More Than An Archer 
Author: Katharine the Great  
katharinethegreatlady@hotmail.com
G  - General 


This is a gift with a pretty green ribbon for both TreeHugger and JastaElf, but 
everyone is welcome to enjoy it!  Be aware that I have taken some liberties in 
this piece—some larger than others—but I hope and pray those two fine ladies are 
pleased with the results.  Standard disclaimers, etc. can be found at the end.


And so, without, further ado…

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

Many, many years ago…

There were times when Legolas truly wished he could melt into an inconspicuous 
puddle on the floor.  If he could but accomplish that single miracle, he would 
save himself much grief and indignity, not to mention the dreadful glares of his 
elders.  Unfortunately, the Elfling often found himself trapped within his own 
slight frame, forced to cope with whatever new foible his overactive mind had 
chanced upon.

Foibles such as sprinting through the palace halls at top velocity.  True, Tavor 
had been the one to trip Legolas in the kitchen, causing the princeling to 
stumble rather ungracefully into a rack of drying deer meat.  True also, Brethil 
had been the one to then embark upon a giggly monologue concerning the glowering 
Legolas’ royal poise, and how it would doubtless improve with time, and how he 
would certainly attain his father’s grace of movement when he was older, and on 
and on until he was told to shut up!  These things had not been of Legolas’ 
doing, not at all…but he had been the one to challenge the other two to a 
complicated race through the palace, his wounded pride demanding that he show 
his friends exactly how nimble he could be.

Legolas heard Tavor and Brethil behind him, choking on hiccupped gasps for air; 
their mad dash through the corridors had stolen their breath, but they were 
obviously trying not to draw attention to themselves by openly wheezing.  The 
young prince would have glared at them for the lack of support, but he was too 
busy staring up in abject horror at the unsmiling Elf he had slammed into.  

Master Archer Tanglinna looked most irritated.  On any other Elf, the expression 
would have been mildly reproachful, and would likely have elicited a swift 
apology from the three Elflings.  On the Master Archer, however, irritation 
looked akin to the glare of a wheeling hawk as it considered which of its 
victims it was going to rend to pieces first.  He did not speak for several long 
moments, during which Legolas’ lips remained ajar in dismay, quivering with 
silent apologies that did not quite erupt into actual speech.  

Finally, Tanglinna broke the taut silence.  “Nin caun…you are running through 
the palace.”

Legolas nearly choked at the elder Elf’s frigid tone.  “Y-yes, Master 
Tanglinna,” he managed.

The Master Archer’s silveron eyes narrowed fractionally.  “Why?”

That simple, monosyllabic query annihilated any excuses the princeling might 
have concocted, much as a flaming arrow would instantaneously raze a spider’s 
delicate web.  His silent and traitorous friends forgotten, Legolas stuttered 
out, “I-I do not know, Master Tanglinna.”

He knew the response was a mistake the moment it left his lips.  Tanglinna’s 
scowl deepened.  “Surely you do not imply that you run without cause, nin caun. 
 There is a cause for everything, and to claim otherwise is to attempt deception 
of one’s self…or others.”

The last phrase was delivered with a particularly sharp inflection, and Legolas’ 
mouth fell open again at the prospect of being caught deceiving Tanglinna, 
whether intentionally or no.  His tongue suddenly loosened.  “No, Master 
Tanglinna, I do not wish that!  I…I was racing Tavor and Brethil.”

The princeling was mildly gratified when the Master Archer’s glare swung to 
regard the other two Elflings, and Brethil’s muffled gasp almost brought a grin 
to Legolas’ face.  But his satisfaction was short-lived, for Tanglinna swiftly 
brought his gaze back to regard his first objective.  “Your Adar has told you 
quite plainly that he does not approve of your running throughout the palace 
halls, has he not?” Tanglinna asked sternly.

“Yes, Master Tanglinna, he has,” Legolas replied, trying to keep the misery from 
seeping into his voice.  He just knew that the Master Archer was going to tell 
Ada about this, and then would come the real discipline.  Even that, however, 
was not nearly so disheartening as was the look of disapproval the princeling 
anticipated receiving from his adored father.

Tanglinna’s ash-hued eyes remained inscrutable.  “And you are well aware of his 
reason for establishing that rule, are you not?”

