Author's Note

Okee, well. What to say? I’ve written and rewritten this story more times than I can count. I almost finished it last Christmas, but all sorts of things happened so I had to drop it, and before I could continue it, instead of doing so I rewrote it… again. Oh well. I think it’s better now than it has been before, and I like these chapters so much that I don't think I'll ever want to re-write them. ~-* So here you are! My story. It’s mostly my take on the culture and lifestyle of elves in Mirkwood, which I find rather interesting. I mean, these elves cannot possibly spend their whole times idly drinking wine and hunting. They must have a bit of excitement now and again, eh? I thought that I could best describe the every-day life of a wood-elf using OCs, so that’s what I did – I hope they're not so unstomachable, and I'm hoping that I am doing Tolkien some justice at least. I can't exactly trust myself to write a fanfiction completely of Original characters and do it well, though I have done it before. I probably made a lot of mistakes, if not in spelling, then in some sort of details that I forgot or never knew of in the first place. If I did, or do, please, feel free to leave a critical review or email me. Well… I hope you enjoy my story, and I'll stop blathering needlessly now! ^^ Ta!

Prologue

That day remained forever etched in Neldor's memory as one of sadness, though there was really nothing wrong with the day in and of itself. It had been a rather chilly morning, in the early autumn. The sky could be glimpsed past the dense canopy, still in the gray hues of dawn. Only a few birds dared to interrupt the heavy silence that had fallen upon the great forest of Mirkwood, as if they were aware of the grief that came in accompaniment with the day for the members of one small elven family. Their tunes had been mournful, as if they were trying to show their sympathy to the heavy hearts present within their midst. He remembered the look on her face: the face of Arlass, the wife of his brother. At one time, the slender young maiden had been one of the most cheerful and happy elves that he had known in his life – that was what had made Brethil, his brother, fall so madly in love with her in the first place.

Nevertheless, today her pale face was framed with her unbound, raven-black hair, and her dark brown eyes lacked the normal sparkle and luster. She was quiet, withdrawn and sad, as she had been ever since her husband was slain four weeks ago, and it broke Neldor's heart to see it. That day, especially, her expression of utter unhappiness and hopelessness struck him to the core, for he put himself to blame. His brother had died in his arms, to the arrow of an orc - one of a group that had ambushed the siblings unawares whilst they were hunting. Brethil had died within moments of receiving the blow, but Neldor could not help but think that if he had been but a little quicker, if he had done something differently - anything - he would have been able to save him, and he would have been able to spare everyone much grief and tragedy. As it was, he had failed, and now he had to bear the consequences of his deeds.

One of these consequences he held in his arms. The young elfling's arms were tossed about Neldor's neck, his small fingers clinging to the back of his uncle's tunic. Tulushall, the son of Brethil, rested his dark head wearily on Neldor's shoulder, and he gave a great yawn. The elven-boy was not accustomed to having to wake - and travel - at such an early hour. For that matter, neither was Neldor, but he cared little. He stared ahead of him, his eyes fixed upon Arlass. He and Tulushall stood in the archway of a stable, and they watched as four elves prepared horses for a journey. The elves were those of Thranduil's warriors who were willing to accompany the wife of Brethil as she rode off to the Havens, mostly friends of Brethil's who felt pity for the widowed elven maid. Arlass was speaking to one of these elves in a quiet tone, though she occasionally shot an anxious glance over her shoulder to Neldor and her son. Neldor sighed, tightening his hold on Tulushall and affectionately nuzzled the tousled locks, which were both just as dark as his mother's and his father's.

"Where are we?" the little elfling asked sleepily, fidgeting in his uncle's arms so that he could look about him a little. He had to shake his head, tossing tendrils of his still baby-soft hair out of his line of vision. He blinked blearily over his shoulder at his mother. "Nana is talking to… Who is he? I want to go home!"

"I know, Tulus," replied Neldor in a murmur, his timbre soft and sad. "We will go soon."

