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-numbed fingers. The elf 
suddenly materialized behind him, kicked him in the backs of the 
knees, and Aragorn rolled onto his back to find Alagion’s sword tip 
resting at his chin.

A great roar went up from the watching soldiers (including a roar of 
laughter from Sarovin) and Alagion removed his sword and stepped back, 
smiling faintly. Aragorn was thankful that his exertions had prevented 
his face from getting any redder. His dark gray eyes sparkling with 
inner laughter, Alagion gave the vanquished human a hand up. “I trust 
I have proven my case?”

“All too well,” chuckled Sarovin, joining them. “Enough now,” he said 
to the assembly in general, “we’re supposed to be fighting Fompran, 
not each other.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and immediately a press of men 
crowded around Alagion asking for instructions. The elf’s eyes, still 
bright with amusement, met Aragorn’s over their heads, and Aragorn 
grinned sheepishly. But inside, the questions had deepened. *The Eldar 
as a race have a legendary prowess with all weapons, but no ordinary 
elf--even from Mirkwood--has skills on the level of Elrohir or 
Glorfindel.*

Even as he took up a bow and began working with the archers (since the 
men were now utterly disinterested in learning the sword from him) 
Aragorn found himself glancing again and again at “Alagion.” And again 
and again, the question came to his mind. 

*Who are you?*

***

Legolas had never imagined that any man would be able to stand against 
him in single combat (with any weapon) for as long as Strider had. 
*But then again, I realized at our first meeting that this Strider was 
no ordinary man.* Glancing at the Ranger (who was doing a surprisingly 
good job teaching the bowmen) he wondered as he had many times in the 
past days:

*Who are you?*

He turned his attention back to his students. “You must be quick,” he 
admonished Yalc and Kartzel as they practiced. “I have seen Lord 
Fompran’s soldiers; they rely on brute force. You must use speed to 
your advantage.”

“Aye, and we all saw the advantages,” inserted someone, and Legolas 
grinned amid the laughter that followed.

“Just so. Yalc, do not swing so wildly--a sword is not a club. Here,” 
Legolas steadied the farmer’s grip. “Control, gentlemen, always keep 
your weapon under control.” *Oh, curse the Valar, I sound like 
Langcyll!* “Move your feet, Yalc!”

A loudly-twanging bowstring and shouts of laughter warned Legolas just 
in time to dive to the ground to escape yet another stray arrow. 
Rising, he glared in mock-accusation at Strider and a very 
embarrassed-looking bowman-in-training. “Nice shot!”

“They seem to be improving!”

Just after dawn, a messanger approached the castle bearing a flag of 
truce. “What could have induced Fompran to parley with us?” Legolas 
asked Sarovin as they stood on the wall.

“This is not a parley offer,” Sarovin replied. “Fompran delivers terms 
for surrender every morning. Still,” he smiled and gestured to 
Legolas, and to Strider in the courtyard below. “Perhaps your arrival 
has led him to rethink his position.”

The rider, who identified as Vrall, captain of Fompran’s guard, did 
have terms of surrender. Of sorts. “I am commanded by Lord Fompran, 
ruler of Haloel, to demand your immediate and unconditional 
surrender!”

“Let the bastard rant all he will!” shouted Dersten, and similar 
comments were made by the other rebels.

“You took an oath at manhood! All of you, swearing allegiance to Lord 
Fompran,” Vrall accused.

“I didn’t,” Sarovin called facetiously. The farmers tittered. “Did 
you, Strider?”

“Nay, I did not, so I can be accused of no breach of honor,” Strider 
said. He looked up at the wall, laughter in his eyes, and called, “Did 
you, Master Elf?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Legolas said blandly. The farmers laughed 
harder. “Even so, it is a moot point, for I reached manhood long 
before your Lord Fompran first drew breath.”

Vrall had to wait several seconds before replying, for the guffaws of 
the men drowned him out. Legolas saw Dersten and Yalc grinning at him, 
and did not bother suppressing his own smile. Then Vrall went on to 
the real purpose of his errand:

“Lord Fompran also wishes it to be known that the men here not of our 
country need not involve themselves in our internal dispute. If the 
three foreign warriors choose to depart from our borders now, my lord 
guarantees them safe passage.”

It did not even occur to Legolas to consider accepting the offer--in 
the extremely remote chance it was made in good faith. He sensed 
Sarovin looking at him, but kept his eyes on the deposed lord’s 
captain. But Strider looked up at him and--out of Vrall’s view--broke 
a small grin at the prince. The Rangers knew Legolas would not forsake 
these people now any more than they would.

Strider raised his eyebrows at them, and Legolas and Sarovin nodded to 
permit him to speak for them all. Turning to face Vrall, the human 
declared, “We three have chosen to take up arms on behalf of the men 
of Haloel. You may count us among their allies and defenders.”

“By the heavens, do you truly think to die in someone else’s war?” 
Vrall demanded. “Leave now while you still can, foreigners!”

Dersten stepped forward from where he had been standing, beside 
Strider. “You have our answer, traitor! Be gone from this place!”

Defeated, and well made fun of, Vrall departed. Legolas and Sarovin 
found themselves surrounded at once by gleeful rebels, clapping them 
on the backs and voicing their gratitude. Bashfully, the elf and elder 
Ranger tried to brush off the praises, seeing Strider fending off 
similar attentions in the courtyard. 

“With such warriors as you guiding us, Fompran and his lackies shall 
be quaking in their chain mail!” said Kartzel.

“Aye, and they’ll not stand a chance,” said another, Tergian.

Firmly, Legolas brought the enthusiastic voices under control, “And 
knowing now that we are with you, they shall attack as hard and fast 
as they can.” That quieted the men, and the prince went on, “For that 
very reason, we cannot yield to either idleness or overconfidence. 
There is much yet to be done. Come, let us continue working with 
weapons.”

Sarovin had been watching with a thoughtful expression until then, but 
finally spoke up, “Master Alagion is right. The rest of you, be about 
your duties.” 

Well-motivated by the dawn’s events, the rebels of Haloel went eagerly 
back to work. Legolas and several of the farmers joined Strider and 
another group shooting targets on the inner wall of the courtyard. 
“Raise your elbow, Yalc!” the Ranger was saying in exasperation as 
Yalc continued his attempts to actually launch an arrow--to no avail. 
One arrow finally did manage to fly…nearly taking out two guards atop 
the northwest tower.

“He did it!” someone shouted. “He missed the wall!”

Yalc threw up his hands. “This is hopeless; I shall never manage to 
bear weapons!”

“Have you tried the sword?” Sarovin asked helpfully.

“Aye, try the sword, Yalc!” yelled Kartzel. “It’s much simpler--the 
pointy end goes into the other man!”

Ignoring the hecklers, Yalc told Sarovin dismally, “I’m even worse at 
that!” 

Stifling a laugh (for it was true) Legolas took Yalc’s bow and told 
the humans, “Continue practicing. I will be back in a moment.”

Legolas entered the main part of the castle where the women and 
children of the farmers were living. He found Dersten’s wife, Niradam, 
with several of the other women awkwardly trying to make chain mail, 
and borrowed some things from her. How strange that so few human women 
bore weapons! The prince’s elder siblings and friends spoke of times 
when legions of shield maidens fought beside men just as she-elves did 
with their war companies. But now that tradition seemed to be fading 
among men. Their loss, in Legolas’s opinion.

He returned to the makeshift shooting range and handed Yalc the 
newly-restrung bow. “Notch the arrow atop the bead on the string, and 
use it to balance the shaft,” he told the farmer. “There…now 
aim…good…shoot!”

It was not exactly a bull’s eye, but Yalc’s arrow did strike the 
target. Not the target he had been aiming for, but the triumphant cry 
from the soldiers in training heralded a vast improvement nonetheless. 
“A novice bead,” said Strider, shaking his head. “I should have 
thought of that.”

“It’s been so long since either of us needed one,” Legolas murmured in 
an aside to the younger Ranger.

“The most fundamental rule for a master to teach his craft,” Sarovin 
declared. “Go back to basics.”

*I am no master,” Legolas thought. *There is a difference between 
skill and mastery; skilled, I am. But mastery requires something more, 
something deeper, as Langcyll used to say. Something that recent 
events have proven I am lacking.*

The prince turned his attention back to the men. Strider was returning 
from inside the castle now, with a handful of small beads, and several 
of the others rejoined him in restringing some of the bows. Within 
minutes, there was a noticeable improvement in everyone’s shooting.

“Once you have struck true a few times, do not look for the bead,” 
Legolas told them. “You know where to rest the shaft now, keep your 
eyes on the target. Much better, Yalc!”

“Aye, much better!” someone shouted from the wall. “Now all Alagion 
has to do is produce a novice sword and you’ll be a real soldier!”

Amid the laughter that followed, and Yalc’s embarrassed expression, 
Strider said sharply, “Pipe down up there! Look to your duties!”

“You are doing fine,” Legolas told Yalc as he demonstrated a better 
grip.

The young man smiled wryly, “No, they’re right. I’m no soldier. Never 
wanted to be one; I’m just a farmer.” With an ironic laugh, he added, 
“And at the moment, wondering what on Middle Earth I’ve got myself 
into.”

“Raise your elbow,” Legolas said automatically as he watched the 
farmer aim. Then he asked, “Did you not choose to resist your lord 
like the others?”

“Oh yes,” Yalc nodded hastily. “We all stayed home that last day. 
That’s where I was when Tergian came and told us Fompran had taken 
over the fields and wineries, and that all the laborers were going to 
occupy the castle. So I grabbed my wife and son and we all ran to the 
castle. There weren’t many guards there. Once we had the gate shut, it 
was ours.” He sighed, “We should have realized we were getting in over 
our heads, but what choice had we? We’re just farmers, however much 
that lot,” he indicated the wall guard with a grin, “think they’re 
more. We’re just willing to do whatever we must to protect our homes 
and our families.”

With that, the farmer let fly another arrow, and struck his target 
dead center. Grinning broadly as Yalc (along with the others) gaped in 
open amazement, Legolas clapped the man’s shoulder, and said, “I 
believe you.”

***

“I knew I had the right idea to send for you,” Sarovin told Aragorn as 
they watched the practice from atop the wall late that afternoon. 
“You’ve accomplished more with them in two days than I did nearly in 
nearly a month.”

“It took a month for either side to realize they’re at war,” Aragorn 
chuckled. “But we owe many thanks to our elvish friend as well. I 
would go as far as to credit Alagion with most of their progress at 
arms.”

Smiling slyly at his friend, Sarovin said, “You never did tell me how 
you two became traveling companions in the first place.”

The long pause told Sarovin that Aragorn was not entirely comfortable 
with the memory. But at last, the younger Ranger spoke, “I was heading 
south along the western edge of Mirkwood after getting your message. I 
was just inside the trees to escape a storm when I came across him, 
being attacked by spiders.”

“You saved his life?”

“Yes. If I had known what awaited us here, I would not have asked him 
to accompany me.”

Raising his eyebrows, Sarovin indicated the elf, now working with 
swordsmen in the courtyard. “His presence has certainly served the men 
of Haloel.”

“Yea, but it has not served him well. This is not his fight, Sarovin. 
These are not his people,” Aragorn was clearly troubled. “I would not 
want him to meet harm in their war.”

The elder Ranger put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We 
both know elves can handle more danger than this. And there are worse 
reasons to join the forces of another race in war.”

Aragorn smiled without looking at Sarovin. “We both know that alone is 
not what worries me. If he were an ordinary elf, I would not be so 
concerned. But what he did this morning…” Sarovin chuckled and Aragorn 
grinned sheepishly, “You know as well as I that he is no ordinary elf. 
I suspect Alagion is not his true name.”

This made Sarovin laugh aloud, “And are you disconcerted by another 
hiding his identity--‘Strider?’” 

Aragorn laughed as well, “True, I suppose I can hardly blame him for a 
deception I myself am guilty of. Yet…” he frowned then, “there are few 
elves in Middle Earth who can claim such secrets that merit the 
disguising of one’s name.” He turned to face Sarovin. “That is why I 
fear putting Alagion in danger. He is of Mirkwood, but also wears the 
garb of Lothlorien. His bearing of weapons, not to mention himself, 
practically shouts nobility. His alias only suggests it further.”

“Mm. An interesting character, to be sure. Then again, when are elves 
ever not interesting?” They both laughed.

“Strider! Sarovin!” Kartzel shouted from the tower. 

The two Rangers looked up. *He called to Aragorn first,* Sarovin 
thought with more amusement than disgruntlement. “What is it?” he 
shouted.

“The siege camp!”

Sarovin and Aragorn looked out beyond the wall, and spotted a light 
winking on and off in the early evening dimness. “A signal to the 
castle,” murmured Aragorn.

“I did tell you I suspected there were spies among us, men still loyal 
to Fompran,” Sarovin told his friend grimly. “There’s no way to 
decipher the message; the code could be anything, and we’ve not the 
time.”

“Nay, our efforts would be better spent hunting them down,” Aragorn 
mused. Then he smiled in a sly manner that Sarovin knew meant trouble. 
“A good job for someone with the perceptions of an elf, don’t you 
think?”

Sarovin laughed. “So much for worrying his safety. Hunting spies is 
not exactly free of hazards.”

“As you say, elves can take care of themselves,” Aragorn said with 
mock-cheer. Going to the other side of the battlement, he shouted, 
“Alagion! A word?” With an answering wave, the elf left the rebels to 
their practice and darted into the stairwell.

***

“Oy! Essad! Wake up, men!”

“Huh?” “I’m trying to sleep!” “Shaddap!”

“Get UP, you lazy sluggards!” Sulitron dumped a bucket of water on his 
soldiers’ heads, forcibly rousing them from their wine-induced stupor.

“Whaddaya want?!”

“The Rangers are on the wall and they just called the elf! He’ll be up 
there with them in a couple of minutes! On your feet; we’ve got a 
mission to carry out!”

“RIGHT!!!” pumped up with wine and bravado, the spies sprang to their 
feet (several taking last-minute swigs from their skins and bottles.) 
“Time to kill us a couple of Rangers!”

“And catch us an elf!”

“Hurry!”

“Let’s go!”

“Remember the plan, men! To your places!”

***

Legolas ran nimbly up the stairs and emerged midway up the tower to 
find Strider and Sarovin awaiting him on the battlements. “There is 
trouble?”

“Not yet,” Strider said. “The guards just saw a light signal being 
sent by the siege camp to the castle.”

Not terribly surprised, Legolas nodded. “It is as you suspected, 
Sarovin. Spies in our midst.”

Sarovin nodded in turn, “Do you think you could discover where they 
hide, Alagion?”

Gazing around the great edifice of the castle-fort, Legolas said 
slowly, “I could seek them, and if I actually drew near them, I would 
know. But we would need to restrict their movement, and that would 
take many guards. But assuming it worked, to search the entire 
castle--”

Zzzzziiiiippp--thunk! An arrow embedded itself in the wall inches from 
Strider’s head. 

“--has just become superfluous,” the elf finished.

“EEEEEYYYAAAAHHH!!!” with an unearthly battle cry, a figure launched 
itself from the nearest tower window.

Legolas whirled at once, raising his hands to deflect the attacker and 
send him flying over the wall into the courtyard. The movement from 
above caught his eye. “Duck!” he shouted at the Rangers, who did so at 
once as more arrows were loosed.

The men of Haloel had frozen in surprise at the attack, but now they 
charged the as-yet-concealed assailments in the tower. Legolas drew 
his knives as more of Fompran’s agents came at him, bearing swords. 
Two were cut down by the rebels before they could reach the prince, 
but another three came armed with bows and began firing off arrows at 
the farmers and Rangers. Yet not at Legolas--but there was no time for 
the elf to puzzle over that.

“Alagion! Look out!” Strider shouted just as a beefy body slammed 
Legolas against the outer side of the battlement, coming dangerously 
close to knocking him clean off the wall.

With a grunt of surprise, Legolas tried to wrench away, but the man 
continued to push him, and he realized that was exactly what the spy 
wanted--to get him over the wall. Jerking one arm free, the prince 
delivered a swift blow to the spy’s stomach, doubling him over. 
Shoving himself from the man’s grip, Legolas lunged at another pair 
menacing Sarovin with swords.

“Get the elf! Kill the Rangers!”

Legolas and Strider both froze in surprise at the spies’ revealing 
shouts, and in that moment Strider left himself vulnerable to a 
sword-wielding attacker. The prince hurled one of his knives and 
embedded in in the attacker’s neck, dropping him where he was. Strider 
turned to make an expression of thanks to Legolas, and his gray eyes 
widened, “Beware!”

Legolas had been trying to get a clear throw at another spy, and in 
the chaos, hadn’t heard the three spies sneaking up on him from 
behind. A pair of arms wrapped around his neck, jerking his head back 
as someone landed on his back. Another pair of arms seized his left 
arm, another his right. The elf shouted in alarm and tried to buck 
them off, but their combined weight dragged him backwards. 

“Alagion!” he heard a voice cry, and an arrow whistled past his face 
and struck one of the arms wrapped around his neck. The bowman--it was 
Dersten--rushed forward to try and help, with Yalc a step behind him. 
“Get off him!”

But the spy had not loosened his grip, and now his agonized jerks, 
along with the efforts of the other two, bore Legolas backwards until 
the prince felt his back slam into the far edge of the wall. Strider 
and Sarovin saw his danger and rushed to aid him but the spies 
harrying them broke off and rushed Legolas instead. Try as he might, 
the elf could not wrench himself free of so many attackes, and four 
more slammed into him. All at once, he felt his feet leave the ground. 
With a collective yell, the lord’s agents forced the struggling prince 
over the wall. The last thing Legolas saw of his comrades was the 
horrified faces of Yalc, Strider, and Sarovin, looking on helplessly 
as they reached the edge too late. Then Legolas was falling backward, 
surrounded by his attackers, until he landed on his back with a force 
that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a moment, he lay on the ground, gasping, hearing the groans of the 
men who had been injured by their leap. Then a battle cry from many 
more unfamiliar voices warned him that the entire siege camp was now 
alerted to his vulnerability. Desperately, he shoved off the body 
lying on top of him--it had another of Dersten’s arrows in its back. 
The prince staggered to his feet, still dizzy and throbbing all over 
from the impact of his fall. He snatched up a sword from one of the 
fallen men, and turned to face the charging soldiers.

“Alagion! Hold on!” he heard Strider cry from above, and he saw a 
single rope drop down the wall--his one chance of escape.

There looked to be over a hundred soldiers of Lord Fompran’s guard 
racing to take him, and even a warrior as skilled as Legolas knew 
better than to try such odds. He siezed the rope and began climbing 
swiftly up, pulling his feet out of reach just as the guards got to 
the wall. But now a hail of arrows struck the wall all around him, as 
Legolas cursed and tried to climb faster.

Above him, the bowmen frantically fired their own arrows into the mob 
of soldiers, trying to buy him time. *Good thing those guards are such 
poor shots!*

In a spiteful turn of fate, all at once, an arrow zipped along the top 
of his arm, not impaling it but scoring a painful groove in the flesh. 
With a gasp of surprised pain, Legolas found himself dangling by one 
hand, then another arrow landed solidly in the wall directly above his 
head--slicing right through the rope.

With a startled cry, Legolas fell again, and no sooner had he struck 
the ground than the guards were upon him. The prince found himself 
fending off blows from every direction. Seizing one of the men, he 
snatched a knife and dealt out a considerable number of slashes until 
the guards decided to take an alternate approach. Forcing his back to 
the castle wall, the soldiers flanked him with swords, and several of 
them surged forward bearing what looked like an unpitched tent. 

When they attempted to fling it over him, Legolas leapt forward, 
successfully evading the makeshift net, but also giving the guards a 
chance to get behind him, surrounding the elf completely. This time 
their throw succeeded. 

It was indeed a tent, made of stiff, thick, and incredibly heavy 
canvas that immediately bore Legolas to the ground under its weight. 
It was also lined with wet oilskin, too slippery for the elf to push 
it away. On top of that, the blows of club and fists were now landing 
on his body with renewed gusto as the soldiers sensed they had their 
quarry trapped. Hands pushed on the canvas, pinning his body to the 
ground, and one landed directly over his face, covering his nose and 
mouth with the slick, smothering material.

*I must breathe!* Legolas thrashed in a panicked search for air, but 
the hands still held him down, and his strength was swiftly ebbing. 
Stars appeared in his vision. A strange leadenness slowed his limbs. 
All recognition of where he was or what was happening faded as the 
need for air eclipsed all else. Legolas jerked his head in a frantic 
attempt to draw breath, to no avail. With a final desperate gasp, 
feeling and consciousness left him, and the young elf went limp in his 
captors’ hold.

***

Cursing helplessly, Aragorn ordered the rebels to cease fire as 
Fompran’s soldiers surrounded Alagion, aiming their swords and clubs 
in blows meant to bring the elf down. The Rangers knew they might be 
able to shoot some of the attackers, but there were too many for their 
arrows to make any difference, and in the press, there was the risk of 
hitting Alagion. 

“There must be something we can do!” Yalc cried beside him as the 
soldiers threw a huge tarp over their friend and began striking the 
trapped elf mercilessly.

Gritting his teeth, Sarovin muttered, “They sought our deaths, but 
went to great trouble to take him alive. They’ll not kill him now.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Aragorn demanded, turning angrily 
to his friend.

Sarovin seized his arm, squeezing it hard. “Peace, Aragorn,” he said 
in a near-hiss, lest the others hear. “It may be exactly that they 
hope to drive us forth from the castle in a rushed and ill-planned 
attempt to retrieve Alagion! Or perhaps they merely desire him as a 
hostage, but either way, it is to their advantage to keep him alive. 
Time is on our side.”

“Ours, yes, but not his,” Aragorn snapped, bile rising in his throat. 
He watched, enraged at his own helplessness, as the guards beat the 
struggling form beneath the canvas and pinned him to the ground. He 
began cursing again as the thrashing motion slowly ceased.

“Get off, you fools! You’ll smother him!” he heard a soldier yell, and 
the rest quickly moved back. The figure beneath the tent remained 
still. A ranking guard--it was Vrall--threw the tent off. The soldiers 
leapt backward, apparently still intimidated by the sight of the elf, 
even unconscious. Vrall gaped. “The elf! We told you to capture the 
Rangers!”

“No, you didn’t!” protested one of the spies. “You said to kill the 
Rangers!”

“We said to kill the elf, you wine-addled moron!” In his outrage, 
Vrall evidently forgot that the rebels on the wall could hear him. 
Aragorn motioned the others silent, hoping Fompran’s men might 
inadvertently reveal more of their intentions. “It was the Rangers we 
wanted!”

Aragorn exchanged a quick glance with Sarovin. *So it was us they 
wanted. But why? And what will they do now with Alagion?*

Vrall seemed to be pondering that same question. “Well, I guess we’re 
stuck with the elf now. Nasemar, Modin, carry him to one of the tents 
and put him under guard. Bind him tight before he wakes!”

One of the appointed soldiers recoiled, “I’m not touching an elf!” The 
other man expressed a similar aversion--*Do they think elves are 
poisonous?* wondered Aragorn--but under threats from Vrall, they at 
last picked up each end of the tarp and used it to bear Alagion away.

Aragorn watched, his insides churning with anxiety and rage. He 
seriously doubted that Alagion would be treated with honor as 
Fompran’s prisoner. He recalled the elf’s knife, striking the spy who 
had aimed a sword for Aragorn’s throat. *Your debt to me is paid, 
Master Elf. I shall not abandon you to their mercies. We shall get you 
out of there.*

Turning to Yalc and Dersten, the Ranger announced, “Get the men back 
to their duties. Especially the weapons practice. We have work to do.”

Dersten went at once, but Yalc hesitated. “What about Alagion?”

In a hard voice, Aragorn said, “Be assured, my friend, he will not 
remain in Fompran’s hands long. We will get him back.”

***

Lord Fompran had flung three goblets of wine at Vrall when his captain 
came to report. “You imbecile! I ordered the elf dead and the Rangers 
taken; now you tell me that we have the elf prisoner and both the 
Rangers still ALIVE?!?!”

Wine dripping from his face, his body stained from his hair to his 
feet, Vrall stood stoically in the face of his lord’s rage. “It seems 
there was a problem with the message, my lord. The spies were under 
the impression it was the elf you wanted.”

“Bah!” Fompran wished he had another goblet to throw, but the servants 
had not returned yet from washing the other three. *Curse this siege, 
confining me to only three goblets at one time. I’m withering from 
this deprivation!*

He leaned back, his velvet lined chair groaning under his weight, and 
scowled at Vrall. “Well, he’s here it seems, now what do we do with 
him?”

Pausing in thought, Vrall said, “Nerum reports that the elf was 
helping train the rebels and fortify the castle. He’ll know what 
they’re plotting.”

Fompran blinked. “Sulitron was in charge of the spies; what happened 
to him?”

“The elf killed him. Or one of them did.”

“Hmm. Maybe my spies’ and your incompetence won’t be a total disaster 
after all. Come! Let’s pay our guest a visit!”

The elf was still unconscious when Fompran came into the guarded tent. 
His men were taking no chances, and had bound the immortal, hand and 
foot. Even trussed up so, something about this creature greatly 
intimidated the lord of Haloel. Fompran had never seen an elf before, 
but knew their reputation: beautiful and deadly. Judging by the number 
of Fompran’s men who had died at the elf’s hand, the latter part was 
no exaggeration. And despite the scrapes, bruises, and dirt marring 
his fair skin, the elf had an otherworldly beauty. Definitely a 
creature to be wary of. Folding his arms pompously, Fompran ordered, 
“Wake him up.”

Vrall briskly stepped forward and slapped the elf sharply across the 
face. Without a sound, the elf opened dark gray eyes that seemed to 
possess their own inner starlight. He also began to glow.

Fompran jerked backward, speechless in fright. Those piercing black 
eyes never left his as the elf--despite his bonds, pulled himself 
gracefully into a sitting position. Fompra had always considered 
himself a noble and commanding lord of men, but this creature’s 
bearing was more regal than anyone he had ever beheld.

The elf did not speak. “I…you…” Fompran flustered, backing toward the 
tent’s opening, “Q-question him, Vrall! D-don’t be gentle!” Then he 
fled, calling loudly for wine.

***

Legolas silently let out the breath he’d been holding. The 
overpowering odor of wine had roused him even before the men entered 
the tent, but he had not moved in the hope of overhearing something. 
All he had gotten for his efforts was a slap--and near asphyxiation 
from the fumes.

As the grotesquely fat man waddled hurriedly from the tent, Vrall took 
his place standing before the prince with his chest thrust out 
pompously. *Does he actually think I will be cowed by such posturing?* 
Legolas thought incredulously.

“Who are you, elf?” growled the man in a distinctly unintimidating 
fashion.

Legolas toyed with what to say and saw two other guards peering 
through the door with undisguised awe. None of these men had ever seen 
an elf, that much was obvious, but their legends appeared to have 
exaggerated elvish abilities to ridiculous proportions. With that in 
mind, a rather absurd idea popped into Legolas’s head, and despite his 
predicament, he felt a prickle of amusement. A ridiculous notion, and 
yet…it just might work to his advantage. Deepening his voice, the 
youngest prince of Mirkwood answered, “I am Celeborn, Lord of 
Lothlorien.” With any luck, the legends of the elves of Lothlorien, 
and Celeborn, would have quite an effect on these ignorant humans.

It worked. Very well. Vrall literally flung himself backward a full 
five feet, nearly out of the tent’s entrance. Then he had to chase 
down the fleeing guards, his shouted curses forcing Legolas to bite 
his lip to hold back his laughter. But he also winced inwardly--in 
that tone, he had sounded just like King Thranduil. *Dear Father, not 
only do I owe a life debt to a mortal Ranger, but I’ve wound up 
helping a band of farmers rebel against their lord, and now I’ve 
gotten myself captured by a mob of drunken soldiers. Aren’t you proud 
of me?* The absurdity of the whole situation soon got the better of 
him, and he quietly began to laugh.

He hastily forced himself to stop as Vrall returned, looking 
petrified, but determined to overcome. The guard was also bearing a 
sword, and pointing it imperiously at Legolas, he said shakily, 
“Just…just…don’t make any sudden movements, Celeborn! We’ve heard of 
you, and your sorcerer’s ways!”

Attempting to look mysterious, Legolas said, “Do you think my thoughts 
shall be betrayed by movement?”

He heard one of the guards whisper, “Those Lorien elves can take over 
a man’s mind just by looking at him!” and again felt a desperate 
desire to snicker. But this façade could only be maintained if he kept 
a straight face.

“Why are you helping those rebels?” Vrall demanded, still waggling his 
sword at Legolas.

*Deep voice, sound powerful…do NOT laugh!* “Your lord has shown 
himself a tyrant and unfit. My skills and my powers…” Vrall flinched, 
“are for their aid.”

“What…what kind of powers?”

*Stare at him…look dangerous…* In his over dramatized voice, Legolas 
intoned, “I possess powers beyond your comprehension, mortal! You only 
live now because I choose to let you live. For the moment, I only 
offer the farmers guidance with weapons, but anger me further…” he 
paused threateningly, “and all the magic of the elves shall be raised 
against you!” *Should I laugh evilly? Nay, that sounds too contrived. 
I‘m supposed to be Celeborn, not Sauron…though I would wager this fool 
would not know the difference.*

Vrall was backing up rapidly. “I…I…shall report this to my lord!” Then 
he bolted. 

Legolas jammed his teeth into his lip again, laughing silently, and 
shifted position. Then he nearly laughed aloud--those guards had done 
a most ineffective job binding his wrists. With a little wriggling and 
work, he could probably free his hands. Then the question arose--what 
to do once he did? *I’ve already got these men terrified of me. But if 
I race out of here as though fleeing them, their instincts will take 
over and they will simply shoot me. Nay, securing my release requires 
a little more finesse.*

The prince sat still and listened; the camp was abuzz with the rumors 
that a powerful elf sorcerer was aiding the rebels of Haloel. Already, 
the rumor had taken root, and was starting to grow leaves and branches 
of its own. “He could kill us all with a thought!” someone was saying 
to a group of guards off duty.

“Crikey! Why the devil are we still alive? What’s ‘e waiting for?”

“Watching us, I’ll reckon! Spying for the rebels!”

“Then why don’t they just kill ‘im?”

“Can’t kill a Lorien king, you dung-brained son of a goblin!”

“Aye, do you WANT a war with the elves?! Imagine him multiplied by ten 
thousand! Argh, give me a snort of that wine, Nasemar!”

*Are there ten thousand elves in Lorien?* Legolas wondered, grinning 
to himself. 

“What’re they planning to do with him then? The longer we keep him 
prisoner, the more trouble we’re in. Pass me that skin!”

“Aye, when he’s done spying and wants out of here, he’ll kill as many 
of us as he has to to get out of here!”

“Oh, oliphaunt turds! If he’s the king, then that sorceress queen of 
theirs is his wife! What’s her name?” (Gulp!) 

(Swig!) “Dunno, and I wouldn’t dare speak it aloud--she’d probably 
hear me!”

*Well, in that at least, you would probably be right,* thought 
Legolas. *There is very little occurring in Middle Earth that 
Galadriel is unaware of.*

***

On the other side of the Misty Mountains, Lord Celeborn was passing 
the garden where Lady Galadriel kept her mirror when he heard a sound 
that made him stop in surprise. Laughter. Startled, the Lord of 
Lothlorien waited at the top of the steps until Galadriel came up, a 
smile of amusement on her fair face. When she saw him, she blinked-- 
and then began laughing again. “What?” he asked in astonishment.

“Nothing, dearest, nothing,” covering her mouth with her hand, she 
passed by him and walked on, her shoulders still shaking with mirth. 

Celeborn shook his head to himself. *I wonder if I shall ever 
understand her…*

***

Back in the Haloel siege camp, Legolas was shaking with silent 
laughter as he listened to the terrified soldiers’ conversations, “If 
half what they say about that elf witch is true, we definitely don’t 
need to be getting on her bad side!” 

“By Sauron’s teeth! What if she comes after him! We’re done for! I 
need a drink!”

Legolas blinked and thought, *Does Sauron HAVE teeth?!*

“We should get the hell out of here while we still can! We can’t win 
this fight with that pointy-eared, posturing, pandering…” Legolas 
waited to see if the man would come up with another suitable 
adjective, “PERSON!”

“‘E’s not a person, ‘e’s an elf, you stupid troll-spawn!”

“Maybe…maybe we should let ‘im go. Maybe then ‘e wouldn’t kill us, or 
‘e wouldn’t send his wife after us.”

*Now we’re getting somewhere!*

“Are you addled?! Fompran would have our ears!”

“Ruddy better than that elf having our arses! I’d rather get flogged 
by Vrall than have my guts sizzled by that creature! Modin’s right; we 
should let him go before it’s too late!”

“Aye, it ain’t worth it! We’re all lost anyway; the rebels still have 
those cursed Rangers in cahoots with ’em! Let’s give ’em back the elf 
and get our arses out of here! Only a fool doesn’t know when to give 
up, and we ain’t heroes!”

*That much is certain. Perhaps now is the time.* Legolas fought back 
another smile and began pulling at the rope binding his wrists. In a 
few moments, his hands were free. *This really is far too easy.* He 
untied his ankles, then rose and walked to the tent door, listening 
again.

“Well…well…Nasemar, you go and tell the elf that we’ll let him go if 
he promises not to hurt us!”

“ME?!?! Are you orc-bit?! You go, Modin!”

“I’m not the one to go; I don’t want that elf knowing my face! Tegas, 
you go!”

“No way!”

“Yes, you, Tegas, you’re the one who bungled up that message in the 
first place!”

“No!”

“Well, one of us has to!”

*Now!* Schooling his features into a suitably menacing expression, 
Legolas stood as tall as he could and dramatically flung open the tent 
flap, loudly enough so the men heard it. 

“Balls of a Balrog!” The entire group leapt to their feet in horror as 
Legolas stood there, glowering at each of them in turn--and knowing 
all the while that a single giggle would give the whole charade away. 
He walked forward slowly, advancing on the petrified soldiers like a 
harbinger of doom, praying he would not start laughing. One of the 
soldiers pointed a sword at him, his hands shaking so that the tip 
waggled hilariously. “Just…just…stay back, Elf-King!”

*I believe if I shouted and jumped at them they would all flee, 
squealing like frightened grouse!* Legolas took a deep breath and said 
in a deep voice (that sounded absurd to him,) “I know you do not wish 
to remain in this place, men of Haloel. You are wise, to know the 
consequences of trying to detain me here.”

“W-what do you want?” one of the men stammered.

Allowing a faint smile of benevolence that relieved some of his need 
to snicker, the young warrior intoned, “Release me, and ye shall not 
come to harm, provided you leave this place and cease troubling these 
people. Try to confine me, and ye shall face the awesome might of the 
elves of Lothlorien!” 

He had not raised his hands, but the soldiers recoiled. The nearest, 
Nasemar, began nodding vigorously. “We’ll…we’ll let you go, Lord Elf! 
Just…don’t hurt us! We’ll make a distraction so you can get back to 
the castle!”

“You have chosen…wisely.”

***

Aragorn wanted to fling his sword at Sarovin in his frustration. “We 
cannot just leave him there! Elbereth only knows what they’re doing to 
him!” 

“THINK, Aragorn!” Sarovin hissed, grabbing his shoulders. “If we 
launch an attack now, the men have their passions inflamed, but they 
won’t take proper care! Even if we do get Alagion back, we’ll have 
wasted men and arrows and time! They’ve taken him alive, and he’s 
still alive! Be patient!”

“I cannot simply stand by while they torment him, Sarovin! If 
necessary, I’ll go alone! But I forced him here under a life debt, and 
this was not a fight he should ever have joined. Now he has saved my 
life! For that and my folly, I owe him enough to go after him!”

In a tone of exaggerated patience that annoyed Aragorn greatly (for it 
reminded him of Elrond), Sarovin said, “Elves can survive and recover 
completely from far worse than anything those wine-sotted mercenaries 
can give. Alagion is more than strong enough to endure the few days it 
will take us to be far more prepared for battle than we are now.” He 
squeezed the younger Ranger’s shoulders again. “You must not act on 
impulse or passion, Aragorn, it will be the death of you! Your elf 
family and your encounter with Alagion this morning ought to have 
showed you that much!”

“Strider! Sarovin! Look!” shouted Tergian in excitement, pointing out 
to the camp.

The two Rangers ran to the other side of the wall and peered out. It 
took no great search to find what the crisis was: one of the tents was 
on fire at the far side of the camp. Soldiers were racing to put out 
the blaze, which was burning quite hot. The tent probably had some of 
their wine supply in it--which would explain the near-panic the 
soldiers were in. But something else bright in the camp, on the other 
side close to the castle, caught Aragorn’s eye. “There!”

A figure, glowing faintly, burst from behind one of the tents and 
raced toward the castle. “It’s Alagion!” Yalc shouted exultantly from 
beside the Rangers. “Get a rope!”

Very few of the soldiers even saw the fleet figure--in spite of his 
glow--running in the moonlight toward the castle. And to Aragorn’s 
astonishment, those who did notice him simply kept on raising a cry 
over the fire and distracting anyone from looking at the elf. Alagion 
gained the rope and climbed swiftly up. Not a single arrow was 
launched to stop him. By the time the triumphant roar from the men 
alerted the camp to their prisoner’s escape, the elf was safely over 
the wall, landing neatly on his feet in front of Aragorn and Sarovin.

For a moment, the two Rangers could only stare. He was scuffed and a 
little dirty, but otherwise none the worse for wear. At last, Sarovin 
spoke, “Well, Master Elf, how did you manage to contrive such a clean 
escape.”

The elf gazed from one man to the other, a rather peculiar expression 
on his face--and then began to laugh. Confused but relieved, Aragorn 
and Sarovin laughed also, until Aragorn managed to say, “Peace, I 
demand to know what happened down there!”

“You had better tell him, Alagion of Mirkwood. Strider here was about 
to blow the entire siege just to come after you!” Sarovin said dryly.

His eyes turning serious, Alagion said, “That would have been foolish. 
I was not treated badly, and even if I had been, an immediate rescue 
attempt would have been dangerous for everyone.”

“As I tried to tell him, Master Alagion, but our Strider is a man of 
strong emotions and too much honor. He seemed to believe himself in 
your debt.”

Aragorn shot Sarovin a warning glare, but said, “You did save my life 
at great risk to yourself on the wall.”

“As you saved mine when we first met,” Alagion said. For the first 
time, Aragorn detected genuine gratitude--and more, respect--from his 
mysterious companion. It was a pleasant feeling to hear it. “You are 
not in my debt, Strider, but if you would count our actions, then at 
most we are even. You owe me nothing.” 

“In that case, I shall soon flay you alive if you do not tell me how 
you managed to get out of there!” Aragorn threatened.

Trying with limited success to contain his mirth, the elf replied, 
“You would not believe me.”

“Nay, I think I would; at least ten of them saw you running and not 
one so much as loosed an arrow! Come, Master Alagion, do not hold us 
in suspense! What did you do?” demanded Sarovin.

Looking almost embarrassed, the elf replied, “I told them I was 
Celeborn.”

Aragorn gaped. Sarovin blinked. Alagion grinned sheepishly. Then all 
three of them exploded again, Aragorn almost completely doubled over. 
The rebels exchanged rather tense glances, and Yalc said hesitantly, 
“Celeborn? The lord of Lothlorien? The really…powerful one?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” gasped Aragorn, wiping tears from his eyes.

“You’re…you’re not REALLY…him…are you?” Kartzel asked nervously.

Those questions and the tense way the men were looking at the elf set 
him and the Rangers off again, and it was several moments before they 
could speak. Shaking his head and trying to find speech, the elf at 
last managed to say, “Nay, my friends, be assured, I am not Lord 
Celeborn. I am far too young.”

“Never heard of a young elf,” someone muttered.

“We have to be born sometime,” Alagion replied dismissively. “But nay, 
I can tell you truthfully I am not Celeborn, nor am I even of Lorien.”

“He does speak the truth, friends,” Aragorn added. “I have seen 
Celeborn of Lorien.”

Sarovin was looking down into the siege camp, “We’d best be about our 
business, friends. Lord Fompran’s men have just realized their 
prisoner is gone.” 

Laughing with the rest, Aragorn and “Alagion” headed into the tower 
stairs. As they walked down, the elf suddenly put a hand on Aragorn’s 
shoulder, making him pause. When the men turned and met his eyes, the 
elf said with a faint smile, “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil of 
Mirkwood.”

The Ranger smiled in turn; such lineage explained many things. 
Clasping the elf’s hand as though meeting him for the first time, he 
said, “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

“Well met, son of Arathorn.”

“Well met indeed.”

***** ----------------------------------------------------------- 
WARNING: This chapter turned out darker than I’d originally planned, 
and there is a very intense flashback involving the deaths of three of 
Legolas’s elder siblings. No gore, but very emotional, and I thought I 
should mention it.

Assorted Horse Fanciers: Our heroes’ four-legged friends reappear in 
this chapter, you’ll be glad to note. 
----------------------------------------------------------- ORIGINAL 
CHARACTER GUIDE:

Alagion: Legolas’s alias Strider: Oh, come on! Sarovin: An older 
Ranger, a friend of Aragorn’s Dersten, Yalc, Kartzel, Tergian: rebels 
of Haloel Niradam: Dersten’s wife Elinosa: Yalc’s wife Fompran: 
Deposed Lord of Haloel Vrall: Fompran’s captain

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse Pariedor: Aragorn’s horse 

NOTE: To anyone who is here courtesy of Ithilien’s little nod in her 
story, “The Hunting Trip,” I fear I had to postpone the feasting and 
toasting until Chapter 22. But I promise, it’s coming, and we WILL see 
an elf versus human drinking contest! In the meantime, I STRONGLY 
recommend “The Hunting Trip.” It’s a gem and getting better with every 
chapter, blending dark mystery and hilarious carousal for all our 
heroes. Check it out!



Chapter Twenty-One: Each Night I Dream of Home



Several days later…

Among the off-duty rebels taking a rare opportunity to actually rest 
at night, Yalc and Dersten were both suffering from anxiety-induced 
insomnia. Had it not been so, they likely would never have seen what 
transpired among the sleeping men crowded into the castle’s great 
hall. Between the influx of rebel farmers and their families, 
conditions in the castle were actually rather cramped, and the 
constantly-changing shifts of duty and comings and goings of all had 
resulted in the soldiers sleeping apart from the women and children in 
various parts of the castle. Most of the men were weary enough when 
they came off duty to go right to sleep, but Yalc and Dersten found 
that they could not, and so whispered quietly of defense plans and 
weapons-knowledge as their comrades dreamt.

Around midnight, Alagion and Strider came inside after their watches. 
Strider went right to sleep, and at first the farmers thought Alagion 
too was finding it difficult to rest, for he seemed to be staring at 
the ceiling. Then Dersten remembered that elves all slept that way: 
with their eyes open. Or at least that was what people said.

Fascinated, Yalc and Dersten had stared at the slumbering warriors 
across the hall, until they noticed Alagion’s peaceful face growing 
steadily more tense, and then a barely-perceptible moan reached their 
ears. They had exchanged looks, wondering what to do, but Strider had 
roused then. Frowning with concern, the Ranger took note of the elf’s 
increasingly-fitful sleep, and he reached over and gently shook 
Alagion’s shoulder. Getting only another moan in response, Strider 
shook him harder and whispered, “Legolas!”

As Yalc and Dersten looked at each other in confusion, the elf blinked 
and seemed to come back to his senses. Looking at Strider, he smiled 
wryly and sat up, rubbing his brow. “Forgive me, I did not mean to 
disturb your sleep.”

