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.



Chapter Eighteen: Fight or Flight



“So, Legolas, you could not be troubled to speak to me, yet here you 
are wandering about the palace in the middle of the night.”

Legolas stood motionless, his earlier peace vanished. Thranduil had 
obviously been upset by whatever Langcyll had said (or by Legolas’s 
own response to him earlier.) And apparently, he had been drowning his 
sorrows considerably. Legolas’s mind raced--his father was definitely 
not in the best state of mind for speaking of the things he wished to. 
*I must not anger him further. I must speak.* “I could not sleep,” he 
said quietly.

At least it was not a total lie. Stepping into the moonlight, 
Thranduil’s eyes were dark with anger and his face was flushed. In a 
too-casual voice, he replied, “I could not sleep either, Legolas. I 
have been wondering what cause I have given my own son to despise me.”

“I do not despise you!” Legolas exclaimed.

“Of course you do!” Thranduil snapped, his affected pose gone and 
replaced now by unleashed rage. “Do you think me a fool, boy? When our 
parties met on the plains thirty years ago--I had not seen you in two 
years and you fled from me like an agent of the Enemy!”

“I--” Legolas faltered.

Thranduil caught it. For an elf who had consumed far too much wine 
than was wise, his perceptions were remarkably sharp. A cold, 
humorless laugh came from him, grating on his youngest son’s ears. “Do 
not try to deny it. You avoided me then and you avoid me still. For 
what, Legolas?” Now he seemed to be almost pleading. “I may not have 
been perfect, but I have done nothing to warrant such coldness! Even 
when you do DEIGN--” his tone suddenly grew bitterly sarcastic--“to 
speak to me, you treat me as a stranger. I reared you; do you think I 
failed to see your mind when you came today? You would rather have 
been locked in that throne room with a hundred orcs!”

“Father--”

“I will no longer put up with it, Legolas, I am your father and your 
king! Unless you too consider me your jailer, as Langcyll does.”

Legolas froze in surprise, then remembered what Langcyll had told him. 
*That must be what he meant--* Unfortunately, the recognition showed 
in his face. Thranduil stared at him for a moment, and his fury 
palpably increased. His tirade erupted in a near-shout. “So! You could 
not sleep, you could not bring yourself to speak to your own father 
after all this time, so you went to Langcyll! I might have known! You 
have always listened to him before me, sought his counsel before mine, 
you care more for him than me--perhaps you wish he were your father! 
It is no wonder you have grown to hate me, with him poisoning your 
mind against me all these years--”

“That’s not true!” Legolas blurted out, unable to keep silent in the 
face of such accusations. “Langcyll is not to blame for--” 

“For what?”

*I will not lose my temper. I will NOT lose my temper!* Legolas took a 
deep breath, forcing down the frustrated anger that had begun to boil 
up inside him. “Langcyll is not to blame for our troubles, Father. It 
has nothing to do with him.”

Thranduil’s face had gone from enraged to anguished. In a voice 
suddenly filled with pain, he practically whispered, “Then why?”

*I would rather he had remained angry,* Legolas thought, flinching 
inwardly from his father’s desperate gaze. The carefully-built walls 
of duty and honor and protocol had been stripped away by the wine, and 
bared a mass of pent-up emotion that Legolas feared to see. *This is a 
dangerous conversation to have when he has been drinking so much, 
yet…if I continue to put him off, there may never be a peace between 
us. I must answer him.*

Aloud, he said softly, “I knew not what to say.” *At least that is the 
truth. I still know not what to say.*

His father stared at him, half-doubtful, half-suspicious. “Years you 
were gone, without so much as a message, the world has turned, so much 
has happened, and you could think of nothing to say to me?”

“No,” Legolas thought he detected a note of reason returning and 
sought it desperately. “It is as you say, so many things had changed. 
I felt…It was…confusion.”

“Spite,” Thranduil qualified it curtly.

“No! It was not spite!” Legolas protested frantically.

“Then why will you not behave toward me as a son and a prince ought?!” 
Thranduil snapped, his eyes flashing. “Forget not that I am your lord 
and king, and I require certain courtesies at the very least!”

*Breathe. Remember to breathe.* “Yes, Father.” Legolas tried not to 
sound resentful. “As a warrior of Mirkwood, you are my lord and king, 
and I am at your command.”

Thranduil stared harder, clearly trying to determine if Legolas was in 
earnest. As it happened, the prince was, but it was more out of a 
desire to trigger the king’s commanding instinct and put an end to the 
father-son aspects of it, for he did not think he could bear much 
more. All the same, it worked.

The elven king nodded slowly, drawing himself up. “Yes, young prince, 
you are. And no longer a member of a war party. So listen well. 
Tomorrow I shall see you in my court, and you shall attend every day 
at least until the next companies depart in six weeks. It is time you 
involved yourself in the government of your father’s realm.”

“Yes, Father,” Legolas replied, though inwardly he wanted to groan. 
Attending the king’s court had never held much interest for him, and 
many years of travel in the open--*I shall go mad, spending hours on 
end in that cave!* Yet he was back in Mirkwood, and his duties as the 
king’s son once again would take precedence. On top of that, a memory 
suddenly struck him. In his mind, he heard Galadriel’s words of thirty 
years before, *“There must be a peace between you, or all will be 
lost.”* 

Sighing to himself, Legolas met his father’s intense eyes and nodded, 
hoping Thranduil would see it as a friendly gesture. He did mean it 
so, but considering Thranduil’s paranoid (and decidedly befuddled) 
state, Legolas could not predict how he might interpret what his son 
did or said.

Apparently, Thranduil was satisfied, for the turmoil left his face and 
he simply looked weary. “Very well, my son. I shall see you in my 
court tomorrow.”

Legolas straightened and nodded again, “Good night, Father.” He waited 
until Thranduil had passed back into the caves before he himself 
turned back into the outer palace. By some strange reserve of strength 
he maintained his composure right until he closed his chamber 
door--then he leaned back against it and released a great shudder that 
shook his entire body. 

His mind still reeled with frantic thoughts and emotions, but he 
furiously pushed them away. *If I dwell all night on what has passed 
this day, I shall never find peace. I would do better to get some 
sleep. The world will look very different in the morning.”

***

It did. Though Legolas did have a rather sudden, if not unpleasant, 
awakening. He was jolted from sleep by a squealed command of “Wake up, 
Uncle Leg’las!” followed by the impact of a small body landing on top 
of him.

Legolas sat bolt upright with a startled yelp and found himself 
face-to-face with a giggling Silivren, still in her night tunic with 
her hair falling unkempt. But that if anything made her more 
endearing. Legolas shook the last vestiges of sleep from his head and 
remarked drolly, “Well, my dear niece, you seem to have escaped your 
chamber.”

Silivren simply held out her arms in an unspoken demand to be 
cuddled…at once! And that was one order Legolas was all too happy to 
obey as he pulled the little girl into his arms--and began tickling 
her. Her shrieks and laughter soon alerted the servants who were 
hunting the fugitive princess, and before long, Golwen (Silivren’s 
caretaker when Berensul and Eirien were occupied) knocked on the door. 
“My lord? I am searching for Princess Silivren.”

Silivren squealed and dove beneath Legolas’s blanket as her pursuer 
entered. Legolas replied playfully, “I have no idea where she might 
be, Golwen.”

Golwen smiled and put her hands upon her hips, perfectly able to see 
the small lump at the foot of the bed. “Indeed, Prince Legolas? How 
odd; I thought I heard her voice!”

“I fear you must have been mistaken.”

(Giggle!)

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought I heard something.” (Giggle!) “Now, Prince Legolas, I am 
quite certain I heard something!”

“It must be your imagination.”

“Indeed?”

(Giggle!) POUNCE! SQUEAL!!! “Leggo! Lemme out!”

Golwen wrestled with a giggling, shrieking bundle wrapped in Legolas’s 
blanket as she attempted to haul it from the bed. “You are returning 
to your chambers and getting dressed, young lady! It is almost time 
for breakfast, now come!”

“Leg’laaaassss!”

Struggling to contain his laughter, Legolas rose and helped 
disentangle Silivren from the blanket. “Peace, little one, behave 
yourself. Are Berensul and Eirien out of the palace?” he asked Golwen.

“Aye, my lord, they left early. They are expected back this 
afternoon.”

“Then I shall join Princess Silivren for breakfast.”

“Really?!” the child ceased squirming in her nurse’s arms and turned 
eagerly to Legolas.

“IF you are good,” Golwen said firmly. Silivren nodded vigorously and 
allowed herself to be borne away. Legolas watched them depart and 
grinned to himself. *Perhaps today will indeed be a better day.*

***

King Thranduil made it a habit to visit his first grandchild every 
morning before holding court. On this morning, he arrived in the outer 
palace to find Silivren having breakfast on a balcony with Orthelian 
and Legolas--and being very entertained by stories of her uncles’ 
adventures. Legolas’s back was to him, and Silivren exclaimed, 
“Grandfather!” springing from her chair and running to Thranduil’s 
arms to be swept up and kissed.

“Ah, good morrow, my little darling,” Thranduil said, for the child 
charmed him as effortlessly as all others who beheld her since the day 
she was born. “How are you today?”

“Uncle Leg’las and Uncle Orthelian are telling me stories!”

“So I see, and they must be very exciting,” Thranduil said, his gaze 
irresistibly sliding past her to his son. Orthelian, looked quickly 
from father to son and then to Silivren, obviously wondering if he 
should take her away. Legolas had risen when he saw the king, but was 
smiling at them now. *That…seems a good sign.* “Good morrow, 
Orthelian, Legolas.”

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Father.”

There was a warmth in Legolas’s tone, but whether directed toward 
Thranduil or Silivren, his father could not be sure. Still, it was an 
improvement. He had awakened this morning, remembered the night 
before, and promptly began cursing himself for his stupidity. *Of all 
the utterly foolhardy things I have done, drinking to excess and then 
trying to have a meaningful conversation with my son definitely ranks 
among the most idiotic. He is treating me better than I deserve 
today.* With that in mind, he said, “Eirien and Berensul are not 
expected to return until this evening, Legolas. I will not require you 
to come to court today if you wish to keep your niece company.”

Orthelian glanced hastily from Thranduil to Legolas again before 
erasing the flicker of apprehension from his face. Legolas hesitated 
only for a moment before shaking his head and replying smoothly, “Nay, 
Father, I will come. As you s--it is my duty now that I am returned. 
Orthelian?”

“I will take Silivren for a ride this afternoon,” their kinsman 
offered quickly and king and prince nodded simultaneously. 

*Well, this is a beginning…if awkward. But I suppose I should not 
expect too much too soon.* “That is well. Off with you now, Silivren.” 
He shooed his granddaughter back to her breakfast.

“Until later, Orthelian,” Legolas said, and started to follow 
Thranduil from the room.

“Uncle Leg’las, where are you going?” Silivren demanded, outrage in 
her little voice at Legolas’s early departure.

Legolas’s eyes met his father’s briefly as Thranduil turned back, and 
they sparkled with laughter. *That is the Legolas I remember. How I 
have longed to see a smile from him.* He and his youngest son shared a 
quick grin before Legolas turned back to his niece, “I have work to do 
with your grandfather now, Silivren. But Uncle Orthelian has promised 
to give you a ride after breakfast.”

It successfully distracted her, and she turned eagerly to Orthelian, 
“Can I drive?”

“Er…” Laughing, Legolas and Thranduil made a hasty retreat from the 
room.

“She is very much her father’s daughter,” Legolas remarked as they 
walked through the outer palace.

“True, she is much like Berensul,” Thranduil agreed. “But I have also 
seen many reminders of Eirien in her. She will grow to have the best 
of each of them.”

“I rather think she has that now,” Legolas replied and they laughed. 
“The beauty of her mother and the spirit of her father.”

“Aye, and too much of the latter, to hear Golwen talk,” Thranduil 
added, and they laughed harder. Golwen had been nurse and nanny to all 
seven of Thranduil and Minuial’s children, and it had been the wish of 
them all that she should also care for their own children one day. 

Walking easily at the king’s side, Legolas had a distant look in his 
bright eyes. “They said Limloeth was here for Silivren’s birth?”

“Yea, Berensul and Eirien sent for her in plenty of time. And 
unnecessarily, as it turned out, for Silivren was late. Like her 
father,” Thranduil smiled to himself.

Legolas grimaced in response, “That must have made it difficult for 
Eirien.”

“Not at all; she remained strong in body and spirit throughout the 
term, and there was no trouble at the birth itself, for which we were 
very thankful.” Legolas nodded vigorously in agreement with that 
sentiment. Thranduil went on, “All of Mirkwood was celebrating. Lord 
Elrond came, and Lady Arwen.”

“Any from Lothlorien other than Limloeth?”

“Orophin and Lady Gaeriel represented the Galadhrim. Lord Celeborn was 
to attend, but then their warriors feared another attack, so he 
remained in Lorien and sent Orophin in his stead.”

They were crossing the bridge into the king’s halls. Thranduil 
discreetly watched his son’s reaction to them, but today Legolas 
appeared preoccupied by the news he was hearing and seemed not to 
notice the cave. “They say orcs were trying the borders of Lorien so 
frequently that Lady Galadriel pulled off the guards.”

Thranduil nodded grimly, “Too many were being lost in direct 
confrontations. Now fell creatures may manage to enter into Lorien, 
but the ambushes of her warriors ensure that such marauders never come 
out. The same tactic is being used now in Imladris.”

There was a shadow over his son’s eyes. “We were in Ithilien, east of 
the Anduin, when Mount Doom burst into flame again. If there had ever 
been any doubt of what is happening here…”

“You saw it?”

“Yea. Over the tops of the Ephel Duath. There was a great distance 
between it and us, but that day…it seemed very close.” Legolas smiled 
wryly. “Too close.”

“When we heard it had erupted again, knowing you were south, I feared 
for you.”

Legolas glanced at his father then, and Thranduil noticed the prince’s 
expression had closed somewhat. *So, you are still unready to talk of 
that. Perhaps unwilling.* Fortunately, their arrival in the throne 
room forestalled further conversation.

***

Legolas spent the remainder of the morning seated in the king’s hall 
while Thranduil granted audiences. Most of the matters were nothing he 
had not seen before: the expanding of dwellings, requests for more 
weapons or guards for the outlying villages, the approval of new 
crafts. That morning at least, Legolas began to feel a respect for his 
father that he had begun to think was gone. He had always known in his 
heart that Thranduil was generous with his own people, but the elven 
king turned out to also be fair and (he had to admit) wise when it 
came to rule of the realm.

