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.” Legola