Uncommon Tales: Tales of the Jade King 
Katharine the Great   katharinethegreatlady@hotmail.com
TreeHugger   AnakinS@aol.com




PG  - Drama/Angst 

The Uncommon Tales

Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One

Introduction


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Katharine’s opening remarks…


Greetings, readership!  Welcome to the first edition of Tales of the Jade King, 
the third installment in the Uncommon Tales series, and the first story that 
I—Katharine—have ever co-authored with another person here at FF.net.  Yes, 
that’s right, the magnificent TreeHugger is collaborating with me on this one!  
Woohoo!  *Happy dances*  Just in case anyone out there had any doubts, Tree is 
an absolutely outstanding lady, and I have been tremendously blessed to have 
gotten to know her during the course of this Tale’s conception and crafting.  Go 
you, melaglar nin!  ^_^

A few notes at the outset…

First of all, this Tale is completely unrelated to the first two, so it isn’t 
necessary to read the previous Tales in order to understand and appreciate this 
one.  Second, this story takes place in the LOTR universe I formed for my other 
work in progress, The Weeping Wraith; that is, Legolas’ family (except 
Thranduil, of course) is entirely of my making.  As noted in the summary, 
however, Lady TreeHugger is co-writing this venture, and she is allowing me to 
borrow Tanglinna and the Tricksy Trio, so they will be woven into the TWW 
universe for the time being.  ^_^  

Also, the timeline for this Tale is somewhat unusual.  I’ve been using the FOTR 
movie’s age for Legolas, which placed him at 2,931 years old.  That would put 
his birth at TA 87, according to the Tale of Years in Appendix B of the LOTR 
trilogy.  Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One takes place in TA 113, which makes 
Legolas about 26 years old…the equivalent of about nine human years.  Everyone 
may want to crack out the appropriate Appendix and check out what was going on 
at that time, because the world was quite a bit different then…

A few bits of forewarning: the partnership of TreeHugger and myself is likely to 
produce somewhat bipolar results.  For instance, this edition of Tales of the 
Jade King is slated to contain alternating bouts of hysterical funniness and 
rending angst, as well as a good dose of unbelievable cuteness (á la Tree) and 
gut-ripping suspense (á la Katharine).  Be aware that this Tale will include 
spells of battle violence, mild gore, and some fairly ugly torture; the rating 
might ascend from PG to PG-13 later on, depending on how nasty things get.  Oy, 
and there will also be a Very Bad Man™.  Flame him if you wish; Tree and I own 
him, and we will be happy to roast him over a cheery flame or two.  *Sings*  
“Bad Man roasting over an open fire…readers laughing at his woes…”  Ahem, sorry, 
got a little caught up there.  Me being so Christmasy and all.  ^_~

Oh, and both Tree and I very much enjoy reviews.  They make us happy campers.  
^_^  Feel free to address either one of us via the review board or via email; we 
will be responding individually to reader comments at the end of each chapter.

Finally, the standard disclaimer… neither one of us owns anything in Master 
Tolkien’s universe, we’re not making any money off of this work, and we promise 
to put all the toys back in the toybox when we’re through making them 
miserable—uh, I mean, when we’re done playing with them.  Lawsuit notices, 
subpoenas, nasty emails, and other such rubbish will be given to Thundril the 
mini-Balrog for his kindling collection.  

I think that’s about all I can think of for now!  Enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TreeHugger’s opening remarks…

Well, it looks like Kate covered just about everything and didn’t leave me 
anything to talk about!   She probably didn’t want me to get a rampant case of 
Brethilitis. . . looks like she caught it instead.  O_^  She is quite right 
about the bipolar relationship we have.  She seems to glory in the pain, angst, 
blood, screams in the night.  I like those too, I just do not want to be the one 
to write them!  Well, yes, Bronadui, Brethil’s Ada, was slated for slaughter 
before he jumped universes.  Lucky me!  I still didn’t have to write it!  Cute 
mischievous children are much more my style.  Though with all the death, 
torture, and mayhem Kate has planned, *Tree groans and grasps her temples* the 
children are not going to be happy either.  O.O,  That little comma is a 
teardrop for the poor little Elflings (especially Legolas and Brethil), not a 
comma.  

What more can I say?  She has covered her *unusual* time frame, and the 
collaboration.  She has covered the disclaimer and the mini-Balrog.  She has 
even covered the Very Bad Man.  I am betting it WILL be PG13 before *she* is 
done with it, if the Very Bad Man (VBM) has anything to say about it. . . and he 
does have a lot to say!  Let me be the first to say it :  “Poor Thranduil!”  

We both sincerely hope that you like this tale.  Now showing for your reading 
enjoyment – Tales of the Jade King:  Scroll One.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Uncommon Tales

Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One

Chapter One: Archery Here, Archery There


The tale begins…



Greenwood the Great’s pathways rang of autumn’s cool advance.  The oft-used 
trails that meandered amidst the mottled oaks and silvery beeches had become 
scenes of nature’s gaiety, as the fallen leaves skittered and danced on the 
wind.  Many a Silvan Elf smiled appreciatively at the vibrant colors of the 
woodland’s seasonal change; Greenwood had shed her cloak of emerald with the 
summer’s passing, taking on instead vivid hues of gold, crimson, ginger, russet, 
and indigo.  The migratory birds twittered and piped merrily in the branches, 
which were no longer the concealing haven that they had been throughout the 
summer months; the boughs and twigs were swiftly baring their bark to the wind, 
their brightly colored leaves to join the cheery dance on the pathways below.

At the end of one of those paths was a large, grassy clearing that hosted 
several archery targets of varying size.  It was in this leaf-strewn glade that 
warriors of the Woodland Realm honed their skills with the bow and 
feather-fletched arrows.  From the time young Elves were old enough to walk 
steadily and unaided, they learned the use of these weapons.  The Greenwood was 
well known for her fine archers; it was said, in fact, that the Silvan Elves 
were the best marksmen to be found anywhere in Middle-earth.  The development 
and perfection of such ability, however, required expert guidance and 
supervision.  Thus, here at the practice field, Tanglinna was master.

Tanglinna had served as Master Archer under the obdurate King Oropher; but since 
the old king had been slain amid the horror of Dagorlad, Tanglinna now served 
Thranduil, Oropher’s equally tenacious son.  The Master Archer had instructed 
countless generations of young Sindarin and Silvan Elves for as long anyone 
could remember.  Some of the best archers in Middle-earth had learned their 
craft under his tutelage. But none could best their teacher as of yet.  He was 
an exacting taskmaster, and did not abide laziness or inattentiveness in his 
students.  He was stern of visage, his grey eyes as sharp as a hawk’s; also, he 
was more apt to bark out a criticism than offer praise.  None dared to cross him 
except Thranduil, and even the king did not often gainsay him.

On this particular day, a gaggle of young archers was practicing the rapid-fire 
technique on the field.  It was a skill that had to be mastered before they 
would be allowed to accompany their elders on simple hunting forays in the deep 
forest, for the seemingly effortless swift-draw method had saved many a life 
when the hunter became the hunted.  Tanglinna watched his young pupils 
impassively, arms folded across his chest; his bow was cradled against him, as 
much a part of him as his arm or hand.  He stood several feet behind the 
Elflings, well knowing that arrows would fly awry when this particular skill was 
practiced.  Usually, the fledgling archers were so intent on pulling the arrows 
quickly from their quivers that they did not take time to aim.

All of the young ones were dressed in belted tunics of muted green with brown 
leggings tucked into leather boots; the outfits were comfortable and 
unrestrictive, perfect for archery practice.  They were not, however, 
loose-fitting or sloppy—the supremely disciplined and orderly Master Archer 
would never have permitted such attire.  The younglings also wore armguards on 
their bow arms, and their quivers were fastened behind them for convenient use, 
the feathered practice shafts standing above their slim shoulders.  Each Elfling 
had his strengths and weaknesses; Tanglinna watched over them all, eyes narrowed 
in concentration.

Young Brethil Bronaduion always managed to whip the arrow from his quiver quite 
well, but then he would pause, his tongue clamped between his lips, as he 
carefully nocked it and slowly took aim.  Glavrol was one who never bothered to 
take care as to where his shafts flew when released.  His arrows struck the 
trees, the ground, disappeared into the forest beyond, and even on occasion hit 
the target, though Tanglinna was well aware that such occurrences were purely 
accidental. To the Master Archer’s immense amusement, the trees actually began 
to murmur in dismay whenever the dark haired youth took up his bow and arrows. 

Tavor was technically the best in the class, something that he never allowed the 
others to forget. Since Tanglinna decidedly frowned on his cockiness, he was 
certain not to brag until they were far from the archery field.  Mithereg was 
improving greatly, and Tanglinna knew he would be the first to master his skills 
with the necessary poise and seriousness that Tavor lacked.  Talagan tried very 
hard, but his long hands were more skilled on the harp string than on the 
bowstring.  Nevertheless, the Master Archer knew that the youngster would one 
day become as adept with the weapons as he was with his beloved instrument.  

The last student in the class was young Prince Legolas.  Tanglinna watched as 
his king’s youngest son whipped an arrow from his quiver.  The shaft immediately 
slipped from the slim fingers, and flew end over end to land in the grass a few 
feet away.  The princeling froze in place, and the Master Archer could imagine 
the look of humiliation and annoyance on his face.  Tanglinna’s shoulders shook 
slightly with barely discernable amusement; he well remembered similar 
expressions on Thranduil’s own face.  Indeed, it was with an eerily familiar 
dignity that Legolas’ back stiffened, and another arrow was whipped from the 
quiver—only to sail through the air and sink into the ground beside the first 
one.  The prince’s hands clenched at his sides in frustration, and he shifted 
restlessly from one foot to the other before moving once more into a shooting 
stance.  

Tanglinna shook his silvery head and moved to stand at the youngling’s shoulder. 
 “You are not grasping the arrow correctly, nin caun,” he said quietly.  He did 
not wish to draw unwanted attention to the princeling; that would undoubtedly 
embarrass Legolas to no end, and that was not Tanglinna’s intention.  “Here is 
where you take it,” he murmured.  The strong, slim hands of the elder adeptly 
guided those of his young charge.

Legolas frowned—again, a familiar expression—then straightened his back once 
more and drew another arrow.  This time it didn’t fling itself from his fingers, 
and he smiled in pleased relief.  Tanglinna said nothing, but instead moved on 
to Brethil.  While the others had already shot through two bundles of arrows, 
Brethil had only worked his way through one.  To his credit, all of the 
Elfling’s shots had landed expertly near the center of the target, while those 
of his peers had mostly flown astray, but precision was not the purpose of this 
particular exercise.  Tanglinna drifted to stand over Brethil’s shoulder, and as 
he had done for Legolas, he lowered his voice to a discreet murmur.

“Brethil, this is the rapid-fire technique.  You need to be fast.  Accuracy will 
come later.”

The young one turned to look up at his mentor, his brows knitted worrisomely 
over pale grey eyes.  “I know, Master Tanglinna,” Brethil sighed, shaking his 
head and tugging on his long, nearly white-haired braid, “but I am having 
trouble setting the arrow to the string quickly, and I thought that since I am 
taking so much time at that then why not take time to aim accurately as well?  
If enemies were attacking me I might at least manage to hit one with a 
well-placed arrow.  Glavrol will have fired many arrows to my one, but they 
would all miss, most likely.  Tavor and Mithereg would fell the enemies 
undoubtedly.  They are very good, aren’t they?”  He gazed at the two in 
undisguised admiration.  “Talagan could sing the enemies to sleep with his harp 
and lovely voice, and Legolas, well, he might get fairly good at throwing the 
arrows at them with his hands.”  He cocked his head to one side as he watched 
Legolas practice.  The young prince was flinging his arrow in the air less often 
now.  “I think—” 

“Enough,” Tanglinna broke in, knowing very well that the youngling’s monologue 
could last for hours if it wasn’t checked.  Truly, he had often thought that 
Brethil should trade names with Glavrol, whose name meant “to babble.”  No one 
in Greenwood babbled better than Brethil.  “Enough.  You must shoot faster.  
Now.”   With that admonition, the Master Archer turned and paced away, 
forestalling another onslaught of words from the younger Elf.  He heard 
Brethil’s slight sigh, and after that, the ponderous twang of another arrow’s 
methodical release.

Mithereg and Tavor were having a subtle, friendly rivalry.  Tavor’s face was 
glowing with a triumphant smirk, clearly stating that he was winning their 
little competition—that is, until he became aware that Master Archer’s eyes were 
fixed on them.  Tavor blinked, schooling his features to more appropriate 
neutrality and nonchalance.  Mithereg, unconcerned about Tanglinna’s stare, 
brushed a stray strand of rich brown hair from his eyes and grinned at Tavor.  
He then proceeded to send five perfectly aimed arrows into the target in rapid 
succession.  Tavor’s self-assurance faltered just a bit as the victory slipped 
from his fingers.

Talagan made a small noise of joy as he managed to hit the target three 
consecutive times.  Tanglinna turned, nodding to himself with pleasure at the 
progress that the young musician had made.  Then he grunted, merely barking out 
his usual “Again!”  The brisk directive caused the chestnut-haired harpist to 
start in surprise, his green eyes widening at his instructor’s curt 
acknowledgement.  Then, Tanglinna turned his attention back to his prince.

Legolas was also doing better, having managed to send a few of his arrows flying 
into the target.  His face shone with elation as he turned to see if anyone had 
noticed.  The Master Archer narrowed his eyes as Brethil smiled at his friend, 
nodding encouragingly.  That one was just beginning on his second bundle of 
arrows while Tavor and Mithereg were on their sixth, Talagan on his fifth, and 
Legolas his fourth. It seemed that “fast” wasn’t in Brethil’s rather extensive 
vocabulary. 

“Now, Brethil!” Tanglinna called out, by now unconcerned as to whether the 
Elfling would be embarrassed by the rebuke.  “Faster!”  

Greenwood’s prince found himself grimacing in sympathy for his meticulous 
friend, until he noticed that Old Sourpuss’ disapproving gaze was suddenly 
turned upon him.  Legolas frowned to himself, turning back to the target.  He 
and the others were doing much better than they had been, he thought.  Why did 
Tanglinna always look like he was disgusted with their progress?  He was never 
pleased with them, it seemed.

Someday I will be the best archer in Greenwood, the princeling thought, yanking 
an arrow from the quiver.  He was determined to show Tanglinna what he could do, 
for he was now certain that he had practiced quite enough to be rather good at 
it.  Even Old Sourpuss will have to notice!  The arrow flew true and landed in 
the target a few inches from the center.  Legolas didn’t allow himself time to 
gloat, although a satisfied smirk touched his lips as the second arrow flew in 
the wake of the first one.  The second shaft, however, missed the target 
completely, and landed in the brush beneath the trees beyond.  The prince winced 
and looked about sheepishly before grabbing another arrow.