“But if we had a properly-armed force, my lord,” one petitioning elf 
was saying. “I am certain we could hold the colony against further 
attacks.” 

Thranduil, seated regally upon his throne, listened calmly to the 
elf’s petition, then sat thoughtfully in consideration. “I daresay it 
is possible, Thoron. I am aware your village repelled two assaults 
already.” Thoron nodded eagerly, but the king was not done. “However, 
twelve guards have been lost defending it in the past two years, as 
well as three of your villagers. Know you any reason to believe the 
number or boldness of the fell creatures of the south will diminish?”

Thoron hesitated, “I know not, my lord.”

The king knitted his fingers thoughtfully, and regret tinged his 
voice, “I see no reason to think the assaults on our outlying 
settlements will lessen, and many reasons to fear just the opposite. I 
know how painful it shall be to relocate your people, Thoron, but I 
fear it must be done. To stay in a small settlement so far south will 
all but guarantee the loss of more lives, and in no way prevent the 
eventual overrun of the village. It is not a risk that should be 
taken. Homes can be rebuilt; lives cannot.”

Legolas felt sorrow at the inevitable displacement of the elves in the 
outlying villages, but knew his father’s prediction was likely true. 
It was not worth the dangers of trying to hold the borders 
indefinitely in times like these. To his credit, Thoron accepted the 
king’s decision in good grace, if sadly. “I shall prepare my people 
for evacuation, my lord.”

Thranduil nodded, “A well-armed escort shall be sent when you are 
ready to depart to bring you safely north.”

“My thanks, my lord.” Thoron bowed and departed.

The next petition was more interesting, and it was not something 
Legolas recalled having seen before in his attendance at his father’s 
court. Then again, when he was younger, Legolas had not been required 
to attend court regularly, and was frequently dismissed during what 
Thranduil had termed “complicated” matters. But now he was curious. A 
group of human merchants had been seen leading a caravan of wares to 
Lake Town. Elves from several of the easternmost villages were 
requesting permission to trade with them.

“Denied,” Thranduil replied, almost offhandedly.

Legolas blinked. The elves exchanged looks. “My lord,” one of them 
said hesitantly. “They carry a great store of shaped iron, that we 
might use to fortify some of our more vulnerable settlements against 
attack. I am aware of the…difficulties of trading with men, but 
perhaps an exception might be warranted in this case…”

In a tone of exaggerated patience that made Legolas wince inwardly 
with memory, Thranduil replied, “To be forced to deal with mortals, 
Gwirith, we shall have to be in far more dire circumstances than 
these.” He raised a hand to forestall further protests, “Nay, it is 
true that we might benefit from their iron, but I would sooner do 
without it than attempt relations with men. As merchants, they are as 
greedy as dwarves; it would probably be inferior metal anyway. If your 
villages have need of better defenses, we shall deal with that 
ourselves.”

Clearly discouraged, the eastern elves left. Legolas merely felt a 
little puzzled. Surely these matters had come up in the past--why had 
he never heard of such requests before on all the different occasions 
he had been present in his father’s audience hall throughout his 
youth? Now that he thought back, he had never been present when his 
father dealt with matters concerning any race other than elves.

Thranduil apparently noticed, for that afternoon as they were leaving, 
he mentioned it. “Did my decision regarding the Lake Town merchants 
trouble you, Legolas?”

Legolas answered honestly, “Nay, Father, it did not trouble me. But it 
did puzzle me a little. I would consider iron a great asset to the 
eastern villages’ defenses.”

“Quite true, and a shame we shall not partake of it. But its benefit 
does not outweigh the drawbacks of too many dealings with mortals.” 
The king shot a rather hard glance at Legolas, “Do you not agree?”

Legolas hastily adopted a neutral tone and expression. “You know 
better than I, Father.”

“Surely you have encountered men during the journey south.”

“Very few,” said Legolas. Thranduil looked surprised, and the prince 
explained, “We spent a good deal of the journey east of the Anduin. 
Ithilien was all but deserted and even the men west of the great river 
kept to their strongholds for safety. Mortal or not, I pity the 
inhabitants of Gondor, so close to Mordor. We passed many abandoned 
villages that bore the look of having been besieged for decades.”

In a very odd tone, Thranduil said, “Perhaps they are to be pitied, 
for all it is their own doing.”

“What?” Legolas said in confusion. “How can you say that? The men of 
Gondor surely had naught to do with Sauron’s return.”

Thranduil’s tone went from dismissive to rather patronizing, and 
Legolas bristled inwardly. “Nay, not directly, my son, but forget not 
that it was Isildur, the son of Elendil, whose heart was corrupted by 
the Ring of Power and allowed it to survive. It is his actions that 
are visited now upon Gondor, and all of Middle Earth pays the price of 
his weakness.”

Legolas frowned thoughtfully, “But surely the innocents of a kingdom 
have done nothing to deserve it, whatever Isildur did thousands of 
years ago.”

“Forget not that I was there, Legolas,” Thranduil said rather harshly. 
“I warned Elrond the Last Alliance would be a disaster, but the other 
realms overruled me.”

Without thinking, Legolas argued, “But had Sauron defeated the forces 
of men alone, it would have been a still greater disaster. He would 
have taken the elves and Middle Earth anyway. The Alliance at least 
was the right choice, whatever ill-fated decision Isildur made.”

“It was an ill-fated decision, and unforgivable. I saw it all.”

Legolas hesitated, then thought, *What am I afraid of? He wanted me to 
speak to him, after all.* “I know you were there, Father, and that it 
was under bitter circumstances that you became King of Mirkwood.”

“The day your grandfather perished along with more than half of 
Mirkwood’s warriors! I could not find Berensul for nearly two days, 
and Limloeth nearly died of her wounds. Our people paid dearly that 
day.”

“So did Isildur’s,” Legolas countered. “His own people were just as 
wronged as the elves by his choice. They are not all to blame for his 
mistake--”

Thranduil dismissed the argument with an annoyed wave of his hand, 
“You know nothing of which you speak, young prince. Have done.”

Legolas started to protest, then sighed and let it drop. Whatever he 
said, Thranduil would still dismiss it as childish ignorance, or 
worse, be angered by what he perceived as a challenge of his 
authority. *Yes, Father, you want to hear me speak--as long as it is 
merely my agreeing with you.* 

***

Such was the routine of Legolas’s life for several weeks. All in all, 
he had few disputes with his father, because it soon became painfully 
clear to him how futile it was to debate with Thranduil on any 
subject. But other than that irritating detail of spending so much 
time nodding and smiling in his father’s company, Legolas was glad to 
be home.

Much of his free time was spent coming up with ways to amuse his 
little niece--one pursuit Thranduil was always willing to grant leave 
for. He and Orthelian regularly took her on their horses through the 
forest, or in a boat on the river. She was soon begging to be taught 
how to ride herself.

“You are too small,” laughed Orthelian on one such occasion. “Your 
legs are not long enough to sit a horse, Sili.”

Silivren pouted and Legolas added, “He is right, Sili, you would fall 
right off a tall horse. Perhaps we might find her a pony,” he murmured 
in an aside to Orthelian.

Orthelian nodded thoughtfully, “There are no ponies in Mirkwood, but 
maybe Lake Town--men use them as pack animals.”

Legolas grimaced to himself, “A good idea, but Father would never 
approve buying a pony for Silivren when he would not give leave even 
to trade for iron.”

***

The warriors of Imladris and Lorien departed together six weeks after 
the company arrived in Mirkwood--on the same day as the Mirkwood war 
parties also rode out. Legolas, along with Galithil and Elunen, did 
not join any of the spring companies, choosing to remain home as part 
of the king’s guard rather than travel again so soon. But the day 
their friends from the neighboring realms left was a painful one.

“It has been an honor traveling with you, Glorfindel,” Legolas told 
the Imladris lord as he prepared to mount his horse.

Glorfindel smiled, clapping a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “I shall 
miss you, Legolas.” He and the prince clasped arms, “Be well, young 
warrior. We shall meet again.”

“Most definitely,” Legolas promised.

“Now that you’re done paying homage, are you going to say farewell to 
me?” Faron demanded in a miffed tone.

Legolas grinned at Glorfindel before turning and attacking Faron in a 
wild embrace, “Try not to get yourself killed on the journey home, 
Faron of Imladris.”

“You are the one I am worried about, without me to keep an eye on 
you!” 

“Hah!”

“All right, boys, cease your games!” Galithil unceremoniously shoved 
Legolas out of the way so she could embrace Faron. “Others have 
farewells to make, you know.”

“Ah, Galithil, you are so much more interesting than him.”

“I am only being polite.”

“Ha, do not believe her, Faron; she cannot keep her hands off 
you--ow!”

“Better hurry, Legolas, Galithil,” Elunen warned. “You are running out 
of time.”

Berensul and Eirien came out then with Silivren to say farewell to 
Orthelian. Legolas hurried to his brother-in-law. “Until we meet 
again, my friend, take care of my sister.”

“I rather suspect she would consider it the other way around.”

“When are you coming back, Uncle Orthelian?”

“Ah, Silivren, I could not bear to be separated from you for long. 
Fear not, your Aunt Limloeth and I shall come visiting in good time.”

“Soon?”

“We shall see. Farewell, Berensul.”

“Farewell, my brother.”

“Try not to abuse Legolas too much.”

“Forgive me, friend, but I cannot shirk my duties as elder brother.”

“Of course not. So sorry, Legolas.”

“Well, thank you for trying, Orthelian.”

The warriors mounted up, and Legolas found himself forcing a smile 
over a rapidly growing hole in his heart. *Thirty years, I lived, ate, 
slept, and rode with these warriors. How empty life is about to become 
without them. Ah, Elbereth, when will I see them all again? Never, not 
in a time like we had on that journey. In some ways, I wish that it 
had never ended.*

Faron looked over his shoulder at Legolas as Glorfindel and Haldir 
gave the signal to ride, then waved vigorously at the prince and 
Galithil as the warriors galloped away. Legolas and his family waved 
back until the warriors were out of sight. Legolas sighed. *Another 
change. I grow tired of hearing the word.*

The elves of Mirkwood who had come to see the warriors off returned to 
the palace, and Legolas desperately searched for a distraction from 
the emptiness that growing inside him. He already missed them. 
Fortunately, he found one. Silivren scampered up, having escaped again 
from the frazzled-looking Golwen, and demanded to be played with 
immediately. Legolas glanced at the king, who nodded with a faint 
smile, then scooped up Silivren and aided her in fleeing from a 
vigorously-scolding Golwen.

“Prince Legolas, HOW am I to teach her discipline when you keep 
encouraging her--come back here! My lord, this really is too much! 
Silivren! Behave yourself!”

Legolas evaded Golwen all the way back to Silivren’s play room, and 
there the king discovered him lifting Silivren above his head and 
spinning her around and around until he was too dizzy to continue 
(though she shrieked for more.) “Enough, Sili,” he laughed, staggering 
slightly to sit down on a couch. “It is quite shameful for an elf to 
lose his balance.”

“Then tell me a story?” Silivren said eagerly, hopping up next to him.

“What story shall I tell you?”

“Tell me about Mount Doom and the fire,” said the child. So he told 
her, laughing as Silivren declared, “I want to be a warrior and have 
adventures!” Still laughing, Legolas pulled her into his lap, but 
noticed Thranduil watching from the doorway with a very odd 
expression.

***

*I must speak with Legolas, and soon, about these stories to my 
granddaughter,* Thranduil thought as he left the outer palace. *It is 
unwise to tantalize a child with stories of adventure, with the world 
so dangerous as it is now.* He seized the opportunity as soon as 
Golwen finally apprehended Silivren and took her to her bath. As his 
son came out of the play room, Thranduil approached him in the hall, 
“I wish you would not tell her those things.”

Legolas blinked, looking defensive, “What things?”

“Do not be contrary, Legolas, you know of what I speak.”

The young prince lifted his chin in a manner he had adopted since 
returning--and that had a way of greatly irritating Thranduil whenever 
he did it. “Father, there can be no harm in telling Silivren stories 
of the outside world. To isolate her will only make reality harder to 
bear when she is older.”

*And when precisely did you become an expert on fatherhood, young 
upstart? I’ll not have you trying to influence Silivren with your 
impetuous nature!* Thranduil gave his son a warning stare--and growing 
more aggravated at the way Legolas folded his arms. Sternly, as a 
reminder of his own authority, he told his son, “You are not her 
father, Legolas.”

The prince clearly bristled, but seemed to bite back what would likely 
have been a tart rejoinder. Instead, he gave a curt nod that in no way 
signaled his acquiescence in Thranduil’s opinion, and walked away. 
Standing in the hall where he was, Thranduil folded his arms and 
pondered. *He cannot possibly think that having been away for 
thirty-four years permits him to defy me.* Perhaps the situation with 
Silivren was not worth quarreling over and yet…*Whatever their age, I 
do not suffer my sons to show lack of respect for me, as their king or 
their father. Legolas shall listen and obey me in this, and do so with 
good grace.* Pursing his lips, Thranduil started after his wayward 
son.

***

Hearing his father call his name, Legolas cursed under his breath. 
*What does he want from me? Is it not enough that I attend his court 
and spend the better part of every day biting my tongue, that now he 
must dominate my every thought and word?* “Legolas!” his father said 
sharply from behind him. “You will turn and answer me.”

Sighing heavily, Legolas turned and asked with rather bare civility, 
“Yes, Father?”

“Young prince, I find your behavior unacceptable.”

*How is it that I never saw before how pompous he can be? Nay, why am 
I surprised? He hid the world away from me just as he seeks to from 
Silivren!* “Father, I think Silivren has a right to know that a world 
does exist beyond Mirkwood. It is wrong to shelter her--”

“She is twenty-nine years old, far too young to be exposed to all the 
horrors that exist--”

Legolas threw up his hands in exasperation, startling the king into 
stepping back, “I do not seek to expose her to anything! But she shall 
hear of such things some way or another, and better from her family, 
whom she can ask questions of and trust us to tell her the truth!”

“She is not your daughter, Legolas!” Thranduil snapped, and this time 
the prince did not bother to hold back what he had desired to say 
before.