The two farmers remained as still as they could, and in the echoing 
silence of the hall, they heard the quiet words clearly. “You’re the 
first elf I ever knew to have nightmares, son of Thranduil.”

“It is just this castle; I dislike sleeping beneath stone. The stars 
would give me peace.”

A rather exaggerated sigh reached their ears. “I thought you had set 
aside pretense when you favored me with your true name, Master Elf.”

“I did!” came the elf’s rather indignant reply.

“Yet you forget that I saw your dreams troubled at least twice on the 
plains--both times on clear nights, so do not blame the clouds.”

There was a long pause, then a faint chuckle. “You have the advantage 
of me, Aragorn.”

“Of course.” A more taunting chuckle.

“But it is out of no mistrust of you, merely that I…do not wish to 
speak of my dreams. To anyone.”

“Fair enough. But I still admit to being curious at what a prince of 
Mirkwood was doing alone so far south when we met.”

“It is a long story.”

“We’ve plenty of time.”

(Shove) “Go to sleep, son of Arathorn. We do not need you keeling over 
while on duty.”

“May I remind you that it was you who did the keeling over two minutes 
after we met--”

“--Only if I may remind you who is the better swordsman!”

“And who managed to get himself captured last week?”

“I could easily have taken care of myself if I had been able to trust 
you to do the same. But I was forced to guard your flesh as well as my 
own! And I did not need your help getting back OUT of the camp!”

“No indeed, ‘Lord Celeborn.’ Perhaps if I get captured I will just 
pretend to be Sauron.”

“They would believe you.” (Snicker!) “How many have deserted Fompran 
since then?”

(Chuckle!) “Nearly two dozen, and there would have been more if Vrall 
hadn’t increased the perimeter guards around the camp. You played that 
role well, it seems. Have you met Lord Celeborn?”

“I have. My sister is wedded to Orthelian of Lorien.”

“That would be Limloeth of Mirkwood, I presume?”

Yalc and Dersten feigned sleep as the elf’s head turned in their 
direction, but both could see the distant look in his bright eyes. 
Having been separated almost constantly from his wife and son for 
nearly two weeks, Yalc in particular recognized it: longing. *I 
suppose an elf would naturally be lonely here among so many strangers. 
I wonder if he has left a family in Mirkwood.*

“Yes, but she chose to dwell in Lorien with her husband’s people.” 
Even a naïve farmer like Yalc caught the way the elf--was he really a 
PRINCE?!--changed the subject. “You once told me you were a friend of 
Lord Elrond.”

Strider--or rather, Aragorn--had also noticed, but chose not to 
comment on the elf’s evasiveness. But what he said shocked the two 
eavesdroppers yet again. “You may have heard of me before now. But I 
would have been called Estel.”

“Lord Elrond’s foster-son?!” Alagion--that is, Legolas--sounded 
equally startled. Then he chuckled wryly. “I do not know why I am 
surprised--recalling now your skill with weapons. Training by Elrohir 
and Elladan would explain it well. Or were you taught by Glorfindel?”

“A combination of the three, actually. Or rather, the two. Elladan and 
Elrohir come as a pair in all things, as I’m sure you know.”

“Indeed!” Legolas laughed. “They taught me a few of their tricks when 
they rode with one of Mirkwood’s war parties some years ago.”

Now it was Aragorn’s turn to laugh. “That would explain how you evaded 
me during our bout last week. Even for a Mirkwood warrior, such 
prowess was exceptional. I knew then you were no ordinary elf.”

“As I knew you were no ordinary Ranger.”

They both chuckled. “We’ve many tales to exchange, my friend.”

“And I shall enjoy it, but the hour grows late. We’d best get some 
sleep while we can.”

“You think Fompran will strike soon?”

“Very soon; he and his Vrall are as unimaginative as orcs, and twice 
as predictable. They will charge the gate as soon as that battering 
ram is completed.”

“And it will be done within two days. You’re right; we had better take 
some rest.”

“Good night, Aragorn.”

“Good night, Legolas.”

Yalc and Dersten raised their eyebrows at each other from where they 
lay, but there was no point in talking now. Both the elf and the 
Ranger would easily hear them. So despite how interesting--and 
revealing--the conversation had been, discussing it would have to 
wait. On that thought, the two eavesdropping farmers decided to follow 
the advice they had overheard--and get some sleep.

***

The next day…

Vrall wished he could grab the sides of his head. “It’s suicide, my 
lord!” he exclaimed frantically. Then he had to duck to escape a 
thrown goblet. 

“I’ve made up my mind, Captain!” Lord Fompran snapped. “We attack as 
soon as the battering ram is ready!”

Close to howling in frustration, Vrall said urgently, “My lord, that 
is EXACTLY what the rebels except us to do! They’ll be waiting and 
prepared for it, and they’ll take us all!”

“Bah!” Fompran waved his hand irritably. “I’m tired of wasting away in 
this camp. Those rebels are peasants, not soldiers. With the exception 
of those three foreign rabble-rousers there’s not a warrior among 
them. Just get us through the gates, and they’ll surrender.”

“Sir, I cannot guarantee half of the men won’t desert when we give the 
order to charge!”

Jerking his fat hands up an down, Fompran said, “Well…well…flog them 
all the way, if you have to! I’m the rightful Lord of Haloel, and I 
intend to be sleeping in the comfort of my own bedroom tomorrow 
night!”

Vrall sighed helplessly. “Very well, my lord. I’ll prepare the men to 
charge the gates tomorrow at dawn.”

“Thank you; don’t forget who’s the lord around here. Hmmm,” Fompran 
cocked his head thoughtfully. “The men need a little motivation, do 
they? Break open a few crates of wine before the charge. Be generous, 
Vrall. Nothing like a little Haloel grape juice in the blood to raise 
one’s spirits and courage!”

Feeling a sense of utter dread for the morrow, Vrall said dubiously, 
“You wish the men to be drunk when they attack, my lord? Is that 
wise?”

“I’m the lord of Haloel, Vrall, nothing I do is unwise! And even if it 
is, it’s not your place to say so.”

“No, my lord.” *But I will when the Rangers and the elf have us both 
in irons!*

Fompran was thinking again (always a dangerous thing.) “Yes, I think a 
little wine will go a long way toward endowing our fighting men with 
strength. And more,” *Oh curses, what now?* “I shall ride with you!”

For a moment, Vrall could only gape. “What?!” 

“Well, with their lord riding with them into battle, the spirits of 
the men will be greatly raised, don’t you think?”

*As a matter of fact, I don’t,* Vrall thought, wincing at the idea. 
“Er, my lord, I do not think we have a horse…strong enough for a rider 
as…imposing as yourself.” 

“Ah, but we do. Fate has sent him to me, and then I knew I was meant 
to ride with my men tomorrow!” Fompran said fervently. He rose and 
beckoned to Vrall, “Come, I will show you.” The deposed lord led Vrall 
to a tent converted to a stable, and the captain could hear angry 
whinnies and shrieks coming from inside. One of the guards opened the 
tent flap, and Vrall beheld two horses, hobbled tightly to wooden 
stakes, kicking and snapping at the men trying to make them accept 
saddle and bridle. “What do you think?” asked Fompran proudly.

Vrall raised his eyebrows, feeling still more doubtful. The horses 
were impressive, no doubt of that. One, a tall and sturdy black 
stallion, bared his teeth and snapped at any man who ventured near, 
but the other, a smaller but hauntingly beautiful gray, was bucking 
and thrashing against the imprisoning ropes in an endless attempt to 
free himself. “They’re quite magnificent, my lord, but…they seem less 
than broken-in. I wonder if they would be reliable to ride into 
battle.”

Fompran waved a hand dismissively, “Do not worry about it, Vrall, I’m 
an expert horsemen, and the guards have promised they will be ready 
for us tomorrow. I shall take the black--he’ll look marvelous with my 
red tunic, won’t he? And you shall ride beside me on the gray. Think 
what a sight we shall be; our men will be truly inspired!”

The captain thought for certain that he was going to be ill. But he 
replied weakly, “Indeed, my lord; our victory is all but certain!” 
*Only if the sight of you on that horse causes the rebels to die of 
laughter!*

***

That night, in Mirkwood…

For Thranduil of Mirkwood, the dream began as the same one that had 
periodically visited him for over a thousand years. After the deaths 
of his son Tavron, and his twin daughters, Meren and Lalaith, 
Thranduil had managed to submerge his own anguish to care for his 
grief-stricken wife and remaining children. But at night, the dream 
had come, a horrific tidal wave of sorrow that could no longer be 
repressed. When Minuial had still been alive, she had been able to 
sense when the nightmare came upon her husband, and roused him, but 
since her death…alone at night, the dream plagued him. Always the 
same: a merciless, second-by-bitter-second memory of the day the news 
had reached Mirkwood. Always horrific, always the same.

Until tonight.

It was early evening, the setting sun had shone red upon the white 
walls of the outer palace, the summer breeze blowing lazily through 
the open window of Thranduil’s study. He had heard a rider coming 
through the gates, approaching fast.

He rose, sensing that it was an urgent message, and started out to the 
outside steps. Never imagining that it could be anything terribly 
dreadful, he had not run. Perhaps if he had, he would have gotten the 
fateful news before his wife and daughter.

But he had not run. And so it happened that he was coming out into the 
foyer when he heard it, a sound that was permanently seared into his 
conscious and unconscious mind. Limloeth had been in the courtyard 
when the messanger arrived, and she had taken the message scroll and 
opened it. Just as Thranduil had been approaching the palace door, he 
had heard his daughter scream.

Sometimes he was aware that it was a dream, but was still powerless to 
keep himself from reenacting that day. This night was one of those, 
and his mind fought to break free even as his dream-self rushed the 
last few steps out the door.

The elven queen was ahead of him, dashing frantically to where 
Limloeth was on her knees in the grass, her eyes fixed on the scroll’s 
dreadful words, and practically screaming out sobs to the heavens. 
Instinct to shield his wife had taken over then, though in the back of 
Thranduil’s mind, he had realized his daughter’s cries could mean only 
one thing. “Minuial! Wait!” he had shouted as she grabbed the message 
from Limloeth. But she did not wait.

The Queen of Mirkwood had made no sound. Oh, how Thranduil wished he 
could stop this nightmare, but it carried him on in its cruel current, 
like a fast-flowing river he could not swim free of. Minuial had 
raised her pale, blue-gray eyes from the scroll to meet her husband’s 
and the parchment had slid from her nerveless fingers. The wind caught 
it and blew it a few feet away, but Thranduil could only see his 
wife--and how the beautiful sparkle in her bright eyes had utterly 
vanished. He had run with all his mind and caught her as she sagged, 
her body going limp in his grasp. All the while, his mind had wailed 
the inevitable cause: *It is a message of death! One of my children is 
dead!* 

But his immediate terror was for Minuial. She could not breathe; over 
Limloeth’s sobs he could hear her weak gasps. “No!” he propped her up 
desperately as her lips took on a blue tinge. “Breathe, Minuial! Stay, 
my love, you must stay! Breathe! A Elbereth! Do not let go!”

He had shaken her so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break her neck. 
But somehow, the shock abated enough for her to take a gasping breath. 
Then she had collapsed in his arm, not weeping, merely gasping his 
name, over and over, as though he could somehow change what had 
happened. “Thranduil…Thranduil…”

His gaze went past her to the fateful scroll, lying on the grass with 
its message revealed to all Mirkwood. Other elves, drawn to the scene, 
saw it, and soon the cries of grief crescendoed through the forest. 

*I looked over at the scroll,* the dreamer remembered bitterly. *I 
didn’t have to read the condolences from Imladris to know what it was 
about. I only saw the names. I was bracing myself for one. But there 
were three. Tavron. Meren. Lalaith. Dead. My children. Three of them 
slain all at once. Then Berensul and Belhador came running and they 
too fell to the ground with grief. All around me, my family and my 
people wept, and I knew I should be doing something…but I could not 
move. I could not think. All that I could hear was the sobbing, and 
all I could see were those three names…*

“Why?!” Minuial cried, raising her face to look at Thranduil--as 
though blaming him.

*What? Wait!* the dreamer thought. *This is not right. It did not 
happen thus. Minuial did not speak. None of us could speak!*

But something more was different. The dream had changed. She was 
older. It was true; she had aged a great deal visibly after the 
children’s deaths, but that had happened over time. The light had not 
returned to her eyes until the birth of their seventh and last child. 
So how could she look thus only minutes after news of the tragedy had 
reached them? This was not right! And Belhador, he had not yet come of 
age when his elder siblings perished. Yet he looked grown here--as he 
had just before crossing the sea. What was happening?! 

“How could you let this happen again?!” Limloeth sobbed, adding her 
accusing eyes to the faces suddenly focused on Thranduil. 

“What do you mean?” Thranduil cried, recoiling. “It is not my fault; I 
could not have prevented your brother’s and sisters’ deaths! Why do 
you blame me?”

“Nay!” cried his wife, a look in her eyes that Thranduil had never 
seen when she had lived. She had never blamed him. So why did she in 
this dream? She cried out again, “But THIS death you could have 
stopped!”

“What?!” In disbelief, Thranduil looked over at the scroll, still 
lying mockingly upon the grass. But it too was different. In the most 
horrible way imaginable, the dream had changed. It did not seem 
possible. Could this be real?

Instead of three names, there was only one.

*It cannot be. It cannot be! IT CANNOT BE!!!*

“NO!!!” Thranduil leapt to his feet and cried out, in shock and 
horror, the name that his disbelieving eyes saw on the parchment: 
“LEGOLAS!!!”

Then he jerked upright in his bed, heart pounding, drenched in sweat, 
his throat still burning from the cry. For a moment, he could sit, 
trembling, staring around his chamber’s familiar sights in an effort 
to rid himself of the last hideous vestiges of the dream. After 
several minutes, with a deep, shuddering sigh, he rose and went to his 
study. He might as well get some work done. It would be useless trying 
to sleep again after that.

But even as he tried to distract his mind with practical matters, the 
questions bombarded him. Why had the dream changed? What did it mean? 
Could such a thing…truly come to pass? And if it did…would he be to 
blame? Thranduil closed his eyes and leaned his head against his 
balled fists, fear and pain making him tremble inside. “Legolas…”

***

At the same time (a few hours before dawn)…

Legolas stood upon the castle wall, hoping the rather chilly night 
wind blowing down from he mountains might clear his troubled mind. He 
had been dreaming again. The previous night, Aragorn had remarked that 
Legolas was the first elf he had ever seen suffering nightmares. *I am 
not surprised--for I am the first elf that I have ever known to have 
nightmares!*

It was not as if the prince had never had an unpleasant dream--after 
his mother’s death, he had dreamt of her every night for years. Those 
dreams had turned especially ill when Thranduil had finally told 
Legolas the truth of how his mother had died.

But this was the first time his nightmares had been noticed by others. 
He had been acutely embarrassed when Aragorn had roused him that first 
time on the plains, but the man had no way of knowing what it was his 
friend dreamt of, so Legolas did not dwell on it. But still the dreams 
came, unrelenting. His dreams were memories, always involving his 
father, sometimes good times, sometimes bad, and both mocking him in 
their own right. He had done his best to free himself from their hold, 
but tonight they had plagued him to the point where he no longer 
bothered to try and continue sleeping. Better to be awake than to face 
those nightmares over and over.

The young elf smiled bitterly to himself. *Running away again…*

Nearly all the rebels were up and about, readying themselves for the 
attack everyone knew was coming at dawn. The activity in the camp 
confirmed it: Legolas could see the soldiers moving about and honing 
their weapons in torchlight. The former ruler of Haloel and his army 
truly were predictable to the point of being pathetic.

They were shifting around that battering ram now, in plain view of the 
rebel watchers on the wall. Movement from one of the towers caught the 
elf’s eye, and he turned to see Dersten and Tergian pointing and 
laughing at the soldiers’ lack of originality. 

“I wish I knew what they find so amusing.”

Legolas jumped; he had not heard Yalc coming out of the tower stairs. 
Unlike most of the other rebels, Yalc was tense. “I think they find 
Lord Fompran’s ineptitude rather comical. His men are astonishingly 
poor soldiers.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that there’s going to be a battle at 
dawn. No matter how many we take out with arrows, they’ll get through 
the gates with that thing.” The farmer indicated the battering ram, 
his brown eyes grave. “Many of us will suffer wounds. Some of us are 
going to die.”

“The risk of death is inevitable,” the prince told Yalc. “It is the 
way of all warriors.”

The farmer laughed wryly, shaking his head, “Whoever said we were 
warriors?”

Legolas laughed in turn, “Each of you made your choice to stand 
against Lord Fompran. You could always have lived under oppression.”

Yalc sighed, smiling, “True. I suppose fate made it inevitable. But I 
find it hard to imagine any of us as heroes.”

“Fate has a way of leading ordinary people to extraordinary deeds,” 
Legolas said. *Ah, I am quoting Langcyll again.*

The young farmer still looked doubtful. He turned away and gazed 
silently out into the siege camp, the wind ruffling his tousled blond 
curls. Out in the camp, the soldiers were now crowded around a tent, 
being handed skins. At first, the observers assumed it was water 
rations, but the men guzzled in a way that suggested the skins 
contained something else. And it wasn’t long before their bluster and 
shouted taunts to the rebels showed a marked increase.

“I DON’T believe it!” exclaimed Kartzel. “Vrall’s handing out wine!”

“Now they’ve really lost it,” chortled Tergian from the tower. 

Equally amazed, Legolas shook his head and grinned at Yalc. “Well, we 
need no longer worry about their arrows!”

“Aye, none of them will be able to shoot straight by dawn,” Dersten 
laughed.

At that point, the soldiers began arraying themselves in mail, and 
Aragorn and Sarovin joined the others on the wall. “The excitement is 
about to begin, it seems?” asked Aragorn.

“And our friends out there are getting wined up for the final charge,” 
said Tergian, pointing gleefully at a group of soldiers having trouble 
with their armor.

Sarovin grinned, “You’re right; it won’t be long now. Is everyone 
aware of what position they’re to take?”

“Aye, Sarovin! AND we know which way to put on our chain mail!” 
someone added.

“Oy! Look!” Tergian pointed at the camp.

From the main tent came the grotesquely fat Lord of Haloel, dressed in 
absurd red robes (and bearing a goblet of wine.) His soldiers cheered 
him lustily, and with great bravado, Fompran toasted their imminent 
victory--several times. It was all Legolas, Aragorn, and Sarovin could 
do not to howl with laughter. “Ah, now there is one prediction 
untainted by reality,” Sarovin chuckled.

“Sadly true,” agreed Legolas, not bothering to restrain his grin.

What happened next destroyed the composure of every last one of them. 
Standing before his assembled soldiers, Lord Fompran threw off his 
outer robes, revealing equally-red riding clothes that made him look 
like a giant red beet. Holding out his arms, he stood with pumped-up 
importance as several of his soldiers clad him in armor.

“By the Valar!” Legolas breathed. “He’s not!”

Finally, Fompran finished the absurd ceremony by girding on a sword, 
and as his men broke into wild cheers, the rebel army fell apart 
completely. 

Legolas was all but draped over the wall, completely helpless with 
laughter. Aragorn was equally beside himself; he and Sarovin were 
having to hold each other upright against their guffaws. Even Yalc had 
lost it, and he was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down 
his face. The rest of the farmers were faring no better at the 
ridiculous sight of Fompran strutting around below them.

“Better watch out, men!” Dersten shouted gleefully. “If they use him 
as catapult ammunition, we’re all in trouble!”

“Ah, so that’s their master plan! We were wrong!” shouted Tergian. 
“Vrall’s a military genius!”

That remark nearly prostrated Legolas again, along with the others. It 
amused the elf and Rangers still more to see Vrall standing just 
behind Fompran--looking slightly ill. *This is the end and he knows 
it. Such is his misfortune for casting his lot with an unjust lord. He 
could have chosen to aid the rebels, but that would have meant losing 
his high position.”

Vrall stepped forward then, and signaled someone the observers could 
not see. Then Legolas and Aragorn’s laughter abruptly stopped. Several 
soldiers dragged two struggling horses before Vrall and Fompran. They 
were saddled, tightly bridled, and wearing mail of their own (which 
also served to impede their efforts to break free.) But in spite of 
that, Legolas felt a surge of white-hot fury as he recognized Lanthir, 
and the black stallion as Aragorn’s horse, Pariedor.

Sarovin, alerted by his friends’ sudden stiffness, asked, “Those are 
your horses?”

“Yea,” Aragorn said, and the men nearest him jumped back at his tone.

Noting how serious the mood had suddenly become, Dersten told the 
rebels, “We’d better make ready. They’ll be coming soon.”

Seeing Fompran swinging his enormous bulk onto Pariedor, Aragorn 
cursed savagely. Legolas made no sound as Vrall mounted Lanthir, 
striking the gray between the ears as the horse protested. “Lord 
Fompran shall answer for much, my friends,” Tergian assured them.

“What of Vrall, Master Elf?” Yalc asked delicately. Vrall had managed 
to steady himself, but Lanthir was fighting the rider’s attempts to 
steer him. So the captain of Fompran’s army struck the horse’s flank 
with the broadside of his sword, bloodying the gray hide until Lanthir 
stopped pitching and bucking. 

His eyes black and snapping with ire, Legolas spoke in a low, 
dangerous voice that froze the blood of all standing near. “He’s 
mine.”

***

Vrall swore savagely as he fought to keep the gray horse under 
control. Fompran was having just as much trouble next to him. He could 
see the rebels mustering on the castle wall. *And there’ll be another 
wall of them waiting for us if by some miracle we actually get through 
the gates!”

The rebels were already aiming their bows at the army, and Vrall 
ordered his men to keep their shields over their heads. They did--and 
promptly charged towards the gate with a collective yell of challenge. 
“Wait! Hold!” Vrall shouted.

But the wine had apparently done its courage-instilling job too well, 
and they paid him no heed. No longer in control, the captain had no 
choice but to spur his rebellious horse and follow the charge. 
Somehow, the shields protected most of the men carrying the battering 
ram (or perhaps the rebels were merely saving their arrows.)

Fompran was just ahead of him, his massive bulk of flesh shaking like 
a blob of red jam on the horse’s back, waving his sword wildly and 
shouting encouragement to the men. The soldiers were running so hard 
that the gates buckled the first time the ram hit them. On the other 
hand, the force of the impact sent the ram and its bearers tumbling to 
the ground. That gave Vrall time to ride up to them again, thanking 
fate that they were too close to the castle for the bowmen on the wall 
to pick them off. 

An arrow struck the ground just inches beyond one of the soldiers, 
making Vrall wonder if he’d spoken too soon. He looked up at the wall 
in time to see a slight figure lean back to a safe position. *Probably 
that elf, curse him and all his race!*

“Get that thing up!” he roared at the men. “Bring it up! Ready, heave, 
now!”

With a collective groan, the soldiers swung the ram against the gates, 
hearing them crack in response. “Again!” Crack! “Again!” Crack! 
“Again!”

CRASH!!!

Their bars splintered, the castle doors swung open. The lead soldiers 
immediately dropped the ram and charged in, forcing those who followed 
to climb over it only to meet a hail of arrows the minute they passed 
into the courtyard. In the press of wine-sotted men, Vrall and 
Fompran’s horses were forced aside from the gates.

What happened inside the courtyard, Vrall could not see, but the 
shouts of challenge were answered by a much-louder roar of defiance. 
There was the sound of running feet, the clang of metal, and then the 
men still charging through the gate faltered. Fompran spurred his 
horse back around to come in front of the remaining men. “Forward!” he 
yowled, riding through.

Vrall had no choice but to follow, and so he led the rest of his men 
in a wild charge through the gates into the castle courtyard, spurring 
the protesting horse until its flanks bled again. They found a battle 
taking place: swords flashed and arrows flew in every direction. Ahead 
of him, Fompran was riding through the fray, waving his sword wildly 
over his head while caterwauling, “Surrender, traitors, your lord has 
returned!”

Then all at once, a dark-clad figure sprang at the Lord of Haloel and 
un-horsed him in a flying tackle. It was one of the Rangers, his gray 
eyes enraged. He did not press his attack, but held the mount’s reigns 
possessively as half a dozen rebels lunged at their former ruler, 
shouting out vengeance. Fompran disappeared beneath a press of furious 
men.

Even before Vrall could react, a hand suddenly seized the front of his 
collar and jerked him half-off his own mount. Never had Vrall known 
such terror as that moment, when he found his face merely inches from 
the elf. The immortal’s black eyes, blazing with a terrifying fury, 
flicked from the man to the horse, then back to the man again. His 
voice was like the edge of a sword as he growled, “Get off my horse!”

Then Vrall found himself sailing through the air until he crashed into 
the courtyard wall and slid to the ground with a grunt. Staggering to 
his feet, he turned around, and the last thing he ever saw was an 
arrow heading straight for his face.

***

Aragorn seized Lanthir’s reigns and bade the horse join Pariedor in 
safety outside the castle. He turned around in time to see Vrall drop 
with one of Legolas’s arrows in his neck. *Perhaps he was merely a 
fool, but he bought his own death the moment he struck that elf’s 
horse.* Pariedor had suffered similar abuse at the Haloel loyalists’ 
hands, and for that they would pay dearly.

Turning his attention back to the battle, Aragorn launched himself at 
a pair of soldiers menacing Dersten. The Ranger took out one and 
turned back to find that Dersten was holding his own against the 
other, deflecting the hardest blows and dodging and counterattacking. 
*When this is over, I shall ask the son of Thranduil for additional 
instruction to myself,* Aragorn thought admiringly.

A battle cry from behind made the heir of Isildur whirl around just in 
time to parry a fierce blow from another loyalist guard. He retreated 
under a furious barrage of blows as three more closed in on him. In 
spite of the loyalists’ inferior skill, it was three against one, and 
Aragorn felt a surge of dread as his back came against the courtyard 
wall.

One of the loyalists hefted a spear while the other two boxed Aragorn 
in--then the spearman pitched over with an arrow in his back, the 
spear falling useless at his side. The Ranger looked up, expecting to 
see Legolas, but instead, a curly-headed young farmer stood upon the 
wall, launching arrows into Aragorn’s other two attackers. Waving 
gratefully at Yalc, Aragorn charged back into the melee.

The rest of the loyalists, drunk as they were, had finally begun to 
realize that the battle was not going their way. Aragorn could see 
Dersten and several others running to shut the gates and trap their 
enemies inside. The soldiers suddenly found themselves with no escape, 
and Aragorn was nearly trampled in the stampede for the stairs by 
loyalists hoping to get over the wall.

The Ranger charged a group trying to beat open a corridor door. Two of 
the men leapt at him, swords flashing, while the rest tried another 
door, looking for a way out of the courtyard that had suddenly become 
a death trap. 

“Down!” Sarovin shouted, and the younger Ranger dropped. Both of his 
opponents were instantly felled by arrows--one of them elvish.

A cry of warning alerted Aragorn as he rose; some of the loyalists had 
gotten through a door into the castle. He sprinted after them, hearing 
Dersten shout, “They could get to the women and children through that 
passage!”

With Sarovin a step behind him, he raced into the corridor, looking 
frantically to see which direction the soldiers had gone. Screams down 
the passage told them all too clearly, and they raced for the great 
hall. The rebels and Rangers arrived to find nearly twenty loyalist 
soldiers trying to get past Yalc and Tergian into a hall full of the 
farmers’ terrified families.

The rebels rushed to engage them, but the corridor was too narrow to 
give Yalc and Tergian effective aid. From behind, Aragorn heard 
Legolas say to several others, “We can get in from the other side! 
Come!” Several rebels and the elf bolted.

In front of Aragorn, through the mass of fighting bodies, Yalc and 
Tergian were in serious trouble. One of the loyalists had managed to 
break down the door before being felled, but the two rebels refused to 
retreat from the doorway. Cursing, their friends struggled to get to 
them, but there were too many soldiers in the way, and the two farmers 
were overwhelmed. Three of the loyalists disarmed Tergian, and screams 
rang out as a sword ran him through. Yalc gave a cry of rage and 
lunged, but there were far too many, and they forced him back.

Aragorn rammed his sword into another soldier and thrust the carcass 
aside, struggling to reach Yalc before the remaining soldiers killed 
him and got the farmers’ families as hostages. Another he swept aside 
with a dagger. Dersten dispatched two more and the rebels pressed 
forward. 

They were too late. The last eight or so loyalists converged upon Yalc 
and bore the young farmer to the ground, leaping over his bloody form 
and into the hall. With a roar of rage and challenge, the rebels raced 
after them. The loyalists charged into the hall toward the women and 
children pressed in terror against the far wall. All at once, an arrow 
whizzed from the crowd to embed itself in the group leader’s chest. 
Niradam, Dersten’s wife, hurriedly but effectively notched another 
arrow and let it fly into another soldier. Just then, the opposite 
door of the hall burst open, and another group of furious rebels 
charged in, led by a bow-wielding Legolas. The elf prince dropped 
three more in rapid succession, and by that time the remaining five 
had seen enough. They threw down their weapons at Dersten’s order to 
surrender.

Aragorn ran back out to the courtyard to find that the remaining 
loyalists there had also surrendered. Kartzel came out to join him on 
the wall, staring at the bodies littering the ground, the blood 
staining the walls, the ravaged fields, and the remnants of the siege 
camp. 

“Is it over?” the farmer asked, sounding dazed.

“Let us hope so,” murmured the Ranger. For centuries, Haloel had been 
a peaceful land, and this revolt had given her more than enough 
bloodshed for many lifetimes.

“Strider!” several of the farmers came from within the castle. “Yalc 
still lives! Alagion asks for your help at once!” Aragorn immediately 
ran from the wall.

***

The great hall had been converted now into an infirmary for all the 
wounded. Sarovin was treating an arrow wound when he saw Aragorn 
enter. “Yalc lives,” the elder Ranger said by way of greeting. “But 
he’s badly hurt. You’re the best healer.”

Aragorn made his way to where Yalc lay upon a blanket. The young 
farmer’s fair curly hair was streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood, and 
his fair skin had a clammy, pasty look. He was cut and bruised in many 
places, but the worst of the injuries was a stab wound from which he 
had lost far too much blood. A young, dark-haired woman knelt at his 
side, tragedy covering her fair face. It was Enilosa, Yalc’s wife. Her 
dark eyes met Aragorn’s as her last hope. 

Alagion returned from tending another patient and knelt beside 
Aragorn. “How can I help?” the elf asked grimly.

“Hold him while I bathe the wounds.”

Returning her eyes to her husbands face, Enilosa asked them, “Is there 
aught I might do?”

Looking around the bustling hall, Aragorn told her softly, ’I shall 
need more athelas and water, Lady.” Quickly, drying the tear streaks 
on her face, Enilosa rose and hurried away.

Sarovin, Kartzel, and the others continued with the rest of the 
wounded. The women, though not warriors, knew much of healing and 
moved among the injured men, sending the children to fetch supplies. 
Sarovin thought, *When their dead are laid to rest, their wounds 
healed, and a new lord chosen, the people of Haloel shall build this 
land anew.*

A rather frazzled-looking Dersten came to Sarovin. “Have you the keys 
to the dungeon?”

“There’s no one in the dungeon,” Sarovin said in confusion. 

Scowling, Dersten replied, “There is going to be.”

“One of the prisoners is causing trouble?” asked Kartzel.

“Aye. He’ll be safe in the dungeons, and I’ll not suffer my men to 
listen to his bleating after fighting all morning.”

Sarovin chuckled wryly and handed him the keys. “That is an act of 
mercy.”

Dersten sent three of the men to relocate the bothersome prisoner (one 
needed not guess who it was!), then he turned back to Sarovin. “We’ve 
a tally of the casualties.”

Sarovin braced himself. “And?”

“Twelve of ours dead, twenty-nine badly wounded.”

The elder Ranger winced. “What about Fompran’s force?”

“Vrall’s dead, along with more than half of his men. The rest fled or 
surrendered. Not enough escaped us to make us worry about a second 
attack, I think.”

Sarovin closed his eyes, sighing in relief and weariness. “Then it’s 
over.”

“Well over,” Dersten replied. “And may we never know war again.”

***

In Mirkwood, some weeks later…

Limloeth dismounted her horse and hurried up the steps of the outer 
palace to where her brother awaited her. “Berensul!” she threw her 
arms around the Crown Prince, laughing with joy.

“Ah, sister, I am so glad to see you,” Berensul said, hugging her 
tightly. “As is your niece,” he added, as a blur of gold and white 
came flying down the steps, shouting for her aunt Limloeth.

“Ai!” Limloeth caught up Silivren and spun the child around. Kneeling, 
she embraced her niece. “Ohh, I’ve missed you so, Sili!”

“I’ve missed you too,” Silivren said. “It’s been so dull since you and 
Uncle Orthelian and Uncle Legolas left. Where’s Uncle Orthelian?”

“He was detained in Lorien, I fear,” Limloeth said, casting an 
apologetic glance at Berensul. “He sends his regrets.”

“I am sorry he could not come,” Crown Princess Eirien said sadly. “Is 
the situation in Lorien so bad?”

Lowering her voice so Silivren would not hear, Limloeth murmured, “The 
shadow deepens. The numbers of our people there are lessening.”

Berensul’s eyebrows raised with alarm. “I have read the messages; I 
didn’t think so many had fallen in the Golden Wood.”

Limloeth’s bright eyes darkened with a sorrow not born of simple 
death. “Nay, not fallen. But leaving. In the past thirty years, nearly 
one of every ten Galadhrim in Lothlorien has departed over the sea. 
The song of Caras Galadhon seems to grow weaker with each passing 
year. Soon there will be none left.”

The news clearly grieved her kindred. In Mirkwood, the Silvan elves 
struggled on with Dol Guldor right in their midst--so how was it that 
the Galadhrim fled Middle Earth in ever-growing numbers? After wedding 
Orthelian, Limloeth had hoped to make the Golden Wood her home. But 
how long would it be before Caras Galadhon was utterly deserted? How 
long?

A sad sigh from Berensul brought her back to reality. “Well, we’ve 
enough to concern ourselves with now without dwelling on the bleak 
future. You should not tarry too long before seeing Father.”

And there broached the subject that promised to be the most unpleasant 
of all. “How has he been?”

“You know what happened when the war party returned?”

“Yes. Where is Legolas now?”

“No one knows. I’ve thought many times about trying to get a message 
to him, but I’ve no idea where to search. There has been no word of 
him from Lorien or Rivendell or any of the other elven realms,” 
Berensul shook his head helplessly. “After the way they parted, 
sister, I do not know when…or if…Legolas will ever come back.”

“He MUST come back!” Limloeth gasped, seizing his arm urgently. “He 
must, Beren! So much depends…” she broke off, her brown eyes darkened 
with fear.

“What do you mean?” Berensul asked her softly.

Taking a deep breath, she regained control of herself. “I cannot say 
more, Brother. Only that Legolas and Father must make peace, for far 
more than their feelings are at stake. Oh, curse their pride!” She 
folded her arms in irritation, then started up the stairs with a shake 
of her head.

“You will try to talk to him?” her brother asked.

“Someone must. It will do no good persuading Legolas to return if the 
king will not accept him. And he must, Beren. He must!”

Limloeth came before the elven king in his throne room within the 
mountain. Although not as violently repelled by caves as her younger 
siblings, she still disliked the feeling of being under stone. The 
atmosphere in the room was oppressive enough on its own. It struck her 
like a slap to see that Thranduil had visibly aged since she had last 
seen him after Silivren’s birth thirty years before. He looked weary 
and desolate, but at the same time, there was a hard bitterness that 
made the difficult conversation she wished to have still more 
challenging.

Her father rose as she came into the Hall. “Welcome, my daughter!” 

She bowed to the king and walked quickly to embrace him, “Hello, 
Father.”

Thranduil stepped back and smiled at her, but the expression did not 
reach his eyes. It had been more than thirty years since Limloeth had 
seen him appear truly happy. “I hope your journey was uneventful.”

“Not entirely, but I fear journeys seldom are anymore. Still, we 
arrived unharmed.”

“That is well.”

Limloeth took a deep breath. “Father, there is a matter I would speak 
with you about…”

But Thranduil was looking distractedly at the other elves in the room. 
“Soon, my dear, soon. But for the moment, I am occupied. I shall see 
you at dinner this evening.”

“I--” Limloeth started to press the issue, then decided against it. 
She had expected nothing less, really, than that Thranduil would try 
to avoid the painful subject. He might be aging and embittered, but 
his mind was more than sharp enough to be aware of the first thing his 
daughter would want to speak of. 

*Very well, Dear Father, I shall let it go for the moment. I had hoped 
to speak to you alone, but it is clear you will not allow it. 
Therefore, you shall hear my mind tonight whether you wish it or not. 
You cannot run from me forever.*

As she walked out of the cave and back into the sunlight, the princess 
idly plucked an elm leaf from a low branch, caressing it with her 
fingertips. Berensul had told her in detail of the events leading up 
to the calamitous row between the elven king and his youngest son. For 
some strange reason, now she smiled. *In many ways, Father, this 
quarrel was inevitable. For he has grown up very much like you.*

***

Thranduil ordered a fine dinner for all his children in the palace 
that evening. He had hoped that the presence of his granddaughter 
would prevent Limloeth from bring up the subject of Legolas, and it 
did--if only Silivren had been so inhibited. “How long will you be 
here, Aunt Limloeth?”

Pausing from eating, the king’s daughter beamed at her niece. “Some 
precious time, I hope, Sili. Do not worry, I shall have time to give 
you many rides ere I depart.”

The little girl beamed like the sun coming out, but Thranduil averted 
his eyes. When she did that, she looked just as Legolas had at that 
age. It was yet another painful reminder. Casually, he asked his 
granddaughter, “Shall you ride on the river or Limloeth’s horse 
tomorrow, Silivren?”

Cocking her head in careful consideration, the child finally replied, 
“I want to ride the boat down the river!”

The family nodded in amused confirmation of her decision. Eirien 
remarked, “Beware, Sister, she demands to sail further and further 
downriver every time. Someday she will want to go all the way to Lake 
Town!” The others laughed.

Silivren nodded eagerly, “And I’ll go see Lonely Mountain, where the 
dragon is! Uncle Leg’las told me all about it!”

Thranduil winced inwardly--as he always did at hearing the name--but 
forced himself to say lightly, “The dragon is long dead, Silivren. 
There is little to see there now.”

Across the table, his daughter leveled piercing and too-seeing brown 
eyes at him. Without breaking his gaze, Limloeth said in a too-casual 
tone, “What else did Uncle Legolas tell you, Sili?”

Not noticing how tense the rest of her family had grown, the elf child 
replied, “Lots of stories, about his adventures. I want to be a 
warrior and have adventures!”

Still looking directly at Thranduil, Limloeth replied, “Perhaps you 
will, Sili. Perhaps you will. Uncle Legolas has had many adventures.”

This was NOT a subject he wanted discussed with his granddaughter. 
This was not a subject he wanted to discuss with anyone at all. 
“Limloeth!” Thranduil hissed fiercely.

“When is Uncle Leg’las coming home?” Silivren asked.

The innocent, slightly wistful question slammed into Thranduil like a 
battering ram. It was fortunate that Sili had been directing the 
question at Limloeth, or she would have seen her grandfather openly 
flinch. But all the rest of his children did see it. And their eyes 
were accusing, yet oblivious to the pain that their talk was raking 
up. Still in that falsely cheerful tone, Limloeth said, “I know not, 
Sili. Perhaps your grandfather might know.”

*Curse that girl! She has not the sense to leave the subject alone!* 
But Silivren’s inquiring blue eyes were upon him now, and Thranduil 
had to clear his throat to answer her. “I…your uncle is going very 
far, Silivren. He may be gone a very long time.”

“Oh.” Her dejected tone hurt his heart. Limloeth and Berensul were 
scowling as openly as they dared at their father. Thranduil glared 
back. *They fret so over Legolas, but think not of the pain their 
prying causes their father! Legolas turned them against me as well!* 

Eirien had evidently had enough. Rising, she said briskly, “It is time 
for your bath, Sili. You’ve a busy day tomorrow if you plan to sail 
the river with your aunt. Come.” During all the centuries Eirien had 
dwelt in the elven king’s halls, her mild approach had been a defusing 
influence on Thranduil many times. But now she had her own child to 
care for. Perhaps if she had stayed, the discussion would have gone 
differently.

As it was, no sooner had she and her daughter departed the room than 
the table erupted into angry words. “Limloeth, I think I made it clear 
the subject is closed!”

“Do not bark at me, Father, I am now so easily cowed by you!”

“Watch your tongue, Daughter!”

“You cannot pretend Legolas does not exist! Do you know aught of where 
he is?”

“Nay, nor do I care! I will not speak of it!”

“Fah! Do not deceive yourself! If you cared not, such talk would not 
pain you! But I see your grief, Father!” Limloeth stood up and leaned 
across the table, not shouting, but very forceful. “There must be a 
peace between you!”

Thranduil glared furiously at her. “This feud was not of my making, 
Limloeth. I may have made some mistakes, but I am not to blame for its 
ill end.”

Now Berensul joined in, and to the king’s further rage, he too sided 
with Legolas! “There is plenty of blame to go round, Father. You both 
should leave off your pride.”

“So you challenge me as well!”

“It is NOT a challenge!” Berensul snapped, throwing his hands into the 
air. “I am frustrated by the foolishness of you both! Look at 
yourself, Father! You raged when he refused to speak to you, yet you 
respond to the situation in the same fashion! One day your 
stubbornness will get one or both of you killed!”

“Have done, both of you! I do not desire to discuss the subject 
further!”

“What will you do, throw us in the dungeons?” his eldest son demanded. 
“I wish my brother home again!”

Limloeth was catching her breath, and laid a hand upon her brother’s 
shoulder to silence him. In a soft, more supplicant tone, she said to 
Thranduil, “Father, the situation must be resolved. You cannot 
continue this way. Do you truly wish to never see him again?”

For a moment, Thranduil faltered. The face of Legolas, his son, swam 
through his mind, at many ages, all through his short elven life. For 
a moment, he was consumed by a longing to have his child back. But 
then in his mind he saw Legolas’s hard, unforgiving face, and heard 
his bitter words as the prince left Mirkwood so precipitously that 
last time. And Thranduil felt a surge of bitter anger that he had no 
wish to share with his prying children. “I will not discuss it.”

Limloeth turned away, her eyes closed, and she seemed near to weeping. 
Berensul, on the other hand, looked utterly disgusted, and his black 
eyes flashed with a fury still greater. “You fool!” the Crown Prince 
whispered. “You spiteful, unforgiving fool!”

Catching her breath in a sound very much like a sob, Limloeth turned 
pleading eyes to the king. “Father--”

“Save your breath, Lim!” Berensul said scornfully. “He will not hear 
you. He would not relinquish his vanity were Legolas even to suffer 
Lalaith, Meren, and Tavron’s fates!” 

“ENOUGH!” Thranduil roared, slamming both fists upon the table. His 
son and daughter jerked back, distraught. Later, Thranduil would 
recall those details, but at the moment he could feel only bitterness 
and rage. “This matter shall not be raised in my presence again; that 
is my final word on the subject!” With that, the elven king turned 
sharply and marched from the room, his jarring steps startling the 
other elves in the palace, as anger born of pain boiled within him. 

That night, the dream came again.



***

In Haloel, around the same time…

*If these people learned nothing else, they know now that even the 
most justified war is won at great price,* thought Legolas, as he 
stood atop the eastern tower, facing the plains. The northeasterly 
wind blew over his face and through his hair, cool and smelling of 
trees. A surge of loneliness swept through him, with an intensity 
bordering on physical pain. He knew the scents carried on the wind; it 
was blowing almost directly from Mirkwood. *I wonder what they are 
doing now?*

“You look far away, Master Elf.”