Legolas let his chin dip forward, unwilling to look up at his accoster any 
longer.  A curtain of golden strands fell between his face and Tanglinna’s 
stare—testimony to his flight through the halls, for the strands were indeed his 
own fine locks, worked loose from their strict braid by the strenuous activity. 
 “Yes, Master Tanglinna,” he said softly.  “Ada does not want me to bump into 
someone in the halls.”

“Precisely.”  The Master Archer gracefully folded his long frame for a moment as 
he stooped to retrieve a doeskin satchel from where it had fallen to the 
floor—jarred from his fingers by the force of his collision with the sprinting 
Legolas, as the prince belatedly realized—then straightened up once more and 
fixed all three Elflings with a stern gaze.  “You are all fortunate that this 
sack does not contain any fragile objects that might have been broken as a 
result of your carelessness.”

Brethil finally broke his stunned silence.  “What is in the bag, Master 
Tanglinna?”

Legolas almost groaned.  Shut up, Brethil, he thought in dismay.  Now was not 
the time to be asking questions!

Tanglinna pinioned Brethil with a sharp glance.  “That is not for you to know.  
It is sufficient to say that if anything inside has, in fact, taken damage, you 
will not like what I will do to you.”

Brethil responded with an audible gulping sound, as though the young Elf was 
forcibly swallowing any replies that sprang to mind.  Legolas lifted his head 
and looked up at Tanglinna once more.  “We are very sorry, Master Tanglinna.  
Truly, we are.”

“We won’t do it again,” Tavor added quickly.

A characteristically dubious harrumph rumbled deep in the Master Archer’s chest. 
 “I sincerely doubt that, Tavor, but your prince’s apology is noted.”  The 
silvery glare fell on Legolas again.  “That is why, nin caun, you shall have the 
honor of leading your accomplices to the stables, where you will all assist 
Anaglir and his fellows in their task of cleaning out the horses’ stalls and 
paddock.”

Legolas choked on a groan; cleaning the stables was a prolonged, dirty, smelly 
chore, one that would occupy the entire day.  He mustered up a steady—albeit 
resigned—voice, and replied, “Yes, Master Tanglinna.”     

“Be assured, younglings, I will ask Anaglir about your diligence today,” 
Tanglinna warned them.  “If he gives a favorable account, Legolas, I may 
consider not mentioning this to your Adar.”

The princeling immediately brightened.  “Yes, Master Tanglinna!” he answered, 
much more enthusiastically than before.  “I will work very hard, I promise!”

The Master Archer gave a curt nod.  “See that you all do.  I shall expect you 
tomorrow at archery practice.”  With those words, he strode past them all and 
continued down the corridor, doeskin bag in hand, and disappeared ‘round a 
corner.

Legolas let out a breath and went to join his two friends.  Having somewhat 
recovered from the bout with Tanglinna, Brethil and Tavor were beginning to look 
supremely unhappy with their punishment.  “Nicely handled, Legolas,” Tavor 
muttered, wary of Tanglinna’s sharp ears.

“Yes, this wasn’t even our idea, but now we’re in trouble for it,” Brethil added 
glumly.  “All Tavor did was trip you, and all I did was tell you that you’d get 
less clumsy when you got older, but you’re the one who dared us to race you.  
Tavor, I don’t know why we listen to him.  He’s always getting us into trouble 
with his ideas, like the time when he suggested we all sneak into my sister’s 
room and put a bundle of weeds in her bed so she’d think there was a spider 
under the blankets, or the time when—”

“Best be off, younglings!” came Tanglinna’s voice, echoing down the hallway with 
darksome cheer.

Brethil’s eyes widened, and his lips clamped shut.  The three Elflings edged 
down the corridor, in the opposite direction from the hall into which the Master 
Archer had veered.  “Come on,” Legolas whispered, glancing cagily down the hall, 
“let’s go before Old Sourpuss finds more chores for us to do.”

Brethil stared at Legolas in shock, amazed at the prince’s impudent moniker for 
the stern Master Archer.  Tavor clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his 
giggles.  “I wonder what was in that bag,” he whispered back.  “He seemed 
awfully fond of it, whatever it was.”