“Nor is she yours! And Berensul would not approve of sheltering her 
either! He tells her stories and encourages her to learn of the 
world--”

Thranduil’s eyes were beginning to flash angrily, and he cut his son 
off with a very sharp wave of his hand. “For the last time, Legolas, 
you will NOT speak to her of such things!”

Legolas started to turn away, intending to get out of the palace and 
wander the trees until he calmed down, then he thought, *Fah, must I 
always be hiding from him? Nay, he wished me home, he wished me to 
speak to him. And now he is angered because I speak with my own mind!* 
Aloud, he said in a cold voice, “I will pay a close mind to what I 
say, Father.” With a deep breath, aware how Thranduil was likely to 
take this qualification, he went on, “But I will not cease the tales 
altogether. Silivren enjoys them.”

His expectations were met. Thranduil advanced slowly, daggers in his 
black eyes as he glared furiously at his youngest son. In a voice that 
was almost a hoarse whisper of rage, he said, “You dare defy me?”

Lowering his own voice, Legolas lifted his chin and leaned into the 
gale of his father’s wrath. “It is not your decision. Berensul is her 
father, Eirien is her mother. Neither of them have expressed any worry 
for her well-being.”

“You do this to spite me!”

“This is not about you!” Legolas fired back, raising his voice in 
spite of himself. “Nor about me!”

“No? You seek to infect your niece with the same impulsive foolishness 
that seems to have taken over you, you arrogant boy!”

“Do not patronize me, Father, I am a child no longer! You cannot 
expect me to mindlessly cater to your every whim. And if you do, you 
shall find a sorry result!”

Thranduil started forward with more rage in his bearing than Legolas 
had ever seen. “You--”

“Leg’las?” 

Both elves froze. Thranduil turned and Legolas looked past him, both 
trembling slightly, to see a small golden head peering out of an empty 
chamber, and two very large blue eyes staring at them. Legolas took an 
involuntary step backward, struck dumb with horror and dismay, and 
Thranduil said in a slightly choked voice, “Yes, Silivren?”

“What’s going on, Grandfather?”

The elven king went to her and picked her up, smiling reassuringly at 
her. “Nothing, little one. Nothing.” Legolas looked hastily away until 
he could regain his composure. Then he forced a smile as he walked 
past into the royal chambers. 

Closing his door, Legolas leaned his forehead against it. By the 
Valar, had they both lost all sense, quarreling when Silivren was 
about? “And Father will not let this go, either,” he murmured to 
himself. “As soon as she is safely out of the way, he will be at me 
again.” 

He did not even realize he was pacing. *I thought things were getting 
better. Why are we still quarreling?* He scowled as a rather chilly 
wind brought the smell of approaching rain into his room, and closed 
the window, cutting off the fresh, relaxing breeze. *He would raise 
Silivren just as he raised me--sheltered, ignorant, naïve. Never 
knowing all there is to be known, never seeing all there is to see, 
forced to hear of it from others her own age, trapped within the same 
few miles of forest all her youth when there is the whole world to 
explore*-- “No!” he hissed to himself. “I will not allow him to 
imprison her that way! Berensul will not allow it. He has another 
thing coming if he believes my brother will permit him to interfere 
with Sili’s upbringing.”

There was a rumble of thunder outside, and the first sheets of rain 
lashed against the glass of the balcony window. Legolas sighed. He 
would have liked a walk in the trees to collect himself, but not in 
this weather. *It will not do to get myself struck by lightning.* All 
the same, he should not stay in his room fuming and allowing his anger 
to smolder until Thranduil arrived. *That is a guarantee for our 
tempers to get out of hand.*

With that in mind, he left his quarters and began wandering the 
palace, hoping for time for his temper to cool. Too much had happened 
today already, with Faron and Orthelian and the others leaving and war 
parties going as well. He was weary, he was sad, and all he needed was 
time to himself, to sort out his jumbled thoughts and feelings. 
Perhaps if it had been so, things would not have gone as ill as they 
did.

***

King Thranduil had the good sense to guard his responses to Silivren, 
and soon reassured the child that nothing was wrong between himself 
and her uncle Legolas. But no sooner had he handed the child off to 
Golwen and bidden her take Silivren to her mother than he went in 
search of his erring son. 

He found Legolas not far from his chamber, walking away from it. 
*Trying to evade me again,* he thought, his half-forgotten anger 
bursting back into heat. “Legolas. We are not done.”

Stopping and heaving a great, reluctant sigh that served only to 
infuriate his father, Legolas turned, “Sir, I think if we continue to 
speak thus, we shall only lose our tempers.”

This continued defiance was insupportable. Thranduil raised his voice, 
“I will NOT put up with this insubordination, Legolas! You WILL hold 
your tongue!”

“And I say to you again that the decision is not yours to make!” 
Legolas shot back without hesitation, his black eyes flashing with 
anger.

Thranduil advanced purposefully, fully intending to put this 
rebellious boy in his place. Legolas backed up, but did not back down. 
“Do not think that all your time with a war party gives you the right 
to disobey me, young prince! I am still your king! You owe me respect 
and still more after all you have done to me--”

Legolas cut him off with a bark of laughter, half-astonished, 
half-contemptuous, “After all I have done to YOU?! Just how did your 
narrow mind manage to twist that from the truth?”

Thranduil was shaking with fury. In a voice lowered again, but no less 
enraged, he hissed, “I have admitted before that I made mistakes, 
Legolas; it is you who spitefully persist in punishing me! Perhaps I 
brought your initial departure on myself, but all that time, all those 
years,” his voice was rising in anger, and something more, “with nary 
a message other than to say where your company was going. Do you STILL 
seek revenge after all that time?!” In a frantic manner bordering on 
hysteria, he grabbed his son by the shoulders, “Thirty-four YEARS?!”

Legolas jerked sharply away, looking shaken but still angry. “Why do 
you persist in believing that my every action is intended to spite 
you? Open your eyes, O King, my contention has nothing to do with you! 
I seek to spare Silivren from the frustrated boredom that drove me 
from Mirkwood in the first place! Yea, our quarrel was partly the 
reason that I left, but not all!” Now his voice in turn seemed 
anguished, “All those centuries, I let you convince me that I was not 
ready to travel, not ready to explore the world, when all my 
companions had been beyond Mirkwood to some elven realm or another! 
Know you the agony of hearing others talking of wonders you yourself 
have yet to see? But I was unable to see them because you would not 
let me go! If our troubles are in any way behind this dispute over 
Silivren, it is only that I seek to spare her the same fate when she 
comes of age!”

Anger and remembered pain swept through Thranduil like great waves, 
and he could not seem to slow down his words enough to control them. 
“I would prefer her bored when she comes of age to dead because she 
recklessly tried to do more than she should! Do not think it cannot 
happen, Legolas, it has before! Must I remind you--”

“--Do not start that again!” Legolas shouted, his own self-control 
having deserted him. “You know me so little, you seek to quell and 
control me with the very same vicious manipulation that you used 
before! It failed then and I will not let you use it now! I grieve for 
my brother and my sisters, Father, and wish with all my being that I 
might have known them! But evil comes whether we hide from it or go to 
meet it, and all the precautions in the world cannot stop it!”

Thranduil also no longer bothered to control his rage, “Ah, Legolas, 
you have grown into such a fool! You would teach Silivren to grow up 
as reckless as you have become--”

“I am not reckless, Father; I am a warrior!”

“Your decision all those years ago was most certainly reckless--”

“I had to join a war party sooner or later; there was no point in 
delaying it forever--”

“But Langcyll’s party, the longest and most perilous of them all, that 
was recklessness and folly at its worst--”

“Whatever you think of it, I’ve no regrets at having chosen them--”

Legolas had never been so openly challenging to Thranduil before, and 
the elven king was reeling amid the frantic verbal sparring. So 
enraged was he, and determined to get the better of his son, that the 
next words flew from his mouth, even as something in his mind and 
heart screamed for him to stop… “Did Tathar, do you suppose?!”





Then there was silence.



Legolas jerked backward as though Thranduil had physically struck him 
in the chest. The king was frozen, unable to move, as the words echoed 
in his mind, irreversibly released, stabbing both him and his son 
again and again. He could only stare. Legolas’s eyes were locked on 
his, wide with shock and pain, his mouth open, trembling with the 
devastating hurt his father’s words had done him. The young prince did 
not seem able to find his voice, but he found some movement, and took 
a rather staggered step backward. The disbelief in his face slowly 
gave way to an anger deeper and more intense than his father had ever 
seen.

Thranduil desperately tried to rouse himself to speak. *By the 
Valar…what have I…did I truly just speak so…Ai! How could I be so 
cruel?! I did not mean it! Legolas! I did not--I must speak--I must 
say SOMETHING--* “L-Legolas--”

His son gave only a ragged gasp as he turned and started swiftly away. 
“No--” Thranduil rushed forward and attempted to catch his arm, but 
Legolas shook him off so hard that the larger elf stumbled. “Legolas, 
please--”

Legolas whirled, his eyes blazing with a fury that made Thranduil 
recoil. In a low, trembling voice, he said icily, “Stay away from me.” 
Then he fled down the corridor only just short of all-out running. 
Standing helplessly in the corridor, the elven king could only watch 
him go. Had he truly spoken thus to his son? How could he have done 
such a thing? He had chosen the most utterly vicious and painful sword 
with which to stab Legolas, and this time he could not even begin to 
blame his actions on too much wine. *What have I done? What have I 
done?*

***

*“Did Tathar? Did Tathar? Did Tathar Did Tathar Did Tathar 
didTathardidTatharTathartathartathar…”* 

Legolas had no idea how he reached his own chamber, but suddenly found 
himself standing in the center of his room, his hands clapped over his 
ears as though trying to drown out an endless echo that was trapped 
within his head. Was King Thranduil truly so bent on dominating him 
that he would resort to the most vicious and painful words that could 
be found in order to ensure Legolas’s submission? 

*I already have heard what he is capable of when he is set on having 
his way. What will be next, will he lock ME in the dungeons?* the 
young elf thought bitterly.

It was not as if the question itself had been what shocked 
Legolas--such thoughts and questions had dogged him every moment since 
that accursed night under the apple tree. He had thought himself to be 
making progress--now, he only thought of Tathar once or twice a minute 
instead of every waking second. Legolas had considered it a vast 
improvement.

Thranduil had been fond of Tathar as well, and when the two had been 
young, the king often referred to Tathar as “his eighth son,” for he 
and Legolas had been so inseparable. It was not only Legolas who had 
been wronged by his words. *How could he say such a thing? How could 
he? Is there nothing he will not stoop to?* 

He had fallen to his knees on the floor. How he had gotten here, he 
did not know, his mind was in such turmoil. He had no idea how long he 
remained there, still shaking and unable to move or rouse himself to 
any coherent thought beyond the last few devastating minutes. 

But he was roused by a click at the door. Before he could deny 
entrance, it opened to reveal the timid face of his niece, gazing at 
him with worried eyes. “Uncle Leg’las?”

It took so much of his strength not to fall apart that Legolas could 
not speak. Silivren shuffled into the room and walked to where Legolas 
still knelt on the floor, dumb and motionless. *I cannot let her see…* 
But elf children are perceptive in their own right, and when Silivren 
held out her arms to him, it was clearly not a request for herself, 
but an offer to him. Squeezing his eyes closed and biting his lip, 
Legolas swept his niece into a fierce embrace, holding onto her small, 
innocent form as a rudder for his sanity. 

At last, he felt he could look at Sili without frightening her by 
bursting into tears, and pulled back to give her a rather forced 
smile. She saw through it, of course. “What’s wrong, Uncle Leg’las?”

“Nothing--” he began, and she pulled back and put her hands on her 
hips in a manner so much like Golwen that he had to laugh. Taking a 
deep breath, he embraced her again and whispered, “You are too young 
to understand, Silivren. But I promise I shall tell you some day.”

“I heard you and Grandfather shouting,” she murmured, her little voice 
troubled. 

Legolas winced and shut his eyes again. *And now our quarrel hurts 
more than just us. When will this end? How can it end? How can I 
prevent Silivren from being wounded by our troubles?* He could think 
of one way, and it nearly caused him to lose control again. But what 
other choice did he have? *I cannot let my father walk all over me, 
and I cannot continue to fight him when Silivren might hear us. By the 
Valar, I do not want to leave again…but how else will this cease? He 
will not give in, nor will I, and the tension shall harm us all if it 
continues.*

The bitter truth of the situation struck him as he brought his niece 
back to Golwen and returned to his quarters. Staring about them with a 
heavy sigh, Legolas snatched out his saddlebags and began shoving his 
travel gear back into them. *Only six weeks, I had at home before 
being driven forth again. Curse the Valar, and curse my father for his 
hard-headedness!*

Footsteps of another elf came down the hall, and his chamber door 
opened. Legolas spun around, intending to explode at his father to 
leave him be, but caught himself--it was Berensul. The Crown Prince 
gazed at the saddlebags, then at Legolas. “So, running away again?”

“I am not running away,” Legolas snapped, but quietly for fear of 
being overheard.

Berensul walked over and attempted to put a hand on his shoulder, but 
Legolas jerked away. “Brother, listen to me, you cannot run from him 
every time you have a quarrel!”

Shoving the bags aside, Legolas stood to face his elder brother. He 
knew he was directing his anger where it was undeserved, but he could 
not stop himself, “You know naught of which you speak, Berensul. If I 
stay, this quarrel will not end, it will only continue, and Silivren 
has already overheard us twice! Do you want your daughter to be a 
witness to this madness?”

Breathing heavily in an obvious effort to control himself, Berensul 
said softly, “No. But there is another way, you and Father can resolve 
your differences--”

Legolas snorted. “Would that it were possible. Believe me, Beren, I’ve 
no desire to leave my home again so soon, and certainly not Silivren. 
But you know Father as well as I--he will not cease pursuing this 
until he has brought me to heel, and I will not, Berensul! I will not! 
He would try to bring up my niece to be under his thumb, just as I was 
for all that time! And still he seeks to put me there again!”

Berensul caught his shoulders. “I do not want you to go again so 
soon.”

Closing his eyes against the sting of tears, Legolas looked down. “Nor 
do I, brother.” He forced himself to look up and meet his brother’s 
gaze. “But I must. I will not spend my days endlessly doing battle--as 
long as Father acts in this fashion, I may as well be in a war party! 
No,” he snatched up his gear. “I am going.”

