled still faster within 
him, and he knew even as he chanted desperately at Lanthir to speed 
up, there was no way he would make it. 

“Father…”

The last thing he saw was a massive cloud of dust blocking all view, 
the last thing he heard was the roar of the stone and the scream of 
his horse, and the last thing he felt was a colossal force slamming 
him into oblivion.

*****

Chapter Twenty-Four: An Elf Alone







The orcs howled triumphantly as the avalanche did its work, sweeping 
over the desperately fleeing elf and burying him beneath its weight. 
One of the creatures casually remarked, “That thing was bigger than we 
meant it to be.”

The captain nodded, “Might’ve killed the elf, I guess.” Then he 
shrugged, laughing, “No skin off our noses anyway if it did!”

The others laughed, and made their way down as the thunder of the 
falling rocks finally ceased. The clouds of dust blocked the sun, 
allowing them to work their way down the steep slope. “Hurry it up 
before the dust clears!” shouted the captain.

“Look!” one of them shouted, pointing a clawed finger.

The captain spied a wounded horse struggling from the edge of the 
rubble and staggering away from the orcs. Blood matted its gray mane 
and it limped badly. “Never mind the horse. If it survived, maybe the 
elf did too.”

Under the weight of the crushing boulders and flying shards of rock, 
it would seem at first glance that nothing could have escaped death. 
But elves were hardier than their appearance suggested; even orcs knew 
that. If this one’s horse had survived, chances were good that he yet 
lived. “Hey! Boss! Found ‘im!”

The captain came to where the others were pointing, and sure enough, 
the orcs had discovered a tangle of golden hair amid the rubble. 
Clearing away more blood-spattered rocks, they uncovered the crumpled 
form of the trapped elf. Blood dripped from an ugly wound near his 
hairline, down his face, and from the corner of his mouth. Much of his 
fair skin was already black and blue beneath his tattered clothing. 
His eyes were tightly closed. But as the orcs hauled the limp body 
from the rubble, a moan of pain told them he was still among the 
living.

The captain looked at the rest of his goblins and grinned, baring his 
teeth in anticipation. “Now we’ll REALLY have some fun!”

***

Imladris, at the same time…

“Should I go with you, Father?” Aragorn asked Lord Elrond anxiously as 
the Lord of Imladris mounted his horse.

“Nay, Estel, you have only just returned. Take your ease. I merely 
want to get this message to Legolas before he reaches Mirkwood. We’ll 
be gone two weeks at the most.” Elrond turned and gripped the hands of 
each of his sons in parting. “Farewell.”

“Safe journey, Father,” Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn said. Smiling at 
the trio, Elrond whispered to his horse and started the company off 
down the trail.

Elladan glanced over and saw Aragorn’s eyes still watching the elven 
lord as he and his escort rode out of sight. “What troubles you, 
Estel?”

Aragorn was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” 
he murmured. “But something makes me very uneasy. I will be glad when 
he has met Legolas and both are safely at home.”

***

That night, in Mirkwood…

King Thranduil struggled over the piled rocks and debris left by the 
landslide, weeping desperately. The clouds of dust and dirt made it 
impossible to see his hand in front of his face. From around him, he 
could hear the sounds of battle, but try as he might, Thranduil could 
not find the elves he knew to be in trouble. 

He had never been to this place in his real life, but tonight, his 
dreams had taken him there. The mountains, where the orc-released 
rockslide and ensuing ambush had claimed his three children. *They are 
here somewhere. I must find them! I am their king! I am their father! 
I must aid them!*

A she-elf’s cry rang out, very close. “Where are you?!” Thranduil 
cried desperately, all control long gone in his panic to find his 
missing children.

The clouds of brown dirt seemed to part suddenly before him, and with 
a strangled gasp of horror, the elven king saw three forms lying upon 
the ground as though in state. One was a tall elven warrior, strong 
and seasoned. How could it be that so skilled a fighter would fall 
this way? Yet it was so; he was dead. The other two were young 
maidens, identical twins, so much alike that only their closest 
kindred could distinguish them. So young, only just come of age. 
Inseparable, it was impossible to see or even imagine one without the 
other. Now both slain.

Thranduil knelt beside Tavron, Meren, and Lalaith, trembling and 
helpless. He could not touch them. “Forgive me,” he whispered. 
“Forgive me. I could not save you. I failed you.” He wept with grief 
and shame. *I could not protect you…*

All at once, the sounds of battle rang out anew. And there were new 
cries, a new voice calling for Thranduil. In real life, this voice 
could not have been heard here, for the owner of that voice had not 
yet been born when Tavron, Meren, and Lalaith died. Yet it was here, 
and the dreamer knew it at once. For asleep and awake, this voice 
haunted him. “Father!” came a frantic cry from somewhere in the dust. 
“Help me! Please help me!”

Thranduil spun around, but the dust was still too thick to see. Three 
of his children were dead, yet one still lived. He could not let this 
one die too, alone. He rushed into the murk; it blinded him, but still 
he searched. He could not fail again. “Legolas? Legolas! Answer me! 
Where are you?”

The voice calling from nearby seemed both old and young; it was the 
Legolas who had come of age and gone away, yet it was also Legolas as 
a young child, which Thranduil remembered like yesterday. It did not 
matter either way. It was his son. “Father!” 

“Legolas!” The cries were gone. Thranduil could hear nothing, see 
nothing. “Legolas!”

***

In the mountains, at the same time…

Pain. Throbbing, aching, stinging pain was the first thing that 
registered as Legolas came around. His skull felt half-crushed on one 
side, and his left ankle felt twice its normal size. He could taste 
liquid metal in his mouth. The elf moaned, disoriented, and tried to 
move to a more comfortable position. Immediately, an unforgiving fist, 
encased in a mail glove, connected with his jaw, sending an explosion 
of light into his closed eyes. “So, the little elf’s awake at last!”

In spite of his pain, Legolas lay perfectly still, though his heart 
pounded wildly in his chest. The cackles in the darkness grew along 
with the dread he felt. A boot nudged him experimentally, then came a 
metal slap. “Wake up, elf!”

Slowly, forcing an expression of calm, the warrior opened his eyes, 
still gritty with dust. Orcs. All around him, jeering and watching him 
with those hideous yellow eyes. 

This was not good. 

That established, he turned to his other surroundings. It was after 
dark, and the orcs had made camp near the rubble of the avalanche. 
Legolas could feel the rough stones beneath his body. His hands and 
feet were bound tightly with ropes. 

The orc with the chain mail gloves seemed to be the leader of the 
band. Certainly he was taking the lead in harassing the captive. 
Legolas swallowed a surge of humiliation at the recognition that he 
was a prisoner. *Worry about pride later,* he told himself. *Now 
figure out how you are going to get out of here.* Taking slow, calming 
breaths, he looked more closely at the orc camp. There were maybe a 
few dozen, not a terribly large band, if only he had his bow. 
Carefully moving only his eyes, he scanned the camp and soon found 
what he was looking for: several orcs huddled in a group quarrelling 
violently. Sure enough, the prizes in question were his bow and 
quiver, and his two knives. Anger boiled up within him. *These foul 
beasts shall never wield my weapons!*

If he could just get his bonds loose and reach his weapons, he could 
probably escape. But those first two tasks presented a rather daunting 
obstacle. And--Lanthir. Before he could catch himself, Legolas twisted 
his head toward the debris of the avalanche in search of some sign of 
his horse. Unfortunately, that got the orcs’ attention again. Another 
slap jerked his head, causing bells to ring loudly in his ears. 
“Looking for a way to escape, eh, little elf?” mocked a grating voice. 
“Keep looking; you’re ours. Mmm, yes, you elves are sturdy, that’s 
sure. Came through that rockslide quite nice. You’ll last long enough 
to give us plenty of fun, you will!”

Legolas hardened his eyes, but did not lower himself to responding. 
One of the others sidled up next to the leader, “Looks to me like he’s 
recovered enough, Sirch.”

The leader nodded, grinning in a way that made Legolas’s skin crawl. 
“Yes, looks ripe for a little sport, eh, friends?” There was a chorus 
of growls and cackles in agreement.

“Me first!” yelled one, scrambling forward eagerly.

“Nay, I am,” Sirch replied, shoving the other back. Pulling out a 
nasty-looking black whip, he gestured at the others. Two orcs yanked 
Legolas’s cloak from his back, choking him and leaving a red weal on 
his neck where the fastening finally broke. Then they rolled him onto 
his stomach. Even before the elf had time to brace himself, the lash 
cracked loudly, bringing a tongue of fiery pain down onto his back. 
Catching his breath, Legolas stifled a cry, but could not restrain 
himself from jerking reflexively. Then came another, and Legolas 
gasped. Then another. Four orcs held him still as he fought to keep 
from screaming, and his mind cursed in humiliation.

One of them tangled a foul hand in his long hair, using it to hold his 
head down. Like snakes of fire, the lashes kept coming. Legolas 
grunted, but somehow managed not to scream. The backs of his cote and 
tunic had been shredded by the whipping, and the fabric rubbed the 
stripes painfully at the slightest movement. With a jerk that made him 
groan the orc in front of him yanked his hair and head up, and dealt 
him a solid backhand across the face, splitting his lip. As the elf 
shook his head from the blow, the orcs rolled him cruelly onto his 
lacerated back. Legolas could not quite stifle a whimper.

The rest kept holding him down, but Sirch had moved beyond his line of 
sight. Whatever he was up to, all the other orcs were grinning and 
jeering in anticipation. “Wish you were dead yet, elf?” came Sirch’s 
voice from somewhere behind him. In spite of his pain, Legolas wanted 
to scoff at them. Surely they did not think they could break him, an 
elf, by mere beating! Then Sirch spoke again, “You will, when we’re 
done with you!”

Orcs by nature are quarrelsome creatures, even among themselves. So it 
was definitely not a good sign that all gave way as Sirch returned--as 
though whatever the orc leader had planned was something to look 
forward to. So the orcs and Legolas watched as Sirch carried over a 
small black metal pot, and several long, thin thorns. The captors 
laughed and jeered as Legolas, recognizing what Sirch had, began to 
squirm instinctively in a vain attempt to free himself. He had heard 
of this particular orc game, and all was lost if they carried it out.

Slowly, as the orcs muttered eagerly and Legolas was forced to watch, 
Sirch dipped several of the thorns into the pot. They came out covered 
in what looked like black oil. “Know what this is, don’t you, elf?” 
Sirch sneered. “Nasty stuff for your kind--then, ours don’t like it 
too much either, eh?” the orcs laughed and nudged each other as though 
sharing a good joke. “Hurts like hell, but won’t kill you too fast. 
Nice and slow. While we get to watch and keep having our fun with 
you.” 

“Do it right, Sirch, and he’ll linger for a month!”

“Ha, a month’s sport with an elf!”

“Sooo, where first?”

“His hand!”

“Nah, his foot!”

“Yeh, won’t be running away after that!” Sirch grinned and advanced on 
Legolas, who attempted to wrench away. The orcs laughed and pinned him 
down, and to his despair and shame, Legolas could do nothing to break 
free. He watched, helpless and horrified, as the orcs untied his 
limbs, and one of them grabbed his leg. “Ahh, poor little elf’s got a 
swollen ankle!” Sirch jeered. “Know just the cure!”

Legolas jammed his teeth into his lower lip, but then Sirch plunged 
the long barb directly into his ankle. Like a hot brand, fiery agony 
ripped through his skin, tearing through the swollen flesh like acid, 
roaring up his leg as though it had gone straight to his veins. All 
other sound was blotted out by the roaring in his ears, his sight 
blinded by searing pain. He wasn’t even aware that he was screaming 
until he stopped, gasping for breath, while the orcs laughed and 
taunted him. Then all he wished was to sink into unconsciousness, but 
several orc slaps kept him in tortured reality. 

And still pain coursed up and down his entire body. Amazing, that just 
that little bit of orc poison could wreak such havoc within him. 
Moaning, the elf turned his face away from the mocking faces of his 
tormenters, closing his eyes. He tried to turn his mind to other 
things, distract himself from the pain. But no thought of home, 
family, or peace could push away the cyclone of misery and agony as 
another thorn bit into his left hand, and his pride burned as another 
cry of pain forced itself free. Writhing against the intractable grip 
of the orcs holding him down, Legolas prayed for death’s release as 
another cascade of acid agony tore up every nerve in his body, and 
screams of torment ripped from the very marrow of his bones.

The raucous noise of the loathsome creatures and the wails of their 
captive were so great that not a one of them heard the approaching 
hoof beats. Nor saw the approaching gray form until half a dozen of 
them were flung aside by fierce kicks. Jeers and laughter changed to 
shouts of surprise and alarm. The orcs scrambled for their weapons, 
but the gray horse attacked with the timing and ferocity of an elven 
warrior, giving them no quarter to react. Screeching goblins tumbled 
right and left, and angry trumpets of challenge pulled Legolas out of 
his pain-mazed state.

“Lanthir?” the elf whispered in disbelief. The stallion turned his 
attention to his rider, and rushed the orcs holding Legolas down. A 
fierce butt with his head sent Sirch flying, and as he leapt over 
Legolas, Lanthir’s front hooves struck two more in the heads, dropping 
them. The rest dove for cover, and Legolas found himself free.

Lanthir chased the orcs as they rushed off to regroup and figure out 
how to respond to a horse attack. Then the stallion charged back to 
his rider’s side, whinnying imperiously. One did not have to speak 
horse to know what he was saying. With a barely-stifled sob of relief 
and pain, Legolas staggered to his feet and flung himself onto the 
horse’s back. “Go!” he gasped weakly, clinging to Lanthir’s mane. 
Lanthir leapt over the nearest orcs and fled down the pass for the 
plains.

As the elf and horse galloped away, Sirch furiously dove for his bow, 
haphazardly plunging an arrow into the spilled poison pot. “Won’t get 
far, elf,” he muttered, taking aim.

The bolt slammed Legolas in the upper back, forcing its burning venom 
deep into his flesh. With a helpless scream of agony, Legolas lost his 
grip on the horse’s mane, but Lanthir slowed at once, and that 
momentum carried Legolas forward instead of backward. The elf slumped 
against Lanthir’s neck, holding on with what little strength he had 
left as the orc shrieks faded into the background. Moaning and choking 
on sobs, he felt the roaring torture in his blood swelling up to claim 
all his senses, blotting out reality. Despite his own injuries, 
Lanthir carried Legolas as long and fast as he could, out onto the 
plains until the horse sensed they were out of danger. And not a 
moment too soon; as the sun came up, Legolas’s grip failed altogether 
and he slid from the horse’s back, tumbling limply to the ground.

***

Mirkwood, the next day…

King Thranduil was standing alone on the steps of the outer palace 
when his daughter Limloeth came out to him. “You have spent much time 
here of late, Father.”

Without taking his eyes of the trees, Thranduil held out his hand, 
gently clasping hers. “It is a good place to think.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and then, “A message came from Lothlorien 
this morning.”

“Your husband writes to hurry your return?”

“Not yet, but he does ask how much longer I intend to remain.”

Thranduil sighed, turning to face her. “I know not how soon we shall 
have any word, daughter. I would not see you long apart from 
Orthelian.”

Limloeth nodded, smiling wryly. “If feels as though we have spent 
precious little time together since we wed. And I shall also watch for 
Legolas. For all his travels, it is possible he may pass through 
Lorien.”

Looking at the serene forest beyond the gates, Thranduil knew she was 
right. Though now, as always, his heart ached with the prospect of her 
leaving. “When do you intend to depart?”

“In a day or two. I promised Silivren I would take her to watch the 
novice warriors race tomorrow.”

“That is well. Berensul will be sorry. He misses you.”

“I know. And I him. I miss all of my brothers.”

***

On the plains, at the same time…

The noontime sun did little to warm the late autumn air. With no cloak 
and his tunic in shreds (along with the skin of his back), the cold 
bothered Legolas far more than it normally would. 

He had awakened here on the plains to Lanthir’s nuzzling--and a 
searing pain from the arrow still buried in his back. The elf needed 
no one to tell him that the arrow was also poisoned; it felt just as 
those thorns had, only far worse. He had been uncertain of what to do 
first, but knew the bolt must come out, and soon. After a few minutes 
of anxious searching, Legolas had found a small stream running down 
out of the mountains. Sitting on the edge with his swollen left foot 
in the icy flow, he had been forced to yank the arrow out himself. 
Though he had been unable to stifle a cry of pain, the arrowhead had 
come out on the first try. With tears of agony in his eyes, he had 
bathed his wounds as best he could.

Pain aside, the cold water made him feel stronger, and he slaked his 
thirst . He might be free of the orcs, but his troubles were not over. 
The powerful poison that Sirch had tortured him with would soon begin 
to act in earnest. He would only lose strength in the coming days, and 
it was anyone’s guess how long he could live without a healer. Not 
long.

He had two options. Rivendell was only about four days away, over the 
mountains, and he would probably meet a patrol sooner than that. His 
father’s halls were nearly a week away, across the plains and through 
the northern forest. It would be a stretch to try and get there in 
time. And he had another problem: Lanthir. Legolas had cursed himself 
at the sight of his beloved horse in the sun; Lanthir had been badly 
hurt, either in the avalanche or in the fight. It was amazing that the 
animal had been able to bear Legolas’s weight while fleeing the orcs 
last night. But he would not be able to do so again before his 
injuries were seen to.

*Which means, whichever way I go, I shall be walking.* Legolas sighed, 
rubbing Lanthir’s scraped neck as the horse came to drink next to 
where his rider sat.

His ankle was still in bad shape, but forcing Lanthir to carry him was 
not an option. Legolas was not sure if the horse would be capable of 
it. Over the mountains, he usually led Lanthir anyway, so that would 
make the journey maybe a day longer at most. It would probably as long 
as a full week or more to the elven king’s halls. With a groan of 
frustration, Legolas rested his head lightly against Lanthir’s side. 
*How could this unhappy turn keep me from my father yet again? The 
longer I tarry away from him, the less likely that he will ever have 
me back.*

As if that were not enough, their frantic escape into the night had 
taken Lanthir and Legolas out onto the plains, and now, on the 
horizon, Legolas could see the taunting shadow he knew to be the trees 
of his home. *To come so far as to have it in my sight…how can I 
possibly turn back now?*

The orc poison was slow-acting, that he knew. How slow was less 
certain, for there had been a generous dose of it on the arrow. 
Turning back west would get him to safety in plenty of time, while 
making for Mirkwood would cut it very close. *Don’t be foolish; you 
also have Lanthir to think of.*

But the dark line on the horizon that was Mirkwood held his eyes, 
calling to him in a pleading voice. His own heart called back just as 
longingly. He had been gone so long…he had not much time. Whatever his 
choice, he had better make it quickly. *I’ve so much I must say to my 
father. So many amends to make…*

Stumbling to his feet, Legolas made up his mind. “Go to Rivendell, 
Lanthir. They will see to you there. I shall come for you soon.”

The horse blinked dark eyes at his rider, as Legolas limped from the 
stream and began walking eastward. Legolas turned and scowled sternly 
as the horse began to follow him. “You cannot carry me, and you need a 
healer’s care yourself, Lanthir. You must go back to Rivendell.” The 
horse stared at Legolas, but refused to turn. Aggravated, Legolas 
exclaimed, “Go, Lanthir! You cannot come with me!”

Lanthir responded by walking up next to Legolas. Meeting his rider’s 
frustrated gaze, the stallion gave a snort that clearly meant, “Make 
me.”

Legolas sighed, shaking his head. “Stupid, stubborn beast. Almost as 
stubborn as I am. Very well, cast your lot with me if you must. And 
Elbereth have mercy on me if I get us both killed.” Turning to face 
the distant line of trees, he murmured, “Let‘s go.”

***

Four days later, in the Misty Mountains…

“The pass is blocked!” Lord Elrond stared in surprise at the debris on 
the trail leading through the last of the mountain passes.

“A rockslide, my lord,” said one of his guards.

The riders of Imladris carefully threaded their way over the rocks. 
Elrond felt increasingly worried. This had never been an unstable 
area; it was better known for orcs than avalanches. He raised his eyes 
to the steep slopes, pockmarked with caves. An ideal spot for an 
ambush. “I sense a shadow in this place.”

“My lord!” the lead guard’s cry had a definite note of alarm.

Elrond’s walk broke into a run as he approached what the guards had 
found. Near the edge of the rubble was what had clearly been an orc 
camp. The remnants of their fire and their litter were there, but all 
had been abandoned as though the orcs had been forced to flee without 
having time to hide the evidence of their stay. There had also been a 
struggle, and a few orc corpses were lying to rot in the sun. But what 
alarmed the guards the most also sent a surge of dread through their 
lord. Near one of the carcasses was an elven bow and quiver, and two 
knives. The markings on the weapons were unmistakable. “Legolas,” 
Elrond whispered, horror coursing through him. “They caught him with 
the avalanche and took him.”

In a voice tense with anxiety for their kinsman, one of the guards 
called, “Perhaps not, my lord!” He pointed to the ground, “Horse 
tracks. And the marks of elf shoes.”

Elrond joined them and forced himself to concentrate on following the 
signs to determine what had passed here. “They were holding their 
captive down, doubtless tormenting him,” his jaw tightened with rage 
at the thought of the young warrior’s suffering. “The horse came--it 
must be Lanthir--and stirred them up, buying Legolas time to leap to 
his back. The horse rode out of the pass, limping. Both were hurt in 
the rockslide and the fight; I see blood on the stones.”

Several of the guards breathed sighs of relief, “So Prince Legolas 
escaped.”

“It appears so--” Elrond took another glance around the remains and 
froze. His heart dropped somewhere below his shoes as he walked to 
where a small pot lay on its side, its ominous black contents drying 
like tar in the sun. He did not touch the stuff. “We must find him,” 
the elven lord whispered. “And soon.” He did pick up, very carefully, 
two thorns that lay near the pot. They had the poison on them, but 
something more: blood. Elven blood.

Dropping the deadly barbs, Elrond rose swiftly. He ordered two of the 
guards to bring a team of elves from Rivendell to clear the pass. “The 
rest, we ride after Legolas. We must find him. He will need a healer’s 
care.” The enormity of what was happening struck the Lord of Imladris 
as too horrible to be believed. Snatching up the prince’s weapons, he 
sprang to his mount’s back and led the company from the ravine, 
praying. *A Elbereth, do not let us be too late.*

***

Legolas staggered through the outer palace gates, and all but dragged 
himself up the steps. He hurt so badly, but the other elves merely 
watched him with distaste. The door of the palace suddenly flew open, 
and there stood King Thranduil, tall and majestic, just as Legolas 
remembered. But there was no warmth, no concern on the elven king’s 
face at the sight of his son. “So, you are back,” he said in a cold 
tone that made Legolas cringe with shame. With an air of indifference, 
he started down the steps.

Struggling to straighten, Legolas whispered, “Father, please forgive 
me.” He was dying; couldn’t Thranduil see that? Without his father, he 
had nowhere to go!

A hand closed on his arm, and Thranduil jerked Legolas harshly to his 
feet, then back towards the gate. “You had your chance, little fool! 
It’s too late! You are no longer welcome in my halls!”

“Father--” but the king flung Legolas to the ground outside the gates 
and strode back inside. The doors of the palace slammed, leaving 
Legolas alone.

The prince lay in the dirt, unable to move. Then a dark-haired figure 
knelt over him. “So finally this is where your folly has brought you. 
At least this time you only got yourself killed.”

“Tathar?!” The blurry figure focused into his long-dead friend. But 
there was no love in Tathar’s face either. “No…”

“Why so sad, Legolas? It is your own fault. Always running and 
running, last time I was the one who paid the price for your 
cowardice. Now there’s nowhere left to run, no one left to help you--”

“No!” Legolas jerked himself back to consciousness beneath the tree 
where he had stopped to rest. Lanthir looked over at him and whuffed 
gently. Trembling, Legolas wiped his face, feeling sweat on his brow. 
At first, he thought it was just the nightmare, then looked around to 
see a coating of frost on the ground. How strange. He was feeling 
warm. The poison. Rising, Legolas felt substantially weaker than he 
had the night before. His heart sank; he still had so far to go. And 
the poison was taking a more powerful hold every minute. “Come, 
Lanthir,” he sighed wearily. “We haven’t much time.”

Walking quickly proved easier said than done. Legolas felt dizzy, and 
a horrible, pervasive weakness made him sluggish and unsteady on his 
feet. He had to lean against Lanthir to keep himself going in a 
straight line. Soon he began to shiver, though the weather was not 
nearly cold enough for that, and knew it was the poison. *A Elbereth, 
I will never make it…*

The trees seemed mockingly close, but Legolas felt a terrible urge to 
sink to the ground and never get up. Those cruel dreams plagued him 
with new doubts and fears. Surely his father would not deny him 
shelter in this state. Yet as the fever grew, certainties diminished, 
and nothing seemed sure anymore. The pain also came with a new fury, a 
deeper, harder pain than the initial fire of the poisoned darts. Sweat 
drenched his face, and he staggered on. *I cannot give up. Whatever 
awaits me, it is a matter of honor. More than that. I must go to my 
father--or die trying as the case may be.*

Legolas tripped on a root he had not seen in his path, painfully 
catching his still-wrenched ankle. With a cry, the elf fell to his 
knees, tears springing into his eyes with the jarring impact. As if 
the poison’s effects weren’t enough, it also had prevented his wounds 
from healing. Some of his disorientation was probably due to the head 
injury from the avalanche--or so he would have reasoned if he’d been 
coherent enough to analyze the situation. Cursing in weary 
frustration, he dragged himself to his feet, only to fall again an 
hour later over some stupid obstacle he should have avoided. But he 
got up again. And again. And again…

***

Mirkwood, three days later…

King Thranduil, Crown Prince Berensul and Crown Princess Eirien, and 
Silivren came out of the palace gates to see Princess Limloeth off. 
“Will you take me to Lothlorien some day, Aunt Limloeth?” Silivren 
pleaded.

“I promise I shall, Sili,” said Limloeth. “When you are older.”

“Everyone says that,” Silivren pouted.

Limloeth laughed, holding out her arms, “Because it is true, little 
one. Do not be in such a hurry to grow up.” She embraced her niece. 
“Farewell for now, Sili.”

Silivren returned to Golwen’s side as Berensul and Eirien came to say 
their goodbyes. “Take care, Sister,” Berensul whispered. “I shall miss 
you.”

Limloeth embraced him tightly. “And I you. Be well.” She embraced 
Eirien, then turned to her father. 

“Safe journey, my daughter.”

“Farewell, Father. Until we meet again.” Kissing the king’s cheek, she 
mounted her horse and rode out of the gates.

***

Outside Mirkwood, the same day…

Sweat drenched his body. Pain and exhaustion sang in his blood and 
bones. But he walked on. Fever made his mind wander with fears and 
imagined threats, melding dream and reality into a confused blur. But 
he walked on. Bound by a need that no fever-fog could erase, a debt he 
owed to the one person he loved more than any, Legolas walked on. No 
matter how many times he fell, he rose again, and walked on.

He was so close; the trees taunted him with their nearness. But he was 
close enough now to hear their song, and it called him home, even as 
the poison’s fever raged in his body and mind. He was so close…

Legolas fell to his knees, trembling. He was also desperately thirsty, 
but there was not a stream or pond to be found. The frost of the 
morning had melted even as he had scraped what moisture he could find 
from leaves and grasses. Gasping for breath, feeling ridiculously 
winded, Legolas tried to rise. He fell again. This was absurd. He was 
an elf, a warrior of Mirkwood, the son of Thranduil. How could a mere 
glob of orc poison lay him so low? He dragged himself to the nearest 
tree, using its sturdy bulk to pull himself up. That enabled him to 
take five full steps before collapsing again. Kneeling upon the 
ground, Legolas began to accept the knowledge that he would not reach 
his father’s halls alive.

A soft whicker came then, and Lanthir’s nose gently brushed his ear. 
Blinking red, bleary eyes, Legolas smiled in spite of himself. “I fear 
you may have to leave me after all, my friend. This may be the end.” 
*Or perhaps not. If I can find the courage to leave my dignity behind, 
I may still have the strength to crawl for a ways. Then at least I 
will be under the trees.* That considered, Legolas attempted to drag 
himself onward. 

Lanthir walked in front of him, staring at his rider balefully. The 
horse tossed his head, clearly offering an alternative. “Don’t be 
silly, Lanthir, you cannot bear me. You are wounded too.” Legolas 
tried to pull himself past the horse, but Lanthir got in the way 
again. “Curses, Lanthir, stop it! This is hard--and 
humiliating--enough as it is.”

With a distinctly sarcastic-sounding snort, the horse finally moved 
aside. Then he walked up next to Legolas--and bit the elf solidly on 
the ear. Legolas yelped in surprised pain and rolled aside, falling to 
the ground again. “Ai! Lanthir! That hurt!” Very deliberately, Lanthir 
seized a mouthful of Legolas’s hair and jerked. “Ow! Stop that!” The 
elf attempted to scramble away, but Lanthir calmly walked after him, 
nipping at Legolas every chance he got. “Aah! You crazy horse! Stop 
it--ow! Ai! Be off!” In his wounded, feverish state, Legolas was no 
match for the very determined stallion. 

Only when the elf curled into an outraged, defensive ball on the 
ground did Lanthir desist. He lowered his head and gently nudged his 
rider with his nose, then stepped back expectantly. Legolas raised his 
head. “If I refuse, you will bite me again, I suppose?” He got an 
affirmative whinny. “Very well.” He pulled himself to his knees, and 
Lanthir helpfully came up beside him to serve as a brace. It took 
Legolas several embarrassing tries to get onto the horse’s back. He 
winced as he felt the horse buckle slightly. “You cannot bear my 
weight, Lanthir. Why are you doing this?” The horse simply snorted; it 
was clear that he was carrying Legolas whether the elf liked it or 
not, and Legolas had better hold on. With a sigh, Legolas took the 
horse’s mane. “Take me home, my friend. And try not to overexert 
yourself.”

With an answering whinny, Lanthir started off at a smooth trot. Until 
now, Legolas had been able to take his mind off the fever and pain 
with the effort of taking steps, but now it came with a new vengeance. 
He was also shivering badly, and he felt weaker than ever. Even if 
Lanthir were able to run all the way, it was doubtful he would last as 
long as it took to get home. The horse stumbled, jolting his rider, 
and Legolas moaned, doubling over. Weakly, he draped his arms around 
the horse and let himself fall against Lanthir’s neck. The poison was 
beginning to claim his consciousness, and it was getting very hard to 
breathe.

The elven horse sensed his rider’s distress, and before Legolas 
realized what had happened, Lanthir broke into a run. “Ahh, 
what--Lanthir, what by the Valar are you doing?” he gasped, holding on 
with all his might. 

The trees were coming closer, and the gray stallion’s jarring strides 
were each a new exploration of agony for his rider. But Lanthir was 
also struggling, trying to keep from limping too badly, and fighting 
to ignore the effects of the other (more serious) injuries he had 
sustained in the avalanche. Even in his muddled state, Legolas sensed 
the horse was going beyond his limits. “Stop, Lanthir,” he pleaded. 
“You’ll kill yourself!”

Lanthir just snorted defiantly and continued running. The stallion had 
somehow figured out that he was the one chance Legolas had of reaching 
safety, and the loyalty of all good beasts to the elves was deep and 
strong. Still deeper and stronger was the devotion of an elven horse 
to its rider. Legolas heard distress in Lanthir’s breathing, felt him 
limping still more, and cried for him to stop, but the horse ignored 
him. The elf considered throwing himself from the horse’s back, but 
his body felt so weak that he feared he might break his own neck. And 
still the trees came closer. Mirkwood. So close.

Blood stained the lather of the wounded and weary horse, but Legolas 
could not see it. And Lanthir tossed his head anytime Legolas tried to 
look too closely. They were nearly there…Legolas let out a moan of 
pain and relief as they swept through the first dark trees, under the 
threshold of the forest. Its mere presence, like the open arms of his 
mother long ago, was a balm to the elf’s spirit. “We’re home, Lanthir. 
Stop now.” But Lanthir would not stop. Legolas saw a drop of blood 
strike a leaf as they raced on through the bushes. “Lanthir? By the 
Valar, STOP! You’re killing yourself! No!”

He pulled back on the horse’s mane, shifted his weight, fought for 
control, but his friend ran on. Panic gripped him, but the fever made 
him too weak to make any difference. The trees flashed past, and 
Legolas pleaded with the stallion desperately. “Lanthir, stop, 
please--” He felt the horse suddenly jerk in a new burst of pain, and 
cried out in anguish and horror as Lanthir pitched over, spilling his 
elven rider to the ground. 

Legolas tumbled to a stop against a tree, groaning. It took several 
moments to get his wind back, and the fall had stunned him still more. 
What finally brought him around was a soft sigh from the forest, sadly 
noting the death of one of its creatures. 

“Lanthir,” he whispered weakly, and tried to pull himself upright. He 
could not. So he crawled on his hands and knees to where the gray 
horse lay. Lanthir’s black eyes were dull, glazed, looking at nothing. 
Blood marked his soft muzzle. Legolas could hear no sound of breathing 
from the still form. The sighing of the trees--it could not be! “No…” 
Desperately, he ran his hands over the horse, trying to find some sign 
of life. “Lanthir,” he whimpered, fever and now grief destroying any 
control left in him. A sob escaped, tears began to streak his face, 
then he buried his face in Lanthir’s gray mane and wept helplessly. He 
could not even crawl anymore, and the sight of his beloved horse dead 
after trying to carry him home stole what was left of his will. He had 
nothing. *Nothing…* Lost, defeated, stripped of dignity and strength 
on the edge of Mirkwood, Legolas laid his head down next to Lanthir’s 
body and let his consciousness drift away.

*Legolas…* 

Who was there? Someone had called his name. Dimly, Legolas looked 
around, though he had lost the strength to lift his head or call out. 

*Legolas, do not let go.* 

Someone was calling to him. Why did it matter, anyway? His Lanthir was 
dead. He was dying. He had lost everything and failed. They should 
leave him to his fate.

*Legolas, you cannot go.* From the blurry forest, a dark-haired figure 
ran out of the trees to the dying elf’s side. *Legolas? Do you not 
know who I am?*

Legolas felt his eyes widen, and forcing his mouth to work, he said 
weakly, “Tathar?” *How can you be here? Why do I matter to you after I 
got you killed in the mountains?*

Tathar laughed softly, kneeling next to Legolas. *Do not believe the 
phantoms of fever dreams, my dearest friend. You must not give up, 
Legolas. You’ve much yet to do. Come, I told you I should always be 
with you. Rise, prince of Mirkwood. You are needed here.*

“Tathar…I cannot…”

*In your heart, much strength still lies. Rise, Legolas. I am with 
you.*

Moaning with effort, Legolas braced himself against the ground, 
managing to sit up slightly, and looked around for his friend. 
“Tathar?” But the forest was empty. He was so tired…yet the echoes of 
Tathar’s voice would not leave him, and he continued the struggle. 
With much effort, he fought the dizzy weakness of his body until he 
was upright against a tree. Then he pushed himself off the tree and 
staggered a few steps to the next tree, catching himself against it. 
He rested his forehead against its brown bole, fighting the poison’s 
insidious urge to lie down and sleep himself to death. He was already 
out of breath.

Just then, he heard footsteps coming through the forest. “Tathar?” He 
held onto the tree for dear life and looked about, trying to see him. 
His vision was a green and brown blur, but a gray figure came out of 
the haze. “Lanthir?”

“Who goes there--” a gruff voice began, than stopped. Legolas blinked, 
unable to identify or remember the speaker. The voice came again, this 
time full of alarm and shock. “By the Valar, young Legolas! What’s 
happened to you?”

“I…” Legolas blinked harder as the figure came closer, trying to clear 
his vision. At last it focused enough to show him what appeared to be 
an old man, with a long gray beard and pointed hat. “Mithrandir?” He 
pulled away from the tree and promptly collapsed. 

The Maia caught him, easing him toward the ground. “This is an 
unexpected meeting, young prince of Mirkwood. Forgive my manners, but 
you look most unwell.”

Sleep was such a wonderful thing. With an effort, Legolas managed to 
raise his head to speak. “Poison. Orcs,” he mumbled. The presence of 
the wizard, the gentle voice of the trees, and the still-rising fever 
were robbing him of coherent thought. Shadow called enticingly to him. 
He just wanted to sleep. 

“No, no, Legolas, you cannot do that. You must stay awake until we can 
get some healer’s draught into you. Orc poison, was it? Where? Where 
were you attacked? Come on,” Mithrandir firmly shook him. “Stay with 
me, young prince.”

“Mountain orcs,” Legolas managed to say, though what difference it 
made, he could not imagine. *Just let me sleep…Tathar. I want Tathar 
to come back.* His body was going completely limp, and his head 
drooped against the wizard’s shoulder. “Tathar…”

“Tathar? Ah, your friend, the one who…well, we’ll never mind that; 
this wretched poison has you pretty fuddled, doesn’t it? Hmm. If only 
I had stopped to get a horse on the way, curse this luck! On your 
feet, Legolas. You must stay awake.” Mithrandir made several attempts 
to pull Legolas to his feet, to no avail. There was a sigh, and 
Legolas dimly felt himself being shifted. “It seems this is the only 
way. I’m sorry, young Legolas, you’d be much more comfortable asleep, 
but I fear you would never wake. Hold on,” there came a stream of 
unintelligible words, and a bright light, and a strange alertness 
swept over Legolas. He blinked as the wizard’s face came into focus. 
“That’s more like it. Come now, on your feet. We must move fast.”

Weakly, Legolas accepted Mithrandir’s help and found himself able to 
stand. Whatever the wizard had done, it had staved off the exhaustion 
for now, but the pain had not lessened. He shivered violently, and 
Mithrandir draped his heavy gray cloak around the elf. “How far to my 
father’s halls?” he asked as the wizard walked him into the woods.

“Almost three days on foot. I’ll do all I can for you, young prince. 
It’s a pity we don‘t have a faster mode of transportation; you’d be 
better off in Rivendell under Lord Elrond‘s care.”

Legolas sighed his thanks, then concentrated on putting his feet where 
they belonged and not lurching as he walked. It seemed to him in his 
near-delirious state that he could still hear Tathar’s voice, speaking 
words of comfort and encouragement in the sounds of the forest. 
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a beast running through the woods, and 
recoiled in alarm. Mithrandir also heard it, and the wizard tensed, 
readying his staff. The sounds drew nearer, hoof beats. A horse. 
Mithrandir recognized them before Legolas could speak, and lowered his 
staff again. Out of the trees ran a beautiful brown stallion, stopping 
when it spotted the two walkers. “Mithrandir?” Legolas whispered.

“Well, now, here’s a stroke of good luck! Come closer, friend, we’ll 
not harm you! In fact, the prince here desperately needs your help!” 
The horse, reassured by Gandalf’s words, slowly walked up to them. 
“Well, aren’t you a beauty, and strong by the looks of you. Would you 
be so kind as to bear our weight for awhile? Ah, thank you. Up you go, 
Legolas,” the elf suddenly found himself astride the brown stallion 
with Gandalf behind him. “Hmm, with a little help from me, you could 
probably get us to Imladris in not much more than three days. And this 
young elf needs the skills of Lord Elrond. Perhaps--”

“No!” Legolas exclaimed, grabbing Gandalf’s arm as he was extending 
his staff. “Mithrandir,” he said weakly, not releasing his hold. 
“Please take me to my father’s halls.”

“Your father has excellent healers, Legolas, but you are very ill. I 
worry that none other than Lord Elrond will be able to save you. You 
are very far gone in this poison.”

Legolas frantically shook his head, fighting to keep his mind 
coherent. “No.” He managed to turn and face Mithrandir. “I must go 
home. Please take me to my father.” Seeing the wizard’s furrowed 
brows, he whispered, “Please.” There was no point in worrying about 
pride. He knew he was dying. If he could but see Thranduil’s face one 
last time, and ask his father’s forgiveness, what happened afterward 
did not matter.

Mithrandir’s perceptive eyes probed the elf’s fevered face. If he 
chose to ride for Rivendell, Legolas could not very well stop him, and 
yet…that was not what the young warrior wanted. *Trying to get home to 
your father. There is a change. And an important one.* “Very well. I 
suppose it’s more important to get you to shelter than anything else, 
and your Lady Eirien is a superb healer. Let’s see how fast our friend 
here can run. Bear us to the elven king, Master Horse!” He held 
Legolas upright as the brown stallion galloped into the woods. With 
luck, and a little of the wizard’s own contribution, they could be at 
King Thranduil’s palace by sundown.

It was just as well, Gandalf thought as the horse galloped swiftly 
through the trees, that Legolas had insisted on being taken home. He 
could feel the young warrior’s pulse growing faster and weaker as his 
breathing grew more labored. The poison’s advance was speeding, and it 
was unlikely Legolas would have survived even a greatly-sped-up trip 
to Rivendell. The Maia was beginning to worry he wouldn’t survive the 
trip home. He pulled the prince back against him, looking at his face. 
The spell he had used was keeping Legolas awake, but his dark gray 
eyes were glassier than before, and they focused on nothing. Gandalf 
wondered if the elf knew where he was. “Hold on, Legolas, hold on.” 

In spite of the forced consciousness he was enduring, fever dreams had 
once again claimed Legolas’s mind. Weird, blurry images whirled around 
him, and though he could feel the rhythm of the horse’s strides 
beneath him and hear Gandalf’s words behind him, he could make no 
sense of anything. Delirium took him, but even in that state, he knew 
what he sought, and called out for his father. Many things that he 
wished to say spun through his thoughts. He did not know if he spoke 
them aloud or not. Strange, hollow voices and apparitions swirled 
around him, and Legolas flinched, frightened and confused. He still 
had not found his father. *I must find him…I must tell him…*

Then it all stopped. The pain seemed to diminish a little. The 
nightmarish visions parted like the stars in the Mirror of Galadriel. 
Legolas was lying upon a bed, the trees around him were silver, 
crowned with golden leaves, and he could hear the song of birds and 
elves in the distance. The breeze blew gently over his face, cool 
against the fever. But even in this peaceful place, he cried out for 
his father. 