King Thranduil covered a smile and shook his golden head before moving into the 
clearing.  His feet were silent as he crossed the autumn-browned grass, his eyes 
on his future warriors.  He was very pleased with what he had witnessed; they 
were all trying very hard to master this most necessary skill.  The king had 
seen many, many generations of young Elves practicing under the Master Archer.  
Too, he could well recall his own time spent with the slim practice bow in hand; 
fingers stinging and sore, with Tanglinna an ever-present apparition standing at 
his shoulder, watching and gauging every move, every flaw, and every perfect 
shot.

Now, it was Thranduil who came to stand at his Master Archer’s side.  Tanglinna, 
who had been aware of his king’s presence for some time, acknowledged him with a 
nod of his head, his eyes never leaving his young charges.

“How are they faring?” Oropher’s son asked, his voice pitched low enough to be 
mostly drowned out by the thudding of the shafts hitting the targets.

Tanglinna made a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Thranduil smiled 
appreciatively.  The Master Archer would never change, something that the king 
was intensely grateful for.  Within the preceding century, Greenwood had 
experienced the most terrible upheavals she had ever seen in her long history.  
Dagorlad was little more than a hundred years past, and its horrors were still 
fresh in Thranduil’s mind.  He had seen two-thirds of the Elves from Greenwood 
and Lothlórien cut down by the Enemy’s brutal resistance.  King Oropher, the 
first Lord of the Woodland Realm and the father of Thranduil, had been among the 
first of those to fall, pierced to the heart by black-feathered shafts.  And my 
beloved Astalaewen died only two years ago…  Thranduil sighed inwardly at the 
memory and pushed it away.  Indeed, the Woodland Realm had undergone great 
turmoil in recent years.  That was why the king so valued Tanglinna’s steady 
temperament; it had long been a point of stability in a storm of events that 
Thranduil was helpless to prevent or control.  

“Going hunting, aranhîr?” Tanglinna asked without turning, having noted out of 
the corner of one eye his king’s brown and green riding leathers.

“Yes.  We will be riding east today.”  A slightly roguish smile touched the 
Elvenking’s lips, and the slate-gray eyes flared briefly with rare delight.

Tanglinna smiled as well.  He was vastly amused at the childlike joy he saw in 
the king’s expression at the prospect of spending a few days on the hunt.  
Thranduil was no better than the young Elflings at times.  “Is Curulin 
accompanying you?” Tanglinna asked, thinking of his colleague, Greenwood’s merry 
Master Huntsman.  At Thranduil’s nod, Tanglinna grinned slyly.  “I wonder what 
song he will sing for you this time,” he remarked quietly, his eyes sliding to 
his king.  He saw the twitch of amused remembrance on the Elvenking’s lips.  

“Bronadui is coming as well,” Thranduil said, his gaze flitting to the son of 
the warrior he had named.  Brethil was making his ponderous way through his 
second bundle of arrows, and was nearly ready to begin a third.  Thranduil shook 
his head slightly and hid a grin, knowing that the youngling’s painstaking ways 
were cause for much frustration on Tanglinna’s part.  “As are Marthul and 
Amarthiach,” he continued.

Tanglinna gave a considering nod.  “’Twill be a cheery company, it seems.  Who 
among the young warriors do you intend to take?”

“Síralaith and Nevenneth,” Thranduil replied, then added somewhat impishly, “as 
per your recommendation, of course.”

The Master Archer did not even crack a smile.  “Of course,” he said 
matter-of-factly.

Suddenly, their attention was drawn to Legolas.  The princeling grinned wildly, 
throwing a fist in the air in triumph as his two last arrows sank into the 
target.  He turned to fetch another bundle of arrows, and as he did so, his 
sparkling eyes caught sight of Thranduil.  The child’s face lit from within, 
obviously thrilled to see his father.  Legolas started to drop the bow on the 
ground, but when two pairs of eyebrows shot up in rapid disapproval and 
reprimand, he trotted over to the elder Elves, his slender bow kept dutifully in 
hand.

“Ada!” he chirped, bowing slightly as he remembered his manners.  His grin 
threatened to split his beaming face, and he seemed about to burst with 
exhilaration and pride.  “Did you see me?  Did you see, Ada?” Legolas asked 
excitedly, flinging himself into his father’s waiting arms.   The princeling was 
young enough to get away with ignoring royal decorum most of the time, and he 
was rewarded with a fierce hug.

“You did very well, Little Greenleaf, very well indeed.  You will make a fine 
archer one day,” Thranduil told his youngest, smiling broadly.

Tanglinna harrumphed, and crossed his arms over his chest once more.  “You 
should have seen him just a bit earlier, aranhîr,” he said, turning slightly to 
stare down at the young one, who released his father, his cheeks reddening.  “He 
was trying to teach us a new way to use the arrows.”

Thranduil raised one dark brow in query.  Legolas’ face flamed even more, and he 
lifted his chin and stared up at the Master Archer boldly, imbued with courage 
by his royal father’s presence.  “Just watch me,” he declared, then moved to 
grab up a bundle of arrows and take his place before the target once more.  As 
before, his slim back was stiff and proud.

“I wonder where he gets such overweening pride,” Tanglinna muttered to his king 
without the slightest timidity.  “It wasn’t from his mother, I am certain.”

Thranduil suppressed a smile as he crossed his arms over his chest, watching his 
son preparing to send another volley of shafts across the clearing.  “Perhaps it 
is from his grandsire, who seemed to think that overweening pride was the only 
way to counter a very sarcastic and demanding Master Archer who was never 
satisfied,” he replied dryly.  

Tanglinna snorted and narrowed his grey eyes, but a small smile touched his lips 
at the memory of the Woodland Realm’s first king.  Oropher had been difficult at 
times, but his people had loved him, and he had been a good king despite his 
willfulness.  “It would appear to be a family trait,” the Master Archer 
commented, his eyes riveted on the slain king’s youngest grandson.  Legolas’ 
face was set in grimly determined lines as he glared at the target, slender 
fingers twitching as he prepared to yank an arrow from his quiver.

Thranduil secretly hoped that the child would succeed fantastically.  He wanted 
to see the neutral expression on his Master Archer’s face slip a bit.  In fact, 
Thranduil decided with a fiendish grin that he felt like tweaking Tanglinna.  
“Perhaps you might let Legolas join us on the hunting trip,” Thranduil said 
softly into the elder Elf’s ear, hoping to avoid alerting his youngest as to his 
scheme; Legolas did not need the added pressure.  “If he makes the shots.”

Tanglinna glanced at his king, his brows quirking in annoyance.  He knew exactly 
what Thranduil was up to.  “You know the rules, aranhîr,” he replied coolly.  
“This skill must be mastered before they are allowed on hunting trips.  Your 
youngling is far from achieving that.”

“All the same, I am the king of Greenwood, and I say that if he makes the shots 
then he goes,” Thranduil answered staunchly.

“And I say that he will not make the shots, so there is no point to this 
conversation,” Tanglinna fired back.  With that, the two elders looked to the 
object of their debate, and they waited in thick silence for Legolas to begin.

Legolas’ sharp ears had picked up most of their quiet words, and he felt a 
thrill of joy.  A hunting trip with his Ada!   His first hunting trip!  Today!  
He knew he was too young for the hunting forays, but all the same, he 
desperately wished to go.  He could picture himself atop his horse, riding out 
with his father and the others, his bow slung across his back like he’d seen on 
some of the older warriors, his quiver filled—not with dull tipped practice 
arrows, but with real arrows, with real points, sharpened to a killing edge.  
Hunting sounded so exciting and wonderful, and now he might be able to go with 
his Ada…if he could just make the shots.  Legolas drew himself up, preparing to 
draw and fire the two arrows in quick succession as he had before.  Just as his 
arm shot back to grasp the first, however, Tanglinna cleared his throat loudly.

“Five arrows in the target, my prince…and they had better be fast.” 

Legolas halted in mid-motion, the words jarring his concentration.  He didn’t 
notice the exasperated look his father shot at the Master Archer.  All he could 
think about was the fact that the other fledgling warriors had noticed some of 
what was going on.  They had all turned to see that the King had joined them, 
and after bowing respectfully, they had moved from the practice range to stand 
clumped together like little wide-eyed birds.  Now, they were all watching 
intently to see if Legolas could do what was asked of him.

“He’ll never do it,” Tavor whispered to Mithereg.  The former, who had been 
bested at last by the latter, was still smarting from the loss, and so was 
feeling rather ungracious.  

“He might,” Talagan said in his musical voice, his eyes hopeful.  “He has gotten 
much better just today.”  

Glavrol nodded, knowing that the prince had landed more in the target then he 
had.  Most of his own shafts were lost in the brush, and a few jutted from 
groaning trees.  The Elfling grimaced and silently promised the trees that he 
would do better in the future.  

“He will,” Brethil said with a nod.  “He is very determined to be good at this, 
and you know how stubborn he is.  With the King and Master Tanglinna watching 
him, he will be even more determined to do it right.  But,” he cocked his head 
to one side, “that will make him even more nervous and he might not do as well 
as he would have if they weren’t watching him.  Have you ever noticed how much 
Master Tanglinna looks like a hawk?  He is very fierce, isn’t he?  And the 
King—”

“Shut up, Brethil,” Tavor and the others hissed, then quickly covered their 
laughter as Legolas turned to glare at them.

The young prince gave his peers a good hard stare before returning his attention 
to the target.  Five arrows!  Two he could manage, but five?  His bottom lip 
thrust out in defiance, and his bright eyes narrowed.  He needed to prove to 
them all that he could do this.  If he could manage to shoot two with speed and 
accuracy, then how much harder could five be?

“I can do this,” Legolas murmured to himself.  He drew a deep breath, 
straightening his back and settling into an archer’s stance as he had done so 
many times that day.  “I can do this.”  His father would be very happy and very 
proud of him, and Master Tanglinna would be—  The princeling flashed a nasty 
smile at the ground as he checked the spacing of his feet.  Tanglinna would be 
very shocked, and not at all happy.  “I can do this!” he repeated.

The blond head shot up, and the fingers of his right hand flexed in preparation. 
 Then, in a flurry of fluid movement, he was shooting the arrows.  One right 
after the other they hurtled through the air.

Thunk!  Thunk!  Thunk!

The first three shafts landed solidly in the target, and Legolas felt a brief 
thrill of elation.  His fingers closed about the fourth arrow and swiftly nocked 
it, then sent it flying.  It too hit the target, but his hand was already on the 
fifth arrow.  The princeling whipped it over his shoulder toward the bowstring, 
just as he had done with the previous four…but this arrow slipped from his grasp 
and went sailing through the air.  It landed upright a few feet away, the 
arrow’s hardened tip buried in the ground.

“He really is getting very good at throwing them with his hands,” Brethil 
commented brightly.

Legolas stared at the arrow in disbelief.  He blinked several times, hoping that 
it was merely his sight that was at fault.  Surely he hadn’t missed on the last 
arrow.  Surely he hadn’t flung it from his fingers again in such an undignified 
and ungraceful manner.  Surely he hadn’t missed on the last arrow!

But there it was, the feathers pointed at him as if in blatant accusation.

“No,” the young prince whispered under his breath, no longer feeling the bow in 
his hand.  “No.”

Tanglinna glanced at Thranduil, the bland expression on his face all but 
shouting “I told you so.”  Then, as was customary, the Master Archer grunted his 
acknowledgement, and followed that with a carefully neutral remark.

“Not quite five arrows in the target, nin caun.”

Legolas looked at his father, his eyes filled with utter disappointment.  “But I 
got four,” he said, his hand gripping the wood of the bow.  “Four!  Can’t I go, 
Ada?  Please?”

Thranduil drew in a breath, held it for three beats of his heart, and exhaled 
softly.  Legolas had evidently heard at least part of his conversation with 
Tanglinna.  Drat the selective hearing of the young, the king thought wryly, 
remembering quite a few times when he had overheard “adult” conversations in his 
own far-gone youth.  Thranduil covered his disappointment with a gentle smile 
and held out a hand toward his hopeful son.  “Come here, little Greenleaf.”

As Legolas did so, his bright expression wavering between hopeful anxiety and 
woeful uncertainty, Thranduil let his ash-hued eyes slide briefly to the side to 
take in Tanglinna’s response.  The Master Archer’s face was nearly 
expressionless as he gave a slight shake of his silvery head; however, Thranduil 
thought he detected a fleeting glint of surprised admiration for the accuracy of 
the youngest prince’s shots, and perhaps even a small measure of disappointment 
that the child had not been able to meet the requirement.  Despite his stern 
manner and unrelenting demands for improvement, Tanglinna truly did want his 
students to do well.  In fact, as the king well knew, archery was one skill that 
no Elf of the Greenwood dared lack in, and so Tanglinna would press his pupils 
toward perfection until the day they received their warrior braids.  And even 
after that, Thranduil mused.

Legolas slipped his small hand into his father’s long-fingered grip.  “Please, 
Ada?” he asked again, his voice barely a whisper, his silver eyes huge in the 
early morning’s sunlight.

Thranduil gave his youngest child’s delicate hand an affectionate squeeze.  “I 
am sorry, little Greenleaf,” he said in a quiet, sympathetic voice.  “You did 
very well today, but you did miss the last arrow.”  The king’s heart stung at 
his son’s wronged expression, but he kept his tone low and steady.  “I am 
certain that if you continue practicing as you have been, you will soon be able 
to accompany me.”

In all truth, Thranduil knew that Legolas was far too young for such a hunting 
expedition.  While they were at times great fun, and though they were rife with 
the joy of camaraderie and friendly competition between the warriors, hunts also 
held any number of dangers.  The fleet-footed stags were fiercely protective of 
their females and young; wild boars were wily and unpredictable, and therefore 
made fairly risky prey.  An untried warrior could easily fall victim to 
glistening antler points or flashing tusks.  It was not merely accuracy and the 
master of the rapid-fire technique that Legolas lacked; it was the confidence 
and maturity that only time and more practice would bring.  A hunter could not 
afford to hesitate for any reason when faced with a charging, maddened beast, 
and Thranduil knew that his little Greenleaf was far too young to have acquired 
the instinct necessary to cope with such a fearsome situation.  