This seemed to satiate the young elf for the time being. He continued to gaze at his mother for a few moments, maybe debating whether to throw one of his signature tantrums and demand acquiescence to whatever his wishes were at the moment, as he was well known to do. Neldor stiffened, bracing himself for this event, but it seemed that Tulushall thought it far too early to engage in such strenuous activity, for he gave another mighty yawn - exaggerated in a way that only those of a young age could do - and snuggled down into Neldor's shoulder again. He released a small sigh of relief - though, perhaps that one tragedy would have been better received than the one that they were about to go through now. Arlass at last seemingly finished going over their plans with the head of her escort, and the dark-eyed beauty turned towards Neldor and his burden.

Neldor had taken it upon himself to see her off, for his own private feelings of remorse. He had left his wife - Tinlass, the sister of Arlass - and his own little son behind in the village, and traveled with young Tulushall and Arlass the short distance to Thranduil's halls. He did not blame Arlass for taking this last journey. Her heart had simply broken when her husband was lost so suddenly. Rather than watching her fade before them, Neldor and those who loved her would have her at last find peace - and happiness - within Valinor, and meet again with Brethil in the blessed lands if so their fate was intended. The only regretful aspect of her decision was her son. He was far too young to be given the choice to go along with his mother to Valinor. He had his whole life ahead of him - there were many wonders of Middle-Earth that Tulushall had yet to see, and Arlass would not deny them to him, though it broke her heart twice over to have to part with her child.

"We are ready," came the quiet words from the elven-woman.

Neldor could only form a faint smile - a mere twitch of his lips - in response as she looked up to him. He nodded, though would not meet her eyes - he felt that what reserve he had would break if he forced to look upon the after-effects of his failure for too long. At the sound of his mother's voice, Tulushall lifted his head again. The dark eyes sparkled sleepily, and he reached out wordlessly for his mother to take him. Arlass looked as if she wanted to cry, but took her little son as Neldor willingly relinquished the little creature. Tulushall looked mildly startled when his mother held him very tightly, stifling a small sob. Neldor watched with unshed tears in his own eyes as the slender maiden clung to her child, her white arms trembling along with the rest of her body as she held Tulushall in a veritable death-grip. The elfling's young brow was furrowed with consternation, and he held onto his mother worriedly.

"What's wrong, nana?" he asked. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

Neldor sighed - Tulushall had been told of his father's death, but the elfling had no concept of the idea. Already he had asked - several times - when his 'ada' was to return from his hunting trip… hopefully this would be a parting that he could more easily understand, though undoubtedly it will distress the child to no end. Arlass sniffled a little. She hid her face in her son's shoulder and soft black hair so that Neldor could not see, and her tone, though tremulous, was surprisingly calm considering the extent of her emotions. Neldor politely averted his eyes and his attention to something else, though he could not help but overhear the conversation between mother and son.

"Tulus… I have to go, ion-nîn."

"Go? Where are you going?"

"Do you remember the stories that your ada used to tell you of Valinor? Of Elbereth and the Valar?"

 "Yes! I can remember every one."

"Good," the maiden gave a shaky laugh. "Good, I am glad. Well, that is where I am going, Tulus - to Valinor."

"Really? Will you see Elbereth? And Manwë and Tulkas and… and…"

"Maybe. I think I will."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why are you going?"

"…I have to. You see… your ada…"

"Is he there too?"

"I - I d- yes."

"Ai! That is where he has been. Can I come too?"

Neldor inwardly winced.

"No," the mother replied quietly. "No, Tulus, you must stay here."

"Why?" The young elf demanded pitifully. "I want to come!"

"You cannot. You see, Tulus, you have to stay here. You know your little cousin? Arad? If you leave, he shall have no one to play with."

"But - but I want to go with you! I miss ada, and I don't want you t-to go!'

"Ssh. Sîdh, pen-neth. You can, someday, but for now you have to stay behind. Can you do this for me, Tulushall Brethilion? It is a very important task. You are going to have to be strong, for your uncle Neldor and your aunt and cousin - and for me and ada."

"I-I… I will be, nana."