Legolas jumped. Sheepishly, he turned and saw Yalc, one arm in a sling 
and leaning on a makeshift crutch. “Even wounded, you have the stealth 
of an elf, Yalc of Haloel.”

“Would that my wounds were able to heal.” Despair in his brown eyes, 
Yalc looked at Legolas. “I cannot make my living without two good 
arms, nor tend the fields on a crutch.”

“Strider said they may yet heal, my friend. Do not lose hope.”

The young man sighed. “I suppose such sacrifices are the way of all 
warriors.”

“It is true,” Legolas said with regret. “But that does not mean they 
are liked by any warrior. None wish to see comrades wounded or slain.”

Yalc looked quickly away, and Legolas put a hand lightly upon his 
shoulder. A moment later, he voiced what the prince knew had been on 
his mind. “When Tergian came and called my wife and me to the castle 
that day…none of us ever imagined he would die. Him least of all.” He 
looked back at Legolas. “Is it at all different for elves?”

Feeling a surge of deep inner grief at the memories being surfaced by 
this talk, Legolas nonetheless answered. “Nay. Death is never 
expected. We mourn the fallen no less, and I shall never become 
accustomed to it even if I live for thousands of years.” *Please do 
not ask me to be specific…*

Yalc looked speculatively at him, and Legolas feared that the man 
would question his own past experiences. But what the young farmer 
said startled him greatly. Hesitantly, Yalc said, “I heard Lord 
Aragorn refer to you as Legolas, prince of Mirkwood. Are you then the 
son of King Thranduil?”

Legolas turned sharply to face him. “How…”

“We heard you talking a few days before the attack.” Yalc grinned for 
the first time since the battle. “Fear not; we’ve told no one. None 
but Dersten and I know that the heir to the throne of Gondor and an 
elven prince lent us their aid.”

With a sigh of relief, the prince smiled back. “I am most grateful for 
your discretion. But I would ask that you do me the favor of keeping 
our true names to yourselves.”

Yalc shrugged. “If you wish. The rest of the men shall go on believing 
that our saviors were Strider the Ranger, and Alagion, the wayward 
elf.” He and Legolas laughed. “But I do hope Aragorn at least remains 
here. We have need of a just leader. I know you will not be able to 
stay. You must long for your own people.”

Legolas did not answer, merely gave an ambiguous half-shrug, 
half-smile, hoping that would close the matter. It did not. Yalc was 
still watching him. “Kartzel thought it was incredible that immortals 
might feel such a mundane emotion as homesickness. I thought, among 
strange people in a strange race’s war, you must surely have longed to 
be away more than any of us.”

Legolas still did not answer, but Yalc’s sympathetic expression said 
that the silence was all the answer the farmer had needed.

*****

Here it is, the moment we’ve all been waiting for! This is the chapter 
where our favorite elf, Ranger, and winemakers decide to party like 
it’s the end of the Third Age! I know how dark the last…uh…twenty 
chapters have been, so this one is going to be as light-hearted as 
possible. I hope ya like it!

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Alagion: Legolas’s alias Strider: That long-legged, Anduril-wielding 
hunk of Ranger flesh (wait, he doesn’t have Anduril yet!) Sarovin: An 
older Ranger, a close friend of Aragorn’s Dersten, Yalc, Kartzel: 
Halorrim rebel leaders Tergian: Halorrim rebel, killed in the final 
battle of the siege Niradam: Dersten’s wife Enilosa: Yalc’s wife 
Relean: Kartzel’s wife Fompran: ex-lord of Haloel Vrall: Fompran’s 
soldier captain, killed in the final battle of the siege

Lanthir: Legolas’s horse Pariedor: Aragorn’s horse 



Chapter Twenty-Two: Feasting, Frolicking, and Farewells



Two months after the rebel victory in Haloel marked the end of 
mourning for all those who had fallen. The toll had been heavy. 
Tergian and the other eleven farmers had been laid to rest where the 
siege camp had used to be, and the artisans were building a monument 
to their sacrifice. But along with the twelve fatalities had been many 
injuries. The skills of the Rangers, elf, and Haloel healers had saved 
most of the wounded, but the scars remained. Tergian had been one of 
the leaders of the group, and was deeply missed, having left behind a 
wife and two children. Yalc had survived the assault on the Great 
Hall, but the young farmer would always walk with a limp, and it was 
unlikely he would ever regain the full use of his left hand. Yet he 
was alive. 

Now, the men of Haloel faced the still-tougher business of determining 
who would rule their small kingdom--and how. An assembly was called in 
the Great Hall, but when all the men and women were gathered, Aragorn 
and Legolas exchanged glances. The man and elf rose, attracting the 
attention of all.

Seeing the prince’s nod, Aragorn spoke for them both. “Alagion and I 
feel that the decision of rulership for Haloel should be decided 
without our presence. It is a matter for her people.”

If nothing else, the cries of protest were gratifying to the two. “We 
could not have won this without your counsel!” Yalc said, gaining 
control of the others. “This decisions is just as vital as those 
during the siege!”

“Aye,” agreed Kartzel. “And we could use the objectivity of ones not 
from this land.”

“And you shall have it,” Legolas told them. Nodding toward the third 
foreigner in the room, he said, “Sarovin was with you, guiding you, 
from the start. If there is one entitled to serve as moderator in this 
meeting, let it be him.”

The men looked disappointed, but allowed the two to depart. Aragorn 
and Legolas walked out the castle gates and wandered through the 
fields to wait out the deliberations. Many of the vines and gardens 
that were trampled in the fighting had been tied up again, and the 
debris of the siege had been cleared away. The rebellion had destroyed 
much of the season’s crop, but if the Halorrim were able to organize 
effective leadership, they might yet be able to save the rest.

“Leaving them now was a wise decision,” Aragorn remarked as they 
walked.

Legolas looked at him oddly. “Perhaps.”

Returning the elf’s speculative gaze, the Ranger said, “An internal 
decision such as this was no place for a foreign Ranger.”

“And certainly not for an elf!” Legolas said with a laugh. But he 
raised an eyebrow at Aragorn. “Still, Sarovin chose to stay. He is 
foreign, yet he is a man, and a wise one. Perhaps you should have 
stayed as well. The men of Haloel would have benefited from your 
guidance.”

“As soldiers, maybe, but not as a government,” the heir of Isildur 
replied dismissively. “They need not my counsel anymore.”

“Then why did Sarovin stay?”

The younger Ranger’s eyes followed two gray mockingbirds chasing each 
other over the tops of the vines. “Sarovin had been wandering the wild 
for decades before he came to Haloel. Even the last time I met him, he 
had stayed longer here than any other place.”

The prince smiled faintly; he had obviously suspected as much. “You 
think he has chosen to stay?”

“I am nearly certain. But he will have the good sense not to let them 
elevate him. The Halorrim must look to their own for leadership.”

“Haloel was a province of Gondor once,” the elf commented mildly.

Aragorn turned and noticed the intense stare the elven prince was 
giving him. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Legolas stopped walking. “The men of Gondor are scattered, leaderless. 
I have seen some of those living closest to Mordor; Sauron’s beasts 
prey upon them at will because they cannot organize enough to fight. 
Why do you live in exile, son of Arathorn, when your people need you 
more than ever?”

“You are the son of Thranduil; do not pretend you know naught of my 
bloodline,” Aragorn looked away. “You know what role my blood played 
in the return of the shadow.”

The prince was silent. Then, in a very strange tone, he said softly, 
“You are ashamed.” Aragorn did not answer, for it had not been a 
question. “You are ashamed of who you are, because Isildur’s weakness 
allowed the spirit of Sauron and the Ring of power to live.”

The revelation of the prince‘s true identity had not silenced all the 
questions that swam in Aragorn‘s mind about Legolas. One in particular 
he both wished and feared to know. To look at, he would guess that 
Legolas was quite young for an elf, certainly much younger than 
Elrond, probably younger than the twins and Arwen, yet…young was still 
a relative term. He could not be certain. How personally did Legolas 
take the weakness of Isildur? There was one way to know… “You were not 
there at Mount Doom?” the man finally forced himself to ask. 

He watched Legolas’s face with combined curiosity and dread. But 
instead of embittered or doubtful, the elf merely looked startled--and 
somewhat amused. “Nay,” Legolas replied with a little shake of his 
head. “I am not that old…not even close,” he added with a wry twist of 
his mouth. “I know only what I have been told.”

Aragorn smiled himself at the irony. “I can imagine all too well what 
your elders of Mirkwood told you of Isildur and all his kindred. Why 
do you not despise me as the other wood elves do?”

There it was again! That shadow of anger and pain in the prince’s 
eyes…yet it was not directed at Aragorn. After a long and very loud 
silence, Legolas said, “I have found it better to judge the world by 
seeing it myself rather than letting others judge it for me.”

Ordinary mortals regarded the calm, aloof demeanor of elves as the 
true nature of their personality. But Aragorn recognized it as a 
shield, a shell to hide the intense inner emotions that all elves 
possessed. One could see past the exterior if one knew where to look. 
As with mortals, the eyes of elves could be windows to their hearts, 
and Aragorn needed only to look at the stormy dark eyes of the elven 
prince to know that he carried a tempest within.

*Still you keep secrets, Legolas of Mirkwood. I have grown in the 
House of Elrond, beside Elladan and Elrohir, I have loved Arwen--and 
Glorfindel is hardly mundane, if such a word can describe any of the 
Eldar. Yet I can safely say that you, son of Thranduil, are by far the 
most interesting elf I have ever met.*

Before he could think up a means of prying further, Legolas changed 
the subject. “Who do you think the Halorrim will choose as their 
lord?”

They walked down to the riverbank and sat there. Aragorn rubbed his 
chin for a moment before replying, “I wonder if they will decide 
against a single lord altogether, after their experience with 
Fompran.”

“True,” Legolas agreed. “They might elect a council, as the villages 
do. Such a group might serve the Halorrim well.”

Aragorn idly tossed a stone into the water. “If they do choose a 
single lord, my wager would be on Dersten. He was the best of their 
fighters.”

Twirling an arrow in his fingertips, the elf considered that. 
“Perhaps,” he murmured. They were quite accurate, Aragorn’s words, and 
yet… “Perhaps not.”

Rising again, Aragorn gazed around the valley with a worried frown. 
“Where have our horses gone?”

Legolas rose and pointed. “I can see them. They graze on the hill 
there, north.”

“How fares your mount?”

“Well,” Legolas replied, his eyes darkening further with angry memory. 
Lanthir had recovered from the wounds inflicted by Vrall, but the 
cruelty still made his rider’s blood boil. “The Halorrim treated his 
wounds with great skill, yet he remains still more skittish towards 
men.”

“Pariedor suffered the same,” said Aragorn, feeling a surge of ire 
himself. “But he too is healed.” The Ranger squinted in the direction 
Legolas had pointed, but though his eyes ached, he could not see the 
two horses. The elf and man heard someone approaching. It was a boy, 
bearing a message from the castle. “The people have chosen their new 
lord, Masters. He shall be announced at the feast tonight.”

“Hm. Very mysterious.” The two friends walked back up the bank, 
heading east towards the castle. “This should be interesting.”

***

What foodstuffs the Halorrim had lost in the siege, they replaced with 
the supplies captured from the camp. So there was little need for 
stinginess at the feast to celebrate the new rulership of Haloel. Most 
of the people were aleady seated at the tables in the Great Hall, but 
Aragorn and Legolas were asked to wait.

“His Lordship wishes to welcome you properly,” they were told. When 
all the others, including Sarovin, had entered the Hall, the herald 
turned to them. “Now it is time.” As the doors of the Hall opened, he 
announced, “My lords! Strider of the Dúnedain and Alagion of 
Mirkwood!”

Elf and Ranger exchanged a quick grin as they walked into the great 
room. Long tables spanned its length, and it seemed that every man, 
woman, and child of Haloel was present, craning their necks for a view 
of the heroes. Great platters of meats, breads, fruits, cakes, and 
sweetmeats adorned the tables among numerous flagons of wine. Closer 
to the front of the room sat the many men who had fought for Haloel’s 
freedom--now the uniformed soldiers of Haloel’s guard. At the very 
front, beneath a silk canopy, sat another table. The greatness of the 
chairs bespoke the rank of those who sat there. Two were vacant. In 
one place of obvious esteem, but not the highest, sat Sarovin. In 
another sat Dersten, and beside him Niradam, his wife.

The man at the center of the table (occupying the greatest chair) rose 
to greet them, followed by the others. “You are most welcome, honored 
warriors.”

Not bothering to hide their smiles, Aragorn and Legolas bowed in 
unison. “You are most gracious, my lord.”

From behind them, the herald announced, “I present Yalc, son of Raln, 
Lord of Haloel!”

Beside the young lord, the Lady of Haloel, Enilosa, gestured to the 
two vacant chairs. “Pray, be seated, Strider and Alagion.”

The Halorrim responded with great applause and praise as the elf and 
Ranger took their places among the leaders of Haloel. As the feast 
commenced, more introductions were made. Aragorn and Legolas were 
presented to Castellan Dersten, captain of the official guard, and 
Kartzel, official representative of Haloel’s farmers and winemakers. 
And then there was Sarovin, Lord Yalc’s advisor and representative of 
Haloel in foreign matters.

“There, my lord,” Legolas said to Yalc. “You did not need our help to 
choose a wise leadership.”

Dressed in robes of fine green linen and velvet, his blonde curls neat 
upon his head, Yalc nonetheless had not lost the youth of his light 
brown eyes. Although at the moment, he seemed slightly bewildered. “I 
wish I had your confidence, Master L--Alagion.”

Dersten waved a dismissive hand. “Heed the elf’s wise words, my 
friend; you’re the best of us all.”

“I would have preferred Dersten in this too-exalted position,” Yalc 
confessed to the others with a smile.

“Nonsense. I’m a fighter, not a thinker! If there’s anything we 
learned from Fompran, it’s that we need wisdom in our leaders.”

Yalc smiled good-naturedly and signaled for the guests to dine. Then 
when all were occupied with food, he leaned over to the elf and 
murmured, “I suspect it was a choice based more upon my loss of worth 
as a farmer, friend Legolas. For I cannot imagine why one might 
consider me ‘wise.’” 

“Wisdom is in the eyes of the beholders, Lord of Haloel,” Legolas 
replied softly. “And be assured, I have long counted you the wisest of 
all these.”

“And the wisdom of an elven warrior is of a great weight indeed,” Lady 
Enilosa put in quietly, her dark eyes twinkling.

Legolas gazed past Yalc at her, and suspected she too knew who he was. 
Judging by Yalc’s rather startled expression, the man had not told 
her. *The Lady misses little,* thought the prince. *Both rulers of 
Haloel shall be of great service to their people.*

The prince’s musings were interrupted by a question from Kartzel. 
“Have you tasted Haloel wine before, Master Elf?”

Before Legolas could reply, Dersten slapped the new wine minister on 
the back. “Of course he has, you lout! He’s from Mirkwood! All the 
elves drink our wines, and none more than his King Thranduil. Am I 
right, Master Alagion?”

Aragorn shot Legolas an anxious look, but the elf smiled amiably. “It 
is said that Haloel wine is the elven king’s favorite. I have had it 
on occasion. It is always a fine vintage.”

The Halorrim exchanged approving looks. “Mirkwood has not traded with 
us for centuries,” remarked Niradam. “Do you save it for special 
occasions only, then?”

“Just so,” Legolas replied, inclining his head to her.

With a twinkle in his gray eyes that instantly put Legolas on his 
guard, Aragorn said lightly, “Either that or it is too potent for them 
to drink on ordinary occasions.”

The great roar of laughter that swept the Hall drowned out any 
protestations the elf made. Wiping tears from his eyes, Yalc teased, 
“Is that the case, Master Elf?”

Shooting a glare at the sniggering Ranger, Legolas said firmly, “Nay.” 
The men laughed again at his defensive tone.

“Come, come,” Enilosa chided them. “Alagion is an elf, after all. One 
would imagine their tolerance for drink far exceeds that of most 
mortals.”

“ANY mortal, my lady,” Legolas added slyly, grinning at Aragorn at the 
same time.

The Halorrim roared their appreciation of the jibe. Dersten clapped 
his hands. “Aye, I doubt a Ranger has much time for drinking, friend 
Strider. He could easily outlast you.”

“Perhaps, but I would remind him, he is not the first elf whose 
company I have been graced with, and I can assure you that weapons are 
not the only skill I have learnt from his race.”

The wine flagons were already circulating freely, and that combined 
with an abundance of good food made the company quite merry: elf and 
Rangers included. Kartzel shook his head. “I don’t think there are 
many men who could drink with an elf. But if there are, we’d find them 
in a place where wine is a way of life!”

Many of the men pounded their tables in agreement. Aragorn raised his 
eyebrows at them and jerked his head at Legolas. “I fear, gentlemen, 
that our immortal friend is somewhat skeptical of your claim. What say 
you, Alagion, could you hold your own with a wineman of Haloel?”

Mildly, the elf replied, “I know not for sure, good Strider, but I 
worry that the men of Haloel would have cause to regret it tomorrow if 
we attempted to find out tonight.”

That did not settle the issue; a collective indignant shout went up 
from the men, and goblets rose in challenge. By this time, many were 
yawning, and the children sent out. Now, Enilosa, Niradam, and Relean, 
Kartzel’s wife, exchanged glances. The Great Hall was briefly silenced 
as the three women rose in unison. “It appears that you gentlemen 
intend to continue this debate well into the night,” Enilosa said, 
“but I think it is time for the ladies of Haloel to retire. Until 
tomorrow, my lords, we take our leave.”

The other women followed their Lady’s lead, and as they passed through 
the doors, Niradam heard her husband say, “Now, where were we?”

Enilosa chuckled, “I fear the business of ruling Haloel shall fall to 
us tomorrow morning, Ladies, for our husbands shall likely be 
indisposed.”

***

Her prediction was already coming true. No sooner had the ladies of 
Haloel departed the room than Yalc called for more food--and even more 
wine. “It seems you must prove your prowess yet again, Master Elf.”

Legolas did not refuse the offered refill of red wine, but cautioned, 
“Take care to remember the last time we held a contest between elves 
and men, my lord.”

Laughter and shouts of challenge were the response, and with a shrug, 
Legolas rose, beckoning for silence. “Then let us begin this revelry 
in the proper manner, friends!” He raised his goblet. “I give you Lord 
Yalc!”

The other men sprang to their feet and joined the toast, “Lord Yalc!” 
and drank with great gusto. 

“Long life and happiness!” toasted Legolas.

“Long life and happiness!” chorused the men.

“Health!” Sarovin added.

“Health!” everyone cried.

“Health and wealth!” corrected Kartzel.

“Health and wealth!”

Aragorn raised his goblet. “Health, wealth, and a steady hand!”

“Hear hear!”

As goblets were refilled, Legolas took a discreet look around. He 
grinned to himself; many of the men were already flushed and blinking 
quite a bit. Tonight promised to be frightfully amusing.

***

Many toasts later…

Aragorn could not recall an occasion when he had imbibed so much, but 
to his relief, he seemed to be keeping pace with Legolas and the 
Halorrim. Meaning to say, he was no more befuddled than they seemed to 
be. 

But as it was, Aragorn was beginning to feel very warm, and a little 
light-headed. Normally, it would take something far more potent to 
phase him, but the sheer volume tonight was threatening to put him in 
his cups. But it seemed that Legolas was not entirely unaffected 
either. “Well, Master Elf, either the reputation of the Eldar as great 
drinkers is faulty or you are falling short of it.”

Legolas drew himself up with rather theatric indignation, “You are not 
exactly a model of sobriety yourself, Man of the West!”

“Aye, Master Strider,” Dersten gleefully waggled a finger at the tipsy 
Ranger. “Your face is a little red!”

Aragorn laughed out loud, “Look who is speaking, friend! You are the 
color of Lord Fompran’s riding gear!”

“Bwahahahaha!” Sarovin flung himself backward in his chair, howling 
with laughter and nodding, gesturing at Dersten’s very flushed face. 

Legolas (still as fair-faced as ever to the irritation of all) raised 
his eyebrows and said blithely, “Judging by the sound of that laugh, 
Master Sarovin is not doing so well himself!”

“Just wait, Alagion, we’ll have you dancing on the tables before the 
night is out!” 

“Not before the rest of you are under the tables!”

“HAH!!!” Yalc attacked one of the platters and brandished a whole 
carrot at Legolas. “The night is yet young; I challenge you to prove 
that intimation before dawn!”

“HAH!!!” Legolas now dove for the platter, and in turn attempted to 
wield a banana in response. “I accept--” unfortunately he squeezed too 
hard, and with a sound like the squelch of a boot in a mud puddle, the 
banana disintegrated and emptied its filling all over the prince’s 
hand. “Oh, ah…”

“SO!! A model of sobriety, are you?!” demanded Aragorn, pointing and 
directing the laughter of all at the chagrinned elf.

“All right, all right, enough of that nonsense!” Dersten scolded them. 
“We’ve many yet to be honored with toasts tonight!”

Sarovin slammed the table so hard the dishes shook. “Very true!” He 
sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. “My lords! I give you 
Castellan Dersten!”

Goblets were thrust wildly into the air. “Castellan Dersten!”

“Captain of the guard!”

“First oaf of the army!”

Dersten choked on his wine and stared accusingly about the room. “Who 
said that?!” 

None confessed, and then Yalc sprang to his feet. “I give you Kartzel, 
the Wine Minister!”

“To the Wine Minister!”

“To the Wine Monster!”

“The Wine Mister!”

“The Wine Minstrel!”

“The Wine Spinster!”

“WHAT?! Now wait just a sodding minute!”

“Sotting is right!”

“I said ‘sodding,’ you moron!”

If Aragorn had been as observant as usual, he would have noticed that 
Legolas was now growing flushed and laughing quite helplessly at the 
exchange. “Wait a moment,” the elf protested, nearly knocking his 
goblet over. “Aren’t we supposed to be toasting Lord Yalc?”

Yalc jumped up (knocking his chair over) “Why should you get to have 
all the fun!? To Dersten!”

“To Dersten!”

“To Kartzel!”

“To Dersten and Kartzel!”

“To Kartzel and Dersten!”

“To both of ‘em together!”

“Huh?”

“To Sarovin, the Lord’s Visor!”

“That’s AD visor, schtupid!” 

“Him too!”

“To Yalc’s wife!”

“Yeah, to Niradam!”

This time Dersten spit his wine right out. “Now WAIT just a minute!” 
He brandished a large drumstick and began waggling it vigorously at 
Yalc, splattering gravy everywhere. “Just beclause yer the lord of 
Hawowell now doesin mean you can have my wife!”

“What makes ya think he hasn’t already?” someone said.

“Now JUST a minute!” Yalc jumped up (knocking his chair over yet 
again). “I am a man of under! There is nothing between me and your 
wife, Kartzel--Dersten--whoever is married to Niradam!”

Kartzel sleepily raised his head from the table, raising a hand, “Uh, 
that would be me!”

Dersten jumped up again, “Now WAIT a mimint! Everbody stop trying to 
claim my wife! You cand have her! She is MY wife! We are lawflully 
married and I am her hubband and she is my wife! Karzell is married to 
Releeeennn, Yalc is married to…to…whatsername….did I mention that 
Niradam is MY wife?!” 

“Yes yes yes, don’t get your bifurcated leg coverings in a twist!” 
Legolas said in disgust.

All activity at the table ceased. Aragorn spoke for them all when he 
turned incredulously to the elf and said, simply, “What?!”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, we’re not making any pwogwess here!” Sarovin said, gesturing 
vigorously for more wine. “If he can come up with a statement like 
bliffergated leg--somethings, he’s way too sober! So, Master Elf, I’m 
sure you can sip with the best of them, but can you toss?”

“Ahhhhhh!” all the company scrambled to refill their goblets. Legolas 
was not about to be branded a coward, and he and Aragorn filled theirs 
right to the brim (neither managing to avoid spilling.)

Yalc splashed his too much and was obliged to drain the rest of it and 
refill it again. When he rose, the new Lord of Haloel found himself 
quite unsteady on his feet. He lofted his goblet and declared, “To 
good food!”

“To good company!”

“To women!”

“To women in haylofts!”

“Kartzel, behave yourself!”

“One can be married and still enjoy oneself!”

“Does he?”

“Have you seen his wife? I’d enjoy myself!”

“Now WAIT a minute--”

“Do NOT start that again!” Aragorn exclaimed, hurling a chunk of bread 
that bounced of Kartzel’s brow.

Kartzel looked up. “I think the ceiling’s falling in!”

“Pay attention!” Yalc ordered, banging the table. “Bottoms up!”

“Bottoms what?”

“That means drink the whole glass, you stupid wood elf!”

“Oh.” Legolas eyed the full goblet.

Aragorn grinned wickedly at him. “What’s wrong, friend, you can sip 
but not slug?”

“Go on, Alagion, down in one gulp!”

“In this I think Strider will match him!”

“We shall see!”

“On the count of three, friends!” Sarovin ordered, and all eyes were 
focused on elf and Ranger. “Onnnnne…twoooooo…” there was a long pause, 
“…was I saying something?”

“NOW!!!” several of the others yelled at once, and Legolas and Aragorn 
began gulping their wine in earnest. Eyes watering, faces flushed, 
they swilled while the men shouted encouragement.

As it happened, both elf and man lowered their goblets from their 
mouths at the exact same time (they also had equally-stained upper 
lips, giving each the appearance of a red moustache.) The Halorrim 
looked eagerly from one to the other. Aragorn’s eyes were still 
watering and he was trying in vain to control his coughs, but he 
nodded firmly when one of the others inquired after his health. “And 
what of you, Master Alagion?” asked Yalc.

Legolas, to Aragorn’s utter disgust, appeared barely phased. His eyes 
had stopped watering and he was not coughing. In fact, Aragorn was 
convinced that the elf hadn’t been affected at all until Legolas 
opened his mouth. “Well…” it came out as a squeak worthy of an 
irritated mouse.

The entire place erupted into guffaws as Legolas cursed 
furiously--then the elf decided the only cure was more wine, and the 
flagons went around again. Whatever satisfaction Aragorn had derived 
from Legolas’s embarrassing little reaction was lost by the fact that 
he was growing too dizzy to sit up straight (or what his loopy senses 
perceived as straight at the time.) To the eyes of the others, the 
younger Ranger was already slumped well down in his chair, and he had 
not noticed that his elbows had dropped below the tabletop.

“Slo, Mashter Owf,” Kartzel was saying, blinking rapidly. “Whaddaya 
s’pose would happen if we had a shooting contest in here ride now?”

Legolas regarded the drunk man solemnly for a moment, then threw his 
head back and burst into a peal of laughter. “Ai! I wouldn--I 
wouldna--I don’t recommend it, Master Karzel; we’d kill someone!” He 
raised one eyebrow and grinned at Aragorn. “On the other hand, I think 
Strider’s already dead!”

Forcing himself upright with an effort, Aragorn pointed a finger right 
into the elf’s face. “Nod quide yet! And I’ve outlashted plenty of 
peoples so far!” He gestured limply around the Hall, and it was true; 
more than half of the men were passed out on table and floor.

“Very true; you’re doing admirrarably well, Striper!” Yalc said, 
clapping the Ranger on the back. Then his face changed, and he 
observed, “Wish I could say the same for myself,” right before 
toppling back into his seat, dead to the world. 

Legolas was practically shrieking with laughter. “Striper! He called 
you Striper! I’m gonna call you Striper!”

Aragorn folded his arms and scowled fiercely at the elf. “If you even 
thing aboud id I’m gonna box your ears!”

“Fah! You’re so drung you couldin find my ears!” Legolas said with a 
loud snort. He raised a hand with a flourish, “How many fingers am I 
holdin up?”

Without looking, Aragorn replied, “Seventeen!”

“Fourteen!” guessed Kartzel.

“One?” offered Dersten.

“Mrmph,” said Sarovin without lifting his head from where it rested on 
the crook of his elbow.

“Close enough,” Legolas said. 

Just then there was a knock on the door. One of the heralds entered 
timidly. “Ah, my lords…” his eyes were incredulous as he took in the 
unconscious or nearly-there bodies scattered about the Great Hall. 
“Lady Enilosa is enquiring after her husband.”

The remaining survivors at the head table exchanged looks. “Well, 
THERE he is!” Aragorn said dramatically. Leaping upon the table, he 
declared with a great sweeping gesture, “My lords and ladies, I give 
you the Lord of Haloel!”

His feet on the table, his arms draped past the rests, his head 
lolling back with his mouth wide open, Yalc responded as though on 
cue. 

He began to snore.

The servant nodded hastily and left even faster. For some reason, 
Aragorn decided that was worthy of another toast and jumped down, 
refilling goblets. “Long life and appleness!”

“Ear ear!” The goblets were downed with gusto, the remaining drinkers 
congratulating themselves at still being in the game.

“Hic!

Everyone looked around. “Who was that?”

Hic!

“That you, Leg--ah, I mean Alagion?”

“Of course not! Elves don’t hiccup!” Hic!

Aragorn thumped the table and turned a level (or not) stare at 
Legolas. “I think that was you.”

Resting an elbow on the table and plunking his chin onto his hand, the 
elf replied, “Don’ be ridickilous, Striper--HIC!”

“Bwaahhaaaa!!” Dersten and Kartzel gleefully pointed. “It’s the owf! 
It’s the owf!”

“It is--hic!--not!” 

“Here, lemme help!” Kartzel offered, and dealt Legolas a fierce slap 
on the back that nearly smashed the elf into the table. “Did thad 
work?”

“Ooooh, yes, thank you, Kartzel. Who needs unbroken ribs anyway?”

“Hah!” Aragorn jumped onto his chair. “Not so invinslible as you think 
you are, eh, Elf? Can’t even keep from gedding the higgups--whaaaa!!!” 
As top-heavy as he felt by then, the Ranger’s balance failed and he 
and his chair toppled over with a great crash. 

With a yelp of alarm, Legolas, Kartzel, and Dersten scrambled over 
toppled chairs and drunken bodies to the pile of arms, legs, and chair 
that was Aragorn. “A Elbweth,” Legolas remarked. “That’s the end of 
him! Does that mean I win?”

“Not so fast, not so fast!” Kartzel exclaimed. “We’re still here!” He 
grabbed a half-full goblet and downed the whole thing in a few gulps. 
That proved one gulp too many for the wineman, and he simply keeled 
over on the spot.

Legolas and Dersten watched him gravely. With a heavy sigh, Dersten 
remarked, “That’s one against the owf. Dunno if I like those odds. So. 
Now what?”

The elf regarded the room full of drunk carcasses. “I sup--sup--guess 
it wouldn’ be very fidding for the ladies to find us this way in the 
morning.” 

Dersten wrinkled his nose. “That means we’ve got to get everyone to 
bed! Ourselves!”

With a shrug, Legolas replied, “You got the glory, you gotta take the 
little heartaches that go with it.”

“Right!”

Most of the men--with sufficient prodding and cold water--roused 
enough to walk to their quarters on their own. Yalc had to be carried. 
A few buckets awoke Aragorn and Sarovin, and Legolas said, “Come on, 
you lazy mortals, up!”

“Is it morning already?” Sarovin grumbled.

Legolas laughed and turned to shake Aragorn awake. “On your feet, 
Dúnadan! You can’t lie here all night!”

“Leave off!” the younger Ranger exclaimed, waving his arms drunkenly 
to shoo the elf away.

Grinning at Dersten, the prince began slapping Aragorn’s cheeks and 
did not desist until the man staggered to his feet. “Awake, you sotted 
mortal! Do not tell me you’re too feeble to make it to your chamber!”

Aragorn shoved him back. “Feeble, eh? I’ll show you--ooooh!” He 
staggered dangerously and both Legolas and Dersten were forced to grab 
him.

“Better get him out of here,” the Castellan advised, and slung 
Sarovin’s arm over his shoulder. Legolas did likewise with Aragorn, 
and so the four staggered, laughing hysterically, from the Great Hall. 
Halfway there, Aragorn began singing, and soon they formed a drunken 
quartet as they lurched into walls and tripped over their own (and 
each other’s) feet. 

“Ah, here we are!” Dersten stumbled into a closed door and held 
Sarovin up with one arm while fumbling at the door handle with the 
other. At last the door opened, and the two men lurched inside with a 
crash. 

“Put him down gently!” Legolas giggled.

There was a loud thud and a grunt in response, then Dersten stumbled 
back out, laughing. “I’ll w-w-wager he won’t stir until afternoon! 
Come!” The man grabbed Aragorn’s other arm. “Let’s get this one to 
bed!” They both laughed as Aragorn mumbled something unintelligible in 
response. “I must congratulate you, Master Owf! You outlasted both 
Rangers and most of our people!”

Legolas laughed out loud and nearly knocked them all into the wall. 
“Of COURSE I did! Wait, we’re here!”

It took the elf several tries to get the latch open, but at last the 
two hauled the Ranger into his quarters. They unceremoniously 
deposited Aragorn on his bed, then tiptoed (loudly) from the room. 
“Well,” Legolas observed, leaning heavily against the wall and 
grinning broadly, “Seems you and I were the only ones to survive the 
night!”

“You’ve proven your prowress, sir, make no mistake!” Dersten agreed, 
clapping the elf on the back so hard that he nearly knocked him over. 
“A good night to you!”

Legolas stumbled, giggling to himself, to his own chamber. “I win!” he 
crowed, and collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed.

***

The next day…

Aragorn did not stir until well after noon, and only then because the 
angle of the sun cast an agonizing beam right through the window onto 
his face. Heaving a groan, he rolled over to escape it--and landed on 
the floor. With a savage curse, he forced his eyes open. He felt as 
though the front of his skull had been beaten with a meat mallet, 
along with the brains within. His eyes felt gritty, his mouth felt 
like cotton, and no amount of water on his face could relieve the 
sensation that his entire head was made of sludge.

Forcing himself to wash and put on fresh clothes, the Ranger supposed 
he could not immure himself in his chamber all day (no matter how 
badly he desired to.) *Be a man, Estel, it is your own fault. Your 
bravado got the better of your good sense, trying to drink with an elf 
and winemen of Haloel.*

There was no escaping the amusement the others were probably going to 
have at his expense. So with a half-sigh, half-groan, the heir of 
Isildur shoved the door open and trudged into the corridor. He ducked 
to escape the light coming from an outer window, thinking, *I will 
show me face outside my room, but cave trolls could not drag me 
outside this building before the sun goes down!*

A door thudded open nearby and Aragorn winced at the noise. Out 
staggered Haloel’s newly-appointed Castellan, his garments rumpled, 
his hair unkempt, and his eyes almost as bloodshot as Aragorn’s. 
Seeing the Ranger, Dersten grumbled hoarsely, “This is a fine start to 
the government, wouldn’t you say?”

Aragorn started to nod, and had to grab the wall, for even that small 
motion set his head spinning and his stomach protesting violently. 
“Not just the government,” he croaked.

If Dersten looked sympathetic, Aragorn could not tell, for he was too 
busy trying to keep himself upright and his stomach from sloshing. But 
the other man did offer a steadying hand, and then said, “Ah, well, 
we’d best get the day started. At least all the others will be facing 
the music as well.*

“Thank the Valar for that,” Aragorn groaned.

As Dersten predicted, the Great Hall was full of late-rising Halorrim, 
all of whom were decidedly the worse for a night’s drinking. There was 
very little food being eaten--most of the men just stared at it as 
though it were the essence of evil. Aragorn and Dersten took their 
places at the head table with the equally-afflicted Sarovin, Kartzel, 
and Yalc. When a servant offered them a platter of sausage, the entire 
company turned green and Yalc waved it hastily away. Burying his face 
in his arms, the young lord groaned, “I think that was my wife’s idea 
of a joke.”

Kartzel grunted in agreement, “Of all the foods I wouldn’t want after 
a night of drunken revelry, sausage is definitely the most 
nauseating.” He got a round of groans and curses from the others for 
even mentioning it by name.^

Sarovin roused himself enough to ask, “Where’s Alagion?”

Aragorn looked around before putting his head down again. “No idea. 
Perhaps even his elvish tolerance for wine could not handle last 
night. Ooohh…”

In spite of their misery, most of the men smiled. “Nice thought, that 
Haloel wine could exceed an elf’s capacity. Now THAT would make today 
far easier to endure!” proclaimed Dersten.

Just then the sound of singing floated through a window. Many of the 
men moaned and covered their ears, but Aragorn cursed savagely. Among 
the voices of many of the ladies of Haloel, he clearly discerned the 
voice of Legolas, raised in merry song. “Curse him and his elvish 
stamina! He’s been up for hours!”

The door of the Great Hall opened. Mockingly. And there stood Legolas, 
as bright and alert as ever, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement as 
he took in the sorry sight. “Ah, you’re all up at last!”

Then he had to close the door quickly to avoid being pelted by a rain 
of rolls, sausages, and fruit thrown by spiteful and hung-over men. 
Through the nearly-closed door, a disgustingly smug elvish voice 
declared, “Being a winner, I give you all a good morrow, gentlemen!” 
The men all cursed as the sound of laughter faded down the hall.

“A plague on that pointy-eared tree squirrel!” someone muttered. All 
the others just voiced their agreement by groaning.

***

By evening, the men of Haloel had recovered sufficiently to get down 
to business, though most of them were still a little foggy-headed. All 
the ladies had been greatly amused when Legolas had risen that 
morning, appearing none the worse for wear while the rest of the men 
had yet to budge. Actually, in all fairness, Legolas could not claim 
to have been completely unaffected. He’d slept far later than usual; 
on a normal day, the elf would have been up at dawn. And for the first 
half of the day at least, he had to admit that he’d felt a little…off. 

Still, he had been nowhere near as incapacitated as the mortals, and 
had enjoyed more than his share of laughs at their expense when they 
had finally dragged their carcasses from bed. *I warned them they 
would regret it today if they tried to out-drink me!*

At the moment, they were seated in the Great Hall where Lord Yalc was 
preparing to pronounce his judgement on the loyalist soldiers who had 
been taken prisoner in the battle. Yalc too looked much-improved since 
Legolas had seen him last, and sat straight and dignified in the seat 
of Haloel. 

Beside Legolas, the heir of Isildur also seemed somewhat more in the 
land of the living, though he kept glaring at the prince--who 
delighted in smiling right back at him. “You’re lucky the rest of us 
were in no condition to fight, or you’d be dead by now,” Aragorn 
growled.

Casting wide, innoent eyes at the Ranger, Legolas protested, “I did 
warn you all, did I not? I warned you that none of you could meet my 
capacity!”

“One day I’ll see you in this state, and laugh at your suffering!”^

“Hah! Do not excite anticipation, Dunadan. There is not a mortal on 
the face of the earth who could drink me under the table!”^

A bell rang, signaling Lord Yalc’s readiness to begin. Only about 
thirty of Fompran’s soldier’s had been taken alive; the rest were dead 
or fled. Under the watchful gaze of Castellan Dersten, the guards led 
the prisoners before Lord Yalc. The young lord regarded them, his 
brown eyes thoughtful. “The families of the men lost to your forces 
think I should execute you all. For those deaths, the lost homes and 
livelihoods Haloel suffered, I would be well within my rights to do 
it.”

The soldiers exchanged anxious glances. Legolas, Aragorn, and the 
Halorrim observed Yalc as he deliberated their fate. Yalc’s eyes 
briefly met Legolas’s, and the prince smiled ever so slightly. He 
suspected he knew what the Lord of Haloel’s decision would be. 

The young man spoke again. “All the same, I know you were acting under 
the orders of your superiors. They may have been highly unjust orders, 
but the decisions were theirs, not yours.” Gazing upon each of the men 
in turn, he continued, “So I will not order your deaths. I will not 
begin my rule here as the previous lord ended it: with bloodshed. 
Therefore the sentence of death is commuted. But,” his eyes narrowed, 
“nor will I permit the troubles you brought upon our people to go 
unpunished.”

The soldiers looked at each other. Yalc rose and proclaimed, “Haloel 
and her people are beginning a new life. But you shall not be a part 
of it. You shall all be escorted separately, with rations and gear, 
beyond our borders, and released. Any who attempt to return to Haloel 
or trouble our people shall receive the death sentence. If you are 
wise, you shall seek refuge elsewhere.” Nodding to Dersten, the lord 
of Haloel ordered, “Take them away. See that they are out of Haloel 
before sundown.”

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged a grin. The Halorrim had chosen well. 
After the soldiers had been removed, Dersten ordered, “Bring out the 
last prisoner!”

From outside the door, nasal cries of “Get your hands off me, 
peasants!” could be heard. Legolas covered his mouth to hide his 
laughter. The doors opened, and three guards hauled the 
loudly-protesting ex-lord Fompran into the Great Hall. When they 
halted him before Lord Yalc, the fat man cried, “Release me at once! I 
am the rightful Lord of Haloel, and I demand--”

“Be silent, Fompran, or I shall order you gagged!” Yalc snapped. One 
of the guards cuffed Fompran for good measure. Rising, Yalc gazed at 
the former lord with undisguised contempt. “You may have been ruler of 
Haloel by birthright, but your abuse of your power showed you unfit 
for the position.”

His face almost purple, Fompran screeched, “Who are you to question my 
methods, farmer?!”

One of the guards moved to strike him, but Yalc motioned the man back. 
Legolas noted with interest how automatically the guard obeyed the new 
lord. Yalc leaned across the table and said in a steely voice, “I was 
a citizen of Haloel then, entitled to have my voice heard. But you 
would not hear us. Now I am Lord of Haloel, and I shall decide what 
punishment those ‘methods’ of yours merit.”

“You’ve no right to judge--mmph!” this time the threat of gagging 
Fompran was carried out.

Calmly, Yalc said, “The wishes and needs of your people went unheard, 
Fompran. But I shall not make that mistake. Now your fate is in their 
hands.” Turning his gaze to the assembled Halorrim, the Lord 
announced, “This man’s decisions led to much suffering for all of you. 
In this case, I shall carry out whatever sentence you desire. If you 
seek his death, you shall have it. If you call for mercy, he shall 
have it. Take him back to his cell while his people decide his fate.” 
Squirming and grunting, Fompran was hauled out.

Yalc sat down and beckoned for the Halorrim to speak. One woman rose 
to speak first. “My husband is dead because of that man. An eye for an 
eye, I say, execute him!”

“Death’s too good for him!”

“What other punishment is there?”

“Lock him up forever!”

“I don’t want him in Haloel! And I sure don’t want us to have to feed 
him!”

“We could banish him, too.”

“Ha! I’d like to see him try to walk to another kingdom!” 

A young man rose and said, “Lord Yalc is right; we should not begin 
our new life by shedding blood. Exile would be good enough for him.”

“Think he’d go?”

“Fompran’s a coward; he’d take any sentence if death was the only 
alternative.”

“Shall we vote on it then, Lord Yalc?”

The Lord inclined his head. “If that is how you wish to settle the 
matter, we shall have a show of hands. What shall the choices be?”

“Exile or death!” Judging by the cries of agreement, those seemed to 
be the only two options any wished to consider. 

Yalc nodded. “Very well. Sarovin, if you would tally the score? The 
vote shall be for exile, or for death, or neither, if you choose not 
to participate at all.” The people nodded in turn. “All those who 
desire a sentence of death for Fompran, raise your hands.”