Legolas, however, did not have his sire’s experience or foresight.  He could not 
think beyond his own failure, and the opportunity he had lost as a result.  His 
head drooped forward, a curtain of golden strands falling between his 
crestfallen expression and his father’s gaze.  His slim fingers clenched about 
the smooth, familiar weight of his bow, which he still held clutched in his 
treacherous right hand.  The other hand lay limp and dejected in Thranduil’s 
grasp.  And slowly he nodded, his eyes boring miserably into the trampled grass 
before his booted feet.

Thranduil gave another inward sigh and drew his child closer, still gripping 
Legolas’ little fingers between his own large ones, and he laid his other hand 
on the princeling’s slim, tense shoulder.  He knew that anything he said would 
likely fall on ears deaf to everything but the dull roar of sore 
disappointment—selective hearing, indeed—but he felt compelled to explain more 
clearly to the child why he was not to be allowed on the hunt.  “Legolas, nin 
meliôn, you will be ready soon enough,” he said softly.  “I understand your 
frustration, little one.  Truly, you are doing very well!”  There was no 
response, and Thranduil continued, “I realize that it seems unfair to you, but 
there are good reasons for the rules your teachers set down for you.  Your 
brother and sisters chafed beneath them, as did I when I was your age—”  At 
that, Tanglinna gave a snort, but Thranduil ignored him and resumed, “But they 
are necessary.  I think of your safety above all else, my son, and that is why I 
cannot let you go on the hunt today.  Do you understand?”

Legolas remained silent, and nodded his bent head once more because it was 
expected of him.  Thranduil sighed aloud then, knowing that his little 
princeling would not see the wisdom in this for some time to come.  He hugged 
the child to him and ran a hand down the back of Legolas’ blond head, then 
tugged playfully at the intricate braid.  “Perhaps one day Master Tanglinna and 
I will take all of you to hunt squirrels,” he suggested with a grin, his gray 
eyes lifting to sweep over the other younglings, who had stood in respectful 
silence during the low conversation between the king and the prince.

Tanglinna shrugged noncommittally in response, but the Elflings’ responses were 
much more enthusiastic.  Tavor and Mithereg grinned delightedly at each other, 
plans already blossoming in their minds.  Glavrol, too, seemed pleased at the 
thought.  Talagan chewed his lip and glanced uncertainly at his target, which 
boasted only a few arrows (as most of them had found resting places in the brush 
beyond the target).  Brethil, of course, looked like he wanted to say something, 
but he shut his mouth at Tanglinna’s warning stare.

Thranduil was glad to see the effect on the younglings, and he turned his 
attention back down to Legolas.  The child still stood with his eyes downcast; 
it seemed that even his father’s latest offer could not reach him.  “Well, 
Legolas?” he asked softly, as Tanglinna directed the other Elflings to continue 
their practice.  “Do you like that idea?”  

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas answered quietly, not looking up.  He noted the movement of 
a small bug by his left foot, and followed its progress with his eyes, for he 
did not wish to meet his sire’s gaze.  Despite Thranduil’s explanation and 
proposition, the princeling’s failure still smarted, and he stubbornly refused 
to be consoled.

Thranduil shook his golden head slightly, clearly seeing much of himself in his 
youngest child.  He swiftly knelt before Legolas and placed a long finger 
beneath the Elfling’s chin, raising his son’s silveron eyes to lock with his 
own.  “You truly did well today, iôn nin,” he said with a reassuring smile.  “I 
am very proud of you.”  His gaze flicked aside to regard Tanglinna’s continuing 
work with the other young archers.  “As is Tanglinna, although he may never say 
as much directly.”

Legolas’ rounded features creased in confusion; obviously, the concept that 
Tanglinna was proud of him was utterly foreign.  Thranduil continued, “The 
Master Archer may not say aloud what he feels, young one, but much is revealed 
in his actions and expressions.  You need only take heed of them, and you will 
learn what he is not saying with his tongue.  Look now, and tell me what you 
see.”

The princeling turned and followed his father’s gaze.  Tanglinna was once again 
trying to explain to Brethil that he must shoot faster if he wished to 
accomplish his goal.  The son of Bronadui and Lady Glaurhunant drew in a breath 
and began to expound at great length as to exactly why he had not yet mastered 
this skill as well as his fellow Elflings had.  Thranduil, for his part, shook 
his head in amusement, and his mind traveled for a moment to the day ahead.  As 
he had remarked to Tanglinna, Bronadui would be accompanying the hunting party. 
 Thranduil was always glad for the quiet, gentle Silvan Elf’s presence.  
Bronadui possessed a lightness of heart and an optimistic outlook, which he had 
passed in some small measure to his only son.  

Legolas watched with unusual scrutiny as the Master Archer showed Brethil how to 
pull the arrow swiftly from the quiver, place it to the string, and release it, 
all within the space of a heartbeat.  Pull, place, pull, release.  Pull, place, 
pull, release.  Even in his miserable, angry state, the young prince was 
beginning to see past the mild annoyance evident in the lines of Tanglinna’s 
lean face.  Strangely, Legolas could see, at least in part, the deep-set 
patience that marked every gesture and word.  He could not quite subdue a grin 
as he picked up Brethil’s steady stream of commentary.  I’d have told him to 
shut up by now, Legolas thought.  But the Master Archer said nothing of the 
sort, instead allowing the words to run their course before he spoke to the 
youngster once more.  Brethil nodded in response to Tanglinna’s instructions, 
his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on doing 
what was asked of him.

Also, Legolas heard Tanglinna’s quiet mantra of “Pull, place, pull, release.”  
The Master Archer recited it in rhythm with Brethil’s shots, until the Elfling 
chanted it as well.  Pull, place, pull, release, pull, place, pull, release…  
Finally, Brethil had gotten it!

Tanglinna moved on to stand by Talagan, but Legolas clearly saw the flash of 
satisfaction in the silvery eyes, the nod of the head; and the prince understood 
that these were likely the only praise Brethil would receive for his 
achievement.  But they were enough.

“Do you see it now, little Greenleaf?” Thranduil murmured, having noted the 
Master Archer’s subtle approval as well.  “He sees each accomplishment, and 
though he may not remark upon it audibly, he has noted it.  He is proud of you 
all.”  The king turned his son to face him once more, and rested his fingers 
against the child’s soft cheek.  “And I am proud of you, my son, very proud 
indeed.  Never forget that.”

Legolas nodded, and Thranduil gave the princeling a warm smile as he stood.  
“Good,” he said, tousling the blond hair.  He glanced over his future warriors 
once more, nodding his satisfaction at what he saw.  They would all be an asset 
to the Woodland Realm one day.  “I must go say farewell to your sisters,” 
Thranduil told Legolas, turning his attention back to the princeling, “for the 
company is to depart ere the Sun climbs very much higher.  I shall see you in a 
few days, little one.”  And with a pat to Legolas’ head and a fond smile of 
farewell, the king turned and strode out of the clearing, disappearing into the 
forest as swiftly as he had come.

The princeling sighed slightly, and turned to watch as Tanglinna moved to stand 
behind Mithereg and Tavor.  It took every ounce of control Legolas had to stifle 
his giggle at the Master Archer’s expression; Tanglinna stood with arms folded, 
his eyes narrowed to slits of displeasure, looking for all the world like a hawk 
bent on carnage.  The reason was readily apparent: Tavor and Mithereg were once 
again attempting to best each other, instead of concentrating on the task at 
hand.  Tavor was attempting to keep the satisfied smirk from his handsome young 
face, without much success, and Mithereg merely grinned unabashedly.  Tanglinna 
cleared his throat loudly, startling the two younglings, and Mithereg at least 
managed to look chagrined at the Master Archer’s raised eyebrow.  The two 
continued in their training dutifully, ever mindful of Tanglinna’s watchful 
glare.

Legolas dropped his gaze to the ground as the overwhelming disappointment swept 
through him yet again.  His Ada’s words had been very kind and had helped 
somewhat, but when all was said and done, the prince was still not going to be 
allowed on the hunt.  He wished practice were over, so that he could go and sulk 
in private, where no one could see him.  He could barely bring himself to nock 
another arrow to his bowstring, so disheartened was he.

At last, the sound of arrows thudding into targets died away, and the Elflings 
moved forward to retrieve their arrows.  Legolas yanked the wayward fifth arrow, 
the sign of his defeat and humiliation, from the ground.  He stared at it 
morosely, then wiped dirt from the dull metal tip and shoved it into his quiver. 
 Stupid arrow, he thought angrily.  The other four, the ones that had flown 
true, seemed more a mockery than a real accomplishment.  Stupid arrows, all of 
them, the princeling amended.

Just as Legolas finished stuffing the last of his practice arrows into his 
quiver, Brethil moved over to join him.  “You did really well, Legolas,” the 
younger Elf murmured, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s arm.  “You 
really are getting very good.  One day you will be at least as good as Master 
Tanglinna.”  Then, he glanced over at the Master Archer, who was quietly 
scolding Tavor, and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “Or better.”

Legolas felt a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at Brethil’s 
sincere face.  “Thank you,” he muttered, knowing that he could always count on 
Brethil to make him feel better—or, at least, to try.  The prince accompanied 
his friend over to his target and began to help Brethil retrieve the arrows.  
“You did very well, too,” he commented, taking in the careful placement of the 
red practice shafts.  “They’re all near the center, at least.”

“Yes, they are,” Brethil agreed, running one finger over the feathered shaft in 
the middle of the painted bull’s eye.  “But Master Tanglinna is right.  I was 
very slow.  I will be lucky if I ever get my warrior’s braids.”  He sighed 
morosely, fingering the long, single braid that hung over his right shoulder.

Legolas smiled at his friend as he stuffed the arrows into Brethil’s quiver.  
“Of course you will get them,” he said quietly.  “We all will.  We will stand 
there in front of everyone, looking so brave and grown-up—like warriors!—and our 
fathers will braid our hair, and we will be given our real weapons.”  The prince 
smiled longingly, thinking of what his real arrows would look and feel like.  
“They’ll all be so proud.  It will be a wonderful day.  And do you know what the 
best thing about that day will be?”

When Brethil shook his head, Legolas grinned and draped a hand over his friend’s 
shoulders.  “We’ll all become warriors together, on the same day, at the same 
time.  Brothers forever.”

Brethil smiled widely, his eyes sparkling.  He had never had a brother before, 
and the thought that his friends were to become his brothers for forever was 
tremendously exciting.  “I guess I had better practice some more, then, so I can 
be your brother forever, too,” he said.  “I would like to be able to shoot a 
squirrel.  They are very fast.  I hope your Ada really will take us all 
squirrel-hunting, like he said.”  Suddenly, his face brightened.  “We have 
caught fifteen of them now, haven’t we?  That was not so easy, either, and we 
managed to do it.  So maybe I will be able to shoot one.”  Just as quickly, his 
expression fell.  “But I would hate to shoot any of our little squirrels.  They 
look so cute with their bushy tails curling and flicking.  Their eyes are so 
bright and black, aren’t they?  It really is a shame that they have not learned 
to do their tricks yet.”

Legolas grinned at his friend’s enthusiasm.  “They just need more practice.  
Like us.”  His gaze fell on Tanglinna once more.  It really isn’t all his fault 
I couldn’t go on the hunt today, Legolas thought to himself grudgingly, but if 
he hadn’t made that rule about the five arrows, I probably could have done it!  
The thought stung at the prince’s pride, and he wished he could somehow get back 
at the Master Archer for making the test so hard…

Suddenly, a supremely naughty idea came to Legolas’ head.  His grin widened, and 
his eyes glimmered mischievously.  Brethil, who was watching his friend’s 
expression, made a face.  “Legolas, what are you thinking?”

“Master Archer Tanglinna wasn’t very fair to me earlier, was he?” Legolas 
muttered, mostly to himself.  The grin did not go away; if anything, it only 
widened, as his plot was hatched out in his mind.

Brethil’s expression sank.  “You’re going to get us into trouble, aren’t you?” 
he asked resignedly.

Legolas did not seem to hear.  “Come on,” he said excitedly.  “Let’s go get 
Tavor.  I have an idea.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Thranduil inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp tang of the autumn air.  The scent 
was one of aging leaves ready to fall to the earth, and of sleepy trees ready 
for their winter’s rest.  The Elvenking smiled up at the thinning canopy 
stretched above him and his small hunting party.  Through the fluttering, 
vibrantly colored leaves he could see that the cloudless blue sky was fading to 
lavender with the Sun’s descent in the west.  The massive oaks thrummed their 
greetings as Thranduil rode in their midst, rustling their boughs and causing 
the shafts of reddening sunlight to dance across the leaf-littered forest floor. 
 

The dark-haired warrior riding to Thranduil’s right hummed a smattering of 
pleasant notes, then raised his fair voice in song: “Lino nin muinderi yavaso 
lintimë túliel, an Yavanno aglar nutul tenn’hiniel!”  

Thranduil’s smile widened; the words were part of the refrain from a very old, 
much-beloved hymn to the Giver of Fruits.  Sing, my brothers, of autumn swiftly 
approaching, for Yavanna’s glory descends unto her children!  “Most appropriate, 
Curulin,” the king remarked, glancing over at his Master Huntsman.  “Certainly 
an improvement from the last time you accompanied me on the hunt.  I still do 
not understand what inspired you to begin singing that ridiculous barrel song.”

Curulin’s warrior braids danced around his face as he ruefully shook his head.  
“I had heard a troop of Elflings singing it that morning, aranhîr nin.  It 
became lodged in my thoughts, as is the tendency of all such nonsense.”

“Will not speaking of it accomplish the same?” another of the hunters asked, 
chuckling from behind Thranduil and Curulin.

“Nay, Marthul,” another answered from further back in the party, “he must hear 
its tune.”  On the heels of those words came the very melody they were 
discussing, floating up to assault the ears of the two at the head of the 
company.

“Síralaith!” Curulin muttered darkly, his brows furrowing as he tried to prevent 
the song from infiltrating his thinking again.  “Aranhîr, permission to 
eliminate the youngling’s ability to hum?”

Thranduil stifled his laughter and twisted around to direct a cool glare toward 
the humming Elf near the rear of the party.  The humming cut off immediately, 
and Síralaith had the grace to look abashed.  “Let us not torment the Master 
Huntsman,” Thranduil told them all, giving the entire party a pointed look.  
“Surely you have all had such songs trapped in your minds at one time or 
another; for instance, I understand the bow-making song is quite memorable.”

A chorus of groans met the statement, and Thranduil turned back to face the 
pathway ahead, satisfied.  Curulin’s appreciative smile was somewhat strained; 
the bow-making song had apparently found a place in his head as a result of the 
king’s comment.  Just so long as he does not begin singing it, Thranduil thought 
with a sidelong glance at his Master Huntsman.  Curulin’s voice was lovely, 
true, but he had a penchant for singing whatever songs came into his head, and 
he had been known to grace those around him with the most absurd tunes 
imaginable.