"There is my good boy. Now, do not cry, ion-nîn! What did I tell you about being strong? All is well, little one - we shall all be together again soon."

Tulushall nodded very quickly. His eyes were tightly shut, and heavy tears were rolling off of his round cheeks, but he clung to his mother, and did not give so much as a whimper as she smoothed back his dark hair, and kissed his forehead tenderly. Neldor's heart ached, knowing the anguish she must feel. He would never be able to bid farewell to his son in such a way - he had to admire her courage, and that of Tulushall's. The elven-woman then knelt, and set her son's two feet steadily on the ground. She carefully wiped the tears from his face, and then kissed his cheek.

"Just wait one moment, ion-nîn. Let me speak to Neldor."

He simply nodded, and so Arlass rose gracefully to her feet. Neldor bit his lip as he gazed into the tear-stained face of the anguished mother. Arlass was doing her best to keep her emotions in check, though her eyes were red and she could do nothing about her tears. Yet, she did manage a shaky smile for Neldor. She stepped forward, and he carefully enfolded her in an embrace, as if he believed she would break.

"Take care of him, Neldor," she whispered brokenly, sniffling into his shoulder.

"I will," he promised in an undertone, but conviction was there. "With my life, Arlass."

"I know you will," he could sense rather than see that she was smiling. "You are a good man, Neldor. Thank you."

He shook his head, thinking himself undeserving of the thanks when it had been he who had brought them all into this unhappy situation in the first place - he who had simply let his brother and dearest friend die in his arms. "Do not thank me, my lady."

"Do not be foolish," she pulled back from him, and tossed back some of her dark locks. She smiled up at him, and this time there was sincerity in the gesture. "If it were not for you… ai, things would have been so much worse. You have been a great comfort, but do not deny any for yourself. Do not shake your head at me! You did not kill - you did not kill Brethil, my friend. The orcs did, and you then killed them. You did all you could."

He bowed his head, feeling the heat behind his eyes that spoke of encroaching tears. He closed his eyes briefly in a nod. He knew her words were true, and in time he would accept them, but he was not quite ready to just yet. "Navaer, my lady," he whispered.

"Farewell, Neldor," she replied, and then lifted herself up to kiss him chastely on the cheek. He watched morosely as she knelt beside Tulus again, and hugged him tightly to her breast. The little elf sniffed loudly, but actually seemed a bit more composed than he had been a few moments ago.

"Good-bye, my little one," Arlass breathed into his miniature pointed ear. "Be good for Neldor."

He nodded. "I will, nana. Good-bye."

She squeezed him once more, and then she stood. With a last longing look upon both Neldor and Tulushall, she turned, and walked towards the waiting escort. Neldor gathered his nephew - and newly appointed foster-son - in his arms, and the two watched tearfully as she and the warriors rode off, down a path into the forest. Neither saw Arlass again for as long as they lingered on the shores of Arda. Once she was completely out of sight, Tulushall gave a strangled whimper. He buried his face in his uncle's shoulder, shaking now and then as he suppressed his sobs, giving an extreme effort to keep his promise to his mother. Neldor closed his eyes, holding the elf comfortingly in his arms.

"It is alright, Tulus," he whispered. "You can cry."

He did.

Chapter One

Thranduil's feasts were always something to look forward to. Especially this one, which began on the first day of “firith”, or fading, the season where the leaves lost their brilliant luster and drifted quietly to the ground, blanketing the forest floor in earnest of the cold winter months ahead. If it were a good year, then Thranduil would go all out, bringing forth the best wine and provisions that they had gathered from the surrounding lands by trade. This year in particular happened to be a very good year. The morning of the feast dawned bright and crisp, the air having a chilling bite to it that warned the elves of an early winter. Yet this concerned them little, for Thranduil had plenty of stock to see them through. The elves barely even felt the effects of the coldest months of winter that could easily and very often did ravage whole mortal cities. All day the cooks worked in Thranduil's halls, preparing food of all varieties for the feast. Some of the great halls were emptied and then furnished with long tables for the elven people, while also outside great bonfires were lit for folk who wished to dine outside the halls beneath the cool night sky. By the time Anor had dipped below the horizon, the fires were roaring and the food ready for dispersal.