“We’ll probably never know,” Legolas sighed.  “Well, we’d better get to the 
stables.  I want to make sure Anaglir gives Tanglinna a good report.”



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

Many, many years later…

Legolas was still snickering as he closed the door to his room.  The joke Egla 
Ash—or rather, Elu Heneb, as he was rightly called—had just related echoed in 
the prince’s ears, prompting renewed chuckles.  A dwarf and a tree stump walking 
into a tavern…how utterly absurd!  The blue-eyed Orc had crafted the comical 
tale himself after much consideration, and had but newly presented it to 
Legolas, Tavor, and a smattering of other warriors for their appreciation.  The 
joke had been met with peals of laughter, much to Elu Heneb’s delight.  Legolas 
smiled to think of his friend’s pleased grin.  Ah, my friend, ‘tis good to see 
you smile.  Elu was, at times, far too serious for his own good.

The prince stretched his long arms above his head, groaning as the muscles in 
his shoulders twinged refreshingly.  He had spent the entire day at the archery 
range, helping some of the younger warriors to fine-tune their bowmanship; they 
were slated to join the Guardians at the borders before long, and were in the 
final phase of their training.  Normally, the task of overseeing the young 
warriors’ last formal session would have fallen to the Master Archer of the 
realm.

But our Master Archer is dead, Legolas thought, his eyes stinging with sudden 
remembrance.  Tall and lean and stern, with eyes and hair of purest silver, 
Master Archer Tanglinna had discipled hundreds upon hundreds of younglings in 
his time—a time which stretched back to the days of Oropher’s reign, when 
Thranduil himself had been but a youngling under his tutelage.  Many a hale 
warrior of the Woodland Realm owed his skill—and therefore his life, in many 
instances—to Tanglinna’s patient instruction.  

Legolas remembered his own experiences with the elder Elf: the minutes spent 
watching the Master Archer’s slender fingers as he demonstrated the proper way 
to go about the various tasks of bowmanship, followed by the many days of trying 
to perfect that skill, all the while receiving brisk correction when he erred, 
and reserved grunts of acknowledgement when he achieved success.  Yet for all of 
his curt manner and unyielding strictness, Tanglinna had been the best of 
teachers, and none who had benefited from his guidance would ever have dared 
begrudge him his severity.

With the shocking finality that accompanied all such occurrences, however, the 
Master Archer had been slain at Beleg Doron while fending a massive assault by a 
raiding band of Orcs.  Legolas stood still for several minutes, his eyes 
slipping shut with sorrowed memory.  He had been the first to come upon the 
horrific scene that night.  The great oak tree had shuddered and wept over the 
three Elven warriors lying dead beneath its boughs.  Legolas well remembered 
their pale faces, bathed in moonlight so intense it stabbed his eyes, the fair 
skin awash with the incarnadine evidence of mortal injury.  Meren, the youngest 
of them, crumpled with long limbs askew, his oft-smiling lips parted in a 
ghastly expression of pain and dismay.  Slightly to his left, punched through 
with a hideous assortment of black-feathered shafts, Tanglinna had lain 
frighteningly still and limp, his grand longbow wrecked beneath foul Orc feet, 
silver tresses pooled around his frozen visage.

And Brethil… Legolas could not entirely quell the sob that crept into his throat 
at the thought of his dear friend.  Chatty, rambling Brethil, whose long-winded 
monologues had at once entertained and annoyed his companions.  Lying slumped 
against the shivering oak tree, still clutching his knife in a white-knuckled 
grip, his last breaths delivering mouthfuls of his lifeblood around words of 
farewell… Legolas felt a great heaving pain in his gut, and he stumbled to his 
bed, falling heavily to sit on its edge, breathing hard to forestall the 
grief-induced nausea.  He had not quite processed the reality of his friend’s 
death, not really.  Neither had Tavor, the third component of their triune 
friendship—which had been so heavily entrenched in mischief during their 
youngling days, in fact, that they had earned themselves the moniker Tricksy 
Trio.  At odd times, either one of the surviving remnants of that small union 
would bow his head and succumb to a few moments of grief on behalf of their 
slain friend.