The hunting party continued along the path, speaking and laughing amongst 
themselves.  They were twenty in number, together with their king; all were 
mounted on proud horses free of saddles and bridles, for Elven beasts needed no 
such restraints.  The hunters were clad in green and brown riding leathers, 
including Thranduil, though the king’s outer tunic was interwoven with crimson 
and gold embroidery as befit his station.  The cool weather did not overly 
affect them, but each wore a dark green cloak clasped at his throat.  Their 
quivers bristled with arrows, and their bows were tucked securely to their 
backs, ever in readiness for a swift shot.  All bore Elven-made swords at their 
sides; these were not to be used in the hunting, however, but were merely a 
precaution that no warrior of the Woodland Realm dared lack.  A few among the 
party also carried long spears.

Thranduil listened to his companions trade jests and stories, smiling at some of 
the more amusing ones.  Some of the tales were older than their tellers, dating 
back to the days of the king’s own long-past youth.  Still, he enjoyed the 
younglings’ good humor.  He had chosen his hunting party carefully, including 
some of the best hunters, some of the best trackers, and so on.  Bronadui, 
Brethil’s father, was typically quiet, but when he did choose to speak, it was 
with bright humor that never failed to bring a smile to Thranduil’s face.  The 
youngest members of the company, Síralaith and Nevenneth, had but recently 
entered their majority; they had not quite cast their youthful mischief aside, 
but Tanglinna had assured Thranduil that the two had perfected their aim and 
would be an asset in the pursuit of a fleet-footed deer.

Too, they bring out interesting reactions in my older companions, Thranduil 
admitted to himself.  He gave his Master Huntsman an amused glance.  Such as 
Curulin.  The Elven warrior had been hunting for the king’s table for nigh on a 
millennia, and was regarded as one of the most skilled bowmen in the Greenwood. 
 He did have quite a wicked sense of humor, but it was rarely glimpsed by the 
young, for Curulin had no children and was not entirely comfortable around 
Elflings—no matter their actual age.  Thranduil rather enjoyed the discomfort 
Síralaith and his ilk caused Curulin; it deterred the Master Huntsman from 
wholly becoming “a grumpy old Elf,” as Legolas had described him on one 
occasion.

As always, thoughts of his youngest son sent a deep thrill racing through the 
Elvenking’s heart.  His smile brightened considerably, taking on the rarest 
sparkle of joy.  My little bird, he thought affectionately.  Little Greenleaf 
was every bit his mother’s image, from his sweetly rounded features to his 
inquisitively shimmering eyes.  And oh, when the little bird is unhappy, 
Thranduil mused, recalling the morning’s archery incident, that may be an echo 
of my frown, but I see pure Nandorin fire in those eyes.  Astalaewen, my 
beloved, you would be most pleased!

A hint of sadness crept into the king’s smile.  Nearly two years had passed 
since the untimely death of his cherished queen.  Astalaewen Luiniglin, the 
Greenwood’s blue-eyed Lady, had ridden from the gates with a hunting party—much 
like the one Thranduil found himself in at the moment.  But she and her 
companions had been set upon by a large contingent of the filthy creatures that 
had begun to roam anew the areas between Erebor and the Iron Hills, and even the 
outraged cries of the forest itself did not bring aid swiftly enough.  Two days 
later, Thranduil had found his lady love’s motionless body, her life snuffed out 
by her own hand in her refusal to submit to capture.

My brave blue-eyed falcon, the king remembered sorrowfully.  Did you look on as 
I and your kin ran your attackers to the ground and slew them all in plain sight 
of their foul tunnels?  Did your spirit rejoice to see the black blood that 
stained the earth on your behalf?

The only reply was a rush of wind in the trees, a gust of cool air that carried 
a host of brightly colored leaves from their tenuous moorings and whisked them 
about in an intricate, riotous dance, before finally allowing them to settle to 
the earth to join their fellows.  Thranduil watched the whirling leaves, lost to 
his thoughts.  A line of small leaves tinted deep indigo coiled its way to the 
ground, caught in one of the breeze’s eddies.  The dark hue of the fluttering 
foliage brought a myriad of memories to the king’s mind.   Astalaewen’s 
hair…thick, warm, the deep hue of a gardener’s prized soil, and twice as rich… 
Greenwood’s fair Lady had possessed the lean, fearsome beauty of her Nandorin 
forbears, and the unusual blue tint in her eyes had earned her the moniker 
Luiniglin, Blue-eyed Gleam.  Fleet of foot and mind, with lethal aim and 
deadlier wit, Astalaewen had perfectly complimented her imposing royal husband.

But she was never so beautiful—or formidable—as when she was caught in the 
throes of childbirth, Thranduil mused, much as he had during the births of each 
of his children.  The Elvenking’s bright eyes slipped shut as he recalled his 
fiery falcon’s tired laughter upon seeing the squirming infant she had but newly 
delivered into the world—their last, a son, who would be named for the summer’s 
greenery that peeked through the window of the birthing room.  “Ah, my golden 
eagle, is it not enough that you hold the headship of the Greenwood?  Must you 
also claim the heads of my children?  As though two golden-haired babes out of 
three did not a fair allotment make!”  Thranduil nearly laughed aloud at the 
memory; for out of their four children, only one—Mithgilhíri, the secondborn, a 
daughter—had been gifted with her mother’s dark locks.  The others had inherited 
their father’s deep gold, a fact that had at once pleased Thranduil and 
entertainingly frustrated Astalaewen.

A low voice at his side brought the king out of his memories.  “Nin aranhîr?” 
Curulin asked, a faint note of concern in his tone.  “Are you well?”

Thranduil opened his eyes, quickly reorienting himself.  He realized that he had 
been alternating between a smile and a grimace for the past few moments.  “Yes, 
Curulin.  Memory lingers potently in the Greenwood, that is all,” he assured the 
Master Huntsman.

Curulin nodded slightly, and only a dark flash in his eyes betrayed his sympathy 
for his liege’s loss.  The Silvan Elves of the Woodland Realm had dearly loved 
their queen, likely in an even greater measure than they honored their king.  
Astalaewen’s loss had struck the Master Huntsman to the heart, as it had every 
other Elf in the Greenwood; but none had suffered as had Thranduil.  The king 
had walked as though in a daze for weeks afterward, hardly eating, unable to 
sleep, slowly wasting beneath the weight of sorrow.  The fear had lingered long 
among those in the Elvenking’s service that he would succumb to his grief and 
follow his queen into the Halls of Mandos.  Indeed, most believed that Thranduil 
had survived solely for the sake of his four children, whom he loved even more 
fiercely and passionately than he had before his queen’s death, if that was 
possible.

Of a sudden, all thoughts of his family were driven from Thranduil’s mind.  The 
trees had begun to whisper of danger swiftly approaching.  The Elvenking 
stiffened and halted his steed, flinging up a hand to indicate that the rest of 
the party should do likewise.  All chatter immediately ceased, and the hunters 
glanced about warily, wondering what could rouse such a reaction in the middle 
of what seemed a calm forest on a bright autumn day.

“Aran brannon?” Curulin murmured beneath his breath, all merriment suddenly 
forgotten.

Thranduil replied in a like low tone, all the while stabbing the nearby stands 
of trees and other foliage with a sharpened gaze.  “The trees have begun to 
speak of imminent threat, Curulin.  They warn me that peril draws nigh.”

The Master Huntsman’s hand tightened on his sword’s hilt.  He, too, now 
discerned the woodland’s warning, but the Greenwood had always sung most clearly 
to those of the House of Oropher.  “From where, aranhîr?” he asked softly.

Thranduil glanced up at the boughs quivering above them all.  His steely eyes 
narrowed at the leaves’ continued mutterings.  “From all around.  The threat 
hems us in.”

Curulin drew his blade, motioning for the others in the party to do the same.  
He briefly gestured to indicate what Thranduil had learned from the forest, and 
was pleased to see that any expressions of dismay were quickly overlaid with 
determination.  They would see to it that their aran was kept whole.  Even young 
Síralaith and Nevenneth nodded grimly, their dark eyes snapping with resolve.  

“Aranhîr,” Curulin murmured, “we should attempt to reach the clearing ahead, 
where we can better defend ourselves.  We are too enclosed here, unable to 
swiftly come to each other’s aid.”

“Agreed,” Thranduil returned, sliding his own blade from its sheathe.  The hilt 
fit into his grip with the welcome familiarity of an old friend’s embrace, and 
with a soft click of his tongue, he spurred his stallion to a rapid canter.  
Curulin’s advice was sound, for an encircling enemy was best met in an open area 
where the defenders could more easily guard each other.  Alas that there are no 
rock faces to be found close at hand, Thranduil mused.  If they had a solid wall 
to their backs, the hunting party could concentrate on fending frontal assaults 
only; as it was, however, they would be forced to repel attacks from all sides. 
 It was a potentially deadly situation, one that would have to be dealt with as 
prudently as possible.

The Elven steeds glided over the forest floor with grace and speed borne of ages 
of sensible breeding.  Thranduil’s own stallion was called Hrîwith the Wintry, a 
mighty creature of dappled gray coat and pale tresses.  The hunters’ blades and 
spearheads flickered crimson in the waning sunlight filtering down through the 
Greenwood’s waving boughs.  The Elvenking’s gaze tightened imperceptibly as he 
continued to listen to the trees’ troubled murmurs; the slender saplings, in 
particular, were uneasy.  The clearing Curulin spoke of was not far, but every 
passing moment brought the unknown threat nearer.

At length the party swept from the path and into the clear, checking their 
steeds’ swift paces as they reached the center of the grassy arena.  Thranduil 
quickly turned Hrîwith about, commanding the stallion to be still for a moment 
as the rest of the company arranged themselves in a ring, facing outwards so as 
to meet the foe on all sides.  Curulin was at Thranduil’s left, and Amarthiach, 
another seasoned warrior, guarded the king’s right.  Thranduil narrowed his eyes 
and cocked his head slightly.  “The foe is nearly upon us,” he hissed to the 
others.  In truth, the mysterious enemies were so close that the Elvenking could 
hear their approach; he no longer needed the forest’s assurances that peril was 
close at hand, for his sharp ears confirmed that very fact.

Amarthiach bared his teeth in a most Silvan expression of disgust.  “They are 
mounted, aran brannon nin,” he murmured.  “And they are many.”

Thranduil knew as much from his own acuity, but he was never one to be deterred 
by sheer numbers.  “Orcs do not normally ride,” he remarked, almost casually, 
scanning the treeline for the first glimpse of their pursuers.

“Nay, they do not,” Curulin agreed.  “Men, perhaps?”

Amarthiach gave a snort of grim laughter.  “Men with a severe wish for premature 
deaths, aye.”

“If there are archers among them, victory may not be so simply attained,” 
Thranduil said, reaching behind and retrieving his longbow from its snug resting 
place at his back.  His rune-scribed blade he slid back into its scabbard, ready 
to be drawn again in an instant if needed.  “We shall be firstly occupied with 
deflecting their shafts.”

“The archers will be our first objectives, aranhîr,” Curulin said, taking his 
own bow in hand and sheathing his blade. 

Thranduil quirked one dark brow.  “Any objectives will do, Curulin, so long as 
the objectives are struck well.”

“‘Between the eyes or down the gullet,’ as Master Tanglinna once said,” young 
Síralaith offered from the opposite side of the hunters’ defensive ring. 

A smile ghosted across the king’s lips.  “Just so,” he murmured, drawing one of 
his speckle-fletched arrows from the quiver slung across his back.  The shaft 
was smooth and straight, the tip fire-hardened to a lethal point.  The sounds of 
the approaching enemy were drawing nearer.  They would soon enter the Elves’ 
keen field of vision.  Woe to them, Thranduil thought humorlessly, nocking the 
arrow to his taut bowstring and preparing to draw it back.  He had a brief flash 
of memory, and stifled a chuckle at the image of his youngest son flinging the 
last arrow into the air.  Little Greenleaf’s disappointment had been palpable, 
but the thought of any Elf attempting to defend himself by throwing the arrows 
like darts was nearly enough to double Thranduil over with laughter.  What a 
story I shall have to tell my little ones when I return, the king thought 
grimly, suddenly fervently glad that Legolas was not with him.    

“They come, aranhîr,” Curulin stated calmly, drawing back on his bowstring, 
preparing to release a deadly shaft into whatever came forth to attack.  The air 
was thick and charged with anticipation, as though the forest itself was holding 
its breath.

The assault came swiftly, with mounted figures exploding from the line of trees 
like a horde of crows bursting from within the branches of a shaken tree.  The 
enemies were swathed from head to foot in filthy robes and head 
wraps—Easterlings, Thranduil realized in disgust.  In one fluid movement, he 
drew back on his bowstring and released the arrow into the turbulent mass of 
attackers.  The feathered shaft flew forth with speed and skill, to embed itself 
in the breast of a charging Easterling.  The man howled in pain and fell back, 
his steed rearing in panic.  The king did not pause for an instant, but instead 
set to whipping the speckled arrows from his quiver and sending them spearing 
into those Easterlings nearest him.

A veritable swarm of Elven arrows sang through the air, cutting down enemies as 
they drew near.  Thranduil heard a great commotion to his rear as the Elves on 
the opposite side of the defensive ring found themselves beset by mounted 
assailants.  The party was dangerously surrounded.  Twenty or so men already lay 
dead, their horses milling about in confusion and terror, but more appeared to 
take their slain fellows’ places.  Many of the Easterlings wielded makeshift 
shields of wood, somewhat blocking their bodies from the deadly shafts, and so 
the defense was not as effective as it might have been otherwise.  The Elves had 
taken no losses as yet, but Thranduil was well aware that it was only a matter 
of time before an enemy blade found its mark in the confusion.  The king felled 
a pair of Easterlings to his right and briefly thanked Elbereth that the men did 
not have archers among their number; dodging enemy arrows would have made it 
nearly impossible to fend the massive hand-to-hand attack.

Suddenly, a rush of wings overhead disturbed the king’s concentration.  
Thranduil instinctively ducked as a flock of birds swooped down low, nearly 
striking the Elves’ heads in passing.  The king straightened up and directed a 
swift glance at the sky.  A drove of thirty hunting hawks, brown-feathered with 
pale underbellies, wheeled about and plunged down toward the hunting party once 
more.  Each bore a small sack of some kind in its talons—no, Thranduil realized, 
peering up at them, the sacks are tied to their legs.  Inexplicable showers of 
yellow dust streamed from the small pouches and floated down to settle on the 
Elves and their mounts.  The king shook his head to dislodge the particles from 
his hair, glancing about to re-orient himself.  “’Tis merely a diversion!” he 
called out to his party, and breathed a silent prayer that none had suffered 
injury as a result of the distraction.