It was such a beautiful night! The stars were shining brightly, and the wind was brushing through the leaves of the slender birches and stately oaks. That same breeze chased the fallen leaves about, making them tumble and fall in a graceful dance. A warm, fragrant smell of autumn flowers and wine filled the clearing that night. The song of the crickets and tree-frogs and birds that dared challenge the darkness of Mirkwood sounded in the air, and shadows danced and flickered around the light of the fires that flamed in the clearing. Their embers popped high into the air, floating down gracefully and falling harmlessly upon the soft, dried grass and moss that was made ruddy in the light of the fire.

The elves had begun arriving for hours after Anor had set, and by the time Ithil lifted into the sky and loaned his silvery beams to the beauty of the night, most of the elven population had found their way to Thranduil’s feast. Some – mostly the women and the elflings and those of higher status – filed inside Thranduil’s halls, while the others who had more of a heart for boisterous laughter and real merry-making gathered around those fires, sitting upon the grass or upon old sawed tree-rings. Food and drink aplenty was passed around. Not a single face bore anything but a smile. No ill word was spoken; instead, animosity and grudges were replaced by laughter and mirth, even if it was just for the night. Minstrels sang, and storytellers found more than eager ears to listen to their tales, even more than was usual for a normal day. There was nothing forcing the elves to stay in their seats, and more than half of them were wandering about, forming groups here and there away from the fires. A few of the couples were having a merry time dancing to the music of the minstrels in a clear space, and they made a pretty spectacle with the bright colors of the maidens’ gowns and the men’s tunics and the light flashing off of their jewelry and belts.

One lone elf was meandering his way through the crowd, not very conspicuous in the mulling throng. He was clad in the bright colors his people were so fond of, having donned a dashing blue tunic, tied with a white sash about his middle. He was an elf almost full-grown – he was tall, but slender, and he had an innocent look about him as he sent an occasional beaming smile to those who hailed him. He stopped neither hither nor thither, and apparently had a distinct goal in mind. He balanced a goblet of wine precariously in one hand as he was bumped and jostled, but by the time he reached his destination he was proud to see that he had not spilled a single drop of the burgundy liquid – a favourite drink of the elves of Thranduil’s kingdom. He came to a stop near one of the roaring bonfires, for he had caught sight of a familiar face amongst the crowd.

“Mírdan!” he exclaimed. “Hello, my lord!”

An elf – who had previously been sitting alone on a log by the said fire – turned quickly to smile on the elf. It was not very easy to discern the age of an elf, but one could tell after a glance that this one was a great deal older than the other. Nevertheless, he stood, and they greeted each other as friends.

“Mae govannen, Tulushall,” replied Mírdan, clasping his hand amiably. “I was wondering when I would see you.”

“I only just arrived,” the younger elf announced with a sheepish grin, speaking loud enough to be heard over the noise of the avidly conversational elves and the music. “I returned late from my hunt. Do you happen to know where Neldor or Tinlass might be?”

He cast a cursory glance around him, as if hoping that he would see said persons somewhere nearby, and when this turned up unavailing he turned an eye hopefully on the blacksmith. For Mírdan was a blacksmith, as his title suggested. He was a very brawny elf, and as usual the younger elf felt a bit dwarfed as he stood beside him, if one wanted to use the irony of using the word ‘dwarf’ to describe an elf.

“They went off to dance some time ago,” Mírdan replied with a highly amused look. “I have not seen them since.”

“Ah,” Tulushall replied, only slightly disappointed. “And…”

“Gîlarad and Finglas are off at the training grounds,” informed the older elf, almost automatically. He took a seat again on the old sawn log by the fire, and with a smile he motioned for Tulushall to be off. “The archery contest should be done with soon. They left to watch nigh-on half an hour ago.”

“Thank you. If you could, tell Neldor I am about.”