I don’t suppose it’ll ever seem real, Legolas mused sadly.  Soon after the 
remembrance rites, he had asked his father whether the pain would ease with 
time, for Thranduil had known much loss in his long life.  The Elvenking had 
given a soft, sad sigh, and in his green eyes lurked a deep sorrow; he had known 
Tanglinna since his own long-past youth, and the Master Archer’s death had 
struck him to the heart.  “The pain will never wholly depart, nin iôn,” he had 
replied, “but in time, it will quiet.  Grieve for them, but do not allow your 
sorrow to sour unto bitterness.  Rather, let it run its course, and then lay it 
to rest in the still places of your mind, where it may whisper words of wisdom, 
but will not plague you so.”

Legolas rubbed at his eyes with knotted hands, trying to avert the onset of 
tears.  Already there was a mist across his vision, and his knuckles came away 
from their task suspiciously moist.  The prince sighed, suddenly weary.  Perhaps 
grief is a more taxing business than warfare, he thought.  He lifted his deft 
fingers to the warrior braid tucked behind his right ear, intending to untwine 
the golden strands in preparation for his rest.  

Even as he did so, however, Legolas noticed the object sitting neatly in the 
center of his bed.  He had not seen it before now, due to his distraction.  He 
frowned slightly, abandoning his braid for the moment, and reached out to pull 
the object into his lap for closer inspection.  It was a bag, a satchel of some 
sort, made of well-worn deer hide.  Legolas’ frown deepened, for the bag seemed 
distantly familiar to him, but he could not remember where he might have seen 
it.  A small note lay atop it; the scrap of parchment was marked quite clearly 
with Thranduil’s bold, sweeping lettering.  It read: My little Greenleaf, 
Tanglinna once told me that if he passed into Mandos’ halls without forewarning, 
he wished you to have this.  Ada.

The note was not especially spectacular; it was straightforward and succinct, 
but undeniably affectionate—the exact representation of his father.  Legolas 
caught the distinct scent of brown leaves drying in the sun, and he smiled 
faintly; that warm, earthen fragrance had comforted him many a time as a child. 
 He laid the note aside then, and turned his attention to the bag resting on his 
legs.

It, too, was plain to the eyes, with no adornments or identifying markings.  A 
familiar smell rose from its soft, worn surface, and Legolas frowned again as he 
tried to place it.  Almost…almost like the feathered breast of one of my 
father’s hunting hawks, he decided.  He clearly remembered a time in his youth 
when he had been permitted to stroke one particular hawk’s dappled feathers as 
it perched on his father’s arm.  The prince had often admired the majestic birds 
when he was young, and he still retained a great love for their grace and 
beauty.  

It suddenly struck Legolas that the scent of a hawk was hauntingly appropriate 
for the slain Master Archer, and he wondered that he had never consciously 
noticed it before, during his innumerable encounters with the yet-living 
Tanglinna.  I was always too busy trying not to get myself into trouble, Legolas 
thought wryly.  How did he manage to restrain himself from feeding me to a 
convenient spider?

The satchel lay in his lap, silently drawing him from his musings and plucking 
at his curiosity.  Tanglinna had wanted him to have something if he died?  
Incredulity and interest served to disperse the twinges of painful memory, and 
Legolas carefully laid the bag on the bed beside him, then opened it and began 
to hesitantly, almost reverently, draw the contents out.

A wide, flat plank of oak, smooth and stained a deep reddish-brown hue.  
Delicate runes scrolled along the edges of one side.  A lovely piece of 
craftsmanship, but Legolas had no idea what it was supposed to be.  He placed it 
carefully on the bed, then turned back to the satchel.

Five moderately sized containers of ink: red, yellow, green, blue, and black.  
Each was sealed tightly and labeled with small, neat letters.  Tanglinna’s 
writing? Legolas wondered as he placed them on the coverlet alongside the 
inexplicable oak plank.

A long, slender stylus with a sharp end.  

A sheaf of blank parchments contained within a clever sheathe made of treated 
birch bark.

And finally, another like birch-sheathe, one that contained parchments with 
markings on them.  Legolas could see the shadowy forms of ink-sketches, but he 
could not quite make out what they were without removing them from the sheathe. 
 He hesitated for a moment.  Tanglinna left this to me, so I suppose he wanted 
me to see what was inside, he concluded.