*Legolas!* A black-haired elven warrior, in Mirkwood colors, rushed to 
his bedside anxiously. *Ai, how did you get yourself into this state?*

*Tathar,* Legolas sighed, feeling his friend clasp his hand. *Orcs. 
They poisoned me.*

Tathar looked astonished, then shook his head in that pose of 
affectionate disgust he liked to assume. *Now why ever did you let 
them do that to you? You always had a tendency to punish yourself for 
faults, but that was going a bit far, don’t you think?*

Legolas laughed weakly. *I did not have much choice in the matter. 
Believe me.*

Tathar shook his head, and now his eyes were sad. *There is always a 
choice. You could have been cured by now. Must you always do things 
the hard way? Why do you make yourself suffer?*

*You don’t understand,* protested Legolas, staring at his friend. *I 
had to get home.*

*Yes, yes, I know, to confess your faults and throw yourself upon your 
father’s mercy. Why do you fear him, Legolas? He is your father, and 
no quarrel in the world will change that. * His brown eyes sparkling 
with amusement, Tathar laughed at Legolas. *I cannot imagine why you 
fear him, for he has always shown you more mercy than you have ever 
had on yourself.*

Legolas blinked, confused by Tathar’s words. Then he closed his eyes 
and sighed. *I wish you would not leave again. The world became so 
hard to bear without you.*

Tathar’s hand patted his shoulder. *Do not be ridiculous. I have never 
left you.* He snorted, *I could not if I wanted to, for you would 
never let me go. Ah, but I cannot talk; I suppose I would have been 
the same were our positions reversed.*

Tears filled Legolas’s eyes, *You would not have died had I not run 
away.*

A gentle cuff landed on his shoulder. *I thought I told you not to 
believe those poison phantoms! Do not listen to them, Legolas, the 
shadow of evil only seeks to take your heart. We make our choices, and 
we live with them. I knew long ago that your destiny lay along a much 
greater path than mine, but I chose to be with you. I would have gone 
with you if you had chosen one of those silly training missions.* 
Tathar laughed, squeezing his hand. Bending close to Legolas as though 
sharing a great secret, he added, *And I never regretted it. Not even 
in the end.* He rose from the edge of the bed.

*Tathar! Wait! Do not go!* 

But he was vanishing into the dazzling light through the silver and 
gold trees. Legolas shivered, frightened in spite of the beauty of 
this place. Why had Tathar left him alone? A pale hand cupped his 
cheek and turned his face away from where Tathar had gone. Legolas 
found himself staring at the beautiful face of the Lady Galadriel, her 
eyes gentle, her white hood resting atop her golden tresses. *He has 
never left you, Legolas. Heed his words.*

*I am so tired, Lady.*

*We are all tired at one time or another. But it is not your time to 
sleep yet. You shall be home soon, prince of Mirkwood. And there is 
much left for you to do.*

*How will I be strong enough?*

The Lady Galadriel smiled. *You need not know how. Know only that you 
shall be. I told you before: as long as your hope survives, you shall 
find the strength for all your battles.* Resting a hand lightly upon 
his shoulder, she said softly, *The shadow shall not have you, elf 
warrior, as long as you remain true to your heart.* Bending forward, 
Galadriel kissed him gently upon the forehead. Then darkness seemed to 
swirl toward him, blotting out the golden woods. Legolas gasped, but 
Galadriel reassured him, *Fear not, Legolas. We shall meet again.*

Then the light and the vision was gone, and Legolas was back upon the 
horse, in front of Mithrandir. Pain and weakness struck him anew, and 
he moaned. Mithrandir urged the horse faster. “Hold on, Legolas. We 
are almost there.” 

***

The elven king’s halls, several hours later…

Candrochon of Mirkwood was serving a stint of guard duty at the palace 
gate as the sun sank low in the sky. It was getting very chilly. He 
drew his cloak around him and listened idly to the song of the trees. 
It was then that he heard the sound of a rider, approaching the palace 
fast. The elf warrior tensed just as the other gate guards did. “A 
horseman comes,” one of them observed. “Openly. A messenger?”

“It’s a heavy horse--” Candrochon began, then the horse came into 
view, and his heart all but stopped. There were two on the beast’s 
back. The one in back was no trouble to recognize--the pointed hat and 
gray robes identified him as Mithrandir, trusted friend to all elves. 
And the one in front… “Ai! Is it…oh…by the Valar…Legolas?!” 

The elf’s shock and alarm were not surprising, for even the closest of 
the prince’s kindred had difficulty recognizing him. He looked 
dreadful. His face and body were drenched in sweat, and his golden 
hair clung to his skin. A deep, bruised gash marred his forehead, and 
other welts and bruises stood out on his skin, which was pallid with 
illness. His eyes, normally so bright and alert, were glazed, 
red-rimmed, and confused, as though he were not quite conscious. As 
the horse ran up to them, Candrochon could hear how shallowly Legolas 
was breathing. 

Before any of the shocked elves could speak, Mithrandir swung down. 
“Send for Crown Prince Berensul, if you would be so kind, young 
Candrochon. Prince Legolas must be seen by a healer immediately. He 
was attacked by orcs.” No words would come to him, so Candrochon 
simply threw open the gate and raced into the palace. He did glance 
over his shoulder as some of the elves exclaimed aloud; Mithrandir’s 
horse had bolted back into the woods. “He was not my horse,” the 
wizard told someone as he helped the staggering Legolas up the stairs. 
“He merely helped us out.” 

*Strange,* Candrochon thought absently. *He looked like Sadron.* But 
as he entered the palace, his mind turned to other things.

Whatever spell Mithrandir had cast upon Legolas was wearing off, and 
the prince could feel himself losing control of his body again. 
Mithrandir had the elf braced upright against his side, and it was 
taking all his strength just to keep his feet under him. He vaguely 
thought he knew that elf who had gone for help, but the fever clouded 
his mind so that he could not be sure, or concentrate enough to figure 
it out. His mind did not even register where he was.

Then voices came anxiously from the distance, and the palace door 
opened. Crown Prince Berensul, with Candrochon beside him, took one 
step out of the palace and stopped dead in his tracks. Words and 
motion deserted him at the sight of his youngest brother. 
“Who…oh…Legolas? Mithrandir, how…”

Legolas did not react to Berensul’s presence; merely blinked weakly at 
the Crown Prince. Gandalf wondered if the young elf knew who his 
brother was. Taking control of the situation, the Maia said firmly, 
“We must get Legolas to a healer, my lord. There is not an instant to 
lose. Does the king know he is here?”

His eyes very dark and worried, Berensul said, “No. Quickly, we must 
get Legolas inside before my father does find out. Whatever 
confrontation is coming, this is definitely not the time.” He 
beckoned, and Mithrandir hurriedly supported the stumbling Legolas up 
the steps and into the outer halls of the palace. But no sooner had 
they entered than they heard a familiar voice coming toward another 
doorway. Berensul recoiled, close to panic. “Ai, Mithrandir--”

Deep in conversation with his Steward, King Thranduil strode through 
the door oblivious to the happenings in the hall. Absently, he took a 
cursory look around, and his gaze fell on Berensul, Gandalf… The elven 
king froze, taking in the haggard appearance of his son, held upright 
against Gandalf’s side under the wizard’s cloak, sweaty with fever and 
pale as a wraith. In a toneless voice, he said, “Legolas.”

For all the fever did to his mind, Legolas recognized his father. 
Thranduil’s unexpected appearance seemed to have turned everyone to 
stone, even Gandalf. But somehow, Legolas pulled himself from the 
wizard’s supportive grasp and staggered forward a few steps, where he 
stood facing the elven king. The prince’s mouth moved, he tried to 
speak, but his voice failed.

Thranduil’s expression was too blank for even Mithrandir to read, but 
to Legolas, it seemed rather foreboding. Berensul rushed in front of 
the king. “Father--” 

Thranduil strode forward, placing a hand on Berensul’s shoulder and 
firmly moving him out of his path, having eyes only for his other son, 
the one who had left him on bad terms six months before. Legolas stood 
where he was, helpless, bracing himself, as his father came towards 
him. A few desperate thoughts worked their way through the fevered 
haze. *He knows I am doomed if he does not let me stay. I must ask him 
to forgive me. Ai, to find my voice! Will he cast me off now?* Legolas 
wondered hazily as the world closed in. *Am I to die alone?* 

It seemed that fate would not permit him to know the answer, for the 
last remnants of Mithrandir’s spell faded. Blackness swept up and 
formed a tunnel around him, pulling him in so that the last thing he 
saw was King Thranduil advancing forward, his dark eyes locked upon 
his son‘s, as the orc poison’s shadow finally claimed him.

***

Berensul and Gandalf watched in horror as Thranduil strode 
purposefully toward his youngest son. The same questions dogged both 
of their minds. Couldn’t he see Legolas was dying? Would he truly be 
so callous as to refuse his youngest son sanctuary? What did he 
intend? Legolas, for all his brave effort to stand alone before the 
king, had pushed himself too far. His eyes closed, his legs gave way 
beneath him, and he sagged limply toward the ground. Before either 
Gandalf or Berensul could react, King Thranduil covered the last few 
strides between himself and Legolas--and caught his son as he fell.

Sweeping Legolas up into his arms as if he weighed nothing at all, 
Thranduil stared for a moment at his son’s unconscious face, and many 
emotions flew across the king’s own countenance. Gandalf identified 
all of them as various forms of anguish. Then the elven king turned 
and started toward back down the hall, carrying Legolas. As though 
just remembering the others were there, the elven king turned and 
stared incredulously at Gandalf and Berensul, who had not moved. “Why 
are you just standing there?!” he demanded. To Berensul, he snapped, 
“Send for Eirien at once!” Breaking into a run, Thranduil carried his 
youngest child toward the royal chambers, shouting for the palace 
healers.

***** Alas, poor Lanthir. He couldn’t live forever, and I knew that 
nothing less than a hero’s death would do for that stallion.

DON’T FORGET TO REVIEW!!! 

In response to questions: Yes, I fear it is true, this tale is winding 
down. But, before you (or I) plunge into mourning, let me say that I 
have a certain little something in the works. Perhaps…a sequel? :-) Or 
two? ;-)

Remember, I cherish and appreciate all my reviewers and your comments, 
including the constructive criticism. I hope my writing improves for 
it. (Just be sure to let me know whether it does!) Many many thanks!





Chapter Twenty-Five: Forgiveness





“Grief maybe had wrought it, and remorse. He saw tears on that once 
tearless face, more unbearable than wrath…

‘I sent my son forth, unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, 
and here he lies with poison in his veins.’”--Denethor The Siege of 
Gondor, Return of the King

***





Thranduil’s mind reeled as he bore his unconscious youngest son down 
the corridors of the outer palace. Time and reality seemed to have 
rearranged themselves, and it was as though he remembered nothing that 
had passed since Legolas had stormed out of the stables after that 
last quarrel. It seemed like that same night. The attendants came 
rushing to the prince’s chambers as Thranduil carried him through the 
door. “Where by the Valar is Eirien?!” he demanded, his throat tight 
with fear. “Find her! I need her!” 

Trembling, he laid Legolas carefully upon the bed. It did not seem 
real. He had never seen his son’s eyes closed this way, and the dark 
lashes stood out starkly against his ashen skin. His pulse was weak 
and uneven; his breath seemed to grow more shallow with each passing 
second. Damp tendrils of hair clung to his sweaty face, and his 
forehead was burning hot to the touch. Elves did not come by fever 
naturally. “Oh, Legolas,” Thranduil whispered, his own heart hammering 
in his chest. “What happened to you?” 

Berensul and Mithrandir came running through the door after him, 
wearing identical expressions of distress. Mithrandir saw that no 
healer had arrived yet and hurried to the prince’s bedside. “We must 
awaken him, my lord. The shadow will pull him beyond a healer’s reach 
if we do not.”

Swallowing hard, Thranduil assisted Mithrandir in his attempts to 
rouse his son. The elven king had a strong belief in the maintenance 
of appearances, and at any other moment, he would have concerned 
himself with not showing weakness before the Maia. But in his long 
years, Thranduil had seen elves afflicted by all manner of injury and 
ailment, and he knew his child’s condition was grave. It was even 
possible that this malady might…the thought was not to be touched. Not 
again. And so Thranduil did not even notice how badly he trembled, nor 
how his voice cracked as he tried to awaken Legolas. Even if he had, 
it was unlikely that he would have cared.

Desperately, he shook Legolas, trying to elicit some kind of response. 
“Legolas? Legolas!” *This is not happening. This CANnot be happening! 
Not you too!* “Where is Eirien, Berensul?”

“She--she’s coming, Father. She should be here any minute,” Berensul’s 
voice was also trembling.

Thranduil seized one of the servants by the arm as he passed. 
“Dispatch messengers at once. Send one to Rivendell. Say that the King 
of Mirkwood begs Lord Elrond’s immediate assistance as a healer. Send 
another after Princess Limloeth. She is only a day or so down the 
trail, have her back as soon as possible. Go!”

“Yes, my lord!” the servant fled, white-faced. 

It seemed that the hearts of all Mirkwood cried out against the 
possibility of the loss of another of Thranduil’s children. *No! No! 
Do not think of that!* But he was no fool, and the signs were very 
ill. *It cannot be! I cannot endure this again!* Legolas’s breathing 
was very weak, and growing worse. The unconscious state he was in…it 
was more like a coma than sleep. There was not a flicker of response 
to the outside world. His eyes were closed so tightly. *No! Legolas, 
open your eyes. Look at me! Hear me! Please!*

Where was Eirien? She was trained by Elrond; she would know how to 
cure him. *She must! A Elbereth, I cannot go through this again. I 
will not survive mourning another of my children. Legolas! Legolas, 
awaken! Ai, why did I ever speak so harshly to you that day! Please 
forgive me! This is my doing! My possessiveness. Wake up, Legolas! 
There is so much I must say…* 

***

Gandalf heard an army of footsteps approaching down the corridor--in a 
loud, careless fashion very unlike elves--and before he could look up, 
he was all but shouldered aside. It was the Lady Eirien, Crown 
Princess, and a healer trained by Lord Elrond himself. She was the 
young prince’s best hope of survival. When King Thranduil raised his 
eyes from his son to speak to her, Gandalf was stunned. He had not 
been in Mirkwood at the time when three of Thranduil and Minuial’s 
children were slain in battle, but now the Maia suspected that the 
elven king must have looked then just as he did now. The desperation 
in the eyes of Legolas’s father tore at Gandalf’s heart. “Eirien?”

“Stand back, Father. Give me room.” The Princess was normally a 
soft-spoken, placid creature, but now her tone brooked no argument, 
and the elven king stepped quickly out of her way. But Gandalf heard 
her intake of breath as she hastily examined her brother-in-law’s 
unresponsive body. “How long has he been this way?” she asked the room 
in general.

“I found him on the edge of the wood this morning,” Gandalf spoke up 
quickly. “He was already burning and unable to move. It was only by a 
spell that I was able to keep him conscious until he reached the 
palace.”

“Help me, Mithrandir,” Eirien ordered. “We must rouse him.” She 
whirled back to the array of herbs and potions the other healers were 
bringing. Snatching up a vial, she attempted to pour the contents down 
Legolas’s throat. Unable to swallow, Legolas choked and gasped, and 
she cursed like a Rohirrim stable hand. Gandalf could see that the 
ailing elf barely had room to draw breath, let alone get a liquid 
down. 

Thranduil’s eyes widened and he started forward. “Stand back!” Eirien 
snapped, in a tone that could probably render Galadriel docile. 
Bending over Legolas, she tried again to make him take the draught, 
then ran her hand along the muscles of his throat. All in the room 
could hear the prince’s breathing becoming more and more distressed. 
Eirien’s expression remained fixed, and she moved swiftly around the 
bed, trying every smelling herb and potion that could be found to 
awaken Legolas or ease his breathing. But all could see the color 
beginning to drain from her face even as she worked frantically. 

Gandalf’s heart sank as she shot him a quick, desperate glance. *She 
cannot save him. A Elbereth, no!* Berensul was against the wall 
keeping out of the healers’ way, but his eyes were wide with despair, 
and beginning to fill with tears. Eirien even tried forcing a remedy 
into Legolas with another sharpened thorn, but even the pain did not 
seem to have an effect. As the prince’s breathing slowed still more, 
Eirien’s breath caught; her hand touched Legolas’s chest again, and 
she stared in horror at what she felt. Gandalf caught his own breath 
in a great surge of grief, as Legolas’s breath rasped in his chest 
once more…then stopped.

All the assisting healers froze where they were, horror upon every 
face. None could make sense of it. Eirien dropped to her knees beside 
the bed and raised her eyes to the king. They brimmed with helpless 
tears, and in them was a silent plea for forgiveness for her failure. 
Berensul trembled as he sank into a chair, as though his legs would no 
longer support him. With all his heart, Gandalf wished it was within 
his power to turn back time, neutralize poison, heal a fatal 
wound…anything that would eliminate the death that now visited this 
family for the fifth time. 

And then there was King Thranduil.

The elven king did not seem to see Eirien’s shame, or his son’s grief, 
or Gandalf’s sorrow. His eyes were locked, stunned, upon Legolas’s 
still, white face. “No…” Thranduil whispered.

Eirien choked on a sob, “Father--”

“NO!” Thranduil leapt forward and wrenched Legolas from the pillows, 
shaking the limp body desperately. “Legolas! Legolas, awaken! He is 
not dead! Legolas!”

With an effort, Berensul rose from the chair and pulled Eirien back 
from the bedside. She clutched her husband, choking back sobs of her 
own. Gandalf felt anguish rush through him anew, for the healers 
trained by Lord Elrond rarely lost patients. Legolas was Eirien’s 
first. Berensul raised a hand to Gandalf when the wizard reached out 
to try and stop the king’s hopeless efforts. It would do no good, but 
the Maia stood back as Thranduil attempted to force air into his son’s 
lungs. Staring at the young warrior’s limp body, Gandalf felt his own 
eyes stinging. *Forgive me, young Legolas. Would that I had come on 
horseback. Would that I had found you sooner, or carried more healing 
herbs of my own. Would that I had been able to do SOMETHING!*

Holding Legolas up in vain, Thranduil stared at his youngest son’s 
face, and the king’s breath began to choke from him. “Oh Legolas,” he 
whispered. Gandalf closed his eyes against the agonizing pain in the 
elven king’s voice, and respectfully stepped back toward the doorway. 
Thranduil did not seem to realize anyone else was in the room anymore. 
Tears slid from under his eyelids as he gently cradled his son against 
him, burying his face in Legolas’s golden hair. Holding Legolas closer 
still, Thranduil whispered something in his ear, so softly that 
neither the wizard, nor the weeping elves in the room heard what he 
said.

All at once, the soft sounds of the elves’ grief was shattered by a 
great, desperate gasp. Legolas’s eyes flew open, and he pulled back 
reflexively from his father’s grip in a frantic search for air. One 
breath, then another were pulled into his lungs, and his body went 
from dead limp to nearly rigid as elven stamina renewed the fight for 
life. For a split second, the witnesses could only stare, stunned. 
Thranduil looked into his son’s glassy, but open eyes, and whispered, 
“Legolas?”

Then Eirien jerked away from Berensul and sprang into action. Dashing 
a hand over her eyes, she snatched up a bottle of a particularly 
foul-smelling draught, diving for the bedside. Shock aside, Gandalf 
could see now that Legolas was still in trouble, and still burning 
with delirium. He flinched away from Eirien when she attempted to feed 
him the potion. “Hold him, Father,” she said to Thranduil. “He must 
take this quickly. He remains in grave danger.”

Thranduil snatched the bottle from her, pulling Legolas towards him. 
The young elf moaned in pain and confusion, still gasping for breath, 
and struggled against the arms trying to hold him. “Easy, Legolas,” 
Thranduil said soothingly. “Do not fight me.”

It was inconceivable that even an elf could recognize anything while 
running so high a fever, but it appeared to Gandalf that Legolas did 
relax slightly on hearing his father’s voice. No, there! He had not 
imagined it. Legolas turned his pale face towards Thranduil, and there 
did seem to be a flicker of recognition in his glazed eyes. “That’s 
it, little one. Come, you must have the potion. It will help. Drink, 
Legolas.” He raised the bottle to his son’s lips, and though Legolas’s 
breathing was still labored, he drank it. 

“Give him all of it,” Eirien said from where she was mixing more 
herbs.

Thranduil kept Legolas swallowing the draught, pausing only to let him 
catch his breath and avoid choking him. At last, the prince finished 
it, coughing and exhausted. His head dropped against his father’s 
shoulder. Gandalf leaned over the side of the bed and helped the king 
prop Legolas up. “He was wounded by a poisoned arrow. When I found 
him, he said something about mountain orcs.”

Eirien examined the arrow wound in the prince’s back, noting with an 
angry hiss the bloody welts left by orc lashes. “He is very far gone. 
I know many poisons that it could have been, but without knowing when 
and where he was taken, I cannot be sure.” Briskly, she turned back to 
the poultice she was preparing, adding more herbs and potions to it, 
and handed more herbs to the assistant healer who was helping with 
another draught. 

Legolas moaned in delirious pain as Eirien cleansed the raw weals and 
secured the poultice to the arrow wound. “Do you think he will 
remember when and where it happened?” asked Berensul.

“Perhaps later, but at the moment I doubt if he remembers his own 
name,” Eirien said, laying a hand on her brother’s forehead. “Never 
have I seen an elf burn so.” She checked the draught being prepared, 
added more herbs, and carried it back to the king. “I know not which 
remedy to use, so this contains several.”

Thranduil took the vial, but tore his eyes from Legolas’s face to look 
worriedly at her. “So many? Is that safe?”

“Now it is more important to counteract the poison in his blood. The 
most the herbs might do is make him a little sick,” Eirien said 
firmly. “Give it to him.”

Nodding solemnly, the elven king gave Legolas the medicine. The prince 
did not have as much difficulty swallowing this one. It seemed to 
Gandalf that his breathing was also becoming easier. “I think it is 
working already.”

Eirien nodded, her hand gently touching Legolas’s neck. “The first 
draught eased his breathing, but that only bought us time. Father, has 
Lord Elrond been sent for?”

Taking a heavy breath, Thranduil nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Yes. And 
Limloeth.” Touching his son’s burning face, he spoke in a voice full 
of dread the question that weighed upon all their minds. “Will he 
live?” 

Slowly, Eirien nodded. “I think the immediate danger is past, for now. 
But I fear we will not be able to counter the poison until we know 
what it is.”

“How will we find that out?” Berensul asked. “Do you think Lord Elrond 
will know?”

“Perhaps, but Legolas may be able to tell us sooner. It is safe for 
now, Father, he may sleep. We shall continue working to bring the 
fever down. Then when he is coherent, he may remember what happened. 
Knowing when and where he was taken would be enough.” Eirien ran 
thoughtful eyes over her patient, who was still being held in a 
sitting position, cradled gently against Thranduil’s chest. Though his 
eyes were open, they were glazed and barely responsive to the activity 
around him. The crown princess filled a cup and handed it to the king. 
“See if he will take some water. Then he should sleep.”

Thranduil took the cup and held it to his son’s lips. “Drink, 
Legolas,” he whispered when Legolas feebly resisted. “It is only 
water.”

*** 

At first, as yet another flow of some strange liquid attempted to 
force its way into his mouth, Legolas tried to pull away. In his 
fevered confusion, the foul-tasting stuff given him before had not 
been recognized as healing draught, and he feared it. But some vaguely 
familiar presence remained close to him, reassuring enough for Legolas 
to accept the rim of the cup at his lips.

This time it was water, cool, clear water that he recognized even in 
his delirium as something he desperately needed. His body and mind 
burned, but the cleansing liquid seemed to wash away some of his fear 
and confusion, enough to where he could remember something he needed 
to say. He had come a long way to find someone…who…where was he? It 
did not matter, for the one who…who?…the one he sought was here, he 
was sure of it. *Who was I seeking…what was I trying to say…why can I 
not remember?* Legolas wondered hazily. The cup was offered again, and 
he drank more, hearing a familiar voice speaking unintelligible words 
in his ear. He could make no sense of them, but the voice was so 
familiar, so comforting…

“Father?” he gasped out, his eyes trying bring the blurry figure 
before him into focus. Was it indeed him? It was, it had to be! And 
there was something he had to say…he could barely remember…Legolas 
tried to blurt out the message in his heart. “P-please, for-forgive 
m…” but the words could barely come together in his mind, let alone 
from his mouth.

Gentle hands eased him back against the pillow, stroking tendrils of 
hair from his sweaty face. “Shhhhh. Hush, my son. Hush. You are home.” 
That voice was so quiet and calming, triggering more vague memories. 
Oh, how he wanted the ability to speak, and he tried, but his father 
shushed him again. “It is all right. Be easy, there will be time for 
words later. There is much for us both to say.” A cool cloth blotted 
the sweat from his brow. “Rest, my son. I’ll not leave you. Sleep now, 
my Legolas.”

A hand gently covered his. Weariness claimed him, far less fearful now 
that he no longer had to fight for every breath. A less-threatening 
shadow rose up to cover him, and the words spoken softly around him 
lost their sense again. But the voice and gentle touch remained, even 
as his eyes drifted closed again, familiar and safe after the horrors 
the fever had inflicted upon his mind. They held him like a shield 
against the nightmares, and finally soothed Legolas into sleep.

***

Around midnight…

The odors of Eirien’s herbs and potions hung heavily in Legolas’s 
chamber, for they dared not open the windows in the winter. The hours 
slid past, broken only by Eirien’s quiet movement with the other 
healers as they sought more remedies. Berensul sat in a chair on the 
opposite side of the bed from Thranduil, watching his brother’s 
struggle for life. And never in his own life had the crown prince of 
Mirkwood felt so helpless. 

He had known such emotions before, but then it had been possible to 
use rational thought to push them away. Even in the long process of 
grieving for his mother, brother, and two sisters--a process that 
still had not ended--he had known despite the typical guilt that he 
could not change events that had happened in other parts of the world.

*And yet here lies my youngest brother, my last brother. He lies right 
here before me, dying before my eyes, and there is NAUGHT I can do! 
Curse the Valar, and whatever power that determines our fates! Did 
something decide that still now not enough sorrow had been visited 
upon our family?* Berensul was very much of his father’s mind 
concerning the manner of conducting oneself--that display of weakness 
was to be avoided at all costs. Nonetheless, also like Thranduil, his 
family was the one area in which he could never detach himself.

It did not help that the crown prince had not been resting very well 
since sending for Mithrandir. The anxiety of waiting for the Maia’s 
arrival had kept Berensul from sleeping easily, that and a strange 
sense of foreboding that had dogged him in recent days. Berensul, the 
eldest of Thranduil’s children, had been alive for a very long time, 
and had also learnt to trust his intuition. Now at last, too late, he 
understood the meaning of the ill portents his mind had sent him.

*Oh Legolas.* His brother’s still face suddenly blurred, and the 
tightness in his throat threatened to overwhelm him. Berensul saw 
movement out of the corner of his eye, and a hand rested upon his 
shoulder. He had been so fixated on Legolas that he had not even 
noticed Thranduil getting up. 

“It is late, Berensul. You should retire soon.”

Without looking at the king, Berensul smiled grimly, “Do you intend to 
leave him and sleep?”

“Nay. But that is all the more reason why you must.” Startled, 
Berensul turned to stare at Thranduil, and was startled by his 
father’s face. There was a change, hard to place. Exhaustion, grief, 
and desperate worry shadowed Thranduil, making him seem considerably 
older, but at the same time, something reminded his eldest son of his 
own younger days. He was trying to comprehend it when the king spoke 
again. “Even in this desolate moment, the needs of our realm must be 
seen to, my son. I cannot leave Legolas’s side while he is in this 
condition, and I know you wish to stay, but the business of the realm 
must fall to you.”

Astonished, the crown prince stared at the elven king. “You wish me to 
hold the court of Mirkwood?”

Thranduil smiled, albeit rather humorlessly, “We have intended for you 
to begin taking up such duties for some time, and now I fear the time 
has come. I shall be here if you need my counsel, but until your 
brother is recovered, our people shall look to you for leadership.” 
His eyes shifted to rest upon Legolas again. “I will not leave him.” 

***

Early the next morning…

Gandalf noticed even as he wandered the halls that many of the elves 
in the palace stood vigil that night, some simply walking through the 
trees, and others congregating in small groups, speaking in hushed, 
worried voices. The thoughts of all were focused on the royal 
chambers, where candles burned in Prince Legolas’s room through the 
night. King Thranduil had sent Berensul to bed around midnight. Eirien 
had stayed, keeping a close watch on her patient. Thranduil had not 
stirred from the bedside, but had sat in a chair, his hand upon his 
son’s. 

Gandalf had left him alone soon after Berensul left. Glancing back at 
Thranduil, whose anguished eyes never left his son’s face, the Maia 
had marveled at the events of the day. He wondered how many elves 
could even claim to have seen the King of Mirkwood so reduced. He was 
not in the habit of revealing ANY sentiments except those that 
furthered some advantage, such as a show of anger in his court. Yet 
what Gandalf had seen last night was raw, unconfined emotion, 
something that many elves--even his own children--had begun to believe 
he was no longer capable of feeling. 

*So, Thranduil, perhaps your heart is not quite so frozen after all.* 

How strange it was, to see the elves of Mirkwood at a time like this. 
Few strangers, even other elves, were welcomed unreservedly into 
Mirkwood, and Gandalf could say for certain that he was the only 
non-Eldar in all Middle Earth who might have the chance to behold the 
wood elves at a time like this. And revealing as the experience was, 
he wholeheartedly wished that he had never had this chance. 

The elven king’s halls and the trees surrounding them echoed with an 
eerie, fearful silence. Gandalf had been among the elves at moments of 
mourning before, and then songs of lament and sounds of tears told all 
the lands of their grief. But this…this was different. Silence was the 
sound of their waiting, their uncertainty. Few words were even spoken, 
and those that were came in tense whispers. Time and life seemed 
suspended, as all Mirkwood awaited the fate of the youngest son of 
Thranduil and Minuial. The wood elves had already mourned three of the 
King’s children, and then their Queen, and time had done little to 
blunt that pain. It was always so with the Eldar. Eternal mourning of 
the lost was a price of eternal life. Silence cried in a loud voice of 
their fear, of their helplessness. 

*Uncertainty is a fearful thing to elves,* thought the wizard. *I do 
not much care for it myself.* Knowing Eirien’s skills far exceeded his 
own knowledge, Gandalf had left Legolas to her care. And along with 
many others, the Maia wished there was more he could do. But all that 
remained to be done was waiting. *The hardest thing of all.*

Suddenly the silence was broken by murmurs of excitement among the 
waiting elves. Gandalf heard light steps darting down the corridor, 
and he turned to see Princess Limloeth coming down the hall at a dead 
run. The elven king’s daughter looked disheveled and anxious, as 
though she had spent the night riding hard (not surprising at how fast 
she had gotten back to the palace.) Seeing the wizard, she stopped 
only briefly, out of breath, to ask urgently, “Where is he?”

“His chambers, my lady,” said Gandalf, and watched her dash by him.

***

Limloeth did not even pause to wipe the dust of travel from her face 
or push her unruly hair into order before bursting through the door of 
her brother’s chamber. When the messenger from the king had arrived on 
a lathered horse, bearing tidings that Legolas had returned--barely 
alive--Limloeth and her escort had nearly run their own mounts into 
the ground on the trip back. The grim, frightened faces of the elves 
who greeted her arrival made Limloeth fear the worst, too dreadful to 
imagine. *I cannot live through this again.*

Finally reaching her destination, the princess of Mirkwood leaned 
heavily in the doorframe, catching her breath and trying to stifle the 
sobs that instantly rose in her throat at the sight of her little 
brother. And she had thought he looked ill when he arrived in Lorien 
thirty years ago! She stumbled slightly as she forced her legs to 
carry her to his side, terrified of what she might find. It took her 
trembling hand feeling the slow beat of his heart to convince herself 
that Legolas was yet among the living. His breathing was frightfully 
shallow, and though he was clearly unconscious, the faint tension of 
his face told his sister he was in pain. Feeling weak herself, 
Limloeth sank onto the edge of the bed, her hand gently cupping his 
cheek. “What happened to him?” she whispered.

From his chair at the opposite side of the bed, King Thranduil had 
looked up at her only briefly when she came into the room. Now, with 
his eyes focused once again on his son, Thranduil murmured, “Orcs. 
Somewhere on the plains, or maybe the outer forest. Mithrandir found 
him. He almost…I am glad you are here, Daughter.” 

A moan from Legolas caused both Limloeth and Thranduil to jump in 
surprise. Her heart thudding in her chest, the princess watched her 
brother. They hoped Legolas was awakening, but though his sleep grew 
more fitful, he showed no signs of returning to consciousness. 
Puzzled, Limloeth placed a hand on Legolas’s forehead, and grimaced. 
“His fever rises.”

“He was delirious before,” said Eirien, motioning Limloeth aside for a 
better look at Legolas. Her blue-gray eyes darkened with worry. “But 
we must keep this fever under control until the poison can be 
neutralized.” Calling for the aid of the other healers, she began 
working.

While Eirien prepared more potions, Limloeth and Thranduil assisted 
her by trying to cool Legolas’s burning face and body with damp 
cloths. They could feel the heat radiating still more from his body, 
and his sleep grew more disturbed. Limloeth had to bite her lip to 
keep from weeping as her little brother fell into delirium. He raved 
of many things, some she could not understand, others that did not 
surprise her: his mother and their family, the brother and two sisters 
he had never met, the lessons of the years of training as a novice, 
memories of his journey with the war party. Very often, his fevered 
thoughts turned to the king. “Father…where are…alone…forgive me…”

Thranduil quickly leaned over Legolas, turning his head at the same 
time so Limloeth could not quite see his face. “I am here, Legolas. 
Rest easy.”

That seemed to calm him for a few minutes, but his body still burned, 
sending his mind back down the tortured, confused paths of fever 
dreams. “Tathar…do not go…was my fault…Tathar…” Thranduil’s face was 
still turned from Limloeth, but she thought she saw him wince. 

All day long, Legolas’s family struggled to hold at bay the poison 
that tried to burn the life out of him. Limloeth was conscious of 
nothing beyond the feel of the damp cloths she sponged her brother’s 
body with, and his tormented, pleading voice. Once or twice his eyes 
opened, but there was no awareness in them, no comprehension. All he 
saw were the phantoms of fever, no matter how hard his sisters and 
father tried to reach him.

Late that afternoon, Berensul returned from holding court in the 
halls. Thranduil tore himself away from Legolas long enough to speak 
with the crown prince. “There was little business, Father. Most of our 
people are as worried as we for my brother.”

Thranduil nodded, sighing wearily. Limloeth glanced up at him as 
Berensul walked over to place a nervous hand upon her shoulder. “How 
is he?”

“We are keeping the fever at bay,” said Eirien. “But he has improved 
little. I have given him all the draughts that I dare. Now we must 
wait for Lord Elrond’s arrival.”

“Father…” came a weak moan. Thranduil quickly returned to his son’s 
side.

Limloeth stepped back from the bed, leaning wearily against Berensul. 
Like his father, Berensul had always been more inclined to display 
anger than any emotion that might hint at weakness. But now he 
trembled, and swallowed repeatedly. “I hope Lord Elrond arrives soon,” 
he whispered, in a voice filled with anguish. “I do not know how much 
longer I can bear to see him like this.” 

*** 

The next morning…

The mist hung silent among the beeches and elms of Mirkwood, like a 
white funeral shroud. And still the wood elves waited for news. 
Gandalf had spoken few words with any since his arrivals, but sensed 
gratitude in the eyes of all for his return with the prince. The 
second dawn since that night had brought little improvement in 
Legolas’s condition. Lady Eirien was growing exhausted from her 
endless vigil at the prince’s side, but none of her remedies yielded 
results. The only hope now lay in the skills of the best healer in all 
Middle Earth. If he could not restore Legolas to health… 

Suddenly the silence of the outer palace halls was broken by a 
commotion outside. Gandalf joined a small crowd of elves running 
outside, seeking the source of this opening in the tension. He spotted 
young Candrochon and Lady Merilin, Legolas’s friends, nearby as he 
came out onto the outer palace steps. A troupe of riders was coming 
through the gates, and a collective cry of surprised relief identified 
them. “Lord Elrond!”

The Lord of Imladris swung down from his horse, his eyes immediately 
picking Gandalf out of the throng of elves. To the group in general, 
he asked without preamble, “Is Legolas here?”

“He is, my lord!” someone said, in a desperate tone that spoke 
volumes.

“How bad?”

“Very! Please come in quickly!”

There was no way Elrond could have received Thranduil’s message and 
crossed the Misty Mountains and plains in less than forty-eight hours. 
Even Gandalf could not have managed that feat with Gwaihir the Great 
Eagle. “How did you know?” the wizard asked.

“Let me to him,” Elrond said pointedly, and explained himself as they 
hurried down the halls. “A letter arrived from King Thranduil to be 
delivered to Legolas a few days after he departed Rivendell. I 
suspected it was an urgent matter and set out after him, but we found 
signs in the mountains that he had been taken by orcs.”

Gandalf nodded absently, then urgently went on, “They poisoned him, 
but Lady Eirien cannot be sure what the identity of the agent. And we 
can determine nothing; Legolas is delirious.”

“I am not surprised. I found the remains of their camp; it was oil 
rendered from Monk’s Hood of the Dead Marshes,” said Elrond. 

Gandalf winced; there were few plants in existence that could cause as 
much torment to a living being as Monk’s Hood. *Poor Legolas.* Had 
they forced him to swallow it, he would have died hideously in a 
matter of minutes. But the evil beasts were far too cruel and clever 
for that. “Is there aught you can do?”

“We shall see.” Lowering his voice, Elrond asked, “Where is King 
Thranduil?”

“With Legolas,” the wizard replied, and saw relief on the elven lord’s 
face. “In his chamber, this way.” He led Elrond into the room.

Thranduil sprang to his feet in astonishment. “Lord Elrond!” he 
exclaimed. Relief and confusion warred on the elven king’s face at the 
unexpected yet timely arrival. Relief won out, and he gestured 
urgently to Legolas. “Forgive the hasty welcome, my lord. My son needs 
your aid.”

Lord Elrond nodded in understanding and hastened to the bedside, his 
telling hands and keen eyes examining the still prince. Thranduil, and 
the Princesses Limloeth and Eirien stood to one side, obviously ready 
to offer their help with anything he needed. He beckoned to Eirien, 
“If you would assist me, my lady?” He rose then and met Thranduil’s 
eyes sincerely, “I will do all that I can.”

***

*All that I can, I only hope it will be enough,* thought Lord Elrond 
as he looked Legolas over. He had driven the company as hard as the 
horses could ride, following the prince’s trail, but as the days had 
passed, the Lord of Imladris had begun to despair. It seemed 
inconceivable that Legolas had made it all the way to Mirkwood after 
being poisoned so severely. To Mithrandir, he asked, “When did he 
reach Mirkwood?”

“I found him just within the forest yesterday afternoon, and we 
arrived at the palace in the evening,” the wizard’s expression grew 
thoughtful as though just processing what Elrond had said earlier, 
then he frowned in confusion. “You say he was attacked while still in 
the Misty Mountains? That cannot be possible; surely he would have 
made for Imladris rather than chance the journey all the way across 
the plains!”

Elrond shook his head, glancing at King Thranduil. “We discovered his 
bow and knives in the remnants of an orc camp on the eastern side of 
the mountains. There had--been a rockslide. They must have trapped 
him.” Both he and Mithrandir pretended not to hear the way Thranduil’s 
breath caught at those words. 

Mithrandir looked at Legolas in amazement. “That is very strange. I 
had a mind to take him to Rivendell when I first found him, but he 
insisted on returning to the palace. He knew there was a much closer 
haven, yet he chanced the longer road to get home. He nearly did not 
survive the journey across the plains.” He turned his face back to 
meet Elrond’s gaze, but neither burdened the king of Mirkwood with 
their prying eyes. Thranduil had enough on his mind at these 
revelations.

Lord Elrond turned his attention back to Legolas. The young prince 
looked very ill indeed. The various draughts Eirien had administered 
had dropped him into a deep sleep, and his eyes were tightly closed. 
Dark shadows showed below them, and ugly bruises stood out against his 
pallid skin. It had been over a week since he had escaped the orcs, 
but the injuries had healed little thanks to the foul substance in his 
body. Raging fever left sweat beaded on his burning forehead, and only 
Eirien’s determined ministrations had kept him from becoming 
dehydrated.

Opening a parcel of his own herbs, the Lord of Imladris prepared a 
draught to counteract the Monk’s Hood oil. “Will it still be 
effective?” Eirien asked him softly. That particular orc poison was 
rare; Mirkwood had not the proper herbs to neutralize it. And Legolas 
was very far gone.

But Elrond’s potion was strong, and the prince of Mirkwood had not 
managed to survive this long for naught. “I believe it will, Lady,” 
Lord Elrond replied, but he met Thranduil’s eyes as he spoke. And he 
distinctly saw the elven king fail to suppress a shudder of relief. 
“We must rouse him enough to take the draught.”

As Eirien worked, changing the dressings of his poisoned wounds, 
Legolas tossed and whimpered, clearly in a great deal of pain. The 
sounds hurt Elrond’s heart. He hastened to ready the potion, then bent 
over the bed, speaking softly to the prince. Legolas relaxed slightly, 
and Elrond gently lifted his head up, his healing touch calming the 
feverish elf to where he could take the draught. Then the Lord of 
Imladris added more of the herbs to the dressings of his injuries, and 
examined the lash weals on his back. He allowed himself a sigh of 
relief. *Legolas is strong; he will recover,* he thought, but forced 
himself to wait before speaking such promises aloud. *In a few more 
hours, I will be able to say so with certainty. I would not dare take 
chances with his family.* 

“How is he?” Limloeth asked softly from where she stood close to 
Thranduil.