“But where?” Berensul asked anxiously. “For how long?”

Legolas stopped, taking a deep breath. Turning back, he replied, 
“Lorien, to Limloeth and Orthelian. For how long I do not know, but 
they will have me.”

His eyes sad and reluctant, Berensul slowly nodded. “Silivren will be 
heartbroken.”

The younger prince had to look quickly away. “Almost as much as I,” he 
managed to say. 

“You will say goodbye to her? Come, Legolas, you cannot go without a 
word to her.”

“I know.”

***

Silivren, daughter of Berensul, was more confused than ever when her 
Uncle Legolas suddenly came to tell her that he had to leave. “But 
where are you going? For how long?” she cried in dismay.

“I am going to stay with your aunt and uncle, Limloeth and Orthelian, 
in Lothlorien,” Uncle Legolas told her, with a smile on his face that 
looked rather strange, since his eyes still looked sad.

“Why?” she asked unhappily. “Is this because of the shouting? 
Grandfather wouldn’t tell me either!” she added resentfully.

Uncle Legolas chuckled--another odd thing, because he obviously didn’t 
think it was funny--and he said, “One day you will be old enough to 
understand.” He hugged and kissed her, and left, his face turned away 
so she couldn’t see it. His shoulders shook a little.

Folding her arms, Silivren muttered, “I wish people would stop saying 
that! Nobody tells me ANYTHING!”

***

Thranduil had known better than to try to follow Legolas to his 
chamber, but after a time of trying to collect himself, a desperate 
terror had come over the elven king. After a hurt like that, he had 
realized what his youngest son might be inclined to do. In a panic, he 
had run to the stables, and found Lanthir still there, to his immense 
relief. All the same, he could not shake the dread in his heart, and 
sat there instead of going back inside, despite the rain coming in 
through every opening in the building.

When Thranduil heard light steps coming quickly--and rather 
stealthily--toward the stables, his heart leapt with anguished terror, 
for he knew who it was. Legolas came through the door and stopped in 
his tracks when he saw his father. It made Thranduil want to sob with 
despair at the way his youngest son’s face hardened with bitterness 
and rage at the sight of him. Legolas went to Lanthir without a word. 

Thranduil frantically made his way to his son’s side, “Do not do this, 
Legolas, not again.”

Loading Lanthir, Legolas kept his eyes fixedly on the puzzled stallion 
and did not answer. Thranduil grabbed his shoulders, “By the Valar, 
Legolas, LOOK at me! I said a terrible thing to you, and it grieves me 
more than you know--”

“It grieves YOU?!” Legolas cried incredulously and wrenched away from 
him. His eyes blazing, he demanded, “Even now, you still can only 
think of yourself?! You respond to everything in this fashion, 
concerned only for how you are affected, caring nothing for the hurts 
you do to others. Do not expect me to believe your sorrow is for me as 
much as it is for your selfish need to assuage your own guilt! Be off, 
Father, and let me alone!”

“I will not let you go again!” Thranduil shouted, more out of 
desperation than anger, and imposed his body before the stable door.

Legolas laughed bitterly, “Langcyll called you my jailer, did he? 
Harsh words to your mind, perhaps, but in my opinion he underestimated 
the case!”

The words stung Thranduil just as they had when Langcyll had spoken 
them weeks before. “I am trying to bring an end to this, son.”

Looking utterly disgusted, Legolas mounted Lanthir, “But I shall never 
consent to the kind of ending you desire, Father. My submission is all 
that will do for a greedy tyrant such as you. No,” his face seemed to 
twist with rage. “I will not allow you to stand in my way anymore. 
Test me if you will, but I do not think even an immovable wall such as 
you will stand against my horse.”

Rage at the vicious words burst within Thranduil. “As you will,” he 
hissed, stepping aside. Legolas coldly began urging his horse forward. 
“But know this, Legolas of Mirkwood,” he growled. “If you depart from 
here in this fashion yet again, the doors of the palace shall never 
again open for you! So if you go, do not bother returning, for I will 
not have you back!”

“That would be a heavy misfortune indeed,” mocked Legolas, and sharply 
kicked Lanthir into a gallop from the stables, out into the pouring 
rain. 

“Go then, you impudent child! Go! Be gone and may I never see you here 
again!” Even those words did not cause Legolas to look back. Thranduil 
ran to the door and watched his son ride away, his hands clenched in 
rage that suddenly gave way to anguish. Standing with the rain blowing 
upon his face, the elven king leaned against the doorway of the 
stables as the first of many great sobs overcame him. 

***

As rain pelted down on him with the fury of one who seeks revenge, 
Legolas urged Lanthir out the gates and into the forest, paying little 
heed to where he was going. At first it was anger that drove him on 
and lent him energy, but soon the realization of what had happened 
sank into the prince, and the cold rain mingled with hot tears upon 
his face. He did not know how long he rode in this fashion, blinded by 
grief and anger, until he felt Lanthir tiring of the pace and allowed 
the horse to slow.

Sighing against a horrible inner emptiness, he murmured, “Forgive me, 
my friend, I did not mean to abuse you in this fashion for my mad 
fancy.” He dismounted and the horse looked reproachfully at him, less 
than pleased by the rain soaking his fur. 

Smiling mirthlessly, Legolas led Lanthir through the rain, feeling a 
need to walk his jumbled thoughts away. His mind rang with the many 
bitter words that had passed between his father and himself, and he 
now winced with the memory. But there was no erasing the damage that 
had been done, and his father’s sincerity at their parting had been 
clear. *If I go back now, admitting my own fault, even if he did not 
refuse me entry he would grind my folly at me forever. Nay, the words 
are spoken, now we must both partake of the consequences. There is no 
going back.*

He stopped, rubbing Lanthir’s neck, and felt the horse tense suddenly. 
At last, he bothered to get his bearings. Which presented a new 
problem: “Where in Middle Earth am I?”

For all his hysterical race into the forest, he had not once thought 
to watch where he was going, and now, in a rush of combined chagrin 
and alarm, it dawned upon Legolas: he was lost. Struggling to push 
down the surge of panic within him (more difficult than usual, for his 
emotions were far more volatile than normal) he closed his eyes and 
tried to recall the direction he had taken upon departing the gates. 
His eyes flew open. He had desired to be out of sight as soon as 
possible, so he had borne in the direction of the heaviest 
undergrowth--the least-traveled.

South. He had gone south. And he had ridden hard and for hours in this 
direction, thoughtlessly. *Ai, what a fool I am! I have never been 
this far south before, alone or with others, and there are perils 
within Mirkwood as well--* He leapt to Lanthir’s back, “Fly, my 
friend, we must get to the edge of the forest, and soon.”

It was already growing dark, but he dared not stop to sleep in this 
unfamiliar area. His mind was racing as fast as his horse, for he knew 
many tales of the things that lurked in the deepest, darkest regions 
of the forest. But Lanthir too, was growing frightened, and needed 
little urging to ride on. 

Though he had grown accustomed to watching for many threats during his 
years with Langcyll’s war party, one he had yet to encounter, and thus 
it took him by surprise, unfortunately. He was concentrating on 
watching for things leaping upon him from the trees, and had only time 
to shout in alarm and raise a defensive hand when his horse suddenly 
carried him into what appeared to be strands of great rope stretched 
between the trees, that unseated him as easily as a blow from a club.

Lanthir whinnied in surprise as Legolas fell to the ground, and the 
young prince felt his heart leap in terror as the thick strands stuck 
to him. Spiderweb. “Ride on, Lanthir!” he cried. “Reach the edge of 
the forest; do not wait for me!” The horse whickered plaintively, but 
Legolas again shouted for him to run, and at last, Lanthir heeded his 
rider’s advice and fled. 

Legolas looked about him; the rain had lessened, but its soft 
pattering on the leaves and ground still obscured other sounds. 
Swallowing hard, he made his way into a clearing and stared in the 
dimming light, trying to determine the best course of action. 

All at once, he heard a crack that was not the sound of water striking 
a tree, and whirled to see a huge, hideous dark creature vanishing 
into the trees, as terrible and deadly as he had been told. The spider 
was on the ground, so Legolas wasted no time but sprang to the 
branches of the nearest tree and raced west for the edge of the wood. 
He heard other branches rustling around him and knew at once he was in 
grave danger.

*Their stings paralyze, and I am alone. If they catch me, I am done 
for.* Terror at his predicament made it hard to concentrate on the 
frantic act of climbing and running from branch to branch, tree to 
tree. Branches rustled to his right and he pivoted left, leaping to 
another tree only to find another spider directly before him. He 
dropped lower to the ground and sprang to the next tree, trying to 
climb up again. The moon was beginning to break through the clouds, 
and just as he had climbed high enough to where its light might aid 
him, a great dark body descended upon him and sank sharp fangs into 
the elf’s back.

With a cry of panic, Legolas simply let go of the branch and fell with 
a great crash, all the way to the ground. He landed directly upon his 
right arm with a sickening crack and felt the impact shoot through his 
whole body, nauseating him. It was a miracle he remained conscious at 
all. Gasping in fear and pain, disoriented by the poison coursing into 
his body, he staggered to his feet and began a stumbling run, fighting 
the urge to scream. The world was spinning wildly and he was uncertain 
if he was even going in the proper direction toward the edge of the 
forest. If he could just get out, the spiders might hesitate to expose 
themselves on the plains.

He was so woozy, and his right arm was useless. It was no wonder he 
could do little more to defend himself when two more spiders jumped 
from a tree towards their wounded prey, and one stung him again in the 
right shoulder. But still he fought, swinging at one and taking out 
its eye with his knife. *One good thing,* he thought hazily. *At least 
the poison is numbing.* He could no longer feel his wounded arm.

The sound of cracking, hard spider bodies was all around, and he was 
barely walking, his head swimming as the poison took hold of him. *No, 
I must go on…ah, so here my folly has brought me. Perhaps I deserve 
it.* At last, his body failed altogether and his legs gave way beneath 
him. As the elf tumbled limply to the ground and lay motionless, the 
spiders moved in, eager to partake of their now-helpless prey.

***** 

Assorted Horse Fanciers: Oops! Shows you how much I know about horses, 
I totally overlooked that Lanthir was getting kinda old! But I’m not 
ready to say goodbye to him just yet, so sometime soon I’ll come up 
with a creative reason why he’s still alive and kicking AND carrying 
that elf around! Just be open-minded. Ithilien: Oops again! Shows you 
how much I know about kids! LOL! Actually, I originally wrote Silivren 
as more like a two-year-old, then I realized my years weren’t adding 
up right, so I had to make her older. Oh well, guess she’s just a bit 
spoiled (but considering what a little charmer she is, are we 
surprised?) Thanks for the parenting advice; therein lies a drawback 
of writing family stories at the age of twenty-one. Noah Vail: Don’t 
eat me. Just consider: if I were totally in sympathy with Legolas, I’d 
have made him a saint, and the victim every time. The fact that he’s 
making just as many mistakes as Thranduil should tell you something. 
After all, coming of age doesn’t mean that you stop screwing up (as 
someone of my tender years knows all too well.) Beyond that, as far as 
your thoughts on parenting in Tolkien-verse go, remember these are 
elves in Middle Earth, not humans in the Middle Ages (not that you 
aren’t absolutely right, I’m just saying it allows me a little 
creative liberty. And I also have a twenty-first century target 
audience.)...

MINI-CHARACTER GUIDE (a more complete one at the end of the chapter)

Alagion: Legolas’s alias.

Note: When Aragorn is referred to as Strider, it’s Legolas’s POV. When 
Legolas is referred to as Alagion, it’s Aragorn’s POV. When they’re 
referred to together as Strider and Alagion, it’s somebody else’s POV. 
Uh, did you get all that? Am I getting too complicated? Let me know.

Flashbacks in this chapter, denoted thus: ** Let me know if they give 
you trouble, there are some rather convoluted thought patterns in this 
chapter.



Chapter Nineteen: The Ranger



At last, the rain had stopped. The tall, dark human riding along the 
edges of Mirkwood brushed water from his face gratefully. He had 
intended to stay well beyond the edges of the forbidding forest, but 
the storm had led him closer to the scant shelter its great canopy 
provided from the rain.

Now the moon had broken through the clouds, but a breeze was shaking 
more water from the leaves onto the Ranger. Glaring up at the 
branches, he thought, *Time to return to the open plains.* He had 
never attempted to penetrate the depths of Mirkwood in the twenty-five 
years he had been wandering, and still saw no reason to try. From what 
his foster-father had told him, the people inhabiting these woods, 
elves or not, were unlikely to be much more welcoming to him than the 
monsters that also dwelt there. Nay, this was not a place to dare 
alone if one had a choice. The Ranger hated evil creatures, and it was 
true that Mirkwood had more than her share of them, but the wood elves 
could take care of them. 

Just as the human gained the edge of the woods, he heard a great crash 
from somewhere not far behind him, and a cry. The Ranger whipped his 
head around, halting his mount--that had been no beast’s call. More 
crashes came in his direction, so he rode a few paces outside the wood 
and turned back, peering into the darkness. 

Someone was indeed coming, crashing mindlessly through the thick 
undergrowth. An elf? The man could not imagine what a mortal (other 
than himself) would be doing in Mirkwood. And yet…surely a wood elf 
would not make nearly so much noise--unless in great distress. Though 
he lacked the superior senses of the elves, the man discerned that 
more was coming toward him than just one as-yet-unidentified person. 
And the other noises did not seem to be made by people.

*Spiders! Chasing a victim!* The Ranger dismounted, seizing his bow 
and drawing an arrow back, heading cautiously into the woods. It did 
not take him long to discover the source of all the commotion. Several 
huge, loathsome black spiders were coming down from the trees into a 
small clearing, where a motionless figure lay prone and helpless on 
the ground.

An elf. What he was doing alone in the deep woods so far from the wood 
elves’ usual territory, the man would dearly love to know, but at the 
moment the fair being was in dire need of help. The nearest spider 
began spinning a great net of its awful silk, and reached out to 
ensnare its victim. Then it jerked away with a screech of surprised 
agony as the man buried an arrow in one of its eyes.