With that thought, the prince shifted about, swinging his long legs up to fold 
them on the bed, so that his back was to the satchel and the birch-sheathe 
rested in his lap.  Then, with great care, he released the small fastenings on 
the sheathe and opened it.  

A gasp of pure wonder fled his lips, for there, on the topmost parchment, was 
the most exquisite ink rendering of an eagle in flight that he had ever seen.  
Its pinions were splayed wide, as though caught by a draft of wind, and its beak 
gaped in a triumphant bellow.  The sketch was primarily wrought in the black 
ink, but the eyes were highlighted in green, and the feathers were edged in dark 
yellow.  And in the lower right-hand corner, printed in the same small letters 
as were present on the ink jars, was the name Tanglinna.

Legolas stared down at the sketch, his own mouth agape.  “Tanglinna made this?” 
he asked aloud.  The concept clashed violently with the impression he had always 
had; the stern, demanding, oft-humorless Master Archer, whose aim was deadly and 
whose words were sharper than the arrows he bore.  But, evidently, that same 
Master Archer had produced the delicate and lovely illustration lying in 
Legolas’ lap.  

Still in shock, not quite able to rectify the incongruous notions, the prince 
tenderly drew the topmost sketch aside to reveal the one beneath it.  The second 
was no less breathtaking than the first.  It was a depiction of a lissom falcon 
just taking flight, its graceful head held high, tapered wings outstretched as 
it fled the earth beneath its feet.  Its feathers were only lightly shaded with 
the black ink, but its eyes had been rendered in blue.  Legolas gazed at the 
stunning image for several long moments, his lips tugging upwards in a smile of 
pleased wonder; he was beginning to accept this newly-discovered, utterly 
foreign facet of the Master Archer he had known for so long.  Tanglinna, you old 
fox, why didn’t you ever let anyone know? he thought, with a hint of fondness 
lacing his melancholy.  Eagerly—but with great care—he set the first image on 
the bed beside him, and placed the second atop it, so that the third sketch came 
into view.

Three squirrels with black eyes and tousled tails, one of whom was perched atop 
a collection of oak leaves and twigs, stared up from the parchment.  Legolas 
grinned widely at the expressions on the little animals’ faces; though they 
resembled each other in color and build, each was gifted with a different 
“mood.”  The fourth illustration was a gray-backed deer, a nimble creature, with 
fleet foot and soft pelt.  Its huge eyes almost seemed to glitter in the 
lamplight, so acutely was it rendered.  The fifth depicted a jet-black panther 
slinking through the trees, its bright eyes gleaming as it scoured the forest 
for evidence of prey.

Legolas continued to make his way down through the stack of sketches.  There 
were birds, beasts, insects, and trees of every kind imaginable, each 
intricately detailed and only lightly laced with color, if at all.  There was 
even a depiction of the great enchanted doors at the forefront of Thranduil’s 
palace.  The prince felt his heart swelling more with each new illustration he 
studied.  Never had he imagined that anything so utterly exquisite could spring 
from Old Sourpuss’ fingertips.  The epithet of times past elicited a soft laugh 
from the young Elf.  

Of a sudden, his eyes widened, and he drew in a sharp breath.  “Old Sourpuss,” 
he whispered.  He remembered the first time he had used that name.  He had been 
very young then, as he recalled, and he had smacked straight into Tanglinna 
after inappropriately sprinting through his father’s halls.  And I made him drop 
a bag…this bag, Legolas remembered with some shock, glancing back at the satchel 
lying emptied on the bed behind him.  He was on his way to sketch something, or 
maybe had just finished one.  The prince gazed at the pile of illustrations 
beside him, then down at the ones yet in his lap.  I wonder which one he did 
that day…

At length, he reached the last parchment.  It was similar to several other ones 
in the stack: a small bird with wings tinged yellow, perched among a collection 
of oak leaves and twigs.  Its head was tilted to the side curiously, and the 
expression on its face was almost comical in its sweetness.  Almost too 
innocent, Legolas thought dryly.  He caught sight then of a small inscription 
inked near the top of the page, in the right-hand corner.  It read, The 
Greenwood’s most inquisitive little golden bird.  