A chorus of sneezing met the king’s call, and he frowned, uncertain what to make 
of the unusual sound.  Elves rarely had cause to sneeze, and certainly not in 
the midst of a life-or-death conflict.  Thranduil dared not look back to see how 
the others were faring, however, because the Easterlings had gathered themselves 
for another vicious assault.  Again, the longbows sang their deadly tune, and a 
myriad of feathered shafts hammered outwards to knock Easterlings from their 
mounts.  For some reason, more of the arrows missed their marks than met them, 
and most of the men who fell were only wounded.  Thranduil was too distracted to 
take proper notice of the lapse.  He was occupied with fending the brunt of the 
assault; it had become swiftly apparent that the enemies were singling him out 
for attack.  Thankfully, Curulin and Amarthiach remained at their liege’s flanks 
to defend him against the influx of assailants.

The hawks dove again, forcing Thranduil to lean to one side in order to avoid 
their sharp talons and beaks.  The interruption, though brief, was a costly one, 
for it allowed three Easterlings to rush past the hail of arrows.  Murder was in 
their dark eyes as they hurtled toward the Elvenking.  Thranduil knew he could 
not draw three shafts swiftly enough to dispatch all of the attackers in time.  
He slid his blade from its sheathe with a ringing sweep, keeping his bow in his 
left hand and wielding the sword in his right.

Only one of the attackers, however, would reach his intended target.  Just as 
Thranduil braced himself to meet their assault, Curulin’s steed leaped into the 
path of the leftmost Easterling, and the Master Huntsman’s blade bit deeply into 
the foe, effectively ending his attempt on the king’s life.  Simultaneously, 
Amarthiach buried his sword in the gut of one of the remaining two, and 
Thranduil swiftly finished the third.  He nodded once to his companions in 
gratitude for their intervention, then gave his horse’s mane an errant sweep of 
a hand to brush away the perplexing yellow dust that had fallen from the hawks’ 
pouches during their last dive.  

The world seemed to waver before Thranduil’s eyes, and he shook his head to ward 
off the alarming wave of dizziness that washed over him.  He accidentally 
inhaled some of the pale yellow powder puffing into the air from Hrîwith’s mane; 
an acrid tang filled his nostrils, and a sneeze burst from his lungs before he 
could stop it.  By all the Valar, Thranduil thought, coughing spastically while 
trying to bring an arrow to bear on the approaching enemies, what is this?  He 
heard a choked cry of alarm from the other side of the Elves’ defensive ring, 
followed quickly by a gasp and the sound of a body striking the ground.  

“Aranhîr,” Curulin gasped out, drawing near to Thranduil’s side, “the enemy has 
broken the ring.  Síralaith and Aldamon are fallen, and the company reels nigh 
on collapse.”  Another cry split the clang of battle, and the Master Huntsman’s 
eyes winced.  “Marthul has fallen, my lord.  There is a foul trickery at work 
here!”

Thranduil drew in an unsteady breath.  His head felt lighter than the fletchings 
on his arrows, and he was having difficulty concentrating.  “We must retreat, 
then,” he heard himself saying distantly. 

Curulin’s features darkened, not at the words, but at the unfocused look in his 
king’s eyes.  “Nin aran,” he said forcefully, grabbing Thranduil’s arm to 
capture his lord’s attention.  

The Master Huntsman did not have a chance to speak further, however, because at 
that moment, the air above their heads was spliced by the beating of wings.  
Thranduil’s gaze jerked skyward just in time to receive a direct shower of the 
yellow powder.  It seared his eyes and nose, forcing a volley of reflexive 
coughs from his burning throat.  He blinked furiously, eyes streaming tears, and 
attempted to regain his bearings.  Unfortunately, the world seemed intent on 
swimming disorientedly around him, and the stinging in his eyes made it all but 
impossible to see much beyond vague shapes.  “Curulin,” Thranduil gasped.  It is 
a drug, he realized dizzily.  He heard Curulin’s convulsive sneezing and choking 
nearby; the warrior must have taken a heavy dose of the powder, as well.

The sound of battle was lessening around them.  A slurred cry of pain reached 
the Elvenking’s ears, and he knew that his company was succumbing at last to the 
drug being rained down upon them by the hawks.  The Easterlings were closing in 
their targets.  Thranduil began to call out to Curulin and Amarthiach, but of a 
sudden, Hrîwith staggered sideways, nearly throwing the king from his back.  

The dust is affecting the horses as well, the king thought faintly.  “Nay, 
Hrîwith,” he murmured, just as the stallion gave what seemed an apologetic 
whicker and folded up beneath Thranduil.  The Elvenking had just enough presence 
of mind left to throw himself from the steed’s back and roll away, so as to 
avoid being crushed beneath Hrîwith’s collapsing bulk.  

Thranduil lay still, breathing in harsh gasps, unable to move or speak.  The 
yellow powder had done its work well, for the king could barely summon the 
strength to keep his eyes open.  A blurred, shadowy mass loomed over him, and a 
deep voice said something unintelligible.  The king attempted an irate glare, 
but all he could manage was a faint frown.  Then, the sky narrowed to a small 
point of light before his eyes, and the darkness moved in and claimed him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Acknowledgements:

Tanglinna, Brethil, Bronadui, Glaurhunant, Tavor, Glavrol, Mithereg, Talagan, 
and Legolas’ “little Greenleaf” nickname belong to TreeHugger.  

Síralaith, Marthul, Amarthiach, Nevenneth, Astalaewen, Mithgilhíri, Aldamon, 
Hrîwith the Wintry, and the yellow powder drug belong to Katharine.

Curulin is sort of co-owned by Tree and Kate. 

The bow-making song and Legolas’ “little bird” nickname belong to JastaElf.

Everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien.  


Chapter Two: Mischief and Mayhem

One small note from Katharine before we kick off chapter two: I’ve gone back and 
changed the timeline of JK to fit with Master Tolkien’s edict concerning Elven 
aging.  The introduction and first chapter have been amended accordingly.  This 
Tale is now set in TA 113…the readership may want to crack out the Tale of Years 
in Appendix B of the LOTR Trilogy, because the world was a lot different then… 
thanks, and enjoy!


The tale continues…


Brethil Bronaduion stared solemnly about the room he stood in.  It was a small 
chamber, the walls painted a soothing green that reminded the child of the 
shadows that lived beneath the ferns in the woods.  No fancy carpets or rugs 
graced the cool stone floor, only a thick braided rug of soft brown and russet 
cloth.  The room’s furnishings were spare and simple, though beautifully crafted 
of rich wood, darkened with age and use.  The only ornament Brethil saw was a 
framed picture on the wall.  The Elfling moved across the room to peer up at it 
curiously.

It was an ink rendering of a young Elf woman, obviously in a late stage of 
pregnancy.  She was smiling in such a gentle and loving fashion that Brethil was 
reminded of his own mother—except that Lady Glaurhunant’s hair spilled in waves 
as pale as those of her son, whereas the woman in the picture possessed thick 
tresses as dark as a raven’s wing, woven with hints and flashes of a rich blue. 
The long locks cascaded over the slim white shoulders, flowing down her back in 
a pleasing contrast with the flowing lavender dress she wore.  The silver and 
blue embroidery about the garment’s neck matched the luminous tints of the 
woman’s eyes.  One delicate arm reached down to encircle her swollen abdomen, 
while the other arm rested atop it.  The position of those graceful limbs spoke 
of such tender devotion and protectiveness that Brethil found himself swallowing 
a hard knot in his throat.

The young Elf sighed as he continued to gaze up at the picture, wondering who 
she was, and why she was hanging on the wall of the stern Master Archer’s 
bedroom.  His young eyes took in the skillfully drawn lines, and he marveled at 
how the face had been rendered so realistically.  Then, Brethil caught sight of 
three small smudges that marred the portrait.  It looked as though drops of 
water had splashed onto the ink while it was drying, smearing it slightly in 
blossoming circles. 

The sounds of muffled laughter and hurried whispers drew his attention, and he 
turned to see Legolas and Tavor standing together beside the low bed, their eyes 
bright with mischief.  Brethil frowned, his gaze dropping guiltily to the cage 
he carried in his slim hands. Five of Greenwood’s squirrels were huddled inside, 
their dark eyes sparkling like polished onyx pebbles.  They look up at him and 
scolded him softly for such treatment.  He quietly apologized to them, his gaze 
moving once more to his two much bolder friends.

“Legolas?  Tavor?”

The two were so absorbed in their own conversation and the mischief about to be 
unleashed that they didn’t hear him.  Brethil could not have known that, though 
his friends appreciated his company, they had learned to ignore his voice 
without really thinking about it.  He took a few hesitant steps closer to them, 
and tried again, pitching his whisper to be heard over their excited murmurs.

“Legolas?  Tavor?”

The impassioned chattering died away, and the two turned to look at him.  
Brethil frowned once more, not liking the looks on their faces.  “This is going 
to get us all into a lot of trouble,” he began, knowing that they probably would 
not heed anything he said, but feeling that he had to say it anyway.  “I know 
you are angry with Master Tanglinna because he wouldn’t let you go with your Ada 
on the hunting trip, Legolas, but—”

“But nothing, Brethil,” Tavor interrupted.  He patted the cage he had set down 
on the carven chest at the foot of the bed.  “Master Tanglinna wasn’t very nice 
to you, either,” he continued with a nod, reaching one long finger between the 
wooden bars.  One of the captive tree-leapers nipped the digit, and he let out a 
slight yelp, withdrawing the finger and shaking it in consternation.  
“Brethil…he said you were slow.  He might not let you go with us on our hunt if 
he thinks you are too slow, and not up to the rest of the class.”

Brethil shot his older friend a look of stunned disbelief, the pale grey eyes 
filled with hurt.  “He wouldn’t do that,” he murmured, wondering if indeed the 
Master Archer would do just that.  “I am not that slow…am I?”

Legolas scowled at Tavor.  This was not the best way to approach the situation, 
he well knew.  Tavor shrugged apologetically, realizing the same thing, if 
somewhat belatedly.  “Of course you aren’t, Brethil,” the young prince said, 
moving to drape a reassuring arm over the younger Elf’s shoulder.  

“He is just an Old Sourpuss,” Tavor snorted, then snickered at the not-so-nice 
nickname Legolas applied to the Master Archer.  

“And he needs some…fun,” the young Elf finished with a sly grin that worried 
Brethil.

Legolas smiled as his shining eyes met Tavor’s.  He knew that the other Elfling 
felt highly affronted because of the scolding Tanglinna had given him earlier, 
and that Tavor was as eager as the prince for this prank to be played; but they 
could both see the reluctance in Brethil’s expression about this “trick.”  Too, 
there was a lurking worry that he might not be allowed to accompany them on the 
squirrel-hunting expedition.  Legolas thought fast, inwardly rolling his eyes at 
Tavor’s blunder.  They couldn’t afford to have Brethil running to the Master 
Archer now, not when they were so close to their revenge!

“You see, Brethil,” Greenwood’s youngest prince said in a low, soothing voice, 
as he moved to examine their little captives, “this is going to be fun!  Can’t 
you just imagine Master Tanglinna’s face when he sees all our cute little 
squirrels sitting on his bed?”

“Well,” Brethil hedged, his gaze darting to the cute little squirrels in the 
cages.  They were all fretting at the bars, and he knew they were not happy 
about being confined in those small coops.  “They are very cute,” he conceded at 
last.

Tavor rolled his eyes and snorted slightly, which earned him a punch in the arm 
from Legolas.  “Master Tanglinna will really like this, uh, surprise,” 
Thranduil’s son assured.  “You know he likes squirrels.  He has agreed to take 
us squirrel-hunting with my Ada, after all.  All of us,” he finished, glaring 
again at Tavor.

Seeing the sense in Legolas’ words, Brethil nodded and set his cage down on the 
chest next to Tavor’s.  “You are certain that Master Tanglinna will think this 
is fun?” he asked, gently stroking one furry head through the bars.  

They never seem to nip at his fingers, Tavor thought sourly as he glared down at 
his own caged squirrels.  The little animals’ stares seemed full of amusement, 
as though they were just waiting for him to try to pet them again.  “Of course 
we’re sure,” he said impatiently, sticking his tongue out at the squirrels. They 
didn’t have time to stand here and argue with Brethil; that could take all day. 
Tavor cast a nervous glance at the closed door, keenly aware that at any moment 
Tanglinna could come traipsing down the hall and into his room.  That would be 
disastrous.  The Elfling shivered slightly; he could not begin to imagine what 
sort of trouble this would get them into if they got caught.  He suspected they 
would not be allowed on a hunting trip until they were as old as Tanglinna…and 
they all knew that he was as old as the Valar!    “He will be running to, er, 
thank us for our gift, I am sure.”  Tavor grinned over at Legolas, who was 
stifling a giggle at this sentiment.  Tanglinna would be running all right, but 
it was more likely that the Master Archer would be running after them, not to 
them.

Brethil nodded again, mostly mollified, though secretly he still harbored some 
doubts.  Yet, as Tavor and Legolas never ceased to remind him, they were older 
than he was, if only by a few years.  To their minds, that made Brethil the 
laes, the baby of the group.  Therefore, Brethil assumed that he was right to 
listen to them, in deference to their greater experience and wisdom.  “Very 
well,” he said.  “Do we let them out now?”

Tavor grinned widely, his dark grey eyes sparkling.  “Yes, I suppose we had 
better let them out.  They don’t look very happy.  They will be delighted to run 
about this nice room.”  A new thought hit him then, and he continued, “You are 
doing them a favor, Brethil, both them and Master Tanglinna, really!  They can 
run about to get the exercise they need, and they’ll entertain the great Master 
Archer at the same time!”  Tavor nodded confidently, feeling very pleased with 
his logic.

Legolas smiled over at his suddenly clever friend and winked as they moved to 
the doorway, pulling Brethil along with them, the cages clutched firmly in their 
hands once more.  This was going to be so much fun!  Until they got caught, 
which he knew they would…eventually.  It will be fun until we get caught, the 
princeling amended to himself.  If Ada is on the hunting trip for a few days, 
then Master Tanglinna will have time to get over his anger with us before he 
returns.  Well, most of his anger, anyway.  Maybe this time we will be lucky, 
and we won’t get caught at all!  I am sure I will think of something to say if 
Master Tanglinna suspects us…

If anyone had been about a few minutes later, they would have seen the three 
young Elves slip away from Tanglinna’s room, a wicked grin plastered on Tavor’s 
slender face.  Legolas was giggling quietly, and they both had their arms linked 
through Brethil’s, to prevent him from going anywhere near the Master Archer and 
spoiling the “surprise.”  And inside the room, fifteen squirrels leaped and 
bounced, happy to be freed from the cages, which had been hastily stashed behind 
a hanging across the hallway.