Rising from the bedside, Elrond turned to the King and Princess. “The 
medicines must have time to do their work. In a few hours, we will 
know how he fares.” He ran critical eyes over Legolas, who had lapsed 
back into that deep, coma-like sleep. “He is as comfortable now as we 
can make him. The best thing would be to let him rest.” 

Turning back to the prince’s family, he looked them over. Thranduil 
had returned to the chair beside the bed, his eyes fixed once again 
upon Legolas. *A Elbereth, do not let me fail in this. I fear to lose 
Legolas would also be a death sentence for his father.* It was true, 
the elven king looked very haggard. His eyes were red and shadowed, 
and the slight tremble of the hand that rested upon his son’s 
suggested that Thranduil had not slept or eaten since Legolas had 
returned. It must be Berensul who was holding the court of Mirkwood 
while the king remained here. Lady Limloeth was clad in riding 
clothes, and also did not appear to have left her brother’s side since 
she arrived. Eirien looked equally drained from her efforts. To 
Eirien, he said, “My lady, you should retire and get some rest. As a 
healer, you need your wits. I will watch over Legolas today.”

Eirien did not argue overmuch before going. Then, before Elrond even 
had the chance to open his mouth to suggest that other members of the 
family take some much-needed rest, King Thranduil shook his head and 
smiled, “Do not waste your time, my lord. I will not leave him.”

Elrond chuckled slightly, not the least bit surprised. *I cannot blame 
him; I know where I would be found if this were one of my children.* 
Aloud, he said, “As you will, my lord, but I would counsel you to 
sleep while you are with him. Legolas will not wake for some time 
yet.”

Thranduil sighed, looking still more weary, and presently, he nodded. 
Then he looked curiously at Elrond, “My lord, how did you get here so 
quickly? Were you abroad when my request for assistance reached you?”

Fighting the smile that tugged his lips, Elrond replied truthfully, “I 
never received that message, my lord. As it happened, I left Rivendell 
in pursuit of Legolas to deliver your letter to him. It came three 
days after he departed Imladris for Mirkwood, but I suspected your 
message was important.”

The urge to smile came again at the stunned expression on the elven 
king’s face. “You mean to say…Legolas was coming home before he 
received my letter?” Thranduil half-whispered, glancing in amazement 
at his sleeping son.

“Why, yes. Legolas arrived in Imladris with--one of my sons, and 
departed for Mirkwood the very next day. His friend Faron was due back 
from a patrol within a week, but Legolas would not be delayed.” With a 
wry chuckle, he shook his head. “Though I wish he would have returned 
to Imladris after escaping the orcs rather than risking the long 
journey across the plains. He might have spared himself a great deal 
of suffering if he had, for I was only three days behind him.” 
Thranduil was no longer looking at Elrond, but staring at Legolas as 
though seeing his son in a very different light. 

Satisfied, Lord Elrond summoned one of the assistant healers. “I shall 
be back soon, if you would attend the prince until I return.” The 
healer took up a post near the doorway, consciously trying not to 
attract the king’s attention. Elrond glanced back from the doorway, 
seeing Thranduil seated in the chair with one hand resting lightly 
upon his son‘s, and suspected the elven king had already fallen 
asleep. He half-hoped Legolas might awaken before Thranduil did. *It 
would do him good to see this.*

Elrond had also re-assessed his opinion of Legolas during the journey 
across the plains. In such a condition, it seemed impossible that 
Legolas would be able to have make the crossing at the pace he did, 
but he had done it. AND reached Mirkwood still two days ahead of 
Elrond. The Lord of Imladris mentally shook his head. One had to 
admire that elf’s spirit. *When he has set his heart to a thing, there 
is naught that can turn him away or hold him back, even if it kills 
him.* He smiled to himself. *Like father, like son.*

***

Legolas was terrified, lost in a swirling, dark fog that kept him from 
seeing anything. Fearful voices and chilling phantoms reached out from 
the darkness to grab and tug at him, trying to pull him deeper. Pain, 
deep terrible pain, came in waves that broke over him with the 
blackness. He called out in desperation, not knowing exactly whose 
names he spoke, for the fever had taken most of the sense from his 
thoughts. So long, he had wandered alone, trying in vain to discover a 
way back to…wherever he had been before. He knew he had been somewhere 
else before, a place not horrific like this. A safe place. A familiar 
place. But though he could not remember it exactly, he was certain it 
was somewhere, if only he could escape this shadow, he would find it.

Moreover, from somewhere beyond the murk, he could hear voices calling 
back to him that were not specters. He could sense more than hear 
them, but just as he had known there was somewhere else that he should 
be, he also knew there was someone he had to find. Someone just beyond 
the darkness, if only he could breach it. At times they seemed so 
close, and he thought he could make out words through the shadows. 
Though they made no sense to him, they were comforting 
nonetheless--until they faded, and then he searched harder, crying out 
to find them again. 

Now was one of those times. For awhile, the familiar presences had 
seemed very near, and he had struggled frantically to reach them. But 
something, some impenetrable barrier kept him trapped within the 
shadows, and he could not pass it. Legolas shivered in his dreams as 
the presences receded, abandoning him once again, alone in the dark. 
Would he be trapped here in this torment forever? Yet…this time was 
different. The pain did not come back as fiercely as before, and it 
seemed…the swirling black clouds were growing less. Was it possible 
that the shadows were finally releasing their hold on him?

Instead of fighting and trying to force his way out, as he had before, 
Legolas simply remained where he was as the clouds churned about him. 
Where before he had seemed to be sinking deeper, and struggled in 
terror, now he felt that he was floating, coming closer and closer to 
the end of this nightmare every moment. One who touched the warrior at 
that moment would have noticed that his body was beginning to cool. 
His fever was burning itself out at last, as the orc poison was 
conquered by the new potions in his body. For days he had burned, an 
unthinkable ordeal for one of the Eldar. But the tireless 
ministrations of those who loved him were finally bringing him back to 
the light. 

Upward he drifted, passively accepting whatever awaited him. Above 
him, the shadows began to part, and light returned. Delirium faded. He 
was lying on his back, pain still racking him, still weak, but alive. 
Consciousness was coming back to him. There was someone near, no, 
several presences. And voices, the same ones that had distortedly 
reached him when he had been trapped in the darkness. For some time, 
he could not discern anything, but as his mind drifted closer and 
closer to coherence, the words began to make sense.

And he was able to remember who the speakers were. That voice was so 
familiar; Legolas struggled to pull his memories out of the shadows of 
fever. Who was…was it possible? Could it be that his father was with 
him? How? Where was he? He thought he recalled hearing Thranduil’s 
voice in his delirium, but had begun to think it was just another 
dream. Was it…was it possible that he was home?

***

“Legolas? Father, I think he is waking.” Eirien anxiously watched her 
brother-in-law’s eyes fluttering. He moaned weakly, but this time he 
did not seem to be falling back into delirium.

Lord Elrond moved beside her, placing a hand upon Legolas’s forehead. 
“Step back a moment, my lady, allow me. Yes, his fever is much 
diminished. He may at last be coming round.”

“Will he understand us, Lord Elrond?” Thranduil asked quietly.

“Perhaps, my lord. You may try.”

The elven king gently touched his son’s face, feeling at last that his 
skin had begun to cool. “Legolas? Can you hear me?”

Legolas moaned and fluttered his eyelids again. Thranduil could feel 
his own heart pounding within his chest. So many times over the past 
four days since Lord Elrond had arrived, they had thought Legolas was 
awakening, just to have his fever soar again. When his eyes had 
opened, there had been no awareness or recognition in them, only 
torment, and it had aged Thranduil every time to see his child in that 
state. But there seemed nothing he could do to bring Legolas out of 
it. Lord Elrond had counseled patience, saying Legolas would awaken 
when his body was ready. But to the elf’s father, such words gave 
little comfort.

*Now at last it comes.* “Legolas, awaken! Return to us, my son!” 
Thranduil squeezed his son’s hand and waited.

Legolas’s breath was slow and even again, finally. His family watched 
anxiously as the prince slowly fought his way back to consciousness. 
After an agonizing few minutes, his eyes slowly opened, and Thranduil 
heard Limloeth choke back a sob of relief to see, at last, lucidity in 
his face. The gray eyes were still glazed with illness and exhaustion, 
but as they traveled slowly about to rest upon each person in the 
room, they revealed recognition. Legolas knew them. They came to rest 
upon Thranduil’s face, and for a brief eternity, father and son simply 
stared at each other, neither able to find the strength for words. 
Then Legolas took a deep breath and spoke in a faint, raspy whisper. 
“Father? Where am I?”

Thranduil had to jam his teeth into his lower lip to keep from 
dissolving into sobs right then. Behind him, Limloeth was not so 
successful. Lord Elrond stepped forward, “You are in your father’s 
halls, Legolas. You are home.”

With a shaky intake of breath, Legolas closed his eyes, apparently 
uncertain of whether all this was a dream. He suddenly opened them 
again, his expression turning anxious, and started to speak. “Father, 
I--”

“Easy, young one,” Elrond said, casting a stern glance at the others 
while preventing Legolas from sitting up. “You must not overexert 
yourself. You have been very ill.”

Quietly, Thranduil moved up to the bedside. “I will see to it that he 
rests, my lord.” Then he turned and met the half-elf’s eyes. “But I 
should like to be alone with him.”

The two elven lords locked eyes for a long moment, and slowly, Lord 
Elrond nodded. He beckoned to Eirien, Limloeth, and the other healers 
as he headed for the door. Limloeth looked about to protest, but 
Elrond firmly took her arm and led her out. One did not argue the Lord 
of Imladris. The door closed behind them, and silence echoed in the 
chamber. Thranduil sat back down in his chair beside the bed, gazing 
at his son’s pale, drawn face. He still looked so ill and weak; it had 
been such a close call. The elven king swallowed hard. “How do you 
feel, my son?”

Perhaps it was the fever, but the expression in Legolas’s eyes nearly 
broke his father’s heart. He seemed so desperate, nearly starting from 
the bed. “Father, please--”

“Careful, Legolas!” Thranduil exclaimed, gently pushing Legolas back 
to the pillows. He let his hand rest upon his son’s shoulder, trying 
to comfort him. After all this, did Legolas truly still doubt 
Thranduil’s willingness to forgive him? Did he still doubt his 
father’s love? *Then again, how much does he remember? Still, I must 
not risk him upsetting himself. There will be time when he is 
stronger. For now, he must rest.* Taking a deep breath, he said 
softly, “I know we’ve much to speak of, but you are still weak. There 
is plenty of time--”

“--No,” Legolas said, frantically seizing his father’s arm. The 
urgency of the grip startled Thranduil. “It has already been too long. 
Please, Father, forgive me.”

“I--”

Words seemed to tumble out, in a manner very unlike Legolas. *Who am I 
deceiving? I have not known what Legolas is like in a very long time.* 
But his son went on in an anguished voice, “I wronged you greatly, 
when we met long ago, and then again when I returned. Whatever our 
quarrel, I had no right to speak to you so. I did not mean it; I know 
why you raised me as you did. I was very unfair. Please forgive me, 
Father, I know I do not deserve it--”

The next thing Thranduil knew, he was crushing Legolas to him, in a 
grip as tight as he dared, muffling his son’s repentant words against 
his shoulder. Legolas raised his glassy, dark gray eyes to stare at 
his father’s face, almost as surprised as Thranduil was. The elven 
king smiled weakly against the sting of tears in his eyes, feeling the 
way his youngest child trembled with emotion and weariness. He shifted 
position to take more of his son’s weight, unable to speak past the 
lump in his throat. After a moment, he managed to say, “Hush now. You 
are still unwell; you must not distress yourself. Your brother and 
sisters would flay me alive.” There came a weak laugh in response, and 
Thranduil gently eased his son back to the pillows. “Legolas, I…” he 
trailed off, tongue-tied. *Are you too much of a coward to do what you 
know is right? To say what you know is true? He has given his apology. 
You know that you still owe one to him.* Thranduil swallowed hard and 
took a deep breath. “Legolas, my son, of course I forgive you. But we 
have both said many things that need forgiving. I cannot be easy until 
you have accepted my apology.” 

His face racked with guilt, Legolas shook his head. “Nay, Father, you 
owe me nothing.”

“Legolas--”

“No,” the elven king wondered if Legolas’s fever was rising again, but 
the young elf would not be put off. “You were right, Father, you were 
right about everything.” His voice was rough with uncontrolled grief. 
“I was reckless, and foolish. Every time. I never had the courage to 
face our conflicts, and it was Tathar who paid for it.” Squeezing his 
eyes closed, Legolas whispered bitterly, “I was such a coward.”

“No, Legolas--”

“--I was! Always, I ran away, rather than face my troubles,” tears of 
shame and frustration glistened in his eyes. “Resentments of the past 
clouded my every thought. I blamed you for so long, but the fault was 
truly mine.” 

“Legolas, listen to me!” Thranduil said urgently, cutting him off. 
“You are feverish and overwrought; I’ll not have you sickening 
yourself again.” He placed a hand on his son’s forehead, frowning as 
he did so, for it was still far too hot. “You have made your apology, 
there is no need of a confession,” he smiled ruefully. “I understand.” 
Legolas’s breath caught, and Thranduil gripped his good hand. “I too 
wronged you. I have said and done many things I regret. Forgive me, 
Legolas.”

His eyes brimming, yet smiling, Legolas nodded, looking as though he 
were fifty again. Thranduil blinked rapidly to clear his own eyes, and 
glanced toward the door as Lord Elrond tapped on it. “My lord?”

“Come in, Lord Elrond.”

The Lord of Imladris opened the door and cast an understanding glance 
from father to son and back again. “I am sure you’ve much to speak of, 
but Legolas is still at risk of relapsing. You should rest now,” he 
said directly to the prince.

Thranduil nodded. “Quite right, Lord Elrond.” Legolas looked about to 
protest, but the elven king firmly stopped him. Squeezing Legolas’s 
hand, he said, “I know there is more you wish to say. Our family has 
long been separated, and I would know you again, my son. But first you 
must heal.”

“Yes, Father,” said Legolas, seeming to suddenly realize how tired he 
was. 

Adjusting the pillows to make his son more comfortable, Thranduil took 
Legolas’s hand again and said softly, “Sleep now. I will be here when 
you awaken.” There was a weak answering squeeze, then the grip 
slackened, and Legolas’s head drifted against the pillows as he fell 
back into unconsciousness. His eyes had closed again. *By the Valar, I 
shall rejoice to see you sleeping normally,* thought the elven king. 
But it would take time, as Elrond had repeatedly impressed upon them 
all. Legolas would probably sleep on and off for days now. Speaking of 
sleeping, with that in mind, Thranduil leaned back in his chair and 
let himself be carried into elvish dreams.

***

That evening…

Berensul returned from holding court in the elven king’s stead to find 
Mithrandir, Limloeth, and Eirien outside the royal chambers. “Eregdos 
said Legolas is improving?” he asked hopefully.

His sister nodded, the relief on her face confirming what Berensul had 
prayed for. “He awakened this afternoon, far more lucid than he has 
been. He and Father spoke for a little while before Lord Elrond 
ordered them both to rest.”

They all knew what Berensul wanted to know when he said, “And?”

Mithrandir smiled, “The king remains at Legolas’s side, my lord. I 
think all is well with them.”

Berensul laughed with relief, “At last, as we are all thinking!” He 
sighed. “I wonder how much longer it will take Legolas to recover.”

“Even one as strong as Legolas will need time to heal from such a 
severe poisoning,” said Eirien. “Lord Elrond is with them now, and I 
will take up watch when he goes to rest. But we think Legolas will 
make a full recovery.”

“Thank the Valar,” said the crown prince. He grasped his wife and 
sister’s hands, feeling suddenly weary as the terrible tension of the 
past few days at last began to leave him. “I do not think I could have 
gone through this again.” Eirien and Limloeth nodded, understanding 
what he meant. 

*** 

Gandalf watched the wordless exchange between the elves, and thanked 
the Valar himself for the many good fortunes that had allowed 
Legolas’s life to be spared. *For to be sure, had he died, Mirkwood 
would have been forced to mourn more than once in the coming days. It 
could easily have meant death for Thranduil as well, possibly even his 
siblings. Legolas finds himself in a strange fate, to be the youngest 
of a king’s children--traditionally of the least consequence--and yet 
it is him upon whom the hopes and dreams of so many depend. Born to 
save the life of an elven queen, and living to heal the wounds of his 
family made by the deaths of his brother and sisters. Thranduil should 
have named him Estel.*

Shouts down the corridor startled the Maia out of his thoughts, and 
then came the sound of running feet. What could it be now? Golwen’s 
voice floated down the hall, “Silivren! Come back here!”

Eirien and Berensul started as a fleet-footed, golden-haired elf child 
burst through a nearby door and sprinted headlong toward the royal 
chambers. Still more startling was the lack of mischief upon 
Silivren’s face; this was no childish prank. The determination in her 
blue eyes made her look like Legolas. “Silivren!” Eirien exclaimed, as 
she and her husband moved to intercept the girl. 

But Silivren did not even slow down, and nearly knocked both father 
and mother off their feet as she dashed into the hallway--heading 
straight for Legolas’s room. “Sili! What are you doing?” Berensul, 
Eirien, Limloeth, and Golwen all charged after her, Gandalf trailing 
behind in amused curiosity.

Silivren stopped before the door and turned to face her pursuers. She 
folded her arms and fixed them all with a fierce little stare far too 
old for a child her age. “I want to see my uncle!” she announced 
clearly and coldly.

Motioning Golwen back, Eirien took the lead of the group. In a tone of 
motherly patience, she said gently, “We told you, Sili, Uncle Legolas 
is ill now. You cannot see him just yet.”

“Why?”

“Because…he cannot talk to you. He is asleep,” Berensul attempted to 
explain, glancing helplessly at the others. How did one explain to a 
child that a member of her family was practically upon his deathbed?

But Silivren, granddaughter of Thranduil and Minuial, possessed more 
than her share of elven understanding. The narrow-eyed glare she 
leveled at each and every one of them said all too clearly that she 
knew they were trying to hide her uncle’s condition. “So he can’t talk 
to me. That doesn’t mean I can’t sit with him!” With a defiant nod, 
she turned on her heel and stood on her toes to open the door of the 
youngest prince’s chamber.

“Sili!” hissed Berensul, trying to catch her, but the elfling ducked 
silently into the room before he could reach the door.

Gandalf and the others quietly entered the chamber after them. King 
Thranduil was sitting up in his chair beside the bed, and Lord Elrond 
stood at the end of the room, both peering in surprise at the small 
intruder. For her part, Silivren stopped a few feet from the bedside, 
irritated at finding herself too short to see the bed’s occupant. So, 
with a little huff of impatience, the child walked to where another 
chair sat empty at the opposite side of the bed. Berensul went to stop 
her, but Thranduil raised a hand, his dark eyes gravely watching 
Silivren as she carefully pulled herself up onto the chair and turned 
to look at her uncle.

Legolas’s life might be out of danger, but to look at him, one would 
not know it. The closed eyes and wan face of her beloved uncle should 
have sent a small child into hysterics, for Silivren had never seen 
any elf so ailing. But the daughter of Berensul simply stood there 
upon the chair, her eyes solemnly regarding the unconscious form, and 
then carefully climbed from the chair to sit upon the bed next to 
Legolas. Still completely silent, she bent carefully over Legolas and 
placed a gentle kiss upon his pale forehead.

The rest of Legolas’s family and Gandalf watched curiously. Slowly, 
Thranduil smiled at Silivren, and his eyes, so dark and shadowed with 
worry, began to lighten. He reached out and touched his 
granddaughter’s little hand. “Thank you, Sili. I think that will help 
your uncle Legolas very much.”

Sili looked up calmly from her uncle’s still face. Turning to cast a 
determined gaze on each person in the room, she announced clearly, “I 
want to stay with him.”

His eyes meeting Berensul’s over Sili’s head, Thranduil replied. “Of 
course. Perhaps that shall help him feel better sooner. Let us find 
you a more comfortable chair, and we shall both sit with him.” 

A larger chair was soon brought, and the elven king settled into it 
with the little princess next to him, her hand lightly touching her 
uncle’s. Limloeth sat in the other chair with Berensul standing beside 
her, and Eirien took over for Lord Elrond. The Lord of Imladris met 
Gandalf’s eyes and headed quietly for the door. The Maia joined him. 
But just as Elrond reached for the handle, the faintest sound reached 
their ears, causing both to whirl around and every heart in the room 
to stop. 

It was not even a vocal sound, rather the faint noise of the 
smallest-possible movement, the sound of a body shifting 
ever-so-slightly against the bedclothes that covered him. The watchers 
waited, and were rewarded by the sight of Legolas beginning to stir at 
last. No one spoke, not even Silivren, though she leaned forward next 
to Thranduil to stare at her uncle’s face. Thus it was she who Legolas 
first saw when he opened his eyes.

Legolas blinked. One would suppose that the small face of his niece 
was the absolute last thing he had expected to see when he awakened. 
But, after apparently determining that he was no longer dreaming, 
Legolas looked at Silivren, then past her at the faces of the rest of 
his family. Then he returned his eyes to her. 

Silivren said simply, “Welcome home, Uncle Leg’las.”

Glancing at her little hand upon his, Legolas slowly smiled and 
returned her squeeze. “Thank you, Sili,” he replied softly. His eyes 
slid past her to rest upon Thranduil. “It is very good to be home.”

***** 

A/N: I’ve also started revising the early chapters of this story to 
make them more consistent with cannon and the Tolkien-verse (now that 
I’ve read more of the books.) I’m not all the way through yet, but 
feel free to let me know if I’ve missed anything. None of the changes 
are required reading.





Chapter Twenty-Six: Those Words We Said







Lord Elrond laid a gentle hand against Legolas’s forehead as the 
prince slept. Although still far warmer than an elf ought to be, his 
body no longer felt as if a fire raged within. King Thranduil, his 
daughters, and granddaughter watched anxiously until the Lord of 
Imladris turned to them and smiled. “I know this seems a slow 
recovery, but fear not; he improves by the day. His fever is 
much-reduced, and he sleeps peacefully.”

“But his eyes remain shuttered,” said Thranduil, voicing the subject 
of most worry.

“Have patience, my lord,” Elrond reassured him. “They will remain thus 
for some time until the poison has left his blood. Monk’s Hood is 
powerful.”

“But he will recover completely?” pressed Limloeth.

“He will, my lady. It will take some time, but he will.”

***

A few days later…

Legolas had to bite his lip rather hard as Eirien changed the 
dressings of his poisoned wounds. The fever had dwindled to a mild 
discomfort instead of the suffocating heat that had denied him true 
rest for so long. Even now, his body was still too weak to remain 
awake for very long, let alone rise from the bed. It was frustrating. 
But at least the cessation of fever would give him the rest needed to 
get his strength back.

On the other hand, although he could feel the ravages of fever 
lessening, his other injuries proved more persistent. The bruises and 
lacerations from avalanche and orc whips were irritating as they 
healed, but the wounds of poisoned thorns and arrow remained 
incredibly painful. The arrow wound in particular burned and throbbed 
mercilessly until he could hardly bear to have it touched. But it had 
to be cleaned and dressed to heal, so he bore it. 

Despite the gentleness of her hands, Eirien accidentally brushed the 
hurt, and Legolas winced, stifling a whimper of pain and drawing blood 
from his lip. His father, in conversation with Berensul near the door, 
turned concerned eyes toward Legolas. This was the first day that 
Thranduil had left Legolas’s side for more than a few minutes, and it 
seemed that he had been reluctant to do even that much. But some realm 
business was troubling Berensul enough that he had at last persuaded 
the elven king to come away from his still-listless son to attend to 
it. (It was clear that Legolas was still listless since he did not 
attempt to find out what the matter was.)

Eirien at least finished cleaning the arrow wound and replaced the 
dressing. Legolas relaxed, feeling shaky and sick with pain. Lord 
Elrond eyed him, “How do you feel, Legolas?”

“Well, thank you, my lord,” Legolas lied. He did not see Limloeth and 
Eirien rolling their eyes at each other. 

Elrond’s mouth twitched slightly. “Then I suggest you take some rest 
and speed your recovery still more.”

Though his pride stung, Legolas already was gritting his teeth with 
the effort of being in a sitting position. To observers, the young elf 
had turned as white as a ghost. Resigned, he nodded and lay carefully 
back down to avoid jarring his shoulder. No sooner had his head 
touched the pillow than a great weight began tugging at his eyelids.

*No! If I must sleep, I shall do so in the proper fashion of an elf! 
Not like a mortal…* his mind wandered as his eyes tried again to slide 
closed. He blinked them stubbornly open.

“Legolas?” Thranduil was beside him again. How he had gotten there, 
Legolas did not know. Berensul, Eirien, Elrond, and Limloeth had gone. 
“You must rest well if you are to heal.” He touched his son’s good 
shoulder and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

Legolas tried to speak, to tell his father that he need not spend 
every moment there, but fell asleep before he could get the words out.

***

A few more days later…

Eirien came into her brother-in-law’s chamber and gasped in surprised 
as a cold draft struck her. She recovered quickly and barked, 
“Legolas!”

Her husband’s youngest brother--still weak if greatly improved--was 
standing on his balcony in the frigid chill of January. He had only 
regained the strength to rise from bed three days before--and since 
then had proven the most trying patient Eirien had ever cared for. The 
crown princess and palace healer stormed out onto the balcony. “What 
do you think you are doing?!”

Turning rebellious gray eyes toward her, Legolas said, “I needed fresh 
air. That room is stifling.”

Eirien seized his good arm and snapped, “It is freezing out here! Are 
you TRYING to give yourself a relapse?”

Unrepentant, Legolas jerked away and fired back, “I begin to prefer a 
relapse to being driven mad by this constant nagging! I am fit enough 
to leave my bed without being fretted over like an invalid!”

Bodily yanking him inside and flinging the door closed, Eirien fumed, 
“But you are not fit to stand outside in the dead chill of winter with 
your wounds still healing.” She scowled furiously as she saw him 
suppress a shiver. He had probably been gritting his teeth against the 
cold for some time, but had been ruled by stubborn pride. *Silly, 
foolish, headstrong boy!*

Legolas shuddered again, and Eirien glared harder at him. “Undress,” 
she ordered curtly. “Put on a warm tunic and get into bed. AT ONCE!” 
she snapped imperiously when he started to argue.

His attempted scowl was made less threatening by the visible shaking 
of his jaw. Had he opened his mouth, his teeth would have begun to 
chatter. With a quiet oath, Legolas did the healer’s bidding. After a 
moment, as Eirien brought the braziers closer and stirred up their 
fire, he was beneath the blankets trying to hide the betraying tremors 
of his body. Eirien looked at him then and found a smile threatening 
to quirk her lips. *Just like your brother,* she thought, her ire 
lessening. She tossed another blanket onto the bed and hurriedly made 
him a cup of heated broth. Though he looked decidedly sulky, Legolas 
drank it without further protest.

A short time later (after the olgalas in the broth had done its work), 
Lord Elrond entered the room to find Eirien taking the cup from 
Legolas’s limp fingers. Noticing the lingering chill in the air, and 
the Mirkwood healer’s frustrated expression, the Lord of Imladris 
asked, “Problems?”

Eirien looked at him for a long moment, then heaved a massive sigh 
that made him chuckle. “NEVER have I had so impossible a patient! He 
is determined to give himself a relapse.”

Guessing from the evidence what Legolas had been up to, Elrond felt 
the sleeping elf’s face carefully. Though his nose and ears were a bit 
cold, there was no sign of the heat of fever returning. He smiled at 
Eirien. “Patience is a quality seldom found in the sons of Thranduil, 
my lady, as you well know.”

She chuckled in agreement, “Until you have been married to one, my 
lord, you cannot possibly imagine!”

***

A week or so later…

Legolas walked silently through the corridors of the outer palace, 
carefully avoiding any place where his family might happen to be. The 
end of his affliction by the Monk’s Hood poison had only led to him 
being subjected to a new torment:

*Fathers, sisters, brothers, elven lords, and wizards!*

He leaned against the wall, balling his fists. *So little time has 
passed since my one thought was returning to them.* But now, after 
weeks of their incessant fretting, hovering, and pestering, Legolas 
thought he might gladly brave the blizzard raging outside if it meant 
getting away from them.

Once Legolas had been up and walking, his father had returning to 
holding the court of Mirkwood. But that had only led his siblings to 
hound him still more, either of their own accord or at the elven 
king’s instigation. (Probably a combination of the two.) And Legolas 
was always the first thing on Thranduil’s mind as soon as he returned 
from the court.

*I begin to miss the days when we were not on speaking terms,* he 
thought. Then he sighed, repentant. Of course, his father was 
concerned about him. It was not as if Thranduil did not have a right 
to be. *You spent thirty-five years running from him and nearly got 
yourself killed coming home. Why does his worry surprise you?* he 
asked himself. It was amazing, really. Thranduil was not the type to 
let grievances go, but Legolas’s condition must have shaken the elven 
king badly, for he had not demanded any kind of satisfaction for the 
manner of their last parting. In fact, he had not mentioned it at all. 
At times, Legolas was grateful for this, but other times he felt the 
weight of debt still heavy on his heart. Yet another thing that added 
to his frustration and irritability. 

As for the rest of them…Legolas remained obstinate. Every elf in 
Mirkwood acted as though he would shatter like glass if left alone for 
five minutes. Even now, he could hear them searching for him. True, he 
was still not fully recovered, but their prodding wearied him more 
than anything. *I would be able to recover far more quickly if they 
would but leave me in peace!*

Berensul seemed to have appointed himself (or had been appointed by 
his father) to the task of hovering over Legolas when Thranduil was 
otherwise occupied. Limloeth was even worse, sticking to his bedside 
as though attached by a chain. She seemed to have taken the illness as 
a call to mother Legolas at every opportunity, and if he tried to 
escape the smothering attentions of either of them, Eirien would 
immediately dose him unconscious. Though Elrond did not drug him (at 
least not as often) the elven lord’s penetrating gazes and knowing 
half-smiles grated on Legolas’s nerves still more. It was the same 
with Mithrandir. 

Footsteps startled Legolas out of his brooding, and he stepped quickly 
into another doorway as Eirien passed by. This little escapade was 
likely to end with him being hauled back to his chamber and drugged 
again. *The poison’s fever did no lasting damage to my mind; why do 
they persist in making me sleep my life away?*

It was true that he still tired easily; in fact, he was beginning to 
weary now. *Which means if any of them find me, I will not be able to 
put up much of a fight before I am dragged back to my rooms like an 
escaped fugitive. Eirien I might stand a chance against, but Berensul 
or Lim would drop me.* Why oh why did his family not trust him to look 
to his own health? *I would not mind resting in my chamber were it not 
for their plaguing!* He sighed, then pressed himself silently against 
the wall as yet another searching elf passed. He knew he should return 
soon before weariness truly got the better of him and gave them all 
one more reason to fuss. Perhaps it would not occur to them to search 
in his room. With that in mind, he stealthily made his way back to his 
chamber.

He was thoroughly pleased with himself to reach his door without a 
single elf catching him. *They think me feeble, but I can still evade 
the lot of them!* Legolas heaved a soft sigh of relief and entered his 
room, only to jump a mile at the sight of Limloeth standing by the 
window. His elder sister wore an expression of combined irritation and 
maternal patience--both of which irritated Legolas greatly. “I knew 
you would try to sneak back here,” she said smugly, turning to where 
Eirien kept her sleeping draughts.

Intense, defiant anger burst from within, actually making Legolas 
tremble. “Do not bother, Sister,” he said in a tightly-controlled 
voice.

“It is Eirien’s orders,” she replied, pretending not to notice his 
fury as she held out the cup.

“I need it not,” he said furiously, but keeping his voice low to avoid 
bringing the entire palace down on him.

In a condescending tone, Limloeth pressed, “You must rest if your body 
is to heal, Legolas--”

“--Oh, by the Valar, ENOUGH!” Legolas exploded. “You treat me like a 
sickly, mind-addled child who has not the wits to care for himself! I 
know what my body needs, Limloeth, and I would rest more easily if 
you, Berensul, Eirien, and all your minions would leave me in peace!”

Becoming angry in her turn, Limloeth answered, “Sometimes, Legolas, I 
do not know if you have the sense the Valar gave a dwarf! We are your 
family, and we want what is best for you--”

“--I will be the judge of what is best for me now; I am no longer 
delirious!” Legolas shot back.

“Legolas--” Limloeth’s eyes flashed, but then she seemed to gain 
control of herself, resuming that pose of patience that only irritated 
her brother further. “You have been very ill and you still are not 
fully recovered. It need not be so difficult.” She held out the cup 
again, her eyes earnest and caring.

Legolas took it with a scowl. Resisting the urge to either fling it 
through the window or into his sister’s face, he settled for pouring 
it out and slapping the cup down hard upon the table. Limloeth glared 
at him. “I said,” he repeated in a low, cold voice. “I need…it…not.”

“Brother, stop being so childish!” she said. “You cannot imagine how 
we have worried about you. You were near death when you arrived and 
then delirious for weeks--”

“--I know!” Legolas exclaimed, wanting to throw up his hands in 
frustration. “I was there, if you recall! But I am delirious no 
longer, and it is high time you ceased this absurd mothering. I am fit 
to care for myself again; I do not need you and Eirien waiting on me 
hand and foot!”

“Legolas, you have hardly shown a moment’s rational thought in 
thirty-five years! Sometimes I wonder how long it will take you to 
discover an early death if someone does not protect you from yourself 
and your endless rebellion against us all--”

That did it. Before Limloeth knew what was happening, Legolas seized 
her arm and propelled her out the door, so hard that she stumbled when 
he released her. Berensul and Eirien, alerted by the raised voices, 
had been coming down the hall, but were also knocked off balance when 
Limloeth careened into them. “Get out and stay out!” Legolas snapped 
at the trio, then slammed the door.

***

Berensul untangled himself from his wife and sister and headed for the 
door, fully intending to force it over and crack his brother over the 
head if necessary. But he was stopped short by Legolas’s voice, 
speaking in Quenya, commanding the door to hold fast. It was a magic 
that all the House of Thranduil knew, but rarely used by any. The door 
upon which the spell was placed could only be opened now by Thranduil, 
or the one who had cast it, namely Legolas. Berensul turned to the 
others with a helpless expression.

“He has completely taken leave of his senses!” whispered Limloeth.

“What now?” Eirien murmured. “None but Legolas can open the door.”

“Father can,” said Lim, lifting her chin resolutely. “I suggest we pay 
him a visit.”

***

King Thranduil was discussing recent orc activity with Lord Elrond and 
Mithrandir when Berensul, Eirien, and Limloeth requested an audience. 
The moment the trio entered the Great Hall, looking as if their beds 
had been short-sheeted, Thranduil suspected he knew what it was about. 
Lord Elrond’s lips quirked and Mithrandir discreetly hid his smile 
behind his hand. The Lord of Imladris and the Maia rose. “I think we 
had best leave you now, my lord,” said Lord Elrond.

“No indeed, Lord Elrond,” spoke up Eirien. “Your help might be of use 
as well, Mithrandir.”

Shooting Thranduil a meaningful look, Elrond replied, “Nay, my lady, 
something tells me this is a matter best kept within the House of 
Thranduil.”

“I quite agree,” said Mithrandir, and the two departed the throne 
room. The faint sound of laughter floated through the closing doors.

Thranduil motioned for his attendants to leave as well, and when they 
had gone, turned to his children. “What is amiss?”

“Legolas!” spat Limloeth in an utterly exasperated tone. “For every 
day that his strength returns, he rebels against the healers’ orders 
still more. Today he escaped his chamber for three hours and now has 
locked himself inside alone and used the old spell to seal the door!”

The elven king blinked, and then felt a sudden urge to laugh. The 
outrage on his son, daughter, and daughter-in-law’s faces was comical. 
*That is the most willful Legolas has ever been.* He kept his 
composure, but smiled as he said, “I think perhaps Legolas is well 
enough to care for himself. We need not stand over him every minute 
like an unweaned babe.”

All three of them began protesting at once. “But, Father--”

“He is not yet fully recovered--”

“That boy is going to sicken himself again if someone does not look 
after him--”

“--Limloeth!” Thranduil held up a hand sharply, cutting them all off 
but glaring chiefly at his daughter. To Berensul and Eirien, he said 
in a calmer voice, “Leave us. And do not go knocking and harrying your 
brother’s door. Leave him be.”

Indignation on their faces had been replaced by puzzlement, but they 
obeyed him. Limloeth watched them go, then turned back to Thranduil 
with equal confusion in her eyes. “Father?”

“I know you mean well, child, but Legolas is neither a boy, nor a 
cripple. He will recover better if he is left in peace.”

“I am only trying to--”

“Help him, protect him, shelter him. Keep him from hurting himself 
with his youthful inexperience and impulsiveness. I know, Daughter. I 
know well. But your brother clearly does not look favorably upon such 
treatment anymore.”

“That he has made clear,” she muttered with a little shake of her 
head. Then she took on that expression of patient understanding that 
reminded Thranduil of his wife (specifically, of her not-so-endearing 
habit of thinking herself right in all things.) “But I fear Legolas 
does not always know what is good for him.”

“And you do?” Thranduil fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Be wary, 
Limloeth, for that is dangerous ground to tread where Legolas is 
concerned.”

“I--” Limloeth started to object, then faltered. Thranduil saw many 
thoughts run through her brown eyes, and when she met his gaze again, 
he felt for a moment that he had looked into a mirror. Looking down 
again, she murmured, “These are such hard years. I only wanted things 
to be easier for him.”

“As did we all. But we cannot face the trials of the Warrior’s Coming 
of Age for him. You can manage him no longer, my dear. We must all 
stop attempting to usurp and second-guess his decisions. Let him make 
his own choices, and mistakes, if necessary. That became his right 
thirty-five years ago. I realize now that it is high time we all 
recognized it. ”

Looking a bit sheepish, his daughter said, “I fear he is rather put 
out with us.”

Chuckling, Thranduil beckoned to her and headed out of the throne 
room. They found Berensul and Eirien waiting outside. “I will go and 
speak with Legolas--WITHOUT an entourage,” he told them firmly. Then 
he left the cave under the mountain and returned to the outer palace.

The elven king could easily have commanded the door of his son’s 
chamber to open, but instead lifted a hand and knocked. “Legolas? May 
I enter?”

“Yes, Father,” came the quiet reply, and he heard his son’s voice 
speaking in Quenya, releasing the spell on the door.

Legolas opened the door to admit his father, and Thranduil noticed his 
slightly bleary eyes. “Forgive me, my son. I did not realize you were 
asleep.”

“It is unimportant,” said Legolas, not meeting Thranduil’s eyes. With 
a wry smile, he added, “I feel I sleep too much as it is.”

Thranduil smiled. “How do you fare?” he asked, indicating Legolas’s 
shoulder.

“It aches at times, but that is all. You need not worry,” his son 
added, looking slightly defensive. 

“I am pleased to hear it, and still more when I see you back to normal 
again. These last weeks have been a fearful time for us all.”

Legolas looked quite startled. *Expected a scolding, didn’t you?* 
Thranduil thought with amusement. But his son’s eyes lowered slightly, 
“I should not have been so cross with them. I know they only desire to 
help.”

Nodding, Thranduil added, “And two of them are now parents, while the 
other has mothered you and Belhador for much of your lives. Such 
habits die hard. But fear not, Lord Elrond and I agreed you no longer 
need a healer at your bedside at all hours, nor confinement to your 
chamber.” The intense relief on Legolas’s face nearly made him laugh 
aloud.

Legolas smiled, “I promise not to start practicing with my bow just 
yet.” He and Thranduil shared a chuckle then, and it seemed as if 
thirty-five years of vexation and resentment fell away for a moment.

Almost. Smiling, Thranduil told him, “Have patience, my son, you will 
have time to restore your archery prowess in the coming days, and soon 
you will Mirkwood’s champion once again. Now you are home and all is 
forgiven.” He saw a shadow come over his son’s face just then. 
“Legolas?”

“Nothing, Father.” Though Legolas was clearly dissembling, Thranduil 
caught himself and managed not to press the issue. *He is grown. I 
need not know all his personal affairs if he does not wish to share 
them.* Nonetheless, the admission made him ache inside.

***

Three days later…

Legolas knew that despite the insistence of his father and Lord Elrond 
that he be given his freedom, Lim, Eirien, and Berensul would be on 
him like dwarves on a mithril vein if they caught him. So, although 
his body still felt weaker than he would have wished, Legolas fled the 
outer palace as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He had 
languished long enough in his rooms. Too long. For all that time, his 
heart had burned with the amends yet to be made until he thought he 
might go mad.

It would be folly to go far from the warmth of the palace in February, 
but Legolas did not intend to be outside for more than a few minutes. 
For his destination was neither the stables nor the training fields, 
but the inner palace within the mountain. Specifically, his father’s 
Great Hall. Even for that short walk across the green and over the 
bridge, he donned his winter cloak, grinning to himself as he imagined 
Limloeth and Eirien’s voices admonishing him. 

It had been nearly a year since Legolas had crossed the bridge over 
the Forest River into the cave to speak to Thranduil, but this walk 
did not have the air of dread that he had felt then. Rather, a sense 
of determination, bound by honor and a good measure of guilt, drove 
his steps this time, and there was no urge to retreat. There would be 
no flight this time. He paused by one of the warming braziers in the 
main tunnel until the bite of winter left him. His siblings would eat 
him alive if he took a chill.

He hesitated for a moment outside the wooden doors of the Great Hall, 
gazing up at where they touched the ceiling. The throne room still 
seemed vast, but to the child who had first beheld it, it had seemed 
massive. He snapped back to reality as the doors swung open. “Prince 
Legolas!” announced the herald.