A few dozen hands went up and were duly counted by Sarovin. “All those 
who wish a sentence of exile, raise your hands.” This time there was a 
clear majority. Legolas and Aragorn noticed with interest that there 
seemed little rancor from those who had voted for the harsher 
punishment. Yalc maintained a neutral expression, but Legolas 
suspected he was much more at ease with this decision. “Bring in the 
prisoner, Dersten.”

Fompran was glaring daggers around him when the guards dragged him 
back in. Yalc stood up. “Your people have pronounced sentence, 
Fompran. You are to be exiled. Perhaps it is more merciful than you 
deserve, but such is their will. You shall be escorted beyond our 
lands, and released, to make your way wherever you choose, but never 
return here again.”

Folding his arms pompously, Fompran snarled, “And who’s going to stop 
me.”

“I am!” snapped Dersten, drawing his sword and resting the tip below 
the man’s chin. 

Fompran gulped. Yalc smiled slightly. “The choice is entirely yours, 
Fompran. Exile, or death.”

Fompran’s eyes darted from Yalc to Dersten to Sarovin to the rest of 
the Halorrim. Even the most dense person could see that the threat was 
not made idly. The fat man gulped again, which everyone correctly took 
to mean he had chosen exile. Lord Yalc smiled again. “Dersten, escort 
our former lord out of our lands.”

“With pleasure, my lord!” Fompran was hustled out amid the gleeful 
jeers of his former subjects.

***

A week or two later…

Now came a parting much less looked forward to by the Halorrim. Yalc, 
Dersten, and Sarovin saw to it that Legolas and Aragorn had all the 
provisions and gear they would need, but on the day they were to 
depart, the leaders of Haloel made one last appeal to the travelers to 
change their minds. 

In the privacy of Yalc’s study, the friends talked. “I had accepted 
that Master Legolas would have to leave us in time,” Yalc said. “But 
surely you might tarry a little longer,” he addressed Aragorn. “Haloel 
would greatly benefit from your leadership, my lord.”

Aragorn was obviously discomfited by Yalc and Dersten’s knowledge of 
his true identity. “I’m but an heir in exile, friend, I hardly rate 
that title.” 

Yalc sighed inwardly, wishing he could think of a way to persuade the 
son of Arathorn to stay. The young lord of Haloel felt equally 
unprepared for the government of his people, but when called by them, 
he had not refused. Surely the rightful king of Gondor would feel some 
sense of duty during these uncertain times. Why then did he wander the 
wild when his people--all of them--needed him?

Sarovin was less adamant than the other two, but he said carefully, 
“There is much you could teach these people, Aragorn.”

His tone regretful, but firm, the Ranger replied, “Perhaps, or perhaps 
not so much as they would like to think. To build a strong province 
under its own rule, you are more than capable, Yalc. You know your 
people’s craft and trade, and you have their trust and faith. You do 
not need my help.”

Legolas remained quiet through much of the conversation, but listened 
with thoughtful gray eyes. Yalc wondered (as always) what was going on 
in that elf’s head. So many times, the young man had come across the 
prince standing alone upon the wall, his face turned eastward. Yet 
among company, Legolas’s bright eyes betrayed little of his mind. When 
Sarovin had learned of “Alagion’s” true identity, the ex-Ranger had 
laughed out loud, saying, “Now that explains a great many things!”

To Yalc, it only added to the mystery. Were all elves so inscrutable? 
Or was this Prince Legolas somehow different from others of his race? 
*I suppose until I have met another elf, it shall remain a mystery.*

But as for the other problem, no amount of persuading could convince 
Aragorn to remain in Haloel. After noon, the Ranger brought the 
discussion to a close. “I know you wish to argue further, my friends, 
but the road is long, and I should like to make a start before 
sunset.”

Exchanging resigned glances, Yalc, Dersten, and Sarovin rose. “Then we 
wish you a safe journey, Aragorn and Legolas,” said Yalc. “You have 
been true friends to us all. Come, we shall see you to the gates.”

It seemed that all of Haloel turned out to see their foreign heroes 
off. At the gates, the elf and Ranger clasped arms with Yalc, Dersten, 
Kartzel, and Sarovin in turn, then mounted their horses. “Farewell, 
Strider and Alagion!” Yalc declared (with a barely-perceptible wink.) 
“You shall always be welcome in Haloel!”

Waving to the Lord of Haloel, his council, and his cheering people, 
Aragorn and Legolas rode out of the castle gates and into the hills. 
The Halorrim watched until the two travelers were out of sight. “I 
hope they come back some day,” Kartzel said.

Yalc smiled. “Whether they come here again or no, somehow I don’t 
think that’s the last time we’ll be hearing of that particular elf and 
Ranger.”

***

The elf and Ranger in question rode until they were close to Haloel’s 
northern border, where the rolling hills began changing to the steeper 
foothills of the Misty Mountains. There they made camp upon an open 
hilltop as the sun set. Bringing some food to their campfire, Aragorn 
seated himself beside Legolas. “So, Master Elf, what do you intend to 
do now?”

“Do?” Legolas looked at the Ranger in confusion.

Aragorn grinned, “Well, you are hardly in my debt anymore. You are 
free to return home if you wish.”

The elf blinked, then chuckled. He had obviously become so used to 
being in Aragorn’s company that he had given the matter of his 
destination beyond Haloel little thought. A flicker of indecision--and 
doubt--showed in the prince’s bright eyes. Turning his gaze to the 
dark plains that stretched eastward beyond the hills, Legolas asked, 
“What do you intend to do?”

*Still being evasive--or perhaps you truly don’t know.* “I am 
returning home, to Rivendell. It has been some time since I have seen 
my father and brothers. I’ve no doubt you are welcome in the House of 
Elrond,” he added on impulse. *Since the longer we travel together, 
the better my chance of learning what drove you from Mirkwood, my 
friend.*

It pleased--but did not surprise--the Ranger when Legolas looked back 
at him and said, “I had no particular destination in mind, and I 
should be glad to see Imladris again.” With a mischievous twinkle in 
his eyes, the elf added, “So if you can bear to travel with me a 
little longer, I will accompany you.”

Aragorn laughed. “I will endure it somehow.” They both chuckled. 
Handing Legolas his share of meat, bread, and fruit for their dinner, 
Aragorn asked, “Are you well acquainted with my fa--that is, Lord 
Elrond?”

Legolas nodded. “I have often seen him on his visits to Mirkwood, and 
when I was last in Imladris.” Something in the elf’s tone told Aragorn 
that the prince was speaking to himself as well as his companion when 
Legolas murmured, “I should be glad to meet Lord Elrond again.”



*****

(No, I did not spell ‘Counsel’ wrong!)

^These little comments were nods of my own--not to mention 
foreshadows--for another little “mortals vs. elf” drinking bout 
Legolas will have in the future. To find out how our favorite elf 
fared in THAT round, check out “The Hunting Trip” by Ithilien. It 
ranks highly on my recommended list, along with all her works. 

A/N: To those of you who may have missed it, I promised you a ficlet 
some time ago about Legolas and his friends’ childhood escapade in the 
dungeons. The first chapter is now posted. It’s called “Oh The Places 
We’ll Go.” Thanks who all who read and reviewed it, and those who 
didn’t, I should mention that the events in it are closely related to 
some of the things in this chapter. It’s not required reading, but it 
would help.

I know there are some continuity errors concerning Silivren’s age and 
also how old Legolas was when his mother died. I originally said he 
was five, then realized elves age slower than people (duh!) so I made 
it fifty-five, then realized I had him aging too slow. So it’s still 
wrong. Just bear with me and one of these days between school and work 
I’ll go back and fix it. Thanks!





Chapter Twenty-Three: The Counsel of Elrond







Legolas soon learned that Aragorn’s invitation to continue traveling 
together had an ulterior motive. “The finest warriors in Imladris have 
taught me to fight, and you bested me with ease. I should like to 
learn the techniques of the warriors of Mirkwood.”

They were in no great hurry, so often they made camp before sundown 
and spent an hour or two at weapons practice. “Glorfindel taught you 
the sword, did he not?” Legolas asked after an especially rough bout 
(in which Aragorn spent most of his time being knocked down and 
disarmed.)

Rubbing a bruised shoulder, the Ranger nodded. “He did. Elladan and 
Elrohir as well, but they prefer the bow.”

“That explains it. Glorfindel likes to make a stand, whether you are 
an army or a lone fighter.”

“I would not have considered that a flaw, or at least not until now,” 
Aragorn remarked wryly. 

Legolas smiled. “Most often it is not, especially against men. You 
would do well against most mortal foes, for the average swordsman 
advances head-on. In Mirkwood, we are taught differently. We are 
taught to move.”

“I move!” Aragorn protested.

“Not enough. Swift feet can be as great an advantage as strong arms. 
Come,” the elf tossed down his sword and beckoned to the man. “Use you 
hands only, and move!” Aragorn then found himself frantically trying 
to parry and dodge fist blows from Legolas. The elf almost seemed to 
flit around him, landing slightly pulled punches to show how easily he 
could penetrate the Ranger’s defenses. Legolas laughed as Aragorn 
grunted in his effort to hold his elven opponent off. “Move, human! 
Treat it as a dance!”

Slowing down a bit, Legolas gave the man more room to adjust to the 
new method. Sensing Aragorn growing more accustomed to moving his 
feet, he picked up the pace, only to knock the man flat again. 
Stifling another laugh, the prince stopped. “Let us try something 
else. Do not fight. Simply try to face me at all times. You must be 
able to turn in enough time to block an attack.”

Aragorn grimaced, “I wonder if trying this technique while lacking the 
speed of an elf is hopeless.”

“I think not,” replied Legolas. “I suspect there are few fighting 
methods you could not master, Aragorn. Come, let us begin at the 
beginning.”

Bolstered by the encouragement, Aragorn returned to the game of simply 
trying to move as quickly as Legolas. The wood elf was so quick that 
he seemed almost to disappear and reappear at first, but gradually, 
the Ranger found himself anticipating the maneuvers. “That is better. 
Shall we spar again?” Legolas offered.

“Bare hands,” said Aragorn, wiping his brow. “So I may concentrate 
still on the movements.”

“As you wish. Guard!” Legolas moved in, ducking and dodging around the 
Ranger in an effort to pass his defenses. But Aragorn was definitely 
improving, and after several minutes, they both noted that the elf was 
landing far fewer hits. “Now attack! Try to move as I do!”

Aragorn came at him rapidly, dodging from side to side and ducking the 
elf’s counter-attacks as he tried to outmaneuver Legolas. The prince 
spun, moving always to keep his eyes on his opponent or parrying on 
instinct. The human was certainly picking up elvish skill faster than 
one would expect though he was still no match for L--

POW!!! A fist slipped past the elf’s defending arm and connected with 
Legolas’s jaw. The next thing he knew, Legolas found himself sitting 
rather stupefied on the ground, with stars dancing in his vision. For 
a moment, he could not hear for the ringing in his ears, then he heard 
a strangled sound. Shaking his head hard, he looked up to see the 
Ranger standing over him, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “I 
think I’m getting the hang of it.”

Mustering a rather painful (and sheepish) grin, Legolas answered, “I 
am hardly in a position to disagree.”

***

After another week of traveling, Legolas no longer had to handicap 
himself to give Aragorn an even chance. The Ranger was elated the 
first time he bested the prince at swords--still more when subsequent 
victories prevented Legolas from shrugging it off as luck. But all in 
all, Legolas accepted defeats with surprisingly good grace, far more 
than even some Imladris elves. This was odd, considering what Aragorn 
knew of the wood elves’ reputation for intense pride. On one such 
occasion, he took the opportunity to comment on it, “You accept defeat 
unusually well, Master Elf.”

Pausing from rubbing a bruised collarbone, Legolas blinked at him. “I 
hope so. Did you expect me to take it with ill grace?” 

Aragorn laughed, raising his hands. “Nay, but I do confess most of 
your kindred tend to be affronted at being beaten by a mere mortal.”

Legolas laughed in turn, nodding his agreement. “Very likely, I admit. 
But you had skill to spare when we first met, and you have learned my 
ways well; I can have no cause to reproach you for using them.”

“No belief that the student shall not defeat the master?” Aragorn 
jested.

A shadow crossed the prince’s bright eyes, so swiftly that Aragorn 
almost wondered if he had imagined it. But Legolas’s words said 
otherwise, and they puzzled the Ranger. “I am no master.” Then the 
twinkle was back, and Legolas grinned at him, “Nor are you any ‘mere’ 
mortal Ranger, heir of Isildur.”

“I am but a mere Ranger,” Aragorn told him. “Do not try to make me 
more than I am.”

The elf’s eyes turned serious. “All Middle Earth is imperiled by the 
Enemy’s return to power, and the people of Gondor are scattered, 
leaderless. If Sauron should begin moving, they will be helpless to 
defend themselves. How long do you mean to hide away in exile? Do you 
truly fear facing who you are?”

It came to Aragorn then, the chance to unravel some of the mystery of 
Legolas. He said nothing, merely leveled a silent, searching stare at 
the elf. Legolas had been whetting one of his knives, but his gray 
eyes slowly lifted to meet the man’s. They watched each other’s faces 
for a moment, one aided by elvish perceptions, the other aided by long 
association with elves. Then Legolas lowered his gaze again, as though 
he had just lost a battle between them. When he spoke, his tone was 
soft and resigned. “You are thinking…that before I advise others of 
their troubles, I should first look to my own.”

The elf was exactly right. Aragorn smiled slightly, and said quietly, 
“I knew from our first meeting that you carried many secrets, my 
friend. I cannot help my curiosity. You are a prince of Mirkwood, yet 
you travel by yourself. All your looks say that you long for home, but 
you do not return. It is a rare and sad thing, an elf alone.” Not 
taking his gaze from Legolas’s face, he said earnestly, “We have 
fought together and become friends, in spite of all that our heritage 
might place in the way. Do you still distrust me so?” 

The young elf’s eyes were dark with inner conflict as he stared at the 
campfire. *And I thought Lorien elves were closemouthed!* thought 
Aragorn, but he remained silent, waiting. At last, Legolas sighed 
softly and murmured, “I am not sure that I would be welcomed home if I 
returned.” His eyes flicked to Aragorn’s briefly, as though unsure of 
how much to reveal to his companion, friend or no. But then he 
evidently figured that Aragorn was likely to deduce anything he did 
not say. “You once asked me if I was widely traveled in Middle Earth. 
I am not.”

“No?” The revelation did not surprise Aragorn, but he did not allow 
his tone to show it, nor did he act too surprised. Elves, particularly 
wood elves, did not reveal the secrets of their hearts very easily. 
One wrong word would spook Legolas into closing up again.

The elf shook his head, his eyes still downcast and distant. “I am the 
youngest son of Thranduil, as you probably have guessed,” he added 
with a hint of dry humor. “I am only just come of age.”

Aragorn had known this; the elves of Imladris still talked of 
Legolas’s performance at the Great Gathering Trial thirty-five years 
ago. Legolas went on, “As a novice, I seldom journeyed far from my 
father’s halls. He…” the prince hesitated, his eyes smoldering. Then 
he sighed and continued, “Three of my elder siblings fell in battle 
before my birth. It is that fate that my father…sought to spare me 
when he attempted to delay my departure with the war parties.”

The Ranger listened, his heart full. His own coming of age had been 
the time when Elrond had bestowed upon him the knowledge and rights of 
his heritage. He had also met Arwen that same day. Though life had 
hardly been easy since he had left Rivendell, the memories of his 
coming of age were joyous ones. That for his friend adulthood had 
brought only grief saddened Aragorn. “What did you do?”

“I left without the king’s permission. Our party was gone for more 
than thirty years, and--many things transpired abroad and at home. 
When I returned, we were both changed.” With a faint grimace, Legolas 
added, “Neither for the better. I had barely been back six weeks 
before we quarreled again, and I left.” Raising his eyes to meet 
Aragorn’s, the elf confessed, “We parted on…very ill words. I know not 
if he wishes me back, and fear to find out.” Then he smiled wryly, “It 
was the night I departed that you found me.”

*That explains how you managed to run straight into a spider nest.* 
Aloud, Aragorn asked him, “What do you hope to find in Imladris?”

The humor returned to Legolas’s eyes, “You ask a question to which you 
already know the answer, son of Arathorn. I know Lord Glorfindel well, 
and Lord Elrond is one of the wisest elves I have ever encountered.”

“He will find some way to help you solve these troubles,” Aragorn told 
him sincerely. His faith in his foster-father was great. What Legolas 
faced could not be fought with sword or even magic, but if anyone 
could help him, Elrond could. 

Aragorn had seen many elves suffering and lost under shadow of sorrow, 
but never one so young as this. Even if Legolas had not been willing 
to tell his story, Aragorn could probably have guessed. The elf bore 
weapons with the skill of much practice, but his reaction to the 
people and events of the past months bespoke his naïveté. At times, he 
betrayed an air of utter bewilderment, as one for whom the world was 
changing too swiftly to make sense. It grieved the Ranger. An ordinary 
man might view look at Legolas and see an unearthly, dangerous elf 
warrior, but in Aragorn’s eyes, for all his centuries of life and 
handling of weapons, the youngest prince of Mirkwood had retained a 
strange innocence. Perhaps that was from where his troubles truly 
arose. One such as Legolas would naturally view the world and its 
people very differently from an elf like Thranduil of Mirkwood.

***

Six days later, Lord Elrond and Glorfindel happened to be visiting 
Elladan and Elrohir on watch near the ford of the Bruinen when they 
saw two riders approaching through the trees. “Who is it?” Glorfindel 
asked.

Elladan narrowed his eyes, “I cannot tell for the trees, but they come 
openly. Friends, I would say.” The four waited at the guard post until 
the two appeared on the banks of the river.

“It’s Estel!” Elrohir cried with delight, and leapt from the post, 
running at full speed toward the river. Elladan was only a step behind 
him. “Estel is home!”

Elrond and Glorfindel, though no less glad to see the Lord of 
Rivendell’s foster-son, remained where they were and identified 
Aragorn’s companion. “It’s Legolas,” Glorfindel said quietly.

Lord Elrond sighed, “Thank the Valar. After nearly six months with no 
news, I had begun to worry. I wonder when he fell in with Estel.”

“I know not, but it would explain why we could find no trace of him. 
Young Aragorn has a knack for disappearing into thin air.”

As the elven lords watched, Elladan and Elrohir sprinted across the 
riverbank, not even slowing when they plunged in and splashed towards 
their brother. Aragorn sprang from his horse’s back and sloshed to 
meet them, leaping into their arms. Legolas also jumped down but stood 
where he was, watching the sibling reunion with an amused grin. 
Elrohir tackled Aragorn away from Elladan and dunked him bodily into 
the water, apparently berating him for being so long away from home. 
Elladan joined in, and the human was soon shouting to Legolas for aid, 
while the young prince laughed and replied that he knew better than to 
interfere with brotherly brawls. That prompted both twins to release 
Aragorn and launch themselves at Legolas, who fled for his life and 
nearly made it to the bank before Elladan caught him and hauled him 
into the water.

“That is enough, boys, you are frightening the horses!” Glorfindel 
called with a laugh.

Arm-in-arm, laughing, and thoroughly soaked, the four retrieved 
Aragorn and Legolas’s mounts and returned to dry ground. Elrond 
happily embraced his foster-son. “Welcome home, my son,” the Lord of 
Imladris said. “We have missed you.”

As they walked back toward Rivendell, Glorfindel surreptitiously 
regarded Legolas, walking with Aragorn and the twins. No sooner had 
Glorfindel and Faron returned to Imladris from Mirkwood than word had 
come that Legolas had left after a violent quarrel with King 
Thranduil. Faron had been stricken, and wished to ride at once in 
search of his friend, but Glorfindel had not permitted it. “If Legolas 
wishes your counsel, Faron, he will come here,” the Imladris captain 
had said. “But if he does not, there is no point in searching, for 
Legolas knows all too well how to avoid what he does not wish to 
face.”

Months had passed, with no word or sign of Legolas in any of the elven 
realms. Glorfindel and Elrond had become concerned, fearing that the 
young prince, reckless with anger, might have gotten into trouble. But 
where to look for him? And what to do if they found him? If there was 
one art Legolas had perfected, it was evasion. It would be difficult 
to convince him to talk of anything he did not wish to. Still, the 
fact that he was here…it seemed a good sign. *He knows I am here, and 
that I will have words for him,* thought Glorfindel. *If he truly did 
not wish advice, he would have stayed away from Rivendell. Perhaps 
this is a turning point.*

***

After returning to the House of Elrond and putting on some dry 
clothes, Elrohir met Legolas coming outside, also having dried off. 
“How have you been, Elrohir? It has been too long,” said the prince.

“Indeed it has,” agreed Elrohir, slapping the younger elf 
affectionately on the back. “We are all well in Imladris. My sister is 
in Lothlorien now, and our scouts have had less trouble with orcs in 
recent months.”

“Really?” Legolas’s eyes widened appreciatively. “What caused that 
good fortune?”

Elrohir shrugged, “The Battle of the Five Armies killed many of the 
Misty Mountain orcs. Those who remained foolishly committed themselves 
to attacking Lorien, and you know how many of those survived. If 
nowhere else, the Misty Mountains seem to have fewer foul creatures 
plaguing them.”

“That is a comfort, one I would gladly see in other places as well,” 
said the prince. “Where is Faron?” he looked about as though expecting 
his friend to appear. “Did he not hear I had come?”

The younger son of Elrond shook his head regretfully, “Faron is abroad 
on a hunt. We expect the party back in ten days.”

“Oh,” replied Legolas, looking somewhat disappointed. Still, ten days 
was not so long.

Watching his friend, Elrohir asked, “How are things with you?”

With a little chuckle, Legolas answered, “You needn’t dissemble, my 
friend; you know perfectly well how things have been with me.”

The older elf smiled wryly, “I confess it; we have had many tidings of 
recent events in Mirkwood. But knowing only what happened does not 
tell me how you yourself are.”

Legolas looked out at one of Rivendell’s many waterfalls. In a soft 
voice, he admitted, “I have been better.” Then he looked back at 
Elrohir and smiled, “All the same, I would have been far worse but for 
Aragorn.”

Elrohir grinned, “I am perishing with curiosity on that score. However 
did you two stumble across each other? We expected him back months 
ago. What have you been up to?”

Laughing, Legolas raised his hands defensively, “It was not I who 
waylaid him. Did he not tell you?”

“Something about a labor dispute in Haloel and drunken soldiers. It’s 
true, then? Ha! As if Estel was not good enough at getting into 
trouble on his own. How did you two get mixed up in that?”

“It is a VERY long story!”

***

Mirkwood, that night…

Limloeth leaned against the side of the bridge over the Forest River, 
tossing sticks into the water and watching to see which one came out 
on the other side of the bridge first. Legolas and Tathar had invented 
the game when they were little, calling it--for some never-determined 
reason-- “Poo Sticks.” But every child in Mirkwood had learnt to play 
it, and Limloeth occasionally saw adult elves giving in to the 
temptation.

She was waiting for her father. King Thranduil had gone out with 
several foresters to investigate a blight spreading in the southern 
edges of the realm. To get back to his chamber, he would have to cross 
the bridge. To cross the bridge, he would have to pass her. After the 
disastrous dinnertime attempt at persuading the king to talk about 
Legolas, Limloeth and Berensul had been thoroughly discouraged. They 
had talked on the balcony for a long time. “If you want to just give 
up and go back to Lothlorien, Lim, I do not blame you,” her brother 
had said. 

The thought had certainly been an appealing one. Orthelian had not 
been home a few months before word reached them of Legolas’s 
disappearance. Limloeth had left almost at once to try and wring some 
sense into her father and little brother’s heads. But Thranduil was 
proving to be the only elf in Middle Earth more stubborn than Legolas. 
And his temperament had only worsened over recent years. It was 
unlikely that anything Limloeth said would make him see reason, thus 
little point in staying, yet…

For some strange reason, she had begun to laugh. “Nay, brother, I will 
not leave just because Father is being his usual difficult self. One 
member of this family does enough running away for all of us.”

So now she found herself lying in wait for the king. And if he put her 
off tonight, she would corner him again. And again. And again. Until 
he heard her.

*You and Legolas have enough pride and stubbornness between you to 
stare down Sauron, Father dear,* Limloeth thought. *But now I shall 
practice a little stubbornness of my own, and I shall wear you down 
until this conflict is resolved. There is too much at stake for you 
two to continue quarreling.*

Through the rippling water danced the reflected stars. Limloeth closed 
her eyes. The reflection of the stars reminded her of the Mirror of 
Galadriel just before it had shown her what the future held for Middle 
Earth. And what it held for Legolas. *Until I heard what had passed 
between Legolas and Father, I wondered why the Lady Galadriel showed 
those horrors to me. Curse their foolish pride! They cannot imagine 
what would be lost if Legolas does not play his part in the future!*

She knew not specifically how the rift between king and prince would 
prevent Legolas from aiding in the coming battle against evil, but it 
was enough for her that the Lady Galadriel had said that it would. 
Ever since she had seen the Mirror, a sense of utter dread had filled 
Limloeth whenever she saw or thought of her youngest brother. It was a 
hideous paradox, where Legolas would lose either way. If there was not 
a peace between him and the king, he would not be able to fight in the 
coming war, and all would come to darkness. But if the feud was 
resolved, and Legolas did take on the role Galadriel said he must…

*If my little brother had not an essential part, I should be tempted 
to lock him in a closet until it is over. Ai, Legolas! What horror you 
shall face! Would that there was another way! So long I shall live in 
fear for you!* Trying to distract her troubled mind, she tossed two 
more sticks into the river, gazing absently into the rippling 
starlight without bothering to chase them.

“The elm stick won.”

Limloeth started, and then looked over at King Thranduil, who was 
standing at the foot of the ridge and watching the sticks float by. 
His face was calm, but unreadable. What to say, what to say… “Usually 
the beech wood floats faster.”

“Interesting.” They leaned side-by-side over the stone railing. 
Thranduil picked up a twig from Limloeth’s collection and held it over 
the water, raising his eyebrows at her expectantly. Limloeth took one 
of her own, and simultaneously they dropped the sticks into the 
stream. Looking over the other side of the bridge, Limloeth’s floated 
through first. “Yours wins.”

“Candrochon used to accuse Legolas of cheating,” Limloeth said 
blandly, without taking her eyes of the twigs as they vanished down 
the dark river.

There was a long, silent pause. Limloeth held her breath, waiting for 
Thranduil’s answer. Finally, “How does one cheat at Poo Sticks?”

It was all she could do not to gasp with relief. “I haven’t the 
faintest idea. But Legolas was uncommonly good at it.”

“He and Tathar invented it. I suppose it is not surprising.”

“I should teach it to Silivren.”

“That is a fine idea.” There was another pause. “It used to keep 
Legolas and his friends amused for hours.”

“I remember well. If they were not on the bridge, we knew they were 
getting into trouble.” She smiled at the reflections in the water.

A very quiet and wrenchingly sad chuckle came from the king. Then he 
murmured, “I used to worry about them falling in.”

“I am surprised none of them did.”

“At least none that we know of.”

“We would have heard. Those four imps never could keep secrets.”

“True.” He gave a slow intake of breath. “Legolas least of all.”

Thranduil was silent again. Limloeth still kept her eyes on the stars 
in the water. A moment later, his hand found hers. She turned her face 
and met his eyes. The elven king squeezed his daughter’s hand. “I’ve a 
busy day tomorrow. I must retire.”

Limloeth kissed his cheek. “Good night, Father.”

Then she let him go.

***

King Thranduil could not sleep. At last, he went to his study and 
pulled out a scroll. Feeling a great tension inside, he composed a 
message.

“‘To my son Legolas. I…hope that this letter finds you safe and well. 
It is the third of November. The last war parties have returned, and 
if you had not heard, you will be pleased to know that no warriors 
fell in battle this autumn from any of the elven realms.

“‘Your niece grows more inquisitive and endearing with each passing 
day. She begs to be taught to ride, even though she is not yet tall 
enough to sit a horse. But your brother has promised to teach her as 
soon as she grows enough for it. Limloeth arrived from Lothlorien a 
few weeks ago, and spends much of her time keeping Silivren amused.

“‘I…‘I hope that you are well’--nay, I said that already. ‘You have 
been long away from Mirkwood’…too accusatory.” Thranduil sighed, 
resting his forehead in his hands. After a moment, he took up his pen 
again. He knew what he wished to say, why beat about it so much? “‘I 
wish’…nay, ‘I ask…that you come home. Wherever you are when this 
letter reaches you, I pray that your travels are safe. Until we meet 
again. 

Your Father.’”

With a still-deeper sigh, he rewrote the letter on several other 
scrolls. Then he wrote a message to each of the lords of the other 
elven realms, requesting that they deliver the letter to his son if he 
should pass through. Fixing his seal upon them, he set them with his 
other messages, to be sent from Mirkwood at first light. Then he 
returned to his chamber.

That night, for the first time in months, no foul dreams disturbed his 
sleep.

***

Imladris, the next day…

Legolas leaned against a rail, watching Aragorn and Elladan sparring 
with swords in a courtyard just below him. It was easy to tell that 
Aragorn had been raised with and trained by the sons of Elrond. They 
anticipated each other’s moves, reacting to strokes that had not yet 
been delivered. On the other hand, Aragorn had learnt a few new 
tricks, and Elladan was finding out the hard way. As they attacked and 
parried, swung and dodged, Aragorn suddenly ducked under Elladan’s 
sword, came up behind him, and delivered a disarming blow to his 
foster-brother’s sword arm. Before the elf could react, the man’s 
sword blade was resting lightly against his neck.

“Never thought I’d see the day when I could best you that well,” the 
Ranger said gleefully.

His lips pursed in mock-anger, Elladan said, “You seem to have picked 
up a few wood elf tricks--all right, Legolas, where are you?!”

Bursting into laughter, Legolas waved jauntily at the elven warrior 
from where he stood, then ducked to escape a thrown rock. “Poor 
Elladan seems to be losing his touch if he can be beaten so well by a 
mere mortal--ow!” (That time, Elladan had not missed.)

Aragorn was now doing a mocking imitation behind his foster-brother’s 
back as Elladan was busy shaking his fist at Legolas. Then the older 
elf caught on, whirled around, and tackled Aragorn to the ground, 
while Legolas shouted taunts at them. Both sprang to their feet and 
charged the wood elf, who took off over the nearest bridge. 

After successfully evading his pursuers (both Elladan and Aragorn 
against him were NOT fair odds!) Legolas wandered aimlessly through 
Rivendell. The village itself seemed to give him more peace of mind 
than he had found in a long while. The autumn breeze coming from the 
mountains carried a brisk but pleasant chill, though the sun was noon 
high. Still, *I wish Faron had been here.* Plucking a fat apple from a 
laden tree, he got it halfway to his mouth before he remembered. *I 
wish Tathar were here.* But he ate the apple.

“One can avoid people, but not memories.”

Startled, Legolas turned to see Lord Elrond standing under an archway 
entering the House. The prince bowed, and Elrond smiled. For some 
reason, knowing that Aragorn was Elrond’s foster-son made the elven 
lord less intimidating. Legolas stood where he was as Elrond came to 
join him on the stone terrace overlooking the canyon. “Even after 
thirty-five years, the hardest memories have faded little, have they, 
Legolas?”

Finding it hard to meet the elven lord’s eyes, Legolas murmured, “No, 
my lord. They’ve not faded at all.”

Lord Elrond nodded sadly, “They cannot be avoided, though that does 
not stop us from trying. Nor can we avoid our troubles forever.”

The words might have seemed vague to an outside observer, but to 
Legolas, they struck with deadly accuracy, and raked up a mass of 
painful thoughts he had tried for months to repress. Of course, Lord 
Elrond knew what had happened in Mirkwood; it went without saying. Now 
the Lord of Imladris stood watching the younger elf with eyes that 
seemed to pierce all Legolas’s pretenses. It went against the prince’s 
nature to confide in strangers, which Elrond essentially was. It had 
been hard enough to let his guard down with Aragorn (indeed, it had 
astonished Legolas even as he had done it!)

But whatever Aragorn had done to disarm Legolas, he had probably 
learnt from his foster-father, for Legolas now found himself baring 
his thoughts yet again. “I worry that returning to Mirkwood might only 
make matters worse. My father is unlikely to forgive the manner of our 
parting easily.”

“Would you?” the elven lord asked.

Legolas looked away. “My own words to him were unkind and out of 
place. I do not know if I can return after leaving in such a manner. 
If I should return…”

“Then it is yourself you doubt, not his willingness to see you.”

“No,” Legolas said hastily. “I hesitate to return because I…” he 
trailed off, confused. Why was he so unwilling to go back? The quarrel 
with Thranduil was unlikely to be solved out here, the only way to get 
anywhere at all was to go home and face the king. So why…Lord Elrond’s 
hand rested lightly upon his shoulder. In a near-whisper, Legolas 
confessed, “I am afraid.” Then he winced inwardly and bowed his head 
in shame, unable to believe he had just admitted such a thing to the 
Lord of Imladris. He could never admit such a thing to his father.

Elrond’s quiet laughter startled him into looking up again. Smiling at 
the prince, the older elf asked, “Do you truly think fear is a 
shameful thing, young warrior? It is an emotion like any other, and 
cannot be denied, or we shall never be able to overcome it. Trust me, 
Legolas, I fear many things.”

That comment made Legolas smile in spite of himself. Then he went on, 
“My father told me when I left that he would not have me back. He has 
never been inclined to changing his mind easily.”

“Very true,” Lord Elrond replied with a hint of humor. Being one who 
had dealt with Thranduil as one elven lord to another, Legolas could 
imagine that Elrond had seen his father at his most intractable. But 
his next words surprised the prince. “You said things that night that 
you did not mean. Are you so certain King Thranduil meant all that he 
said in the heat of anger?”

“I…” Legolas faltered, thinking. *He did not mean what he said about 
Tathar. I did not mean what I said about Langcyll. Perhaps he did 
not…*

Lord Elrond was watching his face. “Glorfindel once told me he 
wondered why you avoided speaking of your troubles.”

Legolas smiled wryly, “It is because I do not know what to do.”

“Really?” Legolas looked up at the elven lord’s penetrating gaze. 
“Then why would you fear the advice of others?” He smiled. “Nay, 
Legolas, you are not so incapable of finding answers. If you had none, 
you would seek out the counsel of your friends.”

“I do not understand.”

Elrond held the younger elf’s eyes, and Legolas could not look away. 
“You know what you must do, Legolas. You have known it all along. You 
avoid speaking of it because others would only confirm what you 
already know, thus preventing you from denying it. Truth is the most 
inevitable thing of all.”

Legolas briefly closed his eyes, acknowledging that Lord Elrond was 
right. “I know I must return to Mirkwood. I will find no end to this 
anywhere else, nor any other way. I must face my father.” But inside, 
a part of his mind cried, *But what if he will not have me? What 
then?*

The doubts must have showed in his face. “You cannot win a war without 
fighting the first battle. You cannot solve a problem without first 
facing it, warrior of Mirkwood. Return home first. Then resolve you 
troubles with your father.”

With a little laugh, Legolas shook his head. “You make it sound so 
easy, my lord.”

The Lord of Imladris smiled knowingly. As if he were letting the 
younger elf in on a secret, he said, “Forget not that I am a father, 
Legolas. I think perhaps it will end better than you expect.”

“You are a wise counsel, Lord Elrond. Thank you,” said Legolas 
earnestly.

Elrond shook his head. “You must have more faith in yourself. I told 
you nothing you did not already know.” Then he smiled and walked back 
to the House, leaving Legolas alone with his thoughts.

***

Glorfindel had intended to talk to Legolas earlier, but Lord Elrond 
had seen him following the young warrior outside and had told 
Glorfindel to leave off for now. Glorfindel had been surprised, but 
let Legolas escape. Later, he had seen Elrond walking in the direction 
Legolas had gone. That had been a relief, though Glorfindel had 
wondered for a time why the Lord of Imladris would want to speak to 
the prince. Then he supposed that Elrond correctly considered the 
matter serious enough to warrant his own attention.

Several hours later, the captain of Imladris happened upon the prince 
of Mirkwood on a path beyond the House. Legolas was leaning against 
the trunk of an apple tree, apparently deep in thought, gazing at the 
mist from the waterfalls that drifted into the air and created 
rainbows in the late afternoon sun. Glorfindel was startled, because 
Legolas usually could not even bring himself to look at apple trees.

“Hello, Glorfindel.” Legolas did not take his eyes off the misty 
canyon.

Glorfindel smiled. “Hello, Legolas. It is good to see you.”

The younger elf turned and smiled, amusement twinkling in his gray 
eyes. He looked surprisingly light of heart for one who faced a 
precarious future abroad or at home. Not to mention his 
uncharacteristically bold words to Glorfindel. “What took you so 
long?”

“Pardon?”

In a sly tone, the prince said, “I would have expected you to chase me 
down and lecture me long before now.”

“And I would have expected you to avoid me far longer than this.” *Two 
can play at this game, young one!*

Odder still, Legolas did not persist in a contest of wits (odd because 
he was quite good at that!) Instead, his face turned honest and 
serious, acknowledging the reasons Glorfindel wanted to talk to him. 
“If I sought to avoid you, I would not have come to Rivendell.”

“Now you are truly confusing me, Legolas.”

“This is a first; the ever-wise Lord Glorfindel, confused? The world 
is coming to an end!”

“It has been coming to an end for some time, and you’re a brash one 
this afternoon. What did Lord Elrond say to raise your spirits so?”

Legolas gave a little chuckle. After a moment, in a thoughtful voice, 
he replied, “Naught that I did not already know.”

*Something about your bearing has changed. You seem older. I wonder.* 
“There is a feast being laid out in Lord Elrond’s House to honor 
Estel’s return. Will you accompany me back?”

Blinking himself out of whatever reverie was occupying his mind, 
Legolas nodded amiably, “Of course.” Glorfindel clapped a friendly 
hand on his fellow warrior’s shoulder as they walked back. They talked 
of the prince’s travels with Aragorn, and the weapons instruction each 
had received from the other. They talked of Faron in Imladris and 
Galithil in Mirkwood--and all the trouble that each had gotten into 
since they last met. However, they did not talk of Legolas and his 
father. As Glorfindel looked at Legolas, he noticed a clarity in the 
young elf’s eyes, as though he had at last answered a hard question. 
And the warrior captain of Imladris suspected that Legolas no longer 
needed anyone’s help solving his problems.

***

Mirkwood, that same time…

The Crown Prince of Mirkwood was incredibly frustrated. “You say he 
was in a better mood, but you did not talk to him about sending for 
Legolas?!” he asked his sister in dismay. “Then what by the Valar did 
you talk about?”

“Many things,” Limloeth said in a patient voice that never failed to 
irritate him. “Peace, Beren, I think it helped a great deal.”

“How can we help anything without making him address the problem, Lim? 
We must force him to bring Legolas back--”

Limloeth grabbed his arm, “Listen to yourself! Do not be foolish! No 
one ever ‘forced’ Father to do anything in his life! You will 
accomplish nothing by getting into a battle of wills! You are strong, 
Brother, but he is still stronger when it comes to Legolas.”

“But you said yourself, there must be a peace between them--”

“Yes.” Firmly, Limloeth pressed her brother into a chair on the flet 
where they had gone to talk. She could be so inscrutable at times! 
Berensul glared at her, but she spoke again. “Father will not be won 
over by fighting. You must trust me in this. I saw his mind last 
night; he is more reasonable than he has been in years. If you 
challenge him again, you will only harden his heart again against us 
all, including Legolas.”

“I did not challenge him!”

“That is how he sees it, Berensul, so it matters not. You know him. 
Have faith again. I think Legolas will be home.”

His anxiety still great, Berensul gazed up at the stars through the 
treetops. “I wish I could still believe in him as you do, Lim. But it 
is a gamble, and I fear gambling on our brother’s future.”

His sister narrowed her brown eyes at him. “Think what you wish. But I 
say to you, Beren, if you try to confront him, you will only make 
matters worse.”

The eldest son of Thranduil was known for having a will and temper to 
match the king’s, and it was true; few could contend with Berensul and 
win. Except his nearest sibling. Now Limloeth held his scowl with an 
equally-unyielding stare of her own, and at last he dropped his eyes. 
“Very well, Sister. I’ll not bring up the subject with Father.”

“That is wise, Brother.”

When he returned to the palace, Berensul found he could not so easily 
place all his faith in Limloeth’s words, no matter how much he trusted 
her. Too much was at stake. But nor could he violate his promise by 
confronting the king. The Crown Prince was very much like his father 
in that he did NOT like the insidious twist of fear within him. One 
brother and two sisters were already dead. Another brother had passed 
over the sea, never to be seen again. He could not simply leave the 
future of his last remaining brother up to fate and the machinations 
of others. He had to do something. Perhaps there was another 
way…grabbing a scroll, he hastily wrote a message to one person 
trusted enough by all, who might be able to help. 

“My sister has advised me to cease broaching the subject of Legolas. 
She believes that when the time comes, the king will accept Legolas 
again without our persuasion. But I fear I cannot be so sure that 
wisdom will prevail. You know of the events that led to my brother’s 
departure from Mirkwood six months ago. I worry that my father’s heart 
is frozen beyond all hope, and that even if Legolas should return 
himself, the king would not have him back. You are a wise and trusted 
counsel to us all, and your help in this matter would greatly ease my 
mind. Please come to Mirkwood as soon as you are able.”

Despite the late hour, the Crown Prince sent for a messanger. “I have 
a potentially lengthy trip for you, Thorod. You are to leave at once; 
it is a matter of great urgency. Search all Middle Earth if you must, 
but get this letter to Mithrandir.”

*** 

The feast that same evening in the Last Homely House was especially 
merry. The sons of Elrond delighted in the chance to talk and laugh 
with their human foster-brother, and their fellow warrior and friend, 
Legolas. Especially since the two had enough stories between them to 
keep everyone entertained. “Do not gloat over that sparring victory 
too much, son of Thranduil, or I shall be forced to remind you of how 
you managed to get yourself captured!”

“Captured by a mob of drunken Haloel guards?” exclaimed Elrohir. “I 
must hear this!”

“It was not my fault; Aragorn distracted me!”

“I what?!”

“I was too busy keeping that spy’s sword from your throat to fight off 
a mob determined to push me over the wall!”

“Untrue, you were just sloppy!”

“Ha!”

Watching the verbal swordplay with great amusement, Glorfindel 
remarked, “I suspect you both have an inborn ability to attract 
trouble straight to your doors.”

“I agree with Glorfindel,” said Elladan. “You are both such hooligans 
I could not pronounce either one more likely to get into peril.” The 
rest of the table laughed in acquiescence, and Aragorn and Legolas 
mock-glared at each other. It interested Elladan no end to see how the 
Silvan prince and the heir of Isildur seemed to have bonded. It was 
true that in many ways they were alike, but still…Legolas, son of 
Thranduil, was definitely not one to give his trust or friendship 
easily, and certainly not to a mortal. Aragorn was a naturally 
cautious man, and with his lineage, it was doubtful he would be very 
forthcoming with a strange elf. It was strange circumstances indeed 
that would bring such an unlikely pair together. 

And judging by what they were saying, the revolt in Haloel had been 
rather strange circumstances. “So,” Aragorn was laughing. “First he 
handed out wine skins right before the charge--”

“What?!” Elrohir exclaimed, bursting into laughter. “Oh be off, you’re 
spinning tales!”

Raising a hand, Legolas laughed, “He speaks the truth, friend, I was 
there. But you’ve not heard the best part.”

Aragorn nodded, grinning helplessly, “Once his men were all wined 
up--and some of them were so drunk that they could barely put on their 
mail--he stood out there in front of them while his attendants put 
armor all over him!”