No, Legolas concluded brightly as he began to sing.  Tavor joined in 
immediately, and Brethil a moment later.  We won’t get caught.  Not this time. 
Who would suspect that we managed to catch such fine squirrels, only to let them 
loose in Old Sourpuss’ room? No one.  I can’t wait to see the look on his face!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tanglinna made his way down the torch-lit corridor to his room, a small smile of 
amusement lingering on his lips as he pondered the joke Nondil the fletcher had 
related over the evening meal.  Jests involving tree stumps had become quite 
popular with the palace staff after word of Prince Legolas’ unfortunate 
encounter with one had spread through Thranduil’s halls.  Tanglinna’s smile 
widened.  Perhaps that will teach the young prince not to brag so elaborately, 
the Master Archer mused—then sighed and shook his head.  Knowing Legolas, it 
likely will not teach him anything, save that he must be sure to choose a 
hideaway with less branches the next time he wishes to frighten his sister.

As he always did, Tanglinna slowed his pace as he reached the last hallway that 
led to his quarters.  His silvery eyes moved over the wall to his left, taking 
in the woodland mural so skillfully painted there.  Towering trees stretched 
into the azure sky, their roots buried in cool green ferns and flowering plants 
and herbs.  Fierce birds of prey circled the cloudless climes: eagles, hawks, 
and falcons, the majestic royals of the sky.  Smaller birds nestled in the leafy 
treetops; sparrows, cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, and robins, winter and 
summer inhabitants of the Greenwood mingling together in one joyous gathering.  
Bright-eyed deer peered cautiously from behind mossy trunks, or grazed in the 
knee-high underbrush.  Rabbits cavorted in the bushes, as foxes gamboled nearby, 
streaks of rust amidst the verdant grass.  And in the abundantly leaved boughs, 
squirrels romped with wild abandon—grey, red, and Greenwood’s own black, their 
velvety little ears perked, black eyes shining with mischief.

Tanglinna’s gaze came to rest upon three of these ebon denizens of the wood.  
The objects of his scrutiny were playing together in the branches of a great 
beech tree, frolicking as though they hadn’t a care in the world.  The Master 
Archer shook his head and smiled once more.  Antrenartew, the mural’s expert 
creator, had painted this trio of mischief-makers to honor their youngest prince 
and his two friends, whom Tanglinna had often likened to squirrels. The three 
had such divergent personalities, yet they complimented one another, making them 
the best of friends since earliest childhood.  Legolas was the natural 
leader—which wasn’t surprising, considering his royal lineage, though Tanglinna 
knew there were minor clashes at times…especially between Legolas and Tavor.  

Thranduil had always found those minor disagreements highly amusing.  “It is in 
their blood,” he would chuckle upon hearing of such conflicts, his silver eyes 
shining affectionately.  “They cannot help themselves.”  Tanglinna snorted with 
amusement at the recollection; he well knew that Tavor’s maternal grandmother, 
Laureahiril, still harbored resentment against Thranduil for her own husband’s 
choice to follow Oropher to Greenwood in ages past.

“An exile,” she called it, telling anyone foolish enough to listen to her bitter 
ranting.  “An exile from civilization and all its comforts, is what this is.  
Forcing us to live in the untamed wilderness – what foolishness!”  Indeed, 
Laureahiril had clashed with Oropher, just as she now clashed on occasion with 
Thranduil.

Tanglinna closed his eyes briefly, the memories of various courteous arguments 
quirking his lips upwards.  “Norn dolant lhingrilam!” Oropher had typically 
growled under his breath with grudging amusement.  Hardheaded spider-tongue!

“Tarlanc argalenas!” was Laureahiril’s usual reply, laced with deference that 
was so faint as to be invisible at times.  Obstinate leaf-king!

The Master Archer gave a low chuckle at this remembrance as he continued on to 
his room, wondering how the newest tarlanc argalenas was faring.  He truly hoped 
Thranduil was enjoying his outing; the king had been forced to endure much grief 
in recent years, and every opportunity for cheery diversion was a gift to be 
treasured, in Tanglinna’s thinking.

His thoughts wandered to the younglings then.  Tanglinna hoped Legolas was 
recovering from his grand disappointment.  The Master Archer hadn’t enjoyed 
denying the child the pleasure of accompanying his father on the hunt, but the 
rules that governed their lives were in place for a reason.  They had been time 
tried and tested, and ultimately proven necessary.  A young Elf’s first hunt was 
an important occasion, one filled with excitement tempered with anxiety.  Today 
was most definitely not the day for the princeling’s first hunt.  Tanglinna knew 
that his young charges were not yet ready to take on the challenges they would 
be expected to face, and that they would not be able to meet those trials with 
confidence and skill for some time to come.  On the day when Legolas and his age 
mates rode out on their first hunt, however, Tanglinna would be there with them, 
to share in their victory as they took their fledgling steps toward adulthood.

The young grow up so quickly, he thought with a sigh.  One day they were mere 
babes stumbling about on chubby, unsure legs as they pulled away from their 
parents’ guiding hands…and in the next eyeblink, they were grown with babes of 
their own.

“May they stay young as long as they may,” the Master Archer murmured to himself 
as he opened the door to his room.

The door folded back onto utter chaos.   Tanglinna stared in disbelief, blinking 
to assure himself that he was indeed standing on the threshold of his own room.

Fifteen black squirrels were scattered about the room, chattering and scolding 
one another.  They were perched on the furniture, clambering about the carved 
dresser and headboard.  One was sitting upright on one of the chairs whose 
backrest had been carefully wrought by Bronadui himself.  The little animal was 
fretting over an acorn that wouldn’t pry loose despite its best efforts to free 
it.  Three of the others were seated in the middle of the bed’s soft coverlet, 
huddled together, prattling at one another.  They turned as one, however, to 
gaze up at the tall Master Archer as he stood transfixed in the doorway.

Tanglinna growled low in his throat, shaking free of the shock that had 
momentarily overtaken him, and thought ironically of how he had just wished the 
young ones would stay young for as long as possible.  “Or not!” he muttered 
loudly, his voice carrying so fiercely in the small room that the tree-leapers 
started in fright.  The Master Archer moved purposefully into his usually neatly 
ordered room.  The candles placed on the dresser and the small table had been 
overturned, and a few of them bore telltale bite marks in the fragrant 
honey-colored wax.  Tanglinna’s annoyance was such that he felt only the 
slightest twinges of gratitude that he did not leave the candles lit in the 
daytime. 

The three bold squirrels sitting on his rumpled bed leapt nimbly to the carved 
chest at the bed’s foot, blinking up at him, bushy tails twitching and curling. 
 He frowned at them, which caused them to jump to the floor and scurry out the 
door into the corridor, scolding him loudly as they ran.  The others, seeing 
their fellows fleeing, quickly followed suit.  The last one, a small creature 
with a frizzy tail, collided with Tanglinna’s leg in its haste.  It clung to his 
boot for a moment, then shrieked its fear and annoyance before bounding away.

The Master Archer shook his silvery head, still scowling fiercely as he moved to 
set the candles upright and smooth the bed covers.  A few precious books had 
dropped to the floor from the table.  He knelt to retrieve them, but sprang back 
upright when he heard a loud crash from the hall and a startled cry.  Laying the 
books on the table, Tanglinna moved swiftly into the corridor.

A young Elf stood a few feet away, shaking his head in disbelief.  The tray he 
had been carrying graced the stone floor at his feet, and its former contents 
lay scattered about the hallway.  Tanglinna moved to pick up one of the silver 
goblet, and raised one brow as he surveyed the dent that marred its shining 
surface.

“I am sorry, Master Tanglinna,” the Elf apologized as he bent to retrieve the 
tray.  His fair face paled when he saw the damage the fall had caused several 
more of the goblets.  “Oh, no.  This is very bad,” he murmured, holding one 
aloft, his grey eyes filled with worry.  “What am I going to tell Galion?”  He 
glanced over one shoulder, his brows quirking with annoyance.  “And how did all 
those squirrels get into the palace?”

How indeed? Tanglinna thought as he helped the youth replace the goblets on the 
gilded tray.

“Where is Prince Legolas?”  the Master Archer asked calmly, gazing down the 
corridor in the direction that the squirrels had taken.

“The prince?”  The young Elf frowned slightly, thinking.  “I believe he and 
Princess Lelemir were put to bed a few minutes past.”  

“I see,” Tanglinna murmured as he placed the last goblet on the tray.  “When you 
see Galion, do tell him that I wish to speak to him about what happened here.”

The younger Elf swallowed nervously.  This was not good.  The dour Master Archer 
telling Galion what had transpired would only make his situation much worse.  
“Of course, Master Tanglinna.  I will,” he murmured, wondering what punishment 
he would receive for this mishap.  He only hoped it wouldn’t be to tell the king 
in person of the incident.  

Tanglinna glanced over at the youth, a smile touching his lips as he saw the 
other’s discomfort and trepidation.  “Never fear, youngling,” he said kindly, 
momentarily swallowing his irritation for the young Elf’s sake.  “I will tell 
Galion that this was not your fault.”

Relief washed over the servant’s face.  “Thank you, Master Tanglinna,” he said 
brightly, smiling his gratitude.  He then bowed deeply and hurried back down the 
hallway in the direction of the kitchens, as if fearing that any delay might 
bring about a change in his fortune.

The Master Archer watched him go, his face inscrutable.  “Well, nin caun,” he 
said quietly.  “Look what you have done now.  I don’t believe this is exactly 
what you had intended to happen.”  He shook his head at the thought of all the 
havoc the squirrels were likely to wreak elsewhere in the palace, then turned 
and walked back into his room.  He brushed at his bed once more, glowering 
mightily at the squirrel-hair riddling the surface.  Rest well tonight, little 
prince, he thought.  You will need all of your strength tomorrow…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Much later that night…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Elfling peered around the corner into the living area of his home, covering 
his mouth with one hand to stifle his giggles.  The hour was early, far earlier 
than his normal waking time.  He had crept from his bed as quietly as any 
youngling could manage, knowing that his Nana was already up and tending to 
various tasks in the household.  

The child practically thrummed with the mischievous glee of the very young; 
rousing early was something of a game he played with Nana.  Sometimes he dressed 
himself and pulled his own hair up into a disordered warrior’s topknot, then 
came striding out of his room, declaring that he had been out hunting all night 
and had only just arrived back home.  Then, while Nana straightened her son’s 
clothing and re-braided his unruly locks, he would relate his nightly adventures 
with elaborate detail, even going so far as to hint that he had seen Oromë and 
his great steed ranging through the forest. On other occasions, the child hid 
under his bed until his mother came to wake him, and upon finding his bed empty 
she would search all through the house, calling his name and worrying aloud that 
he had run off and gone to live with the Silvan Elves across the mountains.  
Then, when she finally returned to her son’s room, she would find the Elfling 
lying in his bed once more, attempting to feign sleep, muffling his giggles with 
his pillow.

His favorite trick, though, was the one he intended to play on this particular 
morning.  The Elfling watched Nana moving about the living area, her long night 
robe whispering against the thick woolen rugs on the stone floor.  Her golden 
hair was bound in intricate braids and pinned in a knot at the nape of her neck. 
 The child bit down on his small fist to keep his laughter in.  Nana was always 
so composed and calm—wouldn’t she be surprised when he jumped out at her from 
the hallway!

The youngling shrank back as his mother cast a glance at the hall he was 
lingering in.  He held his breath, keeping as still as possible, hoping to 
escape her notice.  He did not think Nana had seen him; and as the minutes wore 
on without response from the living area, his smile widened, for surely if she 
had noticed her son’s presence, she would have called to him.  The Elfling 
peeked past the doorway once again and saw, to his impish delight, that his 
mother’s back was turned to him.

Nearly bursting with excitement, the child gathered himself, then raced from his 
hiding place and sprang at his mother with an ear-splitting howl.  To his 
complete surprise, however, Nana whirled round and caught him in mid-bound, 
sweeping him up off the floor and cradling his squirming form in both arms.

“You are awake early today, pen-tithen,” she said, laughing musically and 
nuzzling her child’s loosely braided hair, which fell in waves of the same 
shining gold as that which adorned her own head.

“Did I frighten you, Nana?” the Elfling piped, giggling merrily at his own 
cunning.

“Yes, tithen pen-gorothon, you did indeed,” Nana answered with a smile, pinning 
her wriggling son and tickling him mercilessly.  The home was filled with peals 
of laughter and breathless, pleading shrieks, as the youngling attempted in vain 
to escape his mother’s grip.

A deep voice vibrating with amusement resonated from the entrance to the home.  
“Ah, thoron-neth nin, it seems your prey has captured you, instead of the other 
way around!”

The Elfling turned crinkled, mirth-blurred eyes on his father’s tall, powerful 
form standing in the doorway.  Ada’s dark silver hair spilled over his broad 
shoulders as he laughed at the spectacle of his wife and son engaged in frenetic 
combat.  

“I frightened Nana, Ada!” the child chirped between giggles.  “She did not even 
see me coming!”

Ada raised one eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest, a smile yet tugging 
at his lips.  “Is that so?  Elemmírë, wana-melhíri, how did our pen-glamui 
escape your notice?”

“I walked quietly, Ada!” the Elfling announced, then added with a flourish, 
“Just like you showed me!”

The elder Elf gave a hearty chuckle and came over to ruffle his son’s disordered 
locks.  “Grandsire Camechuir would be proud, pen-tithen,” he murmured.

Nana hugged the child and planted a light kiss on his cheek.  “I am sure 
grandsire Elerrínion and grandmother Lórellin will be pleased to hear of your 
deed, as well,” she said warmly.  “We are going to see them today, remember?”

The Elfling flashed a sweet smile up at his mother.  “Perhaps I will frighten 
grandmother Lórellin as well,” he suggested impishly.  “Shall I try it, Ada?”