King Thranduil, wearing his winter crown of evergreen and holly, rose 
from his throne. Legolas had deliberately waited until near the end of 
the day so as not to disrupt the regular court business. As it was, 
only the elven king’s attendants were in the Hall. Sounding faintly 
surprised, Thranduil beckoned him in. “My son?”

The elven king’s family were granted certain liberties when it came to 
addressing him, but today, Legolas took advantage of none of them. He 
advanced and stopped well before the throne, as any subject would who 
sought a favor from the king. But then, instead of merely bowing, 
Legolas dropped to one knee in the fashion of a supplicant. Over time, 
such a position had come to have a more serious meaning: that the 
petitioner was one who had committed some wrong and sought the king’s 
mercy. Raising his eyes, Legolas spoke quietly, but steadily, “If I 
might have a word, my lord.”

The soft intakes of breath behind him and the way Thranduil stiffened 
indicated that none had missed the prince’s extreme formality. 
Thranduil stared at Legolas for a moment, obviously confused, then 
looked up at the other elves and said briskly, “Leave us.” Legolas 
heard them go, but did not move or take his eyes off his father’s 
face.

***

Along with great puzzlement, Thranduil also felt a sense of sudden 
panic even as the doors closed on his servants. What could his son’s 
strange actions mean? Looking down again, he forced himself to calm, 
and said evenly, “Rise, Legolas.” His son did so. How to address 
this…he could think of no response except for directness. “What is it 
you ask of me?”

Never his son’s face been so composed, but when Legolas met 
Thranduil’s gaze, his eyes told the king all he needed to know. The 
remorse in them nearly made Thranduil step backward, and his mind 
cried, *What is amiss now? I had thought it was over!* Legolas’s reply 
confused him still more. “I ask your forgiveness. As my father and my 
king.”

*What?!* Feeling an unpleasant tightness inside, Thranduil answered, 
“My son, I realize that your illness made it difficult for us to speak 
long of our…past conflict, but be assured, you received my forgiveness 
then. Unconditionally. You need not apologize again. I need no formal 
repentance.”

Now Legolas looked puzzled in his turn. “Again?”

Thranduil stared at him. “I thought we had…made our peace…when we 
spoke several weeks ago.” Though he made a valiant effort not to show 
it, Legolas was clearly confused. A nagging suspicion in Thranduil’s 
mind came out in a half-hopeful, half-fearful question. “You do not 
remember?”

His son’s eyes dropped as though searching through the jumbled 
memories from his illness for some remnant of their talk, but when he 
looked up again, there was still-deeper sorrow in their gray depths. 
“Nay. I do not.”

Thranduil’s mind whirled with many thoughts. Some were grievous at 
having lost the memory of those all-important words with Legolas, when 
they had bonded as they had not since Legolas had been very young. And 
he cursed himself, for a part of him could not deny feeling relief 
that Legolas could not remember seeing his father at his weakest. It 
was not Thranduil’s nature to display emotion as he had when Legolas 
had been near death, and yet…*What sort of a father is ashamed of 
caring for his son, ashamed to admit fear even in the face of his 
death?*

Legolas was watching him, so Thranduil said, “I am sorry that you do 
not recall it, but your fever was still very high at the time. We did 
speak, and made our apologies. Our grievances were forgiven.”

With a look of real dismay, Legolas murmured, “And I remember naught 
of it.” He seemed almost angry with himself.

“Legolas,” Thranduil spoke urgently. “It was the first time you had 
awakened without being delirious. The fever was no fault of yours.”

Smiling humorlessly, his son replied, “I doubt if my words were very 
coherent.”

“I understood you perfectly,” the elven king said even as his throat 
tightened with the memory.

Legolas looked away, uncertain. After a long moment, he looked back at 
his father with eyes bright with determination. “All the same, Father, 
I fear I cannot be easy until I have made you a proper apology for my 
failure in my duty as your son. One that I can remember,” he added 
wryly. Before Thranduil could protest, he went on, “Nearly every time 
we have met over the past thirty-five years, I have treated you in a 
fashion unfit for either a son or a prince. My childish resentments 
gave me no right to forget the loyalty that I owe you. My behavior 
when we met on the plains and when I returned was inexcusable.” 
Dropping his eyes, he murmured, “I am deeply ashamed. I beg your 
forgiveness.”

It took Thranduil an even longer moment to trust his own voice. At 
last, he replied, “Then you have it. As I already told you, I forgive 
you freely. You owe me no further penance.” He could have dismissed 
Legolas then, knowing that his son’s conscience had been eased and his 
sense of honor intact, but his own would not so easily end the 
conversation. *He remembers nothing. We each wronged each other, but 
he does not remember my words to him. His honor would not let him rest 
until he apologized to me…* Before he could change his mind, Thranduil 
said, “If indeed you remember naught of what we said, then I must also 
repeat my words to you. I too have been burdened by the wrong I did 
you…and Tathar’s memory.” He pretended not to see the way Legolas 
flinched. “I dishonored you both with my words, and for that I must 
ask you to forgive me.”

In a very soft voice, Legolas answered, “Yes, Father.” Lifting his 
chin, he added, “And I pledge to never forget my duty to you, my 
father and lord.”

Thranduil placed a hand gently on his son’s shoulder. “May we never 
part on ill terms again.” Their eyes met again, and at last, there was 
a clarity in them both. The past words could not be altered or erased, 
but now they might finally look to the future. “I am very glad to have 
you home, my son. I have missed you.”

“And I you.”

“Come. The day’s work is done; let us return to our family.”

***

Any who thought that the elven king and his youngest son would be free 
of conflict after that were sadly mistaken. For although the quarrels 
of the past were forgiven, it was not the last time Thranduil and 
Legolas would find themselves at odds.

Quite the contrary.

For they remained of different minds, yet with a similar temperment, 
and consequently clashes of ideal and will became a regular occurrence 
in the elven king’s halls.

***

Not long afterward…

“It is not unreasonable, Father, nor dangerous!”

“Legolas, you know well my feelings concerning men. I would not have 
dealings with them under any circumstances.”

Legolas leaned against the wall of the hallway outside the royal 
chambers and mentally cursed his father’s narrow-mindedness. Then, why 
did it surprise him? He had always known Thranduil’s opinion of men. 
*It is because I have had dealings of my own with them.* His 
experience in Haloel had convinced him that men varied as much as 
elves, and no generalization could describe them all. Certainly no 
condemnation. *I wonder how Father would react if he knew I spent much 
of the past year in the sole company of Isildur’s heir.* The thought 
threatened to make him laugh aloud even as his father glared at him.

Thranduil was speaking again. “Silivren is thirty years old. She will 
soon be tall enough for a horse, and then she can learn to ride. You 
were able to wait until then.”

“Sili has no friends her own age as I had. If she is forced to amuse 
herself alone she shall only get into trouble. Trading for a pony will 
not threaten our security.”

“It is out of the question. She shall have to find other ways to amuse 
herself until she comes of age.” Thranduil glared harder at his 
youngest son. “Do not defy me in this. The subject is closed.” 

With a curt nod, Legolas turned and walked away, rebellion still 
flashing in his gray eyes. But he had known even as he broached the 
subject that it was a very long shot. Thranduil watched him go, fuming 
at his impudence. A soft chuckle made him turn. Berensul had evidently 
come out of his chamber when they were arguing and heard much of the 
exchange. More irritating still, he looked rather amused. “Legolas 
seems well restored to health, my dear father.”

Thranduil sighed and shook off his vexation. Such a silly thing was 
not worth being in a ruffle for the rest of the day. Why Legolas had 
even attempted it was beyond him. But he did remark, “That boy is 
impossible!”

“Really, Father, I caused you much more grief when I came of age. Why 
does Legolas surprise you?”

Smiling in spite of himself, the elven king replied blithely, “You 
were a trying child all your life, so your misbehavior throughout your 
coming of age came as no surprise. Legolas has not always been thus.”

Berensul grinned at him. “Such are the woes of fatherhood, as I’ve no 
doubt I am about to experience first-hand.”

“Indeed, Sili is yours to rear. I look forward to seeing you wrestling 
with all the decisions that must be made over her upbringing, for the 
prerogative is yours,” Thranduil said, teasing slightly.

But Berensul looked downright smug at those words. “Just so,” he said. 
“That established, if you will excuse me, I need to see a man about a 
horse. Or a pony, that is.”

“What?!”

***

A little while later…

With a resounding “thunk,” the last of Legolas’s arrows embedded 
itself in the dead center of the target. Beside him, Candrochon cursed 
and shook his head. “Only weeks since you were on your deathbed and 
already you are outshooting us all.”

Eregdos, the archer captain who had replaced Langcyll as leader of the 
warriors of Mirkwood, laughed from the sidelines. “I am glad to see 
him returned, for he keeps the rest of you on your toes.” Though a 
strict novice master Eregdos was wise and well-liked by all the 
warriors. At the moment, he was assembling patrol parties. “I will 
need a company of twelve to scout south for three weeks--no, Legolas, 
do not bother volunteering for that one.”

As it happened, Legolas had not intended to, but the smirk from 
Candrochon and his other friends irked him nonetheless. Since his 
return to the ranks of the warriors, he had chafed at the restrictions 
that remained upon his movement, and his companions greatly enjoyed 
rubbing his nose in it at every opportunity. Eregdos assembled the 
scouting party, and continued, “Lady Limloeth’s party leaves tomorrow 
at dawn. Four of our warriors shall escort them to the border. I shall 
be one of them.”

“For that I shall volunteer,” Legolas spoke up resolutely.

Eregdos smiled (he had expected the prince would.) Merilin and 
Candrochon also joined. “Someone has to look after you,” said 
Candrochon.

“Ignore him, Legolas, he is merely jealous that you are beating him 
again.”

“Of course,” laughed Legolas.

“A fine day when my own wife mocks me!”

“Hah!”

***

The next morning…

Limloeth swept her gray Lorien cloak back as she came into the palace 
foyer. Her brother Berensul was waiting for her. “How did Sili like 
her present?”

Berensul grinned. “She is beside herself. Gwilwileth is going to begin 
instructing her today, once Baran gets used to his new home.”

“Did you have any trouble in Lake Town?” 

“Nay, though the men were a little surprised to see me after all this 
time. But they were more than happy to give me a good pony for my 
gold.”

The princess sniggered, “Does Father know you paid them in gold?”

“Nay, and I’ve no intention of telling him.” They both laughed. 
Hearing footsteps, the two turned to see their younger brother coming, 
dressed for winter riding in his brown cloak. “Good morrow, Legolas. 
Eregdos finally let you off the leash, I see.”

Pulling his mouth to one side, Legolas replied, “To some extent, 
though he himself leads the escort.” Berensul chuckled and Legolas 
shrugged amiably. “I shall see you outside; the escort is readying 
their horses.”

“So you finally picked a replacement mount?” asked Limloeth.

His bright eyes darkening, Legolas replied, “There was no replacing 
Lanthir.”

Watching Legolas go, his sister murmured, “He still mourns.”

“Lanthir was a noble steed, a gift from Lady Galadriel at the start of 
the Great Gathering. Legolas has a right to miss him. It explains why 
he was so forceful on the subject of Sili’s pony.”

“And Father just as stubborn. Why do you suppose Legolas manages to 
vex him so? As you said, you were a far more difficult youth.”

Berensul fixed her with a knowing gaze. “You need not ask questions to 
which you already know the answer, Sister. We both know why Father 
reacts to Legolas as he does.”

It was an inevitable truth, but one that Legolas’s elder siblings 
could acknowledge without bitterness. Smiling at each other, they came 
out onto the outer palace steps where the rest of the elven king’s 
household waited.

***

King Thranduil had little doubt that Legolas had somehow persuaded 
Berensul to disobey his edict against dealing with men. And he was 
none too happy about it, though he had at last acquiesced when it was 
clear that Berensul’s mind was made up. Such a matter was hardly worth 
calling the palace guards, though the thought had seriously crossed 
Thranduil’s mind. Looking back, he half-wished he had done it rather 
than permit his sons to undermine his authority, but it was done now. 
And Silivren was quite thrilled to have a pony, but that did not alter 
the facts. 

That line of thought abruptly stopped when he spotted Legolas leading 
his horse over to Limloeth’s escort. After adjusting the gray mare’s 
pack, he turned and came nimbly up the steps to where the rest of the 
family was assembling to bid Limloeth farewell. Seeing Thranduil 
watching him, Legolas tensed ever so slightly. The elven king sighed 
inwardly. “I did not know you were joining the escort, Legolas,” he 
said in a forcibly calm tone.

Meeting his father’s eyes evenly, Legolas replied, “Forgive me. We 
only assembled last night.”

“How long will you be gone, my son?”

Legolas relaxed, and his voice softened, “Two days at the most.”

Thranduil nodded. “That is well.” Just then Berensul and Limloeth came 
out of the palace, followed by Eirien and Silivren. Touching his son’s 
shoulder, he said quietly, “Take care.”

“I shall, Father.” Then they turned so the rest of the family could 
bid farewell to Limloeth. When all had taken their leave, Legolas took 
his sister’s hand and escorted her down to the waiting entourage. 
Thranduil watched with a deep ache inside as his eldest daughter and 
youngest son mounted their horses and rode from the palace courtyard, 
waving back to their family. Limloeth, now wed and a Lady of 
Lothlorien. Legolas, a proven warrior of Mirkwood.

*It has come at last, however long I sought to deny it. All my 
children have grown.* But then, just as a sense of dreadful loneliness 
threatened to overwhelm him, the childish pleading of his 
granddaughter reached his ears. “May I go and see my pony now, Mother? 
Please?”

A smile coming at once to his face, Thranduil turned to his 
daughter-in-law. “I shall take her to the stables, Eirien, by your 
leave.” At her warm nod, he held out his hand to Sili. “Come, little 
one. There is much now for you to see.*

***

Fourteen years later, in the Lonely Mountain…

“I still have my worries about this undertaking.” Glóin and Dáin eyed 
the assembled company of dwarves, both feeling doubts.

“As do I, my friend, but we both know Balin would have gone whether I 
gave leave or no, and I would not see our people torn asunder by such 
a conflict,” said Dáin.

Glóin sighed, “True, but I prefer that to mourning our people if Moria 
defeats them.”

A great number of Dáin’s folk had elected to go with Balin, and at the 
foot of Lonely Mountain, they were preparing to depart, bearing the 
great stores of weapons and supplies they had been preparing for 
nearly twenty years. Balin and Óin stood at the front, Ori at the 
back, shouting orders to the company. 

Dáin watched the activity for a moment before answering Glóin, “It may 
not be so bad. Balin is a fine dwarf, and fate willing, a worthy lord 
of Moria. We have worked hard these past years to give them all that 
they will need. They may well prevail and take back our ancient realm. 
It would be a great triumph for the dwarves.”

“I hope you are right.”

Balin, Óin, and Ori came up then to where Dáin and Glóin were 
standing. “All is ready, my lord. We beg leave to depart.”

Dáin nodded gravely and gripped each of their arms in turn. “Safe 
journey, my friends. We shall be awaiting word.”

“Farewell, Dáin, Glóin.” The three leaders returned to the company of 
dwarves, who cheered a tribute to their leaders and also to the King 
Under the Mountain, who they were leaving behind.

Glóin and Dáin watched them until the party vanished from view. “Well, 
my friend,” Dáin said briskly. “I am glad you remained here.”

“I would not choose to cast my son’s and my lot with any other,” Glóin 
replied.

Dáin laughed, clapping Glóin on the back as they went back into the 
halls. “I appreciate your faith. Here, come.” He walked into a small 
storeroom as they went deeper into the mountain. It was one of many 
treasure rooms that housed the wealth of the Lonely Mountain. 
Rummaging around in one of the boxes, Dáin beckoned Glóin over. “A 
token of that appreciation for your loyalty, son of Gróin.”

The King Under the Mountain handed Glóin a large, lusterous black 
pearl. “Brought back by Naldin from the mountains near Moria. Keep it, 
my friend.”

Glóin took the gift and bowed, then held it up admiringly. “May 
treasures such as this be all that Balin’s folk find in the old 
mines.”

“May that come to pass,” agreed Dáin fervently. 

“Naldin found it in the mountains, you say? Odd; looks more like a sea 
pearl.”

“Hmph. Strange. Wonder where exactly it was.” 

“Shame we can’t ask him. But Naldin went with his father back to 
Moria,” Glóin told him.

“Did he? Don’t recall exactly--any others of Naldin’s party go back 
with Balin?”

“Two of them. Sothi, son of Dwalin, and Tili’s eldest, Sháin.”

“But Tili and Dwalin didn’t go?”

“Nay, and neither were especially pleased that their sons did,” Glóin 
chuckled. “I am glad Gimli chose not to.”

“He was tempted?” asked Dáin.

“Thought we’d have a fight on our hands, but in the end he decided to 
stay,” Glóin replied.

Dáin laughed. “Tili and Dwalin did have a fight on their hands, but 
couldn’t change Sháin and Sothi’s minds. Hmph. Ah, well. Who can 
explain fathers and sons?”

*****

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Old Friends, Older Enemies





Twenty-eight years later (or forty-two years after Legolas returned to 
Mirkwood)…



In the Dead Marshes…



It was all that Aragorn could do not to drag his feet as he slogged 
through the stinking quagmire, bound for home. His entire body ached 
with exhaustion from the arduous journey he had just undertaken, and 
now he returned, weighed down still more by the burden of failure. 

Though he had searched high and low in the Ash Mountains, walking in 
sight of the Black Gate and treading the deadly flowers of Morgul 
Vale, braving the fires and choking smoke of Mordor, he had not found 
Gollum.

Gandalf had some years ago told him of a ring he had discovered, in 
the keeping of Bilbo Baggins, no less. It had been passed to Bilbo’s 
nephew Frodo, and for the moment at least seemed safe enough. But the 
wizard was worried that the Ring, which seemed at first to possess no 
power more extraordinary than turning people invisible, might actually 
be a far more significant trinket. Aragorn knew how Bilbo had come by 
it, but Bilbo had apparently not known how the Ring first came into 
Gollum’s possession. Thus, they had sought him out, to find the 
origins of Bilbo’s Ring, through the vales of Anduin, Mirkwood, and 
Rhovanion to the confines of Mordor.

Mordor was a fearsome place, and perils Aragorn had faced until at 
last he had despaired and turned away from its darkness. The journey 
had been a taxing one, and even as the light of the west had brought 
him hope, Aragorn fought such weariness that he wondered if he would 
not collapse on the spot. His food and water had run low, forcing him 
to ration himself carefully, but the dry, bitter tang in the air of 
Mordor, and now the heavy stench of the Marshes dried his throat until 
he was tormented by desperate thirst.

*It is not very much farther,* he told himself, plodding on as 
brackish mud sucked on his boots. *Soon I shall pass Emyn Muil, and 
there I shall find rest and fresh water.*

He came to another reasonably dry place, where the earth rose hard and 
dead above the clutch of the greasy, sullen waters. Weariness sang in 
his blood and bones, and so he chose that place to rest, allowing 
himself a sip of water and a morsel of elvish waybread, which he 
always carried with him. Although the waybread eased his hunger and 
restored some of his strength, it took all his willpower not to drain 
his waterskin dry. There was so little left; he would barely make it 
out of the marshes as it was with what he had. He dared not finish it. 
The festering stink of the marshland seemed to suck the moisture from 
his mouth with every breath. He closed his eyes; to open them was only 
to invite further temptation to drink from the acrid mere, and he 
dared not. That would invite sickness to befall him, and alone in this 
forsaken place, he would find no aid. 

The night came and a slight breeze picked up, bringing more stench 
with it but at least lessening the muggy heat. It was only early 
spring, but heat came early to the southern lands of Middle Earth, and 
the Dead Marshes in particular seemed to hold it in. Aragorn rolled 
onto his back, letting the light wind dry the sweat on his face. 
Unfortunately, the moving air was making the water in the meres lap 
softly, and the sounds were a new torture to the parched Ranger. 
*Water, water.* 

At last he could endure no more and pulled himself to his feet. *By 
the Valar, there must be a pool somewhere in these fens where water 
rises up safe to drink!* He staggered through the rotten, scummy mud, 
searching for any reasonably clean water. But the stagnant meres were 
so filled with slime and rot that he knew it would be the height of 
folly to drink of them. *Water…* 

Feeling weak with despair and fatigue, he stumbled on, unwilling to 
tarry in this place any longer without finding water. He folded his 
arms across his chest to keep them from straying to his water skin, 
and those last precious mouthfuls it contained, though they called 
seductively to him. The stink of the place seemed permanently 
imprinted in his nose and mouth, though he gagged and wiped his face 
on his sleeve. Slime and sweat dripped from him.

All at once, the swamp seemed at last to recede, and he found himself 
upon a path easier to tread, where the mud did not attempt to suck him 
down. Feeling renewed now with the ability to put one foot before the 
other without great strain, Aragorn turned his attention again to the 
pools and mires, hoping to see some sign of spring or stream. Finally, 
as night became day once again, his diligance was rewarded. The wind 
had died, and the sun’s beams reflected off the standing water through 
the slough, but in one place, the pool continued to ripple. The Ranger 
stopped in his tracks, blinking wearily, uncertain of what he saw. 
Could it be?

It was. Fresh water bubbled up in a tiny spring that opened into a 
muddy pool, pouring out into the marshes where it would sit still and 
stagnant forever. Aragorn all but launched himself off the dry path, 
landing full-length in the mud before the small flow. With trembling 
hands, he dipped up the water and sipped experimentally. Not terribly 
sweet, but clean enough. Gasping with weary relief, the heir of 
Isildur splashed his face clean of sweat and dirt, then dropped over 
the spring and drank until he was completely sated. 

His desperate thirst attended to, he sat up again and set about 
filling his water skin. He would rest here today, drink his fill 
again, then set off again tomorrow. Even as he sat back again with his 
skin full, his gaze fell upon the mud on the opposite side of the 
pool, indentations not caused by any flow of water. 

Aragorn’s heart lurched in anticipation as he scrambled to the 
imprints, and sure enough, he had at last by fortune come upon what he 
sought: the marks of soft feet. After having lost Gollum so 
thoroughly, the trail was fresh again, and it led, to the Ranger’s 
surprise, not to Mordor but away. He wasted no time, but snatched up 
his full water skin and sought out the next set of prints. And the 
next, and the next. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes he followed 
it, and as the dark evening fell yet again, Aragorn slowed. There by a 
stagnant mere, a dark figure lurked, barely visible in the faint 
light. The creature was peering into the water, muttering “Fisshhhh” 
to himself, and so Aragorn stealthily moved up behind him.

“Nice fissh, nice fissh. Many days without fisssh, Gollum, Gollum, 
poor Sméagol might starve. But now can find fissh, yes, nice fissh. 
Get stronger, my Precious. Go find Precious, get Precious back from 
nasty thief! But first fissh--”

Through those words, Aragorn had crept closer and closer. The creature 
he sought was shriveled and bony and covered in slime, trembling 
slightly. Gollum must be very hungry, for he peered on into the mere, 
muttering to himself, and not once did he sense that anything was 
amiss. Then he was but an arm’s length away, and Aragorn leapt out and 
seized him.

“Aaaagh! Evil! Nasty man! Loose us! Let go! Gollum, Gollum! Wicked 
man! Nasty mens, all wicked! Mustn’t hurt Sméagol! No! Loose us!”

Aragorn wrestled with his quarry, for Gollum was stronger than he 
looked, or at least more wily. The heir of Isildur found himself 
covered in slime and lurching off balance in every direction as Gollum 
bucked and kicked to get free. Managing to hook one arm around the 
creature’s torso, he wrenched a length of rope from his belt and 
attempted to loop it around Gollum‘s wrists. Gollum in turn seized the 
hand holding the rope and jerked it up past Aragorn’s other arm, 
sinking his white fangs into the Ranger’s flesh. Cursing furiously, 
Aragorn pulled free and smote Gollum a hard blow to one ear, dazing 
him long enough to get the rope instead around his neck.

“Gollum, Gollum! Evil, nasty man! Hurts us! Hits and chokes us! Come 
to take Sméagol back, yes, back--”

“Back where?” Aragorn demanded, examing his bleeding arm after 
fashioning the rope into a more suitable halter that Gollum would not 
escape from.

“Gollum, Gollum! Poor Sméagol, hurts Sméagol! Did nothing--”

Extremely cross with weariness and pain from the bite, Aragorn was not 
in any mood to be trifled with. He seized Gollum again and shook him 
vigorously. “Where have you been, Gollum? Why were you in Mordor?”

“Wicked man, nasty man! Gollum, Gollum!”

With another curse, Aragorn shoved the filthy, stinking creature away, 
fighting off nausea at the smell and feel of slime on his hands and 
clothes. Glaring at Gollum, he satisfied himself that the creature 
would not escape, and sat down, pondering what to do with him now. 
*Elbereth only knows where Gandalf is at this moment. I would not see 
this creature in the Shire, for certain.* He frowned to himself, 
thinking all the places he could take Gollum in the shortest length of 
time. *I shall be glad to wash my hands of him--literally, as the case 
may be. Perhaps…but would they receive him? I wonder…I am not known as 
a friend to the elves of Mirkwood, yet they have long memories. 
Perhaps my friendship to Legolas will still hold weight, even if it 
has been more than forty years since he left Rivendell.*

It would be a short trip at least, if he made for Mirkwood. At that 
point, Gollum began moaning and whining again, and Aragorn glared at 
him. “I shall gag you if you do not desist this noise.”

“Nasty mens, cruel mens, hurt poor Sméagol…”

Aragorn had only just returned from a nearly-fruitless journey through 
Mordor, slogged his way through the Dead Marshes, and now found 
himself covered with slime and nursing a rather nasty bite on his 
right arm. He was in no mood to be toyed with. Before Gollum even knew 
what was happening, the Ranger sprang to his feet, pulling a length of 
cloth from his pack, and stuffed part of it into his mouth, tying it 
behind his head. “I warned you,” he said coldly when Gollum grunted 
and whimpered at him. “Now be still or I shall bind you tighter.” With 
one final grumble, the creature crouched down and glared balefully 
back at him.

Aragorn sighed. It was going to be a very long walk to Mirkwood. He 
considered attempting to get some sleep with Gollum’s lead tied to a 
shrub nearby, but decided against it. He did not trust Gollum any 
further than Gollum could throw him. That in mind, with another sigh, 
he rose and took up the rope, gesturing imperiously for Gollum to walk 
ahead of him. The creature resisted at first, but a few snaps of the 
rope got him moving.

***

For all the misery that he had endured in Mordor, Aragorn considered 
the road back even worse. He watched Gollum day and night, getting 
precious little sleep as they moved up along the Anduin towards 
northern Mirkwood. He drove Gollum before him, not trusting the 
creature behind, and only after many days lacking drink and food did 
Gollum at last walk tamely ahead.

He had one reprieve as he passed between southern Mirkwood and 
Lothlorien. There along the banks of the Anduin he encountered a small 
scouting party of Lorien elves, watering their horses. Remembering 
Aragorn from his previous visit, two of them crossed the river to 
offer him additional food, and to discover what the strange creature 
was that Aragorn led with him.

“You are far from your traditional lands, Man of the West,” said the 
elf in the lead, bowing to Aragorn.

“As you see, Master Elf, I have an unusual errand,” the Ranger replied 
blandly, gesturing to his prisoner.

“Whither do you take him?” asked the other elf. 

“I hope that the Elves of Mirkwood will agree to keep him safe,” said 
Aragorn. “For he is wanted by Mithrandir in a matter of some 
importance.”

The elves digested this, then apparently were placated by the mention 
of the wizard’s name. The first elf bowed. “I am Orthelian, a captain 
under Haldir of the warriors of Lorien. My companion is Maethor, also 
a captain of our guard. We have seen you and heard much of you, Lord 
Aragorn, though we have never been introduced.”

Aragorn bowed in return, “You do me an honor, Captains of Lorien.” His 
vision blurred slightly. He was very tired.

Maethor noticed it. “Do you mean to depart at once for Mirkwood?”

“I should like to see my prisoner there as soon as possible.”

“And have you none to keep watch upon him? When do you sleep?”

“When I can.”

Orthelian and Maethor exchanged a glance. “Then join us at camp here 
on the riverbank tonight,” offered Orthelian. “We shall keep watch 
upon your prisoner while you take some rest. For a weary watcher may 
prove little use to that which he is charged with watching.”

Smiling wryly, Aragorn conceded to their reasoning. The last three 
elves of the party swam themselves and the horses across the river 
with little difficulty, and they made camp upon the eastern bank. 
Aragorn accepted gratefully their food and wine, but soon felt 
weariness overcome him, and laid down to rest. Orthelian himself took 
a watch, and posted another elf specifically to guard Gollum. Earlier, 
apparently feeling more charitable toward the creature than Aragorn, 
Maethor had attempted to remove the gag in order to offer Gollum 
something to eat. Only his elven reflexes had prevented him from 
having a hand bitten. But the scruples of the party would not let 
Gollum go hungry while they ate, so they left bread and fruit near him 
before snatching the gag away. After considerable grumbling, he ate it 
and drank the water they left him, then the gag went back on.

When Aragorn awoke, the sun was well in the sky. Startled, he looked 
about but saw the elves still keeping watch over both him and Gollum. 
Orthelian grinned at him. “Why did you not awaken me sooner, Captain 
Orthelian? I did not mean to delay you.”

“We thought you needed your rest, being mortal and all,” said the 
elven captain with a twinkle in his gray eyes. After you have broken 
your fast, we will be on our way.”

Slightly chagrinned, Aragorn accepted their generosity, and thanked 
them. He parted with them saying, “If you should happen to see 
Mithrandir, you might tell him that I have found Gollum. He will wish 
to know.”

“We shall, Lord Aragorn. Farewell! And,” Orthelian looked back over 
his shoulder, “please give my regards to Legolas.”

Startled, Aragorn glanced back, but the elves were already swimming 
back across the river. *Elves. I was reared by them, raised among 
them, speak their language as naturally as my own, and still they 
puzzle me.*

***

Seven days later…

Gollum hissed and grumbled around his gag as Aragorn drove him along 
the edge of the forest. They were still at least three days out of the 
elven king’s halls, but the Ranger was beginning to fear he would 
collapse and lose his prisoner. He had had next to no sleep since 
parting ways with Orthelian and Maethor, and despite the endurance of 
his Numenorean blood, the strain was taking a heavy toll. Driving 
Gollum ahead of himself was the only way to ensure that the creature 
did not notice his growing weakness and attempt to take advantage of 
it. 

*If I do not rest soon, I will be unable to prevent him from 
escaping.* The lembas of the elves granted him the strength to walk 
on, but even that no longer served as any substitute for sleep. *So 
tired…* Lack of food and drink had tamed Gollum, but Aragorn did not 
trust him for ten seconds if the creature should realize his captor’s 
growing vulnerability. Aragorn’s hands trembled as he held the lead 
rope, and he was stumbling more and more frequently as he walked.

*I must sleep,* the Ranger fell to his knees. That caught Gollum’s 
attention, and the creature looked back curiously. Seeing Aragorn’s 
weariness, his eyes widened slightly, and he immediately attempted to 
jerk the lead rope free of his captor’s hands.

But Aragorn still had some strength left in him, and he wrenched it 
back. Gollum hissed in protest, but became submissive again. Aragorn 
staggered to his feet and looked around. The dark edge of northwestern 
Mirkwood was not a hundred yards away, but his peril would only 
increase if he attempted to brave its depths in this state. He had 
thought at first to skirt the forest all the way around until he 
reached the wood elves’ territory. But now his list of plausible 
choices was shortening. He would not last much longer before his body 
forced him into unconsciousness, whether he was willing or no. And 
Gollum would escape then.

Resolutely, he drove Gollum straight toward the forbidding wood until 
they were just beneath its edge. Then he leaned against one of the 
dark trunks, closing his eyes against the haze that clouded his 
vision. *So tired…* Forcing his eyes open, he looked at his prisoner. 
He had to find some way of securing Gollum so that the creature would 
not escape while he slept. With that in mind, he began winding the 
rope around the tree until Gollum was forced up against it, his 
trussed hands pressed into the trunk. Using another coil he bound 
Gollum fast until the creature could barely move at all, let alone 
wriggle or chew himself free of the ropes.

“I am not going anywhere and neither are you,” he said curtly. Almost 
as soon as he had finished securing his prisoner, a wave of dizzy 
exhaustion brought him to his knees again. “Just as well,” he muttered 
to himself. “I fear I could not go any further if I wished.” With 
that, he cast himself onto the ground and fell instantly into an 
unnaturally heavy sleep.

***

The next day, on the edge of Mirkwood…

“Are you sure that shoulder is well, Caranaur?” Legolas asked his 
fellow warrior with a worried frown.

“It is fine, Legolas. There does not seem to be any infection,” 
Caranaur replied, eyeing his bandaged wound.

Legolas’s small hunting party was three days out of the elven king’s 
halls, nearly to the edge of the wood. They had been hunting spiders, 
but stumbled across a small company of orcs the day before. Caranaur 
had suffered the only injury, a shallow knife wound, but insisted it 
was not worth returning home. 

“You simply do not duck fast enough,” said Thalatirn. Caranaur glared 
at him.

Grinning, Legolas turned his attention ahead to where the break in the 
trees revealed the plains to the west. “Let us find the sun, and then 
we shall turn for home.”

The three warriors walked out from beneath the cover of the trees, 
enjoying the warmth of the spring sun upon their faces. All at once, 
scuffling noises nearby caused them all to start and look about. “What 
was that?” muttered Thalatirn.

“Sounds like an animal,” murmured Caranaur.

Legolas said nothing, but quietly drew an arrow and cautiously 
followed the sounds, his comrades close behind him. The scratches and 
scuffs seemed not like an animal simply making its way through the 
grass or chasing prey, but rather like something trapped and trying to 
break free. So intent was he on seeking the source of the noises that 
he nearly did not see the large form upon the ground before him. 
Caranaur grabbed his arm then, pointing excitedly. The three elves 
froze. 

It was a man, dressed in the worn, dark raiment of a Ranger, lying 
sprawled upon the grass just beneath the shade of the trees at the 
edge of the wood, dead to the world. Rangers were not ones to sleep 
unguarded in the wood, and under normal circumstances, this man would 
have been roused by the noises of the animal nearby. Thus he had to be 
either injured or ill. Legolas startled his friends by taking a few 
steps closer, and Thalatirn even grabbed his arm in protest, far less 
trusting of a strange mortal even if he were hurt. But Legolas 
motioned them back and walked to where he could see the man’s face, 
turned slightly away from him.

The bow slackened at once, and he dropped his arrow. “Ara--Strider!” 
he managed to catch himself as he remembered Caranaur and Thalatirn.

His comrades called out behind him, “Legolas, what--” but Legolas was 
already kneeling at his old friend’s side, checking the man’s pulse. 
The other two elves stared at each other in confusion, for none in 
Mirkwood knew of Legolas’s previous encounters with mortals, and over 
the past forty years, he had spent most of his time within the realm’s 
borders. “Legolas?”

“Strider?” Sighing with relief at finding a heartbeat, Legolas looked 
Aragorn over for other injuries. He could find none, but by the Valar, 
how fast mortals aged, even those of Numenorean blood. His friend’s 
dark hair was beginning to show hints of gray, and his face had 
acquired many lines and shadows. His eyes in particular were closed 
tight with exhaustion. Deeply worried, Legolas shook him gently, 
“Arise, my friend. What ails you?”

At last, the Ranger groaned and tossed his head. Legolas sat back a 
bit as Aragorn started, tensing at once as the elf’s voice pulled him 
from unconsciousness. Blinking weakly, Aragorn stared at the new 
arrivals. While the Ranger’s aged appearance came as a shock to 
Legolas, in more than forty years the Sindarin prince’s face had not 
changed at all. “Legolas?”

“The guard of the Rangers seems to have lessened, or why have I found 
you exposed deep in slumber upon these plains?” asked the elf with a 
small smile.

“Legolas?” pressed Caranaur from behind them, sounding faintly 
dismayed. Legolas ignored him.

Aragorn pulled his mouth to one side. “As it happens, I was on my way 
to see you.”

“Indeed--”

“Legolas!” exclaimed both his companions. Exasperated at the 
explanations that would now be demanded, Legolas turned to face them. 
Instead, both pointed to a tree just beyond where the man sat, and the 
creature tied to it.

The elf stared, then wrinkled his nose. “Who…or what…is that?”

Wryly, his old friend answered, “That is why I have come. I had a 
request to make of your father, King Thranduil, and his folk.”

Legolas grimaced harder, guessing Aragorn’s purpose. “You wish us to 
keep this…thing?”

Aragorn nodded. “Not the most pleasant favor, I know, but he has 
information that must not fall into the wrong hands. I am certain your 
people could keep him safe.”

“What is he?”

“He is called Gollum, though I am told his name was once Smeagol. I 
shall tell you more if you will permit me within your borders.”

Legolas laughed. “Consider yourself permitted, but first I would know 
what ails you. I could find no injuries, but you did not wake for 
several moments.”

With a shrug, Aragorn replied, “There has been precious little time 
for sleep guarding him. I searched for him all the way to Mordor and 
back.”

“Ai,” Legolas muttered appreciatively. He rose then, and Aragorn 
attempted to stand as well, only to find himself so unsteady on his 
feet that Legolas had to catch him. “Ooph! How long had you been 
asleep before we came?”

Aragorn sheepishly accepted the elf’s aid sitting down again, then 
looked at the sky. “A few hours.”

Legolas nodded. “Not enough to make up for the weeks you have gone 
with less. We shall go to my father’s halls when you have rested 
longer, but I will send word ahead…along with your friend there,” he 
added, causing Aragorn to pull a face. “Caranaur, Thalatirn, kindly 
guide our strange guest back to the elven king’s halls and ask that he 
be placed under guard. Say that I shall be returning in a day or two 
with Strider.” At his companions’ confused expressions, he elaborated, 
“We met on an occasion while I was abroad. He is my friend.”

The other two elves looked doubtfully at each other. Wood elves were 
not inclined to trust strangers easily, and certainly not mortals. But 
it was clear to them that Legolas considered this man a friend, and he 
was commanding the small hunt. So, with intense distaste for their 
newly-acquired companion, they untied Gollum’s lead from the tree and 
led the grumbling, hissing creature into the woods.

Watching them go, Legolas grinned. “Not the most pleasant duty I have 
ever given them.”

“Commanding your own now, are you?” asked Aragorn.

Legolas shrugged. “Yea, small hunts only, but I am content. There is 
enough darkness in Mirkwood to keep any warrior busy.”

“You’ve not changed at all.”

Pulling out some rations and sharing them with Aragorn, Legolas 
remarked bluntly, “You have changed much. The weight of the world 
seems to have grown greater since we last met. Is life so ill?” 

“Nay, not ill, merely worrisome.” Aragorn glanced around, making sure 
that Thalatirn and Caranaur had walked out of earshot. “It is believed 
that Gollum was a previous possessor of the One Ring.”

Legolas choked on a mouthful of water and nearly dropped the skin. 
Aragorn grimaced in agreement. Feeling a cold knot of dread form in 
his throat and slowly travel through his chest to his stomach, the elf 
asked softly, “What proof have you of this?”

“Proof, I have none, but Gandalf believes it.”

Legolas swallowed hard. “That is proof enough for me.” He greatly 
desired to strike the ground, break something, anything to relieve the 
sense of awful tension that tightened every muscle in his body at the 
thought of the One Ring. Finding his voice again, he spoke in a 
near-whisper, “Previous possessor, you say? Where does Mithrandir 
think it is now?”

“Forgive me if I do not say,” Aragorn replied, nodding apologetically. 
“But I think the fewer who know the better. I will say only that I 
know, and Gandalf and I are among many doing all we can to keep it 
safe.”

“It is not safe so long as it exists,” Legolas murmured, feeling the 
urge to shudder in spite of the warm sun. “Is there aught that can be 
done to rid Middle Earth of its evil? If the Ring should be 
destroyed…”

“I know, my friend. Believe me, the thought has occupied my mind every 
moment since Gandalf came to me with this news. But how? Even alone in 
Mordor with no other task than seeking out a loathsome, corrupted 
creature, the place all but overwhelmed me. To carry the Ring…” he 
shook his head. “There are other things yet to be done, and I have 
sent word to Gandalf that I am bringing Gollum here. Hopefully he 
shall come bearing better counsel than I.” The Ranger rubbed his eyes, 
trying to bring them back into focus.

Legolas noticed. “Forgive me, my friend, I fear I have kept you awake 
with my questions. Rest now, and recover your strength.” He grinned at 
the man’s slightly affronted expression. “Come, you are greatly weary 
if you slept through Gollum’s infernal noises and our arrival. Get 
some sleep, and I shall stand watch.” With a resigned grin, Aragorn 
did so. 

***

Two days later…

Candrochon, son of Anunborn, returned from a short hunting excursion 
to meet his wife, Merilin, and several other elven warrioresses 
enjoying a day without duties. His wife greeted him with a delighted 
embrace. “You are late again.”

“Forgive me. Orcs and spiders do not share your respect for 
punctuality.”

“Do not believe him, Mer, he was merely swilling wine and bragging 
with Fimsigil and Fandoll!” teased Galithil. The other she-elves 
laughed and added taunts of their own.

Candrochon looked from his wife to pull a face at the warrioresses. 
“Unlike you ladies, I have more important tasks to occupy my time than 
gossiping about gowns and marriages when I am off-duty.” Then he 
ducked to escape a hail of thrown acorns.

“How do you put up with him, Merilin?” Tuilinn demanded.

“He has his moments.”

“Not many of them, I would wager!”

“Get thee a husband, Salma, then you may talk!”

“Shall we leave them alone, friends?” suggested Edlothia. The other 
she-elves giggled, but headed for the rope ladder down from the 
pavilion in the tree. “Ah, look! Someone comes!”

Candrochon and Merilin joined the others at the railing, peering down 
at the two walkers approaching through the trees. “I cannot see who 
just yet. But they walk openly.”