“I will do that. Have fun.”

Tulushall nodded. He averted his eyes to the crowd as he lifted his goblet to his lips, taking a deep draught of the heady drink. He sent Mírdan one last flashing smile before turning about to dash into the crowd. The grounds on which the feast was being held were sprawled out before Thranduil’s halls, very near Mírdan’s forge and the stables from which Tulushall’s mother had ridden long ago. The grounds that were reserved for use of the warriors of Mrikwood lay abreast of these. He made good time reaching them, but he was distracted along the way. There were many things to see. There were elves who visited from surrounding lands and were welcomed into the feast, who brought with them things they were trading with the elves of Thranduil's people. There were elves who had mock-wrestling competitions amongst each other, and their cheering spectators. There were elves who were telling stories and had quite an audience. After getting past all this, the elf eventually reached the training grounds. As Mírdan had claimed, an archery competition was currently being held. It was led by an elf Tulushall recognized. He was Magorlinn, one of Thranduil's chief warriors. He trained most of the young warriors who wanted to join the king's ranks.

He edged his way through the spectators to come close enough to watch the archers as they tested each other's skill. Archery was a sport well respected in the elven community, and a very competitive one indeed. Tulushall could even see Thranduil's son standing to the side with the other warriors who were not competing yet, and was pleased. It was always a treat to see him shoot – he was one of the best archers in Mirkwood.

“Tulus!” a voice suddenly hailed him from not far away. He looked about, and his dark eyes fell on a blonde head that stuck out from the crowd. The elf lifted a hand to wave at him. He was the distance of a few bodies down the line forming near the smooth rail that separated the two fields, near the end. Smiling, Tulushall bumped and jostled his way to him. This elf was Gîlarad, his cousin. There could not be a more unlikely pair than those two. Tulushall’s cousin was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and as light of mood as he was – well, not. The practice field was rather long. Tulushall found that he and his cousin were very near the targets, which were situated upon one end of the field. The archers were on the other side. Immediately upon seeing him, Gîlarad demanded in a not so unfriendly tone, “Where were you?”

“Just got back,” the darker of the two replied, vaguely, as he sipped from his wine again. “Is it over?”

“Nay,” a voice other than Gîlarad’s answered for him, coming from an elf that stood on his other side. He was a companion of theirs – he matched Tulushall’s appearance more closely than his own blood-relative. He smiled brightly at Tulushall when he caught sight of him. “There are just a few rounds left, though.”

“Good,” Tulushall said, and he leaned forward the better to see this third elf. “Finglas, your father bade me tell you he wants a word when you next meet.”

“Ah.”

There was not much more opportunity for conversation. They next round was about to start, and they paid attention to what was happening. It was an art, a dance - such grace the archer put into his work! He himself seemed graceful. The build of an archer varied, from the young, small and slender, to the wizened and the strongly built veterans of old, but they all had the same look of a careful, articulate creature. A strong arm held up the graceful longbow. Long, dexterous fingers withdrew a slender arrow from its quiver, and knocked it to the bowstring, drawing it back with lightning speed. Then it seemed with hardly any concentration whatever, they had let their arrow fly with amazing accuracy. Tulushall was held spellbound as he watched the elves. He leaned against the rail that separated the training grounds from where the spectators stood, intent upon watching. The elves around him laughed and cheered on their favorites. Five arrows thudded into the five targets, most hitting close to the direct center, and then Magorlinn walked up to inspect them. There was silence as he walked up and down the row, carefully looking at each one. He stopped then, and cast a smile over the five apprehensive elves.

"I proclaim Reggon the winner of this round! Sorry, Faendil - you shall have better luck next time."

One elf beamed, obviously proud, and the other contestants congratulated him. Except one elf, who was almost pouting, and he shook Reggon's hand, though as he did so he said: "Pah! That was a lucky shot, I shall best you soon, just you see…"

Reggon laughed. "I am sure you will, old one."

"Old…! Well, some things get better with age you young whelp."

"I have yet to see that."