Elladan forgot his musings in his astonished delight. “What? You mean 
he…”

The two nodded gleefully. “I wish you’d seen it; he looked like some 
kind of misshapen child’s toy.”

“I still say he looked like a beet. His riding robes were bright red,” 
Legolas explained. That prompted a renewed explosion of laughter. 
“Then he toasted their victory.” Elrohir nearly fell across the table, 
helpless with laughter. “That was our reaction as well.”

“I would not have been able to fight for laughing! How did you 
manage--ah, why are you scowling, Aragorn?”

“I did tell you about the horses, did I not, Elrohir?”

“Ai. So that was when you marked that guard captain out for death, eh, 
Legolas?”

Pausing before taking a bite of bread, Legolas said in a level voice, 
“No one touches my horse.” The others grinned and nudged each other. 

Elrohir leaned forward and remarked, “Speaking of horses…”

“Ahhh, Elrohir, it has been thirty years! Are you still agitating for 
a race?” exclaimed Glorfindel, laughing.

“I still say Ethuil could outrun Lanthir.”

“Isn’t Ethuil getting rather old?” Legolas asked.

“She’s only a year older than Lanthir. Was not he a gift from Lady 
Galadriel and Lord Celeborn? Ethuil was.”

“Yea, he was. For the coming of age.”

“Now I remember,” Elrohir grinned in challenge. “What about it, 
Legolas. Shall we test our mounts at last?”

Legolas smiled and said, “I would not hesitate, but I fear there will 
not be time. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Aragorn stopped with a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Where are you going?” asked Glorfindel.

Holding the Imladris captain’s eyes, Legolas said calmly, “Mirkwood.” 

The table quieted considerably, and the prince returned the startled 
expressions of all with a level gaze of his own. Elladan was 
impressed. *Legolas has always despised being the center of attention. 
He usually drops his eyes. Now he does not.* Judging by the respect in 
the eyes of Glorfindel, Elrond, and Elrohir, Elladan knew he was not 
the only one who noticed. 

***

Early the next morning…

The mist from their well-named mountains filled all Imladris with a 
crisp, silvery cloud that gradually turned shades of red and gold as 
the light of the rising sun crept into the canyon. Other than the 
elves on watch, few creatures stirred in the early November chill. 
Indeed, Lanthir was quite put out when Legolas called him from the 
warmth of the stables. “Forgive me, my friend, but I wish to make an 
early start of it,” said the prince as the horse focused reproachful 
black eyes upon him.

Legolas turned at the sound of hoof beats approaching from the 
stables. It was Elrohir, riding Ethuil. “What about that race, 
Legolas?”

“Oh, have done, Elrohir, I must be going!” Legolas laughed.

“Just back to the House then so you may say goodbye. Then we’ll have 
you on your way even faster,” Elrohir urged, a wicked smile on his 
face.

With a disgusted shake of his head, Legolas mounted. “It seems he’ll 
not be placated, my friend. May I persuade you?” The horse whinnied 
and tossed his head at Elrohir’s mare. “Very well. First one under the 
last arch wins.”

“Done! Ready?” Elrohir leaned forward challengingly. “Ride!”

Lanthir and Ethuil needed no urging to break into a run, down the path 
back toward Lord Elrond’s House. The horses were close, neither with 
an obvious edge as they sprinted, but all at once, the riders heard 
another horse approaching. Pulling up beside them, they saw that it 
was Aragorn, on Pariedor. “Is this a private contest, or may anyone 
join?” He laughed as the two elves urged their horses faster, and 
leaned forward, whispering to Pariedor.

Lanthir and Ethuil were neck-and-neck as they raced down the path 
under the first arch, with Pariedor just behind them. From the House, 
the riders could hear shouts of playful encouragement as the other 
elves spotted the race in progress. Under the second arch, Lanthir 
began sprinting with all his might, and pulled slightly ahead of 
Ethuil, to the excited shouts of the witnesses. Then, as the veranda 
of the Last Homely House came into view, a dark figure came into view 
on the other side of Legolas, and before he or Lanthir could react, 
Aragorn and Pariedor surged up, first level with them, then ahead of 
them. Lanthir charged with all his might, but Pariedor passed under 
the last arch ahead of them, to the triumphant cries of the watchers.

The three riders pulled up to the laughter of the others. Aragorn 
grinned wickedly back at the two elves, who mock-glared at him. “Now 
that score is settled.”

“Fah!”

Lord Elrond was watching the three with what might appear to be mild 
tolerance for the antics, but Legolas had seen enough of the elven 
lord to know that he was highly amused. (Probably still more to see 
that the bragging contest that Legolas and his second son had been 
carrying on for more than thirty years had finally been brought to an 
end with both of them losing to Aragorn.) *Curse that Ranger anyway!* 
he thought, but without malice. Instead, he settled for nodding 
appreciatively as Elrohir fetched Aragorn a thorough clout on the back 
of the head. Turning to face Elrond, the prince bowed, “I thank you 
for your hospitality, my lord.” 

Lord Elrond nodded, smiling faintly. “I hope we shall see you in 
Rivendell again, Legolas.”

“I daresay you shall, my lord.”

The Lord of Imladris clasped the prince of Mirkwood’s arm firmly. 
“Until then. Safe journey.”

“Thank you.”

Then Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn came up to say their farewells. 
“Take care of yourself, Legolas,” said Elladan. Legolas grinned as he 
embraced his friends. It was rather amusing to see the three of them 
together; they acted so alike that Legolas was amazed he had not 
guessed who Aragorn was at their first meeting. “Farewell, my friend.”

“Until we meet again,” Legolas said, clasping arms with each of them. 
“Give my apologies to Faron.”

“Certainly,” said Elrohir. “Glorfindel asked us to give you his 
greetings as well; he left on a patrol before dawn.”

Legolas was sorry not to see Glorfindel again before leaving, but he 
needed to be on his way. He hoped to be home within a week. Whatever 
that homecoming held in store for him, it was high time for him to 
face it. *I will not be frightened away anymore.* To his fellow 
warriors, and the Lord of Imladris, he said, “Farewell, my friends.” 
Then he mounted Lanthir and rode toward the eastern border of 
Imladris.

Just as he reached the border, Legolas spotted an Imladris patrol 
coming in. At the head of the group was Glorfindel. Legolas waved at 
them, and as the group pulled up to him, Glorfindel waved the rest on. 
“Are you off, then, Legolas?”

“I am,” the younger warrior answered. “But I am glad of this chance 
meeting, for I know not how long it will be until I return. I may 
remain in Mirkwood for some time.” 

Glorfindel fixed Legolas with a gaze that seemed to measure him, and 
though Legolas was puzzled, he did not avoid the elven lord’s eyes. A 
slow smile crossed Glorfindel’s face. “One last word of advice, young 
prince.” At Legolas’s raised eyebrows, he said, “I’ve noticed recently 
that you appear much older when you hold your head up.” He reached out 
and clasped the prince’s arm. “I think others of our kindred shall be 
equally impressed.” Giving the younger elf’s arm a last squeeze, he 
let go, “Farewell, Legolas.”

Legolas smiled. “Goodbye, Glorfindel. And thank you.” Then Glorfindel 
turned and urged his horse on. Legolas watched him, smiling to 
himself. Then he patted his horse’s neck. “Come, Lanthir. Let’s go 
home.”

***

The next day…

Under normal circumstances, Thorod, the messanger from Mirkwood, would 
have had to ride all around Middle Earth to actually find Gandalf the 
Grey, for one could never predict where the wizard might be at any 
given time. Many places and many people were visited by Gandalf. But 
by some happy chance, the elf encountered the wizard only a two days’ 
ride from Mirkwood, though Mithrandir was on foot. “Good day, young 
Thorod of Mirkwood,” said the Maia cheerfully.

“Good day, Mithrandir,” said Thorod, dismounting. “I bear an urgent 
message from Berensul, Crown Prince of Mirkwood.”

“Hmm,” his bushy eyebrows furrowed curiously, Mithrandir accepted the 
proffered scroll. A slow frown darkened his features as he read the 
message. After a moment, he looked up at Thorod, “Say to the Crown 
Prince that I shall start at once, and expect to be in Mirkwood by the 
end of the week.”

“My thanks, Mithrandir. Good morning,” the messenger rode away. 

Gandalf started walking again, this time towards Mirkwood. “The king’s 
heart has frozen, has it? I feared such an event after Legolas went 
away. I hope I am not too late to help salvage matters.”

***

Three days later…

Lord Elrond felt a pit of dread form inside him as the messenger rode 
up to the House, bearing the flag of King Thranduil. “A message from 
the king of Mirkwood, my lord!”

“Thank you.” Elrond counted back in his head. It had only been four 
days since Legolas had gone. In the winter, it was highly unlikely 
that he had made it all the way to the elven king’s halls yet, even on 
a steed as fast as Lanthir. He had probably not even crossed the 
mountains yet. So what could this message entail? He returned to his 
study and opened it there. 

[ My greetings, Lord Elrond.

I write to ask that you and your people keep watch for my son, Prince 
Legolas, who is currently abroad in Middle Earth. If he should happen 
to pass through your realm, I beg that you give to him the message I 
have enclosed. Please make certain that it is placed in no hands save 
his.

My thanks and regards,

Thranduil of Mirkwood.]

Elrond leaned back in his chair, staring out the window, where two elf 
children were picking the last apples from a tree outside. Legolas was 
four days out of Rivendell, on his way home. Surely it was more 
important that he actually see his father face to face, and 
yet…something told the elven lord that this message would go a long 
way toward easing the prince’s doubts about the upcoming meeting. 
*Whatever Thranduil’s other failings, he is a father. I think I can 
guess what his letter says. It would do Legolas good to see it.*

He made up his mind. Rising swiftly from his chair, the Lord of 
Imladris hurried to Glorfindel. “An urgent message has arrived for 
Legolas. Order an escort of guards; I shall ride after him and deliver 
it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was not surprising that Glorfindel sounded a little puzzled; this 
was a rather rash action on Elrond’s part. But, between his Ring and 
his elvish intuition, the half-elven lord had learnt to trust his 
inner voice. And for whatever reason, it was telling him very 
emphatically that he must follow Legolas, all the way to Mirkwood if 
necessary. A premonition this strong was next to impossible for Lord 
Elrond to ignore.

***

That same day, in the Misty Mountains…

The orc captain glowered down from his hidden cave entrance in the 
mountainside, watching the lone elf on horseback riding swiftly down 
the trail. “An elf alone. Don’t see that every day.”

Several of the others shook their heads, grinning in malicious 
agreement. “Fair game, I say. Let’s take him!”

The captain narrowed his eyes at the rider, then looked ahead of him, 
trying to figure his destination. “Must be heading for the plains.”

“Yes, look, he’s wearing Mirkwood colors. On his way home.”

“Won’t ever get there!” Laughing, the orcs nudged each other.

“What say you, boss? Can we have him?”

The captain pointed ahead of the golden-haired elf, “He’s heading for 
that pass. If we beat him there, we can take him down without having 
to dodge arrows every step. C’mon!”

The orc company hastened to a place on the trail that passed between 
two high cliffs. There they set up an ambush guaranteed to bring the 
elf down without risking serious hurt to their numbers. It was still 
light, but they could keep to the caves; this type of ambush did not 
need them in the open. Waiting from the caves that pockmarked the 
mountains, the orcs grinned at each other as their quarry approached, 
riding as though in haste and unaware of his peril.

***

Legolas could feel Lanthir tiring beneath him, but the horse could 
sense his rider’s urgency. Whatever awaited him at home, Legolas was 
so tense that he simply wanted the trip over with, so it could be 
faced and dealt with. Lord Elrond had been confident the meeting would 
not go ill, but Legolas could not be so sure. Many “what ifs” played 
about in his mind, distracting him from the trail as he approached one 
of the last passes. “Just get us to the plains, Lanthir, and then 
we’ll rest for the night,” he told the horse.

Lanthir whinnied in response and picked up the pace. Up ahead of them, 
the trail narrowed, and the ground grew rocky. Cursing to himself in 
irritation at the delay, Legolas dismounted, leading Lanthir over the 
rough, pebbly part of the path. It wouldn’t do to injure the horse in 
his haste. His mind still whirled with anxiety, and he knew he should 
pay attention, but his heart and eyes strained for sight of the trees 
beyond the plains.

Suddenly, a familiar, deadly sound jerked Legolas out of his thoughts. 
An orc shriek. From the cliffs above, but it was not yet dark, so why 
a challenge? Legolas snatched out his bow and an arrow, and kept 
walking, feeling a sudden desire to get out of this pass. There were 
caves all through the steep upgrade, but surely orcs would not come 
out in the sun for one elf. “Hurry, Lanthir,” he whispered, breaking 
into a jog ahead of the horse.

All at once, there came a grinding sound that was not made by any 
animal’s throat. It started low, distant over the tops of the 
mountains, then grew. Legolas had not heard such a sound before. 
Looking up, he saw dust on the hillside, and a sight that nearly made 
him collapse with terror. 

Rocks, boulders, stone, and dirt were rolling down the steep hills, 
gathering more debris and momentum with every second. The orcs had 
triggered a rockslide. Panic nearly rooted Legolas to the ground, then 
Lanthir screamed. *Ai Elbereth! No! Help me!* Leaping instinctively to 
Lanthir’s back, Legolas cried, “Fly!” The horse did not have to be 
told twice.

The end of the pass seemed so far away, and the avalanche came raining 
down, faster and faster in its cloud of terrible dust. The elf’s heart 
was in his throat, as memory of stories and the past of his own family 
whirled inside him. Never before had he known such terror. If he did 
not make it out of here, he would be crushed, or buried alive and 
taken by the orcs. Thoughts and questions whirled still faster within 
him, and he knew even as he chanted desperately at Lanthir to speed 
up, there was no way he would make it. 

“Father…”

The last thing he saw was a massive cloud of dust blocking all view, 
the last thing he heard was the roar of the stone and the scream of 
his horse, and the last thing he felt was a colossal force slamming 
him into oblivion.

*****

Chapter Twenty-Four: An Elf Alone







The orcs howled triumphantly as the avalanche did its work, sweeping 
over the desperately fleeing elf and burying him beneath its weight. 
One of the creatures casually remarked, “That thing was bigger than we 
meant it to be.”

The captain nodded, “Might’ve killed the elf, I guess.” Then he 
shrugged, laughing, “No skin off our noses anyway if it did!”

The others laughed, and made their way down as the thunder of the 
falling rocks finally ceased. The clouds of dust blocked the sun, 
allowing them to work their way down the steep slope. “Hurry it up 
before the dust clears!” shouted the captain.

“Look!” one of them shouted, pointing a clawed finger.

The captain spied a wounded horse struggling from the edge of the 
rubble and staggering away from the orcs. Blood matted its gray mane 
and it limped badly. “Never mind the horse. If it survived, maybe the 
elf did too.”

Under the weight of the crushing boulders and flying shards of rock, 
it would seem at first glance that nothing could have escaped death. 
But elves were hardier than their appearance suggested; even orcs knew 
that. If this one’s horse had survived, chances were good that he yet 
lived. “Hey! Boss! Found ‘im!”

The captain came to where the others were pointing, and sure enough, 
the orcs had discovered a tangle of golden hair amid the rubble. 
Clearing away more blood-spattered rocks, they uncovered the crumpled 
form of the trapped elf. Blood dripped from an ugly wound near his 
hairline, down his face, and from the corner of his mouth. Much of his 
fair skin was already black and blue beneath his tattered clothing. 
His eyes were tightly closed. But as the orcs hauled the limp body 
from the rubble, a moan of pain told them he was still among the 
living.

The captain looked at the rest of his goblins and grinned, baring his 
teeth in anticipation. “Now we’ll REALLY have some fun!”

***

Imladris, at the same time…

“Should I go with you, Father?” Aragorn asked Lord Elrond anxiously as 
the Lord of Imladris mounted his horse.

“Nay, Estel, you have only just returned. Take your ease. I merely 
want to get this message to Legolas before he reaches Mirkwood. We’ll 
be gone two weeks at the most.” Elrond turned and gripped the hands of 
each of his sons in parting. “Farewell.”

“Safe journey, Father,” Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn said. Smiling at 
the trio, Elrond whispered to his horse and started the company off 
down the trail.

Elladan glanced over and saw Aragorn’s eyes still watching the elven 
lord as he and his escort rode out of sight. “What troubles you, 
Estel?”

Aragorn was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” 
he murmured. “But something makes me very uneasy. I will be glad when 
he has met Legolas and both are safely at home.”

***

That night, in Mirkwood…

King Thranduil struggled over the piled rocks and debris left by the 
landslide, weeping desperately. The clouds of dust and dirt made it 
impossible to see his hand in front of his face. From around him, he 
could hear the sounds of battle, but try as he might, Thranduil could 
not find the elves he knew to be in trouble. 

He had never been to this place in his real life, but tonight, his 
dreams had taken him there. The mountains, where the orc-released 
rockslide and ensuing ambush had claimed his three children. *They are 
here somewhere. I must find them! I am their king! I am their father! 
I must aid them!*

A she-elf’s cry rang out, very close. “Where are you?!” Thranduil 
cried desperately, all control long gone in his panic to find his 
missing children.

The clouds of brown dirt seemed to part suddenly before him, and with 
a strangled gasp of horror, the elven king saw three forms lying upon 
the ground as though in state. One was a tall elven warrior, strong 
and seasoned. How could it be that so skilled a fighter would fall 
this way? Yet it was so; he was dead. The other two were young 
maidens, identical twins, so much alike that only their closest 
kindred could distinguish them. So young, only just come of age. 
Inseparable, it was impossible to see or even imagine one without the 
other. Now both slain.

Thranduil knelt beside Tavron, Meren, and Lalaith, trembling and 
helpless. He could not touch them. “Forgive me,” he whispered. 
“Forgive me. I could not save you. I failed you.” He wept with grief 
and shame. *I could not protect you…*

All at once, the sounds of battle rang out anew. And there were new 
cries, a new voice calling for Thranduil. In real life, this voice 
could not have been heard here, for the owner of that voice had not 
yet been born when Tavron, Meren, and Lalaith died. Yet it was here, 
and the dreamer knew it at once. For asleep and awake, this voice 
haunted him. “Father!” came a frantic cry from somewhere in the dust. 
“Help me! Please help me!”

Thranduil spun around, but the dust was still too thick to see. Three 
of his children were dead, yet one still lived. He could not let this 
one die too, alone. He rushed into the murk; it blinded him, but still 
he searched. He could not fail again. “Legolas? Legolas! Answer me! 
Where are you?”

The voice calling from nearby seemed both old and young; it was the 
Legolas who had come of age and gone away, yet it was also Legolas as 
a young child, which Thranduil remembered like yesterday. It did not 
matter either way. It was his son. “Father!” 

“Legolas!” The cries were gone. Thranduil could hear nothing, see 
nothing. “Legolas!”

***

In the mountains, at the same time…

Pain. Throbbing, aching, stinging pain was the first thing that 
registered as Legolas came around. His skull felt half-crushed on one 
side, and his left ankle felt twice its normal size. He could taste 
liquid metal in his mouth. The elf moaned, disoriented, and tried to 
move to a more comfortable position. Immediately, an unforgiving fist, 
encased in a mail glove, connected with his jaw, sending an explosion 
of light into his closed eyes. “So, the little elf’s awake at last!”

In spite of his pain, Legolas lay perfectly still, though his heart 
pounded wildly in his chest. The cackles in the darkness grew along 
with the dread he felt. A boot nudged him experimentally, then came a 
metal slap. “Wake up, elf!”

Slowly, forcing an expression of calm, the warrior opened his eyes, 
still gritty with dust. Orcs. All around him, jeering and watching him 
with those hideous yellow eyes. 

This was not good. 

That established, he turned to his other surroundings. It was after 
dark, and the orcs had made camp near the rubble of the avalanche. 
Legolas could feel the rough stones beneath his body. His hands and 
feet were bound tightly with ropes. 

The orc with the chain mail gloves seemed to be the leader of the 
band. Certainly he was taking the lead in harassing the captive. 
Legolas swallowed a surge of humiliation at the recognition that he 
was a prisoner. *Worry about pride later,* he told himself. *Now 
figure out how you are going to get out of here.* Taking slow, calming 
breaths, he looked more closely at the orc camp. There were maybe a 
few dozen, not a terribly large band, if only he had his bow. 
Carefully moving only his eyes, he scanned the camp and soon found 
what he was looking for: several orcs huddled in a group quarrelling 
violently. Sure enough, the prizes in question were his bow and 
quiver, and his two knives. Anger boiled up within him. *These foul 
beasts shall never wield my weapons!*

If he could just get his bonds loose and reach his weapons, he could 
probably escape. But those first two tasks presented a rather daunting 
obstacle. And--Lanthir. Before he could catch himself, Legolas twisted 
his head toward the debris of the avalanche in search of some sign of 
his horse. Unfortunately, that got the orcs’ attention again. Another 
slap jerked his head, causing bells to ring loudly in his ears. 
“Looking for a way to escape, eh, little elf?” mocked a grating voice. 
“Keep looking; you’re ours. Mmm, yes, you elves are sturdy, that’s 
sure. Came through that rockslide quite nice. You’ll last long enough 
to give us plenty of fun, you will!”

Legolas hardened his eyes, but did not lower himself to responding. 
One of the others sidled up next to the leader, “Looks to me like he’s 
recovered enough, Sirch.”

The leader nodded, grinning in a way that made Legolas’s skin crawl. 
“Yes, looks ripe for a little sport, eh, friends?” There was a chorus 
of growls and cackles in agreement.

“Me first!” yelled one, scrambling forward eagerly.

“Nay, I am,” Sirch replied, shoving the other back. Pulling out a 
nasty-looking black whip, he gestured at the others. Two orcs yanked 
Legolas’s cloak from his back, choking him and leaving a red weal on 
his neck where the fastening finally broke. Then they rolled him onto 
his stomach. Even before the elf had time to brace himself, the lash 
cracked loudly, bringing a tongue of fiery pain down onto his back. 
Catching his breath, Legolas stifled a cry, but could not restrain 
himself from jerking reflexively. Then came another, and Legolas 
gasped. Then another. Four orcs held him still as he fought to keep 
from screaming, and his mind cursed in humiliation.

One of them tangled a foul hand in his long hair, using it to hold his 
head down. Like snakes of fire, the lashes kept coming. Legolas 
grunted, but somehow managed not to scream. The backs of his cote and 
tunic had been shredded by the whipping, and the fabric rubbed the 
stripes painfully at the slightest movement. With a jerk that made him 
groan the orc in front of him yanked his hair and head up, and dealt 
him a solid backhand across the face, splitting his lip. As the elf 
shook his head from the blow, the orcs rolled him cruelly onto his 
lacerated back. Legolas could not quite stifle a whimper.

The rest kept holding him down, but Sirch had moved beyond his line of 
sight. Whatever he was up to, all the other orcs were grinning and 
jeering in anticipation. “Wish you were dead yet, elf?” came Sirch’s 
voice from somewhere behind him. In spite of his pain, Legolas wanted 
to scoff at them. Surely they did not think they could break him, an 
elf, by mere beating! Then Sirch spoke again, “You will, when we’re 
done with you!”

Orcs by nature are quarrelsome creatures, even among themselves. So it 
was definitely not a good sign that all gave way as Sirch returned--as 
though whatever the orc leader had planned was something to look 
forward to. So the orcs and Legolas watched as Sirch carried over a 
small black metal pot, and several long, thin thorns. The captors 
laughed and jeered as Legolas, recognizing what Sirch had, began to 
squirm instinctively in a vain attempt to free himself. He had heard 
of this particular orc game, and all was lost if they carried it out.

Slowly, as the orcs muttered eagerly and Legolas was forced to watch, 
Sirch dipped several of the thorns into the pot. They came out covered 
in what looked like black oil. “Know what this is, don’t you, elf?” 
Sirch sneered. “Nasty stuff for your kind--then, ours don’t like it 
too much either, eh?” the orcs laughed and nudged each other as though 
sharing a good joke. “Hurts like hell, but won’t kill you too fast. 
Nice and slow. While we get to watch and keep having our fun with 
you.” 

“Do it right, Sirch, and he’ll linger for a month!”

“Ha, a month’s sport with an elf!”

“Sooo, where first?”

“His hand!”

“Nah, his foot!”

“Yeh, won’t be running away after that!” Sirch grinned and advanced on 
Legolas, who attempted to wrench away. The orcs laughed and pinned him 
down, and to his despair and shame, Legolas could do nothing to break 
free. He watched, helpless and horrified, as the orcs untied his 
limbs, and one of them grabbed his leg. “Ahh, poor little elf’s got a 
swollen ankle!” Sirch jeered. “Know just the cure!”

Legolas jammed his teeth into his lower lip, but then Sirch plunged 
the long barb directly into his ankle. Like a hot brand, fiery agony 
ripped through his skin, tearing through the swollen flesh like acid, 
roaring up his leg as though it had gone straight to his veins. All 
other sound was blotted out by the roaring in his ears, his sight 
blinded by searing pain. He wasn’t even aware that he was screaming 
until he stopped, gasping for breath, while the orcs laughed and 
taunted him. Then all he wished was to sink into unconsciousness, but 
several orc slaps kept him in tortured reality. 

And still pain coursed up and down his entire body. Amazing, that just 
that little bit of orc poison could wreak such havoc within him. 
Moaning, the elf turned his face away from the mocking faces of his 
tormenters, closing his eyes. He tried to turn his mind to other 
things, distract himself from the pain. But no thought of home, 
family, or peace could push away the cyclone of misery and agony as 
another thorn bit into his left hand, and his pride burned as another 
cry of pain forced itself free. Writhing against the intractable grip 
of the orcs holding him down, Legolas prayed for death’s release as 
another cascade of acid agony tore up every nerve in his body, and 
screams of torment ripped from the very marrow of his bones.

The raucous noise of the loathsome creatures and the wails of their 
captive were so great that not a one of them heard the approaching 
hoof beats. Nor saw the approaching gray form until half a dozen of 
them were flung aside by fierce kicks. Jeers and laughter changed to 
shouts of surprise and alarm. The orcs scrambled for their weapons, 
but the gray horse attacked with the timing and ferocity of an elven 
warrior, giving them no quarter to react. Screeching goblins tumbled 
right and left, and angry trumpets of challenge pulled Legolas out of 
his pain-mazed state.

“Lanthir?” the elf whispered in disbelief. The stallion turned his 
attention to his rider, and rushed the orcs holding Legolas down. A 
fierce butt with his head sent Sirch flying, and as he leapt over 
Legolas, Lanthir’s front hooves struck two more in the heads, dropping 
them. The rest dove for cover, and Legolas found himself free.

Lanthir chased the orcs as they rushed off to regroup and figure out 
how to respond to a horse attack. Then the stallion charged back to 
his rider’s side, whinnying imperiously. One did not have to speak 
horse to know what he was saying. With a barely-stifled sob of relief 
and pain, Legolas staggered to his feet and flung himself onto the 
horse’s back. “Go!” he gasped weakly, clinging to Lanthir’s mane. 
Lanthir leapt over the nearest orcs and fled down the pass for the 
plains.

As the elf and horse galloped away, Sirch furiously dove for his bow, 
haphazardly plunging an arrow into the spilled poison pot. “Won’t get 
far, elf,” he muttered, taking aim.

The bolt slammed Legolas in the upper back, forcing its burning venom 
deep into his flesh. With a helpless scream of agony, Legolas lost his 
grip on the horse’s mane, but Lanthir slowed at once, and that 
momentum carried Legolas forward instead of backward. The elf slumped 
against Lanthir’s neck, holding on with what little strength he had 
left as the orc shrieks faded into the background. Moaning and choking 
on sobs, he felt the roaring torture in his blood swelling up to claim 
all his senses, blotting out reality. Despite his own injuries, 
Lanthir carried Legolas as long and fast as he could, out onto the 
plains until the horse sensed they were out of danger. And not a 
moment too soon; as the sun came up, Legolas’s grip failed altogether 
and he slid from the horse’s back, tumbling limply to the ground.

***

Mirkwood, the next day…

King Thranduil was standing alone on the steps of the outer palace 
when his daughter Limloeth came out to him. “You have spent much time 
here of late, Father.”

Without taking his eyes of the trees, Thranduil held out his hand, 
gently clasping hers. “It is a good place to think.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and then, “A message came from Lothlorien 
this morning.”

“Your husband writes to hurry your return?”

“Not yet, but he does ask how much longer I intend to remain.”

Thranduil sighed, turning to face her. “I know not how soon we shall 
have any word, daughter. I would not see you long apart from 
Orthelian.”

Limloeth nodded, smiling wryly. “If feels as though we have spent 
precious little time together since we wed. And I shall also watch for 
Legolas. For all his travels, it is possible he may pass through 
Lorien.”

Looking at the serene forest beyond the gates, Thranduil knew she was 
right. Though now, as always, his heart ached with the prospect of her 
leaving. “When do you intend to depart?”

“In a day or two. I promised Silivren I would take her to watch the 
novice warriors race tomorrow.”

“That is well. Berensul will be sorry. He misses you.”

“I know. And I him. I miss all of my brothers.”

***

On the plains, at the same time…

The noontime sun did little to warm the late autumn air. With no cloak 
and his tunic in shreds (along with the skin of his back), the cold 
bothered Legolas far more than it normally would. 

He had awakened here on the plains to Lanthir’s nuzzling--and a 
searing pain from the arrow still buried in his back. The elf needed 
no one to tell him that the arrow was also poisoned; it felt just as 
those thorns had, only far worse. He had been uncertain of what to do 
first, but knew the bolt must come out, and soon. After a few minutes 
of anxious searching, Legolas had found a small stream running down 
out of the mountains. Sitting on the edge with his swollen left foot 
in the icy flow, he had been forced to yank the arrow out himself. 
Though he had been unable to stifle a cry of pain, the arrowhead had 
come out on the first try. With tears of agony in his eyes, he had 
bathed his wounds as best he could.

Pain aside, the cold water made him feel stronger, and he slaked his 
thirst . He might be free of the orcs, but his troubles were not over. 
The powerful poison that Sirch had tortured him with would soon begin 
to act in earnest. He would only lose strength in the coming days, and 
it was anyone’s guess how long he could live without a healer. Not 
long.

He had two options. Rivendell was only about four days away, over the 
mountains, and he would probably meet a patrol sooner than that. His 
father’s halls were nearly a week away, across the plains and through 
the northern forest. It would be a stretch to try and get there in 
time. And he had another problem: Lanthir. Legolas had cursed himself 
at the sight of his beloved horse in the sun; Lanthir had been badly 
hurt, either in the avalanche or in the fight. It was amazing that the 
animal had been able to bear Legolas’s weight while fleeing the orcs 
last night. But he would not be able to do so again before his 
injuries were seen to.

*Which means, whichever way I go, I shall be walking.* Legolas sighed, 
rubbing Lanthir’s scraped neck as the horse came to drink next to 
where his rider sat.

His ankle was still in bad shape, but forcing Lanthir to carry him was 
not an option. Legolas was not sure if the horse would be capable of 
it. Over the mountains, he usually led Lanthir anyway, so that would 
make the journey maybe a day longer at most. It would probably as long 
as a full week or more to the elven king’s halls. With a groan of 
frustration, Legolas rested his head lightly against Lanthir’s side. 
*How could this unhappy turn keep me from my father yet again? The 
longer I tarry away from him, the less likely that he will ever have 
me back.*

As if that were not enough, their frantic escape into the night had 
taken Lanthir and Legolas out onto the plains, and now, on the 
horizon, Legolas could see the taunting shadow he knew to be the trees 
of his home. *To come so far as to have it in my sight…how can I 
possibly turn back now?*

The orc poison was slow-acting, that he knew. How slow was less 
certain, for there had been a generous dose of it on the arrow. 
Turning back west would get him to safety in plenty of time, while 
making for Mirkwood would cut it very close. *Don’t be foolish; you 
also have Lanthir to think of.*

But the dark line on the horizon that was Mirkwood held his eyes, 
calling to him in a pleading voice. His own heart called back just as 
longingly. He had been gone so long…he had not much time. Whatever his 
choice, he had better make it quickly. *I’ve so much I must say to my 
father. So many amends to make…*

Stumbling to his feet, Legolas made up his mind. “Go to Rivendell, 
Lanthir. They will see to you there. I shall come for you soon.”

The horse blinked dark eyes at his rider, as Legolas limped from the 
stream and began walking eastward. Legolas turned and scowled sternly 
as the horse began to follow him. “You cannot carry me, and you need a 
healer’s care yourself, Lanthir. You must go back to Rivendell.” The 
horse stared at Legolas, but refused to turn. Aggravated, Legolas 
exclaimed, “Go, Lanthir! You cannot come with me!”

Lanthir responded by walking up next to Legolas. Meeting his rider’s 
frustrated gaze, the stallion gave a snort that clearly meant, “Make 
me.”

Legolas sighed, shaking his head. “Stupid, stubborn beast. Almost as 
stubborn as I am. Very well, cast your lot with me if you must. And 
Elbereth have mercy on me if I get us both killed.” Turning to face 
the distant line of trees, he murmured, “Let‘s go.”

***

Four days later, in the Misty Mountains…

“The pass is blocked!” Lord Elrond stared in surprise at the debris on 
the trail leading through the last of the mountain passes.

“A rockslide, my lord,” said one of his guards.

The riders of Imladris carefully threaded their way over the rocks. 
Elrond felt increasingly worried. This had never been an unstable 
area; it was better known for orcs than avalanches. He raised his eyes 
to the steep slopes, pockmarked with caves. An ideal spot for an 
ambush. “I sense a shadow in this place.”

“My lord!” the lead guard’s cry had a definite note of alarm.

Elrond’s walk broke into a run as he approached what the guards had 
found. Near the edge of the rubble was what had clearly been an orc 
camp. The remnants of their fire and their litter were there, but all 
had been abandoned as though the orcs had been forced to flee without 
having time to hide the evidence of their stay. There had also been a 
struggle, and a few orc corpses were lying to rot in the sun. But what 
alarmed the guards the most also sent a surge of dread through their 
lord. Near one of the carcasses was an elven bow and quiver, and two 
knives. The markings on the weapons were unmistakable. “Legolas,” 
Elrond whispered, horror coursing through him. “They caught him with 
the avalanche and took him.”

In a voice tense with anxiety for their kinsman, one of the guards 
called, “Perhaps not, my lord!” He pointed to the ground, “Horse 
tracks. And the marks of elf shoes.”

Elrond joined them and forced himself to concentrate on following the 
signs to determine what had passed here. “They were holding their 
captive down, doubtless tormenting him,” his jaw tightened with rage 
at the thought of the young warrior’s suffering. “The horse came--it 
must be Lanthir--and stirred them up, buying Legolas time to leap to 
his back. The horse rode out of the pass, limping. Both were hurt in 
the rockslide and the fight; I see blood on the stones.”

Several of the guards breathed sighs of relief, “So Prince Legolas 
escaped.”

“It appears so--” Elrond took another glance around the remains and 
froze. His heart dropped somewhere below his shoes as he walked to 
where a small pot lay on its side, its ominous black contents drying 
like tar in the sun. He did not touch the stuff. “We must find him,” 
the elven lord whispered. “And soon.” He did pick up, very carefully, 
two thorns that lay near the pot. They had the poison on them, but 
something more: blood. Elven blood.

Dropping the deadly barbs, Elrond rose swiftly. He ordered two of the 
guards to bring a team of elves from Rivendell to clear the pass. “The 
rest, we ride after Legolas. We must find him. He will need a healer’s 
care.” The enormity of what was happening struck the Lord of Imladris 
as too horrible to be believed. Snatching up the prince’s weapons, he 
sprang to his mount’s back and led the company from the ravine, 
praying. *A Elbereth, do not let us be too late.*

***

Legolas staggered through the outer palace gates, and all but dragged 
himself up the steps. He hurt so badly, but the other elves merely 
watched him with distaste. The door of the palace suddenly flew open, 
and there stood King Thranduil, tall and majestic, just as Legolas 
remembered. But there was no warmth, no concern on the elven king’s 
face at the sight of his son. “So, you are back,” he said in a cold 
tone that made Legolas cringe with shame. With an air of indifference, 
he started down the steps.

Struggling to straighten, Legolas whispered, “Father, please forgive 
me.” He was dying; couldn’t Thranduil see that? Without his father, he 
had nowhere to go!

A hand closed on his arm, and Thranduil jerked Legolas harshly to his 
feet, then back towards the gate. “You had your chance, little fool! 
It’s too late! You are no longer welcome in my halls!”

“Father--” but the king flung Legolas to the ground outside the gates 
and strode back inside. The doors of the palace slammed, leaving 
Legolas alone.

The prince lay in the dirt, unable to move. Then a dark-haired figure 
knelt over him. “So finally this is where your folly has brought you. 
At least this time you only got yourself killed.”

“Tathar?!” The blurry figure focused into his long-dead friend. But 
there was no love in Tathar’s face either. “No…”

“Why so sad, Legolas? It is your own fault. Always running and 
running, last time I was the one who paid the price for your 
cowardice. Now there’s nowhere left to run, no one left to help you--”

“No!” Legolas jerked himself back to consciousness beneath the tree 
where he had stopped to rest. Lanthir looked over at him and whuffed 
gently. Trembling, Legolas wiped his face, feeling sweat on his brow. 
At first, he thought it was just the nightmare, then looked around to 
see a coating of frost on the ground. How strange. He was feeling 
warm. The poison. Rising, Legolas felt substantially weaker than he 
had the night before. His heart sank; he still had so far to go. And 
the poison was taking a more powerful hold every minute. “Come, 
Lanthir,” he sighed wearily. “We haven’t much time.”

Walking quickly proved easier said than done. Legolas felt dizzy, and 
a horrible, pervasive weakness made him sluggish and unsteady on his 
feet. He had to lean against Lanthir to keep himself going in a 
straight line. Soon he began to shiver, though the weather was not 
nearly cold enough for that, and knew it was the poison. *A Elbereth, 
I will never make it…*

The trees seemed mockingly close, but Legolas felt a terrible urge to 
sink to the ground and never get up. Those cruel dreams plagued him 
with new doubts and fears. Surely his father would not deny him 
shelter in this state. Yet as the fever grew, certainties diminished, 
and nothing seemed sure anymore. The pain also came with a new fury, a 
deeper, harder pain than the initial fire of the poisoned darts. Sweat 
drenched his face, and he staggered on. *I cannot give up. Whatever 
awaits me, it is a matter of honor. More than that. I must go to my 
father--or die trying as the case may be.*

Legolas tripped on a root he had not seen in his path, painfully 
catching his still-wrenched ankle. With a cry, the elf fell to his 
knees, tears springing into his eyes with the jarring impact. As if 
the poison’s effects weren’t enough, it also had prevented his wounds 
from healing. Some of his disorientation was probably due to the head 
injury from the avalanche--or so he would have reasoned if he’d been 
coherent enough to analyze the situation. Cursing in weary 
frustration, he dragged himself to his feet, only to fall again an 
hour later over some stupid obstacle he should have avoided. But he 
got up again. And again. And again…

***

Mirkwood, three days later…

King Thranduil, Crown Prince Berensul and Crown Princess Eirien, and 
Silivren came out of the palace gates to see Princess Limloeth off. 
“Will you take me to Lothlorien some day, Aunt Limloeth?” Silivren 
pleaded.

“I promise I shall, Sili,” said Limloeth. “When you are older.”

“Everyone says that,” Silivren pouted.

Limloeth laughed, holding out her arms, “Because it is true, little 
one. Do not be in such a hurry to grow up.” She embraced her niece. 
“Farewell for now, Sili.”

Silivren returned to Golwen’s side as Berensul and Eirien came to say 
their goodbyes. “Take care, Sister,” Berensul whispered. “I shall miss 
you.”

Limloeth embraced him tightly. “And I you. Be well.” She embraced 
Eirien, then turned to her father. 

“Safe journey, my daughter.”

“Farewell, Father. Until we meet again.” Kissing the king’s cheek, she 
mounted her horse and rode out of the gates.

***

Outside Mirkwood, the same day…

Sweat drenched his body. Pain and exhaustion sang in his blood and 
bones. But he walked on. Fever made his mind wander with fears and 
imagined threats, melding dream and reality into a confused blur. But 
he walked on. Bound by a need that no fever-fog could erase, a debt he 
owed to the one person he loved more than any, Legolas walked on. No 
matter how many times he fell, he rose again, and walked on.

He was so close; the trees taunted him with their nearness. But he was 
close enough now to hear their song, and it called him home, even as 
the poison’s fever raged in his body and mind. He was so close…

Legolas fell to his knees, trembling. He was also desperately thirsty, 
but there was not a stream or pond to be found. The frost of the 
morning had melted even as he had scraped what moisture he could find 
from leaves and grasses. Gasping for breath, feeling ridiculously 
winded, Legolas tried to rise. He fell again. This was absurd. He was 
an elf, a warrior of Mirkwood, the son of Thranduil. How could a mere 
glob of orc poison lay him so low? He dragged himself to the nearest 
tree, using its sturdy bulk to pull himself up. That enabled him to 
take five full steps before collapsing again. Kneeling upon the 
ground, Legolas began to accept the knowledge that he would not reach 
his father’s halls alive.

A soft whicker came then, and Lanthir’s nose gently brushed his ear. 
Blinking red, bleary eyes, Legolas smiled in spite of himself. “I fear 
you may have to leave me after all, my friend. This may be the end.” 
*Or perhaps not. If I can find the courage to leave my dignity behind, 
I may still have the strength to crawl for a ways. Then at least I 
will be under the trees.* That considered, Legolas attempted to drag 
himself onward. 

Lanthir walked in front of him, staring at his rider balefully. The 
horse tossed his head, clearly offering an alternative. “Don’t be 
silly, Lanthir, you cannot bear me. You are wounded too.” Legolas 
tried to pull himself past the horse, but Lanthir got in the way 
again. “Curses, Lanthir, stop it! This is hard--and 
humiliating--enough as it is.”

With a distinctly sarcastic-sounding snort, the horse finally moved 
aside. Then he walked up next to Legolas--and bit the elf solidly on 
the ear. Legolas yelped in surprised pain and rolled aside, falling to 
the ground again. “Ai! Lanthir! That hurt!” Very deliberately, Lanthir 
seized a mouthful of Legolas’s hair and jerked. “Ow! Stop that!” The 
elf attempted to scramble away, but Lanthir calmly walked after him, 
nipping at Legolas every chance he got. “Aah! You crazy horse! Stop 
it--ow! Ai! Be off!” In his wounded, feverish state, Legolas was no 
match for the very determined stallion. 

Only when the elf curled into an outraged, defensive ball on the 
ground did Lanthir desist. He lowered his head and gently nudged his 
rider with his nose, then stepped back expectantly. Legolas raised his 
head. “If I refuse, you will bite me again, I suppose?” He got an 
affirmative whinny. “Very well.” He pulled himself to his knees, and 
Lanthir helpfully came up beside him to serve as a brace. It took 
Legolas several embarrassing tries to get onto the horse’s back. He 
winced as he felt the horse buckle slightly. “You cannot bear my 
weight, Lanthir. Why are you doing this?” The horse simply snorted; it 
was clear that he was carrying Legolas whether the elf liked it or 
not, and Legolas had better hold on. With a sigh, Legolas took the 
horse’s mane. “Take me home, my friend. And try not to overexert 
yourself.”