Tuilinn narrowed her eyes, “Which of the scouting parties are due 
back?”

“Only Narbeleth’s, but hers is a party of twelve,” said Merilin.

“There!” Gwilwileth pointed as the approaching pair came further out 
of the trees. “It is Legolas.”

“But who comes with him?”

Legolas and his as-yet-unidentified companion came further out of the 
trees until they were in plain view of the elves on the flet. 
Candrochon heard intakes of breath from all the she-elves at the sight 
of the stranger. “It…it…it is a man!” breathed Galithil.

A man it was, even taller than Legolas and much bigger, wearing the 
travel-worn raiment of a western Ranger. So unlike an elf, for his 
face looked as worn as his clothing, lined and shadowed with care and 
struggle. Yet there was a chiseled strength to his features, and a 
depth and perception within his light gray eyes that Candrochon had 
never seen in a mortal before. It was quite startling. 

But evidently, his female comrades were startled for another reason 
entirely. Beside him, his wife sucked in a deep breath. “That is not a 
man,” she whispered. “That’s art!”

“Merilin!” Candrochon blurted, his shock breaking his inspection of 
the approaching mortal.

But every warrioress began to giggle in response and voice her 
agreement. “Ai, it has always been assumed that men were ill-favored 
compared to elves,” remarked Tuilinn. “But this one…”

Galithil sniggered, “Looks very strong, does he not?”

“Yea, he has seen much of Middle Earth, I imagine,” murmured Edlothia.

“And most of it on foot, judging by his legs.”

“Mmm, his legs…” 

“Merilin!”

Turning her attention to Candrochon, Gwilwileth grinned, “I fear your 
husband is turning a peculiar shade of green, Merilin.”

Giggling still harder, Galithil remarked, “Poor thing, he cannot stand 
competition from mortals. And such a mortal,” she added with a sigh, 
looking back down at the two walkers. Disgusted and quite outnumbered, 
Candrochon climbed down to meet the newcomers.

***

Walking beside Legolas, Aragorn knew that his arrival with Gollum and 
news of the One Ring had thrown his friend into a pit of anxiety and 
melancholy. It sorrowed the Ranger to be the cause of dampening the 
young archer’s merry nature, and he sought to bring Legolas out of it. 
“Come, my elven friend, you have grilled me for news of my travels, 
without telling me aught of your doings these late years.”

With a little shake of his head as though coming out of a trance, 
Legolas replied, “Little compared to you. Orcs and spiders multiply so 
that much of our time is commanded by hunts. Many of the villages 
south of my father’s halls have been emptied of our people, and those 
that remain in the northern forest have been forced to become 
stockades.” There was sorrow in his bright eyes, and a trace of anger. 
“The Enemy’s hold here goes stronger with each passing year. When at 
last his forces are rallied I know not how we will be able to stop 
them.”

The admission startled Aragorn, who turned and looked thoughtfully at 
the elven warrior. Realization came to him with both sorrow and anger 
of his own. Legolas was frightened. *And he is but one of many among 
the free peoples of Middle Earth. Eldar, dwarves, men. They are all 
frightened.* 

Here in the northern forest the sun still penetrated the green canopy, 
but looking south, Aragorn could see a murky darkness in the trees 
that was almost palpable in the distance. To elven senses, it must 
seem very close indeed. “Neither of our peoples will fall,” he told 
Legolas. “No shadow shall hold sway over Middle Earth so long as you 
or I or Gandalf, or any of our friends draw breath.” He smiled 
reassuringly, “And that is a heavy obstacle even for Sauron.” Legolas 
cracked a grin at last, and Aragorn changed the subject. “Tell me of 
your family. I met your sister’s husband on the banks of the Anduin, 
and he bade me give you his regards.”

“Orthelian?” Legolas asked in surprised pleasure. He smiled. “I’ve 
seen naught of him for nearly twenty years. He led the last company of 
warriors from Lorien across the plains, but since then few of their 
parties have journeyed beyond their borders. We hear the Galadhrim are 
deserting the Golden Wood in great numbers for the Havens. Soon there 
will be none left.” His eyes darkened again, but this time he shook 
himself out of it. “But Limloeth and Orthelian remain there still, in 
service to the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.” 

Aragorn snickered; he always did when he thought of Celeborn and 
Legolas at the same time. Legolas mock-glared at him, and continued. 
“Life within my father’s halls remains very much as it ever was. I 
attend court often when I am not abroad with the hunting parties,” and 
his unspoken thought was clearly *far more than I should like.* 

Aragorn quashed a grin and asked, “Is it true that Thranduil will 
permit no dealings with mortals for any reason?”

He would not have dared to ask if he had thought Legolas would be 
offended, and the son of Thranduil was not. “Nay, though I am not 
surprised that the rumors paint it that way. Our trade with Dale and 
Laketown remains the same, or it would if both parties had not been 
forced to reduce travel for fear of the Enemy’s marauders. But still 
we have a modest trade with men. Dwarves as always will have naught to 
do with us, nor my father with them.”

“And your relations with the kingdoms of men?”

Legolas furrowed his brow slightly. “Beyond trade, very little. My 
father’s distaste for dealing with mortals does lead him to deny 
permission for any dealings in which his people are the supplicants.”

“I don’t follow you.”

His bright eyes betraying faint frustration, Legolas explained, “There 
are few things for which we have a pressing need that we cannot make 
or find ourselves. But occasionally, such needs come up. Even less 
often men are in a position to meet our needs in some way, but it is 
those instances when my father refuses to approach them. Our manner of 
trade and the items we trade for remain just as they have for 
centuries even though our needs have changed, because my father seems 
to think that suggesting a change in routine will inherently suggest a 
weakness.” He shook his head, but then added hastily, “It does not 
happen frequently, but once or twice, we have been forced to do 
without when a simple delegation to Laketown could have procured what 
we required.”

“Your father is proud even by elven standards.”

“That he is,” Legolas laughed wryly. “But I fear our needs will soon 
be of a nature that will make it impossible for him to continue thus. 
For our need for weapons increases daily, and our supply of metals 
runs short. That we cannot obtain for ourselves, and even the king 
knows we cannot do without. He knows that day is coming when we must 
seek aid from men. He is merely determined to delay it as much as 
possible.”

Aragorn laughed in his turn, startling two squirrels out of the 
underbrush before them. They paused as the two little animals raced 
scolding off into the trees, and Aragorn heard something else move in 
the trees nearby. He put a hand on his sword, but Legolas’s hand 
stopped them, telling him plainly what the noisemaker was. “A friend 
of yours, I take it?”

“If he would be good enough to show himself, I would introduce you,” 
said Legolas. Moments later, a dark-haired Silvan elf, tall even by 
elven standards, dropped from a tree before them. “Is the company of 
the ladies too much for you, Candrochon?” 

The sounds of feminine laughter reached Aragorn’s ears from the trees 
ahead, and the look that the newly-arrived elf shot him was slightly 
vexed. The elven warrior turned back to Legolas and jerked his head at 
the nearly-invisible flet in a tall tree. “It’s like a henhouse up 
there.”

Legolas looked confused at first, then cocked his head, listening to 
elven voices too soft for Aragorn’s mortal ears to distinguish. The 
prince then turned from Candrochon to Aragorn and slowly grinned. 
Aragorn was baffled by the talk, and it must have showed upon his 
face, for Legolas said, “It seems some of the ladies of Mirkwood have 
been admiring you, Man of the West.”

“What?” before he could stop himself, Aragorn looked at the flet and 
this time beheld half a dozen she-elves peering back at him, with that 
particular female look in their eyes that said all too clearly where 
their admirations lay. Blood rushed to his face and Legolas burst into 
a peal of laughter.

“Come down, my ladies, and meet our guest.”

As they descended, some in gowns, others in the garb of guards, 
Aragorn suspected that the six were warrioresses. As interested as 
they were in the stranger, they briefly turned their attention to 
Legolas. “Welcome home, my lord,” said each in her turn, some bowing 
to him, others embracing him. “We had wondered what delayed you.”

Legolas grinned, turning to Aragorn, “Ladies, I present Strider of the 
Dúnedain. Strider, you have the honor of meeting six of the warrior 
maidens of Mirkwood. I present Gwilwileth and Salma, daughters of 
Ulban,” the eldest and youngest of the group bowed to him. “Tuilinn, 
daughter of Fimsigil,” an elven maid not much older than Legolas 
possessing remarkable red hair bowed next. “Edlothia, daughter of 
Soron,” a warrioress older than Legolas nodded to him. “Galithil, 
daughter of Eregdos, and Lady Merilin, daughter of Lord Heledir,” he 
finished as an auburn-haired she-elf bowed to Aragorn.

“My wife,” added Candrochon from behind Legolas, in a distinctly sour 
tone. The other elves tittered. To Aragorn, he asked, “Was it you then 
who brought that…creature…here to Mirkwood?”

“I fear so,” Aragorn replied apologetically, glancing quickly at 
Legolas. 

His friend interceded quickly, “But the matter must first be brought 
before my father. Let us back to the palace.”

The walk was a pleasant one, though Aragorn suffered more than his 
share of consternation by the rather intense scrutiny of the 
elves--particularly the she-elves--as they drew closer to the palace. 
It was clear that the Mirkwood elves, like the elves of Lorien but 
unlike the elves of Imladris, seldom left their realm and saw little 
of men within it. But at the same time, Mirkwood’s people were not 
quite the same as the elves of Lorien. While the Galadhrim had viewed 
the foreigner in their realm with suspicion even after Lord Elrond had 
vouched for him, here in Mirkwood the friendship of Legolas was 
evidently enough for Thranduil’s folk, and their stares betrayed 
curiosity and fascination more than distrust.

Fascination…especially from the elven women. 

From what Legolas had told Aragorn, the wood elf population close to 
Thranduil’s palace-fort had grown denser over the years as the 
outlying villages were abandoned in favor of greater protection by the 
elven king’s guard. After Legolas and his friends had led Aragorn past 
a number of heavily-armed guard posts, the Ranger noticed far more 
elves walking among the trees, going about their day’s work without 
fear of attack. While it was not crowded by any means, a sizeable 
stretch of land surrounding Thranduil’s halls had become a veritable 
elven city.

And as a result, news of the passage of the mortal Ranger through it 
soon gained the attention of a good number of the populace. Whispers, 
discreet nods toward him, stares, and the occasional eruption of 
giggling told Aragorn how few of the Silvan elves had seen a man 
close-up. He was quite relieved when at last they passed through one 
of the western gates of the palace, only to find that the scrutiny did 
not cease there. 

No sooner had they passed through the gate than soft exclamations and 
whispers bespoke the surprise of Thranduil’s folk at seeing a man in 
the company of the king’s son. Aragorn wondered, had Legolas told no 
one of what had transpired while he was abroad in Middle Earth? The 
Ranger’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry of “Legolas!” from the 
palace steps.

Many years before, when Aragorn had first beheld Arwen Undomiel on the 
paths of Imladris, he had been certain she was Luthien returned to 
Middle Earth. Now, as he spied the elven lady running down the steps, 
again he thought that a figure of elven legend had appeared in the 
flesh. 

Only this time Nimrodel.

Had the elven maid before him been human, she looked to be perhaps 
seventeen, but Aragorn suspected she was close in real years to his 
own age, judging by her youthful demeanor. Her hair, a mass of 
sun-colored curls, tumbled down her back with a luster as bright as 
the emerald-green gown that she wore. Even without the crown of 
Mirkwood upon her head, Aragorn would have known by the familiar 
manner that she was related to Legolas. 

The Sindarin princess hardly spared a glance at Aragorn in her 
eagerness to greet her kinsman, and seized Legolas in an embrace. 
Laughing, Legolas returned her kisses and endured her playful 
scolding. “What did you mean, sending Caranaur and Thalatirn back here 
and remaining on the forest’s edge alone? You frightened the wits out 
of everyone!”

“Forgive me,” Legolas pleaded, bowing in mock-contrition. “Another 
matter arose. Look to your manners, I must introduce you to a friend.” 
At last, the girl took notice of the stranger among her friends, and 
fixed curious bright blue eyes upon Aragorn. “This is Strider, a 
Ranger of the West. I present my niece, Silivren, daughter of my 
eldest brother Berensul.”

*Glittering.* Amid the stares of the elves as they walked, the company 
had spoken hardly at all during their return. Now, Aragorn could feel 
the eyes of a good many elves upon him as they waited to see the 
foreigner’s response. Smiling inwardly, he performed an extravagantly 
deep bow (not that courtesy was not fitting for the daughter of a 
crown prince) and declared, “I am most honored, my lady.”

Her eyes twinkling, the princess bowed in return and announced, “I am 
most pleased to make your acquaintance, Strider of the Dúnedain. In 
the name of my grandfather, Thranduil of Mirkwood, welcome, for any 
friend of Legolas is a friend of ours.” Despite her obvious youth, her 
bearing, like that of Legolas and other high-born elves, demonstrated 
much-practiced nobility. Turning back to Legolas with a smile, she 
said, “The king wishes to see you both on your return.”

*I’ll wager he does,* thought the Ranger, noticing the slightest 
tensing of Legolas’s shoulders. Aloud, the son of Thranduil said, “Let 
us go, then.”

***

The previous three days had been rather anxious ones for the elven 
king of Mirkwood ever since the two warriors under Legolas’s command 
had returned from the hunt to inform him that Legolas had remained at 
the border helping an ailing mortal--AND that he was bringing said 
mortal back to the palace with him. Still more startling, not to 
mention distasteful, was the strange creature that the mortal had 
brought with him and Legolas had placed in his warriors’ charge. When 
word at last reached the court that Legolas and the stranger had 
arrived, Thranduil wasted no time in sending for them.

For he had plenty of questions.

Legolas strode through the doors of the throne room first, with the 
man just behind him. Thranduil took note of the mortal’s familiarity 
with elvish ways as he stopped just within the door while Legolas 
advanced and bowed to the king. “My lord, by your leave, I present 
Strider, a Ranger of the Dúnedain.”

Thranduil nodded his permission, and the man approached, stopping 
beside Legolas and dropping to one knee. “Hail, Thranduil, King of 
Mirkwood.”

Beckoning the man to rise, Thranduil looked from him to his son. There 
was much that bore explaining. How and when had Legolas made a friend 
such as this? His youngest son had always been rather naïve where men 
were concerned, which Thranduil gruffly tolerated, but this…the king 
had strong misgivings about the choices Legolas had just made. He 
remained silent for several moments, as his son and the Ranger calmly 
awaited his pleasure. He fixed the man with a long, searching stare, 
and noted also how the mortal did not so much as blink. Interesting. 
VERY interesting.

At length, the elven king spoke, “I understand you have come to beg a 
favor of the elves of Mirkwood, Strider of the Dúnedain?”

The man inclined his head. “I have, my lord. I seek a secure place to 
confine the creature Gollum, who is my prisoner, and have great faith 
in the ability of the elves to hold him.”

“And what interest have you in this creature?”

“He possesses information, my lord, information that is sought by the 
one the elves call Mithrandir. It was he who bade me seek Gollum out, 
which I did, traversing much of Middle Earth from the Misty Mountains 
to Mordor in my search. I found him in the Dead Marshes.”

*And the intrigue deepens,* thought Thranduil even as his heart 
clenched at the mention of Mordor. *What do you know of this man, 
Legolas?* He leveled a hard look at his son, who evenly met 
Thranduil’s eyes. *More than you say, that is certain. I may harbor a 
dislike of men, but I am not so ignorant of them as you think. I 
dislike information being kept from me.* To the Ranger, he said, “If 
you have passed through Mordor and returned alive with your objective, 
you are no ordinary man.”

“No, my lord. I am a Ranger.”

*A quick and clever answer. But I require more than you will give me.* 
Letting his gaze come to rest on his son’s face, he said, “If you will 
leave us, Master Strider, I should like to speak to the prince alone.” 
Without taking his eyes from Legolas, he sensed the man bowing and 
departing from the room.

Legolas, for his part, did an admirable job hiding his tension at the 
words, and spoke not until Thranduil did. The king waited until the 
doors had closed, then spoke without preamble. “I trust you have a 
good reason for this deceit, Legolas.”

His son’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Thranduil went on 
blithely, “I may not wish to encourage dealings with men, but I am 
ignorant neither of them nor of the other realms’ contact with them. 
And in the Elder days I saw much of them.” At Legolas’s continued 
silence, he finished, “So did you truly think that I would not 
recognize the heir of Isildur when I saw him?”

At least it was clear that that had been the only secret. Resignation 
replaced resistance in his son’s face, and Legolas replied softly, 
“Aragorn gave me his true name in a confidence which I was not 
prepared to breach, my lord. Even to you.”

“A confidence indeed? And how does this man merit such faith?” 
Thranduil asked in a condescending tone.

Legolas was forthright at least. “He is my friend.”

Thranduil chuckled, a little irritated but tolerant overall of his 
youngest son’s caprices. “Friends with a mortal. Of all my sons. Why 
am I not surprised? Though I had hoped you would grow a little less 
naïve--”

His son’s chin shot up. “He saved my life.” That startled Thranduil 
into pausing, and Legolas went on, “Several times, in fact. I asked 
not for his aid nor had anything to offer in return, but he risked 
himself more than once for my sake.”

Thranduil harbored a strong aversion to men, considering them covetous 
and barbaric, though he had never formed any lasting acquaintance with 
any one man. He preferred to hold the individuals to the standard he 
had seen set of the entire race in his various dealings with them 
throughout his life. So his son’s words were rather discomfiting, not 
fitting at all with what he persisted in believing of them. “So you 
brought him here to discharge you debt to him?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay. I had an opportunity to return the favor 
of my life. I brought him here because he is my friend. And because 
Mithrandir wishes the creature kept safe. Aragorn said he sent word of 
where he was taking Gollum.”

*Mithrandir, at least that is something. But accepting the heir of 
Isildur as a friend, when will you ever learn, boy?* Still, what was 
done was done. And Legolas’s ill taste in friends aside, a request on 
behalf of Mithrandir to keep Gollum was not so unreasonable. After 
all, if the matter was attended to swiftly, the Ranger would be on his 
way all the sooner, away from Thranduil’s people…and his son. 

Legolas was still awaiting an answer, so Thranduil said, “Very well, 
we shall grant his request. Gollum is being held in the dungeons; he 
will remain there.”

“The dungeons?” Legolas asked, his eyes showing dismay.

Thranduil replied absently, “Yes.” Then he caught his son’s expression 
and sighed, “Legolas, we have more refugees from the outlying villages 
arriving every day. There is no room in the trees for a prisoner, 
certainly not one so…risky as this Gollum. He will be fed and well 
cared-for in the dungeons. By the look of him, he spent much of his 
life out of the sun. The dungeons will do him no further harm.”

The thought of any creature imprisoned in the dungeons clearly 
distressed Legolas, but Thranduil saw no alternative. He was not 
troubled by his son’s reaction, given Legolas’s childhood mishap in 
the dungeons and the incidents during his journeys abroad. From what 
the warriors said, Legolas seemed to have a knack for getting himself 
buried.

***

Outside the throne room, Aragorn noticed Princess Silivren and Lady 
Merilin talking among a clutch of other she-elves--and making little 
effort to hide their interest in Aragorn. Either they cared not that 
he could hear their words, or the strength of human hearing had been 
grossly underestimated by the Silvan elves. “Men are so much more 
bulky than elves,” murmured Tuilinn, the redhead.

“But I find that rather appealing,” added Edlothia. “His body appears 
so…powerful.”

“I did not expect him to be so tall,” whispered Merilin. “Nor so 
graceful. I should enjoy watching him fight.”

“Perhaps we might persuade him to a friendly bout with some of our 
warriors?”

“There is an idea. I suspect Candrochon might be persuaded.” (Giggle!)

“I’ve never seen a man, so I’ve naught to compare him to,” Silivren 
replied. “Do you suppose he bears any resemblence to Beren?”

“If so, I understand Luthien far better now!” The was a flurry of 
muted giggling.

“But he is quite well-favored, is he not, Galithil?” 

“I think so. Here, Elunen, you’ve seen many men, what do you think?”

“I fought in the Last Alliance beside many men, and met my share 
since. There were some quite handsome, and yet…this one is different. 
He seems almost familiar.”

Aragorn tensed at those words, but at that moment, Legolas emerged 
from the Great Hall. “My father has agreed to keep Gollum here.” With 
a knowing grin, he added, “So take heart. He is off your hands.”

“Thank the Valar!” Aragorn declared, and his friend laughed aloud. 

Legolas noticed the small clutch of admirers and grinned more broadly. 
“I fear you shall find the hospitality of my kinswomen somewhat 
smothering while my kinsmen slightly lacking. I hope you enjoy your 
stay as much as I will.” His eyes sparkled with amusement at his 
friend’s expense. 

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Oh I shall, particularly when I seize 
the opportunity to flirt with your niece. Lovely even by elven 
standards, that niece of yours.”

“I did not know you desired to become spider fodder!” Elf and man 
walked back out of the elven king’s halls. Legolas glanced fondly at 
Silivren. “She is a novice warrioress; her first coming of age was 
only twenty-two years ago.”

“She carries herself well for so young an elf.”

“She is her father’s daughter.” Legolas led him out of the cave and 
took an unconscious deep breath. Gazing about as though relieved to be 
out of doors, the elven king’s son said, “Come. You have not been here 
before. I will show you my father’s realm.”

“I would like to see it.”

***

For the next few days, Legolas led Aragorn threw the beeches and elms 
and dwellings of northern Mirkwood. His friend was a most gracious 
guest and expresses much admiration for the achievements of his 
people, but at the same time, Legolas knew that one who had already 
seen the lands and cities of Imladris and Lothlorien would probably 
find Mirkwood lacking. It was a frustrating notion. Legolas loved his 
home with all his heart, and though its dwellings were as fair as 
anything of elven make, the oppressive nearness of shadow marred its 
beauty. *Will any ever see the Greenwood as it once was? As my mother 
knew it, beautiful enough to rival even Rivendell and Caras Galadhon.*

They were walking by the archery fields watching several of the 
novices warriors practice when Candrochon came riding up. “Legolas, 
Mithrandir has come.”

“Ah,” said the elf, turning at once with Aragorn beside him. “Now 
perhaps we shall get some answers.”

They arrived at the palace to find Berensul greeting the Maia. 
Mithrandir turned and smiled at Aragorn. “Success at last, my friend. 
I am in your debt such efforts.”

“They paid off in the end.”

Mithrandir bowed to Legolas. “Well met, son of Thranduil. I understand 
I’ve you to thank for giving…Strider and his guest entrance into 
Mirkwood.”

The elf bowed back. “Both my people and I would gladly do any service 
you requested, Mithrandir. If you believe this Gollum must be kept 
safe within our borders, then we trust your judgment.”

“I am glad to hear it. Speaking of Gollum, where have you stashed 
him?”

Legolas felt a twinge of discomfort. “He is…being held in the 
dungeons.”

But the Maia’s face showed no sign of surprise or even disapproval. He 
simply nodded, “I should like to speak to him, if I may.”

“Of course,” Legolas smiled. “I daresay my father will have no 
objection. Candrochon, escort Mithrandir to Gollum’s cell, if you 
would be so kind.” He grinned as his friend shot him a fierce glare at 
being assigned such an unsavory task. Not that any elf objected to 
Mithrandir’s company, but Gollum’s cell was deep within the dungeons. 
Legolas would gladly have taken the wizard to see the prisoner 
himself, but for that fact. And this was one instance where rank had 
real privileges. 

Which Candrochon’s wife noticed. “Well-executed,” Merilin murmured in 
Legolas’s ear. Although the youngest prince of Mirkwood was by no 
means in disfavor among the ladies of Mirkwood, their attentions 
toward him (and vice versa) went no further than easy camaraderie and 
friendship. But in the week since Aragorn had arrived, the elf had 
noticed a marked increase of she-elves in his company--whenever he and 
Aragorn happened to be together. The long memory of elves let Legolas 
recall easily the time when he had been the object of interest of many 
fawning ladies, as well as his extreme embarrassment at the time. 
Still…seeing Aragorn’s discomfort at the attentions of his friends, he 
had to admit…it was highly amusing.

He caught Salma and Silivren peering at the Ranger from behind a tree 
and was forced to bite his lip to avoid sniggering. Even the elder 
ladies, like Edlothia, Elunen, and Gwilwileth, found Aragorn an object 
of interest and curiosity, and so wherever the prince and the heir of 
Isildur went, a small fleet of she-elves was certain to follow. The 
kinsmen, husbands, and suitors of said she-elves, on the other hand, 
were highly UN-amused, and although Legolas suspected they were 
equally curious about the rare appearance of a mortal in their midst, 
they avoided Aragorn like the plague. When it came right down to it, 
the whole thing was incredibly funny.

***

That evening…

The elven king, as one would expect, invited Gandalf to dine with his 
family as a welcome and honored guest. He also invited Aragorn, 
as--the Ranger suspected--a reluctantly-tolerated guest. 

Present at the meal were the Crown Prince Berensul, whom Aragorn had 
been introduced to only in passing, but seemed willing enough to 
accept his youngest brother’s word concerning the mortal stranger’s 
merits. He looked hardly anything like Legolas; the only trait they 
had in common was the dark gray eyes. And in contrast, the only trait 
Berensul did not have in common with his father was that the prince’s 
hair was dark. Aragorn had met Berensul’s wife, the Crown Princess 
Eirien, before when she came to Imladris for healing instruction from 
Lord Elrond. Even if she had not, Aragorn would recognize her as 
Rivendell-bred by her looks alone: the golden-brown hair, not as dark 
as a wood elf’s, fair skin, and deep blue eyes. And like most elves 
who had spent centuries under the tutelage of Lord Elrond, she was 
both wise and firm. Though gentle, mild, and soft-spoken, Aragorn had 
seen enough of her to know that beneath the sweet exterior lay a will 
as strong as mithril.

Then of course, there was their young daughter, Silivren. Though 
comparable to Aragorn in actual years, the elven princess looked no 
older than a mortal teenager. Now that she sat among her closest kind, 
Aragorn could see some resemblance to all of them. She had her 
mother’s deep eyes and her father’s face, but her golden hair was 
closer to Thranduil’s than Legolas. In fact, Legolas was the only one 
of her kindred whom Silivren did not seem to share any physical traits 
with. On the other hand, Aragorn had seen enough of her merry spirit 
in the past few days to suspect that it was personality in which 
novice warrioress most closely resembled her uncle. 

Aragorn had no doubt that Thranduil had serious misgivings about his 
friendship with the king’s youngest son, the depth of which had been 
shown by the amount of time Legolas and Aragorn had spent together in 
the past week. This was the first time since Aragorn’s arrival that he 
or Legolas had supped formally with the elven king, and there was no 
mistaking the daggers Thranduil’s eyes shot at the Ranger when Legolas 
indicated for him to be seated at the prince’s side. Gandalf certainly 
did not miss it.

Gandalf had spent several hours in the dungeons with Gollum, and after 
the necessary small talk, conversation turned inevitably to the matter 
that had brought him. “Did you learn anything useful from him?” 
Thranduil inquired.

Undiscouraged, the wizard shook his head. “I fear not, but I expected 
not to draw anything from him so soon; it has only been one day. We 
shall talk again on the morrow, and again and again, if necessary 
until Gollum wearies so of my presence that he tells me his tale 
merely to be rid of me.” The company laughed. 

The Lady Eirien wrinkled her nose slightly. “I visited him in the 
dungeons shortly after he came to make certain his health was well. He 
is a loathsome creature. The Enemy’s Ring has corrupted him beyond all 
recovery.”

“Nay, my lady, I would not despair of him yet. There may still be hope 
for his cure, once he has lived long enough away from the Ring,” 
replied Gandalf.

“But you said the Ring had enabled him to live long beyond the years 
of his kind,” spoke up Legolas. “Surely without it he must die soon.”

“Soon by elven standards, perhaps, but not his,” the wizard said. “It 
is possible that before the end of his life he will at least find 
peace.”

The elves and Ranger digested Gandalf’s words. In a soft voice, 
Legolas said, “Then we should not keep him ever in the dungeons under 
the earth, for none will find peace there. Surely he can be guarded 
elsewhere.”

None missed the sharp, quelling look Thranduil shot his youngest son 
before turning instead to address Gandalf. “As I told my son already, 
Mithrandir, the encroachment of shadow upon my realm has forced many 
of my people to take shelter close to the palace, and within it. We 
once did use cells in the trees as places to hold prisoners, but 
necessity has forced us to convert them into dwellings. There is no 
room for Gollum in the outer palace where he would not be too close to 
the elves.”

The wizard narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “I have seen how dark and 
close the Enemy’s creatures draw, and the number of refugees here. 
Your task is a hard one, Lord Thranduil, I recognize.”

“Then perhaps we might find a medium,” offered Silivren suddenly. 
“Surely if we cannot let Gollum dwell above the earth all the time, it 
would not be beyond the scope of his guards to lead him out of the 
dungeons during the day. After all, he must be guarded in any case, 
whether in the cave or without.”

This time, Thranduil and Gandalf both nodded. “A wise suggestion, 
young princess,” said the wizard, inclining his head to her. Aragorn 
hid a smile at the way Eirien’s chin lifted proudly. *Mothers. Elf or 
mortal, they are all the same.*

“Then we are agreed,” said Thranduil. A twinkle came then into the 
elven king’s bright eyes as he turned his gaze to his youngest son. 
“Since Legolas is so keen to bestow kindness upon Gollum, I shall 
place him in command of the creature’s guards.”

Hardly an appetizing assignment, but Legolas took it with good humor. 
“As you wish, Father,” he replied mildly, with a little nod. Then he 
glared at Aragorn as the Ranger stifled a snigger. Silivren caught it 
and was not so successful in hiding a giggle. As Aragorn was a guest, 
Legolas had to bear his taunts, but now the prince fixed a mock-scowl 
at his young niece, and said in a near-drawl, “Guarding Gollum seems a 
suitable task for a few novice warriors. I think this would be an 
excellent training exercise for Silivren, do you not agree, Berensul?”

The crown prince grinned. “Most definitely. I’m sure Eregdos can be 
persuaded to release her to your command, Brother.”

“Assuming you’ve no objections, Sili?” Legolas asked wickedly.

But Silivren came back with a weapon of her own. “None at all, Uncle 
Leg’las.”

Gandalf nearly choked on a piece of meat, Eirien hastily covered her 
mouth, and even Thranduil’s lips quirked. Aragorn raised a mocking 
eyebrow at his friend and said, “Leg’las?”

“She’ll pay for that.”

***

A few days later…

Legolas met Gandalf at the entrance to the inner palace as the Maia 
came out. “You were within the dungeons long,” said the prince. “Was 
he more cooperative?”

Gandalf nodded thoughtfully, his mind still partly occupied by his own 
thoughts on what Gollum had told him. Then he noticed Legolas’s 
anxious expression, and smiled. “Forgive me, my lord, I fear my own 
musings on his tale are distracting me. It seems his true name, or 
perhaps it would be better to say, the name of the person he once was, 
is Sméagol. For one thing, it confirms accounts given me by other 
sources. And fortunately, it seems that his desire to possess the Ring 
kept it out of reach or knowledge of others for most of the time that 
he had it.”

“Thank the Valar,” sighed Legolas.

“Be not so hasty, son of Thranduil,” said Gandalf gravely. “I have 
learned that Gollum was taken in Mordor by the Enemy’s forces.” The 
elf turned pale. “How he escaped the Dark Lord’s dungeons, I know not, 
but it is beyond all doubt that there all he knew was forced from 
him.”

“Then…”

“Then the Enemy knows now that the One is found.” Gandalf knew that 
Thranduil, the crown prince, the captain of Mirkwood’s guard, and 
indeed half of the Silvan elves between here and Rivendell would have 
questions for him on the subject of Gollum, but only to Legolas did he 
impart these facts. For it was Legolas who most needed to be aware of 
what he held, here in his father’s halls. It was vital that Gollum be 
kept safe. “Knowing these things, I must depart with all speed. 
Forgive me if I say not where I go, but swift action is of the 
essence. Legolas,” the Maia placed a firm hand on the elven archer’s 
shoulder. “Be wary. Underestimate not the malice of Gollum, for long 
was he exposed to the corruption of the One. He would wreak much 
mischief if he were free now even as I seek to keep the One from the 
Enemy’s reach. He cannot be allowed to escape.” 

To any other elven warrior, such words might almost be insulting, as 
though Gandalf did not trust them to do their duty well. But Legolas 
was unlike other elves in many ways, some subtle, others strangely 
fundamental, which Gandalf knew even as he spoke. So it surprised him 
not at all that Legolas merely nodded gravely and took the words in 
the spirit that they were intended, as a well-meant and well-deserved 
warning of the danger of the situation in which the keepers of Gollum 
now found themselves.

“Sméagol will be safe here, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf smiled. “Knowing that his protection is in your charge eases 
my mind greatly, Legolas of Mirkwood. But remember also what I told 
you, and hope still for his recovery. Given time and kind treatment 
away from the corruption of the Ring, he may yet be cured of his 
malice.”

With that, Gandalf went to the outer palace and bade farewell to the 
elven king and his elder children, giving them a brief description of 
what he had learned from Gollum. Thranduil was more inclined to accept 
sketchy explanations from the wizard than he would from most other 
visitors to his realm, and let Gandalf go without prying to heavily. 
Gandalf suspected Thranduil’s easy acceptance of his words had much to 
do with the fact that he was taking Aragorn with him when he departed. 
So the Maia counted his blessings when the elven king released them, 
and wasted no time collecting the Ranger. There was much still to be 
done.

Legolas escorted Gandalf and Aragorn from the palace to the gates, 
followed by a small crowd of elves bidding farewell to the wizard and 
taking a last look at the strange mortal who had spent so much time in 
their midst. The elven men were casual enough in their goodbyes. Among 
the ladies, on the other hand, could be heard many sighs of regret.

Turning on their horses outside the gates, Gandalf and Aragorn each 
raised a hand in farewell to the elven prince. “Guard him well, son of 
Thranduil.”

Legolas raised his hand in a salute of his own. “We shall not fail, 
Mithrandir!” 

That final reassurance given, the man and the Maia turned their mounts 
and rode away at a gallop, eager to reach the Shire as soon as 
possible, and leaving Legolas standing at the gate, with Gollum now in 
his charge.

*****



Does anyone sense a full circle coming into fruition? Next, Gollum’s 
guards run into trouble, we get a glance into the happenings in other 
parts of Middle Earth concerning some other rather important figures, 
and Legolas leaves on an appointment with destiny ...

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Berensul: Legolas’s oldest brother and crown prince of Mirkwood 
Eirien: Berensul’s wife, born in Imladris, crown princess of Mirkwood 
Silivren: Berensul and Eirien’s only daughter Merilin and Candrochon: 
childhood friends of Legolas’s, now married Caranaur, Thalatirn, 
Fimsigil, Fandoll: fellow warriors of Legolas’s Salma, Edlothia, 
Elunen, Gwilwileth, Tuilinn, Galithil: warrioress friends of Legolas’s 





AUTHOR‘S DEDICATION: Please see the end of this chapter for a special 
dedication, and an explanation for why it took so darn long!



Notes: To those of you who were miffed at Merilin and the other elf 
girls’ behavior in the last chapter--read on. There’s two sides to 
every story! ;-) But I apologize to those for whom I dredged up 
unpleasant memories.

In this chapter, movie verse and bookverse begin to collide, and I’ve 
attempted to combine the two, since I love both. Hope you like the 
result.







Chapter Twenty-Eight: Failure





“It looks like rain.”

“You are raving, Salma, the sky is as clear as a bell!”

“Nay, Salma is right, I think it looks like rain.”

“So you say for the same reason as she, Sornhén.” Princess Silivren, 
daughter of Crown Prince Berensul, scowled up at the clear blue sky. 
“It does NOT look like rain. You shall not avoid our duty.” 

The other two novices pulled faces at her. “You would hate this duty 
as much as we do if the guard in charge were not your uncle,” grumped 
Salma, daughter of Ulban, the elven king’s first Steward.

Silivren narrowed her eyes sharply, “And what fault have you with my 
kinsman?”

Sornhén raised his hands hastily, “No fault, I grant you. I simply 
wonder why we must bother carting Gollum’s loathsome carcass through 
the trees every day.”

“Because,” said a stern voice behind them, “the fact that Sméagol 
merely looks unpleasant is not reason enough to trap him under the 
earth indefinitely. Mithrandir himself bade us still hope for his 
cure, and we shall honor the request.”

The three novices looked up guiltily as Legolas walked onto the bridge 
to join them, his face firm but with a mirth in his eyes that told 
them he was more amused than annoyed. Gazing past them into the 
entrance to the elven king’s inner halls, he ordered, “All three of 
you shall take him. If he behaves, let him climb the tree in the 
clearing to the north, so long as you are well back before dark.”

“Yes, sir,” the novices saluted Legolas with saucy grins, and 
disappeared into the cavern. Returning with a grumbling but otherwise 
tame Gollum on a lead rope, they nodded to the other elves and walked 
him out of the gates. Legolas raised a casual hand at Sili as they 
departed.

“I wish Prince Legolas were one of the novice masters,” sighed Salma. 
“He is not nearly so strict as Eregdos or Fimsigil.”

“If he were a novice master, I wager that he would be,” replied 
Silivren. Still, she mused, Salma was right. While a firm leader with 
any elves under his command, Legolas had a reachable nature that most 
of the novice masters did not. He was very easy to speak to, more like 
a comrade than a superior. It was strange; many of the other elven 
warriors of Legolas’s generation were also gaining their first 
commands, and all of them seemed to relish it far more than Legolas. 
While few could be called power-happy, none save Legolas seemed to 
mind being addressed as “sir.” And Legolas was the same about his 
nobility; one of the first orders he always gave those under his 
command was not to call him “my lord.”

Salma was speaking again, “Even if he were a novice master, I do not 
think he would pull rank.”

“Rank, nay, but he would be strict,” Silivren countered. “That is a 
novice master’s duty after all, and a commander’s. As a superior, 
Legolas is strict now.” 

“But not to you,” Sornhén muttered sourly.

Silivren turned quickly, “And what do you mean by that?”

“Do not dissemble; you know you are his favorite. He will always be 
soft on you,” Sornhén sounded cross.

The princess fixed a hard glare at him. “Uncle or no, neither Legolas 
nor any other warrior would favor one novice over another, as you know 
full well, son of Varnorn. And if any of the masters hear you 
spreading talk like that, they’ll have you walking punishment tours 
for a month! To say nothing of the satisfaction I shall demand if I 
catch you slandering my father’s brother!”

Salma sided with Sili, “Quite right, Sorn, you are just angry because 
Legolas punished you for snapping Gollum’s rope without cause.”

“It did not harm him!”

“What are we, orcs? You’d no call to torment the poor creature,” 
scolded Salma.

“True, my ire would be better served by snapping a rope at that 
Ranger.”

“Are you STILL out of sorts because your Nandelle was admiring him? 
You boys were more cross than dwarves when Legolas’s friend was here!” 
snorted Silivren.

“You would be cross if your suitor was making up to some strange 
lady!”

“And I am sure your Nandelle will remind you of those words the next 
time you are goggling at the Lady Arwen,” Sili retorted. (Nandelle was 
an apprentice musician, daughter of Thranduil’s head minstrel, and 
Sornhén’s intended.)

Salma smirked, flipping her brown plait over her shoulder. “I believe 
Lady Merilin reminded Candrochon of that very thing when he was in a 
miff over Strider.”

“But Candrochon is her husband!” protested Sornhén. “How could she 
admire anyone, man or elf?”

Silivren melodramatically placed her hands on her heart, “ ‘Oh, the 
Evenstar, my heart doth weep before her beauty!’ Candrochon said those 
very words when he was in the middle of courting Merilin! And Arwen 
poses far more of a threat to us than that Strider did to you. None of 
us intend to go the way of Luthien, though that Ranger did make it 
seem a more believable thing than before!”

“Sili!”

“Oh, peace, Sorn! Just because an elf becomes attached does not mean 
they cease to notice beauty, as you and Doron always remind us when 
you are oggling some Lorien maid. Why should you boys have all the 
fun?”

“Hmph.” Then Sornhén stared at her. “You were barely five years old 
when Candrochon and Merilin were courting. How could you know whether 
he said such things?!”

“Well, for one thing, you did,” giggled Salma.

“And so did Candrochon,” added Silivren firmly. “I know because 
Merilin told me. Or rather, I overheard her telling my uncle.”

“Eavesdropping, you mean,” grumbled Sorn, but there was a twinkle of 
mirth in his gray eyes.

“So is Candrochon speaking to Merilin again?” asked Salma.

“Him?” Sili laughed. “He never stopped, whatever gossip said to the 
contrary. Candrochon knew even as he feigned outrage at Merilin that 
he has been caught making eyes at other ladies far too often to claim 
any insult by Merilin’s admiring a man. The same holds true for the 
others; their reaction was merely the result of mass bruising of the 
ego.” Salma laughed and even Sornhén began to grin sheepishly.

“Poor things. Do you suppose it is the same among men, or are elven 
males the only ones who dislike finding the shoe upon the other foot?” 
asked Salma. “Eh, Sorn? Any thoughts?”

Sorn did not answer. The maidens giggled harder. “Here,” said Sili, 
pointing. “We have reached the glade. Well, Gollum, you’ve behaved 
like a proper…thing…today, so we shall allow you a good climb.”

The three guards stationed themselves below the tree as Gollum 
grudgingly allowed them to remove his rope and then mounted up the 
branches. “This is the best-behaved he has been yet,” remarked Sorn. 
“I wonder what it means.”

“As Salma said, we are not orcs,” said Sili. “Perhaps he has realized 
that he will not be mistreated, but rewarded if he cooperates with 
us.” She moved away from the base of the tree to where she could see 
Gollum, settled on the high branches where he could feel the free 
wind. Salma and Sornhén remained by the trunk. “We’ve a few hours 
until dark. Let us leave him in peace for another hour.”