Legolas’ brows knitted.  “Little golden bird?” he asked aloud.  It was an odd 
choice of phrasing.  That was the nickname Thranduil had used for his youngest 
son since the day of his birth; too, none of the other illustrations had 
featured titles at all.  Why did he name this one “little golden bird”?

Then, abruptly, realization struck.  “It’s me,” Legolas breathed, casting an 
astonished gaze down at the sketch.  “This is me…”  He swiftly gathered up the 
other illustrations and began to look through them once more, plucking out the 
ones with similar yellow-tinged birds.  There were four in the stack, and each 
time the golden bird appeared, it was nestled amongst oak leaves—the same leaves 
that comprised the royal sigil of Mirkwood.

The prince’s eyes burned with tears.  He hastily brushed them away lest any 
should fall to the parchments and blur the ink.  Tanglinna probably had them 
treated so they would endure the years, but still…  Oh, Tanglinna, Legolas 
thought, awed and deeply honored, trying to choke back additional tears.  It was 
overwhelming, to find that the Master Archer had chosen to render his impression 
of the Greenwood’s youngest princeling in such a breathtakingly beautiful 
manner.  

The prince took several moments to collect himself.  He looked back to the stack 
in his lap.  If the golden birds are me, then perhaps the rest of them are also 
representations of people, he reasoned.  He began to sift through the 
illustrations, contemplating each one carefully.

The first sketch he had seen—the golden eagle with green eyes—had to be his 
father, King Thranduil.  Foremost in the birch-sheathe, majestic and imposing, 
the illustration suited none better.  Legolas pulled it out and regarded it 
lovingly.  I wonder if you knew how Tanglinna saw you, Ada? he thought.  A 
bellowing eagle, indeed!  He gave a slight chuckle at the notion.

The picture filed just after the eagle was the next to capture the prince’s 
attention.  The graceful falcon of blue eyes and lithe wings, so fluid in form 
that it seemed ready to slip from the parchment and take flight.  Naneth, 
Legolas recognized almost immediately, his heart clawing at his ribs as he took 
in the image.  His mother, Lúthiel, the Lady of Greenwood, who had been slain 
ages past.  He sat quietly for several long moments, studying the lovely 
depiction of the Queen; he had been very young when she had died, and his 
memories were vague.  Tanglinna’s artistry, however, preserved much of Lúthiel’s 
beauty and poise.  Legolas had never been more grateful in all his life.  Oh, 
Tanglinna, if only you yet lived, and I could thank you for this gift!

He continued to sort through the parchments, guessing at the Master Archer’s 
perceptions of different people.  The sable panther was almost certainly Saeros 
the Tracker, an Elf so ancient that few could rightly remember his ancestry 
without consulting equally ancient texts.  Legolas rarely saw the Tracker; the 
most recent occasion, in fact, had been at the remembrance rite for Tanglinna.  
Saeros and his lovely mate, Tuilinal, had faded out of the shadows to stand near 
their king as he intoned the long-established words of memorial.  The two had 
appeared but manifestations of the night itself, their raven locks glinting blue 
in the starlight, lean faces drawn with quiet sadness, dark eyes bottomless 
wells of memory.  Legolas sighed, both at the memory and at the depiction he now 
held.  The great ebon-hued cat, sleek and dangerous and darkly beautiful, was 
indeed an exact likeness of Saeros.  

Others, however, were less clear.  Was the trumpeting male swan intended to 
represent Lord Tinuvîl, Queen Lúthiel’s proudly vociferous brother?  Could the 
red-tinged fox be Meneliell, the brave warrior maiden wed to Legolas’ friend 
Lindir?  And was the stately night-hued hawk Lord Elrond of Imladris, or perhaps 
one of the solemn Elves from Thranduil’s court?  So many to choose from, Legolas 
thought, shaking his head.  He rather suspected that the nimble-fingered raccoon 
corresponded to dark-eyed Ascarion, the finest fletcher in all of Mirkwood, 
whose deft hands wrought arrows of unrivaled excellence for the royal family.  
Too, he could easily connect the cheerful yellow-throated warbler with Master 
Huntsman Curulin, who was apt to break into the silliest songs at times.