With an answering whinny, Lanthir started off at a smooth trot. Until 
now, Legolas had been able to take his mind off the fever and pain 
with the effort of taking steps, but now it came with a new vengeance. 
He was also shivering badly, and he felt weaker than ever. Even if 
Lanthir were able to run all the way, it was doubtful he would last as 
long as it took to get home. The horse stumbled, jolting his rider, 
and Legolas moaned, doubling over. Weakly, he draped his arms around 
the horse and let himself fall against Lanthir’s neck. The poison was 
beginning to claim his consciousness, and it was getting very hard to 
breathe.

The elven horse sensed his rider’s distress, and before Legolas 
realized what had happened, Lanthir broke into a run. “Ahh, 
what--Lanthir, what by the Valar are you doing?” he gasped, holding on 
with all his might. 

The trees were coming closer, and the gray stallion’s jarring strides 
were each a new exploration of agony for his rider. But Lanthir was 
also struggling, trying to keep from limping too badly, and fighting 
to ignore the effects of the other (more serious) injuries he had 
sustained in the avalanche. Even in his muddled state, Legolas sensed 
the horse was going beyond his limits. “Stop, Lanthir,” he pleaded. 
“You’ll kill yourself!”

Lanthir just snorted defiantly and continued running. The stallion had 
somehow figured out that he was the one chance Legolas had of reaching 
safety, and the loyalty of all good beasts to the elves was deep and 
strong. Still deeper and stronger was the devotion of an elven horse 
to its rider. Legolas heard distress in Lanthir’s breathing, felt him 
limping still more, and cried for him to stop, but the horse ignored 
him. The elf considered throwing himself from the horse’s back, but 
his body felt so weak that he feared he might break his own neck. And 
still the trees came closer. Mirkwood. So close.

Blood stained the lather of the wounded and weary horse, but Legolas 
could not see it. And Lanthir tossed his head anytime Legolas tried to 
look too closely. They were nearly there…Legolas let out a moan of 
pain and relief as they swept through the first dark trees, under the 
threshold of the forest. Its mere presence, like the open arms of his 
mother long ago, was a balm to the elf’s spirit. “We’re home, Lanthir. 
Stop now.” But Lanthir would not stop. Legolas saw a drop of blood 
strike a leaf as they raced on through the bushes. “Lanthir? By the 
Valar, STOP! You’re killing yourself! No!”

He pulled back on the horse’s mane, shifted his weight, fought for 
control, but his friend ran on. Panic gripped him, but the fever made 
him too weak to make any difference. The trees flashed past, and 
Legolas pleaded with the stallion desperately. “Lanthir, stop, 
please--” He felt the horse suddenly jerk in a new burst of pain, and 
cried out in anguish and horror as Lanthir pitched over, spilling his 
elven rider to the ground. 

Legolas tumbled to a stop against a tree, groaning. It took several 
moments to get his wind back, and the fall had stunned him still more. 
What finally brought him around was a soft sigh from the forest, sadly 
noting the death of one of its creatures. 

“Lanthir,” he whispered weakly, and tried to pull himself upright. He 
could not. So he crawled on his hands and knees to where the gray 
horse lay. Lanthir’s black eyes were dull, glazed, looking at nothing. 
Blood marked his soft muzzle. Legolas could hear no sound of breathing 
from the still form. The sighing of the trees--it could not be! “No…” 
Desperately, he ran his hands over the horse, trying to find some sign 
of life. “Lanthir,” he whimpered, fever and now grief destroying any 
control left in him. A sob escaped, tears began to streak his face, 
then he buried his face in Lanthir’s gray mane and wept helplessly. He 
could not even crawl anymore, and the sight of his beloved horse dead 
after trying to carry him home stole what was left of his will. He had 
nothing. *Nothing…* Lost, defeated, stripped of dignity and strength 
on the edge of Mirkwood, Legolas laid his head down next to Lanthir’s 
body and let his consciousness drift away.

*Legolas…* 

Who was there? Someone had called his name. Dimly, Legolas looked 
around, though he had lost the strength to lift his head or call out. 

*Legolas, do not let go.* 

Someone was calling to him. Why did it matter, anyway? His Lanthir was 
dead. He was dying. He had lost everything and failed. They should 
leave him to his fate.

*Legolas, you cannot go.* From the blurry forest, a dark-haired figure 
ran out of the trees to the dying elf’s side. *Legolas? Do you not 
know who I am?*

Legolas felt his eyes widen, and forcing his mouth to work, he said 
weakly, “Tathar?” *How can you be here? Why do I matter to you after I 
got you killed in the mountains?*

Tathar laughed softly, kneeling next to Legolas. *Do not believe the 
phantoms of fever dreams, my dearest friend. You must not give up, 
Legolas. You’ve much yet to do. Come, I told you I should always be 
with you. Rise, prince of Mirkwood. You are needed here.*

“Tathar…I cannot…”

*In your heart, much strength still lies. Rise, Legolas. I am with 
you.*

Moaning with effort, Legolas braced himself against the ground, 
managing to sit up slightly, and looked around for his friend. 
“Tathar?” But the forest was empty. He was so tired…yet the echoes of 
Tathar’s voice would not leave him, and he continued the struggle. 
With much effort, he fought the dizzy weakness of his body until he 
was upright against a tree. Then he pushed himself off the tree and 
staggered a few steps to the next tree, catching himself against it. 
He rested his forehead against its brown bole, fighting the poison’s 
insidious urge to lie down and sleep himself to death. He was already 
out of breath.

Just then, he heard footsteps coming through the forest. “Tathar?” He 
held onto the tree for dear life and looked about, trying to see him. 
His vision was a green and brown blur, but a gray figure came out of 
the haze. “Lanthir?”

“Who goes there--” a gruff voice began, than stopped. Legolas blinked, 
unable to identify or remember the speaker. The voice came again, this 
time full of alarm and shock. “By the Valar, young Legolas! What’s 
happened to you?”

“I…” Legolas blinked harder as the figure came closer, trying to clear 
his vision. At last it focused enough to show him what appeared to be 
an old man, with a long gray beard and pointed hat. “Mithrandir?” He 
pulled away from the tree and promptly collapsed. 

The Maia caught him, easing him toward the ground. “This is an 
unexpected meeting, young prince of Mirkwood. Forgive my manners, but 
you look most unwell.”

Sleep was such a wonderful thing. With an effort, Legolas managed to 
raise his head to speak. “Poison. Orcs,” he mumbled. The presence of 
the wizard, the gentle voice of the trees, and the still-rising fever 
were robbing him of coherent thought. Shadow called enticingly to him. 
He just wanted to sleep. 

“No, no, Legolas, you cannot do that. You must stay awake until we can 
get some healer’s draught into you. Orc poison, was it? Where? Where 
were you attacked? Come on,” Mithrandir firmly shook him. “Stay with 
me, young prince.”

“Mountain orcs,” Legolas managed to say, though what difference it 
made, he could not imagine. *Just let me sleep…Tathar. I want Tathar 
to come back.* His body was going completely limp, and his head 
drooped against the wizard’s shoulder. “Tathar…”

“Tathar? Ah, your friend, the one who…well, we’ll never mind that; 
this wretched poison has you pretty fuddled, doesn’t it? Hmm. If only 
I had stopped to get a horse on the way, curse this luck! On your 
feet, Legolas. You must stay awake.” Mithrandir made several attempts 
to pull Legolas to his feet, to no avail. There was a sigh, and 
Legolas dimly felt himself being shifted. “It seems this is the only 
way. I’m sorry, young Legolas, you’d be much more comfortable asleep, 
but I fear you would never wake. Hold on,” there came a stream of 
unintelligible words, and a bright light, and a strange alertness 
swept over Legolas. He blinked as the wizard’s face came into focus. 
“That’s more like it. Come now, on your feet. We must move fast.”

Weakly, Legolas accepted Mithrandir’s help and found himself able to 
stand. Whatever the wizard had done, it had staved off the exhaustion 
for now, but the pain had not lessened. He shivered violently, and 
Mithrandir draped his heavy gray cloak around the elf. “How far to my 
father’s halls?” he asked as the wizard walked him into the woods.

“Almost three days on foot. I’ll do all I can for you, young prince. 
It’s a pity we don‘t have a faster mode of transportation; you’d be 
better off in Rivendell under Lord Elrond‘s care.”

Legolas sighed his thanks, then concentrated on putting his feet where 
they belonged and not lurching as he walked. It seemed to him in his 
near-delirious state that he could still hear Tathar’s voice, speaking 
words of comfort and encouragement in the sounds of the forest. 
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a beast running through the woods, and 
recoiled in alarm. Mithrandir also heard it, and the wizard tensed, 
readying his staff. The sounds drew nearer, hoof beats. A horse. 
Mithrandir recognized them before Legolas could speak, and lowered his 
staff again. Out of the trees ran a beautiful brown stallion, stopping 
when it spotted the two walkers. “Mithrandir?” Legolas whispered.

“Well, now, here’s a stroke of good luck! Come closer, friend, we’ll 
not harm you! In fact, the prince here desperately needs your help!” 
The horse, reassured by Gandalf’s words, slowly walked up to them. 
“Well, aren’t you a beauty, and strong by the looks of you. Would you 
be so kind as to bear our weight for awhile? Ah, thank you. Up you go, 
Legolas,” the elf suddenly found himself astride the brown stallion 
with Gandalf behind him. “Hmm, with a little help from me, you could 
probably get us to Imladris in not much more than three days. And this 
young elf needs the skills of Lord Elrond. Perhaps--”

“No!” Legolas exclaimed, grabbing Gandalf’s arm as he was extending 
his staff. “Mithrandir,” he said weakly, not releasing his hold. 
“Please take me to my father’s halls.”

“Your father has excellent healers, Legolas, but you are very ill. I 
worry that none other than Lord Elrond will be able to save you. You 
are very far gone in this poison.”

Legolas frantically shook his head, fighting to keep his mind 
coherent. “No.” He managed to turn and face Mithrandir. “I must go 
home. Please take me to my father.” Seeing the wizard’s furrowed 
brows, he whispered, “Please.” There was no point in worrying about 
pride. He knew he was dying. If he could but see Thranduil’s face one 
last time, and ask his father’s forgiveness, what happened afterward 
did not matter.

Mithrandir’s perceptive eyes probed the elf’s fevered face. If he 
chose to ride for Rivendell, Legolas could not very well stop him, and 
yet…that was not what the young warrior wanted. *Trying to get home to 
your father. There is a change. And an important one.* “Very well. I 
suppose it’s more important to get you to shelter than anything else, 
and your Lady Eirien is a superb healer. Let’s see how fast our friend 
here can run. Bear us to the elven king, Master Horse!” He held 
Legolas upright as the brown stallion galloped into the woods. With 
luck, and a little of the wizard’s own contribution, they could be at 
King Thranduil’s palace by sundown.

It was just as well, Gandalf thought as the horse galloped swiftly 
through the trees, that Legolas had insisted on being taken home. He 
could feel the young warrior’s pulse growing faster and weaker as his 
breathing grew more labored. The poison’s advance was speeding, and it 
was unlikely Legolas would have survived even a greatly-sped-up trip 
to Rivendell. The Maia was beginning to worry he wouldn’t survive the 
trip home. He pulled the prince back against him, looking at his face. 
The spell he had used was keeping Legolas awake, but his dark gray 
eyes were glassier than before, and they focused on nothing. Gandalf 
wondered if the elf knew where he was. “Hold on, Legolas, hold on.” 

In spite of the forced consciousness he was enduring, fever dreams had 
once again claimed Legolas’s mind. Weird, blurry images whirled around 
him, and though he could feel the rhythm of the horse’s strides 
beneath him and hear Gandalf’s words behind him, he could make no 
sense of anything. Delirium took him, but even in that state, he knew 
what he sought, and called out for his father. Many things that he 
wished to say spun through his thoughts. He did not know if he spoke 
them aloud or not. Strange, hollow voices and apparitions swirled 
around him, and Legolas flinched, frightened and confused. He still 
had not found his father. *I must find him…I must tell him…*

Then it all stopped. The pain seemed to diminish a little. The 
nightmarish visions parted like the stars in the Mirror of Galadriel. 
Legolas was lying upon a bed, the trees around him were silver, 
crowned with golden leaves, and he could hear the song of birds and 
elves in the distance. The breeze blew gently over his face, cool 
against the fever. But even in this peaceful place, he cried out for 
his father. 

*Legolas!* A black-haired elven warrior, in Mirkwood colors, rushed to 
his bedside anxiously. *Ai, how did you get yourself into this state?*

*Tathar,* Legolas sighed, feeling his friend clasp his hand. *Orcs. 
They poisoned me.*

Tathar looked astonished, then shook his head in that pose of 
affectionate disgust he liked to assume. *Now why ever did you let 
them do that to you? You always had a tendency to punish yourself for 
faults, but that was going a bit far, don’t you think?*

Legolas laughed weakly. *I did not have much choice in the matter. 
Believe me.*

Tathar shook his head, and now his eyes were sad. *There is always a 
choice. You could have been cured by now. Must you always do things 
the hard way? Why do you make yourself suffer?*

*You don’t understand,* protested Legolas, staring at his friend. *I 
had to get home.*

*Yes, yes, I know, to confess your faults and throw yourself upon your 
father’s mercy. Why do you fear him, Legolas? He is your father, and 
no quarrel in the world will change that. * His brown eyes sparkling 
with amusement, Tathar laughed at Legolas. *I cannot imagine why you 
fear him, for he has always shown you more mercy than you have ever 
had on yourself.*

Legolas blinked, confused by Tathar’s words. Then he closed his eyes 
and sighed. *I wish you would not leave again. The world became so 
hard to bear without you.*

Tathar’s hand patted his shoulder. *Do not be ridiculous. I have never 
left you.* He snorted, *I could not if I wanted to, for you would 
never let me go. Ah, but I cannot talk; I suppose I would have been 
the same were our positions reversed.*

Tears filled Legolas’s eyes, *You would not have died had I not run 
away.*

A gentle cuff landed on his shoulder. *I thought I told you not to 
believe those poison phantoms! Do not listen to them, Legolas, the 
shadow of evil only seeks to take your heart. We make our choices, and 
we live with them. I knew long ago that your destiny lay along a much 
greater path than mine, but I chose to be with you. I would have gone 
with you if you had chosen one of those silly training missions.* 
Tathar laughed, squeezing his hand. Bending close to Legolas as though 
sharing a great secret, he added, *And I never regretted it. Not even 
in the end.* He rose from the edge of the bed.

*Tathar! Wait! Do not go!* 

But he was vanishing into the dazzling light through the silver and 
gold trees. Legolas shivered, frightened in spite of the beauty of 
this place. Why had Tathar left him alone? A pale hand cupped his 
cheek and turned his face away from where Tathar had gone. Legolas 
found himself staring at the beautiful face of the Lady Galadriel, her 
eyes gentle, her white hood resting atop her golden tresses. *He has 
never left you, Legolas. Heed his words.*

*I am so tired, Lady.*

*We are all tired at one time or another. But it is not your time to 
sleep yet. You shall be home soon, prince of Mirkwood. And there is 
much left for you to do.*

*How will I be strong enough?*

The Lady Galadriel smiled. *You need not know how. Know only that you 
shall be. I told you before: as long as your hope survives, you shall 
find the strength for all your battles.* Resting a hand lightly upon 
his shoulder, she said softly, *The shadow shall not have you, elf 
warrior, as long as you remain true to your heart.* Bending forward, 
Galadriel kissed him gently upon the forehead. Then darkness seemed to 
swirl toward him, blotting out the golden woods. Legolas gasped, but 
Galadriel reassured him, *Fear not, Legolas. We shall meet again.*

Then the light and the vision was gone, and Legolas was back upon the 
horse, in front of Mithrandir. Pain and weakness struck him anew, and 
he moaned. Mithrandir urged the horse faster. “Hold on, Legolas. We 
are almost there.” 

***

The elven king’s halls, several hours later…

Candrochon of Mirkwood was serving a stint of guard duty at the palace 
gate as the sun sank low in the sky. It was getting very chilly. He 
drew his cloak around him and listened idly to the song of the trees. 
It was then that he heard the sound of a rider, approaching the palace 
fast. The elf warrior tensed just as the other gate guards did. “A 
horseman comes,” one of them observed. “Openly. A messenger?”

“It’s a heavy horse--” Candrochon began, then the horse came into 
view, and his heart all but stopped. There were two on the beast’s 
back. The one in back was no trouble to recognize--the pointed hat and 
gray robes identified him as Mithrandir, trusted friend to all elves. 
And the one in front… “Ai! Is it…oh…by the Valar…Legolas?!” 

The elf’s shock and alarm were not surprising, for even the closest of 
the prince’s kindred had difficulty recognizing him. He looked 
dreadful. His face and body were drenched in sweat, and his golden 
hair clung to his skin. A deep, bruised gash marred his forehead, and 
other welts and bruises stood out on his skin, which was pallid with 
illness. His eyes, normally so bright and alert, were glazed, 
red-rimmed, and confused, as though he were not quite conscious. As 
the horse ran up to them, Candrochon could hear how shallowly Legolas 
was breathing. 

Before any of the shocked elves could speak, Mithrandir swung down. 
“Send for Crown Prince Berensul, if you would be so kind, young 
Candrochon. Prince Legolas must be seen by a healer immediately. He 
was attacked by orcs.” No words would come to him, so Candrochon 
simply threw open the gate and raced into the palace. He did glance 
over his shoulder as some of the elves exclaimed aloud; Mithrandir’s 
horse had bolted back into the woods. “He was not my horse,” the 
wizard told someone as he helped the staggering Legolas up the stairs. 
“He merely helped us out.” 

*Strange,* Candrochon thought absently. *He looked like Sadron.* But 
as he entered the palace, his mind turned to other things.

Whatever spell Mithrandir had cast upon Legolas was wearing off, and 
the prince could feel himself losing control of his body again. 
Mithrandir had the elf braced upright against his side, and it was 
taking all his strength just to keep his feet under him. He vaguely 
thought he knew that elf who had gone for help, but the fever clouded 
his mind so that he could not be sure, or concentrate enough to figure 
it out. His mind did not even register where he was.

Then voices came anxiously from the distance, and the palace door 
opened. Crown Prince Berensul, with Candrochon beside him, took one 
step out of the palace and stopped dead in his tracks. Words and 
motion deserted him at the sight of his youngest brother. 
“Who…oh…Legolas? Mithrandir, how…”

Legolas did not react to Berensul’s presence; merely blinked weakly at 
the Crown Prince. Gandalf wondered if the young elf knew who his 
brother was. Taking control of the situation, the Maia said firmly, 
“We must get Legolas to a healer, my lord. There is not an instant to 
lose. Does the king know he is here?”

His eyes very dark and worried, Berensul said, “No. Quickly, we must 
get Legolas inside before my father does find out. Whatever 
confrontation is coming, this is definitely not the time.” He 
beckoned, and Mithrandir hurriedly supported the stumbling Legolas up 
the steps and into the outer halls of the palace. But no sooner had 
they entered than they heard a familiar voice coming toward another 
doorway. Berensul recoiled, close to panic. “Ai, Mithrandir--”

Deep in conversation with his Steward, King Thranduil strode through 
the door oblivious to the happenings in the hall. Absently, he took a 
cursory look around, and his gaze fell on Berensul, Gandalf… The elven 
king froze, taking in the haggard appearance of his son, held upright 
against Gandalf’s side under the wizard’s cloak, sweaty with fever and 
pale as a wraith. In a toneless voice, he said, “Legolas.”

For all the fever did to his mind, Legolas recognized his father. 
Thranduil’s unexpected appearance seemed to have turned everyone to 
stone, even Gandalf. But somehow, Legolas pulled himself from the 
wizard’s supportive grasp and staggered forward a few steps, where he 
stood facing the elven king. The prince’s mouth moved, he tried to 
speak, but his voice failed.

Thranduil’s expression was too blank for even Mithrandir to read, but 
to Legolas, it seemed rather foreboding. Berensul rushed in front of 
the king. “Father--” 

Thranduil strode forward, placing a hand on Berensul’s shoulder and 
firmly moving him out of his path, having eyes only for his other son, 
the one who had left him on bad terms six months before. Legolas stood 
where he was, helpless, bracing himself, as his father came towards 
him. A few desperate thoughts worked their way through the fevered 
haze. *He knows I am doomed if he does not let me stay. I must ask him 
to forgive me. Ai, to find my voice! Will he cast me off now?* Legolas 
wondered hazily as the world closed in. *Am I to die alone?* 

It seemed that fate would not permit him to know the answer, for the 
last remnants of Mithrandir’s spell faded. Blackness swept up and 
formed a tunnel around him, pulling him in so that the last thing he 
saw was King Thranduil advancing forward, his dark eyes locked upon 
his son‘s, as the orc poison’s shadow finally claimed him.

***

Berensul and Gandalf watched in horror as Thranduil strode 
purposefully toward his youngest son. The same questions dogged both 
of their minds. Couldn’t he see Legolas was dying? Would he truly be 
so callous as to refuse his youngest son sanctuary? What did he 
intend? Legolas, for all his brave effort to stand alone before the 
king, had pushed himself too far. His eyes closed, his legs gave way 
beneath him, and he sagged limply toward the ground. Before either 
Gandalf or Berensul could react, King Thranduil covered the last few 
strides between himself and Legolas--and caught his son as he fell.

Sweeping Legolas up into his arms as if he weighed nothing at all, 
Thranduil stared for a moment at his son’s unconscious face, and many 
emotions flew across the king’s own countenance. Gandalf identified 
all of them as various forms of anguish. Then the elven king turned 
and started toward back down the hall, carrying Legolas. As though 
just remembering the others were there, the elven king turned and 
stared incredulously at Gandalf and Berensul, who had not moved. “Why 
are you just standing there?!” he demanded. To Berensul, he snapped, 
“Send for Eirien at once!” Breaking into a run, Thranduil carried his 
youngest child toward the royal chambers, shouting for the palace 
healers.

***** Alas, poor Lanthir. He couldn’t live forever, and I knew that 
nothing less than a hero’s death would do for that stallion.

DON’T FORGET TO REVIEW!!! 

In response to questions: Yes, I fear it is true, this tale is winding 
down. But, before you (or I) plunge into mourning, let me say that I 
have a certain little something in the works. Perhaps…a sequel? :-) Or 
two? ;-)

Remember, I cherish and appreciate all my reviewers and your comments, 
including the constructive criticism. I hope my writing improves for 
it. (Just be sure to let me know whether it does!) Many many thanks!





Chapter Twenty-Five: Forgiveness





“Grief maybe had wrought it, and remorse. He saw tears on that once 
tearless face, more unbearable than wrath…

‘I sent my son forth, unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, 
and here he lies with poison in his veins.’”--Denethor The Siege of 
Gondor, Return of the King

***





Thranduil’s mind reeled as he bore his unconscious youngest son down 
the corridors of the outer palace. Time and reality seemed to have 
rearranged themselves, and it was as though he remembered nothing that 
had passed since Legolas had stormed out of the stables after that 
last quarrel. It seemed like that same night. The attendants came 
rushing to the prince’s chambers as Thranduil carried him through the 
door. “Where by the Valar is Eirien?!” he demanded, his throat tight 
with fear. “Find her! I need her!” 

Trembling, he laid Legolas carefully upon the bed. It did not seem 
real. He had never seen his son’s eyes closed this way, and the dark 
lashes stood out starkly against his ashen skin. His pulse was weak 
and uneven; his breath seemed to grow more shallow with each passing 
second. Damp tendrils of hair clung to his sweaty face, and his 
forehead was burning hot to the touch. Elves did not come by fever 
naturally. “Oh, Legolas,” Thranduil whispered, his own heart hammering 
in his chest. “What happened to you?” 

Berensul and Mithrandir came running through the door after him, 
wearing identical expressions of distress. Mithrandir saw that no 
healer had arrived yet and hurried to the prince’s bedside. “We must 
awaken him, my lord. The shadow will pull him beyond a healer’s reach 
if we do not.”

Swallowing hard, Thranduil assisted Mithrandir in his attempts to 
rouse his son. The elven king had a strong belief in the maintenance 
of appearances, and at any other moment, he would have concerned 
himself with not showing weakness before the Maia. But in his long 
years, Thranduil had seen elves afflicted by all manner of injury and 
ailment, and he knew his child’s condition was grave. It was even 
possible that this malady might…the thought was not to be touched. Not 
again. And so Thranduil did not even notice how badly he trembled, nor 
how his voice cracked as he tried to awaken Legolas. Even if he had, 
it was unlikely that he would have cared.

Desperately, he shook Legolas, trying to elicit some kind of response. 
“Legolas? Legolas!” *This is not happening. This CANnot be happening! 
Not you too!* “Where is Eirien, Berensul?”

“She--she’s coming, Father. She should be here any minute,” Berensul’s 
voice was also trembling.

Thranduil seized one of the servants by the arm as he passed. 
“Dispatch messengers at once. Send one to Rivendell. Say that the King 
of Mirkwood begs Lord Elrond’s immediate assistance as a healer. Send 
another after Princess Limloeth. She is only a day or so down the 
trail, have her back as soon as possible. Go!”

“Yes, my lord!” the servant fled, white-faced. 

It seemed that the hearts of all Mirkwood cried out against the 
possibility of the loss of another of Thranduil’s children. *No! No! 
Do not think of that!* But he was no fool, and the signs were very 
ill. *It cannot be! I cannot endure this again!* Legolas’s breathing 
was very weak, and growing worse. The unconscious state he was in…it 
was more like a coma than sleep. There was not a flicker of response 
to the outside world. His eyes were closed so tightly. *No! Legolas, 
open your eyes. Look at me! Hear me! Please!*

Where was Eirien? She was trained by Elrond; she would know how to 
cure him. *She must! A Elbereth, I cannot go through this again. I 
will not survive mourning another of my children. Legolas! Legolas, 
awaken! Ai, why did I ever speak so harshly to you that day! Please 
forgive me! This is my doing! My possessiveness. Wake up, Legolas! 
There is so much I must say…* 

***

Gandalf heard an army of footsteps approaching down the corridor--in a 
loud, careless fashion very unlike elves--and before he could look up, 
he was all but shouldered aside. It was the Lady Eirien, Crown 
Princess, and a healer trained by Lord Elrond himself. She was the 
young prince’s best hope of survival. When King Thranduil raised his 
eyes from his son to speak to her, Gandalf was stunned. He had not 
been in Mirkwood at the time when three of Thranduil and Minuial’s 
children were slain in battle, but now the Maia suspected that the 
elven king must have looked then just as he did now. The desperation 
in the eyes of Legolas’s father tore at Gandalf’s heart. “Eirien?”

“Stand back, Father. Give me room.” The Princess was normally a 
soft-spoken, placid creature, but now her tone brooked no argument, 
and the elven king stepped quickly out of her way. But Gandalf heard 
her intake of breath as she hastily examined her brother-in-law’s 
unresponsive body. “How long has he been this way?” she asked the room 
in general.

“I found him on the edge of the wood this morning,” Gandalf spoke up 
quickly. “He was already burning and unable to move. It was only by a 
spell that I was able to keep him conscious until he reached the 
palace.”

“Help me, Mithrandir,” Eirien ordered. “We must rouse him.” She 
whirled back to the array of herbs and potions the other healers were 
bringing. Snatching up a vial, she attempted to pour the contents down 
Legolas’s throat. Unable to swallow, Legolas choked and gasped, and 
she cursed like a Rohirrim stable hand. Gandalf could see that the 
ailing elf barely had room to draw breath, let alone get a liquid 
down. 

Thranduil’s eyes widened and he started forward. “Stand back!” Eirien 
snapped, in a tone that could probably render Galadriel docile. 
Bending over Legolas, she tried again to make him take the draught, 
then ran her hand along the muscles of his throat. All in the room 
could hear the prince’s breathing becoming more and more distressed. 
Eirien’s expression remained fixed, and she moved swiftly around the 
bed, trying every smelling herb and potion that could be found to 
awaken Legolas or ease his breathing. But all could see the color 
beginning to drain from her face even as she worked frantically. 

Gandalf’s heart sank as she shot him a quick, desperate glance. *She 
cannot save him. A Elbereth, no!* Berensul was against the wall 
keeping out of the healers’ way, but his eyes were wide with despair, 
and beginning to fill with tears. Eirien even tried forcing a remedy 
into Legolas with another sharpened thorn, but even the pain did not 
seem to have an effect. As the prince’s breathing slowed still more, 
Eirien’s breath caught; her hand touched Legolas’s chest again, and 
she stared in horror at what she felt. Gandalf caught his own breath 
in a great surge of grief, as Legolas’s breath rasped in his chest 
once more…then stopped.

All the assisting healers froze where they were, horror upon every 
face. None could make sense of it. Eirien dropped to her knees beside 
the bed and raised her eyes to the king. They brimmed with helpless 
tears, and in them was a silent plea for forgiveness for her failure. 
Berensul trembled as he sank into a chair, as though his legs would no 
longer support him. With all his heart, Gandalf wished it was within 
his power to turn back time, neutralize poison, heal a fatal 
wound…anything that would eliminate the death that now visited this 
family for the fifth time. 

And then there was King Thranduil.

The elven king did not seem to see Eirien’s shame, or his son’s grief, 
or Gandalf’s sorrow. His eyes were locked, stunned, upon Legolas’s 
still, white face. “No…” Thranduil whispered.

Eirien choked on a sob, “Father--”

“NO!” Thranduil leapt forward and wrenched Legolas from the pillows, 
shaking the limp body desperately. “Legolas! Legolas, awaken! He is 
not dead! Legolas!”

With an effort, Berensul rose from the chair and pulled Eirien back 
from the bedside. She clutched her husband, choking back sobs of her 
own. Gandalf felt anguish rush through him anew, for the healers 
trained by Lord Elrond rarely lost patients. Legolas was Eirien’s 
first. Berensul raised a hand to Gandalf when the wizard reached out 
to try and stop the king’s hopeless efforts. It would do no good, but 
the Maia stood back as Thranduil attempted to force air into his son’s 
lungs. Staring at the young warrior’s limp body, Gandalf felt his own 
eyes stinging. *Forgive me, young Legolas. Would that I had come on 
horseback. Would that I had found you sooner, or carried more healing 
herbs of my own. Would that I had been able to do SOMETHING!*

Holding Legolas up in vain, Thranduil stared at his youngest son’s 
face, and the king’s breath began to choke from him. “Oh Legolas,” he 
whispered. Gandalf closed his eyes against the agonizing pain in the 
elven king’s voice, and respectfully stepped back toward the doorway. 
Thranduil did not seem to realize anyone else was in the room anymore. 
Tears slid from under his eyelids as he gently cradled his son against 
him, burying his face in Legolas’s golden hair. Holding Legolas closer 
still, Thranduil whispered something in his ear, so softly that 
neither the wizard, nor the weeping elves in the room heard what he 
said.

All at once, the soft sounds of the elves’ grief was shattered by a 
great, desperate gasp. Legolas’s eyes flew open, and he pulled back 
reflexively from his father’s grip in a frantic search for air. One 
breath, then another were pulled into his lungs, and his body went 
from dead limp to nearly rigid as elven stamina renewed the fight for 
life. For a split second, the witnesses could only stare, stunned. 
Thranduil looked into his son’s glassy, but open eyes, and whispered, 
“Legolas?”

Then Eirien jerked away from Berensul and sprang into action. Dashing 
a hand over her eyes, she snatched up a bottle of a particularly 
foul-smelling draught, diving for the bedside. Shock aside, Gandalf 
could see now that Legolas was still in trouble, and still burning 
with delirium. He flinched away from Eirien when she attempted to feed 
him the potion. “Hold him, Father,” she said to Thranduil. “He must 
take this quickly. He remains in grave danger.”

Thranduil snatched the bottle from her, pulling Legolas towards him. 
The young elf moaned in pain and confusion, still gasping for breath, 
and struggled against the arms trying to hold him. “Easy, Legolas,” 
Thranduil said soothingly. “Do not fight me.”

It was inconceivable that even an elf could recognize anything while 
running so high a fever, but it appeared to Gandalf that Legolas did 
relax slightly on hearing his father’s voice. No, there! He had not 
imagined it. Legolas turned his pale face towards Thranduil, and there 
did seem to be a flicker of recognition in his glazed eyes. “That’s 
it, little one. Come, you must have the potion. It will help. Drink, 
Legolas.” He raised the bottle to his son’s lips, and though Legolas’s 
breathing was still labored, he drank it. 

“Give him all of it,” Eirien said from where she was mixing more 
herbs.

Thranduil kept Legolas swallowing the draught, pausing only to let him 
catch his breath and avoid choking him. At last, the prince finished 
it, coughing and exhausted. His head dropped against his father’s 
shoulder. Gandalf leaned over the side of the bed and helped the king 
prop Legolas up. “He was wounded by a poisoned arrow. When I found 
him, he said something about mountain orcs.”

Eirien examined the arrow wound in the prince’s back, noting with an 
angry hiss the bloody welts left by orc lashes. “He is very far gone. 
I know many poisons that it could have been, but without knowing when 
and where he was taken, I cannot be sure.” Briskly, she turned back to 
the poultice she was preparing, adding more herbs and potions to it, 
and handed more herbs to the assistant healer who was helping with 
another draught. 

Legolas moaned in delirious pain as Eirien cleansed the raw weals and 
secured the poultice to the arrow wound. “Do you think he will 
remember when and where it happened?” asked Berensul.

“Perhaps later, but at the moment I doubt if he remembers his own 
name,” Eirien said, laying a hand on her brother’s forehead. “Never 
have I seen an elf burn so.” She checked the draught being prepared, 
added more herbs, and carried it back to the king. “I know not which 
remedy to use, so this contains several.”

Thranduil took the vial, but tore his eyes from Legolas’s face to look 
worriedly at her. “So many? Is that safe?”

“Now it is more important to counteract the poison in his blood. The 
most the herbs might do is make him a little sick,” Eirien said 
firmly. “Give it to him.”

Nodding solemnly, the elven king gave Legolas the medicine. The prince 
did not have as much difficulty swallowing this one. It seemed to 
Gandalf that his breathing was also becoming easier. “I think it is 
working already.”

Eirien nodded, her hand gently touching Legolas’s neck. “The first 
draught eased his breathing, but that only bought us time. Father, has 
Lord Elrond been sent for?”

Taking a heavy breath, Thranduil nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Yes. And 
Limloeth.” Touching his son’s burning face, he spoke in a voice full 
of dread the question that weighed upon all their minds. “Will he 
live?” 

Slowly, Eirien nodded. “I think the immediate danger is past, for now. 
But I fear we will not be able to counter the poison until we know 
what it is.”

“How will we find that out?” Berensul asked. “Do you think Lord Elrond 
will know?”

“Perhaps, but Legolas may be able to tell us sooner. It is safe for 
now, Father, he may sleep. We shall continue working to bring the 
fever down. Then when he is coherent, he may remember what happened. 
Knowing when and where he was taken would be enough.” Eirien ran 
thoughtful eyes over her patient, who was still being held in a 
sitting position, cradled gently against Thranduil’s chest. Though his 
eyes were open, they were glazed and barely responsive to the activity 
around him. The crown princess filled a cup and handed it to the king. 
“See if he will take some water. Then he should sleep.”

Thranduil took the cup and held it to his son’s lips. “Drink, 
Legolas,” he whispered when Legolas feebly resisted. “It is only 
water.”

*** 

At first, as yet another flow of some strange liquid attempted to 
force its way into his mouth, Legolas tried to pull away. In his 
fevered confusion, the foul-tasting stuff given him before had not 
been recognized as healing draught, and he feared it. But some vaguely 
familiar presence remained close to him, reassuring enough for Legolas 
to accept the rim of the cup at his lips.

This time it was water, cool, clear water that he recognized even in 
his delirium as something he desperately needed. His body and mind 
burned, but the cleansing liquid seemed to wash away some of his fear 
and confusion, enough to where he could remember something he needed 
to say. He had come a long way to find someone…who…where was he? It 
did not matter, for the one who…who?…the one he sought was here, he 
was sure of it. *Who was I seeking…what was I trying to say…why can I 
not remember?* Legolas wondered hazily. The cup was offered again, and 
he drank more, hearing a familiar voice speaking unintelligible words 
in his ear. He could make no sense of them, but the voice was so 
familiar, so comforting…

“Father?” he gasped out, his eyes trying bring the blurry figure 
before him into focus. Was it indeed him? It was, it had to be! And 
there was something he had to say…he could barely remember…Legolas 
tried to blurt out the message in his heart. “P-please, for-forgive 
m…” but the words could barely come together in his mind, let alone 
from his mouth.

Gentle hands eased him back against the pillow, stroking tendrils of 
hair from his sweaty face. “Shhhhh. Hush, my son. Hush. You are home.” 
That voice was so quiet and calming, triggering more vague memories. 
Oh, how he wanted the ability to speak, and he tried, but his father 
shushed him again. “It is all right. Be easy, there will be time for 
words later. There is much for us both to say.” A cool cloth blotted 
the sweat from his brow. “Rest, my son. I’ll not leave you. Sleep now, 
my Legolas.”

A hand gently covered his. Weariness claimed him, far less fearful now 
that he no longer had to fight for every breath. A less-threatening 
shadow rose up to cover him, and the words spoken softly around him 
lost their sense again. But the voice and gentle touch remained, even 
as his eyes drifted closed again, familiar and safe after the horrors 
the fever had inflicted upon his mind. They held him like a shield 
against the nightmares, and finally soothed Legolas into sleep.

***

Around midnight…

The odors of Eirien’s herbs and potions hung heavily in Legolas’s 
chamber, for they dared not open the windows in the winter. The hours 
slid past, broken only by Eirien’s quiet movement with the other 
healers as they sought more remedies. Berensul sat in a chair on the 
opposite side of the bed from Thranduil, watching his brother’s 
struggle for life. And never in his own life had the crown prince of 
Mirkwood felt so helpless. 

He had known such emotions before, but then it had been possible to 
use rational thought to push them away. Even in the long process of 
grieving for his mother, brother, and two sisters--a process that 
still had not ended--he had known despite the typical guilt that he 
could not change events that had happened in other parts of the world.

*And yet here lies my youngest brother, my last brother. He lies right 
here before me, dying before my eyes, and there is NAUGHT I can do! 
Curse the Valar, and whatever power that determines our fates! Did 
something decide that still now not enough sorrow had been visited 
upon our family?* Berensul was very much of his father’s mind 
concerning the manner of conducting oneself--that display of weakness 
was to be avoided at all costs. Nonetheless, also like Thranduil, his 
family was the one area in which he could never detach himself.

It did not help that the crown prince had not been resting very well 
since sending for Mithrandir. The anxiety of waiting for the Maia’s 
arrival had kept Berensul from sleeping easily, that and a strange 
sense of foreboding that had dogged him in recent days. Berensul, the 
eldest of Thranduil’s children, had been alive for a very long time, 
and had also learnt to trust his intuition. Now at last, too late, he 
understood the meaning of the ill portents his mind had sent him.

*Oh Legolas.* His brother’s still face suddenly blurred, and the 
tightness in his throat threatened to overwhelm him. Berensul saw 
movement out of the corner of his eye, and a hand rested upon his 
shoulder. He had been so fixated on Legolas that he had not even 
noticed Thranduil getting up. 

“It is late, Berensul. You should retire soon.”

Without looking at the king, Berensul smiled grimly, “Do you intend to 
leave him and sleep?”

“Nay. But that is all the more reason why you must.” Startled, 
Berensul turned to stare at Thranduil, and was startled by his 
father’s face. There was a change, hard to place. Exhaustion, grief, 
and desperate worry shadowed Thranduil, making him seem considerably 
older, but at the same time, something reminded his eldest son of his 
own younger days. He was trying to comprehend it when the king spoke 
again. “Even in this desolate moment, the needs of our realm must be 
seen to, my son. I cannot leave Legolas’s side while he is in this 
condition, and I know you wish to stay, but the business of the realm 
must fall to you.”

Astonished, the crown prince stared at the elven king. “You wish me to 
hold the court of Mirkwood?”

Thranduil smiled, albeit rather humorlessly, “We have intended for you 
to begin taking up such duties for some time, and now I fear the time 
has come. I shall be here if you need my counsel, but until your 
brother is recovered, our people shall look to you for leadership.” 
His eyes shifted to rest upon Legolas again. “I will not leave him.” 

***

Early the next morning…

Gandalf noticed even as he wandered the halls that many of the elves 
in the palace stood vigil that night, some simply walking through the 
trees, and others congregating in small groups, speaking in hushed, 
worried voices. The thoughts of all were focused on the royal 
chambers, where candles burned in Prince Legolas’s room through the 
night. King Thranduil had sent Berensul to bed around midnight. Eirien 
had stayed, keeping a close watch on her patient. Thranduil had not 
stirred from the bedside, but had sat in a chair, his hand upon his 
son’s. 

Gandalf had left him alone soon after Berensul left. Glancing back at 
Thranduil, whose anguished eyes never left his son’s face, the Maia 
had marveled at the events of the day. He wondered how many elves 
could even claim to have seen the King of Mirkwood so reduced. He was 
not in the habit of revealing ANY sentiments except those that 
furthered some advantage, such as a show of anger in his court. Yet 
what Gandalf had seen last night was raw, unconfined emotion, 
something that many elves--even his own children--had begun to believe 
he was no longer capable of feeling. 

*So, Thranduil, perhaps your heart is not quite so frozen after all.* 

How strange it was, to see the elves of Mirkwood at a time like this. 
Few strangers, even other elves, were welcomed unreservedly into 
Mirkwood, and Gandalf could say for certain that he was the only 
non-Eldar in all Middle Earth who might have the chance to behold the 
wood elves at a time like this. And revealing as the experience was, 
he wholeheartedly wished that he had never had this chance. 

The elven king’s halls and the trees surrounding them echoed with an 
eerie, fearful silence. Gandalf had been among the elves at moments of 
mourning before, and then songs of lament and sounds of tears told all 
the lands of their grief. But this…this was different. Silence was the 
sound of their waiting, their uncertainty. Few words were even spoken, 
and those that were came in tense whispers. Time and life seemed 
suspended, as all Mirkwood awaited the fate of the youngest son of 
Thranduil and Minuial. The wood elves had already mourned three of the 
King’s children, and then their Queen, and time had done little to 
blunt that pain. It was always so with the Eldar. Eternal mourning of 
the lost was a price of eternal life. Silence cried in a loud voice of 
their fear, of their helplessness. 

*Uncertainty is a fearful thing to elves,* thought the wizard. *I do 
not much care for it myself.* Knowing Eirien’s skills far exceeded his 
own knowledge, Gandalf had left Legolas to her care. And along with 
many others, the Maia wished there was more he could do. But all that 
remained to be done was waiting. *The hardest thing of all.*

Suddenly the silence was broken by murmurs of excitement among the 
waiting elves. Gandalf heard light steps darting down the corridor, 
and he turned to see Princess Limloeth coming down the hall at a dead 
run. The elven king’s daughter looked disheveled and anxious, as 
though she had spent the night riding hard (not surprising at how fast 
she had gotten back to the palace.) Seeing the wizard, she stopped 
only briefly, out of breath, to ask urgently, “Where is he?”

“His chambers, my lady,” said Gandalf, and watched her dash by him.