***

On the archery fields, about an hour later…

Legolas glanced up at the sun, causing his companions to snort and 
sigh theatrically. “By the Valar, have done, Legolas!” exclaimed 
Candrochon. “You cannot stand over them every hour!”

The prince grinned sheepishly at his friend, “Perhaps I am a bit 
overanxious--”

“--overanxious? I would say neurotic,” laughed Galithil, coming to 
take aim at the target next to Merilin’s. 

Merilin fired an arrow cleanly into her own target and stepped back so 
her husband could shoot, “After all, remember how irritated we were 
when the novice masters hovered too close. Give your novices some 
trust. They are well-trained.”

“Nay, friends, it is pointless. Forget not that his niece is one of 
said novices,” said Candrochon, shaking his head as he took aim. The 
others chuckled.

Legolas changed the subject. “A messenger arrived from Imladris this 
morning. Faron sent us a greeting. Did anyone else receive aught?”

“Yea, Glorfindel sent Eregdos the latest reports on orc activity on 
the plains, and he and the senior captains were immured in the king’s 
war room for four hours, muttering and exclaiming among themselves 
from behind the scrolls,” grumbled Candrochon. “As if anything those 
creatures do in the mountains is worse than what we are getting from 
Dol Guldor.” Several of the other young warriors on the practice range 
voiced their agreement.

“You have not heard?” asked Galithil. “The Enemy has attacked 
Osgiliath.” At that moment, Candrochon had been releasing an arrow, 
but his reaction to Galithil’s words caused him to miss the target 
completely. Merilin also stared in dismay, and Legolas nodded in 
confirmation.

Turning back to his target, Legolas asked absently, “Are the captains 
talking of it to us already?”

“Nay, Faron told me in his letter.”

“Oh--what? Faron made no mention…” Legolas trailed off and stared at 
Galithil. A slow grin crossed his face as the warrioress blinked in 
confusion, then began to blush. “So, when did you begin rating a 
letter of your own from Faron?”

Galithil blushed harder. Merilin and several of the others let out a 
squeal of excitement, and Candrochon made a bawdy noise. “Soooo…a 
private correspondence between the daughter of the captain of Mirkwood 
and a warrior of Imladris! Things are looking up!”

Putting her hands on her hips playfully, Merilin inquired, “And just 
how long has this been going on, my eligible warrior-maid?”

Now scarlet from ear to ear, Galithil replied sheepishly, “Since he 
visited with the messengers five years ago.”

Whistles and squeals rang out from the warriors, and Legolas added his 
triumphant cries to the eager voices of the warriors who now converged 
upon Galithil, embracing and roughing her up good-naturedly. 
Candrochon clapped his hands and sang, “Somebody’s being cour-ted, 
somebody’s being cour-ted!”

Tuilinn and Merilin tugged on Galithil’s plaited hair over her shrieks 
of protest, “What do you mean, keeping such a thing secret for five 
years! Some friend you are!”

“Ai! Be off! Ow! Stop!” (Giggle! Squeal!) “Well--ai!--he has not been 
courting me for all that long, and we have not even told my father 
yet! Aah! No! Don’t tickle me--eeee! THAT is why!” At last the 
warriors desisted and Galithil caught her breath enough to continue. 
“Only six months ago did he ask me to come to Rivendell.”

Now all of the warriors screamed simultaneously, and it was not long 
before the commotion brought others running. Hearing of Galithil’s 
news added their congratulatory cries to the tumult, but it all came 
to a quick halt when Eregdos, captain of the warriors of Mirkwood--and 
more importantly, Galithil’s father--appeared. The warrior captain was 
not angry--yet--merely puzzled. “What by the Valar is all this 
excitement about?”

“Ahh,” stammered Candrochon.

“By the Valar, is that the time?” murmured someone. The elves quickly 
began creeping away.

The closest of Galithil’s friends, loyal and steadfast to her, reacted 
predictably in the face of her father’s discovery of her suitor. “I 
think I’ll go check on Gollum,” Legolas said hastily, and bolted, with 
Candrochon and Merilin a step behind him.

They had just fled the range when they heard Eregdos’s bellow of 
“WHAT?!?!”

***

About the same time…

“The sun grows low, Sili, we should be getting back,” said Sornhén.

Rising from where she had been reposing in the grass, Silivren nodded 
in agreement. Salma looked up at the dark figure on the high branches. 
“Come down now, Sméagol, it will be dark soon.”

The shriveled face turned from the breeze to blink overlarge eyes down 
at the elves…then deliberately turned back to the sky. Gollum did not 
move. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” said Silivren in disgust. “He would 
choose now to be difficult. Gollum!” she shouted. “You have had over 
an hour in that tree. If you wish any time in it at all tomorrow, you 
will return now!” After a long pause with still no response, she 
threatened, “Or shall we come up there and retrieve you?”

Gollum swiveled his head to stare directly at Silivren, then slowly 
inched back down the branches. The young guards sighed softly, but as 
Gollum gained the trunk, instead of coming down, he climbed higher. 
Silivren gritted her teeth in exasperation as Gollum crawled out onto 
one of the highest branches that would support his weight. 
“Wonderful,” sighed Salma beside her. “Now what?”

“Perhaps we might still pull him down,” suggested Sornhén. 

“That will be a chore. Perhaps a few arrows close to him will frighten 
him down,” murmured Sili. She glanced around. “None of us are in 
charge of Gollum himself. I think we should send for Legolas.”

“If I start now, and return with him on horseback, it would still be 
light,” suggested Sornhén. 

Salma nodded, “That is a good idea. We should wait.” Sili also agreed, 
and Sorn ran quickly into the trees.

***

Legolas was at the stables with Candrochon and Merilin when Sornhén 
came in. “My duty, my lord,” he said with a quick salute. 

“There is trouble?” Legolas asked sharply as his friends hurried over.

“We let Gollum climb the tree in the clearing, but now he refuses to 
come down. He has gone very high, and we thought not to try and force 
him without consulting you first. Silivren and Salma guard the tree 
still.”

Legolas nodded, “That is well. Come,” he pulled Sornhén up onto his 
own horse.

“Shall we accompany you?” offered Merilin.

Legolas considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “I will send 
for more guards if they are needed, but we may yet have him down 
before dark. Sméagol likes to be difficult simply for sport at times.” 
Making sure Sorn was secure behind him, he sent his horse into a 
gallop.

***

As Sili and Salma waited below the tree, the sun had fallen only 
slightly lower in the skies when Sornhén returned on a horse behind 
Legolas. “Luck, young ones,” Legolas said by way of greeting. “I was 
on my way to you when Sornhén called to me.” He dismounted and glared 
up into the tree. “Gollum!”

No answer, not even a glance. Salma scowled, “Perhaps a few arrows 
into the branches nearest him might persuade him.”

Legolas pulled his mouth to one side in a grimace. “Nay, I would not 
be party to wounding him without cause. Perhaps we might pull him from 
the bows.”

“I am the only one who would reach so high,” Silivren said 
matter-of-factly. “If we are to try it, then I must go.”

The idea clearly troubled Legolas, but the princess’s words were 
accurate; any of the others would cause the trunk to bend dangerously 
with their weight. Sili was by far the lightest. Looking critically at 
the tree, he sighed at length. “Very well. Be careful.” Despite the 
neutral tone, neither of the other two novices missed the worry in his 
voice.

Sili swiftly mounted up the sturdy lower limbs of the high tree and 
followed the path Gollum had taken. Seeing her approach, the contrary 
creature began edging his way as far out onto the branch as possible. 
The princess swore to herself; this would be difficult. 

After a few moments, she gained the upper bough where Gollum had made 
his stance and began pulling herself carefully out. To her surprised 
relief, the branch was much stronger than it had appeared, and she was 
soon close enough to grab for him. “Come on, you pesky creature! I 
shall have you down from this tree! Errgh!” She secured a hold on one 
thin arm and wrenched back for all she was worth. Light she was, but 
weak she was not. 

“Errrr! Loose us! No! No! Nasty she-elf! Going to lock poor Sméagol 
away again! Not again! Wicked elf! Gollum! Gollum! Sméagol likes the 
tree, nice tree! Let Sméagol stay in the tree! Not coming down!” 

Even as Gollum protested, Sili pried his other hand free of the branch 
and began pulling him back along the bough. But Gollum still fought, 
and suddenly managed to secure a surprisingly strong grip on the 
branch, this time with his feet. Sili grunted and leaned further out, 
trying to wrap an arm around Gollum’s torso to drag him loose. This 
Gollum greeted with an unearthly screech, and he began thrashing 
wildly, wrenching himself and his elven guard around on the narrow 
limb. 

“Curse you, you--oomph--stubborn beast! If we fall, you’ll get us both 
killed! Cease this madness!” Sili snapped, attempting to smite Gollum 
on the ear while grabbing a smaller limb over her head for balance.

“No! No! Not going! Yes! Kill nasty elf, wicked she-elf! Sméagol 
stays, she falls!” 

With a violent jerk, Gollum swung dangerously over the edge of the 
branch, still holding on with his feet. But the motion tested the 
branch Sili was holding too violently, and with a loud crack, it 
snapped in her hand, overbalancing her clear off the limb. With a 
scream of panic, she released her hold from Gollum in an effort to 
seize another branch to catch herself, but her grappling hands caught 
only air, then suddenly there was nothing beneath her feet, and the 
trees many limbs were sweeping by, its twigs and leaves scraping her 
body and face. She heard a chorused cry of her name from below as she 
flailed desperately for something to check her fall. She caught a 
brief image of two dark heads and a fair one rushing toward the base 
of the tree just before her forehead connected with one of the hard 
lower limbs. Light exploded in her vision with blinding pain, and her 
last thought as darkness swept around her was that the impact must 
have shattered her skull.

***

“NO!!” Legolas charged forward as he saw his niece lose her grip on 
the branch amid Gollum’s struggling and tumble down the trunk with a 
cry of terror. Halfway to the ground, Silivren’s forehead connected 
with a tree limb with a sickening crack, and she hit the earth with a 
thud and lay there.

His heart in his throat, Legolas fumbled for her pulse. Salma and 
Sornhén stood anxiously behind him, fighting tears of despair. “Is 
she…” whispered Salma.

Legolas gasped aloud in relief as he felt blood still throbbing along 
Silivren’s veins. He carefully turned her over. Her eyes were closed, 
and a terrible bruise had already appeared upon her forehead near the 
hairline, blood trickling down her temple. She was scraped in many 
places, her clothing torn, and one arm lay at an odd angle. The 
warrior’s gentle touch revealed that the bone was broken, and Sili 
moaned. “We must get her back now,” Legolas murmured, trying to 
control his voice. Swallowing hard and forcing his own frantic 
emotions under control, he looked up, feeling black rage at the 
cackling Gollum still perched in the tree. “Stay here,” he told Salma 
and Sornhén. “Do not attempt to climb after him again. I shall send 
more guards as soon as I reach the palace. When they arrive, surround 
the tree and wait until morn, then we shall try again.” He glared 
furiously up at Gollum, *And pray my anger has cooled by then or I 
shall shoot your miserable body down from that tree myself!*

But there was no time to hurl words at the creature while his niece 
lay bloody and unconscious in his arms. Carefully, Legolas lifted 
Silivren and bore her gently onto the back of his horse, mounting 
behind her. “Stay alert,” he ordered Salma and Sornhén as he sent his 
mount into a gallop.

Though she was still unconscious and the horse’s strides were smooth, 
Silivren moaned faintly as Legolas held her against his chest, trying 
his best not to jolt her or jar her broken arm. “Rest easy, little 
Nimrodel,” he murmured, fighting the terror that coursed through him. 
Inside, his mind cried, *How could I have let this happen? I should 
never have allowed her to climb up that tree, better that we had sent 
for more guards, or shot Gollum down! Why did I not suspect Gollum 
would take any opportunity to harm one of us!*

Forcing himself away from those anguished thoughts, Legolas 
concentrated stubbornly on getting them home. As the sun set, he rode 
straight through the gates to the foot of the palace steps, hearing 
cries of dismay as he dismounted with the limp princess in his arms. 
The door opened, and Legolas turned to see Eirien, frozen in her 
tracks, her face devoid of color as she took in the state of her 
daughter. When Eirien’s eyes raised from Silivren’s face to Legolas, 
it was all he could do not to burst into tears. 

Silivren’s mother rallied herself admirably, though her voice 
trembled, “Bring her inside, quickly!”

Legolas rushed up the steps, taking care not to jostle the unconscious 
girl. Following Eirien to the royal chambers, he gently laid Sili on 
her bed as other healers raced through the door. Berensul came and 
demanded foremost question on every mind, “What happened?”

“Gollum,” Legolas said shortly. “He refused to come down from the tree 
in the clearing. Silivren…I sent her up after him, but he struggled, 
and she fell. She struck her head upon a branch.” Berensul’s face 
flashed many emotions as he pushed past Legolas to his daughter’s 
side. Legolas stepped out of his brother’s and the healers’ way and 
hastily summoned a servant. “Guards must be sent to the glade to 
assist Salma and Sornhén. Swiftly, it grows dark.”

“Yes, my lord,” the servant hurried to tell the warriors milling 
outside the chambers.

Legolas turned back to the healers, where Eirien was examining 
Silivren’s bloodied head. “How is she?” he asked softly. In the brief 
second it took Silivren’s mother to look up, Legolas thought surely he 
would die if Eirien spoke any words of blame. Already his own heart 
was tearing with guilt so deeply that he wanted to scream. 

But Eirien’s eyes, when they rose from her daughter to meet her 
brother-in-law, held no reproach, although they were wild with 
anguish. She closed them briefly, then swallowed hard and said, “I 
think…she will be all right.” Legolas sucked in a gulp of air, and 
Eirien went on, “Her skull was concussed, but not cracked, and her arm 
is broken. One of her ribs may be cracked, but,” she sighed heavily, 
looking suddenly aged. “She will recover.”

A violent shudder forced itself free in spite of all Legolas’s 
efforts, and Berensul turned, his eyes red, and gripped his brother’s 
shoulder. “You brought her back,” he said, his voice also tight with 
fear and grief. Legolas had to look away, but returned Berensul’s 
grip. His brother‘s voice hardened. “Where is that murderous beast?” 

“Still in the tree,” *Curse him! Curse him to Angband for eternity!* 
“I have sent more guards to relieve Salma and Sornhén for the night, 
then on the morrow we shall decide how best to bring him down.”

“I can think of a few ways,” the crown princess murmured as she 
administered a heavier sleeping draught so she could set her 
daughter’s arm.

Legolas smiled humorlessly, “You speak for me, Lady. Were it not for 
Mithrandir’s word…” he shook his head, fury and disgust at Gollum--as 
well as himself--surging through him. “Mithrandir’s word may keep him 
alive, but by my bow he shall not walk in the forest again. That 
privilege is lost to him after this.”

A sudden commotion outside made them look up. A quick rap on the door 
was followed by a frantic Candrochon entering and bowing hastily to 
them. Eirien’s eyes widened and she started forward as she beheld the 
blood from a wound on the warrior’s face. “Forgive me, my lady--My 
lords, we are under attack!”

“What?” Legolas and Berensul sprang forward. 

“Orcs, from the mountains, many of them! They came from the north, 
Legolas,” Candrochon’s face was wild with panic, “they are between us 
and the tree where Gollum is under guard! We cannot reach it!”

It was as though two trolls had seized Legolas by each of his arms and 
torn him violently in two. He wavered, looking at his unconscious 
niece and the desperate warrior before him. “Go,” said Eirien, and the 
paralysis vanished. 

Legolas bolted from the royal chambers at a dead run, seizing his 
weapons from a servant as he sprinted down the steps in a crowd of 
other warriors rushing to defend against the assault. “My horse!” he 
roared, and the mount was swiftly brought. Springing to its back, 
Legolas sent the creature into a full run northwest, towards the glade 
where Salma and Sornhén were waiting for reinforcements.

Darkness seemed thick in the trees as though the shadow that hung over 
southern Mirkwood had somehow oozed into the elven king’s realm. 
Legolas’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as the distant sounds of 
clashing metal, battle cries, and orc shrieks reached his ears. He 
found himself suddenly at the head of the riders, and it hit him in a 
rush of new anxiety that because these were his guards being 
assaulted, HE was in command of the reinforcements!

“Split the group,” he ordered the riders. “We shall come around and 
hit them from both sides! Watch your backs!” Not an eye was batted at 
this, his first order, no arguments made, not even from the warriors 
who had been commanding whole legions for centuries before Legolas was 
born.

Legolas led the southern group while the other half surged to cut the 
orcs off on their northern side. He strained his senses as the sounds 
of the battle grew closer. “Torches!” he shouted. 

The moonless and starless night was suddenly bathed in red and orange 
glow as each rider lit a torch, casting back the shadows. Far through 
the trees, Legolas could see another mass of torches appear, revealing 
orcs and elves striving in the space between. Adding his own voice to 
the chorused roar of challenge, the prince brandished his torch in one 
hand, a spear in another and charged into the fray.

The orcs were numerous and fierce, but they clearly were unused to 
fighting in the wood and unprepared for an assault from the trees. 
Legolas skewered one orc and set another ablaze before the creatures 
realized reinforcements had arrived. When his spear was at last broken 
in the crush of bodies, he discarded it and took up his long knife. It 
was a time-honored lesson among warriors that one’s emotions must 
never command one’s actions in battle, for rage was apt to make one 
careless, but it could not be denied that rage at the injuries to his 
niece burned like a hot coal fire within Legolas as he laid waste to 
every orc that came within reach.

The only light came from the torches, and orcs, elves, and trees 
whirled around him in some sort of bizarre and evil dance. Beneath the 
black sky, Legolas would not have known what direction he faced at any 
given time had he bothered to look. Nor had he any idea how much time 
passed before the familiar shriek of retreat was sounded, and the orcs 
broke and ran. Legolas staggered and leaned against a tree, wiping 
blood off his face from a minor wound he had not felt, and took his 
bearings. 

Orc corpses lay everywhere, and a few elves lay gravely wounded. 
Legolas summoned several warriors. “To the tree,” he ordered, jogging 
through the carnage.

More torches were brought and lit as more elves arrived, and Legolas 
led the warriors into the clearing. The battle had been south of the 
glade, but there were a few orc corpses here. Legolas jammed his teeth 
into his lower lip, and heard moans of despair behind him as the 
torches filled the clearing with light. 

There had been a smaller battle here, and pitifully one-sided. 

Against the base of the tree lay a novice elven warrior, his body 
pierced by many arrows, his life finally ended by a vicious club-blow 
to the head. It was Sornhén. Legolas took a shaky breath and knelt 
beside the young elf, closing the sightless eyes before any others 
could spot the terror in them. Against such a force, the two 
second-century novices had never stood a chance. Rising, Legolas 
turned to the others and found his voice strangely steady. “Take 
Sornhén back to the palace,” he said quietly. 

“My lord, Salma is missing. Her weapons are here, but she is not,” 
came Edlothia’s frightened voice as the elves began sweeping their 
torches frantically through the trees. 

Legolas beckoned quickly for four warriors to bear Sornhén’s body back 
to the palace, then rushed to join the others searching. Examining the 
tracks of the orcs, Legolas noted with still-mounting dread that one 
of them had left bearing a heavy weight. The fire glowed in his eyes 
as he looked up at the warriors. “Salma is taken. We must go after 
them.”

“My lord, what about Gollum?” asked Candrochon.

Immediately, several dozen torches were pointed up toward the tree, 
casting their glow upon its limbs. While the light was not brilliant, 
it was enough for the elves to see clearly that the branches were 
empty. Gollum too was gone. “He may have been taken as well,” 
suggested Merilin.

“Possibly…” murmured another warrior as they set about following the 
orcs’ trail. But soon the elves called to Legolas, “My lord!” 

When he joined them, Legolas found the tracks that interested them: 
the marks of many orcs, but also a strange, rather shriveled pair of 
feet running free among them. “Gollum.”

“So he was taken,” said Candrochon.

“Nay,” Legolas whispered, pointing his torch at the tracks. “He was 
smaller than Salma, if wily. If they carried her in their haste, they 
would have little difficulty carrying him. And he was not bound in any 
way, or his tracks would show more hindrance.” Icy rage cascaded 
through him as the pieces came together. “He escaped. That is why he 
suddenly refused to come down from the tree. He must have known the 
orcs would be coming.” He sprang to his feet and began jogging faster 
after the tracks.

The other warriors hurried to keep up. “How could he have contrived 
that?” demanded Eregdos, appearing at Legolas’s side.

“I know not, sir, but they did. It is the only explanation.” 

Had Eregdos ordered Legolas to give way and let him command the 
company, Legolas would have, but Eregdos did not, and it did not occur 
to the younger warrior. Long they followed the tracks through the 
trees by torchlight, feeling a deeper despair as the trail turned 
south. As the sun came up again, the sound of horses drew near, and in 
the back of the company the elves cried, “The king has come!”

Legolas and Eregdos rose from examining the trail and saluted as 
Thranduil rode up with several more warriors. “Have you any news of 
Salma or Gollum?”

Eregdos stepped back, so Legolas answered, “Nay, my lord. We are 
following the trail of the orcs, and Gollum’s is among them.”

Thranduil nodded briskly, “Report to me when there is any news. Beware 
drawing too near to Dol Guldor lest we bring more casualties home.”

“Yes, my lord.” As the elven king rode back north, Legolas looked 
around. “If we are to avoid attracting too much attention of Dol 
Guldor, we cannot follow this trail to its end. If we cannot reach 
them before they are within sight of it, we shall be forced to turn 
back.”

“I fear so, my lord,” sighed Eregdos, his voice heavy with sorrow. 
“And then we shall have to presume Salma lost, as well as Gollum.”

The urgency and concentration of the search was all that kept despair 
from overwhelming Legolas as he bent again to the trail, ignoring the 
ache in his back. “Let us make haste, then, while we still have hope.”

The trail of the orc band grew more chaotic and difficult to follow as 
the days rolled by. Shadow hung like an oppressive curtain, almost 
physical in form, as the elves ventured further south. Legolas could 
feel his heart beating frantically, his breath coming in quick gasps, 
while his mind whirled under the assault of shadow and his own 
conscience. *How could this have happened? How could I have LET this 
happen?!*

They had long since lost the trail of the one heavy orc who they 
believed to be carrying Salma, but still had some faint signs of 
Gollum’s trail, and followed them hoping that the prisoner and guest 
of the foul creatures were being kept close. All at once, a cry went 
up from the eastern flank of the searching elves. “My lord!”

There were tears in the herald’s voice. It could mean only one thing.

Legolas and Eregdos ran to the far end of the company, and found the 
elven warriors gathering in a grief-stricken semicircle. In a cluster 
of thorny bushes, deposited like a bundle of rubbish, lay Salma, 
youngest daughter of Ulban, sister of Gwilwileth. This time Legolas 
had not arrived fast enough, and the final bleak expression in the 
elven maid’s eyes had set many of the warriors sobbing. She was 
wounded in the leg, her clothing torn, and there was no doubt in any 
of their minds that she had been brutalized by her captors. Rising 
from examining her with tears streaming shamelessly down his face, the 
healer whispered, “I can find no fatal wound on her, my lord.”

Eregdos drew in a shaky breath, closing his eyes. After swallowing 
several times, he murmured, “She ended her own life then. To escape 
their torment.”

“Yes, Captain.”

As Legolas knelt beside the fallen warrioress, Eregdos’s voice came 
softly behind him, “Where is Gwilwileth?”

“She was wounded in the battle, my lord, Fimsigil removed her home.”

Again, Legolas found himself charged with the bitter task of closing 
Salma’s brown eyes to the world. His muscles were spasming painfully 
from the effort of holding back violent tremors. The effort of holding 
back sobs was so great that he dared not open his mouth. Reverently, 
Legolas wrapped Salma’s body in his own brown cloak, and lifted it 
gently. Two of the scouts came running back from where they had been 
following the trail. One stifled a sob at the sight, and the other 
said in a ragged voice, “My lord, the trail of Gollum is all but lost, 
and the shadow…”

Legolas glanced briefly at Eregdos, but the captain’s face revealed 
nothing. It was still his command. Taking a deep breath, Legolas 
forced all his will into speaking this one decision. “Then we shall 
break off the search. Gollum is presumed lost.”

“Yes, my lord.”

There was no judgment or resentment in the warriors’ voices at all, 
not even Eregdos’s, as the company turned sorrowfully for home, 
bearing the second of two dead novices and the black burden of 
failure. Between the two, the weight Legolas carried in his arms and 
upon his heart was so great, that throughout the long walk home there 
were times when he was certain that he fall dead of grief and shame 
right there. Only the sense of obligation gave him the strength to put 
one foot before the next, and he said not a word to anyone. But that 
at least was not out of place, for there was hardly any sound from any 
of the warriors save desperately stifled weeping.

Eregdos spoke up twice, both times quietly offering to take up Salma’s 
body for awhile. Both times, Legolas merely shook his head. He dared 
not speak, afraid his body and voice would betray him, but his mind 
rang with accusations. *She was under my command. Mine. Both of them 
were, and Gollum too in my charge. I left him to escape, left them to 
die. It was my charge. My responsibility…*

In all the years of his life, Legolas had berated himself before for 
mistakes, for the occasional missed shot, damaged weapon, sometimes 
even losing his quarry on a hunt. But now, bearing the body of a 
novice under his command, returning home without the prisoner he had 
sworn to guard…now he knew, bitterly and deeply, what it truly was to 
experience failure. Total, devastating, absolute failure. Failure that 
caused death. Failure that caused destruction. Failure the 
ramifications of which could not even be predicted as the information 
Gollum possessed that could mean the life or death of everything in 
Middle Earth. And Legolas had let him escape.

The journey home was both too long and too short, and Legolas had 
absolutely no real idea of the time it took, but suddenly he was 
leading the warriors back through the villages around the palaces, 
past the horrified gazes of his people. With each step, he was 
convinced that this failure could not possibly feel any worse, and 
with each horrified face or anguished sob, he was proven wrong. 

Then they were passing through the palace gates, where the warriors 
and elves of the elven king’s household awaited them. A collective 
intake of breath went up as Legolas entered, and sobs and wails of 
grief rang out at the sight of the burden he carried. Among those 
cries came the one that Legolas had dreaded the most, and now cut into 
his heart like a poisoned sword. There came a scream, the anguished, 
hopeless scream of an elf woman seeing the joy of her life destroyed.

Salma’s mother, Alalmë, rushed forward, her arms outstretched 
hysterically, and would have knocked Legolas clean off his feet had 
not Ulban caught her shoulders and pulled her back. Gwilwileth, their 
eldest and now their only child, came behind them, stiff from her 
injury, but sobbing just as wildly as Ulban deposited his wife into 
his daughter’s arms. Alalmë fell to her knees, and she and Gwilwileth 
clung to each other, overwhelmed by grief. Ulban’s lack of tears 
stabbed Legolas with equal pain as the king’s first steward turned 
back to him and silently held out his arms for his daughter. As 
Legolas laid Salma in her father’s arms, Ulban met his eyes, and 
Legolas was stunned to find them red, filled with grief, but not an 
inkling of blame. The steward nodded shakily to Legolas in what seemed 
a wordless thanks, and turned to his wife and daughter. Trembling, 
trying valiantly but unsuccessfully to contain their sobs, Alalmë and 
Gwilwileth also nodded gratefully to him. Then they turned and walked 
into the palace, Alalmë leaning heavily on her daughter as all the 
elves, even Thranduil, silently gave way and bowed.

Legolas stood frozen where he was, unable to believe even as they 
left, that Salma’s family could not reproach him. *Can they not see? 
Were the facts kept from them, that they do not know of my 
responsibility for this calamity? Surely they would curse me if they 
knew!*

As the palace door closed on the mourners, Thranduil turned back to 
the newly-arrived warriors. His gaze swept over them, now completely 
expressionless. He noted Eregdos still standing just behind Legolas, 
and so asked the prince, “Report.”

“Sornhén fell when the orcs attacked the clearing where Gollum was 
under guard. I believe the attack was staged to orchestrate Gollum’s 
escape, for he was allowed to run freely among the orcs while Salma 
was taken prisoner. They had several hours ahead of us before we 
determined that she and Gollum were among them. We found Salma due 
west of East Bight, well south of Old Forest Road, abandoned by the 
orcs. The trail of Gollum was lost as we drew nigh of Dol Guldor. We 
turned back there.”

Thranduil nodded, his face betraying nothing. “How long were you 
gone?” Legolas faltered; in truth he had no idea how many days had 
passed. The elven king watched him for a moment, then turning to the 
other warriors, he declared, “Our realm shall mourn all this month for 
the daughter of Ulban and the son of Varnorn.” He paused again, taking 
in the haggard and grief-stricken faces of them all, “Forget not to 
look to yourselves.” With that, and not looking at Legolas, Thranduil 
turned and reentered the palace.

***

A few days later…

There was a quiet rap upon Thranduil’s study door. “Enter,” he ordered 
absently, pulling his troubled mind from the latest reports from the 
outlying villages. The door opened, and soft steps entered. Thranduil 
turned his face and smiled at the sight of his granddaughter. “Come 
in, my child.” Silivren bowed, and Thranduil rose in alarm as she 
wavered slightly. “Should you be up and about yet, Granddaughter, you 
are not yet fully recovered.”

Sounding slightly frustrated, Silivren murmured, “It has been two 
weeks.”

“Head wounds are nothing to be trifled with, young Lady,” Thranduil 
said firmly, taking her arm and guiding her to a soft chair. He sat 
down opposite her. “But now you are here, what troubles you?”

Taking a deep breath and dropping her gaze as though garnering 
courage, Silivren said, “It is Legolas.”

Thranduil’s jaw tightened reflexively. Silivren had always been touchy 
about discussing any troubles concerning Legolas with Thranduil, 
undoubtedly due to what she had witnessed as a child. The elven king 
had cursed himself many times in the past decades for their 
indiscretion in that quarrel. Forcing a calm tone, he inquired, “What 
of your uncle?”

“He has been back four days and has not spoken to anyone,” the young 
elf’s blue eyes were round and large with anguish. “He will not speak 
to me!”

The elven king swallowed hard. *Life is never more difficult than when 
the demands of realm and family collide.* Silivren was a novice 
warrior now, and Legolas one of her superiors, but then, when all was 
said and done…she was still Thranduil’s granddaughter, and Legolas’s 
niece. *For both my son and me, duty and love conflict where Sili is 
concerned.* Sili was watching him anxiously, and he sighed, 
“Silivren…forget not that Legolas is more than merely your uncle. In 
this mission, he was your commander, and he failed in that role.”

Silivren leapt to her feet, outrage on her young face, “How can you 
say such a thing?! None of this was his fault! He did not cause me to 
fall from the tree, nor could he have known the orcs would attack! Why 
do you blame him--”

“Sili!” Thranduil stood and seized her shoulders, for she was 
beginning to sway. “Sit down and calm down before you make yourself 
swoon. I told you that you must take care when recovering from a 
concussion. I shall explain things to you if you can keep your 
senses.”

Though highly displeased by her own frailty, Silivren crossed her arms 
sulkily and listened. “Well?”

*I should tell her to watch her tongue when she addresses me. Nay, 
today I shall make allowances; she is upset, and convalescing. There 
will be time to scold her on her manners later.* Aloud, he said, 
“Silivren, there is an important distinction between the many roles 
each member of our family must play. Legolas is your uncle, and in 
that he could never fail you. But as a warrior, and the commander of 
you, Salma, and Sornhén, and guardian of Gollum, he was charged with 
certain tasks. The protection of the lives of those under his command 
is every warrior’s responsibility, and the prevention of Gollum’s 
escape above all.” Thranduil sighed softly, seeing the dismay upon her 
face. “Fault is not a thing we often look to assign in the warrior’s 
craft, for as you say, there are many things that cannot be prevented. 
But responsibility must always be assigned, and whatever the 
circumstances, Legolas still failed in his responsibilities.”

Silivren’s lips were trembling, and Thranduil frowned inwardly. 
*Perhaps I should not have been so frank with her so soon. She is 
grieving still for her friends, and afraid for Legolas.* His 
granddaughter murmured, “After the fall…I have been sleeping deeply, 
and when I first wake it is difficult even to think. My father has 
said, and I have seen, Legolas is always at my bedside when I sleep. 
But as soon as I wake, he leaves, before I can speak to him.”

Thranduil sighed again. He had known that, for he himself had often 
been at Sili’s side while she recovered, but had hoped that she would 
not remember seeing Legolas there in her groggy state. She was not 
alone in her worry; Legolas had not spoken to anyone since returning 
from the south bearing Salma’s body, other than to inquire after 
Sili’s recovery. “Remember Legolas is mourning as well. He is your 
uncle and concerned for you, but he may prefer to grieve in private.” 

“I heard…” Sili hesitated. “Some of the warriors who were on the long 
mission with Legolas say that…when his friend Tathar fell…he nearly 
died of grief.” Thranduil winced inwardly, understanding now the fear 
in her eyes. “I would not want…”

Taking her hand, the king said, “Fear not, child. He will survive. 
Give him time to face his sorrow, and his conscience, for it has only 
been a few days.”

Silivren scowled, “And how long do you intend to let him sorrow 
believing that not a one of us cares?”

“You are too young to understand.”

“And I grow weary of hearing that cowardly excuse.”

“Silivren!” Thranduil stood up and narrowed his eyes at her. “I 
understand you are upset by these events, but I will not tolerate 
insolence. You will look to your manners.” To his eyes, she still 
looked sullen, but at least she held her tongue. *Novices. She sulks 
like her father did.* In a calmer voice, the elven king went on, “I 
will not prevent you from approaching your uncle, but remember as a 
novice warrior, you are his subordinate, and if he orders it, you will 
behave accordingly. Just as you are my subject and heiress as well as 
my granddaughter, and I expect you to conduct yourself as such.” 

The young elf’s obstinate little glare had been replaced by lowered 
eyes and a faint flush. In a quiet voice, Silivren murmured, “Forgive 
me. I behaved badly.”

Thranduil smiled and held out his hands, guiding her to her feet and 
gently kissed her brow. “These are trying days for us all, daughter of 
my son. But we are the leaders of our people, and it is our duty to 
set an example. If we lose control of ourselves, the loss of the realm 
will not be long in following.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Be off with you now, and look also to your health. I do not desire 
forcing your mother to nurse you through a relapse.”

***

Despite the nobility of her intentions, Silivren found that her 
parents had no intention of allowing her out of the palace to seek her 
elusive uncle. After several minutes of protesting vigorously to no 
avail, the young princess allowed her mother to pack her into bed, on 
condition that she not be given yet another sleeping draught. “By the 
Valar, Mother, I sleep so heavily from this wound that I need no aid.” 
Eirien was convinced, and left Sili alone.

Her mother’s footsteps had barely died away when Sili was up, changing 
swiftly into her riding clothes. Her movements were a little slow, but 
with care, she was able to climb off the balcony and down the trunk of 
a nearby tree to freedom. Once upon the ground, she hurried to the 
stables.

For her last birthday, Legolas had given his niece a fine young 
stallion sired by his own mare. Sili treasured the gift for two 
reasons, one because of Tingilinde’s fine bloodline, and the other 
because there were few places in Mirkwood where the colt could not 
find his dam. Though she knew riding was unwise only two weeks after 
her injury, fierce stubbornness kept Silivren from heeding her 
light-headedness as she mounted her horse. “Find Tinnu,” she ordered 
the stallion. 

Tingilinde carried her down the north bank of the Forest River well 
beyond the wood elves’ immediate territory. Silivren would have been 
apprehensive if she had not been able to see clearly Tinnu’s tracks on 
the soft ground, which Tingilinde followed with ease. Legolas had 
certainly gone out of his way to avoid any contact with other elves.

A little ways further, Silivren came around a small bend in the river 
to find the object of her search sitting alone on the bank, gazing 
morosely into the swift flow. He did not look up at the sound of the 
horse’s approach. Even from the side, she could see the gloom that 
hung over him like a veil, the dejection in his posture, and the 
dimness of his eyes. She found it hard to believe that he did not 
notice her, but feared instead that his private sorrow denied him the 
energy or interest to look and see who had arrived. This was going to 
be harder than she had thought. She quietly dismounted, and took a few 
hesitant steps towards him. “Legolas?”

At least she got his attention. Her uncle’s head snapped toward her, 
alarm and dismay replacing melancholy, and he leapt to his feet. 
“Silivren! Have you lost all sense, riding all this way when you 
are--”

“--I know I am convalescing, Uncle, you need not remind me.”

Legolas pursed his lips, and Silivren remembered the things Thranduil 
had told her. Suddenly she realized she was facing the warrior who 
outranked her, rather than the uncle she hoped to reach. “Obviously 
you do need reminding if you engage in such foolhardy exercises. I 
would have thought you had been trained better.”

Silivren bristled, “You know why I came. Since you have not deigned to 
see me since your return, I sought you out myself.”

By the Valar, she had never seen him this way. His eyes looked so 
lifeless, and his voice was equally dead. “You know I have been to see 
you,” he replied flatly.

“And crept away every time I opened my eyes,” she retorted. “I want to 
talk to you. Do not put me off!” she snapped as he started to speak. 
“I may have been bedridden, but my eyes and ears work still. You have 
been skulking around like an orc afraid of the sunlight ever since you 
got back. It is time you began acting like an elf again!”

That was a mistake. Her uncle’s gray eyes hardened like steel and 
seemed to bore into her, causing her to take an involuntary step 
backward. She had never seen Legolas look like this. He sounded more 
like one of the captains as he said in a low, cold voice, “Mind you 
words, young novice, for you forget your place. You have no business 
making demands of me.”

Silivren swallowed hard against the lump of frustration and pain in 
her throat. *Why have you shut me out?* “Legolas,” she whispered 
desperately. “Please. I am sorry. It is only that I cannot stand you 
being like this. We are all mourning, and it would be better if you 
were with us.”

Legolas lowered his eyes again, and for a moment she thought she had 
gotten through. Then his jaw tightened, and he said, “I have no right 
to mourn alongside you, for I am responsible for…all that took place. 
I had obligations that I failed to meet.” He lifted his eyes and told 
her, “And one of them was for your safety, which I see is still in 
danger. I shall see you back to the palace before you are missed--”

“No,” she snapped, though her heart was breaking inside.

“Do not make me order you,” he said, unmoved.

With an under-breath curse, Silivren whirled and stalked back to her 
horse. “A wounded novice I may be, my lord, but I think I can still 
find my way home without your help. For I want none of your company if 
I may not speak to my uncle, who loves and listens to me, rather than 
this overbearing and embittered novice master he has become. But if it 
is your will to continue to sit here and wallow in your own guilt and 
self-pity, then as you say, I would be forgetting my place as your 
subordinate if I attempted to stop you.” 

Legolas stared at her. Her hands shook as she beckoned to Tingilinde, 
and unshed tears stung her eyes. “I carry the burden of Salma and 
Sorn’s loss too, you know! Had I not been so reckless in trying to 
wrestle Gollum from that tree, you would have been there, and we might 
have held off the orcs long enough for reinforcements to come. They 
were my friends, you know!” The stallion whinnied softly at her side, 
and stifling a furious sob, she turned away from the silent Legolas 
and began to mount.

“Sili.” 

The silence seemed to explode with that one quiet word. She dared not 
turn back, biting her lip fiercely, as the sound of quick, light 
strides was followed suddenly by his hands on her shoulders. He turned 
her gently around, and she forced herself to look at his face. The 
sight of his brimming eyes broke the last of her restraint, and she 
released a sob into her hands. Legolas pulled her into a tight embrace 
as she wept long and hard. “Forgive me,” he murmured, stroking her 
hair. “I have not been thinking clearly.”

For much of the ten days Legolas had been gone with the company 
pursuing Gollum and the captive Salma, Silivren had been too 
incoherent from the concussion to realize what had happened. After 
regaining her senses, she had forestalled her own emotions as she 
awaited news of the search, and hoped that she and her uncle might 
face their grief together, as they had shared many things during the 
past forty years. When Legolas had instead shied away from her, she 
had felt naught but confusion. Now, at last, her grief boiled up, and 
she released it, sobbing into her uncle’s arms, for Salma and Sorn, 
for her failure, for their people being lost to the shadow, because it 
was all too much to bear.

*** 

After escorting Silivren back to the palace (and enduring a thorough 
tongue-lashing from Eirien over Sili’s being outside at all) Legolas 
walked to the archery range. Much of the normal routine in the elven 
king’s realm had been disrupted by the attack and the mourning for 
Salma and Sornhén, and there were no other elves practicing. Standing 
by himself, firing arrow after arrow into the targets of the silent 
field, Legolas felt at last the heavy weight of despair beginning to 
lift from him. He shot his last arrows into the farthest target, at an 
odd angle, but they struck home, and he felt an obscure comfort in 
that. His quiver empty, he sighed.

“I am glad to see you returned to yourself, my son.”

Legolas jumped. Even among his kindred, the senses of the youngest 
prince of Mirkwood were especially strong, and few of his kindred 
could boast the ability to sneak up on him. However, his father had 
always been one of them. Thranduil smiled slightly as his son turned 
to face him, looking sheepish. “I am, my lord,” he said, bowing to the 
king. “I fear I have been neglecting my duties.”

Thranduil walked up next to him. “The realm is in mourning, as you 
well know. There are no regular duties.” Legolas nodded wordlessly. 
“All the same, we cannot relax our vigilance. Eregdos wishes to send 
out war parties in search of orcs, and perhaps to find some sign of 
Gollum, for I doubt if he would willingly stay in Dol Guldor among the 
Nazgul.”

Swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat at the mere 
mention of Gollum or Dol Guldor, Legolas nodded, “I shall join them, 
Father.” 