But Ada made no reply.  The child craned his neck to see where his father had 
gone—

—and to his immense confusion, Ada had fallen to the floor in a tangle of long 
limbs and ash-hued hair.  Thick black arrows jutted dreadfully from the elder 
Elf’s red-smirched chest, and the familiar strong face was frozen in an 
expression of shock and pain.  For some reason, the stone floor had become a 
quagmire of bloodstained mud.  Uncomprehending, and yet terribly, painfully 
aware of the finality of what he saw, the child cried a soundless cry of loss 
and fear…

And Thranduil was falling from his mother’s arms, the secure embrace dissolving 
into the mist of sweet memory…

A sudden jolt shook Thranduil from the blank haze of oblivion.  The dream faded 
as quickly as it had come, leaving no more than a deep sense of sadness in its 
wake.  The king opened his eyes and blinked groggily, then gave a faint frown at 
the impenetrable darkness.  A rough cloth of some sort was pressed against his 
face, blocking out light and restricting his breathing.  An annoyed remark rose 
to his lips, but was just as quickly swallowed as memory flooded back.  The 
hunting party.  The attack.  The drug…

Thranduil remained still and silent, feigning unconsciousness as he let the 
activity around him filter through his senses.  The continually shifting warmth 
and muscular tension beneath him could only be a horse, over whose neck the king 
was slumped like a broken doll.  A subtle attempt at movement revealed that his 
wrists were bound, and the cord had been passed beneath the horse’s neck so that 
Thranduil was fairly securely fastened atop the beast.  Sharp pains blossomed 
all over the king’s body, bringing a grimace to his face—throwing one’s self 
down from a collapsing horse has its price, he mused uncomfortably.  Thoughts of 
Hrîwith gave rise to a swell of concern for the others in the hunting party.  
Thranduil wondered if all were now captives, or if some had lost their lives to 
the Easterlings’ brutal assault.

Rough voices muttered nearby.  Thranduil scowled behind the cloth, for the 
language was instantly recognizable as that of the men of Rhûn.  Taken captive 
by a band of mortals, he seethed inwardly.  He could almost hear his father’s 
response.  Surely you do not speak of my son, Oropher’s voice objected.  My son 
would never allow himself to be taken alive by a ragtag lot of Fírimar!

Thranduil quelled the ire burning in his gut, knowing that he needed to think 
clearly if he was going to escape his predicament.  He was bound and blinded—by 
a cloth sack over his head, he had determined—and awkwardly situated on an 
unfamiliar horse.  He did not know how many captors surrounded him; from the 
sound of their voices and the rapid clippety-clipping of their horses’ hooves, 
they severely outnumbered him.  Also, he did not know who among his hunting 
party might have been taken as well, or whether those captives were awake and 
able to make good their escape as well.

The king wanted to growl with frustration.  He was fairly certain he could 
convince the horse that bore him to break away from its masters and carry him to 
safety, but that would likely doom any other captives to an unpleasant fate, and 
Thranduil refused to abandon any of his warriors to the tender mercies of the 
Easterlings.  Which leaves me right where I am, Thranduil thought with a 
grimace.  His position atop the steed was becoming more painful by the minute, 
especially since the various bruises he had acquired were aggravated by the 
continuous shifting movement.  He supposed, however, that he was fortunate to 
have escaped with mere bruises—his injuries could have been much worse.

In truth, Thranduil was more irritated than pained.  His pride chafed sorely 
under the captivity.  Elves in general did not handle imprisonment well, and 
those of the House of Oropher were not especially known for patience.  Too, the 
thought that some of his companions might have been killed by the Easterlings’ 
attack stirred the anger smoldering in his chest.  Which of them did not 
survive? the king wondered, clenching his teeth to contain his outrage.  The 
names and faces of the nineteen warriors who had accompanied him swept through 
his memory like whispers on the wind, each bringing a fresh wave of dread as he 
considered the possibility that they might have perished.  
Curulin…Amarthiach…Síralaith…Bronadui…

A gruff voice to his right snagged Thranduil’s attention—the speaker was using 
the Westron tongue in place of his native language.  “Are you awake, Elf king?” 
the voice demanded, his words broken by a thick accent and hesitancy with the 
unfamiliar words.

Thranduil made no reply.  He bit back a hiss of pain as the Easterling’s hand 
clamped round his shoulder and gave it a rough shake; the pressure and movement 
sent hot, deeply embedded twinges racing through his arm, signifying strained, 
bruised muscles.  The king’s temper flared at the belligerent treatment.  
Insolent creatures! he fumed silently.

The Easterling to the right removed his hand and gave a rough chuckle.  “Maybe 
he will wake up if we cut off a pretty ear,” he said, inspiring a round of 
laughter from his fellows nearby.

A second voice, this one coming from the left side, cut into the mirth, 
instantly stilling the laughter.  “He is likely already awake, and listening to 
every word you speak,” the speaker said archly.  Thranduil was mildly intrigued 
by the sharp tone of that voice; it was cold and precise, and heavily laced with 
authority.  Their leader, perhaps?  The second speaker continued, “He will not 
give himself away unless it is to his benefit to do so.  Do not grow lax on 
account of this pretense, or you will be held responsible to the Master for the 
loss of his prize.  Is that understood?”

A fearful murmur ran through the gathered Easterlings.  Thranduil mulled over 
what had been said.  He did not like the astuteness of the second speaker; he 
had detected a disquieting intellect in the voice, as well as a fair amount of 
tightly-reined hatred.  If that was indeed the leader, Thranduil knew he would 
have to make good his escape through one of the underlings’ blunders.  When I 
have determined that I can do so without abandoning any of my people, that is, 
he amended, frustration welling up once more.

A whisper of air to his left alerted Thranduil that someone had drawn near.  The 
second speaker’s voice was but a murmur now, but it speared through the cloth 
sack and burrowed with chilling purpose into the king’s awareness.  “You would 
do well to keep your peace, Elf king,” the speaker, the leader, hissed softly.  
“For if you do not, the earth will drink the lifeblood of your companions, and 
that most deeply.”

Thranduil did not give any indication that he had heard, but he got the distinct 
impression that the Easterling leader knew already.  It was a notion that both 
irritated and disturbed him.  He was glad to hear that at least some of his 
party had survived, but for how long?  It was fairly obvious that the attack had 
been staged for the sole purpose of kidnapping Greenwood’s king.  How long can I 
keep the others alive, Thranduil wondered darkly, when they are no longer needed 
to keep me in check?

The answer to that was far too disturbing to contemplate…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Acknowledgements:

Bronadui, Lady Glaurhunant, Nondil the fletcher, Antrenartew, Laureahiril, the 
young Elf in the hallway, et al belong to TreeHugger.

Elemmírë, Camechuir, Elerrínion, Lórellin, et al belong to Katharine.

The Very Bad Man™, who as yet is only a cold voice at Thranduil’s left side, 
belongs to both Kate and Tree.  We don’t really like him, but he doesn’t seem to 
care a whole lot.  

As always, everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien.  

Translations:

Nin caun => Sindarin, “my prince”

Pen-tithen => Sindarin, “little one”

Tithen pen-gorothon => Sindarin, “little horrifying one”

Thoron-neth nin => Sindarin, “my eaglet”

Wana-melhíri => Sindarin, “fair lady love”

Pen-glamui => Sindarin, “noisy one”

Fírimar => Elvish for “mortals”


Replies to reviews:

Well, folks, we’re going to reply to every reviewer, as promised…but we’re going 
to do it Tree ‘n Kate style!  ^_^  You may want to read the next section in its 
entirety; it promises to be…entertaining!

One room, somewhere in the Realm of Impossibility.  One computer, tuned in to 
Fanfiction.net.  Three favorite characters, two tall ‘n tasty, one short ‘n 
spritely.

Tanglinna surveyed the review board displayed on the computer screen with a 
raised eyebrow.  “Well, well, aranhîr, look how popular you have become of 
late.”

Thranduil shook his head and sighed.  “What did you expect?  It is just a pity 
that I have to be—” he glanced down at the small Elf between himself and 
Tanglinna, and lowered his voice to a whisper, “—kidnapped and tortured to get 
any attention.”

Oblivious to his father’s remark, little Legolas jumped up and down and waved at 
the reviewers on the screen, grinning cheerfully.  Tanglinna harrumphed in 
response to the youngling’s antics, and offered a caustic, “Yes, nin caun, we 
all know who usually gets the attention, don’t we?” 

Legolas gave a sweet little smile.  “’s not my fault I’m cute.”

Thranduil grinned and ruffled his son’s blond head.  “Certainly not, little 
Greenleaf.  It is in your blood.”

“Only on his mother’s side,” Tanglinna objected acerbically.

The Elvenking shot his Master Archer an annoyed glance.  “Do you intend to help 
little Greenleaf and I answer our devotees, or shall I tell Katharine and 
TreeHugger to send you back to Greenwood?”

Tanglinna snorted and folded his arms across his chest.  “They wouldn’t dare,” 
he said archly.

Before Thranduil could formulate a sardonic reply, Legolas tugged on his 
father’s verdant cloak excitedly.  “Ada!  Look at what The Evil Old Woman said! 
 She says we are ‘too cool for words’!”  The Elfling looked up at Thranduil 
expectantly.  “What does that mean?”

“It means, meliôn nin, that she adores us too much to express in mere words,” 
the king explained.  “’Tis a high honor, indeed.”

“JastaElf reviewed twice, if somewhat out of order,” Tanglinna remarked, leaning 
in and smirking at the screen.  “She said I was ‘fantastic as always.’  How 
flattering.”

“Hmm…and she is ‘not at ALL happy with what has been DONE to’ me,” Thranduil 
added.  “That is very odd.  She seems to relish such lovely matters as torment 
and anguish.  But you see, she calls me wonderful.”  The king smirked back at 
his Master Archer.  “They do adore me, you know.”

Legolas stood on his tiptoes and blew a kiss at the screen, grinning.  “I like 
the bow-making song, Jasta!” he piped.

Thranduil studied the review board, the smile lingering on his lips.  “Two more 
from PuterPatty,” he remarked.  “Further praise for both of us, Tanglinna.  You 
are apparently ‘marvelous,’ and I am evidently myself—a ‘noble king and loving 
father.’”  He squeezed Legolas’ slim shoulder affectionately.  “That much is 
true.”

“Patty also appreciated the descriptions used,” Tanglinna mused aloud, reading 
further.  “Hmph.  Legolas, the readers seem to be enjoying your mischief.”

The princeling grinned brightly.  “Really?”  He caught the Master Archer’s 
disapproving frown then, and the smile disappeared.  “Um, that’s, uh, terrible. 
 How naughty of them,” he amended hastily.

Thranduil hid a grin and looked back to the computer screen.  “Well, Tanglinna, 
Tamsin FlameArrow is certainly concerned for my well-being.  But who in the name 
of Manwë on high devised the nickname ‘Thrandy’?  It is highly annoying!”

Tanglinna chuckled.  “TreeHugger refers to us as ‘Thran and Tan.’  I find that 
amusing.”

“Then you may also find this amusing,” Thranduil answered.  “None was anxious to 
find out how Legolas and his friends were going to have their revenge on ‘poor, 
innocent Tanglinna.’”

“Innocent?”  Legolas rolled his eyes.  “Right, and I’m a great spider’s nephew.”

“I am not certain your uncles would find that humorous, nin caun,” Tanglinna 
said with a raised eyebrow.  “It seems that both None and Princess ArWen of 
sMirkwood are both fretful for your sake, aranhîr.  ArWen also wants to know 
where Katharine and TreeHugger learned Elvish.”

Thranduil rested one arm atop the computer screen.  “When I visited Katharine to 
inform her that she was going to write this Tale for me, she was sitting at her 
computer with a staggering quantity of books piled round her.  One of them was 
The Languages of Tolkien’s Middle-earth by one Ruth S. Noel, as I recall.  I 
believe she refers to that more than anything else.”    

Tanglinna nodded, a slight grin tugging at his lips.  “She sounds exactly like 
TreeHugger; piles of books and papers everywhere in her ‘corner.’  ‘Tis strange 
how that corner has grown of late—it now spills into the living room, as well.  
She has a rather tattered copy of the Sindarin dictionary from Hisweloke, among 
other things.  Hmm…Ruth S. Noel is popular, it seems.  TreeHugger’s copy is a 
rather ancient one from their world’s 1980s.”  He shook his head, muttering, 
“She must be nearly as old as I am.”

“Ada, gemstone called you a ‘nice guy,’” Legolas giggled.

“Hm, yes,” Thranduil murmured, reading the remainder of the sentence through 
slitted eyes.  “Writers portray me as an ‘unloving father,’ do they?”  He 
cracked the knuckles of his left hand loudly, causing Legolas to jump and 
Tanglinna to quirk a brow in surprise.

“Aranhîr, that was rather uncouth,” the Master Archer remarked.

“It is a human gesture of warning, one I think most appropriate,” Thranduil 
muttered.  “How I wish I were able to hunt down every last one of those 
maligning reprobates and teach them the error of their ways.”

Tanglinna gave a nod.  “I would join you, to be sure.”

Legolas, meanwhile, read the next review, and halfway through it he grimaced and 
stuck out his tongue.  “I think I agree with Lily Frost.  ‘Not too much mush.’  
Mush is gross, isn’t it, Ada?”

Thranduil threw a sly glance at Tanglinna, then replied in all seriousness, 
“Why, little Greenleaf, your Ada has been known to be quite mushy in the past.”

Legolas made a face.  “That isn’t funny, Ada,” he grumbled.

“’Tis no jest, nin caun,” Tanglinna said gravely.  “I clearly recall stumbling 
upon your father kissing your mother, more times than I can properly recount.”  
The Master Archer leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “Kissing on the 
mouth.”

The princeling made a gagging sound.  “I did not need to hear that, Master 
Tanglinna,” he moaned, covering his eyes with both hands.  “That is so gross…”

“I am never going to marry him off,” Thranduil sighed aloud.  He smiled and 
winked at Legolas’ horrified expression, then turned his attention back to the 
review board.  “Seaweed evidently likes me, as well.  That brings the count to 
seven for me, three for you, Tanglinna,” he added with a smug grin.

“Four,” Tanglinna replied acidly.  “Seaweed complimented me, as well.”

“And me!” Legolas added, peering out from behind his hands.  “That makes five 
for me!”

Thranduil chuckled and tousled the Elfling’s unruly hair.  “Yes, little 
Greenleaf, that is five for you.  And, my dear Master Archer, Angaloth adds 
another to my tally, raising it to eight.”  He scanned the next review, then 
laughed outright.  “Nine!  Laura used TreeHugger’s words: ‘poor Thranduil’!”

Tanglinna harrumphed.  “She also expressed extreme concern for the elves, 
aranhîr.  Since both Legolas and I fall into that category, we shall each take 
another for our counts.”

Thranduil’s grin broadened.  “Certainly you may, but it will not avail you 
much.”

“Ada, a lot of people have asked about Brethil,” Legolas pointed out.  “Why 
can’t we let him come in and answer them for himself?”