***

Limloeth did not even pause to wipe the dust of travel from her face 
or push her unruly hair into order before bursting through the door of 
her brother’s chamber. When the messenger from the king had arrived on 
a lathered horse, bearing tidings that Legolas had returned--barely 
alive--Limloeth and her escort had nearly run their own mounts into 
the ground on the trip back. The grim, frightened faces of the elves 
who greeted her arrival made Limloeth fear the worst, too dreadful to 
imagine. *I cannot live through this again.*

Finally reaching her destination, the princess of Mirkwood leaned 
heavily in the doorframe, catching her breath and trying to stifle the 
sobs that instantly rose in her throat at the sight of her little 
brother. And she had thought he looked ill when he arrived in Lorien 
thirty years ago! She stumbled slightly as she forced her legs to 
carry her to his side, terrified of what she might find. It took her 
trembling hand feeling the slow beat of his heart to convince herself 
that Legolas was yet among the living. His breathing was frightfully 
shallow, and though he was clearly unconscious, the faint tension of 
his face told his sister he was in pain. Feeling weak herself, 
Limloeth sank onto the edge of the bed, her hand gently cupping his 
cheek. “What happened to him?” she whispered.

From his chair at the opposite side of the bed, King Thranduil had 
looked up at her only briefly when she came into the room. Now, with 
his eyes focused once again on his son, Thranduil murmured, “Orcs. 
Somewhere on the plains, or maybe the outer forest. Mithrandir found 
him. He almost…I am glad you are here, Daughter.” 

A moan from Legolas caused both Limloeth and Thranduil to jump in 
surprise. Her heart thudding in her chest, the princess watched her 
brother. They hoped Legolas was awakening, but though his sleep grew 
more fitful, he showed no signs of returning to consciousness. 
Puzzled, Limloeth placed a hand on Legolas’s forehead, and grimaced. 
“His fever rises.”

“He was delirious before,” said Eirien, motioning Limloeth aside for a 
better look at Legolas. Her blue-gray eyes darkened with worry. “But 
we must keep this fever under control until the poison can be 
neutralized.” Calling for the aid of the other healers, she began 
working.

While Eirien prepared more potions, Limloeth and Thranduil assisted 
her by trying to cool Legolas’s burning face and body with damp 
cloths. They could feel the heat radiating still more from his body, 
and his sleep grew more disturbed. Limloeth had to bite her lip to 
keep from weeping as her little brother fell into delirium. He raved 
of many things, some she could not understand, others that did not 
surprise her: his mother and their family, the brother and two sisters 
he had never met, the lessons of the years of training as a novice, 
memories of his journey with the war party. Very often, his fevered 
thoughts turned to the king. “Father…where are…alone…forgive me…”

Thranduil quickly leaned over Legolas, turning his head at the same 
time so Limloeth could not quite see his face. “I am here, Legolas. 
Rest easy.”

That seemed to calm him for a few minutes, but his body still burned, 
sending his mind back down the tortured, confused paths of fever 
dreams. “Tathar…do not go…was my fault…Tathar…” Thranduil’s face was 
still turned from Limloeth, but she thought she saw him wince. 

All day long, Legolas’s family struggled to hold at bay the poison 
that tried to burn the life out of him. Limloeth was conscious of 
nothing beyond the feel of the damp cloths she sponged her brother’s 
body with, and his tormented, pleading voice. Once or twice his eyes 
opened, but there was no awareness in them, no comprehension. All he 
saw were the phantoms of fever, no matter how hard his sisters and 
father tried to reach him.

Late that afternoon, Berensul returned from holding court in the 
halls. Thranduil tore himself away from Legolas long enough to speak 
with the crown prince. “There was little business, Father. Most of our 
people are as worried as we for my brother.”

Thranduil nodded, sighing wearily. Limloeth glanced up at him as 
Berensul walked over to place a nervous hand upon her shoulder. “How 
is he?”

“We are keeping the fever at bay,” said Eirien. “But he has improved 
little. I have given him all the draughts that I dare. Now we must 
wait for Lord Elrond’s arrival.”

“Father…” came a weak moan. Thranduil quickly returned to his son’s 
side.

Limloeth stepped back from the bed, leaning wearily against Berensul. 
Like his father, Berensul had always been more inclined to display 
anger than any emotion that might hint at weakness. But now he 
trembled, and swallowed repeatedly. “I hope Lord Elrond arrives soon,” 
he whispered, in a voice filled with anguish. “I do not know how much 
longer I can bear to see him like this.” 

*** 

The next morning…

The mist hung silent among the beeches and elms of Mirkwood, like a 
white funeral shroud. And still the wood elves waited for news. 
Gandalf had spoken few words with any since his arrivals, but sensed 
gratitude in the eyes of all for his return with the prince. The 
second dawn since that night had brought little improvement in 
Legolas’s condition. Lady Eirien was growing exhausted from her 
endless vigil at the prince’s side, but none of her remedies yielded 
results. The only hope now lay in the skills of the best healer in all 
Middle Earth. If he could not restore Legolas to health… 

Suddenly the silence of the outer palace halls was broken by a 
commotion outside. Gandalf joined a small crowd of elves running 
outside, seeking the source of this opening in the tension. He spotted 
young Candrochon and Lady Merilin, Legolas’s friends, nearby as he 
came out onto the outer palace steps. A troupe of riders was coming 
through the gates, and a collective cry of surprised relief identified 
them. “Lord Elrond!”

The Lord of Imladris swung down from his horse, his eyes immediately 
picking Gandalf out of the throng of elves. To the group in general, 
he asked without preamble, “Is Legolas here?”

“He is, my lord!” someone said, in a desperate tone that spoke 
volumes.

“How bad?”

“Very! Please come in quickly!”

There was no way Elrond could have received Thranduil’s message and 
crossed the Misty Mountains and plains in less than forty-eight hours. 
Even Gandalf could not have managed that feat with Gwaihir the Great 
Eagle. “How did you know?” the wizard asked.

“Let me to him,” Elrond said pointedly, and explained himself as they 
hurried down the halls. “A letter arrived from King Thranduil to be 
delivered to Legolas a few days after he departed Rivendell. I 
suspected it was an urgent matter and set out after him, but we found 
signs in the mountains that he had been taken by orcs.”

Gandalf nodded absently, then urgently went on, “They poisoned him, 
but Lady Eirien cannot be sure what the identity of the agent. And we 
can determine nothing; Legolas is delirious.”

“I am not surprised. I found the remains of their camp; it was oil 
rendered from Monk’s Hood of the Dead Marshes,” said Elrond. 

Gandalf winced; there were few plants in existence that could cause as 
much torment to a living being as Monk’s Hood. *Poor Legolas.* Had 
they forced him to swallow it, he would have died hideously in a 
matter of minutes. But the evil beasts were far too cruel and clever 
for that. “Is there aught you can do?”

“We shall see.” Lowering his voice, Elrond asked, “Where is King 
Thranduil?”

“With Legolas,” the wizard replied, and saw relief on the elven lord’s 
face. “In his chamber, this way.” He led Elrond into the room.

Thranduil sprang to his feet in astonishment. “Lord Elrond!” he 
exclaimed. Relief and confusion warred on the elven king’s face at the 
unexpected yet timely arrival. Relief won out, and he gestured 
urgently to Legolas. “Forgive the hasty welcome, my lord. My son needs 
your aid.”

Lord Elrond nodded in understanding and hastened to the bedside, his 
telling hands and keen eyes examining the still prince. Thranduil, and 
the Princesses Limloeth and Eirien stood to one side, obviously ready 
to offer their help with anything he needed. He beckoned to Eirien, 
“If you would assist me, my lady?” He rose then and met Thranduil’s 
eyes sincerely, “I will do all that I can.”

***

*All that I can, I only hope it will be enough,* thought Lord Elrond 
as he looked Legolas over. He had driven the company as hard as the 
horses could ride, following the prince’s trail, but as the days had 
passed, the Lord of Imladris had begun to despair. It seemed 
inconceivable that Legolas had made it all the way to Mirkwood after 
being poisoned so severely. To Mithrandir, he asked, “When did he 
reach Mirkwood?”

“I found him just within the forest yesterday afternoon, and we 
arrived at the palace in the evening,” the wizard’s expression grew 
thoughtful as though just processing what Elrond had said earlier, 
then he frowned in confusion. “You say he was attacked while still in 
the Misty Mountains? That cannot be possible; surely he would have 
made for Imladris rather than chance the journey all the way across 
the plains!”

Elrond shook his head, glancing at King Thranduil. “We discovered his 
bow and knives in the remnants of an orc camp on the eastern side of 
the mountains. There had--been a rockslide. They must have trapped 
him.” Both he and Mithrandir pretended not to hear the way Thranduil’s 
breath caught at those words. 

Mithrandir looked at Legolas in amazement. “That is very strange. I 
had a mind to take him to Rivendell when I first found him, but he 
insisted on returning to the palace. He knew there was a much closer 
haven, yet he chanced the longer road to get home. He nearly did not 
survive the journey across the plains.” He turned his face back to 
meet Elrond’s gaze, but neither burdened the king of Mirkwood with 
their prying eyes. Thranduil had enough on his mind at these 
revelations.

Lord Elrond turned his attention back to Legolas. The young prince 
looked very ill indeed. The various draughts Eirien had administered 
had dropped him into a deep sleep, and his eyes were tightly closed. 
Dark shadows showed below them, and ugly bruises stood out against his 
pallid skin. It had been over a week since he had escaped the orcs, 
but the injuries had healed little thanks to the foul substance in his 
body. Raging fever left sweat beaded on his burning forehead, and only 
Eirien’s determined ministrations had kept him from becoming 
dehydrated.

Opening a parcel of his own herbs, the Lord of Imladris prepared a 
draught to counteract the Monk’s Hood oil. “Will it still be 
effective?” Eirien asked him softly. That particular orc poison was 
rare; Mirkwood had not the proper herbs to neutralize it. And Legolas 
was very far gone.

But Elrond’s potion was strong, and the prince of Mirkwood had not 
managed to survive this long for naught. “I believe it will, Lady,” 
Lord Elrond replied, but he met Thranduil’s eyes as he spoke. And he 
distinctly saw the elven king fail to suppress a shudder of relief. 
“We must rouse him enough to take the draught.”

As Eirien worked, changing the dressings of his poisoned wounds, 
Legolas tossed and whimpered, clearly in a great deal of pain. The 
sounds hurt Elrond’s heart. He hastened to ready the potion, then bent 
over the bed, speaking softly to the prince. Legolas relaxed slightly, 
and Elrond gently lifted his head up, his healing touch calming the 
feverish elf to where he could take the draught. Then the Lord of 
Imladris added more of the herbs to the dressings of his injuries, and 
examined the lash weals on his back. He allowed himself a sigh of 
relief. *Legolas is strong; he will recover,* he thought, but forced 
himself to wait before speaking such promises aloud. *In a few more 
hours, I will be able to say so with certainty. I would not dare take 
chances with his family.* 

“How is he?” Limloeth asked softly from where she stood close to 
Thranduil.

Rising from the bedside, Elrond turned to the King and Princess. “The 
medicines must have time to do their work. In a few hours, we will 
know how he fares.” He ran critical eyes over Legolas, who had lapsed 
back into that deep, coma-like sleep. “He is as comfortable now as we 
can make him. The best thing would be to let him rest.” 

Turning back to the prince’s family, he looked them over. Thranduil 
had returned to the chair beside the bed, his eyes fixed once again 
upon Legolas. *A Elbereth, do not let me fail in this. I fear to lose 
Legolas would also be a death sentence for his father.* It was true, 
the elven king looked very haggard. His eyes were red and shadowed, 
and the slight tremble of the hand that rested upon his son’s 
suggested that Thranduil had not slept or eaten since Legolas had 
returned. It must be Berensul who was holding the court of Mirkwood 
while the king remained here. Lady Limloeth was clad in riding 
clothes, and also did not appear to have left her brother’s side since 
she arrived. Eirien looked equally drained from her efforts. To 
Eirien, he said, “My lady, you should retire and get some rest. As a 
healer, you need your wits. I will watch over Legolas today.”

Eirien did not argue overmuch before going. Then, before Elrond even 
had the chance to open his mouth to suggest that other members of the 
family take some much-needed rest, King Thranduil shook his head and 
smiled, “Do not waste your time, my lord. I will not leave him.”

Elrond chuckled slightly, not the least bit surprised. *I cannot blame 
him; I know where I would be found if this were one of my children.* 
Aloud, he said, “As you will, my lord, but I would counsel you to 
sleep while you are with him. Legolas will not wake for some time 
yet.”

Thranduil sighed, looking still more weary, and presently, he nodded. 
Then he looked curiously at Elrond, “My lord, how did you get here so 
quickly? Were you abroad when my request for assistance reached you?”

Fighting the smile that tugged his lips, Elrond replied truthfully, “I 
never received that message, my lord. As it happened, I left Rivendell 
in pursuit of Legolas to deliver your letter to him. It came three 
days after he departed Imladris for Mirkwood, but I suspected your 
message was important.”

The urge to smile came again at the stunned expression on the elven 
king’s face. “You mean to say…Legolas was coming home before he 
received my letter?” Thranduil half-whispered, glancing in amazement 
at his sleeping son.

“Why, yes. Legolas arrived in Imladris with--one of my sons, and 
departed for Mirkwood the very next day. His friend Faron was due back 
from a patrol within a week, but Legolas would not be delayed.” With a 
wry chuckle, he shook his head. “Though I wish he would have returned 
to Imladris after escaping the orcs rather than risking the long 
journey across the plains. He might have spared himself a great deal 
of suffering if he had, for I was only three days behind him.” 
Thranduil was no longer looking at Elrond, but staring at Legolas as 
though seeing his son in a very different light. 

Satisfied, Lord Elrond summoned one of the assistant healers. “I shall 
be back soon, if you would attend the prince until I return.” The 
healer took up a post near the doorway, consciously trying not to 
attract the king’s attention. Elrond glanced back from the doorway, 
seeing Thranduil seated in the chair with one hand resting lightly 
upon his son‘s, and suspected the elven king had already fallen 
asleep. He half-hoped Legolas might awaken before Thranduil did. *It 
would do him good to see this.*

Elrond had also re-assessed his opinion of Legolas during the journey 
across the plains. In such a condition, it seemed impossible that 
Legolas would be able to have make the crossing at the pace he did, 
but he had done it. AND reached Mirkwood still two days ahead of 
Elrond. The Lord of Imladris mentally shook his head. One had to 
admire that elf’s spirit. *When he has set his heart to a thing, there 
is naught that can turn him away or hold him back, even if it kills 
him.* He smiled to himself. *Like father, like son.*

***

Legolas was terrified, lost in a swirling, dark fog that kept him from 
seeing anything. Fearful voices and chilling phantoms reached out from 
the darkness to grab and tug at him, trying to pull him deeper. Pain, 
deep terrible pain, came in waves that broke over him with the 
blackness. He called out in desperation, not knowing exactly whose 
names he spoke, for the fever had taken most of the sense from his 
thoughts. So long, he had wandered alone, trying in vain to discover a 
way back to…wherever he had been before. He knew he had been somewhere 
else before, a place not horrific like this. A safe place. A familiar 
place. But though he could not remember it exactly, he was certain it 
was somewhere, if only he could escape this shadow, he would find it.

Moreover, from somewhere beyond the murk, he could hear voices calling 
back to him that were not specters. He could sense more than hear 
them, but just as he had known there was somewhere else that he should 
be, he also knew there was someone he had to find. Someone just beyond 
the darkness, if only he could breach it. At times they seemed so 
close, and he thought he could make out words through the shadows. 
Though they made no sense to him, they were comforting 
nonetheless--until they faded, and then he searched harder, crying out 
to find them again. 

Now was one of those times. For awhile, the familiar presences had 
seemed very near, and he had struggled frantically to reach them. But 
something, some impenetrable barrier kept him trapped within the 
shadows, and he could not pass it. Legolas shivered in his dreams as 
the presences receded, abandoning him once again, alone in the dark. 
Would he be trapped here in this torment forever? Yet…this time was 
different. The pain did not come back as fiercely as before, and it 
seemed…the swirling black clouds were growing less. Was it possible 
that the shadows were finally releasing their hold on him?

Instead of fighting and trying to force his way out, as he had before, 
Legolas simply remained where he was as the clouds churned about him. 
Where before he had seemed to be sinking deeper, and struggled in 
terror, now he felt that he was floating, coming closer and closer to 
the end of this nightmare every moment. One who touched the warrior at 
that moment would have noticed that his body was beginning to cool. 
His fever was burning itself out at last, as the orc poison was 
conquered by the new potions in his body. For days he had burned, an 
unthinkable ordeal for one of the Eldar. But the tireless 
ministrations of those who loved him were finally bringing him back to 
the light. 

Upward he drifted, passively accepting whatever awaited him. Above 
him, the shadows began to part, and light returned. Delirium faded. He 
was lying on his back, pain still racking him, still weak, but alive. 
Consciousness was coming back to him. There was someone near, no, 
several presences. And voices, the same ones that had distortedly 
reached him when he had been trapped in the darkness. For some time, 
he could not discern anything, but as his mind drifted closer and 
closer to coherence, the words began to make sense.

And he was able to remember who the speakers were. That voice was so 
familiar; Legolas struggled to pull his memories out of the shadows of 
fever. Who was…was it possible? Could it be that his father was with 
him? How? Where was he? He thought he recalled hearing Thranduil’s 
voice in his delirium, but had begun to think it was just another 
dream. Was it…was it possible that he was home?

***

“Legolas? Father, I think he is waking.” Eirien anxiously watched her 
brother-in-law’s eyes fluttering. He moaned weakly, but this time he 
did not seem to be falling back into delirium.

Lord Elrond moved beside her, placing a hand upon Legolas’s forehead. 
“Step back a moment, my lady, allow me. Yes, his fever is much 
diminished. He may at last be coming round.”

“Will he understand us, Lord Elrond?” Thranduil asked quietly.

“Perhaps, my lord. You may try.”

The elven king gently touched his son’s face, feeling at last that his 
skin had begun to cool. “Legolas? Can you hear me?”

Legolas moaned and fluttered his eyelids again. Thranduil could feel 
his own heart pounding within his chest. So many times over the past 
four days since Lord Elrond had arrived, they had thought Legolas was 
awakening, just to have his fever soar again. When his eyes had 
opened, there had been no awareness or recognition in them, only 
torment, and it had aged Thranduil every time to see his child in that 
state. But there seemed nothing he could do to bring Legolas out of 
it. Lord Elrond had counseled patience, saying Legolas would awaken 
when his body was ready. But to the elf’s father, such words gave 
little comfort.

*Now at last it comes.* “Legolas, awaken! Return to us, my son!” 
Thranduil squeezed his son’s hand and waited.

Legolas’s breath was slow and even again, finally. His family watched 
anxiously as the prince slowly fought his way back to consciousness. 
After an agonizing few minutes, his eyes slowly opened, and Thranduil 
heard Limloeth choke back a sob of relief to see, at last, lucidity in 
his face. The gray eyes were still glazed with illness and exhaustion, 
but as they traveled slowly about to rest upon each person in the 
room, they revealed recognition. Legolas knew them. They came to rest 
upon Thranduil’s face, and for a brief eternity, father and son simply 
stared at each other, neither able to find the strength for words. 
Then Legolas took a deep breath and spoke in a faint, raspy whisper. 
“Father? Where am I?”

Thranduil had to jam his teeth into his lower lip to keep from 
dissolving into sobs right then. Behind him, Limloeth was not so 
successful. Lord Elrond stepped forward, “You are in your father’s 
halls, Legolas. You are home.”

With a shaky intake of breath, Legolas closed his eyes, apparently 
uncertain of whether all this was a dream. He suddenly opened them 
again, his expression turning anxious, and started to speak. “Father, 
I--”

“Easy, young one,” Elrond said, casting a stern glance at the others 
while preventing Legolas from sitting up. “You must not overexert 
yourself. You have been very ill.”

Quietly, Thranduil moved up to the bedside. “I will see to it that he 
rests, my lord.” Then he turned and met the half-elf’s eyes. “But I 
should like to be alone with him.”

The two elven lords locked eyes for a long moment, and slowly, Lord 
Elrond nodded. He beckoned to Eirien, Limloeth, and the other healers 
as he headed for the door. Limloeth looked about to protest, but 
Elrond firmly took her arm and led her out. One did not argue the Lord 
of Imladris. The door closed behind them, and silence echoed in the 
chamber. Thranduil sat back down in his chair beside the bed, gazing 
at his son’s pale, drawn face. He still looked so ill and weak; it had 
been such a close call. The elven king swallowed hard. “How do you 
feel, my son?”

Perhaps it was the fever, but the expression in Legolas’s eyes nearly 
broke his father’s heart. He seemed so desperate, nearly starting from 
the bed. “Father, please--”

“Careful, Legolas!” Thranduil exclaimed, gently pushing Legolas back 
to the pillows. He let his hand rest upon his son’s shoulder, trying 
to comfort him. After all this, did Legolas truly still doubt 
Thranduil’s willingness to forgive him? Did he still doubt his 
father’s love? *Then again, how much does he remember? Still, I must 
not risk him upsetting himself. There will be time when he is 
stronger. For now, he must rest.* Taking a deep breath, he said 
softly, “I know we’ve much to speak of, but you are still weak. There 
is plenty of time--”

“--No,” Legolas said, frantically seizing his father’s arm. The 
urgency of the grip startled Thranduil. “It has already been too long. 
Please, Father, forgive me.”

“I--”

Words seemed to tumble out, in a manner very unlike Legolas. *Who am I 
deceiving? I have not known what Legolas is like in a very long time.* 
But his son went on in an anguished voice, “I wronged you greatly, 
when we met long ago, and then again when I returned. Whatever our 
quarrel, I had no right to speak to you so. I did not mean it; I know 
why you raised me as you did. I was very unfair. Please forgive me, 
Father, I know I do not deserve it--”

The next thing Thranduil knew, he was crushing Legolas to him, in a 
grip as tight as he dared, muffling his son’s repentant words against 
his shoulder. Legolas raised his glassy, dark gray eyes to stare at 
his father’s face, almost as surprised as Thranduil was. The elven 
king smiled weakly against the sting of tears in his eyes, feeling the 
way his youngest child trembled with emotion and weariness. He shifted 
position to take more of his son’s weight, unable to speak past the 
lump in his throat. After a moment, he managed to say, “Hush now. You 
are still unwell; you must not distress yourself. Your brother and 
sisters would flay me alive.” There came a weak laugh in response, and 
Thranduil gently eased his son back to the pillows. “Legolas, I…” he 
trailed off, tongue-tied. *Are you too much of a coward to do what you 
know is right? To say what you know is true? He has given his apology. 
You know that you still owe one to him.* Thranduil swallowed hard and 
took a deep breath. “Legolas, my son, of course I forgive you. But we 
have both said many things that need forgiving. I cannot be easy until 
you have accepted my apology.” 

His face racked with guilt, Legolas shook his head. “Nay, Father, you 
owe me nothing.”

“Legolas--”

“No,” the elven king wondered if Legolas’s fever was rising again, but 
the young elf would not be put off. “You were right, Father, you were 
right about everything.” His voice was rough with uncontrolled grief. 
“I was reckless, and foolish. Every time. I never had the courage to 
face our conflicts, and it was Tathar who paid for it.” Squeezing his 
eyes closed, Legolas whispered bitterly, “I was such a coward.”

“No, Legolas--”

“--I was! Always, I ran away, rather than face my troubles,” tears of 
shame and frustration glistened in his eyes. “Resentments of the past 
clouded my every thought. I blamed you for so long, but the fault was 
truly mine.” 

“Legolas, listen to me!” Thranduil said urgently, cutting him off. 
“You are feverish and overwrought; I’ll not have you sickening 
yourself again.” He placed a hand on his son’s forehead, frowning as 
he did so, for it was still far too hot. “You have made your apology, 
there is no need of a confession,” he smiled ruefully. “I understand.” 
Legolas’s breath caught, and Thranduil gripped his good hand. “I too 
wronged you. I have said and done many things I regret. Forgive me, 
Legolas.”

His eyes brimming, yet smiling, Legolas nodded, looking as though he 
were fifty again. Thranduil blinked rapidly to clear his own eyes, and 
glanced toward the door as Lord Elrond tapped on it. “My lord?”

“Come in, Lord Elrond.”

The Lord of Imladris opened the door and cast an understanding glance 
from father to son and back again. “I am sure you’ve much to speak of, 
but Legolas is still at risk of relapsing. You should rest now,” he 
said directly to the prince.

Thranduil nodded. “Quite right, Lord Elrond.” Legolas looked about to 
protest, but the elven king firmly stopped him. Squeezing Legolas’s 
hand, he said, “I know there is more you wish to say. Our family has 
long been separated, and I would know you again, my son. But first you 
must heal.”

“Yes, Father,” said Legolas, seeming to suddenly realize how tired he 
was. 

Adjusting the pillows to make his son more comfortable, Thranduil took 
Legolas’s hand again and said softly, “Sleep now. I will be here when 
you awaken.” There was a weak answering squeeze, then the grip 
slackened, and Legolas’s head drifted against the pillows as he fell 
back into unconsciousness. His eyes had closed again. *By the Valar, I 
shall rejoice to see you sleeping normally,* thought the elven king. 
But it would take time, as Elrond had repeatedly impressed upon them 
all. Legolas would probably sleep on and off for days now. Speaking of 
sleeping, with that in mind, Thranduil leaned back in his chair and 
let himself be carried into elvish dreams.

***

That evening…

Berensul returned from holding court in the elven king’s stead to find 
Mithrandir, Limloeth, and Eirien outside the royal chambers. “Eregdos 
said Legolas is improving?” he asked hopefully.

His sister nodded, the relief on her face confirming what Berensul had 
prayed for. “He awakened this afternoon, far more lucid than he has 
been. He and Father spoke for a little while before Lord Elrond 
ordered them both to rest.”

They all knew what Berensul wanted to know when he said, “And?”

Mithrandir smiled, “The king remains at Legolas’s side, my lord. I 
think all is well with them.”

Berensul laughed with relief, “At last, as we are all thinking!” He 
sighed. “I wonder how much longer it will take Legolas to recover.”

“Even one as strong as Legolas will need time to heal from such a 
severe poisoning,” said Eirien. “Lord Elrond is with them now, and I 
will take up watch when he goes to rest. But we think Legolas will 
make a full recovery.”

“Thank the Valar,” said the crown prince. He grasped his wife and 
sister’s hands, feeling suddenly weary as the terrible tension of the 
past few days at last began to leave him. “I do not think I could have 
gone through this again.” Eirien and Limloeth nodded, understanding 
what he meant. 

*** 

Gandalf watched the wordless exchange between the elves, and thanked 
the Valar himself for the many good fortunes that had allowed 
Legolas’s life to be spared. *For to be sure, had he died, Mirkwood 
would have been forced to mourn more than once in the coming days. It 
could easily have meant death for Thranduil as well, possibly even his 
siblings. Legolas finds himself in a strange fate, to be the youngest 
of a king’s children--traditionally of the least consequence--and yet 
it is him upon whom the hopes and dreams of so many depend. Born to 
save the life of an elven queen, and living to heal the wounds of his 
family made by the deaths of his brother and sisters. Thranduil should 
have named him Estel.*

Shouts down the corridor startled the Maia out of his thoughts, and 
then came the sound of running feet. What could it be now? Golwen’s 
voice floated down the hall, “Silivren! Come back here!”

Eirien and Berensul started as a fleet-footed, golden-haired elf child 
burst through a nearby door and sprinted headlong toward the royal 
chambers. Still more startling was the lack of mischief upon 
Silivren’s face; this was no childish prank. The determination in her 
blue eyes made her look like Legolas. “Silivren!” Eirien exclaimed, as 
she and her husband moved to intercept the girl. 

But Silivren did not even slow down, and nearly knocked both father 
and mother off their feet as she dashed into the hallway--heading 
straight for Legolas’s room. “Sili! What are you doing?” Berensul, 
Eirien, Limloeth, and Golwen all charged after her, Gandalf trailing 
behind in amused curiosity.

Silivren stopped before the door and turned to face her pursuers. She 
folded her arms and fixed them all with a fierce little stare far too 
old for a child her age. “I want to see my uncle!” she announced 
clearly and coldly.

Motioning Golwen back, Eirien took the lead of the group. In a tone of 
motherly patience, she said gently, “We told you, Sili, Uncle Legolas 
is ill now. You cannot see him just yet.”

“Why?”

“Because…he cannot talk to you. He is asleep,” Berensul attempted to 
explain, glancing helplessly at the others. How did one explain to a 
child that a member of her family was practically upon his deathbed?

But Silivren, granddaughter of Thranduil and Minuial, possessed more 
than her share of elven understanding. The narrow-eyed glare she 
leveled at each and every one of them said all too clearly that she 
knew they were trying to hide her uncle’s condition. “So he can’t talk 
to me. That doesn’t mean I can’t sit with him!” With a defiant nod, 
she turned on her heel and stood on her toes to open the door of the 
youngest prince’s chamber.

“Sili!” hissed Berensul, trying to catch her, but the elfling ducked 
silently into the room before he could reach the door.

Gandalf and the others quietly entered the chamber after them. King 
Thranduil was sitting up in his chair beside the bed, and Lord Elrond 
stood at the end of the room, both peering in surprise at the small 
intruder. For her part, Silivren stopped a few feet from the bedside, 
irritated at finding herself too short to see the bed’s occupant. So, 
with a little huff of impatience, the child walked to where another 
chair sat empty at the opposite side of the bed. Berensul went to stop 
her, but Thranduil raised a hand, his dark eyes gravely watching 
Silivren as she carefully pulled herself up onto the chair and turned 
to look at her uncle.

Legolas’s life might be out of danger, but to look at him, one would 
not know it. The closed eyes and wan face of her beloved uncle should 
have sent a small child into hysterics, for Silivren had never seen 
any elf so ailing. But the daughter of Berensul simply stood there 
upon the chair, her eyes solemnly regarding the unconscious form, and 
then carefully climbed from the chair to sit upon the bed next to 
Legolas. Still completely silent, she bent carefully over Legolas and 
placed a gentle kiss upon his pale forehead.

The rest of Legolas’s family and Gandalf watched curiously. Slowly, 
Thranduil smiled at Silivren, and his eyes, so dark and shadowed with 
worry, began to lighten. He reached out and touched his 
granddaughter’s little hand. “Thank you, Sili. I think that will help 
your uncle Legolas very much.”

Sili looked up calmly from her uncle’s still face. Turning to cast a 
determined gaze on each person in the room, she announced clearly, “I 
want to stay with him.”

His eyes meeting Berensul’s over Sili’s head, Thranduil replied. “Of 
course. Perhaps that shall help him feel better sooner. Let us find 
you a more comfortable chair, and we shall both sit with him.” 

A larger chair was soon brought, and the elven king settled into it 
with the little princess next to him, her hand lightly touching her 
uncle’s. Limloeth sat in the other chair with Berensul standing beside 
her, and Eirien took over for Lord Elrond. The Lord of Imladris met 
Gandalf’s eyes and headed quietly for the door. The Maia joined him. 
But just as Elrond reached for the handle, the faintest sound reached 
their ears, causing both to whirl around and every heart in the room 
to stop. 

It was not even a vocal sound, rather the faint noise of the 
smallest-possible movement, the sound of a body shifting 
ever-so-slightly against the bedclothes that covered him. The watchers 
waited, and were rewarded by the sight of Legolas beginning to stir at 
last. No one spoke, not even Silivren, though she leaned forward next 
to Thranduil to stare at her uncle’s face. Thus it was she who Legolas 
first saw when he opened his eyes.

Legolas blinked. One would suppose that the small face of his niece 
was the absolute last thing he had expected to see when he awakened. 
But, after apparently determining that he was no longer dreaming, 
Legolas looked at Silivren, then past her at the faces of the rest of 
his family. Then he returned his eyes to her. 

Silivren said simply, “Welcome home, Uncle Leg’las.”

Glancing at her little hand upon his, Legolas slowly smiled and 
returned her squeeze. “Thank you, Sili,” he replied softly. His eyes 
slid past her to rest upon Thranduil. “It is very good to be home.”

***** 

A/N: I’ve also started revising the early chapters of this story to 
make them more consistent with cannon and the Tolkien-verse (now that 
I’ve read more of the books.) I’m not all the way through yet, but 
feel free to let me know if I’ve missed anything. None of the changes 
are required reading.





Chapter Twenty-Six: Those Words We Said







Lord Elrond laid a gentle hand against Legolas’s forehead as the 
prince slept. Although still far warmer than an elf ought to be, his 
body no longer felt as if a fire raged within. King Thranduil, his 
daughters, and granddaughter watched anxiously until the Lord of 
Imladris turned to them and smiled. “I know this seems a slow 
recovery, but fear not; he improves by the day. His fever is 
much-reduced, and he sleeps peacefully.”

“But his eyes remain shuttered,” said Thranduil, voicing the subject 
of most worry.

“Have patience, my lord,” Elrond reassured him. “They will remain thus 
for some time until the poison has left his blood. Monk’s Hood is 
powerful.”

“But he will recover completely?” pressed Limloeth.

“He will, my lady. It will take some time, but he will.”

***

A few days later…

Legolas had to bite his lip rather hard as Eirien changed the 
dressings of his poisoned wounds. The fever had dwindled to a mild 
discomfort instead of the suffocating heat that had denied him true 
rest for so long. Even now, his body was still too weak to remain 
awake for very long, let alone rise from the bed. It was frustrating. 
But at least the cessation of fever would give him the rest needed to 
get his strength back.

On the other hand, although he could feel the ravages of fever 
lessening, his other injuries proved more persistent. The bruises and 
lacerations from avalanche and orc whips were irritating as they 
healed, but the wounds of poisoned thorns and arrow remained 
incredibly painful. The arrow wound in particular burned and throbbed 
mercilessly until he could hardly bear to have it touched. But it had 
to be cleaned and dressed to heal, so he bore it. 

Despite the gentleness of her hands, Eirien accidentally brushed the 
hurt, and Legolas winced, stifling a whimper of pain and drawing blood 
from his lip. His father, in conversation with Berensul near the door, 
turned concerned eyes toward Legolas. This was the first day that 
Thranduil had left Legolas’s side for more than a few minutes, and it 
seemed that he had been reluctant to do even that much. But some realm 
business was troubling Berensul enough that he had at last persuaded 
the elven king to come away from his still-listless son to attend to 
it. (It was clear that Legolas was still listless since he did not 
attempt to find out what the matter was.)

Eirien at least finished cleaning the arrow wound and replaced the 
dressing. Legolas relaxed, feeling shaky and sick with pain. Lord 
Elrond eyed him, “How do you feel, Legolas?”

“Well, thank you, my lord,” Legolas lied. He did not see Limloeth and 
Eirien rolling their eyes at each other. 

Elrond’s mouth twitched slightly. “Then I suggest you take some rest 
and speed your recovery still more.”

Though his pride stung, Legolas already was gritting his teeth with 
the effort of being in a sitting position. To observers, the young elf 
had turned as white as a ghost. Resigned, he nodded and lay carefully 
back down to avoid jarring his shoulder. No sooner had his head 
touched the pillow than a great weight began tugging at his eyelids.

*No! If I must sleep, I shall do so in the proper fashion of an elf! 
Not like a mortal…* his mind wandered as his eyes tried again to slide 
closed. He blinked them stubbornly open.

“Legolas?” Thranduil was beside him again. How he had gotten there, 
Legolas did not know. Berensul, Eirien, Elrond, and Limloeth had gone. 
“You must rest well if you are to heal.” He touched his son’s good 
shoulder and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

Legolas tried to speak, to tell his father that he need not spend 
every moment there, but fell asleep before he could get the words out.

***

A few more days later…

Eirien came into her brother-in-law’s chamber and gasped in surprised 
as a cold draft struck her. She recovered quickly and barked, 
“Legolas!”

Her husband’s youngest brother--still weak if greatly improved--was 
standing on his balcony in the frigid chill of January. He had only 
regained the strength to rise from bed three days before--and since 
then had proven the most trying patient Eirien had ever cared for. The 
crown princess and palace healer stormed out onto the balcony. “What 
do you think you are doing?!”

Turning rebellious gray eyes toward her, Legolas said, “I needed fresh 
air. That room is stifling.”

Eirien seized his good arm and snapped, “It is freezing out here! Are 
you TRYING to give yourself a relapse?”

Unrepentant, Legolas jerked away and fired back, “I begin to prefer a 
relapse to being driven mad by this constant nagging! I am fit enough 
to leave my bed without being fretted over like an invalid!”

Bodily yanking him inside and flinging the door closed, Eirien fumed, 
“But you are not fit to stand outside in the dead chill of winter with 
your wounds still healing.” She scowled furiously as she saw him 
suppress a shiver. He had probably been gritting his teeth against the 
cold for some time, but had been ruled by stubborn pride. *Silly, 
foolish, headstrong boy!*

Legolas shuddered again, and Eirien glared harder at him. “Undress,” 
she ordered curtly. “Put on a warm tunic and get into bed. AT ONCE!” 
she snapped imperiously when he started to argue.

His attempted scowl was made less threatening by the visible shaking 
of his jaw. Had he opened his mouth, his teeth would have begun to 
chatter. With a quiet oath, Legolas did the healer’s bidding. After a 
moment, as Eirien brought the braziers closer and stirred up their 
fire, he was beneath the blankets trying to hide the betraying tremors 
of his body. Eirien looked at him then and found a smile threatening 
to quirk her lips. *Just like your brother,* she thought, her ire 
lessening. She tossed another blanket onto the bed and hurriedly made 
him a cup of heated broth. Though he looked decidedly sulky, Legolas 
drank it without further protest.

A short time later (after the olgalas in the broth had done its work), 
Lord Elrond entered the room to find Eirien taking the cup from 
Legolas’s limp fingers. Noticing the lingering chill in the air, and 
the Mirkwood healer’s frustrated expression, the Lord of Imladris 
asked, “Problems?”

Eirien looked at him for a long moment, then heaved a massive sigh 
that made him chuckle. “NEVER have I had so impossible a patient! He 
is determined to give himself a relapse.”

Guessing from the evidence what Legolas had been up to, Elrond felt 
the sleeping elf’s face carefully. Though his nose and ears were a bit 
cold, there was no sign of the heat of fever returning. He smiled at 
Eirien. “Patience is a quality seldom found in the sons of Thranduil, 
my lady, as you well know.”

She chuckled in agreement, “Until you have been married to one, my 
lord, you cannot possibly imagine!”

***

A week or so later…

Legolas walked silently through the corridors of the outer palace, 
carefully avoiding any place where his family might happen to be. The 
end of his affliction by the Monk’s Hood poison had only led to him 
being subjected to a new torment:

*Fathers, sisters, brothers, elven lords, and wizards!*

He leaned against the wall, balling his fists. *So little time has 
passed since my one thought was returning to them.* But now, after 
weeks of their incessant fretting, hovering, and pestering, Legolas 
thought he might gladly brave the blizzard raging outside if it meant 
getting away from them.

Once Legolas had been up and walking, his father had returning to 
holding the court of Mirkwood. But that had only led his siblings to 
hound him still more, either of their own accord or at the elven 
king’s instigation. (Probably a combination of the two.) And Legolas 
was always the first thing on Thranduil’s mind as soon as he returned 
from the court.

*I begin to miss the days when we were not on speaking terms,* he 
thought. Then he sighed, repentant. Of course, his father was 
concerned about him. It was not as if Thranduil did not have a right 
to be. *You spent thirty-five years running from him and nearly got 
yourself killed coming home. Why does his worry surprise you?* he 
asked himself. It was amazing, really. Thranduil was not the type to 
let grievances go, but Legolas’s condition must have shaken the elven 
king badly, for he had not demanded any kind of satisfaction for the 
manner of their last parting. In fact, he had not mentioned it at all. 
At times, Legolas was grateful for this, but other times he felt the 
weight of debt still heavy on his heart. Yet another thing that added 
to his frustration and irritability. 

As for the rest of them…Legolas remained obstinate. Every elf in 
Mirkwood acted as though he would shatter like glass if left alone for 
five minutes. Even now, he could hear them searching for him. True, he 
was still not fully recovered, but their prodding wearied him more 
than anything. *I would be able to recover far more quickly if they 
would but leave me in peace!*

Berensul seemed to have appointed himself (or had been appointed by 
his father) to the task of hovering over Legolas when Thranduil was 
otherwise occupied. Limloeth was even worse, sticking to his bedside 
as though attached by a chain. She seemed to have taken the illness as 
a call to mother Legolas at every opportunity, and if he tried to 
escape the smothering attentions of either of them, Eirien would 
immediately dose him unconscious. Though Elrond did not drug him (at 
least not as often) the elven lord’s penetrating gazes and knowing 
half-smiles grated on Legolas’s nerves still more. It was the same 
with Mithrandir. 

Footsteps startled Legolas out of his brooding, and he stepped quickly 
into another doorway as Eirien passed by. This little escapade was 
likely to end with him being hauled back to his chamber and drugged 
again. *The poison’s fever did no lasting damage to my mind; why do 
they persist in making me sleep my life away?*

It was true that he still tired easily; in fact, he was beginning to 
weary now. *Which means if any of them find me, I will not be able to 
put up much of a fight before I am dragged back to my rooms like an 
escaped fugitive. Eirien I might stand a chance against, but Berensul 
or Lim would drop me.* Why oh why did his family not trust him to look 
to his own health? *I would not mind resting in my chamber were it not 
for their plaguing!* He sighed, then pressed himself silently against 
the wall as yet another searching elf passed. He knew he should return 
soon before weariness truly got the better of him and gave them all 
one more reason to fuss. Perhaps it would not occur to them to search 
in his room. With that in mind, he stealthily made his way back to his 
chamber.

He was thoroughly pleased with himself to reach his door without a 
single elf catching him. *They think me feeble, but I can still evade 
the lot of them!* Legolas heaved a soft sigh of relief and entered his 
room, only to jump a mile at the sight of Limloeth standing by the 
window. His elder sister wore an expression of combined irritation and 
maternal patience--both of which irritated Legolas greatly. “I knew 
you would try to sneak back here,” she said smugly, turning to where 
Eirien kept her sleeping draughts.

Intense, defiant anger burst from within, actually making Legolas 
tremble. “Do not bother, Sister,” he said in a tightly-controlled 
voice.

“It is Eirien’s orders,” she replied, pretending not to notice his 
fury as she held out the cup.

“I need it not,” he said furiously, but keeping his voice low to avoid 
bringing the entire palace down on him.

In a condescending tone, Limloeth pressed, “You must rest if your body 
is to heal, Legolas--”

“--Oh, by the Valar, ENOUGH!” Legolas exploded. “You treat me like a 
sickly, mind-addled child who has not the wits to care for himself! I 
know what my body needs, Limloeth, and I would rest more easily if 
you, Berensul, Eirien, and all your minions would leave me in peace!”

Becoming angry in her turn, Limloeth answered, “Sometimes, Legolas, I 
do not know if you have the sense the Valar gave a dwarf! We are your 
family, and we want what is best for you--”

“--I will be the judge of what is best for me now; I am no longer 
delirious!” Legolas shot back.

“Legolas--” Limloeth’s eyes flashed, but then she seemed to gain 
control of herself, resuming that pose of patience that only irritated 
her brother further. “You have been very ill and you still are not 
fully recovered. It need not be so difficult.” She held out the cup 
again, her eyes earnest and caring.

Legolas took it with a scowl. Resisting the urge to either fling it 
through the window or into his sister’s face, he settled for pouring 
it out and slapping the cup down hard upon the table. Limloeth glared 
at him. “I said,” he repeated in a low, cold voice. “I need…it…not.”

“Brother, stop being so childish!” she said. “You cannot imagine how 
we have worried about you. You were near death when you arrived and 
then delirious for weeks--”

“--I know!” Legolas exclaimed, wanting to throw up his hands in 
frustration. “I was there, if you recall! But I am delirious no 
longer, and it is high time you ceased this absurd mothering. I am fit 
to care for myself again; I do not need you and Eirien waiting on me 
hand and foot!”