Both of them were silent as they walked back to the fortress, but 
Legolas felt his father’s hand rest lightly upon his shoulder. It 
seemed to lift the darkness further away from his heart, and prince 
and king smiled wordlessly at each other. After all, Legolas reasoned, 
Thranduil of all people knew that his realm could and had survived far 
worse trials than this. *My father has not kept us together all these 
years for naught. We shall live through this as well.*

***

About four months later…

“Legolas,” Eregdos came upon the elven warrior placing his 
newly-replenished pack upon his mount. “Whither are you departing 
now?”

The prince glanced at the other members of his party before replying, 
“We thought to try south towards Emyn Muil and Gondor. Perhaps some 
trace of Gollum might be found there.”

The warrior captain of Mirkwood shook his head. “It is unlikely Gollum 
would venture in that direction after all he suffered in Mordor. We’ve 
seen not a trace of him in months. It would be best to consider him 
lost and look to other things.”

Looking away, Legolas said softly, “The information he possesses is 
dangerous if he should fall into the wrong hands again, sir. Surely we 
cannot simply abandon the search.”

*You still have much to learn, young warrior. None could fail to know 
you as Langcyll’s protégé, for he also never knew when to have done.* 
Eregdos smiled. Legolas’s obsession with finding Gollum again was an 
ill habit often found among the younger warriors in the ranks; he 
could not rest without finding some way to rectify his failure. Still, 
summer had ended and autumn come upon them with naught to show for 
their efforts, and the captain knew their energies must now be 
directed elsewhere. Still…Legolas was partly right. Gollum and the 
whereabouts of the One Ring could not simply be dismissed, even if the 
chances of finding him were all but nonexistent. 

Legolas and the other scouts were watching Eregdos curiously, and the 
warrior captain returned his thoughts to them. “We shall send word to 
Lord Elrond in Imladris. Mithrandir will have made him aware of the 
situation with Gollum, perhaps he will have counsel for how best to 
proceed. Yes, Legolas, you may be the messenger,” he added, 
anticipating the prince’s volunteering. Several of the other elves 
sniggered, and Legolas glared at them. Eregdos smiled, “It is as well; 
I must send a delegation to Rivendell in any case. You shall carry a 
message from the king concerning Gollum, and also lead the escort of 
my daughter to the House of Elrond.”

“Galithil?” Legolas asked. Behind him, Merilin giggled. 

Eregdos mock-glared at her, and spoke with a crossness they all knew 
to be feined. “Yes. It seems Glorfindel’s young upstart is determined 
to have her hand, and she is equally set on the son of Gwaeron. If all 
goes well, they shall wed in Rivendell in the spring.” Legolas and the 
other young warriors were grinning broadly, and Eregdos waved his hand 
irritably at them. “Be off with you. We shall depart at dawn in three 
days’ time.” 

***

Three days later…

King Thranduil, Berensul, Eirien, and Silivren came out onto the 
palace steps to bid farewell to the party of travelers. Eregdos bowed 
to the elven king. “I have ordered Narbeleth to lead the warriors of 
Mirkwood in my absence.”

“I can find no fault with such an appointment,” Thranduil replied. 
Behind Eregdos stood his daughter Galithil, who was unlikely to return 
to Mirkwood. The elven king smiled and held out his hand to her. “You 
shall be greatly missed, daughter of Eregdos. My felicitations and 
blessing for a joyous union go with you.”

Blushing, Galithil bowed and kissed his hand. “I shall never forget 
your kindness to me and my family, my lord. I too shall miss all our 
kindred.” Several of the elves dashed tears from their eyes. Galithil 
was a promising young warrioress, possessing her father’s instinct for 
battle and strong heart, and she was much-loved among the Silvan 
elves. Her departure would be a loss to the elves of Mirkwood, while a 
great blessing to the elves of Imladris.

Legolas, watching the exchange with bright eyes, soon came to bow to 
the king. “Bear my message and the bride of Faron to Rivendell, my 
son,” said Thranduil. “And return safely to us.”

“My thanks, my lord,” the prince replied. After exchanging farewells 
with Berensul and his family, Thranduil’s youngest son walked back 
toward his horse to depart.

*I may never see him again…*

The thought struck Thranduil like a wave of ice through his heart, and 
made him catch his breath. He knew not what had made him think such a 
thing, but the premonition stayed, clutching at his mind. Before he 
knew it-- “Legolas!”

His son glanced up, startled, as Thranduil swiftly came to his side 
among the horses. Legolas’s gray eyes were puzzled as the king laid an 
urgent hand upon his shoulder. “My son, take care. Come back to us.” 

“I shall, Father,” answered Legolas, surprised by the anxiety in the 
king’s quiet words. He was surprised still more when his father 
silently embraced him, though he returned it with pleasure. 

Thranduil stepped back again, noting gladly that the other elves were 
keeping themselves busy with the horses. “You have given me much cause 
for pride, Legolas.”

“Thank you.”

It made Thranduil’s lips quirk to see that his son was now quite 
confused, and at last he smiled. “Go now with my blessing.” With one 
last squeeze of Legolas’s shoulder, he returned to the palace steps, 
ignoring the obnoxious grin that his eldest son was currently giving 
him. “Farewell, warriors of Mirkwood! Come back to us safely!”

Legolas, being the king’s messenger on this journey, was at the head 
of the company, with Galithil and Eregdos just behind him. As they 
mounted and rode out toward the gate, Legolas suddenly looked back and 
waved. Thranduil raised his own hand in farewell with a full heart. 
*Come back to me, my son.*

***

In Lothlorien, at the same time…

The Lady Galadriel stood over her Mirror, watching things that are 
unfold in Middle Earth. She nodded quietly to herself as she beheld a 
party of horses departing the elven king’s city in Mirkwood, riding 
West for Rivendell. *The son of Thranduil’s destiny arrives. Thranduil 
himself has felt it, even without the power of a Ring.* She smiled. 
*Powerful and strange, is the love of a father for a son.* Her gaze 
fell upon the fair-haired elven warrior riding at the head of the 
company. *Ride swift, son of Mirkwood, and be true to your heart. For 
your heart is one of many things that shall soon be tested.*

She leaned back and watched the Mirror guide itself to display other 
happenings to her. It came into focus West of the Misty Mountains, 
upon a gray horse riding with fierce speed across the plains. 
*Asfaloth.*

Behind the gray steed, black-garbed riders gave chase upon black 
mounts. *The Nazgul. Our fate is upon us.*

With her will, she moved the focus of the mirror closer to the gray 
horse, spying the small, ailing figure upon its back, clutched in the 
grasp of a dark-haired elven maid as they raced toward the sanctuary 
of Rivendell. The elf was Arwen, daughter of Celebrian, granddaughter 
of Galadriel.

The Lady blinked, puzzlement sweeping over her features. Aloud, she 
murmured, “Something is not right.”

***** 

(Giggle!) Forgive me, purists, I couldn’t resist! One Chapter Left!

AUTHOR’S DEDICATION: I must remark on the rather prophetic nature of 
this chapter. As I told some of you, for the last year I’ve been 
working on a congressional campaign, and during the last six weeks I 
had to devote nearly all my time outside of school to it. I was almost 
done with the chapter, but had to set it on the back burner. Real life 
has dealt me some nasty blows in the past, but I think this one reset 
the scale. As you know, Tuesday was Election Day, and in an unexpected 
twist that nobody saw coming, my Congresswoman lost. I put a lot into 
her campaign, and my heart is broken. But the weird thing is that the 
theme of this chapter dealing with failure was written BEFORE that 
awful day. Fate works in mysterious ways. I’ve shed many tears and 
tried to reason how such a good woman could be rejected by the voters, 
and come up with nothing. I could use the Mirror of Galadriel right 
now. As Legolas finds out in this chapter, sometimes the best people 
in the world can’t stop the hard times from coming. 

So, with that in mind, this chapter is dedicated to my friends and 
heroes: my Congresswoman and the rest of her staff (even though none 
of them know about this little hobby of mine!) I guess the lesson in 
this is that good doesn’t always win. 





A/N: This is it, Ladies and Gents! The final chapter and epilogue! I 
posted both at the same time as a very sincere thank-you to all you 
readers for staying and reviewing through all my choppy delays and 
Real Life hassles that kept me from posting as often as I used to. You 
guys have made me feel so good about writing, and I’m not stopping any 
time soon. Also, Chapter Three of Elven Song should be up within the 
next few days.

A/G: (Author’s Gloat) I am immensely proud to announce that on 
Saturday, December 21, 2002, I graduated from the University of 
Florida with honors and a degree in Political Science. A few weeks 
before that, I received my letter of admission to Georgetown 
University Law School in Washington, D.C. In January, I shall be 
relocating to Washington, D.C. to pursue a job on Capitol Hill in a 
Congressional office. My own Congresswoman may be leaving, but I have 
to believe there are other strong, honest, good people out there 
working to benefit the world, and I’m going to find one and work for 
them. Washington, D.C. is my White City, and I’m so happy to be going 
to live there. And don’t worry, I’ll keep writing. I hope to be a 
speech writer some day. Wish me luck! (In politics, I’ll need it!)

IMPORTANT: I am a great fan of both the book and movie versions of 
“The Fellowship of the Ring,” and my interpretation of the Council of 
Elrond from Legolas’s POV is a combination of the two. Some of you may 
notice lines that were in the movie, rather than the book, but I tried 
to put them together. Hope you like it. However, for you purist 
readers, I can promise that should I write a scene from The Two 
Towers, the character of Faramir will be ENTIRELY bookverse! (Really, 
I love Peter Jackson’s work, but tsk tsk on that one! Hopefully those 
of you who have seen TTT know what I’m talking about while those who 
haven’t won’t have it spoiled.)

So begins the final chapters of Legolas’s journey before the Quest! 
Enjoy and don’t forget to review! Luv you guys!









Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Council of Elrond





“By the Valar, will you all have done?!” demanded Galithil, clapping 
her hands over the sides of her head. 

The delegation of Mirkwood, bearing a message for the Lord of Imladris 
and a bride for a warrior of Imladris, had made camp for the night 
upon the plains. With the guards posted and fires lit, a large number 
of the company had now chosen to amuse themselves by dancing merrily 
around the center fire (and the bride-to-be) singing marriage songs 
gleefully. 

Legolas, the messenger for his father, King Thranduil, sat by the fire 
near Galithil and laughed at the antics of his friends, while 
Galithil’s father, Eregdos, captain of the warriors of Mirkwood, 
mock-scowled in feigned displeasure at his daughter’s betrothal. Lady 
Merilin, another warrioress of Mirkwood, flopped down next to her 
kinswoman, laughing breathlessly, “As if you did not taunt me enough 
after my marriage, Cousin!”

“What are you talking of? I was abroad in Middle Earth at the time you 
and Cand were wed! We did not return until six months after the 
feast!” Galithil protested feebly as several of the other elves began 
tossing autumn flowers into her hair as though adorning her for a 
marriage banquet.

Snickering, Legolas put in, “True, but you must admit that we more 
than made up for it in the first days after we returned.”

“There!” Merilin and the others renewed their assault on Galithil’s 
dark hair over the warrior maid’s shrieks of protest until Eregdos 
bade them be silent lest they rouse every orc on the plains. Galithil 
grumbled that perhaps it might not be a bad idea.

***

Gimli, son of Glóin, heard the sound of the horses approaching in the 
darkness before he saw them. His father’s company was drawing nigh to 
the eastern entrance to Rivendell, and up until now, the road had been 
all but empty of travelers. The dwarves of Lonely Mountain were not 
quite within the protective circle of the Last Homely House, nor had 
they yet received the assurances of the Lord of Rivendell’s 
protection. So they circled immediately, axes brought to bear, against 
any foe who might be riding to bar their way.

To the east, the full moon was rising but still far from overhead, 
bathing the dark world in an almost-golden glow. Up the road, riding 
openly, came a party of elves, but not wearing the colors of Imladris. 
Three rode toward the front: one a wizened, fair-haired elven warrior, 
another a dark-haired elven maid, but the one in the lead caught 
Gimli’s attention the most. The reason most striking was that this 
elf, though leading the company, seemed the youngest. His dark gray 
eyes snapped with that rather disconcerting elvish alertness, that 
suggested he had seen Gimli long before Gimli had seen him, and had 
already had time to evaluate the dwarf as a potential threat or 
target. Almost as soon as their eyes met, the chins of both elf and 
dwarf lifted with mutual disdain, and not a word was spoken. The elves 
did slow their horses as they passed the dwarf walkers, but the young 
elf in the lead afforded Gimli and his father little more than a 
precursory nod in greeting.

Exchanging glances, the dwarves harrumphed. “Elves,” snorted Glóin. 
“They’re all the same.” Gimli laughed in agreement, and they continued 
on their way.

***

Aragorn was speaking softly to Arwen upon a veranda shortly after he 
and the rest of the hobbits had reached Rivendell when her eyes 
suddenly shifted past him, brightening with surprised pleasure. 
Turning to look, Aragorn smiled as well at the sight of Legolas coming 
up the steps toward them. “Well met, son of Thranduil!” he called 
happily. 

“Aragorn. Undomiel.” Legolas bowed to each of them in turn. 

Aragorn noted with concern the somber demeanor of the prince, but 
Arwen was speaking the required words of welcome on behalf of her 
father at the moment. “What brings you to Rivendell?” he asked when 
the chance came to speak.

“I--” Legolas broke off again as Arwen hastily excused herself all at 
once, a twinkle of sheepish mirth in her bright eyes. 

Legolas and Aragorn stared at her swiftly-retreating form in 
confusion, hearing what sounded suspiciously close to a giggle in her 
wake, then were even more baffled when Glorfindel came just as swiftly 
up onto the veranda, giving the two of them hardly a nod in 
acknowledgement but striding after the Evenstar, perturbation on his 
fair elvish face. “Arwen! A word?”

Elf and Ranger turned back to each other, and each murmured 
simultaneously, “What was that all about?” Neither could provide any 
useful information, and the two were about to continue their 
conversation when Elladan arrived to inform them that Lord Elrond had 
called a council upon the porch for all the newly-arrived visitors to 
Rivendell. 

Aragorn sighed, “I fear what tidings you bring must either wait or be 
disclosed in the council, my friend. I’ve much to acquaint you with as 
well, but time grows short.” Indeed, no sooner had he said this than a 
single clear bell rang out, the warning bell for the Council of 
Elrond.

***

Legolas attended the Council with Eregdos and Thorod, one of the 
guards. Such Councils were always interesting, it was said, and 
Legolas himself had only attended one other. Yet he could safely boast 
that this time he likely sat privy to one of the most interesting 
Councils Imladris had ever held. 

There sat Glorfindel, still looking quite put-out over whatever little 
tiff he seemed to have with the Lady Arwen. Legolas would dearly love 
to know what that was about. Near Glorfindel sat two of the dwarves 
Legolas had seen on their way to Rivendell the night his own company 
had arrived, though what business dwarves had in Imladris now, he knew 
not (and cared less.) The elder of the two, a dwarf of important 
appearance, with a long, forked beard nearly as white as his garments, 
was in conversation with Glorfindel now, perfectly at ease. He was 
richly dressed, wearing a silver belt and a chain of silver and 
diamonds around his neck, and a heavy silver ring with a large black 
pearl upon his right hand. The younger had a beard of reddish color, 
but something in his features told Legolas that he was the elder 
dwarf’s son, or at least a close kinsman. He was clearly a stranger to 
Imladris, and gazed frequently about him as though expecting a foe to 
spring out from behind one of the seats (or perhaps from in one of 
them.)

Dismissing the dwarves, Legolas turned his attention to the more 
interesting characters. Mithrandir had arrived just then, accompanied 
by, to Legolas’s fascinated curiosity, two hobbits. The elder of the 
two greeted the dwarf as Glóin, with a familiarity that led Legolas to 
realize that this was none other than Bilbo Baggins, the same hobbit 
who had traveled through Rivendell and Mirkwood to the Lonely Mountain 
decades before. Amazing! Mortal or not, nearly eighty years had 
passed, and Mister Baggins had aged quite well for a mortal. Legolas 
knew the blood of Numenor ran in Aragorn’s veins, but it had not 
occurred to him that hobbits might live quite so well so long.

Elrond rose and drew the second hobbit to a seat by his side, and 
presented him to the company, saying, “Here, my friends, is the 
hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater 
peril or on an errand more urgent.”

Legolas contemplated the hobbit curiously. If he were any judge of 
hobbits’ age, this one was very young, and he wore a rather bewildered 
and apprehensive expression, as though he did not quite comprehend the 
events unfolding around him, and could not be certain exactly how he 
had become embroiled in them. At the moment they were hearing the 
speech of another man in their midst, a richly-dressed man of Gondor, 
Boromir the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. When he had spoken 
of the struggles in Ithilien to hold back the Enemy’s forces, Aragorn 
rose and cast a sword upon the table before Elrond, its blade broken. 
Legolas and the others stared.

“Here is the Sword that was broken!” said Aragorn.

Legolas bristled at the condescending look the Steward’s son bestowed 
upon Aragorn. It seemed he would speak some equally patronizing words, 
had not Frodo the hobbit cried out, “Then it belongs to you and not to 
me at all!” and sprang to his feet. The son of Thranduil was now 
puzzled. Had the hobbit brought the shards of Narsil to Rivendell? Of 
what did he speak--

“Bring out the Ring, Frodo!” said Gandalf solemnly. “The time has 
come. Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of 
his riddle.”

The Ring…The Ring…Legolas felt as though an icy hand has squeezed his 
heart, and felt Eregdos and Thorod tense beside him. The young hobbit 
seemed no less at ease, and in his trembling hand, he slowly held up a 
small, golden ring, gleaming and flickering with his slight movement. 
“Behold Isildur’s Bane,” said Elrond. Frodo’s eyes seemed somehow 
ashamed, both fearful of and loathing the thing in his grasp, and he 
placed it upon the table, backing away from it. Strange, thought 
Legolas, that after all the Ring had done to corrupt Gollum, this 
hobbit had borne the Ring all the way from…wherever he had been, the 
Shire perhaps…and showed no sign of having been seduced by it.

A debate broke out almost at once between Aragorn and Boromir over the 
premonitions many were suffering concerning the doom and great deeds 
at hand, punctuated by a few well-chosen words from Bilbo. “The words 
were not the doom of Minas Tirith,” Aragorn had said of Boromir’s 
dreams, “but doom and great deeds indeed at hand.”

But still, Boromir seemed to doubt, and more irritatingly, still he 
patronized Aragorn. “And who are you, and what has a mere Ranger to do 
with Minas Tirith?”

Legolas forgot himself. “This is no mere Ranger,” he snapped, rising. 
“He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is descended through many 
fathers from Isildur, Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil. You owe him your 
allegiance.”

Elrond shot Legolas a quelling look, for it was not his place to make 
such a thing known, but Legolas was losing patience with the man of 
Gondor’s dismissal of his friend, who was in fact of higher birth than 
the Steward‘s son or arguably even Legolas himself, the elf admitted. 
At least it brought Boromir up sharp. As the man turned to stare in 
astonishment at Aragorn, the heir of Isildur muttered, “Sit down, 
Legolas,” in the grey tongue. Legolas did so, but noted with amusement 
the approving look he received from Bilbo. Could it be that the elder 
hobbit had known who the Ranger was?

Aragorn spoke to Boromir, “For my part I forgive your doubt. Little do 
I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in 
their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, 
not Isildur himself. I have had a hard life.” And he recounted much of 
his existence as a Ranger to the assembled, and much of what he said 
troubled them all. Then it was old Bilbo’s turn, and he told them at 
last of his discovery of the Ring, and how he had come to take it from 
Gollum. Some of the others had clearly had the tale before, but to 
Legolas it was wholly new, and he listened with amazement, while the 
old hobbit, actually not at all displeased, recounted his adventure 
with Gollum at full length. 

Then, less willingly than Bilbo, Frodo told of all his dealings with 
the Ring since the day that it had passed into his keeping. No sooner 
had he sat down than Bilbo gave him a mild critique of his 
storytelling--and chided the rest of the company for not making a 
properly respectful audience by constantly interrupting with 
questions. Legolas quashed a grin; he rather liked the elder hobbit. 

Then it was Gandalf’s turn to speak, and his account was even more 
troubling. He spoke of the White Saruman’s treachery, saying, “In all 
the long wars with the Dark Tower treason has ever been our greatest 
foe.” He told them of his explorations with Aragorn in search of the 
One Ring, and his own investigation into the annals of Minas Tirith 
for records of Isildur’s finding of the Ring. Not until Aragorn spoke 
of his search and capture of Gollum did Legolas hear anything that he 
had already known, and the feeling of helpless confusion amid this 
great storm of events at last began to recede. At least from Aragorn’s 
part, Legolas had not been but a mere bystander but had had some 
ability to make a stand in the dreadful times that were coming upon 
them--or at least he had for a time until he had allowed Gollum to get 
away. Legolas felt a renewed sense of shame and despair, realizing 
now, only too well, what the consequences of his own incompetence 
might be. 

He was brought out of his bitter reverie by a sense of incredible 
terror at Gandalf’s next words:

“Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh 
burzum-ishi krimpatul!”

The change in the wizard’s voice was astonishing. Suddenly it became 
menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the 
high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and many 
of the elves stopped their ears. Legolas felt that he had no such 
ability, though he longed for it, but the dreadful sound seemed to 
half paralyze him, and though he went rigid in his seat and squeezed 
his eyes shut amid a wave of sheer nausea, he could not block out the 
Maia’s speech. 

“Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in 
Imladris, Gandalf the Grey,” said Elrond, sounding distinctly tense as 
the shadow passed and the company breathed once more.

“And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again,” answered 
Gandalf. “Nonetheless I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if 
that tongue is not soon to be heard in ever corner of the West, then 
let all put doubt aside that this thing is indeed what the Wise have 
declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and 
in it lies a great part of his strength of old. Out of the Black Years 
come the words that the Smiths of Eregion heard, and knew that they 
had been betrayed:

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring 
them all, and in the Darkness bind them!”

Gandalf paused, looking with narrowed eyes at each of them in turn, as 
if to make sure that they grasped the significance of the words. Then 
he went on. “Know also, my friends, that I learned more yet from 
Gollum. He was loth to speak and his tale was unclear, but it is 
beyond all doubt that he went to Mordor, and there all that he knew 
was forced from him. The Enemy knows that the One is found, that it 
was long in the Shire, and since his servants have pursued it almost 
to our door, he soon will know, already he may know, even as I speak, 
that we have it here.”

All sat silent for a while, until at length Boromir spoke, “He is but 
a small thing, you say, this Gollum? Small but great in mischief. What 
became of him? To what doom did you put him?”

Legolas cringed mentally; he knew the time was fast approaching when 
he must confess his shameful failure to all here, but before he could 
speak up, Aragorn answered. “He is in prison, but no worse. He had 
suffered much. There is no doubt that he was tormented, and the fear 
of Sauron lies black on his heart. Still, I for one am glad that he is 
safely kept by the watchful Elves of Mirkwood. His malice is great and 
gives him a strength hardly to be believed in one so lean and 
withered. He could work much mischief still, if he were free. And I do 
not doubt that he was allowed to leave Mordor on some evil errand.”

Legolas could keep silent no longer. “Alas, alas!” he burst out in 
great distress, the weight of his guilt falling more heavily than even 
when he had carried home the bodies of the two young novices. “The 
tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, 
but only here have I learned how evil they may seem to this company. 
Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.”

“Escaped?” cried Aragorn. “That is ill news indeed. We shall all rue 
it bitterly, I fear. How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their 
trust?”

Had Legolas not already been so racked with blame, his friend’s words 
would have stung. He sighed, “Not through lack of watchfulness, but 
perhaps through over-kindliness.” *Far more than that wretched 
creature deserved, as we found out too late!* “And we fear that the 
prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings 
than we could wish. We guarded this creature day and night, at 
Gandalf’s bidding, much though we wearied of this task.” His heart 
twisted, thinking of Sornhén and the rope. “But Gandalf bade us hope 
still for his cure, and we had not the heart to keep him ever in 
dungeons under the earth, where he would fall back into his own black 
thoughts--”

“You were less tender to me.”

Legolas broke off at the gruff muttered comment, and turned to see the 
flashing eyes of Glóin, watching Legolas as if he himself were 
responsible for the dwarf’s imprisonment in the deep places in 
Thranduil’s halls. *I grow very, very weary of ever being blamed for 
events that took place at a time when I was not even present in 
Mirkwood.* He was grieved still for the failure that had brought him 
here, and the deaths that Mirkwood still mourned, and found himself 
with little patience for the old dwarf’s carping. But before he could 
release a stinging retort, Gandalf intervened. “Now come! Pray do not 
interrupt, my good Glóin. That was a regrettable misunderstanding, 
long set right.” 

*Since when?* thought Legolas sarcastically, remembering the 
near-death of Faron beneath the ground at the hands of those dwarves’ 
vindictive grudges. By the look he shot the elf, Glóin harbored 
similar thoughts. But Gandalf went on, “If all the grievances that 
stand between elves and dwarves are to be brought up here, we may as 
well abandon this council.”

After a brief moment of mutual scowling between them, Glóin rose and 
bowed to the company, and Legolas shook off his irritation and 
continued. “In the days of fair weather we led Gollum through the 
woods, and there was a high tree standing alone far from the others 
that he liked to climb. Often we let him mount up to the highest 
branches, until he felt the free wind, but we set a guard at the 
tree’s foot. One day,” his throat closed suddenly, and he swallowed 
hard. Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. Thankfully, the 
others seemed not to notice, for few outside his kindred could read 
his face as the Ranger could. “One day he refused to come down…and the 
guards had no mind to climb after him: he had learnt the trick of 
clinging to boughs with his feet as well as his hands; so they sat by 
the tree far into the night.”

*I left them. A Elbereth, I left them!*

“It was that very night of summer, yet moonless and starless, that 
orcs came upon us unawares. We drove them off after some time; they 
were many and fierce, but they came from over the mountains, and were 
unused to the woods. When the battle was over, we found that Gollum 
was gone, and his guards were, were slain or taken.” Aragorn’s breath 
caught at those words, and the faint ire in his eyes that had led 
Legolas to avoid his gaze vanished, replaced by distress and alarm. 
“It then seemed plain to us that the attack had been made for his 
rescue, and that he knew of it beforehand. How that was contrived we 
cannot guess, but Gollum is cunning, and the spies of the Enemy are 
many. The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon’s 
fall have returned in greater numbers, and Mirkwood is again an evil 
place, save where our realm is maintained.”

All blame or fault in Aragorn’s face had vanished, and now he watched 
Legolas with soft sorrow in his eyes, a look that tore at the elf even 
more than the man’s anger would have. It took all Legolas’s will not 
to look down. But through some deep reserve of strength, both his eyes 
and his voice remained steady before the company. “We have failed to 
recapture Gollum. We came on his trail among those of many orcs, and 
it plunged deep into the Forest, going south. But ere long it escaped 
our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt, for we were drawing 
nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place; we do not go 
that way.” *And we had a dead child to return to her mother.* The 
thought slipped out before Legolas could repress it, and he swallowed 
hard. 

Gandalf spoke up, mercifully pulling the gazes of the council from 
Legolas. “Well, well, he is gone. We have no time to seek for him 
again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that 
neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.” Then the Maia spoke at length of 
the treachery of Saruman, in great detail, while the company listened 
with increasing dread. It seemed that many among them had expected the 
great Istar to be a natural ally, both of Gandalf and of them. But 
with Saruman having betrayed them…what chance had they?

“If the Ring cannot be kept from him for ever by strength,” said 
Glorfindel, “two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over 
the Sea, or to destroy it.”

“But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroyed it by any 
craft that we here possess,” said Elrond. “And they who dwell beyond 
the Sea,” Legolas thought in a rush of horror of his elder brother 
Belhador, of Langcyll and his sons, and all the elves who had sought 
refuge from evil over the sea, “they would not receive it. For good or 
ill it belongs to Middle Earth. It is for us who still dwell here to 
deal with it.” Legolas was not the only elf in the company who sighed 
softly.

“Then,” said Glorfindel, “let us cast it into the deeps, and so make 
the lies of Saruman come true. For it is clear now that even at the 
Council his feet were already on a crooked path. He knew that the Ring 
was not lost for ever, but wished us to think so, for he began to lust 
for it himself. Yet oft in lies truth is hidden; in the sea it would 
be safe.”

“Not safe for ever,” said Gandalf. “There are many things in the deep 
waters, and seas and lands may change. And it is not our part here to 
take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of men, or for a 
passing age of the world. We should seek a final end to this menace, 
even if we do not hope to make one.”

“And this we shall not find on the roads to the sea,” said Galdor of 
the Grey Havens, and Legolas felt an inkling of alarm, as they talked 
on about Sauron’s belief that the Ring would be taken west. But all 
seemed to counsel against following that path, for Sauron would likely 
predict it. The prince had to admit this was true, from what little 
information he had heard, and yet…the only option left…

“The westward road seems easiest,” Elrond was saying. “Therefore it 
must be shunned. It will be watched. Too often the elves have fled 
that way. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road 
unforeseen.” 

*Oh, by the Valar, Lord Elrond surely does not mean to…*

He did. “There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril…into 
Mordor.” Legolas did not even realize his breath had quickened, and 
his heart beat ever faster. “We must send the Ring into the Fire.”

Silence fell again. All seemed to feel a dead darkness in their 
hearts. At last, Boromir stirred, catching the eyes of the others, for 
he was fingering his great horn and frowning. At length, he spoke. “I 
do not understand all this. Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have 
a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? 
Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to 
serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the 
Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem. 
The men of Gondor are valiant, and they will never submit, but they 
may be beaten down. Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. 
Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it 
and go forth to victory!”

*Ai! Has this man nothing Lord Elrond has said, or has he already 
fallen under the spell of the Ring? If it may act this fast, then 
surely we are all doomed, for no man or elf, however valiant, would 
survive a trip into Mordor so close to its evil,* thought Legolas, but 
Elrond spoke up first.

“Alas, no,” he said, to Legolas’s relief. “We cannot use the Ruling 
Ring. That we now know to well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by 
him alone, and is altogether evil. Its strength, Boromir, is too great 
for anyone to wield at will, save only those who have already a great 
power of their own. But for them it holds an even deadlier peril. The 
very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the 
Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own 
arts, he would then set himself on Sauron’s throne, and yet another 
Dark Lord would appear. And that is another reason why the Ring should 
be destroyed: as long as it is in the world it will be a danger even 
to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not 
so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I will not take the Ring to 
wield it.”

“Nor I,” said Gandalf.

Boromir bowed his head. “So be it.”

Long they talked of the Ruling Ring, and the powers of the other races 
of Middle Earth--or rather, how not a one had any object of power that 
could stand against the One, should it fall back into Sauron’s hands. 
“Ah, alas!” cried Glóin. “When will the day come of our revenge? But 
still there are the Three? What of the Three Rings of the Elves? Very 
mighty Rings, it is said. Do not the Elf lords keep them? Yet they too 
were made by the Dark Lord long ago. Are they idle? I see Elf Lords 
here. Will they not say?”

It rankled Legolas slightly to realize that it had not occurred to him 
to wonder about the Elven Rings. He looked around, at Elrond seated at 
the head of the Council, at Elladan and Elrohir beside him, and 
Glorfindel and Lindir, at Eregdos at his side. It was said that 
Gil-Galad had carried one, but he had fallen at Orodruin. Who did 
possess the Three now, the young elf wondered. Glorfindel, perhaps? Or 
Elrond? Celeborn and Galadriel? Legolas suspected he would know if his 
father had ever possessed one. He looked around the company again. The 
elven lords returned no answer to Glóin’s question. 

“Did you not hear me, Glóin?” said Elrond. “The Three were not made by 
Sauron, nor did he ever touch them.”

“But what then would happen, if the Ruling Ring were destroyed, as you 
counsel?” asked Glóin.

“We know not for certain,” answered Elrond sadly. “Some hope that the 
Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would then become free, 
and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has 
wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and 
many fair things will fade and be forgotten. That is my belief.”

Legolas felt a pang at Elrond’s words. The Lord of Imladris was seldom 
wrong, and now he spoke as one who knew something more than the 
others. Legolas looked hard at the elven lord, noting his hands hidden 
within the folds of his robe. And the prince felt a very strong 
suspicion that were Elrond’s hands to be seen, one of the Three would 
adorn the half elf’s finger. 

“Yet all the elves are willing to endure this chance,” said 
Glorfindel, “if by it the power of Sauron may be broken, and the fear 
of his dominion be taken away forever.”

Even if it meant an end to the power of the Three, the last source of 
protection for the Eldar, Legolas thought. And if the fair lands of 
the elves were not protected by the Rings, as Elrond had suggested, 
what would become of their realms? Then again, Mirkwood had no elven 
ring, and the lands remained fair, if wrought with danger always close 
at hand. Would that be the fate of Lorien and Imladris if the Three 
were shorn of their power? The idea frightened Legolas. There were so 
few elven havens left in Middle Earth. What would become of them in 
this war that all seemed to fear was brewing, whether that war be won 
or lost? What would become of his people?

Elrond was speaking again; Legolas snapped back to the present. “At 
least for a while, the road must be trod, but it will be very hard. 
And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest 
may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such 
is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small 
hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are 
elsewhere.”

“Very well, very well, Master Elrond!” said Bilbo suddenly. “Say no 
more! It is plain enough what you are pointing at. Bilbo the silly 
hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo had better finish it, or 
himself.” 

As the hobbit rambled on, Legolas felt his lips quirking, and some of 
the dark mood over the Council lightened as any number of the company 
quashed smiles. Was this self-proclaimed “silly”--not to mention 
old--hobbit actually volunteering to take the Ring to Mordor? Yet he 
seemed perfectly sincere, and Legolas felt a flicker of amused 
admiration for the little aged creature who so matter-of-factly 
offered to take up a quest that would undoubtedly claim his life. 

Laughter died on the lips of Boromir, and his expression became 
gravely respectful as he too realized that the old hobbit was quite 
serious. Only Glóin smiled openly, but his smile seemed rather 
reminiscent, and Legolas recalled that the dwarf had seen the hobbit 
in his youth. Perhaps such a proposal was to be considered, if only 
the hobbit were younger. After all, possessing little power or thirst 
for power of their own, (at least that was what was said) perhaps a 
hobbit would be better suited to carry the Ring than a man or even an 
elf. It bore consideration.

But Gandalf laughed then. “Of course, my dear Bilbo. If you had really 
started this affair, you might be expected to finish it. But you know 
well enough now that starting is too great a claim for any, and that 
only a small part is played in great deeds by any hero. You need not 
bow. Though the word was meant, and we do not doubt that under jest 
you are making a valiant offer.” *To say the least!* thought Legolas 
admiringly. “But one beyond your strength, Bilbo,” Gandalf went on. 
“You cannot take this thing back. It has passed on. If you need my 
advice any longer, I should say that your part is ended, unless as a 
recorder. Finish your book, and leave the ending unaltered. There is 
still hope for it. But get ready to write a sequel, when they come 
back.”

Bilbo laughed, and the mood of all the company seemed to lighten a 
little. “I have never known you to give me pleasant advice before,” he 
said. Legolas was not the only one in that circle of men, elves, 
dwarves, and hobbits who stifled a snigger. Gandalf shot them all a 
rather jesting scowl, but Bilbo’s remark that followed caused more 
barks of laughter to escape the group. “As all your unpleasant advice 
has been good, I wonder if this advice is not bad. Still, I don’t 
suppose I have the strength or luck left to deal with the Ring. It has 
grown, and I have not. But tell me: what do you mean by ‘they?’”

“The messengers who are sent with the Ring,” said Elrond. *Someone 
decidedly suicidal,* thought Legolas, and caught a look from Boromir 
that suggested the man held a similar view of the as-yet-to-be-named 
messengers.

“Exactly!” declared Bilbo with all seriousness. “And who are they to 
be? That seems to me what this Council has to decide, and all that it 
has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone--” *We do not!* 
thought Legolas indignantly, “--and dwarves endure great weariness; 
but I am only an old hobbit, and I miss my meal at noon. Can’t you 
think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?”

Legolas stared at his knees, consumed by rather brooding thoughts. 
What elf or man could possibly be good enough, wise enough, strong 
enough to bear the Ring all the way to Mordor while resisting its 
pull? Aragorn, perhaps? *And yet it claimed Isildur. Still, Aragorn is 
not Isildur. What of Mithrandir? Or Glorfindel or Lord Elrond?* 

The noon bell rang. Still no one spoke. He stole a quick glance around 
the Council, all of whom seemed to have their eyes downcast, deep in 
thought. Suddenly, and rather disconcertingly, his eyes met the eyes 
of Frodo Baggins, the younger hobbit. They blinked at each other and 
looked at the rest of the Council again. Legolas eyed the elven lords, 
the wizard, and Aragorn. Would they not speak? At the very least, if 
messengers were to be chosen, they were the ones to do the choosing--

“I will take it!”

Legolas jumped. So did several of the others. Everyone stared at the 
small, young hobbit who had spoken, feeling a collective sense of 
complete shock. None looked more shocked than Frodo himself. The 
hobbit swallowed hard. “I will take the Ring,” he said in a soft, but 
astonishingly steady and firm voice. “Though I do not know the way.”

Only Elrond had not looked up. Now he raised his eyes to meet Frodo’s, 
and Legolas felt his heart lurch at seeing the sudden keenness of the 
glance. Elrond spoke. “If I understand aright all that I have heard, I 
think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do 
not find a way, no one will. This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when 
they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of 
the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are 
wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck?”

Legolas listened, silent and thoughtful, though for some strange 
reason his heart was racing in his chest. Not with fear, but with 
anticipation, the adrenaline surging as it had not since he had taken 
his place to begin the Great Gathering Trial. *Indeed, something great 
is about to happen here. Yet all is ready; I can feel it. How very 
strange. Lord Elrond must be right. Hobbits are not renowned for their 
strength, nor their wisdom, nor their courage, and yet…perhaps that is 
the point.*

“But it is a heavy burden,” said Lord Elrond to Frodo. “So heavy that 
none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take 
it freely, I will say that your choice is right; and though all the 
mighty elf-friends of old, Hador and Hurin, and Turin, and Beren 
himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.”

“Here!” barked a new voice suddenly, and all the assembled blinked and 
looked around, as a third hobbit sprang up from where he had quietly 
been sitting on the ledge just behind the plants that lined the porch. 
“But you won’t send him off alone, surely, Master?” cried the new 
hobbit, who looked to be younger than Frodo. Jumping up around the 
corner, he scurried to Frodo’s side, and glanced rather sheepishly 
around at the august company before folding his arms firmly. “Mr. 
Frodo’s not goin’ anywhere without me!”

Lord Elrond eyed the newcomer for a moment, then smiled slightly, “No 
indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he 
is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

“Oy! We’re coming too!”

*And two more hobbits! Will wonders never cease?* Indeed they were a 
wonder, scampering on those huge, wooly feet of theirs to flank 
Frodo’s left side. Lord Elrond had been dryly amused by the first 
eavesdropper’s sudden appearance, but now he looked quite disgruntled. 
It was an expression Legolas had never seen on the Lord of Imladris, 
and he suddenly found himself desperately stifling a laugh. Few beings 
in Middle Earth could boast the ability to throw off Lord Elrond, but 
as he stared at the two newest intruders, he could not seem to think 
of a thing to say. Legolas bit his lip, but a snigger still escaped. 
Fortunately, even as Elrond looked about to turn his scowl onto 
Legolas, Elrohir snickered behind him, and the elven lord was 
successfully distracted into glaring at his son instead. 

Gandalf rose. “We shall consider it, my dear Peregrin and Meriadoc, we 
shall consider it. Frodo shall not be lacking in companions, that I 
can promise you. Let us adjourn for the time being, Lord Elrond, and 
discuss who is best suited to accompany Frodo Baggins and Samwise 
Gamgee on their quest.”

Samwise shook his head, blushing, and muttered, “A nice pickle we have 
landed ourselves in, Mr. Frodo!” 

***

No sooner had the Council adjourned than Aragorn rushed to Legolas’s 
side. The elf looked away, knowing what the man’s urgency was about. 
“Legolas? Forgive me…I did not realize…”

Legolas cringed inwardly and shook his head to ward off further 
contrition, “It is I who should be apologizing, Aragorn. I failed you 
when you needed my service most--”

“--I speak not of Gollum any longer, Legolas, but of concern for your 
folk. I remembered when your father first received him, you Lady 
niece…was she…” he watched his friend’s face anxiously.

Legolas shook his head hastily. “Nay. She lives. But she was injured 
when we first attempted to pull Gollum from the tree. I took her home, 
and left the other two novices…” he found he could not continue and 
looked away again, cursing his own weakness. Laughing bitterly, he 
murmured, “I certainly proved my worth as a commander, or lack 
thereof.”

A hand rested upon his shoulder. “I would not have you speak so, my 
friend, you know that. And Gollum is only--”

“Aragorn!” Legolas shot him a sharp look. “Don’t. I know full well 
what my failure may have cost us all, and the quest you’ve yet to 
begin. Allow me at least the honesty of the truth, rather than 
attempting to make light of a heavy price for my incompetence.”

The hand gripped his arm tighter and Aragorn chuckled humorlessly. 
“Then I shall speak no more on the subject, for you carry enough guilt 
for ten Gollums. Be easy now, Legolas, for it is true at least as 
Gandalf said; he is gone and we cannot be troubled to search for him 
now. Let it go. There is much to be done; I am to depart with the 
scouts for the Rangers with Elladan and Elrohir this evening. Lord 
Elrond speaks of asking Thranduil’s folk for aid as well.”

Legolas shook himself free of black thoughts and nodded. “I shall be 
happy to deliver a message for him. My father will gladly aid in any 
quest to rid the world of the One Ring, though…” he stifled a slightly 
hysterical laugh, “you will forgive me if I neglect to mention that it 
shall be borne from here to Mordor by a hobbit!”