“Because, nin caun, then we would be here for years incalculable, and the story 
would never be finished,” Tanglinna answered.

Legolas opened his mouth as if to disagree, then shut it and nodded.  “Yes, that 
is likely true,” he admitted.  “Well, I shall have to tell him that so many 
people like him.  He has a count of four already.”

“He would like that, little Greenleaf, I am sure,” Thranduil told the Elfling.  
He gave Tanglinna a wicked grin.  “Oh, and Tanglinna, my tally is now ten.  the 
evil witch queen also called me ‘poor Thranduil.’”

The Master Archer ignored the king, peering at the second part of the review.  
“Ah, but she also apparently wishes to see your princeling accomplish the 
impossible—rescue you using an aspect of bowmanship that he has not perfected 
yet.”  Tanglinna shook his head.  “Preposterous.”

The princeling in question jumped up and down, tugging on his father’s hand 
insistently.  “Can I, Ada?  Can I?  Please?” he asked excitedly, not knowing 
precisely what he was asking for, but willing to plead for it anyway.

Thranduil smiled at his son’s pleas.  “I am afraid I must agree with Tanglinna, 
little Greenleaf.  I would sooner let a spider chew off my feet than place you 
in such a dangerous situation.”

Legolas giggled at the visual, but managed a disappointed pout.  “I never get to 
do anything.”

“Your time will come, nin caun,” Tanglinna murmured, almost to himself.  “It 
seems that addicted is upset by the authoresses’ choice of Chapter One’s 
stopping point.”

“Considering the implications of that pen name, I am not surprised,” Thranduil 
remarked, scrolling to the next review.  “Ah, hiro-tyre is quite the exuberant 
enthusiast!  I can hear Katharine and TreeHugger chuckling from here!”  His grin 
widened.  “Little Greenleaf, she said she ‘absolutely LOVES’ you and I.  What is 
the count now?”

“Eleven for you, Ada, and seven for me,” the Elfling said cheerily.  “And five 
for Master Tanglinna.”

The Master Archer narrowed his eyes at the prince.  “Legolas, do not forget that 
I am quite capable of making your young life dreadfully tedious and dismal,” he 
growled.

Legolas shrank back against his father, his eyes wide.  “Ada, can he really do 
that?”

Thranduil hugged the child to him, but shrugged evasively.  “Certainly he can, 
little Greenleaf.  I cannot guard you every waking moment for the rest of your 
childhood.”

The princeling pressed his lips together and glanced warily up at Tanglinna, who 
arched one sharp brow.  “I am sorry, Master Tanglinna,” Legolas muttered.

Thranduil stifled his laughter and gestured at the screen.  “Hiro-tyre requested 
a hug, Legolas.  Would you like to do that?”

The Elfling brightened considerably.  “Oh, yes!  But how?”

“Hug the screen,” Thranduil suggested.  He lifted Legolas up so that the 
youngling could do just that, chuckling at his son’s enthusiastic grip on the 
computer monitor.

“Now you,” Legolas insisted, slipping back down to the floor.

Thranduil paused, surprised, but leaned in and briefly embraced the computer, 
trying not to feel overly foolish for doing so.  He heard Tanglinna’s amused 
snort, and turned an expectant stare on the Master Archer.  “Well?” he said 
finally.

Tanglinna returned the stare unblinkingly.  “Well, what?” he returned.

“Aren’t you going to give hiro-tyre a hug?” Legolas asked chirpily.

The Master Archer’s brows knitted.  “I am not going to hug that monitor,” he 
said flatly.

“Please?” Legolas asked, gazing up at the stern elder Elf with huge eyes.  “It 
would mean a lot to hiro-tyre.”

Tanglinna’s scowl deepened.  “Nin caun, nin aranhîr, I am not going to hug that 
computer screen!”

Thranduil shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded 
suspiciously like, “Old Sourpuss,” but Tanglinna let it slide with only the 
briefest glare.  “Well, well, Dragon-of-the-north makes twelve for me,” the king 
continued aloud.  “I was granted three smiles in that review!”

“Yes, well, perhaps I shall simply have to demand an absurdly unpleasant tale 
for myself,” Tanglinna remarked caustically.  “After all, it is obvious that 
suffering to a ridiculous degree garners much more attention than anything 
normal.”

“So I learned, after researching all of the stories written concerning little 
Greenleaf,” Thranduil agreed, mildly sympathetic.  “Or at least, some bizarre 
facsimile of him.”

“Earl Grey mentioned you, Master Tanglinna,” Legolas offered.  “Brethil and me, 
too, and Ada.  Earl likes us all!”

“‘A bit of a shock,’ you say?” Tanglinna mused, reading through the review.  
“Imagine my shock when Thranduil told me of this inadvisable misadventure he was 
going to have Katharine and TreeHugger concoct for him.  I presumed he had eaten 
strange mushrooms in the forest and had gone temporarily mad as a result.”

“Why do I think I’m missing something?” Legolas wondered aloud, looking back and 
forth between his father and the Master Archer.

“You are not, little Greenleaf,” Thranduil assured the Elfling.  “Ah, Invader 
Iggle has left a rather gruesome review.  How very…creative, indeed.”

Tanglinna growled low in his throat.  “Actually, I rather like it.  I may 
consider utilizing some of her suggestions in the future.”

Thranduil raised one dark brow at his Master Archer.  “You are quite disturbing 
at times, do you know that?” 

The other Elf mimicked his king’s expression.  “Yes.”

“Last review,” Legolas piped up.  “From Noone.  She doesn’t like Katharine and 
TreeHugger’s stopping point, either.”

“A common complaint,” Thranduil remarked.  “Perhaps we should tell the 
authoresses to halt posting until the entire story is finished.”

“That could take some time,” Tanglinna replied.  “I believe there would be far 
more protests if they were to do such a thing.”

Legolas stood on tiptoe and peered at the screen.  “Oh, isn’t that great?  
Brethil is her favorite!  He has six now!”

“Which brings the count to thirteen for me, six for Tanglinna, eight for little 
Greenleaf, and six for Brethil,” Thranduil concluded.

“A situation which will hopefully be remedied in the next few chapters,” 
Tanglinna muttered.

Thranduil gave a low chuckle.  “Speaking of which, we had better bring this to a 
close, so that Katharine and TreeHugger can continue their work on the actual 
tale.  Wave good-bye to all of the reviewers, little Greenleaf.”

Legolas gave the computer screen a brilliant smile and waved excitedly.  
“Good-bye, everyone!” he chirped.

“Fare you all well,” Thranduil added.

“And we shall see whose count ascends next time,” Tanglinna said pointedly, 
glaring into the monitor.

And the Realm of Impossibility faded out on Legolas’ giggles, sending the three 
Elves back into the forest from whence they had come…


*grin*  Well, I hope everyone else enjoyed that as much as we did!  Huge thanks 
to everyone who reviewed, and to all the silent readers, too!  Tree and I might 
show up in one of these reply sessions in the future, but it will likely 
continue to be handled mainly by characters.  The characters may vary somewhat, 
though.  Ta-ta for now, we’ll see everyone next chapter!  See the teaser below…



The Uncommon Tales

Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One


Chapter Three: Reckoning and Resolve

Disclaimer: No squirrels or Elvenkings were harmed in the making of this 
chapter.



The tale continues…



Daybreak in Thranduil’s halls was usually a quiet, serene affair.  The corridors 
echoed with only the gentlest hum of activity as the palace awoke.  Servants 
rose from their beds to begin their daily duties, even as the night watch 
retired; pleasant aromas wafted from the kitchens soon after the Sun’s first 
light crept over the hills, for Galion and his staff knew that Thranduil woke 
with the sunrise, and they wanted to be certain that breakfast was prepared in 
good time for their king and his children.  In the upper levels of the rock-hewn 
palace, the curtains were drawn aside to admit light and fresh air, and all the 
doors were flung open so that the rest of the cavernous citadel would remain 
well-ventilated.

One corner of the palace, however, was jarred from the fading night’s peace by 
an ear-splitting screech.  The piercing shriek continued for several long 
moments without pause, was interrupted just long enough for an intake of breath, 
and then continued, possibly even more loudly than before.

Merethen, one of the royal attendants, hurried from her room just as the second 
round of shrieks began.  She rushed down the hallway toward the source of the 
clamor, flinging her long night braid back over her shoulder as she went.  It’s 
coming from the children’s wing, Merethen realized.  She thought she recognized 
the screeching voice, but she couldn’t imagine what would elicit such a 
commotion.  She hurried round a corner—

—and was nearly knocked off her feet by a sprinting flurry of gold and pale 
green.  

Merethen stepped back to regain her balance.  Her expression of surprise swiftly 
turned to one of concern as she caught sight of the wild-eyed, tear-streaked 
face framed by waves of tousled golden hair.  Lelemir, Thranduil’s youngest 
daughter, stared up at Merethen with wide silver eyes, gasping for breath as 
though she had just run all the way from Rivendell.

“Lelemir,” the elder Elf said softly, kneeling and smoothing the child’s hair 
away from her face, “what is this all about?”

“Th-there’s a… a… in my room!” Lelemir stammered out, pointing back the way she 
had come with a shaking hand.

“There’s a what in your room, pen-tithen?” Merethen asked patiently.

“A squirrel!” the princess wailed.

The attendant’s brows raised incredulously.  “A squirrel?  In your room?” she 
repeated.

Lelemir nodded vigorously, sniffing.  “It was in m-my hair when I woke up,” she 
explained haltingly, sounding as though she might start crying all over again.  
“Chittering at me!  And staring at me with those horrible little black eyes!  It 
got all tangled in my hair!”

Merethen took in the disheveled state of the little princess’ tresses; they did 
look like some creature had made a nest in them.  But a squirrel, this deep in 
the palace?  “What happened to the squirrel, Lelemir?” she asked patiently.

“I guess I scared it away with my screaming, but oh!”  The Elfling hugged her 
slender arms, her face still paler than was normal.  “I hate those things!”

The attendant smoothed down the little girl’s rumpled green nightdress.  It was 
likely a nightmare, she decided.  “I thought you hated water, pen-tithen,” she 
reminded gently.  “Remember when you had that bad dream about falling into Morn 
Nen?”

Lelemir responded with an imperious glare.  “I hate them both,” she answered, 
her tone clearly reprimanding the elder Elf for not appreciating that fact.  
“And it wasn’t a bad dream!  It was real!”

“Ah.”  Merethen nodded, hiding a smile; the princess’ glower had greatly 
resembled her mother’s for just a moment.  I wonder if King Thranduil has ever 
noticed it, she thought fondly.  He likely had; since Queen Astalaewen’s death a 
scant two years before, the king had taken to watching his children attentively 
to see the resemblances they bore his cherished wife.  Merethen herself had 
often overheard Thranduil murmuring, “That was Aewen’s smile,” and “Mithgilhíri 
stitches with her mother’s hands,” and the like.  How dearly he misses her, the 
attendant mused with a sad smile.  How dearly do we all…

“I’m going to get Legolas for this,” Lelemir was muttering to herself, fussing 
with one long lock of hair that had slipped over her right shoulder.

Merethen arched an inquiring brow.  “What, pray tell, does your younger brother 
have to do with a squirrel in your room?” she asked.

“It’s his squirrel,” the princess answered with an annoyed frown.  “He and his 
stupid friends have been catching squirrels for weeks and keeping them in cages. 
 He must have let that one into my room on purpose, just to scare me!”

The elder Elf had to admit to herself that it sounded like just the sort of 
prank Greenwood’s youngest prince had become infamous for.  Nonetheless, she 
responded, “Are you sure it was Legolas, Lelemir?  The squirrel could have 
gotten in through a window and ended up in your room accidentally.”

Lelemir stared at Merethen as though the attendant had grown four extra arms.  
“Of course it was him, Merethen,” she said plainly.  “Why else did he get up so 
early this morning and leave for Car an Neled?”

Merethen paused.  Car an Neled, the House for Three, was the tree house that 
Legolas and his friends most often retreated to when they had either committed 
some mischief or were planning on doing so.  “How do you know he got up and went 
there?” she asked.  “You were asleep.”

“Brethil’s big mouth woke me up for a few minutes when he and Tavor came to meet 
Legolas in his room,” the little princess replied crossly.  “I could hear them 
outside my door.  Brethil was talking about the food he and Tavor managed to get 
from the kitchen when Galion wasn’t looking, and about how they were going to 
have a breakfast picnic in their tree house instead of coming to the table.”

“Without asking?” Merethen murmured, shaking her head.  The young prince was 
quite the worrisome scamp, at times.  Especially when his father isn’t here to 
reprimand him straight away!

“Brethil said he’d left a note in the kitchen for Galion, telling him where they 
were going,” Lelemir continued, grinning in spite of herself.  “Legolas wasn’t 
very happy about that.  He said something about Master Tanglinna finding them.”

“He did, did he?” thrummed a sudden voice above the princess and the kneeling 
attendant.

Merethen looked up, startled, and saw the Master Archer himself looming over 
them.  The Elf maiden stood hastily and gave a slight bow.  “Good morning, 
Master Tanglinna,” she said, somewhat flustered to have been caught unawares so 
easily.

“Good morning, Lady Merethen,” Tanglinna replied, his silvery gaze flicking from 
the dark-haired attendant to the golden-haired princess in short order.  “And 
good morning to you, tithen cwen.  Forgive my interruption, but I believe I 
overheard you saying that Legolas has gone to Car an Neled?”

Lelemir stared up at the tall Master Archer with the gravest expression she 
could muster.  Whereas Legolas and his friends were utterly intimidated by 
Tanglinna, the little princess had somehow landed herself permanently in the 
archer’s good graces, and she knew it very well.  “Yes, Master Tanglinna,” she 
answered, nodding.  Her voice was full of innocuous charm, but Merethen thought 
she saw a smirk flickering around the edges of the little girl’s lips.  “Is he 
in trouble again?” 

Tanglinna quirked one expressive brow.  “Why do you think that, nin cwen?”

“He left a squirrel in my room,” Lelemir told him indignantly, pointing down the 
hallway toward the scene of the crime.  “It got caught in my hair!  Did he leave 
one in your room, too?”

“Lelemir,” Merethen chided, “even Legolas knows far better than to do such a 
thing.”  She glanced at Tanglinna’s face, and the scowl she read in his features 
effectively halted that line of thinking.  The attendant’s eyes widened.  “Oh, 
no,” she breathed.  “He did.”

“Fifteen squirrels, to be precise,” Tanglinna ground out.  “I believe your 
squirrel is one of the escapees from my room, tithen cwen.”  He glanced down the 
length of