It took less effort than the man expected to convince the spiders that 
this prey was not worth the trouble of dodging arrows. The Ranger was 
no elf, but he was more than a fair archer. The spiders scurried away 
into the trees, apparently giving up in spite of their superior 
numbers. All the same, the man had no intention of tarrying while the 
creatures garnered more courage--or worse, reinforcements. He dashed 
into the clearing past several spider carcasses and swept the limp 
wood elf up into his arms. “I know not who you are, friend, nor how 
you came to be in such bad company, but I shall see you to safety,” he 
told the unconscious figure as he bore him away.

The Ranger placed the elf in front of himself upon his mount’s back 
and rode a safe distance from the forest. On the plains, safe from 
spiders at least, he found a copse of small trees that would suit as a 
camp, and carefully eased the elf down. After setting about making a 
fire, the man had time to ponder this rather strange event, and 
examine the wounded elf. As immortals go, he was quite young--perhaps 
it was youthful inexperience that had got him into that predicament in 
the first place. The man had seen few wood elves, but this one did not 
appear like those he had seen or what he had been told. Mirkwood elves 
were said to be dark, and this elf was fair. Under his green and brown 
cote, he wore a tunic of silver--Lorien’s color. Very odd. In more 
serious matters, his right arm was broken, and the man found two 
puncture wounds where the spiders had struck with their foul poison. 
Just the same, the poison’s effect had the benefit of keeping the elf 
unconscious--and probably numb--while the Ranger set the arm.

His ministrations done, there was nothing to do until the stranger 
came around. The man sat against the base of a tree, silently watching 
the elf, when he heard something approaching. Startled, he leapt to 
his feet, a hand on his sword hilt, and turned to see a gray horse 
running riderless across the grass. The Ranger relaxed and smiled as 
the horse stopped well out of reach of him, wariness evident in his 
large black eyes. He knew an elven horse when he saw one, and this one 
bore a pack--but no elf.

Assuming an unthreatening stance, the Ranger stepped back and spoke to 
the beautiful gray in elvish, “Hello, friend. You seem to be missing a 
rider.”

The handsome beast blinked at him, obviously surprised at being so 
addressed by a mortal. The man laughed, and gestured to the elf, 
wrapped in a blanket on the ground, “Might this be who you’re looking 
for?” 

The horse’s whicker of recognition confirmed it. Overcoming a horse’s 
natural fear of fire for the bond to his rider, the gray approached 
the prone elf and nudged him gently with its soft nose, whuffing 
quietly. “Don’t worry,” the man told the animal. “He will awaken in a 
few hours.” He chuckled to himself, “Perhaps in the mean time you 
might tell me what your friend was doing alone this far from the elven 
king’s halls. Ah, well, I expect I shall soon learn the answers.”

***

Darkness. Not surprising, really. As he had fallen, Legolas had 
despaired of ever again seeing the light of day. Still, this was 
rather odd--other than being surrounded by blackness, this was not 
what the young elf would have expected of death. 

Fog seemed to be swirling around him, and it was impossible to make 
his mind function, let alone his body. Then, odder still, sensations 
began reaching him, and it occurred to Legolas that perhaps he was not 
dead after all. The first thing he recognized as a physical feeling 
was a painful throbbing of his right arm. The places where the spiders 
had stung him were still stinging fiercely. He was still damped, but 
not as drenched as before, and he could feel warmth against his 
exposed skin. Moreover--he seemed to be wrapped in something tight.

The prince felt a surge of panic--had he been taken alive by the 
spiders? Desperately, he tried to move, but his body felt leaden, and 
the result was barely a twitch. But the tiny motion did serve to tell 
him that he was not wrapped very tightly. If he could only gain the 
strength to move…his senses continued returning to their normal 
sharpness as he lay, waiting for the chance to scramble for freedom. 
At last, his mind began pulling out of the fog and he could make sense 
of what his senses told him of his surroundings.

Odd. This did not feel like a spider’s lair. He seemed to be lying on 
the ground, with a bunched-up cloak under his head. The quiet 
crackling he heard and the warmth on his face indicated a fire nearby. 
And he was covered in a blanket, not spider silk. If he had had the 
strength, Legolas would have sighed with relief. Someone had found 
him. 

Which turned into yet another question: Who?

He would have liked to look around, but the poison had been powerful 
enough to close his eyes, and he could not seem to force them open. *I 
hate it when that happens!* There was nothing more disconcerting to 
Legolas than waking up to see only the backs of his eyelids. 
Especially when the sound of breathing nearby indicated that someone 
was with him. He tried again to rouse himself and succeeded only in 
shifting a little. *I definitely do not like being paralyzed.* He 
tossed his head.

From not far away came an exultant whinny, and the sound of a large, 
four-legged creature hurrying toward him. A soft nose brushed his 
forehead, and Legolas smiled mentally, *Well met, Lanthir. I am glad 
you reached safety.*

Then he tensed, for now someone else was moving, and they had two 
legs. To the prince’s alarm, these were not the smooth, light steps of 
an elf, but the heavy, long strides of a man. *A MAN rescued me from 
the spiders?!* The idea seemed absurd. Surely a man would not have 
braved the vicious creatures to help an elf--for that matter, what was 
a man doing this far north on the western side of Mirkwood? Legolas 
felt inklings of suspicion creeping into his still-groggy mind. *If in 
fact he did risk himself to rescue me--what does he want with me?*

Legolas held perfectly still as the heavy steps halted, and a very 
large form bent over him. Praying he would have enough strength, the 
elf readied himself, summoning all he could muster. A hand lifted his 
chin, reaching for his neck--and Legolas lashed out with a kick from 
under the blanket, earning a startled grunt and a thud. Swiftly, the 
prince rolled away and tried to scramble to his feet--a feat easier 
said than done since the sudden movement made him dizzy, his limbs 
were sluggish, and he was still tangled in the blanket.

His vision protested as he spun back to face the stranger. The dark 
blur focused into a dark-clad man, much bigger than Legolas, with the 
hardened, weathered look of one who had traveled far. At the moment, 
he knelt in a crouch where the prince’s kick had knocked him, not 
holding a weapon but with one hand close to the hilt of his sword. His 
eyes, a lighter gray than Legolas’s, showed combined surprise and 
wariness as he gazed at the elf silently.

The man made no move, and Legolas also stayed where he was--mainly due 
to the fact that he feared he would keel over at any moment. His 
vision danced and his head was swimming dangerously; it was all he 
could do to face the man steadily. “Who are you?” 

The man seemed utterly unintimidated--very strange to Legolas, for 
every man he had seen (not that he had seen many) tended to react to 
the sight of elves with combined fear and disbelief. But the man 
simply folded his arms--apparently not considering Legolas a threat at 
all--and replied blithely, “You would do well to sit down, Master Elf; 
the spider poison has not yet fully worn off.”

Legolas blinked and felt still more suspicious--the man had spoken in 
perfect Elvish! Determining that the man was coming no closer, at 
least for the moment, he let his eyes scan the campsite. They were on 
the plains, a safe distance from the dangers of the woods, and it was 
still night. There was Lanthir, and another packed horse--who also 
looked to be elf-reared! The sword the man wore also seemed to be of 
elvish make! Growing more alarmed by the second, Legolas managed a 
step backward, trying to look casual as he placed a hand against the 
bole of a tree for support. The intentions of such a character were 
even less predictable than if he had been saved by an ordinary man. 
Locking eyes with the human again, he asked in a low voice, “What do 
you want with me?”

He thought he saw a faint chuckle shake the man’s shoulders, which 
irritated him. With a rather humorless smile, the man replied, “I 
found you in the forest, a few moments away from giving the spiders an 
unexpected feast.” Pausing, with another irritatingly smug look, he 
added, “You’re welcome.” Legolas tried to narrow his eyes warningly, 
but only succeeded in increasing his dizziness. The man raised his 
eyebrows, seeing the elf blinking in attempt to clear his vision. 
“Better get off your feet, or the poison will do it for you.”

Legolas was torn by indecision--he suspected the man was right; the 
world was spinning again in a way that said the poison still had a 
strong hold on him. On the other hand, if he submitted to this 
mortal’s orders…the elf tarried too long. *Ai! No!* As his vision 
formed a tunnel, the last thing he saw was the man rising and moving 
quickly towards him, but the prince had lost the strength to move. 

His hands not on his sword, but rather extended as though to aid the 
elf, the man hurried over. Not a moment too soon, as for the first 
time in his life, Legolas fainted.

***

Aragorn caught the elf as he fell, easing him back to the ground. He 
chuckled to himself; he had not really expected the elf to heed his 
advice. Maybe the humiliation of this collapse might lead him to take 
note next time. He heard a whinny of alarm from behind him, and laid 
the blanket back over the elf before turning to the horse, “Peace, 
friend, I’ve not harmed him. Even elves have their limits.”

And this one had passed them, and faced the consequences. So 
suspicious, these wood elves. Aragorn had been raised by the elves of 
Imladris, but his foster-father had warned him that not all elves were 
as willing to have dealings with mortals. “Indeed,” he remembered 
Elrond saying. “Do not think that your ties to me will protect you if 
you are discovered intruding in Lothlorien or Mirkwood. From Lorien 
you would be expelled, but worse, from Mirkwood you might never 
leave.”

As it happened, Elrond had later taken Aragorn to Lorien, and with the 
lord of Imladris vouching for him, the elves had received him, but 
Aragorn still had yet to meet an elf of Mirkwood. So far, it appeared 
Elrond had not been exaggerating the distrustful nature of these 
people. A faint moan reached his ears; the elf was coming round again. 
The horse whinnied and Aragorn grinned, “Maybe this time you’ll use a 
little more caution.”

He quickly straightened his face, but nearly laughed again when the 
young elf’s eyes opened. He blinked as though remembering what had 
happened, and then chagrin crept into his fair features. Slowly 
sitting up (with more care this time) the elf saw Aragorn watching 
him. “Who are you?” he asked again.

“You show precious little civility to one who probably just saved your 
life,” Aragorn said, mildly taunting him.

The elf narrowed dark gray eyes at the Ranger, “I might feel more 
gratitude if I knew the purpose of such pains by one who has yet to 
identify himself. If indeed your intentions were entirely selfless.” 
He sounded slightly mocking.

*Wood elves.* With a rather mocking nod of his head, Aragorn replied, 
“I am called Strider.”

“‘Strider?’” the elf repeated doubtfully.

“I am of the Dúnedain, the Rangers of the West. My right name would 
mean nothing to you, noble elf of Mirkwood,” the man said, laughing 
inwardly at the fabrication. *Knowing how the wood elves view my 
lineage, if you knew my real name you might try to kill me.* Elrond 
had warned him of that as well. Raising his eyebrows questioningly, 
Aragorn went on, “Perhaps now you might deign to give me the honor of 
your name, Master Elf.”

The elf’s suspicion had not lessened, if anything it had grown. “If 
you are but a mere Ranger, how is it that you ride an elvish horse, 
bear elvish arms, and speak an elvish tongue?”

Aragorn debated how much he should tell this strange elf, until 
deciding that if he wished to ever know the elf’s name, or what had 
happened, he must get past this mistrust. After all, it was still a 
troubling question, what an elf was doing alone so far south. (Besides 
which, the Ranger was perishing with curiosity!) Casually, he told the 
elf, “I have often passed through Rivendell in my travels. I am a 
friend to Elrond, Lord of Imladris.”

That got quite an impressed reaction. The elf blinked, looking 
doubtful, then evidently decided that friendship to Elrond was the 
only possible explanation for this strange mortal to be favored with 
such knowledge of the elves. Slowly, his skepticism lessening a bit, 
he nodded and said coolly, “Forgive me, Strider of the Dúnedain, I 
fear I have not shown you proper courtesy. We seldom see mortals close 
to Mirkwood, but your friendship to Lord Elrond would explain your 
lack of fear.”

Graciously (and laughing inwardly) Aragorn smiled, “Not at all. That 
little matter settled,” the elf’s expression suggested that he knew 
the Ranger was mocking him, “what might be your name, Master Elf?”

“I am Alagion, son of Langcyll of Mirkwood.” 

“I am honored, son of Langcyll.” *A nice try, Master Elf, but that is 
no more your name than Strider is mine. Still, I shall let the façade 
stand for both of us for the time being.* 

The elf seemed to have to mustered his dignity to speak again, “I am 
in your debt, Strider of the Dúnedain. You saved my life.”

Aragorn had thought at first to dismiss all talk of indebtedness, for 
as a warrior, it could be set aside as the proper deed from one to 
another, but now…he was intrigued. Elves were not solitary folk, and 
though sometimes distrustful of strangers, ordinary elves seldom had 
such great secrets that required the hiding of one’s name. *Therefore, 
the only conclusion can be that you are far from ordinary, Master Elf. 
I dislike taking advantage of your debt to me, but perhaps I might 
prolong our acquaintance. I still know not what a wood elf would be 
doing down here alone, and I suspect the answer will prove important. 
I fear you shall not escape so easily.* Smiling slightly, he said, 
“You are most gracious, Alagion of Mirkwood. I wonder, would you favor 
me with your company on my journey?”

The elf looked as though traveling with Aragorn were the last thing he 
wanted, but a life debt was a life debt. “Whither do you ride?”

“Haloel. I received a rather strange message from a friend there a 
fortnight ago. I shall go to see if he and his people have need of 
assistance, and these are treacherous parts to travel in by oneself.”

“Then I shall be glad to bear you company,” said the elf. 

***

The next two weeks saw Legolas riding with Strider (or whatever his 
real name was) south towards Haloel, a small kingdom at the 
southwestern end of the Misty Mountains, not far from Isengard. 
Legolas knew the region by reputation: wealthy due primarily to the 
fame of its wines. It had been ruled by the same line of lords for as 
long as its vines had grown on the slopes of the hills.

Unfortunately, hearing the mere name of the place reminded Legolas of 
his father. Haloel wines were Thranduil’s favorite (the king had 
maintained trade with their merchants long after ending it with all 
other mortals.) Now the remaining stores of Haloel wines in the king’s 
caverns were the most strictly saved. *As if that association were not 
painful enough, we drank it at the banquet when Langcyll made his 
announcement--and then Father drank too much of it later that night.*

Legolas was beginning to think he would rather go to Moria than 
Haloel. 

“Are you widely-traveled in Middle Earth, Alagion?” Strider startled 
him by saying.

It sometimes made Legolas want to laugh, other times wince when he 
heard his pseudonym spoken. He knew not what spur of the moment 
impulse had made him choose that alias (*Liar!*) but now he was stuck 
with it. Over the days, he and the Ranger had engaged in sporadic 
conversation. The brief talks were started by whichever one of them 
grew bored with the uneasy silence, but the dialogue always swiftly 
became stilted again because neither of them would yield any great 
information about himself. Then they would lapse back into silence 
again. 