Aragorn blinked at him, then gazed at nothing as though returning his 
mind to all he knew of Thranduil. His brow furrowed thoughtfully for a 
moment, and then…with a great, long snort, the heir of Isildur burst 
into a roar of laughter, joined immediately by Legolas. “Oh, Valar, I 
can only imagine his face!” gasped the elf, wiping tears from his 
eyes. 

“Do you suppose he would even believe it?”

“‘I always said that Elrond was slightly mad!’” mimicked Legolas, 
dropping his voice into Thranduil’s deeper timbre. That set Aragorn 
howling again, and so they carried on for several minutes until the 
sounds of another approaching made them shush each other hastily.

It was Lord Elrond and Glorfindel, walking on the terrace just above 
them. “I think I am not the one to go,” Glorfindel was saying.

“You would be a wise counsel to them, my friend,” mused Elrond, his 
voice thoughtful. “And your strength would be an asset. You possess 
great power.”

“And wonder already if that might be my downfall,” Glorfindel’s deeply 
troubled voice startled both inadvertent eavesdroppers. “Lord 
Elrond…even as Frodo Baggins entered Rivendell…I felt it, and feel it 
still. And it…it seems to…nay, my lord. For counsel they shall have 
Mithrandir, and there are many others with strength who might be of 
greater service than I. I fear power must yet lead to a greater 
temptation, and would be foolhardy indeed to suppose that an elf is 
immune. I am not to go.”

Lord Elrond sighed. To the greater surprise of Legolas and Aragorn, 
the Lord of Imladris did not argue overmuch. “Nay, as you will. I 
think…something tells me…I shall find one among the elves who shall 
possess the strength and wisdom to join this quest and represent all 
our people…yet he shall not be one of past great deeds. Nor shall he 
be one who seeks power. Nay, a powerful elven lord would not be an 
asset to this quest. I must search elsewhere for one who shall stand 
for all the Eldar in the darkest of all hours.”

“You are right, my lord, and I suspect you knew I was not to go even 
when you asked,” there was mirth again in Glorfindel’s voice. 
“Besides, I could not go even if I wish, for I know not when my horse 
will vanish again!”

“Really, Glorfindel, you make too much of it,” now Elrond was 
laughing. “She was a great service to Asfaloth once--”

“And ever I shall be grateful to her, for with that injury I feared he 
might have been permanently lame. Yet that does not mean she can go 
scampering off with him any time she chooses!”

“Well…she did become rather attached to him…”

“You told ME to go and meet Aragorn and the hobbits--”

“I said Asfaloth might aid them. It was not my fault she overheard, 
and took it to mean that any rider would do. After all, Asfaloth does 
not seem to mind--”

“Fah! That horse is as enamored with her as she is with him. Your 
daughter makes a spectacle of herself wherever she goes!”

“Of that I am all too aware.”

Their voices at last trailed off to where it was safe for Aragorn and 
Legolas to talk again. Looking incredulous, Legolas demanded, “THAT is 
what he has been out of sorts over? She stole his HORSE?!”

Aragorn looked equally baffled, then began to laugh, “I had wondered 
what she was doing wandering about the wild on Asfaloth. She said she 
was looking for us, but how she knew we were near I had not the chance 
to find out!” 

“Does not Arwen have a horse of her own?” demanded the elf, stifling 
his own laughter.

Aragorn broke off and shook his head sadly. “Nay, he died last year. 
For a time, she did not ride at all, but then Asfaloth caught his foot 
in a hunter’s trap and we feared he was lost,” Legolas sucked in his 
breath in dismay, “but she was able to treat the infection, and now he 
rides as fast as ever.” Aragorn shook his head and laughed again. “It 
must be as Elrond said, that she grew attached to him.”

“Poor Glorfindel. Were I Asfaloth, I might favor Arwen too,” laughed 
Legolas, missing the startled look Aragorn gave him.

The Ranger’s next words silenced the elf’s mirth. “That is a fine 
mount you ride now.”

Legolas sobered and looked away, “She is.”

Aragorn smiled, all too aware of what the prince was thinking. “Still 
not Lanthir, though.” 

“Never like Lanthir. There was no such horse in all the world.”

***

The company of Mirkwood had nearly two months in the House of Elrond, 
when they were not joining the scouts searching for news of the Enemy. 
Legolas left with them twice, and each time returned empty-handed, but 
not especially encouraged by the lack of news. To him, that merely 
meant that the Dark Lord and his servants were hiding their secrets 
well. There was also dearth of news of Gollum. There was no trace of 
the Enemy seen by any of the other scouting parties either.

Legolas and his company were to remain in Rivendell for at least 
another ten months, for Faron and Galithil were to be wed the 
following autumn, and Legolas hoped to be there with them. Of course, 
it was expected that Galithil’s father would stay, so by mutual 
consent, the company of Mirkwood accepted Lord Elrond’s hospitality 
for three seasons. Legolas was more than willing to spend an extended 
period of time in Imladris, though he was greatly disappointed to 
learn that Aragorn would likely be leaving with Frodo Baggins on the 
quest of the Ring, with the rest of the companions. Still, it did not 
terribly surprise him. 

*Aragorn has a destiny to fulfill. I have known that from the 
beginning. Whether he wishes it or not,* the elf smiled to himself, *I 
fear it is the times that have chosen who will rise to greatness. And 
Aragorn was born to it.*

The prince of Mirkwood was wandering alone on one of the terraces, 
lost in thought, when he heard someone else approaching who was 
definitely neither man nor elf. Nor a hobbit, Legolas realized, for 
though they had very large feet, even they did not stomp so. From one 
of the outer rooms of the Last Homely House swaggered the two dwarves, 
Glóin and his son…whatever his name was. Both stopped and drew 
themselves up when they saw Legolas.

“What do you do here, Master Elf?” grunted the younger. “Lying in wait 
for someone?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes, determined not to let this blustery, 
stunted creature drive him to distraction. It was not even worth the 
irritation. “As I am an elf, a messenger of another realm to this 
House, and a guest permitted to wander free in these lands, I think I 
should find no need to lie in wait for anything, Master Dwarf,” he 
said coolly. “And if a child of Aule may ask such a thing of an elf in 
the House of his kindred, then I would ask you what you do here?”

The dwarf puffed his chest out, making his beard look even bigger. 
Legolas would have liked to laugh scornfully, so unthreatening did he 
look. “Lord Elrond has asked me to join the Ringbearer on his quest.”

All scorn and laughter aside, it was all Legolas could do not to gape. 
“What?!” A DWARF accompanying the One Ring? Was Elrond MAD?!

Glóin puffed out his chest in turn. “It is so, Master Elf,” he said 
smugly. “As his father accompanied the elder Baggins on a grand quest 
against a dragon’s wrath, so Gimli Glóin’s son shall face the wrath of 
Mordor and the Enemy with the younger Baggins. A most fitting legacy, 
you will agree!”

Legolas pursed his lips into a thin line. “Quite,” he ground out, 
disgusted at their posturing. “If you will excuse me, then.” Moving 
smoothly past them, he added to their backs, “Though I would caution 
you to soften your steps. With such racket, the guards might think 
orcs had invaded.” 

The dwarf Gimli sounded about to retort, but Legolas kept walking, 
grinning to himself, as Glóin grunted in annoyance and pulled his son 
away. Whatever elf wound up unlucky enough to join the quest and spent 
Valar-knew-how-long in the company of that creature, Legolas hoped he 
would grant Glóin’s son plenty of consternation before the quest was 
done. *Compared to hobbits, they may be useful fighters, but among 
elves and Aragorn, he shall find little worth and even less fame.* 

The sun was setting, and so Legolas did the same thing he had come 
into the habit of doing every night. He climbed the stairs to the roof 
of the highest room in Rivendell, and quietly made his way out onto a 
smooth ledge, settling upon the boards to stare up at the clear sky, 
and the stars. The canyon was wide enough that he could see stars for 
leagues without the obstruction of the trees, something he could 
seldom do at home in Mirkwood. Thranduil’s halls had become so crowded 
lately, it was difficult to get out alone. Smiling contentedly up at 
the stars against the black sky, Legolas softly began to sing.

***

Glóin would not permit his son to pursue an argument with that 
Mirkwood elf, or else Gimli would surely have had some choice words 
for Thranduil’s son. But Glóin pulled him away before he could deliver 
a scathing retort to the “orc” comment. All in all, Gimli had been 
pleasantly surprised by the hospitality of the Rivendell elves, though 
from what his father had said of them, he should not have been. Still, 
Gimli had heard much of the elves since his father’s visit to the Last 
Homely House, and little of it made him look at the Eldar race with a 
friendly eye.

“Come, Gimli, it is not worth brawling over.” Glóin firmly hauled him 
back to their rooms. “We are guests here, and so is he.”

“And that excuses that upstart elfling from insulting us?” grumbled 
Gimli, but he did as his father bid.

“You need not bother with the likes of him,” said Glóin with a grin. 
“You are a companion of the Ringbearer now, my boy, and proud I am to 
say it! Thranduil’s pampered little brat shall have to content himself 
with shooting errant trolls to help with the effort against the Dark 
Lord, while my son shall see his name legend among Dwarves, Eldar, and 
men alike!”

Gimli grinned back, “And glad I am to hear you say it!”

Glóin put a serious hand upon his shoulder. “Know this, Gimli. Lord 
Elrond exaggerated not of the burdens you shall face. But I know well 
why he chose you, and one of our people, to be a part of this quest. 
The Lord of Imladris is wise--do not laugh, Gimli, it is true--and I 
place much faith in him. He was a good one to us when we last came 
through the Misty Mountains. He is fair, choosing folk from each free 
race to accompany the Ringbearer. He chose you for your many good 
parts, and forget them not on this quest. You have your loyalty. Carry 
it well in the service of young Baggins; he’ll need you, Gimli, mark 
my words. He’ll need protecting more than anyone else, so keep your 
axe ready. And, much as you’re tempted, don’t use your axe on whatever 
elf Elrond picks.” They both guffawed. “Elves are terribly trying at 
times, but when it comes to it, we’re all enemies of the same Enemy, 
so keep your axe aimed in the right direction. Stand well for our 
people.”

“I shall, Father. You have my word.”

“And you have my faith.” Glóin squeezed his son’s shoulders. “Here,” 
he reached to his left hand, and removed the heavy silver ring that 
sat there, adorned with a single, lustrous black pearl. 

Gimli’s eyes widened; he knew that pearl had been a gift from Dáin 
himself in gratitude for Glóin’s own loyalty to the King Under the 
Mountain. Glóin had labored for months fashioning the mithril ring on 
which to mount it in proper homage to his King. When his father held 
it up and beckoned, Gimli rather sheepishly extended his own hand, and 
allowed the ornament to be laid upon his own finger. “Remember who you 
are, my son. Remember who you represent. Your strength and the 
strength of our people will be your greatest virtues, and you will 
bring great fame to all of us on this quest. Of that I have no doubt.”

“Thank you, Father. I shall prove myself worth of such a great honor.” 
Gimli clasped his hand, and the silver ring, to his heart, and the 
black pearl gleamed upon it, its dark luster speaking of many oaths, 
past and future, that would all be proven on the coming quest.

***

Lord Elrond leaned against the railing of an upper balcony, staring 
into the silver mist of the waterfalls in the darkness. As he had many 
times these two past months, with each passing report from the scouts, 
he was counting in his head. *Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, 
Mithrandir, Aragorn and Boromir at least for a time, and now Gimli son 
of Glóin…there remain three more to be found, and I promised to give 
some word to the hobbits tomorrow. Of my household I may find several 
who seem good to send, and yet…one in particular must represent the 
Eldar.*

It was as he had feared: a powerful elven lord of the Elder Days would 
not avail the Ringbearer. Nay, it was other qualities of the Eldar 
that must be represented in this quest. But who? Darkness had touched 
even the younger of the immortal race, but it was the light of the 
elves--and light that came with neither power nor ambition--that must 
be found. Who to send…

Elrond mulled silently, running countless names through his head. All 
at once, the soft sound of singing seemed to drift through a lull in 
the noise of the waterfalls, and the Lord of Imladris looked up. 

There, just visible upon one of the highest roofs, rested young 
Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, as motionless as a statue, yet 
as relaxed as a cat, singing softly to the stars. The words were too 
quiet to reach Elrond’s ears, but he suspected the young warrior also 
sang of the stars. He shook his head and smiled to himself. *Young 
ones. So light of heart. So curious and courageous, so eager to face 
the world and all its mysteries, light and dark. Would that I could be 
so young and innocent agai--*

It was as though he had dragged his feet and touched the metal rail, 
it rippled through him so sharply. A premonition as powerful as the 
one that had sent him racing after the very same elven prince nearly 
half a century before to deliver a message from his father. As 
powerful as the one that had led him to send Asfaloth--and whatever 
rider could get to him first--to meet the hobbits and Aragorn in the 
wild. *Of course. Of course! Why did I not see it before? All his 
youth, we the Ringbearers have known the youngest child of Thranduil 
was meant for something…this!* As swiftly as his feet could carry him, 
he rushed for the stairs. Having borne Vilya for so long, his 
intuition was seldom wrong. Perhaps that was why he had been so choosy 
with the elves in Rivendell. He had been waiting for just such a 
message.

*And now at last it comes, just as I had begun to despair. He is the 
only one who will serve Frodo’s purpose. I know now who shall be for 
the Elves.*

***

Legolas was still singing when a voice cleared its throat not a few 
feet behind him. Startled, he jumped up and found himself face-to-face 
with Lord Elrond. He blushed. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Elrond smiled, “I used to do just such a thing on this very roof when 
I had leisure, young Legolas. These days I fear I no longer have the 
time.”

The thought saddened the younger elf, all too aware of the darkness 
approaching that made Elrond’s life so frantic of late. “For that I am 
sorry.”

“It is so throughout the world.” The elven lord came and seated 
himself where Legolas had been, and after hesitating a moment, Legolas 
sat beside him. Gazing thoughtfully into the dark canyon, Lord Elrond 
remarked, “Our Faron has asked you to remain in Imladris until his 
wedding, I understand.”

“He has, my lord.” Legolas smiled to himself.

Elrond smiled as well. “It is a good match, Faron and young Galithil, 
both our realms agree. It pleases me to see such joy at a time of such 
uncertainty.”

“And me, my lord. I thank you for your hospitality. Always we find joy 
in visiting fair Rivendell.” Legolas was gazing appreciatively at the 
quiet buildings and graceful trees beneath the stars, and thus did not 
see the rather calculating stare Elrond was giving him.

“You have heard, I suppose, that Aragorn is to depart with the 
Fellowship?” Elrond asked.

Legolas nodded, tensing slightly. “I have. Though I fear for the fate 
of all free people while the Ring is abroad, Aragorn’s presence among 
Frodo’s companions shall ease my mind. I do not think the Ring would 
easily find corruption in him.”

“As I reared him, I am glad to hear that,” said Elrond, with a touch 
of mirth. Legolas grinned slightly. “And I understand you have already 
met the person I chose to represent the race of dwarves.” He raised 
his eyebrows at the very faint sound of a hastily-suppressed snicker. 
“You disapprove of my choice, son of Thranduil?” he asked delicately.

“Ahem, not at all, my lord!” Legolas answered.

“I felt that all the free races of Middle Earth must be represented as 
companions to the Ringbearer. That includes the dwarves, after all,” 
Elrond did not lose his smile.

“Of course,” replied the prince, allowing playful dubiousness to creep 
into his voice. “As you say.”

A soft chuckle told him that Elrond was not offended. “Aragorn and 
Boromir, of course, shall represent the race of men, and Frodo’s young 
servant Samwise shall also be for the hobbits. But I fear I am at a 
loss for elves to send with them.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows, “I would not have thought Rivendell in 
any way lacking in elves to choose from.”

“Even among so many candidates, I seek one in particular who is best 
suited to represent the Eldar race,” Elrond rose with a shake of his 
head and walked along the roof; Legolas followed him. 

“But there are many great elven lords among your people here, my 
lord,” Legolas protested.

“Very true,” the Lord of Imladris agreed. “However, I have begun to 
see that past greatness in deeds and might may be a hindrance to any 
who would spend long weeks in close proximity to the Ring. Already, 
Glorfindel has refused--as you and my foster-son undoubtedly overheard 
some time ago.” Legolas blushed; he might have known Elrond would 
sense they were there. “Nay, it is something else I seek.” He glanced 
at Legolas and seemed rather amused by the puzzlement on the Mirkwood 
warrior’s face. “There are other qualities in our people that would 
avail the Ringbearer far more than power, young one. Frodo Baggins 
shall carry a great burden, both upon his body and on his spirit. I 
must find one of our kindred whose own spirit is strong enough to ease 
the Ringbearer’s struggle as well, who can face darkness without 
losing heart. And perhaps offer some comfort in the darkest times. One 
who can survive hardship without being tainted. That is the Eldar who 
will be best suited to travel close to the Ring.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully, stepping further down the roof. He smiled 
knowingly, “Perhaps Elladan and Elrohir then? They can keep their 
spirit in the darkest of times, for each other and others, as I know 
all too well.”

“Perhaps. But my inner sense tells me nay.”

Legolas gazed down at the terrace below the roof ledge, wondering 
whether it was safe (not to mention couth) to jump down instead of 
climbing. It would certainly be faster. He turned back to Elrond, at a 
loss. “I can think of few in Rivendell who possess the attributes you 
desire as much as they.”

Elrond smiled. “I seek those attributes found in youth, son of 
Mirkwood. Elvish youth. A rare commodity in these fading days. I seek 
compassion and generosity. I seek patience and curiosity. I seek what 
cannot be found in any elven lord in Rivendell.”

“Then perhaps you might turn your search beyond Rivendell?” offered 
Legolas. “Surely you may find what you seek in Lothlorien or Mirkwood, 
if you have been unsuccessful in Imladris.”

“Would you aid me in that, Legolas?” Elrond asked casually.

“Of course, my lord,” Legolas answered in surprise. “Say only where 
you would send me in your service, and I shall go where you bid.”

Elrond smiled rather smugly. “In that case, Legolas of Mirkwood, son 
of Thranduil, I bid you go to Mordor, as companion to Frodo Baggins, 
and as representative of all our kindred. I bid you become a member of 
the Fellowship of the Ring.” Then he watched with an even broader grin 
as the son of Thranduil’s eyes widened, his mouth opened, and he took 
a reflexive step backward--into thin air and promptly fell off the 
roof with a thud. To himself, he murmured, “I knew you were the right 
choice.”

Legolas hit the ground with a force that drove all the air from his 
lungs and left him gasping and flat on his back. Though otherwise 
uninjured, he lay for several moments completely unable to move, due 
to the impact and to shock. He barely noticed the pain in his back. 
*He wants…he wants me to…WHAT?!*

The soft thump of a more graceful descent penetrated his ringing ears, 
and a perfectly level voice asked, “Are you all right, Legolas?”

Bereft of air, his voice did not work on the first try, but he finally 
managed to rasp out, “My lord…”

Soft laughter reached him, and strong hands lightly took his shoulders 
and pulled him into a sitting position. “Spare yourself a moment, 
young prince. Catch your breath and hold your tongue while I say my 
piece.” Legolas sat there, open-mouthed, dusty, and bruised, but too 
stupefied by the elven lord’s suggestion to even lament his wounded 
pride. “I have seen many fine qualities in you, Legolas, qualities 
rare even in a warrior of Mirkwood. I know you hunger to see more of 
the world, and that duty to the defense of your people against the 
shadow keeps you home. None can doubt your courage, nor your skill as 
a warrior. But most of all, I have seen that when you set yourself to 
a task, naught can turn you from it. Frodo needs a companion such as 
you, a guardian such as you. And against the Ring, I can think of none 
more suited to represent all Eldar--now do not deny me, Legolas,” he 
urged sharply as the young elf began to protest, a hint of panic in 
his eyes. 

Legolas dropped his head, suddenly seeming a century younger. *And now 
I see before me that very same elf princeling who stole quietly into 
the Great Gathering Trial, barely of qualifying age, only to outrun, 
outride, and outshoot every other novice warrior in Middle Earth. Yes, 
Legolas, you are the one. Galadriel always said you had a great 
destiny.* Elrond held out a hand and gently lifted the younger elf’s 
chin, forcing Legolas to meet his eyes. “I know you have doubt in 
yourself, Legolas. I would not have chosen you if you did not. The 
Ring is altogether evil, but facing it, we may turn our perceived 
weaknesses to strengths. You will not let it tempt you as other, more 
seasoned and celebrated warriors might. You have the pride of the 
Eldar, but you will not let it blind you. You must hold true to 
yourself and your heart.” 

Wide-eyed and stunned into silence, Legolas slowly nodded. Elrond 
smiled. “I have great faith in you, Legolas. In the Fellowship, you 
shall stand for us all, son of the Eldar. You shall soon see your 
purpose.” He squeezed the prince’s shoulders, rose, and walked off 
into the darkened House.

Legolas had no idea how long he sat there stupidly on the paving 
stones outside the House of Elrond. *Did he truly ask such a thing? 
Does he believe I could be strong enough to represent all the Eldar? 
That I could resist the corruption of the Enemy’s Ring? Am I worthy of 
such a task? Could he truly believe this?* Closing his eyes and 
swallowing, Legolas shook his head, trying to clear the fog in it. 
Then his eyes flew open and his stomach dropped out. “And did I truly 
say YES?!”

***

The next day…

Aragorn and Boromir were summoned by Gandalf and Lord Elrond to meet 
with them. “I shall summon the hobbits momentarily. Aragorn, before 
you depart, I shall order the Sword of Elendil forged anew. You go 
into your own now, son of Arathorn. You shall carry the blade of your 
fathers.”

Aragorn felt an unexpected tightness in his throat as he gazed at his 
foster-father, and Gandalf cleared his throat. “Lord Elrond selected 
two more for the Fellowship of the Ring last night.”

“Indeed?” asked Aragorn. “Who?”

“Gimli, Glóin’s son, to stand for the dwarves, and for the elves…” 
Gandalf suddenly cast a broad grin at Aragorn, “For the Eldar race 
shall stand Legolas, son of Thranduil.”

Aragorn blinked. “Legolas?” he looked incredulously at Elrond.

“You think such a choice is erroneous, Estel?” asked the Lord of 
Imladris, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I…” Aragorn trailed off, taken by his own thoughts of Legolas and 
what he knew of the elf. Looking back at Elrond, he smiled. “Nay, my 
lord. In fact, now that Legolas as a possibility has finally entered 
my mind, I can think of none better, and marvel at how I could have 
overlooked him.”

“Legolas rather prefers being overlooked,” remarked Gandalf, causing 
them all to chuckle, “but I fear the Valar were determined that he not 
be, in this. I am with you, son of Arathorn, there are none better to 
stand for the elves. Legolas may not realize it, but I believe it was 
this purpose that he was born to.”

Aragorn laughed, shaking his head. “How did he respond?”

Elrond’s snicker confirmed the heir of Isildur’s mental image of 
Legolas being rendered speechless with shock. “I expect he would have 
gaped at me like a mad thing for some time--had he not fallen off the 
southeast roof.” The room erupted into laughter, even joined by 
Boromir, though the son of Denethor looked a tad confused.

“You shall soon know much of the son of Thranduil, Boromir,” said 
Aragorn. “Legolas shall be a worthy member of the Company of the 
Ring.”

Wiping tears from his eyes, Elrond nodded. “He possesses all the heart 
and merriment of the Eldar, but more than enough skill and strength 
for one so young.”

“A young Eldar?” asked Boromir, apparently considering the idea a 
contradiction in terms.

“By elven standards, yes, Legolas is young,” said Gandalf. “But he 
shall serve the company well, I’ve no doubt. But come, let us summon 
him, the son of Glóin, and the hobbits, and tell them of our plans, 
for the time draws near when the Fellowship must depart.”

***

When Legolas, Gimli, and the four hobbits had arrived, Elrond spoke to 
them. “The time has come,” he said. “If the Ring is to set out, it 
must go soon. But those who go with it must not count on their errand 
being aided by war or force. They must pass into the domain of the 
Enemy far from aid. Do you still hold to your word, Frodo, that you 
will be the Ringbearer?”

“I do,” said Frodo. “I will go with Sam.”

“Then I cannot help you much; not even with counsel,” said Elrond. 
“And I will choose you companions to go with you, as far as they will 
or fortune allows. The number must be few, since your hope is in speed 
and secrecy. Had I a host of elves in armour of the Elder Days, it 
would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor.” Legolas 
caught the Lord of Imladris glancing meaningfully at him. To his own 
surprise, he had not suffered from a crisis of nerves when the servant 
of the Last Homely House said that Lord Elrond wished to see him--and 
all those who would be accompanying the Ringbearer. A strange aura of 
calm had settled over him--*rather like one who walks willingly to his 
own execution,* he thought whimsically.

Elrond was speaking to Frodo. “The Company of the Ring shall be Nine; 
and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are 
evil. With you and your faithful servant, Gandalf will go, for this 
shall be his great task, and maybe the end of his labours. For the 
rest, they shall represent the other Free Peoples of the World: Elves, 
Dwarves, and Men. Legolas shall be for the elves,” the hobbits looked 
curiously at Legolas, “ and Gimli son of Glóin for the dwarves. They 
are willing to go at least to the passes of the Mountains, and maybe 
beyond. For men you shall have Aragorn son of Arathorn, for the Ring 
of Isildur concerns him closely.”

“Strider!” cried Frodo. 

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “I ask leave once again to be your 
companion, Frodo.”

“I would have begged you to come,” said Frodo. Legolas smiled, feeling 
himself relax. He admired the hobbit’s taste. “Only I thought you were 
going to Minas Tirith with Boromir.”

“I am,” said Aragorn. “And the Sword that was broken shall be reforged 
ere I set out to war. But your road and our road lie together for many 
hundreds of miles. Therefore Boromir will also be in the Company. He 
is a valiant man.” The gazes of all fell then upon Boromir, who looked 
slightly self-conscious, and gave a little bow of acknowledgment. 

“There remain two more to be found,” said Elrond. “These I will 
consider. Of my own household I may find some that it seems good to me 
to send.”

“But that will leave no place for us!” cried Pippin in dismay. “We 
don’t want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo.”

“That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies 
ahead,” said Elrond, like a patient parent to an overeager child. The 
youngest hobbit looked so desperate at the thought of being unable to 
join the company that Legolas felt an unexpected and powerful surge of 
sympathy, almost kinship. He did not realize until later from whence 
the thoughts came, but he nearly spoke up in the young Took’s defense, 
except that Gandalf broke in first. 

“Neither does Frodo,” said the wizard, unexpectedly supporting Pippin. 
“Nor do any of us see clearly. It is true that if these hobbits 
understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still 
wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I 
think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to 
their friendship than to great wisdom. Even if you chose for us an 
elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower, nor 
open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him.”

“You speak gravely,” said Elrond. “But I am in doubt. The Shire, I 
forebode, is not free now from peril, and these two I had thought to 
send back there as messengers, to do what they could, according to the 
fashion of their country, to warn the people of their danger. In any 
case, I judge that the younger of these two, Peregrin Took, should 
remain. My heart is against his going.”

“Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me 
home tied in a sack,” said Pippin, lifting his chin and folding his 
arms. “For otherwise I shall follow the Company.” He looked so small, 
yet so fiercely determined, with his chest rather puffed out like a 
dwarf, that Legolas felt the urge to laugh and saw Aragorn biting his 
lip.

The Lord of Imladris gave in. “Let it be so then. You shall go,” said 
Elrond, and he sighed. “Now the tale of Nine is filled. In seven days 
the Company must depart.”

He looked around the group one last time, clearly offering the 
opportunity for any last hesitations or changes of heart. Legolas’s 
mind raced. *I did not truly agree to this! Elrond maneuvered me into 
it, a fact which he well knows. I only came here as my father’s 
messenger, not to embark on this…this…quest! I am not great enough for 
such a vital task to all Middle Earth! How can I…* Elrond’s eyes, and 
Aragorn’s, had come to rest on him. *But could I ever live with myself 
if I refused Lord Elrond’s quest? I failed Aragorn once already.* He 
sighed mentally. *Nay, I shall not shame my father and my people 
again. Lord Elrond has chosen me; that is cause enough to make the 
decision even if he were not my lord and host.* He pulled his mind out 
of its reverie and met Elrond’s gaze, giving the Lord of Imladris a 
barely-perceptible nod. Lord Elrond’s eyes brightened, and he 
responded in kind.

*Whether I expected it or not, it seems I am to be one of the Nine 
Walkers. One of the Fellowship of the Ring.*

***** 



And as a special holiday present, move right on to the Epilogue! Just 
don’t forget to review! I hope you liked this story as much as I liked 
writing it! 

Epilogue: Famous Last Words

Aragorn ran to meet his friend as they departed the room where they 
had spoken with Lord Elrond. “Legolas!” The elf turned around, his 
expression unreadable. “You do not have to do this.”

The prince blinked, looking rather amused. “What?”

“I…” Aragorn groped for words to express the faint remorse that had 
dogged him ever since the secret council. “Legolas, I know you carry 
the weight of Gollum’s escape on your shoulders, and I do not wish you 
to feel obligated to place yourself in such peril--”

The elf’s soft laughter startled him. “Peace, Aragorn, I told you 
before not to speak so. You cannot excuse my failure, as you well 
know. But worry not about my motives; I would never refuse any request 
sincerely made of me by Lord Elrond, and he is set on my departure 
with the Fellowship. That is reason enough for my mind.” He smiled 
then. “So I fear you shall be forced to put up with me for some time 
on your journey to Minas Tirith.”

“What a dreadful thought!” They both laughed. “Narsil is to be 
reforged ere we depart. I have decided it shall have a new name when 
it shines again.”

“What will you call it?”

“Anduril.”

“The Flame of the West. Fitting,” they walked together along one of 
Rivendell’s paths, overlooking the canyon. Legolas glanced to the 
other side and saw a dark figure, clad in flowing gray, crossing a 
bridge. “There is the Lady Arwen.” Aragorn paused at the railing, 
watching her passage with a strange look in his eyes that Legolas had 
never seen. Almost unconsciously, the man’s hand strayed to a silver 
chain about his neck that Legolas had also not seen before. “What have 
you there?”

Aragorn blinked. He seemed to have forgotten for a moment that Legolas 
was there. Then he looked almost bashful, and rather tense. “I…”

The elf took a step forward, worried. “What troubles you, my friend?”

Aragorn hastily shook his head. “Nay, naught troubles me. It is 
that…it is Arwen.”

Legolas grinned. Now he knew that look. “Be not embarrassed, Aragorn, 
you are hardly the first man or elf in Middle Earth to become smitten 
with the Evenstar.”

His eyes anxious, Aragorn said, “Legolas, I fear it is far more than 
that.” With slight reluctance, he slowly drew the chain from within 
his tunic, exposing the pendant that hung upon it. It was a 
beautifully-crafted white gem, set in silver. 

Legolas’s breath caught. He knew that ornament. Nearly every elf in 
Middle Earth knew it. “Aragorn!” he breathed. Aragorn’s eyes searched 
his, seeming not to know what to say. Legolas realized now why the 
mortal was so uncertain about revealing this. He knew that Aragorn’s 
possession of so valuable a token belonging to the Evenstar could mean 
only one thing. *It is more than an infatuation upon his part. She 
returns it. Moreover…she would not give such a thing to him unless…a 
Elbereth!* Softly, he touched Aragorn’s shoulder. “She has pledged 
herself to you?”

“And I to her,” Aragorn said quickly, and more than a little 
defensively. He seemed to greatly desire Legolas’s approval of their 
union.

Legolas’s mind whirled with the implications of it. “What does that 
mean…for her?” he asked quietly.

Aragorn looked away. “It means what it has always meant for elves who 
would bind themselves to men. If we wed, she must…” he shook his head. 
“I loved her from the first time I saw her. I thought she was 
Tinuviel. But I was too young then to see what my love would do to 
her. And now she will not be dissuaded from forsaking Valinor to 
remain in Middle Earth…at my side.” Raising pleading eyes to his 
friend, he said, “I love her, Legolas. But I did not intend for this 
to happen. Do not think ill of me for it.”

Legolas listened, his heart full. “It grieves my heart to think of the 
death of the Evenstar, Aragorn. But as to your feelings…I do not think 
ill of you. I have known you many years, and seen your courage, your 
noble heart. You are not unworthy of Arwen. And if she has given her 
heart to you, that is enough for me. I wish you well of her.”

Aragorn sighed. “I fear others of your kindred may not see it so. Even 
Lord Elrond has said that I may not bind her nor any other woman to me 
until I am King of the Reunified Lands. That is another reason why I 
go.” A strange little prickle ran through Legolas, and he hastily 
turned away. “Legolas?” Catching sight of the elf’s shaking shoulders, 
Aragorn grabbed his arm. “Legolas? What--” He broke off in 
astonishment when the prince turned back, grinning helplessly with 
laughter. “What ails you?”

“Forgive me,” gasped Legolas, trying in vain to control the mirth that 
had suddenly come over him. “I was just…imagining…Candrochon’s 
reaction!” Laughter burst out in earnest now, and he nearly doubled 
over. 

Aragorn gaped at him for a moment, then began to grin sheepishly. “You 
intend to have much merriment at my expense over this, don’t you?”

“Perhaps a little.” Legolas shook his head and gripped the man’s 
shoulder. “Fear not, my friend. All will turn out well. And you shall 
be King, and Arwen Queen? May the Valar hasten that day, for it will 
mean greatness has returned at last to the race of men, son of 
Arathorn.”

“Don’t say that around Boromir!”

“Point taken.”

“And speaking of true greatness, I think the Eldar shall find much 
glory brought to them by Legolas of Mirkwood in the Fellowship.”

Legolas laughed, “Aragorn, between your presence and Mithrandir’s, I 
doubt there will be many great deeds for me to do.”

“And you of all people, son of Thranduil, know that there is more to 
greatness than mere deeds. I think you shall have much to offer the 
Fellowship of the Ring.”

“If you say so.”

***

A day or two before the Company sets out…

“I am sorry, Faron. I truly hoped to stand with you, but I doubt if I 
shall be returned within a year. It might be a very long time.”

Faron put a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. They stood upon a balcony with 
Faron’s bride-to-be, Galithil, and Merilin and Candrochon. “I do not 
blame you. You have a great quest ahead, where you shall stand for all 
the Eldar. Nay, Legolas, I think I may excuse your absence at my 
wedding if you are busy saving Middle Earth from Sauron.” Galithil 
nodded.

“When mean you to be married?”

“In the Autumn, next year,” said Galithil. “I told Faron that if you 
are busy defeating Dark Lords and winning glory for the Eldar, he 
should ask Glorfindel to stand with him.”

“That is a fine choice. He is your captain,” agreed Candrochon.

Legolas sighed. “I am still sorry. I missed Merilin and Cand’s 
wedding, and now yours. And when I return, the world shall have 
changed again.”

“Legolas, with any luck, you shall be the one who brought about the 
change,” said Merilin, moving to his side. “And the change shall be 
that the Enemy is defeated at last, and all the free peoples of Middle 
Earth may find an end to his scourge upon their lands. That shall be a 
welcome change, if the quest succeeds.”

“Very true,” Legolas laughed. Still, he could not shake the lingering 
sadness that had clung to him like a fog since he realized he would be 
leaving much sooner than he had planned, and would be abroad in Middle 
Earth for at least a year.

Faron was watching him. “I know that look, Legolas. We shall still be 
here when you return. Be not so troubled.”

Legolas sighed and dropped his head. They knew him far too well. He 
smiled at them. “I know not why this melancholy has taken me. But I 
have the strongest feeling that the world shall be very different when 
I return…even more so than when we returned from the war party.”

Candrochon shrugged. “Then it is different. Does that necessarily bode 
ill? We are young, Legolas, the world will change much yet before our 
time in it is done. It does no good to fear it.”

“And besides,” said Merilin. “You have every reason for pride. You are 
embarking on a great mission, one that could end much of the suffering 
in this world. I think it safe to say no elf has been a part of such a 
company in all our history.”

“Very true!” laughed Galithil, pointing to the terrace below them. The 
four hobbits had come scampering out onto it, laughing and talking. 
“Hobbits, elves, men, Mithrandir…”

“And dwarves,” grumbled Legolas, as Gimli the dwarf joined the hobbits 
on the terrace. Soon the five were seated beneath a large tree, fat 
with red autumn apples, talking of past adventures, and of food. “It 
shall be interesting, to say the least. I shall be the only elf.”

Faron was watching him silently. “But the man Aragorn is your friend, 
is he not? Not to mention Mithrandir. You shall not be alone.”

“That is true. Still, I shall miss you, my friends.”

Merilin and Galithil idly watched the dwarf, who was now seated upon a 
stone bench, with the hobbits all about him. Due to the difference in 
size, they were like children at his feet, listening to him telling 
stories of his father’s exploits at Lonely Mountain and gesturing 
grandly, causing the sun to flicker off the gaudy pearl ring on his 
finger. “I should like to know hobbits better. They are such strange, 
yet endearing creatures. I rather envy you, Legolas,” said Galithil.

Legolas smirked knowingly at Faron. “And you should doubtlessly get on 
better than I with the dwarf, dear kinswoman!”

Galithil snorted, but Merilin came to her defense. “Perhaps you will 
get on better with him than you fear, Legolas. After all, you are 
almost as pretty as she is!” Then she had to dive playfully behind her 
husband for protection as Legolas launched himself at her, pretending 
to brandish his knife.

Once the giggling group had calmed themselves, Legolas sighed. “I wish 
Lord Elrond had sent one of you with me. I have never been without all 
your company entirely.”

“It must be,” said Candrochon. “But worry not, we shall be with you in 
spirit. Our hearts all go with you.”

“I know.” Legolas watched the youngest hobbit, Pippin, picking more 
apples from the tree, though he had to climb onto the bench next to 
Gimli to reach the lowest branch. “Most of all I wish Tathar were 
still here.”

“Do not we all,” agreed Merilin. She put her hand on his shoulder. 
None of them had ever gotten over Tathar’s death, but Legolas’s 
closest friends knew that he had suffered the greatest. “But perhaps 
more than any of us, he shall be with you.” She smiled and squeezed 
him lightly, “Perhaps that is how you have managed to keep yourself in 
one piece despite all the trouble you get into.”

Legolas laughed, “My brother has said similar things to that effect, 
that someone must be interceding with the Valar on my behalf!” The 
others joined him. “Tathar did have a way of keeping me from getting 
killed in all our escapades. I hope I have his blessing on this 
journey.”

Galithil grinned, “He always said you were destined for greatness.”

Legolas snorted. “Tathar said many overblown things.”

“Oh come, Legolas, when it came to you he was seldom wrong, you just 
conceded that point. He was the one who persuaded you to enter the 
Trial.”

“True,” Legolas sighed wistfully, feeling a deep pang of loneliness 
despite the closeness of his companions. “None could read my thoughts 
and moods as he, nor speak as freely to me, and I to him. There was 
nothing we could not face together. Ai, how I miss him still.” He 
shook his head and smiled apologetically at the others for such dismal 
words, but they were smiling.

“Be not so sad, Legolas,” said Merilin. “Cand said it; we are young. 
We are with you still, and you shall find many more friends before 
your time is done.”

“There is no replacing Tathar.”

“Nay, but there remain many elves in Middle Earth still. And one day 
we shall all sail to Valinor and rejoin those of our people who have 
already passed. Besides, there are many kinds of friendship. Perhaps 
one day you shall marry,” Faron offered. Galithil and Merilin giggled, 
and Legolas rolled his eyes.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss the future, my friend!” cautioned 
Candrochon. “We are indeed to young to judge what fortune may have in 
store for us.” He smiled and put an arm around Merilin’s waist. “Even 
the Mirror of Galadriel cannot see all ends--though it sees most, I 
grant.” They laughed. “But who knows? Some maiden may yet steal your 
heart.” They laughed harder at Legolas’s dubious expression and 
clapped his back. “And you may yet find a friend in Middle Earth as 
noble and true to you as Tathar was.” Grinning, he gestured down to 
the hobbits and dwarf below them. “You certainly have a unique 
opportunity, meeting all the free peoples of Middle Earth on one 
journey. You may find some rare friends indeed among them.”

Merilin nodded thoughtfully. “I could see Legolas making friends with 
hobbits. From what I have heard of them and their Shire, they are in 
some ways not unlike elves. Certainly, they have a pleasing 
gentleness. What think you, Legolas?”

“I think it most possible,” Legolas agreed, watching Meriadoc and 
Pippin demonstrating some kind of dance while Frodo, Samwise, and 
Gimli laughed and applauded. “They are such merry folk.”

“And you have Aragorn and Mithrandir, and even Boromir, though he 
seems a bit pompous,” added Galithil.

“Better a pompous man than a modest dwarf,” teased Candrochon, who 
then had to duck to avoid a clout from Galithil.

Faron winked at the others. “She still carries that little gift from 
Sháin of the Lonely Mountain.” Galithil defiantly pulled a small chain 
from around her neck, and sure enough, the moonstone hung there.

Legolas shook his head at them. “I granted her then that it was a fair 
gift, but I still hold that Sháin was a fluke among nature.” Galithil 
snorted, aware of the futility of debating the point with him.

“There, you see, Legolas?” said Merilin. “On this journey and the many 
others you’ve yet to take in life, I think you shall find many rare 
and different friends.”

The son of Thranduil smiled at them. “I grant it. As you say, I still 
have you, and the quest of the Ring shall certainly be…different.” 
They all laughed. “And perhaps I shall find friends among them. But 
Tathar…was the most true, honest, and complete friend I have ever had. 
A friendship borne of such great time and trial cannot be easily 
found.” he watched absently as the dwarf rose to demonstrate strokes 
of his axe to the hobbits. 

Legolas shook his head. “I shall never know so great a friendship 
again.”


**********************************
THE END…or perhaps, The Beginning?
**********************************


And with that, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! I hope 
you 
enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. DON’T FORGET TO 
REVIEW!!! 
And don’t worry, there are more stories on the way, including the 
heart-wrenching, tear-jerking conclusion of “Elven Song!”