The sketch of the three squirrels came into view once again, and Legolas gazed 
long on it, slowly piecing together the clues therein as to who they 
represented.  One was seated amid an assortment of oak leaves, just as the 
golden birds had been—perhaps it, too, is me, the prince thought.  The other two 
occupied the space to the Legolas-squirrel’s right; one was sitting with its 
mouth wide open, tail curled into a nervous S-curve, and the other’s furred 
chest was thrust outwards as though bursting with pride.  Brethil and Tavor, 
Legolas realized, beginning to chuckle gleefully.  Tanglinna drew the Tricksy 
Trio quite cleverly!  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he was 
delighted by the depiction.  How like these three twitchy little squirrels we 
must have seemed!

Legolas noticed then that his entire bedspread was completely covered by the 
sketches; in the course of his deliberation, he had spread them out so that each 
one was at least partially visible.  His mirth trickled away, leaving only 
quiet, solemn contemplation in its place.  A familiar image of Tanglinna sprang 
to mind—familiar, because it was the way the prince had most often envisioned 
the Master Archer.  He was standing, silent and alone, in the clear grassy area 
before Thranduil’s gates.  The sky above was a black expanse filled with cold, 
glittering stars, and the scene was washed white and indigo with the Moon’s 
radiance.  Legolas let his eyes fall shut in order to recall the memory more 
vividly.  It was the evening of the first anniversary of Lúthiel’s death, and 
Tanglinna was keeping dark vigil before the gates in voiceless commemoration.  
The prince’s heart throbbed painfully as he remembered how the Master Archer had 
seemed an immovable seneschal that night; silver tresses caught in a light 
breeze, feet planted in the damp grass, strong arms folded, longbow cradled 
against his chest.  Legolas had not been able to see Tanglinna’s face, but he 
always shivered to think what expression the elder Elf might have worn that 
night as he waited for his slain Queen’s return.  

You were so much more than an archer, Legolas thought, opening wet eyes to gaze 
once more at the sketches strewn across his bed.  You were a guardian.  The 
prince flicked a glance up at the ceiling, as though expecting to see the Master 
Archer’s spirit floating above him, keeping watch even after his death.  

I miss you.  The words came unbidden to his mind, and Legolas hoped that by some 
miracle, Tanglinna could hear him.  Thank you for sharing this with me.  And 
with a quirky grin, he added, Old Sourpuss.

He could almost feel Tanglinna’s answering glare.

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

Props and acknowledgements: Obviously, most of the material in More Than An 
Archer does not belong to me; I’ve just borrowed it for the purposes of this 
small homage-fic.  Madame TreeHugger owns all rights to: Master Archer 
Tanglinna, the Tricksy Trio—including Brethil and Tavor, “Old Sourpuss,” Egla 
Ash/Elu Heneb, Mirkwood’s archery range (“Faster, Brethil!” ^_^), Beleg Doron, 
Meneliell, and Lindir.  Madame JastaElf owns all rights to: Thranduil’s stables 
(she mentioned his taste in horses in “Dark Leaf”), “little golden bird,” the 
oak-leaf sigil of Mirkwood, Queen Lúthiel, Saeros the Tracker, Tuilinal, Lord 
Tinuvîl, and Ascarion the fletcher.  Allow me to express my deepest love and 
admiration for each and every one of the characters mentioned above; I adore 
them all!  



Also, I included Curulin the Master Huntsman.  He is the only character in this 
piece that does not technically belong to either Tree or Jasta, but I added him 
in because he plays a part in the upcoming story being co-authored by Tree and 
I, and I consider him to be somewhat “co-owned.”  Forgive my mild audacity at 
including him in the roster!  ^_~



Oh, and by the way, I don’t own Legolas, Thranduil, Mirkwood, Elrond, or 
anything/anyone else from Master Tolkien’s original universe.  The Great Man has 
total rights to all of it.  *Pouts*  Although I’d be happy to take Thranduil off 
his hands once in a while…or Elrond…or Celeborn… ^_~



Finally, a huge thank-you goes out to Madames TreeHugger and JastaElf 
themselves; you both inspire me to attempt “Greatness.”  I sincerely hope you 
got a kick out of this piece!  ^_^