Occasionally, when stiff small talk tried their patience, they broke 
the monotony by baiting each other. It was in that frame of mind that 
Legolas replied, “Somewhat.” *Let us see what the mortal makes of 
that!*

Not much; Legolas thought he detected a shrug, but Strider dismissed 
the cryptic answer--but apparently was still too bored to leave off. 
He tried again, with a more specific question that Legolas would not 
be able to dodge so easily, “Have you ever been to Haloel before?”

“Nay,” the prince said, abandoning the thought of goading him. 

“How fares your arm?” That had been a habitual inquiry from the 
Ranger, and it irritated Legolas no end to admit that Strider had done 
an impressive job of setting it. Had Legolas been mortal, he might 
have been crippled, for the bone had been broken in two places by his 
fall. As it was, it had been expertly set (with skill comparable to an 
elvish healer!) and Legolas had been able to take it out of the sling 
after a week, though it still ached a little. It would not hamper his 
fighting or shooting. 

“Well, thank you.” Legolas, too, was growing weary of this stony 
silence. After all, he reasoned to himself, it was not as if Strider 
was not within his rights to ask Legolas to accompany him on his 
journey. It was a great risk to travel alone at these times, and 
Haloel was not so very far from Lorien. Even if the Ranger wished the 
elf to accompany him all the way to the province, it was not much out 
of Legolas’s way.

Mentally, Legolas sighed. *I have been taking out my own sorrows on 
one who does not deserve it--indeed, my debt to him is genuine, for I 
should most definitely be dead but for this Strider. My ill feelings 
should not be directed at this mortal.*

The resolution had an unforeseen consequence. For the past days of 
travel, Legolas had successfully distracted himself from his own 
troubles by directing his hostility toward the mortal who had so 
effectively (yet supposedly selflessly) bound Legolas to his service. 
But now, the memory of the events leading to his departure from 
Mirkwood and all he held dear had begun to hammer mercilessly at the 
prince. During the last days of the ride, he found it harder and 
harder to keep his mind off his family, and there were times when such 
utter despair swept through him that he caught Strider staring at 
him--meaning that it must be showing on his face. 

The question occupied his mind more and more as his trip with Strider 
took him further and further from Mirkwood. *Will I ever be able to go 
home again?*

He could not find the answer. But the questions, and the painful 
memories, refused to give him peace.

**

“You’re going away? But where? Why, Uncle Leg’las?”

“Running away again, little brother?”

“Do not do this, Legolas, not again!”

**

That night, Legolas was wrenched from sleep by an urgent shaking. 
“Alagion! Awaken!”

With a gasp of relief, the elf escaped the nightmares that had been 
drowning him. It took a moment to recall where he was, or the idenity 
of the dark-haired human looking down at him with concern. “Strider.”

“Are you well?” The Ranger smiled wryly at the elf‘s shaky nod. “Bad 
dreams?”

Legolas nodded, trying to shrug it off. *Worse: memory.* Aloud, he 
said, “I shall keep watch, if you wish to rest. Now I am awake,” he 
added in a weak attempt at humor.

Strider looked surprised at the elf’s amiable tone--until today, 
Legolas had been barely civil when he spoke to the man. But the Ranger 
accepted Legolas’s offer and went to his blankets. Legolas rose and 
paced a bit around the camp, attempting to walk of the shadows of the 
dreams that still insidiously clung to him. 

**

“Even now, all you can think of is yourself!”

“I am trying to bring an end to this, son!”

**

Legolas looked up at the stars, trying to find solace in them. But the 
truth of those last bitter words would not be repressed. *He was. He 
wished to make amends. It was I who would not allow it, I who refused 
to forgive.*

**

“I have no regrets at having chosen to join Langcyll’s company--”

“Did Tathar, do you suppose?”

**

*He did not mean it. He did not mean to hurt me. We had both spoken 
too hastily in anger. I knew it even then, and still I would not let 
him take it back.*

**

“Langcyll called you my jailer, did he? He underestimated the case!”

**

*I spoke so to wound him, far more than he did to me. I cannot believe 
I parted with him on such terms. Will I ever have the chance to right 
it?*

**

“Go, then! Go! And may I never see you here again!”

**

*Will my father ever accept me again after that?*

Trying to distract himself, Legolas glanced at the slumbering Ranger. 
Even asleep, there was that tension of one accustomed to the perils of 
lone traveling, and the prince had no doubt that Strider would be up 
like a shot, sword in hand, at the slightest noise. Men were so 
strange. Strider did not look to be more than a few decades old, but 
in that short time he had gained many skills it had taken Legolas 
centuries to learn. Yet men did not have the time necessary to gain 
the understanding that was needed of the world (at least for elves.) 
Legolas was not sure if that improved or lowered his opinion of 
humans.

*For all we traveled through Gondor, we saw little of men. At least 
this detour may prove useful in that respect, for I should like to 
know more of their ways.*

The idea of learning more of men reminded Legolas of his father, and 
he sighed involuntarily. Then, everything seemed to remind him of 
someone or something in Mirkwood. The question came again to his mind. 
*Will I ever be able to put this right?* He shook his head to himself, 
dispelling the dismal thoughts. *There is no point in brooding over it 
now, for I can do nothing until I have discharged my debt to Strider. 
When that is done, I shall decide what to do. Perhaps I will seek my 
sister’s counsel in Lorien.* And, he reasoned, twirling an arrow in 
his fingers, they were only a day or so out of Haloel. This Strider 
(now that Legolas was thinking a little more objectively) seemed to so 
far to have no sinister intentions--at least not concerning Legolas. 
With luck, he would release Legolas after they had found the Ranger’s 
friend in Haloel.

Sounds in the distance pricked the elf’s sensitive ears, and he froze, 
trying to identify them. He turned his head towards the mountains; the 
sounds of people were coming across the plains from the hills of 
Haloel. Not orcs. A scouting party from Haloel? It seemed odd; the 
small kingdom hosted a large and well-protected fortress at the center 
of its vineyards. In the face of any threat, its people could retreat 
to the castle and even withstand a siege for years, from what Legolas 
had been told of the place.

So what would men of Haloel be doing so far beyond its borders, 
heavily armed, but not carrying any shipments of wine (as Legolas’s 
superior hearing informed him.) The elf pondered this--for the humans 
were still too far away for their mortal senses to detect the 
travelers--and decided to err on the side of caution.

“Strider.” The human opened his eyes and sat up at once, unable to 
hear the approaching people but alert for trouble. He raised 
questioning eyebrows at Legolas, who told him, “We have visitors 
approaching.”

The human rose and walked to where Legolas was standing, gazing 
curiously into the darkness. “They are beyond my senses as yet. From 
whence do they come?”

Legolas pointed. “They come almost directly from Haloel, bearing many 
weapons, but no caravan of wine.”

That got the Ranger’s immediate attention. “The lord of Haloel is not 
in the habit of sending out war parties beyond his realm.” Legolas 
nodded. “What think you, Alagion?”

The prince regarded the distant men only for a moment before replying, 
“I think we might do well to give them a wide berth until we know more 
of their intentions.”

“I suspect you are right. Let us break camp and ride clear of their 
path. How much time have we until dawn?”

“Perhaps two hours. If we depart now, we can be well beyond their 
sights by sunrise,” said Legolas.

As they re-loaded and mounted their horses, Strider added, “We might 
also take a less direct route to the castle until I am able to contact 
Sarovin. I suddenly grow wary of Haloel.”

The plan was successful, and the sun found Legolas and Strider leading 
their horses carefully toward the foothills as they approached Haloel 
from the north, rather than from the east as most travelers would. 
Coming around a cluster of boulders that conveniently shielded them 
from view, the prince and Ranger beheld at last the land of Haloel. 
Neat arbors of vines covered the green, rolling hills as far as the 
eye could see, and a small river meandered lazily through the central 
valley, with little dwellings and clusters of houses dotting the 
landscape. At the center of the valley sat the castle, a great stone 
construction that would easily hold all the residents of this fair 
land.

Fair it was, but what they saw troubled the man and the elf greatly. 
It was late spring; the fields should have been filled with workers 
tending Haloel’s famous grapes. But instead, among the green vineyards 
stood a multitude of tents, and many armed warriors milling about. 
Beside Legolas, Strider narrowed his eyes. “A siege camp,” he 
observed. “Haloel has been invaded.”

But Legolas could see further, all the way to the men guarding the 
walls of the castle. He could also make out more details of the 
encamped soldiers. “A siege, yes,” said the elf. “But not by foreign 
invaders. Remember the men we passed bore the armor and weapons of 
Haloel’s guard. They were not fleeing this attack, but patrolling 
outside the borders for any who approached the castle. And these men 
in the camp below carry the flags and weapons of the lord of Haloel.”

Strider stared at him, then squinted down into the valley in a vain 
attempt to see for himself. After a moment--and sounding slightly 
chagrined--the Ranger admitted, “My eyes cannot reach so far. What can 
you see at the castle?”

Distracted by the troubles in the valley, it did not occur to Legolas 
to be smug. “The men who hold the fort are not soldiers. They bear 
arms with without skill--and they wear the garb of peasants.” Turning 
to face Strider, he concluded grimly, “The folk of Haloel are 
rebelling against their lord. His symbol is on the tents and attacking 
soldiers. The farmers have taken the castle, which is built to 
withstand an assault, but the soldiers have the advantage in weapons 
and training. Seeing only this, I know not how long their defenses can 
hold.”

If the war being waged below them unsettled Legolas, the elf knew that 
Strider was still more disturbed, for he had no way of knowing the 
whereabouts of his friend. Glancing worriedly at the elf, Strider 
smiled slightly, “Perhaps if we could locate Sarovin, he might tell us 
what led to this revolt.”

“Have you any idea where he might be, or even if he still lingers in 
Haloel?” Legolas asked.

“His message said only that trouble was stirring in Haloel.” The 
Ranger chuckled, “When I see him, I shall pronounce him master of the 
understatement.”

“Indeed,” Legolas grimaced, gazing at the soldiers constructing a 
massive battering ram down by the river. He knew naught of the 
circumstances behind this siege, but his knowledge of sieges already 
lent his sympathy to the besieged. 

This was the first siege the prince of Mirkwood had actually witnessed 
firsthand, and already he thought it worse than his mentors had 
described. War of any kind turned his stomach, but the siege had a 
horrible slowness to it that drained the life out of both sides until 
one was exhausted or starved into defeat. On the field, the soldiers 
of Haloel’s lord trained and planned at their leisure, able to bring 
in supplies, but the castle itself was a fortress not easily 
penetrated, and such an assault would certainly lead to many 
casualties.

But the situation for the peasants within the castle was still more 
dire. They would be able to fight only as long as their food and water 
supplies held out, and if they did not repel the attack before 
then…they would either be starved out or taken. Legolas could not be 
certain how the peasants were faring just by looking, but the men 
stationed on the wall held their bows with an awkward desperation of 
those who knew all too well the stakes of this fight.

It was then, while Legolas was observing the besieged peasants, that 
one of the men on the wall caught his eye. A smile quirked the elf’s 
lips. This man wore not the simply spun raiment of the farmers, but 
the rough gear of a Ranger, and a sword made by the craftsmen of 
Gondor. “I think I have found your friend, Strider of the Dúnedain.”

***

Sarovin, son of Tarodin, was organizing the peasants of Haloel atop 
the castle’s outer wall when one of the watchers called to him. 
“There’s someone up in the hills, north!”

The Ranger ran to the north battlements, staring up the face of the 
northern hills. “Where?”

“Ducking behind the trees and rocks, but they’re definitely making 
their way here.”

Sarovin scowled in the direction the guard had pointed. Lord 
Fompran--the now-deposed lord of Haloel--was constantly sending bands 
of soldiers to harass Sarovin’s men, and the Ranger had no doubt that 
there were also agents sent by Fompran within the castle. But Sarovin 
was too busy keeping the farmers rallied to seek them out.

His attention was grabbed suddenly by the sight of two cloaked figures 
popping out from behind a copse of trees and moving swiftly and 
stealthily toward the castle. “Strange,” he murmured. The pair were 
taking great pains to keep obstacles between themselves and Fompran’s 
camp, but making no effort to hide from the view of Sarovin and his 
men within the fort. 

“Could they be friends?” asked one of the guards, voicing Sarovin’s 
thought.

“I do not know,” the Ranger murmured. “They’re certainly eager to get 
here. I would know more of their intentions before granting them 
entrance…but we’ve no way to signal them without alerting Fompran’s 
camp to their presence.”

“Ho, Sarovin, look!” exclaimed another.

The Ranger cursed. “It appears Fompran’s men are going to find out 
they’re here no matter what. Lend me your bow, Dersten,” he said to 
the farmer nearest him. “Whatever their purpose in coming here, I do 
not want Fompran and his marauders to learn of it before us.”

The two new arrivals were picking their way down a hillside toward the 
castle, but the route would take them perilously close to the siege 
camp. Now the clamor of the soldiers in the camp was obscuring the 
guard leaning indolently against the very boulder that the strangers 
were about to sneak around. 

Sarovin took aim at the soldier, and the rest of his men exchanged 
looks. “Keep your bows ready for anyone who approaches the wall,” he 
ordered. “But do not fire unless I order it.”

The guards obeyed his command, and Sarovin readied himself. The 
strangers came from behind the rock, intending to dart toward the 
cover of another, but found themselves face-to-face with a siege 
guard. Before the man could sound the alarm, an arrow was embedded in 
his neck. The strangers froze, staring up at the wall where the shot 
had come from. “Ready your bows!” Sarovin ordered. To the newcomers, 
he murmured, “You have ten seconds to declare yourselves before I drop 
both of you.”

Almost as if he had heard Sarovin, the taller and larger of the two 
pulled back his hood. “Hold!” Sarovin exclaimed immediately. “Hold 
your fire! Bring a rope ladder at once!” he shouted to several men 
nearby. “Make ready to cover them!” Disregarding caution, he beckoned 
vigorously at the two to approach the castle.

Inevitably, the soldiers in Lord Fompran’s camp noticed and raced to 
cut off the intruders’ access to the castle. Sarovin’s men fired a 
volley of arrows at them--rather badly coordinated, but sufficient to 
create a gap for the newcomers. The Ranger watched anxiously as the 
two ran, swords drawn, towards the wall where the peasants had dropped 
the ladder. “Come on, my friend, come on!”

