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