"Have done!" Magorlinn broke off the friendly banter with a barely suppressed laugh. "Or, carry on elsewhere - clear the field for those who will participate in the next round. Who is up to the task?"

Tulushall chuckled, watching the elves named Reggon and Faendil and the other three archers clear from the field. Magorlinn then tried to encourage others from the crowd to join in - many declined, for they did not look forward to going against Legolas (who had yet to join) in the last round, in which the prizes were given.

“Why do you not have a go, Tulus?” Gîlarad suggested, nudging him in the ribs a bit.

The son of Brethil laughed outright.

“My aim is not half as good as any here.”

“That does not matter,” Finglas said with a smile. “You are going to be joining the ranks anyway. You might as well practice. Look there – that elf is younger than any of us, and still he shoots.”

“That is Esgalion,” Gîlarad commented. “I have met him before. He is a fair shot, from what I hear.”

“No match for Legolas,” guessed Tulushall.

“Most likely not.”

They fell into silence. Soon the next round was formed, and five more arrows thudded into the targets - this time the winner was the small, mouse-haired Esgalion Finglas had commented on just moments ago, crediting what Gîlarad had heard. The round before last, Legolas competed. Thranduil's son looked much like Thranduil himself, though he was perhaps a bit more slender and agile than his powerful father, and also his skill rested more with his bow, rather than in the sword (which the king preferred). Against him were four other archers of some renown, and they wished each other good luck before Magorlinn signaled them to shoot. In a flash Legolas had knocked an arrow to the string, drawn back, aimed and fired in the time it took the others to so much as have their arrow set snuggly against the string. The crowd cheered the prince of Mirkwood, appreciative of his skill.

As was expected, Legolas won that competition with little trouble, but Esgalion came in at a close second. Magorlinn presented the prince with the first place prize – an arrow tipped with gold, its feathers that of some golden-hued bird. It was something for decoration more that for true use, and Legolas laughed when he received it. He bowed to Magorlinn respectively with words of thanks, as did the rest of the competitors… and then it was over.

“Are you coming, Tulus?” Gîlarad inquired, as the throng dissipated and he and Finglas made to go back to the fires.

“Nay, go on without me. I will catch up to you in a bit.”

The fairer elf nodded, and with a smile he turned and dashed away. Finglas clapped his shoulder lightly as he passed. Tulushall stayed near the fence, watching as the warriors all filed into the field and spoke with each other and the son of Thranduil, giving their hearty congratulations to each other and sharing small talk. He folded his arms over the rail, and leaned over, watching them. The warriors – they were the elite of Mirkwood. Thranduil’s Kingdom owed much to them. It was due to their constant vigilance that they were able to remain in the lands they had, still untainted from the darkness. Much prestige and honor was to be won by joining their ranks. Magorlinn caught sight of the brooding young elf as he came to take the arrows from the targets and – as Tulushall had supposed he would – he paused to acknowledge him, drawing near the fence. The son of Brethil was slightly nervous – but nearly everyone felt something of the sort while in the presence of Magorlinn. He was a powerful warrior, his renown earning him his role as the tutor of the young. Tulushall was not a short elf, but the captain towered above even him.

“Mae govannen, Brethilion,” Magorlinn said brightly. “You are enjoying yourself tonight, I hope?”

“Yes, my lord,” came the reply, accompanied with a smile.

“Good,” the elven lord nodded approvingly. “I look forward to having you in my lessons tomorrow.”

“As I look forward to being there.”

“Perhaps you shall be the one competing next year,” he ventured, grinning.

As he had done the last time he was approached with this, Tulushall laughed. “I doubt it, brannon-nîn.”

“Do not underestimate yourself,” the captain said, narrowing his eyes good-naturedly at him. He grasped his shoulder warmly before he backed away. “Well, I have business to attend to. Tomorrow then, Brethilion.”

“Maer re, brannon.”

Tulushall watched as his future instructor turned to complete whatever duties he had left for the night, and then he stalked off himself, hoping to meet up with Gilarad and Finglas before they got too far ahead of him.