“That is the man you sent for?” Dersten asked. “Who is that with him?” 
The farmer indicated the fleet, slight figure just behind Strider.

“I do not know, but if he travels with Strider, he is a friend,” 
Sarovin said firmly.

***

Aragorn sprinted for the ladder, but a group of Haloel soldiers were 
close on his and Alagion’s heels. A larger mob of farmers had gathered 
on the wall, whether shouting in encouragement or warning, he did not 
know. He gained the ladder and started up, but knew simply by the 
sounds behind that the soldiers were far too close. 

The Ranger whirled, preparing to do battle, but Alagion was between 
him and the soldiers, shouting, “Go!” Going for his bow and quiver, 
Alagion threw off his cloak, but in so doing, his long golden hair, 
fair features, and pointed ears came into plain view of all.

A great incredulous cry went up from all directions, and when Alagion 
notched an arrow and took aim at the pursuing soldiers, it was all 
Aragorn could do not to laugh. The soldiers--all thirteen of 
them--literally skidded to a halt in their tracks. Not that it 
surprised Aragorn with his experiences among elves, for even without 
seeing his face, Alagion looked formidable. Any ordinary man unlucky 
enough to be on the receiving end of his steely-black gaze would 
doubtlessly suffer a sudden loss of nerve. Alagion glanced back at 
Aragorn and again shouted for him to climb, and this time the Ranger 
did so. By now the soldiers had recovered their courage and charged 
the elf en masse, roaring with all the pumped-up bravado of those 
terrified of their foe.

Alagion proved their fears justified. Six men fell to his arrows in 
the time it took those watching to gasp, then Aragorn gained the top 
of the wall. Sarovin gave him a hand over, and there was no need to 
shout down to Alagion, for the elf had heard. He turned and flew 
nimbly up the ladder while pulling the back end behind him so the 
soldiers could not follow him up. The peasants of Haloel were as wary 
of him as the soldiers, and only Aragorn and Sarovin did not shrink 
back when the elf jumped gracefully over the thick outer wall.

For a moment, the elf, Rangers, and rebelling farmers simply stared at 
each other. Finally, it was Sarovin who broke the silence. “Well, 
Strider, I must say you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Aragorn looked from his fellow Ranger to Alagion to the men, who were 
still openly gawking at the elf, and his sense of the ridiculous got 
the better of him. He began to laugh, and Sarovin quickly joined him, 
while Alagion and the other men stared as though wondering what could 
possibly be so funny. Catching his breath, Aragorn said, “You are one 
to talk, Sarovin. ‘Trouble stirring’ indeed. Never before have I seen 
trouble so stirred!”

“I knew you would make haste if I piqued your curiosity. And I see you 
are in favor with the elves, as always.” Seeming to remember his 
manners, Sarovin bowed to Alagion. “You have my thanks for your 
assistance, Master Elf. I am Sarovin, son of Tarodin of Bree.”

The elf bowed in turn, “I am honored, son of Tarodin. I am Alagion, 
son of Langcyll of Mirkwood.” *And there it is again; he hesitates at 
this name,* thought Aragorn triumphantly. *I wonder when I shall hear 
his true identity.*

“Mirkwood,” the murmured word rippled through the crowd of men. 
Aragorn dared a quick glance around and saw no open hostility, to his 
relief, but a good deal of wariness and doubt, even some suspicion. 
*How long it has been since men and elves could meet without fear,* 
the heir of Isildur thought with a pang of regret. Turning back to 
Sarovin, he gestured at the siege camp--which looked like a disturbed 
hornet’s nest with soldiers running about shrieking over the elf and 
second Ranger’s arrival. “How did this come to pass?”

His expression turning grim, Sarovin gestured to the farmers, “Just as 
all revolutions come to pass, my friend. Perhaps the people of this 
realm would be better suited to tell you of it.”

They were more than willing, as rebelling subjects are always willing 
to tell their part. “The lords of Haloel were wise and just once,” 
said one whom Sarovin identified as Dersten. “But not Fompran. He 
ruled Haloel in a prosperous time, but thoughts the fruits of our 
labor should benefit him alone. The kingdom grew richer, but we grew 
poorer.”

“He’s quadrupled the taxes of the workers since gaining power!” 
another man put in indignantly. “And at the same time, took control of 
the presses and wineries, paying us less than ever for our grapes and 
labor. We’re farmers, not slaves!”

“For years since the last tax raises, we’ve been petitioning Fompran 
to lower them again, or else pay more for our labor,” added another. 
“At first he would hear us and then dismiss us, now he will not even 
see our representatives. Says it’s our duty to do as we’re told by our 
lord!”

Aragorn grimaced and saw Alagion looking equally dismayed (despite a 
noble effort by the elf to display outward neutrality.) *I should have 
sent him on his way before coming to the castle,* the Ranger thought. 
*He did not need to be brought into this.*

Dersten went on, “Three months ago, we decided to stop working the 
vineyards until Fompran heard our petition and negotiated a 
compromise. He and his soldiers came and took over the fields, 
presses, and wineries, saying we would work on his terms or not at 
all, and he’d evict all of us, and our families.” The man smiled 
grimly. “But he’d left the castle practically empty to take over all 
the fields.” Several of the men smirked. “So we decided that if he put 
us out of our homes, we would return the favor until he saw fit to 
parley with us.”

“Not much chance of that happening,” muttered someone. “Greedy 
tyrant.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Alagion make an almost 
imperceptible movement. One who knew naught of elves might have 
dismissed it as merely shifting position, but to Aragorn…it looked 
like a wince. *Interesting.* Aloud, Aragorn said, “I can guess what 
role you had in all of this, Sarovin.”

The other Ranger chuckled, “Quite likely. It was I who encouraged 
Dersten and his folk to refuse to work, and when the situation took a 
turn for the worse--I could scarcely fail to see it through.”

“Why did you send for Strider?” Alagion spoke up at last. Several of 
the men jumped. Aragorn had to stifle a laugh.

Sarovin smiled knowingly, “From the moment I arrived here, I thought 
Strider’s skills would be of use. These men have need of a strong 
leader, one stronger than I.” The last remark was directed again at 
Aragorn.

“What sort of leadership is needed?” Aragorn asked carefully.

There were several stifled groans. Dersten jerked his head at the open 
courtyard below. “Look for yourself,” he said with a note of acute 
embarrassment in his tone.

Aragorn and Alagion peered over the wall down into the courtyard. The 
clamor below, Aragorn had assumed, was the sound of men training and 
rigging more defenses. Now, with Alagion looking discomfited beside 
him, he saw his mistake. If the rebels’ food and water was rationed, 
one commodity was clearly in no short supply: wine. The courtyard 
below looked more like a tavern at closing time than a fort under 
siege. 

Simultaneously (and rather slowly) the elf and Ranger turned their 
heads back to face Sarovin and Dersten. Rather unnecessarily, Alagion 
said simply, “Oh.”

Apparently torn between mortification and laughter, Sarovin raised his 
hands helplessly, “You must understand, my friends, these are not 
soldiers.” *You can say that again,* thought Aragorn. “They are merely 
farmers who have been pushed too far by a tyrannical lord. Even the 
most reasonable people have their limits. But now they’ve acted,” he 
shrugged. “They’ve not the faintest idea what to do next. And when 
they’re not guarding the walls or the gates, as you see, they’ve too 
much time and wine on their hands.”

“Does the lord of Haloel know of…that?” Alagion asked quietly from 
behind Aragorn. He seemed to be taking an interest in the situation 
against his own will.

“Not likely, for I think he has similar troubles in his own camp,” 
chuckled Dersten ironically. “It is a long ride to the nearest 
neighboring realms to trade for food and supplies, but wine is 
something we in Haloel have in near-unlimited abundance. So when our 
men are not on duty, I suppose they wish to distract themselves from 
the stress of waiting this siege out. The same seems to be happening 
in the siege camp, from what we can tell.”

Another man laughed, “And we have one advantage now. We have two 
Rangers and an elf. They have Fompran.”

Neither Aragorn nor Alagion had yet seen the lord of Haloel, but 
judging by the roar of laughter that went up from all (including 
Sarovin) it must be a rather bizarre comparison.

***

Fompran, Lord of Haloel by birth, was at that moment listening to the 
report from his soldiers about the incident at the wall. When the men 
were finished with their account, he cursed loudly and hurled his full 
goblet (it was always kept full) across the tent, leaving a red stain 
on the canvas wall. “Another Ranger is bad enough,” he griped in his 
nasal voice, “but an elf?! That’s all we need, immortals sticking 
their noses in this!”

“The elf and new Ranger are in the castle now, my lord.”

Limply flapping his rather fat hands for emphasis, the embattled lord 
exclaimed, “Well…then…DO something about it, Vrall!”

“What, you lordship?” his captain asked dubiously. “We haven’t even 
come close to succeeding in a direct assault against the castle--it is 
a fortress, after all. And we have no way of knowing where they are 
now.”

“Fah!” Fompran waved his hand dismissively (upsetting another silver 
goblet.) “We’ve got spies in that accursed castle, don’t we? Signal 
them!”

Vrall, hoping to avoid getting another glass of wine in the face 
(which his lord was wont to do) stepped back hastily. “What message do 
you wish sent, my lord?”

Wrinkling his nose and brow in thought, Fompran grumbled to himself 
for a moment before saying, “Without those Rangers leading them, that 
rabble would fall apart. I want them disposed of.”

“And the elf?”

“Kill him too, of course,” Fompran said in exasperation. Vrall started 
to depart, then the wheels of Fompran’s mind slowly began turning, and 
a better scheme popped into his head. “Wait!” Rubbing his fingers 
against his double chin, the lord murmured, “Perhaps I’m too quick. We 
want those traitors hurt in the worst possible way. Perhaps we can do 
worse than simply killing their foreign leaders.”

“Capture, my lord? That will be difficult,” Vrall said doubtfully.

“Well, as far as I know, it is your JOB to come up with the correct 
strategy, Vrall,” Fompran said petulantly. “You ARE after all the 
captain of my guard!”

Clearing his throat, Vrall said hastily, “Of course, my lord. Say only 
what you wish, and I will see it done.”

“Hmph, that’s a better attitude. Yeeesss, let us see. Very well, 
capture the two Rangers and get them back to the camp. Nothing will 
demoralize those worthless rebels like seeing their leaders executed 
in full view.”

“It shall be so, my lord. And what of the elf?”

“I don’t want any trouble with any elf lord, Vrall. Kill the elf in 
the castle--nothing fancy. If anyone comes sniffing around, we can 
blame it on the rebels. Hmmmm. Yes, I’m liking this more and more. 
Better yet, if we can enlist the aid of the elves seeking justice for 
their kinsman, the castle will fall even sooner.”

“Yes, my lord,” Vrall’s voice sounded decidedly skeptical, and Fompran 
glared at the captain over the rim of his goblet. “How many of your 
spies do you wish to set on this?”

“All of them. I don’t want any foul-ups. They can use any method they 
please, but tell them: Capture the Rangers. Kill the elf.”

***

Vrall, captain of Lord Fompran’s guard (by birth) was a little 
irritated to find their messenger was quite hopelessly drunk when 
Vrall came to order the sending of their lord’s message. “Curse it!” 
He saw little harm in letting his men indulge in Haloel’s chief 
export, but one would think Tegas would have the sense not to swill so 
much right before his shift.

“It’s almost twilight, Vrall,” another of his men said worriedly. “If 
we lose the sun, the mirror will be useless.”

“Well, Tegas is in no fit state; he’d jumble the message,” Vrall 
scowled. He did NOT desire returning to report the delay to Fompran; 
he was down to one wine-free tunic. “I’ll do it.”

His lieutenant looked doubtful. “Do you know the light codes, sir?”

With a shrug, the burly soldier replied, “A little, yes…and how hard 
can this message be, Nasemar? Tegas can even tell me the code, all I 
need is a steady hand to move the mirror!”

“Right,” Nasemar shoved the drunk messenger aside so Vrall could take 
the mirror. “All right, Tegas, snap out of it! Tell us how to send a 
message!”

Grinning stupidly and blinking rapidly, Tegas replied, “Well, I canna 
really tell ya that, Vvvvvrall! D’pends on whatcha wanna slend!”

Throwing up his hands with another curse, Vrall said, “We must say, 
‘Capture Rangers, kill elf.’ How do I do that?”

Springing up eagerly, Tegas exclaimed, “Why, thad’s no problem--I 
could slend thad in my sllleeep! Here, lemme do it!”

He tried to take the mirror, but Vrall and Nasemar irritably shoved 
him away. “Get off, you drunken sot, you’d wind up telling them to 
join the rebels! Just tell me the code!”

“Blah! Alright, alright, don’ hit me! Id’s very simple! ‘Capdture’ is 
two short blinks, then a long blink. ‘Rangers’ is long blink, short 
blink, long blink. ‘Kill’ is one short blink, then two long blinks. 
‘Elf’ is one long blink. Nnnow, didja ged all that?” Tegas folded his 
arms at Vrall with dramatic expectancy.

“Of course--if a drunken fool like you can manage it, a babe could. 
Now,” narrowing his eyes in concentration, Vrall angled the mirror to 
catch the sun. “One short blink--bah! Onnneeee shorrrtttt 
blinnn--curse it! This is harder than it looks! One short--there! Now 
another short…argh!”

***

From their hiding place in a storeroom in the castle, several of Lord 
Fompran’s guards saw the light blinking from the signal mirror. Having 
been indulging in a little too much themselves, it took a minute for 
their appointed watchman to realize the signal was there. “Oy, men, 
camp’s sending a message!”

“Huh?” “What?” “Where?” “Why?” “How?” “What’s it say?”

“Shaddap, shaddap, I’m trying to note it! Uh, short blink, long blink, 
long blink, uh--wait. There, there! Here it is…short-long-long, 
short…they say… ‘Kill Rangers, Capture Elf!’”

The men cheered lustily as though they’d already won a great victory. 
“Finally, something to do!”

“Grrr, hand me that wineskin!”

“Oy, Sulitron, we’re on duty now!”

“Bugger duty; we need our strength! Everyone have a snort!”

“Right you are, Sulitron, pass that skin around.”