“Legolas, you have hardly shown a moment’s rational thought in 
thirty-five years! Sometimes I wonder how long it will take you to 
discover an early death if someone does not protect you from yourself 
and your endless rebellion against us all--”

That did it. Before Limloeth knew what was happening, Legolas seized 
her arm and propelled her out the door, so hard that she stumbled when 
he released her. Berensul and Eirien, alerted by the raised voices, 
had been coming down the hall, but were also knocked off balance when 
Limloeth careened into them. “Get out and stay out!” Legolas snapped 
at the trio, then slammed the door.

***

Berensul untangled himself from his wife and sister and headed for the 
door, fully intending to force it over and crack his brother over the 
head if necessary. But he was stopped short by Legolas’s voice, 
speaking in Quenya, commanding the door to hold fast. It was a magic 
that all the House of Thranduil knew, but rarely used by any. The door 
upon which the spell was placed could only be opened now by Thranduil, 
or the one who had cast it, namely Legolas. Berensul turned to the 
others with a helpless expression.

“He has completely taken leave of his senses!” whispered Limloeth.

“What now?” Eirien murmured. “None but Legolas can open the door.”

“Father can,” said Lim, lifting her chin resolutely. “I suggest we pay 
him a visit.”

***

King Thranduil was discussing recent orc activity with Lord Elrond and 
Mithrandir when Berensul, Eirien, and Limloeth requested an audience. 
The moment the trio entered the Great Hall, looking as if their beds 
had been short-sheeted, Thranduil suspected he knew what it was about. 
Lord Elrond’s lips quirked and Mithrandir discreetly hid his smile 
behind his hand. The Lord of Imladris and the Maia rose. “I think we 
had best leave you now, my lord,” said Lord Elrond.

“No indeed, Lord Elrond,” spoke up Eirien. “Your help might be of use 
as well, Mithrandir.”

Shooting Thranduil a meaningful look, Elrond replied, “Nay, my lady, 
something tells me this is a matter best kept within the House of 
Thranduil.”

“I quite agree,” said Mithrandir, and the two departed the throne 
room. The faint sound of laughter floated through the closing doors.

Thranduil motioned for his attendants to leave as well, and when they 
had gone, turned to his children. “What is amiss?”

“Legolas!” spat Limloeth in an utterly exasperated tone. “For every 
day that his strength returns, he rebels against the healers’ orders 
still more. Today he escaped his chamber for three hours and now has 
locked himself inside alone and used the old spell to seal the door!”

The elven king blinked, and then felt a sudden urge to laugh. The 
outrage on his son, daughter, and daughter-in-law’s faces was comical. 
*That is the most willful Legolas has ever been.* He kept his 
composure, but smiled as he said, “I think perhaps Legolas is well 
enough to care for himself. We need not stand over him every minute 
like an unweaned babe.”

All three of them began protesting at once. “But, Father--”

“He is not yet fully recovered--”

“That boy is going to sicken himself again if someone does not look 
after him--”

“--Limloeth!” Thranduil held up a hand sharply, cutting them all off 
but glaring chiefly at his daughter. To Berensul and Eirien, he said 
in a calmer voice, “Leave us. And do not go knocking and harrying your 
brother’s door. Leave him be.”

Indignation on their faces had been replaced by puzzlement, but they 
obeyed him. Limloeth watched them go, then turned back to Thranduil 
with equal confusion in her eyes. “Father?”

“I know you mean well, child, but Legolas is neither a boy, nor a 
cripple. He will recover better if he is left in peace.”

“I am only trying to--”

“Help him, protect him, shelter him. Keep him from hurting himself 
with his youthful inexperience and impulsiveness. I know, Daughter. I 
know well. But your brother clearly does not look favorably upon such 
treatment anymore.”

“That he has made clear,” she muttered with a little shake of her 
head. Then she took on that expression of patient understanding that 
reminded Thranduil of his wife (specifically, of her not-so-endearing 
habit of thinking herself right in all things.) “But I fear Legolas 
does not always know what is good for him.”

“And you do?” Thranduil fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Be wary, 
Limloeth, for that is dangerous ground to tread where Legolas is 
concerned.”

“I--” Limloeth started to object, then faltered. Thranduil saw many 
thoughts run through her brown eyes, and when she met his gaze again, 
he felt for a moment that he had looked into a mirror. Looking down 
again, she murmured, “These are such hard years. I only wanted things 
to be easier for him.”

“As did we all. But we cannot face the trials of the Warrior’s Coming 
of Age for him. You can manage him no longer, my dear. We must all 
stop attempting to usurp and second-guess his decisions. Let him make 
his own choices, and mistakes, if necessary. That became his right 
thirty-five years ago. I realize now that it is high time we all 
recognized it. ”

Looking a bit sheepish, his daughter said, “I fear he is rather put 
out with us.”

Chuckling, Thranduil beckoned to her and headed out of the throne 
room. They found Berensul and Eirien waiting outside. “I will go and 
speak with Legolas--WITHOUT an entourage,” he told them firmly. Then 
he left the cave under the mountain and returned to the outer palace.

The elven king could easily have commanded the door of his son’s 
chamber to open, but instead lifted a hand and knocked. “Legolas? May 
I enter?”

“Yes, Father,” came the quiet reply, and he heard his son’s voice 
speaking in Quenya, releasing the spell on the door.

Legolas opened the door to admit his father, and Thranduil noticed his 
slightly bleary eyes. “Forgive me, my son. I did not realize you were 
asleep.”

“It is unimportant,” said Legolas, not meeting Thranduil’s eyes. With 
a wry smile, he added, “I feel I sleep too much as it is.”

Thranduil smiled. “How do you fare?” he asked, indicating Legolas’s 
shoulder.

“It aches at times, but that is all. You need not worry,” his son 
added, looking slightly defensive. 

“I am pleased to hear it, and still more when I see you back to normal 
again. These last weeks have been a fearful time for us all.”

Legolas looked quite startled. *Expected a scolding, didn’t you?* 
Thranduil thought with amusement. But his son’s eyes lowered slightly, 
“I should not have been so cross with them. I know they only desire to 
help.”

Nodding, Thranduil added, “And two of them are now parents, while the 
other has mothered you and Belhador for much of your lives. Such 
habits die hard. But fear not, Lord Elrond and I agreed you no longer 
need a healer at your bedside at all hours, nor confinement to your 
chamber.” The intense relief on Legolas’s face nearly made him laugh 
aloud.

Legolas smiled, “I promise not to start practicing with my bow just 
yet.” He and Thranduil shared a chuckle then, and it seemed as if 
thirty-five years of vexation and resentment fell away for a moment.

Almost. Smiling, Thranduil told him, “Have patience, my son, you will 
have time to restore your archery prowess in the coming days, and soon 
you will Mirkwood’s champion once again. Now you are home and all is 
forgiven.” He saw a shadow come over his son’s face just then. 
“Legolas?”

“Nothing, Father.” Though Legolas was clearly dissembling, Thranduil 
caught himself and managed not to press the issue. *He is grown. I 
need not know all his personal affairs if he does not wish to share 
them.* Nonetheless, the admission made him ache inside.

***

Three days later…

Legolas knew that despite the insistence of his father and Lord Elrond 
that he be given his freedom, Lim, Eirien, and Berensul would be on 
him like dwarves on a mithril vein if they caught him. So, although 
his body still felt weaker than he would have wished, Legolas fled the 
outer palace as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He had 
languished long enough in his rooms. Too long. For all that time, his 
heart had burned with the amends yet to be made until he thought he 
might go mad.

It would be folly to go far from the warmth of the palace in February, 
but Legolas did not intend to be outside for more than a few minutes. 
For his destination was neither the stables nor the training fields, 
but the inner palace within the mountain. Specifically, his father’s 
Great Hall. Even for that short walk across the green and over the 
bridge, he donned his winter cloak, grinning to himself as he imagined 
Limloeth and Eirien’s voices admonishing him. 

It had been nearly a year since Legolas had crossed the bridge over 
the Forest River into the cave to speak to Thranduil, but this walk 
did not have the air of dread that he had felt then. Rather, a sense 
of determination, bound by honor and a good measure of guilt, drove 
his steps this time, and there was no urge to retreat. There would be 
no flight this time. He paused by one of the warming braziers in the 
main tunnel until the bite of winter left him. His siblings would eat 
him alive if he took a chill.

He hesitated for a moment outside the wooden doors of the Great Hall, 
gazing up at where they touched the ceiling. The throne room still 
seemed vast, but to the child who had first beheld it, it had seemed 
massive. He snapped back to reality as the doors swung open. “Prince 
Legolas!” announced the herald.

King Thranduil, wearing his winter crown of evergreen and holly, rose 
from his throne. Legolas had deliberately waited until near the end of 
the day so as not to disrupt the regular court business. As it was, 
only the elven king’s attendants were in the Hall. Sounding faintly 
surprised, Thranduil beckoned him in. “My son?”

The elven king’s family were granted certain liberties when it came to 
addressing him, but today, Legolas took advantage of none of them. He 
advanced and stopped well before the throne, as any subject would who 
sought a favor from the king. But then, instead of merely bowing, 
Legolas dropped to one knee in the fashion of a supplicant. Over time, 
such a position had come to have a more serious meaning: that the 
petitioner was one who had committed some wrong and sought the king’s 
mercy. Raising his eyes, Legolas spoke quietly, but steadily, “If I 
might have a word, my lord.”

The soft intakes of breath behind him and the way Thranduil stiffened 
indicated that none had missed the prince’s extreme formality. 
Thranduil stared at Legolas for a moment, obviously confused, then 
looked up at the other elves and said briskly, “Leave us.” Legolas 
heard them go, but did not move or take his eyes off his father’s 
face.

***

Along with great puzzlement, Thranduil also felt a sense of sudden 
panic even as the doors closed on his servants. What could his son’s 
strange actions mean? Looking down again, he forced himself to calm, 
and said evenly, “Rise, Legolas.” His son did so. How to address 
this…he could think of no response except for directness. “What is it 
you ask of me?”

Never his son’s face been so composed, but when Legolas met 
Thranduil’s gaze, his eyes told the king all he needed to know. The 
remorse in them nearly made Thranduil step backward, and his mind 
cried, *What is amiss now? I had thought it was over!* Legolas’s reply 
confused him still more. “I ask your forgiveness. As my father and my 
king.”

*What?!* Feeling an unpleasant tightness inside, Thranduil answered, 
“My son, I realize that your illness made it difficult for us to speak 
long of our…past conflict, but be assured, you received my forgiveness 
then. Unconditionally. You need not apologize again. I need no formal 
repentance.”

Now Legolas looked puzzled in his turn. “Again?”

Thranduil stared at him. “I thought we had…made our peace…when we 
spoke several weeks ago.” Though he made a valiant effort not to show 
it, Legolas was clearly confused. A nagging suspicion in Thranduil’s 
mind came out in a half-hopeful, half-fearful question. “You do not 
remember?”

His son’s eyes dropped as though searching through the jumbled 
memories from his illness for some remnant of their talk, but when he 
looked up again, there was still-deeper sorrow in their gray depths. 
“Nay. I do not.”

Thranduil’s mind whirled with many thoughts. Some were grievous at 
having lost the memory of those all-important words with Legolas, when 
they had bonded as they had not since Legolas had been very young. And 
he cursed himself, for a part of him could not deny feeling relief 
that Legolas could not remember seeing his father at his weakest. It 
was not Thranduil’s nature to display emotion as he had when Legolas 
had been near death, and yet…*What sort of a father is ashamed of 
caring for his son, ashamed to admit fear even in the face of his 
death?*

Legolas was watching him, so Thranduil said, “I am sorry that you do 
not recall it, but your fever was still very high at the time. We did 
speak, and made our apologies. Our grievances were forgiven.”

With a look of real dismay, Legolas murmured, “And I remember naught 
of it.” He seemed almost angry with himself.

“Legolas,” Thranduil spoke urgently. “It was the first time you had 
awakened without being delirious. The fever was no fault of yours.”

Smiling humorlessly, his son replied, “I doubt if my words were very 
coherent.”

“I understood you perfectly,” the elven king said even as his throat 
tightened with the memory.

Legolas looked away, uncertain. After a long moment, he looked back at 
his father with eyes bright with determination. “All the same, Father, 
I fear I cannot be easy until I have made you a proper apology for my 
failure in my duty as your son. One that I can remember,” he added 
wryly. Before Thranduil could protest, he went on, “Nearly every time 
we have met over the past thirty-five years, I have treated you in a 
fashion unfit for either a son or a prince. My childish resentments 
gave me no right to forget the loyalty that I owe you. My behavior 
when we met on the plains and when I returned was inexcusable.” 
Dropping his eyes, he murmured, “I am deeply ashamed. I beg your 
forgiveness.”

It took Thranduil an even longer moment to trust his own voice. At 
last, he replied, “Then you have it. As I already told you, I forgive 
you freely. You owe me no further penance.” He could have dismissed 
Legolas then, knowing that his son’s conscience had been eased and his 
sense of honor intact, but his own would not so easily end the 
conversation. *He remembers nothing. We each wronged each other, but 
he does not remember my words to him. His honor would not let him rest 
until he apologized to me…* Before he could change his mind, Thranduil 
said, “If indeed you remember naught of what we said, then I must also 
repeat my words to you. I too have been burdened by the wrong I did 
you…and Tathar’s memory.” He pretended not to see the way Legolas 
flinched. “I dishonored you both with my words, and for that I must 
ask you to forgive me.”

In a very soft voice, Legolas answered, “Yes, Father.” Lifting his 
chin, he added, “And I pledge to never forget my duty to you, my 
father and lord.”

Thranduil placed a hand gently on his son’s shoulder. “May we never 
part on ill terms again.” Their eyes met again, and at last, there was 
a clarity in them both. The past words could not be altered or erased, 
but now they might finally look to the future. “I am very glad to have 
you home, my son. I have missed you.”

“And I you.”

“Come. The day’s work is done; let us return to our family.”

***

Any who thought that the elven king and his youngest son would be free 
of conflict after that were sadly mistaken. For although the quarrels 
of the past were forgiven, it was not the last time Thranduil and 
Legolas would find themselves at odds.

Quite the contrary.

For they remained of different minds, yet with a similar temperment, 
and consequently clashes of ideal and will became a regular occurrence 
in the elven king’s halls.

***

Not long afterward…

“It is not unreasonable, Father, nor dangerous!”

“Legolas, you know well my feelings concerning men. I would not have 
dealings with them under any circumstances.”

Legolas leaned against the wall of the hallway outside the royal 
chambers and mentally cursed his father’s narrow-mindedness. Then, why 
did it surprise him? He had always known Thranduil’s opinion of men. 
*It is because I have had dealings of my own with them.* His 
experience in Haloel had convinced him that men varied as much as 
elves, and no generalization could describe them all. Certainly no 
condemnation. *I wonder how Father would react if he knew I spent much 
of the past year in the sole company of Isildur’s heir.* The thought 
threatened to make him laugh aloud even as his father glared at him.

Thranduil was speaking again. “Silivren is thirty years old. She will 
soon be tall enough for a horse, and then she can learn to ride. You 
were able to wait until then.”

“Sili has no friends her own age as I had. If she is forced to amuse 
herself alone she shall only get into trouble. Trading for a pony will 
not threaten our security.”

“It is out of the question. She shall have to find other ways to amuse 
herself until she comes of age.” Thranduil glared harder at his 
youngest son. “Do not defy me in this. The subject is closed.” 

With a curt nod, Legolas turned and walked away, rebellion still 
flashing in his gray eyes. But he had known even as he broached the 
subject that it was a very long shot. Thranduil watched him go, fuming 
at his impudence. A soft chuckle made him turn. Berensul had evidently 
come out of his chamber when they were arguing and heard much of the 
exchange. More irritating still, he looked rather amused. “Legolas 
seems well restored to health, my dear father.”

Thranduil sighed and shook off his vexation. Such a silly thing was 
not worth being in a ruffle for the rest of the day. Why Legolas had 
even attempted it was beyond him. But he did remark, “That boy is 
impossible!”

“Really, Father, I caused you much more grief when I came of age. Why 
does Legolas surprise you?”

Smiling in spite of himself, the elven king replied blithely, “You 
were a trying child all your life, so your misbehavior throughout your 
coming of age came as no surprise. Legolas has not always been thus.”

Berensul grinned at him. “Such are the woes of fatherhood, as I’ve no 
doubt I am about to experience first-hand.”

“Indeed, Sili is yours to rear. I look forward to seeing you wrestling 
with all the decisions that must be made over her upbringing, for the 
prerogative is yours,” Thranduil said, teasing slightly.

But Berensul looked downright smug at those words. “Just so,” he said. 
“That established, if you will excuse me, I need to see a man about a 
horse. Or a pony, that is.”

“What?!”

***

A little while later…

With a resounding “thunk,” the last of Legolas’s arrows embedded 
itself in the dead center of the target. Beside him, Candrochon cursed 
and shook his head. “Only weeks since you were on your deathbed and 
already you are outshooting us all.”

Eregdos, the archer captain who had replaced Langcyll as leader of the 
warriors of Mirkwood, laughed from the sidelines. “I am glad to see 
him returned, for he keeps the rest of you on your toes.” Though a 
strict novice master Eregdos was wise and well-liked by all the 
warriors. At the moment, he was assembling patrol parties. “I will 
need a company of twelve to scout south for three weeks--no, Legolas, 
do not bother volunteering for that one.”

As it happened, Legolas had not intended to, but the smirk from 
Candrochon and his other friends irked him nonetheless. Since his 
return to the ranks of the warriors, he had chafed at the restrictions 
that remained upon his movement, and his companions greatly enjoyed 
rubbing his nose in it at every opportunity. Eregdos assembled the 
scouting party, and continued, “Lady Limloeth’s party leaves tomorrow 
at dawn. Four of our warriors shall escort them to the border. I shall 
be one of them.”

“For that I shall volunteer,” Legolas spoke up resolutely.

Eregdos smiled (he had expected the prince would.) Merilin and 
Candrochon also joined. “Someone has to look after you,” said 
Candrochon.

“Ignore him, Legolas, he is merely jealous that you are beating him 
again.”

“Of course,” laughed Legolas.

“A fine day when my own wife mocks me!”

“Hah!”

***

The next morning…

Limloeth swept her gray Lorien cloak back as she came into the palace 
foyer. Her brother Berensul was waiting for her. “How did Sili like 
her present?”

Berensul grinned. “She is beside herself. Gwilwileth is going to begin 
instructing her today, once Baran gets used to his new home.”

“Did you have any trouble in Lake Town?” 

“Nay, though the men were a little surprised to see me after all this 
time. But they were more than happy to give me a good pony for my 
gold.”

The princess sniggered, “Does Father know you paid them in gold?”

“Nay, and I’ve no intention of telling him.” They both laughed. 
Hearing footsteps, the two turned to see their younger brother coming, 
dressed for winter riding in his brown cloak. “Good morrow, Legolas. 
Eregdos finally let you off the leash, I see.”

Pulling his mouth to one side, Legolas replied, “To some extent, 
though he himself leads the escort.” Berensul chuckled and Legolas 
shrugged amiably. “I shall see you outside; the escort is readying 
their horses.”

“So you finally picked a replacement mount?” asked Limloeth.

His bright eyes darkening, Legolas replied, “There was no replacing 
Lanthir.”

Watching Legolas go, his sister murmured, “He still mourns.”

“Lanthir was a noble steed, a gift from Lady Galadriel at the start of 
the Great Gathering. Legolas has a right to miss him. It explains why 
he was so forceful on the subject of Sili’s pony.”

“And Father just as stubborn. Why do you suppose Legolas manages to 
vex him so? As you said, you were a far more difficult youth.”

Berensul fixed her with a knowing gaze. “You need not ask questions to 
which you already know the answer, Sister. We both know why Father 
reacts to Legolas as he does.”

It was an inevitable truth, but one that Legolas’s elder siblings 
could acknowledge without bitterness. Smiling at each other, they came 
out onto the outer palace steps where the rest of the elven king’s 
household waited.

***

King Thranduil had little doubt that Legolas had somehow persuaded 
Berensul to disobey his edict against dealing with men. And he was 
none too happy about it, though he had at last acquiesced when it was 
clear that Berensul’s mind was made up. Such a matter was hardly worth 
calling the palace guards, though the thought had seriously crossed 
Thranduil’s mind. Looking back, he half-wished he had done it rather 
than permit his sons to undermine his authority, but it was done now. 
And Silivren was quite thrilled to have a pony, but that did not alter 
the facts. 

That line of thought abruptly stopped when he spotted Legolas leading 
his horse over to Limloeth’s escort. After adjusting the gray mare’s 
pack, he turned and came nimbly up the steps to where the rest of the 
family was assembling to bid Limloeth farewell. Seeing Thranduil 
watching him, Legolas tensed ever so slightly. The elven king sighed 
inwardly. “I did not know you were joining the escort, Legolas,” he 
said in a forcibly calm tone.

Meeting his father’s eyes evenly, Legolas replied, “Forgive me. We 
only assembled last night.”

“How long will you be gone, my son?”

Legolas relaxed, and his voice softened, “Two days at the most.”

Thranduil nodded. “That is well.” Just then Berensul and Limloeth came 
out of the palace, followed by Eirien and Silivren. Touching his son’s 
shoulder, he said quietly, “Take care.”

“I shall, Father.” Then they turned so the rest of the family could 
bid farewell to Limloeth. When all had taken their leave, Legolas took 
his sister’s hand and escorted her down to the waiting entourage. 
Thranduil watched with a deep ache inside as his eldest daughter and 
youngest son mounted their horses and rode from the palace courtyard, 
waving back to their family. Limloeth, now wed and a Lady of 
Lothlorien. Legolas, a proven warrior of Mirkwood.

*It has come at last, however long I sought to deny it. All my 
children have grown.* But then, just as a sense of dreadful loneliness 
threatened to overwhelm him, the childish pleading of his 
granddaughter reached his ears. “May I go and see my pony now, Mother? 
Please?”

A smile coming at once to his face, Thranduil turned to his 
daughter-in-law. “I shall take her to the stables, Eirien, by your 
leave.” At her warm nod, he held out his hand to Sili. “Come, little 
one. There is much now for you to see.*

***

Fourteen years later, in the Lonely Mountain…

“I still have my worries about this undertaking.” Glóin and Dáin eyed 
the assembled company of dwarves, both feeling doubts.

“As do I, my friend, but we both know Balin would have gone whether I 
gave leave or no, and I would not see our people torn asunder by such 
a conflict,” said Dáin.

Glóin sighed, “True, but I prefer that to mourning our people if Moria 
defeats them.”

A great number of Dáin’s folk had elected to go with Balin, and at the 
foot of Lonely Mountain, they were preparing to depart, bearing the 
great stores of weapons and supplies they had been preparing for 
nearly twenty years. Balin and Óin stood at the front, Ori at the 
back, shouting orders to the company. 

Dáin watched the activity for a moment before answering Glóin, “It may 
not be so bad. Balin is a fine dwarf, and fate willing, a worthy lord 
of Moria. We have worked hard these past years to give them all that 
they will need. They may well prevail and take back our ancient realm. 
It would be a great triumph for the dwarves.”

“I hope you are right.”

Balin, Óin, and Ori came up then to where Dáin and Glóin were 
standing. “All is ready, my lord. We beg leave to depart.”

Dáin nodded gravely and gripped each of their arms in turn. “Safe 
journey, my friends. We shall be awaiting word.”

“Farewell, Dáin, Glóin.” The three leaders returned to the company of 
dwarves, who cheered a tribute to their leaders and also to the King 
Under the Mountain, who they were leaving behind.

Glóin and Dáin watched them until the party vanished from view. “Well, 
my friend,” Dáin said briskly. “I am glad you remained here.”

“I would not choose to cast my son’s and my lot with any other,” Glóin 
replied.

Dáin laughed, clapping Glóin on the back as they went back into the 
halls. “I appreciate your faith. Here, come.” He walked into a small 
storeroom as they went deeper into the mountain. It was one of many 
treasure rooms that housed the wealth of the Lonely Mountain. 
Rummaging around in one of the boxes, Dáin beckoned Glóin over. “A 
token of that appreciation for your loyalty, son of Gróin.”

The King Under the Mountain handed Glóin a large, lusterous black 
pearl. “Brought back by Naldin from the mountains near Moria. Keep it, 
my friend.”

Glóin took the gift and bowed, then held it up admiringly. “May 
treasures such as this be all that Balin’s folk find in the old 
mines.”

“May that come to pass,” agreed Dáin fervently. 

“Naldin found it in the mountains, you say? Odd; looks more like a sea 
pearl.”

“Hmph. Strange. Wonder where exactly it was.” 

“Shame we can’t ask him. But Naldin went with his father back to 
Moria,” Glóin told him.

“Did he? Don’t recall exactly--any others of Naldin’s party go back 
with Balin?”

“Two of them. Sothi, son of Dwalin, and Tili’s eldest, Sháin.”

“But Tili and Dwalin didn’t go?”

“Nay, and neither were especially pleased that their sons did,” Glóin 
chuckled. “I am glad Gimli chose not to.”

“He was tempted?” asked Dáin.

“Thought we’d have a fight on our hands, but in the end he decided to 
stay,” Glóin replied.

Dáin laughed. “Tili and Dwalin did have a fight on their hands, but 
couldn’t change Sháin and Sothi’s minds. Hmph. Ah, well. Who can 
explain fathers and sons?”

*****

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Old Friends, Older Enemies





Twenty-eight years later (or forty-two years after Legolas returned to 
Mirkwood)…



In the Dead Marshes…



It was all that Aragorn could do not to drag his feet as he slogged 
through the stinking quagmire, bound for home. His entire body ached 
with exhaustion from the arduous journey he had just undertaken, and 
now he returned, weighed down still more by the burden of failure. 

Though he had searched high and low in the Ash Mountains, walking in 
sight of the Black Gate and treading the deadly flowers of Morgul 
Vale, braving the fires and choking smoke of Mordor, he had not found 
Gollum.

Gandalf had some years ago told him of a ring he had discovered, in 
the keeping of Bilbo Baggins, no less. It had been passed to Bilbo’s 
nephew Frodo, and for the moment at least seemed safe enough. But the 
wizard was worried that the Ring, which seemed at first to possess no 
power more extraordinary than turning people invisible, might actually 
be a far more significant trinket. Aragorn knew how Bilbo had come by 
it, but Bilbo had apparently not known how the Ring first came into 
Gollum’s possession. Thus, they had sought him out, to find the 
origins of Bilbo’s Ring, through the vales of Anduin, Mirkwood, and 
Rhovanion to the confines of Mordor.

Mordor was a fearsome place, and perils Aragorn had faced until at 
last he had despaired and turned away from its darkness. The journey 
had been a taxing one, and even as the light of the west had brought 
him hope, Aragorn fought such weariness that he wondered if he would 
not collapse on the spot. His food and water had run low, forcing him 
to ration himself carefully, but the dry, bitter tang in the air of 
Mordor, and now the heavy stench of the Marshes dried his throat until 
he was tormented by desperate thirst.

*It is not very much farther,* he told himself, plodding on as 
brackish mud sucked on his boots. *Soon I shall pass Emyn Muil, and 
there I shall find rest and fresh water.*

He came to another reasonably dry place, where the earth rose hard and 
dead above the clutch of the greasy, sullen waters. Weariness sang in 
his blood and bones, and so he chose that place to rest, allowing 
himself a sip of water and a morsel of elvish waybread, which he 
always carried with him. Although the waybread eased his hunger and 
restored some of his strength, it took all his willpower not to drain 
his waterskin dry. There was so little left; he would barely make it 
out of the marshes as it was with what he had. He dared not finish it. 
The festering stink of the marshland seemed to suck the moisture from 
his mouth with every breath. He closed his eyes; to open them was only 
to invite further temptation to drink from the acrid mere, and he 
dared not. That would invite sickness to befall him, and alone in this 
forsaken place, he would find no aid. 

The night came and a slight breeze picked up, bringing more stench 
with it but at least lessening the muggy heat. It was only early 
spring, but heat came early to the southern lands of Middle Earth, and 
the Dead Marshes in particular seemed to hold it in. Aragorn rolled 
onto his back, letting the light wind dry the sweat on his face. 
Unfortunately, the moving air was making the water in the meres lap 
softly, and the sounds were a new torture to the parched Ranger. 
*Water, water.* 

At last he could endure no more and pulled himself to his feet. *By 
the Valar, there must be a pool somewhere in these fens where water 
rises up safe to drink!* He staggered through the rotten, scummy mud, 
searching for any reasonably clean water. But the stagnant meres were 
so filled with slime and rot that he knew it would be the height of 
folly to drink of them. *Water…* 

Feeling weak with despair and fatigue, he stumbled on, unwilling to 
tarry in this place any longer without finding water. He folded his 
arms across his chest to keep them from straying to his water skin, 
and those last precious mouthfuls it contained, though they called 
seductively to him. The stink of the place seemed permanently 
imprinted in his nose and mouth, though he gagged and wiped his face 
on his sleeve. Slime and sweat dripped from him.

All at once, the swamp seemed at last to recede, and he found himself 
upon a path easier to tread, where the mud did not attempt to suck him 
down. Feeling renewed now with the ability to put one foot before the 
other without great strain, Aragorn turned his attention again to the 
pools and mires, hoping to see some sign of spring or stream. Finally, 
as night became day once again, his diligance was rewarded. The wind 
had died, and the sun’s beams reflected off the standing water through 
the slough, but in one place, the pool continued to ripple. The Ranger 
stopped in his tracks, blinking wearily, uncertain of what he saw. 
Could it be?

It was. Fresh water bubbled up in a tiny spring that opened into a 
muddy pool, pouring out into the marshes where it would sit still and 
stagnant forever. Aragorn all but launched himself off the dry path, 
landing full-length in the mud before the small flow. With trembling 
hands, he dipped up the water and sipped experimentally. Not terribly 
sweet, but clean enough. Gasping with weary relief, the heir of 
Isildur splashed his face clean of sweat and dirt, then dropped over 
the spring and drank until he was completely sated. 

His desperate thirst attended to, he sat up again and set about 
filling his water skin. He would rest here today, drink his fill 
again, then set off again tomorrow. Even as he sat back again with his 
skin full, his gaze fell upon the mud on the opposite side of the 
pool, indentations not caused by any flow of water. 

Aragorn’s heart lurched in anticipation as he scrambled to the 
imprints, and sure enough, he had at last by fortune come upon what he 
sought: the marks of soft feet. After having lost Gollum so 
thoroughly, the trail was fresh again, and it led, to the Ranger’s 
surprise, not to Mordor but away. He wasted no time, but snatched up 
his full water skin and sought out the next set of prints. And the 
next, and the next. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes he followed 
it, and as the dark evening fell yet again, Aragorn slowed. There by a 
stagnant mere, a dark figure lurked, barely visible in the faint 
light. The creature was peering into the water, muttering “Fisshhhh” 
to himself, and so Aragorn stealthily moved up behind him.

“Nice fissh, nice fissh. Many days without fisssh, Gollum, Gollum, 
poor Sméagol might starve. But now can find fissh, yes, nice fissh. 
Get stronger, my Precious. Go find Precious, get Precious back from 
nasty thief! But first fissh--”

Through those words, Aragorn had crept closer and closer. The creature 
he sought was shriveled and bony and covered in slime, trembling 
slightly. Gollum must be very hungry, for he peered on into the mere, 
muttering to himself, and not once did he sense that anything was 
amiss. Then he was but an arm’s length away, and Aragorn leapt out and 
seized him.

“Aaaagh! Evil! Nasty man! Loose us! Let go! Gollum, Gollum! Wicked 
man! Nasty mens, all wicked! Mustn’t hurt Sméagol! No! Loose us!”

Aragorn wrestled with his quarry, for Gollum was stronger than he 
looked, or at least more wily. The heir of Isildur found himself 
covered in slime and lurching off balance in every direction as Gollum 
bucked and kicked to get free. Managing to hook one arm around the 
creature’s torso, he wrenched a length of rope from his belt and 
attempted to loop it around Gollum‘s wrists. Gollum in turn seized the 
hand holding the rope and jerked it up past Aragorn’s other arm, 
sinking his white fangs into the Ranger’s flesh. Cursing furiously, 
Aragorn pulled free and smote Gollum a hard blow to one ear, dazing 
him long enough to get the rope instead around his neck.

“Gollum, Gollum! Evil, nasty man! Hurts us! Hits and chokes us! Come 
to take Sméagol back, yes, back--”

“Back where?” Aragorn demanded, examing his bleeding arm after 
fashioning the rope into a more suitable halter that Gollum would not 
escape from.

“Gollum, Gollum! Poor Sméagol, hurts Sméagol! Did nothing--”

Extremely cross with weariness and pain from the bite, Aragorn was not 
in any mood to be trifled with. He seized Gollum again and shook him 
vigorously. “Where have you been, Gollum? Why were you in Mordor?”

“Wicked man, nasty man! Gollum, Gollum!”

With another curse, Aragorn shoved the filthy, stinking creature away, 
fighting off nausea at the smell and feel of slime on his hands and 
clothes. Glaring at Gollum, he satisfied himself that the creature 
would not escape, and sat down, pondering what to do with him now. 
*Elbereth only knows where Gandalf is at this moment. I would not see 
this creature in the Shire, for certain.* He frowned to himself, 
thinking all the places he could take Gollum in the shortest length of 
time. *I shall be glad to wash my hands of him--literally, as the case 
may be. Perhaps…but would they receive him? I wonder…I am not known as 
a friend to the elves of Mirkwood, yet they have long memories. 
Perhaps my friendship to Legolas will still hold weight, even if it 
has been more than forty years since he left Rivendell.*

It would be a short trip at least, if he made for Mirkwood. At that 
point, Gollum began moaning and whining again, and Aragorn glared at 
him. “I shall gag you if you do not desist this noise.”

“Nasty mens, cruel mens, hurt poor Sméagol…”

Aragorn had only just returned from a nearly-fruitless journey through 
Mordor, slogged his way through the Dead Marshes, and now found 
himself covered with slime and nursing a rather nasty bite on his 
right arm. He was in no mood to be toyed with. Before Gollum even knew 
what was happening, the Ranger sprang to his feet, pulling a length of 
cloth from his pack, and stuffed part of it into his mouth, tying it 
behind his head. “I warned you,” he said coldly when Gollum grunted 
and whimpered at him. “Now be still or I shall bind you tighter.” With 
one final grumble, the creature crouched down and glared balefully 
back at him.

Aragorn sighed. It was going to be a very long walk to Mirkwood. He 
considered attempting to get some sleep with Gollum’s lead tied to a 
shrub nearby, but decided against it. He did not trust Gollum any 
further than Gollum could throw him. That in mind, with another sigh, 
he rose and took up the rope, gesturing imperiously for Gollum to walk 
ahead of him. The creature resisted at first, but a few snaps of the 
rope got him moving.

***

For all the misery that he had endured in Mordor, Aragorn considered 
the road back even worse. He watched Gollum day and night, getting 
precious little sleep as they moved up along the Anduin towards 
northern Mirkwood. He drove Gollum before him, not trusting the 
creature behind, and only after many days lacking drink and food did 
Gollum at last walk tamely ahead.

He had one reprieve as he passed between southern Mirkwood and 
Lothlorien. There along the banks of the Anduin he encountered a small 
scouting party of Lorien elves, watering their horses. Remembering 
Aragorn from his previous visit, two of them crossed the river to 
offer him additional food, and to discover what the strange creature 
was that Aragorn led with him.

“You are far from your traditional lands, Man of the West,” said the 
elf in the lead, bowing to Aragorn.

“As you see, Master Elf, I have an unusual errand,” the Ranger replied 
blandly, gesturing to his prisoner.

“Whither do you take him?” asked the other elf. 

“I hope that the Elves of Mirkwood will agree to keep him safe,” said 
Aragorn. “For he is wanted by Mithrandir in a matter of some 
importance.”

The elves digested this, then apparently were placated by the mention 
of the wizard’s name. The first elf bowed. “I am Orthelian, a captain 
under Haldir of the warriors of Lorien. My companion is Maethor, also 
a captain of our guard. We have seen you and heard much of you, Lord 
Aragorn, though we have never been introduced.”

Aragorn bowed in return, “You do me an honor, Captains of Lorien.” His 
vision blurred slightly. He was very tired.

Maethor noticed it. “Do you mean to depart at once for Mirkwood?”

“I should like to see my prisoner there as soon as possible.”

“And have you none to keep watch upon him? When do you sleep?”

“When I can.”

Orthelian and Maethor exchanged a glance. “Then join us at camp here 
on the riverbank tonight,” offered Orthelian. “We shall keep watch 
upon your prisoner while you take some rest. For a weary watcher may 
prove little use to that which he is charged with watching.”

Smiling wryly, Aragorn conceded to their reasoning. The last three 
elves of the party swam themselves and the horses across the river 
with little difficulty, and they made camp upon the eastern bank. 
Aragorn accepted gratefully their food and wine, but soon felt 
weariness overcome him, and laid down to rest. Orthelian himself took 
a watch, and posted another elf specifically to guard Gollum. Earlier, 
apparently feeling more charitable toward the creature than Aragorn, 
Maethor had attempted to remove the gag in order to offer Gollum 
something to eat. Only his elven reflexes had prevented him from 
having a hand bitten. But the scruples of the party would not let 
Gollum go hungry while they ate, so they left bread and fruit near him 
before snatching the gag away. After considerable grumbling, he ate it 
and drank the water they left him, then the gag went back on.

When Aragorn awoke, the sun was well in the sky. Startled, he looked 
about but saw the elves still keeping watch over both him and Gollum. 
Orthelian grinned at him. “Why did you not awaken me sooner, Captain 
Orthelian? I did not mean to delay you.”

“We thought you needed your rest, being mortal and all,” said the 
elven captain with a twinkle in his gray eyes. After you have broken 
your fast, we will be on our way.”

Slightly chagrinned, Aragorn accepted their generosity, and thanked 
them. He parted with them saying, “If you should happen to see 
Mithrandir, you might tell him that I have found Gollum. He will wish 
to know.”

“We shall, Lord Aragorn. Farewell! And,” Orthelian looked back over 
his shoulder, “please give my regards to Legolas.”

Startled, Aragorn glanced back, but the elves were already swimming 
back across the river. *Elves. I was reared by them, raised among 
them, speak their language as naturally as my own, and still they 
puzzle me.*

***

Seven days later…

Gollum hissed and grumbled around his gag as Aragorn drove him along 
the edge of the forest. They were still at least three days out of the 
elven king’s halls, but the Ranger was beginning to fear he would 
collapse and lose his prisoner. He had had next to no sleep since 
parting ways with Orthelian and Maethor, and despite the endurance of 
his Numenorean blood, the strain was taking a heavy toll. Driving 
Gollum ahead of himself was the only way to ensure that the creature 
did not notice his growing weakness and attempt to take advantage of 
it. 

*If I do not rest soon, I will be unable to prevent him from 
escaping.* The lembas of the elves granted him the strength to walk 
on, but even that no longer served as any substitute for sleep. *So 
tired…* Lack of food and drink had tamed Gollum, but Aragorn did not 
trust him for ten seconds if the creature should realize his captor’s 
growing vulnerability. Aragorn’s hands trembled as he held the lead 
rope, and he was stumbling more and more frequently as he walked.

*I must sleep,* the Ranger fell to his knees. That caught Gollum’s 
attention, and the creature looked back curiously. Seeing Aragorn’s 
weariness, his eyes widened slightly, and he immediately attempted to 
jerk the lead rope free of his captor’s hands.

But Aragorn still had some strength left in him, and he wrenched it 
back. Gollum hissed in protest, but became submissive again. Aragorn 
staggered to his feet and looked around. The dark edge of northwestern 
Mirkwood was not a hundred yards away, but his peril would only 
increase if he attempted to brave its depths in this state. He had 
thought at first to skirt the forest all the way around until he 
reached the wood elves’ territory. But now his list of plausible 
choices was shortening. He would not last much longer before his body 
forced him into unconsciousness, whether he was willing or no. And 
Gollum would escape then.

Resolutely, he drove Gollum straight toward the forbidding wood until 
they were just beneath its edge. Then he leaned against one of the 
dark trunks, closing his eyes against the haze that clouded his 
vision. *So tired…* Forcing his eyes open, he looked at his prisoner. 
He had to find some way of securing Gollum so that the creature would 
not escape while he slept. With that in mind, he began winding the 
rope around the tree until Gollum was forced up against it, his 
trussed hands pressed into the trunk. Using another coil he bound 
Gollum fast until the creature could barely move at all, let alone 
wriggle or chew himself free of the ropes.

“I am not going anywhere and neither are you,” he said curtly. Almost 
as soon as he had finished securing his prisoner, a wave of dizzy 
exhaustion brought him to his knees again. “Just as well,” he muttered 
to himself. “I fear I could not go any further if I wished.” With 
that, he cast himself onto the ground and fell instantly into an 
unnaturally heavy sleep.

***

The next day, on the edge of Mirkwood…

“Are you sure that shoulder is well, Caranaur?” Legolas asked his 
fellow warrior with a worried frown.

“It is fine, Legolas. There does not seem to be any infection,” 
Caranaur replied, eyeing his bandaged wound.

Legolas’s small hunting party was three days out of the elven king’s 
halls, nearly to the edge of the wood. They had been hunting spiders, 
but stumbled across a small company of orcs the day before. Caranaur 
had suffered the only injury, a shallow knife wound, but insisted it 
was not worth returning home. 

“You simply do not duck fast enough,” said Thalatirn. Caranaur glared 
at him.

Grinning, Legolas turned his attention ahead to where the break in the 
trees revealed the plains to the west. “Let us find the sun, and then 
we shall turn for home.”

The three warriors walked out from beneath the cover of the trees, 
enjoying the warmth of the spring sun upon their faces. All at once, 
scuffling noises nearby caused them all to start and look about. “What 
was that?” muttered Thalatirn.

“Sounds like an animal,” murmured Caranaur.

Legolas said nothing, but quietly drew an arrow and cautiously 
followed the sounds, his comrades close behind him. The scratches and 
scuffs seemed not like an animal simply making its way through the 
grass or chasing prey, but rather like something trapped and trying to 
break free. So intent was he on seeking the source of the noises that 
he nearly did not see the large form upon the ground before him. 
Caranaur grabbed his arm then, pointing excitedly. The three elves 
froze. 

It was a man, dressed in the worn, dark raiment of a Ranger, lying 
sprawled upon the grass just beneath the shade of the trees at the 
edge of the wood, dead to the world. Rangers were not ones to sleep 
unguarded in the wood, and under normal circumstances, this man would 
have been roused by the noises of the animal nearby. Thus he had to be 
either injured or ill. Legolas startled his friends by taking a few 
steps closer, and Thalatirn even grabbed his arm in protest, far less 
trusting of a strange mortal even if he were hurt. But Legolas 
motioned them back and walked to where he could see the man’s face, 
turned slightly away from him.

The bow slackened at once, and he dropped his arrow. “Ara--Strider!” 
he managed to catch himself as he remembered Caranaur and Thalatirn.

His comrades called out behind him, “Legolas, what--” but Legolas was 
already kneeling at his old friend’s side, checking the man’s pulse. 
The other two elves stared at each other in confusion, for none in 
Mirkwood knew of Legolas’s previous encounters with mortals, and over 
the past forty years, he had spent most of his time within the realm’s 
borders. “Lego