“Ahhh, now I’m ready. Ready, men?”

“Right then, let’s get to work, gentlemen. We’ve got an elf to catch 
and two Rangers to kill. Time to make some plans!”

***

“An elf!” “Look, Kartzel, he really is an elf!” “I’ve never seen an 
elf before!”

*I could never have guessed,* thought Legolas, suppressing the urge to 
sigh. Sarovin and Strider were busy locking up all the storerooms of 
wine (no small task), and now the rebelling peasants of Haloel were 
assembling in the central courtyard--where they had immediately begun 
gawking at Legolas.

The prince of Mirkwood had tried leaving his hood up, but that only 
led the farmers to lean and crane their necks still more for a peek at 
his elvish features. (It also drew the Rangers’ attention, and Legolas 
had begun to translate the faint quirk of Strider’s mouth as 
suppressed laughter.)

Strider and Sarovin reappeared from another door--chasing several 
rebels out before them--and Sarovin locked it, tossing the massive key 
ring to Strider. “That’s all the store rooms. They’ll need a battering 
ram of their own to get those doors open.”

Several of the nearer men forgot their fascination with Legolas and 
turned to protest loudly. Strider raised his hands over the shouts, 
“Please, friends, there’s no need to mourn your lost pastime. You’ll 
soon be too busy for wine!”

The farmers exchanged puzzled glances, and then Sarovin jumped in. 
“I’ve warned you all that there is much to be done if you are to have 
any hope of winning this fight. And the first of those things is to 
leave off the wine!”

There came a renewed chorus of shouts, and then Strider startled 
everyone (Legolas included) with an impressive bellow. “You have NO 
CHANCE of holding the castle if you spend your days drinking instead 
of fighting. This is not a game, men of Haloel. Look beyond the wall! 
Look well! The soldiers without are making more weapons and building a 
battering ram to break down your gates. You all know Lord Fompran 
better than I! When his men take this castle, and you, AND your 
families, what mercy will he show you?”

Silence now hung over the crowd of farmers, and Legolas saw fear and 
grim determination replacing resistance on many faces. *It is well 
that Strider has reminded them of the stakes. There are only two 
possible outcomes of a siege.*

One of the peasants grimly stepped forward, “I will never submit 
myself and my family to Fompran’s rule again!”

“Nor I!” “Nor I!” “Enough!” “We SHALL win this fight!” “We’ve no 
choice but to win!” 

Another, who Legolas recognized as Dersten from earlier on the 
battlements, addressed the Rangers. “What must we do? If Fompran takes 
the castle, we’ll be lucky if all he does is take our possessions and 
land and exile us. What must we do to prepare and fortify our 
defenses?”

Without thinking, Legolas spoke up. “Fompran’s soldiers have the 
advantage of you in skill at arms. You must learn to bear weapons 
properly against your foes.”

An awestruck murmur rippled through the men. *Confound it, what am I 
thinking? This is not my fight! I am only here because I owe my life 
to Strider. I should not be meddling in the affairs of mortals!*

But Sarovin and Strider were nodding in agreement. “And you must 
organize,” Strider went on, apparently sensing Legolas’s discomfort. 
“Each man has a role to play, and a task to perform if you are to 
mount a proper defense. And it must begin now. How many among you are 
at all skilled with arms?” Without waiting for hands to raise, he 
pointed to one side of the courtyard. “Over there.” They moved without 
hesitation at his command. “Now, how many are builders, carpenters, or 
craftsmen? Over there. And how many are healers? Good, that corner…”

And so it went. After splitting the farmers into groups, Strider 
approached Legolas. The elf suppressed a sigh, for he thought he could 
guess what the Ranger wanted. But what caught him completely by 
surprise was the man’s understanding of his dilemma. “I had not the 
chance before to ask you to forgive me, Alagion of Mirkwood. Though 
these are not your people, I fear I have drawn you into this conflict. 
And I cannot think of any way to see you safely away now that you are 
here.”

Startled into frankness, Legolas replied, “You need not apologize, for 
I am still in your debt. And,” he smiled wryly as he admitted, “Even 
if I could depart, I should find it difficult to leave these people 
behind when I might be of help.” Strider also smiled, and again the 
prince thought, *Even for a friend of Lord Elrond, you understand the 
minds of elves far too well for just an ordinary Ranger. Who are you?* 

But the Ranger was speaking again, “I am afraid your little archery 
demonstration this afternoon left you with quite a reputation. Not 
that the way of elves with weapons is not already legendary. And then 
there’s the little matter of the utterly miserable lack of skill among 
the rebels in that same area.” He and Legolas both chuckled, knowing 
it to be the truth. “Your assistance training the men of Haloel to 
defend their castle walls with the bow would be of great help.”

Legolas nodded (actually, it seemed closer to a bow of respect). “I 
shall see what I can teach them.” Strider could not seem to suppress a 
grin any longer, and Legolas found himself returning it--they both 
knew teaching these green farmers to defend the castle against a siege 
would be quite an arduous task. As they walked to where the 
newly-designated free soldiers of Haloel were waiting to be trained, 
the elf and Ranger shared a wry laugh. “What by the Valar have we got 
ourselves into?”



*****

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Sarovin: a Ranger, older than Aragorn, who is guiding the peasants of 
Haloel in their fight for freedom Dersten: one of the rebelling 
farmers Kartzel: another farmer Fompran: deposed Lord of Haloel Vrall: 
the captain of Lord Fompran’s guard Tegas: Lord Fompran’s messenger 
Nasemar: Vrall’s lieutenant 

----------------------------------------------------------- Thanks to 
all the horse lovers who are forgiving my lack of equine intelligence. 
And for those of you wanting to know where those horses are at during 
the siege, slow down! You’re getting ahead of yourselves! ;-) 
----------------------------------------------------------- ORIGINAL 
CHARACTER GUIDE

Alagion: Legolas’s alias Sarovin: Older Ranger, friend of Aragorn’s 
who’s helping the rebels Strider: DUH!!! Yalc, Dersten, Kartzel, 
Tergian: assorted peasant farmers who are now rebels against the lord 
of Haloel Niradam: Dersten’s wife Fompran: now-deposed Lord of Haloel 
Vrall: Fompran’s guard captain Tegas: Fompran’s messenger Sulitron, 
Essad, Nerum, Telsun: some (but not all) of Lord Fompran’s spies 
inside the castle Modin, Nasemar: some of Fompran’s other soldiers

Sorry, hope all those names don’t confuse you! 

*** Denotes a change in POV ** Denotes flashbacks (none in this 
chapter) * Denotes unspoken thought

Remember: When Legolas is referred to as “Alagion,” it’s Aragorn’s 
POV. When Aragorn is referred to as “Strider,” it’s Legolas’s POV. And 
for those of you wondering when the heck those two are going to 
announce their real names, be patient! And read on:





Chapter Twenty: Trust









Crowded together behind piled sacks of grain in a tower store room, 
the spies of Lord Fompran planned their strike against the foreigners 
who were aiding the rebels. “How by any holy are we going to get that 
elf out of the castle?” demanded Essad. “This place is crawling with 
rebels!”

“Never without being seen, Essad, so get rid of that idea,” said 
Sulitron. 

“Sounds like our best bet is to hit ‘em when they’re all together,” 
mused Nerum. “Take out the Rangers and grab the elf in the confusion, 
then get ourselves and him over the wall before the rabble realize 
what’s happening.”

Sulitron leaned against the cold stone wall, narrowing his eyes in the 
dim light of their lantern. “We won’t have much time before the whole 
rebel army converges on us.”

“Good point,” said another man, grimacing. “We’ll probably have to 
strike when all three are up on the wall. Kill the Rangers and then 
grab the elf and jump. Wall’s high, but not so bad. At most we’d break 
a few bones.”

“Speak for yourself, Telsun,” snorted Essad. “I’d prefer to keep my 
limbs intact.”

“Still, Telsun’s right; it’s our best chance of accomplishing our task 
AND getting out of there alive. I’ll take a broken leg over an arrow 
to the throat.” Sulitron looked briskly at his men. “Then we’re 
agreed. We’ll have to keep a constant watch; as soon as we see all 
three of them together on the wall, we strike. The less time they have 
to train those rebels, the better.”

“Right!” the men chorused enthusiastically. Sulitron nodded firmly and 
went to keep watch on the rebels. His men watched him go.

“Well,” said Essad cheerfully. “In the meantime, no reason why we 
can’t relax. See if there’s a few bottles of good stuff in that crate 
you’re leaning on, Telsun.”

The other spy looked doubtful, “We might have to move at any time.”

“Ahh, relax, you stiff log. Take a look out there; they’re all in the 
courtyard! What’s the harm in having a little nip while we wait?”

Telsun peaked out the window; sure enough, both Rangers and the elf 
were in the courtyard, trying to teach the rebels how to be soldiers. 
So, with a shrug and a sly grin, he turned and pried the lid off the 
nearest crate, pulling out a bottle.

***

In the center of the courtyard, Aragorn was desperately biting his 
lip, and thought he would die any minute from trying to hold back his 
laughter. Sarovin’s forehead was turning red with the effort of 
stifling his own mirth. The two Rangers had been teaching 
swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat to a group of rebels, but the 
instruction had come to a half when Alagion’s group had become 
interesting. 

As for Alagion, the elf appeared torn between howling with laughter 
and beating his head against the wall in frustration. “Loosen your 
fingers, Yalc,” he urged the lanky farmer currently trying to master 
the bow.

The aspiring archer did so--and the arrow promptly slipped from the 
bowstring. With an aggravated curse, Yalc tried again to notch the 
arrow--and this time succeeded in releasing it prematurely, forcing 
Aragorn to duck. The Ranger straightened, grimacing at the elf, and 
got a less than sincere glare in response. “If you consider my 
instruction lacking, Strider of the Dunedain, perhaps you should take 
over and I shall teach the sword.”

Aragorn laughed and waved the mocking proposal off. “Thank you for the 
offer, Master Elf, but I think swordsmanship is best taught by us.” 
None of the other men (not even Sarovin) saw any change in the elf’s 
expression, but to Aragorn’s trained eye, Alagion’s face revealed a 
definite ruffle at that remark. He hastily raised his hands and said 
mildly, “And your prowess with the bow is unequaled--you are better 
suited than I to teach it.”

But the young elf clearly had no intention of letting Aragorn’s 
assumption go unanswered. With his mouth quirking just slightly to the 
side, Alagion spoke in a near-drawl, “I think you will find that an 
elf is better suited to teach the use of ANY weapon!” 

This time, not a man among them missed the inherent challenge. Aragorn 
folded his arms and grinned openly at the elf (while sizing him up.) 
*It’s no wonder you were in so much trouble when I found you, 
Elfling,* he thought with more amusement than censure. *Your greenness 
will get you killed.*

All the same, the Ranger was still young enough himself not to resist 
a challenge to a friendly bout--after all, it might prove instructive 
to the men! Aloud, he drawled in turn, “I hope you are able to support 
such words with action, Alagion of Mirkwood.”

With a distinctly mocking bow, Alagion replied, “I should be most 
honored, Strider of the Dunedain, to give both you AND the men of 
Haloel a demonstration of the elvish way with the sword.”

Aragorn responded with an even more extravagant bow, and the other men 
exchanged eager glances. Sarovin looked patiently amused as though 
watching a bragging contest between youngsters (which to him, it was.) 
As Alagion went for a sword, and Aragorn borrowed a shield, Sarovin 
murmured to his fellow Ranger, “You’re making a terrible mistake, my 
friend.”

“Whose side are you on?” Aragorn hissed laughingly.

“Yours, you young upstart, and that is why I would hate to see you 
flattened before this whole audience,” chuckled Sarovin.

“Elves prefer the bow to the sword, and Alagion is very young by their 
standards; I can take him!” 

(Sigh) “You still have much to learn about elves, young one, and their 
way with all weapons. You’ll regret your overconfidence.”

Only one man other than Aragorn knew of his true lineage--Sarovin. The 
old Ranger also knew Aragorn had been raised by elves, so he was not 
likely to underestimate the younger man’s abilities, given his 
training by elves. That knowledge cautioned Aragorn, but he had no 
intention of backing away from Alagion’s challenge. 

The men of Haloel backed up to the walls of the courtyard, murmuring 
eagerly amongst themselves. Aragorn heard some nearby whispering. 

“A gold piece on the Ranger!” 

“You’re on!”

“The elf will win!”

“You’re mad; he’s half Strider’s size! They’re archers, not 
swordsmen!”

“Shh, they’re starting!”

Shields in one hand, swords in the other, the two combatants faced 
each other in the center of the courtyard. At Sarovin’s signal, 
Aragorn lunged, landing a hard blow on Alagion’s shield. The elf 
pivoted at the last second, deflecting rather than absorbing the 
force. At once, he came back with a flurry of quick, sharp strikes 
that had Aragorn angling his shield every which way to catch them. 

Finally managing to dodge a swing entirely, Aragorn came back with all 
his weight into a blow that knocked Alagion’s shield from his hand. 
The men shouted in excitement as Aragorn pressed his advantage. It was 
not as if years of training and sparring with his foster-brothers had 
not given Aragorn considerable experience with the agility of elves, 
and yet…Alagion was quite skillful even by Aragorn’s standards. No. 
More than skillful. Spectacular. And Elladan and Elrohir (not to 
mention Glorfindel and the other warriors in Imladris) were considered 
far above average in prowess at arms.

So it came as something of a shock to Aragorn when his young (by elven 
standards, anyway) opponent not only avoided Aragorn’s blows with 
sword and shield with little difficulty, but actually continued to 
press his counterattack. All at once, Alagion rolled neatly under 
Aragorn’s sword and delivered a precise fist to his arm, causing the 
Ranger to lose his own shield.

Aragorn scrambled away to regroup, abandoning the shield. To his 
amazement, the young elf facing him with level concentration seemed 
barely the worse, while Aragorn felt rattled and defensive. With 
hardly a pause, Alagion launched in again, and Aragorn found himself 
frantically parrying strokes that seemed to be coming from all 
directions--as though the elf had four arms and four swords. Sweat 
drenched his face and his sword arm rang with the blows.

In a frantic effort to phase the elf, Aragorn swung his fist in a wild 
punch, that was easily dodged, then a tightly-balled hand landed 
another direct hit on his sword-arm near the elbow--and the Ranger’s 
sword dropped neatly from his suddenly-numbe